Chapter Text
"She's your slave now," the priest repeated patiently, gesturing to the sullen woman kneeling before her. With dusty brown hair long enough to reach her navel and a svelte figure that her brown wraps clung to, the woman was beautiful. She also had something Sara couldn't ignore: a long, swishing cat tail, and the accompanying furry ears atop her head that twitched back and forth. Though her expression was blank, Sara could see by the way her tail flicked that she was anything but calm. The thin iron band encircling her neck glowed with runes, seeming to Sara's imagination to be a far greater weight than it should be.
"There must be some way to undo this," Sara insisted, not for the first time. "Take the wrist band off of me, or take the collar off of her."
"It is not possible," the priest said, also not for the first time. They were ten minutes into this conversation, and Sara was beginning to realize the inevitable. "The band has attached itself to your soul, and the collar to hers. Her punishment was to be owned by you, now and forever, and for saving the city, your reward was to be her owner."
"She doesn't deserve this," Sara pleaded. The girl's tail swished at the words, but she didn't dare speak. "She didn't know!"
"Her mother betrayed her city, her kingdom, and her people. To have lived and cared for such a traitor is a capital offense in more ways than the law can tally, but it was your request to the king that spared her life. If you really view this as so terrible a fate, then I am sorry. But fate it is."
With that the white-robbed priest swept out of the room, no longer interested in entertaining her retorts. Sara slumped on the pew, throwing her head back to stare up into the vaulted arches of the church.
It had been a month ago that she'd found herself in this strange world, embroiled in its politics from the moment she'd arrived. An army had been bearing down on the city she'd appeared in, evading each and every attack sent to defeat or delay its approach. When Sara had discovered that the traitor was one Marionne Eliah, Lady Mayor of the kingdom's capitol, she'd gathered a party and fought her way across the rooftops, finally defeating the traitor in the courtyard of the king's own mansion.
She hadn't known the Lord Mayor's daughter, an innocent girl her own age, would be punished for her mother's sins. When she'd seen the beautiful girl being marched up to the hangman's noose, she'd begged the king to spare her, knowing from her own investigation that the girl was ignorant of her mother's crimes.
And now this. Her "reward".
"You know," Sara said with a crackly voice, not looking down at the girl kneeling before her, "I saw you before all this. Through the window of your room, I saw you every night for two weeks. I was supposed to be watching your mother, finding evidence against her, but you were only two windows down. It was impossible to ignore you." The girl stayed silent, so Sara looked down and saw her remaining perfectly still. Remembering the priests instructions, Sara hissed in displeasure. "You may speak and move as you please."
The bracelet on her right wrist hummed almost imperceptibly, interpreting her intent and transmitting it to the girl's collar.
As soon as she was freed from her old command the girl sagged, dropping from a prim kneeling position to a splayed-leg slump. Her tail continued to flick. The tail and her ears were the only part of her that seemed immune to the collar's influence, something the priest had said was a 'problem' with feline slaves. They had no conscious control of their ears and tail, and so they could not be commanded to still them or otherwise. Watching the girl's tail twitch back and forth, she found herself relieved for the telltale symbol of her true feelings, no matter how slight it was. She resolved herself to learn the subtleties of the girl's body language, so she'd never mistake the collar's compulsions for genuine emotion.
They were both silent for a time. Sara was content to sit there as long as was needed, having been given free reign of the chapel by the priesthood following the 'bonding' ritual.
Finally, minutes later, there came a raspy voice. "Can... Can I have some water?"
Sara jumped forward, hurriedly unhooking a canteen from her belt to hand it to the girl. She reached up with a shaking hand, some of the water spilling down her chin as she drank. It soaked down her shirt. Sara turned away, guilt filling her once more at the girl's decrepit condition. It was horrifying what only a few days in the royal dungeons could do to a person.
After a final gulp, the girl set the canteen aside with a metallic clunk that echoed through the cathedral. "I'm..." She frowned. "My name is..." Her eyes widened in fright as she tried to force her mouth to make the name, failing every time. "My name. Why can't I say my name?"
Sara pursed her lips. "The priests said that slaves only have the name their masters give them. Your old name has been... erased. Even I can't remember it."
"Oh," she whispered, blinking sadly. "I can't remember it either. How ironic; I made a point to learn the name of all of Mother's slaves, yet I never realized I was learning a falsehood." With fresh water soothing her rasp the catgirl's distinguished enunciation was more pronounced, similar to the royal accents Sara had been familiar with in her own world. The now-nameless girl looked up at Sara. "What will my name be? I know I should have other concerns, other questions that take precedence, and I am grateful for all you said to the king and the priest, but... I don't like not having something to call myself."
Sara wiped a hand down her face, thinking. She chose her words carefully, to avoid accidentally giving the girl an order. "What do you think of the name Evie?"
"Evie?" She mulled the name over, softly repeating it to herself a few times. "I think it will do. I don't know how close it is to my old name, but I suppose no one knows that now, do they? Yes. I'm fine with that name."
Sara nodded slowly. "Alright. Your name is Evie."
As soon as the words left her lips the bracelet tingled, and she watched Evie close her eyes and shudder, a shiver running up her spine. She opened them a moment later, crystal blue meeting Sara's eyes with a smile that was a little bit less sad. "You're right. My name is Evie."
The absolute certainty, the conviction in her words, did something to Sara. She could tell that with a word she'd just changed something fundamental about Evie, so powerful was the enchantment that she doubted the brown-haired girl even realized it. Thinking quickly, speaking as soon as the idea occurred to her, she gave Evie a second command.
"My commands won't ever change who are, no matter how they are phrased. You will always be yourself, no matter what I order or demand of you."
Evie shuddered once more, though less so this time. Sara was profoundly grateful to feel the words take hold; she'd been told that the bond was both at its weakest and its strongest in the minutes after the ritual's completion, and that was when it was best to place the most altering of orders. It was still possible, unfortunately, to undo the commands later, but it took concerted and repeated effort.
Evie's smile widened, nearly as warm as a smile should be. "Thank you, Master." They both froze as soon as the title hit the open air. "Oh. I didn't realize that was true of every slave. I thought only Mother forced her slaves call her that."
"I didn't know either. Can you call me by my name at all?"
Evie straightened herself, sitting in a more comfortable position, with legs crossed. "I don't know. What is your name?"
"Sara," she said, mentally upbraiding herself for not introducing herself. Watching Evie through a window for two weeks had left her feeling like she knew the girl, but the same wasn't true in reverse.
"Thank you, M-- I mean, Sara. Thank you for treating me with respect."
"I didn't want this," Sara said immediately. "I hate that this happened to you. I'm sorry."
Evie gave her that same, sad smile, a kind sympathy shining through. "But now it has. Where will we be going next, Master?"
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Sara left the church in a hurry, Evie ghosting along behind her. The thin girl had a preternatural grace about her, an aspect of the feline within her ensuring she never lost her balance or misplaced a step. Sara didn't return the gracious nod of the High Priest that had bound her to Evie, nor did she acknowledge anyone that saw her blow out of the royal complex. In fact, she didn't say a word or meet a single person's eyes until she was back in her chambers of the Ghost Hall Inn, panting heavily as Evie closed the door behind them.
Sara sat down hard on the thick featherbed, cradling her head in her hands while impossible puzzles of morality ran rampant through her mind. The catgirl, oblivious to this internal battle, padded across the carpet softly, taking in Sara's royally-paid chambers with hands behind her back. Sara found herself following Evie's hips as she stepped, the tilt of her ass and the sweep of her curves drawing her eye to themselves as surely as a moth to a flame.
God, why did it have to be her? Anyone else, Sara was certain, and she could resist. There were obligations between Slave and Master, she'd been taught that, but with anyone else that's all they'd have been. Obligations. But her...?
Evie completed her tour of the room, turning back to Sara with a hand on her cocked hip. She didn't comment on the way Sara's eyes had roamed over her body, nor did she comment on the way that her attention stayed firmly on the catgirl's chest. Her breasts, like the rest of her exquisite body, seemed divinely-designed to break through Sara's barriers. A perfect handful each, perky and beautiful, everything that Sara liked in a partner.
"Shall we deal with the day's obligations now, Sara, or later?"
Sara licked her lips, considering. The 'obligations'. It was the only thing she'd thought of on the way over here, the only thing that had dominated her thoughts since she'd found out Evie would be her slave. Most had a choice of what their slave's daily task of devotion would be, but not her.
"Now, I suppose. Best to get it out of the way, right?" Sara grinned weakly, trying to turn it into a joke. Maybe it would help her clear her mind, make better decisions as they established the beginning of this "relationship".
"I understand."
Evie walked stiffly across the room to Sara, and the proximity had Sara gulping. She closed her eyes, deciding that it would be best for Evie to have total control over how the next few minutes preceded.
There was a creak as the bedding next to Sara dimpled, and then she felt the searing heat of another leg pressing up against her own. In her ear, at a tickling whisper, came Evie's voice.
"What would you like me to do, Sara?"
She shuddered. "Whatever makes you comfortable. I'm not going to order you to do something like this."
"If you insist," Evie whispered back, lips just grazing Sara's ear. For a brief moment, she thought she heard disappointment in Evie's voice, but she quickly discarded the notion as ridiculous. The girl was a slave, and Sara her owner.
Her Master.
Sara shivered, a tingle of arousal shooting down to her crotch. Her heartbeat grew loud in her chest, and she felt something hot begin to pulse in her core. Though her eyes remained shut, she could see in her mind's eye what was happening.
The expensive frilled dress that fell to her calf, scandalously short by the nobility's standards, would be moving. A bulge rising up, jumping with every beat of her heart as it grew. When she'd been brought to this world she'd been told her mission, then asked to choose a god to bestow her boon to her.
She'd chosen the goddess of relationships and love, whose gifts she'd imagined would best suit her for a diplomatic resolution of the wars she was to stop.
How wrong she'd been.
She felt the bed shift as Evie adjusted herself, a quiet gasp of shock not quite hidden from Sara's ears.
"You don't have to do this," Sara hurriedly said, despite the fact that it wasn't technically true. "You aren't the first girl who wasn't interested because of that."
"No, that wasn't my intention," Evie whispered kindly. "I was just surprised, that's all."
"Really, it's fine, I can just--"
Sara was cut off by her own gasp as a sudden pressure found the base of her cock, Evie's hand pressing down. She cut off her grunt by clenching her jaws, the moment for conversation having passed.
Through the thin fabric of her dress she felt Evie's nimble fingers free her cock from her underwear, leaving only the sheer lilac material between Evie's finger and her throbbing length.
Another gasp was pulled from Sara as Evie's hand slowly trailed up from her base, fingers wrapping around her shaft with the gentlest of touches. The bed creaked as Sara bent forward, trying to control her reactions.
Evie stroked back down, just as slowly, and the caution of it sent Sara's breaths into shudders. The goddess of love's blessing had done more than just give her a cock: it had made her more sensitive than she'd ever been in her previous life, and forced upon her a libido worthy of the goddess. It took all she had to not grab Evie's hand by the wrist and shove it under her dress, ordering her to start pumping away.
Thankfully she didn't have long to wait. As Evie's hand reached the tip once more, ghosting against the head, the torturous feeling disappeared. Sara let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, panting heavily, then clenched her entire body once more as Evie's hand reached under her clothes to return to her cock. As thin as the dress had been, it seemed a world of a difference when Evie grasped her cock with more confidence. The heat of her palm forced a mewling whine from Sara's lips, one that she had to stifle with a knuckle in her mouth.
Evie began to pump slowly, ever so slowly, as hesitant as any virgin could be expected to be. Sara balled a fist into the sheets behind her, panting openly, and tried to keep herself under control. Her hips twitched with every motion, desperate to find just a little bit more to push against.
Just before Sara's patience would have failed, Evie began to speed up, tightening her grip around Sara as she worked in steady motions. Sara threw her head back, unable to hide the long, low moan that spilled out.
Evie kept the pace up, pumping Sara's length again and again as her Master squirmed against the bed, trembling with desire and pleasure. Slowly, far too slowly, she sped up, pulling from Sara ever louder moans and gasps.
It was in this haze of pleasure that Sara noticed one gasp, a tiny keening that didn't come from herself. Before she thought better of it, she cracked open an eye, looking at Evie.
The slave-- her slave-- was watching her with lidded eyes, biting her lip to hold back her own moans. Sara glanced down at Evie's hips, which were thrusting into nothing, and came to a conclusion with absolute certainty.
Evie could feel her pleasure. Every squeeze, every pump, the virginal catgirl felt it too.
Recognizing that she was caught, Evie gave up on controlling herself. Her jaw dropped open in an open moan, an adorable little high-pitched thing that stutter-started with every pulse of Sara's cock. Her nipples were hard underneath her clothes, and Sara could smell the catgirl's arousal in the air, see the wet spot on the bed beneath her.
The sound of it, the sight of it, was too much. Sara doubled forward, clawing the sheets, and began to thrust into Evie's hand with all her strength. Every slap of her pelvis against Evie's clenched hand tore a guttural noise from her throat, one that only grew louder once Evie adapted to the new rhythm and began meeting her every thrust.
She could feel the pressure building within her, a tight ball of of hunger and desire that demanded it be sated. Sara kept thrusting, twisting in the sheets, and all the while she kept an eye on Evie, who was shaking as hard as she was.
Suddenly, even before Sara, Evie's back began to bend, knees turning inward as her keening peaked in a scream of pleasure. The spasm of her hand on Sara's cock was almost the final straw that sent her over the edge, but it just wasn't quite enough--
"Your mouth!" Sara found herself shouting.
The bracelet hummed. Evie bent double as if possessed, still shuddering, and took Sara in her mouth. Intoxicating, velvet heat surrounded her, a tongue running along the underside of her shaft as she finally, finally came undone.
Sara shoved Evie's head lower as she came, impaling herself on the still-moaning throat. With a final thrust of her hips Sara let out her own shout and began pulsing hot load after hot load into her slave's throat, muttering mindless obscenities as she was set ablaze by the fire of a body that was hers, hers, hers!
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Sara came to a short eternity later. Her cock lay limp, Evie's head resting on her thighs. Sara was hit by a whirlwind of emotions at the sight, profound guilt warring with perverse pleasure and a deep-set primal satisfaction. She shook her head, trying to clear her libido from her mind, and sat up.
Evie's eyes fluttered open, lidded and calm. Sara reached out and wiped a streak of white cum off her cheek, ignoring the twitch from below at the sight.
"I'm sorry. It shouldn't have gone like that."
Evie's head didn't lift from her legs. She just looked up at Sara, thinking. Sara mentally braced herself for the reprimands, the accusations, the terrified pleading to never do that again.
"It's okay," Evie said instead, tail lazily swiping through the air behind her. "That wasn't you, Sara. I still trust you."
Sara collapsed, shoulders slumping. "Thank you. I'm sorry, I really am. But with the blessing of the goddess, sometimes it just..."
"Like I said, Sara. It wasn't you."
Sara took a few minutes to breath, enjoying Evie's head in her lap. The catgirl scooted closer on the now disheveled bedsheets, curling up into a more comfortable position to use her lap as a pillow. Eventually, though, the city's bell tolled.
"Six o'clock," Sara noted idly.
"Mm?"
"The shops will be closing soon. If we want to get you decent clothes, not those rags, we'll have to go soon."
"I hadn't realize you intended to get me something to wear," Evie murmured. "Mother never did for her slaves."
"I am not your mother," Sara declared firmly. "I didn't want you to be my slave. I'm not going to treat you like one."
Evie's tail curled in, coiling on the woman's hip. Sara's eyes locked on, then skipped over, the wet patch that still showed between the catgirl's legs. Stretching, the catgirl yawned. "I know that you're not like her. You had her executed, after all."
Sara pursed her lips. "You say that awfully casually. That I had your mom killed."
"She deserved it," Evie stated simply. "She was an awful woman. I only came to know just how deep her evil ran at the trial, but nearly all my life I would have welcomed your actions with open arms."
Sara shook her head. "Getting thanked for killing someone's mother. That's a new one for me."
"How did the other girls react when you killed their mothers?"
Sara snorted. "So far you're the only one I've done that to. I'm hoping to keep it that way."
Evie yawned once more, then reluctantly sat up. "May I wash myself? The dungeons were not well stocked with bathing supplies."
"You may," Sara said, waving her towards the bathroom. To have to ask permission just to do something as simple as bathing was a life Sara could hardly imagine, but it was all Evie would know from now on. "Take all the time you need."
Evie smiled faintly, padding off. "Thank you, Master."
Sara reached for the clothes drawer, eager to change out of her formal wear, then froze.
"Master."
The word, oh so dangerous, had slipped out of Evie's mouth almost without either of them noticing.
Almost.
Notes:
The story begins! While initially heavy thematically, it lightens up as time goes on, don't worry. Leave comments as often as you please, I'll read them all.
Chapter 2: Intelude: Evie
Chapter Text
It had been a week since Evie had been named by her Master. A week of travel with a woman trying to outrun a shame that followed on her heels, a week of being that shame herself.
Evie had learned much about her Master. For one, she was courteous to a fault, at least when it came to Evie. It was a strange thing, that sense of deference, because it seemed that the goddess-touched woman showed no one else alive similar respect. Not her one-time party members, who were turned away as brusquely as an unwanted solicitor now that her mission was done, nor the royal envoys inviting her Master to dinner with the new Mayor, whom Master seemed to take a smug pleasure in rejecting.
No, the averted eyes and bashful humility were reserved for Evie and Evie alone. Master had fled the city only two days after she had come into possession of Evie, taking but a few scant hours in the early morning to skitter along the rooftops and discreetly gather supplies. Evie had stayed in the room, of course, because Master had feared for her safety no matter how much she insisted she was capable.
And still on the road did Master maintain the civility between them. She had stolen for Evie fine dresses and expertly fit jewelry, a full set of stylized outfits that all came with a choker or other accoutrement that hid Evie's slave collar should she so desire. Sensing her Master's own wish for the collar to be covered, Evie had done so.
She'd liked to have said that the airy ambivalence with which Evie was facing her current circumstances was a product of the collar's enchantments, but she couldn't do so truthfully. Ever since her mother had been dragged before the court, perhaps even before, as it had all started to fall apart, Evie had lived in a half-way world. Her skin never quite reached what it touched, nor did her eyes come into full focus, nor even did she hear and understand others as clearly as she once had. She'd floated along, disbelieving and ashamed.
Until the collar. As it had been placed upon her neck, white-robed priests chanting around her, she'd felt cold for the first time in who knows how long. The metal had made her shiver in a way the royal dungeons hadn't, made her uncomfortable like the shackles couldn't. It had been the first proof she was still alive.
And then she'd seen Master. She'd heard her voice ringing in her ears, heard her defending, without prompting, Evie's crimes. A part of her, warring with another, tugged against her restraints to draw nearer to the woman who had absolved her of her old life, who had shredded all the guilt within Evie and cast it into cool iron.
Dressed in a flowing dress that did not fit the base indignation on her face, she'd looked at Evie and saw a person. Not the mayor's daughter, not a feline, not a marriage opportunity or a traitor or a student or a failure or anything else, but a person. Her Master, the woman who owned her, had seen her as anything but a slave.
And then she'd watched Master's eyes roll down. She'd watched Master's breath quicken as her attention roved over Evie's ears, eyes, lips, breasts, and tail, especially her tail, and she'd felt through the collar's tug exactly what Evie's body did to the goddess-touched woman.
It was funny, thinking about it now. She could remember how silly she'd been, facing Master in that moment. She could remember a small part of her feeling angry at the woman who'd stolen her freedom from her. Even if the priest's orders had forbidden her from expressing it, she could remember the indignation at her state of undress, and her treatment, all simmering beneath the patina of exhaustion. It was such a foreign memory now, that anger, and she didn't like to think about it.
Thankfully it had ended quickly. On her knees before Master, slumped and exhausted, she'd been given her name. Like lightning had Master's first order rolled through her, penetrative and complete and filling. And of course, seeing how it affected her, Master had tried to tell her to stay true to herself, as moral as Master always was, and Evie had embraced the command with great pleasure.
It didn't matter that Master thought she'd told her to stay true to that old, spoiled girl she'd once been. It didn't matter that Master thought that the girl following her every footstep was the same one she'd watched, that lesser one, that foreign person with some meaningless name and life that had lived in a mansion and jealously scorned the world she couldn't explore and hadn't seen.
Evie knew Master wanted her to be the same, she knew that she was supposed to still be that woman Master had watched through the windows night after night, but she just wasn't. Oh, most of her was, and when discrepancies arose she could imitate her old self near perfectly, but she didn't want to be that spoiled child who'd never known what it was like to Obey.
Because now Evie was less. So much less, and so much better for it, because she was Master's slave. Mind, soul, and body, bound to Master by choice and magic alike. And with the second command?
Master had made it permanent. Irrevocable, branded into her. As she walked on the trail behind Master, some forest road she couldn't recall the name of, she allowed herself a pleasant smile as she touched a finger to her chest. There, beneath her fingertip and clothes and skin, she imagined that brand embedded into her very being. Master's. She was one thing, forever. She was her's.
Her owner.
Her lover.
Her Master.
Chapter 3: Suave (E)
Chapter Text
Time on the road was what Sara had decided she needed most. She had a purpose in this world, at least technically, but it was so vague she'd be damned if she knew what she was supposed to be doing. So she'd left the city, left without warning, carrying along Evie and all the supplies she could stuff into the once-endless bag that she kept at her hip, then more again into a backpack. It turned out, Sara had learned, traveling with someone you cared about lead to a wholly unnecessary amount of creature comforts.
Sara prepared the camp each night, when they didn't happen to end the day close to a village, and she laid out their supplies in exacting fashion. A fire pit, of course, and on opposite sides of it she unfurled small travel mattresses, the thicker going to Evie, who was less accustomed to life on the road. Then she'd begin cooking, if they had fresh food, after which she'd clean her tools and wander the perimeter and tie her shoes and lace her clothes and really, quite honestly, do anything to procrastinate the night's inevitable conclusion.
The obligations between Slave and Master. They still hung over her like an axe, dropping lower with the sun each night. It couldn't be avoided, not unless she wanted Evie to begin compulsively acting on her own to sate the requirements, but it pained her more each night as she and Evie spent the day getting closer. If Sara hadn't had Amarat as a patron, the daily ritual could have been made something else. But she hadn't chosen another god. She'd chosen Amarat, Goddess of Love and Connections, the Goddess of Passion.
And a goddess of passion had only one way to show reverence.
The best solution she'd found was having Evie turn away, so as not to be forced to watch, while Sara pleasured herself to the sight of the lithe catgirl before her. When she was close to finishing she'd have Evie turn around and come finish her off, just a few quick pumps usually, and that had satisfied the day's obligations. She could see how dissatisfied Evie was with the compromise, but she couldn't think of any way to fulfill the collar's requirements without having Evie physically touch her.
But despite that distasteful nightly ritual, they were becoming more comfortable around one another, one conversation at a time. Such as now, when she and Evie were spending a little extra time walking at sunset so they could reach the village appearing over the hill.
"I've only seen that bird in books!" Evie cheerfully exclaimed, pointing to a blue blur that zipped by overhead. Sara tried to follow it, but it had already darted back into the branches. "I've always wanted to see birds more colorful than pigeons and crows. Not the ones in the market or the fair, of course."
"Those don't count," Sara said.
"No, they do not," Evie agreed, the lilt to her words once more reminding Sara of antiquated nobility. "A robin and a bluebird in one day. How wonderful is that?"
Sara chuckled. "You should see what kind of birds are in the jungle. There's one not too far from here, isn't there?"
Evie cocked her head, tented ears twitching adorably. "The Anzontio jungle are a half thousand miles to the south, yes. I don't think I've ever heard someone call that 'not too far', though."
Sara shrugged, her backpack filled with weapons and silverware jangling with the motion. "I used to make roadtrips like that in a day. Sure, driving that long sucks, but it's not that bad. If there was a bonafide jungle waiting for me at the end I'd have done it every weekend."
Evie laughed, a musical note that always pulled at the corners of Sara's lips. "Such a strange life you seemed to have lived, Master. For all the money my family had, your supposedly humble upbringing was awash with wealths that put me to shame."
Despite herself, Sara had gotten used to Evie calling her Master. It seemed the compulsion was too strong to ignore, at least when not around others, so she'd begun to let it slide. Now it felt natural, just another nickname between friends.
"Maybe this world will be like mine, someday," Sara said. "Magic's great and all, but there are a lot of problems hanging around that I'm used to seeing in history books."
Evie hummed, substituting a fallen log for a balance beam as she talked. "I hope it does, Master. It sounds like a wonderful world." Sara watched Evie balance, form-fitting riding pants highlighting her long legs and the tail bobbing through the air. Sara suppressed the urge to reach out and feel its softness while Evie talked on, unaware. "Though I do worry about some of what you've told me. It seems like such changes, if brought about by the wrong person, would be disastrous."
Sara ripped herself away from staring at Evie's ass when the catgirl hopped off the log, stride gracefully unbroken. "You're not wrong about that," Sara said. "A lot of the stuff that'd eventually go on to be super helpful started off deadly, used in wars and all kinds of things."
Evie tossed that long hair of hers over a shoulder to look back at Sara with concern. "Don't you worry that telling me all that you have is dangerous, then? When you spoke before the king at the trial, it seemed you'd implied to him that the world you were from was much the same as ours. Like you were guarding its secrets."
Sara cocked her head thoughtfully, then shrugged. "I was, at the trial. But I trust you. And the most dangerous things are stuff I only understand vaguely, so it's not like word getting out would be too disastrous. I couldn't build a nuke to save my life."
Evie's ears flicked. "A 'nuke'? The weapons you speak of have such strange names, Master. I struggle to imagine that anything built of mundane materials could rival the worst of what archmages have produced over the centuries."
"Oh?" Sara raised her eyebrows. "A nuclear bomb will destroy everything in a hundred miles or more, and forever irradiate- poison- the land for thousands of years. It's a poison drifts on the wind and sticks to material, which means even after a nuke is detonated anyone that grabs a rock from the area can drop it somewhere else and start killing people there."
For the first time since they began journeying together, Evie's heel caught a rock that sent her stumbling. Straightening, she said, "Ah. No, I don't think the mages have made something like that. But those are hard to make, right?"
Sara made a so-so gesture. "The first nuke? Basically impossible. You have to break all kinds of rules, discover new kinds of matter and fundamental truths of the universe and that kind of crap. But after that first one?" Sara dropped her hand and sighed. "You can make as many as you want. Constantly, unendingly. At one point humanity in my world had enough stockpiled to kill every living thing on the planet. Twice over." Evie's eyes widened as Sara sighed. "They never got used, thankfully."
"Master?"
"Mm?"
"I think I'd like you to order me to never tell anyone of your world's secrets."
That rocked Sara back on her heels. "You want me to give you an order?"
Evie nodded solemnly. "I do. Right now someone could compel that knowledge out of me magically, or torture me, or get me drunk or something else, I don't know. But I can't if you order me."
Sara stopped walking, crossing her arms and staring at her feet as she thought it over. She hadn't given Evie a true command since the first two (she tried to forget the third) on the first day she'd acquired her. "You sure?" Sara asked one more time. Evie nodded. Sara took a deep breath, decided. "Alright. Evie, you can never unwillingly reveal to anyone the things I've told you about Earth, especially its weapons."
The bracelet hummed, nearly imperceptible, and Evie shuddered in equally subtle fashion. Sara watched the catgirl's eyes flutter and her tail still, trying to ignore the blossom of warmth in her core. The moment passed, then Evie smiled.
"Thank you, Master. Though you didn't have to be so litigious about your wording, you know."
Sara frowned. "I know. But I don't like restricting you more than I have to. What if you really do need to reveal that kind of knowledge one day? Or what if I die before you, leaving you with restrictions and compulsions that can't be undone?"
"I'd be very frustrated with you, if you died before me, Master. But in any case, my new Master could simply undo the commands as easily as you can."
Sara winced as they neared the village, which was now in shouting distance. "You know, I'd assumed for some reason that you'd be free once I died. I guess that wouldn't fit the whole 'punishment' aspect of divine slavery, would it?"
Evie smiled kindly, like a mother comforting a naive child. "No, it wouldn't. But at least in this way I've paid for my crimes on this plane of existence, instead of the next. I have to imagine that the arbiters of holy justice wouldn't be nearly as kind as you."
"Don't count your chickens before they've hatched," Sara warned her, chuckling darkly. "I've been given a mission from the gods that I have to complete before I can settle down. Can't imagine anything that needs their involvement will be easy to do."
"That's why they gave you what they did, yes?" Evie said, eyes flicking to Sara's crotch in a motion so quick Sara wondered if she'd imagined it. "It's only been a bit more than a month. I'm sure there's more than one thing hidden up your sleeve for future use." They'd begun to speak in vague terms now that they were entering the village proper, passing by strangers lighting street lamps who took minor interest in the wealth their clothes displayed. "I trust that you'll keep me safe, at the very least."
Sara glanced over as Evie indicated Sara's hand, which had unconsciously settled over the small of Evie's back to keep her close now that they were among strangers. Sara flushed, pulling the hand away. "I appreciate the trust. I'm just warning you, though, I've seen plenty of stories like this, and I don't think this is the genre where everything goes smoothly all the time."
"Noted, M-- Sara. Now, do you have any idea where we're going to stay for the night? I certainly haven't been here before."
Sara snorted. "And why do you think I would have? Let's ask around." Sara called out to burly gentleman who was lighting a lantern outside his home. "Excuse me, do you know where we can find some rooms for the night?"
The man continued with his work for a moment before starting, turning to them as he realized he was the one being addressed. "Oh! I'm sorry, m'lady-- er, m'ladies. Yes, there's a tavern with some rooms. Just down the road, to the right at the first intersection." He made a point to pull the cap off his head, for formality, despite the fact that Sara knew that particular rule only applied when indoors. "But I'm afraid to say that it likely won't be fit for your types. Er, that is, someone of your clear importance, I should say."
"I'd be fine with paying for a roof," Sara assured the man, flipping a coin of some denomination or another his way. "Not hard to improve when the alternative is dirt and the open sky."
The man deftly caught the coin, smiling respectfully. "As you say, madam."
Sara walked on with Evie, leaving the man to his work. As they continued to walk and more eyes drew towards them in the early-night gloom, she resumed her close press to Evie's side, consciously this time.
"Do you think we should get simpler clothing?" Sara murmured, scanning their surroundings. "I didn't think it was that extreme, but people are acting like we're royalty."
"I actually was, technically," Evie murmured back, "But no, I don't think we'll need simpler clothing. It's difficult to hide the fact that you're Imbued when you're carrying a pack so heavy it should have snapped your back."
Sara shifted the mentioned backpack, humming with understanding. "Imbued is what you call it, then? When someone has a class?"
"Yes, and it's not hard to notice. Not to mention the fact that you're among the tallest women I've ever seen, and well muscled. You'll also likely never be walking about with your weapons beyond easy reach, another clue to betray your status. The most you could hope for is passing yourself off as a mercenary or deserter."
Sara turned the corner the shop owner had directed them towards, scanning the faces and features of those present in the street to see just how much she and Evie stood out. Most were human, as in the capitol, but a quarter or third of them were split evenly between folk sporting horns, scales, or other markers of non-human ancestry. None, notably, were Feline, like Evie.
"What about you? Is being a catgirl unusual out here?"
Evie looked amused. "Catgirl, you say? I haven't heard that one before. I trust it's not an insult, Sara."
"I-- I meant Feline!" Sara stuttered, flushing deeply. "I just haven't seen anyone like you or your mother since we left the city, so I was wondering if you'd draw attention to yourself no matter what."
Evie leaned in to Sara, pressing their sides together and wrapping an arm around her. Which was, obviously, just a practical measure to keep safe among strangers while sharing private information. "No, to answer your question, we're not common. Commonly discussed, but not commonly seen. Felines are an artifact of extinct fey archmages, whose dwellings in the fey realm allowed them greater ability to toy with the nature of mortal form." Evie nudged Sara until she looked over, so she could see the smirk on the catgirl's face. "We are technically human, not catfolk, but altered for a purpose. So the legend goes, we were 'designed' explicitly to be attractive. To every mortal race, if my mother was truthful, but I find that hard to believe."
Sara almost took the compliment bait, but her conscious and curiosity seized the reigns first. "Designed?" She asked instead. "Does that ever bother you, knowing that your body was created just to appeal to others?"
Evie's expression fell slightly, but she didn't push the issue. "Not really. Maybe when I first learned of it, but certainly not anymore. Even if it did, well..." She snuggled against Sara, leaving no room for alternative interpretation to the motion. "I've had recent cause to adjust to the idea of my body being meant for others."
Now that was a jab that Sara couldn't ignore. She felt heat spread across her, and not just to her blushing face. Shining crimson and breathing heavy, she slipped from Evie's grasp and darted towards the large building just a few doors down.
"I think this is it!" She called back, too loudly. "Let's see if they have any rooms available."
Sara hopped to the door, throwing it open so the smug Evie could saunter in after her, lips split in a satisfied smirk that exposed the razor glint of hidden canines.
The inn, as Sara had learned was common, also served as the local tavern. With the sun now set and the day's work done, it was as busy as it likely ever got. Most tables were filled by men and women being served mugs, but a few had food with their alcohol, probably too exhausted to make themselves anything at home. Sara ignored the few stares she garnered, thankful that most were too absorbed in their discussions to pay her and Evie any mind.
She wandered up to the bar, leaning against it as she patiently waited for the bartender to find her way over. Her patience proved unnecessary, as the woman stopped serving a patron mid-sentence when she caught a glance at Sara out of the corner of her eye. The man who'd been ordering opened his mouth to protest, but the words died as he saw Sara's clothing.
"My word! Um, hello, Your Ladyships." The flustered bartender unsubtly rubbed at the stains across her shirt's front without success. "How may I serve you?"
Though the tavern was fairly full, the atmosphere was calm, and Sara didn't have to speak up to be heard. "We're looking for a room for one night, and a meal."
"The meal I can do, but the room?" The bartender gave up on the stains, deciding to claps her hands in front of her waist like Sara imagined a maid might. "We don't have anything befitting those of your stature, Holy One."
Sara blinked. "What'd you call me?"
The woman's eyes widened in a panic. "I'm sorry, My Lady! Is that not an appropriate term for the Chosen of the Gods? Please, if--"
Sara hurriedly bent forward, frantically gesturing for the woman to lower her voice. "No, no, it's not that," she reassured the woman. "It's just that I'm surprised I was recognized out here. You know who I am?"
The bartender put a hand to her chest, posture collapsing with relief. "Oh, I was so worried I'd offended you, My Lady."
"Well, you didn't. But I would like to know how you recognized me."
Her rigid posture returned along with her sculpted smile. "Your likeness has been distributed in many ways following your exploits in the capitol, my Lady. As close as we are to the center of the kingdom, our attending Lords receive regular dispatches of news on horseback, and no missives were more important than the news that you'd singlehandedly ousted that traitor of a mayor."
"Good riddance," Evie muttered beside Sara. The bartender nodded to her sharply.
"Just so. I've heard she was a poor Lady for the city in many ways." The bartender blinked, coming back to herself. "Oh, but you were asking for rooms! I must insist that you give me a little bit of time, your Ladyships. I will gather some friends and have the Lord's manor freshened up in no time."
"Is he away on business?" Sara asked. She didn't want to be stepping on any noble toes, still unsure of how much leeway her pseudo-title gave her.
The woman waved her concern away. "Oh, no, Lord Garavan passed a few months back. Apparently there's quite a fierce legal battle ongoing over his estate, which has laid vacant in the interim. It's kept under watch, but never entered, so it should only take us a few scant minutes to dust and tidy up. If you'd like I can have your food prepared while you wait?"
Sara shared a look with Evie, then agreed. They took a more secluded table, Sara insisting that there was no need to make a fuss over her arrival. The bartender assured her she'd keep quiet about things, but in such a way that Sara suspected the woman had assumed they were on some secret mission from a god. The food arrived in short order, though, so she let herself be distracted.
"We're gonna have to get plainer clothes," Sara declared between bites. "This is ridiculous."
"Is it not pleasurable?" Evie asked, cutting apart her meat with a refined grasp of her dented utensils. "To have you each and every whim not just tended to, but anticipated? It was an ethic my mother strived to instill among her staff."
"With all due respect to your mother-"
"Which isn't much," Evie interjected.
"-I don't think her attitude is one I want to emulate. Better beds and private rooms are nice, sure, but getting fawned over like that? It's nasty. They're acting like I'm better than them, and what's more, they're acting like I think I'm better than them."
"Such is the relationship between serf and Lord," Evie said idly, popping a piece of meat into her mouth. "They treat you as they would anyone else of your bearing."
Sara rolled her eyes. "God, I can't imagine. Having to grovel at someone's feet like that every time you speak to them? It'd drive me crazy."
"You treated the king with similar respect," Evie reminded her.
Sara threw her hands into the air. "And it sucked! If he hadn't had something I wanted I would have told him enough to get your mother hanged and been out the door before he could reply."
"It's nice to know that I was desired."
Sara collapsed onto the table, rubbing her eyes. "Not like this, though, Evie. You know that."
"I appreciate it all the same."
At that moment the bartender returned, noticeably dirtier and breathing heavily. "Your Ladyships, your rooms are ready when you are finished with your meal."
Sara thanked her and handed her a few coins, hopefully enough to cover the cost of a meal and impromptu cleaning service. She often overpaid for such things, but money was laughably easy to come by once you were operating in the same circles as nobility.
Returning to her meal, she considered ways to better disguise themselves as they traveled further. The roads would be getting more dangerous as they removed themselves from the well-patrolled regions of the capitol, which meant that it would also be practical to appear less wealthy.
Actually, now that I think about it, Sara thought to herself, Evie was the daughter of a noble. I bet she's got some of her own tricks up her sleeve. Sara looked up at Evie, who was delicately scooping the last of her meal into her mouth.
"Don't you have weapons training, Evie? I remember seeing you practice."
"I do," Evie confirmed, producing a napkin from nowhere to dab at the corners of her mouth. "I've been trained with a rapier and buckler, and I've been instructed on the basics of small-group tactical fighting. My mother's head of the guard was of the opinion that the easiest charges to protect are those that don't make themselves an easy target, and my Feline proclivities meant I took well to the task of armed conflict. As the leader of a renowned mercenary group, my teacher's methods were... diverse. Aside from having me duel his troops, he would constantly abuse my mother's generous stipend to bring in all manner of beasts for me to fight. Mother didn't pay enough attention to realize what was happening until I was quite advanced in my training, thankfully. She forbid it the moment I was discovered, but basic drills could maintain my skill easily enough in the comfort of my room."
"I know about those drills," Sara chuckled, thinking back to the distracting sight of Evie's sweat-soaked body going through her forms alone in her bedroom. Dressed in nothing but a breast binder and clinging shorts, Sara had been entranced by the sight of the catgirl working out the day's frustration through battles against invisible opponents. She'd thought her privacy total, hidden behind enchanted one-way glass, but Sara had been just across the way, magical spyglass hungrily devouring the sight. Sara could still see the way Evie's cat ears had flattened in focus, fangs flashing as she snarled with the effort of each vigorous stroke. Sara had imagined herself beside the exotic girl, hearing the whistle of her rapier as she stepped through the forms. She'd wondered what those lean bands of muscle would feel like rippling under her fingers, wondered if she would purr at every touch...
"Master?" Evie whispered, tilted head leaning over the table. "Lost in pleasant memories?"
Sara shook her head, lightly slapping her cheeks to bring herself back to the present. "Sorry. Damned goddess blessing is anything but, sometimes."
"Oh, really?" Evie hummed, settling back into her chair. "In what way?"
"Just, y'know, it just makes some things too easy," Sara hastily lied. "Would you believe I'd never even held a sword before I arrived here? Now I'm practically an expert. Didn't have to practice like you did."
"That's frustratingly convenient for you. Have you any idea how many hours I practiced to get as good as I am?"
"Feels like I watched most of them last month," Sara mumbled to herself, then shook her head. "No, and I'm scared to know. It feels unfair, for me to just end up magically better than you."
Evie, who'd been in the middle of putting the last bite of her food into her mouth, paused. "Better than me, you said?"
"I mean, probably," Sara replied, not bothering to hide her confidence. "I've gotten in a good few fights since I got here and I never struggled in any of them. It's like the gods shoved every possible counter and parry into my head when they dropped me off. Haven't been surprised once."
Evie set her fork down, leaning forward with steepled fingers and a malicious glint in her eyes. "From what you've told me, you only fought underpaid guards and hired thugs. Care to try your hand against someone with skill?"
"In a friendly bout? Sure, sounds interesting."
"Well then. I trust you're one who who wouldn't take offense to being humbled by their slave, Master?"
Never one to back down from a challenge, Sara raised her eyebrows theatrically. "Oh, you meant I'd be fighting you?" She dug a bit of dirt out from underneath her fingernails, failing to keep the sly smile off her face. "When you said I should fight someone skilled, I imagined you knew someone in town or something."
Evie smiled much wider than usual, enough to bear hidden fangs. "Oh, this is going to be such a delight."
Sara laughed boisterously and stood, waving to the woman who'd prepared the Lord's manor for them. She dropped the drinks she'd been holding on a table immediately, not waiting for pay as she scurried over.
Sara continued to exchange barbs with Evie as they walked to the manor, led through overgrown gates to a lawn where wildflowers had grown amuck. Sara waved their escort goodbye, quickly darting through the foyer of the manor to inspect the back courtyard.
Sara began pacing out the area to ensure they'd have enough room for their mock duel while Evie stretched. The courtyard had once sported carefully tamed flowers of every kind, artful stone pathways weaving through displays of roses, lilies, petunias, and a dozen other varieties. Left unattended, the flowers had burst into motion. The grass was practically overtaken by various colors, only the central stone patio free of tangled bushes and thorny roses. A three-tiered stone fountain in its center was surrounded by a few wooden benches, reminiscent of a park back on Earth. Sara pulled the benches away to clear space, leaving an adequate area of skillfully laid cobblestone for their duel.
"Ready?" Evie called out. Sara turned towards her, intending to fire off one last jab, but stumbled over her words.
Evie had stripped down to her basics, the very same outfit she'd worn when practicing in her room. A tight white wrap bound her chest, thin enough that the slightest edges of her breasts were left bare. Nothing else covered her upper body, freeing Sara's eyes to rove over the catgirl's toned stomach, a hint of abs rising up beneath milky skin that looked so, so smooth. Her arms were taut with muscle, flexing as she shook them out.
And her pants. God, her pants. She'd taken them off, actually, Sara could see them in a pile with her shirt in the grass, which meant that she was only wearing that pair of skin-tight practice shorts that Sara had salivated over for weeks. She had no idea how in the world some tailor had made cloth cling so tightly to Evie's ass, but she thanked every god she knew for granting them the skill. The only thing changed from the times Sara had spied on her bedroom practice sessions was the dark iron collar standing out starkly from her pale skin, a glyph covered choker that sent a hot ball of emotions through Sara's gut.
Evie turned around to grab something, bending over, which gave Sara a prolonged look at her lackadaisically bobbing tail floating above an ass that was to die for.
Evie straightened slowly, having picked up nothing at all, and tossed her head over her shoulder with the least innocent expression Sara had ever seen. Her voluminous hair, long enough to reach her belly button, hid the wrap just well enough for Sara's imagination to paint the image of the catgirl naked.
"You bitch," Sara breathed, blinking forcefully as she tore her eyes away. "That's fighting dirty."
"Any advantage should be seized in a fight, and I've had it under good authority that my natural assets are considerable," Evie countered in a sultry tone. After a pregnant pause she laughed, adopting a more casual stance. She began gathering up her hair, tying it up in a bun so she could fight unrestricted. "It's just too easy, Master. How could I resist?"
"I thought nobles were all about honor," Sara huffed, shucking off her own overclothes. Unlike Evie, she kept her undershirt and pants on. "This is a fair duel between friends. Doesn't pre-match distraction count as some kind of party foul?"
"If there's one thing nobles love more than antiquated traditions, Master, it's winning." She walked over to Sara's fist-sized pouch that had been set on the cobblestone, drawing out a basket-hilt rapier from its enchanted interior. With an elaborate flourish that finished with the blade's tip pointing at Sara's heart, she smirked. "And I must say, I do love winning."
"That's fine," Sara said, walking over to draw her own weapon from her backpack. "It's not like I'm a stranger to fighting dirty." Sara produced a curved single-edged sword, one that was just a hair longer than the comfortable definition of a longsword. In truth Sara had found she preferred to fight with either a greatsword or shortsword, depending on the circumstance, but the hand-and-a-half handle of the oversized pseudo-machete that she'd stolen from some thug had proved an adequate middle ground.
"Rules for the bout, Master?" Evie asked, walking to the far end of the clearing. Sara noted that she'd taken off her shoes as well, deciding to fight barefoot.
"I don't know. I've never fought a duel before. Do you do it to first blood or what?"
Evie blanched. "No, that would be idiotic. Is that how people did it in your world?"
Sara shrugged. "Hell if I know. It sounds right, from what I've heard in movies-- er, plays. What rules are you used to?"
Instead of answering, Evie demonstrated. Spreading her palm over the hilt of her rapier, she muttered something under her breath. Sara watched as the catgirl drew her hand forward, leaving behind a shimmering barrier to the weapon's edge.
Sara smirked. "You brought protection, then?"
"It would be idiocy to prepare anything else," Evie answered, not catching the innuendo. "Give me your sword, since you obviously don't know how to do this for yourself." Sara did so, watching carefully as the catgirl enchanted the weapon. Sensing her interest, Evie began to explain. "The enchantment will block any blow well enough to stop it from breaking skin, but let through just enough force to bruise. It doesn't matter how hard or where you strike, be it a joint or eye, it will adapt to the circumstance to prevent permanent harm. It distinguishes between a glancing, lethal, or disabling blow, allowing the latter to sting more so one knows they've been defeated."
"That's a pretty crazy spell," Sara said admiringly, taking the weapon back from Evie. Giving it a flourish, she found the balance hadn't changed at all. "It must be insanely complicated to cast."
"Not particularly," Evie shrugged. "Most spells of such exceeding utility have been optimized past the point of exhaustion. It's difficult to leave any potential improvement undiscovered when every soldier on the continent has been casting it each day of the last millennia."
"Huh. Handy."
"Indeed," Evie agreed, returning to her chosen starting spot. "Now ready yourself."
"Yes ma'am," Sara said, saluting her with a sword and cocky grin. She jogged backward across the open courtyard, until her heels were pressing against the last cobblestone. Between the glowing spell on their weapons and the emerging stars above, there was plenty of light to fight by.
Without warning, Evie barked out, "Begin!"
Sara jumped forward, mysterious instincts guiding her into a low-grip stance, blade tilted up and forward with hands before her pelvis. Evie adopted something of a fencer's stance, presenting a thin profile with sword hand extended and the other folded behind the small of her back.
They circled around the central fountain, just outside the other's lunging range. Despite the slightly greater length of Sara's weapon, Evie would have advantage in terms of reach thanks to her single-handed stance. That was countered by Sara's ability to slash from any direction, not just stab, but it was a tenuous balance. Fighting as they were without armor, Evie's avenues of attack were simple and effective, while Sara would have to tire herself out using wider sweeps from a heavier weapon. In the span of a heartbeat she came to the conclusion that her best bet would be to surprise Evie in the lunge, striking at her exposed sword arm to win via disabling blow. In turn, Evie would likely be fighting cautiously, able to afford a flurry of testing blows that would be lethal if they happened to slip past Sara's defenses.
That analysis flitted through Sara's subconscious, while the only thing screaming through Sara's active mind was how goddamned hot the girl across from her was. Like, if she'd thought Evie was hot before, and even hotter when holding a sword, then she was mind-shatteringly intoxicating when the sword was leveled against Sara herself. From her calculated stance to the piercing glare, not to mention the way her cat ears flattened against her head and her tail curled up adorably behind her back, everything about the situation was driving Sara mad. She could feel her pulse pounding in her neck, and it certainly wasn't from a fighter's adrenaline.
Before she could let herself get any more distracted Sara reversed her pacing, meeting Evie out from behind the fountain. Licking her lips, Sara waited for--
Evie's blade flashed, a silver glint in the night. Sara's wrists twisted, knocking the blade to the side, then shot upward as she tried to draw the edge of her sword across the interior of Evie's elbow.
The rapier disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, leaving Sara swinging through open air. Rather than reset her stance Sara twisted her hips and turned the momentum of the swing into a downward stab, aiming for the clavicle.
In a motion too precise to be purely human, Evie tucked a shoulder to the side, leaving Sara's blade singing through open air once more.
The rapier flicked forward, aiming for Sara's gut. She managed to twist to the side as she drew her sword back, feeling a sting scrape across her ribs in a way that told her she would have just suffered a glancing blow had the fight been genuine.
They both pulled away, Sara going back into her guard while Evie's offhand came up, instinctively feeling at her right shoulder. It seemed Sara had successfully drawn the edge across Evie's shoulder as she'd retreated, but not enough to be considered a disabling blow.
"Just to be clear," Sara panted, "This is best of one? Like it was a real fight, winner takes all?"
"Of course," Evie breathed, equally out of breath from the brief clash. "We're getting you used to a real fight, not tavern brawling."
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sara leapt forward. Their circling had turned Evie's back to the fountain, so she seized the moment in a flurry of carefully restrained blows. Through some sense she couldn't yet define, she knew that the simplest way for Evie to avoid each swing was to take a small step backward, pushing her towards the fountain.
Which was exactly what the girl did. Sara's sword whipped through the air as she swung once, twice, thrice, driving the catgirl backward until her heel bumped against the fountain's edge, tripping her--
Once more displaying that impossible grace, Evie unconsciously hopped two feet straight up onto the fountain's edge, bare feet as steady on mossy stone as she'd been on the ground.
Sara ground her teeth, spitting out a quick "Shit!" under her breath.
Evie, of all things, giggled.
Sara continued the flurry, fully committed now. Evie's bare legs were exposed, difficult to defend, and if she didn't win now she'd be too exhausted to counter Evie's lightning-fast jabs.
Evie twisted back and forth as she entangled her rapier with Sara's sword, turning the deliberate exchange of practiced swings into a mess of rough shoving and reactionary grunts. Sara felt another hot line rake across her arm, but not enough to stop her, so she pressed on, shoving, twisting, until--
Evie stepped up to the second rung of the fountain, balancing on an even thinner rail.
"Goddammit!" Sara growled, disengaging with a furious swipe of her blade that scored a line in the cobblestones between them.
Evie's tail wiggled playfully from her perch. "Frustrated, Master?"
"That's bullshit," Sara declared, pointing her sword at Evie's perch on inch-wide stone. "Just straight up bullshit. How am I supposed to fight you when you can do things like that?"
"I imagine your opponents over the last few weeks said much the same about you, Master. I certainly wouldn't want to fight an opponent who has your level of skill with every weapon they find at hand."
"Not like it helps me much here," Sara grumbled, rolling her shoulders. "Now would you please get down? You can't actually attack me from up there, and if this were a real fight I'd just start chucking shit at you."
A teasing glint entered Evie's eyes. "But this isn't a real fight, Master. It's a duel, and there are rules to it. How can you force me down?"
Sara began circling the fountain, Evie following along. "I could keep swiping at your ankles until I take one out. Losing a foot would definitely qualify as a disabling blow."
Evie tsked. "After what you've seen, what makes you think I'll be so easy to strike in such a manner?" She straightened her posture, balancing on a single toe. "Maybe you'd manage it eventually, but you'd have to hope I didn't strike your head beforehand. What other suggestions do you have?"
Sara shook her head like a bull, trying to clear her thoughts. It was an impossible task, unachievable when she was looking up at a half-naked woman with her blood already pumping. Evie herself was flushed and breathing heavy from the fight's exertion, bound breasts rising and falling with every pant. As Sara paced she caught sight of the wrap partially unwinding, a tantalizing little strap just beneath her sword arm that would be so, so easy to rip away...
Shaking her head once more, Sara growled. "Goddamnit, Evie, get down here and fight me for real!"
Sara realized her mistake as soon as she saw the catgirl touch a hand to her collar and shudder, the bracelet on Sara's wrist humming in tune.
She had time enough to take two steps back and raise her guard before Evie launched off the fountain in a blur, silvery rapier extended. The clash of steel against steel pierced her ears as she just managed to knock the lethal stab aside, thrown out of her stance by the effort.
Evie recovered much quicker, hips spinning around as she skidded past Sara. It was all she could do to lean backward under Evie's next jab, so fast that it sung through the air.
Sara's left hand left her sword's pommel, punching up into Evie's elbow before she could withdraw it. The blow wasn't enough to break it, but Sara was rewarded by a hiss of pain and the brief second she needed to recover her stance.
Evie launched yet another blow, aimed for her throat, and Sara was forced onto the defensive once more. With her eyes narrowed to a slit and her fangs unashamedly bared, it was as feral as Evie had ever looked, and it was fucking doing something to Sara.
The white glow of their weapons was steadily joined by an ethereal pink, a soft glow that was emanating from Sara's skin itself. Evie's attacks slowed as Sara's parries grew faster, more energetic, every whistling blow struck to the beat of her deafening pulse.
Sara went on the offensive.
She abandoned the scant instincts she'd arrived to this world with, trusting instead in the experience she'd gained fighting for her life against bandits and nobles alike. Her sword wove loops around Evie's rapier, clattering collisions steadily marching their way further and further down the blade until she was battering the rapier's base, then crossguard, then basket grip.
Evie's eyes widened in alarm in the split second before Sara's sword struck her forearm, a vicious blow that would have taken the limb just below the elbow.
The shock of it threw Evie's rapier out of her hand, sending it clattering across the stones. Sara dropped her own sword and closed the gap, seizing the arm she'd struck in an iron grip and twisting it until she had Evie in a policeman's hold, arms behind her back.
The catgirl looked back over her shoulder, satisfied smile undeterred by the pink runes glowing across Sara's arms. "Congratulations, Master--"
"Quiet," Sara snapped. The bracelet vibrated and Evie shuddered, mouth clicking shut in an instant. Her blood was roaring, her heart pounding, her cock throbbing. Any will to resist the goddess's blessings had deserted Sara the moment those runes had blazed a trail across her skin. Leaning close, she hissed to Evie, "You wanted this, didn't you?"
In answer Evie's ass pushed back, grinding against the bulge in Sara's pants while her tail coiled around Sara's hips.
Sara shoved her forward, watching her stumble. She waited until Evie turned to face her, then growled, "Kneel."
Evie's legs dropped out from under her like a marionette having its strings cut. Her breath was heaving now, tits rising and falling. Sara stepped closer and grabbed a fistful of Evie's hair, feeling for the twine that tied it in a bun.
"Don't keep your hair up when we're alone," Sara ordered, snapping the string with a jerk of her hand. Evie's head went along with the motion, a gasp of pain and pleasure forced from her lips.
Sara crouched down, eye level with the catgirl. Her eyes were wide and her lips quivered, some emotion Sara couldn't figure on her face. "Open your mouth."
Evie did so. Sara reached a hand up and ran a finger along her teeth, feeling the needle canines that the girl went through so much trouble to hide. Evie's tongue followed along, unconsciously tasting Sara's finger. She pressed the pad of her thumb harder against the canine, until it nearly pierced the skin, then hooked it around the tooth and forced the catgirl to look up at her.
"You know how to keep those out of the way?"
Evie nodded as frantically as one could with one hand in their mouth and another on the back of their head.
"Good." Sara stood, shoving the catgirl's face into her crotch. "Get to it."
Evie's hands flew to Sara's belt, shoving it down in a desperate bid to follow orders. Sara leaned her head back and sighed, feeling cool night air hit her cock.
The goddess of love did not shortchange her champions. She'd taken more than a few partners to bed since arriving in this world, and every time the equipment between Sara's legs had changed to fit her partner's preferences. Right now Sara sported a cock that was the better part of seven and a half inches, hard as could be. She groaned as gentle hands took her length, wasting no time as they began to pump.
She'd been a fucking moron for thinking that jerking herself off to the sight of Evie was anything thing worth settling for. This, this right here, was heaven. She rocked her hips forward, encouraging Evie's ministrations.
Evie continued to slide her hands along her cock, earning another low groan, but it wasn't enough. Sara could feel the searing heat of glyphs on her skin, feel the demand in her gut for more.
She bent forward and ran her hands down to the roots of Evie's hair, then tightened.
"Keep your mouth open."
Evie did, tongue lolling out. She knew what was going to happen. By the way her heated breath practically steamed in the air, she'd been waiting for it.
With an animalistic grunt Sara yanked the girl's head down, enveloping herself in that hot, addictive throat.
Evie began to cough as Sara slid forward, feline eyes watering in discomfort, but her hands grabbed at Sara's ass and pulled forward all the same.
Sara bottomed out, Evie's nose pressed into her pelvis. She held herself there for a moment, shivering, languishing in pleasure, watching the eyes watching her, then pulled back.
And slammed back in.
Two moans filled the air as Sara felt the catgirl's throat spasm, like it was trying to squeeze every last drop out of her. Sara adjusted her grip on Evie's head, snagging her hands in the hair at the base of those cat ears.
Beneath her Evie bucked, tongue pushing against her cock as she moaned around Sara's length. Kneading her hands deeper into her hair, Sara began fucking her face in earnest.
Every slap of her cock against the back of Evie's throat was intoxicating, enveloping her in a hot velvet that screamed to her pounding pulse that this was what she'd been made for, that this was why she was here in this world. To take, to conquer, to have a crowd of women watching a scene like this one, pawing at her legs, begging to be fucked next.
And Sara would have it. She knew it with a certainty like no other in that moment, the absolute fact that her body would have what it wanted. Oh, she'd deny it later on, rationalizing those thoughts, convincing herself that it was just the heat of the moment that let them boil up within, but she knew herself. The sight of a woman bent beneath her, kneeling for her pleasure? She'd never have enough of it. Not now, not ever.
Evie began to bob her head of her own accord, throwing herself into the task of servicing Sara. She encouraged it, rewarding the girl by ripping off her bindings to palm her tits while kneading her ears, either motion causing another delectable buzz to run along Sara's cock as her slave moaned.
Evie was mewling, a free hand having slipped into her underwear to shakily pleasure herself. She couldn't keep it steady, not while she was being fucked by Sara, but the catgirl was clearly wound so tight that the barest massages against her folds were enough to stoke the flames of desire ever higher. The collar glowed as she gave in to the pleasure, rewarding her obedience. Sara watched Evie fall deeper into delirious, overwhelming ecstasy.
There was a heat building in Sara. She began to fuck her slave's face more frantically, the slap of it audible in the night air alongside a litany of half-moaned curses. She felt her slave's hands leave her ass and travel down, pleasuring herself in frantic rutting motions against her own palm.
They were both so close.
It didn't take long.
Sara's orgasm billowed up from within like an eruption, turning her knees to jelly as she shook and groaned in senseless relief. She buried herself to the hilt in her slave's throat, thrusting with so much force that Evie had to prop herself up with a hand or be knocked onto her back. All the while Sara's mind went white, electric shocks of ecstasy wrapping around every inch of a body that was delighting in a purpose fulfilled.
Meanwhile, ignored by Sara, Evie came with a scream, delirious gyrations rocking her from head to toe. Sara had to keep hold of her head just to keep her from collapsing while she shuddered and groaned, every jerk of her neck pulling another pulse from her Master's cock. Evie's strength fled her body as she swallowed every last drop, its taste on her tongue a reward even greater than her orgasm. The last shreds of resistance, whatever rebellious notions some hidden corner of her subconscious had clung to, were washed away in a roar of mindless bliss.
They grinded against one another for what felt like hours, neither paying the other any mind. Baser instincts ruled them, turning them into simple creatures that groaned and slid against the other in a search for just a bit more pleasure.
..........................
........................
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Sara came back to reason laying face-down on the cobblestones, something pressed against her lower half. Mumbling incoherently she lifted her head up just enough to find Evie, still undressed, arms wrapped around her waist in a contented embrace.
Sara let her head fall back down, welcoming the sleep that took her.
Chapter Text
Sara woke in a mansion bed, clean and refreshed. There was still a warmth pressed against her, a softness that contoured up from her thighs along her hips and ribs, ending in a kind nuzzle at the crook of her neck. Sara shifted under the covers, wrapping her legs around the girl with which she was intertwined while dusting fingertips across endless tracks of fine hair.
She didn’t quite recall how she got up into the bed. Past a certain point in the night her memory blurred, a drunken pallor hiding details that were probably best left forgotten. In fact, as the aftermath of last night’s duel crystallized in her memory and her face flushed red in embarrassment, there were probably a great deal more memories that would have been best left forgotten.
"Come on now," Evie murmured into her neck, "Don't get all tense now."
Sara let her hands wander silently until they felt the cool iron of the collar around her bedpartner's neck. "That wasn't right, what I did last night," she whispered.
"I know." Evie's eyes opened lazily to meet hers. "Wasn't it amazing?"
Sara kept stroking her slave, meandering from skin to hair to sheet and back again. She opened her mouth to argue, to say it had been immoral, wrong, but couldn't find a way to say it and mean it. So instead she hung her head, tucking her chin against the top of Evie, the flutter of cat ears tickling her chin.
Evie relaxed. "Thank you, Master."
"I don't think you should."
Evie snorted, a gesture normally unbecoming of the noble woman. "Master, I have never felt like I did last night. Did you know that before this morning I'd never understood addiction? I always thought the peasants hooked on powders and drink were just simple fools, too weak to give up their vices. Now I wake a hypocrite."
"You're saying I'm an addiction?" Sara let her fingers drift closer to Evie's neck, teasing at the edge of the collar that bound another's body to her will.
Evie shivered. "I suppose so. If addiction is defined as something one is certain that they would die without? Yes, I am."
Sara shook her head tiredly, thoughts far too stuffed with early morning cotton to unpack that particular declaration. "I'll have to make sure to keep giving your daily doses, I suppose."
"Mm. Apply liberally to affected body."
Despite the way the sun was shining through the moth-eaten curtains, Sara let her eyes flutter back closed. It was a day to sleep in, she'd decided.
-------------------------------
She was awoken once more, this time by rustling sheets and a wincing Evie, who'd just snuck out from under the covers.
"You're quite the light sleeper, aren't you Master?"
"Only when my bed suddenly gets cold," Sara said pitifully, holding up her empty arms. "Why do you hate me?"
Evie shook her head amusedly, kicking a bundle of clothing up from the floor into her hands. "It didn't take you long to grow possessive, did it?"
"If anything..." Sara paused as she mourned such a delicious body being covered by clothes. "...I think this relationship started off possessive."
Pulling her hair out from beneath her shirt, Evie scraped a nail against her iron collar. "That it did. Though, I suppose, from your end of things it started off much more voyeuristically."
"I never stopped looking," Sara replied, propping her head up with an elbow to watch Evie dress.
"Oh really? I hadn't noticed." Evie turned around to grab her pants, bending from the waist in a slow, languid motion.
Sara licked her lips. "Actions have consequences, I'll warn you."
Evie stood straight, popping her pants out and then tossing them over her shoulder as she walked out of the room, still naked from the waist down. "I'm counting on it!" She called over her shoulder.
Sara dropped back into bed, groaning loudly into the feather mattress. She'd never had such a decidedly pleasurable problem before, and it was taking all her brainpower to decipher even the slightest portion of this situation's morality. Sure, Evie seemed decidedly into her, but this was the mother of all power imbalances here, wasn't it? Informed consent fell apart when you can change the other person's thoughts with a word.
When the sun had risen too high to be seen through the window, Sara gave up. She sloughed out of bed with a prolonged sigh, resolving to circle back to the ethical problems later. She had more pressing decisions to make, and these would require Evie's input.
Once dressed, the smell of food led her down lavish carpeted stairs and through wallpapered hallways, eventually delivering her to a large kitchen. There Evie was sitting at a scuffed wooden table that she'd dragged out of a corner, finished plate before her and a full one across the table.
"There you are, Master. I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to wake you before the day's end."
Sara slid into the chair across from Evie with a sigh, picking at the food with a silver fork. "Did you make this?" She asked, eyeing the herb-spiced spread of eggs, steak, and steamed vegetables.
"I did not. The tavern owner from last night knocked on the door to offer her services for breakfast. Quite pleasant, really. I'd missed having servants on the road. Though she did seem quite surprised when she saw my collar."
Sara looked up from her food sharply. Evie was wearing a set of her expensive-but-practical traveling clothes, specifically the shirt that Sara had picked because its neck ruffles had concealed her collar. That had apparently been done away with; Sara could see the jagged lines from where Evie had cut the ruffle away to expose her bare neck. Her slave collar, thick iron covered in arcane symbols, was unmistakeable.
"Why'd you do that?" Sara asked, endeavoring to keep her tone conversational. It was Evie's decision to make.
The catgirl hummed noncommittally, but the agitation of her tail belied her anxiety. "Last night in the village, and in the others before, people kept looking to me to make decisions. Whether they were asking about myself or about us, they were constantly under the mistaken impression that I had a choice in matters."
"Evie, you do," Sara tried to argue.
The catgirl shook her head pointedly. "No, I don't, and I'd rather keep it that way. I spent most of my life traveling between a home I despised and social functions that bored me, Master. I thought the freedom to determine my own path would be joyous, perhaps even a relief considering the poor choices made for me by my mother, but in practice I've found it nothing more than stressful."
Evie sipped from her mug, tipping it back just enough that Sara caught a glimpse of ruby wine pouring down her throat. "I thoroughly enjoyed myself last night, Master, that I can assure you, and because I have grown adept at sensing your desires, I know you did, too. But that same affinity for understanding what you want has lead me to believe that you wish for me to continue being a woman of the world, with all the self-determination that entails." Evie locked eyes with Sara, who could see for the first time a deep-set anxiety creeping through her noble facade. "I do not want that. I do not wish to stand beside a god-touched woman as an equal, shoulder to shoulder with someone fated to mold nations like potter's clay. And because I also know that you wish for me to follow my own ambitions, I have told you this outright."
"Evie, I--"
A single finger raised. "What I want, Master, is simple. I want to be with you. I want to be for you. I know you hoped for me to be a companion, but your clear preference for honesty means I won't lie. So I will ask you this: if you cannot have an ally, will you accept a shadow?"
Sara took a deep breath, massaging her forehead. She should have stayed in bed. "A shadow?" She asked, seeking clarification.
"Your shadow. Always there, always watching, but never beyond your reach. The one who does not act on their own, but follows your every motion with flawless alacrity. I will strike your foes, wrap your wounds, share your bed, and do anything else required of me, but never make decisions. Mine was a sheltered, sinful life, Master. I wish to find absolution in your footsteps."
Sara's food lay forgotten as she listened to Evie. It was, without a doubt, the strangest worldview that Sara had ever encountered. Spoken from the lips of nobility, words lilted by an accent straight out of arthurian legend, it was a declaration of supplicant intent so alien to the world Sara knew that she could barely comprehend it. The idea of voluntarily subjugating every part of yourself was ludicrous, offensive by nature, and yet...
This wasn't her world. Knights swore fealty to their lieges here in much the same fashion, and Lords bound themselves to their Kings, as well. Evie had spoken with careful, measured words, clearly ones that had been chosen and rehearsed ahead of time. She could order the girl to tell her the truth, but it was redundant; she knew Evie wasn't lying about her desires. Sara could tell that much by the way Evie's tail had begun to thrash so hard it had escaped her chair, thumping noisily against the wall.
"Okay," Sara said. She said it with no small reluctance, but she said it. "With one term."
Evie's ears quivered nervously and her tail thrashed even harder, while her facial expression changed only by a single raised eyebrow. "Oh?"
"It's not permanent, and you won't think of it as permanent. Should you ever fundamentally disagree with one of my decisions, at any point in the future, you will let me know. I didn't want you to be my slave a week or a month ago, and I still don't want it now. I can agree to treating you as one, because it's what you want, but actually stripping you of free will is abhorrent."
Evie sagged in her chair, ears popping back forward and tail finally drooping as she sighed in relief. "I can agree with that, Master. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
They sat across from one another for quite a while, Evie resting her head on the back of her chair while Sara worked her way through her food. Once she was done and there was nothing else to do, she stood.
"Okay, then," Sara said, scooting her chair around the tiny table until she was next to Evie. Sitting back down, she wrapped an arm around her slave's waist and pulled her close. "There was also something I wanted to talk to you about. A lot less dramatic, but still pretty important in the short term."
Sara felt Evie shiver delightedly at her casual embrace. "And that is, Master?"
"What we're doing next. I wanted you to..." Sara hesitated, realizing that she was about to have Evie tell her where the best place to travel would be. But asking something like that was exactly the sort of thing Evie had been wanting to avoid, so she belatedly changed tack. "I wanted you to tell me a few things about the area. I'm getting awfully sick of this country, with how they treat the peasants and, y'know, the literal slavery. Where I'm from keeping slaves is seen as pretty close to the worst atrocity a person can commit, and they're awfully casual about it here. So I wanted to know about the other kingdoms nearby, to see if any of them are less... awful."
Evie mulled it over for a second, then slipped a small letter opener from a pouch on her waist. Carving a simple map into the dusty table before them, she haltingly began recalling her childhood lessons. "Sporatan, the kingdom and the King it is named for, are both of great size and importance." Sara chuckled, remembering her meeting with the moribund ruler, while Evie drew a jagged oval shape on the edge of the table. "To the north is Silven, a land of massive forests and little wealth. If slavery is what you wish to flee, Master, you'll find some minor improvements among the coalitions of petty kings there. Only criminals are forced to labor without pay, but peasantry remained bound to their Lord's lands and lack the right to travel or own property."
"That's still basically slavery in my eyes," Sara said.
"Then you'll think much the same of most of Sporatan's neighbors. Universal right to travel is a rare thing here, and there are no republics that rule by elected council in a thousand miles. The nearest is the city state of Akarna, and my lessons say the poor there live worse than any serf."
Sara snorted derisively. "I'd bet they say that. Sounds like propaganda to me, keep the people from knowing things can be better. Let me guess, Akarna is a wealthy coastal city dependent on lucrative trade deals earned and protected by an elite navy?"
Evie blinked, looking up from her scrawling. "I thought you hadn't found time for education since your arrival here, Master."
"I haven't. I'm just genre savvy. And it helps that the only medieval republic I can think of back on Earth was basically the same." She traced a line across Evie's half-finished map, using what she knew of Sporatan's dimensions to stop at a point a thousand miles away. "But it's too far, annoyingly, and I doubt I'd be able to convince them to do much. My religious street cred may help here, but places like that worship money. Is there anywhere that borders Sporatan that isn't a total shithole?"
Evie finished roughly sketching out the borders of the immediate polities, tapping them thoughtfully. "From what I've gathered of your homeland, I assume you are looking for somewhere where the peasantry possess universal right to travel and the right to trial, ideally with some aspect of collective rule?"
"There's a lot more to it than that, but those are the barest requirements, yes."
Evie moved her pen knife from region to region, slashing each out in turn as she listed their horrifying violations of human rights. Eventually there was only one place left, a space of unmarred table to the south of Sporatan that her carving hadn't given defined borders. She laid her letter opener down, speaking.
"Then I think your only option will be the southern coasts. There's no significant government there left to speak of, just individual cities and villages in various states of disarray. The nobility has long since fled, and the citizenry that remain have only recently begun to band together and curb rampant banditry."
"So it's the only place without an awful government because it's the only place without a government at all?"
"More or less. I think it unlikely they have slaves, as the magically enslaved would have left with the nobility, and I have to imagine that few would take the risk of enslaving someone who retains the wherewithal to slit their throats as they sleep."
Sara pursed her lips. "You'd be surprised. What ruined so many cities?"
"If you listen to the church, it was the gods, who saw fit to smite a land of heretics and jungle savages that were stepping beyond their rightful bounds. In more worldly terms, it was several years of devastating storm seasons, typhoons that flattened fields and repeatedly flooded a country whose population lived on the coast. The last powerful typhoon to strike the coast was a decade ago, but few with appropriate means see such a place as worth investing in again. And so the lands lie half-vacant, a nation of rotting timbers and crumbling stone."
Sara stared intensely at the faux map, as if the wooden grain would spring to life and show her a picture of the dead nation from above. Then she turned to Evie, curious. "That's an awfully poetic way to phrase it, Evie. Are you planning to be a historian or something?"
"I'm planning to be yours," she casually said, lips curling. "But in all seriousness, no. My economics tutor was a refugee from the nation, a Count without a castle, so I became well acquainted with our southern neighbor's unfortunate circumstances. I still remember the sight of him when he'd first arrived, a man with the darkest skin I'd ever seen hidden beneath layers of exotic cloth and jewelry. My mother accepted the last of his trade goods in exchange for granting him refuge, and her appointing of him as my tutor in mathematics and trade was one of the few decisions of hers that I respect to this day. He was a shrewd man, and he explained the philosophy of mercantile exchanges as much as he did numbers and ledgers. I'm far from an expert merchant today, but it's a testament to his skill in teaching that I even remember the names of the continent's currencies."
"High praise, coming from you."
"More than you know. I hope whoever won the inheritance battle for mother's estate hasn't thrown him out."
"Here's hoping."
Sara scooted her chair to the side so she could lean on the shorter girl's shoulder, staring sightlessly. The southern border of Sporatan was hundreds of miles away, a distance that she'd once thought little of traveling in a single day. On foot, though, it would probably take weeks of travel, and that's assuming the roads to and from could be navigated in a mostly straight line. All the same, she didn't see much choice.
"Alright, then. We're going there." Evie nodded idly, taking the idea of leaving her homeland without comment.
"I'm glad my advice was useful to you, Master."
"So am I. Can you think of anything we'll need for the road before we go?"
Evie tapped her cheek, humming. "We have more than enough supplies to reach the next village, so nothing we need, no. Am I to be your guard in the future?"
Sara waffled on her answer. "I guess? Kind of. Just fight with me if we get attacked, or let me know if you think we're about to get jumped or something. I don't want you taking any bullets for me when I'm the one with a god's blessings. I haven't taken too many hits yet, but I'm willing to bet I'm a lot harder to kill than you."
"Noted. But if you expect to fight, I'd like you to find a blacksmith as we travel. Your sword and my rapier are adequate pieces, but speaking as someone with experience handling the work of master craftsmen, quality matters."
"Alright. Any idea if there are some big cities along the way?"
"No. In fact, I have no idea what our route will be at all. I'm quite familiar with political boundaries across the continent, but until recently knowledge of specific roads was fairly useless to me. We'll have to ask for directions."
"Damn. Wonder if Lord whatever-the-fuck kept a map in this mansion."
"Would you like me to search for one, Master?"
"Sure. I'll go upstairs to pack."
They disentangled with some reluctance, splitting to take to their tasks. Sara walked back up the ornate staircase, eyeing the paintings and gold trim with distaste. It was hard to appreciate their admittedly masterful handiwork when she could see through the front window rows of wooden homes and thatch roofs.
She was finishing up slipping on the plainest set of traveling clothes she had when she heard Evie call out, mild concern in her voice echoing up from below.
"Master? It seems the legal debate has been settled."
Sara frowned in confusion and began to pack faster, shoving the last of their clothes into her bag without folding them. She belted on her sword's scabbard and drew Evie's rapier from its place in the magical pouch, padding out into the hallway with an eye turned to the front window.
A column of people were marching down the village's central street, a noble in fine fur robes at their head.
Ah, she thought, that legal debate. It seemed the new master of the home had arrived.
She made her way down the stairs leisurely, handing Evie her rapier and its leather scabbard when they met at the bottom.
"You'll probably want to keep that close," she warned the catgirl, who made a sound of agreement.
"You assume we'll be taken for intruders and have to defend ourselves?"
"Intruders? No, I bet that tavern lady's already told them. She's way too dedicated for her own good. But fightin'? Yeah, that's likely."
Without further comment Evie tightened her belt and double checked the fit of her scabbard, then began tying her long hair up into a much more practical bun.
Sara waited until the noble and the guards flanking him were almost at the mansion's gate before stepping forward, throwing the doors open and striding out into the late morning sun. Evie followed just behind and to the right of her, matching the beat of her steps just within her shadow.
"Ho there!" Called the noble man with a bright smile, raising a hand. "I hear I've had the misfortune of being late to my own home to receive a distinguished guest!"
"Not too late, thankfully," Sara called back, meeting the man halfway in the middle of the stone walkway.
"Just so," the man said agreeably, sweeping his fur coat to the side to offer a slight bow. "Lord Andisan, once of Verstan, now of this humble abode. I apologize for the state of the gardens, Holy One. I would have sent my men ahead to tame them had I known you were coming."
"We were only staying for the night," Sara assured him politely, eyeing the flow of stiff-backed servants that were now filtering around them to bring a mountain of furniture into the already furnished mansion. "And in fact we were just leaving, as well."
"Then I thank fine Amarat for such a timely coincidence," he said, smoothly transitioning to agree with Sara while also name-dropping the goddess of whom she was the champion of. This man was, if nothing else, a professional noble. "Is your task one of haste, or have you time for a meal and discussion? The wines I brought with me have been unfortunately warmed by the journey, but I trust my late uncle's cellar has a number of worthy examples available."
Having seen that their charge was now chatting with fellow nobility, most of his guards left him to go about securing the mansion perimeter. Sara watched the guards go with a keen eye, then refocused on the man.
"I'm sorry to say we've waited too long already, my Lord," Sara tripped over her words slightly, having immediately forgotten the man's name, but forged on, "We meant to leave at sunrise. But may I bother you for a brief bit of advice before I go? There's many things about my sudden elevation in stature that I still struggle with."
Well hidden, but still visible to Sara's cynicism, the lord's eyes sparkled with delight. Sara could surmise his thought process: if moving to a rural village's mansion had been an upgrade for the man, becoming an advisor of the kingdom's 'Holy One' was an undeniable opportunity.
"Of course, of course! While others may not take the time to help one such as yourself, I am a pious enough gentleman to know better."
Sara hooked a thumb over her shoulder at Evie, rolling her eyes as if the catgirl's presence bothered her. "I seem to have found myself stuck with a slave I didn't want. Do you have any yourself?"
"A number, in fact, such as--"
The lord's words slurred into panicked gurgling as Sara's sword swept across his neck from the lower left to upper right, machete tip scraping against vertebrae in his neck. Before the flying blood even had time to crest in its arc Evie's rapier lanced out, spearing through the collarbone of the only guard that had been at his side.
"Fucking disgusting," Sara spat. She tucked the flat of her sword against her chest so she didn't impale any of the servants that she began barreling through, running for the manor's gates.
Shrill cries of panic spread through the crowd of servants, those in her path shoving the others in a frantic bid to get out of her way. Beneath the screams Sara heard the clank of armored footsteps collapsing on her, orders barked back and forth and calls for a healer being passed around.
"Assassins!" Evie suddenly shouted beside her, pointing to the dead guard. "Assassins sent for the Holy One among Lord Andasin's guards!"
Sara cackled madly, sheathing her sword.
"God, I fucking love you, Evie."
Evie, running beside her, only smiled back.
Notes:
With their relationship put in concrete terms and Sara's moral values clearly demonstrated (to Lord Dickwad's detriment), her new life begins in earnest. Reaching the ruined southern lands may take a while, but if Sara wants to overthrow a kingdom, she has to have somewhere to build her power.
Leave a comment! I've got plenty prepared ahead of time that I'll be posting over the next few days, but after that the backlog will be exhausted. What keeps me writing is reader engagement, so if you want more, behave yourself and make it known. Feel free to point out errors, give suggestions, or make requests for scenes that you'd enjoy.
Chapter Text
Two weeks later...
"Do you think this design is viable?" Sara asked, sliding a paper across the table. The blacksmith across from her was a woman-- Sara had been enjoying the novelty of equal representation in trades and sought women out before men-- scanned the paper with an experienced eye.
"It'll need enchantments," she declared, tapping the hinge mechanism Sara had crudely drawn. "Sturdy ones, if you want it to stand up to the kind of abuse you're likely to be throwing at it."
"I'm prepared to pay for that as well," Sara said, leaning on the counter to try and glean a glimpse of the back of the woman's shop. "Do you have any artificers in-house?"
"No," the orc grunted, grinding her teeth. "It'll be damn expensive to have 'em commissioned. Rush order again, I assume?"
"I'm sorry to say yes," Sara apologized, tugging down the deep v-neck of her shirt collar as if overwhelmed by heat in the cramped building. "We've been on the road for quite some time, and will be again soon. How much will the work cost me?"
The orcish woman huffed as she stared unabashedly down Sara's shirt. "For the Goddess of Passion's champion? I'm tempted to exchange service for service."
Sara batted her eyelids, smiling demurely.
"But I got a business to run here, Sara." A massive paw gripped Sara's chin, pulling her up into a straight posture, then lifting further, until her feet were dangling and she was eye level with the massive orc woman. "If you're still interested after the work's done, I'll be here. Until then, it'll be five hundred gold for my work, and probably two thousand for the enchanting."
Sara sighed through pinched cheeks, tapping the orc woman's massive bicep to signal that she could be dropped. She fell to the floor, unconcerned with the rough handling. They'd arrived in the southernmost city of Sporatan two days ago, and had already grown well acquainted with Hurlish. Had the renowned blacksmith grabbed Sara like that on their first meeting, Evie likely would have taken her arm off at the elbow. Now familiar with the orc woman's peculiar physicality, her feline companion stood silently by, fingers drumming against the jeweled rapier that they'd just collected. Hurlish's work was good.
"How long until it's done?"
"I'll shove all my usual work to my assistants for today and get the metal done by tomorrow morning. Reinforcement enchantments by themselves usually take a week or more, but that's because they're busy. You throw two thousand gold at them and they'll get on it a helluva lot quicker, though. I'd peg it at another day or two."
Sara pouted. "Three days is an awfully long time to keep a lady waiting, Hurlish."
Massive shoulders shrugged indifferently. "Cost of good work."
Sara wiggled her eyebrows. "I wasn't talking about the sword."
Hurlish huffed again, shaking her head. "Damned weirdest client I ever had. Three days I said, for the sword and anything else." She pointed a massive finger at Evie. "But make sure you bring her with you when you come back. Fine piece of work, that Feline."
An idea sparked in Sara's mind. Before she could think better of it, she grabbed Evie's wrist and pulled her forward. She stepped behind Evie, presenting her like a showman giving a sales pitch. "She is, isn't she?" Sara's hand caressed Evie's cheek, running down her chin and ghosting over her collar. "Willing, obedient, and all mine." She hooked a finger in Evie's shirt and pulled it down, exposing the tops of her breasts. "I promise, you haven't lived until you've had her mewling underneath you, Hurlish."
Hurlish pressed both her massive palms on the counter, leaning forward. "Show me her teeth," she whispered eagerly.
Sara's hand drifted back up to Evie's face, light as a feather. She would have felt worse about what she was doing if Evie hadn't been shivering like a leaf, subtly grinding her ass up against Sara's crotch. She shoved a finger in Evie's mouth, ignoring the way her tongue eagerly wrapped around it, and lifted her lips to expose her inch-long fangs.
"Gods damn me," Hurlish breathed, scraping a fingernail along her own tusks that jutted upward from her lower jaw. "And I thought I'd had a nice pair on me. Them fuckers are divine."
Sara laughed, stepping away from Evie all at once. "Still three days on both counts, then?"
Hurlish grunted, shaking her head and staring up at the ceiling. "Three days," she managed, spitting the words through clenched jaws. "Now get out my shop, you fucking succubi. I got shit to do."
To everyone's surprise, Evie spoke up. "One last thing, Master Blacksmith."
"Oh?" Hurlish said, looking back down in interest. Evie had been mostly quiet in their prior encounters.
Instead of saying anything further, Evie grabbed Sara's hand and lifted it to her lips. She kissed the back of Sara's knuckles lovingly, then gently unfolded a thumb and took it in her mouth.
In full view of the orc woman Evie positioned the digit beneath her canine, slowly but firmly pressing down, just hard enough to send the fang into the pad of Sara's thumb. Sara shivered as a drop of blood welled up, staining Evie's tongue. The catgirl sucked on the thumb as she pulled it back, a slight pop sounding as she dropped Sara's hands. Blood smeared her lips as she smiled at Hurlish.
Sara's thumb throbbed, but she very much considered it a worthwhile investment to see a seven foot tall woman shuddering with desire, thick nails digging trenches on a wooden countertop.
"Fuck both of you!" Hurlish shouted, spinning around and stomping into the back of her shop.
"That's the plan!" Evie cat-called after her, giggling delightedly.
Sara headed out of the storefront to the tune of Hurlish's frustrated shouting, ordering her staff not to disturb her office for 'at least' the next ten minutes.
The early morning streets were fairly busy, hundreds of feet pattering between the various buildings of the shopping district. Most buildings here were a couple stories tall, some of the wealthiest towering up to three or four stories. Compared to most sections of the cities Sara had seen in this world, the shopping district of Hagos was sparklingly modern. There were breaks in the stonework for trees to provide shade, and a small median ran down the road for grass and flowers to grow.
"I didn't expect that from you," Sara said to Evie.
The catgirl looked about owlishly, affecting an impassive attitude despite her tail's lazy caressing of Sara's hips. "Such things will happen when you encourage your slave's independence, Master. I only wished to help you fulfill your goals."
Sara chuckled darkly. "Oh, is that all? No interest at all on your end for getting railed by the giant muscle woman that could toss you around like a sack of potatoes?"
"Whatever gave you the impression I was interested in taller women, Master?" Evie blinked up at Sara, half a head shorter than her Master.
"Call it a strong hunch."
They kept walking down the scenic street, vaguely heading back to their rooms without much urgency.
"So, Master," Evie asked, "How exactly are we going to get 2,500 gold in three days? Because the last time I counted our coins, we had a total of seven hundred between us. And that was before you purchased my rapier, which cost most of it."
"Hell if I know. I'm sure I'll pull something out my ass." Sara stepped to the side to let a collared man pushing a wheelbarrow full of iron ingots pass her. The man nodded to her in appreciation. "You familiar with any of the noble types in this city?" She asked Evie.
"Here in Hagos? Only a few, and I barely know them. They only made the trip to the capitol for major events, when mother and I had more important guests to tend to."
"From what you can remember, were any of them particularly dickish?"
"By your standards, Sara? All of them."
"Hm." Sara turned around, finding the shirtless slave still trudging up the street. She jogged back up to the man. "Excuse me, sir?" Despite the fact that she was speaking right behind him, he kept walking. Sara tapped his shoulder. He turned around, surprised. "Sorry to bother you, but I have a few questions for you. You're familiar with the Holy One that appeared in Sporatan?"
Haltingly, clearly disbelieving that someone of Sara and Evie's clear wealth would speak to him, he nodded.
"That's me. I don't know who your master is, but they wouldn't piss me off by getting mad I delayed you. Can I ask you a few questions?"
"Of course, My Lady," the man said. Sara silently thanked the kingdom's elaborate system of message runners and town criers, who'd probably spread her description across the land by now.
"Who's your master?"
"Lord and Lady Vesta, head of their house, noblest of the Hagos families," the man answered robotically. It was clearly the only way he was allowed to introduce them.
"Aight, cool. These Vestas, do they treat you well?"
"The Vestas are among the finest of the Hagos nobility, and their opulence and treatment of guests is renowned throughout the whole south of the kingdom."
Sara groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. A practiced and rehearsed non-answer, one that didn't tell her a thing. "God, I forget how many commands you can lay on a person when you don't give a shit about them. Alright, how about this one: what's your name?"
"Thirty-Four, My Lady."
Sara's blood boiled. "Okay, so they only gave you a number, not a name. That pretty much tells me how you're going to answer this next one, but I'll give it a shot anyway. If you were to have the chance to offer freely a compliment of the Vestas, in regard to how they treat their staff, that you have never given before or been instructed to say, would you?"
The man's eyes, previously dark and suspicious, sparkled in amused delight. He remained utterly silent, going so far as to hold his breath. Sara guessed it wasn't often that he was able to express his honest sentiment of his master.
"And if you were given the opportunity to, for example, argue against the statement that the Vestas are amoral monsters that treat their staff and slaves as disposable tools, would you?"
The silence stretched long, Thirty-Four's amusement growing.
"Alright, thanks." Sara slapped a handful of silver coins onto his cart. "Give your minders those to prove you were delayed by someone important. I appreciate it."
"You are gracious, My Lady," Thirty-Four said, bowing his head and picking up his burden once more.
Sara blew out a long breath as the enslaved man continued on his way.
"I take it we have our target, Master?"
"Prolly. Gonna have to see how good their guards are first, make sure we can actually get in. But I broke into a lot of places in the capitol, so it shouldn't be too hard."
"From what I heard in the month before my rescue, your thefts were not the most subtle of affairs, Master."
"Okay, sure, but I'm not a thief, so you can't judge me too hard. And I never got caught, did I?"
"No. But I think that is mainly because corpses make poor witnesses at trial."
"Exactly," Sara flashed her companion a cocky grin, "My strategy is flawless."
"We'll see about that."
--------------------------------------
"I will admit, Master, that I hadn't expected this."
"How else were we supposed to get in?" Sara asked, dropping the extravagant bullhead doorknocker that adorned the front door of the Vesta Estate. The echoing boom still rung through the streets. Sara hadn't needed to ask for directions; that strange sense of guidance that she'd come to associate with Amarat's will had taken her through the streets.
"I had assumed we would do so unseen," Evie said, stepping closer to fiddle with Sara's clothes. She'd put on the same lilac dress that she'd met the King in, a tightly laced single-shoulder ballgown that hugged her hips and breasts before flaring out to end halfway down her calfs. It was, apparently, an absolutely scandalous attire, and the tailor that she'd commissioned it from had outright refused to add the side-slit she'd wanted. Sara loved it, and she loved the looks she got while wearing it even more.
Evie smoothed some parts and fluffed up others before stepping back, resuming the image of a bodyguard following in their charge's footsteps.
"That's a hell of a lot harder," Sara argued. "Maybe you could manage sneaking around, but I'm a big old oaf. And neither of us know how to pick locks."
"I wasn't disagreeing, Master. Just trying to appraise myself of your intentions so I may better plan my own actions."
"Good luck. I made all this shit up ten minutes ago." She tapped her foot, waiting impatiently. "What do you think's taking them so long?"
"I imagine it took the staff a moment to recognize you, and when they did it sent them into a panic. Once word is carried to the head of the house and a decision is made they'll--" Evie stopped and cocked an ear forward, listening through the door. "Ah, here we go."
The doors swung open, a sharply dressed butler stepping forward with natural poise.
"Lady Sara, Champion of Amarat! Lady Vesta bids you a gracious welcome. Please, please, come in!"
Sara stepped through the threshold, entering a mansion that took up a better half of a city block. The entryhall was as fancy as she'd expected, with plush carpets, artful statues, and a winding mahogany staircase that led to the second and third floors. The butler led her to a set of lounge chairs where a servant was setting out a tea tray, another silently sliding the furniture away so Evie had a place beside her seat to stand guard.
"Lady Vesta," the butler narrated, "Having not prepared for such a distinguished guest, will be ready to receive you in a few scant minutes. In the meantime, please enjoy our finest refreshments."
Sara sat down as the butler began a long-winded speech about the tea's particular eccentricities, lauding its quality like Sara had only heard people talk about wines back on Earth. When his explanation was complete and Sara had taken an appraising sip of the beverage, which tasted fairly mundane, the butler bowed low.
"And may I, if it is not a bother to your holy person, have the pleasure of carrying word to Lady Vesta regarding the purpose of your visit?"
Finally. It had seemed like the man would never get around to the actual reason why he was hovering around her.
"You may tell her that my quest has taken me progressively further south, and so I seek her counsel on the state of the southern regions and the standing of nobility therein. I was also hoping that she or a member of her staff was familiar with the abandoned regions beyond the border, as I've begun to suspect my investigations will not conclude within Sporatan's realm."
The butler's professional demeanor was unshakeable, but Sara knew he was bursting with excitement. To have gathered such valuable information for his employer in such a brief time was exceptional, and would help offset any disadvantage in the coming negotiations that Sara's unexpected arrival had incurred.
She also didn't give much of a shit, because this entire thing was a farce. Sure, she'd fleece Lady Vesta for whatever information she could, but the real reason for this visit was hanging off Evie's hip. There was their bag of holding, now emptied, begging to be filled with the expensive yet meaningless trinkets nobility scattered about their homes.
In fact, Sara realized, most everything before her was very finely made. She picked up a crystal decanter that was on the coffee table, holding it to the dangling candelabra to inspect its craftsmanship. Candlelight broke into rainbows that glittered across her face, the effect too precise to be anything less than intentional.
Sara reached over and tossed it in the bag of holding. Evie kept her passive watch beside her, arms folded behind her back in a soldier's relaxed stance. Lady Vesta may think it odd that Sara had given her slave a fine sword and rich clothing, but Sara was the otherworldly 'holy one'. She was allowed some eccentricity.
"You think she'd just straight up give us a loan?" Sara whispered to Evie, mindful of the servants that hovered at the edge of the room.
"An interesting time for a change of tactics, Master," Evie noted dryly.
"It'd be easier, wouldn't it?"
"It would," Evie agreed, "But you wouldn't find it nearly as satisfying. It seemed to me half your purpose here was to delight in robbing a woman blind while she thought she was getting the better of you."
"Ah, but imagine how slick it would be if she paid us for the pleasure of being robbed?"
Evie smirked, just subtle enough that only Sara would note it. "A fair point, Master."
Evie's ears flicked towards the door, alerting Sara to the arrival of the butler just before the doors swept open.
"Lady Vesta suggests her personal library for the meeting, if it pleases you. She has also summoned one of her son's old tutors, a prestigious professor of the Hagos Academy, to answer any of your questions."
"Sounds good to me," Sara said, standing. She began following the butler through another set of gilded doors and up several flights of stairs, Evie following silently.
Eventually they found themselves before a more humble door, near the end of a long hallway. The butler rapped on the door twice before pulling on the handle, sweeping it open so Sara could enter first.
"Lady Sara, Champion of Amarat," The butler called out, speaking in the oratory tones of someone introducing the latest guest at a fine ball.
The room Sara stepped into was anything but. The stuffy air of a library filled her mind with images of old paper and aging wax seals, which was exactly what now surrounded her. Tightly pressed bookshelves reached the ceiling, wooden rolling ladders folded into little cubbies to allow access to the highest texts. Her every step creaked on the antique floorboards, particularly loud considering the thick leather travel boots that she preferred. Thankfully, considering her far more delicate task, Evie's footsteps fell silently in Sara's shadow.
------------------------------
Evie
-------------------------------
Evie evaluated the room as her Master entered, quickly taking in their surroundings before focusing on the woman that they'd come to parlay with.
A pair of small and decidedly out of place velvet chairs were in the center of the room, a nearby table having been shoved hastily to the side for the purpose. Sitting in one of the chairs with a delicate posture was a woman nearing middle-age, early signs of wrinkles beginning to form in the frown lines of her face. Her green dress was well made, if common in style, something that lead Evie to believe she hadn't changed for the meeting. Her general countenance was typical for those of the southern nobility, a vivid red hair that fell past her ears in bouncing curls, complimenting her pale and freckled cheekbones. Her breasts were a slight bit larger than Master's', emphasized and brought to the forefront by a corset. An attractive woman, one that Evie could vaguely remember greeting at important balls. Clearly Lady Vesta didn't recognize her now, seeing only a slave collar, which was fine by Evie. Her dress was covered in lines of complex embroidery that shimmered slightly as she turned to greet Master.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Sara. I'm delighted to see you wearing the dress that you greeted the king with; I'd begun to worry I overdressed for the occasion."
A genuine statement, or half-hidden jab at Sara's poor wardrobe selection? Most likely the former, considering it was her opening statement to a prospective ally, but poorly chosen if so. It wouldn't do to accidentally cause offense so early into a meeting.
But Evie also knew that her Master would neither notice nor care about the comment, be it compliment or insult. She demonstrated just that by the brusque way she clomped over to the chair opposite Lady Vesta.
"I'm shocked word of my dress reached Hogas before me, but I guess I shouldn't be. Something like this is fairly formal for where I'm from, but it had everyone staring from the second I showed up."
"Oh, I assure you, it was quite the topic of conversation..."
Evie tuned out as Lady Vesta began the usual small talk that preceded any noble meeting, that which maintained the facade that their getting together was anything other than a business transaction. As a child Evie had actually envied the merchants for their heated debates and furious bargaining, wishing that she could state her own goals so plainly in the practice debates with her tutors.
She scanned the library for valuables to pass the time, checking to see if any of them were close enough to swipe off a shelf. None were, not when she was in plain sight of the Lady.
Neither Lady Vesta nor her manservant had insisted Sara be disarmed, which meant the peculiar longsword was still dangling from her Master's hip. Evie ran an eye over Lady Vesta, taking some small amusement in the fact that the nattering woman had no idea how near to death she was at the moment. Her Master had a nigh inscrutable code of ethics, but she held to it dearly. Hopefully the self-absorbed noble wouldn't stray far enough over the line to earn her Master's blade. There would be no convenient lie to be made today should they kill a powerful noble in her own home.
"But shall we get down to business?" Lady Vesta finally said, causing Evie to tune back in to the discussion. "I understand that you have come to me for advice on the kingdom's southernmost regions."
"I have indeed. Do you mind if we get some privacy first, though?" Sara gestured to Evie and Lady Vesta's bodyguard, then flicked a finger to the door.
"Of course, of course. I imagine the Champion of Amarat has many things she would not speak of amongst untrusted ears."
Without further prompting Evie and Lady Vesta's bodyguard headed for the door, leaving their respective Masters to their conversation.
Evie went through the door first, allowing the bulky armored man to shut it behind her. Through his slitted helmet the guard looked discomforted by leaving his charge alone in a room with a stranger, but obviously not enough to risk protesting. They were on the third floor after all, and the Champion of Amarat wouldn't dare harm a member of the nobility.
In his mind, at least.
Evie immediately began stalking down the hallway, not even pretending to take a post outside the door. To her surprise, however, the guard called after her, whispering loudly so as not to be heard through the door.
"Where are you going? We will stand guard, as instructed."
Evie placed a hand on her hip and turned around, staring the man down with practiced boredom. "Where do you think I'm going?" She tapped the collar that was prominent around her neck. "I'm on a task for my Master. She only brought me for the presentation, not her protection. I have other things to be doing."
The guard's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The Champion of Amarat is unguarded, mere weeks after an assassination attempt?"
Evie rolled her eyes like the man was weak in the mind, though privately she commended his prescient concern. "If you think the Champion of Amarat is ever 'undefended' then I welcome you to challenge her to a duel. I hope for your sake that you take my word before resorting to such drastic measures, however, as even blunted weapons leave bruises." And, she thought, because her skills are far wider than they are deep. I'd rather not have her rely on those runes to win every battle.
The man settled down, no longer interested in Evie's whereabouts. It was one of the more common benefits of Evie's entanglement with her master; any who trusted the Champion of Amarat must by extension trust Evie. A slave couldn't disobey her Master.
As Evie glided down the staircase, waiting until she was out of sight of the guard before wandering off, she reflected on how little the wider kingdom knew of their so-called Champion. When most rarely traveled beyond their village, it was difficult indeed to comprehend the changes an upbringing in another world could cause. Sara was like no one Evie had ever known, and all the more compelling for it.
The second floor of the mansion seemed to follow the same pattern as the one she'd grown up in. Anywhere requiring stairs to reach was less desirable, and therefore given to the less desirable guests. Opulent bed chambers likely waited down below, but here there were a series of simpler rooms and withdrawing quarters, more suited for the friend-of-a-friend than hosting a political dignitary. Most of the staff would be housed on the uppermost floors, closet-sized quarters lining the dimly lit corridors that were never seen by people of Lady Vesta's stature.
And so, as Evie walked down the empty hallway, she found herself with free reign of the mansion. Without concern she began pilfering choice items from the hall and attached rooms, careful never to take more than one or two items in an area. Her Master didn't much care if she were blamed for the thefts later, but getting caught in the act was far from desirable.
Into the sack of holding fell crystal glasses, light-enchanted gems, silver candle holders, golden filigreed books, and even a few pieces of spare change that she found lying about. The few weeks of travel that Evie had spent alongside her Master had given her a new perspective on the absurd wealth that had surrounded her in her youth, more so than any bawdry church event she'd been obliged to attend in the name of 'charity'. In a strange way Evie was glad that she'd known poverty before committing her first robbery: it made it all the more gratifying.
What was even funnier, she reflected, is how much poorer Lord and Lady Vesta were than her mother. In Evie's old life she'd have assumed that the rooms she freely traipsed through were more fit for visitor's high-ranking servants than the visitors themselves, but the lack of any finer accommodations on the floor implied that they were actually meant to be used by guests. Evie picked up a bottle of wine that had been left on a nightstand, inspecting its vintage. Barely fifteen years old. Laughable to her, and yet worth a week of wages for a small village.
She dropped the wine in the bag and made to exit the room, pausing when the seed of something warm blossomed in her core.
It seemed Master had changed tactics.
-------------------------------------
Sara
-------------------------------------
"Would you prefer tea, or wine?" Lady Vesta asked as their guards left the room.
"Wine, please."
Lady Vesta obligingly picked up a bottle from the table and began pouring it herself, seeming unbothered by the lack of servants to perform the task for her. It was a point in her favor, in Sara's book, but not one that came close to tipping the scales.
Accepting the offered glass, Sara asked, "Hagos is the last of the major cities before the southern border, I'm told. Did this region suffer any of the same storms that plagued the cities further south?"
Sara took a sip of the wine as Lady Vesta answered. "Quite the opposite, in fact. By the time the typhoons had crawled across the land to Hagos they'd weakened to lightning and rain storms, doing much to water our crops and fill our reservoirs. I've often said that it is proof of the gods' favor for Sporatos that we benefited so neatly from the same events that devastated others, but I'm reluctant to draw such daring conclusions in the company of one who could so easily correct me."
"Oh, don't worry about that," Sara assured her, running a finger over the rim of her wine glass. "Amarat and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. The most I receive from her is a tug in one direction or another, perhaps a flaring of the emotions at certain times. To be honest it's hard to distinguish between my own impulses and divine guidance."
"Such is often said by religious figures, claims I doubted. To hear it from you makes me wonder if the connections they claim to the gods are more concrete than I'd assumed. And now these subtle guidings have led you to Hagos? I find myself both worried and excited to find what has drawn the Goddess' eye here."
Sara shrugged. "So am I. Besides an excellent blacksmith that I'm commissioning several pieces from, I haven't found much heavenly purpose in the city. I was hoping that you might have any ideas for what might be lurking beneath the city."
Lady Vesta took a prolonged sip from her wineglass, probably to give herself time to think of an answer. Sara waited for the response patiently. This was, after all, a sort of test for the woman. Sara knew she had no particular magical or martial talents befitting a "champion of the gods", but most others assumed otherwise. It would be interesting to see who or what Lady Vesta thought she could steer her against.
The noblewoman set her glass down with a dainty clink, folding her hands in her lap. "I apologize to say that I have as little an idea as you, Lady Sara. While Hagos struggles with the same difficulties of any large city, be it smugglers, thieves, or discontent, none are so egregious as to warrant divine intervention. I can only assume your goddess will indeed be steering you farther south, unless my informants have been woefully incompetent in keeping me appraised of the city's wellbeing."
Sara sat back, absorbing that. It certainly hadn't been what she expected. Every noble she'd met in the capitol or beyond had seen her like an unattended sword, just waiting to be swung at their foes. From her comfort in being without servants to the straightforward admission that she needed no aid, Lady Vesta was quickly proving herself one of the more tolerable nobles Sara had met. Let's stress test that, Sara decided.
"What do you think of slavery?"
Lady Vesta, who'd been been flicking something off her dress, froze. "My Lady...?"
"Slavery. Y'know, the magical collars that steal people's free will and ruin their life forever? That and all the more mundane laborers who are paid next to nothing and will be hunted like dogs if they try and move somewhere else. What kinda vibe does that give you?"
Lady Vesta, taken aback, sputtered. "I-- Well, I don't know. It seems an awful thing to experience, but such is the way of the world. Death, dismemberment, slavery. They're all the consequences of either war, poor luck, or poor choices. Why do you ask?"
Sara hummed to herself, recalling the Thirty-Four's words. She was beginning to feel a certain warmth in her chest, encouraging her along the path of inquiry. "Who controls your house's slaves? Your husband?"
"Yes, almost entirely. I must say, Lady Sara, this is a strange topic of conversation--"
Sara tossed her boots up on the coffee table, a sudden confidence burgeoning as she stared at something above Lady Vesta's head.
A glowing blue box, one straight out of a video game. It was the first one that she'd seen since she'd first met her patron goddess, and she was glad to see it.
~New Ability: Amarat's Intuition~
Compatible targets may have helpful information revealed to the user.
"Lady Vesta is a woman who views men with disinterest, her husband most of all. Now with heirs secured and a fortune in her own name, her use for the cruel and bumbling fool dwindles by the day."
~New Ability: Gift of Lust~
Should a target be willing, either consciously or subconsciously, the Champion of Amarat may inflame their passions. This lust can only be satiated by the Champion, something that the target is innately aware of.
Uncrossing her legs, acutely aware of what her dress was revealing to Lady Vesta, Sara activated Gift of Lust. Though there was no visual cue, the gentle noblewoman took a sudden breath, licking her lips. She took another breath, deeper, and shook her head slightly.
"I'm sorry. What was I saying?"
"We were talking about your husband. I hear he's not good for much these days."
Lady Vesta, cheeks beginning to flush, took a deeper sip of her wine. "You may have heard right, Lady Sara. It's useful to have someone to delegate tasks to, but the man's talent for negotiations was never anything to write home about."
"Have you considered ending your marriage to him, then?" Sara twisted in her chair to look about the library, taking her time as she did so. Amarat's blessings had never given her a third sense in the heat of battle, but it certainly kept her appraised of Lady Vesta's eyes crawling lecherously over Sara's body.
"Practically every time I have a moment like this one, these days," Lady Vesta said, then held a hand to her mouth and giggled. "I apologize. I shouldn't be saying such things among new friends."
Sara finished her surveilling of the room, looking Vesta in the eye. "Friends? I'm pleased to hear that, but we've barely spoken."
Lady Vesta's blush deepened. "You're right, of course. Perhaps I should have chosen a weaker vintage for this occasion. I'm feeling all out of sorts. Would you mind if I opened a window?"
"Of course not," Sara said. Lady Vesta thanked her with a smile and stood, gathering her dress about her as she strode over to one of the windows between the bookshelves.
Sara followed behind, quietly as she could. Her boots weren't quiet in the slightest, but Lady Vesta was distracted to say the least. As they reached the window and Lady Vesta reached both hands up to slide it up, Sara leaned in.
"An impressive view," she breathed into Lady Vesta's ear. She reached an arm around the noblewoman, as if to support herself against the wall while leaning over her shoulder. "So many people strolling by."
Lady Vesta shivered, window forgotten. "It's... nothing compared to some views in the manor. I'll have to show you them."
Sara put her other hand up against the wall, pinning the noblewoman in place. "And yet I'm only interested in one."
Lady Vesta bowed her head, panting heavily enough to fog the glass. "I knew I was meeting with the Amarat's Champion, and yet I find myself still caught off guard, Lady Sara."
Sara slid her hands across the window frame, coaxing Vesta's body to arch against the curve of her body. "Tell me, my lady. A powerful woman like you, trapped in a loveless marriage. How many beautiful serving women have you lead astray?"
"Countless," she breathed immediately. "So many of them, with fine figures and their simple bodices, by the gods..."
Sara's hands began wandering upward, whispering against the silk of Lady Vesta's dress. She touched nowhere exciting, not yet, but the way the merchant lord arched against her fingers was intoxicating.
"How did you do it?" She whispered, quickly switching to Lady Vesta's other ear. "Did you take them to your office, alone, for 'discipline'? Or did you find them while wandering the halls on a dark night, wearing less than you ever should?"
Lady Vesta tilted her ear towards Sara's voice, straining to drink in the gentle caress of her breath. "I'd let them catch me undressing. Call them in too early, or too late, right as I step out of the bath or shuck off my robe." She reached up to the window curtains, slowly drawing them closed. Sara listened intently as the room darkened. "I'd watch their faces, their eyes, looking for that moment where the eyes lingered too long."
Sara drew circles with her fingernails on Lady Vesta's stomach, drawing lower at times, then darting back up, or trailing ever closer to her chest, but never quite reaching where she knew Vesta wanted her.
"I'd pay no mind to it, laugh it off at the time, but later..." Lady Vesta gasped as Sara's hand drifted lower, then began to squirm as it landed on her thigh instead of somewhere warmer. "Later I'd call them into my office, as you said. A low-cut dress, the lightest dashes of makeup, as far as I could go without revealing more of my intentions by sight alone. I'd have them sit while I stood, walking circles around them..."
Lady Vesta breathed sharply as Sara pushed down on her shoulders, bringing her to her knees. Still not looking at her, speaking to the wall beneath the window, Lady Vesta continued in a dry whisper.
"Every time I'd circle behind them, my dress would slip. First the neckline, then a shoulder strap, finally my hairtie..."
Sara ran a hand through her soft hair, finding the tie that kept it in a bun. With a well-practiced twist she snapped it, letting the messy shoulder-length scarlet curls cascade down.
Stuttering, barely composed, Vesta continued, "A-and finally, when their little eyes were wider than saucers, I'd stand before them, looking down..." Another shudder, and then her head tilted up, stretching until she was looking at Sara from below. "But My Lady. That is not what I wish from this moment. Today I wish to know what you would do to me."
Sara cupped her chin with one hand, massaging her scalp with the other. "Then kneel for me, Lady Vesta, and I will show you what I want."
The powerful noblewoman spun about with girlish eagerness, tucking her knees beneath herself and forcing her fidgeting hands into her lap with great effort.
Sara took a step back, admiring the sight. Lady Vesta's chest was heaving, her eyes dark and lustful. Her lips were ever so slightly split, ruby lipstick wetted as she licked it.
Sara took a step forward to stand split-legged over Vesta's lap, knitting her fingers through red locks. She shoved the woman's head forward.
Lady Vesta gasped in delight as her nose was buried between Sara's legs, both her hands flying up to grip Sara's thighs beneath her dress. Vesta nuzzled her head back and forth, breathing deep of Sara's scent like she'd never live without it.
Sara ground her hips forward, finding a messy friction against Vesta's face through layers of clothes. The noblewoman feverishly fumbled at her dress, diving beneath it with a breathless moan.
Sara obligingly rolled her hips, letting the woman feel the dampness of her panties. Sara felt shaky hands claw her underwear down and took another step forward, thumping Vesta's back against the wall.
Lady Vesta didn't resist in the slightest, kneading the flesh of Sara's ass as she finally, finally found what she'd been looking for.
For the briefest moments warm breath grazed across the slickness coating Sara's thighs. It was the only warning before a tongue followed.
Sara buckled forward as Lady Vesta reached her core, balling her fists in the woman's red curls. Lady Vesta tasted her like a woman possessed, her whole head moving as she lavished attention across every part of Sara she could reach. Lights danced behind Sara's eyes as she pecked a kiss on her clit, then ran slow strokes along her lips that had Sara's knees quivering.
"Fuck, Vesta," she moaned, thumping her forehead against the drawn curtain. "This is... f-fuck!"
She felt Lady Vesta smile against her, humming pridefully. Her hands worked their way around from Sara's ass, one moving to the collar of her dress, the other snaking up beneath Sara's shirt.
Sara had never slept with an older woman before, something that was proving itself to be one of the biggest fucking mistakes of her life. Vesta's tongue moved with a master painter's grace, pulling from Sara's throat sounds that she hadn't even known she could make. She kissed, and nibbled, and bit the insides of her thighs, every momentary diversion serving to drive Sara's need higher.
"Get yoooour fucking fingers inside--" Sara's demand was cut off by her own high pitched gasp, Vesta obliging her before she'd even finished the sentence. Sara felt Vesta's long fingers slip inside her with shocking ease, her pussy involuntarily clamping around them.
Lady Vesta had the gall to chuckle at her. Sara would have been mad enough to say something, but she was so wrapped up in pleasure that her body was melting forward, face sliding down the curtain. Before she was even aware of what was happening, Vesta had guided her limp body to the floor, spreading her legs on the softest carpet she'd ever felt in her life.
Sara tucked her legs around Vesta's shoulders, feeling bare skin against her. Somehow, at some point, the top half Vesta's dress had been removed, dangling around her waist. Sara hooked a foot under what still hung on and kicked, throwing the final remnants of Vesta's clothes across the room.
"Now, now," Vesta murmured, lifting up just enough to make eye contact with a panting Sara. "That's hardly fair."
"You're lucky you're right," Sara huffed, hands flying up to the faux-corset she'd worn for her meeting with Hurlish. It didn't actually press her body into shape, but it had all the pretty laces that made it look like it did.
Sara snapped threads until she could throw it over her head, slamming both palms back down on the back of Vesta's head. "You get to watch, but that doesn't mean you get to stop," she panted.
Vesta dove back in, the return of her tongue curling Sara's toes and sparking stars behind her eyelids.
"H-h-how the fuck are you so good?" Sara demanded, thumping her head against the floor.
Vesta curled her fingers, tongue running circles around Sara's clit. Sara looked down at the woman between her legs as she lifted away again, face wet with Sara's slick.
"Practice, Lady Sara. Many dedicated, delicious hours of practice."
Sara shoved her back down, rolling her body against that blessed fucking mouth. Some part of her noted the door clicking open, then closing again, but she couldn't care less, the building heat between her legs the only thing that mattered.
A mouth pressed against hers, hair falling around her. Sara suddenly felt Evie's hands begin wandering over her body, scraping little red lines from her throat to her breasts. Sara quaked under the hands of two women, reveling in sensation. She tasted Evie's cherry tongue rolling across her own, heard the sound of her own muffled gasps and the pump of Vesta's fingers in her.
Sara's hands dug deeper into Vesta's hair, pulling her forward, pulling her closer. Her gasps turned to pitiful whines, interspersed with profanities and cries for more. Vesta tried to pull away, for a breath or something else Sara didn't know, because she didn't let her, keeping her right where she wanted her, where she needed her...
Sara's body spasmed. Her spine lifted off the ground as she cried into Evie's mouth, every muscle in her body quivering. She twisted and writhed, nonsensical words failing to fall out of her as she came, jerking her hips up against Vesta's mouth. The fingers in her kept curling, pressing deeper, not letting it end, coaxing her along as she kept whining, kept cumming.
Finally, Sara collapsed all at once, exhausted. Evie gently pulled away from her mouth, licking at the corners of Sara's lips. A distant part of Sara's mind, the part not awash in golden light, heard the noblewoman gasping.
"By all the gods," Vesta swore between breaths, "I've never tasted anyone that good. Never tasted anything that good."
"Just wait," Evie said, tracing knowing lines over the half-conscious Sara's skin. "If you want it to, it gets better."
"How?" Vesta asked breathlessly. "What could be better than that?"
"Master?" Evie prompted. "I think she's ready for it."
Sara roused, the hidden blessing of Amarat flaring to life. All of her exhaustion and all of her tiredness slowly floated away, forgotten. Between her legs, right before Lady Vesta's eyes, something began to swell.
Sara sat up, looking down at Lady Vesta, taking in her ruined hair and the pale expanses of her naked body. Her ass was perfectly shaped, bigger than Evie's, and her tits were large enough to bury a face in.
Vesta's eyes were glued to Sara's waist. She breathed hard and heavy as she watched Sara's cock magically appear, licking her lips.
"If you don't want to," Sara offered, gesturing to her cock. "You don't have to. It's just... it reacts to my desires. My partner's desires. And with Evie here, well... there's a lot of desire for it."
Vesta's eyes sparkled as she watched Sara's cock rise, every beat of Sara's heart making it jump.
"I don't think either of your desires were required for this," Vesta breathed, crawling closer. "Mine alone were more than enough. So big..." Her hand wrapped around the middle of the shaft, causing Sara to hiss in pleasure. "And so warm. Toys have always done me fine, but this..." Vesta bent forward, kissing the tip. Sara groaned at the touch of her lips. "Finally."
Suddenly Lady Vesta blinked, her trance broken even as she slowly pumped her hand along Sara's length. "What do I do now?"
Sara laughed. "How about I get up in a chair, to start with?"
"Okay," Vesta breathed, excitedly moving forward. She didn't even let go of Sara as she was backed into a chair that Evie drew forward. In fact, she hardly broke eye contact with Sara's cock, dropping to her knees as soon as Sara had sat down.
"I want it in me," she whispered, almost to herself. "I want to taste it."
Evie kneeled just behind the older woman, guiding her other hand up. "It's all yours."
Sara watched as a proud noblewoman, one of the most powerful figures in the city, was entranced by her cock. With worshipful eyes Vesta reached up, setting a hand on the tip.
"Just... be careful with the teeth, alright?"
"I understand."
Lady Vesta licked her lips and opened her mouth. Slowly, deliberately, she licked a long line from base to head. Sara watched and shuddered in her chair, nails digging into the upholstery.
"Wonderful," Lady Vesta breathed, diving back down. Sara's eyes fluttered as she licked again, slower, lavishing her attention on Sara's cock. Evie reached around to massage the back of her neck, bringing her head up.
"You know what you want to do," the feline whispered into Vesta's ear. "Look at her. You know what she wants, don't you?"
Vesta swallowed hard, opening her mouth. Evie pressed her forward, whispering instructions in her ear.
"Put your tongue out, just a little bit... Yes, like that. Bring your lips in, and take a deep breath..."
It took all Sara had to keep herself still, letting Evie guide that wondrous, unimaginable heat to surround her. Sara knew she should look away, to keep herself under control, but she couldn't tear herself away from the sight. Her cock took after her partner's desires, which meant for this occasion that Lady Vesta's ruby lips were sealing around Sara's 7 inch length, thick enough to make it a challenge, but not impossible, to take into her throat. Sara shuddered again, looking away.
"Look at her, Lady Vesta. She can't bear it. She wants you to move. Will you be a good girl for her?"
Sara whined as Vesta's mouth began to descend, sliding along the saliva her licks had already placed. Sara was so fucking sensitive that she could feel Vesta's lipstick tugging at her skin, felt the flexing of her tongue as she got used to having a cock in her mouth.
Sara felt her head bump into the back of Lady Vesta's throat. The noblewoman paused, beginning to pull back, but Evie's hand on her back held her in place.
"Come on now, Lady Vesta," the catgirl purred. "I know you can do it. I know you want to feel her in you, hear her whine and groan like you had earlier." Evie's hand wandered down between Vesta's legs, rubbing at her lips, avoiding her clit. Evie pushed just a bit harder on Vesta's head, nipping at her ear. "Good girls get rewarded, Lady Vesta. And I know you want to be a good girl, don't you?"
Sara was too lost in pleasure to object, to say that Vesta only had to do what she was comfortable with. To be honest, Sara didn't know if she'd even have the willpower to say it, not with the way even sitting motionlessly in Vesta's mouth was driving her crazy.
With a determined breath through her nose, Vesta began pushing forward. Sara groaned as her hips tried to meet the advance, but Evie had known her too well, placing a palm on her pelvis to keep her still. Sara whined, legs shaking, just wanting more.
Encouraged by Evie's steady hand against her head, Lady Vesta gave it to her.
Sara felt herself slip farther down Vesta's throat, her wonderful lips taking her inch by inch. Sara squirmed, panting, burning under the intensity of Vesta's eyes. The noblewoman watched Sara struggle to control herself, luxuriating in the sounds she pulled from Sara's mouth, delight dancing in her eyes. She kept going down, down, down, and Sara felt herself sinking further into bliss, thoughts melting away.
Lady Vesta's nose pressed against Sara's stomach. Sara bucked hard at the touch, and this time Evie didn't hold her back. Vesta's head rocked back as Sara pumped, but there was nowhere to go.
"That's a good girl," Evie purred into Vesta's ear, finally reaching for where Vesta wanted. The catgirl's fingers pressed against her clit, forcing a muffled moan out from around Sara's cock. She felt the sound hum against her, a buzz that drove her crazy.
Sara's hands flew to Lady Vesta's scalp, grabbing at her hair and pulling her away. Vesta's hips ground against Evie's hand, Evie gasped in anticipation, and then Sara slammed Vesta's head back down.
Three moans filled the air. Sara felt herself buried in primal heat, shoving until Vesta was pressed against her. Evie began rubbing tight circles on Vesta's clit, whispering encouragement all the while.
"Keep going, keep going," she cooed, "Take it all for Master. It's going to come soon, and then you'll want nothing else ever again, I promise."
Vesta kept bobbing her head, meeting Sara's thrusts. Sara was so worked up that she felt her orgasm building already, drops of precum rising to her tip. Vesta swallowed them eagerly, and as she did, her eyes widened.
"There it is," Evie purred, slipping a finger into Vesta's wet folds. "You tasted it, didn't you? What do you think?"
Vesta didn't answer. With a full body spasm she threw herself forward, burying Sara to the hilt. Her hands flew to the base of Sara's cock, pumping, squeezing, trying to find just another drop to drink. Sara moaned into the open air, grip too weak on Vesta's head to even guide her.
It didn't matter, because Vesta moved like a woman possessed. Her tongue lapped at Sara's length, drool falling from her lips as she pumped and ground, desperate for what she knew was coming. A high pitched whine escaped her as Evie slipped another finger into her pussy, thumb still working at her clit.
"Take it, take it all, be hers," Evie whispered madly, her own voice growing ragged. "It's all you want, isn't it? It's all you need."
Vesta nodded frantically, pumping harder, lipstick smeared up and down Sara's shaft as she worked herself into a frenzy.
Sara was gone. Her only thought was of Vesta's lips, her throat, that tight sweetness that was taking her to the edge. Sara whined, and groaned, and pumped her hips, a heat building that she couldn't stop, until finally, finally--
The world went white. Sara's body curved, throwing Vesta back. With rhythmic pumps she began to cum, her orgasm obliterating her, leaving nothing but the instinct to keep moving, push deeper.
Vesta came with a cry as she drank down Sara's cum, even the shaking of her body not keeping her from shoving Sara further down her throat. Vesta didn't scream, or cry, but just whimpered, taken by a mind-filling fog that only left in her the thought to drink it, drink it all. It tasted like golden honey running down her throat, lighting her afire with a pleasure she'd never known. She threw herself at it, not wanting it to end, even as she grew sensitive, Evie's fingers burning against her. Vesta kept letting Sara fuck her throat through it all, never wanting it to end.
Eventually, inevitably, sadly, it had to finish. With a final cry and jerk of her hips Sara collapsed, falling back into the chair. Vesta followed her down, bobbing her head to try and get just get a little bit more, but the well had truly run dry. With a final pop Vesta pulled herself off of Sara, slumping onto the floor.
Evie, coming down from the high of her own orgasm, pulled Sara down with them. She snuggled into her Master's arms, tugging Vesta up alongside her, and fell asleep.
..................................
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Some time later, lying on the floor, three voices panting into the silent library, Sara tried to process exactly what the hell had just happened.
She'd been chatting with Lady Vesta first, planning to see if she was someone worth robbing or simply cutting down, and then the pop-up had appeared. As soon as she'd known that Lady Vesta was, well, 'available', Sara's intentions had forked down a very different road. One that ended with Evie laying on her left breast, Vesta on her right, all involved naked, sweaty, and satisfied. Surprisingly, doing so had revealed even more about the middle-aged noblewoman, endearing her further to Sara. One thing still tickled at her sensibilities, though.
"Hey, Vesta?" Sara panted.
"Mmm?" The woman murmured sleepily from Sara's chest.
"What did you do with those maids when you were done with them? I can't imagine you kept them all around, right?"
It took the tired Vesta a few moments to even recall what Sara was referring to. "Oh, you mean the women I spoke of earlier. I sent them away, of course. Usually after a few months, when the temptation to grow complacent grew too great. The intricacies and plots of courtly life are brutal even for nobility, and any potential avenue for an assault on my character would be exploited."
"Just tossed them off? Threw them away?"
"Heavens, no," Vesta breathed defensively, then quietly chuckled. "I sent them to the estates of family members, those that I knew would treat them well. Thinking on it now, I realize that I went through enough women that I may have inadvertently turned several rural mansions into palaces of debauchery. It's irritating at the best of times to find a woman interested in women, so I wonder if my cousins have realized why their staff are so friendly with each other."
Even Evie chuckled at the mental image. Still softly purring, the catgirl said, "Can you imagine what those manors are like when the lord and lady are away on business? Master, we must put Lady Vesta's cultivated lesbian villas on our travel itinerary."
Lady Vesta laughed. "I'll be sure to give you a list. If I didn't have that damnable husband of mine, I'd likely have made several trips myself. Meet with family in the day, see who knocks on my door at night, and keep a handy supply of stamina potions to keep me awake. It sounds delightful."
Sara looked down at the beautiful woman, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. "Is your husband really all that bad?"
Lady Vesta took a long breath, considering her words carefully before speaking. "Gerald is a competent enough negotiator, but little else. I was eighteen when my parents had him wedded to me, hoping his business acumen would maintain their fortune. Once he gave me my children, though, it became obvious that 'maintaining' was all he was capable of. I was the one who brought House Vesta to our current height, and it's me that the other nobles look to. These days he's little more than an irritating lapdog clinging to my success, nipping at other's heels when he thinks I'm not looking. If you were concerned about slavery, Lady Sara, look no further for the archetype of a man too tiny to succeed, taking it out on those beneath him."
"So... you'd be okay with him being removed?" Sara ventured.
Lady Vesta looked up at her. "I'd like nothing more. At the very least, it would give me more opportunity to pursue dalliances like this one."
Sara shared a look with Evie, trying to communicate through expression and bond her seeking of the catgirl's opinion on Lady Vesta. In answer the catgirl possessively nipped at the noblewoman's earlobe, Vesta giggling girlishly at the ticklish feeling.
"Alright, my Lady," Sara said. "I guess I'll be honest with you. I met with you today to see if you were worth just robbing, or if I should kill you and your husband outright. But recent events..." Sara slid a hand over Vesta's bare shoulder, "...have convinced me otherwise. What say you we both go in on getting rid of your husband, make our partnership a bit more official?"
Sara watched in amusement as Lady Vesta's demeanor changed, despite being naked and covered with a sheen of sweat. Her shoulders squared and her eyebrows pinched together, jaw set more firmly as she considered.
"I'm agreeable to such a plan on the face of it, but I've lived too cautiously to agree outright. Besides further dalliances like these, which I will admit is a powerful draw, what do you have to offer me?"
Sara had half-hoped for a fairytale agreement right then and there, but of course the woman who had turned a middling power into one that dominated an entire city wouldn't be so easily convinced.
"Should we get dressed and talk it over properly?"
Vesta sighed, feigning disappointment. "If you insist."
Sara reluctantly disentangled herself from the two women, trying to figure out where she'd tossed her clothes.
----------------------------------
"Alright," Lady Vesta finally said, tossing the wine glass over her shoulder. It shattered on the corner of a sun-lit table, scattered shards tossing rainbows across the walls. It had been over an hour of careful back-and-forth that lead to this point, but Sara hadn't minded it. It seemed that Lady Vesta was fully invested in them from the start, but was unwilling to commit without precise knowledge of their arrangement's terms. "Let's see where this leads, Lady Sara."
The door to the room flung open, a steel-clad guard barging into the room with sword half freed from its scabbard.
"It's quite alright, Tarlin," Lady Vesta said with an airy wave. The guard froze in his tracks. "Just some dramatic flare to finish our negotiations. I trust you heard everything?"
The plate-clad man nodded sharply, stern expression just visible to Sara behind the slits in his helmet. Considering what 'heard everything' entailed, Sara could only commend the man's professionalism.
"Good. Then I also trust you'll make the proper changes to mine and my husband's guard over the coming days?"
He nodded again, then sheathed his sword and pivoted on a heel to face Sara. "When will you move?" He asked, kicking the door closed behind him.
"Uh... probably in three or so? Waiting on a commission to get done first, but I'm not going to be very patient after that. Got lots of important god stuff to do and what not."
Tarlin nodded once more, then addressed Lady Vesta. "I will have Semlin replace me for the day. Loyalties must be reaffirmed before the coup, so do not speak freely before anyone but myself."
With that he departed, easing the door closed with a gentle click.
Lady Vesta crossed her legs, fully returning to her controlled posture of before. "Now, what was this about Evie robbing me blind?"
Evie looked at Sara, who had a sheepish expression on her face.
After Evie had subsequently dumped out the shockingly large pile of baubles that she'd managed to acquire, Lady Vesta had Semlin bring up from the cellar a purse-sized case of platinum coins. The denomination was unfamiliar to Sara, and she didn't think the term 'coin' quite fit. A single platinum was worth seventy seven gold, a hideously aggravating divisor to use, and they were square-shaped instead of circular. A quarter inch thick and three inches wide, the etchings of King Sporatan on his throne were far more detailed than on gold, silver, or copper. When she'd asked Evie about their shape, the catgirl had blinked in confusion.
"Who would want to pay business contracts with thousands of gold? What, would you just loosely throw them into a chest and have them announce their presence with a clang every time your wagon struck a rock?"
Sara looked down at the neat spread of square metal in the briefcase, oddly melancholic. "I mean, kinda? When I imagined finding a fortune I always had the image of opening a big chest of gold, shining so bright they glow in daylight, then shoving my fists in and throwing chunks of money up into the air in celebration."
Evie, who was sitting in Sara's lap with both arms thrown around her shoulders, peered at the case of sixty five platinum. "I think there are enough there that if you dumped them into a sack you could manage something close to that, Master."
"Aw, that's cheating. It has to be right after you get it or it doesn't count."
Lady Vesta, witnessing this display from across the coffee table, turned to her bodyguard.
"Semlin, have someone bring up another few bottles of wine. The cheap sort."
He nodded sharply, stepping from the room to relay the order.
Evie nuzzled into the crook of Sara's neck while the specifics of the coming days were hashed out, offering her opinion on occasion, or when prompted. Lady Vesta continued to drink at a steady pace, left weaving on her feet and hiccuping by nightfall. Once again, however, Sara suspected that her behavior was a mere exaggeration of her real drunkenness. As helpful as having an ally in the nobility would be, Sara wondered if she should have chosen someone less competent.
Well, if a goddess led me to her, she can't be that bad of a choice... Sara considered. Divine intervention, convenient though it was, really threw a wrench in her notion of self-determination.
The promised esteemed professor did eventually present himself, though he was far too late to be of any relevance to the... negotiations. Sara did still pick his mind for information on the abandoned southern wastes, learning more than she had in a few scant minutes of conversation than she had in weeks of travel.
Once known as Tulian, the kingdom had been founded four centuries before by 'tribal savages' emerging from the jungle. At first the professor had described them as mindless barbarians, barely human, which immediately set Sara's bullshit detector off. After some pressing, and encouragement from Lady Vesta that the truth would not offend her no matter how far it strayed from official government edicts, the old man admitted that the 'savages' were anything but. They settled the coastal regions with shocking speed, colony after colony emerging from southern forest walls that most Sporatans had been too intimidated to explore.
The colonists had actually been sent by a poorly understood empire further within the jungle, explicitly tasked with gaining a foothold in the more open plains. Their military, while initially hindered by their unfamiliarity with fighting in open terrain, quickly adapted to and repulsed Sporatan raids.
Then, at some point in the following hundred and fifty years, the mysterious empire had grown weak. So weak, in fact, that the colonists saw fit to throw off their shackles and declare independence. Scholars had eagerly awaited the shadowy empire's reprisal, salivating at thoughts of foreign magic and fanciful armies to document, but none had come. The newly-declared Kingdom of Tulian had slowly grown ever since, culturally assimilating into the wider continent until some went so far as to classify them as an unofficial Sporatan vassal state. Though it wasn't true, the theory was born from observation.
Then, beginning gradually 15 years ago, the storms had come. Year after year, typhoon after typhoon, the coastal nation buckled. Coastal cities, the bulk of the Tulian economy, were outright shredded by wind and lightning, while inland settlements suffered from flooding rivers and lakes. The nobility coordinated their escape during the scant few dry months between each storm season, taking with them the entire government as they left. Now there were villages and half-shattered cities slowly being overgrown by moss, most of the peasantry surviving among fishing villages and small farming communities.
In short, it was a populace without a kingdom, living in dwindling and isolated communities without a central government to connect them. That meant it was perfect for what Sara had in mind.
Notes:
I would fuckin kill for a way to import more advanced formatting from other programs. Going back through to re-add all the italics and bolding is a pain.
Chapter Text
A question occurred to Sara early in the following mornings. One that she probably should have had already, but wasn't too late to ask. She and Evie were bedded up on the second floor of Lady Vesta's mansion, enjoying a quality of lifestyle that Sara found embarrassingly indulgent, even if Evie found it laughably plain.
"Evie," she asked, "Do you have, uh, 'stats'?"
The catgirl blinked at her.
"Y'know, like, some measure of your innate abilities, a number that summarizes your capabilities in a certain topic."
"Master... Do you not?"
Sara relaxed, letting out a nervous breath with a laugh. "No, I do, but I didn't before, in my old world. I was worried you'd think I'm crazy for asking the question."
Evie quirked an eyebrow. "You are the envoy of a god, Master. There may exist some aspect of yourself I would find unexpectedly strange, but I doubt it."
Sara had to give her that. She turned away from the room's mirror while brushing her hair, looking down at her slave. "So what are your stats?"
Evie coyly smiled. "So you are made aware, Master, such information is often considered the most private of information." The catgirl stretched on the bed, the pale expanse of her naked body glittering in the candlelight. Her hair was still in knots from Sara's grip on her scalp the night before.
"Evie, I think you and I are well past the point of sharing secrets."
"But to share--"
"Tell me your stats."
The bracelet on Sara's wrist hummed, Evie's collar vibrating in response. The catgirl shivered and straightened as she answered. Judging by the dilation of her pupils and the hitch in her breath, Sara really hadn't realized how strict the taboo she'd just violated was. It helped Sara's conscious, naturally, that such a violation left the catgirl squeezing her thighs together and running her tongue over her fangs.
"I am fifth advancement, with a strength of twelve, dexterity of nineteen, constitution and intelligence of fourteen, charisma of eighteen, and a wisdom of 8. My class is now 'Supplicant Duelist'."
"Supplicant Duelist?" Sara asked after committing the specific numbers Evie had rattled off to memory. "What kind of class is that?"
"Before you saved me, I was a Duelist Diplomat. A class doesn't restrict what you are capable of, but rather reflects how you view your abilities."
Sara turned back to the mirror as she prepared for the day, subtly watching Evie through the reflection. "Don't think of yourself as much of a diplomat anymore?"
"Only in my devotion to you, Master," Evie said, eyes lidded as she stared through Sara's half-transparent shift. Lying on her back with hair spread in a halo over her pillow, one hand began to slide over her stomach.
"I'm still a Champion of Amarat, but that's not how I view myself," Sara noted absently, switching the side she was brushing. "Tell me what you know of previous Champions."
Though Sara pretended not to notice that she'd phrased the request as an order, she watched out of the corner of her eye as the runes on Evie's collar glowed, a delightful shiver running through her slave's body. Evie's hand shot down, diving between her legs.
"I don't know much, Master," Evie apologized, biting her lip to keep quiet while her wrist made slow circles between her thighs. "They're so rare that no one knows much, and what is known is controversial at best. I did try and research them when you appeared in the city, but even my mother's library fell short."
"Disappointing," Sara sniffed. "I'll want to research it again in the future. Work harder next time."
"Y-yes ma'am," Evie stuttered, pushing her face into the pillow as the order rolled off Sara's tongue. The hand between her legs quickened, moving in tighter circles.
"What about abilities? Do you have any skills or spells?"
"I d-do," Evie answered hoarsely, "Things that help me in conversation or against a foe--"
"Be specific," Sara snapped.
The collar hummed. Evie's hips bucked.
"A-ah! I can--"
Sara activated Gift of Lust.
Evie curled up on herself, biting the pillow. Hard. Her eyes were still locked on Sara, her hand now pumping furiously, but the order compelled her to speak.
"I can-- I, oh, can use Duelist's Challenge. Whoever I choose has to--" She squeezed her eyes shut, rutting against her own hand. "F-fuck. I can make an opponent fight me. Only me."
"Sound helpful," Sara hummed, pretending she hadn't noticed Evie's whimpering or the shifting of her body against the sheets. "Tell me if you can use spells."
"Fuck!" Evie mewled, free hand flying up to her collar. She shoved it against her neck, trying to milk it for every drop of magical pleasure. Enunciating every word precisely, two fingers pumping in and out of herself, she managed to grind out, "I. Can't. Cast. Spells."
"Unfortunate," Sara said, then turned around. She raised an eyebrow, as if surprised. "And you can't even control yourself, can you, slave?"
Evie locked eyes with her, feline pupils wide as could be. "Please, Master. Please."
Sara put a finger to her lips, considering. "Hmm. Say it again."
Evie spasmed. "Please!"
"Hands off."
Her slave's hands flung to the corners of the bed as if ropes had snapped into place.
"Spread your legs."
Evie's knees fell apart with a hiccuping gasp, revealing the utter mess her slick had made of the bed. It glistened on her thighs. Sara slid a finger through her slave's arousal, starting at her thigh and gliding towards her cunt, then darting away, bringing the finger to her tongue. She locked eyes with her trembling slave as she languidly licked the finger clean.
"Please, please, pleasepleaseplease!" Evie groaned, hips twisting back and forth as she tried to find the friction she'd been denied.
"Tell me what you want."
"Master!" Her slave practically screamed, clawing the silk sheets to ribbons where Sara's orders had pinned her limbs.
Sara leaned close, closer, resting a hand on the bed for balance. She kept her eyes on her slave's eyes, tilting her head up as she neared her core. Sara licked her lips, the scent of arousal filling her nose.
She stopped just close enough to her slave's cunt that the feline's legs trembled with her every breath, lips sensitive enough to feel each of Sara's exhalations.
Sara pulled away suddenly, smirking.
"Come for me."
Her slave's entire body arched as she came, a keening cry that shook and shuddered with the seizures of her limbs. Sara watched hungrily as her property's obscenities melted into animalistic crying, rutting her hips as she tried to find something, anything to press against. Her slave's tits shook under the candlelight as sobs wracked her frame, almost tempting Sara into ruining the moment by taking hold of what was hers. She managed to resist only because her slave flipped onto her stomach, pressing her tits against the silk sheets to find the slightest semblance of friction.
"Oh fuck, oh ffffuck! Master, oh gods, oh M-master!" Her slave repeated the words in a mindless chant. An evil grin danced across Sara's face as cries to the gods were steadily replaced by her own name on her slave's lips.
Sara pulled up a chair to the edge of the bed, relaxing as she watched her slave's aftershocks roll through her. Mouth parted in an open pant against the sheets, Evie's eyes were utterly vacant as shivers rocked her body. Sara drank in every second of it, waiting for the light to return to her slave's eyes. Sara even pleasured herself to the wrecked girl, slipping a finger inside herself as the feline's tail rose and fell with the waves of ecstasy roaring through her. Her ears were pinned back, protected from her own body's disregard for them as she writhed under Sara's orders.
Sara saw the moment sense returned to Evie's mind. Her eyes fluttered, slowly closing, and the tension that had filled her limbs evaporated. The catgirl shakily moaned one last time, melting into the bed.
"Master..." Evie whispered hoarsely. "You know what isn't what I meant."
"But wasn't it fun?"
Evie muffled her retort in the bed. Grumbling, she shakily pushed herself up. "Are we going to leave today or not?"
"Staying in bed for the rest of the day doesn't sound too bad, does it?" Sara stretched in the lounge chair, smacking her lips. "Hurlish would be disappointed, though."
"Far be it from us to disappoint a contractor," Evie joked sarcastically.
"Hey now, you already got your sword. It's my turn. Just because you can't keep yourself under control doesn't mean I have to miss out on cool new toys."
"Fine, fine. To the outside world it is." Evie sloughed over to the dresser that they'd dumped their clothes into, reluctantly picking through it for an outfit.
"We're gonna get to stay in one day, though. I promise." Sara swatted Evie's ass as she joined Evie at the dresser, rummaging for her own clothes.
---------------------------------------------
They walked down the streets of Hagos side-by-side and hand-in-hand, taking their time as they headed to Hurlish's smithy. Evie had decided upon wearing one of her old daily wear dresses, from when she'd been nobility, but with several prominent modifications. The most obvious was the ragged rip circling her shoulders, the ungodly expensive fabric torn down to her cleavage to ensure that her collar was plainly visible. The other change, Sara's personal favorite, were the two vertical slashes from hip to hem, turning the once-flowing dress into a maneuverable garment for fighting in. It was far from practical, of course, but Evie's natural grace was more than enough to compensate for any threat of tripping or tangling. The unaltered corset, unsurprisingly, did wonders for Evie's body.
Sara's own clothes were, by the standard of the society around her, bewilderingly strange. She'd found a loose set of those weird puffball-shouldered shirts in a closet and torn them up, wearing the black cloth balls like scrunchies on her wrists to hide the runed band that controlled Evie. She wore a black vest over a simple shirt, a decidedly un-womanly style, made more so by the fact that the dress was too short, leaving a hint of midriff exposed. Her leggings were laced leather, the kind meant to be tightly knotted together so no skin showed, but they'd also belonged to someone smaller than her. She'd laced them loosely in a vain attempt to turn them into side-split lace up pants, the kind she'd worn to raves back in the day. The effect was there if you knew what to look for, but only barely, and the thick belt her weapons hung from didn't help. She knew she looked awful, but it was awful and provocative, so she was satisfied. The stares she got from wealthy passersby on the market district's streets were worth it.
The southernmost city of Sporatos was interesting to Sara, who viewed it through a different lens than Evie. While the capitol of the kingdom had been distinctly medieval to her eye, dominated by a massive central castle and thatch roofs, Hagos seemed quite renaissance in its architecture. Its actual land area was minuscule compared to Sporatos, but this was compensated for by buildings that stretched three, four, even five stories in height, sweeping roofs and complexly woven metal window frames lending the tightly pressed buildings an artistic quality. And then there were the regular breaks in the press for bustling parks, where tastefully cultivated trees and even the occasional pond were provided for recreational purposes.
All in all, if it weren't for the rampant systemic abuses that sent Sara into a frothing rage whenever she thought about them, it was a fairly pleasant place to live. She certainly would have chosen it over the capitol.
Sara plucked a leaf from a bush, turning it over thoughtfully. It made sense that Evie was both higher level than her and had higher stats, but some prideful part of her still smarted. With a small mental push she brought the not-technically-UI into view, overlaying it on the leaf.
Class: Champion of Amarat
Level 2
STR: 18
DEX: 12
CON: 12
INT: 14
WIS: 10
CHA: 20
To Sara's amusement, the floating grid of numbers moved with the leaf, as if pinned to its front. Acting on her curiosity, not expecting anything, she turned the leaf over.
"Oh shit," she swore, clenching Evie's hand in hers. "I have spells, Evie!"
"Master!" She hissed, whipping towards her. "Don't say such things in public!"
"Sorry, sorry," Sara lied, "But come on! How badass is that? I can do magic!"
"It's very wonderful, Master," Evie politely agreed, "But it's also something best kept to yourself. You're making enemies as quickly as you are friends, so I would be much more comfortable if you kept your cards closer to your chest."
"Okay, sure," Sara agreed distractedly, eyes roving over the newfound spells she had at her disposal.
Cantrips:
Ray of Frost
Warp Step
Electric Arc
Mage Hand
Phase Bolt
First Level Spells:
Shocking Grasp
Champion of Amarat Uniquities:
Amarat's Intuition
Gift of Lust
Some of the spells sounded familiar, like something out of a game, while others she didn't recognize in the slightest. She wasn't sure if that was because they weren't from any game on Earth, or because she simply didn't remember them. It had been years since she'd had the free time to indulge in video games like she used to.
"Evie," Sara whispered excitedly. "How do I cast a spell?"
"What? Master, no," the catgirl snapped, "You aren't going to start casting magic in the middle of the street. That would be idiotic."
"But Evieeeee," Sara whined, "I can do magic! Like, real spell type stuff, not just card tricks. How do I do it?"
The catgirl shook her head. "Thankfully your impatience will be restrained by my ignorance, because I have no idea. I can't cast spells, if you'll recall from the morning's interrogation?"
"Damnit. Aren't I supposed to have a spellbook or something?"
"Perhaps? The arcane wells up from many sources," Evie whispered, leaning close so the conversation was less likely to be overheard. "I would assume yours to be divine in origin, being the Champion of a god. Those of a religious bent rarely need an outside implement to cast."
"That makes sense." Sara fidgeted, reading over the list again and again. "I want you to know," Sara leaned close to Evie as she whispered, "That I'm being very good right now by not trying to cast any spells."
If Sara hadn't noticed Evie's laborious eye roll, she certainly would have felt the chastising smack of her tail on the back of her legs. "I'm very proud of you, Master."
"Thank you," Sara grinned, "But I think your tail's more honest than you are."
"I'm going to cut it off one day, I swear," Evie mumbled, reaching back to restrain the aforementioned limb. Sara giggled as she watched the catgirl fail to grab it, the nimble tail darting away from her grasp. It wiggled almost tauntingly.
"You really don't have any control of it, do you?"
Evie stared daggers at her. "I'd have thought that was plain by now, Master."
Sara laughed louder as Evie tried and failed once again to grab her own tail, spinning about with an exasperated hiss. Evie swiped for it once more, but it just darted out of the way, lightly smacking the back of her palm as it dodged.
"Oh my god," Sara breathed, an uncontrollable giggle rising up in her as realization struck her. "You're literally chasing your own tail!"
Evie straightened like she'd been electrocuted, a red blush flushing up from her neck. "I am not chasing my own tail, Master."
Sara couldn't control her giggling. "You were! You literally were! You were even spinning around to try and grab it!"
"I am not a child. I do not chase my own tail."
"Sure, sure," Sara agreed sarcastically, "And you definitely weren't losing to your tail, either."
Evie shook her head, ears flattening as she stomped off. "Come on, Master. We have better things to be doing."
"Why didn't you just grab it at the base?" Sara asked. "It would be way easier, right?"
"Because, Master, that--"
"No, see?" Sara demonstrated by snatching the catgirl's tail just where it sprouted from the base of her spine.
Evie's pompous march shattered with a high-pitched mewl, throwing her ass back into Sara's grip as her chest arched forward. In an instant her whole demeanor changed, from the way her ears popped back up to her tongue falling out of her mouth, the tail itself coiling around Sara's arm from wrist to elbow.
"Oh." Sara dropped the tail, freeing Evie from the temporary paralysis. "Didn't know that would happen."
Wiping a drop of spittle from the corner of her mouth, Evie recovered her posture. "Well, now you know. I was about to warn you."
"I really didn't know," Sara said, glancing about at the far greater number of stares they were now attracting. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Evie straightened her dress, which had slipped to one side, baring more of her chest. "I'm yours to use as you please, after all."
Ignoring the heat Evie's words provoked in her gut, Sara took hold of her hand again and began walking. "Still. There's a difference between doing something on purpose and accidentally embarrassing you in public."
"I'm your slave, Master. Not only will I never take exception to your treatment of my body, none here are blaming me for what occurred. Remember, I'm no longer a person, which means my actions reflect only upon you."
"Huh." Sara clicked her tongue, thinking. "I guess that's better...?"
Evie squeezed her hand. "The reputation you're building for yourself, both among the nobility and the commoners, is proving to be an interesting one."
They quickly turned down several streets at random, removing themselves from the crowd that had witnessed Sara's inadvertent display. By the time they'd both steadied their breath, they were nearing Hurlish's shop.
The blacksmith's shop was one of a handful of businesses in the whole city that had been built separately from its neighbors, a solid ten feet of alleyway surrounding every side. Even from a distance soot obviously coated the inside of the windows, making it difficult to peer inside, and it lacked many of the architectural adornments that made Hagos such a novel city. Its roof was flat, wooden furniture atop the second story just visible from below, and its walls had been painted black, presumably out of pity for whoever had once been tasked with cleaning the ash and soot from the bricks.
"By the way, Evie," Sara said as they approached the door, "We're not going to be able to hang with Hurlish today."
The catgirl sighed, resigned. "I figured as much. Hopefully you'll be able to placate her."
Sara chuckled darkly. "Placate her? Are you kidding? I want that woman to destroy me when she finally gets her hands on us."
With that Sara popped open the top two buttons of her vest and strode in, not bothering to announce her arrival by ringing the bell beside the door.
The front desk was empty, as expected, and there was no one else waiting in the cramped room that served as Hurlish's business front. Muted by the walls was a cacophony of banging metal, boiling water, and shouted orders. One voice, deeper and more aggressive than the rest, stood above the crowd.
"Hurlish!" Sara yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth. "We're here!"
Sara waited, listening to the familiar sounds of metalworking in the back hushing one by one. Then, plainly understood despite the walls separating them, she heard Hurlish bellow.
"Everybody get the FUCK out of my shop!"
A bell was rung, followed by a clatter of dropping tools and quenching metal. Sara smirked, leaning on the desk, waiting patiently.
The door flew open, cracking against the wall hard enough that it should have shattered. Hurlish appeared in the frame, holding Sara's new sword in one hand.
"Sara!" Hurlish greeted her, thumping up to the desk. As always, she blatantly stared down Sara's shirt, eye contact a foreign sensibility.
"Got something good for me?" Sara asked, nodding to the weapon.
"Sure fuckin' do," Hurlish tossed the weapon before Sara, letting it clatter across the dented wood. "One fancy blade, enchanted and raring to go."
Sara gently lifted it, inspecting the beautiful sword.
Its wooden handle was carved with exacting precision into a nonagon, a nine-sided polygon of dark lacquered wood just long enough to fit both her palms. The dual crossguard arched up in a Y, ending in two hollow loops that held glowing gems. The stone on the left was a yellow-tinged white, the one on the right a red so bright it might be better called pink.
From the base of the guard rose blackened steel, a double-sided blade narrowing to edges so thin that she couldn't find their end. The black steel was, besides being an exquisite style choice, the sign of iron, coal, and mana intermixed. Weapons forged of the exotic alloy could hold enchantments like no other, without sacrificing sturdiness, a necessity for this particular weapon.
Because halfway up the blade Sara could see the faint etching of a ring, its edge just touching the left side of the blade. Sara picked up the weapon, testing the balance of its five foot length, then looked to Hurlish with a questioning expression.
The orc woman nodded, gesturing for Sara to pop her wrists like she was setting a hook.
Sara did so. As soon as she made the motion the blade broke, the upper half of its length swinging back. In the blink of an eye the thin double-edged greatsword became a single-edged shortsword, slanted tip resembling the machete-like weapon Sara had been using up until now. The back edge of the blade fanned out in a thin V-shape, the extra blade mated against the machete's front edge. There the V narrowed, blending seamlessly into a single cutting edge. She spun the transformed sword in her hand, delighted to find that the balance was as perfect as before.
"Goddamn, Hurlish. This is some good work."
The orc grunted. "Damn right it is. One of the strangest pieces I made yet, but I put my all in it." From beneath the desk she produced a waist scabbard the right size for the sword's folded length, tossing it across the desk. Sara belted it on, but hesitated to sheath the weapon, wanting to hold it for a little bit longer.
"Payment?" Hurlish grunted.
Evie pulled a fistful of platinum from the bag at her waist, handing over thirty five of the metal squares without flinching.
Hurlish whistled as she accepted the coins, more uncomfortable than Evie by far to be handling such a large sum. Eyeing the catgirl, Hurlish sniffed. "Tossing 'round coin like that without blinking's sure as hell something, girlie. What were you before you got your pretty necklace?"
"The heir to the largest fortune outside the royal treasury," Evie answered offhandedly, doublechecking the tie on her hip pouch.
Hurlish deposited the coins in something under the desk that clicked, twisting her jaw to scratch her cheek with a tusk. "Gods be damned. Hell of a ways to fall, ain't it? Standing up top of the world one day, then down in the dirt with the rest of us the next."
"Oh, I don't know." Evie glanced at Sara, smiling suggestively. "I've learned that some joys can only be found on my knees."
Hurlish blew enough air through her nose to impersonate a steam engine. She blinked and shook her head, shoving whatever thought Evie's words had summoned out of her mind.
"Speaking of, my ladies or whatever I fuckin' call you," Hurlish swept a massive mitt to the empty backroom, "I seem to have my shop to myself. How about those promises you made me?"
Sara sighed like a surgeon about to deliver bad news to a family. "Afraid we've got some business in a couple hours. We're going to have to postpone the fucking."
Hurlish's eyes narrowed. "You're shitting me."
"I know, it sucks." Sara slipped her folding blade into its sheath, tossing her old machete aside. "But I'm not going to go when my legs are all wobbly, so we've got to head out."
A massive hand blinked over the counter, grabbing Sara by the vest. Hurlish brought her face right up against Sara's, practically growling as she spoke.
"A couple hours?"
Sara nodded nervously.
"Good."
Sara found herself pulled entirely over the counter, hips and shins bouncing painfully off the wood. She heard Evie laugh as she was then dragged into the back room, the catgirl lightly padding along behind.
Sara tried to crane her neck around to face Evie. "You knew this would happen, didn't you?"
"I don't know what else you could have expected, Master," Evie teased. She moved with a coquettish tilt to her hips as Hurlish dragged Sara up a set of stairs, boot heels thumping on each step. "I've only known one woman like Hurlish, and she always gets what she wants."
Sara's retort was cut off by a sudden flight through the air, spinning head over heels to land on a soft surface. She forced herself up, dizzily surveilling her new surroundings.
Hurlish had dragged her up into an office, one that overlooked the smithy below. There was an antique desk and oversized arm chair at the far end of the room, surrounded by windows that let Hurlish keep an eye on her employees while she did paperwork. The red couch that Sara had landed on was well-worn and well-made, thick enough that she sank into it. Covering the space between desk and couch was a lush shag carpet, shockingly white and unstained despite its surroundings.
Hurlish was standing over her with blazing eyes, stained smock already drifting to the floor.
"Evie?" Sara looked at her partner. "Help?"
Tauntingly, slowly, the catgirl dragged the chair out from behind Hurlish's desk. She lazily reclined in it, crossing her legs in a precise mirror of Sara's posture from the morning. "But won't it be fun, Master?"
Sara's jab melted on her tongue as Hurlish's shirt was torn open, revealing a dizzying spread of muscles. Her biceps were thick as barrels, stomach rippling with abs. Her tits were big on her, which, for a 7-foot woman, meant that they were probably the largest Sara had ever seen in her life. The orc blacksmith bent over, slamming a hand to the wall as she glared down at Sara.
"You said two hours. Use 'em well."
Sara swallowed. "Y-yes ma'am."
"That's the spirit."
Perhaps the most surprising moment of the entire exchange came when Hurlish's hand cupped the back of Sara's head, pulling her in for a kiss. Sara blinked wildly at first, having almost forgotten what a normal hook-up was like, but her eyes quickly fluttered closed. Sara tilted her head, leaning into the kiss.
Hurlish dropped to a knee to be level with Sara, allowing the smaller woman's hands to skate across green skin. A library of scars littered the blacksmith's arms, dozens of raised bumps that Sara knew by heart. Her old body had sported many of them, from the long slash along Hurlish's forearm that she felt certain came from a blade slipping from its clamps, to the pebbled texture of healed burns in a dozen different places. They were the marks of a working woman, and for a moment Sara mourned the loss of her own blemishes. Her fingertips grazed each scar as Hurlish's tongue slipped between her lips to dance against her own.
Sara hadn't been on the defensive in quite a while. Not, she realized, since she'd come to this world. For the first time it was clear that her partner didn't much care that she was the champion of a goddess, not when they were pressed against one another. Sara found that intoxicating, the simplicity of her touch, and so she drank in every part of the woman she could reach. Her hands made a mess of the orc's short black hair, her cheekbones grazing against the tusks that framed the smith's face. She nipped at Hurlish's lower lip and coiled herself against Hurlish's body, feeling her chest, grazing a thumb over a nipple, eager for more.
Sara felt herself lifted into the air, kiss still unbroken, then placed on the white rug. She opened her eyes as the kiss ended with a pair of gasps.
"You," Hurlish grunted as she repositioned herself to straddle Sara's waist, "Are a dangerous woman."
Sara ran her palms up and down Hurlish's thighs, trying to draw her back down. She might as well have tried to move a mountain. "I've been called that a lot since I got here, but I think your reason is my favorite so far."
Hurlish pressed a single finger to Sara's collarbone, where the tight vest was buttoned. "Was that expensive?"
"Not even mine."
Before the words were halfway out of her mouth Hurlish had ripped the vest in half, buttons pinging off the room's windows. Sara gasped at the rush of cold air against her skin, nipples stiff.
Hurlish lowered her mouth to Sara's chest, something that Sara encouraged with a welcoming embrace. Arms clinging to the flexing muscles of Hurlish's shoulders, she shuddered at just the barest touch of the orc's breath. Then Hurlish began to touch her in earnest.
"F-ffuck," Sara groaned, twisting in place. Hurlish's tongue swirled around the bud of her nipple, tasting her, turning her skin to fire. Sara felt a knee thump into place between her thighs and clenched her legs, deliriously relieved by the pressure it provided. Hurlish's free hand went to her other breast, pinching the nipple, and Sara felt the last vestiges of her reasonable mind fall away.
Teeth scraped at the edge of her nipple, lightning crackling along her nerves. Sara's grip on Hurlish's head proved useless, too weak by far to actually shove the brutish woman anywhere she wanted. Sara switched tactics, fumbling at the orc's waist.
Hurlish looked up from Sara's breasts with a knowing and smug smile, guiding Sara's hands to her belt buckle. Sara, no weakling herself, nearly ripped the belt loops off in her haste to get at the orc's body.
Hurlish kicked her pants off, a pair of plain boxers quickly following. Sara moaned involuntarily as she felt a hot, slick heat settle on her leg, shoving her ass into the air to shimmy out of her own clothes. Hurlish bent low again, nipping at Sara's neck, reaching down to pull Sara's pants off. They hooked awkwardly, dragging Sara along with them, prompting a frustrated huff from the woman. To fix the problem she clamped a hand around Sara's throat, pinning her to the carpet while she yanked the pants off.
Sara's body tried to arch, but there was nowhere to go. Hurlish had her hips weighted down, a baseball glove sized palm around her throat, and a face alternating between her breasts. Sara could do nothing more than whine and writhe, trapped by Hurlish's ministrations. If the woman had wanted her to stay, Sara knew that she'd never go anywhere again, too weak to break free.
It was the hottest fucking thing.
"You taste divine," Hurlish's voice buzzed against her nipple. Sara could barely respond, gasping between every word.
"There's- theeeere's oneplace that... fuckING tastes better...!"
Hurlish chuckled, a low rumble that Sara felt in her chest. "But I thought you had somewhere to be? Can't leave you all weak at the knees."
"I swear to god if you don't get that fucking tooongue down there," Sara groaned, pushing against Hurlish's immovable shoulders with all her might.
"I say you keep teasing her for a while," Evie chimed in. "It's only fair."
"Fuck both y'all," Hurlish declared, pulling away from Sara's chest with a wet pop that was sure to leave a hickey. "I do what I want." Sara's thighs clamped shut as the leg she'd been grinding on lifted up and away.
Hurlish walked over to the couch and dropped into it with a pleased sigh, ignoring the way it creaked under her bulk. Spreading her legs, she waved Sara closer.
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
On hands and knees Sara scampered across the floor, diving towards the promised warmth in feverish desperation. Hurlish rolled her head as Sara began lapping at her thighs, collecting the salt of her slick like a woman dying of thirst.
"Never had a girl squirming quite like this before," Hurlish rumbled to Evie, threading calloused fingers through Sara's hair.
Evie snickered. "The blessings of Amarat are a double edged blade, I've learned. To quote my Master, you haven't really lived until you've had her moaning beneath you."
Sara, ignoring it all, shoved Hurlish's legs open wider. The orc obliged, sighing long and loud. Something tugged at Sara's scalp, directing her to an ocean of delightful heat.
She licked slowly, savoring every inch of the pussy in front of her. The taste of sweat, arousal, and everything else filled Sara's mind. It tasted like home. The life she'd left behind.
Hurlish's hips quivered as Sara dug in deeper, curling her tongue into wet velvet. She brought a hand up to the top of Hurlish's cunt, finding the orc's clit.
"Gods..." Hurlish moaned, her grip on Sara's scalp tightening until it was delightfully painful. Sara kept working, exploring everything, alternating between plunging her tongue into the orc's depths and swirling it around her clit, some part of her mind still conscious enough to track what worked.
Sara eventually settled on a tongue lapping at the clit, every lick earning a progressively higher pitched whine, while pumping two fingers in and out of Hurlish at a furious pace. Every time she narrowed her tongue to a point and pressed hard, she'd curl her fingers, the combination absolutely ruining the brutish woman above her.
Sara delighted in every half-formed profanity she pulled from the orc, drinking in the shake of her hips, grinding against her own palm when the orc bent double, breath hot on Sara's naked back. Sara could feel it every time Hurlish clenched down on her fingers, and she obligingly followed every little twist as Hurlish chased Sara's tongue. Some part of her was amused that the champion of a goddess could find such ecstasy in the pleasure of another, but it made sense; Amarat was the goddess of mutual bonds, not domination. And by the way Sara's skin burned like fire and Hurlish bit down on a knuckle to choke down her voice, she was certain that they were both getting something out of this.
"Keep her hands out of her mouth," Sara gasped to Evie. "I need to hear her." The bracelet hummed, summoning her slave forward.
"Mmhuh?" Hurlish elegantly inquired. Her lidded eyes watched the catgirl stride forward, silhouetted by the window's light, hair falling loose as she pulled her shirt over her head.
"Now, now," Evie whispered into Hurlish's ear, nipping it briefly with a canine. "Master doesn't like not hearing you. Let's put those hands to better use, shall we?" Evie guided the lust-struck smith's hands towards her own slight chest, encouraging the woman to palm her tits. "What would you like from me, dear?"
What was left of Sara's mind perked a proverbial ear at the utterly visceral reaction Hurlish had to those words, a full body convulsion that nearly bucked Sara off her perch. Clinging on, still not done tasting the orc, Sara listened.
"You damned... fucking... succubi..." Hurlish panted. Suddenly she flung both her arms around Evie's waist, dragging the tiny girl into her lap. Sara felt legs thump across her as the catgirl was grabbed, but it didn't distract her in the slightest.
Hurlish shoved Evie's head into the crook of her neck, throwing her head to the side. "Bite me," she ordered breathlessly.
Evie licked her lips, then spread her mouth wide, like a vampire. Hurlish convulsed once more as Evie dove down, drawing a line of blood by raking her canines from chin to collarbone. Hurlish's groan threatened to turn into a roar as Evie returned to the top, sinking her fangs into the orc's thick skin directly.
Sara felt Evie's tail curl around her throat while the catgirl savaged the orc's throat, shoulders, and tits, leaving welts of bloody hickeys anywhere her mouth could reach. Hurlish's hands eventually fell to the coach limply, her entire body jerking in reaction to the assault of the two smaller women.
Sara sped up, fucking her with finger and tongue as fast as she could. Hurlish's words dissolved into base whines and moans, not even enough strength left in her to clutch the cushions.
Whether through frequent experience or divine connection, she and Evie acted at the same moment. The catgirl extended her claws and shoved Hurlish's head up, running a long, slow lick over all the small wounds she'd left, while Sara plunged deep one last time, curling her fingers up as her tongue danced circles over Hurlish's clit.
Sara's world turned black as muscled thighs clamped around her, shaking hands returning to her head as Hurlish's whole body curved skyward. Sara worked her through it, slow and languid, the muffled cries of fuck yes repeated over and over again. Sara rode Hurlish through the orgasm, not letting herself be pulled away, stroking her walls slowly, lovingly, waiting for the shaking to subside.
Eventually, god knows how long later, the pressure around Sara's head eased. Light crept back into her world, along with sound, the rapid panting of Hurlish's aftershocks more musical than an orchestra. Sara finally allowed the weakened hands to pull her away, crawling up onto the orc woman with a devilish grin.
Through lidded eyes Hurlish watched her, hands falling from her hair. Evie tucked to the the orc's left side, freeing Sara to curl up in her right. Hurlish's hands found the strength to cup both their asses, glancing between two naked women using her tits for pillows.
"You two... are fucking insane," She finally said.
"Oh, it's not over yet," Evie yawned, pointing to the pink glow beginning to emanate from Sara's skin. "Hello, Master," she greeted casually.
"Sara? The fuck's--"
Sara activated Gift of Lust. Hurlish's eyes shot wide open, a new surge of arousal pooling in her core, while Evie stretched languidly, welcoming the euphoria. Between Sara's legs something began to grow, her absent cock rising to prominence.
Evie extended a claw and traced circles around Hurlish's nipple, batting her eyelids up at the baffled orc woman. "Well, dear? Are you ready to test yourself against Amarat's chosen?"
"I don't think it matters," Hurlish joked, heart racing as she watched Sara climb towards her.
"No," Sara whispered, wrapping a hand around one of Hurlish's tusks. "It doesn't. But you want it anyway."
Sara yanked hard on the tooth, dragging Hurlish off the couch. The orc woman immediately tried to stand, but whether it was the strength from the glowing runes or Hurlish's remaining weakness, Sara easily forced her back down.
"On all fours," she ordered, grabbing the orc's other tusk. "Evie, get beneath her."
The feline slinked off the couch as her collar chimed, its hum audible in the newfound silence of the office. Still under the effects of Gift of Lust, Hurlish spread her legs without a word, giving Evie's slave access to her cunt.
"Worship me," Sara ordered Hurlish, using the tusks as handles to drag her up to Sara's cock. As always, it had shifted to the desires of her partner, which meant that she was packing an absolute monster. Ten inches long and thick enough to match, Hurlish licked her lips as the head pressed against her cheek.
"You better not go easy on me."
"Never." Sara pulled Hurlish's head to her cock's base, twisting the woman's panting mouth until her lips against the shaft. Taking the hint, the orc flicked out her tongue, lapping at the length.
As if in reward, Evie began to work at her lower half. Sara's grin widened as Hurlish began to lick and suck her cock, eyes closing.
"Don't you dare let her come," Sara ordered to Evie. "She has to earn that, this time." Her slave hummed her acknowledgement, too absorbed in her task to pull away.
Sara watched as Hurlish licked and suckled at her cock, improving moment by moment as she found each and every way to force a reaction out of Sara. Finally, when her slobbering trail reached the head, Sara held the orc still.
"Open your mouth."
Hurlish did so, eyes so hazed with lust that she seemed to barely understand the order.
That understanding dawned when Sara's hips bucked forward, spearing her length down the orc's throat. She swore profusely as she was buried in heat, the convulsions of surprise massaging every inch of her cock's length.
Whether it was the Gift of Lust or Hurlish's natural constitution, the orc adapted in an instant. Her throat relaxed with a moan, freeing Sara to begin fucking her face in earnest. Hurlish looked up at her, still on hands and knees, Sara using her tusks as handles to fuck the woman's face, and groaned. Sara felt it all along her length, felt it rumble in her chest, and responded in kind, moaning low and loud.
Sara kept fucking, hips pumping back and forth, spurred on by the sound of gagging and groans, Evie's expertise keeping Hurlish perched just on the edge of release.
But, when Sara began to bend forward, cock spasming as she neared her peak, Hurlish's strength returned. Sara found her hands knocked away from the woman's tusks, then felt a palm against her chest, knocking her to the floor.
"No," Hurlish panted, drool dripping down her chin, voice raw. "Not there. Don't waste it."
Sara blinked in confusion until Hurlish stepped forward, shoving Sara back down onto the carpet. With a hand gripping Sara's base the massive orc positioned herself over Sara's length, moving with equal measures unfamiliarity and determination.
"Evie," Sara ordered.
The catgirl crawled over from where she'd been attending to the orc, wrapping a hand around Sara's base. With her other hand on Hurlish's hip, she kept them lined up until Hurlish's lips were split by the tip of Sara's cock.
"Oh..." The orc breathed, inching herself lower. "By the gods..."
Through a heroic force of will Sara kept herself still as Hurlish impaled herself on Sara's length, a new and far tighter heat surrounding her cock. She lowered inch by inch, all three present in the room mesmerized by the sight of Sara's cock disappearing into her. It was so hot that it felt like it should have burned, but instead Sara could only feel a pulsing need for more, to bury herself in that heat and never leave. Both women sighed in pleasure when their pelvises finally touched.
Hurlish lifted herself up slightly, whining as she went, then dropped back down. Despite herself, Sara bucked as she was enveloped once more. Hurlish's hips wriggled, welcoming the motion.
"Hit me with it again," Hurlish moaned.
Sara, far past the ability to speak, looked up in confusion.
"What you did earlier," the orc breathed. "When you turned me on again. I want it."
The Gift of Lust. Sara had never used it on the same person twice in a row, but why not? With an effort of will she sent another jolt of arousal to Hurlish.
The orc woman's eyes fluttered, whole body wobbling as the sensation overwhelmed her. Then, expression suddenly crystallizing, she bent down and brought her face right to Sara's.
"Fuck me."
Sara's body responded to the lioness' growl before her mind even comprehended it, hips pounding upward. Hurlish barked out a laughing moan, slamming her own hips back down hard enough to rattle the pens on her desk.
"Yes!" Hurlish shouted, lifting herself up and slamming back down. The speed of it, the heat of it, sent Sara's mind spiraling. Even Evie, who felt some of Sara's pleasure, bucked her own hips in response.
"I said FUCK me!" The orc shouted, slamming herself down again. Sara obliged, runes glowing brighter as she met the orc's fevered demands.
Their bodies met time and time again, hips rolling together in mutual ecstasy. Sara felt like every inch of her body was afire, every pump of her hips pumping liquid gold through her veins. Hurlish responded in much the same way, chanting Sara's name over and over again, a plea for more, more, more. Sara kept fucking her, giving everything she had.
Together they brought one another closer to their peaks, rutting against each other, using their partner to satisfy the building hunger within them. Then, imperceptibly at first, Hurlish's chanting began to change.
"Fuck me, fuck me, fill me!"
Evie was watching from the floor nearby, legs clenched around the hand that was pleasuring herself to the sight.
"Fill me, come in me, fuck me up!"
Sara took a thumb to Hurlish's clit, loving the way it made her clench harder on her cock.
"Fill me, fill me, fill me!" Hurlish chanted, accentuating each slap of her hips. "Fill me, knock me up, make me yours!"
Sara, if she'd been thinking any clearer, would have paused at that moment. Unfortunately, she hadn't been thinking clearly in weeks.
"Oh gods, Sara, I need it," Hurlish groaned, switching to rolling her hips forward and back, not wanting Sara's length out of her for even a second. "Come in me, fill me, breed me, now!"
Sara saw white as her cock spasmed, the final words out of the orc's mouth sending her over the edge. She clawed bloody lines in Hurlish's thighs as her cock pulsed, pumping load after load into the hot cunt that was enveloping her.
Hurlish reached her own screaming peak, devolving into a stream of nonsense babbling as she rode Sara's cock. She shoved herself lower, trying to get the already massive cock as far in as it could go, choking on her own cries as her thighs quivered. Sara felt load after load of her cum shoot out, an impossible amount, like her body was answering the orc's demands. Soon it was enough that it worked as its own lube, dripping out of the shuddering orc.
They both lay together like that for a long time, little shivers digging Sara just a bit deeper, Hurlish basking in the sensation of being filled. Eventually, though, the aftershocks ended, and Hurlish began to tip forward.
Sara saw her death coming. It came in the form of giant green tits crashing down on her, attached to a thoroughly fucked and equally giant green woman. There would be no escape from this meteor's impact. She was going to be crushed.
A part of Sara welcomed her death.
"Hurlishholdonasecond-AUGH!"
Sara's plea was ignored by Hurlish's collapsing body. She wheezed as the wind was knocked out of her, Hurlish's tits enveloping her skull. She tried to wriggle out from under the woman, cock luckily limp enough by then that she could pull it free. Sara felt a pair of arms grab her under the shoulders and pull, finally dragging her into the light.
Sara took a deep gasp as Evie pulled her back into the world. Evie tried to pull her even farther, freeing her from the embrace, but Sara waved her off. Now that she could breath, she realized that being entirely surrounded by a muscular woman's body was as nice as her teen self had imagined while watching WWE. The half gallon of cum smearing between her thighs was an unexpected twist to the fantasy, but not unwelcome, given the context.
"Oh," Hurlish rumbled some minutes later as she returned to lucidity. "Sorry 'bout this. Should I get off you?"
"Don't you dare," Sara answered, pecking her on the cheek just beside a tusk. "This is so warm."
"Good. Dunno if I could move anyway."
"Pleased to hear the review," Sara said, lying back. "But I think I probably ruined your rug."
"It's fine," Hurlish said, rubbing her legs together. More cum gushed out of her, coating Sara beneath her, something she took a perverse pride in. "Worth it. And besides, they're both white."
Sara chuckled. "Here's hoping. I'll buy you a new one if it doesn't wash out."
"Deal."
They lay in silence for a while longer, luxuriating in the other's presence. Eventually, though, the elephant in the room couldn't be ignored.
"So..." Sara began hesitantly. "That whole thing about, uh, breeding you?"
Hurlish, despite half filled with Sara's cum, blushed. On her orcish skin it manifested as a deeper shade of green, coloring her cheeks.
"Yeah. Um. About that. Never had that happen before."
"How do you mean?"
"Y'know, the, uh, 'breed me' thing. Only ever fucked women, so it's never really had an opportunity to come up before, but... yeah. Gonna need to do some thinking on that. Figure out where it came from, I guess."
"Alright, fair enough. But you're not actually planning on getting pregnant, right?"
"No, no," Hurlish hastily grunted, blushing even harder. "Not like that. I mean, not at all, really, cause it wasn't possible, until tonight, I guess, but... No. I'll pound something down. Don't worry about it."
"Good," Sara sighed. "That's good. But Hurlish?"
"Hmph?"
"You gotta do that shit again next time. It was hot as hell."
Notes:
Sara continues to dawdle in Hagos, but who could blame her? With women like Hurlish around, it's impressive she's planning to leave at all.
Chapter 7: Alakadamnit
Notes:
Sara continues to prepare for her the ousting of Lord Vesta and her subsequent exodus from the country, knowing that she'll need every little bit of skill possible before her plans can become possible.
Chapter Text
The problem with convincing an entire city that an esteemed noble is worth being dethroned-- okay, well, there are lots of problems but chief among them-- was convincing the city that you're worth listening to over them.
There were lots of ways to try achieving that, many of the more diplomatic methods Lady Vesta or Evie had already suggested. Sara had, as per usual, discarded them, favoring her own path. One that definitely, in her mind, wasn't the slightest bit influenced by the fact that she had a fancy new sword she wanted to use.
Off-handedly, before their meeting with the noblewoman had escalated, Lady Vesta had mentioned smugglers operating in Hagos.
The meeting that Hurlish had made her incredibly late for was returning to the Vesta estate's inner grounds to ask after the kind of goods being smuggled. She found out that among the usual suspects of illicit substances, tax evading products, and illegal immigrants, there was also a bustling slave trade. Lady Vesta's spymaster, one of the few directly involved with the upcoming micro-coup, had been decidedly irritated at Sara's pestering. The man hadn't even referred to the buying and selling of serfs into a lifetime of unpaid service as slavery; to him, and to most of his society, that word was reserved for the magically bound slaves like Evie. People like those being bought and sold by criminal enterprises were just another kind of peasant, perhaps one a little more unfortunate in their course through life than others.
Sara had nearly struck the man down on the spot when he'd said the peasants should be grateful for being 'given' a place to live and food to eat. Unfortunately, Lady Vesta had been present, intervening on the behalf of her spymaster. She'd explained in no uncertain terms that Lady Sara's support of their scheme was predicated upon adherence to her foreign notions of peasant's rights, and without it the house of Vesta would be one of many future casualties of her holy wrath.
Whether it was Lady Vesta's soothing explanation or the burning stare of Sara over her shoulder, the veteran spymaster had danced to the new tune as gracefully as a ballerina. He handed over the extensive list of criminal dealings and their locations that he'd compiled, including his own purchases on half of Lord Vesta, and then specified which of the sellers he had seen treating their slaves the worst. Sara had asked why he'd noted that, and had bit her tongue when he explained that they usually had the most loyal slaves to purchase, grateful as they were to escape their previous master's torments.
Evie had been combing through the documents in their rooms for hours since, steadily building a framework for the pattern that would let her predict where the next black market would spring up. To Sara's surprise, the term was startlingly literal in Hagos; in abandoned warehouses, forgotten cellars, or outer city valleys, the criminal underworld regularly gathered for one large sale off of their products. It was everything that her childhood self had imagined when she'd heard the term 'black market', filling her with a shameful amount of excitement to be seeing something out of her imagination come to life.
Unlike those cartoonish gatherings of colorful villains peddling guns and gadgets, however, this black market was a nest of vile misery. There would be slaves for sale, and likely only slaves; criminals wouldn't risk gathering in such numbers for a product that didn't interest nobility, who in turn wouldn't arrest their dealers of desired product. She'd be walking into some of the most vile pages of the history books, forced to see it with her own eyes.
"Master, I don't think you need to sharpen your sword that much," Evie noted from where she sat cross legged on the bed among a nest of papers.
Sara looked down in surprise, realizing that she'd brought out the whetstone Hurlish had provided and had been scraping it down the greatsword's length yet again. She flipped the sword back into its smaller form, pocketing the whetstone.
"I'm going to have to break that habit," she sighed. "I'll end up peeling the blade down to a toothpick in a month."
"You're nervous about attacking the slave market, then?" Evie asked, ears tuned to Sara while her eyes continued to trail over the documents.
"Nervous?" Sara laughed. "No. Impatient, absolutely. I fucking hate thinking that there are people out there wearing manacles, trapped in cages, and I could be doing something about it. I hate sitting in a fancy chair, wearing fancy clothes, drinking fancy wine and rubbing elbows with the kind of people that put those people in chains."
"Are we on the wrong path, then?" Evie asked, looking up from the documents. "Lady Vesta and the others trust us now. It would be a simple enough matter for us to cut their throats in a meeting and flee the city."
Sara blew out a long breath, leaning back in her chair. "No. Not yet, at least. Maybe if I'd chosen a different god as my patron I'd have the power to make them bend the knee, but not with Amarat. I have to make friends--"
"Friends?" The catgirl smirked.
"Whatever you call someone you made cum so hard they reevaluate their political ideology, Evie, I don't know," Sara said exasperatedly, waving a hand. "The point is, I need allies to get what I want done. Lady Vesta might be a princess in her sheltered castle, but she's willing to change, and that's probably more than I could say for the vast majority rich people. Amarat did lead us to her, so I can only assume she's the best choice. So long as the rest of her house follows her lead, we'll stick with them."
"Alright." Evie returned to her reading, leaving Sara alone with her thoughts.
Having someone like Evie back Sara up, someone that unquestioningly followed her every whim, was certainly helpful, yet such complete obedience rankled her sensibilities. A part of Sara wished the bond between them had never happened, but as Evie couldn't lie to her, she knew it made the girl happier. An ideological hatred for the system that allowed someone like Evie to exist was one thing, but who was she to force someone out of an arrangement they maintained voluntarily?
As she had every time the ethical quandary came up before, Sara shoved it to the side. She wasn't going to solve it any time soon.
Sara spent the time that Evie dedicated to the documents reviewing her stats. She'd realized soon after leaving Hurlish's smithy that she'd leveled up, something she found baffling.
Do I really level up every time I bang someone new? No, it can't be just that, because I slept through half the capitol before I got Evie. Maybe it's only when I bang someone that Amarat guided me to? I'll have to check it more often, see if I can catch the exact moment it changes.
She pinned the invisible grid that summarized her abilities to a random book she'd taken off the shelf, so it looked like she was reading the boring tome to any outside observer. While her base stats regrettably hadn't changed, she had gained two new spells. She could now cast both Tether and Calm Emotions, in addition to Shocking Grasp and her cantrips from before. What was most frustrating was the fact that she still didn't know how to cast any of the spells besides those given to her by Amarat.
"Evie, sorry to interrupt you again, but do you think Lady Vesta has someone on the premises that's experienced with spellcasting? I've got to learn somewhere."
"I would assume so," Evie said, placing a finger on the paper she was reading to keep her place, "But I can never be sure. My mother had all kinds of experts at hand as a matter of course, but she was far from the average noblewoman. I imagined the head servant could let you know."
"Thanks."
Sara stood and stretched, looking at the string that was hooked into the wall. She knew that ringing it would immediately send a servant scurrying to her room, practically sprinting through the narrow hidden pathways between the walls, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she ducked out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her, and began to wander.
One thing that she hadn't considered was how easily servants could traipse about in a manor like this one unseen. Those secret walkways were built explicitly to keep them out of the nobility's sight, which meant she had to wander quite a while before finding someone.
Eventually she caught a young servant girl darting between rooms, carrying in her arms a large basket of bedding to be laundered. As Sara called after her, she privately hoped that the sheets weren't from hers and Evie's room. The girl should have been wearing gloves if they were.
"Excuse me! Ma'am, you there."
The servant girl belatedly skidded to a stop, facing Sara with clear anxiety. She'd been thrown off by Sara calling her ma'am, not used to such language referring to her in particular.
"Yes, My Lady?" The servant set her load down and curtsied, keeping her eyes on the floor even after straightening.
"I was wondering if you knew where, or if, Lady Vesta keeps someone experienced with spells."
The young servant, probably no older than twelve, shook with anxiety. "I believe Master Garen quarters with the other members of the guard, My Lady. I can fetch Mister Toman to have him brought to you, if you wish."
Sara was already regretting not just ringing the damn bell. She was half surprised she couldn't hear the poor girl's teeth chattering with how much the kid was shaking.
Sara walked over and picked up the basket of laundry easily, tucking it under her arm. "Nah, that's alright, I don't want to wait around. Think you can lead me there, though? I'll carry this, so you can get a break."
"Certainly My Lady," the girl said without hesitation, doing her best to hide the confusion in her eyes. Sara could tell that nobles didn't just ask a random kid for help, and they certainly didn't help said kid while they were at it. But above all else, a servant would never say no to a lord or lady's request, which meant the poor kid was stuck with Sara.
The girl hurriedly blitzed off down a corridor, forcing Sara to briefly jog to keep up. As they walked, Sara tired to calm the kid's nerves.
"I know I'm being weird by asking you to do this, but the truth is, I wasn't anybody special a couple months ago. You heard about the Champion of Amarat staying with Lady Vesta?"
"Of course, My Lady."
"That's me. Up until I got the fancy goddess on my side, I was just a normal woman like the rest of you. Still not used to living the high life."
Rather than reassure the kid that Sara wasn't a member of the standard capricious nobility, it seemed she'd further intimidated her with the fact she was escorting a goddesses' chosen champion. The kid tripped over air and would have fallen if Sara hadn't grabbed the back of her shirt, pulling her back up.
"I-i-it is an honor, My Lady. Um, I mean! Your Holiness! I think?"
"How about Sara? It's not like I've been bestowed any title properly, right?"
"Um." The girl curled a finger in her hair, thinking. "I heard that you got knighted in the capitol after you saved it from that army?"
Sara blinked. "Oh yeah. I forgot about that."
A more experienced servant may have maintained their professional stoicism, but experienced this girl was not. She snorted in disbelief, then quickly flung a hand to her mouth, horrified.
"It's alright, I promise," Sara reassured the kid. "It is pretty funny that I forgot I got knighted, isn't it? In my defense, it's not something that comes up often. They're always talking about Champion this, Champion that, never Knight Sara. And I don't exactly act all Knightly, either."
"I..." The kid trailed off, not trusting herself to speak any longer. Sara sighed, jogging in front of her. She dropped to a knee, so they'd be at eye-level.
"Hey, kid, listen. What's your name?"
"Emery, My Lady."
"Sick name, Emery. I'm Sara, which is both more boring than your name and all you need to call me." She jabbed a finger in the vague direction of the rooms where nobles stayed, adopting the same cadence that she used on all-male jobsites back on Earth. "I ain't one of them. I'm seven weeks into being anyone other than a blacksmith from my world, which sure isn't enough time for me to start lopping people's heads off because they didn't put enough fancy words before my name. All I want right now is to find the local spellmagey guy, because even though I can supposedly fling magic around, I've got no idea how. I haven't stopped feeling out of my depth since I got here, which means I've got more in common with someone like you than I do any rich bastard that thinks his shit don't stink."
Despite herself, Emery giggled.
"I don't like anyone thinking they're better than someone else just because of whose legs they fell out of. But even more than that, I hate anyone thinking they're less than someone else because their parents didn't have a fancy last name. Chin up, Emery. If I get my way, you're gonna grow up in a better world than your parents did."
"Is that your quest?" Emery asked, hesitantly exploring the possibility that Sara wasn't lying when she said it was alright to speak normally. "To get people to treat each other better?"
Sara tried to wipe the blueprints of a guillotine complex out of her mind, the daydream having formed unbidden the moment she saw Emery trembling at mere proximity to nobility.
"Yeah," Sara agreed. "I'm going to get people to treat each other better. Whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes, that's what I'm here for."
"Then... I can just talk to you however I want?"
Sara nodded. "I mean it's still not nice to be rude, but I won't do anything other than be rude right back if you do. Fair's only fair."
Emery glanced about, as if searching for the fellow servants that had set up this prank. "That seems dangerous, though, right?"
"Yeah," Sara frowned. "I wouldn't treat real nobles like that. They're still assholes. I'll get to them in time, though." A thought occurred to her. "Hey, what do you and the other servants think of Lady Vesta? For real, not just pretending to be polite or whatever. Is she nice when she bosses people around, or is she as big of a dick as Lord Vesta?"
Emery wrung her hands, working to overcome her natural resistance to honesty in situations like these. "Lady Vesta is... distant?" She tried. "She doesn't talk to servants much, usually. Sometimes a few of the older girls she'll keep as a handmaiden, but they never last. Usually she just sends orders to Mister Toman, who tells the rest of us what to do."
"Alright, cool. I appreciate it." Sara grabbed the laundry again and stood, waving Emery forward. "Lead the way."
Emery scuttled forward, noticeably less anxious. She hadn't fully embraced everything Sara had said, too cautious by nature, but it was clear that the knee-knocking anxiety had at least passed.
Sara eventually found herself at a far end of the mansion, one that was far less fancy. The carpets were flattened by constant traffic and should have been replaced years ago, the gemstone lights replaced by cheaper candelabras. A sturdy set of double doors capped the hallway, a pair of bored looking guards standing to either side with poleaxes.
"Um, Jeriah?" Emery flitted forward nervously. "I was supposed to bring her to see Master Garen. Is he in today?"
"What's up, my man?" Sara walked up to the guard on the left, reaching out for a high five. The man returned it instinctively, smoothly transitioning into a fistbump, then froze as he realized just how richly dressed Sara was. The load of laundry she carried had probably disguised her. "Name's Sara. I was told Garen's the guy to see about spells and stuff?"
There was a rattle and clank of armored plates as both the guards snapped into military rigidity, staring straight ahead.
"Master Garen is present, Your Holiness. Shall I fetch him for you?"
"Um," Emery interjected hesitantly. She glanced back at Sara, who nodded encouragingly. "Sara told me that she's not a real noble, since she used to be normal, so she doesn't like to be treated fancy. You can just talk to her normally."
The left guard's eyes slid to Sara's, expression appraising. "I've served under several noble commanders who preferred their soldiers address them according to their rank, not their titles. Is that similar to how you prefer to be treated, Your Holiness?"
Sara shrugged. "Close enough, I guess. I've only had my title for, like, three weeks, I think? I'd actually forgotten about it until Emery reminded me."
The two guards shared a look of mutual amusement, then relaxed. "I understand, ma'am," the woman on the right said. "Had more than a few friends reach Captain and still want me to treat 'em the same. Good to see a Champion acting the same way."
"Appreciate it. Is Garen busy?"
"He's testing some of the new recruits for aptitude, but he hates doing that. He'll be glad to have an excuse to call it quits early."
Sara nodded her thanks, setting down the laundry and addressing Emery. "If anyone gets mad at you for being late, send 'em to me. And I mean that, by the way. If they're real mean you can tell them to go talk to me right that second, don't explain a thing. I'll scare the piss out of them."
Emery blinked. "I don't think all that's necessary, Sara. But thank you?"
Sara patted her on the shoulder. "See you around, Emery."
The little servant girl hefted the laundry up into both her arms, hurrying off. The two guards opened the door for her, smiling at her as she passed. Sara was learning that it was exceptionally easy to gain people's favor when they were so used to being treated like garbage.
The guard's barracks was far larger than Sara had anticipated. As soon as Sara entered she was faced with a massive square of sand that began not ten feet in front of her, glaringly bright under the afternoon sun. Open doors to her left and right branched off, leading to what looked like mess rooms and a row of bunk beds, and she saw on the far side of the sand square a similar arrangement. Three stories of open-air pathways circled the square, rooms labeled by simple numbers spaced out like a hotel. It almost looked like a gladiator pit or something, with a number of half-armored guards leaning on the railings to watch the goings-on below.
Sara had to admit it was an interesting sight. Two lines of twenty young men and women were stiffly standing in neat rows, one older man pacing between them. On his belt dangled wands, staves, and runed daggers, his back burdened by a long staff. Both his hands were occupied with thick books held like a waiter balancing plates, four aged tomes in either hand. He spoke in a booming voice as he addressed one of the soldiers, a dark-skinned woman that was fumbling with a wand.
"No, with one hand!" The man bellowed, knocking her offhand away from the wand with an elbow. "Arm up, back straight! Try and kill me, damnit, not poke me!"
The woman held the wand up, face twisted in concentration as she aimed down the length of the wand. The muttering of the various onlookers quieted for a time, all pausing to watch.
With a sudden spark light jumped from the crystal tip of the wand, widening to a stream of three purple projectiles that crashed against the instructor's chest. His robes shone with a subtle light as they were impacted, deflecting the shards of light down into the sand where they blew three separate foot-wide craters
"Good!" He snapped. "To the mess hall. Next!"
Sara chose that moment to walk out onto the sands, figuring it best not to interrupt the middle of the next unfortunate prospect's lesson.
Even though his back was turned to her, the instructor's head whipped around the moment Sara's boots stepped into the sand. He narrowed his eyes, inspecting her. She waved back, flashing a bright smile.
"You're all dismissed until I say otherwise!" He shouted, dropping his hands. The tomes blinked out of existence as they fell, pulled into some not-space that Sara's eyes couldn't quite focus on.
Sara strode up to the man as recruits scattered, hands shoved into pockets. She would have preferred meeting Garen alone, since he clearly struck her as the sort of man who valued discipline and procedure, but she had an audience. If she had to choose between making a good impression on one important guy or the milling crowd, she'd always choose the crowd.
"Lady Sara, Champion of Amarat," the man loudly greeted, sweeping his robes back as he bowed low to her. He stood to the sounds of whispers, even those who hadn't been looking before now lasered on the the wide expanse of sand. "How may I be of service?"
"Wanted to chat about spells with you," Sara answered, loud enough to be heard. They were both speaking more for than the crowd than one another. She felt the beginnings of a headache as she tried to calculate the exact formula of casual to formal that would endear her to the soldiers without angering Garen. Charisma may be her highest stat, a boost that she'd certainly felt since coming to this world, but that didn't mean she could just say whatever and it would be well received. It meant that she was better at deciding what to say, instead, and only when she actually thought about it beforehand.
"I can hardly imagine what the Champion of Amarat would seek my advice for in matters of the arcane, Your Holiness, but I will happily oblige. Shall we take this conversation to a more private area?"
"That would probably be best, yeah," Sara said, hiding her relief.
"Then please follow me," Garen said. Then, quieter, he asked, "A training room or my office, Lady Sara?"
"A training room would probably be best," Sara answered, equally quiet. Garen's steps subtly shifted, guiding them to a different location.
Sara nodded to some of the soldiers she passed, a number of whom were openly staring. Sara'd been pretty tall for a woman on Earth, 5'10", but here in a feudal society she was a giant. Most men were 5'5", the women hovering around 5'1", so she wasn't hard to find in a crowd. When she'd first had the idea to tie herself to Lady Vesta, it had seemed like an excellent and uncomplicated boon. A hot rich lady that would give her money while sleeping with her? Who wouldn't want that?
Sara was realizing as the days passed, however, from the conversation with Emery to the exchange with Garen in the courtyard, that tangling with nobility would involve more than getting money and getting off. Just enjoying the boons of Lady Vesta's favor put her increasingly in the public eye, something that wasn't wholly desirable.
Garen eventually led her down a set of stairs to an iron-reinforced door, one that opened into a starkly bare room. Stone walls were adorned only by caged braziers, nothing else besides three hay-stuffed targets against the far wall. Garen shut the door behind them, immediately relaxing.
"By the gods, I hate those games," he spat immediately, wiping his forehead. "Who says what, and why, in front of who? Asinine. Some days I wonder if noble wages are worth the headaches."
Sara sagged with her own relief. "I know what you mean. I'm not used to having so many eyes on me. I thought I was about to have an aneurysm."
With a wave of his hand Garen created two wooden chairs from the floor, gesturing for Sara to sit. "An aneurysm, you say? So you really are learned."
Sara sat, crossing her legs with a mixed expression. "Eh, I don't know if you can call me that. Maybe by this world's standards, but certainly not my own. I was a welder before all this, a type of metalworker. I went to school, but nothing advanced."
Another wave of Garen's hand brought into existence a small coffee table, complete with drinks. "Schooling of any kind is remarkable for the common folk in Sporatos, as I'm sure you've noticed. The gods do not choose their champions lightly, even fickle Amarat."
Sara took one of the saucers, delighted to find iced tea. It was the first properly cold drink she'd had since leaving Earth. "Actually, I chose Amarat. I was given a choice between all ten gods, and I figured she'd be best for finding a diplomatic solution to things. The tea is excellent, by the way. Haven't had iced tea in forever."
Garen took his own drink, stirring it a bit before sipping. "It was introduced to our world by a Champion of centuries past, so I took an educated guess. But first, I feel compelled to inquire: ten gods?"
Sara blinked, realizing that she'd just been so excited by the prospect of literal ice that she'd freely blurted out a detail of the most sought after piece of knowledge she had. Every noble she'd met in the capitol had interrogated her for details on her meeting with the gods, questions that Sara had categorically refused to answer. Rather than speaking rashly again, she gave her words some thought, getting a read on the mage before her.
With salt-and-pepper hair and a face crinkled by the sun, Garen seemed to Sara the sort that had spent most of his life outdoors. What she could see of his muscles beneath the robes were toned, but thin, perhaps a bit more sculpted than she expected of a mage. His shirt was of plain design, but made of undyed silk, implying that he enjoyed comfort more than presentation. His hair had been quickly brushed to the side in a simple style, but was kept in shape by a bit of product. That smacked of someone smart enough to begrudgingly admit the importance of appearance when dealing with the upper class. All in all, Garen struck Sara as a veteran mage who'd fallen in with nobility as a matter of course, the wages and security involved too tempting to pass by.
"Before we begin," Sara said, "Has Tarlin come by recently?"
"You mean to inform me of the impending ousting of Lord Vesta? Yes, he has. I've been kept appraised of ongoing plans, but have no role to play myself."
"Oh, thank god," Sara drooped in her chair. "I was worried I'd just revealed some huge secret to a random guy. You're loyal to Lady Vesta, then?"
He shrugged. "As much as one can expect. Ten years in her service have treated me well, and her influence on Hagos has proved beneficial. She is as good a noble to follow as can be found, which I'm sure you understand is not the shining endorsement some may take it as."
"Good enough for me. Still not going to answer that gods question, though."
He sipped his tea. "I understand. Though I hope I'll be forgiven for spending long hours in the night tearing my hair out over such a casual admission of a hidden universal truth."
Sara sighed. "Yeah, feel free, I guess. Sorry for the existential agony. By the way, just so I know for future reference, how many known gods are there? Because I only ever hear them talking about five in Sporatos, like the others are banned."
"They are. And before you spoke to me, it was known to every mage across the world that there are nine true deities, any others a product of false worship or one god disguising their actions for some reason or another."
"So the gods are pretty active in the world?"
Garen gestured, vaguely indicating Sara in her entirety. "As you stand testament to, yes. But come now, you didn't seek out a master mage to have basic theology lessons. What are you here for?"
Sara took another savoring slurp of her tea. It was even sweetened. "It's come to my attention that I can, apparently, cast spells. I was hoping you could explain to me how exactly I go about doing that."
Garen nodded, unsurprised. "Such problems are the hallmark of a Champion. As you may expect, I've done a great deal of research over the last few days on those similar to yourself. Universal among them are capabilities beyond their knowledge, be it hidden talent for blades or proficiency beyond their years at spellweaving. Some Champions have even, by virtue of thoughtless experimentation, expanded the very notion of what magic is capable of."
Sara could see where that line of thought was going and held up her hands. "If you were hoping I'd be one of those, I'm sorry to disappoint. Magic seems to be pretty secondary in my repertoire."
Garen smiled. "I'd assumed as much, being a Champion of Amarat. A mage can dream, though, eh?"
"Don't blame you. But now that we've got the technicalities out of the way, do you think you could help me figure out how to start throwing spells around?"
"Of course. Teaching the Vesta's allies is my first and foremost priority, after all." He stood with a chuckle, chair vanishing beneath himself. "Though I must say, it's quite the novelty to hear someone so confidently declare that they're going to 'throw some spells around'."
"What can I say?" Sara joked, standing. "I know it may seem like such an awful gig, but it turns out that getting the personal blessing of divinity does come with the occasional benefit."
"Shocking."
Sara followed Garen over to the target dummies, reading over the list of spells available to her.
Cantrips
Ray of Frost
Warp Step
Electric Arc
Mage Hand
Phase Bolt
Level 1 Spells
Shocking Grasp
Tether
Level 2 Spells
Calm Emotions
After Evie's warnings of how private information on her Class and its capabilities was supposed to be, Sara also took the time to decide how much she wanted to reveal to Garen. The man was polite and agreeable enough, not even that bad on the eyes, but that didn't mean she could fully trust him. According to Evie even the presentation of Sara's stats were abnormal, as most people had to meditate or something similar to glean in vague detail what Sara could bring up at a glance.
"As you weren't even aware that you could cast spells for a time, I assume you do not have a spellbook?" Garen asked.
"I don't, but that doesn't mean I don't need one."
"Perhaps. We'll explore that possibility last, however, as it would be the most time consuming avenue. For now, I want you to attempt to cast whatever you view as your simplest spell. You may use the targets, if required."
Sara chose Ray of Frost, on the grounds that it seemed the most straightforward and descriptive name among her cantrips. She took several steps back and raised her arm with a dramatic flourish, flat palm outward.
Nothing happened.
"Most spells have a somatic component to them, Lady Sara. A spoken invocation required to summon the energies forth."
Sara sighed, dropping her arm. Then she snapped her hand forward, making a finger gun like she was firing from the hip. "Ray of Frost!"
Nothing happened. Well, her voice echoed in the stone chamber a little bit, but that was all.
Garen watched her with arms folded in his robes, far more patient than he'd been with the soldiers outside. "If it is Ray of Frost you are trying to cast, I would recommend a more extended stance. It is easier to aim that way."
Sara sighed. "Makes sense. I'm just throwing things at the wall to see what sticks."
"Have you already exhausted your first guesses, then, practicing on your own?"
"I have," Sara confirmed, thinking back to the embarrassing hours spent in her room making wild gestures at the wall. "Nothing yet."
"Then perhaps a foci is what you require." Garen plucked a wand off his belt, handing it to her handle-first, with the same respect one might show a particularly sharp knife.
"Focus not on your body, but the tool, then do as before, assigning a command word to the spell."
Sara did so several times, flinging the wand about like an overly zealous Harry Potter extra, yet nothing happened. The process was repeated several more times, trading the wand for a stave, then staff, then even a holy book of Amarat. None worked, disheartening her more and more, until Garen handed her the runed dagger.
"Now this one you must be careful with," he cautioned.
"I know how to handle a knife."
"I'm sure you do, but this one will catch fire if you touch the gemstone at the blade's base. As it was made for a creature immune to flame, its enchantment makes no effort to spare your skin."
"Oh. Noted." Sara grabbed the dagger low on the hilt, well away from the jeweled crossguard. Rather than dramatically flailing as she had before, she lifted the dagger like a pistol.
"Ray of Frost!"
Sara nearly jumped out of her skin when the dagger actually did something, expecting it to burst into flames. Instead, however, an icy line of crystals swept up the blade's edge, giving the steel a wicked serration for the briefest of flashes. Unfortunately, the crystals melted as quickly as they'd appeared.
"Holy shit!" She shouted, turning to Garen with a crazy smile. "It actually did something! I mean, not enough, but still!"
Garen was observing the dagger carefully, lost in thought. After a few seconds more, he blinked, returning to the present. "So it did. I have a suspicion as to what we are missing, now. May I have the dagger back?"
Sara handed it over, reluctant to let go of the only thing that had let her cast magic so far.
"Draw that blade at your hip, if you would please," Garen instructed.
Sara did so, flicking the blade out to its full length. Garen's eyes rose with interest at the transformation.
"An elegant tool. I haven't seen its kind before. Did someone make it for you?"
"I had it commissioned. A blacksmith named Hurlish forged the blade and mechanism, then she had it enchanted for reinforcement by some artificer's guild or something."
"Hurlish, you say? She is a skilled smith."
"That's not all she's skilled at, either. Now, what did you want me to do?"
Garen waved her towards the target dummies. "Make a simple strike, performing your incantation as you do so."
Sara gripped the greatsword in an overhead stance, one of many that she knew by strange instinct, yet had no name for. This particular one involved the flat of the blade twisting sideways, crossguard beside her temple and blade pointed downward. She took one step and shouted, stabbing forward.
"Frost!"
A mountain range in miniature rose along the blade's edge, encrusting the graceful black steel in white crystal. A great gust of icy air rushed out from the sword as its tip pierced the dummy, a loud crackle audible in the stone chamber as cloth and straw alike was frozen solid.
Sara swept the blade back out with delight, flinging drops of melting water across the stone floor. The blade was already turning back to normal, but with half her target encased in ice, Sara knew she'd succeeded.
"Holy shit!" She shouted, bouncing on her feet. "You were right!"
"It does feel nice to have my theories confirmed," Garen somewhat more elegantly agreed, leaning forward to inspect the dummy. "As I suspected, you are a Magus, following in the footstep of warrior-mages known as Magi. Your focus is your weapon, and through it you work your magic. Far be it from me to interpret the mind of a god, but I dare say it makes sense for Amarat's Champion. You are fully capable of defending yourself, yet have the versatility required to deal with situations beyond the battlefield." Garen bowed low once more. "It is an honor to be the practitioner introducing a Champion to the ranks of the arcane."
"I should be thanking you," Sara said, shaking the last of the water from her sword. "I'll reward you with another secret from my world, intentionally this time. There's no magic there. That means that I am excited as all hell to be getting to use some myself."
Garen slowly stood, the pause Sara's words gave him surprising her. The comment was supposed to be a joke, just something to give him reference for how excited she was, but his reaction was that of a man scandalized. She watched mental gears grind as he mumbled to himself.
"No magic... But the feats other Champions have spoken of... hundreds of people soaring through the sky... metal thrown faster than sound... wars devastating the planet itself..."
"Yup," Sara confirmed, unable to back out now. She hadn't thought that his research on Champions would have left him that well informed. "No magic required."
If there was anything that proved to Sara that Garen was an intelligent man, it was the way the color drained from his face.
"Horrifying," he stated simply.
Sara nodded. "Also true."
With an absent flick of Garen's finger the chairs returned. He fell into his seat, rubbing his stubbled chin.
Sara sat across from him, letting him process.
Eventually, minutes later, Garen looked up. "It is often said, among the more philosophically minded practitioners, that the gods made magic incomprehensible because the alternative was chaos. That the great study or fervent faith required to reach the greatest extents of power were failsafes, meant to keep those who would wield it thoughtlessly from wreaking havoc upon the world. Does whatever method your world developed require the same?"
Sara made a face. "Not really? It certainly took a lot of study and hard work to create most of the dangerous things, but once they were made there isn't anything particularly difficult about using them how you please."
Garen, staring at an invisible horizon, nodded absently. "I would advise, Lady Sara, for you to keep such facts secret. I doubt I'm the first to learn such from a Champion. Thankfully, none before were ignorant enough to record what you have told me."
"If it's any conciliation," Sara said, "It'd take hundreds of years for the worst stuff to come about. There'd be time to ready for it, adapt, build safemeasures. And who knows, maybe magic will scale appropriately? Nothing mages can do holds a candle to my old country's military, but that might not be true forever."
"Even still..." he said, trailing off. Then he shook himself, looking her in the eye once more. "I apologize. Such things are an abstract concern, and I shouldn't let myself be lost in thought in your presence."
"Hey, I don't mind," Sara said, patting her sword. "You taught me magic. That's worth a hell of a lot to me."
"Then may I ask one question more?" Garen requested, seeming almost timid for the first time.
"Sure, but no promises on answering it. I'm not trying to start your one-man industrial revolution."
Garen licked his lips. "So you don't intend to bring your old world's ways here?"
Sara shook her head. "No. If this world had been like my own at this point in history, with all the suffering and ignorance that entailed, then probably, but magic seems to have sealed the gaps pretty well. Magic can cure wounds and diseases, so it's not like I need to teach you guys medicine, and most of your societal problems are self-inflicted, not the result of technological deficits. Transport or better methods of sharing knowledge might help, but those have their own consequences later down the line. So for now, no, I'll keep things to myself."
Garen laughed ruefully. "What an odd experience, to be talked down to like some backwater barbarian living in a mud hut."
Sara held her hands up helplessly. "To me, you kind of are. Not quite that dramatic of a difference, and I don't really support the term 'barbarian' in general, but the comparison's understandable. And I'd like to keep things that way, but I'm on a mysterious quest so impossible that it warranted divine intervention. I very well may need to use some of what I know to complete it. I hope not, but I can't promise otherwise."
"Your candor is appreciated," Garen said. "And the knowledge you've given me, inadvertently or not, greatly outweighs my present aid to you. Should you need my services in the future, please call upon me." He extended his hand.
"Be careful what you wish for," Sara warned, firmly shaking his hand. "Things aren't going to stay this small-scale for long."
"I know my capabilities, Lady Sara. If you ask the impossible of me, I'm wise enough to refuse."
"Alright. Any more tips about magic you got for me before I go?"
"None of my usual lessons in the arcane are relevant to a Champion, so I only offer hard-won wisdom. Keep your spells secret, your goals obscured, and reveal the greatest extent of your power only when no alternative is available. The most ancient beings of the world have reached their height of power via a life of caution; so patient are they that uncertainty is your greatest shield against them. Should they learn all you are, and find it is less than them, they will snuff you out without a second thought."
"Ominous, but appreciated," Sara thanked him. "Good luck sticking your head in the sand for the next few days."
Garen's eyes sparkled with amusement. "I may not be ancient, Lady Sara, but I am old. Willful ignorance is among the greatest of my skills."
Chapter 8: Dragula
Notes:
Sara finally takes the first step of many on her self-assigned Quest.
Chapter Text
"You're sure this isn't too convoluted a plan?" Sara asked Evie as they walked through the empty streets of Hagos. It was dark outside, nearing midnight.
"When my mother planned to eviscerate an opponent at court," Evie said, answering in the form of anecdote, "She did not do so with one masterful stroke. Instead she busied herself with the laying of constant obstacles, a maze of minor aggravations in the path of her rival. None were disastrous on their own, but their volume meant some minor mistake was inevitable. Pack an upcoming ball with their political adversaries, bribe their guards to grow lax, and spread salacious rumors among their staff, all at once, and eventually an opportunity would present itself. Whatever it was that eventually caused the problem, she would be there, ready to strike, aggravating the issue to the breaking point."
Sara made an ugly face. "Being raised by a woman like that sounds like tons of fun."
Evie stared owlishly at her. "If it's any indication of her motherly skills, Master, I will remind you of the blissful solace I have found in outright slavery."
"Point taken."
They were following the directions that Evie had decrypted from the patterns of previous black market gatherings, weeding their way through the 'rougher' streets of Hagos. To Sara they were nothing more than the places where the populace was more often employee than employer, but Vesta's staff had spoken of it with an air of disdain and fear.
Their target was the abandoned warehouse that would soon be hosting an illegal gathering of slave traders. Of particularly sour note to Sara was that the 'illegal' portion of this exchange came not from the buying and selling of living, thinking beings, but the tax evasion. All it would have taken to legalize the whole affair was a few sheets of properly signed stationary and government bean counters to keep track of money.
Eventually Sara spotted a larger building poking out between the peaked roofs. She pointed to it.
"Is that it?"
"I believe so, Master."
They continued down the street, footsteps echoing. Most taverns were still populated, but they'd drawn thick sound-blocking shutters, paying lip service to the city's curfew.
"So we really just walk in? I mean, I know I'm not exactly famous, but surely someone will recognize me."
"And?" Evie tapped her collar and gestured to the simple rags she'd chosen for the evening. "You're already widely known to own one slave. Why would they assume you wouldn't want another?"
Sara's stomach rebelled at the thought. "Cause I'm not one of those nasty motherfuckers."
"Mm. A shame for them that they don't know that."
The streets became slightly busier as they neared the warehouse. Sara caught glimpses of the occasional group of people darting between alleyways, talking in subdued voices, while Evie's ears flitted about much more frequently, narrowing in on footsteps or whispered conversations that Sara had no hope of hearing. She might have been mildly suspicious in normal circumstances, but with the added context of their destination Sara's skin crawled.
When they reached the wide bay door of the warehouse, Sara tapping her foot, more people began to come out of the woodwork. Sara was soon surrounded by a small crowd of people waiting under the starlight, impatience rumbling through their whispers. Though the market wasn't set to open for another half hour, the doors began to slide open, whoever was in charge recognizing that the crowd would draw less attention inside.
Sara filtered in with the rest, paying careful attention to each of their faces. Only a handful wore something close to a disguise, and even those only bothered with heavy makeup and a hood. Most walked about with head held high, holding normal conversations with their fellows. Sara couldn't memorize all of them, but she'd damn well try.
Sara's teeth ground as manacled people were marched up to display stages around the room, iron chains clanking as they were prodded forward by other mournful slaves, these wearing nothing but the runed collars around their neck.
"Master?" Evie whispered. "We were supposed to mingle before doing anything."
Sara's jaw clenched, hand drifting towards the pouch at her waist. Weapons weren't allowed, but no group of ragtag smugglers had the ability to search for enchanted bags.
"We haven't prepared yet, Master," Evie whispered again. "If you wait, we'll save more."
Sara took a steadying breath, settling her hand on her belt next to the pouch. Evie led her forward, taking the lead for the first time since they'd first met.
Sara kept her eyes straight ahead as they weaved through the building crowd, negotiations beginning even before the full 'stock' had been put on display. She followed Evie up and down the rows, from stage to stage, pretending to surveil the shackled men and women as the demented freaks beside her did.
Evie, meanwhile, kept her head bowed, hands pressed into her gut as if repeatedly peeling her own fingernails. None of the other market goers paid the feline any mind, their interest evaporating as soon as they recognized the collar around her throat.
The few individuals that worked up the courage to approach Sara directly were bluntly ignored, since Sara didn't trust herself to speak. She did look them straight in the eyes, though, especially the richest looking among them. She'd remember their faces, at the very least. And she'd find them again.
Eventually Sara and Evie had made a full circuit of the room, the agonizing minutes having passed by. Only then did Sara look away from the slaves, doing her best to appear approachable for the first time in the evening.
As she'd expected, one man that had been subtly following her immediately scuttled off. He returned a moment later with an imperious woman, covered in a truly prodigious amount of jewelry. Golden bangles covered her arms from wrist to elbow, fine rings glittering in the firelight, her hair dotted by rubies and sapphires. She looked down her hawkish nose at Sara as she approached, lips split in a cheshire grin.
"Lady Sara, your reputation precedes you. I am overjoyed to see you at a gathering such as ours, and was hoping to personally see to any purchases you might make tonight."
"My Master inquires as to your identity," Evie smoothly replied, recognizing Sara's rictus grin for what it was.
The woman didn't so much as glance at Evie, already familiar with exotic interpreters. "I am the fine proprietor of this temporary establishment. While the goods you see all come from various purveyors, it was I that gathered them together--"
Several things happened at once. First among them was an all-consuming screech that split the air, blinding lights flaring to life in dozens of places throughout the room.
The next was Sara's black blade flying forward, aimed at the bastard of a woman across from her. Unlike the idiot Lord Anidas or whatever his name had been, this woman responded much quicker. The bangles on her arms collapsed into a solid wall as she brought them together in a boxer's block, catching Sara's blade in a shower of sparks. She leapt back before Sara could swing again, whistling for guards.
The screeching continued, flames intensifying to magnesium white. All around the room Evie's planted sigils were entering their second stage, imbued with two Heightened charges of the spells Heat Metal and Burning Hand. Constructing so many of the custom spelltraps had cost ten or twenty times as much as Sara's sword; thankfully Lady Vesta was anything but short on cash.
Several of those in the surrounding crowd immediately drew swords from hidden places, advancing on Sara without further orders. Most sported plain shortswords or daggers, easy to conceal and draw in a hurry.
Sara took the hilt of her black blade in both hands, flicking it out to its full length. The advancing guards stuttered in their step, suddenly faced not with an idiotic saboteur, but a woman wielding a clearly enchanted Greatsword.
Evie sprinted at the closest guard, hand extended. Chuckling to himself, the guard flicked his sword in a swipe that should have slit Evie's throat. Instead, a light flashed, bringing into being Evie's Rapier of Recalling. With a flick of her wrist she disarmed the man, then flicked her wrist again, de-arming the man.
Of the ten facing Sara, four ran. Two collapsed in defensive positions around their boss. Four charged her. Sara settled into the most aggressive stance she knew, bubbling rage bursting through her mouth in a bellowing challenge.
"Taze!" She shouted as she swung wildly at the first challenger. The woman caught her telegraphed attack easily, then began spasming as lightning spiraled off of Sara's blade into her body.
Her smoking corpse dropped to the ground. Sara was down one of her three spells for the evening, but the blow had its intended effect.
Rather than attack her in one coordinated whirlwind, the three remaining guards paled and stumbled back, waiting for someone else to make the first move. Sara obliged them, lunging for the throat of the next closest man.
He tried to lean out of the way of her sword, but all that achieved was turning his decapitation into an impalement, Sara's sword sliding through the rich vest on his front and out the bear pelt cloak on his back. She ripped the sword up and out through his shoulder, shredding whatever had remained of his lung.
The other undercover guard tried to flee, only to find an expertly timed rapier pinning her knee to the ground from behind. She screamed as she frantically swiped a blind swing behind herself, catching nothing but air. Evie promptly removed the sword from the woman's leg, placed it through her eye, and then removed it once more, wiping its length on the rags of her clothing.
The final guard, having watched this display, surprised Sara. She'd braced herself for him to either swing or run, but instead he flipped his dagger around to grab its point, flinging it at her. Sara, not used to facing thrown projectiles, idiotically tried to knock it out of the air.
It landed point-first in her gut, just below the left side of her ribcage. The pain was intense, vibrant, the first time Sara had been wounded in such a manner.
But it still wasn't as bad as the time she'd run an acetylene torch over her leg. She'd dragged herself to her truck after that one, then drove herself to the hospital.
Sara plowed forward, dagger still embedded, heading straight for the hawkish woman in charge. The two guards saw her coming and raised their shortswords in nervous stances, spurred on by the slavebroker's spiteful shouting.
Just before she was in range of the two guards, she pulled back for a stab and shouted,"Warp!"
In an instant she was behind the slavebroker, poised to strike. Her blade lanced forward without hesitation, aimed at the woman's spine.
In the blink of an eye, seemingly halfway through the movement before Sara had even reappeared, the woman spun about.
Sara's blade sparked off the golden arm bands once more, giving light to the vicious snarl that the slavebroker threw at her between clenched fists.
Sara shoved her sword forward to break the lock, heaving the blade around for a second strike. Before she could, though, the slavebroker's boxing stance shifted. An uppercut launched for Sara's gut.
Sara tried to twist out of the way, but failed. The woman's fist landed squarely on the hilt of the dagger, driving it to the pommel in Sara's gut. White tinged the world for a moment as Sara wheezed, stumbling.
"Coward!" Came a sharp cry, somehow rising over the mayhem. Evie, standing between three new corpses, leveled her rapier at the slavebroker. "Lord Vesta said you were respectable, but this is pathetic. Strike me down or be forgotten, peasant!"
Some strange sense Sara couldn't define bubbled up in her mind, the cool voice of her patron goddess speaking directly to her mind.
Companion Ability Activated: Duelist's Challenge
Incensed beyond words, the slavebroker howled in a broken rage, knocking aside her own guards to charge Evie. The nimble Feline hopped backward, white blur of her rapier deflecting the golden flash of the woman's punch.
Sara, hand pressed to her gut, was forced to recognize an opportunity when it was given to her. The slaves around the room, though freed from their chains by white-hot fires melting the metal, remained trapped by panic and confusion. Some had already fled, but not enough, most huddling up on their stages where the panicked crowd wasn't. Some enterprising nobles had realized the chaos was fairly localized, beginning to have their guards physically haul specific slaves away.
Sara forced down her nausea, focusing on the burning pit of righteous anger in her gut.
Or maybe that was the dagger. She wasn't sure, and the fact that she was seeing double through the flames licking up the walls certainly wasn't helping.
Sara raised her sword towards the closest stage, shouting to warp again. She appeared directly behind a nobleman's guard that had been re-binding a slave's legs. Sara cut the rope bindings by sticking her sword through the nape of the guard's neck, the snap of his vertebra reverberating to the pommel of her blade.
Sara pulled her sword from the guard's neck, black steel soaked red. She looked up at the trembling slave, blood foaming at the corners of her lips as she spoke.
"Get the others grouped up so I can take you out of here. The Goddess of Love sent me, and I'm going to fucking gut anyone who tries to stop me."
With that she stumbled towards the next stage, using her sword as a cane to help her walk.
Regrettably, she'd learned during her practice that her Warp Step couldn't take her very far. Ten feet at the very best, and between pointing her sword, invoking the incantation, and regaining her bearings at the other end, it was usually slower than walking. So she only used it to get up and down the stages, not trusting herself to avoid worsening her dagger wound by repeatedly jumping up and down.
The next stage held a full family of catfolk, their only clothing the price cards hung around their necks. She spat a mouthful of blood to the side as she hobbled up to them. "Get to the other slaves. I'll protect you." She pointed her sword and disappeared, heading for the next group.
She was surprised by a little furred blur darting past her, the catfolk child she'd just spoken to darting up onto the stage. She watched as the kid, probably no older than six, pointed at her excitedly. The four slaves that had huddled on the stage regarded the child first with disbelief, then confusion, staring at Sara.
She snapped her weapon up in a wobbly salute, flicking it back to its shorter form to prove that, injured as she was, she had a magic weapon. That would mean something to them, she hoped.
The slaves began to follow the catfolk child just as the kid's parents caught up, the father sweeping his child up in his arms. Even as their parents squeezed the life out of them, the kid kept up a rapid flow of of borderline nonsensical squeaks, pointing to Sara. She was just moving past them when the first slave she'd freed walked up, explaining in much calmer words what Sara had said to him.
Slowly, moving with skittish energy, but moving nonetheless, the group of slaves began to follow Sara. Before she even reached the next stage the slaves there had begun to crawl down, heading for the herd behind Sara.
Sara continued on in that fashion, moving from stage to stage, each group of slaves quickly realizing that the limping, bloodied, scowling woman was their best chance at survival.
Sara kept walking, dripping blood, and all the while she watched Evie fight the slavebroker.
Unlike her own duel with Evie, this fight was prolonged. Every swing of the brutish slaver was accompanied by a guttural roar, arms bolting forward like flung pistons. Evie only barely weaved between each blow, littering the much larger woman with a web of bloody slashes. Sara winced every time the slaver managed to connect a blow, her golden arms first crossing Evie along the cheek, then cracking a rib, every landed punch sounding like a butcher tenderizing meat.
The only reason that Sara hadn't involved herself was her certainty that Evie was winning. She could trace the winding path of the two women's duel throughout the warehouse floor by the trail of blood drops, every successful slash of Evie's sword distinguished by a splatter of red. The slavebroker had already powered through enough wounds to kill a normal person, but that endurance couldn't last forever. Sara followed the duel in snapshot glances, focusing on keeping the slaves following her safe.
Eventually the warehouse was mostly emptied, the nobles and their guards having fled. The remaining slaves were either making their own break for it or folding themselves into Sara's group, their numbers large enough that no one would dare try to charge them.
Floating embers falling down from above, Sara watched Evie and the slaver duel. The warehouse was engulfed in flame now, boards and beams falling freely, and Sara was limping for the exit as quickly as she could.
There was a sudden collective gasp from the crowd behind her, prompting Sara to spin around. The gasps quickly turned into cheers as Sara saw Evie's rapier ram through the dead center of the slaver's chest, blood-soaked steel glinting out the other side. The slaver's golden arm bands broke into pieces, bangles clattering to the floor as she pawed uselessly at the blade with wide eyes.
Evie pulled her sword from the woman's chest in a mechanical motion, letting the slaver drop bonelessly to the floor. The slaver gasped up at her, trying to claw at Evie's legs as her lungs failed to draw breath.
Evie dropped to a knee. She grabbed a fistful of the woman's jewel-encrusted hair, using it to wipe her sword clean.
"Pathetic."
With that Evie stood, jogging towards Sara. She welcomed her with a hug, then let herself be supported beneath the shoulder as they led the slaves out of the burning building.
Where Sara had expected maybe a crowd, or the gathering of city guards, she found something else entirely. Awaiting their exit in the street was a very strange group. What looked to her to be a collection of nobles, or at least wealthy individuals, had gathered in a small clump, their collected guards taking up a formation before them. These nobles had all taken measures to hide their faces, wearing low hoods or wooden masks, while their guards were wearing closed-face helmets. Sara recognized none of their outfits from the slave auction.
"Ho, Champion of Amarat!" The lead noble called. Their voice was warped by some spell or another, to the point that she couldn't even tell if they were man, woman, or human. "It seems you've staged quite a caper. One wonders what salacious plans the chosen of Love's Goddess might be brewing with so many slaves to herself."
Sara shrugged Evie off of her, taking a single step forward. "Your corpse," she raised her sword to the speaker, "Won't even have time to get cold before I toss it in the fucking river."
The guards, despite their polearms and armor, shifted nervously. Something about walking out of a burning building soaked in blood and holding a magical black sword seemed to be intimidating to them.
"I see," the noble replied politely. "I assume that negotiations to change your plans will be out of the question, then?"
"I don't even have a goddamn plan," Sara spat another wad of clotted blood to the stones. "I'm just killing slavers. And I'm gonna keep fucking killing slavers, because that was the best party I been to in years."
"A shame. I'd hoped you be more open to diplomacy."
Sara stumbled forward another step, weaving in place. "Gonna open up your fat fucking guts, that's what I'm gonna do, find out what you ate last night." She took another step, waving her sword wildly. "Gonna take your stupid fucking cloak and hang you by it." She clawed at the dagger in her gut, trying to pry it free. "Gonna cut your tendons and throw you in a ditch, watch you drown in shit water."
The lead noble looked to their companions, sighing theatrically. "I'd say that fairly well qualifies a refusal on her part, wouldn't you agree?" The figure waited for a round of responses that Sara couldn't hear, then bowed ever so slightly. "Then we will bid you adieu, Champion of Amarat."
With that the triangle formation of guards began to backpedal, covering the retreat of the nobles as they melded into the shadows.
Sara dropped to a knee, supporting herself with her sword. She watched blood fall from her mouth onto blurry cobblestones, trying to force her legs back up so she could chase the pack of pretentious pricks.
A warm hand touched her back. A hand she knew, one that was soft. Sara coughed as she heard Evie's kind voice in her ear, calm and reassuring.
"It's okay, Sara. I've got you."
"Oh," Sara mumbled. "Thanks, Evie."
She tumbled forward, stopped just before her forehead cracked the ground. As darkness began to take her, she heard the whispers of the no-longer-slaves behind her.
"...saved us..."
"...insane..."
"...what now..."
"...glowing pink..."
"...I know a..."
Sara felt her face press against familiar softness and sighed, finally passing out.
Chapter 9: Sic 'Em (S)
Chapter Text
Sara woke in a soft bed, feeling distinctly less shit than she expected. Running a hand down her ribs, she expected to find a mass of stitches or an open wound. Instead there was nothing, not even a tinge of soreness or irritated skin.
"Good morning, Master," Evie's voice said. Sara looked about, finding the catgirl waiting in a bedside chair. She was reading a book, legs tucked beneath herself, and looked like she hadn't been concerned in the slightest.
Sara sat up further. "How long was I out?"
"Seven, eight hours?" Evie glanced to the window. "It's mid-morning now, so that sounds about right."
"Oh. I'd expected you to say, like, two weeks or something."
"You were given healing draughts and prompt medical care, Master. I don't know why it would have taken any longer."
Sara yawned, stretching. "Oh yeah, I always forget. Magic 'n stuff."
"Indeed."
"Did the slaves get away alright?"
"I took them to one of Lady Vesta's safehouses, as you had planned. The quarters were cramped, but Lady Vesta's agents were already making preparations to split them among other locations. Those that didn't take your offer should be smuggled out of the city in a matter of days."
"Thank god," Sara sighed, feeling her budding stress headache recede. "How many took me up on the deal?"
"A minority only. Three for certain, with four or five more wishing for more time to consider."
"It's a start, at least."
Sara continued to inspect her tummy, poking at the place she'd been stabbed to see if there was any residual pain. There wasn't, and only a faint white line indicated that she'd been injured at all.
As Sara poked and prodded, Evie's expression darkened.
"So, Master, did you learn anything yesterday?"
Sara thought back, wondering exactly what Evie was getting at. There was the absolutely wild morning spent at Hurlish's, then her magic slash philosophy lesson, and then she and Evie had screwed around in her room until it was time to leave...
"That my neck should have been broken by tonal whiplash weeks ago?" She guessed.
"Perhaps accurate, but not the best answer." Evie closed her book, stepping down from the chair. A needle claw extended from her finger, pricking Sara right in the middle of her bare chest. "You have learned that you, goddess blessing or not, are not some exceptional combat prodigy. So what does that mean?"
Sara blinked. "I need more practice?"
Evie practically snarled as she crawled onto the bed. Sara nervously thumped back against the headboard as the catgirl straddled her, drawing closer until their foreheads were nearly touching. Surrounded by a curtain of hair that blocked out the rest of the world, Evie looked down at her.
"This collar," she brought Sara's left hand to it, "Is bound to the band on your wrist. If you die, it is is still bound to that band."
Sara could feel, beneath the pad of her thumb, Evie's pulse pounding in her neck.
"If you die, I am not freed. You understand that, yes? I will be bound to someone else, likely whoever killed you. If not them, then whoever they sell me to. And as you well know, Master, I have very much enjoyed my life of servitude. But only because of you. Only under you. So, Master, if we are to be saving slaves, please prioritize your own."
Evie finally closed the gap, collapsing her chest against Sara's. She wrapped her hands around Evie's back, gently stroking her.
"I know you care for their lives above your own, Master," she whispered. "And I think I love you for that. But if you, some distant day, cannot find the will to save yourself, then please save me."
Sara was glad that she'd been lying down when the realization gonged like church bells in her too-empty skull, because it left her dizzied by guilt.
Evie had been worried for her. That was odd. Sara'd gotten so used to the catgirl following in her every footstep, a living ghost that saw no worth in life beyond Sara's shade, that she'd not considered that there was something she still valued. Something that she still feared. A life without Sara.
"I'll be better," she whispered. Evie nodded, their cheeks pressed together.
"You will."
An hour or more passed, the world outside spinning on as they stayed still. Eventually, though, the natural needs of human bodies reared their heads, and they had to separate.
Their day began at noon, the both of them dressing and eating without any haste, stepping out into the hallway together. A servant was waiting on the far side of the hallway, bowing at their exit.
"I was sent to inform you that Lady Vesta wishes to speak with you when you've readied yourself for the day. Will you be seeing her now?"
Sara looked at Evie, who looked back to her. "We will," Sara said.
The servant boy started. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, digging around in his ears. He pulled out two wads of wax, smiling apologetically. "She also instructed me to plug my ears so I did not overhear any sensitive information while I waited. May I ask you to repeat your answer?"
Barely concealing her chuckle, Sara nodded. "We can go see her right now, if she's ready."
"She has been working in the library of the third floor. She said that you're familiar, and won't need a guide. May I go inform her of your approach?"
Sara waved the kid on, laughing a little bit more as he darted around a corner.
"Sensitive information, she said," Evie noted dryly.
"Sensitive's the right word at least," Sara joked. "I don't think you've lasted more than five minutes yet."
Evie stepped a hair closer as they walked, speaking under her breath. "You know, Master, you could change that with a word. Order me to never reach my peak, and I won't. Or order me to never stop coming, use my throes to please yourself. I doubt I'd even remember what you did to me, if you did that. After all, my body is yours to command."
Sara shivered, walking a bit faster to get the catgirl's breath off the back of her neck. "Stop giving me ideas in public, you damn vixen."
"Public? I wouldn't mind."
"Agh!" Sara threw up her hands, stomping even faster. Giggling, Evie trailed behind.
They arrived to the third floor library, the very same one that they had first met Lady Vesta in, to find it an entirely different space. The contents of the bookshelves had been tossed out and replaced, sheafs of loose documents and folders of varying thickness replacing dusty textbooks. A large desk had been somehow dragged into the room, an impressive feat considering its every dimension dwarfed the narrow doorframe.
What most interested Sara, however, was the large chaise lounge tucked into the far corner of the room, out of sight of window and door alike. There was a writing table beside it, probably to excuse it as a more comfortable place to sit, but Sara saw not a single pen or paper anywhere nearby.
Tarlin waved them in, stepping inside and shutting the door behind them. Unlike before, there was a subtle magical flash as the door closed flush.
"Hello Sara, Evie. It is good to see you both up and about." Lady Vesta was sitting behind her desk with back to the windows, positioned in such a way that she was the first thing someone saw when they entered the room.
"I like what you did to the place," Sara said, turning about. "It's got a comfy air to it."
Vesta waved a hand to the chaise lounge, a devilish grin on her face. "I'm glad to hear it. The lounge, by the way, extends. Between that, the soundproofing, and your rush commissions from the Artificer's Guild, I've made more than a few new friends among the crafters."
"What were you doing with all your money before I rolled up?" Sara asked, pulling a chair off the wall and kicking her boots up on the edge of Vesta's varnished desk.
"Reinvesting it, mostly. Shuffling between accounts, rewarding some allies, pulling it from others, the usual sort of thing. I'm sure Lady Evie is familiar."
"She's not a Lady," Sara corrected. "She's a slave."
Vesta nodded politely, then paused. Her nose crinkled, giving Sara an odd look. "Were this strange relationship we've formed not as close, I would simply take that instruction at face value. But now I know both you and her well enough to know that asking that I refer to her as anything but a Lady seems wildly out of character for you."
"Personal preference trumps propriety," Sara shrugged. "Evie, you'd probably explain it better."
From over in the corner where she was sweeping the room for hidden threats, Evie spoke in plain terms. "My old life was fraught with anxiety at best, depression at worst. My Master has freed me from the burdens of responsibility, and I do not wish it otherwise. I am her slave, Lady Vesta. Body and mind."
Sara watched Lady Vesta nod politely, preparing an appropriate diplomatic response, then catch herself. It was almost funny, watching the way the woman had to break old habits just to be honest. The facade Vesta had half-built was discarded as she drummed her fingers on her desk, frowning at Evie.
"That's awfully strange of you, girl. I couldn't ever imagine doing the same."
"Your noble life and mine were very different, My Lady. Any child that cheers their mother's death would understand."
"I'll take your word for it, and endeavor that my children never feel the same."
Sara blinked. "Shit, girl, I forgot you had kids. How old are you?"
"Forty one this year. Why do you ask? Regretting your entanglement with an old spinster?"
"No. But considering how young people like you got married on Earth, I'm suddenly wondering if you've got kids older than I am."
"I doubt it. You seem to be, what, nearing thirty?"
Sara shook her head. "Amarat gave me a new body, said my old one was too 'banged up'. I'm twenty-two."
"Hum. Erik is just a year younger than you. I... think that I'll try and wipe that association from my mind, if you don't mind."
Evie finished her clearing of the room, dropping down into Sara's lap with a cute huff. "Don't pretend like some of those maids you took into your bed weren't younger than Sara or I."
Lady Vesta put a hand to her chest, affecting affront. "Evie! Do you take me for a cradle robber? Every woman brought to ecstasy by my hand has been respectably close to my age."
Tarlin, from the door, coughed.
Lady Vesta rolled her eyes at the steel-clad man. "Yes, yes, I know we better get on to business."
"Oh no you don't," Sara said, twisting in her seat to face Tarlin. "I got a charisma of twenty, so I know my subtleties. That wasn't a 'get on with it' cough, that was a 'bullshit' cough. Am I right, Tarlin?"
A single shoulder lifted, not more than a half-inch twitch.
"Called it," Evie purred, tail caressing Sara's calves. "I'm sure you're no cradle robber, Lady Vesta, but I doubt we'll find many girls older than us at those mansions you shipped them off to."
Lady Vesta huffed, crossing her arms. "Of course you will. I've been pleasing beautiful maidens since you two were in diapers. And no, I never dallied beyond what was proper."
Sara spun around again, eyeing Tarlin. The implacable guard remained still. Relieved, she turned back around and stretched.
"So, obligatory teasing completed, what have you got for us?"
"An appraisal on my husband's sociopolitical evisceration," she stated, sliding a thin stack of papers across her desk. Evie reached forward and snagged it, eagerly devouring the report. "His status among the criminal underworld, that which you two sabotaged last night, is difficult to judge. But it is much easier to see the effects of my own efforts, from the airing of dirty laundry to the encouragement of mostly truthful rumors. It seems the better half of the damage to his reputation came from me simply no longer suppressing the stories of his various failures."
"I love it when they make it easy for us," Evie murmured, flipping the page.
"Then you will very much enjoy dealing with my husband, Evie. I expect that we will be ready to have him expelled in disgrace by the end of the week."
"That quick?" Sara asked, idly scratching Evie's ears. "One of the most powerful dudes in the city, gone in a week?"
"Politics of the court move fast, Sara, and even faster when their target is a much-maligned lord of no particular use to anybody. I could have maintained the status quo for years more, but when they speak of his ousting in the coming months, it will be treated as an inevitability, the product of years of easily followed trends. Curiously, they won't be wrong. Just not fully informed."
Sara peered at the paper in Evie's hands, trying to parse the shorthand descriptions of hidden barbs or failed trade deals involving Lord Vesta. It all seemed utterly trivial to her, a laboriously codified transcript of playground 'he said, she said' arguments between rich snobs, but Evie and Vesta clearly drew something more from it.
"I hope I'm still hanging with you whenever I end up finally dealing with politics bullshit," Sara leaned back, shaking her head. "I'd end up ripping half their heads off or becoming a recluse."
"Both are valid strategies, depending on the intended effect," Vesta said, chuckling into a wineglass. "But I think I'll likely find you a better route, all things considered."
"So what do you need us to do?" Sara asked, stretching out after the papers were discarded, letting Evie curl up along her body. "Killing evil bastards last night was a real ball, but I ended up going a bit overboard. Amarat's gifts, at least so far, haven't been exactly suited for the battlefield."
Lady Vesta tapped a nail on her desk, thinking. "As it stands, your only planned role is the coup-de-grace at the end of it all, using your status as a final bludgeon to knock my husband out of the courts should it prove necessary. I have nothing else that your particular," she coughed politely, "skillset is required for. Helpful, maybe, enjoyable, certainly, but not required."
"Perfect," Evie said, ears perking up from where she'd buried her face between Sara's tits. "Master needs practice. Magically-imbued technical mastery is one thing, but her knowledge of battlefield realities is another." Evie looked up at Sara with a kitten's pleading eyes, nuzzling her cheeks against Sara's breasts. "I'm certain you would rather go throw yourself into random fights than pretend to be a holy woman at balls, Master?"
Lady Vesta shook her head in amusement. "How remarkably manipulative, for a woman who declares herself a slave."
"It works because she's right," Sara said, scratching the base of Evie's left ear. The catgirl shivered, leaning into her hand. "I need to practice. I probably could've won a fight that I lost last night, if I'd known something other than sword-on-sword tactics."
Lady Vesta folded her hands beneath her chin, watching Evie purr.
"I don't keep track of minor mercenary work, I'm afraid," Vesta said. "I'm sure someone else among my faculty, likely the guards, could inform you of appropriate opportunities to test your mettle."
Sara nodded understandingly, moving her hand to Evie's other ear. The catgirl rolled over, falling into the crook of Sara's arm, eyes closed in simple bliss. "I'll go ask around there, then. I'll try and stay close to the city, in case you need me or Evie." Smirking at Vesta, Sara used her free hand to lift the catgirl's dress. "Or if you want us."
Lady Vesta took a deep breath. "Your concern is appreciated, but feel free to wander further. I have a great many helpers at my disposal."
"But are any like this?" Sara asked, switching to grinding a knuckle into the base of the catgirl's ear. Evie moaned, stretching long legs out further.
"No," Lady Vesta whispered, folded hands turning white beneath her chin. "I feel quite certain I've never had anyone like you two in my office."
Sara stood, sweeping Evie up in her arms. The catgirl protested with a soft whine, nipping at Sara's neck in a plea for more attention.
"Then how about I give you a parting gift before we're away, Lady Vesta?" Sara stepped up to her massive desk, dropping Evie like a sack of grain. "I'm going to go talk to your guards, see if they've got something like what we're looking for. In the meantime..." She grabbed the back of Evie's collar, yanking her head around to look Vesta in the eye. "Keep her entertained until I get back."
Sara spun on a heel as Evie gasped, collar glowing. Sara rapped a knuckle on Tarlin's breastplate as she passed him, winking. "Feel free to use her too if you feel like it, big guy."
The last thing Sara heard as the door shut behind her was the nervous whisper of "Oh dear..." from Lady Vesta.
....................
..................
...............
Not for the first time, Sara wished that the sensation sharing between her and Evie worked both ways. As it was, she was left doing the boring stuff, chatting to guards about gig work while her slave was was getting laid. Having phantom fingers blowing her wide open would have been fairly distracting, and probably noticed to the guards, but that was half the point. Sara'd have to send Evie out on a task while she was getting her back blown out by Vesta or Hurlish sometime, just to see how good the catgirl's poker face really was.
She shook herself to clear those thoughts away, moving to the room the soldiers had indicated. It wasn't like salaried city guards had a job board posted up somewhere in their barracks, but after chatting with a few of them she'd been directed to the quartermaster's rooms. Having control over who got what food made her the de-facto lord of all that was soldiery, so the quartermaster also had the best grasp on where and when the guards would be sent out on a task.
I guess the best word for them would be militia? Sara thought as she slipped around a corner, stepping out of the way of two clanking men jogging past. I keep calling them guards or soldiers, but they don't seem to fit either. And why does Lady Vesta have so many right on hand? There's hundreds of fully kitted soldier-guards packed into one corner of her mansion.
Societally, the world Sara appeared in seemed to be straddling the line between Earth's European renaissance and the medieval period. Obviously, magic futzed with that in all sorts of ways. There was no enlightened philosophy being tossed around, and the local nobility certainly weren't going around commissioning grand pieces of artwork just for the street cred.
Maybe the military issubsidized by the nobility, every lord and lady expected to keep troops on hand for outbreaks of war. Sort of a hybrid between feudal levies and standing militaries?
She supposed she could just ask someone, but it wasn't that important. It was the kind of somewhat-interesting question that she thought of only when she was walking down boring corridors, not the kind of burning mystery that kept her up at night.
Sara eventually found the quartermaster, an incredibly portly woman wearing an undersized and overstretched tabard. Her 'office', which was what the other soldiers had called it, consisted of a low-ceilinged room filled to the brim with chests and barrels. Rows and rows of wooden containers were lined up neatly near the entrance, steadily degrading as they neared the back until it was clear that they'd just been haphazardly crammed in wherever they could fit. Perched all throughout the room like roosting parrots were various hunchbacked scribes, their desks the closest and flattest piece of wood available.
"Who's you?" The woman hollered as Sara entered, jabbing a feather quill in her direction without looking up. "Ain't seen you around before."
"Lady Vesta recommended I come look here for work," Sara said, shoving her hands in her pockets and leaning up against the wall beside the door. It was nice to go unrecognized, even if it was because the person was too rude to look her in the eye. "Need to get some experience fighting things other than street gangs."
The quartermaster threw open a drawer and yanked a piece of paper out, slapping it on the desk with her left hand, then grabbed a blank sheet with her right. Both palms to the papers, she muttered something under her breath, causing the papers to glow. As soon as the light faded she threw the no-longer-blank paper at Sara, all without having looked at her once.
"There. If you kill it or it kills you, let me know. I'll either cross it off my list or raise the bounty."
Sara snatched the paper out of the air, giving it a scan. It was a list of local complaints from Hagos's guards and those of the surrounding villages, everything from banditry to beast incursions. Despite the utterly mundane way it had been given to her, this list of tasks and their rewards was the closest thing Sara'd seen to the videogames she kept comparing her new life to. She folded the paper away, not wasting breath on thanking a woman who wouldn't care.
"You have any armor in here that'd fit me?" She asked instead.
"Depends. You properly contracted under House Vesta?"
"Of a sorts. Personal friend of the Lady."
The quartermaster sniffed hard, wiping her nose with the back of her hand as she flipped to the next page of her paperwork. "Then anything I've got's too shit for you. Go throw some coin at a smith or somethin', instead of taking armor from a gal that wouldn't have any otherwise."
Sara liked this woman. With a grateful wave that she knew went entirely unseen, she exited the room, reading over her and Evie's options to whittle away the next few days.
Most entries on the list were simple enough, just a request for a few extra patrols because some old lady heard wolves howling at night or what have you, but a few caught her eye. Evie thought Sara needed practice fighting nontraditional opponents, which took skills that her goddess' blessings hadn't mind-magic'd into her head. Sara had already been caught off guard by something as simple as a thrown knife, so she knew Evie had a point. If she'd chosen some more confrontational god as her patron Sara guessed that things would be different, but they weren't. Her abilities to seduce were legendary, sure, but problems that she couldn't fuck away were regrettably common.
Maybe I should just bang my way through a mercenary troop, she jokingly considered as she headed back to Vesta's office. I bet I can give good enough head that they'll follow me anywhere. Hell, if I keep getting Amarat's blessings like I have been, they'll probably die for a chance to get in my pants.
She hoped her actual abilities wouldn't manifest in quite that fashion, since she was rather uncomfortable with the thought of turning everyone she banged into a crack addict for her body, but anything seemed possible. She'd certainly been enjoying herself more in the bedroom than she ever had, and it seemed her various partners had shared the notion. In the meantime, she'd have to square up her own personal defenses. Without any extra help from a goddess.
When she returned to the third floor library, Tarlin was standing guard. Outside the door.
Sara walked up to him with a grin, hands on her hips as she stared up at one of the very few humans she'd met in this world considerably taller than her.
"Whatcha doin' out here, big guy? Hard to focus inside?"
"I am not needed for such negotiations," he answered gruffly, not looking down.
Sara thumped his armor good-naturedly. "Aw, c'mon. 'Needed' and 'wanted' are two separate things. You know how nobles like to double-talk everything, never saying what they mean."
His head shook in the negative, no more than an inch twitch to either side. "I will not be distracted on duty."
"So..." Sara drawled as she stepped past him, hand lingering on his breastplate before she entered. "When you're off duty?"
Another nearly imperceptible glance in her direction. "You are free to enter, My Lady."
Sara cackled as she opened the door, slipping inside.
"How's it going in here?" She called, having to go up on her tiptoes to find her slave and Lady Vesta. She found her catgirl sprawled atop the naked noblewoman, the feline grinding on a thigh as she lapped at the neck of a near-catatonic Vesta.
"My savior," Vesta groaned, throwing an arm over her eyes. "You need to be more careful with your orders, Sara. 'Until she is satisfied' would have sufficed, rather than 'until I return'."
"You do have a timepiece in your office, Lady Vesta," Evie reminded her, rolling onto her side to lie next to the older woman. "Master was gone no more than a half hour."
"I don't believe you."
"And yet..." Evie grinned, pointing to the ornate pendulum clock on the far wall. "Thirty minutes."
Lady Vesta lifted her head, looked at the clock, then dropped to the rug with a groan. "My word. Maybe a break from you two will be good for my health."
"But not your psyche," Sara said, sliding over the desk. She hooked her butt on the edge and put her boots up in Vesta's unfathomably expensive office chair, reading through the list of complaints. "What do you think of these jobs, you two?"
Evie, with a hand between her legs and eyes still set on Vesta's naked form, nodded distractedly. "Mm-hm?"
"There's a bunch of boring ones, probably nothing, and then there's some about bandits, which isn't what we're looking for..."
"Darling," Vesta interrupted, gesturing to Evie. "Do you really think she's going to be paying you much attention right now?"
Sara looked over the paper at her slave, who was trying to subtly grind her pussy Lady Vesta's leg. "Hmm. I guess she didn't get off yet?"
"Thanks to your order she hardly gave me a moment to breathe, much less attend to her."
"I see. Want to see something interesting?"
"Oh?"
Sara snapped a finger gun at Evie. "Cum."
Immediately the catgirl cried out, curling up into a tight ball. The hand that had been resting between Vesta's breasts dug in as Evie spasmed, whining in rhythmic bursts.
Lady Vesta propped herself up on an elbow to watch, guiding Evie's hand to her breast proper. "That is quite something."
"Harder," Sara commanded.
Just as Evie had begun to calm, her body seized once more, mouth open in a soundless scream. She rocked back and forth, rubbing frantically against Vesta as the orgasm washed over her. Seemingly without thought she drew closer to Vesta, biting down on her shoulder as her body shook. Sara watched Evie's chest tremble, soaking in the delightful mewls that escaped her lips.
"I," Lady Vesta purred at Sara, "Cannot decide if you are a kind, giving owner, or one of the cruelest masters I've yet met."
Sara dangled a foot off the desk, using the tip of her boot to shove Evie's legs open. The catgirl fell onto her back without resistance, spent, mouth hung open in a mindless daze.
"How do you think she feels?" Sara asked rhetorically.
"I haven't the faintest clue," Vesta replied, snuggling closer on the carpet so she could lay her head on Evie's modest breasts. "I haven't ever experienced an orgasm that inspired an expression like that. I do think I'd like to try it, someday."
"I'm sure we'll figure out a way. Now," Sara pointed to Evie again. "Wake up."
The catgirl blinked rapidly, faculties returned in an instant. "Hello, Master," she greeted. "I'm very tired."
"Sorry about that," Sara apologized, almost meaning it. "I did manage to find a list of potential stuff for us to go beat the hell out of."
"That's good."
"Yeah. What do you think of this one?"
Sara began listing the various problems suffered by Hagos and its tributary villages, letting the two women on the floor beneath her recover while she narrated. It was an absolutely surreal experience from top to bottom, yet it was one that she was getting increasingly used to.
Yesterday, she'd almost died. Today, she was spending every other hour toying with beautiful women. Garen had off-handedly mentioned the plethora of histories written about Champions throughout the ages. She wondered if details like this one would be included in hers.
Chapter 10: Too Much Fun for Regrets
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Waking late and thoroughly satiated after a late night of all-out debauchery, Sara and Evie began their day lackadaisically. For once they didn't fool around as they got dressed, even bathing together without much in the way of wandering hands. With their chosen goal for the day only available after sunset, they had time to dress, eat, and even read, monopolizing the energies of Lady Vesta's attending librarian. Sara and Evie gathered a pile of every book on Champions throughout history on a corner table of the main and far larger Vesta library, earning more than a few pointed librarian glares as they read them from the same chair.
The privileges of power that Sara actually enjoyed were few and far between, but first among the short list was definitely "Unrestricted PDA". Evie lay curled across her body as they studied, tail tickling up and down Sara's legs, and not a damn person there could say a thing about it. The librarian, a spectacled old woman identical to every librarian Sara had ever seen, was certainly skilled at making her disapproval subtly known. She tutted as she set down their books, sniffed when they snuggled closer, and made constant comments that may have been about their books, but clearly were about their proximity. If Sara hadn't spent the last two months undressed as often as she was dressed, it probably would have worked.
Unfortunately for you, lady, Sara thought to herself as the old woman dropped another book on their table, The power level of my sluttery is far beyond your snobbishness. This battle was decided before it even began.
Judgmental crones aside, hers and Evie's studies bore fruit. Evie was particularly dedicated, writing notes and leaving bookmarks to cross-reference different texts as she went, showing Sara anything she thought may have been doubtful.
What fascinated Sara the most was the timelines involved with the actions of Champions. They'd inarguably appeared for at least the last two thousand years of recorded history, and even the more ancient and fractured records suggested Champions were known for thousands of years further. They appeared every few hundred years, always rocketing to great prominence among societies within a handful of years after their arrival, then either disappeared without a trace or retired to a life of passive influence. Sara assumed that those that vanished probably returned to Earth, the others choosing to remain. The last Champion on the same continent as Sporatos had been a man under the patronage of Talavan, the God of Spellcraft. He'd played significant roles in a dozen places, stabilizing a nation here, overthrowing a ruler there, starting and stopping a series of wars in quick succession, before finally retiring to a life of study. The spells that he'd developed and taught to others had revolutionized magical thought across the world, and the university he founded to facilitate his work still existed.
The man's name had been Hunter Sue, and scholars in the years since his advent had argued endlessly over Talavan's reasons for bringing him to their world. What they all agreed on, though, was that his longest-lasting effect had been establishing a culture of mutual magical study. Before Hunter had founded the University of Chris's Angels, (a name that had Sara failing to hide her cackling), archmages the world over had jealously guarded their secrets, not even teaching their apprentices the greatest of their techniques. Magic had stagnated in such a world, as each generation struggled to reach the heights of their predecessors before crumbling away. Today most mages credited Archmage Hunter Sue for half their success, recognizing that they never would have been taught what they knew without the precedent he established.
Throughout history, further and further back, Sara noticed similar trends. A Champion would appear, valiantly perform astounding feats, and then retire or vanish. Though the hypothetical consequences of the wars and disasters they resolved were unknowable, it often seemed their eventual claims to fame were the cultural revolutions they kickstarted. Few scholars made much of the trend, figuring it only appropriate that culture would warp around such strange and influential individuals, but Sara saw something else. Nearly every Champion that didn't disappear specifically left a modernizing mark on the world, bringing elements of Earthly culture to the forefront.
It was also interesting that even Champions from a millennia ago or greater made references to things Sara knew. The recently published World of the Champions, despite its dramatic title, proved to be one of the finest resources on hand. The bulk of it was rampant speculation about the shared planet that Champions hailed from, the author's suppositions exaggerated at best and hilariously false at worst. Overexcited speculation aside, what captivated Sara was the basis for their hypotheses: an exhaustive list of direct quotes from dozens of Champions regarding their home, neatly cultivated and collected for Sara to peruse. Plenty struck her as mistranslated or warped by intervening centuries, most amusingly a reference to the "Queen of All the World, even the England", but others were hauntingly familiar. Champions from a thousand years ago made references to the Internet just as readily as some of the most recent Champions, and one of the oldest recorded Champion quotes mentioned the singer Bjork, of all things.
"Why is that so fascinating to you, Master?" Evie asked as Sara pored over the chapters, transcribing quotes on a piece of scrap paper.
"Because it means that every Champion is from roughly the same time," Sara answered, marking her third reference to Bjork. Some Champion 2,700 years ago had really liked the singer, she guessed. "Why not take them from different time periods? I get not going into Earth's past, because Chmapions from the 1500s wouldn't have much to distinguish themselves from your world, but why not our future? People from fifty or a hundred years after when I was born would know stuff that makes me look like a caveman. If you're going to steal people away because of their knowledge, why stop at the early 21st century?"
"What makes you so certain these Champions are from so close in time to you, Master?" Evie inquired, folding her own book. "There are few references to historical events that would adequately date a Champion. Viewed from a distant enough perspective, much of history appears similar."
"That may be true here," Sara said, "But not on Earth. The technologies and devices that are being repeatedly referenced were invented soon before or even after I was born, yet there's nothing referenced that I don't understand. If someone had been pulled from even twenty years in the future after me, they could have been talking about things that completely baffled me."
Evie purred thoughtfully as she shimmied her way up Sara's torso, scanning over the list of quotes Sara had collected.
"Smart-fones, enter net, jumbo jet, moon landing, vee are. Those were all constructed or occurred within your lifetime?"
"Not all of them. The oldest on that list is the moon landing, I think, and the most recent is VR. Fifty years of my history at best, spread across millennia of yours."
"And? Why does it bother you so?"
Sara sighed, rubbing her eyes. "Because, Evie, there must be a reason they're only pulling people from my time. What if that's the furthest my world ever got?"
Evie's brow creased. "The farthest it ever got? How would an entire world cease to be?"
"Remember what I said about nukes?" Sara reminded, after checking to make sure the judgmental librarian was nowhere near. "The planet may still exist, but humanity could be gone. What if I got yanked out of time right before the nukes finally went flying, killing everyone, everywhere?"
With concerned eyes Evie put a hand on Sara's forearm, pushing the quote list away. Sara looked at her, not bothering to hide the itching anxiety that pressed at the back of her mind.
"Master." Evie said firmly. "No one knows how the power of the gods works, nor how their Champions are manifested. For all you know, there is but a small pinprick through which they access your world, forever locked in time. To assume that every thinking being was slaughtered is..."
"Ridiculous?"
"A complete leap in logic. Devoid of evidence, fueled by paranoia. Pointless to wonder about, because there is nothing to be done."
Sara sighed, slumping. "Alright, fine. I'll try to stop assuming the worst."
"Thank you."
Evie reclined once more, ear against Sara's collarbone and chin resting on her left breast. Sara set aside World of the Champions, returning to a more topical summary of Champions and the various powers they displayed that were beyond mortal capabilities.
Eventually, when they both got tired of the library's stuffiness, they left for a late lunch. Sara had learned a lot of interesting things, most of them unhelpful. The Champions of Amarat seemed to be the least common, making reports of their abilities appropriately sparse. There were some mentions of Amarat's Champions quelling riots with a word, or securing treaties between nations that had warred for centuries, but nothing like the elaborate descriptions the other Champion's powers got. Unlike other Champions, it seemed Sara would never stir up a hurricane with her spear or turn day to night with muttered prayers. She'd just have to discover for herself what she was capable of.
They ate lunch with Vesta, who seemed positively giddy as she rattled off a prolonged list of her husband's present woes. With his political capital collapsing around his ears and his wife proving cooly unsympathetic, it was seeming less and less likely that Sara and Evie's assistance would be required to oust the poorly liked lord.
With a few hours to spare before the main event of their day, they headed over to Hurlish's shop. The massive orc hurried to the front as soon as Sara called out her name, hands still caked with ash as she'd stomped up to the counter.
"How's it going, Sara?" Hurlish asked, breathing hard.
"Tough day back there?"
"Hammering some more black steel," Hurlish explained, shaking out her hands. "That damn stuff takes a pounding, I tell you."
"Takes after its owner, does it?" Evie smirked.
Hurlish, who'd used innuendos like punctuation just a few days before, blushed deeply.
"Oh-- I, well about the other day, I still haven't--"
"Woah there, Hurlish," Sara said, patting the air calmingly. "It's cool. Shit gets heated, sometimes. I get it. It's no big deal."
"Good," the orc puffed, out of breath for a new reason, now. "Because I'd definitely like that to not be a one-off. Too much damn fun, you two. And I ain't even got to use the small one properly, yet."
"You literally had my tongue between your legs," Evie frowned, crossing her arms.
"You and half the gals in the city, kitty," Hurlish chuckled. "I'm talking proper used."
"Oh?" Evie raised an eyebrow. "You've seen how rough Sara treats her playthings, Hurlish. If you want to call me 'used' when you're done, you'll need to work hard."
"I plan on it." The orc clapped her hands, rubbing them together. "Now, were we just gonna flirt or have you got a job for me?"
"I was looking to get some armor made," Sara said. "Proper custom fit, stylized, the works."
Hurlish's face fell. "Ah, damn. Sorry to say, gals, but I don't do armor. More interested in openin' people up than keeping 'em together, y'see."
Sara pouted. "Aw, c'mon. I wanted to be covered in Hurlish by the time we were done."
"Only one way I can do that, and it's not armor," Hurlish chuckled. "But I do know who you should go to, though."
"Oh yeah?"
"Old Sammy across the way, 'bout a block down. She's a damn fine armorsmith, best in the city. She'll do you right, I swear it."
"Do me right? Is she--"
"Married, happily, and halfway into her seventies. Ain't gonna have any luck there, nymphos. I hear she was a riot back in the day, though."
"Man," Sara complained, "That's no fun. Isn't there another smoking hot blacksmith in the city that does armor?"
"Don't think you should be skimpin' on the goods that protect your goods, Sara. Bad investment."
"I'm more worried about getting a discount. You know I got all dressed up for you, right?" Sara cocked a hip, posing in the hip-hugging leather pants and airy silk blouse that she'd had Vesta's tailor hurriedly stitch together.
"You think I was givin' you a deal?" Hurlish shook her head bemusedly. "There ain't no way I'm gonna give a gal bumping uglies with Lady Vesta a discount."
"How do you know that?" Sara frowned. "I never told you about me and Vesta."
"I ain't dumb. The Champion of Amarat stays at the Vesta estate one night, then starts throwing coin around like it's nothing the next? You got magic hands, girl, and we both know it. Nothing'd convince a tightwad noble like Vesta to pay out like that 'cept you blowing her back out."
Sara sighed, turning to Evie. "She put that together awfully quick, didn't she? How many others do you think have noticed?"
"A few of the nobility, maybe," Evie guessed. "While it's obvious you have House Vesta's favor, the more intimate details are difficult to infer without appropriate first hand experience."
"Let me translate, girlie: unless you've been bangin' other lordly types, you're fine. Not many'd guess you're slanging dick so divine it changes lives."
"Life-changing, eh?" Sara quickly hopped into a different pose, elbows on the counter and chin in her hands. As always, Hurlish's attention went straight down her shirt. "What about your life got changed?" Sara asked.
"Depends. You staying in Hagos for a while?"
"Nope," Sara shook her head. "Few more weeks at most, most likely just a few days. Heading further south when we're done here."
"Then I am too, if you'll let me tag along," Hurlish said.
"Woah, what?" Sara started, straightening. "You're gonna up and abandon your shop?"
"If you'll have me."
"Well you probably guessed that my gut reaction's to say 'that sounds great', but why?"
"Besides the grade-A fuckin?" Hurlish rolled her shoulders. "I've been in Hagos for near ten years now. Gettin' tired of it, just sitting around, plinking away at the same old crap. There's only so many times a gal can make a pretty stick for a noble that'll never get it wet before she gets discouraged. I figure that if a Champion's going somewhere, it's somewhere interesting. Where my goods'll get more use, if you take both my drifts."
"You're probably not wrong," Sara said, "But I'd like you to think about it."
"I have," Hurlish grunted, tone brooking no disagreement.
"Well. Good, then." Sara turned to Evie. "Are you alright with her coming along?"
"Will her presence please you, Master?"
"I mean, yeah. Probably in more ways than one."
"Then she comes." Evie turned to Hurlish. "I expect you to make good on your promise, though."
Hurlish saluted lazily. "Yes ma'am." To Sara, she said, "You better not leave without me, by the way. I'll find your ass, and it won't be fun when I do."
Sara batted her eyes. "Oh, mighty Hurlish, whatever would you do to me?"
"Beat the fuck out of you," the orc grunted. "I don't play with flaky types."
"Oh. Fair enough. This Old Sammy, you said she's down the street?"
"Yeah. A block down, on the right. I gotta get back to work anyway, so I'll see you two later."
"Count on it!" Sara called, watching the orc duck back out of the small box that served as her reception area.
They found the shop Hurlish had recommended in short order. Old Sammy was almost exactly as described, both old and named Sammy. While the words she used were polite, she wore an expression so stern Sara was certain her libido had died with the dinosaurs. After taking measurements and asking for design specifications, they'd been sent on their way. Describing what she had in mind to someone who could have made a decent bid for the role of Granny Rags was certainly an experience, but it was one Sara forged through. She even made Evie wait outside after the catgirl had her own measurements taken, so Sara's surprise wouldn't be ruined. Their business concluded, she and Evie had just enough time to snag food from Vesta's kitchens before heading out.
----------------------------------------------
Sara had a bounce in her step and an eager grin on her face as she listened to the sound of clashing steel and furious screams. As she stepped down the cellar entrance to an underground complex the sounds grew crisper, closer, and when she shoved the door open they burst to vivid life.
A man at a front desk shouted something over the din, but Sara was far too captivated by the sights beyond him to pay him any mind.
Nine pits were dug seven feet into the floor of massive cellar, each containing two sweat-soaked combatants. The stone roof was low, less than ten feet, and the entire floor sloped gradually downward. It was clear that this had originally been the basement for some business or another, then dug out and expanded. Wooden pillars littered with carved graffiti supported the roof in random spots. Shabby bleachers surrounded the nearest fight pit, the crowd there roaring in excitement.
Standing on her toes to see, Sara watched as a fleetfooted elven woman twirled her thin blade around the heavy two-handed axe wielded by a half-orc man. Every time the half orc's weapon impacted the pit's wall or floor there was a spray of shrapnel, scattering stones among a cheering crowd. Both weapons were enchanted to keep the match technically bloodless, but the spell didn't consider inanimate objects. The elven woman hadn't yet allowed a single blow on herself as she maneuvered away or beneath each brutal swing, silvery slippers gliding across broken cobblestones. Both were shirtless, and the woman hadn't bothered to bind her small breasts, which certainly earned her a few extra fans among the watching men and women. Her weapon seemed to Sara's eyes to carve elaborate trails as it flew, white afterimage painting glyphs in the air as she peppered her opponent with small blows.
That all ended when the elf woman overextended ever so slightly, caught just beyond her reach. The half-orc's axe connected with her chin in a brutal uppercut, pale protective magic flaring. The elf's neck snapped back as a gnarly bruise blossomed, the definitive sign of an ended fight. The crowd immediately grew riotous, jumping up from the wooden bleachers to boo and cheer.
"Ma'am!" The man at the desk shouted for the whatever-th time, finally garnering Sara's attention. "There's no watching for free!"
Sara stepped up to the desk, getting close so she didn't have to shout so loud.
"I'm here to fight, not watch."
And that was the full truth, for once. Sara had learned about about the illegal fighting ring from the Quartermaster's quest list, but Sara sure as hell wasn't interested in putting a stop to it like she was supposed to. Sure, she could have sparred with Vesta's hired men, but where was the fun in that? If she wanted to find opponents that'd surprise her, this was the place.
"A fighter, eh? Should have a pit opening up in a bit. What's your weapon, and what're you looking to fight?"
"Shortsword or greatsword I've got with me, but I can fight with anything, and I'll fight anything. Tryna get some fightin' experience against the weird shit, y'feel me?"
"Aye," the man said, making a note on a fresh sheet of paper. He whistled loud, summoning someone else, who took the sheet away. "Fighter's go to the room over on the back right 'till you get sorted out." He leaned to the side, eyeing Evie. "Your slave gonna fight, too?"
"Maybe later," Evie replied, "For now I'll just watch."
"Aye. Entry fee is-- oh, yeah, that's enough," he said as Evie dropped a smattering of coins on the desk. "Back right now, off you go."
Sara made her way around the room's edge, soaking in the sights. There was a furred hyena beastkin repeatedly bashing a poleaxe into a human's shield, the man steadily shoved back as he failed to counter a flurry flung from every direction. Sara moved on before she saw the match's conclusion, but she knew where it was heading. In the next pit two weaponless human women were duking it out, both of their bodies decorated in bruises. Sara wondered how that was safe, considering weapons could be safely ensorcelled in ways bodies couldn't, but as the two women broke apart she got her answer. Wraps on their knuckles, elbows, knees, and feet were glowing with enchantment light, protecting both themselves and their opponent from potentially lethal blows. By the smack of impact, though, any blow that wouldn't be debilitating wasn't dulled, so most of their strikes were real as could be.
"This is fucking awesome!" Sara hollered to Evie.
"It does look rather entertaining, Master," the catgirl called back. "I think I'll fight as well. It's been too long since I had a proper training bout."
Sara found the door fighters were supposed to go in as a beastly full blooded orc stepped out of it, having to bow their head in the low-ceiling room. Sara gave them a friendly wave as she skirted past, entering the fighter's den.
Sara felt a brief burst of vertigo as she stepped into what looked for all the world like a normal gym locker room. White tile covered the floors and walls, thin metal lockers rounding their way around the room's edge. A half-circle wooden bench was populated by two other fighters, one undressing for a fight, one getting ready to leave. The room was far quieter than the pits outside, soundproofed impressively well.
"You ever been to a place like this?" Sara asked Evie as she sat before an unused locker.
"You know the answer to that perfectly well, Master."
"Hey, y'never know. For all I know your crazy ass mercenary trainer sent you to somewhere like this to train."
"He was paid well enough to bring the fights to me, not the other way around. And this place hardly has enough room for the menagerie he pit me against."
"Oh yeah?" Sara shucked her shirt off. "What's the biggest thing he had you fight?"
"A hippopotamus," Evie immediately answered. "And I never got the chance to finally beat it before my mother discovered my training." Evie's lip curled. "May the damnable hag rot in the depths."
Sara went into a coughing fit, choking on her own spit. While that was a tame curse by anyone's standards, it was still the most direct insult she'd ever heard out of Evie's mouth.
"You're mad about it?" Sara asked rhetorically.
"I was this close to finally defeating it, Master," Evie fumed. "The damned beast and I fought eight, nine times, I believe? Always to a draw, the most infuriating of conclusions possible for a fight. It crushed my leg on our first exchange, while I'd managed to put one of its eyes out by the sixth fight. I feel certain I would have killed it the next time we fought, but no, Mother just had to have her perfect little courtesan of a daughter, not meant for skills such as that."
"That's pretty--"
"Never mind the fact that I'd perfectly executed every courtly task she put before me to that point, which clearly demonstrated that my practice with the rapier didn't hinder my other studies in the slightest. I think she just thought it was improper, or perhaps that I was drawing too close to independence, which would rankle her sensibilities to no end, of course."
Sara and the other fighters in the room shared a look as Evie barreled on, growing louder.
"To think that she wasn't even aware of how many eyes I could draw with a blade on my hip, not just one of her favored tight dresses. Honestly, Master, if you hadn't gotten rid of her first, her own illogical prejudices would have done the job soon enough, as she was clearly too blind to take note of-- of..."
Evie's rant trailed off as she realized there were three sets of eyes on her, not just one. One of the other fighters, a scaled woman with yellow eyes, raised a fist in solidarity.
"Ay, fuck your mom."
"Yeah, fuck that bitch!" The other fighter declared, a barrel chested man with graying hair.
Ears flipping back and tail pressed flat, Evie actually blushed.
"She was rather contemptible, yes," she whispered, shoulders raised to hide her face.
"Oh my god," Sara breathed. "You've literally offered to be fucked in the middle of the street, Evie, and this is what gets you shy?"
"I should have better control of my impulses, Master," she insisted, sitting down with her back to the other fighters.
"I don't know if you should," Sara said. "Your mom sucked so much ass that I had her beheaded. That's not a person you need to keep your emotions about bottled up."
The other two fighters stared at one another now, eyes bugged out.
"Yes, well, still. My frustrations got the better of me."
Sara didn't think so, but she didn't push the point. She just asked the other fighters where she could find some wraps to bind her chest. The burly man tossed her some from his bag, then pointed her to the laundry hamper where she could grab a pair of shorts. The rules apparently necessitated showing as much skin as was reasonable, to ensure that any hits or bruises couldn't be hidden.
In only a few short minutes a young man ducked his head in the room, asking for the 'human shortsword fighter'. Sara raised her hand, pulling her sword from its sheath. At the sight of the shining black steel, the man's nose wrinkled.
"Magical weapons aren't allowed in the pits, just like spells," he said. "We don't rich folk getting unfair advantages, makes for bad fights. You'll have to use a loaner blade."
"It doesn't give me an advantage," Sara said, flipping the blade out to its full length. "It only opens and closes. I'll keep it in one mode or the other for the fight."
He sniffed, stepping into the room to inspect the blade. Sara had no idea what he was looking for, but his eyes flashed yellow as she held it up to him, so she guessed he knew more than her.
"Alright. Activating its enchantments during the fight will disqualify you, understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Then come with me. I'm the fight coordinator. You'll be in Pit Three, fighting Savannah Shakash. Your name?"
"Sara."
"Not a particularly exciting moniker. Crowd likes a story with their fight, gets the bets going when they pick favorites."
"Evie?" Sara asked as they weaved through the crowds. "Got a suggestion?"
"Sara the Switch?" Evie suggested. "It works well. Your blade changes, it calls to mind the image of a whip, and Hurlish definitely made you her--"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Sara said. "Sara the Switch it is."
The man chuckled as he made a note on a clipboard, then pointed at the nearest fighting pit.
"That's your opponent. Hop down when you're ready."
"Evie, if you don't mind?"
The catgirl nodded, holding her hands up to Sara's blade. A white light began to accent its edges as she muttered an incantation, the same kind that she had when Sara had dueled the catgirl several weeks back. It took her a solid minute of muttering to complete it, far from the split-second casting one might expect from a proper mage.
Sara gave the weapon a few twirls once the spell was finished, making sure its balance wasn't effected. It felt identical in her hand, perfect as always. The spell itself lent the weapon a glowing after image.
Rolling her shoulders, Sara began walking towards the fighting pit. Her heart started to pound, electric adrenaline beginning its tentative trickle through her veins.
Sara had chosen to be Amarat's Champion because she believed in diplomatic solutions. She placed a deep and abiding ideological emphasis on peaceful conclusions for wars and conflicts, and the goddess had promised to be her best path to achieving those worthy goals.
But on a personal level?
Sara fuckin' loved fighting.
There was something about it, something's she'd never been able to define. The pop of fists cracking into chins had always got her blood boiling, even when she'd just been a ratchet little kid from the bad side of town. She'd loved the smack of an elbow to the ribs, and had even felt heady satisfaction when her own cheek got turned around by thrown knuckles. Now that she'd found herself in a world of swords and arrows instead of cops and guns, she'd found a new addiction.
The bleachers of Sara's fighting pit weren't too full, but that didn't matter. She could hear their jostling shouts, the shoves and barked profanities as drunken idiots spilled beer all over themselves. She breathed deep of the molded air, beginning a slow shift of her weight from foot to foot. Left to the right, right to the left, swaying, eyes closed.
Beyond her little bubble, there was the music. The clang and clash of metal, steel tested against steel. Wooden thumps impacting unyielding flesh, and the roar of approval the blows summoned. She heard the hiss of serrations sliding against serrations, blades twisting as they tried to find a way to slip into bloody flesh.
Left to right, right to left, Sara picked up the pace, until she was bouncing from foot to foot, rolling her neck, working out the little cricks in her joints that didn't matter at any other time. Her heart roared with the crowd, thudding, pounding.
With a goosebump-raising shiver her eyes snapped open, the world now inked by a fine tip pen. She stomped through the crowd, ignorant of the feral grin splitting her lips.
The fight coordinator, having watched this display, turned to Evie.
"Oh, goody. She's one of those. Shakash is about to get fucked, isn't he?"
"Royally."
"I'll get the healers."
The tip of Sara's boots hooked on the pit edge, both knees bending before straightening in a flash, throwing her out into the air.
Her landing threw a spray of sand into the air as the sparse crowd rippled, discussions beginning.
The coordinator stepped up on the wall behind her, a cone pressed to his lips.
"The next fight is soon to begin!" He cried, a booming voice rolling forth that hardly seemed to fit the methodical man Sara had been introduced to. "Betting counters are behind the bleachers, with two minutes given to bet as sooooon as I introduce our fighters!"
With a dramatic flourish he flung a hand at the fighter across from Sara.
"He fought yesterday and he'll fight tomorrow, but most importantly of all, he's fighting today! With more time in the pits than any other, it's none other than your favorite gnoll, Savannah Shakash!"
The crowd cheered as the gnollish man raised his arms, snarling out a wide grin. His body, obviously meant to be covered by thick fur, wasn't. So many scars littered his flesh that his pelt looked like someone had knifed a dozen games of tic-tac-toe across his skin, pale bumps overlaid and interwoven. Several of his teeth had been replaced with silvery caps, sharpened to a razor tip. Both of his eyes were surrounded by the tender pink flesh that Sara had come to associate with the afterproduct of healing magic, implying that he'd had them gouged out in the recent past.
"Facing him is a newcomer to the Nine Pits, a woman of beauty and stature whose skill we've yet to see..." Sara raised her sword into the air as the coordinated called her name, "Sara the Switch! She fights with shortsword, she fights with greatsword, she'll fight with anything you hand her! Switch that she is, I'm excited to see who comes on top tonight!"
The crowd's reaction was a satisfying smatter of laughter and speculation, anyone with money still left to bet studying Sara like an exhibit in the zoo.
Sara wasn't the Champion of Amarat for nothing. In a heartbeat she breathed in the scent of stale beer, eyes scanning the faces of men and women around her, evaluating their demeanor, dress, reason for being here, and compiling the information to determine an exacting image of what they wanted to see.
Before the announcer could direct the crowd to the betting booths she snapped her sword open, turning the 30 inch blade into a five foot greatsword. She launched into an elaborate flourish, spinning the blade about her head before tucking it down, white afterimages surrounding her in a haze. With a series of slashes the tip of the blade slashed through stone and sand alike, scoring curved lines into the mortarwork until the wall behind her looked like modern art. The crowd quieted as they watched, captivated. Sara finished her display by bringing the sword down in an overhead blow as the blade collapsed, tip leveled at the throat of the gnoll across from her.
"...and with that, the betting's on!" The announcer eventually shouted. "Down to your left and down to your right, folks, no minimum and no maximum! Place 'em now and place 'em quick, 'cause it's two minutes to fight time!"
The crowd immediately began to hurry down the bleachers, scribbling on provided papers their bet. They slapped them down with their coin on the betting table counters, hurrying back to find a good seat. As Sara stared at the gnoll she'd be fighting, the crowd began to grow, word spreading of the new fighter and her strange claims.
"Mighty long shortsword you got there," the gnoll called to her, striding across the sands. Sara closed the gap, still grinning.
"I hear that a lot, big boy," Sara said, "Don't worry. If it's too big for you I can start slow."
Shakash hacked out a ragged laugh. "I like you, Switch. You gonna fight fair?"
"Hell no," Sara spat to the side, "And I'll be pissed if you do. I don't want to win cause you was being gentlemanly."
"Oh, we gonna get along, human," he laughed again. "Just make sure you keep up, yeah?"
"Right back at you."
They went back to their own sides, waiting for the fight to begin. Each pit was a twenty by twenty foot square, giving a fight plenty of room to maneuver, but maintained an everpresent threat of ending up with your back to the wall. Sara, despite her pumping adrenaline, tried to do her best to study her opponent.
His weapon was a messer, though how Sara knew that name she had no idea. It looked like an oversized knife, long and thin, made for slashing and stabbing. Its crossguard was a flat and simple iron beam, and its handle was undecorated. If Sara had to guess, it was one of the loaner weapons she'd been offered. Decently made, but without flare.
Her own custom piece, which she usually called a shortsword, gave her a small advantage. Its palm and a half handle lent her greater reach, amplified by the few extra inches of blade. Unfortunately, because of the split-V back, it wouldn't be as adept at stabbing, encouraging her to stick to slashes alone.
"Aaaaand... bets are done!" The announcer cried, prompting a few curses from late comers. "The fight begins in ten, nine..."
Sara cracked her knuckles, taking up a saber's stance. Judging by the strange look Shakash gave her, it wasn't one he was familiar with. She stood with right foot ahead of her left, offhand tucked to her waist. The sword floated before her in an upright position, ready to be swung from the wrist as much as the shoulder.
"Three, two... One! FIGHT!"
Sara flew forward across the sands, barely still in her stance as she eagerly closed the gap.
Shakash met her with just as much fervor, blade forward and offhand tucked to his chest.
The gnoll launched the first attack, immediately stabbing for the throat. Sara flicked her wrist and twisted her hips, knocking the messer off course, and then swung for his armpit.
Shakash's offhand shoved her arm away, trying to grab it. If they'd been wearing clothes his claws likely would have snagged her, but instead they only scored bloody lines across her skin.
The crowd roared. Sara's blood soared.
They flew into one another, snarling and snapping with grunts of effort as their blades clashed. A swing from below scored a neat line across her ribs, answered by a backhanded bash to his offhand's elbow. Boots tossed sand as they circled around one another, cries of delight urging her on from a still-burgeoning crowd.
It was clear from the opening exchange that Sara was the better fighter, at least technically, but there was more to the contest than technique. Sara had been imbued with a flawless understanding of every weapon's fundamentals, but only the fundamentals. Her stance was perfect, her swings textbook, but she had nothing beyond that.
Savannah Shakash, in contrast, swung with wild abandon, more at home in the pits than he was on the streets above. He punched and kicked as often as he swung, constantly testing at her in a dozen ways that Sara's memorized skills had no answer to.
A foot tried to hook around her ankle, something that she just avoided, only to find a fist landing in her gut, followed up by a swing blurring for her ribs. She parried the sword, but stumbled back, saved from sprawling flat only by the wall she landed against.
The crowd roared, smelling blood in the water.
Shakash began stabbing feverishly, treating the messer like the knife it resembled. Sara rolled down and to the side, just barely escaping being pinned to the wall. As she went she flung a blind swipe, nothing close to a proper tactic, but something her body threw out instinctually.
The crowd roared even louder as Sara popped back up, waiting for the counterattack. She blinked, confused, until she realized Shakash had dropped his weapon, howling as he clutched his knee.
I hit him? Sara thought, confused. She held her blade up to look for blood, then remembered that there wouldn't be any.
"Coming on top after all, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat in her very first match... Sara the Switch!"
Disappointed cries rippled through the crowd, nearly drowned out by much fewer but utterly ecstatic screams. She hadn't been the favorite to win, it seemed, but she'd done it all the same. Sara could tell that her upset made a certain group of betters a hell of a lot richer, by the way they trampled their fellows in the rush to go grab their rewards.
Sara belatedly threw her fists in the air, roaring her victory. She sauntered over to the loudest group of detractors, shaking her fists as they jeered and insulted her goodnaturedly, wild gestures throwing beer over her. She turned to the group of excited people heading to snag their rewards, showing off with a bouncing chest shimmy as her bindings got soaked. Sara laughed in delight.
As the high receded, she realized the announcer was trying to get her attention at the edge of the pit. He was waving her over, Evie standing beside him with a towel. She tore her bindings off as she went, baring her chest with a mad grin.
"Good fight," the man said simply, dropping a bag of coin down to her. "Your share of the bets."
Sara barely felt the bag's heft before she tossed it back up to Evie, who quickly tucked it away. Her slave tossed the towel down, which she'd thoughtfully wetted with cold water. Sara began wiping away the beer before it started sticking.
"Anyone else lined up for me to fight?" Sara called up, breathing heavily.
"Not yet. I normally wait to see if the fighter wishes to continue after a match."
"Hell yeah I wanna keep going! Keep 'em coming, that was fuckin' great!" Sara shouted, not caring how wild her eyes looked. Fighting, for real, without any restrictions and no threat of consequences? The Nine Pits Cellar was starting to feel like the rankest hall of Valhalla, like Sara'd somehow stumbled into a magical land where she could drink and fight for as long as she wanted.
"And were you serious about fighting with 'whatever' weapon your opponent chooses?"
"I've only got the greatsword and shortsword for myself, but if you give me something to swing, I'll swing it."
"Hm." The man's quill skirted down his clipboard, mental gears spinning. "Alright. I'll see what we can do, if you really think you can keep fighting. I'll line up two extra fights for now."
-----------------------------------
Six Hours Later
-----------------------------------
Sara was having the time of her life. She was brought opponent after opponent, men and women of every size from every walk of life. With the enchantments on her weapons she could swing with wild abandon, not concerning herself with accidentally maiming someone in a friendly match. Sara'd taken up MMA for a few weeks back on Earth, which she'd loved, but after accidentally breaking her opponent's nose because of an accidental illegal swing she'd called it quits.
There was no such concern in the Nine Pits. All her opponents went all out, and she went all out too, collecting bruises like trophies. Evie constantly had to remind her that she'd come here to learn, because Sara kept getting distracted, adding flourishes to her swings for the hell of it and riling up the crowd. It was the most fun she'd had out of bed in months.
The crowd roared as Sara's latest opponent dropped their massive zweihander, wrist already blossoming with a massive bruise. Sara spread her arms wide as she walked up to a particular section of the bleachers, populated by a crowd of smiling jeerers who immediately flung an ocean of beer at her. She held her tongue out, catching some of it in her mouth, then jogged back over to the betting booths, where a much larger group had started up an eager chant.
"Rip it! Rip it! Rip it!"
Sara held up a hand, as if contemplating whether or not she should, then tore her bindings off in a flash. The people that had just won money off her victory seemed less excited by the coin than the sight of her tits, which she showed off with a dancing shake.
A chair thumped to the sands behind her, Evie hopping down behind. Sara'd begun to have the Nine Pits staff give her a place to rest between bouts, not bothering to leave the pit itself. She stepped over to a particularly happy-looking woman holding a pail of cold water by the sidelines, who dumped it on her as soon as she arrived. That done, Sara dropped into the chair, Evie sidling up behind her.
"Your response to the uppercut was abysmal, Master," Evie immediately chided, reaching down to massage Sara's naked shoulders. They both ignored the crowd's wolf-whistles. "Your opponent failed to capitalize, but they could have easily ended the match there."
"I know, I know, I thought I was done for sure," Sara said, melting into the catgirl's touch.
Bruises littered Sara's body in discolored splotches, big and small, thin and wide. She'd won probably sixty percent of her matches thus far, an impressive record for a beginner, but not one that left her unmarred from the night. She could only fathom how sore she'd be in the morning, but for right now, the heady high of success was keeping her going.
She'd come to the Nine Pits to learn how to fight dirty, and fight dirty she absolutely had. Her eyes were red from sand being thrown in them near constantly, and half her bruises were from headbutts and elbows, rather than weapons. The last few matches had been getting harder and harder, word spreading around to the fighters that she was vulnerable to dirty tricks and surprise changeups.
She was far from the best fighter in the joint, as proven when she'd been utterly trounced after a long winning streak had attracted the attention of some of the Pit's real talent. Her just-better-than-even victory record was less a testament to her talents than it was the Fight Coordinator's skill at finding equally matched opponents. Despite her regular losses, with the way Sara worked the crowd she was quickly becoming the most popular fighter of the night.
"What should I have done instead?" Sara asked.
"Step back as soon as the attack had passed you. Just because your opponent misses their initial swing doesn't mean it's your chance to strike. The most talented of swordsmen will always have a plethora of follow-ups planned for a missed swing, and not all of them are defensive."
"Got it. Gotta fight more defensively, especially when they're good."
"No," Evie chastised, fingers digging in at a shoulder knot. "You should always fight cautiously. Never assume your opponent is anything less than your better, so you will always be prepared for the unexpected."
Sara nodded, groaning as she melted into Evie's touch. The fights were growing more laborious, and it probably wouldn't be long before she called it quits.
"You think I've got one more in me?" Sara asked.
"I believe so, Master. And it seems your next match is rather eagerly anticipated."
"Alright. What are the weapons?"
"Greatsword."
Sara straightened slightly. Pretty much every fighter she'd squared off against had chosen dueling weapons, the kind useful in the semi-cramped quarters of the Pits. She'd fought with shortened spears, maces, daggers, and shortswords most of all, but a greatsword?
"Finally. I've been wanting to have a proper all-out fight like that."
"Excellent. Here she is now." Evie pointed over Sara's shoulder, indicating a human woman taller than Sara. Willowy and very dark-skinned, she carried an unsheathed greatsword in both hands, holding it out like a waitress delivering a meal. Her chest was wrapped by a purpose-built leather binder, squeezing her to the point of seeming discomfort. Tight twin dreads ran all the way from her forehead to fall against her shoulderblades, swaying as she walked.
And, Sara noted, she had a collar on. Just like Evie's, it glowed faintly with runes. Sara took a closer eye to the man walking beside her, dressed in finely tailored but simply styled clothing, just a touch overweight. His wrist had a band that matched Sara's, clinging tightly to his skin, as if it had been welded in place.
"Ah," Evie intoned, noting the same thing Sara had. "Will this next bout be complicated, Master?"
"Probably."
"I'll prepare accordingly."
Sara shrugged off Evie's hands, standing up. The catgirl quickly bound her breasts with a fresh set of cloth wraps before darting away. A pair of Pit employees hopped down to lift the wooden lounge chair out of the arena, which Sara helped them with. In moments the dueling sands were cleared, leaving her awaiting her opponent.
Whispers began to spread among the crowd as soon as Sara casually flipped out her sword, not bothering with the usual pomp and circumstance she had the rest of the night. Sara's deadeyed stare at her approaching opponent had more and more people rushing to the betting booths, an excited buzz rippling through the room. Some probably thought this was going to be the fight where she finally got serious, while others may have thought she was afraid.
In reality, Sara was only trying to keep her eyes off the woman's owner. He sat on the bottom row of the bleachers to Sara's left. He handed a bag of coin to an attendant, a young boy who scurried off to place a bet for him. A space quickly cleared as a pair of guards sat down beside him, both wearing black-painted metal cuirasses and openfaced helmets.
Sara dragged her eyes back to her opponent, who dropped to the sands. Even as the announcer began his usual spiel, describing the two fighters, Sara moved forward.
The slave met her in the middle, staring down at Sara. She'd guess the woman was an inch or two above six feet tall, giving her a not inconsiderable reach advantage over Sara.
"We will fight," the woman said, words lilting to a strange, vaguely mediterranean accent. "I don't wish to hurt you, so I hope you are skilled."
"Your owner over there," Sara replied, stepping closer so there was no chance of being overheard, "Does he treat you well?"
Vile hate filled the woman's face as she said, "My Master is a kind and giving lord. I would wish him no ill."
"Alright. I think I can read between the lines there." Sara planted her sword in the sand between them, as if issuing some dramatic challenge, while her voice stayed kind and quiet. "I don't know if you've got any pre-built orders rattling around, so I'm not going to say any specifics, but when things start getting crazy? Do your best to follow the letter of his orders, not the spirit."
The woman's eyes flashed, her mouth starting to open. But she said nothing. Sara could tell she wanted to, but another order kept the words choked off. Pressing her lips into a thin seal, the woman nodded and stepped away.
Sara took her place back on the sands, watching Evie through the corner of her eye. The catgirl had begun inching around the arena edge, moving closer and closer to the slave owner and his two guards.
A part of Sara lived for drama, she knew that, an aspect of her personality Amarat's blessings had turbo-charged. And right now that part of her wanted to start the duel, clashing furiously for the crowd, only to valiantly break away, declaring in a holier-than-thou tone that slavery should never be tolerated. Then she'd charge the slave owner and his guard, cutting them all down in a flurry of blows.
But a woman's life was on the line. Sara was worn out, nearing exhaustion, and while fury-born adrenaline may hide that for a time, it would do nothing for her wounds. So she waited, watching, as Evie casually crept closer.
The announcer had just begun his countdown when Evie judged her distance near enough, silvery rapier appearing in her hand.
Sara broke into a sprint.
The closest guard turned to Evie in alarm, starting to draw his own weapon, but he was too slow. Evie's rapier launched for the gap in his lightweight breastplate, impaling him in the left armpit. Her blade briefly shone up from the right side of his neck, then slipped out, arterial blood spraying nearby spectators. The guard dropped, dead.
Sara hit the wall in a running leap just as the other guard hauled his charge back, answering Evie's lunge with a swipe of his arming sword.
Sara began hauling herself up the wall as a new kind of scream broke out among the crowd, shrill and terrified.
"Get over here and help me!" The man yelled to his slave, who was still standing passively in the middle of the dueling sands.
Sara hauled herself up, brandishing her sword as she began shoving through the crowd. She'd expected Evie to cut down the man and his guards in a flash, Sara only required for backup as the chaos evolved, but that wasn't how things were playing out. The black-garbed guard was proving exceptional with his blade, the first time Sara had seen Evie being forced onto the defensive. As Sara broke through the crowd, nearing the overweight man, she was confronted by her second surprise.
The slave owner had produced a glowing weapon of his own, a gem-encrusted longsword with a twisting hilt. This weapon was clearly enchanted, and not for training. He held it with familiarity and confidence, watching with cold eyes as Sara charged him.
Sara's first thought was to begin with an overhead jab, feinting into a downward swing, her implanted instincts telling her that it was the exact right way to leverage her advantage in momentum and reach considering the circumstances.
But Sara had just spent hours fighting in the pits, and she knew that her opponent was expecting exactly that sequence of swings. Sara was tired, and what's more, she was angry. So she didn't bother with that elaborate crap.
Taking her greatsword in both hands, sprinting even faster, Sara spun around in a sweeping swing aimed to cleave the man from side to side.
A flash of surprise showed before he moved his longsword to block, the paunch of his beergut too great to allow him to duck the horribly telegraphed attack. He braced a forearm against the flat of the blade, teeth gritted for the impact.
With a screech of steel and awful shock, her black blade slammed into the glowing longsword.
The slave owner was thrown back by the force of it, stumbling away, while Sara recoiled to the right, trying to correct her momentum. She skidded to a stop just as the man's slave appeared, eyes wide and unconcerned.
"What assistance do you require, Master?" She asked.
Sputtering, eyes bulging with rage, he flung a finger at Sara.
"Kill--"
His order was cut off by the thudding impact of a cobble brick against his sternum. Sara was close behind, sword raised high.
She didn't give him a chance to shout another order, her guillotine swing raining down from on high.
Just as he raised his sword to deflect the blow, Sara shouted, "Taze!"
Electricity crackled off her blade as it hit, met by flashes of blinding light from the longsword. Sara watched two spells collide as if in slow motion, arcs of blinding blue meeting white spears. A crackling, popping boil filled the heat-warped air, waves of shimmering power rolling between the two weapons.
Then, in an instant, it all disappeared.
Sara recovered quicker than her opponent, immediately slamming her sword into his ribs. Unfortunately, still enchanted to protect as it was, the blow was softened.
So Sara reached a hand forward and tore the man's longsword out of his hand, not caring about the burning cut its edge tore across her palm.
He tried to shout something else, but Sara punched him in the mouth, taking him to the floor. She rode him down, straddling his chest, knees pinning his arms to the stone. He bit at her palm as she shoved it over his mouth and nose, thrashing wildly.
Sara slammed her sword's pommel down into his forehead. It struck with a flash of light, enchantment saving his skull from being crushed. So Sara hit him again, and then again, each time with a flash of light. Then she threw the weapon in disgust, finding another loose cobblestone and snatching it up.
"Disgusting!"
Sara slammed the brick down.
"Fucking!"
Swung again. Something crunched under Sara's hand.
"Slaver!"
Swung again. Blood sprays reached the ceiling. Sara took the brick in both hands, mindless fury tearing from her throat as she brought her hands down.
A man became a corpse.
Sara shoved herself off the body, looking for Evie, and her weapon, in that order. She spotted Evie standing before the man's guard, weapon raised while her free hand pointed to Sara. The guard glanced over, saw the scattered remains of his charge's skull, and fled.
Sara lifted her sword off the ground, shaking it in frustration. It still glowed white, the spell preventing it from being actually useful.
"Be careful, Master," Evie called as she jogged over, pointing to something at Sara's feet. Sara glanced down to see the man's wristband snapped open, resting on the stones beside the corpse.
"What now?" She asked Evie as they met up. "Do I just pick it up and we run?"
Most of the audience had emptied out, but now there was a growing cluster of bouncer types at the entrance, some of the fighters mixed in with them. Sara didn't know what they were waiting for, but she had a feeling it probably wasn't great for her.
"If you touch it, you own her, Master."
"Ah, shit," Sara swore, hopping back from the bracelet like it was a snake. "Does that work for anyone?"
"Yes."
Sara looked at the guards, then at the slave woman, and hung her head.
"So we can't run, not without letting some random person own her, and we can't pick it up ourselves. Fuck." Sara ran a hand through her hair, looking at the woman all this had been for. "Well? Why haven't you said anything?"
"Master did not allow me to speak unless spoken to," she answered.
"What a bastard," Sara spat. "Well, what do you want me to do?"
"I know not. There seems no good choice."
Sara began pacing, keeping an eye on the guards across the empty cellar. They were at the far end of the chamber, a hundred yards away, watching her.
"You could pick up the band without anything going wrong, right?" Sara tried. "So you could pick it up, we head to the ocean and get on a ship, then you toss it overboard. No one will ever find it again."
Evie shook her head sadly. "Then she would never be free of her old Master's commands. Anything he'd ever told her to do, she'd still be compelled to follow. Trapped in the shadow of a dead man."
"Fuck." Sara glared at the bracelet, mind racing. The woman stepped forward, looking like she wanted to say something. "Go ahead," Sara said.
"I must have an owner. It is the curse I bear. There is no way around this."
"That can't be true," Sara insisted. "You've basically got no owner right now, right? If we can just..."
"Sara," Evie said kindly, putting a hand on her arm. "The collars were divine punishments. Handed down for millennia, used all the while, yet unscathed to this day. If there was a way to break them, it would have happened by now."
"Fuck!" Sara repeated, tearing at her hair. "That's bullshit! There's gotta be a way to not play into this stupid fucking trope, right?" She turned to the woman. "C'mon, you've probably spent forever thinking about a way out, right?"
The woman shook her head. "All I hoped for was a kind owner, one day." She turned to the assembled fighters and bodyguards, who were beginning to march over. "Take the bracelet, Sara," the woman whispered. "I would rather be owned by someone who kills slavers than a gladiator."
Sputtering, spitting, fuming with profanities, Sara bent down and seized the bracelet. As soon as her finger grazed the surface it flashed, turning to golden smoke. A small tornado sucked into Sara's original wristband, the runes there flashing brightly.
"You don't have to follow any of your old master's commands," Sara snapped immediately. She was about to say something else when the woman tipped forward, passing out on the spot. Sara dove to catch her, halting her fall before she cracked her head against the ground. Sara gently laid her down as the group finally reached her.
"Well, this has certainly been an interesting evening," a voice said. Bulky half-naked gladiators stepped aside, revealing a richly dressed woman. She wore a fancy gown and some other bullshit Sara didn't care about in the moment.
"Alright, lady, here's how this is gonna go," Sara growled, interrupting whatever pre-prepared monologue she was about to be subjected to. "I don't give a shit about your business, or your profits, or whatever trouble I brought your way. All I want to do is take this lady, leave, and never come back. The money I made you tonight probably paid twice over for whatever damages you're gonna try and claim, and this place is too popular to be secret, so I know the city guard isn't gonna investigate shit. So that means I'm either gonna leave now, peacefully, or me and my two slaves are gonna see how many people we can kill until we die with you." Sara snapped her sword out, holding it out to Evie, who disenchanted the blade with a waved hand. "So which is it?"
The woman put a finger to her lips, thinking. "The first one," she decided. "Get out of my sight."
"Good."
With Evie taking the woman's legs and Sara her shoulders, they began making their way to the Nine Pit's exit.
Notes:
I'm going to be taking audience suggestions from this point forward, as this concludes my dumping of the backlog! Sara and Evie, once figuring out how to best deal with their new hanger-on, will be shortly leaving Hagos.
You, the audience, will serve as the divine urges guiding Sara on her path. Draw her to a certain course, or discourage her from trusting a character, and she will respond accordingly. Of course, if the viewers try and get her to do something she'd never go for, she'll ignore the impulses, and perhaps trust Amarat less for it.
So: will you guide her to a dark forest, where a cackling witch is rumored to ensnare passing maidens, or will you have her beeline to the coast, finding herself before a swarthy pirate captain? Your suggestions may not be what the next chapter is, considering the fact that I'll already be writing while comments build up, but I'm very interested in the concept of viewer engagement. Let's see how this experiment goes, shall we?
Chapter 11: Contest of Wits - Unarmed vs Armed
Notes:
Fair warning: gets a bit brutal there at the end. Don't worry though, horny will be back in short order.
Chapter Text
Sara was carrying the fighter woman up the steps to Lady Vesta's estate when the door suddenly flung open, the head of the servants looking down at the sight before him with unvarnished concern. He was still in his nightclothes, probably having been hastily roused after whoever watched the streets at night had seen Sara's approach.
"Need I call a healer, Lady Sara?" He asked politely, unflappable as always.
"No. Please go wake up Garen, tell him that I'm calling in the favor he owes me."
"I will do so immediately, My Lady, but I warn you, Master Garen is a difficult man to rouse. A mage has many ways of insuring his sleep is undisturbed."
Evie, still holding the woman's legs as they hauled her across the threshold, addressed the butler with acerbic cynicism.
"I'm sure Garen is quite accomplished, but you, Mister Toman, are the titleless servant that was so skilled at their tasks that you've been promoted to the third most powerful person in the Vesta estate, second only to the Lord and Lady themselves. You manage near everything about their home, and don't pretend I haven't seen you signing official business documents in their name. So frighteningly broad is your authority that it would likely be found illegal for a commoner to wield it should word reach the greater world. I will clarify my Master's too-polite inquiry: You have a manner of waking Garen, and you will do so immediately."
Toman blinked, wringing his hands as he nodded apprehensively. "I have some... measures prepared, but they were contingencies in the event of an assault upon the manor or something similar. He will not be pleased, I must warn you."
"Tell him to get pissed at me, not you, then get his ass down here," Sara snapped. Wincing, she reigned in her irritation. "Sorry. Just... it's been a long night, and I know for a fact that I won't be sleeping until I get this shit sorted."
"Then I shall return with Master Garen post-haste, My Lady. Oddry, if you would take care of our esteemed guests more pressing concerns in the meanwhile?"
Though he spoke to an empty foyer, as soon as Toman said the name a shutter clicked to Sara's right. A door split open seamlessly from wood paneling, a servant woman with a maid's dress stepping out. Unlike most of the staff, her dress had subtle filigrees to its edges, and it seemed tailored to fit her better.
"Greetings, My Ladies. Where do you wish to keep your guest while you await Master Garen?"
Sara looked to Evie, who stared blankly back at her. They were still holding the sort-of-slave between them, her head lolling unconsciously.
"I don't know. We're going to try and wake her, then probably have a long and difficult discussion. Do you have any suggestions?"
"Lady Vesta had constructed several small and private withdrawing rooms, furnished with couches large enough to serve as beds for your guest, complimented by enchantments that prevent eavesdropping."
"Sounds good to me, appreciate it. Let's go."
Oddry turned sharply on her heel, leading them down a hallway.
"I also must inquire," Oddry said as she walked, "If the stories young Emery has been repeatedly regaling the staff with are based in truth."
Sara chuckled slightly, quieter than she would have in less stressful circumstances.
"They are. You don't have to treat me as a Lady or Knight or whatever. I'm just Sara."
"Then, Sara, I will ask another question," Oddry turned sharply down a corner, walking just fast enough that Sara had to struggle to keep pace. "Did you two walk throughout the city dressed as you are, carrying that woman between you?"
Sara glanced down, suddenly recalling her state of undress. She was wearing blood and beer soaked shorts, no larger than boxers, and a sweaty cloth chest wrap that concealed nothing, serving only to prevent her breasts from bouncing freely. Evie was dressed in the same manner, and the not-slave they carried was similar, save for her leather binder replacing cloth.
"Uh... yeah, we did."
Oddry sighed. "I am not the only one among the noble houses watching the streets at night, Sara. The buzz at tomorrow's gatherings will likely be considerable."
Sara really wouldn't have cared, if not for the fact that it might make Vesta's life a little more difficult.
"Welp. That's gonna be weird, huh?"
Evie smirked as Oddry opened a door for them, ushering them inside. "Master, the rumors flying around you are already scandalous enough. What's one more?"
Sara shook her head as she laid out the woman on a wide couch, placing a pillow beneath her head. Oddry brought over a blanket from a nearby cupboard, placing it neatly over the woman, for propriety's sake.
"Will you require my services further, My Ladies?" Oddry asked, returning to formality.
"Probably not?" Sara guessed. "Not for a while, at least. Can you make sure Toman and Garen know where we are?"
"Of course."
With that Oddry slipped through the door, leaving the three of them alone.
Sara dropped into a chair, clasping her head in her hands and groaning. "Fine fuckin' mess I got us in, huh?"
Evie, slumping into the chair beside Sara, patted her leg reassuringly. "Nothing unresolvable, Master. I'm sure an accord can be reached."
"Are you sure?" Sara waved to the collar clasped around the stranger's neck. "We've seen for ourselves how binding those damn things are, even if it's worked in your favor. And don't forget, by the way, that she'll have the same 'obligations' as you, and I highly doubt she'll be as excited about them."
Evie's lips pursed. "We don't know her temperament yet, Master. Perhaps she will enjoy her servitude as much as I did."
Sara shook her head. "Amarat didn't guide me to her like she did you, Evie. She's just a normal woman, forced into a life of slavery. Hell, we don't even know if she's into women at all."
"And we won't know until she awakes. Peace, Master. Leave the unknowns alone for now and focus on what can be done."
Sara sighed, watching the slow rise and fall of breath in the woman across from her. While she waited for Garen to arrive she gathered her thoughts, placing her priorities in neat lists in her mind, then on paper when the list grew too long. There was too much ground for her to cover on her own, too much to consider and factor in, but one thing was certain: Sara would never truly own a slave.
Eventually there was a light rap at the door, followed by it cracking open.
"I have brought Master Garen, Lady Sara. Are all inside decent?"
"No, but bring him in anyway."
The door swung wider, admitting a tousled and very grumpy mage. He'd pulled on his robes, but loosely tied as they were, Sara could see a white tank top and shorts beneath them. His hair, Sara also noted, was soaking wet.
"Lady Sara," Garen greeted calmly, slamming the door in the face of Toman behind him. "I hear you've found a reason for my services?"
"We have," Sara confirmed, indicating the woman on the couch. "Sorry for waking you, but I wasn't going to wait."
"I am unbothered by being woken, I assure you, even if the method was rather brusque."
Sara glanced once more at his sopping wet head. "How did Toman manage to get your attention? He told me your quarters were protected."
"They were, and are. I'd enchanted my room to be unapproachable while I was unconscious, impenetrable magical wards wrapping it from head to toe, but he managed anyway." Garen summoned a chair, sitting to Sara's left. "It was quite ingenious, actually, almost enough to stymie my irritation. There was a small crawlspace above my bed, unnoticed by me, and therein were a set of books stood on end, growing in size, leading up to a bucket of water. By pounding on the floor above my room he disturbed the first block, which hit the second, and so on, until the bucket was knocked over. The ceiling tile above my pillow was porous and weak, snapping as soon as it was wetted, thus showering me with rotten wood and icy water."
Sara, despite the severity of her predicament, laughed. "Well damn, Toman!"
Garen grinned."A reminder that no matter how well defended I think myself, there will always be someone more forward thinking than I. An archmage could have whaled at my wards for hours without waking me, and yet a humble servant did it in minutes."
"I don't know if y'all have the phrase here, but there's a saying on Earth: Don't bite the hand that feeds you. I think a lot of nobles would be a lot better off if they remembered it's the servants supporting them, not the other way around."
"Quite," Garen agreed. Then, looking at the woman on the couch, he slowly sobered. "Well, Lady Sara, I think it best we get to business. Why have you called on me so soon?"
Reluctant to move on to what she knew she needed to address, Sara sighed. "That slave there, as you probably guessed. Before we go much further, we need to wake her up, heal whatever made her pass out the second I freed her from her old owner's orders." Sara held up her bracelet. " And in case it wasn't obvious, she's owned by me now. I don't want her to be my slave, and what's more, I don't want her to be anyone's slave."
Garen sucked air through his teeth, leaning back. "The second aspect of your request teeters on the edge of impossibility, Lady Sara. But for the first, I think my skills shall suffice." He rolled the sleeves of his robes up, stepping to the unconscious woman. "Can you order her to wake, if you please, Lady Sara? I know compelling someone else by magical means is likely against your ethical codes, but I request it all the same. It is best not to cast spells on someone whose maladies you are unfamiliar with."
The request did indeed cause Sara a bit of reflexive queasiness, but she shoved it down. Months spent in this world had crystallized her preexisting disgust for forcing others to do your bidding into passionate hatred, but even she had to admit that it was the logical thing to do.
"Wake up."
The stranger's eyes snapped open, looking about blearily. When Garen saw the woman throw the blanket off, wild eyes looking for a route of escape, Garen quickly dropped to a kneeling position instead of standing imperiously over her.
"It's alright, it's alright," he assured her, making calming motions. "I am here to help you. Lady Sara and Evie have taken you to me for help. You see? They are right behind me."
"It's true," Sara called, standing so she could be better seen. "I had you wake up so he can ask you some questions, to better heal whatever your old owner did to you."
The woman's jittery motions calmed, no longer looking to make a break for it, but the unease on her face remained.
"Now, tell me, are you feeling alright?" Garen asked.
She took a moment to breathe, then nodded slightly. "As well as always. It's been many years since I last was whole."
"Could you tell me a little bit more about that?" Garen requested. "What about your current state makes you feel less than whole?"
The woman blinked rapidly, a subtle shake to her head as she cleared old cobwebs away.
"I apologize, Mage. I am unfamiliar with being without my old master's orders, so accustomed have I become to speaking in useless vagueries. I was forbid sleep for years, forced to remain awake at all times. The commands kept me awake, as is now, but there was no peace to be found."
"I see," Garen said, eyes glowing for a brief flash as he looked her up and down. "You are indeed weaker than should be possible for one still conscious." Turning to address both Sara and the woman, he continued. "I could cast a series of spells to alleviate some of the damage done, but it would be a pallid and temporary solution. In truth, the only cure for her state is genuine rest, and much of it. Do you wish me to cast the spells?"
Sara nodded to the woman, encouraging her to answer for herself.
"No," she decided after some deliberation. "I will recover on my own body's terms. I appreciate your offered treatment, Mage, but no."
"So be it," Garen said, stepping away and returning to his seat. "Now, Sara, knowing this, will you keep her awake for the time being? You said you wished for her input on the next portion of our discussion."
"Are you okay with staying like this for a little while longer?" Sara asked the woman. "We'll be discussing how to free you, or get you as close to it as we can. If you want to be in your right mind for it, I'll let you sleep as long as you need, and resume the discussion then."
She shifted, bundling up the blanket across her lap, pulling it to her shoulders for modesty. After some thought, she shook her head.
"No. Such a mage is not easy to find the time of, and I will not stay bound any longer than I must. I have lived a half decade in this exhaustion. I will suffer through it for a time more, if it means I am freed."
"Alright," Sara nodded. "Then can I ask what your name is?"
Her face twisted. "My old master named me Enevia, some reference to a joke that amused him in his native language. You have not given me a name yet."
"And I won't," Sara said. "You'll choose your own. Until you're ready to do that, though, can I give you a nickname, to make discussions easier?"
"That will do."
"Would it be alright if I called you... Kate?"
All present gave her an odd look, the woman most of all. "I have not heard of such a name," she said.
"It's just a common one I randomly picked from my old world. It doesn't mean anything."
"Then it will do for now." Kate pulled her blanket around herself tighter. "Your 'old world', you said?"
"Oh. Yeah, I forgot you didn't know that. So, this is going to take a little bit of explaining..."
The next few minutes were filled by an increasingly bewildered Kate listening to Sara's story, almost unable to process the fact that she was now owned by a mythical Champion. Sara assured her repeatedly that she was still a normal person, raised among commoners like all the rest, but it did little to ease her.
And when Sara got further, explaining what Amarat's blessings changed for Kate and any person Sara 'owned', Kate's dark skin paled as much as it could. The obligations and their inherently sexual nature had Kate's knuckles whitening, eyes wide, reaffirming Sara's determination that there would be no compromising on that particular point.
When she got done catching Kate up to speed, and answering all of her subsequent questions, it had probably been half an hour of just Sara and Kate talking back and forth. It was a testament to Garen's patience that he didn't look the slightest bit perturbed as he silently listened, wearing a solemn expression that matched the severity of the events before him. He even nodded along or looked thoughtful at times, which meant he was really listening. Sara found herself liking the man more and more, from the way he had gently treated Kate on her awakening to the clear focus he dedicated himself to any task he undertook. Idly, Sara wondered if she'd be able to pull him away from Lady Vesta when she left for the south.
"Now, Master Garen," Sara said, "It's time for your part to play. You've already said destroying a collar to free someone is a near impossibility, but 'near' is a word that means quite a lot to me."
The veteran mage made a face. "I'm afraid I may have misled you, Lady Sara. When one has seen all that I have, it is difficult to truly declare something 'impossible'. There may exist a method somewhere among the cosmos to break one of these collars, but it is not known to any mortal mind I am familiar with."
"Then what can we do to get as close as possible?" Sara asked, unsurprised by his answer. "The first priority would be ridding Kate of her daily obligations, as that would free her to go as far away from me as she pleases. Surely I'm not the first one to try and break someone from this living hell?"
"A week ago, Lady Sara, I would have had no answers for you. But the undercurrents of our first meeting and the stated purpose of your entanglement with Lady Vesta gave me far greater reason to research these matters." He held up three fingers. "There are three ways that I have found to successfully circumvent the mandates placed upon slaves by their collars. The first, and simplest, is to order the slave to have an alternative method of displaying their devotion to their master. Ruminating upon a painting of their owner for many minutes, or saying a heartfelt prayer to the gods for their owner's safety. The problem with this method is that it requires genuine supplication from the slave. The collar will not accept a ritual that was not truly embraced by its performer."
"So that won't work for Kate."
"Not unless she finds herself genuinely worshipful of your person, no."
"I will not," Kate said simply.
"The second, then?" Sara prompted.
"Is more forgiving, but limited in scope. A slave sent on a task for their master is by definition devoting themselves to their owner's will, so they will not be required to return. Tales abound of slaves given a final order by their master, instructed to live a long and fulfilling life."
"But the practicalities of that are ridiculous," Evie interjected. "I know the sensations of my Master's orders. If she gave that command to me before leaving, I would live my entire life compelled to constantly think of her commandment. Imagining it now, I know that before long I would never drink wine, eat rich foods, or even allow myself to get too little sleep. Without my Master's presence to reaffirm her intent, not just her words, I would be bound to the literal most interpretation of the command."
Garen nodded respectfully to Evie. "Such is the result of any historical records of these commands being given. A self-enforced hermetic lifestyle, taking all measures to ensure one's own life is preserved to its maximum extent."
"Still, it is an improvement," Kate said. "Being forced to avoid vices is preferable to a lifetime of subjugation."
"It's still not perfect," Sara said. "The third?"
"A theory, presented by some of the more radical abolitionists. If one were to order a slave to be free of their commands, then slit their own throat, the slave would be both ownerless and uncompelled. So long as their band is not picked up again, they will not be forced to show devotion to anyone."
Sara glanced at Evie, who immediately flattened her ears with a hiss.
"No, Master. Your life is not worth less than hers."
"I agree," Kate said immediately. "And how would I stop myself from becoming captured again? I would carry my collar and its controlling band with me, showing to any I meet that I can be stolen with a touch."
"You wouldn't have to go that far," Sara said. "We could do as I suggested earlier, and have you toss your band into the ocean. You'd have to protect it until then, but I have access to Lady Vesta's estate. A set of guards could escort you onto a ship, keeping the band under lock and key. If you cover your collar, hardly anyone will think to look for it."
"Yet it remains true that someone must die for my freedom to be gained."
"That's barely a problem, though," Sara said. "I've killed a couple dozen people in the last few months. We just find some guy ready for the hangman's noose, give him the band, then crack his neck."
Kate looked disturbed by the suggestion, Evie amused, and Garen quietly contemplative.
"What's up, Garen? There a problem with that?"
"No, no, it's just that it... seems too simple, I suppose? These collars have been around for millennia, unchanged. I found mention of the suicidal methodology in an obscure philosophical debate transcript, and only once. Having heard your proposal now, I can't imagine that it would have taken long for us to come up with the idea. Even on our own. Why is it not mentioned elsewhere?"
"People are shitty?" Sara guessed. "You said yourself that you had to delve way deep just to find people even talking about breaking the collar's enchantment. Magical slaves are convenient, and since rich people in this world both benefit from them and control who gets educated, it makes sense. Why try and figure out how to get rid of something that helps you out?"
"Believe it or not, Lady Sara, not all of the wealthy are so capricious. There have been many throughout history who would also rather do away with collars and their ilk."
"And they're outnumbered a fuckload to one," Sara said. "Power corrupts, Garen, and money does it quicker than anything else. The people who own slaves are inherently the ones least interested in getting rid of them."
"Not true in your case, is it not?"
"Sure, and all it took to get me was the meddling of a literal goddess."
"A fair point." He clapped imaginary dust off his hands, standing. "Well then. If Kate does not object, shall we go find someone to kill?"
All eyes turned to Kate, who still had her blanket tucked tightly to her chin.
"If it is alright with you," she said in a quiet voice, "I would like to sleep now. I'm not required for this, and I do not wish to be present for anyone's death ever again. Too many have died by my puppeteered hand already. To have another die for my sake is... sad."
"I understand," Sara said, and she really did. Kate was owned by someone who kept guards on hand more skilled than Evie, which was remarkable, and it stood to reason that his slave had been trained to similar or greater standards. Sara couldn't imagine what the poor woman had been forced to do in his name. "I can assure you, whoever dies will deserve it. Would you like to sleep now?"
Kate nodded, positioning herself on the couch.
"You are released from all commands."
With a long exhale her eyes fluttered closed, five years worth of sleep to catch up on.
Garen shook his head, adjusting the blanket on her before turning to Sara.
"I had no real opinion on the divine collars before meeting you, Lady Sara. My research turned my mind towards dislike over the last few days, and brief discussion with the estate's servants furthered my distaste." He looked down at Kate, resting peacefully. "But this? Her?" Garen looked back up, a fire in his eyes. "I fear I begin to hate them. What a treacherous path you have set me down, Lady Sara, to oppose such a thing."
Sara frowned, crossing her arms. "I don't suppose you could somehow prove that you're telling me the truth about that, can you?"
Garen stepped away from Kate, frowning. "You distrust my words?"
"Somewhat?" Sara admitted. "It's a bit too perfect of a time to declare your intent, isn't it? You told me that you work under House Vesta because they're a solid paycheck, secure, and moral enough for your tastes. Someone that places their priorities in that order doesn't strike me as the type to become a revolutionary because of one woman with a sad life. Especially not when they're a veteran combat mage who's probably killed hundreds in their life. I'm an up-and-coming Champion, one that's demonstrated knowledge beyond your comprehension both in manners of the arcane and mundane. In my skull is a treasure trove that could catapult you to the very peak of mortal power and influence, and you know it. There's every reason for you to appease me, and little for you to voice beliefs that I would find distasteful."
The room chilled.
Garen stood still for a long time. Evie tensed, hand extended for her rapier to fall into, but Sara just stood with her arms crossed, waiting.
"...I think there is nothing I can say that could convince you in this moment, Lady Sara. Your suspicions are well reasoned and based in experience. I could cast a truth spell upon the vicinity, but you haven't the magical experience to determine if I have excluded myself. I think that future actions are my only avenue of testament."
"All true."
Garen straightened his robes, pinning them together so his underclothes no longer showed. "Are you the type, Lady Sara, to respect exceptionally dramatic displays of intent?"
"They're one of my favorite hobbies."
"Then let me take a stab at it," Garen said, flicking a finger.
Sara felt her feet leave the floor, stomach lurching as she was shot towards the ceiling like a bullet. She impacted with enough force to rattle the chandelier beside her, Evie landing just a few feet away. Sara immediately tried to stand, or rip her sword from its sheath, but the force driving against her was inescapable. She could scarcely draw a breath, much less fight. Her vision began to darken at the edges.
With no further fanfare Garen dropped the finger. Sara felt her hair detach from the ceiling first, then the rest of her body, plummeting the fifteen feet back down.
Sara landed with a crash, half her face bouncing off a coffee table. It shattered, leaving shards of wood impaled in her legs. Evie flipped as she fell, landing on two feet, rapier summoned and fangs bared.
"None of that now," Garen said as the catgirl lunged at him. Her rapier disappeared in a flash, banished back to the not-space it waited in when she didn't have it summoned. His finger flicked to Sara next, a golden light healing her wounds even before she could feel their pain.
Sara stood, breathing hard. Garen looked at her from across the room, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes. The table her fall had smashed began to reassemble itself as he spoke.
"I have no interest in deceiving you, Lady Sara. It would be unnecessary. Your knowledge is just as valuable as you said it is, but as I've already told you, I have no interest in upsetting the balance of the world. The collars do indeed irk me, and I respect you both for challenging me on this point, and for the absolute balls required to look the Tiger of Salacia in the eye and call him out. You may not know me or my history personally, but I have it on good authority that Champions are inherently aware of when they are outmatched. That makes your bravery commendable."
Sara wiped her mouth, waving for Evie to calm herself. The second her slave's ears flicked forward, the rapier was returned to her hand.
"Well. You've certainly got the chops for drama down, Garen," Sara said.
He bowed his head gratefully. "From a Champion of Amarat, that means much."
"What is the Tiger of Salacia doing training city guards?" Evie hissed. Sara was shocked to hear it, and when she turned to the catgirl and saw her pale and shivering, Sara's shock became astonishment.
"Salacia was an aberration in my life, Lady Eliah. One I do not wish to repeat. I came here to study arcane arts that will not further my talent at spilling blood."
"Yet now you speak of following Master Sara's cause," Evie whispered. "Will you take to the field once more?"
"No."
Evie let out a shaky sigh, her piece said. Sara looked between the two of them, baffled.
"Should I ask?"
"I will not answer," Garen said.
"And I will request that you do not pursue the point," Evie said. "Garen has no reason lie to us. Learning more will..." Evie shook her head slightly. "Do not learn more, Master."
Sara was practically fucking frothing at the mouth to know more, because why wouldn't she be, but she bit her tongue. It was the first time Evie had ever demonstrated any desire against Sara's wishes, and she was going to respect that even if it left her dying of curiosity.
"Alright, message received. Should we three go for a late night stroll and find someone to kill?"
"Let's," Garen answered cheerfully.
---------------------------------------------
The answer for who they should kill came to them quickly: none other than Lord Alera Vesta, the petty tyrant. Besides being someone they'd been targeting beforehand, the repugnant man owned a plethora of his own slaves. Slaves that could be freed by his murder. For all the political maneuvering that had been required to weaken his position, Sara had expected a similar level of subtle skill to be applied to his death.
There wasn't.
They waited until the crack of dawn to wake Lady Vesta, explaining their plan in short order. She was agreeable, and had her staff gather up the magically bound servants scattered across the Vesta estate. It was a testament to the expense of the collars that there were less than a dozen of them, and purchasing even that many had strained Alera's share of Vesta assets.
Sara had the main role to play in the whole production. After Garen snuck into Alera's room and hexed him into an inescapable sleep, Sara had injected a provided poison and transferred ownership of Kate to the unconscious man. There weren't even any guards for either of them to avoid; Tarlin's investigation of the Vesta staff had found no one loyal to the tyrant.
Lord Alera Vesta had a bedroom so decorated in finery it bordered on the obscene. Anything that gold trim could stick to had the shiny metal sloughed on in gaudy globs, bright enough to force a guest to squint when the sun shone through the windows. A four-poster bed was the room's centerpiece, surrounded by chests and drawers and wardrobes of random and exceedingly expensive style. A privacy curtain could be drawn across the whole center of the room, so the Lord could fire off rapid orders without even bothering to dress.
As she waited beside Alera's bed, doublechecking his bindings, Sara reflected on the ease with which everything had proceeded. She knew she shouldn't be surprised it was simple to kill a sleeping man when you literally lived in his house, but it still didn't fit her sense of drama. He was a hated Lord, tormentor of hundreds, maligned across the land. He was even famed for his skill with a sword, making him the perfect villain for a dramatic final confrontation. She should have dueled him through the streets, an onlooking crowd too dazzled by the skill on display to intervene as she slowly pushed him to the brink, proving his evil nature once and for all.
Instead he woke with a gasp at six-thirty in the morning, sweating heavily, heart already beginning to lurch. Sara wiggled a two-finger wave at him from the chair she'd been waiting in, two vials and a needle resting on the arm wrest.
"Hello, Alera Vesta. I don't believe we've met properly, yet. I am Sara, the Champion of Amarat."
He tried to lunge off the bed, but thick ropes restrained him.
"What are you doing?" He demanded. "What have you done to me?"
"Poisoned you to death," Sara answered, tapping the empty glass vial. "It's been a half hour since the injection, so you should have another half hour left before your heart seizes."
"Guards! Guards!" He bellowed frantically.
"Your room is soundproofed, Alera. You ordered it yourself, I was told."
His wild eyes bored fury into her, forced to do so from an awkward angle. "You contemptible bitch! What is that other vial, then? The antidote?"
"Excellent guess!" Sara cheerfully said, holding up a vial of milky white fluid.
"Then what do you want from me? I can feel the poison working, woman. Make your demands."
"It's quite simple, really. Did you hear how I burned down the slave market the other day?"
"In my name? Yes! Of course I did!"
"Well, that was all just a big misunderstanding. You see, I wasn't interested in such low-grade chaff, and their paltry display irritated me. I want real slaves, like the King gave to me in the capitol. And you, Alera Vesta, have many of them."
"You want my slaves? Fine! You may have them, Champion. I will find more, better chattel, and we will both walk away richer."
Sara clicked her tongue sadly. "You just don't get it, do you, old man? I'm the Champion of the Amarat, Goddess of Connections. I don't just want your slaves. I want them untainted, free of your influence. They're waiting just outside, all twelve of them."
"What is the object of this damnable word game?"
"In just a moment, I will allow the slaves entry. You will give them the following command: 'You are free from all orders'. Then they will leave, you will gift them to me, and I will give you the antidote and leave the city. It's even mixed with a mild paralytic, ensuring that I will have many hours head start before you can send orders to give chase. A flawless plan, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, yes, yes," he snapped, chest heaving. His sweat was practically drenching the bed now, a grimace of pain plastered across his face. "Then bring them in immediately."
"Just one thing," Sara said, standing with a flick of her blade. She walked over to the bed, pressing the greatsword's tip into Alera's throat. "I am a Champion. If you try to order a group of half-dressed slaves to kill me, I will slaughter them. I would rather not, though, so my sword against your neck will ensure you don't do something so foolish."
"Just bring them in, you gloating bastard!"
"You're no fun, Alera," Sara pouted. She walked away for a moment, drawing a privacy curtain between the room's entrance and the bed. "I'm sure you've been in similar situations to my present one." She returned to the bed, blade to his throat. "Now remember: the only thing you will say is 'you are free from all orders', understand me? Anything more and I will give you just enough of the antidote to try this again in a few hours, when you've had some time to suffer and think."
"Yes, yes!"
Sara pushed just the tiniest bit, drawing a single drop of blood. "No, Alera. You say 'I understand'."
"I. Understand," he ground out, teeth gritted.
"Good."
Sara pounded against the wall hard enough to rattle the room's chandelier. There was the click of a door, then the sound of feet shuffling in. She kept a close eye on Alera, making sure he would stay silent. When the door clicked shut once more, she nodded to him.
"You are freed from all orders," he said, spitting the words between his teeth like they were burning his throat.
Having already been informed of what to expect, the slaves then shuffled from the room. The door clicked, and Alera gasped.
"Alright, you've had your senseless demands met. Touch your wrist to mine, so I may give you them properly."
"No." Sara folded her sword up, grabbing the vial and the needle. She drew it up to its maximum, the primitive device having a massive tip for injection. "Now get ready, this is going to hurt."
"What do you mean no?" He whispered. "The slaves. They're yours. I'll give them to you."
"I'm sure you would," Sara said, moving up onto the bed to pin his shaking arm down with a knee. "But I'm not interested."
"What?! Why? What's in that vial?"
"More poison," Sara said, driving the needle home. The watery substance allowed the plunger to depress near instantly, the pain of the injection forcing a barely concealed scream from Alera.
"No! No! Why? What do you gain from this? What do you want from me?"
Sara set the needle on the bedside, putting her hands in her pocket as she stood over him and watched. She didn't say a word, didn't answer any of his increasingly frantic questions, not even when they rose to screams and pleading. She didn't want to watch, quite frankly. She found the whole thing disgusting, the pain in his cries evident. Sara wasn't just killing a man, she was torturing him to death.
It was fortunate that he deserved it.
In under a minute his screams choked off, replaced by labored breathing. His eyes began to bulge, then flutter, turning red with burst blood veins. When he finally collapsed, unconscious, Sara opened the door and called Garen in. He performed an advanced healing spell, one that targeted only the wrist burns and injection site wound, leaving the poison coursing through Alera's veins. That done, Sara untied Alera, tucking him back under the covers. She noted his breathing halting halfway through the process, then heard the sound of his final breath rattling out of his lungs.
The bracelet clicked open on his wrist, rolling free. Sara watched as it split, magical smoke mimicking mitosis. One bracelet became two, then four, then eight, and then only half split, leaving thirteen laying on the bed. Garen cracked open the door, waving a pair of guards in. They set a thick-walled safe on the ground, then left.
Sara watched as Garen's spells lifted the bracelets one by one, depositing them in the safe. When all were inside he shut the door, gave the handle a good spin, then whispered a word that heated the hinges until they melted.
"Well," he said after the guards had come back in to collect the safe, beginning its journey to the ocean, "That was startlingly simply. I begin to wonder if we're the only ones to have completed such a task."
"I doubt it," Sara sighed, taking down the privacy curtain. "But not enough have done it, clearly. The collars still exist in the world."
"And they will forevermore, Lady Sara," Garen said. "Buried or dropped in the ocean, kept under lock and key, the fact remains that they cannot be destroyed."
"I'll figure something out, eventually. As long as I can help people in the meantime, actually destroying them takes second place in my priorities."
"And your first, if you don't mind me asking?"
Sara snorted. "Freeing as many people as possible, of course. It doesn't matter if they have a collar or not, I'll keep trying to free them until I die. I was sent here to make the world a better place, and there's no greater evil than slavery to pit myself against."
"Not beasts from the hells, or nightmares slipped through the void, or any of the extraplanar abominations that seek to claw our world into oblivion?"
"Those are things that everyone'll fight, if they need to. I'm not arrogant enough to think that I'm the only person capable of stopping the apocalypse. But I can also recognize the fact that there's no one else with my level of influence and potential power that's interested in stopping slavery, so that's what I'll do."
"Your reasoning is sound, Lady Sara. Practically utilitarian. But the fury I saw you suppressing in your discussion with Kate was anything but cold."
"It wouldn't be an evil worth dedicating my life to stopping if I didn't hate it."
Garen hummed thoughtfully, stepping to the door as she finished erasing the evidence of their presence from the room. She stepped up across from him, looking the mage in the eyes as he spoke.
"Lady Sara, may I repeat advice to you that I may not be qualified to relay?"
"Go ahead."
"Do not let your hate outstrip your reason. There is a world of injustice to be battled, and your corpse will do nothing in the fight. Keep that hate contained, so it may be channeled and directed. A raging river, course flaring over the years, will often flood those that depend on it. But if you dam it, channel it, it becomes possible to spread the water to those that most need it. Mete out your fury in such fashion, releasing it upon those that deserve it, when they deserve it, and not a moment before. Else you risk disaster"
"Sounds like you're speaking from experience, Tiger of Salacia," Sara said, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe.
"Hence the hypocrisy of me saying such to you. Your companion was right, Lady Sara. Some things are better left unknown."
"I'll take your word for it." Sara tilted her head to Alera's cooling corpse. "You want to come with me down south? You do good work."
"It would take quite a lot for me to leave such an illustrious post, Lady Sara. What exactly do you intend to do in ruined Tulian?"
"Show the world what's possible. Found a country, not a kingdom, and build it right. No slaves, no atrocities. A GED-certified college dropout unlicensed welder isn't exactly the best candidate for building a government, but no one else is gonna. If I weren't a Champion I'd never even dream of it, but..." Sara held her hands up in a helpless gesture. "I'm a Champion. That honestly hasn't done much more than get me laid so far, but it's gotta count for something, right?"
Garen laughed. "Your sales pitch needs work, My Lady. You don't make a convincing case for me to abandon House Vesta."
"Yeah, well, I probably could've tapped on the old goddess-charisma and made it a bit more flowery, but that was the unvarnished truth. What do you say? High Court Wizard of a dead kingdom appeal to your sense of drama enough to outweigh your wallet?"
Garen actually considered it. Sara could see him pause for a breath, eyes growing distant. But then his attention returned with a sad smile, shaking his head.
"I think not, Lady Sara. House Vesta was a refuge of peace for me, not just a source of coin. It does not take much thought to realize that your nation will not be a peaceful one for long."
"Yeah, I know," Sara sighed tiredly. "They'll come for me. Maybe not right away. Maybe I can even buy time with my Champion's status and a few backroom deals, but I can't charm everyone. Sad to say, but a military's first on my list of concerns." Sara laughed. "I can't believe I just said that. Oh, y'know, I'm just your regular old twenty-something from the ass end of Detroit, planning to raise a military. A nation to go along with it. Gonna have to figure out food, and roads, and taxes..." Sara's smile was wan. "I've never even raised a house plant. You happen to know a disgraced general of incredible skill that I could poach? Or a finance minister, or something like that?"
Garen chuckled once more. "If I find one, Lady Sara, I will refer them to you. In the interim, I can only wish you luck."
Sara put her hand on the doorknob, getting ready to leave. "I appreciate it. Would you mind if I shot you a letter every now and then, ask you things I couldn't other people?"
"No promises on answering."
"Fair enough. If you would?" Garen waved a hand, transforming Sara them both into the perfect image of household servants. Sara turned the doorknob, flinging it open and sprinting out in a panic. "The Lord isn't waking! Someone, help!"
Chapter 12: Experiments in Debauchery (E)
Notes:
Content Warning: Simulated non-con/brainwashing elements
Also, I haven't edited this in the slightest because I'm posting it from a public library. If I missed thought-italics or typos let me know so I can fix it later. I don't care how private of a corner I'm in, I am NOT typing this out while the kid's reading zone dinosaur statue is thirty feet away lmao. It's a serious aggravation that Scrivener chapters don't copy/paste any of the italics, bolding, or anything else into AO3.
Chapter Text
Evie stood in the center of the room, holding herself still. It was the last night before she and Master would be leaving, and Master intended to use it well. Stressed as her Master had been, Evie anticipated being the source of her relief in more ways than one. She and Master were in Lady Vesta's newly dubbed office, Vesta having long since turned in for the night.
Evie, for the first time in months, was wearing a noblewoman's dress. She'd spent the better part of the last few hours getting it ready, ensuring everything was perfect. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate braid, pinned by jeweled golden rods. She wore a corset beneath a ruby dress, one that clung to her hips and chest, toned arms bared by sleeves that ended just past her shoulders. Beneath her dress she wore stockings and lace panties, comfortable and practical for an evening of dancing. It was the kind of outfit that teetered on the edge of scandalous for the kind of woman Evie had once been, something that she would have worn to a ball where toying with some poor fop was her goal for the evening.
It was appropriate, then, that she was in the middle of becoming the woman she once was. Master was walking in slow circles around her, speaking in low undertones.
"You are listening to my voice," Master instructed, "Because it is all you can hear. You are listening to my every word, thinking on them, internalizing them, making them your reality."
Evie nodded, feeling the words grow louder in her ears. Like drumbeats they sounded, thunderous. All-encompassing.
"You are going into a trance. Every time I give you an order, you are going deeper into that trance."
Evie swayed on her feet, collar flashing repeatedly. Her thoughts, usually so precise, began to slip between her fingers. The world was growing simpler. Better.
"You can see only me. You can think only of me. As I continue to speak, I will tell you of yourself, and the world around you. My words will become truth. My words will replace your world. Anything that doesn't make sense, you will ignore. Anything you can't ignore, you will rationalize."
Evie was among nothing, seeing nothing. Only her Master existed in the void around her, footsteps pounding.
"When I snap my fingers, you will awake from this trance, programmed. If I snap twice, you will re enter the trance. When I tell you 'It's over', the commands given to you in the trance will no longer apply. But until then, the following is absolute truth."
Evie wanted to lean forward, excited to hear her new Truth, but couldn't move a muscle.
"You are eighteen again. You have no memory of the last four years, your most recent memories ending six months after your birthday. When you awake you will be nothing more than Lady Ellie, as you've always been. It is late at night, but your mother has sent you to this library to study. There will be one other woman in the room, but that is normal. She is studying, like you. You will begin by doing your best to study the books on the table."
Evie nodded, or tried to. She still couldn't move, which was so sad. She wanted to nod. She wanted to show Master that she understood.
"Good," Master said. Evie rejoiced. "Now you are falling deeper into the trance."
Evie was. She could feel it, rushing up from below. An inky blackness sinking into her pores, tendrils tangling themselves in her mind. More commands came. She listened to them. She obeyed them. She always had. She always would. No matter what. She would obey.
...
...
...
Ellie shook her head, blinking away the cobwebs. She didn't know what Mother was thinking, sending her to study this late at night. It would be impossible for her to keep focus for long.
She strode up to the table where the servants had laid out her study materials, suppressing the frustrated sigh that bubbled up in her. There was another woman in the tiny library, a peasant, from the looks of her. She was exceptionally tall for a human woman, which had made Ellie think she was a noble for a moment, but no self-respecting member of the upper classes would wear such nonsensical clothing. Probably one of the street rats her mother's staff so liked to adopt, always claiming they had 'promise'. Really, the peasant's presence was a shame. Now she would actually have to pretend to study.
Ellie elegantly tucked her dress to the side and sat at the provided desk, sliding the first book towards her to read its title. A Selection of Globally Significant Events: Effects Upon Sporatos? Idiotic. No doubt Mother had chosen the book for just that reason, trying to drive home some inane point after whatever argument they'd had to justify this punishment. Ellie couldn't even remember why they'd been bickering, which was unusual. She must be more tired than she thought.
Ellie began flipping through the opening pages of the book. Almost immediately, her focus was broken by the the peasant across the room yawning, leaning back in their chair. Ellie's nose crinkled at the sight, privately sneering at the woman's lack of decorum. One would expect that someone who wore such thin shirts, particularly men's shirts, would know better than to press their chest out to the world like that.
Ellie began to scan the text, not really absorbing the information. Her mind began to wander, thinking of the various balls she was to be attending over the coming weeks. She had more than enough dresses prepared, but some of the themes were yet to be announced, which could throw a wrench in her plans...
The peasant sniffed and scooted their chair back, drawing Ellie out of her thoughts. It was unlike her to be so easily distracted, but it wasn't like this was a task worth focusing on. She turned back to her book.
She shifted in her chair, trying to find a comfortable position. The old wooden contraption that the servants had put out for her was determined to dig into her backside from any angle, making it impossible to get comfortable. She glanced over at the peasant once more. Starlight, falling in through the window, was shining through a lock of hair that had fallen out of its place. As she watched, the peasant tucked it back, giving Ellie a better view of her striking face.
And the chair, she reminded herself. The far softer chair that was at the same desk as the peasant, unoccupied. It looked so much more comfortable, but it regrettably wouldn't fit under her smaller desk. A shame, but nothing worth crying over.
Ellie spent a few more minutes failing to focus, shifting back and forth in her seat. It seemed that with every passing minute the ancient seat grew new barbs, digging into her flesh with vindictive hooks. Finally, standing with a dignified sigh, she headed over to the other table.
She glared at the peasant as she set her collection of books down on the table, daring her to say a word. The peasant girl glanced up only to smile welcomingly, pushing the chair out for Ellie with her foot. For some strange reason, Ellie felt her heart beat just a bit quicker. She sat down, returning to her novel. Just as she'd felt assured the strange woman really did know her place, the silence was broken.
"Do you need a light?" The peasant asked, offering to light a second candle for Ellie. Her section of the table was awfully dark, so she nodded.
"If you would."
The peasant tipped two candles together, sparking a flame. She handed the newly lit one to Ellie, who reached out to grab it.
Their fingers brushed against one another. Ellie felt nothing but the slightest graze of warm skin against her own, but it jolted her hard enough to make her hand jump. Ellie dropped the candleholder, spilling just-melting wax across the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry!" The peasant exclaimed immediately, righting the candle before it could light anything aflame. Before Ellie could even respond the girl snatched a square of cloth from her breast pocket, gently lifting Ellie's hand to wipe away the already cool wax.
That strange tingle, the current that ran off the peasant's skin onto her, pulsed harder. It took all of Ellie's composure just to keep herself still as the woman dabbed away the wax.
Whatever it was, she'd never felt anything like it. Everywhere the woman touched her hand, even for the briefest moment, it felt like the feather touch of a dozen soft quills. Electric, but it didn't hurt, ticklish, but she didn't laugh. Ellie could only stand it for so much longer before she snatched her hand away.
"That's quite alright," she snapped, more irritated than she'd meant to sound. "Thank you for the candle."
"You're welcome?" The peasant replied hesitantly. Though taken aback, the peasant wasn't intimidated by Ellie's harsh tone. The woman merely folded the cloth away as she returned to her book.
If there'd been difficulties with Ellie maintaining her focus before, her present state made it an impossibility. Her right hand felt like she'd just freed it from ice water, sensitive to even the wind floating off her book as she flipped the pages.
What had it been? Ellie had never felt something like that, and it certainly didn't fit the description of any of the hostile spells she'd been trained to identify. It seemed to be an effect unique only to the woman sitting beside her, some property of her skin or innate magic unknown to Ellie.
She observed the woman out of the corner of her eye, evaluating her at a glance, as she'd been trained to do. Her dark brown hair, tied into a ponytail at the moment, had been well taken care of, implying she hadn't been truly poor before being found by Mother's staff. Her fine silken shirt was likely on loan from the estate, but what an odd choice it was for a woman. White and so thin it might be sheer under the right light, it was buttoned up only to her collarbone, like Ellie had seen men at court do when their drink was beginning to affect them. Ellie's eyes traveled down, heart skipping a beat as she glanced at the woman's breasts. She very clearly wasn't wearing a corset or brassiere, because her nipples pressed against the fabric. Ellie batted away her blush, continuing her evaluation. The peasant's legwear was as strange as her shirt, opting for a foreign style skirt, pleated and short to the point of scandal. It didn't even brush against her knees, which meant that Ellie could see the long, defined legs that dangled under the desk...
She chewed her lip as she pretended to read, debating. It was quite likely that whatever strange ability the woman possessed was the reason she'd been allowed onto the property, plucked off the street by her mother's staff to explore bizarre possibilities. And if that was the case, it wouldn't be out of place for Lady Ellie to inquire further. Which was the only reason, of course, that she set her book down and gently cleared her throat.
"Yes?" The peasant asked after a moment, looking to Ellie. She wasn't even the slightest bit daunted speaking to a noble, something that excited-- no, not excited-- intrigued Ellie.
"I am Lady Ellie, heir to the estate. As we seem to have found ourselves in the same library, I would know your name."
"Sara," the woman said, offering a hand to shake. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Ellie."
Ellie stared down her nose at Sara, as if the handshake was beneath her. "What brings you to our grounds?" She asked, carefully scanning Sara's expression for any sign of duplicity.
"I was brought on to assist the staff. I've got a few handy talents under my belt, specialized enough that they thought I was worth hiring."
There was something about the woman's voice that had Ellie wanting to lean in closer, a husky smokiness that pushed the concerns of life to the back of Ellie's mind.
"And what are these talents you speak of?" Ellie asked, feeling her usual haughtiness slip away.
"Oh, there's a good few," Sara said, leaning back in her chair with hands behind her head. Once again, the posture pressed her breasts against the silk shirt, highlighting things that were difficult to ignore. "I'm handy with all kinds of weapons, and I'm well read for someone outside the nobility, but that's not worth much. I really got hired because of this unique skill I have, one passed down through my family. Something I've always had, y'know, but hadn't realized was worth writing home about until recently."
"I see," Ellie said, keeping careful, measured eyecontact, not letting her attention wander south for even a moment. "Something to do with touch, I presume?"
Sara's eyes rose. "How'd you guess?"
Ellie raised her right hand demonstratively. "I felt it a moment ago, when you were cleaning the wax. A strange sensation, I must say."
Sara, of all things, licked her lips. Ellie was struck by the sudden thought that she shouldn't have revealed that information, but she couldn't tell why.
"You felt it?" Sara asked, shutting her book. Ellie glanced at the title.
Advanced Elements of Somatic Compulsion: Physical Control
Ellie dropped the hand, smiling with a practiced shrug. "Maybe. It was likely just my imagination."
"I don't think it was," Sara said.
"Well, what should it feel like?"
"More like butterflies on the skin, or mini feathers tickling you."
Ellie chuckled to hide her nervousness. "That does sound strange."
"Tell me what you felt," Sara said.
"Something like electricity," Ellie answered immediately, not quite sure why she was being so honest. "I thought it was quills brushing against my hand."
Sara's smile took on a darker hue. "That was it, then. Would you like to know what my ability is?"
"No. I'd really rather go back to studying," Ellie said, staring down at her book.
"It's encouragement. Compulsion. Giving orders that must be followed."
Ellie froze.
"It's pretty helpful when it works, but I can never tell who it'll work on. Maybe one person out of a hundred, I'd guess. But when I've found someone it does work on, all I have to do is touch them. After that it'll work on them forever."
"Preposterous," Ellie breathed, trying to convince herself.
"It certainly sounds like it, but it's true. Sometimes I can even tell who it will work on before I've even spoken to them. For the last few minutes, have you found yourself struggling to focus, distracted by me?"
"No."
"See, I don't think that's true. Answer the question again, but honestly this time."
"You're right," Evie gasped, the words pulled from her throat. She kept speaking even as she tried to stop, clenching the book in her hands. "I kept stealing glances at you, thinking about your clothes. I kept thinking about you, wondering about your clothes, your hair. I didn't even know why."
Sara's smirk was downright predatory. "Oh, how wonderful is this? The heir to the whole house, wrapped around my finger."
Ellie threw her chair back as she rocketed to her feet, glaring down at the woman. "I will have my guards--!"
"Quiet now," Sara said, putting a finger to her lips. "It's a library, Lady Ellie."
"--arrest you on the..." Ellie's words trailed off as she realized her shout had dropped to a speaking volume. She put a hand to her throat, trying to yell, but all that came out was her normal voice.
"See?" Sara said, spreading her arms wide. "All mine, now."
Ellie drew her hand back in a balled fist, planning to knock the damnable peasant out cold on the spot.
"Freeze."
Ellie froze. Her entire body went rigid, halfway through a swing that should have left the peasant sprawled out on the floor. Instead Ellie could only breathe, blink, and watch. Sara stood, proving herself as tall as she'd seemed on first glance. The peasant began slowly pacing around Ellie, gaze crawling up and down her body. The woman quickly disappeared out of sight.
"Slender, toned," Sara appraised, voice coming from behind Ellie. "Clearly values her physical fitness, but not to the point of exclusion." Fingers dug into Ellie's ass, feeling her up without shame. "Just the right size in all the right places. A damn fine woman, really. And a feline?" Sara whistled appreciatively. "I'd heard about how good your types looked, but to see it myself? Amazing."
Ellie wanted to scream, or run, or fight, but she could only stand.
Sara completed her circle, crossing her arms before Evie. "Now, if I let you go, will you behave?"
Ellie tried to scream 'murder' with gaze alone.
"Of course not. We'll have to start with some basic conditioning, then." Sara stepped forward, brushing an errant hair from Ellie's cheek. "You can't ever try to hurt me, or even defend yourself from me. You can't call for help. You can't go through the door unless I allow it. If someone else comes in, you'll act like everything's normal, and if they suspect something isn't, you'll do everything in your power to convince them otherwise." Sara stepped back, thinking. "That should about cover it, I think, but let's make sure. Tell me how you're planning to get out of this."
"Dive out the window," Ellie whispered immediately, tears welling at the corners of her eyes.
"Ah, I should have thought of that. But damn, the window? This is the third story. You're more determined than I expected. I'll be more vague in the future. To clarify, you can't try to escape the room at all. Now tell me, do you have any other ideas to break my control?"
Like bile rising up from her gut, Ellie spat out the word, "No."
"Good, good. If you think of any further ways to escape my control, you will stop what you are doing and inform me as soon as possible, then wait frozen until I've given you further orders." Sara rubbed her hands together, looking for all the world like a woman about to unwrap a gift. "You are unfrozen."
Ellie immediately sagged, muscles strained from holding one position for so long. She caught herself on the desk, glaring up at Sara. Tears welled further in her eyes, but she didn't cry.
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Well, whatever I please, right?"
"Clearly," Ellie spat, voice raised as loud as she was allowed. "But what in particular? Rob my family blind, use our connections to settle old grudges? What's your goal with me?"
"Oh, you think way bigger picture than I do," Sara said approvingly. She took a step forward, reaching a hand out. Ellie flinched back, hands thrown up in a defensive posture that they both knew was toothless. "I didn't expect to get control of you. Until a few minutes ago, I was just going to work for your family, help with interrogations or something similar. But when an opportunity like the heiress falling under my control presents itself? I'm not stupid."
"What," Ellie repeated through clenched teeth, "Will you do with me?"
Sara hummed, finger on her lips as she considered. "I'll start with your body. It's a very nice one, as I'm sure you know."
"Bastard," Ellie spat.
"Aw, don't worry, I won't force you to do anything against your desires. I'm just going to change what you want."
"You can't alter who I am," Ellie said immediately. "Only the gods can delve into the soul."
Sara chuckled. "Probably true. But the body's a lot easier of a target, isn't it? I think I've got a pretty good head start. Mind and body are intertwined, after all, and starting tonight, I own your body."
Ellie, to her own private horror, felt a spark of arousal shoot to her core. To have her body owned by someone else? Not even her mother could make that claim. To be bound to another, completely subservient, a slave to their every whim? Ellie imagined herself on her knees for the peasant, waiting with baited breath for her next command. It made her shudder. She would never be that.
"You can try," Ellie growled. "But I won't bend to you."
Sara clicked her tongue in sad disapproval. "Ellie, Ellie, Ellie. You really think you're the first person I've done this to? Don't be silly."
Ellie started to stomp across the room, putting distance between them. The peasant spoke.
"Let's try this again, shall we? Sit back down."
Ellie felt her legs pivot, taking her back to her chair.
"From this point forward you will follow my commands, but not remember hearing them be given."
Ellie sat down, waiting irritably for the peasant to say something further.
"You will forget the past few minutes, your last memory starting right after I cleaned the candle wax off your hands, but all the commands I gave are still in effect. You will remember those minutes only when I say the phrase 'remember cherry'. Resume trying to study, like you were."
Ellie took her hand back from the peasant, checking that no wax remained. Her heart was pounding, for some reason, like just the woman's touch had sent her into palpitations. She shook the hand out, returning to her book.
"As time goes on, you will slowly grow warmer, more aroused. You will want to remove your clothes to solve this problem."
Ellie kept flipping through the pages, eyes glazing over. She could understand why she'd never used this library before; it was unbearably stuffy. If that woman hadn't been here, she would have freed herself from the fanciful dress she was trapped in. She tried to split the difference, fanning herself by popping the collar of the garment.
"Is it too warm in here, My Lady?" The peasant asked.
"Yes. An awfully stuffy room, isn't it?"
"A shame it's too warm outside to open a window."
"Quite."
They both studied in silence for a few minutes longer, Ellie growing hotter all the while. The peasant, infuriatingly, looked perfectly comfortable despite the sweltering heat. Ellie wanted to go to another room, but every time she thought of leaving, the idea fizzled out, because it was best to stay in here. She was supposed to. She knew that.
Ellie began pulling at her dress, shifting in her seat so she could draw its hem further up her legs.
"You don't notice me looking at your body."
The peasant didn't look, so she grew bolder, hiking her dress up above her knees despite the felt phantom gaze she felt crawling across her thighs. The extra air helped for a while, fresh against her skin, but it also revealed another problem.
Cool air blew against her panties, shockingly cold against the wetness that was growing there. In an instant Ellie recognized the strange heat that had taken her. Arousal. She didn't know why, but she was shockingly aroused. The bizarre buzzing still rang in her hands.
"Are you alright, My Lady?" The peasant asked. "You keep shifting in your seat."
"Yes, I'm fine, it's just..." Ellie shifted, thighs rubbing together. "It's nothing. I'll be alright."
"If you say so," the peasant said doubtfully.
Ellie kept focusing on her book, trying to force thoughts of the heat that was spreading through her body from her mind. Now that she'd recognized it as arousal, she could feel it emanating from her core, pulsing in waves. She was trying to resist it, she really was, but every second it rose higher and higher, until sweat began to bead on her brow.
"Sara, you said?" Ellie finally broke, looking to the peasant girl.
"Yes?"
"Sara. Look away, will you? It's these clothes, I think I may be having a reaction to the--"
"No. You don't remember telling me to look away. You're too embarrassed to say anything, so you'll just strip without a word, like you're daring me to say anything."
Ellie's resolve broke. She tried to reason to herself as she went to grip the hem of her dress, trying to find any other solution. To be undressing in front of a random woman, much less a peasant, was absurd! She was the heir to house Eliah, richest in the kingdom, not some tavern whore lost in her drink. But she couldn't leave the room, for some reason that she was absolutely certain of, and she knew that removing her dress would stop the heat from rising. She had no other choice, didn't she? She had to.
Steeling her will, glaring furiously at the peasant girl from the corner of her eye, Ellie began to pull the dress over her head. She couldn't believe what she was doing, even as she did it, but it was the only way.
The peasant girl may have known her place well enough to stay silent, but she still had the gall to watch. Her expression grew hungry as Ellie removed the dress, slipping her arms from the sleeves and shucking it over her head. Ellie was grateful she was still wearing her corset, covering her breasts, but there was nothing to be done for her now exposed panties. She could feel that the wet spot had spread, soaking the material to the edges of her thighs. She kept her thighs tightly squeezed together, hoping to keep it hidden.
"Keep your thoughts to yourself, peasant," Ellie snapped preemptively. "You should pray thanks to Amarat that you're even allowed in my presence, much less when my dress is off."
The peasant, oddly, laughed. "I give my thanks to Amarat every day, My Lady. To be in your presence is just another blessing."
Ellie huffed, white knuckles gripping the edge of her book. With her dress gone the abnormal heat seemed to have abated, at least somewhat, but the arousal remained. She shivered with anxiety at the situation she'd found herself in, both relieved and infuriated that Sara was taking her frankly bizarre behavior in stride. With the dress gone, though, maybe she could--
"Your chair begins to grow uncomfortable, worsening by the second, and you can't see any others in the room beside the one I'm sitting in. You know that it's normal, thankfully, for Ladies to use their servants as seats if the need is there."
--have found something resembling normalcy, but the damnable chair was digging into her. She shifted once, twice, trying to find a better way to sit, but there wasn't one.
Ellie jumped up with a yelp. It had felt felt like she was sitting on jagged glass, the awful chair conspiring to stab her half-bared ass. Shoving it away from the table disdainfully, she took two steps towards Sara.
"Scoot back," she snapped. The peasant looked up at her, blinking in mock confusion. "I'm going to use you as a chair," Ellie explained irritably. "You may not be my servant, but you won't dare disobey a Lady."
"If you insist," Sara said, scooting back. Ellie took a few steps forward, awkwardly positioning herself until she could sit on the peasant's lap. She felt the wet patch of her underwear press against the front of Sara's pleated skirt, but she was past the point of caring. Let the peasant take it home and cherish later, whatever. Maybe it would be good for Sara to have a memento of someone with worth to carry around.
She awkwardly rocked forward as Sara tugged them back up to their books, arms wrapped around Sara to grip the table's edge. Ellie had to reposition herself after the movement, trying to ignore the feel of a warm body beneath her.
"This is why I hate using staff as chairs," Ellie sniffed. "Keep yourself steady if you want to make yourself useful, Sara."
"Yes ma'am," the peasant answered dutifully. Then, in a voice unheard by Ellie's conscious mind, "Every glancing brush of your pussy against me feels amazing, better than any time you've touched yourself, but it's not enough to cum. You can only finish when I do."
Ellie, for the thousandth time that night, opened her book try and read. The motion, however, required her to adjust herself slightly. Her panties brushed against Sara's leg, and what followed made Ellie gasp.
A shock of pleasure, unlike anything she'd felt before. It hit her like lightning, a dizzying bolt of tingling sensation. She had to throw her weight onto the table just to keep herself from falling, and she didn't even care that the peasant probably felt her shaking.
"Are you alright, My Lady?" Sara asked.
"Q-quite alright," Evie managed between breaths. She'd frozen her hips, preventing anything from worsening, but she knew that if she straightened--
It hit her again. The subtlest little grind against her pussy was enough to have her claws extended, digging into the wood of the desk. She felt, to an extraordinary shame, a mewl slip through her clenched jaws.
With her posture corrected, however, she could avoid it. If she just sat still, she wouldn't have to feel that sensation again. She kept herself frozen, staring at nothing, mouth hanging ever so slightly open as she panted. Yes, she decided, she could do this. Just stay still, and she wouldn't feel it again. That aching, toe-curling pleasure, like nothing she'd ever felt before. Something, she somehow knew, that she'd never feel again, because it was that Sara girl making her feel it.
Ellie's hips shifted. She didn't even want them to, but her body rebelled. She let out the quietest whimper, the world around her growing distant. The slow rub of her pussy lips along Sara's leg had her shaking, shivering, panting, like her body had finally been allowed to fulfill a need she'd never known about.
"Lady Ellie?" The peasant asked, breath hot against her ear. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Ellie couldn't respond. She'd reached as far as she could grind forward, and a part of her knew she should stop, knew that she should calm herself, but she couldn't. Her hips began the slow grind backward, her lower lip quivering as she failed to keep her whine in.
"I-I can't stop, Sara," she whispered. "I can't stop myself, please, Sara, I don't know why but I can't stop."
"Then don't," the peasant answered, sounding for all the world genuinely concerned. "I'll help in whatever way I can. Do what you need to do, My Lady."
Ellie did.
She abandoned all pretense, straddling Sara's leg openly and shoving her sex against it. The satisfaction of it had white stars bursting into her vision, but it still wasn't enough. She reached down and shoved her panties to the side, then lifted herself away for an agonizing second so she could rip Sara's skirt out of the way.
When she pressed back down, the heat of her lips grinding against Sara's bare skin, she finally lost control of her voice. Her head fell to the side as she whined loudly, her tail falling limp. She began to move, sliding back and forth, panting heavily in the stale library air.
But it still wasn't enough.
She kept grinding, gripping the table edge for balance, with each twitch of her body sending another bolt of pleasure through her. She ground against Sara like an animal in heat, desperate for anything to cool the fire in her, and every movement was indeed rewarded with another languid dose of blinding sensation. Even still, she couldn't reach her peak, even when she brought her own hand down to her clit, rubbing tight circles in a vain attempt to find relief.
Why? She asked herself as she whimpered. Why am I doing this?
She was Lady Elliah, heiress to the greatest fortune in the kingdom. She could wrap men and women alike around her finger with the barest of glances, was trusted by the king himself to mediate deals between feuding lords, and yet here she was, tears at the corner of her eyes because of a peasant girl's thigh. It didn't make sense. It shouldn't be true. But she felt it all the same, that unending burn in her that could not be put out.
Until, when her hips ground backward, she felt something press against her. Something thick, something rising. She turned around and saw it, her vision blurry through the tears of pleasure.
A cock. Sara's cock, rising up to greet her. As soon as she saw it, she knew. She knew what it would take to free her of this maddening bliss and finally send her over the edge.
"I-I can't," she whispered. "It w-won't. Not that."
"I know you can," Sara replied encouragingly, voice husky. "I think it will help."
No. She couldn't. She shouldn't. To impale her herself on that length would be the ultimate debasement. She was Lady Ellie, not a whore in heat, taking anything into her body just because she thought it might get her off, consequences be damned.
But isn't that just what you're already doing? A voice whispered in her mind. Grinding yourself on a peasant's thigh, mewling into the air like an alleycat. What's another step further, when you've already sunk so far?
Ellie reached out a hand, wrapping it around the middle of the shaft. Sara gasped, hips shifting, but Ellie was deaf to it. She could only feel the pulse in that cock, feel the way it twitched under her touch. So warm. So big. So close to her, just waiting for her.
She could feel her willpower fading away. As she pushed backwards she felt that cock run up against her ass, hot against her skin. She bit her lip, trying to control herself, trying to come up with a lie so good she could convince herself she didn't want this.
And she failed.
"Thi- this is not normal. You cannot tell anyone of this, you understand me?"
The peasant's hands wrapped around her waist, encouraging her to lift up. Sara moved with her as words slipped into Ellie's ears.
"I won't tell anyone, My Lady. Tonight is ours alone."
Ellie couldn't respond. She could barely even make the effort to lift herself off Sara's leg, an ache immediately filling her at the loss of contact. It was worth it, though, she told her shaking knees, because of what would come next.
Sara's cock brushed against the edge of her panties. She felt it throbbing between her legs, massive and ready. She shoved herself back, seeking more of that heat, but overshot, whining as the shaft rubbed along her.
"Slow down," Sara said, hands reaching for Ellie's hips. She felt herself being positioned, handled like an object, like a toy, but she couldn't even find the breath to protest. All she could think of was her own pounding need.
"Please," she whispered to the open air. She could feel Sara's breath on her neck, her nails on her skin, but she still hadn't gotten what she needed--
Ellie's panties were brushed to the side. She held her breath as she waited, freezing in place obediently.
Ellie's lower lips split, allowing the intrusion of something warm. She shook, barely keeping her composure.
"Please," she repeated breathlessly. "Please, just get it over with."
The head advanced. She felt it split her open, a fullness traveling up her that couldn't be faithfully described. She clenched around it, feeling her walls seize. Sara groaned against her, still holding her in place.
"It's best to go slow, for your--"
Ellie hadn't the mind for slow. She pushed back, shoving against the hands holding her, wanting to end this miserable, pleasurable torment. The cock piercing her embedded itself further, filling her, taking her as its own.
"Ooohhhh..."
"Fuck," Sara grunted against her. "You're so tight."
"Just... just do it, peasant," Ellie said. "Just get it over with."
"F-fine. You want it? You'll g-get it."
Ellie's first true cry of the night spilled out. With a single thrust Sara buried herself to the hilt, finally filling her in a way she'd never known she needed. Every part of her felt afire, pleasure radiating to her fingers and toes as her back arched, corset slipping lower down her frame. She twisted in place, toes curling, every exertion spreading another flavor ecstasy through her body.
"Ellie?" Sara whispered. "Remember cherry."
Ellie pushed her hips forward, looking for the friction she knew she needed.
"Lady Ellie?" Sara grinned. "Don't you remember? That fiery determination, all that confidence?"
"You fucking peasant," Ellie spat, throwing her hips back. "You said my body was yours to use. Prove it already!"
Ellie felt herself thrown forward, bent over the desk. A hand landed on the back of her head, pressing her to the wood.
"Good girl," Sara panted. She thrust hard, eliciting another whine from Ellie. "Good girl. Take it. Take it for me."
Ellie cried out a wordless response, mind shattering as Sara finally began to move in her. It was everything she needed, everything this evening had been building towards. She writhed and twisted on the table, the only strength left in her belonging to legs that threw herself closer to Sara. Her tongue fell out of her mouth as she was fucked, cheek pressed to the wood.
"God, you're so. Fucking. Tight." Sara grunted.
"Faster," Ellie demanded. "Faster, peasant."
There was the snapping of buttons, then the feel of bare breasts against her back.
"You want it that bad? Tell me what you are."
Ellie whined, eyes fluttering.
"Go on. You know it. Say it for me, say it and I'll give you what you need."
"I'm yours," Ellie moaned. She was rewarded by a harder slam of Sara's hips against her ass. "My body is yours." Another slamming push. "I'm yours to use. I'm yours to please. Use me, fuck me, whatever you want, I'm just your fucking slave." The thrusts came faster, harder, and Ellie found her train of thought running away, words spilling without thought. "I'm here to please you. I'm here to be bred by you. Fucked by you. I'm your foot rest, your cock sleeve, your whore. Just keep giving me that fucking cock and I'm yours, please!"
Sara's pounding against her reached a fever pitch, filling the air with the sound of their sex. Ellie moaned into the wood, sinking into the moment, any thought beyond Sara's cock filling her vanished.
She could feel her orgasm building. Like a tsunami it rose, growing higher in her, a pressure fit to blow. Sara's own breath came faster, moans pitched higher, and she gained a stutter-stepping jerkiness to her thrusts.
"Cum in me," she panted, demanding. "Cum in me, fill me up. Empty yourself into me, fuck me senseless, cum in me, Sara, cum in me."
"Fuck," Sara gasped, her grip against Ellie's head trembling.
"I need it so bad, you don't understand. I need to feel you cum in me, I need to feel you fill me up. Cum in me, Owner, please!"
With final shuddering thrust Sara buried herself deeper than she'd ever been before, piercing Ellie so deeply she thought it should have hurt. But it didn't, because she felt her owner begin to spasm. With spasm her cock began to cum, a pulsating orgasm rocking their bodies. Load after load poured into her, hot seed that she could feel spurting into her body.
Ellie came with her own scream, body convulsing. White lightning shook the world, every muscle in her body tensing in release. Meaningless words spilled from her, prayers and thanks and demands filling the air. She threw herself back, clenching her pussy around the cock filling her, trying to squeeze everything she could from it.
It was ecstasy. It was bliss. It was the last puzzle piece in her world, her purpose finally revealed in the throes of orgasm. She was her owner's. She was her Master's. She was here to please, and it pleased her. She'd do anything to feel like this, beg or plead or kill or die she didn't fucking know because her mind was gone in that endless white wave that filled her soul.
With a final cry she dropped to the table, mind and body spent. She felt a weight fall on top of her, then beside her, Sara's body limply joining hers. One of the last things she heard before falling asleep was the sound of a quick snap, and they helped the world make a little bit more sense.
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"Mmm," Evie groaned, consciousness returning to her. "Master? Are you awake?"
"Mmyeah?" Sara replied from beside her. They'd fallen to the rug at some point, no longer perched on the table. "What's up, Evie?"
"We have to be awake in a few hours to meet Hurlish."
Sara groaned. "Fuck."
"Yeah..." Ellie sighed. Then she opened her eyes, meeting Sara's. "Want to go again?"
"...yeah."
A/N:
Total time required for Evie's old self to end up identical to her present self? 25 minutes. Homegirl had some serious repressed urges lmao
Fun fact: I had a specific dress I used as a reference, the one below. I've been trying to practice my descriptions of the clothings characters wear, which has involved a lot of reading fashion and history blogs. AO3 won't let me change the picture's size on iOS, but hopefully the image isn't too massive
https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O13823/evening-dress-unknown/
Chapter 13: Killers on the Road (E)
Summary:
Finally setting out for the abandoned nation of Tulian, by reader decree Sara finds herself guided to the coast, seeking a ship for passage.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Sara left Hagos, it was at the advent of a storm. Rain fell in torrents from the black sky, threatening to choke anyone who took too deep a breath. They'd been planning to meet Hurlish outside her shop, but the massive woman had instead appeared outside Lady Vesta's mansion, the pounding of her fists on the main doors mistaken by the staff for thunder until they saw the hinges bouncing. Sara and Evie had come down to greet her after downing a few stamina potions, giving the sopping orc a hug in the middle of the foyer.
"What are you doing here?" Sara asked. "We weren't supposed to meet until sunrise."
"Lightning blew a hole in the shop," Hurlish grunted, giving them both an affectionate pat on their heads. "Looks like I picked the right time to sell it off. Hell of a mess in there when I left, I tell ya."
"Didn't Lady Vesta buy it from you?"
"Heh. Yeah."
Sara released the woman, flicking water off her sleeves. "Good thing she can afford the repairs. We just finished packing." Sara patted her new and far more expensive bag of holding, the fist-sized pouch packed with everything required to spend weeks on the road.
"I'm ready whenever you two are," Hurlish replied, gesturing to her outfit.
Hurlish was standing in the middle of the marble-tiled foyer, sopping wet, wearing so much gear that it was necessary to shout over her clanking footsteps. An open-faced cloak was parted to show off a slab of gleaming metal, cold steel protecting Hurlish from chest to waist. Her arms were wrapped in interlocking plates, simple protections that lacked any embellishment, with an equally plain set of lightweight lamellar for her legs. It was armor that was meant to travel, not to wade into the thick of battle.
The hammer on her back, however, was anything but practical. It was so massive that Sara could easily see its shape through Hurlish's waterproof cloak. A handle three feet long ended in a square chunk of metal, narrowing to a point that was almost comically superfluous. Anything struck by a steel brick the size of Sara's torso was dead, puncture wound or not.
"You two really going in that?" Hurlish snorted, looking down at them. "Evie's got some padding at least, tiny little leather thing that it is, but you're basically in your skivvies, girl. What're you gonna do if we get jumped?"
"I'll put my armor on," Sara answered vaguely, smiling innocently up at Hurlish. Evie wore comfortable leather armor, while Sara had dressed in bog-standard women's peasant clothing.
The orc crossed her arms, waiting. When Sara didn't have anything to say, she snorted.
"Figures. Drama before sense. Dunno why I expected anything else."
"Can you blame a girl for liking surprise?" Sara said. Hurlish rolled her eyes, looking around the mansion.
"Y'sure there ain't anything else you want to take from here? Got a pretty sweet deal, living under Vesta's roof. Wouldn't want to leave too empty handed."
"If you saw how much she spent on my travel gear, you'd be blushing," Sara replied. "Between the swords, magical sigils, armor, and supplies, I think we may have actually put Vesta's budget on the back foot for once in her life. Not that she can't afford it."
"'Course she spent a fortune on you. Y'got to come back and show her a good time eventually."
"Obviously, but she won't be lonely in the meanwhile," Sara said. She was thinking of Oddry, the finely-adorned maid who Vesta's eyes had been crawling over for the last few days. Sara was honestly surprised she'd noticed Vesta's attention on the girl, because usually Sara had been just as distracted. Hell of a woman, that maid. Hopefully she wasn't the jealous type, so they could all have some fun when Sara made a trip back.
"My Ladies, the sun has risen," Toman informed the group, appearing beside them as if from thin air.
"Gah!" Sara jumped back. "How the hell do you do that, man?"
"My demeanor is so extraordinarily disinteresting that the eye slips right past me, Lady Sara. And if you wish to be well clear of Hagos before nightfall, now is the time to begin traveling. The rain may be a boon for hiding your exit from the city, unpleasant traveling weather though it may be. Few will recognize you as you leave."
"Thanks. You heard the man, girls," Sara said, cinching up her cloak. "Time to get wet."
Hurlish snorted, Evie sighed, and Toman remained unreadable.
They set out into the pitch-black streets of Hagos, cloaks held tight to their bodies. The rain, heavy though it was, fell without wind. It felt like an extra weight pressing down on Sara, the constant smack against her head and shoulders a drumroll that had no conclusion. She knew Hagos and the south in general were famed for their frequent storms, but this still felt ridiculous.
They trekked their way through the streets of Hagos, high-stepping any time the street had a divot that let the rainwater pool. It was so difficult to see that Sara and Evie had to rely on Hurlish to navigate the streets. She eventually brought them to the city walls, where the usually well-staffed gate was currently populated by a single, utterly miserable man. He had to step out of the small overhang that he was sheltering in to speak to them.
"Yer business?"
"Leaving!"
"Awright," he said, stepping back. Sara and the others walked through the gate without further ado.
Normally Sara would have filled their trek with idle chatter and bad jokes, but the weather didn't allow it. Clouds kept the sky midnight dark, so they had to walk in a tight huddle, eyes downcast to follow the mud-strewn road. More than once they veered off to one side or the other, their error revealed as a white-water ditch cut off their path. Sara felt so turned around after an hour of the slog that she wouldn't have been surprised to find the walls of Hagos before her, their group having reversed direction at some point.
Thankfully that didn't happen. As the hours passed the deluge began to lessen, the first pinpricks of grey light dotting the clouds above. Though she could only judge time by her growing hunger, Sara reckoned that it was close to noon when the downpour had lessened enough to allow conversation.
"Hell of a storm, wasn't it?" Sara said. "Hopefully we'll find a decent tree to post up under to eat lunch."
"If you wanna sit under a tree in a storm that's fine by me," Hurlish replied, "But I'll be standing fifty yards back. Ain't interested in getting charcoaled."
"Oh. Good point." Sara squinted up into the sky. "When do you think it'll let up?'
"Never know with these things. Getting near the rainy season down south. Pretty soon this'll be happenin' more days than not. Lasts a good bit of most mornings for a few months, but it tapers off around lunchtime. Hard to get work done."
Sara's expression twisted. "Sounds like we picked the perfect time to travel, huh?"
"Home sweet home."
They kept walking for a while, the steady pitter-patter of raindrops across Sara's hood keeping her thoughts company.
"Where'd you live before Hagos, Hurlish?" Sara asked, curious. The orc had said she moved to the city a decade ago, but nothing more.
"Southern area of Tulian," she answered. "Little village on the jungle's edge, didn't really have a name. Learned to make swords and spears as well as I did 'cause nothing else could fend off the worst of the jungle. When things went to shit I headed off north, stopped at the first city I found that wasn't being evacuated."
"You're actually from Tulian? That'll be helpful."
The orc shrugged, creating a pair of temporary waterfalls as water was displaced from divots in her shoulders.
"Can't really say I'm from Tulian proper. We lived on our own, fended for ourselves. Still had the tax collectors come around twice a year, maybe a caravan every once in a blue moon, but that was it. Hagos is still the only proper city I've ever been to."
"The only?" Evie asked. "I knew you were a provincial woman, but that's positively backwater."
"Well, it was a marsh," Hurlish joked. "And I know what you're doing, woman. Trying to get me worked up, so I take it out on you later."
Evie's tail thudded against the inside of her raincoat. "Is it working?"
"Y'don't need anything to get me playing rough, I promise you."
Sara smiled, shaking her head. No matter how dreary the weather was, she was enjoying herself. As they marched on and conversation became steadier, Sara found herself laughing and trading jabs with Hurlish as easily as she and Evie bandied snide remarks to one another. They all had their own distinct personalities, but they proved united by their desire to not let cynicism fall into pessimism. Through hours of chatting Sara slowly teased out the particular angle of cynicism that lurked in their new companion. Sara knew that she saw most anyone with coin in their pocket as a potential threat, far from the healthiest outlook for her mental health, while Evie painted the world outside Sara in dulcet grays, which was a whole other kind of fucked in the head, but Hurlish was something of a mystery. Sara kept chatting, steering the conversation with subtle remarks to suss out her latest partner.
For starters, Hurlish had the kind of passive disdain for anyone outside the trades that Sara recognized from her time spent apprenticing under older welders. Hurlish had the habit of viewing folk that avoided "good, hands-on work" as either helpless babes or naive fools, too stupid to strive for a career that let them depend on no one else. Deeper than that, though, Sara discovered that the orc had viewed her peddling of weapons in Hagos as a business that cut her conscious as often as it did her customer's enemies. When she'd been young and new to the big city, she'd told Sara and Evie in an embarrassed voice, she'd actually asked the artificer guild if there was a way for her weapons to be enchanted to not harm innocents. She'd been laughed out of the building, face burning, but the sentiment that had spurred the question hadn't ever left her.
Their conversations let the hours tick by, and when the sun began to set, they found themselves nowhere near a convenient village. Hurlish had them camp on a small mound between two larger hills, positioned in such a way that they were hidden from afar, but wouldn't be swamped if it rained overnight.
"We're gonna want a fire," Hurlish said as Sara began laying out their tent's canvas. "Got rations for now, so no need to cook, but there's too much water in the air for our clothes to dry. Nothing sucks worse than marching in itchy cloth."
"Oh, you don't have silk?" Evie teased, even as she began gathering tinder. "I forget how the lower classes suffer, sometimes."
"Can it, Kitty. I ain't gonna start throwing you around out here. Mud up in your gooch ain't sexy, and I'm speaking from experience."
Evie exchanged her haughty facade for a pout. "You're no fun, Hurlish."
"Hey now," the orc protested, "I didn't say we can't fool around. I'm just saying we don't have the real estate for me to do what you want me to do to ya."
"I second her opinion, Evie," Sara said, stabbing a row of sticks into the ground for drying racks. "Getting sloppy in the mud just really doesn't work out for anyone."
"And where would you have garnered that experience, Master?" Evie asked. "You speak of your old world like it was plated in iron and stone. Did you import a pile of sand for a dirty evening?"
Sara snorted. "Hardly. But when you're tipsy at a forest concert and find a pretty guy to get busy with, lessons are learned that you never wanted to get educated on."
Hurlish and Evie paused, giving each other a look.
"A man?" Evie asked.
"Yeah, c'mon, girl," Hurlish echoed. "I thought you had standards."
Sara rolled her eyes. "Some of us aren't as picky as you two. Where do you think I learned how to use my new equipment? Bookwork?"
"I'm not opposed to enjoying a fine gentleman myself, Master, but I thought for certain you were exclusively interested in women."
"Woah, what?" Hurlish said, spinning to Evie. "Am I the only one with decent taste here?"
"Apparently," Sara shrugged. "But be honest. Did you really expect a Champion of Amarat to be choosy about who she takes to bed?"
Hurlish scratched the back of her buzz-cut hair. "I guess I hadn't thought about it. Well, for the record, count me out on any group activities with dudes involved."
"No problem, but I doubt it'll come up. I've never dated a dude, just banged 'em."
"I've never dated anyone at all," Evie admitted. Now it was Sara's turn to stare incredulously alongside Hurlish. "What?" The catgirl said, folding her arms. "A Lady must keep her prospects open, and there were few candidates worth courting in my Mother's eyes."
"But surely you got around," Hurlish insisted. "You're too good with your tongue to not have a few gals notched on your belt."
"A few, but they never got far. Bodyguards and whatnot made it difficult."
"So I was...?" Sara asked hesitantly.
"My first? Yes, Master, in many ways. First in my mouth, between my legs, to take me from behind, and just about everything else. You weren't my first kiss, though, nor the first hand down my pants, I'm sorry to say."
"Huh. I'm kind of feeling a little bit bad about starting off so rough, now that I know that."
"Like I wanted anything less?" Evie asked rhetorically. "You would have had me clawing at your back to hurry up before five minutes of 'gentle' had passed, Master. Your cock feels too good to allow patience."
Sara laughed alongside Hurlish, working to get the wet firewood started. They all undressed confidently, comfortable in their nudity around one another. The traveling tent that Sara had purchased was impractically massive, but it fit all of them, and it had a roll-out feather pad six inches thick. She'd barely managed to fit it in the bag of holding with everything else, sacrificing several more practical additions, but she considered it an investment.
After all, if she was going to be on the road with two beautiful women, she had to have somewhere to pass the time.
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It was on the second night of travel that the rain finally let up enough for them to spend a comfortable evening sitting around a fire, drying their clothes by hanging them across long sticks. The sodden clothes steamed from the fire’s heat, adding to the gentle pops and crackles of the soaked wood Sara had spent so long getting to burn.
With their traveling clothes occupying half the space surrounding the fire, Sara, Evie, and Hurlish were left on the opposite side, quietly eating the travel rations they’d just finished heating over the flames. No one was speaking, but it was the quiet of content, companionable silence. They had spent every waking moment of the previous two days walking beside one another. After a certain point, conversation topics ran out. Sara thought it was a good sign that none of them felt the need to press through the placid moment.
But she didn’t think it would last long. Sara and Hurlish were both wearing their street clothes, casual sets that they’d donned while their traveling outfits dried. Sara’s were simple, cheap commoner’s clothing, much like Hurlish’s, save for the fact that the orc had removed her shirt’s sleeves to better work in the heat of her forge. Evie, on the other hand, claimed she didn’t want to dirty her nicer clothing, and so had discarded her shirt entirely, sitting quite comfortably in only her chest wrapping.
It wasn’t an exhibitionist getup; she wrapped her chest as much to serve as an undershirt as a binding for her modest breasts. White cloth covered well above the swell of her breasts, all the way down to the start of her visible rib cage. Sara had seen plenty of tube tops that covered less. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought nothing of it.
But Sara did know better, and with that knowledge came an unshakeable certainty:
Evie was trying to get her back blown out.
Oh, the catgirl wouldn’t have phrased it that way herself. She would have described it as seduction, or playful teasing, or maybe she would go so far as to call it coquettish flirtation, if she were feeling particularly direct. She would insist that she wasn’t so base as to be lusting after a woman simply because of her appearance. She was better than that, she’d insist. Even when she debased herself for Sara, it was for some nebulous greater reason, not just pure animal instinct.
Which was fairly believable, up until Sara caught the little hitch in the catgirl’s words as she watched Hurlish rip a log in half with her bare hands. Hurlish tossed a fistful of splinters into the fire, which promptly threw a roar of flame and sparks a mere few feet away from them all.
Evie’s eyes never left the burly smith’s biceps. Her tail was tracing a slow, languid circle in the dirt behind her.
Oh, this is gonna be fun, Sara thought, leaning back to watch.
“So,” Hurlish said, glancing at Evie. “Got something you want to say?”
“Hm?” Evie hummed, flicking her eyes up from Hurlish’s arms to meet the woman’s gaze. “Whatever could you mean?”
“Pretty sure I’ve had tongues that fucked me less than your eyes are right now.”
Sara laughed as Evie blanched, her ears fluttering.
“I don’t think she’s used to people being that direct, Hurlish,” Sara said.
“She should get used to it. I don’t beat around the bush.”
“Come now, Hurlish,” Evie said, recovering herself. “Don’t you enjoy the dance? Surely not all your partners were ones you approached so directly.”
“None of my partners started the night off by drooling over my abs.”
“I was not drooling,” Evie insisted haughtily. “I was admiring. And it was your arms, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah? You like ‘em?” Hurlish grabbed another log, this one a foot thick, and tore it apart with the slightest grunt of effort. Wooden splinters wetly spattered across the front of Evie’s body. The feline didn’t so much as blink. She was too focused on the sight of Hurlish’s rippling muscles, still damp from sweat and rain. Her green skin steamed slightly next to the fire.
When half a minute passed without Evie saying another word, Sara volunteered a guess.
“Yeah, I think she likes them.”
“Hush, Master,” Evie admonished, blinking back to coherency. “There should at least be some elegance to this, even if I’m the only one capable of bringing it.”
“Yeah, see,” Hurlish said, looking up and away as if she were thinking hard, “I don’t think that’s quite right. I don’t think you want ‘elegant’ from me, do you?”
“We shall see if you’ve earned the privilege of pursuing your own interests later, Hurlish,” Evie countered, flashing a smarmy smile. “If that’s what you want? Impress me.”
“Hm.” Hurlish rolled a shoulder, joint creaking. “No.”
In a flash, Hurlish’s hand shot out, seizing Evie by the front of her pants. Before the catgirl could so much as gasp, she’d been yanked across the gap to be dropped in Hurlish’s lap. The first syllable of her protest died as Hurlish’s lips crashed into hers, the orc’s massive hand sliding around to cup the back of Evie’s skull, forcing her into the kiss.
Sara felt her own body flush as Evie’s initial reaction, that of shock and a reflexive pull away, melted into nothingness. The catgirl’s body molded itself to the massive orc in a manner of seconds, her head tilting to one side as she accepted the impassioned kiss.
Not even ten seconds had passed before Evie’s mouth opened, tongue trying to find its way into Hurlish’s mouth. Instead, the orc bit at her lip and tugged, forcing an audible gasp from the far smaller woman.
Then Evie was pulled back entirely, left sitting on Hurlish’s lap out in the open, arousal warring with shame on her face.
“That impressive enough for you?” Hurlish asked, grinning. A bit of Evie’s saliva had made it down to the orc’s chin, something neither woman did anything about.
“Impressive? H-hardly,” Evie said, wiping her own mouth. It was far from her most convincing lie. “That was just handling me like drunks in a bar wish they could get away with.”
“Yeah. But you know what the difference between them and me is?”
Evie’s face remained impassive beyond a single raised eyebrow, but behind her back, her tail began to lash wildly.
Hurlish grinned toothily, leaning closer. “I really can get away with it.”
Without warning, Evie was shoved backward, landing hard. A few moments ago, she would have been tossed into a puddle of muddy dirt. Thankfully for her, Sara had spent the time the catgirl had been distracted laying out a few layers of blankets, covering the ground next to the campfire.
Evie tried to sit up, looking at the blanket in confusion, but was promptly distracted by seven feet of orc thumping down on top of her, straddling her hips. Hurlish’s palms immediately began running up and down the sides of Evie’s body, rough callouses providing a pleasant rasp that Sara could hear from a few feet away. She could grip Evie’s ribcage like Sara could a cup, the tips of her fingers almost touching behind Evie’s back as she held the catgirl. Evie shivered, but managed to maintain enough of her composure to speak again.
“Is that your plan, then? To try and take me like some lonely harlot, more eager for my body than my coin?”
“So what if I do?” Hurlish asked, her roaming hands stopping at the edges of Evie’s bindings. “What are you going to do about it? Not like you could stop me.”
At this Evie’s eyes flashed, a hint of genuine defiance making itself known. Being shoved around in bed was one thing for the catgirl, Sara knew, but implying she couldn’t fight her way out of a position? That was another.
Evie immediately twisted, rolling her hips as she went to grab at the blanket so she could scramble out from under Hurlish.
In their sparring matches, Sara had learned that Evie’s swordsmanship training hadn’t neglected wrestling in the slightest. If anything, the catgirl excelled at it. Ending up unarmed on the battlefield was every soldier’s nightmare, and she’d trained well for it, and by extension, she’d begun training Sara. She’d never been able to pin the wily catgirl for long.
Sometimes, though, simple tricks were the best. And Hurlish had one advantage Sara didn’t: three hundred and twenty pounds of muscle.
Rather than darting to her feet as she’d clearly expected, Evie let out a startled oof as her hips were driven into the blanket by Hurlish’s weight. She immediately tried to reach for leverage, trying to throw Hurlish off her, but that was stopped by simple virtue of Hurlish sliding her hands up, pinching the catgirl’s biceps between two fingers.
Sara had to stifle her laughter with her forearm, watching events unfold. With her hands forced above her head and her legs kicking uselessly, Evie looked like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum.
“You know, Master, it wouldn’t be so funny if it was happening to you,” Evie said, staring frustrated daggers at Sara.
“It did happen to me, actually,” Sara said, still laughing slightly. “Pretty sure you didn’t do much to help me, either. But don’t worry. The next part is fun.”
“We will see about-”
Evie’s retort was cut off by the sound of ripping cloth and a sudden, sharp gasp.
Hurlish’s thick fingers ripped her binder off in an instant, shredding the thin, rain-soaked cloth. There was so much force behind it that Evie was lifted up off the blanket just to thump back down, mouth open in a wide O as her breasts were laid bare. Hurlish dropped the shreds of her garments a moment later, and Sara watched the way Evie tracked the falling tatters, eyes peeling wide. Another shiver rolled up her body, a slight whimper of desire pressing itself through her lips.
Oh, I’m remembering that for later, Sara thought, watching the reaction. Someone had a kink for getting clothes torn off her.
If Hurlish noticed, it wasn’t obvious. She was too enamored by the sight of Evie’s breasts, flickers of firelight dancing across the pale skin. Hurlish ran a thumb up the swell of her chest, slowly, tauntingly, only to stop just before the nipple. Evie let out an involuntary groan, trying to shove herself into Hurlish’s hand.
“What was that about elegance you said earlier, little Kitty?”
Evie’s breath was growing more labored by the second, and it visibly picked up a notch when Hurlish called her Kitty. Sara shuffled around on the log she was using for a stool, angling for a better view. A part of her deeply, deeply wanted to get involved, but that part was playing second fiddle to a more voyeuristic self.
And I even get some payback to go along with the show, Sara reminded herself, thinking of her first encounter with Hurlish. It would be a real treat to see the same exchange from the outside.
Hurlish ignored Evie’s ineffectual squirming as she bent forward, burying her head in the crook of Evie’s neck. For all her earlier protests, Evie instantly craned her head up and to the side, giving Hurlish as much room as she needed.
Hurlish rewarded her with a slow, teasing lap of her tongue, pressing her lips to Evie’s pulse point. She couldn’t suck a hickey into the skin in the traditional fashion, on account of her tusks breaking her lip’s seal, but she did the next best thing. Evie was wracked by shudders at every nip and nibble of Hurlish’s teeth, her eyelids falling shut amongst her contented sighs.
Without warning, Hurlish jerked Evie’s head to the side, forcing the catgirl to expose the other side of her neck. It was a brutal, sudden motion, and it was done with a hard yank of Evie’s braided hair.
“Ow!” Evie hissed. “Have some decorum, woman.”
“Only if you want me to,” Hurlish murmured.
“Did you not hear what I just sai-i-i-d-”
Evie’s response stuttered off into oblivion as Hurlish began attending the other side of her neck, kissing her way down to the catgirl’s collarbone. Evie hissed again, for a different reason, as her hands dropped to rest on the back of Hurlish’s head.
With Hurlish’s mouth otherwise occupied, Sara made the valiant decision to take up the banner of teasing Evie.
“What were you saying there, Evie?”
“That s-she needs to, ah, l-listen to me, n-not her delusions,” Evie said, just barely gasping the words out.
“Pretty sure she’s listening to your body, actually,” Sara said, grinning mischievously. “And it’s looking like a lot more reliable of a source right now.”
“Th-that’s j-just because y-you like to look at i-it so much.”
“You’re not lying. I do love to look at it. But tasting it is even better.”
Whatever Evie had to say next would never be known, because Hurlish picked up on the cue with ease. Her head darted down in a flash, tongue rolling across Evie’s breast to land on her nipple.
“Ah!” Evie cried, abs clenching as her hips tried to grind upward. Hurlish’s pin was inescapable, however. Evie was left shivering in place, words abandoned for half-suppressed moans.
Sara shifted her log once more, so she was sitting behind Evie’s head, staring down the length of the two women. Hurlish was still dressed in the sleeveless shirt she slept in, which Sara thought was a damn shame.
She reached forward to tug at Hurlish’s collar. The orc lifted her arms without a word, removing her lips from Evie’s chest just long enough for the shirt to be slipped off, then dove back in before Evie could form a coherent thought.
Instead, the catgirl’s hands removed themselves from Hurlish’s neck, latching onto the woman’s chest instead. She began to knead and paw at Hurlish’s breasts with gleeful eagerness, trying her best to provoke a reaction from the woman atop her.
It didn’t work. Hurlish let out a pleased little groan, but that was it. If anything, the feeling of Hurlish’s breasts under her palms served to drive Evie’s arousal higher. Her groping went from teasing to indulgent in a brief few seconds, as if she were trying to commit every square inch of green skin to memory.
For Sara, the sight was intoxicating. Hurlish had a nice rack; Sara knew that from the moment she’d first met the smith, when it had taken her ten minutes of conversation to learn what color her eyes were. They were large on her body, large by any definition, but when they were put up next to Evie, who was almost two feet shorter? That put it in perspective.
And Evie was very aware of it. She tried to drag Hurlish back up to her face, to capture her in a kiss, and Sara knew it was only so the catgirl could get a better view of the body that had shoved her to the ground.
Instead, Hurlish peeled herself off Evie’s chest, returning to her prior straddling of the smaller woman’s hips. Evie’s eyes fluttered at the loss of sensation, then snapped open, drinking in the sight of Hurlish over her.
Sara couldn’t blame her. It was one hell of a sight. Hurlish’s breasts were as flushed as her face, tinged a darker green around her hardening nipples, and the wide expanse of her abs rose and fell with her breath. She’d worked up the slightest sweat, a single drop rolling down her brow, accompanied by a hungry look in her eyes.
“Still think you’re hot shit?” Hurlish asked.
“You haven’t done a thing but pleasure me,” Evie said, puffing the words out between gasps. “I fail to see the point you’re proving.”
“Ain’t any point,” Hurlish said, shuffling backward, until she was perched over Evie’s thighs. “I’m just doing what I want.”
Swallowing hard at the implication left by her suddenly exposed pelvis, Evie mustered up one last smarmy retort.
Sara suspected it would be her last of the evening.
“Well, then. Get to it, won’t you?”
Without fanfare, Hurlish’s hand dropped between Evie’s legs and shoved upward, palm grinding against the clothes covering her core.
Hurlish laughed openly as Evie’s voice turned into a high-pitched whine, her entire body rolling as she threw herself into the pressure.
“There we go, little Kitty. You’re getting it now.”
“Gods,” Evie breathed, seemingly without even noticing it. Hurlish pushed harder yet again, moving her hand down, and Evie instinctively chased the motion, unwilling to let go of the friction.
Unnoticed by either party, Sara finally lost her battle of wills. Her hand slid down the front of her pants, finding her own wetness. She let out a little gasp at the first contact of her own hand, then began to rub small circles. She was thankful beyond belief that her body had decided to let her have a pussy for the evening; jerking off was so much less subtle.
Not that it seemed likely either woman would notice anything. Hurlish was all but growling her desire as she watched Evie desperately shove against her hand, letting the catgirl chase her every touch. She’d shifted so her knee was between the woman’s legs, freeing her to writhe with wild abandon.
A privilege that Evie was freely abusing, having apparently entirely forgotten that she was supposed to be resisting Hurlish’s advances. Her breathless huffs had turned into outright moans, audible even through the knuckle she was biting to silence herself. Every time Hurlish shifted in the slightest direction, Evie’s skin twitched in a wave, her eyes closing in a tight squeeze.
Hurlish kept grinding, teasing, one hand moving up to Evie’s breasts on occasion to pinch and tug at a nipple. Evie’s eyes fluttered open every time, only to squeeze shut with a groan the moment she caught sight of Hurlish standing over her. Eventually she threw one arm over her face, as if it would somehow hide the arousal that had begun to drip through her clothes.
But it couldn’t last forever. When Evie’s body began to properly shudder, wave after wave wracking her limbs with increasing frequency, Hurlish abruptly pulled away.
Evie cried out in dismay, her free arm flailing blindly in search of Hurlish’s hand, trying to drag it back.
“You learned anything yet, Kitty?” Hurlish asked.
“Wha…. what?” Evie asked with a groan, still refusing to uncover her eyes.
“I said,” Hurlish growled, leaning forward slightly, “have you learned anything yet?”
Sara watched Evie’s higher brain functions try to drag themselves out of the slogging mud of her burning heat, ears flicking back and forth as if they could pick out the correct response.
“What… what should I say?”
Hurlish laughed, a loud, boisterous tone that echoed over the night plains. “The fuck’s that mean, Kitty?”
“I want… to know…” Evie finally tossed her arm off her eyes, looking at Hurlish, “what you want me to say.”
“Oh? What happened to the big, fancy noblewoman?”
“She spent an hour at the cusp of finishing, only to be denied,” Evie said, some of her old snappishness entering her tone.
Sara thought about telling Evie that it had really only been about five minutes, but decided against it. It definitely looked as though had felt like an hour.
“So what do you want from me, then?” Hurlish asked.
“Please,” Evie groaned.
“Please what?”
“You already know.”
“Not sure I do. You’ll have to be more specific. Tell me what I want to hear.”
“I… I want you to…” Evie trailed off, a blush continuing to rise through her cheeks. “Gods, please, just get on with it.”
Silently, Sara slipped off her seat, dropping her pants off to one side. Evie startled as she felt warm thighs press against the sides of her head, but calmed the moment she saw Sara above her, pulling her head onto her soft lap.
“I’ve got some suggestions for you,” Sara murmured, tracing small circles around the base of Evie’s feline ears. “It’s not hard to beg, you know.”
“That’s… you…”
Sara silenced Evie with a gentle press to the spot where Evie’s ears met her scalp. Barely a grazing whisper, it nonetheless shut Evie up.
“I’m not going to tell you what to say,” Sara whispered. “That would be cheating. But here’s some ideas. Why don’t you try and tell her what you want her to do to you?”
“She… she should just-” Evie’s words were briefly overtaken with a mewl as Hurlish pressed down yet again, just to keep things interesting. After gaining control of herself, she continued her breathless whisper. “She said she was going to do what she wanted to me.”
“Yeah. And now she’s forcing you to say what she wants to hear. That’s all you have to do.”
Evie’s eyes wrenched shut, another trembling rush rolling along her body. She spent a few moments taking quick, tiny little breaths, her breasts bouncing with each inhale and exhale.
Sara had expected Evie to beg. To plead in needy little whines, her depraved desires finally slipping from unconscious to conscious.
Evie opened her eyes, staring up at Hurlish.
“Y-you win.”
Hurlish’s grin was wide, satisfaction radiating from every pore.
“Very, very good Kitty,” Hurlish purred. “Now hold her down, Sara.”
Sara barely had enough time to grab Evie’s shoulders before Hurlish tore her pants off, Evie’s sopping underwear going with it. If Sara hadn’t taken hold in time, it seemed likely Evie would have been flung halfway across the fields. Hurlish didn’t care. She pressed a single finger to Evie’s dripping pussy, prodding at the entrance, as if she needed any confirmation that Evie was ready to take her.
Sara watched with bated breath, her own heart thudding in her chest. She wanted to see it. She wanted to watch Evie get taken apart.
But Hurlish paused, lifting her hand up and away. Evie whined in protest, until Hurlish dropped her palm down on her pelvis, resting it on her skin.
Sara licked her lips at the sight. Spread out like that, Hurlish’s single hand almost covered the catgirl’s entire stomach. Most of Sara’s toys back on earth had been shorter than the smith’s index finger. Hell, it was bigger than most dicks she’d taken, and thicker, too.
Evie saw the implication clearly. It was obvious in the way her breath hitched, chest frozen.
Then Hurlish dropped her hand back down and, without the slightest bit of ceremony, pushed inside Evie.
The catgirl threw her head back with a keening moan, back arching off the ground. Her fingers and toes curled as her tail fell suddenly limp, as if the nerves had been severed. She fell back down a moment later, panting, only to be thrown up again as Hurlish crooked her finger, grinding at the top of Evie’s walls.
“Gods, gods, gods,” Evie whined, repeating the word as a mindless prayer. “Please. Please, please faster.”
Sara spared a brief glance at Hurlish. She was unsurprised to find the cockiest grin she’d ever seen a woman wear plastered across the orc’s face.
Hurlish drew back with a wet noise. Evie shuddered, throwing her legs around Hurlish’s waist, trying to draw her back in.
Hurlish obliged, and Sara learned why she’d been told to hold Evie down.
She thrust into Evie with the force of a jackhammer, burying herself into the knuckle in an instant. Evie’s entire body was thrown up into Sara’s lap with a gasp, eyes widening in shock.
She wasn’t even given a moment to recover. Hurlish’s finger slipped out, then thrust in again, setting a brutal, merciless pace. Evie was forced further up into Sara’s lap, her breath stolen from her as her entire body shook with the force of Hurlish’s thrusts.
Without breaking pace, the orc leaned forward, taking Evie’s breast between her teeth once more. This time, though, she bit down, tugging hard.
Evie’s only reaction was a wet clicking noise from her throat as her body tried to react, but there wasn’t anything she could do. She froze like she’d been shocked, then began to shake and shiver, ever-more humiliating sounds pulled from her throat. The pace Hurlish set should have been brutal, painful, and it likely was, yet Evie’s entire body was writhing in abject delight.
Evie threw her head to the side, burying her face between Sara’s thighs as whatever was left of her instincts tried to hide her shameful pleasure. Sara watched her unoccupied breast bounce with every impact, while Hurlish’s own generous chest pressed against the catgirl’s body, enveloping her in softness.
“Good girl, such a good girl,” Sara cooed. She began to stroke Evie’s hair, steadily guiding her face back up, facing the open sky. Evie whined and whined, trying to fight it, to keep her face hidden, but Sara knew just what to do. With a single knuckle, she pressed down into the catgirl’s ear, grinding at the twitching muscles.
Evie’s mouth fell open with a pitiful cry, her entire body contorting to shove harder into the touch. Her shaking began to reach a crescendo that, when Hurlish’s thumb reached up to rub at her clit, become a sudden, convulsing climax.
She twisted her head back and forth, grinding into Sara’s hand with the same mindless need that had consumed her lower half, which was throwing itself into Hurlish’s touch. The mere sight of her climax had Sara’s own body clenching down on nothing, feeling light-headed as she watched the most beautiful woman she’d ever met come apart at the seams. Sara kept stroking Evie’s hair as she shook, crying out in delirious pleasure. Her choking whines reached a peak, each one nearly a scream as Hurlish continued to grind against her pussy, and began to slowly peter out as she used the last of her air, her voice turning scratchy and raw. Sara slowly lowered her back to the blanket, guiding her through the come-down of her climax, but never without pulling her hands from the catgirl’s ears.
With a final, trembling moan, Evie collapsed. Her entire body was limp on the blanket, save for the occasional tremors which ran through her, the aftershocks of her orgasm rippling across her skin. Sara slipped her hands away from her ears slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb her. Evie’s head came to rest in her lap once more, quiet breath whistling through her teeth.
“So…” Hurlish said after some time, drawing Sara’s attention upward. “That was easier than I thought it’d be.”
Sara barely choked back her laughter, still not wanting to wake Evie. “Yeah,” she said, “Evie’s like that. Pretty nice, isn’t it?”
“Fuckin’ beautiful is what it was.” Hurlish shifted backward, rolling out her shoulder, flexing the muscles in her hand. Then glanced at Sara, smirking. “Doesn’t look like she has another round in her. How ‘bout you?”
Sara flung her shirt off to land somewhere in the darkness, advancing on Hurlish without hesitation.
...........................
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The coast was more than a week of travel away, and with their mornings regularly serenaded by rain, it was slow going. Sara had deliberated over the best way to get to the old capital of Tulian, poring over the maps of the intervening territory. There was a considerable gap of rural no-man's-land between the major population centers of the two countries, several hundred miles of small villages and slightly larger towns serving as focal points. The roads were maintained, but circuitous, and information on the safety of travel in old Tulian itself was sparse.
So Sara had decided to make for the coast, hopefully using Vesta's money and name to book a ship on the cheap. Ideally, they'd find one passing near the old Tulian capital, so all that would be required was a drop of the anchor and dinghy to the shore. If they managed that, it wouldn't be expensive at all.
She became certain she'd made the right choice on the third day of huffing her way up hills before stumbling back down them, cursing quietly all the while. The way between Hagos and the coast was characterized by constant and jagged elevation changes, the topography resembling the leftovers of a lawnmower chewing up a field of tennis balls. There were never any mountains, but the hills had inexplicable sheer cliffs and random forests sprouting in the valleys. Sara's shaky geography knowledge was more than enough for her to confidently say that absolutely none of it made sense. Which she did, constantly.
Hurlish had laughed at her, calling her a city girl, which wasn't wrong. Her venture with Evie to the city of Hagos, which had been far easier hiking, had been the first time she'd been somewhere without paved sidewalks since her last substance-addled concert back on Earth.
Further, Sara found it incredibly frustrating that Evie wasn't struggling like her, despite being even more of a city kid than her. The catgirl's nimble stride invariably picked the best way over the terrain, avoiding hidden rocks and pitfalls like she'd memorized the path to a tee. Hurlish, on the other hand, usually just stomped right through, burly boots snapping logs like twigs and digging new ditches when the mud dared to suck her feet in.
By the end of the first week, Sara had found her own way of navigating the terrain. It was awkward as all hell, and relied on her being the last in line behind the others to let them either point out or smash obstacles aside, but it worked. She hopped over fallen logs and stepped around pitfalls Evie's feet avoided, occasionally using Hurlish as a barn wall to catch herself against.
"I'm telling you, this is bullshit!" She insisted yet again. It was the eighth day of travel, and the morning rains were nearly done. "These hills shouldn't exist!"
"How d'you figure that?" Hurlish asked, booting a tree trunk ten feet long out of Sara's way.
"Thank you. And it's because the geography is impossible. What kind of weathering or tectonic activity or whatever could have left a hundred-foot cliff in the middle of miles of a flat field?"
"I dunno what that is."
"Right," Sara grunted, "I forget sometimes. Feels like I've known you girls forever. Okay, so, you know the planet's a sphere, right?"
"I'm not a dumbass."
"Hey, I'm just covering my bases. So what do you think is at the center of the planet?"
"...rocks?" Hurlish guessed.
Evie piped up from the front. "I've read that some used to suspect the plane of earth is based there, but those theories were discarded centuries ago."
"Good, because they were wrong. With the entire planet's weight pressing down on the center, the earth heats up, melting into liquid. That liquid goes up really far, only solidifying like twenty miles or so beneath the surface."
"Master, weren't you supposed to avoid telling others of your Champion's knowledge?"
"That doesn't count when I'm whining," Sara replied, "And if you can figure out a way to weaponize plate tectonics, feel free." She hopped over a small gully, the rainwater rushing through it. "All of the solid stuff we call 'land' floats around on that liquid, shifting and moving over millions of years."
"Millions?" Hurlish interrupted. "That's ridiculous."
"Not really. My planet was four and a half billion years old, and the universe was only fifteen billion years old."
Hurlish stopped suddenly. Sara bumped into her back, smushing her nose against cloth-covered armor. "Did you just say how old the universe is?"
"I gueth?" Sara responded, rubbing her sore nose. "I told you, there's tons of stuff I know just 'cause I fell asleep watching a documentary or something."
Hurlish turned around, staring down at Sara. "How in the fuck do you know how old the universe is?"
Sara smugly smiled up at the woman. "I mean, maybe the universe is different here. But back on Earth, I know when humans first appeared, when ice covered the entire planet, and I know when the sun was born and when it'll die."
"Well now, isn't that just fascinating!" A woman's voice cried, echoing off the cliff wall they'd been walking alongside.
Hurlish immediately threw Sara behind her, cloak flying as she drew her hammer in a flash. Evie's rapier dropped into her hand, the silvery white blade the only color protruding from her ashen cloak.
"Who goes there?!" Hurlish bellowed, spinning about. They were walking beside the bottom of cliffside, following a trail punched through a thicket of young trees that surrounded the hill's base.
"I do!" The voice shouted back, impossible to pin down with the echo, though Sara could only assume it came from the treeline. "And I've been following you three for quite a while. If I'd wanted to ambush you, I'd have done so."
"Unless you were waitin' till we had our backs to the wall," Hurlish snarled back, flourishing her hammer in agitation. It was quite an intimidating sight, to see something so massive handled like a feather-light dagger.
"Show yourself!" Sara hollered, stepping forward.
Hurlish put a hand out to keep her back, but Sara pushed through. The orc probably wanted anyone unarmored behind her, but Sara had already donned her armor.
She stepped forward in answer to the call, though slowly, to give Evie and Hurlish a good luck at the armor they still hadn't seen yet.
A steel breastplate covered her chest, finely etched with artistically placed magical runes. Some armors had a central ridge running from neck to waist, whether an artifact of the manufactory process or for reinforcement, but Sara's armor had two, and they were purely cosmetic. They followed the curve of her breasts, sweeping down and to the side, like a feminine answer to those old greek armors that had pecs and abs engraved. The runes followed along the ridges, inked in royal purple and pink that matched Sara's skin. The bulge of metal over her breasts was larger than strictly necessary, but she'd insisted on it, to let anyone who saw her armor know exactly what awaited beneath.
Her helmet she'd had made in the style of viking valsgarde helmets, face protected by a curving plate that followed the lines of her cheekbones to meet over her mouth. Large eyeholes gave her good vision, and she could breathe easy, while still having the option of attaching chainmail to cover her neck if she felt it necessary.
A skirt of woven metal pieces protected her from the waist to the thighs, plates of steel two inches tall and six inches wide tied together into a shimmering veil. Some magical WD-40 must have stopped them from clanking or grinding as she moved, the uncanny ease with which they interlocked revealing their magical nature.
"The fuck is that?" Hurlish grunted.
Sara loved her armor.
"If you don't have hostile intentions, why hide and yell at us from a distance?" Sara shouted, flipping her greatsword out. "Show yourself, and we might be more willing to talk."
"I stay hidden for the reason you stay armed," the voice called back. Sara still couldn't find the source, but Evie's ears were twitching like radar towers, narrowing towards a certain angle. "You could have bows or spells and cut me down on the spot rather than agree to parley."
"If that's really what you wanted, you could've just run ahead of us and waited on the road," Sara replied.
"True, but you caught my interest now, not later," the voice called. Evie's ears had stopped twitching, locked on a certain spot. "I'm not a very patient captain. Now, if you were to put those weapons away, I'm sure I could come out to talk."
"No chance," Hurlish grunted. "Not until we know you're not going to fill us with arrows the second we stand down."
"If that were my plan, I would have shot without warning. But since your feline seems to have found me already," two unarmed hands popped out of a bush a few dozen yards to the front-right, followed shortly by a standing woman. "As you can see, I not only mean you no harm, but haven't the means to enact it."
Sara knew in an instant that this woman's intersection with her had been orchestrated by Amarat, because she was unbelievably hot. The half-elf stranger wore a sharp black military uniform, napoleonic era in its tight fit, with fine gloves covering her to the forearm. Her shoulders were decorated by an officer's golden threads, and her coat folded out below the chin to show off similar golden threads stitched in entrancing swirl patterns. A red sash was tied around her waist, marking the transition to cream-colored pants covered from the knee down by flared boots. Though probably a few years younger than Sara, she walked with a makeshift cane, a thin tree branch that supported her right-sided limp. Dark eyes evaluated Sara as she walked up, her messy black-haired bob bouncing.
"You said you know when the sun will die?" The woman prompted, stopping on the grass just outside of lunging range.
"I did," Sara confirmed, seeing no point in lying. "What does it matter to you?"
"I like learning things," she said with a precise shrug. "I take interest in everything, but certain topics most of all. If you know the fate of the sun, maybe you'll know other things that fit my interests."
Sara licked her lips, trying to maintain eye contact as she listened to the vaguely-british accent. The woman had to be sent by Amarat, because her outfit was tailored to push Sara's every button. A trim body and modest breasts halfway between Sara and Evie's bust size were just the cherry on top; Sara was convinced she'd be drooling over a grandma if they wore a suit like that.
"I might have some information you'd want," Sara said after a hopefully imperceptible pause, "But it's long odds that I'd share it with you. It'd take one hell of a convincing argument."
"I can be very persuasive," she replied. "How about we start with introductions? I'd struggle to imagine a parley held without the involved parties knowing one another's names."
She keeps using that word, Sara noted. 'Parley', like this is some kind of formal meeting.
"I'm Sara," she said.
"Hurlish."
"Evie."
"Captain Nora," she replied, single finger tapping a blank spot above her right breast. "It's nice to meet you, Sara. What fey did you bargain with for your knowledge?"
"You mean goddess?" Sara asked, assuming a dialect difference for the confusion.
"Ah, so you are the Champion I've heard of," Nora smiled. "The Champion of Amarat, yes?"
Welp. That slip was definitely on Sara.
"What does it matter to you?" She retorted, seeing no sense in confirming the accusation. "And what do you want from us?"
"It matters only in regards to the value of your knowledge," Nora replied. She reached into a pouch hidden by her sash, pulling out a thick and weathered tome that she began quickly flipping through. "Champions have even more esoteric knowledge than the fey, and can be paid in much simpler fashion. Are you experienced with seafaring, Sara?"
Sara looked helplessly to Evie and Hurlish, who only shrugged back. This Nora had them all stumped. At least with her nose buried in a book it became clear the woman was no threat. Sara flipped her sword closed and sheathed it.
"I'm not, but I assume you are. You introduced yourself as a Captain, right?"
"Captain Nora, yes."
"Then I assume you're traveling to the coast?"
"I am," she said, her page turning slowing to let her scan each heading.
"Well we happen to be looking for a ship. Would you accept my answers to your questions as payment for passage to Tulian's old capital?"
Nora's eyes snapped up, a predator's gaze locked onto Sara. Time froze as a floating box of text appeared above the woman's head.
Ability Activated: Amarat's Intuition
(Compatible targets may have helpful information revealed to the user.)
Captain Nora is a woman who holds the sea in higher regard than all the shores bordering it. Her first memory is staring at sails sinking over the horizon, and she's prepared for her captaincy ever since. Her manic quest for knowledge has taken her to disgraced admirals in seedy bars and hidden archfey alike, trading all she had for what they knew of the waves. Through underhanded favors and twisted bargains she has become the most skilled captain to have never set foot on a ship.
Sara took the information in at a blink, the exact wording pressed into her memory. Nora didn't notice, the eager glint in her eye blinding her.
"Passage to Tulian is a too easy a journey, Champion. Will you really give me the kind of information I want?"
"It seems fair to me. You strike me as someone who'll know most of the facts I can dig up, anyway."
"You're not wrong, Champion." She looked down at the page she'd stopped on, reading it aloud. "It is said that even the dullest of Champions had knowledge beyond the greatest scholars, and it was only through one's guidance that Admiral Alastat was able to outmaneuver the Carrion Fleet in their own archipelago." She slapped the book closed, dropping it into her hidden pouch. "What will you give me, Sara? Something able to dash a fleet against rocks they've sailed past a thousand times before?"
"We'll have to see, won't we?" Sara answered. "I don't see a ship, and I certainly don't see Tulian on the horizon."
"Then payment will be delivered when the sails are struck?"
"Of course," Sara said confidently, despite having no idea what it meant for sails to be struck. "I'm nice, but not that nice."
"Then let's trek to Port Agrith as one group. Safety in numbers."
Hurlish snorted, speaking up for the first time. "Safety for you, you mean. What were you gonna do if you get mugged? Poke them to death with your cane?"
"There are bandits along these paths?" Nora asked with genuine surprise.
"Uh... yeah," Hurlish said. "There's bandits just 'bout everywhere there's people, Captain. Same as pirates, from the way I hear it."
"A disappointment. I should have prepared a weapon."
Sara frowned. "Exactly how well were you prepared for this trip?"
"I have food, my uniform, and money to buy more food. What else should I have brought?"
"Master?" Evie put a hand on Sara's armored shoulder. "How trustworthy is this supposed captain, exactly?"
"Extremely," Sara answered confidently.
"How're you figuring that?" Hurlish asked. Nora was already ignoring them in favor of burying her nose in another book.
"Champion stuff. I'm almost positive Amarat set this up, like she did my meetings with you two."
"Not to second-guess a god," Hurlish said hesitantly, watching Nora wobble to the right as she lifted her cane hand to turn a page, "But I'm second-guessing a god."
"Amarat literally told me she's 'the most skilled captain to have never set foot on a ship'. I don't know about you, but 'most skilled' is a pretty strong endorsement to me."
"Never set foot on a ship?" Evie repeated incredulously.
"Yeah. Apparently she's spent her whole life training to be a captain, and I guess she finally decided she's ready. I know first-hand that knowing how to do something and having experience doing it are two different things, but I trust her." Sara lowered her voice. "And are you two fuckin' blind? Look at her."
All three women turned appraising eyes to Nora. She'd bent over to pick up her cane, balancing on her good leg in a way that pulled her pants tight against her ass.
"That is a compelling point in her favor," Evie admitted.
"She's hot as shit," Hurlish huffed. She glanced up, addressing the sky. "My bad, Amarat."
"Are you three done ogling?" Nora called, straightening back up. "I'm rather eager to get going."
Hurlish chuckled. "Good hearing, too."
With that they set off, as soon as Sara managed to slip out of her bulky armor. It took far longer to take it off than it did to put it on, something that she adamantly refused to explain to Hurlish or Evie.
Thankfully for Nora's sake, they were near enough the coast by then that they found a village to stay the night in. Nora actually led them to it, though it was slightly out of the way and not on Sara's maps. She claimed to have business in town, though what it was Sara couldn't imagine.
The faux captain was put up in the room next to them when they arrived at an inn, and Sara didn't think the walls were all that thick. That didn't stop them from enjoying themselves as soon as they arrived, but it was a bit awkward to imagine when her libido had settled down. Nora met them down for a late dinner without comment, though, so maybe she was just a heavy napper.
"So, Nora," Sara said between spoonfuls of stew, "Just how much do you really know about sailing?"
"Oh, most of it," she said, blowing on her own bowl. "I've memorized fourteen hundred and seventeen textbooks on the subject, personally interviewed several dozen military captains, hundreds of cargo captains, and three admirals."
"You're claiming to have memorized over a thousand textbooks?" Evie asked doubtfully.
"Not claiming. I have. It cost my right leg below the knee, but was certainly worth it."
"What." Hurlish said. "Explain that."
Nora twisted on her stool, thumping her right leg up on the table. She tried to pull off the long boot, but couldn't quite reach, so Hurlish reached over and yanked it off.
Half of Nora's leg went with the shoe. Hurlish jumped back with a curse as she dropped a wooden appendage to the tabletop, still in the boot. Nora rolled her pants leg back, showing that the limb ended just below the knee, the same place her boots cut off at. The end of her leg was wrapped in bandages for padding, but blood spots soaked through, red irritated skin running up the limb.
"I traded it to a fey in exchange for the ability to perfectly recall anything related to ocean travel. I presented myself as a naive young teen, rather than an aspiring captain, so they happily agreed."
Hurlish yanked the wooden prosthetic leg from its boot, turning it over in her hands. "This is shit quality," she sniffed, rapping a knuckle against a rusty heel hinge. "No wonder you walk so wobbly."
"Actually, I walked like that before I lost the leg, if I recall correctly. Some other deal with a water nymph? I forget."
Hurlish turned the leg around, scraping a nail at the flat wood that pressed against Nora's knee. "This is still shit. I could whittle you a better one with a butter knife."
"Feel free, though I don't mind. I've gotten used to it."
Hurlish slid the leg back across the table to Nora, who began strapping it back in place.
"Do you really expect to be able to command a ship?" Evie asked. "If what you say is true, you certainly have the knowledge required, but most admirals I have met were rather unlike you. They had forceful personalities, scowling faces, and held themselves like gods among men."
"Oh, yeah, I think I'll probably be fine," Nora said cheerfully, finally getting to her soup now that it had cooled to room temperature. "Deals, deals, deals, I made so many deals. The last one was an archfey, and he actually knew of me before I'd arrived because I'd traded so much to his friends. He took partial ownership of my mind. Snipped little bits of me out, turned my brain to cheese. I get it back when I'm on the ocean, though, that was the deal. I think he thought he took enough to make sure I never got to the sea. But now that I've found you three, how could I not?"
Sara blew out a long breath, eyes wide. She'd thought Evie had been fanatically devoted, willing to make absurd sacrifices for what she wanted, but Nora? The woman had sold parts of herself off, piecemeal, just to claw closer to a dream she may never achieve. It was almost awe-inspiring, if it hadn't been so boneheaded.
"Does what I've done bother you, Sara?" Nora asked. "It doesn't bother me."
"A part of me respects it, a part of me hates it. Do you even remember what you were like before that last deal?"
"Of course." She set her spoon in the bowl, looking Sara dead in the eye. "I was the kind of person who could stroll across a continent, finding ancient beings to trade my body and soul to, getting the better of them while I was at it. A woman who rubbed elbows with pirate lords, shared their beer and spit it out when I tasted poison. I was the first to track down Admiral Sinti since his exile, and I spent six months as his first and only apprentice. His mind was taken from him by a stroke one night, which means I'm the only person left alive who knows how he shot the Zavian Strait, and I'm the only one who could do it again." Nora took another bite of her stew, innocent expression unchanged. "You may be Amarat's Champion, Sara, but I will be the Champion of the Sea. My fate will be set in stone the moment I take the wheel."
The tavern, which had been filled with the gentle lull of tired conversation, was now silent. All eyes were turned to Nora, who seemed oblivious to the attention.
"Well?" She asked Sara. "Do you still doubt I can ferry you a couple hundred miles down the coast?"
Before Sara could answer, a white-bearded old man shot up from his seat.
"Talkin' a lotta shit, girl!" The man cried. "Admiral Sinti didn't teach you squat, you brat! I was there! The fleet lived 'cause ah him! Take it back, or I'll bash yer skull in if it's the last thing I ever do."
With a bright and cheery smile Nora turned around in her chair to address the man.
"Shut up or I'll kill you."
Sara sighed as she began to stand, ready to defend their new kind-of friend, but the drunk stumbled back.
"Wha? Whadid you say to me?"
"I said shut up or I'll kill you, you drunk bastard of a harlot whore," Nora said, cheery as ever. "Maybe if you'd kept the left flank in shape like you were supposed to Sinti wouldn't have had to order the carracks to cross the magecraft's T."
"Sinti?" The old man leaned close, not believing his eyes. "That you? No. No, the Admiral told me to never... to not blame myself... You can't be him."
"If he told you to never blame yourself, why are you still doing it? I am Captain Nora, and you are Captain Aliston B'Leary. The task that Admiral Sinti asked of me in payment for my apprenticeship was to deliver the following message: Get your head out of that ale, you drunk bastard of a harlot whore, or I'll kill you myself. If it were your fault I would have told you so." Nora paused, making sure she hadn't forgotten anything, then nodded firmly. "Sorry for delivering the message out of order. My mind isn't the best these days. And for what it's worth, coming from me personally, I don't see how you had any other option. I could explain better if we weren't on land, but we aren't."
The old man's wobbling stance firmed. He looked down at his frothing beer, spilling over the edges and down his hand, then dropped it. The wooden mug clunked to the floor. He turned around and headed for the door, ignoring the cries for explanation from his friends at the table.
"So," Sara said, grinning at Hurlish and Evie. "Still think she can't be trusted as a captain?"
Notes:
If it wasn't clear from the way I described her, I have an incredibly specific reference for Nora's appearance:
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/oVlQW (If that link doesn't work, google "Annabel by Sergey Gurskiy"Did my description do it justice? Because I've always that this particular art piece was literally the best looking (and hottest) outfit I've ever seen. If you're the type to have a taste in women that includes swords, suits, and armor, there's no better crossover than that masterpiece.
Chapter 14: Darkwater Horizons
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"There are plenty of options available," Captain Nora was telling them as she limped through the harbor. "Cog, carrack, longship, junk, so many choices. Hard to decide. I think I'd like my first ship to be something worth remembering, convenience of acquisition aside."
Sara was trailing behind Nora with Evie and Hurlish, taking in the sights of Port Agrith. Positioned a fair bit northward of Hagos, it was one of the largest port cities along the relatively undeveloped coast of Sporatos. Evie served as their tour guide, explaining that most of Sporatos' coastal territory had been seized within the last hundred years. Scattered city states had failed to unite before they were conquered piecemeal, then had their cultures shattered as they were subjected to forced migration, native populations replaced by Sporaton immigrants. The king's family had been slow in developing the land ever since, one of Evie's mother's greatest irritations. King Sporatos simply didn't recognize the trading opportunities presented by such vast coastal territory, preferring to continue preparing for territorial conquests.
Ironically, her mother's patronage of the coast meant that Evie was more familiar with the Port Agrith than she had been with the capitol city she'd lived her entire life in. She'd read through countless reports from her mother's agents in the city, and had penned off instructions for the city's development nearly weekly. Had her mother's house not collapsed, Evie probably would have been treated more like royalty by Port Agrith's authorities than the king himself.
Though she found the history lesson interesting in an abstract way, Sara's attention was far more focused on the ships they strolled past. They were a mixed medley of sails and wooden hulls, resembling a mishmash of cultures that Sara didn't know enough about to name from Earth. She guessed that, regardless of world, there were natural avenues of development oceangoing ships followed. Some, the ones Nora called junks, seemed vaguely East Asian to Sara, while the 'carracks' looked like the paintings of Christopher Columbus's fleet she'd seen back in school. She was sure that there were all kind of differences between her history's ships and Port Agrith's that someone more knowledgeable would point out, but she was clueless.
There were also a select few ships whose style Sara had never seen even remotely attempted by Earth ships. They were the rarest and richest in the harbor, clustered together like they'd arrived as a group. Sara had to assume their construction was magical, because they had impossibly thin hulls that barely scraped the water, stabilizing skiffs attached by reedy poles on either side to prevent their narrow bodies from capsizing at the slightest breeze. They each sported two large sails, near the front and back, and looked like they could have given a motorboat a run for their money. Their large flat decks seemed to have only one floor below them, so most of the crew were milling about above, busying themselves with maintenance during their brief stay in port.
"So, Champion," Nora said as they walked. "Which ship would you prefer?"
"You're the expert," Sara said. "And don't call me that in public." She reconsidered. "Actually, don't call me that in general, it's weird. I'm Sara, remember."
"Yes, yes," Nora replied. "But which ship do you prefer, Sara?"
"A fast one? I assume those fancy ones are out of the picture. Those are nothing like the boats I knew back at home, at least in the history books. The ones I knew in real life didn't even use sails."
"Interesting tidbit, that, one I'll be sure to investigate later, but in the meantime we four must make a decision. After all, taking control won't come easy."
"And there it is!" Hurlish crowed. "I knew a ditzy type like you was gonna pull something like that, Nora."
"Huh?" Sara asked. She'd not caught whatever Hurlish had.
"She's not here to buy a ship, Sara. She's here to steal one."
"A mutiny, most likely," Nora admitted in a childishly conspiratorial whisper. "We'll likely need a ship with a tyrannical captain or some such, to make it easier to rally the crew to our cause."
"Oh, come on," Sara whispered back. "You spent your entire life getting ready to be a captain, and you didn't think to include a ship in your to-do list?"
"I had one, once," Nora replied airily, "But it's seven hundred miles away, likely auctioned off as abandoned by now. My journeys took me farther afield than I expected."
Sara wished she could claim she was surprised, but she wasn't. Hurlish was right; Nora was absolutely the type of woman to have assumed a ship would just fall into her lap. They had no choice but to forge on.
"Alright, fine," Sara said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "So we need to pick a ship that's not just good, but easy to stage a rebellion on. How were you going to do that on your own, Nora?"
"I don't know. I had a plan before the archfey took half my mind. Can't recall it at the moment, but I'm certain it made sense."
"Will you remember it when we get on the ship? You said you get your mind back when you're on the ocean."
"Maybe?" Nora guessed, bubbly attitude undaunted. "I've not had the chance to test yet."
"We could throw her off a dock," Hurlish suggested. "That'd get her to come to her senses, one way or another."
"I'd rather you didn't," Nora replied, picking at her clothes. "This uniform is rather difficult to launder."
Sara stared Hurlish down. "And we are not ruining that outfit, understand me?"
"Got it, nympho."
"Master?" Evie piped up, returning to the group. Sara hadn't even noticed her leave, so absorbed she'd been in the discussion, but the catgirl was walking back over the mossy cobblestones. "I believe I've found a ship captain whose murder you will enjoy."
"Oh?"
Evie pointed to a ship three docks down. "A merchant ship. The captain is currently busy peddling slaves in the market. She seems to even crew the oars with slaves, so Captain Nora's criteria of a crew easy to rouse to anger is met."
Sara looked to the ship. It had three red fan-shaped sails of equal size, like the ship Nora had called a junk, but the hull was long and rounded, sporting a more european-style build that rose higher out of the water. It was large yet sleek, meant for fording waves as often as piddling through gentle harbors.
"Ah, yes, I had my eye on that one," Nora hummed thoughtfully. Sara could imagine complex mathematical equations theatrically flying around the Captain's head as she evaluated the ship. "A dromon's sail arrangement atop a hulk's hull, with a galley's ram hastily retrofitted to its bow. A distinctive ship, if nigh heretical in its cultural mix. How well it sails I shudder to imagine, but with so many oar ports there is always a second option."
Nora turned to Sara, hands on her hips. "As you represent the muscle to my plot, does that ship strike you as reasonable ship to acquire?"
Sara looked the ship over. "I mean, it definitely looks good," she decided. "Slick red sails, that sweet ram, and that dark wood all go really well together."
"Master, I think she was inquiring as to the viability of our defeating the potentially numerous loyalists on such a large vessel."
"Oh. Then I've got no idea. What do you think, Evie?"
The catgirl rolled her eyes, thinking. "If the slaves are freed in rapid succession, numbers won't matter, but we may end up having to slaughter more crew than is desirable. I know little about sailing, but have often heard that the loss of key positions can spell disaster."
"That's usually true," Nora said. "A ship on the open ocean deprived of its core officers is as good as sunk. Fortunately, I'm capable of filling any necessary role, as well as training replacements."
"Then I don't see why we couldn't. Hurlish, any thoughts?"
"Eh. Freein' slaves is good and all, but the captain's not gonna just let us do it, is she? Gonna be tough. Bet we can manage, though. I'd give us better than even odds."
"Perfect!" Nora chirped, spinning on a heel. The motion brought her into a stumble, one Sara had to pull her out of. The woman continued talking, undaunted. "Shall we go negotiate passage with the captain?"
"I guess. Lead the way, Evie."
The feline guided them through an alleyway, finding the market where their chosen ship's captain was just concluding her final sale. The woman's face had been stapled into a permanent scowl by a lip-rending scar, though with the way she growled and spat every word, Sara doubted an inability to smile was limiting to her.
Sara tried to talk to the Captain herself, but she was immediately foisted off onto one of the crew, who disinterestedly gave them a price and time for the ship's departure. The captain worked nearby, already having forgotten their presence. The price seemed ridiculous to Sara, but she agreed anyway. It shouldn't have been much of a concern, not when they were planning to stab the woman in the back and take everything she owned, but Sara's pride rankled at having someone think they got one over on her. The Champion of Amarat, while unskilled in many things, was not the kind of woman who was bad at haggling. She bit her tongue anyway, because the crew and captain thinking she was an idiot was helpful.
They learned that the ship was called the Crossed Glory, having been half-built by a construction company that went under, then purchased on the cheap and finished by a rival, explaining its odd design. The Captain's name was Tangletooth, a moniker that Sara recognized by gut instinct as self-declared. No crew would call their captain such an obvious insult, which meant it was supposed to be intimidating, and since there wasn't a single flaw to her teeth, she knew the captain hadn't been dubbed it by her defeated enemies or anything equally dramatic.
All in all, from her black duster to unerring brusqueness as she swept away, Captain Tangletooth struck Sara as someone who was too lazy and uninspired to actually earn the brutal reputation they plainly desired. She probably ruled with an iron fist, viewing the exertion required to crack a proverbial or literal whip as a terrible burden.
The ship was set to disembark in only a few hours, hoping to navigate out of the port with the sun still in the sky. Sara and the others had nothing to prepare, so they arrived well before the departure time.
What they saw had Evie keeping a subtle hand on Sara's sword arm, a gentle reminder to keep her weapon hidden in her bag. They'd taken off their armor, even Hurlish, completing the look of a group of naive women on their first journey across the sea. It was good that they had, too, because the set of Sara's jaw was tense.
Slaves were loading crates of goods into the ship, wearing nothing but rags. Those on the harbor were chained together at the ankle, passing boxes down the line to slaves that were hauling packages up rope ladders dangling from the hull. They had to balance their loads awkwardly on their shoulders, the threat of falling and whatever punishment they may incur ever present. What made it all the more infuriating was the long wooden gangplank that had been extended to the dock, blocked off by the Captain and a few of her officers making idle chatter near the ship's railing. None of the slaves dared disturb the meeting.
"Why don't I handle the introductions?" Nora suggested, wobbling up ahead of the group. Sara held up a hand to stop her, hoping that it would be Evie or even Hurlish to make their group's first impression, but it was too late. Nora's boot excitedly thumped up onto the gangplank. Sara cringed, waiting for the bizarre display that was sure to follow.
But then Nora changed.
Her boot heel landed on the gangplank with an echoing click, her other wooden foot following smoothly behind. Her back straightened, pulling taut the wrinkles of her uniform, and her grip twisted on her snapped tree branch, turning it into a proper cane. Sara could have sworn she saw the Crossed Glory dip lower in the water as Nora strode towards it, like the ship itself was leaning low in a servant's bow. Sara felt the hairs on her arm raise as the wind whipped harder, a cold breeze sweeping away coastal humidity.
"And who are you?" Captain Tangletooth hollered at Nora, interrupting her companion. "I'm done trading with anyone else for the day. We're underway within the hour."
"A pretty ship ye got here, Captain Tilisa," Nora hollered, a thick and guttural Irish accent cutting through the harbor's hubbub. "A damnable shame about Olender's company, but Pester's Expeditions needed the windfall. Such is the way of business, aye?"
"I said," Captain Tangletooth growled, "Who the hell are you?"
Captain Nora stopped just before dropping onto the ship's deck, looking down at Tangletooth from a solid two feet above her head.
"I'm Nora O'Gallison, she who paid for passage to Tulian on your pretty lass here. I've known finer, maybe, but none quite so unique." She tapped the toe of her boot in three sharp clicks on the railing, which once more echoed impossibly in the open air. "What's that? Lumber outta Alivan or Silven?"
"Silven," Tangletooth answered reflexively, then scowled. "You got captain's threads on your shoulders, O'Gallison. What are you doing booking passage on my ship?"
"Some baleful time spent away from the sea spat me out without a vessel. Got one supposed to find me somewhere 'tween here and Tulian, and I frankly cannae wait to be behind the wheel. Underway in an hour, ye said?"
"Yes, if the damned crew don't fuck things," Tangletooth spat, words clipped as she glared at the slaves on the docks.
"Crew, ye say?" Captain Nora's eyebrow rose for a moment. "And here I thought they were slaves, what with the chains about their ankles."
"Slaves, crew, it don't matter to them." Tangletooth leaned over the railing, voice raising to a shout. "So long as they do as I damn well please, that is!"
Captain Nora's posture was unchanged, yet radiated imperious displeasure at Tangletooth's threats.
"Permission to come aboard with my companions, Captain?" Nora asked.
"Permission granted," Tangletooth answered, rolling her eyes. She glared over at Sara and the others. "Well? Get a damn move on!"
Sara hurried up to the gangplank, hopping up with considerably less grace than Nora had showed. The suited woman herself dropped down beside Tangletooth, cane tapping like a metronome as she began touring the deck.
Sara ignored Tangletooth and the gaggle of officers around their Captain, going straight up to Nora. Evie and Hurlish were close behind.
They all three took a moment to watch Nora as she moved across the deck. Her posture was military in its precision, the constant tripping and stumbling now absent. Her expression, while no less cheerful, had firmed. Rather than a ditzy child, she looked like a businesswoman finally taking her rightful place behind an executive's desk, in the process of laying out every pen and every paper in exactly the right spot.
"Well that was a hell of a change," Sara greeted. "Must've been one evil-ass archfey that gave an Irishwoman a british accent."
"Aye. Talked like a feckless halfwit, I did," Nora said with a crazy grin. "Glad to be back to myself."
"Nice to meet you, Captain Nora," Hurlish said, extending her hand. "'Fraid to say I misjudged you."
"Nae, you didn't," Nora replied. Her voice had a new kind of cheer as she shook Hurlish's hand. More jagged, almost aggressive. "Just wasn't myself quite yet."
Sara heard a slap behind her, and Evie snickered. Sara glanced back, spotting one of Tangletooth's officers rubbing a bloodied cheek.
"What'd that guy say to earn that?" Sara asked Evie.
"Tangletooth told her first mate 'that's how you act like a damn captain', and he replied 'so why don't you act like that?'"
Sara laughed.
"Ah, the joys of dissonant command," Nora sighed, smirking. "I think I'll be finding my ship well before Tulian. Practically falling into my hands, it is."
"The sooner the better," Sara replied. "Wouldn't be hard to imagine a bitch like that working those slaves half to death on the trip over."
Nora's eyes glinted darkly. "Ye can count on her workin' them till they froth, Sara. The Crossed Glory's never had a late shipment under Tilisa's command, no storm or wind ever holdin' her back. Only one way that happens, and it ain't by taking it easy on your lads."
"And you know that how, exactly?"
"About a year ago I spent a week breakin' in to a harbormaster's office at night, readin' the logs by candlelight."
"Of course," Evie said drolly. "Who else would risk their life to get an encyclopedic recollection of cotton shipments and fee disputes?"
Nora flashed a cocky smile. "Any who want to be what I'm gonna be would do it, lass. And I'm still here today, ain't I?"
"Barely. You'd probably have been left for dead in that forest if we hadn't stumbled across you."
"And so I thank fine Amarat, whose intervention clearly shows the divine's personal vestment in my life's success," Nora said, saluting the sky. "Thank ye, Goddess."
"Okay, I got a follow-up question," Hurlish interjected, plowing past Nora's grandstanding. "That accent. I never heard one like it. Are you playing it up?"
"Perhaps."
"Why?"
"I like it. Adds to my mythos, y'see? Strange woman in a fine suit, speakin' funny while she tears your ship down around yer ears? Sticks in the brain, it does."
"You don't have a mythos, yet," Sara reminded her.
"And that's rarin' to change, no? My maiden voyage being the escortin' of this hemisphere's first Champion in two centuries is a mighty fine start to my biography."
"So you're a glory hound?" Sara asked, not quite accusatorially, but getting close to it. "Not really interested in freeing people, or any kind of cause?"
"Aye," Nora answered, unbothered by the admission. She walked to the far side of the ship, gripping the railing to stare out at the watery horizon. "I'm interested in the seas. The waves and the winds, and the roll of the ship 'neath my feet. That's what I'm here for. I don't think any one woman can know all the ocean has to offer, but I intend to see how close I can get. I got a good hundred and fifty years of life to toss into the waves, and I ain't gonna piddle about with 'em."
Sara joined her at the railing. "Fair enough. I can respect a focused goal."
"And what're yer goals, Champion?" Nora asked, taking her voice a touch lower, so it would be carried away by the breeze. Taking the cue, Evie and Hurlish backed off, stepping away to subtly discourage eavesdroppers. "Yer slave talks of freeing slaves, and you have Hurlish of Hagos lapping out o' yer hand. Heading to a dead city with fire in your eyes, talking of slaughtering men as casually as cattle. Ambition knows ambition, Champion, and we both got a fire in us that'll burn down the world."
Sara took a long breath, enjoying the view. The sun was a quarter above the horizon, just beginning to tinge the sky a tropical orange. Sailing ships of every kind slowly sliced through a painter's portrait, carried into the fading distance by the same breeze that tickled her scalp.
"You've read plenty of books, Captain O'Gallison. What did they say about ships that kept slaves for crew, like Tilisa does here?"
Nora scratched her chin thoughtfully. "They're cheap. They're fast, for a short while, then they're slower than any other. Their crews are quick to rout and quicker to mutiny. They're the tool of the desperate or short-sighted."
"So you won't keep slaves in your ship?"
Nora shook her head, her guttural accent fading to something more natural over the course of the conversation. "Nae. I'm not stupid, nor cruel. A knife in a sleeping captain's back is the quickest way to end a career, and I'm in it for the long haul."
Sara considered how much to say of her plans, feeling the salty breeze blow. With Amarat's Intuition she'd seen Nora's motivations in the simplest of terms, and so knew that the Captain truly cared nothing for anything beyond her ship. That simple reliability would have made her a tentative prospective ally if it was all Sara knew of her, but she'd also spent a couple days traveling with the woman, and Sara's new self was nothing if not perceptive. She had a strong gut feeling that Nora would never, under any circumstances, take a route less than what she deemed optimal. And if she viewed crews pressed into service as ineffective, she simply wouldn't do it. Ever.
"I'm founding a nation," Sara said, leaning close enough to whisper. "Turning old Tulian into something worth respecting, the first of its kind on the continent. No slaves, no serfs, no peasants. Just citizens, without rank. A republic, but one where everyone votes, not just the rich. And I'm going to have to defend it to the death, because they'll come for us. Sporatos, first and foremost, but everyone else, too. They'll hate what I promise, fearing it'll inspire something similar in their own people. And they'll be right to fear it, because I'll be trying to do just that."
Nora whistled low. "Some damn plan, Champion. Were you anything less than god-touched I'd call you mad."
"You're not wrong." Sara slid along the rail, until their resting elbows touched. "We'll be a coastal nation," she stated seriously. "They'll come for us from the sea."
"Aye. Tulian's cities were built with that in mind, but there's no doubt in my mind that their sea walls have crumbled."
"We'll need a navy, Nora."
"You will." Nora sniffed, scratching her nose with a thumb. "I ain't gonna be your admiral, Champion. Not gonna let myself be chained to responsibilities."
"You'll still need a home port. A base of operations. If you start sailing at the head of a fleet, which I can't imagine you won't, you'll need recruits. A home for them, somewhere for them to keep families and the money they earn."
"Aye."
"And you'll need supplies. Wood and metal to build your ships, and you'll need shipwrights and carpenters."
"Why can't I just get 'em elsewhere? Plenty of pirate lords headed fleets that they never paid a copper for."
"Because those won't be good enough for you. I may not know much about ships, but I remember what they looked like." Sara reached into her Bag of Holding and pulled her sword every so slightly free, gripping its pommel casually, as if just resting her hand there. With careful focus she cast her newest spell, muttering, "Ta-da."
Shimmering into vision above the back of her hand was a wooden sailing ship, one far taller and more complex than any that existed in the harbor around them. Sara could feel the spell tugging at her memory, reaching through time to pull details that she never could have seen from her half-mile glimpse while driving through Boston. Where the ships of Port Agrith sported lone, double, or rarely triple sails, the ten-inch floating illusion had a dozen billowing in an imaginary wind, ropes and pulleys spiderwebbing between them in a network of dizzyingly complex controls.
Nora peered closely, a dangerous glint in her eyes. Sara felt another tug, this time at the nape of her neck, and the spell deepened. Miniature crewmen burst into silent motion on the deck, mirroring the motions of an old video Sara hadn't even known she'd watched. She became certain that her Champion's status was burgeoning the spell's potential, plucking at her neurons to draw forth a long-discarded memory of her in history class, eyes drooping as the projector's speaker droned on about the War of 1812 and the USS Constitution's role in it. Sara hadn't even known the ship she'd once glanced at was more than a tourist trap replica, much less one she'd heard of before, but the spell dredged up that decade-old memory regardless.
Nora crouched to watch from closer, entranced, as the ship's sails fluttered, the entire thing leaning hard in a sharp turn. She was muttering a long string of complex terms Sara didn't understand, salivating over the display like a dog in front of a butcher shop's window. The ship sailed in slow circles through the air, rudder tilting and crew making furious gestures to one another.
Sara found even herself shocked when hatches rippled open along the right side, dark iron cannons sprouting forth. A flag was raised, tiny fuses were lit, and Sara's eyes widened.
She ripped her hand away from her sword, shaking it out to dispel the illusion. She wasn't sure if she managed to do it before Nora had seen the ship billow smoke and cannonballs, but she hoped so. Sara did not intend to introduce the horrors of gunpowder to this comparatively quaint civilization.
"Nae, nae!" Nora growled, snapping her hand around Sara's wrist. "Bring it back, woman, now!"
Sara ripped her hand from the Captain's grasp easily, a knowing smirk on her face. "You're smart, Nora, but even you can't have learned everything you need from watching that. You said your perfect memory works on text, which that wasn't. So if you want to know what I know, you'll base yourself in Tulian, and if need be, you'll find the notoriety you desire by defending her shores."
Nora glared furiously at her for a moment, breathing hard, then suddenly threw her head back, laughing boisterously. "Ah, you damnable woman!"
Evie and Hurlish, chatting with each other to look like they weren't guarding the meeting between Nora and Sara, glanced back curiously. Nora continued on, unconcerned with the attention.
"Shoulda known tangling with Amarat's Champion wouldn't end well for me. Sinti woulda beat me senseless for getting lured into a trap like that. Slashed my sails and left me dangling from your tow line, y'did."
"No hard feelings, I hope?"
"Not so long as you're doing more than teasing a gal, Champion. Get me behind the wheel of a ship like that and I'll build you a new island from your enemy's scuttled galleys."
Sara was about to say she was pleased to hear it when Tangletooth bellowed over at them.
"O'Gallison! Y'got some old codger at the dockside, saying he needs to speak to you!"
"Ah, that'll be Captain B'Leary," Nora smiled, frustration forgotten. "Sinti did say he was a determined lad."
Sara followed Nora to the other side of the deck, Evie and Hurlish folding in with their little group. Sure enough, the white-bearded man that Sara recognized from the previous evening's tavern was waiting beside the ship, sweating under the sun.
"O'Gallison!" He shouted. "You said you'd say more when you were on the sea! Well?"
"What're you asking after? I told you the old man said it wasn't your fault, didn't I?"
"But you also said you knew why. I need to hear it."
Nora glanced around at the milling audience, all of whom were in earshot. She took a deep breath, words spilling out in one long torrent.
"Can't say it quite so plainly here, but the gist of it ain't hard to grasp. Your flank carried nearly all the marines, and if you suffered the losses necessary to maintain formation the landing would have been a disaster. The real fault lied with the old man, who should have distributed assets more evenly, and made sure you had the freedom to maneuver. His habit of prioritizing rapid deployment regardless of an opposed landing's likelihood screwed everyone else. He never admitted such out loud, but I could see it eating at him every time it came up."
B'Leary's eyes bounced along with her words, tracing a battle map he'd long since committed to memory. "Aye. I see your point."
"Gonna stop blaming yourself?"
"Don't think I have it in me. But I'll stop drinking. I can do that for the old man."
"Good. You living 'round these parts, B'Leary?"
"I am."
"Don't move away. Might have a job for you, someday soon."
A whirlwind of emotions passed over the man's face. Excitement. Fear. Regret. Trepidation. Eagerness. Finally, whether naturally occurring or forced, he settled on determination and a soldier's crisp nod.
"Aye, ma'am. Don't know how much good an old codger like me'll do you, but I'll be here."
"Good man."
With that Nora shoved herself off the rail, just as the last slave had finished packing their goods into the hull. Tangletooth whistled a warbling note, calling for departure.
"Interesting choice, Nora," Sara said. "You sure he'll even be alive when you come back for him?"
"He ain't as old as he looks, the years just treated him hard. And if I'm certain about anything, it's pilfering Sinti's old captains for myself. Ourselves, I guess I ought to say. No finer navy raised before or since than the Darkwater Horizon."
"Funny name, Darkwater Horizon," Hurlish grunted, rejoining the conversation with Evie. "Almost familiar to me, and I never even saw the ocean before today. How'd they get it? Bragging they had so many ships they filled the horizon?"
"Just so," Nora answered. "And black sails on every ship. Sinti's navy coming in looked like a low-lying storm, it was said. And it could be fought just about as well."
"It was defeated, though," Evie noted. "Sinti was exiled for the loss of the whole fleet, if I recall correctly."
"It was, and he was. But anyone who blames him for it was a damn fool."
"How'd he lose?" Sara asked. "You talk about this guy like he was the best thing the world's ever seen."
Nora shook her head silently, not willing to answer. Evie replied for her.
"No one knows, Master. There were so few survivors found, and they've refused to say ever since. Most assume they were cursed somehow, compelled not to reveal it. Whatever it was, it cost the coalition opposing Sinti everything they had. So great was the cost that they couldn't hold their countries together, their kingdoms shattering. It's what turned the north into what it is today."
"And people blame one guy for this?" Sara scoffed. "That's ridiculous. If whatever it was ruined countries, how was one guy supposed to stop it?"
"'How could he not' is probably what people said," Hurlish guessed. "You heard how Nora was talkin' him up. He was the head honcho, the biggest, baddest bastard around. Who else were people gonna blame? Someone's gotta be the scapegoat."
"And he wasn't the type to deflect culpability, no matter how much he should've," Nora agreed. "But what's done is done. Let's find our quarters and wait for the next storm, shall we?"
"A storm?" Sara asked.
"Yes. An ideal time," Nora replied firmly, pointedly not specifying what a storm was an ideal time to be doing. Sara could imagine that the word 'mutiny' was likely to provoke a certain reaction from Tangletooth and her officers, should they overhear.
"What're the odds of one brewing up, though? Journey's not even a week."
"It's the Tulian coast, Sara," Nora grinned. "A storm'll come. Not a sailor here doesn't know it."
Sara looked up at the nigh cloudless sky, bright blue above and tinted orange beside the sun.
"If you say so."
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Together they descended into the ship's hull, squeezing past the bustling crew of slaves and indentured servants that were hurriedly lashing down everything within reach. The first deck was mostly reserved for slaves and goods, crates lashed to the floor as a divider between the rows of oarsmen benches. Hammocks were strewn throughout the long room, ratty little things that the oarsmen could unhook from the ceiling to sleep in above their assigned benches.
Nora seemed both delighted and disgusted by the Crossed Glory's strange design. The unusually deep hull, with the third deck entirely beneath the waterline, was apparently something of a novelty for a ship that relied so heavily on oars. It made rowing the ship far more arduous, but it was necessary if the captain wished to visit some of the larger river ports that apparently existed. Nora lamented the junk sails and their dromon-esque arrangement, preferring a carrack's more modern design philosophy. She seemed to think those were all complaints Sara would understand and empathize with, so she nodded along dutifully.
What irritated them all, of course, were the slaves. One by one they were tied to their seats, where they would stay for the whole of the journey. Food and water were brought to them at the captain's whim, and a single wooden bucket per row was provided for relieving themselves. The captain's and officer's quarters were above on the main deck, and were comparatively luxurious. Sara and the others would be staying in hastily curtained-off area on the same deck as the slaves, their hammocks less moth-eaten but certainly not comfortable.
One advantage of their lackluster dwellings on the Crossed Glory, a ship that was never meant for passengers, was its privacy. They were all the way at the front of the ship, or bow, as Sara learned it was called, and when the quartermaster wasn't preparing food right next to them they had it all to themselves. It was unlikely any of the officers would stroll all the way down unless they were feeding and watering the slaves, so they could plot in private.
Sara gave Evie the order to recall every detail of her mercenary trainer's lessons, specifically those regarding close-quarters fighting. The collar's enchantments immediately polished away the haze of intervening years. Nora, and to a lesser degree Hurlish, had been shocked that the order worked. Such fine control of a slave's mind wasn't supposed to be possible, the collar's dominion usually extending only to the body, but Sara had learned Amarat's blessings let her do more than others. It made sense to her, since Amarat was the Goddess of Connections, not just Passion, but Nora had seemed subtly disturbed by Sara's potential for toying with her slave's mind. As Evie began immediately drilling them all on the finer points of corridor fighting, Sara felt Nora's concern recede. The captain was a woman whose ethics drew from her practicality, not the other way around.
After a few hours of reviewing in somewhat-obscured terms the best way to fight their way through the hold, Sara decided she had a better role to play. Evie had long since established her superior swordsmanship over Sara, and it turned out that Hurlish was actually a Level above the catgirl. She described it as her sixth "Growth", which called to Sara's mind a tumor, but she kept her mouth shut, knowing how private the information Hurlish had offered her was. While most of the orc's specific Skills purportedly pertained to smithing, having two levels over Sara made her a better fighter by default, the gap wide enough by that point that only a massive dearth in prowess would have allowed Sara to come out on top. By the buffed-out scratches on Hurlish's armor and the dings in her hammer, Sara knew that there was no way she could compare.
So she'd excused herself from the plotting, figuring she had a better way to contribute. She walked out among the slaves, who'd rowed the ship out of the harbor to the beat of a bored-looking woman's drum. While not an officer, the drummer clearly wasn't a slave, and seemed to have been given the unenviable task of pounding out a beat for hours on end. Sara walked up to her, asking where the ship's freshwater was. After following a grunted gesture to the rearmost section of the bottom deck, she found a long pole with a metal cup attached to the end and a bucket beside a barrel of water. Whoever was in charge of watering the slaves would fill the cup and extend it to a rower, letting them drink. Sara filled a bucket with fresh water and stomped back up the stairs, pole cup in hand.
Th drummer had given her a disapproving look when she'd returned, as expected. Sara gave the woman a quick once-over. Bored-looking, wearing boring clothes and sporting a boring hairstyle, even the words coming out of her mouth seemed half-motivated.
"Cap'n says the slaves only get water when she says."
"You're not paid enough to care," Sara replied, slipping a silver coin from her pocket and offering it to the woman.
"A'right," the drummer replied, free hand deftly plucking the coin from Sara's hand. "But it's your ass if she gets mad."
"Noted."
Sara began walking slowly down the rows, giving each of the slaves as much water from the bucket as they pleased. She made a point to ask each person if they wanted a second drink, an offer many took her up on. She wanted to give every one of them a proper cup and let them drink it themselves, but it just wasn't possible without disturbing the rowing. She chatted with them to make up for the demeaning spoon-feeding, offering idle comments about news beyond the ship that she hoped would distract them from their predicament for a brief moment.
Privately, though, her mind was churning. Every one of the officers she'd seen above had been armed, and most sported enough scars to suggest they knew how to handle their weapons. While taking the ship was absolutely possible, since Evie had said it was, she was beginning to suspect that doing it without innocent casualties would be achingly difficult.
So between the brief conversations, she reviewed her new Skills. Sara had actually leveled up some time around killing Lord Vesta, but the author hadn't found a good place to bring it up since then. Whether the extra level had been earned from freeing Kate or killing the Lord himself she wasn't sure, but she at least had her confirmation that sex wasn't a pre-requisite. She was now Level Four, a rate of growth astonishingly impossible for anyone that wasn't a Champion. In a few short months she was nearing the same level as Evie, who'd secretly worked herself half to death for years under a mercenary swordmaster, as well as in the lessons of extravagant academic tutors her mother had hired.
Sara's newest spells were Empathic Link and Heightened Disguise, both of which had plenty of exciting possibilities, and not just in the bedroom. More interestingly, however, was the change to her class. The small label had changed, and a brief subtext was now present.
Bindtwister of Amarat
She who breaks unjust bonds as easily as she forges pure ones. My Champion has found her quest. May her blazing eyes melt cool iron. May her tender gaze warm cold hearts.
A class with descriptive text was something that she'd confirmed with Evie and Hurlish to be unheard of. The fact that the description seemed to be personally written by Amarat and addressed to her specifically? Equally surreal to her companions, and Sara shared their disbelief in that regard. Her brief meeting with the goddess had been... overwhelming.
She still often found her mind wandering back to it. The second she'd chosen Amarat for her patron the other gods had disappeared, leaving her alone with a goddess. The face that had bore down on her seemed to stretch to the borders of reality, like she'd been looking at a planet from above. She'd been torn apart by the force of Her words, then felt herself reassembled, atom by atom, soul reknit into the self she wore now. The Goddess' breath had been intoxicating, filling her to the brim with notions of sex, contention, and the heat of sultry eyes meeting across a smoky bar, or locked on a blood-soaked battlefield.
And now that entity, so unfathomably powerful, was addressing her personally once more. The abstract idea of her being a divinity's Champion was one thing, but to have that pounded home was awesome in the traditional sense. Filling her with awe and terror, like a child barely out of the cradle stumbling up to the crumbling lip of the Grand Canyon. She was glad that Amarat seemingly approved of her quest, but the last part, 'warm cool hearts', was a little bit like getting told by the Grand Canyon to go get laid. She was planning on doing it anyway, but knowing that her sex life was on the radar of an entity capable of snuffing out stars like candles was... disconcerting, to say the least.
Sara was forced from her reverie by a triple-beat from the drummer, every slave's back tensing as they threw themselves into their rowing. Sara looked about, confused, until she spotted the boots of Captain Tangletooth descending the stairs.
Sara quickly dropped the pole cup and water bucket, shoving them under the nearest slave's bench. The slave obligingly tucked them back, hiding the water bucket with their legs.
"You!" Tangletooth called towards Sara. "Bring me O'Gallison, and any of her troop whose hands who are familiar with a weapon."
"Why? Are we under attack?" Sara called back. Rather than shout across the grunting slaves, Tangletooth stomped closer, one of her more grizzled officers following close behind.
"No, we are not, but a ship has been tailing us since we left port. I would rather--" Tangletooth paused and leaned around Sara, expression shifting in a difficult to parse emotional combination. "Ah, O'Gallison, there you are. Have your companions come up onto the deck, yourself included."
Sara noted with some interest that Tangletooth's animosity towards Nora, while still present, was suppressed. She hadn't pegged the woman as the type to have the sense required to set aside grudges when the occasion called for it, but she supposed the woman wouldn't have survived as Captain for long without some capacity for reason.
"A ship following us out of Port Agrith, y'said?" Nora prompted. She waved to Evie and Hurlish behind her. "C'mon, girls."
"This is a discussion best had above, O'Gallison."
"Aye. Lead the way."
Tangletooth stomped back the way she'd come, slaves shrinking away as she passed. Sara saw the fear in their eyes. She'd known she was going to kill Tangletooth, but the slave's expressions helped her feel firmer in the decision.
When they were finally up on the deck, out of earshot of any slave, Tangletooth pointed to the rear, handing a spyglass to Nora. Sara could just barely make out the silhouette of one of the fancy magical ships from Port Agrith, thin hull balancing atop the waves like a water spider.
"Been following us like a hound, she has. Set off as soon as we did."
"Raised some flags, I presume?" Captain Nora asked Tangletooth, adjusting the spyglass.
"Aye. Claim they're peaceful, but runnin' a skeleton crew, which is why they're slow. Supposedly hugging the coast till the Apethen Rocks, then making for the east."
"Skimmer like that, running without crew? Don't buy it. They carry coin enough to hire half of Agrith's sailors."
"Which is why I didn't have you come up here alone, O'Gallison." Tangletooth turned to Sara and her companions. "Which of you are fighters?"
Evie and Hurlish looked to Sara, unsure if they should reveal their skills, which wasn't something Sara had any idea about, so she looked to Captain Nora. The woman nodded subtly, unconcerned.
"We all are," Sara answered. "What are you looking for?"
"A few more hands ready to get dirty, need be. Gods only know what a magecraft keeps in store for minnows like us, but I'll want all hands on deck should things come to blows."
Sara suddenly realized that she had no idea what ship-to-ship combat looked like in a world before cannons. There was a single ballista mounted in the center of the Crossed Glory's deck, but that wouldn't be enough to do substantial damage to a whole vessel. Would they be firing arrows at each other, or using the ship's ram, or trying to board?
"That it, then? You're just letting us know to be ready?" Sara said, hoping to avoid revealing her ignorance.
"Yes. Be ready, have your weapons on hand. If you hear a whistle, come up armed or don't come up at all."
"Simple enough," Sara said. She reached under her shirt at the waist, drawing from her Bag of Holding Hurlish's massive hammer. With a huff of effort she passed it to the orc woman, then drew her own weapon out.
Tangletooth's eyes grew every so slightly wide at the sight of the black blade, the mark of an enchanted weapon. "You aren't just a fighter, are you, girl?"
"Yep," Sara agreed. "I'm a damn good fighter." She nodded to her companions. "And they're better."
Tangletooth glanced across their group and scowled, shaking her head. "Magic weapons on my ship. I ought to have whoever sold you a berth thrown off, then yourselves after 'em before you get any bright ideas."
"Stupid move, that," Captain Nora piped up cheerily. "That magecraft'll gut your ship like a pig, leave the crew for shark chum. With us, you might just live."
"Bah," Tangletooth spat. "Fine. But I got my eyes on you four, understand?"
"Aye, aye, we understand," Captain Nora said, tossing Tangletooth her spyglass. "Don't worry, we'll save your ship for ye, captain."
Tangletooth's knuckles grew white around her spyglass, teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. "Watch yourself, O'Gallison."
"I thought ye were doing that for me, Tilisa?"
There was a cracking sound from the spyglass. Tangletooth spun on a heel, stomping away. The officer who'd been following her hung back for a moment.
"Tilisa, you said?" He whispered to Nora in a thick, almost west-african accent.
"Aye. Her name, which she doesn't seem fond of."
The man smirked. "Can't imagine why. Means gentle flower." He tipped his hat to Nora, then the rest of them. "Appreciate your help, but hope it won't be necessary."
"It will be, First Mate," Captain Nora said matter-of-factly. "Ain't no other reason a skimmer'd sail that slow. She's just waitin' till we're far enough from port."
The man's expression grew dark. "All the same."
With that, he retreated.
"You mean that, Nora?" Hurlish asked, twirling her hammer. "Or were you just tryna rile him up, make things easier on us?"
"Weren't lyin' to him, no. I expect they'll attack first thing in the morning, sailing in with the rain." Nora's lips split in a fierce grin. "But the middle of a stormy fight seems the perfect time for a Captain to slip and fall on her sword, wouldn't ye say?"
Notes:
Been debating about how best to handle the story as I've gotten more invested in it. The sex scenes are one of the most time consuming parts to write, and often require a change of story pacing to incorporate. I'm planning to spread them out a bit more, but make them longer, and give them more meaning in the story. Plenty of suggestive content in between those scenes, though, so don't worry. It's not like any of these characters could keep it in their pants for half an hour, anyway.
Chapter 15: The Fourth Creed
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara was woken by Evie before dawn, a gentle tickle under her chin from the catgirl curled in her arms. The worn hammock could barely support the both of them, and for a bleary moment Sara thought the creaking groan of timber boards was their hammock finally breaking loose.
As she came to her senses, Sara realized that it was the entire ship groaning. Her hammock hung stable while the entire deck rolled around her, pitching back and forth at random. Drops of water drummed upon the ceiling, both from the growing storm and thrown from crashing waves. A peek around their privacy curtain showed through the portholes that it was still pitch black outside. Despite the early hour, some of the rowers had begun to crawl down from their hammocks, probably veterans who knew what was coming.
"Ready for a fight, Master?" Evie asked with a yawn.
"Always," Sara answered, more confidently than she felt. The ship around her heaved to and fro, and Sara'd already decided she'd rather have fought on slick ice. Evie slid off of Sara's chest and landed on the deck, feline balance leaving her stable as stone. "That's not fair," Sara lamented. "You're half cat, Evie. You should hate being on the water."
"I don't have fur, Master," she sniffed. "A true catfolk might detest the ocean, but my only complaint is what the salt does to my hair."
"Fuck botha ya," Hurlish groaned from below. There wasn't a hammock on the ship that cold hold the seven-foot orc, so she'd been forced to sleep on their rolled out camping pad. "Dunno how I ain't puked yet."
Sara hopped down beside the woman with a smarmy grin, clutching the hammock for stability. "Surely you mean you're gonna hurl--"
"Can it, shorty," Hurlish grunted. "I ain't sick enough to not beat your ass."
Sara laughed, though she made an effort to keep her voice down. She wasn't sure if any of the slaves were still sleeping, but she'd rather not take the risk of waking them. Nora had said the magecraft would attack at dawn, and Sara held that prediction like gospel truth. The rowers would need their rest more than any of them.
Speaking of whom, Sara turned to the hammock beside her.
"Nora, you awake?" Sara asked, poking the woman's curled body.
"Aye, aye," she responded tiredly. "Never slept, matter of fact. Too busy getting ready."
"For the fight?"
"What else?" Nora rolled over, book still pressed to her nose. The title was Reports of Engagements with Carrion Magecraft, though why Nora was reading something she surely had memorized Sara didn't know. "Damnable job we got ahead of us, lassies. That skimmer ought to have this ship dead to rights."
"That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
"I ain't got magic powers like you, Champion. I know a whole lot, that's for damn sure, and most of what I know tells me to throw Tilisa overboard and haul up a white flag."
"Y'don't think we stand a chance?" Hurlish asked from below, forearm thrown over her eyes.
"Oh, there's a chance. It's a candle's chance in a hurricane, but it's a chance alright."
"Wonderful," Hurlish grumbled.
"Any of your books account for a Champion?" Sara asked, taking her hand off the hammock to give herself practice standing on her own. "I may not be tossing ships around on my own, but I've got some tricks up my sleeve."
"Up your pants leg, more like," Nora chuckled, still reading her book. "Nae, Sara, they don't take into account someone like you, which is why I'm thinking we have a chance." She turned a page. "Though what I want to know is why a damned Carrion Skimmer is chasing the Crossed Glory, of all things."
"Not hard to imagine why," Hurlish said. "Money, same as everyone else."
"A magecraft resorting to piracy?" Nora snorted derisively. "Cost of their ship could buy a fleet of ours. That's a proper navy ship, too, so either the captain's gone mad or someone aboard our ship has a bounty on their head." Nora turned another page. "Probably you, Sara. Can't imagine Tilisa managing any victory that'd warrant a magecraft sent after her."
"Me? I've only been in this world for a few months."
"You have been awfully busy, Master," Evie said. "Maybe Lord Andisan's family has seen through our lie."
"Who?"
"The Lord you killed shortly after leaving the capitol, Master. We claimed his guard was an assassin."
"Oh yeah, that dickhead." Sara wobbled to one side as the ship rocked particularly hard, catching herself on a wall. "He was some nobody though, wasn't he? As much as a Lord can be, anyway."
"Fairly irrelevant as these things, go, yes." Evie shifted to address Nora. "Just how exceptional are these magecraft? Are they something one could bribe away for a personal grudge?"
"The Carrion Navy likely only has a hundred or so, a fraction of their navy. As a group of them were already in the harbor, I suppose it's not impossible for someone with the right connections to set one after you, but it'd be impressive. The sort of favor traded between nations, not men."
"Unlikely to be the Andisans, then," Evie hummed. "I was familiar with every half-important family in Sporatos, and theirs was never brought to my attention. Some of my mother's old rivals could have been tracking me since my enslavement, still bent on revenge, or perhaps Nora unknowingly made enemies of some important captain in her travels."
"Does it matter, though?" Sara asked. "They're attacking us. If it turns out it's Tilisa they want, we'll hand her over with a bow on top. If it's one of us we'll get to killing."
"Aye," Nora agreed with a sigh, shutting her book. "Y'make a good point, Sara. We can't outrun a skimmer, so it's at their whim that the battle begins. What happens after that we'll know when it happens."
"You've got a plan though, right? You spent the whole night awake doing more than just lying there, I assume."
"Oh, I've got more plans than I can count." Nora finally heaved herself out of her hammock, landing on her remaining leg. Though the ship swayed violently beneath her, her balance made Evie look clumsy. "Ready to hear 'em?"
"So long as you keep the sailor jargon to a minimum," Sara said as she began pulling her armor from the bag of holding. The runes she'd had emplaced on it let the metal bend like putty while she slid it on, snapping into rigid shape as soon as it was in its proper place. In a matter of seconds she was armored from head to toe.
"So that's how you got it on so fast the other day," Hurlish said as she stood and stretched. "I'll have to get me something like that for my own gear."
"It cost Vesta three thousand gold."
"Huh. Maybe not."
Sara tossed the orc her breastplate, setting her massive hammer on the deck. Evie began donning her own leather armor as Nora began outlining the first of several plans, a giddy excitement creeping into the woman's voice that was utterly unbefitting the dismal weather. Despite the way that each of her plans came with detailed caveats explaining how likely it was for them to fail and die, Sara couldn't help but find Nora's mood infectious. The captain was finally living her dream, and if they succeeded today, her legend would start with a bang.
Sara, on the other had, just liked fighting. She kept a firm grip on her sword, walking back and forth to accustom herself to the roll of the ship. Judging by the occasional curious flicker that passed over Nora's face when she glanced her way, Sara guessed that her smile was less 'encouraging' and more 'predatory'.
Oh well. It was important to be honest with your friends. Sara smiled wider, twisting her grip on the sword's wooden handle.
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The whistle blew just after dawn. Sara and the others were halfway up the stairs before the shrill note finished, storm rain immediately clattering against the steel of their armor. Only Nora remained unarmored, the wooden stick she used for a cane her only defense. With how little the woman had used it for balance since being on the sea, Sara wondered why she even still carried it.
Sara shaded her eyes from the storm, searching the bustling deck for Tangletooth. She found her atop the elevated building at the ship's back, spyglass pointed towards the horizon while she shouted orders at the man driving the wheel. Sara stomped up the stairs to the sound of a clatter of wood, oar ports opening along both sides of the Crossed Glory.
"Tangletooth!" Sara shouted over the rain. "They're attacking?"
"Damn well looks like it!" The woman yelled back. "Ran messages up the mast saying they only want to parley, but I'm no damn fool. No one parleys in a storm."
"The Carrion Navy follows the Salian Accords, Cap'n," Nora calmly said, guttural Irish accent crystal clear despite the wind and rain. "If they say they want to parley, they will."
"You willing to stake your life on that, O'Gallison?"
"Nae, I was just suggestin' ye get us all killed for the hell of it," Nora deadpanned.
Tangletooth muttered something that was taken away by the wind, then dropped her spyglass with a scowl. "Oars back in!" She shouted below. "We're gonna parley with a damn magecraft, I guess!"
The eyes of the officers milling about the deck widened, but none questioned the order. They began shouting out instructions to their various underlings, one jogging below to relay the order. In moments the sails had been adjusted and the oars pulled back inside, the ship slowing.
There was a palpably nervous energy to the deck as they waited for the skimmer approach, and the reasons for it were many. The sun lit the clouds just enough to see the deck by, but achieved little more. The black waves that pounded the hull were nearly invisible until they broke in a spray of white seafoam, making it even more difficult to adjust to the ship's rocking. The sails were sagging with the weight of rainwater, the sailors in charge of adjusting them having to heave with all their strength to achieve what should have been routine.
Superseding the weather, though, was the magecraft. It bobbed over the tops of the swells calmly as it sliced towards them in a neat arc, lining up to come just abreast of the Crossed Glory's left side. If Sara hadn't spent the last few hours getting lectured on all the dangers expected from a Carrion Skimmer, she wouldn't have understood the crew's skittish glances towards the incoming ship.
But Nora had explained in excruciating detail what fighting a magecraft was like, and now Sara felt those same urges in her. By Nora's explanation, the skimmer was a wolf among sheep, a vessel that dozens of mages spent a year or more layering enchantments onto. It was this world's answer to a battleship, a single ship intended to fight dozens. It could fling chemical fire that burned underwater, accelerate like a sprinting racehorse, and was always accompanied by a veteran mage, whose spells fell like hail upon enemy ships. Like the rest of the crew, some animalistic part of Sara's mind seemed convinced that it was best to look at the ship only from the corner of her vision, like it was a predator that would lunge for her throat the moment she made eye contact.
Sara fought through the impulse. She stood at the railing with both hands gripping the wood, watching the magecraft approach. Evie and Hurlish were on either side of her, while Nora stayed on the opposite side of the wheel from Tangletooth, less than subtly implying their equal authority. The slaver captain bit her tongue and allowed it. Only an idiot would ignore Nora's plentiful advice, and Tangletooth's crew recognized that. Ordering a seasoned captain tossed overboard in the midst of a crisis would start a mutiny on the spot, and Tangletooth knew it.
Just as she knew that Nora and Sara didn't intend to leave her as captain for long. Every shouted order from Nora to the crew made it clearer, and Sara's continued presence on the upper deck was as much of a threat as it was practical positioning. They were sitting atop a power struggle powder keg, and the results of the parley would spark it easier than any flame.
"They're running up new signal flags, cap'n!" A woman cried from above, clinging to the rear sail with a spyglass in hand.
"What're they saying?" Tangletooth bellowed up at the woman.
"Still raising 'em!"
The entire deck waited with bated breath, watching the magecraft creep closer. It was in plain sight now, and Sara probably could have read the message herself if she'd known the symbols. As one flag was run up after the other, the lookout began to call out their meaning.
"Requesting... delivery of goods... person, not material..."
There was a longer pause as the lookout screwed their face up, thinking hard. Sara could see that the last flag raised was pink, but little detail.
"Who are they damn well requesting, woman?!" Tangletooth roared.
"I dunno, cap'n!" The woman shouted down apologetically. "It's just the symbol of Amarat!"
All around the deck looked at one another, baffled, save for four women. Nora shook her head in irritation, while Hurlish and Evie stepped forward to place themselves between Tangletooth and Sara. Hurlish's hand reached up to rest on her hammer's haft over her shoulder, while Evie's rapier blinked into existence.
"What in the thricedamned world does that mean?" Tangletooth roared, face reddening with rage. She spun to Nora, who was the closest person not obviously confused. "What do you know, O'Gallison?"
"There's a Champion of Amarat on your ship, Tilisa," Nora stated in a bored sigh, "And the magecraft wants to take her. Will you oblige them?"
Tangletooth's head immediately whipped towards Sara, scar no longer responsible for the sneer crawling up her face. She took two menacing steps towards Sara before Nora's hand subtly caught her, the gesture hidden by their bodies from the rest of the crew. Though Sara couldn't hear what Nora said, she saw the woman tilt her head towards Hurlish and Evie, who still stood protectively before Sara.
Tangletooth shoved Nora's hand off her coat and continued forward, though less threateningly. She walked right up to Sara, staring her in the eye over Evie's head. Sara looked down at the captain, waiting patiently.
"Champion of Amarat, eh?" Tangletooth growled.
Sara nodded.
"You know what they damn well want with you?"
Sara shook her head.
"You going to play nice, or you going to stab me in the back the second you get a chance?"
Sara cocked her head, thinking for a moment. "I'll play nice," she decided. "If it comes down to a fight, there's no point in having chaos with the crew in the middle of it."
"And after?"
"If we live?" Sara shrugged. "I don't see why it matters to you. You couldn't stop me from doing what I want anyway."
The clenched muscles in Tangletooth's jaws jumped. Sara could see the burning desire in the woman to draw her sidesword and spill Sara's guts on the deck, but Tangletooth wasn't a fool. Evie and Hurlish were just waiting for an excuse. Sara took her hand off her sword's hilt to cross her arms, waiting to see what Tangletooth would do.
"Fine," the captain finally spat. "But if I'm deciding between fighting a magecraft and handing your holiness over, you're gone in a heartbeat."
"That decision will kill you, Tilisa," Sara chided, shaking her head. "You're better off slitting your own throat than fighting me."
"I'll have you in chains, Champion," Tangletooth whispered, rage turning her voice quavery. She spat on the deck between Sara's feet, then began stomping back to the wheel. "Prepare for parley! We're dropping anchor if the waves allow it, so get your lazy asses ready!"
Sara felt a tug in her gut, a preturnatural certainty filling her. Sara had pushed too far. Tangletooth would betray her the second it was possible, venomous spite overwhelming reason.
Sara sighed.
"Evie, kill her."
Evie lunged forward, rapier reflecting the red flash of her collar. The silvery weapon lanced through the small of Tilisa's back, severing her spine. Evie retracted the sword before Tilisa's collapsing corpse could drag it from her hands, flicking the blood off with a twist of her wrist.
The entire ship was silent for one second. Then two seconds. Then three. Everyone had frozen, all staring at the watery blood seeping from their old captain's corpse.
Nora was the first to act. She stepped up to the helm, knocking aside the man who'd been at it. The moment her skin grazed the wooden wheel, time stood still.
Sara felt a shiver run down her spine, a sudden weight pressing down on her shoulders. It was mirror image of the moment she'd been summoned to this world, the force of a god's focus pressing down on the ship. Men and women stumbled, some dropping to a knee, while the wind rose to a howling pitch, the waves around the ship pressed flat as glass. Her nose was choked by the scent of brine and sulfur, ears popping painfully as a titanic pressure wrapped around her skull. Sara didn't know what was looking at them right now, but it wasn't Amarat. It was something that forced into her mind images of the black depths far beneath the hull, and the slithering beasts that resided therein.
The only one unaffected was Nora. Her voice rang out, echoing above the wind.
"Raise every sail to full, tack to twenty three degrees! Ready ballistae oil, and haul sand from below! Archers to the stern, pikes to the port! Run up refusal to comply!"
Reality snapped back into focus. Rain fell once more, the pressure vanished. Most of the crew reflexively burst into motion, taking to the orders, while some remained frozen, petrified.
The trio of officers closest to Nora, unfortunately, were among those who recovered their wits. They drew swords, marching up behind Nora, whose attention was focused ahead. Sara sprinted towards them, holding up a hand.
"Drop your wea--"
Hurlish reached them first. The uppercut of her hammer pulped the leading man's chest, flinging his remains over the railing. Evie appeared at the orc's side, the only one present that knew why the second woman dropped bonelessly to the ground.
Sara reached the third man just as he began to register the fate of his fellows, trying to skid to a stop on the slick wood. She threw out her boot, snapping the man's knee sideways. He dropped with a howl, rusty saber clattering to the deck. Sara booted it away, then began dragging his still screaming self towards the railing.
"Want to see if you can swim with a broken leg?" She asked him over his screams. The man shook his head, uselessly battering at her arms. "Then I'd suggest you stay put," Sara told him. She pulled a length of rope from her bag, tying his hands to the railing.
"Anyone else have objections?" Hurlish bellowed down at the remaining officers. Those few that had drawn their weapon looked from Tilisa's corpse, to Hurlish's bloody hammer, then to the still-approaching magecraft.
They sheathed their weapons.
"Ship is yours, Captain Nora!" Sara hollered, jogging past her. "Do whatever you got to do. I'm going below."
Sara hopped over the railing, trusting Nora's continued protection to Hurlish and Evie, as they'd planned. She made her way to the stairs, ignoring the stares of crew she passed. Sara was thrown against a wall by the ship's violent rocking as she descended, nearly tumbling head first when the entire ship pitched backward, rising up on a swell. It seemed the storm was getting worse, and they were suffering far worse than the magecraft.
When Sara stumbled down the stairs, holding a black sword and dressed in esoterically styled armor, the woman at the drum nearly pissed herself. She fell off her stool, hands flailing as she clawed away from Sara. She rolled her eyes, dragging the woman back by her coattails.
"Chill out! I'm not gonna kill anyone!"
"B-b-b-b-b--"
"Are you a captain? No? Then relax. Sit back down and get ready to drum."
Sara deposited her on her stool, then kicked the drum and drumstick back over. It was honestly remarkable that the drummer still managed to look boring while scared for her life, but even the way she cowered was unexceptional.
Sara put a hand to the low ceiling, stabilizing herself as she looked over the rows of slaves. Most were gripping their oars with fatalistic apathy, unconcerned with living or dying. Some few, the youngest or most recent additions to the crew, had the beginnings of fear on their face, but even they were kept passive by the ropes binding their wrists. The entire group waited with calloused hands on their oars, silent and dead-eyed.
Sara's stomach twisted at the sight. She walked up to the first row, drawing her sword. The slaves on the bench pressed as far away from her as their binds allowed, but Sara held up a hand.
"I'm freeing you all, if you'll let me" she told them, reaching out with the weapon. "There's a Magecraft bearing down on us, and I'm not going to go into a fight with anyone in ropes. Understand me?"
Though doubtful, the first man put his wrists forward. Sara cut the rope, jerking his hands a bit as she did so.
"Why?" The man asked.
"It's what any decent person would do," Sara said, gesturing to the next slave on the bench. "C'mon, show me your hands. This'll take all day otherwise."
The next slave presented their wrists, then the next, and soon the silent dreariness that held the deck was lifted. People began whispering to one another, louder and louder, speculating about a million and one things. As Sara moved through the rows she overheard people questioning her armor, her reasoning, wondering about the approaching magecraft, wondering if they'd make it through the day to enjoy their newfound freedom, all among bits of general clamor and excitement. As Sara was nearing the back row there was a whistle from high above, the sign for the rowers to make ready.
All across the deck there was a clatter of wood as hand gripped the oars, unbound. Rope burns and flaking skin were visible on every wrist, but not a single rope.
"There's a magecraft coming for us!" Sara bellowed as she jogged back towards the top deck stairs. "It's faster than us, stronger than us, and ready to kill us all!" She took two steps up the stairs, then turned around, flipping her greatsword out. "Anyone that has experience fighting, come with me! The rest of you are free to do as you please, but we'll need rowers if we want to live to see tomorrow!"
With that she turned and ran back up the stairs, rain pelting her helmet once more. The Magecraft was nearly upon them, the deck dotted with a sparse assortment of heavily armed soldiers. They were a hundred yards away, closing fast.
"Pikes make ready to repel grapples!" Captain Nora yelled. A line of sailors in tattered clothing had taken positions along the side of the Crossed Glory, holding an assortment of broken oars, planks, sabers, and long knives. Hardly the pikes that Captain Nora had ordered be used, but Sara doubted there was much else on hand.
Sara joined the line, greatsword out and ready. Around her former slaves began to filter in, wielding an impoverished mix of cutlery and improvised wooden clubs. In thirty seconds or less the number of fighters on the two decks went from vaguely equal to massively weighted in the Crossed Glory's favor, Sara's allies outnumbering the magecraft's troops three-to-one. Nothing could change how out-equipped they were, but it at least made the fight possible.
Sara watched the magecraft glide towards them, bouncing lightly over swells that the Crossed Glory crashed through. The distance went from a hundred yards, to seventy, to fifty, now within bow range, if they'd had any. Sara bounced from foot to foot, waiting for Captain Nora's order. They'd planned and planned, but it all ultimately came down to Captain Nora's next order. She was the only one on the ship that had any idea what to do, and Sara had thrown all her trust behind the feytouched Captain.
"Rowers, sails, hard to port! We're ramming the bastards!"
Sara tensed, leaning forward. Captain Nora had told them that none but another magecraft had caught a skimmer with a ram, but she was trying it anyway. It meant that Captain Nora thought their circumstances as desperate as one could get.
Oars shot out from the hull, spearing into the water. The waves were fierce enough that there was a staccato ripple of shattering wood as the oars snapped, yet enough survived that Sara stumbled to the right, the ship's momentum arresting. The drumbeat began below, just as something flashed before Sara's eyes.
Hidden Ability: Champion's Inspiration
The Champion of Amarat reaches out to the souls of those around her. Whether through dance, speech, or song, she may show a truth that fans the embers of fading spirits into roaring bonfires.
In a single motion every rower down below heaved, a hundred voices roaring in unison. Oars dug into the water like nails clawing at the edge of a cliff, dozens of whirlpools forming as they ripped chunks from the ocean's surface. The sudden deceleration finally threw Sara from her feet, as it did nearly everyone else. The ship creaked and groaned as it whipped about, waves crashing high over the bow. Only Captain Nora, up at the wheel, remained standing, eyes burning madly she watched the magecraft.
"Rowers full ahead!" She bellowed, words ringing over the storm like struck crystal. Even before the drumbeat changed the oars shifted to a new rhythm, both sides moving in impossible unison. Sara stumbled backward as she tried to regain her feet, the Crossed Glory accelerating as the wind caught her sails.
"Yes! YES!" Captain Nora exulted, a witch's insane cackle bouncing over the waves. Sara saw why just in time to grab the railing, bracing for impact.
The impossible happened. The Crossed Glory, a bastard child of discordant designs, became the first in history to strike a magecraft. The skimmer had spun like a ballerina to avoid their ram, but no captain could have been prepared for a Champion's abilities to spread themselves among the enemy crew. The metal-capped ram crunched into the hull of the magecraft, just at the rear of the ship. Sara could see water begin to spill into the exposed hull as the magecraft ripped itself free, hook-tipped ropes flying from its deck.
"Pikes to starboard!" Captain Nora yelled, belatedly adjusting for the new relative positions of the two ships. Sara joined the rest as they stormed to the opposite side of the deck, the grapples landing in a hail of metal thumps. Sara stumbled upon one, which had embedded itself in the deck, and swiped downward at it.
Her sword scraped off in a spray of sparks, shearing away the fake rope exterior to reveal a thin metal wire. Sara took the weapon in both hands and swung again, harder.
It was no use. Her sword scraped off the wire in another spray of sparks, the half-inch cable too tough to be cut. Sara looked up, seeing everyone else having similar results.
"Captain!" Sara yelled. "The ropes can't be cut!"
"Ready to repel boarders!" She hollered back, that cerulean madness still not quite gone from her eyes. In fact, Sara realized, it was literal. The Captain's eyes were being lit from within, her brown irises replaced by a caribbean blue. Runes had begun to take shape across her exposed skin, flowing in neon eddies.
Are those fucking Champion's Runes? Sara thought, gaping. She shook her head. Gonna have to unpack that one later.
Sara turned back to the magecraft, which was rapidly being hauled closer. She spent precious seconds wracking her mind, trying to work her way down the flowchart of Captain Nora's orders from before the fight began. Premature mutiny? Check. Successful ram? Check. Grapples unable to be repelled? Check.
Which told Sara what she had to do next. She abandoned her place in line, replaced by a muscled rower wielding an officer's stolen saber, and sprinted up the stairs behind the wheel, giving her the most height. Captain Nora was still flanked by Evie and Hurlish, who'd been keeping a close eye on the captain while Sara was away. Judging by the absence of any new bodies, nobody had tried anything stupid.
Sara paced out a distance from the railing, stopping when she thought she had enough distance. Hurlish walked up beside her, putting a hand on Sara's shoulder. "Ready?" The orc asked, grinning down.
"Hell no!" Sara replied, matching the grin. "You?"
"Always!"
Sara sprinted forward, Hurlish thumping along beside her. At the edge of the deck she hopped up, planting both feet on the railing, then pushed off, sailing through the air with Hurlish beside her.
At the apex of their leap Sara pointed her sword downard, aiming at the skimmer's deck.
"Warp!"
Sara flashed forward, thumping onto the deck with Hurlish at her side. She immediately ducked as the orc roared, throwing her hammer out in a circle. Sara felt the wet crunch reverberate through the decking, the closest unaware sailor dying with hardly a yelp.
Sara stood, pressing her back to Hurlish, and raised her sword.
"Champion of Amarat here! Come and get it!"
A dozen heads whipped towards her, shocked expressions visible behind their helmets. Sara snapped her sword between forms at the front of the skimmer, urging her runes to glow once more. Though they'd never activated on purpose before, Sara was willing to bet Amarat had the same respect for dramatic flare as she did. As expected, her powers obliged her, pinkish-purple light leaking from the seams of her armor.
Unfortunately, rather than rush her in a disorganized mob as Sara had hoped, the soldiers looked to their commanding officer. A man wearing a plumed helmet snapped his hand up, giving a series of signals Sara didn't recognize. Immediately the soldiers drew shields and gladiuses as they collapsed in on one another, forming a wall six wide and two deep. They began marching towards Sara in lockstep, swords hidden behind interwoven shields.
"Uh, Hurlish?" Sara asked, taking a step back. "Any idea how to deal with this?"
"Hmph?" Hurlish grunted, turning around. "Ah, fuck."
"So that's a no?"
Hurlish and Sara stood shoulder to shoulder, matching the formation's forward pace by walking backwards. They were at the front of the ship, and would be running out of room soon, but she didn't know what else to do. Sara had never fought a coordinated group before, and her inbuilt instincts only told her that she was fucked. Any attack on one would expose her to the others, and while her armor might protect her from a few blows, a weapon would eventually find its way past.
Just as Sara began debating using another spell to escape, there was a shouted command from the Crossed Glory.
"Ballistae, target those clumped bastards!"
The formation of soldiers had just enough time to look to their right before a six-foot bolt of wood speared through their center, shattering into wooden shrapnel as it crashed against the deck. Three were dead on the spot, gaping holes torn in their torso, while several others were mangled by a glancing blow or shrapnel. The officer immediately began dragging the wounded away from the fight, a move that left her with an odd sense of respect for the man. He shouted a word Sara didn't recognize, causing the formation to break into groups of two, a less tempting target for the ballistae.
Sara figured she could probably handle two.
She charged forward, greatsword held to her hip with the tip bouncing off the wood behind her. As soon as she reached the first group she swung it in a vicious uppercut, aiming for the legs.
The woman soldier caught her sword on the edge of her shield, embedding the blade into the wood. Immediately her partner's gladius darted for Sara's throat, seeking the gap between her helmet and breastplate. Sara had to dodge back, tearing her sword from the shield.
To her right, Hurlish had more success.
The orc charged the closest group of two with her hammer held high, roaring the whole way there. Both soldiers raised their interlocked shields to block the blow.
It didn't matter.
Hurlish's swung carried her hammer through their shields, through their arms, through their shoulders, and then shattered the wooden decking beneath them in a flash of enchantment light. The fresh amputees dropped into the hole with agonized screams, leaving Hurlish bent over the gap with bloodied hammer dangling from her hands. Her head snapped up, locking on the next closest group.
The two soldiers glanced at one another before tossing aside their shields and gladiuses. Sara thought they were surrendering for a moment, but instead both armored soldiers drew fine naval sabers, removing helmets that obscured their vision. It was clear to everyone on the deck that blocking Hurlish's hammer wasn't in the cards.
Sara, meanwhile, was still working at her first pair. She danced backward across the deck while exchanging blows with them, doing her best to keep the fight away from their fellows. They may not be in a formation anymore, but Sara bet the ballistae wouldn't risk shooting when she was near, so she had to avoid being surrounded.
She kept throwing testing slices at the two soldiers, trying to find some break in their synchronicity. She had known from the start that a magecraft would have only veteran fighters aboard, but she hadn't expected their rigid adherence to personal safety. She'd imagined zealots, soldiers chosen for their dogmatic loyalty to their nation or captain, their swordsmanship a secondary concern to their brown-nosing technique. Instead she was squaring off against hardened soldiers who never took a single risk, never broke from their stances, and never fell for her faked openings or feints. They simply blocked with their shield and stabbed outward with their gladiuses, waiting for the moment that their unflinching persistence would coincide with Sara's inevitable mistake.
If Sara hadn't dueled in the Nine Pits, she'd have been fucked. They would have worn her down, her movements getting slower and slower until their weapons found a chink in her defense.
But she wasn't the same fighter anymore. She felt the urge to laugh, realizing that she was fighting two mirrors of her old self, a warrior whose mastery of techniques was flawless, but entirely lacking in originality. Perfect for formation soldiers, but dangerously predictable in a fight like this one. Though there wasn't enough time for conscious thought in the middle of a fight, her subconscious aligned itself to a new approach, trying to think of how she'd been beaten time and time again in the Nine Pits.
As Sara recovered from her latest swing, she dropped her sword a bit lower, letting it bite into the wooden deck. As sharp as she kept it, the blade's tip sliced through the plank easily, leaving a nigh-invisible scar. She kept working her way backward, twisting as she fought, guiding the fight like she'd once seen Evie do in a burning warehouse.
The right soldier's foot landed on the weakened board. The weight of woman and armor snapped the now unsupported wood, dropping her leg up to the knee. Sara, who'd been waiting for the moment, lunged forward, impaling the exposed thigh so deeply her sword bit into the wood behind.
Their partner immediately seized the moment with a lightning-fast stab, knowing that Sara couldn't bring her sword around to block. Instead of trying to free her weapon, though, Sara released the hilt, both hands clutching the edges of the soldier's shield as she threw it to the left.
The motion ruined the soldier's stab, letting it spark along Sara's shoulderpad, and then Sara rolled, taking them both to the ground. The soldier's gladius clattered out of her their hand, leaving them both disarmed, rolling on the slick deck.
Sara jerked the shield forward and back, slamming its metal-reinforced edge into the soldier's chin. She felt a gauntlet pound itself repeatedly against her helmet's temple, another reaching for her throat, but neither were effective.
Sara kept slamming the shield forward, metal against metal ringing like a gong. She felt the soldier's punches weaken, then stop, hands falling limply to the deck, but Sara didn't stop. She grabbed their helmet by the sides, lifting it up and pounding it into the wood one, two, three times. Only then, once she was certain her opponent was concussed or dead, did she finally stand, breathing hard.
The magecraft was a mess. The two ships had finally been pressed hull-to-hull, and the bulk of the magecraft's soldiers were occupied by the effort required to repel the horde of half-dressed sailors and freed slaves that were trying to rush them. If it had only been the original sailors on the deck, the fight would have already been over, the better armed and armored soldiers easily overwhelming the Crossed Glory's crew. As it was, they were facing a fanatically desperate crowd of club-wielding men and women, every one of them bolstered by the knowledge that a life of freedom could be found in the blood of the soldiers facing them.
Hurlish, while Sara had been occupied fighting her pair, had finished off the other ten soldiers. She was currently standing with her outstretched hammer tapping the chest of the plumed officer, who had his hands held high. Behind him was a pile of broken and groaning soldiers, the healthiest among them tending to their companion's wounds.
Hurlish, Sara realized as she approached, hadn't made it out unharmed. Dark blood stained the pooling rainwater brown, dripping off her body from a dozen cuts and wounds. Two Sara could see looked deep, a pair of lacerations running up her forearm. The blood that welled there was a deeper crimson, and it soaked her arm from elbow to fingertip.
Sara walked over to the soldier her greatsword had pinned to the decking, soccer-kicking her sword out of her hand, and retrieved her weapon. The woman screamed as it was pulled free, spasming as she fell to the deck.
Sara couldn't bring herself to leave her there. She gripped the woman's shoulder and dragged her along, bringing her to the pile of wounded soldiers receiving treatment.
"Hurlish!" She yelled. "Anyone seen the wizard?"
"Right in the middle of the damn deck!" The orc called back, gesturing.
Sara dropped the soldier beside her fellows, leaning around Hurlish's massive bulk to see.
Standing in the middle of the deck, adorned in billowing robes, was a grey-eyed woman. She was surrounded by a transparent orange bubble, one that was partially pierced by a half-dozen ballistae bolts. Sara looked to the Crossed Glory and saw brilliant fire licking up the central sail, not the least bit bothered by rain or wind. It seemed that the only reason their ship even still existed was the ballistae's suppression of the mage, who could have blown it out of the water long ago otherwise.
"We gotta do something about her," she told Hurlish.
The commander of the soldiers, with hands still raised, chuckled. "You will not need, Champion." He spoke with a thick and halting accent as he nodded to the wounded soldier Sara had retrieved, the one now receiving treatment. "You fight with honor, Champion, and for this I will tell you you need not. Slaves swarm our deck soon, and this will be the end. Carrion Mages are never captured."
True to the man's words, Sara could see the magecraft soldiers being pressed back, unable to answer the manic assault.
"She's going to kill herself, then?" Sara guessed.
The man smiled sadly. "She kills the ship. None survive to expose secrets. Leave, Champion, and fight with honor a later day."
Another bolt cracked into the mage's shield, adding to the quiver. Sara didn't know how much ammo the Crossed Glory had on hand, but if the ballistae was supposed to be its main defense from pirates, she'd guess a lot. Certainly enough to give the freed slaves time to board the ship.
"So she's just going to kill you all?" Sara demanded incredulously. "What about your soldiers? What's the point of trying to save them if some wackass wizard is going to blow up the ship?"
"We did not want to lose, Champion," the man replied. He looked down at his soldiers, shaking his head. "They will die, but they will die with secrets not given."
Even as they spoke, Sara saw the mage's hand creeping towards a robe pocket, drawing out a wand.
"How do I stop her?"
"If I knew, I would not reveal."
"Shit!" Sara swore. She shoved past the man, running up to the mage. She flipped her greatsword out and raised it high, yelling, "Taze!"
Blue lightning crackled through the air as her sword collided with the dome, a web of light encircling it in an instant. The mage stared at her passively, with minor interest, until the light faded.
"Champion. What ability did you use to strike our craft?"
"A rousing speech and decent morality," Sara sarcastically snapped, pounding against the shield again. "Soldier boy over there says you're gonna blow this ship to hell. Can I at least ask why you wanted to capture me, y'know, before you commit a warcrime?"
"No."
"Oh, you're real fun," Sara growled, slamming her sword against the shield once more. The mage's eyes were lidded, near all her focus spent just to keep the shield up. "How about the crew? You care about killing them?"
"No."
"Bitch!" Sara slammed her sword again, harder. It bounced off.
The mage gave her a curious look. "If you killed me, the crew would destroy the ship themselves and slit their throats, as is their duty. Do not pretend I am committing some atrocity, Champion."
"Oh, sure, they totally want to die," Sara jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "Which is why they're bandaging each other and muttering prayers over there."
"To them, hope yet remains. Perhaps even to me. I have not destroyed the ship yet, have I?"
"Exactly! So why don't you put the wand down, tell everyone to toss their weapons overboard, and then we'll both go our separate ways? That sound good?"
The mage shook her head. "I am no fool. You would not leave a magecraft untouched. Cities are ransomed for such knowledge."
Sara swore, rolling her eyes. "Girl, whatever dossier you got on me is way out of date. You really think I give a shit about a literal sailing ship, of all things?"
"Why else spend the time to speak to me like this?"
"Why? Why? Because you're about to kill dozens of people for no goddamned reason! If I gave a shit about your magic doodads I'd be ripping them off the bitch right now, not talking to you! Now drop the wand and we can all live!"
"No."
The crystal tip of the wand began to glow, rattling the boards directly beneath it. Sara blew out another burst of profanity, then cupped her hands and yelled to Hurlish.
"Grab anyone you can and get the fuck out of here!"
With a final spiteful slam of her sword against the shield, Sara followed her own advice and began running for the Crossed Glory. She snagged a random wounded sailor as she went, dragging them along the deck. Just as she reached the blood-spattered railing, Sara felt the entire ship wobble.
She lunged for the Crossed Glory's hull. Snagging a ledge with one hand, she felt the support disappear from beneath her feet. She turned around just in time to see smoking white light race along every nook and cranny of the ship, highlighting the innumerable wards that had been engrained into its body. With a final shiver the ship fell apart, every nail and joint undone. Anywhere that two objects had been connected was suddenly separated, a seventy foot vessel reduced to its base components in an instant. Sara watched as countless bodies dropped into the stormy waves, immediately buried in a landslide of wood and metal. She shook her head, wishing the mage's corpse would bob to the surface close enough to spit on.
With a limp person in her left hand and her right hand gripping a nub of wood, Sara had no way to begin climbing to the deck. She began shouting for help, repeating the cry until a head popped over the side and spotted her. A moment later a rope was tossed down, which she grabbed. Inch by inch, she and her hanger-on were hauled up.
She threw the person over the railing first, then crawled over and dropped onto her stomach. The deck was in a flurry of activity around her, but she couldn't care less. She just lay with her helmet pressed to the deck, breathing hard.
Eventually she found the strength to roll over, searching for Hurlish. The orc had two armored soldiers thrown over either soldier, giving stern instructions to a wide-eyed sailor. Sara sighed with relief, then turned her attention to the person she'd saved.
They were still face-down on the deck. With as gentle a shove as possible she rolled them over, cradling their head to hopefully avoid aggravating any injuries.
Their face was gone. Caved in, crumpled like tissue paper. Sara dropped the corpse wordlessly, staring up into the slowly warming sky.
Notes:
Sailing battles are fuuuun to write! Adding this a day later, but I'm curious to see if I did a good job communicating the two ship's relative positions to the reader throughout the fight. If you could take a look at the link below and tell me if it fits what you envisioned for the fight, I'd appreciate it!
https://imgur.com/xRSFcNb
Chapter 16: Far Side of the Coin
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara wanted to do nothing more than pass out, but there was work to be done. The ship had suffered all kinds of damage from the battle, and it was a literal all-hands-on-deck effort to control it.
The first priority was the central sail, which was still aflame. The smoke was acrid, burning her nose and lungs with every breath, and it was getting worse. The lightening rain was nowhere close to putting it out, rather seeming to encourage the growing bonfire. Sara joined a group of sailors at the base of the mast, grabbing one end of a ten-foot saw that they were throwing back and forth. Hurlish and another group of sailors were braced at the left side of the deck, having impaled several of the magecraft's wire grapples into the top of the sail. They were pulling with all their might, trying to ensure that the mast would topple overboard, not onto the deck.
Sara sawed as quickly as she could, hollering at a passing sailor to take her helmet off. Between the fight and flames, she felt like she might die of heatstroke even before the fire reached the deck.
And they were coming down fast. Even with four of the burliest people on the ship throwing their backs into the sawing, cutting through the three-foot pillar was slow going. When she began to see light flickering at the edge of her vision she yelled for everyone to drop the saw. Confused, but thoroughly uninterested in disobeying her, they hopped away.
"Taze!" Sara shouted, using her last spell of the day. Blue lightning shot through the massive saw, biting into the wooden pillar. With a thunderous boom splinters flew from the wood, more mundane flames charcoaling the wood in seconds. Hurlish, freshly bandaged wounds soaking red, pulled hard enough to crack the boards beneath her boots.
With a terrifying groan the sail began to tip leftward, a flaming tower burning into her retinas. Everyone scattered as the massive monolith came down, smashing an angled ditch through the left side of the hull before bouncing into the water. An instant bubbling cauldron was created where it landed, a geyser of steam hissing skyward. Sara was one of dozens who crowded the railing, watching the supernatural bonfire sink. Even as it fell beneath the waves it continued to burn, a glowing beacon in black waters. Sara watched it fade into the depths as the ship drifted away, a constant stream of bubbles marking the sail's position.
After a quick scan of the deck, confirming that no more fires were left burning, Sara let herself collapse. She wobbled over to the stairs and dropped unceremoniously onto her ass, breathing heavy. After catching her breath for a few minutes she began to unstrap her armor, thanking the gods above for the foresight she'd had when she enchanted it. Protection runes were far more common, but the ease with which she slipped the suddenly pliable metal off was a wonderful relief.
"How you holdin' up, Hurlish?" Sara hollered over to the orc, who was sitting with her back against the door that held the Crossed Glory's various prisoners. Her massive hammer, covered in torn metal armor and viscera, was planted between her splayed legs.
"Tell Nora she needs a damn healer!" The orc called back. "I got spoiled in Hagos. A few minutes walk to a spellslinger that could magic me up sure beats stitches."
Sara stood with a grunt, removing her armored skirt and shoving it into her bag of holding. "I've got a few healing potions on hand," she reminded the orc, pulling one from the bag.
Hurlishs hook her head tiredly. "Nah, hold onto 'em. Better to save someone's life than make my booboos feel better. I'll live till Tulian. I'm sure there's some priest or something there that can finish me off."
"If you insist," Sara said with a shrug. As she shoved the healing potions back into the bag, she realized her left arm was bloodsoaked. She lifted her shirt to inspect it, feeling a tug against clotted skin that made her hiss. "Shit, I thought I got out of that fight scot-free."
"Got one on your leg there, too," Hurlish said, waving to Sara's right thigh. As soon as she looked down and saw the winding cut, the pain flared to life.
"Fuck, Hurlish, why'd you tell me that?" She gasped, hopping on her good leg. "I didn't feel it 'till you pointed it out!"
"You'da figured it out eventually."
Sara hopped over to the orc, resting against the same door as she began to bandage her leg.
"So who all have you got in here?" Sara asked, referring to the prisoners she'd seen Hurlish collecting while Sara'd been catching her breath.
Hurlish counted them off on her fingers. "That soldier boss guy, the chick you stabbed in the leg, the guy whose knee you broke, which was pretty slick, by the way, and then I got two randoms who were still mad about us killin' Tilisa."
"And you just threw them all in there together?" Sara asked. "Isn't that, like, an officer's room?"
"Nup. Tied their wrists to their ankles behind their backs, then gagged 'em for good measure. They ain't gonna do much more than flop around."
Sara stood with a groan, stabbing her sword into the deck to help herself up. "Ah, damn. I might feel stupid for this later, but I'm not gonna let 'em roll around in there. At least, not all of them."
"You're the boss," Hurlish said with a shrug, scooting to the side so Sara could enter the room. "If they give you trouble, just kill 'em."
"They won't," Sara assured her. She opened the door a crack, then entered.
This particular officer's quarters of the Crossed Glory was, if not ornate, far better than any other room on the ship. Tar lined the board gaps, for waterproofing, and there was an actual glass window and curtain on the far side. Both a bed and hammock were in the room, along with a writing desk and small chest for clothes.
And there were also five hogtied prisoners, ripped bits of clothing stuffed into their mouths. Sara stood over them with her hands on her hip, deciding on the best course of action.
She first went over to the woman she'd stabbed, untying her gag. Her wound looked bandaged, but Sara was no doctor.
"Did they patch you up alright?" She asked.
"Vaffanculo,vai a morire ammazzato porca troia--!"
"Yeah, I've got no idea what that means," Sara said, ignoring the woman's rabid ranting. She stepped over to the commanding officer, whose helmet had been removed by Hurlish to place the gag.
She paused as she noticed was his skin. He wasn't black, like African-American black, he was black. His skin was featureless, marble dunked in crude oil, and it looked like he didn't even have pores. The only color on his body came from the white sclera of his eyes, and even then the irises were as black as his pupils.
"Hey buddy, remember me?" Sara said as she undid his gag. "Does your homegirl over there need any more work done on her leg?"
"Please a moment," he said, stretching his neck to the woman, who was still spitting what Sara could only assume to be vile profanities. "La tua gamba sta--"
"Fanculo tua madre, fanculo tuo padre, fanculo tua nonna--"
"Guardiamarina!" The man snapped, finally shutting off the torrent of words. "Hai bisogno di assistenza medica?"
"Ho bisogno di una spada per uccidermi."
The man turned to Sara. "She is fine for now. Her bandages need changed, but later."
"Glad to hear it," Sara said, though she had a more-than-sneaking suspicion that the interpretation was kinder than the literal translation. She thought she heard 'spada' in there, which sounded an awful lot like spade, so Sara guessed the woman wanted to bury her. Ignoring the toothless threats, she crouched next to the magecraft officer. "Okay, soldierboy, you talked a lot about honor on your ship back there. If I cut you loose, will you behave?"
"Do you follow the Salian Accords, Champion?"
"No idea what that is, but my world had the Geneva Conventions," Sara replied, though she failed to mention that she didn't really know what the Geneva Conventions were, either. "I don't kill prisoners, at least without a trial or something, and I won't enslave you or even force you to work. You'll be disarmed, and'll have to follow whatever rules the Captain decides on. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure she knows what the Salian Accords are, if that helps."
"Can you allow me more knowledge of your terms? I do not wish to agree to something uncertain."
"Afraid not. Contracts and laws are all well and good, but I haven't seen a single one that didn't have its problems. I stick to my word, for the most part, and try to tell the truth, but at the end of the day I'll go off my gut."
The man mulled it over. After a long while of consideration, which Sara patiently waited through, he nodded. "Your terms are difficult, but agreeable. I will do no harm to you or your crew."
"S'not my crew," Sara told him as she began cutting through his ropes. "It's Captain Nora's ship, I'm just riding on it."
"Your Captain Nora bested a magecraft in a dromon," he stated, rubbing his wrists. "This is not possible."
"Champion stuff, remember?" Sara said, flashing jazz-hands. "Impossible bullshit's kinda my M.O."
"Such was shown well to me today," he sighed. He turned to the woman soldier, who was staring daggers up at Sara. "Is it possible to free her, as well?"
"Uh, you really think that's a good idea? I don't think she's quite as agreeable as you."
"Guardiamarina, ti comporterai?" He asked.
She spat towards Sara's shoe.
"I'm guessing that's a no," Sara intoned.
"She will find reason in time."
"Hopefully. Now, you're gonna have to get that armor off before you leave this room."
"Of course." The man began the laborious process of unbuckling his armor, which Sara was beginning to realize quite closely resembled what she'd seen in movies about Romans. Though there were probably a million and one little inaccuracies to a historian's eye, it looked pretty damn identical to Sara's ignorant recollection.
"What's your name, soldierboy, so I don't have to keep calling you soldierboy?"
"I am Sergente Ignite Parables."
Sara blinked. "Damn. That's a hell of a name."
"In my language it is different. More common. But the names of my people have meanings, and to call me by words you do not understand you would insult me."
"Noted, Ignite," Sara nodded. In some ways, doing things that way made more sense to her. If your name was a word, why bother having everyone else flub its pronunciation when it can just be translated? She extended a hand for him to shake as he finished shucking off his breastplate, leaving him in a sweat-soaked shirt. "What about last names versus first names? Should I call you Ignite, or Parables, or Mr. Parables?"
"I am a prisoner of battle. Ignite is appropriate."
"Cool. Now, I've got a second question for you, Ignite." Sara waited for him to finish unbuckling his greaves so she could look him in the eye. "What're you going to do after all this?"
He cocked his head curiously. "I do not understand your meaning."
"Y'know, after all of this," she said, gesturing to the ship around them in general. "I'm not going to keep you prisoner for long. I'm heading for the old Tulian capital, and I really doubt there's going to be much in the way of prisons there. Your wizard friend said it was your duty to kill yourself to hide your ship's secrets, but you don't seem to be hot to trot to get that done."
"No," he agreed, then paused as he looked down at the various hogtied men and women around his feet. "May we discuss elsewhere?"
"Sure, sure," Sara said, taking him out of the room. The deck outside, while still a mess of activity, was now free from rain, with even the occasional bit of sunlight splitting through the crowds.
She had him walk in front of her as they went up to the wheel, where Captain Nora and Evie were still standing. The catgirl was drenched, but otherwise unruffled, not a single wound visible.
"Did you have fun, Master?" Evie asked as they approached.
"Boarding another ship like a goddamn pirate? Fighting for my life in a storm, side to side with one of my two girlfriends?" Sara laughed. "Hell yeah I did!"
Evie smiled. "I'm pleased to hear it." Her attention turned to Ignite, who was standing awkwardly between them all. "Is this the man Hurlish captured?"
"Yup. He was in charge of the magecraft's soldiers, a Sergeant or something. Seemed like a decent enough dude, so I'm glad he made it out."
"As am I," Ignite said. He glanced nervously at Captain Nora, who was using her elevated position to keep a hawk's eye on the work going on below. "Is this Captain Nora?"
"Aye," she said, not looking away. "Sorry 'bout your boys and the ballistae back there, Sergeant. Couldn't have ye cutting up my Champion. I'm sure y'understand."
"It is battle," he agreed solemnly.
Sara was about to move on to her original reason for bringing the man up to the helm, but when she saw the awkward foot-shuffling he was doing beside Captain Nora, she held off. He was clearly trying to work up the courage to say something.
"Captain, if I may," he said, taking care to enunciate each word. "You will follow the Salian Accords with your prisoners?"
"All two of 'em, y'mean?" Captain Nora chuckled. "Sure, sure, I'll follow 'em. No point startin' a career with bad blood."
"Starting a career...?"
Evie grinned devilishly, answering for the distracted Captain. "This was her first day as a captain, Sergente. And yesterday was the first time she set foot on a boat."
"Oh."
Sara expected some further reaction, but he only stared with glassy eyes, shoulders slumped.
Sara walked up, thumping him on the back. "Don't feel bad, Ignite. She's read a lot of books."
"I see."
She waited to see if Ignite had anything else to say to Captain Nora. When he said nothing, she leaned over the railing, calling down to Hurlish.
"Hey, get on up here! We got group talking to do."
Hurlish stood with a laborious groan, hefting her hammer up onto her shoulder. "Right. Give me a sec."
Sara took Ignite over to the back of the ship, which was mostly undamaged. He propped his elbows up on the railing, resting as he stared down at the ship's wake. Sara gave him space. She knew that somewhere down there floated the remains of his ship, drifting through the blood of his comrades. He was taking his defeat as well as could be expected, but Sara didn't think there existed anyone who could be totally stoic in such a scenario.
Eventually Hurlish stomped up to the deck, having equipped two former slaves with sabers and tasked them with guarding the door. Sara wouldn't be shocked if she went back down in a few minutes and found three fresh corpses, but also didn't particularly care.
"What's up, Sara? Deciding what to do with Mr. Plume over there?"
"More or less. Evie, Nora, I'd appreciate it if you pitched in your opinions."
"Aye."
"Of course."
Ignite turned away from the ocean, straightening into a military stance. He looked like a man on trial, and Sara supposed that he sort of was.
"Alright, everyone, here's what we've got," Sara began. "This dude is Sergeant Ignite Parables, and he nearly got me killed a few hours ago."
"So we should kill him," Evie stated.
"No, but I appreciate the thought. It turns out that he's actually a pretty decent guy, and a good leader at that. His soldiers were loyal, he prioritized their lives over victory, and kept a cool head while giving solid orders in the middle of a fight."
"Ah, shit," Hurlish said. "I see where this is going. But you're not really gonna fuck 'em, right?"
Ignite's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull.
"No, I'm not going to fuck him, Hurlish," Sara said, waving a hand to calm Ignite.
"But you're winding up for a recruiting pitch, aren't ya?"
"Yes, but I'm fully capable of befriending people I haven't had sex with. Look at Nora."
Hurlish and Evie shared a doubtful glance. "That's just a matter of time," Hurlish said.
"Most likely," Evie nodded.
"Likely tonight, matter o' fact," Nora agreed, shrugging. "If this damnable mess gets sorted, that is." She leaned forward, yelling down. "Oy! You! Yes, you! Don't pile the damn ropes there, you'll trip everyone comin' down the ladder!"
Sara shoved her face in her hands, groaning. "Okay. Well. I promise I'm capable of keeping my pants on for ten minutes, girls." Blowing hair from her face, she looked up at Ignite, offering an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Amarat stuff. You don't need to worry about it."
"Unless you want to," Evie quickly interjected. Hurlish laughed boisterously while Sara felt her face bloom red.
"Alright, everyone, enough with the sex talk!" She ordered. As soon as she did, unfortunately, Evie's collar flashed, pulling a moan from the catgirl that Sara was certain had been exaggerated. Ignite whipped around to the writhing catgirl, black eyes narrowed in disbelief. Sara didn't know exactly what the Sergeant had expected when he'd been captured by the first mortal ship to ram a magecraft, but it probably wasn't a polycule flirting around him during the pseudo-trial that would decide his life's course.
"Aaaaanyway!" Sara drew the word out, trying to reign the conversation back under her control. She clapped her hands, turning to Ignite, who looked like he was regretting a number of decisions that led him to this moment.
"You're a good soldier, Ignite, and more importantly, you're good at giving orders. That's not something any of us have, and I'm pretty sure it's a skill I'll be needing soon. I was actually hoping to offer you a job."
Cautiously, as if disbelieving that the innuendos were finished, he leaned forward. "You say a job, but you do not say what." He spoke with quiet intensity, the clipped cadence of a man used to giving and receiving orders. Being 'offered' a job by the crew of the ship that had just gutted his didn't seem something he'd prepared for.
"Remember how I said I'm going to the old Tulian capital?" Sara said. "Well, I'm kinda planning to take the city over, since there's no one else in charge at the moment."
"And you wish for my help?" His lip curled distastefully. "A mercenary, slaughtering for coin?"
"I was thinking something more like 'head of the city guard'," Sara corrected, picking up on his distaste for mercenaries. "It's been abandoned for a decade, without any kind of formal government. I don't know who's in charge there, but I can't imagine they're ruling by popular demand."
Ignite looked more than doubtful. Whether it was the inappropriate displays or something else, he looked more ready to hop overboard than sign up under Amarat's banner. Sara took a deep breath, so exhausted that it took a solid few seconds for her to dip into the twenty charisma points that Amarat had blessed her with. She took what she knew of the man, from his well-polished armor to reliance upon the framework of order to guide his actions, and decided how best to phrase the proposition.
"You're a soldier of honor, Ignite Parables," she began firmly, clasping her hands behind her rigid back, "And that is something difficult to find. I am not trying to conquer a city. I am trying to restore it. Law and order have crumbled, and the people suffer for it. I wish you to make the streets safe to walk by delivering punishment unto those that deserve it."
Ignite's face, while still stony, seemed intrigued. Sara continued.
"I am interested in you, in particular, because of the care you showed for your soldiers. The new Tulian will not be a land of lords and ladies, but a republic, where all deserve and receive respect. I wish-- I hope that words alone will protect the weak from the strong, but I fear noble sentiment alone will not suffice. I need a thorn to my rose, and think you best suited of any I've met in this world for the task."
Sara nodded sharply, concluding her speech, and turned around. "You will have several days to think it over, Sergeant. In the meantime you will stay in one of the officer's quarters with a guard posted outside your door, but you will not be restricted to the room. So long as you have an escort, you are free to walk about the ship. Follow me."
Sara began stomping down the stairs, not looking back to see if he was following. After a few seconds she heard a second set of footsteps on the stairs, matching the beat of her pace. She allowed herself a small smile. It seemed Ignite Parables, while rebellious enough to defy the magecraft's suicidal self-destruct order, had spent so long in the military that he took comfort in direct commands.
Sara deposited him in a random officer's room, one of the five on the top deck, and asked one of the slaves Hurlish had armed with a saber to guard him. It was an imperfect solution, but all she had. Considering the disparity in skill and the existence of levels and abilities, Sara doubted the slave could actually hold their own against even an unarmed Carrion Sergeant.
As she made her way back to the helm, she considered the dilemma a little bit more. Part of the ethos she was building for the new Tulian was the idea of all people being equal, but how well could that work in this world? When most humans were five-four and there existed Orcs who topped out at eight feet tall, it was a harder sell to claim there were no inherent biological advantages. Evie was far more nimble than Sara, owing to her Feline nature, and true Catfolk were probably even more graceful, while Elves lived for centuries, vastly outstripping human lifespans. The fact that they could all interbreed was encouraging from a genetic standpoint, since it meant they weren't different species outright, but she was probably the only person on the planet that could understand that.
And then there were skills. Evie was barely into her twenties, yet her wealth had provided such vastly superior training that she could tear her way through soldiers with decades more experience than she. If those born into money had literal, demonstrably superior skills to common folk, it became far more difficult to argue against outdated ideas like social darwinism or eugenics.
Then again, she reminded herself, Hurlish had become an incredibly skilled blacksmith in a rural jungle village, and those talents had landed her a prestigious career in a few short years. Either the orc was a once-in-a-generation savant, or the skills she snagged from levels had guided her towards talents that replaced proper tutorship.
And Sara had no idea which it was. The internal debate irked Sara more than most of her usual idle wonderings about this new world. She'd floated from place to place thus far, relying on her Champion's blessings and Evie to cover her ignorance, but such a lackadaisical attitude wouldn't cut it when she was trying to lead a city.
"Hey, Evie, quick question," Sara said as she returned up top. "How much faster do you think your mercenary buddy's training help you level up?"
The catgirl cocked her head, surprised by the question, but answered immediately.
"I grew in skill more rapidly under Master Graf than I would have otherwise, but to say how much faster it was than under a lesser teacher, I cannot say. Why do you ask?"
"I was thinking about Ignite down there. Back in my world, since we didn't have anything like levels or magical skills, everyone was on equal footing. That doesn't seem to be the case here, and I'm wondering how I can help level the playing field for commoners when we're in Tulian." She turned to Hurlish, who'd sat down with her back on the railing. "How about you? You didn't have any fancy training, right?"
"I learned from my father, but he was no blue blood," the orc confirmed, yawning. "Got good at making weapons 'cause I had to."
"But if you'd had a million coin to throw at expensive tutors, it would have gone faster? You would have been more skilled than you are now, given the same amount of time to learn?"
"Probably?" The orc shrugged. "I got where I am on my own. That's somethin' to be proud of."
"Of course it is," Sara agreed. "I'm just wondering if it's something anyone can do."
Nora piped up. "I think I know what yer gettin' at, Champion. Yer wondering if just anyone can hold their own against the rich types like ol' Evie over there, or if there's no point in even tryin'."
"More or less," Sara said. "Ignite, for example. In my old world an untrained slave with a sword would be more than enough to kill him, but it's different here, isn't it? He could probably grab it right out of their hands before they could blink."
"Aye, he probably could," Nora confirmed. "Just the nature of things. No substitute for experience, they say."
"Hm." Sara pursed her lips, thinking. "I'm gonna have to do something about that. I don't like the idea of rich people getting to pay their way to superiority."
"It ain't just money," Hurlish grunted. "It's more than that. If money was all it took, every rich brat'd be a one man army. Thankfully for the rest of us, most ain't got the guts to stomach proper discipline. Easier to pay someone who knows what they're doin' than learn yourself." She glanced up at Evie, who was listening passively. "Present company excluded."
"No, you're right," Evie admitted. "I took up the rapier because I enjoyed it, but there were a great many things that I left to others rather than learn myself. I'm no smith, nor carpenter, nor familiar with innumerable other disciplines. Perhaps I could have afforded the tutors required to become a wisened sage, but I'm no Supprestan Monk. I had more pleasurable things to attend to."
"Thank God for laziness, then," Sara sighed. "I'll still want to do something in Tulian that helps close the gap, though. A public education system, at the very least, but I guess it'd have to be one that focuses more on levels and the like. Hell, I don't even know how getting your first level works. I mean, do you get it when you hit puberty, or what?"
Evie hid her smirk, while Captain Nora and Hurlish openly laughed. Sara guessed she'd just asked this world's equivalent of 'how are babies made', judging by their reactions.
"The first level comes to people at different times, Master, but often in late adolescence. One must have dedicated themselves to work for some time before it manifests, which rarely happens in children. As for the exact timing, none but the gods know."
Sara snorted. "I doubt they even know. Amarat's explanations were pretty lacking when she dragged me here. I think that sort of thing's a bit beneath their paygrade."
Captain Nora shook her head. "Talkin' bout gods like they're yer old flatmate. Bah. Champions."
Sara chuckled. "You might wanna get used to it, Nora. Evie, did you notice what I did, during the battle?"
"I did, Master."
"Oh?" Captain Nora looked back, eyebrow raised. "Ye see somethin' I didn't, Champion?"
Sara nodded. "Yeah. Probably best discussed in private, but I'll give you a hint." She walked up to the suited captain, gently poking her left cheekbone. "Your eyes are blue now."
"What?" Captain Nora spun about, looking for something reflective in reach. "Damnit, woman, what're ye talking about? Yankin' my chain, are ye?"
"It's true," Evie said. "An exceptionally clear blue, brighter than any natural coloration for a half-elf. It's rather fortuitous most here don't know you well. Hopefully none of the crew will remember that they used to be brown."
"Damnit all," Nora cursed, rubbing her eyes as if the color was from a dye that could be squeezed out. "Did I forget another of those accursed deals? I thought they'd all taken effect the moment I stepped on the ship."
"I think you made a new one a few hours back, Captain," Hurlish grunted. "One that there isn't any getting out of, too."
"Oh, even the damned blacksmith's gettin' cryptic now, eh?" Captain Nora shook a finger at Hurlish. "Not ye, I swear. Ye were the only reasonable one of this bunch."
Sara snorted. "You think you're reasonable, Nora?"
"Nae. That's why I said Hurlish was the only one. We damn well need her to keep our heads on straight."
Sara laughed. "Well, at least you're honest with yourself." Sara glanced down at the bustling deck. "By the way, didn't you tell some other guy that you didn't want ropes piled over there a minute ago?"
Captain Nora looked where Sara was pointing, then cursed loudly. "Get that outta there, ye damn fool! I swear, next person that tries to drop their load somewhere asinine gets dropped overboard!"
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While Captain Nora had teased Sara about an evening encounter in their discussion earlier, the reality proved quite different. Hours upon hours of work were left, and Captain Nora's voice quickly grew hoarse from shouting orders. The Crossed Glory had been utterly lacerated in the melee, and its sorry state mirrored that of its crew. Superior numbers had only one way to overcome superior training, and it showed on those that had survived.
As she walked about the deck, lending a hand when she found a task that didn't require technical knowledge, Sara rarely passed a single person that didn't have stained bandages on some part of their body. They ran out of proper bandages almost immediately, prompting many to tear up their clothes to bind wounds on themselves or others. When Captain Nora had noticed half her crew running about in rags, she'd ordered some of the crates containing textiles to be busted open, using fine silks or spare yards of sail to bind wounds.
One of the first challenges in leadership Sara encountered in this new world came when she'd insisted that they boil the pilfered textiles before using them as bandages. Even Captain Nora and Hurlish had to be convinced, as they'd both lived their entire lives in places where healers could wave a hand to resolve any infection. Sara, on the other hand, doubted that any healers would be available in the rundown Tulian, and didn't want anyone losing a leg to some terrible disease she could only vaguely remember from history books.
"Yes, you need to leave it in there for at least five minutes," she insisted to the crewmember monitoring the cookpot that had been stuffed to the brim with trimmed pieces of sail. "I know it sounds weird, but there are actually tiny creatures living on the cloth, and they're what cause infections. You need to make sure they're all dead before you take it out."
"Even if that's true ma'am, 'iss boilin' water," the woman argued. "Ain't nothin' can survive in there, tiny or not."
"Most can't, but I don't want you taking chances," she repeated. The quartermaster's area of the second deck had been converted into a trauma ward, treating the worst of the wounded. Sara was arguing between groaning people laid out on the rowing benches, a former slave nearby that had once been a seamster using a barbarically thick needle to stitch wounds shut. Regrettably, the ship's lone surgeon had been one of those killed in the mutiny, and his supplies hadn't been found. "Five minutes, no less. I don't care if it goes longer, but you're not putting dirty bandages on the wounded, understand me?" She turned to the seamster. "Change the bandages regularly, probably every twelve hours or so."
"I will, m'lady-- I mean ma'am." The seamster wasn't the only one among the crew taking a while to adjust to not using noble honorifics to refer to Sara. "But ma'am, even if doing so stops an infection, why worry? A healer will set them right as rain as soon as we're in port."
"Because I don't know if there will be a healer, nor how long it'll be until we can find one if there isn't. If I didn't tell you to do all this and even one person died because of it, it'd be on me. I'm not interested in living with a heavy conscience."
There was a wet cough from beside Sara. "I like her," a wounded woman said, spitting a bit of blood onto the floor. She had a puncture in her chest, and the blood that she spat wasn't encouraging. "Just do as she says, Nidd. Champion knows better than us."
"But what if the time I take to stitch and wrap every little scrape means I don't get to someone worse in time?" The seamster countered. Sara made a mental note that his name was Nidd. "I'm wasting time on trivialities. That might have consequences."
"Do you need more help?" Sara asked. "I can ask around the crew--"
"I already did. I'm the only one that's even held a damned needle before, if you can believe it. Foul luck, that."
Sara walked over to the wounded sailor he was attending, kneeling beside Nidd. "Then show me what to do. I've got steady hands, and I know a little bit about anatomy, but I've never stitched anybody up before."
Nidd stared at her incredulously. "You want to help me, Champion?"
"There are plenty of reasons I get down on my knees these days, Nidd, but very few of them are appropriate in a hospital. Yes, I'm going to help."
He shook his head to clear his disbelief, then handed Sara a blood-soaked needle and spool of thread. Sara took it dutifully, scooting over to watch over his shoulder.
"A rip in the skin and a rip in a shirt aren't too different, when you get down to it," he began, shifting so she could see his movements. "You see the pattern I'm making? Begin with a puncture at the bottom, then feed the thread through..." Sara mimicked his motions with the tools in her own hands, trying to ignore how filthy they were. "If the poor fellow was awake, I'd give him something to bite down on. If they're still moving too much, I've been having Semel or some of the better-off patients hold them down. Don't want to rush though, even then. I knew a few old soldiers back home that had these big nasty scars on their shoulder or whatnot that kept them from moving too much, and they said it was because of botched stitches, so I've been trying to use as little thread as possible..."
Sara followed his motions, asking questions here and there. In short order she began to stitch on the same patient that Nidd was working on, getting his approval before moving on. The fact that neither of them truly had any idea what they were doing weighed on her, but she pushed it away. She began to explain what she knew of medicine to Nidd while they worked, either out of a desire to cover for her own ignorance or to genuinely help him treat the patients, she wasn't sure. She wasn't a skilled lecturer, that was certain, but when speaking to someone whose education on medicine resembled a plague doctor's, she found plenty to explain. She started with the purposes of various organs, most of which she could remember, then moved on to what exactly blood does in the body, then the way lungs breathed in oxygen (something trees made) and exhaled carbon dioxide (something trees 'ate'). All the while they moved from patient to patient, doing their best to reassure and treat them.
Eventually there were no more wounds to stitch. Those that remained in the mock infirmary were as well treated as she could manage, which left the rest of their survival up to luck. She even surreptitiously slipped a few of the worst-off patients some drops of her limited supply of health potions, something that she knew Evie would be irate over if it was discovered. She had to keep most of the potions on hand in case they needed to heal an immediately lethal wound, but she hoped what little she spared would at least stabilize those whose condition was deteriorating.
She eventually took over the boiling and changing of bandages from Semel, who looked ready to drop. Sara walked up and down the rows between the twenty or so half-conscious patients, changing any bandages that had been soaked through with blood. Every now and then she also made a trip up to the top deck, coercing the walking wounded into changing their bandages. The repair work was sweaty and exhausting, so plenty of clotted wounds reopened.
Sara also took particular care with Hurlish, whose wounds were deeper and wider than just about any other's. The orcish woman grouchily insisted that she would be fine, and that Sara's hovering was nothing more than an annoyance, but Sara'd learned better by now. If Hurlish had actually thought the wounds weren't a big deal she'd be working, not resting at the helm with her hammer by her side and her breastplate still strapped on. Hurlish felt weak, even if she wouldn't admit it.
Eventually Sara returned to the top deck with another load of sterilized bandages and found herself shocked to realize night had fallen. Many of the crew were splayed out on the deck, sleeping up top rather than crowding into the decks below. Captain Nora was still up at the wheel, holding it in place with a knee while both hands sketched on a map, neck craned up to gauge their position by the stars. Evie's sleeping head was preventing the woman's map from fluttering off in the wind, while Hurlish had joined those passed out on the deck.
Sara smiled at the sight as she handed bandages out to those were still active, checking over those that had fallen asleep to make sure none needed a fresh set. She thought about heading to the helm with Nora and offering her help there, but she didn't have much to offer when it came to sailing and navigating. Rubbing the crust from her eyes, she headed back down, in case one of the wounded needed her help.
Notes:
Reader Poll: Should Sara trust Ignite Parables? An enemy soldier, ostensibly sent explicitly to capture Sara, he's far from most people's ideal head of the city guard. Sara extended the offer because he seemed qualified, but she's a long way away from trusting him. Amarat's guidance could nudge her one way or another, which is where you come in.
Chapter 17: Tipping Point (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
For the first time since leaving Hagos, Sara woke past sunrise. It was the jostling of passing sailors that eventually woke her. She'd passed out on one of the rearmost rowing benches, just next to the quartermaster's stove, so her sprawled limbs couldn't be totally avoided by those seeking breakfast. A sailor murmured a respectful apology to Sara as she blearily looked about after having her hand stepped on, smacking her lips as she rose to consciousness.
The journey to the Tulian capital was supposed supposed to have taken only three days by ship, two of which had now passed, but after spending the bulk of the previous day on repairs and losing one of their sails, Sara had no idea when they'd arrive. Her completely uneducated guess had them arriving early the following morning, or maybe late that evening, but she really didn't know. Hell, she didn't even know how far away the Tulian capital was, or how fast the ship moved. Were they traveling a hundred miles a day? Two hundred? As she stood and joined the line waiting for food, she made a mental note to ask Nora to clarify some things for her.
Dressed as she was in plain peasant's clothing, with her sword stowed in her bag of holding, she'd hoped to have not had the crew pay much attention to her. Unfortunately, there was no hiding the extra head of height she had over near everyone else, and soon enough they were trying to make way for her to go get food before them. Sara had to wave them off, taking the great pains required to convince them she was perfectly fine with waiting her turn. The career sailors aboard balked at the notion of an officer eating with the common rabble, while the former slaves tried to thrust her forward on gratitude alone. Though she did eventually manage to convince both parties to leave her bbe, she found it amusing that her mythical twenty points of charisma did little to help keep her humble. From an outside perspective it made sense, as no one would expect the Champion of Amarat to be anything other than bombastic, but it still struck her as funny.
After receiving her portion of hardtack, oatmealish gruel, and two portions of unidentifiably mushed vegetable, she made her way up to the main deck. The southern skies had the rare decency not to be pouring rain for once, but stopped short of granting them a pleasant sunny morning. The gray clouds still bubbled above, threatening another downpour any moment.
The deck itself was a mess of activity, sailors scurrying this way and that, but it no longer had the frenetic energy of the previous day. The sailors still shouted back and forth, fiddling with ropes and winches near constantly, but there was no vitriol in their words. The curses and barked commands were routine, comfortable, and the clatter pleasantly reminded her of the times that she'd been lucky enough to weld at an air-conditioned job site. The sailors were working hard, but with good cheer, recognizing the fact that their current situation was a lucky break that deserved appreciation.
What surprised Sara to see, though, was Evie. With a wooden plate in her hand Sara was walking circles like a lost child at a food court, unable to spot the catgirl. She eventually spotted her not on the deck, but way, way up at the top of the front sail, a thick rope clutched in her mouth. Unlike the other sailors Sara had seen up on the sail, Evie eschewed the ropes to simply climb her way up the central wooden pillar, claws extended to pierce a pinprick trail up the wood. Her feet were bare, wrapped around the trunk like a monkey, and her tail kept subconsciously coiling around the nearest bits of wood, as if the appendage be strong enough to hold her should she fall.
As Sara padded over, Evie reached the top. Unhooking one hand from the wood, she wrapped the rope around a nearby bit of the sail, so it wouldn't fall, then looked back down.
"Ya ready?" A sailor called up, holding a pulley the size of a melon in both hands. "Damn thing's heavy, so you better not fall!"
"Do I look like the sort who is so dedicated to rigging work that I would rather fall than miss a catch?" Evie replied, her royal accent strikingly out of place on the grimy ship. "If I cannot catch it safely, I will let the device fall, not myself. If anyone should be concerned about causing problems, it is you. I understand that to be the last pulley of its variety among our supplies, so I would take care to aim your throw well."
"Or," Sara butted in as she stepped up, speaking through a mouthful of psuedo-oatmeal, "You could just lower the rope down so he can tie it on, then pull it back up."
"Master!" Evie chirped happily, haughty tone evaporating. "I was wondering if I'd have to come wake you myself."
"Damn, I should have pretended I was still sleeping."
"Among the crew, Master? How scandalous."
Sara snorted. "As if you're capable of scandal at this point."
"Yeah, yeah, swap spit when you're done!" the man with the pulley hollered. "Just get me the rope already!"
"As you wish, Carpenter," Evie replied as she began to feed the rope down, smirking. "Though I feel compelled to ask why an experienced sailor such as yourself didn't think of pulling it up with the rope yourself, whereas my Master, who first set foot on a ship two days ago, did?"
"Cause I ain't ever been on a ship that managed to bust all three damn halyards!" The carpenter snapped, snagging the rope and roughly tying the pulley on. "Now are y'gonna help like y'said, or just yap?"
"I can do both, I assure you!"
Sara chuckled, scraping another bit of breakfast onto her spoon. In short order Evie had attached the pulley according to the carpenter's barked instructions. The device looked to Sara to be one of innumerable methods with which the crew could adjust the sails, though she had no idea of its particular function. Thus far, being on the Crossed Glory had been one of the only times in this world where she'd felt solidly out of her technical depth. If she spent the time to trace one of the rope's paths, tracking it through the twists and turns it took about the ship, she could figure out where it tugged and what it shifted, but why it needed to attach there, or what it achieved? She was clueless as Evie in a nuclear powerplant.
Sara and Evie kissed their hellos when she finished shimmying down the mast, chatting for a few moments about nothing of consequence. Evie didn't know how long it would be to the Tulian capital, having been put to work almost immediately after waking, and she took the lack of rain as a good omen. When she'd first come to this new world, Sara hadn't expected an educated person like Evie to put much stock in fortune telling, but she'd since learned that the provable existence of magic changed things like that. She also learned that Evie had been working all over the ship, climbing the damaged bits of rigging that were too risky for others to scale. It was the kind of labor that she likely never would have stooped to before, yet she now thought nothing of undertaking.
Sara didn't like how the crew seemed to think the catgirl's collar somehow meant she wasn't due the same deferential treatment as Sara, but didn't make an issue of it. If anything, Sara'd rather have the crew treat her like they did Evie, not the other way around, so making a stink would be counterproductive. And if Evie herself was fine with it, it wasn't her place to protest on her behalf.
After a quick chat by the front sail, leaning into one another and sharing breakfast, they rejoined the repair work. While neither of them had any sailing experience, Sara's time on jobsites meant she was used to finding somewhere to be useful, and she threw herself into any task that her muscle power could make easier on the crew. It was a novelty, having a big burly sailor coming up to her for help lifting a load, like she used to ask her dad to open pickle jars as a kid. But with Classes and Levels being what they were, strength had little to do with outward appearance. The thickarmed sailor she was helping haul wood was probably fairly strong for their level, yet could've been easily outdone by a twig of a girl who was two or three levels above them.
The day's work passed quickly and calmly, fairly close to what Sara had originally imagined the journey would be like. Evie kept spidering her way up and down the nets, making a mockery of the less experienced riggers, while herself being hilariously outclassed by certain veterans. Sara watched with amazement as two seasoned riggers crawled up the sail with piles of rope coiled around their neck, using one hand to support themselves while tying knots with the other. Evie left the most complex work to them, and when there was nothing for her to be doing at any particular moment she always returned to Sara, thumping against her side like a pet begging for attention. Sara always gave it, of course, and as the hours went by the crew even became comfortable enough to rib the two women about their flagrant displays of affection. Evie had bristled at first, but calmed herself when Sara explained it was just the nature of working crews like this to mock and tease.
When the day drifted towards the afternoon, Sara and Evie separated off from the work to grab a late lunch. They chatted about nothing in particular while they ate, watching others buzz about and enjoying the salty breeze. Eventually they decided they had too many questions left on the backburner, and set off to find Nora for a chat.
The Captain wasn't where Sara had expected to find her. She'd left one of the old seasoned officers in charge of the wheel, having descended down to one of the unoccupied officer's cabins to stand on a crate before a cramped crowd of otherwise unoccupied rowers. The svelte Captain's uniform was crisp as always as she held up a large sheet of ruined canvas, a paintbrush in her other hand drawing as she spoke.
"Our ship here's got battens, unlike the lateens usually found on ships like her, which is a blessin' and a curse. They give us a better sail shape, easier for long trips, but they're heavy, and reefing the sails takes a good while longer..."
Sara settled in at the edge of the room, listening to Captain Nora speak. She couldn't understand half of the lecture, as every other word was some bizarre nautical noun, but she saw more than one head nodding appreciatively among the crowd. Though they may have been chained down as rowers, Sara figured it would be impossible to live on a ship for any amount of time without picking up the constant jargon tossed around.
"I'm surprised so many came over to listen to this," Sara whispered to Evie.
"They're not volunteers, Master," Evie whispered back. "Captain Nora's been ordering the crew to rotate through in groups, each required to listen to her explanations. She apparently got fed up with too many of her more complex orders not being understood, and took it upon herself to open a sailing academy. As far as I'm aware, she's been at it since well before sunrise."
"Damn," Sara whispered back. "When has she even had the time to sleep?"
"She hasn't," Evie stated simply. "Not since we set foot on the ship."
"Huh."
Sara followed the rest of the lecture with half an ear, preoccupied with thoughts of just how much of herself Nora had traded away to become what she was now. Her leg was obvious, her intelligence while on land even more significant, but the Captain had talked as if she'd made dozens of similar exchanges with this world's strange myriad beings. Sara, in contrast, had been blessed with what she had now without a cost beyond the responsibility her abilities incurred. Nora had clawed her way to the exceptional, giving everything she had to achieve what Sara had by chance.
But that was uncomfortable to think about, so Sara tossed the thought aside. Nora finished her lecture in a few short minutes, dismissing the rowers. They hesitated for a moment, expecting her to have them gather up the next group of students, but she only dismissed them again, more forcefully.
Sara followed Nora out of the room, hands shoved into her pockets. "Having fun playing professor, Captain?"
"That?" She laughed. "That was the basics, Champion. I'll have a lot more lecturin' to do before I have this crew in proper shape."
"As far as I'm aware, most captains don't train their crew beyond their role," Evie said. "Just how much are you intending to teach them?"
"As much as they'll learn, Evie. Admiral Sinti came from common stock, but he didn't magic his way to the top. He'd have gone nowhere had his first captain not taken him under his wing. If there's any genius lurking in my crew's skulls, I'd rather know about it before they drown it in ale."
"That's a smarter move than you might realize," Sara said. "Back in my world, most places made it a law that everyone had to be educated. The places with the smartest people usually ended up being the most successful."
"Glad to know my strategies have the endorsement of a foreign planet's nations," Captain Nora dryly said. "Now, what was this yesterday, about me makin' a deal I didn't realize?"
"Again, probably not something discussed in the open air," Sara said, nodding to the officer's rooms behind Captain Nora. "You claimed a cabin for your own, yet?"
"The old Captain's, of course. Haven't spent much time in it, though, and haven't had a chance to chuck Tilisa's old shite out yet."
"I'm sure it's fine for a conversation," Sara said. "Unless you've got more lecturing to do?"
"No, no, I can be done for now. Shall we?"
Sara followed Nora into the old captain's rooms, Evie splitting off to continue helping with repairs.
The Captain's Quarters, as Sara had expected, were absolutely the most finely decorated on the ship. A large bed was in the middle of the back wall, sporting silk sheets and feather pillows, and it was flanked on either side by dark wood dressers. A wardrobe on the left side of the wall had been opened and emptied, piles of clothes tossed on the floor and replaced with nothing but three hanging copies of Captain Nora's current uniform. A finely carved chest of drawers on the opposite wall had been treated in the same manner, its contents piled up unceremoniously in the room's corner. Only the writing desk had been spared partial dissasembly, the whalebone paperweights, globe, and piles of logbooks undisturbed.
Captain Nora fell into the plush chair behind the desk and tossed her right foot up on the table, yanking the boot off and beginning the process of unwrapping the bandages that padded her shabby wooden prosthetic. Nora waved for Sara to take the opposite chair, hissing through her teeth as she peeled off the bloodstained cloth.
"So, Sara. A deal I don't know about? Y'sure know how to pique a gal's interest."
"I've been told that a lot since I chose Amarat as my patron," Sara joked, sighing as she sat back in the fancy chair. Sleeping on a wooden bench had left her back riddled with aches and pains, so it felt even more luxurious than normal. "I've got the impression you're one who prefers to be given things straight, so I'll be blunt: I think you're a Champion now."
Captain Nora froze. "What?"
"A Champion. Do you remember in the fight yesterday, when half the crew fell over?"
"For no damn reason? Course I remember that."
"You didn't feel anything odd right about then? No sense of pressure, or the smell of sulfur, or anything out of the ordinary?"
"Nae."
"Well everybody else did. And what's more, Evie and I saw the same thing." Sara closed her eyes and concentrated for a moment, summoning the glowing purple runes. Pale smoke drifted off her skin, neon cigarette smoke filling the cabin. "We saw your skin glowing like this. Your eyes, too, and the back of your hand had magical runes. I take it none of your other deals could explain that?"
Captain Nora turned her hands over, as if she could see the runes even now. "Nae, nothing of the sort. Can't remember 'em all, but I'd remember one of those for sure."
"Then I've got one more test." Sara let her runes fade. "I don't know how you usually see your level, but try something different for me. Just think about it, like you want to see it all neatly summarized on a piece of paper."
"I don't see h-- Oh."
Sara folded her hands and waited as Captain Nora's eyes darted over something invisible, growing wider by the second.
"What does your class say?" Sara prompted.
Captain Nora took a long time to answer. Eventually her eyes refocused. "...Fucking bastard. It says Captain of The Waylaid One."
"Huh. Mine always said 'Champion of Amarat'. Is 'waylaid one' the nickname for the god of the sea or something?"
Nora shook her head. "Not one I've ever heard. Never heard the phrase, matter of fact."
Sara whistled. "And if it's something oceany that even you don't know, it's not likely there's anyone else that knows, huh?"
"None that put it to print, at least," Nora said, sinking deep into her chair. "I don't like being tied to something I don't know, Sara."
"If it's any help, Amarat's never demanded anything of me. I got given my powers and dumped on the streets of Sporatos pretty unceremoniously, and I haven't heard a peep from her since."
"But yer a Champion, are you not?" Nora waved her hand at floating text Sara couldn't see. "Not a thing in there that says Champion. Fer all I know I made a foul deal with some demon without realizing it."
"Mine doesn't say Champion of Amarat anymore, though," Sara said, risking a minor admission of details usually kept private. "It changed to 'Bindtwister of Amarat' just before I met you, probably because of my habit of freeing slaves and stuff. Since you're already a Captain, which was pretty much your whole life goal, it makes sense that the class name would have already changed."
"Perhaps," Nora said ambivalently, "But yours still mentions Amarat by name, while mine just says The Waylaid One. Shite name like that smacks of cults and dark sorts, used by the kind of folk that don't want to admit who they're worshippin'."
Privately, carefully molding her face into a mask of mildly positive curiosity, Sara had similar concerns, though she kept them hidden. The tenth god, the unspeaking and unknown power in this world, had remained at the back of her mind through the whole conversation. As one who'd taken no interest in her when she'd stood before the other nine gods, and apparently kept themselves entirely uninvolved in world affairs throughout their existence, it would be wildly out of character for the mysterious power to start meddling now. Especially by involving themselves with someone already close to Sara, who was probably going to end up the world's most watched person in the coming years.
Sara therefore felt confident that then tenth god wasn't responsible for Nora's flare of Champion-esque power, enough so that she saw no reason to reveal such a closely guarded secret to the woman. Sara trusted Nora implicitly by now, but if she went by Garen's reaction, revealing the existence of a hidden god would do more harm than good.
"Well," Sara said with a clap, having processed two paragraphs of social calculation in the blink of an eye, "At the very least, I don't think it's a bad thing. A class that plays into your captaining can't be bad, can it? I'm all for my future admiral getting ship-based powerups."
Still disturbed, but making an effort to recover, Nora smiled faintly. "True enough, Sara. We'll have to see how much it truly helps me, but I'm not fool enough to deny a gift on pride."
"I'm glad to hear it," Sara said, and she meant it. "If you're going to be pulling more stunts like you did with that magecraft, I'll want you using every tool in your toolbelt."
"Ah, the magecraft," Nora shook her head, sighing roughly. "Don't think I'll be pulling anything quite like that again, Sara. Too much damn luck involved yesterday for my tastes."
"Hardly seemed lucky to me. I mean, I helped a bit with the rowers by giving 'em a boost, but you called the shots from start to end."
Nora swung out of her chair with her prosthetic still off, hopping to the chest of drawers. Sara started to hurry over to offer a steadying arm, but quickly halted herself. The uncanny grace the captain had shown since boarding the Crossed Glory didn't fail her, even sans leg. With fingernails brushing the low ceiling for balance she reached the drawers, pulling out a clothing-wrapped bottle. She held its neck between two knuckles as she returned to her seat, then gnawed the cork off and spat it aside.
"It was luck, Sara, but it weren't good luck on our part. Rather bad luck on theirs." As she spoke Nora pulled two glasses from the desk, sliding one to Sara while pouring dark wine into her own glass.
"You mean the storm?" Sara asked, holding up her glass for Nora to fill. A subtle flutter began in her chest while the raven-haired Captain filled her up, free hand popping open the top button on her uniform.
"Nae, not the storm," Nora said, pausing to down her wineglass in a single draught. "If anything, the storm was to their advantage. No, I'm talkin' bout the whole mission they were given. A lone magecraft, sent off to capture a ship ferrying a Champion? Must have been some proper half-wit that sent the order out. Suicide, plain and simple."
"They could've known I'm not a combat Champion," Sara suggested. "I haven't demonstrated any special fighting talents, and the fact that I'm Amarat's champion is no secret. Someone well informed enough could infer that I'm not any harder to beat than someone of equal level."
"Sara," Nora said, not unkindly. "Two months ago you appeared in the middle of the continent's most powerful kingdom, making friends with everyone that saw you. Three weeks later, the most powerful noblewoman in the kingdom got the axe on your word, saving the city, after which ye disappeared into thin air with her heir and daughter in tow. Two weeks later you show up in Hagos with Lady Vesta herself wrapped around your finger, then vanish a week later the minute after her bastard of a husband chokes on his own spit." Nora refilled her glass and took another long sip, though she didn't finish it in one go this time. "Ye may not be throwing knives faster than arrows, but it'd be a mighty fool that misses the sort you've got hanging around you are as dangerous as any mad barbarian. Were I in charge of that magecraft when it was given that order, I'd damn well mutiny."
"You're exaggerating," Sara insisted. "You told me yourself how dangerous magecraft are. The fact we survived at all is a miracle."
"We never could've, if they'd fought us like that magecraft ought. Skimmers aren't meant for boarding; they're too light for it, and don't carry the marines required, which is why the order was even more damned foolish. They're built to sweep along the rank and file flinging fire, leaving ash in their wake."
"But they couldn't have just blown us up if they wanted to capture me."
Nora sloshed the wine bottle towards Sara, thumb capping the end to avoid spraying it across the desk. "Exactly! Y'don't send a skimmer to capture a ship, even a normal sort. Y'send a bulker, or a pair of mundane ships. Whoever gave the order must not have been a Carrion admiral, I'll tell you that much. Even the dullest of them would know better."
"So we know whoever wanted to capture me wasn't in the Carrion navy, at least." She turned towards the globe on Tilisa's old deck, a map of the planet that had three quarters or more of the surface still unfilled. "Where's the Carrion homeland? Are they near Sporatos?"
Nora snickered into her wine. "I forget that about you, sometimes."
"Hm?"
"How much ye don't know." Nora reached over and gave the globe a hard spin, blurring away the section Sara had been scouring. "The Carrion Fleet don't have a home. They're a fleet first and foremost, and the admirals are in charge of it all." Nora stopped the globe with a jab, finger pointing at an island several hundred miles off the coast of Sporatos. "They got colonies all over various coasts, but no territory y'could pin down and call theirs. If yer thinkin' some Carrion official outside the navy has his eye on you, yer thinkin' wrong, because there ain't anyone outside the navy."
Sara nodded, spotting similarly labeled Carrion ports strewn about the mapped territories. "Sounds like your kind of gang, if that's true."
"Ah, dunno 'bout that," Nora sighed, filling her third glass while Sara's first just reached half full. "Maybe something like the Carrion Navy was what I had in mind for myself back in the day, but that bird's flown. Looks like I've ended up fairly well settled for you, doesn't it?"
Though Sara felt a rush of blood at the words, she did her best to interpret them charitably. "I guess you have. Not like I can force you to stick around once you drop me off in Tulian, though."
"Maybe not, but yer a compelling woman, Sara." Nora propped her head up with her elbows on her desk, meeting Sara's gaze. Her once-dark eyes now stared at Sara in piercing blue, almost seeming to swirl and glow in the cabin's dim light. "Y'said that being under a Champion is the best thing that can happen to a gal like me, and after seeing you in action, I believe it. Not going to miss a chance like this one for all the coin in the world."
"Purely referring to my esoteric naval knowledge, right?" Sara smirked.
"Oh, there'll be time enough for that, too."
Sara held a hand to her mouth, affecting shock even as she stood and rounded the desk. "Captain Nora, deferring valuable naval intel in favor of womanly company? What will the chroniclers think?"
"Not a damn thing, because you'll never speak a word of it to anyone," Nora said, reaching out and sweeping Sara into her lap. Sara went willingly, but twisted so she landed straddling the Captain's hips, arms draped over her shoulders.
Running gentle circles over Nora's back, Sara smiled. "It'll almost be a shame to see you out of this uniform."
"That a compliment for the tailor or an insult for me?" Nora's voice was husky as her hands ran down Sara's sides, drifting towards the hem of her shirt.
"If you lost this outfit on the far side of the world, I'd drop everything and set sail for it the next day," Sara replied, reaching up to hook a finger under the collar. She used it draw Nora closer. "A woman in a fine suit is already divine, but you wear this like you were born to it."
"I wasn't," Nora said, "But I damn well earned it, didn't I?"
"Let's see what else you earned," Sara said, finally closing the distance.
Their lips brushed together, sending currents of energy through Sara that flared to lightning as Nora pulled her deeper into the kiss. Nora nipped at her lower lip, drawing it back for a moment. Sara followed after her, chasing the taste of her lips, tightening her arms around the captain's shoulders to draw her closer. The stirring of heat began in her core, warmth blooming through her body in a way that chased rational thought away. The familiar headiness of arousal hit her like a truck, muddying her mind. Their breasts pressed together, the rise of Nora's chest against her nipples leaving her twisting in the woman's lap, yet she still felt maddeningly far away, the clothes between them an unacceptable barrier. After a few moments longer of hungry kissing, Sara found the will to pull herself away.
"I've changed my mind," Sara panted. "Clothes off."
"Aye," Nora replied, breathing equally hard as she grabbed the bottom of Sara's rough cloth shirt. "Come on now, let's see what being a Champion gets you."
Sara pulled away from fumbling at Nora's uniform just long enough to let the woman yank the shirt over her head, then dove back in, a groan slipping from her lips as she felt warm fingers finally find her nipples. She squirmed under the attention, the little pinches and tugs and massages fanning the flames of her arousal higher, yet she didn't divert from her task, determined beyond reason to strip Nora right where she sat. A part of her cursed the uniform's beauty, as it was the only thing keeping Sara from ripping the thing off.
Just as she got the final button undone she found herself rising into the air, Nora's hands supporting her from below. At some point the captain had managed to slip her prosthetic back on, but Sara didn't much care how she was being carried, only wrapping her legs around the captain's hips because her uniform was finally falling open. Sara could finally see the white undershirt that didn't quite hide the tanned expanse of Nora's neck, the softness of her skin so different from the warrior's musculature she'd known in Hurlish and Evie.
Sara bent down and pressed her lips to Nora's skin, the sudden stutter to the woman's step signaling the end of her impossible grace on the seas. Sara raised her head to Nora's neck, tasting the salt of the woman's skin as she sucked and nibbled a trail of bruises, and then felt her back slamming into a wall, Nora having lost her balance entirely. Sara lifted her head and smiled at the furious blue glare staring back at her.
"Looks like you're not as perfect as we all thought, huh N--"
Sara's teasing was interrupted by a shift of Nora's hold on her, grinding the core of her heat against the woman's hips. It left Sara gasping, pushing into the motion in search of more.
"None of that, girlie," Nora growled, even as she shifted her hips again, leaving Sara groaning. "My ship, my rules. I'm in charge here, ain't I?"
"A-aye-aye, captain," Sara replied dutifully. As soon as she said it she was spun around, the world a blur until she felt herself being dropped, falling back onto the soft bed in the center of the room.
Sara watched, entranced, as Nora stood above her and stripped. There was no grace to the motions, just business-like efficiency in the way she threw her arms back to send the black overcoat to the ground, then yanked the cloth undershirt over her head. Sara was rewarded with the delicate expanse of smooth skin, the trim lines of Nora's body reflecting the sunlight coming in from the window behind the headboard. Her breasts were unbound and uncovered, stiff nipples at the center of breasts that Sara was certain would fit perfectly in her palms. Her chest curved down to a flawless stomach, muscles barely defined beneath silky skin, then widened out to hips that tightly hugged her dark leather pants.
Sara's eyes finally snapped back up to Nora's face when she realized the captain was standing with a hand on her cocked hip, a knowing smile on her lips. "Enjoying the sights, Sara?" Nora asked smugly.
Sara answered by lunging up, grabbing Nora around the hips and pulling her onto the bed. Nora laughed as she fell, catching herself with arms on either side of Sara's head. Instead of being pulled all the way in, Nora resisted, keeping their bodies just a few inches apart.
"I'm in charge tonight, remember?" She asked. Sara whined plaintively, tugging one last time. Nora's mischievous expression was unchanged.
"Fine," Sara breathed impatiently, "What do you want? Only on top? I can do that."
"You can try, " Nora half-agreed, "But I've been talking with your gals, and I don't think it would last long. So..." Sara's breath caught as Nora reached up and over the headboard, bringing out a length of fine rope. Unlike the ship's lines, this set was finely braided, free of fraying, and Sara realized what it was for between the thudding beats of her heart.
"It's the thickest I could find," Nora said, sitting back to straddle Sara's hips. "Not going to take any risks keeping a Champion tied up, as I'm sure you can understand. Now, give me your hands."
Sara would have protested that she really could keep herself under control, but that was probably more true of her old self, before Amarat's blessings had sunk into her psyche. She didn't have the best track record of being a compliant bottom over the past few months.
Sara briefly considered the fact that she really didn't know Nora as well as she had Evie or Hurlish, and that this was an awful lot of power to be giving to a clearly ambitious woman, but by the time the concerns had navigated their way through her clouded mind, Sara's libido had already made the decision for her. She presented her wrists eagerly.
"Good girl," Nora purred. Sara's concerns vanished with a shudder.
Ropes slid around compliant wrists, the nimble fingers of a sailor tying comfortable knots in an instant. Nora guided her bound limbs up, then back, towards the headboard, and Sara let her. After a moment of movement Nora's hands returned.
"Are we good?" Sara asked eagerly, shifting her hips. It seemed Nora preferred Sara without the optional equipment, so she could feel a deep and needy ache between her legs, the cheap cloth of her underwear already sticking to her thighs.
Nora ran a hand up Sara's arm, tracing the definition of her muscles. "Give it a go," she instructed, resting a hand on a bicep. Sara tugged, testing the bindings, and found them snug. Nora, however, frowned. "I said give it a go, Sara. Not pose. Pull. "
Sara shivered at the discipline in Nora's tone, then did as instructed. She shifted on the bed to give herself more leverage, then pulled, muscles straining as she tried to break free. There was a creak from the headboard, aged wood straining under the load, but there were no cracks or snaps, and the bindings didn't pinch her skin. Nora looked down on Sara as her muscles bunched and twisted, seablue eyes devouring the sight. Sara pulled so hard that she began to drag them both up the bed, her hips carrying Nora slightly upward, and even still nothing broke. She fell back onto the bed with a huff a moment later, the first sheen of sweat breaking out across her skin.
"Perfect," Nora murmured, finally leaning down. Sara stretched out to capture her lips, the soft curls of Nora's raven hair curtaining them both from the outside world. She opened her lips ever so slightly while she felt Nora cup the back of her head, shoving her into the kiss. Nora's tongue danced along her lips, then slipped forward, deepening the kiss. Sara's hands strained at the bindings once more, trying to drag the woman as close as could be, but she was still restrained, leaving her at the mercy of a long and agonizingly wonderful kiss.
Nora continued on like that for a tauntingly long while, nipping at Sara's lips or peppering along her chin, every so often daring to reach her neck and suck little hickies in constellation patterns. Sara groaned and twisted under the ministrations, little profanities slipping out every time Nora's hands pinched at her nipples or tugged at her hair. She realized through the haze that Nora had been right to be concerned about Sara's self-control, because if this torturously slow pace was what the captain preferred, it never could have happened. Even if Sara managed to stay on the bottom, she'd have grabbed Nora's hand and shoved it into her pants ages ago.
Nora's progression was glacial, minutes of teasing and nibbles passing before she even moved to straddle Sara's thigh, slowly dragging her hips back and forth to press herself against Sara's leg. Sara, for her turn, tried to rut like an animal against the press of Nora's knee, thirsting for any kind of relief, but Nora immediately pulled away, grinding herself further down Sara's leg so that her ache was left unanswered. After a time she returned, and Sara pushed hard again, and then it was gone. Sara felt like she was going crazy. It was either an eternity or a few minutes of slow teasing until Sara realized that Nora would only let Sara grind herself at a slow, measured pace, similar to the captain's own, or else she wouldn't be allowed even that small release.
If there was anything in this world that could be said to have truly tested Sara's resolve, it was that slow pace. The feel of warmth against her pussy only worsened her ache, but she couldn't give in to it, because it was the best she could get. A feverish heat was building in Sara, a shaking desperation that left her searching for any way to convince Nora to kick things into a higher gear.
Thankfully, Nora's patience seemed to be wearing nearly as thin. Her eyes grew lidded, the roving of her hands picking up the pace. She bent low over Sara, taking full advantage of Sara's inability to retaliate. She palmed and kneaded Sara's breasts, brushing her thumbs over her nipples not to give Sara any pleasure, but simply to explore her body. Sara had no choice but to shake and shiver as Nora cupped her chin one moment, running a hand over her hips the next, a hunger in her eyes as she committed the feel of Sara's skin to memory.
"A work of art, this body," Nora hummed, still running her hands in feather-light circles across Sara's skin.
"Amarat doesn't skimp out on her Champions," Sara replied, "Unlike you, apparently. Just how damn slow can one woman take things?"
"No time for the finer things in life, eh, Sara?" Nora jammed her knee into Sara's core, pressing a whine from her lips. "I've seen the way your women look at you, Champion. Like they're addicted, they are. I'm fool enough to give it a taste, but not enough that I won't take precautions."
"Oh yeah? And what are those?"
Nora's hand roamed down from Sara's breasts, tickling along her ribs before settling on her hip. "I'll do what I always do, Sara. Take what I want, when I want."
With that ominous proclamation, Nora leaned back, shuffling her pants off in one smooth motion. Sara devoured the sight, fruitlessly straining against the ropes binding her. Lithe legs, delectable in uniform, are even more enticing when bared. Nora's prosthetic was gone, but long practice kept her steady on the bed as she towered over Sara, smugly basking in the way Sara failed to break her bonds in her desire to take hold of Nora's body. The mad captain looked down on Sara's struggling with undisguised lust, a certain familiar firmness entering her demeanor.
"Sit up," Nora commanded, her tone the very same with which she'd barked orders in the heat of battle, if not nearly as loud. Sara hurriedly obeyed, tugging herself up the bedframe by her wrist bindings, hands now pinned solidly at the base of her spine.
"Let's see what so entranced your women, shall we?" Nora purred, crawling up into Sara's lap. "That mouth must be good for something other than fanciful speeches."
Nora settled her bare body into Sara's lap, wetting her stomach with slick. Sara strained forward, trying to capture Nora's mouth with her own, but the captain straightened her spine, wrapping her arms around Sara's neck.
"So eager, so eager," Nora chided, "Haven't you gotten a good enough taste of my lips?"
Lost in lust as she was, Sara barely understood the remark, until Nora arched her chest forward in the same breath that she yanked Sara's head forward.
That fairly well cleared things up.
Sara's tongue fell from her mouth as she dove onto Nora's breast, languishing it with long, slow licks. The captain shuddered above her, but remained silent, save for the heaviness of her breathing. That wouldn't do.
Sara narrowed in, sucking on Nora's nipples, swirling her tongue in circles only to dive in for a quick flick, forcing a twitch from the captain's body. Sara longed to reach up and shove Nora into her mouth, but contented herself with what the woman would allow, switching to her other breast. She was rewarded by a long, low sigh, nails dragging through her hair to scratch her scalp.
Sara continued on as such, always taking note of what worked on the captain, homing in on the best measure of bringing her pleasure. Steadily, minute by minute, she was rewarded, Nora's breathy inhalations turning to sighs, then gasps, and finally moans. The captain's hips began a slow grind across Sara's lap, barely conscious of the way she was rubbing her pussy against Sara. She kept at it, taking what pleasure she could from rubbing her thighs together and squirming against Nora, doing her best to rub her own chest against Nora's body.
Until, finally, Nora gasped, ducking her head in pleasure. Driven by instinct she couldn't define, Sara leapt up from her loving attention on Nora's breasts, taking the pointed tip of the captain's half-elven ears in her mouth.
Nora cried out, abruptly slamming both hands against the headboard in a violent motion. Sara had barely nipped the woman's ear, but her entire body was locked into place, trembling, as if she lacked the strength to pull away from Sara's mouth.
"I-I d-didn't s-say you could--" Nora began to say.
Sara flicked her tongue against the tip of Nora's ear, cutting the reprimand off in a strangled cry. Despite herself, Nora dipped her head lower, sagging against Sara's body.
That's more like it, Sara thought, grinning against Nora's cheek. Before the captain could muster another comment, Sara closed her lips around her ear, sucking hard.
She was rewarded with another choked moan, a rolling shudder wracking Nora's body. Smelling blood in the water, Sara refused to relent, running her tongue in light circles just around the narrowed tip of her ear.
Nora reacted like Sara was latched onto her clit, fingernails curling into claws that dug into Sara's shoulder blades. Tied down as she was, Sara could hardly say she'd turned the tables on Nora, but at the very least, she'd clawed back some of her pride as Amarat's champion. For all she lost her head in the heat of the moment, Sara's competitive drive ran strong.
Nora twisted and whined under Sara's ministrations, leaving a wet patch on Sara's still-not-removed pants. Sara barely cared, of course, far too focused on the noises she was extracting from the peculiar twist of half-elf anatomy. Some distant part of Sara's mind wondered if Nora's reaction was just the nature of elven ears, or if the fae-touched captain had stumbled across one of the oddest bargains ever offered by a faery. Either way, she rejoiced in the opportunity, working Nora's moans into a higher and higher pitch.
Suddenly, as if finally possessed of the strength to control her own body, Nora ripped herself away. Sara immediately mourned the loss of anything in her mouth, but that only lasted into she locked eyes with Nora, where cerulean madness hungered.
Sara wouldn't have to wait for long.
With an animalistic growl, Nora latched onto Sara's pants, dragging them down with enough force to lay Sara prone on the bed once more.
"Think yer some hot shit, takin' me by surprise like that?" Nora flung the pants down to Sara's ankles, then returned to look Sara in the eye. "Damnable fool, you are, if you think I'll come apart for ye that easy, Champion. A damn fool."
"Got awfully close though, didn't I?"
Nora's eyes narrowed down at Sara. "Don't need to be tied up, my arse, you wanton whore."
Sara flashed a cocky grin, recognizing the insult as toothless. "Whores do it for money, Captain, and I just got you a ship. What does that make you?"
"Stealing a girl her very own ship, Champion? You know what that makes me?" Nora straightened once more, lording over Sara. "Very, very wet."
Nora crawled forward on the bed, moving until her pussy was over Sara, slick shining against her thighs.
"Now be a good Champion, and put that tongue to use."
Sara welcomed Nora's body like a worshipper at the altar. No sooner had Nora begun to lower herself than was Sara lunging upward, breathing deep of the salt and sweat of the last half-hour's exertion. She opened her mouth and ran a long, slow lick up Nora's thigh, ending at the lips of her pussy, which she ran the full flat of her tongue along.
"F-fuck!" Nora groaned, knees giving way. Sara hardly cared as the weight was pressed down on her, Nora's hands flying to the headboard to support herself. She pressed and nuzzled against Nora's lips, lapping like a woman starved, which, considering the truly hideous length of the foreplay, she very nearly was. Amarat's Champion wasn't built for denial, damnit, and Sara intended to teach Nora that lesson. She dove in, using her tongue to drive the point home.
Above her, Nora shuddered, barely able to keep steady. Among the many skills the goddess had granted her Champion, Nora was forced to recognize, a skilled tongue was most likely first among them. It took all she had to keep herself from toppling over, and most of the motivation to do so came from that tongue, that tongue! It was a devil's serpent beneath her, a siren that didn't call her name, but forced her to cry another's. She had to bite her lip just to keep the chant of Sara, Sara! from slipping loose, certain beyond doubt that the damnably smug woman would take far more pride in the cries than Nora could tolerate.
Suddenly, without warning, Sara's tongue shifted, moving to her clit, and Nora could hold back no longer. Vile profanities fell from her as Sara's lips wrapped around her clit, sucking in the same breath that her tongue ran slow circles around the hood, alternating between almost being enough to far too much, flicking and pressing in such a way that her entire body was struck through by lightning, arching her back as her eyes wrenched closed.
No, no! Nora screamed in her mind, frustration warring with the growing impulse to give in and grind her way to ecstasy. I won't end up like those women, pawing at her like lost puppies! I'll-- Nora's thoughts were interrupted by a tongue diving deeper than ever before, robbing her of the strength to do more than buckle forward, trembling hands clawing the headboard. I won't! I'll- I'll show her.
In a display of willpower rivaling the gods, Nora suddenly lifted herself off Sara's face, spinning around. She'd intended to crawl back down to between the Champion's legs, ensuring that her own peak was reached before Nora's, but the absence of that wondrous, wondrous tongue was too much.
Nora did the next best thing, instead. She bent over to place her head between Sara's legs, lowering her own hips back down, as if she were graciously allowing the woman to please her. She could win this, she reasoned. Sara was pent up, frustrated by endless, teasing, ready to go off at a hair trigger.
Her certainty fled the moment she felt hot breath graze her pussy, even the suggestion of Sara's mouth returning prompting a desperate roll of her hips. Nora gave up on mastering her body, which was in a state of mutiny far beyond her ability to reign in, and focused instead on the prize in front of her.
Gods, she tastes divine, was the first thought that shot through Nora's mind as her tongue got its first taste of Sara's slit. The muffled buzz of Sara's moan nearly broke her then and there, but she persevered, running her tongue up and down all it could reach.
It was a losing battle, for the both of them. Nora whined and groaned as Sara ravaged her in animalistic abandon, barely pausing for breath. Nora, for her part, had little of the Champion's expertise, but it was hardly needed. It seemed every inch of Sara's body was a tightly wound spring, requiring the lightest of touches to send the Champion bucking against her mouth, chasing pleasure. Nora lapped and licked at the burning heat, feeling the thighs she balanced her hands upon twitch and jump with every little motion.
Her own reactions were hardly more refined, shivers and shakes and hiccuping moans breaking through the seal of her mouth against Sara's pussy. It was like nothing she'd ever tasted, not because of its flavor, but because of the hunger it awoke in her, a heat in her core coiling tighter as it demanded her to dig deeper, deeper, and all the while she was suffering under Sara's lips and tongue, driving thought and reason from her mind.
Nora barely knew how much time had passed, be it seconds or minutes since she'd placed her lips on Sara's pussy, before she began to feel the whitewater wave of pleasure rising up within her. Her moans became whimpers against Sara's flesh, little noises she'd never heard from herself, something that she would have been embarrassed to let loose, if not for Sara's reaction. It seemed the Champion took as much pleasure from Nora's noises as she did her tongue, thighs bunching together to close around Nora's head, pinning her in place.
Sara's tongue darted up one last time, pressing a hard, long lick against Nora's clit, and then she was gone, gone, gone.
The wave reached its crescendo in Nora's mind, stars bursting behind her eyelids as she wrenched them shut, shoving her hips down on Sara's welcoming face. Trapped between Sara's thighs as she was, her scream was mercifully muffled, enough so that her later self would pray the crew hadn't heard it, while her present self just kept twisting and pushing, grinding, pulling every ounce of delectable sensation she could as it rocketed throughout her body.
Not a second passed after Nora reached her peak before Sara was crying out herself, driven over the edge by the captain's sudden shove against her pussy. Nora could barely register the way Sara's entire body shook, toes and fingers and neck trying to curl up into a ball as that same pleasure, that same crashing wave, rolled over them both.
Again Nora lost sense of time, eyes wrenched shut until the world was nothing but the feel of skin and heat against her, a tongue in her body, salt upon her lips.
An eternity later, finally, she sagged, breathing hard into the mattress she hadn't the strength to roll her face off of.
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Some hours later, when breath and wits had been recovered, it came time for Nora to begin her interrogation of Sara. She obligingly brought out her sword, gripping it by the pommel while focusing on the hazy memory of a distant ship. In a flash the ship appeared on the back of her sword hand, a floating model a foot long. As before, it was impossibly detailed, showing even a crew milling about the deck, tying lines and working through the rigors of daily maintenance for a sailing ship of such size.
Nora immediately began writing feverish notes on a notebook she'd prepared on the bed, her mad scrawling quickly straying out of the lines to jumble into heaps of overwritten text. Still she kept her eyes on the ship, muttering to herself an incomprehensible string of nautical terminology.
"Can you make it sail for me?" Nora asked breathlessly, charcoal nub still scraping.
"I don't know..." Sara began to say, but even as the thought occurred to her, the imaginary crewmembers jumped into motion. Sara didn't know how long she could keep the illusion up, but assumed it had some kind of limitation. That she spent several minutes of it watching the crew unfurl white sails felt like a waste, but Nora watched with burning fascination, occasionally reaching up to make relative measurements, trying to find an accurate scale to use.
As the question occurred to Sara, she felt that odd tug at the back of her skull. As if speaking right into her ear, she heard the narrator of a long-forgotten documentary listing its dimensions. Sara spoke them aloud, for Nora's benefit, sending the Captain's hand darting across the page, amending her estimations in quick slashes. Sara didn't have a great eye for size, but even by comparing the crew to the length she could tell the Constitution dwarfed any ship of Port Agrith.
Eventually Nora ordered her to have the ship begin turning left, then right, then tack and jibe, the latter of which she had to briefly explain before Sara could order the illusion to respond. With every maneuver the miniature crew responded, adjusting the sails accordingly, and Sara was rewarded with more enchanted spiels of technical jargon far beyond her paygrade. Half the words weren't even those that Sara'd overheard on the ship, as if Nora had invented her own form of shorthand exclusively for describing ships and their motions.
Nora was still writing notes when the illusion sputtered and broke apart, the gentle light it had provided dark. Nora didn't even ask Sara to repeat the spell, but rather wordlessly grabbed her by the wrist and shoved her hand back onto her sword. Sara began the illusion again, warning Nora it would be the last time that she could do it for the day. Nora had nodded her comprehension as she'd thrown aside her snapped charcoal, snagging another and beginning another manic bout of notetaking.
By the end of the second illusion, Sara's head was pounding. Nora had her put the ship through increasingly complex maneuvers, a feat which required Sara actually understanding what Nora wanted the illusory ship to do. She was repeatedly on the receiving end of violently impatient naval sailing lessons, all so she could parse the order well enough in her head for the ship to respond appropriately. Amarat's gifts fueled her mastery of the spell up to a point, but even her Champion's abilities couldn't conjure knowledge from nothing.
The final illusion broke apart in the middle of Nora raptly documenting some absurdly specific combination of sail shifting, one that supposedly would help the ship steer through a storm if the rudder mechanism had been broken. Sara had long since stopped understanding even the slightest part of her own creation by then, as much along for the ride as she'd been when Nora first took the wheel of the Crossed Glory.
"Did you get enough?" Sara asked as the subtle light faded from the cabin. Nora was shaking out a cramp from her hand with a crazed grin on her face, three filled notebooks spread about the bed.
"Oh, I got enough, Sara." Nora continued to stretch out her hand, which looked like it might be permanently bent into a claw. "Such a strange, strange vessel. Massive, utterly massive, yet built with planks thicker than any ship I've known. What it was protecting itself from, I can only imagine. Did your oceans have creatures in their depths that dwarf even the greatest of our monsters?"
"I doubt it," Sara said noncommittally. She didn't enjoy lying to Nora, even by omission, but the topic of gunpowder and cannons was one she categorically refused to broach. She knew with absolute certainty that the captain would have none of Evie's restraint when it came to seizing an advantage, and neither would she use something like cannons judiciously. The second Nora knew how to make them they'd be on every ship in her fleet, writing her legend in gouts of smoke and fire.
"Then what for, what for?" Nora continued. "A siege ship perhaps, meant to resist catapults? Or a vessel meant to inure itself to ramming, incapable of being pierced by any but an equal?" Her blue eyes danced to mad flames, a deep cackle boiling in her chest. "Oh, but here, but here, in these placid waters? It has no equal. None to stand against it. Imagine, to be atop a ship such as that. I wouldn't need a fleet to secure your shores, Sara. Just the threat of my arrival would cow anything less than a pack of magecraft."
"So you got a pretty good deal on this trip after all?" Sara asked sarcastically, reaching out to flip through one of Nora's notebooks. What sections were legible, she couldn't understand.
"Oh, yes, that deal," Nora cackled. "The best deal I made in all my life, I might think, and I've made a many. Yes, my dear. In exchange for a three day journey your payment of a full ship, crew, supplies, and designs to the most terrifying monster this world has yet seen are found to be utterly, wholly fulfilling." Nora giggled again, a dangerous little hiccup that had nothing to do with wine bubbling out of her throat. "Oh, yes. Yes, Sara, I think I find myself more than delighted to be in your service. A wondrous, glorious service it is indeed."
Sara looked down at the demented scrawling strewn across the paper, then up at the swaying woman sitting cross-legged on the bed, and began to wonder at exactly what she'd just unleashed upon this world.
Notes:
For future readers, here was the previous Author's Note, which was placed in the middle of the chapter. That way you know what the comments are talking about.
A/N
So! It turns out that it's pretty hard to find the free time to write porn when you live with a highly supportive roommate (who loves to glance over what at what I'm writing) that is also devoutly Catholic. I normally wait till they're asleep to work on the spicier chapters, but I've had to be up early recently. It's been over a week since the last update, so I figured it was time to just post what I've got down and fill in the blanks at first opportunity. In the meantime here's the conclusion of this chapter, occurring post-banging.
Chapter 18: Old Maui
Chapter Text
When the city of Tulian crested the horizon, it was naut but a thin grey line peeking out above the waves. Barely distinguishable from a trick of the eye, Sara's reaction was more reserved than the elation of the crew. As it came into sharper definition, Sara decided her hesitation was prudent.
The towering walls of Tulian had been abandoned for near eleven years, but it wasn't the lack of tending that led to their current state. If Sara had any doubt the hurricanes that had ravaged Tulian were supernatural in origin, they were dashed by the crumbling stone before her. Narrow slices had been blown from the fifty-foot sea wall, as if the gods themselves had taken massive axes to the city. The dark granite was pitted and pored, centuries worth of erosion compressed into a handful of climactic years. There was a conspicuous gap in the wall's semicircle length where a yawning gate had once allowed ships into the wide harbor, the entire structure having been snapped off and tossed backward. Sara could actually see the massive arch further within the city, the intact structure having cratered an entire city block.
As the ship glided into the silent bay, Sara got a closer look at the marks left by the storms. Every missing chunk of the wall had been severed in straight lines, sheer faces so smooth they looked polished. The sight tickled something in her brain, something she'd once seen, and it took her a moment to recall it.
A waterjet cutter. That was what it reminded her of. A machine back on earth that made some of the parts she'd welded together. It compressed water to absurd pressures, then shot it through a tiny nozzle faster than the speed of sound. It could cut through steel like paper. Sara's eye ran along the diagonal gash that had once attached the harbor's gate. From the waterline to the slash's end was easily a hundred and twenty feet, the granite at least fifteen feet thick along the entire length.
Sara had once wondered how an entire nation had been abandoned because of hurricanes. The idea of an area the size of a country being outright abandoned by lord and peasant alike had struck her as ridiculous. She'd wondered if the reports were exaggerated, or if there were other, less dramatic factors that led to Tulian's depopulation.
But after seeing that wall, Sara began wondering how anyone had survived.
Though the mood of the Crossed Glory's crew was jubilant, celebrating under the noonday sun, Sara felt chill. Every time she thought she'd gotten a handle on the differences between this world and Earth, something like that wall appeared. Evidence of something impossible, a remnant of a force she had no hope of answering. As a freed slave walked past her and gave a celebratory clap on her shoulder, she tried to shake the gloom away. She gave the man a wan smile, patting his back as he moved past her.
Captain Nora had the Crossed Glory come about as she entered the capital proper, the natural bay penned in by the walls to become a miles-wide dockyard. There was fragmented evidence of what had once been a massive complex of piers and docking stations along the shoreline, but only those made of stone still survived. The ship swept towards them, providing Sara with her first glimpse of civilization in the ruins.
A small crowd began to gather at the end of the closest stone pier. It seemed the Crossed Glory wasn't the only ship to still frequent the city of Tulian, because it took only a few scant minutes for stalls to erect themselves, ushered in by pairs of people hustling supplies up in wooden carts. As they slid in Sara saw fresh fruits, dark ales, and crates full of nails and coiled rope, all sold by different plainly dressed merchants. The moment they were in shouting distance the sellers began to holler out prices to the crew, doing their best to overpower their neighbors to get the most attention. It would have been a normal enough sight for this world's markets, if not for the fact that the rest of the massive bay was dead silent, none but the wind ghosting over decaying ruins.
"What a wonderful place you've taken us, Master," Evie drawled as she eyed the eery juxtaposition. She, Sara, and Hurlish were up on the elevated helm, Captain Nora at the wheel ten feet behind them. They were all dressed as Sara had requested, her plan for a memorable first impression ready to go.
"Hey, if you think there's anywhere easier to conquer, be my guest," Sara said. "As far as I'm concerned, this is a good sign."
"Mm."
"At least there's people still hanging around," Hurlish grunted. "My whole village scattered. Surprised the capital's still got anyone left."
"Tulian's still got ships coming by every now and then," Nora explained from behind. "Pirates or privateers mostly, the sort that aren't treated kindly by normal ports."
"Any slavers?" Sara asked.
"Likely, as with any port. Though not for much longer, I imagine."
Sara chuckled darkly.
They reached the dock. Though several of the merchants had taken up spots by the moorings, ready to receive thrown ropes, it proved unnecessary. Captain Nora's steady hand slipped the ship into place with exacting precision, no more than an inch gap left between the hull and stone wharf. Instead of tossing docking ropes to the merchants, the sailors simply stepped off the ship's side, tying it into place themselves.
"Mighty fine sailin', Cap'n!" A too-close voice complimented. Sara jumped, turning towards the right, where a young girl's head had popped up over the stern. "Almost as fine as my father's ropework, which y'can find at the third stall on--"
"Touch my ship without permission again and I'll paint the bay red with your guts," Nora snapped.
"Aye-aye, Cap'n!" The girl cried, so unconcerned by the threat that she saluted with both hands, falling away from the ship to land with a muffled oof on the stone below.
"Jesus, Nora, that was a bit much, wasn't it?" Sara asked. "She was just a kid."
"Tulian's been abandoned for too long," Nora replied simply. "That kid doesn't even remember when this was a proper city, much less protocol for dealing with real captains. If y'want me to head yer navy, Champion, then yer gonna have to put some discipline in the people here."
"Still, though. She didn't know any better."
"And now she does, no?"
Sara shook her head, letting the topic drop. A pathological overprotectiveness for her ship was something that Sara would have to accept in Nora. Sara certainly had her share of eccentricities that the others put up with, so it was only fair.
"So what's the plan for you now, Captain?" Sara asked, keeping an eye on the disembarking crew below as she spoke. "I hope you won't be setting sail right away."
"Gods know I wish I could, but nae," Nora sighed. "There's work to be done on this bastard child of a ship, and it won't be short work. A new mast, sails, oars, supplies, piddling repair work, crew, a hundred hundred tasks needing tending to. You'll likely have me stomping about in the harbor for a week or more, Sara."
"Well that's reassuring," Sara said, stretching. "Might need a quick getaway, if things go too poorly."
"Master," Evie interjected, "You are divinely blessed with the ability to make friends, not enemies. Why do you seem so certain that whoever controls Tulian will so vehemently oppose you?"
"'Cause I really doubt they're gonna be the sort I'd like to make friends with. Now, is everybody ready?"
"Yes, Master."
"Yeah," Hurlish grunted, rolling her shoulders.
"Have fun, dears," Nora smiled behind them.
Sara closed her eyes, summoning up the willpower required to set the runes glowing across her skin. She felt the smoking purple light float away from her skin, leaking through the seams of her armor. Opening her eyes, she pointed down at Ignite Parables, who was standing near the gangplank dressed in the full regalia of a Carrion Sergeant, sans his royal blue helmet plume. That had been hacked messily away, metal bare and unadorned. He nodded to her, then stepped forward, cupping his hands around his mouth.
"Make way for the Champion of Amarat!"
Sara leapt over the railing, falling ten feet to crash down on the stone wharf. She scanned the crowd from behind her steel helmet, wisps of neon smoke curling off her lit irises. The runes of her armor glowed the same color as her skin, accentuating the way the enchanted metal shimmered and twisted with her every movement. She'd pulled her sword ever so slightly from its sheath, so the black steel of the blade was visible if one thought to look, and she'd intentionally not cleaned the grime of battle off her armor before arriving. To Sara's sensibilities her ensemble evoked a succubus valkyrie, the graceful curves of her armor clashing with saltwater and blood.
Hurlish crashed to the stone behind her a half-second later, the weight of woman and armor throwing dirt like a meteor strike. She landed in a crouch, then stood slowly, laboriously, until the full reach of her seven foot height had her towering over most of the crowd, save for the other orcs present. Hurlish hefted her hammer up onto her shoulder, its spiked end still stained stained subtly red.
Evie fell off the ship a moment after Hurlish landed. She fluttered down gracefully, the sequined red dress that Sara loved so much billowing around her. Nidd, the seamster turned surgeon, had made some alterations to the garment at the catgirl's behest. It now fit looser on her, freeing her to wear her leather armor beneath it, and the already low-cut V had been deepened, showing off both her narrow figure and the blackened armor covering it. There were a few scratches visible in the leather, but no evidence of Evie ever having been successfully wounded.
Sara began walking forward, pulling her helmet off and shaking her hair out. As befitted a Champion of Amarat, the black waves fell without a single snag, like she was fresh out of a salon. Evie and Hurlish folded around her, taking the places of bodyguards.
Sara ignored the women as she walked through the crowd, just as she ignored the way they parted like water before her. The crowd was near silent, only hushed whispers speculating about Sara's presence in Tulian. Evie had assured her that there likely wasn't a single place in all the world that the news of a Champion's arrival hadn't reached by now, but she was secretly glad to see that the people of Tulian seemed to believe she was who Ignite claimed her to be. Outwardly, she kept a polite smile as she walked up to a fruit seller's stand.
She picked up one of the products, a fist-sized fruit similar to a watermelon, and consciously stopped trying to put on a show.
"What's the name of this?"
The merchant struggled to get his peeled eyes back to a normal size as he violently patted down his shirt and straightened his back, clearing his throat into one fist while combing through his hair with the other.
"That is a melondrop, My Lady. It grows from jungle trees in Tulian, growing ripe during the rainy season, which has just begun. A fine time to buy it, I must say."
"Ah, y'don't have to 'my lady' me or anything," Sara said, looking over the other fruits. "Y'know, it's funny. I've seen more new stuff in the last few months than any other time in my life, but for some reason I expected the plants to still be the same. Isn't that weird? I mean, there's plenty of different animals here, so why would the plants not change?"
As she spoke Evie and Hurlish broke off from their bodyguard display, relaxing into a more normal posture as they began browsing the stalls for themselves. The crew, who'd grown used to Sara, began to stir to life, and with that the frozen tension in the air melted. The merchants and other Tulian natives still kept an eye on Sara, clearly interested, but she was no longer the main exhibit.
"If you're looking for exotic, My Lady--" The fruit seller began again, before Sara interrupted him by thrusting her hand out.
"The name's Sara," she said, waiting for a handshake. "You can call me ma'am if you insist on being formal, but I'm fine with just Sara."
The fruit seller timidly accepted her gauntleted hand. She gave it a good shake, then picked up another fruit. This one was almost like a pear, but more symmetrical, top and bottom mirrored like an hourglass.
"What about this one?"
"A permino, ma'am, another Tulian native. Its skin has a fair bit of spice to it, but the core is sweet as honey."
"Sounds interesting," Sara said, turning her helmet upside down by her waist and tossing the fruit in. She added a pair of the melondrops to the helmet, using the enchanted armor like a bucket. She moved on to the next fruit, which was definitely just a regular apple, but she asked the man about it just in case. He obliged each of her questions, and as Sara got a better read on him and adjusted her speech accordingly, he grew more relaxed. Soon they were chatting like she was any old customer, until Sara paid and walked away with a helmet full of fruit.
She moved to the next stall, which had cheese and dried meats, and waited in line behind some of the crew. The seller looked profoundly uncomfortable with making Sara wait her turn, but the crew was used to it from the meals, so the seller had no choice but to follow suit. Sara got an earlier read on the woman running the stall by listening to her sell goods to the others, so it was easier to chat with her while she made some purchases, storing them in her bag of holding.
In reality, Sara's travel rations didn't need much resupplying, but that wasn't the point of this shopping spree. She'd thought for a good few hours about how best to introduce herself to Tulian, and had decided on something like this after chatting with Evie and the others. She entered with a dramatic bang, heralded by a Carrion Sergeant who was even now telling the story of his magecraft's defeat by Sara and Nora, and then proceeded to shop like anyone else. Showing strength first, then humility, the combination serving to put common folk at ease while appearing disconcertingly contradictory to anyone with authority.
Political games like this one were something she used to detest, but the talent that Amarat's blessings had given her for them had changed her mind. Twenty charisma in her statblock gave her an intuitive feel for any conversation partner, letting her read the mood of a crowd like a book, so it took only the barest thought for her to pivot to appropriately address any situation. The layers upon layers of intermixed falsehoods and truths she had to spout still occasionally left her dizzy when she got too introspective, but she avoided that these days. She found she got the best results when she kept a clear goal in mind and followed her instincts, not letting herself get paralyzed by analysis.
Which was about to be very helpful, she noted, because there was someone fording their way through the crowd in her direction. Dressed in all black, they were a shark among minnows to the Tulian natives, who recoiled from their presence. They were catfolk, grey fur covering them from head to toe, twitching whiskers sprouting from a scarred feline muzzle. Sara couldn't tell what gender they were, if any, and their black fur-padded clothing could have hid any number of weapons. Sara debated how best to engage them while she waited in line for another stall, monitoring their approach from her peripheral vision.
The catfolk came to a stop off Sara's left. She continued to ignore them, taking a step forward when the line moved, forcing them to sidestep to maintain their station on Sara's left side.
After a solid sixty seconds of staring up at her, the catfolk spoke up.
"Sara of Amarat?" The catfolk had a pack-a-day smoker's rasp.
"Hmm?" Sara hummed, looking down. "Yeah, that's me. What's up, puss?"
A lip curled, revealing the edge of a single fang. "I am a representative of The Shaded Tree, they who control this city. Your ship entered unannounced, and has not paid appropriate tribute."
"Not my ship," Sara said, tilting her head to Captain Nora, up at the helm. "It's hers. If there's any fees she needs to pay or whatever you'll have to go to her."
"A Champion would not travel under another. Say what you please, but it is your ship."
"I mean, I guess it could have been," Sara said, scratching her ear. "We did kill the old captain, but she had it coming, and I gave Nora the wheel, so I'm pretty sure that makes the ship hers. Do you have a form for hostile takeovers or something? I imagine that'd make the paperwork easier when she gets to a proper dock."
The catfolk hissed, even the subtle noise making the merchant behind the stall flinch. Apparently this wasn't a person to be fucked with, so Sara barreled on.
"If you're tryna take my measure or whatever, or figure out why I'm in the city, then I'm free for a meeting with your bosses anytime. I dunno if your little Shady Tree group constitutes a proper government, but I'd rather keep things smoothed over if at all possible, so I'm sure Captain Nora will pay your fee, if it's not too unreasonable." Sara leaned to her left, voice dropping to a whisper. "And if you're trying to threaten me, it's not working."
"The Shaded Tree does not threaten," the catfolk hissed back.
"Glad to hear you're so friendly," Sara said with an uncompromisingly brilliant smile, taking another step forward. It was her turn in line, and she was at the stall with the little girl that had climbed the ship earlier. "I heard you sell good rope?"
The catfolk stepped past her with a final, growing repetitive, hiss. Captain Nora walked over to the railing to greet them as they stalked up, having picked up on the miniature confrontation. The faetouched captain leaned against the railing, supporting her head with a hand smushed into her cheek, looking bored as could be as she weathered the thinly veiled threats.
"I could just kill the creepy bastard," Hurlish offered, massive bulk shading Sara as she stepped up beside her.
"There's a kid here, Hurlish," Sara chided. "We'll talk it over in a minute. For now, I actually need to buy rope. Turns out that shit's expensive, and I've been cutting it instead of untying it."
"You didn't know good rope was expensive?" Hurlish snorted.
"It wasn't where I'm from!" Sara protested, thumping Hurlish's side, metal gauntlet ringing like a gong against the orc's armor. She reaffixed her attention on the rope merchant. "Sorry about that. You're this kid's dad?"
"I am," the man said, drawing the words out as he eyed his daughter. "What'd she do?"
"Climbed up to the helm to advertise your product directly to the captain. Unfortunately, she's the sort that gets a bit touchy about people getting near her ship."
"She said she'd paint the bay red with my blood!" The girl giggled happily. Sara guessed she was somewhere in the preteen range, but it was hard to tell through piles of humidity-tousled hair.
The father blew out a long breath, eyes locked on the horizon. "How many times have I told you not to go climbing where you shouldn't?"
"Too man--"
"Too. Many." The man swatted her on the back of the head, too light to really hurt. "Sorry about that, My Lady," he said to Sara, ignoring his child. "Now, you said you needed rope?"
"Calling me Sara is fine, or ma'am. And yes, I was hoping to get some thinner ones, the sort you'd use to tie prisoners up."
The rest of the exchange was routine, without further interruption from strange black clad catfolk. Sara made her purchases and collected her friends, plus Ignite and the selection of freed slaves that wished to stay in Tulian. Among them were Nidd and Semel, who'd been relatively new to the crew, and as such eager to be free of the ocean for a time. Sara warned each and every one of the volunteers that the early days in the city would likely be rough, maybe even dangerous, but they'd come along anyway. Sara could only hope she'd keep them safe until the city was more firmly under control.
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Sara's party marched off into the half-abandoned city in one big glob, craning their necks about like gawking tourists. As they exited the most immediately harborside selection of buildings the old capital began to show more signs of life, though they remained sparse. Most buildings were covered in green lichen and creeping vines, teeming flora squeezing into and expanding the cracks left by storm-thrown debris. Some buildings, though, had been kept clean, with intact glass in their windows, though the interior curtains were invariably drawn. There were even a few people walking down the wide streets, chatting with one another or making purchases in front of buildings that lacked decorations of crawling ivy. Sara, leading a group of ten interlopers to the city, had little luck getting her friendly waves returned. Most folk skittered away at her approach, darting for the safety of dark alleys or locked doors.
"This doesn't feel like a city that got rocked by storms," Sara whispered to Evie, irrationally reluctant to break the eerie silence. "It feels like a city after the apocalypse."
"For those living in Tulian at the time, it may have been like the end of days, Master," Evie whispered back. "You've seen the damage as clearly as I. To have lived through such a calamity must have left an impression upon this city's people."
"Even a decade later?" Sara said doubtfully. "I feel like they'd have to have gotten over it, at least a little bit."
"It ain't just the storms," Hurlish said, shifting her hammer to her other shoulder while eyeing a dark alley with suspicion. "These people're afraid of something fresh, something that could still get 'em. Probably that shady prick from earlier."
"The Shaded Tree? You really think a gang with such a boring name is the real power in this city?"
"Don't see anyone else moseying up to ships demanding money, did you?"
"Ignite?" Sara prompted. The armored man started, not expecting to be addressed. "Any ship you've been on gone to Tulian since the storms?"
"No ma'am," he said, shaking his head apologetically. "I have docked at old Tulian, but not this new ruin. But if I may offer a precognition?"
Sara scrunched her eyebrows together. "You can see the future?"
"Hm? Oh, no. Not precognition, my apologies. What was the word...? Ah, supposition. May I offer a supposition?"
Sara nodded him on, hiding her amusement that he felt it necessary to ask permission to offer an opinion.
"I think these people are under a tyrant. I have seen such before in ports of brutal lands. They fear the unknown, because only the predictable is safe."
Sara watched shutters rattle closed further down the street. "I'd bet you're right," she said. "But now the question is, what do we do about it?"
"I suggest a place to stay is more pressing, ma'am."
Sara sighed theatrically. "I guess you're right. At least there's plenty of abandoned property to go around."
"If you say so, Master." Evie's nose scrunched up as they passed a rotting home, collapsed roof visible through the shattered windows.
Sara ignored her partner's doubts, leading them on a meandering path through the overgrown streets. On occasion they had to crawl over collapsed buildings that blocked the streets, or shuffle slowly over slick patches of moss-slick puddles, but for the most part it was easy going.
What actually was difficult, unfortunately, was finding a suitable home. With ten people in her merry band, the only places that would easily accommodate them with rooms for each person would be some abandoned noble's house. Most of those, predictably, had been the first places looted in the chaos, and the damage had furthered itself over the years.
Beyond them, Sara could only think of taking over a row of individual houses, splitting their group between them. Ignite had axed the idea immediately, arguing that it would make them far easier to isolate and slaughter should The Shaded Tree prove to be overtly hostile. Sara was forced to reluctantly concede the point.
Which was what had led them to their current situation. They'd curved back around to the harborside, which was the most abandoned of anywhere in the city, likely a lingering superstition from the years of violent storms. Sara stood with hands on hips before a wide stone warehouse, the most intact of the several similar buildings in the area.
Though Sara had already decided it would work, she took a moment to try and see the building through her companion's eyes. Hurlish likely took no exception to it, village girl that she was, while Evie almost certainly would have private protests to voice when alone, as she'd never disagree with Sara in earshot of others. Through the lens of the money-born catgirl's eye, Sara could imagine that the sloping tile roof drooped too far at the corners, threatening to fall apart at the lightest breeze, while the mortar that held the cut cobblestones together had undoubtedly been rendered hopelessly porous by brutal rains. Ignite was probably sweating bullets beneath his armor, the dozen fragile windows and dozen more empty window frames an unacceptable security risk, though he might enjoy the wide thoroughfares around the building, which provided no cover for approaching intruders. The sailors in her group were probably mildly disappointed, preferring a warm inn where meals were prepared for them, but otherwise ambivalent.
Sara booted open the rotten side door anyway, because it was the job of a boss to make the decisions no one wanted to take responsibility for. She stomped into the skylight-lit building, crunching over rotten remains of long-looted crates. Unlike the warehouses she was familiar with, Sara was pleased to discover, the medieval structure had a number of internal walls. Apparently architecture hadn't advanced to the point that a massive echoing concrete chamber could be created, so instead the builders made a gridded labyrinth of interconnected rooms that were each as large as a house. The flooring was wide stone blocks, set evenly enough to skateboard across, while the ceilings were twice her height, a large open gap in the middle of each room allowing cloudy light to spill in. There had likely been windows there at some point, but facing the coastal sky as they were, they'd been the first to go. Sara made a mental note to find out if there were still people who made glass in the city, then made another mental note to get herself a proper journal, because her mental notes had long since outpaced her memorization.
"It's not as bad as it looks," she said to Evie, who was clutching her beautiful dress away from the debris she was distastefully picking her way through. "Multiple rooms, big, and close to the harbor, so we can visit the ship easily."
"Have you a secret furniture supplier I'm not aware of then, Master?" Evie asked, not a hint of sarcasm leaking through her refined facade.
"No, but it's got a roof and sturdy walls, which is more than we had on the road, isn't it?"
"Sturdy, you say?" Evie inquired, tapping the wooden wall beside her with an ear cocked. After listening to the dull thump, she sniffed. "At least it's not hollow. I was half concerned insects had infested the whole building."
Sara chuckled. Evie made a show of hating the place, but at the end of the day, she'd be fine anywhere Sara was. The others were spreading out through the building, the unarmed sailors following behind either Hurlish or Ignite. The orc simply ducked through the the wide doors that connected the rooms, a hand on her hammer, while Ignite was professionally clearing each space, gladius in one hand, a lit lantern in the other.
The next few hours of settling in progressed rapidly. Hurlish fashioned a few makeshift wooden brooms and handed them out, making quick work of the wooden debris, which they piled up outside to use as firewood. Ignite led a looting party to the nearest houses, coming back victoriously toting extravagant luxuries like chamber pots, wooden dishware, metal cookpots, and even a few shoddy chairs that no one else had bothered to steal. After a few more similar trips each room eventually sported chests, drawers, and sawed-off sections of wooden walls that could be used to give privacy between the warehouse sections. Sara made a trip to the Crossed Glory, pilfering a few crates full of textiles and other trade goods, which she hoped to exchange for money or services.
By the time night fell, they'd transformed the abandoned warehouse into... well, a not-abandoned warehouse. Maybe a flophouse, if Sara was being generous. Still, it was a start, and it gave them somewhere to stay other than the ship.
Ignite had suggested they stay aboard the Crossed Glory until the accommodations were more appropriate, but Sara's instincts told her that it was important to declare her intent to remain in the city right off the bat, and Evie's diplomatic training agreed with the idea. As he did every time Sara overruled him, Ignite simply nodded and accepted her decision, military life having accustomed him to following orders he wouldn't have given himself. If anything, Sara found it a struggle to get the man to admit it when he disagreed with her, and she found it endlessly amusing the way that he grew more frustrated with her uncanny ability to detect sentiments he thought hidden. Hurlish had affectionately batted the man on the shoulder, assuring him that there were very few people that could successfully lie to a Champion of Amarat.
When the sun fell and further home improvement became impossible, Sara took to her least anticipated task.
Schoolwork.
She was finally in Tulian, the capital of the nation she intended to take for herself, and she knew depressingly little about the world that she'd spent months traveling across. She didn't understand why every capital city had the same name as the country it was in, nor could she parse a tenth of the off-handed references Nora and others had made to foreign places, and she was still absolutely baffled by the byzantine ranking system of nobility that had whirled around her in Sporatos and Hagos.
And so she'd had Evie come sit beside her in a lantern-lit corner, an empty logbook from the Crossed Glory in her lap, and began to ask questions and take notes.
God, she hated it.
Sure, the information could be interesting, and chatting with Evie was always pleasant, but every fiber of her being was repulsed by the barest similarity to being back in school. She'd dropped out in the tenth grade to avoid exactly this kind of work, much to her father's horror. He'd even less enjoyed his seventeen year old daughter working under the table as a welder for a local big rig repairshop that specialized in parts with the VIN scraped off, but he'd had no real way to force her back into classes that she would've simply skipped. After a couple years of getting paid in cash mostly blown on concert tickets and clothes with far too many metal spikes, Sara's dad had literally cried with relief when she'd passed her GED test, and that'd been by the skin of her teeth.
She couldn't imagine what he'd think now, seeing her voluntarily taking notes on history and culture lessons. He'd probably pass out on the spot, then progress to a full-blown seizure when he woke back up and saw her asking pointed, relevant questions.
"But if it's been thirty years since the North fractured, why hasn't anyone united it?" Sara asked Evie, fighting against her natural inclination to loudly chew gum and stare at the ceiling to show off how much she wasn't listening.
"The empire was a tenuous thing even at its height, Master. None know what exactly instigated its fall, aside from the fact that it was necessary to counter Admiral Sinti, but even contemporaries described its breakdown as inevitable. Fifty years is not long enough for such vast territory to build a unified culture."
Sara glanced over the map Captain Nora had provided of the local region. By Sara's vague reckoning, the 'vast northern empire' had covered a range roughly equal to, say, Colorado. Sensing that Evie thought her constant questioning of size rather odd, she felt compelled to explain.
"Okay, I know I'm being weird about some things, but you've got to understand how different the place I came from was. Here, I'll draw you a map of my old country." She flipped to an empty page in the logbook. The spread book was roughly equal to the nautical chart, so she put a knuckle over the scale and transferred it to a page, sketching out the rough dimensions of the United States. It was pretty bad, but she could at least remember that it was three thousand miles from coast to coast, so she thought she got the general size right. "See?" She asked Evie. "I lived in Detroit, up here, and I could get all the way here, to New Orleans, in a single day of driving. I actually did exactly that pretty often, just because I wanted to go visit friends or see a concert."
The distance, nine hundred miles or so, was roughly equal to the total height of the Northern Collective, Sporatos, and Tulian put together. Three nations that Evie had separately described as anomalously large compared to historical powers of the region.
"Though the speed of travel is remarkable, Master, surely such journeys accustomed you to the difficulties of cultural interactions on such scale. The Northern Collective has no united history, culture, or even a shared language to tie them together."
"Evie?" Sara circled the map she'd drawn. "This is all one country. Only one, with pretty much one culture and language, though there's some difference in accents or local foods or whatever."
"I understand that, but you also said it's the most powerful in the world by an absurd margin. Of course such a massively successful empire would be afforded the opportunity to dominate the peoples it has absorbed."
Sara chuckled at the unintentionally contentious statement. Describing America as an Empire that conquered its territory was accurate as far as Sara was concerned, but far from a popular image back home.
"Well, it's whatever," Sara shrugged, putting the notebook down. "All I'm saying is that you might have to explain more than you expect, considering the differences between our worlds."
"Feel free to ask questions whenever you feel it necessary, Master," Evie said, moving back to her own drawn timeline of continental history. "Now, as I was saying, the second and third wars of Sporatos's expansion were justified by an ideology of..."
Sara gripped her charcoal nub and returned to her notes, though it took a massive effort of will. She'd volunteered for this, asked her girlfriend to lecture her, of all things, but she'd be damned if she could say she wanted to pay attention. The notes she was scratching would be invaluable later, she felt certain, but she also had to make sure she didn't even need to refer to it in the first place.
When she and Evie finally gave up for the night, urged on by the sight of Hurlish returning to their room and stripping off beside them, she dropped the notebook with tremendous relief. She was glad that Evie hadn't been paying much attention either, because the notebook was a scrawled mess. As Sara grew more distracted by the progression of events, she failed to notice the notebook flipping back open to one of the earliest pages.
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Crossed Glory Logbook, Month of Ailis
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*SARA'S IMPORTANT SHIT~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
GOD PRICKS
ANATOL- THE BIG BRIGHT ONE IN THE MIDDLE. ZUES TYPE, STORMS & SHIT, BUT ALSO DOES CROPS & WATERING THEM AND LESS RAPE IG
SHILIA- METAL MOSSY CHICK ON THE RIGHT. TIME GOD, SUPPOSED TO BE FIRST GOD BUT HOW TF THEY KNOW THAT? AGING & DEATH & ROT BUT ALSO GROWTH & PROGRESS SO I GUESS NOT 100% BAD
TALAVAN- SEE-THROUGH DUDE ON LEFT. MAGIC GOD, SUPPOSABLY CRAZY WHICH IS WHY MAGIC WEIRD. BIG DEAL TO WIZARDS, NO ONE ELSE CARES THO. GAREN ACTED LIKE HE WAS SMART AND MADE MAGIC WEIRD ON PURPOSE, SO MAYBE WIZARDS HAVE DIFFERENT OPINION ON HIM BEING CRAZY?
AMARAT- SUGAR MOMMA HOLLAAAA. SEEMS MOST PEOPLE TREAT HER LIKE THE HORNY GOD BUT PASSION & CONNECTION BETWEEN PEOPLE ALOS INCLUDES NEGATIVE STUFF LIKE ANGER AND KILLING NOT JUST FUCKING
DAYLAGON- SHADOW DUDE IN MIDDLE. OCEAN & DARK GOD, SPOSED TO NOT CARE ABOUT PEOPLE ONLY OCEAN, ALSO BIG ON MAKING MAGIC MONSTERS LIKE KRAKENS OR DRAGONS. IF IT SNEAK OR SLITHER, ITS YA BOY DAYLAGON
THESE OTHER ONES ARE ALL BANNED IN SPORATOS & OLD TULIAN IDFK WHY EXCEPT LARIONOS ACTUALLY THAT ONE MAKES SENSE
OLIVAN- SHINY GHOST CHICK LEFT SIDE. STARS & SUN TYPE STUFF, PROLLY SPACE IN GENERAL TOO BUT THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS. SPOSED TO BE THE MOVING STARS AT NIGHT BUT IM P SURE THOSE ARE JUST PLANETS
LARIONOS- SKELETON ONE RIGHT SIDE. GENERIC GOD OF DEATH SEEMS LIKE, ONLY NECROMANSER TYPES LIKE HIM.
SALIVIN- NORMAL DUDE ON LEFT. SPOSED TO HAVE MADE PEOPLE SO I GUESS EVOLUTION'S NOT A THING HERE IF TRUE? BIG BUDDY W AMARAT CAUSE FUCKIN MAKES MORE PEEPS
OTARION- COP CHICK RIGHT SIDE. ORDER GOD, ONLY ONE THAT SEEMS NOT NATURAL BUT EVIE SAYS ORDER IS NATURAL TOO SO IDK. DUMBASS REALLY THOUGHT SHE COULD GET ME ON HER SIDE BY LOOKIN LIKE A PIG LOL
???- WHO WAS THAT OTHER GUY?!?!?!?!
Chapter 19: What's She's Best At
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara should have known better than to think she could sneak out without waking Evie. She managed to sucessfully slip out from the tangle of Hurlish and Evie's arms thrown about her body, but the moment bare feet padded upon the stone, the catgirl's ears flicked her direction.
"...sorry?" Sara tried, not bothering to pretend Evie's closed eyes meant she was still asleep.
"Where are you going so early, Master?" Evie tiredly whispered. If it had been anyone other than Hurlish sleeping with them, Sara might have expected them to wake, but knew the orc was dead to the world.
"Out. You know, for a morning jog."
"Mm. An interesting choice when the sun hasn't yet risen."
Indeed, not even the morning rains had begun to patter upon the tarp that covered the busted skylight.
"Yeah, well, I got in the habit back in Sporatos."
"Which is to say, Master," Evie blearily opened her eyes, affixing Sara with a firm stare, "That you intend to go sneaking across the rooftops, trying to find the location of this Shaded Tree."
Sara smiled guiltily, caught. "Maaaybe?" At Evie's unflinching gaze, Sara dropped the charade. "Okay, yeah, that's what I was doing. Do you think there'll be a giant tree in the middle of the city that they built their base under? Y'know, considering the name and all?"
"I would be surprised."
Evie slipped out from beneath Hurlish's arms, though it was a tougher time for her, as the burly orc had wrapped in a crushing embrace, like a child with their stuffed animal. Sara sighed as Evie finally extracted herself and stood, stretching. The catgirl cocked her head at the odd expression.
"Do you not wish me to assist you, Master?"
"I mean, kinda?" Sara admitted. "I was hoping to do this on my own, since it isn't all that dangerous."
"You've never expressed a desire to work on your own before, Master."
Sara sighed again as she began to lace up her thick boots. "I know. I think it's just something Nora said the other day that got stuck in my head."
"Surely she didn't offer you an insult?"
"No, no, I doubt she even realized it could be construed as anything negative. It's just that after I reminded her I wasn't a combat type of Champion, she pointed out that I'd surrounded myself with some extraordinary people that more than made up for it. Which is true, and I'm glad to have y'all, but..." Sara trailed off.
"...you're offended by the notion that you wouldn't function without your allies?" Evie finished for her.
"I guess, yeah. It's stupid. I know I'm the diplomacy queen or whatever, but the idea that I'm only good for chatting people up still kind of rankles."
Evie, rather than begin the standard procession of reassurances that her friends on Earth had led Sara to expect, simply stopped and looked contemplative.
"Would you like me to follow, but not assist?" Evie eventually offered. "I dislike the idea of you going off on your own, but understand well the desire to prove independence of otherwise beneficial aids. Silently shadowing you is what I do best, after all."
Sara, for some reason, hadn't even considered the idea. Evie was so much more naturally graceful than her that if it came down to any task that required subtlety or stealth, she'd assumed the catgirl would either take the lead or operate alone. But that same grace meant she could follow Sara with ease, keeping pace while remaining unobtrusive.
"Yeah, okay," Sara decided. "So I'll just do whatever I was going to do, and you'll trail along in case I end up needing help?"
"That sounds reasonable. You've well acquainted me with roleplay by this point, so I can't imagine pretending to be invisible will be difficult."
Sara snorted, testing the fit of the dark peasant's garb she'd selected for the outing. Evie had returned to the black hooded cloak she'd worn between Hagos and Port Agrith, an outfit she'd been preferring more and more when she expected a fight. "Y'know, it's pretty impressive that you manage to out-innuendo the literal Champion of Amarat, Evie."
"I'm attuned to your desires, Master. If your thoughts spent less time in the gutter, perhaps I'd recover my old sense of decorum."
Sara stopped with a hand on the exit's doorhandle, grinning over her shoulder at the catgirl. "But come on. Would you really want that?"
Evie remained silent, but smile mirrored Sara's lecherous grin.
Sara stepped out into the night, embracing the burst of chill humidity.
......................
...................
................
The city of Tulian was dead. Sara had managed to convince herself it was otherwise during the light of the day, when she'd seen the scattered remnants of normal life darting from corner to corner, but night proved it an illusion. Under the moonless starlight there was not a single lamp lit, nor a single window left leaking light into the empty streets. No rabble rousers avoiding patrols of guards, nor street urchins clinging to warm corners, nor even the scampering of plentiful rats and pigeons that made their living on the scraps of human inhabitants. Sara walked through empty streets, feeling a deep sense of abandonment warring with the peaceful vines embracing decaying structures. It was odd. She felt quiet satisfaciton at seeing nature reclaim the buildings, yet at the same time she knew the homes never should have been abandoned in the first place.
But she also knew that a dead city would make for some sick urban exploration. Putting Evie's padding footsteps out of her mind, Sara did exactly what she'd planned to do before the catgirl awoke, dipping into the narrowest alley she could find.
As she'd hoped, it had a number of outcroppings for her to cling onto. She rolled her shoulders, limbering up her muscles for the same exertion that had carried her through her early days in Sporatos. She may have only had a twelve in dexterity, but that still put her measurably over average, and she was stubbornly determined to try what she'd always been too afraid to do back in Detroit. Exploring abandoned factories with her friends had been fun, but she'd never been the one leaping across rotted-out gaps, too keenly aware of all the structural problems that might lurk beneath.
With a strength of eighteen, though, she felt certain she'd be able to haul herself out of pretty much any problem that might arise. Her intelligence of fourteen whispered in the back of her mind that no, she definitely couldn't weightlift her way out of a three story fall, but she ignored it. Who needed common sense when she had muscle power?
Sara kicked off the wall behind her, aiming for the second story windowsill that had been out of her reach. Her launch threw a cloud of dirt off the wall, sending her sailing up. Her fingertips snagged the ledge, hauling her the rest of the way. As soon as her feet were on solid ground she leapt again, throwing herself to the busted third story window. Shards of glass still lined the frame, but the leather gloves she wore let her ignore them. In moments she was standing in the gap, eyeing the roof across from her. A wooden gutter prevented her from spotting a proper hold on the edge, and she doubted that the thin overhang could support her weight anyway.
Instead of leaping across, she retreated into the abandoned building, standing in pitch black. A moment of concentration brought her runes to life, giving her the candlelight's flicker of light required to see she was in an attic of some sort, a storage space with a ceiling conformed to the slanted roof.
Sara balled up her fist and punched a hole in the ceiling, throwing rotted tiles out into the night air. A few more rips cleared enough space for her to squeeze through, and then she was out in the open air.
Looking down on Tulian from above was odd. The roofs of the city rose and fell with the terrain below, but with the unwelcome addition of sagging holes and storm-tossed debris, turning quaint winding rows into an obstacle course littered with detritus. Sara turned about, looking for a sign of where to head next. Finding none, she set off in a random direction.
Though the roofs of the city had suffered through a decade without repair, they'd been built to weather storms, and as such were sturdy things. Where the rafters hadn't outright failed they remained steady under her jogging feet, even accepting her running leap between gaps.
Though Sara was supposed to be stealthy tonight, she couldn't help but let out a yelp of excitement the first few hops. The thirty foot fall whipped by below, the faint shadow of her sprinting form flickering over empty alleys as she ran.
Though Tulian was the most organized city she'd been in so far, it still wasn't built on a grid, and she could manage to find narrow points that let her hop from street to street, so she didn't have to descend to change headings. Each gap was impossibly far for her old self, but with supernatural strength and adrenaline fueling her leaps, she was damn well convinced she could fly. The first time she cleared one of the gaps she felt a sense of profound relief mixed with exultation, surprising herself with how cleanly she'd landed. As time went on she grew more confident, finding her limits by forcing herself to run faster for every jump, trying to see just how far onto the opposite roof she could land.
She was so enthralled in her nighttime adventures that she entirely forgot to keep an eye out below, where she was supposed to be watching the streets for signs of The Shaded Tree's headquarters. Her distraction ended up being to her favor, because the first person she spotted wasn't on the streets below, but rather the rooftops, crouched a ways away to keep watch on the city below.
Sara skidded to a stop, ducking behind a half-smashed chimney. The crouched figure was wearing all-black, visible more by the starlight they blocked than any reflection. Sara reached into her bag of holding and drew out her sword, buckling it on as silently as possible.
If this lookout was worth their salt, they'd have seen Sara approaching a while ago, and had just chosen to pretend otherwise. The edge of their hood drooped far enough forward that Sara was beyond their peripheral vision, but heavy boots running on tile roofing wasn't quiet. They'd likely prepared an ambush or something similar, and were now feigning ignorance to lure her in. Sara allowed herself time to catch her breath and decide on the best approach.
The cool tip of a blade pressed itself to her throat. Sara whirled, shoving off the wall with one arm in the same motion that she flung an elbow behind her, then skidded uncontrolled down the slanted roof until she caught her bearings. A hot line bloomed across her throat as she drew her sword, dripping blood into her neckline.
"Commendable," a hushed voice said, coming from a shadowy figure atop the roof's peak. "One that falls for a decoy, but is experienced enough to escape my grasp. An odd combination of skills. A soldier, then?"
To her chagrin, Sara was slightly disappointed she went unrecognized. It was pitch black, sure, but she'd gotten used to anyone coming for her knowing exactly who she was.
"Guess I just got lucky," Sara admitted to the figure. "Could've got me pretty good if the knife had been in a different spot." She wiped a trail of blood from her neck. "You're with The Shaded Tree, I assume?"
"Oh, what gave me away?" The figure asked sarcastically, shifting dagger catching starlight. "Was it the black garb, my station upon the rooftops, or the fact that I stand guard outside their headquarters?"
"So this is their headquarters? Which building, if you don't mind?" Sara had already scanned the street, finding no sign of light or life.
The figure stilled, anger rolling off their formless edges. "You think me a fool?"
"What, for blowing the secret base location? Nah. I was looking for guards anyway, since I figured a place like that had to have some lookouts or something posted. Finding you told me already, even if you, y'know, accidentally confirmed it."
A petulant tone entered the figure's voice as they stalked down the roof toward Sara. "You found nothing but my decoy."
"Yeah, and then I found you right after," Sara reminded the figure. As they stepped closer and their voice rose from a whisper, Sara felt sure she was speaking to a woman. "No hard feelings though, right? I just want to talk to your bosses, probably."
"I work alone," the woman snarled.
Sara cocked an eyebrow. "Alone... for someone else? 'Cause you already said you worked for The Shaded Tree, right?"
"I-I-I'm a contractor," The woman stuttered, the hesitation in her voice dissonant next to the fluid lethality her soft steps belied. "They hired me to guard their premises, but they do not own me."
"Yeah, most people's bosses don't own them," Sara said slowly, answering the woman's advance by flicking out her greatsword and taking a stance. "Doesn't mean they're not your boss, though. Unless you're the head of your own faction or something?"
"Silence!"
The woman darted forward, hood slipping off to show a young face twisted in embarrassed fury. Though Sara was near the roof's ledge, a lunge with a single dagger was laughably easy to parry. Sara knocked the woman's arm aside with the flat of her blade, her feet scraping across the roof as she turned her assailant's arm aside. She could have easily turned it into a killing stroke, but she held back.
"No need for that," Sara cautioned the woman, taking measured steps backward, keeping parallel to the roof's edge to protect her right side. "I'm not here to fight."
"Just insult?" The woman demanded. With her hood off and little gap between them, Sara could see that she had royal blue skin and sea-green eyes, as well as three narrow slits on either side of her neck that undulated as she spoke. "I will not have you make a mockery of me and allow you to escape."
"I think you're a bit confused on the power balance here, homegirl," Sara replied, stopping her slow backpedal well before she reached the roof's edge. "You got the jump on me, but that's done with, so you're better off putting the dagger away and working things out."
The woman answered by leaping forward once more, staying low to try and slip under Sara's guard. Sara easily swung the flat of her blade, moving so quickly she stirred a breeze as the dull steel cracked against her opponent's elbow.
The woman hissed out a quiet "Shit!" as her grip slackened, nearly dropping the dagger entirely. She tried to transfer the weapon to her free hand, but Sara interrupted the motion with a kick, launching the dagger up into the air. She transitioned into an aggressive step forward, hammering the pommel of her weapon into the stranger's forehead. The dull thump took the woman to the ground.
Sara flipped her sword back to its shorter form, holding the tip against the beating pulse of the woman's neck. Sara flashed her a bright smile.
"My name's Sara, by the way. And you are?"
Green eyes widened. "The Champion?"
"Yup."
Relief spread across the woman's face. "Ah, what a fool I am. To think I could have bested a Champion." She smiled up at Sara, looking rather glad she had an excuse for her loss. "I am Ketch, and had you been anyone lesser, I am certain I would have defeated you."
Sara recognized the soft catch of footsteps on the loose tiles behind her as belonging to Evie, who walked up to stand beside Sara.
"Where was she?" Ketch pointed to Evie, shocked that there was someone else present that she'd missed. She quickly hid her surprise with scorn. "Are your slaves so poorly trained they leave you to fight on your own?"
"Master didn't need my help," Evie answered smartly, affronted by the implication that she wasn't doing her due diligence.
Ketch's face twitched at that. "Such confidence you have in her. Ah well, she is a Champion."
Sara and Evie shared a look. "Look, Ketch," Sara said, kneeling down and moving her weapon away from the woman's throat, "I kinda don't think you're as good as you think you are. I mean, confidence's great and all, but if you're going to start fights, you should probably be more sure you can win them."
"I am a master of my craft, Champion. I do not need lectures from those who do not stalk the shadows."
"Mmm, okay," Sara said, hiding her cringe. "Look, Ketch, how old are you?"
"Nearly nineteen."
"So eighteen."
"Nearly nineteen."
Sara sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Evie, could you keep her there for a minute?"
"Of course Master," she replied, silver rapier flashing into existence against Ketch's throat. Whereas Sara had maintained a bit of distance, Evie's sword tip poked into the woman's blue skin. Ketch gulped.
Sara stood and walked over to where the dagger had landed, finding its well-polished blade easily by the way it reflected starlight. She returned to Ketch, orienting herself to the stance her instincts told her were appropriate for wielding a dagger against a weapon of greater reach.
"Look, Ketch, when you came at me the first time, you shouldn't throw your whole body into the duck like that. Y'gotta close the gap, right, so it's all about controlling the opponent's weapon. Once you're inside their reach you've basically won, but it's hard to do that, so you've got to focus everything on..."
Sara continued her lecture, demonstrating the forms for an utterly bewildered Ketch. It was difficult to parse her divinely-intuited knowledge into plain english, but Sara thought she did a pretty good job. Whether Ketch actually paid attention or just sat back wondering why in the hell Sara was bothering to teach her anything, Sara couldn't guess.
"Alright, got that?" Sara asked as she concluded her lesson. She flipped the dagger, pinching its tip to offer the handle to Ketch. "Evie, do you have any advice?"
"None for the heat of battle, Master, but I will say this." Her sword vanished as she leveled a stern gaze on Ketch. "Know your opponents well. Skill can bridge the gap between a single level, perhaps two, but no more. There are opponents who you will never beat, even if they're nothing more than craftsmen who never held a blade."
Ketch glanced between the two women standing above her, confusion plain on her face. "...okay?" She finally said. "But, uh, why are you two telling me this?"
Evie shrugged, turning to Sara. "I don't know. Why are we advising her, Master?"
Sara also shrugged. "Dunno. I didn't have to kill her, which was nice, so I guess I just felt like I should help her out? She doesn't seem like a bad type."
"She did put a dagger to your throat, Master," Evie reminded her.
"Well yeah, but she coulda just stabbed me outright. I felt like I owed her one."
Evie shook her head in amusement, but didn't outwardly disagree.
"So," Sara said, pointedly wiggling the dagger that Ketch still hadn't grabbed. "Which one of the buildings is the secret base?"
The black cloak Ketch wore hid most of her body, but Sara got a brief glimpse of her clothes as she sullenly returned the dagger to her belt sheath. Beneath the stuffy black garment she was wearing nothing more than a pale blue bikini top, matching a pair of skin-tight shorts. They reminded Sara of biking shorts, actually, clinging tightly to her skin.
"I take it your sparing of my life is a gift you expect me to repay with such privileged information?" Ketch asked, falsetto arrogance returning as she pushed herself to her feet.
"No, because I could just hop down there and go knocking on doors until I find the right one," Sara replied, sheathing her sword. "But what I will ask is where you got those pants. Everything in this world is so scratchy and awkward."
Ketch's eyes flared wide with offense, a lighter shade of blue working its way up her neck. "I beg your pardon?!"
"Uh, no need to beg," Sara joked, holding her hands up as she stifled a laugh. "Isn't that normal here? Y'know, girl talk? Where'd you get those clothes, how much were they, that kind of thing?"
Ketch sputtered. "You should not be looking at my pants! What were you trying to get a glimpse of, Amarat's Champion?"
Sara urge to tease won out over her desire to profess innocence. "I mean, you were facing me, so it wasn't your ass..." Ketch's sputtering reached a new, higher pitch. "...but really though, I just thought they looked comfy. We had some stuff back in my world called nylon, and it was a godsend, I swear. That stuff looks pretty close."
Ketch spun around, intentionally flaring her cloak out in a dramatic flourish. "If you're quite done, I will take you to our headquarters."
"Your contractor's headquarters, you mean," Evie snipped.
Ketch didn't respond other than to hunch her shoulders, hopping off the side of building.
Sara watched her cloak flutter up past her ears as she fell. She muttered to Evie, "It is a nice ass though, isn't it?"
"Quite, Master."
Sara and Evie followed Ketch down the building's side, Ketch and Sara leaping from windowsill to windowsill while Evie simply hopped off the edge, gray raincloak floating around her until she landed without a sound. The catgirl smirked up at them while she waited for them to finish clambering down, filing her nails against the bricks.
As soon as her feet were on the cobblestones Ketch darted out into the street, clearly uninterested in any discussion that could lead to further embarrassment. Sara intentionally trailed behind, leaning over to whisper to Evie.
"Is she a... fish person?"
"An Azerketi, Master. A people more at home in the water than on land, with occasional exceptions."
"So those are gills, right? Not just, like, open wounds?"
Evie smirked. "Indeed, Master. And her hands and feet are webbed, as well."
Sara allowed herself a small huh of interest, then pushed the matter aside. If she asked for the full biography on every strange person she met in this world, she'd run out of time to do anything else.
Sara and Evie trailed fifteen feet or so behind Ketch as she swept up to an outwardly abandoned house, then knocked a patterned beat against the door. There was a brief wait, then the door swung open, allowing Ketch to slip inside. The door closed behind her, leaving Sara and Evie in the street.
"...She didn't just leave us out here, right?" Sara asked.
"I'm not sure, Master," Evie admitted.
A few more moments passed, then the door opened once more, an unfamiliar man's face peering out. He found Sara, then jerked his head back to usher them inside.
---------------------------------
Evie
---------------------------------
Evie followed Master into the decrepit building, taking one last glance around the street. There was no sign that they were followed or otherwise being lured into an ambush. Evie's eyes lingered on a few of the deepest shadows, trying to peel away what they might hide, until she heard the door begin to creek shut and was forced to slip inside.
The building she followed Master into was filled with the smoke of southern pipes, an eye-watering haze so thick she could practically feel it running through her hair. Master ignored it, so Evie did too. The entry room was small and walled off from what remained of the old house, populated by two guards standing beside a staircase. The man began down the steps, leading Master on with a caution to watch her head.
While they were led down the lantern-lit stairs, Evie's mind split into two parts. The first was the one that paid heed to her surroundings, senses prodding out at everything around her. Master could handle herself, but observant she was not, and Evie intended to make up for the difference.
Because the second part of her mind was working through the eventualities of this meeting, struggling to parse what her Master intended to do. She would follow along, of course, but this was untested ground for Evie. Master had held meetings with more than one group of powerful individuals in the time Evie had been her slave, but none had the parameters and connotations that this occasion did. They were not meeting with Lords and Ladies, who Master viewed with little more than disdain, nor slavers, whose existence Master saw as a mistake awaiting correction, and they would not be fleeing this place, freed of rash action's consequences. They were meeting common criminals, organized cutthroats that supped upon the carcass of an animal not yet dead. Evie had seen none of Master's reactions to people such as these, and she did not know where her priorities lay. Would they be slaughtering their way back to the entrance, or should Evie prepare a note to be delivered to Hurlish while they drank past the morning sun? Evie did not know.
And so she prepared herself for any eventuality, drawing upon the years of diplomatic lessons that had been etched into her skin as fixedly as tattoo. When the stairs opened up into an underground den, plentiful oil lanterns just barely leaking light through an addling smoke fog, Evie began her process.
Upon her face she plastered a pleasant, gentle smile, of the sort the high ranking servants of her home wore when interacting with unexpected noble guests whose rank they were not appraised of. Her eyes darted between faces, then to hands, hips, shoulders, and knuckles, cataloguing the weapons and physicality of those present. Twelve individuals, four openly armed, eight discreetly equipped, all capable of combat-grade exertion, if not necessarily combatants themselves. They all focused upon Master, expressions ranging from hidden interest to overt interest. The tables and chairs were sturdy wood, the walls stone. Plentiful tapestries and rugs hid most of the uncomfortable dwelling space, eliminating fire as an effective tool. Two other doors led to other rooms, implying possible reinforcements.
Evie caught the eye of one man who was looking at her, not Master, and brushed her hair from an ear with a bashful smile. The man broke eye contact, looking away. Evie noted his face for later.
Master was led to a second room, sectioned off by a thick curtain. The man guiding them lifted the curtain, allowing Master entrance, then tried to hold out a hand to stop Evie. She stepped around him without comment, and when Master failed to protest, he said nothing further. The curtain was dropped, muffling the prior room, where conversation began once more. Likely, as none of the other people in the room were catfolk or feline, they thought their privacy total.
The meeting room of choice was a small cozy carved out of the stone, a red velvet bench running along the oval walls to surround a fine lacquered table. Four individuals were present, one of them Ketch, the latest girl Master had taken a liking to.
While Ketch sat awkwardly, hands clasped between her thighs, the other three attendees appeared utterly at ease. They each had several metal mugs before them, most emptied, a single per person still containing drink. They lounged and stretched across the space, feet kicked up on the table or on the bench, and they were chatting about inconsequential ditherings with the easy air of old friends who were hours into their conversation, and had hours yet to go before they grew tired of it.
But the filled metal mugs had condensation on them, retrieved from some chilled cellar, yet the table's surface was unmarred by cup rings. Their clothes were firmly buttoned and their pipes full, ash not staining the edges of the bowl. They were practiced, convincing liars, but the air of indifference they put on was a front. They had been quickly summoned here, appraised of Master's presence, then had chosen this bearing for their initial introductions to Master.
Thrown into an unknown political environment such as this, Evie could not perfectly assess the reasoning behind their choice, but she was confident in several assertions.
The first was that they were intimidated by Master's presence. If one respected a visitor, they would therefore dress respectfully, which these criminals had not. If one thought themselves dominant over a guest, they would not bother with preparations or so readily accept a surprise visit, preferring to demonstrate their strength by making the guest pander to their whims.
But if one feared a guest? Then they would do exactly this, boisterously showing off their lack of respect and decorum, mistaking the illusory indifference for the strength of those who truly bent others to their will. These criminals feared Champions, feared their reputation and the tales of their might, but only discussion would reveal if this fear could be maintained.
The second assertion she was certain of was the uncharacteristic unity of command in the room. Three individuals, one woman and two men, all sprawled about the space as if they owned it. Bumps and jostles occurred as they reached for their drinks and pipes, but not a sideways glance was spared. Even among the most unified of diplomatic teams Evie had been witness to there had been interpersonal rivalry and a subtle pecking order, but the telltale signs of such were absent here. These three viewed each other as absolute equals, bar nothing.
The third confident assertion was that Master would run roughshod over the discussion. These criminals, hardened though they may be, were not diplomats. They were used to negotiating protection rackets or intimidating lesser rivals, as they presently were doing to poor cowed Ketch. Master was the Champion of Amarat, Patron Goddess of Diplomats, and these poor fools were not prepared to face her. Between her eclectic ideology, otherworldly knowledge, and alternating between utter disregard and fastidious adherence to certain social niceties, Evie doubted even Mother could have sat across from Master without walking away embarrassed.
Ignorant of Evie's conclusions, Master slipped easily into the booth beside Ketch, opposite the three criminals, and patiently waited being addressed. After a moment's consideration of the best place to aid the discussion, Evie slipped into the bench as well, throwing her arms around Master's neck and curling up in her lap. Master's arm reached out to tuck her in with habitual ease, barely registering the unusualness of Evie's position.
The rightmost man hesitated in the middle of his sentence, distracted for the briefest moments as he glanced at Evie. She smirked inwardly, a point scored, and drove the knife home by sweetly nuzzling into Master's neck.
Master unconsciously squeezed her a little bit closer, resting a hand on her knee, and Evie's calculated distraction turned genuine as she took a deep breath through her nose, replacing the thick smoke with Master's scent. Her eyes fluttered closed for a precious few seconds, enjoying the beat of Master's heart against her own.
"So this's the Champion you brought us, Ketch?" A woman's voice asked. Evie's eyes flicked open once more, the moment of relaxation finished.
"Y-yes ma'am," Ketch mumbled, the nervousness in her voice warring for position with puffed-up pride. The poor girl still wanted to present the image of independent roguishness, but such was impossible when sitting before your direct superior. It was a phase Evie's tutors had wrung out of her as a child, and now seeing it from the outside, she understood why.
"The name's Sara," Master said, releasing Evie's knee for a moment to give a little wave. "And you are?"
"We are the Shaded Tree, masters of this city," the rightmost man said.
"And we're very interested--" the leftmost man began, before Master spoke over him.
"See, I thought-- oh, sorry to interrupt your cool twinsies thing-- but I thought this was my city?"
The trio's focus narrowed upon Master. From Master's lap Evie gave them a doe-eyed stare, as if she were simpleminded, but still thought their words terribly foolish.
"...Your city?" The left man eventually prompted. He set his pipe down, smoke curling to pool at the ceiling.
"Yeah. You know, Tulian. The whole country, actually. It's mine." Master's tone never faltered from the purely conversational, yet the syllables fell as thunderclaps upon the criminals. She continued on, as if unaware. "I assume this meeting will be kept in confidence, right? Because I haven't made it public yet that I'm building my own little private nation here, and I'd like to keep it that way. I know y'all don't have the best foreign contacts, since you're mostly a local gang, but rumors spread fast." Master snagged one of the empty metal mugs, thrusting it through the curtain. Evie heard a shuffle as someone outside quickly responded, filling the mug, and then Master retracted it, taking a long sip. "Mm. Not bad. Mead, right? I can taste the honey."
Finally the woman laughed, the first among the trio broken from their collective trance. "I see, I see! I wasn't aware the gods chose madwomen for their Champions, but it seems truly anything is possible. It's a relief to know that we can go back to our conversation."
"There's no smoke." Master stated.
Even Evie blinked at that comment.
"...I'm sorry?" The rightmost man asked, eyes narrowed in confusion.
"I said there's no smoke," Master repeated, pointing up. Evie followed the finger to the ceiling, where pipe smoke had coalesced into eddies and currents. "Outside the curtain, there was a ton of smoke filling the room, but there's barely any in here."
"And?" The left man prompted.
"You don't have a conversation to go back to. You weren't doing anything at all before I showed up, or at least nothing together in this room, because there would be smoke drowning me to my tits if you'd spent any more than a few minutes with those nasty-ass pipes in here."
Evie inspected the ceiling. True to Master's word, the smoke in the curtained-off room was paltry compared to the main area. Evie had caught their clothing, and their drinks, but not the smoke. She leaned harder against Master, feeling a soft warmth blossom in her chest that wasn't, for once, related to arousal. Her tail begin to curl around Master's forearm, a slow display of affection she did nothing to arrest.
Master, meanwhile, leaned to the side and kicked her boots up on the table, tossing her legs over Ketch's lap, who yelped. "I'm the most important thing in this room by a long shot," Master said. "You're small fry, and while I don't have any particular problem with y'all yet, I won't be very worried if I ever do. By the way, you don't sell or have slaves, do you?"
"An insult to the Shaded Tree is skirting death in Tulian," the woman's lip curled. "You do not know who you deal with, Champion. We alone have kept the city from falling into final anarchy, lost to bandits and disease."
"Which I really gotta respect you for," Master acknowledged with a nod, "But happily for you, I'm here to do more than maintain a shitty status quo for my own personal profit."
"Why would we allow you to do anything like that?" The right man leaned forward, sneering. "You want to seize and control what is ours."
"Buddy, you're thinking way too small. What's there to gain from a Champion, someone literally sent by the gods to solve some unsolvable crisis, taking over a middling criminal enterprise?" Master took another sip of mead, popping her lips in a loud ah. "I'm building a country here. One that, inevitably, will have criminals in it. I came here not to bully you out or crush you, but because I kinda respect what you've got going on. Organized criminals, at least ones that stay out of the real shady stuff, are a lot easier to deal with than a culture of random muggers and petty gangs."
Master took another drink, finishing her mead and dropping it to the table with a clank. "That's pretty much it from me. I don't care what you do, one way or the other, so long as you don't get in my way. There are some crimes I will prosecute to the fullest extent of my capabilities, like slavery, rape, or murder, but if you stay away from those we should be fine. This meeting wasn't really about making deals or anything. I was just informing you of what's going to happen, so you can prepare accordingly. If you're going to fight me on it, though?" Master shrugged. "I'm fine with my girlfriend and I walking out of here covered in your guts."
Evie tensed. Master had already progressed to an overt threat, abandoning the subtext of the earlier conversation. If successful, such a strategy was wonderful effective, but if inadequately prepared it would mean the end of useful dialog.
What's more, Evie knew Master was bluffing. They were both effective fighters, but they were hideously outnumbered. Evie could see only lazy confidence in her Master's demeanor, but bluffs could be called for reasons beyond body language. If the criminals were appraised of Master's abilities, they might recognize that she was no more effective any other warrior, Champion or not. Evie opened her hand, ready to summon her rapier, awaiting a reaction.
"...Our endeavors may be more profitable, should the city be revitalized," the left man finally cautiously ventured.
"Certainly it would ease our burden if we were not responsible for organizing its defense," the woman in the middle agreed.
"Then we'll accept the terms?" The right man asked the others.
"We accept," the other two said in unison, nodding their confirmation.
"We accept," nodded the final man. "If you so badly wish to agonize over the difficulties of corralling these people, we'll gladly foist the burden upon you. Our meeting is concluded."
It was the fastest diplomatic capitulation Evie had ever witnessed.
Evie slipped to her feet as Master stood, stretching. "Hey, whatever soothes the ego. I get it." Master paused for a second, looking to the side as the leaders of the Shaded Tree began to filter out. "I'm taking Ketch by the way," she announced, snagging the girl by the hood and hefting her up.
"W-what?" Ketch sputtered, spinning in Master's grip.
"Fine," one of the men waved disinterestedly.
"What do you mean, you're taking me?" Ketch demanded. Master just rolled her eyes, as if it was obvious, until the final member of the Shaded Tree had exited the room. Then she leaned down close, whispering in Ketch's ear.
"I just made a fool out of them, and you're the one that brought me here. You don't want to be in this place anymore. Trust me."
Ketch's eyes widened. She swallowed audibly, then bobbed her head. Master dropped her, then pushed through the curtain, heading for the exit. Ketch followed behind, black cloak clutched tightly about her neck.
"Did we really need another stray, Master?" Evie quietly asked as they began up the stairs.
"Who, Ketch?" Master whispered back. The mentioned woman was trailing behind, out of earshot. "I couldn't just leave her there."
"I understand that, but your bed is getting awfully full, Master."
Master put a hand to her chest, affronted. "Evie, I help people without ulterior motives all the time. What makes you think this is any different?"
Notes:
Sara said right at the start that she originally chose Amarat because she wanted to find peaceful solutions, and it only took 19 chapters to find an organization morally respectable enough to prove it! It's fairly ironic that group happened to be organized criminals, but hey, you take what you can get.
How'd having the meeting be seen from Evie's perspective work out for you? It's the second time I've done it, and I personally enjoy the perspective it gives. The reader seeing Sara's internal deliberating really harms the suave composure she radiates to other characters, so I thought viewing her through Evie's perspective would serve as an entertaining reminder that she's still a master of social manipulation. I also enjoyed highlighting the difference between an intuitive social adept, like Sara, and a trained diplomat, like Evie, whose analytical style is super refreshing to write after writing so much of Sara doing her best to cling to her informal origins.
Chapter 20: Fresh Static Snow (E)
Notes:
CW: (Magically) Drugged Sex. Consensual, as always.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Ketch
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Ketch followed the Champion and her slave through her city's streets, a single hand inside her cloak keeping it pinned closed. She did not want a repeat of that incident earlier, and she was taking the necessary measures to prevent it.
Well, all reasonable measures. She was certain that she was capable of giving the two hapless women the slip, Champion or not. But this Sara had proved honorable, sparing her life first at the end of a blade, then from the hidden machinations of her once-employers. To simply abandon them to the ominous, crawling shadows of the Tulian midnight would be dishonorable.
Ketch looked about the street, spotting dozens of lightless corners from which any manner of ambush could be launched.
She walked faster, drawing closer to the Champion.
For Sara's protection, of course. No other reason.
To distract herself from unproductive worries, Ketch focused upon the Champion herself. Remarkably tall for a human woman, she had a figure befitting a lustful goddess. A full chest and wide hips failed to be dulled by her plain clothing, and the black hair that curled down to her shoulderblades was exquisite. She never seemed anything less than confident, her emotions cycling between cockiness, bemusement, steely anger, or any other combination of regular emotions tinged by that same impossible self-assuredness. Even now she walked with a confident swagger, swaying hips at just the right height for Ketch to observe, watching the bounce of her...
Muscles. The woman was muscled, toned. Well defined calfs implied she was a runner. That was why Ketch choked on her own spit, stifling her cough. The feline looked back, raising an eyebrow that implied more knowledge than she could ever have. Ketch scowled back at her, still coughing slightly.
The feline was her own problem. She did not ascribe to her owner's humble sensibilities. Beneath a gray raincloak she wore a fine auburn dress, roughly hacked to deepen the neckline and expose her thighs. She did not fill her clothes as the Champion did, but when her tail began that rhythmic, hypnotizing bob...
The feline was looking at her again, amused. Ketch raised her lip in a snarl, speaking just a touch deeper than her natural voice. "Going unarmed in the Tulian night is foolish, feline."
"I'm not," she responded with a patronizing smile. "I can dismiss and summon my weapon at will, if you'll recall?" Ketch flushed, snapping her head away as if she'd spotted something atop a building. The feline's gaze didn't follow, remaining affixed on her. "And by the way, my name's Evie. My Master is Sara, if you didn't catch her name during the meeting."
After a moment of hesitation, Ketch seized upon a retort. "But appearing unarmed is nigh asking for an assault. You should keep it upon your person regardless."
The silver rapier flashed into existence, then was casually tucked into Evie's belt. "Sure. You're the local expert, Ketch. Now, since we have nothing better to chat about, do you have any curiosities that need sating regarding my Master?"
Ketch's eyes blew out as she stuttered. "W-what are you implying of me, woman?! As if I need anything from a-a demon of lust. "
"My Master is a holy Champion, Ketch. Quite literally the farthest thing from a demon."
"And Amarat's not just about lust, y'know," Sara added without looking back. "Passion's a wide umbrella, which can really get irritating when you're trying to keep a cool head." She shrugged, the motion bouncing that hair of hers that should have been ruined in the coastal humidity. "Though I will admit, lust does seem to be a pretty big part of things."
Ketch stewed silently, arms petulantly crossed beneath her cloak.
She may be a lecherous creature by nature, Ketch thought to herself, but being given free reign to ask things of a Champion is a remarkable opportunity. I shouldn't squander it.
"How many women do you keep?" Ketch asked, the question flying from her lips before any more reasonable, practical inquiries could manifest. Ketch immediately yelped, popping her hands over her mouth.
"Uh, four, I think? It's complicated." The Champion scratched her head, unflappable as always. "Vesta's way far away, and Nora's... Nora. It's mainly Evie and Hurlish, to be honest."
"And I'm the first," Evie primly asserted.
"And Evie was the first," Sara agreed. "Why do you ask?"
"I-I-I-I... didn't?" Ketch tried. She shook her head. "No. I did. But it was because I want to firmly state that I will not fall to your predatory advances."
"Evie? Am I advancing predatoraly right now?"
Lips pursed contemplatively, the slave looked her master up and down. "Not at the moment, no."
"See?" Sara asked Ketch. "Not a predatory bone in my body. Sexually, at least."
"I wouldn't go that far, Master."
"There's not a single non-consensual sexual predator bone in my body. Is that good enough, your litigousness?"
"Accurate at last, Master."
Ketch felt light on her feet, the two women's banter leaving her dizzy. Her father had said the outside world was strange, but she had to believe this wasn't normal. No one could live as these two did, surely?
"...Are your other women like this one?" Ketch asked weakly.
Sara snorted. "There's not a one of them that's like Evie. Actually, none of them have much in common. Keeps things interesting, to be sure."
Interesting? I'm sure that's how SHE would consider it, Ketch thought.
"Your innuendoes grow tiring, Champion." Ketch turned up her nose.
"Y'know, Ketch, you're the only one here that keeps taking everything sexually. Something on your mind?"
Ketch knew she should stay silent, but she couldn't help herself. "How could there not be?! I am being escorted by a Champion and her sex slave, forced to endure their constant teasing and half-hidden barbs. What in the world could lead so many women so far astray?"
Sara turned around, stopping with a crooked arm on her hip. "Would you like to find out?"
Ketch wanted to scowl, or sneer, or look in any form respectable, but instead she gave in to the pounding of her heart, staring at Sara staring at her. "...Yes, please," she squeaked.
Sara laughed boisterously. "Lead on, then! You know somewhere nearby that's not too leaky?"
As Ketch began leading this motley group towards one of her preprepared safehouses, trying to leverage her knowledge of the city to salvage the last shreds of her dignity, she heard Evie whispering behind her.
"I said this would happen, Master."
"C'mon!" Sara whispered back, thinking herself out of earshot. "This one is hardly my fault."
"Oh, I'm far from complaining..."
Their whispers faded as Ketch's flush grew, an incomprehensible swirl of emotions battering her from the inside out. What she was doing was ridiculous, preposterous, utterly reprehensible. Hours past her first meeting with utter strangers and she was hurrying herself to the coziest hole she could find to bed down with them? She had no idea what she was thinking.
Or at least she wished she did, because the reality was that her mind was far more occupied on the why than she'd have ever preferred. Constant memories of flitting glances flickered through her mind's eye, long expanses of lithe bodies leading her to distraction. The Champion's smile and batted eyelids, unyielding before figures that had terrorized Ketch for her entire life, all while she kept an exotic beauty curled in her lap like a pet. The sudden flash as her gaze had turned to smoldering iron, bearing down with all-consuming authority on the Shaded Tree, as if any effort to defy her will was suicidal idiocy. The rise and fall of her breasts as she'd danced away from Ketch's dagger, teasing her, treating her like a child, and then the nauseatingly cocky camaraderie she'd shared with her sex slave while standing over Ketch's defeated form.
Ketch hiked up the stairs to her safehouse at a walking pace, yet was still out of breath when she ushered Sara and Evie inside. Her two guests looked about with critical eyes, leaving Ketch squirming anxiously, awaiting their reaction.
The safehouse, a simple second floor room that she'd reinforced with spare wood, was nothing special. Dried provisions, refreshed monthly, were stacked up in the corner. A roughly-woven red rug, one of her more prized finds of the last few years, covered most of the otherwise splinter-prone wooden floors. Three looted benches padded by straw-stuffed sailcloth bags lined the walls, ostensibly to be used as beds, though she'd always found the floor more comfortable.
"So," Sara said, turning around, "What did you want to know?"
Ketch blinked, smoothing away the anxiety slipping through her facade. That was all? No reaction at all to the shelter? Ketch somehow found it a relief, but she also hadn't expected Sara's actual response.
"What do you mean?" She asked, keeping her cloak still tightly pressed around her.
"Well, you said you wanted to see what had so many people following a Champion, didn't you?" Sara mage a gesture towards herself, sitting on one of the benches. Evie fell into her lap in practically the same motion, tail reaching up to curl around her owner's bicep. "Since I was taking you back to our base of operations, I figured it'd be best to let you ask your questions beforehand. Clear the air, so to speak."
Ketch blinked. Yes, that made sense. Had she really misinterpreted Sara's invitation so poorly? To think that a Champion of Amarat would want... that... with her? A plain girl from Tulian?
After a moment's consideration, Ketch decided that no, she definitely hadn't misinterpreted. This woman wasn't a demon of lust, but one could easily be forgiven for making the mistake. This was her merely... offering Ketch an opportunity. To learn, to guide the situation. Ketch swallowed hard, choosing her words carefully as she sat on the bench opposite the Champion.
"Was it... hard? Coming to this world from yours?"
"Not really," Sara replied, thinking hardly a moment about the question. "I miss my dad, and a few of my friends, but that's about it. The whole Champion thing pretty much makes up for everything else."
Ketch nodded, beginning to conjure up some equally banal question, but found her mouth flying open before it was prepared. "What does being Amarat's Champion give you? I know the other stories, about Champions with awesome strength and powerful magic, but you seem so... normal?"
Evie grinned for some reason, wriggling her hips back and forth in her owner's lap. "Well for one, it gave her a--"
"Great read on people," Sara snapped, pinching her slave's arm. Ketch stared, uncomprehending, but let Sara continue. "I'm way better at figuring people out, now. I can't read minds or anything, but I've met hardly anyone that can lie to me."
"That sounds handy," Ketch hedged. "But isn't there anything more... spectacular?"
"Some, but they're not flashy. Things that help me get people on my side, or help those that already are. Amarat's blessings may not have saved my life yet, but they've definitely made me friends that have."
Ketch scooted forward on the bench, feeling her anxiety easing slightly. Then, suddenly, the very fact that she was feeling less concerned, concerned her. "Are you doing it to me right now?" She demanded, drawing back.
"You'd have no doubt about it if she was," Evie smirked. "Master's compulsions are quite exquisite, but narrow in their scope. Noticeable."
Ketch opened her mouth to question that comment, but Sara rolled her eyes and answered before she could get a word out.
"She means horniness, Ketch. I can make people that are already into me way, way more turned on. That's it. It's not mind control. In fact, every one of my abilities has a prerequisite that the target be willing, at least subconsciously."
Ketch licked her lips, eyes locked on Sara's hand idly running through her slave's hair. "What does it feel like?"
Sara arched an eyebrow.
Ketch had thought she'd been asking for Evie's description of the experience, but the second the wave hit her, she became so grateful her question had been misinterpreted. She gasped loudly, gripping the bench for balance as she felt her inner walls clench. The room faded to a dulcet gray, the only spot of color coming from the vibrancy that danced across Sara's skin. Amarat's Champion had been inked in a finer tip pen than the rest of reality, the world beyond her skin existing solely to facilitate her presence.
Ketch teetered forward on the seat, the gravity of desire pulling her towards Sara. A hunger unlike any other reared up in her, a pathogical desire that couldn't be fought, one that she'd never want to fight.
And then it was gone. Without a single word or motion Sara's influence on her vanished, leaving only the echoes of a pounding throb between her thighs.
"It's like that," Sara said, then made a face. "Well, maybe not always. That was a hell of a reaction you had there."
Ketch's flush no longer had anything to do with embarrassment as she wiped a line of drool from the corner of her mouth. "And you didn't think to warn me before doing that?" She demanded. She was so hot that she had to open her cloak to alleviate it, exposing her skin. Doing so didn't bother her as much as it had a minute before.
"Are you in the habit of warning others before visiting them with a gift?" Evie asked, eyes trailing over Ketch's body. "Master's abilities can't be forced upon a person. You accepted it, whatever you may convince yourself afterward."
Ketch sputtered a bit, but had no retort to give. She'd not known what to expect, but having felt that strange alteration, she found herself wanting it again. Instead of admitting as much, she asked, "And what did you mean it's not always like that?"
"It's not usually that strong," Sara explained, with a glance to Ketch's clenched legs, which were hiding a wetness she feared had soaked through her clothes. "I mean, it works wonders, but it hit you like a truck."
"Perhaps it's because she's so repressed?" Evie guessed, nuzzling between her owner's breasts so her voice was half-muffled. "Vesta and Hurlish had their fair share of worldly adventures before they met you."
"Are you implying I'm inexperienced?" Ketch accused, her offended lean back pushing her cloak to the sides, exposing her further. "I have a girlfriend, I'll have you know. I'm not ignorant of these things."
Sara nodded approvingly, but Evie looked more skeptical. "And this girlfriend of yours... you've fucked?"
Ketch's natural instinct, to sputter and act shocked by the crude language, was temporarily overridden by the heat of her skin. "Y-yes," she said, trying to project confidence. "I have. I'm a very experienced woman."
"Mm-hmm," Evie agreed insincerely. She slid out of her owner's lap, standing with an overhead stretch that left little of her figure to the imagination. "But only with her, I'm guessing?" Evie asked.
"Why does that matter?" Ketch countered.
"Because tonight could be a learning experience, of course," Evie purred, bending forward in another stretch. It gave Ketch a look straight down her loosened shirt, while simultaneously shoving her ass in her owner's face. "You should be ready for all kinds of encounters, and it's always best to improve your ability to please your partner, yes? Master is uniquely equipped to help you."
Ketch glanced at Sara, thus far this conversation's voice of reason, and found her distracted by the feline's display. Ketch deliberated, breathing hard.
"I guess that only makes sense," she eventually said, straightening her back. The cloak, which she'd so needily clung to before, fell further away. It now covered essentially nothing. She was exposed, the clothes that most humans thought scandalous bared to all. Fortunately, Ketch was rapidly careening past caring. "Of course, it's only for practice."
"Of course," Evie agreed. "Master, if you'd stand up?"
The Champion, snapped out of her devout regarding of Evie's ass, looked up with confusion. "Huh?"
"Just stand, Master."
"Sure," Sara said, stepping to the middle of the room with Evie. The feline slid behind her owner, arms embracing the larger woman from behind.
"It's always important to ready your partner before things progress," Evie said, her voice growing scratchier as she began to massage her owner's body over her clothes. Ketch watched, enraptured, as Evie's hands began crawling up and down the Champion, ghosting across sensitive spots that the slave knew better than Ketch knew the back of her hand.
"O-oh," Sara breathed, "I see where this is going."
"Pleasant of you to join us, Master," Evie replied breathily, lips a hair's breadth from Sara's ear. She nipped the earlobe, prompting a shiver from the Champion. The sight of it had Ketch responding in kind.
"Uh, Ketch, you said you had a girlfriend?" Sara asked, her words shaky and distracted. "She'd be cool with this, right?"
Ketch thought of Selly, wondering at the question for all of a half second before nodding mutely. Selly was many things, but jealous wasn't one of them.
"Cool," Sara breathed, breath hitching as Evie's hands began to drift under clothes. "J-just making sure."
"And if that's the case, Ketch, why don't you come a little bit closer?" Evie offered invitingly. "Some things are best learned up close." Ketch drifted off the bench, limbs answering for her distracted mind. Evie lifted a hand from Sara for just a moment, earning a plaintive whine from the woman, and used it to push down on Ketch's shoulders. She fell to her knees, barely feeling the rough carpet as she stared up at Sara.
"Luckily for you, Master is full of surprises," Evie continued, right hand drifting south. Ketch followed it with her eyes, heart beating thunderously. "You know your own body well, but have you ever handled a cock?" Ketch shook her head, watching where Evie's hand was leading. A bulge was growing there, right at eye level. "Then we can start today," Evie purred, enticing Ketch closer.
"C-c-can I see?" She asked, breath shaky. "F-for. Um. Learning purposes?"
"Naturally," Evie said. "We're all here to help each other, aren't we? You're free to do as you please for Master."
"Up to a point," Sara reminded the two women from above, looking down on Ketch with dark eyes. "Just... you don't have shark teeth, right?"
Ketch licked her lips, not dignifying that with a response. She reached up to Sara's waistband, reverently pulling it down.
Out sprang a cock that dwarfed Ketch's wildest expectations. She knew she was a petite woman, but even when accounting for her size, Sara's girth looked massive before her. Like it would kill her to take.
Gods, how she wanted to anyway.
Evie sidled around to Ketch's side of Sara, kneeling next to her. The feline began to say something to her, resting a hand on the back of her neck, but Ketch couldn't hear her. She was too busy watching Sara's cock jump to the time of her heartbeat, feeling a gathering rush to her lower regions.
"Can you give me your gift again?" Ketch asked Sara, cutting Evie off. "I want to feel it again."
The Champion, mind addled by the sight of two women on their knees before her, did not question the request.
Ketch trembled as the haze descended upon her once more, a heady buzz that sapped light from the world beyond Sara. She felt her muscles slacken, the anxiety that consumed her days overwhelmed by a roaring torrent of lust. Someone spoke, but the words were dull thumps, irrelevant. She leaned forward, raising her hands to the Champion's body.
The room spun as Ketch's skin grazed against Sara's, filling her with a fire that left her writhing. The barest graze of fingertips against Sara's body carved scars in her, marks of desire that she prayed were permanent. As the bonfire grew, Ketch fell further forward, limply burying herself in the feel of Sara's crotch against her face.
Distantly, like church bells ringing, she heard the Champion speak.
"Fuck, it's really hitting her hard. Do you think I should turn it off?"
More meaningless thumps. Ketch turned her head to the side, lolling tongue tasting the divinity of Sara's cock.
"Y-yeah, you're probably right," Sara said. "F-fuck, that's hot."
What was left of Ketch couldn't agree more. She dragged her tongue along Sara's length, the taste leaving her shuddering. It truly was divine: a nectar that spiced and soothed her body at the same time. The air of her safehouse felt scalding on everywhere but her pussy, which was so soaking wet she could feel it leaking down her thighs. She shifted back and forth, tasting everything she could of Sara.
Evie spoke, placing a hand on the back of Ketch's head. She nodded, understanding. It was what she was here for, after all. She let herself be pulled back, open mouth placed before Sara's cock. Her breath fogged the air as she panted, moving forward.
Sara met her, pressing the tip between her lips, and at the same moment Ketch felt something similar intrude upon her mind. Ketch's eyes widened, feeling the request for connection coming from Sara. Without consideration, she welcomed both aspects of the woman into her.
As she moaned at the taste of Sara's cock on her tongue, she felt a new set of emotions filter in among her own. An empathic link, sending to Ketch the emotions of the Champion, and to Sara her own feelings.
There was so much more going on in the Champion's mind than her own, Ketch realized. Her mind, even before being addled, was a shadow's shadow, invisible. From Sara she felt worry, guilt, doubt, and fondness, both for Ketch and Evie. There was the thin patina of frustration the woman kept veiled, a contempt for the primitive societies that still revered servitude, and there was the pitter patter tappings of minor concerns that always burbled at the back of a consciousness. But beyond those, there was something more. Two leviathans dwarfing all others, hardly roused, yet still far greater than the rest. One boiled and hissed, straining against chains, while the other slept dormant, barely roused yet still so massive.
Her mind lit upon the sleeping beast, sinking into its warm embrace.
Lust.
Ketch felt the emotion suffusing the Champion, bolstered and encouraged by the crackling heat of divine interference. Even now, with her cock in Ketch's mouth, Sara was so far restrained it drove Ketch mad. What would it be like, to receive the brunt of such astounding desire? To have her body savaged, claimed, dominated by a hundred women's worth of pent up energy? Evie had called Ketch repressed, but her minor falsehoods had nothing on the Champion of Amarat. She wasn't sure if the woman was a monument to self control or deluded to the point of idiocy.
Ketch intended to find out. The influx of foreign emotions cleared her mind just enough to form a plan, and the first step was shoving her head forward.
Sara's knees shook as Ketch pushed until she felt Sara's cockhead slide against the back of her throat, then kept going, ignoring the protests of her body. The aches and spasms of her body were nothing next to the taste of Sara, the feel of the woman inside her body. She kept going, relaxing her throat until she felt her nose brush against Sara's trimmed pubic hair. From their bond Ketch sensed relief, pleasure, and still that niggling worm of concern, always chaining the lust from reaching greater extent.
She reached up, guiding Sara's wrists towards her head. She had the woman ball her fists in her short hair, every fiber of her being trying to transmit the emotion Please. Sara's lust rose higher, and Ketch rejoiced as Sara drew her hips back.
The first slam against her face was eye-wateringly wonderful. The brief moment that Sara had withdrawn made her feel starving, longing to be filled, and when Sara returned she felt the first shock of orgasm shake her. It ran from her core to her chest, making her nipples painfully sensitive against her clothes, and she squirmed and wriggled in place, whining in delight.
Sara kept going without hesitation, fucking Ketch's face. She didn't care about anything else, just the feel of Sara, and even as her head was violently jerked back and forth she tried to draw closer to the woman, groaning at the sparks flying from every inch of skin that made contact with Sara. Ketch had once swiped some of the more lurid substances in the Shaded Tree's inventory, more out of spite than curiosity, and the high she'd felt was a mild buzz next to this swirl of goddess-stirred delirium. She kept touching, and feeling, and bouncing her head in time to Sara's thrusts, and all the while she kept shivering, burning with desire from the inside out.
She didn't know how much time passed, but at some point she began to feel Sara's legs quivering under her touch. The slight weakness fanned Ketch's hunger even higher, leading her to grip harder on Sara's thighs, drawing her closer. She opened her eyes, staring up at Sara's face with lidded eyelids. The woman was shivering, looking down at Ketch as she pounded her mouth.
Ketch threw her head forward, pursing her lips and tightening herself around Sara's length.
"Ffffuuuuck!" Sara swore, the clawing of her nails across Ketch's scalp a sweet pain. She let her throat get violated, welcoming Sara's final frantic thrusts before the champion froze, mouth open in a silent scream.
The thought of Sara's cum filled Ketch's mind. Sara's cock jumped in her throat, pulse after hot pulse shooting into Ketch. It tasted like nectar. Like the god's nectar, gifted to Ketch, who was so proud to discover she deserved it. Her eyes watered with joy, the unending waves of pleasure that had been crashing inside her reaching a newer, climactic peak. Sara had to hold her up just to keep her in place, hissing hot breaths through her teeth as Ketch slumped, reduced to a hole. Her body spasmed weakly in Sara's grip, muscles firing off random impulses as she was overwhelmed by pleasure. She kept drinking the cum, swallowing, squeezing every last bit that she could from Sara's cock, moaning deliriously.
Ketch's sense of time was lost to the haze of bliss. She felt Evie guiding her owner gently to the floor, laying her down beside Ketch. They lay together for a while, skin pressed to skin.
Eventually Sara roused enough to retract her Gift, clearing the fog that had obscured Ketch's world. The saferoom apparated from nothing, the creaks and groans of old timbers shockingly loud without the drumming of her pulse to muffle them.
"Sorry about that," Sara said quietly, and through the magical bond Ketch felt contrition rise to the forefront.
"What will it take," Ketch said, rolling onto her side to look at Sara directly, "To convince you that I enjoyed that?"
"I know you did, but it's still weird for me to-- wha--?"
Ketch hauled her quivering limbs up off the floor, rolling onto the larger woman. Ketch reached around to the small of her back, unclasping the small garment that hid what little of her chest there was. She placed her hips atop Sara's as the woman devoured the sight of her body, letting her feel the wetness that still soaked her shorts.
Emphasizing each word, she dragged herself over Sara's length. "I want this. I want your body. I loved the way you made me feel."
"I might as well have drugged you, Ketch."
Ketch hunched over until her face cast a shadow over Sara's. "I know. I want you to do it to me again. Again and again and again, until I can't walk."
Evie, who'd slumped into a kneeling position nearby, tsked. "Master. I think that for once you're taking your consideration for others a little bit too far."
Ketch nodded meaningfully. "You were halfway in my head in more ways than one, Sara. A part of you still is. Do you feel anything that said 'no'?"
"No," Sara said, groaning as Ketch's distraction worked its magic. "But... I dunno. Sex god mind magic, right? Gotta be careful."
Ketch leaned low, whispering into Sara's ear. "When you're in me, there better not be a single part of you thinking 'careful'."
Ketch pressed down harder, feeling Sara's body shift to a more feminine persuasion. She raised herself off Sara's body, moving further down, licking her lips.
"Evie?" She murmured. "I think I will need help with this part. I haven't ever been on the giving end, if you know what I mean."
The feline smirked, crawling over to kneel behind Ketch. "Just mirror what you feel me doing," she instructed
Ketch's eyes fluttered as Evie pressed her tongue to her pussy, collecting the wetness that had been pooling there. It was looking like it would be a long, wonderful night.
.....................
..................
...............
Ketch woke late in the morning, cracking open crusted eyelids. She was tangled in warmth, sprawled beneath two larger women. Her breath sped up, starting to panic, before a recollection of last night coalesced into her conscious mind.
The early stages of hyperventilation were rapidly replaced by bone-deep embarrassment, a full body flush consuming her as fragments of what she'd said-- what she'd done-- floated back to her. How in the world was she going to tell Selly about this?
I'll just have to force her to do a mind reading spell, Ketch decided. There's NO way I can describe all this. Just need to slip out of here quietly... oh my gods, why are we all so STICKY?
Despite her best efforts at stealth, which were impressive, the women groaned as she peeled her naked skin from theirs.
"Wheremuoygoin?" Sara mumbled, one eye squinting into the sunlight falling across her face. ""iss like dawn or somethin'."
"Um, well," Ketch stumbled over her words as she continued to unstick herself from Evie and Sara, a process that grew more difficult the lower on her body she worked. "I've got to get home. Dad gets worried if I'm out too long, since he knows I work with the Shaded Tree."
Sara's other eye popped open, staring incredulously. "You live with your DAD?"
"Of course," Ketch said defensively, reflexively reaching to tighten a cloak that wasn't there. "And my girlfriend, as well. It's only practical in Tulian, no matter how you strange outlanders live."
"I mean, fair, but I don't think I've ever banged someone that hard when they still lived with their parents," Sara said. "Not since highschool, at least. Should I walk you home or something? What's the protocol here?"
"It'd be impressive if you could," Ketch replied, finding her shorts. She started to put them on, then realized there was a clean rip down the crotch. Of course. How could she forget the infamous Round Three? "I live under the harbor. So unless you've got some potions of Water Breathing, you're out of luck."
"Oh. That's probably for the better anyway. Meeting your girlfriend would be kinda weird, huh?"
"Yes, but not for the reasons you'd think. Selly will probably be grateful to you, if anything."
"Why's that?"
Ketch froze for a moment as she picked up her top, realizing what she was about to say so casually. After a moment of consternation, she forced through her discomfort.
"Selly doesn't have much interest in sex. We're Bonded, though, so she knows when I get worked up. She--" Ketch coughed, "--takes care of it. Y'know. She's great, really. But I think she won't mind having someone else doing that job."
Ketch kept dressing, finding that she at least hadn't ruined her cloak. A thrill of equal parts trepidation and excitement went through her as she realized she'd have to walk home without pants, covered only by the cloak.
Sara whispered something to Evie, who answered in a much clearer voice.
"Being Bonded is usually something that refers to witches and their familiars, Master. The practice is usually banned with intelligent beings, but Tulian has been without proper mage oversight for some time."
"Really?" Ketch asked Evie. "It's banned in other places? I don't see why."
"While I'm no mage, I believe it's to do with the magical control it exerts. Exceptions are made only if the Familiar is already a slave of the witch in question."
"I mean, sure, she can definitely get in my head, maybe order me around a bit, but that's not so bad. Fun, even," Ketch said, clasping her cloak together.
Sara chuckled. "Sorry to say, but I think you're a bit of an outlier there. Most people don't get as much out of being magic-boinked as you do."
Ketch sniffed, turning up her nose. "Well, they're missing out. I'll see you later today, Sara."
The Champion called out as Ketch swept out of the safehouse. "Wait, what? Why later today?"
"Because I'll have been around Selly for a few hours, and that usually means I'll be pent up. You are going to do your job, aren't you?"
Ketch didn't wait for the answer, knowing it already. She hurried down the stairs on light feet, feeling simultaneously lighter and fuller than she had in weeks. Feeling the cool air against her crotch as she slipped out into the morning shower, she shivered.
The route back to the harbor's edge was one she could walk blind, allowing her mind drift in comfortable fashion. As she traveled, keeping an eye about her for trouble, she wondered just how closely she should tie herself to this Champion.
It helped that Ketch had more than taken the measure of the woman. She'd spent hours in her embrace with their minds melded together, base urges and desires bared for either to see. She was certain that Sara held no ill will for her, nor had any villainous ambitions for Tulian as a whole. Standing with a Champion may invite some element of danger to herself, which might drive her father and Selly mad with worry, but it wasn't like it could be worse than the Shaded Tree. In nearly every way she could figure, it would be good for her.
She had only one hesitation. An emotion that she'd sensed in Sara, lurking beneath all the others.
Anger. Fury, even.
A blinding white monstrosity, chained and buried beneath her other emotions. It was the second leviathan of Sara's consciousness, a coiled serpent that dwarfed all others. Ketch's emotions in their totality were but a flicker to the Champion's rage, a torch in a typhoon. She'd shied away from that sleeping beast, a moth recognizing the heat of flame just before it could consume her.
And unlike the Champion's lust, her anger had no marks of that eery divine influence to blame for its prominence. Ketch didn't know where it had come from, or how it had grown so large, but something in the Champion fueled a fire that outstripped the sun.
Ketch shivered, the chill that ran across her skin not from the weather. As she neared the harbor, preparing herself to sink back into the comfortable depths, she made her decision. She'd stay by Sara's side. And the more she thought about it, the more certain she was. That festering pit of rage couldn't stay chained forever, and when it broke loose, there would be only one safe place left.
Beneath the Champion of Amarat.
Notes:
As is typical for my writing process, I had a brief period where I took everything too seriously, which burned me out a bit, then completed the cycle by saying 'fuck it, write anyway' which got myself back to a proper attitude. You'd think it'd be easy not to take your porn story too seriously, right? Apparently not. Back we are to regular scheduling!
Fun fact about my writing process, if you haven't seen me mention it in the comments: To avoid subconscious bias, I choose every character's gender by flipping a coin. Yes, even Sara's bed partners. Hell, even Ketch's partner. Thus far, the coin has somehow UNIVERSALLY decided that this story is girl-on-girl only. I mean, I'm down with that, but by this point it's getting comically improbable.
Funnily enough, still struggling with the Nora x Sara chapter. Just not sure how that would go down, other than freakily. As I always do when faced with story uncertainty, I'll ask you guys: What do y'all want to see? And should I force fate's hand and add some male-female interactions at some point?
Chapter 21: Flirtatious Logistics
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The city of Tulian, predictably, was a fixer-upper. Aside from the obvious damage borne of a decade of neglect that had eroded considerable chunks of the buildings, there was still the rubble left of a supernatural hurricane barrage. Ignite had begun training volunteers of the Crossed Glory, both to serve as marines aboard the ship for Nora or as city guards, and the former Carrion Sergeant did so by having two dozen of them marching up and down the city streets, coordinating to clear debris that had always been too large for any of the small groups that populated the city. It was good practice for working in tandem, but it also served to cement Sara's authority in the city, as they always marched in clothes sporting hastily slapped on symbols of Amarat.
What Ignite's crews couldn't address was the more spectacular damage. The massive chunk of the seawall's archway had landed across the city's widest street, an artery that had once funneled goods from the bustling docks out to the rest of the country. It was a wide road even by Sara's standards, seventy feet in diameter, and it ran the mile and a half from the water's edge to the inland wall without deviating an inch. Clearing that essential pathway was something Sara assigned to Hurlish and herself, reasoning that they had the most demolition-adjacent experience. Granted, most of Sara's was actually constructing things, not destroying them, and Hurlish was a blacksmith, but they were still the best on hand.
A fifty foot chunk of solid granite proved the first thing Sara'd seen outmatching Hurlish's hammer. The burly orc swinging with all her might produced a webwork of uselessly small cracks, though Sara was impressed she was able to damage it at all with pure muscle power. Without any spells capable of causing serious damage to the stone, Sara spent hours scouring her mind for some modern solution to the problem. In the end, she had none that were actually possible, given her resources. TNT would work great, she'd bet money on that, but Sara was fresh out.
In the end Sara decided to do things the hard way. Hammer and chisel, impaling a line of iron spikes into the stone. It was slow going, especially because she was working on her own. Hurlish had to go and actually make the spikes, which meant she spent a couple days cobbling together a forge from the half-looted remains of Old Tulian's smithies. Sara worked at the granite all the while, soaking in sweat that made her increasingly certain she would have been better off waiting for some explosively minded mage to stroll through town.
Her small cadre's first week in Tulian was spent in similar fashion. Everyone split up to various tasks, taking to their specialties. Nora, naturally, never set foot off the Crossed Glory, but she did send plenty of orders and supply requisitions inland. Ignite carried those requests throughout the city, using Ketch as a local guide and scout. The fishgirl was actually frequently requested by Nora, who loved having someone that could breathe underwater to check the hull of her ship. Ketch equally disliked the task, and if the small woman didn't want to be found, she simply wouldn't be. Combat skills aside, Sara had to give her accolades on her stealth.
Perhaps Sara's greatest regret was the fact that she didn't find a way to avoid one of her old life's greatest miseries:
Meetings.
Not for the first or last time, Sara shuddered as she approached their warehouse home. After a week in Tulian, the scattered chats that she'd had with her various friends and girlfriends was no longer adequate. She needed an actual idea on how they were all doing, and if the other's assistance would be helpful. Evie had turned herself into some bizarre hybrid of consort-secretary-tutor, taking and sending notes, quizzing Sara on history and culture, and flitting across the city during her brief forays away from Sara. The feline had never complained once, but Sara still didn't like her juggling so much.
Thus, the meeting.
Gods help her.
The actual meeting was held outside their warehouse, at the forge Hurlish had built. Even as they gathered the orc continued working, hammering out the blades that would equip Ignite and Nora's soldiers. She, at least, was one that Sara knew had been utterly content with her new duties.
The others filtered in over a half hour or so, the usual slow drip of their return coinciding with the setting sun. Ketch was the only one who had to change her routine to be at the warehouse at sunset, because she lived with her father. Sara still felt a little bit weird about that one, to be honest.
Sara tallied faces as the last of their little group pulled up chairs, lighting some torches for the darkening sky. Ignite, Hurlish, and Evie were present, as well as Nidd and Semel, Nora's crewmembers Sara'd befriended earlier. They sat at the front of a less familiar group: the freed slaves and sailors that had decided to stay in Tulian. Sara had committed each of their names to memory, but had little time to socialize beyond that. Only Ketch appeared absent, but Sara couldn't be sure if she actually hadn't shown. The girl was damn good at hiding.
"So," Sara said with a clap as Evie clambered into her lap, "How's everyone's work going?"
"The recruits are progressing strongly" Ignite said without preamble. The career soldier shifted like he wanted to stand, his training entirely at odds with giving a report from a comfortable chair. "They are enthused and take to instruction well. No discipline problems have shown. I expect them to be trained to Guard standards before the month is done."
"To Guard standards?" Sara asked, pulling a folded piece of paper from her pocket and giving it a scan. It was Nora's contribution to the meeting, sent from afar. "Captain Nora wanted to know if she would be getting Carrion Marines or sailors, she said."
Captain Nora had actually wanted to know quite a lot, judging by the front-and-back scrawled note, but the other items could come later.
"Respectfully, ma'am, if Captain Nora wants Carrion Marines, she will have to make them. Experience on the waves only makes a soldier, not instruction. I will provide her the clay, if she thinks herself a potter."
"How'd your old Navy get all their marines, then?" Sara asked. "What'd you do, fill a new ship up with fresh guys and say 'hey, if you live through the nextfew battles you get a promotion'?"
Ignite's lip quirked up at the corner, a subtle sign of amusement. Try as he might, the man still couldn't hide what he was feeling from Sara. "No. Recruits were placed cautiously among veterans, given places of safety and importance until they could be proved. By the time they were told they are a Marine by me, they had already been one for some time."
"Seems a fair enough system," Sara said, scratching out an abridged version of his response for Nora. Evie would translate it into legible handwriting later. "What about you, Hurlish? Weapons going good?"
"Yup," the orc said. Sara nodded.
"Cool. How about the rest of you? Nidd, you found a healer yet?"
The seamster-surgeon shook his head balefully. "None in all the city, it seems. Never have I heard of a place all the churches have abandoned, Sara. It worries me, both for spiritual causes and the condition of those in my care."
"How are they holding up?" Sara asked. They'd debated between moving the wounded off the Crossed Glory, but decided against it, reasoning that the ocean-going ship was probably still cleaner than their leaky warehouse.
"They are... stable?" Nidd tried. He shook his head helplessly. "I haven't cared for anyone without the help of a healer, Sara. All I can say is that they are not worsening, and they're not showing signs of deadly infection."
"That's 'cause of you keeping your tools clean," Sara said. "Keep doing that, and they might just recover without a healer."
Nidd nodded, but looked far from reassured. Sara felt a tickle on her neck, guiding her to look at the others. Similarly crestfallen faces were plenty, an odd melancholy that Sara couldn't find the source of.
"What's up?" She asked the group. "Is not having a healer that bad?"
"Uh, yeah," Hurlish said. "You know how careful I gotta be now that I know any little accident can put me outta work for weeks?"
"It had hindered my training as well," Ignite said. "Beyond that, their absence implies much I do not like about this city. The will of the gods are seen through miracles. If we did not have a Champion speaking for its favor, I would consider this city Cursed."
Sara pulled away from rubbing Evie's ears, ignoring the small rumble of disapproval. "Is it really that big of a deal to everyone? I mean, I know magic healing is awfully convenient, but surely people have lived without healers before."
"Even the beasts of the Hells have those that seal their wounds, Master," Evie said from her lap. "Healing is among the most common of independently realized magic, gifted freely by the gods to any who wish to help others. To not have a healer in a city, even one so atrophied as this, is highly unusual."
Sara considered that for a moment, formulating a response, but was interrupted by Ketch plummeting down from above, landing crouched in the center of their small circle. She was no longer wearing her black cloak, just a dark bikini top and black skintight shorts. She turned first to Ignite, who was the only one unsurprised by her entrance.
"There are no signs of prying eyes, unless hidden by magical means. I left my post because I had a contribution to the discussion."
Ketch turned to Sara, and it was only then that she caught the deep blush running up her neck, the royal blue of her cheeks nearing black. While she was willing to forgo the melodramatic cloak, it seemed she hadn't quite worked past the embarrassment of running around in an outfit that covered less than underwear.
"There are healers in Tulian, mistres-- Miss Sara." Sara hid her smile at Ketch's last minute save, letting the girl plow on. "They aren't in the capital, though. I've escorted several people to them in the past."
"Why wouldn't they be in the city? Isn't that where most people are?"
"Not anymore," Ketch replied. "Most view the cities as dangerous. Too many in one place may call the storms down again, supposedly." Ketch's eyes shifted, as if making sure the gathering didn't contain Tulian natives. "I think they're foolish. The cities have stood for centuries without issue. It's idiotic to believe it was the cities themselves that summoned the storms."
"I'm with you on that second part. But why would the healers not help people in the capital itself?"
"Most healers are the coocoo crazy types," Hurlish grunted. "If anyone'd blame angry gods on random crap, it'd be them. Probably won't set foot anywhere near here."
Ketch's eyelids, Sara noticed, twitched at Hurlish's words. She began to head to the warehouse wall, preparing to climb back up to her post, but Sara stopped her.
"Ketch? Do you know any healer that's closer?"
The woman halted, halfway up a drainpipe. "I..." She hesitated. "How bad are their wounds?"
Sara looked to Nidd. He was awfully reluctant to speak as if he were a healer, but stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"As I said earlier, they're not worsening, but the most severe aren't improving, either. Even with Sara's methods, it's only a matter of time before worse infections brew."
Semel, who was sitting beside Nidd, added her own piece. "We're going through bandages like mad, by the way. Boiling 'them and washing them every time like Sara wants means they get torn up quick."
Ketch stepped off the drainpipe, sighing. After the last week of "use", so to speak, Sara thought she'd wrung out every bit of Ketch's reclusive nature. Apparently not, because she leaned back against the wall, putting a foot on it with her arms crossed like a delinquent in a 90's movie.
"I know someone that can heal, but she's not a healer. She's..." Ketch trailed off.
"Weird?" Sara guessed. "Someone you're worried about bringing around the ship, because you're not sure how people'd react?"
With a melodramatic sigh, Ketch nodded. "That's also true, but I was going to say she's my girlfriend."
Hurlish immediately held her gut and boomed out laughter, mirth echoing down the streets. Ketch's blush deepened, darkening until she looked more like Ignite than herself. Sara silenced Hurlish with a glare.
"Sorry," the orc said, still chuckling slightly. "It's just, y'know, not what I expected. The last healer in a cursed city, only one brave enough to stick around, and she's... what, your step-girlfriend, Sara? How does that work, anyway?" She ran a hand down her face, physically wiping the smile off her face. "Sorry. Go ahead."
Sara shook her head. "Well, Ketch, tell her I'm not one to judge, and if she's healing people I can't imagine they'd ever get mad at her. Can she help?"
"I'll have to ask her, first," Ketch hedged. "Like I said, she's not a healer first and foremost."
"If she can help our people, that's good enough for me."
Ketch nodded, then skittered back up to the dark roof.
I swear, if she starts doing the Batman disappearing-behind-my-back thing when she levels up, I'm gonna strangle her, Sara thought. She's already getting better at sneaking around. I wonder if she leveled up since we met? I wish people weren't so damn cagey about that kind of stuff.
Sara was forced to refocus as Evie twisted in her lap, tapping a written list she'd produced. Sara squinted, then groaned. Of course she'd made an agenda for Sara.
"You're aggravatingly helpful," Sara said under her breath, reading over the items listed.
"You can always punish me, Master," Evie replied with a breathy smirk. "I don't mind."
"I think this relationship is giving you a skewed view of what 'punishment' means," Sara whispered. Clearing her throat, she began on the next topic Evie had suggested.
The meeting progressed at a glacial pace to Sara, even if it was fairly brisk in actuality. Nora had a laundry list of complex goods she wanted, half of which were an impossibility to find in the capital city itself. Ignite wanted armor for his troops, not just weapons, and after some cajoling Hurlish reluctantly agreed to try her hand at making basic breastplates and helmets. That meant she needed extra material, more than could be scavenged and melted down, and there weren't any ironmongers (a title Sara thought too badass for the actual job) in the capital city.
It was a trend that persisted through the meeting. As more needs and wants piled up, it became clear that they'd have to venture beyond the abandoned city.
To be honest, Sara was relieved. She'd gotten used to being on the move, constantly making visible progress either on the task at hand or overland, and the plodding pace of renovating Tulian had worn on her. A national leader that got bored by infrastructure projects probably wasn't the best, but it's not like she could force herself to enjoy the work. She'd always enjoyed welding, but she liked the detail jobs, connecting joints at tough angles and artfully winding her way through a self-made labyrinth of steel. Smashing rocks and using the debris to fill potholes was productive, but also steadily driving her insane.
By the end of the meeting, Sara had a laundry list of random crap to grab. Nora's was most expensive, but could mostly be paid for by the goods stowed in the Crossed Glory's cargo hold. The rest would be on Sara, and as Evie tallied up the estimated costs, Sara could feel her once endless purse shriveling. They'd need some kind of revenue stream, and they'd need it fast.
Sara said as much to Nora when she, Evie, and Hurlish stomped up to the Crossed Glory to summarize the meeting. With the deck empty of crew and barely a whisper of wind caressing the night, their words carried over the glassy harbor.
"I'll have coin for you soon enough," had been Nora's flippant response. "Ships cost money, but I intend to earn my keep. So long as the prizes I take are first spent on my navy, the rest'll be free for you to use."
"You really think you'll turn a profit?" Sara asked. "I don't want you robbing random merchants, remember. I'm not trying to run a pirate empire here."
"But if the ships are crewed by slaves, Champion?"
Sara answered off-handedly, the solution simple. "If there's any divine slave collars on board, make sure whoever holds them frees the slaves from their orders, then execute them. If there's no magical compulsions involved, execute the slavers and leave the rest. What happens to the ship after that is up to the remaining crew."
Nora's grin was predatory. "Plenty of ships have crew pressed into service. So long as you let me nab them, I'll have my run of the lot."
"If anyone's forced to work without pay, that's slavery to me. You're smart, Nora. You know where I'd draw the line."
Hurlish snorted. "Yeah. Way, way farther than anyone else."
Sara shrugged. "Crimes like that get you the death penalty in Tulian now. That includes the coast."
"And if I stray a bit farther from the coast, Sara?" Nora asked. "Shipping's not too fat 'round here, not since the storms. Most tend to sail further abreast, too afraid of getting caught in a typhoon."
"Then get your wildest attacks out of the way early, I guess. Once you're more firmly associated with me, we'll have to keep you looking like I've got a firm grip on your leash." Sara paused, an idea occurring to her. "Actually, that's perfect. If we play our cards right, we can guarantee your early raiding isn't pinned on me. You run wild, get that fearsome reputation you want, and then I'll make a big show about winning your loyalty somehow. You get the bonus paragraph in your biography about being the 'mad captain that only a Champion could tame', and I get a pet tiger I can threaten people with."
Nora, doubtful at first, warmed to the idea as Sara spoke. "Aye, aye. Don't much like the idea of being on a leash, but a caged beast is another matter. Just the idea of me slipping loose giving whole navies palpitations..." Nora ran her tongue across her teeth. "I could work that angle."
"Great. We'll hammer out the details later," Sara said. "If you're leaving tomorrow, I probably won't be here to see you off."
"Too cooped up to stand it, too?" Nora guessed.
"Basically. And I'm getting real anxious to see where the rest of old Tulian is hiding. I know they didn't all flee north, so they've got to be somewhere."
"Couldn't they have gone south?" Nora asked. She tapped the side of her skull. "Remember, I don't know what's down there. No port cities."
Hurlish, sitting on the railing, shook her head. "Nah, they couldn't have. I mean, maybe some poor fools tried it, but they're dead now. Ain't no surviving the jungle. My village could barely fight off the dregs that spilled out from its edges. Going inside is suicide."
"So the population's somewhere nearby," Sara summarized. "We're gonna go find it tomorrow. See if we can't get you some of the odder stuff on your list."
Nora sniffed. "Don't spend more than a few weeks on it. Awfully convenient if I can get it early, but I'll claim what I need before the month's out. Now, a shipwright, that's something that..."
The evening drifted off into the realm of late night night conversation, half business, half pleasure. Sara joked and jabbed with her friends, enjoying the cool salty breeze until yawns began to interrupt too frequently to continue. She left for the warehouse, laughing as Evie clambered up Hurlish's massive arm, declaring that the orc would personally deliver her to bed. Hurlish rolled her eyes, but let the feline use her as a jungle gym without protest.
As much as Sara had fun fighting, the little peaceful evenings like these remained highlights of her newfound life. She got a kick out of Ignite's expression, seeing the stalwart Evie sitting atop Hurlish's shoulders like a child, and she enjoyed the banter even as they fell into bed with one another, hands beginning to roam.
Tomorrow, she'd probably be spending most of the day working, sword never far from mind or hand. Tonight, though, she could enjoy the warmth of friendly company.
Notes:
Shoutout to Stillinbeta for giving me tips on how to properly import italics and the like for posting on AO3. Saves me a lot of headache, not having to go back through and hunt for missing Italics!
A bit of a shorter chapter, but I'm sure there weren't many people chomping at the bit for more City Council Simulator chapters.
I mean, I would be. I'm that kind of nerd. And there might well be more chapters of it, because this is my story. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll come up with like... a sexy civil engineer. That builds things by cumming. That doesn't break worldbuilding too hard, I hope.
Chapter 22: Spinning Platters
Chapter Text
Sara dressed the following morning in the first set of new clothes she'd gotten in weeks. They were made by Nidd, but the materials had been supplied by Ketch. The black pseudo-nylon that had been driving Sara mad with jealousy was apparently an Azarketi specialty, made from interwoven seagrasses. It was actually Ketch's father that knew how to make it, and apparently it was a time consuming process, because Ketch swore up and down he'd worked on preparing the materials for most of a week.
Slipping it on, she felt convinced it was worth every coin she'd paid the man. What had been biking shorts on Ketch were expanded into a full body catsuit for Sara, the thin material just clingy enough that she couldn't rightly be called clothed while wearing it alone. The material was far tougher than the earth equivalent, though not as stretchy, and it breathed exceptionally well. It was the perfect underclothes for Sara's armor, but she intended to use it for much more. If she could meet with Ketch's dad and find out how he made it, Sara was convinced she could rebuild the entire Tulian economy just by introducing this world to the wonders of tights and sweatpants. The Azarketi, who Evie told her had no coherent government to speak of, had no idea of the gold mine they'd inadvertently left untapped.
The second part of her outfit that so delighted Sara was hanging off her wrists. She'd spent some time in Hurlish's forge, trying to see if she could apply her welding skills to something like blacksmithing. The results of hours of labor were a pair of lumpy, misshapen spike wristbands. The metal had been knit into place by Nidd, producing the first and closest approximation this world had to punk-rock aesthetic. The spikes were dull, uneven, and tinged with impurities, but Sara was damn proud of them. If only she could find some way to dye her hair back to purple, then commission a bomber jacket, she'd start to look like her old self.
Well, almost like my old self, Sara thought as she looked down at her chest. Just way more stacked.
Sara strolled out of the warehouse with Evie and Hurlish at dawn, all three dressed to impress. For Sara that meant her armor and new nylon suit, a style which was already producing results in the form of distracted glances from her travel companions. Hurlish had actually slicked back her short hair and filed her tusks, then begrudgingly let Evie redo the botched job while Sara buffed a bit of polish into her exposed ivory. Predictably, Evie wore her altered ruby dress, plunging neckline and scandalous side-slit still not enough to distract from the thick iron band around her neck. She started off wearing the gray cloak she'd grown fond of, but only through the morning rains, tucking it away shortly afterward.
Following Ketch's directions as they stepped through the abandoned city gates, it would only be a few short hours of walking until they encountered the first village. Ketch's description of the new Tulian, once parsed by Evie's formal education, painted the countryside as a unique subsistence farming society. Once the storms had removed the burden of major cities full of hungry mouths, the freshly resettled hordes of farmers found very little to do with their excess crop. Individual fields shrunk while the land was tilled in progressively greater swathes, an unsteady rhythm slowly felt out over the years as the farmers of Tulian adapted to agriculture without the magical and mechanical aids provided by a central government. While there had been no major famines to Sara's knowledge, there had been massive issues with soil depletion and food waste, mountains of crops going to rot as farmers over-tilled and under-sold. It was only reasonable for individual families to prepare as best they could for a potential drought, especially without regular markets or a trade network to potentially funnel food from elsewhere, but it also produced mountains of useless food each year. Individuals prioritizing themselves, as on Earth, created a wasteful and inefficient collective.
Both to inform her girlfriend of their situation and to hammer the details down for herself, Sara explained all this to Hurlish while they walked. Evie chimed in occasionally with minor additions, but rarely corrected her, and Sara felt no small amount of pride that she'd actually managed to comprehend the catgirl's lessons.
Hurlish, on the other hand, didn't understand, and really didn't seem like she wanted to. As they passed yet another fallow field farmed to the point of exhaustion, Hurlish finally threw her arms up.
"Alright, alright, I get it! Too many farmers, too much food, nothing to do with it. But what's so bad about that? People eat good, and there's no one to blame but themselves if they end up hungry. What're you going to 'solve' about that?"
"Honestly?" Sara said, "I don't know. It'll be damn hard to convince people to just come back to the cities, not unless they just really hate farming."
"See?" Hurlish stabbed a thick finger forward for emphasis. "We're not gonna do squat out here. We're gonna say, 'wanna come to the city?' and they're gonna say 'nah, I'm good actually, plenty of food here', and that'll be it."
"There are more factors to life than food and board, Hurlish," Evie said. "It has only been ten years without governance. There are conveniences inherent to cities that can't be replicated by these distributed communities, things the people will miss dearly. Foreign wealth and goods, for one, not to mention the protection from invaders that a recognized nation and its armies represent." The feline hopped up on a fallen log, uncanny balance carrying her to eye level with Hurlish. "Sporatos may be ignoring its southern border for now, but I knew the king personally. His greed will not be overwrought by his superstition for long. If the people must choose between Sara's rule now, or King Sporatos' rule later, there is only one good choice."
Hurlish snorted. "Good luck convincin' them of that. People don't think that far out, not when they've got it good now."
Tiring of the debate, Sara said, "Well, it doesn't really matter today. We're just going out to trade for some goods and see if there's any specialists left. As for convincing people, I'm just planning to do what I do best."
Hurlish raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna eat 'em out?"
"No, one of the other things I'm the best at. I'm going to figure out what their biggest problem is, solve it in the flashiest way imaginable, then make a fancy speech and dip."
Evie rolled her eyes. "Elaborate as always, Master."
"Hey, I'm the Champion of Amarat, not Talavan. What else did you expect?"
"Perhaps more decorum, at the very least." Evie said. She sighed wistfully, thinking back. "If my tutors had posed me this problem, they would have expected me to suggest a subtle yet engaging campaign of petitions and meetings with the authority figures of the villages, complimented by impassioned speeches that sway the commoner's hearts. After months to years of refined maneuverings, the pinnacle of my achievements would be marked by the hiring of legal philosophers to elegantly pen a constitution that is sure to last for centuries, simultaneously cementing my unquestioned rule for the remainder of my natural life."
Sara grinned, pounding a fist against her breastplate. "I was thinkin' of finding a bunch of bandits and fightin' 'em in front of a big crowd. Maybe flash my tits at the end, for style points."
Evie sighed again, inaudible over Hurlish's booming laughter.
The walk to the nearest village proceeded swiftly, the time carried away by more good-natured conversation. They passed farm after empty farm as they went, fit now only for weeds to grow. Government mages had rejuvenated the soil after each harvest in earlier years, preventing it from falling fallow, but without that supernatural aid the land had collapsed far quicker than should be possible. Sara bet that nearly every major city now sported an ever expanding ring of barren fields, yet another issue for her to someday solve.
Thankfully, the farmers seemed to have learned their lessons by now. Sara eventually spotted in the distance a cluster of tended fields, the diversity of crops obvious at a distance. There were small dots moving across the gently sloping landscape, fanning out from their small homes as the morning rains concluded.
The muddy path they tramped down led them straight between two fields, eventually carrying them within shouting distance of a farmer. It was a woman dressed in simple breeches and a wide straw hat, watching their approach with a reserved expression. Sara gave her a wave, calling out.
"Hello! We were looking for the village that's supposed to be around here. Are we on the right path?"
Hands on her hips and a distrusting lilt to her words, the woman called back. "You are. Just follow the road for a ways. What's your business, strangers?"
"We landed in the old capital a few days back with a real banged up ship," Sara replied, skirting the edge of truthfulness. "We need stuff we can't find there, so we were hoping to find better luck in the villages. We can trade goods, work, or coin, whichever you guys prefer out here."
Charming as she may be, Sara couldn't pry away a decade of isolation in a few short sentences. The woman called back, "Depends on who you're talking to, stranger. Can't speak for the folk in town. Peaceful travels."
And with that curt dismissal, the woman bent back to her work, never taking her eye off their group. Sara said thanks and waved goodbye, moving on down the road. She'd chosen to dress armed and armored for her first impression, which meant she'd have to deal with those that assumed she was spoiling for a fight.
It probably didn't help that Sara was, in a way, eagerly awaiting a battle. The meeting with the Shaded Tree, while ending with objectively the best outcome, had felt awfully anticlimactic. Sparring with Evie and Hurlish wasn't nearly as satisfying as a proper all-out brawl, and more importantly, it didn't get her any closer to her next level. She had no way of tracking her 'experience', if that was even how things worked, but either way Sara'd bet that puttering around the capital wasn't nearly as fruitful as scouring the countryside.
The village, when they finally reached it, was an anachronistic mishmash of architecture. The central buildings were well made, square homes with shingled roofs and brick walls, but they were surrounded by far more primitive dwellings. The sort of straw-roofed, circular mudhuts that Sara stereotypically associated with this kind of tropical landscape, lacking in any kind of finer adornments. The second sort of buildings were by far the majority, ringing the old village center with their backs to long strips of fields. Unlike the original village, which had one massive grain silo for storing crops, each new home had their own smaller storehouses. Glancing into one as a passerby entered, Sara could see vegetables and grain piled loosely on a wooden floor, atop which lorded a lounging cat, grown fat and happy on undoubtedly plentiful vermin.
Before Sara could enter the densest part of the village, she was confronted by a motley group filtering out from between the buildings. Fifteen men and women were sweating in their ratty and soiled gambesons, rusty open faced helmets and simple spears marking them as village militia. Unlike the troops Sara had faced on the Magecraft, who marched in precise lockstep with interwoven shields, this group could barely form a straight line. Though she'd never let things progress to violence, Sara was utterly certain that she alone could have waded through the untrained teenagers without a scratch.
Save, perhaps, for the orcish man who stepped forward with a barked "Halt!" As tall or taller than Hurlish's seven feet, he wore a metal cuirassier's breastplate, his unstained gambeson bolstered by studded leather. "What is your business here?"
Sara, as instructed, halted. To the naked eye, it seemed Sara's shortsword was the only weapon their group carried, but judging by the way the man kept his distance, he smartly recognized the false security for what it was. Evie's sword could be in her hand in an instant, and the bag of holding containing Hurlish's massive hammer was dangling off the orc's waist.
"We're just here to trade," Sara said calmly. Evie sniffed and tapped her right foot impatiently, which meant there was at least one concealed archer Sara hadn't noticed. Sara kept her hands well away from her weapon as she spoke. "The ship I was on just scraped by after an attack, so the captain landed in the old capital to recover. I'm here to trade for supplies that I couldn't find in the city, and I've been given leave to use basically anything in our cargo to pay for it."
The militia's leader squinted suspiciously. "But you showed up in our village empty handed?"
"We have an enchanted bag containing some of the lighter goods, as a show of good faith. The bulkier items would have to be transported after deals are made."
"Show them," he instructed, tone firm. Hurlish looked to Sara, who nodded.
The orc began pulling bolts of fine silk from the bag, her movements glacial. Under the soldier's stern eyes she put it back, then drew other goods out, slowly showing off examples of what they'd managed to bring with them.
"I'm satisfied," the soldier said after the fourth item. "I don't trust you, but I do trust the fact that you came off a ship. No one has that kinda crap around here anymore." He shifted his spear onto his back, closing the distance. "What are you looking for? We don't have much in the way of ship material, speaking plainly."
Sara reached over to Hurlish's hip, yoinking Nora's list from the bag of holding. "We need planks ten feet long by two feet wide, or timber to be cut to shape, as much 'yardage' of sail material you can spare, preferably cotton..."
After listing several more items, the man held up a hand. "I don't know what we have on hand. You'll have to talk to folk around town. If you give me your weapons, I'll let you go about."
"Uh, that's kind of hard," Sara scratched the side of her head. "Mine's enchanted, so I don't want that out of my sight, and Evie here has hers bound to her. I guess Hurlish could give up--"
"No."
"--She says no." Sara held up her hands apologetically. "Any way we can work around us keeping our weapons? Is there, like, a village leader I can get approval from?"
The orc glared down at Sara, arms crossed. The militia had dispersed by now, but Sara felt pretty certain they were just for show. This man, and maybe whoever the hidden archers were, actually defended the place.
"What are you?" He asked roughly. "Mercenaries? Rebellious lordlings? You're someone, that's for sure. Enchanted weapons and armor, walking through Tulian with a slave? What do people like you want with us?"
"She's the Champion of Amarat," Evie answered curtly, tail flicking in agitation as she stared up at the orc. "And she is my Master, who was forcefully bound to me, as her detest for slaves has no end. She has no ill will for you, sir. As for myself, I am Evie, former heir to the Eliah estate, once second in wealth only to King Sporatos. Our taller companion is Hurlish of Hagos, the finest smith the city has ever seen, who now follows my Master's endeavors."
The orcish man absorbed this passively, staring down at Evie, then flicking his gaze across Sara and Hurlish. After a moment, he blew a tired breath through his teeth, long tusks making the note whistle.
"Y'got any proof of being the Champion?"
Sara crossed her arms to mimic his posture, activating her runes. The pink glow traveled from her skin to the etchings of her armor, visibly misting even in the brilliant daylight. "I match the description and I glow in the dark, but that's not anything that can't be faked by a decent mage. So unless you've got something I can fight to prove it, I don't see how you can be certain."
After yet another silent staredown, the man sighed, posture relaxing. "Fine," he said, "I'll take the bait. There is something you can fight, 'Champion', but it'll be a while yet before we're ready."
"Oh? Not something you think I can take on by myself?"
"The Champion only appeared a few months ago, by most accounts. Extraordinary as Champions are, she won't be able to deal with problems like we've got on her own yet. And besides," the orc glanced at Sara's neon pink armor, "She's the Champion of Amarat. If you're really the Champion, I don't mean to be rude when I say it's hard to imagine you being a powerhouse."
"No offense taken," Sara said witb a roll of her shoulders. "But I think I've got more tricks up my sleeve than you'd expect."
"Hmph. Well, I'll send the word out that we're gonna move. Even if you aren't a Champion, three irregulars are good enough. It'll take a while to gather the troops, so I'll escort you around town myself in the meantime. The name's Voth."
"Appreciate it. I'm Sara, in case my name got mangled on the way to Tulian." She trailed in his shadow as he found someone to raise the militia. The real one, apparently, not the little crew that they'd scrounged up to receive Sara's group. "So what's the fight you've got for me?" Sara asked as the young runner scurried off. "Roving monster, bandit crew, or what?"
"The second. Neighboring village turned bandit a couple months back, a big one not even a day's walk away. They haven't been coming our way yet, but it's only a matter of time."
Hurlish frowned. "Turned bandit? A whole village up and fell into crime?"
Voth nodded. "More and more common these days. You three really haven't been in Tulian long?"
"About a week now, and only in the capital."
"Hm. Then here's the short of it: the jungle's gone mad. Everyone was farming like wild the first few years, turned the land to dust, but they thought it was fine, simple enough to move along when things got bad. Then they hit the new border, where all the monsters that used to stay cooped up in the trees had started wandering." Voth shook his head, an aged frustration stewing up. "Since we're stuck between a rock and a hard place, a certain persuasion have started thinking it's easier to take new land from people than beasts."
"Not too dissimilar from the Northern Empire after their collapse," Evie noted. "Violent, short-sighted opportunists whose once meager prospects suddenly found little obstacle."
"Dunno about the north," Voth said, "But you got the bandit sorts figured right. They think what's good now will always be good, and they don't give a damn about anything other than their next meal." He eyed Sara. "If you're really a Champion, you're here for a reason. Is putting down petty bandit lords it?"
Sara flashed a toothy grin. "Not in particular, but it fits the bill pretty close. I'm always game to maul some cutthroats."
"Good."
Sara spent the next few hours being led about town with Voth as her 'escort', though he spent more of this time paying attention to the marshaling of his troops than her. The shopping spree was fruitful, either because she found what she needed or got directions to where she could, but Sara's main focus was on the slowly gathering group of ragtag soldiers.
They were far from an army. The finished ensemble consisted either of freshfaced, inexperienced volunteers, or veterans well past their prime. Very few were like Voth, both able-bodied and disciplined. The prime condition soldiers numbered maybe six out of sixty, forming Voth's informal officer corps that were busy disciplining the rookies and keeping the veteran's grousing to a minimum.
"How're they looking, Evie?" Sara asked as the final formation gathered up. The catgirl may technically have nearly equal combat time to Sara, but Evie was the only one of her merry band beside Ignite with formal training.
"They aren't army quality, Master," Evie answered. "More effective than a pure militia, certainly, but they are too lightly equipped to be the core of a unit. Skirmishers, at best."
"You're not wrong, unfortunately," Voth said, dusting his hands off as he returned from straightening out a shoving match over who got what equipment. "Skirmishers are what I've trained 'em as, for just that reason. Ain't enough to form proper ranks, not unless we want to get surrounded the second the lines meet."
"What are the enemy's numbers?" Evie asked, tail flicking thoughtfully.
"By best guesses, a bit under ours. Fifty-odd fighters, but until today they've had us whipped on irregulars. Maybe five or six, depending on who you believe."
"Which is why you only decided to begin an offensive with Master's help," Evie hummed. "Smart. What composition are the irregulars?"
Voth narrowed his eyes at Evie. "Three archers, one mage, and one or two swordsmen. What's it to you, slave?"
Without looking, Evie snatched Sara's forearm in midair as it flew for her sword. Still looking at Voth, the catgirl dug her claws into Sara's skin. "I trained under the Night's Eye Mercenaries, and was taught formation tactics by General Oriano of the Sporaton Army. And Master, I'd really rather you not kill him."
Voth's wide eyes were locked on Sara's glowering runes. The mist hissing from the gaps of her armor deepened in hue, more boiling red than ephemeral pink.
"My Master would like you to apologize for referring to me as 'slave', Voth. She would also like to further specify that the issue is not with the word itself, which is technically accurate, but the derogatory way it was used."
Voth took a hasty step back, bowing his head. "I apologize, Evie. I wasn't aware of your status. Most slaves are..."
Sara jerked her arm out of Evie's grasp, ignoring the red lines her claws drew. Voth started, darting for his spear, but Sara only shook her wrist out, ignoring her sword.
"Evie is a slave because of unfortunate circumstance, Voth, like every slave. If you're going to live in the new Tulian, you're going to have to break old habits. She, and anyone else that is or once was enslaved, aren't going to be treated as such."
"The new Tulian?"
"You'll find out soon enough," Sara snapped, shaking her head to clear the red tinging her vision. She walked a few feet away from Voth, taking deep breaths in the shade of a nearby building.
"Y'know you almost bit it there, right?" Hurlish quietly asked the man.
"It occurred to me, yes." Voth said, taking his own deep breaths. "What about you, Hurlish? I didn't see you going for a weapon."
"Oh, nah," Hurlish waved the notion away. "I mean, when you said that I thought 'ah, shit, here we go', but then I thought 'nah, Evie's not gonna let her kill him', and then I thought 'yeah but Sara's way stronger than Evie', but then she said what she did and I thought 'Sara ain't gonna say no to Evie, that girl never asks for anything', so once I thought that I knew it was gonna be all good."
"Ah," Voth said, drawing the word out. "Well, you're a quicker thinker than me. I suppose I appreciate your faith in your companions. It wouldn't do to have allies ripping each other apart before even leaving the village."
Sara finished her little cool-off session, returning to the group.
"Sorry about that," she said to Voth, offering a gauntleted hand. "Amarat's blessings make gut reactions a lot harder to halt. Accidental insults, especially one that mild, shouldn't be a death sentence. Even if you insulted one of my girlfriends. The fault's mine."
Voth's eyebrows creased, but he shook her hand nonetheless. "Apology accepted. And for what it's worth, I did mean it when I said sorry. I'm so used to being the only one around here that knows jack about shit when it comes to soldiering that it irked me to have someone creeping in on my territory." Dropping Sara's hand, Voth turned to Evie. "Trained with the Night's Eye, huh? I've heard of them. Any mercenary group that I've heard of way out here must be impressive."
"They were well trained, disciplined, and honorable beyond coin and contract. A rarity for mercenaries, as I'm sure you're aware."
"That's the truth," Voth chuckled, rubbing his stubble contemplatively. "The closest thing we've got to our own irregulars before you three showed up were me and a couple of the vets. With all the shorttusks on our hands, though, we're needed to keep the line in order more than anything. Evie, you think you three could act as an AP Squad?"
"Even if three alone are enough to constitute an AP, we would be the hammer to what anvil?" Evie asked, easily falling into jargon that left Sara and Hurlish blinking. "You said it yourself. This is a preliminary skirmish engagement, not a phalanx's shoving match."
"There ain't a place in Tulian without haz terrain in the rainy season. Once things get locked in, there ain't no way they're gonna manage a counterformation, much less split off a pinning squad. We'll keep the primary force too busy for that, if bandits can even recognize that they need to counter your group."
"The AP squad will still be outnumbered by the irregulars, however."
"Yeah. Ain't no way around that. You'll have to get the jump on 'em good and proper. From what I've heard, their irregulars are lopsided on experience. Render the mage combat ineffective early and you'll have a shot with the rest. Won't be a mop job, but close enough."
"Needs short line of sight and muddy terrain. The plan's awfully dependent on the engagement zone."
"Ain't it always?"
Sara nodded authoritatively from the sidelines, looking serious.
"Master, what do you think?"
Shit. I was hoping I could pose my way through this. Sara ran a hand through her hair sheepishly. "I'll be honest, I didn't catch most of that. Haven't really done any organized fights like this. Can you translate?"
"Voth wants us to sneak around the side of the battle and engage their irregulars--"
"Irregulars?"
"Career combatants. Individuals with skills considerable enough to influence the battle singlehandedly, Master. Voth wishes us to counter this bandit group's irregulars, six against three, and then use our position to pin the enemy force between his men and our group."
"You think we can?"
"As I said, it all depends on the circumstances. Should we meet the enemy in an open field, we'll have to join the main force or risk being slaughtered at range."
"I can use a bow," Sara pointed out. "Bullshit goddess powers, remember? I'm good with any weapon, bows and crossbows included."
Voth's interest was piqued. "Any weapon, you say?"
"Yeah. You were right that Amarat's Champion isn't as combat focused as, like, Otarion's, but I'm still ridiculous. I'll be as good with a bow as I was with my sword before I practiced, which was still pretty good. Evie, how would you describe my old swordsmanship?"
"Excellent technical skills, but lacking the innovation of mastery."
"Yeah, sounds about right. So that's how good I'll be with a bow."
"How good you will be?" Voth asked, seizing on the operative word. "You haven't shot one before?"
"Nope. You got one handy?"
Voth put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, turning heads. He pointed to one of the younger boys milling about, one with a bow strapped to his back, and waved him over.
"Garis. You're pretty handy with a bow, aren't you?"
"Reasonably, sir?" Garis responded timidly. He was solidly overshadowed in height by everyone present save Evie.
"What's the best shot you can consistently make? To Ms. Deluth's over there, or further?"
The boy looked down the street, judging the distance. "Further than Ms. Deluth's, but not much. Maybe one more down?"
Voth nodded to Sara. "Think you can beat that?"
"I won't know until I pick up the bow. It's how it works."
Looking doubtful, Garis unslung his bow and handed it to Sara, offering her a single feathervaned arrow. She drew the string to her cheek, testing the weight, then gauged the distance for herself.
"Yeah, easy. Watch."
Sara knocked the arrow, a simple shaft of wood with a barbed iron tip. As she pulled back on the string, her instincts told her the draw weight was around sixty pounds, impressively heavy for a shortbow. Most archers Sara had seen in this world favored a two finger grip, one on top and one below the nock, but she used a three finger grip, pointer resting just beneath the arrow on the string.
"I'll shoot for just before the door. It'd be rude to put a whole in someone's wall."
Sara loosed the arrow, sending it hissing through the air. She watched it fly, wobbling in the wind, then arc into the earth just before a house three doors down from the first that Voth had named.
"Huh," Voth intoned.
Garis, squinting after the vanished arrow, turned to Sara with a frown. "You owe me an arrow."
Evie promptly reached over to Hurlish's hip, digging their coin from the bag of holding. She tossed Garis a silver, which made his eyes bulge.
Voth shook his head. "Well, Champion or not, you're gonna be handy." He turned to the assembled militia, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Alright, get yourselves together! Time to get moving!"
Sara stood back and watched while Voth and his core of veterans began whipping the militia into shape, barking orders and swatting backsides with the hafts of their spears.
"It's taking a lot longer than I expected to get them into gear," Sara idly noted to Evie.
"This is fairly typical, Master. It's actually notable that such a rural force even has the wherewithal to march in column, rather than a loose line of socializing crowds."
Hurlish's lip curled. "Ugh. Remind me to never join the army. This shit'd drive me crazy."
"I believe you'll find the work of an irregular much more to your tastes, Hurlish," Evie assured her. "They are given more leeway than the common chaff, both on and off the battlefield. If we do end up taking on the role of an Autonomous Pincer Squad, we will be given leave to pursue our objectives as we see fit."
The column, now assembled, began to lurch forward. Caught at the end of it, Sara's group had to trudge through the mud churned up by dozens of passing feet. Sara stepped off the trail, preferring the tall grass.
"Speaking of which, Evie, I was gonna ask. You clearly know more than either of us about battle tactics. Voth seemed to assume you were gonna be in charge, but I know you aren't cool with that."
Evie walked silently for a time. Sara waited patiently for her response.
"...I don't think it's much of an issue, Master. I understand that I'm the best choice for the task."
"But?" Sara prompted, sensing the unspoken tension.
"But I still wish I didn't have to," Evie admitted with a sigh. "If there were another fit to take command of our squad for the battle, I would gladly foist the burden of command on them."
"I'll do it if you really don't feel comfortable," Sara said. "I don't have your training, but I've still got a good feel for these things. Amarat's blessings give me weapon knowledge and the ability to judge people, so I'll have a handle on how things are going. I won't be useless, at the very least."
"Yes, but lives are at stake, Master. It would be irresponsible of me to defer the duty."
"Sure, but it's also the exact kind of responsibility that you wanted to avoid by being my slave. Remember, if you hadn't said you were okay with this situation, we'd still be back in Sporatos, trying to find a way to break the bond."
"Don't you dare." Evie put a possessive hand over her collar. "I understand your concerns, Master, but a position not dissimilar from this was what I trained for. In the early years of my training, I would often dream of commanding my own squad on the field of battle, winning acclaim for our House on my own terms, rather than Mother's. Diplomacy and battle are the two fields with which I am comfortable. It was the nebulous consequences of civil command that terrified me so." She clasped the collar more firmly, licking her lips. "Today I risk mistiming a charge, perhaps resulting in a dozen men and women dead. If I had become head of my house, as Mother repeatedly told me, a mistaken edict could have resulted in a famine that kills thousands."
Hurlish, not used to such frank openness in Evie, blew out a long breath. "Damn, girl. That's a hell of a lot of pressure to put on a kid. Your mom really did suck shit, didn't she?"
Evie shrugged, miming disinterest. "Oh, she didn't think it was much to cause stress. After all, they were only peasants. The real concern of a famine was to the economy, you see. The dead can't pay taxes."
Sara scoffed. "Y'know, Evie, I hate to admit it, but every time you talk about her, the less bad I feel about getting your mom hanged."
Evie's tight-lipped smile was venomous. "Think nothing of it, Master. I've yet to finish returning the favor."
They walked in silence for a few minutes more, until quietly, almost speaking to herself, Hurlish mumbled, "Am I the only one here without mommy issues?"
Author's Note:
Chapter 23: Death Set
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara hadn't gone into this march with much in the way of preconceived expectations for how it would progress, yet she still found herself surprised by how things ended up. The snaking column of men and women, three wide and twenty long, was an ungainly mess.
It wasn't like it was hard for the group to follow the road, of course. What complicated things was Voth's borderline fanatic obsession with keeping the entire group in rhythm, having assigned one of the younger boys to keep beat on a drum. Every time the thump of boots fell out of tune Voth would whip around from his position at the front of the column, eyeing the entire assembly like they'd spat on his mother. Then began the prolonged process of shouting and cajoling, the entire march slowing as people stutter-stepped back into line.
"Goddamn," Hurlish swore as Voth began shouting for the third time in an hour. She sighed in frustration, side-eying Sara. "Can't you do something?"
Sara scrunched her face up. "What? You want me to help them keep the beat? I'm more of a one-on-one type of gal, not a marching band conductor."
"Y'did it with the oars on Nora's ship, didn't you? Kept 'em all swinging at the same time?"
"Yeah, but that was just for a few seconds. We're gonna be marching for hours."
Evie hummed thoughtfully. "But the ability does seem relevant, Master. And your description of it did say 'through speech, dance, or song.' A song certainly lasts longer than a few seconds."
Sara didn't recall the wording as well as Evie, evidently. With a brief thought she pulled up the invisible screen that listed her abilities.
Champion's Inspiration
The Champion of Amarat reaches out to the souls of those around her. Whether through dance, speech, or song, she may show a truth that fans the embers of fading spirits into roaring bonfires.
"It also says I 'show a truth', though," Sara said. "I don't know if there's any profound truth I can reveal to them about the importance of marching real good."
"Still worth a shot," Hurlish argued. "If Amarat's anything like you, half that shit's there just to sound fancy."
Sara pressed a hand to her breastplate, gasping. "Hurlish! Are you implying that I'm the type to add unnecessary flare to my actions even when a simpler approach would suffice?"
"Unnecessary flare?" Hurlish sniffed disdainfully. "You usually call it 'style points'."
Sara laughed. "Alright, fair enough. I guess I can give it a shot."
Sara turned her attention inward, searching for that strange internal reservoir from which she drew her spells. It was some strange not-space in her thoughts, an area of mentality so defined that accessing it felt strangely physical.
Amarat's abilities, with the exception of Gift of Lust , had so far been activated entirely without her input. Her eyes lidded and her walking grew drunken as more and more of her focus was devoted to rooting about in her mind, prying at the reservoir holding Champion's Inspiration.
Like an overstressed rubber band, Sara felt the restraints in her mind snap. Hurlish and Evie startled as a snappy staccato cracked through the air, a drumroll rattle that leveled off into a regular beat. The same odd expansion of her memory that had taken her when summoning images of the USS Constitution for Nora took hold of her once more, this time crystallizing an even older memory.
"See, it's not that bad, is it?" Sara's dad asked. They were pressed side-by-side in a cheap tent, snuggled down in their own sleeping bags. The summer nights of Richmond, Kentucky didn't need it, but her dad had insisted; it wasn't real camping without a sleeping bag. "I know it's probably not your favorite way to end summer break, but c'mon, it's kind of cool, right? We're right where all this really happened, a hundred and fifty years ago."
Sara's dad was holding up his new iPad, its dimmed screen showing scenes of graycoated men marching to the beat of old-timey music. Sara's face was all squeezed up, doing her best to appear interested. Her dad really didn't seem to get what twelve year old girls were into, but she knew he was excited for the reenactment tomorrow. So she bobbed her head mechanically, listening to the tinny rattle of drums and fifers piddling out of the iPad's speakers.
"It's pretty crazy. A hundred and fifty years is like... forever ago."
"Oh, it's closer than you might think," Sara's dad said, switching hands that held the iPad. "My granddad used to tell me about how there was this old guy on his street when he was growing up that fought in the civil war. He was nearly a hundred, but he told my granddad all kinds of stories."
Sara watched a cloud of white pop out of the graycoated men's muskets, then watched as rows and rows of bluecoated men fell to the ground, theatrically throwing their weapons in the air. Old movies always had such silly acting.
"That guy probably wouldn't have liked this place, though," Sara said. "The bad guys won here, didn't they?"
"They did," her dad admitted, "But it didn't last forever. They lost in the end."
Sara watched the graycoated men march on, drums and fifes still playing as the battle raged.
"Well," she huffily declared, "If I'd been in charge back then, I would've at least made sure my guys had better music."
Sara straightened, coming back to the present. Evie had a hand on her shoulder, ears flattened. Just like in her memory, there was the sound of drums and fifes rattling through the air, the high pitch of snares easily carrying through the humid air.
"Are you alright, Master?" Evie asked, raising her voice over the clamor. "You nearly fell over."
"Woah." Sara shook her head. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just had a really vivid flashback-type thing. It was like I was a little kid again. Super weird."
Sara shaded her eyes from the high sun, half of her still surprised she wasn't back in that old tent. Voth's column was already straightening itself, their combined footfalls evening out to act as their own percussive instrument. Many were looking back towards her with surprised or confused expressions, but none fell out of step.
"See? I told you'd it work," Hurlish said, stepping a few feet away from Sara. "Loud as hell, though."
"Is it actually coming from me?" Sara asked, moving closer to Evie.
"Yes it is, Master." The catgirl shrunk away, feline ears pressing tighter to her head. "And for once I'd rather you kept your distance."
"Sorry," Sara said, jogging a few steps to the side. "I would've thought it'd be, like, magically shoved in their heads or something. Not turn me into a bluetooth speaker."
"Maybe the ability will progress with you, Master?" Evie guessed. "If the accounts of prior Champions of Amarat influencing entire armies are truthful, I have to imagine the skill wouldn't simply scale the volume by the group size. That would end up deafening."
"Here's hoping," Sara said. She returned the appreciative wave Voth sent her from the front of the column. "But more importantly: Do you think I can change the song? This shit sucks ass."
Hurlish shrugged. "Sounds like marchin' music to me. Don't know what else you expected."
"I expect style points, that's what I expect. If I can be a human speaker, I better not be stuck playing Civil War music."
"It can't hurt to try, Master. I must admit, I am rather curious about the music of your old world. Your descriptions of it were... curious."
Sara grinned. "Hey, what's so weird about my favorite song from semi-underground rapper NAH, Paint Some Lines On It? Doesn't your world have electro hip-hop deep cuts?"
Hurlish narrowed her eyes at Sara. "You're fuckin' with us."
Oh, now I've gotta get this to work, Sara decided.
Sara spent a moment doing the mental equivalent of violently rattling a junk drawer until the appropriate tool floated to the top, fumbling about in that spell reservoir in search of its more fundamental controls. After a few moments of consideration, her trawling snagged on something. The snare drums and fifes slowly faded away.
The simple instruments were replaced by a pulsing scratch, almost like a downshifted car alarm. Hurlish raised an eyebrow.
"That doesn't seem--"
The grass around Sara was flattened by a wave of bass, complete with a perfect recreation of her shitbox Civic's rattling windows. Messy sets of drums fell over a warbling electronic wail, double beats of bass impacting like artillery shells. The wail rose in pitch for a moment as the other instruments fell away, just quiet enough for intelligible speech.
"Master, that is--"
Evie was interrupted by the return of the bass, twice as loud as before, hitting hard enough to clatter the tiles of Sara's armored skirt.
Sara threw her head back and laughed, delighted. Amarat may not have given her impossible wizard powers or inhuman strength, but she had turned Sara into a one-woman concert, and that was way better.
Despite the ragged beat and irregular rhythm, the song seemed to provide the same aid to the marching soldiers. Sara kept her place at the back of the column, cycling through deafening songs that replaced her conversations with Evie and Hurlish, toying with the limits of her newly recognized abilities. Even though she was unimaginably far away from her Earth, and consequently anyone who could recognize the songs, Sara still felt the old compulsion to make sure all of the songs she played for others were appropriately unpopular. It just didn't sit right with her to play a Top 40's song, some stubborn part of her convinced it would be an embarrassment to admit she had anything other than the most bizarrely refined auditory palate.
And then there were the other things she could do with the music. She couldn't alter the beats on the fly or modify the lyrics, but she could choose what memory's rendition to play. That included her time spent at 3am slamming it down I-96 in her '98 Civic, rusted out trunk shaking apart from the jostling of subwoofers drawing enough power to dim her headlights. She could swear she even heard the occasional crash and scrape of her rotted suspension failing to take the minor hops between bridges and pavement types, bringing her back to the early days of working at her first shop. God, she'd been stupid, but it'd been the fun kind of stupid.
Eventually, as Sara was working her way through practice forms to the beat of Bitchsword , she spotted Voth walking back down the column to her. He made a motion, imitating a conductor calling for silence. Sara cut the music, flicking her sword closed and sheathing it.
"Sorry, Champion, but we're getting too close to the enemy. Sixty marchin' folk can't exactly hide, but hollering our position from the hilltops still doesn't seem wise."
Sara hid her smirk as she wiped sweat from her brow. "All it took to convince you I was a Champion was playing some music, huh? I wish I'd known that before I spent hours on the road."
"Yeah, well, I ain't ever heard music like that before. Don't think I recognized a single instrument in there." Voth sniffed, scratching one of his tusks. "Can't say I was eager to believe you, all things considered, but my parents taught me right. It's rude not to take some divine intervention when you're offered it."
"Your mom had some oddly specific life lessons for you."
Voth snorted. "My dad did say she was always two steps ahead." He turned to Evie. "I'm expecting them to intercept our column some time in the next hour. You want to split off your squad now or wait?"
Evie's tail swiped curiously. "Intercept us, Captain Voth? You believe they've anticipated such an impromptu assault?"
"Nah. But I do believe that some people in our village have been eating more meat than their herds can explain, and they drop more coin in the taverns than they oughta. I think the bandits knew we were the only village that might give 'em trouble, so they paid a couple people off to keep them posted. It took us a couple hours to get going, which was plenty of time for someone riding hard to pass word. Can't watch everyone, after all."
"Mm." Evie digested this silently, eyes locked on empty space. Sara and Hurlish waited patiently while Voth awkwardly shifted in place, glancing between three silent faces.
Without prompting, Evie suddenly nodded sharply, rapier dropping into her hand. "We will scout ahead and prepare a position. Engage them where you please. Our squad will adapt."
Voth started, staring at the jeweled weapon. Sara could tell he was thinking about his earlier request to disarm them, now recognizing its impossibility. With a subtle shake of his head he forced himself to focus.
"Alright. There's a decent clearing not too far from here according to some folk that traded with 'em before they went bandit. Good bit of dip in the road, with the treeline close enough for y'all. I'd bet they'll want the same place for the fight, but if they're not already there we'll make like we're taking a break to lure 'em in. You need anything for us, before you head off?"
"A crossbow for Master, if you have one. A longbow if you do not."
Voth whistled, waving over a young man with a shortbow slung across his chest.
"Sorry Marcos, your bow is getting commandeered by a Champion. We don't have any longbows. Does this one look good?"
Sara accepted the bow from a wide-eyed Marcos. She ran her fingers along the grooved wood, picking at the string. Just like the bow from earlier, it probably had a sixty or seventy pound draw weight, which she somehow intuited was absurdly heavy for a shortbow.
"You people really don't fuck around with your bows, do you?" Sara asked, drawing the string to her cheek.
"Northern shortbows are too weak for jungle beasts," Hurlish chimed in, answering for the stammering Marcos. "You'd need a northern longbow flinging bodkins to get through their hide. We make 'em proper down here."
Sara eased the bowstring down, then accepted a quiver of arrows. The points weren't anything more than needle caps on the end of the arrow, no wider than the shaft itself. The arrow also felt remarkably heavy, like it had a lead pellet embedded in the wood.
"Well it makes for a good bow." She pointed an arrow at Marcos. "That is, if you don't need this more than me. I'm not going to leave you unarmed."
"I-I-I don't need it, Madam," Marcos replied. "I'm a spearman. Just keep it on me because it might be handy."
"Okay. I appreciate it. And you can just call me Sara."
Marcos tried to reply, but all that came out was a squeak. Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It hadn't been since Sporatos that she'd had to deal with such blatant kowtowing, and she hadn't missed it. Voth shoved the man off toward the line, doing Sara the favor of rolling his own eyes in her place.
"Sorry about that. Country kids get starstruck easy. Half of 'em acted like that when I showed up saying I'd been in an army before, so I'm half surprised he didn't piss himself while chatting up a Champion. You three good to go?"
Sara glanced at her companions, confirming that there were no other concerns.
"Ready to go. See you after while, big guy."
"Good luck."
Sara fell back behind Evie, who took off at a double pace to overtake the slowly snaking column. The dirt road was mostly paved by passing feet, not concerted effort, which lent it an irritatingly twisty route, avoiding the straightest paths in favor of weaving through shallow valleys and over the shortest hills, avoiding the thickets of vine-strewn trees entirely. Traveling in a straight line let them easily dart past Voth's force, even if it required Sara to use her sword as a machete to clear the way.
Much like every other rural place of this world, Sara was baffled by the ecology on display. The clusters of trees were frequent enough to limit sightlines to a half mile at the most, crowded trunks clogged with thick bushes to block any idea of forward progress, yet they were isolated and lonely, long stretches of placid grass all that covered the ground between. Seen from above, Sara could imagine, it probably looked like a thoroughly trashed parkinson's patient had tried to draw a checkerboard. Random smatterings of tangled jungle dotted the hills at vaguely regular intervals, a labyrinth of green with only a single stretch of worn dirt to navigate by. Sara fell in behind Hurlish and Evie, hoping they would be better at recognizing their destination than she would've been.
In the end, Sara shouldn't have worried. It was only twenty minutes of skirting the treeline before the road abruptly dipped low, diving into a long valley cut by a swift-flowing stream. The road crossed it perpendicularly, three long logs tossed loosely in place to form a bridge. The trees grew more densely here, ringing the entire half-mile valley save for three or four narrow entrances.
"Looks like the bandits aren't here yet," Sara noted helpfully, stepping out to scan the empty grasses with a hand shading her eyes.
Evie snagged the back of her armor and drug her into the shadow of the trees, hissing quietly. "You don't know that, Master. Voth said they had a mage with them, if you'll recall?"
Sara blinked. "Surely one mage couldn't hide fifty-odd dudes all by themselves, right?"
"The sort of mage willing to turn bandit? Likely not. Yet it's still best practice not to assume. The three of us together are formidable, but we could not assault an army by ourselves."
Sara stepped further back into the shadows, nodding. Evie released her, focusing on her march forward.
They walked half-crouched along the edge of the trees, hiding themselves as best they could when the foliage allowed. Sara was no stranger to skulking about, even if she wasn't skilled, and Evie's grace allowed her to take to the task with ease. What surprised Sara, though, was the way Hurlish stalked behind them.
Sporting a chestplate thicker than Sara's fist that weighed more than Evie, Sara had expected the smith to be a stomping, clumsy mess, a seven foot behemoth announcing their location to half the world. Yet the moment they'd begun their stealthy pace through the forest, the permanently casual air that Hurlish exuded had vanished. The orc kept a hand pressed against her breastplate, stilling its clinking metal, and she used the knuckles of her other hand to walk in a ape-like crawl, eyes alert and darting. It was as palpably nervous as Sara had ever seen her girlfriend, and she didn't miss the way that Hurlish's attention was more on the dark spaces of the jungle than the entrances to the clearing.
Sara tapped her thumb against one of the heavy arrows in her quiver, thinking. Y'know, I'm starting to get the feeling I wasn't giving these 'jungle beasts' enough credit.
But it was too late to ask questions. Sara kept walking, filing the thought away as yet another issue that needed investigation.
They forded the stream, which luckily only came up to Sara's knees, though it was brutally cold, likely spring-fed. Despite her companion's paranoia, there was no sign of hidden army nor stalking beasts as they walked. Eventually Evie whispered for them to stop, their small group having reached the far end of the clearing. The catgirl tucked back into the shade, whispering to Sara.
"Can you cut us a small cubby to hide in, Master? It would be best if you could avoid cutting the frontmost foliage, so we can better conceal ourselves."
"Sure."
Sara took out her blade, using its edge to begin hacking away the densest part of the lower bushes and shrubs. Hurlish reached over to pry the larger branches out of the way, so Sara could reach--
Evie's ears flicked up, rotating towards the road. Sara and Hurlish immediately froze, staring at her.
"...Cut faster, Master."
Sara began slashing haphazardly, grunting with effort. Hurlish reached a massive paw in and began ripping chunks out, tossing them further into the foliage. Evie stood frozen, ears still locked on the road, whispering for them to hurry. Sara kept hacking even as she strained her ears, listening for whatever Evie had heard.
She finished making a clearing large enough for the three of them right as she picked up the first distant sound, a bark of laughter just loud enough to carry through the forest. Hurlish peeled a treebranch back, cupping them both in her other arm and shoving them in.
Sara fell face-first into the mud just as the first shining boots emerged from the road, a clump of mismatched troops walking into the open air. Hurlish landed on top of her, armor scraping against armor.
"Get off--"
"I'm tryin'--"
" Quiet! " Evie hissed.
They quieted. Heartbeat pounding in her ears, Sara listened to the troops slowly filing out into the clearing. There was the clank of metal and thump of boots, the sound of distant conversations, but no cries of alarm. Evie remained perfectly still, crouched beside the awkward tangle of Hurlish and Sara, so they froze as well, waiting for her approval to move.
Only when the entire force had entered the clearing did Evie release her held breath, shifting her stance to something more comfortable. Sara and Hurlish began the slow process of separating, taking care that their armors didn't hook on one another's.
"So they've chosen this ground for the battle as well," Evie whispered, ignoring the graceless game of Twister occurring behind her. "Positioning themselves a dozen yards before the stream, so they can choose to engage Voth while his troops are mired in the water. Unfortunate."
Sara managed to get to her feet and crouched, squinting through the gaps between leaves. "Unfortunate? That kinda seems like the only reasonable option."
"They're villagers turned bandit, Master. I was hoping they would lack the sensibilities required for sound tactics."
"They got a mage," Hurlish grunted, kneeling on the other side of Evie. "Those types aren't stupid. Bet the spellcaster's probably in charge of the whole bunch."
"Perhaps. I still remain surprised someone of learning thought it best to turn to base robbery, however. It seems uncharacteristic of a mage to be so short-sighted."
"How do you know they're educated, though?" Sara asked. She scanned the force, searching for those she thought might be irregulars. "It's been ten years since there was any kind of school in Tulian. Can a mage be self-taught?"
"It is technically possible, but incredibly unlikely. Uncontrolled spells, particularly combat spells, are more likely to kill the caster than their opponent."
"Great," Hurlish said sarcastically. "So we better hope they're not self-taught, because that'd mean they're either crazy enough to be scary or some kind of savant."
Evie cursed under her breath. "I should have asked Voth for more information on our opponents. Can either of you see one that strikes you as a mage?"
Sara kept looking, evaluating the force. Voth had said there would be three archers, a mage, and a pair of swordsmen. Among the milling crowd were plenty of people who might fit the description, but nothing about any one individual screamed talent. She searched all the same.
"What about that one, there?" Sara asked, pointing towards a lightly armored man near the group's rear. "That guy doesn't have any weapons. Think he could be the mage?"
"Mages don't usually bother with armor," Hurlish said, squinting. "But you're right. He doesn't have any weapons."
"Lacking armor is a trait of the most experienced mages, who have little need of physical protection, but the same can't be said for their protégé. He's a solid candidate, Master, but we will only know once battle is met."
Sara nodded, continuing her evaluation of the force. Even without Evie's fancy training, Sara could tell these troops weren't hardened veterans. Much like Voth's troops, gambesons far outnumbered metal breastplates, while the spears they carried were simple and unadorned. They milled about idly, as Evie had said troops shouldn't, preferring to talk and chat with friends rather than prepare for battle.
What marked them as actual threats, though, were the little adornments on their armor. Sara saw plentiful trinkets made of hide and bone, the remnants of hunted animals turned into trophies. Several wore necklaces strung with six inch long needle teeth, while others kept aged and dried lizard feet dangling from their person. Among the various animal remains Sara saw, most looked reptilian, and none of them could have come from something smaller than a Komodo dragon. Voth's story of the bandits having got their start as hunters was proven by the tapestry of their equipment, and Sara didn't like what their prey implied of their abilities.
Studying the troops could only distract Sara for so long, unfortunately, and once she'd noted all she could, the wait began. Her palms were sweating under her gauntlets, anticipation of a fight never letting the razor edge of adrenaline fade. Voth had said he was under an hour away from the clearing, but Sara didn't have a watch. She could only count time by the impatient tapping of her foot and the chirping of hidden insects, every stretched minute winding the spring inside her tighter. Tick-tick-tick, tap-tap-tap, she waited and waited, all too eager.
After a subjective eternity, Sara finally spotted the head of Voth's troops emerging from the far end of the miniature valley. The orc himself was at the head of the three-wide column, joining the men beside him with shields raised high. With the battle finally near, his troops had no issue keeping their footfalls in time, and the metronomic beat of heavy stomping rose to rival the shouting jeers of the bandit force.
"Watch closely," Evie instructed tersely, no longer concerned with whispering. "Mark the archer irregulars."
Sara and Hurlish leaned forward, keeping their eyes peeled. A dozen or so of the bandits were hurriedly unslinging bows, shouting and shoving through the disorganized crowd to give themselves a clear shot.
"How will we know which are the irregulars?"
"You'll know once you see them, Master."
Sara bit her tongue, pulse pounding. Voth's column was marching out into the open air at the double time, the formation swinging on an invisible hinge to present its widest face to the bandits. Not all the troops had shields, and many of those that did only possessed tawdry wood and leather protection, obviously selfmade.
The first few bandit archers freed themselves from the press of their comrades, lifting their bows and drawing it to their cheeks. In an instant Sara felt certain she identified at least one of the irregulars, by virtue of the fact that her bow was a head taller than the woman herself. She had to hold it an angle just to keep its bottom limb off the ground, a bowstring thick as rope clasped in a balled fist. The woman threw her entire back into the draw, squinting down the length of a two-foot arrow.
Sara's ears rang with the whipcrack of her bowstring's release, arrow vanishing between blinks. Sara spotted its impact among Voth's troops by tracking flying splinters, some poor fellow's shield detonated on impact. The man dropped bonelessly, a gaping hole in his chest.
Two more similar whipcracks sounded from various places in the still-assembling bandit line, followed by a similar spray of broken wood among Voth's troops. One arrow actually darted towards Voth himself, but unlike most of his troops, he wore armor made of steel.
Voth took the brunt of the impact on the right side of his cuirassier's plate, fortunately landing in such a way that the angle was nearly glancing. The force of its ricochet was still enough to shove him sideways, stumbling onto the shoulder of his nearest troop. The woman shoved him off her, allowing him to quickly fall back into the march.
More mundane arrows began falling upon the line, answered by scattered return fire. Sara bounced to her feet as folk on both sides began to fall, moving to sprint out of the clearing.
Evie caught her arm. "Not yet, Master," she hissed. "We have to wait until the lines meet."
"What? Why? People are dying!"
"And we'll be among them, if we attack now. Their line will fall upon us, pinning us in place until the irregulars slaughter us."
"Look at them!" Sara stabbed a finger towards the bandit mob. Voth's troops were already nearing the stream, having formed into a loose line thirty wide and two deep, while the bandits were still disentangling from one another. "They can't coordinate shit! We'll be halfway through them before they even notice us."
"Never assume your enemy will make a mistake, Master. Only seize the advantage once they have."
"Oh, fuckin' thanks, Sun Tzu," Sara growled. Despite her words, she didn't dart out of their hiding space. Evie was right, and all present knew it. That didn't make her any less pissed about hiding in a hole while others fought, though.
Sara didn't drop back down into her crouch, instead standing and shifting her weight from foot to foot, clutching the pommel of her sheathed sword.
"Y'seen the mage yet?" Hurlish asked.
Evie shook her head. "No. I would have expected them to reveal themselves by now. Voth's troops could have been devastated while still packed into column. If we're fortunate, they're weaker than reported. If we're not, then they're reserving themselves to deal with any unforeseen threats, like we intend to be."
"I wonder how much whoever tipped them off knew about me before they left," Sara murmured. "If they know a Champion's coming, they'd be ready for anything..." Her words trailed off as she watched the battle's progress. Voth's troops, nearly at the river, had suddenly grown timid. Their steady march had turned into a timid shuffle, eying the stream as if afraid of getting their feet wet. "The hell are they doing?"
"Voth is trying to lure them towards the stream, Master. The more entrenched the common bandits are in the melee, the less they will be able to answer our assault upon their irregulars."
"It's fuckin' costing him, though," Sara whispered, tracking the arc of falling arrows. Voth's six or seven archers were giving as good or better than they got from the ten bandit archers, but it was impossible for them to answer the snap of the irregular's longbows.
Evie's gentle voice took on the oratory tones of someone quoting scripture. "No action in battle is without cost. Victory may only be purchased with the currency of blood. The greatest generals are those who spend the least."
"Christ."
The bandits were, Sara thanked the gods, taking the bait. The moment their line was sorted out they began moving forward, taking up a half jog to meet their opponent before they cleared the river. They wanted Voth's troops there for the same reason he did; it was harder to escape, once you started losing. Somehow, both sides assuming they'd win only served to make the battle bloodier.
Evie began whispering under her breath, little meaningless mutterings that fell from her as she studied the battle. The bandits, despite their inferior numbers, spread themselves thinner, angling to envelop Voth's flanks when they met. Voth responded by ordering his own troops to spread out somewhat, but kept them in pairs, each group just able to reach their fellow with the full extension of their spears. The bandits didn't alter their strategy save to ball up slightly at the left and right ends of their lines, a cluster of four troops surrounding a single swordsman on each side. Sara guessed those would be the melee irregulars, then. The archer irregulars stayed thirty feet or so behind their main line, just enough that the hill let them shoot over the heads of their allies. In the archer trio's center was that same unarmed man, hands shoved casually into his pockets.
Sara was ripped from her analysis by the flash of Evie's rapier, housecat turning tiger as she burst from the foliage. Sara and Hurlish swore profusely, breaking free of the branches, taking far longer to accelerate the nimble feline.
Sara was fast. Faster than she'd ever been back on Earth, that was for sure, and hell, without her armor, she'd probably be in the runnings for an olympic team. That said, with the high of adrenaline roaring through her veins, the hundred yards she had to cover between their cover and the enemy archers felt like a mile. Evie was ten feet ahead of them and gaining distance, still wearing the sideslit red dress that covered her leather armor. It caught and snagged on the grass, staining the ruby hem green.
Evie reached the archers in total surprise, lunging into a fencer's stab without slowing a step. Her jeweled rapier slipped soundlessly through the archer's light armor, the woman's dying cry nothing more than air being driven from her lungs.
Evie's momentum carried her into the archer's back, bowling them both over. There was a wet rip as Evie tore her sword free halfway through the fall, tucking into a roll that bounced her back onto her feet, fangs bared in a feral hiss at the closest archer.
The distraction worked. Hurlish lowered a shoulder, greeting the man's spine with three hundred and fifty pounds of sprinting muscle, steel pauldron connecting between his shoulder blades. Bones broke in firecracker strings, a hundred sickening pops driving the light from the man's eyes.
Sara arrived last, and she didn't go for the final archer. She plowed straight on to the suspected mage, who was still watching the battle unfold without a care in the world. She drew her shortsword back, aiming for the nape of his neck, and swung.
A glowing hand sprouted from the man's shoulder, sickly skin covered by a shell of spectral blue. The hand caught Sara's blade, stopping it with a spray of purple sparks, then grabbed and spun, trying to wrench the weapon from Sara's hands.
Sara didn't release her sword, but the consequence of that was being thrown from her feet, the momentum too much for her. She felt air whip by for a half second before pain flared in her shoulder, then everywhere else along her body as she tumbled down the hill.
Even before she came to a stop Sara was clawing tracks in the mud, dragging herself to all fours. Her eyes snapped to the mage just as his old body finished fading away, illusory mirage degrading into chips of light.
The real man was nothing like the average-looking facade. His skin was pale and ill-looking, pulse visible in the webwork of distended blue veins. Tallymarks of black ash scoured every open patch of skin, from the face to the ankles, and he wore nothing but a loose patchwork skirt that draped half past his knees. That same blue light cloaked his arms from shoulder to fingertip, narrowing to lethal claws. He stalked toward Sara with a mad grin, arms outstretched.
"Ah, providence! How I love her so." His voice was crackly and weak, appropriate for the condition of his body, but he showed no signs of frailty in his movements. "She with delusions of grandeur comes to meet me?"
Sara used the muddy trenches she'd dug as sprinter's chocks, leaping forward. She raised her sword up high as she charged, as if to cleave him down the middle, then threw out a kick just as she neared him.
Her foot connected solidly with his knee as he pointlessly raised his hands to catch her blade, but rather than snapping it backward as she'd intended, the limb simply slipped away. The mage was shoved backward, spinning a half turn as if he were standing on ice rather than muddy grass.
"Now that's no way to treat a respected opponent, is it, fine one?" He chided, shaking a finger.
Sara huffed and reset her stance, studying him while she caught her breath. Did he cast a spell to prepare for the kick, or is he always like that? And where are Hurlish and Evie?
"You're the one who claims to be a Champion, yes? I do hope you're true, friend. It would mean a great many great things."
Sara found Hurlish and Evie. They'd been separated, two of the closest bandits having peeled off the line to engage them. Judging by the fact that neither of her girlfriend's opponents were immediately dead, Sara must have misjudged where they'd placed their swordsman irregulars.
"Tell me, what could prove it to me? What makes you a god's chosen?"
She glanced behind herself, taking an appraisal of the battle.
Voth's troops were slowly falling apart. The bandit's experience in honest-to-god combat was overwhelming Voth's well-trained but inexperienced troops, who were collecting a variety of wounds that either took them out of the battle or dropped them on the spot. Sara could see Voth's lines wavering, fear superseding bravery in many of the soldier's eyes.
"Well, Champion? If you really can claim such an ignominious title, I fail to see why I even need to concern myself with this battle. Your types are famed for their weak wills, their over-reliance on fairytale mercy. What is it so many have said? Killing me would make you just as evil? So fight me, Champion, and see if I show you the same mercy when I stand victorious. Fight me! Show me what you are!"
Sara bared her teeth, grass about her fluttering to the tune of a rusted engine spitefully sputtering to life. A single wailing guitar struck as thunder, echoing across the valley, followed just behind by a screeching, overlapping chant.
BEENTHEREDONETHATHADALOOK --
Sara dove towards the mage, black blade flinging out to its full extension. The mage caught the tip just before his gut, but Sara'd been ready for it, tugging her sword back while reaching for his throat with her offhand.
THREEPILLSIMUPFORDAYSWITHYOURSPILLS --
Voth's line snapped to rigid attention, and rather than dissolve, they began to compress, dozens of spears falling into parallel porcupine barbs. Sara was dimly aware of the drummer having taken back up their instrument, meeting the beat of her song.
ISTHISTOOMUCHFUNFORREGRETS--
Sara and the mage spun about one another, the hiss of enchanted steel sparking off mageskin drowned out by booming guitars. Fighting the ensorcelled mage was as unique a challenge as she'd ever had, her sword less maneuverable by far than his enchanted limbs, yet the blade was all that kept her away from his razor fingertips. He constantly snagged for her weapon, trying to tear it from her grip, but the blue light he'd summoned was slick as steel, keeping it just possible for her to slip away.
"WELL, CHAMPION?" The mage bellowed, bouncing her sword away from the eye she'd been aiming for. "SMELL THE SLAUGHTER! BREATH IN THE SCENT OF DEATH! WHAT THINK YOU OF WHAT YOU'VE WROUGHT?"
Just visible beneath the steel of her helmet, Sara's grin grew feral. She dug within herself, trying to see just how loud she could get the music going.
TOOOOMUUUUUUUCHFUUUUUUUUN
The mage's expression fell, delighted hysteria fading to depraved disgust. He brought his hands together before his face, meeting her charge with the first signs of apprehension.
SAMEOLDSTORYDIFFERENTBED--
The fight changed. No longer distracted by megalomania, the mage struck with precision, treating his limbs as knives rather than clubs. Sara settled more firmly into her stances, not affording a single opportunity for him to break through the whirlwind of her swings. Though she was armored, he constantly made jabs for even the thickest part of her breastplate, so she decided to trust his judgement on what those razor nails could and couldn't damage.
OHWELLWELLWELLWELLWELLGOODFRIEND--
Sara dumped her first spell into her next swing, lightning rearing up to jump away from black steel. The mage's arms acted as lightning rods, drawing in every crackling branch, their impact points flash-boiling blue energy into wispy vapor. The mage shoved away after only a moment of contact, his second skin now as pitted and degraded as the first.
THOUGHTYOUDBEENTHEREANDDONETHAT--
With the holes she'd busted open in his armor already closing, Sara pushed the attack, not letting him escape. The moment she was in range she sprang into an overextended lunge, ice now forming miniature mountain ranges along her sword's razor edge.
THESEKEYSDONTOPENUPYOURLOCK--
Brittle chips scored a line across his blocking forearm, blade finally slipping through to open a strip of red. Sara brutally see-sawed the sword, working the ice into his flesh as deeply as she could before he managed to rip himself free, stumbling backward, strips of filleted muscle dangling in the open air. He was breathing hard, eyes wild, looking for his irregulars.
They were dead. The archers long since gone, taken from behind at the start, with the two swordsman faced by Evie and Hurlish lying bleeding and broken, respectively. He turned back to Sara, trembling with rage and fear.
"You can't be the spawn of pathetic Amarat! What are you?!"
Sara's grin grew.
TOOOOOO MUUUCHH FUUUUUUN
Sara's blade fell on crossed arms, true thunder booming through the valley as blue tendrils six feet long spasmed into the air. She felt only a half second of resistance when she hit his armor, then her swing continued through meat and bone to skull, splitting him from nose to chin. He jerked like a hooked fish as lightning spiraled directly into his brain, random neuron impulses firing off for a brief few seconds before his body went limp, falling off the end of her sword.
Notes:
Hey! Sorry for the long absence. I always wanted to be one of the people that had a crazy sorry-for-the-late-update reasons on AO3, but it's unfortunately mundane. Had my summer university midterms, then got addicted to From The Depths, then had issues with insurance approving some meds whose absence made writing impossible.
Anyway! Trying to be back to writing at least 3k words a day again. Of the two 'serious' book projects I have going on, one has a heavy emphasis on people using music itself as a weapon, elements of which I incorporated here, for practice and feedback. Was the music integrated well? The song was 'Too Much Fun For Regrets' by Death Set, if you're curious.
(As an aside, Sara's illogical obsession with keeping her music 'unpopular' is the closest I've come to self-insert. Seriously, check out Bitchsword. It's only got 8k plays on Spotify. Also, regarding the archery, I do have to brag that I was on a state championship-winning archery team. I mean, I choked so hard I missed the whole target at the tournament, but my TEAM won)
The next update should be Nora x Sara finally!
Chapter 24: Fox in the Henhouse
Chapter Text
Sara turned to the still entangled militia, seizing on the strongest part of the bandit line, mentally working her way through her angle of attack. It was only when she began the slow jog down the hill that she spotted Evie through her haze of roaring blood, memories of her promise to follow orders slamming her back to reality. She pulled herself to a halt and shook her head to clear the red tinging her vision, calling out.
"Hey, Evie!" The catgirl looked up from the wiping of her blade on a fallen opponent's clothes, slitted pupils blown out among the heat of battle. "Where to next?"
Rather than answer right away, the catgirl bounced to her feet, fidgeting flourishing of her blade mirroring her tail's contemplative swiping. She evaluated the battlefield silently, ears twitching. Sara stepped closer, mindful of the music that still reverberated off her skin.
It was that music, strangely, that had turned the tide of battle. Even while Sara had been dealing with the mage, Amarat's abilities had been rolling off into the hills, bolstering the coordination of Voth's men. The orc commander had ordered his suddenly alert and responsive troops to collapse into the very shoulder-pressed formation he'd earlier dubbed implausible, presenting the individually superior bandit troops with a square of bristling spearheads. The militia had been subsequently surrounded, but the ranks were holding, protecting the wounded at their center.
Sara edged around the front of Evie for just a moment, angling for a better view, but found herself instead distracted by something entirely unexpected.
Evie was watching the battle with lips peeled back in a menacing expression, half snarl, half sadistic smile. Panting like a racehorse yet showing no signs of exhaustion, there was a manic glee in her eyes that Sara would've once ascribed only to serial killers and executioners. Her nostrils were flared to better breathe in the scent of iron and sweat, the rot of battle savored like the finest of bouquets.
Sara jumped half out of her armor when Hurlish clapped a massive paw on her shoulder from behind, leaning down to whisper in Sara's ear while they both stared at Evie.
"Y'know, I don't think you're being a very good influence on that gal."
"I try to be..." Sara muttered.
"Well. Today you ain't."
Sara couldn't argue.
Evie snapped out of her trance with a flurry of blinks, looking about for Sara and Hurlish. When she found them the massive orc tossed a little wave with her wrist still resting on Sara's shoulder, as if they were greeting a friend chanced into at the park.
"What's the plan, boss?" Hurlish asked.
Evie licked her lips, clearing flecks of foreign blood. "With the fall of their irregulars, the battle has been decided. Now we must only convince the enemy of the fact."
"And how do we do that?" Sara asked, eying the battle from a mere fifty yards off. With Voth in such a defensive posture, the time pressure for their involvement had lessened, but heated blood still urged her to move.
Evie's tail once more coiled up safely behind her back as she began to pace, punctuating her instructions with sharp gestures.
"You, Master, will move thirty five yards to the southeast of their line, then begin using your bow to pick off those you deem the most skilled fighters. Take care to choose targets so that a missed arrow will not strike allied troops. Hurlish will wrap around their western flank, drawing off the fighters nearest the stream to alleviate pressure."
Sara eyed the place Evie had picked out for her, nodding while she slipped her borrowed bow free. "And you?"
The feral grin returned, canines bared. "I will kill who I please."
Sara blinked. Was that what she looked like to other people? Maybe it was time to start seeing if this medieval society had developed therapists.
Evie dismissed them with a curt "Go!", spinning off to sprint towards the enemy. Sara and Hurlish followed shortly after, taking to their assigned tasks.
Sara watched Evie approach the bandits while she ran to the small rise in the hill her girlfriend had picked out for her. Unlike the archers, the bandits were not so absorbed by their tasks that Evie's approach went unnoticed, and a pair immediately broke off to engage her.
Poor bastards.
Evie met them with a cackle worthy of Nora, rapier blurring as she sliced the hafts of their spears to ribbons. They barely had time to grow fearful before being dropped by stabs piercing their skull. Evie stepped over their steaming corpses, producing a rag from a dress pocket to wipe her blade, still grinning from ear to ear.
What does it mean about me that I think that's hot as hell? That's bad, right?
Sara had to tear her eyes away from the sight when she reached her position, drawing an arrow from the quiver on her back. The range to the enemy was under a hundred feet, a distance at which she felt confident hitting a stationary target. Unfortunately, none of the loosely organized bandits had the good graces to hold position, which made her rather glad Evie had ordered her where she did.
Sara nocked an arrow and drew it to her cheek, selecting a pair of bandits whose close coordination struck her as too effective to allow. The bassy thump of music hid the twang of her bowstring's release, sending the arrow downfield. She began drawing another arrow before it even landed, selecting a second target.
Evie had been right about the battle having been decided, Sara quickly realized. With none to oppose them and no ability to leverage superior numbers, their trio's effect on the bandits was macabre. Hurlish crashed into the enemy with a roar, throwing bodies with nearly every swing of her brutish hammer, while Sara's arrows unerringly found their marks, incapacitating or outright killing bandits as fast as she could shoot. Evie herself simply started at one end of the line and began marching her way forward, not even bothering to fall into her stance while she jogged up the line. Her weapon moved so much faster than anyone else's that it failed to be a fight in Sara's eyes, each person Evie chose to engage no more than a netted fish being dragged into oblivion.
The bandit line broke in under a minute. It was started by one woman looking to her right to see the trail of bodies behind Evie, then deciding to bolt. Her sudden flight didn't go unnoticed, and was quickly mimicked by first one, then two, then a dozen of her comrades, a stampede forming as bone-clad bandits threw down their weapons and began to flee. Those few that were either brave or stupid enough to stay were subsequently shattered by Voth's personal emergence from the militia line, steel breastplate glinting as he spun a poleaxe into-- then through-- a man's skull. Having been showered by their friend's graymatter, the last bandits finally turned to run.
Sara lowered her bow with a heaved sigh, letting the music fade. Cheers rose from Voth's soldiers to replace it, filling the valley with the strange mixture of elation and relief unique to the conclusion of battle. A few troops began to point in Sara's direction, chattering to their comrades with elated expressions.
Sara gave them a wave, the shock of absent adrenaline leaving her fingertips trembling. She was glad for the distance between them, now. Hours spent with every muscle wrapped in anxious bundles had taken its toll on her, a bone-deep weariness soaking in by the second. Her breathing grew labored, the weight of her armor settling more firmly on her shoulders, encouraging her to drop back on her haunches.
Sara wobbled, but stood strong. This was a diplomatic mission after all, and the fact that it was only natural to be exhausted after a fight didn't mean squat. To the militia she couldn't just be Sara, a highschool dropout who lucked her way into a wild life. She had to be Sara of Amarat, the Holy Champion heralding the revival of dead Tulian. In this early stage of the plan, there could be no compromise in her image.
Sara unfolded her sword and began cleaning the blade while slowly walking forward, using it as an excused to catch her breath and still her thundering heart. Voth's troops were slowly breaking apart, clearing room for the wounded to be laid out on the ground for treatment. She picked a piece of bone off the tip of her blade, flicking it away into the grass. Evie was approaching her, still grinning, but in a more mentally stable fashion, pride overshadowing whatever bloodlust still lingered.
"You doing good, Evie?" Sara asked.
"I am uninjured, Master. And you?"
"Not a scratch."
Evie stepped up to Sara, running a finger along Sara's breastplate. "Maybe not on your skin, Master, but your armor has been damaged."
Sara glanced down. Moving from her shoulder to her ribcage were four thin tracks, parallel claw marks that created little divots in the enchanted steel.
"Shit. Glad I didn't take that any deeper."
"It is also fortunate that the blow did not damage your armor's glyphs. I doubt there would be an enchanter skilled enough in Tulian's ruins to repair it."
Sara nodded, finishing her wiping of her blade just as Hurlish walked up, hammer dangling loosely from her grip. It was coated in blood and torn pieces of metal, less like a tool than an engine block thrown by a highway collision.
"Y'all good?"
"Yeah, we're both fine. You?"
"Nothing worse than tired. Got a bit hairy with the swordsman, but I managed."
Sara snorted. "You managed to turn him into a crater, Hurlish. What's left is halfway buried already."
"Ha!" Hurlish chuckled, wiping bloody hands on her pants. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."
They gathered up into their usual close bundle as they returned to the militia line, Sara and Hurlish shucking off the hottest parts of their armor and stowing it in their bag. They weren't in the jungle proper, but the humidity was still killer.
Their entrance to the militia's crowd was met with a cheer, the congratulatory claps on Sara's back a constant barrage. She gamely returned the cheers and compliments with a cocky grin, yet didn't turn away from her goal.
Lying in the center of the formation that Voth was struggling to maintain order of were the laid bodies of those injured or killed in the battle. Here were the only members of the militia that weren't jubilant, a handful of shellshocked individuals kneeling beside cooling bodies. Sara drew upon all the goddess-blessed charisma she had at her disposal, searching for the proper words to say to them, and was returned the answer 'silence'. She met plaintive expressions with a solemn nod, moving on.
She knelt beside one man, perhaps the worst off of those still alive. A ragged hole in his chest just below the breast was being stitched closed by a panicked young woman, needle jerking in her tremoring hands.
"Hurlish, get me the health potions."
The orc reached into their bag while Evie's face twisted, speaking low. "Master, those are limited. We must reserve them for... the most..."
Evie trailed off as Sara pointedly ignored her. The catgirl scanned over the dozen or so people laying on the reddened grass, writhing in agony.
"Thank you," Sara said to Hurlish, accepting the offered red vial. She tapped the surgeon's shoulder, garnering her attention for the first time by proffering the healing potion. "You probably know how to get him to swallow that better than I do."
With wordless gratitude the woman seized the vial and uncorked it, roughly grabbing the back of his head and lifting him up. He groaned in pain, the exhalation splitting his lips just enough for her to roughly shove the vial into his mouth.
"How many do you have?" The woman asked after her charge had finished swallowing, handing Sara back the empty vial.
"Four, I think. Right, Hurlish?" The orc nodded. "Yeah, four. How many do you have?"
"None. I used my supply during the battle, so fighters could rejoin the fray."
"Are you a healer, then?"
The woman barked a bitter laugh. "No. Our village only has the one, so they're far too valuable to risk in battle. I'm just a soldier that knows how to stitch wounds."
"Funnily enough, that's my qualification, too." Sara picked up a spare set of needle and thread, following the woman while she distributed the potions to those most injured. Sara glanced at Evie. "Could you make a note for me? We need to write down what I know about medical stuff and start distributing it. I thought healers were a good enough substitute, but they're too rare. The new Tulian's going to need surgeons."
Evie nodded, taking a thin notebook from Hurlish's bag. The woman she was insisting raised an eyebrow. "What have you got planned for Tulian, Champion?"
"You'll find out soon enough. In the meantime, I've got to start telling you about germs..."
The same relieved busywork that overtook Sara after the battle on the ship returned, though with her added experience Sara found it far easier to find somewhere to be useful. Seeing the Champion herself working to help their comrades did something to sober the manic celebration of the milita, allowing Voth to corral them back into a formation. He sent out some of the bow-armed troops to perch in the trees near the various entrances to the valley, forming a picket line to warn of any approaching bandit reprisals.
Those that didn't take up a defensive posture around the wounded were sent off under Hurlish's instruction, the blacksmith forming a small foraging party to gather supplies in the forest. A pair of sleds were slowly constructed, the wounded too numerous to carry in individual litters. The work was aided by Sara's lending of her supernaturally sharp sword to whittle things into shape, though not dramatically so. Axles and wheels couldn't be made in such a short time frame, which meant that they'd be placing the roundest logs they could find under the sleds to let them roll in conveyor belt fashion, rotating sets of troops assigned to pick up the logs and jog them back in front to be rolled over again.
It was well into evening when Sara finally found time to speak to Voth, conversing over the hisses of pain from the man Sara was stitching up.
"We're not going to make it back before nightfall, are we?" She asked the orc. "Did your men bring camping supplies?"
"No, but they're country kids. They know how to make do. They'll be mighty hungry by the time we get back tomorrow, but they'll just have to suck it up."
"What about camping here, then?" Sara asked, referring to the valley they still hadn't left. "It'll be easy to guard, with so few entrances."
Voth mulled it over, then shook his head. "No. They know where we are, and if enough of 'em decide to hold a grudge they could harass us in the night. We'll need to march a good ways off at the very least."
"Rough on the wounded."
"It's the way of it. Your potions were appreciated, by the way, even if hicks like us don't know well enough to tell you that to your face."
"What else are they for?" Sara asked, glaring at the man she was stitching as he flinched once more. The man shrunk under her withering gaze, holding still once more. "We kept one for ourselves, if any of us get too hurt. Afraid to admit we're not perfect altruists."
"Well, you're still better than most," Voth said, nodding to the thread Sara was winding through red flesh. "Even teaching my troops something while you're at it, if I've heard right. Half the wounded won't shut up about germ this, germ that, and it's spreading. Half the kids with so much as a scratch are refusing to get dirty, treating their papercuts like grandma's silverware."
"Hate to say it, but they're probably in the right," Sara told him. She finished the last stitch on her patient, giving him a pat to send him on his way. "Though they don't know the whole story. I'd rather them be too paranoid than careless."
"Well, if you could tell the ones that are sayin' their sprained wrist means they can't pull sled duty that they're full of shit, I'd appreciate it. We're--" Voth's jaw twisted, a puff of air blown through his nose as he tried to hide a yawn. "We're gonna be moving shortly, thank the gods. Anything you want to say to the troops before we set off?"
"What, like a speech? Why would I?"
"I ain't deaf, and I ain't a fool. You might've helped us for most of the right reasons, but you're rolling with too practical a crew to be in it for charity. Hurlish and Evie seem like a good sort, but they wouldn't put their lives on the line just 'cause it was the right thing to do. With the way you keep talking about Tulian this, Tulian that, a fellow'd almost start wondering if you know the country doesn't exist anymore. What's your angle?"
Sara looked up at the armored man, mildly surprised. She knew better than to equate eloquence with intelligence, but the orc's insight still caught her off guard. After a brief deliberation she leaned in, lowering her voice.
"I'm used to keeping it under wraps, but I suppose it won't matter after tomorrow. I'm planning to make a new country out of Tulian, a proper society like I haven't seen in this world so far."
Voth raised an eyebrow. "Proper? Proper how?"
"Egalitarian. Equal rights, equal peoples, without nobility or any kind of that crap. Ruled by the people, for the people, but for real, unlike the place that quote's from. I'm pretty sure that's what Amarat dragged me here for, considering the fact she dropped me next door to the only place in the world that's had all the old nobles up and leave."
Voth whistled low. "Big plans. Gonna be hell to get it done."
"Yup. You want in?"
"Hm? How so?"
Sara waved to the militia. "You put together a miniature army with weekend practice sessions. I've already got a few experienced fighters and commanders backing me up, ones I've got confidence in, but they can't be everywhere. The bandits you cleared out today aren't unique in Tulian, right?"
"They aren't."
"Then how about that? You put together a force, volunteers only, and train them up until you feel confident marching off into the horizon. Any organized bandits or petty tyrants you find, you smash. By the time you get back, there'll be a government ready to pin medals on you and your troop's chests."
"How much is this gonna pay?" Voth challenged. "For me and the kids I drag along with me, since I know half those brats won't have the sense to not get screwed. We getting supply caravans for food, or are we expected to forage? Are we gonna be paid by percentage of what we loot?"
"Hell if I know," Sara admitted. "I'm cobbling things together as fast as I can. A budget has been waiting in the wings for a while, so I can't commit to wages right off the bat."
Evie swept up beside Sara, hands clasped behind her back in regal posture. "We will say that you will not be paid by the spoils you accrue, as doing so would encourage too many varieties of unscrupulous behavior. On the other hand, we are prepared to furnish your soldier's weapons without recompense, and hope to have a steady supply of basic steel armor following shortly behind. The equipment, of course, will still be owned by the state, and must be returned upon retirement from armed duty."
Voth was surprised by Evie's sudden appearance, then further taken off guard by crisp points of negotiation being dictated by a slave. When Sara said nothing to the contrary, he shrugged.
"Get me numbers on pay. From what you're saying, it sounds like a good gig, but I ain't gonna work for coppers."
"I'll work on it. We're juggling lots of things in the capital right now, but I'll make it a priority. When I have the numbers I'll come out to your village personally for us to set the terms in stone."
"Good." Voth hid another yawn, stretching while he stared at the still elated troops. "So I guess you're gonna be talkin' half of that over tomorrow at the village? Getting the word out?"
"More or less. Any objections?"
"Nah. Plenty of people have been liking the way things went since the storm, but there's no arguing that it's getting worse. Goods getting harder to find, folk getting meaner, more selfish. Up till you said what you did, I was still thinking it was better than having nobles back. You do what you said you're gonna do, though, and it might not be so bad to have a few officials breathing down our necks. Only if you do what you claim, mind."
Interest piqued, Sara asked, "And if I didn't? Just for curiosity's sake."
"You're gonna have a rebellion on your hands," Voth said matter-of-factly. "Be pretty stupid to arm and train a bunch of folk before going back on your word, wouldn't it?"
"It would be. Glad you've got the guts to stick to your words, Voth."
"Once we've cleared out the bandits, I'll be mighty bored, and there ain't much else for an army brat to do other than fight. Idle hands and all that."
"Unfortunately, Voth, I think there'll be plenty to keep you occupied. Evie here knew King Sporatos personally, and she's betting that he won't take kindly to a Champion-led nation popping up on his border."
Voth held up his hands. "Now hold on, there. We were talking about fighting bandits. Not Sporatos."
"And I'll be doing my best to keep it that way." Sara jabbed a thumb towards her armor's engraved symbol of Amarat, placed right over her heart. "Goddess of Diplomats, remember? Don't know if I can keep the hounds of war at bay forever, but I'll be giving you all the time I can."
"Yeah, well, remind me to retire before things kick off that hard. I ain't in this to fight a royal army. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
Voth stomped off, hollering at two militia members that had begun to squabble over a trophy claimed from one of the fallen bandits. Sara watched him go, thinking.
"I think that went pretty well," she said after a moment, voicing her thoughts to Evie.
"Fairly well, Master. He seems a practical, dedicated man. Ideal for the military life, if not quite ambitious enough for true generalship."
"I'll take your word for it."
Chapter 25: Foreshortening
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara spent the last few minutes of the militia's preparations with Hurlish and Evie at her side, crouched over the mad mage's body. Jungle flies had already begun to swarm, a thick buzzing coat lining the bloody gash that ran through the front of his skull. The charred flesh of forking lightning that burned across his face was strangely appropriate, considering the rest of the decorations marring his body.
"I dunno," Hurlish said, turning over one of his arms. It was covered in ashen tallymarks, just as the rest of his skin. "It's weird, for sure, but you're making some awfully big jumps here."
"Sure, but I can't shake the gut feeling," Sara said, rubbing at the lines. Even though they looked dotted on by simple powders, they didn't smear. "Ten, ten, ten. It's all over him. Groups of ten covering him from head to toe. And he had such a specific interest in Amarat's Champion."
"Could it not be the simple fascination most people hold towards meeting a Champion, Master?" Evie picked at the tallies with a dagger, dark blood oozing while she experimented to see how deep the dye penetrated the skin. "Many are fascinated by you. Be it your appearance, knowledge, power, or potential, those that seek to take advantage of what you represent are plentiful."
"Also true, but I'll counter by reminding you that coincidences are hard to come by for me these days. I mean, what're the odds that the first village I try to scope out not only has exactly the kind of bandit problem I was hoping for, but an experienced army captain for me to recruit? And then the bandits have a mage that's got a freaky obsession with me. Hell, the guy even said our meeting was 'providence'."
"You yourself impressed upon us the sheer scale of Divines and their reach, Master. Is it not presumptuous to assume She guides your every step?"
"If this really is dealing with our mystery god number ten, I can't imagine anything that'd be more pressing for her to involve herself in. My crusade against slavery is what matters most to me, but I doubt it's Amarat's priority, considering it's been happening for millennia. I'd bet good money that I was brought here to do something about ol' dark and spooky."
Hurlish gave her a look. "Dark and spooky? Really?"
Sara raised her hands, palm-up. "It's what he looked like. Throne like all the others, but the god themselves was shrouded in shadow with big glowing red eyes. He was screaming 'villain' harder than the actual skeleton wearing a big gold crown."
"Larianos wore a literal golden crown?" Evie asked disbelievingly.
"Yeah. Though they all seemed to be dressed up for me in particular, since some had getups from Earth, so keep that in mind. I imagine a god could make themselves look like whatever they want. But it sure says something about Larianos if his chosen getup was Warcraft raid boss cosplay." Sara watched her girlfriends blink without comprehension. "Uh. Like the bad guy in a cheap, shlocky play."
"Huh." Hurlish rolled the mage's body over, inspecting his back. It was teeming with burrowing insects already, drawn to the surface by trickling blood entering the soil. "Guess that god really didn't want you to choose him, if he went for the maximum evil getup."
It was Sara's turn to stare blankly, mental gears grinding. "Oh. You know, I never really considered that. If all of the gods were really trying to attract me to their side, why was everyone but Amarat doing such a shit job of it? Most were boring and generic, a few looked outright evil, and one even fucked up hard enough to look like a cop. Their speeches sucked, too. Amarat seemed like the only reasonable choice by a long shot. You'd think gods would be better at manipulating people."
"They're masters at it, every last one," Evie stated confidently. "They mold mortal minds like putty, treat their lives and ambitions as playthings at best, disposable tools at worst. As a mere mortal standing between ten of them, I suspect you were the only being in the room who did not know exactly how events would proceed. But I agree, their ineptitude at recruiting your service is curious. Why did all present see fit to cede your loyalty to Amarat?"
"Hell if I know. And considering the topic, that might be literal." Sara shoved the corpse back over, hiding the revolting flesh-devouring insects. "I think this one's above our paygrade, girls. Evie, can you dictate a letter for me? I want to send it to Garen."
"Of course, Master."
Sara stood over the body with hands on her hips, doing her best to describe what she had seen and heard of the mage in as clinical a fashion as possible. She tried to recall the exact wording of his sentences, noted the nature and appearance of his magic, and carefully worded her relaying of the tally marks and their pattern across his skin. She and Evie both took a go at actually drawing the mage, but Hurlish's laughter at their attempts dissuaded them from including the not-quite-stick-figures in the final letter. Considering the magical potential of glyphs in this world, she was half tempted to ask the militia members if any of their number had artistic talent, but secrecy prevailed. Garen would have to settle for words alone.
When they were finished, Evie tucked the notebook away with a thoughtful expression. "Is it wise to trust Garen with such intimate knowledge, Master? To discern the nature of your quest is to ascertain the designs of the gods themselves. A treasure beyond measure."
"He's one of the only people in the world that knows about the tenth god, at least as far as we're aware. Which, y'know, was my bad. Whoops. But he's also the only powerful mage I've personally met, and even further, he doesn't seem like that bad a guy. I'm definitely not going to ferret out a hidden god on my own, so I figure it's worth it."
"As you say," Evie agreed, placid as always. She tucked the notebook away into their bag of holding, giving Hurlish's hip a firm rap. "Keep that close, remember. Far too much in there to fall into a pickpocket's hands."
"Can it, kitty. You might've been born in the big city, but I've spent more time in the streets than you have at fancy parties."
"Oh, really?" Evie's tail wiggled tauntingly as they stood to rejoin the militia. "How do you think I got to the balls, Hurlish? Teleportation? Flight?"
The orc rolled her eyes. "Riding in a carriage with a herd of guards doesn't count. I actually know how to keep a hand on my pursestrings."
"You do have me beat there, I must admit. Before coming under Master's ownership, I never had the opportunity to carry enough money that I would have been bothered by its loss. The coin would have been too heavy to lift, you see."
Sara chuckled. Hurlish narrowed her eyes, pinching Evie's thin bicep between her fingers.
"That's 'cause they didn't feed you right. Maybe if you had some meat on your bones, you could have done it."
"Even you aren't capable of lifting a caravan, Hurlish."
The orc shook her head, sniffing disdainfully.
After a few moments of silent walking passed, signaling the end of the bout, Sara told Hurlish, "That round goes to Evie, I'm afraid to say."
"Nah, I didn't give up," the orc argued. "Just got bored of it."
Evie's tail flicked out briefly to caress Hurlish's lower back, a subconscious gesture the catgirl did nothing to arrest. "Well now, Hurlish, that's almost sad to hear. If you're truly growing bored of my company, I suppose there won't be much need for you to suffer my nightly distractions any longer."
Hurlish's eyes widened. "Woah there. Let's not get hasty, alright?"
Evie primly hid her snicker behind a hand while Sara openly laughed. Sara was always fighting off some lingering resentment about Amarat's control of her new life, concerned about what it meant for notions of free will and the like when one was guided by a precognisant being, but if the goddess kept leading her to people like these? Matters of philosophy could be glossed over.
Watching the militia set off down the road, Sara posed the question, "So do you guys think Nora will still be there by the time we get back with the stuff she wanted?"
"No way in hell. That girl wasn't just chomping at the bit, she was gnawing."
"I agree," Evie said. "Captain Nora has spent her life preparing for the eventual procurement of a ship. To have finally succeeded, then immediately find herself marooned in harbor, must smart something fierce."
"That's about what I figured," Sara agreed. "How many ships do you think she'll bring back? One? Two?"
"I can hardly imagine her bringing back two. Towing two ships at once seems an impossibility to me."
"I dunno about that," Hurlish said. "She could put a few of her crew on each one, have them sail 'em back. I'm betting two."
"I'm with Hurlish," Sara declared. "My bet's on two ships for us to fix up when she gets back."
"We'll have to see, won't we? And what exactly are we betting, again? Coin? Favors?"
Hurlish shrugged. "Eh, who knows? She probably won't be back for a couple weeks, so we got time to think up somethin' fun."
"I suppose you're right. I wonder what's she's doing right now?"
-----------------------------
Nora
-----------------------------
Nora stepped over tangled ropes and crunched across shattered splinters, humming her shanty as she danced through the chaos of men and women gone mad. Brutal glares and slanted stares swept past her when she met them with absent half-smiles, fae madness sparkling beneath the shifting colors of her eyes. A few of the weathered hands took note of her, she guessed, because they paled and moved quickly past with averted eyes, avoiding what could only be hallucination or the opening act of siren song.
The captain's wheel was empty, the helm as a whole abandoned.
Nora, no matter what happens, when you're on the back foot, you're on the back foot at the helm
Nora frowned. He was not among his fighting men, and he wasn't at the helm. She tipped a nod to a cabin boy as she passed him by, the child's greening nausea showing what he thought of the battle he'd excitedly snuck out to observe. The captain's cabin was directly ahead, door locked tight.
Nora hooked a left to the far side of the ship from hers, nails biting wood as she found sound footing on sheer salt-slicked boards. The wind whipped at her coat, which she shook free as a gift to the frothing waves below.
The stained glass windows appeared in short order, metal wiring framing religious scenes set in dyed glass. Within, discolored by greens and blues, sat a man behind a desk, thick wrists guiding a quill across parchment. Nora's frown deepened as she pulled her head back, licking salty lips as she reached for the tidal bore at her core.
Ability Activated: Convenient Crash
She slammed her forehead into the glass just as two waves coincided beneath her feet, coincidence bolstering her smash into the glass-cracking variety. Profanities abounded from foreign lips as she was washed into the cabin with the bubbling seawater rushing over lush rugs.
Nora gathered her foot beneath her and stood, soaked cloth uniform weighing heavily on her body. The captain and an officer beside him had drawn rapiers, razor tips pointing at her heart.
"Permission to come aboard, Captain Desolio?" Nora greeted, stepping into his blade. It slipped into the gaps between her ribs and out through the muscles of her back, prompting a gasp from the first mate that was cut off by a crossbolt bolt filling his mouth via the soft space behind the chin. Nora dropped the emptied implement in favor of wrapping Captain Desolio's swordhand in a firm handshake, giving it a pump that stirred the organs of her torso against his blade.
"A fine fight you're showing me, Cap'n," she coughed, stepping back with her hand still firmly gripping his rapier. His trembling grip broke easily. Nora tossed the sword, then took a swig of a hipflask holding bitter potions. "Of course, there weren't much for you to do, but what you could do, you did right."
Nora scanned the cabin, drinking the suite of his power in. "Your reaction to our approach surprised me, Captain Desolio. To take drastic evasive measures when faced with such antiquated evidence of piracy is a move most would call paranoid, yet proved commendable."
With the wound in her gut sealing and the corpse of his first mate cooling, Captain Desolio took a shuddering breath. He popped his sleeves free of debris and brushed his thinning hair with a hand, mastering himself.
"If you're in my cabin," he glanced at her shoulder epaulettes, "Captain," his eyes widened as he recognized her rank, "Then I imagine the battle has already concluded. Have you come to levy demands?"
"Aye, I have, but the battle's not over." Nora stepped up to his bookshelf, back to Desolio. "Your men still fight, and we've not yet breached the lower deck . All the same, the conclusion's reached." She tapped the spine of one red tome in particular, ignoring the lance of hot white as Desolio ran her through his recovered rapier. " Balansanio's Histories of Coastal Banditry is where you learned of the habit of pirates failing to fly colors of loyalty, I assume?"
Desolio stumbled back, dropping the rapier that now hung from Nora's back, emerging amidst her right breast. "I'll have you know," she told him, pausing to take another swig from her flask while she leisurely turned about, "That my patron regularly beds a woman who is dating an estranged jungle priestess who recently supplied my sailors with a decade's worth of accumulated alchemaic products. Should you force me to drain this flask of healing draughts, I have two more besides."
The re-knitting of her flesh slowly pushed the blade from her back as she spoke. It dropped to the deck with a rattle.
'I-I-I see," Desolio stuttered. He popped his sleeves and brushed his hand once more, sweat beginning to stain the underarms of his fine silk clothing. "Then. Well. As you said, I, ah, suppose? Your demands?"
Nora shoved a hand into her brassiere, taking out a rolled piece of paper that was now stained with equal parts blood and seawater. After knocking off the largest drops by tapping its end on Desolio's desk, she unraveled it and began to read in a clear, loud voice.
"Individuals meeting the following criteria will be immediately freed from legal or financial bonds effective immediately and offered clemency among my crew, subject to admission standards. Persons affected include slaves, indentured servants, unpaid labor, pressganged sailors, sailors whose weekly wage is below one silver..."
Notes:
Alright, second version of this chapter is up because the first one did *not* read well. I formatted things how I liked in a Word document, screenshot it, and uploaded chunks as images. Hopefully no one has issues loading them!
Chapter 26: Navel-Gazing (S)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara arrived in the capital towing more followers than she'd left with. Several of the village's tradesfolk, encouraged by her talk of an urban revival, had come to ply their wares.
Sara had chatted with them frankly before they left, explaining that business in the city wasn't what it once was, nor what it would eventually become. More specifically, it didn’t exist at all, and wouldn’t for some time. The only advantage of an early start came from getting to claim the best of the abandoned properties, many of which were already occupied by those that still lived in the ruins. The traders had come anyway, Sara’s speech of a Tulian revival rendering them eager to stake their claim.
As a result, Sara had expected something of a surprised reaction when Ignite's guards posted atop the wall saw her returning at the head of a gaggle of villagers.
What she hadn't expected, however, was the sight of Ketch standing atop the wall in broad daylight, fists on her hips as she awaited their approach.
While the two guards meant to monitor comers and goers disappeared into the stairwells to greet Sara's party, Ketch began skittering straight down the vertical face of the wall, webbed fingers and toes digging into loose stones and vine fifty feet above the ground below. Sara gave the azerketi girl an uncertain wave when she deftly reached the bottom, her smile faltering as Ketch began stomping towards her.
"What have you done to me?" The girl hissed as she neared Sara. Her fists were balled, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Sara took a step back, holding up her hands. "Woah, what?"
"I said," Ketch ground out, jabbing Sara's collarbone with a finger, "What. Have. You. Done. To. Me? I--" She paused as she glanced about them, the curious glances of nearby traders poorly hidden. Rather than continue, she snatched Sara by the wrist and began dragging her off the road, away from prying eyes.
Sara had no idea what this was about, for once. Ketch seemed... not angry, really. Frustrated? Confused? Indignant? Likely a mixture of all three, Sara decided. Something had thrown her off balance, and she was falling back on old habits to process it.
Fearing the worst, Sara leaned close once they entered the shade of the city walls. "Ketch, are you pregnant?" She whispered.
Ketch's voice attuned an earsplitting pitch. "What?! No! Dear gods, why would you think that?"
"Well, you said I did it to you, and considering all the--"
"No! No, no I'm not pregnant. Gods, I--" Ketch huffed out a breath, raking hands through her short curls. Evie and Hurlish had followed, naturally, and though their presence gave Ketch pause, she steeled herself and pressed on. "Since I began entangling myself with you I have... advanced . Twice."
Advanced? Oh, she means levels. Wait, really?
Sara blew out a sigh of relief. "That's all? Congratulations, Ketch. That's pretty impressive, isn't it?"
Face still burning, Ketch's mouth worked soundlessly. She looked to Evie, gesturing at Sara helplessly.
Cool as ever, Evie stated, "Master, that is not just 'impressive'. It is impossible."
Sara frowned. "I don't know about impossible. That's pretty close to how soon I leveled up after I arrived, if a bit quicker. Ketch, you were at level one when we met, right?"
The rogue reached for a cloak that she no longer wore, trying to drape it dramatically about herself. Finding it absent, she less than subtly turned the gesture into a petulant crossing of her arms.
"Ha! What makes you think that I was merely upon my first advancement when we dueled?"
Sara and Evie shared dubious expressions, eying Ketch. Her arms crossed tighter as she looked up and away.
"Well," she huffed, "Even if your insulting theory was correct, two advancements in a matter of weeks is still impossible. In a matter of days? Ridiculous. Foolish. Too stupid a tale to fool the most foolish, even." She turned back towards Sara, posture loosening, a shred of vulnerability crossing her face. "And yet, it happened. So I'll ask again, Sara. What did you do to me?"
Sara was at a loss. Once she gave it some thought, she realized that Evie was right; there was simply no way Ketch could have leveled up twice since they met. Sara hadn't even managed that pace, and she was supposed to be the one wielding bullshit goddess powers. Ketch had certainly been utilizing her rogue skills much more often under Ignite's command, but the discrepancy was far from explained by mundane training.
Sara glanced skyward. Hey, Amarat? Is this one of your things? Hello? Ring ring? Champion calling?
There was no response. Sara sighed, opening her stat screen while she deliberated.
"Honestly, Ketch, I've got no idea. I'm definitely the easiest explanation for why it's happened, but as for the particulars, I've got no idea. Amarat's not picking up her cell, and none of my abilities have anything to do with leveling up other people."
Evie hummed, lost in thought. "You often compare your progression to that of a story, Master. Viewed in such a lens, the bolstering of those closest to you makes a certain thematic sense."
"Alright, catgirl, you're getting a bit too self-aware there," Sara said, mostly sarcastic. "Sure, there's some isekai stuff going on here, but I'm actually living it. This isn't a fantasy."
"Isekai?" Ketch asked, confused.
Seeing both her girlfriends were too busy thinking things over, Hurlish was the one that answered. "Yeah, some type of story or book or whatever from back where she's from. Focused on kids getting shot to other places and given crazy powers so they can go on adventures." Hurlish rolled her shoulders, giving Sara an affectionate pat atop her head. "Dunno why she thinks it's so wild she's living the same thing, though. Stories gotta come from somewhere, don't they? Prolly got started by some old Champion that went back home."
"If those stories are based in truth, I feel sorry for your world," Sara murmured. "Most of their protagonists were hardly good people. Saved the day at the end, but they were entitled brats the whole way there. But I'm not going to go down that path, because trying to think of my own life as a story is a quick way to tying my brain in knots." She kept flipping through her stats, searching for any explanation. As she returned to the first screen, her eyebrows raised. "Oh, shit. Hold on a second. I actually leveled up, too. I'm level five."
"Really?" Evie asked excitedly. It was clear Ketch's frustrations were forgotten as her tail swished with interest. She leaned against Sara's shoulder, staring where she stared, trying to discern what was visible to Sara only. "What have you gained?"
"Uh... huh. That's weird. There's actually nothing different." She scratched her chin, reading things over. "Sorry Ketch, I'm not ignoring you. Give me a minute to see if something with my new level can explain what's up with you."
Sara peered closer, inspecting the blue square. For such a simply designed little thing, it represented an awful lot. A full summary of her capabilities as a person, distilled into numbers and labels scribed in clean arial font. A little bit humbling, to know that it was possible to evaluate the total capacity of her immortal soul with such barebones accounting.
Sara reached over to the bag of holding on Hurlish's hip and snatched out Evie's notebook, mentally pinning her stat block to its front. She flipped it over, viewing her spells.
Cantrips
Ray of Frost
Warp Step
Electric Arc
Mage Hand
Phase Bolt
First Level Spells
Illusory Object (Heightened)
Empathic Link
It had been a while since she'd reviewed what spells she had available to her, having long since committed the list to memory. With Ketch’s odd symptoms, if they could be called that, she spent a moment reviewing all she knew.
What she'd learned by experimentation was that she could cast cantrips infinitely, but was limited to four uses of her more advanced spells per day. Having such strict limitations was unusual in this world, though that oddity was just another paradoxically expected aspect of Sara's class. Normal mages, if one could call any spellcaster 'normal', were mentally drained by the casting of spells, the complexity of their efforts requiring accordingly greater exertion. Overtaxing oneself with magic was akin to muscle strain of the mind, leaving the mage with a pounding headache and thick cotton fogging their thoughts for hours or days. Like their body, however, a mage's mind could be trained. Some mages chose to grow particularly adept with specific spells, sacrificing general capabilities in favor of powerful, rapid casting of a favored spell.
Sara, on the other hand, could cast every spell perfectly, and it took from her nothing more than the breath required to invoke the incantation. She seemingly could cast her simplest spells, cantrips, without pause, from the moment she awoke to the moment she fell asleep. In exchange she was irrevocably limited, no amount of straining allowing her to cast a fifth spell of higher power, and she nearly entirely lacked whatever sixth sense it was that allowed true mages to alter the manifestation of their spells. As she'd continued to poke and prod at the limitations of her bizarre Champion's abilities over the last few weeks, Sara was growing increasingly certain there was much of her class she wasn't properly utilizing.
That said, even her inexperienced self could see that her most recent level up was different. Beneath the familiar spells was a new entry, unlike any she'd seen thus far.
Second Level Spells
___________
___________
Two blank spots. The implication excited and intimidated her, because she had no idea what to do with it. Could she really just learn any spell? The variety of magic described by her companions seemed endless, and if the full expanse of magic was open to her, there would nearly always be some better choice to be made. Sara was so intimidated by the gulf of possibility that she had to beat back the urge to name some random spells she'd heard of and shove them into the slots. While defaulting to decisive action in times of crisis was usually helpful, this was a seriously long term decision she was facing.
And there was still more. She returned to the screen that showed her more basic stats, scrutinizing the changes. Unlike normal, the six statistics that represented her most fundamental attributes had empty circles beside them. Like the bubbles on a multiple choice test, her Strength, Dexterity, Wisdom, Intelligence, Constitution, and Charisma were awaiting selection. To the right of the list were four dots of the same size, which she took to mean that she could make four selections.
Sara finally blew out a long breath, raking her hair out of her face. "Sorry, Ketch. I didn't find an explanation. I've got some weirdness of my own going on, but it's par for the course Champion stuff. Not related to your weirdness."
The blue girl frowned, arms still crossed beneath her chest. The same style of bikini she always wore covered the barely perceptible swell of her breasts, but this set was a deep purple, contrasting well against the blues of her skin. Sara began to wonder where she'd gotten it, since she'd heard purple was a pretty expensive dye, then had to wrench her thoughts away, having long since got caught staring.
The azerketi's reply was tinged with smugness. "That's unfortunate. I'd begun to wonder if you were contemplating anything other than my chest."
"In my defense, it's a very nice chest. But no, I was focusing. At least until the end. Cute top, by the way."
"Thank you. But do you have anything beside flattery to offer?"
"Not at the moment, sorry. But it's a positive change, isn't it? I thought I noticed you sneaking around better before I left, so maybe it started even then?"
"I had indeed advanced at that time, but thought little of it. The timing was early for my second advancement, as it had been only two years since I first attained my class, but I took it proof of my skills. It was only the subsequent advancement, which occurred shortly after you left, that struck me as so queer."
Heh, 'queer', Sara chuckled to herself. Then her eyes widened. Wait. Two YEARS for a single level? And I'm level five in... what, three months? Man, I really need to have Evie give me the birds and the bees talk for this stuff.
"I guess we'll have to take it as a happy coincidence for now, unless something else crops up. I know it's supposed to be a private kind of thing, but do you think you could tell me if you level up again? Maybe we can figure out what triggers it."
"Considering the taboo is already violated, I suppose it won't matter if I debase myself further. In the meantime, unless you have something for me to do, I'm going back into the harbor." Ketch scowled up at the noon sun. "I'm not as fragile as my father, but this heat is awful for my skin."
Sara was about to tell her to head home, but Evie spoke first.
"Did your partner manage to heal the wounded sailors? There was indeed a healer in the village we visited, but we did not ask them to come to our aid."
Sara bit her cheek, slightly embarassed. After Ketch had said her girlfriend could heal people, she'd mentally ticked off 'injured sailors' as a problem resolved. She hadn't even considered asking the village's healer to follow them back just in case, which probably would've been prudent considering Ketch's hesitations.
Thankfully, Ketch nodded. "It was something of an ordeal, getting it all arranged, but Selly managed. The sailors mastered their panic in short order."
Hurlish raised one overlarge eyebrow. "Panic? What kind of girl you got hiding in that harbor of yours?"
"An intimidating one," Ketch blithely answered. "I'm sure you'll all meet her in time. She's rather curious about meeting a Champion, naturally."
"Well hurry her along," Sara said. "The only healers I've properly met have been creepy Sporatan priests. It'll be nice to meet one with a level head on their shoulders."
Ketch's face twisted. "About that. If you're looking for a levelheaded healer, Selly is... Well. Don't get your hopes up too high."
"Ominous, but intriguing. You two can drop by whenever."
"I'll send warning, at the very least. I'll likely see you some time tonight, even if Selly isn't with me."
Sara waved her off, watching the now up-leveled woman retreat through the abandoned city gates. Ignite's guards had only just reached Sara's group of merchants, so she rejoined them to begin offering advice and explanations.
Her return from the outskirts of Tulian was, in many ways, not that different from plain old normal work. Bordering on the boring, even for her own world. She felt less like a ‘Divine Champion’ and more like a midlevel manager, stuck onboarding the new employees while sending off reports on other duties between breaths. Thankfully some of the merchants were actually familiar with Tulian from the old days, so they were quick to head for the previous markets and city sections that their professions had once occupied. Sara didn't know if the new Tulian would end up following the old's pattern, but it wasn't her job to speculate. Escorting them around the city was PR more than anything, assuring the first re-settlers that she was really invested in the city's success.
By the end of the day Sara felt like she'd traipsed down every alley and every street of the city, her feet aching and sore. She'd managed to squeeze in time to drop by the warehouse and inform them of the deals she'd brokered, but could do little else as she focused on getting her new craftsmen settled in. In her absence Ignite put together a small band to escort a pair of carts full of the promised goods to Voth's village, planning to use it as training for caravan duty, a common job for municipal guards.
Sara had reached their warehouse base at the end of her long day to find Ignite still absent, along with his troops. Mildly concerned, but confident in his abilities, she'd thought little of it. When hours more passed without his return, however, and evening became night, her worry grew. Thoughts of Voth's difficulties with jungle beasts returned to her mind, as well as the more mundane concerns of banditry or accidents.
To her immense relief, Ignite did eventually return, and with the full compliment of troops he'd left with. They were exhausted, dirty, and ready to collapse, but the slouch in their step didn't come from battle. With his once gleaming roman-esque armor covered in mud from head to toe, Ignite had dragged himself up to the warehouse exterior and snapped off one final crisp salute before collapsing into the nearest chair.
"Delivery completed without casualty, ma'am," he reported, tiredly picking at the straps that kept his armor secured. Sara watched his equally muddy soldiers slop their way into the collection of simple wooden chairs that served as a gathering area outside the warehouse. Most began peeling off their soiled clothes to tiredly toss aside, roughly slinging their boots and equipment into scattered piles. She did note that not a single one did the same with their weapons, however, as they each straightened themselves for just the amount of time required to properly unbuckle their sheaths and set them aside.
"Without casualty is good, but I'm guessing it wasn't without issue," Sara ventured.
"Correct, ma'am." Ignite went to wipe sweat from his brow, then scowled, disgusted by the thick layer of mud clinging to his fingers. Scraping it on the wood of his seat, he continued on. "The four oxen we used to haul our carts proved troublesome."
There was a chorus of rumbling groans from his troops.
"Very troublesome," he amended. "I have not lived in a place that allows beasts of such incredible ill repute to travel among men. It seems that the couple I took to be farmers were in fact mere gardeners, and used the beasts not for labor, but as guard dogs, of all the damnable duties."
Sara pursed her lips, hiding the smile she felt building.
"Such oxen, trained as they were to deter strangers, took poorly to the task of being escorted by said strangers. As I have since learned upon returning the contemptible creatures to their owners shortly ago, they have never once been harnessed."
"So," Sara licked her lips to hide her grin, "Was it a good training mission?"
Ignite's eyes rolled, militant discipline sanded away by his exhaustion. "The muscles required, at the very least, was remarkable. To direct the beasts was more exhausting than hauling the carts ourselves would have been." He shifted in his chair, turning to address the soldiers as much as Sara. "I think we will all have been made stronger by the experience, so long as we do not have any deserters come the morning."
There were a few weak chuckles, a reassuring sound that Sara recognized. It was the kind of bone-deep weariness that, while miserable in the moment, was borne from an experience that would make for an excellent story in the coming days.
Scanning over the group, she was also reassured about more nebulous concerns. All of the guards were irritated, exhausted, and half ready to never be seen in uniform again, but crucially, so was Ignite. If anything, he was the most tired and dirty of any of them, his expensive set of pristine armor smeared dull by mud. Considering the level discrepancy between Ignite and his troops, that didn't just mean he'd put his fair share in, it meant he'd likely been doing the lion's share of the work. In this world, that was exceptional for a military officer. Evie had explained in great detail the ins and outs of the Sporatan military, and Sara could say with certainty that no noble with a purchased officer's commission would have come back with so much as a fleck of dust on their clothes. Either the Carrion Navy was more egalitarian, or Ignite himself was a remarkable man. As she eyed the group, she mulled over what to say to them. When they'd all finally settled into their seats, she gathered their attention by stepping forward.
"While it might not yet feel like it, you all did good work today," Sara began, slipping a sliver of Ignite's military precision into her words. "Most wouldn't have completed the caravan run, and even those that did likely wouldn't have had the self control required to bring the animals back to their owners alive." She allowed herself to grin. "I certainly wouldn't have." A few scattered chuckles. "It reflects well on you, and as you're the new city guard, it reflects well on Tulian." She turned to the slumped Ignite. "While specifics are of course yours, I'd like to formally recommend these folk for leave to recover, both out of practicality and as a reward for their good work."
Ignite tiredly nodded, giving a thumbs up. "I second your recommendation, ma'am. All present have their duties rescinded tomorrow."
A second wave of relief flowed through the group, postures relaxing further as relieved sighs slipped loose.
With that nagging concern settled, Sara made for the makeshift bedroom they'd assembled within the warehouse. She passed some of the other guards bustling through the building, those that hadn't been on Ignite's ill-fated journey.
They were busy unloading the delivered carts, arms piled high with goods. Bolts of sailcloth and dried rations were being sorted into neat piles up against the interior walls, while lumber and other things too heavy for a thief to quietly pinch were stacked outside under newly-acquired tarps. She gave them a grateful wave, satisfied by the way they did little more than nod in response. It had taken an exhausting number of reminders before people had stopped dropping what they were doing to bow or curtsy as she passed, but they were getting there. Evie worried that abandoning the practice would hurt the esteem they held for Sara, but her gut told her it was just the opposite.
Though they may occasionally disagree on certain matters like that, Evie's advice was still one of Sara's most treasured resources, which was why she was seeking it now. The catgirl greeted Sara's entrance to their room with no more than a quick glance, returning quickly to the ledger she held. She was sitting cross-legged on their travel mattress, using the side of Hurlish's head as a rest for the book. It looked awfully convenient, as the dozing orc was already using Evie’s lap for a pillow.
"Ignite returned safely, I assume?" Evie inquired, not looking up from the ledger.
"Sure did. I shouldn't have been worried."
"It's your nature, Master. Quite endearing, at times."
Sara began the process of undressing, kicking off her boots while activating the enchantments that let her peel her armor away like putty. "At times? So it gets on your nerves, sometimes?"
"On occasion. Like when you have to be physically restrained from charging into suicidal combat, for example."
"Hey," Sara protested, "You didn't have to physically restrain me. I listened."
"Barely," Hurlish snorted, eyes closed. "Not that Evie was much better, mind you."
"Excuse me?" Evie tapped the spine of her book against Hurlish's cheek reproachfully. "I was in charge for the entire operation. Any restraint we showed was a direct result of my orders."
"How 'bout when you took off running the first moment you thought you could get away with it? Didn't even give us any warning."
Evie turned her nose up primly, though Hurlish couldn't see. "It's not my fault you're unfamiliar with analyzing the tides of battle. You should have known when I would begin."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Hurlish breathed softly, shifting under the covers. Judging by Hurlish's loose-limbed sprawl and her refusal to rise to Evie's bait, Sara's girlfriends had found their own entertainment while she kept watch for Ignite. Sara finished undressing, crawling naked onto the bedding beside Evie.
"So, before we get too involved, I need some advice from y'all."
Hurlish blearily opened her eyes, while Evie paused in her evaluation of the ledger.
"Like I said, I leveled up again. Unlike last time, though, I've been given some choices." At that, at least, Hurlish's interest was clearly piqued. Not enough to raise her head out of Evie's lap, naturally, but she still looked interested. "First off, is that normal? Having choices with your level? Because I haven't had any so far."
"What d'ya mean by choices?"
"If I'm understanding things right, I can choose four of my basic stats to upgrade. Which, because I know looking at your stats works differently for everyone, means I can choose between improving my strength, dexterity, constitution, intelligence, charisma, or wisdom."
Evie shook her head a little bit, a fondly bewildered smile on her face. "Ah, here we are. A Champion's absurdity at last showing its truest form. With a simple thought, you can simply make yourself smarter, stronger, or more wise. Utterly preposterous."
"I mean, we don't know if that's how it works," Sara said. "I'm pretty sure the way I interpret my stats is based off some games people played in my old world, and in those each of those numbers had specific effects. Like, for example, 'intelligence' usually means you're better at casting spells, whereas 'wisdom' is more about seeing through lies and illusions or something. Charisma, strength, and dexterity are pretty self explanatory, and I think constitution is about how hard I am to kill or poison and stuff."
Hurlish yawned, then smacked her lips. "So even if it doesn't really make you smarter or wiser, it still sounds like a pretty big deal. Getting better at any of that stuff sounds helpful."
"Indeed," Evie agreed. "And you said you can choose four of the six to improve?"
"Yeah, but that's not all. There's also something weird with my spells. Y'know how I told you guys I hadn't ever had to learn a spell, it was just given to me? Well, now I've got two blank spots. I'm betting that means I can choose any two spells to learn, which is pretty crazy."
"Y'sure it's any spell?" Hurlish asked. "Because there's been some pretty crazy mages. Like, I bet you can't just learn one of the spells that blows up a mountain. Even a Champion has to work to get to that point, from the stories I've heard."
"Yeah, I doubt I'll be putting Garen to shame any time soon. But even limited, it's a pretty huge deal. I haven't found out any way to change my spells so far, except for leveling up."
"Then you are correct to mention Garen, Master, because I doubt either of us are wisened enough in the arcane to properly advise you. A permanent selection of which spells are in your repertoire is something that should be decided only after consultation with an expert."
Sara let out a pitiful noise, half whine and half groan. "Ugh. I know you're right, but it's so boring to put it off. I want to do new stuff now, not later."
"I am sorry that the slightest measure of patience is mediating the development of your absurd potential, Master. It must be miserable indeed."
"Oh, shut up," Sara grumbled, though she didn't mean it. "What about the stats? That's at least something that we can decide ourselves, right?"
"I don't see why not. What do you think, Hurlish?"
The orc slowly blinked, chewing on the idea. "Well, if you're gonna only be a Queen or whatever, it doesn't make much sense for you to be beefing your fighting skills very much."
Evie rolled her eyes. "While true, I think all present are aware of how unlikely it is for Master to abstain from conflict."
"I am what I am," Sara said with a shrug, unashamed. "But you're right that my class seems to be based around diplomacy first, fighting second. It's only because I'm a Champion that I can still hold my own in a fight."
"Speaking of which, Master, what are your current statistics? It wouldn't do to improve something which you already excel at while ignoring that which is lacking."
"Oh, yeah, you guys don't know that. My Strength is 18, my Constitution is 12, my Wisdom is 10, my Dexterity is 12, Intelligence is 14, and Charisma, of course, is 20."
Evie smirked. "Of course Charisma is your greatest skill."
"Were you expecting anything else from Amarat? But actually, though. What do you guys think?"
Hurlish yawned again, snuggling closer to Evie's thighs from under the covers. "I think I'm tired. You don't need to do it right now, yeah?"
"I don't think so."
"Then let's sleep on it. Big choices aren't the best thing to tackle tired."
Sara threw her head back, groaning. "God, you two are so practical it'd be infuriating, y'know, if you weren't totally right."
"Oh, boo-hoo, princess," Hurlish said. "Evie was right. You're too impatient for your own good."
Above the orc's resting head, Evie's eyebrows raised. "Agreeing with me of your own volition, Hurlish? My performance earlier must have been exceptional, indeed."
"Can it, kitty."
Despite the brusque tone, Sara could see Evie preen slightly. A disagreement won against someone as stubborn as Hurlish was nothing to scoff at, no matter how minor. Sara grumbled some more while Evie maintained her pleased air just out of Hurlish's sight, but eventually accepted that they were right to give it more time to settle. In the meantime, Sara leaned over and looked at the work Evie was returning to.
"Having fun making that budget?"
"Though you speak sarcastically, it really hasn't been much of a bother. We're so starved for income that I've done little more than look at each prospective expenditure, acknowledge that its weekly cost exceeds our entire coin reserve, and move on. While Nora's raiding will hopefully earn a profit, until she returns we have exactly no means of generating income."
Sara blew out a long breath, thumping her head onto Evie's shoulder. It was an awkward angle, with how much shorter the catgirl was, but the soft warmth was worth it.
"What about, like, taxes?" Sara inquired, though the words tasted bitter. "I'm trying to be a government, after all. Can't we do something there?"
"Not as I understand taxation, Master, as it will not be the harvest season for some time yet. The single village that we've interacted with is still unlikely to accept our reaping of their product, and we obviously lack the military required to enforce our demands."
"What does harvest season have to do with it?"
Evie's ears took on a confused tilt. "Harvest is when the rural tax is collected, Master. Every Lord and Lady is required to provide an allotment of their land's value to the kingdom, the source of which is the peasantry working their lands."
"So what, they just give the king a bunch of food, and then he sells it off?"
"No. They pay in coin, and are free to sell their crop to make up the loss as they see fit."
"But the actual farmers themselves, they don't get to keep anything?"
Evie frowned and marked her place in the ledger, setting it aside. Sara held back her groan, because she knew what was coming. Evie's back had straightened, her girlfriend's train of thought leading her to fall back into old habits. Sara could practically see the daughter of Sporatos' most successful merchant building a lesson plan in her head.
"Master, there are several forms of taxation across the continent, and while I cannot speak to truly foreign economic systems, the most common legislative systems distinguish between two primary revenue streams. What is colloquially referred to in Sporatos as an urban tax, properly known as a poll tax, is based upon the premise of..."
Notes:
Reader's choice time! Because this story originally started half as a way to learn Pathfinder 2e for a campaign I'm running, I've actually been making Pathfinder stat sheets for each of the main characters. Now that Sara's hit Level Five and gained access to higher tier spells, I figured it'd be fun to see what other people think she should grab, and also interesting for readers to see her full stat block.
https://pathbuilder2e.com/launch.html?build=464036
That's a link to Sara's character sheet I've been keeping for reference. To view the spells she might learn, just navigate to 'Spells' on the right side of the website, then click on the blank 'Spell Level Three' to see the options. Something combat related is just as valid as diplomatic or bedroom minded, of course. Alternatively, because this world doesn't strictly follow Pathfinder rules, feel free to suggest some of your own ideas. Also pitch in on what stats she should upgrade, too!
Chapter 27: Humbling Preludes
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian had once stood tall along the southern coasts. A nation of merchant sailors and rural farmers, its capital's position as the last bastion of civilized society before the endless jungle sprawl had earned it a multi-faceted reputation. Sailors returning from the arduous journey around the continent's horn would weep tears of joy at the sight of its towering walls, while those preparing to set off would throw their souls to vice to stiffen their resolve for the trials ahead. Whether categorized as a den of primitive vipers or the welcoming arms of civilization, the capital had for centuries stood strong as its nation's beating heart.
That great heart had lie still for over a decade now. The tributaries that had once fed it were rendered separate and isolated, withering on the vine. The quiet relief of freed farmers had festered into apathy over the years, the links that connected a previously united people abandoned. Many of those accustomed to a life of modest means mustered the last of their talents and fled, leaving behind those who had depended on their expertise. Bit by bit, building block by building block, the fabric of society had degraded. A decade's span had already seen tools grow simpler, their use less sophisticated, and their wielders less knowledgeable; a downward slide too slow to notice until one turned about to see how far they'd fallen.
But after only a month spent in the capital, Sara was beginning to see the tides of time turned back. The rolling hills of rotted roofs were slowly transforming into patchwork quilts, fresh lumber replacing yawning holes. Streets strewn with moss and creeping vine had been scrubbed and scraped clear, piles of rubble collected and brought to masons for reshaping. Shuttered windows were cautiously opened at night, amber lantern light brightening the streets once more. In some parts of the city, even, she was starting to hear the humble hum of milling crowds, the first stages of old bazaars fitfully crawling back to life.
Sara sighed, letting her eyes fall from the sight. The old King's Keep provided an excellent view of the city, one fine enough to encourage her to wax poetic, and everyone expected her to take her place on the old king's throne. As she'd toured the grounds, however, Sara's opinion of the Tulian Keep had gradually soured.
Tulian had been a planned city, which meant the imperious building was positioned perfectly for the role of governance. Close enough to the walls for overland messengers to be promptly received, yet far enough away to fear little from enemy besiegers, it sat at the center of a dense weave of roads that prevented its many comers and goers from being bogged down in cart-drawn traffic.
The beautifully vaulted ceilings were afforded their height by the construction of ominous spires, a collection of six placed equidistantly around its exterior to resemble the defensive turrets of a castle. Its massive empty windows had once been filled with elaborate stained glass imagery, most of which had depicted lord, lady, and serf alike kneeling in deference to the 'rightful' ruler living inside. Its interior was filled with a mazeway of servant's corridors, subtle exits in each room allowing the help to do all that was required of them without being seen. A central courtyard, now hopelessly overgrown, had once allowed the lords and ladies to take pleasant trips through their sheltered idea of nature, kept artistically pruned by a small army of gardeners.
Tulian's old Keep, Sara had to admit, was a masterpiece of engineering and architecture. As practical as it was ornate, the endless flourishes of beautiful stonework it sported were the end result of generations of the kingdom's most talented artisans being brought in to make their contributions. All the same, Sara couldn't stomach the thought of living in it, and as those touring the building with her awaited her judgement, she struggled to articulate why.
Actually, that was a lie. She struggled to articulate it in a manner people of this world would accept.
Sara very firmly thought it looked like the fucked-up bastard child of a catholic church and concentration camp.
It was what she'd imagined would be produced if the Nazis had decided to celebrate their crimes with religious decor, its intimidating complex design only serving to create a monument of the things she hated most about this world. Even at its height the keep had been a big fancy box with a flat open space in the middle, surrounded by watchtowers looming with obscenely expensive propaganda. It was built to keep the rabble out, topped by a pile of freudian obelisks desperate to prove their supposed superiority, and Sara sure as hell wasn't going to touch the thing. She just needed to come up with a way to give her reasons that was appropriately tuned to her audience.
Evie, ever by her side, obviously wasn't who she was concerned with upsetting. The main concern were the pair of stonemason/engineers who had spent the last month ensuring the building was sturdy enough for her to safely tour, and Ignite, who had guided his guards through a laborious multi-day sweep of the complex to ensure no lingering traps or hidden criminal enclaves occupied it. Also in the back of her mind, though not present at the moment, were the carpenters and blacksmiths that had eagerly begun repairing sections of the keep at their own expense, hoping to earn the steady work that would come when she properly moved her seat of governance in. No matter how she phrased things, her rejection of the keep would rub at least a few people the wrong way.
"Honestly," she began, drawing the word out, "It almost feels too incredible for me. I'd be sleeping on three hundred years of a nation's history, if what you told me was correct."
"Indeed it is, My L-- ma'am," one of the stonemasons replied, beaming with excited pride even as he stumbled over his words. He was a burly bald man sporting a thick graying mustache, having arrived to the city shortly after word of Sara's new pseudo-government began to spread. His business partner was slightly younger, but equally muscled and mustached, and the constant shoulder-to-shoulder press the two men had kept through the tour struck her as decidedly less than heterosexual. She watched the senior mason's mustache bounce as he spoke.
"Construction began nearly as soon as Old Tulian colonists broke away from the hidden empire, and was continued until the last years of the storms. You will soon be living atop the lifetime efforts of master craftsmen, and perhaps, as your fair nation's fortunes improve, overseeing the additions from new masters of their craft."
Oh, real subtle, guy, Sara thought, mentally rolling her eyes. The pair didn't strike her as opportunists, per se, but they were embarrassingly eager to take on the project. Heading a gig like this was a career, retirement plan, and legacy wrapped into one neat bundle, so she could hardly blame them. Sara gritted her teeth and continued her rejection, praying they wouldn't be too disappointed.
"As true as that may be, I'm afraid it likely won't fit for the new government's purpose. Aside from the unfortunate political implications that might arise from occupying the seat of a dynasty whose members still persist in exile, it strikes me as too rich a vein of history to sully. I would rather preserve it in its current state, a monument to Old Tulian's success, than muddy the waters of history with a new and very different approach to governance."
Despite his best effort to hide it, Sara caught the younger stonemason's beaming smile tilt ever so slightly downward. "So you will not be staying in the Keep, ma'am?"
She shook her head. "No. I intend to leave it empty, though if any structural faults were to develop I would like to have them quickly attended to. Creating a museum of this people's-- our people's-- past is important, but will have to wait. In the meantime, I wish to have a simpler complex constructed, one more befitting of an equal society."
Stuffing down disappointment, the stonemason stiffly nodded. "I see. A simpler complex certainly would fit the humble air you have maintained since your arrival, ma'am."
Sara blew out a sigh, letting just a little bit of her frustration show. "Look, there's no need to dance around the issue. You want the job. Well, from what I've seen, you two are pretty damn good at what you do, but you literally can't do what I want. I'm going to be building with techniques that this world's never seen, and that means I've got to be in charge myself."
"We may not be ordained by a guild as master craftsmen, ma'am, but that is only because there has been no guild for some time now. Whatever skills you require of us, we can provide."
Sara let her formal facade drop further as she put her hand on her hips, mindful of the spike bracelets she'd worn that day. They were her third attempt at blacksmithing under Hurlish's tutelage, and on this set she might have done too well: it wouldn't do to have the men witness her inadvertently stab herself.
"Do either of you know what concrete is?" Sara asked.
A quick shared glance of uncertainty passed between the men, then the white mustached mason hesitantly responded. "As in when something is factual, rather than imaginary?"
"No. The actual, physical material. It's poured into a mold as a liquid, then hardens into stone."
"Then I'm afraid we are unfamiliar, ma'am. May we beg you to describe it a bit further, if this what you intend to use to construct your keep?"
She took a deep preparatory breath, silently thanking fate for giving her a geologist father with a propensity for oversharing. "An aggregate of stone is mixed with a fluid mortar into a slurry, then dumped into a mold. The composition of aggregate matters considerably less than the mortar, which is usually based on materials such as gypsum or lime, or preferably a type of volcano dust called pozzolana if you want to recreate Roman-era concrete, which is ideal for resisting decade-scale saltwater corrosion..."
Confronted with a near perfect recreation of an over-enthusiastic geologist's babbling, she could see the men's confidence waver. She felt kind of bad to be treating master craftsmen like uneducated children, but it was having the intended effect. They shrunk back, silently absorbing the depths of their ignorance. The masons wanting to handle everything themselves was both admirable and impossible, and Sara didn't want to waste the time impressing that fact more delicately.
After her impromptu lecture was finished, Sara gave the men a different job. In lieu of tasking them with building her a new administration building, she hired them to use their existing contacts to acquire the raw material she'd need. Once they'd acquired a wide variety of fine aggregate and prospective mortars, she'd earmark some time to experiment and teach the men how to properly make concrete. Sara also took a brief moment to try and convince them that being this world's first purveyor of concrete would open doors far more prestigious than fixing up a busted keep, but they didn't seem convinced yet.
Oh, well, Sara thought with a sigh. That's what money's for. If they want to get paid, they'll do it my way. I've got way more exciting things to be doing today than massaging contractor's egos.
Even after the masons left, it took a few extra minutes to wrap up the last of Sara's duties. She dictated a few letters to be sent to the other craftsmen who'd been hoping to work on the keep, explaining the delay in apologetic yet firm tone, and then made a few notes for herself about what she needed to gather up for her planned experiments. Ignite waited patiently, walking about the once-majestic room with hands clasped contemplatively behind his back.
"Sorry about that," Sara finally said as she shoved the last note into her pocket. "I'm getting busier and busier, these days. We should have done this back when I had more free time."
"It is no bother," Ignite replied, voice echoing off the etched stones. "In a strange reversal of our fortunes, my days have only grown more lax with the passage of weeks. The guards are growing competent, and handle most affairs without my involvement. Though the city numbers nearly a thousand, the spirit of cooperation persists. Perhaps I will be busied once the people grow more complacent."
"A thousand? Really?" Sara began taking off the more obstructive parts of what she now considered her semi-formal wear, stretching out. She was eternally grateful that her attire of of leather jackets, spiked wristbands, and sweatpants were foreign enough to Tulian citizens to pass as eccentric outerwear. Not only was it more comfortable than the suit she'd probably have worn back on Earth, it made it far easier to swap into her armor whenever she wanted. "Evie, you said we need nine farmers to support every one person in a city, right? Do we really have nine thousand farmers bringing us food?"
"It is difficult to quantify, Master. There have been no major complaints of food shortages, so one can only assume so. A proper census could be arranged with minimal effort, if you believe it necessary."
"Sounds like something we should've done a while ago, to be honest," Sara said as she rummaged in their bag of holding, yanking pieces of her armor out. "Y'know, I'll probably need to start delegating that kind of stuff soon. There's way too much that's essential for a city to run. I can't remember it all, and once Tulian starts getting even bigger, that'll be a problem. I need someone with actual experience to run things while I deal with the weirder, Champion-style stuff."
"You could accept Lady Vesta's offer of abdication from Sporatos, Master," Evie suggested, speaking up to be heard over the wind. Unlike Ignite, the feline was utterly disinterested in the keep's ornate decorations, and so sat perched on an empty windowsill, feet drifting in the breeze. Her voice echoed in the courtyard below, but none were present to eavesdrop. "She would be a nearly invaluable asset to us in managerial capacity alone, and her presence would lend us a great deal of credit with foreign traders."
"And piss Sporatos off to no end," Sara countered, settling her breastplate snugly over her chest by tugging at its straps. "I'm pretty sure stealing one of the richest nobles of Hagos would be considered a pretty severe faux-pas, no?"
"Certainly, but there may not be a better time to do so. As Lady Vesta's allegiance will inevitably fall under our banner at some point in the future, it strikes me as best to commit the slight before we have the full standing of a nation. What could be in itself an act of war between two kingdoms might presently be regarded only as an aggravating political oddity, with more blame placed upon Lady Vesta herself than a non-existent Tulian. Matters may grow more complex should Sporatos decide to forcefully repatriate her under charges of treason, but the political and legal quagmire that occurs any time a high-ranking noble is punished would be impossible to navigate in prompt manner. We would have months of warning to prepare an appropriate response."
"Pretty convincing arguments," Sara admitted as she tied her hair back. "But if we're doing it that way, we'd basically be asking her to throw in her life with us, not just her political career. There's only one punishment for treason in Sporatos, after all. We should probably ask her if she's really sure about it before we go all-in."
Timidly, as if uncertain he was allowed to interject, Ignite raised a hand. "With respect, ma'am, may I speak?"
Sara nearly laughed. "Ignite, buddy, you're really gonna have to get over the military procedure stuff when we're in private. I'm not the type to ignore advice just because it's coming from someone who has the wrong job description."
Ignite nodded, but didn't say anything further. After a moment of confusion, Sara rolled her eyes.
"And yes, that means you can speak."
"Thank you, ma'am," Ignite formally replied. He turned away from the stonework, still in an officer's at-ease pose. "If this Lady Vesta is as adept at politicking as you suggest, she will have been aware of the consequences when she made the initial offer to abandon her position." Unconsciously, he ran a hand over the top of his helmet, tracing where the shaved bristles of a once prominent officer's plume had sprouted. "Betraying one's nation is, regardless of consequence, not a decision made lightly. So long as she is a Lady of honor, she will not have made the offer without intention to follow through. Presenting further options will be a waste of sail."
"Fair enough," Sara said as she tugged on her gauntlets. "I guess it would be a little bit insulting to ask her if she knows what she's getting into, wouldn't it? Of course she does. She's not stupid enough to throw her life away because we had a few pleasant evenings a while back."
"As you say, ma'am."
Sara spent a few seconds checking the fit of her armor, finding it satisfactory. She drew her sword, holding it out to one side as she turned to Ignite. "Your advice, as always, is appreciated." She grinned, dropping the formal tone. "But now that we have the boring crap out of the way, how about we get to something more fun?"
He returned her grin, if considerably less feral. "Certainly. It has been some time since I had the opportunity to duel outside the training grounds."
Evie flitted away from her window perch to Sara's side, quickly running her hands over Sara's sword while murmuring quietly. The familiar white protective sheen took hold, just bright enough to highlight the blade. Ignite, across the room, drew his gladius, beginning the same process.
The large room that they'd coincidentally ended up in wasn't where they'd intended to duel this day, but Sara thought it would serve well enough. Located on the third story just beneath one of the towers, it was large enough to be a ball room, or perhaps a dining hall. Whatever purpose it had served was difficult to discern after years of looting had stripped it bare, but it would now serve well enough as a dueling ground. Even flooring and a lack of obstructions would keep things simple, a pure test of swordsmanship, with no hazardous terrain or distractions to take advantage of. Sara had never actually seen Ignite fight, and she was eager to see what a Marine Captain of the vaunted Carrion Navy could accomplish.
When Evie finished enchanting her sword, Sara squared her stance, working through a few test swings to loosen up. Ignite did much the same, rolling his shoulders and feeling out the weight of his much shorter blade.
Though Sara would normally consider a three foot gap in weapon reach an insurmountable obstacle for an opponent to overcome, there was an odd queasiness brewing while she observed Ignite's warmups. Though she'd grown stronger since her fight on the Carrion magecraft, Ignite was still the man who had trained fighters that had nearly overwhelmed her and Hurlish. If he didn't see the need to exchange his gladius for a longer blade, it was for good reason.
"Shall the duel be to first touch, or lethal blows?" Ignite asked. "I do not know your plans for the day, and would not wish to bruise you before a public appearance."
"Pretty cocky, eh?" Sara asked, grinning. "Disabling blow, of course. I don't see any reason to practice giving up on a fight when I get a little scratch, and I really don't care if the people see me with a black eye. Champions get in fights, they know that."
"As you say, ma'am." Ignite settled into his stance, wielding his gladius much like one would a short spear. Though it had a cutting edge, it was a weapon designed to be used in a shield wall, stabbing in unison with your comrades. Speaking honestly, Sara never would have used it in a duel, no matter how familiar she was with it over the alternatives. Ignite was nothing if not a creature of habit.
Sara fell into her own stance silently, holding her sword low before her pelvis, tip angled up to be level with her eyes. Weeks of dueling lessons with Evie had taught her the names of stances that she once knew only intuitively, and so she now knew to call this a modified Longpoint Stance. Rather than the full extension of her arms that the "full" stance involved, she often preferred to keep the hilt of her weapon closer, letting her maintain the posture without tiring herself out unnecessarily.
Ignite, on the other hand, was forced to use a stance that didn't play to his weapon's strengths. Shields apparently weren't 'proper' to use in duels, and so he approached her side-on, with the gladius in his right hand and his left tucked behind his back, the sword's pommel nearly touching his right leg.
Though she should have had nearly ever advantage in the fight, the strange queasiness in Sara's gut only intensified as Ignite calmly approached her. Contrary to nearly every battle she'd ever been in, Sara found herself shoving down the urge to back away, a foreign nervousness forcing a tense jitter into her arms. Sara was baffled by her own reaction to the fight, which was throwing her into the frightened mental tailspin she'd only known from the description of others. She began pacing backward, keeping the distance while she searched her mind for an explanation. It was only when she was dangerously near an empty window that she suddenly recalled something Garen had said to her weeks ago.
...I have it on good authority that Champions are inherently aware of when they are outmatched...
As Ignite closed to just outside Sara's striking range, she blinked.
A bonfire of pain erupted across Sara's body. First in her ears, which were pierced by a godawful screech of steel against steel, deafening her in an instant, then a millisecond later it was joined by a new flare of pain as her shoulder tore itself out of the socket, skin and bone jutting unnaturally against the interior of her armor.
Finally, far outstripping the rest, blossomed an agony in her sword hand. It felt like it she'd been holding a grenade that had gone off, an involuntary seizure taking her as reason and thought were swallowed by vibrant pain.
Sara dropped to her knees, hiccuping out an awkward cough as her lungs failed to draw breath. There were muffled noises coming from somewhere, but they couldn't pierce the echoing ring.
Nausea rose the instant Sara forced open her eyes. Cradled in her lap was her empty sword hand, bent horrifically out of shape. The metal of her gauntlet had been bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction, four fingers broken so thoroughly her fingertips were touching the top of her wrist. Blood gushed from tears in the metal, the sight making Sara whimper involuntarily.
Glass pressed itself to her lips, accompanied by more hazy words. Though she couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight of her mangled hand, she saw the ruby slurry of a potion in her peripheral vision. She parted her lips, allowing the liquid to be poured down her throat.
Ignite appeared before her, tilting her chin up to look him in the eye. He said a few things that Sara still couldn't understand. He looked awfully serious, so Sara nodded meaningfully.
Without further ado, Ignite reached down to her hand and pushed on the broken metal, bending the gauntlet containing her severed fingers back into shape.
Sara passed out.
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Sara woke with her cheek pressed to cool stone. As her senses returned, she took a mental inventory of her body, careful not to make any sudden movements.
She didn't feel anything unusual in her right hand, but she certainly didn't intend to move it to test the theory. Her shoulder had a slight soreness to it, but nothing more, and her hearing seemed crystal clear.
Sara lifted her head. Ignite was kneeling by her side, her hand still held by both of his. Evie was behind her with an empty potion bottle in hand, looking down on her with professional concern. Only seconds had passed. Sara blinked, briefly considering what to say.
"Holy shit, dude."
Evie smiled. "Quite, Master. Do you feel well? It was a smaller dose of potion, and it would not be uncommon to require more."
"I think I'm good," Sara said, licking her lips. She wiggled her injured fingers ever so slightly, testing for pain. The metal of the gauntlet was entirely immobile, keeping her knuckles curled, but within what little range of motion she had there was no pain. "How about you, Ignite?" Sara asked. "We've got extra potions, in case I got you too good."
His smile was terse. "I think I will not, ma'am. My apologies for the blow."
"Hey, you didn't know I was a bitch-ass," Sara assured him. She sat up properly, retrieving her immobilized hand from Ignite to inspect the metalwork. "Seriously, though, what the hell? I know it's a total taboo to ask about levels, so I won't, but damn, man. You've gotta be twice what I am. Why were you even in charge of other soldiers when you can do that? They should've just loaded you up in a catapult and launched you at enemy ships. You could probably cut the suckers in half on your own."
"My skill is great, but not unique, and I would eventually meet my match. It is better to preserve knowledge for passing onto others." His smile grew a bit warmer. "And I do not think catapults are accurate enough for such measures, regardless."
"Well, we should get somebody working on that." Sara picked at the metal of her gauntlet, which had visible finger imprints from where Ignite had shoved it back into place. The steel had put up no more resistance than clay to the oil-skinned man. "Damnit. I hope Hurlish can make me another one of these."
"I'm sure she can, Master," Evie replied. "And even if not, then one of Nora's captured ships will likely have a replacement. As for your sword..."
Sara followed Evie's glance to the far wall. Her enchanted greatsword was impaled into the wall some twenty feet away, doing its best impression of a dart in a dartboard. Nearly a foot of the blade was embedded in the stone, the remainder still wobbling slightly.
Sara groaned. "Ah, christ, that's gonna be a pain to get out. At least it's not broken."
"Try though I might, it takes much more than what I am to destroy enchanted blades," Ignite said. He stood, walking over to the wall while Sara continued to pick at her ruined gauntlet.
"I wonder if any of the enchantments were in the gloves," she murmured to Evie, tearing off a piece of steel that had been attached by only a thread. "Maybe we should ask Lady Vesta to bring some artificers with her, too, so we won't be totally screwed if I break something actually expensive."
"It would not be unwise. Considering the high demand for their services, artificers are among the least likely to have stayed behind in Tulian. Yet another industry we will struggle to recreate."
Ignite reached Sara's impaled sword, gripping it by the pommel. He braced a foot against the wall and began to pull, filling the air with a terrible grating noise. Sara winced, reflexively cupping her hands over Evie's ears. After ten long seconds of screeching, the sword finally slipped free.
"Ah!" Ignite cried as he stumbled away from the wall, sword in hand. "There we are. And thankfully it appears the blade is indeed undamaged. Truly, the work of Hurlish continues to impress. The cuirasses she has provided for the Guard of excepting quality. To imagine such a talent languishing in a rural village... is..."
Ignite's words slowly died out. Sara turned to him, confused, and found him staring out a window that pointed towards the harbor.
"Ignite? What's up?"
His attention snapped towards her, demeanor sharpening back to military precision. "There are foreign ships sailing through the harbor gates, ma'am."
"Oh? Nora's back already?" The product of her pet pirate's latest raiding foray had been delivered only two days ago, so it would be unusual for her to return so soon.
"No, ma'am. Her flagship is not among their number." He pointed, though Sara couldn't see from her angle. "They fly the flags of Sporatos."
Sara bolted to her feet in sync with Evie, scrambling towards the window. Ignite held out her sword as she approached. She slipped it into her scabbard as she turned to take a place by Ignite's side, peering out into the harbor.
Four ships were slipping between the seventy-foot gap that had once played host to the massive gate protecting Tulian's harbor. One ship was noticeably in the lead, its sails fully raised even as it pointed itself at the harbor docks. The royal symbol of Sporatos hung from its mast, but just beneath that, Sara spotted a piece of iconography she recognized from personal experience, rather than Evie's lessons.
"That's the symbol of House Vesta, isn't it?" Sara asked, relief washing over her.
"Yes, Master," Evie replied. Unlike Sara, however, her tone was bitter.
"What's up?" Sara asked. "It's a bit of a surprise, but it's still good news."
With a pointed finger, Ignite directed Sara's attention to the second row of ships. "Because she has recognized the flag of the ships in pursuit, ma'am. Sporaton Navy."
Sara opened her mouth to ask a question, but was interrupted by a flare of light from one of the Navy ships. Large enough to be visible from even a mile away, Sara watched a flaming comet leap from the center ship's deck. It arced towards Lady Vesta's ship in almost graceful fashion, before landing amidst the sails in a splash of violent oil fire. Similar bolts leapt from the decks of the other ships, more trails of fire jetting towards the now-ablaze sails of Vesta's ship. Sara slowly closed her mouth, question forgotten.
"Ah, fuck."
Notes:
Well, this problem certainly reared its head sooner than expected, didn't it? Sara's really had better days.
Chapter 28: Bay of Fires
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara threw herself down the keep's steps three at a time, Ignite and Evie beside her. Their combined armors and equipment sent down an atrocious racket as they scraped around corners and threw themselves over banisters, such that the small crowd that had been awaiting their arrival had fled the keep by the time they arrived, assuming it nearing collapse.
Sara dashed past the motley collection of masons, carpenters, and other tradesfolk without a word, heading for the keep's gate. Evie, behind her, had time to shout only the briefest explanation.
"Ships afire in the harbor!"
"Order any guards to the dock immediately!" Ignite added, his words overlapping Evie's. Almost immediately, however, a bell began to ring atop the tower walls, sounding the alarm. It had been one of Ignite's first additions to the city, and it proved its use as the guard atop the vast granite defenses took three running strides before heaving a long pole out into the skies above the city, a red streamer trailing behind some twenty feet. With a perch so far above the city, it was impossible to miss, and it pointed the scattered city guards exactly to the point of assault.
Sara tucked her head down as they entered the streets, furiously clawing at her ruined gauntlet. With her fist permanently curled by the ruined hinges she couldn't grasp a straw, much less her sword, and that was going to very quickly become a problem. Even as she ran she took out a belt knife and began to pry apart the most troublesome sections, heedless of the occasional gouge she gave herself in her haste.
Soon they had to slow as they coincidentally passed patrols of guards, who Ignite promptly ordered to fall in, even though they couldn't match an Irregular's pace. Weeks of Hurlish's labor and Nora's spoils had equipped most of the Tulian Guard with a level of protection that was utterly extravagant for city guards, yet woefully inadequate for a frontline soldier. Straight-edged metal cuirasses, coming to a steep horizontal V before the pecs, protected their chest well enough, but they were open-backed, and the only metal on them besides their swords. Most had eschewed the simple leather caps they'd been provided in the Tulian humidity, and a few had even shucked off their heavy gambesons, which would have done a great deal to protect them from arrows or cutting edges. Sara couldn't imagine what was going through their heads as they jogged alongside their commander and leader of the city while so obviously having slacked off, especially to such consequence, and they poorly hid their petrified glances at Ignite and Sara. With a battle near they shouldn't have worried about their reactions, at least not yet, but Ignite would certainly be shouting himself hoarse the moment the fight was finished.
Sara called over one of the burlier fellows among the guards jogging behind them, showing him the ruined gauntlet and the knife she'd been trying to break it apart with. She handed him the hilt and instructed him to get it off her, no matter what, and his eyes had bulged.
"But ma'am, I could--"
"I have healing potions for a hand, but they'll be awfully hard to drink if my skull's been caved in because I couldn't hold my sword. I can't get leverage on it myself, so get to it."
The man took the knife's hilt with all the enthusiasm of a man driven to the noose, gently setting its tip inside one of the gaps she'd already wedged open. Sara held her hand as steady as possible as the city streets flashed by, watching with some amusement as a man with biceps thicker than her head anxiously licked his lips and readjusted the knife a dozen times over. She thought of ordering him to hurry up, but for all her spoken bravado, she wasn't eager to see what it felt like to lose a finger.
Just as the docks came into view the man briefly grunted, the sound accompanied by a flash of pain in Sara's hand. She looked back down to see that he'd popped the metal around her index finger off like he was shucking corn, and was already moving to her middle finger. Having found himself a method now, the second came much quicker, and Sara tossed him a few mindless mutterings of praise as she focused on the situation in the harbor.
Lady Vesta's ship was only a few hundred yards from the shore now, every inch of sail still fully raised. The fire on the main sail had been extinguished, somehow, but there was little left to it other than a few tattered embers still collapsing. The rest of the sails were still enough to be driving it forward at an impressive speed for a sailing ship, and Sara saw no attempts to divert from a collision course with the docks.
Behind the ship, perhaps two hundred yards back, were the Sporatan Navy ships. After a month of reading and listening to Nora's thoroughly exhaustive after-action reports, Sara could now recognize in their build that they'd been trimmed for speed, rather than endurance, and the iron-capped rams jutting from their bows were their primary weapon of choice, complimented by teams built primarily of archers, not boarders. It was a relief, to a degree, because it meant they weren't here to take the city, but it also meant she'd have a hell of a time doing anything about them if they chose to break off the chase and pepper the shoreside buildings with flaming arrows. The Tulian Guard was never meant to be a military force, and so the only archers among them were those who'd been hunters and brought their own bows.
Ignite suddenly let fly a flurry of curses in his native language, wheeling to the right without warning to head perpendicular to Vesta's path.
"What's up? Where are we going?" Sara asked.
Ignite was so incensed that he answered in his own language for the first few words, before visibly forcing his temper down. "They are holed below the waterline, and intend to beach themselves to prevent a sinking, but the docks they point themselves to were built for deep drafts, and will swallow them hole."
Sara had no idea how he knew all of that, as the ship looked to be sitting perfectly even in the water to her, with the only visible damage being to her sails, but she certainly wasn't going to question someone with decades of experience in the matter.
"What do we need to do?"
"Have you a communication with them?" Ignite asked, accent thickening under the stress. "We must show them to shallower grounds, so they may beach appropriately."
"Communication? No, no I can't talk to them."
"Master, what about producing a signal flag with your illusion?" Evie suggested. She'd easily kept pace with them, summoning and dismissing her rapier anxiously the entire trip.
"I have to know what a signal flag looks like, first, and I've never paid any attention." As soon as she said that, however, an idea occurred to Sara, and she fumbled for her bag with her free hand even while the guard kept working at her gauntlet. She quickly produced a notebook and charcoal nubs, pressing them to Ignite. "Draw me the symbol and I can make it larger with a spell."
"I know only Carrion codes," Ignite protested, awkwardly juggling the supplies. "They may not recognize it, or worse, mistake its meaning."
"Better than nothing, isn't it?"
Ignite cursed in his native language once more, pinching the charcoal stick in his armored hands. He paused in his walk for only a few seconds to slash out the symbol, a simple X with two dots on the left, one on the far right. "It means 'you are ordered to approach directly'," he explained, tossing her back the book.
Sara immediately drew her sword and flicked it to its full length, thrusting it skyward as if holding a banner.
"Ta-da!" She shouted, and in an instant regretted the activation word she'd chosen for the spell, which she'd never thought would be used in so desperate a circumstance. Thankfully the nearby guards had little time to think before the illusion burst into existence, willed as large as possible. In her haste she hadn't fixed a clear image in her mind's eye before casting the spell, and so the entire page Ignite had drawn upon was rendered as a ten foot by ten sheet of yellowing paper emitted from her blade, the symbol scrawled across in jerky lines exactly as Ignite had. She kept holding it up as they jogged along the dockside, until Ignite abruptly ordered her to stop, somehow divining that the water was shallow enough for Vesta's ship to strike bottom.
The success of the plot could be debated. Vesta's ship indeed began to heel to port, having luckily recognized the symbol, but in a small disaster, so too had the Sporaton ships. Far more maneuverable than Vesta's lumbering transport, they angled to cut off her approach, devouring the gap that the burned sails had already been allowing to close. In moments they'd be within archery range, and Sara could see lines of troops assembled on each of the three pursuing ships.
Ignite began shouting orders to the guards as they slowly trickled in, a second signal spear having been flung by the watch on the wall to redirect the troops to their new position. The guards gathered together with their toes practically dangling off the edge of the docks, low tide leaving the water lapping some five feet below them. Those that had brought shields were first in line, using their shortswords as intended, and Evie began sprinting about while ordering the few that had worn their helmets to donate them to the frontline, furiously snatching them off the heads of any who refused to give up what meager protection they provided.
Sara herself had walked further up the pier, grinding her teeth as she watched the approach. Ignite had directed Vesta's ship to ram itself between two of the half-degraded stone piers that jutted out from the dockside, and the angle required to arrive there was bringing them closer and closer to the enemy. Sara scrambled over the eroded rocks at the end of the pier, wondering if the ship would pass close enough for her to leap to, or even if doing so would be a good idea.
The first volley of arrows were loosed from the closest ship, a black starling cloud traveling in a ponderous arc. Perhaps half the volley sported flaming rags tied to their tips, but with the archers at the far end of their range, most of these spun out of sorts and fell short, while the traditional arrows sailed on. Though the pounding of her heart left the volley seeming to fly through molasses to Sara, it covered the distance in short enough time that those on deck could only fling up their hands or dive towards whatever cover was nearest.
A rain of muffled thuds fell close enough together to almost sound as one impact, the practiced volley littering Vesta's ship with arrows. Sara was close enough that she heard several voices began to scream in pain, but fewer than she expected. Sara guessed the captain of the ship had ordered the crew to take shelter belowdecks when it became clear they wouldn't escape the volley, and only a few brave souls had remained atop to man the essentials.
The second and third ship loosed a second volley, with fewer fire arrows after seeing the failure of the first. By the time the third ship had launched, the archers of the first were already drawing their bows back. Sara was forced to watch the ship grow ever more pierced by a hail of projectiles.
As Vesta's ship slipped between the two piers, the Sporaton ships began acting oddly. Two furled their sails and dropped anchors, as if content to wait in the bay, while one turned sharper, aiming directly at the stern of Vesta's ship. The charging vessel switched wholly to fire arrows and abandoned coordinated volleys in favor of individual rapidfire, while the furthest kept piercing Vesta's ship at range. Strangely, however, the middle ship had ceased all combat, and was now veering hard to starboard, as if its rudder had jammed. The archers atop its deck were no longer even facing the city, but were rather pointed up at the helm, where Sara could only just see the captain holding up both hands.
Then Vesta's ship passed groaning by her, and she had no attention to spare. She ran alongside as it headed for the still-growing clump of guardsmen, the few survivors visible on deck braced for impact.
Sara put a forearm over her eyes as the limping ship impacted with all the speed it could muster, a violent snapping of the wood throwing splinters dozens of yards in every direction. There was a great shout both from Ignite's troops and those aboard, followed by the creaking moan of an injured beast.
Sara opened her eyes and at once could see that Ignite had been right. The rear end of the ship, no longer held up by momentum, was already dropping into the ocean, lending the entire craft a rapidly steepening upward tilt. Ignite began shouting precise orders up at the deckhands, but the thoroughly terrified civilian sailors ignored every word in favor of flinging themselves off the deck to dry land. With the stern sinking and the bow jammed in place, the ship had become a lever, its foremost tip jutting ten feet above the dock. Still the sailors leaped down, several breaking ankles or legs, and then unable to get out of the way, were further injured by their fellows landing atop them. Wood and bones alike snapped among agonized screeches, the hiss and flare of flaming arrows soaking the scene in a hellish tint.
Sara reached the front of the ship and skidded to a stop beside Ignite, regrettably ignoring the several injured sailors she had to leap over. In the shadow of the ship they were somewhat sheltered from arrows, and so Ignite had bunched his soldiers close, shouting orders at them.
"Gods all, where's a ladder?! No, don't leave to find it, get close and--" by way of demonstration, Ignite took his gladius and slammed it into the ship's bow, blade biting deeply it into the wood. "Cut them a path, free the inside before smoke kills all!"
Sara leapt to the task with several others, shortening her sword so she wouldn't hit her fellows as they all began desperately hacking at the thick timbers. Even with her and Ignite's impossible strength it was agonizingly slow going, over a foot of seasoned wood between them and the interior. With the ship still being pelted by arrows and the flames now licking their way across the deck, no more were leaping free from above, unable to ford the deadly hail, so she had no choice but to forge on. Sara didn't know how long it would take to break through the ship's hull, but a sinking certainty filled her that it would be too long to save anyone.
Until she heard a low-pitched, guttural roar from behind, and then the clash and clank of armor shoving against armor. Sara looked behind to see the ranks of Ignite's guard parting in panicked waves, gladder by far to face exposure to archers than be in the path of one orc and her massive hammer, coming down the hill at a dead sprint.
Sara dove to the side just before Hurlish reached the ship, swinging her hammer in a cataclysmic side-on blow. The bow of the ship turned to paper-mache under the impact, using her shoulder as much as her hammer to blow the timbers apart.
Sara lifted her head just in time to see Hurlish bowling on into the black void of the ship, welcomed by a chorus of terrified exclamations. She'd left a gap wide enough for two to walk abreast. Almost immediately people began to flow from the exit, more than one bloodied by splinters Hurlish had sent flying, yet looking none too disappointed about the incidental friendly-fire.
And then, just as Sara regained her feet, there appeared a familiar face. Half-dressed in pieces of the old suit of plate armor she knew very well, features caked in the soot of smoke, emerged Tarlin. Lady Vesta's bodyguard was the only human Sara had met taller than her in this world, and his height was presently further exaggerated by the way he alone exited the ship with rigid calm, resolutely blinking through the sun that glinted off a gleaming halberd.
The bodyguard was in a state like Sara had never seen him. He sported a random assortment of his usual platemail, with a single right-sided pauldron balanced out by greaves running up only his left leg, with his breastplate as polished and shining as ever. Sara was familiar enough with the process of donning armor to recognize that he hadn't been caught halfway through dressing, which would have looked very different. It seemed like he had somehow lost half or more of his equipment, and since this theft not even bothered to cobble together any protection beyond the thin cloth tabard used by Vesta's guards.
More interesting to Sara, however, was the lack of helmet, and what it revealed.
Cat ears. Feline cat ears, just like Evie, covered in a thin brown fur, twitching every which way atop Tarlin's head. Sara glanced down, searching for a tail, and found it pressed tightly to his back, just as Evie always preferred in battle. Tarlin was a Feline, like Evie, and she'd never known. How could she, when she'd never seen him dressed in less than full plate?
Sara had no time to ruminate further on the revelation, however, because he barked a word that summoned a small group pouring out directly behind him, shoved forward by a coughing woman in verdant green dress. Her red hair was stained by smoke, rips littering her fine clothing, and she wore none of her usual jewels, but Sara could've recognized Lady Vesta anywhere.
"Lady Vesta! Here, here, I'm over here! Tarlin, get her over to me!"
The armored Feline pivoted without hesitation, herding Vesta towards Sara with a firm press of his halberd's haft against the small of her back. The Lady stubbornly refused to be led ahead of the others, shoving off his attempts in favor of pushing three young men ahead of her. Confused, Sara studied their features for a half moment and realized with a shock that they were Lady Vesta's sons; they couldn't be anyone else. Three boys, early to late teens, all sporting the distinctive red hair so uncommon in Sporatos. Sara ran forward, ripping a shield out of the hands of one of the guards she passed.
Still hidden from arrows by the shadow of the ship, Sara reached Lady Vesta in the same moment Evie did, her girlfriend already snapping orders off for nearby guards to form an escort. Sara held the shield up over their heads as a parasol against falling debris, wrapping a possessive arm around Vesta's shoulders.
"Lady Vesta, are you alright?"
Vesta opened her mouth to respond, then bent forward with a ragged cough, clearing her lungs by hacking black spittle onto the stones. The incredibly un-ladylike act seemed to disturb her children even more than the battle, eyes widening as if it were the final strike that nailed their desperate circumstances home. Seeing that Sara was now protecting Vesta herself, Tarlin circled around to stand before the kids, moving with the calm precision of parade drills, a stark contrast to the panic of his charges.
Vesta ran her sleeve across her mouth, smiling shakily up at Sara. "Hello, Lady Sara! I apologize that I couldn't send a letter ahead of time. Dreadfully rude of me, to appear with so little warning."
"Yeah, well, I'm more irritated by the paparazzi that followed you in. The hell'd you do?"
"A complicated story, Lady Sara, and one which will be better enjoyed at a more convenient time, I imagine--"
An abrupt silence cut through the air, choking off all conversation. The arrows had stopped falling.
Ignite's voice rose above all else as others looked about, confused.
"Brace!"
Sara snagged Vesta by the collar of her dress, one of her sons by the arm, and threw herself back. A great crash split the air, the final ship having reached its destination. Vesta's wedged ship was thrown skyward, caught between the harbor walls and a ram, and Sara saw in horrifying slow-motion the split working its way along the hull. She kept running backward, hollering orders that were lost in the havoc. As the ship's bow reached its final height, prow three stories above them, the crack finally reached its end.
The entire front third of the ship began to fall, so massive it seemed slow, drifting towards the stones in ponderous fashion. The illusion was ruined the moment it struck ground with a hideous bang, pulverizing the cobblestones and sending pieces scything above and into the assembled crowd.
The moment Sara's grip loosened Vesta ripped herself free, sprinting back with hands cupped around her mouth.
"Bene! Alaric! Tarlin, where-- are they alright?!"
Tarlin burst through the dust and smoke with both of Vesta's children being driven before him, using his halberd more like a cattleman's prod to force the unathletic nobles forward at a furious pace. Sara didn't immediately understand why, the collision having passed, until she saw more figures moving through the fog. They moved atop the remaining portion of Vesta's ship with measured steps, advancing as one line across the ship's deck.
Sara threw her shield aside and raised her sword, trusting Vesta's safety to Evie. "Guard, with me!"
There was a brief moment of hesitation, the scattered guards disorganized and confused, but it was wiped away by the first booming beat rolling out of Sara's chest. With no time to choose a tune, she activated Champion's Inspiration and ran forward, trying to cut the boarding crew off before they found a foothold on solid ground. As if she needed any proof that her subconscious was terrible at theming, she raced towards the enemy blasting the choral hum of Order, from a damn video game, of all things.
Sara was joined in her charge by a ragged mass of Tulian guards, their fear temporarily smothered by Sara's abilities. She mounted the jumbled heap that was all that was left of the ship's prow, halting at the top to survey the scene and allow the guards to catch up. There was a thick crowd of nearly a hundred enemy soldiers picking their way across the flaming ship, which had now settled onto the shallow seabed. There was a three foot drop from wharf to the deck, difficult to climb under duress, and the loose rubble of the prow provided an immediate second obstacle to their advance.
Sara's initial idea, to wait atop the pile for the enemy to make the treacherous climb up to face her and the guards, was quickly shot down. Quite literally, in fact, when the better part of a dozen archers took aim at her from the rear of the formation, snapping off a hasty volley of arrows that easily flew over the heads of their fellows.
Sara lunged forward with her head tucked low, forearm covering her eyes. She slid and stumbled blindly down the pile, knocked about by the clatter of arrows bouncing painfully off her armor. Thankfully there were only shortbows present, none of which could pierce the steel, but her right unarmored forearm was struck twice in rapid succession, barbed arrows skating off the flesh. Sara hid her yelps of pain in the music she emanated, which had devolved into a barrage of incomprehensible drums.
Sara reached the bottom of the pile just as the first group of enemy soldiers did. Recognizing how impossible it would be dislodge a line of determined soldiers at such a disadvantage, they practically ignored her in their haste to mantle the wharf.
Sara sought to correct their rudeness.
She laid about them as a butcher, blood flinging from her injuries as she cleaved at heads and shoulders with unrefined chops. Being naval marines, their protection was light, leaving their chestplates and helmets with regrettable gaps where the shoulders joined the neck. It was a weakness only easily exploitable from above, a rare scenario for a footsoldier, but devastating in these unlucky circumstances.
Even as she dropped one after the other, collecting a pile of corpses at her feet, the rest managed to take positions on the wharf. The Tulian guards were far slower to navigate the rubbled mess than she'd been, tripping and falling to their knees as the loose pile slipped beneath their feet. Even as she killed a woman trying to come at her from the front, Sara felt a ringing impact against the back of her head, an archer wielding a plank having circled around to come at her from behind.
Sara whirled about in a rage, runes hissing to life as she cut the man from hip to hip, clearing her retreat. She began stepping back up the rubble pile, yelling mindless profanities in her fury at being driven back. The guard collapsed in on her sides, forming a shield wall to her left and right.
Far more constrained by fighting in a formation, Sara was reduced to lunging at those that got within her range, trying to bite off any limb that dared to draw near her. Recognizing her as at least an Irregular, if not the Champion herself, the enemy sergeants barked orders to focus on the troops to her flanks, staying well clear of Sara herself.
She was left seething in place, useless for anything other than deterrence. Any time she dared to slip out of the line's protective safety she would be swarmed by a horde of soldiers, forced to fight her way back to friendlies or else be dragged under by weight of bodies. It was utterly infuriating, to be pinned by the absence of enemies, rather than a press that would at least give her something to do, and soon enough her frustration was vented by her Champion's marks, clouds of effervescent runesmoke tinging the world shades of pink and red.
The Tulian Guard, trained in Carrion tactics, were as prepared for this battle as well as any force could be. Stances meant for stability on a pitching deck now served to keep them steady on broken wood and shifting rubble, the emphasis on an unbroken shield line keeping enemy marines from breaking through to range among the city itself.
Even still, training was no substitute for experience. Ignite and Nora had always spoken of the Sporaton navy in tones of professional contempt, but for all they lacked in numbers or equipment, the fact remained that the enemy had seen combat before, and the Tulian Guards hadn't. She suspected it was only the bolstering effect of Champion's Inspiration that kept them from breaking, a smothering blanket that turned mortal peril into mere terror. Even still, many of the troops she could see falling back did so well before necessary, panicked by small cuts or glancing blows that just as easily could've gone ignored. Their comrades dutifully took their place in the line, preventing any large gaps from opening, but it was a narrow, harrowing fight.
Sara bit off a curse as yet another soldier danced out of her sword's range, joining the fight elsewhere. She took a few steps back to gain some height, risking exposure to archers for the brief moment required to scan for Ignite and the rest of the Guard. They should've reinforced her already.
Ignite was nowhere to be seen. The space behind the rubble was deserted, not even the rest of the Tulian Guard present. Refusing to believe Ignite had abandoned her, Sara risked herself just a bit more by stretching her neck out, looking throughout the harbor.
Aside from the ship that had now wedged itself firmly into Vesta's, there was no sign of enemy vessels on the open water. The vague area of the ship that had been turning strangely earlier was now coated by an incongruously dense cloud of fog, an impenetrable white cloud whose origin Sara was utterly clueless to. The puffy white aberration sat motionless on the waters of the bay, covering no more space than the ship would have occupied. Sara didn't know if it was a spell meant to conceal the ship, or some strange failure of an enchanted weapon, or even just a bizarre bit of weather, but she didn't have the luxury of time to investigate. She kept scanning, finding the third ship a moment later.
In a display of unbelievable brazenness, she found it docked two wharfs down. The Navy vessel had calmly slipped into place and lowered its gangplank, apparently intent on depositing its full compliment of shipboard soldiers in organized fashion.
Unfortunately for the ship's bold captain, Ignite seemed to have taken a particularly personal offense to this. Sara could see him tearing his way up the wharf, bodies dropping into the water on either side of his advance, his Guard hurrying to occupy the empty space his assault opened. With their center filled with Tulian Guards on the narrow stone pier, the close-pressed enemy marines were more often shoved off the sides rather than fought, doomed to drown by their heavy metal armor. They went in screaming, some reaching for belt knives to cut their armor's straps, others turning the knives on their own throat as they slipped beneath.
Blood clouded the water.
None surfaced.
An arrow whizzed past Sara's head, forcing her back down from reconnaissance to absorb what she'd seen. Ignite would easily deal with the docked ship, at his current rate of advance, but it would likely take more time than she had. Evie and Vesta were nowhere to be seen, which was a relief, but Hurlish's disappearance worried her deeply. She'd never seen the orc emerge from Vesta's ship, but there'd been plenty of time for her to escape before the ramming had occurred.
Hadn't there?
Horrible, taunting, images of Hurlish lying face-down in the flooding ship coursed through her mind, distracting Sara as she retook her place. Hurlish could have been overwhelmed by smoke and rendered unconscious, or been struck by the ram, or any number of things.
Sara's runes deepened further in hue in accordance with her tightening grip on her sword, the handle of which was now slicked by blood running down her arm. Crimson drops falling off her skin were nearly indistinguishable from the reddening smoke, which soon pooled between her feet. Whatever the magical substance was, it was heavier than air, and it gathered and ran like ephemeral water. When it reached her ankles it began to spill out over the debris, cascading down towards the enemy as a bloody waterfall. The Sporaton troops nervously skittered away from it, unsure if it was a spell or some other foul plot, and their skittishness began to open a gap.
It was the final straw. Sara's long overstressed restraint snapped with a crack, boards breaking beneath her feet as she launched forwards. She charged with a roar, bleeding clouds of smoke as she bulldozed towards the broken ship. The enemy sergeants began bellowing orders at their troops, demanding they halt Sara's advance, but the cowed troops were too reluctant to approach the smoke. Sara met only a single man along the way, an idiotically brave swordsman that she didn't even bother to engage. She simply lowered a shoulder and ran him over, leaping off his ribcage toward the half-aflame deck.
A dozen archers stood where she landed, having been pre-occupied by searching for an angle to fire upon the Guard. She didn't give them a moment to register their shock.
Sara laid about herself with unrefined strokes, barely feeling a tug as her sword bit clean through leather and flesh alike. She began to shout Hurlish's name, barely paying attention to her own swings. The naval archers didn't even have a dagger to defend themselves.
Very quickly, unfortunately, she found herself becoming the center of much unwanted attention. While the bulk of the boarding ship's forces were still engaging the guards, the line was too narrow to occupy every available swordarm. The smoke around Sara was dissipating without effecting anyone, something the sergeants were pointing out with great vigor to their troops as they urged them forward. Sara continued to work her way towards the back of the ship, where a stairwell led down below, praying for Hurlish to be alright.
To anyone looking from afar, it must have looked very strange. After her initial assault the archers had fallen away from her, staying well outside the length of her sword, unable to loose an arrow without risking friendly fire. With nothing to do other than watch and stay out of her way, the archers parted around her in a bubble, a school of fish broken up by a marauding shark.
Sara worked to drive home the impression. She snapped her sword out constantly, glaring down at anyone in her sight, willing the smoke to keep pouring from her skin. Her head was cool enough by now to recognize that she'd just idiotically dove into the middle of a hundred enemy troops, and it was only their fear of Champions keeping her from being rushed by overwhelming numbers. Playing the part of an enraged beast was all that kept her alive, and she endeavored to do the role justice.
It couldn't last, naturally. A cluster of footsoldiers that had been surrounding the stairwell were now heeding their sergeant's calls, reforming to face her instead, and what troops could be spared from the assault on the guards were hurrying up behind her. Some archers had been ordered to climb what remained of the mast and rigging, searching for an angle that would let them shoot down on her without potentially striking allies. Far too late, the scope of Sara's impulsiveness began to weigh on her. If the Sporatons didn't kill her, Evie certainly would.
Frantic drumbeats shook the air, Champion's Inspiration still echoing out into the skies. The swordsmen surrounding the stairwell had formed a shieldwall to greet her, ten of them assembled in ragged fashion. It had been not even two months since Sara had been stopped cold in similar circumstances, the troops of a Carrion Magecraft an impenetrable wall, but the similarities to that stormy day were shallow. Sara began to understand Nora and Ignite's disdain for the Sporaton Navy as she eyed the soldiers, who formed one long line of ten, rather than a denser two row formation that would have been more difficult to breach. Their shields didn't overlap, and they kept their eyes locked on her, paying no mind to those beside them, the inattention creating more gaps in their defense. Sara licked her lips and strode forward, blood running down her arm and off her fingers to join the crimson collection on her sword's edge.
That blood hissed into steam as lightning began to crackle its way up her blade, a serpent's twisting embrace that rapidly grew blinding even in the light of day. She raised her sword with lazy contempt, one eye squeezed shut to help her aim at the centermost woman. The thick scent of ozone clogged her nose, the hair of every archer and sailor on the deck standing on end.
"Boom."
Where her old 'Taze' spell had coated her blade in electricity, this one devoured it, black steel turned white. In one instant there was a woman and her comrades, holding fast against Sara's approach, and in the next there was emptiness. Brilliant light filled the void, a bolt as thick as a man was tall summoned with a crash of thunder booming out over the harbor. The three middle most soldiers were obliterated entirely, turned to ash, and those beside them recoiled with bloodied ears and singed skin.
Lightning. A simple spell, all the more powerful for its inexorable nature. A single piece of Olympian wrath called by Sara's words, enough to annihilate nearly anything. Under Garen's consideration she'd selected the spell, hoping to alter the magic so it might produce less dramatic power for a considerably longer time, imitating the arc welders with which she was so familiar. While there had been some success in that regard over the last month, most of her attempts had manifested much as this one had, with her target reduced to ash. She'd learned after only the first day that it was a spell best practiced beyond the city's walls, out of concern for both property and the citizenry's nerves.
Sara dropped back into a proper sword stance, pressing the advantage. The lightning bolt had blown a hole clear through the stern of the ship and into the bow of the Sporaton vessel beyond, fires the sailors had barely suppressed roaring back to life all along its trail. She ran past the dazed and confused enemy marines, who were too shellshocked for her to bother engaging.
Sara pulled up short just before the stairwell, swelling with relief. Green skin and a massive hammer emerged, their owner coughing violently, a wet rag pressed over her nose and mouth.
"Hurlish!" Sara cried, running over. The orc turned to her with bleary eyes, reddened by the thick smoke which still boiled below. Sara immediately ducked under her arm, hauling her up. The lightning had blown open the rear cabin of the ship, and she led Hurlish into the newly created entrance to take temporary shelter, dropping Champion's Inspiration so they could talk. "Are you alright? Can you fight?"
Hurlish coughed a few times into the rag, then used it to wipe her face. "I can fight, yeah," she raggedly insisted.
The relief with which she surrendered her weight to Sara's support told a different story. Her armored breastplate was dotted with dozens of deep dents, as if the thick steel had been used as a target for machineguns. She kept blinking slowly, as if still in the thick smog below, and her eyes never quite focused right.
Sara pressed a finger to the indentations. "The hell happened to you?"
"Some fuckin' mage," Hurlish huffed, using her hammer for a cane. Sara had to struggle to hear her over the sergeants outside hollering to one another, preparing to assault the small gap. "Real big fan of ice magic, I guess. Kept throwing the shit at me so I couldn't get back up on deck. Killed 'em in the end, though, right about before I heard the big kaboom. That you?"
"Yeah, it was me. That spell may not be great for welding, but it does wonders for getting rid of dickheads."
"Ah, I'm sure you'll figure it out," Hurlish said, then bent to cough once more. The shouts outside were growing more infrequent, their organization nearly complete.
Sara reached into her bag of holding, retrieving a potion. She handed it to Hurlish, who took it gratefully. The potion wasn't enough to put the orc back in full fighting shape, but her breath lost some of its ugly rasp, and she stood straighter. Sara downed one of her own, which knitted up the wound on her arm. She wiped her bloody hands on the wall, sopping up the blood soaking her sword's grip with Hurlish's pants leg.
"How many out there?" The orc asked.
"About a hundred. Some of 'em are stuck fighting the guard, but there's still more than enough to swarm us."
"You got another lightning bolt in you?"
"One. It'll clear the gap well enough, but after that, I'm spent. I'll be down to my one-on-one spells."
"Well, shit," Hurlish sighed. She hefted up her hammer, resting it on her shoulder. "Sounds like they're about to come at us. Want to see how many we can get?"
Sara tried her best to grin. "You better not slack off. I'm just about caught up to your level, remember?"
Hurlish snorted, facing the entryway with a grim expression. Sara took a place by her side, mentally readying her second lightning spell.
They could hear the enemy just outside, listen to their words as the sergeants shouted encouragement and threats in equal measure. They'd be rushing two irregulars, in confined spaces, and Sara and Hurlish were sure to exact a horrific toll on any assault. Nonetheless, the sergeants truthfully warned their soldiers, faltering would be worse by far. The assault may kill half, but a rout would be the death of them all, freeing Sara and Hurlish to run through their ranks with impunity.
How Sara hoped it would happen.
And then, abruptly, the tone changed. There was a great clamor as orders were shouted to about face, turn around, damn you, and then there raised two competing cries, one of dismay, the other of jubilation.
Sara risked the briefest glance around the corner. Running over the debris, dressed in gory breastplates and sporting shields looted from the fallen enemies of the other ship, was the Tulian Guard. Ignite's forces had finished sweeping up the enemy on his front and had finally returned, the man himself at their head.
"Oh, hey, look at that," Sara said, not quite exhausted enough to avoid sarcasm. "We're not going to die. How neat is that?"
Notes:
Today's chapter title music reference brought to you by the Strawberry Girls, whose album I listened to on repeat while writing the chapter solely because it had such an appropriately named song.
Chapter 29: Consequences of Action
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There was a certain word that Sara had heard a million times in films and movies that she'd never quite understood, even if she was aware of its literal definition: 'debrief'. Every movie featuring some spec-ops dudebro had the token bit at the end of a mission where they're brought in to debrief , which was a code word for telling the commanders everything they'd seen. Sure, if it was a recon mission, Sara had thought, that made sense, but why did everyone need to do it all the time? They'd all literally just lived through the events, didn't they, so why bother recounting it for each other?
The Battle of Tulian Harbor, as some of the overly-enthusiastic (and unimaginative) Guardmembers had taken to calling it, answered that question for Sara. Despite having been at the very center of the entire affair, which lasted no more than hour, she had no damn idea what had happened. Where had Evie taken Vesta and her children? Why was Tarlin dressed like a hobo-knight, and what the hell, he was a Feline? Weren't those super rare, and usually nobility? What had Vesta done to piss off of the Sporaton military, and for that matter, what the fuck was up with that one boat that got surrounded by fog? The creepy-ass Silent Hill cloud was still sitting in the harbor, and the heat of midday had only burned away enough mist to only expose skeletal masts bobbing with the waves.
And with all that constantly running through her mind, Sara was stuck working her way through the assembled prisoners with Ignite, playing the part of a living political banner. Her presence was entirely unnecessary, save for the fact that having a man that looked for all the world like a Carrion officer handling the surrender wouldn't be great for future claims of Tulian sovereignty. She walked just beside and behind him, with her arms folded behind her back, staring sternly down at the grim-faced and defeated Marines, barely paying attention. There were nearly a great number of prisoners, as they'd promptly surrendered when Guard reinforcements had arrived. Trapped between two Irregulars and Ignite's bolstered forces, no amount of authoritative bellowing from their commanders had kept them from throwing down their weapons.
Ignite had them assembled in rows just beside the harbor, their armor and weapons piled up unceremoniously nearby. He walked among them while dictating the terms of their upcoming imprisonment, which he and Sara had hastily worked out a few minutes before. By the medieval standards of this world, it was incredibly generous. In particular, the notion that they were guaranteed the right (after a vague period of time had passed) to be repatriated to their home was cause for excitement, as it was a term usually only extended to nobility or officers. If Sara's plans worked, though, most of them would be fighting tooth and nail to stay in Tulian by the time their 'imprisonment' was over.
Unfortunately, the task wasn't enough to distract Sara from her own curiosities, which were burning her from the inside out. Long-term goals like asserting her authority over the nation were obviously what she should address first, but damnit, she was a Divine Champion. Shouldn't she be allowed to sprint around tilting at windmills, rather than taking the sensible, responsible course of action?
To her great relief, the barest excuse to do so presented itself in the form of a distant shout. Sara heard it only briefly, between Ignite's words, but its familiarity caught her attention. Several of the prisoners were indeed cocking their head, looking over their shoulders, and so Sara split off from Ignite, whispering a brief assurance for him to continue.
She walked a few wharfs down, the only sound coming from Ignite and the sorting of looted equipment, until she heard it again, this time much clearer.
"Hel- lo? I know someone's up there, and if you're ignoring me, I assure you, you'll regret it!"
Sara honed in on Ketch's voice, which echoed up from down below.
"Ketch? That you? Where are you?"
"I'm down here," she replied, a splash of water thrown up from one wharf further down. The tide had begun to ebb, and Sara hurried over to find Ketch clinging to the mossy stones ten feet below the walkway. She held, seized spitefully by the collar, a fat, balding, middle-aged man, who was gasping terribly at the exertion of treading water.
"The fuck?" Sara elegantly greeted, crouching down. "Ketch, did you steal a dude? Who's this guy?"
"The captain of the ship that was--"
"I am not just a captain , you mongrel -- ! " Jowls quivered as the man did his best to draw himself up while being kept afloat by the scruff of his neck. " I am Lord Acertan Vidanya, of no small importance in the Sporaton Navy, and if you free me from this wretch's grasp, madam, I assure you, the rewards will be great."
In an instant Sara's train of thought switched tracks, calculating all the variables involved in her address of the man. Certainly, she had an incredible position of power over him right now, in the physical sense, but she had plenty she desired of him that would require time and finesse to extract. Information on his task, resources, allies, and plans of his superiors, all too easy to lie about if she antagonized him. His general obesity, an astonishingly rare trait in this pre-industrial society, suggested a life of biblically sinful excess, his love of luxury an exploitable avenue of approach. Referring to Ketch as a 'mongrel' was either classism or racism, though considering Sara's own experience with Sporaton nobility, it was most likely both. She'd be best served by having him interact primarily with humans, and even then only those he viewed as appropriate to his station. Further conversation would determine exactly how she would pick the man's mind apart, but this preliminary evaluation would serve for now.
A heartbeat had not passed before Sara straightened, regarding Ketch with reproachful distaste.
"Well, let us bring the unfortunate gentleman ashore. Are you incapable of delivering him yourself?"
"Of course not," Ketch snapped, giving him a demonstrative shake that sent his jowls jiggling. "Get a ladder or something, because I don't think I can keep him from going under if his weakness overtakes him."
"Hmph," Sara huffed, as if disapproving of the crass words. She nodded to the captured man. "I apologize for the regrettable circumstances of our first meeting, Captain Vidanya. Much better for these affairs to be handled between peers, rather than their lessers. I will return in a moment with a manner of retrieving you."
"Oh, much appreciated, My Lady," he replied breathlessly, doing his best to match her formal air while treading for his life.
Sara retreated back to the Guards and their prisoners, snagging a few that had been set to the duty of organizing the looted equipment. She whispered them a quiet few instructions, mainly not to address her with her preferred familiarity in front of the prisoner, then hurried back over with a half-finished tangle of webbed ship rigging.
"I apologize that we have not a ladder for you, sir, but the battle has caused quite a level of disorganization, as you might imagine, and I supposed you would rather sooner be free of the ocean than wait for a finer means of egress. Will this serve?"
Sara dropped the rope over the side, which splashed directly before him and Ketch.
"I-- ah," he paused to pant, paddling over to the ropes. "I must agree, I would much rather be upon dry land, unbecoming as it might be for a Captain to state."
Sara's face remained professionally impassive as she watched the captain wallow about in the water, which was difficult with Ketch making theatrical expressions of exasperation behind his back. A few of the guard weren't as stoic as Sara, chuckling to themselves, but Captain Vidanya was thankfully too preoccupied to notice.
Eventually he managed to find a place on the ropes, some sailing instincts from his younger and less moribund years guiding him through, and Sara hauled him up with the help of the Guards she'd recruited.
He scrabbled onto the stones with all the grace of a gutted fish, his ruined suit squelching with each motion of his infantile crawl. Sara helped him the last few feet, not trusting anyone else to keep a straight face.
"You, there, bring the poor gentleman a chair," she said, waving one of the guards off. While he lay on the stone with his eyes closed, breathing hard, Sara took a few moments to hastily adjust her armor for a better presentation. As she did so, she said, "While I'm most eagerly awaiting a proper discussion with a peer, which I have gone far too long without, I apologize that I must first attend to other business. I trust to your honor that you will await my return so we may discuss the specific terms of your parole?"
"Of course, of course," he breathed, cracking an eye to nod gratefully. "By all means, My Lady, organize your affairs. I am all too familiar with the demands of command, I assure you."
"My thanks, Captain Vidanya," she said, bowing just enough to satisfy the social demand before turning about.
Ketch followed behind her, lips pursed. When they were back to the prisoner's staging area, and well out of Vidanya's earshot, Sara let out a great sigh.
"Sorry about that, Ketch. I figured I better butter him up, if I want him to talk about what the hell he was doing here. The other two Captains didn't make it, so he's the only one we've got."
"I suspected that was what you were doing," Ketch replied, eying Vidanya with contempt. "He's a coward, let me warn you. Told his archers he'd have them all hanged if they let anything happen to him."
"So you yanked him off the ship, then?" Sara asked. "I saw the middle ship doing weird stuff, but I was too busy to get a proper look."
Ketch nodded, trying to keep her pride casual, but Sara caught the excited smile slipping up her face. "I did indeed. Simple enough to climb up the stern when all eyes were to the front, and the first anyone aboard knew of my presence was in the press of a dagger to his throat. The coward nearly fainted on the spot, which would have greatly complicated things."
"Ha! That's a good damn break for us. I appreciate it. New levels working well for you, then?"
"Of course. And your theory was right, by the way. I haven't progressed any further since my fifth."
Ketch's meteoric rise through the ranks had continued over the last few weeks, even when she spent an experimental period idle, with nothing to fuel the progression. Sara's core group of allies had talked it over and concluded a Champion ability was certainly at play, even if the specifics were inscrutable. Sara's own guess was that Ketch's progress would eventually come up to match her own, plateauing at the level of five, a sort of catch-up mechanic she vaguely recalled from video games. With Ketch's progress now stalled, she'd been vindicated. Sara had probably never noticed the effect because she'd only ever taken in people well above her rank, but now that she knew of it, the implications were earthshaking.
Sara shook her head, grinning. "Well, as much as I'd have liked it for you to end up the strongest person on the face of the planet before the year was out, it was probably too much to ask. We'll have to go over it later, when we're all together, but right now I've got some noble prick to interrogate. You know anything else that might help me wrangle him?"
Ketch put a finger to her lips as she considered, then shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Sara. Living in the ocean never taught me much about the humans that sailed over it."
"No problem, I figured as much. But..." Sara turned to look at the harbor, where the mist was slowly sinking into the sea. A greater portion of the ship's masts had been exposed, revealing wood that was pitted and pored as if locusts the size of bulls had gnawed upon it. Sara jabbed a thumb in the direction. "You know anything about that?"
Ketch, of all things, blushed. "Oh. I was hoping you wouldn't ask about that."
"Literally why in the hell would I not?"
"I don't know. I was hopeful, alright?" Ketch blew out a breath, scratching her buzzcut. "It's Selly. I told her that some of the archers had tried to shoot me when I jumped off with the captain, and she... took offense."
The fog continued to fade. The ship's deck was revealed, great chunks ripped from its surface, and not a person was visible, dead or alive. White tendrils lingered in their retreat from the hull, a great mass of tentacles slipping silently beneath the waves clutching stolen sections of the vessel. With the entire ship now revealed, its awful condition apparent, Sara found herself shocked it was still afloat.
"...I really need to go meet her, don't I?"
"That would be best, yes, especially now that she's so directly assisted you."
Sara frowned, a petulant tone entering her voice. "But you all live with your dad . I've met my girlfriend's dads before, and that was bad enough, but now I'll be meeting your dad and your girlfriend at the same time."
Ketch rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you'll do fine, Sara. So long as you have a potion of water breathing, at least. No way you'll get Dad out of the sea."
Sara grumbled, taking from her bag of holding the itinerary notebook Evie had made her. As she searched for a free spot in the coming days, she said to Ketch, "You don't have to stick around for me schmoozing Lord Dickwad, by the way. I'm sure Ignite will have something for you to do, or you can head home if you think Selly and your dad are anxious."
"They shouldn't be, considering my progression, but knowing them, they'll still worry themselves sick. I'll help Ignite make sure the prisoners aren't hiding any contraband, then I'll head out. Good luck with the interrogation."
"Appreciate it. I'll send you the bullet points of what we discover."
Ketch flitted away as Sara found a spot to pencil in the meeting with the Azerketi family, just a few days out. She added a note to find a way to breathe underwater for her and Evie, then snapped the book shut, heading over to Ignite. The gore-spattered man was in quiet discussion with a pair of his lieutenants.
"Hold a moment," he instructed them as he noted Sara's approach, adopting the same at-ease position the lieutenants had been using to address him. "Ma'am, the prisoners are disarmed and have been given their terms. If rebellion sits among their thoughts, they are likely too exhausted to show it for some days yet."
"Good work, Commander Ignite," she said rigidly, for the benefit of the lieutenants. It was one thing to insist upon informality between Ignite and herself in private, but she wouldn't usurp the discipline he sought to instill in his own troops. "If you were not yet made aware, I will inform you that Ketch has captured an enemy captain alive and well. Having little experience with matters of the navy, I would have you advise me on the particulars of the upcoming interrogation."
"Of course, ma'am. Allow me just a moment." He turned to the two lieutenants. "If appropriate quarters cannot be found, we will have to hold them outside the city. It will be difficult to ensure none escape without walls, but I would rather have enemy soldiers loose among the countryside than the capital. You are dismissed."
The lieutenants saluted sharply and turned on a heel, moving to take to their orders. Ignite fell in with Sara, who guided them to a slightly more private area, if only because there wasn't a crowd.
"So, a navy captain," Sara began. "If they're anything like the nobility, they've probably got all kinds of stupid-ass traditions. What do I need to know to butter him up?"
"More than can be told in few minutes, ma'am," Ignite replied, sighing. "You are correct that they have many traditions, and conclusions to nobility are apt. I avoided formal dining events as often as I might, but I learned the motions by way of necessity."
"How bad are we talking here? Like, I'll be mocked for putting my utensils in the wrong order on the table, or more general manners-type things?"
"That and more, ma'am. In the dinner between captains I most attended, all was based upon hierarchy. In the Carrion Navy, which has no nobility beyond captaincy, this was based first upon class of ship, then seniority." He sighed, lifting his helmet to wipe the sweat away from his brow. It looked odd, seeing the glistening reflection against his black marble skin. "The complexity begins at the seating arrangements. The Magecraft captains sat closest to the host, in order of their date since first being assigned to a Magecraft, while the captains of mundane ships were organized by their vessel's tonnage, ties divided by seniority of first having achieved captaincy of any ship, not just their present assignment. Marine officers sat across from their captains, unless they had served previously as a captain, in which case..."
Sara nodded seriously as Ignite continued on, dredging out heaps of information he very clearly wished he'd never had to commit to memory. The dizzying social complexity of the Carrion Navy would have been impossible to parse, Sara would guess, if it wasn't for Amarat's blessings. With the supernatural assistance, it was only frustratingly tedious, rather than incomprehensible, and Sara quickly empathized with Ignite's difficulties during his time as a Carrion Marine. Who sat where, who sat first, who spoke first and who spoke second, even what meals were expected to be served, it all had some asinine explanation. If there was one bit of good news in it all, it was that the Carrion Navy was considered a model to every continental military, and Vidanya would likely be familiar enough with Carrion practices to forgive what Sara learned from Ignite as foreign, rather than intentional rudeness.
He had moved on to several more specific issues she might encounter, such as the expectations of captured officers in terms of bedding and meals, when his eyes suddenly widened, a visceral fear striking him through. Sara swung about with a hand on her sword, searching for the cause of his alarm.
She found only Evie. The feline was stalking towards her with a saccharine smile, the bitter intensity of which sent every Guard and sailor in her path scattering for cover.
"I-I will make my leave, ma'am," Ignite hastily said, skittering away without another word. It was the first time since they'd met that he hadn't requested her permission to leave.
Evie reached Sara with her hands clasped before her waist, all smiles and sweetness, save for her tail, which was lashing in mad fury.
"Hey, Evie," Sara greeted, nerves infecting the words. "Everything go alright with Vesta? The battle here wrapped up pretty easy, but if you haven't got a report yet I can give you a rundown of--"
"I already know, Master."
"Fuck."
A hand latched itself to the collar of her armor, dragging her down to eye level with the feline. Sara was normally several times stronger than her, but there was a force of fury in the grip that left Sara wriggling uselessly in Evie's hands.
"We are going to go into the nearest building, Master. And we are going to have a discussion. "
"Y-yes ma'am," Sara stuttered. Evie turned on a dime, dragging Sara towards the nearest door. She cast one desperate glance over her shoulder, looking for some member of the Guard that might save her.
Of three dozen soldiers under her employ, not a one met her pleading expression. They all found something very interesting in their clothes, the back of their hands, the cobblestones, or the sky, utterly fascinated by anything that might plausibly explain why they couldn't interrupt. Several, Sara even noticed, were trying to avoid grins.
Traitors.
Notes:
/whipcrack.sfx
I know there's a lot of questions waiting to be answered, but c'mon, you really didn't expect Evie to let Sara get away with a dumbass move like that, did you?
In non-story terms, I'd just like to reiterate how much I appreciate the comments I get. I realized recently that I don't reply to the vast majorityof them, which almost seems unfair, considering how often I go back and read them. Seriously, I'll go back to old chapters just to read the comments. I love seeing the interaction, and I'd like to repeatedly emphasize my thanks for the feedback, especially those that do so on nearly every chapter. It's almost impossible to improve as a writer without that external response, so just know that they're the reason I keep writing!
Chapter 30: Layers of Intrigue
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara slammed into a chair, its wooden joints creaking under the assault. Evie circled around front of her, slapping down a series of thick, dusty books. She'd had them tucked in her waistband, and Sara guessed the time it took for her to retrieve them was what had kept the feline away for so long.
The building they'd occupied appeared, rather unfortunately, to not be one of the abandoned ones, even if no one was home at the minute. Sara was sat before a kitchen table, one decorated with simple wooden plates and a bowl for fruits, and the countertops had the usual clutter of regular occupation. A living room was connected to the right, a few lightly padded chairs facing a fireplace with ash piled on the stone, and the windows had slatted shutters that Evie went about closing with irritated snaps, blocking them off from the outside world. Sara opened her mouth to say something, saw Evie's eyebrows raise, then closed it.
When the windows were shut and the front door bolted, Evie returned to the table, fingertips pressing on the books she'd selected. She stood across the table from where Sara sat, the only way the catgirl could tower over her.
"Do you know what these are, Master?" Evie asked, tapping a claw on the book.
"No?"
Evie slid one across the table, violently enough that Sara had to jump to catch it. "They are textbooks, Master. Military textbooks. Basic tactics, elementary formations, and the philosophy of combat that any halfwit officer should have committed to memory in their formative years." She glared down at Sara. "Do you know what you're going to do, Master?"
Sara looked at the title of the book. Illustrated Tactics of Peasant Levies in Support of Cavalry, A Treatise. She could feel its heft, and it wasn't because the individual pages were thick.
"...I'm going to re--"
"You are going to read them, Master. All of them. And when you are finished, you are going to prove to me that you have read them, and if I find your comprehension unsatisfactory, you will re- read them. Do you know why?"
"Because I--"
"Because you flew off the handle like a toddler throwing a tantrum, Master. You risked your life, and by extension the lives of your troops, not to mention the fate of your nation, and didn't even think to bring a. Single. Person. With. You."
Sara set the book down on the table, hunching her shoulders. "I know I did, Evie, but you couldn't expect me to just leave Hurlish--"
"Of course not!" Evie snapped shrilly. "Your actions were a disgrace to your station, but it would have been nearly as foolish to condemn Hurlish to her fate!" She slid another book across the table, which thumped against Sara's chestplate. Evaluating the Relative Value of Objectives at the Tactical and Strategic Level. "You are not from this world, Master, and until today, I had been content to view your ignorance in a positive light. It seemed to me that what you lacked in practical knowledge was well outweighed by the strange litany of asymmetric topics you espouse knowledge of, but that no longer holds true if you will be using your old world's logic to justify idiotic decisions like this one."
Evie slapped a piece of paper down on the table. "Quill and inkpot," she snapped. Sara hurriedly retrieved them from the bag of holding, handing them over. Evie began to scribble dense words as she spoke. "You have told me much of the egalitarian values of your old society. These are respectable. Admirable, even. Something to aspire to. But one thing you have failed to understand, and which I have clearly failed to teach you, is that these ideals cannot be applied to military leadership. You, Master, are not your subordinate's equal."
Sara bristled reflexively. "Just because I'm in charge doesn't mean their lives matter any less."
"Incorrect." Evie moved the paper aside, having reached the bottom, and began filling a second page with titles of military textbooks. "Your life is worth, at present, dozens of theirs."
"That's absurd."
"It is fact. Tell me, Master, how many did you kill in the battle today?"
With her hackles raised, it took Sara a moment to think back. "I don't know. A dozen, maybe? Two dozen, tops?"
"Do you know how many deaths the enemy suffered in battle today?"
"No?"
"Of those facing you on the docks, not including the ship Ignite dealt with, there were fifty casualties of the hundred involved combatants. Half that number died. I inspected the battlefield, Master, and after tracing your steps, I can confirm that your second estimate was the most accurate. You alone were directly responsible for nearly half of the enemy's entire combat losses." Evie finished writing, throwing down the quill so she could cross her arms at Sara. "You speak regularly of your old world's Public Education, Master. You learned arithmetic, yes? Let's put it to the test. A hundred enemies, fifty casualties, twenty five by your hand. We will say the Guard assisting you numbered approximately fifty, to simplify calculations." Evie spread her palms wide. "How many soldiers are you worth?"
"If they downed the same number as me, that means I did the work of fifty troops. Is that what you're trying to get me to say? That my life is worth fifty of theirs?"
"In a moral, ethical sense? Obviously not, Master. I'm not fool enough to think I could convince you of that, no matter how much I would like you to protect yourself as you might fifty innocents. But the battlefield, as you should well know, is not dominated by ethics. It is arithmetic, Master. Cold, cruel, numbers. And it dictates that a drop of your blood is worth a gallon of theirs." Evie leaned forward even further, just enough to jab a finger into Sara's breastplate. Her claw made an awful screeching noise on the steel. "You are their commander. You are their Irregular. You lead them through the battle, and if you make the right decisions, you will carry them to victory. Without you, they lose. Without you, they die." She held out an open palm. "Everything they were fighting for? All the people they were struggling to protect? The ideals which you seek to instill in them?" Evie's fist clenched shut. "Crushed. Gone. Worthless and forgotten. If you truly think their lives are equal to yours, Master, you will learn the restraint necessary to preserve them."
Sara had been pushed back by Evie's words throughout the speech, retreating into the chair until she was scraping its legs across the floor. After a moment of silence, nothing but the murmuring of those outside to fill the air, Sara quietly said, "But what about Hurlish? She's an Irregular, too, isn't she? And the city's armorer. She had to be worth the risk."
Evie took a deep breath, then pulled out a chair, sitting down. "She was worth a risk, Master. But a different, more thought-out risk. Did you know that nearly the entirety of the Tulian Guard's losses were experienced in the few minutes that you were away from them? Twelve casualties, per the initial reports. Not because they lacked your swordarm, mind you, but because they immediately threw themselves into a desperate push to reach you, uncoordinated and ill-advised as they were without a commander. As every proper soldier ought to do, as they are trained to do, they immediately began throwing themselves at the enemy in order to retrieve their Irregular. In fact, they claim to have nearly succeeded in breaking through the enemy's line, with Ignite's arrival only hastening the victory."
Evie sighed, some of her anger deflating. "I am not asking you to grow selfish, Master. Only... cautious. Not even cautious, truly, as boldness can be a very desirable trait in a commanding officer, but at the very least you must curb your recklessness. If you had only organized your troops for an assault, taking the ship by force, and reached Hurlish that way, your goals could have been accomplished with far less risk and far fewer casualties. Can you accept that? That risking yourself now risks everyone else, too?"
Sara nodded slowly. Quietly, almost silent, she whispered, "I can. I'm sorry."
"Good." Evie reached over and flipped open the first book. "Then let us begin your education." Sara felt her face twist, the expression one that Evie caught. "What, Master? Out with it."
"It's just-- I mean, I know you're mad, but--"
"You have other business to attend to?" Evie countered, eyebrow raised.
Sara cringed. "Yes. Ketch stole one of the enemy captains, right, and I was hoping to speak to Vesta before I interrogated him, and he's waiting with some of the Guard right now because I convinced him I was a fancy noble type, so..."
Sara trailed off, looking sheepish. Evie sighed in irritation, but closed the book. "Fine. But if you think you will be getting a full night's rest tonight, you are mistaken."
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Vesta had, perhaps appropriately, been sequestered deep into the labyrinthian halls of the Tulian Keep. Even Evie had to backtrack a few times in the servant's hallways, losing count of the twisting turns that burrowed through the spaces between rooms, but they eventually found their way.
The room that Tarlin had selected for the sire and heirs of House Vesta was a cramped, stuffy place. Likely a storeroom once upon a time, the furniture that Vesta and her sons perched upon were no more than dusty barrels with rugs thrown across for padding. All the same, Vesta swept up into a graceful bow the moment Sara entered the room, bending a bit lower than she might've in other circumstances. Her sons belatedly followed her example, though Sara didn't overlook their mild confusion at seeing their mother so genuinely subservient, and of course their mild irritation at having to mirror her.
Hey, kids, check the attitude. I fucked your mom and killed your dad.
Sara gave herself a mental swat, not letting the thought get anywhere near her tongue. Vesta stood up from her bow, smile beaming despite the mess that had been made of her presentation.
"Lady Sara! It has been too long, hasn't it?"
Sara offered her healed hand, the flesh there still pink and tender to the touch. "Missed me that much?" Lady Vesta took her hand and gave it a dainty shake, familiar with the appearance of the commoner's greeting, if not its use. "It's only been six weeks, but it seems like we've got plenty to catch up on."
"Regretfully so," Vesta agreed, nose crinkling as she inspected the dried blood her hand acquired from Sara's. "Should we send my children out, so we may speak freely?"
Sara raised an eyebrow, opening her mouth to speak, but the kid to Vesta's left beat her to it. "What could you say in front of the Champion that you couldn't say before us, Mother?" His voice, while deep enough for his age of not-quite-twenty, had a lingering cadence of childishness. "You've dragged us to another country without hardly a word, Mother. We are well overdue an explanation."
Vesta turned to face him, lips pressed thin. "Bene, I told you nothing so that you could not have the information tortured out of you, assuming our capturers had kind enough souls to not do so for mere spite, unlikely as it may be. If it weren't for Lady Sara's generosity and hospitality, I suspect we four would be under the knife at this very moment. So if you damn well please, you'll do as I say, or I will have Tarlin haul you three from this room to spare me the indignity of further interruption."
If Sara blinked with surprise at Vesta's words, her children shriveled. Sara certainly hadn't expected that kind of reproach from the noblewoman, and her children clearly hadn't either. They looked equally appalled and cowed as they quickly gathered themselves up to leave the room. Tarlin followed after, nodding to Evie as they passed one another. Sara could have sworn their ears flicked enough for a full conversation.
With Tarlin and the children gone, Vesta promptly collapsed onto the nearest barrel, slouching in every sort of unseemly manner. She licked her palm, rubbing it across the ash stains on her face.
"Gods," she quietly swore. "Do you have a mirror, Sara?"
"I do," Sara confirmed, pulling one from her bag. "I was wondering where the Vesta I knew went. Good to see you."
Vesta took the hand mirror and began pecking at her appearance, doing her best to correct the worst of the damage. "Yes, well, you have always evoked a certain brand of cordiality in me, Sara. Best not to set the example for the boys."
Sara selected a barrel across from her, positioning it in such a way that Evie could watch both of them and the door. "How old did you say they were?"
"Bene just turned twenty, Alaric is eighteen, and Banei is just over a year younger. You would be forgiven for thinking them younger, I will say. I've done much to shelter them."
"Hey, I'm not gonna judge. Your kids, your prerogative."
"Hm," Vesta sighed, swiping fingers through her tangled hair, "I do question my judgement, sometimes. The brutality of the courts are great, but delaying their exposure may have done more harm than good. I certainly don't regret limiting their father's influence upon them, at the very least."
"That what you were trying to do? Make sure they have a decent moral compass on 'em before throwing them to the wolves?"
"More or less, I suppose. That and stuffing all the education into their skulls that my resources could muster. It was fortunate that none of them were away for study when I had to flee as I did."
Sara kicked her feet up, stretching. She still hadn't taken her armor off, and she likely wouldn't for some time yet. Paranoia wouldn't let her. "So, about that. Last I heard, you were pretty content to sit around in Hagos and feed me info. What changed?"
Vesta set the mirror aside, expression firming. "Masquerade balls quite suddenly came into fashion, Sara. A craze straight from the capital, freeing any and all to walk among nobility with their faces covered."
Sara rubbed the bridge of her nose, working through whatever Vesta was trying to imply. "Masquerade balls... Faces covered... Disguises? Those creepy dudes that showed up after I burned the slave market?"
Vesta nodded. "I suspect as much. Obviously a mask is easy to exchange, and so none matched your descriptions, but it stands to reason. In the weeks since your departure, there was a ball at least once every day. Even my agents couldn't track all the intrigue that began flying, save for the fact that a great deal of it spoke exceptionally poorly of two people."
Sara groaned. "Let me guess: me and you?"
"Precisely." Lady Vesta began combing at her dress now, a purely practical kind of preening, rather than the alluring sort she'd practiced before Sara in Hagos. Sara took the time to absorb what she'd said, calling to mind hazy memories.
"Evie? Do you remember what they said? I was kind of dying of blood loss."
"Certainly, Master," she replied cooly. Sara winced at the tone. She was really going to have to find a way to make up for her idiotic excursion. "If you order to me recall it, I believe I will likely be able to reproduce the exact words."
Sara's stomach rolled a little at using the collar's magic, but it could hardly be argued that she was forcing Evie to do anything when the catgirl was the one who presented it.
"Alright, if you're sure." Evie's eyes rolled. "Recall exactly what occurred that night."
The collar flashed, a little shudder rolling through Evie as she straightened. "Forty spearmen arranged in a defensive V formation protecting ten masked figures in clothing appropriate for nobility, no outfits of which were at the slave auction itself. One figure was raised above the others, their voice magically disguised. Immediately after our exit, they greeted you and implied you were stealing the slaves for sexual gratification, to which you responded," Evie cleared her throat, "Your corpse won't even have time to get cold before I toss it in the fucking river."
Vesta gave Sara a look. She could only shrug, somewhat sheepish. Evie continued.
"The figure responded, 'I see. I assume that negotiations to change your plans will be out of the question, then?' You responded that you had no plan, aside from killing slavers, as the fight had been the the best party you'd been to in years. Their response was, 'A shame. I'd hoped you to be more open to diplomacy.'"
Sara looked away from Vesta, recalling her next words quite clearly. Evie continued her recitation in clinical tones.
"Your reply was, 'Gonna open up your fat fucking guts, that's what I'm gonna do, find out what you ate last night, gonna take your stupid fucking cloak and hang you by it, gonna cut your tendons--"
Suffering under Vesta's increasingly withering gaze, Sara finally waved her hands, stopping Evie. "Alright, alright! I think we all get what I was saying. Let's just say I responded in the negative, and focus on their bits."
"Very well, Master. The figure then expressed, speaking to their fellows, that your response 'Fairly well qualifies a refusal on her part, wouldn't you agree? Then we will bid you adieu, Champion of Amarat'. After that, the party retreated into an alley in organized fashion, presumably scattering some time later. With you unconscious and a crowd of freed slaves to coral, I apologize that I could not spare the time for pursuit."
"Of course you couldn't, Evie," Sara said sternly. "You don't have to do everything on your own, you know. I've been screwing you over with work way too much from the start, anyway. I really need a bigger admin team."
Evie smirked, the curl of her lips barely perceptible. "I do not mind being screwed, Master. It is only when it inhibits other duties that it becomes problematic."
It was Sara's turn to roll her eyes at the innuendo, even if she privately found it reassuring. Maybe Evie wasn't too mad.
"Well," Vesta breathed, breaking the silence. "I do think that the encounter could have been handled slightly better, Sara."
"Okay, probably, but in my defense I was literally bleeding out from a knife in my gut. The patience was pretty thin by that point." Sara shoved herself back on the barrel, rocking it back and forth as her thoughts churned. "So you think the masked figures had something to do with your ousting, Vesta?"
" Some masked figures are responsible for my ousting, Sara. Whether it was the same that you encountered or not is difficult to say, but it seems most probable."
"And why do you say that, Lady Vesta?" Evie asked, joining the conversation properly. Her eyes remained steadfastly locked on the door, hand loose and ready to summon her rapier. "Political machinations are obtuse and frequent. You know as well as I that coincidence, no matter how distasteful it is to admit, has far more prominent a role in our lives than most would like to admit."
"You're right about coincidence, Evie, but my intuition says the timing was deliberate. The specific accusations leveled against me, of which there were many, were nonetheless universally peculiar. Alaric's death was mentioned rarely, if ever, entirely replaced by my entanglement with Lady Sara. Whispers that my dismissing of my slaves was a sign of senility or foul influence, and that I would soon drive my House to financial collapse by embracing foolish ideals of peasant's rights and abolitionism."
"Was it all like that?" Sara asked. "Because you're right, that's weirdly specific. Sure, you got rid of your collared slaves, but you still had house staff out the ass, and only an idiot would have thought you were broke with all the cash you'd spent on me."
"Indeed," Vesta replied, tipping her head to Sara. "If anything, the accusations were only tangentially related to anything I'd truly done. It was closer to a preemptive strike against the ideals you planned for me to espouse, once Tulian became a beacon for Sporatos to emulate. While I lost most of my records in the evacuation, my spymaster had mountains of overheard insults that used the language of lawyers, rather than gossips. Terms like 'proponent of pro-peasant individualism' were thrown as casually as barmaids bickering over a mutual attraction call each other sluts."
"And the fact that it all came to a head so rapidly is suspicious in and of itself," Evie hummed. "I assume you had no rivals in Hagos with the resources to launch such a committed assault upon your person?"
"Of course not, I ruined them decades ago," Vesta said with a wave. "The sudden trend of masquerades is the key part, I feel. Even high society does not seize upon trends with such ferocity naturally."
"It started in the capital, right?" Sara asked. Vesta nodded. "Then that might fit with the rest of it. I mentioned it briefly in our letters, but we were pursued by a Carrion Magecraft right out of Port Agrith. A captain friend of mine said that's the kind of favor traded by nations, not people, which implies a certain level of Sporaton involvement."
"You widen the scale of conspiracy even more, Sara," Vesta replied. "I only wish that I could disagree. A coordinated assault upon our characters, launched across nations. It was a week of walking to Port Agrith, yes?"
Sara nodded.
"Then the Magecraft was requisitioned on nearly the same day that my sources say the first masquerade ball was held in the capital. Too neat for coincidence."
Sara licked her lips, eyeing Evie. "Think this has anything to do with old Tennyson?"
"Anything is possible, Master, but I would caution against ascribing all your woes to a single source."
"Tenneson?" Vesta asked, cocking her head. "I am unfamiliar with the Tenne family."
"Oh, no, that's just a nickname for it," Sara said. "I can tell you about it, but I will warn you, it's Champion-grade stuff. The kind of bad news where knowing it puts your life in danger."
Vesta frowned pointedly. "Hence why I sent my children from the room, Sara. Tell me of it."
"The Tenth God."
The sentence hung in the stuffy air. Vesta sat back, what little she'd regained of her regal posture degrading by degrees. Sara and Evie waited patiently. Vesta's face twitched inscrutably, minor reflections of the turmoil below.
After several minutes of silence, she opened her lips with a wet noise, licking them. "...I see," she nervously ventured.
"Yeah," Sara sighed. "I guess it's good that you see, because we sure don't. You're one of five people in all the world, at least as far as we've confirmed, that know of it. Me, Evie, Hurlish, Garen, and now you. As for the who, what, why, where, or anything else, we're in the dark. All we've got is that when I was being offered my choice of patron, there was a silent, tenth god. They said nothing, hid in darkness, and generally didn't want anything to do with me. Ever since, I've been jumping at every shadow that even vaguely resembles the number ten. Which, I'll add, was how many nobles were there to confront me that night."
Vesta nodded mutely, eyes distant. After a time of further reflection, she asked Sara a few more stilted questions, all of which had no answer. The room's mood, which wasn't exactly stellar, had cratered. Sara was once again reinforced in her belief that telling others of the tenth god was a thing to do be done sparingly; after all, if someone as resolute as Lady Vesta was rocked by the knowledge, how would someone less resilient fare? Sara could only imagine the horrific paranoia such a thing would awake in Ketch and Ignite.
When Vesta had exhausted her questions, Sara began an effort to let her recover. She left the room with Evie, inviting Tarlin and Vesta's kids back in, and went to retrieve tea. Navigating out of the keep, finding some random homeowner nearby who'd sell her a few cups of tea, and then making her way back took a little less than a half hour, and so she returned to a Vesta that was back in her usual form. Straight-backed and prideful, if a bit soot-soaked.
"So," Sara said as she returned, setting out the lukewarm teas, "time for the elephant in the room. How'd all this intrigue crap end up with you on the run?"
Vesta took a polite sip of her tea, admirably hiding her grimace at the unrefined product. She'd clearly decided her children could hear this portion of the discussion, even if they seemed to have been privately cautioned to keep their thoughts to themselves.
"That's comparatively elementary, Lady Sara. The culmination of the rumors came in an accusation that I was planning to defect from Sporatos, too far under the thrall of a Corrupted Champion to remain loyal anymore. You, the rumormongers declared, had been twisted by the dark magics of the Eliah heir. Even the churches began to whisper that you were a traitor to Amarat, not just the nation, and I was soon to follow in your sordid steps."
Evie sniffed primly, while Sara openly laughed. "I'm pretty sure if there was anyone doing the corrupting in this relationship, it was me."
"Quite, Master."
"Well, be that as it may, the rumors had sufficient truth to them that those calling for my conviction would have inevitably seen it through. I'd already begun the restructuring of my assets to ease the transition to Tulian, after all, and it would not take a particularly gifted tax reeve to ascertain as much. In ordinary circumstances I would have taken more time to prepare my flight, as these trials take months or years to arrange, but I had already been caught unaware by the pace of events. I fled in the night with all I could muster, and my paranoia was borne out by the pursuit of the very ships you have so kindly destroyed."
Of all present, Evie's shock was the greatest. Aghast, she asked, "They really began an assault upon High Nobility in so short a timeframe?"
Vesta shrugged. "Fleeing assured my guilt, I suppose. I've no idea what orders the ships were given, but if their use of flame over boarding is any indication, capturing me alive was not a priority."
"Still," Evie said, shaking her head. "My mother was caught by the Holy Champion in the midst of communing with the messengers of an enemy army, then assaulted said Champion in a battle that half the city bore witness to, practically screaming her guilt all the while. Even then, the trial lasted a week. To be put to death without even that..."
Vesta nodded primly, while her sons regarded the description of events with a mixture of disgust and bewilderment. Sara wondered if this was the first moment that they were putting together Evie's appearance and the rumors of the Eliah heir, sole inheritor of a title maligned across the kingdom, or if their disgust was for their mother's ill treatment. Likely both, she decided.
"Well," Sara said with a clap, standing. She nodded to Vesta's sons. "I apologize for monopolizing Lady Vesta's time, which rightly should have been spent on recovery. I still have a great deal of work to pursue in light of the battle, so I will entrust your protection to Tarlin and the concealment of this location for the time being. I will return as soon as possible with better accommodations, but until we can verify the loyalties of enough soldiers to form a proper honor guard for your mother, I must ask that you remain in hiding. Have you any concerns before I leave?"
Addressing the sons themselves was a deliberate choice. They'd been powerless to help their mother for some time now, and it didn't take Amarat's Champion to see the way it grated on all of them. Sara was offering them some agency in the situation, no matter how minor.
The oldest, Bene, stood. "If we are to be staying here for potentially days, where are our provisions?"
Sara gestured to the barrel he'd just stood up from. "This location was already being prepared by Evie as a potential redoubt. There are dried rations and water in each barrel."
"And what of comfort?" Asked one of the younger ones. Alaric, Sara thought. "You can't expect a noblewoman to sleep upon stones, Lady Sara."
"I think your mother is capable of weathering more than you might expect, but the point is valid. Tarlin, I will have someone leave bedrolls and pillows in the room upstairs before sunset. You may retrieve them when you think it best."
The feline bodyguard nodded, the formality of it looking odd considering his dishevelment.
The boys asked a few other questions, of increasingly less relevance, until eventually Evie made a move toward the door, signaling that the conversation was over. Sara bid them farewell, hair barely standing on end by being forced to endure such formality, and made her exit.
Following Evie through the maze of servant's halls, Sara quietly said, "So, Tarlin. A Feline. What's up with that?"
"What do you expect me to say, Master? He is indeed a feline. Our kind are quite rare, but not vanishingly so."
"Aren't they usually nobility, though? Like, because they're so desirable or whatever, they usually get swept up into some noble's family to pad their pedigree?"
"Such is usually the case, Master, if they were not already direct descendants of the original Felines gifted to nobility by the Fey. I can't say for certain what caused Tarlin or his family to lose their status, but he has not fallen far. Being the personal guard for nobility is a quick path to Knighthood, if he truly has no title to his name."
"Guess that's kind of shot, though," Sara sighed. "I hope he won't be mad at me for abolishing nobility."
"He seems a man dedicated to his charge above all else, Master. So long as Lady Vesta does not object, I can't imagine he will take exception."
"Hope so. What about his missing armor, though? Isn't that weird?"
"Absolutely, Master. Did you note, however, the nature of the pieces that remained? Subtly different to his original suit."
"No, I didn't." Sara grunted as her breastplate bumped off a wall, slipping around a corner. "What was special about it?"
"Runes, Master. Enchantments not unlike your own, but rather than each rune being five inches across, they were no thicker than a fingernail. Covering nearly every inch of the armor."
Sara blinked in the darkness. "Damn. That's a big deal, isn't it?"
"I would assume so, but I am not an artificer. Perhaps they are quantity over quality, their sum total no more powerful than larger common enchantments. Or perhaps each rune is absolute in its power, and he is wearing a king's ransom."
"Damn. Remind me to ask him about it, when we get back."
"Of course, Master."
The walk back to the harbor, which they took in no particular hurry, consumed the rest of the afternoon. Sara stopped by the warehouse to polish and spiff up her armor, discarding her one operational gauntlet so she'd at least be symmetrical. Hurlish, recovering in their room, assured her that the broken piece was repairable, but couldn't make any promises about preserving the enchantments in the process.
Sara made her way to the captured captain at sunset, quietly pleased to see that the Guard she'd spoken to had followed the spirit of her orders, not just the letter. They'd gone out and requested citizens to donate fine furniture for the evening, decorating a dining room with what remained of Tulian's gold-trimmed tables and fluffy padded chairs. A meal was being prepared, extravagant by Tulian standards (if simple for noble palates), and would soon be ready.
Sara made a note of the sergeant who'd organized the efforts. The woman had correctly guessed that Sara was readying the Captain for interrogation, and had spent the intervening hours preparing things as best she could for Sara's task. Sara thanked her personally, then made a note to recommend her for promotion to Ignite.
The efforts, regrettably, stripped away any excuse she had to delay the meeting. The Captain was already inside the spruced-up room, awaiting her arrival. Sara whispered a last few set of commands to the Guard surrounding the building, then spent a moment correcting her appearance.
Her armor was impressive as always, naturally. The ensorcelled steel allowed the most stubborn bloodstains and soot marks wipe away with a wet rag, glimmering pink runes returned to their full luster. Her helmet and its chainmail she stuffed in her bag of holding, letting her hair fall down over her shoulders, Amarat's blessings proving their worth. No matter how much sweat, humidity, and blood she assaulted her hair with, it never got messier than a few stylish curls, raven locks shining in the evening sun. Her metal skirt of interwoven plates swung nearly as easily as her hair, their uncanny ease of movement not too far from cloth in how it conformed over her legs. The metal sabatons she wore for boots took a bit longer to clean, mud having wedged itself in the articulated nooks and crannies, but it wasn't overly bothersome. After a few minutes of preening, she was ready for the meeting.
She walked up to the door and shoved it open, striding into the room breathing hard, an apologetic smile on her lips.
"I do apologize, Captain Vidanya. Impossible to find good help these days, isn't it?"
The moribund captain nearly leapt out of his chair, roused from his nap by the bang of the door against the far wall. He hurriedly straightened himself, running a hand through his comb-over.
"Ah! Ah, Lady Sara. Yes, it is always the way, isn't it? I assume your staff required your personal attention to remedy their struggles?"
"Don't they always?" Sara asked airily, folding her hands behind her back to observe the furniture. "I am glad that my orders to find a place of holding appropriate to your station were not ignored. I've made great strides in civilizing this land, but craftsmen capable of outfitting a noble manor are frustratingly rare."
"My wife complains of much the same in Sporatos, Lady Sara. While those of skill are perhaps more common, those who do not try to cheat their betters are frustratingly rare."
"I sympathize with her dilemma, Captain Vidanya," Sara intoned seriously, even while she held off the urge to grind her teeth. A glutton and cheapskate. Of course.
Sara quickly selected a seat away from the dining table, inviting Captain Vidanya to wait in more comfortable fashion for their meal to arrive. Most of Ignite's advice had applied specifically to dinners between captains, leaving her somewhat adrift in the informal social setting, but if she made any faux-pas during the conversation, Vidanya didn't show it. Sara didn't even try to ply Vidanya for information while they waited, instead doing her best to slide into his good graces. She asked after his wife, his estate, his ship and how he acquired command of her, and a litany of other personal details that any self-absorbed individual loved to speak about. He did mention, unprompted, that he possessed several collared slaves, and Sara had to work to hide the set of her jaw at the news. She didn't quite succeed, judging by his quick changing of the topic, but aside from the brief stumble, the conversation proceeded very well. By the time a knock at the door signaled the arrival of the food, what suspicion Vidanya held for her was thoroughly undermined.
"I must say, Lady Sara," he said as they watched the food be set out, "You are not at all like we were lead to believe. It seems our intelligence on your bearing was rather out of date, if it had ever been accurate in the first place."
"Oh?" Sara inquired, feigning that her interest was only mild. "Well I must say that I very much enjoy hearing what gossips have to say about me, especially if the rumors are inaccurate. Please do tell, Captain."
"Ah, well, it wasn't gossips, per se, but rather the report which we were provided on your bearing." Vidanya paused, watching the Guard disguised as servants retreat from the room. It seemed that he was still somewhat reluctant to speak freely with her. "I presume you have little in the way of contacts in Sporatos proper, Lady Sara?"
"What information I have is third and fourth hand at best," Sara lied, heading for the table. She thought she picked up on a subtle tension as she approached. After all, In the byzantine politics of Navy Captains, her selection of seating was as good as shouting her intentions for the rest of the meeting. Sara drug it out, speaking as she wandered over. "I've heard the Church of Amarat has begun to claim I'm a traitor to my Patron, for one, which is patently ridiculous. She would have pulled my powers in an instant, and as the battle demonstrated, such hasn't happened."
"I'm afraid I was a bit occupied for the course of the battle, Lady Sara," Vidanya said, trailing nervously behind her. Though she wasn't looking his way, Amarat's Blessings kept her appraised of the way he was wringing his hands. "A Champion's power is a famous thing, indeed, but we were assured Amarat rarely bestowed her Champions with martial prowess. If it is not too presumptuous, may I ask what abilities you possess?"
"It's no bother," Sara said with a reassuring wave, using the question as an excuse to halt just before selecting a chair. She cocked her head, considering her options. After a moment, she activated Champion's Inspiration , selecting a peaceful bit of classical music that she only recalled because it had featured in an episode of Tom and Jerry. Beethoven, maybe?
The strings came in slowly, filling the dining room with a gentle hum. As she spoke other instruments began to filter in, adding to the ensemble. "This ability was gifted for the purposes of coordination, Captain Vidanya. Amarat is the Goddess of Connections, and this music plays into that aspect of her Divinity. Those who can hear my music are bolstered and unified, allowing for a grace of coordination ordinarily impossible."
"Remarkable," Captain Vidanya breathed, and he meant it. His head was tilted, entranced. "The music itself is incredibly elegant, as well. Is it your own composition?"
"No, no, but I thank you for the flattery. It is the product of a composer in my old world."
"Well, the beauty of it is extraordinary. Our musicians would have much to learn from it, if our instruments are even capable of reproducing such fine tones. Should you find yourself along the coast of Sporatos in good standings, I must beg that you visit my wife at our estate. She so enjoys the opera, and would be delighted to hear such a fine composition."
Sara winced internally. Damnit. Why'd the rat bastard have to go and be a decent husband? This'd be easier if he was a dickhead through and through.
Sara forged on, moving to the main event of the evening. She'd ordered the food to be placed in the center of the table, so as not to guide Vidanya towards any seat. With a generous smile, she extended an arm in a welcoming gesture.
"If ever I find myself with the time to do so, I would gladly visit. Please, Captain Vidanya, take a seat."
It was a calculated break of protocol, appropriate for neither the Sporaton or Carrion navies. Vidanya would have expected her, as the host, to sit first, and then position himself accordingly. By inviting him to do so first, she was forcing him to reveal where exactly he thought he stood in relative power to her. Taking a seat at the head of the table would imply that he thought he had the power in the negotiations, leaning upon his authority of being the sole representative of a far larger nation. Sitting to her right would be the absolute opposite, declaring himself entirely subservient to her, while sitting to her left would be appropriate for a foreign dignitary, a welcomed if admittedly less important political figure. He could also sit at the other end of the table, opposite the head, and declare that they were were equals, undermining her claims of Tulian sovereignty by stating that a mere Captain was her equal, which wouldn't be true if she were a true head of state.
Sara had been betting that he would sit to her left, the safest option. He did indeed glance that way at first, swallowing hard, but he was clearly as aware as her about the various implications he might make by selecting the wrong seat. To her surprise, however, he circled around the table, taking the opposite end of the short table.
So he thinks we're equals. He doesn't support Tulian sovereignty, but has a high enough opinion of me to think I'm worth negotiating with, instead of figuring his kingdom will just steamroll me with Sporatos' superior numbers. Interesting.
Sara obligingly took her place at the head of the table, not letting a single drop of her evaluation surface. She gave him a polite smile and reached out for the center plates, sliding a roast bird towards herself. He returned the smile and began to select his own food, the traditional quiet of the opening stages of a meal giving them both time to reflect. The table had only been built for eight, so the distance between them wasn't extreme.
Sara did her best to eat properly, basing her behavior off an eclectic mixture of formal dinners with her father's coworkers as a child, Evie's occasional lessons, and Ignite's advice. Any time she noted Vidanya doing something different to her, such as the way he cut his meat into incredibly small bite-sized chunks, she immediately mimicked it, all while maintaining an air of perfect casual civility. She caught no pointed glances from him through the early stages of the meal, and so assumed she did a decent enough job.
When their first plate was cleared, it was time to resume conversation. Normally the break would be owed to the chef's preparing of a second course, but the food had been brought out all at once, so the break in eating was observed on tradition alone.
"So," Sara began, neatly placing her silverware aside, "We were speaking of how I am viewed in Sporatos. While I hope I have assured you that I am no uncivilized barbarian, nor a traitor to the gods, I must express my concern over the overtly hostile actions you and your fellow captains undertook in Tulian. I understand you were in pursuit of Lady Vesta?"
"Just so," Vidanya replied, dabbing his cheeks with a napkin. "Our orders were to see out the cost of treason, I'm afraid. I understand you were previously entangled with her, and might hold her fondly in your thoughts, but the law is clear on such things. A noble cannot be allowed to abscond with the wealth of Sporatos."
"I do understand, of course, and would like to personally assure you that I played no role in summoning Lady Vesta here. While you are correct that we have worked well together in the past, I hadn't ever wished her to abandon her station. Such an influential friend at Tulian's northern border is far more valuable than any ill-advised traitor thinking to implant themselves in my courts, of course. Quite frankly, I am shocked and appalled that she was so short-sighted in her actions, and it has shaken my faith in her."
"Traitors are never to be trusted," Vidanya agreed with a sharp nod. "You would be wise to keep her at arm's length for however long you keep her in your company, Lady Sara. Of course, the simplest solution would be to return her and yourself to Sporatos proper."
"While what I will do with Lady Vesta remains to be seen, I must disappoint you with the news that I have no intention of returning to Sporatos."
"And why is that, Lady Sara?" Vidanya reached for a bottle of wine, pouring himself a glass. "Surely Amarat's Holy Quest does not call for you to muddy yourself in such ignoble circumstances."
"Her will is difficult to determine at the best of times, Captain. I have thus far followed my heart, and received no Divine reproach for my choices. I intend to see Tulian revived, becoming a beacon of progress for the peoples of this world."
Vidanya leaned forward, growing intense. "But you must know the impossibility of this task, Lady Sara. Do not throw your life away in pursuit of such a hopeless endeavor."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "'Throw my life away', Captain Vidanya? Do you know something I don't?"
"If you've truly sources in Sporatos, Lady Sara, it will not be long before word reaches you. King Sporatos has heard word of your attempt at creating a rival kingdom. He has already begun to martial his troops."
Sara didn't have to feign her surprise. "Surely not. An invasion?"
Vidanya nodded, looking sickly. "Having met you, Lady Sara, I wish it weren't true. I suppose I may tell you freely, as these things are impossible to hide. Sporatos will march this coming spring, intending to have Tulian under provisional rule by the end of the summer. Truly, I implore you to--"
Sara threw her utensils in the air, slamming a fist on the table. "Ah, fucking goddamnit," she swore, causing Vidanya to recoil in shock. She stood, moving to the door. "What a fucking dumbass that dude is, I swear. Why the fuck does he need to invade that soon? Fuck, this is bad."
Vidanya sat in his chair, eyes wide, stunned. Sara ignored him and flung open the door, poking a head out. "Hey, we're done here. Y'all ready?"
"Yes, ma'am," one of the Guards replied.
"Aight, cool. He admitted to owning slaves, so you know what to do."
"Of course."
Vidanya stood, eyes darting about in confusion. "What is the meaning of this? Lady Sara?"
She walked back over to him, leaving the door swinging limply on its hinges. She grabbed him by the collar, unsheathing her sword and jabbing it into the small of his back to drive him to the door. As she went, she began reciting her memorized lines.
"Captain Vidanya of the Sporaton Navy, you have confessed to and been found guilty of Participating in a Militant Assault Without a Declaration of War, Enslaving of Sapient Individuals, and Gross Negligence of Duty to The People. The punishment is to be hanged until death, effective immediately. Have you any last words?"
She shoved him out into the alleyway beside the house, where the Guards had hung a noose from the eaves. A pair of crates stood below it, just enough for him to reach the noose with his neck. Apparently getting the balance and knot right for a noose was quite difficult, but Sara'd been lucky enough to find a former hangman among the Guard. Sara gripped Vidanya's rolls of flesh and began hauling him up to the boxes as he sputtered.
"Wha-- what is this? You can't-- I'm a Lord! What is this, Lady Sara? Have reason! A-a-are you truly mad?"
Sara placed him on the crates, then crawled up next to him, placing the noose around his neck. The hangman Guard down below gave her instructions on how to position it, speaking over Vidanya's increasingly desperate pleading.
"No! No, this is preposterous! An act of war! If you seek diplomacy, th-thi-is! This will--! By the gods!"
He was so distraught that he failed to even try to take the noose off as Sara hopped down, so convinced was he that this was some elaborate ploy.
Sara cut off the words with a boot to the crates, throwing them out from under him. Captain Vidanya, slaveowner, war criminal, and loving husband, had only a moment to gasp. There was a single sickening crack as the noose snapped taut, jerking his neck into a nauseating state of distention, and then it was over.
"You got a coffin?" Sara asked the sergeant who'd been in charge of the preparations. The same one from earlier, she idly noted.
"Yes, ma'am, and Evie has prepared the note you wished to be delivered with him. Shall we prepare the body?"
"That would be perfect, thanks. I've got a lot of work to do back home."
Sara left the Guard to their work. Vidanya's body was removed from the noose, unceremoniously tossed in the rectangular coffin. One man placed the ultimatum on his chest, then put a nail over the sternum, driving it home with one wet smack of a hammer. With the paper pinned in place, they began nailing the lid shut, preparing it for Nora to deliver to Port Agrith.
Sara barely gave it any thought, occupied as she was with her thoughts. She'd been hoping for months now to find a proper general for Tulian's army, but none had arrived. Ignite was only experienced in dealing with small squads in naval actions, and Voth was exceptionally clear that he had no desire to fight a proper Royal Army.
Sara sighed. She was going to have to pay very, very close attention to Evie's lessons. It looked like Sara was going to be in charge of the army whether she wanted it or not, and she had only months until the Sporaton Army would be gunning for her.
Notes:
If this were a paper book, you'd probably be noticing that you're getting towards the end of the book right now. Only a few chapters left until the end of Part One! Luckily, it's not, and the transition to Part Two/Book Two will proceed seamlessly, the weekly updates coming as regularly as I can!
Chapter 31: Special Interest Derailment
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara eyed the little glass vial with distaste. She gave it an experimental swirl, watching flecks suspended in the goopy blue solution spiral.
"You're sure this is safe to drink?"
"Selly made it," Ketch simply replied, crossing her arms. As far as the Azerketi girl was concerned, the work of her girlfriend was good as gold.
Sara uncorked the bottle and gave it a sniff, a mistake that was rewarded with a nostril-clogging scent of dead fish. "Augh! God, Ketch, this smells awful."
"Do you wish to meet her, or not?"
"I mean, I do, but... couldn't she have, like, added some perfume to it? Maybe a bit of bacon grease or something for flavor?"
"If you wish to critique her alchemy, you must first drink the potion required to reach her. I certainly won't be the one to deliver your childish complaints."
"By the gods, Master," Evie sighed from behind Sara, stepping forward. She uncorked her own potion and threw her head back, downing it in one slug. "See?" She wiped her mouth. "Now may we please get on with it? I'd rather not lose more daylight than necessary."
The three of them were standing on the harbor's edge in the pitch black of night, not a soul around to witness their gathering. The waves lapping just below Sara's bare feet were impenetrably dark, starlight providing the barest glints of light when they broke against the stone. The harbor was choppy, stirred by breeze racing up and over Tulian's great walls, which Sara could see only by the way they blocked starlight on the horizon. Ketch had insisted it would be best to meet Selly and her father early in the morning, near or before sunset, and Sara hadn't wanted to wake up that early. Instead she and Evie had worked through the night, grinding their way through paperwork by candlelight until it was time to change outfits and depart.
Those outfits were not too dissimilar from Ketch's usual attire, an ensemble Ketch naturally had her own foreign names for. For all Sara was concerned, it was skimpy athletic ware, biking shorts and bikini tops that were rather flattering on herself and her companions. She'd normally have been all for prancing about half-naked with beautiful women, but she was about to be prancing her way to the home of Ketch's father, which changed things considerably. Even Sara felt a blush crawling up her throat when she imagined meeting someone's father while dressed in lingerie.
And he made it for us, Sara suddenly realized. He literally weaved us the clothes we bang his daughter in. As a GIFT. Gods, this is going to be awkward.
Never one to be outdone, Sara pinched her nose and opened her mouth, downing the foul potion. A gritty, slimy texture filled her mouth, sliding down her throat, but before it reached her stomach proper, she felt something shift. The concoction pierced the walls of her throat as if it were porous, entering her trachea as a thick sludge sliding down into her lungs. She reflexively choked, grabbing her throat while trying to swear, but all that came out was a series of bizarre bassy thuds and wet clicks, the solution having already expanded to displace every inch of air.
Ketch slapped Sara's back none too gently, smiling wryly. "You know, your slave did a much better job at this than you. Shouldn't you be trying to set an example?"
Sara flipped Ketch off while stumbling forward to the water's edge, hoping the sensation would be easier to bear when submerged. She hopped off without a second thought, embarrassment having robbed the black waters of any ominous foreboding.
She hit with a splash and began sinking, none of her body's natural buoyancy there to send her bobbing back to the surface. The tropical Tulian waters were plenty warm even in the dead of night, and the thin material of her clothing was comfortable even when soaked. She opened her mouth as she felt her feet sink into the silty bottom, drawing a tiny experimental breath. When she failed to begin choking to death, she took another, and then another, and only once she was reassured that the potion had worked did she open her eyes.
The world was painted in foreign colors, a new subcategory of vibrancy replacing the spectrum of light Sara was familiar with. Living things, such as the small baitfish scuttling by, were bathed in the brightest shades, while purely physical objects like stone and mud were almost too dull to notice. Ketch was the brightest of anything Sara could see, floating before her upside-down, arms crossed disapprovingly.
"You really didn't trust Selly's potion, did you?" Her voice was altered by the water, but not unduly so, just the crisp edges of sound filtered out, as if Ketch were speaking from another room. Down in the water, Sara noted, Ketch's gills were much more noticeable, three slits on either side flared out and undulating.
"I-- Oh, that feels weird." Sara put a hand to her throat. There must have been some magical effect of the potion that allowed Sara to speak, because the sensation wasn't like anything else she'd experienced. She cleared her throat, trying again. "It's not that I didn't trust it, it's just that-- I mean, well, can you blame me?"
Ketch rolled her eyes, performing an acrobatic twist to place herself in the same orientation as Sara, with her webbed feet facing the ground. Where Sara had sunk straight to the bottom, Ketch floated weightlessly above it, tiny flicks of her feet and hands correcting for the push and pull of the waves without any apparent thought. Ketch, a rogue, had always been graceful in her movements on land, but beneath the sea there was an almost otherworldly surety to her every action, a level of precision that Sara could only imagine possessing for herself.
A splash from above caused Sara to snap her attention upwards, but her sight was almost immediately blocked by the halo of hair she'd failed to tie back. Shoulder-length curls looked great on dry land, but as thick globs of it began to tangle together or get caught in her mouth, Sara had to admit Ketch's buzzcut made a hell of a lot more sense beneath the waves.
"I swear, you fool," Ketch muttered, pushing herself over. Sara stopped fighting her own hair as she felt the azerketi's expert hands weave their way into the snarl, pinning it back in a matter of moments. Sara's vision was cleared just in time to see a smirking Evie float down, smugly adjusting the hair tie she always wore. Ketch snipped off a piece of seaweed from nearby, neatly tying off Sara's hair into a ponytail. "There," she huffed, "Now you won't swim straight into a wall. Also, you probably don't want to be standing in that."
Sara looked down for the first time. The silt beneath the ship berthing was a pale gray, suffused with decades of detritus. Rotting ropes ensnared abandoned anchors, collections of half-broken fish skeletons piled so high Sara was shocked she hadn't landed on any. She made a face and quickly kicked up off the ground, joining Evie in a light paddle just above the muck.
"Jesus, this is your daily commute, Ketch?" Sara asked. "This shit's rank."
"What else did you expect? Sailors are not famed for their cleanliness."
"Still, though, you swim by this every day? We're gonna have to make, like, an azerketi-only section of the harbor. I can't imagine this'd make a good impression if any foreign azerketi came to visit Tulian."
"Nothing worse than every other port, from what I've heard. Quite a lot better, if anything, with the reduced shipping after the storms. Now, are you all ready to go?"
They were. Sara and Evie kicked after Ketch, making fools of themselves next to the nimble woman, who grew progressively more exasperated at having to wait up for her charges. The harbor was built around a natural bay, giving the hidden landscape a rolling nature to it, but over the centuries more than one king or mayor had seen fit to make improvements. Channels had been dredged in the shallowest corridors, underwater canals that the deepest draft of ships had navigated through. How anyone in this world did construction underwater, Sara couldn't imagine, but she figured magic must have been involved in some capacity.
Idly, she wondered if azerketi wizards were common; that would certainly simplify projects like dredging, not to mention the potential for magical attacks on ships from below. Per Ketch's explanation, Selly had single-handedly ripped every living soul off a ship without ever exposing herself to danger, and that'd just been one woman. In the past Sara would have left the thought there, no more than passive musing, but the revelations wrung from Vidanya had changed things. Infrastructure and military power were of vital importance, and it was her duty to explore any possible advantage. She'd ask Selly about it during their meeting.
The actual swim itself was uneventful, aside from Sara catching a few glances of larger things swimming at the edge of her vision. Lithe bodies with sharp fins, prowling in lonely circuits. They never drew too near, making it hard to judge their size, but Sara would have guessed most were north of ten feet in length. It was a little bit like being in the African savannah, catching the barest glimpses of lions emerging and fading back into the tall grass, never sure if she was the target of their interest. Her only reassurance was the way Ketch paid them little mind, and Sara did her best to imitate that nonchalance.
Ketch began to descend after twenty minutes or so of swimming, guiding them towards a more natural ravine that abutted the harbor walls. Unlike the dredged channels, this rift dove deep into the earth, any end well beyond sight. Ketch swam directly down, angling towards the far rock wall. Right around when Sara began to grow concerned about things like water pressure or decompression sickness, a glow faded into view, lighting the entrance of a cave. Ketch swung towards it, beckoning them onwards.
"Hey, I'm home!" Ketch called into the cave, catching the upper lip of the cave to flip herself inside. "Sara and Evie are with me, too. They barely even choked on the potion, too."
A muffled response began, one that became clearer as Sara approached. "...thought you said they were coming tomorrow? I'm hardly ready for guests, dear!"
The voice sounded like an older man's, a pleasant sort of minor chastisement in his words. Ketch sighed loudly, a noise that Sara couldn't quite explain the origin of considering the lack of air.
"Dad, it is tomorrow. It's nearly sunrise."
"My word? Already? I must get the-- Oh!"
Sara landed on the stone floor at just that moment, startling Ketch's father. "Sorry for the surprise, sir. If you need a bit more time to get ready, it's not a problem at all."
As she spoke, Sara took in her surroundings. The mouth of the cave was a ten by ten foot lumpy circle, the home beginning just a few feet away from its entrance. It was built from the ground up for those that lived underwater, its layout alien in its disregard for up and down. Things cluttered the ceilings, walls, and floors in equal measure, multicolored glowing corals growing like overambitious houseplants. Seagrass woven into ropes had been looped through chiseled holes in the stone, securing sushi-like packets of goods wrapped in flat seaweed. A few intrepid minnows were pecking at the layers in an effort to get at whatever was stored inside, until Ketch shooed them away exactly as one might flies on land. The closest thing to furniture as Sara knew it was a few stone tables near the back wall, piled high with half-woven black threads that she recognized as the nylon-esque material that made up her current clothing. Two branching paths of the cave twisted away to either side of the desks, curving too sharply for Sara to see much further.
Ketch's father himself was the spitting image of Ketch, or at least Sara initially thought so. The man was only the second azerketi she'd ever met, so she made an effort to note the differences. His hair was shot through with white, kept longer than Ketch's, two or three inches that floated freely as he moved. His blue skin was mottled with darker patches, a pattern similar to vitiligo, and it broke up the otherwise unremarkable flabbiness of his paunchy build. Even with gills in his neck and claw-tipped webbed hands, the man looked every part the role of 'Dad'. Sara hadn't spoken to him at all, but was already certain he had extremely firm opinions on this world's equivalent of weather forecasting, lawncare, and deck building.
Ketch's father waved them in. "Well, since you're already here, come in, come in!" He looked down at the corals and packets studding the floor and frowned. "It's been so long since I had guests from above that I forgot the way you folk are so poor at floating. If you give me just a minute, I'll have this cleared away so you don't have to kick about like that."
"It's not a problem," Sara immediately insisted, finding a clear spot to land on, Evie alighting a few feet away. "It's nice to meet you, sir. Ketch has said a lot in your favor. I'm Sara, and this is Evie."
"Oh! Yes, introductions. I'm Birl, Ketch's father, and I must say that she's said very many good things about you, as well. It's a shame her mother has been away for the last few months, but the harvest is too good down south this time of year for her to waste her time twiddling her thumbs with us. You should visit again, when the rains stop. She should be home by then. Though..." he looked around at the home, wringing his hands. "I'd much rather you didn't tell her about the state I kept things in for this visit. I really ought not have put off tidying for so long."
"I'll keep the secret," Sara agreed, smiling. For a five and a half foot tall fishman, he was adorable. "What about Selly? Is she home right now?"
"Oh, Selliana? Of course, my apologies, of course you'd want to meet her first, I beg your pardon. Yes, she's just about always at home. Would you like to go meet her?"
"Whatever's best, and no, I didn't want to meet her first. The clothes you've made for us have been excellent, and I've got a lot I want to talk about there. We don't have anything like them up top, and I think you'd be a very wealthy man if you could find a way to make enough to sell them."
"Oh? Ketch said as much, but I thought she was just puffing me up. She's a good girl, isn't she?"
"Dad!"
Sara blinked. It was disorienting, experiencing such a normal interaction in such a bizarre environment. If you replaced glowing coral with lightbulbs and stone furniture with recliners, Sara wasn't sure if she'd have been able to distinguish this moment from any first meeting of her various girlfriend's parents back on Earth. Sara even noticed the old stilted formality infecting her word, self-consciousness leaving her talking to Birl like he was a drill sergeant.
"She is, sir, and I'm lucky to have met her. She's been a huge help, and she's saved a lot of lives."
It was Birl's turn to blink, astonished. "Oh. My word, that's rather dramatic, isn't it? But I guess it's true, what with the battle in the harbor and whatnot... Well. Far be it for me to get in the way of my daughter's successes, Sara. If you'd like to go meet Selliana now, I can spend a few minutes cleaning up here."
"No need to struggle on our account, sir," Sara said, hopping back up into the water. "Thank you for your hospitality."
As Sara and Evie began swimming toward the indicated tunnel, she heard Birl, under his breath, say to Ketch, "Rather formal girl, isn't she?"
"I think she was just nervous, dad."
"Nervous? A Champion? To meet me?"
"She's kinda just like that, I guess. I gotta go, alright?"
Sara waited until Ketch caught up, then followed her down into the cave's entrance. It immediately began an awkward, twisting dive into the earth, the sort of maze that Sara imagined would have gotten a lot of over-ambitious scuba divers killed back on earth. Ketch guided them past a plethora of branching paths, following a trail of cultivated corals that made just enough light to find the walls by. After nearly five minutes of swimming, Sara spoke spoke up.
"When you said Selly lives with you, I was imagining something more like a house. Where you were all sharing the dining and living room, that kind of thing. This is basically a different city block."
"She comes up on occasion," Ketch replied airily. "And it's for the best that she lives down here. Some of her less successful experiments get... noxious. It's for the best that it's diluted by the time it gets up to the rest of the home, trust me."
"So she is not just a mage, but an alchemist?" Evie asked.
Ketch tilted her hand back and forth in an uncertain gesture. "Eh, I don't know about that. Mage, alchemist, whatever you want to call her, it's not quite right. You'll see. We're almost there."
With an answer as ambivalent as that, Sara's curiosity grew with each passing moment. Eventually the cave began to narrow, signs of work showing on the stone, until Sara and the others were swimming single-file. A door appeared at the end of the hallway, treated wood coated in a thin layer of algae. Ketch put her hand on a rusted iron handle, pausing to glance over her shoulder at Sara.
"Just so you know, Selly can kind of be... a lot. If she says something weird, or does something weird, don't take it to heart. She does it to everyone."
Sara raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Her idea of what was weird had been warped the moment she'd been ripped from reality by a foreign goddess; a reclusive mage couldn't be that bad. Ketch took a deep breath, then opened the door.
"Selly! Sara and Evie are here!"
A green current immediately swirled out from the room, eddies of disturbed moss and algae clinging to Sara's skin as she followed Ketch in. Sara coughed a little bit, waving what she could away from her face, and forded on.
Notes:
This chapter contains content that was originally planned to last approximately 1/6th the length, just the prelude for the meeting with Selly. In hindsight, I don't know why I thought I could hold myself back on an overdone description of the ocean; for god's sake, my writing room has six posters of sharks and 40+ books on oceanography. The self restraint required for me to write a character both ignorant of and disinterested in the ocean is herculean, I assure you.
As an aside, I've started work recently on the book project I'm actually setting up to be my first whole-hearted attempt at becoming a published author. Would any of you regular commenters be interested in becoming beta-readers? (I was going to list your names but then I realized I mainly remember y'alls PFPs) It's not smut or lesbians, but it is good, and I think it'd help me keep consistent progress if I knew someone was waiting for a new chapter each week. No pressure, I'll work on it no matter what, so nbd if you've got better things to do with your time.
Chapter 32: The Author Remembers This is Supposed to Be Smut (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Instead of the cave room Sara had expected, she was greeted by a yawning cavern. The roof stretched fifty feet above her, razor sharp stalactites dropping down half that distance by the dozens, their opposites rising up from below. The back wall was just at the edge of vision, a thick green fog suffusing the room overwhelming the potion's ability to peer through the depths. The source of the fog was obvious, as nearly every surface, from the rocky spires to the floors and walls, was covered in a thick layer of shaggy moss. It waved and weaved to the whims of currents she couldn't feel, rippling in dizzying patterns that ran circuits around the cavern, almost like a child running excited laps around the massive room. The entrance was placed solidly in the middle of the wall, which made sense, because ten feet of kelp and seaweed coated everything below, ribbons of green nearly solid in their density. Sara saw shapes darting through the forest, disturbing the vines, and was nearly startled back out of the room when a seal twice her size burst into the open, a wriggling fish clamped in its jaws. It was nearly as shocked by her arrival as she was its, and it backpedaled to dive out of sight.
"Selly?" Ketch called, swimming forward. "Don't pretend you can't hear me!"
Evie caught sight of the woman before Ketch did, pointing her out for Sara. A curled form, blending into a cubby carved into one of the massive stalactites. Sara thought she was an azarketi, like Ketch, but couldn't really be sure. Her skin was a brownish-green, sporting scales a few inches long across her entire body, whereas Ketch only had scales in a few select places. Sara mistook her hair for part of the terrain, at first, because it sprouted from her scalp like weeds, wispy pond moss kept in an unkempt cloud. More of the moss sprouted from beneath scales that pried up and off the pink flesh below, as if her entire body was a crushed toe halfway through sloughing off its nail. As she continued to unfurl from her balled position, Sara realized that her limbs were long, far too long, the woman at least twelve feet tall, with all of the height coming from her stretched legs and arms, none from her comparatively diminutive torso. Even with fifty feet between them, Sara had to bite down a sudden urge to back away, a primal kind of fear welling up in her gut.
Instead of cowering as she wanted to, Sara, self-declared champion of the poker face, simply raised her arm for a friendly wave and cheery shout. "Hey there! Hope we didn't interrupt anything too important."
Selly pressed her long digits to the stone, a snake coiling for a strike. Sara's grin grew brittle, but she didn't let it fall. Without a word, Selly extended, rocketing towards Sara, and before she could even blink she was surrounded in a gangly embrace, crooked arms and legs bent into Vs that ended on her shoulders and hips.
Rather elegantly, Sara replied with, "Woahlyshit?!"
"Hello," Selliana rasped, cheshire grin bearing rows of piranha teeth. She brought her face closer to Sara, tickling her nose with mossy hair, and opened her mouth wide. Sara cringed back, half expecting her head to get bit off, but instead she felt something warm slither across her face, barbed and thin.
Selliana was licking her.
"Oh-- Uh, not that I mind, but--" Sara tried to free herself from the grip on her shoulders, but the woman's fingers were steel. "I take it you're Selly?"
The tongue retreated just before crossing Sara's eyelid, Selliana returning to view. She licked her lips languidly. "You are the Champion, aren't you? Ketch's memories seemed compelling, but the taste of gods is much more certain."
The stranglehold on Sara's body loosened slightly, but she still couldn't move. It was like being seized by a daddy longlegs the size of a car, and it took her a moment to scrape her thoughts together before she could reply.
"Y'know, I've met more than a few people that were convinced I was divine after having a taste of me, but I think you're the first person to do it like that."
"Ah, amorous Amarat. Of course. I thank you, little Champion, for distracting the body of my Familiar. Always a bother, to tend the needs reflected in she, but not in me."
Though the images of Ketch getting 'treated' by this woman were a tantalizing distraction, what was left of Sara's analytical mind seized on the word "little". Sara had met hundreds of people that recognized her as a Champion, but not one had called her "little", not even Kings or archmages. Was Selliana that ancient, that powerful, or just commenting on their relative heights? Whatever it was, Sara didn't know; the woman was too alien to read. Sara hadn't felt this out of her depth since Garen had tossed her into a ceiling.
"It feels weird to get thanks for that, to be honest." Sara shrugged as best she could. "It's been a pretty great deal on my end, after all."
"So I've seen, through her eyes," Selliana replied, almost wistful. "Maybe I ought find a potion to bring to light other's desires. The throes of ecstasy are such potent things, for luring spirits of the mind."
Sara'd been wondering why Ketch wasn't saying anything yet, and when no response came from her after that idea, Sara looked about. She found the woman, of all things, clinging like a monkey to Selly's thigh, eyes lidded and staring up in absolute adoration. It was a reverant expression Sara had only seen when Ketch was under the influence of the Gift of Lust, and to see it invoked here was disconcerting.
"Ketch? Ketch, you good?"
"She is well," Ketch's body replied, the dry rasp of Selliana's voice emanating from her slack mouth. "It is simply how she prefers to be with me. Minds intertwined, no lines between hers and mine."
Sara bristled. Or at least tried to. Self-righteous protectiveness was hard to summon up while being pinned in place by someone twice her height. To see Ketch reduced to nothing but a puppet was disconcerting in the extreme, and she opened her mouth to protest.
Instead, Evie appeared beside her, speaking in a low tone. "Master, all is well. She told us herself that Selly had Bonded her, and I explained in no uncertain terms what that meant."
Selliana nodded, releasing one of Sara's shoulders to reach down and fondly pat Ketch's head. "What she and I are makes pale of the bindings between you and your Evie, little Champion. She is Mine, an organ and a limb, and I am hers, beating heart and stained soul." There was a faint twitch in Ketch's empty expression, one of pleasure. "In death and the life after will we remain so, one soul of two minds." Her hand moved lower on Ketch, possessively tightening around her throat in a way very, very familiar to Sara. Ketch had shown her just how to squeeze, after all. It was no surprise when Ketch's hips twisted, pressing her core harder against Selly's thigh. Chuckling, Selly said, "And I assure you, she is ever so well treated. Perhaps not so tenderly as I have seen through her eyes, nor so rough, but treated all the same."
Ketch was now licking Selliana's scales, slowly running the flat of her tongue up and down her leg. Her legs had twisted to lock around the larger woman's thighs, her lower back undulating in an unconscious grinding motion.
Sara watched this display with a mixture of astonishment and other, less appropriate emotions. She shook her head at Ketch. "Damn, girl, you're really bad at not getting mind controlled, aren't you?"
Blue eyes fluttered, some semblance of thought reentering them just so Ketch could turn to pout at Sara. "That's unfair. Your Gift of Lust is hardly mind control. And besides, have you any idea what it's like to be a Familiar?" A shiver ran down her body. "She's in my mind, Sara. What she wants me to think, I think. What she wants me to feel, I feel. She can take from me painful memories and help create wondrous new ones, even twist me into a different person if she so pleased, but I hear all her thoughts, and know she never will." Her eyes began to lid once more. "It is wonderful, wonderful. Truly... wonderful..." She trailed off, lost to insensibility once more.
"So you see?" Selliana asked, releasing Sara at last. "You have no need for fear of me, Champion Sara. She is very welcome in my embrace."
Sara reached up to rub at her shoulders where fingers had dug in, taking the time to put words to her thoughts. "Look, 24/7 kink stuff is fine for some people, but you gotta admit the power dynamic on display here is risky at best." Sara wasn't sure if those terms were too foreign to be understood, but it was the only way she could parse it. "Like, it's one thing to do full time roleplay, but you literally are Ketch at this point. I've got no way of knowing if she actually said that stuff, or if you just made her mouth move the right way."
"Then ask her again, when you and she are free of my Mien," Selliana suggested, long fingernails scratching Ketch's head. "Your own pet knows much of those such as we, I note." She pointed to Evie. "Slave," she used the word fondly, "What of familiars and their masters have you seen? Your collar winds its way into your soul in a most unusual way, and such a thing does not come to be by fate or chance. It has been pushed deeper into your web, divine binds guided and pruned. You have begun to emulate the Bond?"
"Woah, what?" Sara asked, whirling on Evie. "You've been doing what? "
Evie shrugged, feigning indifference. "I have read and studied witchery these last few months, and used it to deepen the collar's hold on me. At first I thought only to understand its effects, perhaps find you a simpler way to break its hold on others, but practitioners only ever seemed interested in binding another to themselves, rather than the reverse."
"But you did that on us? "
"On myself only, Master. You seek to break the collars, to rid the world of them, and I will do everything in my power to see your ambitions through. Of course, it naturally occurred to me that if you were able to do so painlessly, you would naturally break our own bond, and the thought terrified me. The rituals required to Dedicate myself to you were not difficult to achieve, not with such a strong binding tying our souls together already."
Sara pinched the bridge of her nose, groaning. "So you, knowing that I wanted to get rid of magic slavery, did your best to find ways to make it work even better? "
"You have ever encouraged me to take my own course, Master. That I exercised your permissions in this manner may be surprising, but I don't believe it can be criticized."
"I mean-- I guess?" Sara sighed. "Just... how well did it work? If you get captured, can some dickhead study what you did to make the other collars work better?"
"Perhaps?" Evie sounded uncertain. "All of the texts emphasized the role of the supplicant, rather than the Master. It is why I could perform the rituals without your notice. Even if the effects may be replicated by another manner, I do not believe the methods I employed could be achieved without the willful participation of the enslaved."
"But you're not certain?"
"I was merely following instructions, Master. I know very little of magery and its workings, and so can't confidently say. It is a problem that would only have become relevant were I defeated and captured, and I am very skilled. I gave it little thought."
"That's... mindblowingly arrogant."
"If I may?" Selliana interjected. She didn't wait for a response. "I believe I have found myself intrigued, and the pursuit of my curiosity may yet sate yours. If you wish, I could investigate what your slave's blind toying with her immortal soul has achieved."
"It was not blind," Evie sniffed, offended. "I am not foolish enough to attempt ritual magecraft without appropriate preparation."
"Of course, of course," Selly purred, reaching one long limb out to brush the back of her hand against the metal of Evie's collar. "But neither you nor I understand in fullness what you have done. Won't you take the chance to learn more of yourself?"
Evie flinched away from Selliana's touch, a protective hand itching to go to her collar, but she mastered her instincts, barely allowing the slow stroking. At the question, she only twitched her ears, glancing at Sara. "Well, Master?"
"It's... I mean, we kinda have to, right? Learning about the collars is pretty high up on my priority list. What do you already know of them, Selliana?"
"Little more than the fact that they are a blinding white to my Sight, too suffused with ancient threads to decipher."
"But did they really come from a god?" Sara asked. "Everyone claims they did, but I never found any actual records on that. I always wondered if people are only assuming they're invincible, because of their supposed origin."
"I was not there when they were brought to this world, but to deny their divinity is lunacy. None but the gods can create things of such indomitable certainty. They are not magecraft, little Champion. They are an aspect of reality, defined. A point of existence that insist upon themselves, their rules supersede the world they inhabit. You can no more fight the collars than you might overcome the pull of the world itself."
"We actually did that, though," Sara said. "Back in my world? We beat gravity, the pull of the world. It turns out that if you get high enough, and fast enough, it doesn't really matter anymore."
Selliana stopped her slow stroking of Evie's collar, silently absorbing that. "...Well. Perhaps my choice of words was poor, but the nature of the collars remain. They are divine, and therefore insurmountable. The morality of your Quest is as impeccable as its fulfillment is impossible."
Though Selliana's words were spoken with lordly gravitas, Sara shrugged. "Eh, I've read enough history to know what to think when someone says something is impossible. We're not dealing with capital-g Gods here, so they're not perfect, and that means there's gonna be some way to destroy what they made. Even if there's not, I could still, like, toss them all in a volcano."
Selliana smiled sweetly, a grisly thing. "You wish to find all the collars, little Champion? Scour the world for five-ten-thousand iron bands, kill every last one of their possessors, then break the will of the gods themselves to destroy them?"
Sara cocked her head to listen, bobbing her head after each listed challenge like she was memorizing a grocery list. When Selliana finished, she nodded."Pretty much sums it up. After all, doing impossible stuff is a Champion's shtick, isn't it? At the very least, I'm gonna have a better chance than anyone else has at succeeding." Sara looked out at the rest of the cavern, as if she could look beyond the walls to the world beyond. "Are there really fifty thousand of those things out there?"
"According to tale and legend, yes."
"Well. That's going to take a while, but it's not like there's anything better to do with the time. Now, weren't we supposed to be studying my girlfriend?"
"Slave, Master," Evie reminded her, leaning in.
Sara rolled her eyes. "Slave, right. Sorry." She looked to Selliana. "Are you ready to start?"
"I have no reason to delay. So you do wish to be studied, Slave?"
Sara paused, feeling confused, and a little bit confused about why she was feeling confused. After a moment, it clicked. It was the first time that someone in this world had heard Sara make a decision for Evie on something, yet persisted in asking for her slave's opinion anyway. Everyone else, even Vesta or Hurlish, took for granted that Evie was on board for whatever Sara wanted to do.
Even Evie seemed a little bit bewildered, but the moment of confusion was much shorter for her. "Master wishes me to, and so I will."
"Excellent," Selliana said, swimming away. Ketch was still firmly attached to her thigh like a remora, dampening what might have been an otherworldly eeriness.
To Evie, Sara whispered, "Well, she seems... interesting."
"She seems useful, Master," Evie corrected. "Enough that I wonder if Amarat's interference in your meeting with Ketch was intended as an introduction to Selliana, rather than Ketch herself."
Sara frowned, slowly beginning to follow in Selliana's wake. "Not sure if I like that interpretation. It'd be pretty shitty of Amarat to get innocent bystanders wrapped up in my personal shitshow just so they can introduce me to someone else."
"By Selliana's account, the completion of your quest will require you to involve nearly everyone in the world with your 'personal shitshow', Master. I fail to see the moral difference."
"The difference is that I have to, if I want to do what's right. Getting rid of those abominations is worth a whole hell of a lotta collateral. But Amarat's a god. She has enough power to do things the right way."
"So you often say, Master." Evie cast a supersititous glance towards the ceiling. "I, for one, would like it to be known that any aid of the gods, no matter how circumspect its delivery, is something I welcome very gratefully."
Sara snorted, diving down to the small clearing in the seaweed Selliana had landed in. There was something of a laboratory there, though it was far from any modern standard of sterility. Glass beakers and vials were corked with black rubber, fantastical ingredients in various stages of disassembly beside them. Many powders and bowls of solution were kept in sealed glass boxes filled with air, even some pots of living flowers kept carefully out of the way. Skewered bugs and filleted fish were as common as herbs and powders, and many of their parts had been chopped off in piecemeal fashion for some presumed reason or another. The only space that was clear was the large stone table in the center of the clearing, which Selliana patted invitingly.
"Come now, come. Let us begin to learn of the iron which binds your souls."
Evie swam forward, allowing Selliana's long limbs to maneuver her into a laying position. The witch-- a title which Sara was increasingly certain was the only appropriate word for Selliana-- plucked several metallic instruments from hidden places, laying them beside Evie like a surgeon. This done, Selliana looked to Sara.
"Well? What are you waiting for, little Champion?"
"Me? I thought I was just watching."
"Perhaps at first, if you'd like, but the bond cannot be so crudely studied. We will need to see it at its height, if we wish to be illuminated."
"Meaning...?"
"When your Slave Dedicates herself to you, of course. What else?"
"Uh..." Sara glanced at Evie, who was characteristically unfazed. "You do know what that involves for us, right? Because I'm Amarat's Champion?"
"Yes, yes, Ketch has seen it, even involved herself with it." Ketch's body shifted, grinding a little bit harder against Selliana's leg. The witch gave her another fond pat. "Rather enthusiastically, as you can see. What is the issue?"
Sara looked at her surroundings, from the desiccated bullfrogs to the ominous cavern of doom, the water thick with moss and algae, and then to the intended spectator, who loomed over them with flesh that looked to be nearly rotting off the bone.
"It's just that, uh, we haven't done it underwater," Sara tried. "Not really sure if everything would work right, with human bodies."
"I assure you, my potions cover all contingencies. Your slave's natural lubrication will--"
Selliana's head cocked, her body language shifting as Ketch's voice emanated from her mouth. "It's not that, Selly. It's the environment."
Selliana's head twitched back the other way, her natural voice returning. "I hardly see the problem, my precious guppy. I've already explained the potion's effects will compensate."
Ketch's voice returned. "It's not a physical problem, Selly. It's in the mind. Just trust me on it, okay?"
Ketch's body straightened on Selliana's thigh, looking up as Selly's voice rasped out of it. "You never had any such problems, guppy. Quite the opposite, if anything."
"Everyone's different," Ketch replied, this time using her own body. Sara was starting to get a headache trying to follow it. "Take their minds someplace else, if you really want to see them involving themselves." After a moment's hesitation, the ancient witch's body cocked its hips, looking pouty. "And send me with them, too. The taste of your skin can only get me so far."
"Fine, fine," Selliana sighed, her true body waving Ketch's mannerism away like a buzzing fly. She looked down at Sara. "Do you agree with my familiar, Champion? Should you allow it, I may send your dreaming minds to anywhere of your comfort."
Sara looked for Evie's opinion and was met with her typical deference. "Sure," Sara decided. "It's dream stuff, right? Not actually invading our minds?"
"Correct, but in the interest of honesty you value, I must say that it would not be difficult to enter your mind once you are under my thrall."
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't advise you try. Amarat probably rigged a bomb to go off the moment someone goes poking around in there, to keep certain things secret."
Selliana's fingers hesitated over her instruments. "Ah. A prescient warning. I will take utmost care." She produced two dark potions, floating one each over to Sara and Evie. The fluid was dark and thick in the vial, but not quite as immediately unappealing as the water breathing potions. "A simple draught to draw you into a deep sleep. When you are ready, drink it and lie upon the stone."
"Getting some serious flashbacks to my school days," Sara mumbled, hopping up onto the table next to Evie, who was already drinking the potion. Sara downed her own, surprised at how quickly it went down, then laid back and did her best to get comfortable. "So, will you be able to see what's going on in on her heads while you do this?"
"Yes," Selliana replied simply, selecting an instrument that looked like a magnifying glass. She bent low over Evie's collar, holding the device close. "I am guiding the spellwork, after all."
Sara's head began to spin with anesthetic wooziness as she watched Selliana work. "That's not a problem on my end, but for the record, I'm not gonna take responsibility for whatever weird fantasies my subconscious produces."
"Yours?" Selliana hummed without looking up. "My dear, we are studying your Slave. It is you who will be subject to her innermost desires."
"Oh," Sara said quietly, the world beginning to darken at its corners.
----------------------------
Evie
----------------------------
Evie's mind fell into a deadening spiral, a thick numbness in her tongue spreading up through her throat and into her mind, stripping away the layers of reason that would have allowed her to discern reality from fiction. She heard a few metallic clicks, felt a long finger prodding at her throat, and then she was away, far away, thinking about... thinking about...
What was it, again?
Oh, yes. The Day of Selection. How could she forget?
Evie straightened her dress in the parlor's waiting room, smoothing the sheer threads until they clung against her bare stomach. While most of the other slaves chose something more chaste, if still revealing, she had assembled her outfit with only one target in mind. Thin strips of opaque cloth barely covered her breasts, one large red ribbon that tied into a stylized bow between her shoulderblades. The gossamer material that hung from it was barely present enough to discolor her skin, some foreign silk or another that served only to bridge the gap to her bottoms, a set of that same red cloth that looped around her waist several times before diving between her legs, pressed tightly enough that it hid nothing.
It was said that the Champion had rather bold tastes, as might be expected of Amarat's Chosen, and Evie had dressed with this in mind. The Madame had seen her outfit and tsked rather pointedly, suggesting several alterations that would better entice a Lord or Lady into a purchase so they might unwrap her body for themselves, but Evie had persisted. The Champion would not be interested in a woman playing coy, her instincts told her. Evie arranged herself in the room according to that idea as she waited, lounging across the velvet furniture in a variety of casual poses that left every bit of her on display.
The problem was, Evie couldn't decide on a pose. The door directly faced both the chaise lounge and the poster bed, but it would be obviously unnatural if the Champion walked into the room with Evie's legs spread wide on the bed. Some decorum would do, at the very least, and she mustn't look like one seeking to cling to the Champion's coattails by overdoing things.
As Evie was indecisively moving yet again from the bed to the chaise lounge, the doorknob clicked. Evie's ears and tail went rigid with panic as she suddenly dove forward, throwing herself into position as quickly as she could.
"...told you, this entire thing is ridiculous--" Evie heard the Champion say as the door swung open, still looking over her shoulder to speak to someone behind her. "--and I don't care what the Church has to say about... about..." The words trailed off as the Champion turned to look at Evie for the first time.
Evie smiled politely, giving a gentlewoman's wave, as if she weren't as close to naked as one could be without baring it all. She'd landed in a proper Lady's sitting position on the edge of the lounge, with one leg thrown over the other and her hands folded primly in her lap. Her straight posture pushed her modest chest forward, highlighting what little her clothing hid, and Evie was rewarded immediately when the Champion's eyes darted down from her face, instinct driving her eyes into a lecherous appraisal of Evie's body.
To her credit, the Champion mastered herself incredibly quickly. Just before her eyes reached beneath Evie's waist she steeled herself, locking into a firm eye contact with Evie, expression all business. Only the rising blush gave away her thoughts, and Evie felt her tail curl with pride.
"Hello," the Champion said, swallowing. "Sorry for not knocking. I was in the middle of an argument, and most of the others haven't been so..."
"Honest?" Evie supplied, spreading her hands-- and by consequence, her arms-- wide. The Champion's eyes flashed towards her chest for the briefest moment, almost enough to make Evie doubt it happened. She forged on, eager to pick away at so strong-willed a woman. "For the slaves of a brothel, so many of my sisters work very hard to convince the customers they are anything else. I, on the other hand, delight in my profession."
"I can see that," the Champion said, swallowing again as she looked about herself. She was wearing men's commoner clothing, breeches and a cloth shirt, but if the outfit was to downplay her Champion's beauty, it had failed. Despite no signs of tailoring, Amarat's blessings had her clothes hugging her form like the men's suits of foreign courts, though without the stiff collars and fine buttons. What would have been frumpy laziness on any other became rugged practicality, a handsome presentation that stirred warmth in Evie's core. She licked her lips and allowed her gaze to wander freely as the Champion spoke on. "Nothing wrong with taking pride in what you do, when you enjoy the work. But if you were really deadset on getting the job with me, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint."
"Oh?" Evie intoned, cocking her head and flicking her ears in an inquisitive fashion, a practiced gesture that intentionally drew the eye to Evie's exotic features. "And why ever would one such as you pass up so excellent an opportunity as this? The Madame's products are the finest in the continent, it's said."
"Yeah, and I'm sure they are, but the fact you're called 'products' is kinda the problem," the Champion said, scanning the room for a chair. There was nowhere to sit aside from the lounge Evie occupied and the bed, and they would be expected to conduct this interview for fifteen minutes or more. "Not really interested in the whole sex-slave thing, afraid to say," the Champion said, electing to remain standing.
Evie smiled warmly, though the words made her stomach lurch. "While I would be incredibly disappointed to sleep apart from you, I can assure you that my talents extend far beyond sensuality. I will be your attendant in all things, your tutor and your accountant, bodyguard and spy. To achieve what I can alone, you would need a staff of dozens."
"And that's helpful, and super impressive, but--" Evie stretched once more, pushing her hands over her head so that her tail naturally uncurled, rolling into sight. The Champion stuttered mid-sentence. "B-but... Uh... If doing that means owning someone else, then it's not really worth it."
Evie finished her languid stretch. "I can assure you, Champion--"
"Sara's fine."
Evie blinked at the uncharacteristic interruption, but took it in stride. "I can assure you, then, that I am everything but unwilling. Need I prove it to you, while the magic doesn't yet bind us?" Evie nodded towards her collar's associated wristband, which sat on a lavishly sequined pad on the bed's end table, waiting for the Champion to claim her. "It doesn't control me presently, as you can see. I could have left any time, yet I chose to wait for you. I can say anything I like right now, and I choose this."
"I mean-- systemic issues can create a lot of unconscious pressures to conform--"
"Dear," Evie interrupted, as if chiding her. She slipped off the chair, taking slow, overlapping steps towards the Champion. "If you won't take me as yours, why not at least spend our time together memorably?" Evie advanced on the Champion, who was chuckling nervously and backing towards the door.
"Oh. Oh, I mean, I guess there's nothing wrong with that, but..."
"But?" Evie prompted, closing the gap. She stopped just before the bare skin above her chest would have pressed against the underside of the Champion's breasts. Up close, it was truly striking how tall the woman was. Evie batted her eyes up at her, awaiting a response.
"But... It's complicated," the Champion breathed, her shoulders raised up and her palms pressed to the wood behind her. It was as if she was terrified of touching Evie.
"Complicated how?" Evie asked, studying Sara.
"Champion stuff, I guess. Changes, since I came to this world. Not sure if I want to push my luck."
"Oh, now that sounds positively delightful," Evie purred, taking her time blatantly looking the far taller woman up and down.
"I'm-- look, can we get some space here?" The Champion asked, breathing quickly. "Amarat's got, uh, certain expectations for her Champion's behavior, I guess, and I haven't been living up to that yet, so--"
Evie's grin turned villainous. "Oh, tell me it isn't true. A week in our world, gifted this body by Amarat, and you haven't yet put it to the test?"
"It's been a really busy week, in my defense," the Champion whined, doing her best to become one with the wooden door behind her. For all her wriggling, though, Evie hadn't seen her reach for the door handle once.
"So tell me," Evie said, reaching a finger out to trace the outline of the Champion's arm against the wood. "What is your concern? Too strong? You might hurt me? Or is it the... urges?" Though the second guess had been a stab in the dark, the Champion gulped. Evie laughed, retracting her hand. "It is the urges, isn't it? Amarat's Champion worries about controlling herself, is that it?"
"All the time," the Champion groaned, eyes wrenched shut. "So fuckin' hard, tryna stay focused in meeting after meeting, meanwhile my libido's going through the roof and I'm just getting lectures and books and god it's so boring and I'm so horny and it's the worst--"
The Champion's jaw clicked shut, as if finally realizing she shouldn't be lamenting her circumstances to a prostitute.
Evie only snickered. "I have a few ideas of what might help with that," she said.
"You don't get it, though," the Champion said, eyes still closed, her body still pinned by Evie's.
Evie stepped closer, going up on her tiptoes so the breath of her words would dust across the Champion's collarbone. "Don't understand what, pray tell?"
The Champion stayed silent, taking shaky breaths. Evie studied her for a moment, considering, then silently reached a hand up. Slowly, gently, as if calming a wild animal, she pressed her cupped palm to the Champion's jawline.
Dark eyes flashed open, a hand appearing around Evie's wrist, around her waist, dragging her in. Evie gasped as she felt her entire body get drawn tight against the rough cloth of the Champion's clothing, fearing for her life for the briefest of moments before the woman buried her face in Evie's hair and took a deep breath through her nose, the rumble of her chest reverberating into Evie's.
"Oh?" Evie said, pressing harder into the Champion's body. "Has someone found their spine?"
"Fuckin... fuckin' found something..." the champion muttered, face still buried in Evie's hair. "Dunno what it's gonna do to me, though. You sure you wanna do this?"
"My dear, what about my actions could have given you any other idea?"
Even as the words left her lips, Evie felt herself being picked up, strong arms reaching around to the back of her bare thighs, carrying her towards the bed. She laughed aloud at Sara's sudden change in attitude, rewarding the woman by peppering the side of her neck with light kisses. Sara groaned at each touch, a deep, guttural noise that Evie knew well, one that had her own body stirring in response.
Evie felt herself tilted backward onto the bed, soft sheets embracing her with the welcoming sigh of silk sliding over silk. Sara's body never left hers, the Champion following her all the way down so that her hands wouldn't be interrupted in their roaming, the pads of calloused fingers seeking to trace every line of her body. Evie shifted on the sheets to allow Sara better access, shivering every time her attention roved near somewhere intimate.
For all the repression Sara had spoken of, she was infuriatingly patient with Evie. The Champion lingered in her exploration of Evie's body, ghosting across her skin with lips and tongue, nipping at Evie's shoulders and neck in just the right way to leave her squirming, thighs rubbing together as her entire body yearned for more. Evie let out little gasps each time Sara drew near her breasts or the crook of her legs, hoping to lure her attention inward, but Amarat's Champion was nothing if not thorough, always darting away to explore new places. When she felt a hand massaging through her scalp, gently untwisting the bands that tied her hair up, Evie realized with quiet satisfaction and primal frustration that Sara was in no rush to to speed things along. Encouraging in the long run, of course, but blindingly infuriating when Evie already felt her core pulsing with need.
As Sara traced yet another long line across her collarbone, Evie managed to steady her voice enough to speak. "Are you going to lay here and touch me all night, or are you going to feel me, Sara?"
Such mild teasing was standard fare for Evie, hardly worth mentioning, and so she was rather surprised when Sara responded with a long, drawn-out moan.
"You taste... so fuckin' good," the Champion murmured, meeting Evie's eyes for a brief moment. With a wobbling head and wandering eyes, the Champion looked nearly drunken, or perhaps drugged, clearly getting some kind of high from just the taste of Evie's body. She realized with some trepidation that if she didn't take things further herself, Sara very well might be satisfied with spending the rest of her life running her tongue up and down Evie's skin, and at the rate things were going, Evie might soon find herself contented by the idea.
She mastered her trembling limbs just long enough to find the hem of Sara's simple shirt, drawing it upwards. Sara growled as she did so, shifting her arms just long enough for Evie to remove the offending garment, and then they were back together, skin pressed to burning skin.
"Gods," Evie breathed, wrapping her arms around Sara's back, half in an embrace, half so she could draw her claws out to cut the bindings wrapping Sara's chest. "You're far too patient for me."
"I don't know if I could count to ten right now," Sara replied breathlessly, pausing to shudder when Evie's claws scraped light lines across her back, severing her breast bindings. "Keepin' track of time's way the hell outta the cards."
Evie normally would have offered some snarky reply, but she was too distracted by her efforts to rid the world of anything that had the gall to cover the Champion's body. She balled the damnable cloth in a fist and threw it to the side, freeing her hands as quickly as possible so she could return her attention to her prize.
The Goddess of Passion, Evie saw, was not sparing in her generosity. Sara's body, exquisite even at a distance, was quite literally divine when it was flush with hers. She had a form that would drive sculptors mad in their endeavors to render it in marble, defining beauty in a way that ought not be possible. There was nothing unnatural about her presence, as there might be found in the magical bewitchment of a succubus, just an absolute refinement of the human form that was tailored to enrapture all who gazed upon it. What might have been blemishes on another became delicious contrast on her, grounding enough to assure an onlooker that they weren't hallucinating. Evie doubted there would be any in all the world that found nothing to desire in Sara's body, no matter their tastes. Those that preferred men would fawn over the subtle definition of her musculature, those that preferred women would lust after her soft hips and generous chest, and even those who had no interest in sex at all would be delighted to view the aesthetic purity of her form, with not a hair nor freckle a sliver out of place.
And, Evie realized as Sara pulled back, she was the perfect person to be gifted this perfection. Sensing her enrapture, Sara did not blush, nor preen, but simply sat back and relaxed with her hips straddling Evie's, allowing Evie to look as much as she desired.
And Evie did. She ran her hands up and down Sara's hips, devouring the sight of her breasts, which moved with her heavy breathing, feeling even the heat between the Champion's legs pressing against her thighs. Sara looked down at her with a hungry, lecherous gaze, clearly getting as much out of Evie's body as she did Sara's. For a time there was only the sound of their breath, until Evie's attention finally wandered up and away from Sara's chest, to her collarbone, where a thin line of bruises had begun to darken. The sight of the hickeys she'd left on Sara sent a bolt of lightning racing along her skin, raising goosebumps, and then the quiet moment was over, Evie's throat making a strangled cry as she began to frantically tear at the Champion's pants.
"Gods, gods, gods," Evie swore, "What are you? How could Amarat let something like you loose into the world, unaccompanied?"
Sara laughed, refusing to help Evie get her pants off. "Still hoping to get the job, I see."
"I would kill for it," Evie replied plainly, trying and failing to lift the Champion off of her. "I would give all I had and all I will ever earn for the chance to feel you inside me." Evie groaned, and she realized with a small shock that she well and truly meant it. She gave up on the pants, moving her hands to Sara's breasts, which had gone far too long unattended, and all the while she kept talking. "I would-- I would do anything. Be anything. If it meant I could taste you now, I can think of nothing I wouldn't give." Sara tried to say something, but Evie brushed her fingers over her nipples, causing the words to be cut off in a low moan. "What will it take? What will it take, you have to tell me. Please."
Sara groaned again, lower, more primal. Her hips began a slow grind against Evie's. Evie took the opportunity to sit up, bringing her mouth to Sara's right breast, nipping at it ever so gently. She was rewarded with a gasp and a hand buried in her hair, pushing her in. Evie nipped again, felt a tighter pull at her scalp, and began to lick and tease, filling her mouth with the taste of Sara's body. Between each attack she pulled back just long enough to breathlessly beg, then dove back in.
"I'll kneel before you--" Evie licked, Sara twisted-- "I'll fight for you, kill for you--" Evie's teeth grazed against her skin, Sara bucked-- "I'll care for your home, use my body to sate your mate's desires in your absence--" Sara whined, fist balling in Evie's hair-- "I will attend you in all things, supplicate myself before you, accept all you ask of me--" Evie pulled back with a wet pop , looking up at Sara, who she had to steady with her arms, lest Sara's drunken swaying end up with the Champion falling off the bed-- "I will do anything , Sara. If you turned me to the streets as a common whore, ordered me to spread my legs for any passerby, I would do so gladly, so long as it meant I could taste you once more. I would bear children if you asked it of me, Sara." Evie tugged ever so gently at Sara's wrist, bringing her fingertips to rest upon the cool metal of Evie's collar. "I will do anything for you, all so I may call you Master."
As the words left her lips, Sara changed, some hidden cord of self control finally snapping. Her drunken weaving vanished, lidded eyes narrowing into a predatory gleam. Light began to etch its way across her skin, spiraling in strange purple patterns, magical runes of unknowable nature burning into existence. They appeared across all of her body, effervescent smoke drifting through the air between them. Evie watched the runes travel down Sara's arm, the one Evie had brought to touch her collar, worming their way towards Evie's skin. The moment they reached her hand, Sara let out a final, defeated groan, and then the hand tightened, wrapping around Evie's throat.
"Prove it."
Evie's eyes widened, surprise overtaking her for just a moment before she hurriedly nodded. "Yes. Yes, thank you, I will."
Evie found herself dragged down on top of Sara, who fell back on the bed, their positions reversed, Evie on top. Sara wasted no time finding her mouth, initiating a furious kiss that Evie ecstatically returned. A knee pressed between Evie's legs, causing her to gasp. She felt Sara grin against her lips, using that gasp to shove her tongue into Evie's mouth, and...
Gods. It was like nothing else. Amarat may not have enhanced Sara's appearance beyond what was natural, but that clearly didn't extend to the taste of her lips. Evie's head swam with the heady taste of golden ichor, Sara's tongue the flavor of every sugary delight she'd ever tasted, and then some. She couldn't put a name to it, only that she needed more of it, no matter what, and she tilted her head and cupped Sara's cheeks in her hands to chase after it, moaning senselessly all the while.
The knee returned to her core, providing a perch for Evie to rut herself against, the thin silk that still covered her doing nothing for the rough cloth of Sara's clothing, but she was too lost in sensation to care, taste and pressure working in tandem to obliterate sensibility. She lost herself in the moment, tasting Sara, drinking her in, sucking and clawing like it was the last meal she'd ever have, and if it had been, she was fairly well sure she'd have died happy.
Sara was the one that finally broke the pattern, but only by physically shoving Evie off her, ignoring her pitiable whines at the loss of Sara's lips. The Champion shot her a merciless grin, then continued to lift Evie up and off her, handling her like she was a child. Evie felt her ears flatten pitifully and her tail coil around Sara's thigh in pleading desperation, a betrayal of her emotions that she was powerless to hide.
"Don't look like that," Sara instructed, depositing her to the side. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
Lost in lust, Evie didn't understand what the Champion meant until she saw her hips shimmying, pants working their way down.
Evie dove forward like a woman possessed, clawing at the clothing, ripping them down. Sara laughed once more, this time with an arrogant self-superiority that drove Evie wild. She could tell what her body was doing to the poor feline, and she loved it.
Evie didn't care. She didn't care about anything at all, in fact, save for what was waiting for her beneath the cloth. Pale skin was exposed with every inch, hips turning to thighs, calfs, and finally ankles, and then the clothes were gone, Sara's undergarments with them, naked beneath her.
Sara pressed her legs together tightly, leaving a small patch of wispy dark hair as the only hint of what Evie so desired, so desperately needed. She bent forward, placing a hand on either thigh in an attempt to to open them, but Sara resisted, rolling her hips away. Evie looked up at her, confused and pleading. Sara grinned, having assembled a pile of pillows so she could recline while still looking down on Evie.
"You're not a very patient little kitty, are you?" Sara asked. She moved a hand to her breast, pinching and massaging it as she spoke. "Before you get your reward, why don't you remind me what you'll do for it?"
"Anything," Evie breathed, without hesitation. "Everything."
Sara smiled wide. "Good girl," she breathed, opening her legs.
Evie watched as if in a trance. Never in all her life had her feline senses been so overwhelmed as in that moment, caught in the presence of a woman literally divine. The scent that filled her nose was thick, pressing, awaking a desire in her like nothing ever had before. It was the scent of pure arousal, unrefined desire, a nectar that no force in the world could tear her away from. She leaned in, breathing deep, her mouth falling open. Fluid glistened on Sara's thighs, wet and inviting, and she turned her tongue towards it, lapping at the shining skin.
The taste was divine, exquisite, a reward enough on its own, but hearing Sara gasp above her, squirming on the bed? That was perfection. Evie licked again, drawing closer, and with Sara's impatient whine she found the first thing capable of stopping her from going further within. She kissed and sucked on Sara's thighs, switching sides, soaking in each and every reaction. Her whines were more beautiful than an orchestra, her moans more pleasing than a serenade, and all of it was for Evie, and Evie alone. Sara's breath came faster with each passing moment, until she was panting with both hands wrapped in Evie's hair, shivering arms trying to shove her closer.
Evie resisted for as long as she could, but she was only mortal, and the scent filling her mind was divine. When she finally did break for Sara's slick, it was suddenly, no time spent enjoying the sights. Almost surprising herself, she dove in with a long, slow lick, spreading the flat of her tongue along Sara's slit slowly, oh so slowly, until she reached its peak and Sara shouted and slammed her legs shut, locking Evie in place.
Every promise Evie had made, every solemn vow she'd claimed in the minutes leading up to this, they had all been worth it. She barely needed the hand she shoved between her own legs to find her pleasure, the taste of Sara and the feel of her heat on Evie's tongue nearly enough to send her over the edge then and there.
She followed Sara's guiding hand in her hair, devoted to earning the approval that would let her between these legs again some day. She bucked against her own hand, her own humming moans providing a buzz that earned a tug of her hair, driving her ever onward, ever onward, lost in the haze of pleasure.
"Get-- godfuckingdamn-- get something inside me," Sara moans, words pitched pleadingly high.
Evie obliges her, moving her attention fully to Sara's clit so she can put two fingers inside her, stroking the Champion's walls. Sara cries out, begging for more.
Evie bumps up the pace, pumping in and out of Sara while tongue flicks and circles, plucking at every string she finds to make more of those musical sounds fall out of the Champion.
"Oh-- holy shit-- god, Evie, please--"
Sara's thighs tightened around her head and her moans turned into hiccuping gasps. Evie dives in even harder, pumping furiously with her hand while bobbing her whole head as she lapped at Sara's clit.
Suddenly, as if by instinct, Sara's hands slipped from Evie's hair and landed just behind her ears, knuckles pressing down into their base. White lightning flashed through her mind as the peak she'd been so long denied comes crashing down, tears welling at the corners of her eyes. She had just enough presence of mind to push one last time into Sara, curling her fingers upward, and then she's gone, lost to ecstasy.
Sara's hips bucked up into Evie's face as she comes with a keening cry, shaking and shuddering as she throws her hips against Evie's face, pulling her as close as they could possibly be. Evie's own cries are muffled in Sara's body, her legs kicking uselessly on the silk sheet as she twists and grinds, the pain of Sara's nails in her skin serving only to drive her pleasure higher, higher, until she's just mindlessly swallowing, drinking in Sara's juices and rutting herself against her own hand.
Eventually, later, gods knew how much later, Evie collapsed into the sheets, Sara following a moment later. The world is hazy from the tears of pleasure in her eyes, her limbs loose and boneless, but still she managed to force herself up onto her elbows, crawling up and on top of Sara's naked body. The Champion barely noticed, eyes closed and her chest heaving. Evie grabbed her limp wrist.
With the last of her strength, Evie grabbed Sara's arm and hauled it over to the nightstand, where the wristband that controlled her collar is set on the fine plush pillow.
"I win," Evie whispered, dropping Sara's arm. It lands on the bracelet with a subtle click, the band turning to mist and coalescing on Sara's wrist. Only then does she let herself collapse, burying her face between pillowy breasts.
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Well, that was certainly evocative imagery, Selly's voice said, entering Evie's mind. She still felt as if she was face-down between Sara's breasts, but now she remembers all that led up to this moment.
I'll say, Sara's disembodied voice replied. The scene began slowly floating away, replaced in pieces by a formless void that Evie's consciousness floated through. Y'know, if you wanted to top me for once all you had to do was ask, Evie.
It was more than that, Master.
Yes, it was quite fascinating, Selly's voice said, preempting any reply from Sara. The psychological complexities of such a powerful bond being formed between two initially unwilling partners, who later embraced its binds, is remarkable. While the nature of the collar's enchantments itself proved predictably simplistic, the alterations that have occurred in the intervening period could leave me studying for years.
I... don't know if I could survive years of encounters like that, Sara said, with an echoing nervous chuckle.
Though it was undeniably enjoyable, I must reluctantly agree, Master.
But surely a few more? Selly's voice suggested. My guppy did not get a chance to indulge save as a voyeur, which feels rather unfair. And I would so delight in a longer study.
A voyeur? Evie inquired. I didn't see her. Can she watch from above, like you?
She could have, but I instead created a peephole in the wall for her, as well as a rather inventive vibrating saddle for her to be restrained to. A creation offered up by the little Champion's memories, I believe.
Oh my god, what? You tied her to a sybian? For like an hour? Ketch, are you good?
Echoing through the void came a low muffled groan, like someone mumbling insensibly into a pillow.
She is quite well, I assure you. I wouldn't ever allow my guppy to come to true harm. Only enjoyable harm. Now, are you ready to further proceed?
Though no words were said, a sense of vague assent emanated from Evie and Sara's consciousness.
Notes:
Sorry for the late upload, but I was in another nation sharing a one bedroom apartment with my 70 year old father and I was NOT going to risk him sneaking a glance at this chapter. On the bright side, I've got a bit of a backlog of other writing I did in the interim, so much like Evie, the next few chapters should come fast.
Chapter 33: A Nation Once More [END OF PART ONE]
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara left Selliana's lair some few hours later, exhausted in mind and body. The witch was certain that she'd learned quite a lot about Evie's modifications to the collar's bond, but refused to divulge the information then and there. Selliana wanted time to process her findings, consult old resources to confirm certain theories, and only then would she send Ketch to Sara with what she'd discovered. Frustratingly, she did preemptively answer Sara's most pressing question, which was whether or not the collars could be destroyed:
No.
Selliana claimed that peering into the collar's workings was like trying to understand what made the sun burn by staring directly at it. Not only was it impossible to discern anything of use, it was actively dangerous. Sensing Sara's frustration, she brought out several of her damaged tools as evidence, three thin metal wands melted into an unrecognizable mess by direct exposure to the collar's power.
Though seeing the damage did make her more amenable to such a non-answer, Sara still had to restrain herself from informing Selliana that actually, there was a definitive answer to what made the sun burn, and it wasn't exceptionally complicated. A part of her kept feeling like if she just drilled into the heads of the people of this world that reality was far more pliable and comprehensible than they thought, they'd finally accept that the impossible was usually anything but.
Yet while knowledge of things like what drove the sun's fires was something she might have casually shared with someone like Evie or Nora, sharing it with Selliana? An accomplished alchemist, a powerful mage? Absolutely not. Only the gods knew what someone of Selliana's skill would be capable of, armed with knowledge of something as volatile as hydrogen or, god forbid, nuclear fusion. Sara had to imagine turning theory into practice would be a time consuming process, but once the witch had a working method of accumulating elemental hydrogen, all bets were off. Sara wasn't eager to unleash this world's first Hindenburg Witch.
When she returned to Ketch's father, sans the still-addled Ketch, she found him happily humming away at the table full of seaweed, piecing together another set of that remarkable clothing. Sara was rather thankful for the underwater nature of their environment, certain that her legs would have been shaking if she'd tried to stand on dry land. Birl greeted them warmly, offering her a seat in a stone chair he'd found somewhere, then launched into a discussion about Sara's desire for him to make more clothing.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Sara crawled out of the harbor with Evie, giving several passersby on the street quite a fright. A purely mundane exhaustion had sunk into her bones, Sara never having expected how long she'd be away. She'd been awake (mentally, if not physically) for well over twenty four hours, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep. She and Evie wetly slopped their way to the closest of Ketch's old safehouses, which they'd been using ever since the Sporaton attack, and fell face-first into bed.
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When Sara woke the next day, head pounding and mouth dry, it was with a prayer of thanks to the gods above for giving her the foresight to schedule the day's main event for sunset. It was nearly noon by the time she mustered up the courage to roll out of bed, which gave her seven solid hours to unfuck herself and attend to whatever was still achievable on the day's agenda. She briefly wondered if she ought to put more points into her Constitution, next time she got a chance. Surely it would help in circumstances like this.
She and Evie dressed with mutual resignation, accepting that there would be little to salvaging of the day's morning itinerary. She'd need to hurry to even make it to her next appointment, a meeting with the carpenters that volunteered to transition to shipwrights for Nora's navy, and soon after that she was to put in an appearance at one of Ignite's training sessions for the Guard.
Even the dullest members of the so-called "City Guard" were beginning to realize that their swelling numbers and thorough training were entirely unnecessary for simple law-keeping, which meant she was long overdue for the official commencement of the Tulian Army. It was going to start as a volunteer-only force, despite the vehement protests of Evie and Vesta, whose eloquent arguments only wrung the concession out of Sara that she wouldn't straight-up outlaw conscription as she'd originally planned. She still held out hope that enough would volunteer to make such draconic measures unnecessary.
Sara and Evie crawled out through a hidden hatch in the home next door and made their way outside, giving a friendly wave to the baker and his family that noticed them casually emerging from an abandoned building. It was growing more difficult to move about Tulian undetected, with its growing population, and Sara knew Evie had already mentally abandoned the safehouse they'd just used as compromised. With how rapidly the city was repopulating they'd need a defensible base of governance sooner rather than later, especially if Lady Vesta was to be believed.
Vesta's first action upon arriving had been arranging a rapid and messy census, little more than riders running about to various village leaders and asking how many lived there, the tally of which added up to a very shaky estimate of thirteen thousand thinking beings within a week's walk of Tulian. Vesta suspected the true number was considerably higher, as many of the village heads would've lied, anticipating a greater population leading to a greater tax demanded of them. Sara wasn't going to operate like that, of course, but her various promises had thus far been spread only by word of mouth, a method which tended to leave out boring bits like tax law. Sara vaguely recalled that the meeting to discuss prospective methods of disseminating official government edicts was in two days or so, but she wasn't sure. Evie would keep her on track.
Though her late start meant she missed quite a bit, what she could attend to went smoothly. A few of the older carpenters claimed to have shipwright experience, if only in the roundabout fashion of supplying certain products to the shipyards back in the day, which was encouraging. Her announcement of the Tulian Army was met with a curiously subdued reaction, though thankfully not due to any reluctance on the Guard's part. It had just been so blatantly expected that the troops essentially nodded their heads and asked if that was all, or if they should get back to their duties. It seemed that more than she would've liked had been overheard in her meeting with Captain Vidanya, and rumors of war were spreading like wildfire.
The troops were also far less nervous than she'd have expected. When she asked Ignite about it, he answered rather frankly that they knew they'd be led by a Champion, and so thought they had little to fear. Sara's abilities were unknown to them, beyond the fact that they must be legendarily powerful, so rumors flew fast as lightning any time a hint of Sara's "true powers" were involved. Those that had fought with her before knew the effects of Champion's Inspiration and were eager for more, naively eager for war.
For every ounce of faith the soldiers put in Sara's capability, her confidence wavered in turn. She was no general, nor leader, nor even a true warrior, at least as this society saw it, having picked up the blade mere months ago. She was someone who'd been shoved up the ranks by the brute force of her status as a Champion, any powers Amarat granted her doing so very little to aid in the world of warfare. She was certain beyond doubt that if she could bring King Sporatos to the negotiating table she would end the war then and there, but that would require putting up enough of a fight to even warrant consideration. At the moment the tyrant King saw Sara and her so-called nation as a bug just intriguing enough to be worth crushing underfoot, and in many ways, he wasn't wrong. Her stomach kept doing flips on the way back from the training ground, anxiety getting the better of her even as Evie tried to drill her for the meeting ahead.
Sara eventually slapped her cheeks and shook her head, narrowing her attention on Evie's instructions, because this was one gathering that couldn't be skipped. All of her scattered allies were finally together in one place, ready for the discussion that would set their course for the foreseeable future.
She and Evie reached The Peasant's Theater a half hour before sunset, nodding their greetings to the bolstered Guard contingents patrolling the surrounding streets. The Peasant's Theater had been a literally named building from the days of Old Tulian: an alternative to the expensive opera houses frequented by nobility, where performers who couldn't hack it elsewhere reluctantly plied their trade. It had originally been just a stage in one of Tulian's few grassy parks, but later had been improved with sturdy walls and a roof angled to take the brunt of the increasingly common typhoons of Old Tulian's final years. Built with the storms in mind, it had weathered them well, and so Sara decided it would be an excellent place for her seat of governance. Not only was a Peasant's Theatre delightfully thematic, the structure was utilitarian, one of the largest open interiors in the entire city. Soon walls would box off and divide it into a a plethora of small rooms connected by cramped hallways, but at the moment it was nothing more than narrow seats arranged in a semicircle before one raised platform.
Hurlish had already arrived and begun her own preparations, which apparently involved ripping the front row of seats out of their mountings, dropping them into a circle on the stage. Sara joined her, figuring it best to avoid any semblance of a lecture that might come from her standing on the elevated stage, while Evie ducked off to collect reports from the Guard members that were posted near each entrance. The feline never let Sara out of her line of sight, always close enough to be at her side in seconds, if need be. Sara had noticed that the title of 'bodyguard' was slowly taking priority over Evie's other duties in her partner's mind, her natural paranoia bolstered by the Sporaton attack.
The rest of the attendees filtered in over the next forty-five minutes or so, appearing in piecemeal fashion. Most of the representatives of Tulian's skilled crafters arrived early, as a group, heading straight there after their day's work was done. They would represent the bulk of the meeting's population, but were mainly present only to contribute opinions on their ability to get Tulian's military-adjacent industries up to speed. Following them was Ignite, personally escorting Lady Vesta while Tarlin remained with her children, and not a minute later was Voth, still dressed in armor fit for battle. Nora naturally couldn't attend, not without leaving half her brain in the sea behind her, so she sent the once-drunkard Captain B'Leary in her place. The white-bearded sailor that Nora had motivated with death threats seemed to have lost some of his beergut since Sara last saw him, which was encouraging, but it would remain to be seen how useful he'd be to the discussions. After B'Leary was Ketch, who apparated as if by magic in one of the chairs on the stage. She was attending mostly as Selliana's representative, though she was a powerful Irregular in her own right. Sara exchanged mild pleasantries with each person as they appeared, but little more, saving her energy for the discussions ahead.
When the last of the last had filtered in, Sara finally sat down. The others broke up their conversations and followed suit, and Sara was privately pleased to see that their was only a brief bit of thought given by the participants as to who sat where. Factionalism would inevitably develop, Sara knew, but for the time being she'd done an excellent job promoting the idea that all present were equals. Evie was the last standing, completing one last tour of the entrances before returning to the stage, sliding into Sara's lap with arms wrapped around her neck for support.
"Alright," Sara said with a clap, an inelegant beginning to such a fateful moment. "While I'm sure most of you are already aware, I'll start things off by confirming it for you: The Kingdom of Sporatos intends to invade at the end of the rainy season, with the goal of having the entire nation under their rule in a few short months."
Most nodded passively, accepting the words with grim determination, while only a few of the industry representatives appeared shocked. Sara allowed them a brief moment to absorb the news, then continued.
"The advantages the Royal Sporaton Army has over us are many, but they aren't overwhelming. I've told you all before, whether it was in a speech to the public or in private, that Tulian will never be under the thrall of a tyrant so long as I live. While I obviously would have preferred this war to never come, I knew from the start that it was inevitable, and I've been taking appropriate measures from the very start. Commander Ignite, if you'd like to begin with a report on the status of the newly formed Tulian Army?"
Ignite nodded sharply, moving to stand from his chair, a motion which he barely arrested after remembering Sara hadn't done so to speak. She'd told everyone in the letter that summoned them here that she wanted an open conversation, not a series of reports.
"The Tulian Army is not lacking for recruits, ma'am, but only when considered as a matter of fractions. Nearly all the Tulian Guard has made clear their intention to transfer from civil duty if allowed, but the Guard itself totals only five hundred. An impressive force for discouraging banditry, but not an army."
"And I've got a hundred and fifty on my payroll, in case you didn't read my reports," Voth said, leaning back in his chair. "Most of 'em even have a skirmish or two under their belts, but that won't mean much when King Sporatos marches ten thousand spears down our throats."
"Vesta's census tallied thirteen thousand citizens in easy reach of the city," Sara said, "But she thinks the real number's more than that, right?"
Vesta nodded. "Indeed. Given my experience with censuses and the rushed nature of this survey, I estimate that the true number is at least twice as high. A truly accurate count will be months in coming, but I have begun the process already."
"What about demographics? How many of that number are of fighting age?" Sara wondered aloud. She looked at Voth. "You've been recruiting in the region for a little bit. Assuming we've got, say, thirty thousand farmers around Tulian, how many troops do you think we could muster?"
Voth's lower jaw worked in thought, a more obvious thing with the way the motion moved his tusks about. "No guarantees, but I'll put a bet on two thousand people volunteering. Maybe twice that, if you loosen things up so the older folks can join, but that's got its own problems."
"Five thousand, then," Sara said, both out of forced optimism and having long since accustomed herself to the fact that she wouldn't be leading an army of prime fighters. "Vesta, do you have any idea about the size of the army Sporatos will bring?"
"I will defer that question to one with more expertise," Vesta said, nodding her head back to Sara. In her lap, Evie stirred.
"For a spring campaign such as this one, Master, I would expect a force similar to those used by the King to subjugate the coastal city-states in the early days of his reign. Fifteen thousand, perhaps, built upon a small core of Irregular cavalry, the kingdom's Knights. His treasurers would not consider this war a conflict worth employing mercenaries, and so I find it incredibly unlikely that we need prepare ourselves to fight the Night's Eye Mercenaries."
Sara chewed her lip, absorbing that information. "Well. I might be exposing my own ignorance here, but that's way, way less than I expected. Why so few?"
Those with military experience looked at one another, trading bemused expressions. It was Ignite that eventually answered.
"Ma'am, that is a larger force than has been assembled on this continent in some twenty-five years, and a larger force than was assembled by anyone outside Sporatos in fifty. It is only by virtue of their immense population that they can afford to bring such an army to bear."
"Damn. Guess I'm still thinking like I'm back in my old world. The armies of the last big war there were ten to twenty million, or something like that." She waved the notion away, ignoring the aghast expressions of everyone save Evie and Hurlish. "Well, it still means we're doing better than I expected, but I'm curious: if we can get four or five thousand under our banner, why can Sporatos only manage fifteen thousand?"
"A matter of politics and logistics, Master, as with all in war," Evie said. "The nobility will not wish to contribute more of their peasants than what they view as fair, and the conquering of such a supposedly weak foe will not engender much sympathy to the war effort. Further, Tulian is many weeks march from the bulk of the kingdom's population, placing an ever greater strain upon their baggage train with each passing day of travel."
"Home field advantage. Makes sense, I guess. Glad to hear we won't be facing down an army with more people in it than our entire nation."
Voth, ever the pragmatist, snorted. "Fifteen thousand or a hundred thousand, it won't matter. You're fighting the Royal Army, Sara, and you're goin' in with a third of their numbers. You can count on one hand how many battles in all of history that've been won when the odds were that long."
Sara's eyes narrowed slightly. Voth's training of his informal army had proved incredibly valuable thus far, but not enough so that she'd tolerate such cynicism in front of the assembled representatives. Many of them were lifelong civilians, unfamiliar with a soldier's habitual pessimism, and would take the assessment far too literally. She cocked her head, feigning confusion.
"And yet you've seen fit to throw in your lot with me, Voth? How strange. I'd have thought that if you really believed this war was unwinnable, you'd never have attended this meeting."
He shrugged, unconcerned by the barely concealed steel in her words. "You're a Champion, and that means something. It's a long shot, but I ain't gonna miss my chance to see the show. And besides, if you win, I'll have the easiest job on the continent. Nobody'd fuck with us after we trashed Sporatos."
His concession, though crass, soothed the audience's edge she'd felt building after his initial prediction. Sara nodded, moving to the next item on the agenda Evie subtly held, hidden from the others behind a hand so that Sara would look at least a little bit more self-sufficient.
"What about training? We've got six months, give or take, and there's a lot we can get done in that time. How experienced is the Royal Army?"
"Their nobility and Knights are exceptionally skilled," Vesta provided, "And many of the commanders are veterans of the coastal campaigns in their younger years. Having met many of them personally, I will attest to their analytical intelligence, if not their social graces. "
"But the bulk of the army? The peasants?" Sara asked.
It was Evie who answered. "They will be effectively untrained, Master, beyond the basics of marching and maneuvering in formations. I understand from prior conversations that you intend to prepare your military to the greatest possible extent, as was practice in your old world, but this is not a common philosophy. Peasants are kept in line by the martial superiority of Knights and Lords, a balance that would be upset by allowing the serfs to garner genuine skill upon the battlefield. To arm the peasantry is to ensure a fatal rebellion, as history has shown on numerous occasions."
"And no one ever considered just... not being shitty enough to warrant rebellion?"
Evie smirked. "No, Master. You are a rather unique ruler in your belief that the peasantry are more than capricious layabouts, ignorant fools who would gleefully cut the throat of their future so its blood may sate the thirst of today."
"Yeah, well, all the better for us." Sara glanced at the agenda, chancing upon a good segue. "Voth, if you won't fight the Royal Army yourself, what do you think of being in charge of recruiting and training? You can tour around the countryside putting down bandits and recruiting, and when you feel a group is good enough, you send them to the capital for me to integrate into the main army."
"I think it's damn weird to have my opinion asked on my orders, for one thing," Voth said with a chuckle, "But it sounds like a good gig. Won't be hard to find volunteers, so long as you keep the coin coming. But you'll have to remember that the further I get, the longer it'll take for any reinforcements to reach you."
"We'll have you start far away, then, and work your way back until you're closer to Tulian by the time the invasion starts."
"Sounds like a decent enough plan to me."
"Good." Sara looked at the next issue, that of procuring enough equipment to arm the Tulian Army. Thus far she'd managed to equip every member of the Guard with at least a front-sided chestplate, steel sword, and leather cap, but doing even that had her relying heavily on inconsistent foreign equipment looted by Nora. Hurlish was a hell of a smith, but even she couldn't pound out five thousand full sets of armor in a matter of months. They'd need industry, and what's more, they'd need Sara's definition of industry, not the loose collection of masters and apprentices that formed the Guilds common to this world.
Sara turned to Atanya, a woman whose barrel biceps and singed gray hair marked her as a former member of Old Tulian's Blacksmith's Guild.
"Atanya. How much do you know about the concept of standardization?"
The woman blinked, eyes opening wider, as if she'd sleeping with them open. "Standardization? How do you mean?"
"Making everything to one standard. Every piece of armor, every sword, every link of chain and everything else you can imagine, all built the exact same way, every time, no matter who makes them."
She scratched her ear, glancing to Hurlish, who she'd probably expected to be the one handling any of Sara's questions regarding smithing. When Hurlish didn't say anything, she cleared her throat.
"Well, can't say I've heard much about it. Sounds a bit daft, you ask me. Wouldn't you just end up making the skilled folk do crap work, while the young folk couldn't keep up?"
"Not if you train them all from the ground up for it," Sara said. "Which is what I want you and Hurlish to do. I want my entire army decked out in the best gear you can consistently provide, and I want every part of every set to fit in anyone else's. You'll have to do things like chestplates and helmets by generalized sizes, of course, and have a separate range for orcish troops, but I want as much as possible to be the same on every last set."
Atanya's eyes glanced about the room as she shifted nervously in her seat, hesitating before she spoke. "With all due respect, ma'am, smithin' things in that fashion would be a waste of my time. A waste of anyone with real talent's time, too. We can do better."
"You can, but you can't do enough, not on your own, and especially not when you're working to a master's standards. But that's beside the point, because I don't want you personally doing this work for long. I want you training some people to smith armor, armor, and only armor, and ignore every other skill they'd need to do anything else. A different group you'll train to make swords, and another you'll train for things like nails, hammers, and saws, basic tool type stuff. The ones you train will be the ones cranking out the mass-produced stuff, and once you've got them self-sufficient, you and the other Master Blacksmiths will be working on custom armor for the army's Irregulars, where you can really flex your Skills."
She chewed on that for a while, looking none too pleased, but eventually sighed. "Makes sense, I suppose. Not gonna say I'll enjoy the work, but I'll do it. Dunno where I'll get so many apprentices, though. That'll be a pain in the ass."
Sara cocked her head. "Why would it be? They'll be on the government payroll, and I intend to pay well."
Atanya chuckled. "You're gonna be payin' em to learn? Really?"
"Why wouldn't I? They're working for me, so they get paid. That's how it works."
Atanya's smile faltered as she realized Sara was serious, then grew wry. "I've heard you were a strange sort, ma'am, and I'm right pleased to see it for myself. Can't say I ever heard of anyone paying their apprentices, instead of the other way around, but hey, it's your coin. I ain't gonna say no, and neither are the kids, either. Hope you've got a good way to keep from going bankrupt though, between the armor and the wages."
"As a matter of fact, I've got several. Vesta, is your report finished?"
"A preliminary overview only, but it is comprehensive enough for discussion."
The former Lady Vesta, now just Vesta, pulled several rolled scrolls from a carrying case, clearing her throat. "Analysis of salvaged Old Tulian records show that annual grain production is well above Sporaton average, owing to the wet climate, and after our discussions regarding the taxation schemes you view as 'morally acceptable', I have prepared several proposals, pending the acceptance of both yourself and the farmer's representative, who I believe should be in attendance. Are they?"
A man wearing a mud-spattered set of clothing similar to suspenders raised his hand. Vesta tipped her head in acknowledgement, turning to face herself between him and Sara, and continued on.
"Per Sara, there will be no flat tax applied to arable land, to avoid the overtaxing of those negatively affected by chance and misfortune, a requirement that necessitates extensive alterations to preexisting tax codes, and instead taxes will be taken as a percentage of net positive grain harvested, the net gain being defined as any grain over the amount required to sustain the members of one's household through the dry season..."
The conversation continued on, drifting towards ever more practical and ever more dull topics. Sara had to force herself to pay attention for much of it, but force herself she did, because there was no shortage of occasions to insert herself for clarification. Most present were so accustomed to the various abuses of their prior feudal lords that they'd never considered the practices unfair, requiring Sara to repeatedly axe proposals that would have been incredibly beneficial to her, yet disastrous for the people of Tulian. It was a novel experience, to spend the majority of her time arguing to her own detriment, but it was necessary.
Sara could sense Vesta's growing frustration with the limiting of governmental power in the press of her lips into a thin line, but she never outright objected. Sara had never been subtle when it came to her views on the purpose of the Tulian government, and Vesta was too logical to argue that Sara's policies did anything other than achieve the goal of promoting commoner's independence. The economic margins that the new Tulian government were operating on grew thinner with each passing edict, but Sara was adamant that not only was it the morally just thing to do, it was the only way to build the loyalty of a people who'd had no national identity for the last decade. Vesta, Evie, and the other more conservative figures may have been able to poke an occasional hole in the economic validity of her proposals, but never in those two core tenants.
As the discussion ground on, however, Sara found herself sinking into melancholy. The actual task of forming a provisional government was proceeding exceptionally well, the months all involved had to ruminate on their ideas bearing fruit, but that wasn't what set Sara's mood.
It was the smaller things, instead, that snagged in Sara's thoughts. The little injustices inherent to such a primitive society, the sorts of things that she couldn't fix with flowery speeches and exotic legal codes. Things like the reduction on household tax per each child, which she'd proposed should include pregnancies that were due before the next tax assessment, so the family wouldn't unfairly miss out on a tax break to help them with their new kid. The others had looked at her rather strangely for this, and when Sara hadn't understood, Evie had quietly explained that a pregnancy progressing seamlessly to a healthy child simply wasn't common enough. Miscarriages, stillbirths, and sudden infant deaths were the norm, not the exception. Sara had mutely retracted her objection, subdued.
And that was far from the last such issue Sara encountered. Many of the crafters were literate only in the technical sense, having to laboriously sound out most words unrelated to their trade, and the knowledge of hygiene and medicine among everyone, even those highly educated like Vesta, could be summed up as "if you're sick, go to a healer". When Sara asked Captain B'Leary what caused the tides, given this world's lack of a moon, he had shrugged, explaining that tides occurred at random, a supposition Sara severely doubted, no matter how hard the pattern might be to identify. It shouldn't be a surprise the rise and fall of the ocean hadn't yet been calculated, though, not when arithmetic was a talent to be proud of, algebra squarely in the realm of scholars, and calculus not yet invented. How could a simple sailor be expected to consider something like frequency periods, when they were still using their fingers to count?
Most egregiously to Sara, who had nearly five years of advanced construction work under her belt, was that engineering as a discipline was almost entirely experimental: build it small, and if it doesn't fall, build it big. If you wanted to get fancy, you could add supports where it started to sag, instead of waiting for it to collapse and rebuilding it. Elaborate structures like cathedrals and the King's Keep relied on magical reinforcement for their construction, a two-sided boon that left most thinking such complex construction was impossible by any other means.
Making it worse, many of the gaps in institutional knowledge were things Sara couldn't solve herself. She didn't have the slightest damn clue how to do calculus, and while her anatomy knowledge far outstripped the average, her medicinal experience could regretfully be summed up as "if you're sick, go to the doctor". Any modern pill or surgery was obviously impossible to replicate, and even the basics would require a lot of rediscovery on her part. Pure alcohol was a disinfectant, she knew, but how did you make it? Was it some extreme version of brewing drinking alcohol, or an entirely different process? She knew she'd do a lot of good explaining germ theory to the commoners as a way to curb disease, but how many scholars would believe more outlandish things like sterility when she didn't have a microscope to prove it?
Any time the meeting lapsed into quiet for a time, or didn't require her direct input, those were the things occupying her mind. She knew she should have taken more pride in the success happening around her, but so often the small steps served to reveal how far the road stretched ahead. Even if she could win the war-- which was no guarantee, for all the confidence she outwardly displayed-- there would be a lifetime of work left just to bring Tulian up to a standard she considered "liveable". Her only small hope was that magic would help bridge the gaps, and in that regard, she just so happened to be Tulian's most experienced mage. She didn't count Selliana, because Ketch had both repeatedly assured and warned Sara that the witch was unlikely to play a role beyond what was necessary to protect herself and Ketch. Yet again, Sara found herself wishing for Garen by her side, the week they spent in mutual acquaintance earning far more of her trust than was reasonable.
The meeting dragged on despite her preoccupation, eventually coming to a close some six hours later. Among Vesta's staff that had fled with her had been a stenographer, one who knew the spell to copy writing from paper to paper, so Sara had ordered each participant to be sent home with a copy of the meeting's notes, as well as the original to be preserved for posterity. She had realized with some bemusement that the meeting, humble as it felt to her, would likely be seen someday as Tulian's own Declaration of Independence. The so-called government they'd just slapped together was little more than a tangled mess of tax codes and delegation, but it was a step, the first one before all the rest could follow. Sara left the Peasant's Theatre with an odd swirl of emotions warring within, hope and doubt and fear all refusing to meld into a single outlook, as if oil and water had been thrown into a blender.
She walked in silence for a good while, Evie and Hurlish familiar enough with her by now to let her process things quietly, knowing she'd speak up when she was certain her thoughts were stable enough to discuss. They were padding across the Tulian cobblestones, the night's stars brilliant enough to light their way, when Sara gave up and sought distraction.
"Y'know," she said, "I really do miss the moon. It's weird how empty the sky feels without it."
Hurlish sniffed. "I heard you mention that thing earlier. What was it again?"
Evie answered offhandedly for Sara, speaking from her perch on Hurlish's broad shoulders, mostly preoccupied by her searching of the shadows for danger. "Another world that hung in the sky of her old home, if I recall. Isn't that correct, Master?"
"Pretty much," Sara said. "It wasn't a living world though, like this one. Its surface was pure white powder, and you could see a bunch of craters on its face, from meteorites-- I guess you'd call them shooting stars-- hitting it. Depending on how the sun landed on it each night, it'd either be a big white sphere, a half circle, or invisible. It was a pattern that looped once a month or so, which is actually how people tracked the months, before calendars."
Hurlish chuckled. "What, they couldn't count days?"
"Why would you, when the sky did it for you?" Sara was walking with her neck craned up, tracking the stars above. Without electric lights to drown them out, the stars were dense, blending into a powdery streak in the sky's southern half that didn't quite resemble the milky way she knew so well. She laughed a little, shaking her head. "My dad would have gone crazy to see this world. There's enough differences that he could have spent the rest of his life digging up dirt samples across Tulian without ever running out of stuff to study. Well, if he had his lab tools, I guess."
"Your dad really studied rocks?" Hurlish asked doubtfully. Evie, up on her shoulders, was still too busy staring suspiciously into the night to properly join the conversation.
"He was a geologist," Sara confirmed. "Someone that studies the land to find out how it got to be the way it was. He used to joke that his job was like someone living on the wrong side of a mountain range trying to find out what was happening on the other side."
Sara watched Hurlish's brows furrow, piecing together a polite way to say what she was thinking. "That sounds like the kind of work that not a lot of people pay for."
Sara laughed. "We weren't rich, that's for sure. He worked at Wayne State as a professor most of the time, which wasn't the most prestigious. He still liked it, though. When you're stuck with talents that niche, you can't be picky about finding something that puts food on the table."
Hurlish sniffed. "Can't believe he could find a job studying rocks, no matter how bad it paid. You gonna open a rock college in Tulian some day, in honor of your pa?"
"A university, yes, for geology, no. Something a bit more general, to start with. It'll be a while before people need to specialize that hard. When they were figuring out the basics on earth, one scientist could study a half-dozen things and discover new stuff in all of them. I can't imagine there's enough knowledge in this world for a one year course on geology, much less the twelve years he spent in school."
"Wha-- Twelve years? Your dad spent twelve years in school for rocks? "
Sara nodded. "Five years for a master's degree, which is admittedly a year slower than most, then seven for the PHD, the big degree. And keep in mind that's after he spent twelve years just getting the basic education everybody gets when they're kids."
Hurlish scratched one of her tusks. "Twelve fuckin' years of school? That's how long everyone spent in school? Did you do that?"
Sara made a face. "I mean, I was supposed to. I kind of... dropped out early. Illegally. And then worked underage for a buddy's buddy, learning welding at a joint that was also, uh... questionably legal."
Hurlish boomed laughter, slapping Sara on the back. Evie hissed and dug her claws into the orc's shoulder for stability, but if the orc felt the pinprick daggers, she didn't show it. "Look at that! Champion Sara, founding a kingdom straight out of a life of crime! That's some folktale shit right there."
"Hey, it wasn't straight out of crime. I went legit, eventually."
"Oh yeah? How long ago?"
Sara thought back, adding the months since she'd been dropped into this world. "...Five years ago, ish? Got a job for the city when I turned eighteen, doing some Section 8 infrastructure stuff, with gig work on the side."
"Oh, five years ago, that's practically ancient. No way anyone'd go after you for crimes that old, right?"
"Look, the worst thing I personally did at that job was tax evasion, alright? And that's mostly because they only paid in cash, and my sixteen-year-old ass sure as hell wasn't going to ask my dad how to pay taxes on a duffelbag full of twenties."
This, at last, was enough to garner Evie's attention. She abandoned her scanning of the streets for a brief moment to squint down at Sara. "You did not deposit your earnings in a bank, Master? You kept them in a bag? "
"I was a kid!" Sara threw her hands up helplessly. "I thought the bank people would turn me in or something! I just hid it in the attic insulation and grabbed a wad when Dad wasn't home."
"Master, you've said your nation used paper currency, yes? What were to do if there was a fire in your home?"
"Maybe tell the firefighters and bribe 'em to try and grab it for me?" After a pause, she sighed defeatedly. "Honestly, I'd probably have panicked and cried really, really hard. Like I said, I was a kid."
"You were sixteen, Master. I had killed two in self defense by that age, and was already managing accounts with values rivaling entire townships."
"And I bet that sucked shit, didn't it?" Sara countered. "The way I see it, I'm trying to build a nation where any dumbass kid can get away with the crap I pulled. What are we fighting for, if not to let future generations make awful decisions in a world safe enough not to screw them over for it?"
Evie snickered primly behind a hand, while Hurlish's "Ha!" bounced off the cobblestones.
Recovering herself, Hurlish said, "I tell you what, Sara, I don't know how this whole country-building thing is gonna work out, but it's sure as shit gonna be weird. I'd bet all the money in that bag of yours that you're gonna be the first Queen who ever committed tax evasion."
"I'm never gonna be a Queen, remember? We just decided I'll be called Tulian's Governess, an interim Ruler until our borders are secure. After that, I'll probably just be... I don't know. A diplomat, I bet, or maybe an advisor to whoever gets elected. Not in charge, at the very least. I don't have the chops for that."
"You picked a weird way to live for someone who thinks they can't be in charge," Hurlish noted.
Sara shrugged. "The difference between then and now is that there'll be someone else that can do it. I'm not special, once you take away the Amarat stuff. I'll gladly hand the reigns over to someone with a cooler head on their shoulders. Until then, I'm not gonna let people keep suffering because I'm too scared to give it a shot myself. Better a bad solution now than a good one too late, right?"
Evie sniffed disdainfully. "Master, if I may be so bold, I think I will disagree with your self-assessment. You possess both basic empathy and a willingness to admit when you are wrong, which eclipses half of all the nobility I have ever met. When it is considered that you are educated, skilled, and have the support of a goddess? Those I would consider your equal in potential, if not present accomplishments, are very few."
The location of their temporary home for the night, another one of Ketch's old hideouts, appeared ahead. Sara trusted Evie's senses that they were alone in the streets, but picked up the pace regardless.
"I appreciate that, but the problem with competent people, especially when they're on the other side, is that they have a tendency to end up in charge. I'm just hoping we win the war before someone with half a brain ends up in control of the Sporaton army."
"I assure you, Master, King Sporatos is not the sort to relinquish control of his military. He is too paranoid that their blades would be turned against him, especially with mere months having passed since the rebellion my mother supported was at his throat."
"And is he stupid enough for me to beat?"
"His line expanded Sporatos by military might, and he is not a fool when it comes to military matters, but neither is he a genius. He relies upon doctrine and precedent to guide his actions, a textbook general in the most literal and derogative of manners. In a word, he is predictable."
Sara scanned the street for herself as they reached the safehouse door, then slid it open and hurried inside. Evie hopped off Hurlish's shoulders and followed. The building was empty, little more than stairs leading down to a locked cellar with a padded bed, and Sara's voice reverberated in the small space.
"Let's hope he is, because he sure caught me by surprise with this invasion. I mean, I'll admit it's the smart thing to do, but that's exactly why I didn't expect him to do it. What if he ends up surprising us again?"
"You have already taken measures to guide his actions, Master. Vidanya will certainly be revived by the priesthood for interrogation, and you played the part of an erratic madwoman well. King Sporatos will believe himself to have every advantage, and will take haste to press this illusory superiority."
"I guess," Sara grumbled, kicking off her boots. "I'm not gonna rely on him being stupid anymore, though. Fool me once, and all that."
"That is just as well." Evie reached into the bag on Sara's hip, pulling out a book and several large sheets of paper. "Now, shall we begin?"
Hurlish groaned. "Y'all are doing that shit tonight? Can't you give it a break, just once?"
"No," Evie said.
"Ugh." Hurlish flopped onto the mattress, grabbing two pillows and stuffing them over her ears. "Whatever. I'm gonna start pounding iron at sunrise every day, just to get back at you two."
They ignored the orc's complaints as Evie laid out the paper, which contained a rough topographical map of Tulian and its surrounding terrain. Noted across it were the defensive structures Sara had decided should be constructed during their earlier sessions, with Evie controlling a hypothetical Sporaton army camped at the paper's edge. She smudged out the date on the paper's top right, advancing it by a week, then looked Sara in the eye.
"It is now the seventh week of the siege, Master, and there has been no word of Voth's return. As you elected to disperse Nora's ships in an effort to resupply your stocks of food, you no longer have the aid of her marines should the city's walls come under assault. Over the past week, I have elected to move two groups of sappers up by two hundred yards..."
Sara didn't know if she would be truly ready for the war that was to come, but at the very least, she'd be as ready as she ever could have been. She picked up the textbook, a manual on sieges, and began to consider her next move.
Notes:
"Hey little Timmy, what's your favorite conclusion of a fantasy novel you've ever read?"
"I like it when they talked about legal codes and military logistics for a llllooooooOOOOOoong time!"In all seriousness, I recognize this isn't the most dramatic conclusion for a "Part One", but if I hadn't labeled at such, you probably wouldn't have noticed this was the end of one arc and the beginning of another. It's a seamless transition to the next book/part, and thanks to a backlog, it's getting published...
Already! It's already published, by the time you read this.
Chapter 34: Part Two Prologue
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harbor of Ravaged Tulian
Six Months Until Spring
The body of Captain Acertan Vidanya had not yet begun to cool by the time it was thrown into its coffin, an elegantly penned political treatise roughly nailed into its sternum. The coffin and its occupant had been carried to a cool cellar, one which held bottles of wine the corpse's old owner might have appreciated, had the course of their life run otherwise. The coffin was dropped onto the ground without concern or ceremony, and for a time its only company was the rats gnawing at the coffinwood. After two days of fruitless chewing, they paused in their efforts upon the sound of voices, then fled when light spilled into the cellar.
A robed youth descended the stairs, their expression pale and conflicted. Despite their obvious concerns, they did as they'd been asked. A muttered word and gesture of Power suffused the coffin, soaking all that within. The decay that had begun to nip at the corpse was repelled by holy energies, its condition solidified, unchanging. The light and voice retreated. The rats returned.
They chittered and chattered for two days more, until more voices entered, hands gripping the coffin, and took it away. For a brief time, there was light, and voices, but then they were gone, replaced by the gentle hush of waves tapping against the bottom of a wooden hull. Captain Vidanya's corpse was on a ship once more, yet the soul that had once given the location meaning was long since departed.
-----------------------
On the fifth day of time in the ship, the corpse was retrieved. Its coffin was uncovered and brought up on the deck, hidden behind the railings so those of Port Agrith could not see it as the ship approached. A steady hand at the wheel, touched by fey madness, guided the vessel towards the dock. Panic and shouts began when sails failed to be lowered, a collision inevitable, but then the ship had turned, breaking harder into the waves than ought to have been possible. The ship skated against the dock's edge, just close enough for two steady deckhands to heave the coffin roughly overboard. It landed on the dock with a crash, wood bent and chipped by the impact. The ship had begun its retreat before any had opportunity to consider giving chase, leaving onlookers only the chance to look at the coffin and wonder, reading the note appended to its lid.
--------------------------
Captain Acertan Vidanya took a deep, harrowing breath, new air filling his lungs for the first time in twelve days. He tried to bend double as he broke out in a hacking cough, the spasm shaking his oversized gut, but there was no strength in his limbs to do so. He only lay upon a soft bed and wetly wheezed, groaning and writhing in discomfort. A hand appeared over him, glowing, and the discomfort faded enough for him to fall asleep.
When he awoke next, he was almost alone in the room. A simple wooden frame held the feather mattress he lay on, the timber roof above unadorned, save for an oil lantern. He looked about, finding a locked door and no windows, the only furniture other than his bed being a fine chair of gold thread and ruby cloth. Occupying it was a man wearing fine garments and a peculiar wooden mask, his hands folded patiently in his lap.
"Good evening, Captain," the masked man greeted. His voice was distorted by some magery Vidanya was unfamiliar with, making its accent and owner impossible to place.
Ingrained social niceties compelled Vidanya to take the deep breath required to return the greeting, even as the air burned his lungs. "Good evening, sir," he managed, his voice stronger than he'd expected, if still crackly. He licked his lips, gathering his wits before continuing. "If I might be such a bother, might I ask where I am?"
"What matters most to you, Acertan, is that you are in the land of the living. Quite a surprising place to be, for one whose neck was so recently snapped. As I must imagine you awfully curious, I will say that yes, I was the instrument of your soul's return. I hope such a kindness will start our discussions off on the right foot."
Vidanya's mind whirled, trying to piece together disparate thoughts through a fog of peculiar exhaustion. He had been in the ruined capital of Tulian, pursuing Lady Vesta, a traitor to the kingdom fleeing on a ship. He had... lost. Badly. Before even engaging the enemy, a knife had appeared at his throat, wielded by some fiendish creature that had dredged itself from the depths. His troops had failed to save him as he was dragged into the ocean, where he was hauled to his capture. Things grew hazier for a time in his recollection, due to fear or exhaustion he didn't know, until he was at a dinner, facing the Champion of Amarat, that god-touched viper of a woman who thought herself the master of a dead kingdom. She had beguiled him with honey words, earning his trust and even, he was ashamed to admit, his admiration, until suddenly she had snapped, dragging him to a noose. She had answered no diplomatic pleas, ignoring his words until suddenly he had felt a jolt, a drop--
And then he was here. Awake. Alive.
"...Are you of Sporatos, sir?" Vidanya finally asked, the cogs of his mind grating to life. "I can only assume such lengths to revive me were taken in interest for the information I possess, rather than my admittedly humble stature. I must profusely thank you for your healing as a matter of course, but I will first say that even such kindness does not overcome my sense of justice. I will not betray my King, and so wish to know where your loyalties lie."
At the edges of the wooden mask, skin crawled upward. Vidanya thought the man was smiling.
"I am not a subject of King Sporatos, but I am under his employ. As a man of honor, you have my word on this."
Vidanya bit his tongue, an internal conflict of whether or not to trust the figure's claims briefly raging until he realized how foolish he was being. This man, or someone allied with him, had revived Vidanya, that much was certain. The veil between life and death was not porous, and any mage capable of piercing that barrier was a creature teetering on the very edge of mortal comprehension. Men of such power were capable of plucking things from his mind as easily as they might a leaf from a tree. To be asked in these genial tones was therefore simple courtesy. The masked man had no need of mere subterfuge.
"I accept your word, sir, and will provide what aid to you I can. My body is still weak, but my mind has returned, and I will answer any question you have of me. For bringing me back to this world, honor demands nothing less than the fullest of my efforts."
"Excellent. I knew you were a true nobleman, Captain." The richly decorated chair creaked as the man leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Delivered with your body was a note, supposedly a message directly from the Champion, penned by the slave she considers a consort. Had you opportunity to read it, before you were killed?"
Vidanya swallowed. To talk so directly of his own death... it was nauseating. All the same, he had a duty to do, and he shook his head. "I was not, sir."
"That is no issue. I would like you to read it, before we continue." A single finger flicked, and then there was a piece of paper hovering in the air before Vidanya, brought out from some space between spaces. He lifted a hand to grab its corner, ashamed of the way his entire arm trembled with the effort. He began to read.
This man stands as an example to those who would assault the sovereign territory of Tulian. The nation is reborn, headed by the Champion of Amarat, Governess Sara Brown.
His failure in the illegal assault of the Tulian Capital, which was undertaken without a declaration of war or any attempts at diplomatic overture, shall further stand as an example of the Fates which await any future attempts. The power of a Champion now bolsters Tulian, and any attempt to pit oneself against the nation is to pit oneself against the Will of the Goddess Amarat.
To the people of Sporatos, who will soon be embroiled in a conflict borne of their King's greedy ambitions, I, Governess Sara, offer only sympathy. The lands of Sporatos are worked and tended by a proud, strong people, whose lives have no right to be wasted in the hopeless war ahead. Should you face our forces in battle, you may at any time lay down your weapons and surrender yourself. You will be welcomed with open arms in Tulian, a nation of Free Peoples, and it is my solemn promise that within our nation's borders you will never again feel the boot of tyranny on your neck.
For the King of Sporatos and his shadowed advisors, I hold only contempt. Your destiny splits before you into two paths:
The first, to peace.
The second, to a noose.
For your people, I beg you choose the first. If, however, you value my satisfaction, please consider the second.
The note ended there. There was no signature, nor royal emblem, nor any of the flourishes Vidanya associated with decrees of such grandiose purpose. Somehow, their absence struck home the severity of intent the words contained. The Champion saw no need for frivolity, presenting only what she saw as statements of inarguable fact.
To express this, Vidanya forced a chuckle and said aloud, "A confident woman, is she not?"
"Perhaps," the man mused, "Perhaps not. One can never know, with the Champions of Amarat. Champions of Olivan wield the sickle and scythe as their chosen weapons, Daylagon's Chosen the spear and trident, while Talavan lends his charges knowledge of sorcery and spells." He spread his hands. "Amarat is alone in arming her Champions with no weapons beyond a golden tongue and guileful quill, the words and stories they weave as inscrutable as the Eternal Maze. It is why Sporatos is going to war, Captain Vidanya, and it is why she so pleads for peace and diplomacy. Should her words spread freely among the people, it would be only a handful of years before the entire kingdom is naught but puppets dancing on her strings, all of them thinking themselves the puppetmaster."
Vidanya blanched. "So dire an outlook, sir. Surely Sporatos is not so vulnerable to sedition and betrayal as all that?"
"Some lofty philosophers may claim the quill is mightier than the blade, but any fool who ties to defend his home from villainy with an impassioned lecture quickly reveals the lie. The only exception, perhaps, are the circumstances in which the quill is wielded by a Champion of Amarat, when even the mightiest Knight may find its ink buried in their throat." The figure leaned forward, using his posture, if not his wooden mask, to deepen the impact of his words. "The gifts of the gods are not paltry things, and will be given the respect they are due."
"So you say," Vidanya said nervously, doing his best to respectfully incline his head. "Far be it for me to argue the point against one so clearly knowledgeable as yourself."
The stranger relaxed his posture in apparent satisfaction. "It is a wise man that heeds the wisdom of their betters, Captain Vidanya. It speaks well of you, and I am glad happenstance has allowed me to receive information from one with such perspective. If you feel well enough recovered, shall we begin discussing your brief stay in Tulian?"
"Of course," Vidanya replied, even if he felt nowhere near ready for the task.
Notes:
The whole point of breaking it into Part Two here is because I'm now attached enough to the story to put my whole back into it, and I intend it to be much more consistent in pacing and plotting than Part One. I wrote it for fun and to keep myself in the writing habit, which was great, but now that the habit's developed, I'd like to ensure the story going forward is much more focused. Fewer dropped threads, more direct goals and progression, and, of course, a solid variety of smut delivered at a steady, filling, and satisfying pace.
Chapter 35: Nova
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Southern Expanse of the Tulian Republic
135 Miles From The Capital
50 Miles From The Jungle Wall
Five Months until Invasion
Sara stood in the stirrups, doing her best to balance as she sought a view over the lands below. Her horse, whose name she would commit to memory once she was certain she wouldn't give him up like the last four, kept his placid stance beneath her. Sara shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun, which bounced off a field of glinting metal.
"All seems to be going well," Sara said, affecting more confidence than she felt. There were staff and attendants nearby, and it wouldn't do to have them seeing their leader desperate for approval.
Sara, of course, was desperate for approval, but appearances trumped honesty in this particular case. She subtly looked to Voth, the massive orc who sat in the saddle of an even more massive warhorse to her right. He was dressed in his preferred battle regalia, simple slabs of steel that caged his torso and arms, elegant only in the sweep of the helmet, which jutted out before the eyes to afford him protection without compromising vision. His warhorse, whose shoulders ended above the ears of Sara's horse, had its front draped in chainmail, and would have been completely covered if not for the sheer expense of the steel required to coat so massive a beast.
Evie, to her left, was on her own steed, looking as uncomfortable in the saddle as Sara felt. Neither of them had ridden a horse before they'd met up with Voth's troops, and their lessons were far from complete. Evie wore a simpler version of the usual battle attire she'd preferred over her months of being Sara's slave, eschewing the vibrant red dress in favor of a far more sedate gray cloak, one which still hid her black studded armor. The feline woman's natural showmanship in battle was necessarily subdued today, when hundreds of enemy soldiers would be devoutly watching for a target as valuable as she was. Evie tipped her head to the side, silently endorsing Sara's earlier statement, leaving Sara awaiting only Voth's approval.
"I agree," Voth finally said, as if it were a matter of course. In reality, Sara was barely in charge of this army, having given explicit instructions for Voth to countermand any order of hers that would be detrimental to their forces. She needed practice leading the troops, but she'd be damned if she let people die for her incompetence, appearances or not. To an outside observer it would seem Voth had surrendered command the moment she'd arrived, as was proper when the leader of a nation joined an army, but subtle coded phrases ensured Voth was the general in all but name.
The force that faced them on the southern plains of Tulian was to be her first real test, and it was looking to be a hell of a fight. The remaining petty bandit gangs, grown wealthy and skilled over a decade of raiding lawless Tulian, had finally realized that Voth's army scouring the countryside were anything but a temporary aberration. Two months ago Sara had given him the order to put down any bandit force of considerable size and the funding to achieve it, and he'd done a damn good job in the interim.
So good, in fact, that his progress had finally prompted the unification of disparate bandit forces under a single banner. The largest of the bandit gangs had been akin to crime lords in their level of organization, each leader controlling dozens to hundreds of troops that systematically plundered their informal territory for tribute come each harvest. They'd fought other bandit gangs often, naturally, but when faced with elimination, they'd clearly decided cooperation was the lesser of two evils.
Now Voth's army-- under Sara's banner-- were faced by the first enemy that equaled their numbers. Boiled leather and long boar spears stared down the maw of steel cuirasses and interwoven shields, a hundred and fifty yards between them, just enough for the first scattered exchange of longbow shots. Nearly two thousand men and women were stomping through the high grasses of abandoned Tulian, half of them under Sara's command, and the field was turning to sucking mud beneath their boots. Sara put a hand on her horse's neck and leaned forward, as if removing a single foot of distance would allow her to discern something new about the enemy forces. Predictably, she learned nothing. Likely, she'd learn nothing of use about her foes until battle was already joined, far too late for any meaningful orders to be sent out.
What Sara already knew, however, was enough to keep her mind constantly churning, turning over every bit and piece in ceaseless agitation. The New Lords, the ostentatious moniker chosen by the unified bandit leaders, were far from a pushover force. Sara had personally interviewed a number of scouting parties that had been involved in brief skirmishes with their forces over the past few days, and was subsequently dismayed by consistent reports that her troops universally got worse than they gave, casualties as high as one-third in the enemy's favor. While these were only brief exchanges between groups of ten or so, Sara knew from Evie's training that such a loss rate was one of unsustainable devastation; most armies would break into a rout after losing a mere ten percent of their number. The disparity was to be expected, considering how inexperienced the bulk of Sara's troops were, but the implications were worrying.
It was a gap in experience that was palpable in Sara's mind, and in this world, the term 'experience' was far more literal than on Earth. Veteran troops were tangibly more powerful than their opposites, bolstered by the arcane system of levels and Abilities that governed this reality.
It would have been one thing if the bandit troops had occupied the years of lawlessness with simple pillaging, lording over peasantry who had no ability to fight back, but they hadn't. Perhaps their only claim to legitimacy as The New Lords came from their years spent patrolling the Jungle Wall between harvests, beating back the myriad creations of Daylagon, the Beast God's children endlessly seeking to expand their territory into Tulian's verdant fields. Sara had heard tales of centipedes the size of buildings, panthers who slipped between shadows a mile distant in a heartbeat, and other, stranger things, so threatening they were given no name, for fear that invoking it would summon them back into existence. The remnants of those battles dangled from the armors of The New Lords, leather armor reinforced with bones, claws, and teeth, all polished to a brilliant white sheen.
It was that experience fighting beasts, however, that Sara hoped to leverage in her favor. For all the levels and Abilities the enemy may possess, they gained them fighting monolithic titans, not numerous, thinking beings. What Sara lacked in experience leading armies, she hoped to make up for in her ability to read people, and the troops of The New Lords had proved an obligingly open book. Long spears and loosely packed formations spoke of habits borne of years spent swarming massive beasts with superior numbers, and though they had gathered under one banner, they were far from unified in practice. Sara's troops moved as one, a thousand men and women pressed elbow to elbow, while the disparate blocks of The New Lords jostled and jockeyed for position, the few weeks they spent drilling formations not nearly enough to overcome years of rivalry between violent gangs.
Sara had ordered her troops to approach in an inverse-V, the edges of her line creeping dangerously far ahead of the center, as if she wanted to envelop the entire bandit force. With their numbers equal, however, a full encirclement was vanishingly difficult to achieve, and so the tips of the V were enticingly easy to pinch off and surround. It was an opportunity that Sara could only pray the bandit troops would recognize and seize, because her entire plan hinged on it. She'd positioned Voth's most experienced troops in each leading edge, giving their sergeants orders to form into a hollow box and allow themselves to be encircled, making no attempts at a breakout. An outsized chunk of the enemy forces would be required to pin them down, and as a result, Sara would briefly have numerical superiority in the center, an advantage she intended to ruthlessly pursue. The moment the enemy middle broke, Sara's sergeants had preemptive orders to divide into three groups, the smallest pursuing the routing foes to ensure they could not regroup, the other two breaking off to relieve their encircled allies.
It was, on the face of it, an excellent plan. Nothing of their intelligence suggested The New Lords had any experience with large battles, and her gut told her they would swallow the bait without issue. Evie and Voth both had endorsed the plan during the early morning march, and Hurlish had even volunteered to be placed in the left wingtip, so Sara could focus her attention entirely on the right.
Sara's mounting dread, ironically, came from the very fact that Hurlish's presence did so much for the safety of the left wingtip. Though the numbers and look of Sara's formation appeared symmetrical at a distance, the presence of a single sixth-level Irregular gave the army a combat strength that was laughably lopsided. Irregulars, after all, were defined as soldiers who, should they go unopposed, possessed abilities great enough to turn the tide of a battle singlehandedly. Sara herself was classified as one, as well as Evie and Voth, who were to her left and right, but there ended the entire list of her thousand-strong army's Irregulars. Months of skirmishes, no matter how frequent, weren't enough to make up for a lifetime spent with blade in hand, and that meant The New Lords had an incredible advantage: the "Lords" themselves.
As best as Sara could tell from villager's reports, there were twelve of the Lords, and they alone could-- would-- shape the tide of battle. Staring down at the grassland, Sara would have given anything to pick them out in the enemy formations, no intel more precious than the distribution of enemy Irregulars. The Lords were combatants strong enough to command the loyalty and respect of dozens of brigands, and while it was a certainty that Sara and her companions were individually superior, there were still the equivalent of entire regiments hidden somewhere among the enemy.
Sara, Evie, and Voth were her army's only answer. With as little as she knew of the Lord's personalities and abilities, there would be no predicting them, no anticipating their attacks, nothing to do other than wait for a slaughter to begin somewhere among those that had entrusted their lives to Sara's leadership. Then she would be off like a shot, leaving her army rudderless in her absence, trying to kill them quickly enough that she could return and keep giving orders.
The scattered exchange of arrows began to intensify, the backlines of both formations closing within range of the opposing frontline. Sara's troops raised their shields in textbook grids, stride unbroken, while the bandit forces simply loosened their formation, most of the arrows falling in the empty space between them. The sergeants Voth had promoted saw this and began shouting orders, hurrying the whole formation in an attempt to catch the enemy disorganized.
"It's fuckin' started now," Sara muttered under her breath, fingernails biting into her horse's reins.
Evie cocked a feline ear her way, easily catching the whisper even from ten feet away. "Indeed, Master," she said, "Would it not be time to begin using Champion's Inspiration?"
Sara shook her head. "I'm waiting until the melee starts. Don't know what their Irregulars can do, and I don't want them working out a counter before it's even started. Hopefully they'll be too busy to worry about it, once they're staring down the wrong end of a sword."
Evie only hummed in response, giving no opinion. The catgirl had spent the majority of her youth in training under renowned mercenaries, yet never considered herself an expert in formal strategy, always quick to explain that her training was in swordsmanship and squad tactics, not generalmanship. Unlike Voth, she would remain silent on Sara's decisions unless Sara was about to commit a blunder that threatened the whole force. It grated on Sara something fierce, to know that Evie was willing to let troops die just to teach Sara, but the catgirl had been resolute that lessons were best learned with blood on your conscious. Sara had begrudgingly agreed to allow Evie her silence, only because Sara herself categorically refused to compromise her slave's rare shows of disobedience. No matter how happy Evie was with the arrangement that had befallen them, it was one forced on them by fate, not desire, and Sara would quite literally die before taking away a single ounce of her partner's remaining agency.
Sara watched the lines roll towards one another from her vantage point, grinding her teeth. Arrows slipped through the shield wall in places, resulting in shouts of agony audible even up at the hill she'd chosen to observe. Her troops marched on, well trained enough to be heedless of the fallen, eyes locked unerringly on the enemy force. Healers would attend the wounded, but only after the battle was over. They were too valuable to expose when the enemy still stood.
"Ears on," Sara ordered, raising her voice to be heard by the surrounding group. Evie, Voth, and the dozen or so attendants obligingly took globs of warm wax from their pockets, stuffing it into their ears. Sara took a deep breath, focusing on the abilities gifted her by Amarat, and made her selection.
Quiet taps filled the air, almost like water dripping on thin metal, with only the lightest hints of rumbling bass behind it. The sounds subtly grew bolder, louder, until a drumroll burst out of Sara's chest at deafening volume, echoing down to her troops below. She almost felt like she could see the speed of sound in the way the soldiers responded, marching feet suddenly pounding in unity timed to the millisecond.
Champion's Inspiration was, with absolute certainty, Sara's most powerful ability, even if the description provided by the goddess hadn't pounded that home right off the bat.
The Champion of Amarat reaches out to the souls of those around her. Whether through dance, speech, or song, she may show a truth that fans the embers of fading spirits into roaring bonfires.
When Sara had first used it, it had been in the form of a rousing speech that helped synchronize the motions of rowers in a ship, proving instrumental in their survival against a superior foe. For a while she'd thought that was all it was useful for, minor buffs in desperate circumstances, but experimentation had yielded fruit. When she channeled Champion's Inspiration through a song she could reproduce any tune she'd ever heard, gifting its effects to any who considered themselves her ally. Unlike a speech, which was good for a one-time boost, Sara could keep the music going, looping it endlessly so the advantages it provided never faded.
Her only minor quibble with the ability, however, was the fact she had to choose what song to play, and for someone with a hidden hipster streak in the world of music, that was quite a challenge. She'd spent half the march here thumbing through her mental record collection, trying to choose what to set the battle to. She probably shouldn't have worried so much, as all that mattered was the song's magical effect, but she knew the men and women under her command would be fighting for their lives with her taste in music entangling itself in their souls. It would have felt profoundly wrong to give them something inappropriate for the circumstances.
Thus, as two thousand soldiers broke into the charge that would decide their fates, they did so to the chanting lyrics of a rap named Nova. Chosen mostly for a chorus of the words "I WON'T LOSE" bellowed over and over again, as well as its verses speaking of devils and gods, it was as close as she'd found to something that would resonate with the citizens of this antiquated society. Not all of it would make sense, but she wasn't playing it for the troops to analyze. It was a brutal, harsh beat, the bones of it simple enough to be played with hands on hidebound drums, and the fury it evoked would serve her well.
The two frontlines met with mutual roars, the crack of steel and wood rising for a moment over the music. Just as she'd hoped, the left and rightmost bandit regiments leapt to the encirclement of her wings with whooping yells, ever more blocks of soldiers splitting off as their too-independent commanders decided to envelop the flanks. Down on the ground, it was probably impossible to see the way Voth's most experienced sergeants had begun to alter their formation, the back half of lines ten deep splitting off so they could reposition in anticipation of imminent encirclement, forming a box with an empty center. Even if the enemy sergeants realized what was happening, they were committed, and couldn't withdraw without exposing themselves to an opportunistic pursuit.
The centers of the two armies met a minute later with another crash of steel, Sara's more heavily armored troops breaking into a sprint just before contact. Wielding shortswords and shields with rounded corners that protected them from neck to knee, they were the closest thing to heavy infantry Voth had been able to assemble. They lacked the armor to truly be called it, their iron chestplates open-backed and their helmets mere leather, but they were still more protected than their lightly armored opponents, who relied on the length of their winged boar spears to protect them. Forcing their way past the spears would be hard work, but the armor made it possible, if only attacks could be well ordered and synchronized.
Sara's ability certainly allowed the second, at least. She could see even from hundreds of yards away the way each drive forward occurred in perfect unison, dozens of shields abruptly shoving speartips aside so their owners could take one determined step forward. Here and there some opportunistic soldiers managed to bite into the wooden hafts of the bandit's spears with their swords, either breaking them outright or damaging them enough that their snapping was inevitable.
The bandits, of course, didn't accept this tactic passively. They began to slowly backstep, ceding ground so Sara's troops had to cover ever more distance to reach their opponents. The bandits knew as well as she that they would be eviscerated the moment Sara's troops pierced through the wall of spears, where shortswords could be wielded with all the subtlety of clubs against the unwieldy spears. Their constant thrusts turned the heavy infantry's assault into a shoving match, speartips grinding off armor and embedding into thick wooden shields.
After all the smaller scale fights Sara had been involved in, most of which involved less than a dozen highly skilled combatants, the pace of true warfare was excruciatingly glacial. Minutes ticked away without any meaningful changes, save for the blocks of archers in the rear line, who were constantly jogging back and forth on the grass to keep themselves in range of the enemy's troops, yet out of range of their opposite's arrows. There, at least, Sara had a decisive advantage, her infantry far better able to weather the hail of arrows than the bandit spearmen.
If this had been all the cards both sides had to play, the battle likely would have lasted for hours yet, when exhaustion or terror would finally convince one side to flee. Neither Sara nor The New Lords had cavalry to make decisive charges, nor hidden forces lying in wait, nor even a core of reserves that could be committed at a critical moment.
The only thing left, then, was Sara herself. Her horse, chosen for its deafness in light of Champion's Inspiration , was calmly snacking on grass, but Sara was practically vibrating in its saddle. Somewhere, somehow, the bandit Lords would reveal themselves, and then she'd have to fling every last one of her plans out the window to find her answer.
Talking of one's level was incredibly taboo in this world, particularly among career soldiers, but Sara and Evie had quietly anticipated most of the Lords being around the fourth level in combat capability, based on their publicly witnessed accomplishments. Sara, Evie, and Hurlish were sixth level, and she privately suspected Voth of being seventh level. If one was incredibly skilled, a true prodigy, it was technically possible to overcome a two level gap, but it was the sort of achievement people wrote songs about, the warrior involved immortalized in legend. Sara wasn't concerned for her personal safety in a duel between her and one of the Lords. It was the regular troops, to whom a fourth level Irregular was nigh invincible, that she feared for.
As if her pessimism had summoned the problem into existence, she witnessed the Fourth Infantry Company buckle, a pocket of empty space opening in the leftmost line of the main block of soldiers. At the center was one woman wielding an absurdly long poleaxe, a double-headed steel blade framing the speartip jutting from the ten foot weapon. She was savaging her way through the infantry, one sweep of her weapon knocking shields aside, the next crunching through armor, her troops filing in the space she opened. In the few seconds from Sara's recognition to reaction, a dozen had fallen.
"Voth!" Sara snapped, making her decision. The orc cracked his horse's reigns the instant she spoke, command staff diving out of his way as he thundered off in the direction of the enemy Irregular. The massive beast's chugging breaths sounded more like a roar as it gathered momentum down the hill, Voth crouching low over the saddle so he wouldn't be thrown off.
Sara ripped herself away from the sight, doing her best to ignore the entire affair once she'd made her decision. With Voth committed to the left flank, the formation was even more lopsided, two of their four Irregulars on the extreme left of the battle. Once Voth dealt with the enemy Irregular, he'd reverse the direction of the push, driving into the enemy ranks just as the enemy had been doing. The progress he would make would inevitably prompt a response from another Irregular, which was when the real shitshow would begin. Action and reaction, dominos falling one after the other, dragging them all into the thick of the melee until one side was dead or shattered.
Sara kept flicking her attention back to the right box formation, the enveloped Companies of soldiers being the most likely candidate for a considerable push. Hurlish was still hiding on the left flank, freeing Sara to wait until--
There it was. Hard to spot, but impossible to hide, she saw the gaps forming, and when she kept her attention on it, it was obvious. Random soldiers were dropping bonelessly in the line, collapsing for no apparent reason, and the rate they were doing so was accelerating. Sara didn't know what the hell was causing it, but it wasn't a coincidence.
"Evie!" She snapped, pointing. Unlike Voth, however, there was no storm of hoofbeats answering her shout. In fact, as she looked to her left, Evie hadn't moved in the slightest. Sara's eyes widened in anger at the feline, knowing she wouldn't have missed anything Sara saw. "Are you goddamn serious?"
"Yes, Master."
"There's an Irregular over there!"
"Indeed."
"And it would be fucking stupid for both of us to commit to the same place on the battlefield!"
"Correct."
"So would you please get over there?"
"Did you think I was lying when we spoke this morning, Master?"
Sara stared up into the sky and released a string of her foulest curses, then bent low over her horse's back and snapped its reigns.
For all its earlier lethargy, her steed's eagerness to run couldn't be denied. It lunged forward without hesitation, grass still hanging half out of its mouth, and Sara's valiant charge almost ended with her flat on her ass ten feet from where she started. She just barely managed to keep her feet in the stirrups, reciting every one of her riding lessons in her head as she went through each motion in mechanical fashion. Keep even pressure on the reins, keep the heel firmly pressed against the stirrup, bounce with the motion of the gallop, all while keeping out of the wind as much as possible, so she wouldn't slow the animal down.
Evie rode behind her, steadily falling behind Sara, for once. Her horse wasn't as fast, despite being younger, but it did behave better around Evie than most they'd tried. Something about felines and catfolk set them on edge, as if their little horse brains were convinced Evie was more tiger than human. It was supposedly more of a problem in the south, where wild horses had more to fear from stalking predators than they did their trainer's reprimands.
Sara nearly fell from her saddle once more as her horse abruptly transitioned from galloping down the hill to the flatter plain, saved from falling only by pulling herself back up with the horse's reins, which of course caused the animal to wildly veer off course. Sara cursed wildly as she pulled the horse back around, rocketing ingloriously past a block of her own archers that she'd narrowly avoided trampling.
She pointed the animal towards the enveloped troops with wind whistling through the eyeslits of her helmet, grinding her teeth the entire way there. Evie was falling farther behind, fifty feet or so, but Sara'd learned early on that her current steed was an all or nothing creature, and that any attempt to slow it would result in a return to placid grass snacking. That should have been a massive problem for a warhorse, which needed to be trained to keep pace in a formation, but honestly, Sara found it endearing. She urged the animal faster with quiet mutterings it couldn't hear, trying to find the source of the inexplicable deaths in the enveloped right flank.
She found it right as she pulled hard on the reins, forcing her horse to come to a hoof-dragging halt. She leapt from the saddle the moment it was safe, tucking the landing into a roll that she ended by bouncing to her feet, sword drawn.
Surrounded as the Second Infantry Regiment was, Sara was first faced with a wall of spearmen five deep. The front two rows were engaged with the Second Infantry, the third standing ready to replace any injured, leaving only the back two rows sufficiently disengaged to notice her arrival. They immediately began whirling their spears around, hollering furious warnings at their fellows that an Irregular had arrived, but Sara had too much momentum. She snapped her greatsword out and plowed into them before the first shout finished falling from their lips.
Speartips grated and sparked off her armor as she dove into the melee, moving too fast for anyone to try and aim for a gap in her armor.
Her first swing was a wide vertical spin, sending severed speartips flying, ending with her sword collapsing overhead, shortsword slamming down into the skull of the woman in front of her, then jerked straight through the woman's right cheekbone in a spray of blood, landing in the neck of her comrade beside her.
Now inside the boarspear's range, Sara ripped her weapon free and dove into the brutal butchery only an Irregular was capable of. She was at least a head taller than most of her opponents, thin-limbed bandits who'd never known a life where their next meal was guaranteed, and it left her feeling like she was fighting toddlers. They moved slow, reacted slow, thought slow, always too late to do anything but flail when her sword came their way, and Sara knew deep down, somewhere, that she should have felt bad, but the heat of battle left no room for anything other than savage delight and a fiery rage.
Truth be told, she doubted she'd ever feel a shred of guilt for the deaths. These bandits were the most pathetic of opportunists, the sort of godawful cocksuckers that had seen their country suddenly freed from the horrors of feudal lords and decided that, rather than rise to be better, the best thing to do was grab a weapon and try their damndest to take the old oppressor's place. It wasn't like Tulian had been struggling, after the storms had passed, with more natural resources and open farmland than anyone could have used, so they couldn't claim they'd been forced into a life of crime. Whatever Sara called them, be it bandit, class traitor, or any number of applicable profanities, her evaluation of their fates remained unchanged:
Fuck 'em.
Sara grabbed one man by neck and twisted until she felt a snap, driving deeper into the line with his corpse held before her as a shield. She tossed the body aside when she broke out into the empty space between the Second Infantry and the bandit army, her troop's initial recoiling of terror at an Irregular's emergence from the enemy line rapidly coalescing into a ragged cheer. Sara raised her sword in greeting, then folded it out into a greatsword and brought it down in an axe bow to her right, snapping six spears in one swing. The infantry opposite immediately rushed forward to take advantage, shortswords digging into the guts of disarmed bandits.
Sara stepped into the welcoming embrace of the infantry formation, raising her sword once more to gather attention.
"Imposter! Enemy Irregular disguised in our lines!" There was a rippling effect around her as those closest to her reacted, but with the shrieks of battle and pounding bass, the message didn't spread far. Sara began walking behind the line, sword still raised, repeating the message. "Imposter in the lines! Disguised Irregular! Back line, pass the warning on!"
Those not actively engaged in combat began repeating the cry, raising the alarm along the whole of the box formation. There was no protocol in place to deal with such a scenario, so individual soldiers reacted instinctively, pressing tighter to their fellows and looking deeply into one another's faces, searching for any sign of disguise. The distraction immediately began taking a toll, bandits catching more than one soldier off guard, but it was far better than letting an Irregular run amuck. Or, at least, Sara hoped it was.
Sara spotted the commander of the Second Infantry Regiment jogging her way, trying to shout something to her. He was one of Voth's old army buddies, a squat man whose nickname of Laner still stuck from his trainee days. So the story went, he'd shown up to drill practice so drunk that he'd begun to halfway-fall in that stumbling way only the drunk and elderly did, knocking people aside through the entire formation until finally falling flat on his face at the drill sergeant's feet. His perilous journey had cleared a long lane of open space behind him, showing the drill sergeant just how far he had fallen-- literally. Voth had assured her the drunkenness of his nickname was an oddity, not the rule, and so Sara had entrusted him with this assignment.
"Laner, back!" Sara shouted, waving her sword at him. "They're a rogue, assassin sort, and they'll want to get you and me the most!"
Laner kept coming, adjusting his shield's straps. "And I'll be damned if I let them get you!" He shouted back, pulling to a stop at her side, breathing hard. "Where's your girl, Champion? Surely she didn't actually follow orders?"
"Of course not," Sara spat, turning to survey the battle. She couldn't see Evie, but she could see the empty hole in the enemy formation she was creating, accented with the occasional spray of blood flinging skyward. Sara pointed. "She's coming in after me. C'mon, let's meet her halfway. I sure as shit don't wanna fight a rogue in our own lines."
Sara began to jog behind the infantry lines, giving motivational slaps on the back to some of the walking wounded that had taken up spots in the backline. She was pleased to see that most had bandaged their wounds with clean, white cloth, or were currently wrapping them up just as she'd instructed. Hardly any of them understood why using any old rag to staunch the flow of blood was bad, yet they were disciplined enough to follow orders regardless. As Sara went, she glanced back at Laner, whose real name she couldn't remember for the life of her. He was an average looking man, save for his more rugged physique, musculature toned by weeks training recruits, but he hadn't been listed by Voth as a potential Irregular. Going into this fight with him seemed a good way to get one of her few veteran commanders killed, no matter how stubborn he was about helping.
"Laner, what's your level?"
His eyes widened in horror, tripping over his own feet.
"Wha-- I beg your fucking pardon?"
Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Asking about levels was about the deepest taboo this society had, the question she'd just rattled off one that Evie had once eloquently compared to asking a woman nursing a newborn how many inches the midwife had noticed her cervix dilating during the birth. Not only was it a baffling question to ask, there simply wasn't any imaginable reason someone could want to know it with good intentions. As a military man, whose very life might hang on what Skills his Class gave him, that taboo was tenfold for someone like Laner.
Sara had hoped the circumstances would deaden the provocative question, but it clearly hadn't. Instead of pressing further, she just blew out a huff of breath, pointing back to where Laner had come from.
"Look, unless you're fourth level or above, there's not gonna be a damn thing you can do to help me. Get back to your soldiers, keep the line intact, and--"
Sara felt a titanic blow to her temple throw her to the dirt, left shoulder hitting before either leg did. She reflexively shoved herself back up even as her helmet rang like a struck bell, vision swimming as she flung her sword out in a wild arc, barely warding away the lunging blow she'd anticipated by instinct alone.
Her assailant had been coming at her with knife in hand, but was forced to dip beneath her swing and try again from below, driving towards the weak chainmail that guarded her exposed armpit.
Her sword far too heavy to bring around, Sara released it and brought her elbow down, driving its steel edge into the shoulder of the assassin with a meaty crunch. His stab was thrown off just enough to skate off the side of her breastplate, then he was trying to return to his feet while Sara savaged his upper body with kicks, all the while backpedaling in the direction she'd inadvertently flung her sword.
It was at this time that Laner finished drawing his sword from its scabbard. Sara made the briefest of eye contact with him, then he was gone, running off to rejoin his soldiers.
Sara bent to snag her sword out of the dirt, glancing aside just in time to see a glint of steel flying through the air, heading straight for her eye. She turned her half-crouch into a dive, the weapon bouncing off the back of her helmet to spin up into the sky. She once again threw herself to her feet, the distance between them finally enough for her to reset her stance and evaluate her opponent.
Dressed in the armor common to the Second Infantry Regiment, with a leather helmet and simple breastplate, he was as utterly unremarkable an individual as Sara had ever seen. Brown eyes, short brown hair, a tanned face with freckles and a little bit of premature aging from a life spent under the sun, even his physicality was unremarkable.
If Sara had been her old self, back on Earth, she doubted she'd have noticed him even if he'd blocked her path through a door. He was that generic, that uninteresting, that boring. Her new self, however, with a goddess's instincts flowing through her mind, screamed in alarm. This man was capital-a Average in a way that wasn't achievable by any natural means, and it had her gut squirming with anxiety. How long had he been in the Second? Since The New Lords had formed? Before? She'd have no way of knowing; not even his tentmate would've bothered to learn his name.
Sara adopted an overheaded hanging guard stance, hilt of her sword above her temple, blade angled subtly downward. While it may not have looked like it, in her practice duels with Ketch, it had proved the best way to protect herself from the rogue's blinding speed and propensity for ducking beneath her blade. Sara could stab, swing, or spin at any time, giving her a plethora of ways to react.
She was already doubting her opponent was merely level four, and as if to underpin the concern, Sara became aware of a gentle tickle of wind against the back of her head, followed by a wetness rolling down her neck. The man's thrown knife had pierced the steel, opening a wide gash on the back of her skull.
Locked into her guarding stance, Sara could only await his move. She'd hedged her bets that he'd thrown all his knives, but if he hadn't she'd have milliseconds to dodge, no longer able to trust her armor to--
He blurred forward, light glinting in his right hand. Sara stabbed down, aiming for a spot just ahead of him, but found only air, the rogue spinning around the blade, knife appearing in his left hand.
Sara raised her knee and yanked her sword back, blocking his swing with her leg in an effort to pin him between her body and the sword. A sharp pain flared in her thigh as the knife drove home, then she felt her sword bouncing off his back, not quite biting in.
Sara's head was filled with a boiling fury, and it shone from the runes on her skin. She rolled to the side with a guttural scream, using his grip on the knife in her thigh to drag him with her, the sword now at just the right angle to race across his neck--
There was a blur of motion she couldn't follow, and then the man was ten feet away, breathing hard, left hand pressed to his neck. He brought the hand away, palm smeared red, and that was all the time he had to react before Sara was on him again, swinging with everything she had.
GOD Sara loved fighting. She fucking loved it. Fuck talking, fuck planning, fuck maneuvering, and hell, fuck fucking, this was what she wanted. It was like a high, and Sara'd been high before, but this wasn't like that because the blood on her neck and her thigh was nothing compared to the blood rushing to her head, pounding with the pulse of a hammering heart set to leap from her skin, a dizzying anger that'd never felt as right as it did in that moment when she was swinging her sword at the fucker that'd just stabbed her with his stupid little fucking knife until she felt her wrist shake when her sword landed somewhere in him and he was falling and she was on top of him with her hands on his throat and her smoke was filling the air--
--Until the fog was pierced by a single sliver of silver, glowing with enchantment light. It entered the rogue's neck with the grace of a master weaver placing their tapestry's final thread, a thin string in just the right place to complete a masterpiece.
Sara's neck snapped up to look at Evie, who was standing in bloodsoaked black leather. The feline looked down at her calmly, wiping the gore from her blade with a white silk hankie.
"I apologize for the interruption, Master, but choking them takes too long. We have places to be."
The simple words rang like struck crystal in Sara's ears, splitting through the haze. Her shoulders sagged in sudden exhaustion, the red fog rolling off her runed skin sputtering away. She rolled off the corpse, sitting back. She was breathing hard, and her thigh burned.
"Fuck," she whispered. Evie crouched down next to her.
"Are you injured, Master?"
"Yeah. Thigh and back of my head. Not too bad." There'd been a six inch blade in her thigh, but becoming a Champion had changed the kinds of wounds that concerned her. "Fuck," she repeated. "That wasn't great. I lost my head for a minute there."
"I saw, Master."
Sara wiped a hand down her face, looking at the soldiers still engaged in battle all around her. "You think anyone else did?"
"Some, perhaps. It will not be a problem. Fervor in battle is something the commoners laud in their leader."
"Not the example I want to set, though." Sara wiped her face again, trying to clean away something that wasn't on her skin. "Gonna have to get a hold on that soon."
"In the immediate sense, Master?" Evie asked, even as she reached up to remove Sara's helmet. She unrolled a bandage and lifted Sara's hair, using a small penknife to cut a patch around the wound. "The battle still rages, but Voth and Hurlish are competent. If we provide Hurlish with a horse, she will be able to respond as we did."
"No, no, that's not necessary," Sara said, twisting her leg until she could look at the wound in her thigh without moving her head away from Evie's ministrations. The steel cuisse had been pierced clean through, a quarter-inch gap welling with blood. Wrapping all the way around her leg, it normally wouldn't be an easy piece to take off in a hurry. Thankfully, she'd chosen enchantments for just such an occasion, which she activated. The steel rolled up like playdough under Sara's hands as she spoke. "But I do need to get a handle on it. I didn't lose my cool in the smaller fights like that, but I still got too heated."
"Something that should be addressed," Evie agreed, finishing her wrapping of Sara's head. Seeing Sara was already wrapping her thigh, she sat back. "Will we be staying with the Second, or will we return to the command post?"
"Back to the command post, unless we spot any problems on the way there. No point in sticking around here, because our assault earlier definitely would have drawn out any Irregulars in the area." Sara spent a moment in silence, debating, and then spoke one last time. "I'll want to forget about that whole thing back there, pretend I can ignore it and not work on it. Don't let me."
Evie's collar flashed, a little shiver running through her as the order took effect. Sara felt no small guilt over the order, but had found that even her murderous companion had a softspot for her. If it wasn't an actual order, there was a good chance Evie wouldn't see the need to actually follow through.
She also, Sara knew, took profound satisfaction in managing to pressure her "owner" into giving an order. While that may have been a small bandaid on Sara's guilt, the habit was its own can of worms, and it wasn't one that was going to be dealt with any time soon.
Sara finished the bandaging and stood, testing her leg. Evie watched her do so, and Sara caught the look that said the feline was holding something back.
"What?" Sara asked. She began putting her armor back on. "C'mon, you can tell me."
Evie sighed. "This wound would not have occurred had you stayed with me, Master."
"And it also wouldn't have occurred if you had followed orders and taken this guy out yourself. Gutting a rogue's basically your specialty."
"As I would have been physically incapable of disobeying you, Master, I am quite sure you gave no such order."
Sara glared at her. "You know exactly what I mean."
Evie glared right back. "Yes. And you know that I consider your personal my safety my utmost concern, second to nothing, as I possess no other priorities in my life. Your unwillingness to use the collar's dominance over my mind outside the bedroom is hardly my fault, Master. I will fight alone only when your desperation over lack of Irregulars grows so great that you will willingly compromise the moral code you hold so dear."
Sara opened her mouth to argue, found nothing to say, then sighed. "Fine. Let's hope that never happens. Bodyguard duty only from now on."
"Excellent." Evie looked over her shoulder as Sara finished up with her armor, eyes landing on the makeshift triage area at the center of the box formation. Several bodies had been rolled off their cloth mats, piled limply in a pool of mixing blood. Evie's shoulders slumped ever so slightly. "And... when-- and only when-- you are with Hurlish for an extended period of time, I will tour the troops to evaluate and train prospective Irregulars. It is a duty I am familiar with from my training with the Night's Eye."
Sara raised her eyebrows, hitting her leg armor with a few test slaps before setting off. "Really? You're gonna train a bunch of hillbilly wannabe soldiers?"
Evie pinched the bridge of her nose as she walked beside Sara. "I suppose I am, Master. I can only hope my proximity to you has lessened the offense I will feel for their inevitable lack of discretion."
Sara smiled, bumping shoulders with Evie as they approached the back line of troops. "Oh, c'mon, I'm not that bad. I'm fancy enough to talk rings around most fancy high-society types."
"Indeed. Which is why your habitual gracelessness among less refined company is ever a mystery to me, Master."
Sara grinned wider, then turned to the soldier in front of them, tapping their shoulder to get their attention. "'Scuse me dude, coming through. Got a lot of people to go killing."
The startled soldier stepped to the side, allowing Sara and Evie through the line. They shoved their way through the ranks, Evie handing Sara her helmet, and then they were back out in the open, facing a row of spearmen. The bandits recoiled at the sight of Sara, shoving their backs into the troops behind them, and Sara's smile took on a different tone.
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The battle lasted another two hours. Contrary to Sara's initial belief, the first skirmishes of Irregulars didn't prompt the domino effect she'd been awaiting. It seemed The New Lords were even less united than she'd dreamed, and were perfectly fine with allowing Voth and Sara to finish wiping out the contingents of soldiers that hadn't 'belonged' to them. Each Lord only really engaged in battle when the troops loyal to them personally came under threat, and because Sara had Voth pull back to rest when no one else came to challenge him, that occurred slowly.
Sara could have risked throwing Voth, Hurlish, and herself fully into the fight, doing their best to end the battle all on their own, but her gut told her that The New Lords weren't that stupid. They had to have recognized by then how limited Sara was on Irregulars, and if one Lord noticed they were engaged elsewhere, they would seize the chance to slaughter Sara's troops somewhere she couldn't quickly respond to.
Thus, to avoid a series of localized massacres, Sara was forced to make the common troops bear the brunt of the battle. One by one, section by section, they would push the enemy to the breaking point, finally forcing a Lord's hand. Only then would some trumped-up bandit prick emerge and begin to fight for themselves, trying to give their troops the breathing room they needed to survive. Sara was paying careful attention to which bandit formations were looking the weakest, however, and so could predict where the next Lord would pop up.
That ended up being her greatest strength as a commander. Her uncanny ability to read the disposition of the enemy, even from hundreds of yards away, was something that even Voth and Evie couldn't replicate. She couldn't explain it other than as a gut feeling, assuring them it was likely some aspect of the Goddess of Passion and Connection giving her a read on such heightened emotions. Privately, because it would have felt rudely arrogant to say it aloud, Sara didn't discount the idea that it was just her lifelong skill at reading the room. Whatever its source, she was able to consistently position Voth and Hurlish exactly where the next Lord would emerge, limiting the casualties they caused to whatever could be achieved in the brief seconds before a giant hammer or brutal poleaxe pummeled them into an early grave.
That grinding inevitability slowly soaked into the bandit forces, who, despite their poor vantage points, began to realize just how outnumbered they were becoming. Sara could almost see it building like an ocean wave, the knee-quivering fear that slowly suffused the bandits, the slow recognition that 'hey, maybe we aren't going to win this'. When it finally happened, Sara was the very first to react, barking orders before anyone else realized what was going on.
The Rout.
The final conclusion of these medieval battles, so often described in the textbooks Evie had forced her to pour over, yet something she'd never seen for herself. It began with one wounded soldier in the backlines breaking off, tossing their spear aside, which was followed by the man next to him, then another, and another, and then in one almost coordinated mass the bandits broke and ran.
It was brutal. It was also what every battlefield commander wanted to see. Hundreds of men and women throwing down their arms, ripping off their helmets, discarding anything that might slow their desperate rush to escape. It was the moment when animal instinct overrode human reason, terror reaching such a depth that it drowned out discipline and common sense alike, because if the enemy had really been thinking, they would have fought to the last.
Because Sara wasn't going to let them go.
She barked an order and a flag was raised, recognized by each and every person of authority in her army, and then they were off, whooping like children and barking like dogs. The carefully maintained blocks of soldiers broke into a teeming horde, running down and trampling the bandits who no longer had the coordination to fight back, one huge mass that swallowed the far more scattered enemies that they'd spent so long locked in combat with. Even if Sara had wanted them to, there'd be no quarter given, no mercy offered, and the reason was writ in gleaming chestplates littering the field the soldiers left behind. They'd lost people, lots of people, enough to shove kindness to a very dark, remote place in their minds.
Sara didn't participate. She watched from above, then eventually from behind, following on horseback when the rout continued on into the hills, some desperate few even diving into isolated patches of jungle. Sara involved herself then, forbidding any pursuit, assuring the disappointed troops that whatever waited inside the thicket of tangled vines was deadlier than any shortsword.
When her soldiers began to flag, dragged down by heavy armor that their quarry wasn't burdened by, Sara finally called for a regroup. They'd harried the enemy across nearly three miles of open plains, and even a casual glance at the corpses littering that stretch assured her there would be no reforming of The New Lords. Maybe one or two of their Irregulars had survived, there was no real way to know, but they wouldn't ever pose the same threat.
Sara had won her first battle.
Notes:
Ooh? What's this? A map of the continental boundaries of Sporatos, Tulian, and the Northern Fiefdoms?
https://i.postimg.cc/wqh6K78n/Map-of-the-Eastern-Continent.png
As writing a story week by week tends to not lend the most consistent writing of large abstract numbers like distance, I decided it was time to knuckle down and use all those map making tools I got forever ago. This map trumps any previous explicit mentions of distance, which there hopefully won't be many of because I know better than to do that, and will be the point of reference going forward. Like I said, Book Two's staying a lot more on track!
Chapter 36: Church Grim
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
With the battle's conclusion, Sara found herself taking to what had slowly become a habit over the weeks: nurse duty.
In a battle with over two thousand combatants, the casualties were considerable. Sara had ordered multiple massive tents placed in the field to shade the wounded from the blazing afternoon sun. The Tulian weather had no mercy for them, even as the northern regions were beginning to slip into fall and winter. Down in Tulian, the only notable change in seasons came from the volume of water that soaked the country each morning, and Sara wasn't going to take the risk of a sudden thunderstorm shoving mud into the wounds she and the medical corp were endeavoring to dress.
And the gods knew they had plenty to dress. Though the battle had been a victory, it was nearly pyrrhic, a preliminary headcount of the wounded tallying over four hundred. Of those, half were injuries warranting considerable treatment, and half again were at risk of death in the coming hours. The healers were already moving among the most precariously injured, glows of various colors emanating from hands and staves as they sealed the greatest of each individual's injuries.
That particular practice, of sealing only the most grievous wounds on each injured combatant, was one that Sara had implemented only after considerable effort. Those granted healing magic usually came to their powers by divine providence, and the gods seemed to have a habit of picking only the most astoundingly idealistic individuals as their representatives. The healers who'd volunteered to follow her army were villagefolk through and through, most of the younger ones having never seen so many people in one place.
Their isolated lives had allowed them certain freedoms in the treatments of their patients that simply weren't practical at such a scale. If a Tulian commoner went to a village healer with a broken arm, they'd likely leave with their sore back soothed, their headache dealt with, and holding a questionably effective tonic for nightmares that the rumors in town claimed they suffered from. Targeting specific wounds wasn't even something most healers knew how to do, but Sara's prolonged arguments had convinced them to do their utmost to learn.
Some, Sara noted, weren't taking the request well. Like the woman across from her, who was stubbornly healing each and every person around wherever Sara was working. She was in her middle forties, with a matronly build, years of home cooking puffing out the 'proper' dress she apparently insisted on wearing even in the accursed Tulian humidity. Sara figured it was fortunate that the getup was daisy yellow, as it would help hide the inevitable sweat stains. The woman's glowing hand raised from a young man's no-longer-slashed forearm, her attention still fixed unerringly on Sara.
"I don't see how you can expect us to ignore so many in pain, Lady Sara--"
" Governess Sara," she corrected, yet again.
"--when it certainly cannot be any god's will for innocents to suffer, especially not wondrous Amarat, whose domain of emotion should give you the empathy to end this ridiculous order that my fellow healers have so foolishly agreed to follow--"
Sara's attention was supposed to be on the forehead cut she was trying to stitch together on a young woman, but the healer's unending tirade was a brutal trial to endure. She had intended to use this time to speak to the traditional surgeons she and Nidd had selected to be trained, but after fifteen minutes of the healer's fussing, the small crowd who were supposed to listen to her lessons dissipated, finding somewhere quieter to practice their stitching.
Hurlish had replaced Evie on bodyguard duty for the time being, hovering imperiously behind Sara with hammer resting on her shoulder, but that clearly didn't bother the woman in the slightest. If Sara had found herself being interrupted like this by anyone else, she'd have asked Hurlish to physically haul them away, but the woman was a healer. Her talents were valuable enough that Sara wanted to win her over, but Sara's utilitarian loyalty to duty was gradually being overwhelmed by baser emotions.
Like irritation. A whole lot of irritation.
"--suffering of any kind is an equal evil, and as such, there can be no priority placed on aiding those in need--"
"What god do you follow?" Sara abruptly asked, cutting the last thread on the stitches she'd been applying. She stood from the wounded soldier's side and faced the healer, looking down at her without hiding her irritation. "If you really want to talk this out, let me get some perspective to start with. What god gave you your powers?"
The healer sniffed. "None, Lady Sara. My quest to aid those in need is my own, and when my own two hands were not enough, I sought out the talents required."
Now that got Sara's attention. The woman was a self-taught healer? Sara knew little about how magic was 'supposed' to work, as her limited selection of spells came prepackaged with her Champion's status, but the only other healer she'd met whose talents weren't divine in origin was Garen. He'd been a mage of the caliber that left Evie's knees shaking.
"What's your name?" Sara asked.
"Dian. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Governess Sara, after you spent so long ignoring me."
Sara picked up her tools, beginning the process of washing the blood off in boiled water. "Trust me, for all I was trying to, I never succeeded at ignoring you. As for your complaints about the treatment of patients, I have nothing to offer other than a blunt refusal to compromise. I will not let anyone die who could've lived, and that's final. Quite frankly, your insistence to work to the contrary is baffling."
Dian eyed Sara's bloodied tools with distaste. Sara could imagine how barbaric the implements looked to anyone who could heal with a whisper and wave.
"You cannot prioritize suffering, Governess Sara. All will be treated, and I play no favorites."
Sara began wiping blood off her needles. "Look, Dian, I'd bet we'll agree on a lot of things in a vague, nebulous sort of way, but the fact remains that I won't have the rest of the healers change tactics. For one thing, I didn't order them to do what they're doing, I convinced them it was necessary. Your sort are too valuable to risk offending. For the other, that lack of orders extends to you. Heal who wish, when you wish, but don't go trying to convince the other healers to fix papercuts before sucking chest wounds. I will have you thrown out if I get word of you trying."
Dian straightened up, leveling a tremendously powerful motherly stare up at Sara. It was a look of offended reproach so authentic that even Sara, who'd never known nor cared for a mother's gaze, felt a foreign sting of guilt.
"Governess Sara," Dian breathed, righteous haughtiness palpable, "I will do what is right . No amount of brutish threatening will force me to do otherwise."
"Hurlish?" The orc grunted inquisitively, eyes focusing, having zoned out before the conversation even started. Sara pointed. "Haul her out of camp, and tell the sentries not to allow her back in under my personal order."
Dian hurriedly backpedaled for several seconds, gaining a gap that Hurlish covered in one step. The orc rested a meaty hand on Dian's shoulder, spinning her towards the edge of the camp, and sighed.
"C'mon, crazy lady. I swear, if it weren't for the magic hands, I'd never talk to any of you healer types for more than a minute."
Dian stumbled forward as Hurlish began to push her, briefly trying to drag her heels in the mud. When she realized the futility, she tossed her gaze back at Sara.
"Wait! Wait a moment, Governess."
Sara rolled her eyes, but called to Hurlish. "Alright, give it a second. Don't let go of her, though."
Hurlish obediently stopped in place, spinning Dian around to face Sara. The woman huffed once more, squirming under an implacable grip.
"Fine. Fine, you called my bluff. It is more important to help those in need than educate those who do not understand the importance of their duty. I will remain in your camp."
Sara crossed her arms. "Without spreading any bullshit around?"
Dian's nose wrinkled. "Yes."
Sara waved, prompting Hurlish to release Dian. "Alright, good. If you're interested in helping the people that no one else cares about, go to the bandit wounded. Pretty sure no one's bothered to give them jack shit."
Dian gave one last high-pitched "Hmph!" before spinning on a heel, stalking off in the direction of the captured bandit troops. There weren't many of them, fifty or so, but they were an appropriately pitiable target for an overzealous healer. They'd only been captured after being rendered unable to flee in some capacity, whether that was a leg injury, concussion, or something less obvious to the naked eye. Sara watched Dian approach, rolling up her sleeves as she shoved past a few of the guards watching the subdued group.
"Weird fucker, isn't she?" Hurlish said from beside Sara.
"Yeah. Hell of a healer, though. You catch how many people she's worked on?"
"Nah. I did a better job than you at ignoring her, apparently."
"Well, it was a lot. More than any of the other healers by at least double, and she doesn't look tired at all." Sara sighed. "Damnit. I'm gonna have to get her working for us, aren't I?"
Hurlish chuckled. "Prolly. Good luck."
"Thanks. I'll need it." Sara returned to the tents, searching for those that most needed tending. "I really need to get someone in charge of this kind of thing," Sara noted idly.
"What kinda thing? You're already training surgeons."
"Yeah, but they need somewhere decent to work, and they need to know who to work on first. We need administrators, nurses, people who can keep things from becoming... this." Sara stepped over one of the dozens of lesser wounded awaiting treatment, all of them laid out on dirty cloth mats. "If we took four-tenths our number in casualties against some cobbled-together bandits, the Royal Army will shred us. Even if we win, half the army could bleed out from their wounds in the hours afterwards." Sara stepped over another man, whose too-pale chest had stopped moving. "I know we can win the war, Hurlish. I just worry about what we'll have to give up to get there."
"You talkin' morals, or lives?" Hurlish bent down to close the eyes of the man Sara had stepped over, two calloused fingers uncharacteristically gentle as they eased his eyelids down. "'Cause I know you're the sort that prefers winning right or not winning at all, but I ain't."
Sara stopped at a woman with a deep gash running through the soft meat of her left shoulder, whispering a few words of warning and encouragement as she knelt and prepared to stitch the wound closed. As she pressed the needle into flesh, to distract herself from the woman's agonized whimpering, she continued the conversation with Hurlish.
"I didn't say I'd rather lose. If it comes down to it, if there's really no other choice left, I'll throw all the horrors at my disposal into the Royal Army. Ending slavery's worth it, even if I'll go down in the history books as the woman who took honorable warfare and turned it into mindless slaughter."
Hurlish scanned the tent, soaking in the misery wafting into the air, and clicked her tongue. "Well. Way I see it, there won't be much changed. Anyone that thinks there's honor in this shitshow is the kind of moron whose opinion I wouldn't put much faith in."
"Trust me, Hurlish, your mind'd be changed if a wizard figured out a way to conjure mustard gas. My old world created things that make Demons look kind."
Sara finished the last stitch, tying and cutting the silk thread as she gave the injured soldier a set of stern instructions regarding wound care. Hopefully she would only need the stitches for a short time, as the exhausted healers would be slowly working their way through the wounded in the coming days, but Sara didn't take risks like that. She stood and wiped her hands on her pants, giving one last scan of the tent.
Seeing none in immediate need, she offered her supplies to one of the surgeons still working. She was exhausted from the battle, hands trembling from hours spent pumped full of adrenaline, and that was no way to be doing stitches. She'd already told the surgeons the basics of how infection spread, along with the importance of keeping wounds clean, and it would have to be enough for now. She doubted her explanations would do much good at the moment, anyway.
She stepped out from the tent's shade, wincing at the sun's heat baking down on her steel armor. Appearances as a ruler mattered, but that didn't make the getup any more comfortable. She began the slow trudge back to their tent, Hurlish taking two steps for each of hers.
Speaking low, Hurlish said, "Did you really mean that back there? That you can win the war?"
Sara checked that none were close enough to overhear before speaking. "Yeah. It'd take a little bit of prep to get things rolling, but even the most basic gun in enough people's hands would win us the whole thing. I'd shatter the King's army, hang him and all his Irregulars, then march on Hagos and blow its walls down the first day we get there. After that I'd give the city back to the new King in exchange for a lasting peace treaty, then start building our defenses up so high no one can ever try it again. I'm sure some stuff would go wrong, but not enough to stop us."
"Oh, is that all?" Hurlish snorted. "You got balls, I'll give you that." She paused to shake her head, looking amused. "Literally, too. Well, sometimes. You know what I mean." She shifted her hammer to her other shoulder, its massive head shading Sara. "I know you seem to hate that gun shit, but the Royal Army's put the fear of the gods in people before. Why not just let us build a few of your spooky doodads, just in case?"
Sara's jaw clenched. "I never explained what a gun was to you, did I?"
"You've talked about 'em a few times, but no, you never gave a proper explanation."
"The best way I've thought about explaining it, and trust me, I've put a lot of thought into it, is that they're better crossbows." Sara put her hands up, tracking the shape of a rifle in the air. "Imagine a crossbow that shoots bolts faster than the speed of sound, accurate for a couple hundred yards, that's easy enough to learn how to use in an afternoon. They're cheaper than crossbows, their ammunition costs less, and they can be built quicker and easier. From what I've seen of your blacksmithing, I'd bet you could make fifty a day on your own, easy. Probably more. With the rest of the smiths and a few months, we'd have enough to arm every man, woman and child in Tulian."
Sara's eyes locked onto some distant memory. "And that's just muskets. They were the first version, hundreds of years old to my world. Now we've got guns that shoot a thousand bolts a minute, accurate to a couple miles out, that explode when they hit their target. Not to mention a million other weapons that are deadlier by far. The last big war on Earth killed eighty million in six years, and most of the stuff they did with that was child's play compared to what's been built since."
Hurlish chewed on her cheek silently as she absorbed that. Sara plowed on, really starting to work herself up.
"That last big war, by the way? They didn't even use the worst of what they could've. Chemical weapons, stuff that turns the air into poison for miles around. They could've wiped out entire cities in an afternoon with that shit, and it's not a quick death. You give me five years with a few real high-tier alchemists, and I bet we could whip some of that godforsaken shit up too. Then we could just straight-up wipe Sporatos off the map whenever we wanted. Hell, that's not even necessary, because once I've got the big guns, leveling a city's just a matter of a few days and a whole lot of ammo."
Hurlish opened her mouth to say something, but Sara was on a roll, driven by the passion in her disgust.
"I could take these little shoving matches that people here call war and break it. Ruin it. No more knights in shining armor, no more setpiece battles and parlays under white flags of truce. No contest of strength against strength, man against man, two people looking each other in the eye and knowing that the most skilled will win. Just mud and blood in trenches, pounding the very hills until the whole planet's one flat puddle of misery."
Seeing that they were coming up on the rest of the camp, Sara took a deep breath, calming herself. "So no, Hurlish. I pray to every god there is that I won't have to do that. I won't let us lose, but I'll try just about everything else before I resort to that. That shit's a genie that can't get put back in the bottle."
"Sounds good to me," Hurlish grumbled. Mindful of the tents that now surrounded them, Hurlish lowered her voice. "But I think you better be ready to do more than you're hoping. This ain't gonna be easy."
Sara's expression fell into a steely scowl. "I know. Like I said, I've been thinking about it. But how could I do it? The moment I teach one person how to make something, that's it. It's not my secret to control anymore. There've been hundreds of Champions that visited this planet, Hurlish, and none of them ever brought the worst of what my world has to offer for a damn good reason. I was chosen by the Gods, and I have to believe that means there's a way to do this without going too far."
"But if you had someone you trusted?" Hurlish asked, the question kept cautiously hypothetical. "Someone you knew wouldn't give up the secret, someone you knew wouldn't fly off the handle?"
"I guess it'd be stupid of me not to have them getting them ready for it, in that case," Sara admitted. "It takes time to build up to everything I'd need, and all the knowledge in the world can't save me if I start too late. But who?" Sara bumped her pauldron against Hurlish's side. "I don't know if Evie could do it on her own, and sure, you probably could, but I'll be damned if I'm sending you off on your own." She kept leaning against Hurlish's side. "I need both of you here. You're too important." The words to me dangled, unspoken. Sara trusted Hurlish to catch it.
"Well. I'll start tryin' to find one, I guess. Gotta be someone else out there that doesn't suck."
Sara sighed. "A part of me hopes there is. A part of me hopes there isn't."
They reached their tent, one of the largest in the camp on account of it being built for up to five occupants. Sara was briefly disoriented as she entered, the lack of Evie as wrong as things falling up, rather than down.
After a moment of confusion, she remembered. Evie had said she'd start looking for recruits to train into Irregulars. Sara sat down on the edge of their mattress and began to clean herself, wondering how that was going.
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Evie
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Though she may have made a promise to Master, it could not be honestly said that Evie took to the task of training recruits with any sense of eagerness. She had seen the look in Master Graf's eye when he had first taken her under his wing, and knew it was not one of gleeful anticipation. Taking someone that could barely be considered an adult and turning them into a warrior was an unenviable task, one that no amount of necessity could make her look forward to.
"Up," she snapped at the flailing youth, whose fall had been taken poorly on the shoulder. Learning how to properly fall was, evidently, not knowledge that Voth or Ignite imbued their trainees with. She circled the child, a fiery-eyed boy whose fervor far outstripped his ability.
"Come now," Evie taunted. "I am an Irregular, a foe you claim yourself capable of someday equaling. Where is the speed that blinds the eye when you need it most, child?"
The youth finally managed to get his feet beneath him, knuckles white around his sword's hilt. Evie's own blade was covered in protective light, incapable of truly wounding him, but his own steel was barren. If he could strike her true, she would die.
It wasn't going to happen.
The child began the process of lunging at her. Evie patiently watched his feet twist, the motion following up to his hips, then to his shoulder and arms, which extended behind the tip of his sword, aligning the weapon so that the maximum amount of force would be behind the lunge.
Evie considered the attack.
It was exceptional form, with even his rearmost foot extended to form a perfectly straight line that began at his heel, carried to his shoulders, and ended pointed at her sternum. Every ounce of power the boy possessed was put behind the stab, nothing more to give in all his soul.
Evie reached her rapier's tip up and nudged the sword to the side, aiming it to sail over her left shoulder. The boy's momentum would have carried him on, forehead colliding directly with Evie's chin, so she arrested the motion by moving her left hand to intercept his throat.
The boy slammed to a stop, shout turning to a gurgled yelp as his windpipe slammed into Evie's palm. He lost his grip on his sword, which thudded onto the grass some distance away, and began to claw at her hand on his throat.
"Good," she said simply, dropping him after a moment of helpless pawing. He immediately lunged for his fallen weapon, but Evie tripped him on the way there. "The duel is done, child. You are accepted."
With red spreading around his throat and bruises no doubt blossoming beneath his armor, he stared up at her, uncomprehending.
"What?" He croaked. The effort forced a cough from him. "How am I accepted? I didn't even touch you."
"The criteria is my own. You are accepted. The regimen of training has not been determined, but you will report when ordered."
Evie walked back to the center of the small dirt circle she had ordered to be cleared, ignoring the thirty or so failed applicants nursing bruises on the sidelines. Though they had failed, they stayed to watch each attempt of the long line of prospects nervously winding their way towards the edge of the dueling circle. Word of Evie's 'try-outs' had spread fast.
She nodded to the next in line. "Begin."
The woman, rather old for such an aspiration, roared into battle. Despite what Evie had said, the youth refused to leave, hovering at the edge of the circle. As Evie brushed aside an overly enthusiastic blow, he cleared his throat.
"What do I do next? Return to my squad?"
"Of course. It will be some time yet before you are capable of standing your ground without comrades in arms to support you."
"So all of us, then? We just go back to our units like normal until you call for us?" The boy looked about for support in his question, then realized for the first time that he was the only applicant Evie had approved of.
"Of course," Evie replied, amused. The woman in front of her seemed convinced she could wail her way to Evie's good graces, judging by her form. She disabused the woman of the notion with a tap of her rapier on the knee, reminding her to guard, not just attack.
"But if someone that's good enough to meet your standards is so rare," the boy waved to the rejects, "Why risk us in battle before we're ready? It doesn't matter how skilled we are, when we're not Irregulars. Anyone can catch an arrow in the neck by chance."
"That is true," Evie agreed, battering the woman on the head after she failed to react to adjust her tactics for defense. "But that is well and good. After all, I hardly want unlucky fellows under my employ."
When Evie's opponent yet again failed to adjust her stance in response to the successful attacks, Evie ended the fight with a tap of her swordtip against the woman's exposed throat. The woman recoiled out of bounds, choking on air. Evie walked back to the center of the circle, waving for the next to attack her.
As she stepped around the next flurry of attacks, she glanced the child's way. Really, it was unfair of Evie to refer to him as such, but she couldn't shake the assessment. The southern sun aged the Tulian people more harshly than those in Sporatos, but even when she accounted for that, Evie would guess the child was several years her senior. All the same, he had two months of training and a single battle to his name, all his life before then spent farming in some half-abandoned hovel. He might as well be a child to Evie, at least in the ways that mattered to armed conflict. She watched him sit and rub at his throat, watching the battles progress.
As Evie went through the applicants, hours passing by, he continued to sit and observe, attention locked on her and her alone. His gaze was not lustful, an indulgence some of the mercenaries she'd trained alongside thought they could get away with, nor was it envious. Simply... appraising. Evaluating, perhaps. He watched her fight, tracked her decisions in the duels, and wondered to himself why each choice was made. Even as she found others who met her standards, Evie became convinced that this child was the one who would be most worth her effort.
When the sun had begun to slip towards the western horizon, Evie dismissed her rapier. By then the line of applicants had begun to include the wounded, who did not want to miss such a unique opportunity.
She wondered if Master truly understood what an audition format implied to the Tulian peasantry, who had little direct exposure to Master's strange ways. Many of the people Evie had callously rejected would be anguished at their failure, believing they had lost their only opportunity to be promoted to Knighthood, perhaps even to one day own land if their military careers proved illustrious enough. They did not understand that Master intended any and all to own property, nor that Irregulars would possess no greater comforts than what could be bought on their larger army stipend.
Evie briefly thought to explain such to the dejected prospects fading away from her, but held her tongue. She did not have Master's way with words and would likely only confuse things, or worse yet, make assurances Master could not follow through on. Better to be silent than provide false hope.
Which, she reflected, was a troubling ideology when faced with one too stubborn to accept dismissal. The boy had sat through the entire set of bouts, staying even after his fellow accepted prospects had returned to their squads. She could see him working up the courage to speak even as Evie went through the process of removing her armor.
The black boiled leather was composed of layered lamellar, nimbler than full steel, and easier to shuck and don, and as she pulled the set off over her head, she did think that she caught the slightest hint of eyes darting towards her exposed stomach before her shirt fell back down. She did not have Master's uncanny sense for these things, however, and couldn't be sure. Even if the look was untoward, when she faced him properly, there was no sign of distraction.
"Well?" She prompted, tucking her armor beneath one arm. "Spit it up before you choke, child."
"My name is Jaran," he snapped, the rebuke rolling off his tongue so quickly it surprised even him. His cheeks quickly colored as he realized the rudeness of the remark, but to his credit, he didn't backpedal. "My name is Jaran, ma'am. Not 'child'."
Evie tilted her head in acknowledgement. "So you say, Jaran. What did you spend hours waiting to tell me?"
At this, he seemed to struggle. Evie watched him flounder patiently, deciding that her favorable assessment of his potential earned him at least a few minutes of her time. After a few half-started sentences, he took a deep breath and lowered his hands to his side, speaking slowly.
"I want to ask what the point of training us is, ma'am. I watched you fight nearly two hundred of our troops in a row, without pause, and you never made a single mistake. When people like you can do things like that, what's the point of an army? A handful of fighters like you could slaughter your way through a city."
Evie's claws tapped a pattern on her armor as she considered her response. "Your observation is astute, Jaran, but your conclusion faulty. While it is true that I may possess the physical capability to kill hundreds, in practice, I would never succeed at such an endeavor. Against so many foes, fought for so long, a lethal mistake would be inevitable. There are also tactics designed specifically to address concerns such as yours, and professional forces are well versed in dealing with unsupported Irregulars."
"But still, ma'am. You're young, and by your own admission, nowhere near the peak of your skill. If you're this capable today, surely you won't have any trouble burying an army by the time you consider yourself truly experienced."
Evie might have ended the conversation there, not interested in backchat from someone so far beneath her, but she didn't. There was an earnestness to the boy's questions. He was not wheedling, or attempting to shirk duty, but seeking to grasp what he didn't yet understand. She set her armor back down and walked to the dueling circle.
"Which is to say, Jaran, that you believe when my level is high enough, I would be capable of wading into an arbitrarily large army and laying waste?"
Jaran flushed at the reference to levels, unused to the direct discussion of such a private topic. Master had accustomed Evie to breaking the taboo months ago. Despite his discomfort, he nodded.
To answer the question, Evie summoned her rapier, running a hand along its edge to remove the dulling enchantments that blurred its form.
When seen in plain daylight, Hurlish's work was dazzling. The basket guard was carved with the precision of a faberge egg, blade thin enough to disappear when viewed from either edge. Despite the inherent fragility such thin material should have induced in the weapon, the ensorcelled jewels studding the hilt kept it free of any defect.
Evie flipped the weapon up and caught it by the tip, extending the handle to Jaran.
"This weapon is the work of a true master, Jaran. It is the product of a lifetime spent perfecting art, of a blacksmith wading through burning coals in pursuit of a light no one else knew existed. Take it."
Jaran gingerly reached out, sliding his fingers through the hilt. Evie released her end without warning. Jaran, trying to compensate for a weight that did not manifest, jerked it up. Evie moved back, putting her arms behind her back as Jaran accustomed himself to the rapier.
"With that weapon in your hand, you would find no equal among the common ranks of the Tulian Army. It would allow you to carve through steel like leather, leather like air, while its weight freed you to swing faster than most could react." Evie slid her right foot behind her left, lips curling mischievously. "Now, use it to kill me."
It seemed Jaran predicted the beats of Evie's lecture, because he swung with reckless abandon the moment the words left her lips. Keeping her hands behind her back, she stepped to the side, watching the blade slide through the empty space she'd occupied a breath before. Jaran immediately flung the rapier to the side, rightfully abandoning any pretext at precision in favor of speed. After her earlier talk of an Irregular inevitably being felled by misfortune, he sought to give Evie as many chances as possible to end up unlucky, which was exactly the tactic Evie would have utilized in similar circumstances.
"As an Irregular advances in skill, it is tempting to think that they are growing quicker, more dextrous." Her tone remained level even as she stepped and ducked through his swings, sporting the same smug smile that had so infuriated her when she trained under Master Graf. "Certainly, they grow stronger with time, that much is measurable. But quicker?"
She spun past a stab to end up with her chest nearly touching Jaran's, then darted away before he could bring the rapier back around. "No. This speed is an illusion, though the distinction hardly matters to one of your skill. I move faster than is possible for most, true, but only just, and all the rest is in my knowledge of the fight. I cannot cover great distances in the blink of an eye, and I could not scour the whole front of an army in a matter of moments. What you mistake for speed is the fruit of knowledge. I see your eyes jump, your muscles twitch, and I read from them as I might a book. Not only has my training given me intimate familiarity with each maneuver you could possibly attempt, I know by your very body which you shall select."
Evie took several smooth steps backward and stopped, facing Jaran straight-on. She raised her right hand up, as if balancing an invisible platter on the back of her knuckles, and put her left hand before her sternum, palm facing outward. Seeing her hold the position, Jaran composed himself just long enough to lunge forward, once more utilizing the single stab he had so elegantly perfected.
As Evie failed to move from her position, his eyes widened. He tried to divert the swing, but there was no time.
Just when the blade's tip would have pierced her chest, the sword vanished, appearing in Evie's right hand. Her left hand caught his wrist, dragging it up and to the side, arresting his momentum just before his neck would have been carried into the razor edge of the rapier now hanging from her right hand.
Jaran was left immobile, one hand held in the air, his throat flush against cool steel. Even the slightest of squirming would open a wound, so he froze, panting, staring into her eyes.
Evie grinned. "But, eventually, I must commit to the attack, and the moment I strike, I am vulnerable. Were I surrounded by foes, my attention would be split, diverted too often to fully absorb all I need to know to ensure my safety."
She released Jaran with a shove, spinning him away. "These are the principles that the common man has against Irregulars, Jaran. I am too slow, too distracted, and too singular to be invincible. While I slaughter my way through one regiment, another may ready a ballistae to strike me down, or make ready to bombard me with arrows, or prepare any number of alternatives. The power of sheer numbers is the dirty secret of warfare, one which our noble foes wish to hide, and that which my Master intends to expose."
She dismissed her rapier once more, gathering her armor from where she'd discarded it. "In the time between now and our first training session, you will not consider how best to conduct yourself as an Irregular, but rather how your squad might successfully engage one in their present state. You are dismissed."
With that, Evie finally turned her back on the child, heading to the appointment she was so terribly late for.
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Evie arrived at the command tent at sunset, to much grumbling from the assembled commanders, who'd grown frustrated at being kept from their duties for so long. As her collar pulsed Master's approval into her skin, she ignored their glares, sliding happily into her place in Master's lap.
The command tent was, even for an army of such meager means, utterly austere. Master had ordered that a premium be placed on weight for all the command staff's comforts, and so ended up with a tent filled by folding wooden chairs, a paper-thin table, and protected by undyed cloth walls nearly translucent in their thinness. Only the roof had any sturdiness to it, to keep out rain, a small indulgence she'd been mildly surprised to see Master allow for.
The guards outside the tent would certainly hear everything, but seeing as Master intended to divulge all she could of their plans to the common troops, it hardly mattered. Evie had desperately urged her to reconsider such a tack, certain beyond doubt that Sporatos had already embedded spies in their force, but Master had been unyielding. She argued that the common soldier, willing to lay their life down for her, had the right to know her intentions for their sacrifice.
As she curled up into her customary place in Master's lap, knees tucked beneath herself as Master obligingly leaned back to keep her steady, she felt a whisper tickling her ear.
"Thanks for showing up late. I really needed that nap."
Evie said nothing, but nuzzled closer into the crook of Master's neck, uncaring of who saw the childish behavior. This was not the first or last display she put on before the soldiers, and while they may have initially thought less of her for it, personally decorating the battlefield with gore did wonders for correcting misconceptions.
Papers shuffled and wood scraped as the rest of the army's commanders took their seats, muttered conversations hurriedly resolved. Evie kept her eyes closed, but knew the sight well. Sitting directly at the table were the five Lieutenants, who each commanded one of the Infantry Regiments, and behind them sat a selection of the Sergeants they thought most promising for promotion when the army grew. Voth, Evie, and Hurlish were each technically attending in the role of Irregulars, though by the nature of such a title, their exact purpose in the discussions was hard to pin down.
As the officers finished up their conversations, Evie found herself still amused at how often the purely human thought she couldn't hear their whispers. Did they think the ears that stood four inches tall atop her head were cosmetic?
"So," Master began, leaning forward, sliding a paper to the center of the table. "The final casualty reports are in. Fifty-five dead in the battle, with thirty more likely to follow before the morning. Our wounded, in contrast, number nearly four hundred."
There were rumbles of discontent, even among those who'd found their current station rather abruptly and lacked any formal training. It didn't take much thought to recognize how abysmal a toll the bandits had extracted from them.
"As you are all aware, such a ratio of wounded to dead is peculiar, a fact that I have my own thoughts on. Before I speak my mind, however, I want to hear each of your contributions, to avoid biasing your view."
Voth leaned forward first, as always, elbows thumping onto the table.
"We're too heavy on swords, of course. You might've thought turning the whole army into heavy infantry would be a great way to keep our limited supply of troops intact, but it wasn't. Their armor may have kept our total deaths down, but it meant we had to fight too hard to shove through their spears. If the enemy had retreated instead of routing, we'd have been fucked.
Voth swung his glare across the table. "Don't give me that look, the rest of you. You all know there's no two ways about it. Sara's magery keeping people on their feet may have won us the battle, but it also put us in this situation, with half our army down for the count. It'll be days before the healers work their way through the wounded, and if an enemy attacked us in that time, we'd have just enough time to pray before we're swinging by our necks."
Voth ended this brutal assessment with a sniff, chair creaking as he leaned back. Though Evie's face was still buried in Master's neck, she could imagine the rest of the officer's expressions, and it delighted her.
She'd spoken to Voth earlier, and he'd played his role perfectly. Evie had instructed him to start as rude as one could be without offering direct insult, and when Master inevitably failed to rebuke him for the remarks, those less familiar with Master's ways would realize just how much they could get away with. It was far mor desirable for them to think Voth untoward than Master, whose own method of breaking the ice would certainly have been appallingly crude.
"Thank you," Master said to Voth, exactly as unruffled as Evie had anticipated. Evie felt Master's attention shift to the next in line at the table. "Lieutenant Shale, if you would present your assessment of the battle, disregarding Voth's comments for now? We can hash out who agrees with who after all of you present the view you held immediately following the battle."
Lieutenant Shale cleared her throat, trying to force away the smoker's rasp that came from a lifelong indulgence of southern pipes.
"While I wouldn't have put it such... blunt terms, Irregular Voth's opinions largely mirror my own. We can't force our way through an unbroken spearwall without taking some injuries, not unless every soldier was covered in Knight's platemail, which isn't possible without years of preperation. In particular, several of my Sergeants reported difficulty with..."
The discussion continued on in much the same manner, freeing Evie's attention to wander. The conclusions to be drawn were obvious to her, as they likely were to Master, but to satisfy the presentation of equality the discussion was still necessary. Master valued the concept of egalitarianism far more than she did the input of her Lieutenants, and at least in that respect, Evie had to admit the discussions served their purpose.
After an hour even the Sergeants were speaking in casual tones, little whispered debates occurring at the fringes in a way that told her the tension introduced by formality was long since abandoned. That came at the cost of efficacy, however, and it took nearly an hour and a half to firmly establish what Evie had known before the battle had concluded:
They needed spears. Skirmishers. Cavalry. Heavy infantry alone couldn't win battles, their bulk too inflexible to counter all that a more varied army could bring to bear, and Master would inevitably have to accept that some couldn't be as protected as others. Troops lightly armored enough that they could wear down the enemy, allowing the Heavy Infantry to bring in the final crushing blow. Through their bond Evie could feel the concept burned her Master's conscious something fierce, but it was a truth that needed to be confronted.
From there, the discussion turned to who would compose the reformed regiments, how much armor they could be allowed to wear without sacrificing mobility, and a variety of other minutia that could've been solved with a five minute consultation of a military manuscript. Evie's patience wore thin rather quickly, but she stopped herself from interrupting when she noticed something strange.
She first noticed it when Voth, normally so self-assertive, had choked off his tedious tangent the moment he'd caught sight of mild displeasure on Master's face. Once she'd noticed that, she picked up on other subtle clues, and the depth of the oddity became clear.
Master was in absolute control of the conversation. Not a word was said by any who didn't have Master's attention, and nothing she viewed as irrelevant was allowed to continue for longer than a sentence or two. None of the participants realized, too taken in by the discussion, but Evie could recognize it from the fringes. For all her touting of equality, Master was the lone puppetmaster in a room full of puppets, and it seemed only Evie could see the strings.
Evie couldn't blame the others for not noticing, not really. The subtlety of it was dazzling. When Lieutenant Elase began speaking of taking command of the spearmen, Master had shifted in her seat, glancing at Lieutenant Sarig, who Evie sensed she favored for the position, and that glance prompted him to speak up, arguing for his own assumption of the role. When Elase had taken a deep breath to argue back, Master's gaze flicked to Voth, who had been eagerly waiting to fill the brief silence with discussion of what sort of spear the troops should be equipped with. Sarig had replied he was personally familiar with halberds, and despite the fact Evie had been present for his telling of the tale to Master the day before, Master inquired about his polearm skills with an interested "Oh?"
And with a single word spoken, it was done. The conversation rolled on, soon even Elase taking for granted that Lieutenant Sarig would be in charge of the reformed regiment. Ten seconds of entirely natural conversation had passed, and with hardly a breath, Master had enforced her desires upon three separate people. She doubted even Master realized how extreme the effects were, her guidance of the conversation so obviously unconscious in its ease.
It was uncanny when viewed from afar. Master's maneuverings filled Evie with the sort of nausea she'd once felt as a child witnessing a housecat playing with an injured bird. It was an unfair contest, the outcome inevitable, but it was also so clearly natural that she couldn't convince herself to intervene. What else did one expect, when canary met cat?
Nature sought food.
Champions sought victory.
Always would their desires be met.
The hours ticked by until the sky was pitch black, none but the sentries awake. Sensing the building exhaustion of those under her employ, Master finally called for a halt, satisfied that the army would conduct itself appropriately in her absence. Master, Evie, and Hurlish were set to begin their return trip to Tulian at first light, and would need the sleep.
Of course, that was rather unfortunate for Master, who had spent the entire day without attending to her partners. With a tug at Hurlish's hand, the two of them began to trail further behind Master, freeing her to whisper sordid plans in Hurlish's bent ear.
Notes:
Y'know, I've been enjoying writing Book Two enough that I actually haven't been making as much progress on my "real book" thus far. I don't feel too bad, though, because this is great practice.
Did Sara's rant about the horrors of modern warfare feel appropriately placed and in-character to you? I wanted to explain why Sara wasn't turning this into a story surrounding a miniature Industrial Revolution, but I worry it felt a bit too blatant, like I as the author was grabbing the reader by the sides of their heads and staring directly into their eyes as I explained it directly to them.
Chapter 37: Hiding Ain't Easy (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara walked down the ramshackle rows of tents and lean-tos with her attention on the ground before her, not wanting to trip and wake up half the army. She and the others had shed their armor over the course of the meeting, but that didn't make her any more graceful in the black of night. Two mere months of training had given the troops an admirable discipline in battle, but not one that had spread to the camp itself. The lanes supposedly reserved for thoroughfare were cluttered with belongings and refuse, a veritable minefield when thick clouds hid the starlight as they did at the moment.
She was stepping over yet another discarded bundle of ripped clothing when she felt a warm hand slide up against the small of her back. She shivered at the touch, the humid night just cool enough that Hurlish's warmth was pleasurable, rather than stifling.
Sara smiled fondly as Hurlish sidled up beside her, the difference in their height enough that the orc could have been an adult escorting a child through the markets. That illusion quickly eroded as Hurlish's hand drifted lower, reaching around Sara's hip to pull her in closer. Sara obligingly thumped her head against Hurlish's side, letting the larger woman take more of her weight as their curves slotted together. A girlfriend a foot and change taller than Sara was a gift she'd never grow tired of, particularly at moments like this, when she was reminded of the soft embrace that met her at eye level.
They walked that way a bit further, Irregular grace allowing their legs to not stumble or intertwine even while they playfully bumped hips. The center of the camp was the most organized, close as it was to the officer's quarters, and she felt more confident letting her hands wander now that nearly every tent was firmly buttoned shut. Sara hurried her pace, eager to reach privacy.
Without warning, Hurlish stopped. Sara nearly did trip over herself then, saved from the indignity by a catcher's mitt of a hand snagging her shoulder and dragging her back. Sound grew muffled as both ears were enveloped between Hurlish's breasts, Sara held in a tight hug against the orc's front.
"Something the matter?" She whispered, looking up at Hurlish.
She was answered only by a dangerous grin and a small shake of the head. Reassured, but no less confused, Sara looked about. Evie stepped in front of her, ears twisting this way and that, tail coiled close against her back in excitement.
"No..." she whispered, realization dawning. She looked up at Hurlish. " No, Hurlish. This is so stupid."
"Hush," the orc rumbled, swaying slightly. Hurlish's arm wrapping Sara's chest forcing her to sway as well. Evie completed her brief tour of their surroundings, satisfied that those in the nearest tents were sound asleep. She shot Sara a wicked expression.
"You've been negligent in your duties, Master," she whispered, barely audible. She took slow, sauntering steps towards Sara, looking half seductress, half torturer. She tapped her collar pointedly, whispering as she approached. "Did you know, Master, that this is the first time-- the first in four and a half months-- that I've begun to feel my collar's compulsions pressing on my mind?"
The collar's compulsions?
Oh. Right. Those compulsions. Like Evie had implied, Sara had been active enough in their relationship that she'd nearly forgotten the strange conditions Amarat's blessings imposed on Evie. Every collared slave had to somehow Dedicate themselves to their owner once a day, usually with words of praise or something similar, but Sara was an exception to the rule. The Goddess of Passion had only one way for her supplicants to show Dedication.
"That means you're in trouble," Hurlish whispered, hugging Sara just a little bit tighter. "The little kitty doesn't like not being fed."
It was a testament to Evie's distraction that Hurlish's pet name barely prompted an eye roll. Sara tried to shrink away from the catgirl as she drew close, but all that did was shove her ass into Hurlish's legs, who chuckled.
"This is such a bad idea, you two," Sara whispered again, trying to reason with her girlfriends.
"Indeed, Master," Evie replied, stopping a hair's breadth from Sara's skin. She blinked in faux-innocence. "A shame, then, that the consequence of your negligence has reared its head in such an inappropriate location." She tsked sadly, reaching out to brush her fingernails against the hem of Sara's shirt. "Alas, the compulsion grows too great, and can't be put off any longer. I hope your skill with speech extends to keeping your silence, Master."
For someone who was supposedly being driven to action by magical compulsions, Evie sure was taking her damn time with this. Sara would have protested again, but Evie prevented it by reaching underneath her shirt with a single claw, the lightest of touches scraping a slow line down her stomach.
Sara's breath hiccuped in her chest. She tried to twist away from the touch, but Hurlish held her tight. Feebly, she tried one last approach.
"But... I can't really do anything for you out here, right? Wouldn't it be better for you if we were in the tent?"
"Oh, Master," Evie breathed, grabbing the waistband of Sara's pants, "I will take all the pleasure I need from your body."
Sara's head fell back into Hurlish's chest as Evie began to lower her waistband, betrayed by her own body as her cock sprang free. Anxiety and need had Sara's heart beating fast, visible in the way her cock pulsed next to Evie's hand.
Hurlish craned her neck down to murmur directly in Sara's ear. "Don't worry, honey," she whispered, her words dripping into Sara's skull like the selfsame nectar, "if you start getting too loud, I'll give you something to scream into."
With Sara's knees already turning to jelly, Hurlish was free to run one hand up her body, caressing her breasts through her clothes, grazing the lines of her exposed collarbone with a calloused thumb. Sara thought the hand was going towards her mouth, to quiet her, but it stopped at her neck, gently squeezing down.
Sara gasped as she felt the heady rush, a buzzing lightheadedness accompanied and worsened by Evie's fingers first alighting upon her cock. Sara had no idea where the feline had found time to bathe and perfume herself, but she had to have, the scent filling Sara's nose as she took deep breaths to calm herself doing just the opposite.
Evie, who had been coated in the blood of a dozen soldiers twelve hours ago, smelled like roses and lilac, her palm smooth as silk on Sara's shaft. She wasn't even moving yet, but she still had Sara squirming, hips betraying her in a search to find friction.
"What would you like, Master?" Evie asked, remaining torturously still. "Come now, use your words. The Champion of Amarat's lips are famous for more than just their softness, aren't they?"
"I-if you wanna find that out," Sara said, pausing to gasp as Evie rewarded her with a tiny twitch, "you'll have to get me somewhere I can show you."
"Oh, what a shame," Evie said, not sounding disappointed in the least. "I guess I'll have to find what you like on my own."
Sara went limp as Evie's other hand began to explore, half her weight supported by Hurlish's hand on her throat as Evie reached under her cloth overshirt. The catgirl didn't slip a finger beneath the skintight black pseudo-nylon she wore beneath, but instead circled her fingers atop the material, teasing Sara with too impersonal a touch to satisfy. Her other hand began to rub ever so slowly, forcing a pitiable whine from between Sara's lips.
"Promising," Evie breathed, pressing closer. Sara's cock was sandwiched between Evie's stomach and Sara's pelvis, the subtle shifts of their bodies rubbing the head against rough cloth and soft threads. Sara bucked, mouth hanging open to pant into the night.
"I think she liked that," Hurlish observed, as if it weren't fucking obvious.
"You may be right. Should I go a little quicker, then?"
Hurlish looked down on Sara, judging. "Eh. Better keep it the same, just in case."
"You motherfucker," Sara breathed.
"Not yet, I'm not," Hurlish chuckled. Her voice dropped lower. "Now, if you really want her to do things right, I've got a sneaking suspicion you're gonna have to ask for it."
Sara knew Hurlish was right. She kept alternating between moving away and into Evie's palm regardless, indecision prolonging her suffering. Eventually, she realized that there wasn't anything to be done. Evie was committed to this course, and the only control afforded Sara was how willingly she could play along.
"Please," Sara whined, "Please, faster, Evie."
The catgirl responded immediately, palm riding up and down Sara's length with silken grace. Evie shuddered in time with Sara as the pace increased, the collar's bond translating every sensation Sara suffered into phantom pleasure for Evie. Honestly, it was remarkable that the catgirl had the resolve required to move so slow for so long, considering the fact that she was edging herself by proxy.
Sara's head fell forward, pressing little whimpers into the top of Evie's hair. Hurlish's hand on her neck pulled her back up shortly after, determined that if Sara was going to stifle her reactions, it'd be on Hurlish's terms.
Sara bit her lip as Evie raised a thumb up to graze Sara's head, her whole hand squeezing tightly just as a rolling shudder roared through them both. Sara gasped, loudly this time. Hurlish's other hand came up to cover her mouth, both of Sara's partners smirking at their first victory.
Sara whined freely into Hurlish's muffling palm, Evie's skill wringing ever greater moans from her. It was almost unfair how good the catgirl was at this, guided by Sara's own sensations as she was. Back on Earth Sara had only given her partners handjobs on rare occasions, always feeling embarrassed trying to imitate an act that any of her dick-wielding partners obviously had more experience at. Before coming to this world, Sara'd never even known what having the other set of equipment was like, and barely had knew what to do when the act didn't involve her mouth or her pussy.
That was a disadvantage Evie didn't suffer from, and she took the advantage in stride. She paused and clenched at the very moments Sara would have, speeding up right after, chasing Sara's peak with fanatic dedication. Sara could barely keep her eyes open, but when she managed it, Evie was staring right back at her, heavy breaths silently fogging the space between them.
Sara tried to lock eyes with her, when she wasn't twisting in pleasure. Evie may have been better at hiding her reactions than Sara, but they'd spent hours and days in bed together. Sara knew what to look for.
She pressed her chest into Sara's through each stroke, rubbing her breasts against the inside of her homespun cloth shirt just to chase a little extra friction.
Her legs were squeezed tightly together, trying to hold still, but they twitched in time with Sara's all the same.
She kept licking her lips as she watched Sara's reactions, wetting them like a woman starved, hungry for something other than a meal.
Evie caught Sara watching her. With a merciless grin, she sped up.
Sara wrenched her eyes closed, entire body tensing up as Evie began to pump her hand up and down Sara's cock at a furious pace. Sara bucked wildly into her hand, nearly throwing the catgirl off their close press, but it wasn't that easy to shake Evie. Feline panting joined the sounds of Sara's groans, a light patina over the sound of shifting cloth and rubbing clothes that broke the silent night.
Sara opened her eyes one last time and found Evie's eyelids shut, lost in pleasure, mouth hanging loose. The sight was enough to push her over the edge.
Sara bit down on Hurlish's palm as she let out a long groan, shoving up into Evie's hand once, twice, and then held her position, animal instincts trying to bury herself to the base even when there was no point.
"F-fuck!" Evie whispered, high pitched and keening. She shoved her face into the crook of Sara's neck as they came apart together, trembling against one another as Sara's cock pulsed again and again, coating the front of their clothes the same shade of white as the stars bursting in her vision. Sara kept rutting, feeling Evie's hand and stomach against her cock, teeth grinding from the effort required to stay silent. Evie silenced herself by biting down on Sara's neck, razor canines drawing pinprick dots of blood that neither of them cared about in the moment. They shook and shook against one another, each wave hitting in slowing fashion, until Sara was slowly grinding, spent.
Above them, Hurlish chuckled.
"Alright, kitty. You had your fun." Hurlish peeled Evie off Sara, tossing the limp feline over her shoulder. "Now it's my turn."
Sara found herself being shoved roughly towards the tent, wobbling her way there like a newborn calf. Judging by Hurlish's roughness, Sara was going to be spending the first day on horseback with very sore hips.
Notes:
Short smut chapter, sorry for that, but that's what I got done before Sunday. Writing the ~fun~ bits takes far longer than the rest, afraid to say, but I'll hopefully make up for it in other ways.
Chapter 38: 中二病
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Ketch
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Breaking free of Port Agrith's dizzying press was a mixed blessing, Ketch decided. On one hand, it meant that she no longer had to so often dance through alleyways with her cloak tucked tightly around her, avoiding the far too plentiful folk strolling about late into the night. On the other hand, it meant she was heading inland, a few day's walk finding herself farther from the sea than she'd been in all her life.
The climate she ventured into was strange, as well. She hadn't made her mind up about it. The lack of moisture in the air ought to have dried her out something fierce, but the sun's heat was far too weak to have the effect she expected. Before this journey, Ketch had never realized that shivering was something that happened without a fever. The cool Sporaton nights corrected her ignorance. The temperature continued to fall as she traveled inland, such that she began to require a fire in the night to sleep. She was increasingly grateful for the cloak Sara had gifted her, its wolf fur lined interior far more useful than she'd given it credit for.
Being so far away from Selly was strange, too. She could barely feel the Bond's pull when she was awake, their usual communion possible only when she slept. Selly encouraged her on her way each night, wordless thoughts soothing her concerns as they always had at home, but it was difficult to ford the day without the comfortable pressure buoying her resolve in times of stress.
She continued on, nonetheless. She had told Sara herself that she was their best chance at infiltrating Sporatos, and it was with no small amount of pride that knew herself honest when she made the claim. The bolstered levels afforded by her entanglement with Sara were an incredible aid, and she scarcely could believe anything would spot her if she wished otherwise.
Selly had disagreed, unfortunately. As tempting as it had been to stay in Port Agrith to follow the body of Captain Vidanya, Selly's subtle guidances had driven her away. They hoped for the arrogant captain to be revived, after all, and that required talents of a caliber that far outstripped Ketch and Selliana's own. It was a near certainty that such a power would detect Ketch lurking nearby, no matter how well she hid herself.
Thus, her journey north. Less risk, less reward, but far more chance of success. As the crow flew, her journey began two hundred and fifty miles from the capital. At the pace she was now capable of as an Irregular, that ought to have been half a month of walking, but the Sporaton roads weren't so kind. They twisted and turned, diving through valleys or weaving around forests, very little in the way of purposefully built highways present until one neared the capital. She would be spending the majority of a month endlessly meandering from village to village, all so she could hopefully catch a few glimpses of something in the capital that may aid Sara.
Her goals she took pride in, but the actions required to accomplish them? Hardly illustrious.
She was walking through yet another of the unbelievably common villages when she encountered her first stumbling block, and it wasn't one she'd anticipated.
Fresh fish.
The scent of it nearly stumbled her when she hurried past a low-ceiling building, the unassuming warm glow of lantern light it had emanated doing nothing to prepare her for so welcoming a smell. Ketch spent half her waking hours past sunset, bedding down only when forced to by the cold, which meant she'd passed through this village when most were taking to their evening meals. Her mouth watered as her mind involuntarily summoned up images of grilling sabasins, a delicacy filleted and prepared by her father on the rare occasion he ventured above the waves for the purpose of cooking. Raw fish had suited her well all her life, and in fact she carried plenty of salted fish among her supplies, but the rare treat of anything similar to her father's cooking was irresistible. Despite herself, Ketch found her steady pace slowing, wandering towards the door.
She leapt back in surprise when the door was flung open, a drunken man bowling out into the night without a care in the world. So addled was the man that she had to skirt around him, his ale-ridden vision not even registering Ketch in her dark cloak.
Just as the door was going to shut behind him, she caught it. She argued with herself for a few moments more, already knowing she would give in. Her stomach's growls trumped common sense. Pulling the edges of her hood forward, Ketch stepped into the welcoming warmth with her head turned down.
The scent of grilling fish would have been overpowering, if not for the myriad of other assaults on her senses. There was a buzz of foreign accents locked in dozens of conversations, underscored by clinking drinks and waved requests for more of this, more of that, a hubbub nearly alien to Ketch's solitary lifestyle. For such an average village, the tavern was filled to the brim, every chair at every table occupied, the only empty spaces up at a short bar. Through the threads of fur crowding her peripheral, Ketch made a careful sweep for anyone sporting the symbols of an authority figure. She'd done nothing criminal in her time in Sporatos thus far, but Azarketi were rare enough to be memorable here, and memorability was far from ideal for a spy.
Finding no officials save a few off-duty catchpoles, Ketch began making her way up to the bar. Even she knew how suspicious it would be to stand at the door and gawk, no matter how unfamiliar she was with Sporatos in general. A traveler stopping by for a meal, she repeatedly reminded herself, wouldn't be so out of the ordinary in comparison.
Or so she thought. The moment she pulled out a barstool and sat down, she felt the weight of several attentions landing upon her. The uncanny awareness of who was and wasn't looking at her was a peculiar sensation recently lended her by her class, one she still hadn't fully adjusted to. It felt like flies and moths alighting upon her skin, fluttering and flittering as the focus of those watching her waxed and waned. For the first few days after gaining the sense, she'd flinched under every gaze, driven to seclusion by the irritation.
She pointedly gave no indication that she noticed anything at all, seeing as it would be impossible to see beyond the view of the bar her hood afforded her. Ketch waited patiently for someone to attend her.
Eventually she felt the brush of a new fly, this one landing on her right eyebrow, and knew it was the barman arriving. She didn't look up as he spoke.
"Can I get you anything, stranger?" He asked, voice only a little uncertain. No matter how strange her arrival, he was trying to make coin off of her, which required politeness. "Don't get many travelers stopping by after the harvest's done with, so there's none but the regulars to say it, but I can promise you myself that we've got good food and good beer."
"I smelled grilling fish from the street," Ketch replied tersely, trying to mask her accent. "What sort do you have?"
Though she couldn't see the barman above the chest, she watched his entire demeanor brighten.
"Oh, you've fine taste, stranger! My boy caught himself darn near a whole school just this morning, all by his lonesome. A fine netter he's turning out to be, and yes, I do mean to brag." Ketch watched the man bring up his hands to count the options off on his fingers. "We've got a good few green-bellied catfish on the stove already, with some parchana and bass waiting in the wings, plus a few gar-looking things that the rest of the fishers have been arguing about the name of. All the same price, on account of my boy taking in such a fine catch, so you take your pick."
Ketch shifted in her chair, debating. She'd never heard any of those names before, and really ought to pick something at random, but she was intimately familiar with just how bad certain fish could taste. She adjusted her pack on her back once more, a motion that caused the barman to lean away from her, for some reason. Now committed to continuing the conversation, Ketch felt it would be terribly awkward to do so without eye contact, and so lifted her head enough to look the barman in the face.
Where she expected shock at her blue Azarketi complexion, she was surprised to find sudden relief filling the middle-aged man's face. He wiped his forehead as if he'd been sweating and smiled.
"Y'shouldn't spook an old man like that, dear! Come now, take that hood down. Gave some of the kids a right proper fright, I daresay, though they won't admit it, of course."
Confused, Ketch did as asked and lowered her hood. The moment she did so, she felt several of the heavier flies on her skin suddenly lift away, while a plethora of other, lighter ones flicked all across her skin. It seemed the patrons of the bar had been studiously avoiding looking at her, save for a few of the bulkier sort that had been watching her like a hawk.
"I'm not sure what's best. What do you recommend?" Ketch asked, using the sentence she'd prepared for the barman's earlier question. Then, abruptly realizing the topic had already changed, said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause any concern. What had you worried?"
The barman leaned over the bar and pinched the edge of her cloak, lifting it up and off her shoulders. He moved so casually that Ketch didn't even think to stop him, even when he grabbed a handful and shoved it aside to show off her backpack.
"It was your pack, girlie, and the way you were sitting. Don't do much traveling, do you?" The barman flashed a grin at the fellows who'd apparently been watching her. "See? Old Taniel knows best, I do. You shouldn't worry yourself about anything I don't, eh kids?" He returned his attention to Ketch, who was still sitting half-bent on the stool. "Like I was saying, girlie. It was the pack under your cloak. When you sat down like y'did, it gave you a mighty big hunch, and some of the youngsters got it in their heads you were some sort of creature walking out of the dark part of the woods. I knew better, of course, that's why I talked to you, but they're a daft lot even when they're not drunk."
Ketch ran the scenario through her mind's eye again, this time from the perspective of the tavern's occupants. A hidden figure walks in, black cloak with thick grey fur hiding all their features, and walks straight to the bar without a word. The moment they sit down, their back swells and distends unnaturally, humps and bumps in all the places a normal person's spine couldn't be protruding.
A recluse wearing a backpack was the most obvious explanation, as the barman had clearly deduced, but it wasn't hard for a farmer's overactive and inebriated imagination to make a few extra leaps than strictly necessary. Evie had warned her that the peasantry were superstitious, but reacting as they had was pure foolishness.
Ketch felt herself flushing in embarrassment nonetheless, certain she made an amateur mistake regardless of where the true fault lay, and flailed for conversation to distract herself from the heat of her cheeks.
"Sorry for the scare, sir. Didn't mean to intimidate, just the way I usually go about. But the fish your son caught? They sound nice. Good job to him. But I don't know enough of river fish to make a choice?"
Ketch winced at the awkwardness of it all. To her relief, the barman didn't react as if she'd said anything unusual.
"Well, if we're going to be cooking fish for an Azarketi, that's a whole different sort of thing. Last seen one of your sort when I lived down on the coast as a boy, but no matter how many years it's been, I still know you don't take swill. I'll head on into the back and help my wife cook one of those big fat gar up proper, hope that does you right. They're not bottom-feeders like the rest, so they ought to suite you."
Before Ketch could thank him, or ask after price, or really say anything else, the barman disappeared into the back. She was left with a dozen people glancing her way and nothing to do, hands firmly in her lap. She pressed a mild scowl onto her face that had served her well in the past when she wished to discourage any unwanted approaches, preparing to wait.
She should have known it wouldn't work. She was too much of a curiosity to the people of this backwater village, as evidenced by the sidling way one of them made their way over to the barstool beside her. It was a woman, one of the burlier sort who had kept their attention firmly on Ketch when others glanced away. She took a seat beside Ketch without preamble, not trying to hide her interest, propping her head up with an elbow and staring directly at the side of Ketch's face.
"So," the woman said, eyes trailing down to Ketch's neck, "can you breath underwater with those?"
Ketch glanced at the woman from the corner of her eye. "My gills, you mean?"
"Yeah. They really work, or are they just for show?"
Gods. You'd think they never saw anyone other than humans before. Ketch took two purposeful breaths to calm herself. Unfortunately, doing so caused her gills to flare.
"Whoah!" The woman shouted, leaning in. "You can really see in there, can't you? It's all pink and stuff, too, like a fish." She raised a finger up, as if to poke the skin.
"Don't even think about it," Ketch snapped. The woman dropped her hand, but didn't stop her staring. Ketch sighed. "Yes, I can 'breathe' underwater. Am I really the first Azarketi to visit this village?"
"First I seen, at least," the woman replied. Ketch flinched again as the woman stuck her hand out, but she was only offering handshake. "Yanet. Nice to meetcha."
"Linn," Ketch replied, shaking the woman's hand. The false name slipped easily from her, the identification and background that Sara had concocted well memorized. Sara had insisted her cover story was designed to enthrall most commoners, mundane enough to be believable, but interesting enough to encourage misleading tall tales should anyone come asking after her later.
Ketch was to be Linn, an Azarketi youth who had been informed by her dying mother that the father she'd never known lived on the western coast of the continent. Adrift without her mother, grown distasteful of the waters she'd grown up in, 'Linn' set off across the continent to the western coast. Linn, if pressed, would admit the odds of finding her father were vanishingly remote, and that truthfully, she was after the adventure of the journey more than her father.
A bit of a fairytale, Sara had admitted, but she'd been confident it would work. A hard life on the road neatly explained any Irregular feats Ketch might inadvertently demonstrate, as well as her inconsistent naiveté in the ways of Sporatos. The so-called 'Linn' was living the life of a traveler unbound by home or liege, not uncommon for the nomadic Azarketi people, and so long as she played her part believably, wistful romance would outweigh suspicion in most commoner's eyes.
Unless, Ketch was now realizing, she came under enough attention that even casual conversation could pick apart her alibi. She could feel the interest radiating off Yanet as she let go of Ketch's webbed fingers.
"So, what brings you to our wayward home?" Yanet asked. Thankfully the woman at least had the decency to avoid a verbal vivisection of Ketch's anatomy then and there. "Not a great place for sightseeing, 'fraid to say, especially during fall. Much prettier when the fields are full."
"I'm just heading west," Ketch replied. "Honestly, I probably shouldn't have stopped. Just been a while since I've had some proper cooked fish."
"Shouldn'ta stopped?" Yanet asked. "What, you planning to walk through the night?"
"Until it gets too cold. The sun's not good for my skin, see?" Ketch held up her arm, running a finger along the scales that were nearly invisible to the naked eye. It was an easy distraction from more dangerous topics. Strangers asking after features common to any Azarketi were better than picking apart her backstory, though truthfully Ketch wasn't comfortable with either.
Yanet held up a hand to where Ketch had indicated, then stopped herself, looking to Ketch. She reluctantly nodded the woman on, holding her forearm a bit closer, and Yanet went to touch.
Frankly, Ketch didn't think her skin felt all that different from most surface folk's. The scales were incredibly thin, far softer than any fish. After familiarizing herself with Sara's skin over the past few months, Ketch didn't think she'd be able to tell the difference between human skin and Azarketi scales without looking.
Yanet didn't seem to agree. She stroked up and down Ketch's arm in silent amazement, eyes wide with wonder. Ketch was starting to feel less frustrated with the woman's attention, and more embarrassed. When Yanet stopped gently rubbing and instead started to pick at a scale with her fingernail, Ketch pulled her arm away.
"Alright, that's enough."
"Oh! Sorry. Sorry. I didn't expect it to be so soft, was all."
"I get that a lot."
"A lot, eh?"
Yanet's raised eyebrow caused Ketch to groan internally. If she was about to get hit on for her 'exotic beauty' minutes into her first proper exposure to the Sporaton people, Ketch could truly say goodbye to being just another face.
Thankfully, Yanet's suggestive expression took a different angle. "Traveling girl like you must find yourself in a lot of handsome fellow's beds, I bet. If I could pick a life for me, it'd be that, I swear. Hard to find any of these dullards attractive when I knew most of 'em since we were babes, after all..."
Yanet threw a frown across the crowded room, and when Ketch followed it, she found herself frowning as well.
"For your sake," Ketch said, "I hope this isn't all of your village's men." None could be said to be attractive, particularly while shoveling beer down their gullets after a long day's work.
Yanet sighed, crossing her arms on the bar to rest her chin upon. "Pretty darn close to all of 'em, sad to say. What with the winter coming in, Taniel's been asking us to spend most of the evening in town, so each little house ain't burning charcoal so long. Not enough of it to last the whole winter otherwise, he says."
Ketch's expression tilted towards confusion. "I walked by plenty of trees on the way here. Your charcoal burners run off or something?"
"Nah, nah, nothing like that. Those forests y'walked through are the Lord and Lady's hunting grounds, y'see. Closest forest with anything we can actually cut is two days away, so it's been slow going getting the goods we need."
It was fortunate that Sara wasn't here, Ketch reflected. Violence would have been imminent. "The Lords really won't let you take anything from their personal forest?" Ketch hoped the question would strike as naive, rather than rebellious.
"'Course not," Yanet replied, dismissing the idea as if it were unimaginable. "Our own fault we ran out, really. Didn't plant enough to make up for what we were cutting, these last few years. It'll be a cold winter or two, but it is what it is." She looked about the room once more. "Not that I'm eager to be spending more time elbow to elbow with this lot, I will say."
Their conversation was interrupted as the barman returned, carrying a wide wooden plate trailing steam.
"One fresh-grilled gar for the Azarketi girl in black," he announced proudly, setting it down before Ketch with a flourish. He stepped back, eagerly watching her for her reaction.
Ketch had to admit, the meal did look impressive. In life, the fish had likely been a foot and a half long, before being cut into three equal sections for her plate. Grilled to a uniform brown shade, striped with marks from the grill, it had her mouth watering instantly. The barman had arranged the sections to curl around the center of the plate, where the strange thin-lipped head was sitting atop a few slices of bread. It was probably supposed to be some kind of artistic way of presenting it, to assure Ketch the catch really was fresh, but she found dead eyes staring back at her a little disconcerting.
Not that it made a difference. Ketch probably ought to have said something in thanks, but grilled fish right under her nose shoved lesser priorities to the side. She immediately grabbed a knife and dug in, slicing off the thinner pieces in the manner she was familiar with and tossing them into her mouth.
"Oi! Taniel, you got other folk here too, remember!" The barman grinned at her with pride, leaving her to the feast as his attention was demanded by another of the tavern's patrons. Ketch waved her thanks as he left, mouth too full for words.
"Been a while since you had a proper meal, I'm guessing," Yanet observed.
Ketch nodded, swallowing a moment later. "Far too long. It was rare that I had the chance to cook our fish at all, when I was at home."
Yanet made a face of disgust. "You ate fish raw?"
"Yes?"
"Five gods, Linn, didja hate yourself?"
It was Ketch's turn to look at Yanet like she was asking a stupid question. "It's fairly difficult to start a fire underwater, I'll assure you. And there's nothing wrong with eating them raw, so long as you get to it quickly."
Yanet shivered theatrically. "Gods. Don't tell me you ate them soon as you caught them, blood and all?"
"Of course we did."
"No!" Yanet gasped, leaning forward. "Why didn't you at least bleed 'em before you chowed down?"
Ketch smirked. Here she'd been worrying Yanet would be analyzing her cover story in detail, when the woman really only cared about things any old Azarketi could have told her.
"You're welcome to try it if you ever find yourself underwater," Ketch said, "but I'd advise you carry a very large spear when you do it. With that much blood in the water, the sharks won't be far behind."
"Sharks?" Yanet leaned close, eyes sparkling. "You've seen 'em? A few of the folk that been down to the coast like to tell tall tales, like they were great big wolf-fish that lived in the sea, but I never knew what to make of that."
Ketch snorted. "I'd sooner fight a pack of wolves than a single shark."
Yanet spun in her chair, waving to someone in the tavern. "Tam! Tam, get over here. Linn here's seen sharks, and she says one of 'em is worse than a dozen wolves!" Yanet turned back to Ketch, smiling mischievously. "Tam's been tryna slide himself into the Lord's huntsman's good graces, ever since the huntsman's lass lost a couple of fingers on her good hand and couldn't shoot a bow last spring. Thinks he's gonna get an apprenticeship, but I think he's a damn fool if he thinks Sal won't learn to shoot with her offhand. Y'gotta tell him what you told me, it'll drive him crazy."
Tam trudged up to the bar with a mug in hand, looking scornfully down at Ketch devouring her plate of gar. "What's this you're hollering about, Yan?"
"Linn here says wolfs ain't shit to her, Tam, 'cause she's tangled with sharks before, which make them look like little puppies."
"I did not say--"
Beer spilled from Tam's mug as he dropped it on the bartop on Ketch's unoccupied side, taking a seat. "Y'ever shot a wolf before, girl?"
"No, but I've--"
"Then you got no damn idea what you're talkin' about! I'm sure the water's got all kinds of nasty business in it, but wolves, wolves? They're smart." Ketch could smell the alcohol on his breath as he drew the last word out, turning it into an accented ' smaahht'. "One shark?" He spat. "I could do that easy, so long as I got my good arrows with me. Whole different hunt, just huntin' one beast instead of a dozen."
"Your bow wouldn't work underwater," Ketch pointed out, drawn into the argument against her better judgement. "The only way possible to hunt beneath the waves is with a spear."
"Still!" Tam declared, spilling more beer with an emphatic thump of his mug on the countertop. "Wolves, they circle you, they come at you from all sides. You might get the couple in front of you, but the pair behind you'll rip your head off the moment they get a chance. Don't matter what it is, so long as there's only one of 'em"
"Only worrying about in front and behind?" Ketch made a show of inspecting her fingernails. "I would have loved that when I had to hunt. What would your little bow do when a shark comes barreling up at you from below, fast as a racehorse and twice the size? Nothing, that's what."
"Seems like it'd be pretty stupid to not be looking down, in that sort of case. Good hunters keep their eyes open and their ears listening, know the terrain like their own face. I wouldn't be surprised. Ever."
Yanet laughed. "A good hunter, Tam? You ain't shot a thing in your life!"
"'Cause that'd be poaching, 'till I'm apprenticed. Poaching the Lord's lands is no damn way to get the job, you know that."
"But a 'good hunter' wouldn't get caught, would they?" Ketch sniped, unable to resist slipping the jibe in. "And besides, I can hardly believe I'm having this argument with some fool that's never even netted a minnow. My first hunt with my mother was before I came up to your knee."
Tam spluttered, eyes weaving as he tried to piece together a response through his drunkenness. "Well, not all of us getta be born to a huntswoman, eh? I'm not damned fool enough to break the law, but I've done everything but. I go into the forest, I follow trails, I know what I'm doing--"
"Tam!" Yanet scolded, reaching across Ketch's lap to swat him. "Keep your trap shut, won't you?" A touch of concern entered her voice. "You really been going into the Lord's forest like that? They'll hang you for poaching!"
Hang him? Ketch thought, taken aback. Just walking into the forest is a hanging offense?
"I don't bring my bow with me, or anything other than my clothes," Tam said defensively, though he did lower his voice. "How they gonna say someone the next best thing to naked was poaching? I'll explain what I was doin', tell 'em it's because of how bad I want the apprenticeship, and for all you know, my gumption'll impress his Lordship enough to give me the job!"
"If he doesn't lop your head off as he rides past, that is," Yanet countered, crossing her arms. "Tam, promise me you won't go into the forest like that again. At least ask the for permission first!"
"Surely he wouldn't, though?" Ketch asked, emerging from her thoughts. "Have you hanged, I mean, even if you were poaching. That's not worth killing someone over, is it?"
"Where you from that it's so different?" Tam asked, before his bleary eyes focused back on her distinctly blue skin. "Oh yeah. Ocean or somethin'. Well, yeah, Yan's right on that one, at least. If I was really poaching-- which I'm not -- that'd be liable to end up earning me a place on the hangman's list. If I was lucky, I'd get away with them taking my hand."
"Gods," Ketch whispered. Some of Sara's more... extreme thoughts on nobility were starting to look different. Sensing that both Tam and Yanet were looking at her rather oddly, Ketch tried to think of something to say that would explain her reaction as anything other than the sympathies of a violent revolutionary. "We didn't have anything like that to deal with in the ocean. Except for when you got close to a big port, there was always enough fish to go around."
"Damn," Tam said, taking a drink. After a beat of silence, his face suddenly brightened."Y'know what I should do? I should get me some of those." Seeing Ketch's confusion, he waved vaguely at her gills. "Some of whatever-those-are. If I could live underwater like you, I'd be halfway to fame and fortune by this time next year."
"A potion might let you manage it for a day or so, but I don't know of anything that could give you true gills like mine, sorry to say."
Tam fell back into a pout. Yanet laughed at his expression, once more reaching over Ketch's lap to slap him on the shoulder. After a minor bit of prodding, the conversation carried on, and Ketch found herself chipping in well after she'd finished her meal and should have been on her way.
It was an interesting thing, to be talking with people who seemed so similar to her, but had lived such different lives. Between their casual references to restrictions Ketch had never fathomed and Evie's training on the legal rights of Sporaton commoners, she felt her own attitude towards the nobility skittering in the direction of Sara's. It wasn't like she'd loved them before, but she'd been a kid when Tulian fell. Seeing it for herself was something else.
Ketch did finally extract herself from the table, using the half-true excuse of fragile skin to explain why she would walk through the night, instead of grabbing a room. She overpaid a little bit for her meal, a kindness the barman accepted silently, and then was back out on the empty street, gray clouds blocking the stars above.
Up and down the street, now that she looked for it, she saw the signs of hardship in the town. The dirt roads had deep tracks worn in them, debris-strewn ditches running past rows of homes that had far too little light leaking from their windows . Most of the villagers were in the tavern, using the stove and one another to stay warm until late hours forced them home.
Not all the buildings were so dour. Down at the end of the street, towering over the rest of the thatch-roofed homes, was the village's manor. Its windows blazed with lantern light across all three stone stories, shining even through the richly dyed curtains that hid the interior, shadows of servants and other figures visible darting from room to room. Pulling her hood back up to cover her ears, Ketch took one slow step towards the manor, licking her lips.
She was at her sixth Advancement now. Higher than her father, fifty years her senior, and just below her mother, who had spent decades prowling the deepwaters in pursuit of oceanic prey. Ketch could melt into the faintest shadow, find purchase on sheer cliffs, and count the breaths of a sleeping babe from across the room. The Lord and Lady of such an insignificant village, though perhaps educated in the ways of politics and war, would have nothing to answer someone like her. All it would take was waiting till the lights began to dim as the house prepared for bed, then a quick hop over the walls, slipping her knife through a lock, and...
And what?
Ketch would kill them both in their sleep, of course. She'd likely have time enough to find any heirs of ruling age as well, just to be thorough. But nothing would change for Tam or Yanet, none of their difficulties absolved by the murders. They would follow the dead nobility's edicts regardless, too fearful of reprisal from whoever would eventually replace their old rulers, and the replacement would likely be even more tyrannical, knowing they lorded over a people that had their predecessor killed.
Ketch turned back towards the road out of town, buttoning her cloak against the growing chill. She would likely only make it a short way further before being forced to make camp and bed down, but it was better than resting in town. Too many prying eyes there, too many bad decisions to be made.
Ketch had to remind herself once more that she wasn't Sara. She could control herself, keep her blade in its sheath, and if she really wanted to help these people, she'd do so subtly, laying the foundation for far grander plans. A Champion had advantages and leeway that Ketch did not. Her mission required discipline before passion, discretion before boldness, and thought before action. That was the life she'd chosen by entering the shadows.
Ketch shook her head at her own thoughts. If she really preferred a life in the shadows, where did this biting anticipation for spring come from?
Notes:
Fun fact: Google translating the chapter title is a great way to learn about authorial inspiration for Ketch's character.
I'm using Book Two to practice writing stories with multiple perspective characters, something I haven't properly attempted before with any of my longer works. The weekly upload format screws with that a little bit, as multiple chapters in a row following a certain character will have an outsized impact due to it seeming to take weeks until the focus shifts, but I decided that's just a cost I'll have to eat. As I still intend to someday be publishing novels, there's no sense practicing writing formats that I don't intend to use in the long term, right?
Chapter 39: Daughter of the Sea
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Nora
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Deepwater Reaches
16 Leagues East of Tulian Shores
2 Months Since Captaincy
The wave crawled higher up the horizon, hiding the last slit of sunlight the storm clouds had not yet stolen from the sky. It was a living hill, so massive that an ecosystem of secondary waves rippled across its surface, fractal divisions of texture forming and dissolving at an intoxicating rate. The white froth of their collisions were dwarfed by the wave's peak, which curled to a height its base could no longer support, unity of form dissolving in a crash of seething seafoam spray.
Captain Nora O'Gallison watched the Crossed Glory's prow approach that monstrous mountain. The crew cowered across the deck, muttering prayers swept away by the wind, clinging to anything at hand, but Nora couldn't care less. Childish glee was etched across her face. The Crossed Glory was facing down its first threat since the magecraft, something with the power to shatter her beam and snap her prow.
It was beautiful. Purpose, distilled. They hurtled toward a point in time in which nothing else, nothing else on all the planet save that wave had any ounce of value.
Nora gripped the wheel and looked to her 1st Lieutenant, who was sitting with all four limbs wrapped about the banister, petrified eyes wide as the sky. She smiled kindly at him.
"Isn't it wonderful? "
The wave hit.
Water rushed in great deluges across the deck, the weight of mountains pressing down on them all. Nora opened her mouth to taste the salt spray as the ocean jetted past her, splitting an inch before her eye and collapsing an inch behind her head, wetting the trailing ends of her hair. For a time the world was consumed by white, a bestial roar rattling her bones as the entire ship groaned in trembling effort.
Heralded by nothing, the sky broke open before her, prow couched towards hidden stars.
The ship strained against the planet's pull.
They crested the wave.
The ship began to tilt.
Her breast was crushed against the wheel as the angle deepened, spray blinding them all as they rode down the giant's back, ship diving toward the endless ink.
The Crossed Glory crashed into the wave's tail with a great splash, prow burying itself beneath the ocean. The weight of momentum drove her deeper, deeper, then the buoyancy of decks not yet flooded asserted themselves, ripping the entire vessel up into the open air amongst a halo of saltwater spray. Boards snapped and cracked as stormwoven waves resumed their assault upon the hull, no longer cowed by the rogue wave's influence. Nora slowly spun the wheel to the right, setting their course back proper. She sighed, patting her pockets for her pipe.
"Damn," she murmured. She'd left it in her other suit. "Get yerself up, Lieutenant. Battle's not done yet."
Her latest 1st Lieutenant was still wrapped about the banister, dripping water and trembling from head to toe. He'd been a fine bo'sun, fine enough for her to have him hop the ranks into his current position, but it would remain to be seen if he could keep his wits about him when it mattered. He was the fourth sailor in two months to stand beside her.
The 1st Lieutenant dug his claws into the banister, dragging his way back to his feet. A catfolk officer was more than a passing novelty, and Nora would be a liar if she said her interest in Castalan wasn't partly owed to his fur. Fine black hairs the crew compared to a jaguar coated him from head to toe, as striking when dry as they were unflattering when wet. Nora intended to find out if the bravery required for a catfolk to take to the open sea would be a boon to personal development, or was already the ceiling of what he could achieve. Castalan gave himself a good shake, adding to the downpour still pounding the deck, and gamely retook his position with a telescope to his eye.
"The prey's changed their heading, Captain. They've put the wind to their backs now, raising the last of their sails. Either they're desperate, or betting the storm will be breaking soon."
"It will," Nora noted, flicking her eyes to the boiling blackness above. "Only a few minutes left before the rain'll stop. Clouds'll clear a few minutes later."
Castalan nodded, accepting this without remark. It was a lesson each of her officers learned quickly. Don't question the things Nora ought not know.
"In that case, Captain, the Bastard Breaker will be in best position to catch her."
"Aye. They'll recognize it." No one promoted to Captain under Nora would be capable of missing it. "We'll come about their port side, trailing a bit beyond grapple range. If they've got any nasty surprises up their sleeves, we'll be ready to swoop in."
Nora extended her own telescope, swinging it from starboard to port to monitor the fleet's relative positions. Sailing a hundred yards abreast of the Crossed Glory's flanks were the Bastard Breaker and Spiteful Prick, two of the fleet's latest to be outfitted with a full compliment of crew. Their names were a sore point for Nora, who preferred more gentile titles for the ships under her command, but there wasn't much to be done about it. Freed slaves, once given a warship and set against their old masters, seemed to place little value in clever subtlety.
The rest of the fleet, all thirty-five ships, sailed leagues to her rear. The majority of the ships therein were being sailed by skeleton crews, no more sailors aboard them than one might expect on a merchantmen. It was easier to take ships than convert crew, and she hadn't the manpower to arm her fleet as she wished. She kept the bulk of her fleet in reserve as a consequence, out of sight of any enemy who might appraise themselves of the weak state her otherwise numerous 'pirate' fleet truly was in. She'd find her crew in time, but she'd do so methodically, without allowing the rabble-rousing common to continental navies to infect her command structure.
The Bastard Breaker began to pull ahead of their line, seizing the advantage lent by its trim hull. It and its sister ship were Nora's most favored acquisitions of the recent weeks: true warships. She'd been intending to capture her first examples well before then, but despite the rate at which she'd been seizing ships, no merchantmen had appeared with escorts. She'd belatedly realized that she would have to allow someone to escape, if only to spread word that the missing ships were being taken by pirates, not storms. To her that would have been obvious, but portside authorities could be shockingly naive. Once she'd allowed a few to slip from her grasp to carry word of her attacks, she'd begun to see the militant response she'd been hoping for.
Thus far, she'd captured three vessels of military stock worth her consideration. Thin hulls and overlarge sails, built with oar ports all along either side and an iron-capped ram upon their prow, they were a fine take. Built for boarding, she intended the crews entrusted with the Bastard Breaker and Spiteful Prick to become her elite. Some day, she dared to dream, they would be transferred to a magecraft.
If Sara is capable of producing one, that is, Nora reminded herself. The Champion of Amarat was an enigmatic woman by nature. She had thus far been adeptly dancing to Nora's tune where possible, showering her fleet with provisions and favorable prices for all necessities, but Nora still hadn't made her mind up about where they stood as individuals. Nora was desperate for the knowledge hidden within the Champion's skull, innumerable secrets that could surely catapult Nora to heights unknown, her desperation met and matched by Sara's uncompromising determination to horde her greatest truths. Nora didn't think herself a match for the Champion of Amarat in diplomacy, but only a fool would think the single ship design Nora had been provided was the extent of Sara's otherworldly knowledge. Nora was stuck in eternal limbo as a result, unable to abandon the potential Sara represented, yet always straining at the yoke the Tulian shores placed around her neck.
It helped that the woman was enjoyable, at the very least. She had a fire to her eyes that Nora respected, the second being since Admiral Sinti who Nora regarded as an equal. They were both little more than flotsam caught by the intractable pull of their soul's desires, servants of their innermost desires. Time alone would tell whose light would flare brightest before sputtering out, but for now, Nora was content indulging in the fireworks their bonfires lit.
The rain began to slow to a patter, the churning of the sky lessening by degrees. Castalan brought out his flint and lit a torch on the deck, using it to dry his fur while he hollered for a cabin boy to bring a towel and change of clothes. Nora had impressed the importance of decorum upon all her officers, forcing even the shabbiest of them to recognize the value in a firmly creased suit. After all, what was more demoralizing for enemy captains than negotiating terms of surrender with someone looking like they were fresh from a gala? Nora would not have the history books speaking of her navy as unkempt.
She herself, dry as a bone, only worked her new knee around in its socket to ensure a good fit. Hurlish had provided a fine replacement for her old wooden stub several weeks ago. It was composed of miraculously thin steel wrapping a core of fine jungle wood, all treated for resilience against seawater, and the metal could be polished to a blinding sheen. She'd briefly considered forgoing her hessian boots in favor of displaying the new leg's brilliant interlocking gears, but decided against it. Best not to have anything clashing.
She watched their prey continue its vain struggle to escape. Its captain was well versed in the region, judging by the way they had preempted the storm's conclusion by dropping their sails. The ship was well kept, free of barnacles along the hull, and its sails were free of tatters and frayed ropes. It sat low in the water for its class, promising a cargo hold filled to the brim with goods more tangible than lightweight textiles. Something about its countenance gave her pause, however.
"1st Lieutenant, do you note anything odd about our prey?" She asked. When Castalan snapped his scope to attention, she realized he'd taken it for a test. "Something about its bearing strikes me oddly," she explained, "but I can't put a name to it. Give me your impressions, when you have 'em."
Nora kept looking. Was it the flag of the City of Cyan, whose trading vessels rarely bothered to make for the Horn? Or was it the high waterline, ship so heavily burdened that most captains wouldn't risk a trip through the deepwaters? She had no recollection of its name nor its date of construction, but that was growing regrettably common. It had been half a year since she'd last broken into a harbormaster's office to peruse their records.
No, she decided, there wasn't anything unusual about this ship. It was an average merchantmen, built to the usual standards, sporting an inoffensive set of flags and vectored onto an unremarkable trade route. The Bastard Breaker was catching it up easily, and the unknown ship's captain had even ordered her sails to be reefed, acknowledging escape was impossible. The two ships were closing the distance sedately, neither captain wanting to risk an avoidable collision in waters still rough from the fading storm. The interdiction was, by all rights, proceeding exactly as it should.
Exactly as it should.
Nora straightened as if struck by lightning. "Signalman, order the Bastard Breaker to disengage immediately! All hands to oars! General quarters, general quarters, general quarters!"
The entirety of the Crossed Glory burst into movement, roars of officers rivaling the crash of the waves. Calastan went to take his place by Nora's side, but she held out a hand.
"Your duties for the battle are hereby suspended, 1st Lieutenant." Nora snapped her telescope closed and pocketed it. "You are ordered only to observe how the Carrion Navy's magecraft operate. If we live, you'll be the best damn 1st Lieutenant I've had." She craned her neck up to face the signalman in the mast above. "Recall the fleet! I want every damn ship flying my colors here yesterday, godsdamnit! Send up the flag for a Pirate's Bane!"
The Bastard Breaker started to heel to starboard, trying to turn tail and flee, but it was too late. The snare had closed.
A beam of flame screamed out from the Pirate Bane's deck, sweeping through both of the Bastard Breaker's masts in a sizzling flash. Both towering sails were severed at the base, crawling with fire hot enough to burst every drop of water that touched them to superheated steam.
With perfect synchronicity, armored figures leapt up from hiding places behind the Pirate Bane's gunwhale, flinging grappling hooks that lanced across the two hundred foot gap. They impaled the Bastard Breaker just as its burning masts began to topple.
Both masts were taken by the wind to fall overboard, slamming screaming riggers into the water with a thundering crack of impact. Some sailors began hauling buckets of water aboard to quench the flames, while others began to saw at the hooks like men possessed. It wouldn't matter. The hooks were too many, the flames too hot. The battle's course had been set, and no permutation of it ended without the Bastard Breaker's annihilation.
"All sails to full, all sails to full!" Nora roared. "Signalman, inform the Spiteful Prick that we will bring ourself aboard the magecraft's port, while they are to circle around and box it in from the prow! Reserve ships to begin Protocol Three-Four-Five! Ballistae and archers, ready for Mage Suppression!"
Nora flung the wheel to the side, stopping it when she felt the rudder slot to angle, approaching the Pirate Bane directly.
The Bastard Breaker was being hauled in like a harpooned whale, dozens of grappling hooks littering its hull now attached to winches crewed by three Carrion marines apiece. Troops in gleaming armor were thundering up onto the deck through hidden trapdoors, lead by sergeants in brilliant blue plumes. Nora counted three plumes, each in charge of a contingent of thirty marines, which, when the ship's usual compliment of armed sailors was considered, brought the likely total of enemy combatants to one hundred.
The Bastard Breaker was outfitted with a hundred troops, with the crew manning the oars serving as an auxiliary force of a hundred more to be called upon in an emergency. That gave the ship twice the troops of the Pirate Bane, and if Nora didn't get there quick enough, every one of them would be slaughtered.
She watched the two ships draw together with misery in her gut. The deployment of a Pirate Bane so far from Carrion waters was the foulest of omens, souring a great deal of Nora's plans. It seemed the Admiralty Elections had been something of an upset. Last she'd heard of Carrion politics, the ruling Exonerets' hold remained steadfast, the Sailwards still little more than cantankerous upstarts. That had been a year ago. Things had clearly changed. Admiral Baleyar and his cohort would have never bothered sending a Pirate Bane so far abroad. If the new Admiralty was favoring expansion once more, it stood to reason that the "abandoned" Tulian coastline was a premier location for a new colony.
It was now Nora's job to disabuse the Admiralty of that notion, she supposed. She'd been planning to avoid challenging the Carrion Navy for at least the first decade of her career, but things didn't always go to plan. Two months was close enough to ten years, if viewed from a distant enough perspective.
Nora began spouting further sets of orders, managing the ship from top to bottom in the absence of her 1st Lieutenant. Castalan had done exactly as ordered, wandering off to set his hands on the railing and stare at the Pirate Bane. Nora watched over his shoulder as the gap closed, fear warring against excitement in her breast.
Just before the hull of the Pirate Bane would have touched the Bastard Breaker, there was a flash of light. Nora's marines were sent flying skyward in several chunks, their emptied spots on the railing filled by gangplanks sporting long spikes. The wide planks were slammed down onto the deck before anyone could react, impaling four permanent bridges that Carrion marines began pouring over.
The Bastard Breaker's captain was no fool. The mage's spellweaving had revealed their position for all to see, and it couldn't go unanswered. Two ballistae were immediately ordered to pin down the mage, bolts thick as wrists flung fast as lightning. It was standard naval anti-mage measures to do so, and usually effective, but Nora hadn't been satisfied with something imperfect. A sufficiently powerful mage could shove their way through the ballistae bolts, and that was an avenue of failure Nora would not tolerate.
To that end, she'd spent no small amount of money recruiting native Tulian hunters for her ships. They dangled from the rigging wielding monstrous longbows, the only weapons capable of fending off the worst of their homeland. They took to bombarding the enemy mage with a savage glee, eager to claim the considerable prize money Nora had promised should their marked arrow be the one found to have felled an enemy mage. The fruits of her expenditure were borne out by the shimmering orange shield in the center of the Pirate Bane's deck, all of the mage's efforts required to preserve their own life.
They were nearing the Pirate Bane now, close enough that some more industrious members of the Crossed Glory's crew had been readying their own grappling hooks. In normal circumstances Nora would have been pleased by their initiative, but it was extraneous here. A second set of grappling hooks flew from the enemy vessel, the Pirate Bane captain just as happy to drag Nora's ship in as they'd been the Bastard Breaker.
Nora drummed her fingers against the wheel as her ship was drawn in, debating her tactics for the fight ahead. They currently had the Carrion magecraft outnumbered three-to-one by count of vessels, five-to-one by number of troops. It would be a half hour before the reserves arrived. Nora ground her teeth, trying to find a way out of the snare.
Arrows began falling on the deck, answered by her own compliment of Tulian huntsman. Several of her crew were struck as Nora weighed her options, calling up and discarding dozens of stratagems from hundreds of texts. The literature was in near universal agreement: the battle was unwinnable.
Ah, well, she thought, can't have everything we want, can we?
Nora took her hands off the wheel, taking a few testing steps to ensure nothing had gummed up in her legs, mechanical or otherwise. Finding everything suitable, she walked up to Castalan and gave him a tap on the shoulder.
"I will be boarding the enemy vessel shortly. You're to continue observing, but from the wheel, in the event maneuvers are necessary. 1st Lieutenant Calastan, you have the conn."
Calastan blinked rapidly, looking from Nora, to her feet, then to the helm, where divots had been worn into the wood in the shape of her boots. After a moment of ear-flicking confusion, he gave a little shake of his head and nodded.
"1st Lieutenant has the conn, Captain, understood. Good luck."
"And good luck to you, Calastan," Nora replied, clapping him on the shoulder as he moved past her. She took a brief moment to unfold a raincoat from a jacket pocket and don it, then descended the steps to the deck proper.
Two months ago, when Nora had first found herself in control of a ship, several strange things had occurred. When she touched the wheel, she had watched the majority of the crew fall to their knees in pain, while the wind had blown harsh enough to press the waves flat as glass. She'd heard and felt nothing, and so quickly dismissed it as some odd quirk of weather or a bored water spirit playing games. Sara, however, had taken it much more seriously, and told her after the battle that she thought Nora had been inducted into the ranks of Championship.
While the suggestion initially rankled her, Nora had dismissed the suggestion after a few day's consideration. Champions were known to come from that strange world Sara called home, not insignificant coastal hamlets barely worth noting on a map. There'd never been an exception to that in all of history.
Nora shuffled through the crowd of marines waiting to board the enemy vessel.
Champions were also chosen by a god to represent their will, and while Nora's class had indeed changed name to "Chosen of the Waylaid One", that ominous name had never gone down on record as a title applied to any of the gods. The Champions of history were boisterously claimed by their divinities, not given underhanded titles that smacked of superstition.
The two ships bumped hulls as Nora drew from her sash a long walking stick.
It was much more likely, she'd quickly convinced herself, that she had been embroiled in the inscrutable politics of the fae, her plethora of deals having some unintended side effect. The greatest of the fae lords were of a strength that dwarfed mortal power, and their actions could be mistaken for a god's by one as inexperienced in matters as Sara.
Gangplanks crashed down, marines roaring into battle.
Champions were also, of course, possessed by abilities of incredible potency, their potential dwarfing the capabilities of all but the greatest of history's mortals. It was said that Champions were capable of summoning tornados with every swing of their sword, of heralding earthquakes with the force of their screams, and of other innumerable feats of godly Power. A Champion was the physical manifestation of a god's will, an instrument of destruction and creation without rival.
And it was on that final point that Nora's rejection of Championship began to falter.
She stepped up onto the gangplank and crossed it in a few smooth steps, taking a little hop to land on the other side.
The entire ship rolled under the weight of her presence, dipping so low that cold seawater began to rush over her heels. Carrion marines were thrown from their feet as the deck reached a list of sixty-two degrees in the span of a second, while only those loyal to Nora remained on their feet, seizing the advantage given by their stricken foes as if they unaware the ship was nearly capsizing.
Nora took a moment to adjust to her new ship. An awareness filled her body and shot through the soles of her feet, worming its way through wooden boards at lightning pace. She tasted six thousand four hundred and eighty five hours that had elapsed since saltwater first touched the ship's hull, smelled the beating hearts of its one hundred and forty one crew, and felt in the marrow of her bones each and every mageborn rune etched across its surface over the eighteen months of its construction. Its cargo hold was empty save for crew berthing, their supply barrels filled with dried meats and a double ration of beer due to the length of their journey, and the captain's cabin had a leak in it that persisted despite the carpenter's four attempts at repair over the last eight days.
Nora took a deep breath, taking it all in, and opened her eyes with a smile. A fine ship, the Dusty Gem. A shame she wouldn't be able to add it to her collection.
She took one step forward, freeing the ship to right itself. There was an awful ripping sound as the gangplanks were torn free from their spiked mountings, drowning out the startled screams of sailors who had only just begun to regain their feet. Nora slipped between two of her marines, seeking a vantage point to survey the fight.
She found one in the form of the capstan, abandoned during the course of combat. She waited for a wave to lift the prow, then used the momentum to bounce herself three feet into the air, landing atop one of the wooden handles.
The battle was, despite her brief intervention, progressing predictably. Carrion marines made a mockery of the vast majority of her forces, save those most veteran to her crew, trained by Ignite himself. They alone couldn't make up the difference, of course, and Nora's superior numbers were being whittled away at an astonishing rate. The reinforcements were beginning to be bogged down by their own fallen comrades. That was rather poor for morale, having to trod over the corpses and not-yet-corpses of those you once called friends. She had none of Sara's peculiar bolstering for her troops in this battle, and their resolve was most certainly not going to last until reinforcements arrived.
Nora's attention eventually fell upon the enemy mage, still enshrouded in a glowing shield. The robed man was looking back at Nora, eyes narrowed, speaking something to the captain at his side sheltering beneath the protective bubble. When their eyes met, the mage flinched.
Interesting.
Nora hopped off the capstan, once more throwing the ship into disarray, and began to meander through the crowd in the direction of the mage. She eventually popped out from between two burly marine's flanks, turning her head back and forth to survey the only open space remaining on the ship.
She shoved through to fully emerge from the press, pulling her raincloak's open now that the drizzle had fully abated. Four guards immediately rushed towards Nora, but the mage raised a hand and cried out in the Carrion language.
"Get back! Get back, now!"
Nora wasn't quite sure if the mage had been speaking to her or the guards, but whichever it was, the guards paused. They looked to their mage in confusion, but the mage had no attention to spare for them, too busy clutching his staff and staring at Nora.
"Captain Nora O'Gallison, at yer service," Nora greeted in the Carrion tongue, giving a light introductory bow of her head to mage and captain. "I'm sorry to say it, but I'm the lass in charge of the fine mess we seem to have found ourselves in. Might I have your name, sirs?"
Before the captain could say a thing, the mage spat out, "What are you?"
Nora frowned. "Damn. I was hoping you knew."
The Carrion captain silenced the mage with a gesture and stepped forward, returning Nora's nod. "Captain Breeze Scattered Cloud at your service, O'Gallison." He looked her up and down, frowning tightly. "Though much of what's occurred this past hour strikes me strangely, I must say, your uniform is the most peculiar of all. What mean you, by wearing the colors of a dead dream?"
Nora looked at herself, tugging at a few loose threads. "He ain't dead yet, Captain Breeze. The Admirals know that."
Captain and Mage shared a distasteful expression. Their guards had clumped up to place themselves between Nora and their charges, but Captain Breeze waved them back. He took a few steps forward in the small protective dome at the center of the deck, closing to within arm's length of Nora had the shield not been there.
"You appear in the middle of my ship, speaking of things none should know, and do so with a smile, Captain O'Gallison. What is your purpose here?"
"Well, fer starters, this battle's one big damnable mistake," Nora said. "Had I known you were Carrion, I'd never have set my ships on you."
Captain Breeze snorted. "Such is the purpose of a Pirate's Bane, Captain."
"Nae, that's not what I was meaning. This ain't a pirate fleet you're tangling with. I'm not in it fer the killing and coin."
"You've done little to disabuse me of the notion, I'm afraid." He smirked, looking about. "And besides, is three truly a fleet, Captain O'Gallison?"
Nora waited. After a few seconds, there came a cry from the Dusty Gem's crow's nest. "Sails on the horizon, Cap'n! Two-- no, three dozen vessels inbound!"
Captain Breeze's lips turned down as Nora's turned up. "Be that as it may, Captain O'Gallison, you have committed an act of piracy in the Deepwaters. You will be tried and hanged."
"On the contrary, I've done nothing of the sort. I'm neither a pirate, nor a Captain, but a Navy Admiral, given my rate by Governess Sara Brown of the Tulian Republic. Further, if you have your navigator take his readings once more, you'll find our vessels well within fifteen leagues of the Tulian coast. I've every right to interdict those who I please."
Captain Breeze turned to a guard, whispering an order. The man hurried off, likely to confirm with the navigator. Nora had no concern she was wrong; an easterly wind of four knots over the course of the storm and subsequent entanglement had pushed them back into rightful Tulian waters a few short minutes ago. Though it was obvious she'd begun her pursuit well outside her legal jurisdiction, any act of piracy had been committed solidly within 15 leagues of Tulian coastline.
Captain Breeze straightened his collar, scanning the deck. The battle was still ongoing, Nora's marines pushed fully back to their own decks, but she was unconcerned. The Salian Accords ensured that the worst fate awaiting her was a few months in prison until Sara payed some exorbitant fee for her ransom. So long as they recognized her as an Admiral, rather than a pirate, that is. The guard returned, whispering into Captain Breeze's ear. He cleared his throat.
"Regardless of our ship's present positioning, there is a great deal of what you say that cannot be verified. You claim to be an Admiral of a 'Tulian Republic' and her navy, yes?"
" The admiral of the Tulian Navy, as a matter o' fact. In charge of the whole damned thing."
"An easy lie to make, when one invents new titles for a dead kingdom."
"Y'haven't heard?" Nora asked, feigning surprise. "The Champion of Amarat has staked her claim in the old capital, said she'll be founding a nation to rival Sporatos itself. Hired me to enforce her new laws upon the waves, which is why I attacked yer ship."
"And which new laws were we violating, sailing peacefully through your waters?" Captain Breeze didn't seem to believe half of Nora's claims, but he was at least willing to entertain the notion for the purpose of debate.
"You, personally, Captain Breeze? None at all." Nora pointed to the vibrant flag still waving from the Dusty Gem's mast. "The City of Cyan, however, violates many. Governess Sara has decreed slavery illegal within the territorial boundaries of Tulian, and that any measure necessary to free the enslaved will be undertaken by her militaries. You know as well as I that the City of Cyan, as well as every vessel in a hundred leagues save yours and mine, use slaves for their crew."
"Don't be ridiculous," Captain Breeze said. "Collars are far too expensive for each vessel to be carrying them."
"Slavery in the Tulian Republic is defined as any individual kept forcefully confined without being found guilty by trial, any individual forced to work without pay, or any individual forced to work for pay below the amount necessary to support themselves," Nora rattled off. "Similar offenses, viewed as only slightly lesser in severity, are too many to list, but include those forced to work, even if they are appropriately compensated. Pressganged sailors, you must realize, neatly fit several criteria."
Captain Breeze shook his head in bemusement. "This is the justification for your piracy, Captain O'Gallison? Following the orders of a supposed Champion ill enough in the mind to claim dominion of dead lands?"
"It is an excuse, Captain Breeze, but it's a fine one, for it's true." Nora flashed a cocky smile, of the sort so often employed by Sara herself. "I take from those with plenty and give to the needy, so the story will someday go." Nora shrugged, smile fading. "But the realities of things later fit for storybooks are always a right mess in the moment. Ask yer crew, if ye don't believe me and haven't heard the rumors of Amarat's Champion. She's a queer sort, they'll tell you."
Captain Breeze chewed his cheek, glancing at his mage. The man had stayed pressed to the back of his shield through the whole thing, eyes locked unerringly on Nora. At Captain Breeze's questioning expression, the mage shook his head.
"Hm," Captain Breeze hummed. "Strange thing, that. You didn't lie."
Nora cocked her head. "Casting spells on me without me knowing, are ye, mage?"
"An unfortunate necessity, Captain," the mage replied, averting his eyes by bowing from the waist. "My deepest apologies for the deception."
The guards shifted nervously in their boots at this, tightening their grips on their weapons.
"Well, water under the bridge, far as I'm concerned," Nora said, waving a hand. "Well, Captain Breeze, what think you? Y'know I believe what I said, but have ye taken me for a madwoman or an admiral?"
"Both," he stated plainly. "But a helpful one, I've decided. The story once more if you would, knowing now you speak without ability to lie. Would you attack a ship you know not to be crewed by those you define as slaves?"
"Not unless they were carrying slaves for sale, or Tulian was at war with their nation."
"Excellent." Captain Breeze reached beneath his coat and pulled out a wooden whistle, giving it a hard blow. The Carrion marines responded immediately, pulling back from their boarding actions across all two ships-- no, three now, they'd begun to board the Spiteful Prick as well-- and filed back into neat rows upon the Dusty Gem's deck. The marines looked baffled by the order, but were too disciplined to respond with anything other than uncompromising obedience.
Captain Breeze clapped his hands together, smiling widely at Nora. "Seeing as you are aware that the Carrion Navy is an all-volunteer force, a rather unique trait in these regions, I am sure the Admiralty will look forward to utilizing our exclusive rights to traverse Tulian waters in the coming years."
Nora threw her head back and laughed. "Ah! A true Carrion captain you are, Breeze. I'm not quite sure if the Governess realized what her commandment has done, but so long as you fail to transport slaves through her territory, you'll have your run of the place."
"Then we will part amicably, Captain O'Gallison. It will be but a few short minutes of preparation until we can release the grapples, then we will be on our way. I expect an official Carrion diplomatic party will not be long in coming to Tulian, though I of course cannot speak for the Admiralty."
"I understand, and will pass the forewarning along. Fair winds to you, Captain Breeze."
To Nora's great surprise, Captain Breeze took two steps forward to emerge from beneath the mage's shield, offering his hand.
"Fair winds to you as well, Captain O'Gallison. I hope to meet again some day."
Nora gave him a firm handshake, looking him in the eye. Sara would have known what he was thinking. Nora didn't have a damn clue. She turned to make her way back to her own ship. All around her, Carrion marines had begun to put their ship back in order. That included a respectful collection of Nora's dead, who were wrapped in brilliant white sheets reserved for the purpose. The corpses were solemnly handed off to Nora's crew. Counting the rows, Nora tallied seventy dead among her marines. She looked back to the center of the Pirate Bane's deck, where the Carrion dead were reverently laid beside one other.
All two of them.
She lingered on the Dusty Gem's deck for a final moment, one boot rested on the gunwhale before she crossed back over. Through senses undefined, she listened to the captain and mage confer.
"Breeze, are you sure that was wise? That may have been the only chance the Carrion Navy will get to kill that thing."
A scoff. "Bulb, that was no chance. That was an orca circling our 'berg, deciding how best to take us to the cold."
"They thought me suppressed, Captain. If we'd only--"
"Absolutely not. You felt it as we all did, Bulb. Don't pretend you were braver than any other, when it closed to us. That thing had another's eyes. I don't know how it would have been done, but we'd not survive its retaliation. Did you see what its arrival did to our ship?"
"I did, which is why I feel certain we should have struck. Forty ships under its thrall already, Breeze. What will we have to answer it when it has a hundred? Two hundred? The dead dream begins to stir."
"Which is why we must live to inform the Admiralty. Our sacrifice would bear no fruit here, I assure you. Jaunt, plot us the quickest course to Seal Island. I'll deliver the message personally."
Seal Island, eh? An interesting choice for this year's Carrion Capital.
Nora stepped up onto the gunwhale, standing on a tiptoe to find Captain Breeze and the mage named Bulb, who were now surrounded by attendants. When she caught their eye, she bore her teeth and gave a wave.
Nora took a two inch hop off the gunwhale to her own ship, shoving the Dusty Gem's hull ten feet straight down. She landed lightly on familiar wood as the magecraft rolled behind her. She took a deep breath, filled with scents and sights she knew well.
Despite coming away from the battle with their lives, the mood on deck was far from jubilant. The Bastard Breaker would have to be towed back to port, assuming the fires could be brought under control. The loss of the Crossed Glory was visible in the way it rode higher in the water after each burial at sea, cloth-wrapped corpses dragged beneath the waves by weights tied to their ankles. A closer call than Nora would ever have preferred, though she'd never dare speak the sentiment aloud.
Magecraft remained her greatest threat, as they would until her ship was built. The towering behemoth conjured from Sara's mind was having its keel laid down at that very moment, so many miles away. Nora pulled the designs from her sash, scanning them over again. It was a strange, strange vessel, that USS Constitution. Towering sails propelled a hulking body, more rigging than a spider's web running to and fro just to keep the behemoth underway. Its hull was thick, thicker than any ship she'd ever seen, and in her hands there'd be little in all the world to oppose her.
The question was, of course, why? The vessel was a warship, of that much Nora was certain. Sara's demonstrations showed men in uniform moving with military precision, an air of drilled routine that was unmistakable no matter what world they hailed from. But what could be such a threat to require a vessel so heavily outfitted? There were vast open stretches within its body reserved for nothing at all, an oddity when Sara's replication otherwise so perfectly captured the positioning of cargo and berthings, and there had been that cloud. A white little puff in the illusion, yet when she'd compared the scale, it had been a monster. What had it been? The Champion had hid the image the moment it appeared, and that maddened Nora. All her experiments since, all her research of magery and magecraft, they'd yielded nothing. Maddening.
Nora began barking orders, recalling Castalan to his position in order to get the fleet underway as soon as possible. There were messages to be run, flags to be changed, a Navy to be canonized. This Carrion confrontation had forced Nora to drop the illusory act of simple piracy, and that meant she was to be a true Admiral soon. Governess Sara would have to be appraised, preparations set underway. If Carrion Captains sailed into Tulian harbor and saw it an indefensible wreck, no amount of politicking would keep them from smelling blood in the water. Nora had much to do.
Notes:
Distinct lack of Nora formatting fuckiness today, couldn't find a way to do what I wanted with the limited HTML allowed by AO3. Still very happy with the chapter overall. I'm also forcing myself to commit to a regular Sunday upload schedule, instead of posting chapters the day I finish them, because doing so in this instance really let me polish the chapter to a sheen. I'd say this sort of writing is fairly close to the quality I could reliably sustain were I writing full-time.
Chapter 40: Terrifyer
Notes:
Sorry my finger slipped and I wrote a 10k word chapter that's my bad
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic
6 Miles From The Capital
Five Months until Spring
Sara kept a firm grip on the paper as her horse-- recently dubbed the rather unoriginal name Trot-- did his best to ride apace Hurlish's far larger and still unnamed mount. The journey to the capital was one that would have taken at least a week on foot, but their steeds had carried them to the doorstep in three short days. When Sara ignored the aching in her thighs, she was forced to admit her reservations had been misplaced. Riding was a far better way to travel walking across the Tulian countryside.
Evie rather disagreed, having abandoned her own horse, instead acquiring a two seater saddle so she could ride with her arms wrapping around Sara's stomach. The seven-foot-tall Hurlish necessitated her own mount of course, apparently of the same breed as Voth's monster, though not quite as impressive as it wasn't a true warhorse.
The roads their horses followed were in awful condition, but it was a minor miracle they existed at all. Stone bridges over innumerable streams had been damaged by raging typhoon floodwaters ten years ago, then repaired in shoddy fashion by locals once the storms abated. Their forethought preserved a measure of the more expensive infrastructure Sara would have had to otherwise spend valuable money replacing. Even the dirt paths between villages were still trod often enough to maintain their shape, even if trees kept creeping in close, requiring Sara and Hurlish to duck on occasion to pass under overhanging limbs.
The most pressing issues with travel through Tulian were the occasional predators, stalking travelers that were forced to venture through valleys and narrow treelines, but Sara saw none of them on this trip. She supposed that animals like jaguars and tigers were scared off by their numbers and size of their horses, an advantage most commoners wouldn't have. Sara wrote a note for herself to order Ignite's patrolling Guards to trim back any ambush locations near the road whenever they came across them. By the looks of it, they'd soon be more used to using their swords as machetes than weapons.
They continued on to Tulian, the road winding through increasingly frequent farms. Sara hadn't found any mages capable of rejuvenating the over-farmed land surrounding the capital yet, but with the city's markets growing, people had been moving back regardless. Thankfully, the fields were proving to have been left alone for long enough for new plants to take hold. Every time a different crop entered its growing season, there'd be a new wave of farmers relocating closer to Tulian, encouraged and welcomed by Sara's promise of protection and free land. Many were struggling with problems they'd never faced; the farmers of yesteryear hadn't worried about crop rotation or similar measures, a lackadaisical attitude the current generation couldn't have without government mages to replenish the soil.
To nip that problem in the bud, Sara had sent people across Tulian to pilfer every scientific text-- or at least what qualified as 'scientific' in this society-- that they could get their hands on. She'd even asked Nora to nab every last scroll and scrap of paper from the captains of her captured ships, though most of those had little to do with anything land-based. With such a wide net, information on how to properly manage land without mages was eventually found. With how niche the need was, the texts were far from complete. To ensure her burgeoning government pieced together everything possible, she'd appointed Vesta's sons in charge of the project, forcing them to finally put their exorbitantly expensive education to use. That had been a decision made just before she left for Voth's army, and she wasn't excited to hear the the entitled brat's complaints after they'd spent weeks immersed in such 'degrading' work.
They entered the final stretch before the Tulian city gates. A half-mile of flat, empty grassland, meticulously cleared of anything larger than a shrub. It was an eery, unnatural sight.
The killing field.
Archers atop Tulian's fifty-foot walls would have a clear shot all throughout an army's approach, the empty grassland ensuring the enemy had no choice but to weather a hail of arrows. She'd even made it clear to the farmers requesting to settle closest to Tulian that, when the Sporaton army came marching on the city, their homes would likely be burned to deny the enemy building material.
The farmers that settled closest were, by consequence, only those most dedicated to Sara's cause. They tended fields twice as large as most, doing their utmost to fill the city's granaries to ensure a siege could be endured as long as possible. Sara had thanked a number of them personally already, and before the rainy season was over, she was determined to have looked every last one of them in the eyes at least once.
The walls themselves were growing formidable, as well. The Carpenter's Guild had done a rush job covering up the last of Tulian's cracked roofs, transitioning as rapidly as possible to the construction of ballistae to be mounted atop the walls. Sara now counted a half-dozen in various stages of construction jutting from new concrete crenellations, positioned to spear any Sporaton siege engines that dared enter their range. Scrap wood was also piled high at regular intervals, waiting to become the bonfires that would heat boiling oil. A fifty-foot wall was nearly insurmountable, but nearly wasn't enough. In a world of magic, siege towers that dwarfed their earthly contemporaries were an inevitability, one Sara had to ready herself for.
They reached the gates without fanfare, settling into line behind others waiting to have their carts inspected before they entered the city. Sara had been forced to implement a flat tax on goods entering Tulian, seeing as it was impossible to implement a more modern sales tax system. The dense legalese that Lady Vesta-- no, she reminded herself, just Vesta now-- had penned up was nauseating to Sara, but she'd forced herself to read through it to make sure it was fair. Forcing people to pay on product that they weren't guaranteed to sell felt draconic to her, but after the Guild representatives, Vesta, and Evie had each independently assured her that the terms were uncommonly generous, she'd relented.
Several other money-making streams had been setup by Vesta in the weeks since her arrival, and the merchantwoman's efforts proved almost bafflingly successful. Even without the farmers being taxed yet, which could only happen at harvest, Sara's fledgling government was swimming in coin. Hell, she'd needed to have a mint built after a few short weeks, the twin currencies of dwindling Old Tulian coins and foreign Sporaton denominations gobbled up into her reserves faster than she could spend them.
She'd also made something of a fool of herself when she'd spoken to Vesta about it, nearly accusing her of greed by so heavily taxing the Tulian people. Vesta had laughed her head off at that, telling Sara that if she really wanted to have less money, she'd need to start spending it. Vesta took out her old records from Hagos and compared them to Tulian, showing Sara that outfitting a thousand soldiers in steel armor, organizing and equipping the trade guilds, and bolstering the city's defenses had thus far cost less than Vesta once spent monthly on house staff.
It turned out, Sara learned, there was a lot of money to go around when the ruling class wasn't decking out mansions sized to accommodate a village. In Sporatos, noble accountants calculated how much they thought the peasantry could barely survive off of, then took every pebble and every grain of bread beyond that number. The nobility was guilty of a level of systemic exploitation brutal enough to make their ancient Earthly equivalents blush. Sporatos and its ilk weren't just the one percent controlling the majority of the wealth, it was the one percent controlling everything . Only the scraps were left for the commoners.
"How," Sara had later asked Evie, "are rebellions not constant? It's absurd, what the nobility is taking from people."
Evie had answered the question with a question. "Master, at your current level, how many untrained pitchfork-waving peasants do you think you could cut your way through?"
"Untrained?" Sara had thought back to her early experiences fighting random gangmembers on the streets of Sporatos after she'd arrived. The worst of them had been so slow they may as well have been hogtied through the fight. "If they're clumped up I could probably get a couple hundred before I got too tired, or they managed to drag me down."
"That is likely an understatement, Master. Now imagine a veteran Sporaton Knight, one whom spent sixty years in the saddle of war. They are likely twice your level, infinitely more willing to slaughter their way to victory, and adorned with enchanted equipment accrued over a lifetime of conquest. Imagine their effect on a peasant rebellion."
"Not a pretty sight."
"No. And Sporatos maintains five hundred recognized Knights of such capability, accompanied by a great number of lesser nobility whose talents are only marginally less than our own. When rebellions occur, Master, it is not a question of who will win. Only how many generations will be required for the region's population to recover."
Evie had done an excellent job of driving the point home, leaving Sara nauseous, but it was also that same dour oppression that made Sara's current job laughably easy. Taxation on a level that would have even the most leftwing Scandinavian busting out the pitchforks over was a blissful mercy to the people of Tulian, and all that tax money had to go somewhere.
Where Vesta had employed a quadruple-digit ensemble of servants, chefs, guards, and gods knew what else, Sara had two whole people under her employee. One was a part-time laundress that arrived each evening to collect their dirty clothes, and the other was a young boy that lived near Sara's rooms at the Peasant's Theater, acting as a runner when Sara wanted to send an order quickly to somewhere else in the city. His wage of one silver a week had allowed both his parents to retire, and he spent most of his time playing ballgames with his friends on the streets nearby, because Sara felt guilty seeing him deliver the response so out of breath. To say that her government's expenses differed from Vesta's was a vast understatement. Add to it Nora's raiding surplus and the upcoming harvest, and Sara was running out of places to throw her money.
Sara greeted the guards on duty at the city gates with little fanfare, quietly satisfied that they inspected her and Hurlish's horses exactly as they had everyone else. The idea that no one was above the law was still little more than a novelty, but discipline like that shown by the Guard was the first step to making it custom.
Sara entered Tulian with several problems nipping at her heels, but one felt the most pressing. She steered her way towards a particular part of the city she'd never paid much attention to, giving friendly waves to those who recognized her as the Champion of Amarat on the way there. Evie's unflinching scan of the city's crowds freed Sara to play the role of friendly political dignitary, a living banner of the new nation waving for all to see. Many of Tulian's new residents were rather excited to see her, when they were told who she was, but plenty of the natives simply went on their way after a casual glance, accustomed to her presence. It was only when she began to near her destination that things grew stranger, some bowing low as she passed, others outright kneeling, persisting in the genuflection no matter how she or Hurlish scolded them for it.
Finally, hair standing on end, Sara arrived. The building before her was nearly as ornate as the old King's Keep, graceful stone arches worked over centuries into a kaleidoscope of artistry. Most of the engravings depicted faces at their greatest extremes, some weeping profusely, others twisted into a frothing rage. Most common by far were faces locked in blissful ecstasy, boisterous laughter, or any number of other pleasant emotions. Stained glass windows had once gone further, reportedly depicting lovers locked into tangled embraces, soldiers roaring into battle, and dark-robed figures weeping before open graves. Those old pieces of art were gone now, ruined by the storms, but Sara doubted that it would be long before donations piled high enough to afford replacements.
The Church of Amarat, after all, was very popular in Tulian.
Sara pulled Trot to a stop a few doors down from the monolithic building, eying its swept roof with distaste. Most of Old Tulian's symbols of extravagant wealth were on their way to obliteration, impossible-to-maintain noble manors torn down in favor of granaries or hospitals, but not the churches. Sara wasn't stupid enough to have those demolished, no matter how much she wished to curb the cult of hero worship stirring to life around her.
"So..." Hurlish grumbled, frowning up at the building, "I really gotta go to this with you?"
"Not technically, but I imagine they'd be disappointed. Anyone fucking the Champion of Amarat is a big deal to these people." Sara lowered her voice. "And I'd really appreciate having at least one extra sane person with me. I only met a few of Amarat's followers in Sporatos, and they were... interesting."
"Can't imagine."
"Devotion remarkable enough to attract a god's eye selects for some peculiar qualities, Hurlish," Evie noted, "But you know as well as we that this meeting is necessary. There is much to be learned from Amarat's devotees that cannot be discovered elsewhere."
"Yeah, but..."
Hurlish trailed off as the church's great double doors flung open, a number of figures flowing out with a great deal of excited chatter. Their simple robes would have seemed appropriate for religious function if it weren't for the offensively garish colors slapped on in random patterns, powdered flower petals having done their best effort at recreating tie-dye. The hoods that other pantheons used for ominous flare were universally thrown off to flop loosely upon their backs as the priests and priestesses rushed down the street, clutching their clothes so their loose sandals wouldn't catch the hem of their robes.
"Lady Sara! Lady Sara, you've come!"
"Ah, shit," Sara groaned.
Amarat's devotees reached Sara just as she began dismounting from her horse, babbling as one excited mass. Back in her earliest days in this world, Sara had briefly hoped having real gods would temper religious fervor. Surely people would stop observing pointless rituals when there was demonstrable proof that they didn't work, she'd reasoned.
Not so. Priest and priestess alike fawned at her in flamboyant excess, reaching out as it to touch her skin before ripping their hands away and shading their eyes, crying in excitement as if the mere proximity was getting them off. Even when Sara had been recognized as a Champion in Sporatos, with all the pomp and fanfare of a hundred kneeling soldiers presenting her to the gold-bedecked king, she hadn't felt her circumstances so absurdly overwrought. Sara tried to pick out bits and pieces of their babble, but they kept running together.
"By the Divine Emotion, you are in life as in--"
"To be visited by one of your stature in such a lowly--"
"Speak, speak! Please, so your voice may bring us ecstasy unknown--"
"Goddamn, y'all are freaks."
The last comment, unsurprisingly, came from Hurlish. Both her girlfriends were watching with arms crossed, amusement clear as they watched Sara tower over a dozen devotees that kept trying to bow without losing sight of her face. Finally, when it became apparent that their efforts were showing no sign of slowing down, Sara began to try and get their attention.
"Alright, alright, who's in charge here?"
Several keened loudly at the sound of her voice, backs arching theatrically. Sara had more than enough experience with actual pleasure to see how fake it was, and wondered what the damn point was. Did they really think the Goddess of Emotion would be proud of fake emotions? It was only a few of the less ecstatic that tried to answer her question.
"By your arrival, you supplant all mortal authority on Amarat's--"
"The keeper of the Church is Amillya the Stonely, but--"
"Though others would say--"
Sara seized on the mention of a 'keeper of the church', reaching out and grabbing that attendant by the back of her hood to lift her above the others.
"You. Keeper of the church. Who's that?"
Though the woman had to be in her forties at the youngest, she kicked her feet and squealed in excitement at being held by Sara.
"Amillya the Stonely is the Church Keeper, she who has rallied us to this most holy place in the time since your revival of this dead people oh Lady Sara of Most Beneficent Amarat whose name knows not flaw nor--"
"Jesus fucking Christ," Sara swore, the irony of swapping divinities not lost on her. "Where's Amillya? Huh?" Sara whistled like she was calling a dog. "Anyone? Anyone here wanna lead me to Amillya?"
That finally got the devotees breaking away, scurrying back to the church on the double. In fact, they ran so fast that in a few seconds Sara was alone on the street, the devotees having disappeared from sight. The only one left was the woman still dangling from Sara's grip, twisting in the breeze.
"Christ," Sara swore again, setting the woman down. "Are you always like this?"
The woman laughed. "No! No, not at all. Noooot at all." She giggled. "But it isn't every day that one gets to witness the Champion of Amarat grace our doors, isn't it? That is the cause for our excitement, for our fervor and joy!"
"And the Santhem," Evie dryly intoned. "That likely explains more of their behavior, Master."
The priestess turned to Evie, and for the first time Sara noticed how blown out her pupils were. "You know Santhem? Isn't it amazing? "
Evie looked down at the woman in abject disgust. "Clearly."
"I know, right?" The priestess turned about, finally realizing they'd been abandoned on the street. "Oh! Oh, Lady Sara, you wanted to see Amillya, didn't you?"
"I'm starting to reconsider."
"Well, before you finish, let me show you the way!" The priestess took Sara's hand and tugged her forward without further ado. Another bemused expression was traded by Evie and Hurlish as they followed after.
The interior of the church was far less ostentatious than its exterior, something Sara thanked the gods for. The stonework was still fine, corners accented with artistic trim, but the gallery of creepy faces thankfully remained on the exterior. The main doors swung straight open into an arching hallway, doors and corners swinging off at inconsistent intervals. Rather than one sprawling worship chamber, Amarat's priests and priestesses preferred smaller congregations, more intimate and personalized for the discussion at hand. Sara was hauled past several wooden doors, most of which looked like recent editions, too rough and unrefined to have been from the church's heyday, then was hauled by her giggling guide down a hallway, this one slightly smaller, then down another even smaller branching hallway. After she went further down a set of stairs, then through another corner, and yet another turn, Sara was profoundly lost. With the outside world's light long gone and the air damp, Sara started to wonder why the Goddess of Emotion was being worshipped from the inside of a bunker.
Just as the priestess excitedly pointed towards one final door, it was flung open. A collage of colorful robes rapidly emerged, forced out by a creaking shout coming from within.
"Damn you! Damn you all! Have you any sense, even a one of you? Get the FUCK out of my office!"
"B-b-b-but Keeper Amillya, the Champion is--"
"I don't give a shit! OUT!"
The final colorful robe was thrown from the room a half second before the door slammed shut with a boom that echoed down the hallways. The crowd looked at one another, devastated, geriatrics and teenagers alike looking like puppies undergoing their first scolding. Sara didn't know exactly what Santhem was, but she was already guessing it would be counted among the few drugs to require actual regulation.
As evidenced by the way one white-bearded man caught sight of her, jaw dropping like a toddler so excited they forgot how to scream. He rapidly tapped his fellow on the shoulder, then grabbed the man by the jaw and physically turned his head around around, forcing him to catch sight of Sara. Then it began again.
"We make for the door," Sara declared. The horde began to squeal. She forcibly unlatched the priestess' hand from her own, lowered her shoulder, and began to barge her way down the narrow hallway.
"Champion Sara, oh! Oh, I am--"
"Amillya may not wish to be disturbed, but I assure you, I am rather willing--"
"Coming through!" Sara hollered, bouncing soft flesh off her body like an icebreaker, clearing a path for Evie and Hurlish to file in behind. It wasn't like either of them needed the help, but Sara was pretty confident that Evie's response to wandering hands would involve a lot more bloodshed than her own, not to mention Hurlish. Gods help any man that tried it with Hurlish.
Sara reached the door and seized the lifeline its handle represented. Instead of turning, it rattled.
"Get out!" A muffled voice shouted.
"It's me, Sara! The Champion!"
"I can't hear you, and I don't want to hear you!"
One of the priests was beginning to speak to Hurlish, a tentative hand reaching out as if to touch her bicep in awe. For the man's own safety, Sara pulled back her boot.
Splinters flew as the door's bolt broke through its frame, Sara following quickly behind, ushering her girlfriends in. There was a storm of explicatives upon her entry, but she could only pay attention to them once Hurlish and Evie were safely inside.
"--fucking stupid ass Champions think you can just waltz wherever the fuck you want--"
"I like her," Hurlish proclaimed, falling into a soft couch beside the door, feet thrown up on a coffee table.
"You!" The old woman screeched. "Boots off the table! Off, off!"
"No."
"Fuck you!" Something was flung at Hurlish's head, bouncing off the wall above.
Sara secured the door by dragging the couch to the side, blocking it from opening, then sagged in place.
"Please tell me you're actually in charge of this place," Sara pleaded as she turned around, taking her first proper look at the woman she'd hopefully come to see.
Church Keeper Amillya was... distinct. That much couldn't be denied. White frizzy hair fell asymmetrically across her shoulders, bunched up above above long elven ears, eight-inch monsters which had drooped into crescent moons from age. Her face was wrinkle upon wrinkle, pale and pockmarked enough to be mistaken for the moon, save for her piercing green eyes, which were twitching furiously. She had an old woman's paunch, gut circling her hips more than her stomach, and her breasts sagged to where her navel would've been, if not for the sunken belly. Her wrists were bony, her biceps flabby, and her legs as knobbly as poorly trimmed firewood. Everywhere that plain grey robes didn't cover, thick blue veins spiderwebbed under skin so thin Sara thought she might be able to count the woman's heartbeats from ten paces.
As far as who Sara had imagined as a head of Amarat's faith, the Church Keeper Amillya was... not it.
"Well?" The woman challenged, spreading her hands wide. "What do you think, Champion? C'mon, that was a half-second glance at least. That's enough for you, I know it."
"You were right, Hurlish. I like her," Sara said.
Evie sniffed beside Sara. "Of course you both would. No taste, either of you."
"Ha!" Amillya's laughter cracked like a switch. "Her, the Collared one. She's the one I like!"
Evie's lips curled down. "And how might I go about changing that?"
Amillya laughed again. "Not like that!"
Sara rubbed her temples, moving to sit on the couch beside Hurlish. The dank little office was just large enough that Hurlish hadn't needed to duck on her way in, outfitted by nothing more than a four-legged desk in one corner, a tattered but fluffy couch, and a cheap coffee table in front of it. The only light came from a lantern on the woman's desk, its glass nearly opaque from uncleaned soot.
"So are you really in charge of the local church?" Sara asked, grunting as she flopped down. Hurlish immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders and dragged Sara in, while Evie subsequently curled up into Sara's lap.
"I am, much as they hate it," Amillya said, frowning at the puddle of women using a quarter of the available couch. "Got their goat on seniority by more years than they can count, so there's no changing it."
Hurlish glanced at the door, through which floated hushed voices from speakers who likely thought they were whispering. "They always like that?"
"Always? No." Amillya spat, aiming at a cobblestone Sara noted was discolored from similar abuse. "But that's only because I won't let 'em. Two months in my church, and they think they know it all. Amarat's the god of fuckin', not drinking and wailing, and I'll get that through their thick skulls eventually."
"You've been here a while, I take it?" Sara asked.
"Ooh, the old-ass hag elf has been around for a minute? Great job, Einstein."
Sara rolled her eyes.
Then froze.
"Ha! There it is!"
"What did you just say?" Sara leaned forward, growing intense. "I'm the only person on the planet that should be saying things like that. How do you know who Einstein is?"
Amillya took two fingers beneath her drooping ears, bouncing them up and down. "You think these are for show? You know how old I am?"
"No?"
"Neither do I! Lost count! Tried to count by calendar systems, then I lost count of them, too!" She cackled loudly, which turned into a phlegmy cough, ended by spitting onto the same cobblestone. "You're the third Champion of Amarat that I've met, girlie, and the second hottest of them! That other fellow, Charles, whoo!" She gyrated in her wicker chair, creating a creaking sound that came either from the wood or her ancient bones. "Let me tell you, he knew how to fuck a girl. Couldn't walk for a week, but when I could, I ate his pussy so hard they heard him shouting in the Tasilav!"
Sara blinked. "Huh. I didn't think it'd work both ways."
"What, him having a pussy? Why wouldn't it? You think cock's that good?" Amillya spat. "American, I bet. You types always think a dick's the best thing that can hang between your legs, but let me tell you, once you get to the lower Hells, things really start kicking off."
Sara nodded absentmindedly, leaning back into the couch. This was... not what she'd expected.
"You!" Amillya snapped, crooking a finger at Evie. "Collared girlie. Quick, while your girl's comatose, tell me what you're really here for, or else she'll be badgering me about nonsense for the next hour."
"We were seeking information on the progression of Amarat's Blessings, advice on subverting the Sporaton branch of Amarat's faith to our own ends, and clarification on the nature of Master's granted Quest, which she has begun to suspect she has not been properly pursuing." Evie rattled the itinerary off easily, then hesitated. "But what do the lower hells have to offer?"
Amillya smirked. "You're not as proper as I thought. Good." She wiped her nose. "Tentacles, girlie. Tentacles. Everywhere, every hole. So long as you don't mind being tortured to death at the end of it, it's worth it."
Sara blinked her way back to consciousness, shaking her head. "So did Charles have both at once, or...?"
"Sometimes, but that's enough of that. We start trading fuck stories and you'll never leave me alone, and I want you brats gone. Your walking dildo said you didn't know what Amarat wanted you doing, yeah? What was your Quest, when Amarat told you it?"
Sara did her best to shake certain mental images from her head, thinking back. "It wasn't much to go off. Some generic crap about saving the world, rooting out hidden evil, fulfilling my destiny. You know the drill. It was pretty unoriginal. I got dropped in Sporatos when a rebellion was in full swing, so I put a stop to that thinking that's what I was there for, but in hindsight that was way too small-scale."
"Hmph. The gods are getting vaguer every time, I swear. That or I'm finally losing it, who knows." She rolled her wrist in a go-on gesture at Sara. "Give me the full thing, out with it. I know you remember it."
Sara took a deep breath, summoning up the words that had been branded into her very essence. The moment she began to speak, her voice rose to a violent volume, rattling every stone in the room. What came from her mouth was not her voice, but Amarat's, all the goddess' divine authority riding with it.
"Champion! Evil threads its way through the minds and souls of this world. It is a festering infection which no mere mortal may cleanse. You must take destiny between your palms and forge a new line in history, forcing Fate itself to render your Name writ large in the Eternal Annals. You know now what needs to be done. Choose the Patron with which you may best seize the future."
Sara dropped back into the couch, breathing hard. There was a reason she hated to recall the words of divinity; the memory of them held a Power beyond reckoning. Even when spoken by her own tongue they boomed in the small space, echoes slowly fading away.
Amillya scooted her chair around to face the couch, frowning. "Well, that's weird."
Hurlish's eyebrows raised. " You're saying something's weird?"
"Trust me big girl, I've been around the block. I know weird. I've heard plenty of Champions spoutin' off about their Quests before, but that bit at the end? That wasn't normal."
"None of that was normal," Hurlish snorted. "Look at her. She's still panting just from saying it."
Sara gave an affirmitive nod.
"Oh, that's normal. Godly words don't fit well in little minds like ours. But some blabbing about a choice? A Patron?"
Amillya's words blossomed into the same booming baritone as she quoted the Quest, forceful enough to rattle dust from the ceiling. Amillya winced, as did everyone else in the room.
"I'm too old for that," she scolded herself, "should know better. But that word. What's it mean? And the talk of you choosing one."
Sara shrugged, mostly recovered. "It usually means someone who supports you financially, or--"
"I know what the word means normally, you damn fool! I meant with Gods and the like, not a painter!"
"Well, it's not much different. After I was summoned, the gods gave me a choice of who I'd be bound to, and then--"
"They WHAT?" Amillya bobbled her way to her feet, snagging a cane off the desktop. She began to menacingly tap her way towards Sara. "The gods don't let mortals choose, girlie. They demand, they order, and they'll scream and rage if you don't do exactly as they please, but they never offer mortals a choice."
"Well, they did for me. I was summoned before all of them on these fancy thrones, then each of them told me what they represent, then I had to choose which one I'd be attached to."
Amillya's cane clicked on the stone. She stopped her threatening approach, switching to a doddering version of thoughtful pacing. "No, no, no. No they didn't. A god summons a Champion. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked."
"I'm only the third Champion you've met. How could--"
"The third Champion of Amarat!" Amillya stabbed her cane down. "I've met plenty of other, lesser Champions! All of them, every last one, they saw their god, only their god, and that was it. They were given a Quest and sent on their pretty little way."
"I believe it may be time to bring up Tennyson, Master," Evie noted.
Hurlish groaned. "Ah, hells, do we gotta? If she's throwing this much of a shit fit now, I don't wanna see her blow up over that."
Amillya's eyes bored into Sara. If her girlfriends thought bringing the topic up surreptitiously was any way to discourage the elderly elf's attention, they were dead wrong.
"Explain, Champion."
Sara sighed, organizing her thoughts. "So, let's get some background here. How many gods are there?"
"True or imitative?"
"What's that mean?"
Amillya waved a hand. "The Fey Lords, the Devil Monarchs, the Things Beyond the Other. Beings that are as good as a god to most mortals, but can't claim the real pedigree. On the ladder of Power, there's only one top rung, and only the gods are on it."
"True gods, then. How many are there?"
Amillya clicked a fingernail on her cane. "Nine, of course, so long as you're not the sort that'll start screaming heresy when you hear the number. Nine gods."
Sara smirked. It felt nice to get one over on the old elf. "Nope. There's ten."
Amillya froze in her pacing. Withered bones slowly turned to Sara.
"Don't be a fool."
"There are. I saw the tenth one, the only one that stayed silent the whole time I was being summoned. Covered in shadow, with big glowing red eyes. All the red flags for a villain."
Amillya twitched a finger. Her wicker chair slid across the room, catching her as she sat down.
"No. There's nine gods. There's always been nine."
"After I went with Amarat, she thanked me for choosing her amongst 'The Ten'."
Sara was better braced for quoting a god, but the rattle of it still caused her to shiver. It was necessary, to prove she wasn't lying.
Amillya steepled her fingers, pressing them into her lips. She remained silent for a time.
While Sara and Evie patiently waited for her to process the revelation, Hurlish looked between all in the room, eyebrows raised.
"Okay, I give up. I don't get it."
"Get what?" Sara asked.
"The tenth god thing. Big spooky guy in black, sure, that's not great, but so what? If he's a real god, he's been around forever, and if he's not, why should we give a shit?"
Amillya pointed a shaky, ancient finger at Hurlish. "You are wise in some ways, smith. Not in others. A god is..." She trailed off, uncertain.
"A god?" Sara provided.
Amillya nodded. "An aspect of reality. A fundamental force, an arbiter of the rules by which all existence is bound. Through all of time, all of the planes, there have been nine gods. The weight of their presence warps all we know, bends the strings of existence. They hang the stars in the sky, spin the planet to night to day, and do so in all places, in all times. Without them, there is nothing."
"So... a new god, if that's what we're dealing with?" Hurlish asked.
"It is not a new god. A new god is the end of all things, a reshaping of the binds which tie like to like, meaning to existence. An obliteration of being that no mind would survive. No. This god has existed for as long as reality itself."
"And it chose to hide," Sara said. "Every other god, they fight for followers, for influence, for ways to enact their will upon the world and get one over on the other gods."
"It is the nature of divinity," Amillya stated. "They ever seek to expand their dominion, to reshape the cosmos in their image. A god which doesn't is no god at all."
"Which means...?" Hurlish prompted.
"That this god is doing something," Sara said. "It's gaining followers. It's spreading its will throughout the world. It's doing everything every other god is doing, yet, for some reason, it's doing it in secret. And it's doing it so perfectly that after however many thousands of years of civilization--"
"Hundreds of thousands," Amillya corrected.
Sara blinked her way past that revelation, "--however many hundreds of thousands of years of civilization, no one has ever found out. Not mages, not demons, not kings and queens, because if they had, they'd either start worshipping it or trying to root out its followers." Sara paused. "The gods make alliances all the time, right, even if they're temporary?"
Amillya and Evie nodded.
"Yet none of them have ever made an alliance with this god, clearly. Whatever it is, whatever it represents, it's so abhorrent that nothing in all of reality has seen fit to work alongside it."
"Until now," Hurlish said, looking at Evie and Sara. "Right? Because you both think the masked dudes are related, and that weird ashy mage that was in charge of the bandits fuckin' with Voth's village. So somebody's working for it, I guess."
"Maybe. We don't know."
Amillya tossed her cane aside. "Enough of this talk. If you wish to know what I think of your Quest, I can offer little you likely hadn't considered yourself. Do the Champion shit. Find evil, kill it, move on, and maybe that little thing you Collared will be smart enough stumble onto some grand conspiracy while you pick your nose and loot corpses. It's how most of the Champions do it, the little bastards. Only the gods know why they so often prefer thickheaded brats."
Amillya cracked her neck, then summoned a pillow from the ether, puffing it up behind her head. "As for this Tenth God shittery, I won't have my impressions clouded by your childish conjecture and idiotic theories. I have the word of my god echoing in my skull, and that is all I will listen to. Champion, you had other concerns, yes? Speak of them instead."
"A bit hard to just back down from that one," Hurlish grumbled, shuffling on the couch so Sara was more firmly tucked beneath her arm. Despite that, she didn't seem determined to chase after the topic.
"Oh, yeah," Sara said. "Charles. So, like, was it under the balls, or did things slide around--"
"Master."
"Fine." Sara straightened up as much as Hurlish would allow her. "The Church of Amarat. I've been avoiding it as best as I could, but it's looking like I can't kick that can down the road any longer. What's it like? Any overarching organization? We got a Sex Pope or something, or is it everyone for themselves, guided by occasional intervention?"
Amillya spat once more. "Your women could have told you that much, child."
"Like I said, I was avoiding it. Me and religion have got a history."
"Americans," Amillya made a dismissive gesture, using the word like a slur. "No, there's no 'sex pope', child. We haven't the need of your world's farcical bureaucracy, not when our god actually exists. The Sporaton church is indeed organized, but not in such a hierarchal fashion as what you are familiar with. The devotees collect and distribute donations to where they are needed, build churches, and ensure none are too far from places of worship."
Sara made a face. "I can imagine plenty of people wanting to join this church, but it's a bit harder to see regular people going to any of you for advice."
"You think every one of Amarat's devotees is like the damnable mess that welcomed you here? No! They were the first to volunteer following your arrival, and that means they were the most desperate, the most depraved, not the most faithful, who have far better things to do than tend empty rooms. The wretches that assaulted you are an insult to Amarat, and an insult to my bearing for having to teach them."
"An insult to your bearing?" Evie sniffed. "That's quite an accomplishment."
"Ha! It is, isn't it? Yet they manage it all the same." Amillya waved a hand over the coffee table, creating an illusory image of what Sara assumed to be the Tulian church's old stained glass windows. Split into three sections, the designs shared that strange medieval artstyle Sara knew from Earth, lacking any form of perspective, yet so beautifully crafted it remained compelling.
"Amarat's true followers are scions of emotion," Amillya began, voice dropping into the cadence of a rehearsed lecture. "Fools think them among the least of the churches, lacking in healers and warriors, but that only lasts until their pretty little partner keels over young, leaving them all alone. Then they have none to turn to for consolation but us."
Amillya pointed to one corner of the image, a rendition of a figure in funeral robes kneeling before a purple light shining down from the heavens. Tears fell from either side of their hidden face, creating great rivers that ran through the rest of the mosaic.
"Amarat's true faithful feel their flock's emotions like heat on the skin, child, and the greatest of them know what is needed to guide each individual through their trials. They shush the child's squalling, brush the cheeks free of tears, and listen without flinching to the tirades of fury. It is this most common service that they provide."
"Therapists, basically," Sara summarized, for her own benefit. "That fits. Already more helpful than I expected."
Amillya harrumphed. "Then you are already wiser than many who decry such functions, for it is the second of our purposes that I most often rely upon to dissuade doubts."
She moved to indicate a second corner of the mural, this one much stranger. A woman was floating above black cobblestones, her back arched well past the point that it should have broken. Two hands came down from above to bend into claws around her head, fingertips sprouting pink and purple lights that collided with scarlet spears jutting from the woman's temple.
"Of all the gods and their followers, Amarat stands above the rest in their talent over the mind. When foul spirits infest the soul, twisting innocents into mockeries of themselves, it is we who purge the spirit of the malady."
"Therapists, again," Sara said. "So you do have healers, but for mental illnesses?"
"No!" The illusion abruptly vanished, taking Sara's attention back to Amillya's scowl. "No, you Champions always think that! I am not speaking of a malformed brain and its effects, child, I am speaking of demons, spirits, and the foul business of possession! It is not a mere illness, it is a physical creature dwelling within the skull, chewing away! Have some respect, damn you. We are not barbarians trepanning skulls to remedy hallucinations."
Sara grimaced. The idea of a possession involving something physically entering your skull to chow down on gray matter was decidedly less appealing than the metaphorical approach she'd assumed.
Amillya's image flicked back into existence. She began to move her hand to indicate the final third of the image, then stopped. Hurlish's boot, still on the coffee table, jutted right through the middle of the image.
"Move your beastly foot, child," Amillya snapped.
Hurlish cracked one eye open. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Nice painting." Hurlish scooted her foot to the other side of the illusory image, this time swirling the mist of the mourning figure's torso, and closed her eyes once more. Amillya's sigh came out closer to a hiss, but she continued on.
"Fine, fine. Not like any of you care, regardless. You know the third axis of Amarat well, child. The passion of honor besotted, of battle, of inconsolable rage."
Now featuring far less of Hurlish's muddy boot, the final section of the mural was revealed. This one did have some rudimentary attempt at perspective, with ranks of soldiers wielding long spears growing smaller as they crawled up the frame. They were rended indistinguishable and overwhelmed by the two figures at the forefront, a woman and a man whose jagged swords were locked blade-to-blade. Their jaws were dropped inhumanly low as they screamed at one another, the stone between them opening into a jagged ravine as their shoving ripped the ground itself apart. Purple and pink crowded the edge of the frame in tiny jagged splinters, growing darker as they approached the warriors, so that both were eventually haloed by bloody red.
"Yeah, I know what that one's about," Sara agreed, studying the frame. "Felt some of it, too. Amarat's not real eager to have her Champions holding back in battle, if my experience is anything to go by."
"No she is not, child, and you would do well to head her guidance. In times of Holy War, Amarat's followers serve as the faithful's backbone, coddling the craven and leashing the bloodthirsty. They seldom ever serve as warriors themselves, and this extends to you, child. You haven't the strength of other Champions, and will be forced down paths they never would bother with as a result. That rage is your last resort, a drawing of the heart's energies to preserve your life when it is at true risk. Your talents lie with the guiding of your flock, not their slaughter."
Sara cocked an eyebrow. That was approaching the realm of direct reproach. "Trust me, I tried to 'guide' certain types into better ideas. They weren't eager to give up their power and riches, funnily enough. So what do I do with those that refuse to be guided?" Sara held spread her hands, palms upward. "You called them my flock, right? What if I've got, say... a flock of sheep that keep stampeding all over, crushing the crops they need to survive, all while maiming their fellows for no good reason?"
Amillya dismissed the illusory mural, shrugging. "Then you do the same that any shepherd does with a herd that can't be corralled."
"I swear to Amarat, if you're about to give me the 'peace is the greatest path' crap, I've already heard it. I even believe it. But these people aren't interested in any compromise that'd be worth considering."
"Oh, don't be so simple. You know better than that. When your flock begins to misbehave, you find the troublemakers, slit their throats, string them up by their ankles before all the rest, and wait a little bit to see if the lesson's been learned. If it hasn't, you do it all again, repeat until satisfied. Either you'll have a proper flock in time, or enough meat in your cellar to grow fat off of."
Sara sat back, digesting that. Amillya was someone who had spent untold years serving the patron goddess of diplomats. That wasn't the sort of person that Sara expected to get such... utilitarian advice from.
Not that she disagreed, of course. Sara grinned. "I think we can get along after all, Amillya."
"How delighted I am to hear that," the ancient elf huffed, words dripping sarcasm. "Now that you know what your own church is , we can speak of Sporatos. The churches there are not led by any one individual, but they are intertwined with the people and their rulers, as is inevitable. Many of Amarat's faithful might be eager to follow a Champion, but will have little opportunity to do so, hamstrung by their oaths and responsibilities to the people under their care."
"What if I straight-up confront them all about it? Put out a decree that if you're really faithful to Amarat, you'll not help Sporatos?"
"Most would listen, child, and the disaster that results would be on your head. I have seen this story played out by other Champions. Amarat's devotees will flee south to Tulian, hunted like dogs all the while, caught and tortured to death as traitors to their King. The other churches will care little, the most craven of them joining the pursuit. As for the people of Sporatos, they will suffer. Any who relied upon the guidance of Amarat will be left adrift. Demonic possessions will go untreated, succubi and vampire alike would prey on the ill-minded, and those that are not harvested by beastly predators will fall piecemeal to their own struggles, decorating the forests from swinging ropes."
"So that's a no-go," Sara said. "Disappointing, but reasonable."
Evie pursed her lips. "While I understand where your desires lay, Master, I feel compelled to point out the advantage that would come of--"
"No. Wanton chaos among the populace wouldn't aid our cause, Evie."
"How so? Disarray in enemy lands is the ideal time to pursue a campaign."
"Because it wouldn't be in enemy lands, girlie," Amillya snapped. "Your owner wants to free the people from the nobility. Even I've heard that much, down here in my tight little hole. Think of your days spent in gilded palaces, child. Would the bastards you shared wine with give a fuck for their people's suffering?"
Evie bristled at being addressed in such a manner, but was forced to shake her head. "No. Not until it began to effect the harvest, at least."
"Good," Amillya huffed. "There's a lesson of Amarat for you there, child. Just because a path is callous does not mean it is practical. When plotting a course through a society of emotional creatures, practicality and empathy coincide more often than they diverge."
Sara sighed, scratching a distracting trail across Evie's scalp to forestall any protests at being lectured. The feline melted into the touch as Sara spoke. "Alright, so Amarat's church won't be much help in the war. What about me, personally? I've had a good few abilities crop up, some of which will be helpful in a fight, but nothing that'll swing the tide on its own. What did other Champions of Amarat get?"
"The other Champions of Amarat behaved themselves, child. They brought peace and joined nations together, not ripped them apart with their teeth. Who's to say how your abilities will manifest, rotten bastard that you're determined to be?"
"So it's not the same then, for every Champion? They all get different powers?"
"Of course they do. You may think our lands unchanging, you Champions always do, but we aren't so stagnant that centuries passing us by leaves us with all the same problems. You've been given all that is necessary to overcome your challenges, so long as you don't fuck it up."
"Does that ever happen?" Sara asked. "Fucking it up, I mean. Do Champions ever get defeated?"
Amillya threw her head back and laughed, hard, until it broke into a fit of coughing. When she finally got her lungs under control, she shouted, "Of course they do! What, you think your destiny was set in stone, every step planned and accounted for? No! The gods have better things on their mind than you and your fat ego, girlie. Amarat wound you up and sent you on your way, betting that you'll do whatever she wanted of you."
"What could kill the other Champions, then? With how powerful people talk about them being, it doesn't seem like it'd be possible."
Amillya rolled her eyes, as if the topic was beneath her. Sara doubted that anyone other than Amarat's Champion would have gotten a tenth as far into this conversation before being thrown out.
"Of the ones that died, most got cut down early. Takes time for a Champion to wind up, years, and they're vulnerable at the start. Once one appears, any nasty thing that thinks they might end up on the wrong end of the whackin' stick starts scrambling to finish them off early. Most of the time they don't manage. Hard to predict what some otherwordly teenager will decide to do or where they'll go, when they get given godly magic powers. Next best thing to impossible to, really."
Evie's ears flicked forward. "So Master's decision to anchor herself in one city, declaring to all the world that she has no intention of ever leaving...?"
"Fucking stupid, yes."
"Lovely."
Sara glared at Amillya. "Thanks for that one. It wasn't like she was paranoid enough."
"What can I say? If a god shoved into your arms a woman that's always scared out of her wits that you're gonna be stabbed in the back, girlie, there's a damn good reason for it."
Evie settled into Sara's lap even more smugly than usual, tail tapping the couch in profound satisfaction. Sara groaned. If ever there was a way to decisively lose an argument with your girlfriend, it was having the ancient prophet of a god take their side.
"I guess I'll keep an eye out for shadowy assassins. Hard to do, when we still don't know what's actually coming to kill me."
"A whole damn army, for one. After that, there'll be plenty more. It's only been a few months, girlie. Things will start crawling out of the blackness sooner or later, slobbering to kill you just because they think you might go after them someday."
"And with that in mind, your advice about the powers I'll get, or how to unlock them quicker, can be summed up as 'who knows?'"
"Just about. Throw your weight around a bit, I figure, put yourself in situations that you couldn't get out of. That's usually when the god's blessings rear their ugly heads."
Sara brightened. "That's actually pretty close to what I was--"
"No, Master," Evie snipped. "You're not going to throw yourself into unwinnable circumstances just to 'see what happens'. That would be asinine."
Hurlish raised her free hand. "I'm actually with Evie on that one."
"But it'd work," Amillya pointed out cheerily. "She might die, true, but so long as there's a power to awaken, it'll show up when she needs it."
"And if there isn't a relevant ability waiting to be unveiled?" Evie asked.
"Then nothing will happen. She'll die like the rest."
Evie twisted to look up at Sara. "So no, Master. We will not be leaping off any cliffs to see if you grow wings."
"My wings would look sick though, I bet," Sara mumbled under her breath. Louder, she said, "Alright, great. In summary, we learned that we're worse off in several ways than I thought we were, that there's no reliable way for me to grow stronger as a Champion, and my plan to undermine Sporatos through Amarat is a terrible idea."
"Yes. Will you be leaving, I hope?"
"I almost want to stay, just to piss you off."
Amillya cackled. "Try it, girlie. I dare you."
"No thanks. I think I'd get more irritated than you."
Evie hopped off of Sara's lap, freeing her to disentangle herself from Hurlish, who stood last, blinking tiredly. As they turned to the door, Amillya spoke one last time.
"Oh, and before you go, child. A word." Sara glanced back, finding Amillya stting straight up in her chair, both hands hidden within the folded sleeves of her robe. "You have received counsel you have failed to heed, and so I am being Called to bring the words to the forefront of your mind." Green eyes fixed themselves upon Sara with uncommon solemnity. "There are things which yet lurk beyond your comprehension. Spiders which crawl jealously through the web of fate, preying upon those that pluck its strings. Just as your destiny is your own to set, so too, is it your own to suffer."
Amillya sagged, wiping her brow. Sara stared back at the wizened elf, lost for words. Amillya offered only a weak smile.
"I hate when she makes me act serious."
Sara nodded slowly, glancing at her girlfriends. Hurlish and Evie were heading out into the empty hallway. They hadn't noticed a thing. Sara licked her lips, searching for some response. There wasn't one. Divine providence rarely required a second opinion.
Sara gently stepped from the office, clicking the latch shut behind her.
Notes:
What good porn story doesn't have the author digging through a fifty page economics paper on medieval income inequality? Source here, if you're the type of nerd as interested as I am to compare medieval feudalism to modern corporatocracies. https://www.aeaweb.org/content/file?id=11151
For those whose interests are less economic, did the chapter linger too long on discussion of logistical matters like building and money? Knowing reader tolerance for less popular sections is an incredibly difficult skill to accrue, so I'm desperate for feedback in that respect. I cut over 3k words of Sara and Evie discussing the city's defenses and industries from this chapter already. Trust me, you won't offend me if you say it was boring. I already know it needs improvement. I just want to know WHERE, y'feel me?
Also, I recently was reminded that I never wrote the Nora x Sara chapter. Whoops! It's now halfway done, and I'm committing myself to update the chapter by this coming Wednesday at the latest.
Chapter 41: Butch Courtship Rituals (E)
Notes:
Sorry my finger slipped again and I wrote a 13,500 word chapter. I could've split it in two but I like the big number.
Content warning for second half: drugged (nonmagical) sex
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic
Capital
Four and a Half Months Until Spring
A couple weeks after her meeting with Amarat's church, Sara was clicking down the cobblestones of Tulian upon Trot. She'd been forcing herself to take the horse out around the city, to accustom herself more to riding. Evie rode in the saddle with her, Hurlish and her own steed nimbly trotting beside them as close as possible. Hurlish was bent over in the saddle to look at Sara's chicken scratch sketch as they meandered through the early morning mist, enjoying a few minutes of privacy in the empty streets before the day truly began. Sara angled the paper as best she could for the orc's benefit, pointing to different spots she expected to find trouble with.
"See, there? The cross-bracing is strong for most use cases, but I'm worried about wind if a typhoon came through."
"Why's it gotta stand alone, though?" Hurlish asked, circling the web of support beams with a fingernail. "If you built it into nearby buildings, you wouldn't have to worry about half this shit."
"Sure, but that'd defeat the point. This is supposed to be a standard design that can be put up anywhere we want. I want to have a few teams going around to each village over a certain size and building them one. Having them do a custom job each time would take forever."
Hurlish leaned back up in the saddle, satisfied with her comprehension of the designs. "If that's the case, then I dunno what you could do about wind. There's not a whole lot that wood can do against typhoons."
Sara frowned, looking the designs over again. In a practical, mundane sort of way, Hurlish was right. They were discussing designs for water towers, a subtle need that she'd noticed as she'd acquainted herself with the army's healers. A considerable chunk of a healer's time in more populous areas was consumed with walking from well to well, casting purification spells upon the water to ward off tropical diseases that would otherwise run rampant. Sara had hoped to conserve the healer's energies and time by building centralized plumbing, with windmills pumping water into a singular reservoir that could be purified in one go. Not only would it considerably improve public health, pursuing the project would begin to build the corp of engineers she'd need for more complex plans on the horizon.
The problem was, as was often the case in Tulian, the climate. A water tower fit to service an entire village would require a drum large enough to turn into a billowing sail, just waiting to be tossed like a ragdoll the moment the first typhoon blew through. This year's storm season had been light, apparently, but she wasn't stupid enough to assume the same would be true of the next. Sara would have the infrastructure built to last.
How, exactly, she was to build a wooden tower and windmill capable of withstanding hundred mile an hour winds? Sara couldn't say. This was a world of magic, however, and she had a world of technology crammed into her skull. Somewhere in the mix must be a solution, even if she couldn't find it herself. After a moment of contemplative silence, Hurlish spoke up.
"Your welding stuff goin' any better?"
Sara lifted a hand from the reins to make a so-so gesture. "There's progress, but it's hard to practice. I can only cast the spell twice a day, and doing it takes a big chunk out of my self-defense options until I recharge. The few times I've had a chance, I wasn't able to practice for long. Pretty sure I could have kept it up for a while, but only time'll tell if I'm right."
Hurlish nodded, watching the buildings pass them by with a distracted expression. The 'welding' Hurlish referred to was something the smith was eager to see, enticed by Sara's stories of her old profession on earth, and it was half the purpose for their outing today. For a medieval blacksmith like Hurlish, the idea of taking two cooled pieces of metal and attaching them in an instant was fairytale magic, the kind of bad story she'd call someone a moron for believing in. It was really only after Sara had produced her first marginal result that Hurlish had really taken a shine to the idea, her mild interest morphing to impatience before the demonstration was over.
But gluing two iron ingots together did not a water tower make. Even the simplest of joints had been a failure, her "downclocked" version of the Lightning spell proving utterly uncontrollable. What Sara was attempting wasn't even that complicated according to Garen's letters, no matter how much she explained the way it felt impossible. The enigmatic mage refused to divulge his whereabouts, but the letters arrived on Sara's desktop with regularity nonetheless, all her guards testifying that no one had entered or left. Her responses, in turn, were just written on the back of the papers and left in a locked drawer, where they eventually vanished.
When Sara had told Garen that her first attempt at a basic lap joint had producing a fingernail-sized piece of slag and a ringing in her ears that lasted hours, his reply had come within the hour, mostly filled with diplomatically restrained mirth. A mythical Champion failing something so simple to him? He'd been more than amused.
Sara had written back that a microsecond flash of heat rivaling the sun was impressive, but such a brief spike of power was as useful for welding as a sledgehammer was for pottery. If he wished for further demonstrations of what that sledgehammer was capable of, he was welcome to come and be a test subject for so amusing a project. Garen had, unsurprisingly, declined.
"If you can manage to figure welding out," Hurlish eventually said, speaking slowly as she worked through her thoughts, "You could solve a lot of problems with that stuff. It'd be impossible to make a metal beam long enough for the whole support structure by casting. No way you could avoid uneven cooling. Thing'd be brittle as glass. But I could pour several smaller pieces for you to weld together, so that the final version is wide enough to serve as a brace. They'd be heavy as hell to transport, but we'd have something that can be added by carpenters on-site."
Sara followed Hurlish's words on her sketch, tracing the idea with a finger. It'd be a ramshackle job compared to the actual water towers Sara had helped build back on Earth, but... it made sense. The weakness induced by multiple welds would drive her crazy, but the end product would still outdo wood by a long shot. Hurlish's idea was modular, replicable, and able to kept on hand until needed. A neat solution with few appreciable flaws to Sara's experienced eyes, it was an answer befitting a far more modern viewpoint than Sara expected out of a medieval blacksmith.
Sara guided Trot back over to Hurlish's side, looking up at her as if suspicious. "You sure picked up this stuff fast, didn't you? You got an engineering degree I didn't know about or something?"
"Nope," Hurlish chuckled. She tapped her temple. "Just spent a long time at the forge. Smithing levels ain't just for decoration, y'know?"
"Well, it's a good idea. Great, actually, fits the problem perfectly." Sara cocked her head. "So how come you came up with it?"
Hurlish scowled. "Fuck's that mean?"
"I mean, it's surprising. Of all the smiths we've worked with, you've been the most reluctant to try out mass-production type stuff."
"Doesn't mean I don't get it. Just that I don't like it." Hurlish spat to the side, to emphasize the point. "'Sides, most of the sort from the Guild haven't been my level. I got a lot going for me that they don't, when it comes to figurin' out new things."
"Like what? I've been meaning to ask people about non-combat classes for a while, but they're always been other crap to do, and most people would just get offended. What do levels in Blacksmithing get you?"
"Plenty of things, just like any other class," Hurlish shrugged. "Not as flashy as combat sorts, of course, but just as helpful. Working with my pa in the middle of nowhere like we were, one of the first skills I got was one that let me sniff out bad ore. Pa loved that one, always made me check each little chunk before he got to melting it down."
"Wait, as in you literally smelled the rocks?"
Hurlish laughed. "Nah, nah, not like that. Just looked at 'em and knew they were nasty. Like lookin' at a dog crapping in your shoes, I guess? They just felt off. Later skills got better, of course. I could swing my hammer harder, go at it for longer, that sort of thing. Like I said, nothing flashy, but useful as all the hells. Nowadays..."
Hurlish paused for thought. "I guess the best thing I've noticed is with the little stuff. My hands stopped shaking when I was tryin' to do detail work, and I started being able to see things I couldn't before. 'S how I made Evie's sword, or at least the hand guard for it."
Evie lifted a hand, obligingly summoning the weapon. The basket that protected the rapier's grip was meticulously shaped, paper-thin, with dozens of empty spaces cut out in floral patterns to lighten the weapon without sacrificing protection.
"It has served me surprisingly well," Evie admitted, turning the weapon in her hand. "I dare say you would have had a place in the capital's Smithing Guild some distant day, Hurlish."
"Damn, girl. That was almost a compliment."
Evie sniffed, dismissing the weapon. Sara chuckled lightly, earning a brief prick of claws against her ribs.
"So you think you could help with some of the larger projects?" Sara asked. "I've got a lot of know-how and experience building big stuff, but that was with a lot of tools and materials that I don't have here. Steel's way too expensive to use for rebar and I-beams, so I'll have to substitute wood everywhere I can. Will any of your blacksmithing sixth senses help me make sure I'm not about to make a very expensive pile of rubble?"
"Maybe. Y'gotta remember, I was pretty specialized. I built weapons. Period. Not armor, not tools, not anything that's not used for hitting something you want dead. But..." Hurlish scratched a tusk. "I can tell when a weapon's too weak for fighting, even if I didn't make it. Mainly used that for teaching apprentices once I was in Hagos, finding the impurities they didn't hammer out right. No guarantees, but I can try taking a look at things like your water tower there. Maybe I'll find something you missed."
"I'd want your opinion regardless. Any magical aid's just a bonus."
"Sounds good to me."
They reached a crossroads just as the sun finished pulling itself off the horizon line. Light bounced off the clouds gathering for the morning rain, beams breaking through the scattered drops that began to fall. The street began to darken, mists dissolving into a light shower. They flipped their hoods up, pulling their horses to a stop. Evie dismounted from Trot, narrowing her eyes at the way the animal skittered away when it caught sight of her ears and tail.
"Even a slug should have learned better by now," Evie said.
"You can't blame him," Sara said defensively, patting Trot on the neck. "You're just as dangerous as any tiger. He's got a right to be skittish."
"I killed my first tiger years ago, Master. I'm far more dangerous than any overgrown housecat."
"All the more reason you can't blame him." Sara watched Evie linger beside Trot. "You sure you're cool with us splitting up?"
"Of course, Master. You and Hurlish are perfectly capable of defending yourselves in my absence."
"Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself," Hurlish noted.
"Of course I am," Evie said snippily. "As Master is so fond of stating, my paranoia knows no bounds."
"You can come with us, if you want," Sara offered. "Not much for you to do at the forge, but I don't mind."
Evie huffed. "Of course you wouldn't. Vesta, on the other hand, would object vehemently. She hasn't a quarter of the staff she is accustomed to, and the records are growing thick enough to drown in. Her children's reports need to be collected as well, not to mention fresh tasking to be assigned for their efforts in the future, which is a duty I trust to none but you or I." Evie blew out another long breath, tail thumping irritably beneath her raincoat. Despite her own protests, she looked half ready to hop back up into Trot's saddle.
Sara offered a wry smile. "The curse of competence. For what it's worth, I appreciate it. You and Vesta are holding this whole city together with your bare hands."
"That and a Champion's endorsement, yes." Evie shook rainwater off her hood, turning to head down the street. "Enjoy your date, Master. I will see you sometime in the evening. And I expect to be duly compensated."
"When have I ever failed you?"
Evie turned and tossed a two-fingered wave over her shoulder, departing from Sara and Hurlish's company.
Hurlish chuckled as they got back on their way.
"For as much as she complains, you'd think she'd just stop dealing with paperwork. She knows you wouldn't force her to do it."
"It may not be her favorite, but she knows she's good at it. There's plenty of satisfaction in doing anything well, even if the work itself isn't fun."
"Speaking from experience?"
Sara snorted. "Yeah. My whole life up till four and a half months ago. I'm sure forging in the Tulian heat is its own kind of suck, but let me tell you, arc welding in full PPE pulls enough sweat to drown you."
"Those welders put off a lot of heat, then?"
"It's the mostly the light you had to worry about, but yeah, plenty of heat. Five thousand degrees or so."
Hurlish glanced about them before leaning closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What's a degree?"
Sara laughed. "Oh yeah, of course. My bad. I'm so used to talking shop with you that I forget how much is different. Degrees are a measure of temperature, how hot something is. Basic stuff, not anything from my old world I'd need to keep secret. Zero degrees is when water freezes into ice, and a hundred is when it starts to boil."
Hurlish made a face. "So five thousand sucks shit, then."
"Yeah. Iron melts at fifteen hundred, so take what you imagine the center of your forge feels like and kick it up a few notches. Of course welding is heating a lot smaller point, so it's still probably not as hot."
"Think you'll be able to hang in the forge, then?" Hurlish asked. "Most apprentices I've had tapped out pretty quick, their first day. You've messed around a bit, but that wasn't when the fires were at full."
"I'm sure I'll manage. I reserve the right to complain, though."
Hurlish chuckled. "Remember, we're working at the Guild. There'll be plenty of spectators, even if they're gonna be pretending they're not looking."
"Yeah, well, they can suck it. We'll say it's humanizing or something, to see their leader whining like a little girl."
"If you say so."
They continued down the streets as the rain pattered on, their horses given a wide berth by the shopkeepers and other workers forced out into the morning rain by their occupations. The Smithing Guild's headquarters had been built rather close to the center of the city, a prime location afforded by the importance of their labor. By now Sara had nearly every street and alleyway in Tulian memorized, and so she guided herself without thought, arriving shortly.
Tiled roofs held up by thick wooden pillars were placed in semicircle rows across a cobblestone courtyard, each pavilion claimed by a particularly experienced smith and their apprentices. The forges were arranged around a central stockpile, where smithing materials like charcoal, iron, and other raw materials were piled high. Those were communal materials, paid for by the Tulian state, and were freely available for any project relevant to government work. Beside the stockpiles were a multitude of other vendors, unaffiliated with the government, selling whatever they thought the smiths might need or want.
Unlike many of the other business of Tulian, the smiths had begun their work at the crack of dawn. By the looks of it, Sara and Hurlish were among the last to arrive. As expected, their arrival caused a bit of a stir, particularly among the younger apprentices, who paused their work to whisper and point. Sara paid them no mind, heading for Hurlish's own forge.
In a rare display of nepotism from Sara, her girlfriend's forge was by far the best equipped in the courtyard. She justified it by saying that Hurlish was among the city's most skilled smiths, and therefore had earned the right for the first pick of Tulian's limited equipment.
It was an excuse so reasonable that Sara could almost believe it herself.
Stepping under the pavilion's shade, Sara shucked off her raincoat while Hurlish moved to shovel charcoal into the hearth. Sara had spent a good few afternoons in Hurlish's forge, following along with her work, but she was incredibly far from achieving anything of substance. She'd managed a few decent nails, some spikes for her wristbands, and even once managed to hammer out a knife that didn't immediately snap in half the second it hit something harder than swiss cheese.
That was about it, though. Those multitudes of failures and occasional mediocre successes were why she was so eager to begin work today. Because today, she actually had something that might be worth contributing.
Hurlish finished shoveling coal into the hearth, but refrained from lighting it. Instead she went to her pile of half-completed projects, selecting several pieces and putting them before Sara. They were simple shortswords, patterned off of Ignite's preferred weapon, a gladius. Hurlish had created a shocking volume of them over the last few months, most of them flawless, save for these two. Though Sara couldn't find it, they apparently had some kind of imperfection, egregious enough that Hurlish had refused to send them to the army quartermasters.
"Think these'll do?" Hurlish asked.
"I don't see why not. You sure they're fine to waste? They look fine to me."
"They're garbage. They'd snap the first time they had to swing at anything, I promise."
"If you say so," Sara said, picking up the two swords. She took them over to a set of clamps, pinning them in place with the flat of their blades touching. After checking the angle a few times, she reached down and drew her sword, examining the blade.
"I should really give this thing a name," Sara thought aloud, turning the black blade in her hands. "It's definitely earned one by now."
Hurlish made a face. "You're really gonna be the type to name your sword?"
"Why not? I'm the literal Drama Queen, Hurlish. Pomp and circumstance is part of the deal."
"Yeah, well, I'm not going to give you any ideas. Just don't name it like the nobles back in Hagos did. I swear, if I'd given another boring-ass longsword to some entitled brat just to have them name it something like 'Evil's Bane' or some shit, I'd have gone insane."
Sara laughed, finishing her inspection of the sword. "Fine, fine. I'll at least give it some thought, I promise."
"No edgy shit," Hurlish repeated.
"No edgy shit," Sara agreed.
Sara took her sword in both hands, folding it out to its full length. Several of the other smiths in nearby pavilions, recalling her previous practice sessions, began hurriedly lowering their forge's storm shutters. Sara picked up the mask Hurlish had made her, a steel visor with several inches of black-tinted glass covering her eyes, and took deep, calming breaths.
The mysterious reservoir of magic lingering somewhere in her skull was an illusive thing, difficult at the best of times to access, and that was when she was fiddling with Champion's abilities. Her "actual" magic, so to speak, the kind that anyone with the right training could replicate, was buried far deeper. A pulsating mass of colorless energy that ebbed and flowed, faint tendrils reaching out to subtly feed off all the living world around her. That reservoir had been wrapped in steel with the key thrown away, as if Amarat had stapled training wheels into Sara's skull. The goddess' blessing was a canal that diverted her energies in the appropriate direction with no effort of her own, and while that was once an incredible boon, it was now limiting her.
So Sara felt out the walls of that canal, skated her thoughts along its harsh edges and perfect form, mustered her willpower, and began digging.
Lightning crackled its way into existence, miniature bolts forking from the back of her knuckles to latch onto the black blade. From there they raced downward, the scent of ozone joining a reverberating hum as the current rose, wrapping the blade in oscillating white tendrils. Sara stood frozen through the whole process, all her mind turned inward, fighting to hold back the explosion of power that Amarat's guidance was trying to shove forth. The blade began to glow with heat, so bright that it cast flickering shadows across the forge, and still she kept steady, fighting ingrained instincts.
Slowly, degree by degree, the lightning began to stabilize. Sara could feel the heat wafting off the sword, creating a blurred mirage that floated skyward. Several of the blacksmiths that had taken cover, hearing no explosion, began peaking out from whatever cover they had taken, whispering to one another.
The only reaction Sara cared about, however, was Hurlish. The massive orc was watching Sara with hunger in her eyes. This was magic that no one in the world had seen before, of a type that Sara had developed specifically for Hurlish, and that dedication certainly wasn't going unappreciated. Hurlish was silent, allowing Sara to concentrate, but she could feel the orc's fervent focus as clearly as if they were pressed skin-to-skin.
The lightning hum began to level out, reminiscent of a powerline's buzz. Sara took a careful step forward, attention split between the outer world and inner. She twisted her grip on the sword, aiming the tip towards the point where the two gladiuses met, and slowly pushed forward.
Sparks immediately began to fly, electric arcs leaping from the tip of her sword to the metal. It would have been blinding if not for the makeshift welding mask, and even still Sara had to squint, eyes watering. The heat was extraordinary, five feet of enchanted metal rocketing to a temperature that would have quite literally boiled more mundane steel. The hair along Sara's arms curled and blackened, smoke filling the air, but she kept going, well past the point that her old self would have collapsed from heatstroke. Even as her skin reddened and Hurlish was forced back by the heat, Sara's hands remained steady, drawing a bead down the joint between the two slabs of metal.
She reached the bottom of her weld just as the heat began to overwhelm her. She severed the spell's energy with a gasp, stumbling back. There was a final loud crack as the remainder of the Lightning's energy was expelled into the open air, a boom of thunder signaling the end of her experiment.
Sara dropped the sword, supporting herself with both hands on her knees as she panted. The scent of singed hair wafted around her, little rivulets of smoke rising from her skin.
"Goddamn," Hurlish eloquently commented.
"Yeah," Sara breathed. She forced herself up, inspecting her work.
It was a nasty, nasty weld. The bead was lopsided and squiggly, melted to thick black blobs in some places and vanishingly thin in others. Even while the metal cooled, Sara could tell that the bond was far too weak for any industrial purpose, even weaker than if she'd just riveted the two swords together. Lightning did an awful job of creating shielding gasses, undoubtedly introducing impurities undetectable to the naked eye, but Sara counted herself lucky the process created enough carbon dioxide for the bond to take at all. In all her life, from the very first time she'd picked up a welder, she'd never done such a shoddy job.
Still, it was a weld. That counted for something. And more importantly than the quality?
Hurlish's reaction.
The orc circled the swords in the vice, crouched like a jeweler given opportunity to study the Crown Jewels. Sara knew it was an awful job, but Hurlish didn't have the same perspective. All she saw was two pieces of metal joined in a matter of seconds, entirely eliminating the need for heating, hammering, and all the song and dance of traditional metalworking.
"How long till it's cool?" Hurlish asked, her usual gruffness replaced by an almost girlish glee. "There's no quenching or anything, right?"
"No quenching. It'll be cool enough to touch in a few minutes."
"That quick?" Hurlish held up a hand, feeling for heat coming off the blades. "Damn. Damn, damn, damn. The amount of shit that you could do with this, Sara..."
"If I can actually keep it up, you mean. Heating my whole sword like that was a recipe for disaster."
"Ah, there's gotta be a way around that." Hurlish waved the objection aside. "Some kind of cooling enchantments, or a protective suit, or using a different tool for the spell. Whatever it is, we gotta figure it out."
"That excited, huh? What kind of plans have you got?"
"Gods know, Sara," Hurlish said, practically vibrating with excitement. "Imagine how much easier it'll be to join armor pieces together. You could have the front and back built as one, without any weak points from the join points. You can get steeper angles to deflect arrows, or you can have two people working separate parts just to join them at the end, or hells, anything. Not to mention all the bigger stuff you talk about, like what you used to do back before you came here."
Even though she was still recovering from the heat, Sara couldn't help but smile smugly at Hurlish. "Sounds like you're a pretty big fan."
"You kidding me? We've gotta start finding us some artificers, Sara. There's way too much wasted potential with this."
Sara laughed. "I'll take that under advisement. Problem is, I can still only do it twice a day, and I already wasted one go."
"Then you've got another one in you, yeah? What's stopping you?"
Sara gestured to the hair along her arms, still smoking. "Not a fan of immolation, mainly. We'll have to figure out a better way to cast the spell before I can do anything useful."
"Then let's get on it," Hurlish said, turning back to the forge. "What do you need to cast a spell with? It's gotta be a weapon, right?"
Sara watched her girlfriend begin hurriedly preparing the forge. It was funny, seeing the normally reserved Hurlish so excited.
"A weapon, yeah, according to Garen. And it's got to be my weapon, not just any old sword. Something about the connection between foci and manifestation or whatever. It's why I always use the sword you made me to cast spells. I've got a Connection to it."
"Then we'll make another one, then, just for welding. What do you think would be good for it?"
Sara gave it some thought. "A dagger, maybe? The smaller the better, but I think it still has to be a bonafide weapon, for some reason. Maybe a thin knife, with a long handle? That's pretty close to the shape of real welding gear."
"Let's get on it, then," Hurlish said, reaching for the bellows.
Sara joined her at the forge, familiar enough with the work by now to help get things up and running. They chatted as they worked, half discussing potential designs for the dagger, half idle comments about whatever came to mind. After spending so much time on the road, in meetings, and wrapped up in her own concerns, Sara found the simple routine a profound relief. For a short while, she was free to worry herself only with what was right in front of her, the plague of abstract concerns that constantly buzzed through her mind blissfully fading into the background.
When the coals roared to life, they banished the hellish Tulian humidity in holy fire. Sara's skin that had been exposed during the welding experiment was already reddening from the most severe case of arc flash she'd ever seen. It was a sensation almost like a fever, leaving her sensitive to the barest change in temperature. At least the impromptu goggles had saved her vision. She could still work, and wouldn't bother with a healing potion unless the flash burn persisted to the next few days.
Hurlish fumbled through the many tool drawers that littered her forge, pulling out a thick book of weaponry design. She shoved a thin bar of steel into the coals and brought the book over to Sara, flipping it open.
"Alright, there's a few options that I think will work best. We don't have much blacksteel left, so we're gonna be a bit more limited on the parameters than we were with your sword."
Sara leaned against Hurlish's side as the orc thumbed through the book, debating the merits of each dagger design aloud. It was a characteristically utilitarian tome, little more than a few drawings of each weapon beside a list of blade angles, advisable materials, and other relevant minutia. After spending so much time with Hurlish, Sara could even understand most of it.
"What about that one?" Sara asked, stopping Hurlish from flipping the page.
"A rondel dagger?" Hurlish asked, squinting at the design. "I guess it could work, but you're not planning to do much fighting with it, are you?"
"I don't see why I couldn't. They're for armor busting, aren't they?"
"Yeah, they are, but considering the size of the sword you're already swinging around, I don't see why you'd need it."
"For enchanted armor, I guess," Sara said. "The Royal Army is going to have some tough nuts to crack."
Hurlish grunted contemplatively. By her reaction, Sara could guess what she was thinking. As a master weaponsmith, Hurlish took pride in making one instrument for one job, refining it to exacting perfection. Multipurpose tools were a far cry from the elegance she preferred.
Still, the orc shrugged. "Makes sense, I guess. You're the customer."
"Am I?" Sara asked teasingly. "I thought I was going to help you forge it."
"You are, but that just means I ought to charge you more. Getting the product and a lesson? Ain't gonna be cheap."
Sara smiled wickedly. "Oh, don't worry. I'm sure I can think of plenty of ways to repay you."
Hurlish snorted. "Not sure those count, considering they were gonna happen anyway, but I'll take it. You ready?"
"Let's get started."
Hurlish moved back to the hearth, grabbing a pair of tongs to retrieve the glowing piece of steel within. She brought it over to the anvil, laying its edge atop the black metal. The anvil that Sara had purchased for Hurlish was one of very few that had remained in Tulian, built to dwarf its Earthly equivalent. The top was covered in a layer of the same enchanted steel that composed Sara's sword, the only material capable of withstanding the hammer blows of an Irregular smith. Hurlish rolled up her sleeves and raised her smithing hammer high, judging the angle. Sara crossed her arms to watch, a small smile on her face.
Hurlish's muscles bulged as the hammer rocketed down. Sparks flying from the steel as the metal deformed under the blow, a deep divot created in a single strike. The clang rang throughout the courtyard, briefly overpowering all of the other smith's works, deafening Sara to the rain's patter for a brief few seconds. Hurlish took a nearly imperceptible pause to inspect her work, then raised the hammer again, slamming it back down.
Sara, for her part, was entirely content to watch. Hurlish's skin shone with a thin layer of sweat from the forge's heat, highlighting the thick bands of muscles twisting beneath her green skin. Her face was smoothed out by concentration that bordered on the meditative, all the world beyond the steel in her hands blocked out. Sara took the distraction as an opportunity to let her eyes crawl lecherously along Hurlish's body, from the storybook of small scars that encircled her forearms, to the way her chest moved with every swing, as enticing as it was impressive. Sara could physically feel the power of each swing through the soles of her boots, courtyard cobblestones rattling after each hammer blow, and the strength on display stirred a heat in her that had nothing to do with the forge's fires.
"Alright," Hurlish said suddenly, flipping the steel back over. Its edge had been partially pounded into a curve, shockingly smooth considering how few times the smith had struck it. "Your turn. You were paying attention, right?"
"Yes," Sara lied. She moved to the anvil and accepted the hammer from Hurlish, who kept hold of the tongs holding the steel, flipping it over to the flat side.
"Get on with it, then. Don't want to let it cool too much."
Sara raised the hammer, licking her lips in concentration. For all the infrastructure work she'd done in her old life, hammers were comparitvely unfamiliar ground. She twisted it in her grip anxiously, eying the thin edge, and took her first swing.
The hammer struck true, if with none of the booming force Hurlish had put on display.
Hurlish nodded. "Alright. Keep going."
Sara raised the hammer once more, took a deep breath, and set to work.
Under Hurlish's guidance, Sara soon fell into something of a rhythm. She didn't dare try to strike the steel with Hurlish's insane force, if she was even capable of matching it, and instead opted to pound out a much more reasonable series of lighter blows. Hurlish took her by the arm on occasion, adjusting her stance or how she held the hammer.
When they put the steel back into the forge for reheating, Hurlish used the time to go over Sara's techniques, pressing close behind her to reach around and puppeteer Sara's arms. The height difference between them had Hurlish's considerable breasts pressing into the back of Sara's head, hardly conducive for the focus required to absorb the lessons. If Hurlish realized what she was doing, she showed no sign of it, leaving Sara stumbling her way through the lessons with half an ear.
Thankfully, her expertise was hardly required. Hurlish all but lifted Sara's limbs for her, a decade spent tutoring apprentices in Hagos showing in the way she coached Sara through each and every motion. Within an hour the dagger had taken its basic shape, quenched in a bucket of oil that sent steam billowing into the air. The next step, that of sharpening the edges, was menial enough that Hurlish entrusted it entirely to Sara, using the time to begin whittling the wooden grip.
Sara sat before the grindstone with the dagger, pumping it up to speed with her foot. The manual method was technically effective, but agonizingly slow. Sara would have killed for a modern grinder. At the very least, the time-consuming process was simple enough that Hurlish brought up a stool next to her, chatting through the process. Sometimes the topics meandered towards the productive and practical, what with how work consumed both their lives, but often it was casual comments on mundane inanities, like the odd hairstyles and clothing that had been popping up since Sara's takeover of Tulian.
"I swear," Hurlish was saying as Sara's grindstone sent sparks flying, "His hair came up to here. I don't even know what he put in it to get it to stick like that."
"We had some products back in my old world that would do the job. Here? No idea."
"Did you ever use 'em to make your hair into a donut?"
"Not that in particular, but close. Usually when I went to a concert and didn't want to stand out by looking too boring."
"Oh yeah? And what qualified as 'not too boring' back there?"
"Not too different from this," Sara said, looking down at herself. She was wearing a black crocodile leather jacket over a low-cut shirt tailored to hang lower than some skirts, so she wouldn't be rocking the full clam show in her skintight leggings. "A bit more cohesive, of course. And more hair dye."
Hurlish eyed Sara's curls, which were dark as an oil spill. "Hard to imagine anything dying your hair."
"I was a dirty blonde back on Earth, but I always dyed it some kind of crazy color, mostly because the old welding hands at work hated that. It wasn't just my style that changed when I got summoned, y'know. Amarat took some liberties." Sara lifted the dagger from the grindstone, tracing the shape of her old body in the air. "Frumpier, a bit shorter, biceps a bit thicker, maybe. Hair barely down to my neck, if I didn't tie it up, which wasn't often. Also, chubbier. A lot chubbier. Stressful job, y'know?"
Hurlish chuckled. "Butch, then."
"The butchest," Sara confirmed.
"Still managed to pull girls, looking like that?"
"You kidding?" Sara rolled the dagger along the back of her knuckles. "Sure, I had some heft to me, but I had enough scars to get 'em curious after a couple glances. Then I could tell 'em I do welding, flex my biceps to prove it, show off a few scars on my fingers and mention how good I was with 'em, and before you knew it, bang. Plenty of girls in gay bars looking for someone that can toss them around."
"Evie," Hurlish snorted. Sara laughed. Hurlish flashed her own grin, then continued on. "Gay bars, huh? Can't say I knew of any in Hagos. Seems like a hell of a lot easier way to pick up girls than waggling your eyebrows and hoping they swing your way."
"Oh, man, you're missing out."
"I believe you. Almost wish I coulda met you back then, so I got the full Sara experience."
Sara put the dagger back to the grindstone, studying the edge and its sparks. The full Sara experience, huh, Hurlish? Tepidly, as if hesitant, she said, "Y'know, there is one thing we could do tonight, since Evie will probably be out late."
Catching the lie in Sara's supposed lack of enthusiasm, as well as the peculiarity of specifically excluding Evie, Hurlish froze in her whittling. "Oh?"
"Not that I'm keeping secrets from her, of course," Sara hurriedly said. "Just something she wouldn't strictly approve of." Sara flipped the dagger to the other side, feeling a sly grin slip up her face. "A pet project of mine, helped along by some of the chiller of Amarat's sorts."
"You can color me interested, Sara. What exactly could you be up to that Evie wouldn't approve of? Something that's actually got you working with that madhouse?"
Sara mimicked Hurlish's own impish grin, pulling the dagger off the wheel and holding its end out for the orc to grab. "You'll see tonight. Trust me, I think you'll be a fan."
---------------------------
Sara looked both ways before crossing the road, squinting into the darkness to make sure they weren't followed. Darkness had fallen in Tulian, leaving starlight bouncing off the puddles of a thunderstorm that had ended a few minutes before. Seeing that the way was clear, she hurried out into the street, tugging Hurlish along behind her.
"Ain't seen you skulk this much in your life," the orc noted, even as she bent her shoulders to commit her own version of stealth.
"Again, it's nothing illegal," Sara insisted, dipping beneath the cover of a ratty awning. "Places like this, though, they tend to get ruined if they get popular."
Sara bumped her steel-toed boots against a rotten set of boards covering what looked at first glance to be a half-started ditch. Hurlish crouched behind her, looking rather confused until the boards suddenly removed themselves, revealing a steep set of stairs spiraling downward. A face popped out, dark in skintone and expression.
"What's she?" The woman asked, jutting her head to Hurlish.
"Bigger than you," Sara replied, shoving past.
"Fair 'nough," the bouncer said, stepping aside to allow Hurlish entry.
"Godsdamn," Hurlish grunted as she squeezed into the narrow spiral stairway, "This shit wasn't built with orcs in mind, was it?"
"I don't think it was built with anyone at all in mind," Sara grunted back, pressing a hand to the wall to keep herself from tumbling down the slick stones. It was pitch black. "Just keep shoving. It won't collapse, probably."
"Lovely."
Sara did her best to keep her clothes clean of grime as wispy smoke began to seep up from below, filling her nose with a pungent scent unique to Tulian pipes. As they went Sara rolled up her shirt, pinning it in place so her ass was on full display, and tugged out her jacket's collar so it was nearly drooping over off her shoulders. A wad of spit in her hands was all it took to add a few disorganized lumps and spikes to her hair, complimented by tucking the tail beneath her collar, so it looked like she'd cut it as short. The impromptu efforts wouldn't have done jackshit, but for Amarat's blessings. If nothing else, Sara's patron goddess played well with costume changes.
Sara clawed out into the open air well ahead of Hurlish, spinning around and making a few last second adjustments before the orc arrived. That done, she waited with hands on her hips, silhouetted by a rainbow of bouncing lights behind her.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Hurlish
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The damn fucking tunnel Sara'd dragged her into was exactly as the technically-big-for-a-human had described. Not built for fucking anyone. Hurlish scraped and bounced off the corners as they went, because of course a round fucking spiral staircase had to have corners, but only occasionally, because whatever mason had built it was clearly high off their shit while they'd worked. Probably off the very pipes Hurlish could smell right now, a dozen of the nasty little fuckers clogging her up the closer to the godsforsaken bottom of this pit–
The hells was that?
Hurlish pulled up short as she spotted the end of the staircase, where light was spilling out from an oval entryway. Not just flickering yellow lantern light, but all kinds of colors, red, blue, green and purple turning the grimy stones into a shattered church window. Faintly, rendered dull by the intervening stones, was the sound of music, played on familiar instruments, yet in a wholly unfamiliar style.
Where in the godsdamn did that girl drag me?
Hurlish took the final few steps, bending under the stone archway as her eyes adjusted to a spray of irregular lighting.
She could see why they'd gone so far down, for starters. The ceiling was thirty feet above, with a platform dangling above. Musicians of all sorts were clustered together, facing outward to the rest of the... tavern, Hurlish supposed? But not any kind of tavern she'd known. It even had a miniature theatre stage, empty as it was aside from a strange shining pole. Beneath the musician's platform dangled a sphere absolutely wrecked by colored gems, bouncing to the beat of the time-keeping stomps. The bar was dug into the wall, leaving more room for a marble-tiled floor, which was packed with people dancing to the beat of lively percussion. Colors danced with them, highlighting thrown limbs and sweaty smiles in brief flashes. When a stronger beam of light wasn't on any one person, Hurlish could barely make out their figures, so dim and filled with smoke was the room. Only one stood out at the edge of the crowd, facing Hurlish with a smug grin.
Sara, naturally.
Her partner had both fists on her hips at the edge of the bouncing crowd, busying herself by watching Hurlish gawk. Her shirt had been rolled up, her collar yanked out, and her hair... no, she hadn't cut it, right? Gods, Hurlish hoped not. Her jacket was thrown open, her belt moved to be tied under her breasts, emphasizing a figure that Hurlish had committed memory months ago, but very rarely saw in public these days.
Hurlish was observant enough to realize what the woman had done.
Sara had turned back the clock. She was dressed up just like she'd described her old self, even adding a bit of puff to her shirt for an authentic flab to her build. Only the color of her hair hadn't been changed, not that Hurlish could really be sure of that, considering the spray of random colors shining from every direction.
"Well?" Sara hollered. "Welcome to the First Light! Tulian's one and only nightclub!"
"The hell's a nightclub?" Hurlish asked, moving closer so she could be heard without yelling. Damn, that band was going hard on percussion. Could barely hear the strings over the pounding of the drums.
"Back on Earth? The best place to get smashed and wake up in a stranger's bed. Here?" Sara shrugged, waving to the miniature sea behind her, where dozens bumped and ground against one another. "Well. Not much different, it looks like. They picked up on it pretty quick."
Sara suddenly took Hurlish by the wrist, dragging her towards one of the walls, where beer-strewn seats were provided for patrons to rest their feet between bouts of ecstatic dancing. Hurlish was disoriented enough that she found herself being easily tripped into a spin, landing back-first on a booth. Before she could recover her thoughts, Sara was straddling her, taking both her tusks in either hand as she pressed her lips into Hurlish's.
She slumped into the kiss on instinct, lips parting so she could taste Sara's lips. Cherry, Sara had called it. Hurlish had never tried the fruit itself, but she sure as shit approved of it on Sara's lips.
Sara jerked Hurlish's face closer, using her tusks as handles in a way that had a low rumble running up her throat. Hurlish chased Sara's tongue into her mouth, taking a deeper taste of her. Hurlish pressed a palm against the smaller girl's back, shoving her in, and set to proving she hadn't been that taken off guard.
They stayed like that for longer than Hurlish would later want to admit, pressed chest-to-chest atop a beer-soaked booth.
When Hurlish began to nip and suck at Sara's lips, pulling back to nibble her way down her jawline, the damnable woman pulled back, breathing hard. It was difficult to see in the "nightclub" lighting, but Hurlish knew from panting breath hitting her face that Sara's eyes were darkened with lust.
"The hells was that?" Hurlish asked, breathing hard herself, if not quite as out of breath. She looked about. "We're in public, aren't we?"
"Barely," Sara breathed, "And besides, we're far from the only ones." Hurlish's right tusk was yanked once more, directing her attention to the couple two seats further down. Of what Hurlish could see, it was a half-elf woman throwing herself over some hapless man beneath, all that could be seen of the fellow a pair of hands latched onto her ass. Hurlish's attention was jerked another way, where one willowy man was strewn across the laps of two off-duty Guardsmen, their uniforms disheveled as they took turns feeding the fellow fruits.
Hurlish's focus was wrenched back to Sara. "Don't worry about it, Hurlish. I'm pretty sure even I wouldn't be up for some of the stuff these booths have seen." Sara peeled her chest off of Hurlish's slowly, adjusting her jacket for a moment before standing. She held out a hand.
"Still," Hurlish stood with a grunt, "That was some show you gave anyone that cared enough to look."
"Hurlish, honey, your concern is wonderful, but political peacocking is the last thing on my mind in here." Sara began tugging her to the bar. "Before spring comes, I'll bet good money half this club will be able to paint my tits by memory."
Hurlish stumbled. "How in the hells are they gonna be seeing those, anyway?"
Sara answered with a devilish grin. "Someone's gotta teach the strippers how it's done, right?"
Between the furious kiss not yet a minute old and the mental image of Sara bared on a stage before dozens, Hurlish was lightheaded enough to not even notice they'd reached the bar. The realization was abruptly forced on her when her stomach bumped against it.
"I'll take something to get me trashed, and I'm paying for hers," Sara said to the bartender, who'd abandoned their previous patrons the moment he saw Sara approaching. The bartender looked to Hurlish expectantly even as he began to fill a– was that a fucking silver goblet?– full from the lowest barrel on the wall.
"What... what do you have? Mead?" Hurlish asked thickly as she worked her way through her bewilderment, eying the barrels. They were labeled, but a damn vampire couldn't have read them in this gloom.
"What kind?" Asked the bartender, sliding Sara her drink in exchange for a few more copper pieces than it was likely worth. "We got local stock, Sporaton Mead, Bragger's Mead–"
"You got the deep south shit?" Hurlish asked, suddenly inspired. "From the jungle wall, enough honey to choke you?"
As if affronted to have their selection question, the bartender answered only by snagging another (considerably larger) goblet, filling it from one of the closest barrels. He handed it to Hurlish, pocketed the coin Sara slid him, and was on his way.
Hurlish looked down at the silvery goblet in her hand, then promptly threw her head back.
"Godsdamn!" Hurlish swore, wiping her mouth. "That's real jungle mead." She tapped her fingernail against the goblet a few hard times, then held it up, inspecting it. "Real silver, too. What in the nine hells have you built here, Sara?"
"Something to put the old nobility's leftovers to use," Sara replied, sliding onto a barstool. Hurlish did the same, and Sara leaned into her side, to be easily heard. "You never wondered what we did with all those gems, when we found out they weren't worth much?"
Hurlish vaguely recalled the relevant meeting, one of the few she'd been too relevant to for her to sleep through. Sara'd scraped together all of Old Tulian's remaining light gems, hoping they were of value, only for her fledgling artificers to inform her that they were of such simple make they weren't even worth practicing on. Since then Hurlish had seen a good few go up in the Peasant's Theatre and other official places, but the vast horde had gone...
Hurlish glanced around the nightclub. Here, apparently. They'd gone here.
"The silver?" Hurlish prompted, voice muffled as she took another long draught of mead she hadn't tasted since she was a child. As if in answer, Sara pointed over the crowd, to a man relaxing at a circular table behind the stage.
Hurlish squinted. "Who's that?"
"Oh yeah. I forget, you weren't there for that." Sara downed a slug of her drink, coughing hard for a few seconds. "That's one of The Shaded Tree's leaders. The pricks that were in charge of the city before we showed up."
"We're in a gang hideout?" Hurlish asked, hesitating as she went for a third pull of her drink.
"We're in a gang business. I gave them the idea for the place, and they keep it above-board." Hurlish gave that thin line of distinction a half second of thought, shrugged to herself, and took another long drink as Sara continued her explanation. "They were the ones that snagged up most of Old Tulian's valuables that were left behind. Fancy wine, polished silver, gemstones, you name it, they squirreled it away. I only convinced them to bust it out here because at least this way they're making money off of it, instead of leaving it to rot in some random lockbox."
Hurlish finished her goblet and popped her lips with a smack before nodding approvingly. "Good choice." She waved for a refill. "But now I'm wondering why you think Evie'd give a shit."
"You kidding me?" Sara laughed, waving an arm about. "Underground bar, one shitty way in, one shitty way out? Forget the gang association, Evie'd have conniptions over the fire hazard alone. I'll bring her eventually, but they've gotta at least fix up the stairs."
"I'll vote for that renovation." Hurlish belched as the bartender took her goblet to fill, raising one eyebrow to himself as he did so. The silver drinkware was as large as the man's head. She took another drink when it was returned to her, savoring this one a bit more. "Still, though. Damn. Can't believe they've got proper jungle mead."
"I aim to impress, even in my legally-dubious drinking establishments. Is it so hard to believe they'd have something so close to local? Give me some of that, by the way."
Hurlish handed Sara the goblet, which the champion had to hold with two hands. "Yeah, it's hard to imagine. I thought this shit was a local delicacy, from back home. Not something I'd find in the ass end of the capital."
"The power of rich people and their alcoholism," Sara wisely intoned, before taking her own sip of the mead. Her face scrunched up. "Damn! Is there more alcohol or honey in here?"
Hurlish chuckled, taking the drink back. "Sweetest way to get drunk the world ever saw, according to my pa. Always had a helluva time getting the honey without being stung, but it was worth it."
They sat side-to-side for a while, swapping stories of the nastiest alcohol they'd been forced to sate themselves with over the years. When Hurlish was teetering from tipsy towards drunk, she leaned over. "So, what's the plan? You attack me like we're half a minute from fucking on the floor, then drag me over to get drunk, all while everyone else in sight is dancing their brains out. What's step three?"
"I've never been in a nightclub without being horny, drunk, or both. Usually I hit the doors as all the above, with some extra shit stirred or snorted in. Gotta make sure you get the full experience, so we're still on step one, honey."
Hurlish snorted laughter into her goblet. "Step two, then?"
Sara slammed her own drink down, yet another of some godawful brew sporting a scent that left Hurlish's eyes watering. "Serg!" She called, snapping at the bartender. "Tell the band they're on break!"
The bartender nodded as if this was normal fare, leaving Hurlish wondering how often Sara'd snuck off to oversee her little pet project. Before she could voice the question, however, she was being swept out of her seat to be herded towards the dance floor.
The music above came to a clattering standstill, spawning a chorus of boos from the crowd. That only lasted until Sara reached the press, red tinging her cheeks as she flashed Hurlish a dangerous grin. A different kind of music rattled into the air.
However often it was that Sara visited this place, it was often enough that boos became elated cheers the moment the tune changed, instruments never seen by this reality warbling to life. Pounding bass stirred the crowd into a new frenzy, the real thing intoxicatingly vibrant next to the drummers' pale imitation. Sara tugged her into the press, smiling madly all the while.
The music kicked into a new gear just as the lights began to really spin, throwing all the world into a whirl. Up above, dancers with just enough clothes to frustrate had taken the musician's spots. Men and women danced with hands roaming across their own bodies, and along each other's bodies, a living lesson for the onlookers below on just how close they were expected to press in the club's semi-anonymity. Hurlish would have retreated in an instant from the chaos, if not for Sara's siren call dragging her forward, finding a space just clear enough to begin bouncing to the music.
Hurlish hadn't the damndest clue what she was doing, and might've felt like a fool, if not for heady mead having long since drowned the concern. The lights, once disorienting, now swirled to the tune of her intoxication, like all the world was off-kilter save them and her. She'd tempted Sara into showing her this little slice of her old world, and she'd be damned if she was going to do anything less than dive headfirst.
Hurlish joined Sara in the mix. The music pounded with her pulse as they pressed into one another, none of the coordination Hurlish had always associated with dance present, yet it had all the energy and more that she'd thought it lacked. Sara pressed against her from behind in one moment, fingernails scraping up Hurlish's sides towards her breasts, then she was in front the next, shoving her ass into Hurlish's crotch while Hurlish kept her pinned in place. The music kept pounding, an endless, repetitive pounding, smothering sense and reason like a river dousing a candle. She and the rest of the crowd were swept along by the raging energy of it, until she was doing little more than touching and feeling, moving and breathing, drinking in the heat of the crowd and Sara's heat most of all.
Hurlish stopped caring about the bumps and jostles, stopped caring about how stupid she looked with her arms thrown in the air or her fists full of Sara's tits, or anything else at all, really. The music kept pounding, so Hurlish did too, doing what came to her. She would remember it in little flashes later, snippets replayed in confused and no less pleasurable order. She had her hand around Sara's throat one moment, pressing the champion into her, then a woman had appeared, waving for Sara's attention with a concerned look. The reel of memory skipped forward, and then the pretty little blonde was sandwiched between them, Hurlish's thumb in her mouth, Sara's hand in her shirt, all three of them still moving to the music, this time with someone's legs wrapped around Hurlish's thigh. Time skipped forward a moment more and the blonde was gone, Sara was atop her shoulders, and the entire crowd was chanting something of the lyrics, some mindless garbage that was utter nonsense to Hurlish. She'd roared along anyway, just enough presence of mind left to catch Sara's shirt as she tried to fling it into the reaching crowd.
Hurlish didn't know how many songs passed, much less how much time was spent, Irregular endurance leaving her and Sara on the floor even after others rotated out a half-dozen times. The blonde was back at one point, this time walking with shivering legs and a petite little brunette on her arms, and then Hurlish's mouth was filled with the taste of alcohol and an unfamiliar tongue, Sara's oh-so-familiar-hands wrapping around from behind to half support and half grope the ass of whoever-it-was savaging Hurlish's lips. Time jumped again as Sara took her hand, guiding her out of the press and toward the back, where circles of padded booths ringed the stage. Some woman wearing leather covering all the places that didn't matter was spinning on the metal pole, but Hurlish only got the briefest glimpse of that show as she was shoved into the booth, Sara landing atop her with hunger in her eyes.
Something hard that wasn't a leg or knee ground against her core for a time in that booth, something that had Sara's lips quivering when she pushed back against it. Hurlish found her mind focusing as she chased after those reactions, a bit of the haze pulling back as she latched on the idea of forcing her partner to need new pants before the night was done. The table suddenly rustled beside them, causing Sara to pull back, Hurlish chasing after her.
"Having fun, Sara?" A woman asked, laying on her side with one hand supporting her head. She wore nothing at all, stretched across the tabletop in a position of practiced sensuality, her other hand resting on her hip. When Hurlish finally bothered to look at her face, she thought the sight looked familiar.
"Priest chick?" Hurlish asked, interrupting whatever Sara had been saying. "The one from the temple?"
"The very same!" The naked priestess replied, reaching out to give Hurlish a teacher's proud pat on the cheek. She was nearing forty, but even straightest of women would have admitted the years had treated her body kindly. "Glad you got to Amillya alright, despite my help. You having fun too, sweetie?"
Hurlish shook her head, clearing the haze of willful drunkenness that clouded it. She really hadn't drank that much, but with how she'd been letting herself go, she'd really felt it.
"Yeah," Hurlish simply. A hell of an understatement. "Y'got a nice place here. How long you think you can keep it going?"
"As long as the Governess lets us, I suppose," she replied, wiping a bead of sweat off her chest as she glanced at Sara.
"Long as you don't let the Shaded Tree fuck it up..." Sara said, trailing off as her eyes tracked the trail of the priestess' across her own body.
"Trust me, I won't. This place is holy, as far as I'm concerned." The priestess giggled. "Well. Maybe that's more true for me than it is Amarat, speaking honestly All the same, there's not many places with more emotions are put on display than First Light, is there?"
Hurlish finally sat up properly, taking a proper look at her surroundings. The different booths circling the stage were separated by a good few feet, and, Hurlish realized with some surprise, some of the booths were closed off. Thick curtains had been drawn along rails in the ceiling, hiding the booth from the outside world. Hurlish glanced up, finding the same rails and curtains above their booth. She licked her lips.
"So what were you saying, again?" Sara asked. "A silver for three, but only copper for a–"
"Oh, please," the priestess replied, slapping Sara's arm with a playful swat. "I'm fairly certain charging Amarat's Champion for santhem would be some kind of sin, even if I can't remember which at the moment. It's on the house."
Hurlish blinked, finally catching up to the pace of events, as well as noticing the small bags on the table. "Woah. What? You're selling us santhem?"
"I believe the Champion was thinking about it," the priestess replied airily, gesturing toward a suddenly meek-looking Sara. "The name's Avie, by the way, sweetie. At least while I'm at work, that is. You'll have to come to the temple to learn my other one."
Hurlish turned to Sara, whose flush was no longer wholly from alcohol. "I mean, I know it's not the best idea, but we're at the club, and I've spent so long cooped up in–"
"The fuck, Sara?" Hurlish gestured at Avie. Well, at Avie's tits, anyway. "She just said it was free." Hurlish reached out and snagged a bag, fumbling with the drawstring. "How do you even do this, anyway? I've done some yayo before, which you snort, but I've heard people mention how santhem tastes, so..."
Sara glanced at the ceiling for a moment as Hurlish continued to struggle with the bag. "Fucking thank you, Amarat." Then she snagged the bag from Hurlish, thumbing it open. There was a multicolored powder inside, which Sara began to reach for, then paused to look at Avie.
"So... wait... how do we...?"
The bag was snagged once more, a little puff of glitter coloring the air. Avie hopped to her feet with a spin, slid the curtain closed, then laid back down. She was on her back now, hand holding the bag raised up above her, pinching the mouth shut as she ran a tongue slowly, oh so slowly, across her lips.
"How? Why, you lick it up, of course."
The bag fell open, endless glitter falling across Avie's tits.
---------------------------------
Hurlish barreled through the curtain five minutes later, Sara wrapped around her like an octopus, but Hurlish was pretty sure an octopus would've left fewer hickies, what with the way her mouth wouldn't leave her burning skin for longer than it took to hiccup. She was also pretty sure Avie was still quivering from her aftershocks on the table they'd abandoned, but that was probably okay because her eyes had rolled back down in her head, and really Hurlish didn't care, because there was no way in hell that flimsy little wood would survive five seconds of what she needed.
Hurlish awkwardly sprinted towards the first door that even vaguely resembled an exit. Sara suddenly unlatched her lips as they passed a table, glittery lips slurring as she pointed a finger at the Shaded Tree representative sitting there.
"You! Private room! Where?"
"We have no private rooms, I'm afraid, as that's what the curtains are–"
"Lie! Don't care! Fuckin..." Sara bent back down, refreshed herself on the taste of Hurlish's skin, then threw her head back up. "Soft! Need something long and soft. Where?"
"I told you, we don't–"
A woman's head rose from beneath the table, spittle dripping. "Just tell her, please."
A man's head rose a moment later. "Or we'll never be rid of her, you know that."
"But–"
"Tell her," both figures said in unison, more firmly, "Or we won't continue."
The man glanced between both faces, then groaned in resignation. "Fine! Down the hall, into the door labeled Pending Imports, behind the left boxes."
"Good," both purred, descending.
"But I don't want to see any– oh, fuck–"
Whatever happened next Hurlish didn't know, because she was already through the door, Sara's teeth drawing lines progressively lower on her chest. She plowed around one corner, then the next, shoved aside some boxes, and was suddenly greeted with a room of red velvet, a bed large enough for three at its center. Hurlish grabbed a fistful of Sara's hair to peel her off like an old bandage, then shoved her gracelessly through the air. Sara bounced off the bed, not even moving from her position as she began to shimmy her pants down.
Hurlish threw her own belt off hard enough to dent the wall, her pants and shirt following in similar fashion. The entire bed creaked as she crawled up onto it, but in a good way, not in the already-about-to-fall-apart way. Hurlish snagged one of Sara's ankles, sliding her across the silk sheets.
"Oh f-f-fuck, Hurlish," Sara stuttered, twisting as her hands repeatedly foiled her plans to remove her pants by the way that they kept moving to touch Hurlish.
"I gotcha, I gotcha," Hurlish whispered encouragingly, gingerly grabbing hold of the nylon pants on either side of Sara's hips. After a moment of feeling her skin through the material, Hurlish bunched up her fists and yanked them outward, tearing the garment in two.
"Fuck!" Sara yelped, pulsing cock exposed to the open air. "How am I supposed to walk home now, Hurlish?"
"I'll carry you," Hurlish breathed, moving forward on the bed.
"Oh, yeah, why didn't I think of that?"
That comment, among others to follow, were the reason they later reflected that perhaps an entire bag of santhem between the two of them had been a bit much.
Sara's cock rose up into the air, thick and veiny beneath the ruby gemlight that suffused the room. Hurlish straddled Sara's legs as she looked at it, mouth watering. She took a hand and pressed it up against the skin of her lower abdomen, feeling its heat soak into her.
Sara's eyes bulged at the sight. "That'd... that'd kill Evie." She looked up at Hurlish, the childish sincerity of her concern woefully out of place. "Not you, though, right? You're big. Way bigger."
"Not me," Hurlish breathed her agreement, getting her knees beneath her, "Not me, for sure. And I don't care. We'll find out."
Between Hurlish's shaky legs and swimming vision, not to mention Sara's desperate squirming, it took some time to line things up. Hurlish whined pathetically each time she felt Sara's cock brush against her lower lips, a tremble running through her that threatened collapse, but she persevered. Inch by inch, second by second, she lined herself up, until the upward straining of Sara's hips finally found purchase, the tip of her sinking a little deeper than it had before.
"Fuck!" Sara swore again, staring at Hurlish. "It's so big. It's so fucking big. Take... take your time, adjust to it. It's alright."
"No," Hurlish said, slamming her hips down.
The world shattered as Sara slid into her, a heat like no other forcing the breath from her lungs in a wordless gasp. Every muscle of Sara's body went taut, as if electrified, while Hurlish found her strength vanishing, slumping into a messy pile that had her falling forward. She caught herself by the elbows just before she would have crushed Sara, tiny little thing that she was. Hurlish's back was arched so that their faces could be just inches apart, breath intermingling as words tried and failed to be formed between them. Hurlish watched Sara's eyes fall in and out of focus, warring for the presence of mind to say or do anything, and loved it. She clenched down, forcing a squeal from the champion's lips
"Huuuurrrliiiissssh!"
"I know, I know," Hurlish breathed back, peppering a series of sloppy kisses across Sara's face. Every movement, every twitch, even all the way up at her head, was enough to move her hips enough to prompt new shivers of pleasure. "So fucking big, Sara."
"So fucking tight," Sara whined back.
"Gods, I'm gonna fuck you forever."
"Please. Please, please, Hurlish." Surrounded, pinned, and as far from sober as she was, Sara couldn't muster the strength to move Hurlish by a hair's breadth. "Hurlish, anything you want, anything. Please, please just fuck me."
"Cum inside," Hurlish declared. "Cum inside every time. No matter what. That's what it'll cost me– I mean you– to fuck me. For me to fuck you, I mean. Shit."
"Fine, finefinefine! I was gonna do it a-ny-wwwwaay!"
Sara's words devolved into a high-pitched squeal as Hurlish rolled her hips forward, stirring Sara's cock within her. She could feel every inch of it as she moved, pressing into her walls like golden light. Hurlish felt her own girlish whimper crawl out of her throat completely unprompted, and she didn't do anything to arrest it. She let her head fall the final bit forward, trapping Sara's lips beneath her own as she began to move.
Gods, it was... fuck. Fucking. Hurlish was fucking Sara, taking her for all she was worth. It was animalistic in its motion, just a woman shoving a cock as deep inside her as it could possibly go, but it was so much more. The sound of every slip on the sheets was a harpist's symphony, every wet noise a cherub's giggle, and Sara's moans, oh–! Oh, those were the choir, the prize that every animalistic rut of her cunt was rewarded with.
She felt it rising already, within her, stirred on by that nigh-painful stretch that Sara's cock brought to bear. Hurlish slid up and down across Sara's body, timing it so that the champion's hips could slam into her at just the right moment to shove her cock deeper, just a little deeper, shoving more fuel into a fire that had been burning from the first day they met.
"Cum inside, remember, cum inside," Hurlish whispered, some distant part of her mind still capable of speech. "Only inside, fill me up, I need it."
"I want it, I want it, please give it to me, fuck me–"
Hurlish sped up, words falling from her in stutters and stops. "Just– so deep. Fuck me full, fill me up. Knock me up, fucking, Sara, please just knock me up, leave me yours–"
"Yes, I will, I promise–"
Hurlish curved her back with a long groan as she pulled up and away, grinding the head of Sara's cock against the spot that set her on fire, then slammed back down, riding the whole shaft further into delirium. Sara was bucking helplessly beneath her, all rhthym lost as they both kept groaning, whining familiar phrases that they both called pointless but knew all too well they carried far more meaning than either wanted to admit.
"Full of you, filled by you–"
"Fucking make you mine, always mine–"
"All yours, all yours, a fucking again and again, as many times as you want, as many kids as you want–"
"I wanna cum in you, I wanna cum in you so bad Hurlish you don't understand–!"
"I do I do, I do so much, so just... fucking! knock! me! up!"
Hurlish slammed back down one last time, filling herself to the brim on Sara's cock. Lightning struck with a high-pitched scream as Sara convulsed under her, the head of her cock flaring as her fingernails dug lines on Hurlish's thigh. Hurlish was so, so close, but she knew she'd only come when she felt it, felt that heat filling her even further–
Hurlish's mouth opened in a silent O. Sara was cumming inside her, hot white liquid filling her up. She wrenched her eyes shut as the world shattered into that same, piercing white. Hurlish took fistfuls of the bedsheets and tried to shove herself further downward, tried to get Sara as close to her core as she could, tried to find some part of her too deep for even the potions to reach the following morning–
And then she sagged, an earthquake worth of tremors following in the wake of her peak. Sara was still shifting on the sheets below her as Hurlish toppled downward, both legs belatedly wrapping the woman's waist at the last instant so Hurlish could still fall, but now without letting Sara slip the slightest bit out of her, so that they ended up face-to-face on the sheets. Hurlish bit her tongue well past the point of pain as Sara continued to cum in her, every pump driving her a little bit higher in a different, new way from her orgasm. She felt a little bit of it begin to spill out onto the sheets and it enraged her in a way nothing ever had, so she took hold of Sara's ass and shoved her even harder against her, whining little nothings in the champion's ear all the while.
Finally, sadly, a too-short-eternity later, it came to a stop. Hurlish relaxed against Sara, luxuriating in the heat of skin against skin. Some little leaked out of her once more, but she didn't have the energy to stop it any longer. She just lay there with Sara's face nestled between her breasts and ran a hand through her hair, petting her gently, murmuring quietly.
"Good girl, very good girl. You did so good for me. Good, good, good."
Barely unconscious though she was, Sara nuzzled deeper into Hurlish's tits, taking comfort in the sound of her voice.
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Hurlish woke late, late, into the night. Sara was stirring against her, moving so her face wasn't nestled between her breasts.
"Mm?" Hurlish intoned curiously.
Sara's face emerged from between her tits with a gasp. "Sorry!" She whispered. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. Just... breath. I needed to catch my breath."
Hurlish's chuckle was low and rumbling, reverberating into Sara's chest. "Guess I can't blame you for that, can I?"
"You really can't, no."
The gemlights must have turned themselves off at some point, because it was pitch black in the room. Hurlish listened to Sara quietly breathe for a while, taking stock of herself. Santhem had a short time of effect, shorter than alcohol, and she could barely feel a buzz in the back of her skull at the moment. She was fairly certain she was sober, or at least as sober as one so thoroughly exhausted could be. After a few minutes of peaceful relaxation, Sara shifted.
"Hurlish?" She whispered, ever so quiet. "You awake?"
"Yeah," she whispered back.
"Do you wanna... talk?"
"About the–"
"About the kids thing, yeah."
Hurlish sighed, long and deep, but it wasn't a sigh of reservation. Just a clearing of the lungs and mind, because her thoughts were long since settled.
"Go ahead."
Sara shifted, hugging herself just a bit tighter to Hurlish.
"We've only known each other for four months, you know."
"Four months and eight days since the goddess of love arranged our meeting, yes."
"Gods, you keep count?" Though disbelieving, Sara sounded more amused than disturbed. "Alright, four months and eight days since we met."
"Since the goddess of love and passion guided you to my doorstep, yes."
"Okay, fine, I guess that's true enough."
"It's very literally true. No exaggeration necessary. So when you're about to say..."
"That it would be irresponsible to do this in such a short time, no matter how we feel..."
"I'll say that divine providence usually trumps lesser things like the getting-to-know-you phase, and the are-we-serious phase."
Sara giggled lightly. "I guess we have lived with each other for most of that time, huh."
"In my village, it was expected that a married couple live together for three months before trying for their first kid. We're already ahead of schedule, you ask me."
"Not married, though."
"Because Evie would kill me if I got the ring first."
"Yeah, she would." Sara sighed. "That's a whole separate thing. I'm not going to marry anyone that's technically my slave."
"But if not for that, if I'd proposed, say, a month ago...?"
"I'd probably have said yes, yeah." Sara groaned, as if frustrated with herself. "My dad would kill me. He wanted me to date someone for five years before I got married, live with them for two. 'Don't make my mistake, Sara', he'd always say. And that wasn't even with kids in the mix."
Hurlish's heart beat a little faster. She wasn't sure if Sara could feel it against through her skin. She stayed silent, though, because Sara was the only one who needed to make up her mind here.
"You know, you're at least right about Amarat. She did put us together for a reason, and I don't think your smithing skill was all of it."
"But?"
"But... I wish she'd be a bit clearer with stage two. Everyone says Amarat's the least subtle of the gods, but I haven't noticed that. Her guidance is always so vague and uncertain, not obvious like everyone says it should–"
Sara choked off as muffled voices floated through the air. The room's hidden door had fortuitously swung shut at some point in the night, but it wasn't the most soundproof thing. Feet shuffled into the storeroom just a few yards distant, voices growing clearer.
"...can't believe we're supposed to put them in here."
"Why not? Boss tells us to do it, we do it. Simple."
"Still, though." There was a sound of grunting, then of wood scraping on the floor. "A tavern's hardly the right place for this."
"Whatdya mean? Look at how fancy it is. Jewels, engraving, the works. Shit's valuable."
"Still, though. Storing a crib in a tavern? A baby goes in that. That ain't right."
"Who cares? Not like anyone's gonna be using it anytime soon, anyway."
The voices said other things, but Hurlish didn't hear them. She was too busy smiling. Smiling hard enough it hurt, and enjoying the feel of Sara stifling her laughter between her breasts.
Notes:
AhhhhhhhHHHHHH sorry this is three days late. Couldn't get my medicine since last Thursday. For my apology I spent the last seven hours writing eight thousand words of porn. Hope that balances the books in y'all's eyes.
Also, I'm uploading it straight out the text processor. So if you see any typos, that sucks. They might be fixed later. Might not. No one knows.
Chapter 42: (No) Job For A Cowboy
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Capital
Crossed Glory's Helm
Three and a Half Months Until Invasion
Sara watched the collection of ships slip through the harbor's gate with hands folded primly behind her back. She was wearing what had become her Official Uniform, an eclectic mix of Earthly styles and Tulian sensibilities. Her favored leather jacket, made of black crocodile hide, was slipped over her seagrass-based nylon jumpsuit. This particular suit was a recent gift from Ketch's father, tailored specifically for this day, that had been thickened into something less revealing than the original. It didn't breathe as well as the thinner versions Sara wore in private, but it sure beat the hell out of itchy cloth or pompous silks.
The rest of her outfit was less familiar to her old sensibilities. She had selected them not to match her own tastes, but for political presentation. Her steel-toed boots had the leather peeled off the front, to show the metal beneath, marking her as a working woman, yet the finely worked leather implied subtle wealth, the kind that preferred practicality to display. Her sword was kept in a scabbard that Hurlish had strategically dented, adding fake battle damage that Sara hadn't actually allowed the sheath to suffer. Her hair fell over her shoulders, Evie's careful hands curling it even more than normal a few hours before, as was the style in Tulian to fight off humidity's frizzing. She wore no makeup, and had a light bruise on her right collarbone from the morning's sparring session that she'd consciously left uncovered.
What was most important, however, was the smallest addition to her ensemble. The control band to Evie' collar was ever-present on her right wrist, irremovable, but now it was complimented by a new band on her left. There was was clasped a near perfect replica of the divine control band, polished to an iridescent sheen, but with one critical modification: a jagged crack splitting it over the top. An aspirational garment, representing the dream that the Tulian Republic had been founded to fulfill.
Sara patted herself down a few extra times, just to be safe, and glanced to her left. Nora stood beside her, wearing the same uniform as always, a napoleonic officer's uniform of black and gold. She had a foul expression on her face, jaw working.
"I still think yer a fool for this, Sara."
"It's a good thing I'm in charge, then."
Nora spat to the side, unwilling to rekindle the old debate. It was one that had raged over the past few days as the Carrion delegation approached, centered around the capital's harbor defenses. Nora had vehemently insisted that they needed to expend every possible effort to bolster the city's oceanside fortifications, greeting the foreign diplomats with as strong a face as possible. Sara, having heard endless tales of Carrion prowess from Nora herself, had drawn the opposite conclusion.
Sara had ordered every ballistae placed along the harborside transferred to the inland walls, halted repairs of the harbor gates, ordered the building of additional flimsy wooden docks in lieu of repairing the stone wharfs, and demolished several rotten dockside warehouses. The only defenses that remained were the walls themselves, and when Nora's naval scouts had reported the Carrion approach, she'd ordered the guards patrolling them to take the day off. Tulian was now as indefensible a city as she could make it, at least when it came to the sea, and it drove Nora mad.
"Do you really think the Carrion Navy would be impressed by anything we could cook up?" Sara asked. "We'd look like toddlers brandishing a butter knife."
"It's not about winning, Sara. It's about making them think the attack will bleed them enough to not be worth the trouble."
"You said they've got over a hundred magecraft in their fleet."
"Aye. But deploying them against us weakens them elsewhere, and that isn't something they're eager to do."
"But they would think it worthwhile, to ride themselves of a potentially hostile Champion."
Nora pressed her lips thin, not responding. Sara let the topic drop. She was convinced she'd chosen the right course, but that didn't mean Nora was being foolish. Sara took the captain's advice at face value more often than any of her allies, but in this case, she refused to compromise. Where Sara viewed this meeting as one between prospective allies, Nora saw it as the sizing up of two future combatants. If Sara had magically gazed into the future to discover the fae-touched captain was right, that conflict with the Carrion Navy was inevitable, Sara would have happily thrown every last coin at the harbor's defenses. Lacking that prophetic insight, Sara had chosen a different tack, one with more risk and more reward. Better to be seen as a friend welcoming them with open arms.
The Carrion delegation swept into the harbor at an impressive clip, four ships sailing mere yards abreast to slip through the gate as one. It was an impressive display of sailing prowess, magnified by the second and third row of ships, which slid through in the exact same fashion. In a tenth of the time it would have taken to enter in column, all twelve Carrion vessels had entered the harbor. One vessel broke away from the line, heading towards the Crossed Glory.
Sara didn't need Nora's expertise to recognize the delegation's flagship. It was a magecraft, built of a style Sara hadn't seen before. It was wider than the Crossed Glory by a half-dozen yards and nearly twice as long, propelled by three massive square sails. Even as long as the vessel was, perhaps two hundred feet or so, all three sails should have overlapped too much for them to fully catch the wind. They billowed in the light breeze anyway, plowing a wake through the harbor as signal flags were run up its frontmost mast.
"They're requesting permission to dock all twelve ships abreast at the stone wharfs," Nora translated. "Don't want to split up their fleet, which is to be expected, but they'll occupy the finest docks for the duration of their visit. A bit rude, to throw a snag in a port's operations like that."
"Maybe, but it's our fault for not having enough docks to properly accommodate them. Let them have their pick."
Nora raised her voice, translating Sara's response into naval jargon parsable by a signalwoman. The Carrion ships responded immediately, gracefully curving to take their places. Only the lead vessel, the magecraft, continued unchanged, heading straight for the Crossed Glory.
"I take it that's the head honcho's ship?"
"Aye. Haven't a clue who she's delivering, but the captain's a high ranker for sure. That's one of their Bulkers. A transport magecraft, meant for delivering marines to enemy cities. Tough fuckers, they are, built to shrug off catapults and spells on their way into an enemy harbor."
"I don't suppose you've got a plan for that ship being full of Carrion marines itching to take the city?"
"Not a damn one," Nora cheerfully replied. She side-eyed Sara. "I might've, if we'd had any defenses prepared..."
Sara chuckled darkly. "Guess we'll just have to put our faith in Carrion honor. I'm not all that concerned, though. Can't imagine they'd send a letter ahead if they were interested in taking the city."
"One hopes so."
Sara ambled up to the edge of the helm as the Bulker finished its approach, figures and faces becoming clear as the distance closed. An honor guard of plumed marines was on the central deck, wearing the same armor that Ignite still preferred. The former Carrion sergeant had sent himself out on a distant patrol for the duration of the delegation's visit, thoroughly uninterested in his countrymen learning of his "shameful" refusal to commit suicide with the rest of his defeated crew. Sara would have loved to have his advice through the negotiations, but couldn't bring herself to force him to confront what he still viewed as a deeply personal shame.
Nora's advice would serve her well enough. The Crossed Glory was anchored a hundred yards beyond the docks for the purposes of this initial meeting, allowing the Bulker to slide up alongside them with ease. As the magecraft entered speaking distance, anchors on the front and rear of the ship were tossed, padding attached to ropes dropped over the side to prevent the two ship's hulls from scraping. The core of marines suddenly slammed their gauntleted fists against their breasts, a crack of metal sounding as they saluted in perfect unison. One marine, with a plethora of medals pinned to the front of his breastplate, stepped forward and took a deep breath.
"Presenting Captain Vanillaflower Sturdy, Representative of the Carrion Admiralty, he who is authorized to act in the interests of the Navy and her glorious people!"
Sara narrowly avoided rolling her eyes.
The front row of marines parted, an individual emerging from within the press of guards. Captain Vanillaflower, Sara presumed. He was dressed in royal finery of Carrion style, a mixture of exotic silks and cloths dyed into garishly bright hues by a dizzying variety of foreign colors. His black Captain's hat was the only article of clothing that didn't hurt to look at, and that was only because it was made of a rubbery-looking material. Sealskin, Sara guessed. An expensive novelty item from the far-distant northern regions where such animals lived, rather than an island of normalcy in his absurd getup.
A gangplank dropped from the Bulker, angled down to reach the Crossed Glory's considerably lower deck. Nora moved to the end of the gangplank, overseeing her crew's securing of the bridge. Captain Vanillaflower walked up to it, stopped just before stepping up, and pivoted smartly to face Nora.
"Permission to come aboard, Captain O'Gallison?"
"Permission granted, Captain Vanillaflower."
Several things surprised Sara over the next few moments. First was the fact that Captain Vanillaflower moved up onto the gangplank alone, none of his guards moving ahead to ensure his safety. He walked across without any apparent concern, dropping lightly down to the deck. Sara's surprise grew as none of the guards followed afterward, nor any attendants, nor even secondary diplomats. Sara could see the marines Vanillaflower had left behind straining at the leash to follow him, but they clearly had orders to remain put.
Vanillaflower swept his hat off his head and tucked it into his stomach as he greeted Sara with a bow. "Governess Sara." He placed his hat back on his head, then extended his hand to Nora. "Captain O'Gallison. A pleasure to be on your vessel."
"The pleasure's mine," Nora replied, shaking his hand firmly. "Not every day I have a magecraft's captain on my deck."
"And not every day that I get to shake the hand of an admiral, either." Vanillaflower returned his attention Sara. "Nor address the head of state so soon after my arrival. A testament to your commitment to the Tulian people that you so closely guide their fortunes, Governess."
"Your kind words are appreciated, Captain Vanillaflower, but I don't think my personal attendance is so exemplary. There is little more important for a ruler to busy themselves with than the greeting of a prospective ally."
If Vanillaflower thought anything of Sara so brazenly declaring her intent to secure an alliance, he showed nothing of it, but neither did he acknowledge the comment. He simply nodded sagely. "Wise words, Governess. Mine would be a far smoother occupation if other rulers thought as you did." Vanillaflower looked about, as if taking in the Crossed Glory's details for the first time. "An oddly patterned ship for such a meeting, I must say. Our records had it registered to one Captain Tilisa, but the ownership has clearly changed hands. I understand this to be your flagship, Admiral?"
"It is, but a temporary one. Her replacement is under construction at the moment, and should be ready before the spring."
"A magecraft, then?" Vanillaflower asked.
"No, but similar in capability," Sara replied. "She is being built with many techniques known only to my old world, and the transition of our industries is time consuming. Perhaps if the discussion proceeds smoothly enough, there will be time for you to tour the drydock which holds her."
Vanillaflower visibly brightened at the suggestion. "A most fascinating opportunity, and one I would be glad to pursue, if circumstances allow it. Though the Carrion Navy is vast, we aren't so arrogant to believe that only our own vessels are worthy of appreciation."
Sara nodded, glancing at the Bulker magecraft while she parsed the conversation's undertones. An offer to view a Navy's capital ship under construction was an enticing one, even with the added the caveat that the tour was dependent on her satisfaction regarding the negotiations. Vanillaflower had expressed interest in turn, demonstrating that the information was something he might be willing to make concessions in order to obtain, but hadn't offered particulars right away. All in all, a productive introduction.
As she eyed the Bulker appreciatively, Sara's attention was dragged upward by something in the distance. The waters beneath Tulian gates, unguarded as per her orders, were being darkened by a ship's shadow. A familiar profile was slipping into the harbor, a design of vessel she knew well, from a battle that had taken place only a few hundred yards away a few months prior.
"Nora."
"Aye."
Vanillaflower caught the tone of their words and turned, following their eyes. Above, from both vessel's crow's nests, came a mixture of cried reports. Sara couldn't understand the Carrion language, but caught the Crossed Glory's well enough.
"Vessel entering harbor, Cap'n! Flyin' the Royal Coat of Arms of Sporatos!"
Spies. Sara thought, venom dripping from the thought. Spies in my city. No, I always knew they would have spies among the city. To have known about the Carrion delegation requires spies among my government. Someone elected to the Guilds, or someone I trusted. She stepped forward, marshaling her fury as she took a more militant posture beside Captain Vanillaflower.
"It appears we have an unwelcome guest attempting to insert themselves in private matters, Captain Vanillaflower. I apologize for the interruption."
The man chuckled humorlessly. "No need for apologies, Governess. I am quite certain that you did not orchestrate such an event." They both watched the Sporaton vessel approach, the usual political rigamarole dispensed with while both adjusted their plans for the day. Vanillaflower looked at Sara from the corner of his eye. "Rumors circulate that you've claimed King Sporatos intends to invade your Republic come spring. Sporatos at war is a sensational enough thought that words has reached even the most distant Carrion colonies. Are these mere rumors, or fact?"
There was no possibility the Carrion Navy was unappraised of the coming war, Sara quickly decided. That meant Vanillaflower wanted something deeper than a confirmation of her statement. Evidence, then.
"I heard of the King's intent from the lips of a captured Royal Navy Captain, one Acertan Vidanya. He came into our care following a failed and illegal assault upon the city from the sea. He offered the information feely and unprompted, imploring me to return to Sporatos so that my Champion's abilities may serve the Royalty's own ends."
"And this Captain Vidanya who assaulted your city, what became of him?"
"In the course of our discussion, he also freely mentioned his ownership of slaves."
"Ah."
Silence stretched once more. If there was one thing the Carrion Navy was well appraised of, it was her stance on slavery.
"He likely lives once more, if you're curious," Sara added after a minute. "Following his execution, I ordered his body preserved and returned to Sporatos. I thought a living messenger more effective than ink alone, and I've reason to believe King Sporatos is invested enough in the conflict to leverage a priest for the revival."
"The famous note, then?" Vanillaflower asked. "This is where it came from?"
She certainly hadn't expected that to be the piece of information Vanillaflower seized upon. Sara smiled sardonically. "I wasn't aware it was famous, but yes, that was when it was delivered. The dissemination efforts have proceeded well, I can assume?"
Vanillaflower laughed again, this time with slightly more warmth. "I haven't a clue how you managed it, but yes, they have. I've heard it said from Captains trading along the Sporaton coast that replications are common enough the men collect them while in port to use as sanitary paper. The local officials are happy to be rid of them, and hand them over eagerly."
"Not how I might prefer my partner's handwriting to be treated, but I'll take the word being spread however it may happen."
The silence returned. Not an awkward one, but a calculating one. Vanillaflower hadn't intended to become embroiled in a shit-slinging contest between rival nations, but he wasn't so foolish a diplomat as to miss the opportunity presented. For all the Carrion Navy lacked in landpower, they were indomitable on the seas, and the stakes for these had just rose considerably. Sara would have to be certain to ensure the Carrion Navy thought her the better bet in the coming conflict.
"Well," Sara said cheerfully, stepping forward as the Sporaton vessel circled to the Crossed Glory's unoccupied side. "Shall we see what our rude guest has to offer in apology?"
The unsubtle comment earned a mild snort from Vanillaflower, who waved her forward. "After you, Governess. To witness the Patron Goddess of Diplomats and their Chosen in her natural environment will be quite the treat, I can imagine."
Sara bore her teeth in a vicious smile.
Notes:
After two chapters in a row of 10k+ words, I decided I could have a normal length chapter. As a treat.
Several hints in here about other things Sara has been doing in the weeks between chapters, some of which require thinking back quite a ways. It's funny, how easy it is to do longterm foreshadowing when the earliest parts of your work spun so many threads that not all could be tied up in timely manner.
Thanks for the comments, thanks for putting up with my (increasingly less!) irregular upload schedule, and apologies for the cliffhanger!
Chapter 43: Gutter Queen
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Sporaton vessel tied up alongside the Crossed Glory without so much as a shout or signal flag raised. Sara waited on the deck as the perfect image of saintly patience, a vague and impossible to read smile plastered across her face. Internally, she was thrashing in rage, barely able to stop herself from leaping across the gap with sword swinging. The Sporaton ship's crew could tell it, too, no matter how perfect her presentation was. They followed orders to bring the ship to dock with the energy of dogs beaten black and blue, stooped low, avoiding her eye like the plague. Only one figure on the deck was standing tall, staring back at Sara.
The gangplank dropped. Sara moved into position with Nora and Vanillaflower, the Carrion diplomat taking a post a few feet to the side of the bridge, so that he wouldn't be seen as part of the receiving party on a vessel he didn't control. The lone Sporaton with a straight spine stepped up onto the gangplank, staring down at Sara.
Sara stared back. It was a woman, dressed in gray flowing robes that pooled around her feet. The garment was low-cut, showing an amount of cleavage Sara knew to be utterly scandalous in Sporatos, and though its design would otherwise have smacked of religion, it had been modified too extensively to belong to a member of the clergy. Royal purple stripes ran up and down the front of the robes, whatever dye they used containing flecks of powdered gemstones that left the color glittering in the sunlight. Her hood, presently lowered, was wide enough to slump over her shoulders even if it had been raised. Her makeup was impeccably done, barely noticeable that she wore any at all, which was quite the achievement with the primitive powders available to this world. Even beneath the makeup her features were classically attractive, sharp in the eyes and soft around the cheeks, complimented by jeweled earrings.
The woman stepped up onto the gangplank and walked to its very edge, smiling sweetly first at Sara, then at Nora.
"Permission to come aboard, Captain O'Gallison?"
"Your name?"
"Diplomat Feder Otilia of House Otilia, Captain O'Gallison. I was traveling to a meeting with Carrion officials, and just so happened across this little gathering. I thought the opportunity to include our new southern neighbors in the meeting would be one appreciated, and elected to make a detour." She cocked her head, as if considering something. "Of course, if I am unwelcome, I will take my leave."
Clever. Pretend you're doing me a favor by including Tulian in a meeting between two larger powers. Sara's teeth ground. It wasn't like she'd intended to turn the Sporaton diplomat away, not when this gave her the opportunity to sabotage any Carrion-Sporaton negotiations, but the same was true in reverse. Otilia and Sara would be both be working to undercut the other's objectives.
Nora looked to Sara, deferring to her diplomatic expertise. Sara nodded, and Nora waved Otilia forward.
"Permission granted, Diplomat Feder Otilia. Welcome aboard."
It was the least-welcoming welcome Sara had ever heard uttered.
Otilia daintily lifted her robes and stepped down onto the Crossed Glory's deck, prompting several guards from her vessel to hop onto the gangplank to follow behind. To Sara's great delight, the Sporaton guards clomped straight across the gangplank and hopped down, landing directly before Vanillaflower. The Carrion Captain's eyes widened in shock, lips parting a little bit as he watched the brazen display. By using her full name, Nora had specifically granted Otilia permission to come aboard, and Otilia alone. Vanillaflower shook his head, pursed his lips, and took several steps away from the soldiers, turning his back to both them and Otilia.
You fucked up, bitch, Sara thought. Her plaster smile grew more brittle as she forced it to widen, sweeping a hand towards the Crossed Glory's officer cabins.
"Shall we proceed to our meeting?"
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Sara spun her goblet of wine, watching the ruby liquid swirl. A good vintage, by all accounts, one of countless pilfered from wealthy captains by Nora on this very ship. Wine that didn't just taste good, it was worth appreciating. She set it aside, untouched, with a sigh. The Sporaton arrival and its implications had put a sour taste in her mouth about drinks prepared out of sight. Privately, she rolled her eyes at herself. Evie would be delighted when she learned some of her rampant paranoia had infected Sara.
Sara kicked her feet up on an overly large ottoman– was it really called that, here? – and took in the rest of the room, scanning its exits and entrances as Evie constantly implored her to do. The simple windows at the rear of the ship had been replaced by yet another stolen relic, this time a fine stained glass rendition of Daylagon, God of the Deeps. A door to the head– essentially a toilet seat above a hole to the ocean– was in the back right of the room, and exiting through there was certainly a last resort option. That left only the rear windows and the doors she had entered through, which would be the easiest for an enemy to cover in the event of an ambush. Idly, she decided she'd preemptively widen them with a bit of Lightning before making her exit, should it come to violence.
She doubted it would, though. Otilia was settled primly in a soft velvet loveseat, legs crossed at the ankles beneath her robes as she, too, took in the room. When aboard a ship Nora had little use for a bedroom, or beds in general, and so had converted the old captain's cabin into a stateroom. The centerpiece was a long and rich table, a single slab of dark wood that swirled with patterns of strange growth rings. It could fit twelve comfortably in its associated chairs, or twice that if one wasn't afraid of bumping elbows. A chandelier of glowing crystals rested above it, made of artfully worked brass, like many of the room's other pieces of finery. Nora's stateroom was large enough that the three comfortable chairs currently hosting Sara and the others in the corner were spaced a few feet apart, facing one another. The entire room bobbed with the waves passing the ship deep below. An excellent place to hold a discussion regarding naval matters, if it weren't for the bastard of a woman darkening Sara's vision.
Otilia caught Sara staring, smiling brightly back at her. The royal diplomat reached up and dismissed the man whispering into her ear with a flick of her fingers. He exited quickly. It was only the three of them in the stateroom, now. Otilia leaned forward.
"As you are the host, I implore you, please do not hold back on your discussions on my account. It was too much already to ask that I join you in this room, and I wouldn't impose further."
"Oh, nonsense," Sara replied fondly. "Clearly your matters were very urgent, if they drove you into a foreign port to speak your mind." I ain't saying shit in front of you that I don't have to. Sara turned to Vanillaflower, who was observing the exchange with the mild concern of a man watching two alleycats mauling one another beneath his window. "It is ultimately up to you, Captain, but I will freely cede the opening stages of this meeting to Diplomat Otilia. After all, we were expecting to host you for a week or more, and there will be plenty of time for us to discuss later."
Sara took savage satisfaction in watching Otilia's eyes flash. She hadn't known Vanillaflower was to be in port for so long, clearly, and didn't like what it implied of Carrion interest in Sara's cause. Vanillaflower, professionally stoic, seemed only concerned with mulling his decision over.
"Others may have been more recalcitrant in your position, Governess, and so I thank you for affording me such discretion," he said. He turned to Otilia. "Please, Diplomat, the Governess is correct. What was so pressing to drive you here?"
Forced to reveal her hand first, Otilia at least had the good graces to not show her frustration. She gestured out towards the city's walls, beyond which the the wide ocean waited.
"A manner of some irony, considering our current whereabouts. As the Carrion Navy is no doubt aware, these last few months have seen a meteoric rise in piracy along the former Tulian coastline. My Lord the King wished first and foremost to discuss strategies with Carrion officials, so that we may coordinate our efforts in protecting trade around the continental horn."
"And the irony you speak of, it comes from...?"
Otilia's smile fell a shade, as if disappointed to be forced to make such accusations in Sara's presence. "Well, it is no secret that the very ship we occupy is responsible for a great deal of this piracy, Captain. I shudder to imagine what else it carries beyond these velvet chairs that are painted so deeply red, but fear it must include a great deal of steel."
"Accusing us of piracy, Otilia?" Sara adjusted her legs on the ottoman, resting her left foot atop her right. "Admiral Nora has explained her terms to each and every vessel she approached in our territorial waters, and had them solidly refused. It is well within the Tulian Republic's rights to enforce our laws within fifteen leagues of the coast. Surely you're familiar with the Salian Accords, penned by the Carrion Navy itself? Sporatos itself is a signatory, if you'll recall."
Perhaps visible only to Sara, Otilia's smile cracked slightly. "The Salian Accords, if they were faithfully followed, afford the crews of captured vessels an offer of parole, should they agree not to return to the territories of where an offense was committed. As the only thing that your pirate crews have seen fit to return to us is common dregs and wrapped bodies, it cannot be argued your so-called nation is adhering to the Accord's terms."
"Captain Vanilaflower, a question," Sara abruptly said, turning to the man. "While I am well aware of the terms of parole that the Salian Accords require, what do they dictate to be done when a crime is committed by a captured opponent still in Tulian waters?"
"An individual under the control of a nation following a naval engagement that sees fit to commit a crime is to be charged and tried under whatever local custom is applicable, so long as they are afforded the same rights as if they were a citizen of the capturing nation," Vanillaflower replied, easily rattling off the exact verbiage.
Genuine warmth entered Sara's smile for the first time as she turned back to Otilia. "And therein lies the crux of the confusion, Diplomat Otilia. You see, the Tulian Republic has rather strict legalities regarding slavery and forced labor. As far as I'm aware, not a single Sporaton vessel is free of such sin." Sara reached down to her hip, where she kept her Bag of Holding, and pulled out a stack of papers so thick it barely fit in her hand. She set it on the ottoman, waving Otilia forward. "If you'd like, here are the transcripts recorded by Admiral Nora's staff, detailing each and every refusal of Sporaton vessels to immediately free their slaves and appropriately pay their crew. Such refusal, of course, constitutes a crime for which Tulian law has only one punishment."
Sara leaned back rather smugly, but was stopped from completely relaxing when Otilia did, in fact, reach forward to take the papers. To Sara's utter surprise, she began quietly thumbing through the stack, skimming the headlines until she found a selection that caught her eye. She neatly slid it out of the stack, set the papers down askew so she could recall their place in the stack, and began reading. Having made the offer so bluntly, Sara was forced to sit and wait, wondering what the woman was playing at. Did she really think Sara had prepared an entirely false set of records?
After a few long minutes of silent perusing, Otilia looked up from the transcripts with her eyebrows pinched together.
"It would seem to me, Lady Sara, that not one of these transcripts include the crew of Sporaton vessels being given an explanation of the laws they were operating under. Consistently, through each and every encounter detailed here, your Admiral has only demanded the freeing of slaves and the immediate payment of indentured servants. When the Sporaton officers refused– having already been told they are operating under the Salian Accords and believing they will soon be repatriated to Sporatos– they are summarily executed. Many, in fact, explain that they do not carry the coin aboard necessary to pay their crews at the demanded rates, and ask for time to acquire it while in Tulian waters. A request that is universally refused."
Vanillaflower's lips turned down, his fingers steepling. He leaned forward in his chair, holding out a hand for the papers, which Otilia happily handed him. He scanned them for considerably less time than Otilia had, already knowing what to look for. He set the papers aside shortly, frowning at Sara.
"It is as she says, Governess. None of those whom your forces demanded to release their slaves were offered an explanation of the consequences for refusal. While this abides by the letter of the Salian Accords, it does not befit the spirit. Yours is a young Republic, too young for knowledge of its customs and laws to have spread."
But if we told them that, some of them may actually agree, and then we wouldn't get to execute them. Just have to let the rotten bastards walk free.
Sara, of course, said nothing of the sort aloud, but she did pause for a moment to formulate a less spiteful response.
"Every legal code that I am aware of, both in my old world and this new one, do not accept ignorance of the law as an excuse to avoid punishment. However, I can agree that these particular circumstances are fairly unique. I will make it a point to alter our procedures in the future, to avoid further miscommunication."
It was Otilia's turn now to relax into her chair, radiating satisfaction as she filed the papers back into their proper spots. From the woman's initial blunders in boarding the ship to Vanillaflower's general distaste for her interruption of the meeting, Sara felt certain she was ahead in the Carrion Captain's favor, but the concession Sara had just been forced to make was a considerable victory for the Sporaton diplomat. Quite frankly, it was the first time since Sara fallen under Amarat's banner that she'd had one of her bluffs called, and that irritated her to no end.
Vanillaflower took an appreciate sip of his own wine, nodding to Otilia.
"You said that the matters of piracy were the first among your King's concerns, but not the only. Tell me, what else did you wish to discuss with our people?"
Sara politely pulled back from the conversation as Otilia delved into a list of less important matters, most of which involved nattering over the specifics of tariffs and trade deals. Important things for a diplomat, and something that would someday matter greatly to Sara, but were presently utterly secondary to her interests. She took mental notes of the specific rates and whatnot mentioned, so that she had a good baseline as to what was "normal" for any similar negotiations she might enter in the future, but otherwise happily withdrew, plotting her next moves.
After quite a while of preliminary back-and-forth, Vanillaflower held up a hand.
"While I find the terms we have discussed agreeable, favorable even, I haven't the authority to sign any binding agreements. My charter for this mission was in relation to the Tulian Republic, not Sporatos, and I will have to return your terms to the appropriate officials before they can be ratified." Vanillaflower turned to peer out the stained glass window, where the sun was beginning to near the harbor's massive walls. "A productive first day of discussions, I believe, but the day grows late, and I am but one of many amongst the Carrion entourage. You have both given me a great deal to consider, and I would be remiss to exclude my fellow Captains from my deliberations."
"Of course, Captain Vanillaflower," Sara said, standing. "I wouldn't wish to keep you, especially when so much has changed from our initial plans for this exchange. If you would permit me to escort you back to your ship?"
Vanillaflower stood. "My thanks, Governess." He inclined his head to Otilia. "Lady Otilia."
The diplomat began to stand, preparing to leave, but Sara made a motion for her to stop. "If you wouldn't mind, Diplomat Otilia, I believe there may yet be more for us to discuss. If you will allow me a brief absence to return Captain Vanillaflower to his ship, I will return shortly."
Hands still on her chair's arms, Otilia paused. After a moment, she relaxed back down. "As you say, Lady Sara. I haven't any more pressing engagements at this moment."
Sara nodded her thanks, then turned to walk Vanillaflower to his magecraft. When she thought they were solidly out of even supernaturally aided hearing's range, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
"Not how I wanted this first day to go," she admitted, using a far more casual tone than she had in the stateroom.
"Nor I," Vanillaflower replied, slowing his walk. "I will be frank with you, Governess. The Carrion Navy has no interest in picking sides in this conflict. Champions are too wild a factor to be predictable, and the most aggressive Carrion captains are in agreement with the most conservative: it is best to leave your peoples to their squabbling."
"I anticipated as much," Sara said truthfully. "But I will tell you this, before you come to a preemptive conclusion: I have no desire to lead the nation following this initial war. The element of so-called Champion unpredictability will end with Sporatos' defeat. Following that, which ally do you imagine will be easier for the vaunted Carrion Navy to influence? A massive, land-based absolute monarchy, one with little dependency on their naval trade, or an expiremental coastal Republic barely out of the cradle?"
Vanillaflower chuckled. "An appeal to my sensibilities by demonstrating your own weakness. An interesting tack you take, Governess Sara."
"Even before I became Amarat's Champion, I rarely found a lie that was more effective than the truth. When honesty serves my purposes, why bother with anything else?"
"You speak wisely once more, Governess, yet I feel compelled to point out that such a claim is exactly what a liar would offer to present themselves as honest."
"I understand. Trust must be earned, not demanded. I only ask that you watch my actions and draw your own conclusions."
"So I will, Governess. So I will."
They reached the gangplank of the Bulker, and Sara bid Vanillaflower adieu. The man was swarmed by a horde as soon as he was back on his own ship, many dressed in similar finery to him, and Sara could only imagine the plethora of questions he would soon have to fend off. If nothing else, the Sporaton arrival had brought a level of attention to the negotiations they would have otherwise lacked.
That job done, Sara returned quickly to the stateroom, giving Nora a right-handed wave as she went. The signal meant that all was well, and no intervention was necessary. Sara entered the shadow of the helm, gripped the handle to the stateroom door, took a deep breath, then flung it open.
Sara stormed into the room as the door cracked against the far wall, rebounding with enough force to shut itself before she'd taken two steps further. Otilia sat calmly in her chair with palms atop her knees, smiling up at Sara.
"What was it you wished to discuss, Lady–"
"Shut the fuck up."
Otilia drew herself up. "I beg your pardon–?"
"Beg." Sara spread her hands wide, towering over the diplomat. "Beg. That's a good word. It's what I want you to do. Beg. "
"Are you threatening my life, Lady Sara?"
"I'm threatening your entire nation, you contemptible bitch. I'm threatening the foundation of power that you draw your authority from. I'm going to take your ancient traditions in both hands and pull until they snap. I'm going to grab that fat-ass you call King around the neck and squeeze until I can see blood bursting in his eyes, and I'm not going to drop him until I feel the shit falling from his royal trousers to let me know he's really dead."
Otilia rocketed to her feet. "You heathen! You make a mockery of your god's name!"
"You make a mockery of humanity's name, whore." Sara glanced down at her exposed cleavage. "That is what you are, isn't it? A gussied-up whore? Did you really think the Patron Saint of Diplomats was going to earn a valuable alliance with eye candy? That you had to counter it with your own? Was it your idea to wear the push-up bra, or did one of your minders pick it out for you?"
Otilia took a furious step forward, raising her hand in preparation to slap Sara. Doing so, however, took her directly past the ottoman.
The lid of the footstool flung up hard enough to bounce off the ceiling, a coiled form emerging in a flash of summoning light. The flat of Evie's blade dropped into place an inch before Otilia's sternum, stopping her cold. The feline was dressed in her full battle regalia, black leather over a ruby dress, but with the uncharacteristic addition of even heavier protection. Chainmail hung around her neck, drooping to protect her arms and armpits, and thin steel chausses protected her legs. The close interior of the stateroom left no room for her usual maneuverable style, and they hadn't been certain Vanillaflower and Otilia would leave their guards behind, so the armor had seemed prudent. Facing only one woman, it was overkill, but Sara enjoyed the effect all the same. She bore her teeth in a wicked smile at Otilia.
"I can't believe you came to this place thinking I'd give a single flying fuck about propriety. Didn't my month in your capital give you enough of an idea that I don't give a shit about you people? About your customs? I'd call you barbaric, but that'd be an insult to the people who were first called that. At least they had the decency to take pride in their so-called barbarism, made it a tenant of their culture. You fucks just hide behind tradition and wordplay, twisting the meaning of things until you can convince yourself that all your depravity is 'honor'." Sara aimed a wad of spit towards Otilia's feet, which landed on her robes. "Fucking disgusting."
Otilia quivered in place, incensed beyond belief. Her jaw worked as she tried to restrain herself, some distant part of her mind capable of recognizing she stood no chance against two Irregulars. Finally, through grinding teeth, she spoke.
"Is this what you are? What you truly are? A slobbering beast, capable of parroting human speech only when there are no consequences for revealing your animalistic instincts? You are what Amarat sent unto us?"
"You bet it, cunt. The only reason you're still breathing is because killing diplomats is bad for business. As much as I'd love to lop your head off, prohibitions about killing your type exist for a reason. Hard to get deals done when no one wants to show up to talk."
"Not a beast, then. Just a child, throwing a tantrum when they don't get their way." Otilia turned to Evie, who was still holding her in place with her rapier. Otilia gestured down to her soiled robes. "Look upon what you've been chained to, Lady Eliah. It's well known you had no knowledge of your mother's treachery, and yet you were brought this low in punishment. A shame, for so bright a flame to doused by this... this gutter water. What think you of where you've been brought, hm?" Otilia didn't wait for an answer, barking out her laughter. "Of course, you can't answer! You're naught but a slave now, the very thing your master so despises."
Evie's stance didn't move an inch as she spoke. "If you think Master had any desire to own a slave, you've been woefully unprepared for the task you were given."
"If she really despised being a slaveowner so much, why does she still wear that band upon her wrist, hm? She enjoys the dominion she has over you, woman, or else she would have been rid of you long ago."
Sara snorted. "Is that what you think a solution to my problem is? Not freeing my slave, but simply getting them off my hands? Making it someone else's problem, out of sight, out of mind? I'd hate to see how you clean your room."
"A commoner's perspective. How predictable. Her essence has been altered, Lady Sara, by divine writ itself. She is a slave now, and will never again be anything more. Do you really think that there is some solution to be found for the god's gifts, Lady Sara? That you may simply absolve the realms of your woes by force of personality alone?"
"I was going to do it by force of violence, actually, but my award-winning personality will probably help."
Otilia threw her hands in the air. "A child! Truly, that's all you are. A child given a sword, thinking themselves untouchable. Unlike you, I will not stoop to blasphemy, but tonight I will certainly be praying to Amarat for a revelation regarding her purpose in bringing you here."
"She's the goddess of emotion, you know. Maybe I exist just to piss you off as much as humanly possible."
"Bafflement is a better word for the emotion you engender," Otilia snapped. "Why the Carrion Navy even entertains the thought of accompanying a creature like you is beyond me."
Sara jabbed a thumb upward, towards where the helm was positioned. "Pretty sure they got spooked by my fuckbuddy up top. She's a damn mean captain, I've been told."
"So the rumors go," Otilia agreed, unknowingly confirming for Sara that Nora's reputation had reached Sporatos. "But no matter how 'mean' a captain she may be, what will she do when a Navy a dozen times her superior bears down on this pathetic hovel you call a city?"
Sara tapped her chin in thought. "Only a dozen times? Well, it'll be a while before she has the trained crew for so many ships, so she'll probably start by taking stock of which vessels are worth capturing and which can be destroyed. No point paying maintenance bills on ships she couldn't use after the battle, after all."
"Your arrogance is breathtaking."
Sara shrugged. "Hey, that one wasn't even exaggeration. Amarat herself guided me to Nora, so she's got a literal god's endorsement. Not to mention the fact that I think she may be some fucked up variety of pseudo-Champion, and unlike me, she's a combat class. That's a little tidbit of information I'll give you for free, by the way."
Otilia tsked. "An asinine claim, Lady Sara. Two Champions have never coincided by less than a century. Even you must know that much. Supposing such were true, why would you tell your enemy of it? It would be far better to reveal such prowess in the midst of battle, so that our forces would be taken by surprise. Even you are not so naive."
"Why tell you?" Sara picked at her fingernails. "That's easy. It's because I'd rather kill innocent conscripts in the open fields of Tulian, where they can surrender or run away. Out on the ocean they'll have no choice but to drown, and that pricks my conscious."
Otilia's laughter was harsh. "A Champion, a being with the unique potential of reaching the very heights of mortal prowess, sacrificing their own advantages in lieu of caring for the peasantry? What a novelty. Do you truly think me such a fool?"
Sara grinned. She couldn't resist such an opportunity. "Oh, yeah. Absolutely. You're stupid as hell."
Whether Otilia's sudden drawing up of her shoulders was in response to the insult, or in self-recrimination at so easily providing an opportunity for it to be levied, Sara couldn't tell. What she could tell, however, was how deeply the comment dug beneath the woman's skin.
Take pride in your intelligence, do you? Let's twist the knife a bit further.
"I mean, how could I not think you're stupid? Shit that every mouthbreather back on Earth learns as a toddler are totally revolutionary, here. All your training, all your education, it doesn't hold a candle to the lessons I got at six years old. If not washing your ass didn't make it itch, you'd never even consider wiping after you shit."
Otilia recoiled as if physically struck. Sara watched with considerable interest as the woman's expressions twisted; she'd never had a front row seat to someone entering a dissociative episode before. Clearly, whatever mental image the diplomat had of Amarat's Champion was being too severely violated for it to fit with her concept of reality.
"Evie, you can drop your sword now." The feline did so, though Otilia hardly seemed to notice. Sara snapped her fingers a few times, loudly. Otilia's eyes locked onto the gesture, sharpening just a bit. "You wanna go back to your boat, now? I think this conversation's over."
Otilia took a deep, shuddering breath. "Go fuck yourself, Champion."
Sara smiled. "That's the spirit!"
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Otilia entered her cabin in a flurry of frustration, clawing at her shoulder blades to loosen her corset. Deep within her robes, buried in a hidden pocket, she felt a warm buzzing, but she ignored it. After some fumbling her long fingernails managed to find the corset's first knot, which she ripped open with a grunt. The release of pressure from her ribcage was blissful, but the physical comfort did little for her mental state.
The buzzing intensified, the hidden crystal growing warm against her skin. She took several deep breaths, whispering to herself to ensure her voice was mastered, then pulled the device out.
"As expected, Lady Otilia," a muffled voice said. Even when magically transmitted through the rose quartz gem, its pitch was shifted to hide the speaker's identity. "The Champion of Amarat behaves exactly as anticipated."
Otilia physically bit her tongue, restraining her incredulous response. "She did, Ser?"
"Indeed. It seems you expected her to act otherwise, but our briefing warned you of her erratic nature."
"That was not erratic, Ser," Otilia snapped, tone sharpening despite herself. "She spoke with no purpose whatsoever. She insulted and raged endlessly, but none of it meant a thing. Nothing was achieved. No, that was not erratic, that was a woman sick in the mind."
"Even if she truly were ill, Diplomat, you would do well to recall her divinity's blessings. Bolstered by Amarat, even a babbling child would be able to present itself however it so chose. Recall the meeting once more, but divorce your attention from the content of her words. Focus only upon the overtones, the emotions they evoked in you. Therein lies the message she wished to deliver."
Otilia set the crystal on her writing table and flung her robe over her head, trying to navigate her fury to follow the voice's advice. Her handler for this mission was a strange individual, one of uncertain gender and rank, yet assigned to her by King Sporatos himself. The masked figure had a habit of turning their conversations into lessons, guiding her to the conclusion they desired she draw, rather than openly stating their interpretations. Otilia would have found it insulting to her station, if not for the clear advantage in expertise they held over her.
And so, despite the twinge of instinctive irritation at being lectured, she considered the Champion's actions as the voice had instructed.
"The emotions she evoked in me? Anger. Reproach. Irritation. Disgust. Shock more than anything, I suppose. I have spent my life as a diplomat, and here I was expecting to meet a master of my craft. You warned me I would likely be bested, but instead I was humiliated in private, where none could bear witness for her to gain benefit from. Confusion, then, is the greatest emotion. I can't fathom her intention."
"That is because you think of your discussion with her through the lens of the Carrion delegation, Lady Otilia. But the moment Captain Vanillaflower left, her objective shifted. She knows you report to the King, and so chose a persona that she wished him to be appraised of. Now ask yourself, why would this persona be what she desires to be presented to King Sporatos?"
Once more, Otilia swallowed her indignation at being drip-fed what the voice could have simply stated. She finished shucking off her robes, moving to remove her corset as she worked through her thoughts.
"...Erratic behavior. Childish insults. Naive idealism." She pursed her lips, recalling the hours of research she spent in preparation for this journey. "All attributes common to historical Champions, but which have been noticeably absent in Sara Brown. Champions are traditionally fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen years of age, but she has repeatedly stated her age to be twenty-two, likely twenty-three by now."
"And?" The voice prompted.
"And she is going to war soon. She knows Champions are famed for their ignorance of practical matters, as well as their overzealous adherence to moral codes, and that King Sporatos would eagerly exploit such naiveté on the field of battle. She wishes to convince the King that he may deal with her with minimal effort, and that she is likely to repeat the mistakes of Champions throughout history."
"Very good," the voice purred.
Despite the praise, Otilia quietly fumed. After a brief bout of mutual silence, she spoke up, emphasizing the deference in her tone so that her questioning could not be perceived as insolent.
"But Ser, I see only a single problem with this. Her words, crass though they were, were spoken with utter conviction. For all she is a Champion of Amarat, she is young to our world, and cannot possibly yet equal the Skills I have accrued over my lifetime. She may very well be capable of fooling my eyes and ears, but every Ability I possess was in agreement that her words were genuine. She truly believes her claims, from her Admiral's prowess to her primary concern lying with the survival of our army's peasants. Defeat is a possibility in her mind, but a remote one, barely worth considering."
"Fall not for her guile, Lady Otilia. Your Skills are great, true, but she is a Champion. It is likely she can fool even your Abilities, impossible though it may seem."
Otilia bit her cheek, glad she did not have to maintain her physical composure. To fool a diplomat of the Seventeenth Advancement, after not even a year in possession of her Class? It was technically possible, she supposed. The woman was divinely imbued. But Otilia thought it unlikely. Vanishingly unlikely, no matter what the mysterious voice claimed.
But it was not her place to question.
"I understand, Ser, and I thank you for your guidance."
"You are most welcome, Lady Otilia. You are hereby ordered to withdraw from the city, as any further interaction with the Champion will only degrade Sporatos' standing in the eyes of the Carrion Navy."
Otilia bristled briefly, but her proverbial hackles fell quickly. Even she could not convince herself she might best Amarat's Champion in the coming days.
"I will set sail at first light."
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On the final day of his stay in the (now officially recognized as such) Tulian Republic, Captain Vanillaflower was being led through a tour of the freshly expanded Tulian drydocks. What had once been a series of slips fit for small trading sloops had been greatly extended in all directions, such that it could now fit two entire quinqueremes end-to-end. Such a massive drydock created in such a short timespan would have been impressive enough alone, a promise of major investment in naval matters to come, but what presently occupied the drydock dwarfed that paltry observation.
The keel of a massive behemoth lay on the stone, construction spiderwebbing its way up the sides at a frightening pace. Governess Sara had seen fit to list off the dimensions of the vessel during their approach to the dock, but the sheer scope of it had an impact only personal witness could convey.
It was larger than any mundane ship. It was larger than any normal magecraft. It was larger, even, than Vanillaflower's own magecraft, built expressly for the purpose of being the most massive conceivable transport. At two hundred and forty-five feet in length, with a beam that stretched fifty-five feet wide to support a mainmast towering two hundred feet above the deck, as well as a fore and mizzen mast only marginally less grand in scope, the creation was awe-inspiring in a great many ways. Through the course of their discussions, Governess Sara had made it repeatedly clear she had no desire to 'revolutionize' technological affairs across the waves, and if this vessel was what she considered unremarkable, Vanillaflower was grateful for it. He shuddered to imagine what creations lay within her mind, suppressed for want of not upsetting the status quo.
The junior artificers trailing like so many schoolchildren behind him were equally awed, he suspected. Vanillaflower had rightly predicted that one of the greatest desires of the Tulian Republic came in the form of artificers, whose technical skills were too complex to reinvent independently. Before setting sail he had collected a number of young volunteers, skilled enough to be of use to Tulian, but not yet entrusted with the Carrion Navy's true trade secrets. Teenagers, mostly, but trained from a young age for their craft, they were exactly skilled enough to provide a boon to Tulian artificing without exposing Carrion knowledge. They had proved as valuable a bargaining chip as he'd hoped, and their presence on this tour served as an introduction of sorts to their future jobs.
The young no-longer-apprentices gaped and gawked and whispered back and forth throughout the tour, muttering too many arcane technical terms for him to parse. A week with Governess Sara had given him achingly little insight into her mind's workings, but he had learned enough to recognize the way she preened under the reaction, utterly satisfied by their reaction in the same way a Deepwater beast might be after glutting itself upon a fatty carcass.
"Of course," Governess Sara loudly said, interrupting her own explanation of the vessel's particulars when she noticed the artificers' interest in the vessel was overwhelming their attention to her speech, "This is not a project which necessitates any artificing work. You will be aiding the Metalworking Guild and their crafters to produce equipment for the military's Irregulars."
A great clamor of confusion and disappointment wailed out, a racket which Vanillaflower silenced with one hard flick of his wrist. The artificers, though young, were raised in Carrion colonies. To irritate a Magecraft Captain, much less earn his direct reproach, was unthinkable. Vanillaflower smiled to Sara where the youngsters couldn't see it.
"Surely you mean that only a minority of those present will work on the vessel, Governess?" The words were a mercy to the artificers, who were likely screaming that question in their own minds. "The flagship under construction here cannot be brought into drydock cheaply or frequently, and the scope of its hull would allow for a frighteningly rapid accumulation of barnacles and other marine growth. The vessel would be useless in a matter of months."
"Oh, is that how y'all do it?" The governess asked, eyebrows raising with interest. The week's progression had seen the peculiar effect of re gressing the Governess' manner of speech, a rudeness he suffered without complaint, knowing it was the sign of her increasing trust in him. "After I heard from Nora that most military ships are kept out of the water until they're needed, I began to wonder. A Magecraft like yours couldn't be hauled out like the triremes are, I'm guessing."
"Just so," Vanillaflower agreed. It felt odd to so lecture a diplomatic partner in any way, but the Governess had repeatedly made it clear she would rather be embarrassed and informed than ignorant and happy. "The spellwork responsible for repelling marine growth is among the most vaunted of naval assets, and it is with no small pride that I confidently state the Carrion Navy's Skimmers are the finest in all the world in this regard. I see that the construction of this flagship goes well with even what little artificing talent you have accrued, but Admiral Nora likely informed you of the project's limitations long ago. It is simply not possible to create nor maintain a vessel of this size without the assistance of spellcraft."
"Nope," the Governess replied. The simple remark, spoken oh-so-casually, boomed like a gong in his and the artificer's ears. "Totally possible to do it without mages. Thanks for telling me that, though. It's good to know I've got a secret everyone else doesn't. Does mean we'll have to cancel our visit to the third location on this tour, sadly. Evie?" The Governess' ever-present shadow emerged, ears pricked up. "I want you to grab two of Ignite's most trusted squads and have them lock down the Metalworking Guild's portion of the dockyard. No one in, no one out, and search every last one of them for carrier pigeons, magical communication devices, or anything similar. Have them explain that I apologize, and that the waylaid workers will receive a nice bonus in a few day's time as compensation, but it turns out I accidentally assigned them to work on a top-secret national defense project."
The feline attendant nodded, placing two fingers to her lips to whistle a sharp pattern of notes. Immediately a half-dozen workers around the yard dropped their tools and closed in upon Sara, revealing hidden weapons. Vanillaflower had suspected the Governess' guard was too light, and this proved him right. Several unlatched hidden seams in the planks they'd been carrying to reveal longswords and polearms, a remarkably clever manner of disguising their weaponry. Vanillaflower hardly paid attention to the weapons, however, even as his own guards nervously closed ranks.
He was too busy reeling. To have missed such an opportunity! The Governess of Tulian had some manner of preventing marine growth without need of artificers? The concept was deceptively simple, but its implications were vast, vast! The economic and military value of a fleet capable of spending months or years at sea without degradation could not be overstated, particularly for the far-flung colonies of the Carrion Navy. Why, the cost savings alone from no longer hiring Azarketi to clean the hulls... Vanillaflower shook his head. A tragedy, to have so ignorantly missed the opportunity.
Now flanked by a half-dozen guards still wearing the garb of dockhands, the Governess smiled apologetically at Captain Vanillaflower.
"Sorry about that, but when I saw half your artificers about to cream their jeans, I knew I couldn't let that secret out for free."
Cream their jeans? Vanillaflower wondered, the metaphor lost on him.
The Governess continued on, oblivious to his confusion. "But as there's no point in denying it, yes, I have a method of preventing marine growth without magical aid. Can't imagine it'll stay hidden for long, not once this bad boy finally sets sail, but there's several problems you'd have to surmount that I've already solved. A topic for your second visit to Tulian, hm?"
Vanillaflower nodded mutely. Metalworking. The feline had been ordered to head to the Metalworking Guild's dockyard establishment. Something about the mysterious growth-proofing involved metal, and he would find out more. There had also been one 'Ignite' mentioned, someone in a position of trust to the Governess. Perhaps involved with the process? The name had the smack of a translated Carrion name to it, but who of such consequence would be working for a foreign nation? Perhaps the informants and their endless transcripts knew. He would have to consult the records. He pressed these facts deeply into his mind, then set them aside, refocusing on the tour.
"A topic for later indeed, Governess Sara." He folded his hands behind his back, slowly strolling down the length of the vessel. "You truly intend to complete the construction without any artificing aid whatsoever?"
"I do. Don't tell Nora I said it, but the Navy's playing second fiddle to the Army right now. We need enchanted armor far more than we need magecraft. King Sporatos won't come by sea." Sara shrugged. "And even if he did, she's got more than enough to deal with the bulk of the Sporaton Navy already. Her flagship will deal with the magecraft."
There it was again. That alien, unfounded confidence. As he had now gone through the process of preliminarily committing the Carrion Navy to a trade alliance with Tulian, pending Admiralty approval, his duty was now to warn her against such rash arrogance.
"I will remind you that our estimates of Sporaton magecraft place their number at fourteen, Governess. Inconsequential to the Carrion Navy, but devastating when pitted against a conventional force, no matter how superbly commanded."
Sara waved the words away as if bored. "Admiral Nora will deal with it, as I said."
Duty, as well as his personally favorable opinion of the Governess, compelled him to push the point. "Governess, I must insist otherwise. Captain Nora is a fine Admiral, but–" Sara's brows furrowed, true irritation shining through. He had overstepped. He stumbled over his words, changing tack. "–but I will take your word for it. It is your people's fate at stake, and you will steer them as you see fit."
Sara's eyebrows unfurled. "Thank you, Captain Vanillaflower. Now, I believe you'd expressed interest in surveying the lumber we harvested for the flagship? It was quite an adventure, navigating the predators that roam near the jungle wall, but the species of tree that grow there are truly titanic. If you look closely, the full keel of the ship is composed of a single unbroken piece of lumber, as the greatest of the jungle trees reach heights in excess of two hundred and fifty feet..."
Governess Sara moved on, finding new topics to discuss. Vanillaflower endeavored to bring his full attention to bear on the rest of the tour, but it was difficult. So often the Governess would hint at solutions to wondrous mysteries, but in a half-interested manner, as if their answers were foregone conclusions. She was too adept a conversationalist to let anything truly valuable slip, and truthfully, Vanillaflower wasn't certain if her offhanded comments were unintentional, or merely chum thrown in the water to drive him into a frenzy. Whatever the intention, the effect was the same, and he became increasingly convinced that Tulian, for all its favorable geography, was a distant second in priorities to the Champion herself. Sara Brown, not the Tulian Republic, were to be the object of Carrion attention in the coming years.
Even as the sun slipped low and his entourage began to dwindle, Vanillaflower found his thoughts drawn back to the Admiralty. Governess Sara thought him an important figure in the Carrion hierarchy, and a year ago, she would have been correct. Now only his Captaincy of a magecraft lent him credence, and it wasn't impossible for him to lose even that. He was a sacrificial pawn, fallen out of favor when the more conservative regime with which he was aligned had lost the Admiralty election.
The new Admirals wanted rid of him. Being sent to negotiate with Amarat's Champion wasn't a death sentence, but it was a very near thing. He would return to the Admiralty with favorable reports in hand, advising them to pursue an alliance with Tulian, and they would not listen. It was Amarat's Champion he'd been exposed to, after all. Of course he would agree with her. Of course he would come back singing her praises. The moment he had been given the task, they'd classified him as compromised, useless to his people.
Like the Carrion Captains of yesteryear, they had cut him loose and set him adrift, trusting the current to carry him towards the isle of a demonic Siren. Such practices had once been necessary, before the treacherous beasts had been culled, to avoid the entire ship falling under their foul spell and dashing itself against the rocks. In the Admiralty's eyes, his was a similar role, a disliked crewmember selected by his fellows to be ensnared by devilish influence.
But Vanillaflower himself did not feel the telltale sign of mind-warping influence infecting his judgement. Perhaps the Admiralty had forgotten, the records buried too deep, but he had not come to his station by nepotism. No, he had distinguished himself in the very Siren Culls which his present position was so similar to. With wax in his ears and a saber in his hand, his first command had been one of a Marine Sergeant wading through the shores of wretched islands, roaring at his men to resist the ethereal call assaulting their senses. He had cut down more than his share of brethren when they fell under the Siren's influence, and it was early in the days of the Cull that he swore to himself he would turn a blade upon his own neck the moment he felt himself falling under their sway.
Now, so many decades later, he found himself on the other end of the saber. He looked back through time, peering through his younger self's eyes as he appraised a Marine. The boy insisted, loudly, desperately, that he hadn't fallen under the Siren's spell. His stumbling was from landlegs, his eagerness to charge from the fury he felt towards the monstrous creatures, and his wide eyes and slurred speech came from the pipe and drink he'd imbibed in secret to stiffen his spine before battle.
On that day, Vanillaflower had cut the boy down. His decision had been vindicated by the boy's snarl of anger as he raised his saber and attempted to claw his way to the Sirens, but such was not always the case. Sometimes, after the sword fell, or when the battle was done, he had thought himself wrong. He felt certain that on several occasions he had killed an innocent soldier, one of sound mind and body, who simply failed to convince him such was true. He looked deeply upon those memories now, placing himself in the shoes of the Marines pleading for their lives. What should they have said, he wondered, to convince him? Where did they go wrong?
"...Captain Vanillaflower?" Sara asked, peering at him curiously. "Are you alright?"
Vanillaflower shook himself, returning to the moment. "Quite alright, Governess. Just reminded of my younger, more tumultuous days, and how certain lessons I learned then are proving more useful than I could have anticipated."
Sara looked dubiously about at the loom shop they were touring, which was producing the flagship's sails. Hardly an environment begetting such an ostentatious claim.
"Well that's a bit deeper than I expected, but I'll bite. What rabbit hole did you fall down?"
Vanillaflower chuckled. "An odd aphorism, but appropriate. Are you familiar with Sirens, Governess?"
Notes:
Community vote time! Why? Because I'm indecisive! Posting this chapter a day early so I can get opinions earlier. I'm debating between the next portion of the story focusing on Ketch's spying in Sporatos or Evie's first combat mission with the trainee Irregulars. Both will have smut sprinkled in, so no need to worry on missing out on that. Which option do you think would best fit the story's pace right now?
Also, thoughts on the meeting? I tried to pace the arguments almost like I do fight scenes, to keep them from being boring, but a part of me still worries the jargon would make reader's eyes glaze over.
Today's chapter title is a reference to Gutter Queen, by Free Refills. Quite proud of this one, as the lyrics are perfect for the scene, yet I picked the song after finishing the chapter. What luck, right?
Chapter 44: She Swallowed Burning Coals
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Abandoned City of Pahko
30 Miles North of the Tulian Capital
Two Months Until Spring
Sara rested against the walls of an abandoned city, enjoying the feel of cool stone through her sweat-soaked clothing. The granite protections of Pahko had been built to lesser standards than Tulian, and suffered greatly for it. The typhoon barrage had ripped entire chunks from the earth surrounding the coastal city, and the wind hadn't much cared if the soil held a segment of wall when it sent the earth skyward. The city had once been surrounded by a barrier wall fifteen feet tall, well suited to fend off beasts and raiders, but that protection was now rendered porous. Dozens of yards at a time were missing, leaving the ruined homes within exposed to see from hundreds of yards away. Ladders wouldn't have been necessary to take the city, much less siege engines, and as far as it might serve as a defensive structure for her army, it was closer to a hindrance than a boon. Trying to defend the entire stretch was impossible, a trap.
Unfortunately, Sara had to defend it anyway. She caught her breath against the stone while her army ran about in a near-panic, hurrying to complete as many of the measures she'd ordered to be prepared before the enemy came within bow range. Sara didn't think that a quarter of her orders could be reasonably accomplished, but even that quarter may save lives, so she'd set them to the task.
Unlike the force bearing down on her, Sara's army was uniquely composed. A full sixth of the soldiers surrounding her were noncombatants, despite what their armor and weaponry would have implied at a casual glance. They were a profession new to this world's military strategy, given the title of "combat engineer". Plenty of armies had siege engineers, naturally, even the Royal Sporaton army, but as far as Sara and Evie could tell, the Tulian Republic was the first military on record to have an entire classification of soldier dedicated to building fortifications in the midst of battle. Only time would tell if Sara's gamble at so weakening her frontline would pay off.
Sara pulled herself off the wall and shaded her eyes, gauging the enemy's distance. By her reckoning, they were about an hour out. Her rest done, Sara waved to her guards to indicate what she was doing, then began climbing the segment of wall she'd been leaning against. This chunk of the wall was particularly thin, the remaining platform no more than ten by ten feet wide, but with a gentle slope of crumbling stone that made reaching its summit fairly easy. A few loose stones nearly stumbled her, but she carried herself to the top simply enough. Now at her new vantage point, she pulled Nora's gift from her bag, putting the magically enhanced telescope to her eye.
The enemy army jumped in size. Sara twisted the telescope's bands, aligning the lenses to narrow down the focus. Even at two miles out, the instrument was fine enough to distinguish individual ranks of spearmen. It was a remarkable tool, truly, and a greater aid than she thought even Nora appreciated. Fragments of finely carved gems lined its brass case, sporting a faint glow visible only in a pitch black room. It had been a prize taken by Nora's second ever entanglement with a Carrion Navy vessel, one which had tried to transit the Tulian Republic's waters as its sisters now often did, but with one small difference.
The Carrion Captain had worn a slave's control band on her wrist, something Nora had spotted as she'd been passing the vessel peaceably by. The faetouched Captain had whirled her vessel about and boarded the Carrion ship without hesitation, much to the Captain's shock. Whether she thought Nora wouldn't dare attack a Carrion ship, or that Sara's alliance with the Carrions excluded her from Tulian laws, Sara didn't know or care. The Captain had been hanged from his ship's mast, the vessel confiscated, her crew returned to the next Carrion ship Nora passsed by. The wealth of cargo that a Carrion vessel carried had utterly dwarfed other nation's, and the telescope was far from the most valuable of acquisitions, in Nora's estimation.
Not in Sara's, though. She used the fine example of Carrion artificery to her great advantage now, appraised of the enemy's exact dispositions without need of dispatching scouts. The enemy was approaching in two equal blocks, perhaps two hundred yards between groups of two thousand soldiers. Archers presently composed the first rows, so they could fire as soon as possible, backed by loose ranks of spearmen who would rush forward to protect them should the archers be charged by Sara's skirmishers. It seemed that, much like Sara, the enemy commander preferred to soften their opponent as much as possible before coming to grips with their heavier troops.
Unless, of course, that was what the enemy commander wished her to think. It could be possible that the archers were a feint. They were in a loose enough formation to quickly clear the way for a charge, catching Sara's own archers exposed. Sara licked her lips, running through the scenario in her mind. It was also conceivable that the archer's loose formation was just that, loose, and the enemy commander anticipated Sara to bring her own archers behind the walls to protect them, allowing her ranged forces to reign arrows unopposed.
Sara blinked and closed the telescope, shaking her head. Around and around she went, ifs and buts chasing one another in an endless cycle. That was the problem, she supposed, with being so familiar with the enemy commander, and knowing the enemy commander was just as familiar with her. Trying to guess what Evie thought was too easy, just as it was too easy for Evie to guess what Sara was thinking.
At the end of the day, that was the crux of the battle. This large-scale practice bout was the sixteenth one in fourteen days, and she was nearly as exhausted as her troops. Both armies glowed an ethereal white, their weapons wrapped by dulling enchantments, but even the protective aura allowed bruises to slip through. The cumulative injuries of the last two weeks, in addition to the exhaustion of constant marching, was as much as part of the training as the battles themselves. Better to learn how to push through exhaustion now, when the enemy was a selection of your comrades, than when a cavalry charge was barreling down on you.
Doesn't make it any more fun to be sore, Sara grumbled to herself, rolling her arm. An Irregular longbow arrow had taken her in the shoulder two days ago, by pure bad luck, and the pain that the spell had allowed to transfer told her that the blow would have taken the limb off entirely. Even after two days, the bruise persisted. Sara hadn't allowed the healers to tend to it, wanting to ingrain in herself the danger of allowing her shield to slip amongst an arrow barrage. By the rules of the bout, Sara had been forced to play dead, trusting her commanders to take control in her absence.
Evie had mauled them.
In fact, Evie had won the ten of the sixteen faux-battles over the last two weeks. The feline insisted that it wasn't due to Sara's incompetence, nor Evie's superiority, but rather the differences inherent to the armies they controlled. Evie was playing the role of the Royal Sporaton army, and accordingly, she outnumbered and outgunned Sara. She had four thousand troops to Sara's two thousand, as well as forty pseudo-Irregulars to Sara's ten. The victories that Sara had managed occurred only when she found favorable terrain during the period of morning maneuvering before battle was met, allowing her to leverage her troop's superior training to wear down Evie's greater numbers.
That was Sara's primary– and only– advantage. She had been given nearly all the veteran troops, those that had been involved with Voth's bandit clearing efforts, while Evie was stuck with rookie volunteers. The Royal Sporaton Army didn't care for training their peasantry beyond the basics of formations and thrusting a spear, too leery of the danger of an armed and trained populace. The Tulian Republic was sure to have a general advantage in combat prowess among the common troops as a result. Some of Sara's youngest troops, those that had only one level to their name before joining the army, had now gained a second level, this time dedicated to a combat profession. That didn't make them Irregulars, but it did mean that one-on-one, they were almost certain to beat any half-trained farmer.
Conventional wisdom held that Sara was setting her nation up for disaster, giving the people the ability to resist and rebel. Sara, however, was relieved. The tenuous democracy she was piecing together shook under even the slightest pressure, too alien by far to the feudal society she was taming. She took quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that, should Tulian backslide into tyranny, there would be those capable of ripping down the new kings.
She was shaken from her thoughts by a voice hollering up at her from below. Sara looked down at the woman trying to get her attention.
"Yes?"
"Sections B through F are completed, General! Commander Shale wishes to know if she should prioritize further reinforcements, or if she should shift the engineers to secondary objectives."
Sara bit her cheek, thinking. Evie, born and raised a tactician, would prefer precision strikes, but that didn't mean her superior numbers wouldn't be levied, though she knew Sara would be aware of that...
Sara huffed, pulling herself from the whirlpool of circular reasoning.
"Have Commander Shale switch to secondary priorities. I understand that they worked through the night, but I still want her engineers held in reserve by the time the lines meet, to patch any breakthroughs."
The messenger snapped a sharp salute and darted off, carrying the message. Sara watched her leave with thoughts still swirling, then pulled the telescope back up. She had to adjust the focus again, Evie's army having further closed the distance.
Not long now.
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Evie
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Master's forces buzzed about the ruined city with the mad fervor of an overturned ant colony. The scouts, creeping low through the grass, hadn't returned with useful information. Whatever Master was attempting, it was foreign to their sensibilities, belonging to no proper military textbook Evie was familiar with. As was the case any time during the mock battles that Master began to delve into her old world's knowledge, the fur of Evie's tail stood on end. The stratagems Master produced were often illogical, barely effective, yet so alien they had proven maddeningly effective despite their flaws.
"I understand that you cannot state with certainty what the enemy is doing, Private," Evie told the scout, "but I still wish you to describe to me the appearance of their behavior. A literalist description, rather than your own interpretation."
The scout, a young boy, visibly swallowed. Without Master's comforting presence, Evie found the soldiers under her command had begun to view her in the same nervous light they once did Tulian's nobility. She supposed it was an inevitability, considering the bearing Evie's upbringing lent her, but she still wished she had Master's skill for reassuring her subordinates.
"Well, ma'am, that's still difficult to say. They're nearly all running about, carrying wood and boxes and all sorts of things, except for some of the archers and the spearmen, who are out in front of the walls. A lot's going on behind the broken bits of the wall, but I couldn't see much back there, what with the way the way they're all lined up in the gaps."
"Were they running about randomly, as if to give the false impression of work, or were they achieving something?"
The scout tugged at his uniform's collar nervously, swallowing again. Evie's request was far from objective. She was asking for the boy's opinion, and that was more pressure than any demand to skulk through enemy territory.
"I can't be sure, ma'am, but... maybe? I think they were working fer real, ma'am. They looked real tired and sweaty, frowning and stuff, like folk do when they're working." The boy's face twisted up. "I think so, ma'am, I think so. Can't be sure, y'understand."
"I do. Thank you for your report. You are dismissed."
The scout saluted sharply and darted away, relieved to be done with the strange affair. Evie turned her gaze back to the abandoned city.
"What do you think?" She asked, addressing no one in particular.
Behind her, the entourage of trainee Irregulars looked at one another. There were twelve of them, the core of cadets she'd trained the longest. While their role in this battle wasn't yet determined, their growing prowess meant it would be a pivotal one.
"...Can you be more specific, ma'am?" One asked. Evie recognized the voice. Tella, a ranged Irregular that preferred crossbows.
Evie vaguely indicated the entire expanse of shattered wall their forces were approaching. "You've fought her forces a score of times now. What do you think she is planning? You are free to converse among yourselves, but I want a response within sixty seconds."
Like the children Evie treated them as, the Irregulars collapsed into a huddle of furious whispering.
"...she arrived in the late evening yesterday, so she had plenty of time to..."
"...tends to prefer defense, because she hates taking casualties..."
"...think she could have built something again? That battering ram was a disaster..."
Evie listened to each comment, forming her own opinions of their validity. She hadn't a clue what Master was planning, she rarely did, and put more stock in their theories than she would freely admit. She was by far the most knowledgable among them of Master's habits, but for all the time they spent at one another's side, she hadn't the encyclopedic knowledge of Earth's ways that Master possessed. When it came to evaluating Master's industrial scheming, only Hurlish had a chance at coming close to divining Master's intentions, and their orcish partner had naturally remained behind in the capital. For all her army's numerical superiority, Evie was at a loss regarding the enemy's plans.
The allotted minute passed. Walking with the army's plodding pace, Evie glanced back at the trainees.
"Your conclusions?"
"Fortifications, ma'am," Jaran said, answering for the group. "It's the only thing that would require so many working on a project at once. The problem is, there's no evidence of what they've constructed. Either the work wasn't completed in time, which is why they look like they're panicking, or it's a trap the scouts couldn't spot."
"A simplistic conclusion, but I see no flaw in its reasoning. What task do you expect I will give to you and the pseudo-Irregulars?"
The trainees immediately began to converse again, but Evie held up a hand. "No. Jaran saw fit to speak for the majority without prompting, and so he accepted the responsibility of answering any additional questions. Leadership, no matter how small scale, comes with responsibilities."
Jaran paled slightly, but knew better than to argue. He contemplated the question for a few seconds, then shrugged.
"I expect you'll have us doing the same thing as always, ma'am. Charging the points of heaviest resistance, wearing them down until we're nearly overwhelmed, then turning tail. I don't see any reason for you to mix things up from your usual."
Am I really that consistent in my strategies? Evie wondered. It's the most logical role for Irregulars to play, but predictability is dangerous. Splitting my attention between the Irregulars and the general army has proved devastating to the efficacy of either branch.
That would have to change.
"Unfortunately, you are correct. Why unfortunately? There is one phrase that irritates me deeply in your reply, and that is 'usual'. To be anticipated is to be defeated."
The trainees nodded sagely at that. It was one of many military maxims that Evie had driven deeply into their skulls. As the army marched on past her, Evie halted, turning to scan the faces of those stomping by. The Irregulars looked rather oddly at her, but she ignored them. She would find her lieutenants and give them their new orders, and only then would she offer an explanation for her actions. Master's egalitarian ideals had yielded surprising results when implemented amongst the public, but they had no place in a military. It was not a soldier's place to question their commanders.
Evie found one of her lieutenants, currently riding herd on a slacking squadron, and snagged the woman by the shoulder. Enraged at being interrupted, the lieutenant whirled with fury on her lips.
"What in teh gods fuckin–!" The sight of Evie doused that flame faster than ice water. "You needed me, ma'am?"
"Halt the advance. There has been a change in strategy." Evie paused, recalling her ranking of the various lieutenants and their skill upon the field. This one, Lieutenant Elase, she held a high opinion of. "Also, for the remainder of this battle, consider yourself promoted to General."
Evie left the woman sputtering in place, gathering up her Irregulars.
---------------------------------
Evie did not know if she had made the correct decision on a strategic level. Deferring command to those less experienced should be a recipe for disaster. That she did so just to chase her own fancies? Even more egregious.
On a personal level, however, her certainty was unshakeable. She stalked through the tall grass surrounding the abandoned city with her lips split in a gruesome smile. She reached out with a hand to slowly push aside the foliage, taking great pains to preserve the stealth of her approach. Evie was no Ketch, sporting a Class built from the ground up for hiding in plain sight, but for one with a dedicated combat Class, she was remarkably graceful. The Irregulars she had brought with her followed in her footsteps, doing their best to mimic her approach to the enemy lines, but they were blundering oafs in comparison.
The sound of battle had long since reached her ears, but now they were close enough that even purely human hearing could pick up the clash of wood and steel. She ignored the tremor of battle, because it was no longer her responsibility. Master Graf, commander of the Night's Eye mercenaries, whispered advice in her ear across the gulf of time.
The more elite the squadron, the smaller its size. The smaller its size, the greater it must rely upon the element of surprise. Take your enemy unaware, and they will be laid low with the barest of efforts.
She could not see the battle, but the sound of it was crisp. A few dozen yards to the northwest, the lines had met. The Irregulars she had selected for her personal squad were itching to charge into the fight, as was she, but all resisted the urge. The slaughter could begin whenever they so chose, skilled as they were, but not all slaughters were created equal. If she wanted to maximize the effect on her enemies, she must be patient, picking her moment well.
Evie came to a stop within ten yards of the ragged fortifications. She had crept to within the battle's extreme left flank, where the lines grew thin. Most of the effort was in the center, Evie's forces– now General Elase's forces– trying to break through so that they could wrap around to attack the enemy from both sides. The section she had selected was a sideshow, neither army paying it much mind.
Evie ran the tip of her tongue along her canines, listening to the apathetic grunts and groans of low-scale combat. The wings of either army were usually where the most active and steady of troops were placed, entrusted to guard the flanks, but that wasn't the case in this conflict. Here all the focus was on the center, where the largest gaps in the wall lay, leaving the flanks manned by the most exhausted and disheartened of either side's troops. There was still the clatter of wood and steel as spears tried to find their way around one another, but it was a tepid affair. A measly two ranks of soldiers were shadowed on either side by remaining chunks of the wall, battling for the minor gap in the defenses. The combatants knew their role wasn't integral, and weren't interested in suffering pain for so little gain.
A shame that Evie would be relieving them of the choice.
Evie took a knee, waiting. Master's complaints at missing Earthly commodities often fell flat on Evie's ears, but at this moment, she could empathize. The "pocket watch" Master had often described would have been a godsend. Synchronizing assaults without the aid of signal flags was nigh impossible.
Behind her, Jaran and Taras shifted with equal impatience, glancing between the sun and the shadows it produced. Jaran, still among the most promising of her Irregulars, wore a hideously large sword. A flamberge, distinguished by the unique wave pattern in its steel, sat at an incredibly awkward angle on his back so that it wouldn't scrape the ground. It was a massive weapon, dwarfing even Master's greatsword, and its length was idiotic in Evie's estimation. The boy was no taller than average, which meant his weapon was taller than him by three hands, and it had taken more than a week of his wearing it before he stopped slamming it into the frame of every door he passed through. It was his right as an Irregular to choose his weapon, but Evie regularly exercised her right as his superior to insult his taste.
Taras, beside him, was another one of the Tulian Republic's true Irregulars. Evie estimated that he was at his fourth level, having been among the very first slaves Master had freed upon the Crossed Glory. He fell into slavery as a result of being on the wrong end of a Sporaton land dispute, his Lord's army falling in battle, and that had given him a leg up when Ignite began training the Guard. Evie had recognized his talent and pilfered him from Ignite's forces when she happened upon him at the training grounds, where he was making a mockery of his fellow Guards. He still preferred the shortsword and shield from Ignite's training, eschewing the more-familiar spear that had landed him in servitude in the first place.
Together, their trio was equaled only by Master and her personal contingent, and through the Collar's pull Evie knew Master was– as always– in the thick of battle. Should they manage to successfully break through the enemy flank, they would have their run of the place for quite a while.
Evie watched the shadows creep forward. Though it felt like hours, the reality was one of mere minutes, adrenaline accelerating her perception of time. Inch by inch, moment by moment, the shadow of the wall creeped forward as the sun inched across the sky. When it finally reached the edge of the selected tree's roots, signaling the time had arrived, she shot to her feet.
Three distinct cracks sounded off behind her, louder even then the sounds of battle. Evie broke into a run as arrows whistled through the air above her, loosed from just the distance required to pass over friendly troop's heads. A flash of enchantment light burst out from the enemy lines, followed by shouts of surprise and pain.
Evie reached the line a moment later.
The rubble of the leftmost portion of the wall was too unstable for the commoners to fight upon, but Evie held no such reservations. She planted one foot upon a cobblestone and heaved, flinging herself past the enemy lines. Just behind her, Jaran and Taras did the same, unsheathing their weapons as they went, and then it began.
Evie lunged for the first figure in sight without reservation, striking them on the shoulder with the tip of her rapier. Light flashed as the weapon's enchantments saved the soldier's life, but enough pain was let through that they yelped, recognizing what would have been a lethal blow. The soldier belatedly fell to their knees, "dead", but Evie had already moved on.
Jaran and Taras waded in behind her, swords swinging. Her troops began to cheer as light flashed up and down the enemy line, opponents dropping like flies. Evie moved rapidly enough through her opponents that she grew irritated with how long they took to fall, and began timing her stabs with a shove from her offhand, taking them to the ground before they even comprehended that they'd been struck.
As the enemy thinned out, Evie expected her troops to come rushing forward, but curiously, they didn't. They cheered, yes, but from afar, taking no advantage of the chaos. Evie grit her teeth, some of Master's anger bubbling up within her. They were better trained than this. They knew how to exploit the openings created by an Irregular assault. As the last of the enemy fell, Evie spun upon her own troops with fangs bared, preparing to launch a furious tirade at the cowards.
What lay between them, however, had her pulling up short. A long patch of gray material, six or seven feet wide, formed a moat that connected the two wall sections. It was the strange "concrete" that Master had introduced to Tulian several months back. Evie understood the basic principles of its construction, just from proximity to Master as she worked on the project, but she hadn't imagined it being used for this purpose. At first glance it seemed Master's forces had been attempting to quite literally rebuild the entirety of Pahko's walls, which was what the first wave of friendly troops appeared to have assumed. Familiar with the material from the repairs to Tulian's walls, they'd charged in, expecting to easily run across it.
Now a litany of sucking holes were dotted across the concrete. Many still contained empty boots, the soldiers having been unable to pull themselves out of the unfinished muck. Evie glanced at the sidelines, where the defeated soldiers gathered, and saw that many had chunks of concrete sprayed across the entire front of their body, having been arrested mid-charge to fall flat onto their face. Now, even with the enemy defeated, the muck was effectively impenetrable to her troops; heavy as they were with their armor, there was no chance of lightly stepping across the concrete.
"Guess we figured out what the scouts saw," Jaran said, approaching with sword resting on his shoulders. The ridiculous thing towered nearly as high as a spear, held like that. He nudged the concrete with his boot. "Nasty stuff. Looks solid, all the way up until you're stuck in it."
"Indeed," Evie said. She looked once more at the sidelines, where a healer was walking around with a bucket of water. She waved for the woman's attention. "Excuse me! You're not involved in the combat exercise, I presume?"
"No ma'am," the healer replied, pouring a splash of water over a soldier's concrete-covered arm. "The Governess instructed me to take care of the sorts that got stuck in the mud. Er, con-kreet. Said that leavin' it on the skin too long might cause burns or some such."
"Damn," Taras said. "Nasty's right. I wonder how much of that stuff she could pour out?"
"If she has the requisite materials, as much as she so pleased. She reached the city last night, so I expect the entire frontline is similarly fortified."
"Doesn't it dry, though? Can't last forever."
"It takes many hours to dry. Days, if I recall correctly. Certainly long enough to gain a decisive advantage in battle."
"Well, shit," Taras eloquently intoned. "What're you going to do about it?"
Evie smiled. "Me? I am but a lowly Irregular Captain. This is a problem for General Elase."
Jaran rolled his eyes, muttering. "Givin' me lessons about the responsibility of leadership and stuff, huh..."
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Sara
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It hadn't yet been an hour since the fighting started, but Sara thought she was looking at one of the rare battles that might end up in her favor. The initial charge had been broken by the faux concrete barriers just as she'd hoped, the trap doing immeasurable damage to the front ranks of Evie's army. Her soldiers hadn't been able to take full advantage of the initial confusion, as they'd had help to pull the "enemy" free of the concrete as a matter of safety, but she was still satisfied. The advance had been ground to a halt, a number of Evie's troops forced to pull back and begin constructing makeshift bridges and ladders.
Several squadrons, naturally, had attempted to use the brief stall to circle around Sara's already thin line. It was a good move, sensible, but easily countered. Sara herself sprinted towards their attempts with a cluster of experienced troops flanking her, shattering the squadrons without much concern. Had the conflict been real, she would've had an even easier time breaking the attempts, freed to use her more lethal arsenal of spells. Fortunately for Evie's forces, Sara had determined that charbroiling your own soldiers during a training exercise was likely to have a poor effect on morale.
Speaking of morale, Sara thought, where is Evie? The feline nearly always engaged with her Irregulars at the heart of the battle, providing a living banner for her troops to rally around. Sara hadn't seen her at all in this engagement, and that was beyond unusual. It set her on edge, wondering what her girlfriend was planning. She paid as much attention as she could to the maneuvers of her regiments, but a part of her was constantly scanning faces, her paranoia growing with each passing minute that Evie failed to appear. Sara was trapped by the feline's absence, unable to commit herself to the fight until she knew she wouldn't be needed to counter Evie's Irregulars.
Perhaps a half hour after the lines first collided, Sara got her answer. It came in the form of her entire right flank buckling with shocking speed, flashes of light blinking across the field like firecrackers. She snapped her telescope back up to her eye, confirming what she already knew.
Evie had entered the fray.
Irregular archers appeared out of the tall grass at Sara's weakest section of the line, arrows loosed in rapidfire to mow down unsuspecting spearmen. Their distraction allowed Evie, who had somehow appeared behind their defenses, to begin scything her way through the distracted soldiers. She was joined by two other Irregulars, who, while not as effective as Evie herself, were making short work of any dregs she left behind.
Sara pulled hard on Trot's reins, turning her steed towards the Irregular assault. Just as she opened her mouth to order an assault on Evie, a second burst of bright light erupted at the very center of her lines.
In a display of impossible coordination, the Irregulars that had been hiding among the common enemies began their assault mere seconds after Evie had begun hers. Archers snapped off a volley of concentrated shortbow shots, clearing a space for sword-wielding Irregulars to vault the concrete moat.
Sara bit off her curse, wheeling Trot back around once more.
"With me!" She roared, charging towards the commotion. Evie may have been the greatest single threat, but the sudden assault at the core of her army couldn't go unanswered. If they broke through the lines, Evie's superior numbers would flood through in droves, surrounding her already too-thin lines. Attacked from both sides, her army would collapse, the battle lost.
Sara leapt from Trot's saddle mere feet from the rear line of her soldiers, bellowing for them to clear a path. She folded her sword into its smaller form and tucked it close to her chest, shoving anyone aside who was too slow to recognize her shouts. She cleared a path through to the front of the lines, pseudo-Irregulars following in her wake.
Sara burst out into open space. Six Irregulars had cleared a gap at Sara's side of the moat, then fallen back, forming a protective semi-circle around planks of of wood that were being lowered to form a bridgehead. Sara spared the briefest glances behind her, confirming that she hadn't left her guards behind, then grinned.
The enemy did not return her smile.
Sara bolted forward with a flourish of her sword, forearm raised to cover the eyeslits of her helmet. Arrows leapt from the enemy lines beyond the moat, but they were fired from shortbows, too weak to penetrate her armor. The rattle of their steel broadheads bouncing off her plate was nothing more than an irritation, and a temporary one, because it took her only seconds to reach the enemy Irregulars.
Sara lowered her forearm just in time to see a winged speartip launching for her eye. She bowed her head, sending the weapon skating off the top of her helmet, and flung her sword upward.
The back of her blade caught the wooden shaft of the Irregular's spear, sending it skyward. Sara immediately turned the swing into a stab, the tip of her sword landing in the chainmail that protected the man's neck. He recoiled with a shocked wheeze, stumbling away from her, and Sara moved to the next target.
The fight didn't last long. Irregulars though they may have been, they weren't anywhere close to Sara's skill. To her eye their swings were lethargic, their dodges ineffective, even the swings that were aimed well almost too weak to be worth blocking. Now that she was engaged, the main line of common troops rushed forward, shields and swords pinning the enemy in place. Sara and her escort made short work of the enemy Irregulars, save for one, who took only a glancing blow. That woman managed to retreat back over the bridge her allies had placed just before Sara's sword bit into the wood, electric arcs flying. Her spellwoven sword burst the entire thing into a ball of flame. For at least a while, the hole in her lines was patched.
Sara had no time to celebrate, however. The moment order in the line had been restored, she began barking orders, gathering up the pseudo-Irregulars that had been scattered by the skirmish. Troops practically dove out of her way as she sprinted back towards the rear, craning her neck to look for Evie.
She found her far too easily. In the time it took for Sara to stabilize the front, Evie had worked her way through nearly two hundred yards of troops. None of the squadrons she savaged were entirely destroyed, that would have taken too much time, but they had been severely weakened. Everywhere that Evie had struck was littered with the "dead", allowing her troops to begin pushing hard. Sara could already see her own lines buckling under the pressure, driven away from the front by weight of numbers.
In the same breath that Sara found Evie, Evie found her. A hundred feet separated them as they locked eyes. Sara smiled. Evie smiled back.
"Charge!"
Sara broke into a dead sprint, her guards forgotten. They couldn't keep up with her, and besides, they were nothing more than chaff. Evie would slaughter them as easily as Sara could. There was only one person that could stand against the feline in the army, and that was Sara.
Evie bared her fangs and mirrored Sara's bullrush, leaving her own Irregulars scrambling to keep up. Several of Sara's backline troops bravely attempted to intercept the feline, but the effort ended predictably. Evie darted easily past the first group, a white blur felling two, then simply wove her way between the second, leaving weapons swinging through the empty space she'd occupied a moment before. The distraction didn't slow her by a single step, but the crowd that formed in her wake blocked her Irregulars, who began swinging their way through the obstacles. Evie reached Sara alone, just as Sara was.
There was no pause as they met. Months of duels had passed between them, giving them a familiarity with the other's fighting style that precluded the usual sizing up of an opponent that might happen on a real battlefield. Hundreds of duels flashed through Sara's mind as their blades met.
Most had ended in Sara's loss.
They slowed just enough to avoid colliding, ignoring the sudden quieting of the army behind them. Sara's greatsword was held before her waist, tip aimed towards her opponent's center of mass, while Evie faced Sara side-on, rapier held loosely at an upward angle.
Sara entered the duel with a low lunge, aiming for Evie's chest.
The feline's rapier dropped just enough to leave Sara's sword clattering against its base. Sara immediately twisted her wrists into a follow-up, spinning for Evie's neck, but was blocked just in time.
Sara battered the rapier several more times from alternating sides, trying to slip past her guard, but it was no use. Evie stepped into a calm backpedal, gaining distance until suddenly she lifted the hilt of her sword up and over a swing. Sara hadn't realized the range had opened so much, and was shocked to find her greatsword sliding through open air.
Evie's rapier swung.
Sara could only flinch as sparks flew along her right arm, the rapier's razor tip drawing a line across her armor. Pain throbbed, the spell signaling to her that the enchanted weapon would have pierced the steel, but it wasn't a disabling blow. Sara desperately scrambled backward, throwing out a random series of sweeping blows to prevent Evie from pressing the advantage. The feline was forced back, panting nearly as hard as Sara.
Four seconds had passed.
Dimly, Sara became aware that the sounds of battle had faded to nearly nothing behind her. Their duel had happened to occur on a small rise, visible to almost the entire army. She'd snap at them for gawking later, emphasizing the danger of distraction, but for now she had to heed her own lessons– taking her eyes off of Evie would be lethal.
Now that they were no longer charging at one another, the pace of the duel slowed. Both caught their breath, freed for the first time to give the duel conscious thought. Sara slowly sidestepped in the opposite direction of Evie, both combatants circling an invisible point between them. The tips of their swords clicked and clacked against one another, little taps as they felt one another out, trying to draw out a reaction that could be taken advantage of. Neither fell for it, too experienced by far with one another's habits to fall for a feint.
As they circled, Sara's focus was once more tested. Some voice, somewhere, calling her name. Some rookie officer, she guessed, not recognizing the importance of the exchange. Evie and Sara were their army's most powerful Irregulars by a considerable margin, and with both sides fully committed, whoever survived the exchange would likely tip the scales.
The voice shouted again. Sara ignored it. Evie's right foot slid forward across the dirt, white steel flying through the air. Sara just barely deflected it, then launched her own riposte, but she'd been thrown too far off balance– her black sword swiped harmlessly over Evie's white. Both retreated briefly, the stakes too high.
"Governess Sara!"
Evie's light feet padded across the soil, leaving small imprints in the churned mud. Usually their duels were close affairs, ending with both panting hard, drenched in sweat, but not from the combat. It could be said, perhaps, that Sara might have a thing for girls with swords, and that her preferences could be a distraction. Evie even sometimes exploited it, tugging her shirt low, or sparring in nothing but her wraps, like the very first time they had traded blows. None of that could happen now, however, not in front of the army, and Sara was both relieved and disappointed by that.
"Governess Sara, please!"
Sara darted forward, shifting suddenly from a low guard to a hanging overhead, trying to stab down into Evie's exposed collarbone. She caught the feline by surprise, eyes widening in a flash, but it wasn't enough. Evie barely managed to nudge Sara's sword aside just before it would have embedded itself in the meat of her neck. Instead it skated off her leather armor, producing a wince that told Sara she would have bitten a superficial wound from her opponent.
"Your highness, Lady Sara!"
She whirled around, eyes wide.
"The fuck did you just call me?!" Sara roared. For a moment her anger even overruled the duel, and she trusted Evie to allow her to discipline such a brazen mistake. For some civilian to mistakingly place her among the ranks of royalty Sara might forgive, assuming ignorance, but here? The Tulian Army? The very ones she was training to kill nobility? Unacceptable.
To her surprise, however, rather than some hapless officer promoted beyond their capabilities, she was spitting fury into the face of a cringing young girl. Fourteen at the oldest, she wore the uniform of the army's message runners. She had a letter clutched tightly between her fingers, which she quickly held out in a trembling hand.
"S-s-sorry, ma'am! Governess! It was just, ah, they told me I was supposed to give this to you 'no matter what or who she's doing, the very moment you find her', and I couldn't get your attention, so–"
Sara snatched the letter from the girl's hand, swallowing her anger. "Fine. Don't call me that again, not ever, but it worked. Clever." Sara took a deep breath. "Sorry for yelling."
The messenger scampered off as Sara turned the letter over, finding no indication of who it was from. A wax seal with the emblem she'd chosen for official Tulian correspondence– that of a broken chain and broken collar intertwined, because Sara was anything but subtle– was easily broken by her thumb. She slid the paper out, turning to shade it from anyone close enough to read, and scanned it through.
If she didn't have an audience, a very, very deep scowl would have overtaken her face. Instead, she remained impassive, her emotions noticed only by Evie through the collar's bond. She read the note once more, committing it to memory, then crumpled it and tossed it into her bag of holding. That done, she picked her sword back up, returning her focus to Evie.
All across the ruined city, the armies had fallen silent. No one bothered to even fake fighting anymore, too enraptured at first by the highest ranking members of their army dueling, then by whatever was important enough to interrupt them. Sara gave no answer to the second question, but merely raised her weapon, resuming her stance.
A silent understanding passed between the two women. The letter, whatever it was, was important enough that they really ought to drop what they were doing and focus on it.
But no matter how much either of them liked to play at it, Sara and Evie weren't purely practical creatures. Sara pretended her government was built upon utilitarian principles alone, mathematical formula designed to optimize the quality of life of Tulian's citizens, but the truth was there was a great deal of sentiment. Sara had values and beliefs she couldn't define, much less explain, and they held a greater sway over her than she would readily admit. Evie, in turn, liked to imagine she was a slave of cunning and violence, dedicated to the satisfaction and protection of her Master with regard for nothing else, but that was no more true for her than Sara's claims of impartiality. In reality, that selfish exterior was a facade. She had been infected by Sara's idealism as surely as the most fanatic of the army's soldiers, and even if Sara vanished off the face of the planet, there would be at least one woman continuing the crusade she'd left behind. Even if they were in the midst of a duel, one that would determine the fate of a battle, it didn't make sense for them to continue it.
Sara twisted her grip on the sword, a dangerous tilt entering her smile. Evie returned it, lips peeling back until her teeth were exposed. This next exchange wouldn't be a testing of wits. It would be a brutal, brief clash, with the only objective being the other's death.
The entire army froze. Wind ran over the fields. In the armies, someone coughed, and another elbowed them. Sara and Evie stopped their circling, staring into one another's faces.
Evie lunged.
Sara swung.
Their swords collided with a grating screech, steel against steel, both deflected. Sara brought her sword back around without pause, aiming high, while Evie simply repeated the lunge, aiming for Sara's neck.
A flash of light briefly blinded Sara from below, followed by pain radiating out from the hollow of her throat. An instant later, she felt a deep reverberation thud its way down her sword.
Sara was dead.
As the magic cleared from her vision, Sara found her sword bouncing off the top of Evie's unprotected head.
Evie was dead.
The army erupted into a violent roar, cheers and shouts of all kinds sounding. The clamor almost immediately devolved into impassioned jeers, soldiers of every rank and profession arguing with one another of who had struck first, and therefore who won, or if a mutual kill counted as a draw or a victory for both. With the debates intensifying by the second, even the Regiment Commanders getting into it with the common rank and file, Sara suddenly realized there must have been money riding on the result of their duel. A lot of money. The last two weeks of practice battles had, clearly, given the soldiers plenty of time to argue over which commander would in a fight.
Sara shook her head and relaxed her stance with a fond smile, one mirrored by Evie. The feline sidled up next to her, rapier vanishing as she leaned into Sara's side.
"Think they'll believe you got me first?" Sara had to speak up to be heard over the crowd.
"Even if they did, Master, they would rightly argue your strike had the momentum to fell me regardless. A mutual loss. The most common result of combat between two who care more for killing than living."
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have done it if lives were on the line. If I died on the battlefield, you'd kill me."
Evie rolled her eyes. "What an original sense of humor you have, Master. Now, what was in that letter that poor child risked her life to deliver?"
Rather than repeating the words, Sara retrieved the crumpled paper and handed it to Evie. The words were recorded in a cipher, but Sara knew Evie could read it as well as she, even through the page's wrinkles.
Sporaton party spotted crossing border. Estimated number between twenty and fifty. Traveled with horses but do not appear to be knights. Mounted scouts determined most likely. Location listed below. Forces are suspected to be evaluating invasion routes, many mapping supplies seen among equipment.
Night's Eye mercenary corp uniforms present. Have ordered all picket forces to forgo engagement. Unsure of time forces can remained concealed. Enemy is covering considerable ground in unpredictable patterns. Assume by time of letter's arrival that losses have been sustained.
Repeat, Night's Eye mercenaries present. Requesting permission to retreat. Request considered Urgent.
Notes:
A lot of people comment on the realism of my combat scenes, so I figured that I'd start adding the specific references I use: here's the HEMA duel I used for Evie and Sara's two exchanges. The first is at 1:09 to 1:14, and the second is at 3:01 to 3:04.
https://youtu.be/G0Dy-zy7Npo?si=qBkHOg4H07TKLbPJ
Also, after several excellent piece of advice under last chapter, I decided to alter my plans a little bit. Thanks to y'all, I think this is a much more coherent continuation of the story.
Chapter 45: Fuck Me (E)
Notes:
CW: Consensual free use, graphic depictions of heterosexuality
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Capital
Peasant's Theatre
Two Months Until Spring
Deep beneath the Peasant's Theatre, Sara leaned back in a comfortable loveseat. Her thighs ached something fierce, and up above, Trot was being tended to by a team of well-paid grooms. The poor animal had rushed her back to the capital shortly after the report of Sporaton scouts had arrived, dashing across nearly forty miles of roads in a handful of hours. Sara may have been sore, but her horse had earned every sugar-laced apple he was being fed up above.
Not that Sara was foregoing her own respite, of course. The architects of Old Tulian seemed to have had something of a fetish for hidden underground chambers, and the space she was recuperating in now was yet another example. Shortly after the hidden crawl space had been brought to her attention, Evie had equipped it with plush furniture and an abundance of nonperishable supplies, turning it into a bunker fit for weeks of hiding. Until that purpose became necessary, Sara used it as the secret meeting space for her inner circle.
Thick rugs covered every inch of cold stone, cheap in their design and dyes, but luxurious in the feel against bare feet. The furniture, mostly overstuffed padded chairs and couches, was soft enough to drown in, even if they were patched and stained in places. A small fire pit embedded in one wall was allowed to burn by virtue of a row of darkly stained gems above it, which absorbed the smoke that would have otherwise filled the room. It was rare that the extra heat would be necessary, but Sara liked having the option. All in all, it was a comfy space, a dimly lit den that she always enjoyed returning to.
Vesta was presently relaxing opposite Sara, her dress hiked up to expose long stretchs of pale skin as she lounged across a couch. Oddry, once one of Vesta's highest ranking maids, was the cause for her dress's exposed state. Hands crawled up and down her employer's legs, taking in the silky smoothness of her skin in languid, absentminded fashion. Oddry was now one of Vesta's longest lasting flings, enough so that it couldn't be rightly said she was a fling anymore. Without the cutthroat politics of Hagos endangering any commoner Vesta took to bed, she'd been freed to keep her latest acquisition around, and they had months of entanglement behind them by now. Sara hadn't spent much time with Oddry herself, and didn't technically consider the woman trustworthy enough to be in the room, but couldn't argue. With how closely attached she was to Vesta, there was nothing Vesta knew that her maid-consort didn't.
Behind the couch, standing at ease, was Tarlin. Vesta's ever-loyal bodyguard was resplendent in his suit of plate, but for once his visor was lifted, allowing Sara to see his expression as he dutifully scanned the room. Now that she knew to look for it, she could see the subtle signs of his feline nature, even with his ears and tail covered. His eyes darted as Evie's did, pupils widening and narrowing more rapidly than a pure human's, and he often cocked his head to turn an ear towards sounds that caught his attention.
Also, Sara noticed, his eyes occasionally flicked down towards Vesta and her companion. Not often enough to be overt, but too frequently to be purely professional in motivation. Sara had her eye on him from the moment they'd first met, impressed by his physique and discipline, but had never had the opportunity to put his focus to the test. Now, watching the way he kept glancing at Oddry and Vesta, Sara took careful note of his present distraction.
To the right of the couch covered by the intertwined women was Ignite Parables, who was studiously feigning interest in the ceiling's brickwork. He had been with Sara for nearly as long as the rest of those present, but he alone seemed to be the most uncomfortable with the physicality Sara showed her closest companions. Sara didn't begrudge him for it, but did think it odd that he hadn't gotten used to it by now. His oil-slick skin wasn't capable of blushing, but if he had the ability, Sara felt certain he would have sported a flush that deepened every time he glanced at Sara.
She couldn't blame him, she supposed. Sara was sitting between Hurlish's spread legs on the couch, the orc's arm wrapped possessively around her stomach. Beneath Hurlish's hand was Evie, who was laying on the couch with her head resting in Sara's lap. That wasn't too unusual a position for two lovers to lie in, but of course Evie's face was turned inward, firmly nuzzled just above Sara's crotch, and her hips squirmed petulantly on the couch. It had been nearly eighteen hours since the feline last had Sara inside her, and that was stretching the limit. Hurlish's other hand occasionally reached down to either scratch at the base of Evie's ears, eliciting a shudder and quickening of her breath, or to shove her face deeper between Sara's legs, the pressure of which provoked a similar shiver from Sara herself.
This meeting had been called, ostensibly, to determine what to do about the Sporaton scouts, but it was looking like it might be a struggle to keep that the first item on the agenda. The scouts were a considerable problem, threatening to spoil many of the surprises Sara had in store for the army that was to follow them, but abstract issues were difficult to focus on when something far more physical was pressing against her.
Namely, Hurlish. The orc kept Sara pulled in tight, legs spread wide, but it wasn't what was between her thighs that distracted Sara. It was her stomach, which Sara could feel pressing against her. There wasn't actually any difference in how she looked, not yet, but the thought that she might start showing soon sent flutters through Sara. Orc children were born at a similar size to humans, apparently, so it took a while longer for pregnancy to show on a seven foot woman. Technically, they couldn't even be certain Hurlish was pregnant. Sure, she'd missed her cycle the last two months, but they were already light, and a childhood of medieval food shortages left them inconsistent at best. Despite that, Sara felt damn sure that Amarat's Champion wouldn't have much trouble knocking anyone up. This body had been a goddess's custom build, and as Sara's chest and hips suggested, Amarat didn't shortchange her champions. There was no proof yet, but her certainty was unwavering.
To say that the thought of her future child hit Sara with mixed emotions was one hell of an understatement. The start of the process had been fun, of course, particularly with the frequency Hurlish insisted on giving it a go, but now that things had progressed, the less kinky realities were hitting her.
A kid.
Sara's kid.
A child she'd have to raise.
It sent her head spinning.
Excited, but terrified, she'd steadily realized that hey, maybe she really had jumped the gun on this whole motherhood thing. She didn't doubt the stability of her and Hurlish's relationship, what with a god's endorsement backing it up, but there were far more sources of instability in her life than romance. She was the general of an army, the leader of a nation, and one of that nation's most powerful warriors. When the invasion came, she'd be in combat near constantly, risking her life, while Hurlish would be back in the capital, eating weird food and flying through mood swings. Not only did it raise the stakes of the conflict even further, it made Sara feel a little bit like a shitty wife. She was supposed to be taking care of Hurlish through the whole process, not leaving her to fend for herself. Sara had already tentatively proposed the idea of hiring a maid off of Vesta, but Hurlish had shot that down hard. She didn't want somebody snooping around in their rooms, no matter how helpful they were, and Sara, ever the dutiful partner, had no choice but to agree.
Then there was what came next, assuming Sara lived through the war.
Raising a child.
Christ.
Sara had just turned twenty three, and while she'd worked for a living since she was sixteen, but that didn't make her feel any less like a kid. Shortly before she'd come to this world, she'd had to stop stocking her pantry with cookies because she didn't have the self control not to blow through the entire pack in a couple days. And now– a mere eight months later– she was stocking up on diapers. That was absurd. How could she tell her kid to lay off the sweets while they were fighting over the last brownie?
Her only hope was that Amarat's Blessings would give her a leg up. It had to be easier to figure out why your baby was crying when you had divinely granted intuitive powers, right? And the middle school phase, with all the edgy moodiness as puberty kicked into high gear, the Blessings had to help parse that. No kid would be able to lie to her about why they were pissed off. Then again, Sara could only imagine how utterly infuriating it would be to have a mother that could basically read your mind, so maybe it would be best to feign ignorance on occasion.
Sara was pulled from her derailed train of thought by a sharp pinch on her stomach. Evie was looking up at her, frowning petulantly. With a start Sara realized that she'd stopped giving a reaction to Evie's "subtle" prodding, and that irritated the feline. Sara shifted between Hurlish's legs and shoved the emotion of apology through the collar's bond, along with a promise to keep her head out of the clouds.
It really was time to get the meeting started. If things went on any longer like this, Vesta and Oddry would be well past the point of paying attention, Ignite would flee the room in a panic, and Tarlin would either drop dead of overheating, flee with Ignite, or take a more interesting path forward. No matter what happened, it wouldn't be productive. Sara contemplated a few options for how to gather their attention.
"So Hurlish is pregnant," Sara announced.
The orc in question burst into a violent coughing fit. Evie's head rocketed out of Sara's lap, staring daggers at her just as Vesta began to laugh uproariously. Tarlin's eyes were as wide as saucers, while Ignite had receded entirely into a professional disassociation, and Oddry– well, Oddry mostly seemed irritated that her boss had stopped paying attention to her wandering hands. She and Evie were similar in that respect.
"Master, that is not yours to–"
"The fuck did you just–"
"I did wonder if such was possible–"
"May I take my leave, ma'am?"
Sara laughed. "No, Ignite, and yes, Evie, it is something I should have discussed with her beforehand, sorry Hurlish, and yeah, Vesta, it's a good thing you took those potions, huh? Also, Tarlin my guy, you look like you're about to have a heatstroke. You need some water?"
Tarlin mutely shook his head. Ignite continued to squirm in place.
"I fail to see how discussions of pregnancy require my presence, ma'am."
"It's not what we're here to talk about. I was just trying to break the ice. We're talking about Sporaton scouts that got spotted crossing the border."
The mood in the room, strange as it already had been, chilled considerably. Vesta frowned and sat up on the couch, a motion Oddry finally did not protest, and Tarlin tightened his grip on his halberd, eying the entrance as if Sporaton forces were moments away from busting down the door. At first Ignite seemed comforted by the announcement, until the implications hit him beyond being a convenient excuse to change topics. Of those not yet in the know, Hurlish had the least reaction, little more than a surprised grunt.
"Yeah," Sara wisely intoned. "What I brought you all here to discuss is what we're going to do about it. Sorry Evie, but we'll probably be relying on you a lot here."
"Oh?" Vesta intoned. "And why is that?" Of all present, Vesta perhaps understood best Evie's reluctance for command.
"Because the scouts are accompanied by the Night's Eye," Evie replied, preempting Sara's response. For a woman that had just been playfully nosing at Sara's cock through a quarter inch of cloth, her composure was commendable. "I trained under their commander, Master Graf, for seven years, and the late Lady Eliah," the title was spoken with scorn, "was their primary employer for domestic matters. I am familiar with their operations at an academic, professional, and personal level, and am certain in the belief that they are the true backbone of this preliminary force."
Sara nodded. "Which means they're tough shit, and we're not going to be able to scare 'em off easy. As we've already got a leak somewhere in our government, and I don't want the Night's Eye getting wind of the fact we're going after them, I decided I'd rather keep things between those I trust. We don't have a considerable cavalry of our own, so we'll never catch them if they're trying to avoid us. I ran back here with Evie because I was hoping to get the rest of your opinions before committing to a course of action."
"And," Evie said, "Because she doesn't wish to accept the inevitable. There is only one logical course of action."
Vesta raised an eyebrow. "Contention between slave and master? Intriguing."
"It's not an argument," Sara argued, "Just a disagreement on the best thing to do."
"And what is so worth not-arguing over?" Ignite asked, looking curiously at Evie.
"The reasonable course. Only two Irregulars in Tulian are capable of confronting the Night's Eye, and that is Master and I. Master disappearing into the wilderness would certainly alert any spy that we have detected the scouts, and so she must remain here. I, however, regularly part from Master to run her errands, and could spend considerably longer out of the public eye without issue. I also have far greater experience with the operations of the Night's Eye. Suggesting any plan other than that of me leading Irregulars into the confrontation would be a waste of time."
"You really gotta get after them so soon?" Hurlish asked. "They're just scouts. Let 'em nose around all they like. Who cares? They're not hurting anybody."
Ignite stepped forward. "Because much of Governess Sara's preparations for the war rely upon the element of surprise. Not just in avoiding the enemy preparing to surmount the obstacles she has created, but also for the effect upon the common soldiery of the enemy." Ignite cocked his head, trying to recall something. "I believe you called it, ah, 'shock and awe', yes?"
"Yep. That's the plan. It wouldn't ruin everything for the scouts to see what we've got cooking, but it'd piss me the hell off, and it'd certainly cost a lot of lives." Sara's expression firmed. "But not , in any way, would it be worth losing Evie."
"Master, I am fully capable of handling myself on this mission."
"I know you are, but you'd be even more capable if I went with you. And if we brought Hurlish and the other Irregulars, there'd be next to no danger."
"Ah yes, Master, bringing the head of state and her pregnant partner on an extended combat mission. Truly what all the military manuscripts I have had you pore over would recommend."
Sara frowned. "Okay, yeah. Maybe not Hurlish."
"Hey!"
"Don't 'hey' me! You signed up for this! Very enthusiastically, I might add."
"Doesn't mean I'm made of glass all the sudden."
"You'd let me go into a fight if I was pregnant?"
"Well, no, but–"
"Ladies!" Vesta interrupted, clapping once, sharply, like a teacher getting her students attention. "I think you three are all perfectly aware of what must be done, and are now merely bickering over the particulars. I, for one, concur with Evie. Does anyone present disagree?"
Ignite shook his head. "No. It is the wisest choice."
Tarlin nodded to Ignite. "I am not a true soldier, merely a guard, but that means I understand well the urge to protect those close to you, even to the point of aggravation. I recognize that same impulse within you now, Sara, and respect it, but I still concur with Evie's plan."
Oddry tentatively raised her hand. "Do I get a vote? I've never held a weapon larger than a cooking knife, and I don't understand a thing of warfare."
Sara rolled her eyes. "Sure, why not. Shoot."
"I also agree with Evie."
"Shocker." Sara sighed, slumping back to rest her head between Hurlish's breasts. "Fine. Evie'll leave as soon as she gathers up the Irregulars and supplies she needs. How long do you think that will be?"
"I will wish to hire an expert for the terrain, one of those hunters that Nora has made use of lately. Gathering the Irregulars, equipping them with steeds, selecting supplies... I will leave tomorrow evening at the latest, Master."
"And how long will it take to get the job done?"
"Or, to speak your true question, when should you come to rescue me?"
"I don't think you'll get captured, Evie. I really do trust your skills, and like you said, no one knows the Night's Eye like you do. I'm just... y'know, paranoid. You of all people can't get onto me for that."
Evie huffed. "I suppose not. A week or more, Master. If I have not managed to track them down by the second week, they will have already achieved their objectives and will be leaving the country."
"Alright. We can discuss the particulars tomorrow while you get ready. Ignite, Tarlin, you're free to leave if you'd like."
Ignite saluted sharply, eagerly heading for the door. Tarlin, still acting as Vesta's bodyguard, remained, but he looked confused by the order.
"And why would we leave, but not the others, ma'am?"
Sara grinned. "Well, y'see, Evie and I made a bet before we started the practice battles. Seeing as she won the majority of the matches, and she's about to be away for a while, I'd figured there was no better time to cash in her victory. Feel free to stay big guy, hell, I'd welcome it, but it's up to you."
Evie's eyes widened nearly as much as Tarlin's. "Tonight, Master?"
"Why not? We'll draft some orders ahead of time, have people start getting things ready first thing in the morning so you can sleep in."
"I suppose..."
Vesta licked her lips, leaning forward in interest. "Now, what exactly was the nature of this wager that you lost, Sara?"
"You'll see, but knowing Evie, I'm sure you can guess the gist. I actually was getting it ready the moment we arrived back at the city, and it's been, what, five or six hours? Should be good by now." Sara turned to Evie, smile lecherous. "Evie?"
"Yes, Master?"
"You will not remember receiving the following set of orders until I lift this command. You will begin to undress, but will not notice that you have changed clothing until after I finish speaking..."
Evie shuddered as the commands rolled through her, eyes growing more lidded with each successive order.
------------------------------------
Evie
------------------------------------
The candle on the wall flickered rather oddly. Time was passing, clearly. Evie had no way of telling how long, but it wasn't an inconsiderable amount. For an uncertain period, she let her mind float on the sea of Master's voice, a dull and empty-minded smile gracing her face. After a long while, but still not long enough, she felt herself raising up through the mist, her lucidity returning. She adjusted her legs, which suddenly felt near falling asleep. Master smiled at her.
"How are you feeling, Evie?"
"Wonderful, Master, but slightly confused. Has the meeting concluded?"
"Yes. Now we're working on me fulfilling my end of the bet we made before the army exercises."
"I remember no such bet, Master."
"That's because your first condition was that I make you forget you made it bet. There were a lot after that, too, but those are for you to figure out on your own. Now, would you please close your eyes?"
Though it hadn't been phrased as an order, Evie responded with similar alacrity. If requests with no expectation of refusal were as close as she could get Master to giving her orders outside the bedroom, she would have to take it. She felt Master's hand brush across her cheek, and started to lean into it, but was surprised to find her affection pushed away. She understood why a moment later when silky cloth slid across her face, covering her eyes.
"Alright, you can open them now. Can you see anything?"
"No."
"Tell the truth."
Evie shivered. The game had begun. "A bit of light, from the torch," she heard her mouth replying. "Nothing more."
"Hm. I'll wrap it around again." Master did so, pressing a palm to the back of Evie's head to tilt it downward as she tied the knot. Evie shivered. "What about now?"
"Nothing, Master," Evie replied. It was the truth, but she added uncertainty to her voice, hoping– knowing– Master would pick up on it.
"Tsk tsk, Evie. Tell the truth."
Evie shivered slightly as her collar hummed. "It was, Master. I see nothing."
"Good." There was some shuffling to Evie's right, which she instinctively turned to follow before a hand pushed her back. "Hold on a sec. Gotta have you outta the way for a minute." There was more shuffling, and a grunt from Hurlish. Evie didn't know the orc had still been in the room. How much time had Master snipped from her awareness?
"Gonna get that caught on the-" Hurlish said.
"I see it, I just gotta get it up and over the-"
"My, you two make that look difficult."
Vesta, too? Did that mean Oddry had joined them? And the room, she abruptly realized. She hadn't paid enough attention to the brickwork before Master tied the blindfold to notice, but they had changed locations. The room had a different echo to it. Where was she?
Before she could voice the question, Master and Hurlish finished maneuvering whatever it was they had been grappling with. Evie jumped in her seat as she felt strong orcish hands lift her under the armpits, swinging her around until her shins bumped into something hard.
"Lift your legs, Kitty," Hurlish instructed. She hadn't the magical power over Evie that Master did, but the insulting eponym produced a frustratingly similar shudder from her body. She did as instructed, and felt herself being set onto lacquered wooden planks. She was in a kneeling position, which forced her to recognize that her clothing, too, had been changed. It was much more constrictive about her knees, difficult to bend in, which was categorically not an outfit she preferred. She began to feel at her upper body, but was startled when a strong pair of hands yanked her wrists back down, placing them in her lap instead.
"Keep those there."
Her collar hummed, and as she obeyed, tendrils of pleasure trickled through it. She knew by now that the physical effects, the pleasure at least, were unique to being Master's slave, and she couldn't be more grateful for it. Perhaps being puppeteered by word alone would have grown tiring, if not for the heat the sensation brought her each time.
No, likely not, she quickly decided. Master's commands are never boring enough to grow tiresome.
There was some more shuffling for a time, as well as some communication between Sara and Hurlish, all of which she listened to patiently. She was trying to figure out where she was, what she was on, and what they were doing. All she could be certain of was that her previous self, some weeks distant, had thought it an appropriate reward for besting Master in the training bouts.
What did it say about her self control that the thought made her shiver? Master had limits Evie knew well, but if she was following out Evie's own orders? There wasn't much off the table.
Evie startled once more as she felt the platform she knelt on begin being pushed forward, wooden wheels creaking beneath her. She could not remove her hands from her lap, but she could twist in place, feeling out the clothes she wore, listening to the sounds of her surroundings.
"She's looking rather antsy, isn't she?" Vesta asked. The voice was closer than Evie anticipated, a foot away, and it made her jump once more. Vesta chuckled. "Very antsy."
"Wouldn't you be?" Sara asked. "Especially wearing that."
"She doesn't know what she's wearing, dear."
"She's probably figured it out by now."
Now that comment was irritating, because Evie hadn't. She began shifting more, rolling her shoulders to feel out the limits of her outfit. It was only when she spread her legs, trying to test the constraints upon her thighs, that realization struck her.
It felt cool. Not freezing, not in Tulian, but still, there was a distinct brush of colder air that brushed against the pooling heat between her thights. She reflexively slammed her thighs shut.
Hurlish chuckled. "Now she's figured it out."
"One part, at least," Vesta hummed. Evie felt the former noblewoman ruffle a hand through her hair as if she were a dog. "Other things will take longer to come to light."
Evie stewed in silence, still trying to figure out where she was. After several minutes of the only sound being the steady clack of wooden wheels over cobblestones, she gave up.
"I assume the fifth set of footsteps I hear is Oddry, then?"
"Very astute," the maid's voice replied. She was a fairly trim woman, but her voice was rich and deep, for a human's. "I can see why the Lady likes you."
"Oh, come now, Oddry, I'm not a Lady anymore. No one in our fair nation is."
"Really? Then that was an awfully odd looking cock I had my tongue inside last night."
"Oddry!" Vesta scolded, the reprimand followed by the sound of a folded fan swatting cloth.
"Hey, I'm a lady and I've got a cock," Sara pointed out. "Maybe not a Lady lady, but my own bits aren't the first girl dick I've felt up."
"Truly?" Oddry sounded intrigued. "I've only ever handled women equipped similarly to myself. It would be a novelty to peruse wider waters."
"Play your cards right tonight and there's a good chance you might."
Hurlish grunted. "'Play your cards right', huh? Nah. Ain't much skill in getting that hand, I'll tell you. Y'just need one card called 'spread legs' and another called 'puppydog eyes'."
"I'm not that easy, Hurlish."
"Not at the start of the night, no."
Evie was about to ask another question, but was interrupted by the cart coming to a halt. Sara and Hurlish began coordinating their effort once more, then Evie felt herself tilt, the two burly women carrying whatever platform she was on up a set of stairs.
"And what about you, plaything?" Oddry suddenly asked. It took Evie a moment to recognize she was being addressed. "Any compunctions about other varieties joining your bed, beyond your Master?"
Evie sniffed haughtily. "I am certainly not as promiscuous as Hurlish implied Master to be, no. I was once among the most sought-after women in Sporatos, and I remained unwed for years."
The cart stopped suddenly. Evie felt a distant sense of disapproval emanate through the bond. Master spoke.
"Now, now, Evie. Let's be more honest here. Tell me truthfully who you would take to bed."
Evie's voice replied, in far less refined of a tone than she'd spoken before. "Anyone and everyone that might please you to do so, Master." If that wasn't mortifying enough, her voice continued on. "Hurlish as well. So long as either of you are enjoying the sight, I would take anyone to my bed."
The moment the collar allowed her to, Evie's jaw clicked shut. Hurlish began to laugh, and Evie felt a heat rising through her face.
"Really! I expected the first part, but me, too? I'll have to keep that in mind, Kitty." A thick hand smacked her ass. "Good girl."
Evie did not dignify that with a verbal response, but with her hands restrained, she could not hide the way her tail leapt up to curl around Hurlish's wrist, trying to draw her hand back down. The effort made Hurlish laugh louder, which was irritating, and even more infuriatingly, the orc did not even oblige her tail's request. She just picked up the cart again and moved on.
By the time she heard a door creak open, Evie had entirely given up on determining her location. All she could know was that they were still within the city of Tulian itself, as the cart was rolling across cobblestones, not dirt. More precision than that was impossible, distracted as she was by the intermixed footsteps and other, less external factors. She waited for the door to be held open and her cart to be rolled forward, utterly at the mercy of the women escorting her.
She straightened. "Master," she whispered, feeling the wind roll over her. "We're not outside, are we?"
"So what if we are?"
"So? So? I am bound and blindfolded, carried on a plinth like some sacrificial maiden, and you ask me 'so?' I will do any and all for you, but commanding respect will be considerably more difficult if I am seen in this state."
"Well, if you're that worried, I've got good news and bad news." There was a round of chuckles from the other women. "Good news? Street's empty. Bad news? We're heading for somewhere with way, way more people."
Hidden by the blindfold, Evie's eyes bulged. She opened her mouth to protest, then realized it was futile. She'd personally requested this, whatever it was. How could she rightly object? But still. To be brought like this before a crowd? What was Master thinking? Or, if she was to be technical, what had she been thinking? She offered no further interruption to the other women's conversation, the thought of being humiliated before a crowd occupying her thoughts for the rest of the trip.
In a negative way. She was thinking of it poorly, of course. The ramifications and whatnot, politically speaking. Her mind was not led astray in the slightest by thoughts of how an audience's roving eyes would feel on her skin, nor her ears being caressed by scornful whispers as the audience rightly derided Evie for her shameless display. How awful it would be to have her legs forced open before dozens of strangers, the exposed slit of her pants revealing her slick dripping onto the lacquered wood beneath her.
A truly abhorrent fate.
Evie's train of thought only properly reasserted itself when she began to hear echoes once more, their small group having returned inside.
"I'm going to go ahead real quick. Y'all wait here, I'll be right back." Evie listened to Master's footsteps retreat. When she was certain Master was out of range, she spoke.
"I don't suppose any of you will take the opportunity to explain more of my predicament here?"
Vesta clicked her tongue. "Now, now, dear. I have it on good authority that this will be best experienced as a surprise. Your own authority, as a matter of fact."
The damn collar. As much as she loved it, its influence could be frustrating at times like this. How was she supposed to keep the upper hand when Master could force from her the most private of her desires?
She couldn't, of course. She had long since accepted that Master, whenever she so chose, could take from Evie's mind and body whatever she wished. There was nothing Evie could do about it. There was also nothing Evie would have wanted to do about it. She was Master's slave, after all. Absolute supplication was not just her duty, it was her privilege to experience.
Master's footsteps returned. "Alright, it's all ready." Master paused, and Evie felt a spark of desire transmit itself through the bond. "Probably shouldn't take our time, huh? Look at her."
Evie didn't think she looked that bad.
"Her thighs started to quiver like that shortly after you left," Oddry explained. "I think it's rather cute, but you may be right. Best to hurry along."
Perhaps Evie was not the best judge of her countenance at the moment.
The cart Evie was on began to move once more, making a different rattle as it went. The others were oddly silent as they walked, and the anticipation began to wear at Evie's nerves. She tried once more to pull her hands from her lap, but of course, it was impossible. All she could do was squirm in place, or shove her hands deeper into her lap, which she refused to do. If she could keep her legs closed she might hide the way her clothes exposed her, but she wouldn't be able to hide the sight of slick on her fingers.
The cart's rattle shifted tune once more, but only for a few moments, and then it stopped. She nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt Master's hand on her shoulder drawing her close, and then she shivered as Master began whispering into her ear.
"By the way, Evie. You can't move your arms or legs on your own. Wherever someone positions them, they'll stay. Be a good girl for me tonight, won't you? You'll know what to do."
As always with the more powerful commands, Evie felt the rush roll through her in even greater measures. Even knowing it would be fruitless, she immediately tried to move her arms, her legs, and was unsurprised to find them entirely immobilized. She was helpless as Master's lips brushed against her ear. Evie could feel the smile on them.
"Now for the main event."
Master retreated, her presence replaced by Hurlish's large hands lifting her up. Evie remained in her kneeling position even in midair, until she was being set down somewhere else. The feel of cool metal soaked through the cloth to her knees, and she heard the cart she'd been brought in on being taken away. She tried to follow it with her ears, but was startled instead by the sound of silverware being tapped against glass.
"Hello, everyone!" Master called out. "My apologies for the short notice on the invitation to this event. That obviously wasn't what I would have preferred, but sometimes things get away from me. I'm sure you're familiar with those sorts of struggles yourself. I'm relieved to see so many of you here tonight, considering my scheduling blunders, and hope that the entertainment will be worth any inconvenience I've provided you. I'm also glad that you seem to have begun mingling on your own, and that the particular nature of this occasion is well understood." Evie heard chuckles echo across a wide room, and recognized very few of the voices. "Now, as you can see behind me, the main course has arrived, and the evening can begin in earnest. All I ask is that, aside from my own addition to the evening, you pay careful attention to the wristbands of your fellow partygoers. It wouldn't do to accidentally cause offense." Master's voice grew a touch smug. "And if you wish to sample myself or my gift, please be polite and form a queue. I assure you, those ahead of you won't be lasting long."
Without any warning, the knot tying Evie's blindfold was cut. It fell away, finally revealing to Evie her surroundings.
It was... shocking. Evie was at the back wall of a noble ballroom, kneeling upon a bronze platform two and a half feet off the ground. The ballroom was far from exquisite, the wealthiest of its accommodations long since pilfered or repurposed by the Tulian government, but the fine marble flagstone and elegant architecture remained. White tablecloths were spread across a half dozen tables that sat on the edges of a large dance floor, itself made of tiles smooth enough to glide over. The ceiling lacked its old finery, gold filagree and elaborate crystal chandeliers replaced by far more utilitarian wallpaper and simple gemlights, but Evie didn't particularly care. The physical differences between it and the ballrooms of her youth paled in comparison to the changes in the partygoers, who immediately occupied all of Evie's attention.
Dozens of men and women ambled about the room, dressed in their most elegant attire. Evie spotted jeweled earrings on the women, golden sashes on the men, and decorative canes carried by the older patrons, all the things she would have expected of a similar event in Sporatos. Where they differed, naturally was in who they were trying to impress, and how they went about that.
One such woman chose just that moment to pass in front of Evie. She was wearing a dress in the style Master had popularized, forgoing the bulky pettiskirt and hoops in favor of a more form-fitting material that hung off the hips, highlighting the curves of her body through the cloth. Where Master's dresses occasionally featured a sideslit, this woman's dress featured a front slit, showing to any who cared to look that she wore no undergarments whatsoever. She was unshaven, Evie dimly noted, even as fought and lost against her impulse to stare, incredulously tracking the women as she walked past without the slightest of concerns. Evie finally ripped her attention away just to land on the sight of a man no more than a dozen feet away, wearing the fine silk trousers that were popular with those of means in the Tulian heat, but without any shirt at all. She couldn't blame him for the choice, considering the impressively toned physique he put on display, but she did find it absurd that he'd kept his neck ruffle.
Clearly, the woman he was speaking to didn't find it as silly as Evie, because he made a joke that made her first laugh, then slip to her knees, tugging at his waistband. The man looked mildly surprised, perhaps expecting at least a forewarning of her intentions, but happily slipped his pants down. The woman began eagerly stroking his half-hard cock, taking it to full mast in moments, and took him into her mouth. He sighed in contentment, resting a hand on her head.
Evie swallowed, looking down at herself. Her outfit was dyed a deep black, and though it was of a style she doubted this world had ever seen, she recognized it an instant. Master had shown it to her, in illusory recreations of her old world. A man's suit, pulled tight about her breast and waist, with sharp angles that flattered the muscles her swordsmanship had earned her.
"I'm surprised they ain't linin' up yet," a deep voice said behind her. Hurlish. The orc rounded Evie, sporting a black strapless dress that sparkled in the light, and put a hand on Evie's thigh. "Let's help 'em get the right idea, hm?" Hurlish spread Evie's legs, exposing the cut in her suit to the partygoers.
"H-Hurlish!" Evie protested. It was exactly as she'd feared, and the first of the party goers had already begun to notice. By Master's order, Evie was helpless to resolve her exposure.
"What? Like you're not enjoying it?" Hurlish ran a finger along Evie's slit, collecting the shining fluid on a finger. Evie barely bit back her moan. Locking eyes with her, the orc looked at her finger, moving it to her mouth. Then she paused. "Actually, better idea." She put the finger to Evie's lips. "You know what to do."
In front of so many? Hurlish may know Evie better than nearly anyone else, but clearly she didn't understand her well enough. Evie pursed her lips, turning her head away. She was allowed that much movement, at least.
"Oh?" Hurlish took a fistful of Evie's braided hair, wrenching her head back around. "I thought your Master gave you an order. You're supposed to be a good kitty tonight, aren't you?"
Evie tried to pull away from Hurlish's grip, but she might as well have been fighting iron. The orc was bent low in front of her now, the low cut of her dress exposing not just her prodigious musculature, but her cleavage, which was equally massive. In fact, bent as she was, the dress was falling loose, affording Evie a view of the tops of her breasts. Breasts that would likely be swelling in the coming months, ready for Master's child. That child would be Evie's, too, in the odd but profoundly satisfying manner that their relationship had developed. Even Hurlish's body was readying itself to help Master, and here Evie was, jaw clamped shut like a child that refused to take a bitter drink.
And Master had told her to be a good girl, hadn't she?
Evie parted her mouth ever so slightly. Hurlish's finger slipped between her lips, salty with the taste of Evie's own slick. It was a flavor she'd grown shockingly familiar with over the last few months, if usually from the lips of another. Her eyes fluttered closed as Hurlish pushed deeper into her mouth, trusting Evie's tongue to lick along its length, clearing it of every trace of her own arousal. Only then did Hurlish slowly withdraw it, Evie's tongue chasing after as it left.
Evie's eyes opened slowly, revealing the sight of the grinning woman stepping away. The grace the dress lent the orc smith was slightly mollified by the way she thoughtlessly wiped Evie's spittle off on her outer thigh, but if the other activities spurring to life throughout the ballroom were any indication, it would be far from the last stained article of clothing the night saw.
Nor the last person Evie tasted, she suddenly realized. Hurlish's place was quickly taken by a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a dress not dissimilar in make from Hurlish's, but slate gray, with a one-shoulder cape. The woman looked first at Evie's face, then her eyes flicked down to her collar, then to the subtle swell of her chest beneath the suit, then finally landed on the exposed skin between her thighs.
"My, you are a pretty thing, aren't you? The Governess wasn't lying."
Despite the absurdity of the circumstances, Evie's years of tutoring kicked in.
"Thank you, ma'am, and I'm pleased to hear that Master thinks so- Ah!"
Evie choked off as the woman cupped her sex, utterly disinterested in what she was saying. She looked Evie in the eye for one brief moment, face firm.
"Toys don't talk."
Evie tried to regain her wits, unsure of what she even would say in response, but the effort failed before it even began, because the woman shifted her attention higher. With almost clinical interest her hand moved upward, thumb brushing at Evie's clit, which was already throbbing from the events that had transpired. Evie shuddered at the rough attention it received, quick little circles, and she was dimly aware that the woman was watching her reactions. At every shiver from Evie, the woman sped up, testing and teasing at the same time.
"Yes, pretty indeed. And well behaved. Darling, why don't you give it a try?"
"That's really not necessary, honey," a man said, stepping into Evie's much-degraded line of sight, "I quite believed the Governess's claims."
"Yes, yes, you're very much a patriot, I'm sure she'll be delighted to hear of your faith in her and all that. But do look at this precious little thing. See how easily she reacts?"
"I can hardly imagine her behaving otherwise, my sweet. If I handled you as roughly as you are her, you'd have slapped me from the very first touch."
The woman's thumb lifted from Evie's clit, a mercy and torture in one. She instead slowly stroked up and down Evie's slit, almost idly, like she was just finding something to do with her hands while she spoke.
"She's a fighter, dear, made of sterner stuff than I am. And just because you believed the Governess when she said her slave had a body befitting the gods doesn't mean you know what it feels like. I insist, darling, I do. You'll be plenty ready to go after a short while, so don't pretend like you're withholding for my sake."
"Oh, since you insisted," the man said, stepping forward. Evie was freed from the woman's teasing attention just long enough to watch the man begin unbuttoning his pants, grabbing her leg to drag her to the edge of the platform.
Across the room, Evie caught sight of Master. She was engaged in a conversation with some of the other party-goers, smiling at some comment or another, but her eyes were locked onto Evie. Through the collar, Evie felt her Master's simmering desire. Suppressed, for now, but bubbling beneath the surface. She claimed that Evie had set this plan into motion, but the arousal she felt emanating from the woman told her that Master was anything but reluctant. Even as Evie was dragged and maneuvered about like so much trash, Master was pulsing with perverse pride. That so many found Evie's feline body desirable, exotically enticing, but that it was hers alone to use, it delighted Master, and by extension, it delighted Evie. As the man finished pulling his cock through his trousers, the last of Evie's propriety fell to dust.
"Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to get some use out of the evening?" Evie asked the man. She could not move her legs, but she could control her hips, which she used to roll upward at him.
"I already told you that toys don't talk," the woman said. "Much less taunt those using them. The Governess didn't mention that you have quite the mouth on you."
"You're right," Evie purred, craning her head back to look at the woman. She had circled around behind Evie, to watch her husband use her, and Evie smirked up at her. "If only there were a way to put that mouth of mine to use."
"Brat," the woman snipped, as if it were some great condemnation. Evie couldn't care less, because she got what she wanted. The woman hiked up her dress and stepped forward, pulling her undergarments down as she settled her crotch over Evie's face. "Get to work then, if you really think you're worth so much."
The scent of the woman's arousal wafted over Evie just as she felt the head of a cock press against her entrance. She could not reach up to bring the woman down onto her, so she stretched her neck out, pressing her mouth to the pussy above her, while in the same moment she rolled her hips, sliding the man's shaft between her lower lips. The woman sighed, the man's breath caught, and Evie's collar practically throbbed with Master's approval. It was a thick, sludgy pleasure that coursed through her veins, more intoxicating than any drug. Master, who so resolutely thought of her as an equal, was sinking into the possessive mire that Evie spent her entire life in, and there was no greater delight than that knowledge. For now, at least, she was Master's slave, used and borrowed by whoever her owner so desired.
The thought had her groaning into the musk of arousal that surrounded her, her hum vibrating in a way that got a considerable reaction from the woman above her. Evie's tongue ran slow strokes along her pussy, taking in the taste of her, months of practice with Master lending her a precision that had the woman gasping in seconds. Between Evie's legs, she still felt the man hesitating, as if unsure, and she bucked her hips against his pelvis in irritation.
"D-dear," the woman said between lip-biting moans, "I think our toy is getting impatient. Best to- ah! -strike while the iron is hot, yes?"
"I-I'm not sure I'll last more than a second," her husband gasped back, knees quivering. "She is... gods, she is something."
Evie bucked harder, irritated. What did he care of how long he would last? Was he concerned for her pleasure? She was a plaything, not a person. Her purpose was to sate the desire of Master's guests, nothing more. Unsure of how to get the point across with her mouth full of pussy, she did the only thing she could, slowing the pace of her licking. The woman groaned.
"Darling, she's stopping, and I was ever so close. If you don't get your cock in her right now, I'll not touch it for a week."
"Fine, fine," he said. Evie felt the head of his cock press against her entrance once more. "I just hope I'll have enough of my mind left to pull out."
If Evie could've moved her legs, she would have wrapped her legs around his waist to protest the notion. Unfortunately, she remained at the mercy of others, and couldn't force upon him what would be best. She resumed the earlier pace of her tongue's ministrations to the woman, rewarding her for the intervention, and readied herself to take the stranger inside her.
Evie felt herself clench down on him as he slowly slipped inside her, a low groan rolling out from his throat. His cock did not compare to Master's, of course, but she knew very few would. After so long spent with Master, whose body altered itself to Evie's every whim, she had slowly developed a taste for the... anatomically improbable, it could be said. What had begun with large, six or seven inches of Master's cock, had steadily grown, the hardiness afforded by her levels allowing Evie to take eight, nine, even ten inches, every part of her filled to the very edge of pain by Master's cock. That the man was only average should've been a mild disappointment, not nearly as pleasurable as Master's size, but to Evie's surprise, she found her stomach rolling in desire. An hour spent blindfolded, stewing in her growing arousal, followed by the sheer impropriety of being fucked before so many, left her more on edge than she'd been in her entire life. She whimpered into the pussy above her, clenching down involuntarily, and was utterly shocked to find the twitching signs of her peak approaching at a frightening pace.
"By the fucking gods," the man groaned, pressing all the way until his pelvis pressed against Evie's cunt. "How can anything be so tight?"
Even though her eyes were closed, Evie felt Master's attention searing her skin. A woman mounted on her face, a man buried to the hilt in her cunt, and all for her. All for Master. It was her duty to please.
As if the mere sight of her husband hilted in Evie was enough to rob her of her strength, Evie felt the weight of the woman press down on her face. No longer having to strain her neck, Evie shoved her tongue into the velvet heat above her, noting each and every reaction her searching earned. The man began to buck his hips against her, sharp, short thrusts, as if he couldn't bare the thought of being out of her for even a second, but was too desperate for friction to remain still. Evie felt herself bouncing on the bronze plinth, so frantically was he fucking her, and it was only the weight of his wife that pinned her in place. She had the wherewithal to keep tasting the pussy above her, but her technique was growing increasingly sloppy, the shakes and shivers turning into outright grinding, the woman using Evie's face for pleasure, while Evie herself was losing focus, chasing the building heat between her legs.
Suddenly, without warning, Evie felt the man snap his hips forward one final time. Profanity of all kinds fell from his lips as Evie felt the base of his cock pulse within her, and then, almost too late, he tore himself away. Evie felt herself get dragged forward, hips dangling above open air, and then felt hot liquid splashing across her hips, her stomach, and her chest. It soaked into the cloth of her suit, undoubtedly staining it white, but Evie couldn't spare a thought for it. The man's wife was whining in high-pitched hiccups, crying her husband's name. Evie pulled her tongue from the depths of the woman's pussy and pressed her lips to her clit, tongue shoving hard, and was rewarded by a final hiccuping cry. The woman convulsed atop Evie, pressing her hands to Evie's chest for balance, and Evie felt yet another echo of Master's approval roar through her.
When she finished convulsing, the woman slumped, all of her weight briefly shoved against Evie's face. Evie kept licking, and it was the post-orgasm sensitivity that finally forced the woman off of her. Evie opened her eyes to see the now far more disheveled woman staring back down at her, breathing hard.
"Well. An impressive performance, toy." She ran quivering hands through her hair. "Let's see how long you can keep it up, hm? As your owner predicted, there is a line forming. Best to get out of the way."
Evie lifted her head, looking down at herself. Sure enough, thick ropes of cum had stained her suit, clustered just above her exposed crotch. The man that had put them there was still breathing hard, supporting himself with one hand on her leg while he buttoned his pants back up. That done, he moved aside, revealing the collection of people crowding in a loosely organized fashion behind him. Ten at least, at first glance. Women and men, orcs and humans, even one brown-furred catfolk. Evie recognized none of them, but they clearly recognized her. The next in line was a woman, short by orcish standards, which put her at six and a half feet.
"Those clothes expensive?" The orc asked.
Evie looked down at the cum-stained suit and shrugged. "It may have been. Not anymore."
"Good."
The orc palmed the center of Evie's chest and gripped hard, ripping away the patch of material that had covered her breasts. It took enough force that Evie was physically lifted off the bronze platform, bouncing back down hard enough that it would have seriously bruised anyone with a lesser constitution. Instead of pain, the rough handling only caused her to gasp, a reaction that intensified when the orc bent over, taking her nipple into her mouth without warning.
Evie arched into the touch, wishing that she could wrap her hands around the orc's head. Instead she lay passively still, with no choice but to accept what came to her. The orc's tongue slid across her nipple, not interested in pleasing her, just in discovering the taste of Evie's body, and for some reason, the lack of care drove her even madder than a lover's touch.
Evie jumped when she felt a sudden pressure between her thighs, whoever was next in line deciding that the gap between her legs was open for the taking. A thin finger began sliding through her slit, testing her reactions, and she whimpered obligingly, letting her body's moans guide them to where she wanted their hand the most. She didn't know who it was between her legs, nor on her chest, but that had stopped mattering long ago. All that mattered was the touch of others, the heady rush of Master's silent approval, and the desires of those using her body.
The finger teasing her slit slipped into her soaked heat, curling deeply, and Evie keened her relief. Her sense of time began to slip as the orc moved from her breasts to her neck, sucking a line of hickies, while a second finger entered her from below. She felt her arms and her legs being shoved around, her body spun on the plinth to face wherever those using her desired, and she had no choice– and no desire– to resist.
She reached her first crying peak to the fingers between her legs, aided by the orc's return to her breasts, nibbling her left breast while pinching and kneading the nipple of her right. She clamped down hard on the stranger's fingers, doing everything she could to shove them deeper inside her, but either the unknown person was clueless to what she wished, or enjoyed watching her chase after their hand, because they slipped free the moment she began to come. Evie was left writhing in place, searching for sensation she could not bring herself. No one stepped up to provide it, until eventually she was left panting on the cool metal, feeling the slick of her arousal pooling between her thighs.
There was no gap from that first orgasm to when the next guest arrived. She was still shaking when another cock pressed itself against her, already hard as could be. She couldn't even bring herself to look down to see who it was before she was impaled once more, a mumbling groan spilling from her lips. Her eyes fluttered as the man– she assumed it was a man– pumped into her. She caught a glimpse of another figure walking around the plinth to where her head was, then felt the heat of another cock pressing against her lips. This one, she hazily noted, belonged to a woman, but it wasn't Master. She didn't care. She obediently opened her lips, allowing the woman entrance, and hummed in delight as the woman pressed into her throat. Evie was on her back, head dropped off the edge of the platform, and she felt the cock bulging in her throat. She hummed in delight, encouraging the woman to begin moving.
Heralded by a deep groan from below, she felt the cock buried in her cunt spasm, this person apparently choosing not to pull out. Hot cum filled her in bursts, another delight, amplified by the way her satisfied writhing finally encouraged the woman in her throat to finally begin properly fucking it. Evie hummed in satisfaction, taking it all, and waited impatiently for the next person to begin attending her lower half.
Time seemed to bleed away as the evening progressed. Evie found no respite, despite the relatively small size of the congregation, only two dozen or so. As fast as her body could finish each person off, the air of sex that suffused the room had them ready to go by the time it would've been their turn again. Evie lost count of how many times each patron came to fuck her, lost count of the number of times she was filled by some stranger's cum. Some preferred to pull out instead, painting her body, and soon her hair, face, and clothing was utterly ruined. The double-fisted grips of those who fucked her face ruined the braids of her hair, sticky strands of it tangled and loose, while her pants in particular were progressively more ripped, her body forced into every conceivable position for the party-goers' pleasure. She was taken from behind, face shoved down, and she was taken from below, her body puppeteered so she straddled their waists, lifted and dropped to ride them as they pleased. The women in particular, Evie noticed, seemed to take great pleasure in her mouth, and Evie took note of that with no small amount of pride. Master had taught her well.
And all the while, Master watched. She never came close, always entertaining whatever guests Evie wasn't "attending", but her eyes rarely left her slave. She often spent her time with Vesta and Oddry, either in conversation or with her cock buried in their pussies, but she mingled beyond the familiar. Evie even watched as Master sated herself with some of the guests, some brave few men and women working up the courage to proposition her. Those moments were when Evie reached her peak the easiest, the dual sensations of Master's cock shoved into women and men alike combining with the attentions of those ravaging Evie's body. Master took her partners most often by laying them across the tables, scattering the food that had been put out, and she did it with the most infuriating smile on her face, as if being buried to the hilt or having a cock shoved into her was as easy to focus through as a shoulder massage. Master's partners, of course, had no such ability to distract themselves, and were often left nigh unconscious where they lay, melted into a pile of loose muscle by the aftershocks of their orgasm.
Eventually, when even Evie's energy began to flag, the constant flow of people fucking her began to ebb. There were limits to mortal stamina, and despite the presence of Amarat's Champion, not everyone could keep up the pace. Evie found herself being left alone for increasingly long breaks, many guests finally taking to the food that had been laid out. As always with Master, the meals were nothing expensive, but it did look well made. Evie got her only taste of it on the lips of others, but at the very least she thought the gravy was good. It was hard to tell through the taste of cum, though.
Finally, Evie had no idea how much later, Master walked to the center of the room and tapped silverware against her drinking glass. Those still awake in the room turned to her, some even bothering to try and correct their ruined attire. It was pointless, naturally, but even in such strange circumstances the impulse persisted.
"It looks like things are beginning to slow down, so I thought it would be a good time to move to the grand finale." A murmur of interest. After this night of debauchery, what would a finale include? Master waved to Evie, who was laying splayed out on the fluid-soaked platform. "As far as I'm aware, everyone interested in women has had their way with my gift tonight. If you haven't and wish to, speak up now, before we move on." Silence. All had thoroughly acquainted themselves with her body by then. "Perfect. Now, let's see how the main course enjoyed her time."
Master looked Evie in the eye. "Answer all these questions honestly and completely."
Evie's collar hummed. She barely had the energy left to shiver, but enjoyed the sensation nonetheless. Master smiled, seeming for all the world like an auctioneer presenting the final bidding piece of the evening.
"How many times did you come tonight?"
"Six," Evie immediately replied. "I got close many other times, but most didn't last long enough to finish me off."
A mixture of amused and mildly embarrassed chuckles.
"Now, now, nothing to be ashamed of there, everyone. She's very good at what she does." Master sauntered closer, still speaking in a presenter's voice. "Now, what was the most you ever came in one session with me?"
Somehow, Evie had shame left enough to flush as the answer was forced from her. "At least thirteen, Master, after which I lost count. They began to blend together, and my memory grew hazy."
"And did you think anyone here would be capable of achieving the same, based off their performance tonight?"
"No. None know my body as you do."
Master turned back to the crowd, who were slowly gathering. "See? Isn't that a shame? I know you all enjoyed her, but it's important to give back to the community, no? With that in mind, I'd like you all to pay careful attention."
With that ominous pronouncement, Master put her back to the crowd, staring down at Evie. As utterly demolished as the feline was, Master still looked at her with a lust that bordered on reverence. She licked her lips at the sight of Evie's torn suit, at her cum-coated breasts, her ruined pants, and her soaked thighs, which had been left exposed to the world. Even with her pussy still aching from loving abuse, Evie felt a spark of desire flare to life under Master's leering eye.
Master stepped closer, pinching the corner of the very same purple dress that she had worn to impress the King so many months ago. She took a hand to its single strap and lifted, pulling the garment over her head in one smooth motion. She wore nothing beneath, her body fully bared for the first time that night. The garment fell to the floor, forgotten, as Master advanced on Evie.
For all Evie loved Master's body, every soft inch of it, in that foggy moment her attention was drawn to one place alone. Master's cock stood at attention, still glistening from the last woman she had bent over a table, but far from satisfied. Evie watched it jump with Master's pulse, standing at attention, and felt her mouth begin to water as it grew even further, adapting itself to Evie's once-suppressed desires. It was a beautiful thing, thick and long enough to stretch her past her limits, to shred her self control beneath the assault on her body's senses. She knew it well, and for the first time that evening, Evie fought against the collar's bindings, trying to drag herself closer to Master's cock. A small whine left her as she failed to move.
Master stopped just between Evie's spread legs, staring down at her. Evie stared back up, chest heaving. The audience watched, enraptured, as Master's cock pulsed with desire.
Then, to Evie's agonizing disappointment, Master turned around.
"As you can see, she's well prepared. I don't think I've ever needed much foreplay with her, as much of a slut as she is, but there's fun to be had in that, too. If you're the type that likes to watch her squirm, start like this."
Master snagged Evie's ankle, violently dragging her to the edge of the platform. Before Evie could even react, Master's hand was on her collar, pulling her up.
"As you can see, the collar is quite helpful. It's magically bound to her entire body, not just the skin of her throat, so you can lift her any way you want without worrying about hurting her. Hurlish, if you'd like to demonstrate?"
Evie had been so distracted by Master's display that she hadn't noticed the orc walking up behind her. A massive hand wrapped around her collar, dragging her limply into the air. With her arms and legs dangling loosely at her side, she was presented to the crowd, Hurlish lifting her like a banner. The audience stared at her in delight, soaking in the ruined state they had collectively left her body. True to Master's word, being held by the collar caused her no discomfort. Master began circling her, adopting a tutor's cadence.
"She likes it rough, ladies and gentlemen, and don't worry, she likes it rougher than any of you can give it to her. Hurlish?"
The orc dropped Evie without ceremony, letting her collapse onto the floor. Hurlish reached down and bodily handled her limbs, twisting her into a kneeling position before Master.
"Once you've tossed her around a bit, she'll start getting desperate. Not enough to beg, not yet, but we can fix that." Evie's eyes widened as Master placed a palm on her head, directly between her feline ears. "She acts like she doesn't want people to know, but I know her well enough to see through the lie. The fae made her kind for the enjoyment of mortal nobility, imbuing her ancestors with all the desirable traits of a cat, and if you've ever pet one, you know that they like their ears scratched."
Evie almost wanted to protest, to say that she really would rather not have so many strangers know the stranger aspects of her anatomy. She was stopped by the thought of all that she had just gone through, the wondrous mind-shattering pleasure of it, and what it would be like if those using her body knew it as well as Master did. She silenced herself, allowing Master's hand to reach for her ears unopposed.
"I find it best to start by brushing the tips, just a little bit at a time, while working my way down. As you can see by the way they're flicking back and forth, they're very sensitive, so it's best to start slow if you don't want to get clawed."
Just as Master said, Evie's ears were reflexively twitching away from her touch. Unlike her tail, Evie had some modicum of control over her ears, but it was very little, only when she was tracking a sound. Her subconscious couldn't seem to decide whether the ticklish sensation was enticing or irritating, and so she was left shivering in place, trying to control her breathing before the enraptured audience.
"Once you're near the base, you'll want to start scratching, just like you would a cat. She may be one of the smartest people I know, but once you get her going, that intelligence seems to melt away. See?"
Evie's eyes were lidded as Master's fingernails scratched at her ears, just at the point where they met the scalp. Her breath was heavy now, but she was still resisting the urge to moan.
"Once you've had your fun teasing her like that, it's time to get serious. It won't take long, so watch carefully."
Evie tried to brace herself. She really did. But it was pointless. Master's fingers curled up, her knuckles digging into the base of her ears, and she lost control. A cat's pathetic mewling fell out of her throat as the pressure sent waves through her, her neck involuntarily shoving her head up into Master's fingers. Her eyes fell closed, but she heard the quickening of breath in the crowd, the quiet whispers. Evie's display was provoking exactly the reaction Master had wanted.
"Believe it or not, I've actually seen her come from her ears alone. Isn't that right, Evie?"
"Y-y-yes, Master," Evie replied, even the collar's dominance not able to keep the stutter from her voice. "It feels... gods, it feels so good. I love it, Master, I love you. P-please keep going."
"Hm. No."
Evie cried out in shock as Master's knuckles removed themselves. Her neck craned after Master's hands, but it was of course fruitless. From the audience, Vesta spoke up.
"Come now, Sara, that was just mean. Give the poor thing what she wants."
"What she wants?" Master asked. "I know what she wants. She wants to be used. She wants to be put on display. She wants to do whatever pleases me, no matter what it is."
"I can w-want two things at once, Master," Evie breathed.
"I know. But I want to keep you on the very edge. And which do you want more? To come, or to obey me?"
"Obey you," Evie immediately gasped, the order of truth placed on her not even necessary to force the confession. "Always, always, I wish to obey you. I want nothing more."
"See?" Master stepped around to Evie's side, her cock level with her eyes. Evie watched it hungrily. "Now, normally I'd let her suck me off, because she loves it even more than I do. Thanks to Amarat's influence on our bond, she actually feels every sensation I do, at least when it comes to sex, so it's a perfectly mutual act. I come, she comes, and she gets to have her throat stuffed. Everyone wins."
Despite herself, Evie's mouth fell open, tongue lolling excitedly. Master tsked.
"But, since I'm teaching the rest of you how to please her, we'll have to skip that bit. Hurlish, if you don't mind?"
Evie's fury at being denied Master's cock boiled away in an instant as Hurlish's hand wrapped around her throat from behind, throwing her forward. Evie hit the floor with a gasp, unable to catch herself, and the brutal uncaringness of it was enough to have another burst of arousal flooding her mind. She felt Hurlish's hands lift her stomach up, shoving her legs together so that her ass was raised into the air, then her arms were pulled forward, giving her something soft to rest her cheek on. The cut portion of her pants exposed her pussy to the audience, cool air a torturous mix with her boiling heat.
"Now, as you can tell by how much wetter she just got, that still wasn't too rough for her. Like I said, none of you will be strong enough to actually hurt her, so in the future feel free to go wild. She'll love it." Evie jumped as a hand slapped her ass, hard enough that she knew a red mark would be spreading beneath her pants. "That slap was just to prove the point. It was hard enough to split firewood, in case you were wondering. Now, as for how else she likes to be treated, I can see plenty of you figured it out for yourself."
Evie felt Master's finger tug at one of the rips in her pants. "Unlike me, she's not the type that thinks keeping some clothes on during sex is hotter. She likes to bare it all, and she likes it to be torn off her."
Master's hand yanked downward, the sound of ripping cloth filling the air. Evie groaned into her forearm, feeling the tug of cloth against her skin. Her pants went quickly, followed by her shirt, which Master ripped up the middle so that it fell in a pile beneath her. For the first time that evening, Evie was entirely naked, even if she'd spent most of it with anything of consequence uncovered. There were a series of appreciative whispers in the crowd, as well as some ironic catcalling whistles, which she might have found racially insensitive in a different context. As it was, the demeaning words she overheard were just fuel to her fire.
Even Master seemed to take a moment to appreciate Evie's body. She could only squirm beneath the attention, growing wetter by the second, which she hadn't thought possible. Finally, broken from her trance, Master spoke up.
"Well. I was going to keep giving some lessons here, but, uh... I think she's rubbing off on me. I can probably multitask. Oddry, did you find a mirror like I asked?"
"Yes, ma'am," the maid replied. Evie heard soft footsteps approach, the topless Oddry appearing for a moment in the limited view afforded Evie by her face-down predicament. Oddry handed a polished mirror to Hurlish, who set it down a couple feet in front of Evie. The orc was about to step away again, but then paused, gauging Evie's angle on the mirror. She knelt down and took Evie's wrists in her hand, adjusting her position so that Evie's head was resting more comfortably on her forearms, the mirror directly in her field of vision, so that Evie could see Master and the crowd behind her.
As if that wasn't bad enough, before Hurlish retreated, she adjusted Evie's arms one last time for comfort, then pecked a quick kiss on Evie's cheek. It wasn't a lustful kiss, or possessive, but perfectly casual, the kind that a wife might give their partner before they left the home for work. Hurlish had very clearly done it by habit alone, as she did each morning before leaving for the forge. Somehow, the display of domestic complicity was more mortifying than anything thus far, and Evie was forced to watch the furious blush race up her face.
Through the mirror Evie watched as Master stepped forward, palming her ass. She could see the crowd, two dozen people, leaning closer to watch, practically salivating with anticipation. Several had begun to stroke themselves, either through their clothes or with their hands down their pants, and several couples had begun to fondle one another. None looked away as Master took her cock in her hand, dropping it atop Evie's ass. It was ten inches long, thick, and precum was glistening at its tip. Just before it, Evie's tail was raised in a curled question mark, primal instinct doing its best to keep the limb from getting in the way.
"Are you ready, Evie?"
"Please, Master," she whispered. She couldn't take her eyes off the mirror no matter how she tried.
"Speak louder. You've got an audience to entertain."
"Please, Master!" Evie cried. "Please, I need it. I need it so much, Master."
"Good girl," Master purred.
Evie's eyes watered as the head of Master's cock pressed to her entrance. It was tight, so tight, and hot as well, the cool air of the ballroom burned away by Master's body. She shifted and groaned as Master slowly pushed forward, utterly infuriated by the fact that she didn't have enough leverage to just shove herself backward, taking Master in one smooth blow. It might've hurt, but Evie couldn't have cared less. She was achingly empty, incomplete, and the very thing that she needed to be whole was so infuriatingly close.
"Faster, Master, please, faster."
"I-I've got my limits, too," Master replied, surprising Evie with how husky her voice was. "I don't think you want it to end that quick."
"I don't care, I don't care, I don't care!" Evie whined. The head of Master's cock was already in her, and Evie felt it not just between her legs, but in the phantom sensation the bond allowed her. Evie felt how tight her walls were around Master, felt her body twitching in impatience, and knew it was through a heroic effort of will that Master was holding back.
"Master, please, please give it to me. I need it so bad, Master. I've been good, haven't I? I was so good for you, Master. You saw it. I deserve it, don't I? I earned it."
Master groaned, hips bucking forward slightly. "Goddammit, Evie, I'm trying to... to do a thing here."
"I don't fucking care!" Evie hissed, shoving her hips back as far as she could manage. "Fuck me already! Do it!"
Like the final leak in an overstressed damn, Evie's profanity pushed Master over the edge. She let out a guttural growl and slapped her hips forward, splitting Evie open.
Evie's mouth opened in a soundless scream, light dancing behind her eyes. In the mirror she saw Master's expression contorting, lost in bliss, and she saw the audience behind her, choking on their arousal. Evie lost herself in the sensation of being filled, of Master's cock burying itself in fiery heat. Master's cock was massive enough that she should have bottomed out, but she didn't, Evie's body somehow contorting to accept all of her, like a blessing from the goddess herself. She bit her forearm, unable to take her eyes off the sight of Master's filling her from behind.
With a wet noise, Master slowly pulled back, until she was nearly out of Evie entirely, then slammed forward. The smack of hips against her ass echoed through the room, nearly as loud as Evie's cry of delight. The audience was still watching, the knowledge of their presence driving Evie insane, but only the knowledge, not the sight, because she had eyes for Master alone in the mirror. Master began to thrust, slowly at first, but with increasing speed, her breasts bouncing every time she buried herself in Evie's pussy.
Evie herself gave up on controlling her voice. Every impact of Master's hips had her crying out, every time she pulled away causing Evie to whimper her protests. It was a study of contrasts, the sight Evie saw in the mirror. She was on hands and knees, getting fucked like an animal, but rather than Master rutting into her in the wilds of a forest, they were in an elegant ballroom, a crowd of socialites touching themselves to the display. Hurlish had somehow pilfered Oddry from Vesta, shoving the maid's face into her crotch, while Vesta had brought over a chair for her to finger herself in. Others were similarly engaged, but as Master's pace increased, it became difficult to discern their actions through the bouncing of her head.
Both in her own core, and in Master's, Evie felt it building. Master's cock stretched her so completely that the waves of pleasure wracking her body were overlapping, too rapid to distinguish. She could feel her cunt squeezing down on Master, so tight it was like she was trying to trap it inside her, each dragging pump of her shaft clawing through every nook and cranny of her body. Evie whined, and moaned, and mewled, and she even was dimly aware of a purr rumbling out of her chest, her satisfaction too primal to stop the animalistic noises from breaking free.
Suddenly, exerting a titanic effort of will, Master found her voice.
"A-and... if you... gods, fucking so tight, Evie... if you have her like this, and you grab her tail..."
Evie tensed, anticipation and trepidation surging. Master's cock had brought her so close, so close to perfection, but if she did that...
"Just... fucking hell–" Master bent lower, slapping her hips harder into Evie, "Just grab at the base, stroke it, press your knuckles into it, it's all you need."
Through the bond, Evie felt how close Master was, how hard she was fighting off her peak, and knew it was all for this moment. Evie watched helplessly as Master's hand lifted from her ass, reaching for her curled tail, and seized the base.
Evie screamed.
Lightning crackled along her nerves, shattering her mind. She was already being fucked from behind, filled beyond belief, with the added phantom sensation of herself being buried in another woman's heat, but with her tail? There was nothing left. It was as much as Evie's body had to give. The same pleasure that came from her ears was magnified a hundred fold, as if Master had found another way to fill her with cock, as if Hurlish was sucking on Evie's clit at that very moment, as if Master was buried to the hips in her throat and coming endlessly, endlessly.
Evie screamed louder, back arching. She shook hard enough that it looked like a seizure, eyes rolling, screaming Master's name. Tears filled her eyes, turning the world blurry. Her pussy clamped down impossibly hard on Master's cock, milking it for all it was worth, and when Master began to come, Evie's final thoughts fizzled out like a candle in a thunderstorm. All that was left was an animal, a slave, a thing that existed to receive Master's cum. It was a moment of divine enlightment, every nerve burning itself out with the joy of a purpose fulfilled.
Then, the last of her energy spent, Evie dropped.
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Evie woke in their room at the Peasant's Theatre. She was in the bed, tucked beneath the covers, wearing her sleeping clothes. Master was hugging her beneath the covers, her face snuggled into Evie's chest. Evie slowly blinked the grogginess out of her eyes, reason returning.
"...Master?" Evie murmured.
"Mmm?" Master mumbled. The hum of it against Evie's chest tickled.
"What time is it? Don't I need to get ready to depart?"
Master grumbled, pulling Evie close. "It's time to lay in bed, that's what time it is."
"I don't think that answers my question, I'm afraid."
With a child's petulant groan, Master rolled to the side. She fumbled over the edge of the bed for a moment, until she found her sword, and flicked it open. She used the enchanted weapon to shove open the blinds, blinding light filtering into the room.
"Shit," Master groaned.
"I should probably get going, shouldn't I?"
"Fiiiine," Master said, even as she returned her face to Evie's chest. "But five minutes more of titty time. Payment for opening the window. 'S only fair."
"I think you were more than duly compensated last night, Master."
"Hey, that was on you. You asked for it."
"I suppose I did, didn't I?" Evie paused, recalling the night in dim flashes. "Master, were... those all real people? Or did you use the collar to disguise yourself and the others to my mind?"
"Do you really wanna know? Will it be as hot a memory if I told you it was an illusion?"
"I think a part of me would be disappointed to find that out, but it's for the best. I'm already assuming they were, considering the potential ramifications of allowing others access to my body like that."
"Well, shit." Master gave a shrug. "Cause, uh, they weren't. All real. Some BDSM types– I told you what BDSM was, right?– that I gathered up from Amarat's church. Not hard to sniff 'em out, with Amarat's blessings."
Evie stiffened. A flash of entirely out of place arousal warred with incredulousness at Master's lack of forethought.
"Oh. Well... next time, I'd like you to let me vet them, beforehand."
Master smiled into her chest. "Next time, huh?"
"Next time." Evie pet a hand through Master's hair. "And if next time isn't within at least a month, I'll be very upset with you."
Evie felt something stiffen beneath her.
"Yes ma'am."
Notes:
Fucking. Uh. Apparently I write a lot more when I don't have anything else to do. Cause between this chapter and the next one, which I'm uploading at the same time, that's... twenty five thousand words. Which brings this fic over the 300,000 word mark, taking the crown as the longest written work of mine. Christ.
At the very least, 14k words of smut chapter should make up for the fact that I didn't slip it into last chapter like I promised.
As for the next chapter, get ready for some severe tonal whiplash.
Chapter 46: Diana Comus
Chapter Text
No Man's Land
55 Miles North of Tulian Capital
One Month and Three Weeks Until Spring
Thick underbrush suffused the damp soil in shadow. Rain pattered on thick-banded leaves about Evie's head, dampening the sound of gentle footfalls. She crept through the brush with a stranger, trusting to his expertise, as she had throughout the last week of pursuit. Where he placed the sole of his feet, Evie did too, leaving only one set of tracks in the mud. When he skirted around a bush, mindful of the darkened tips of its thorns, Evie did so as well, unknowing and uncaring if the purpled spines were of the variety containing poison. She was a stranger in this jungle thicket, wholly unwelcome, and she would do her utmost not to upset her host. She had seen enough of what the jungle held already, and did not wish to invite the master of the house's attention.
And so she crept, oh so slowly, through sodden terrain. She kept a careful eye on the back of the man before her, watching his longbow swing as he crept from shadow to shadow. He was a Tulian hunter, one of very few who dared to dive beneath the jungle canopy, and he was the only reason Evie even considered the idea of her current approach. The Sporaton camp was placed in a narrow pathway between the trees, atop a rise, with excellent vision for many hundreds of yards in either of the two possible avenues of approach. Sneaking up on the camp would have been impossible, sure to end with an arrow in her throat. Had she not had Tikkit's guidance, she would have tried it anyway. An Irregular's ire paled in comparison to what the jungle held.
In line behind her were several others, those trainees that she believed had showed the most promise. Jaran, Taras, Idal, and Mahk. All commoners, as evidenced by their simple names. Not who Evie had thought her first independent command would be composed of. They had grown in skill at a prodigious rate under her guidance, and could now be considered Irregulars in their own right, even if they did not match Evie and Master's skill. They had experience enough that she could trust them with independent command, and did not always outright ignore their advice in tactical matters. Impressive, for how brief a period they had been training. Each had combat experience that predated Evie's tutelage, which was what had caught her eye in the first place, but they had since proved themselves adaptable, willing to learn, and remarkably flexible. They would be a considerable asset in the war to come.
But not against this foe.
The fires of the Sporaton camp slowly became visible through the dense foliage, firelight glinting off the midnight dew rolling from branch to branch. After days of tramping across the landscape, trying to pin down a far more maneuverable foe, the long awaited sight of her target aroused elation and trepidation in equal measures. Her guide, Tikkit, stepped to the side and waved her forward, peeling back a broad leaf just enough for her to see.
The camp revealed itself. Several fires encircled a cluster of tents at equidistant points, neat rows maintained despite the hostile environment. Several fires had cookpots stewing over them, tended by bored looking peasants. With the jungle so close, all still wore at least a portion of their armor, be it gambesons or a helmet, and not a one of them had laid aside their spears or side swords. A number of lookouts were posted beyond the camp's perimeter, where the firelight faded. They scanned the approaches to the camp from far enough away that their night vision wouldn't be ruined. In the center of the camp, well shielded by the rows of tents, were horses enough to have every man and woman on horseback, as well as several sturdier breeds for carrying supplies. It was a textbook military scout camp, obviously constructed by a force that was well trained and disciplined.
To her great disappointment, she confirmed the picket force's dire report. Amongst the usual tattered clothing of Sporaton peasant levies strode scratched breastplates and black helmets, marked with the symbol of a lidded eye. The Night's Eye Mercenaries truly were in Tulian. What that implied was considerable.
Mercenary forces, as a rule, were the final weapon of a Kingdom. As one of very few professional military forces allowed to exist within a nation, they were of a caliber that dwarfed any peasant levy. Highly regulated by the royalty, whose only answer to their power was their loyal Knights, they were the only non-nobility allowed to truly hone the art of warfare. Evie knew from her personal dinners with King Sporatos that the very thought of the Night's Eye's continued existence gave the King ulcers, but he could not disband them, as they would be his only answer should another Kingdom bring to bear their own corp of experienced mercenaries. Inordinately expensive to hire and maintain, in times of peace they earned their coin via dispersing into smaller groups, often hired by some Lord or another to settle land disputes, or, on rare occasions, being allowed to take foreign contracts with Sporatos' allies.
In short, the Night's Eye Mercenaries were a veteran army of a thousand Irregulars, and that was a force of such power that only an equal number of Irregulars could be relied upon to counter them. Too powerful to trust, too useful to disband, they were the agonizing wildcard that Evie and Sara had repeatedly failed to think of any counter to. Tulian's only saving grace was the fact that paying the entire mercenary compliment to go to war was an exorbitant expense, requiring quite literally years of accumulated tax revenue to be spent, and that was a loss King Sporatos almost certainly wouldn't suffer. Not when it seemed so likely that conventional forces would stifle the Tulian Republic.
Thankfully, as Evie surveyed the scouting party's camp, she still found no evidence that the Night's Eye would be deployed in force. Years of training under their leader had leant her considerable familiarity with their operations, and she recognized now that those present were equipped for an advisory role. Evie counted seven standing or sitting throughout the camp, not including those that might have retired to their tents already, and the number was encouraging. Of the presently erected tents, Evie counted ten total of notably nicer make. Another good sign.
When the Night's Eye were hired to advise, rather than fight, Master Graf preferred to deploy them in batches of ten, to ensure that they would be capable of extracting themselves from any dangerous situations that developed. It took upwards of a decade of training to bring a Night's Eye recruit to the level of the veterans, and losing even a single soldier was enough to send Graf into a furniture-demolishing rage. When the entire company wasn't engaged, the Night's Eye maintained one utmost priority: personal survival. The only thing worth a Night's Eye death was the lives of two or more of their comrades. Everything else was secondary, no matter who hired them.
Her initial appraisal of the enemy force completed, Evie stepped back into the foliage, gesturing to Tikkit to return the leaf he'd pulled aside. To say that she faced a dilemma was an understatement. Even with the bolstering of her Levels since her entanglement with Master, Evie doubted she was capable of engaging even a single member of the Night's Eye in open combat. Her Irregulars, much lower in capability, would be gutted like sheep.
Hidden by the thick underbrush, Evie spent several minutes in silent contemplation. The others patiently waited for her decision to be made. Tikkit in particular was remarkably fine with sitting a few dozen yards from fifty enemy troops, squatting on his heels without a hint of concern. Evie supposed that was to be expected, from someone that stalked the trails forded by beasts the size of buildings. Even if they were discovered and pursued, Evie had no doubt Tikkit would disappear into the underbrush without a trace, leaving the Night's Eye clawing hopelessly after him. Idly, she wondered what Level he was. Certainly not enough to tip the scales should they come to blows with the Night's Eye, she quickly decided.
As for the plans she considered, there were frustratingly few. Master had given her a very direct goal for this mission: keep the enemy away from Midwich Valley. There lay the crux of Master's defensive plans for Tulian, and allowing the enemy to scout it would be a catastrophic failure. The name of the valley, Midwich, had always struck Evie as odd. Master had a near obsession with the name, harshly correcting anyone that referred to it by any other moniker. Clearly the title had some sentimental value to her, but Master had been uncharacteristically coy about her attachment to the name, even with Evie.
The eccentricity was forgivable, by virtue of the valley's importance. It lay directly on the path to the capital, with a deep stream carving through its center. Fresh water, flat ground, few predators, and a direct line to their target, it was the ideal path for an invasion force to take. Master had prepared accordingly, and it was now Evie's job to ensure the surprise wasn't ruined.
How, though, remained to be seen. Evie gnawed at her lip in frustration as the minutes ticked by, stars flaring ever brighter in the night sky. She could not directly confront the enemy, not without overwhelming numerical superiority at her side, and as the Tulian Republic currently lacked any cavalry brigades, there would be no way to pin down such a lightly equipped enemy. Somehow, she was forced to acknowledge, she would have to drive the enemy from Tulian lands without resorting to combat with the Night's Eye. Her first thought was that it was a near impossibility. The mercenaries may have little personal investment in the war, but their claim to fame came from a fanatic desire to see their work through. They would retreat, if it was proven necessary, but not a moment before.
At the end of her deliberations, Evie came to an uncomfortable conclusion: she was the wrong woman for this job. Master had stayed behind, to give the impression to any Sporaton spies that they remained unaware of the scouting party's incursion, but she was far better suited for this task than Evie. The only way the Sporaton scouts would be convinced to leave was by violence or argument, and Evie lacked the power for the former, the wits for the latter.
Still, she had to do something. Covering as much ground as they were, the Sporaton scouts could chance upon Midwich Valley by the very next day. Evie would not trust the outcome of war to luck. Still silent, Evie leaned forward, peeling back the leaf to observe the camp once more, and began to ask herself a simple question: what would Master do?
In the end, she retreated several dozen yards back into the brush, far enough away that she felt comfortable discussing her plan with her other Irregulars. Their responses ranged from incredulous to infuriated, but Evie refused to budge. She offered each of them the opportunity to present a superior alternative, and when several minutes had passed and none could produce one, Evie considered the matter settled. With the others, she returned to the jungle's perimeter, taking slow, steady breaths. Quietly, whispered low enough that she doubted even those next to her could have heard it, she spoke one of Master's favorite aphorisms.
"Showtime."
Evie stood directly up in the jungle foliage, brushed the dirt and debris off her armor, and casually strolled into the open with rapier dangling.
The reaction was prompt.
Evie was spotted a mere three steps after emerging from the jungle wall, a Night's Eye mercenary that had been roasting a meal over the fire leaping up.
"Alarm! South-southwest, armed and armored!"
For as organized as the camp had looked at a distance, their response was haphazard. The Sporaton peasantry jumped in place, heads whirling not towards the indicated direction of the threat, but the speaker. A moment later they came to their senses, but instead of facing Evie, they looked randomly about, trying to recall which direction South was without the aid of the sun. Half-dressed individuals burst from their tents clutching weapons, even more confused than their still-awake comrades, and soon the entire camp was in disarray.
Save, of course, for the Night's Eye. The mercenaries, in their black-painted breastplates, snapped to attention without hesitation, pressing their shoulders to their nearest companion. Swords and polearms were drawn and leveled in Evie's direction, first in the general compass coordinates indicated, then at her in particular, when their eyes picked her out of the gloom. Evie stood perfectly still, rapier held loosely in her right hand, and waited. The Night's Eye collapsed into a skirmish formation, spears and swords, and watched her with razor intensity.
Evie found it rather flattering, to have prompted such a visceral reaction.
When she continued to hold her position, ears pressed flat against her head with her left hand holding her tail behind her back, the Night's Eye began to bark orders at their peasant charges. Even the freshest Tulian Army squadron would have found their battle formation faster than the panicked peasants, such was their disarray, but after multiple minutes of chaos, Evie was facing a stiff– if jagged– line of fifty enemy weapons.
She remained frozen, expression impassive.
At such a distance, Evie knew, their lackluster human eyesight wouldn't be able to make out much more than her body's general outline and that of her dangling rapier, which glowed a ghostly white in the night. As unlikely as it was that a single individual could be a threat to their group, the fact that Evie was so brazenly standing in the open couldn't be ignored. Either the mysterious figure was powerful enough to not fear their combined numbers, a spirit or mirage of some sort, or it was a bluff. If it was the first, it was best to spend every moment they had preparing themselves for combat, and if it was the second, it wouldn't much matter how long they spent readying themselves. When time was not a factor, being cautious cost nothing.
With their formation assembled, Evie knew what would happen next. She couldn't hear it at this distance, but she knew there was a conversation occurring amongst the Night's Eye. The First Lieutenant and Second Lieutenant were consulting with one another, appraising each other of what they thought of the threat, while several of the peasants would be delegated to lookout duty, scanning the surroundings for signs of a trap. Evie could, after all, be a mere distraction, allowing others to sneak up undetected. The discussion would be brief, and once no evidence of ambush was found, their response would begin.
Evie watched one of the Night's Eye raise his hands to his lips, then whistled loud. The decision had been made.
A vicious, bellowing bark sounded, a mixture of bloodcurdling fury and rabid excitement sounding from within the Sporaton formation. Peasants dove aside as a rolling mass of muscle barreled past them, its approach heralded by guttural barks.
Beastmaster's Retort. Not what I expected, but reasonable. I bet Darin hates it, though.
The dog that roared across the landscape towards Evie was no normal animal. It was built of thick slabs of overlaid muscles, three hundred pounds of it, with a head and neck covered by rolls and rolls of protective fat. Its loping run could have easily outpaced a horse, clods of dirt thrown into a dozen feet into the air as it charged. It belonged to a Beastmaster, one of the few classes of Irregular whose abilities extended beyond the self, empowering not just the soldier, but the animal with which they were Bonded. Evie had seen this very beast challenge bears and tigers without hesitation, and not once had she seen the other animal survive the encounter.
As the warhound charged her, Evie took a knee. She dismissed her rapier and extended her right hand, knuckles facing out, and let her ears and tail flick free. The beast, slobbering in mad excitement, reached her in a matter of seconds, jaws spread wide.
And stopped. Tracks were dug in the mud as it pulled itself to a halt just before colliding with Evie, its head cocked. Evie moved her hand a little bit forward, right up to its snout.
Cormus's hot breath snuffled across her hand as he sniffed her. After a few investigative whiffs, his tail began to wag something fierce, a puppy's whine crawling out of his throat.
Evie smiled. She moved her hand up and over his head, scratching at the base of his ear. Cormus's leg began to thump. Cormus was of a northern breed famous for its prodigious size and luxurious coat, which, when combined with the thick jowls and layers of fat, provided an excellent suite of protection. Bred to be livestock guardians in the snowy north, that thick fur had likely had the poor thing overheating in the Tulian humidity. She gave him a quick once-over appraisal. With the heat, Darin had clearly been forced to do his best to hack off what he could of Cormus's fur, leaving the beast a mess. Cormus's fine black coat was now a lopsided travesty, cut down to bald spots in some places, awkwardly long in others, especially around his neck, which looked like a poor man's attempt at a lion's mane. She scratched him all the same, chasing the spot that kept his leg thumping.
Though Evie hadn't approached any closer, she could hear the incredulous shouts.
"What in the godsdamn?"
"Darin, your mutt's turnin' traitor on us!"
"The hell he is! You shut your bastard mouth!"
"Look at 'em, Darin. Slobbering over some stranger like a puppy!"
"He's smarter than every one of you, and you know it! There's gotta be a reason for it!"
"What is it, then?"
"Its... nunna your goddamn business!"
The bickering continued for a while longer as Evie continued to reacquaint herself with Cormus. A few extra scars marked his muzzle, but they were all in the layers of jowls, which were there for absorbing such blows. He had no limp or fogginess to his eyes, and he'd seemed lively as ever when he'd been meaning to kill her. The dog let out a low groan as Evie dug a knuckle into his ear, leaning into her hand. Even as she placated him, she kept her attention elsewhere, eyes locked unerringly on the block of Sporaton spears.
From afar, Evie heard another familiar voice rise above the others.
Sen's northern rasp echoed out over the plains. "Everyone shut it!"
Now that was a memorable woman. A battle that would have otherwise been long forgotten had scarred her throat, lungs, and large swathes of her upper body, wind-driven flames overtaking her formation in a matter of moments. For all it may have ruined her chances at finding a suitor, the unique gravel of her voice was remarkable at cutting through the tumult.
"Darin's right, you brats, dogs don't turn traitor. Warhounds least of all. 'Stead of arguing, how 'bout you dipshits start thinkin' of the only person in a hundred miles that Cormus wouldn't get to maulin'?"
There was silence for a while. Then, whispers. Torches began to be lit, and soon the entire formation began to move forward, spears still leveled, but with more curiosity and caution than lethal intent. Evie continued to pet Cormus, who had now rolled over onto his stomach, and let them approach. When the circle of torchlight finally reached her, she had barely moved a muscle, save for what she was using to pet Cormus. She had a solid grasp of their faces well before they did hers, but when the torchlight splashed across her face, she saw the eyes of the Night's Eye widen. Stepping forward, one scarred woman spoke.
"Well I'll be damned. Lady Eliah, that you?" Sen asked.
Evie lifted a hand from Cormus to tap a claw against her collar. "How many other Feline slaves are you aware of, Sen?"
Ever the professional, First Lieutenant Sen had maintained the spear block's tight formation as she approached, and even after Evie had spoken, the lieutenant spent time silently inspecting Evie's appearance. The peasants looked positively baffled at the sight of the massive warhound splayed out in decadent bliss beneath Evie's hand, while the Night's Eye mercenaries at their core were only slightly less bewildered. For them, at least, it was the confusion of a familiar face in so distant a place, rather than abject confusion at the mighty Cormus acting so immature. Sen alone seemed to recognize what Evie's presence signaled, judging by the deep frown overtaking her face.
"Lady Eliah, you gotta know what a mess you're handing me by showing up here. You're the queen consort of the enemy."
"Incorrect," Evie replied sharply. "Her proper title is Governess."
"All the same..." Sen trailed off. By the looks of the rest of the Night's Eye, the realization had sunk in. To Cormus's great disappointment, Evie stood.
"Well? Are you going to kill me? I couldn't defeat all of you, you know. My blood is yours for the taking."
"That's... Lady Eliah..." Sen looked torn. Evie had first come to Master Graf for lessons over a decade ago. Most of the Night's Eye had seen her strolling among their numbers from the tender age of eleven. She could see in Sen's good eye the effort being exerted to reconcile the two images.
One, of an upstart noble child, hair kept in carefully selected braids so that her mother would not recognize she had snuck away to the training grounds. The other, of the armored slave-warrior, leather chestplate crisscrossed by the scars of battle.
Only one stood before Sen in this moment, but it wasn't the image prevailing in her mind. Evie put a hand on Cormus's head as he snuffled to his feet next to her, whining for attention. She gave him a gentle scratch. That she did so callously, intending to call to Sen's mind the image of her playing with that selfsame dog as a child, sent a sting of guilt straight to her core. The twisting of her gut was all the worse for the fact that she could not recall the last time she had felt the emotion.
"I... Lady Eliah, why are you here?"
"I am a Tulian resident, as you've already noted. Tulian lands do seem to be the reasonable place to find me."
"Ah, none of that diplomat dung, girl," Sen rasped dismissively. "Y'ain't a kid tryna show off all the funny ways your tutors taught you to sling insults anymore. Y'found us, My Lady. What for? What next?"
Evie finished petting Cormus, standing up straight. Though disappointed, he returned to Darin's side, dropping to the grass with a thud and sultry huff. When she glanced at him, he turned his nose up, looking away. Evie envied him for the honesty he could display.
"I don't suppose you'd be persuaded to return to your employers empty-handed?" Evie asked.
"You know I can't, My Lady."
"Of course. I still thought to make the offer, just in case." Evie shifted her feet ever so slightly, merely redistributing her weight, but the motion prompted a rattling jump from the peasant's spears. For their sake, she stilled. "As for why I'm here, it happens to be in the same vein that I anticipate your purpose belongs. I am investigating reports of enemy scouts surveying the region, drawing nearer to important things than we would please."
Sen arched an eyebrow. "Important things, y'say? Pretty far from the capital for that."
Evie sighed. Somewhat ironically for an accomplished scout, Sen had never been one for picking up on conversational subtleties. "That was an offer of information exchange, Sen. With but a few scant minutes of conversation, you could return with knowledge that satisfies your employers, and I will have rid Tulian of enemy advance elements without bloodshed." Evie scanned the faces of the Night's Eye present. "Did you really not bring Big Sal with you? He was always better at politicking."
"You just say that cause you liked arguing with him," one of the Night's Eye grunted. Hearth, Evie recognized. A suitable moniker for a flame mage.
"Politicking is arguing, Hearth, with all the nasty connotations that entails. Rather glad that I've found someone else to do it for me, these days."
The comment, though intended to be made in jest, drew attention to the collar about her neck. Faces hardened at the sight. They knew as well as Evie that, bound by the collar, she could be forced to say things or act in any manner that her owner desired. She wasn't being compelled, of course, Master almost never gave her orders, but they didn't know that. They couldn't know that.
Sen frowned. "I've heard a lot about the girl you got doing your politicking now. A whole hell of a lot, in fact."
"The same things that you hear about the Northern Fiefdoms, no doubt, or the western city-states. King Sporatos and his ministers do enjoy their white lies, doesn't they?"
"Not all of 'em are lies, My Lady."
"Oh, come now," Evie said with a roll of her eyes. "You've all fought wars across every cardinal direction by now, haven't you? Are the northern chiefs really ignorant? Are the Bolkin Collective so chaotic? Or are they just another set of nobles, happily lapping up the blood you spill from their enemy's commoners?"
A woman in the Night's Eye snorted. The outburst earned a stern glare from Sen, but Evie knew the comment had hit home. Sen was implacable as ever when she returned her attention to Evie.
"It sounds to me that you've swallowed more than your own share of bait, Lady Eliah. Supporting rebellions, spewing subversive propaganda." Sen's lips split in a cruel smile. "Following in your Mother's footsteps?"
Evie's nostrils flared. She felt her wrist raising, rapier swirling through the mist of its summoning.
"Compare me to the bitch again, Sen. See what happens."
The air grew tense. Behind her, in the jungle shadows, Evie heard bowstrings drawing taut. Ahead of her, hands gripped swords, spears were set into the dirt, and peasant's eyes grew wide. If it weren't for the croaking of jungle creatures, heartbeats would have been the loudest thing on the plains.
Then, to Evie's great surprise, Sen relaxed. Her hand fell from her sword's pommel, her hips unlocking from a combat stance. The smile she'd goaded Evie with took on a more genuine lilt, the same crooked sort that her scars kept from reaching the corners of her eyes.
"Well I'll be damned. Again. Really is you, Lady Eliah."
Evie did not drop her sword. "You thought me an imposter?"
"Nah. But I do know that you've had an awful long time to have that woman whispering orders in yer ears, and I wasn't interested in havin' to kill you, if you was really still you. Y'understand, of course."
"Of course," Evie whispered. She let her weapon fall back into mist, then touched her collar gingerly. Another unfamiliar sentiment, that. Regretting its presence. For a meeting with old friends, this exchange had produced too many firsts.
With Sen relaxing, the rest of the Night's Eye soon followed suit. The peasants were more hesitant, but slowly, like a snake uncoiling after the predator left its den, they pulled their spears back up to their shoulders. Sen didn't let them fully collect their wits before she shoved them aside, coming out into the open to face Evie from a few scant feet away. Fists resting on her hips, she leaned to one side, squinting into the forest.
"Who's that you got with ya?"
"Three Irregulars under my tutelage, as well as a native huntsman, who guided us through the underbrush."
"Huh. Should give him a raise. I didn't see him." Sen squinted harder. "Still can't, actually. Damn. That'll have to go in my report."
Evie's eyebrows rose. To successfully hide oneself from Sen, a woman with three decades years spent scouting her way through hostile warzones, was commendable. It made sense, as Tikkit regularly stalked monstrosities with eyes and nostrils larger than a human head, but still. Evie shrugged.
"Would that we had enough of his number to make a strategic difference. His sort aren't easily torn from their preferred hunting grounds, sadly."
"Well, you should be tryin' harder." Sen cupped her hands around her mouth, raising her voice. "Oi! Wiggle a leaf or somethin', so I can see where ya are!" Sen waited a moment, then frowned. Evie gave her a commiserative smile.
"I don't see why you expected him to give away his hiding spot, Sen."
"I already have!"
Sen started, looking about in confusion. For a moment Evie was even more impressed, thinking Sen couldn't find him even with his voice, but then her head shot upward, staring up into the trees.
"Hot damn! How'd you get up there all quiet like?"
"By doing whatever you wouldn't, foreigner."
Evie followed Sen's eye line, ears twitching to narrow in on Tikkit's voice. She thought she might have found his hiding place, enshrouded in broad leaves some forty feet off the ground, but couldn't be sure. She shook her head in mild amusement.
"As I said, a shame we've been unable to recruit more of his number."
"And like I said, you should be tryin' harder." Sen eyed the Irregulars still crouched in the bush behind Evie. "Let me guess. Not enough folk like him willing to get all gussied up for war, so your Politicker is tryna shove all sorts up the ranks by force."
"It was my suggestion, actually. We'll be at a great disadvantage in Irregulars during the coming war, and I thought myself well suited to train those appropriate for the challenge."
"Yeah, well, they ain't any good at hiding. How's about fighting?"
Another minuscule shrug. "They are well past the point that the untrained could pose a threat. Against other Irregulars besides myself, only time will tell. They are certainly not my equal, at the very least."
Sen chortled, shoving Evie affectionally on the shoulder, while Evie fought against the swimming of her head. Discussing her army's weaknesses so casually with the enemy was anathema to all of her training. The entire conversation was an absurdity. Was this how Master always felt, tangling with the dilemmas she did?
"And so what if they was your equal, huh, Lady Eliah? I could still mop the floor with all'a you."
Evie's ears flicked. "There was a time when you were correct. My entanglement with M– with the Governess has proven beneficial in that regard."
"Oh? She put some spooky Champion juju up in you?"
"Perhaps she did, if in less crude terms." And in cruder terms as well, Evie silently added.
"Yeah, well, I bet I could still take ya. Got too much gravel in my gut to lose to a girl I last remember getting chomped half to death by a hippo."
The fur along Evie's ears spiked, despite herself. "That matchup was an absurd one, Sen, and I still would have won the next exchange. Regardless, my training continued in private, even after the bitch forbid me from 'slumming' with the Night's Eye. Between the years of self-study and my newer boons, I doubt you would find me as easy an opponent as you expect."
"Oho? Kitty's got some bite to her now, does she?"
"You are goading me." Evie crossed her arms. "Why? We are here to trade information, not insults."
"Because I can, and because I think I'm right." Sen patted her sidesword. "Y'wanna give it a go? For old time's sake?"
Despite herself, Evie did. That didn't mean she would happily leap to dueling an Irregular of an enemy force, but behind her mask of polite impassivity, she was tempted. Sen was an accomplished swordswoman. Scouts sent on missions as dangerous as she had to be. Master's meteoric rise through Levels had continued to drag Evie along in its wake, and her abilities had progressed accordingly, but without a direct comparison to those she once tested herself against, she couldn't truly internalize the changes. Some of the finer details of what she was now capable of escaped her, an inevitability with how little time she had to accustom herself, but the basics didn't change. She was faster, stronger, and had better reflexes than ever. How much so, Evie would certainly like to learn.
All that said, a "friendly" duel in the midst of an enemy camp was... ill-advised, to put it politely. Evie had no power in this exchange. They could betray her trust easily, while she would remain without option to go against her word. The moment she was surrounded by the Night's Eye, she could be killed or abducted at their will. She wished to say she trusted them, that most had known her since she was a child, but that was hardly worth mentioning, when pitting personal acquaintance against a matter of King and Country. Accepting the duel was an unconscionable, idiotic risk.
Evie smiled politely, nodding. "I accept."
Sen clapped while the Night's Eye whooped. Evie could only imagine the look on her Irregular's faces as she spoke the words. A foolish, foolish thing to do. Already, she began formulating the argument she would use against them.
Why had she? Simple. It was what Master would have done, and as skilled a diplomat as Evie was, she was a bumbling child next to Master, who she was unquestionably certain would have accepted the offer. That meant it would have been the peak of arrogance for Evie to do otherwise. She, a slave, knowing better than Amarat's Chosen? Ridiculous.
Of course, as she was swept into the now-raucous Sporaton camp, as certain as she was that Master would have accepted the duel, Evie could think of a few, rare occasions on which Master did not act with perfect rationality. Only a few, though. A few dozen, at most, pursuing personal wants in lieu of greater needs and the like. But surely this wasn't one of those cases. Master would have accepted the duel for some arcane diplomatic rationale that would make perfect sense once explained to Evie, not bravado or sentiment. And just like Master, Evie had made this decision out of pure logic. Certainly not in response to taunts whose origins were years gone by. That would have been yet another absurdity heaped upon this bizarre night.
"Come now!" Evie called at the forest. "No point in you witnessing this from afar, is there? Perhaps you'll learn a thing or two, seeing a different style of fighting." And I want you nearby in case you need to cover my escape.
Hesitantly, her Irregulars emerged from the trees. Tikkit, of course, did not follow, and Evie wasn't certain he was presently within a half mile of the camp. She would not blame him if he fled from her idiocy. Had she been his commander receiving the report that he'd abandoned her after such a foolish move, she would have praised him.
Sen led her to the far side of the tents, dismissing the peasants to return to their nightly duties, or to rest. The Night's Eye were allowed to come watch the duel if they wished, but Sen firmly declared the allowance was only on the grounds that there would be no complaining of tiredness the following day. Evie smiled. So odd, to be hearing the words of her childhood nannies in the mouth of a grizzled veteran.
They reached the portion of the camp that Sen had decided would serve for dueling. It was the flattest portion of the hill, grass well-trod by the feet of their horses as they'd arrived, but not so badly worked that the dirt had turned to mud. The Night's Eye, well familiar with the routine, shifted logs and firewood into a light circle around the space. When dueling in hostile territory, limits on the fight's grounds were placed, so that the combat did not spill beyond where it was safe to be distracted. That they had regulations even for such eventualities was highly amusing to Evie, when other mercenary forces were vilified for their barbarity.
Quietly whispering back and forth, her understandably rattled Irregulars questioned her actions. Evie provided her justifications offhandedly, more focused on formulating a stratagem for the upcoming duel, and paid their objections little mind. The challenge had been made and accepted. All else was fruitless dallying.
Instead of paying attention their whining, Evie sunk deeper into the recesses of her mind. 'Know yourself and know the enemy.' As she did before every duel, she started with herself. She had dueled countless times with Master over the last few months, and seen a considerable amount of genuine combat between those bouts. She was gifted the class of Supplicant Duelist, honoring both her skill with the blade and her dedication to Master, and it had always given her an advantage in those duels. In contrast to the restraint her rapier showed, Master was a warrior, built for shaping the throes of titanic battles, favoring weapons and styles that would cleave a path towards victory. Even before Master had caught up to Evie's Level, Evie could not have matched the sheer body count Master left festering across Tulian's open fields. Every fiber of Evie, from her training as a Squad Leader to her very personality, was born and built to engage a single target of equal skill. It was these elements which so often carried her sword past Master's guard, which allowed her to claim victory time and time again.
She looked now at First Lieutenant Sen Longstep, Master of Scouts of the Night's Eye Mercenaries. She was thirty years Evie's senior, and had first waded into battle five years younger than Evie was now. It was whispered, among the Night's Eye, that while she rode a steed when traveling amongst others, it was just a matter of convenience; supposedly, she could just as easily maintain a jog for several unbroken days. They also claimed that her skin was porous as a sieve, soaking in shadows and blistering light alike, until she was nought but a dim outline walking within feet of the very foes so desperately searching for her. The fire that had scoured her skin was another point of contention, as by all accounts of the battle, Sen had been nowhere near the famous blaze that had overtaken the church tower. She had been ordered to reconnoiter it, yes, but it had been six miles distant at the time, and burst into flames a mere five minutes after she departed. The burns, some among the Night's Eye argued, had to have been from her interception by an enemy mage. If she had truly been involved with the blaze, she would have had to cover six miles in a handful of minutes, a speed twice that of the greatest racehorse, which was of course impossible.
Evie did not know which of the legends to believe. They were spoken by other Irregulars within the Night's Eye, who had all the motivation in the world to both deny or exaggerate the claims, depending on who they were trying to talk up at the time. What she could be certain of, however, was the weapon at Sen's side.
It was kept in a peculiar sheath. Truly, it was no sheath at all. Just a leather band at her hip that caught the pommel, so it would not fall off her side. The blade was left exposed to the elements, a luxury afforded it by the thin blacksteel that made up its length. A magical weapon, in the variety of Master's, and technically superior to Evie's own. The blacksteel could hold far greater energies than even the gems encrusting Evie's rapier, and was stronger, too, by simple virtue of the material itself. She did not know what enchantments it held, beyond the standard sharpening and strengthening that any magical weapon would no doubt sport, but she doubted they would be complex. Certainly not as bizarre a contraption as Master's blade, the folding of which Evie was certain no other weapon on record replicated. But it had to do something strange, or else there would be no point in choosing blacksteel. She briefly entertained the thought that Sen had chosen the material solely for the wealth it displayed, but dismissed the idea. If Sen cared so much for appearances, she would have spent the exorbitant funds on specialized healers for her scars, not a fancy sword.
The dimensions of the weapon itself gave Evie some insight into how Sen's style had morphed since she had last seen the Lieutenant fight. It was single-sided, but without a saber's curve, and the sloping edge extended to a fuller nearly at the dull edge of the blade. Designed to be extraordinarily sharp, almost razor-like, which suggested to Evie that Sen had continued to emphasize decisive blows. She was a scout, after all, and would prefer to take any enemy down as quickly as possible, before they could alert others. Its crossguard was comparable in width to standard longswords, fairly unremarkable, but usable to maneuver the opponent's weapon during a bind. Despite its lopsided appearance, the sword sat evenly in the sheath, and Evie guessed correcting its balance was among the enchantments it carried.
The Night's Eye had completed their construction of the dueling grounds, and Evie's Irregulars had given up convincing her to change course. Sen stepped into the dueling circle in the same breath Evie did, resting a hand on the pommel of her blade.
"Terms, My Lady?"
"One round, to lethal blows, of course. When have you ever dueled otherwise?"
Sen grinned. "Just making sure. You might want a redo or two."
"Perhaps once upon a time. Now I've become familiar enough with death to recognize the danger of training oneself for second attempts."
"Never acted like you thought otherwise with old Graf, though, did ya?"
"I was ignorant. Not a fool."
Sen, as well as some of the Night's Eye, laughed. Questioning Master Graf's lessons, even as the daughter of highranking nobility, was not done.
Darin, as one of the few Irregulars present that did not rely upon weapons for his combat, was the one to step unarmed into the arena. He shoved a dirty hand into his pocket, retrieved a tied bag, and paused for a moment to spit on his fingers and wipe them off as best he could. That done, he gingerly pulled the white hankie from the bag, holding it between two pinched fingers.
Evie took her stance, rapier flashing into existence. Sen drew her own blade, holding it not dissimilarly from how Master once had, when she used the strange machete-esque weapon she preferred before meeting Hurlish. An uncommon stance, meant for wielding a two-handed sword with only one edge. Even Evie didn't know its name, but she took the opportunity to study how her opponent held the weapon. Had this duel occurred before Evie met Master, she would have been at a loss. Now, with months and battles behind her, she picked familiar elements from the strange image. Sen's right foot was far ahead of her left, as Ignite preferred, while her hands were kept low and close to her waist, as Master oft opened with. Her shoulders were level, nothing to bely from which angle she would first strike, but Evie caught the way her scarred left eye had a slight tremor to it, a new one, as if Sen had to expend a little bit of effort to fully open it.
Some thought the art of the duel began with the match's opening. They were fools. Even as Evie studied Sen, Sen was studying her. Evie shifted her stance ever so minutely, little more than twitches of unseen muscle, and Sen responded, grip twisting on her sword. Years of experience, abilities unknown, the spellwork woven into their weapons, it all came into play, it all had to be accounted for. Master regularly derided those textbooks which called combat a dance, lamenting to Evie that she wished to shove the authors into the lines of battle to see if they found any grace amongst the brutal melee. Evie did not disagree with that view, not when it came to warfare, but in duels? There her opinion differed. There was a thrill to duels, borne of testing oneself to the utmost. In no other arena were all the elements of the self so engaged as in the dueling arena. Every shade of her mind, every inch of every limb of her body, every taken breath and every exhale that must follow, they all mattered. They were all, without exception, critical.
And yes, even if Master may not see it, there was an elegance to the contest. A beauty. If some wished to call it a dance, Evie would not object.
Even if a dance was so much less wonderful than a duel.
Darin released the hanky. It fell sedately, floating on unseen eddies of air, rocking from side to side. The lazy trip it took to the soil afforded just enough time for Darin to step out of the ring, leaving only Evie and Sen. There were thirty feet between them.
The hanky touched ground.
Evie's muscles moved before her mind, parrying a left-sided blow that shook the bones of her arm. Sen wasted no time in maneuvering her weapon along Evie's rapier, not even bothering to break contact, instead trying to leverage the tip around to slice through her throat. Evie took one step backward, breaking contact, then thrust forward as fast as she could manage.
A duel.
Enchantment light flashed in violent bursts, accompanied by the sparks of swords taken beyond the realm of mortal metal. Evie parried one, two, three blows, each time at the last millisecond, each time suffering the reverberation of titanic blows transmitted to her palm. Sen was faster than her. For every thrust Evie launched, Sen was afforded three, movements too rapid for thought to track. Evie sunk into the rhythm of the moment, parry and thrust, action and reaction, muscle memory in control of her fate. The present was dictated by the past. Only the life she had lived would carry her through.
The duel.
Sen's lips turned down as her tenth, eleventh, and twelfth blows tasted only steel, and the frown deepened when Evie– just as she had three times hence– struck forward. The ring's edge she'd felt at her heel faded away as Sen was forced not just to dodge, but to parry, flat of her blade directing Evie's rapier off and to the right of her torso. Evie was now extended beyond recovery, the pace of battle so great that she may as well have been frozen, exposed.
The duel!
Sen's blade blurred towards Evie's midsection, nothing but open air between its edge and destination. It was a lethal blow. Unavoidable. But Evie was not done. She'd not had her fun yet. She'd not tasted what she craved. The weight of weapon vanished, freeing Evie's empty hand to return to her chest, and then, with a flash, the weight returned–
In front of Sen's blade.
Evie's parry turned the weapon aside, so that only the flat of it crashed against her chest, and the force of it against the leather took both of her feet off the ground. As she went, the rapier disappeared again, exchanged for claws, the leftmost of which tore across Sen's face. Evie felt two textures pass beneath her fingers, the first of smooth, unblemished flesh, the second of tougher scar tissue. Then she was gone, spun through the air, hitting the dirt somewhere far away.
The duel!
Before she could skid beyond bounds, Evie's rapier appeared once more, embedded in the soil so she was jerked to a violent stop. Her eyes opened just in time to see a black blade arcing down towards her, set to take her arm off at the elbow. The rapier remained in the soil as she rolled left, springing to her feet with her left hand on her hip, right hand held empty before her. Sen looked at the feline across from her– disarmed, save for a feral smile– and pulled back, resetting her stance.
Evie took the offensive. Her arm lanced forward, rapier pulled into this realm with its tip a quarter-inch from Sen's collarbone. It was knocked up and to the side, but Hurlish had given her rapier an edge, and she flicked the lightweight tip back to the right, towards Sen's throat. The woman had to lean away to save her own life, ruining her stance, and Evie swung hard down, trying to take her to the ground. Sen did not oblige her, and instead, somehow, threw her forearm up into the bottom of Evie's blade. It dug a line through her flesh, but the wound was survivable, unlike that which it prevented. Evie felt a snarl emerge from her throat, and she continued to press forward, raining a hail of blows upon her opponent.
This was not how Evie fought. This was not how anyone fought. So fast was Sen that Evie's weapon barely existed at all, every moment it tugged her arm down another millisecond gained by her faster opponent. It flickered and flashed like a failing spell, Evie's mind tearing itself apart with the effort required to track Sen, summon her weapon, dismiss it, predict the next blow, summon her weapon, again and again and again, endlessly. It was a failing tactic, leaving her exposed every moment the sword was not in her hand, and if it weren't for the surprise of her attempting it, Sen would have long since felled her. Still Evie persevered in the tactic, not because it was the right thing to do, but because it was the only thing left to her.
Slowly, achingly, the challenge was met, equalled, and then exceeded by her opponent. Evie's momentum steadily stuttered to a halt as Sen adapted, but Evie didn't care. Even though conscious thought had left her head, emotion remained, and this more primal mind exulted. The creature evolution left behind exulted in the moment, recognizing realities a more civilized self would not, could not. Lieutenant Sen was faster than her. Lieutenant Sen was stronger than her. Lieutenant Sen was many more things than her, from simple height to magnificent skill, but for the very first time in Evie's life– for the first time in her regimented, ordered existence, a lifetime spent under painstakingly striated hierarchies– Evie's unthinking self realized something.
Lieutenant Sen was more than her.
But she was not better.
Evie felt a laugh bubble out of her throat, mad as any fae, and it earned her a bruising blow across the cheek, but she did not care. Sen was as she was. A level above her, maybe, or more, but Evie did not care. For all her advantages, Sen was no more than she.
Her rapier darted in and out of existence at her beck and call, affording her the ability to survive. The weapon was a gift, shaped by the hands of a woman she would one day call Wife, bought by the other woman she would some day honor with the same title. Evie had received so many gifts throughout her life, those paltry, lifeless things, calculated to earn her favor or to provide subtle insult, and any one of them were worth a mountain of coin more than the sword that was today carrying her life.
But they were not better.
Evie laughed again! She couldn't help it. She wasn't even sure how loud she was being, if Sen could hear her, or if the sound was in her own mind, but she didn't care. She kept moving, swinging, thrusting, accepting the pains of her body with welcoming arms. Sen's expression had shifted to one Evie only remembered from her childhood, watching on the sidelines. It was one of focus, of determination, and, ever so slightly, of concern. Evie had seen it on Sen when the Lieutenant dueled her husband, or dueled Master Graf, or the time she had been defending Evie's carriage from pursecutters with a particularly poor sense for choosing their targets. It was an expression borne of an emotion she'd witnessed and puzzled at as a young girl, finding it alien. It had been years of training before she recognized it in herself, fresh after the latest loss in a training match, and it had taken her great consideration to give it a name.
Excitement. As familiar to a lifelong mercenary as it had been unfamiliar to the stifled young Evie, it was a great many feelings wrapped into too neat a bundle to be dissected and labeled. The thrill of combat undertaken for good reason, a high of adrenaline that came at the razor edge of irrevocable consequences, the feral delight of exertion. Evie split her lips in acknowledgement of the emotion, even as her limbs tired, as her swings slowed.
Sen's sword came about with blinding speed, seeking to swing through her neck and out from her armpit, cleaving Evie in two, but for the very first time, blood from parallel scratch marks on her forehead finished their trickle through Sen's eyebrow. Sen squeezed her eyelid shut against the sting, seeing Evie only through the twitching left eye, and that was enough.
THE DUEL!
In her left hand, Evie's rapier appeared, flung forward. In the same moment her right hand shot up, palm slamming into Sen's elbow as it plummeted down, and a violent crack split the air. Sen's black sword flung from her hand as her grip failed, a gasp sounding. Her left hand went up to her metal breastplate, groping, then went higher, finding where the tip of Evie's rapier had impacted the base of her throat.
Raucous cheers erupted among the Night's Eye, Sen betrayed by her comrades in favor of the spectacle her loss represented. She gasped once more as Evie dismissed her rapier and drew the Lieutenant in close, broken elbow no doubt burning with pain as Evie welcomed her in a hug only two living women had experienced before. Sen winced as Evie reached up to draw the woman's head down, for all the world looking like a congratulatory slap on the back, and then Evie tightened her grip on the woman's neck and pulled her lower yet, whispering fiercely in her ear.
"When you next see Master Graf, deliver him this question: 'A serpent lies hissing beside a path you must travel. Do you walk on?'"
Evie pushed against Sen's breastplate, spinning her about to face the audience. She took the dazed woman's good hand and raised it, shouting.
"How's that for a duel? Still think it's not me, you mercenary bastards?!"
The cheering erupted further, spurred on more now by the sound of Lady Eliah, the very picture of noble decorum, calling them all bastards. Evie dropped Sen's hand, giving her a firm few slaps on the back. The woman looked back down at her, still dazed as Evie smiled back up at her.
"Let's get you to the healers. That arm can't feel good, can it?"
Sen ignored her. Her eyes sharpened for a brief moment, as if recalling something she'd forgotten. She licked her lips, speaking in a whisper.
"Twelfth. You?"
Evie smiled. "Tenth."
Sen nodded slowly, face a mask. Starlight flickered above them. Finally, shaking her head, she touched her elbow and winced. "The healer. Yeah. The healer's a good shout. Let's get to it."
Evie guided her towards the edge of the dueling circle, extolling– loudly and repeatedly– to be careful with the Lieutenant's broken arm. You see, Evie had broken it, just a few moments ago. Oh, you saw it, Darin? When Evie had broken the Lieutenant's arm? All on her own? In a duel that she'd won? By breaking the Lieutenant's arm? It was really something, you should've seen it, Hearth. Oh, you saw it too? Hell of a thing, wasn't it?
The teasing finally pulled Sen out of whatever fog had overtaken her. The grizzled mercenary shoved herself off Evie's shoulder, shouting for that damned healer to show their face. Evie continued to suffer under the congratulatory backblows of the Night's Eye while she followed Sen to the healer's tent, with the rain of blows only ceasing when she ducked inside after her.
As Sen sat on a stool and held her limp arm up for the healer's attention, she fixed Evie with a different kind of focus. A practical, respectable sort. The healer informed Sen that the bone was ready to be set, and Sen took a swig of something strong. A quiet pop followed.
When Sen's teeth stopped grinding, she blew out a long breath.
"So. Information, was it?"
Evie nodded. "Considerable increases in pickets and scout parties as you neared the valley." Evie paused. "That was your objective, I assume?" Sen nodded, so Evie continued. "Indicating a heavy military force present in the area. More crafters and military age individuals than expected in the preceding villages, as well, which suggests preparations for some kind of defense are underway. Unfortunately, due to increasing frequency of patrols, it wasn't possible to intrude any further without being compromised."
Sen chuckled darkly, running her good hand through her sweaty hair. "That how it went down, huh?"
"Pretty much. Actually, there wouldn't have been any signs of defenses being prepared, so take that as a bonus. Master's too good to let something like that slip until you were in the valley itself." Evie cocked her head, considering. "Also, the locals refer to it as 'Midwich Valley'. You've no idea why, and neither did they."
"Hm. It works. You tryna lead the Royal Army into a trap, Lady Eliah?"
Evie hummed noncommittally. "King Sporatos's objective is to destroy the assembling enemy army, justified as a securing action for his southern border. To do so he must find that army, and the valley is an excellent starting point for doing exactly that."
Sen snorted into her mug. "There's the little politician girl I knew." Sen finished her sip, then looked at her arm. "Well. Maybe not so little, these days."
"I haven't grown any taller since you last saw me."
Sen made a face. To hear Lady Eliah making jokes, much less bad ones, was unheard of. "No. You ain't taller."
Evie nodded her understanding, moving towards the tent's exit. "I hope to see you again some day, Sen. And do remember to pass on that message to Master Graf, won't you?"
The only response was a solemn nod.
Chapter 47: Loopholes (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Road to Tulian
Two Days After Encountering Sporaton Scouts
Evie looked back at the Irregulars following her, judging how closely they were paying attention to their surroundings. Most were focused largely on maintaining control of their steeds, which Evie could hardly fault, considering her own lack of riding skills. Those that had a solid grip on the reigns were keeping their heads on a swivel, searching for potential threats. Few, if any, were paying Evie any mind.
Which was extraordinarily fortunate, because Evie did not want to be witnessed at this particular moment. She and Master had come to an understanding before she set out on this trip, and until a few minutes ago, that understanding had worked flawlessly.
Evie's collar put certain compulsions on her. This was inevitable, part and parcel of divine slave collars, but greatly complicated by the more lustful aspects of Amarat's Champion. Sating the demands, both magical and personal, had proven thankfully trivial once Master had gotten over her initial compunctions. Multiple daily doses of heavenly cock had considerably malformed Evie's once-normal libido, but that was hardly a concern, as Master was more than capable of providing for the new desires she invoked. The first true difficulty they had encountered with the collar's bond– beyond the ethical– came during the last week's trip, which was the first extended period of time Evie had spent away from Master. Before then, Evie recalled, the longest they had been out of earshot of one another was... five hours, perhaps, after the battle for Tulian Harbor? And that had been a considerable outlier. Most days Evie was within arm's length of Master from sunup to sundown.
Which meant that this last week had been something of an experimental period for the both of them. Even slaves bound to more mundane masters had daily requirements for showing obeisance, usually kissing their hand or bowing deeply before their person each day, so there had at least been precedent to draw from when it came to workarounds. A slave traveling on the orders of their master, for example, was by definition serving their whims, and so had no need of daily supplication. Master and Evie had both agreed that the limits on her actions imposed by an order, no matter how open-ended, risked compromising the mission, and so discarded that simplest option.
That left the alternative. A collared slave that was left behind when their master traveled still had to show daily deference, even without the physical presence of an owner to bow to. Evie was well aware of the room her mother had kept for the purpose, where her slaves would spend ten minutes prostrating themselves before a portrait of her when she was away on business. The process had the smack of cult worship to it, which wasn't an accident, knowing her mother. Normal owners could not manipulate their slave's minds and perceptions as Master could, so the risk of subversive action, no matter how limited, still existed. Philosophers largely agreed that the gods had added the requirement to encourage a slave's obedience not just in their actions, but in their thoughts, too.
Therein lied the first complication with Evie's weeklong exile from Master's body. Because, just as Amarat did not accept bowing for her Champion's slaves, she did not accept mere prostration before a portrait when Master was absent. No, Evie had to show Passion befitting the slave of Amarat's Champion, whether or not Master was physically present. Evie had expected as much, and prepared for the trip accordingly, but her prediction being proven correct did little to assuage her mortification.
She slipped her hand into the leftmost saddlebag, reassuring herself that the garment was still present. One of Master's undershirts, one she had worn during their sparring sessions. Unwashed, of course, with Master's scent still suffusing it. Each night in her tent, when she thought it least likely anyone would come looking for her, Evie reverently brought the shirt out, put it to her nose, and fingered herself to ecstasy as thoughts of Master floated through her mind. She'd learned to gag herself with a leather belt, after Jaran had come investigating the noises on the second night. After that initial hiccup, she'd fallen into a routine. An incredibly debasing routine, but a routine.
But now? Now, as if all that wasn't bad enough? Now Master was in the process of breaking the single tenet they had established for this trip. Right now, before noon had even struck, Master was being attended to. That was only supposed to happen at night, when Evie could be in private. They had agreed on that. Despite that agreement, Evie could feel phantom touches ghosting across her skin, transmitted through the bond, and couldn't fully suppress the reactions they produced. Somewhere in Tulian, Evie was acutely aware, Master had someone's hands slipping under her shirt, smooth palms sliding up her ribs. Evie squirmed in the saddle as the hands reached towards Master's– and therefore Evie's– breasts, gracefully gliding across her nipples. Evie hadn't yet determined who was responsible for this, but if things progressed further, she'd figure it out. Master treated each of her lovers wholly uniquely, just as they felt and tasted different under her attention. Thanks to the bond, Evie knew Vesta, Ketch, Nora, and Hurlish's body nearly as well as she knew Master's.
Thoughts of taking her revenge on the perpetrator were all she could take solace in at the moment, because she knew she was minutes away from utterly ruining any professional integrity she might have possessed in the eyes of those traveling with her. As one invisible hand circled her breast, the other wrapping around the back of her neck, Evie looked back at the convoy. There had to be a way through this, didn't there?
At a glance, she couldn't see one. The trainee Irregulars that she had brought on this trip numbered over thirty, enough to attack the peasants accompanying the Night's Eye and escape with their lives. With the addition of a cook, healer, and two hired horsemen on pack mules, there were over three dozen individuals riding behind her. They weren't in a particularly forested part of Tulian at the moment, and the sun was bright, the sky cloudless. The landscape was mostly rolling hills and rainwater ponds, the shade of occasional cypress trees the closest thing to privacy. There was absolutely nowhere to hide.
Evie offered a brief prayer to Amarat, pleading for Master's patron to influence her owner into pleasuring whoever-it-was with mouth alone. It would be dizzyingly arousing, to have the taste of a woman clenching around her tongue while she rode, but it wouldn't knock her out of the saddle. In contrast, if Master started to properly fuck someone, Evie knew she'd be unable to stay standing, much less keep her voice under control.
Though, she cynically thought, who in the world can resist the pull of Master's cock? The goddess gave it to her for a reason. I doubt Amarat will be open to the idea of her Champion withholding such a gift.
Evie finished her prayer just as a tongue found itself on Master's breasts, lovingly swirling around the nipple. The sensation increased as Master greedily pushed her chest into the mouth, and Evie found herself reflexively mirroring the motion, spine arching into the open air. She quickly brought herself under control, surreptitiously scanning behind her once more. None seemed to have noticed.
If Evie didn't do something, she'd end up laid out in the dirt, moaning and writhing with senseless abandon while the Irregulars gathered around to watch. It was one thing to do so before Master, who could demand of her anything she wished, and another to do so before an audience Master prepared for just such a purpose, but the Irregulars? The elite troops that she had painstakingly trained from the ground up? No. Evie couldn't countenance that.
"Jaran," she called, every ounce of willpower focused on keeping her voice even. The boy drew his horse closer as Evie felt lips crash into her own, an insistent tongue searching for entrance to her mouth. "I am going to go scout ahead, but do not want the column to hurry. There is- is-" Master's tongue had returned the favor, taking in the taste of another woman, "-is business that I must attend to without others present. A secondary objective, you understand?"
Jaran nodded, looking mildly confused. "I understand the orders, ma'am, but why weren't we told about other plans? At least let a few of the fellows tag along, in case something pops up."
This damn boy! Why must he question everything? He was well suited for Master's plans of an individualistic society, at least, but she couldn't care less about that in the moment. An invisible specter was ravaging her neck with tender kisses, sucking deep hickies into the skin, and the boy wished to speak of tactics.
"It is a private matter!" Evie snapped. Jaran pulled back, shocked, but nodded. Evie started to say more, to mollify the undue insult, but was stopped by fingers trailing down her stomach, heading for the heat between her legs.
Evie popped the reigns of her horse without another word, searching for two hills that lay close enough to form a valley. The farther the better, giving the convoy less time to catch up to her, but that all depended on how patient Master was feeling at the moment, and Evie knew she was a decidedly impatient woman.
Evie's claws extended from her fingertips to dig into the leather reins as she felt a hand reach beneath her belt, grasping a piece of anatomy she didn't actually have. The fact that a cock was absent between her legs didn't lessen the feeling in the slightest, and she gasped, leaning into the saddle as her horse galloped. She'd never been a good rider, and the slow stroke that Master was being treated to ruined her rhythm entirely. She bounced awkwardly off the saddle, the bumping pressure against her real anatomy growing more distracting as Master's breath caught in her chest. She felt Master buck her hips into the touch, seeking to bury herself in the heat of an unknown palm, and Evie's hips involuntarily ground forward in sympathy.
Her horse started to slow, confused by the erratic guidance Evie was providing it. She slipped her feet from the stirrups and tried to use only the reins to direct it, but things were progressing too rapidly. Master's cock was now buried between the thighs of a woman, her nimble fingertips picking apart the ties of what Evie assumed to be a corset. The bond always strengthened in moments like this, and now Evie could feel the texture of clothing rustling against her skin, soft whispers of long hair trailing along Master's body. She still hadn't figured out who it was she was going to kill when she arrived back in Tulian, but that discovery wasn't far away. Evie could feel Master's arousal crashing through her in waves, a mind-numbing heat radiating from Evie's collar.
She abruptly pulled her horse to a stop, stumbling from the saddle. A burning hot wetness was pressed against the tip of Master's cock, eager breath tickling her collarbone. Evie made it only a few steps farther, falling into a ditch, the closest thing to privacy she'd found. The grass was cold and muddy, hardly a place to be doing this, but the sensations of Evie's own body were fading away. Her body was more Master's than hers, at this point, and Master was laying across a warm and welcoming softness.
Master pushed her the head of her cock in, a searing tightness welcoming her. Evie's hips shoved up in the open air as she bit her lower lip. Why was Master always so damn patient? With a cock like that, Evie would have never bothered to take so much time. She would have buried herself in the willing body beneath her without hesitation, taking it as her own, showing the woman why she belonged beneath Master.
Master was far crueler than that. Evie chewed on a knuckle to hide her whine as Master continued to slowly split the woman beneath her open, dragged in by the quivering excitement of her body. Evie's free hand flew to her pants, popping open the top button, shoving her hand towards her pussy. A finger against her clit had another pitiful groan slipping from her mouth, but it still wasn't enough.
She needed Master to start thrusting. She needed it. Master always took her time with her women, relishing the sight of their eyes rolling back in mindless delight, and she might have thought that was the polite thing to do or something like it, but as the most frequent recipient of the treatment, Evie thought it hideously rude. Who wouldn't want Master's cock plowing them open as soon as possible, foreplay be damned?
Evie's useless bucking of her hips into the open air did nothing to speed Master's thrusts. Evie felt the pussy of another woman slowly work its way down Master's shaft, heat crawling down it inch by thick inch, until finally Master bottomed out, her pelvis pressed to the other woman.
And, somehow, Evie still hadn't recognized who Master was fucking. It wasn't Hurlish, who would never have accepted the slow pace Master was setting, nor was it Vesta, who invariably began with her mouth. Ketch did whatever Master ordered her to, but was still in Sporatos, and Nora was away with the Navy, which left who?
Someone new, Evie decided. Master had found herself a new plaything, and Evie wasn't even there to watch. The very thought had her groaning even louder, imagination spinning out of her control.
The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Master was lavishing the woman with kisses about her breasts and her neck, slowly pumping in and out of her pussy. That was what she did when she was picking apart a new partner's preferences. Had Master encountered some beautiful woman on the street, one of the few brave enough to meet her eye?
Evie's mind was filled by images of Master trading flirtatious glances with a buxom woman in the market, speaking in innuendos too soft and clever for those nearby to pick up on the subtext. The woman listening to Master's melodious voice, laughing at her jokes, slowly moving closer and closer, until a hair's breadth separated them, the woman utterly fallen under Master's spell. Master wrapping an arm about the inexperienced girl's shoulder, guiding her to a dark alleyway, pinning her to a wall with the fervor of a brutal kiss, a passion the woman had never known before. The woman growing wet beneath her commoner's clothes, Master hiking up her dress, taking her then and there, with the woman moaning Master's name, any thought beyond Master's cock shattered.
Evie's whimpering grew higher pitched as, so far away, Master began to pick up the pace. Evie felt breasts pressing into her own, Master bent low over the stranger, chest to chest. The woman's tits were bouncing with each thrust, her legs trying to wrap around Master's waist, but the way she was split open with each thrust had her muscles quivering, lacking the strength to truly pin Master in place. Evie's hand fell away from her mouth, moving to her breast, pinching and kneading the nipple. The woman clenched each time Master buried herself to the hilt, the throbbing of her pussy squeezing the length of Master's shaft, and Evie pumped her hips in time, fingers circling her clit with ever greater fervor.
Perhaps it wasn't a stranger in the market that Master had found. Evie's addled mind conjured thoughts of Master in their rooms at the Peasant's Theatre, a maid mistakingly coming in to clean the space while Master was still present. Master, ever the gentlewoman, had encouraged the woman to keep to her duties, not wanting to disturb her schedule. The maid had happily agreed, going about the room with a duster and basket of supplies, and Master had decided to make idle conversation. The maid, intimidated at first, had quickly warmed to Master's charms, and soon little work was being done by either, a pleasant rapport built. Before long, the maid was climbing ladders to dust things that didn't need dusting, bending from the hips instead of the knees to lift things, a hand subtly pulling her dress tight about her shapely ass. When Master looked away the maid would fold up the edges of her dress, exposing her toned legs, and Master slowly moved away from her desk, work forgotten. The maid's comments grew huskier, Master's jokes suggestive, and before they knew it, the maid was complaining of how her feet hurt, and that she wished for somewhere soft to sit.
Evie felt a tongue slip into Master's mouth once more, far sloppier and more desperate than before, and seized on the the idea of a maid as her fantasy of choice. The tongue wasn't experienced, just as a young woman might be, just the right sort to take the risk of seducing her employer. As Master's thrusts grew faster, deeper, her breasts bouncing on her chest, Evie's imagination was aflame with the thought. She abandoned her clit, burying two fingers into herself, and finally allowed herself to be lost to the fantasy.
To help the poor maid, who clearly needed a break, Master had of course offered her own chair. The maid, ever so polite, refused to discomfort her employer, and Master had found the simplest compromise. The maid was swept into straddling Master's lap, voice quavery with nerves as she locked eyes with Master from inches away. Master's hands would roam up and down her sides, feeling the curves beneath her uniform, and Master, ever the tease, would speak as if nothing were out of the ordinary. She would ask after the maid's job, her family, if she thought her wages were fair, all while devilishly teasing the poor woman with feathery touches. The maid's voice would crack and shift as she tried to answer, eyes fluttering every time Master's hands neared her hips or chest, but Master would keep a perfect poker face, refusing to acknowledge anything out of the ordinary.
This would continue until the maid was shaking like a leaf in Master's lap, responses nearly incoherent, her hips involuntarily grinding against the growing hardness beneath Master's clothes. Only then, when the maid's resolve broke and she finally begged Master to touch her properly, would things progress. Master would savage her neck with kisses, grind the woman's pussy against her cock through the layers of clothing, and begin to slowly pick her apart. The maid would whine and plead hopelessly, no longer sure of what she wanted, beyond more of Master's body, and Master would still take her time, building her new plaything's desire to a razor's edge.
Evie's eyes rolled back in her head as, so far away, Master finally abandoned her restraint. Her hips slammed repeatedly into the pussy of that unknown maid, slapping almost hard enough to bruise. Evie felt nails dig into her back, hard enough to draw blood, and the pain was utterly exquisite. Evie's moans degraded into a repetitive panting cry, her fingers pounding into her pussy as her palm rubbed furiously at her clit. The woman Master was fucking was so tight it was almost unbelievable, every inch of Master's cock squeezed by delectable pressure. Evie felt herself begin to cry Master! between breaths as her peak approached, tugged along by Master's own pleasure.
Suddenly the legs around Master's hips tightened, strength returning for one crucial moment. Evie felt the woman arch against Master's chest, trembling pathetically, and she knew the half-dressed maid was screaming Master's name loud enough for the entire Peasant's Theatre to hear it. Her pussy convulsed on Master's cock, a flood of slick coating Master's pelvis, and Master pounded once, twice, thrice, each time burying herself deeper, lifting the woman's hips to find a better angle until suddenly, finally, Master's cock began to pulse.
Evie's eyes tore open as her entire body curved, back lifting into the air as her climax followed after Master's.
Her body was awash with sensations foreign and personal, her pussy clamping down hard on her fingers as she curled them up into the perfect position, all while she felt Master's cock pulse time and time again, torrents of hot cum shoved deep into the woman beneath her, then shoved even deeper as Master's hips pumped and pumped, twitching ever forward, as if trying to permanently impale herself in the luxurious heat wrapped around her.
Evie's scream was ragged, uncontrollable, and she couldn't do anything other than accept that it was coming from her throat, any ability for restraint hopelessly dashed.
Evie held her arching pose for several seconds, quivering with her hand shoved down her pants, then collapsed back onto the mud as her muscles gave out.
White dots swam behind her eyelids. So far away, Master's final pumps of cum were drawn from her cock, the still-twitching pussy coaxing out every last drop. Evie writhed languidly in the mud, so lost in the afterglow that even the slightest movement of her muscles was pleasurable.
She had no idea how long she lay like that, but when she opened her eyes, the sun was still hanging mostly in the same spot in the sky.
"Gods," she groaned, finally rolling over. She could feel mud caking her back and hair. "Why must she be like this?" Evie forced herself up into a sitting position, blinking her eyes to clear the tears.
"...Um?" A voice asked. "Are you alright?"
Evie went rigid. Slowly, horror filling her, she turned to the noise. Atop the nearest hill, standing slack-jawed, was a villager. Some boy she didn't recognize, barely into adulthood, staring at her with wide eyes.
"I just... um... I heard a noise, like someone was in trouble, so I came runnin'..." The boy waved a crudely carved wooden truncheon he carried. "But then I saw ya, and it didn't look like you needed help... or, ah, not the help I got in me, anyway, so..."
The boy was blushing so furiously that it looked like he'd been roasted above an open fire. Evie hadn't taken the time to survey her surroundings before being lost to the pleasure. For all she knew, he could have seen everything, from start to finish.
"What's your name?" Evie asked.
"Ton," he replied nervously.
"Ton." Evie rolled the name around her tongue, putting on the most severe expression she could manage while her thighs were still quivering. "Ton. Alright, Ton. Let me make something clear. If you ever, for the rest of your life, speak a word of what you just saw to anyone, I will know. And I will kill you."
Ton looked at her battle-scarred armor and gulped. He nodded. "I understand, ma'am. Uh... none of my business, really."
"It was not. In fact, you should have left the moment you saw me."
"I just... I thought you was having a fit or something, one of those sea-zures. Was going to call a healer..." His words trailed off, the excuse feeble even to his ears.
"I do not care. Never, ever, speak of it again."
"Yes'm," he said, imitating a hasty military salute. He turned to leave, then paused, clearly debating on whether or not to speak further. "But, ah, ma'am, if you're gonna... do that... I think there might be better places to, y'know, do it. Than here, y'know."
Evie shakily stood, frowning severely as she searched for her horse. "I don't care for your advice, Ton."
"Ah course! Ah course, ma'am, y'know better than me. But, um, so close to a village just seems..." He glanced at her expression and made the wise decision to give up on the sentence. "Never mind. Have a good day, ma'am."
The boy retreated over the hill as fast as he could without running, clutching his truncheon like a lifeline. Evie stretched, beginning the process of cleaning the mud off her armor, and looked about.
So close to a village, he said? What is the boy talking about... Evie took a few steps forward, craning her head over the small hill she'd sheltered behind.
Her heart stopped.
A few dozen feet away, well within shouting distance, was a row of houses. A village, one that she'd have discovered if she'd paid the slightest attention. It was a river fishing village, and without fields to indicate its proximity, Evie hadn't a clue it had been there.
Ton was currently speaking to a small crowd of villagers gathered behind one of the houses, all looking rather curious to hear what he was saying. She watched Ton flounder, trying to find some explanation other than the truth, and it didn't look like the other villagers were buying it. The sounds Evie had been making had been... distinct. One of the villagers glanced her way, eyebrows raising.
Evie dropped to her knees to hide her face, an unbelievable heat racing through her cheeks. They knew. They had to know. Gods, what a mess. They'd listened to it all. They'd heard her chanting "Master!" over and over again, heard her begging Master to come already.
A second thought struck her, more horrifying than even that. This village was along the path that the convoy would be taking. Jaran and the others would likely want to stop to chat, or buy supplies, or at least purchase a hot meal. And there was no conceivable way that Evie's display would not be a topic of discussion.
Evie spun about, frantically looking for her horse, and began to formulate reasons to avoid the village. Preferably forever. Maybe Master could be convinced to split the population up and bury the buildings in a landslide. It was the only option. She couldn't be known as a wanton whore, too desperate for Master's cock to restrain herself.
Evie shuddered, the thought of such a reputation striking home. To be seen in public with her collar proudly displayed, all knowing exactly what she was. Despite the fact that Master was no longer burying herself in a woman, Evie felt her pussy twitch.
No, absolutely not. No matter how much I've done with Master, there is a limit.
Isn't there?
Notes:
No matter how much of a militant atheist I may be, I was raised culturally christian enough for it to feel distinctly wrong to upload pornography on Christmas Eve. Enjoy your slightly early chapter(s)!
Chapter 48: Dedication (S)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic
Capital
Six Weeks Until Spring
Time ticked by. Constantly. Endlessly, it ticked and tocked in Sara's mind, always present. Sometimes it was the sound of her old world's mechanical watches that taunted her, the gentle click of metal meeting metal, and at other times she heard the rustling of sand sifting through an hourglass, a snake's hiss as the minutes slipped through her fingers. No matter what form it took, what it heralded was unchanged.
The invasion was coming. The Sporaton frost had begun to break, freeing the southernmost troops to begin marshaling, and with each passing day the spring weather marched further north. Once it reached the capital, where so many peasants lay sheltered in their straw huts beneath the monoliths of royalty, the army would take shape. Slowly at first, a lumbering beast poked and prodded to life, but with ever increasing speed, it would form. Young men and women would be selected by a shadowed figure in the hilly manor, deemed inessential to the village, a condition that meant their lives were free to be spent at the whims of others. When the noble lords that held their chain had their fill of marching them about in circles, drilling circles into the earth and their souls, they would be dragged to assault the southern reaches.
Tick, tick, tick, went the clock in Sara's mind. Six weeks. Two months, if they were slow to marshal. In her wildest dreams, she dreamt of ten weeks, some unseasonal gale blowing through to grant her reprieve. A vain hope, and nothing worth planning on. As Evie had taught her, Sara assumed her enemies would be flawless in their efforts, driving their troops to her doorstop the very moment the elements allowed it. So, six weeks. Forty-two days until the fate of nearly a hundred thousand people would be put into Sara's hands, the weight hers alone to bear. She had been preparing, yes, and was still preparing, but with every action taken, she saw only what more she should do. An endless list sprawled through her mind and onto her now-hectic notes, even Evie's skill insufficient to tame the mess that had overtaken her desk, and yet still the barest effort could summon up a half-dozen additions, all worth considering. Sara was lost in a maze of her own creation, clawing for anything that might preserve the progress she had made.
Which was why she, upon first opening her eyes to the morning rains pattering against their window, she smiled at Evie.
"We're going to go shopping today."
Feline eyes fluttered open, the usual disorientation of waking rapidly sharpening into consternation.
"We are going to what, Master?"
"Go shopping. It's been forever since we did anything like that. That's bad girlfriend behavior on my end."
Blearily, Evie fumbled for the nightstand. She seized the small notebook there, searching for the page containing the day's itinerary.
"Master, not only should you not feel compelled to do such, but we do not... have... the time?"
Sara smiled as Evie doublechecked the date on the page, finding the entire front half of the day empty.
"I fiddled around with your schedule. Sorry. Hope I didn't screw anything up too bad, but if I did, I'll take the blame. Either way, it's worth it to spend a little bit of time off."
Evie closed the book, fixing Sara with a censorious glare.
"Master. Of all the people on this planet, I am alone in being able to tell when you are lying." Evie thumped her collar with a finger. "I can physically feel how anxious you are to keep working. What is the purpose of spending precious hours strolling through this city's anemic shopping district?"
"Hey, it's not that bad. You and Vesta have done wonders bringing the city back up to speed. There's, what, twenty-five thousand people now? And sure, we're worried about feeding them, since that leaves us with only sixty thousand working the fields, but fishing's covering the difference for now, and Ketch's dad had a swim around and says we're not even close to overfishing the shores."
"See, Master? You began trying to reassure me, but immediately distracted yourself with concerns over our food stocks. Would you even be capable of spending hours shopping?"
"Bitch I might be," Sara mumbled, even though she knew the reference would be lost on Evie. More seriously, she said, "Even if I was, I know you'd hate it, which defeats the purpose. I'm not going impress Sporatos's former wealthiest noble with my pocket change, anyway. I've got a good idea for how we'll spend the day, trust me."
"If you insist." Evie sat up in bed, the covers falling off her bare chest. To Sara's surprise, the remnants of the previous night still lay across the soft expanse of her skin, discolored from hours spent cooling. Strings of cum, mixed with saliva, accompanied by a generous helping of Hurlish's slick that had dripped down from Evie's chin to join the Pollock painting sprayed across her tits. The sight of it, so casually worn, sent a spark through Sara's belly.
The collar, of course, transmitted that to Evie, who smirked. "Should I dress before our outing today, Master, or would it be a waste of time? I have many outfits, but this one is still my favorite." To prove the point, Evie licked her finger and ran it along her breasts, collecting the concoction to bring it to her mouth. She licked the cum-coated finger, then shoved it further into her mouth, sucking to savor the flavor. Sara was helpless to do anything other than watch, resting her head on an elbow.
"Mm. Still sweet. Really, Master, you should show Amarat more deference. Cum that tastes as good as yours is a gift worth eternal loyalty."
"In my defense, I haven't really had a proper opportunity to taste it."
Evie smiled, turning to face the bed square-on, breasts lit by the faint pink light of the crystal atop the bedside table.
"You don't yet appreciate the flavor of your own cum. I need to get cleaned up. There's an interesting overlap in our problems, isn't there?"
With Evie looking down at her like that, Sara had no option left to her other than to obediently crawl forward, tongue falling out as she approached Evie's chest. Evie sighed as Sara's lips pressed against her chest.
It really is sweet...
They ended up being an hour late over their usual routine, the time eaten away by Sara cleaning Evie, then Evie cleaning herself after Sara's cleaning. Sara waited patiently. Their rooms at the Peasant's Theatre were austere, but wealthy enough to contain crystal-heated cauldrons of water, which Evie was using in the other room. The quarters were just enough for three women to occupy, and it didn't take long for Sara to tidy up the room before the maid came. It was one thing to accept that her usual messiness would be seen by hired help, but another entirely for the poor woman to be subjected to her, Evie, and Hurlish's nighttime activities. Sara and the maid had come to a silent agreement early on: Sara would wrap the sheets and bedding in a porous bag, and the maid wouldn't dare open it until the entire thing had been thoroughly soaked and shaken in a rainwater barrel. That seemed to work well enough, judging by the fact the woman hadn't quit after the first morning shift.
Sara waited in the "living room" for Evie. It barely deserved the title. The furniture was just a pair of small couches before a fire, the walls stuffed with bookshelves whose contents Evie curated, plus a trophy space cleared for Hurlish's ever-rotating weapons collection. Two longbows and a halberd, today, Sara noted, had been hung above the fireplace before Hurlish left for the forge. The fireplace was hardly ever used, and it would be better to call the entire room a reading room, because the other accurate title for its use wasn't appropriate for polite company. While Sara waited for Evie she inspected Hurlish's weapons, trying to discern what the smith had decided made them exceptional enough for display.
Sara hadn't reached her conclusion before Evie came out of their rooms, dashing other thoughts. Sara had thought Evie fairly reluctant to spend time on themselves, and still somewhat did, but the outfit she wore put a dent in the estimation. She exited the room wearing a noblewoman's dress, one that Sara had never seen on her before, which was rather impressive considering that they shared a closet. It was multicolored, a deep swathe of royal blue sweeping from her feet to her chest, complimented on either shoulder by gold trim that marked the transition to scarlet sleeves. As always with Evie, the dress was lowcut, showing off what might have been cleavage on a bustier woman, the empty space serving instead to draw the eye towards her collar. The mark of her slavery had been polished to a lustrous sheen, even more so than its usual magical glow afforded it.
"How?" Sara asked simply.
"Easily. You don't touch my clothes. I put it behind the other dresses weeks ago."
"Damn. Am I really that blind?"
Evie patted Sara fondly on the cheek. "Sometimes, Master. Is it a good piece?"
"Of course. You're wearing it."
Evie rolled her eyes. "I would mock you for such drivel if I couldn't feel that you meant it, Master. But truly?" Evie stepped up to the door, lifting her arms as she gave a stately twirl to show the dress off. "It was among Nora's loot being offloaded during our last meeting, and I surreptitiously saved it from being marked for sale. Vesta recommended a tailor in the city, and Oddry dropped it off with my measurements, but this is my first chance to wear it after the adjustments."
Sara gave it a closer appraisal, looking for any obvious flaws. Of course, she didn't find any. Amarat may have gifted her with the words required to glide through high society, but that hadn't come with a secondary fashion sense. She had Evie for that. Sara was as clueless about clothes as she had been back on Earth. But she also knew Evie wanted genuine input.
"It looks perfect to me, honestly. Sexy but refined, and still emphasizing your servitude to me, which I know you like, even if I think it's kinda weird. A perfect grade overall, but at the end of the day I'm not a good source. If we have time today we might drop by that tailor, or by Vesta's. She'd know better than me."
"I suppose that's a good enough answer," Evie hummed, her humble agreement undercut by her tail swishing in satisfaction. She opened the door, and Sara followed her out into the hallway.
As she passed out of the room, the two guards posted there stiffened. Sara had repeatedly tried to soothe their rigid reactions to her presence, but hadn't seen success yet. She suspected Evie was working to the opposite effect when Sara wasn't paying attention, admonishing the troops entrusted with Sara's safety to never drop their guard. On this particular day, Sara only gave them a grateful nod as she passed, following Evie down the halls of the Peasant's Theatre.
Even at the fairly early hour, the Peasant's Theatre had begun to bustle. The nexus of Sara's fledgling bureaucracy was held together by spit and twine, but it was Vesta-and-Evie-grade twine, and that meant something. Sara passed offices of various ministers, administrators, and clerks, many of which were already occupied. In their haste to get things organized, no larger building had been constructed, and that left the wood-paneled corridors they'd thrown up within the former theater very, very cramped. After they turned to one side to allow a maid to pass them, Evie glanced at the woman's backside with a raised eyebrow.
"Was that the one, Master?"
Sara chuckled. "No. And it wasn't our maid, either. Seriously, why are you so convinced it was a maid?"
"It felt like a maid's pussy."
"What in the hell does that mean?"
"Inexperienced but eager, pliable from countless idle hours spent fantasizing, and utterly delighted to see its daydreams finally fulfilled."
"Are you psychoanalyzing a woman via out-of-body fucking?"
"Merely stating my conclusions, Master. Perhaps I picked it up from tasting Vesta so often. She has more experience with maids than the rest of us combined, and her expertise could have rubbed off on my tongue."
Sara massaged her temples. "I know I told you about learning by osmosis, and I'll admit I don't really understand it myself, but I'm almost positive that's not how it works. And you're still sure you don't want me to just tell you who it was?"
Evie turned her nose up. "No. After feeling them like that, I will know them when I see them."
Sara resisted the urge to count off Evie's incorrect guesses, which thus far included every single maid they had passed over the last week. It would just make her more determined to figure it out herself.
"Nothing bad came of it, really," Sara said instead. "Not like anyone in that village will recognize you, even if they see you again."
Silently, Evie turned to Sara, the prominent set of cat's ears twitching atop her head.
"Well," Sara hedged, "You probably won't see them again, at least."
Evie put her back to Sara, increasing her pace through the Peasant's Theater's labyrinthian hallways. Sara rubbed her neck and followed after, glad that her girlfriend had a serious– if somewhat repressed– humiliation fetish.
They exited the Peasant's Theater in short order, taking to the rainy streets beneath a parasol held by Sara. They didn't hold hands in the street, both because the height gap made it awkward, and because Evie preferred not to have anything encumbering her should they come under attack. It was that same paranoia that meant their stroll, which Sara intended to be relaxing, didn't quite hit its mark. Evie chatted easily enough, but kept her eyes on their surroundings, steering Sara away from denser crowds. As a result, Sara decided to give up on the idea of a meandering path, heading directly towards her goal with Evie by her side.
That last tidbit, Sara noted, was new. Ever since she had returned from her expedition, Evie had started walking directly beside Sara, rather than a few paces behind her. A subtle change, inconsequential to most people, but notable to Sara, particularly with the way Evie had begun to take a more vocal role in the meetings she attended. They'd gone over the entire expedition extensively, enough that Sara knew its every detail by heart, but nothing in the events could explain Evie's new behavior. Sara didn't think the feline had even noticed it herself. Whatever had occurred, however, Sara was grateful for it, and she resolved herself not to bring the change to Evie's attention, lest her girlfriend backslide into deeper subservience.
When they reached their destination, Evie squinted up in confusion.
"The Weaving Guild, Master? Have I ruined your plans to purchase us a new set of dresses by bringing my own?"
Sara laughed. "No, no. I know better than to try and buy you fancy clothes. I'd bankrupt the treasury before living up to your standards. Here, hold this for a second."
Sara handed Evie the parasol, heading up to the building's side entrance. The Weaver's Guild was situated in a well-built building, but lacked decoration beyond being a solid slab of stone and mortar. The primary business entrance would already be swamped, Sara knew, and Evie would have a fit trying to track every hand that could hold a weapon in the room, so she decided to leverage her privilege by pounding a fist on the building's side door.
Evie stepped up beside her a moment later, raising her arm to shelter Sara under the parasol. After a brief wait, the door was opened by a rather grouchy looking woman, clearly irritated to have someone trying to use an employee-only entrance. That irritation was wiped off her face the moment she recognized Sara, however, replaced by shock, then contrition, and finally a bit of greed, as if she were salivating over what she imagined Sara would be willing to spend.
"Hello, Governess! To what do I owe the honor?"
"I have business inside, but in the interest of personal safety, wished to take a less traveled entrance. I hope I'm not intruding by coming this way?"
"No, no, not at all! Come in, come in!"
Sara and Evie were eagerly waved in, taking a moment to shake off their parasol and let their eyes adjust.
"Do you need any help finding your way?" The woman asked.
"No, thank you, I know where I'm going. I appreciate the offer, of course."
"Certainly, ma'am," the woman replied. Then she hesitated, lingering while Evie and Sara wiped their boots and tucked the parasol away. She was clearly a tailor or seamstress of some sort, and after only the briefest pause, began politely probing for reasons why Sara was there. She trying to find an angle to sell her something, clearly. Sara deflected the comments with barely a thought, steering the conversation away from a sales pitch. That was incredibly easy to do, once Sara discovered the woman had two children. Parents loved to talk about their kids.
Sara marched her way towards her destination while chatting amicably with the woman, figuring she at least owed the seamstress a bit of conversation with someone "famous" for letting them into the building. It was still odd to think of mere conversation with herself being a reward, but the realities of her reputation were hard to deny. Once Sara found the right room, however, she pivoted the discussion back to work, which sent the woman scurrying back to her station as she realized she was being missed.
Evie eyed the door that they'd found themselves in front of. It was unremarkable, other than being sturdier than the rest, and had no labeling.
"And what exactly are we going to 'shop' for here, Master?"
Sara grinned. "You'll see." Sara knocked on the door, calling out. "Tam? You in there?"
"Governess?" A muffled voice called back. "You are here already? I was told I had hours yet!"
"The streets were busy, so I decided to head on over. I hope it's not too much of a bother?"
"No, no!" The muffled voice replied, accompanied by the gentler sounds of clanking metal and goods being tossed frantically about. "I just... need to... get out the things we discussed..."
Sara looked up and down the hallway, where others were beginning to take note of her. Not with the frothing excitement that greeted her at Amarat's church, thank the gods, but they were clearly fascinated by her. Some were even working up the courage to approach her. Perhaps Evie was right, and Sara should cultivate a more standoffish reputation.
"Mind if we come in, Tam? Don't worry about a mess, I've lived in worse."
Sara didn't give the seamster a chance to reply, cranking the handle open and stepping in.
"I just need a few more– oh. Hello."
Sara ignored the man's crestfallen greeting as she took in the room, shutting the door behind Evie. As one of the Weaving Guild's more experienced members, he had been afforded his own workspace, and that was a comfort he'd clearly needed. All across the room, from hangers on the ceiling, pegs on the wall, and piled in bundles on the floor, were various types of textiles. Broad, undyed sheets were mixed interchangeably with nearly finished articles of clothing, all showing signs of both master craftsmanship and complete disregard for organization. Sara stepped nimbly over several such piles, approaching the work desk that the squirrelly man was stooped over. He didn't see her approach, too busy digging furiously in his desk's drawers.
"Broad? Broad, where did you put the demonstration vials?"
Evie's eyebrows rose, assuming the seamster was referring to some woman on his payroll in such a way. Sara shook her head subtly.
"Nah, not like that. That's his name."
As if summoned by her comment, Broad entered the room, scratching at the dark lines beneath his eyes. Doing so transferred the purple ink that smeared his fingers to his face, but it was clearly not the first time he had done such. The boy was perhaps seventeen, one of the former apprentice artificers from the Carrion Navy, but well fit his name despite his youth. His shoulders were wide and square, as was his jaw, the only subtle things on him being the fingers he used for his delicate work. Sara knew that Carrion children were given their names at birth just like everywhere else, and thought it funny he'd ended up called Broad. She wondered if he'd come out of his mother just as wide, hence the name, or if it was just a quirk of fate.
"Damned know if you put it where it goes," Broad snapped, accent thickened by exhaustion. At the sight of Sara, his eyes widened, realizing he'd just used profanity in front of a so-called Lady.
"Begging your pardon, Governess," he said, hurriedly bowing from the waist. The Carrion Navy may have been the most egalitarian society Sara had personally encountered in this world, but that was far from a glowing endorsement, and it absolutely didn't mean people there casually swore in front of their nation's leaders. "I had not realized you arrived. I know now why Tam was shouting about needing to get things."
With that stilted attempt at formality parsed through his passable knowledge of a foreign language, Broad started to help Tam look through the drawers. Evie watched the awkward bumbling of the men with no small amount of amusement.
"It seems you came here with a specific purpose, Master," she noted. "And they were aware of your plan to come today. An artificer, as well? Curious."
"Yup," Broad agreed, somehow not catching that the comment wasn't meant for him. "I am an artificer. And good at it. You'll see in a minute."
"Yes!" Tam agreed forcefully. "Just a minute, not a moment longer, and you'll be seeing it. If I can just get this damn drawer out of its slot..." Tam bent down and jerked at something, rattling the whole desk. Sara heard the sound of a wooden drawer, badly in need of polishing, screech open. Tam exulted. "Aha! Here they are!"
Tam swept an arm across his desk without looking, sending every item on it to the floor. Among the discarded piles of cloth, Sara noted, were a number of long sewing needles, and she wondered how often the man was visiting the healers after inadvertently stabbing himself.
The desk now cleared, Tam hurriedly began setting a series of corked bottles out, each filled with various viscous fluids. Sara recognized at a glance mud, ink, dye, grease, and cooking oil, along with several more dubious jars. Broad reached over the seamster's bent back as each item was placed and moved them into a neat row, as if proper presentation could offset the room's disarray.
Evie watched the haphazard preparations with obvious doubt. Broad wilted under the feline's imperial scrutiny, but doggedly kept organizing the vials, offering her a tired smile.
"It is just that you were so early, ma'am. We were preparing, but not prepared."
"I understand," Evie said. "Though I am rather curious as to what you are preparing."
"It is–"
"A surprise," Sara cut in. "Remember? A surprise. So hold onto your explanations until the big reveal."
Broad nodded. Evie pursed her lips. "I think that any surprise which involves a sealed bottle of blood is cause for concern, Master."
Sara looked at the bottle Evie was referring to. It was indeed a sludgy red-brown liquid, but she'd assumed it was something else. Surely.
"It is pig blood," Broad happily declared, as if it helped. "Nothing so stupid as human blood, no need for worry. I am a skilled artificer, but not skilled enough to be dealing with human blood."
Evie's eyes widened slightly. Sara pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Just... trust me, please?" Sara pleaded. "They're not the best showmen, but it's nothing bad, I promise."
"If you insist, Master."
Tam finished throwing things about under his desk, popping up with hair a mess. In his hands was a hogshide leather pouch, unadorned, with only one remarkable element: a zipper. The metal for the zipper had been difficult to create, but after seeing Evie's plain interest in the concept she described– how much easier certain outfits would be to wear if zipped up the back– Sara and Hurlish had put in the work. This bag was one of their proof-of-concepts. Tam looked at Sara questioningly. She nodded him on, so he held out the bag to Evie.
"With my compliments, madam," he intoned, voice dropping to a formality at odds with his disheveled appearance.
Evie took the pouch with both hands, holding it up to inspect. It was six inches by six inches wide, and the leather was crudely made. Her eye, of course, caught on the zipper, and she took the end and began to pull.
Sara leaned in to watch with considerable excitement as Evie pinched the material within, drawing it out into the light.
"A... handkerchief?" Evie asked aloud, inspecting the thing. Her reaction wasn't disappointment, but neither was it excitement. Confusion seemed dominant.
Tam and Broad both opened their mouths to reply, but Tam quickly thought better of it, swatting his younger companion on the thigh. Before saying anything further, they looked to Sara, who once more nodded them on. They were the salesmen here, and their plain enthusiasm for the project was better than the smug pride Sara would have presented it with.
"A handkerchief indeed, ma'am," Tam said, holding out his hand. Evie placed the handkerchief in it, and he spread it out on the table where a sunbeam fell through the window. "But not just any handkerchief. Its lustrous sheen is owed to the silk of Talimar Worms, frightening creatures which grow to the size of my forearm deep within the jungle wall. The creatures have yet resisted any form of domestication, and so their product is singularly rare, such that this is my first time handling so much Talimar Silk at once. The design woven through the material, the general ethos of which was provided by the governess, was refined and created over a period of six weeks. As the entire handkerchief is of the same base material, with no coloration to distinguish the path of threads, the pattern is only visible when viewed from certain angles."
Tam put the handkerchief back on his palms and tilted it, so the sunbeam struck it in just the right way. Suddenly visible, as if physically jumping out of the silk, was an incredibly beautiful tapestry, woven in miniature. Across the entire central space of the handkerchief rose a rapier, specifically Evie's own enchanted rapier, and, crossing behind it at gentle angles were two other weapons. A greatsword on the left, the disc at the center of its blade marking it as Sara's unique weapon, and a massive slab of a hammer on the right, Hurlish's weapon stylized in size so that it would not dominate the imagery. Tam tilted the handkerchief away, and the image disappeared.
"Other designs may reveal themselves in time, depending on the angle of your viewing, particularly when attention is paid to the fringes. I will leave those to your own private discovery in the coming months, as there are too many to list today."
Evie remained silent, but her eyes had sharpened, feline pupils narrowed to slits as she focused on the handkerchief.
"Could you summon your sword, Evie?" Sara asked. Evie raised an eyebrow at the request, but did so, stretching a hand out to bring the weapon into existence over the desk. Back on Earth, Sara had somehow gotten it into her head that rapiers were light weapons, small sidearms, but that wasn't the case. The sword Hurlish had made for Evie was just as long as a longsword, three and a half feet, more than half the feline's height.
"A handkerchief for my sword, is it?" Evie asked, half-joking.
"More or less," Sara admitted. "I've seen the way you treat that thing. After every battle, every fight, the very first thing you do is wipe it off. It doesn't matter if you're injured, or if there's more enemies nearby, you're always keeping it perfectly clean. I've seen you use an enemy's shirt to clean it, an enemy's hair, your own clothing, the grass, whatever's near. So I figured... why not make sure you've always got something on hand?"
Evie's eyes widened slightly. "You wish me to use a work of art to wipe blood off my sword, Master?"
"Yep," Sara said, ignoring the puffing up of Tam's chest at his work being referred to as art. "There's more to it than that, though. Broad?"
Broad unstopped the first bottle, filled with mud, and promptly upended it onto the priceless silk. Evie's hand twitched forward, reflexively going to stop him, but she held back. Rather than oozing onto the silk as it should have, the mud splashed, rolling to the sides like water droplets off a leaf. Evie watched with growing intensity as Broad moved to the next vial, a jar of writing ink, and similarly upended it. He moved to the next bottles before the ink finished rolling off, adding dye, grease, oil, pig's blood, saltwater, and other liquids in quick succession. The materials intermixed with each other atop the silk, slipping and sliding in uniquely peculiar ways. Broad suddenly snagged the handkerchief's edge and yanked it up, spilling the awful concoction onto Tam's work desk. The silk fluttered free, untainted, exactly as brilliant as it had started.
"Your wife spoke to us of certain materials in her old home, those she called, ah, 'hydro-phobic', I believe," Broad said. "Afraid of water, she says it meant. After some conversation, and considerable tinkering, it seemed possible to replicate this property with enchantments. Most of what artificers are trained in is the binding of material, of bringing things closer together, stronger. To repel is a strange question, but not so unreasonable, and I developed this."
"You created this property? Alone?" Evie eyed the handkerchief carefully, as if disbelieving that it hadn't been ruined.
Broad's smile took on an aspect of his name. "In the Carrion colonies, I was an apprentice, if advanced for my age. If my old masters saw this project, I believe I would have been graduated! A wonderful thing the Governess has driven me to create! Perhaps the most wondrous element is the fact that though it repels nearly all, it can still be grabbed." He waved the handkerchief about happily. "Imagine a gift that always slipped out of your grasp? Worthless! The finest of enchantments on it is that it recognizes Intent, and so weakens the repellent effect upon the places one seizes with Purpose. I took two weeks for the hydro-phobicness, but a month of sleepless nights to recognize Intent!"
"What powers it?" Evie asked. "There are no gemstones, clearly. Is this Talimar Silk inherently capable of holding artifical energies, like blacksteel?" The technical question surprised both Sara and Broad.
"Er, no," Broad admitted, slight chagrin dampening his smile. "It is a weak enchantment, speaking truthfully. Left isolated, it would run out within days, the silk returned to its more base form until rejuvenated. I had not the skill to create powdered gems capable of holding energies to suffuse the silk, as might be more ideal."
Abruptly, Sara's mind jumped back to Diplomat Otilia's robes, which had used powdered gems in its dyes. Had the clothing been enchanted? Almost certainly, Sara decided, but with what? Had the woman been more of a threat than she'd realized? Questions for later.
Sara wrenched her mind back on topic as Broad continued showing off the handkerchief.
"Then how do I go about 'rejuvenating' it, then?" Evie asked.
"I will show you. Would you allow me to handle your weapon, madam?"
Sara caught only the slightest hesitation at the idea of someone else handling her sword, brief enough that Broad likely hadn't seen anything. At the artificer's direction, she set it on the table, directly in the pile of still-festering concoction left by the earlier demonstrations.
"I did not overly worry myself about the enchantment's rejuvenations, you see, because the handkerchief is not to stand on its own." Broad wrapped the silk square around the rapier's handle, muttering to himself as he did so, pinching and placing the handkerchief so that it bunched up in a very particular way. When that was finished, he straightened. "If you would grab hold of your weapon, then dismiss it, you will see."
Evie picked up the rapier by the silk-covered handle, the weapon now covered in filth, and dismissed it. The handkerchief, rather than falling to the ground, disappeared with it.
Broad clapped. "Excellent! I was worried that, without the genuine article, it would require considerable tuning of the summoning enchantment. Not so, thankfully. You are clearly well in touch with your weapon, to so easily bind the two."
"I didn't do anything different."
"A testament to your skill, whether you know it or not. Now, if you please, summon the rapier in your weapon hand, but with the handkerchief in your right."
Almost instantly, two flashes brightened Evie's hands. The rapier's blade was still adorned by clinging filth, while the handkerchief was pinched in her left hand.
"Astounding! You bind and divide the enchantments without effort. If I ever begin to work upon other summoning enchantments, I will be sorely missing a test subject such as you."
"If the work is relevant to the army, I might find the time to aid you," Evie said absentmindedly, inspecting the handkerchief once more. She put the silk against the blade, preparing to wipe it down, then glanced at Broad. "I assume you reinforced the silk?"
"Of course."
Evie wrapped her hand around the base of the blade, protected by the handkerchief. With one quick motion she ran it down the weapon, flinging every last piece of filth off onto the floor. In an instant, the blade was as clean as the day it had emerged from Hurlish's forge.
Evie inspected her sword, confirming that nothing had been left behind on the weapon or silk. Sara watched her do so with a smile on her face. The feline was all business in her demeanor, clinically inspecting the blade, but her ears were twitching something fierce, and the tip of her tail was spinning little circles behind her.
"Do you know why I am so dedicated to cleaning my weapon, Master?" Evie's question was spoken quietly, intensely.
"I've got a few ideas, but nothing firm," Sara shrugged. "I just wanted to make it easier on you. Why?"
"Master Graf. He has spent decades mired in war, and in those years, he noticed many trends among those whose souls were tainted by violence. Once, when the Night's Eye had just returned from a particularly grueling contract, I had asked him why they had arrived with armor and weapons polished sparklingly clean. He answered offhandedly, as if it were obvious. Those who take pride in a bloodied weapon are not warriors. They are murderers."
Sara watched Evie's eyes grow distant as she spoke, lost in recollection. Broad and Tam were silent, unprepared for the solemness of the statement. Sara let the moment linger, then nodded.
"Makes sense. But even if you did it for some lesser reason, I'd still have wanted to make it easier on you."
Evie spent a little bit longer looking at her rapier, tail twitching, then dismissed it. She looked up at Sara with an even expression, even as her ears began to flatten like a kitten with a new toy.
"Thank you, Master. It is wonderful." Evie turned to Tam and Broad, and, shockingly, bowed. Just a slight bend at the hips, ever so subtle, but still there. "Your work is commendable, and I thank you for it, too."
Broad and Tam both burst into profusive thanks, hardly able to accept such words from the Governess's partner. Sara let them babble for a bit before cutting in.
"You both have my thanks, as well. I trust that the payment was adequate?"
"Oh, more than!" Tam insisted. "To have Evie Eliah carrying my work should have been payment enough, Governess!"
"Well, coin still feels nice in your pocket, I imagine. Is there anything else we'll need to know, regarding care of the handkerchief? You were talking about rejuvenation and stuff?"
"Oh, no, it should be self-sustaining, ma'am," Broad replied. "The handkerchief should draw its energies from the rapier, which replenishes itself upon the natural reserves of the body and environment. Even if you were to separate them for long enough that the enchantments faded, a few days of contact between them should resolve any issue."
"I'm glad to hear it. Evie, do you have any questions?"
Evie had summoned the handkerchief once more, holding it up to the light. She shook her head. "No, Master. I believe we are ready to depart."
"Perfect. Tam, do you know the quickest way to a–"
"To an unoccupied room," Evie cut in, speaking over Sara. "We have business to attend to. I need to correct our schedules to accommodate for this outing."
"If you are looking for a quiet place to work, I believe there is a storeroom not too far. Down the hall and to the left, before the stairs, labeled as such."
"Thank you," Evie said, spinning on a heel and stomping out of the room. Sara didn't know what the hurry was, but quickly followed after, hastily waving her goodbyes.
As they headed for the room, Sara watched Evie's stiffened tail with some concern.
"Evie? Did you find something in the schedule I screwed up? Hello? Evie?"
The feline did not answer. Sara followed her to the storeroom, asking questions all the while, and received no response. Evie simply opened the door, stepped inside, and waited for Sara to enter.
"If it's something that I screwed up, I can– mmph!"
Sara found her back slamming against the door, Evie's palm pinning her in place. A leg hooked around the back of her knees, pulling them out from under her. Evie loomed over her, cat's pupils blown out into saucers.
"You, Master, should have allotted more than the morning for this outing."
Evie dropped down into Sara's lap, handkerchief flashing into existence before Sara's eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, but was stifled by the handkerchief being shoved into her mouth.
"And as there is a public hallway behind you, you are going to have to learn how to be quiet. Do you think you can do that for me, Master?"
Sara's last coherent memory was of nodding frantically, Evie's hands reaching for her belt.
Notes:
Really, what gift could be better for Evie than something to mop up the blood of her enemies?
If I were writing this as a "proper" fantasy book, this chapter probably wouldn't have been included. Sara would have dramatically presented the gift to Evie on the eve of battle, a final goodluck charm before the war began. But hey, this is a triple genre book, romantic smut/isekai/political, and who doesn't enjoy a date chapter?
Also, in hindsight, I would have been delving much more into the Industrial Revolution element of things. I'm considering having the next few chapters I post time-jump backwards a bit, maybe shove them between what's already posted. We'll see. I can promise that it'll be well written, if not chronological.
Chapter 49: A Royal Conservatory
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Kingdom of Sporatos
Capital
Four Months until Spring
Ketch's breath frosted on the thick windowpane as she watched the streets below. Snow was a horrible thing. It choked the pathways of the city as surely as any creeping vine, but was far more insidious, for it had no roots to upend which might kill the whole infection. She watched as the people of the capital trudged through it with a grim determination she could not fathom, taking to their daily tasks in the same way they always did.
Insanity. The room that Ketch barely managed to afford was well worth the expense, for it had the luxury of a personal fireplace. It was a minor security risk, connected as it was to the other fireplaces before billowing out the building's chimney, but she'd determined it worthwhile. After all...
Ketch pressed a finger to the glass, holding it in place. When she pulled it away, several of her scales tried to remain behind. She could feel them lifting off of her skin beneath, frozen to the glass in mere moments. Ketch shuddered, tucking the hand beneath her cloak.
"Why torture yourself like that?" A voice asked. Ketch turned to the speaker, a catfolk man, of middling age, sporting a brown coat of fur and simple peasant's garb. He was Ketch's roommate in these cramped cofines, so unlike the spacious cave Ketch knew as home. Her roommate was also very much unlike Selly or her parents. "You know the window is cold," the man continued, "And you know you hate the cold. Why do you keep sticking your fingers to the glass?"
There wasn't a good answer to that, so Ketch remained enigmatically silent. Tagrensi shrugged. "You will have to go out into the weather anyway, spy. I don't see why you torture yourself over it like this."
"Am I a spy?" Ketch asked, facing him and crossing her legs in a womanly manner beneath her cloak. "I think that better describes you. I'm more of a... hm. An infiltrator? A saboteur, perhaps?"
"A child."
"Maybe a foreign operative," Ketch mused, ignoring Tagrensi's comment. "That feels the most accurate, even if it's a mouthful. I'm sure there's a better word for it." Ketch's hand emerged from her cloak for a moment to point at his chest. "You, however, are a spy."
"I'll admit that," Tagrensi replied smoothly. "It's accurate, though I'll remind you I've lived my entire life within Sporatos. I have no more loyalty for the king than you, however, and won't protest the label."
"You consider yourself loyal to Sara, then? Or Tulian?"
"To the things either represent, maybe. A future in a better world for my child."
Ketch perked up. "You don't talk about them often. A son, I think you mentioned?"
Tagrensi smiled. "A son, yes, and a braver kitten I don't think there's ever been. Sara told you of how I came to be in my current position, yes?"
"She did. Sounds like your son's got more sense than you."
"In the moment, perhaps. I've got my wits about me now, thankfully, while at times the boy is too brave for his own good. I'm glad he and my wife are safe in Tulian."
"Worried for you, I imagine."
"And prouder than could be, as well." Tagrensi glanced back at the fire, picking up an iron poker to prod it to life. "The time is approaching. Are you ready?"
"Not like I have much else to do," Ketch said, sliding off the windowsill. Tagrensi reached beneath his tabard to pull out a packet of papers, laying them out on a low table. Ketch sat cross-legged across from him, looking the documents over.
"The manor is well guarded, as anticipated, but our agents determined most of their efforts are focused on curtailing conventional problems. Peasants storming the gates, or preventing looting during rioting and the like. Word on the street has it that they used to care more for guarding the rooftops, but the rebellion of last year shifted their priorities."
Tagrensi pointed to a spot on the map, drawing a line over the rooftops to the manor wall. "As most guards are stationed facing the street, it seems best to trail along the far edge of this roof. It has the highest peak of those abutting the property, and can be accessed easily enough."
"What of the manor itself?" Ketch asked, sifting through the papers. "Do we not have any information on the interior?"
"No. The grounds are well staffed, and we couldn't get one of our number in their employment. Perhaps they are an odd sort of nobility, and pay their staff a wage that keeps them from dropping like houseflies. Whatever the reason, we found no opportunity for subtler infiltration. Once inside, you'll have to improvise."
That set Ketch on edge, but not as much as it once would have. Even with months having passed since she last attended to Sara, whatever peculiar connection had been forged between them remained strong. Ketch was still being repeatedly advanced beyond her years, and she was no longer concerned about being detected by common chaff. She could hear their footsteps at a hundred paces, count their heartbeats at twenty, and listen to the blinking of their eyelids at ten. Only certain varieties of Irregulars might have a chance at spotting her in the shadows, and there were exceptionally few specialized in the art of peering into the black.
Magical means of detection were the only other threat to Ketch, which was why she and Tagrensi had chosen this particular manor. While far from the first of these excursions, her prior targets had been areas of public access, such as Guild quarters or barracks. This would be her first time testing herself against the wealthy, those with means and motive to defend themselves from her sort.
Ketch once more read over the dossier she had been provided on the target. The Vomun family were a modest House, of wealth and influence enough to be a valuable target, but not enough that she could expect insurmountable obstacles. The Vomun were young members of the nobility by Sporaton standards, elevated to their position by the deeds of an ancestor only two hundred years distant, and were reported to have a feverish desire to prove their loyalty to King Sporatos. As a result, they were providing above and beyond the required peasant levy for the upcoming war, and would likely be the easiest target in the city to have access to detailed plans for the conflict.
"How trustworthy are your sources?" Ketch asked.
Tagrensi scoffed. "You think there are those still loyal to Sporatos in their midst?"
"No. I can't imagine anyone that had been a slave would turn their back on freedom. But I can imagine that they are overeager, too happy to provide good news while too afraid to deliver bad."
"They have been working in Sporatos for many more months than you," Tagrensi said dismissively, "And are well acquainted with the brutal realities of this underground trade. Your worries may have been valid shortly after Sara freed them, but not anymore. We know better than to lie for no reason. Spilled blood and torture of those we care for taught us the lesson."
Ketch nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed. It had seemed like a valid thing to be concerned over, but when Tagrensi shut her down like that, she felt like an ass.
"Alright. I'll leave when the sun sets."
"Good luck, 'foreign operative.' "
Ketch turned back to the window, frowning. Maybe she would try a different title for her profession.
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Ketch's footsteps sounded like she was treading over the graveyard of a hundred thousand nautilus shells. It was a unique noise. To her new senses, stepping on snow was not just heard in the way of satisfying crunches, nor even in the detailed roll of her heel to the ball of her foot, which could be picked out by anyone paying closer attention to her gait. No, to Ketch's ear, the snow was a thin patina of countless fragile crystals coating the world, each bound spindle edge snapping as her boot forced it apart from its neighbor.
To distract herself from the ceaseless drumroll beneath her feet, she turned a scrutinous eye to the city of Sporatos itself. It was a sprawling thing, far outstripping Tulian, even when the fallen city had been at the height she vaguely recalled from her childhood. As she understood it, near on a hundred thousand people occupied the city, crammed into the narrow webway of stonebricked buildings. They were fed and supported by near fifty miles of unbroken fields radiating out from the gargantuan city walls, whose heights she had no reference for, other than the fact that they dwarfed Tulian's.
Those walls had been an intimidating, wondrous sight when Ketch had first approached the city, but when viewed from within, they had lost some of their luster. The interior of the city was an ungainly mess, its near millennia of slow growth taking a toll. Remnants of prior stone fortifications spiraled and spun through the streets, bulging out in places where there had once been a hill, receding before former patches of marshy ground. Nearly all was level now, and the only purpose the walls served was to divide the chaotic streets into something resembling districts. Chunks of the city were built to the standards of those that lived there, and there was little deviation within those bounds. The wealthiest regions of the city were clustered in places of mutual interest, whether that was a particularly defensive portion of the interior walls, or ready access to the river that funneled trade goods through the city center.
Ketch could see beacons of authority rising through the night sky. The homes of the Sporaton nobility. A thousand years of shifting architectural styles had been layered across the buildings in thick, gaudy globs, turning the nobility's finest manors into clashing monstrosities. Ketch knew that the occupants likely had entire theses on why the garish palaces were masterpieces, but that didn't change her opinion on them. They looked bad, and no amount of clever explanation for why they looked bad would change her mind.
Somewhat ironically, Ketch reflected, the manor she was set to infiltrate this night was among the least repugnant. Its relative youth and less influential owners meant it hadn't yet suffered the deluge of chintzy decorations that the more antiquated noble homes had. It was coming up ahead, only a few blocks further down this particular street, and that meant it was time for her to pay more attention to her immediate surroundings.
Ketch stepped into a shadowed alleyway, pulling the fur-lined hood of her cloak tighter about her face. Even when sheltered behind those monstrous walls and the dense press of buildings, the night's bitter wind seemed determined to slip between every gap in her scales. Monotonous grey clouds, omnipresent in the Sporaton winter, hid the stars, and so it was in near total darkness that Ketch slipped her gloves off, pressing a hand to the brick wall of the alley. The chill of it pulled an involuntary shiver from her. She began climbing, trying to reach the roof before her fingertips went numb.
Ketch passed several dark windows on her climb, using them as foot and handholds without concern. The four story buildings that composed the majority of the Sporaton capital were occupied by comparatively simple tradefolk, who were, if considerably better off than their farming brethren, still of means that required sensible expenditures. Wasting charcoal on heating the home just to enjoy conversation late into the night was a rarity, and Ketch had no concern she would chance upon a face staring at her through the window. Most bedrooms were on the interior, and only there would a low fire be lit to last through the night.
Ketch reached the roof in short order, testing the ledge for ice before scrambling up. Several times since winter fell in Sporatos, it had been only her new levels that had saved Ketch's life on these rooftops. Ice was a foreign word to her, quite literally, so strange to her tropical upbringing that she had to make an effort to pronounce it without a heavy Tulian accent. She had been shocked at the places the irritating substance could show up, even when there had been no recent rain. Roofs, she had decided, shouldn't have ice at all. The water should have rolled off before it had time to freeze.
The ice, clearly, disagreed with her. Ketch bent forward as she moved along the rooftops, gloved fingertips grazing the shingles to her left as she kept the roof's peak between her and the street patrols beyond. Her long coat dusted the tiles as she went, Ketch paying as much attention to her footing as she did the path ahead of her. She was fairly confident that she could catch herself should she stumble across a hidden patch of ice, but there was no sense in taking the risk.
Eventually, Ketch reached the end of the roof, predictably undetected. The manor was across from her, many of its second story windows still glowing brightly, and she knelt to surveil the grounds.
The wrought iron fence wrapped protectively about the manor was a standard affair, metal bars stylized into the shapes of spears that jutted between evenly spaced brick pillars. A garden courtyard was set behind the walls and covered in snow, save for the stone pathways, which had been kept studiously swept free, as if Lord and Lady Vomun were actually insane enough to spend time in their garden during this abominable season. The bushes and plants were dormant, but not dead, patiently waiting for the return of fairer weather beneath a blanket of white. Guards patrolled the exterior of the walls in predictable intervals, as the dossier had informed her, while none were stationed in the garden itself. Ketch thought it odd, but figured the noble's employees had successfully argued that they were better placed within the building, where they could keep a closer– and warmer– eye on the things worth protecting.
I do wonder what misfortune befell those fellows, to be out here in this weather, Ketch thought, watching a group of four guards wearily complete yet another circuit of the perimeter beneath her. Did they draw the short stick today, or are they unfortunate enough to have such an awful duty every night? And why are they forced to endlessly wander, instead of at least having a campfire to gather around? Those torches can't be doing much beyond ruining their night vision.
Ketch didn't think there was enough coin in all the world to have her marching circles through the snow for hours on end, but clearly, the guards disagreed. As they passed her by, turning the corner, Ketch stood and stretched, reaching beneath her cloak for a last-minute check of her supplies and equipment.
Her two daggers, gifts from her mother when Ketch's girlhood hunting lessons had begun, were kept in parallel sheaths off her right hip. Beside them was a coil of thin, high-quality rope, tested and proven by the Champion of Amarat before Ketch had left Tulian. It was remarkably soft, Ketch well knew, though that hardly mattered for any application she might use it in Sporatos. Besides the daggers and rope, the right side of her belt held a bag of tools, two small health potions (the glass vials wrapped in soft clay so as to not clink while she walked), and a pair of strange miniature telescopes Sara had diminutively referred to as "opera glasses." The small telescopes were attached in the middle by a hinge, intended to be looked through with both eyes, making it easier to judge distances and size. On the opposite hip, set alone, was Selly's dagger. Ketch kept its sheath religiously oiled, and slept with her hand gripping its handle beneath her pillow each night. The lopsided positioning of her gear wasn't ideal, but she didn't want anything in the way of Selly's dagger should she need to draw it.
Ketch hopped and stretched a few times on the rooftop, confident that she wasn't being observed. As Sara had dragged her up through the ranks, Ketch's peculiar sense of when she was being watched had grown accordingly. Now she could feel roving eyes not just as buzzing flies on her skin, but could sense them as they grew closer to her, as if the wind from the insect's wings were brushing her scales. That had saved her on more than one occasion, appraising her of the sweeping eyelines of hidden guards she'd not yet spotted. It was far from a perfect Skill, the faint sensation often affording her less than a second to react, but in this case it was enough to let her know there were no prying eyes crawling across the roof.
Ketch finished her bouncing test, reassured that all laid well. She waited until the patrol disappeared around the far corner, then crouched low, gauging her height. Forty feet down, twenty feet distant, with a row of ten-foot iron spikes raised through the middle. Less than a year ago, the gap would have been impossible, to clear, and the impact lethal. But she wasn't the same girl Sara had humiliated on an abandoned Tulian rooftop anymore.
Ketch leapt.
One hand pinched her cloak closed, the other spread for balance. For a brief moment, little longer than a second, the only sound was winter wind whistling through the wolf fur of her hood.
She hit.
The sound of thick leather boots slapping into stone boomed through the courtyard. The force of impact rattled her teeth, but nothing in her knees or ankles broke. The crash of her crouched landing was deafening to Ketch's ears, but clearly not so to the interior of the home, as she felt no sign of attention reaching for her. Slowly, she stood, cloak pooling around her feet.
With two groups patrolling the walls at regular intervals, she had barely a minute until the next set of torch-wielding guards passed the snowy garden. She had landed on the stone, rather than the softer snow, to hide her footsteps from any keen-eyed guard while she was inside. Ketch bent forward as she hurried towards the manor proper, letting her cloak trail along the cobblestones. Even if the stone pathways had been swept clear shortly after the snowfall abated, wind had since dusted it in a thin layer, just enough wintery mix accumulated for her steps to be noticeable. She hoped that the wider, more irregular streak left by her cloak would be less obvious than defined footprints. If there was a way to hide her tracks through snow, Ketch did not know it, and so she studiously avoided the deeper drifts.
Ketch knelt before the thick wooden door that led inside the manor, tugging her gloves off. Immediately the bitter air assaulted her, as if icy needles were trying to stab through the tops of her fingernails. She ignored the pain as she brought her tools free, slipping them into the lock. Back in Tulian, when she'd been working with The Shaded Tree, she rarely had need to pick locks. Broken windows and rotted boards were too common. She had practiced it regardless, but as a hobby, rather than a matter of practicality. Between her relative inexperience and the stabbing pain in her hands, she thought it excusable that a full thirty seconds passed before the lock clicked.
Ketch froze, waiting for a reaction to the sound of the door unlocking. When none came, she hurriedly slipped her gloves back on, nudging the door open and slipping inside.
Blessed warmth. That was her first impression of the noble manor. Warm. It was no doubt an incredible expense to keep fires lit throughout the night, but she couldn't blame them. She was so relieved to escape from the ravages of the Sporaton night that a reflexive sigh of contentment nearly slipped from her. She bit it back, forcing herself to scan the room.
Empty darkness greeted her in every direction, as expected. She had chosen this door because the nearby windows were unlit. Now that she was inside, she could see that she had entered a formal foyer of some kind, or perhaps a withdrawing room. The Vomuns clearly took pride in their gardens, because the furniture was arranged to face the windows, rather than the fireplace, as was more common. Ketch carefully scanned each plush piece of furniture, confirming that no tired staff had used the room for a surreptitious rest. That done, she straightened, comparing the doors and exits throughout the room to what she had seen through the manor's windows.
As best she could figure, the Vomuns themselves kept their personal quarters on the second story. That was unusual of nobles, who usually shoved their peasants to any room that required climbing to reach, but Ketch didn't think it as strange as Tagrensi did. She figured that the Vomuns had wisely realized two things: heat rises, and the Sporaton winter was utterly detestable. She'd predicted that the Vomun's room would be in the center of the home, directly above the kitchens, so the cook fires kept it heated. It was what she would have done, and she had heard of similar arrangements from peasants that worked as cookstaff in other Sporaton manors. It was her hope that if she located the kitchen, she would find the Vomun's rooms, and by extension any offices that would hold official documentation.
She began creeping towards the door on her right, which had seemed through the windows to open into a servant's hallway running around the exterior of the manor. She pressed an ear to the door, listening for footsteps, and when she heard none, she slipped it open just a crack, peering into the hallway.
Empty. Ketch frowned. For as well lit as the second story had been, it was terribly unusual that the bottom floor was so unoccupied. Fortunate for her at the moment, but concerning in the long run. It wouldn't do if the entire house's staff were packed into the second floor. Ketch slipped out into the hallway, ducking beneath each windowsill as she passed them, so the exterior guards could not spot her.
As she passed one door, she caught wind of a certain scent. A mixture of smoky charcoal and roasting meat, several hours old. She took one last cautious look up and down the hallway, then knelt down. To her mild surprise, the door had a lock. An unusual level of security for an interior door. To her even greater surprise, however, was the poor quality of it, as the lock was of such simple design she could literally see through the keyhole to the other side. She'd thought those only existed in stories. Why the Vomuns sprung for interior locks, yet cheaped out on them, she didn't know.
She was grateful for it, nonetheless. Through the narrow slit Ketch could see exactly what she'd hoped for, the stone tiles of the manor's kitchen faintly lit by oil lanterns. From her limited angle, the kitchens seemed abandoned, though there were lingering embers in the fireplace holding the cookpot, suggesting it hadn't been long since the staff left. She took another moment to ensure she saw no signs of others in the hallway or shuffling within the kitchen, then retrieved her lockpicks once more.
This time, with such a simple lock, it took her little more than a few seconds of thoughtless jimmying to bypass the mechanism. She gave the door a gentle push, sending it swinging open as if it had come loose on its own, and waited. When there was no reaction, she crept inside.
She glanced to the right, finding only a counter filled with bowls of vegetables, then to the left, and her heart stopped.
Sitting on a stool with their head resting against the wall was a guard, their sleep-lidded eyes staring right at her.
Ketch's hand flew for one of her mother's daggers, ripping it from its sheath. She flipped it in her hand, pinching its tip, raising her arm to throw it.
Then paused. Though the guard's eyes were open, the man hadn't reacted in the slightest to Ketch's entrance. For an agonizing moment Ketch stood frozen, dagger raised, waiting for something to happen.
And yet, nothing did. The guard kept perfectly still, eyes not even tracking her. Ketch stayed frozen, inspecting the man for signs of life. She could see his chest moving, and heard the slow whistle of breath coming through his teeth. He was breathing incredibly slow, as if asleep. Ketch met his eyes, searching for recognition, and found nothing but a glazed emptiness staring back at her.
Ketch slowly lowered her dagger, waiting for the movement to provoke any kind of response. Nothing happened, so she turned her dagger around in her hand, gripping it by the hilt, and slowly stepped forward.
As best she could tell, the man was half-dead. It was if he'd been hit upside the head with a warhammer, knocked into a coma. She stopped a few short feet away from him, baffled. The only explanation she could think of was that the guard had imbibed some sort of drug shortly before Ketch's arrival, but underestimated his tolerance, and had thus lapsed into his current state. That or he'd suffered some kind of stroke, which seemed unlikely given his age. Either way, he was completely ignorant of Ketch's presence, which suited her just fine.
Now that she was confident he wouldn't react, Ketch sheathed her dagger, surveying the rest of the kitchen, to make sure the man hadn't taken his vacation to oblivion with a partner.
The rest of the kitchen, thankfully, was unoccupied. Ketch took one last look at the guard, wondering what the poor (or lucky?) bastard had done to himself, then put her back to him, returning to her work.
Ketch briefly surveyed the rest of the lower floor, finding no staff other than the catatonic guard. She'd already been on edge, just by virtue of the fact that she was breaking into a noble manor, but the strange emptiness set her skin tingling. Perhaps the staff were all asleep in the upper floors, but that would be unusual. Surely they'd have at least a few guards on the bottom floor, or servants catching up on incomplete work? No matter. It wasn't like Ketch was going to do anything other than forge on.
She easily found a hidden door set into the main hall, clicking the wood panel open to reveal the servant's hallway. Many Sporaton manors had been built similarly, with incredibly narrow corridors that snaked through the ribs of the structure. The hallway was dimly lit by sparse crystals, taking erratic and inefficient paths through the home as it avoided the rooms, and was often split by support beams that Ketch had to squeeze past or duck under. Ketch knew they were built and used solely so the nobility didn't have to witness "the help" going about their duties, and the squalor of the corridor lent Ketch just a few extra drops of the anger she knew Sara felt towards this nation's elite.
She had to admit, though, the servant's corridors were incredibly helpful for her work. The thick wooden walls bounced the echo of footsteps remarkably far, though her own footsteps, of course, were silent. She had no trouble avoiding the first set of foreign feet she heard. She simply moved down a side corridor and waited for the servant to pass, her eyes adapted for abyssal depths staring out from a deep patch of shadow.
The maid walked past the branch that hid Ketch without ever glancing her way. The woman looked... strange. She held a clump of laundry in her arms, which was to be expected, but she was stooped over, as if hiding from something, and was shivering terribly. Ketch couldn't catch more detail than that before the woman hurried past, however, and she certainly wasn't going to risk following the maid. Ketch stepped back out into the main corridor and slipped forward, heading for the steep set of stairs that accessed the second story servant's corridors.
Here, finally, Ketch started regularly encountering others. Too regularly, in fact, for the late hour. At one point she heard footsteps approaching from both ahead and behind her, and had to skitter up the wall to hide in the shadows left by the intermittent crystal lighting. The man and woman passed beneath her without a word, not acknowledging the other's presence other than to turn a shoulder so they wouldn't collide.
Stranger and stranger, Ketch mused. Perhaps the lord and lady are tyrants, and the staff is petrified of waking them? That wouldn't fit the rumors though, nor how difficult it was to insert a spy among their staff. I suppose the Vomuns could actually be such good masters that their staff genuinely worry about disturbing them... Nearly as soon as the thought occurred to her, Ketch scoffed. As if. A noble that treats their peasants well is rare enough that they have their name sung in the streets, and Tagrensi's agents heard nothing of the sort.
Ketch dropped back down to the floor, landing silently. The longer she'd been in this building, the further her discomfort had grown. She was no longer interested in exploring or testing her new Skills, and simply wanted to snag the nearest pile of important-looking documents and leave.
She picked her way through the servant's corridor with an itch beneath her scales, spending no more than a breath peaking through each exit as she searched for a relevant target. She didn't know if the servants would have direct access to the lord or lady's offices, but she could at least see if she... got... lucky...
Ketch's legs involuntarily ground to a stop. She had been peeking through a narrow gap in the boards, probably placed there for the servant's to do the very same, when she'd found... something unexpected.
At the far end of the room was a roaring fireplace, flames licking four feet into the air, so high that their tips disappeared into the flue. Splayed out across the floor separating Ketch from that bonfire were bodies. People. A dozen or more of them, all women, laying in a tangle mess atop stained comforters and pillows.
Her breath caught in her throat as she saw what was staining the blankets. Blood. Red droplets scattered around each of the women, as if shaken from a hand like water, alongside a number of older, larger patches of bloody stains. She found herself drawn involuntarily forward, horror and morbid curiosity overwhelming common sense. Suddenly, her view of the room was obscured.
By an eye.
Staring back at her.
Ketch recoiled, fumbling at her waist for her mother's daggers. She waited for a shrieking voice to call for help, or for the door to fling open, or for anything to happen, but there was no response. Just the eye, staring at her, staring at it.
It was... not moving. At first Ketch wasn't even sure if it belonged to anything alive, so still was it. Ketch squinted, inspecting the eye. She kept her hand on the hilt of her dagger, for safety, but whoever was watching her hadn't made any threatening moves. Was it one of the women that Ketch had seen in that room, silently looking to Ketch for help? She leaned closer, then to one side, trying to figure out who was so silently staring at her. The eye tracked her movements adeptly, but otherwise didn't react, and Ketch found no gap in the wall to get a better view of the owner's body.
Somewhat strangely, Ketch didn't mind. The eye was fascinating. She had never seen anything like it. Red irises seemed to brighten in time with the throbbing of Ketch's pulse, almost... spiraling? Ketch's palm relaxed on the hilt of her dagger as she tried to figure out what she was looking at, the thudding of her heart slowing by degrees. The eye disappeared for the briefest of moments, and Ketch nearly turned to leave, but then the hidden servant's door opened.
A long, black dress greeted her, wrapped around the svelte form of a woman a head and a half taller than Ketch. Her face, pale and beautiful, was lit by those enchanting eyes, a glow washing her high cheekbones in gentle light. It was a red glow, as if she were wearing makeup, Ketch thought. It was certainly a flattering look on the woman.
But not as flattering as the eyes themselves. Those were certainly more beautiful, more beautiful than nearly anything Ketch could recall. Her mouth began to water.
"Well, well, well, look at this," Lady Vomun purred. "A stray, come in out of the cold?" The woman turned to one side, gesturing to the roaring fire deeper within the padded room. "That won't do at all, dearie. Please, come in."
"O-oh, no, thank you," Ketch stammered, taking a nervous step back. "I couldn't... um, intrude, I suppose?" With the door open, Ketch could at least hear that the women in the room were breathing, but that didn't make them any less bloody. "Unless, I suppose, you need some help? With the others? Um, what happened to them?"
"Nothing bad, I assure you, and nothing you need to worry about. They're recovering in this room, you see," Lady Vomun waved a hand towards the roaring fireplace. "The heat is so excellent for caring for those who need to recover after losing their blood. They end up dreadfully cold, and with the weather such a fright, I'm sure you understand how dangerous that could be."
"I-it is awfully cold out," Ketch half-agreed, "But I'm more worried about the blood. Did... did you have a healer help them?"
"Oh, it's not as bad as all that. They'll be right as rain in a short while, so long as they're not disturbed." Lady Vomun's eyes flicked to Ketch's hand beneath her cloak, her smile shifting to a frown. "You aren't going to disturb them, are you, dearie?"
Ketch's skin felt very odd. She kept trying to watch the woman's hands, to make sure she wasn't going to make any sudden moves, but her attention kept being drawn back to Lady Vomun's eyes. Actually, Ketch realized, how had she known this was Lady Vomun? The woman hadn't introduced herself.
Ketch took another step back. "N-no, no I w-won't disturb them, ma'am. That'd be... unwise, I think?" Ketch licked her lips, frowning through the haze that was infecting her thoughts.
"Oh, you are a smart little thing, aren't you?" Lady Vomun took a step forward, keeping the distance between them the same. "Now what is an Azarketi doing in the city at this time of year? You must be dreadfully cold yourself, yes? Please, come in, so the fire may warm you up." Ketch took another instinctive step backward, but it was smaller this time, for some reason. Lady Vomun chuckled, demurely covering her mouth as she did so. "There's no reason to be so frightful, dearie. After all, I don't bite."
Ketch
Class: Rogue
Dexterity: Eighteen
Strength: Twelve
Constitution: Twelve
Intelligence: Twelve
Charisma: Eight
Wisdom: Six
Ketch wet her lips again, nodding. "Of course, ma'am. I appreciate it, ma'am. It's too cold these days for my kind. I-I mean, you know that. You said that. It's just, the cold, I think it's... getting to me, maybe?" Ketch shook her head helplessly, wondering why her usual poise had abandoned her. "May I come in?"
"Oh," Lady Vomun cooed, "you poor thing. An Azarketi, left to the mercy of the ice and snow? Such a terrible cruelty. Trust me, you will be much more comfortable in here with your sisters. Please, do come in."
Ketch's feet drifted forward at Lady Vomun's beckoning, carrying her into the heaps of pillows and blankets. She felt the woman's eyes staring into her back, but she didn't pay it much mind.
After all, Lady Vomun hadn't lied. The room was very, very warm.
Notes:
Months ago, I promised a commenter that I had plans for a succubus/vampire plotline. That person probably either forgot or decided I was lying, but look at me now! Ha!
Also, it turns out that when I have nothing else to do, I can write a lot. Like, a whole lot. And they sure as hell weren't lying; getting on T really kicks the libido up a notch. Enjoy this four chapter mega-dump, with more consecutive bits of smut than I think I've thus far written in this series.
Chapter 50: Disgraced, Discredited, Dishonored (E)
Notes:
CW: Dubious consent, but the kind where everybody ends up liking it in the end
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Lady Vomun's Parlor
Home
Minutes Since...? Enterrrring?
Ketch felt a hand on her shoulder, pressing down. She resisted its pressure. She was... not where she was supposed to be, she thought. She had something else to do.
But it was also so warm. Like home, but drier. Slowly, her knees buckled, taking her down to the comforters piled up on the ground.
"Girls?" Lady Vomun called. "You've a new sister. What do you say?"
The women who had been scattered like so much trash around the room stirred, lifting their heads. On their necks were matching sets of wounds, two neat holes, dried spots of red dripping down beneath them.
"Thaaaannkk yooouuu, Your Grace," came a chorus of slurring, drunken voices. A distant part of Ketch recognized in her own voice some of that detached tone, if not as intense.
"You're very welcome, little darlings," Lady Vomun replied.
Ketch frowned, shaking her head, and tried to stand.
An impossibly strong force slammed her back down. Her knees bounced painfully off the wood beneath the comforters. Ketch squirmed as fingers of cold iron clamped into her shoulder, her desire to resist building.
Until a hand grabbed her chin, tilting her face upward, upward, until she was curved back over herself, cloak fallen open as her small breasts poked up into the air, nipples stiff and poking through her shirt from the chill. She caught sight of the beautiful red irises of Lady Vomun, so wonderful, and held the position.
"None of that now, darling," Lady Vomun instructed sternly. "There's a fire, a blanket, and your sisters in this room. What more could the outside world offer you?"
Ketch felt like there should have been something else that mattered, maybe even several things, but for the life of her, she couldn't recall it. Lady Vomun kept her in that bent position until Ketch's muscles were burning. Only when Ketch's thoughts turned away from leaving– a silly idea, she slowly recognized– did Lady Vomun allow her to relax. Ketch obligingly slumped over backward, letting the stronger woman's hand take her weight. She was eased to the comforter.
"There we go. My, but you're a persistent little thing. A shame to think of how much that fiery spirit must have put you through. Isn't it so much nicer to just lay here with your sisters?"
"Sisssss tersss..." echoed a chorus of voices, humming the word like a church choir.
Ketch licked her lips again. She felt all dried out, even though she'd soaked in a heated tub before the trip. Something was tugging at the back of her mind, familiar and insistent, but it wasn't much next to the piercing light of Lady Vomun's eyes. Ketch smiled softly up at the woman.
"I've never had sisters, before. Are they nice?"
"Oh, they are just the sweetest," Lady Vomun reassured. "Darlings? Why don't you introduce yourself, and tell your new sister what's best about you?"
Ketch wasn't sure when it had happened, but through her muddled thoughts, she became aware she was back on her feet. She was also looking down at one of her new sisters, whose skin was paler than any other, exposed by her complete nakedness. Her large breasts, Ketch noted, had the two small puncture wounds that most of her sisters had on their necks. Ketch quivered, and wondered if Lady Vomun would like her far smaller chest enough to do the same. She wasn't sure which answer she wanted.
"I'm... um... oh, I used to be Intas, but that doesn't matter much anymore, does it, Your Grace?"
Lady Vomun's fingers, wrapped around the back of Ketch's neck, squeezed appreciatively.
"No, it doesn't. What is your real name?"
"Mmmm... Tally?"
"That's right, darling. And why is your name Tally?"
The woman rolled languidly over, pressing her breasts into the comforter so they spilled out to either side, raising her ass into the air. Across the pale, smooth expanse of her cheeks was a series of switch marks, welts red and raised. Next to each welt was a small tattoo, a nondescript bit of script.
"Because you use me to count the rest of the girls, ma'am. So you don't drink too much from them. I'm helpful like that, aren't I?"
"You're very helpful indeed, Tally." Lady Vomun took Ketch's wrist and brought it forward, encouraging her to squeeze Tally's ass. Ketch felt like she should have resisted, but... it was a very nice ass. "Do you think I have enough room on here for your new sister, or will we have to make us a second Tally?"
Tally gasped as Ketch's fingers dug into the reddened stretches of skin, still fresh enough to sting. Tally frowned like a child being denied sweets.
"No, Your Grace! I have plenty of room for more sisters! You can't have another Tally, you just can't!"
Ketch felt Lady Vomun's grip on her wrist tug, lifting her arm up, then drive her hand down in an open-palmed smack. Tally yelped, knees shaking, but she didn't stop presenting herself.
"Ah, well, I'm sure we'll find a spot," Lady Vomun hummed. "It would be a shame to have to train another Tally. You've been one of my favorites, you know."
"Tthhhhhankkk youuuuu," Tally sighed, slumping back down.
Lady Vomun took Ketch around the room, introducing her to her new sisters in similar fashion. Every time Ketch met a new sister, she felt two competing reactions surge up within her. The first, of revulsion, but peculiarly suppressed, her panic softened like a kettle's whistle filtered through several intervening walls. The second emotion was more obvious, making itself apparent between her thighs, running down her legs. Her scales rasped against each other as she rubbed her thighs together, trying to find friction that her limp, useless hands couldn't provide.
Lady Vomun had a sister just for massaging her calves, Ketch learned, and another for massaging her shoulders. Their names were Calves and Shoulders, respectively, and when Lady Vomun wasn't present, Ketch was even going to be allowed to use them herself. How nice was that?
"But what," Lady Vomun asked once the introductions had been completed, "will your name be? Tell me, little darling, what good are you?"
Ketch felt that familiar prodding at her mind intensify, a tapping at the back of her skull, but it wasn't enough to distract. She stared lovingly up into Lady Vomun's swirling eyes from the woman's lap, working through her sludge-filled thoughts to find what kind of sister she should be.
"I'm good at hiding, Your Grace," Ketch murmured.
"You certainly are, darling," Lady Vomun purred, grazing a fingernail up and down Ketch's neck. "But that won't do much from in this room, now will it? What else are you good at?"
Ketch frowned, disappointed. Hiding was what she was best at, and Her Grace wouldn't let her do it? That was sad.
What else, then...? Ketch shifted her head a little bit deeper into Lady Vomun's softness as she tried to think.
"I'm good at sucking cock," Ketch offered. She nestled her head a little bit higher in Her Grace's lap. "I don't gag, or choke, and I can hold my breath for a real long time. But..." Ketch felt tears welling up as she felt nothing poking her head from between Her Grace's legs. "...I don't think that'll help with you. I'm so sorry, Your Grace."
Her Grace first raised her eyebrows at Ketch's profession of her skills, then quickly smoothed the surprise away.
"That's alright, darling. I'm sure I'll have some guests who will make use of you. But what about for me, hm? What can you offer for me?"
Ketch wracked her brain, wading through the sludge that had gummed her thoughts up.
"I have quick fingers, and I can tie knots and pick locks. If we get any new sisters that aren't as nice as me, I can make sure they stay around until you come help them get nicer."
This time, Ketch was rewarded by a quick, dizzying press of a thumb to the artery in her neck. She gasped appreciatively.
"Now that might be a useful thing for you to do, darling. What would your name be, though?"
"Knotmaster," Ketch eagerly replied, without hesitation.
Her Grace frowned. "Hm. Maybe leave your naming to me, darling. I'm sure I'll think of something. In the meantime..." Strong arms rolled Ketch onto her side, spilling her out of Her Grace's lap. Instinctively, without any thought required, she craned her head to the side, exposing as much of her neck as she could manage.
"Oh, you are just a treat," Her Grace cooed. "I don't think I've ever had a girl so ready to bend to my whims before."
Through her growing haze, Ketch heard a strange, beautiful woman's voice echoing.
Damn, girl, you're really bad at not getting mind controlled, aren't you?
"Mmmnoooo I'm not," Ketch denied, doing her best to present her neck to Her Grace. "Mmmnot mmmmind controlled... just... feeeeels so niiiiiice..."
Her Grace chuckled. "If you insist, darling. Now, be a dear and hold still, won't you?"
Ketch froze, anticipation thrumming in her veins. She was turned away from Her Grace, unable to watch her approach, but she could hear so much. Her sisters across the room, their heartbeats intensifying as they watched Ketch, and Her Grace moving forward, not a thing thudding in her chest. There was the sound of flesh splitting, the creak of teeth growing long, and then Her Grace's cold breath tickled her neck.
The pounding in Ketch's mind rose higher, and it snagged her interest for a moment, almost enough for her turn away from Lady Vomun.
That possibility was erased the moment the first drop of Her Grace's spittle landed on Ketch's neck.
Ketch hissed as the drops landed on her skin, a sharp pain spreading through her scales. Ketch recognized the sting as venom, as if she'd been bitten by one of Tulian's innumerable spiders. Unlike a spider's bite, however, that initial discomfort quickly faded, replaced by an anesthetic numbness. The deadening effect wormed its way through the veins of her neck, jumping further through her body every time her pulse thumped.
Then Her Grace's tongue was on her neck, and the flicker became a blaze. Ketch's mouth opened in a soundless O, the heat searing her straight through.
It was beautiful, she realized. Even the roaring rage trying to pierce her skull from afar was ignored, so delectable was the venom. It tingled and buzzed all along her neck, working up to the right side of her jaw, which slackened, and down to her shoulder, which slipped loose from where she held it. Her Grace drew a long, slow lick across her throat, and soon the entire right side of Ketch's body was abuzz with alien pleasure, paralyzed.
Ketch whimpered, wishing she could bring Her Grace closer. As she couldn't move the right side of her body, Ketch had to content herself with the slow licks she was graced with. It was... so wonderful. Wonderful, really, was the only word for it. What began as an electric tingling on her skin seeped further into her body, suffusing her muscles until they were loose and pliant. The venom was pumped through the rest of her body in waves, seeming to pool between her ears, cutting what was left of her reason to tatters. Her mouth was watering so much that drool was falling from her lips in a thin stream onto the comforter, and she had neither the ability nor desire to stop it.
Her breathing slowed by degrees, until she was taking half a breath every few seconds. At the same time, her heart began to pound fiercely, like it did when she was leaping across the rooftops. The discordance was something she'd never felt before. Her vision darkened as she failed to get quite enough air to keep up with her pounding pulse.
She loved it. It was like when she was being choked, but so much better, the fuzzy lightheadedness dispersed across her entire body. It was so nice that the growing heat on her left hip was something she barely registered, lost in a haze that her addled mind was certain had to be the peak of pleasure.
To her groaning excitement, she was proved wrong. Two sharp tips pressed against her neck, right over a spot where her pulse was making her scales jump. Even the first prick of the fangs was wonderful, but some instinct told her that it was nothing to what would come next.
Her Grace pressed forward, slipping her fangs into Ketch's neck, and she lost herself. If she'd had control of her body, she would have screamed out in ecstasy, bending double as her core contracted involuntarily. As it was, she lay perfectly still, taking Her Grace's fangs into her neck.
And then? And then? Oh, gods, she felt the woman suck.
A gurgling moan rolled out of Ketch's throat, blowing bubbles in her drool. The feeling of her blood flowing from her neck was the peak of existence. There was no greater pleasure, no purer satisfaction, than feeling her body provide Her Grace with what she desired. Ketch felt her pussy clamp down on nothing, gushing in an orgasm that appeared from nowhere, her toes and fingers curling in absolute, perfect delight. Her Grace hummed into Ketch's neck, and even the slight tingle had Ketch's diaphragm spasming once more, another shotgun orgasm wracking her body as she choked out her weak little whines.
And all the while, she felt that heat growing off her left hip. Selly's dagger was slipping itself from its sheath, jumping in time with the throbbing pressure assaulting Ketch's mind.
Ketch paid it no mind, because there was no need.
Lady Vomun continued to hum, her fluttering eyelashes tickling Ketch's neck. She was nearly as lost as Ketch in the taste of her blood, devouring a taste unlike anything she'd ever known. No fine wine, nor exotic body, nor even maiden's blood, had ever tasted like this. It was as if the woman she'd found snooping through her manor was awash with pure magic, suffusing her blood with a crackling energy that she could never get enough of. Lady Vomun always tried to keep her toys around for as long as she could, as was good practice for vampires to avoid scrutiny, but this woman? This pathetic little Azarketi, with the most pliable mind she had ever seen? Lady Vomun did not think she would have the self control required to not drain her dry then and there.
And so it was that Lady Vomun, lost in her own waves of delight, did not notice the moss growing across her prey's skin. She did not notice the tendrils of kelp spreading from the strange dagger beneath the prey, nor did she notice how it grew slowly out across the floor, anchoring itself in the boards, then rising up to surround her. She shivered and drank freely of the Azarketi without hearing the concerned cries of her livestock, who were watching the vines intertwine into a cage around her head. Her eyes were closed, her thoughts drowned by blood.
Until, suddenly, the kelp snapped tight.
Ketch opened her eyes, recognizing the paralysis being slowly purged from her body. She could see Lady Vomun struggling against her, fangs still impaled on her neck. The kelp bindings had wrapped around Lady Vomun's body, pulling her into Ketch, and even her vampiric strength wasn't enough to pull away.
Ketch sighed, bringing her arms around Lady Vomun's sides in a tight hug. She wrapped her legs around the woman's hips and shifted her head around as much as she could, whispering into the vampire's ear.
It was not Ketch's voice that spoke.
"What a foolish little spawn you are," Selliana rasped, caressing the vampire's cheek with the back of Ketch's knuckles. "To think you could take from me my little guppy? Make her your own?" A ragged cackle crawled out of Ketch's throat. "Silly, silly little thing you are. Though she did seem to be enjoying herself, I must admit."
Ketch's body rolled to the side, so that she was laying atop the vampire. The kelp bindings unwound themselves deftly as she moved, always keeping the monster restrained, but without restricting her own movement.
"Do you fear dying, spawn?" Selliana croaked.
With her fangs still buried in Ketch's neck, the vampire could not respond, but the panic in her eyes spoke for her.
"I'm glad to hear it, fruitfly. Would you like to know how you might persist in your not-death?"
The vampire looked as if she wanted to nod, but she was too terrified of her fangs accidentally hurting Selliana's guppy. She remained perfectly still.
"It is rather simple. Show me your fear, child. It is respect for my guppy that will save your life." Selliana, through Ketch's hand, stroked the vampire's cheekbones. "Now, I'm going to take her out of her your mouth, and you're going to be so, so still, spawn."
An affirmative whimper sounded.
Selliana carefully moved Ketch's neck to the side, slipping the fangs from her skin. A little bit of blood trickled down onto the vampire's face, which she instinctively lapped up, the taste of it making her shiver. Selliana stretched Ketch's neck out, making sure no muscles had been damaged, then looked down at the vampire.
Straight in the eye.
Lady Vomun's eyes peeled back, whites of her eyes growing large. Ruby lights blazed, defiance roaring so intensely that the ceiling above was awash in red. Vampire and Witch stared into one another for one second, then two, thoughts intertwining.
Lady Vomun shivered. Then she shook. Then she quavered, her body writhing in her bindings. Bands of muscles bulged in her neck as she tried to tear her gaze away, away from the witch's mind, that brutal consciousness that was overwhelming hers, but she couldn't. She began to squeal like a stuck pig, hyperventilating, the roar of a witch's profound anger tearing through what was left of her tattered soul. She felt the witch's fury invade her mind, felt what the creature wished to do to her, and suddenly knew she would do anything, anything to avoid it.
The moment that thought ran through her mind, Selliana blinked Ketch's eyes. The bond snuffed out, and so too did the vampire's eyes. The glow of her eyes flickered, then disappeared. Her irises were still red, but dull, so dull.
Lady Vomun continued to hyperventilate in her bindings, vainly trying to pull away from the press of Ketch's body atop her. Around the room, the panicking "sisters" began to blink at one another, the vampire's fell influence fading from their mind.
"Now," Selliana purred, "it's time for what you can do to save your not-life. You see, spawn, you're rather lucky. That putrid little mouth of yours was being quite enjoyed by my guppy, and I do so hate to take away her toys. These next few minutes will be something of a trial for you, I believe. Do you understand?"
Lady Vomun couldn't stop shivering. She was lost in fear, stammering.
"I-I-I-I-I d-d-don't... I don't..."
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
Selliana's roar flung spittle from Ketch's mouth into the vampire's face, so loud that the fire across the room crackled and sprayed sparks into the air.
"Yes! Yes, yes, I'm sorry, I'm so– I didn't know, I didn't know!" Lady Vomun wailed.
"Good," Selliana rasped. Her consciousness began to fade from Ketch's body, but not before she spoke one last time. "I'll be watching, spawn."
A moment later, Ketch blinked, and this time it was truly her that did it. The kelp bindings loosened around Lady Vomun's body by a few degrees.
"I thought of another skill I have," Ketch hummed, enjoying the feel of the venom coursing through the veins, now that Selly had suppressed the paralytic effect. "I have a very nice girlfriend."
Lady Vomun said nothing. She just opened her mouth, looking to Ketch for permission, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. Ketch looked down at her, considering. After letting the vampire soak in her terror for a few seconds, she shrugged.
"Oh, alright. It does feel rather nice, after all."
Lady Vomun waited no longer, pressing her tongue to Ketch's collarbone. She bobbed her head up and down, spreading the delectable sensation across Ketch's body like a wanton whore. The rogue sighed contentedly, and reached to the hem of her undershirt, tugging it over her head.
"If you really want to please my girlfriend, you'll have to try your best. Get to it."
Lady Vomun was not a stupid woman. She saw the small buds of Ketch's breasts exposed, nipples achingly hard, and took to lavishing them with her tongue.
"Oh," Ketch moaned, pressing a hand to the back of the vampire's head, "that's very nice. You need a bit more practice, but I'm sure we can get to that in time."
Lady Vomun redoubled her efforts, the mere hint of her actions being inadequate petrifying her. Dimly, as she did her best to keep her fangs behind her lips, she wondered if the Azarketi would let her taste her blood once again. Some day, maybe, if she behaved well enough? Lady Vomun could only hope.
------------------------------
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Sporaton Capital
Selliana-Ketch Estate
Two Weeks Later
Lady Vomun pressed her nose to her owner's soft neck, bent low to do so. She wanted to flick her tongue out, to taste Owner's wonderful scales, but she didn't. That wasn't what good girls did, and only good girls got owner's blood. Bad girls got the awful cow blood, or even worse, pig blood, and she didn't want that at all.
Some part of Lady Vomun– or Noctie, as she was now known– could recall a time when she wouldn't have worried about someone else's permission. She could remember when she had pride in her name, and didn't just accept being called some silly thing like "Noctie." The name was because she was nocturnal, of course. Owner's names were always...
Not bad! Not bad! Owner is never, never bad! Oh, Noctie, stop it, stopitstopitstopit! You can't think that!
When Owner didn't give her permission to lick, Noctie pulled away. Owner glanced at her, raising an eyebrow.
"You managed to control yourself? Good girl."
Oh! Oh, thank goodness! Noctie had been so worried. Owner had come home late, and Noctie hadn't had much to drink at all, and so she'd hoped and hoped that Owner wanted to relax, but she really shouldn't have just jumped up on her like that, because that was almost what bad girls did, and she didn't want to be one, not at all!
"Did... did you need anything from me, ma'am?" Noctie asked, clasping her hands before her waist, so her arms pressed her breasts together. Owner liked her breasts, she knew. Enough to let her drink, maybe? Noctie hoped so.
Far, far away, nestled safely in a chained recess of Noctie's mind, lay what was left of her old self. The proud Vampire Lord, who had spent two hundred years hidden in plain sight. She had tricked the mages of the greatest nation on the continent for decades, centuries, and drank from who she pleased, when she pleased. A terror in the night, with her husband by her side, the pair of them among the only Vampire Lords in history to coexist, rather than compete.
That had changed, two weeks ago. Her husband was now locked in the basement below, brought to heel beneath Noctie's unforeseen assault. After she'd drunk him dry, he'd been her thrall as surely as any mortal. She'd been sad at the time, but she'd had no choice. The taste of Owner's blood was like nothing else. Vampires fed on the magic of life in the bodies of others, and the witch's magic suffusing Owner had been...
Noctie shivered just at the thought, her fangs involuntarily elongating. It was purer than anything Noctie had thought possible. When faced first with the terror, then the reward, Noctie's pride had shattered. There was nothing left for her to care about, other than earning another sip from Owner.
"I don't need anything, no," Owner said, shifting her cloak off to one shoulder. "Did you finish your report?"
"I did!" Noctie chirped, happy to have something to please Owner. "I couldn't get rid of my troops from the army, of course, but I did have them stop training, just like you said! And I talked to one of the lieutenants, and he told me all about what the King had them practicing to do. Do you want to read it?"
"Sure. Just give me a minute."
Owner moved into the foyer, hanging her cloak on a hook as she passed. Noctie moved to follow, but was intercepted by one of the staff. Tally.
Wait, no! Bad, bad Noctie! Not Tally! She's Intas!
Noctie obediently stopped as Intas intercepted her. The woman was dressed in a High Steward uniform, now in charge of managing those that had chosen to remain in the home after Noctie had been overthrown. She looked like she'd had a bad day, and Noctie knew what that meant.
"Drop," Intas snapped.
Noctie instantly fell to her knees, ignoring the way they clacked against the marble.
"Are you hungry?" Intas asked.
"Y-yes!" Noctie said, bobbing her head eagerly.
"Good."
Noctie presented her left cheek happily, watching from the corner of her eye as Intas snagged the pad of her thumb in her teeth, tearing open a small patch. Blood welled up. She then raised the hand, and Noctie smiled, waiting patiently.
The slap echoed through the home, jarring her skull hard enough for her to see stars. She used to be stronger, but she didn't drink as much human blood these days, and so her cheek ached in a most delightful way. When her teeth stopped rattling, she opened her eyes.
"Is that all, ma'am?" Noctie asked, a hint of anticipation in her tone.
"Yes, bitch. Clean yourself up."
Noctie was mildly sad that Intas had nothing more for her, but she did as instructed, slipping her tongue through her lips to clean up her cheeks. Some of Intas's blood had splashed near her mouth, and she lapped up what she could reach eagerly. Intas did not like Noctie using her hands for this, so she waited until the High Steward was out of sight. Only then did she run fingers down her face, collecting the blood and suckling it off her fingers. Once she was sure she'd gotten it all, she stood, heading after Owner once more.
She found Owner on a couch before the fireplace, soaking in the heat. That made Noctie happy; she'd worked hard to make sure the fire would be ready for Owner when she'd arrived. Silently, she stepped up before Owner, kneeling at the end of her feet.
A few minutes later, Owner opened her eyes, looking down at Noctie. She held her pose, emphasizing her breasts as best she could in the frilly, low-cut maid outfit Owner had chosen for her.
"I had a long night," Owner said. "Help me relax."
Noctie clapped happily, scooting herself forward on the rug. Owner spread her legs, pulling her pants down with a thumb, and Noctie felt her mouth begin to water with venom. It didn't work the same as it once did, before Owner had taken her, but she thought that was fine. So what if it made hunting prey harder? She was a spoiled, spoiled girl, now. Only Owner's blood was worth working for.
Noctie pressed her nose to Owner's pussy, happily breathing in the scent, then got to work. She did her absolute best, hoping that maybe, if she did a good enough job, Owner might let her have a little nibble later. Even if she didn't, tasting Owner's skin was nice enough.
Noctie sighed in contentment, wondering why she had ever lived a life other than this one.
Notes:
Lesbian masochist vampires are a seriously underrated subgenre. Why do the straights get to have all the Astarion fanfics, damnit?
Chapter 51: Sixteen Tons
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic
Capital
Five Weeks Until Spring
Sara was trying to pay attention to the farmer's words. She really was. He was a kind fellow, happy to show her around his property, and he'd gamely answered all of her questions.
It was just so hard to ignore what was going on behind him. His family was tilling the land, readying the land for the next set of crops, but the way they were doing it astounded her.
By hand. The man's wife and children were bent over the dirt with hoes, dragging them through the soil in neat rows. The youngest child, four or five, walked behind them while clutching a bag full of seeds, grabbing grubby fistfuls and tossing them haphazardly across the tilled area.
"...the crop rotations are funny things, but if they do as ye say, Governess, we'll be glad to figure 'em out," the farmer was saying, "and you've done a swell job of making sure the seeds are in market. Not a worry in the world, at least there." Sara blinked, tearing her eyes away from the display of utter inefficiency behind him.
"I'm glad to hear it. About your farm, though. Do you not have ploughs?"
The man glanced over his shoulder, frowning mildly. "Did, once upon a time. Before the storms. Haven't had the ox to pull 'em, though, and the blades wore down mighty quick. Smiths left quick to better pastures, so to speak, so none to make us a new'n, 'till you came along. Doing it the old way works well enough."
"Does it?"
"Fed ourselves fer ten years off it, at the least. Can't ask for much more than that, can I? Countin' blessings and all."
"I... suppose not, no."
The farmer continued on unconcerned, speaking of the difficulties he'd encountered on his property that he thought the near-mythical Governess might be able to help with. Hearing his complaints was why Sara had come out to the farms surrounding Tulian, after all. Written reports and productivity numbers were great, but they never told the whole story. She'd wanted to look the farmers in the eye, thank them for their work, and see for herself how things might be improved.
Sara had anticipated finding problems. Things like arguments over land, or difficulty acquiring the seed necessary to rotate crops, or maybe animals marauding through the fields. Not... this. Men, women, and children breaking their back at an agonizing pace, achieving in a day what should have taken a handful of hours. She'd obviously known there was going to be room for improvement, there always was in a medieval society, but the farmers in Tulian had clearly regressed past medieval. A decade of demographic collapse, with the vast majority of those who had a marketable skill fleeing north, had left those that remained barely in the bronze age. These farmers seemed one step away from using their hands to dig trenches in the mud.
Sara spent the entire ride back to the capital lost in thought, digging through what few memories she had of her history classses. All her efforts turned up was the term "agricultural revolution", which she thought coincided with the industrial revolution, and Eli Whitney's Cotten Gin. A lot about Eli Whitney's Cotten Gin, actually. Her teachers had some bizarre obsession with it, bringing it up incessantly each time they touched on the early 1800s, so often that little more than the name itself had stuck in Sara's head. She didn't know what it was, beyond the fact that it had made cotton harvesting much more profitable, which had helped bolster the failing early-1800s slave trade, supposedly. She didn't give a shit about it then, and she still didn't in her current situation.
Funnily enough, the only helpful tidbit she managed to drag into the light came not from her school days, but television. She vaguely remembered an episode of Dirty Jobs, one set on a farm, and from that episode she could ever-so-barely recall the sight of old-timey farming equipment.
Thanks to Amarat's blessings, that was enough. She and Evie went straight to Hurlish's forge when they arrived in the capital, and Sara had summoned up an illusion of the device. As she hadn't seen it in real life, it was a two-dimensional representation, essentially a perfect recreation of her TV during the brief few seconds the device had been on screen. Thankfully, for Hurlish, that was enough.
"One fancy plough," Hurlish grunted, inspecting the illusion. "Got a bunch of big-ass springs, like half the weird future shit you show me. Still haven't figured out a good way to make those, by the way."
"The springs might help, but I don't think they're essential," Sara said, inspecting the image with Hurlish. "Besides, the less metal we use, the better. We'll want to roll them out fast, if we want to make a difference before the war."
The device was a seed drill. It was mechanically simple, but revolutionary in its effect on crop planting. It was essentially a hopper on a wheeled set of braces, not unlike a wheelbarrow, carrying a container filled to the brim with seeds. As the contraption was pulled along, the wheel turned, rotating an attached gear that allowed a set of seeds to fall into pre-tilled soil below. By adjusting the timing and speed of the gears, the result was a perfectly spaced, perfectly optimized field of crops.
The particular design that Sara had conjured up looked about six feet wide, featuring many evenly dispersed wheels that were attached to spring suspension, so that bumping over the terrain wouldn't jostle things out of place. Each wheel was accompanied by a trough for the seeds to slide through, plopped down in clusters of two or three, which Sara reasoned was due to the fairly high odds of a seed not being viable. Better to double up. Sara doubted they'd be able to recreate the complex suspension, considering how difficult it was to create springs by hand, but even without that the device would be quite literally revolutionary for the farmers of Tulian.
Hurlish and Sara had sketched up the basic wooden framework while Sara's spell still lingered, then had Evie send it off to a carpenter to begin construction. That done, they fired up the forge, intending to start creating the iron mechanisms necessary for the prototype to function.
Hurlish's forge itself, Sara was proud to say, had been greatly improved. The hand-pumped bellows had been supplemented by a tall windmill peeking above the surrounding roofs, spinning what once would have been considered an impossibly long metal shaft. The iron pole had been cast in multiple pieces before being welded together by Sara's new dagger, and then a cog was attached to its bottom in similar fashion.
When Hurlish wished to heat the forge, all she had to do was lever a cog into place, catching the mechanism beneath the windmill. A series of gears would then engage, iterating down in size to increase rotational speed, the chain ending at the old pumping bellows. There two metal gears were placed, half their sides missing cog teeth, allowing the central gear to repeatedly switch which side it was in contact with, and thus which gear was powered.
The end result of the mess of tangled cogs– which Sara wasn't sure she understood herself, despite having helped make it– was an automatically pumping bellows. The left cog caught, opening the bellows, then disengaged at the same moment the right cog engaged, driving the bellows down, blowing air into the forge. A constant roar of heat resulted, fires flaring without any effort on Hurlish's part. The exact temperature varied depending on the day's windspeed, which would've made the process useless for modern precision forging or alloying, but not for Hurlish. All the smith needed was heat enough to melt iron and steel, and she didn't much care if the temperature exceeded that threshold.
While Hurlish worked on the design, Sara chatted with some of the other smiths in the courtyard. They'd gotten more used to her presence than just about any other group in Tulian, and chatted amicably with her whenever she wasn't actively helping Hurlish's work. The main topic of conversation, naturally, was the recently completed construction at the center of the smithing yard.
Like a knobbly stalagmite, a spire of dense brickwork had emerged from within the horde of construction workers crawling over the scaffolding. When it had been under construction, the structure called to Sara's mind a lava lamp, if one was built to be nearly three stories tall. Now it was just a cylinder of brick with an open top and a small slot at the base, but that simple design made it one of the new economic pillars of Tulian.
A blast furnace.
When Sara had initially proposed the idea, she'd expected to require a research team and months of effort to recreate her shaky recollections of ye-olde blast furnaces. Instead, a half dozen smiths at the meeting had piped up, mentioning cities where they'd heard blast furnaces being used before. To Sara's incredible relief, the technique wasn't alien to this world, even if one had never been built in Tulian.
In hindsight, she should've expected it. A blast furnace was expensive to build, but simple in principle. It was obvious to any ironmonger that bloomeries, the older and more common way of melting iron, got exponentially more efficient the larger they were. Scaling them up was a logical next step, one already taken by others in the industrial hubs of Sporatos and the Northern Fiefdoms, where there was enough demand for iron to justify the expense.
Unlike her maze of windmill powered cogs, which she was almost certain were a terrible solution to her problem, the blast furnace made perfect sense. Air was continuously pumped in through the bottom, heating the entire thirty foot interior to a cherry glow, while fuel, iron, and limestone were fed into the top. The larger the interior, the hotter it got, until eventually raw iron ore was turning molten in a matter of minutes, instead of the hours required of a bloomery. Iron, being denser than the other materials, would end up pooling at the bottom, where it could be drained out, while the excess slag would meld with the limestone and settle at a higher layer, where it was drained out. So long as the blast furnace was kept in constant operation, it was cheaper, faster, and more practical than bloomeries.
Which was, ironically, a point of contention with the smiths. As Sara watched Hurlish work, more than one concerned blacksmith came up to her, speaking ill of the blast furnace. Sure, they'd admit, it was great while preparing for the war, but what about after? Did Tulian really have the population to justify such iron production? It was producing over fifteen hundred pounds of iron per day, and required several multiples of that weight in charcoal and ore to operate. With how time consuming it was to heat up the entire structure, a blast furnace was designed to be operated 24/7, and that meant that it produced a constant flow of nearly one ton of molten iron each day. What would happen, the smiths asked, to the price of metal after the war, when armor and weapons weren't in such demand? The price of iron and its associated goods would plummet, and so too would their business.
Sara smiled at each and every one of them, offering vague assurances that never dared stray near her true thoughts, which could be summed up simply:
I don't give a shit.
Really. There wasn't much more Sara had to say on the topic. Who gave a shit? So what if iron got cheap? That meant more people could have access to high-quality goods. She grew up in a world where steel was so common her forks and spoons had been made of it. If the blast forge cut into the Smithing Guild's bottom line, Sara didn't care. As a whole they were already some of the best-off of Tulian's burgeoning middle class, and the most successful blacksmiths were starting to stretch towards true wealth. Even if they weren't actually rich, hearing them whine to her about maybe making less money than they already were was starting to tickle Sara's old sensibilities. Sure, they couched it in terms of destabilizing the economy, of risking the development of future industries and the like, but that only firmed Sara's opposition. Wording like that smacked too much of callous nobility, or even worse, American corporatocracy.
It was one symptom among many of where Sara had already gone wrong with the rebuilding of Tulian. When the scattered population of the half-abandoned nation had first started to collapse into the old capital, Sara had happily coopted the age-old idea of Guilds. She twisted their wordings, shuffled around their goals, and generally altered the concept of "Guilds" as she pleased, all in the name of creating a palatable way to introduce unions to Tulian. Her intention had been to provide common ground for the workers of Tulian, giving them their first taste of class consciousness.
To a certain degree, that had worked. The level of disorganization that the once divided crafters of Tulian had suffered under was nearly abolished, and Sara had firmly cemented in their minds the power of collective demands. The word "strike", despite none having yet been necessary, was known to nearly every industry worker in Tulian.
The problem was, Sara had– just a teensy little itsy bit– completely fucked it all up.
As the months had gone on and Tulian's war preparations kicked into gear, the organization of the Guilds had continued unchecked. Actually, not unchecked. At first Sara had actively encouraged it. But what she had originally intended to be a forum of open discussion, a place to organize mutual action against hypothetical oppressors, was more and more becoming a place to organize business decisions. She'd succeeded at uniting the workers, yes, but instead of in mutual defense against the elite, they were collaborating to manipulate prices and secure their own futures. Union dues were slowly morphing into Guild taxes, which were used not just to organize rallies and the like, but to be distributed as wages among the members, under the justification of helping folks through slower business times. A sort of proto-UBI. Naturally, however, the Guild's already-wealthy elites got given the highest wages of of all.
In short, poorer smiths disliked the Guild, while wealthier smiths loved it. That disparity was the brightest and most obvious red flag Sara could possibly imagine.
As she fended off her sixth concerned citizen of the day, nodding her head to their complaints, a lead bullet worked its way down her throat, settling in the burning bile of her gut. Despite the best of intentions, she hadn't created unions. She was halfway to creating this world's first corporations. It wasn't all the way there yet, thank the gods, but the framework was built. To her cynical eye, the blacksmiths coming up to Sara weren't members of the guild, they were employees. The terminology may not be there, nor the mindset fully settled, but she could see the insidious tendrils of greed worming their way into the cracks she had inadvertently left behind.
As the most recent malingerer left her, Sara returned to Hurlish's side.
"How's it going?" She asked. The orc was buried in her work, paying careful attention to the heating of the disc of metal that she would soon shape.
"Good."
"Good." Sara looked about. No one was near. "So, you know the smithing guild? You're kinda one of its big wigs?"
"Yeah?"
"Think I'm gonna have to kill it."
"Huh." Hurlish flipped the iron, pressing a different face into the coals. "How'd they piss you off?"
"It's turning into one big business."
"That'll do it." Hurlish moved the cherry-hot disc to the quenching barrel, which hissed boiling steam as she shoved the iron in. "They as bad as the big whatcha-call-its in your old world?"
"Corporations. And no, not yet, but they're heading that way. Slowly, though. Truth be told, I could probably kick the can down the road for years until they really started causing problems. If anything, having one place to go for all my war material has been a huge help. They sort out all the complicated who-does-what, and I get a good product in the end. Kinda how corporations and the government were supposed to work, I think, back when they started up on Earth."
"But we know how that ended up," Hurlish said, finishing Sara's unspoken thought. She plucked the iron disc from the quenching barrel and took it back to the fires. "So why aren't you waiting for the war to blow us by? Seems easy enough to take advantage of the good days now, then smooth out the rough edges when you've got all the time in the world."
Sara sighed, sitting on an anvil. "Dunno. You've got a point, I guess. Just thinking that..." Sara trailed off, lacking the words to express her sentiment.
"You're the damn Champion, and you can do what you want?"
Sara barked her laughter. "Maybe? Damn close, probably. I don't know, maybe I'm falling for my own hype. When I read the history books of my old world, it was filled with people in my position putting off the little things when they had a bigger problem to wrestle with. My country's founders didn't ban slavery, even though a lot of them wanted to, because they had to keep the despicable fucks that liked it on their side while they fought an Empire. An Empire that also used slaves, which helped make the decision more palatable, I guess. Funnily enough, by the way, that Empire ended up banning slaves before my country did."
Sara blew out a long breath, tasting the forge's heat. "Really, Evie and Vesta'll hate it. I'll have to break up all the Guilds, or at least shake up their rules enough that I might as well have smashed 'em to bits. That'll be throwing water on an oil fire, as far as the question of money is concerned."
"We got a lot of coin, though," Hurlish said, waving a hand to the mess of expensive gears Sara had cobbled together. "So who gives a shit? If people are being assholes, fuck 'em up."
Sara snorted. "Hopefully I won't have to do that. Patron Saint of Diplomats and stuff, that's me. But some people just like money too damn much, and if any of the greedy fucks were smart enough to worm their way into the Guilds, they'll give me a hell of a time prying them out."
"Can't you just kill 'em?"
"I mean... I guess I could. That's overkill, though. They've barely done anything wrong at this point. They're trying to turn a profit as best they can, because that's what businesses do. It's really half my fault, for setting up the Guilds in the way I did."
Hurlish placed the disc onto the anvil Sara was sitting on. "Scram."
Sara scrammed. A chisel was placed on the glowing disc, followed an instant later by an earsplitting clang. Hurlish's hammer, as always, struck home. She adjusted the chisel's position, then slammed her hammer again, then again, moving in a circle. Sara watched her work fondly. The orc smith started speaking between blows as she pounded her way through the steel.
"Evie and Vesta'll thank you later."
Clang!
"'Cause you're making their lives easier, in the long run."
Clang!
"And like you said, you're the Champion of Amarat."
Clang!
"If you can't talk someone outta something, no one can."
Clang!
"So if you run into some stubborn bastards?"
Clang!
"Fuck 'em up, and don't feel bad about it."
Clang!
Hurlish lifted the disc, inspecting her work. With a few strokes of a hammer and chisel, she'd blown enough chunks from an iron plate to morph it into the rough shape of a cog. Sara would've killed to have some way of measuring the force of the woman's hammerblows; she'd busted through a solid inch of iron with each hit. Hurlish blew off the chipped bits of iron, then eyed Sara.
"At the end of the day, it sounds like you gotta do it, you wanna do it, and it's the right thing to do. What're you whining to me for?"
Sara cocked her head, then laughed. "Well, when you put it that way, who knows?" She shoved herself off the support beam she'd rested against. "Evie and Vesta'll give me a lot of other arguments against it."
"And I'm sure they'll use lotsa very pretty words to do it, too."
"They are pretty women, after all."
Hurlish chuckled. "Yeah they are."
The smith quenched the cog in oil once more, then set it with the others by a grinding wheel. That done, she wiped her hands with a rag and faced Sara head-on.
"So, were you coming to me just to have someone that'll talk plain to you, or were you going to learn how to do some smithing?"
"Depends. When are you going to learn how to weld?"
"Soon as you rustle up some of that ass-el-taint for me, I'll hop right on it. Until then, forging's still the best way to go."
"Acetylene," Sara corrected, "And that's a ways off. Still not sure if I should, to be honest with you. Chemistry's a nasty door to open."
"Yeah, well, forging ain't. You been practicing your hammering form?"
Sara picked up a hammer and made a jerk-off motion with it before her hips. "Every night, babe. You couldn't hear me under the covers?"
"Ha!" Hurlish's laughter boomed across the courtyard. "I know you got plenty of practice with that, but we'll have to see how well it translates." She slapped another one of the discs onto the anvil. "Now, show me your form."
Sara hefted the hammer up, taking her stance, and, for just a brief while, didn't think of anything other than what was right in front of her.
Notes:
It turns out that transforming a feudal wasteland into a modern democracy involves some growing pains. Who could have guessed? Thankfully, unlike the coming war, Amarat's talents are well suited for this particular task. All Sara has to do is convince Vesta. Hm, I wonder how she could do that?
Chapter 52: Heated Negotiations (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Same Day
Tulian Capital
Vesta Home
Lady Aurora Vesta fixed the Champion of Amarat with an even expression, trying to determine if she was serious. The Champion stared back at her, unblinking, as unruffled as always.
Vesta sighed.
"Must you really?"
"The Guilds aren't what I wanted them to be. There's no point to investing in a failing product, is there?"
"They are not anywhere near failing, Sara. They are flourishing at an unprecedented rate, in no small part thanks to the capability for self-organization that you now wish to rob them of." Silently, Vesta once more scolded her younger self. To think that allowing the peasants to manage themselves would be so beneficial to the bottom line... she could have saved herself so much effort, all for a better product.
No point dwelling on the past, Vesta scolded herself. Just focus on the now.
"They're supposed to be organized for the worker's benefit," Sara said. "Not for profit."
"Profit, you may note, is incredibly beneficial to workers."
"Not when it gets snapped up by middlemen who had nothing to do with generating it."
Vesta sighed once more, though for a different reason than she had before. Oddry was growing impatient with Vesta's stalwart composure, and was pushing her tongue deeper between her lower lips. Vesta reached down, giving the woman beneath her dress an affectionate pat. Across from Vesta, never one to be outdone, Evie shoved Sara's cock further down her throat, seeking the same reaction from her Master that Oddry had gotten from Vesta.
Vesta heard the slave gag just the slightest amount on Sara's cock, which was currently as large as she had ever seen it. Evie's tastes seemed to be running progressively more extreme, provoking her Master into growing a cock nearly a foot long, as thick as a forearm. By the glistening slick that Vesta could see between the slave's legs, she was enjoying her choking session. Evie was entirely naked, her pretty little ass backed up to press into Oddry's, the two women on hands and knees as they attended their respective women.
"You have knowledge I do not, Sara," Vesta conciliated, "And so I will take your word that the Guild's current structure will eventually grow untenable. But must you undergo this process so soon? We are mere weeks away from war."
"Well I'm certainly not going to do it during the war."
"After, Sara, after. Why is after not an option?"
"Lots of reasons. First, because- oh-" Sara was briefly distracted as Evie managed to drive her mouth to the base of her cock for the first time, nose pressing into the Champion's pelvis. Sara licked her lips, relishing the sensation, then continued. "Because half the Guilds will be full of heroes by the time the war's over. With the material contributions they're already making, I'll have a hell of a time convincing people to shake things up right after the current way of doing things won us a war."
Vesta watched Evie's face redden, too long spent without air. The feline reluctantly pulled her face away from Sara's cock, just far enough to clear her airway, but not pulling the cock fully out of her mouth. Vesta heard Evie pant heavily through her nose for a few seconds, catching her breath as best she could while still licking her Master's cock, and then she dove back down. Vesta nearly growled at the sight, but didn't want to interrupt Sara, so she shoved Oddry deeper between her legs, grinding her pussy demandingly against the maid's face.
"Second, because we'll be transitioning straight to ironing out the government after the war, and I don't want too much on our plate. Wrangling politicians and businesses at the same time is a recipe for disaster. They'll probably end up colluding, which is about the worst-case scenario."
Oddry caught Vesta's 'subtle' hint, spreading her tongue flat and running it up and down her slit. Vesta felt two fingers press against her entrance just as her maid began circling her clit with the tip of her tongue, and she ground her hips forward, impatient. Vesta felt Oddry's chuckle vibrating against her. She didn't much care what the woman found amusing, so long as she started using those slender fingers of hers.
"Fourth," Sara was saying, Vesta having missed some of her explanation, "I'm the goddamn Champion of Amarat. I didn't get given godly powers to compromise. I'm here to do whatever I damn well think is best, and there's not a person in Tulian that can stop me."
"That's- mmm- a fair point," Vesta agreed, tightening her thighs around Oddry's head, "but I still am compelled to recommend against it. Even if you succeed, it will have been a risk I feel is unnecessary."
"Your advice is appreciated, but anticipated. I've already made up my mind."
Gods, Vesta wondered as she watched Evie bob her head on Sara's cock, how can the woman keep her voice so steady? It's all I can do to not melt to pieces under Oddry, and I know for a fact that her cock is more sensitive than anything on my body.
"Th-then, the, ah, Guilds will be dissolved when? What will replace them?"
"Unions. Not gonna pussy-foot around the term anymore." Sara kicked her legs up, wrapping them around Evie's head so her ankles ended up crossed atop the small of the woman's back. Vesta watched with failing lucidity as Evie's tail curled possessively around the Champion's thigh, stroking it slowly. "And I don't think it'll be too bad a hit to- to- to the, uh... huh..."
Finally! Vesta thought, watching Sara's expression glaze. If she'd had to maintain appearances for another moment to keep up with the woman, she'd have gone mad. Vesta greedily bent forward and knit her fingers through Oddry's curly blonde hair, shoving the maid into her pussy.
Vesta's gasp was mirrored by a groan from Sara, who was responding to Evie's increasing fervor. Even as Oddry began pounding her fingers into Vesta's core faster and faster, she watched the Champion writhe. Evie was throwing her entire body into servicing her Master, the muscles beneath her soft skin rippling as she used her arms and legs as much as her neck to suck Sara's cock.
She really had no other choice, Vesta reflected. Sara's cock was massive enough that no one other than an Irregular could have managed what Evie was doing, and Vesta still found it impressive. The feline's throat visibly bulged as she swallowed her Master's cock, pumping up and down as Evie threw her entire body forward and back to drive the massive thing as deep as possible. Each time she did so, her ass smacked into Oddry's, the two women's doggy positions exposing their dripping sex to the other. Vesta felt it every time Evie incidentally applied pressure to Oddry's sensitive pussy, the maid's rhythm stutter-stepping as she moaned into Vesta's cunt. Gods, she loved how easy to please that girl was.
Vesta's eyes fluttered as Oddry continued to increase the pace, but she didn't let them close all the way. The sight before her was too good. Sara, fully dressed, save for her trousers pulled down around her ankles, had her head thrown over the back of her chair with pleasure. Evie, naked except for her slave collar, was so dutifully pleasuring her owner, and of course there was Oddry, similarly bared, tending to Vesta's needs beneath her bunched dress.
As she watched Evie shake and shiver around her Master's cock, she was astounded that the slave even had the ability to stay on her hands and knees. The slave was feeling every last bit of pleasure she rendered unto her owner, who was melting under the assault, and that wasn't even accounting for the thick cock choking off the slave's air. In Vesta's estimations, there were few pleasures greater than tasting Sara's cock. Every time she'd had Sara in her mouth, Vesta's legs had promptly given out, any thought beyond getting the woman's cum down her throat utterly erased. That Evie could still keep herself on hands and knees was truly, truly remarkable.
Perhaps she had spoken too soon, however. Evie's thighs began to quiver in delight as she bobbed her head up and down her Master's cock, threatening to take her to the ground. Vesta gripped Oddry harder as she watched, whispering to herself.
"Come on, you fucking whore... take it, take it..."
Both women servicing their Mistresses seemed to interpret that as directed at them, and Evie threw herself forward with somehow greater intensity, while Vesta was finally unable to suppress her moans as Oddry added a third finger, stretching her wide.
Gods, but the fucking maid knew her body well. Oddry pumped at just the right speed, the right angle, slender fingers taking Vesta apart from the inside out, while her tongue never left her clit, always alternating between teasing flicks, gentle kisses, and torturous sucking.
Vesta was so, so close, but she wouldn't let herself get there, because she knew she'd never be able to keep her eyes open, and she needed to see Sara come apart. The Champion had finally begun to thrust into Evie's mouth, using her cat ears for handles in just the right way to have a high pitched and muffled mewling fill the room. The slave began to shake, a nearly spastic ecstasy taking her first from the hips, then rolling through her body, to the tips of her toes and the end of her tail. Vesta moaned as she watched Evie come apart, crying out through the cock filling her throat. The slave finally collapsed, energy spent, but Sara didn't– couldn't– stop.
Her grip shifted to the sides of Evie's head, pulling her entire body forward, slamming her mouth down on her cock. Vesta watched in amazement as the slave, utterly spent, managed to smile around the massive cock in her mouth, empty eyes staring up at her owner as her entire body was thrown forward and back. The slave just kept taking it, writhing in place, and when Vesta realized the powerless wriggling wasn't just the aftershocks of orgasm, but Evie warring against her exhaustion, trying to force her trembling limbs to obey so she could service her owner, Vesta nearly lost it then and there.
"Oh my- fucking gods, woman, just- just come already!" Vesta groaned deliriously. Oddry was working Vesta's body in every way she knew how, and Vesta felt her peak rising, inescapable, but for once she didn't want to reach it, not before Sara. Please, Amarat, not before Sara, she prayed, I need to see your Champion cum, please.
Whether it was Amarat or Sara answering her pleading, Vesta didn't know, but when she saw Sara suddenly tighten up, curling forward, she was filled with a sense of profound gratefulness. Evie's mouth was dragged brutally down to Sara's base, her hips audibly smacking into her slave's face. Evie began purring– purring! – as Sara finally came, her cock so massive that Vesta could see the bulge in Evie's throat spasming.
Vesta finally let go, giving up on any pretense of hesitation. She slammed her cunt into Oddry's face, dragging it up and down her maid's mouth, chin, nose, riding the woman like a toy.
And all the while, she watched Sara. The Champion's mouth fell open in a surprisingly girlish display of bliss, jaw working as she moaned into the open air. Her cock jumped in Evie's throat, pumping load after load of cum into her stomach, and with every pulse Sara gasped, meaningless syllables suffusing the air.
Vesta came with her own cry, burying Oddry's fingers as deeply as she could get them into her cunt. The maid, that fucking lovely maid, ignored the way her face was being mounted, ignored any need for things like oxygen or sight, focusing everything she had on keeping Vesta's bucking hips pinned on the chair, all so she could keep hitting the right spots. She stroked the inside of Vesta's pussy all the way through her orgasm, drawing it out until Vesta was splayed bonelessly in her chair, moaning Oddry's name.
Eventually, an eternity later, the waves of pleasure stopped shooting out from Vesta's core. She used the last of her strength to peel Oddry off her, taking a look at her maid.
The woman's makeup was an utter wreck, smeared across her face by Vesta's vicious humping, a running mess mixed with Vesta's slick arousal. She smiled up at Vesta anyway, expression brightened by pride, darkened by lust.
"Did I do well, ma'am?" She panted, still catching her breath.
"Don't ask questions you already know the fucking answer to," Vesta breathed, slumping back into her chair and covering her eyes. She just... couldn't stand the sight of Oddry right now. Not when the beauty was looking at her like that. She'd never kept a maid in her bed this long, and she was starting to wonder if that had truly been for their good, as she'd always claimed. Sometimes, in moments like these, Oddry stirred thoughts in Vesta that left her more vulnerable than she preferred.
Vesta was torn from her dangerous thoughts by the sound of wet flesh sliding out of a throat. She lifted her hand from her face, watching Sara pull her cock out of Evie's limp throat. It was almost comical, watching that beast emerge from the far more petite woman's mouth, but any humor was dampened by the glean of spit and cum intermixed. Evie dropped face-first into the floor the moment Sara let go of her, utterly spent.
"Mmm..." Evie murmured, speaking through a mouthful of rug, "You know, a few minutes ago, I was hungry. Now I seem to have found myself all filled up."
Vesta raised an eyebrow. "That much, was it?"
"Mm-hmm..." Evie confirmed, mustering the energy to roll onto her back. She rubbed her stomach contentedly, as if fresh from a feast. "Really, Vesta, with how much you enjoy Master's cock, you ought to try it sometime. The larger she is, the better the reward."
Vesta eyed the beast between Sara's legs with considerable doubt. "I'm rather sure that I couldn't imitate half of what you just did, Evie. Though..." Vesta glanced Evie, whose stomach was raised a few extra inches. "It was really that much?"
"I don't think I could swallow another drop, Vesta, and I mean it. So wonderful, and so, so filling. The nectar of the gods, driven into me."
"Hum. Oddry? Make a note. I'd like you to go see that leathermaker we used for the carriage seats. Get yourself fitted for a harness, then find a few toys of incremental sizes, so you can fuck my throat with them. I'm not as sturdy as Evie here. I'll need to practice before I can conquer that mountain."
"Y-y-yes, ma'am," Oddry muttered back. Vesta glanced down.
"Ah. I see that you still need tending to."
Oddry was sitting on her hand between Vesta's legs, staring up at her like a lost puppy as she swirled her fingers around her clit. She was breathing hard, face red beneath her ruined makeup. Despite her plain desperation, she shook her head forcefully.
"No ma'am! N-no, that is... I will do as you ask, always. Have no thought for me, please, Mistress?"
As if summoned by the sound of a horny woman in need, Sara finally sat forward, blinking her way back to consciousness. She looked from Oddry to Evie, then at Vesta, chuckling.
"I don't think our discussion was done, Vesta, but the poor things do look distracted, don't they? Should we let them play while we keep talking?"
"I wouldn't mind," Vesta said, feigning apathy. "Pets can be awfully needy, but they're so cute they're worth it, aren't they?"
"At least when it comes to our pets, at the very least," Sara agreed. "Evie, take care of Oddry."
The feline's collar flashed as Oddry chirped in surprise, frowning like a scolded child.
"I-I am not needy! I will please you, Mistress, as long as you desire, without compl– ah!"
Whatever she was going to say next was lost in a high-pitched yelp, Evie's strength returning just long enough to snag Oddry's ankles and drag her out from between Vesta's legs. The feline spun the maid around, so they were facing one another. Oddry tried to protest once again, but Evie silenced her by capturing her lips in a gentle kiss. Oddry's shoulders tensed up, bunching around her ears, but Evie wrapped her arms loosely around the woman's neck, coaxing them back down. Sara and Vesta watched this opening exchange for a little while, their two pets nibbling and sucking at one another's lips, then refocused on the discussion that had been briefly abandoned.
"If you wish to disassemble the Guilds, you must remember that you will be making enemies in doing so," Vesta said, tearing her eyes away from the sight. "I would ask that you take special care not to irritate those that you most closely rely upon, or have access to dangerous secrets."
"The chemists, you mean," Sara said. "The ones who can screw everything up with one secret letter."
"Precisely. If their trade secrets are such that you refuse to divulge them to even me, I can't imagine you'd want to risk their ire."
"It's not that I don't trust you, Vesta, it's just about minimizing risk. If you get captured, for example, they could force it out of you, and we'd all be screwed."
"I have no ill will for you withholding secrets from me, Sara. So long as my ignorance doesn't affect my ability to do my job, that is. It is your prerogative, as you understand the dangers you speak of better than anyone but the gods."
Sara rolled her eyes. "A dramatic way to phrase it, but you're not wrong, I guess. If we have to bust out the big toys during the war, though, I promise you'll be among the first to get the full scoop."
Vesta nodded appreciatively, her next talking point briefly stalled as she caught sight of Evie and Oddry once more. It was odd, how a slave's orders manifested, when they were given vague instruction. Sara had told Evie to "take care of Oddry," which in the current context, Vesta would personally have interpreted as sexually gratifying her. Evie's interpretation had an element of that, but she was clearly taking a more holistic approach.
Vesta watched curiously as Evie continued to gently tend to Oddry, peppering her lips and cheeks with butterfly kisses. The knuckles of her right hand were massaging out the cramps that had likely developed while Oddry had been eating out Vesta at such an awkward angle, while her other hand rubbed and teased at Oddry's breasts. It was a gentle, lover's embrace, rather than the brutal race to orgasm Vesta had expected of the command.
"These 'chemists,' then," Vesta said, "they are behaving well? I know you refused to magically bind them to secrecy, which I still remain convinced was a grievous mistake, if their work is as dangerous as you claim."
"They've been working perfectly, as a matter of fact. There's very few of the actual chemists, now that we've finished the early construction. Securing the raw materials was easy, except for the niter, but now that we've got several bat caves dammed up from the rain, we're able to get it in the volume we need."
"I wasn't asking how the production itself faired, Sara. I was asking how loyal those working the project are."
"As loyal as you can expect," Sara shrugged. "They hate nobility as much as anybody else, and they're damn excited to be working on the project. Not like I can expect them to have Evie's level of dedication, y'know."
"Mm," Vesta hummed, looking down at the aforementioned woman. She had slowly pushed Oddry onto her back, dragging over a pillow for the maid to rest her head on, all without breaking their kiss. As Vesta watched, Evie finally pulled her mouth away, drawing a trail of kisses from chin to chest. "If you could have even a handful of individuals with her loyalty, this war would be a foregone conclusion."
"Yeah, but if they were all as horny as Evie, I'd end up dead of exhaustion before the week was out. I'm perfectly content with her and Hurlish, as is."
"With a few dalliances on the side, of course," Vesta pointed out.
"Of course."
Evie completed her journey down Oddry's body, a line of bruises blooming in her wake. Oddry shivered as she felt Evie nuzzle into the inside of her thigh, biting a knuckle to hold back her whimpers. She clearly didn't want to distract from the conversation, a difficult prospect when faced with Evie's skillful tongue. To help her out, Vesta reached down to pull off her shoes and socks, baring her feet. Footplay did very little for Vesta, but Oddry loved it, and she'd always considered herself a generous employer. Vesta extended her leg, shifting in her chair so she could rest her heel on Oddry's shoulder. The maid eagerly leapt to taking a toe into her mouth, suckling with relish. It was ticklish, but Vesta had done this enough for the woman that she could ignore the sensation.
"Do you have any contingencies for if the information you've provided them is disseminated? From what little you've allowed me to know, it seems that our enemies acquiring the weapons would find us obliterated before we have a chance to respond."
"As a matter of fact, I've got plenty of backup plans," Sara replied. "First and foremost, what I've told them is limited. Everyone involved in the project only has a piece of the puzzle. The chemists have access to the most dangerous material, but they don't really know what for, while the smiths are making their parts under the guise of infrastructure projects. It'll only become a weapon once I throw everything together, and right now Hurlish, Evie, and I are the only ones who know how to do it."
Vesta felt Oddry's teeth scraping along her foot, jaw involuntarily clenching as Evie brushed her sopping wet sex for the first time.
"The second part of the plan is even easier," Sara said, ignoring the display before her. "What we're building now is the first generation. These weapons, they've been improved over hundreds of years in my world. Even the first generation is incredibly dangerous, enough to make a difference in the war, but the later versions are way, way more powerful. If the Royal Army got its hands on the version we're building now, I'll just kick our goods up a notch, and we'll maintain the relative advantage. At the same time, I'll start readying the third version, which I'll roll out the moment they manage to copy V2. From my experiments with Hurlish, we could repeat that process four, maybe five times, all with the infrastructure we already have. Magic and Irregular Skills really make up for a lot of the deficiencies in manufacturing tech, thankfully."
Vesta shook her head incredulously. "Why you refuse to simply begin the process now, I can't imagine. This war is existential for the people of Tulian, Sara. They have been branded rebels and traitors both, and should the war be lost, their fate will be grim."
"Because, Vesta," Sara said, expression firming, "the things I would be unleashing simply shouldn't exist in this world. They're monstrosities, evil incarnate. They were incrementally improved throughout half a millennia in my world, and our cultures had time to adapt, to slowly come to grips with the potential devastation they can unleash. This feudal shithole, though?"
Sara scoffed. "They don't have an idea how bad it can get. Every dickshit noble with a fancy new toy for his troops will think he's invincible, and the wars they start will annihilate everything they touch. On Earth, the more powerful the weapons got, the less common wars became, just due to the cost in lives and material. That lesson might be learned here, eventually, but an ocean of blood will be spilled before it sinks in. So no, if I can help it, I'm not going to use the weapons."
Vesta bit her lip, feeling a bit like a child being disciplined. Only Sara had ever managed to ever make her feel so... ignorant. When the Champion truly delved into the talents gifted her by Amarat, it was if her conviction was a physical force, propelled by words to drive into Vesta's mind. It wasn't as if she were magically meddling with her consciousness; Vesta had made certain of that, back when she'd still had access to Hagos's mages. It was rather that Sara was singularly talented at speaking, plucking from the aether the exact sentence required to convince her target of her absolute certainty. Genuine faith in one's arguments, once recognized as such, was nearly impossible to resist. So long as the premise was not wholly repellant to one's personal values, it was only a matter of time before the Champion worked you around to her side. Vesta couldn't fathom a being capable of maintaining their composure under such scrutiny.
Except, perhaps for the woman laying between them. Evie was pressing tender kisses to Oddry's slit, stirring the maid into a quivering mess. Ironically, Vesta realized, Sara's slave was the only creature she had witnessed persisting in her disagreement with the woman; everyone else either caved, or fled the conversation.
And now she's laying at my feet, doing her utmost to bring my maid-consort to orgasm. What was the phrase that Sara is so fond of, again? Tonal whiplash?
Vesta likely would have spent a bit longer exploring that fairly philosophical avenue of thought, if not for the fact that she was still technically in an official meeting with the leader of her nation. Best not to ignore Sara. At least she had the rather believable excuse of Evie and Oddry's entanglement distracting her.
"Will they be ready if you do find them necessary, Sara?" Vesta finally asked. Sara chuckled at her extended pause, which Vesta ignored. "There's little point in a weapon you cannot use in time to make a difference."
"That is a concern, I'll admit. I've been meaning to evaluate the various projects personally, but it's kept slipping down my priority list. Hard to put the backup plan first, y'know?"
Beneath them, Evie pulled away from Oddry's pussy to look up at her owner.
"Why not send Hurlish and I, Master? Together, we ought have the appropriate knowledge to evaluate their progress."
Evie did not wait for a response before returning her tongue to Oddry's pleasure; the collar would not allow any longer a break.
"I guess that could work..." Sara said, though she sounded uncertain. "Hurlish helped me with the metalworking designs, and I've chatted about guns enough with you for you to get the basic principles, so maybe... Would you be okay with leaving me alone for however long it takes?"
Evie did not answer. She couldn't, not when she had been commanded to see to Oddry's needs. The slave had used up all the dalliance offered to her.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Sara said, watching her slave with a fond smile. "Maybe we should pick up that thread in a bit."
Evie's only response was a twitching of the ears atop her head and a flicking of her tail, while her tongue remained firmly occupied. Vesta watched as Evie began to lick and suckle at Oddry's clit, giving her proper stimulation for the first time. Oddry wasn't often one for penetrating fingers, tongues and Sara's heavenly cock excluded, and Evie knew it. She took a masterful touch to pleasuring the maid, nearly as skilled as her Master. Vesta felt Oddry groan into her foot, the vibration rather ticklish.
"Perhaps we should wait until the pets, er-" Vesta floundered briefly, unused to this particular sort of play's terminology, "-stop being pets, I suppose? Their better selves might have an opinion worth offering."
"Their lesser selves, you mean," Sara said, gently correcting Vesta's mild violation of the roleplay. "The useless little things they are when they're doing something other than putting themselves on display for us. Such a delusion, isn't it? They're just toys."
At the diminutive insult, Evie groaned. If there existed a limit to how far that feline wished to be degraded, Vesta hadn't caught sight of it.
"Their lesser selves, yes," Vesta quickly agreed. She turned her foot, pulling her toes out of Oddry's mouth. Pinned down by Evie, the maid could only stretch her neck to chase it, whining in disappointment when Vesta lifted her leg further away. "Do you know your place, girl?" Vesta asked. Oddry was nearly too far gone to form words, but she nodded frantically.
"Mmmneath you, Mistress? Under you? Y-y-yours?"
"That's right. Very good." Vesta brought her leg back down, but not as far. Oddry could only lap at the sole of her foot like a dog, and Vesta saw in the woman's eyes how profoundly grateful she was for the opportunity.
Vesta had never had a thing for feet. But when Oddry was lying beneath her, makeup ruined and smeared after Vesta had ruthlessly fucked her face, stretching her tongue as far as possible just to taste Vesta's skin... Well, she had to admit the sight was doing something to her. Maybe.
She'd have to dissect it later.
For now, she contented herself with watching her maid in brief glances. The conversation with Sara meandered to other topics, those that required less input from their pets, and the two women squirmed beneath them in the interim.
As time passed, Vesta began to question if the slow pace Evie had set was really borne of tenderness, as she'd first assumed. Minute by minute ticked by without Oddry being allowed to reach her climax, far longer than Vesta had ever managed to hold off. Who could blame her, though? The woman's face when she fell apart beneath Vesta's fingers was too wonderful to pass up.
Evie, clearly, had other priorities. Oddry was picked apart under the slave's attention, her expression– when she wasn't lavishing Vesta's feet with her tongue– ranging from teary smiles, to lip-biting bliss, to desperate panting. Evie seemed determined to work Oddry through the full range of emotions she was capable of pulling from the maid, even if the time it took might become torturous.
Or, Vesta later decided, perhaps not. Oddry, always the worrywart, had unraveled by degrees, the tension slipping from her muscles. After nearly twenty minutes of Evie's lips racing up and down her skin, the woman lay in a boneless heap, eyes lightly closed as she breathed deeply into the open air. It was a state Vesta rarely saw the woman in, so profoundly disconnected from her concerns. That Evie was capable of bringing Oddry to that space, and not Vesta, stirred a bit of jealousy in her.
So what was the trick, Vesta wondered? To give herself the time to contemplate it, she asked Sara some inane question about one of the musicians from her old world she'd lauded, setting her off on one of her impassioned tangents. With her guest thus quite happily occupying herself, Vesta observed Evie's technique.
It was skillful, that much was certain. Vesta knew that firsthand. But as skilled as Evie was, Vesta knew Oddry's body better. Evie pressed gentle kisses to her slit while licking slowly up and down, just as she preferred, then returned to lapping at her clit, but she didn't take fistfuls of Oddry's ass while she did so, clutching the flesh like her life depended on it. Nor did she do innumerable of the little tricks Vesta had found effective for sating her maid's lust, in fact.
No, Vesta eventually realized, the trick wasn't in the physicality of the act. She caught it only once, when Oddry's tension started to return to her legs. Evie simply scraped a claw along the woman's thigh, then reached up to her chin, turning her head towards Sara. Oddry's eyes fluttered open, watching the Champion talk over her, utterly absorbed in her speech. Evie then turned Oddry's head to the right, towards Vesta, and instinct had Vesta looking sharply up and away, pretending to focus entirely on Sara's words.
Ah, Vesta thought, comprehension filling her as she watched Oddry through the corner of her vision. It takes a servant to know a servant, does it?
When she looked back down, Oddry's eyes had closed once more, muscles slack. It seemed her little pet struggled to relax, at least when she was concerned her Mistress might be needing something of her. Knowing that there was no one to perform for, no one to please, allowed her to slip into that peculiar space Vesta was so rarely privy to.
Perhaps I have more room to grow, as a Mistress, Vesta reflected. She tapped her chin in thought, considering.
Then, without so much as a word to Sara, she slipped from her chair. To disguise the motion, she pushed her foot harder into Oddry's face, which the maid seemed to delight in. Only when Vesta was ready to crouch down next to Oddry did she remove the foot, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Sara's words had trailed off, confused, but she had the good graces not to interrupt.
"M-mistress?" Oddry asked, eyes blinking open. "Did you n-need something?"
"Just so, little pet," Vesta replied, leaning low over Oddry, so the woman was in her shadow. "But it's something of an unusual request. Do you think you can help me with it?"
"Of c-course! Of course, anything, Mistressssss," Oddry replied, the last syllable involuntarily drawn out as Evie swirled her tongue.
"Good, good. Because, pet, what I want you to do is simple, but it might be hard, alright?"
"I-I'm ready."
"Excellent." Vesta leaned closer, cupping Oddry's cheeks in her hands. "I want you, no matter what, to feel good. I want you to lose yourself in that woman's tongue, pet. I want you to go so far into pleasure that you don't even remember your own name. And if you need, or want, something from me to do that, you will tell me. Understood?"
Oddry's confused blinking looked like she really didn't, but she nodded.
"Yes ma'am. I understand."
"Good."
As a reward, Vesta brushed aside Oddry's blonde curls and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She lingered for a moment, so that the woman could feel her lipstick leaving an imprint.
She pulled away, watching from much closer as Oddry sighed, visibly focusing on the sensations of Evie between her legs. Never one to be left behind by the pace of events, Evie gamely upped her ministrations, adding her fingers to Oddry's clit when her mouth wandered elsewhere, or caressing her most sensitive regions when her mouth was tending to the maid's bud. Without Vesta's foot to muffle her whines, Oddry soon returned to biting on a knuckle.
In a spur of inspiration, Vesta reached out, taking the woman's hand from her mouth. She intertwined her fingers with Oddry's, holding their hands to the maid's breast.
"Don't worry about being quiet, pet. Moaning feels good, doesn't it? If you want to let your voice out, do so."
"Y-yes, ma'am, I'll- oh!" Oddry's eyes wrenched closed as Evie chose that moment to spiral her tongue around her clit, then pressed hard. Dimly, Vesta heard Sara chuckle.
She ignored it. Her focus was for one woman alone, and she wouldn't be distracted.
Oddry's hand clenched tighter around Vesta's, bringing it closer to her breast. Vesta untucked her thumb, brushing it along her nipple, rubbing in little circles, like she was just idly entertaining herself. Oddry sighed, her head falling to one side, content.
She was a truly beautiful woman. From the curly blonde hair, betraying her northern heritage, to her silky smooth skin, which was remarkably unblemished despite the hard life a maid led. Her breasts were delectable, so large they were barely constrained by her maid uniform, and her plump hips were so tempting to pinch, even when Vesta should've been working. Her fingers were not as soft as the rest of her, worn rough by the caustic chemicals of a girlhood spent as a laundress, but Vesta loved those, too. She was a strong woman, and when she used her strength on Vesta, that abrasive texture scratched an itch no matter where they roamed.
And she was pretty in the classical sense, too. Even with ruined makeup running down her cheeks, Vesta admired the structure of her face. Like a classical painting, or a sculpture in one of Amarat's churches. She'd never told Oddry that she thought that of her; laying on the floor next to her, she resolved to bring it up at the next opportunity. It was unconscionable to let such beauty go unrecognized.
Abruptly, Vesta realized Oddry's eyes had flicked back open. She'd caught Vesta admiring her body, which for some reason had the former noblewoman blushing. They'd tasted each other on more occasions than she could count. Why did getting caught appreciating her form cause such a reaction?
"Ma'am?" Oddry asked. "You s-said I was to ask if there was something I w-wished of you?"
"Indeed I did, pet," Vesta murmured. "What is it?"
"I'd... like you to kiss me, ma'am."
Vesta did not wait. She brushed her scarlet hair aside, tucking it behind an ear, and leaned down.
Vesta captured Oddry's lips gently, a hand drifting to cup her cheek. Evie was still working away between the maid's legs, and her efforts were producing little squirming whimpers. Vesta drank them down eagerly, luxuriating in the simple sensation of softness. After a few chaste moments of kissing, something Evie did caused Oddry to gasp, and Vesta used the lapse to press her tongue into the woman's mouth.
Oddry welcomed her into her mouth, her tongue chasing after Vesta's. She kept suckling and nibbling and Oddry's lower lip, tugging and pulling in the way she knew her maid loved. The sweetness of her lipstick was intermixed with the salty tang of Vesta's own slick, a flavor unique to Oddry. The slow teasing of Vesta's tongue was a stark contrast to Evie's efforts below, which were intensifying by the moment. Oddry was whining into Vesta's mouth, breathing so heavily through her nose that Vesta felt her hair being blown back.
Vesta's free hand began tracing a lazy trail down Oddry's body, starting at her breast, circling and grabbing at her skin as it went. Every time she pinched, Oddry gasped a little bit louder, squirming on the plush rug. Vesta didn't let up, moving lower and lower. Oddry hummed when Vesta tickled her ribs, then gasped when she pinched her belly. Vesta continued on, until she was circling her palm over her pelvis, just above her womb, and that left the maid whining pitifully.
Gods, how can Evie hold back with this beneath her?
Vesta's patience, which she considered worthy of a Champion, had run out. Her hand completed its circuit by running two fingers through the wiry curls at the crook of Oddry's legs, then continuing down. Her fingers briefly bumped into Evie, but the feline was adaptive as ever, and slid lower, moving her tongue to Oddry's lower lips.
When Vesta's fingers finally found the hood of Oddry's clit, the woman's mouth fell open, properly moaning into Vesta's mouth. She pressed her lips back down harder, capturing the woman's pleasure for herself, and began to circle what surely had to be an utterly aching, swollen bud of need.
Oddry's head tried to wrench away, a purely reflexive expression of pleasure, but all she achieved was pressing harder into Vesta's mouth. Her stomach rippled as she tried to curl up once more, fighting against Evie's palms pinning her hips to the floor. The two women worked in tandem to take the maid apart, Evie's tongue suddenly spearing into Oddry's tight pussy, forcing its way past her clenching walls, while Vesta lived and breathed Oddry's reactions, adjusting to every little squirming gasp that escaped into Vesta's lips.
To her incredible surprise, Vesta felt herself shudder, a shiver rolling up and down her body. It was almost like she was close to cumming herself, just from watching Oddry's pleasure, knowing it was her that caused it. Her pussy began to throb with need, even though it had been minutes since she'd rode her maid's face to a screaming orgasm.
She ignored it. This was Oddry's moment, after all. Vesta would have her time later.
And the maid was so, beautifully, wonderfully close. Vesta felt like a conductor before an orchestra, stirring the music of moans toward the performance's climax. Oddry's hand squeezed tighter around Vesta's, nearly painful, and she kept jerking her hips, trying to drive Evie's tongue deeper within her. Vesta matched the pace of her gyrations, exceeded them, abandoning the torturous pace that had characterized the rest of the encounter. Her fingers blurred above the woman's pussy, pressing down as hard as she could.
Vesta could no longer kiss her maid, the woman's head jerking around too erratically to track. Vesta listened to her whines ratchet up in pitch, until she was squeaking meaningless, pleading noises. Without slowing her fingers, Vesta leaned down close, whispering into Oddry's ear.
"You can cum now, pet."
With a sharp hiccup, Oddry's cries choked off. Her eyes flew open, staring at nothing, her entire body tensed for one long moment.
Then her stomach rose up into the air, her arms thrashing, grabbing fistfuls of the rug.
"Thank you! Thank you, Mistress, oh, oh, thank you!"
A very primal sort of satisfaction welled up in Vesta's gut as she watched her maid come apart. She was shaking so hard that her tits were bouncing, grinding her hips against Vesta's fingers, down on Evie's tongue, her head thrown left and right without reason. She kept crying out, pleading and praising in breathy gasps until there was nothing comprehensible left, just high-pitched whining in the vague pattern of words, and still Vesta kept moving her hands, driving her peak as high as she could possibly take it.
Oddry suddenly dropped back onto the rug, spent. Vesta could feel her clit throbbing beneath her fingers, and knew it was too sensitive to keep rubbing, but too needy to be left alone. As Evie retracted her tongue, her collar's compulsions fulfilled, Vesta cupped Oddry's entire pussy, applying the lightest amount of pressure, so that her maid could grind it into it as she pleased while the aftershocks rocked her.
Some time later, Oddry's eyes fluttered open, looking up at Vesta.
"Did... I do good... Mistress?"
"So very, very good, pet," Vesta replied, pressing one final kiss to the woman's lips. "You did so good that all you need to do now is relax. Just close your eyes for me, pet, and rest, alright?"
"Oh... okay... yes ma'am..."
Vesta caressed Oddry's face as the maid drifted off to sleep, sinking into unconsciousness in a matter of moments.
Assured that she was really asleep, Vesta quietly untangled her hand from Oddry's, and stood.
She looked down at herself. She hadn't been wearing undergarments, thanks to their earlier dalliances. Her dress, which had ended up bunched beneath her while she'd seen to Oddry, was visibly soaked through.
"Way to go," Sara whispered, flashing a smile and thumbs up. "A+ gentle domming right there. Couldn't have done it better myself."
Vesta started to muster up some sarcastic retort, but she failed. Her pussy was aching.
"You," Vesta hissed, "are going to fuck me, right now, because if I don't have something stuffed up me this instant, I am going to go fucking insane."
Sara's eyes widened at the profanity, but she gamely snapped off a precise military salute.
"Yes ma'am," she whispered. "Should we go to another room, so we don't wake Oddry?"
Vesta didn't dignify that with a response. She just took one long step over Oddry's limp form and settled herself in Sara's lap, hiking her dress up to her waist.
"I can be quiet, Champion. Can you?"
Sara, despite being so recently satisfied, throbbed underneath Vesta's pussy.
"It, uh, doesn't look like I have much choice but to try."
"Smart girl," Vesta hissed, seizing Sara's cock.
Notes:
I've gone off on a certain kind of kick lately, if you couldn't tell. Oh, well. I don't think people will be complaining about an above-average amount of smut. Your regularly scheduled PlotTM will return next week!
Also, I would like to remind everyone that Sara is neither a history nor philosophy major, and her imperfect recollection of technological and societal advancements should not be taken as fact, though she usually gets the general vibe right.
Chapter 53: A Spring Field
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic
Capital
Forty-One Days Until Spring
Sara moved from corner to corner in Hurlish's forge, lowering the storm shutters with a rattle. The sun hadn't yet risen, but it wasn't long in coming, and with it would bring the rest of Tulian's smiths. For this task, they needed privacy.
And for once, it's not 'cause we're gonna fuck, Sara reflected, amused. I mean, I'm not gonna say no if they ask me, but that's definitely not the purpose today.
Evie watched Sara's preparations from atop Hurlish's black-topped anvil, swinging her feet. Hurlish was laying out her supplies, selecting hammers and pieces of wrought iron with an artisan's eye. When Sara finished closing the forge off to the outside world, she turned around and put a hand on the pommel of her sword.
"Y'all ready?"
"Yup."
"A moment, Master." Evie reached over to the bag off Hurlish's hip, drawing out one of her many notebooks, followed by the fountain pen Sara and Hurlish had recently finished for her. She flipped the book open to a blank page, then looked up. "Go ahead, Master."
"Only got an hour on this, remember? So we'll have to work quick."
"It shouldn't be a problem."
"Yeah. We've already got most of what we need, this is just the last piece of the puzzle."
"Alright. Here goes."
Sara gripped her sword, focusing on an old, old memory, and whispered, "Ta-da."
The men on the field were much older than they should be, Sara thought. Dad said most of them were old because they're the only ones interested in doing these kinds of things, but she at least thought they could have dyed their beards or something. All the real soldiers they were pretending to be had been young, and definitely didn't have white hair.
"Oh, look! Look, Sara, they're getting ready right there!"
Sara followed Dad's pointing finger to the closest line of gray-coated soldiers, a little bit of his excitement spilling over to her. The closest man was old and fat, and his fake uniform didn't really fit him, but he was at least loading his gun fast. She watched the whole group of twenty people get ready, which took a silly amount of time, and then they put their weapons to their shoulders.
Suddenly, Dad's hands were over her ears. She looked up at him, confused, then jumped when there was a loud crashing sound from across the field. She looked back at all the fake soldiers to see them covered by a cloud of white, barely visible through the smoke. When it blew away, they were already loading again, one of the fancier dressed officers yelling at the rest of them as if it really mattered. Sara still didn't get it. If they really cared about this all that much, why were they playing the bad guys?
Sara blinked fiercely as the memory finished rushing through her. When her head stopped swimming, she was staring at the frozen face of a civil war reenactor, just as fat and bearded as she'd remembered.
"Ugly motherfucker," Hurlish commented, mirroring Sara's thoughts.
"Yeah, well, he liked to play pretend as a Confederate. 'Good old boys' usually live off a steady diet of bullshit topped with grease, so it's no surprise."
Sara twisted her grip on the sword, advancing the memory until the reenactor had the gun at his shoulder. Her girlfriends stepped up to opposite sides of the weapon, Evie taking hurried notes, Hurlish holding up measuring devices for her reference. Sara joined them and began pointing out parts of the weapon, the memories of which had suddenly jumped to the forefront of her mind, compliments of her Illusion spell.
"That there is the priming pan. You put a little bit of powder in it, then the flint hammer, above it, slams down and makes sparks. That sets the whole thing off."
"And this symbol, Master, by the mechanism?"
Sara stepped around the illusion, squinting. "Just the serial number, I think, and the manufacturer's logo. Doesn't mean anything more than when it was made, and who made it. Springfield, in this case, according to my dad."
"Your dad?" Hurlish asked. "How'd he tell you that? Ain't he a bit far away?"
Sara tapped her temple. "The spell freshens the moment up to make the illusion, thankfully. My Dad was big on civil war stuff, and he didn't shut up the whole time we were there. This here is..." Sara snapped her fingers a few time, digging through her spell-jumbled recollection. "A Springfield Model 1840. Last flintlock the army used, before they went to more modern stuff."
"Huh." Hurlish finished taking her measurements, and Evie finished her sketch. She'd been getting a lot better at those, lately.
"Can you allow the illusion to operate the weapon, Master?" She asked.
"Sure."
They all three took a step back as the illusory Confederate jumped into motion, pulling a wad of paper from a pouch. Evie took careful notes as he went through the laborious effort required to load, ram, and prepare a musket weapon, ending in a spray of sparks and a puff of smoke.
"Again, if you don't mind. I'd rather not miss any detail."
Sara obligingly left the illusion to run, circling so she was out of her girlfriend's way as they worked. Hurlish had already seen the demonstration on several occasions, as she was the one who'd been discretely overseeing and making the parts over the last few months, but she was paying attention to different things this time around. Today she'd be assembling the weapon for the very first time, and that meant she was paying close attention to the arrangement of the parts and their tolerances.
"Just don't know if the damn spring'll hold," Hurlish murmured, speaking to herself.
"It will, babe. You made it."
"If you think I never made something that didn't come out right, you're gonna be in for one helluva shock."
Sara snorted, leaving the woman to her analysis. She circled the illusion, looking for something to entertain herself with. Now that she'd cast the spell, Sara's role was to sit around and answer questions when they were posed. While she waited for that to happen, she decided to pay attention to the illusory magic itself.
Her regular exchange of letters with Garen had continued unabated, and the far-off wizard had taught her a lot. The source of magic, for example. Sort of. He explained that the common wizards of this world drew their power from themselves, manipulating an internal reservoir that was inherent to all living beings. Garen claimed that some aspect of life, even if he couldn't point to a specific mechanism, was constantly producing arcane energy. Every blade of grass, every leaf, and every person, they all had at least a tiny spark of energy stored within, and it was by shaping and expelling that energy that a creature was able to alter the rules of reality.
Truth be told, that had been a pretty disappointing explanation for Sara, who'd really hoped for something more mystical than an obfuscated version of RPG mana. It made sense, too, which she was pretty sure shouldn't be the case with magic. In her opinion, arcane energy should be an ill-defined, ephemeral thing, its workings grasped only by wizened and worldly masters of the craft, not a bag of magic juice that was sloshing around in every John and Jane Doe.
When she'd expressed that to Garen, he'd taken considerable offense to the notion. As if to prove to her that his life's work wasn't that simple, he'd moved on to the question of Champions, who apparently operated on an entirely different, much less understood, system than the rest. Unlike literally every other being on the planet, Champions had no internal energy. No matter how closely one investigated their bodies, even as they were actively channeling magical abilities, there was simply no sign of arcane energy.
The implications of that little tidbit were more interesting to Sara. As no one had thus far succeeded in pinning an adequate definition to arcane energy, superstition and religion had naturally dug their roots into the topic. Many churches and religious authorities claimed that the energy was the very soul itself, proven by the fact that thinking humanoids had some of the greatest size-to-energy ratios of all living creatures.
Sara didn't put much stock in that, both because it implied she didn't have a soul, and because Garen had helpfully provided counter examples. Things like dense layers of moss, algae blooms, older whales, tree saplings, and a litany of exceptions existed, their small formwere positively awash with energy beyond their physical size.
The second theory of arcane energy was less philosophically compelling, but more internally consistent. Magic, whatever it was, was simply a chemical byproduct of life. Garen hadn't the terminology to describe it properly, but after some discussion, Sara had gathered a more modern gist of the idea. Life, if defined as an organized, self-perpetuating, reproducing pattern of molecules, had some element to its function that just so happened to squirt magic into the surrounding aether. Garen had seized on that idea with wild abandon, as the knowledge of single-celled organisms leant a depth to the definition of 'life' far beyond anything mages had yet managed, only for Sara's next letter to blow the idea apart. She'd told him about viruses, self-sustaining chemical reactions, and evolution, the last of which had really fucked his worldview up. (The astounding beauty of the thinking mind, both a product of and subject to callous genetic chance? The horror!)
Sara had at least been able to reassure him that the second theory made the most sense, to her. If magic was a byproduct of life in this world, universe, dimension, or whatever it was, it would make sense that Sara lacked it. She just didn't have the magic-squirters in her biology. Even if Garen loathed the way Sara had phrased it, he'd been unable to provide a better answer.
Which then left the question of how the hell the fat Confederate staring into empty space in front of Sara was possible. Sara didn't have magic, period, yet she cast spells anyway. Garen supposed she had a direct connection to Amarat's divine energy, but even that was an imperfect explanation, because the divine energies cast by a god's faithful could be detected by skilled mages. To Garen's eyes, she was a walking, talking chunk of stone, a physical impossibility. She shouldn't be able to move, much less cast magic, yet she did it anyway.
At the end of the exchange of letters, Sara's response to that final idea had grated Garen the most: she'd been relieved. She'd been happy there was at least some mysticism to magic, not just flashy calculus. She'd seen her Carrion Artificers at work, and their diagrams and explanations had reminded her an awful lot of the jargon that electrical engineers used back on Earth. Energies and circuits and gates and channels and all that. Sara had taken an online class for electrical engineering before, when she'd thought it might be a good way to pad her resume. If magic had worked like that infuriating mess, she would have been pissed.
I do wonder what's limiting me, though, Sara thought, humming thoughtfully. The illusion of the reenactor she'd produced was, much like her earlier reproduction of the USS Constitution, impossibly detailed, beyond even the greatest of mages. Every pore, every whisker, was faithfully reproduced, down to the rolls of fat and the powder-tainted barrel of his musket.
An idea came to her suddenly, something she'd never thought to try before. Slowly, so as not to disperse the illusion, Sara leaned forward, sticking her head into the man's spine.
"Holy shit!" Sara yelped, buried up to her neck in Confederate musculature.
"Master?"
"I can see into this dude's lungs, Evie! Y'all gotta check this out!"
Sara turned her head, moving back and forth. Illusion magic was composed of light, which meant there wasn't a single dark space on the interior of the construction. She'd known she could look inside the images, as that's how Nora and her shipwrights had inspected the Constitution, but she'd never considered using it on a person.
"We are rather busy, if you hadn't noticed."
"It's not gonna take the full hour to get everything you need. One quick peek, c'mon!" Sara crouched a little bit, moving her head through the man's body. "Shit! That's his stomach! There's, like, a bunch of chewed up burger in here! A whole lot, actually. No wonder this dude's fat."
Abruptly, Sara's inspection of the man's innards was interrupted by a thick forehead slamming into hers. Hurlish grunted, pulling back a little bit. Still bent over, Sara looked up at her, the orc's face visible from within the man's stomach.
"So... come here often?"
Hurlish groaned and rolled her eyes. "I'm leaving."
"Oh, come on! That was the best time to use that joke!"
"There's never a good time to use that joke."
True to her word, Hurlish retreated, returning to her measurements of the musket. Sara was left inspecting this strange new facet of her abilities alone, eagerly bobbing her way through a fat man's torso.
"But it looked cool, right?"
"Pretty neat, I guess," Hurlish admitted. "Never seen a person's insides when they were still inside, before."
"Yeah. This'll be amazing for teaching Nid's surgeons..." Sara's eyes widened. "Wait, I've got an idea. Is it alright if I have him move?"
"I have no objection, Master."
"Go for it."
With her head still inside the man's rotund belly, Sara advanced the illusion's 'animation.' She was treated to a front row seat of musculature twisting, stomach contents sloshing, and bones being pulled into place by tendons. As far as Sara could tell, every last detail was perfectly replicated, providing her a comprehensive anatomical model that she could peruse at her leisure.
"Shit," Sara murmured again. "This is a big deal, actually. Do you know how many medical questions we can answer with this spell? It was only like a hundred years ago in my world that doctors could open someone up without them either being dead, or, uh, screaming."
"An evocative euphemism, Master."
"There's not a good way to say it, unfortunately. But seriously..." Sara pulled her head back a bit, watching ligaments twist around spinal disks. "This is incredible. How deep do you think the illusion goes? If we put a microscope up to it, could we see cells moving?"
"I would not rule it out, Master. Remember, your abilities are borne of a god. This is no mortal magic."
Sara shook her head, wondering how in the hell she was going to find time to show up to Nid's hospital to give him an opportunity to study.
"If you could halt the illusion again, Master?" Evie prompted.
Sara got herself back on task, retreating to a more chaste distance. There was something subtly revolting about pulling her face out of the swollen gut of an elderly man, a shiver running through her. If she was going to use this spell again similarly, she'd have to find a better model. Actually...
"Evie? I'm about to pay attention, I promise, but before I forget to ask you, would you mind if I use an illusion of you for medical students to study?"
"Why me in particular, Master?"
"Well, it'd be best if the model was naked, so they could see the muscles moving from the inside and outside, and of the people that I've seen naked, you're definitely the one that I've got the most memories of moving without your clothes."
"Dunno about that," Hurlish grunted, sounding almost affronted.
"Yeah, you'd work, too, but most of the medical students aren't orcs. They'd need a ladder to see inside your chest."
"Heh. Yeah, I can see how that'd be a problem." As always, flattering Hurlish's height succeeded in distracting the orc from her complaint.
Evie poked her head around the illusion to frown at Sara. "So you are not asking if I my likeness may be used for medical reference. You are asking me if my sweaty, sex-coated body, writhing in the throes of orgasm, can be studiously pored over by young medical students."
Sara blinked. "Uh. I didn't say all that. I was more thinking of using your image from when we were cleaning up afterward, or before you got dressed–"
"The answer is yes, either way. Educating the next generation of healers is a far greater goal than preserving whatever shreds of my modesty this relationship has left intact." Evie smirked. "And it might be amusing, to see a healer recognize me some distant day. An interesting power, to be able to recall such a memory to their minds with my mere presence."
A part of Sara was growing concerned that Evie's slide into debauchery was outpacing her own. A different part of her was very, very turned on by the idea. Sara, standing in front of a packed lecture hall with the illusion of Evie beside her, announcing to the enraptured audience that they would now be studying her form, then contorting the woman into the very throes of pleasure, pretending all the while that it was simply a convenient way to study muscle structure... Not too bad, all things considered.
"Whore," Hurlish stated, tone casual.
"And?" Evie snipped.
"It was a compliment."
"Oh. In that case, thank you."
Sara shook her head.
Notes:
I'd like to say that I did *not* write this to coincide with Dungeons and Dalliances having an intricate illusion-magic scene. It's a coincidence! This scene has been on the backburner for weeks! Months! I'm not a hack! (Though I'll admit, I definitely use WinterWhereOf's works as a *cough* study reference for Smut Done Right)
By the way, this is a three-chapter update, so read on. This one was light lore explanation that I've had on the aforementioned backburner for far too long, so I'm at glad to get it out.
Chapter 54: The Chemical Workers
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic
Capital
Forty Days Until Spring
Evie did not know what to think of the Chemist's... shack. Technically, it was known as the "Tulian Republic Fertilizer Production Plant," but... it was a shack. There was no other word for the shoddy thing.
The Fertilizer Plant was built at the bottom of a coastal cliff, with the landscape raising away behind it at a remarkably strict angle, sliding up into one of the many tall cliffs that distinguished the southern Tulian coastline. The entrance was accessed by a thin wooden bridge running over a dredged channel of rushing seawater, and to the right of the bridge was a large waterwheel, which was currently being powered by the influx of a tidal rise. As Master had explained it, the sea would power the waterwheel by rushing in to fill a reservoir, and that same water would power it once more, draining when the tides retreated.
That clever waterwheel was the sturdiest element of the building, however. The rest of it was crumbling stone bricks, empty windows, and a roof which abruptly and unintentionally changed to a steeper angle halfway through its sweep. The door that Evie and Hurlish stepped up to was loose on its hinges, creaking as the wind pushed it back and forth. There was no handle. Only a worn spot in the wood where countless hands had shoved it open.
They shoved it open, stepping into the dark interior. The inside of the Chemist's Shack was not as disorganized as its exterior suggested, but it was a close thing. Powders in various states and colors were held in barrels throughout the room, most of the containers firmly sealed. After a thorough explanation from Master on the process and deadly potential of the product being created, Evie was relieved to see that the primary ingredients of sulfur, 'nitrate', and charcoal dust were kept in opposite corners of the room.
Evie noted that there was no sign of finished product anywhere in the building, save for a few sparse barrels placed beneath the room's central contraption. There the ingredients were being poured into a shallow circular trough, through which two massive stone wheels were slowly grinding, driven by the waterwheel. In one thing official documentation and reality coincided; this was an oil mill, though it had now been repurposed for a far more sinister task. The clacking of wooden gears complimented the slow sound of powder being pulverized into miniscule granules, a trickle of fine powder dropping through a filtered slot when it reached an appropriate size. At the moment it seemed only charcoal was being ground, judging by the dark color of the sand in the trough.
Evie was rather startled by the sight of the man tending the ponderous contraption. He was a Vanara, a remarkably rare sort of individual, such that this was only the second of his kind that Evie had seen in-person. Evie promptly threw open her mental index of ancestral customs of the Vanara people, the encyclopedia one of many that had been driven into her over the course of her education.
The Vanara, unlike cat and lizard folk, near universally despised the title "apefolk." Though the title was perhaps accurate, considering the full-body swathes of fur, prehensile tail, and prominent fanged muzzle, they were a people that took pride in their more humanoid aspects, rather than their more animalistic similarities. Many Vanara adherents to the Church of Daylagon insisted that monkeys and apes had been built in their image, rather than the other way around, and it wasn't Evie's place to question such things.
This particular Vanara man was largely as Evie had been instructed to expect of his people. His fur was majority a tawny brown, with small patches nearing black in a few places, particularly dark at the end of his long tail. He had golden eyes set deeply above a shorter than average muzzle, which was worked up in a thin press of effort. His fur had a thin white lather rising up in places, which Evie vaguely recalled as the Vanara equivalent of sweat.
What was atypical of him, however, was his dress. Many of the "folk" placed less emphasis on clothing than those without fur or scales, yet the man was dressed from head to toe. Master might have found it curious that he wore a knee-length skirt beneath a woman's shirt, but Evie didn't. She had learned that Master's culture had a considerably greater emphasis placed on assigning clothes to specific genders for all its members, unlike Sporaton and Tulian styles, which only distinguished between gender once one was a member of nobility. No, it was not his skirt that Evie found unusual. It was his shirt, which had clearly been tailored for a (prodigious) set of breasts that he very clearly lacked. Evie would have thought he simply acquired the garment from someone else, but beyond the empty pocket for breasts, it was well-fit. A curious sight, and not one that Evie could explain with her lacking knowledge of Vanara habits.
Evie and Hurlish watched unnoticed for a few moments while he dragged a long rake through the charcoal trough, ensuring an even distribution of material.
"Greetings, sir," Evie eventually called out, when they failed to be noticed. "We've come to inspect the progress of your work on behalf of the Governess."
The Vanara man straightened as if struck, tail jutting straight out from his skirt as he dropped his rake. He scrambled backward several feet, eyes wide, reaching for something beneath his belt.
"Woah, big boy," Hurlish hollered, patting the air in a gesture of calm. "It's all good. No need to panic."
The Vanara's hand froze behind his back, muscles bunched up tightly beneath his fur as he gripped something. His golden eyes flicked between Evie and Hurlish.
"Who're you, then?"
"I am the Governess's slave, Evie, and this is our partner, Master Smith Hurlish," Evie said, putting a hand to her chest, then to Hurlish's arm. "As the Governess is busy with preparations in the capital, she could not tour the facility herself, and entrusted the task to us."
The man's hand returned to view without subtlety, a sigh of relief rushing from him. "Oh, thank the gods. I thought we'd finally been found." He swallowed hard, composing himself. "Why in Their Names did the Governess not see fit to send a letter ahead of your visit?"
Evie frowned at the implication she lacked forethought, but didn't let it get beneath her skin.
"Officially, neither you nor this facility exist. There is no way to securely or secretly deliver a letter to your person."
"Doesn't the Governess have any runners she trusts? Surely there'd be someone in her government that's not gonna sell me out to Sporatos, right?"
Evie's frown deepened. "She does. You are looking at them. And regardless, would you have reacted any less poorly to a different face darkening your doorway?"
The Vanara man's tail curled. "If it were some little runner brat, rather than you two? I think I'd have had less of a heart attack."
Evie's teeth grit, irritation getting the better of her. Before she could say anything unwise, however, there was a great cracking sound, splinters flying from the trough. The man's rake was being eaten up by the stone wheel, and with a howling yelp, he leapt to tear it out of the way.
After such a contentious introduction, Evie felt no compulsion to rush to the man's aid. She simply stood back and watched as he tugged violently at the rake, trying to snap it off at the base so the entire thing wouldn't be sucked under the wheel. Evie felt a flash of jealousy as his tail wrapped around the handle to help him pull, demonstrating a level of control over the limb that she lacked, but it wasn't severe enough to lessen her enjoyment. When the Vanara man finally ripped the rake free, he did so abruptly enough that he tumbled backward, holding the ruined stick of wood in both hands, more frothy sweat beading up across his body.
"Now that we have introduced ourselves," Evie said, ignoring the entire display, "may I ask after your name, sir?"
He blinked repeatedly at her, rhythmically. Evie vaguely recalled that this was a Vanara substitute for their more limited facial expressions.
"The name's Kispa, First Tulian Alchemist. My companion is..." He looked about the room, then frowned. "...Not here at the moment, it would seem. His name is Vern, Second Alchemist."
"Good to meetchya," Hurlish said, rightly preempting Evie's response before her desire to snark got the better of her. "You need any help with that?"
He blinked again, a different pattern. "With my rake?"
"Yeah. I could whittle you up another one."
"That's... not necessary." The Vanara shook himself, flinging beads of froth to the floor. Evie once more felt envy as his tail began to run up and down his exposed fur, flicking more of the pseudo-sweat from his body. "I've got plenty of rakes. What I do need is some damn help with these barrels. You a strong sort, orc?"
"Her name is Hurlish," Evie cut in.
"You a strong sort, Hurlish?"
"Y'could say that."
"Perfect. See these three barrels, there? They're finished, and they're eighty pounds each. You can haul them off to one of the storage cellars."
Evie's eyebrows rose. Astoundingly presumptuous, to order the Governess's partner around like that. Hurlish, of course, saw little issue with the treatment, and gamely walked over to heft one of the barrels up.
Both Evie and Kispa cringed as the orc threw the barrel up onto her shoulder, not even checking the lid's seal before doing so.
"Hurlish?" Evie called. "Could you perhaps be more careful with that?"
"Why? It needs fire to go off, right?"
"In theory, yes," Kispa said, "but in practice, I'd rather be safe than scattered across a country mile. If you could just... hold it in both hands, perhaps?"
"Worrywart," Hurlish said, grunting as she reached down to grab a second barrel. She shoved it up on her other shoulder, then turned to Kispa. "Where's it go?"
While it was true that Vanara were not the most expressive, it did not take a cultural expert to interpret Kispa's pained face. Nonetheless, he answered, however hesitantly.
"This was a village, before the storms blew down the wooden structures. There are old cellars and basements around the area that survived intact, and we've been using them to store it. You should be able to find them simply enough. Just–"
"Be careful, yeah," Hurlish said, moving to a door. She lifted a knee and knocked it open, stooping beneath the doorframe to exit without bumping her head. Evie watched her go, shaking her head.
And here I'd hoped the pregnancy would engender a greater sense of caution in her, Evie thought. Why must she insist on such irreverence? At least she had the good sense to follow Master's advice and curtail her drinking.
Beyond that, however, Hurlish had continued her life as usual. It couldn't be said she was unconcerned about the pregnancy, but she seemed to struggle to understand that things that were a risk to her were also a risk to their child. Hurlish would disagree with that assessment, claiming Evie's paranoia far outstripped her reason, but Evie had remained stalwart. As far as she was concerned, even the boiling heat of Hurlish's forge would better be avoided; who knew what proximity to the roaring fires was doing to their unborn child? If Evie had her way, Hurlish would have been resting in their quarters from now until the month after the birth.
Arguing with the orc was hopeless, however, and so she let the woman go. The stone wheel had finished running over the caught section of Kispa's rake, and as he began picking out fragments of wood from the charcoal, she took out her notebook, surveying the room for flaws.
She took her notes with the unique quill Master and Hurlish had recently produced for her. The "fountain pen" was little more than an ink reservoir atop a metal nib, rudimentary in its construction, but the ability to write without an inkwell was something wondrous. Master had apparently attempted to recreate something called a "ball point" pen, but hadn't had success, and considered this gift a paltry second place. Evie had thought that ridiculous, but couldn't reassure her lover otherwise.
Hurlish returned several times to take away more barrels as Evie evaluated the workspace, and the human Alchemist named Vern also showed up, returning to his duties after an early lunch. Apparently the Alchemists had a few other assistants, but they were absent today, sent off to surreptitiously collect the necessary ingredients to create black powder. For as bothersmoe as Kispa had been thus far, she at least had to admit that he was serious about maintaining the project's secrecy.
Evie clipped her pen to the back of her notebook as she finished her appraisal, addressing Kispa.
"I have finished my evaluation, but before I begin relaying what alterations you will need to undertake, I would hear what you believe to be necessary. There is no sense in me correcting that which you already know to be problematic."
Kispa looked up from the trough, seeming mildly surprised. It seemed he hadn't actually anticipated Evie consulting his opinion.
"Well... the roof rattles something fierce, during storms. A part of me worries it's gonna come down on top of us, but at the same time, it's lasted ten years as it is now. Might be nice to get some carpenters up there. As for the process itself..." Kispa's tail tapped his chin thoughtfully. "More assistants would always be nice, but more mouths mean more chances for things to slip, I know. Carts, maybe, to transport the barrels to storage." His expression brightened. "Oh! And one important thing."
Kispa waved around himself, indicating the entire room with an airy gesture. "What's it all damn for? What are we making? Why are we making it? I've been following the Governess's instructions, and her precautions, but none of us know why, other than the fact that the stuff might go up like dragon fire. We're busting our asses for... what? Why? She said it's important, but it's been months of us toiling away, breaking our backs, and you two are the first that've bothered to show up."
Not for the first time, Evie was struck by the remarkable speed with which Master's emphasis on equality between citizens was taking root in Tulian culture. In her old life, the speech Kispa had just delivered to her would have been utterly unthinkable. To speak to nobility in such a fashion was a flogging offense at the very least, if not grounds for imprisonment. Considering the loftiness of Evie's prior station, she wouldn't have been seen as extreme for ordering his execution. Questioning a superior's orders simply wasn't done. Yet here, in this new nation, Evie only pursed her lips.
"You are aiding in the war effort, Alchemist. What more do you need to know?"
"A lot, actually. The Governess gave us ingredients, a recipe, and a goal for how much she'll need, but beyond that, we're lost. She wants us to store it nice and secure, but make it ready to move at a moment's notice. To where? Moved in what? I assume barrels carried in carts, but once it arrives? Will she be scooping it out of the things with her fingers? Should we prepare smaller packages, or measuring cups, or will they be lit afire and rolled down a hill at the enemy? There is much we could do to prepare, if someone gave us a damn clue as to what we're doing."
"Someone, hm? And I presume you mean me to be that someone?"
He spread his hands wide. "You're the one here, aren't you?"
Evie slipped her notebook away, evaluating the man. Master had said that Kispa, as the coordinator of the powder project, was the single most vulnerable elements of all Tulian's hidden preparations. On one hand, that meant that Evie could see little reason why revealing more information would worsen things; his capture was nearly as dangerous a possibility as was conceivable. On the other hand, there was no such thing as a true worst case scenario, and satisfying the man's curiosity served next to no purpose.
If Evie were acting alone, she would have said nothing, and perhaps threatened to have Kispa replaced if he thought the secrecy of his duty was so burdensome. But in this capacity, she was representing Master, who would have done no such thing. Master was the sort who distributed marching orders to the entire army ahead of time, ensuring they knew exactly where they were going, and held many important government meetings in public spaces, so that the people could hear her rationale for her decisions.
Evie suppressed a groan. She knew exactly what Master would have done in her position, no matter how vehemently Evie would have disagreed.
"Are you familiar with atmospheric pressure, Alchemist?"
The apparent non-sequitur seemed to take him off-guard. "I am. Sealed vessels, when taken from great heights to the ocean, or vice versa, react differently to the weight of air that surrounds them."
"And when the vessel is opened, if the surrounding air is lighter, it rushes out. If you were to place a piece of paper at the exit of the vessel, it would be blown back by the wind created, correct?"
"I suppose...?"
"A difference in pressure, once released, is therefore capable of propelling other objects. If, hypothetically, there were a material that released a great amount of air upon demand, it could be used to push other objects as one pleases."
Kispa nodded slowly, gears grinding. "All you've said is accurate, but I fail to see the use. This material does indeed create quite the cloud upon combustion, but not so much that one could... well, perhaps..." Kispa's tail bounced as he worked through his thoughts. "If one were to surround a particularly large amount of the powder with an airtight material, the expansion could be quite violent when the container burst. Is this the purpose?"
"One of them, but not the most important. Imagine if a smaller amount of powder were placed not in a sealed container, but one with a single exit. That exit then is loosely jammed with an object, creating an avenue of least resistance for the air to expand towards."
"It would move it, yes?" Kispa asked. "This is what you are leading me towards?"
"Yes."
"But the utility would be limited. A small amount of powder couldn't provide much of consequence, surely."
"I take it you haven't detonated any of the material yourself, yet?"
"Only small pinches from each finished batch, to ensure the mixture is acting appropriately."
"I would recommend you do no more than that, then. While I haven't seen the potential of this 'black powder' in person, the illusory demonstrations Master provided were... illuminating. A city named Beirut comes to mind, in particular."
"I haven't heard of the place."
"Of course not. It was on my Master's old world. Improperly stored material, of similar make to this 'black powder', was inadvertently lit."
"And?"
"Two hundred died, and a sizable portion of the city was demolished. The crater was four hundred feet in diameter, and the explosion could be heard some hundred and fifty miles away."
Kispa's tail slowly drooped. Evie did her best not to take satisfaction in the reaction. She offered him a polite, commiserative smile.
"Would you like me to inspect the storage facilities, to see if we might avoid a similar event?"
"Well." Kispa licked his lips. "Yes ma'am. I think I would appreciate that."
Notes:
This chapter was... ugh. I have no idea why, but it was a hell of a time getting it to a state I was happy with. I think I re-wrote it four times; my writing software says the previous drafts total 20,000 words. That's why there's a shorter update this week, posted so late. (Still technically on Sunday!) Hopefully I'll make it up for it next weekend.
Chapter 55: Indulgence
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A Short Time Later
The procedure for loading and 'firing' Master's weapon was not, as she had made it seem, overly complex. Firearms may be more mechanically complex than any longbow, and require more technical knowledge than crossbows or ballistae to develop, but once they were in the hands of someone capable there was little obstacle Evie could see to their implementation.
She first grabbed, from a belt wrapped about her chest, the waterproof canister filled with black powder, and flicked its cap off with a thumb. She put the nozzle to the priming pan, shaking out a small selection of powder, then lowered the cover– called a frizzen, because everything on the weapon had to have some ridiculous name– and dropped the weapon so its rear rested between her feet.
That done, she moved the powder nozzle to the end of the barrel, dumping black powder down the barrel while silently counting to three, then stopped.
A lead ball, which she'd kept pinched between the powder container and her palm, was dropped down next. As its fit was too tight to simply fall to the bottom, Evie retrieved the ramming rod from beneath the barrel, using it to drive the ball down. She stopped when she felt a solid thump from the rearmost section of the tube.
And now the weapon was loaded. It had taken her a mere thirty seconds. Hardly the obstacle Master treated it as. She hooked the powder bottle on her chest belt and hefted the "butt" of the weapon's stock to her shoulder, one eye closed as she looked down the ridiculous length.
Menacing her from the opposite end of the weapon was a straw-stuffed target dummy, its metal breastplate glinting in the sun.
Evie's finger twitched on the trigger, sending the flint-tipped hammer down to the priming pan, summoning a blinding flash.
An incredibly brief yet tense moment passed, just enough time to blink, then the flash was followed by an ear-splitting crack!
Evie's shoulder was shoved back by the force of the detonation. It wasn't that she lacked the strength to resist it, but rather that it was so immediate as to be impossible to compensate for. There was an audible zip! as the ball was launched downrange, then a muffled thump of metal against metal.
With the white cloud of smoke being blown away by the wind, Hurlish lifted her hands from their protective grasp around Evie's ears. She shaded her eyes to evaluate the target.
"Hot damn! You blew him in fuckin' half!" The orc bellowed.
"It would seem so," Evie agreed, returning the 'musket' to its resting position on her shoulder.
The target, which had been initially positioned fifty yards away, was now placed at both a hundred and a hundred and two yards, the latter portion resting on the ground. It seemed she'd struck centrally enough to cut through the wooden shaft that held it up, sending the savaged breastplate spinning violently away.
"I believe I used too much powder on that shot," Evie said after scanning the target for herself. "While I did miss the first two shots, they both had much less recoil, and per Master's description, the musket shouldn't be capable of sending chunks of metal flying."
"Seems like you used just the right amount, to me," Hurlish argued. "That poor bastard's deader than anything I've ever seen."
"Even so," Evie hummed, moving the weapon flat atop both hands to inspect it for damage, "it is best to be conservative with these tools. What if the weapon were to explode in my hands? We'll have to inspect it for damage."
"We were gonna do that anyway. Now c'mon, let's get a better look at your kill."
Hurlish stomped off through the grass without further ado, uncaring that Evie was at her back with the musket. Evie immediately shifted to the side, so that the weapon was not pointing at her lover's lower back. If there was one thing that Master had impressed upon the both of them before they left, it was the tenets of "gun safety." While Master had been taught ten, for military matters she emphasized four in particular, and had all but ordered Evie to treat them as religious dogma.
- A gun was always loaded
- A gun was never to be pointed at something one didn't intend to destroy
- A finger was placed on the trigger only when one was ready to fire
- One must be certain both of your target and what lay beyond it.
While Evie initially found Master's repetition of those tenets extraneous, having now used the weapon herself, she could understand their logic on a more intuitive level. To know that one errant twitch of her finger might end a life was a disconcerting thing, and she could already see that the lead projectiles would travel far further beyond a target than any crossbow.
As if her inner self had been determined to prove Master's point, Evie's first shot of the day had missed after she jerked the weapon erratically the moment the flint struck, flinching in preparation for recoil which actually came a moment later. The spark of the primer had been loud enough to hurt her ears, and the actual shot had nearly dropped her to her knees as the violence of the explosion seemed to drill through her to pierce her skull. According to Hurlish, whose vision had not been obstructed by the subsequent smoke cloud, there had been a puff of dirt and grass nearly a quarter mile downrange of her intended target.
The second shot had struck much closer, as she was able to better anticipate the delay between flintstrike and shot, but she had still flinched, this time in preparation for the agonizing crack of the gunfire. Only on this third shot, when Hurlish had used her massive hands to cover her ears, had Evie been able to actually strike the target.
As she approached the ruins of her victim with Hurlish, she allowed herself a small amount of pride. The hole in the breastplate was a gruesome little thing, a chunk of metal blown in at the seam beneath the sternum.
"Good shot," Hurlish grunted, squatting to inspect the armor. "Fifty yards ain't bad for hitting a single target with a bow, so I'd say this is fine work for your third go." Before Evie could accept the praise, Hurlish turned the breastplate over. What she revealed had the smith whistling low.
It seemed that the lead ball, much weaker in structure than steel, had shattered upon impact. The evidence was writ large in the collection of violent dents jutting all across the rear plate of the breastplate, as if someone had taken a blunt hatchet to the interior of the armor. Several fragments had even pierced through the back half of the steel and continued on, likely landing somewhere in the grass beyond.
Evie crouched next to Hurlish, keeping a careful hand steadying her musket. "I can't– and don't– want to imagine what a living being wearing that armor would look like after such an impact. A brutal weapon, indeed. I can see why the religious authorities of Master's old world attempted to forbid their use."
"I dunno. Looks like it'd be quick, at least." Hurlish poked a finger at the dents. "Don't have to worry about bleeding out when you ain't got a heart to pump blood. Or lungs. Or a stomach."
"Ever the optimist, aren't you?"
"Ah, you know ya love me," Hurlish teased, standing with a huff. She jabbed a thumb towards the table on which their equipment had been laid out. "Want to give the others a go?"
"That is why we're here, isn't it?"
Hurlish repaired the target dummy while Evie returned to the table, summoning her handkerchief to clean the weapon while she went. Remnants of black powder were always left behind in the barrel, its ignition far from perfect. As she'd suspected, cleaning the weapon after the third shot revealed far more unignited powder than the first two. Should she use the musket again, she would load only two seconds of powder, for safety's sake.
Evie lowered the flint hammer and placed the musket gently on the table, moving to the next weapon Hurlish had prepared. This one was nearly identical, wooden stock cradling the iron barrel, but with one difference as subtle as it was critical. When Evie looked down the mouth of the weapon, instead of a smooth tube, there were grooves cut into the edge, spiraling throughout the entire length. That was in fact the very literal only difference between the two weapons, as Master had selected the first musket not for its inherent qualities, but for its ability to be readily transformed into this "rifled" form.
While the weapon may have been barely altered, the ammunition was of an entirely different breed. Rather than a spherical seven-tenths-inch pellet of lead, this weapon came with a strangely formed projectile. The front of the lead shot was tapered to a dull point, its base conically hollow, and a thick spiral pattern was etched into its rear half. As Master had explained it, the powder would be packed into that hollow cone, and when it was ignited, the pressure would deform the malleable lead outward. This both tightened the seal so that no gas could escape around the bullet, and caused the grooves to catch the barrel's "rifling," spinning the bullet as it sped down the barrel. With extra energy and stability in the shot, the weapon's effective range should be more than doubled.
Hurlish returned to the table, having lashed the breastplate back to its post. Evie picked up the rifled musket and held it out.
"Would you like to try your hand? You're the one that made it, after all."
"Eh, I dunno. You're the fighter, aren't you?"
"Officially, yes, but you're far from inexperienced yourself."
"I guess, but I barely know what I'm doing. I just hit people as hard as I can, and it usually works out. You're the expert. Besides, Sara's not gonna let me fight, anyway."
"We have been over this, Hurlish," Evie said, beginning to load the weapon. "You cannot seriously expect to be allowed into combat while pregnant."
"Why not? Not like I'm gonna die."
"You do not truly know that, and regardless, it is official policy. Pregnancy disqualifies any soldier from serving, much less Master's wife."
"Not her wife, technically."
"Yes, but only as a technicality. If Master had any sense, she would have heeded my advice months ago."
"Huh?" Hurlish squinted down at Evie. "Your advice? What's that mean?"
"To marry you, of course. I understand her reluctance to marry me, seeing as I lack the physical capability to say 'no' to any of her orders, but you lack such limitations. That she doesn't wish to play favorites is foolish."
"But..." For once, Hurlish looked lost. "Why do you care?"
Evie raised an eyebrow at the orc as she rammed a bullet down the barrel. "Because I care for you, Hurlish?"
In a delightful reversal of their usual dynamic, it was Hurlish that now blushed profusely to Evie's words.
"That's... I mean, I appreciate it, I guess, but... we're supposed to be all bitchy with each other, right? That's how it works? We argue and bicker and make up real sexy-like later that night?"
"Believe it or not, Hurlish, even I am capable of separating my sexual preferences from my relationships." Evie finished loading the firearm, but paused, turning an eye to Hurlish's growing baby bump. "And besides, you are pregnant. Though Master claims the impulse is a result of 'cultural indoctrination', I firmly oppose the thought of any child of mine being born out of wedlock."
Hurlish gaped at Evie, even as the feline brought the musket up to her shoulder. When Hurlish failed to do anything other than stare incredulously, Evie nudged her with an elbow.
"Ears, please?"
Belatedly, the orc moved to cup her massive palms around Evie's sensitive ears. Evie took a moment to aim, consciously bracing herself to prevent the flinches of her prior shots, and pulled the trigger.
The primer flashed, then a boom echoed across the Tulian countryside. The stiff wind blew the white smoke away in short order, and Evie was satisfied to find her shot had once more found the target, just a bit off its center. Had it been a human, she would have shredded their right lung.
Evie slipped out from underneath Hurlish's hands, as the orc hadn't immediately removed them. She was still blinking dumbly, trying to parse whatever thoughts were racing through her mind.
"Are you really so surprised that I feel fondly for you, Hurlish?"
"I mean, I guess not, but... you said 'your' kid, didn't you?"
"Of course. We three are going to raise them together, no? I've had more than my fill of noble obsession with blood right, and couldn't care less if the child doesn't carry my features. If one considers the odds, it's most likely that I was present at their conception, regardless."
"That's..." Hurlish trailed off once more, lower jaw working her tusks up and down. Evie had not expected such a reaction in the slightest. Yes, they had spent months bartering antagonistic remarks with one another, but Evie had thought both of them had been well aware the behavior was in jest. It seemed Hurlish had not been quite as aware as Evie, however, and that was a surprise.
It also meant, Evie realized, that she had the rare opportunity of being in an advantageous position. Weak as she was for women with muscles, Evie rarely held the upper hand in their attraction to one another, particularly with how rough she wished to be treated. If she wanted Hurlish to properly throw her around, she'd found invoking a certain degree of faux-irritation in the woman to be necessary. Delight filled Evie as she realized the wet-eyed fondness on her partner's face had finally turned the tables.
Evie set the musket aside, taking a step closer to the orc, so that she was craning her neck to look up from beneath the woman's breasts. She widened her eyes and laid her ears flat, affecting her best impression of doe-eyed innocence.
"I'm shocked, Hurlish. Did you not know that I loved you?"
"I- I mean, we don't really say it-"
"Because I do love you. Deeply, romantically, passionately." Evie put a hand to Hurlish's abdomen, feeling the slight swell of her stomach. "I love you as much as I love Master, Hurlish."
"That's- you don't mean that-"
"But I do. Had we met in Sporatos, and had the opportunity to truly know one another, I believe the joy I feel in your presence would finally have given me the strength to rebel against my mother, all so I may tie your fate to mine."
Hurlish's eyes began to glisten.
"And why wouldn't I? Your body is a wonder, sculpted not by the gods, but by your own unique drive to succeed. Thrown from your home by terrible cataclysm, you not only found a place for yourself in a foreign land, you succeeded in ways no one else had, taking pride in work that none could equal. Even as you found yourself assaulted by alien sensibilities, you remained true to yourself, and allowed no compromise in that which was important to you. You are a fairy tale come true, Hurlish."
With her right palm on Hurlish's stomach, Evie took Hurlish's free hand in her left. "The callousness of your speech has no reflection upon your intelligence, which has no equal in the fields to which you choose to apply yourself. Nearly alone of all those in the world, you are capable of not just understanding the astounding complexity of Master's home, but replicating it. If you wished to, you could have glided through the noble courts of my youth, dazzling mages and lords alike with your intellect, but you never would. You value yourself too highly, more highly than I ever had valued myself before I met you, and would not stoop to their level. For that, too, I love you."
Evie tilted her head to the side like a confused kitten, feeling the way her tail languidly swiped from left to right behind her. Hurlish was entirely bewildered, having not expected these words in the slightest. Ever the dutiful soldier, Evie pressed her advantage.
"You are a beautiful, strong, brilliant woman, Hurlish. How could I not have fallen in love with you?"
Hurlish stared down at Evie with her mouth slightly open, and if Evie hadn't known better, she would've thought the orc was aghast. For any who were less familiar with Hurlish, it was only the next gruff grumble, barely audible, that would have cleared things up.
"I love you too, Evie."
Evie smiled kindly. "I know, dear. I just didn't know we had to say it."
"Ahh, fuck." Hurlish sniffled once, hard, then groaned theatrically. "Fuck you, Kitty."
"Certainly," Evie replied, stepping closer, so that their bodies were flush. "But we'll have to put the guns up, first." Evie pressed her ears up into the undersides of Hurlish's breasts.
Hurlish wiped her nose, then pushed Evie back a bit, so she could get a look at the feline's face. When she saw the grin there, she groaned again, to a different tone.
"Oh, no. Here we go."
"It's not that complex, I assure you."
"You always say that."
"Because it's true."
"To you, maybe."
"Don't worry. It's a role you were born to play."
Notes:
Much apologies for the smut cliffhanger. I'll upload it as a separate chapter the minute I finish it, pinky promise.
As for the content, well... the chapter title explains it all. Antique firearms are a close second to my obsession with the ocean, and I collect them. The oldest gun I own just turned 109, a family hand-me-down. I've shot muskets, bolt-actions and even an actual US Civil War cannon, and doing all that was expensive as hell, so I'm trying to leverage the experience into my writing, if only to assuage my buyer's remorse. If you hadn't figured out I'm American from my spelling quirks, that'll probably clue you in.
A better, more plot (and "plot") focused update will be on the table next week.
Chapter 56: Bottoming from the Top (E)
Notes:
CW: Brief CNC setting, but the aggressor isn't that great at being, y'know, mean
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Evie had been placed on her knees in the tent, instructed to remain that way. She'd shocked herself with how easily she'd acquiesced to the order. Her body was exhausted, her weapons stripped from her, and her feet run ragged through the battle, so she'd had no choice. Even the uncomfortable position, with her calves beneath her thighs and knees spread apart, was better than standing. They'd also instructed her to keep her hands behind her back, as if bound, but she'd ignored that the moment she'd been left alone in the tent.
The contents of the tent were spartan in accommodation for an officer, lightweight wood furniture scattered about without much in the way of organization. An empty weapons rack was set between a large cot and a chest of drawers, a large circular rug keeping the furniture off the grass. In fact, the entire floor of the tent was festooned with plush rugs, perhaps the only reason Evie was convinced that the officer she'd been "assigned" to was someone of consequence.
She was content to use the opportunity convalescence, a necessity if she wished to escape, but she would be damned if she actually gave in in to more of their insidious demands than she had to. Should she be left alone long enough to regain her strength, she would take the risk to begin searching the tent for a means of resistance, but until such time arrived, she would hold the position, so that an unexpected visitor would not find her visibly disobedient.
The orc armies, after all, were infamous for their treatment of prisoners. Disobedience, Evie knew, was the greatest sin of all. Those that were diverted to hard labor, used as pack mules for the war train, were allowed some deviation from the letter of their, but those kept in the camp, as Evie was? There was only one fate that awaited them.
Thankfully, she was confident that she would escape. She was faster than their scouts, skilled with a blade, and cleverer than any of them. The only foe that gave her pause was, perhaps, the very general who had orchestrated the ambush which had resulted in her capture.
A shadow darkened the tent wall, crouching before its flap. Evie hurriedly placed her hands behind her back, as was proper, and controlled the smug contempt she felt for the figure. This orc army's success was a mere aberration, a trumped up warband that would soon be quashed. If the woman that had claimed Evie as spoils was particularly cruel, Evie would enjoy visiting them in the Imperial prisons. It was a reversal of fate that she would savor.
A large woman entered the tent, dressed in the armor of battle. Evie kept an even, neutral expression on her face, sizing up her captor. Her armor was well-made, her height considerable, a thin warhammer dangling from her waist. Evie's interest piqued at that. Warhammers were uncommon among the orc forces, who usually preferred their stereotypical axes and seaxes.
To her surprise, the orc barely glanced her way. Just a quick confirmation that she was present, then nothing. The orc began shucking off her brutish armor piece by piece, dropping them to the floor with a thud. Evie waited impatiently.
"Are you certain you feel confident taking that armor off in front of me?" Evie snapped, her irritation getting the better of me. "Your soldiers didn't even put me in binds. They're as incompetent as I anticipated."
"Why would they?" The orc grunted, turning to place her warhammer on a weapon rack.
"So that I don't stab you the moment you walked in. Trust me, I was contemplating it."
The orc glanced her way. "So do it."
Evie's jaw clenched. She was still too exhausted to move with the speed required. The orc chuckled, turning her back to Evie. That, more than anything, boiled her blood.
The orc finished removing her armor while she walked about the tent, dropping the pieces wherever she happened to be. Evie watched as she went to a water basin and splashed it across her face, then took a sip, uncaring of the water spilled down her shirt. Only after this preliminary cleaning up did she turn to face Evie, smirking.
"So you're the one that gave my troops that trouble, huh?"
"Your troops?" Evie scoffed. "You certainly have a high opinion of yourself."
Hurlish paused, frowning. "Wait. Damnit, did I screw it up already? I thought I was the general."
"No Hurlish, it's alright," Evie quickly reassured. "Remember, I wasn't supposed to be aware you were the general, and when you revealed it, it would put me on the back foot, so you'd push me a little farther. You're doing fine."
"Oh! Oh, okay, I got it. Damn, this is a lot easier when Sara's got you all zonked out."
"I'm sure it is," Evie agreed. She cocked her ears. "Wait. Do you really ask Master for clarification mid-scene, then have her use the collar to make me forget you asked a question?"
"Uh." Hurlish cleared her throat. "Anyway."
"Well, they are my troops, aren't they?" The orc flashed a cocky grin. "Normally I let the officers take their pick, but after the thrashing we gave your army, there's more than enough to go around. Why shouldn't I take the cream of the crop?"
Evie's pulse began to race. " You are the general of this army?"
"One and the same, little kitten. Did you really think a prime piece like yourself would go to my lessers?"
Evie fixed a scowl on her face, doing her best to maintain appearances even as she felt a tendril of fear worming its way through her brain. The orc general's reputation was known far and wide, her brutality on the field of battle sending shivers through even the most stalwart Imperial spines. That she was the only foreign raider to have not just successfully raided an Imperial city, but done so on multiple occasions, and had never been captured? Her intellect was as fearsome as the whispered tales of her feats on the battlefield.
The more she recalled of the General's accomplishments, the deeper the tendril of fear dug into her thoughts. Her hope of escape, mere minutes ago seeming so close, seemed to be stretching into the distance.
"Orc got your tongue, little kitty?" General Hurlish taunted. She pulled out a wooden folding chair, dropping it a few feet in front of Evie, and took a seat. "That's alright. I know I'm a lot to swallow."
"Your audacity more than anything,," Evie sniped, mustering her wits. "I couldn't swallow your ego, either. Or were you referring to your hips? They're awfully wide, for a warrior."
General Hurlish chuckled. "They're pretty big, I'll give you that. Perfect for bearing children, I've heard."
Evie flushed. Hurlish's pregnancy with Master's child was outside the scene, and exploiting it to warm Evie up was cheating. But there was no way to point that out without breaking character herself, so she tossed her hair defiantly, ignoring the retort.
"It seems your mouth is the largest of all, orc. What would your troops think, to hear you so casually conversing with your captive?"
"Eh, they wouldn't mind." General Hurlish leaned back in the wooden chair, which groaned under her considerable bulk. She had a mannish spread to her legs that Evie's tutors would have despised. "Orcs don't really do your blue-blooded table manner crap. It's normal to play with your food. And looking at you..." The orc's gaze slithered up and down Evie's body, as if she could see through her armor. "...I think you'll be mighty tasty."
Evie huffed ostentatiously, because it was the only way she could think to hide the hitch in her breath. The comment was the first hint at what the General's intentions were for her. Evie had heard endless lurid tales of the slaves the orcs took and the fate they were consigned to. Degrading, demeaning behavior, forced onto their victims by magical means. If the gods once had any oversight of the collars they gifted to mortalkind, she didn't think it remained. None of the divine would approve of the abuse of their gifts, of using the collars for such base depravity.
"You will never put a collar on me," Evie snapped. "I would sooner bite my tongue off than be bound to you."
"Collar? Who said anything about a collar?"
Evie barked a laugh. "You! You did, of course. The General Hurlish whispered of by idiotic peasants wouldn't be such a fool as to think she'll taste me by any other means."
"Oh, on that point, you and I are gonna have to disagree." The General's legs spread even wider, the massive orc groaning as she took a moment to massage a knot in her neck. Evie did her best not to watch the muscles of her biceps bulge, mouth going dry. The General had already soundly bested her tactics on the field, and now she could see that there would be no contest in a personal test of strength, as well. The orc rolled her neck, fixing Evie under her gaze once more. "Y'see, I got slaves. Plenty of slaves, actually, and they've all gotten very, very good at pleasing me."
"Beast," Evie spat.
"As if your own people don't do the same?" General Hurlish shook her head in amusement. "Just cause you made up some fake crimes before you slap a collar on some poor bastard doesn't make you any better than us. But that's besides the point, because none of my girls have collars."
Evie's ears flicked in disbelief. "Impossible. Taking into your bed those who possess the will to disobey you? You would have been dead of a knife in the heart a hundred times over before ever meeting me."
"But I'm here, aren't I?" The orc leaned forward, eyes darkening. "Y'see, little kitty, you're like a lot of the girls I've taken. A weak, cute little thing, with nothing more to you than a sharp tongue and fancy sword. All it takes to break your sort is taking those away, make you realize that you don't have anything other than a family name that gets people scraping at your feet." The orc's lips split in an ugly grin. "And after I prove that? When you realize that you'll never be nothin' more than a pretty decoration for my tent? I'll give you something real, real fun for you to get good at."
Evie worked her mouth, mustering up enough saliva to spit at the orc. After the day's exertion, however, it was just an airy spray, falling impotently to the floor between them.
"Ha! Got some fight in you. Good. That means you'll last a bit longer than the rest."
Without further ado, the orc pushed off from her stool, covering the distance to Evie in two steps. She didn't pause or say a word as she took a fistful of Evie's hair, yanking her neck back and up, so that she was forced to stare up at the massive woman towering over her. Just as quickly, a second hand landed on her jaw, prying it open with indifference. It all happened before she could say a word.
The orc began poking around in Evie's mouth even while she tried to slam her jaws shut, aiming to bite off the intruding fingers. Her entire neck trembled with the effort. Nothing happened. The orc's hands may as well have been steel. Evie's heart fluttered as she was confronted by such a stark example of the strength disparity between them.
The orc took it for granted, naturally. She was more interested in running a thumb along Evie's canines, the twin protrusions one of her more Feline aspects. They were sharp enough to rend flesh, as Evie well knew from eating overcooked game on the campaign trail, but General Hurlish wasn't concerned. She seemed entranced by the teeth, pressing the pad of her thumb up into her right canine's razor tip, harder, harder, until Evie felt the digit slide a little bit up, pierced.
The taste of iron raced over her tongue in scarlet drops. General Hurlish inhaled sharply, in a manner that seemed very far detached from pain.
"Y'know, I heard the fey built felines for every people, no matter who. Didn't really believe it. A skinny little kitty-cat wouldn't do much for most orcs. But these?" General Hurlish licked her lips appreciatively. "Damn fine, even if they aren't proper tusks. Not like catfolk, ugly mouth full of daggers. Just the two, which is real nice." General Hurlish's less-than-clinical inspection of Evie's mouth moved on, prodding at her cheeks, her molars. "Who'd'a thought the fae'd even give us orcs a little treat in your body? Just an adorable little set you got there. I'll have to be careful taking you out of the tent. Plenty of troops'll be real eager to get a piece of you."
Does she really think this qualifies for the 'degrading' aspect of the play? Evie wondered as Hurlish continued to explore her mouth. It's perhaps infantilizing, but far from insulting. She could have at least implied that her soldiers having their way with me might be a punishment for ill behavior, rather than something she wished to be avoided. Too kind-natured to even imagine the threat, I suppose. Oh, well. I can work with it.
When the orc finally pulled her fingers from Evie's mouth, she'd worked up more than enough saliva to spit. She did so immediately, clearing the taste of the orc from her mouth, but didn't aim for General Hurlish's body, which would keep too much of the woman's focus on her. When she was done, she pressed a palm to the ground between her thighs, shakily forcing herself to a standing position.
"Is that what I'm to be for you? Some fetishistic display doll, marched about for your troop's entertainment?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. You're a fine enough prize that I might just keep you locked up in my tent whenever we're not on the march, chained and ready on a post for me. Be a good way to work out stress, having you close by."
Evie flicked her eyes to the tent's exit. She could see no shadows of guards. She fixed her attention back on General Hurlish as quickly as she could, to not arouse suspicion.
"You speak so much of what you will do, General, but you've done very little to convince me you're capable."
"You really want me to get on with it that bad, huh?"
"Don't take me for some animal in rut. I'm a member of th–"
Without warning, in the middle of a word, Evie darted for the tent's exit. The last of her energy was put into one lunging dash, arm stretched towards freedom.
The wind was knocked from her chest as a massive hand snagged her wrist, throwing her to the side. Evie's feet left the ground as the orc spun her in an arc, slamming her back into the floor of the tent without so much as a grunt of effort. Evie landed in a confused and tangled heap atop a pile of discarded clothes, her wrist burning like fire.
"You're a quick one," the General admitted, "but predictable. If you'd really wanted to take me by surprise, you should've gone for the tent wall or something, tried to cut it open. I've had a few girls try that." Evie tried to shove herself up from the pile of clothes, but her aching muscles protested too much. "'Course, that didn't work for any of them, but it would've been smarter. Hopefully your next attempt'll be more inspired."
Evie managed to push herself back up to her hands and knees, breathing hard, fighting to ignore the throbbing in her wrist.
"If you already know I will attempt to escape again, you're a fool for keeping me uncollared," she snapped, the vitriol in her words all the dignity she had left to her. Though the orc hadn't intended it, Evie was now bowed before her, on all fours. Evie's skin burned with shame.
"Eh, maybe. But I'd bet good money that your second attempt won't be nearly as spirited. Most of the girls try a couple times, some of the real stubborn ones three times, then they pretty much give it up."
"I'm not some commoner girl, General. I'm a warrior in my own right, and I'm not going to abandon my pride so easily."
"Yeah, maybe, but I've heard it all before, and besides, I'm getting bored."
Evie's head snapped up at the sound of a belt being unbuckled. The orc sported a malicious grin as she began removing her trousers with the same efficient movements that had seen her armor discarded.
"You any good with your mouth, Kitty?"
"My name is Evie," she snapped, because the instinctive correction was the only response she could find that would not reveal the tremor in her voice.
"Yeah, yeah, we'll work on that soon enough. Now, Kitty, I asked you a question."
The orc was out of her trousers now, standing with feet apart. Her undergarments were surprisingly attractive, if still practical. Tight-fitting breeches cut off at the thigh, dyed a pale pink, darkening with arousal at the meeting of her legs. Her voice dropped an octave as she glared down at Evie.
"Are. You. Good. With. Your. Mouth?"
Evie fell back on her heels as she stared up at the towering woman, drawing one final, defiant breath.
"Go to hell."
"Guess we're gonna find out together, then."
Evie barely had time to gasp before the orc grabbed a fistful of her hair, dragging her face directly into the crook of her legs. She didn't bother to remove her undergarments, simply using Evie's face as a soft surface to grind against. Evie's cheeks were shoved into a place that was hot, tinged with sweat. The pain from her scalp had her eyes watering, but there was no explanation for the sudden watering of her tongue. She immediately pressed against the orc's thighs with both arms, trying to pull herself off, and achieved nothing.
"Mmhf! Mhfhf!"
"Oh, that feels nice," the orc said, thrusting her hips upward. "Keep tryna talk, Kitty. Got a nice little buzz to it."
Evie's cheeks roared with indignation, and she immediately held her breath. The orc barely noticed, and if she cared in the slightest about Evie's attempts to escape, she showed no sign. Evie continued to struggle, squirming in silence. After a few moments more of this, the orc relented, snapping Evie's head back. She took deep, rapid gasps of fresh air.
Hurlish was breathing harder, however. "Hey, Evie, I gotta be real with you," she panted, "I am totally foreplay'd out right now."
Evie licked at the slick on her cheeks. "I noticed." Her girlfriend's arousal had soaked through her undergarments to thoroughly cover Evie's face. "I assume you want to alter the scene?"
"Can we? I know you were all excited, but, like, I reeaally wanna cut to the chase right now."
"I suppose so. It's rather flattering to know the effect I have on you."
"Oh thank the gods," Hurlish swore, reaching down to snap the band of her undergarments with a thumb, the fingers of her other hand still tangled painfully in Evie's hair.
"Don't be any gentler, though."
"Oh, c'mon, Kitty. You know me better than that."
Evie felt a flare of pain in her nose as she was slammed back down onto Hurlish's cunt, the orc groaning as bare skin finally touched her lower lips.
Evie reflexively set her tongue to work, lapping up and down the searing heat of Hurlish's slit. The orc was rocking into her face, making it difficult to find a rhythm, but she was more than up to the task. With needles of pleasurable pain sending a delectable shiver from scalp to tail, Evie began servicing her girlfriend.
There was probably still some way to salvage the scene, Evie supposed. Perhaps this was our second, or third encounter, and I have been suitably humbled to at least put an effort in for my new owner? Or perhaps the General had acquired some kind of leverage, such as the lives of my troops, that forced me to please her so?
Or maybe she just tastes too fine, Evie admitted as she speared her tongue into Hurlish's velvety core. As Hurlish clamped down on her, Evie groaned, a sentiment mirrored by a much deeper rumble above her. Master may have tasted like exotic wine, delectable fruit, a gift of Amarat's blessings, but Hurlish tasted like a woman. Salt and tang and all the things that came with it. Evie didn't know which she preferred. Master's taste was delectable, unique, almost dangerously addling to her thoughts, but Hurlish's body stirred a different reaction in her. A more guttural satisfaction, like they were just animals, taking from one another what they pleased.
Oh, fuck the scene. I need more of that.
Evie wrapped her arms around Hurlish's hips to take fistfuls of her ass, using the leverage to shove her tongue as deep as she could go. Hurlish's other hand landed on Evie's head, gripping as hard as the first while the orc tried to shove her further in.
Evie's tongue was nowhere near the dimensions of Master's cock, which may have meant Hurlish could not be as filled as she usually preferred, but it was certainly more dextrous. Evie took a well-trod path through the orc's body, countless hours of exploration guiding her to the nooks and crannies that garnered the finest reactions.
Muffled by Hurlish's thighs, she heard the orc's groans turn into moans, losing the gravelly quality that had marked her earlier roleplay. Evie nuzzled closer with a shake of her head, using her nose to brush Hurlish's clit, and began taking her apart.
Hurlish's legs began to shake, then shiver, more of her weight falling down on Evie by the second. She took several stumbling steps backward, dragging Evie with her, until her thighs hit the cot.
She collapsed backward on it with a whine. Evie's head was pulled up along with her as if physically attached, no compromise to be found in the orc's iron grip. She kept licking, sucking, delighting in the taste of her girlfriend, until finally an irritation at the far end of her mind forced its way to the forefront.
With what she considered heroic resolve, she tore her mouth away from Hurlish's cunt. "Yellow," she gasped.
"Mmmhuh?" Hurlish inquired, raising her head from the cot. "What's up?"
"My leg is caught on one of the rugs. Could you turn me loose for a moment?"
"Oh, sure. Fuckin' hurry, though."
With her head released, Evie turned around to find how her ankle had gotten so terribly twisted up. She found the culprit, a loop of thread that had snagged her foot, and flicked her claws out to snip it with a distinctly personal growl.
"Okay, Green," she gasped, turning back to Hurlish.
"Good, cause- fuck!"
Evie was already back in Hurlish's cunt, now using her hands as well as her tongue. She couldn't reach the orc's breasts from her position, so she left lavishing them with their due attention as Hurlish's job, pinching the nub of the orc's hood with two fingers. Months ago, when Master had first acquired Evie, she wouldn't have had the presence of mind to do so. Now her fingers practically had minds of their owns, coordinating with her tongue so unconsciously that Evie was free to bask in the sensations their work earned her.
Hurlish was so, so, wet. Wetter than the earlier scene had any explanation for, which meant she'd been aching with need ever since Evie had teased her earlier that afternoon. The smith's stamina was normally legendary– at least until Master filled her with cum, which always demolished Hurlish's composure– but there would be none of that long-windedness tonight, Evie knew. The orc's thighs were already trembling against Evie's cheeks, her pants raising in pitch until they were nearly squeaky.
As if sensing Evie's realization at how close she was, Hurlish's grip on her scalp loosened, shifting to the sides.
To her ears.
Knowing she would need it, Evie took a deep breath.
The tips of Hurlish's fingers dug into the thin layer of muscle at the base of her ears, ruining Evie's flawless rhythm as she involuntarily shoved her head up into the pressure. She'd never been able to describe adequately to Master and Hurlish what it felt like. As best she could compare it, having her ears ravished was like... a deep tissue massage, at the very moment a knot came undone, but without any crescendo or decline to the pleasure. The moment a fine chocolate began to melt in the mouth, spreading over the tongue, but across her entire body, turning her muscles loose and useless.
Hurlish dug deeper. White-hot jets of liquid delight raced down her scalp, to the muscles of her neck, radiating out to her arms and through her shoulderblades, twin comets of pleasure pulsing through the muscles of her back before meeting at the base of her tail.
She whined like a whore in heat into Hurlish's cunt, her jaw falling slack while her tongue involuntarily curled upward, pressing into the spot she had been saving for the grand finale. Her arms began to tremble even harder than Hurlish's thighs as the orc rolled her knuckles up and down her ears, shoving Evie's head from side to side like she was handling an animal. Evie was helpless to resist the debasing treatment, so lost that only long practice kept her tongue pumping forward, her fingers circling Hurlish's clit.
With an abruptness like Evie had never seen from the woman, Hurlish's core tightened. The orc rose up in the bed as her stomach convulsed, her eyes wrenched shut and her mouth opened in an O.
Evie kept pumping, her knees failing her as Hurlish's fingers very nearly dug too hard into her ears, and all the while, she watched her girlfriend, staring up at her from between her thighs exactly as she knew the orc loved.
Just when Hurlish's pounding orgasm began to fade, she opened her eyes, catching sight of Evie. They locked eyes, Hurlish's darkened in lust, Evie's in profound satisfaction.
"Fuck! Fucking- fucking just- like- thaaaat!"
Hurlish was hit by a second crest before the first finished, mindlessly dragging Evie up into her lap. Evie tried to stay buried in Hurlish's cunt, to feel her convulse on her tongue, but it wasn't like she could resist the orc's strength at the best of times. She was helpless to do anything other than be cradled in Hurlish's lap as the orc's orgasm roared through her, muscles rippling, gasps falling from her lips. Evie was pressed against the swell of her stomach, where their child was growing, and was held there like the most precious treasure in all the world.
With how hard Hurlish was coming, Evie supposed the woman probably believed she was.
Evie's clothes, which she'd never removed, were being progressively soaked by Hurlish's slick as the orc cradled her in place, gasps falling to profanities, then murmured words, the orc rocking them both back and forth.
"Oh- oh, fuck. Fucking hells. Fucking Evie. Fuuucking... fucking good Kitty..."
Evie smiled, no longer fighting the treatment.
"Swear to fucking... the gods, all of 'em– gonna fucking marry you-"
"Of course," Evie hummed.
"Oh, gods, don't be so fucking smarmy right now-" Hurlish suddenly reached down and seized the middle of Evie's overshirt, hauling her up onto the bed. The orc fell onto her back as she deposited Evie's face between her breasts, which– apparently– had been bared at some point. Evie smirked and turned her head to the side, taking a nipple in her mouth.
A sharp slap knocked her off.
"Bad Kitty. Too sensitive. Just... enjoy the tits..."
Evie chuckled, but did as she was told. She settled her chin in the deep valley between Hurlish's breasts. Hurlish was concerned that her pregnancy would see them becoming unmanageably large, a concern that Evie couldn't bring herself to empathize with. They were too wonderful already. Why wouldn't she want more of them?
When the orc's breathing finally stabilized, Evie became aware of a purr rumbling out of her chest. She didn't know when it had begun, but it wasn't something she had any control over. She just let it happen as Hurlish stroked her hair.
Notes:
Welp, I meant to upload this on, like, Tuesday, but I got indecisive about how things would go down. Hopefully the end result is as ~entertaining~ to read as it was for me to write.
Should have the next chapters uploaded sometime tomorrow! No additional smut in those, so if you're anything like me, there won't be a need to repeatedly refresh the page as you get closer to bed time lmao
Chapter 57: Sapphire Mind Games
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic
Renovated Harborside
Thirty-Two Days Until Spring
Sara scanned the bustling docks with a glass of wine in her hand, swirling it between appreciative sips. It was an old vintage, tapped from dusty barrels pried out of some forgotten cellar, and it was exquisite. It was put to cask a decade before the fall of Old Tulian, and had come from a vineyard that specialized in the employment of healing mages tenderly nurturing each vine through the growing season. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that the ruby vintage was the finest wine Sara had ever tasted, including on Earth. Even after centuries of breeding, genetic modification, and scientific rigor, nothing from her home held a candle to the crimson wine in her goblet.
It was the last survivor of Old Tulian's great accomplishments, and before the night was over, it would be gone. She took another slow, savoring sip, committing the flavor to memory. A replacement would be decades in coming, if ever. Fine wine was so far down the Republic's priorities that she wondered if they would ever equal this product, or if they would begin importing foreign stock. The famous vineyards had monopolized the time of dozens of healing mages to make this wine, after all, and those mages could have otherwise saved untold lives.
Once again, Sara was struck by the similarities between this world and her own. The wine was a work of art, possessing an intrinsic beauty that the world would be lesser without, but was it worth the cost? With the wine already made and in her hand, Sara was tempted to say yes, but if she asked the ghosts of those who died without a healer to save them, she doubted they would agree.
At the end of the day, Sara was forced to admit, Tulian under her guidance would never be a nation to create things like this wine. Not for a long, long, time, until the people were so fat and happy that the effort could be spared without concern.
Achieving that distant dream was what this night was for. The gala Sara had opened the cask of priceless wine for was perhaps the single most important evening event had experienced in this world, save for those when her very life had been on the line. The crowd that ebbed and flowed from table to table across the cobblestone harborside was dressed in a garish mixture of eclectic styles, their finest clothes puffed up and put on display. No one in Tulian had garments like this anymore, not since the storms, and the gem-encrusted wealth on display marked them as foreign nobility one and all.
Sara passed a noble man from the Duchy of the Pass, beholden to a middling kingdom off Sporatos's western border. His kingdom had several intervening nations to shield them from Sporatos, and so they had sent only him to this event, rather than a prince or diplomat, as some of the more threatened nations had done. She would engage him in conversation later, but for now, he wasn't a priority. There were over a hundred foreign nobles present, representing the contentious Western Kingdoms across the mountainous border of Sporatos, and Sara's job was now to wind her way through a maddening political maze to earn as much of their favor as was possible.
Peculiarly, Sara's god-given instincts told her not to engage with any of her guests. Not yet. She would reveal too much by displaying who she considered a priority to speak to, and in turn, the others would show a glimpse of their hand should they take the initiative to engage her in conversation. While Evie and Vesta's knowledge of the western kingdoms and their political standings was helpful, their sources were long out of date, and the early hours of this gala would be best spent gathering information.
And it was a gala. Despite the outdoor environs, Sara's feverish preparations had turned a once-grimy stretch of oceanside cobblestone into a veritable fairground. Without the wealth or desire to replicate ornate noble balls, Sara had substituted extravagancy for novelty. The sun had set an hour or so ago, yet the party remained lit by glowing crystals, dropped into glasses of wine on each table. The color of wine and crystal intermixed, split through the etched designs on the glassware, so that each table was soaked in a gentle, entrancing kaleidoscope. Strung about the edge of the function were silk-tied crystals, hung in drooping strings that criss-crossed above the party-goers. They were tied to artfully carved wooden posts, designed as a mixture of contemporary religious imagery and Earthly influences. To Sara's eye, the wooden pillars were miniature totem poles, but instead of Native American mythology, they were shaped into various renditions of this world's gods. Amarat's buxom figure, naturally, was invariably set at eye level, but to avoid showing too much preference for Sara's patron, the placement of the other gods were random, sometimes above her, sometimes below, to preempt the notion that they were being ranked in any fashion.
She did itch slightly at two aspects of the totem poles. She'd been confident in the decisions when she'd commissioned the art, but now that the moment was here, her certainty had faltered. The first hesitation came from the fact that she had depicted all nine major deities, many of whom were banned from worship in the homes of visiting dignitaries. A political faux-pas waiting to happen. The second nerve-wracking decision came from the bottom of each totem pole, where a half-carved face, features blank, always lay. A hint at the tenth, hidden god. She didn't know how many would notice the feature, low as it was, and how many of those would care in the slightest, but it still felt like a risk. It was intended to be a taunt, an opportunity for some hidden agent of the Hidden God to reveal themselves with their reaction, but the risk was considerable.
After all, King Sporatos's primary justification for this invasion was Sara's blasphemy. He and his ministers had been claiming ad nauseam that the Champion had been subverted by dark forces, twisted to fight against what she was meant to protect, and only by her capture and purification could there be peace once more. Publicizing her belief in a tenth god would certainly strengthen that stance. The disparate western kingdoms clearly didn't fully buy his lies, not after hearing so many about themselves, but doing anything to carry his claims was far from ideal.
Steaming food began to be brought out on polished steel platters, set gracefully on tabletops occupied by those not still mingling. Though the servers were dressed in servant's gear, they were actually members of Ignite's Guard, the unlucky few who had been selected to spend the last week practicing their best steward impression. Evie had insisted on the security measure, considering the impossibility of vetting so many foreign guests, and Sara had reluctantly acquiesced. Not because she thought it dishonorable to lie to her guests or anything, she didn't give a rat's ass about them, but because it probably wasn't great for the morale of accomplished and trusted soldiers to spend an evening bussing tables. Sara nodded a silent thanks to a man as he passed her, knowing he'd recognize the motion for what it was. He returned the nod, setting his platter on the table next to her.
The food itself was, as with the rest of the gala, selected for the way its peculiar nature could hide its inexpensiveness. In this case, Sara had personally instructed the chefs in the skill of deep-frying, a technique that she'd realized several months ago to be utterly alien to the continental people. A multitude of breaded fish native to Tulian's shores were being revealed across the gala. Ketch's mother, who had recently returned early from her six month hunting excursion, had said that she'd seen similar dishes in distant lands, but doubted any land-dwellers on this continent were familiar.
Rounds of intrigued oohs and ahs confirmed that theory, much to Sara's satisfaction. She'd instructed the chefs to take the fried fish to the table as soon as possible, so that lifting the lids would produce a dramatic flare of rising steam, and the effect was excellent.
While all seemed appreciative of the strange dish, few were immediately moving to take a plate for themselves, so Sara led by example. She slid a plate up beside the platter, found a choice piece, and used a knife and fork to cut it off for herself. She took her time visibly picking through a few grilled vegetables to grab her favorites, added a saucer of something not unlike remoulade sauce to her plate, and sat down to her meal.
Many soon followed her example, reassured it would not be impolite to select only what interested them, and soon the scattered nobility were coalescing into the seating arrangement she and Evie had spent the last week agonizing over. She primly picked at her fish, dipping small chunks of it into sauce as her own table was slowly populated.
She nodded her greeting to the Marquis of Eastern Vetse, an elderly woman with a stern expression and voluminous dress, who sat first. An attendant emerged from her shadow as she bunched up her dress to sit, the formally-dressed man placing what he believed she would enjoy in an artful arrangement atop her plate.
"Governess Sara," the woman said.
"An honor, Marquis Voronin," Sara replied, when she finished chewing. "Both the reputation of your people and yourself precede you."
"I thank you for the flattery," the Marquis replied, stern as ever, "but I doubt my own personage has been brought to your attention before. I am, after all, the one my liege thought he could spare for the weeks required to travel to this occasion."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "Truly? And here I was delighted that Lord Jinden was intrigued enough by our burgeoning nation to send one of your stature. I am not as versed in the intricacies of Vetse politics as I would prefer, but your patronage of Castle Prokup has produced artifices of a quality I've found enviable, if the reports that reached my ears are to be believed." Sara put her fork aside. "Is it true that your artificers have begun to experiment with the melding of disparate gemstones, so that energetic reserves may be distributed to those devices that most require them?"
The elderly Marquis was far too experienced to show visible interest in Sara's words, but the immediacy of her reply belied her positive reception to the topic.
"In a fashion, yes, though I cannot speak to the validity of the rumors which have reached you here, as I know not what you have heard. The artificers seek to mollify the effects of drain upon enchantments when tools are ensconced in lifeless castles through many methods, entanglement being among them."
"There are other methods you are pursuing, then?" Sara hummed thoughtfully. "Our own artificers are regrettably amateurish compared to your carefully cultivated experts. We are a long way from seeking innovation, rather than mere replication. I still harbor hope that my otherworldly experiences will afford a perspective that shall open new avenues in artificery, but as is always the problem, I am far too occupied to dedicate the requisite time to research."
"You have a passion for artificery, Governess?" Marquis Voronin asked, the fascinated tilt to her question unbefitting her apathetic expression. "I would not have expected that to be a discipline attractive to Amarat's Champion."
She'd not yet swallowed the bait that Sara had dangled regarding her alternative approaches to artificing, but she was nibbling it curiously.
"Perhaps not, but you see," Sara dropped her voice as if whispering a secret, "my father was a sort of natural philosopher, in my old world. He focused on the shaping and alteration of landscapes, both by natural and artificial means, and some of his knowledge and passion for discovery was passed on to me." To let the insinuation hang, Sara took a bite of her fish, then dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "He would have truly loved the opportunity to study all that this wonderful land has to offer. More than any of the friends and family I left behind when Amarat called me to my destiny, I miss my father's company the most. I suppose my interest in artificery is an attempt to honor his memory, even if it does not fully align to my natural inclinations. It simply feels like the right thing to do."
The stern expression of the Marquis cracked by just the slightest degree, corners of her eyes crinkling with an expression both appreciative and calculative.
If the woman had been anyone other than a noble parasite, Sara might have felt bad for speaking as she did. This was manipulation, plain and simple. Sara knew from Evie's reports that Lady Voronin was a recent widow to an accomplished noble mage, a man was survived by very many children. Evie's sources spoke disdainfully of the Marquis's protective and doting treatment of her now-grown children, as well as repeated criticism leveled at the rate at which she was draining her House's resources to bolster a "Castle Prokup." It seemed to Sara that the woman, overcome by grief, had tried to honor her husband's legacy by funding the fortifications which he had helped improve throughout his life.
The Marquis was the noble Sara considered most easily swayed to her cause. Castle Prokup was located in a mountain pass between Sporatos and the western kingdoms, and served as the first line of defense against invasion for the nearby city of Vetse, of which she was an occupant. If heartless manipulation of the woman's vulnerabilities was necessary, she would do it without a second thought. No matter how pitiable of a widow she was, her political power was hereditary, and she had no love for commoners. As with near everyone at this gala, Sara intended to take her for all she was worth.
The rest of Sara's precisely curated table guests began filtering in, and Sara gamely greeted them each by name. In normal circumstances, she would have hated every one of them, but tonight her smile was warm and seemingly genuine.
The western kingdoms had a reputation in Sporatos as being populated by a disorganized, rabble-rousing people, and the stereotype wasn't without basis. The region's borders were in constant unmanageable flux, only the core cities and immediate populations truly loyal to their kings. The nobility populating the borders between the innumerable dwarf kingdoms were opportunistic as a rule, and their allegiances were laughably easy to sway from king to king. Skirmishes between lords fighting for land were thus constant, and the peasants, as always, bore the brunt of the suffering. By all accounts, even living in the oppressive lands of Sporatos was preferable to such chaos.
Evie and Vesta had done their best to appraise Sara of the political quagmire that her guests were tangled in, but there was only so much they could do. The rest had been up to Sara, who would have to trust in her diplomatic prowess to avoid stepping on any toes. Thoughts of the gala had filled her last week with lip-biting anxiety, spending hours memorizing expansive reports compiled by Vesta's staff and Evie's recollection of her diplomatic training.
Then, when the gala had finally arrived, Sara had been filled with a profound sense of relief. As the first guests had begun to filter in, time had frozen in a way it had not for months, a brief paragraph of text hanging in the air before her.
Ability Revealed: Senses of Amarat
A creature at home amonst elegant socialites and mangled rioters alike, the Champion of Amarat thrives in the midst of a crowd. Nothing may evade her notice. Every murmured whisper, shifting robe, and scratching quill is worthy of her attention.
While Sara greeted the next round of guests, her mind was being bombarded by hundreds of separate conversations. From the moment the Ability had activated, an endless torrent of information had begun roaring through her mind, showing no signs of slowing. She heard the Duke of the Pass bantering potentially traitorous remarks with the Count of Salojin, the frustrated grunts of soldiers disguised as serving staff, the snickering of a Barug Viscount trading insults with a Milen Countess regarding their mutual enemy of Aranra, and on and on and on. Voices overlapped into a titanic clamor in her mind, as if hundreds of people were speaking directly into her ear, so many that it should have been overwhelming, and yet–
She could understand it all.
Every word, every breath, every licked lip and subtle sigh, they were noted, catalogued, and committed to her memory. Some alien certainty told her that every comment was being permanently engraved into her mind. Decades from now, she knew she would be able to perfectly quote the entirety of the evening's conversation without the slightest bit of effort.
And so it was that Sara was able to entertain the guests at her table with a smile and flourish, losing nothing at all from staying in one place. As soon as she'd told Evie of the ability, the feline had retreated to a corner, reading the notes Sara had studied in a quiet whisper, so that the Ability would commit them permanently to her mind. Once Evie finished that, Sara knew every face and every name, every nuance they held, and was kept actively appraised of their attempts to form alliances and trade information throughout the gala.
And there was a great deal to be learned. The event was a rare one for the western kingdoms, who were too antagonistic to have gathered in such fashion among their homelands. The Tulian Republic, by virtue of opposing their single mutual enemy of Sporatos, was uniquely neutral territory. Nobles and officials of all ranks were seizing the opportunity to parlay with opponents and distant rivals, barbs and bribes exchanged in equal measure.
And Sara, it bore repeating, heard it all. In a handful of minutes, she went from a nervous party host to the foremost expert on western continental politics, and she'd not lifted a finger to do so. She even learned gossip from the noble's attendants, including but not limited to salacious affairs, children secretly borne of peasant fathers, and several secessionist plots.
Actually, the secessionist plots were a great deal more than 'several.' A plethora, perhaps, or maybe a teeming multitude. The western kingdoms were earning their reputation for dishonesty. Running through her rapidly expanding index of political facts, Sara couldn't find a single kingdom that didn't have at least one noble planning to break away to some other liege. In several cases, several lower-ranking nobles of Kingdom A were even intending to break away to be swept under the Duke of Kingdom B, who was himself intending to defect to Kingdom A. Barely anyone seemed to find it unusual; it was just the way of things.
And so Sara spent the opening stages of the meal absorbing thousands of pieces of political intrigue, no matter how quietly they were whispered, or, she eventually realized, what language they were spoken in. Even several coded sign languages, tossed subtly between secret allies, were added to her repertoire of plain-english knowledge.
Er, perhaps english. Evie said she was actually speaking Continental, which sounded no different to Sara than english. Was that thanks to divinely-complex translation magic, Continental being a direct analogue to english, or something stranger? She'd never cared enough to investigate, and now that aspects of her Abilities were even translating other languages for her, she doubted she ever would.
When the first course was finished, Sara concluded her conversation with those that had been selected to be seated with her, apologetically excusing herself from the gala for a few short minutes. Her noble guests, by then thoroughly wrapped around her finger, had no objection other than the loss of pleasant company.
Sara weaved her way through the open plaza, collecting Evie with a nod as she went. The feline made a quick excuse to the higher-ranking servants she'd been charming and fell into step with Sara.
"Do you think they're ready?" Sara asked quietly.
"They had better be. They've had far too long to prepare this project," Evie whispered back.
"Ah, you should cut 'em some slack. It's high-stakes stuff that they're working with."
"All the more reason they should have been prepared well before the final hour."
Sara and Evie slipped through the guarded cordon surrounding the plaza, slinking off into the dark streets beyond, moving as if heading to the Peasant's Theatre. Once they were out of sight of the plaza, and once Evie had confirmed they were not being followed, they diverted for a brief while. Sara found the back door of the Artificer's Quarterhouse in short order, rapping a brief coded knock on the door. A slot was opened, the guard within confirming her identity, and then the door was flung open, Sara and Evie hurriedly ushered in.
Sara was promptly guided down a set of stairs to a crowded cellar, where nearly two dozen former Carrion artificers were pressed up against the walls. Dominating the center of the floor was an inordinately complex circular glyph, decorated with gemstones and marked out by multicolored chalks. Much like the party, Sara could hear every piece of conversation in the room, but unlike the political intrigue, she comprehended next to nothing. Despite what she'd claimed in front of the Marquis, Sara didn't understand the damndest thing about artificing, and the technical terms being batted back and forth were alien to her.
Pretending she knew more than she did, she stared closer at the fifteen-foot wide glyph on the floor. The gemstones set in interwoven rows were gleaming diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, and the chalk that connected them was filled with powdered gemstones of equal value. Evie had told her that the coin and effort expended to acquire the ritual's supplies could have constructed three whole copies of Nora's flagship, the previous single greatest expense in the Tulian Republic. Despite that, she was convinced it was worth it.
"Are we ready?" Sara loudly asked, startling several of the artificers who hadn't noticed her arrival. The clamor rose, arguments breaking out over the answer. Sara allowed them a brief moment of debate, until eventually one young woman stepped forward, wringing her hands.
"I believe we are, Governess, but the concerns are great. Such is the expense of the ritual, we find ourselves wishing for ever more time to prepare."
"You said the same thing ten days ago," Sara reminded the woman. "Has anything changed between then and now? Any problems that your examinations found?"
"Well, no, but the consequences of failure–"
"I'm well aware of the consequences," Sara interrupted. "You've been ready for over a week, and all of your checking and re-checking has found no flaws. We've consulted with experts, who agreed that all seemed in order. Your caution is both warranted and appreciated, but I've begun to see the signs of anxious procrastination. I'll ask only one more time, and I want you to be truly honest with yourself, because tonight is the final night I wished to delay: are you ready?"
The woman wrung her hands harder, until the skin turned white. Timidly, she nodded. "I suppose we are, Governess. There's... not anything, I think, that extra time would bring us."
"Then I want you to begin the ritual. He's ready and waiting, but don't rush your procedures. We've only got one chance, and I want you to do it right."
"Yes, ma'am," the artificer said, retreating with a small bow. Sara still hadn't succeeded in squeezing that habitual servitude out of the Carrion immigrants.
Sara stepped out of the way as the artificers began to set their arcane process into motion. The flurry of activity filling the cellar reminded Sara of documentaries on the moon landing, where every person in Mission Control was utterly focused on their single task. Gemstones were being empowered, numbers called out, and nails bitten all across the room.
Evie's tail came to rest against the small of Sara's back. "And what will we do if the ritual fails, Master?"
"Hell if I know," Sara admitted in a careful whisper. "Probably swear a whole, whole lot, then go back to the gala. Not like there's anything we could do about it."
"I suppose not, no."
The artificers grew quieter by degrees as their focus intensified, each active participant absorbed into their tasks, those who had finished or had no role silently stepping to the side. Sara took her own instinctive step back as the woman she'd spoken to placed the largest gemstone of all down in the center of the circle, the contact of which summoned up a brilliant multicolored arc of light.
An ozone scent filled the air as the whiplike tendril of energy snapped to the next closest gem, radiating upward like the free-burning arc of faulty electrical equipment. The artificers who had still been standing within the confines of the glyph leapt away just in time, the crackling beam of energy intensifying by the millisecond. A second fork branched off from the main gemstone, connecting to a smaller piece, then another, then another, the energy doubling with each iteration until the entire cellar was awash with rainbow light.
In moments it was so bright that Sara had to watch through squinted eyes, the entire fifteen-foot glyph hidden by a writhing surface of electric arcs. She tasted iron in her mouth, and her hair stood on end. It was so loud that Sara could only tell that the artificers were speaking to one another thanks to her new Ability, and she added her hands to Evie's own to cover her sensitive ears.
Abruptly, as if a switch had been flicked, the rainbow vibrancy turned sheer, blinding white. The crackling rocketed up into a higher pitch, oscillations spiraling until there was nothing but a whining hum filling the air. It was like standing directly behind a jet engine at full throttle. Evie began involuntarily backing up the stairway, face twisted in a painful grimace, and Sara grabbed her head and tucked it into her body, using her chest to muffle the sound as best she could.
Then, without any warning, the light and noise vanished. The abruptness of it was so disorienting that Sara stumbled forward, expecting some explosion or thunderclap. Instead there was pure, absolute silence, the room dark once more.
And then Sara heard the sound of a book being shut, a man shifting in a chair. She gingerly lifted her hands from Evie's ears, turning around.
"Far from a perfect transference, but rather admirable for your young group's first attempt. You have my commendations, artificers. I would appreciate the names of those involved in the outer Ti-Lae's forming in particular, as I imagine I will formally promote them from Apprentice shortly."
Garen, former mage of House Vesta, was looking down at the partially obliterated glyphs that surrounded his feet. He wore a comfortable set of undyed silken robes, sitting cross-legged atop a sturdy padded chair. To his left and right were locked chests, and behind him was a bookcase stuffed with tomes and scrolls. He finished glancing at the glyphs, looking up at Sara with a smile. His attractive salt-and-pepper beard was unchanged from their last meeting, so many months prior.
"Ah, hello, Sara. A pleasure to see you again. I trust this little dalliance hasn't taken you away from your duties for too long?"
-----------------------------------
Garen
-----------------------------------
The Champion had been eager to take Garen back to the party, but he had insisted on a minor detour to the "Artificing Guild" rooftop, wanting to survey the works that had been undertaken.
The restorative efforts that Tulian had undergone, both the city and the nation, were impressive. The harbor had seen the most transformative efforts, of course, particularly among the glowing site of the social function he could see reflecting off the corner of dockside rooftops, but the rest of the city was in remarkable shape. Very few buildings had any gaping holes remaining, most patched over by wood, with even an effort made to match original coloration. The rubble was wholly cleared, the streets kept free and easy to navigate. Perhaps most impressively, the holes in the city walls were absent, as if they'd never existed. He would have to ask the Champion about her methodology, later.
Once this initial survey was done, he allowed Sara to escort him below. The streets were lit by a cadre of well-equipped guards carrying torches, their metallic footsteps heralding the group's approach for a great ways ahead of their marching. He wondered if all the city defenders were so outfitted, or if this was an experienced detail meant to impress. Sara did not strike him as the type to overstate her capabilities to a prospective ally, but how could he know that? She was the Champion of Amarat. She would strike him however she so pleased.
"So," he intoned, breaking the less-than-comfortable silence, "the building's foundations are sound? Near to the sea as it was, I expect you encountered many structural faults."
"The building?" Sara asked, squinting for a moment before her eyes brightened. "Oh! The university. Sorry, got a lot of stuff on my mind right now."
"I can imagine," Garen said drolly. And he could. He had been watching her closely. The Champion still lacked an aura indicative of life, but now surrounding her was a most peculiar synergy. What he had initially taken for eclectic godmagic was in fact a densely woven net of interdisciplinary magework, rather similar in shape to the questing tendrils of deepwater predators. It was similar reacting to every twitch in the immediate vicinity, but rather than unaware prey, it drew platonic aural information towards her with that same intimidating alacrity. He would have to surreptitiously investigate it, later.
"The university wasn't too bad off, compared to some of the shitholes we had to fix up," Sara elaborated, "though I'll admit my standards are probably warped. The second and third floor are still airing out, and won't be available for a few more days. Many of the lower floors had rotted support timbers, which we replaced with concrete."
"Concrete?"
"A manufacturable form of stone that I've introduced to Tulian. I'll show you the details, of course, but for now you can just know that I've bolstered as much I could without ripping open half the interior to inspect every nook and cranny. I was tempted to order it done, but with the asinine way people construct things here, we might as well have torn down the whole thing and started over."
"You think the architecture of the city is asinine, Sara?" Garen asked, amused.
"Oh, gods, yes. It can be pretty, but it's got so many problems. Don't get me started on it right now, because I'll never stop."
He chuckled. "If you insist."
With that avenue of discussion nipped in the bud, the topic meandered back to the university. After months of exchanging letters with the Champion, Garen had finally allowed himself to be lured into her political embrace, courtesy of the promise of becoming a headmaster. Falling under her banner had felt inevitable from the start, considering the potential she represented, but he felt a modicum of pride at how long he had resisted her serenading. Control of a university, no matter how small, was the final straw that had snapped his resolve. The Champion's promise of nigh-unlimited research authority, as towering a budget as she could reasonably tolerate, and a cadre of students-slash-assistants was too sweet a deal to resist.
That the war was short in coming did not overly concern him. Sara had prepared her people as finely as any seasoned general, and if victory were possible, he believed she would find it. Even if she should fail, Garen had been assured that her romantic partners would not allow her to fight to the death. In the event Tulian fell, she intended to flee the country, rather than die a martyr's death, and Garen would be welcome to escape with her. Garen did not know what she intended to do after such an eventuality, but reasoned it would be an incredibly violent path, which he would subsequently extricate himself from.
Their conversation came to a grinding halt as the street opened up before them, the black sea stretching away to the murky walls encircling the harbor. Sara ordered their guards to march in column to their right, so that their left was exposed, and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially to Garen.
"Ready to earn your keep, big boy?"
He sighed. "I suppose now is as good a time as any. My absence from Sporatos would have been noticed in short order, regardless."
"Attaboy."
With a coded whistle, Sara set the guards into motion once more.
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Sara
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Sara kept up a pleasant rapport with Garen as they walked past the docks, slowly approaching the lights of the gala. This was why she had pressured the artificers to complete the teleportation ritual tonight, and she wasn't going to let it go to waste. While Sara may have known the archmage had sworn off violence, many of the western kingdom did not, and to a select number of them, his face was known.
Sara absorbed their reactions as she and her Guard marched past the party. She, Garen, and Evie were walking shoulder-to-shoulder, discussing nothing of importance. While most took notice of the ostentatious escort, few recognized Garen. Those that did, however, stuck out like a sore thumb. Sara watched their posture straighten, their drinks forgotten, freezing with food halfway to their mouth. Many began whispering to one another, or to their servants, their reactions varying wildly.
"The Tiger of Salacia resides in Tulian? But it was said he swore an oath..."
"She spoke of artificers acquired from the Carrions, but an archmage?"
"The requests she spoke of in her invitation make no sense, milord, if she has him..."
"Could it perhaps be an illusion? Pribena, see if you can approach to confirm his corporeality, but do not allow yourself to be caught..."
Sara didn't let her running commentary dwindle, a flawless poker face giving nothing away as she absorbed each and every comment. She mentally marked those that knew Garen for what he was, so she could point them out to Evie and Vesta. The former Sporaton noblewoman was in attendance as well, representing the economical angle of Tulian's glimmering lures. Sara could hear her describing the wonders of Azarketi-kelp tights at that very moment.
Though they walked slowly past the gala, it was only a few short minutes before Garen was out of sight. He let out a relieved sigh, slumping from the authoritative posture he'd maintained.
"I do hope my presence achieved the desired effect, Sara. I do not much enjoy being trotted out like an exotic pet, and wouldn't want to do so again."
"Oh, trust me, it worked great," Sara said. "I appreciate the help. Now, do you want me to take you all the way to your quarters at the university, or are you fine with the Guard escorting you?"
"The Guard will suffice. Truthfully, I only need a guide. There is little for me to fear in this city."
Sara's expression twisted. "I wouldn't bet on that, big guy. I've gotten some pretty ominous warnings from people that know what they're talking about, yourself included. Champions tend to draw out some of the heavy caliber nasties, and if any are lurking in the city already, I'd rather you not end up as their appetizer."
Garen raised an eyebrow. "Finally taking my advice, are you?"
"That, and the warning of a batshit crazy pseudo-prophet. Also, keeping my girlfriend happy."
"The most important of all, naturally," Evie deadpanned, speaking up for nearly the first time. She'd been too focused on guarding two of Tulian's most important individuals to contribute much.
Garen laughed. "Of course, of course. Well, then. I will leave you to your duties, Sara. Or should I say Governess?"
"Governess, I guess, when we're in public. But feel free to keep it casual in private."
Garen bowed his head. "Then I will bid you adieu, Governess. I believe we will have much to discuss, come morning."
"Looking forward to it," Sara said, inclining her own head. She waved the Guard forward, watching with satisfaction as they professionally encased Garen within a protective bubble. She and Evie watched him go for a moment, silent.
"He will be a powerful asset, Master," Evie said after a moment's contemplation.
"No doubt. Even if he doesn't fight, his lessons will build Tulian a core of experienced mages in a decade, instead of a century."
"And you are comfortable with affording one individual such power, Master? It seems rather antithetical to your ideology."
Sara blew air through her nose, chewing her cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I'm fine with it. Not like we've got much choice, anyway. With how Classes and shit work, it was only a matter of time until we ended up with ticking time bombs living in our midst. Mages are too powerful to trust, too useful to avoid. At least I know Garen, unlike whatever rando would have risen in his place some day."
"I am grateful you are properly considering the implications, Master. In the egalitarian society we are striving for, controlling the influence of individuals such as Garen will be perhaps your greatest challenge. I recommend you use his time at the university as a testing ground for the appropriate legal measures to restrict the soft political authority lent him by his prowess."
"Ugh. You're right. Hopefully he'll be as interested in legalese as he is in magic." Sara ran a hand through her hair, correcting its small imperfections. "You ready to go back to the party?"
"Only if I am finally to accompany you properly, Master."
In answer, Sara stuck out her elbow. Evie looped her arm through, and together they turned back to the gala, hips pressed together. With the feline back at Sara's side, she finally felt as confident as she looked. Between the manifestation of her new Ability and Garen's successful teleportation, the evening could only have been improved by Hurlish's presence off her other hip.
The orc, of course, would vehemently disagree. There was nothing more detestable to her than a political soiree, and in that regard, Sara couldn't blame her. Before becoming Amarat's Champion, she would have even agreed. She'd just have to make it up to the smith when they got home.
When Sara slipped through the cordon and rejoined the party, she was quickly swarmed by nobles trying to hide their boiling curiosity. She greeted them each with a smile, introducing Evie to them as her partner, and got to work.
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Well past midnight, Sara flopped down into a chair, exhausted. Evie fell down on top of her a millisecond later, limp limbs dangling off the sides of the chair. Neither woman cared that there were a multitude of staff working to clear the gala's decorations around them. Hours upon hours of high-society propriety had drained every drop of formality from their tired bones.
But, as evidenced by the goods being transferred in secluded chambers across the city, it had been an incredibly successful evening. Each of Sara's letters had included, buried amongst the nauseating pomp necessary to assuage noble egos, subtle hints. Little whispers of what she really wanted from this meeting, with according suggestions of what she would have to offer in exchange. She'd publicly claimed the gala was a meeting of Sporatos's enemies, an opportunity to being forging a more united front to face down the gargantuan kingdom, but that'd been a sham. Even though she did manage to ease some tensions in the western kingdoms, that was the most abstract of victories. No minuscule kingdoms hundreds and hundreds of miles separated would be coming to Tulian's aid, no matter how well she sweet-talked them. No, the objective of this gala had been far more concrete.
The noble carriages that had entered the city had carried with them much of what she'd desired, including plates of refined blacksteel, ensorcelled garments, copies of secret alliance treaties, and a plethora of other, more esoteric items.
For a chest full of Azarketi garments, the Duke of the Pass had exchanged for several magecraft glyphs copied from his kingdom's rivals, The Nocht Isles. While not enough to construct a magecraft on their own, the designs were a start that she never could have acquired otherwise. Nora would be positively salivating when she found out.
The Marquis of Vetse had proven one of the largest suckers, providing Sara not just one set of long-distance speaking crystals, but five, and for a fraction of the valuable tropic spices Sara had originally been willing to trade for them . When she'd seen the Marquis had arrived with only one spare luggage carrier, Sara had ordered several transport wagons to be prepared for the spices she knew the Marquis was so dearly loved. Now she didn't even need to give her those!
Communication crystals, in particular, had been among Sara's greater priorities. They were the current apex of artificing skill, and could transmit voices with perfect clarity across arbitrary distances. Unlike the Marquis, nobles whose husbands hadn't been mages often acquired very few pairs, such was their expense, and issued them to far-off diplomats or generals in the field. That wasn't how Sara herself intended to use them, of course, but it was a testament to their rarity.
All in all, the various representatives of the western kingdoms had likely walked away mildly dissatisfied. While the trade deals Sara had brokered would tide them over, she knew many of them had hoped she would be pleading on hands and knees for their aid, promising them whatever she thought would earn their favor against Sporatos in the coming conflict. That she hadn't irked them something fierce, and more than one had made this subtly known. Sara had made a less than stellar impression overall, and even likely earned herself a few enemies.
Like I give a shit.
Sara giggled. It had been bafflingly easy to convince the western kingdoms that yes, she did hate nobles, slavery, and feudalism as a whole, but no ser, certainly not your brand of oppression. Unlike all the other rabble-rousers, those corrupt lords and ladies, you are a truly chivalric example of nobility, and we would be oh-so- honored to work with you.
Sara giggled again. Morons.
She hadn't quite robbed them blind, but she'd done her damndest to get close. Her diplomatic prowess, absurd from the start, had shone like never before with Senses of Amarat. She might as well have been lying to toddlers, convincing them that the cookie jar was poisonous to anyone but adults, so ignorant of her intentions were they.
Between the tenuous trade deals, influx of foreign coin, and enchanted goods, Vesta estimated before leaving the party that Tulian's entire net worth had just jumped up by ten percent. The former noblewoman was actually cautioning Sara about distributing her spoils all at once, worried that it might spark a brief period of inflation. Sara wasn't sure if she'd hold off, but the fact she had to consider the possibility was absolutely delicious.
"You look ready for bed," Sara noted, patting Evie's back.
"I am," Evie groaned, words muffled between Sara's breasts. "But you haven't seen to me at all today. The collar hungers."
"The collar, huh?" Sara chuckled.
"Of course." Evie craned her neck up, looking at Sara with an expression of pure innocence. "Do you really think I would suffer such humiliation without its compulsions?" Evie pressed quick peck to Sara's lips. "Don't be absurd, Master. I'm not nearly so beholden to my body's desires."
"Tell the truth."
Evie's collar flashed, and she grinned wickedly.
"If it were even remotely feasible, I would wrap my legs around your hips and never let go, spending the rest of my life impaled on your cock."
Sara rolled her eyes. "I don't think the command required you to be that descriptive."
"But it did compel me to speak truthfully, Master."
"Which is... huh." Sara blinked. "Really? The rest of your life?"
Evie returned to her face-down press between Sara's tits and hummed. "I certainly feel so at the moment, Master. Perhaps it would grow old, eventually. We would have to try to find out."
"I guess you're probably not the most reliable judge of your long-term desires, at the moment." Evie was doing her best to discretely rub her pussy along Sara's thigh, so that she could get friction without the staff noticing. "You'll have to wait a little bit longer, though. Hurlish would kill us if we left her out."
"I can go twice, Master. I'm sure there's an abandoned building nearby."
"You may be able to go twice, but we both know you're not going to stop once we get started." Sara stretched her arms out, then stood, scooping the feline up in her arms. "C'mon, let's go. Hurlish is probably as impatient as you are, by now."
"Mm," Evie hummed into Sara's shoulder, equal parts disappointment and agreement. "The things we do for love."
"Yeah, yeah, you're such a romantic. Now come on and get walking, or it'll take longer for us to get home."
Evie dropped from Sara, but not before rolling her hips into her crotch one last time. This time, Sara felt certain, at least a few of the staff noticed. Oh, well. It was on-brand for the Champion of Amarat.
Notes:
FUCK I FORGOT TO UPLOAD I GOT ONE MINUTE LEFT FOR SUNDAY
Edit: 11:59 upload. That still counts! But more importantly, my favorite litrpg-lesbian-erotica-whatever-we-call-this-genre just updated for the first time in a year! If you want to read the story that inspired this series, one which I still feel does a number of things better than my own, go read Isekai Tentacle Monster Queen by LadyTyrannica!
Chapter 58: Friends In Low Places
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic
Unnamed Mage's University
Thirty-One Days Until Spring
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Garen
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The first night in his new quarters had been a productive one, Garen decided. His wards had been easily accepted by the former headmaster's domicile, and the old occupant's protective measures had been easy enough to sweep aside, considering the decade of inattention. After arranging the room to his liking, he had got to work.
First among his priorities was an evaluation of the energies within the city. A proper appraisal would only be possible on foot, but traipsing across the whole of Tulian was obviously inactionable at present. Instead he cast his senses out from within his quarters, trailing delicate silken wires across the city. Several encountered magical reserves considerable enough to prickle at his consciousness, but only in the places he had expected: the new Artificer's Guild, and the Peasant's Theatre in which the Champion resided. The only oddity was the bay, something within which, upon his probing, had brusquely severed the line with the finality of a leviathan. The severance feedback had set his right eye twitching uncontrollably for minutes. He did not know what it was, but Sara had preemptively cautioned him to leave well enough alone the subaquatic portions of Tulian, and so he was not overly alarmed. Likely something resided there that she would appraise him of in time. If she took too long, he would take up a more delicate investigation, but not for weeks yet.
Morning had long since broken when he emerged from his preliminary casing of the city. He cracked open his eyes and other senses to find, surprisingly, two guards still posted beyond his door. He had ordered them all away once his first stage of wards had been emplaced. It was rare that he found individuals loyal enough to their masters that they would knowingly disobey an archmage, and though their presence irked him, he knew it spoke well of Sara's governance.
Great power and authority, unfortunately, had not yet robbed him of his pettiness, and so he threw open the doors suddenly, striding out in his bathrobe. The guards, loyal though they may be, leapt back while readying their weapons.
"Has anyone been to see me while I slept?"
"Ah! Oh. No, sir, no one has arrived, not yet." The man that answered him hastily returned his halberd to its resting position. "We were told to case the lower grounds before the Governess's midday arrival by Steward Evie, but also were ordered not to leave your presence by the Governess."
"And the hour?" Garen asked, ignoring the contradictory commands they were laboring under. He already knew the time, and wished to move on to other questions, but asking after such things helped stymie mysticism from growing about his person.
"About half through the morning, sir."
"And neither of you have taken a break since last evening?"
The man and woman guarding his door looked at one another, as if unsure of how to answer. Timidly, the woman answered.
"We're were ordered to guard yer door, sir."
"And you would have continued doing that for exactly how long?"
The woman shrugged, plainly discomforted by speaking to one such as Garen. "'Till we couldn't, sir."
"Or until we were ordered otherwise, of course."
"O'course."
Dangerously loyal, Garen appraised. Soldiers willing to work to their own detriment were the shining ideal of many a military commander, but he had seen what that dedication could do when poorly directed. Another topic to address with Sara.
"Well then, if you are to be outside my door until such time as the stars fall from the sky, I think it best you are educated on the dangers. My wards, should you act with Intent to breach them, will kill you. It will be a very loud, messy death. You are soldiers, so I'm sure you know the sort. The kind of death meant to dissuade others from trying their hand at the action which provoked it."
Twin gulps proved their satisfactory comprehension, so he continued.
"So long as you make contact with the bounds of my chambers without Intent to cause mischief, you will be perfectly safe. I do recommend, however, that if this place should come under attack, and you are unable to prevent the aggressors from reaching the door, you adhere to the following procedure." Garen untucked his hands from his bathrobe, demonstrating the motions as he spoke. "Place both palms to your ears firmly, like so, and open your mouth very wide while closing your eyes. Just before the enemy comes into physical contact with my chambers, throw yourself to the floor in a clear, open space. The debris tends to collect in corners, and it may be difficult for healers to locate your body if you take shelter there."
To Garen's pleasant surprise, the two guards did not allow their obviously frayed nerves to get the better of them. The man even took his helmet off, tucking it beneath an armpit, and mimicked Garen's posture.
"Like this, sir?"
"Open your mouth wider. Equalizing the pressure is necessary to prevent the inversion of your lungs. Good. Now, in the actual event, you would want to shove your palms over your ears as hard as possible, but that's rather painful, so don't do so now."
Halfway through his explanation, the woman had taken her helmet off to practice as well. He made a few adjustments to their positions until satisfied, then motioned for them to lower their hands.
"That will do. It would seem the Governess does not intend to leave me unguarded, so if any others come to replace you on this station, please familiarize themselves with those protocols." Now that the busywork was done, he turned to the matter that actually interested him. "You referred to Evie, the Governess's partner, as a 'Steward?' I was not aware she held any titles at all."
Of all the things thus far, this innocuous question got the soldiers the most consternated. They repeatedly traded anxious glances while hemming and hawing, scratching their necks while starting and cutting short a half-dozen sentences. The better part of a minute passed before they settled on any single explanation. It was the woman, with her heavy rural dialect, that got herself together first.
Well, for a measure of 'got herself together.' It was still a rather rambling explanation.
"Well, she doesn't, sir, none to her name, 'far as we're aware– we bein' the soldiers– but she's one of the important sorts, y'see, both in the military and the, uh, civilianery, and so just callin' her 'Evie' don't feel right, so we was getting to talkin' about what to call her, when we weren't talkin' right to her, 'cause then it's easy 'cause you just say yes'm and no'm, and the thing we came up with for her was steward, like a lord's house, 'cept she's THE steward, of all'a Tulian, if y'take my meaning? I hope?"
Garen nodded slowly, digesting the explanation by degrees. "I... believe I follow. It seems you felt improper without an honorific title for one who holds such authority, and created your own to soothe the guilt?"
"Er... yessir. Sounds 'bout right."
"Then I suppose the choice of 'Steward' is apt. I would recommend clearing it with the Governess, however. She has quite an aversion to any terminology which resembles the framework of nobility, as I'm sure you're aware. Perhaps..." Garen tapped his bearded chin thoughtfully. "Steward of the State, to be used as the full title? The Governess has often spoken to me of wishing to emphasize the authority of the nation as a whole, rather than any individual's influence. I believe 'Steward of the State' would be appropriately deferential to the Tulian nation, rather than implying Evie's authority is drawn from the Governess herself."
"But... ain't it?" The woman asked meekly.
"At present, yes. But the Governess doesn't enjoy that fact, and endeavors to change it. Regardless, the choice is yours. I offer only advice. You said the Governess is to arrive at noon?"
"Yessir. And she's an awfully punctual sort."
More like Evie is an effective manager, Garen thought. "Thank you for the information. As for whether you should sweep the interior for hidden threats or remain guarding my door, I recommend you guard my door. It is generally safer for one's career to follow the orders of your master's master, when conflicting demands arise. I will be in my chamber in the meantime, preparing for her arrival."
"Should we, uh," the man eyed the warded doors of Garen's chamber with a new respect, "knock? Or holler?"
"There will be no need. I will note her arrival."
"Aye, sir."
Garen retreated back into his headmaster's room, waving the door shut with a thud. Good kids, those guards. Better than most of Vesta's staff. Should they apply for mage training, he would expedite their application.
"Now," Garen said, clapping his hands as he looked about the room. "Where to start?"
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Sara
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Sara clomped up the university's stairs in her most practical set of boots, the leather tips of which had been completely worn through to the steel tips beneath. Evie gracefully flowed up the tarnished steps in her latest armor-padded dress to Sara's right, the elegance of her bearing at odds with the university's ruined interior. Hurlish had remained outside to shepherd the package to the interior courtyard, her soot-stained biceps necessary to overcome any obstacle that required lifting the fifteen-hundred-pound contents, but would be joining them shortly.
The once-vaunted Tulian University was a shadow of its former self. Insects had eaten away all of the cloth, rugs, and softer decorations of the building, leaving rain-soiled wood the only surface visible. Sara had ordered even the better-preserved portions of the building's wallpapers peeled off and discarded, both because she wished to inspect the bones of the building, and because it was ugly as sin. Apparently tacky yellow floral designs were preferred by the doddering elderly even in this world.
They completed their climb up the stairs and turned a corner, heading down a hallway that Sara knew well from her overseeing of the renovation.
"I really don't envy any student that's trying to figure this place out on their first day," Sara noted to Evie. As the university had been built on a steep hill, before the earliest Old Tulian mages had terraformed the city to a more level grade, they were still technically on the first floor. How high the so-called first floor was, and how many flights of stairs it took to reach it, varied considerably depending on one's location within the university.
"They are to be the elite of Tulian's intellectuals, Master. Surely an irritating floor plan will be beneath their concern."
"Just 'cause you're good at drawing glyphs doesn't mean you know which first floor set of stairs actually takes you to the first floor."
"Perhaps." Evie picked something off the bust of her dress while they walked, flicking it to the floor. "I suppose it might be better to consider it not a 'first floor,' but a 'street level' floor. The other floors, basements, and sub-basements could be labeled not by floor, but their relative height to the exterior street."
"Huh. Good idea. I'll have to pass it on to whoever ends up in charge of drawing the signs for this place."
"I'm sure such minutiae will be at the forefront of your mind, however many months from now that concern becomes relevant."
"Hey, a girl can dream. Maybe Amarat'll give me a perfect-recall ability. That'd be sweet."
"As if you need any more divine aid when it comes to social matters."
Sara's lips quirked up. "Weren't you the one that told me you would happily take any divine aid offered to you, no matter the reason or source?"
"Yes, but that's a far cry from actually requesting it."
"Well, what's the point of knowing I have an unfathomably powerful being watching my every step if I can't put in a request every now and then? I think I've earned it."
"You aren't even certain what your Quest is, Master, beyond the nebulous idea of opposing evil. How can you be sure Amarat is not profoundly dissatisfied with your work thus far?"
Sara shrugged helplessly. "Lack of hellfire ripping my body apart from the inside out? Who knows. Considering the whole thing with Hurlish and the crib, I think Amarat's plenty capable of giving me a nudge in the right direction if she wanted to. You ask me, it's really on her if I'm going the wrong way."
Evie pinched the bridge of her nose. "Master, please do not antagonize a god. It never works out in the favor of mortals, I assure you."
Sara rolled her eyes, but did glance at the ceiling. "Sorry, sorry. Hope you've got a sense of humor, big girl."
"Did you just call the Goddess Amarat big girl?"
"Hey, I saw her once, sorta, and her shadow swallowed galaxies. It's a perfectly accurate description. Now, probably best if you look less frustrated with my stupidity. The guards are waiting up ahead."
Sara didn't know if the guards she'd assigned to Garen had spent the entire night in the perfect military posture she found them in, but they certainly looked the part of stalwart guardians when she arrived. With the Metalworking Guild– soon to be Metalworking Union– finally accepting the blast furnace's products, there had thankfully been enough iron and steel in circulation for even those on civilian assignments to get a decent set of armor. Hurlish had finally pounded weapon and armor terminology into Sara's head, and now she knew they were wearing visored sallet helmets, kasten-burst cuirasses, and single-plate faulds over their waists. To save on production time, if not material, the steel protecting their arms and legs was of no particular design, articulated simply, with gaps in the protection appearing in different spots depending on their posture. While far less protected than a true Knight, Evie had found no precedent in the historical record for rank-and-file infantry to be so heavily protected. The Tulian army had no chaff. That filled Sara with pride.
The sharp slap of armored gauntlets against their breasts as they saluted her arrival, however, smothered that pride in uncomfortable embarrassment.
"Governess on the grounds!" The first guard barked, as if there were anyone other than his fellow to notify.
"At ease," she hurriedly said, waving a hand. Evie had stubbornly convinced her over the course of months to accept such military protocol, claiming it necessary to maintain discipline, but her mere arrival interrupting entire rooms from their work was something Sara still found unbearable. If she was going to be their General, however, she had to grit her teeth and take it.
"What did your sweep find?" Evie asked.
Hardly relaxing from their ramrod salute, the guards turned to address Evie with their hands folded behind their backs. "We did not perform a sweep, ma'am."
Evie blinked dangerously, silent for a count of two. Sara scooted slightly between her girlfriend and the guards.
"And why is that, Sergeant Tavil?"
A muffled voice from the door cut the man off before he could draw breath.
"Throw me under the cart!"
The man gamely continued as if none but him had heard the shout. "Per our charge's advice, the commands of the Governess superseded your own, ma'am. As the Governess instructed us not to leave him unprotected, we remained."
Evie's tail lashed, her voice cool. "Mage Garen is a civilian, not yet even a citizen of the state, and is without any authority over you, Sergeant Tavil. What convinced you to follow his orders over my own?"
"He gave us no orders, ma'am. Only advice that the Governess's instructions superseded your own, considering the conflicting demands." His posture shifted slightly, expression hidden by his lowered visor. "Do your own commands take precedent over the Governess's?"
Oh, Sara liked this guy. Evie had clearly recognized him, while Sara hadn't, but she made a note of his name now. To throw something like that in Evie's face, Sergeant Tavil had to have some fucking balls. Sara stepped aside, no longer interceding. She wanted to see how this would play out.
Evie, for one, involuntarily lashed her tail even harder, her words icy. "So you saw fit to place the safety over a foreign national over the protection of the Governess?"
"No, ma'am," Sergeant Tavil said with a shake of his head. "I placed the wishes of the Governess over your own."
Evie started to open her mouth, then bit it closed. Sara doubted the guards could discern a thing beyond the coolness of Evie's tone, but she could read the fury in Evie's posture. Not at the guards, who were plainly in the right, but at herself, or maybe something more ephemeral. Perhaps at the error of placing her troops in the position to make such a decision necessary, or at her concern for Sara, now knowing they had carelessly walked through a building that hadn't been cleared of threats. Sara doubted Evie knew herself. Either way, the feline was left to stew.
Garen saved the moment by flinging the doors open, dressed in the same plain but comfortable attire as always.
"Do lay off the poor boy, Evie. He did as he thought best. Now, please, come in."
Seizing the lifeline the distraction represented, Evie swept forward into the room without hesitation. Sara trailed a bit behind, leaning to whisper to Sergeant Tavil. She knew Evie's keen hearing would pick up her words, but also knew Tavil was unaware of that.
"You did the right thing. She's just mad because she didn't do her job as perfectly as she usually does. Don't worry about it. Good poker face, by the way."
"Thank you, ma'am," Sergeant Tavil whispered back. He lifted his visor, leaving Sara mentally reassessing her estimate of his composure. His skin was white and clammy, sweat running in veritable rivers to pool at the padding around his neck. "I must admit, I was concerned."
"No need. Now, uh, go get some water. Looks like you need it."
The Sergeant's visor bobbled comically as he nodded his agreement. Sara stepped into Garen's quarters, leaving the poor man to recover from his ordeal. The door swung shut behind her.
"Greetings, Governess," Garen said, sweeping his arms into a bow.
"Ain't in public no more, big G," Sara responded, walking up to hit Garen with her most complex shitty-Detroit-public-school handshake. Magework had accustomed him to complex hand motions, but he still stumbled as Sara guided him through a prolonged five seconds of fist-bumping, hand pumping, and knuckle-taps, finishing with a slow finger-wiggling wave that pulled slowly away from him.
He looked down at his hand, mystified. "What in the world was that?"
"Ignore her, Garen," Evie called as she moved to pull a tea kettle from a cooling plate across the room. "She's being overtly bizarre so as to break down your formality, which she is uncomfortable with. Just be glad she didn't choose crassness, this time. Gods know what profanity she would summon up to appropriately shock you."
Sara frowned, crossing her arms. "It's not as fun when you straight-up tell them that, Evie."
"Yes, well, one of us has to seem mature, and it certainly won't be you or Hurlish." Evie carefully brought the tea kettle to a small table in the middle of Garen's quarters, carrying with it a plate and four teacups. "Will we begin the day's activities here, Garen? I assumed so, considering the readying tea."
"I haven't the faintest clue," he admitted, even as he accepted the cup of iced tea she poured. "Mm. Thank you. I assumed Sara would be leading the show, so to speak. I have much to offer, but little knowledge of what is expected of me."
"Mostly, I wanted your knowledge of the Royal Mages. Necessary defensive measures against them, their offensive capabilities, their defensive capabilities, things like that. I'm not hoping for any magic-killing-arrow, but the mages are decidedly the enemy force I know least about, and that's got to change."
Garen frowned slightly. "I was under the impression that my work would be purely civilian, Sara."
"And it will be, for the most part. When it comes to military matters, I just want your opinion on the enemy's capabilities. Nothing more. You can focus on civilian stuff as much as you want. Evie's already prepared you a starter packet."
"A starter packet? Meaning?"
Evie finished pouring her own glass of tea and sat down in Sara's lap, reaching to Sara's hip to pull the documents from the bag of holding. She produced a half-inch thick pile of papers, bound in twine, scrawled over every inch with Evie's neat handwriting. The feline handed it to Garen, then tucked her legs up into Sara's lap and settled her head on her chest.
"That there's the cumulative result of months of me going, 'huh, I wonder what Garen would think about this,' each incidence of which Evie dutifully recorded. A lot of it's knowledge from my home that I think would be valuable to distribute in this world, but I was too paranoid about the side effects of to do so on my own, or avenues of research I wish you to pursue with magic, rather than my native technology."
Garen unwrapped the twine, carefully taking out the first few pages, which were written with charcoal nubs, from before they'd had a steady supply of ink for Evie. Sara sipped her iced tea patiently while he perused the headlines, which Evie had done her best to keep sensible, despite Sara's tendency to ramble.
"You are awfully interested in the means to generate rotational motion, Sara," Garen noted. He flicked through more pages, finding similar headlines all the way to the most recent papers. "Very, very interested. Am I allowed to know why?"
"Sure. In short? The ability to turn things in circles is the ultimate foundation of every technological advance that has ever occurred on my old planet." Sara took another sip of her tea. "And beyond. We landed on other planets, eventually."
Garen's head snapped up at her. "You what?"
"The nation I was a citizen of put men on our moon, the celestial body I've explained to you in our letters. And both that nation and several others put remotely operated vehicles on other planets, tens of millions of miles away. The farthest device we still had contact with was capital-b Billions of miles away, when I left." She tapped her fingernail against the porcelain teacup. "And you know what we had to figure out before we did it?"
"Circles?"
"Circles. Goin' real fast in 'em."
Garen set the packet of papers down slowly, leaning back in his chair. His eyes narrowed at Sara. "You are an experienced stateswoman, Sara, but it seems you are becoming too comfortable in my presence. I can see through your ploy. You are making a mockery of me. You are stating complex topics in deliberately childish terms so as to undercut the severity of your request."
"Maybe a little bit," Sara admitted. "But it's all still true. If you want to move fast over the ground, you spin wheels. If you want to go fast in water or air, you spin propellors. And electricity, which we've discussed before, is best generated by spinning stuff in circles around other stuff. Only problem is, on our world, we found that the best way to spin stuff in circles also involves pumping absolutely unfathomable amounts of poison into the air, and within my lifetime, the planet was probably going to start choking to death on it."
Sara nodded to the papers. "When you aren't educating others, that's what I want to be your work. Don't worry, I'm not going to give you knowledge on how to actually build those complicated, dangerous, world-changing machines. Not only would it require a good amount of re-invention on my part, I don't want those machines to exist here, and you don't want them, either. No one really wants them. Probably not even the gods, if the lack of technological progress over tens of thousands of years of civilization is any evidence. But I will give you information on what powers them, because if they come into existence despite my best efforts, I do not want a repeat of the disasters that chasing fossil fuels brought on my planet."
"So... yeah," Sara brilliantly summarized. "Your job will be, in essence, to find the best way to use magic to spin various things at various speeds, all so people don't start burning coal and oil. What those circles will be for only I'll know, but working in the dark is the catch for this job. I want you cutting the problem off at the head, even if I have to guide your knife."
"And it is an important job, Garen," Sara warned him, preempting the objections she expected him to have. "I'm going to be introducing the barest elements of mechanical automation to Tulian, because I have a moral obligation to make my citizen's lives easier, and while I'll try to keep it to only the basics, there's no telling when we'll hit the tipping point of exponential progress. A vague, nebulous moment when discoveries start begetting discoveries which beget discoveries, a self-perpetuating, accelerating loop, beyond any one person's control, even a Champion. If someone realizes the principles of the automated loom I'm building can be extended to, say, powering a printing press, someone might realize it could be used to pump water out of mines, and then–" Sara snapped her fingers. "Boom. I just started the countdown to apocalypse."
Garen set his tea down, vanishing it into the aether, and settled into his chair, and observed Sara very, very closely. He said nothing. He listened to Sara talk.
"I haven't met many mages since I arrived in this world, but of them, I think you're probably the most powerful. Knowing that, yes, I recruited you in the hopes that you can find a better way to spin stuff in circles. I don't care about the details, but it has to be some method that doesn't produce toxic chemical byproducts, doesn't stuff the atmosphere full of carbon, and is powered solely by magic, a resource which can never run dry so long as life survives on this planet." Sara hesitated. "And I guess you'll have to discover where magic comes from, for certain. We don't technically know there's no negative byproduct to its large-scale employment, and we'll want to confirm that before we go hog-wild. I hate to imagine what the magical equivalent of pollution is. So... yeah. Learn how to spin circles real good, then divine the precise underpinnings of one of the fundamental forces which binds your reality. That's your overarching goal in Tulian." Sara finished off her iced tea, slurping it loudly. "But in the short term? I'd like to know what kinda spells your wizard buddies like to fling."
Garen looked at Sara. Looked at the papers. Time seemed to slow as Sara watched his eyelids begin to close.
A multitude of expressions, visible only in the infinitesimal twitches of muscles beneath the skin, flew across his face. To anyone else, he would have seemed utterly impassive. Sara ticked the emotions off as they appeared. Horror was forcibly bottled up into mere Trepidation, moderated by Concern over his demeanor before Sara. Trepidation was then steadily swept under by a rising tide of Curiosity. It was a particularly hungry variety, and it thus drowned the other emotions. He deeply feared the danger of these secrets in the hands of others, but not enough to forgo their investigation personally.
Garen's eyelids met bottom, finishing his blink.
Sara suppressed her smirk. Hook, line and sinker.
He quietly tied the papers back into their neat stack, then tossed them aside, where they were swallowed by nothingness. He nodded respectfully to her.
"Then, if it is the abilities of mages you will be facing in battle that you wish to evaluate this first day, I will recommend we take this discussion to the courtyard. You've always struck me as the type to prefer demonstration to discussion."
"That's perfect, actually. Hurlish was already preparing her own work out there for us."
They left Garen's quarters together, and Sara ordered the guards outside his room to head home. They'd been on duty for near sixteen hours, she'd realized. Not a particularly physically demanding duty, true, but wearing armor for that long took its own toll. She once more made sure she had Sergeant Tavil's name and face memorized, then followed Garen and Evie down the hall.
With the dramatics completed, Sara made an effort to bring things back to a happier tone. Garen hadn't acknowledged in any way her request of him, but she knew he'd do it. There was no point in pushing it right now. So instead she pointed out the windows at the tenant buildings that stood opposite the university, there at the westernmost portion of the city.
"Remember when I said the architecture in Tulian sucked?"
"Mm?" Garen stirred from his thoughts, following her pointing finger. "Yes. Asinine, I believe you called it."
"Well, there's a perfect example."
Garen raised an eyebrow. "They seem pleasing enough to my eye, Sara. Fairly standard fare for Tulian, very similar to much of what the urban peasantry of Sporatos reside in."
"Are they asinine aesthetically? No. Practically? Absolutely." Sara waved to one of the three-story buildings that was in better condition, probably occupied by a family or two. "See that? All stone, with big, wide windows facing the sea, and a fireplace in every living space. The hell were they thinking?" Sara waved wider, indicating the general vicinity. "This is a typhoon-prone equatorial wetlands with violent seasonal shifts. Half the year it storms every day, the other half there's barely a drop to drink, and it's hot as hell the whole way through. There might be some valid reasons to use stone for construction, stability, and yada-yada-yada, but there's no excuse for the thickness of it, nor the fireplaces, and certainly not the insulating roof structure. It's all built to imitate Sporaton architecture, and that also means it's next to impossible to get at the guts of the building for repair."
"The Tulian people of yesteryear did view Sporatos as an example of culture they lacked," Garen noted.
"Well, they shouldn't have. The city's tenant buildings are stuffy, cramped, and overall dogshit design for the local environment. How did they spend four centuries building this crap without realizing that? Did no one have the balls to tell the kings that 'hey, maybe building exactly like our snowy northern neighbors is a bad idea?'"
Garen chuckled. "Perhaps some did, Sara. They likely were not in the position to have the king's ear for long."
Sara scoffed. "Feudalism is absurd. I've got no idea how it lasted so long, both on this world and my old."
"The power of tradition is not to be underestimated," Garen intoned. "Even among the oppressed you wish to liberate, I think you'll find a shocking amount of resistance to change. The comfort of known agonies is oft preferable to unknown chaos."
"The devil you know is better than the devil you don't," Sara quoted. "That's a phrase from my old world. I guess people are people, no matter where they're from, huh?"
"It would seem so. Though, as I understood from your letters, there were only pure humans in your world? That would lend your prior home a certain amount of cultural conformity, I imagine."
"Oh, boy, you'd be surprised." Sara's expression grew dark. "If anything, it was worse than here. I'm honestly amazed how tolerant people are to the different varieties of humanoids. Not too long ago in my world, people declared whether or not someone was a human or animal depending on shit like the angle of their cheekbones or the color of their skin. I'd have expected people rocking fur and tails to get ostracized way, way harder."
"There are some lands that suffer under such delusions," Garen admitted, "but they are few. With the inherent biological specialties lent by those of varying ancestries, a homogenous society is often at a strict disadvantage when set against a more diverse people. The histories abound with monoethnic kingdoms being overwhelmed by the strength of orcs, outmaneuvered on the field by dextrous catfolk, and driven from the coast by Azarketi coalitions."
"Huh. Power of diversity is a more literal thing here, I guess. That's pretty close to what helped my old nation to end up the most powerful, back on Earth. Accepting lots of foreign immigrants let us grab a lot of talent that wouldn't have benefitted us in other nations."
"Then your leaders were wise–"
"Nope."
Garen laughed. "In that one respect, at least, I would say they were wise. It is well known to Continental statesmen that diversity of ancestries is a strength. As a matter of fact, King Sporatos recently enacted several policies to encourage such. Humans are now taxed for every third and greater child beyond the age of ten, while catfolk, orcs, and Azarketi receive proportionally greater reductions in their obligations to their lords beyond their third child."
Sara frowned, and even Evie, so focused on guarding, looked mildly disconcerted.
"That's getting a bit close to eugenics for my liking, if I'm honest with you," Sara said. "Doesn't matter if you're playing favorites or pushing them down, treating minorities different than the rest never goes well."
"Yet another term I am unfamiliar with, Sara. This eugenics you speak of, I assume it is a poor policy to enact?"
"Oh, gods," Sara groaned. "File that question away for later, buddy, because that's not one I'm going to explain anywhere with the slightest chance of someone listening in."
"If you insist."
As they turned another corner, Garen very nearly stumbled directly into the chest of Hurlish, who was leaning against the wall, breathing hard. She looked at Sara, then at the stairs she'd just climbed, and scowled.
"Shit. If y'all were coming to see me, why'd I waste my time heading to you?"
Ignoring the complaint, Sara moved to make introductions. "Garen, this is Hurlish. Hurlish, this is Garen. You've both heard plenty about the other, but now you've got a face for the name."
"A pleasure to meet you, Master Smith," Garen said, inclining his head.
Hurlish continued to pant heavily, looking down all eighteen inches of her height gap over Garen. Groaning, she shoved herself off the wall, leaving behind a sweaty imprint on the wood. She'd worn nothing but simple breeches and a leather vest today, her breasts bound tightly in Azarketi-nylon, all the better for working in the increasingly dry heat. Hurlish extended her hand.
"They don't call us Master Smiths here in Tulian anymore. Just smith."
Despite the sweat and soot soaking it, Garen happily shook her hand.
"Another of Sara's influences, I assume?"
"Yeah. Somethin' bout being good at one thing doesn't make you better than someone else overall or whatever. And I think she just doesn't like the word in general, I guess."
Evie's tail twitched. "Is that so, Master?"
Klaxon alarms began ringing in Sara's mind. She lunged for the simplest, most effective lever she could find, and smiled lecherously.
"I make exceptions for when it turns me on."
"How fortuitous," Evie said sarcastically, rolling her eyes, but Sara caught the small smirk she was hiding.
Thank God. With that unexpected bomb deftly defused, Sara glanced at Hurlish's state of dishevelment. "What's got you all worked up, by the way? I don't think I've ever seen you this sweaty."
"You definitely have."
"From working."
"Heh. Well, it was work. I'm good looking, but even I can't find a girl that quick." Hurlish turned around and began stomping down the stairs, the wood creaking under each footfall. "Courtyard didn't have a good way to roll the cart in. Had to shove the fucker up half a flight of stone stairs. Sucked dog shit."
Garen made a noise of interest. "Something heavy enough to trouble one such as you? Your feats of strength were oft relayed to me by Sara, perhaps ad nauseam. You've piqued my curiosity."
"Yeah, well, good, because I'd be mighty pissed about carrying that thing if you weren't gonna take a look at it."
"You could've waited until we were there to help you, Hurlish," Sara said.
"Why? I could move it, so I did." She tossed a glance over her shoulder to Evie. "And I wasn't carrying it on my stomach, either. I pushed it up some steps. Don't get all worked up."
"I hadn't assumed you would even dare take such a risk," Evie sniffed.
Garen looked between the two women, confused. "I'm afraid that particular bit of subtext escaped me. You worry about a smith carrying heavy loads, Evie?"
"When she's pregnant with our child, yes," Evie responded. "Hurlish has shown next to no sensibility in regards to her own wellbeing these past few months."
Garen opened his lips with a little pop, glancing between Hurlish, Evie, and Sara. Sara offered him only a shrug.
"Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that. Hurlish is pregnant."
"That's... Well, congratulations, I suppose. Your letters hadn't spoken of a man that had entered your peculiar camaraderie, so I will be eager to meet the father."
"It's me."
"Ah?"
For a fraction of a second, Sara caught Garen's eye flicking down to her crotch. It was too quick for anyone else to notice, much like when she caught someone sneaking a peek her cleavage– which included nearly every non-asexual being she'd met since entering this world– so she ignored it. Seeing that Hurlish's shoulders were shaking with barely controlled mirth and Evie's tail was bouncing in amusement, Sara didn't offer Garen any greater explanation. He remained silent for quite a while, at an utter loss for how to recover from whatever social conundrum he'd just stumbled into. She let the comment hang. She had to let her girlfriends have their fun, sometimes.
Thankfully for Garen, they reached their destination in short order. As was befitting of a once-prestigious university, the interior courtyard was sprawling. Cobblestone walkways marked paths between various doors across the cut-out portion of the university's interior, sandwiching what had once been carefully pruned flower gardens. When Sara had first surveyed the university, those gardens had overtaken the entire interior, hiding the entire floor in a writhing mass of twisted vines. Clearing it had been difficult, but productive, revealing meandering cobblestone paths and a few sturdy iron benches, all connecting to a central stone pavilion. That fifty-foot circle of stone tiles was now dominated by a large, wooden crate, the one that Hurlish had bodily hauled into place.
A number of people were sharing placid discussions across the pavilion. The noonday sun was beating down on several individuals Sara recognized, and a number she didn't. There was Lieutenant Shale, who had been placed in charge of the Tulian Army's thousand-strong Military Engineer corp, trading words with Kispa, the alchemist in charge of the gunpowder project. Ignite was an unexpected addition, as was the patrol of amateurish-looking guards he was busy instructing, but they weren't in the way of anything. She'd told him about her plans to go work with Garen that day, and he supposed he wanted the trainees to get used to being near important people at work, so that they wouldn't turn into intimidated little church mice like some of the Guard's rookies did.
"More of an audience than I expected," Garen noted.
"Honestly, me too. I thought it was just gonna be those two," Sara said, indicating and introducing Kispa and Lieutenant Shale. "But for testing certain portions of what's in that crate, I was hoping you'd be able to throw up some privacy spell or something similar, anyway. So I guess it's not like anything's really changed."
Garen hummed his acknowledgement as they moved out into the steaming Tulian heat. This was Sara's first proper experience with the Tulian dry season, and it was a jarring discrepancy. Even living directly adjacent to the sea, it had been days since the last rain, when she didn't think they'd broken twelve hours without at least a light shower before. If what was in the crate became necessary to use during the course of the war, Sara would be glad for the change.
"How will we begin, Governess?" Garen asked, reverting to formality now that they were among others. "I know you likely have a great many questions."
Sara blew out a breath, thinking. "I don't know. There's so much I want to learn, and even more that I need to know. Easiest stuff first, then. You're gonna be running a magic university, right? How do you recruit people for that? I mean, can anyone do magic, or is it a bloodline thing, or what?"
"The basics, then."
"Hey, don't give me that crap. You literally came here to be a teacher."
"I suppose that's true." Garen cleared his throat, straightening his posture. He knew Ignite's troops would be listening, and was making a point to remain professional. "No, Governess, not everyone can become a full-fledged mage. While anyone with the requisite knowledge can manipulate the energy within themselves to some degree, it is a select number that are capable of true spellcrafting. This ability is not hereditary, as some fanciful tales like to suppose, and neither is it predictable in its manifestation."
Sara groaned. "Oh, man, I hate that. I always despised the movies where only people born with magic can do it. That would be so awful, to want to be a mage, but you literally can't just because you got a bad roll of the dice when you were born."
"It is not so bad as all that, Governess. After all, there is a simple way to tell whether or not someone possesses the capability for spellwork."
"Yeah?"
Garen gestured to Sara's sword. "Desire. You, as one who wished to create spells even before transferring to this world, were marked as one who is capable of doing so."
Sara pursed her lips, frowning. "...Run that one by me again. You can only do magic if you want to do magic? Isn't that redundant?"
"You are close to understanding, Governess, but your cause and effect are reversed. It is the latent capacity for 'magic' that creates the desire to practice spellcraft, not the inverse. If you are capable, you desire it. If you are not, you do not. The majority of individuals, unlike you, have no interest in risking their lives to pursue Talavan's gifts."
"That's... Wait. When we met, you were doing tryouts for mages under House Vesta. How can anyone fail a tryout if wanting to do magic is the surest sign that you can?"
"There is a fine line between seeking spells for their own sake, and seeking the power and wealth they bring. It is easy to delude oneself into the belief that you wish to be trained as a mage for the beauty of it, when in reality you are blinded by avarice. Thus my irritation with the failed applicants, who revealed themselves as little more than irritating sycophants."
"But... who doesn't want to do magic?" Sara looked over at Ignite's trainees, who were doing their best not to be distracted by the free lesson from an archmage. "You're telling me people in this world see what someone like you can do and think to themselves 'nah, I'm good'?"
"Again, Governess, while they may covet the power of spells, it is only when one loves the pursuit of spellcraft itself that the capacity is revealed. For example, while many wish to become master artisans for the associated acclaim, wealth, and recognition, how many wish only to pursue art for its isolated virtues? Far, far fewer."
Sara tapped her foot on the stone, listening to the steel-toed boot click. "But, like, still. It's magic. I can't imagine anyone not wanting to do it."
Garen chuckled. "I have had this conversation many, many times, Governess, with every young mage I have ever trained. It is difficult for ones such as ourselves to understand, but it is true."
Sara turned to Evie, who'd moved over to Hurlish, wiping the orc's sweat off with her enchanted handkerchief. If she was lingering a bit longer on the muscles, massaging them appreciatively as she cleaned, it was a small enough difference to give her plausible deniability.
"Evie! Do you want to do magic?"
There was no response. Evie just kept cleaning Hurlish off.
"Evie!"
The feline blinked rapidly, forcefully pulling herself off Hurlish's biceps. "No, Master," she finally said.
Sara's eyes bulged. "What? But it's magic!"
"And?" She returned to wiping Hurlish down, this time slightly more chaste. "It is difficult, dangerous, and requires decades of one's life to master. Why pursue a skill that may end with inadvertently engulfing oneself in flame when you can hone your skills with a blade?"
Sara couldn't believe it. "Hurlish? What about you?"
"Hell no! I've seen what that shit does to people. Fuck all'a that."
Sara was utterly bewildered. Here she was, thinking she knew her girlfriends, and then they went and said things like that. Behind her, Garen laughed richly.
"As I said, it is a strange thing. You and I will likely never be able to see things as they do, I'm afraid. Some propose that whatever aspect of the soul Talavan has implanted in mages is also responsible for the change in mindset. I do not necessarily subscribe to this theory; I find it much more likely motivation plays the largest role. Still, I must admit the evidence lines up rather neatly."
Sara smacked her lips, working through her thoughts. "Okay, I guess that makes sense, but you said anyone can do magic, right? So even if you're just in it for the coin, you can still eventually learn spells?"
"Yes. In fact, the histories record a number of accomplished mages who did not have the innate talents of others. Their sorts often gravitate to artificery, rather than pure spellwork, but no one is fully incapable of becoming a mage. Only... limited, perhaps. The common comparison is that of a blind man learning to paint. And like a blind man learning to paint, at times their lack of certain properties may create something unique, a curious artifact that a so-called true mage may never have considered."
Sara nodded. "Okay, okay. Makes sense. So, for the university, would you only be admitting students with natural talents?"
Garen surprised Sara by pausing, deliberating before he answered. His eyebrows furrowed in thought.
"...No," he eventually decided. "No, I will not. You place emphasis on a great many things, Governess, but equity most of all. If I were to limit applicants in such a way, I think you would not approve."
Sara cocked her head. "Good choice. Odd that you made it, but good choice. You're right, of course, I wouldn't have approved. And you saw the trap coming. Not often that someone manages to predict where I'm leading them in conversations."
"I would like to think I am some social savant, but I doubt that to be the case. More likely, I am simply familiar with you in a way most aren't from our letters." Garen looked about the courtyard, paying particular attention to Lieutenant Shale and Kispa, who were still milling an awkward distance away. "Shall we move on to the demonstrations, Governess? I wouldn't wish to hold you."
Sara actually had blocked out the whole afternoon for this meeting with Garen, but she wasn't going to say no to speeding things along. She readily agreed and called out to Ignite, having him assemble the trainees into a rough approximation of a battlefield formation. It was smaller than the actual hundred-troop blocks the real army used upon the field, but it gave Garen an approximation of what the Sporaton mages would be facing.
"Alright, big boy, let's see what you've got. How would you go about fighting your way through these guys?"
Notes:
Oh god I'm so fucking glad Garen's in Tulian, I've been waiting so long to talk about so much, and it all required him to be there.
If you're curious about what the Tulian Army's halberdiers look like, here's what the chestplate looks like, but not the rest of the set. Just the breastplate. The helmet is similar to this but without the dramatic sweep at the back. The arm and leg protection have no specific reference, being fairly simple. Nearly all of the Tulian Army proper is equipped similarly, at this point.
Chapter 59: Ominous Eighty
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Garen considered the formation. It was a simple enough block of halberdiers, if more heavily armored than he would have expected. That said, none of them were completely covered in steel, leaving a great deal of padding, clothes, and whatnot exposed to the open air, and of course none of the armor was properly ensorcelled. To Garen's sensibilities, it was an odd ensemble; he was used to troops so formidably equipped being afforded at least some measure of warding. Of course, the Champion's army did not view even a single of its number as expendable, and so he would have to adapt his expectations accordingly.
The second thing that he was considering was the precise wording of Sara's request. "How would you go about fighting your way through?"
That was an awfully dangerous question, and not one he thought well-formed. Perhaps Evie, if she were not busy lusting over her partner's musculature, would have caught and corrected her owner's error, but she hadn't. The crux of the matter was that the way the Royal Mages would combat this problem differed greatly from the way Garen would have done so. It seemed that Sara had respected her slave's request all these months, and done no research into Garen's past. He respected her for that, even if it was naive.
He decided to imitate the technique of the Royal Mages. She would be combatting the Sporaton forces, after all, not him, and demonstrating his own techniques would serve no purpose. Perhaps it might intimidate her, but he hardly wanted that. No, it would be best if he dug up his memories of the Royal Mages on the field of battle, then did as they did.
"Could Evie not offer you this knowledge, Governess?" Garen asked as he rolled his sleeves up. "As you oft told me, she trained with the Night's Eye, who have their own cadre of mages."
"Evie?"
Once more, it took the feline a moment to realize she was being addressed. Clearing her throat, she said, "While I did train with the Night's Eye, it was training only. I never took to the field with them, and my training efforts were confined to my mother's manor, which would not have survived a mage's exertions. Before meeting Master, I had never stepped foot beyond the city walls. While I may have an academic knowledge of a mage's capabilities, my knowledge is too abstract to be of tactical value."
"I see. Then I will be happy to help." He raised his hands, making a shooing motion to the assembled troops. "If you could please vacate the premises, it would be appreciated. I would assume you do not wish to actually attempt to weather a mage's assault."
It took no words from their commander for the troops to clear themselves away after such a warning. In very short order, Garen had a pleasing, empty stretch of courtyard open before him. He stretched out his arms, interlacing his fingers so that he could pop the knuckles, and took a deep breath. He rolled his shoulders, then his neck, enjoying the way it popped after a night spent in meditation. He ought to be better about stretching, he chided himself.
"You good?" Sara asked suddenly. She looked concerned. "You don't have to, if you don't want to."
He gave her a curious look, cracking his knuckles once more. "Why would I not be 'good'? I have cast spells such as this innumerable times."
"Yeah, exactly. And now you're just standing there, warming up like you're about to go into a boxing match. I know you took an oath, and I respect that more than you'd expect. If you don't want to cast a violent spell, it's fine. Even a description of what I should expect would do me tons of good."
She was right, he was abruptly forced to realize. It had been a very long while since Garen had cast a spell such as this one, but that didn't mean he was incapable. The space was clear, the observers were in position, and his energy freshly rejuvenated. He slowly lowered his hands from their stretch, growing introspective. Now that the timidity had been brought to his attention, he took his time in evaluating it.
What he found should have been no surprise. It bellowed up with an alarming lack of forewarning, taking him by complete surprise.
A little twitch of the corner of his eye as distant screams echoed from far, far away.
The acidic vomit of soldiers who thought themselves veterans, their stomachs overturned for the first time in a decade.
The taste of iron in his mouth, clots in his hair, and an inescapable mist coating miles of waving grass.
The sounds of victory.
Silence, sobbing, and heaving.
A light touch landed on his shoulder, and with it the shattered pane of time seemed to reassemble slightly. His head turned to the Champion as wards flared to life across his mind, warning him of something encroaching, trying to breach his mind.
He dismissed them.
Beneath the Tulian heat, Garen shivered. A cool flush soaked through his shoulder, spreading quickly to his mind, smothering the burning sound of screams. Sara's eyes were pinched with worry, and she didn't seem aware of doing anything other than placing a calming hand on his shoulder. Still, the sounds faded, faded, falling away by degrees until Garen nodded thankfully.
"Something of a surprise to me, I'm afraid, but you were right to worry. Your concern is appreciated, Sara, but I can continue."
Her frown deepened. "Are you sure? Because it's no big deal–"
"Quite. This is a simple matter. Observe."
With no further ado, Garen flicked his fingers towards the space the trainee Guards had occupied a few moments prior.
A white-hot gout of flame was summoned in a semi-circle before his feet, shooting outward at the speed of an arrow. In the span of a blink it rose, spreading from a brilliantly opaque beam of compressed energy at his feet to a roaring wall of orange flames, ten feet high at its apex. Even as the bow of the wave blitzed forward, its wake expanded horizontally, spreading first ten, then twenty, then fifty feet, coating the entire circular pavilion at its widest. It could have kept going, but Garen didn't wish to light the adjacent foliage aflame, and so he compressed it back down, forcing the flames to curve with the circle so that the heat did not leave the stones. When the torrent reached the far edge, he snuffed it out.
The flames had existed for one, perhaps one and a half seconds, but that was all that was needed. The stone blocks of the courtyard were left ashen in its wake, and even though he had taken care not to let it touch the plants themselves, the proximity to the heat had some of them smoldering. The Guard captain, Ignite if Garen recalled his name correctly, adeptly ordered the trainees to begin smothering the flames.
"Goddamn," Sara eloquently intoned.
"It was not faith magic, Governess."
Her glare was piercing. "I know that, you fucking overgrown flamethrower. I'm talking about the magic. Is that shit really what we're gonna be going up against?"
"More or less. I will note that the control required to keep the flames to the stone is not something you should expect. Most mages with an eye for violence are unconcerned with the limitation of their abilities, rather than their expansion."
"So if anything, it would be bigger?"
"Yes. Though I would ask you to note that the flames weakened in both temperature and density as they expanded. What you saw there was likely the extent of the immediately lethal range of such an attack. Those beyond would be severely injured, but not dead."
"And I can expect just about every mage I'm dealing with to be capable of this?"
"Not every mage, no. Just those with a penchant for combat. The majority of Royal Mages accompanying King Sporatos will likely be similar in role to the leaders of your Military Engineers. As some of the most educated of the Kingdom's nobility, they will be logisticians, advisors, and constructors of siege weapons."
"Then how many of those attacks should I be looking out for?"
"That would be a question better directed to Evie, I believe. Her expertise in battlefield composition outstrips my own."
With the feline having completed her less-than-subtle molestation of Hurlish's musculature, her response was prompt.
"Without the Night's Eye, and considering the force estimation of fifteen thousand peasant levies, I would expect only a handful of mages, Master. Ten or twelve, perhaps, that would be allowed into the fray proper. The archmages are too valuable to be risked in mere combat, so it will be their lessers that take the field."
"Thank the gods for economics," Sara muttered. "We'd be fucked if they brought out all the stops."
"Hence why you, Master, have so endeavored to ensure King Sporatos underestimates us." Evie looked at Garen, explaining. "Our entire plan hinges on an evisceration of the enemy army so complete that they will not dare send a second, more capable force next year, one we would have no hope of repelling. With that in mind, would you agree with my estimation that the archmages will not be risked in combat?"
"Almost certainly, yes," Garen said. "They are powerful, but the loss of even a single of their number would be a considerable blow to Sporatos. Even if he were afraid enough of Tulian to press them into battle, his advisors would not stand for it. After the rebellion, they seek stability before all else."
Sara rolled her eyes. "Y'know, I'm glad it's happening, but there's some real mixed emotions running through me about my fate dangling by the thin string of politics. I thought Champions were supposed to be above all that crap."
Once more, Garen found himself incredibly amused by Amarat's Champion. Why the Goddess of Diplomats chose a woman with such vitriol in her heart for political machinations, he couldn't imagine. He chuckled.
"Some Champions were, Governess, but not Amarat's, and certainly not you. If you wished to avoid politics, I would have advised you not begin founding a nation the likes of which this world has never seen, then antagonizing the continent's largest power. Now that you have, I believe you are stuck with them."
"Ugh. If I get a time machine, I'm going for Talavan or something. Maybe I could whip up a spell to wipe the Divine Collars off the face of the planet, then."
Evie, to Garen's shock, slapped Sara on the shoulder. The Champion jumped, but rather than offended, she looked... chagrined? She cast her eyes to the sky.
"Sorry, sorry. You're still great, and probably the best for the job. I'm just whining."
Ah. Evie is concerned her master might irritate her patron. A prudent thought, I suppose, but not one with precedent. As far as Garen had been able to find in the historical records, no Champion had ever had their gifts rescinded by the gods. Some had died prematurely, yes, but never through the overt involvement of a deity.
When it came to the divines, however, Evie was right. It was good practice not to assume. Death by lightning bolt on a cloudless day was not a worry Garen wished to entertain, and he imagined Sara was of the same mind.
"Flames are not the only spell you will defend against, Governess. Would you like demonstrations of other potential obstacles?"
"If you don't mind," Sara said. "Knowing too much never hurt anyone, after all."
Not strictly true, but the sentiment is worthwhile. Garen dusted off his hands, running through the catalogue of spells he knew the Royal Mages preferred in battle. "Your army prefers close-pressed infantry, yes?"
"For the most part. We've got some skirmishers, and of course Irregulars, but the bulk will be either archers or halberdiers. Wish we had cavalry, but there wasn't near enough time to raise up a force."
"Then I will adjust my spells accordingly."
Garen raised his hands once more, plucking at the strings which thrummed through his body, and sent forth their energies. He cast upon the stone first a ball of lightning, its violent crackling tendrils seeking to leap to everything close, then shattered the stones themselves, sending their shards skyward in a lethal spray. He continued to elaborate his methods as he did so, listing each spell and what he knew of its virtues. Sara observed closely, asking questions here and there, and Garen answered them to the best of his abilities. Many of her questions were peculiar, tracing a path towards some conclusion he could not discern, but he was no tactician.
For example, Sara was particularly interested in the abilities of mages to defend themselves, rather than their offensive limitations. That may have been mere bravado, or perhaps diagnosed more charitably as optimism, because Garen knew that without mages of her own, only sheer numbers would wear down a true Practitioner. He didn't think her interest was particularly relevant to the upcoming conflict. As this was his first day earning his proverbial keep, however, he did not protest the questioning, and replied as truthfully and intelligently as he could.
When his demonstration was completed, Garen was standing in front of one concerned Governess, an unsurprised feline, a dozing orc, and twenty very intimidated recruits. There was also the Vanara and female military officer, who'd thus far contributed little to the proceedings. He supposed they would come into play shortly.
"Well, shit," the Governess said, waving her hand before her face to clear the smoke from Garen's last spell. "That doesn't look good for us. How many of those attacks would each mage have in them, before they get tired out?"
"Assuming a prudent frequency of casting, perhaps two dozen, Governess. That is a maximum, however, and they will likely withdraw well before they are at their limit."
"So with twelve mages casting, like, a bit more than half their spells, we've got..." Sara's face scrunched up.
"A hundred and fifty," Evie supplied.
"A hundred and fifty of those spells to contend with, most likely."
"And nearly three hundred spells of such caliber if the mages are pushed to their limits." Evie cast a purposeful look at the crate in the middle of the courtyard. "Are you now entertaining my suggestions more readily, Master?"
Sara sighed. "Maybe. I don't want to, but..." She shook her head. "Fifteen thousand spears, an uncertain cavalry force, and twelve mages. Fuck. Maybe we'll have to."
Garen did not enjoy the sight of the perennially confident Champion appearing so consternated. With only those she considered personal confidants immediately present, she allowed a measure of doubt into her countenance that Garen was unaccustomed to, and it had him re-evaluating his certainty of her winning this conflict.
But that does not fit, he insisted, if only to himself. She speaks of wonders unbound, and while yes, she does not wish to unduly alter our world, she is still capable of doing so. Is what she has not spoken of truly so horrific that she would rather have this fledgling nation shattered?
No longer able to stand the sight of her lip-biting anxiety, Garen stepped forward, sweeping a hand toward the crate.
"Perhaps now is the time to test the device you have prepared for the day, Governess? I must admit, I am awfully curious."
Sara blinked her way out of her thoughts, refocusing on Garen. "That depends. How hot of a wizard do you think you are?"
"Not enough that you should be using such antiquated terms to refer to me," Garen said, correcting her terminology yet again. "But if you are asking after my relative skill, it is considerable."
"Defensively? Against pure kinetic energy?"
Garen's eyebrows drew together. "Purely kinetic energy is not something most consider defending themselves against, as nearly every mage-launched projectile carries with it a multitude of energies, but adapting the mechanics of the forms are not unduly difficult."
"Well, good. Because I'm going to need you to put up your strongest defensive ward on the far end of this courtyard." She held up a hand, grinning, and spoke as if quoting an amusing play. "Now, I'm going to stop you, because what I worry you just heard is 'put up a really strong ward.' No. What I said was for you to put your strongest ward on the far end of this courtyard. Understand?"
Garen raised an eyebrow. "I do. But you must also understand that the strongest ward I am capable of erecting would be the project of decades. Are you perhaps asking me to attach a defensive spell upon the stones?"
"Oh, fuck off with the technicalities. You know what I mean."
"A spell, then."
Garen moved over to the location the Governess had indicated, stooping to place his right hand on a wide tile. Unseen by others, his left hand flicked a quick series of gestures, opening a gap between realms within his right sleeve. A glittering emerald fell out, rolling down his sleeve to his wrist, where he deftly palmed it with a second gesture. He pressed the gem into the stone, embedding it, then coated its surface with white, so it would be seamless.
Next, he should have simply imbued it with the appropriate spell, but on this step he hesitated. Standing, he moved back over to the Governess.
"Should there be any form the spell should take, ma'am? Typically, I would angle the spell, but if you are speaking of pure kinetics, such as a ballistae bolt, that could deflect the projectile into the sky, or worse, the surrounding buildings."
Sara blanched. "Shit. Good point. Uh, can you angle it down, instead, so it hits the ground? Or better yet, no angle at all? Like, something that would catch the projectile, but still let us know how effective it would have been in a real-world situation?"
Garen scratched thoughtfully at his beard, an itchy protrusion which he maintained specifically for such moments of consideration.
"I believe I can, if you will forgive me a few minutes of preparation. I can place first the spell, of a power you ought expect from the Royal Mages, while constructing around it a more pliable ward. That way, if the projectile is deflected any direction but directly back at its origin, it will be caught in this considerably stronger ward."
"That sounds great, actually." Sara looked to the crate, where the female Vanara and the Army officer were waiting. "Do you think you could create the obscuring spell– or ward, whatever– first, though? That way we can get ready while you work."
"Of course. This projectile, there will only be one of them at a time?"
"Yep."
"Excellent."
As often as Garen had found the need for privacy in busy areas throughout his life, shielding the stretch of courtyard which the Governess and her companions occupied was trivial. It was a matter of moments to create a simple white rectangular box, opaque to light and sound, that covered the distance between crate and target. Garen then returned to the stones, finishing the creation of the first defensive spell, which was drawing power from the emerald he had hidden in the stones.
Then he moved to the second, far more complex, warding process. The problem Sara had presented him, that of countering purely kinetic energy, was a deceptively complex one. At his level of skill, Garen had long since abandoned the idea of wards which focused on purely one aspect of energy. It was standard practice across the Continent and beyond to create what was called, confusingly, offensive-defenses.
In essence, Garen was used to creating wards which did not stalwartly take punishment, but rather were set to react to an attack, countering the detected energies according to a preset arrangement. A common assault one would anticipate a ward to resist would be, thinking back to when he had worked upon castle fortifications, flames being propelled by wind into a narrow point, their blinding heat chiseling into the stonework, then, once they detected they were at the interior of the castle, violently expanding as the carried charge of kinetic energy burst. The white-hot ejecta would morph into a spherical conflagration, and if not outright shattering the stones from within, the resultant debris would at least devastate the defenders. For warding against such an attack, Garen preferred the preemptive detection of an incoming projectile, upon which his wards would spring forth to counter not the flames, the proverbial tip of the spear, but the winds that drove them. This ruined their angle of attack, so that they would splash helplessly against the stonework, achieving nothing.
Such a clever solution was not possible, clearly, if the meager description he had been provided was accurate. This would be an assault of pure, unadulterated kinetic energy, likely of a strength that was unprecedented upon this world. There were no joining points between its elements that he could exploit, no tricky knot for him to unravel.
And so it was that he took great pride in his work, setting about the creation of the very first ward of its type. His fingers twitched and danced as he drew the dimensions, first creating a cubical frame about the shield, then hollowing out its front-center, allowing a pathway for the projectile to strike the shield at its core. What he filled the frame with was far and away unlike the hardened, multi-faceted energetic shield it surrounded. In physical behavior, he created something almost gelatinous. Knowing to anticipate only one projectile, of indeterminable but certainly great force, Garen created a ward that would have an even distribution of comparatively weak energy all throughout its form, but with that energy tied together in reactive bindings. When the moment of impact arrived, the area affected would promptly collapse, but rather than shattering the whole, the strings tying its energy to elsewhere would pull hard, drawing more energy towards the point. As the projectile borrowed deeper, more energy would be drawn to it, exponentially so, until, if necessary, the energy of several hundred cubic feet would be pitted against the projectile.
Then, once the ward no longer detected motion, those ties would relax, snapping the entire thing back to its original form. The energy expended would be lost, but that was a small total of the whole, and he thought the design was incredibly elegant. There would be no partial failures, no piercing in one location while others remained intact. Either a projectile would fully penetrate, collapsing the entire ward, or it would not, and the ward would be ready to respond to the next assault. While countering a hundred percent of every assault was detrimental to its longevity, it was ideal to, say, protect a highly valuable individual or target. One would never have to wonder if their ward may be pierced unexpectedly. It would work flawlessly, until it failed catastrophically, and so long as that failure didn't coincide with the loss of the protected party, it would be obvious to those nearby that it was time to move or rejuvenate the ward.
He stood a few minutes later, concealing his beaming pride. It was not a revolutionary ward, as it had no answer to non-kinetic attacks, but it was a novel implementation created in only a few scant minutes. He went to the opaque box he had created and stuck his head inside, to inform the Governess it was ready.
"...no fucking way the gods work off of PUNS!"
Garen flinched as the words hit his ears, the Governess's indignant yelling far louder than he'd been ready for. He turned about, so he would not witness whatever it was emerging from the crate, and tried to garner attention over the yelling.
"It is not necessarily a pun, Master. The term 'chemistry' has no connotation with romance here–"
"Then why the fuck am I good at it?! I didn't know shit about chemistry! I– Oh, hi, Garen."
The Governess's impossibly swift change of tone, as always, threw him off. He remained facing the wall as he spoke, so that he would not witness the whatever-it-was emerging from the crate.
"The target is ready, Governess. If you are as well, I will expand the obscuring spell, so that you may test to your heart's content."
"Yeah, go ahead. Evie, if you don't mind?"
"Certainly, Master."
Garen stepped out of the white room he had created, expanding it to encompass the target as well. He was somewhat taken aback when Evie stepped out behind him, padding up to his side.
"Evie? Are you not to stay with the Governess?"
"Not at the moment, no. She is well protected, whereas you are not." Her ears flicked. "And the device is rather loud, as well. Painfully so."
"Ah."
Garen had anticipated waiting alone, perhaps reading a book, but that didn't feel appropriate with one of the most powerful women in the nation at his side. He considered the courtyard, looking for a topic of conversation.
One, naturally, came to mind.
"Am I to be privy to the origins of the Governess's... outburst?"
"Her comments on chemistry, you mean?"
"Yes."
Evie's tail flicked back and forth, her ears twitching to track sounds throughout the courtyard. Garen knew, academically, that one could learn much about a feline's thoughts from the involuntary movements of their cat-like attributes, but he did not have the requisite experience. Evie's face and posture, as always, were perfectly controlled, and revealed nothing. Garen may have been an accomplished mage, but social cues had never entered his realm of study. Garen still had difficulty not thinking of her as "Lady Eliah," collar be damned.
"I suppose I can discuss it," Evie said, after a long pause. "Master was taken by surprise by the revelation of a new aspect of her Champion's abilities. Seeing as you will likely be among the first she consults on the matter, there is no harm in explaining." Evie began a slow walk away from the opaque box, gaining distance between the trainee guards. "She discovered that, upon smelling a certain chemical compound, she was able to determine its ingredients with exacting precision. The information provided included the names of the materials, their source, and the percentages involved in the overall composition."
"Hardly a skill I would expect of Amarat," Garen said.
"You and Master both." Evie let out a little huff, rolling her eyes. "Master made an immediate leap to the term for her world's version of Alchemy, Chemistry. Apparently, the word is often used to refer to romantic compatibility, and she now believes the goddess has granted her abilities related to 'chemistry' solely on the grounds that it is cosmetically related to romance. A pun, determining the domain of the gods."
"That seems... unlikely."
"I agree, and to a certain degree, so does Master. It is why she is so incredulous, finding the idea of a goddess defined by puns inherently absurd. Were I in her position, I would simply assume there is yet another aspect of divinity I do not understand, but Master is the Champion, not me. I think it will be difficult to disabuse her of the notion."
Garen snorted, amused. "Whether or not you agree on the origins of the ability, it does seem rather promising. Perhaps she should have been pursuing alchemical talent earlier in her career."
Evie made a face. "Perhaps. But I do not think Master has the right temperament for alchemy. She is..."
"More oriented towards immediate action?" Garen suggested.
"Rash. Impatient. Prone to failure as a result of her inability to sit still, and generally uninterested in detailed minutia."
Garen blinked. They had reached the far end of the courtyard, so he and Evie turned, watching the intrusive white rectangle that he had summoned. Here, by the interior walls, there was pleasant shade that kept the air cooler.
"I must admit, such open criticism of their owner from a slave is not something I am accustomed to."
"It is what Master wishes of me," Evie said simply. "She does not want a slave, truly. She wants a partner. Ironically, as her slave, I am compelled to stretch for that lofty ideal."
Garen glanced at Evie through the corner of his eyes. He was no diplomat, but it did not take one to sniff out a lie of that size.
"You are far more her partner than a slave, Evie. Even if you were freed from the collar's bond, I doubt much of your relationship with the Governess would change."
"You may be right. Master would certainly hope so, and perhaps even I'm coming around to the idea." Evie sniffed. "Of course, not wholly. Too much in our bedroom would be lost by my freedom for me to tolerate."
Garen... did not have a response to that.
Evie didn't seem to care. She continued on, feigning obliviousness to his discomfort.
"After all, the collar, when combined with Amarat's blessings, is capable of unprecedented manipulation of my senses. While Master's genitalia readily alters itself to my tastes, it is my collar which allows us to indulge in so many otherwise impossible fantasies. And that is not even considering the physical connection, of course."
Despite himself, Garen's mage instincts could not leave such a tempting piece of information unprobed.
"The physical connection? What do you mean by that?"
"A permanent sharing of sensation. The physical pleasures of her body are transmitted to me, such that by using my body to please her, I receive pleasure in turn. When we have sex, then, I am on the receiving end of both my own body's delight, and hers. It has served exceptionally well to teach me how best to serve her."
Garen slowly wiped a hand down his reddening face, feeling his unshaved stubble crackle. He was no blushing virgin, but the frankness with which Evie spoke was disconcerting. It did not help that he couldn't help but further tug on the thread, interested in the mechanics of such an intense magical bond.
"It is like a witch and her familiar, then? The sharing of sensations?"
"Similar, but not quite. We are actually well-acquainted with a witch and her familiar, which, against all ethical protocols, is a sapient woman."
Garen blanched. If mages had something close to deadly sins, the subjugation of a thinking being in a familiar-like bond had to be near the most egregious. Seeing his expression, Evie subtly shook her head.
"There is no need to concern yourself, Garen. Master thoroughly investigated that bond, and found nothing amiss. There is great potential for abuse, of course, but the emotions shared between them seem genuine enough to forestall any such issues. As for the bond between Master and me?"
Evie touched her collar, lightly stroking its glyphs with her fingertips. "There is a similar capacity for abuse, of course. But Master is more resolute a woman than any I have ever met. If anything, at times I wish she would take more liberties with me. My tastes run more extreme than hers, it would seem."
"That is," Garen hesitated, unsure of how to phrase his thoughts, "fortunate, in general. If not for your aforementioned desires."
Evie shrugged. "It is a minor thing. She is more than capable of sating me in a plethora of other manners." Evie glanced to Garen, lips quirking up. "Capable of sating nearly everyone, I would remind you. Have you ever taken an interest?"
Gods give me strength.
"I- well- I suppose?" Garen tried. "She is a beautiful woman by anyone's standards, of course. There is a certain element of the libido that makes itself known, whether one wishes it or not. But such an entanglement seems wholly unwise."
"Because of the power imbalance? As I've already testified, she is quite adept at navigating those."
Garen could not believe what he was hearing. When he was offered the headmaster position of a new university, this was not on his list of anticipated difficulties.
"Are you trying to seduce me for your owner, Evie?"
The feline licked her lips. "Perhaps."
"May I know why?"
"She finds you attractive," Evie stated, tone dry as ever. "And I ever seek to find new ways to entertain her. By seeming chance, the majority of her bedpartners have been women, and I think some variety would do her well."
"If that was all you wished, there are more than enough alternatives to myself."
"Yes, well, I must admit some ulterior motivations." Evie's lips turned down for a moment. "Master's penchant for uncompromising honesty is often counterproductive, but I always wish to follow in her footsteps. You, Garen, are too unknown, one whose capabilities concern me for the stability of the nation Master wishes to build. I reason that, if you were to have even a taste of her body, your loyalty would be far more certain."
It was very rare that Garen was so flustered in a conversation. It had been decades, he thought, since he had been so adrift. Still, he attempted to march onward, seizing on what academic tangents he could.
"Is there some spell-like component to intercourse with your Master, then? Something that lures her partners into her embrace time and time again, like a siren or a succubus?"
Evie shook her head. "Not so far as we have been able to determine. Aside from her cum, that is. That always tastes exactly like one's favorite food, somehow, which must be magic. Other than that, it seems that her body, designed by a goddess, is simply too perfect for most to resist. The pleasure she brings is addictive, not by magical or chemical means, but psychologically. Once you have laid with her, you know that no other, no matter how skilled, will bring you to the same heights."
"That is..." Garen struggled for words. "Remarkable? I find it hard to believe, frankly. Emotional compatibility plays an overwhelming role in the body's pleasure during intercourse, after all."
"Certainly, certainly," Evie agreed. "But Master is more than enough to make up the difference. Her technique, her body, it is simply that perfect. As I've said, her genitalia, cock or pussy, alters itself to her partner's innermost desires. The physical compatibility, if not emotional, is without compare."
Garen's thoughts swam. He had no intention of laying with the Champion, particularly now that he had been told she was literally addictive, but the clinical fashion in which Evie used such crass language to describe the act was too much for him to bear.
He was saved from the conversation by an abrupt, jarring rumble. It came and went silently, but he felt it subtly rattling the stones beneath his feet. In nearly the same instant, he felt a tug on his reserves, the emerald needing to replenish itself with his energy. Garen blinked incredulously.
"It nearly shattered," he intoned.
"Hm?"
"The shield I created. It nearly shattered, just now. After one blow."
"If you'd known what struck it, you would be impressed it survived even one."
"What in the name of the gods has she created?"
"You've said, repeatedly, that you didn't wish to know."
"But..." Garen trailed off lamely. To say he didn't wish to know had been much easier, before he had felt the power of it. Warned as he was, he still hadn't been ready.
"How long until the second strike?" He asked.
"That depends. Ideally, less than a minute. In these circumstances, however, I imagine they will undergo a great deal of examination of the tool between repetitions. Do you need me to ask for more time to recover?"
"No, no, that is well under control. I only wish to learn what I can."
"Again, you aren't supposed to be doing that."
"I am what I am, Evie."
She snorted at that, a rather indelicate noise. Garen could only assume she had picked the habit up from her partners. Garen was about to ask something else, but then his mind belatedly seized on something Evie had mentioned a minute before.
"Wait. You said, ah, 'cock or pussy,' earlier?"
"Yes?"
"Then, her comment on being the father of Hurlish's child...?"
"Quite literal, I assure you."
Another rumble sent the stones beneath Garen's feet jumping, a sharp snap seizing the back of his consciousness as the shield shattered for real, but it felt secondary to Evie's comment. Between whatever hellish creation she was testing inside that white cube, her impossibly contrarian slave, and the wonders of her body, the Champion of Amarat was quickly overwhelming Garen's ability to process revelations.
Surely they'll slow down at some point, Garen half-prayed. Surely, once I get more familiar with her, the endless torrent of shock will abate.
Only time would tell, he supposed.
Notes:
Smut chapter inbound, but I'm finishing up the editing on it as I post this, so it'll probably be posted later today. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the magical complexity of Garen's perspective as much as I do! I felt like Garen was straddling the line between characteristically appropriate complexity, and incomprehensible pseudo-jargon, so thoughts on that would be appreciated!
Chapter 60: Experiments in Debauchery Part Two (E)
Notes:
If you've been reading along for a while, it might help to refresh yourself with Chapter 12 before reading this one
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Keep
29 Days until Spring
.....
House Eliah, Sporaton Capital
Four Years Until Meeting Master
It had been several weeks since the peasant with strange powers had secretly subverted Lady Ellie's will, and to her growing consternation, not a single person had noticed. The anomalous woman continued to go about her assigned duties for the House without a care in the world, spending days at a time without interacting with Ellie in the slightest.
It was utterly infuriating. With no other choice, she was forced to live her life as if nothing were wrong. The commands the peasant had tied about her neck were as numerous as they were comprehensive, and all her attempts at circumnavigating their wording had been fruitless. With a power such as the peasant possessed, it was frighteningly easy to do. Two commands, once spoken, had robbed Ellie of all capacity for retaliation.
The first was to give her the instruction that, if Ellie thought she were close to breaking free, desist in whatever it was she was doing to cause it. That maddeningly simplistic order alone had been the foil of the vast majority of her plots, and what little progressed beyond that point had been foiled by a second, equally simple command.
The command to act completely normal, such that if Ellie even suspected someone was close to recognizing her predicament, she would whole-heartedly invest all her efforts in assuaging their suspicions. With the life Ellie had led, that was disastrous. She was simply too accomplished a liar.
And thus was sealed her foremost avenue of escape, that of hoping someone close to her would recognize that she was not truly herself. Ellie may have been capable of moving her lips, of speaking words and steering herself through the manor's hallways, and for all intents and purposes looked like a free woman, but she wasn't. Should the thought of escape take her, her limbs would freeze, her throat clamping shut, and she would be paralyzed until she gave up on the idea. The final conceivable option she had considered was among the most promising, but also required of her the very thing she was the worst at providing.
Passivity.
After days of sleepless nights and uncountable failed plans, Ellie had been forced to confront the fact that her only hope lay with, of all people, her tormenter. The enigmatic peasant that had embedded herself into the Eliah household, who had with a touch stolen Ellie's voice from her, was now the only one capable of releasing her. So long as Ellie was ready for it, all it would take was one small slip, the slightest misphrasing of an order or request, and Ellie could seize the moment.
Perhaps the woman would get a sore throat and instruct her to prepare a glass of saltwater as a remedy, allowing Ellie to flee to the sea to acquire it. Or perhaps she would dangle a thoughtless off-handed remark in Ellie's direction, something simple like a sarcastic "do as you please," and then Ellie would leap upon her, choking her before any counter-command could be uttered.
Sadly, this final option of escape was well beyond her control, and more infuriatingly, so rarely possible, because the damnable peasant wouldn't show up!
That enraged Ellie most of all. After the hideous... debauchery in the library during their first meeting, the peasant had barely graced her presence. To extract such mewling falsehoods from Ellie in a time of distress, then to flutter off disinterestedly, was unconscionable. In the few times they had interacted, it had been beneath the eyes of others, and so the woman had addressed Ellie exactly as she ought to have, kneeling and scraping as was her due. The sight of her tormenter bowing should have been satisfying to Ellie, and while perhaps it was initially gratifying, it had rapidly progressed to irritating.
What farce was this peasant building up? She'd even once publicly apologized to Ellie for her absence, blaming it upon the duties placed by her work for the House, as if her complete dominion over said House's heir was a secondary concern to... to menial labor! After all she had done to Ellie that night, she had the gall to claim that it was contractual obligations that kept her away? Preposterous!
And the aforementioned night itself, of course, grated on Ellie terribly. Memories of it haunted her as she tried to fall asleep, the terrible loss of power replaying itself over and over again in her mind. The monster had toyed with her very perceptions of reality, picking apart what Ellie knew was and wasn't true, until she was like a mere child who did not understand how the world worked, unknowingly clinging to the cause as her only lifeline.
That she had ultimately reacted as she did was no shame upon herself, Ellie had quickly decided. There had been no precedent in all her life for such an event, no experience for her to draw upon in the moment. To lose control of herself as she had was unbecoming of her, true, but no less than could be fairly expected in such extraordinary circumstances. Now that she had an idea of what she was dealing with, Ellie was determined not to become so out of sorts when the woman tormented her again.
And yet, despite that determination, nothing continued to happen. Ellie spent days– weeks!– writhing with rage in her mind, physcially incapable of expressing it openly. The woman traipsed up and down the halls of her House without concern, and the mere knowledge of her presence drove Ellie mad.
And so, on the third week of this untenable situation, Ellie decided to force the woman's hand. She called up one of the higher ranking servants, instructed them to bring the "new woman under the spymaster's employ" to her personal office, then dismissed her guards. Whatever would happen next Ellie could not predict, but at least something would happen.
Ellie inspected her office as she waited, some small part of her mind still trying to conjure up a solution to her problem. She briefly entertained the fanciful thought of balancing a pot of boiling water above the door, or a basket of knives, but the preclusion to harming her Owner tormentor wouldn't allow her. So instead she set out a series of papers and ledgers in neat piles, as if she had been working up until the very moment the woman arrived. That done, she folded her hands and focused on steadying her breath, awaiting the woman's arrival.
A sharp rap sounded on the door some minutes later, the servant poking their head in.
"Lady Ellie? Your requested guest is present."
"Allow her entrance," Ellie instructed. The door closed, then was opened much more roughly, the object haunting her dreams plowing straight in.
"Greetings, Lady Ellie," the peasant said, tucking one hand to her waist in a respectable bow. "You called for me?"
"There are no hidden ears here, woman," Ellie snapped. "Cease your pointless groveling. The falsehood disgusts me nearly as much as the sight of your simpering smile."
The peasant stood slowly, lips splitting in a different manner. One that resembled a polite smile, but was nothing of the sort.
"Simpering. An interesting choice of words, My Lady."
"And why is that?"
"Nothing, nothing. It just resembles a bit of slang from my home that I thought amusingly relevant." The peasant cleared her throat. "I apologize, My Lady. You had a purpose in calling me here, and it was rude of me to distract."
Despite herself, Ellie's knuckles whitened. "What is the purpose of this? Did you not believe me when I said the room was free of hidden observers? Why act as you do, villain? What is the object of this charade?"
"I see," the woman said, taking a slow step towards Ellie's desk. "You want me to drop the pretenses, then? Do with you as I did before? It's understandable, of course. Just say the word, and–"
"No!" Ellie's heart lurched. "No, I most certainly did not say that." Ellie allowed herself a moment to retract her claws from where they had instinctively dug into the wood of her desk. "I despise you, peasant. I despise what you have done to me. Though you may have bound me now, when I am free, your punishment will not be swift. It will be long and torturous."
"Ooh," the woman cooed. "Is that a promise, My Lady? Had I known how readily you'd propose such an idea, I wouldn't have bothered with all those extra conditions in the first place."
Ellie could already feel a headache coming on. They were an increasingly common phenomena, these days. The woman continued her slow, step by step approach, and every inch closer had Ellie's emotions ratcheting higher. She held up a hand.
"Stop. Not another step."
To her surprise, the woman did stop. She cocked her head as she did so, looking at Ellie with an expression almost like... respect? That couldn't be it. No one could both treat Ellie as this woman had and respect her at the same time. The ideas were incompatible. Whatever the inscrutable expression was, it at least coincided with halting her advance some ten feet away from Ellie's desk.
"If that's not why you called me here, what is? Some trouble with the quality of my work? I assure you, I've been diligent."
"I haven't the faintest clue what you do under our employee, peasant, and I never intend to learn. No. I called you here because you are an enemy traipsing about under my very nose, one whose intentions and capabilities I am entirely unappraised of, and that situation must be rectified."
"In other words, you want to know what I'll do with you?"
Ellie bristled. It was fortunate that she was sitting, because her tail tried to lash furiously. Without the appendage to give her away, she could keep her voice steady, projecting confidence.
"Hardly. At this point, I begin to question if the control you have over my body is as strong as you claim. If there were not some limit to this peculiar ability, you would not be spending so long toiling under my–"
"Choke on your fingers. Gag on them."
"–House's employ- agckh!"
Ellie recoiled from her own limb as her slender fingers inserted themselves into her mouth without hesitation, the peasant briefly treated to the comical sight of Ellie trying to flee from her own hand. All she achieved was shoving herself away from the desk before her mouth was invaded, index and middle fingers depressing her tongue with a messy noise.
"You are sadly mistaken, My Lady," the peasant said. Ellie barely paid attention, too busy trying to stop herself from violating her own throat. The peasant hadn't just told her to put her fingers in her mouth, she had ordered her to gag. That meant that the moment Ellie found the sensation remotely tolerable, her fingers forcibly probed deeper, saliva further coating her hand until she choked once more. The only sign the peasant noticed the display was the way she spoke louder, to be heard over Ellie's gasping.
"In fact, there are no limits to the power I hold over you. If I ordered you to freeze in place until you starved, you would. If I demanded you to sprint to the sea, you would run until you collapsed. Make no mistake, Lady Ellie, you have no ability to resist me, and you never will again."
Her Owner 's The peasant's words were growing indistinct as Ellie gasped for breath, knuckles by then pressing against the edges of her lips. Long strands of spit were running down her hand, dripping off her forearm to the desk. The fuzziness of her mind grew worse as she watched the peasant resume her slow approach, a buzzing hiss probing the edge of her consciousness at the sight.
"But fortunately for you, you cute little thing, I don't want total obedience. I've had that before. It's mundane. It... bores me. No, what I want from you isn't your money, or your stature, or your influence. Do you know what I want from you? Answer me."
Still gagging on her fingers, the demand compelled Ellie to shake her head in the negative.
"Then I'll tell you, My Lady. I want you to come to me of your own volition. I want to open my door one morning to find you curled up on my doorstep like the good little kitten I know you are. I want you to not just want me, I want you to recognize that you need me. It'll happen, eventually. You're too smart to deceive yourself forever. All you get to decide is how much fun I have on the way there."
Ellie's vision seemed to blur as the peasant reached the edge of her desk, staring down at her. Ellie was helpless to do anything other than gag and stare up at her tormentor with wide eyes. Drool was pooling on the desk, ruining her papers. The peasant lingered for a moment, piercing eyes roving over Ellie's form, lecherously taking in her breasts, her fingers stuffed into her mouth, and every inch of her exposed skin. Ellie tried to radiate defiance in response, but she feared it came across as little more than pathetic indignation. Like a child pretending they didn't care that their nursemaid had siezed them by the collar so they could be taken to another room for disciplining. Ellie's defiance was farcical, and they both knew it.
The peasant finally leaned away, lessening the pounding pressure between Ellie's ears. Ellie's hand was by this point shoved as far down her throat as she could fit it, her jaw stretched quite painfully to accommodate it, but she still couldn't adjust. There was no adapting to the foreign object in her throat, and every time she got close, her fingers involuntarily twitched against the back of her throat, causing it to continue its spasms. Ellie's vision spun with dizziness as she managed only fitful gasps around her fingers, taking in what air she could.
It was in this pitiful state that she watched the peasant retreat to the door, placing a hand on the handle, and for a moment Ellie nearly panicked, thinking the woman would leave her under the compulsion for gods knew how long. To her great relief– relief she refused to show outwardly– the peasant paused, glancing back at her.
"You are right about one thing, Lady Ellie. I have been leaving you alone too long. It's not right when owners ignore their pets. I promise I'l make some time in the coming days to swing by." The peasant began to turn the door handle, then paused once more, as if the idea had just occurred to her. "Oh, yeah. When I leave the room, you may stop choking yourself. Feel free to continue, though. It'll be good practice for things to come."
Ellie did not have enough air in her lungs to fix the woman with the furious glare she desired. It wouldn't have mattered; the peasant turned and left without sparing her a further glance, casually shutting the door behind herself.
Ellie tore her hand from her mouth, her first eager gasp resulting in a violent coughing fit. Not wanting to ruin her dress, she pounded her chest with her unsoiled hand, the ache in her throat pulsing with each beat of her thundering heart. When she got her lungs under control, she opened her eyes, confronted with a humiliating sight.
A long string of spittle connected her hand to her lips, glistening in the open air. Her frantic attempts at freeing herself had only thrown more across the table, ruining most of the documents she had set out. She would have to throw them away; there was no mistaking what fluid caused this.
So disoriented was Ellie that her first reaction was to pick up the papers, as if they mattered in the slightest. She hadn't even cleaned her hand yet, and all she achieved was soiling the few parchments that might've been salvaged. Now ink ran beneath her hand, mixing with saliva. Ellie watched it run, her chest shaking.
She closed her eyes, counting slowly up from one, all the way to ten, then reopened them.
Without a trace of trembling to her motions, Ellie wiped the back of her hand across her chin, gathering up what she could of the spit before using the papers to dry her fingers. As she used precious financial documents to pat herself down, she felt a burning heat rising in her core. A fury borne of desire for revenge, for justice.
She would show this peasant exactly who she was.
She heard two sharp snaps.
-----------------------
Evie blinked rapidly, feeling the untold layers of commands sloughing off her shoulders. It was a mixed thing, the loss of such a refined manipulation of Master's ownership of her, but it at least let her better appreciate the events that had transpired. Master was back in the room, still wearing her simple peasant clothing, smiling at Evie. Evie smiled back, reaching to one of the desk's drawers and pulling out one of her notebooks.
"Alright, Master, now that we've established the new approach, I think it would be best if we moved to this section here, seeing my younger self's reaction to the demonstration of your power. I acted much like I anticipated, but was surprised by how-"
"Woah there," Master said, holding up her hands with a chuckle. "First thing's first. You have fun?"
"Dunno how she could," Hurlish grumbled, from the sofa where she, Vesta, and Oddry had been watching the show. They had been invisible to 'Ellie.'
"You know how she enjoys being choked, Hurlish," Vesta said. "And you certainly seemed to enjoy the show."
"I mean, I thought it was hot, and I know Evie loves being choked on anything she can get her lips around, but her old fancy self?"
Evie smirked. "Oh, I assure you, my proclivities seem to be innate, rather than learned. Master just awoke me to them. You think I didn't enjoy it?" Evie twisted in her chair and lifted her dress, exposing her soaked undergarments to the women. "From the moment Master first ordered my fingers in my mouth, I was dripping. I haven't the faintest clue how my old self was able to ignore that arousal, frankly. It seems I was more skilled at self-deception than even I'd appreciated."
The sight of three women– no, four, counting Master– silently appreciating Evie's drenched panties sent a second wave of arousal through her. Her pussy reflexively twitched. With how the damp cloth was clinging to her skin, she knew they saw, and that only furthered her arousal.
Gods, but I love this.
"Well, good to hear you had a good time," Master said, moving to sit on the edge of the desk. Evie handed her the notebook happily, moving carefully so that her dress would not fall back down. She also spread her legs a little bit wider, to ensure Hurlish and the others had a good view of how wet she was. Master began to read. After a few moments, she flipped the page, eyebrows raising. "Damn, girl. How much did you write ahead of time?"
"Enough to ensure the commands would be thorough, of course. The more detailed the compulsions you layer upon me, the more perfected the fantasy feels when I finally awake. At times they can be nearly as vivid as if I truly lived it." Evie licked her lips. "And receiving the command themselves is, of course, exquisite. I will admit that I may have detailed more than is strictly necessary, just to draw out the process."
From the sidelines, Oddry made a cute noise of complaint. "I wish I could experience that! At times it almost seems worth it, to be a slave. I won't of course, I know you've made it illegal, Governess, but I do so hope there is some way to replicate the experience. It seems so enjoyable."
Master snorted. "Just being a slave wouldn't mark it work for you like it does for Evie. Mind manipulation is an Amarat special, I'm afraid. You couldn't get the same effect while being Vesta's slave."
Oddry frowned. "Damn. Not much point in that. Never mind."
"You flatter me, dear," Vesta hummed, rubbing Oddry's shoulder.
Master offered Oddry a conciliatory expression. "Maybe Selliana can brew you up a potion some day to replicate the effect. Might be worth asking after. Until then, you'll just have to settle for all the other flavors of debauchery Vesta's acquainted you with."
"Quite," Evie said, somewhat impatiently. "Are we ready to move on to the next scene now, Master?"
"I guess so. You ready?"
"Always."
Sara lifted the book and took a few steps back from the desk, looking Evie in the eye to affirm her consent one last time, then turned her attention down to the book.
"You are listening to my voice, and only my voice. You can hear nothing else. You are looking at me, and only me. You can see nothing else. You are thinking of me, and only me. There is nothing else."
Evie's core clenched down on nothing as Master's commands rolled through her, the collar rewarding her obedience with successive waves of hot, intoxicating pleasure. She knew that Hurlish and the others would see her hips tilting against nothing, her eyes glazing over, but that didn't matter, did it? They weren't there.
No one was there.
Even Evie wasn't there. She wasn't worth mentioning.
There was just Her.
Her voice, Her words.
Master.
-----------------------------
--------------------------
-----------------------
True to her word, the peasant returned to Ellie not two days later. It was a rather impromptu meeting, suspiciously coincidental, but Ellie was too paranoid to accept such a thing as mere coincidence.
She had been traveling down one of the manor's long carpeted halls with only a single guard, heading towards one of the House's tailors with a ripped dress in hand. So great had her irritation over her present situation been that morning that she had pulled it out of her wardrobe with considerable force, tearing it on a jutting hook. The rip was sizable, a gap spanning from her left shoulder to the right side of the middle of her ribcage, and it was obviously ruined. Yet the dress was one of her favorites. She couldn't stomach the thought of throwing it away. To avoid the tailor simply tossing it aside as ruined, she'd decided to deliver the garment personally so she could impress its importance, rather than send a member of her staff.
And so it was that she ran across the damnable peasant early in the morning, the woman spotting her from a long ways down the hallway, emerging from a crossroads. Ellie had stiffened, but couldn't about face without her guard questioning it, and so she was forced to careen down the hallway, locked onto her doomed path.
"Greetings, Lady Ellie," the peasant said when they neared, bowing low. "Fancy running into you here."
"I own the entire premises," Ellie snapped irritably. "What do you–"
She stopped. She had been close to saying 'what do you want,' but there was no explaining that to her guard. A peasant had nothing that they could want of Lady Ellie. Either the guard would suspect something was amiss, and Ellie's commands would force her to grovel to assure them, or they would make a subtler, more dangerous assumption. It wasn't uncommon for nobles to take peasant paramours, and she despised the thought of the guard assuming this infuriating woman was one of hers. She bit her tongue, reworking her sentence.
"What of your work brings you to this portion of the House?"
"My time off, Lady Ellie. I finished my work but a little while ago."
"Hmph. Well, then. You ought to get going, and do whatever it is that entertains your sort."
When the words leaving her mouth prompted a predatory grin, she knew she'd chosen them poorly.
"If you insist, Lady Ellie. I rather excel at finding my own entertainment, I think you'll find." The peasant swept her arm out, indicating the direction Ellie had been heading. "After you."
Where the guard following behind her couldn't see it, Ellie's lip lifted in a terrible snarl. To preserve appearances, however, she had no choice but to forge ahead, ignoring the way the peasant began walking beside her. To her considerable irritation, the peasant struck up a pleasant conversation with the guard. Safe as they were deep within the premises, she could not chastise them for shirking their duty.
"So you've really just gotta follow her around all day? Doesn't that get boring?"
"Pretty much, but nah, doesn't get boring," the guard replied, her Tulian accent an oddity in the Sporaton capital. Ellie supposed the large orc had been a migrant fleeing the storms, finding employ with the Eliah household. "Lot more interesting than being posted outside some door, and it pays well. I like it."
"Pretty good posting then, huh?"
"Not bad at all."
"Congrats on the good job, then. My name's Sara, by the way."
"Hurlish."
Ellie glanced backward as the peasant stuck out her hand for a handshake, which the orc of course reached for. When their hands met, however, Ellie witnessed something that made her skin crawl.
The orc's fingers clenched unexpectedly, a strange expression flashing across her face. Rather than complete the handshake, she yanked away, shaking out her hand.
"Damn! The hells was that?"
Ellie's steps stuttered severely, nearly taking her to the ground. When the peasant's commands had first settled upon her, it had felt like a static shock across the entire portion the woman had touched, electrifying her. Even though she'd nearly fallen, the orcish guard barely noticed, so distracted by the handshake. Ellie slowly turned around, heart pounding, and saw the peasant woman grinning maliciously.
"Nothing to worry about," the peasant told the guard.
The orc guard blinked several times, her eyes losing focus. Then she nodded. "You're right. Nothing to worry about, ma'am."
Ma'am?! Evie practically shrieked in her mind. Ma'am?! You touch her once, and now you call her ma'am?
Ellie looked between the orc guard– Hurlish, she'd said her name was– and the peasant, whose smile had grown no less malevolent. Ellie locked eyes with the peasant, who had certainly realized that any obstacle to her plans had just vanished with that handshake. Ellie shuddered. She turned on a heel and began hurrying off down the hall, primal instinct encouraging her to gain distance no matter how little it would achieve.
"Slow down there, Lady Ellie!" The peasant called after her, sounding far friendlier than she actually was. Ellie felt a terrible pressure seize her legs, slowing them to a sedate walk. Peasant and guard caught up in short order, and this time, the peasant walked beside her, rather than behind her.
"Something convinced you to hurry, all of the sudden?" The peasant teased.
"I will not stand for you speaking to your betters in such a way–"
"Answer the question."
Ellie's face wrenched up, lips curling fiercely as she tried to halt the words spilling forth. "I noticed your commands taking hold over my guard, and fear what you will do with such unfettered access to me now that she cannot protect me."
The guard, Hurlish, straightened. "What was that, Lady Ellie? Is something the matter?"
"Yes, this woman has taken–" Evie's throat seized up in the middle of her sentence, choking off her words. She couldn't explain her situation to her guard. The commands wouldn't let her.
The peasant waved a dismissive hand, answering for Ellie. "No. Everything's normal."
Hurlish relaxed. "Oh. Good. I was worried for a second."
The peasant looked ready to move on, but an idea seemed to occur to her, and she looked back at the guard once more.
"In fact, everything I do with Lady Ellie is perfectly normal. No matter what, my behavior around her will seem completely appropriate to you."
"Why wouldn't it?" The orc asked, as if the notion was obvious.
"Who knows? Just covering my bases."
Suddenly, without any warning, the peasant's hand landed on Ellie's left breast. She jumped in place, trying to shove it off her, but the peasant's earlier commands prevented her from resisting her advances in any fashion. The peasant began palming her breast through her dress, a throaty and appreciative hum sounding.
"Damn, damn, damn. You were right, Ellie. I've been holding back for no good reason. Your body shouldn't be left alone for this long, should it?"
Without being able to move the woman's hand off of her, she took several steps backward, trying to gain distance. As she'd just been ordered to move slow, however, the peasant easily followed her, all the way up until her back was pressed against the wall. A second hand landed on her other breast, keeping her up against the wall.
"Gods," the peasant breathed, stepping even closer to Ellie, "your body really is a wonder. I don't tell you that often enough, you know."
Even knowing it was pointless, Ellie put her hands on the woman's wrists, trying to peel them off her. "You have never told me such, you ignoble beast! And I wouldn't care if you did!"
Oddly, both Hurlish and the peasant chuckled. "Oh, we'll see about that, Ellie."
Ellie trembled, searching for some response. Even through her dress, the attention on her breasts was intense. Ellie had touched herself, of course, and often palmed her chest as she did so, but to have another doing so was proving an entirely different thing.
Despite herself, she felt her breathing deepen, her tail sliding up and down the wall behind her. The woman seemed to know her body like the back of her hand, running her thumbs over her covered nipples at just the right time to get her breath hitching, applying firm pressure all throughout that had Ellie's spine tingling.
"What a-are you doing? G-get off me," Ellie panted, still shoving ineffectually at the woman's wrists. "We are in p-public! Anyone could come down t-this hallway."
"Funny that that's your first concern, Ellie," the woman hummed, eyes never leaving Ellie's chest. "I'd have thought you'd want me to stop in general."
"That's- of course!" Ellie hissed. "Your current actions simply compound the barbarity!"
"So what you're saying is, you'd be happier with it if I took us to a private area?" The peasant asked, her words thick with lust.
Ellie's mind whirled. She had said she would prepare herself for this moment, prepare herself to resist the woman, but saying she would and actually doing it were two different things. Her skin was afire with tingling pleasure like she'd never known, her cheeks roaring a furious blush as her heart pounded. Even still, she tried to think logically, working her way through her options.
The woman says she will take me somewhere private, where we can't be seen. That might avoid a scandal, but it will allow her to be even more bold. The question for me is, then, whether I am willing to accept humiliation in exchange for potential freedom from this binding.
"Somewhere private, please," Ellie whispered, the speed with which she made the decision shocking her. For as much as she wished to escape this bondage, the thought of others seeing her carnally engaged with a peasant was too horrifying.
Not, she forcefully told herself, because of what she will be able to do to me in that private area. Not because she might be able to drive my desire higher and higher, as she did that first night, not because there her every spoken word might pull at my arousal until I am a shuddering mess.
Grinning, the peasant released Ellie's chest, stepping away from her. Ellie sagged, breathing hard, the faint echo of the woman's ministrations still rolling over her body. She stood like that for some time, mastering herself, and for some reason the peasant let her. Eventually, however, the damned woman of course spoke up.
"I like hearing you say that, by the way. You should do it more."
"Say what?" Ellie snapped, mastering her voice for long enough to sound furious.
"Please."
Ellie froze. She hadn't, had she? She hadn't said please to the woman. She was not that sort. She couldn't be.
Ellie clutched the dress she was carrying closer to her, striding down the hallway. She made it only a few steps before she faltered once more, a strange sensation running across her body. She felt oddly cool, and her dress didn't seem to fit the same.
Ellie looked down, then gasped.
She was no longer wearing what she had been this morning. She was wearing the ripped dress, with nothing beneath. The dress had been of a new, southern style, purple silk meant to hug her chest and hips, accenting her body, rather than obscuring it, as was traditional. She'd loved it because it allowed her to show off more of her warrior's musculature than some fluffy monstrosity, but now it was showing far too much. Her left breast was entirely bared, pale and creamy, as well as the bottom half of her right breast, the nipple barely hidden. She immediately clutched her arms to her chest, trying to cover herself. There was too much to hide, however, and she could only cover her breasts themselves, not the entire rip.
Behind her, the peasant chuckled. "Oh, yeah. By the way. You're going to be wearing that for a while."
"What–? When–?"
"Doesn't really matter, does it? Now stop covering yourself."
Evie's hands fell to her side, still clenched in shame, but covering nothing. The peasant circled to the front of her, licking her lips. At the look in her eye, Ellie shivered.
"Tsk-tsk, Lady Ellie. Walking about in torn clothes? If someone didn't know better, they might think you have a thing for that."
"I-I-" Evie stammered, heat roaring through her body, "I cannot believe what you are insinuating! It is your machinations that put me in this state, woman! Do you really think that I would plan this, to be wearing something so absurd?"
Once more, the orc guard chuckled deeply, as if Ellie's statement was deeply ironic. The peasant cast Hurlish a censorious glare, then returned to Ellie.
"Even if you didn't, Lady Ellie," the woman said, beginning to slowly pad around to the right side of Ellie's body, "what does it matter? The result is the same. You can't cover yourself. I won't let you."
Ellie shuddered again, harder.
"What if someone came down this hallway right now, and saw you? Saw your tits out in the open air, bared for all to see? What would they think of you?"
Ellie turned her head to the left, closing her eyes as if that would block out the woman's words.
"Would they really believe that you'd been in some unfortunate incident, one that ended up with you flashing your perfect little tits, or would they be a bit more clever? Would they recognize you as the desperate, feverishly horny woman you are?"
"I am nothing of the sort," Ellie insisted in a fierce whisper.
"Are you?"
The woman had padded around behind her, and now she leaned forward, resting her chin on Ellie's shoulders. She felt calloused hands on her hips, rough even through the thin material of the dress. They hooked gently into her flesh, racing up and down her sides. Ellie could barely keep herself from shaking like a leaf.
"Your body doesn't seem to agree, Lady Ellie," the peasant purred, moving up so her breath was hot on Ellie's ears. They flicked rapidly, involuntarily. The peasant's hands split, one roaming higher, one falling lower. "I don't think you really appreciate how much you want this, Lady Ellie."
Heat rose further in Ellie as the woman's words angered her. "I want no such thing," she hissed.
"Mmm," the peasant hummed throatily, "how much would you bet on that? I wouldn't put too much, personally."
The peasant's right hand reached Ellie's bared chest, tracing the curving undersides of her breasts with a scraping nail. Ellie jumped at the touch, purely reflexively.
"If I were to, say," the peasant's other hand began to circle over her lower stomach, "dip a little bit lower, what do you think I'd find? Something soft, hot, and ready for me?"
Ellie's toned stomach rippled under the her dress, its thin silken material doing little to mute the sensations being forced upon it. Her breath kept trying to catch in her throat, and it took all her willpower to keep her breathing even.
"Well?" The peasant purred, "what about it? Do you think you're going to be nice and wet?"
Ellie could not answer, because she knew the answer. She could feel the thud of her racing pulse deep in her core, her senses so thick with arousal that she could not pinpoint which part of her body felt more aflame. Her breasts, open to the air, still tingled from their initial groping, her nipples achingly hard. There was something slick coating her thighs, which she kept clenched tightly together, to avoid it showing.
This is... This is a command. A hidden order, like the one that changed me into this dress, but to inflame my passions. It couldn't be anything else.
"Not going to answer, then? Alright."
The peasant's presence around Ellie disappeared, and she very nearly fell backward without the support she'd not realized she'd been relying upon. She stood strong, however, all the way up until the peasant spoke again.
"Hurlish, check how wet she is for me."
Ellie tried to step away, but her body was slowed from commands and her own pounding arousal. The orc, responding to her order, reached out instantly with one massive hand and snagged her shoulder. Ellie gasped as she was driven back against the wall.
Without the slightest bit of concern, the orc grabbed the shin-length hem of her silk dress and jerked it up, rattling Ellie's entire frame with the brusqueness of the motion. The dress, though form-fitting, still pinched and tugged at her legs as it was yanked up past her hips.
"Just a minute, ma'am," the orc said, apologizing to the peasant. "She's wearing underwear. Won't take long."
"Don't you– "
Ellie gasped as she felt the waistline of her panties get snagged by powerful fingers, which pulled back. Her hips jerked forward as her underclothes were physically torn off of her, dropped to the floor an instant later like so much trash. Before Ellie could even react to that indignity, the orc's hand returned, one thick finger pressing between her pussy lips, dragging along her slit. The orc brought it out into the open, where it glistened, perfectly visible for all to see.
"Pretty wet, ma'am, looks like."
"I'm shocked."
Ellie was panting, leaning against the wall, chest heaving. She ached between her legs, in her breasts, and curiously, in her throat. Like her throat knew something she didn't, as if there should be something in it, at that moment. Ellie shuddered again.
"What are you going to do next?" She asked breathlessly, barely more than a whisper.
The peasant grinned. "Well, you said you'd rather have somewhere private, right? We'll have to find something. Now, get your dress down. If we leave you like that any longer, you're gonna start dripping on the carpet."
Ellie's limbs responded to the order with infuriating immediacy, forcing her disheveled dress back into place, or as close as she could get it. She didn't even fight the command, this time. The comment that she would be literally dripping her arousal onto the carpet was an absurdity, but... perhaps not as absurd as she would have liked. Her aching core was still pounding, pounding, pounding, and it showed no sign of stopping.
"Follow me," the peasant ordered, crooking a finger. Ellie was tugged along like a marionette, her feet acting before her body could catch up to find its balance. "You were heading to get the dress fixed, right?"
Ellie remained silent.
"Answer me."
Ellie tried to fight it, clenching her jaw shut, but she shouldn't have. What came out was far more pitiful than a forthright answer. "Mmmfh- I- mhhh- going to- see- the. tailor!"
Her orc guard gave her a strange look as the strangled words spilled inexorably forth. Considering the fact that Hurlish's hand was still dripping with Ellie's slick, she was past giving a damn what the woman thought.
"Alright, perfect. Then that's where we'll go."
Ellie's legs stomped endlessly after the peasant, even while her upper body recoiled.
"What? Now? While I'm wearing this?"
"Well, you need to get it changed, don't you?"
"Not while I'm wearing it!"
"Would you rather I take you into the nearest closet and ravish you?"
Ellie's mind swirled. Her mouth, very briefly, nearly spat out the word yes. She bit it back just in time. Any admittance that the peasant's actions brought Ellie pleasure were out of the question. She simply refused to admit it.
Because it wasn't true, of course.
Which meant she was going to be going to see the tailor.
With her breasts hanging out.
Unable to even cover them with her hands.
Another shudder rolled through her, and for the first time, she wasn't able to ignore the way the slickness coating her thighs intensified.
Notes:
I've generally kept to a rule about not posting smut chapters without the *cough* climax included, but in this case, I figured it was better to post sooner than later. Lots of people were saying that Chapter 12 was their favorite of the smut chapters, and I happened to agree, so here we are. Unfortunately, as seems to be a trend with me, what was intended to be a 3k brief scene spiraled into a 7k one, and it's still not done, so you'll have to wait a while longer for the finale. Whoops?
Chapter 61: Experiments With Unexpected Yields (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The peasant was marching her down yet another seamless hallway, pathways to either side looming as threateningly as any alleyway assassin. Ellie marched as quickly as she could past each potential avenue for discovery by the House's staff, then slowed as much as she could during the intervening portions, dragging her heels as yet another opportunity to be exposed drew closer. Thus far, perhaps due to the early hour, she had avoided notice, but that would not last.
She was being marched toward the tailor, after all.
Half naked.
She kept trying to cover her breasts, and every time she failed, another maddening flush of arousal roared through her. It was incessant, now, impossible to ignore, and worst of all, she could no longer convince herself it was not her own. Ever since the peasant had ordered her dress switched without notice, she had kept careful watch on her steps, on her progress through the halls, and had seen no sign of lost time. As best as she could determine, she had received no orders. The aching sense of emptiness between her legs was Ellie's, and Ellie's alone.
Some time later, which felt like quite a while, but was likely only a minute or two, the peasant broke from her leering to speak up.
"Y'know, you haven't really called me anything other than a peasant, Lady Ellie. Don't you remember my name?"
"I do," she snapped, attemping a succinct response to forestall any further prodding.
"Then why don't you call me by it?"
"Because you're a peasant, peasant," Ellie hissed, mindful of raising her voice, no matter how much she wished to. Drawing attention was the least desirable thing she could imagine. "Why address you as anything else than what you are?"
"Because I want you to, of course. Call me Sara."
As always, the order slammed into Ellie with inexorable force. The mere thought of referring to Sara as anything else was thrown from her mind, tossed and discarded, and–
Evie stopped dead, her entire body slackening, preset commands taking effect.
"Yellow."
Evie waited.
"Huh?" Master looked at Hurlish, who seemed just as confused. Master snapped her fingers twice, and Evie wobbled, the commands rolling off her skin. "What's up, Evie?"
"I don't wish to call you by anything other than Master," she replied, her voice still a tad woozy as she came out of her trance. "Even when I am my younger self, it just feels... wrong. I could not enjoy the memory later. A title or descriptor are one thing, but a different name? Something in me rebels." She paused. "Also, as an aside, I was giving in too quickly. I thought my younger self had more resolve than that. You might order me to be more resistant than would be truly authentic. But primarily, my concern was for addressing you by another title."
Master frowned. "That's surprising. I didn't think the collar's compulsion to call me 'Master' were strong enough to override my direct orders."
"It is not."
Master looked rather peculiarly at Evie for that revelation. "Really? I mean, no big deal, I'll go with whatever makes you comfortable of course, but it's still surprising to me."
Evie bit her lower lip, shifting her hips from side to side to find friction, now that she was no longer ashamed by her arousal. After some consideration, she landed upon an explanation of her thoughts.
"It is what you are to me, Master. It is not just a title, or a name, but a reminder of what you have given me. A new life, filled with love and kindness I had never known, improbably drawn from subservience at the end of leash and collar. To refer to you otherwise would... not sadden me, I suppose. But it would represent the loss of your comforting dominance over me, which saved me from the agonies of my prior burdens."
Master's eyelids flickered, and through the collar, Evie felt a twinge of guilt, regret, and sadness.
"But... I don't want you to need me to hide from those burdens, Evie. They were forced on you, and what you did or didn't do with them wasn't your fault."
Both through the collar and in her own core, Evie felt the arousal of the moment plummeting. This was not a conversation she'd intended to have, but as always, Master's ability to cut to the heart of the issue had her leaping far beyond Evie's expectations. She'd considered such emotions before, and even anticipated Master's arguments, but she hadn't been ready to face it yet.
Of course, she probably never would have been.
Evie took a deep, shuddering breath, gathering and organizing the detritus of months of anxious deliberations. She was trained in the art of conversation, of negotiation, and she knew that once a topic was well and truly broached, backing away would never achieve much.
Of course, with Master, I always could, Evie reflected. Unlike near anyone else, she would gladly retreat from this avenue.
But Evie would not. She knew that already. She took a deep, long breath, steadier this time.
"I wrote the letters. I gave the orders. For my House's benefit, I encouraged to battle uncountable minor nobles, who then drew their peasants into the conflict, all to slice off a minor piece of land for themselves, and ultimately my House. The blood spilled did not coat my hands, but it did my soul, Master. But if I am your slave, then that is all I am. Not the woman who made those decisions."
"I know you think that. You've told me about it, before. But your actions weren't your own, even back then. If you did something your mother didn't approve of, trying to do what was right, she'd overrule you, then punish you. You were just playing a guessing game of what she wanted you to do. That's not a ruler, that's a puppet. Why do you need me to hide from that? There's nothing to hide from."
"Whether or not the results would have been the same, Master, the fact remains that it was my hand that penned the edicts. It was I that sent the orders." Evie swallowed thickly. "After the first few weeks, I barely felt anything when I did. You have now ruled for months, and you still agonize over each and every decision you make. When I gave in so easily to cynicism, how could I not wish to be beneath you? That you so despise feudal lords is ironic, because you alone represent the ideal that we failed to achieve. A woman worth following without exception, whose nature is so flawless as to free those beneath her from the pain of deliberation."
"That's... but..." Master's face twisted up, words failing her. The Champion of Amarat stumbling over her sentence sent another spike of adoration into Evie's overwrought heart, joining thousands of similar shards, because Evie knew Master did not need to stumble. She could speak flawlessly, find exactly the right words without hesitation. Yet, every time such a serious topic came up between her, Hurlish, or Evie, Master made the effort to suppress her abilities. Master did not even realize she did so, her old life before the blessings leaving the stumbling and stuttering unremarkable to her, but not to Evie, who knew Master only as the impeccably composed Champion. Beneath Master's conscious mind, however, she invariably chose to forgo her blessings in times like these, so that her partners were presented her most faithful self.
"I guess... I guess I'll do whatever you want, Evie, but I don't think it's right. I don't think it's, y'know, healthy, for you, to rely on me like that. It doesn't matter if you have a collar on. I love you for the person you are, and you're a really, really amazing one."
Evie sighed, running her fingers over the glyphs of her collars, as had become a comforting habit for her. "I know, Master, and I feel the same for you. But when you and I both know you will never abuse the bond between us, why strive to break it?"
There was a brief silence, both parties contemplating their next words. It was broken by Hurlish, who stepped forward and tossed her Guard helmet and weapon to the side, bouncing them off the carpet. She stood between Evie and Master, hands on her hips, looking... frustrated?
"A fuckin' Champion of Emotion and a professional wordsmith, and you two can't figure this shit out? How the hell's that work?"
Hurlish turned to Master, stabbing a finger into her chest. "You don't like the fact that Evie's got a slave collar 'cause you think it makes you a hypocrite, which it kinda does, but it shouldn't matter, because she's the one wearing the damn thing, which means she's the only one who gets a damn say. Stop whining about it. And you also don't like her calling you Master because you think it's her tryna put herself beneath you, wheedling out of being her own person."
Hurlish turned to Evie, stabbing her in the chest next. "And she thinks that because she's right. You're too scared that everything you got with her, with me, that it's all 'cause of the collar, 'cause a goddamn goddess set it up for you, and you don't think you'd ever deserved feeling like you do now without something that ridiculously absurd being slung your way. Problem is, you're wrong, because you're the only goddamn noble I've ever known that felt bad about being rich, and that means no matter how much your dogshit-ass mom made you do, it wasn't you that was doing it."
Hurlish took a step back, rapidly snapping the buckles of her guard armor with a thumb, until it was all on the floor. "What's more than that, you're a fucked up little cat, and you love getting off with that collar so much that even thinkin' about going without it sends you into withdrawal. Y'know what's funny about that, though?"
Evie blinked, bewildered beyond speech while she watched Hurlish disrobe. The longwinded tirade came out of nowhere, preceded by nothing, and was utterly unlike the brusque, laconic woman. Hurlish shucked off her shirt, throwing it to the floor angrily, and took a step toward Evie.
"You think it's the collar that's getting you off. You think you need the collar to be a good kitty. But lemme show you something. Kneel."
Evie's knees fell out from under her in an instant, slamming into the carpet of the Old Tulian keep.
"Open your mouth."
Evie's mouth fell open.
"Stick your tongue out."
Her tongue lolled out, as far as she could get it, her eyes locked on Hurlish's as the orc's fist ripped her own leather pants to shreds.
"Lick."
Hurlish's hips slammed the back of Evie's head into the wall, the boiling heat of her pussy grinding up against Evie's tongue. Her heart soared as she began running her tongue up and down Hurlish's slit, lavishing it just as she knew her partner liked it, making sure she covered each and every inch of her lips before delving further within.
Then, just as abruptly as she had arrived, Hurlish tore away. Evie fell forward, reaching out, trying to grab muscular thighs to bring her back in, but it was no use.
"You think you need the collar to be a good Kitty? Don't be a dumbass."
Evie panted in place, barely able to follow Hurlish's words, much less their meaning.
"You're a fucking slut, Evie. A whore. The only thing you love more than our bodies is the rest of us, and you'd do anything to get at us, no matter what you got hanging around your neck. Stand up."
Evie's legs, which a moment ago had been trembling, sent her rocketing to her feet. She was shocked by it.
"Did... did Master give you control over me?" Evie asked breathlessly. "Instruct me to follow your orders as her own?"
"Huh? What, 'cause you're doing what I say? Nah, Kitty. You're just too much of a slut to say no. This is all you. Finger yourself."
So desperate to obey was Evie that her claws sprung from her fingertips, slicing her dress open from navel to mid-thigh, rather than take the time to lift the dress. Claws retracted just in time for her to plunge into her aching, sopping pussy, the relief of something inside her, even if it was her own fingers, causing her to crumple up slightly, trembling.
"See what I mean? Sara, look at this."
Master was flung forward by Hurlish's massive arm, nearly colliding with Evie. With how Evie was bent forward, feverishly fingering herself, the gap between their heights was even greater than normal. Evie still made the effort to look her in the eye.
"See what I mean? I told you, didn't I? No collar, no commands. Hell, I bet until she really started going at it, you were so into the argument you were barely turned on, so you can't blame the bond, either. Look at her. You really arrogant enough to think you're responsible for that? You think you're as horny as she is right now?"
"But-"
"Don't give me any of that shit. Yeah, yeah, the collar and consent and all that, it's important, getting rid of slavery, too, yadayada. But how about this: right now, in front of you, you got a girl you want to marry, so fucking wet for you she's making a mess on the carpet, and you're tryna say you gotta hold back for her sake. How the fuck's that make sense?"
Master licked her lips. She slowly reached out a hand to cup Evie's face, caressing her cheek, and Evie nuzzled gently into it, all while rutting into her own hand.
"And really, Evie?" Hurlish crouched down, seizing Evie around the throat. Not her collar, but the skin, so that she could feel her pulse pounding under Hurlish's fingers. "You really think a collar's the only way you're gonna get to obey us? Look at yourself. Fucking your own hand, just 'cause I told you to. You could stop it, too. You've got that power. Are you gonna?"
Evie squirmed in Hurlish's grip, trying to find an angle that would get her fingers deeper inside.
"Yeah. Y'know why? Because you want to do what I say. You want to be my little Kitty." Using her hand around Evie's throat, she dragged Evie in for a kiss, shoving her tongue through Evie's lips without warning. She ran her tongue all throughout Evie's mouth, tasting her cheeks, her tongue, and of course, pressing hard into Evie's sharp canines. Just as Evie gathered enough of her wits to begin suckling obediently on Hurlish, the orc pulled back, spittle bridging the gap between them as her hot breath rolled over Evie's face.
"You ask me, what's the point of a girl fucking you because you told her to? What's the point of your Master having an obedient little Kitty like you if she needs a collar to get it? You wanna be depraved? You wanna prove how fucked up you are for her?"
Hurlish hopped to her feet, dragging Evie forward, dropping her on her knees before Sara.
"Fuck her. Fuck her because it's what she deserves. And more than anything, fuck her because it's what you want."
Master had been watching the entire exchange in near silence, save for breathy gasps. She stood stock still as Evie stared up at her, almost uncomprehending, and if it had been the two of them, Evie didn't know what would have happened next.
Hurlish removed the uncertainty.
And Master's pants. With a snap, Master's belt and pants were torn off her, her undergarments following an instant later.
Evie tipped forward like gravity had fallen on its side, the weight of the world dragging her towards Master's cock. She caught herself on Master's thighs, lips paused right before the head of her cock, which jumped to the beat of her pulse. Evie's mouth was watering, the ache between her thighs forgotten.
Hurlish went to a knee next to Evie, leaning in to whisper in her ear.
"If you didn't have the collar on right now, would anything change? Would you be doing anything different? Be honest with yourself, Kitty. Do you really need that thing to be hers? What's the point of submission without a choice?"
Evie's head swam. Her thoughts had been shattered by the roaring rush Hurlish was pouring into her, the last of her willpower dashed against the rising cliff of her arousal. Maybe her partner was right. Maybe Evie didn't need the collar. Some part of her, some distant, shriveled aspect of her mind, seemed convinced that Evie retained some of her old, noble self. She was afraid that vestiges of her haughty reservations were lingering in her mind, and that it was only the collar which could suppress them, only the collar which could allow her to truly luxuriate in the freedom of Master's will. She hadn't even known it was there, until Hurlish brought it to the forefront, but now that she had, she could see it clearly.
Evie inspected the notion. Turned it around in her mind, toyed at its edges, picked at its fraying threads. The idea that she was not, in some way, her Master's. The terrible fear that without Master's commands, she would fall back to her old self, that capricious, callous, unfeeling thing. It was the notion that compelled her to create situations in which Master would give her orders beyond the bedroom, the part of herself that sought out texts on the bond between familiar and witch, the source of her fear that if Master really did free her of the collar, she would no longer be able to enjoy the final pinnacle of submission.
She took that notion in both hands, readying herself to confront it once and all, and then...
It simply disappeared.
She forgot about it.
It wasn't important anymore.
Master's cock, however, was.
Evie opened her lips and moved forward, her tongue pressed against her lower teeth to guide Master in, her lips curled to keep her mouth as soft as possible. Master hissed above her, and Evie knew why, because she could feel the heat of her own mouth wrapping around a cock she didn't have.
For weeks, months, Master's cock had grown larger every time Evie had lusted after it, taking her body to its limits in her chase to embrace it, but not this time. Now Master's cock was perhaps seven inches long, curving slightly to the left, thick enough require Evie to stretch her jaw wide, but not painfully so. It was, Evie thought, Master's cock. It was what she would have had, if she had been born with it, and it fit her build more perfectly than any rendition Evie had seen before.
Evie's tongue swirled around the head as she pushed it into her mouth, her own hips bucking in sympathy as the pleasure was mirrored to her. Master groaned above her, a low, throaty noise, and Evie was dimly aware of Hurlish appearing behind the woman, holding her up so she didn't fall, placing Master's head between her breasts and her lower back against her baby bump.
Evie pressed onward, sucking harder, flattening her tongue to explore the ridge running along the underside of Master's cock, which was already tightening in wondrous anticipation. Evie felt the head of her cock press against the back of her throat, and she adjusted herself appropriately, bobbing for only a second to gain her breath and reposition herself, then took Master even farther.
It was wonderful. Evie could always feel Master's approval through the collar, but for once, she focused on the other signs of it. Of Master's fingers tightening in her hair, of the moans that swung from high to low pitch, of the way her hips quivered, instinct begging her to buck forward and claim Evie's throat, her own care for Evie just barely restraining them from doing so.
Evie lost herself. She lost herself like she never had before. She thought she'd known submission, known service, known purpose, but never like this. Not in her most concocted fantasies, not under the most elaborate set of pleasure-enhancing commands that had been layered upon her. Buried in Evie's throat, Master was hers, and she was Master's. There was nothing left in all her world save what Evie wanted from Master, what Master wanted from her, and thank the very gods, they were one and the same.
It happened so quickly. It was barely enough time for her to begin increasing her pace before she felt Master's cock jump in her mouth. She'd been halfway through pulling back, yet recognizing the sign for what it was, she threw herself forward, burying her nose in the neatly trimmed curls above Master's cock.
Heat washed over them both as Master's cock pulsed, both her and Evie's bodies clenching in a heartwrenching climax. Master didn't have the air to speak or to praise, nor even to gasp, just enough left of her energy to open her mouth and spasm, her entire body shaking. Evie felt her throat begin to tighten as the orgasm took her, too, and that clench and her own moan was sent back to her through the collar, pulling her higher and higher, her eyes open, seeing nothing, her ears flat, hearing nothing, oblivious to all but the white waves of pleasure racing through her.
She tasted Master's cum jetting down her throat. Her body reacted, swallowing hard, shoving even harder onto that wonderful cock, trying to get it as deep down herself as she possibly could. The head of Master's cock swelled with each pump, the feel of it as great a reward as the delirium brought on by the taste of the cum itself. Evie's moaning turned to mewling, like the good little Kitty she was, and Hurlish rewarded her with a long, slow scratch down the back of her neck that had Evie smiling mindlessly.
With a sudden pop, Master pulled herself from Evie's mouth. Evie immediately stumbled forward, going to hands and knees as she chased after the cock, unbearable disappointment welling within her.
"Fuuuuuuck..." Master groaned, trying to fend off Evie's pawing for her cock, falling back on her ass. "H-hold on, h-hold on. We're not done yet. I've just gotta... gotta breathe."
"You wanna go see Vesta now?" Hurlish asked, sounding as smug as the orc had ever been. "She's got a bed ready in there."
"Oh. Oh, yeah, let's... fuckin'..." Master wobbled to her feet, barely able to stand. Evie seized the opportunity to get her hands around Master's cock, trying to pump it from the awkward angle.
Hurlish laughed boisterously. "Alright, you cock-drunk morons, get on up here."
Evie felt herself being lifted by what remained of her dress and thrown over Hurlish's shoulder, ass facing forward, with Master in a similar position on the other shoulder. Hurlish began taking them somewhere, but she didn't care. She craned her neck towards Master, capturing her lips in a kiss, trying to share the taste of Master's cum with her. It wasn't something that should be Evie's alone to taste. It was too good for that.
Hurlish made several comments about how their squirming made it difficult to carry them, but Evie didn't care. Master tried to pull away from her several times, but Evie dragged her back, by her hair and skin, loving the feel of the woman against her, and because she could.
After all, she wanted it. Hurlish was right. Evie did want this. She, her real, deeply personal self, wanted it. Not her overtuned libido, not her collar, not even her desire to please Master, nor the pride she got from seeing the Champion of Amarat writhing under her touch, none of that was the source of her desire. Evie wanted it, and she wanted it because she was aroused beyond belief. Because she wanted to feel good, she was going to get it, because she deserved it. Nothing could take the desire from her, because it was hers. She wanted it, and the woman who would give it to her loved her, and wanted her to feel good, and that was all there was to it.
In fact, she realized, she could just... ask for it.
"Hurry up!" Evie hissed, pulling away from Master's lips for just long enough to admonish Hurlish. "I'm long past ready, damn you!"
"I can feel that," Hurlish said with a chuckle, giving Evie's ass, which was dripping with slick, a sharp slap. "Almost there, Kitty."
She moaned into Master's mouth, having returned to it the moment her piece was spoken.
She did not pay much attention to anything else beyond Master's lips as Hurlish carried them. She briefly floated back towards lucidity as Hurlish booted open a door, prompting a startled noise from Vesta and Oddry within.
"Ah, Lady Ellie, I see you– what in the world?"
"Yeah, change of plans," Hurlish said, stepping around the desk where Vesta and Oddry had been waiting, posing as tailors. She ripped Evie off Master's mouth like she was a dog with a bone, tossing her roughly onto the folding cot that had been placed in the back corner for their planned eventualities.
Her chest heaving, Evie sat up, claws shredding the rest of her dress so that it fell to tatters around her. Unlike her, Hurlish sat Master down on her own two feet, so that she was facing Evie. Vesta and Oddry watched with blatant interest and a healthy dose of confusion; they'd never seen Evie deviate from a script.
Like Evie gave a fuck.
"Now," she breathed heavily, spreading her legs like a whore. One hand flew down to her clit, rubbing tight circles. "Get in me, Master. Hurlish, my mouth. Vesta, Oddry you... You two, ah, you two entertain yourself for now, I'll see to you in a bit."
A prim titter of laughter came from Vesta, but not from Master, who obediently moved forward, throwing her simple peasant's shirt over her head. Evie groaned at the sight of Master's breasts, decidedly more than a handful, yet still beautifully matched to her curving hips and toned body. Everything about Master's body was beautiful, Evie knew, that much was obvious to anyone who saw her at a hundred paces, but Evie was one of the select few who knew how beautiful she felt.
Evie fell onto her back as Master crawled onto the cot, her cock still glistening from Evie's saliva, hard and throbbing. Evie thought it had never looked more lovely, as if Master had hired a master sculptor to render the ideal subject for her satisfaction. Yet wonderful as it may have been on its own, when it was framed by master's thighs, hanging over Evie's stomach, it became a work of art without compare.
Evie looked Master in the eyes, and found there something she knew well, but so rarely saw.
Desire.
Lust.
Hunger.
A roaring, furious arousal, burning her up from the inside out, a tidal wave pounding against a flimsy wooden door. The same emotion Evie had seen when Master had been burying seed into Hurlish's womb in search of a child, the same that Evie had seen after their very first duel had broken down Master's reservations, when she had no recourse but to claim Evie's throat then and there. Evie knew it was so, so close to being let free, that full force of Master's desire, and she searched for the final push that would fracture her restraint.
Evie reached up and wrapped her forearms loosely about Master's neck, drawing her in until her lips were against the woman's ear, and whispered.
"I love you, Sara."
Evie did not know if it was truth or her imagination, but it seemed to her that the growl that fell out of Master's lips sent the entire room rattling. Without warning, Master's hips bucked forward, buried to the hilt in a the span of a breath, and Evie exulted.
Her back arched as a scratchy half-scream tore a ragged path through her throat, her body twisting in meaningless directions as her limbs tried to find any possible way to express what she felt. Her innermost walls slammed down, hard, on Master's cock, and though it wasn't half as large as she'd taken before, she clenched down with such force that she was certain she'd never felt so full.
Master's rumbling growl fell apart into a high-pitched whine, tipping forward so her pelvis and stomach pressed against Evie's, and for the first time since Evie had laid eyes on her, Master's hair seemed well and truly disheveled, tangling as it fell around Evie's face. Master stopped herself from collapsing as her elbows collided with the cot to either side of Evie's head, her breasts dangling over Evie's modest chest, her eyes slammed shut and her mouth falling open in a pant. For once, there was no elegance to the Champion of Amarat. She looked utterly disoriented, lost in sensation, as unprepared and uncoordinated above Evie's body as any blushing maiden.
Evie had told Hurlish to get on her mouth, but the orc was apparently feeling contrarian today, because instead of settling her hips on Evie's face, she reached down and pushed down between Master's shoulder blades. Evie whined again as she felt Master's entire body press against hers, burning heat against searing skin, all the way from their breasts, stomach, and hips.
"Gods," Evie groaned.
"How– how are you so–" Master's hips twitched, and she gasped, "How are you so– so fucking– oh my god!"
"Well, they seem rather involved today, don't they?" A distant Vesta noted.
Evie did not know her quivering body had the strength to do so until it happened, but her legs went up and wrapped around Master's hips, heels pushing her just a little bit farther in.
"Oh my goooood," Master whined, the huskiness of her voice Evie knew so well entirely abandoned in favor of a girlish, high-pitched whine.
"Move already," Evie demanded, tightening her legs, "I want it, I want it, I want it–"
Evie cut herself off by drawing in the arms she had dangling over Master's neck, bringing the woman into a kiss. Master moaned into her mouth, obediently opening her lips to allow Evie entrance, and finally, finally, when every part of their bodies that could intertwine had, she began to move.
Evie's walls clenched even harder in protest as Master drew her hips back, trying to seal the woman inside her, then spasmed in abject joy as Master drove forward, pressing her cock into Evie's velvet heat. She'd barely retreated a few inches, but she hit Evie's hips with enough force to bounce her forward on the bed, shaking them both so hard their lips briefly lost contact.
Evie lunged forward with the desperation of a drowning woman to recapture Master's lips, the cherry taste of her tongue too beautiful a thing to lose. Master's cum still coated Evie's tongue, her cheeks, and she felt Master's eyelids flutter as she chased after the taste of herself, all the while sliding her cock forward and back.
With Evie's legs locking her into place, she could not pull back far, but neither of them would have wanted it. Every moment spent apart was an agony, every embrace a gift, and the stuttering little thrusts that she could manage were somehow more divine than anything they'd done before.
Evie began rolling her hips up into Master's cock with each thrust, knowing the rhythm better than she did the beat of her own heart, and let her walls clench freely in tune with the heady delirium that soaked her limbs. Every push of Master's cock sent molten gold through her core, radiating out from her pelvis to her womb, her hips, soaking her stomach to her chest. Her fingers clenched and twitched pointlessly in the air, her toes curling, her chest heaving as stuttering squeaks and yelps were driven from her.
Evie did not resist the coming wave. There would have been no point, as useless as fighting the rising sun, and she didn't want to, anyway. Her eyes lost their focus as Master suddenly moved from resting her elbows beside Evie's head, reaching underneath her armpits to wrap her fingers up and around Evie's shoulders from behind, affording herself the leverage to physically shove Evie onto her cock with each thrust, her entire weight falling on top of Evie.
Evie's attempts to kiss Master began to fail, the tide of pleasure robbing her even of the instinct required to taste more of Master's tongue, nothing left of her mind but an awareness of the burning need in her core, flaring ever higher. Evie felt herself yelping, a muffled sound that rose in pitch with each thrust, and Master was doing much the same, her cock swelling larger by the second. Physically larger, Evie realized, preparing itself for Evie's climax, knowing what she wanted.
Suddenly, finally, Master's fingers turned to claws on Evie's shoulders, bruises blossoming as she dragged her onto her cock, holding nothing back, all of her impossible strength brought to bear. Her cock reached deeper than ever before, head swelling, and Evie's eyes fluttered open as they always did when Master came, so she could watch her face rendered in bliss, but this time–
This time–
Master was looking back down at her, their eyes meeting, unbearable pleasure bringing tears to the corner of their faces.
Evie fell apart.
She tried to scream, but had no breath to do so, all of it driven from her the moment Master buried herself to the hilt. Her walls slammed down while her hips shook, a tremble radiating out to take all her body in ecstatic writhing. Her fingers raked down Master's back, claws emerging against her will to draw bloody lines, heels digging into Master's hips while she mewled. Master's cock jumped in her core, pressing against her twitching walls, and she felt it begin to pump, pump, and then with a final, mindless noise, Master came in her.
Evie's world shattered to white. The white of Master's cum pouring into her, the white of bliss overtaking her, the white that came when uncertainty was obliterated by singular purpose. She came harder than she ever, ever had before, screaming soundlessly, endlessly, time stretching further and further, as if the gods themselves were suspending her in her peak, tweaking all of reality solely for Evie to exult in one singular moment. She did not know when she began to say it, but in time she felt herself repeating it over and over again, like a mantra.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
Master said nothing but Evie's name in return, whispering it into her sensitive ears as a prayer, an invocation, as if she had to assure herself that what she was feeling was really possible.
For once in her life, Evie's orgasm did not end too soon. It washed through her in soaking waves, extended by each jump of Master's cock, her cum pumped into Evie's welcoming embrace. She'd never know how long it lasted, because she'd never believe anyone who said it was less than hour or more than a minute, because it was perfect in a way that could not be defined.
And so it was that she found herself staring sightlessly into Master's face above her some time later, shivers still wracking her, Master still buried in her pussy. They lay against one another, spent, and if the others were saying anything, it was some time before they were aware.
It was, eventually, Evie that first regained enough of her wits to speak. She twisted her head to the side, which meant Master's face thumped lifelessly into the cot, and blearily searched for Hurlish.
"You... you didn't get on my face," she admonished in a hoarse whisper.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Figured I'd rather watch, for once."
"Then... but... you didn't..." Evie shook her head, which sent it spinning, and tapped Master on the back. "Master. Master, it's Hurlish's turn."
"Mmhnugh?"
"Hurlish. You haven't given her your cock yet."
Master lifted her face from the cot, squinting drunkenly at the rest of the room, as if she couldn't see more than a blur, much like Evie.
"...can't," she eventually mumbled, her head thumping back down.
"What?"
"Can't." Her hips shifted against Evie's, slowly retracting her cock from within Evie. "Can't get it up."
"Nonsense," Evie breathed, reaching one exhausted hand down to slip between them, searching. "You can just lie on your back, Hurlish always likes to be... on... top?"
Evie had found Master's cock, but instead of the thick, throbbing mass it always was, it was... soft. She gave it a few experimental pumps, using her own slick as lube, and though Master shuddered, her cock didn't harden.
"This... but..."
Evie was at a loss. Across the room, Vesta laughed.
"Have you finally done it? Have you finally sated Amarat's Champion?"
"I couldn't have," Evie murmured, tightening her grip a little bit and pumping more firmly. Master groaned, but instead of grinding into her hands, lifted her hips pitifully away.
"S-sensitive," she hissed.
"I couldn't have," Evie repeated, though she loosened her grip. "I have never seen Master... well, frankly, I have never seen Master's cock soft. Not ever."
A sudden weight bent the cot downward, Hurlish's bulk straining the wooden frame.
"First time for everything, ain't there?"
Evie's bleary eyes failed to focus on the mass of green sweeping up and around her, but she knew Hurlish's figure by heart, and could feel that she was naked. The seven-foot smith wrapped both women in a hug, pressing Evie's face into her left breast.
"Just relax, girls. We've got plenty of time."
"Mmmplease," Master mumbled as Hurlish pushed her into her right breast. "Oh... tittiiiiiesss.... yaaaay..."
Evie heard Master's breathing abruptly slow, sleep striking her as if Hurlish's breasts were narcotic.
Actually, Evie realized, her own eyes had closed. When had that happened? She still felt a little bit bad about leaving Hurlish out of the past few minutes, so she opened her mouth, trying to suck at her nipple, but it was no use. Sleep took her with her tongue hanging out, a little rivulet of drool running down Hurlish's chest. The last she heard was Hurlish's rumbling chuckle, a whisper likely meant only for herself.
"Took you dumbasses long enough."
Notes:
"Only" a 6k word update tonight, sorry about that. I had written a different amount of smut, then, the more I thought about this alternate idea, the more I enjoyed it, and as my rule for smut has always been enjoyment first, I decided to speed things along. Technically, my outline says this moment was a ways out, but honestly, how realistic was it for the Champion of Amarat to have communication difficulties in a relationship? And I doubt anyone's complaining about this particular turn of events. Hope the smut was fun to read! I've been mixing up how I write it, based on what I enjoy reading with others, so I think it's been steadily improving.
Also, I have recently caught the unfortunate condition of "full time employment," so updates may not be stretching up to the 10-15k range like they were for a while there. I know, I'm disappointed too. My wallet, however, is not.
Chapter 62: The Blissful Wale
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sporaton Capital Outskirts
Blissful Wale Tavern's Basement
One Month Until Spring
Soot-stained lanterns dangled from sconces set in ancient bricks, casting a weak light across the musty tavern basement. Low tables and rough chairs were pulled out and shoved into place, each cloaked visitor taking seats on splintered furniture or overturned barrels in silence. Ketch sat in the center of the room, settling into the deepest shadows, and kept a narrow watch on each new figure that shuffled down the steps to join the meeting. She knew none by face, but many by deed. The cell leaders had accomplished much since Sara had set them loose upon Sporatos.
Months ago, the Champion of Amarat had set a slave market ablaze, saving those she could, recruiting those who were willing. The proprietor of a minor Hagos slave-trading ring had been the first to fall, but not the last. Those in this room had made sure of it. Some, like Tagrensi, were among the very first slaves Sara had freed. Others had joined later, pulled from their servitude by the actions of those Sara had left behind in Sporatos, and their numbers had swelled.
So, too, had their notoriety. The general people knew little of it, but Ketch knew the nobility of Sporatos were frothing at the mouth, fury borne of the efforts of those Ketch could see before her. After so long working with the people in this room, tonight was the first occasion of which she'd had the chance to see any of their faces. For any of the field agents to know even the appearance of the cell leaders was an unconscionable risk, and it was only after Ketch had grown so proficient that she'd been allowed to join one of these oh-so-rare meetings.
The men and women she saw now did not look like rebel heroes, Ketch thought. They looked like hard-worn people, their hands and arms calloused and scarred from a life of labor, not from the mighty efforts of brave deeds. The man to her right had an overlong face, his chin and lips pockmarked by blisters of some disease long past, and the clothing beneath his heavy coat was cheap and threadbare. To Ketch's left sat a woman endlessly picking at her nails with the tip of a broken sewing needle, levering their edges hard enough to turn her cuticles white, her eyes nervously darting from face to face. Others, too, wore plain faces and anxious expressions, but not like the woman prying up her nails with the broken needle.
She had a collar on. A slave collar. The symbol of a life lost, of a person become an object. Its glyphs shone ever so slightly in the dim cellar, just enough that one might've been able to spot her throat on a pitch black night. That should have marked her as unusable to the others in the room, her trust impossible to earn, her body never her own, but she sat as equals with those around her.
The band that had once controlled her was sinking even now through the Deepwaters, ensconced within the shattered ship that had tried to run the gauntlet of Tulian shores. Mere months ago a slave, now a leader in an underground resistance, she picked endlessly at her fingernails, just shy of piercing the bed with each trembling jab.
Ketch did not think the former slave had seen her. In fact, Ketch did not think many of those present had seen her. She was sitting in the center of the room, the lone occupant of her table, yet the flies that so often graced her skin were absent. Only Tagrensi, near the entrance, occasionally glanced her way, and only because he was used to her. Ketch was not trying to hide, not really, but she no longer had to.
The last member arrived, heralded by the shutting, locking, bolting, and barricading of the door. The man stomped down the steps without a word, submitting briefly to Tagrensi's pawing and clawing at his face, then the catfolk's sniffing of his throat, all necessary to ensure he was not another in magical disguise.
That the cell leaders knew one another's faces (and in Ketch and the catfolk's case, their scents) was a great risk, but not one they had found a way to avoid, not when communication by letter or otherwise was so dangerous. The risk of interception, they had decided, was greater than the risk of a cell leader being captured. None knew where or how the others operated, only what goals they would be pursuing as a whole. Should one be captured, they would be tortured, and should they be tortured, they would break. Every secret they knew would be given to their captors. But it wouldn't matter. The collective would continue.
"The gala will begin this evening," Tagrensi announced, addressing the room without preamble. "As many of you discovered yourself, this has taken the nobility as much by surprise as it did us. King Sporatos himself is the host, using the former Eliah estate for the event. Why he is doing so on such short notice, and why he is not using his own estate, we cannot confirm. We only know that nearly every major noble within a day's ride of the city will be present, and for us, that represents an unparalleled opportunity."
"To get fuckin' caught," grumbled one woman, covered head-to-toe in black ash. By her scent, she was a charcoaler by trade, and must have come from quite a ways to the Blissful Wale.
"That is a risk," Tagrensi began, but he was immediately overspoken by the blistered man Ketch had noted earlier.
"A risk I'm not taking," the man said, thumping a meaty fist on the table. "This is the work of decades, not months. Your obsession with Tulian goes too far. I will not risk my agents for their war."
Ketch's lips went white as she pressed them to a thin line, but she remained silent. Sara's freed slaves may have formed the original core of this resistance, but in the months since, the Champion's only contribution had been funds delivered discretely by Nora's undercover navy vessels, and requests for information. Slaves like the pockmarked speaker and that collared woman had built the rest on their own, of their own volition. Ketch's proximity to Sara granted her no authority in the strange, clandestine organization that had developed, and per Sara's letters, she would have had it no other way. She seemed delighted by the organization breaking out from under her, a sentiment Ketch could not bring herself to mirror.
"It is not just about the war," Tagrensi said, a catfolk's reproachful hiss entering his words. "Throughout the entire countryside, nobles are absent their manor, their guards gone with them. We cannot ignore the chance afforded us by this event."
The blistered man grumbled, leaning back in his chair. "Well, if it's just about the country manors..."
"It is not. The gala itself is indeed a target that we must carefully consider."
"And how is that?" The collared woman asked, pulling the needle from her fingernail for a moment to lean terribly far forward, chin nearly on the table as she stared wide-eyed at Tagrensi. "Many targets, many guards. The exchange is equal."
"It is not," Tagrensi repeated. "The majority of guards are in an unfamiliar place, doing unfamiliar duties, and there is much overlap between their responsibilities, as well as conflicts of interest. The House Sporatos guards will have ultimate authority, but for the other Houses present, all will be on uncertain footing, none outranking the others. It is this confusion in which I will insert my agent."
This time, it was a new man to speak. He was the other catfolk present, but unlike Tagrensi or the collared woman, he had been freed from bondage by the organization, rather than Sara. He, like many others, respected Sara and her vision for Tulian, but could not help thinking of so distant a people as a secondary priority, when his own were suffering before his very eyes.
"Insert an agent into the gala of a king? Did the poor sap do something to piss you off?"
A round of chuckles, mindful of their volume, echoed in the basement. Tagrensi, while no official leader, was still the only one standing, and he looked down on them with scorn and– as Ketch saw it– smug anticipation.
"She has done nothing to irritate me as such. It is rather that I believe her abilities are up to the task. Tell me, have any of you noticed our uninvited guest here?"
Oops. Tagrensi had over-bluffed. Ketch had definitely been noted by a few of those present, and having them look about in confusion before her dramatic reveal, searching for someone other than Ketch, would definitely ruin the effect. Hastily deciding to improvise, she stood from her seat, shucking off the hood of her cloak.
While not quite as good as everyone trying and failing to find her in their midsts, for those that hadn't noticed her, her sudden apparation was still shocking. Chairs scraped and barrels rolled as cell leaders recoiled from the center of the room, reaching for their weapons. Ketch held her hands up in the universal symbol of peace, all fifty eight inches of her height the sole subject of a dozen leveled weapons. She didn't feel, or hopefully look, the slightest bit concerned.
"I am Special Foreign Operative Ketch Selliana," she said quietly, her voice carrying in the thick tension. "And I can enter and exit the gala without getting caught, unlike anyone else."
"The fuck's the meaning of thi-" an orcish woman demanded, head scraping the ceiling as she whirled on Tagrensi, but any attention given her brewing outburst was supplanted by the collared woman lunging forward.
Ketch stepped backward, a dagger appearing in her hand, parrying the needle tip aimed for her eye. A second broken needle appeared between the former slave's knuckles, flung just as quickly, parried just as easily, then the former slave's breath was filling Ketch's nose, a full-sized needle in her offhand, driving for her heart.
She was fast. Faster than anyone Ketch had faced in combat since her practice bouts in Tulian. Ketch still didn't struggle to drive the needle aside with the flat of her blade, her offhand coming up to snag the woman's wrist and slam it into the wood of the table, but she could admit that she'd had to exert herself to do it.
Dimly, she was aware of others in the room shouting.
The collared woman snarled like an animal, her behavior following suit. With her closest arm at full extension and its wrist secured, she shouldn't have been able to threaten Ketch, but she was unhesitating in the way her hips and legs scrambled up the table, moving like an overgrown spider to bring her entire body around, not to stab at Ketch with one of her broken needles, but to bite at her, gnashing jaws aiming for the meat of Ketch's shoulder.
Ketch leapt back, sheathing her mother's knife, cloak thrown outward as she went for the dagger off her left hip.
Tagensi's voice reached a new pitch, his shriek breaking through the tumult.
"Stop them! Stop them, tackle them, just stop them!"
Ketch felt a bruising blow against her spine, then her right shoulder, two cell leaders reacting first, but not last. Ketch was soon buried under the weight of innumerable humans, all of whom outweighed her by a factor of at least two, and she was quickly immobilized.
Ketch did not like being pinned down.
Well.
There were exceptions.
This wasn't one.
Her breathing began coming in puffs, her pulse racing, and though she'd meant to easily submit to show her peaceful intentions, she began to squirm, clawing her way towards freedom as her captors tried to get a hold of her flailing limbs. Their feeble attempts slid off like she was soaked in gri-kakka oil, her writhing, mindless panic forcing herself forward by degrees.
"Everyone, off! Off of them!"
Just before Ketch would have broken free of her own accord, the bodies lifted away, removing the crushing pressure from her chest. She leapt to her feet and reached for a dagger again, but one of her mother's this time, on her right hip, and she did not fully draw it.
The collared woman was emerging from a similar pile across the room, and they locked eyes instantly. Ketch held onto her dagger's grip, the woman produced yet another set of needles from her tattered sleeves, and Tagrensi stood between them, hands held out like he was directing the flow of fairgoers in an oversaturated market.
"There will be no more of that," he said, panting between words. "Ketch is our ally, my friend." He glared at the woman. "Had you paid attention to that, this would not have happened. Have you no self control?"
"An intruder in our midst needed to die as soon as possible," the collared woman snapped back. "Introduce them first, as you did the others, not spring a threat among our innermost sanctum."
"It's a shitty bar," Ketch spat, slamming her dagger fully back into its sheath. "Not a sacred temple. Attacking me was not just stupid, it was suicidal."
"You are not such a threat."
Ketch did not dignify that with a response. They'd tangled for no more than a handful of seconds, but that was long enough for Ketch to get her measure of the woman. The claim didn't even raise her hackles. It was simply false, and if the former slave didn't have the experience to recognize that, the woman was even less skilled than she'd assumed. Ketch sat back down, and, following her example, the other cell leaders began righting their own seats and relaxing back into them.
Still panting, Tagrensi shook his head. "As you can see, Ketch is an Azarketi, hence her codename being that of a ship, and her journey from the sea is the product of her skill. Were she any less capable, she would not be here."
Oh, Ketch belatedly realized. Probably shouldn't have said my real name.
Wisdom: Six
"I know not what skill the rest of your agents have achieved, but I find it incredibly unlikely they are Ketch's equal, and will not ask you to sacrifice those loyal to the cause in order to sabotage this gala. This meeting is meant to inform you of the opportunity facing us, and for us to coordinate so our efforts do not overlap. I intend for Ketch to infiltrate the gala alone, but if any of you have agents in the city capable of creating distractions, we will appreciate it."
"And what of the exposed manors?" The orcish woman rumbled, rolling the sturdiest available ale barrel onto its side for her seat. "Seems to me there's an excellent opportunity to break chains there."
Tagrensi nodded. "There is, and it is what I expect many of you will take to. Later, I ask that you speak amongst yourself, to avoid sending multiple teams to the same target. The strikes will have to be tonight, so the plans revealed to one another will be of little risk. As for the gala?"
Tagrensi pushed his fingers through his fur with a heavy sigh, partially correcting the mess that had been made in the scuffle.
"Ketch will act alone, if need be, but we can only assume the perimeter will be the most protected. Her objective will be, as has already been guessed by some of you, pertaining to the upcoming war, so that anything she discovers may be sent on to Tulian. I will be at the table with her discussing our plans, and any who think they have forces to contribute is free to join us. As for the rest, I recommend you consider the targets available to you, then confirm with the others that your actions will not overlap."
With that, Tagrensi trudged over, sitting down heavily across from Ketch. His back was now to the collared woman, who was staring daggers into Ketch from a table far away. Had it been anyone else, she would have wondered what the woman's problem was. After gods-knew-how-long of slavery, however, Ketch couldn't begrudge the woman her paranoia.
The next hour saw the sun rising beyond the dingy basement, and a few cell leaders coming to Ketch's table. Ketch didn't begrudge them their hesitance, either. Even for her, infiltrating the heart of the Sporaton governance would be dangerous. The assets each cell leader had accumulated were precious little, to be lovingly shepherded, not thrown away on a whim solely to maybe help find Ketch her entrance.
When Tagrensi felt sure he had achieved the commitment of a critical few, they moved to a more secluded corner of the room. She was surprised to see the collared woman among those that had committed themselves to the manor's infiltration. She returned to her incessant nail-picking as Tagrensi's voice lowered to a whisper, revealing what information he had managed to acquire in such a short time.
"While every gala is an occasion for the nobility to socialize and plot with or against one another, it appears this occasion is more purposeful than most. There is a great deal of discontent with the idea of marching against a Champion, and not just from Amarat's church. The nobility balks."
"Why?" The collared woman asked, levering the needle beneath her nails. "They will get to kill peasants, soak themselves in blood. What objection is there to be made?"
"That is what Ketch will be there to determine. The nobility is far from monolithic at the best of times, but if this war will be fomenting new factions, we will have opportunity to inject our influence."
An unremarkable man snorted. He, as was true of everyone, had not introduced himself to Ketch.
"What influence can we have? We're the very peasants whose blood they so enjoy spilling."
"Directly?" Tagrensi made a slicing motion. "None. But we can assault those we detest the most, leave unaggrieved those that are more palatable to our sensibilities, and so guide the course forward, if in some minor way."
The collared woman rolled her eyes, switching her needle from one abused finger to another. "Minor indeed, catfolk." She turned to Ketch, eyes glittering maliciously. "Do you think your foray within their walls will find you the time to slip your dagger into a spine? There are many who deserve death in such a place."
Ketch met the woman's eyes, doing her best not to shirk. There was a bloodlust in her jittering pupils that Ketch could not match. After a moment, she looked away.
"It's possible, but I won't. There would be too much risk of capture, and I know too much."
"Ah," she rasped, smiling widely. "You haven't killed before."
Ketch's eyes snapped back up to the woman, fixing her with a glare.
"I said nothing of the sort."
"I see it in you."
They locked eyes for one long moment. Once more, Ketch broke first, lifting her gaze over the woman's shoulder.
"I am more than willing to kill. I was raised a hunter, and the beasts I felled as a child dwarf the greatest of men."
"In size, maybe. But not soul. We will see."
Ketch's lip lifted in a derisive snarl, but before she could retort, Tagrensi butted in, swiftly guiding the conversation away. He spoke more of goals, of distractions, and of what the night would bring, but Ketch listened with only half an ear. The collared woman had struck upon a truth, and knew it.
Ketch's skills had continued to develop, yes, but all her experience had been in sneaking. She hadn't allowed herself to get caught, hadn't found occasion to test her blade against another. With her Champion-bolstered levels, she did not even have a partner who could spar with her in any meaningful way. And so it was that her accelerated growth, based upon what she had achieved, had taken a singularly obsessive liking to the shadows, and the shadows alone.
Ketch had no Abilities or Skills related to combat. Only hiding, distracting, and fleeing. That focus meant she was exceptionally remarkable at those talents, even for her advancement, but it was to the exclusion of all else. If she were to get caught, or find someone truly worth killing, she wasn't sure if she would be capable.
So I won't get caught, Ketch decided. And if I need to kill, it will be with poisoned drink, crossbows at a distance, or the cutting of a chandelier cable. Combat simply isn't my place. I can accept that.
So long as I am not forced to draw my blade against an equal.
She hoped her enemies would oblige her.
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When Tagrensi first stepped foot into the former Vomun estate, it was with a cloak drawn tightly about his face, every inch of his fur standing on end. To enter a noble's manor was antithetical to his work, and to do so knowing it was occupied by a Vampire Lord, antithetical to common sense. Ketch had practically coaxed him across the threshold, wanting him off the slowly busying streets behind him, and he'd only come in once she'd flung the door open to show the hall behind her was abandoned. His nose and whiskers had been twitching spasmodically the entire way to the guest withdrawing room where they would be preparing for the evening, and when he had seen the freakishly pale Noctie humming a pleasant tune while she stoked the fire, he'd nearly fled on the spot.
That had been an hour ago.
Things had changed.
"No! No, you ruined another one!" He shouted.
"But I thought you wanted me to make an invitation for Owner?" Noctie asked, pure innocence in her voice.
"Yes, but her name is supposed to be Carra Vomun! Not 'Owner!' No one writes 'Owner' on an invitation card! You're two centuries old, you have to have written thousands of these!"
"But... she's Owner?"
"Agh!"
Ketch ignored them as best she could, groaning as she slipped further into the heated tub that Intas had prepared for her. Living in the frigid Sporaton capital did not mean Ketch's scales needed any less water, and with frost still on the ground, the incredible labor required to heat a Ketch-sized barrel of water was the only way to do so in a reasonable amount of time. Before, when she had lived in inns and elsewhere, she'd had to make due with heating a cookpot and ladling the water across her skin each evening. Sometimes more than once a day, when the weather was particularly bitter. This was far better.
That she was doing so mere feet away from Tagrensi, dressed in what Sara had lovingly called her bikini top and bike shorts, hardly disturbed her anymore. Even more than her entanglement with the insatiable Champion, having a personal staff had inured Ketch to the indignity of being half-dressed around others. Besides, Tagrensi had a wife and child. To Ketch, that meant there was no concern of him looking upon her with a leering eye. She'd felt the buzz of his attention flick across certain parts of her when he thought she wasn't looking before, but no more often than most people did so, so it was likely fine.
"Is it really that important, Tagrensi?" Ketch asked, pushing her head out of the heated barrel for a moment. "It's just a contingency, in case I get caught. If she can't write it, it isn't the end of the world."
There was a sound of papers being slammed down in irritation, and Tagrensi's voice was directed more squarely to Ketch. "Of course it is important! Contingencies are all that I can offer you tonight, and this was supposed to be the simplest among them. Yet this good-for-nothing vampire cannot even comprehend the concept of writing a different name upon a card!"
"You can hit her, if it'll make you feel better, but just to warn you, she'll like it. Like, a lot."
"This–! You–!"
Ketch slunk back down into the barrel as she heard Tagrensi spin away, mumbling about Champion-tainted absurdities.
Well, he's half right. But I think this one's more a witch's fault.
Ketch hummed her way through her own thoughts as she submerged once more. Breathing fresh water was something she still hadn't gotten accustomed to. Some of Selliana's chambers had been close to it, but those were brackish at best. Fresh water just seemed to... lack something. Almost like it made her thirsty. Actually, thirst was another oddity. She hadn't really known what it was like until traveling through Sporatos. Spending most of her life in the Tulian sea meant she'd almost never had to actively seek out something to drink. It had come with the water she breathed.
Eventually, as Tagrensi's continued coaching of Noctie repeatedly wasted the inordinately expensive ensorcelled ink provided to Capital nobility, she was forced to emerge. The water was cooling, and besides, she couldn't spend the entire morning and afternoon before the mission soaking, no matter how nice that sounded.
Some things are nicer, though, she reminded herself as she emerged, dripping water off her half-naked form.
Noctie's head snapped up from the paper she'd been scribbling at, eyes widening with unfettered adoration at the sight of Ketch. The sight of the once-imperious vampire lord ogling her body like a puppy awaiting their owner's return always did something for Ketch.
And it was helped by Noctie herself. Since Sellie had done... whatever it was... to the vampire, she'd abandoned the fanciful dresses of nobility for garments more appropriate to her new station. A maid's dress, tough black cotton through the arms and waist, with a softer white cloth undershirt beneath, criss-crossed about the chest and stomach by laces that served to allow the garment to be cheaply adjusted to changes in build. Her pale skin was even whiter than the shirt, and heavily exposed by generous modifications to the garment about the chest, where both the thick black working cloth and more comfortable white linens were peeled away to expose her cleavage. Her breasts, of a size somewhere between Sara's bountiful chest and Evie's delectable handful, were as on display as the vampire could get them without outright obscenity.
Ketch had no idea how the vampire had gotten her maid's uniform modified; none of the few remaining staff said they'd had it delivered for her, and she wasn't allowed off the grounds. Ketch also knew damn well that Noctie lacked the practical skills to alter it herself, yet it couldn't have been in storage, seeing as none of her former thralls were of the lanky-yet-busty vampire's prodigious height. As tall or taller than Sara, Ketch estimated, which was another point in her favor, as far as her appearance went. Perhaps others would have preferred less knobbly joints and a more healthy pallor to her skin, but for Ketch, those "imperfections" just reminded her of Sellie.
Ketch felt Noctie's attention unerringly following her as she stepped out of the soaking barrel by the fireplace, dripping water onto the cheap rugs that had been left there for the purpose. She toweled herself down, taking her time to make sure she didn't wet her clothes. Noctie's focus sharpened, less like a buzzing fly, more like the bruising beat of a hawk's wings. She may not behave like it, but Ketch's little pet was still a vampire lord, and in terms of raw ability, Tagrensi had been right to fear her.
Of course, the vampire would never do a thing. Ketch had never met a woman (except, if she were feeling uncharacteristically honest, herself) that was so easily manipulable. Ketch began dressing, slowly, and heard Noctie begin to rock impatiently in her chair, torn between her order to pay attention to Tagrensi and running to Ketch's side to help her dress, as she usually did.
Ketch was not as gentle a master as Sara. She languidly picked up her own clothing, picking and fumbling at the complicated buttons like she couldn't quite figure them out. Her act was helped along by the complexity of the garment, which Sellie had picked out for her. A lacy navy dress that complimented the azure tone of Ketch's skin and scales, thin material that hung loosely off her frame. When improperly handled, the various stylistic rips and tassels which Sellie lovingly likened to lichen clinging to pond vines could become hopelessly tangled, turning from graceful loops drooping beneath her arms to a blue snake trying to strangle her to death.
Still, Sellie had chosen it for its look on Ketch, and so she struggled through. The method by which the untold-miles-distant witch had picked it out for her was even more obscure than the design itself. As had been the case since Ketch had left Tulian, her Bond to Sellie was only of its proper strength when she slept, finally finding comfort in the mental embrace of her girlfriend. Of course, neither of them had been happy with such a short time together, and Sellie had taken it upon herself to improve things.
Ketch hadn't learned about those efforts from Sellie, but from the staff, who she had found one morning hiding in a cupboard. Apparently Sellie had run out of ingredients while puppeteering Ketch's sleeping body that evening, and had sent her unconscious form out to gather them.
By skittering along the ceiling like a spider, dead rat clamped between her jaws, pigeon feathers adhered to the scattered blood on her skin.
After that incident relations with the staff had been... terse, for a while, but they'd eventually recovered. Everyone that remained had once been vampire thralls, after all. They were used to a certain amount of eccentricity from the master of the house, even if said master didn't normally carry dirty rats in their teeth.
The end result of Sellie's nocturnal material gathering had been worth it, however, and now within Ketch's room was a ritual circle that allowed Sellie and Ketch to commune as they normally did, with a minimum of differentiation between their minds and bodies. Naturally, the first thing that Sellie had done with this ability was send the staff out into the Sporaton markets for clothes, using the time Ketch slept to play dress-up with her unconscious body. She'd developed quite a few favorites to see Ketch in, and they were rather complicated contraptions, of the sort Ketch wasn't used to wearing.
Noctie herself, however, was even less used to seeing Ketch dress herself, and as Ketch yet again snagged her arm on the wrong loop, the vampire's resolve broke. She swept to her feet, crossing the room in the space of a breath.
"Ownerrrrr," she whined, appearing at Ketch's side, "you're so mean!"
"What do you mean?" Ketch asked, feigning innocence. She wasn't a good liar, but she didn't need to be, to fool Noctie.
"Your clothes! You were getting dressed without me," Noctie said, stooping over the far smaller woman so she could correct and pluck at her clothes like a preening mother bird. "Just think of what–" Noctie's eyes widened, twitching. "Think of what– " a twitch. "Of what she–" A shiver. "Of what her–"
The vampire's arms began to tremble, her sentences repeating faster and faster, until Ketch quickly put a hand up to her cheek, patting it.
"Don't worry, don't worry. She thinks you're doing just fine."
Noctie blew out a breath, the rot of it rustling Ketch's hair, which she had grown out from its usual buzzcut. "Oh, good. I don't want to be a bad girl. That would be the worst."
Watching this exchange from across the room, Tagrensi looked equally disgusted, appalled, and baffled.
"What did you do to this woman?"
"I didn't do all that much, other than give her my," Ketch pointed to her neck, which spotted two smalls wounds. "Y'know."
"What? Your bloo–"
"Yes! That. Let's not get her too excited, alright?"
Tagrensi's eyes widened. "Is she a dog? Do you need me to spell it out so she doesn't piss on the rug in excietment? "
"She can still spell, unfortunately, so that wouldn't work. Right now she's pretty focused, though, and she doesn't pay attention to much else while she's working, so as long as you don't use the b-word, we should be fine." With the vampire's help Ketch finished looping her arms through the dress's sleeves, then patted Noctie on the ribs so she would move aside and let Ketch look Tagrensi in the eye. "Look, it's weird, but Sellie said she didn't do anything to Lady Vomun's mind other than, uh, show her what she would do to her, if she hurt me. After that, she just... got hooked on me, apparently."
"Which made her behave like- like this?"
Noctie had gone to her knees, puffing out girlish imitations of a bird's beating wings while fluffing up Ketch's dress so that it would appropriately flare out in traditional Azarketi fashion. Noctie was ensuring the lower half of the dress would replicate the way kelp-woven clothing undulated underwater, thin wires stiffening flat blue tendrils just enough to keep them from collapsing into a tangled mess. The vampire lord took her time lovingly re-bending the wires into their proper positions, even though Ketch would just be wearing it until the gala began.
"Yeah... I can't really explain what's up with the weird maid act, to be honest." Ketch shrugged. "That seems to have come up out of nowhere."
Tagrensi eyed Ketch doubtfully, and she quickly glanced away. Truthfully, Ketch knew exactly where it had come from.
Her. Sellie had said that while drinking Ketch's blood, with Ketch sunken deeply into Lady Vomun's trance, the vampire had gotten a pretty solid look at a lot of Ketch's desires, both conscious and unconscious. Low-level mind reading, standard fare for vampires, usually helpful for them to manipulate their prey later.
In Ketch's peculiar case, it meant Noctie had learned a lot more than she'd have ever wanted someone other than Sellie to know. Hells, Ketch hadn't known half of it, right up until Noctie busted out the maid dress that sent her heart thumping, and it still felt terribly embarrassing. She'd like to say she had no idea where the impulse arose from, but...
Look, having a powerful woman pampering you with puppy-dog love in her eyes was nice for the ego, alright? Ketch needed the pick-me-up, some days. If Noctie's brain had been totally fried by tasting the Champion-imbued blood of an ancient witch's familiar, so much so that she'd warped her personality into one Ketch thought was too hot to leave behind, what could she do? The damage was done. Kicking Noctie out now would just be cruel.
Sellie had peered into the vampire's mind on several occasions since that first night, and by her estimation, the monstrous Lady Vomun was as good as dead. Half of the vampire's brain had been literally, physically charcoaled by magical energy, then the other half was subsequently rewritten by her feverish desperation to taste more of whatever super-drug-blood Ketch had pumping through her veins.
What was left after all that became "Noctie," who, if Ketch had thrown her out onto the street, wouldn't have lasted five minutes before getting staked. The woman could barely go an hour without sheepishly asking someone for a taste of blood, much less keep her fangs hidden behind her lips. You didn't need to be a monster hunter to figure out the tall, eery, pale woman asking after your blood wasn't exactly on the up-and-up.
"Anyway," Ketch said, forcefully moving on, "Like I said, if she's really bothering you, you can just smack her up a bit. She won't mind."
Noctie perked up at that, glancing back at Tagrensi. "Oh, will you? You seem stronger than most of the staff."
"By the gods," Tagrensi swore, visibly controlling his effort to recoil. "You truly beat her? The entire staff beats her?"
"Me, personally? Not often, unless she really begs for it. And it's not really beating her, to be honest. That sounds way worse than it is. She likes to oversell it when someone slaps her, she'll throw herself on the ground and all that, but we did some testing on her durability a while back. Tried to find her limits." Ketch shrugged. "Couldn't. It ended up with half the staff clubbing her over the head with swords and knives. She barely noticed. Just kept cooking dinner. I was the only one that actually managed to pierce her skin and run her through, and she clapped for me like it was a circus trick. Maybe if some crazy high-level Irregular gave her a whack she might feel a sting, but as best we can tell, so long as it's not a holy or enchanted weapon, she doesn't register it."
"That's not true, Owner!" Noctie protested. "It shakes me very nicely, and sometimes the staff cut their knuckles on my skin and I get to drink the blood after they leave! Even if it's not much at all, it's always a nice treat."
"Well, even if it is nice, we don't want the staff hurting themselves on you, alright? Try and roll with the punches a bit more."
"Yes, Owner!"
"Good girl." Ketch pat her on the head. "Now, go back and try and write the invitation like Tagrensi said, alright?"
The catfolk man watched Noctie happily traipse back over to the writing desk and drop into her seat, hopping it to one side to adjust its position, like a child. He groaned.
"She's never going to write it correctly, is she?"
Ketch gave him a sympathetic smile. "Probably not. You can keep trying, if you want."
"I... she..." Tagrensi slowly sat down next to Noctie, the first time he had gotten so close to the vampire, and slid a paper across the table, and shot Ketch one last withering glare. "Of all the struggles I prepared myself to survive after the Champion won my freedom, this was not among those I anticipated." He took a deep breath, then inked Noctie's quill in the enchanted ink, placing it over the invitee's blank name on the form. "Fortunately, I have raised a toddler before. Now, Noctie, are you listening? Good. You see where I'm pointing? I want you to write the letter C, Noctie. You know the letter C, yes?"
"Yes!" She bubbled happily. She neatly scribed the letter, glad to prove she could.
"Very well. Now, next to it, very close on that same line, can you write me the letter A?"
As Tagrensi began coaching Noctie through the spelling of the nonexistant-adopted niece of the Vomuns, Carra, Ketch was left to her own devices for entertainment. She had precious few hours until the gala, which began at sundown, yet there was little to prepare. She always kept her supplies packed, and she couldn't approach the chosen infiltration point in daylight. For now, there was nothing to do but wait.
And so she headed back up to her room, stepping through the circle of moss-etched wood, and left her mind to intermingle with Selliana. Surely she would have something interesting going on. The entire room was permanently damp, the boards slowly rotting as if they'd been left underwater, and Ketch's featherbed had a sogginess to it some would call revolting. She would have to fix that at some point. What if Ketch brought home a nice girl? It wouldn't do to have her Guppy giving a bad first impression, would it?
Selliana hummed her way through the stirring of her cauldron, one long arm bent out of the water to enter the pocket bubble at the side of her chambers. The Champion had many wishes of her, but no demands, and for knowing her place, Selliana had chosen to fulfill a few of them. The victuals she'd been granted could be used for a great many things, had been used for a great many things, but also for what the Champion wished, on occasion. Healing draughts and wakening remedies made the bulk of the simmering cauldrons, but hidden were the deeper stews, brewing and bubbling for weeks yet. Things that she did not think possible, challenges that the Champion asked unknowingly.
She kept floating between them, the gardens tended by her seals in her absence, and meanwhile rejoiced in the nesting of her Guppy within her skull. Her Familiar paced mental circles before settling into the nestled space of soul cleared just for her, an adorable yawn and blink as she peered curiously through Selliana's eyes.
It was nice to have Ketch home. She had missed her.
Notes:
Y'know, for all the outlining I do, I'm not very good at sticking to my plans. What was supposed to be a tense setup for a high-stakes infiltration somehow morphed into Puppygirl Inception, much to the torment of poor Tagrensi. Oh, well. I follow my muses, no matter how bizarre.
Chapter 63: The Rite of Spring
Chapter Text
Sporaton Capital Inner District
Former Eliah Estate
Shortly after Dusk
Ketch swept through the streets with her cloak once more pinned comfortingly closed about her, bitter winds filtered and warmed through the thick furs caressing her cheeks. The busy streets were fading with the sun, peasants and the occasional yeomen filtering off the cobblestones into bars, taverns, and homes. Ketch stepped deftly between the crossing feet of the ebbing crowd, one of few going against the tide, and trusted the lack of buzzing flies against her skin for proof that she was unnoticed. She was a black blur above sooty cobblestones to most, a short, unremarkable girl to those perceptive few, and a preternatural avatar of the shadows to only herself.
Ketch had known Evie well enough, she thought, before leaving for Sporatos. There was an intimacy that came from having a woman's tongue crawling up and down your body, beyond just the conversations offered in the aftermath. To know that the sprawling structure before her was where the enigmatic slave had spent her youth was both bewildering and enlightening, filling in gaps of what she knew of the woman.
The Eliah family, for all its prominence, was one even younger to Sporatos than the Vomuns. A hundred and ten years ago was when Evie's predecessor had ascended to the ranks of nobility, shipped in as an exotic source of entertainment from the forested north. Rather than remain a decoration on a noblewoman's arm, Evie's great-great-grandfather had outlived his wife by decades, and so unshackled, forged a mercantile empire within the heart of Sporatos.
The product of his wealth, grown considerably by his descendants, was on display before Ketch now. Three stories of beautiful vaulted windows were ensconced within artfully carved stones, a series of courtyards hidden within. The entire palace– and palace was all Ketch could think of it as– was built in a grid, so that every room had a window overlooking either the city streets below, an interior garden or pavilion, or swathes of trimmed grass where picnics and games of fanciful sport were played in the summer months. According to Tagrensi, the Eliah estate could comfortably welcome and entertain near a thousand guests, affording each of them a personal room if so desired. Why the late Lady Eliah, who had one daughter and no surviving siblings, had such a sprawling estate, Ketch didn't know. In her letters, Sara had called it a "big dick power play," but Ketch just thought it wasteful, particularly now that it was empty.
The estate was a far cry from King Sporatos's dwelling, which was an ancient castle that had once defended the city before the walls had expanded outward. She could see why the King had chosen the Eliah estate to host the event, when his own was so comparatively utilitarian. Again, she didn't understand the whims of nobility. The most powerful man in the kingdom, who effectively was the kingdom unto himself, lived in a dank little bunker, neighbored by masterpieces of sprawling glass and masonry. Motivated by something like showing off his martial prowess, or his dedication to defense of the nation, or some similar such drivel, she guessed. Ketch didn't much care, because the Eliah estate was as far as she ever wanted to push her luck. Infiltrating the King's keep would be simple suicide.
Ketch passed rows of metal ebony spikes that blocked off the interior courtyards, shuffling along rapidly with her hood drawn close, like she was lost and desperate to be out of the cold, should anyone actually spot her.
Her act did not have to last long, because in short order, she picked up on the raucous shouts of drunken voices echoing out of a side street. Ketch slowed to a halt, looking about in confusion, waiting for the right moment.
With alarming suddenness, a riotous crowd barreled out of the side street, pushing and shoving and roaring their drunken displeasure as they neared the spiked walls of the Eliah estate. Ketch did not recognize any faces in the crowd, but knew some of her allies were playing the role of both instigator and shepherd, guiding the brawl to the very edge of the Eliah estate.
Almost immediately, the guards patrolling the grounds collapsed onto the pile of forty-odd men and women, spinning their spears around to bash and shove with the blunt wooden hafts. Several voices bellowed their protest back, too lost in drink to realize the stakes of their situation, and the drunken brawlers united in protest against the uptight guards trying to ruin their fun. What was first a disciplinary whacking became a proper shoving match, pairs splitting off from the mob to punch and insult, the sight of which stirred the others to even higher passion.
She hoped that shoving and roughhousing was all it would remain as, considering the dire penalties that always fell down upon peasants when nobility were involved, but she couldn't spare the time to watch. With every nearby guard being pulled into the informal melee, rushing desperately to keep the disturbance beneath the notice of their noble masters, Ketch stepped up to the wrought-iron fence.
Thin though she was, even she couldn't slip between the bars, and with their winter-slicked bars topped by vicious spikes, she didn't dare climb over. Instead she reached into her bag, pulling out a vial of clear liquid. She uncorked the vial, opened up her cloak, pulled forward the collar of her tunic, and upended the vial onto her bare skin.
She immediately doubled forward, world whirling as the venom soaked into her skin. Heat, delicious, delectable heat, radiated inward from her skin, a powerful throbbing spreading with each pump of her heart. Sellie may have managed to protect her against the paralytic effect of Noctie's venom, but she'd seen no need to nullify the pleasure.
Which was rather helpful at the moment, because what Ketch did next wouldn't have ended with anything other than her screaming until she passed out. Her mouth salivating so thickly she had to swallow every few seconds, lest she begin to drool uncontrollably, she stepped up to the wrought iron bars, turned herself sideways, and began to squeeze forward.
Courtesy of years of Sellie's alterations to her body, Ketch's pliable ribcage began shattering under the pressure. Muted by the venom, but still present, she felt each and every grating snap of her bones, her entire torso collapsing in on itself. The pain was a far away thing, muted past the point of discomfort, but she knew what it should have felt like, and even contemplating it had her grunting in reflexive discomfort. Her lungs began abutting the shattered shards of her ribs, her shoulders popping and dislocating with each huff of effort, but through each tug forward, she made progress, all while the brewing riot continued behind her.
Finally, a subjective eternity later, her torso and legs finished squeezing through. It left her head behind, however, the thin bars collapsing her trachea so she couldn't so much as gasp. She was Azarketi, though, and holding her breath was no struggle. She shoved her neck down, drawing her mother's knife that Sellie had enchanted for her, and began to carve at the edges of the wrought-iron bars, until there was just enough extra space shaved off to pull her head through. She retrieved the vial, sprinkled a bit more of Noctie's venom on her ears, then pulled.
With an awful tearing noise filling her skull, Ketch's head slipped through the bars, leaving both her ears behind. With so much venom coursing through her, she could barely stand, but she at least kept the presence of mind to reach up and scrub at the blood she'd left behind, sweeping her ears into a pocket. The shaved pieces of metal taken from the fence would be visible upon close inspection, but only in the morning, when the light was properly upon them.
Ketch stumbled forward through the garden, clammily downing the first of her two healing potions to repair the damage to her torso before the venom wore off. She may have felt the pain's muted effects, but she most certainly did not want to see what it truly felt like to have every bone in her chest broken.
As her body reknit, she moved to crouch between two snow-dusted bushes, their barren limbs supporting just enough of a thin haze of frost to hide her. Several entrances were nearby, and she knew one of them was the one she wanted, but she couldn't figure out which, not while she was still high as a kite on vampire venom.
After a few minutes of letting the delirium fade from her body, as well as letting the potion regrow what she'd torn apart, Ketch felt steady enough to press onward. As Tagrensi had promised, the bulk of the security was focused on the exterior of the sprawling manor, ensuring none got in in the first place. She reached the door that would lead to what they believed was a main hallway and knelt, fiddling with her gloves so she could properly manipulate her lockpicks.
Unlike the Vomun household, the late Lady Eliah had spared no expense on her locks. Ketch spent several minutes with anxiety building in her gut, picking and prying at the lock, her hands growing ever colder. Just as she began to fear the lock had some kind of enchanted component to its mechanism, she heard the final satisfying click, her tension bar twisting, and the door handle began to turn.
As always, Ketch let the door swing open freely for a minute, probing for a reaction. When none came, she slipped slowly in, peering in every direction.
The entire hallway was lit, in a display of unfathomable wealth, by glowing crystal chandeliers. It was not even a major thoroughfare; just a hallway connecting rooms to rooms, meant for guests to access other portions of the palace. Ketch had to swallow back her saliva again, but not because of the lingering venom. She was drooling at the thought of what some of those gems could be sold for, should she swipe a few.
But it wasn't the time for that. Ketch instead began creeping down the hall, following what she knew of the palace's layout. Tagrensi had done an admirable job gathering what information he could in the thirty-six hours of notice they'd had to prepare, but it was far from complete. Ketch would have killed for Evie's own explanation of the grounds, but a letter would have taken weeks to pass back and forth. She would do as best she could with what she had.
Her objective for the night, Ketch and Tagrensi had decided, was less material than was her norm. She was not to be stealing plans, nor sabotaging documents, nor even leaving ominous forged notes to spread paranoia among the nobility. No, her main purpose was the gala itself.
Why had it been called? Why break the regular schedule of parties and gatherings, calling together every noble of consequence to attend yet another masquerade ball at the heart of the capital? King Sporatos hosting an event himself was rare on its own, and to do so this abruptly had alarm bells ringing in the minds of the entire underground resistance. Some feared the acceleration of the invasion timeline, some the discovery of their resistance efforts, and others some more nebulous, ominous theories, baseless conjecture that was compelling solely for its extreme pessimism. Ketch sincerely doubted the King would be announcing a purge of the peasants or some such thing, but the fact that some of the resistance were entertaining such an absurdity spoke to how out-of-character the impromptu gala was.
Following her heightened hearing towards the sounds of revelry, Ketch eventually began stumbling upon staff passing to and fro in a hurry. Having been brought in from other manors solely for this gala, they were so panicked and lost while entertaining the horde of guests that hiding from them was laughably simple. The shade between crystal chandeliers was all it took to utterly erase Ketch from their sight, and she wouldn't have been surprised if even walking in the open wouldn't have garnered their attention.
There were, of course, exceptions. Guards, posted increasingly frequently as she neared the sounds of partying, who scanned the hallways with bored expressions. As an Azarketi, Ketch couldn't have fooled them by dressing herself as a servant, no matter how convincing the disguise. Instead she began skittering up the walls once more, her nails sharpening to find stabbing purchase upon the wallpaper. She may not have been as strong as Sara, a dedicated combatant, but now at her tenth advancement, she had more than enough upper body strength to support herself by fingers alone. Thankfully, the crystalline chandeliers aimed their light down, leaving the corners of the ceiling in deep darkness, and so it was a simple fare to remain unobserved as she drew ever closer to the party. Ketch had to imagine that security would have been better, if anyone present had ever set foot in the place before, but she certainly wasn't complaining that her enemies were being lax.
Just as she was reaching what she believed to be a withdrawing room, a place where the nobility would come to rest between bouts of drinking and dancing, she felt a tug on her mind. She'd been intending to listen to the conversations within, but the urging she felt at the back of her skull was unmistakable. Sellie was guiding her away, towards a set of stairs down a further hallway. She couldn't tell why, their bond too weak, but she trusted her girlfriend implicitly.
Ketch continued her journey atop the ceiling, watching staff pass by below carrying plates, chairs, and innumerable creature comforts to sate the whims of nobility in the greater dance hall, which was now only a few hundred feet away. Ketch could hear coordinated harps and their accompanying choirs fading in and out, serenading the gala with the finest musicians the capital had to offer. Of course, to Ketch, who had often heard the wholly unique music of Sara's homeworld, the simplistic plucking of harps was barely worth remembering. She had been spoiled, she reflected. Had she heard this music properly, with her expectations unmarred, it would have been a beautiful thing.
Oh, well. Too late now. Let's see what Sellie found for me.
Still attached to the ceiling like a spider, Ketch reached the start of the stairs, which ascended at twisting right angles to the floor above. She poked her head above the base of the banisters, confirming no one was there to greet her at the second story landing, then scurried up the wall at a double-pace, petrified she would be found before reaching the safety of the roof's shadows. Thankfully, no one emerged from any doors, and she was freed to once more follow Sellie's tugging influence.
After navigating through several corners, the staff and crowd growing progressively thinner below, Ketch eventually felt Sellie practically shoving her towards one particular door. It was small, unremarkable, and without any sign of guards or otherwise about it. If it weren't for her girlfriend, Ketch never would have paid it the slightest attention.
But, trusting in Sellie, Ketch skittered along the ceiling, craning her neck backward, so she was looking at the floor below, searching for an entrance. Eventually, she spotted the telltale sign of a narrow line in the wallpaper, and she dropped from the ceiling, landing in a silent crouch before the servant's door.
Hearing no movement within, Ketch slipped inside, shutting it silently behind her. She retraced her steps to the room Sellie had taken such an interest in, brushing aside cobwebs that had grown since Lady Eliah's execution. From the intensity of Sellie's guidance, she anticipated something serious in the room, and so she slowed accordingly, moving as silently as she was capable.
Eventually, subtly, voices began to filter in. Two men, speaking to one another in the tones of refined frustration, the politeness of their words having little to do with the true sentiment they wished to express. Ketch began to move to peek through the nearest servant's peephole, but Sellie's guidance yanked at her collar, rooting her in place.
Whoever this is, Sellie thinks they're dangerous.
Ketch obediently stood stock-still, contenting herself with listening to the words being spoken.
"...but my liege, surely you understand the dangers of leaving after such tumultuous times have just barely passed us by?"
A rattle and clank of a metal mug being set on a glass-topped table. "Come now, Emeric. Surely you're aware I've heard countless such objections."
The first voice, Emeric, spoke as if simultaneously on the cusp of shouting while also wishing to show perfect deference. "My liege, if you have heard so many objections of similar ilk, may it not be because they have merit?"
"They do. But it is my assessment that the threat represented by the Mad Champion far outweighs any internal affair that my absence may allow to fester. She intends to be a threat not just to the wellbeing of her people, but to all those who properly guide their lands."
"This I understand well, sir, but does opposing Amarat's Chosen not weigh heavily upon your conscious? Her Church remains adamant that the Champion has not been subverted, and I see no signs of madness in the minds of Amarat's faithful I have interviewed."
A scrape of the metal mug being retrieved, then a long swallow. "You have taken it upon yourself to interview the Church's faithful?"
"As a leader of people, ensuring I am as informed as is possible is one of my many responsibilities, my liege."
A barked laughter. "Emeric, Emeric, how I admire that resolve of yours! It is no wonder that you have risen to the heights you have, with a dedication to duty such as that."
Emeric laughed as well, but with less warmth. "I thank you for your kind words, my liege, but such praise begs the question once again: if you so value my dedication to the people, is this not evidence that my counsel against war is worth considering?"
"It is, and whether you believe me or not, your counsel weighs nearly as heavily upon my mind as that of my advisors. You are a fine knight, unlike them, and know well the ways of the battlefield. Yet still they, nearly to a person, would agree keenly with you. They say the war is a waste, that the Champion's peculiar notions are doomed to failure, that the rabble will eat themselves alive without the guiding hand of their betters." Another long drink, then a smacking of the lips. "I do not disagree, ultimately. I only fear what such a hideous example will inspire in the interim, before the inevitable collapse."
"You fear a peasant rebellion, my liege?"
"Fear?" A scoff. "Of course not. Find distasteful, without doubt. It is always so dreadfully time-consuming, to pick off the lots of insurrectionists, particularly if their remnants turn to banditry once their feeble attempt at forming an army is crushed. I am growing older, Emeric, and have better things to do with my greying years than smother brushfires. My daughter will inherit my throne someday–" Another deep bark of laughter, "hopefully not too soon–! And when she does, I wish to leave her a stable realm, so that she may grow into her role as is proper."
"So you wish to crush Tulian now, so as to avoid instability among the peasants, who you know can be suppressed with relative ease, yet admit that doing so will further foment resentment among the nobility, whose rebellion would be inordinately more dangerous?"
A long pause. "Emeric," the second voice rumbled dangerously, "you grow too loose with your tongue. I value your leadership upon the field greatly, but you are a knight-commander. Not a lord in your own right."
A brief pause, then a genuinely apologetic whisper, sounding as if it were directed to the floor, the speaker bowing. "I have overstepped my bounds, My King. I offer you my humblest apologies."
Ketch's eyes shot open. King? That was King Sporatos in that room? By every god's name, why had Sellie led her here? She heard no sound of others in the room, but if that was King Sporatos, his protections would be unfathomable, almost certainly beyond Ketch's ability to hide from. What had Sellie been thinking?
And yet, as Ketch always did, she trusted her girlfriend implicitly. And so she stayed, controlling her nerves, listening, taking as few breaths as she could, all to better avoid notice.
There was a prolong silence after Emeric's apology, nothing more than the shuffling of legs, clothing, and chairs. Eventually, it was the King that spoke up once more, his tone growing contemplative.
"Do you know why, Knight Emeric, that I have called this war? Truly?"
"...I have my suspicions."
"Ah, you needn't look at them like that. You are right, after all. As you have already proven, you are adept at pursuing information. What think you of the rumors swirling about the Wooden Masks?"
While a knot had long since formed in her throat, those words sent Ketch's airway painfully clenching shut.
"...Am I being asked to speak freely, my liege?"
"Within reason, I suppose."
A contemplative silence, then Emeric cleared his throat. "I fear that they, who have appeared so suddenly, hold undue influence upon the courts. I know little of their capabilities, but know they aim high, far higher than most mortals. They speak of plans not in months or years, but decades, and display a patience I once thought unique to the fey and undying. An admirable trait in an advisor, perhaps, but with so little known of them, I cannot help but grow anxious."
"A poor outlook upon them, but drawn from accurate enough information, it would seem. I cannot reveal all to you, Emeric, not yet, but I ask for your patience until the day I can. These Wooden Masks, shrouded in secrecy to so many, do so for a very grand reason. A holy reason, of the kind befitting Kings and Kingdoms. I know you fear the war, Emeric, and I know it is not from cowardice, but care for your people, and for those you have trained. I only ask that you, whose loyalty is famed across the realm, extend it to me for but a short while longer. Then, I promise you, all will be revealed."
A chair scraping, boots scuffling as a man rose. "Of course, my liege. You needn't even ask it of me."
"And yet, I appreciate it all the same. Go now, you are dismissed. My guest and I have other matters to discuss, of the sort you will soon be privy to."
"Then I will bid you good evening, my King."
"And to you, Knight Emeric."
A door unlocked, opened, shut, then was locked once more. Sighs and shuffles occurred, King Sporatos adjusting himself on his seating and reaching for another drink, and then he spoke up.
"What think you, ser? A probable ally to our cause?"
A crackling, magically-disguised voice responded slowly. "I... think that we should not discuss such things, King Sporatos, in the presence of unwelcome listeners."
Ketch bolted.
Chapter 64: Hypothermic
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The servant's corridors, once a comforting labyrinth of welcoming shadows and secluded cubbies, became a hellish maze. Ketch flung herself over support beams and ducked under low-hanging sconces, heedless of her orientation or direction. There was an attention on her, at the center of her spine, and it gnawed at her flesh like a carrion bird.
Wood shattered in lightning cracks behind her, the wall torn apart as the third speaker ripped open the manor's wall. Ketch hooked a hand on a corner post and flung herself to the right, catching the barest glimpse of her pursuer as she did so.
A wooden mask stared back at her. Opaque, featureless, without holes to breathe or eyes to see, set so firmly to the skin it looked ingrown.
Then Ketch was sprinting down another corridor, uncaring of how her feet fell or how loudly she panted.
"Come now!" A voice called, echoing unnaturally down the corridor. "Little one, might we come to an arrangement? The penalty for thieving will not be death, and should you return what you have taken, I assure you personally that your sentence will be lenient."
A tempting offer, if Ketch had actually been stealing something. Unfortunately, the penalty for spying upon the private meetings of the King were far steeper.
Just as Ketch ducked under another beam, it violently ripped from the wall, flung downward far faster than gravity could account for. Instinct sent her lunging forward, but not fast enough, and her left foot was caught beneath, pulverized into the wooden flooring.
Ketch tore it free with a scream spitting between her clenched teeth, hobbling forward as she fumbled for her second healing potion. She downed half of it in one gulp, unable to wait for a smaller dose to do the trick, and tried to maintain her pace.
The formless voice bounced off the walls once more.
"Unless you are not a thief, of course. Little one, you have the scent of the Deepwaters upon you. An Azarketi, perhaps?"
Ketch saw a gap in the ceiling above, a foot-wide slice open to the corridors above, and launched herself up the walls. Her nails audibly crackled as they expanded to spikes, her toes as well, painfully piercing the front of her leather boots. She scrambled up the wall, leaping forward, shimmying into the gap.
"Not just the Deepwaters, though," the voice hummed, assaulting her from every direction. "There is something fresher, as well. Springwater, deep springwater, yet... tainted? A curious aura beguiles you, child."
Ketch optimistically slowed her pace back to one of pure silence, crawling on her belly through the space between floors. She abandoned that when the boards around her began to creak and groan, dragged inward, jagged splinters creeping to impale her in place. She heard their groaning intensify, a chilling creak that sent her heart thundering, and used all four limbs to throw herself awkwardly forward, sliding through another gap to the servant's corridor above. The space she had occupied a moment before imploded with a staccato series of cracks, brutal enough that she would have been pierced in a dozen places.
"Not a thief at all, then. Someone more interesting. I do so hope the King will not mind me capturing you in this manner. It is an abandoned property, after all."
Ketch threw herself back to her feet, moving at a dead sprint through the pitch-black corridors. This third floor was entirely abandoned, unlit, and she flicked open her third set of eyelids, revealing the faint outlines of wooden walls. She knew a human would not be able to see the faintest thing. She also did not know if the masked figure was human, or relied on sight at all to track her, but she could only pray.
"A deft little thing, aren't you? Hard to pin down."
Ketch felt a tingle off her right elbow and threw herself into a head-first dive, sliding forward on her stomach. A spear of wood erupted from the wall above and behind her, a foot thick, more than enough to kill her on the spot.
"Well, hard to pin down and keep alive, at least. Do yourself a favor and take a rest, strange child, before I care more for picking over your corpse than your mind."
Ketch most certainly was not going to do that. Only her deepest night terrors might equal what the devotees of a hidden god could release upon her, and she had been visited by some truly horrific nightmares before meeting Sellie.
She came to a crossroads, a servant's door opening to her left. She followed her instincts and knocked it open with a shoulder, once more in the open hallway. She continued her sprint into the very center of the carpeted hall, where the walls and ceiling were farther away, so that any launched spikes would take longer to reach her.
Save for the floor. One erupted directly ahead of her, curving as it rose to aim for her gut. With too much momentum to arrest, her mother's dagger appeared in her hand, flat of the blade meeting the wooden tip just before her stomach. The impact drove the wind from her lungs in a soundless wheeze, but she continued stumbling on, eyes locked onto the ground ahead.
"So eager to leave, so eager to leave," the voice chided, omnipresent around her. "If your crime is not forgivable, perhaps you could be convinced to acquiesce in exchange for a gentler death? Most fear execution as a whole, but there is much to be weighed in the method of its rendering."
"Stupid fucking cunt, I'll kill you," Ketch gasped, barely enough to breath in her lungs to proffer the retort.
"Oh! An associate of the Champion. Very interesting." Another spear tore itself out from beneath the carpet, drawing a deep gash along Ketch's thigh as she dove to the side. "But not one with her penchant for violence, I gather."
Ketch followed the crystal light to a stairwell, one which she felt Sellie abruptly tug her towards. Ketch leapt over the railing without hesitation, slowing her fall with a hand ripping through the wallpaper until she landed on the second story landing. Yet another spear slammed out of the wall, but she was already gone, leaping down the empty space between the center of another spiraling staircase.
She landed hard, knees buckling. She was directly behind a line of eight guards, who stood shoulder-to-shoulder to block the way to the upper floors. Her landing had not been quiet, and several heads began to turn her way, affording her a single second of thought.
Unlike Tulian, only a select few guards were afforded decent armor, usually those that personally guarded nobility. These, tasked to turn away drunk partygoers wishing to explore the estate, wore simple gambesons above their own personal clothing, a plain spear leaning against their shoulders. No armor covered them below the waist.
Ketch lunged forward with her mother's dagger drawn, ripping it through the tendon of a guard's heel as she dove between his legs. He cried out in immediate agony, dropping, and the rest of the guards whirled every which way, shouting confusion. Ketch was around the corner as fast as she could manage, but not before several caught sight of her, giving chase.
Ketch was now among the serving staff and guards of the party, and as she'd so fervently hoped, the voice and the magical assaults accompanying it were absent. Whatever or whoever the wooden mask was, it didn't wish to expose itself to the general public.
Of course, Ketch was now sprinting through increasingly dense waves of servants and noble partygoers alike, the guards thickening with each passing moment. There may not be a need for the masked figure to pursue her. She was running into a snare of her own creation.
Taking a risk that the masked figure had truly given up on magically gutting her, she returned to the wall, skittering her way up to the darkest corner she could find. It was slower going, upside down and on her hands and knees, but once she cleared the corner, far fewer would notice her.
Unless, of course, the path she'd chosen at random ended in a massive sprawling emptiness, bright as daylight in the middle of night, hundreds of nobles dancing to the tune of beautiful harps.
Ketch froze on the wall, looking for all the world like a lizard caught on the window when a midnight lantern was lit. For a brief, infinitesimal moment, she thought no one would notice her, despite the fact that she was a blue-skinned woman wearing a black cloak, clinging to marble-white walls.
Then she heard the first shout of surprise, a finger flung her way, and she dropped to the floor.
A commotion rippled through the massive dance space, starting at the first man that had noticed her, then spreading as others registered the strange sight for what it was. Old habits had her pulling the hood of her cloak tight about her face, disguising her, as if that were anywhere near a priority at the moment.
She barreled through the crowd, sliding under cloth-draped tables and weaving through pillars, doing all she could to break up her outline to the increasing number of guards who were being directed her way. Unlike before, these guards were resplendently dressed head-to-toe in steel armor, and they carried shortened polearms with ornate metal heads, not wooden spears. Weapons meant for fighting Irregular opponents in close quarters, which was exactly what Ketch was.
She'd never beaten Sara in a duel when the Champion used a polearm.
Ketch continued her sprint through incredulously screeching nobility, bowling over doddering ancients and drunken brutes alike, doing everything she could to sow confusion in her wake. The dance hall had a door leading directly to the outside, she knew, and if she could reach the midnight shadows beyond, only a miracleworker would be able to track her.
But she had to get there first.
Ketch's preternatural senses were so overwhelmed by the eyes tracking her that she was reduced to relying on sight alone, which was why she saw the meaty palm plummeting towards her face at the very last second. Some noble partygoer was trying to grab her, to pin her down.
She yanked her dagger up in the blink of an eye, tip pointed out. The hand's momentum shoved the meat of the man's palm down to the hilt of her dagger in an instant, the weight of her forward sprint combining with the now-wedged palm to slam the pommel of her dagger into the bone beneath her right eye.
Ketch's neck snapped back, her feet continuing on, then the back of her head cracked against the tile flooring.
Stars whirled above her as thoughts fuzzed, the roar of the crowd dulling by degrees.
And then she felt a weight on her legs.
Then another on her face.
Another on her chest, then above them another added, more and more attempting to pin her down. To trap her underneath their weight, to smother her.
Ketch's heart slammed against her ribcage.
Heralded by a terrible keratin screech, her claws sprung even further out. She began laying about herself randomly, spraying bloody tracks across anything and everything touching her. Her feet scrambled backward violently, toe-claws goring even more over-brave noble guests that thought themselves heroes, and as they collectively began to recoil, Ketch was suddenly free, light returning to her vision.
She did not spare the bloody pile she had created a second glance. Multiple sets of gleaming guards were collapsing into a skirmish formation behind and to her left, trying to herd her towards the wall. She sprinted forward, the only direction left to her, and sought out the exit.
She gave up on weaving through the room, gave up on subtlety in any form. She just lowered her head and sprinted, pumping her arms in such a way that her blood-soaked claws flung innumerable droplets towards the richly dressed individuals in her path. They scattered. She could see the door, just ahead, so massive, so grand, so promising, and just as she heard the call for crossbows to be prepared, she breached the threshold, entering the receiving room.
The massive doors slammed shut behind her with a calamitous boom, the wind of such huge panels of wood moving so fast physically driving her forward. The receiving room for the nobility was darker than the fancy ballroom she'd exited, and she flicked her second eyelids away.
The masked figure stood at the far end of the room, arms folded into their plain brown robes, the same unreadable mask set upon their face.
They were surrounded on either side not by guards, but Knights.
Ketch had never seen members of the Sporaton Knighthood dressed in all their splendor. With the full suit of armor encircling their bodies, they looked less like humans, more like living statues of steel. Glowing runes of every color pulsed across their uniforms, barely perceptible to a human eye, but vibrant to Ketch's second eyelids. As they shifted their stance, their armor moved with them, articulated joints gliding smoothly from position to position. There was not a single point upon them showing exposed skin, no gaps in their protection, save for the wire-grid slits affording them vision, which would've required a dagger thin as a sewing needle to pierce. Distractedly, Ketch abruptly realized just who that former slave at the meeting had spent her time preparing to kill. Each knight held a different weapon, similarly covered in enchantment runes, and they each wielded their unique tool with the easy confidence brought on by years of experience. There were eight of them, four on either side of the masked figure.
Ketch was no match for any of the nine.
The masked figure stepped forward, hands waving as if they were a conductor calling for the closing of curtains. Behind her, Ketch felt the strange prickle of spellcraft sweeping down the doors, blacking out the light from the gala within. None could see her, now. The empty mask turned to face Ketch squarely, body language projecting a mild frown.
"Now, strange one, I hope that you may act a bit more unreasonable. Had I known you would do something so uproarious as all that, I would have killed you without warning."
"Your... your fuckin'..." Ketch trailed off, panting too hard. She didn't know how Sara kept up the constant string of insults in the middle of a duel.
"My funeral, perhaps? My mistake? Come now, finish the insult, so we may proceed. I would hate to be left wondering for all these years I shall live after your death."
"Your fuckin–"
Ketch had been intending to say 'funeral,' but since the figure already said it, she pivoted.
"–balls on the line," she finished, straightening as she finally began to catch her breath.
"My... balls on the line? As in, you will cut them off?"
"Even if you don't have 'em. I'll nail them on, then rip them off."
"Hm. Disappointing," a sigh, "but not in itself surprising. You're far from the Champion's caliber, even more so when under stress. I'd recommend you work on your verbal sparring skills, but..." The figure's arms fully emerged from their robes as they began pacing forward, gloved fingers readying themselves for spellwork. "There isn't much time. Now, before I eviscerate you, is there anything you might be so kind to offer? A tidbit of information, for a poor, confused mage?"
Ketch said nothing. She simply let her left hand land on Sellie's dagger.
The figure paused in mid step, and at this, the knights behind them started, grips tightening on their weapons.
"What have you there, strange one?" The masked figure asked, posture unreadable.
Ketch remained silent. She scanned the room, the streets beyond the glass doors at the knight's backs, and felt out the shadows the mage's obscuring spells had created behind her. The figure, after their brief pause, resumed their movement forward, slower, which Ketch matched by stepping backward.
"Is that the springwater upon you? No, no, it hasn't the aura of the living. The taint is upon you. But what is it, I wonder? Will it be destroyed with you? That would be a shame, I think." He cast a glance over his shoulder. "Loyal knights of Sporatos, if you find yourself engaged with this girl, I ask that you avoid damaging the dagger she presently holds. I will reward you most handsomely, depending on the yield. Of course, do not prioritize the dagger over your own life, but if possible, I would greatly appreciate its retrieval."
Like the first step onto warm beach sand, Ketch felt her ankles sinking into comfortable shadows. She was in the light, but behind her was shadow. She twisted the grip on her dagger, pulling it ever so slightly from its sheath, exposing the barest sliver of iridescent metal.
The figure halted once more. Their hand snapped up, colorless energies crackling from it. "I would not recommend you draw that dagger, girl."
Ketch ignored the man's words, preparing to slide it free of the sheath, but was stopped by something she didn't expect. The familiar tugging of her body, but this time at her wrist, an urging instruction to all but shove the dagger back into its sheath.
Ketch froze.
She didn't know what to do.
This had never happened. The dagger Sellie had given her, wrapped in as many threads of themselves as their souls could bare to lose, and Sellie was telling her not to use it?
Shit.
At the very brink of disaster, Ketch may not have been able to match Sara's acidic wit, but even with panic pulsing waves of adrenaline through her veins, it wasn't beyond her ability to let her hood fall back, exposing the front rows of her glittering, saw-toothed smile.
Then she fell back into the shadows, black cloak snapping closed around her, and rolled to the side.
That was all it took. For the briefest instant, they lost sight of her, Ketch's blue figure blurring into black on black, and then she cracked open a single eye, staring at a shadow through the window above them.
Energy pulsed from the undrawn dagger. Color fell from the world like water splashing off a wall, all reality wrought in shades of black and grey as Ketch's body flung forward. She felt the glass of the great door ripple harmlessly across her skin, then cold tiles were beneath her feet, a brick chimney pressed against her front.
A roar followed her an instant later, the doors to the Eliah estate's ballroom shattering in a detonation beyond imagination. Starlight turned to glittering rainbows as light was cast through glass, multicolored shards sprayed hundreds of feet into the air while wooden shrapnel pitter-pattered into waiting carriages across the exterior courtyard. The Knights sprinted out, their helmeted heads pivoting to scan in all directions. A robed figure swept forward behind them, and then Ketch turned away, looking to another deep shadow on the roof across the street from her.
Color bled, Ketch flew forward, and in less than a blink she was sixty feet farther away from the enraged mage, the sounds of his randomly flung spells dulling.
Ketch stumbled woozily. Immediately upon her arrival she felt parched beyond belief, a pounding headache beginning at the base of her skull, but she didn't stop. She crouched low in the deepest shadow she could find, looked for the most distant rooftop that she didn't think would kill her, then launched herself forward again.
This time, when color returned to the world, she didn't land. The spell sputtered out at the last second, transferring her impossible momentum to the real world.
Ketch went skidding face-first across jagged tiles. She barely felt the way her skin and scales were cut, because her head roared with pain. Some vital reserve of her body she'd never recognized, much less trained or used, was utterly and completely spent. It was an alien, unknown pain, a new sensation she had no reference for.
She managed to claw herself to a stop just before sliding off the roof to the cobblestones three stories below, her chest heaving unevenly.
She allowed herself a brief moment to catch her breath.
A bell began to ring somewhere far away, and after a brief delay, another began to chime.
It was time to go. Time to go, go, go. All the way back to Tulian, if she had to, but for right now, she needed to be gone.
Ketch shoved herself to her feet, forcing down the rebellious rising of bile in her throat, and oriented herself amongst the city rooftops.
Gods, Tagrensi was going to be furious.
Why had Sellie stopped her? Was the mage that powerful? The threat too great? Or was it too little, a waste of the dagger's energies? She didn't know. Couldn't know, until she could commune with her girlfriend again, and of the untold uncertainties eating at her in that moment, that question seemed the greatest.
Wait, no.
There was something worse.
Oh, gods. How the hell was she going to take Noctie on public roads?
Notes:
Well, that could have gone better.
Chapter 65: Interludes
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Captain Acertan Vidanya sat beneath the deck of a ship once more, and a part of him rejoiced for this, but it was a subdued joy. The accoutrements were fine, a wardroom dressed in all the finery expected of royal Sporaton vessels, but it was a bittersweet nostalgia that filled him. The ship was not his own, the destination not his choice, and his role was little. He was here as an advisor, nothing more, and not even to the captain of the ship, but to one of the passengers. Even more egregiously, he was not the only advisor to that passenger.
The Carrion diplomat sat across from him in the wardroom, appearing as at-ease as any living being could be. His hideously gaudy threads, offensive to the eyes, nonetheless served their purpose in displaying the might and reach of the Carrion Navy. Purple weavings, almost crystalline in the purity of their dyes, ducked and dived beneath an overcoat of cerulean fibers, both silks unique to destinations separated by five hundred leagues– fifteen hundred miles. Had the goods been transferred overland, rather than by sea, the journey would have been nearly three thousand miles. The rest of his ensemble was similarly adorned, displaying wealth worthy of being called obscene, had he been anyone other than a member of the Carrion Navy. Yet, for a Captain of a Carrion Magecraft, the implied expense was far less, for he had purchased from no intermediaries. The breadth of Carrion duties were such that he had personally found the composite components in both locations, just by the nature of where his assignments took him. That had its own special aura of power, even more than what wealth would have implied.
The only exception to his garish outfit was the hat, but only if one was inattentive. Folded in the traditional Carrion style to a steep peak, its black leather was sealskin, and for that, there was no Carrion ship in existence that sufficed. That hat had to have been purchased and sent overland from the frigid north, so foreign a land that Vidanya could not reckon the distance traveled without the aid of a map. Actually, he did not think he had a map that covered such a breadth. He would have needed a globe, truly, to see the full extent of Captain Vanillaflower's outfit.
Vidanya was stirred from his mental reckoning of Vanillaflower's outfit by the arrival of their host, the figure to whom they were both beholden. Vanillaflower, by government edict and contractual obligation, and Vidanya, by blood and sacrifice.
He had learned much of what the masked man was, since he had been brought back to the mortal coil, but it was not enough to reassure him in their presence. He did not even know if they were a man, truly; he only assumed, based off a few errant comments and the way he held himself beneath his flowing brown robes. The featureless mask growing into the skin of his face hid all else, including his voice, which shifted pitch and tone irrespective of his words or mood.
"Ah, I do apologize for being late," the figure said, pulling out a chair to seat himself alongside Vidanya, across from Vanillaflower. Not at the head of the table, which would imply his total dominance of the gathering, but decidedly to Vidanya's left, placing Vidanya beneath him in authority, as his right-hand man, and thus more trusted than the Carrion diplomat. That Vanillaflower was on the opposite side of the long table was unavoidable, as it was how they had been sitting before the official meeting began, but as host, it would have been among his rights to invite Vanillaflower to his side of the table, to rectify the disparity. He had not.
Mask– for he'd given Vidanya no name in these months, and Mask was all Vidanya had thought to call him– quickly got to business.
"The Sporaton Navy will set sail in the coming weeks, in numbers they have not achieved since the disastrous Fifth Coalition formed against Admiral Sinti, near fifty years ago. You two, regardless of your original positions or loyalties, are the only two to have met with the commanders of the force this fleet shall soon be facing. Though I have discussed much with either of you in private, and found much to consider among your experiences, I thought it time to have a more open discussion. Of the questions I will soon ask, I know you will have already have answered many before, and beg your forgiveness for the repetition. Sometimes details come to light upon a second viewing, in a different context, that would have otherwise gone unappreciated."
Both men nodded their heads at this, understanding. Vanillaflower likely more than Vidanya, who had no formal diplomatic training. A trireme captain alone he was, a fact that ever weighed on his mind when the lofty Mask picked his brain for information on the Champion. He did not believe himself so reliable a source as Mask himself seemed to; his contact with the Champion no more than hour or two. Nonetheless, he always made a serious effort to repay the moral debt incurred by his revival.
"Excellent. Now, beginning first, Captain Vanillaflower. Your appraisal of the Champion of Amarat, in relation to naval tactics and warfare."
Vanillaflower leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table to rest his chin atop his laced fingers. "Quite frankly, I think little of her in relation to naval combat. She regaled me with the tale of her involvement in the defeat of one our Magecraft, who I now know to have been operating under your– or Sporaton– direction, in an effort to apprehend the so-called 'mad Champion' before her arrival in Tulian."
Mask interrupted with a raised hand. "You do not believe her to be mad, Captain Vanillaflower?"
"No, as I have said before. It would be an easy conclusion to draw, considering her plethora of eccentricities, but no. What appears first to be madness is in fact the machinations of a mind more finely tuned to manipulation than the sleekest Carrion Skimmer is to the waves, and equally impossible to match by the unprepared. This, then driven by otherworldly knowledge, produces plots I cannot fathom nor reason, yet seem to invariably succeed. She is no madwoman, ser."
"And you see no issue with so blatantly contradicting Sporaton dogma, directly to two representatives of that nation?"
"No." Vanillaflower was unmoved. "If you seek my advice, you would be wise to seek it honestly, and not force me to dance about my views in ways that adhere to your sensibilities." A small smirk. "And I do not think you, strange mask that you wear, are truly Sporaton. Allied, perhaps, or under their employ, but the loyalty of your heart lies elsewhere."
Mask's hand fell, rolling into a go-on gesture. "I see. Please, I apologize for the interruption. Do continue."
Vanillaflower leaned back slightly, pulling his chin from his hands, and sighed. "Ah, I was nearly done. It is my opinion that the Champion has no baring on the tactics of the Carrion Navy whatsoever. Her contribution begins and ends at its funding, and she leaves all else to her Admiral, Nora O'Gallison." Vanillaflower's eyes darkened. "She who wears the uniform of a dead dream. You would do well to consider her foremost in your thoughts, ser, for if her uniform represents an aspiration, rather than a stylistic choice, the consequences could be–"
Another raised hand ended Vanillaflower's speech. "The Admiral is a second discussion to be had, separate from the Champion. I thank you for your thoughts, and for the honesty with which you presented them." Mask turned to Vidanya. "And as for you, Captain Vidanya? What think you of the Champion in relation to the coming battle at sea?"
A topic that Mask had explored with him endlessly, exhaustively, past the point of wrote repetition. Vidanya cleared his throat, preparing to say what he always did, then paused, considering.
"As you are... well aware, sir, my prevailing opinion is of the Champion's madness, but having heard the Carrion gentleman's assessment, I almost feel it necessary to temper my words. It was my belief that the Champion was beset by mania, an uncontrollable erraticism guiding her actions. She beguiled me first with honeyed words, settling into my breast over the course of a mere hour a fondness that ought to have taken weeks to engender, only to suddenly leap to her feet while screeching profanity, dragging me off to a noose without ceremony. That she then delivered my preserved body to Sporatos with such an ominous letter attached, I shuddered to imagine what runs through her mind. In matters of the Navy, I think she would be just as likely to tie all her vessels together before the city walls as a physical barricade as she would be to send them far, far abroad, raiding the northernmost Sporaton harbors. I can offer predictions aplenty, sir, but none with confidence beyond idle fancy."
"But now that you have heard Captain Vanillaflower's assessment?" Mask prompted.
Vidanya spread his hands. "I am even less certain. If she has ceded all control of her navy to this Admiral Nora, I would be basing my predictions upon the temperament of a woman I know by name alone."
Mask nodded, seemingly satisfied. Why he accepted such a useless answer, Vidanya still did not know.
"Then we will turn to the point you wished to discuss, Captain Vanillaflower. This Admiral Nora, you have met with her, yes?"
"On brief occasions only, ser. She was a busy woman during my time in the Tulian capital, and did not join the Champion on the tours throughout the city. In fact, it was noted by my aids, she never once set foot off the deck of a ship, including to go below to rest."
Vidanya's eyebrows rose. It was not his place to question, but he hoped Mask would pursue that dangling thread.
Thankfully, he did. "You claim that the Admiral did not ever spend time below, and that when she was in sight, she was always awake?"
"She spent time below on occasion, sir, but rarely more than a handful of hours. After I set a dedicated watch tracking her, on the second day of our visit, they recorded her longest excursion below as a mere three hours, while her longest time spent active and above deck was fifty-two hours. They reported no sign of fatigue throughout, save for occasional difficulties with her prosthetic leg."
"And the word of her flagship?" Mask leaned forward, this topic taking his interest more than most. "I know not what the Carrion spies had determined, Captain Vanillaflower, but our own have had vanishingly little success in garnering a proper look at the vessel. Upon reaching a certain stage of completion, the behemoth was towed beyond the harbor to an unknown location, presumably to be finished there. The tours you were given did not include any information on the vessel?"
Vanillaflower shook his head. "Only that it would not require the efforts of artificers, according to the Champion, unbelievably. If your spies saw even the half-finished hull being towed from port, you must know what an absurdity such a claim smacks as. Without protective enchantments, so massive a vessel would require maintenance of a cost many multiples its construction each year."
"And yet the Champion, so frugal in her governance, is building it anyway. Do you believe she was lying to you with such a claim?"
Vanillaflower laughed. "How am I to know?" He asked. "She is the Champion of Amarat, ser. She could claim she intends to rip the stars from the sky with her bare hands without sounding the slightest bit farcical, and should she try to convince me of it, it would require quite the effort to maintain my belief she cannot. Any information I gained from her is, unless corroborated by a secondary source, inherently unreliable. She claims to value truth, but admits her lies are flawless."
Mask hummed, a harsh, buzzing tone when filtered through his enchanted mask. "It is the flagship that concerns me the most, gentlemen, this I have no qualms admitting. Regardless of its size, of the ancient wood it is built of, and of the strange Admiral at its helm, it should be no match for true Magecraft. Our fleet will be composed of a hundred and five conventional ships, lead by fifteen Magecraft, but..."
"The flagship is an unknown," Vidanya provided, taking a rare risk to speak out of turn. Mask tended to grow overlong in his contemplations, and Vidanya detested the silence.
"Indeed. We have a few scant weeks before setting sail, gentlemen, and once we do, battle will likely be met within days. Should either of you gather or recall information on that vessel, I permit you to interrupt me from any other duty I may find myself in, so that the information can be accounted for as promptly as possible."
Vidanya ducked his head. "I understand, sir."
"As do I, ser."
Mask left the room, leaving the two Captains to themselves. Vidanya had no official duties to excuse himself for, and neither did Vanillaflower, so they were trapped by social convention. Being two Captains gathered on the same ship, a rare opportunity when months could be spent at sea without companionship of an equal, propriety dictated that they continue the conversation. Yet Vidanya had nothing to say. He did not know this man, and even if they had both once commanded a ship, they could not be said to truly be equals. Vidanya's ship was at the bottom of Tulian harbor, while Vanillaflower's Magecraft was being commanded by another in his absence, the political machinations that had driven him to such a lowly advisory position likely to rob him of his Captainship outright in the coming months.
After a while, Vanillaflower stood and moved to a cabinet, retrieving from within a bottle of wine and two glasses. He brought them back to the table, sat across from Vidanya, and poured two scarlet cups. Seeing as Vanillaflower had poured, Vidanya chose his glass first, a procedure between foreign Captains to ensure a lack of poison. They both took a simultaneous sip, and when it was done, Vanillaflower sighed, long and low, a sorrowful expression dominating his face.
"What think you of our chances?" He asked, a Carrion accent creeping back into his words.
"How do you mean?"
"Against the Tulian Navy." Vanillaflower took another drink of his wine, a deep one. "Against her."
"The Champion?"
"Aye. But not the Champion you're thinking of." Vanillaflower refilled his wine glass, which made Vidanya blink in surprise. How had he finished it? "You know what the commoners of the Carrion Navy are starting to call her? The Tulian Admiral?"
"No," Vidanya replied, taking a far more chaste sip of his wine. Where was this man leading him?
"The Champion of the Sea."
Vidanya looked into Vanillaflower's eyes, searching for a sign of jest. There was none. He set his glass down.
"The commoners say this?"
"Of course," Vanillaflower snorted. "You think a Carrion Captain would admit to harboring such superstition? A Champion of the Sea? Preposterous!" He shook his head. "I do not know. There are stories."
"Of?"
"Of this O'Gallison. Of where she got her uniform, of how she sailed a junk into the hull of a Skimmer on her first time behind the wheel." Another deep draught of his wine, another refill of his glass. "They're true, you know. We have been trying to keep it under wraps, but we lost a Skimmer to a junk. By a ramming."
Vidanya felt compelled to moderate this strange mania. "I had heard as much, but the Champion was there, was she not? Some Ability of the gods would more than account for the impossibility."
"She was there, aye, and did little to achieve the victory, by her own admission. This... Captain O'Gallison. We are going to face her, dragged along with the rest of this doomed fleet."
Vidanya could not believe what he was hearing. He said as much. "Captain Vanillaflower, you are exaggerating. Even if the Sporaton forces are no equal to the Carrion Navy, our Magecraft–"
"The Carrion Navy fears her!" Vanillaflower shouted, thumping his wine bottle down. It seemed he had sought the drink as a preemptive excuse for his outburst, but it failed, because no wine was potent enough to have taken effect so quickly. This fear was his own. "They pretend otherwise, they joke and prod and reference old maid's tales, but they fear her! They don't know what she is, Captain Vidanya. No one does! Not even the Admiral herself!"
Vidanya was taken aback. "And you have told our charge this? Warned him of it?"
"Of course I did! I told everyone! But the fools, they see that I have spent a week beset by the whispering of Amarat's Champion, and they think I am nought but her puppet. They look to history, as is proper, and find no precedent for what awaits them. They think that because it has not happened before, it cannot happen now, and so blind themselves to all the signs that sprout like spring leaves before them!"
Vanillaflower poured another shaky drought of wine into his glass, his eyes fixed to Vidanya even as alcohol spilled on the tablecloth. "The dead dream does not stir, Captain. It rumbles and groans, eyelids twitching, the heir to its greatest extent rising before our very eyes." He stopped pouring, his glass long since overfilled. "The Zavian Strait, Vidanya. How long has it been? Millenia? More? Sinti was so, so close, and now we set sail for battle with his protégé. We are the last hope to keep the locks sealed, and yet we have no hope left for ourselves." He threw his wineglass back, draining it one go. He dropped it to the table with a clank, staring at Vidanya. "I know nothing of how this war will progress upon land, Captain. But on the sea, my only advice is this: keep close to something which will float."
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Nidd looked over the shoulders of a young woman, watching her hands tremble. The farmer beneath her needle had a rather gruesome wound, skating off the lower left two ribs before widening as the scythe had dug in, perforating his abdomen. It was as yet impossible to tell through the profuse bleeding, but Nidd suspected the blade had punctured the intestinal tract, as well. This was not a wound that would be recoverable without a healer; fecal matter would contaminate the bloodstream in short order. The young woman continued to hold her hands over the wound, frozen to inaction by her fear.
Nidd couldn't blame her.
It was a bad, bad wound. Their operating environs consisted of a tarp in a muddy field, and two of the man's friends– one of whom had inadvertently dealt the potentially fatal blow as he turned about with the scythe– were holding him down so they could work. Nidd probably would've been shaking like a leaf, a few months ago.
But he couldn't now. No matter how much he hated it.
"Give me your evaluation," he instructed his student quietly. "In clinical fashion, if you'd please. There are civilians present."
He had a hunch that Netess, who had entered her tutorship little less than two months ago, had an affinity for medical terminology that most, including Nidd, lacked. Unlike him, she seemed to take to Sara's obtuse classification systems like a duck to water, something he oft praised her for, and he hoped to steady her mind by reminding her of what she excelled at.
As he'd intended, she took a slow, calming breath.
"Superficial laceration exposing the left false ribs, deepening to severe abdominal laceration which visibly exposes the fascia and internal cavity. Cause of wound was a scythe, which patient's companions state was not contaminated with dirt at the time of incident, having just been sharpened, which accounts for the clean path of laceration. Profuse bleeding. Patient was carried to care site, markedly pale on arrival, paled further since. Conscious, but not lucid. Blood loss estimated... two quarts."
"He would not last long, without us," Nidd said quietly.
Netess took a deep breath. "No, he would not." She looked at the two men who had chanced across them on the road, carrying the patient between them. "Hold him still."
The patient's friends braced their knees against his arms as she moved forward, her thin fingers dabbing a sterile cloth to clear away as much of the blood as she could. Nidd cupped a large crystal carefully in his palm, moving to give her as much light as he could. The shockingly bright crystals that Sara had commissioned for Nidd's use were large, incredibly warm to the touch, and expensive. One had to wear a thickly padded glove to handle them in the short few days they lasted before fracturing from heat stress, but when properly handled, they were often indispensable.
Such as this particular crystal proved. In the short time that blood did not obscure the wound channel, Netess's barehanded probing located a jaggedly cut piece of intestine. She snagged it with an admirable lack of hesitation, ignoring her patient's thrashing groan, and brought it upward, adeptly piercing the flesh with the tip of her suturing needle.
Her tool was a built as a thin, curved semicircle, made of the finest steel Tulian was presently capable of manufacturing. Its shape allowed her to begin deftly looping catgut suture through the intestinal lining, sealing off its fetid contents from further contaminating the body. A second dabbing of the wound channel cleared away more blood, and she took what time she felt she could afford to search for other internal damage.
Finding none, she pulled herself from the man's stomach, pivoting on her knees to plunge her hands into a bucket of freshly boiled water. She hissed as she did so; it was still scaldingly hot, but not dangerously so. A quick shake of her hands cleared most of the blood from her skin, and she left the needle at the bottom. As she dried her hands on a sterilized towel, Nidd prepared a different needle for her, of a different curvature.
"I-is he goin' ta be a'right?" The man pinning down the patient's left arm nervously asked. "Yer not gonna- not gonna just leave him all cut open–"
"Silence while the surgeon is working," Nidd admonished, not looking up from his preparations. The man's jaw slammed shut with an audible click.
Netess turned back around, accepting the needle Nidd had prepared. The following procedure was a point of contention among the surgeons and healers Nidd had worked with. In incidents such as this one, there was uncertainty regarding whether or not it was better to fully pierce the skin before looping the thread, allowing the needle to enter the body properly, or to keep the stitches limited to the upper layers of the skin. Nidd himself preferred fully piercing through, as the layers beneath the skin were very thin, and he thought taking the additional time to carefully wind a partial-depth stitch was not worth the blood loss that would occur in the meantime. Some of the healers and surgeons, including a number among those he had trained, argued that any opening to the interior of the body was to be avoided at all costs, regardless of whether or not the catgut suture would plug the gap afterward.
Nidd did not know which practice was truly best, and every time he had to make such a decision, he felt a twisting stab of agony that he was making the wrong one.
Netess, either through her inexperience or an innate self-assuredness he lacked, did not deliberate. She weaved her stitches rapidly through the skin, piercing deeply, as Nidd preferred, and in a matter of minutes had sealed the eight-inch laceration shut. The patient had lost what remained of his consciousness during the process, rather startling his friends, but Nidd was not concerned. Few, no matter how delirious, were capable of remaining awake while a teenager rummaged about in their guts.
Netess sat back on her heels, blowing out an explosive sigh. She stared off into the distance for a time, breathing heavily, and Nidd did not interrupt her.
The patient's friends, however, showed no such tact.
"Is- are you done? Sir? Ma'am? Is he gonna–"
"We are finished," Nidd replied, answering for Netess.
"And Tohn, he's gonna live?"
"A question for the surgeon, not I."
Netess, hearing this, finished collecting herself, blowing out another sigh. Still on her knees, she turned to look at the patient– Tohn's– friend.
"He will likely live, but only if you do exactly as I say."
"I– but– you healed him?" The man's words were quavery, nearly cracking on every word. He was the one that had inadvertently injured the patient.
"No." Netess said. "I stitched his wounds. With enough rest, that may have been enough to save his life, but the intestine was cut. He will soon be showing signs of blood sickness. You need to get him to a healer as soon as possible."
"But– but aren't ya a healer–?"
"No." Netess brushed a lock of sweaty hair from her forehead, standing. "I am a surgeon in training."
"A what? Training?"
"I am her tutor," Nidd said, cutting off the illogical alarm in the man's voice. Watching a friend nearly die was not when one was at their most rational, Nidd had learned. "She had to perform the operation, as I would not have been able to fit my hands within without widening the wound. In training or no, she performed to exacting perfection, I assure you."
"I- Oh–! I didn't mean, I wasn't meaning to say–"
"I understand." She waved her hand, brushing the man's stuttering aside. "Now, you and your friend will need to construct a litter for the patient. Tohn, you said? Yes. You will need to construct a litter for Tohn, and will have to carry him to the nearest healer, ensuring he moves as little as possible. If the stitches within his abdomen burst, he will die of blood sickness before the day is out. Tie him down if you must, but under no circumstances are you to have him drunk into a stupor, or, gods forbid, bludgeon him to unconsciousness. Even once he has been healed, you will want to monitor for signs of illness. I recommend staying for at least three days in a location with a healer before you can be certain an illness has not taken root. Some healer's spellcraft will resolve only what is actively harming the body, and if an infection is lying in festering wait, the spells may miss it."
"We– we have a healer, in our village–"
"Then why were you running on the road with Tohn slung between you?"
"The healer, she was exhausted, fer the Tancil's ceiling broke while they was shoring up the–"
"I understand. Well, in that case, I recommend you continue on to the next village, have Tohn healed, stay overnight, then return the following morning. If Ton's pride will not be irreparably wounded, I would have you carry him back on the litter, even after healing. Best not to aggravate an infection, if there is one."
"I– we will, ma'am."
And with that, the impromptu surgery was completed. The patient's friends watched like a hawk as Nidd began gathering up the supplies they had scattered across the tarp, taking care to separate the soiled and clean.
After the men had finished constructing the litter for carrying their friend, Nidd and Netess resumed their journey, heading towards the village that they had been intending to visit in the first place. They walked quietly for a time, the silence companionable, if not wholly natural. Nidd could tell his student had a lot on their mind.
"It is not a glamorous profession, is it?" He eventually asked.
Netess glanced up, startled from her thoughts. "No," she replied at length, "it is not. I don't think I will ever meet a patient that does not wish for miracles I cannot provide."
"This is one of many of unfortunate elements of our work. According to Sara– er, the Governess, surgeons were among the most vaunted professions of her old world. Without magical means to heal, the work we now do was the only aid any could provide. To achieve even a fraction of what a healer is capable of, the surgeons of her world were trained to unimaginable heights. The procedure you just handled likely would have only been attempted after ten years of schooling, if the Governess is to be believed."
"A decade?" Netess looked back at the patch of muddy road they had just used as an operating room. "That is almost unbelievable. You were right that it is similar to becoming a seamstress, because all I did was stitch flesh together."
"But imagine if there were no healers to send the patient to? What would you do, if the skill of your hands was all that held the patient's life aloft?"
Netess looked conflicted. "Change profession," she said, after a moment. "The contaminants were spread, the wound dirty, the patient's fate sealed. Were there no healers to provide the final touch, my actions would have been little more than torturing a dying man."
"And yet, the surgeons of her world, she tells me, succeeded more often than they failed. Far more often, in fact."
"That is impossible," Netess stated, her words certain.
"You may think so, but she has convinced me it is the truth. Here, in our world, we are mere aids to healers. We stitch things back to their proper position, staunch the bleeding, and perform triage analysis, informing them of where and how they should best direct their energies, ensuring that they do not waste more effort upon each wounded than is necessary. By closing the most egregious wounds, by preparing the body for its healing, we allow those gifted by the gods to stretch their wonders far further than they otherwise could."
Nidd's sigh was filled with a mix of emotions. "Yet in her world, we would be the only option available to those who were injured. We would work with our hands, poultices, and the knowledge of those surgeons that came before us, and nothing else. The Governess, she insists to me that there is nothing stopping the surgeons that I train from achieving those same heights, some day. No time soon, she warned, perhaps requiring centuries of study and development, but eventually there could be little need of healers, save for the most egregious of cases."
The conversation was replaced for a time by huffs of effort as they were forced to weave off the road when the trees began to press close to the trail. Despite Netess's relative inexperience, both of them had treated more than a few patients injured by a lurking jungle predator, launching its ambush from treelines like the one they had just avoided. When they returned to the road, breathing considerably harder than before, Netess shifted her pack and grunted Nidd's way.
"Why tell me this? We have healers, and we always will, unless the gods abandon us. The ways of another world are useless to us."
"Perhaps." Nidd shaded his eyes, searching for the upcoming village in which they were to being spreading the word of germ theory. "I suppose that I think of the Governess's stories so often that I felt I should share them with you. Whether the surgeons of that other world humble you or provide something to aspire to, I don't know. Perhaps you'll forget them, and pursue your own path without regard for theirs."
Nidd trailed off, feeling that there had been more to his point, something more profound. If there was, however, he couldn't bring it to his lips. The village they were seeking was on the horizon, and the sun was sliding into the afternoon. Soon the farmers would be in from the fields, and they would begin the arduous effort of translating complex scientific theory into something a group of illiterate field hands would not just understand, but take to heart.
Nidd swallowed, thinking back to the farmer's wound. He really wasn't cut out to be a surgeon, he knew. His own hands had been shaking worse than Netess's, like they always did, at least until the very moment he began to cut. Netess and her co-students would some day rightfully replace him, and he prayed that day would be soon. Yet for some reason, the Champion of Amarat had trusted him with the responsibility of preparing the next generation, and until they were ready, he had no choice but to live up to her demands.
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Ignite Parables turned down the street with a slump to his step, exhausted. The final preparations of the guard had been completed a week ago, which meant his work had changed to something far more challenging. Rather than spirited soldiers, young and hungry for battle, he had taken to task a rabble of civilian volunteers. The infirm, the ill, the injured, all were welcome to receive the basic training he could afford before the Sporaton arrival, so that if the worst happened, they could be called to battle, a last of the last reserve.
He had trained them first in the basics of holding spears, of how to place their feet, of how to maintain their line with their fellows, but at the Governess's request, he moved on as soon as he thought reasonable. The Governess wanted them training with crossbows, crossbows, and more crossbows, each and every one of them. She claimed to have acquired a considerable reserve of the weapons from Nora's piracy, but of varying and strange make, and so asked that Ignite train the militia to readily adapt themselves to all sorts of strange mechanisms. He had done so, doing his utmost to keep them adaptable enough to handle whatever weapon might fall into their hands, but doing so required constant, exhausting personal attention.
And so it was with great relief that he shoved open the door to his home, calling out in his own language.
"I'm home, dear!"
There was no response. Ignite guessed that Pupils was in her study, and could not hear him. Eager to see her, he began unbuckling his armor, placing it on the stand he kept by the door for such a purpose. Once he was dressed in his plainclothes, he hurried up the stairs, each step lifting his spirits a little bit more. Intending to surprise her with his arrival, he opened the door to the study without a knock, stepping inside.
And froze.
Hunched over her desk, a quill scratching violently across parchment, Pupils was locked into concentration. Before her, resting on the windowsill, was a beady-eyed hawk, the unmistakeable enchanted bands of a messenger bird clasped about either leg. The hawk's beak snapped up to Ignite, then let out a frightening screech.
Pupils jumped up from her desk, whirling to face Ignite, the paper she'd been writing upon dripping ink from within her balled fist.
Ignite stared at Pupils.
Pupils stared at him.
She lunged for the fireplace, which was already alight, trying to throw the paper in. Ignite, still a Sergente to her Guardiamarina, easily ripped it from her fingers. In the tumult, the hawk took to the wing, screeching all the while. Pupils began clawing at his arm, trying to retrieve the paper, but he was stronger than her by multiples, and he easily held her back as his eyes scanned what he could.
A burning, terrible pain seized his chest. The words upon the paper had his heart lurching unnaturally, agony spreading as it skipped beat after beat.
"No, no, no!" Pupils screamed, raining ineffectual blows against him. She had been among the newest recruits to his Guariamarines, and the life of hermitage since Hurlish had saved her from the sinking Magecraft had not gotten her any closer to his skill.
"Pupils..." he whispered, his voice hoarse.
"You weren't supposed to see! You weren't supposed to know!" She wailed.
Ignite dropped the paper, whirling on his lover, grabbing both her forearms. She collapsed in his grip, already spent.
"What have you done?" He hissed.
"What I must!" She spat back, her voice pitiable. "What we should have been doing! What you failed to see!"
"What you must? Pupils, you have betrayed our people!"
The parchment sat half-crumpled on the floor between them, innumerable details of Tulian works listed across it. Ignite had not read more than the first lines before he recognized what it was: the report of a spy, of an enemy reporting what Pupils knew to Sporaton forces.
"Our people?" Pupils laughed hysterically. "Ignite, we have no people! We forfeit our home the moment we failed to sink with our brothers and sisters! There is nothing left for us, not in the Navy, not in Tulian!"
"We were given another chance!" He yelled back. "We were saved from the- the dishonor of our actions!"
"Dishonor?!" Pupils' laugh took on a hideous air. "We were fighting on a Carrion Magecraft! We were soldiers of our people, forging the future! We had a duty, a family, a goal and the means to achieve it!"
"The goal we were given was that of mercenaries! Paid to assault the innocent! No, we were not even mercenaries, Pupils, we were pirates!"
"Better a Carrion pirate than a listless traitor," she spat, tears filling her eyes. "Have you no shame for those we left behind? Here we sat in a foreign city, taking comfort in each other's warmth, while our brothers and sisters slip through the icy deep! Have you no shame?"
"OF COURSE I DO!" Ignite bellowed, releasing Pupils' arms with a shove. She gasped as she was thrown back, landing on the writing desk, knocking the jar of ink askew. It spilled across the desk, across her clothes. Ignite started to step forward, raising a hand, but the sudden cringe in his lover's shoulders, the flinch as she prepared herself to be struck, stopped him. With nothing to do with his balled fist, Ignite turned to the wall with a roar, slamming it through the wood.
"I hid you! I did all you asked! Never, never once, in all the time with the Governess, did I mention your name! She forgot you, everyone forgot you! I did everything you wanted! I hid your so-called 'shame,' I found us a house and home for you to hide away from the world within! I brought you food, and clothes, and spoke gentle comforts into your ear for months, MONTHS, all to help you accept the fact that you still live, and this? THIS? This is how you repay me?!"
Pupils, who had never been the most stable of women since her defeat upon the Magecraft, spun around, furiously crawling across the desk on hands and knees. Realizing she intended to fling herself from the window in shame, Ignite leapt forward and snagged her ankle, dragging her back in. She landed on the ink-sodden floor, black soaking her olive skin, and he towered over her, fury like he'd never known soaking him until he trembled.
And then Pupils' eyes began to water. Her lip quivered, her arms tucking into a tight hug about herself, her torso shaking.
Ignite's anger collapsed so suddenly he felt like it might take him to the floor. He wobbled, unsteady, but did not fall.
"Why?" He whispered, kneeling next to her. "Why did you do this, darling?"
Her voice quavery, she turned to the side, unable to look him in the eyes. "...I shouldn't be alive," she whispered.
"No, darling, no," Ignite whispered, reflex having him reach out to cup her cheek. "The time has passed. There would be no honor in death, not now. Through fate or luck, we have been given another chance, another life. Can you not see that?"
She bit her lip, eyes wrenched shut. "No. No. All I see is the dead, asking why I am not with them."
Ignite did not know why Pupils had done this. He did not know what she had revealed. He did not, it seemed, know very much at all about the woman who had shared his bed for so many months now.
But he did know what he must do. He reached down and scooped her up in his arms, her weight barely noticeable, and headed towards the stairs.
He had known Sara for many months, now, and he had thought he served her faithfully. He had thought he was earning his life once more. Now all of that was thrown into disarray, and he knew nothing of what he was.
He only hoped she would give him one last assignment, one last opportunity to right the wrongs he had heaped upon his peoples.
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Tinny didn't really think his shit was that squared up. The other peeps, they did, they made funna him for it, but he didn't care. After the Queen Bitch rolled into town, with hair down to her ass and a girl with more braids than brains hanging off her arm, everybody'd started wearing wearing their own shit out. Not Tinny. He kept his close cut, just about bald, the type'a close you could see his scalp through it. He wasn't gonna be following some trumped-up bitch's style, that was for sure.
Not like he was following her in any way, anyway. He didn't want nothing to do with this Tulian bullshit, and tonight, he was gonna prove it. His people didn't think he would, said his balls'd shrivel up halfway there, but they were wrong. He hadn't. He was standing in front of the place right now, all his shit lined up, and he was gonna do something about it.
In the dead of night, when no one but the Queen Bitch's so-called guard was stomping around, Tinny dropped his bag on the stones and started shuffling through it, keeping a good hard eye on the Union building while he did so. They were all home by now, none of the weavers stayed there overnight, like some'a the other Unions, which was why he was here. Glancing one last time to make sure the windows really were clear, he started hauling his shit out.
He had 'bout ten bricks in the bag, as much as he could carry and still run if he got caught, and he had lots paper with all his shit written on it, too. The last few sheets had nothing at all, but they was a lot more paper, and he had his fire striker for them.
He was wrapping rope around the first brick, tying up the paper, when he heard a clang and a quiet "shit!" from behind him. Tinny nearly shit his britches then and there, getting ready to run, but the thought of what his peeps'd say if he came back without doing the job scared him worse, so instead he grabbed the brick and turned, raisin' it over his head.
It took him a second to find 'em, but he did. Climbing out of a grate on the corner of the building was a tall-ass woman, with an even taller-ass orc lady following behind her. Hadn't seen him yet. Tinny kept the brick raised and waited, 'cause he didn't wanna throw shit at gals for no reason, he wasn't that kinda guy, but when the first gal stood up and he got a load of her face, he damn wished he'd chucked it.
It was the Queen Bitch herself! The Champion of Amarat and one'a her wives, crawling outta some shithole in the ground! Tinny might'a been here to send a message to the Union, but he wasn't stupid. Busting Sara Brown's nose would be one helluva better way to start things off!
Tinny let the brick fly, throwing with all his might, and for once in his damn life, the thing flew straight! It barely spun as it blew through twenty feet of air towards the Queen Bitch, heading right for her face.
Then the Queen Bitch looked up at him, looked at the brick, looked at her wife. Looked back at Tinny, looked at the brick again. Made a face. Then she moved her head to the side. The brick flew on, just as straight, right into the wall behind her, and if it had been any other day, Tinny woulda been proud of how hard it hit the stones. Practically shattered, it did. 'Course, things were different when he'd been aiming for something else.
"The fuck was that?" The Queen Bitch asked.
"Fuck you, Bitch!"
Tinny bent down and snagged another brick, whirling it at her chest. The dumbass wasn't even wearing armor, just her weird jacket shit, and he figured if he couldn't hit her head, he could at least knock a tit off or something. He didn't even wait 'till it landed before he grabbed another brick, then another one, seeing as this was the best damn chance he'd ever get. He threw a third brick, then a fourth, then a fifth, barely aiming, screaming his head off all the while.
"Stupid fucking whore gonna ruin my fucking town? I'll show you! I'll fuck you up!"
Tinny kept lobbing bricks, half surprised he wasn't dead yet, considering how big the Queen Bitch's wife was, but if he still had bricks to throw, he was gonna throw 'em.
"Oh, hell, I'm too drunk for this shit," the Queen Bitch muttered. Tinny paused as he was aiming his next brick, really taking her in for the first time.
She was walking towards him, a stack of six bricks balanced in her left hand, the last one he'd thrown held in her right. As he watched, she added the seventh brick to the tower, balancing– and holding– it like it was nothing, then rubbed at the corner of her eye with a knuckle.
"I thought we had to get home quick," the orc grunted, her voice low, even for an orc lady. Tinny knew, 'cause one of his peeps was an orc gal, and her voice was a lot sweeter than that behemoth, even if Tuk wasn't all grown yet, she always said.
"Yeah, yeah, Evie's waiting, but I'm sure whatever this is will only take a minute."
Tinny stumbled backward as the Queen Bitch dropped most of the bricks she'd caught, snagging the one at the bottom, which still had his papers tied around it. She slipped the note out and dropped the brick, squinting to read it under the starlight.
"Oh, I see how it is," she said with a chuckle.
"You don't know shit!" Tinny squeaked, the bad habit that earned him his name comin' out at the worst time, as usual. He woulda run for it, but the big orc lady looked like she was ready for it, and he didn't think he could outpace her when her legs looked twice as long and four times as thick as his.
For some un-fuckin-believable reason, the Queen Bitch started reading the note out loud.
"The peeples of Tulian don't want, don't need, and won't ever have a Queen Bitch whipping them and keepin them down. Unless she wants every place in the city to end up like this one, the Queen Bitch is gonna get gone."
Said Queen Bitch read the note impassively, like she was reading a posting on fish prices or something. Tinny'd at least expected her to get angry or something, but she didn't really seem to care. She crumpled the note up and sighed, popping out a hip to rest her hand on.
"What've you got in the bag?"
"Go fuck yourself!"
"Honestly, with the way Evie likes me these days, I think I probably could. But seriously, what's in the bag?" The Queen Bitch edged closer, standing on her tiptoes to see in. "Just more bricks? Some more propaganda?"
"Like I'd tell you a fuckin' thin-"
The Champion put a hand to her hip and whispered something, then she was crouched next to him. He hadn't seen her move at all, and now she was bumping up against his leg, shuffling around in his bag.
"Let's see here," she hummed. "Bricks, bricks, some blank paper, more manifestos that're, ooh, all written different, that's a nice touch, and..." she made a tsking noise. "Fire starters. For the blank paper, I'm guessing?"
Tinny balled both his fists up over his head and slammed 'em down, square on the top of the Queen Bitch's head.
"Ow," she stated dryly, still looking through the bag. "The hell was that for, kid?"
Despite the fact that he'd just watched the woman eat his best shot like it was nothing, only one thought came to mind.
"I ain't a kid!"
"Adults don't get defensive when you call 'em kids, kid, just annoyed. Also, don't hit me again. Guard dog might rip your head off."
Tinny looked back up and found the big orc standing in arm's length of him, arms crossed, a frown on her face.
"I wouldn't rip your head off," she offered, like it was a distinguishment worth making. "Might go for some bone breaking, though."
"Fuck you, too," Tinny spat.
"Don't talk to her like that," the Champion snapped, lightly flicking him on his shin as she stood back up. The force of it blew his leg out from under him, spinning him to the floor. His teeth clacked loudly as his jaw collided with the cobblestone, rivers from his split skin painting the grout red.
"You can say that shit to me, but don't you dare bring it to Hurlish. Also, shit, sorry. You not have your first level or something?"
Tinny felt a hand on the back of his shirt pulling him up into the air, spinning him around so he was right side up. He was set down before the stars had cleared from his vision, and he wobbled backward, nearly falling before another tug on his shirt pulled him forward.
"You good? You feeling like you got a concussion? Hurlish, do his eyes look dilated?"
"It's midnight, babe."
Tinny hocked up as much spit as he could muster, aiming for her eye.
The Champion, of course, dodged it.
"Guess he's good," she said as the wad of saliva splattered across the cobblestones far beyond her.
"Funny definition of good," the orc intoned.
Tinny shoved at the arm holding the front of his shirt as hard as he could, and to his surprise, it worked. He stumbled backward as her grip was broken, a scrap of his shitass shirt clutched in her fist.
"Fuck do you want with me?" He demanded, backing up until he was against the wall. Both the cool stone and not having to balance felt nice.
"Originally? I was wondering why you threw a brick at me. Evie's been real worried about assassins, but unless you had some kinda spell tied to the bricks, I don't think you're from Sporatos." She nodded to the crumpled paper she'd tossed aside earlier. "I get it now, though. You're baby Tulian's first anarchist."
"The fuck does that mean?"
"You're an anarchist. Someone that believes authority goes hand-in-hand with authoritarianism, that so long as any system is in place to empower one above others, oppression is both inevitable and inherent."
Tinny's whirling brain took a minute to wrap around that one. Maybe he really did have a concussion, whatever that was.
"I ain't an anarchist or whatever the hell!" He eventually declared. "I just don't want any big society types pushing their shit on people! Don't matter how you pretty it up, nobles or no, you're all the same!"
"So you'd agree with the statement that, so long as there's people sitting in fancy chairs making rules that everyone else has to follow, you're not gonna be happy?"
Tinny frowned. It felt real odd to hear something that stirred him up like it did being said in such a boring-ass way, but he couldn't deny it. "Not gonna be happy?" He spat. "I ain't gonna stop fighting 'till that shit's done and gone!"
The Champion, for some weird reason, grinned. "Yeah, you're basically an anarchist, buddy. Or a proto-anarchist, at least. Probably just don't have a word for it here yet." The Champion tapped her foot on the cobblestone, looking up at the Union building. "So, what was the plan? Smash some windows, toss some propaganda in, then light the joint up and dip before the Guard got here?"
Tinny said nothing, but he couldn't hide his flinch, and the Champion caught it.
"Figured as much. Standard fare, but I think you fucked up on a couple of points."
"Ah, shit, here we go," the orc groaned. "Evie's gonna be pissed if you're late, babe."
"I'll only take five minutes, promise. And you know I can make it up to her."
"Whatever," the orc huffed. "It's your ass."
The Champion dropped to her heels in front of Tinny's bag, rifling through it once more.
"Alright, kid, here's some lessons for you, 'cause it looks like you're either the first of your kind in this world, or at least the first I've met. Not much chance for you to learn from people that have tried before." The Champion found and seized Tinny's fire starter, stuffing it in a jacket pocket. "First thing's first: establish your goal. Long term goal, not short term. Sound like you've got that sorted, seeing as you already said you don't want any kind of government at all. But how're you going to do it?"
The Champion stood back up, jerking her head in a nod at the Weaver's Union Tinny had been so close to smashing up. "Them? They're not a good target, kid. You'd be robbing people of their work, and in the society they're trapped in, that's a surefire way to piss them the hell off. No job, no money, no food. Well, if I hadn't done wellfare stuff, that'd be true, at least. Anyway, you're not gonna get converts to your cause like that."
"Wha-"
"See, what you've got to do is identify two types, right?" The Queen Bitch held up two fingers, counting them off. "There's the top-tier cunts, the rich and powerful like me, yeah? They're the ones you gotta be going for, not your average worker, cause they're the second type you gotta figure out. The moderates, the fence-sitters, the bitches that ain't made up their mind yet, you feel me? The sort that's doing bad with the way things are, the kind that are kinda pissed, but not doing anything about it. Them? Y'can't attack them. You gotta convert 'em. Call 'em what you want, your target audience, the proletariat, the salt-of-the-earth, whatever, but they're the ones you gotta fight for, not against."
The Champion made a face. "'Course, that's hard right now, ain't it? I've been tryna work my way from the bottom up, shore up the worst-off before I do anything for the people that were doin' just fine. But I ain't perfect. Figure I fucked up in a few spots, y'know, 'cause there's gotta be somewhere I missed. Them's the ones you gotta find, kid, and them's the ones that are gonna be the easiest to convince. Hell, Tulian was pretty close to anarchism before I showed up, wasn't it?"
"And we were doing fine!" Tinny hollered, finally managing to get a word in edge-wise. "People were doing what they wanted, living how they pleased, and you fucked it all up!"
"Mm, I dunno, considering the state I found the place in, but I get whatcha mean. Certainly was a helluva lot closer to anarchism than it is now, no doubt there. Like to think me bringing the tradeskills back helped batten down the hatches, get people ready for Sporatos and all that, but who knows? Maybe I just fucked up what was gonna finally turn into a proper series of anarchist communes. I'd hate to think I fucked up that bad, though."
"Fuckin' Sporatos?" Tinny hocked up another ball of phlegm, sending it splattering on the stones in disgust. "They're comin' here 'cause of you! It's your fault we got this fuckin' war breathin' down our necks, your fault we're gunna end up lickin' the boot of a king again!"
"I think he was gonna come anyway," the Champion said, "but you may be right. Way I figure it, he was only holdin' off 'cause of his own shit, the nobles squabblin' and all that, and once that was sorted he'd gobble us up just as happy as could be be. Free shit's free shit, y'know?" The Champion paused, as an expression flitting over her face. "But that's not what I was being about, anyway. Talkin' bout how you shoulda been approaching it, that's what we need."
Tinny couldn't believe what he was hearing. "The fuck do you care? I'm tryna get rid of you."
"Yeah, I know. Funny thing is? So am I." The Champion made a wide wave, indicating the whole of Tulian around them. "All this shit? I'm tryna set it up to run without me. Soon as I get things nice and settled, I'm dipping, heading out into the jungle or some shit. And while I'm gone, y'know what I want?" She stabbed a finger in Tinny's direction. "People like you." She cocked her head, biting back a smirk. "Well, people like you're tryna be, anyways. Instead of me, there's gonna be a government full of people, just regular old bitches, and they'll prolly be pretty good. For a while. Then the shine'll wear off, and they'll get greedy, and they'll get nasty, and they'll stop worrying so much about what people want, what they need. That's where you come in."
Tinny blinked rapidly. This entire exchange was just too fuckin' weird for him to understand. The Champion didn't seem to give a shit, though.
"See, the people in charge? They need somethin' to fear. They can't be like those shitass nobles up in Sporatos, thinkin' they're invincible, and it's gonna be your job to prove it. There's gotta be consequences to their fuckups, more than just losin' an election, more than just their pocketbooks taking a hit. They gotta have something to fear, primal-like. Their lives, if you can manage it."
The Champion hefted one of the bricks, looking it over like she was inspecting a fancy sword.
"Bricks are a good start, but not when it's just you. Y'gotta throw a lot of 'em to do real damage. Guess you don't have anyone else rolling with you yet, so I'd say hold off on busting windows and throwin' notes around." She dropped the brick, picking up his fire starter. "Fire? Better, but not in the city. Shit's too close together here, and you're liable to hurt the people you want to help, and they'll hate you more than me. A fort, or a stand-alone government building? Sure, go for it, if it's ripe for the pickin's. Not something like the Union headquarters, though."
She pursed her lips. "Really, I'd say what you need is some lower-profile stuff right now. I'm too popular, and goin' against me openly is gonna shove the fence-sitters over to my side. Bide your time, get some skills and shit together, and start spreading the word all slow-like. Get the idea in people's head of how shitty being under a boot is, best you can, and keep on waiting. Eventually someone'll fuck up, piss a lotta people off, and that's when you capitalize. All the shit you got ready, you spring it on some good target, related to whatever went wrong, and make a big show of yourself."
She pocked the fire starter once again, shrugging. "At least, that's how I'd do it. Up to you. But I wouldn't recommend going for the Peasant's Theatre any time soon. My girlfriend'll kill you."
"Oh, gods," the orc exclaimed, tuning back into the conversation, focusing on Tinny with a serious expression. "Kid, she ain't fucking around with that one. You try and screw with the Peasant's Theatre and Evie'll have your guts for garters." The orc's face twisted. "And... that might be literal. So don't fuck with it."
"At least 'till I move out," the Champion added.
"He probably still shouldn't."
"Unless he wants to."
"He'll get killed."
"Not if he's smart about it. Y'know, I actually managed to smash the window of the Chief of Police's car, once? I could see where the cameras on his dash were, right..."
Tinny's head had stopped spinning enough for him to feel steady on his feet. With the two women now engaged in their conversation, he began stumbling away, unsure and uncaring if they noticed him leave.
He had a lot to think about. A whole lot. But first thing's first.
Tuk was not gonna believe this shit!
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Graf Urs paced his way through abandoned training rooms, the martial click of his heels echoing loudly. It was late, and none were present to train, the Night's Eye mercenaries having retired to the rooms that the King allowed them to still occupy across the Eliah estate. He paced back and forth across the soft wooden grain, pivoting on a heel at the sparring square's corner, and retracing his steps.
He was lost in thought. It happened often, at his age. After eight decades of life lived, how could it not? He had more to reminisce over than he'd ever thought he would.
Yet tonight his thoughts kept returning to one moment, ten years gone. He had been in this very room, but a very different version of it. When he focused, he could see it nearly as clearly as he could on the very day.
Fresh-cut grass had been spread across the sparring mat at his orders, small saplings and young trees implanted alongside, with foreign bamboo creating a barrier of an appropriate height to block the vision of the young Eliah heir. At twelve years old, she was just encroaching upon five feet in height, and when he crouched down to her level, he could almost believe the fake forest was real.
No matter her mother's wishes, he knew the young girl would not spend all her life cloistered in the city. If the Lady did not allow her child to see the wilderness, he would bring the wilderness to her. Trees, dirt, grass, and all that came with it, and damn the expense.
Graf watched her feline ears twitch and jerk atop her head, so much more expressive than her mother's. Though her tail was an impossibility for her kind to control, her tutors knew her ears could be trained, and worked the child dearly to corral their movements. Despite their harshness, they hadn't yet succeeded at taming those vivid reactions, for which Graf was grateful. He caught the moment when their twitching abated, and knew she had taken note of what he had prepared.
"What is it?" She whispered, crouched in the dirt trail he had ordered to be spread through the sparring yard for her training.
Crouched beside her, he shook his head. "I do not know, Miss Eliah. That is for you to determine. It is common for those beneath your station to travel alone through the wilderness, and as they make do without my guidance, so will you."
Miss Eliah sniffed primly, eyes and ears locked upon the faux-trail before her. She did not question him. That had been a lesson learned early, and one she learned well.
She began moving forward, using one hand to support her crouching walk. Her formal dress was tucked up to her waist, tied there by a simple leather belt, exposing the practical breeches she secretly wore beneath near every outfit her nannies chose for her. Her over-long hair was tied in tight braids, so as not to tangle in her arms as she maneuvered a practice blade. She did not look a peasant's child, but neither did she look a noble scion. At this particular moment, she seemed someone between, an identity irrespective of her bearing.
In the dark room of the present, Graf shook his head. As was happening ever more often, the views that came to him later seeped easily into the past, where they did not belong. Miss Eliah, not yet a Lady, had then been little more than the noble child she looked. It was only later, he reminded himself, that she would shift. He traced the path of his memory through the room, walking in the steps where the young feline had prowled, so long ago.
Miss Eliah stopped after moving only a few short feet down the dirt pathway, every inch of her locked into rigid alert. She had traveled down the middle of the path, Graf noted. Not predisposed to hiding herself, the Eliah heir. That would need to be a later lesson.
She slowly moved to her left, circling the point that had drawn her attention, cat's ears smoothly tracking her target so that they seemed motionless above her shifting body.
He saw the moment when she discovered it. It was not hard. The fur of her ears and tail spiked, her eyes widening, the hand she'd used to support her crawl clutching at the soil.
"A snake?" She hissed, doing all she could to be heard without being overly loud. "You brought a snake into the House?"
"Perhaps he found his way in," Graf suggested, perfectly deadpan. "It's a rather suitable little trail we've made for him, isn't it?"
Miss Eliah looked as if she wanted to scoff, but she didn't. She was being as silent as possible. He supposed it was natural that her tutors hadn't covered the fact that snakes were nearly deaf. Little relevance to one of her station, that.
But not if she wished to travel with an army, marching through muddy roads.
The snake was happily ensconced in the den his troops had built for it, a passable facsimile of what it would normally occupy in the wild. With the constant thudding of training soldiers reverberating through the floor, the creature had no desire to leave safety, and he had felt comfortable waiting for Miss Eliah to find it on her own. The catfolk under his employee had assured him that if her ears were as good as theirs, she ought to be perceptive enough to pick up the quiet hisses and shifting of its scales from several paces away.
And if she wasn't, then she still would have learned a lesson, if a more painful one.
The snake's black eyes glittered at Miss Eliah, matching her dagger glare without blinking. Its dark tongue flicked out to taste the air, forked and disturbing, to one who had never seen such a thing in the flesh. Miss Eliah, to her credit, did no more than flinch.
After several unbroken minutes of staring, Miss Eliah retreated, returning to Graf's side. She shrunk down beside him, anticipating some reprimand for failure, as would be natural of her other tutors. Graf did not oblige her. He said nothing at all, confident he was more patient than any twelve year old in existence, no matter how blue their blood.
Eventually, she spoke up, whispering in a different tone.
"The snake is long, Master Graf. Perhaps five feet. Wider than the trail, so it could reach me easily no matter where I walk. Its den faces the road, and the thicket to either side is too dense to traverse. I could strike it from above, piercing the soil with a knife, but I am not confident I could aim well enough through the dirt to kill it in one blow."
"I see," he said neutrally.
Miss Eliah frowned, childish frustration building across her face. "You said I had to get to the far end of the trail, Master Graf, but it blocks the way. If I were really a peasant, I would have been told by my parents how to deal with such a situation. But I am not, and I do not know."
"This is true," he said.
Her irritation grew. "So, I have failed. I did not get to the other side of the trail. I am back with you, asking questions."
"Is the trail collapsed? Was there a time limit enforced for your task?"
She huffed. "No. But if I knew a way to succeed, I would have done so. What now?"
"I don't know. You're alone on this trail, aren't you?"
At this, her lip finally curled, exposing a sharp canine. "I am most certainly not. You are here as well, Master Graf."
"So it would seem."
The young noble was reaching a breaking point, Graf noted. She was running him through with the same expression she reserved for her mother's back, when she knew she could get away with it. Cogs and gears ground in her mind, throwing insolent sparks, until suddenly her face contorted.
Miss Eliah stood from her crouch, unbuckled the belt that kept her dress up, and looked down her nose at him.
"As the heir to the Eliah Estate, I hereby order you to safely traverse the path before me, in a manner I am capable of imitating."
Master Graf stood as well, rolling his shoulders, shaking a leg out. Old bones didn't like him staying on his knees, making their complaints known with pops and clicks.
"If you so order it, Lady Eliah, it will be done."
Without further adieu, Graf walked over to the left side of the trail, whistling a jaunty tune, and ambled his way down the dirt path. He spared the snake's den a brief glance as he passed it, but that was all, and very soon he was at the end of the simulated wilderness. He turned around, calling out to Miss Eliah.
"Your next orders, My Lady?"
If the young heir had looked irritated before, now she seemed utterly furious. Her arms were crossed over her chest, fingers white as they dug into her forearms, and her tail– which was halfway through an awkward growth spurt, making it overlong– was lashing hard enough to painfully smack the ground.
"An illusion, then?" She eyed the den suspiciously. "A trick that I was supposed to figure out?"
Graf walked back towards her at a casual pace, returning to her side before answering. On seeing him pass the snake without issue a second time, her ire only grew.
"The snake is quite real, I assure you," he said. "Purchased from an exotic trader in the city market just last evening."
"Then it is not dangerous? Lacking in poison?"
"One bite is enough to kill a bull."
"Defanged?"
"Do you think me so cruel?"
"Tied in place?"
"Only by the comfort of its den."
Miss Eliah stomped her foot, throwing up a puff of dust. "Then what? Why did you just walk past it, thinking yourself so safe?"
"Well, for one, I am faster than it. I could easily avoid its bite."
"But I am not, and I instructed you to behave in a manner I could imitate."
"You would not need to dodge it."
"If it lunged at me, I most certainly would, and as you well know, I would fail."
"That is true, isn't it?"
Her overlong tail lashed so furiously that it came up to smack her across the cheek, startling her into a yelping hop, and at that, even Graf could not maintain his stoicism. He laughed heartily, driving Miss Eliah further into her frenzy. She whirled on her own tail and snagged it between both hands, pinning its squirming length to her side, then whirled back upon him.
"Why are you being so needlessly obtuse?!"
"Because you have not yet reached the far end of the trail, Miss."
Miss Eliah blew out a long, huffing sigh, very nearly a growl, an exclamation which Graf had learned to be the young woman's equivalent of a drunken sailor's raging diatribe. She stomped forward, releasing her tail, and eyed the trail.
Taking a deep breath, she began walking slowly forward, pressed as far to the left side of the path as she could manage without snagging herself on the branches. Her eyes never left the snake's den as she placed one foot after the other, matching Graf's pace near exactly.
And then she was past the snake, the end of the path open to her. She paused, as if surprised, and took a moment to search for some hidden trick among the dirt and trees to either side. Finding none, she walked to the end, her practice boots moving from dirt to the sparring mat.
"Very good," he said.
Miss Eliah stared at him from twenty feet away, practically quivering with rage. "If you do not tell me the purpose of this exercise this instant, I will spend the rest of the month convincing my mother to fire you."
Graf bellowed his laugh, grabbing his chest. He followed in her footsteps, passing the venomous snake, and put a hand on her shoulder, pointing to the snake.
"Look at the little thing, Miss Eliah."
"Little?" She asked incredulously. "It was as long as I am tall."
"And a tenth your weight, with a mouth which could fit two of your fingers. Why would it attack you, Miss?"
She sputtered. "Because... because it is a snake! A venomous creature, with a forked tongue that the demons of the hells base themselves upon!"
"Devils may ape its form, Miss Eliah, but not its actions. A devil fights for the pure delight of suffering, but a snake attacks only to survive. It could not eat you, and its venom would not kill you for several minutes after the first bite. In that time, you could easily kill it, if for no reason other than spite. It has no reason to attack you."
She did not look convinced. Her tongue worked in her mouth, her tutor's lessons guiding her towards a clever set of words to express her thoughts. "To trust to a snake's self-interest is like hanging a sword above your bed, trusting the rope to keep your neck attached. Just because there is no reason for it fail, doesn't mean it won't."
"True enough, I suppose. But a rope rarely fails, and a snake rarely strikes without provocation. Seeing as you had to get to the other end of the trail, what was best? To take the risk of attacking a creature which held no ire for you, or moving peaceably past, trusting in its common sense?"
"The second," she snipped, detesting having to admit it. "But I still think it foolish to even walk the trail."
"Sometimes, there are paths we must take, no matter how much we wish for another route."
She rolled her eyes. "A warrior-poet you are, Master Graf. Truly, you missed your calling for Knighthood."
"I refused it, as a matter of fact."
Miss Eliah sniffed, turning towards the sparring grounds that hadn't been filled with debris. "As if. No commoner would be fool enough to deny a Knighthood."
Abruptly, Graf reached the end of his pacing. There was only a row of benches before him in the dark training studio, the end to his walk pulling him from the memory. He looked throughout the empty hall, running a hand through his snow-white hair.
Ten years gone, yet you remember it too, Miss.
Graf sighed, lowering himself to the bench with a low groan. His hips popped once more, protesting even this simple motion. At his age, he hurt when he moved, and he hurt when he relaxed. It was the natural way of things, but with the life he'd led, he'd never thought he'd see the day when he felt it for himself. Mercenaries, no matter how accomplished, didn't live to see eighty-one.
Yet here he was. An old man, growing older, still in charge of those who trusted him with their lives. He had failed them before, of course, but not often, and for that, he was proud. For however long he had left, he wished to keep that pride, and in the message that Sen had relayed, he sensed his former apprentice wished the same.
"A serpent lies hissing beside a path you must travel. Do you walk on?"
A question with many faces.
Ah, Lady Eliah, how I despise your love of wordplay.
Notes:
So... my concerns about lacking time to write don't seem very founded, at least not yet. I think these chapters were, what... 18k words total? Close to it, at least. Anyway, this Interlude chapter will either be the dividing point between Part 1 and Part 2 of book two, with the second part signaling the start of the war, or I may add more interludes next week. Several perspectives I'm still debating on, but I felt uploading only Ketch's part would be weird, somehow.
Also, a rare Reader Interaction moment! As the war arc begins to spin up, there won't be nearly as much time for lewds. Thus, because I still like writing the scenes, I intend to use the opportunity to go back and add scenes to the sections of the story that you feel were lacking them. If you've got a particular scene you want to see from the past, like how Evie and Sara managed to get it on during the three-day boat trip to Tulian, leave 'em below. I was also thinking of rewriting several lewd scenes, since I feel I've improved considerably across the story, so that's another avenue for suggestion. Particularly, the Hurlish bar scene comes to mind. Lots of better ways to do that, I think. Or you could ask for a lewd scene to be extended, like including the bit when Sellie put Evie and Sara under potion effects, so that we could get Ketch involved. I really haven't done enough with Ketch, honestly.
Anyway, rambling over. Hope you enjoy this backbreaker of a chapter!
Chapter 66: Book Two Part Two: War
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Capital
First Day of Spring
Sara watched the farmer's building burn, a smile on her face. She and Hurlish were settled into their seats, leaning back to enjoy the show. Silhouetting the horizon were dozens of black plumes of smoke, the villages surrounding the capital lighting up one after the other.
"I think he did a pretty good job on this one," Sara said, turning to Hurlish.
"Yeah. The big steeple-thing at the top is lastin' way longer than I thought it would."
"Bit of a waste, but it does look pretty good."
"Hey, it's his house. He built it, he gets to burn it."
"Fair enough."
The prevailing winds carried the farmstead's smoke away from the spectators, of which Sara and Hurlish were just two in a considerable crowd. As she'd promised and warned the villagers settling nearest to Tulian, their homes were being burned to deny the coming enemy any form of war material. The timber that made their homes could easily become the beams of siege engines, a risk Sara couldn't tolerate.
Seeing as they'd known it was part of the deal for accepting the free land, and that the property would still be considered theirs after the war, the farmers of Tulian had surprised her.
They'd built their homes to burn.
Rather fabulously, too.
This particular village had spent their freetime assembling literal tinder-stuffed bonfires atop their roofs, competing with one another to create the most spectacular blaze. When one of Sara's staff had opened the letter inviting her to come watch homes burn, the man had been incredulous, but he'd also been working for Sara for a few weeks already. He dutifully passed it along, knowing she'd love it.
She relaxed back into the chair, enjoying the latest bit of innovation put on display for the evening's event. At her direction, Tulian's carpenters had happily invented folding lawn chairs, thin planks of wood bolted to smooth metal swivels. They weren't quite strong enough for Sara to sit on Hurlish's lap, like they would've preferred, but she couldn't complain. Either the chairs could be light enough to carry, or they could support near five hundred pounds of women. Not both.
Five hundred pounds, huh?
She looked over herself. She knew Hurlish was about three-twenty, being 7'1" of dense muscle, but was Sara herself really up to two hundred pounds?
Probably, she decided. Levels may have meant strength could be disproportional to physical appearance, but only to a certain degree. If one compared themselves to someone of the same Class and Level, the size of muscles was a solid interpretation of relative strength. You only stayed skinny if you were weaker than average for your class, which Sara was not. Sara's training with Evie and Hurlish had slowly earned her the build of an olympic powerlifter, and at 5'10", that meant she'd put on a good bit of weight. Two hundred pounds didn't seem unreasonable, though a hundred and eighty or ninety was probably a safer bet.
Of course, it's not like I can go get my exact weight measured, Sara lamented. It was a testament to the sheer number of problems swirling through her head at all times that she was drawn to thoughts of weights and measures, which Tulian lacked. Everyone "knew" by feel what a pound was, but only merchants kept scales, and only jewelers kept precise scales. As far as Sara could tell, those scales weren't calibrated to any standard, but simply were compared to one another, with the wealthier merchant generally assumed to have the more accurate scale. Similar problems abounded with measures of distance, which were already creating problems for surveying property lines, something that mattered quite a bit when the villages were being actively burned down. Evie and Vesta had her properly fearing the arguments that would erupt when the villages were reoccupied after the war.
Hurlish gave her hand a squeeze, pulling her out of her thoughts. Sara mentally swatted herself, forcing herself to focus on the present.
"Sorry," she mumbled, squeezing Hurlish back. Their hands dangled between the chairs, a poor replacement for the closeness they preferred. "I'll try and be good."
"It's your last day to relax," Hurlish said severely. "You better be taking it."
"Yes, mom," Sara said, drawing the word out sarcastically.
"Not yet." Hurlish patted her baby bump, which was plainly visible, four months into the pregnancy. "Soon enough, though."
Sara shivered. The thought of her, Hurlish, and Evie's upcoming child was a veritable Gordian knot of emotions in her gut. Most of the tangled threads were positive, but plenty were laced with anxiety. There was a war on, after all.
"You're gonna be careful while we're gone, right?"
"Gods, you're getting almost as bad as Evie," Hurlish said. Sara flashed her a look, and the orc rolled her eyes, relenting. "But yeah, I will. Promise. I'll even let the kids do some of the lifting, some of the time."
Hurlish's 'kids', as she called them, were the collection of prospects she considered worth employing as trainees in her forge, and many were a fair bit older than Hurlish. That didn't matter at all to the master smith. When they were on the job she treated them all like were pre-teens, Sara included.
"You'll help them lift all of the time," Sara corrected.
"Most of the time."
"All of the time."
"Ugh. Fine."
Sara ran her thumb in little circles over the back of Hurlish's palm, thankful for the admission. She and Evie absolutely hated leaving Hurlish in the city while they marched off to war, but not as much as they hated the thought of her anywhere near a battlefield.
"I just wish Ignite would've stayed to guard you," Sara grumbled after a moment. "I'm sure the people he trained are good, but they're not Irregulars."
"But I am," Hurlish reminded her, "and I'll be fine, Ignite or not. Besides, with everything he's got going on, you really want him around me?"
Sara mumbled something nonsensical. Ignite, who would have been guarding Hurlish in Sara and Evie's absence, had begged to be posted to a ship in Nora's navy. After being betrayed by the Carrion girl he'd secretly been keeping out of sight, he'd lost what little remained of his shattered pride. A thorough interrogation of both Pupils and Ignite had Sara convinced he'd genuinely known nothing, but the man was inconsolable. He wanted a position like his old one, a marine sergeant on a ship, and he didn't think he was worth any higher station, no matter what Sara said.
"I guess not," Sara eventually admitted. "At least he'll still be doing good for us, out on the sea."
"Hate to be the poor bastard on the wrong end of him working out whatever the hells he's got goin' on," Hurlish said with a dark chuckle. "Hells, I'm still glad he didn't wade in to the fight when we found him the first time. He'da beat our ass."
"Yeah. Though I bet I could take him, now. Maybe."
"Probably not a good time to try, though."
"Probably not, no."
The conversation slipped into a comfortable lull. Sara listened to the villagers buzzing around her, partying and drinking while their homes burned. The genuine jubilation throughout the entire event felt bizarre to her, but it made sense. It took a certain kind of person to accept land that they knew was going to be burned down in half a year's time, and now she was seeing exactly who that criteria selected for.
Hearing it, too. As always, Senses of Amarat kept her perfectly appraised of each individual conversation, and she was certain the party's atmosphere was genuine. Half the farmers were viciously delighted to see the shoddy buildings up in flame; they'd barely put an effort into building them, and they'd been terribly uncomfortable. Those that weren't drunk to insensibility were already discussing how they'd use Sara's promised compensation stipend to build a far better house, and as the evening had worn on, those dreams were growing dubiously grand.
Sara turned an eye beyond the fires, tracking the road that weaved around the village. Ox-drawn carts were passing the bonfires by, supplies and farmers sitting tiredly on the back. When word had spread that the Sporaton army was really on the march, nearly every surviving person in Tulian had begun collapsing in on the capital, everything they owned of value in tow.
Sara's edict had been simple: every farm within a day's ride of the capital would be burned, and every farm within two days ride would be abandoned. What crops that could be harvested were, those that couldn't were torn up and ruined. Evacuation wasn't quite an order for those three day's ride and beyond, but it was heavily suggested. Some villages had decided to stay, forming militias from their able-bodied that they hoped would be enough to ward off any far-ranging Sporaton scavenging parties. Sara had wished them luck in her letters, but explained in no uncertain terms that she would be able to offer nothing to defend them, should they come under attack. Many had stayed anyway.
The Sporaton army had weeks of walking yet before their arrival, but organizing the influx of refugees into the mostly-abandoned city would be a hell of a task, so they'd begun the process early. It was actually what Evie was helping Vesta with at that very moment. She hadn't come along to the village burning, considering it too morbid to be entertaining. Conveniently, even with the vast bulk of Tulian's current population sheltering behind the city's walls, they weren't overcrowded. At its height the capital had held, depending on who you asked, eighty to a hundred thousand people, supported by over a million nearby farmers. There had been a number of other major cities within the Tulian kingdom as well, totaling a multi-million population before the storms.
Now the entirety of the nation numbered at most a hundred thousand. The powerful Kingdom, then second only in Continental influence to Sporatos, had become a middling city-state.
Sara waved to one of the ox-driven carts, the farmers sitting atop their bags of grain seeming to have recognized her. The farmers excitedly waved back, turning to one another as the ox trudged inexorably on. They, like everyone else Sara could see, had placed their lives in her hands. The thought had her shuddering.
Hurlish squeezed her hand again, and Sara blew out a quiet curse.
"Sorry," she said again, "I just can't get out of my head. Too much shit going on."
"I don't blame you, babe," Hurlish said, lowering her voice. "Glad I don't have to deal with that kind of shit, to be honest."
Rather than whinge about her own circumstances, which Hurlish already knew well, Sara glanced at her technically-not-wife. "Really? Seems like managing the forge and all that gets pretty stressful."
"Eh, I guess. No lives on the line, though." She chuckled. "Just limbs. Damn kids either seem to think they're made of straw, or fireproof. Can't tell you how many times I watched someone drop a piece of glowing iron and try and catch it with their bare hands. Dumbasses."
Sara smirked. "I wish I could make fun of 'em, but I've done some pretty stupid shit myself, back when I was learning."
"Yeah?" Hurlish asked, raising an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Oh, gods," Sara groaned, thumping her head onto the back of her wooden chair. "Too many to count, really. Chop shops don't exactly follow OSHA safety regs for their training regimens."
"Oh, now I gotta hear."
"Ugh. Fine." Sara shuffled in her chair, reaching over with the hand that wasn't holding Hurlish's to awkwardly draw her welding dagger. She pointed at her leg, and whispered her illusory spell's activation phrase, the poorly-chosen "ta-da."
Light shifted and glimmered across her left thigh, replacing the black of her Azarketi-nylon pants with a simulacrum of her old Earthly body's leg.
A two-inch scar, tissue thick and distended above the skin, marred the center of her upper thigh. It was a wound she'd known well, and even when depicted as it had looked years after the injury, you could've been forgiven for thinking it was fresh.
"Remember how I told you about the time I accidentally welded my leg?" Sara asked.
Hurlish whistled, impressed, leaning closer. "That it?"
"Yeah. And here's what it looked like right when I did it."
The illusion shifted and warped, fragments of jagged light rearranging at Sara's direction. The scar deepened and blackened, surrounded by still-smoldering blue jeans. The flesh was ragged around the wound, blackened in an instant by the acetylene heat, and now that she was looking at it without the distraction of unbearable pain, she could see it was even deeper than she'd remembered.
"Shit, girl."
"I know, right?"
"How'd you fuck up that bad? I've seen you use the dagger, and it seems like it'd be pretty hard to get your own leg."
"If you're doing it right, sure. But I was staying late, trying to finish up after most of my coworkers had left, and I just couldn't get the right angle on this one part. So, being the dumbass sixteen year old I was, I pinned into the wall with my knee and bent over it, trying to hold it in place."
"Oh, gods." Hurlish put a hand to her forehead. "I know where this is going."
"Yeah, not hard. I ended up spending too long on one spot, blew right through the metal, and bam, dug into my thigh. Dropped my whole rig, metal went everywhere, the works. I wanted to scream my head off, but I also didn't want to get in trouble, so I half-dragged myself to my truck and drove myself to the hospital. That was stupid, too. Could barely see through the tears."
Hurlish shook her head. "You're right, babe. That was stupid as all hell."
"I know, right?"
Sara sighed, letting the spell dissipate as she relaxed back onto her chair. Rather than awkwardly sheath her dagger again, she laid it across her lap, returning her attention to the fire. A comfortable silence passed as they relaxed, hand-in-hand, until Sara lifted a finger to point at the house.
"Looks like the steeple-thing's about to go."
"Looks like it," Hurlish agreed.
As they watched, the flames that had licked their way up to the top of the wooden structure began to properly eat in inward, devouring the core timbers that held the ponderous pyramid structure in place. The villagers had noticed what she had, and all waited with bated breath, excited.
Suddenly, a lone timber cracked, and that was the end of it. The entire tower toppled to the right, trailing a ball of flame as it fell, smashing through what remained of the roof in a great explosion of sparks and smoke. Cheers went up all around, including from Sara and Hurlish, who applauded the violence of the destruction. Fatally wounded, the entire house began collapsing in on itself, and soon it was no more than an unidentifiable pile of burning scrap.
"Time to move," Sara said, standing with a grunt.
"Wonder how the next one'll do," Hurlish said, also standing. They didn't release their hands.
"Don't know. I heard that this lady built her roof extra tough, trying to see how long it would last while it burned. Probably not as cool-looking, but if it works well, might be worth imitating."
"Huh. Let's go see."
They picked up their chairs and folded them under their arms, following the flowing crowd to the next house, where the woman who owned it was standing on the thatch roof, flicking sparks down onto the dry material. With a startling rush, the flames took. The owner bunched her dress up and sprinted to a waiting ladder, the flames chasing after her.
They sat their chairs back down, joining the crowd to watch. It was a damn strange thing, partying while a village burned, but Sara couldn't say she disliked it. Better this than some somber, dreaded procession, the villagers trading tearful glances as they watched their homes turn to ash while they regretfully marched away.
Sara scooted her lawnchair to the side, pressing its arm to Hurlish's, and leaned up to rest her head against her not-wife's shoulder. It was an uncomfortable, awkward position, but worth it. There were only a few houses left to burn, and when they were done, Sara would return to the city outskirts, joining her army. She didn't know how long it would be until she felt Hurlish's skin against her cheek.
King Sporatos almost certainly expected her army to make its stand in Tulian proper, where her defenses were strongest, at the base of her supply and power. It was the sensible, textbook play, the safest way to ensure a smaller force could stand against a larger.
So it was only natural that Sara's army was mustering beyond the walls, readying to march north. The Royal Army was powerful, but they'd given her too long to prepare. She'd thrown every last part of herself into the preparations, and that had turned out to be a whole hell of a lot. Sara felt the heat intensify against her skin as flames licked their way down the farmhouse walls, and knew her expression was twisting. A grin, a scowl, and everything besides. She didn't know what it was, but if she'd had only a single guess, she'd wager it wasn't something that King Sporatos would have enjoyed seeing.
Notes:
If you promptly read the last update on Sunday, I'll let you know that I went back and added an additional Interlude on the end, focusing on a younger Evie and Graf. If you've already read the chapter with that version, no worries.
Also, this update doesn't include an additional retroactive smut scene, sorry. I've got a good few solid ideas from your suggestions, the first of which should be coming (heh) next week. I decided I really wanted to make sure I had the polish right on these few, and time got away from me.
Chapter 67: A Brutal Carpenter
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Midwich Valley
Third Week of Spring
King Sporatos sat astride his horse, resplendent in his riding armor, and waited while the bowing scout handed her report to one of his aides. It would have been simpler for the scout to speak it aloud, but the peasantry of the army were so unused to the proper protocol necessary amongst royalty that King Sporatos had forbidden it. Should any of the peasants make an error in their address, he would be forced to punish them, and such an execution would be wasteful.
Even this mercy had drawn criticism from some of the army's more reluctant nobility. They tried to paint him as weak, unwilling to discipline the peasantry. He ignored their claims, knowing they were baseless, but privately grated that they were being levied even on the warpath. Politics, he knew, had no realm it dared not enter, not even war.
His aide brought him the report, bowing their head as they handed it to him. He unfolded the parchment, and seeing how tightly pressed the writing was, stopped his horse. The marching column began to part around his entourage like a stream curving around a boulder, not ordered to halt, knowing better than to interrupt or approach the King in any fashion.
As King Sporatos parsed the peasant's barely legible handwriting, he felt his jaw tighten. The scout had already been dismissed, fleeing his royal presence, which he now intended to prevent in the future. He would have wished to interrogate the claims made in this paper.
"...send a second, better trained scout to confirm this report," he said, at length. "And order the commanders to be ready to gather for a council upon the scout's return, should the claims be verified." He folded the paper back up, handing it to another silent aide.
So the Champion's madness begins, he rumbled, a tap of spurs stirring his steed back into motion. Sara of Amarat, a diplomat on the warpath. What other strangeness shall you have in store for me, god-touched child?
He needn't have wondered. Nor had he needed to call the meeting. By the time the second scout had returned, the army had made camp and was well into the night, too late to rouse the scattered nobility. The second report had come from a member of a proper Knight's retinue, and so had provided a much more detailed account. King Sporatos had mulled its contents over with a glass of wine, deciding upon how best to conduct himself when the army arrived. The defensive structure was only a few short hours march away, and he decided the army's leaders could hold their meeting in sight of that which they discussed, the following morning.
And so it was that he found himself standing firmly beneath the rising sun, which shone over the eastern valley wall to illuminate a most impossible construction. Many of the nobility he had gathered were ill able to conceal their shock, whispering incredulous questions to one another, but the King himself stood unmoved in his shining armor, surveying the cancerous mass which had stretched itself across the so-called "Midwich Valley."
White stone of a sort he had never seen before climbed some thirty feet into the air, unbroken by marring lines of masonry or stone joinery. It was as if a great obelisk of white had fallen unto its side, blocking the entire eleven hundred yards of valley without exception. Even the stream, which had throughout the valley widened and narrowed at times, had been just before the wall forcefully dug into a narrow canal, allowed access to the fortification's interior only through what appeared to be an incredibly thick set of iron gates.
Though it may have seemed obelisk-esque in its roughest outline, that the structure before his army was a purposely constructed fortification there could be no mistake. Crenellations significant enough to hide a standing man dotted the entire structure's northward rim, save for turreted outcroppings, where circular bulges to the mass afforded the emplacement of defensive ballistae. Ballistae that were inexplicably absent, he noted. Narrow slits also ran just beneath the length of the structure's wall walk, lending the entire thing a diseased, pockmarked countenance. Those murderholes promised a nigh unsuppressable hail of arrows throughout his army's approach.
While an incredibly impressive effort, there were damnable mistakes in its design, at least in King Sporatos's estimation. The gates through which an army occupying the fortification could exit were obviously kept small and spread apart so that a besieger would not be tempted to batter them down. Unfortunately for the Champion, the inverse worked against her forces within, preventing a mass egress of troops in any reasonable timeframe. To better ensure their defense, they had denied themselves the ability to sally out, allowing King Sporatos to make camp in whichever way he so chose, seeing as the enemy could not sally out to strike without a prolonged period of re-organization for their scattered number.
But where is that army? King Sporatos wondered. The white mass was barren of any sign of occupation, not a lookout or guard to be seen. It appeared abandoned, though he was not fool enough to think that so. For however mad or arrogant the Champion may be, she was not wholly without intellect. Whatever the apparent state of the fortification may have been, he knew it and its occupants were ready to defend themselves at a moment's notice.
Having completed his appraisal, he raised a gauntleted hand, calling to silence and order the chattering nobility about him. They fell silent one by one, recognizing his raised fist and calling attention to it by the bowing of their heads. He took satisfaction in that. Even the most recalcitrant of the army's nobility wouldn't dare fail to show proper subservience.
When all had gathered before him, King Sporatos took a deep breath, swelling his chest out.
"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Royal Army, as you can see, the Champion has proved herself an–"
Not a sentence through his opening speech, as if waiting for him to begin speaking, a most foul concoction shot out over the open air. It came in the form of sound, low-pitched and groaning, a jagged razor taken to the edge of a fine harp. Even from the near mile his army stood from the fortification, it overpowered his voice, warbling up and down in pitch, like the lamentable oration of a dying leviathan.
Every head of every body in the army turned towards the source, not a one of them understanding what they heard. As if reacting to the multitude of eyes now upon it, the great white mass added to the shifting groan a thudding, pounding rhythm, at a rate of just more than once a second. It thumped into the skies as if emanating from the coordinated marching of a hundred thousand soldiers, a force beyond reckoning advancing down upon them all. Many of the lesser-trained horses of the army began to nicker and shy away, tugging against their reigns in desire to retreat from the auditory assault, and a great many of the peasants cringed with them, a ripple of reaction rolling through the army.
Until, for a lingering few seconds, silence reigned. King Sporatos almost began to speak up once more, to give orders, but then thought better of it. The Champion of Amarat was a creature of drama. This was not the silence of a performance completed.
It was building anticipation.
Abruptly, the warbling wail and its associated pounding redoubled, but rather than the purely unworldly tones of before, it was now joined by the forceful slamming of wood against stone. Something more physical than the spell-wrought wail, reverberating in a more natural fashion. He peered closer.
Before his eyes, the entire top of the fortification began to writhe.
Even as his army recoiled in horror, King Sporatos squinted into the depths of the fortification. He soon recognized the movement as the raising of polearms, emerging from behind the wall's lip. The glittering heads of halberds, bouncing to the rhythm of the pounding, their wielding soldiers adding to the cacophony by striking stone with the hafts of their weapons, creating an uneasy confluence of sound both worldly and strange. More steel followed, helmets dazzling bright in the early morning sun, then there was the far larger sight of breastplates moving into view.
In moments the entire wall was occupied by armor-clad soldiers, marching with an inhuman and impossible synchronicity. They came forward to occupy the defenses in perfect unison, well beyond what any amount of training could have accomplished. Their legs swung in lock-step, their armaments bouncing in unbroken blocks. They looked as if they were merely the multiple fingers of some single being, responding to the whims of a single mind. The illusion was furthered by the unique uniformity of their dress, each soldier's armor a perfect replica of one another's. The entire force, every last one of its many thousands of members, was outfitted as if on parade.
Silence reigned once more, longer, and for a brief moment, King Sporatos was tempted by the thought that the display was completed. This hope was dashed by the echoing of a melodious voice, one he had not heard in nearly a year, yet had spent so much time agonizing over that it was as known to him as his most hated rivals.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Sporaton people, welcome to the first-ever performance of Sara Brown's rendition of the world-famous song, Escape From Midwich Valley!" The Champion's voice boomed, roaring with the same preternatural quality of the earlier onslaught. "For those of you conscripted into this war, I would like to remind you of two things: your king's a land-grubbing no-good blue-blooded egotistical prick, and surrender is always an option. Here in Tulian, those who wish to flee tyranny will always be welcomed with open arms! If you wish for more information on the appropriate methods of surrender, or even methods of subtle resistance against your so-called noble oppressors, please consult the instructions helpfully hidden beneath the grass you now stand on!"
Throughout the army, powerless to stop it, King Sporatos watched peasants bend down and lift away chunks of grass, untold thousands pulling up rolled papers that had been hidden beneath cut pieces of sod.
The Champion's narration continued on, echoing in a flawless imitation of excitable town-criers and jousting tournament announcers. "And now, if I can receive the attention of the commanders and leaders of the army bearing down on our beautiful little Republic, I'll move on to the discussion of the upcoming maaaaain event! In matters of war, I'll inform you that I, the Champion of Amarat, have no respect nor regard for the chivalric codes of war you hold dear! I will bite, claw, and tear my way to victory, and the only rule of warfare I value is the white flag of parley and surrender! Until it is raised, I and my troops will never cease our attack, never stop killing, and never fail to take the opportunity to stab you in the back, so-called honor be damned! If you don't believe me, King Sporatos, you simpering, boot-licking, knee-bending toadie of masked heretics, come and put it to the test, because I will gladly ride out beneath the flag of truce in just a few short hours! Until then, please remain relaxed, seated, and enjoy the music!"
With her speech completed, the hideous screeches that the Champion claimed to be music ripped once more over the grasses, a rushing roar that returned the cacophonous tones to the air.
Beet-red with fury he could not hide, King Sporatos whirled away from the fortification, signaling with a circling fist for the army's commanders to follow him. The hideous music was too loud to hold easy conversation from their present location, and what he had planned to say to them had very much changed, regardless. He snagged a runnerboy by the shoulder and barked orders into the child's ear for his tent to be prepared, then shoved him in the appropriate direction. The child bolted off at a dead sprint, leaving King Sporatos churning his boots through the valley grass.
All around him, he caught sight of peasants retrieving the hidden parcels of paper the Champion had prepared, no doubt loaded with insidious instructions for the few commoners capable of literacy. He snapped off another set of orders, prompting officers to begin ripping the papers from the hands of their troops, but he at once regretted letting his anger get the best of him. The papers were too numerous for them to be properly confiscated. Much as in the court, the censorious efforts he had just incited would only enflame the peasant's curiosity.
He shook his head like a bull, shaking the thought free. No matter. The peasants were a distant secondary concern. He had far greater matters to attend to.
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Through her looted Carrion spyglass, Sara watched the King retreat back through his army, foppishly dressed nobles stumbling after him like lost ducklings. She had to give the old man credit; for a dude in his sixties, he was leaving people far younger than him in his dust.
When she lost sight of the King among the press, she stepped back from the murderhole with a smirk on her face, snapping the spyglass closed.
"A satisfactory reaction, Master?" Evie asked.
"Looks like it. At the very least, I pissed him off."
"I am not surprised."
"Think he'll show up for the parley?"
"You just told him you intend to disregard every rule of war, that you would happily stab him in the back given the chance, and that he was a cowardly tool of heretics, which also served to enflame the most hideous of rumors that the political factions opposing him bandy about."
"So that's a no?"
"I would not hold my breath, Master."
Sara sighed, stepping back from the murderhole. She'd expected as much. The music still pounded around her, providing its benefits to her army, but she could still hold a conversation with Evie in the cramped space. As she'd hoped, when Champion's Inspiration was stretched far enough, it lost some of its more physical qualities. It could still be frighteningly loud if she chose, and maximum volume still scaled with distance, but it wasn't deafening to those in her immediate proximity. Its limits were vague in a helpful way, and she'd decided not to interrogate it, lest she accidentally tweak whatever subconscious magical direction it was running off of.
She and Evie clambered out of the murderhole, taking one last look at the enemy some mile away. The columns of peasant levies carried their equipment upon their bodies, meaning they were as equipped for battle then as they ever would be. That armor constituted nothing more than a padded gambeson, which was admittadly considerably more protective against slashing blows than Sara's modern eye would have guessed, the only protective metal of consequence coming from their derogatorily-named kettle helmets. Their spears were at least uniformly well-made, of sturdy wood with long, piercing steel tips, but that was all she could say for their condition.
When put up against the nobility that rode among them, it was a study in contrasts. The beautiful interlocking sets of Knight's armor were uncompromising in their protection of the wearer, better even than Sara's vague recollections of Earthly contemporaries. Glossy steel plates, some deeply dyed by rich paints, others left shining brilliantly bare, slipped and slid over one another without any difficulty. With Skills adding supernatural quality to the works of already brilliant smiths, there wasn't even any need for exposed linkage or chainmail. As best Sara could tell, though each and every set of Knight's armor she saw was unique, none had a single gap in the armor, save for the eyes. Only to allow vision did the smiths allow small slits, or, more commonly, a woven wireframe of what she could only assume to be highly-enchanted metal. As Evie had trained Sara and the rest of the Irregulars, there would be no easy way to kill a Knight. Her only hope would be to either bludgeon the Knights to unconsciousness or take them to the ground, where she could work a knife between the tight-pressed and squirming plates of the shoulder or waist.
The vaunted Sporaton cavalry were the most intimidating. They rode at the back of the column, difficult to discern even with her Carrion spyglass, but they still practically glowed under the sunlight. The heavy Lancers had taken the same quality of armor that covered the Knights and slathered it across the entire bodies of their horses, taking what may have been a vulnerable mount and turning its very crushing weight into a weapon of war. Evie had told her that each specially-bred horse had been trained from infancy to the age of five before being first ridden into battle, endlessly drilled within their armor until they had lost nearly all fear of physical harm. As far as the horses of the Lancers were concerned, the only thing they had to fear from a collision was the displeasure of their Knights, should the splinters that remained have once belonged to something expensive. The lighter cavalry were less exceptional, only the chest, neck, and haunches of their horses covered in sheets of steel, but they were all the faster for it. Unlike the massive ten-foot lances, which couldn't be hidden, the light cavalry kept their four-foot cavalry sabres in the sheath, but she knew they would be there. At the speed those horses could obtain, just the flat of the saber colliding with a helmet would be enough to knock someone's head off, much less when accounting for the razor edge the riders religiously maintained.
Sara licked her lips. Of all her priorities in this war, avoiding the Sporaton Cavalry while in the open field was her greatest. If they caught her flat-footed, the war might end then and there.
There were more than a few surprises waiting in store for the Sporaton army making camp further down the valley, not just this fort, but while she watched the army gather, she couldn't help but wonder. She'd done all she could to prepare, quite literally, but would even that monumental effort be enough? The sheer volume of concrete needed for the fort had required repurposing entire villages to its construction, highjacking grain mills and waterwheels to turn them into janky medieval versions of concrete mixers, employing hunderds of farmers in quarries for the mortar and aggregate. Even though a mill was often the center of a village's economy, Sara had ordered several disassembled and moved to the fort's location, just to complete things in time. The northern villages of Tulian had been the first to be abandoned for the oncoming invasion, weeks before the northern spring, and not because they were in the invasion path. Sara had coopted so much of their labor that they couldn't tend their fields, and eventually had to move back to the city just to live somewhere with enough food to go around.
And it could all go to waste, if I didn't play the King's ego right, Sara mused darkly. She didn't let herself linger on the thought, though, because it was what the meeting she was heading to was intended to discuss. Evie kept her rapier summoned off her hip as she guided Sara along the fort's walls, moving towards a command bunker that had been constructed behind the lines.
They were the last to arrive, as was often the case. Sara scanned the faces in the room as chairs were thrown back and commanders went to attention, for once not immediately dismissing them.
There were the core commanders she knew well, who had come up through Voth's bandit raids. There had been considerable reorganization of the ranking system as their numbers swelled to five thousand, but those in ultimate command were the same.
Those most senior in the room were Colonels, in overall command of near a thousand troops each.
Sarig, a scarred orc man who had been the first to convert his troops from shortswords to halberds, citing prior personal experience. Perhaps as was appropriate for a commander of heavy infantry, he lacked initiative, but was exceptional at holding his formations together.
Alsen, a younger human talent only slightly older than Sara. He had distinguished himself quickly under Voth's employ, getting promoted with a rapidity that would have been impossible under other, less desperate circumstances. The inverse of Sarig, he had a hot-tempered streak and propensity for sudden charges that would have been more appropriate for a cavalry commander, and if Sara had any trained horses, she'd have given them to him without hesitation.
Shale, the human in charge of the Republic's Combat Engineers, and the only one who Sara had trusted with a modicum of knowledge regarding her most closely guarded contingencies. She had an awful addiction to the tobacco-esque pipes favored by some in Tulian, the haze of smoke that followed her more distinctly identifying than her face. An ominous but appropriate symbol of things that might come, to Sara's mind.
Elase, another human woman, whose combative attitude regularly teetered on the edge of verbal abuse. She was the oldest in the room, in her mid fifties, but she'd only begun her combat career as a part of an anti-bandit village militia two years ago. Before then she'd been a carpenter, and something of her Skills from that career seemed to lend her an affinity for handling wooden siege weaponry.
Finally, there was Colonel Targ, one of Voth's old army buddies. He was the only one among the senior command staff with experience fighting in a true army, before Old Tulian's collapse, but that had only been as a lowly sergeant, in command of twenty troops. He'd risen well to the challenge Sara presented him, however, and was one of the few that had kept up with Evie's military jargon from the very beginning.
Voth himself, unfortunately, hadn't shown. True to his word on the day they'd met, he flatly refused to fight the Royal Army. He'd wished them luck, and agreed to work with the village militias to fend off what raiding parties he could during the course of the war, but that was it. As he'd openly admitted to her in their final meeting, he didn't think Sara was going to win, and was now more concerned with padding his resume for the Sporaton occupiers. He reasoned that if he demonstrated enough skill as a commander, without actually harming any nobility of importance, there was a decent chance he could end up with a well-paying position in some mercenary company or noble retinue. Perversely, Sara had so greatly respected both the invaluable aid he'd provided and his blunt honesty that she'd wished him luck. Voth was a good man, if a bit too practical for her liking.
Behind each of the Colonels sat their own subordinates, many of which Sara knew nearly as well as the senior staff themselves. The ranks beneath Colonel went Captain, Lieutenant, Sergeant, then Private, the last being rank-and-file soldiers without any command of their own. Mostly due to constraints of space, the command bunker was open only to those of Lieutenant rank and above, and not even every Lieutenant could be present, but Sara knew those that were would relay what was said to the others.
"At ease," Sara said, granting the army's commanders permission to return to their chairs. They gratefully did so, and Sara sat down at the head of the table, scooping Evie up into her lap. She began her report without preamble.
"Thankfully, the King's troops seemed to be as surprised by our fort as we'd hoped. The efforts to employ only long-term Tulian natives in its construction while luring spies to the capital's defensive efforts appear to have been successful. Further, I do not believe that the King will be retreating back down the valley to bypass the fort to press on to the capital."
"And why is that?" Elase demanded. "He's an old fuddy-duddy. Hates surprises. He's got every advantage on the open field, and it only makes sense for him to back up and go around us. If he moves to attack Tulian, we'd have to charge out and stop him."
"Correct on all accounts," Sara said, "but missing a few pieces. He's here to capture me, not the city, and destroying the army we've built is his secondary concern. The city of Tulian itself is a distant third concern, and if assumes I'm anything like him, he'll think I'd rather stand strong in this fort than risk lives for mere peasants. So my presence is bait one for a frontal assault. Still, he's smart, and I bet he'd know that going to the capital could draw us out. Even if it didn't work, what're an extra few weeks of marching, to him? He could sack the city and return to siege us here, his troops fat and happy off the spoils. Thus, bait two: insulting the hell out of him. I called him a coward, stirred up his peasants, and threw in a bit of accusations about the legitimacy of his masked advisors, which we already know the nobles don't trust."
"What's the advisors have to do with it?" Targ asked.
"They're smart, and they'll be advising the King to do exactly what he should do: retreat down the valley, get out, and go directly to the city. I'm willing to be they'll know even better than him how unlikely I am to let Tulian burn. Now that I've claimed those advisors have his balls in their hands, though, he'll have to placate the nobility, who'll be slobbering mad at the idea of their king following some weirdo cult's orders. Combine that with the insults and wounded pride, and he'll have a damn hard time backing out of this fight without looking like a pansy."
"He still will, though," Elase argued. "He's as by the book as it gets, by Evie's account, and the book says never to attack prepared defenses if you can help it."
"He is indeed 'by the book', Colonel Elase," Evie said from Sara's lap, "but that does not extend to just his military command. He has a greater affinity for political matters than he does war, and as every good King should, he prioritizes the accumulation and maintenance of personal power beyond all else. Militarily, assaulting our defenses will be costly in terms of peasant lives, but what are peasant lives next to preventing political instability? Even if one were to argue morality, the cost of Sporaton lives in a prolonged civil war far outstrips an assault upon our single fortification. I believe he will attack."
Sara nodded. "And seeing as she's the one that knows the King best, and it's what we're damn well praying for, we're going to operate under the assumption he'll attack."
Sara leaned forward, circling a finger around the models representing the Sporaton army's disposition on the table's map.
"Problem is, he's not wrong for doing it. When you run the numbers, he's got enough bodies to overrun us. It'll be a damn bloodbath, but he ought to be able to manage it. Have you all received the latest troop estimates?"
There was a round of nods from the Colonels, but not all of the Captains and Lieutenants, so Sara went over it again. "Nearly sixteen thousand peasant levies, either archers or basic spearmen with limited armor, mostly gambeson and metal caps and whatnot. They're unfortunately supported by eight hundred cavalry, led by a renowned Knight named Emeric something-or-other, the sort of commander with a track record that's been getting all the noble ladies fanning their panties dry in the gala bathrooms."
A round of chuckles. By every account Emeric was a talented commander, not someone to joke about, but Sara didn't see much point in hyping up an already lauded enemy to her own troops. "Emeric's cavalry seem to be divided up into a core of two hundred heavy Lancers, complimented by six hundred lighter cavalry equipped with spears. If we get caught in the open field, our halberds should be able to hold off the light cavalry without issue, so long as the troop's bravery and morale holds, but the Lancers have enchanted armor and weapons, so they're likely capable of risking a headlong charge. Beyond the cavalry, which won't play much part in a siege beyond maybe acting as dismounted Knights, enemy mage and Irregular compliments appear to be as expected."
As she spoke, she'd been indicating each whittled model on the table, and it was only now that she moved to the center of the enemy army, where the mass of simple troops lay in wait. Among them, denoted by their carved robes, were the source of Sara's brightest-burning anxiety.
"Ultimately, for the siege, I'm worried about the mages more than anything else. They're the biggest variable by a wide margin, the only ones capable of doing physical harm to the fort itself, and I don't see a damn way we can know exactly what they're capable of do until they start doing it. Irregulars and Knights could wreak ungodly havoc if they manage to get up on the wall, but it's only the mages that'll be flinging shit worth worrying about from a distance. Any suggestions for our strategy?"
"Are the ballistae rails ready?" Targ asked, addressing the question to Colonel Shale, who nodded.
"Finished a few days ago, which was too damn close, you ask me. Should be able to pop up and skewer any mage we see, then roll the goods back into cover before they can respond. It'll be damn hard to keep a consistent aim, seeing as the whole thing shakes like a bitch in heat, but I trust my troops. They'll figure it out."
"Good," Sara said. "Remember, these are real battle mages, so I doubt they'll give us the opportunity to shish-kebab 'em on the spot. I'm not expecting you to kill them, just distract them enough they don't rip the walls down around our ears. You're to preserve the siege weapons for as long as you can. Don't take risky shots."
"Understood, General. Shouldn't be too hard to convince the kids to avoid getting charbroiled, anyway."
Sara allowed herself a smirk. "Funny how that works, huh? Just make sure they don't roll the ballistae off the back of the fort."
Sara scanned the faces of those present, taking in their attitudes at a glance. On the whole, it was a cautious optimism that characterized most of the senior command staff of her minuscule army. As she expected, the lower down the ranks, the greater the optimism. The Captains and Lieutenants, having not worked as closely with her, put a great deal of stock in her mysterious Champion's status. They hadn't seen anything war-winning out of her yet, but there was a certain type that seemed convinced she was just waiting for the right time to reveal it.
Unfortunately, Sara's estimations better fit the Colonel's. They had pursed lips and looks of careful concentration, surveying the lines of battle with no small amount of trepidation. Tactically, the faith of the lower ranks in her was great for morale, but strategically, overconfidence could get them killed. She'd have to tamper their expectations.
"Let's look at our own forces now, to see what we can do." Sara swept her hand over the section of the map which denoted their defensive line. "Together, we'll be defending three thousand feet of wall. Each soldier, whether they have a halberd or a spear, walks with their shoulders nearly touching their fellows, and the average non-orc soldier has a shoulder width of two feet. That means that, if we don't want any gaps in the line, we'll have at minimum fifteen hundred troops active on the front line."
"But they wont' be able to attack everywhere," a Captain said, nodding to the models of various siege engines that were kept off to the side. "They'll have to pick and choose their points of assault."
"A good point," Sara said, less because it was, and more because she wanted to encourage the lower ranks to speak up. "But it doesn't change the fact that we need at least fifteen hundred troops on the wall. Preferably three thousand, to give us ranks two deep. If we weaken or abandon the line in any particular spot, their Irregulars could seize the opportunity to gain the wall, and it'll be a hell of a lot harder to force them off. If they break through even once, we'll have fifteen thousand spears rushing in like water through a dam, and we couldn't plug that hole. We've got to hold everywhere, all the time." Sara tapped her finger on the map. "So. Three thousand of our halberds are taken up just manning the walls. What archers we have will be in the murderholes, around eight hundred or so, and that leaves us with around twelve hundred reserves."
"The bulk of which will be my troops," Colonel Shale said.
"Exactly. The combat engineers. Your troops will be operating the ballistae as best they can, but we don't have enough to occupy a thousand troops. I know your battalion's spent the least time of any training for combat, and that's no fault of your own. It's what I wanted. That said, do you think they'll be capable of reinforcing when necessary? Of holding the line while the others go back to rest?"
"Yes," Colonel Shale said simply. "You named them combat engineers, ma'am, not engineers. They'll fight, and even if they're not as practiced, they'll damn well figure it out quick. I got the best and brightest in the army under my command, I've made sure of it."
"Good. Now, as for supplies, we've got to talk about distribution. The murderholes being isolated is great for structural integrity, but it complicates the distribution of arrows..."
With the lower ranks now appraised of the larger picture, Sara began moving to the logistical minutia that truly mattered in a siege. All of it was predicated on the idea that King Sporatos would take the bait, that he would assault them here and now, rather than retreat a ways and move on to Tulian, and that was no guarantee. As she'd said, she just had to prepare for what she thought would happen, and be ready to pivot when it didn't.
Even when battle was met, she didn't think her plan would go swimmingly. She wasn't that stupid. Evie had drilled it into her head over and over again that any plan, no matter how perfect, was useless the first instant blades met in earnest. There would be unpredicted successes, unanticipated failures, and confusion enough to drown in. Only Sara's ability to adapt, to turn and face the new reality, would carry them through the day.
That, and the wooden crates hidden in the depths of the fort. Those were the other wild card, the smoldering embers beneath a bonfire's worth of kindling. Should the walls begin to fall, only the gods knew what would happen next.
Sara just knew it would be very, very violent.
Notes:
If you wish to add the appropriate Sara-sanctioned soundtrack to the above scenes, please direct your attention to the lovely works of Carpenter Brut's live album, CARPENTERBRUTLIVE. I'm sure that's a totally normal thing for a psuedo-medieval peasant to hear that they totally would take in easy stride when it's echoing from a bizarre white castle manned by teeming hordes of identical soldiers.
And while I've ever endeavored to be excellent at describing what certain things look like, sometimes pictures do things a justice words can't replicate. Here is what the typical Sporaton peasant levy is equipped with, though of course there are minute differences. The Sporaton Knights are generally dressed in equivalents of 15th Century European armor, leaning towards Gothic styles, though with even less pronounced weak points and gaps than was possible for real-life armorers.
Chapter 68: Anarchy Road
Notes:
Multi-chapter update. If you're reading this in the week after upload, start at Chapter 66.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Midwich Valley
Fourth Day of Siege
Sara stood between sitting soldiers, peeking out from behind the crenelations with her spyglass in hand. The soldiers she'd ended up standing near were playing a game that involved rolling stones into a drawn circle, sitting cross-legged while they waited their way through the morning shift. After four days of staring down the teeming mass of the Royal Army, spying on the horde had lost its luster. Most of the soldiers seemed impatient, befuddled that the Sporatons hadn't launched their assault on the very first day.
Before the day was out, Sara doubted any of them would be complaining about boredom.
Under the scrutinizing eye of her enchanted spyglass, Sara could see the Royal Army camp stirring to life, peasant levies being driven forward at the barked orders of horseback nobility. The process had begun at first light, and wasn't anywhere near done, but Sara felt certain the attack would be today.
The towers rising from the Sporaton camp told her as much. The past four days had seen the wooden spires steadily growing, brought together under the careful guidance of robed men and women. King Sporatos was not content to rely upon mere ladders for taking the walls, it seemed. Instead he had worked his peasants to the bone creating the wheeled siege engines, hollow towers exactly the height of the defenses they were meant to surmount.
There were six, and she had seen mages working on them in intermittent bursts, layering their wooden skin with what she could only assume to be defensive enchantments. The sight of the mages working their magic had always given her a chill.
She wasn't sure if her ballistae would be able to pierce them, even now that she'd supplemented them with finely tuned gears and bowstrings of braided steel. The new designs held far more potential energy than their more primitive predecessors; the old ballistae had a range of five hundred yards, while Colonel Shale's new toys could reach over eight hundred. They would be the first of her nasty surprises for the Sporaton army.
Assuming they do jack against that magic bullshit, Sara thought with a stern frown, lowering her spyglass. She handed it off to Evie, who accepted it with an expectantly raised eyebrow. Sara sighed, then turned to one of several runners that always followed her.
"They're getting ready to march. Sound the alarm."
"Yes ma'am!" The runner barked, snapping a salute before sprinting off.
Even before the bell began to ring, the wall stirred to life. The soldiers nearest Sara had obviously heard her and scrambled to their feet, grabbing their weapons, and that wasn't missed by their fellows. Even without knowing why, the wave of readiness swept down the wall, each soldier grabbing their gear simply because they'd seen someone else do so.
As Sara followed Evie down off the wall, the bell began to ring, and that really kicked things into gear. Sergeants began to bellow abuse at their squads, followed quickly behind by Captains giving sharper, steadier commands, and then all hell had broken loose. The drills Sara had enforced kept things from devolving into total chaos, but when people realized this wasn't just for practice, there was bound to be some panic.
Sara couldn't stay to manage it, unfortunately. She and Evie had other priorities.
"They finished sooner than I expected, Master," Evie noted as they walked towards their personal tent.
"They had people working around the clock on them. Gods know how hard the King was driving the carpenters."
"Hopefully exceptionally hard, Master. Their haste will have created mistakes."
"And awful working conditions."
"They are not yours to care for. Take what fortune provides you."
"Ugh."
Sara reached her tent with Evie, the armorers having arrived shortly before. She ducked inside with a small cadre of helpers following her, and raised her arms.
Evie stripped her with clinical professionalism, well practiced at taking off her General's uniform in a handful of seconds. Sara accepted her black nylon underclothes in its place and pulled them over her head, uncaring that her body had just been completely bared to the three near-strangers in the tent with them. They'd seen it before, and they'd see it again. It was their job.
Sara ducked her head, accepting from the foremost man her gambeson, which he slipped over her shoulders. That done, she put her hands back out, so that Evie could begin slipping on her left gauntlet, another man slipping on her right. The vambraces went on next, clasped into place with a metal buckle, and then the man at her front finished adjusting the gambeson, zipping it up the front, rather than wasting the minutes it would have required to tie its many knots. A woman ducked down to hold out a set of chainmail pants, which Sara stepped into, feeling the woman tug them up to her waist, securing them with a belt. Her sabatons were dropped in front of her next, then her chausses, the armorers steadily working their way outward in.
Her old armor, commissioned to be worn on the road, in battle, and public, had been both beautiful and practical. She'd had it made to harken to her mind something like a succubus valkyrie, the sweep of its bust and curve of its waist evoking beauty without sacrificing much protection. It had been comfortable, and she'd worn it often enough that it was well known to the people of Tulian.
Among the last to be put on was her chestplate, which was utterly unlike that old, beautiful set. Two of the armorers had to take hold of it as they hefted it off its stand, and Sara went down on a knee so they could slip it over her head. She felt it scrape over her gambeson as it went down, a considerable weight landing on her shoulders with a muffled thud.
When she stood, it was with over a hundred pounds of armor tugging her down. Most mundane sets weighed forty or fifty, and enchanted armor like her old set weighed even less. Sara didn't have the luxury of experienced artificers to create something similar, however, and she'd had to substitute elegance with brute simplicity. Her newfound strength allowed her that much, thankfully.
A solid block of steel now wrapped her chest, brought to a sharp-edged crease before her sternum. Where her old armor had been a tenth of an inch thick, this was a half-inch, and unlike before, it wasn't pure steel that defended her. Layered atop the metal was a slick black material, of the same make of her sword, and it was an impossibility that Hurlish believed made her armor unique in all the world.
Conventional wisdom held that blacksteel could not be used for armor. Even a single weapon of blacksteel cost enough to bankrupt a lesser noble, and even among those wealthy enough to procure enough for armor, the desired effects could be achieved with inordinately less expensive artificery. Further, it was known that blacksteel was a platonic material, incapable of mixing, binding, or alloying with any other kind of metal. Every attempt to adhere it to pure steel had failed, the joint turning brittle and snapping in a matter of minutes.
Turns out, it wasn't impossible. You just needed to spot-weld with microsecond temperatures that rivaled the surface of the sun.
Hurlish and Sara had worked on the armor she now wore for weeks, the full force of Sara's Lightning producing a single bead of metal between the blacksteel and chestplate. The strange orangish alloy that now ran in creased ridges between the seam of steel and blacksteel had no name, and not even Garen's investigative probing could determine the slightest aspect of its properties, but it was strong as all hell. Longbows, crossbows, Hurlish's massive hammer, and even a ballistae had failed to leave a scratch on the front of her new armor.
After nearly ten minutes of dressing, Sara exited the tent, Evie striding ahead of her. The moment she was in the light, the fort reacted. The Champion of Amarat, after all, was renowned for many things, and if not first among them, beauty was certainly close to the forefront among the minds of her troops.
Yet what emerged was anything but.
Sara's armor was, in a word, militant. Jarring. Undecorated and simplistic, it was a uniform of war, built to kill without compromise. Only the chestplate was truly covered in blacksteel, but the rest was painted in midnight tones, rather than the pinks and purples of Amarat. The brow of her black helmet dipped down in imitation of a furious scowl, the checkerboard slits that guarded her eyes completely obscuring her face from sight. The weight of woman and armor was enough to have her visibly sinking down into the soil, and those closest to her could feel the thump of her footsteps transferred through the earth. The affable, bright-eyed, beautiful Champion of Amarat had emerged dressed in solid black.
Sara ignored every reaction, thudding her way up to the wall, taking her spot at the very center of the line. She lifted her visor, held out a hand for her spyglass. A mile away, the Royal Sporaton Army still stirred, lines forming beyond the defensive stakes in preparation for the advance.
The wait began.
It was four hours later when the Sporaton Army began to march forward. Limited by the ponderous siege towers, which had long poles sprouting from either side to allow hundreds of sweating peasants to push the behemoths, it would be over an hour before they reached the walls.
The wait continued.
When the Sporaton army reached eight hundred yards, the furthest limit of the ballistae, Sara held up a speaking crystal, taking an anticipatory breath. A moment later, a voice came through.
"Permission to launch ballistae, General?"
"Denied," she said, practically before Colonel Shale's request was finished. "The towers are enchanted, and I want to hide our range advantage for as long as we can."
She waited a beat. A short time later, Colonel Targ's voice sounded from the same crystal. "What about my archers, ma'am? Should the Irregulars loose as they are able, or hold off to conventional range?"
"Loose when possible, but remind them that Irregulars should be choosing targets of priority, not random soldiers."
"Yes, ma'am."
She lowered the crystal. She was standing among the general soldiery now, and if there were any spies among them, they would have been very interested in what they'd just witnessed. A speaking crystal was a two-way device, linked inextricably linked to a single other crystal. Supposedly, there was no way to make a crystal capable of linking with multiple others. Sara hadn't truly found a way around that, but she had found a dangerous shortcut.
Somewhere in the Tulian Artificer's Union, there was a room of nervous artificers standing before a wooden sphere, holding tweezers and plucking at complex runes. A dozen speaking crystals were set into the sphere, padded with acoustic material, so that when crystal one spoke, all heard it, and all transmitted it back. Enchanted copper cables were strung across the entire thing, attempting to dampen the feedback loop that could theoretically lead to a catastrophic overload, and still the artificers had to constantly tweak each device. If the crystals were even slightly asynchronous, an echo would begin, growing progressively louder, until eventually the energetically-infused crystals would shatter with the energy of hand grenades. Through the stalwart efforts of the Carrion artificers, Sara now had direct communication with the highest ranking commanders of her army at all times. They had to be incredibly careful about using the crystals, because too many people talking at once was liable to end up with the crystals blowing half her senior command's faces off, but being able to forgo slow-paced runners and signal flags was worth the risk.
Sara watched the siege towers approach. By her best guess, they were traveling a mile an hour. Another thirty minutes until they reached the walls.
The wait continued.
When the range closed to five hundred yards, the ballistae readied themselves. Empty defensive turrets suddenly sprouted massive wooden contraptions, drawn forward on their tracks by troops hauling pulleys down below. It took about twenty seconds for a ballistae to be brought into position, exposed to the enemy, and another twenty seconds or so for it to be ready to loose its bolt. As soon as the crews found their aim, they pulled the trigger, and a massive whoosh signaled the release of a four-foot projectile.
Sara tracked the first ballistae bolt sailing through the air with bated breath. It flew true, slamming directly into the middle of the centermost siege tower, and....
Shattered. The shaft burst to wooden pieces, its iron tip spinning uselessly to the ground. The siege towers weren't made of the thickest wood, and the steel-strung ballistae should have pierced them with ease. The enchantments clearly prevented that.
Sara watched as more ballistae bolts arced through the sky, almost all of them finding their mark. Each one shattered, no damage done, save for whatever shrapnel managed to shower the nearby spearblocks.
Sara lifted her speaking crystal. "Colonel Shale, if your crews think they can manage it, try to aim for the siege tower's wheels. If not, focus all ballistae on a single tower, see if you can wear down the enchantments."
"Yes, ma'am."
Twenty minutes, Sara guessed. The wait continued.
At three hundred yards, a different kind of projectile began to rain. Irregular longbows and crossbows opened up, lightning-fast bolts lancing towards horse-riding noble commanders. Several found their mark immediately, but the noble commanders were dressed in the finest of enchanted armor. The greatest effect that Sara saw was on one man that had been turned around to look behind him when a longbow arrow took him in the back of the neck. The force of it had physically thrown him from his saddle, startling his horse, but it hadn't found a gap in the armor. He had picked himself back up and quickly calmed his horse, returning to its saddle in moments.
"Irregular archers are to switch to commoner commanders, rather than noble targets," Sara said into the speaking crystal. "Take out anyone in charge you can find that's not wearing armor. If you can't find one, start focusing on the troops pushing the siege engines. Also, continue to keep an eye out for hidden enemy mages. If one is found, focus all ranged weapons on the mage. Repeat, all ranged weapons."
"Yes, ma'am."
She pocketed the crystal once more. Not long now. Just a few more minutes of waiting. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it should've been making her armor jump off her chest. The sky above was clear, the Tulian sun beating down on her. The artificers had managed to provide her suit a weak cooling enchantment, which worked for now, but she doubted it would last once she really got into the fight.
She rolled her shoulders, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She'd crossed a threshold, the adrenaline high too strong. She couldn't wait for the enemy to reach her.
At a hundred yards, the grass between the opposing forces fell into shadow. The murderholes of Fort Midwich began to vomit a fusillade of arrows, pouring Tulian bodkins into the front ranks of the peasant levies. Even though they had to have known it was coming, the peasants were slow to shift their spears to a one-handed grip, pulling wooden shields from their back to cover themselves and their fellows. Sara realized why a moment later as horse-riding nobles began running up and down the line, shouting and waving swords. The peasant spears began to pull back under the hail of arrows, replaced by thousands of archers.
It seemed the plan had been for the spears to stay out of range while the siege towers advanced, but the peasants, mindlessly driven forward by the orders of their sergeants, hadn't realized how close they were getting to the fort's walls. Sara didn't know how many dead and wounded they suffered in the confused few minutes before they managed to pull back, but it was considerable. Bodies littered the field.
And then the archers had taken their place, covering the bodies beneath their spread-out blocks, and launched a counter-barrage.
"Take cover!" Sara roared, a pointless command. The entire Tulian army was already stepping behind the crenellations, those that couldn't take cover crouching down and covering the exposed gaps of their neck armor with their gauntleted hands. Arrows began to rain among them, but with how heavily armored her troops were, the results were desultory. They barely needed shields to defend themselves.
Evie was sheltering behind a crenellation with several other soldiers, while Sara still stood in the open, happily letting the arrows bounce off her armor. Though she knew her girlfriend couldn't see it beneath her black helmet, she flashed a cocky smirk.
"Having fun yet?"
"Not yet, Master," Evie replied, matching her grin. "That begins when the enemy arrives."
"Attagirl."
The lone soldier on the wall still standing tall, Sara watched the enemy approach. The wait was almost over.
Almost.
Notes:
Almost.
Almost there.
Edit: Oh, I almost forgot. In the vein of last chapter's providing real-life references for the suit of armor, I'll add that Sara's armor isn't even close to having a historical equivalent. I've been thinking about commissioning an art piece of her wearing it. My own drawing efforts proved... lackluster, to say the least. If you want a less poetic description, imagine what a Dark Souls knight miniboss would look like if the game had come out for the N64.
Chapter 69: Adraft
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When the first tower hit the walls, Sara was there. The bridge that unfolded from the massive contraption seemed to fall like the air was molasses, the dark interior exposed to the world after an impossible wait.
Sara greeted it with her sword raised before her, blade leveled like the maw of an impatient beast.
"Boom."
A bolt of lightning taller and wider than a man shook the concrete beneath her feet, blinding in its intensity. Sara closed her eyes to protect her vision from the flash, and when she opened them, she saw there was a smoking hole blown through the back wall of the siege tower.
And Knights charging forward with lowered heads, armor trailing spellsmoke.
Sara met the first Knight with the middle of her blade held in her left hand, grip in her right. She swung the pommel with all her might into the Knight's knee, taking satisfaction in the brutal crunch of it, even if it didn't get through the armor.
That first Knight tumbled over her, landing amongst a pile of her soldiers. They wasted no time in raining blows down on the sprawled figure, halberds sounding like hail on a tin roof as they tried to find a weak point in the armor by sheer volume of attacks.
Sara couldn't help. The other Knights were coming, and she couldn't trip all of them.
The next Knight vaulted over her, landing on the wall behind her, and then their fellow whirled the armor-piercing tip of a poleaxe into Sara's chestplate.
Sara released one hand from her sword and accepted the blow to her sternum, staggered by the strength of it even as her freehand shot out to snag the weapon's haft. In an instant she was locked into a brutal tug-of-war.
Sara had been in fights. More than she could count, and of more varieties than she cared to recall. She had fought gangster, robbers, and Irregulars in equal numbers. Most had been weaker than her. Some had been stronger. She had fought one-on-one, in small groups, and in the midst of a thousand-strong battle.
Yet this was a new kind of fight to her. It had all the mad fury and mind-numbing qualities of being regular infantry in a line battle, but the combatants were anything but. The best of Evie's Irregulars were to her left and right, facing off against whoever the hell the Sporatons had decided should spearhead the assault on the centralmost portion of the wall, and none of them were purely human in their abilities. Weapons blurred faster than the eye could track, armors and weapons glowed with subtle light, and Skills were activated in shifting motions that savaged the line between reality and impossibility. Sara could barely track what was in front of her, yet the battle extended for hundreds of yards in every direction. The only realm of peace was directly behind her, and that was filled with the shifting blocks of reserves, who would soon be joining the violence themselves.
The Knight she'd been grappling with finally wrenched his poleaxe free, something Sara rewarded with a whistling swing of her shortsword.
The Knight raised the wooden shaft of his poleaxe to block, and to her considerable surprise, it worked. Sara's blacksteel blade bounced off, startling her, and so her transition into a stab was too slow to catch the Knight off guard.
They whipped their poleaxe back around, slamming it into her helmet with the axe-side first. Sara's neck was wrenched aside, her shoulder slamming into the person beside her.
And then she was back upright, throwing wild overhand blows one after the other, trying to keep the Knights off the wall.
It wasn't working. The Knight that had bravely vaulted their lines was chewing through the regular soldiers, opening a gap that her Irregulars were being forced to back into.
In the first few seconds of the exchange, she determined that the Knights weren't the Sporaton elite, but they didn't need to be. Their armor was enough to allow them to brute force their way forwards, clearing a space for the tidal wave of spears that were sure to follow.
But only if she broke.
Sara threw herself forward with a roar, battering her way through the wall of weapons that tried to her hold back. Barely a minute into the battle and she was putting her armor to the test, trusting that her and Hurlish's work would take enough abuse to close the gap.
It did. Her chest slammed into the breastplate of a Knight six inches shorter than her, both of their weapons rendered useless by proximity.
Sara dropped her sword and drew her dagger, grinning madly behind her helmet.
"Taze!" She roared, white lightning peeling itself off the ten-inch length of her rondel dagger.
"Crazy bitch!" The Knight responded, wrenching their own dagger free.
She eagerly jabbed for the Knight's chin, but a thigh suddenly wrapped around the back of her knee, pulling it forward, and Sara found herself being taken to the ground.
A small grunt was driven from her lungs as her back hit the concrete, followed by several more as she began to thrust forward with her dagger. She could feel one hand battering at her forearm, another scraping up her waist, and by the sound of it, that second hand held the dagger. It was looking for a gap in her armor, hoping to find a weaker section of chainmail protecting her armpits.
Unfortunately, there was one.
Sara threw herself violently to the left, rolling to leverage her superior height and weight to end up on top.
Instead she found the Knight's back slamming into the crenellations, catching the roll short. They were left laying on their sides, face-to-face, legs interwoven in a struggle for leverage.
After a few seconds of fruitless grappling, Sara suddenly kicked backward off the wall, sliding a few feet away. She didn't get all the way to her knees before she brought her dagger into a two-handed grip, awkwardly lunging forward.
Confused by the crenellation at their back, the Knight tried to roll away for more distance. It achieved nothing. It would be the last mistake they ever made.
Her dagger landed on the Knight's wire-grid portion of their faceplate, driven by her fist around its grip, pommel pressed forward by her palm and sternum, so that her entire weight was behind the half-lunge, half belly-flop.
With a shrill shriek of steel and man, the dagger pierced the faceplate.
The thrashing gyrations of the man's spastic death throes were transferred to Sara through her grip on the dagger, such that she could feel the texture of the man's bone as her dagger briefly skated to one side before piercing his cheekbone, burying itself in the hollow of his sinuses. It would have been a fatal blow in a matter of minutes, but that time was reduced to seconds, her spell pouring electricity into his bloody skull, his body flailing without purpose.
Sara felt something slam into her right thigh. She ripped herself off the corpse, kicking out in the general direction of whatever had struck her, and retook her feet, searching for an enemy through her red-tinged vision.
The rolling melee had pulled her farther away from the siege engine, and she found only the backs of her own troops. Corpses littered the floor, and only two of them were Knights.
Sara spotted her discarded sword on the ground, snagged it, and threw herself back in to the fight.
She didn't know what the fuck was going on. She tried as hard as any of her troops to maintain a cohesive line, but when the enemy was explicitly trying to break through it, things had gotten confusing. She waded back into the battle nonetheless, joining the loose semi-circle line around the enemy Knights, looking for any opportunity to drag someone into hell.
Just like every other kind of fight she'd been in, the close-quarters melee of Irregulars in a siege was utterly unique. She was constantly switching from brutal, thoughtless swinging, to snapping off complex tactical orders, trying to keep her fragmented line together. The Knights were shouting their own commands, trying to coordinate their assault even while Sara's troops did all they could to break their small bundle open, and both sides were bellowing to be heard over the pitiful screams of wounded.
Some of those screams were caused by Sara. If one of her own was laying on the ground, she couldn't spare the concentration to move or avoid them. She just stepped on them, trying to keep herself to their breastplate, not because of mercy, but because it was steadier footing. Doing anything less was a death sentence. This was a fight for her life, against a collection of opponents who each very well might be her superior, and she couldn't afford a single slip.
And her sword wasn't doing very much good. A blacksteel greatsword was an astounding weapon for carving a swathe through under-armored opponents, and it had enough weight to it to be useful in bludgeoning armored Knights, but that required a windup, a large swing that she didn't have room for. Unlike the other Irregulars, with their axes, halberds, and various polearms, Sara's weapon was proving maddeningly ineffective. The shortsword was about as effective as a nightstick against the Knights. Sure, when she'd wailed on someone for long enough they might go down, but it'd take a while. A proper polearm put enough power behind a small point to pierce metal, an attribute she regrettably lacked.
So she took a risk. Still taller than nearly any human on this world, she could easily see over the heads of the Knights to the dark interior of the siege engine, where levied spears were waiting to rush forward at their commander's order. They were pressed tight in the confines, a tiered staircase circling at right angles leading to the ground below, and they watched the battle between Knight and Irregular in petrified horror.
Sara pulled back from her latest swing, gripped her sword tight, and shouted "Warp!"
The terrified faces of the commoners jumped in size, Sara appearing just before the tips of their spears. She flicked her sword out to its full extension, falling into a stance meant for wide, sweeping blows.
The slaughter began.
Wood, then blood, flew. It coated the walls as Sara laid into the commoners, shattering the front ranks of spears with the first sweep of her sword, cleaving through limbs with her second.
She poured electricity into her blade the entire time, Garen's lessons paying real dividends at last. After some experimentation proved to the archmage that Sara really could cast her weakest spells without limit, he'd asked her why she didn't do so regularly. Sara didn't have an answer, and so she'd spent a week honing her skills to the point she could cast "Taze" without an activation word. There was a rhythm to it, requiring her to be constantly aware of the energy cycling in her body and out through her blade. She had to stabilize the loop even as she ripped bloody chunks from the tight-pressed commoners, and the split focus was headache-inducing. Worth it, though.
Of those she felled, many went down with their gambesons catching fire, and with her killing two or three with every swing, the interior of the siege engine was becoming choked with smoke.
Sara felt like vomiting. This wasn't fighting nobles. This wasn't fighting bandits. This wasn't even fighting gangsters or robbers, people she might have sympathized with, had she known the circumstances that led them to such a life. She was mowing her way through involuntary conscripts, and she was doing it with nauseating ease.
There were fifteen thousand commoners in the force opposing her. How long would it have taken for a cadre of twenty soldiers of Sara's caliber to lay waste to them all? Two hours? One? They couldn't even run away; even with a hundred pounds of armor holding her down, Sara moved so much faster than the commoners that they might as well have been standing still. If the soldiers were mounted, even those that fled early would be hunted like dogs.
The panicked screams began to rise in earnest, commoners dropping their weapons and shoving against their fellows further down the stairs in a rush to get away from the black-clad monstrosity ripping through their ranks. Sara kept on anyway, figuring that if she could get to the bottom, it wouldn't matter if the Knights above took the wall. No commoner would be capable of getting past her.
Through the walls of the siege engine, she heard a sudden roar of flames, powerful enough to temporarily overpower Champion's Inspiration, and then the horrific sound of stone grating against stone. Thuds of increasing frequency followed, shaking the floor beneath her, and she recognized the dull roar as an avalanche. Some part of the wall was collapsing. She had no idea how much, or how many fell with it, but she knew what had caused it.
The mages had entered the battle.
Sara redoubled her efforts, no longer caring if she left some alive behind her in the rush to the bottom. The corpses the stragglers stood amongst were going up in flame anyway, and either the smoke or scent of burning flesh would choke them to unconsciousness.
She had just landed on the third flight of stairs when she felt a sudden force take her from behind, seizing her and lifting her up and away. She was weightless for a surreal moment, then reality crashed back into her as she slammed into the ceiling, limbs bent askew by the impact. She landed on the floor a moment later with a wood-cracking thud, staring up at the Knight standing over her.
"Foul Champion! You avoid honest battle, seeking instead to lay waste to those who cannot oppose you! Where is–"
"Boom!"
Whatever the Knight was going to say next was subsumed with the rest of his body, a column of blinding white erupting from her sword. As always, the Lightning contained no physical force, but it wasn't lacking in pure energy. A six-foot circle of the siege tower's roof was reduced to ash, a thunderous boom echoing across the valley as a pillar two hundred feet long forked out into the clear sky. When the afterimage faded from her vision, Sara was astounded to see the Knight still standing over her, wreathed in unholy smoke.
"Your honor!" He roared, slamming a mace down for her eyes.
Sara turned her head to the side, taking the blow against the temple of her helmet, which rang like she'd stood inside a church bell. Her vision doubled, then tripled, thoughts and words and tongue turning to mush as a hand reached for her collar, turning her back over.
"Amarat chose you!" The man bellowed again, winding up for another blow. Sara kicked both childishly and viciously at his shins and ankles, stumbling him just enough to necessitate a readjustment before his swing, and that was enough for her to break his grip, scrambling up to her hands and knees, trying to regain her feet as quickly as she could.
Then a boot took her in the armor above her ribs, sending her flying. She hit six feet up a wall with a gasp, head swimming, and landed back on her hands and knees by coincidence alone.
When she opened her eyes, it was to the sight of the Knight rushing her, mace raised high. She brought her greatsword up in one hand, unwieldy in its current form, trying to block as best she could.
Then she heard a woman scream bloody murder to her left, loud even over the din of battle, and the Knight pulled himself to a skidding stop. With a bitten-off curse, but remarkable lack of hesitation, he switched targets, diving out of the smoke-filled tower.
Sara took deep, heaving breaths, filling her lung with the smoke of burning corpses. She forced herself into a sitting position, with her back against the wall. That kept her head in the smoke, which was trickling out through the broken roof, and she immediately began to cough, then to wretch, the already-acrid taste of smoke turned to something truly hideous by its morbid fuel. She tried to stand, but the world swam about her, and she dropped back against the wall, stomach heaving.
Sara barely got her visor open in time before she began to vomit, her stomach clenching in agony as bile spat limply out of her mouth to fall down the front of her armor. The list of what could have caused her to begin puking was long, from head trauma to festering corpses, but the end result was the same. Half-digested chunks of breakfast sliding down the front of her breastplate, landing in the folds of her armored waist.
Several spear-wielding commoners began poking their heads back up the siege tower, their fear of whatever had turned their brethren to corpses warring with the thought of being punished for disobeying orders. When they saw her slumped against the wall, profusely vomiting down the front of her armor, they fled.
Though it felt like hours, it was likely only twenty or thirty seconds before Sara's stomach was empty, leaving her gut clenching painfully on nothing. In that time she heard several more wall-rattling impacts from outside, not quite like explosions, but not unlike them, either. The distinct twang of metal-strung ballistae rose in response, trying to suppress the mages, and she knew the rest of the siege towers had landed, the assault begun across the full length of the fort.
Wiping the vomit from her lips with the back of her forearm, Sara fumbled a gauntleted hand into the protected bag beneath her armor's fauld, pulling out a health potion. She downed the entire bitter thing like a shot, even though she likely didn't need all of it. She didn't have any idea of knowing how bad that mace's impact had been, and she wasn't going to take the risk. With a cool flush rushing through her, she stabbed her greatsword into the floor and used it to stand, stepping through the smoke.
The source of the scream that had distracted the Knight became obvious when she emerged, seeing the man posed defensively over the limp bodies of two other Knights. The one on Sara's left seemed barely conscious, a single limb trying dragging themselves back to the siege tower, while the one on the right was unmoving. Of the eight or so Knights that had launched the assault, those were the only three she could see remaining. Deep in her emptied gut, she felt a flicker of pride. Her troops had done well.
The problem was, then, that last Knight. He had thrown Sara around like a ragdoll, which meant none of the Irregulars facing him would be able to achieve jack shit. Sara guessed the only reason he wasn't ripping through their lines that very second was his concern for his injured comrades.
Another flicker of pride stirred as she realized her halberdiers had taken up a crouched line behind the Irregulars, shoving their halberds between legs to try and use their weapon's back-sided hook to seize the limbs of the injured Knights. Evie had ordered the entire army to try and take hostage anyone sporting enchanted equipment, both because the gear could be used for their own forces, and because noble lives would be a useful bargaining chip.
Their distraction also left the Knight with little option other than remaining in place, battering away the encroaching halberds with his legs and mace. The threat of the Irregulars, no matter how much weaker they were than him, meant he couldn't just bend over and carry his comrades to safety.
Sara had been warned about this. After consulting the veritable library of military manuscripts, battle accounts, and gods knew what else Evie had hauled along with the army, her girlfriend had presented her with two likely possibilities for how the Royal Army would man its siege engines. Some doctrines called for the powerful members of the army to be at the forefront, giving the most certain chance of victory in the initial assault, while others held that the elites should be reserved for the knockout blow, coming in when the gaps in the enemy's defenses had been identified. Which an army's commander chose usually depended on their estimation of the enemy's capabilities; if they thought their foe weak enough to be broken by the chaff, they'd let them have their fun. If not, the big boys led the charge.
By the fight she'd just been in, Sara guessed that King Sporatos had decided to let the mid-tiers have their go. The Knights they'd just fought were probably third and fourth born, fearful that they were of little use to their Houses. Condemned to a life of ignominy. They'd volunteered for the most dangerous duty, knowing that they were among the least of their army's Knights, facing the greatest of their enemy. Stupid, but if it worked, it had a decent chance of catapulting their status beyond the shadow of their betters.
Of course, someone had to be there to guide the greedy, arrogant little pricks, and that was what Sara guessed this Knight was. A single member of the Sporaton elite, a genuine life-long warrior. He was a threat unlike any of the others, and even if Sara and the Irregulars rushed him all at once, he was bound to take more than his share down with him.
Sara stepped up behind him, taking her stance. She was alone on the siege tower's bridge, and would finally have the room she needed for her greatsword. The battle raged beyond her, and she'd heard several callouts from her crystal over the course of the past few minutes, but she couldn't spare the attention. In such a straight-forward siege, her role as her army's most powerful Irregular superseded that of General.
Though his head never turned to face her, she caught the twitch in the Knight's shoulders that said he'd noticed her presence. He knocked away yet another attempt to seize his wounded comrades, his voice ringing out.
"Champion! I take it that you've no intention of allowing me to minister to my injured?"
"Their wounds will be treated in our camp," Sara responded, only her Blessings keeping the bitter snap from her words. To the outside world, her voice was smooth as silk. "And yours will be too, Knight. You're surrounded."
"By foes who cower before me."
"You can't kill all of us."
"You can't afford the loss of how many I'll defeat."
Sara silently took her stance. He was right, of course. Didn't mean she was going to let him go.
"Defeat?" She quoted, adding a disdainful scoff to her question. "Have you not the stomach to use the word kill? We're at war, Knight. There is no honor here."
"If that is so, it is only because you refuse to allow its presence."
"Is there honor in the blood of the commoners you'll wade through, should you break through our lines?"
"No," the Knight responded, taking Sara by surprise. "But there is honor in fighting for one's liege, in doing one's duty. That two stand opposite another on the field of battle does not mean the actions of one or the other must be honorless."
Sara's eyes roamed over the heads of her lines, searching for a spot of ruby. Not seeing one yet, she decided to humor the Knight. "Honor, if it exists, is not found in deed alone. It is found in the cause one fights for, what one's actions seek to bring forth in the world."
"Honor is an end unto itself," the Knight replied, twisting his mace's grip. "You fight for your people, and I fight for mine. To do anything less would sully ourselves."
"To seek peace is the greatest honor of all. Stand down, Sir Knight, and I promise on the Name of Amarat that I will allow you and those you protect the opportunity for repatriation at war's end."
It wasn't a promise Sara wanted to make, but she needed this over. She'd stick to her word, if it meant she could get to the fighting elsewhere.
"You begun this war with the claim that you hold sacred no truth, bend yourself to none's will, and will pursue victory above all else."
"And I will. Fortunately, displaying mercy to a surrendering foe encourages others to surrender as well. Keeping my word is as practical as it is honorable, even by your antiquated definition."
"How I wish I could believe you, Champion. Unfortunately, I know I cannot trust your honeyed words. So long as there is a chance for my victory, I will not bend."
"Unfortunate indeed, Knight," Sara said, beginning to move forward.
Just before she took a deep breath to call out a charge, Sara caught sight of a splash of red moving through the crowd. Evie slipped between the halberdiers with ease, a hand on her collar, following the impulse of Sara's desires. She emerged into the cleared circle.
Without a word, the feline raised her rapier, meeting the Knight's eye. Sara could not see his face, but she felt the way he looked her up and down, taking her in. Her ruby dress flowed down to her shins, tailored to soften the bulk of leather armor hidden beneath. Her rapier had a ghostly sheen to it as she fell into her stance, right foot forward, knuckles of her offhand pressed to the small of her back. Her feline ears were still as stone, unerringly locked onto the Knight.
"Lady Eliah," the Knight eventually said, tilting his head imperceptibly.
"Knight Emeric," she replied, nodding in turn. "The name is now Evie."
"Lady Evie," Emeric corrected himself. He paused, considering. "Will my Knights truly have their wounds tended to?"
"So long as their treatment does not prevent the aiding of our own, yes."
"And they will not be prosecuted for crimes committed before their capture?"
"Master?" Evie asked.
"No," Sara confirmed, though she grated at saying it.
"Then I will accept your offer," the Knight said, taking a step backward, careful to lift his foot over the unconscious bodies he'd been guarding. Though Sara hadn't noticed it, at some point the leftmost Knight had also stopped moving. He continued to take slow, precise steps away from Evie, his focus never wavering.
When he finally was out of Evie's immediate lunging range, he turned his head just enough to catch Sara in his peripheral vision. "Champion. Will I be allowed to pass below?"
Taking yet another risk, Sara trusted to the so-called honor of this man. "So long as you give me your solemn promise that you will not rejoin the battle until the sun has risen tomorrow morning, yes."
"It is given."
Sara stepped aside on the bridge, lowering her sword. As he began to approach her, she belatedly took a few slow steps backward, realizing that a sudden shove from the Knight could throw her off the bridge. When they were both in the smoke-filled siege tower, they paused, staring at one another. Two faceless beings clad in steel, not an inch of skin exposed. Like mortuary statues.
And then he shifted, giving life to the relief. He continued down the stairs, calling orders for the commoners within to begin withdrawing.
Sara jogged back over the bridge, meeting Evie, who was jogging to her.
"Master," she immediately breathed, summoning her handkerchief to wipe at Sara's breastplate. "Half the army saw you in such a state."
"I really can't explain how little I give a shit," she replied tiredly. They walked back to the lines, and from the siege tower's bridge, Sara got her first look at how the larger battle was progressing.
Mages had indeed begun to wreak havoc. The remains of the first explosion Sara had heard could be seen two hundred yards to her right, where a deep bowl had been cut from the concrete, exposing the wooden rebar within. Her tests had found that wood, while not nearly as effective a reinforcement as steel, was still some limited aid to concrete's integrity. That aid now seemed to be a curse. Pillars of smoke were rising in tiny lines across the entire wall. The fires were eating away at the wood, fist-sized termites boring through the wall.
Sara was about to raise her crystal to order some of the relief force up to staunch the flames, but stopped when she saw a team running forward to do just that. Colonel Elase's troops, by the look of it. That was probably worth a medal, if she ever got around to coming up with them, for Colonel Elase and the fire teams both. Military decorations weren't a thing here, apparently. Armies usually rewarded commoners with paltry shares of plundered goods from the cities they'd died to take.
"I couldn't pay attention to reports," Sara said, once Evie finished cleaning the vomit off of her. "How's the battle doing?"
"As expected."
"Fuck."
Sara lifted her visor to rub at her eyes, trying to clear away sweat. How long had it been? It felt like hours, but the sun hadn't moved. Ten minutes, she eventually decided. Only ten minutes. Attempts to take the walls of a fortification usually lasted hours. Multiple waves, successive attempts, testing charges and probing attacks... christ, it was going to be a long day.
"Have we killed any mages?"
"No, but we have managed to drive off several. Guarded as they are by the Knights, they are easily tracked, and so we have been able to limit their damage."
Sara looked to her right, further down the wall. Between two of the siege towers was a stretch of wall where no one stood. All that remained was blackened corpses on the ground, smoking. She knew well the damage Lightning could cause, but she had never seen it effect on so many at once.
Even as she watched, however, the empty space of wall was being filled by reserve troops. The first rank took up positions at the crenellations, the second bending down to unceremoniously shove twisted and blackened bodies off the wall to their own lines, clearing space. She had no idea how the corpses would be identified to be returned to their families.
Likely, they wouldn't. They'd end up in some mass grave, a humble marker left to honor the intermingled bones below. And that was assuming Sara kept the fort for long enough for even that to be achieved; she doubted the Sporaton forces would bother with much more than shoving them off in a downwind pile. The carrion birds would do the rest.
"How long are you going to make me rest?" Sara suddenly asked.
"Five minutes, Master." Evie raised her voice for the rest of the Irregulars to hear. "Five minutes mandated rest! Tend to your wounds, take potion only if a bandage will not stem the flow of blood! Then we will aid whichever portion of the line needs it most!"
Sara sat down with a groan, leaning her back against the wall. Evie looked at her with no small amount of concern, clearly wishing she'd been present during the fight, but Sara waved off her concern. After one of the most prolonged debates of their entire relationship, Evie had agreed not to follow Sara into the thick of battle. The feline was basically her... handler, she guessed. The arguments Sara had used to achieve that were many, but the most compelling and succesful had been the growing disparity between their Classes.
As her Class had progressed with Sara's levels, Evie's abilities had leant more and more into those of a duelist, with a minor bend towards body guard and secretary. Sara's "Bindtwister of Amarat" Class had her growing more and more aware of unseen threats, gaining a vague but reliable awareness of danger beyond her line of sight. Evie's "Supplicant Duelist" Class had taken a different course.
There was little precedent for Evie to draw upon for this new heading. It seemed very few people reached the true upper echelons of a Class dedicated to pure dueling. The very idea of seeking out and engaging equal opponents in single combat did not, as a rule, lend oneself to living a particularly long life. Perhaps if she still had access to Sporaton records Evie would have known better what to expect, but she didn't. All she knew was that her ability to deal with a single opponent had continued to grow, while her talent for fighting in a mob had withered on the vine. She had no senses beyond the mundane for noticing things beyond her peripheral, and that was a deadly disadvantage on the chaotic battlefield that was borne when Irregulars fought.
This lopsided difference had forced a recalcitrant Evie into admitting that her following Sara into certain kinds of battle was too dangerous to tolerate. She could still mow through commoners as easily as any Irregular, but the tight press of the fort's walls was too risky. If a Knight got behind Sara, she would either notice, or her armor would take the blow. Evie would just die.
"Five minutes is up, Master," Evie said, holding out a hand. Sara took it, standing with a grunt.
"Which part of the line is looking the worst?"
"It's difficult to tell from here, Master."
"Yeah." Sara lifted the crystal to her mouth. "Priority message from the Governess to Colonels, do not speak until I am silent. We've succesfully driven off the central siege tower, and our Irregulars are now available to reinforce where necessary. Report your portion of the wall's status, beginning from easternmost to westernmost, and explicitly state when your report is finished, so the next may begin. First report, begin. "
Colonel Sarig, currently in charge of the section of wall which abutted the valley's eastern perimeter, began to speak. Sara listened intently, standing on tiptoes to try and see the various damages he was reporting, and waited for him to finish.
During this second report, Sara's concentration was unfortunately ruined by a very bizarre sight. She'd idly noticed over the past few minutes that the siege tower had started to retreat, then stopped, and thought little of it. Seeing as no second assault had come forth, she'd hoped it was because the troops within that propelled it had abandoned the structure. The true reason was far more bizarre, and perhaps even better for her.
"Evie, can you pay attention to the reports for me?" Sara asked, tossing the her crystal in her pocket while she went back to the crenellations, lowering her visor. Through its vision-slits she saw several hands emerge from the stairwell, frantically waving... papers?
"We surrender!" Came a cry, immediately echoed by several more. "Don't shoot! We surrender!"
Sara suddenly recognized the papers for what they were. The propaganda posters she'd had made, working Vesta's poor secretary to the bone with her ink-copying spell. On them she'd had printed a great number of things, but among them was the instruction that if the enemy wished to surrender, but lacked a white flag to fly, the papers themselves would suffice as a replacement.
"Come out unarmed!" Sara shouted back, her voiced attenuated strangely from within her helmet. "Helmets and spears off, not even a knife in sight!"
The papers retreated for a moment as the commoners hurried to follow her instructions, and in that time, Sara's mind whirled. She'd hoped, practically prayed, that her offer of clemency for the Sporaton commoners would be taken, but she hadn't expected it during the very opening stages of the battle. She hurriedly began to think of how best she could modify her appearance within her beastly armor, which had been designed explicitly to be as intimidating as possible.
She decided on resting both hands on the crenellations to either side of her, leaning against them as if she needed the support. She began to raise and lower her shoulders, as if she were panting and near exhaustion, and kept herself bent slightly forward, so she would seem a little bit shorter than was average in Tulian. She was tempted to open her faceplate, which would do wonders to ruin the effect of her helmet's metallic scowl, but she didn't want to take the risk of being shot.
"We're coming up!" A quavery voice called, belonging to a man that slowly stumbled into view. His hands were over his head, and as instructed, he'd shed his helmet and spear.
"Slowly forward, into the light, all of you!" Sara called, adding a faux gasp between her words. Either her apparent willingness to show vulnerability would endear her to the commoners, or would bait out whatever betrayal they had in store. "Now turn around in a circle!" Sara called when a solid-sized group was in sight. "I want your gambesons untucked and anything you have dangerous on you gone! If none of you have a weapon, you'll be allowed forward, but if I see so much as a pocket knife, you're getting shot full of holes!"
Sara didn't actually have archers up on the wall, they were all down below in the murderholes, but that hardly mattered to the panicked commoners. They obediently followed her instructions, untucking their gambesons so that any hidden weapons would hopefully fall out, then spinning slow circles, confirming none had a weapon strapped to their belt. After all that was done, Sara waved them forward, and was surprised by a second group emerging.
They began to follow the first, not wanting to be separated, forcing Sara to draw her blade, hollering the same instructions for them that she had the first group. The sight of her sword had them freezing like she'd just pulled a gun, which reassured her at least a little bit that this wasn't some coordinated ploy. Some among their number may have been spies, but after seeing such terror on their faces, she thought the bulk were genuine.
She processed several more groups in similar fashion, shepherding them into the waiting embrace of her halberd-wielding troops, who then marched them down the nearest set of stairs, one sergeant calling for rope to bind the prisoner's legs together. A bit inhumane in Sara's eyes, but understandable, under the circumstances.
When the fourth group had begun to cross, the siege tower suddenly lurched, pulling back from the wall. Whatever debate had been occurring down below had apparently been resolved in favor of leaving. The bridge began scraping off the concrete crenellations, and many of the commoners were frozen by indecision.
Several, however, already half across the span, broke into a run. Just before the edge of the bridge fell from the wall, they leapt, screaming bloody murder.
Sara lunged forward, hand outstretched, and snagged a woman's forearm. She slammed chest-first into the wall, her grip slackening on Sara's own forearm, but it didn't matter. Sara easily hauled her up and over the wall, setting her down on the concrete.
To Sara's immense surprise, she saw Evie right beside her, dragging a second commoner back to safety. She didn't know why, but seeing Evie lunge for that woman's hand shocked her. Something to dissect when they weren't in a battle.
Unlike the strange decision to surrender so promptly, which Sara wanted to inquire after immediately. She set the rescued woman down, but didn't release her arm. Instead Sara stepped behind the protection of a crenellation and lifted her visor.
"Alright, you're safe now. On with the rest of your buddies, alright?"
"Y-yes m-m'lady," the soldier stuttered. Sara released her arm, allowing her to move towards the halberdier she had indicated.
"Just ma'am is fine," Sara said. "No lords or ladies here in Tulian, I promise. You're free of them."
Sara had meant it as a grand statement, a moment of revelation for the woman that she was finally free, but it didn't seem to be taken that way. The former Sporaton commoner nodded again, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. She was just glad to have escaped the battle with her life.
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One PM
Carpenter Elase
Colonel Elase stood behind the ballistae, looking down the long shaft of its bolt. Sweat dripped down from her brow, stinging her eye, and she blinked it away with an irritated growl. Silhouetted at the end of the bolt's steel tip was a robed individual, outline warped by the energies gathering about their raised hands.
"Loose!"
Colonel Elase's hair was sucked forward by the release of tension, a steel cable as thick as her wrist propelling the projectile forward. She'd cut it awfully fine; the bolt impacted just as the light shining about the mage's hands had begun to color, taking on a sickly and ominous green.
Instead of releasing an unholy spell upon the walls, the mage's hands jerked to one side, whatever permanent wards they had affixed to their robes warning them of the oncoming threat. A great orange shield blocked them from view just as the bolt landed, its incomprehensible power checked by an even greater shield. The bolt shattered, piercing the flesh of many a peasant around them, and then faded away.
The mage was looking at them. At their ballistae. They began to raise their hands, energy gathering once more.
"Back! Back, back, back you fucking mongrels or we're all dead!"
Colonel Elase felt the jolting shudder of the rail-mounted ballistae's brakes being pulled none too soon. Just as her hair began to float off her skin, the air itself tugging her body upward, they began to scrape backward. She and the rest of the ballistae's crew clutched its wooden expanse tightly as they accelerated away, metal wheels throwing sparks as they flew back down the ramp that had brought them into position.
Above them, in the space they had just occupied, erupted a torrent of beastly fire. Green as pond scum it was, boiling and bubbling up into a thick ugly stew, and it lingered in the air for far longer than any flame rightly should. The concrete underneath it began to jump and crack, heat it wasn't meant to take shattering it in layers.
Colonel Elase grunted as they were thrown to a bone-jarring stop, the ballistae platform's bumpers slamming into wooden stops. Ignoring the hellish spell, she immediately hopped off while the crew began to crank the ballistae's bowlimbs back into position, inspecting the bumpers themselves for any signs of cracking.
Fifty years a carpenter, fifty fucking years, and what do I do with? Go and get in charge of godsdamned army. Fucking stupid, Elase, fucking stupid.
Her self-pitying harangue was unending as she moved along the ballistae's support platform, running the pads of her fingers across the points of greatest stress. Senses she couldn't define told her that the structure was suffering, but wasn't yet close to breaking. It had more punishment left in it to give.
"Good girl," she whispered, giving it a pat. "We've got more killing yet."
With a hand on her lower back, she jerked herself back up into a standing position, armor visor lifted to make sure the lads could properly see her scowling at them.
"Hurry it the fuck up! You think that mage just wants to kill us, huh? No! They're winding up to gut every prick they could, and if you ever want to feel something hot and heavy 'tween your legs again, you'll damn well do something about it! Nobody fucks cowards!"
Colonel Elase didn't wait to see if the troops responded. She was already marching up the steps to the ballistae's platform.
The mage's spell had passed, yet the concrete radiated waves of heat beneath her feet. She felt a sweat break out as she hauled herself up the last few steps, surveying the damage.
The leftmost rail was warped beyond use, curled in on itself like a roasted insect. The right rail was still cooling down, but looked like it had been heated to a cherry glow and was only now returning to its original hue. Only the concrete itself was mostly undamaged, but that wasn't likely to last long. She had to shift her feet constantly, lest the heat soak through the soles of her boots.
Elase turned back to the stairs, lifting the crystal to her lips. "Colonel Shale, the third ballistae emplacement suffered spell damage. Need a rail replaced before we can get back into the fight."
"Damnit," came the response, sounding out of breath. "I'll send some folk over. Do what you can, in the meantime."
Dropping the crystal, Elase rolled her eyes. "No shit, 'do what I can.' Think I'm just gonna sit here suckin' my thumb?"
She reached the bottom of the stairs and began barking orders for the ballistae to be tuned while the crew waited, figuring they at least ought to be doing something useful with their time, too. When she had the crew working as she liked, she snagged a crossbow and headed for a different set of stairs.
Really, the hell am I doing? 'Colonel' Elase. Not like I'm commanding jack shit.
She entered the narrow hallway hidden within the wall's confines and was immediately met with a wall of smoke even more acidic than her self-recrimination. Her eyes watered as she coughed out a few curses, bending low to be under the acrid scent.
"The fuck's going on?" She called angrily, heading for the nearest murderhole. She stuck her head into the narrow slot, searching for the occupying crew.
They were both kneeling on the ground, too busy coughing into their arms to respond. The smoke was even thicker in the slot than it'd been in the hallway.
"It like this all the way up the wall?" She demanded. Blinking watering eyes, one of the archers nodded. "Shit! Why'd no one tell me?"
Before the archer could point out that Elase hadn't been at her station, having gallivanted off to take control of one of the ballistae, she left. She dropped the crossbow near the entrance and pulled a rag from her pocket, pouring her canteen's water over it and holding it over her face as she continued down the hallway.
All throughout the interior of Fort Midwich's walls, the archers were suffering. They were supposed to fight in pairs, one to loose as rapidly as they were able, the other feeding them arrows until they were too tired to continue, then they switched. Now each team was crouched on the floor to avoid the smoke that poured from some hidden source, only occasionally popping up to loose some shots. It was probably why the enemy archers had managed to stick around for so long.
Elase began shouting at the archers she passed, half encouragement, half insults. She wanted them back at their posts, poking holes in Sporaton pricks, and if they weren't going to do it, she at least wanted them to know what she thought of them for it.
Eventually, after crouching her way under nearly two hundred yards of smoke, she found the source. A collapsed portion of the wall, blown in by some mage's spell, was absolutely pouring smoke into the air. Though she couldn't see any fire, it didn't change the fact that she felt heat wafting off it in waves, and the amount of black smoke it oozed was more than a bonfire of equal size should've been putting off.
She pulled away from the heat, ripping her crystal out of her pocket.
"Got some mage bullshit in the wall interior, 'bout... three hundred yards west of center, I'd say. That portion of the wall that fell down is shittin' smoke like nobody's business, and it's chokin' all the archers out."
The Governess's voice sang out of the crystal almost immediately.
"What do you mean, choking out the archers?"
"I mean it's chokin' out the archers! Most of it's pourin' out the murderholes, so it's not filling the whole place up, but it's real nasty shit. Not normal smoke. Can't breathe it in for more than a few seconds before you start hacking up a lung."
"God-fucking-damnit," The Governess growled, a guttural curse that Elase doubted was supposed to be sent over the crystal for all to hear. "Alright, we'll try and figure something out. Colonel Shale, see if you've got any artificers with bright ideas. If not, try and evacuate the nearby archers on either side of the collapse and board up the wall, see if we can't stop it up."
With that task luckily delegated to someone else, Elase awkwardly crouch-walked back the way she came. This time she yelled at the archers that someone was coming to do something about the smoke, which was probably better for their morale than the insult-slinging she'd been doing before.
When she emerged where she'd started, she was immediately rushed by one of her lieutenants. Merra came up to her with a furious look on her face, halberd gripped like she was readying herself to take a swing at Elase's head.
"Godsdamnit! Where have you been?"
Elase stopped wiping smoke off her face for a second to jab a thumb at the wall. "Figurin' out why in the hell our archers weren't doing their jobs."
"You've got a job to do!" Lieutenant Merra roared, shoving against Elase's breastplate. "I'm not supposed to be in charge of this shit! That's your job!"
"The fuck am I supposed to do?" Elase countered, waving to the wall. "It's a siege! You stand there, you kill as many as you can, and if you can't kill no more, you let someone else take your place! Every damn soldier's got enough brains in them to know that! I'm ten times more useful with the ballistae than I am up on the wall, hollerin' myself hoarse tellin' everyone to hold steady!"
Lieutenant Merra shoved her again, fury on her face. "But it's what you're damn well supposed to be doing! Not me!"
"You're a fuckin' Lieutenant!" Elase roared, shoving her back, far harder. "Your job is to do what I goddamn tell you to do! Now get back up on that wall, or gods help me I'll throw you up there my fucking self!"
Merra was stumbled backward several feet by Elase's brutish push, looking enraged. Her fist curled and raised toward Elase, ready to start a proper brawl, but at the last second, the young Lieutenant thought better of it. Instead she whirled, putting her back to Elase with as much hostility as the movement could hold, and stomped back up to her post.
Elase watched her go, grinding her teeth with anger. The Lieutenant was half-right. If you wanted to get technical with it, Elase should be up on that wall. She was a Colonel, in charge of a fifth of the entire army, and that entailed a whole helluva lot of responsibility.
Problem was, Elase was right, too. This wasn't a field battle. It was a siege. She'd hand-picked her every last one of her Lieutenants, plenty of the Sergeants, too, and she trusted every last one of them with her life. They were too smart to need her breathing down their necks. If they'd been in the field, things'd be different, as they'd need one voice and one set of orders keeping them in line, but not here.
Lieutenant Merra was a smart gal, but she was the sort that was reassured by someone looking over her shoulder. She was great at drills and routine, but improv scared her half to death. Unfortunately for her, she was going to get have to get used to it, because she wasn't going to get her hand held forever, especially when her task was so simple.
No, Elase was doing more good on the ballistae than she'd ever have achieved on the wall. She returned to it now, inspecting the tuning job the crew had done in her absence.
Decades of woodworking experience let her feel the mighty beast's grain with an almost intimate intensity. She ran her hands along the length of its bowlimb, plucked and tapped at its steel string, and gently twisted the gears that let the crew pull it into tension beyond any human strength. To an outsider, Elase looked damn strange. Like she was molesting the poor ballistae, probably.
She wasn't, of course, but that didn't mean she wasn't opposed to the idea. She loved the damn things more than was proper, that was for sure.
Satisfied that the crew hadn't screwed anything up, she moved to the rails that it slid along, walking the length while looking for any sign of imperfection. The unmarred sections of the track were predictably flawless, and didn't require much attention. It was when she got near the top that she bent a bit lower, feeling the metal grooves.
A group of combat engineers were working at the top, protected by a group of halberdiers that had exchanged their weapons for oversized shields. They finished wrenching off the ruined bit of iron track just as Elase arrived, heaving it aside. A straight length of steel was dropped in its place, the angle hurriedly checked, and then they began to work, pinning it in place.
Elase watched their work with a lust that nearly equaled her love for the ballistae. Lots of people had lots of ways they liked to sum up the Champion of Amarat's leadership, usually involving words like brilliant, crazy, naive, shocking, or whatever else, but Elase only ever thought of one word:
Standard.
The iron section of track the combat engineers dropped down was standardized. It was the same height, width, and shape as the tracks that ran in the revitalized mines across Tulian, the same that every ballistae on the Tulian walls rolled along. When the combat engineers brought out a handful of nails, patching over a broken section of the wall with thin planks of wood, Elase recognized that the nails were called two-inchers, of a length, width, and design perfecetly identical to every other two-incher in the new nation.
Anywhere you went in Tulian, so long as the Governess had a hand in building it, the parts were the same. You never needed a different tool, never needed to ask a local what the funny-looking joint was there for, never needed to worry about finding something you'd never seen before. Shit just worked.
And if most people couldn't understand the value of that, Elase sure as shit could. She watched the combat engineers pin the new track into place in a matter of minutes, a repair only possible because they had a stockpile of identical replacement parts waiting in the wings.
That kinda perfection wasn't as beautiful as the ballistae, but it was damn close. Once she assured herself that their work was good, and that the ballistae wouldn't founder when it was hauled up the tracks, she went back and rejoined the crew.
"Ready below!" She cried, glancing down at the reserves. At her shout they lunged for the ropes, taking hold of the rope pulleys that would drag the ballistae up into its loosing position. "Pull!"
The ballistae lurched forward, dragged forward by dozens of strong arms. She licked her lips as they went, feeling the rumble of the wheels grinding over the track. All good, so far.
There was a far more noticeable clack as the ballistae rolled over the patched portion of rail, but nothing worse. In seconds Elase was looking down the length of the bolt, searching for a target. At her side, one of the crew began counting aloud, down from thirty. That was the ballistae's limit for how long they were allowed to be exposed. Spending too long atop the wall was sure to end up with a mage's attention drawn to them, and if one of the bastards managed to cast a spell unimpeded, that would be the end of them.
When the count reached ten and Elase still hadn't found a mage to target, she cursed and swung the ballistae around. When the count hit five, she aimed for some important-looking prick sitting atop a horse.
"Loose!"
The bolt ripped forward, disappearing between blinks. It reappeared in the side of the man's horse, steel armor buckling as it lodged itself through the animal's lungs. The horse dropped, throwing its rider, and Elase began shouting for them to be drawn back.
The ballistae lurched backward before she could see what happened to the armored rider themselves, and though that pissed her off, the lightning bolt that flew over her head a moment later did a whole hell of a lot to mollify her. Her hair once more stood on end as it deafened her with a violent boom, so bright that the world around her was briefly robbed of its shadows.
Too close, she thought. Gonna have to get quicker at it.
"Reload!" She cried as the ballistae slammed against the bumper, jarring in its intensity. Once again, she began the ritual of checking the assembly for damage, but when she turned around, she realized one of the loaders was missing.
She craned her neck about, confused, only to find them laying on the track above, the entire right side of their body blackened. They were shivering with pain, moaning deliriously. With how they were trembling, it didn't take a healer to know they weren't going to make it.
Too goddamn close.
"Someone get that poor bastard off the tracks and to a healer!" She roared. It may have been obvious the soldier was going to die, but that wasn't her call to make. Best to give them every chance they could get.
Twenty-five seconds, next time, Elase decided as she watched someone haul the trembling soldier away.
Before they'd taken more than a dozen feet, the soldier's shivering stopped. A single gurgling breath left their lips. Elase hadn't known their name.
Only twenty seconds, she amended. Twenty seconds should be enough.
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Three PM
Evie
Evie watched her Master near the bottom of the stairs, armor thudding and clanking with each overburdened step. To have repelled an ensorcelled siege tower in the opening minutes of battle was an achievement beyond reckoning, but not one Master had taken any joy in. That it had been followed by hours of futile, half-started attempts by peasants to re-emplace the siege tower was even worse. Without their Knights to support them, the slaughter Master had been forced to bring down was considerable.
For one so bright in demeanor throughout her life, Master had a brutal tendency towards pessimism in the face of war. Master did not see the lives she had saved; only those who had died in spite of her efforts. Evie thought it a shame that she lacked the ability to disassociate the realities and abstractions of battles and their casualties. She did not count them as figures on a paper, neat tally marks balanced against the marks on the Sporaton sheet, but the faces she had seen throughout their camp. Evie watched as Master reached the bottom of the stairs, taking a moment to put a hand against the wall for support. Remnants of the battle's wear seemed to cling to her like Nora's hated algae, every drop of blood shed by her blade collecting into bulging protrusions, clogging her pores until there was too much dragging her down to allow another step.
But, as was Master's nature, the Champion of Amarat lifted herself with a deep breath. With her eyes closed, she shook herself like a dog, the detritus that threatened to choke her scattering off like bark from a felled tree. Her Master may stagger, but she did not stagger for long.
Evie cocked her ears, listening to the shifting tune Master's abilities sent spiraling through the skies.
"Lauren Bousfield, Master?"
The monstrous black helmet turned to her, only the collar's bond telling Evie of the smile it hid. "You're getting better at recognizing them."
"Perhaps I am, but Bousfield's works have a... distinct aura to them, it could be said."
Master snorted indelicately. "Probably, yeah. Still wish she'd stuck with her old stagename, though."
Evie's brow crinkled, trying and failing to recall. Had Master told her of it, before? She shook her head, unsure. "I am unfamiliar, Master."
"Emperor Nero's Day at Disneyland."
"Ah," Evie said, as if it were enlightening in anyway. She vaguely recalled that "Disneyland" was the nexus of one of Master's much-hated corporations, and while the specific name of Nero held no historical weight, Master's opinion on Emperors was well known. A musician whose name was a mockery of hedonistic wealth, she supposed? Most likely. Generally speaking, if she assumed any one of Master's offhanded comments were an indictment of the wealthy or powerful, the odds of being correct were good enough as to be assured.
And if one had to wage war to a song, this mechanically altered wailing was as good as any. It whipped and cracked over the field of battle like the howling wind of a banshee's scream, its erratic drumming sending pulses of adrenaline through the hearts of the troops. Evie could only imagine how it was received by the enemy peasantry. Not well, that was for certain. At the very least, it would be actively wounding any with a passion for music that was restrained, elegant, or in any way refined.
Not that Master was much concerned with the peasantry. No, the smile she had flashed Evie and the redoubling of her music spoke to that.
She trailed behind Master as they jogged along the wall, allowing the half-trained Irregulars to take Evie's spot at Master's side. For all she wished to protect Master, there was little to be done on the field of battle that Master could not handle for herself.
Particularly when she was not running to kill peasants, where empathy may overwhelm her. When Master had sunk herself into the slaughter of the siege tower's occupants, Evie had briefly worried. Worried that Master was going to allow her sympathy to get the best of her, a distraction that could prove lethal. Master had persevered, but Evie was unable to shake the worry. Thankfully, that wasn't something she needed concern herself about at present.
They were moving to one of the siege towers, near the eastern valley wall. A fresh attempt upon the walls, bringing fresh Knights. Nobility. Against such an opponent, Master was perfectly willing to delve into violence. She even picked up into a light jog as they went, growing visibly eager to reach the site of battle. Evie followed easily, comparatively unburdened next to the heavily armored Irregulars.
At the siege tower, another chaotic battle had formed. The Knights were trying to break out to rove among the common troops, while what Irregulars had been able to respond desperately held them back, all their training leaving them barely able to survive, though they outnumbered the Knights three-to-one. Evie saw one Knightly weapon fall, taking a halberdier's arm off at the shoulder. Master's jog turned into a run.
Evie watched the black-clad Champion hit the lines of her own troops like a musket ball, blowing open a hole in her feverish desire to reach the conflict quicker.
Put frankly, Master enjoyed this kind of combat.
Perhaps concerningly so.
Evie stood behind the melee with her rapier unsummoned, watching Master wade into battle. Over the course of the battle, Master had sheathed her greatsword, a blade that had achieved near-mythical status among the troops, and taken a simpler halberd from a fallen soldier. That bloodied weapon now flew through the air with wild abandon, whistling all the way to its inevitable calamitous bang, bouncing off some poor fool's helmet.
Master's laughter turned hideous as the struck Knight fell forward in a daze. She twisted her halberd on its side and thrust it between the Knight's legs, then wrenched it backward. The spike opposite the weapon's axehead took the Knight's calf out from under them, then continued to drag them like a hooked fish until they were sent skidding across the concrete, flung behind the line of Irregulars. The armored projectile sparked to a stop a short distance before Evie, freeing Master to turn her attention to the next target.
She watched the Knight stir to life, shocked by their sudden lack of foes. Still recovering from Master's titanic blow, they were slow to get to their feet, and even slower to recognize that Evie was standing there, watching them.
If you could not yet take a blow to the head with grace, you shouldn't have gone to war, she thought, stepping into a lunge.
The Knight saw her at the last second and tried to duck, which was useless. Evie's wrist twisted ever so slightly down, rapier tip sliding through the slit of the Knight's helmet.
Evie felt her blade sink several inches into something soft, then catch. The Knight's duck had caught the blade in a bind against the eye slit's metal, stopping her a few inches short of an immediately lethal blow. The Knight began to shriek.
A woman, then, Evie determined. The screams were too shrill for a man.
Using the caught blade, she levered the woman onto the floor. The blinded woman began to flail about with all her limbs, screaming the entire while, trying to knock away her unseen attacker.
Irritated, Evie placed her heel on the woman's chestplate, pinning her in place, and adjusted the angle of her blade until it could be rammed home. It hit the back of the woman's helmet with a dull metallic thunk.
With that done, she wiped her blade clean and grabbed the corpse's ankle. She dragged it to the wall's edge, heaving it under the railings to the soil below. It landed with a jostling crash of metal against metal, limbs shattered and twisted, but she wasn't concerned. The armor was enchanted. Such a fall wouldn't damage it beyond salvaging, and the reserve troops had been instructed to stay away from the wall to avoid such falling debris.
Evie returned to her position behind the line, frowning. The so-called Knights they had faced thus far, save for Emeric, were barely worth the name. The Sporaton Knighthood was a vaunted institution, famed for their martial prowess, trained for centuries in the same tactics that had successfully brought the Kingdom to its current prodigious heights. Their youths were forged in Fort Lament, their adolescence ground away upon the fields of battle. They were the pinnacle of warfare, a force that even Master Graf had feared. Evie knew King Sporatos would not be sending his best, due to a mixture of politics, his underestimation of Master's forces, and the inherent inelegance of mounted troops engaging in a siege, but had they really thought they'd take the walls with such paltry examples of their Knighthood? Equipment aside, the girl Evie had just killed was barely a squire, much less a Knight.
She hoped Master would not kill whoever was in charge of this particular contingent before Evie found a chance to test herself. Emeric's concern for the fools at his feet had been awfully anticlimactic.
Evie watched the greater battle through the left of her peripheral vision, taking note of the way the blocks of spears had begun to move up, shields raised. She could see ladders being carried among them, and realized that King Sporatos must have finally realized that six points of contact with the enemy were not going to be enough to force a breakthrough. Small though the Tulian Army may be, with only six siege towers, they could easily rotate the tired and injured out of combat. If the walls were to fall, the Sporatons would need to bring as much pressure to bear as possible.
Thus, the ladders. Evie contemplated pulling Master out of the melee to inform her, but decided against it. By the conversations she overheard from the crystal, it seemed the Colonels were reacting appropriately. Calls to reinforce the lines, hold steady, archers to focus upon ladder-bearers, the usual fair. Master's direct involvement was unnecessary.
While still keeping an eye on the melee Master had embroiled herself in, Evie joined those at the wall awaiting the ladder's impact. She took a halberd from one of the soldiers and aligned herself with where she thought it most likely for the ladders to arrive. Though she was hardly as familiar with a spear and its derivatives as she was her rapier, it had been part of her training fundamentals to practice with it. The spear was, ultimately, the basis upon which all weapons were born, and its longest form, the pike, an exemplary illustration of battle's core philosophy: kill the enemy from where they cannot kill you.
When the first peasant reached within reach of Evie, they died, the speartip of a halberd passing through their eye. She reset herself behind the crenellation, preferring to avoid being in sight of archers as much as possible, and counted breaths until the next peasant should be in place.
Evie rolled to the side, leaned forward, and pierced the skull of a second peasant. It would be a long while yet until they were anywhere near mounting the walls.
A series of shouts sounded from her right, redirecting Evie's attention to the melee. It seemed a second Knight had ended up behind their lines, this time due to legitimately forcing their way through. Evie returned the soldier's halberd she'd taken.
The Knight had been readying themselves to dash away, bowling through the unprotected common troops. They paused when they saw her step forward, and after a moment's consideration of her appearance, took their poleaxe into a defensive stance.
Evie licked her lips, a smirk rising. This Knight had started on their feet. Perhaps they would be more entertaining than the last.
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Five PM
Graf Urs
Graf stood beside the King, watching the battle's progress. Unlike all the other nobles present, Graf was alone in matching the King's height, both of them sat on horseback. In fact, the crown of Graf's head may have very well been above the King's. An minor sign of disrespect to a very important man, but one that Graf was perhaps unique in all the world for being able to do without consequence. Graf Urs sat level with the King of Sporatos, and neither thought it worth remark.
Of course, the occasion was not without subtlety. Graf was not the first choice of advisor for King Sporatos, who would undoubtedly have preferred to have one of those masked strangers at his side. Even before the Champion's accusation that the masked strangers were subverting the King's rule, Graf had tasted the smack of the occult upon them. After the Champion's pronouncement, King Sporatos had been forced to do away with the counsel of the strangers, at least in public. Even if their stated role was as anonymous foreign consultant experts on the history and behavior of Champions, which well explained their high level of involvement in the conflict, the implication that King Sporatos's decisions were being supplanted was damning. The anti-war faction had seized the notion like a dog with a bone, and had even begun to quietly discuss the full breadth of the word "heretic" used by the Champion in her indictment.
Thus, to keep up appearances, it was Graf who was serving as the King's sounding board. Not that the King had done much in the way of utilizing Graf's vast experience throughout the day. Assaulting a straight line of castle wall was perhaps as unsubtle a task as a military force could encounter, and once the initial plan was finalized, the King had done little more than ride up and down the rearmost lines, tweaking only minor aspects of the battle throughout. It was only when hours had passed without a single successful breach, several siege towers being forced to withdraw before being launched forward once more, that the King finally spoke to him in earnest.
"It seems we will not take the wall today," King Sporatos said, as if it was a casual observation. Of course, Graf knew well these games, and recognized it as the question it was.
"So it would seem, my Lord," Graf agreed. "Now the question remains as to how long we shall maintain today's assault. The damage wrought upon the enemy is great, and could perhaps grow greater, but our own losses might in turn are considerable."
In fact, Graf thought that the cost of assaulting the wall had been hideously foolish. He had advised the King against it as strongly as he dared, but to no avail, and now they were witnessing the consequences. All across the eleven hundred yards of white stone the peasant blocks were moving forward, suffering under a withering hail of arrows that they could not suppress. Though the siege towers were naturally the most effective means of breaking through the enemy's lines, sending them alone would have allowed far too great a concentration of defenders. The peasants were being driven forward at spearpoint to place long ladders against the wall, clambering up them to precariously assault as many points at once as they could. Doing so helped prevent the full force of the enemy from falling upon the Knights within the siege towers, but the cost in blood was considerable. Against such heavily armored defenders, the peasants had no hope of achieving a breakthrough. Their bodies had begun to pile beneath each ladder.
"You speak of withdrawing before being forced to?" The King asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Another comment, another game. The King could not be the first to suggest retreat, which was dishonorable. It fell to Graf, a cutthroat mercenary, to propose the coward's way out.
"I do, sir," Graf said, a little louder than was necessary, so the King's entourage could hear. "If we wish to break the enemy, I would rather it be all at once, rather than piecemeal. Even if the glorious charge of cavalry may not be realized in a siege, its ultimate effect of shattering our foes could still be manifested. Now that we have taken the enemy's measure, tomorrow's fortunes may shine brighter."
The king only grunted his acknowledgement, staring out over the field of battle. Graf Urs was not a political man. He had picked up quite a fair bit of experience with politics, as a matter of necessity, but it was by necessity only. He did not know if the King was genuinely considering his advice, or if he was affecting the appearance of deliberation, to mollify those who would have thought him a coward for withdrawing. If it was the former, Graf despised it. Wealthy though he'd become, he'd been born a poor apothecary's son, and he ached for the losses incurred while the King remained silent. No amount of the clever genealogical forgery which justified his current status could alter his true upbringing.
"The mages have had more success than was expected in assaulting the wall itself, my Lord," Graf said tentatively. "Perhaps a final push, focused more upon the wall than the defenders, would be advisable? It is clearly not enchanted, nor even as strong as normal stone. If the wall continues to erode at its current rate, we might well be able to remove the very ground upon which our enemy stands."
King Sporatos cocked his head at this, like one might when hearing an interesting songbird. "An intriguing suggestion, Graf." After a moment, he nodded. "Signalman!" The King's bark startled to life one of his innumerable attendants, who went to attention. "Send a note to the archmages in camp. I would like them to confer on the appropriate methods for removing portions of the wall as an obstacle. If they think it possible for the battle mages to do so, I would like them to begin preparing for such an assault. Inform them that we wish a gap large enough for Knight Emeric to lead his Lancers through in a charge, if at all reasonable."
The attendant began raising the appropriate flags, informing the archmages to expect message runners, who scattered to relay the King's words. Graf allowed himself a silent sigh of relief. Perhaps this final assault, of a new tactic, would satisfy the King's vainglory. He doubted it would be an immediate success, but at least the peasants would be out of danger, and perhaps in the nightly conference, the King may become more amenable to the original tactics Graf had suggested.
Of course, as was always the case, no plan went off without a hitch. This one was particularly early in its foundering. Stepping forward as if from thin air, though he had just been hidden within the mass of attendants, appeared none other than Knight Emeric.
"I cannot, my Liege," he said, bowing from the waist.
"Emeric?" King Sporatos asked, so startled he did not even address him by his title. "What are you doing here?"
"I arrived some time ago, my Liege, and was waiting for an appropriate time to report. Having now been ordered to lead an assault, I must regretfully interrupt your work to inform you that I am unable."
As he spoke, Knight Emeric moved through the crowd of attendants, until he was standing directly beside the King's horse.
"Have you been injured so grievously?" King Sporatos asked incredulously, looking the Knight over. His armor was unmarred.
"I am unwounded, sire," Emeric replied sharply, "but those under my command were not so fortunate. As you no doubt noted, the siege tower I escorted was the first to retreat. We encountered the Champion and what I assume to be her core of most experienced troops, who successfully drove us off. As the last Knight standing, in order to spare the life of those that had already been wounded or captured, I offered my temporary parole in exchange for assurances of their safe conduct. I am therefore unable to further join battle until the sun rises tomorrow morn."
Graf watched several reactions flash over the King's face. First, surprise, likely that Emeric had been defeated, though Graf had warned him that a single experienced fighter per tower was not enough, followed by bemusement. The King seemed delighted that the Champion had been so foolish as to trust the word of his Knight that he would not rejoin the battle, and clearly didn't care about the inexperienced fops that had been lost, beyond the expense of their armor. Thankfully, sparing them all from witnessing an embarrassing public argument, a final reaction settled onto the King's face. He realized that the young Emeric was serious. The cavalry commander very clearly intended to honor the terms of his parole.
"Did you find some way to ensure that the Champion would provide the promised safety of our lost?"
"She gave me her personal assurances, my Liege."
King Sporatos barked an ugly laugh. "Her assurances? The Mad Champion offered you her assurances?"
"She did not seem so mad," Emeric whispered, and Graf was shocked by the bitterness to the words. He said them so that few could hear, but it nonetheless was a difficult blow to recover from for the King. His Royal Highness's shock was evident.
"Knight Emeric," he said, at a volume difficult to overhear, "you cannot allow the words of a snake to slither between your ears. That she is clever is undeniable, perhaps even intelligent, but not mad?" The King leaned over in his saddle to be closer to Emeric, waving towards the great white wall. "Look what she, who claims to work for the providence of peasants, has constructed! Expending such resources upon an artifact of war is easy proof of her hypocrisy, of her inability to reason."
"Yes, my Liege," Knight Emeric said, eying the castle, not looking at his King. "But my word has been given all the same. Now, I must go gather my cavalry. Even if I shall not ride with them, I will prepare them for the role you wish of us."
And with that, the Knight retreated. King Sporatos straightened in his saddle, shaking his head like a parent confused by the machinations of their child.
"The shock of battle does strange things to a mind," the King said, speaking as if to the open air.
"Indeed, my Lord," Graf said, taking the risk that this was a comment he was allowed to reply to. "I have seen many permutations of battle and its effect on its survivors. It seems to me that Knight Emeric is the sort to grow contemplative after an ordeal. That is an admirable trait for a commander, I feel. Ensures the boy is thinking of what can be done better, next time."
King Sporatos chuckled. "'Boy', Graf? He is nearer to forty than thirty."
"At my age, there aren't many left who don't seem like children."
"I suppose that would be so, wouldn't it?" King Sporatos adjusted his position in his saddle, watching the peasants begin their retreat from the wall. A similar expression of contemplation fell over him. "Very much so, as a matter of fact. The years I have spent at war were by far the longest of my life."
The King glanced at Graf. At his threadbare hair, which had faded to white decades ago, and at his armor, which sported more dents than smooth surfaces. At the sword by his side, named for a wife fifty years gone, the only blacksteel in all the world which had a chip taken from its edge. At the way he sat in his antiquated saddle, worn smooth by untold years spent atop its comfortable leather.
"Yours must have been a long life indeed, Graf."
"Longer than I ever thought it would be, my Lord," Graf replied, dipping his head.
King Sporatos turned back to the wall. Graf did not know what consumed his thoughts, but it was clear there was much on the King's mind. Graf had known that look on the boy's father, and on his father's father, as well. A familial trait, that furrowed brow.
"You wish to concentrate our forces, Graf? Attempt to batter the walls themselves down?"
"I do, sire. I think it not only our best chance for victory, but our best chance for victory without an undue cost in spilled blood."
"Hm." King Sporatos held his hand up to his chin, adjusting the trimmed beard he kept folded within his helmet. "Then we will do so, should the next few attacks not break them. For now, we will continue in the original plan. Signalman!" King Sporatos rattled off a series of orders, effectively countermanding his earlier set, returning to the original plan of successive attempts to take the walls with siege towers. "Best not to rock the boat in the midst of battle, I believe," he said to Graf, by way of explanation. "Your advice is well appreciated, but I do not think the peasants capable of so readily adapting to a change. They need time to adjust their thoughts, to let the new plan disseminate among their ranks. Seeing as Knight Emeric is unable to lead an assault, we will delay the alternative approach until tomorrow. Now, I assume there is a story to go with your advice? Some long-forgotten battle from which your conclusions are drawn?"
"There almost always is, my Lord," Graf said, hiding his distaste at the wasteful attacks being allowed to continue. "There is no greater teacher than experience."
"And your experience outstrips all but the elves, Graf. Yes, I think it best to delay. Not only would I like to pick your mind about its strategy, but it will also allow the mages time to develop their efforts."
Graf ground his teeth, but said nothing. On his point about the mages requiring preperation, the King was rather right. But Graf had never been the sort to view battles as a chess match, and did not think it necessary to so deliberately plan each minute step. Haste was often as sound a tactic as prudence.
The King continued on, oblivious to his thoughts. "I would like to hear that story, Graf, and take from that distant day what lessons I may."
Graf felt a stiff smile crackle up his face. "That strikes me as wise, my Lord."
Perhaps, if Graf could convince the King to further this uncharacteristically thoughtful streak, the war would not be nearly as bloody as he'd first feared.
As soon as the thought struck him, a winter wind whipped down the back of Graf's neck, blown in from the south. Compared to the bastard heat of the Tulian fields, even the mild chill was brutal. He shivered involuntarily, looking back at the white wall of alien stone.
Notes:
Okay so I'm still a little zonked on cold medicine, so if there's any typos in this, I blame Benadryl. Thanks for all the get well soons yesterday!
I'm halfway through a Nora smut chapter, which'll be posted sometime this week, because I couldn't help but expand it way beyond what is should've been. At least it'll be a porny lore dump, which is always fun. Sick brain says this chapter wasn't ready to be posted, but sick brain is unreliable, so here you are. The chapter title is the Lauren Bousfield song Sara and Evie were chatting about, btw.
Chapter 70: Calvaire
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Midwich Valley
Fifth Day of Siege
Something was wrong. Evie stood atop the wall with Master, watching the enemy army roll forth, and something was wrong. The great siege towers, all six of which had unfortunately been recovered following the prior day's battle, were left behind. The blocks of peasant spears marched forward without them, a wave of thudding boots flowing as inexorably as the tide.
Evie still hadn't gotten her head around the sheer numbers of the battle. She was a woman of tactics and skill, not the grand picture. She admired Master for her ability to seemingly juggle the incomprehensible scale on display. Sixteen thousand people, armed and bearing down on her. She'd been to carnivals and fairs with similar numbers of people, back in Sporatos. Though she'd ridden in a carriage with her mother, she'd still felt herself to be one face in an endless sea, and if there had been a fire, a panic, or anything to stampede the crowd, she'd have been as helpless as an ant on a piece of storm-tossed flotsam. No number of guards or skill with a sword could have stopped so many from running their carriage under. Now she was facing down that number, but as a coordinated mob, one that was moving with malevolence.
And something was wrong. They should not have left their siege towers behind. The cavalry should not be advancing in column behind the peasants. This was an unconventional attack, and that meant one thing.
"Is he there, Master?" Evie asked, sounding wheedling even to her own ears.
"Oldest guy in the world in banged up armor, right?"
"That would be him."
"Then yeah, he's there. Riding right beside the King."
"Damn it all."
Evie's body unconsciously swiveled to the side, allowing Master to return to shelter behind the wall. She accepted the precious spyglass, folding it away. The assault had been brutal the previous day, but ultimately survivable. Master had seethed with fury at the casualties as a matter of course, but all told, it was less than the manuscripts had led Evie to expect. Master's methodology of employing both healers and a far more numerous group of "surgeons" was yielding dividends, stabilizing the wounded long enough for magic to reach them all in time. Of their original five thousands, nearly forty-five hundreds remained. An auspicious achievement.
Master did not see it as such. She was cursed with sentiment that that had her looking not at numbers on paper, but bodies on sheets. Five hundred of them were laid out behind the walls of Fort Midwich, awaiting burial. A small group of volunteers had worked through the night, and yet there were still so many to bury. Evie had physically blocked Master from aiding with the burials, forcing her to sleep the night through. Such a gesture might have been admirable in a ruler, but was dreadfully worrisome in a military commander. Evie did not wish sentimentality, much less sleep deprivation, to get in the way of her better judgement.
Particularly when our opponent has Graf Urs whispering in his ear, Evie thought. The man may not have technically founded the Knight's Eye, but after sixty years of it under his unquestioend authority, he was synonymous with its achievements. From the the coastal campaigns of the King's youth, Admiral Sinti's three successive rises and falls, and the subsequent collapse of the Northern Empire, not to mention innumerable squabbles in the western and northern regions, Graf Urs had been present in some capacity for every conflict within a thousand miles. Though there were occasional wars in which the party that had hired his forces did not go on to become the ultimate victor, they were the exception, not the rule.
And now the King is seeing fit to take his advice, Evie lamented. What has changed? The King I supped with feared the Knight's Eye. He viewed them as threats to his rule, and despised the insinuation that he was reliant upon Master Graf for his military might. I have been gone from the capital for too long. I no longer know which currents drive his actions.
It was highly regrettable, all told. Evie had predicated her advice and strategic training to Master on the grounds that she would be combatting King Sporatos, not Master Graf. She knew Master feared failure in the war, feared losing it outright, and that was well and good, but she did not fear for her life personally. She was assured by the thought that Evie's contingencies– of which there were admittedly a great number– would keep her and Hurlish safe, insofar as as their physical health was concerned. Master "knew" she would escape to some distant land where she could try her revolution again, no longer limiting herself to the small doses of foreign technology she allowed to trickle through in Tulian.
But if Master Graf was on the opposing side? If he ended up in control of the Royal Army, either directly or indirectly? Evie had no guarantees.
The crawling mass of the approaching army did not slow to allow her further contemplation. As ponderous and inevitable as the tide, it swept forward, burying the seas of Tulian green in tan specks of Sporaton spears. Dotted throughout were blights of silver and color, Knights and nobles herding their peasants forward. Somewhere at the back, Evie knew, he would be watching.
Master Graf did not leave loose ends. He fought until the conflict was ended, until his opponent would never again rise to challenge him. If he thought Master constituted a future threat, his stratagem would incorporate her death as its central tenant.
There was little she could do about it, however. The war continued on, and there would be no abandoning it. No matter how much she wished.
Master jerked her head to the approaching army. "What do you think they're planning?"
"I'm not sure, Master," Evie said, torn from her dour thoughts. "If King Sporatos has taken any element of Master Graf's advice to heart, I only know it will be dangerous." Evie paused, realizing something. For all her training, she still lacked Master's natural acumen in reading a situation. "What is your opinion on the political situation that led to this, Master? I cannot fathom why the King has suddenly allowed Graf such authority, considering the tension that existed between them in the past."
Master blew out a long breath, thinking. "Oh, I don't know. Lots of reasons, I guess. Graf's a smart guy, so it's not like the King's going wrong by listening to his advice. That'd help stave off any criticism, since everyone knows Graf's some kinda badass. And you said that Graf doesn't actually have any interest in rebelling, no matter what the King's paranoia says, right? Maybe the King finally realized that." Master shrugged. "I bet it's more to do with my speech the other day, though. Old Kingy can't look too reliant on his creepy robed fucks, so he's leaning on Graf instead. Which is a damn shame, with the way you've talked him up."
"A shame indeed, Master," Evie quietly agreed.
As the enemy army marched forward, Evie forced her thoughts back to the tactics on display. To have the cavalry advancing behind the main force seemed to imply they expected a breakthrough to occur, but how? The wall had suffered damage, that was true, but besides the single collapse of the archer tunnels, which had been mined out and repaired in the night, it was nearly superficial.
To Master, it seemed to imply that the enemy thought their wall would not hold long. That it would be broken open. But Evie couldn't fathom such a thing; the enemy had constructed no siege weaponry, no catapults, no trebuchets. Their mages had damaged the structure, yes, but only after great effort and considerable risk to themselves. After collecting the ballistae crew's reports, it seemed probable that they had severely injured one mage, and, if they were lucky, killed another. It was impossible to be certain, but even if the second mage had survived, the mere fact they had been so severely wounded had to strike fear into the other mages. They were not used to facing their own mortality.
It was with all this spiraling through her head that Evie stood atop the wall with Master, watching the encroaching enemy. Her mind whirled and whirled, chasing itself in circles, finding no new conclusions. Anxiety built minute by minute, an encyclopedic recollection of Master Graf's innumerable victories floating through her head, until eventually the enemy army reached eight hundred yards, and Master lifted the crystal to her lips.
"Ballistae, engage."
Accentuating the wiry tension in her gut, the ballistae loosed in a rippling volley. Evie's ears flicked forward as she tracked their flight, their crews long since having picked their targets.
The Sporaton forces, lulled into a false sense of security by Master's restriction of the previous day's engagement range, were utterly unprepared. Evie watched four ballistae bolts arc downward into a cluster of Knights at the very center of the enemy army, selected for the greater odds of hitting a valuable target when loosing from such extreme range.
By sheer coincidence, two of the ballistae bolts flew for the same horse, a breath's gap between their arrival. The first landed squarely on the creature's armored chest, shattering against the enchanted steel, which caused the horse to rear upward in a panic. The second bolt impacted an instant later, gouging deeply into the animal's exposed ribcage before slamming to a stop, prevented from flying straight through by the underside of its armored back. The horse fell limply forward, driving the bolt's rear into the mud, the entire animal pinned in place like a macabre statue.
Other bolts began to fall nearby as the Knight riding the slain horse leapt free, drawing their weapon and waving it madly, incensed beyond reason by the felling of their steed. At such a range, none of the other bolts found success, but the effect of felling even one Knight's horse was obvious.
A vibrant orange plate rippled from the aether, a mage's shield summoned to protect that contingent of Knights. Then, to Evie's surprise, other shields flickered into being right alongside it, multicolored energies reflexively covering the central formation of Knights.
"One, two, three, four, five," Master counted under her breath, "...seven, eight, nine? Nine shields? The fuck? Do they have every combat mage in the army right there?"
"It would seem so, Master," Evie said, counting the shields for herself. Realizing the redundancy of so many protective spells, all but two of the mage's shields quickly faded from view. "That would explain the concentration of Knights in that location, at the very least. They are protecting the mages."
"But mages are supposed to be spread out through an army, so they can attack wherever the enemy ends up weakest," Master said, paraphrasing one of Evie's own lessons. "They really are trying to break down the wall, aren't they?"
"That would not be an orthodox tactic, Master," Evie said weakly, feeling compelled to reply as such, even if she could not avoid the evidence's implication. "Doing so would mean they are putting into danger the most important and valuable members of their army, rather than allowing the peasants to grind down our defenses. If King Sporatos is as concerned with noble opinion as you surmise, he would not dare ask them to risk their lives in such a manner."
"What about Graf?" Master asked. "Think he'd give a shit?"
Evie's ears flicked. "No. He would pursue the tactic that would earn victory with the lowest cost in blood, be it blue or common."
"Shit."
Master reached up and lowered her visor, enclosing her face within the metallic scowl. Across the Tulian valley, sourceless drums began to stir. She lifted her crystal once more. "Archers, Irregulars, and siege weapons, all are to focus on the mages as soon as they're in range, bar nothing." Master paused, debating. "Colonel Shale, prepare your contingencies. Once the enemy's close enough that we know where they're going to hit, I want your reserves in phalanx on the other side of the wall. If it goes down, they're rushing to fill the gap, and anyone on the wall that's not actively engaged is gonna be moving to reinforce. Understood?"
A chorus of affirmations echoed back through the crystal, the various Colonels acknowledging Master's orders. Evie, for one, was impressed with the speed at which Master had drawn her conclusions. To rattle off such decisive orders in such a short time required a self-assuredness that Evie lacked; she was too methodical, too fond of concrete data and trustworthy reports. It was yet another reason why, despite the discrepancy in their upbringing, that she thought Master was a far better choice for commanding the army than she.
That, and because Evie simply didn't want to stay behind the lines, giving orders. She watched the cluster of mages and Knights approach while consciously pressing her lips into a thin line, not allowing herself to show the toothy smile that would have come naturally to her. Every step brought the faces of the enemy into greater detail, and among them, she at last counted many who bore the signs of true Knighthood. Battle-scarred armor, unadorned weaponry, and an easy gait that spoke of years spent in battle.
Real threats. Those that could challenge her. Without realizing it, she licked her lips, feline fangs glinting in the morning sun for a brief moment. For the Tulian Army, she did not know what the day's battle would bring. She only hoped that for her, it would bring a fight worth remembering.
Later, when sweat and blood soaked her skin, she would remember her wish. And she would curse herself for it.
------------------------------
Sara
------------------------------
Sara watched the enemy advance with bile in her throat. The entire column of spearblocks that had departed camp, numbering nearly twelve thousand, had halted just beyond the range of her ballistae. Then, defying all expectations, an advance had begun, but one utterly unlike the previous day.
The line bulged forward in a steep V, its tip aimed for the very center of Fort Midwich's wall. At its core was a thick cluster of now-dismounted Knights, their multicolored armor dazzling under the morning sun, and they marched protectively around a huddle of robed mages.
The first bolts had taken the enemy by surprise, the distance supposedly impossible for a ballistae of that size to reach, but the mages had reacted promptly. Though the first volley of bolts successfully struck down some, the next were met by an array of slanted shields, deflecting the projectiles harmlessly into the sky.
The V of the enemy line continued to steepen, until, to Sara's further shock, the contingent of mages and Knights broke entirely away from the army. They brought with them less than a thousand spears, just enough to protect them should Sara's forces sally out during their advance. The rest of the massive army stayed behind, and they did not close the gap left by the single regiment's advance.
Instead, the hole in the line was replaced with cavalry, the gleaming Lancers at their forefront. They formed up in a column precise enough to belong in a parade, the heaviest armored at the front, with the lighter cuirassiers at the rear.
Ballistae bolts fell upon the marching Knights like hurricane rain, soon joined by Irregular archers, then by the common bows and crossbows, but none got through. Any time one mage's shield weakened, another rose to replace it, the transition seamless. There was nothing they could do to stop them from reaching the walls.
Sara realized rather suddenly that she absolutely, utterly, without compromise, loathed sieges. Excellent though her defensive position may have been, she was stuck on the wall, at the complete mercy of whatever plans the enemy had devised. A part of her, a very large part, itched to launch herself over the wall with all her Irregulars, charging forward, consequences be damned. She could almost convince herself it would work, too. If enough of the enemy Knights and mages fell, the Royal Army's offensive capabilities would be devastated.
But so would her own troops, and there was little chance the gamble would succeed. No, no matter how much she felt herself pulling at her proverbial leash, she had to stay on the walls. It was the only thing left to her.
The torrent of projectiles became constant as the mages reached within a hundred feet of the wall. Sara herself joined in, adding her own ineffective bow shots to the hail, even as she ignored the cries of several logistics officers that pestered her on the wall, pleading for her to conserve their rapidly dwindling stocks of arrows.
She refused to let up. She ordered the troops to abandon volleys, instead loosing as often as they were able. Something deep in her gut told her that what was coming needed to be stopped, no matter the cost.
As specks of light began to flicker beneath the mage's shields, some hidden working below bubbling to life, she felt that gut instinct calcify into something much more palpable. As she drew back yet another arrow, long since past the point of bothering to aim, she became aware of something she hadn't felt in months. A peculiar reverberation deep within her, a stomach-churning anxiety.
She'd briefly felt it when she'd thought of taking a swing at King Sporatos a month after her arrival in this world, when he'd told her Evie would be enslaved. She'd felt it just before Garen had pinned her to the ceiling, back in Hagos. She'd felt it when she and Ignite had begun their first duel in the old Tulian Keep. Something in those flickering lights aroused a deep-seated instinct, primordial in its origins.
Fear.
A deep, abiding terror, an otherworldly certainty pouring into her that if she did not move, now, it would be the end of her. It rose from her core and spread through her like a deadly poison, soaking her limbs until they began to tremble, fingers losing their grasp on the bowstring. She tried to fight it, to shove it down, but the moment she did it flared twice as bright, and it was only then that she realized the sensation wasn't coming from her, but somewhere beyond, the same place from which the ephemeral guidance that had led her to Evie and Hurlish had risen, which meant that it was not cowardice, but the guidance of a Amarat herself– a divinity– telling her to run .
"Off the walls!" Sara roared, cutting off her Champion's Inspiration so she could be heard. "Now, now, now! Fucking run!"
Taking her own advice, Sara turned and vaulted the railing behind her, plummeting thirty feet to the ground below. She heard startled exclamations as she fell, then she hit the ground feet-first, and the pain that lanced through her ankles and shins briefly blocked out all the sound in the world.
By some miracle, nothing in her legs broke, and shortly Evie landed beside her, far more daintily, a question already on her lips.
"Master? What is happening? You have never–"
She was cut off by great inrushing of air, as if a giant creature was taking its final gasp, then a subsequent outrush, as if an O2 tank the size of a building had gotten its valve knocked off.
Then the screams began.
Sara looked up to find a hideous yellow cloud jetting up and over the walls, roaring fifty feet up into the air as a single noxious jet. She couldn't even comprehend what she was seeing for a moment, thinking it was some smoking byproduct of an attack lower down the wall, until her eyes caught upon one soldier near the railing, caught in the densest part of the fog.
The woman had been retreating in organized fashion, as she was trained, calmly marching towards the nearest ladder. Sara watched as she stumbled, months of drill practice maintaining her momentum for only a brief second before she fell to her knees, blinking in confusion. Her mouth opened, her expression dazed, a hand reaching for her throat. Then the hair beneath her helmet began to smoke, black vapors mixing with yellow, and her eyes bulged from her face. A ragged screech ripped itself from her throat, carrying with it a spray of blackened blood.
Others began to fall, first confused by their own lethargy, then panicking. Sara watched as a handful became dozens, her troops so disciplined that they tried to maintain a cohesive march through the dense fog even as it killed them. She heard herself begin to scream at them, telling them to get out, to leap off the walls if they had to, but for most that had been exposed to the gas, it was too late. They were already insensible, falling to their knees, vessels bursting in their wandering eyes, hypoxic confusion robbing them of any hope of fleeing to their death.
Sara felt her breathing sharpen as she watched. In seconds, not even a full minute, there were over a hundred corpses littering the wall where she'd been standing.
Evie was saying something to her, but she couldn't hear it. There was a violent, unending rush in her ears, a torrent of blood driven through her body by a pounding heart that would, not, stop.
Gas, she recognized, the newest of Amarat's Blessings appraising her of what the yellow substance was. The hideous list ran itself involuntarily through her mind. Hydrogen chloride, hydrogen sulfide, aerosolized sulfuric acid, and a litany of other, difficult to parse liquids, all acidic in nature. The bodies on the parapet began to smoke, patches of skin peeling away from their skin, turning first red, then a corrosive black.
Fucking gas, Sara thought, utterly ignorant of Evie's hand shaking her shoulder. Fucking poison gas.
"Master!" Evie screamed, bellowing the word directly into Sara's ear, so loud that the pain snapped her from her fugue. "Colonel Elase reports that the smoke is eating through the wall! What will we do?"
Sara fell back a step, the earth itself seeming to twist and wobble beneath her. She'd made a mistake. She'd made more mistakes than she'd ever known. She'd spent half a year preparing for this war in every way she knew how, save for the methods she knew would succeed. She'd seen and recognized the horrors of slavery, of feudal lords, of oppression greater than near any that remained on Earth, but she'd thought the world itself, with its magic, gods, and miracles striding through everyday life, was, somehow, more pure.
Gas. Poison gas. Do those mages even know what they've done?
What had Sara said? That this world didn't know war? That it was ignorant to what humans could do to one another, when all the power of an industrialized society was brought to bear? How naïve had that been? Here she'd thought she was being the hero by holding back what she had. Had she really thought that she was preserving some doe-eyed innocence of this primitive society?
She laughed again, a little louder, and this time she saw Evie put a hand to her collar, eyes widening, another step taken backward.
Her pulse was pounding. She could feel her heart racing so hard that the tips of her fingers throbbed, as if the force of her racing blood was threatening to burst through her skin. Something rushed to her head so hard she swayed on her feet, the edges of her vision filling with static. It was almost like a high, some distant, fizzled part of her mind noted, an airy sensation that made her body feel so light she might float.
"...Master?"
She didn't hear it. With white-knuckled fingers, she lifted her crystal to her lips, then was startled by the way her knuckles bumped into her visor. It was difficult for her fingers to grab the edge. After two attempts, she lifted it, taking a breath, but was stopped by a hand on her wrist, soft fingers slipping beneath her gauntlet to touch her skin.
"Sara," Evie spoke quietly. Her expression was stern, even her ears and tail frozen. "Calm yourself."
"I. Am. Calm." Sara spat the words out, biting each one off at its end. Before she could say anything further, she and Evie stumbled, as if struck from above.
A certain tightness gripped her gut, some great external force bearing down on her. The grass about them was pressed flat, crushed by the sheer weight of an unfathomable being's attention. Beings. A multitude of somethings crawling around her, unseen, undulating in the space between atoms. She couldn't tell what they wanted of her. It was as if a hundred thousand eyes stared at her, their fanged masses breathing down her neck, draining color and sound from the world beyond.
They wanted something from her. They wanted her to stop, she realized. They didn't want her to say the words that rested on her tongue.
She looked back at the wall, where the hideous yellow eruption still roared. Chips of concrete were being visibly lifted up and thrown skyward, and the corpses that remained were being eaten away. Bone and skulls were already exposed on many, made all the worse by the way the bodies still twitched. She didn't know if they were dead.
Fitful spurts of smoke began jetting from her armor, blood red steam hissing into the open air. Blood pounded. Pounded. POUNDED in her ears.
Without so much as a blink, the moment ended, omniscient presences fading away.
They knew there would be no convincing her now.
The crystal moved to her lips. "This is a message for all who know its meaning. Open powder, covered eyes. Repeat, open powder, covered eyes."
------------------------------
Hurlish
------------------------------
She was directing her apprentices on how to properly haul in a load of iron, a hand resting comfortably on her belly bump, when she heard it. As she had every day since Sara had left the city, Hurlish kept the crystal in a chest pocket, muffled just enough so she was the only one that could hear it. Hearing the proper battles start up had done a number on her, but she'd forced herself to keep calm, because Evie and Sara both had claimed that stressing out would be bad for the baby.
"Open powder, covered eyes. Repeat, open powder, covered eyes."
Hurlish's guiding hand slowly fell, a distant expression appearing on her face. The apprentices, red-faced and sweating, looked expectantly at her for her next order. When it didn't come, they set their load down, coughing politely.
Hurlish shook her head, blinking. "Change of plans, kids," she said, then repeated it louder, to be heard throughout her forge. "Change of plan, kids! Get the shutters closed, we're workin' on something different today."
Of the seven prospective smiths she'd thought worth tutoring, six were present today. More than she'd like, but at least the one that mattered was there.
Though they shared confused looks, her apprentices obediently drew down the storm shutters so that they'd be closed off from the rest of the courtyard. Hurlish began whistling a tune as she walked towards the door, which was now the only way in or out. She closed it, then locked it. That done, she turned around, scanning the faces of her apprentices.
"Alright, kids," she said, a diminutive which always earned a variety of reactions. The oldest of her apprentices was two decades her senior. "Just got a message from the Governess. Looks like it's time to bust out the big guns."
"The big what?" One of her apprentices asked. She looked for who said it and found Tarnil, the catfolk girl that she'd taken under her wing three or so months back.
Perfect.
"Exactly, Tarnil. You don't know. None of you do. Follow me for a second."
Looking nervous, the girl moved with Hurlish over to an anvil. Hurlish bent over it, as if she were about to trace out a diagram, as she often did, but this time she put a hand on the girl's upper back, just below the neck.
Tarnil said she's what... seventeen? Eighteen? Hurlish mentally shrugged. Shit, I don't care. Old enough to know better.
"So," Hurlish said, slowly moving her hand upward. "A gun's just about the most powerful weapon you'll ever get to see, and it's what the good old Governess has been keeping in her back pocket in case shit goes south. You interested in learning how to make one of those?"
Tarnil nodded rapidly, her eyes bright with greedy excitement.
"Figured you would be," Hurlish said, in the same instant that her hand lurched forward, seizing the back of her neck. The kid's neck was thin enough that her fingers wrapped all the around, squeezing a wheeze from her windpipe. "See, the funny thing about having a chat with the Champion of Amarat is– well, there's lots of funny things, love that girl, but mainly for you– is that there's no real way to lie to her."
Tarlin began to struggle, trying to free herself Hurlish's grasp. Hurlish slowly lifted her, until her feet were swinging uselessly above the cobblestones.
"She's real, real good at sniffing out people bullshitting her. And y'know, since you're around the forge so much, y'all have had a good few chats. Not long often, she's a busy gal, but often enough." Tarnil could only gurgle helplessly in Hurlish's grasp. "So I got a question for ya: you wanna go in easy, or hard?"
In the corner of her eye, Hurlish caught a glimpse of something bright and metallic emerging from the girl's pocket.
She shoved Tarnil's head down, hard, aiming her forehead for the anvil's edge.
The catfolk twisted, turning what was mean to be a skull-caving blow into one that smashed through her teeth, iron embedding itself in the meat at the back of her jaw. The catfolk shoved off the anvil with everything she had, tearing her own skin so that Hurlish was left holding chunks of bloody fur.
Before she could do anything else, Hurlish's boot came up, steel tip embedding itself in her gut.
Tarlin was flung backward, crashing through tool-filled aisles. Several of the younger apprentices began screaming shrilly. Hurlish had never got that, why people screamed when something bad was going down. It wasn't like it was doing much to help anybody.
Ignoring them, she reached a fist up to a wooden panel on the ceiling, smashing it open and grasping something within.
Across the room, Tarnil– or whatever her name really was– clambered to her feet, blood pouring from her her broken jaw to spatter wetly on the cobblestones. She fumbled in her pocket once more, drawing out a health potion, and tilted her head back, pouring it down her ruined throat. As the catfolk's jaw reknit, Hurlish drew a long, mahogany-wrapped length of steel from the roof compartment, looking it over with a critical eye. All seemed in order.
"This war is hopeless!" Tarnil hissed, her childish demeanor replaced with ragged, blood-dripping vitriol. "You think you can win against the might of a Kingdom? Against the might of a King? Your playing at independence has been tolerated too long, and the mad creature you hold so dear will be brought to heel beneath–"
Hurlish put the rifle's stock to her shoulder and pulled the trigger. Viscera coated the back of her shop, chunks spread in a six foot radius around one neat little hole in the wooden wall. Tarnil's body flopped to the floor, lifeless.
"This, kids," Hurlish said over the ringing in her ears, "is a gun. And we're gonna be making a whole hell of a lot of them."
------------------------------
Windless Grass
------------------------------
Deep in the Artificer's Union, locked in a sound-proofed, padded room, Windless had been on crystal duty when she'd heard the Governess's voice come through.
"Open powder, covered eyes. Repeat, open powder, covered eyes."
Thinking little of it, she'd immediately readied her tools, preparing to adjust the attenuation. The half-witted soldiers the Champion had entrusted with her store of crystals lacked any form of communicative discipline, and it was only through great effort that Windless had thus far prevented the contraption from becoming a shockwave of deadly shards.
Frankly, the device would have failed long ago if Windless had properly limited herself to the skill expected of an Apprentice. Thankfully, the risk of showing a little bit of prowess had paid off, and she was now the defacto head of the Artificing Union's military contingent. That unfortunately meant she was under too close of surveillance to send her reports thus far, but she knew she'd eventually have her chance, and what she'd learned would be of incredible value to the Admiralty.
Perhaps this is that moment, she thought. Though the occasions on which the Champion had bothered to use code words were few, they often prompted a flurry of responses and orders, and the entire matrix would shake and shudder, threatening to detonate.
Yet, for once, there was no response. The code phrase, whatever it meant, prompted only silence. Windless waited several seconds longer, tools poised to dampen the energies, perhaps mute it if needed, but there was nothing. Whatever had occurred was obviously uniquely significant, and if she could determine what it was, she might discover an opportunity to finally send information back to the Admiralty.
She looked to her so-called colleague on crystal duty with her, an artificer by the rather unimaginative name of Breeze. She disliked the boy. Too many Carrion parents these days named their children Breeze, thinking it would bring good luck for them to receive commission upon a ship. That idiotic superstition had clearly been characteristic of his parents, and she saw that trend in his upbringing constantly. She did not enjoy his presence, and looked forward to the day she could be done with him.
Still, he was not a complete fool, and her role as a supposed apprentice had to be maintained.
"Check the code book to determine what that means," she instructed. "I am capable of tending the matrix alone for a few short minutes."
"Alright," he said, sloughing off the stool beside her. He yawned as he went to grab the book from a nearby drawer, lazily flipping through it as he returned to his station. "Let's see," he hummed, "Code phrases, military phrases, alphabetized, so we're looking for O..."
His words trailed off, fanning the flames of Windless's growing irritation. "Well?" She snapped. "What is it?"
"Hold on," he mumbled, "I'm still reading."
Windless blinked. Seeing as the matrix had remained silent, she allowed herself a brief glance at the book.
The entire page under the entry for 'Open Powder, Covered Eyes' was filled to the brim with text. It in fact spilled onto the next page as well, paragraph upon paragraph of clinical instructions listed, and it didn't seem to stop there. From what she glanced at, the majority of it was situational contingencies, complex flow charts of decisions to be followed depending on the circumstances one was in when the command was given.
Her eyes latched onto one part in particular however, near the top. As she understood it, it was a prerequisite step, one that would be taken no matter what.
The City gates will be sealed for twenty-four hours, and those in positions of authority will be provided the list of confirmed foreign spies operating within the bounds of the Tulian Capital. Their arrest will begin immediately upon receipt of the order, prioritizing the listed individuals as indicated by the provided instructions...
Windless threw herself back from her station, dropping her attenuation rods to the floor. She swept towards her personal work desk and began shoving her tools into a bag. Muffled by the Artificing Union's walls, she heard bells beginning to ring throughout the city.
"Windless?" Breeze asked. "What's up? Something spook you?"
Thank whichever god partnered me with a fool.
"No. I have a role to play in that order, Breeze. I must leave."
"Well, shit," he said, putting the book down. He looked nervously at the matrix. "Are you gonna get me a replacement? I don't know if I can handle it all on my own."
She bit back her spite, still playing the role of an apprentice. It was possible she hadn't been identified, after all. "You are more than capable of asking someone for help, Breeze. I am leaving."
She tucked the bag over her shoulder and headed for the room's exit, shoving it open. She marched nervously through the hallways, the city's bells growing ever louder as she neared the streets beyond.
She abruptly changed paths, thinking better of using the main entrance. She headed for a side door instead, nodding hurried acknowledgements to the others she passed. They seemed interested in the bells ringing outside, but none had the sense of alertness to them that she imagined would go along with their comprehension of the significance. Thus far, she was safe.
As she walked, she began compiling her report in her head, intending to send it as soon as she was able. Details of the crystal matrix were pre-prepared, easy enough to summarize. It was the other, more nebulous hints she had uncovered that would require consideration.
The Champion had very clearly been constructing some kind of magical tool of war. The hints were there, all across the city. Her smith partner, Hurlish of Hagos, constantly disappeared throughout the day, reappearing covered in the soot of exhaustive labor, and she was often spotted emerging from the fledgling University headed by the Tiger of Salacia. Multiple guards Windless had plied with drink and cleavage had spoken of strange rumbles coming from the building, which they attributed to the Tiger's own practice of spells. Windless knew of his oath against violence, however, and so surmised that the truth was more complex. Between the hiring of Carrion artificers like herself, reports of a Vanara alchemist, and the Champion's own experiments with spells in her partner's forge, it was clear that she was attempting to hone some artifical superweapon.
But what? Windless asked herself, reaching the side exit at last. She has no mages beyond the Tiger, and most of her artificers have been busied with pointless tedium. It must be a magical weapon, but what, exactly? She cursed silently. She would simply have to report what she knew, and hope for the best.
Before she could open the door, it swung inward, slamming loudly against the wall. Windless jumped back, looking at the trio of steel-clad Tulian Guards, who themselves looked back at her with equal shock on their faces. A moment passed, all of them frozen.
Then Windless reached for her bag, the lead Guard swung the wooden haft of his polearm, and there was a crack against her temple.
The world went dark.
-----------------------------------
King Sporatos
-----------------------------------
The assault upon the walls was proceeding as excellently as Graf had promised him. The spell that the archmages had conjured up was proving remarkably effective at wearing down the strange white material. According to his aide, the wall was suffering at an identical rate to the samples they had brought back for study and testing. At the current rate, it would not be long before a suitable section of the wall had been eaten away.
And yet a peculiar irritation prickled at his consciousness, nagging him without end. He could not figure out why.
Perhaps it was the so-called "music." Shortly after the mages had begun their spells, the Champion's abilities had briefly faded, then were replaced by the most degraded example of her twisted mind he had yet heard. It was a sepulcher composition its only recognizably human elements alternating between a funeral's mourning choir and the pitiful wailing of a man put under the torturer's knife. More than anything else the Champion had forced his senses to endure, it was as divorced from the concept of music as he could conceive.
Still, he did not think that the music itself should have been capable of raising such anxiety in him. An alternate explanation was his proximity to the wall itself, and the spell his mages were unleashing upon it. He could hear their ritualistic chanting even now, maintaining the link to the far more powerful archmages in camp, who were the true nexus of the spell. To prove to the nobility his faith in the bizarre method of attack, he had joined his Knights for the Assault, standing proudly at the front of his own forces.
But that could not be what so bothered him, either. He was no squire, new to the battlefield, and with the armor he wore, he was in very little danger himself. He had led assaults like this a half-dozen times, all without an ounce of fear, trusting the skill of his blade and the temper of his armor to carry him through the day.
And yet he still had to suppress the urge to anxiously twist his hand around his sword's grip, every fiber of his being taut with anxiety, and he still did not know why.
To distract himself from this baseless anxiety, he walked up and down his line, surveying his troops. They stiffened as they saw him approach, standing at attention as he passed them by.
These were not the fops of the initial assault. Many were men and women King Sporatos had worked with for years, veterans of conflicts and skirmishes that had characterized the earliest years of his rule. While he had grown apart from many of them in the years since, their political leanings drawing them to one distasteful faction or another, he remained confident in their martial capabilities. No matter what they thought of his decisions as King, he was confident that every one of them would do their duty, if only for the love of the fight. One did not reach the heights they had without a passion for the art of battle, the dance of combat.
Yes, he decided. There is nothing to worry me. We will sweep them aside.
King Sporatos finished his appraisal of the soldiers and returned to the center of the formation, keeping a careful eye on the hissing fumes which ate at the wall. A nasty little concoction it was, and remarkably effective for it. He was glad that the archmages, unlike most of the nobility, were willing to take the advice of the Tenth God's adherents without complaint. For all their eccentricity, when it came to learning new techniques, there was nothing more practical than a curious mage.
The wall began to crumble on its own, chunks of its uppermost portion falling down, knocking more pieces off as they tumbled to the soil. King Sporatos drew his sword, its enchanted hum filling the air. It would not be long yet.
When Graf had presented him the plan, he had been shocked by its simplicity. With such a reputation for tactical genius, he had expected some convoluted attack, involving many simultaneous elements that would collide in a single perfect moment, shattering the enemy at once.
Instead, King Sporatos would be joining his fellow soldiers in a straightforward charge, battering aside the paltry peasants no doubt forming some panicky defensive formation within, clearing a path for the cavalry to charge through. Once they had the wall surrounded, it would be a simple matter to mop up those that remained, and the Champion could be collected at his leisure.
Simple, but elegant. He respected the plan, even if he disliked the political goodwill it was costing him to endanger so many people, rather than peasants.
No matter. Their complaints will fade once the war is won.
King Sporatos raised his sword as the chips of stone began to fall ever more rapidly, forming a waterfall of broken stone. The top of the wall went from twenty feet, to fifteen, to ten. He stepped forward, readying himself to charge, and watched for the moment the mage's spell faded.
With a final, sputtering gasp, the yellow smoke stopped erupting from their conjoined hands. What remained drifted through the air for a time, a thick fog that was slowly picked up and blown away by the wind.
King Sporatos had been intending to charge the moment it dissipated, but a strange sight caused him to hesitate. Where he had expected to see a wall of bristling halberds and stalwart Irregulars, there was something utterly alien.
Four wheeled contraptions greeted him, surrounded by crews of barely armored peasants. The devices were long bronze cylinders of some kind, hollow in the center, a dark tunnel pointed directly at him and the rest of his troops. Nearly all of the peasants were holding their hands over their ears, save for one individual, dressed in black armor, who held a long string in her hand, attached to one of the devices. The Champion herself, it would seem.
King Sporatos raised his sword and called for the charge.
The Champion pulled the string.
Notes:
"Only" 7k words this time (which is still two normal length book chapters!), not because I lacked time to write, but because my perfectionism has been getting the better of me. I feel like I could have spent at least three weeks writing and re-writing this chapter, getting it so it was just right.
Also, as a result, the additional Nora chapter got delayed once again. Perfectionism's getting the better of me there, too. I think I'll try and write some lower-stake smut this time around, instead of the porn lore dump I was going for with her. If y'all want me to drop the half-finished chapter somewhere, let me know.
On the bright side, shit has finally, TRULY popped off. Time to enjoy the ride, ladies and gentlemen.
Chapter 71: We Don't Get Tired, We Get Even
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Five centuries of evolution for bronze fieldpieces were climaxed by a single smoothbore. One cannon was to outperform, and during the Civil War to make obsolete, both 6-pounder guns and 12-pounder howitzers. Although officially called the 'light 12-pounder gun' in the North, this most popular smoothbore was better known as the Napoleon."
- Hazlett, J. C., Olmstead, E., & Parks, M. H. (2004). Field Artillery Weapons of the Civil War.
An instant's flash, an eruption of smoke, and the mule kick of pressure against her chest. That was how it felt to watch the old world die.
The moment Sara's cannon bucked backward, three others sounded in brutal bursts, pummeling her from all sides. She heard metal crash and screams erupt, but the immediate effect upon the enemy was hidden by a cloying white fogbank, a sulfur scent pervading her every breath.
She couldn't see a thing. She hadn't expected that. In her tests, she'd only ever fired one cannon. Not four. She didn't know if the Knights were still charging, or if they'd broken and run, or if they'd stepped behind the wall to organize.
But she did know which possibility she feared.
"Load!" Sara roared as loud as she was able, her voice echoing through the stunned silence which pervaded the artificial fog. She gripped her sword and poured more energy into her spell, enlarging the illusion she'd had playing on loop from the moment the cannons had been brought out.
Following the example of the Confederate reenactors that her magic had magnified, the crew leapt into motion. It was an awkward effort across the board, their unfamiliarity clear in the way they fumbled and argued while shoving the cannon back into the muddy slot it had just recoiled from, but they worked as fast as they could.
Six soldiers were required to budge its two-ton weight, and as they were soldiers, they did it while yelling at the others to push evenly, to not set the cannon askew. Yet for all their inexperience and apparent rivalry, their intense focus was equally evident. She'd told them that every life south of Fort Midwich depended on how well they loaded their cannon, and they'd taken it as gospel truth. She even believed it herself, for once.
Sara moved to the cannon's rear, shoving the friction primer back into place and stuffing her thumb over the hole, to prevent any smoldering black powder from being fanned by an errant breeze. At the mouth of the cannon a young woman was shoving a damp rag on a stick down the barrel, quenching any lingering flames on the way in, removing unburnt powder on the way out. After a half hour spent pantomiming the motion, she moved almost as a mirror image to her reenactor counterpart, giving the rag the exact same jerking twist as she ripped it free.
This was why they'd been chosen. Colonel Shale's soldiers, the Combat Engineers, the thousand members of her army that had dedicated more time to basic school lessons than warfare. Nearly everyone had called Sara idiotic for it, and rightly so, because it would have been a waste of an irreplaceable chunk of her forces had the war continued traditionally.
The young woman finished swabbing the barrel and jumped aside, replaced by a sprinting man holding a long package. Though he'd never done it before, he'd studied the illusion's example diligently. He carried an iron ball which sat firmly atop a linen bag, a humble package for two and a half pounds of black powder. The man wedged it bag-first in the cannon's mouth, then also leapt aside. Another member of the cannon crew put a long pole to the cannonball and lowered his shoulder, driving it forward with all his might. Sara felt the bump of the powder charge hitting the rear of the cannon, but the man gave it a firm extra set of thumps to ensure it was in place, exactly as the reenactors had done.
This was what the Combat Engineers were for. Constructing impromptu defenses, bridges, and siege weapons were important, but that wasn't why she'd formed their regiment.
Deep down, Sara had known she was never going to get out of this war with her morality intact. It was war. She'd sold her soul the moment she decided to stand and fight. If she'd really been worth the title of a Champion of Amarat, she would have led a revolution peaceful enough to make Gandhi weep, but she'd never even pretended to head that direction. This moment, the sound of cannonfire echoing through the skies for the very first time, was never going to be avoided. The Combat Engineers were her earliest acknowledgement of that, her attempt to coalesce the best and brightest of her army under one command, so that when the day came for War to shake the dust off its wings, they'd be ready.
The rammer pulled free and began sprinting away, hollering "Shot loaded!" as he went.
"Brace!" Sara roared.
The crew that remained near the cannon leaned away and put their palms over their ears. Sara looked down the sights for only one moment, squinting through the lingering fog. By her guess, the crew had taken just over a minute to load the cannon.
She saw metal glinting ahead of her, reflected in the fog, and that was enough. With the gap in the wall only forty feet wide, she couldn't miss.
"Fire!"
Sara ripped the cord free, jagged metal sparking deep within the bronze cannon.
A gout of fire ripped through the air, sending the earth leaping up to meet her. The cannon recoiled violently, rolling back six feet, its concussion closer to a physical shove against her chest than any true sound. Sara almost thought she could hear the cannonball fly, her ears tracking a quarter-second buzzing hiss, a snake's lethal warning, followed by a hideous crash.
And this time, by virtue of a sudden kick to the wind, Sara saw the cannonball's impact.
A charging Knight's chest simply... opened up. The enchanted chestplate gave way like paper, a gout of blood erupting in every direction, even forward. Pieces of his armor were dragged along with the shot, becoming shrapnel that tore through his body as easily as the cannonball itself, adding to the hail of bloodied debris that showered those behind him. Though he'd been in a dead sprint, the impact reversed his direction, throwing him onto his back in a broken posture.
He did not struggle. He lay motionless in the acid-eaten mud, dead.
A second cannon roared, obscuring the sight once more, but not before Sara saw five more Knights laying behind the first, the cannonball's path through their ranks traced by cavernous chunks torn from their bodies.
A third cannon erupted, and that finally knocked Sara from her revery. "Load!" She bellowed, her voice muted and ringing after each successive blast.
The cannoneers rushed to comply. Sara put her thumb back over the fuse hole, watching for signs of Knights approaching through the putrid mist. It wasn't impossible; cannons certainly weren't all-powerful, and they wouldn't have swept away all the enemy in one go.
Sara had called for the crews to fire roundshot, twelve-pound balls of iron, instead of canister. If she'd ordered canister to be fired, there was no doubt that every last Knight in the gap would have been struck by a brutal shotgun blast of lead pellets, saturating the entire area in lethal projectiles, but that wasn't without risk. She didn't know how strong their enchanted armor was, and if they'd been capable of shrugging off lighter projectiles, that would have been the end of Tulian. The Knights would have run the cannons down before they could reload.
"Brace!" Sara roared as the loading finished once more. She crouched down behind the cannon, looking down its primitive sights for a target. When the cloud of black powder failed to dissipate, her impatience got the better of her.
"Firing!"
She moved aside and ripped the cord, sending another cannonball screeching through the air, her crew's third shot in as many minutes. Once more, she couldn't see its effect, but seeing as no Knights had come to gut them like pigs, she intended to keep up the shots.
The other three cannons had fired nearly as often, leaving the air choked with a bitter haze. Sitting low in the valley as they were, the smoke was collecting faster than it could be blown away. After twelve cumulative shots, she could barely see more than fifteen or twenty feet in any direction. The sun itself was fading to a dull pallor, its golden tones choked to grey.
Evie's turning me into a fucking poet, Sara growled as she helped her crew heave the massive bronze cannon back into its firing position.
With all her crews having fired successfully, she thought they ought to have the routine down. She took a step back and put a hand on her sword's pommel, adjusting the illusion she'd conjured. A different set of reenactors took their place, and Sara paid the illusion only enough attention to ensure it was looping properly before returning to her cannon.
----------------------------
Colonel Shale
----------------------------
Colonel Shale saw the Governess's illusion change to the very image that had taught her how to load her own weapon, and turned to it with a stern expression, pointing.
"Follow the illusion, troops," she barked, calling loudly to be heard. "Load your weapons, listen to your sergeants!"
She turned away as the entire squad she'd been instructing jumped at the appearance of a fifteen-foot man, one dressed in a foreign world's uniform, holding a foreign world's weapon. Quick on the uptake, they immediately began copying the illusion, imitating the same loading process Shale had been showing them.
The Governess may have founded the Combat Engineers with the explicit purpose of gobbling up the army's least half-witted soldiers, but that didn't mean they knew how to do things right off the block.
Speaking truthfully, it was proving to be a trip through the hells to get them to follow her instructions. They were convinced the strange-looking weapons were some type of Champion-imbued relic, and they wanted to treat them with an according reverence. Being selected for their smarts also meant most of them knew more about artificery than the average soldier, including the fact that most enchanted weapons required near ritualistic handling and upkeep. It was commonly "known" that spell-slinging weapons were easy to ruin, and even easier to ruin you if you didn't treat them with the proper respect.
I'll take discipline over recklessness any day, she thought as she ripped a paper wad open with her teeth, dumping the pre-packaged powder load down the barrel of her own musket. She tossed the bullet in next, yanking the ramrod out from underneath the barrel and driving it forcefully home. It took an awful lot of force; she'd been given one of the rare rifled muskets, more accurate and more powerful. They couldn't be fired quite as fast, on account of how tight the barrel's fit was, but they shot three or four times as far.
Shale and a few others were the only ones trusted with them, not on account of any particular skill with the weapons, but the unlikeliness of their being captured. The Governess was paranoid beyond belief about letting her more advanced weapons into enemy hands, understandably. Per her orders, only the colonels would get rifled muskets, along with a select few lieutenants, the ones who both knew how to ride a horse and owned an animal, so they could flee with the weapon, if need be.
She frowned to herself as she stomped up the wall, moving to one of the squads that couldn't see Sara's illusion. Teaching her troops how to use them in the middle of a battle was not what she had planned on. As she went, she was passed by a runner carrying a bundle of five or six muskets, panting heavily. Each of the things was nearly as tall as the poor lad, and weighed more than ten pounds each. Add to that the bundles of pre-packed gunpowder and lead balls, and she would guess the child was laboring under eighty pounds of equipment. The fact that he passed her by was fairly remarkable, actually.
"Hey!" She hollered. "Musket-runner! Get over here!"
The kid teetered to a stop, nearly spilling his pile of muskets across the steps. Shale jogged a few steps, snagging the back of his tunic to steady him.
"We're changing destinations," she said, snatching a pair of the muskets and tucking them under her arms.
"Hey!" He protested. "Governess said these're for the troops up on the wall!"
"And where exactly do you think I'm going?" Shale asked, grabbing some of the ammunition pouches on his waist. "I'm a Colonel. You're to follow my orders."
The kid scowled his indignity at her, but didn't argue. Shale ended up with four muskets and her rifle, bundles clutched awkwardly under either arm, bags of ammo dangling from her hip. She and the kid continued their march up the wall, this time without the lad almost falling over every step.
"We're going to the squad over there, see?" Shale said, nodding her head.
"Governess said to start in the middle and work my way out."
"And now I'm saying we're going over there." Shale's lips pursed, growing irritated.
"And why's that, huh?" He challenged. "Tryna steal the things?"
Shale rolled her eyes. The child had been working with Sara too long, clearly. They always ended up like this, after a while, especially the younger ones. Her habitual disrespect for authority, even her own, was contagious.
"Because I'm training the troops on how to use it, and the ones near the middle can watch her spell for lessons, while the far-off squads can't. Now follow me."
The child groused a bit longer, but didn't break off. When she reached the squad of combat engineers she'd ordered up onto the wall, she was pleased to see that they'd already set their halberds aside, piling them up neatly behind their ranks. Shale began passing out muskets alongside the child. As soon as he had handed out his last one, he bolted, and Shale called after him.
"Bring the next load here, too!"
"Fine!"
She shook her head. As long as he actually does what I say, we'll be fine.
She set her personal rifle to the side, ordered the squad to form up in a semi-circle, and began walking them through the loading process.
Sara had made a big deal out of it, like it was some awful complicated process, but truth be told, Shale thought the muskets were refreshingly simple. One bit off the end of a paper packet, pouring a little splash of it into the priming pan and snapping it closed, and then one crammed the rest down the barrel, stuffing the paper, ball and all. The paper would serve as wadding, so the powder wouldn't leak around the loose-fit ball, and it would either burn up or fly out when the gun fired. She grabbed the ramrod and shoved the ball home, which required several adjustments of where her hand held it, seeing as the barrel was three and a half feet long, with the entire gun a whole foot longer. She replaced the ramrod in its holder beneath the barrel, cocked the flint-tipped hammer back, and put it to her shoulder.
What greeted her down the sights was her first proper look at the battle since the cannons had started firing. The open hole in the wall was leaking white smoke, the Knights having pulled back and to the sides, so they were no longer exposed to the shots pouring to the gap every twenty seconds or so. Lost in the fog as she was, Sara clearly couldn't tell her shots were hitting nothing but air.
Or maybe not, Shale thought. Another earth-rumbling boom rocked the wall, a gray blur punching through the cloud. Shale lost track of it all the way until a sudden gouge in the earth appeared a few hundred yards away, the ball tearing a trench through the soil in a blink of an eye before bouncing up and away, skipped off the grass like a stone. Bent and distorted by the impact, it sailed over the mass of peasant spear blocks, hundreds of them belatedly ducking as they heard it whizz over their heads. Judging by the few chunks of empty space in their formations, several of the shots had coincidentally found a target. Maybe she should be telling Sara to aim up a bit, to let the cannons loose on the spears.
She'd deal with that only after she got this squad firing their muskets, though. Shale gauged the distance to the spear blocks as about two hundred and fifty yards, the tail end of what Sara claimed the unrifled muskets could reliably hit. Approximately as far as a good longbow, if one were appropriately skilled. Shale had fired the regular muskets a number of times in practice, and thought she had a decent grasp on their handling, but the furthest she'd ever aimed was about fifty yards, which had been the limit of their practice space in the University courtyard. At two hundred and fifty yards, she worried the ball would be close to dropping uselessly out of the air.
Then again, we're thirty feet up a wall. That might help the range, no?
She hoped so. She lined her sights for the rearmost line of soldiers and squeezed the trigger, sending the flint forward. A flash and kick followed, smoke puffing out. She tried to track the shot, but all she saw was white.
"Hm" she hummed, waving the resultant smoke away. "Did anyone track that shot?"
The squad looked at each other uncertainly.
"Hm," she said again. How could she tell if she was even aiming at the right place? It wasn't like an arrow, where you could track the flight with your eyes, and at this range she had no hope of spotting its impact. Even if she could've picked out the three-quarter-inch ball at a few hundred yards, it moved too quick to follow. She chewed her cheek for a second, then raised her voice. "Alright, everyone with a musket, after me! Load!"
Shale led the eight soldiers with muskets through the loading process, then was interrupted halfway through by the arrival of a second runner carrying six more, so she restarted the process. When she finally had all fourteen muskets loaded, she raised her own, aiming down the sights.
"Keep the metal bead at the end of the barrel between the two prongs located at the rear of the barrel, so all pieces of metal appear even! With one eye closed, keep it as straight as you can! I want everyone holding their shots, we're doing a volley!" Shale jogged several steps to the side, upwind, so she'd hopefully not get her vision obscured by the smoke. "Aim for the farthest rank of the spears, dead ahead of us, and pull the trigger when ordered! Everyone ready?"
"Ready!"
"Loose!"
A rippling crackle of pops sounded, their shots not quite synced up, despite the Champion's abilities influencing them. She chalked it up to differences in the muskets and powder loads, but she couldn't be sure, because she didn't watch the fire. Her eyes were locked onto the point she'd had the squad aiming at, waiting for impact.
Almost a full second later, there was a spray of dirt thirty feet in front of the spear block, a recognizable sign of a smattering impact of the musket balls. The front ranks flinched in surprise, and to Shale's mild shock, she watched one of the soldiers go down, their leg taken out from under them. A ball must have ricocheted off the ground to hit them, judging by the angle. Incredible luck, frankly, considering the puffs of dirt were spread over an area the size of a city block.
"Load!" Shale yelled, beginning the process herself, calling out what she was doing through each step. The soldiers followed along, and when they were ready, she called out once more. "Aim again! Imagine another two lines of spears behind the first and put your shots there! Ready?"
"Ready!"
"Loose!"
Another volley cracked through the air, Shale's own shot added to the deluge.
Another impossibly long second later, and there was a sudden ripple in the crowd of spears. The shots were so dispersed that it would have been impossible to tell if they impacted, the dropped soldiers lost among the crowd, save for the fact that those nearest them recoiled in horror, opening gaps in the line. They'd seen no arrow, watched no projectile, and suddenly the fellow standing next to them was on the ground, a fist-sized chunk torn from their body. It had to be an awful, baffling shock, as if an invisible monster had infiltrated their ranks, tearing bloody heaps from those around them.
All told, she counted only three spots in the enemy formation which indicated a shot hand landed, spread out among several hundred feet.
Considering the range at which the shots had been fired, even the desultory filled her with a vicious satisfaction. It wasn't quite as far as a longbow could reach, but an archer pulling off a similar shot took months of training, assuming one even had the strength to even draw back the massive bow. She'd just taught her troops how to do it in five minutes.
"Keep loosing at that range!" She barked. "Remember your aim point, show the others how to fire when they get here! Sergeant Drar!" The catfolk leapt forward, saluting. "Keep them firing in volley, and keep everyone else that gets a musket on target! You understand how to aim these things?"
"Yes ma'am!"
"Good. If you start missing your shots, stop loosing. We may have plenty of ammunition, but they have nearly as many soldiers."
Sergeant Drar saluted once more, then, oddly, sneezed. Shale had never seen a catfolk sneeze before, which she was suddenly thankful for, because it was an ugly sight. The snot got caught in the poor fellow's fur, making a mess of his muzzle. The smoke must not be agreeing with his sensitive nose, she supposed.
Thinking nothing more of it, Shale snagged her rifle and headed farther down the wall, searching for the next group of troops holding muskets without a clue of how to use them.
As she went, she spared a glance for the breach in the wall, double-checking that the Knights hadn't resumed their charge. She found them still huddled to either side of the wall's opening, avoiding the cannonballs. A sizable group of them were clustered up around something, leaning in like children prodding a strange bug.
Shale shouldered her rifle, squinting down the sights. Two hundred yards off, she guessed. The Knights were just a blur, obscured by the tiny metal bead of her sight. She squeezed the trigger, lobbing a musket ball downrange, and moved on without bothering to check her shot.
-----------------------------
King Sporatos
-----------------------------
The King lay on the ground, gasping for breath. The pain was nearly overwhelming. His chestplate had caved in, a ten-inch dent dug into his sternum. He could feel broken ribs grinding against the steel, and he could only draw the shallowest of breaths, each one of which brought extraordinary agony.
Though his thoughts were a pain-filled haze, a distant part of his mind still registered his Knights crowded about him, arguing.
"Just heal him already!" One insisted to the robed mage off his left.
"And fuse his flesh to the metal, you fool? The armor must be removed!"
"You wish the King unprotected among the enemy?"
King Sporatos could contribute no more to the debate than pained rasps, his lips forming shapes without sound.
Beneath the nearly all-consuming pain, he raged. They needed to resume the attack, damn it all! The wall was open, the Champion within arm's length! The war could end, here and now, and yet they surrounded him like doddering nursemaids, achieving nothing other than wasting their breath!
Just as he took the deepest gasp he could manage, preparing himself to give the order, a Knight's head exploded.
Gore spattered the front of King Sporatos's armor, wetly smacking the steel. The Knight's body slumped forward, thumping onto his chest, and the sudden shift of his armor had him thrashing in even greater agony, hollow groans squeezed from his throat. He felt things grind beneath his armor, the gravel that had once been his ribcage rolling in his chest.
"Get her off, off of him!"
"What in the hells was that?"
"She's crushing him, damnit!"
The Knight's armor was lifted off of him, relieving some of the horrible pressure on his chest once more. His vision began to gray. He could no longer summon the effort required to take a deeper breath or even gesture, so great was the pain.
He had been wounded before, but never like this. The few times he had suffered injuries in battle were flukes, the result of an enemy blessed with pure luck finding an infinitesimal gap in his royal armor. The armor that had been the product of master smiths and archmages working in conjunction for years, the greatest talents of his Kingdom brought under one banner to create a singularly exceptional suit. He had never, not once in his life, believed there was a weapon capable of truly damaging it.
His Knights began to lift him, preparing to move him, and the sudden lance of agony the motion drove into his body was too much. The darkness tugging at the edges of swept inward, dragging him far too soon into insensibility.
-----------------------------
Evie
-----------------------------
Evie's opinion had not yet settled on the weapon Master had provided her.
On one hand, its efficacy was undeniable. Modeled after a variant nearly two decades newer than the simpler muskets presently being distributed amongst the army, the Springfield Model 1861 fired the considerably more deadly "minié ball." The conical lead bullet allowed it to consistently hit a man-sized target at four hundred yards, with a more inaccurate range of little over a thousand. That made it the only firearm thus far produced in this world which was directly superior to a trained user of a longbow, as what it lacked in an archer's rate of fire, it more than made up for in range.
On the other hand, it was far from a duelist's weapon. As she loaded another round down its barrel, crouched behind the wall, she found herself supremely dissatisfied. As was to be expected from such a revolutionary tool, it was without equal on the field of battle. When Evie rolled out from behind the crenellations to select a target, it was without fear for her life, without any sort of consideration for what plan an enemy might concoct to counter her. She simply selected her target, adjusted her sights for the appropriate range, and pulled the trigger.
Unlike the rest of the army's muskets, her weapon did not have a smaller flash before it fired. The Model 1861 of Master's world had used a device called a "percussion cap" to detonate its charge, rather than the more primitive piece of flint. As the Tulian industries were presently incapable of replicating the cap's complex chemical makeup, Master had commissioned a simple solution: two crystals, one upon the hammer, one set in the barrel, the latter enchanted to spark when put in contact with the former. Much like a percussion cap, it was more consistent than any black powder charge, and could work reliably in any weather.
Evie's rifle proved such with a violent buck, its precision round slicing through the air. Even through the thick wadding stuffed in her ears, there was a sharp stab of pain, though she could ignore it.
She had been aiming for the head of one of the retreating Knights, but her shot went ever so slightly low and to the side, instead striking the arm of a different Knight.
The individual's elbow was abruptly shattered, deep crimson spraying the left side of their body. White bone was visible for a brief moment before a torrent of blood covered it, the lower half of the Knight's arm attached only by ragged tendrils of flesh.
The Knight stumbled and grasped their arm for a moment, nearly falling, but managed to remain on their feet. With what Evie imagined was a great effort of will, the Knight stopped holding their ruined arm in lieu of retrieving a health potion from their belt, lifting their visor for a moment to bite its cork off and hurriedly down the draught. Their retreat continued, tendons reknitting.
Evie frowned, stepping back into cover while she reloaded. She was not as proficient with the 1861 as she would have preferred. After nearly ten years of honing her skills with a rapier, transitioning to a wholly different kind of weaponry was exceptionally difficult. Next to none of her Skills translated, save for some elements of her Levels which involved sharpening her eyesight. Master had trusted her with the Tulian Army's most advanced rifle, and so she would use it to the best of her ability, but she did not necessarily enjoy it.
Master, ever perceptive, had tried to mollify her with tales from her old world. She promised Evie that here did exist forms of duelists who utilized firearms. As the weaponry had continued to advance, there had apparently been a role of soldier who operated nearly alone, favoring accuracy and seclusion over rate of fire. These "snipers" could, through dint of superior marksmanship, prevent the free movement of a much greater number of troops. In order to counter such a problem, other snipers were often employed, creating what Master claimed to be a "sniper duel." The two combatants would shift from position to position with the utmost stealth, attempting to locate and strike their opponent before the other could do the same to them. The victor would earn an unparalleled dominance over the battlefield, for as long as the battle remained within their reach.
While such a role certainly appealed to Evie's desire to test herself against an equal foe, there simply didn't exist such a counterpart to her 1861 in this world. She held the only example, and thus would never engage in such a duel. Master had also told her of other duelists, of an earlier age, but Evie yet lacked the appropriate weapon to replicate those "gunslinging" tales.
Her rifle reloaded, Evie rolled back out of cover, selecting another target. The cluster of Knights and mages had nearly reached the spear blocks, the mage's shields shining bright. With their formation disrupted by the hasty retreat, not all of the Knights were under the protective glow. Evie slid her 1861's sight from its 100 yard mark to the 300 mark, setting her aim on one unfortunate individual who had lagged slightly behind.
The crystal of her rifle clicked as the hammer fell, the minié ball launched with an ear-splitting crack that signaled its acceleration beyond the speed of sound itself.
As she'd partially expected when firing at such a range, the round went off track, instead striking the rear breastplate of the Knight above her target. The minié ball shredded itself against the metal, spraying gray lead in a cone about their body. The Knight was shoved heavily forward, nearly toppling, but was caught and dragged back up by a fellow beside them.
Evie's frown deepened. This was one of the other problems she had found with using the muskets against Knights: the variance in their armor.
Nearly every noble of means commissioned their own set of armor, tailored in form and function to their exacting preferences. Some nobles were more concerned with the dangers of encountering an enemy mage, and so had their artificers emphasize protection against the energies of spells, while others feared being overwhelmed by a swarm of traditional foes, and so reinforced the purely physical qualities of their equipment.
As a result, Evie's shots thus far had been frustratingly inconsistent, with some punching directly through the thickest part of a breastplate, others bouncing off even the weakest of chainmail joints. She had found the greatest success with shots that struck the helmet, seeing as the base steel was thinnest there, but it was an accordingly difficult target. Beyond a hundred yards or so, she thus far had the skill to aim only for the entire Knight, not a specific body part.
As the Knights merged back into the lines of peasant spears, Evie shouldered her rifle, forgoing another reload. While she could have kept firing at the large formations without issue, she was only one woman, and there were over ten thousand peasants. She would not be contributing much.
Instead she pulled the strap of her rifle over her shoulder, depositing the load of black powder in her bag of holding. She was utilizing Master's older, smaller bag of holding, purchased before they had met Vesta. It allowed her to carry a great deal of ammunition without the burden of weight that came from such a volume of dense lead, as well as prevented errant sparks from igniting the large container of powder that would have otherwise been dangling from her hip.
She turned to the center of the wall, where the greatest cloud of black powder smoke lingered. Master was still firing the cannons wildly into empty space, and as Evie put a hand to her collar, she could feel why.
Master was enraged. Even briefly touching the emotion through her collar's bond had Evie's lips sympathetically curling into a snarl, a heady rush threatening to overwhelm her. She only barely shoved it down, as she had to, lest she end up leaping from the wall to charge the enemy alone.
From the moment the acid smoke had begun to eat away at the wall, it was as if every ethical value Master held dear had been under assault. Evie could not understand it fully, not without the context of having lived in the strange world Master had grown up in, but she knew her well enough to understand its basic elements.
Master had thought this world was less violent than her own. The horrors of wars in her old life had been so great, so inconceivably vast in their ramifications, that Master had viewed this conflict as something almost quaint. Innocent, in a way, categorized by an ignorance of the suffering that could truly be unleashed. It was this belief that had lead her to hold back her knowledge, to shield the "innocence" of this world from the barbarity of her own. In the histories of her home, the wars of antiquity had been comparatively paltry affairs, the battles less lethal, their effects more constrained.
Yet as the siege had begun, Master had been forced to confront the discrepancy in her world's history and her new reality. The slaughter Master had feared she would unleash already existed, but unlike her home, it had been reserved as the privilege of the elite. Skills and Levels allowed the rich and powerful, who Master already despised more than anything else, to monopolize violence in a way that had been impossible in her own world. When that acid had begun to eat away the wall, burning through the flesh of Master's troops, she had been forced to confront that fact in a most unpleasant way.
And it had, predictably, enraged her. A burning, bubbling hatred had crystalized before her eyes, proving once and for all that no, there would be no peaceful resolution to this conflict. What Evie had already known, and what Master had refused to believe: so long as Skills existed, the elite could never be overthrown. While the poor toiled, the rich ascended, their power growing until any thought of resistance was a hopeless fiction.
Unless, of course, weapons can be forged for which Skills have no answer.
Evie watched two more cannonballs soar blindly through the smoke, Master's rage precluding a halt to the barrage, no matter how obviously it was having no effect. She was stirred into a frothing fury, even the faintest chance of striking an enemy enough for her to order the fusillade to continue.
As Evie approached the cannons, she saw Master tearing at their barrels between shots. Each weapon had been decorated with faux crystals and engraved runes, such that from a distance it would seem their lethality was the result of artificery and spellcraft, rather than pure chemistry. Knowing that she could not hide the effort required to create the weapons needed, Master had decided instead to mislead enemy spies into thinking the cannons and muskets were magical tools. From employing an exotic alchemist for simple chemical work to overtly using Garen's university to test the cannonry, she had hoped the spies would fail to recognize the weapons for what they were. While it wouldn't have worked forever, leading the Sporaton forces down the wrong trail in their effort to replicate the tools could have delayed their development for at least the course of the war, and perhaps even years afterward.
Evie watched her Master pry the fake crystals off the barrel with harsh, ripping motions, throwing them to the ground. She even grabbed her own rifle and used her dagger to scrape jagged marks into the beautifully engraved stock, making it clear to even a casual observer that there was no spellcraft powering the device.
"Master!" Evie called, wading into the fog. "Master! The enemy is no longer present! You are wasting ammunition!"
The same message had been repeated many times through the speaking crystals, but it was to be expected that they couldn't be heard over the cannons. As Master's crew reloaded, the Champion continued to rip away her weapon's disguises, so fevered in her actions that she was all but gnawing at them like a dog. As Evie neared the cannons, she pressed the wadding in her ears deeper, raising her voice further.
"Cannons! Cease fire! Every cannon, cease fire!"
That, at last, got Master's attention. She whirled on Evie, dagger still scrabbling at her rifle's stock, shoulders jumping with each ragged pant.
"What?" She called, bewildered. "Evie? What are you saying?"
"The enemy has retreated!" She shouted, jogging lightly to close the distance. "You are firing at nothing, Master."
"How do you know that?" She demanded.
Evie blinked. Master was shaking.
"I saw it from the wall, Master. The Knights have already reached their own lines, and the peasant levies have begun to withdraw."
Master turned to the gap in the wall. "What if they've come back? How long did it take you to get here? We should keep shooting."
"Master," Evie said, stepping closer, her voice lowering. "They are gone. I assure you, you are only wasting powder."
Sheathing her dagger, Master took a step back from the cannon and lifted her visor.
Evie took a reflexive step back. Master's smile was brilliant, beaming, a picturesque depiction of childish glee.
"Fucking finally!" Master crowed. "Little fucking pricks ran off with their tails between their legs! How many of the fucking bastards do you think we mowed down? Dozens, right? Gotta be! They had no goddamn clue what hit them!" Master bounced up and down, rolling her shoulders. "You think we got the King? Little pussy is probably sitting his royal ass back in camp, but if he actually had the balls to stick around I hope I blew that stupid bastard wide open!"
"We do not wish to kill the King," Evie gently reminded her. "He would be revived shortly, and that would only escalate the war beyond our ability to control."
Master rolled her eyes. "Oh, c'mon, let a girl dream! If we hit him hard enough, there might not even be enough left for the mages to glue back together. That'd be one hell of a way to win the war, yeah?"
Evie moved another step closer, putting a hand on Master's hip. "It would, but I doubt the cannon would do the requisite damage, Master. But even if it could, before continuing the barrage we must first consolidate our forces, yes? To ensure the enemy does not counterattack."
Her eyes blazed. "Fuck that! If we roll the cannons out through the gap, we can mow down the whole fucking army! Knock 'em all down like bowling pins, gun down whoever's smart enough to run, and leave 'em hanging by their neck on the border so none of the evil bastards ever come crawling back!"
"Master, we have only four cannons," Evie whispered harshly. "Emeric's cavalry would run them down without effort. You must call for a consolidation of our forces. You know this."
Master blinked rapidly, her expression glazed over as violent fantasies danced behind her eyes. "The muskets, then. If we put the muskets and halberds in front, the cavalry will never be able to get to the cannons."
"The lancers would penetrate our lines with ease on the open field, Master." She put her other hand on Master's shoulder, slowly turning her away from the gap in the wall, where the smoke was finally clearing. She didn't think it would be good for Master to get a glimpse of the enemy army at the moment. "You need to order our forces to return to defensive postures, Master, and to fortify what we can in the wall's absence."
Master tried to turn back towards the cannons, but Evie's hand held firm, keeping her facing away. In fact, in a fit of inspiration, she pushed Master's gaze even further, towards where white sheets covered the bodies that had not yet been buried.
Master stilled, catching sight of them. Through her palm, Evie could feel her still trembling beneath her armor.
"Fine," she eventually snapped, the word bitter as any medicine. "Fine, we'll hunker down."
"Thank you, Master."
Evie stepped back as Master began rattling orders off into her speaking crystal, responding to the various Colonel's reports for the first time in nearly half an hour. Evie watched her do so with a swirling mixture of satisfaction and concern.
Satisfaction, because Master had finally brought herself under control. Concern, because her fury had nearly cost them everything. Evie had no doubt that any assault would have failed. The cannons were too few, the muskets inexperienced, their army too small. Evie usually considered Master her superior in strategy. The fact that she had been even considering abandoning the walls was profoundly disturbing.
Evie touched her collar once more, focusing on what she felt coming through the bond.
Master was filled with anger, yes, but there was an undercurrent beneath it, barely perceptible. A sort of... relief, Evie supposed. A sudden lifting of a burden, a part of her overjoyed for having drawn some conclusion, a gut satisfaction that some decision had been made. Not unlike the feeling she sensed from Master when a difficult governmental issue was resolved, but much grander in scale, as the problem dealt with had been far more fundamental.
Evie couldn't be certain what that decision was. Judging by the way Master had begun ripping apart the cannon's disguises, she could hazard a guess.
Evie stilled, watching her Master work. Dressed in her dark armor, the only woman in all the world to have bent blacksteel to her will, she moved with a lightness to her step beyond what should have been possible. Her orders were followed with crisp salutes and earnest nods, not a one of the soldiers under her command questioning her judgement for a second.
It was a strange thing, to know one was witnessing a turning point of history. Surreal, as if Evie were floating beyond her body, watching the scene from above.
Evie looked to the left, where the remains of the Knightly charge were being absorbed by the larger mass of their army. She shivered. Had the tides of fate ebbed ever so slightly in another direction, she very well may have been a member of that force opposing Tulian. If her mother had died without implicating Evie in her crimes, she certainly would have utilized her status to be Knighted, seeking distinction through conquest.
And I would have been met on the field with roundshot and fire, Evie thought. I have spent months adapting to the idea of Master's world, to the devastation it could unleash. How would I have responded without that context, facing such weaponry for the first time?
She thought of the Knights that had just been scattered like so much chaff. Their reactions had been diverse.
Would I have assumed it was simply a mage's spell and charged on, only to be struck down? Would I have panicked and fled, bringing shame to my House? Or would I simply wait beneath the walls with the rest of the Knights, our numbers slowly whittled by attacks we could not comprehend, waiting like hapless sheep for someone to follow?
Evie did not know. Truthfully, her experiences at Master's side had changed her so fundamentally that she could only wonder what it would have been like, living the life she'd once anticipated for herself. She already knew that her current self was decidedly not looking forward to receiving a similar barrage of gunfire. That was a distant concern, but not an impossible one. Only time would tell if the Sporaton forces would be capable of bringing it to bear.
Notes:
Here is a compilation of videos demonstrating the noise, smoke, and effect of both cannon and musket fire. As much as I endeavor to paint a picture with words, seeing something for yourself is often irreplaceable. Feel free to skip around in the videos to get to the action, as some have a bit more fluff than I'd prefer. As for the specific models of weapon Sara has replicated, the cannons are Confederate-pattern (blegh, no muzzle swell) 12-Pounder Napoleons. Evie's rifle, as mentioned, is a Springfield Model 1861, while the general troops are using unrifled Springfield Model 1840s, the last flintlock musket used by the US Army. All weapons have been modified at Sara's insistence to include adjustable sights, patterned off of Mosin Nagant rear sight adjustable ranges in hundred yard increments.
Also, as a brief aside, in the course of my research for upcoming elements of this story, I happened to stumble across... uh, well, a cheaper-than-expected example of one of the weapons featuring in the story. So now I own that. If I can get it firing in time for the relevant chapter (I have to mix some of the requisite chemicals manually due to shortages) I've also procured some targets of equivalent thickness to the armor used by real-life medieval knights. So that chapter *may* include a personal video testing its effect on knightly armor, which should be fun.
Chapter 72: Wanna Be In The Cavalry
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ketch was crouched atop the edge of the valley wall, hidden among the tall grasses. She'd been searching for a good place to skitter down to the Sporaton camp, but had been distracted by her shock.
The Royal Army was in a state of disarray, a disorganized mob pulling back from the Tulian wall, which had a strange gap near the stream which ran through its center. She adjusted the opera glasses Sara had gifted her, trying to figure out what had happened.
The Royal Army was in the midst of returning from a failed assault, that much was clear. One didn't have to be a general to see the dejected way the soldiers carried themselves, corpses littering the field they left behind. As she studied the Sporaton army, Ketch caught sight of something glinting from a jagged tear in the middle of the wall. Just as the soldiers had begun to disperse into their camp, a little cloud of white puffed out from the wall.
Ketch squinted in confusion until, several seconds later, she heard the rumbling report of four distinct bursts. This was followed an instant later by a spray of dirt from the Sporaton army, some invisible force ripping through the lines with a brutal spray of soil and blood. Even with her Irregular vision, she could barely track the gray blur bouncing through the camp, shattering limbs and torsos alike.
What had already been a disorganized crowd degraded further, the peasants surging forward in a panic. They began trampling their way through their own camp, knocking over tents and stomping across cookfires in their rush to flee the strange force assaulting them.
Armor-clad nobility immediately began shoving through the tide, trying to call the peasants to order, but it was no use. They had already been retreating, morale weakened. There was no controlling the mob anymore.
Ketch turned her glasses towards the wall, trying to see what was unleashing the brutal torrent. It took some time for the cloud to fade, and when it did, she could only see yellowish metal and little blobs of unarmored soldiers tending them. About a minute later, the cloud reappeared, and this time Ketch could track the projectiles.
Four gray spheres shot through the air, just larger than could be comfortably held in her hand. They took nearly two full seconds to float over the half mile of fields that separated the wall and Sporaton camp, their curving path almost eerily graceful.
Until impact.
Ketch followed one ball that struck the ground just before the camp's edge, digging a track through the mud before recoiling back up, misshapen by the impact, a low skip sending it through the thick-pressed ranks of soldiers.
The result was... horrifying. Blood and limbs leapt high into the air, the ball slicing through the peasantry with the same ease it had flown through empty space. Screams sounded so loudly that they reached even Ketch's ears, so far away. The ball bounced once, twice, thrice, then finally dug deep into the dirt, burying itself a hundred feet beyond the start of its carnage. Ketch couldn't count the bodies that lay in its wake, but there were dozens, at the very least.
The other balls had similar effects, save for one that flew high, entirely overshooting the enemy camp, which should have been impossible. The peasant's retreat turned into a wholehearted rout, weapons flung at their feet as they began a desperate sprint, fleeing from the unseen monster ripping through their ranks.
Ketch held her breath as she watched, turning her attention back to the wall. She didn't understand much about battles, but she'd picked up enough from Sara to know that a rout was the time for an army to claim their victory. She expected a sudden rush of troops from the wall, the Tulian Army running down the enemy.
Instead the weapons continued to fire, no charge manifesting. She didn't understand why, not at first, but the answer came quickly.
The sound of pained screams drew her attention once more to the Sporaton camp. Plowing through their own lines was a force of cavalry, hundreds of them, a diamond-shaped formation of horse-riding Knights that were crushing their own troops under foot as they broke through the press.
The weapons at the wall barked once more, their aim adjusted. Iron balls landed in the general area of the cavalry, but the horses were not as tightly packed as the dense peasant spears. Ketch saw no horses fall, and in short order the cavalry was free of the entanglement of their own troops.
Following the cue of a bugling trumpet, the cavalry picked up speed. Ketch watched in shock as the leading horses, clad head to toe in steel armor, accelerated beyond any steed she'd ever seen.
Eight hundred mounted Knights ran out into the field, the tip of their triangle formation carrying the bulkiest horses, their riders wielding thick lances twice and more the height of a man. The rumble of their hoofbeats became audible, drowning out the panicked screams, the bugle, replacing it all with an avalanche's bassy roar.
The sight was awe inspiring. She'd seen horses run before, some incredibly fast, but those had been Sporaton messenger horses, with light builds and thin riders. The behemoths that made up the charge before her eyes were twice the size and just as fast, a thousand pounds of sprinting fury.
One last ripple of fire erupted from the metal weapons, but these were entirely ineffective, the shots either falling short or overshooting the rapid charge. Ketch's heart pounded anxiously. The charge would be at the Tulian army in a minute at most.
Sara apparently realized the same thing. The bronze weapons were pulled back, the troops operating them lifting their carriages, wheeling them around. Oxen wearing thick, complicated harnesses were herded forward, a half-dozen people hooking the weapon's wooden carriage frames into place. The oxen were whipped into a run, pulling the wheeled devices out of the gap.
A river of troops from within the wall replaced them, armored halberdiers jogging into place. The first rank didn't carry weapons, but long wooden stakes, which they promptly shoved into the well-churned mud, then retreated behind their fellows.
In a matter of seconds, the well-practiced motion created a bristling row of inset spears, behind which waited a shimmering block of armored soldiers, the hafts of their halberds set firmly against the ground. They froze in place, helmets staring down the onrushing cavalry. Ketch had to imagine they were as scared for themselves as she was for them, but she couldn't see it behind their visors. The wall of slate-gray steel was unmoving, glaring at the Knights as if daring them to try an attack.
It was as sturdy a defense as Ketch could imagine being created in such short order, yet the cavalry charged on. A different bugle sounded, causing the lighter horses to slow their run, the gap between types growing.
Massive lances were lowered, braced against chestplates built for the purpose. Moving with the skill of endless practice, the formation of Lancers bunched together, so tightly pressed that the Knights could have reached out to touch one another. Their armor glowed with enchantment light, even more brilliant than the shining sun bouncing form the metal. She couldn't imagine anything in the world which could stand against such a charge.
The Knights seemed to agree. Even facing the wall of halberds and defensive spikes, they carried on, unperturbed.
Just when Ketch thought the fate of the soldiers was inevitable, a new kind of smoke appeared. A portion of the wall burst into white, a crackling series of pops reaching her ears a short while later.
The dirt around the cavalry erupted into puffs of dust, invisible hail peppering the Knights. Ketch couldn't believe her eyes as she watched horses rear and riders fall, the formation wavering under the strange assault.
The bulk of the charge carried on regardless, trampling their own fallen comrades. When they were only a few hundred feet from the wall, another cloud of smoke erupted to the left, far larger, and then another, to the right.
Ketch watched with wide eyes as more and more of the wall came alive with smoke, showering the charge with a deadly hail. Knights fell one by one, frequency increasing as they neared the wall and the clouds intensified.
The explosive bangs blended together until they were a continuous crash of sound, a fogbank sinking from the walls to coat the valley floor. It lasted for five seconds, then ten, a brutal and seemingly unending volley all the way until finally it abruptly abated, the shots expended.
The cavalry charge, just a few moments before a work of art, was left in anarchy. The horses that had fallen then stumbled those behind them, forcing others to divert or pull their own animals to a halt to avoid the growing pile, lest they end up breaking their legs on the injured, flailing beasts. The front ranks continued on, with none having fallen before them, but they were growing progressively more separated from their fellows.
Another bugle sounded, causing the cavalry who were still charging to peel apart to the left and right, abandoning their target. The Knights that had been left behind wrestled with their horses' reins, trying to disentangle themselves from the mess that had been made of their formation.
In the midst of the chaos, a second burst of smoke billowed from the section of wall which had first loosed their shots. Ketch couldn't see who, if any, the shots struck, but the crack of noise startled the already disoriented horses.
The cavalry finally managed to organize their retreat just as other portions of the wall began to open up once more, showering the dirt around them with shots. The Knights returned to their looser formation, reducing the effectiveness of the barrage.
And then, the most difficult thing of all to anticipate:
The Knights began a charge away from the wall, one that was nearly as quick as the one that had brought them there in the first place.
In their wake, Ketch counted nearly two dozen horses laying motionless on the ground. Seeing as the charge had contained hundreds, it was less than she'd expected. She didn't understand how such a large attack could have been ruined, when so few had actually fallen.
But some had died, that much was clear. Among the strung-out line of dead horses, only a select few Knights were dragging themselves to their feet. Their steeds had been struck down, but they had survived their fall by virtue of their armor. Several Knights found riderless horses wandering nearby and mounted them, kicking them into a sprint to rejoin their formation, while others simply ran away on foot. A few even jogged backward, so the strongest part of their armor would be facing the wall.
The charge had been utterly broken. The actual casualties suffered had been light, but the fact remained that the Tulian Army stood strong, stopping the most powerful element of the Royal Army cold.
Relieved beyond belief, Ketch was about to turn her attention back to the camp, trying to figure out how to get in. Before she turned away, however, she caught a glimpse of a single Knight on the field, their leg bleeding profusely as they lay low, hiding behind a horse's corpse.
A few shots from the wall thumped into the horse, bouncing off its armor. The fire briefly intensified as Tulian soldiers tried to pick off the Knight, then abruptly ceased, some order calling it to halt. Ketch watched, entranced, as the Knight slowly stood, discarding their massive lance for a simpler side sword.
The formation of defensive halberdiers blocking the wall's gap parted, allowing two distinct figures to step forth. One was dressed in massive black armor, the other in a tailored red dress. Though it had been months since Ketch had seen them in person, she would have recognized Sara and Evie's silhouettes anywhere.
The Champion marched out onto the field, staring down the wounded Knight. Gestures were exchanged, some conversation occurring. Sara motioned to the wall, to which the Knight shook their head. Sara pointed more insistently, and in response the Knight raised their side sword, leveling it at Sara's heart, the symbol of a duel offered.
Evie stepped forward eagerly, starting to exchange the peculiar wooden pole she carried for her rapier. The Knight shook their head, stabbing their sword at Sara.
The Champion looked to Evie, shrugging her shoulders. Evie visibly deflated, but nodded, taking the wooden pole and and putting it to her shoulder.
A small puff of white heralded the explosion of the Knight's head. They dropped like a sack of grain, falling behind the horse that had sheltered them a moment before.
Ketch heard exclamations of shock and affront from the Sporaton camp, a rumble of disbelief. To refuse a duel was one thing. To fight two on one another. To simply kill a challenger without warning? Even Ketch knew that was utterly unconscionable.
The offense was made worse as Sara and Evie stepped forward, crouching over the Knight's corpse. They began to strip armor off the fellow, piling it up beside them as casually as one might shuck oysters.
As she watched Sara strip the Knight naked, Ketch wondered if the Champion really understood exactly how horrible the action would look to the nobility of Sporatos. As Ketch had learned during her months in the kingdom, honor, ill-defined as it may be, was everything to them. To so blatantly loot a member of the nobility was an offense beyond reckoning.
Yes, Ketch was soon forced to acknowledge, she knows exactly what she's doing.
Sara stood with a bundle of enchanted armor clutched under one arm, her free hand raising a middle finger towards the Sporaton camp. Beside her, Evie loaded her weapon and loosed one last shot, striking down some highly unfortunate peasant, then turned away as well. They returned to the lines of Tulian troops, absorbed within the walls of Fort Midwich.
A short time later, the bronze weapons were rolled out, another barrage of shots sent flying.
Ketch abandoned her crouch in the grass, retreating out of sight. She didn't know what the range of the weapons were, but she suspected the Royal Army was soon going to learn. Already Ketch could tell it would be some time yet before they managed to pull their troops far enough from the walls to safely make camp once more. Ketch would wait until nightfall to begin her infiltration.
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Lady Vomun – Noctie
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The former Lady Vomun walked straight-backed through the muddy slots of the Sporaton Army camp, glaring down at anyone who dared to tread across her path. The peasants invariably fled, leaping aside like deer. Each instance gave her a small thrill, alongside a deeper satisfaction Pride that she could still have effected them in such a manner.
Her new Mistresses may have taken from her the most powerful aspect of her vampiric eyes, but they could not take two centuries of noble bearing. With a firmly set jaw and a haughty irritation suffusing every pore, even the dullest of peasants would instinctually recognize one such as her. The mere thought of interposing themselves between her and her destination never so much as entered their poor little heads.
She licked her lips, turning down another of the muddy pathways, angling her way towards the camp's centermost point. She had never been one for joining the occasional armies which had formed over her centuries of noble rule, and so was not accustomed to the difficulties in their organization. Even still, she was convinced that this was not the standard that the Royalty's previously assembled forces would have been held to.
What few tents had been raised among the peasants were haphazard and spattered with debris, canvas stained from weeks spent hauled on a sweaty commoner's back. The entire camp was chaotic in its layout, far from a simple comprehensible grid, the disorganized sprawl awkwardly hugging the river. Upstream, peasants were hauling out buckets of drinking water, while downstream, they were releasing themselves into the river, uncaring of where their waste was swept away to. In between these two points were lashed the shallow-water barges that had so easily carried supplies this far into the riverine Tulian nation, guarded by a collection of tired-looking peasants. Beside them rested a veritable herd of packmules, who were too dull to understand that the barges were the very blessings which had availed them of their burdens, yet bright enough to take well to the opportunity, splayed blissfully out across the grass.
And all throughout her camp, she could smell the scent of blood. Heard the thrumming of blood rushing through veins, blood stirring loudly within those few who were awake, blood rushing quietly among the sleeping majority. She licked her lips once more. If she'd been any less full, there would have been one more peasant casualty of the battle, taken silently in the night on her way to the camp's center.
But she was not hungry, and so they lived. In fact, she reflected, it had been quite a long while since she had lost control in such a manner. Her noble bearing required quite the degree of maintenance, and Daylagon's Faithful Hunters were always keen to investigate the homes of those whose staff too often met untimely ends.
She did not know if any of the beast-god's adherents were present in the camp, but it was only safe to assume so. They were persistent little thorns in her side, ever on the lookout for those they deemed "inappropriate" to their god's plans, and like thorns, they rarely showed up in places convenient to her. She only wondered if they were going to be present in their religious capacity, or as part of a political function. Unlike Otarian's sycophants, their deity did not forbid them from involving themselves in matters beyond their explicit duties.
Still navigating her way through the mess, she wondered if the other political dignitaries present within the army included her former acquaintances. It was almost a certainty, considering the proportion of the army which had been levied from the immediate environs of the capital.
An idle thought flicked through her head. Not all of her old allies were ignorant of her nature; in fact, many were aware of her vampiric status in the fullest of capacities. Something they oft used to their advantage. It was one thing to have an enemy House's agent quietly disposed of, quite another to throw them under the thrall of a Vampire Lord, their deepest secrets borne gleefully to the open air as she drained them. With many hours left in the night, she could easily find them, explain herself, and utilize their resources to extricate herself from her situation. With their aid, she could be back in Sporatos in a matter of weeks, safe and isolated from that which controlled her.
Noctie's firm gait stuttered, mud sucking at her feet as she lost her footing for a moment. A throbbing ache had developed in her jaws, phantom pain pulsing down to her fangs. She involuntarily made a motion as if she were suppressing a yawn, a full-body shiver running down her from head to toe.
And then she steadied herself, shaking her head.
Silly Noctie, she thought, thinking you can get away from her. Thinking you want to get away from her.
She licked her lips as she passed a tent full of wounded, groaning pitiably as they awaited for their army's overburdened healers to recover. The scent of blood floating on the wind was not, she recognized, any less enticing than it had once been. It was simply that she had been shown something better. She could abandon her new Owner here and now. She recognized that.
But why would she? In her Owner's veins pulsed a magic more potent than a hundred tired peasants. Noctie could sustain herself for days upon a handful of drops, weeks with a single mouthful. She had, when they had fled the capital. Noctie had lived in the cramped confines of a cart during the day, the sun's hideous obliteration mere inches away, all for a nightly taste of that blood. And it was a wondrous, wondrous taste, more delectable and satisfying than any amount of her former pride.
She was debasing herself, yes. To so slave over a young woman, to fawn and coo and awe at her every motion like an enraptured child, it was humiliating. At times, as the blood she had been provided had healed the damage of her brief battle with Her mind– and how foolish that had been, to think she could resist Her– she had been beset by the shame of her actions. A deep, perverse horror at her own behavior, at allowing herself to be supplicated beneath what was, in effect, a mere child. Just approaching her second decade of life, while Noctie was well into her twentieth.
But each time she had felt that guilt twist up her stomach, the taste of blood had risen to her tongue. The heady, intoxicating glory of it. A pure, crystallized delight, bringing more unadulterated joy in its flavor than the brightest, warmest day she'd ever spent relaxing on the summer fields of her nigh-forgotten youth.
Noctie shivered once more, expending the effort required to drag her thoughts away from Owner's blood.
She had a task to do, after all, and that meant she would do it. Only Bad Girls did not do their tasks, and Bad Girls did not get to taste Owner's blood. Only her skin, forced to hide her fangs as she brought pleasure to Owner with lips and tongue. That was nice, wonderful even, but it was not blood. If Noctie did not do a good job, she would not get blood.
No. She refused that future. Noctie found her way to the center of the camp, where the noble tents gathered, and sat herself down, opening a notebook. She was going to be a Good Girl, and that meant she was going to get an extra big taste of Owner's blood when she got back.
Though she was still a few hundred feet away from her target, Noctie had not spent two centuries mindlessly strolling around her manor. She had developed quite the set of Skills, and as she drew upon them, the voices near the tent of her target grew clearer. She eagerly set quill to paper, happily humming.
Oh, yes. She was going to be such a Good Girl.
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Emeric
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Knight Emeric held up the warhammer, turning its blunt end back and forth the in the torch light. He ran the pad of his thumb over it, comparing the sensation to the metal underneath his other hand. A lead ball, a little over a half inch wide, smashed flat and wedged into place by its impact on Gallant's armor.
He thought the hammer was approximately the same size. The dense lead pellet was heavy, about half as heavy as a longbow's arrow, but traveling at an inordinately increased speed. That it had actually dented Gallant's armor told Emeric only in vague terms how hard it struck, such that he could only be certain it was far greater than any archer's strike. As great, possibly, as a ballistae, but with its force focused upon a much narrower point of impact.
He heard the King speaking behind him, but he did not pay it much mind. He was tending to Gallant, who was still wearing the armor of the day's earlier charge, and he would not let his steed suffer under it any longer. Seeing as they were unsure of the strange weapon's range, he had refused to allow the grooms to dearmor Gallant, fearing that the barrage may resume at any time. Now that it was well into the night, without any resumption of fire, he would tend to his steed himself.
"It's alright," he whispered calmingly, reaching underneath the metal plates for the many buckles which kept Gallant's armor in place. There were several dents across the front of his chestplate, with a few more along his neck, and so it was these that Emeric first removed.
Gallant, as always, stood sedately still throughout the process, his training have honed his obedience to the finest of standards. As Emeric removed plate after plate, he felt his stalwart steed's skin jump and shiver at its exposure to the open air, clearly resisting the urge to stretch. Some of the dents were deep enough that Emeric suspected they had dug into his muscles as he walked, but as always, the noble Gallant had refused to show any signs of discomfort.
It took quite a while for him to remove the armor, and all throughout, the King continued to talk. He was addressing a number of the cavalry, personally collecting collecting their reports on the weapons which had– for the first time in the King's forty year rule– fully halted one of the Royal Lancer's charge.
Other charges had failed throughout the years, of course, such was inevitable, but only ever partially. They had failed when mages had conjured a wall of stone to block their approach, or when enemy cavalry had met them halfway, forcing them into a running skirmish which diverted them from their original goal. Cavalry, it was said, was the king of the battlefield, and so the tactics developed to counter it were as numerable as the methods the cavalry themselves employed.
But to simply be... broken? To rout like common peasants? To be so distraught by the appearance of an unknown foe that they stumbled over themselves like children whose sprinting run took their feet out from under them, spilling themselves in the grass?
That simply had not happened. It should not happen. The King, his father, and his grandmother, the last three generations of Sporaton leadership, had diverted inordinate amounts of funds towards the training of the Royal Cavalry. Centuries of careful breeding of warhorses, of artificers developing specialized armor, of theorists and philosophers elaborating every conceivable iteration of a cavalry charge and how it may be countered, then how such counters might be overcome, it had all served to create as indomitable a force as could exist.
And but a few hours before, that force had met its match. That so few had died in the ill-fated charge was irrelevant; when the Royal Cavalry took the field, it was to herald the end of a battle. Against an enemy unable to produce an equal force, there was no other result to be expected.
Perhaps the only saving grace, the only thing which preserved their honor, was that it had been a Champion standing opposite them. The Champion of Amarat was not supposed to have any talent for warfare, but clearly the historical records were incomplete. The King was therefore lenient in his punishments thus far, interviewing many of the cavalry's members personally. Emeric knew he would be interviewed in turn, and as the architect and leader of the charge, would be under the greatest scrutiny, but he presently did not care.
With Gallant now wholly out of his armor, Emeric spent several minutes gently running his hands over the animal, searching for any wounds which his hair may hide. He thought he found a few bruises, judging by the snuffling and irritated flicking of the ears that occurred when he prodded certain areas, but he could not be certain. At the very least, he confirmed his steed did not have any outstanding injuries which would require a healer.
That process finally completed, he fed Gallant a sugar cube, then turned to the animal's armor that had been laid out on the ground.
Emeric counted five points of impact, marked by dents and smears of gray lead on the armor. One terrified him more than any; a long gray streak running up Gallant's face guard, starting dangerously close to his eye. Had it landed just a few inches northward, Gallant may have joined the lost upon the field.
Shoving aside the ominous thought, Emeric knelt down next to Gallant's breastplate. Right in the center of it, just before the horse's lungs, was the deepest dent, from which Emeric had retrieved the lodged lead projectile. He put the malformed pellet back into the slot, eying it critically as he hefted the warhammer he had selected.
He did not understand how the projectile acquired its hideous speed, but for his immediate purposes, he did not need to. Marking an undamaged place near the original dent, he flung the blunt warhammer down.
A metal crack split the night air, interrupting the King's discussion with one of the Knights. Emeric felt eyes turn to him, bewildered, but he ignored them. He had not replicated the dent. He raised the warhammer again, swinging with considerably more force.
A second, louder bang sounded, drawing further attention to him. This time, Emeric was pleased to see, he had managed to ever so marginally dent the armor. It was incredibly difficult to do so, but he had managed it.
He raised the warhammer again, high over his head, and took a deep breath. With a furious grunt, he slammed it down with all the force he could muster, the weapon whistling as it rocketed towards the plate.
A third crack split the night, this one setting his ears ringing along with the plate. By then the King and every nearby Knight was staring at him, baffled, which he continued to ignore.
Emeric lifted the plate, turning it towards the torchlight to inspect its surface, plucking the lead pellet out to better compare. The dent he had created next to the first was noticeable, a small circular dip in the steel, but it still wasn't quite as deep, and thanks to the narrower head of the warhammer, only half as wide. He would have preferred a more direct replication, but seeing as he had swung with all his strength, he would have to be satisfied.
He set the plate back down, standing and turning towards the King, who was, as expected, approaching Emeric with a rather curious expression on his face.
"And may I ask, Sir Knight, as to your purpose in so vandalizing your own steed's armor?"
"Testing, my Liege," Emeric replied promptly, presenting the lead pellet. "I wished to see if I was capable of imitating the strange weapon's effect upon the cavalry's armor."
"I have not seen one of the strange projectiles myself," King Sporatos said, taking the lead pellet from Emeric with clear interest. "You are certain this is what wreaked such havoc upon your troops?"
"I am, sir," Emeric said with a nod to the armor. "I found it lodged in Gallant's armor immediately after the battle."
"Fascinating," King Sporatos hummed, turning the pellet over a few more times before handing it back to Emeric. "I cannot imagine the method of its launching. Were it not for the accompanying cloud of smoke and reports of wood and metal polearms of some kind, I would have guessed it were launched from an enchanted sling of some kind. Nonetheless, I expect the mages will have collected their own samples, but on the off chance they have not, I would ask for you to provide them this example for their study." King Sporatos glanced down at the warhammer, still in Emeric's right hand. "But I still do not understand why you wished to further damage your steed's armor."
"To see if it is possible to train our animals to no longer fear these weapons, sir," Emeric replied. "Our charge was not stopped by casualties, as you have surely gathered, but rather the shock of our animals, and to a lesser extent, the shock of our Knights." Emeric lifted the warhammer. "If I can strike with equal force to the strange weapons, I can accustom both Gallant and myself to receiving such blows, preventing a repeat of future incidents."
King Sporatos eyed the dented armor. "It does not seem that such training could be maintained for long, though."
"Correct, sir," Emeric said with a nod. "The weapons are clearly beyond most of our cavalry's ability to withstand for extended periods. In my own interviews with our troops, only those Knights who emphasized physical protection to the near exclusion of energetic protection recorded strikes upon their armor which did not permanently damage the plate. If we wish to fully counter these weapons, we would have to modify our armors accordingly."
King Sporatos's eyebrows rose. "And who is to say the weapons are not spellcraft themselves?"
"As I am not a mage, I cannot say for certain, sir," Emeric said with a small shrug. "I only noted the details I have presented you. The expertise of the archmages should obviously overrule my own in this regard. I can, after all, only share the preliminary opinions I have developed thus far."
King Sporatos nodded, stroking his beard. Emeric noted that he, like many of the nobility within the camp, had not eschewed his armor, despite the battle being many hours past. The brutal barrage that had chased them from their original camp after the cavalry had been repelled had left quite the lasting impression.
It was also, Emeric quietly noted, a different armor from the set he had begun the day in. There had been rumors in the camp of the King's failed dismounted assault, some claiming that the King himself had nearly died, his legendary armor failing him. Emeric had initially discounted such fanciful rumors, but now he wondered.
"If you believe it possible to train the cavalry's steeds without destroying their armor, by all means, do so," King Sporatos said, after some consideration. "But we cannot modify the armor. Not only do we lack the requisite artificers, but doing so would create an unforgivable weakness against a more traditional, mage-supported army. I will not lose the next war solely to finish this one in shorter order." He held his hand out. "May I borrow your trophy, for a time? I will be seeing the archmages soon, and wish to bring them the projectile you collected, on the off chance they do not have their own. It will be returned, of course, as a due spoil of war."
"Of course, sir," Emeric said, depositing the pellet in the King's outstretched palm. Truthfully, he couldn't care less about the lead ball. Many Knights cared greatly about keepsakes from various conflicts, and while Emeric wasn't without his own collection of trophies, the lead pellet was hardly intriguing to him. He did not enjoy the thought of keeping something which had so nearly killed Gallant.
"Thank you, Knight Emeric." King Sporatos nodded to the damaged armor plates. "Continue your... experiments. If they bear fruit, notify my staff directly." King Sporatos turned away, then paused, a thought occurring to him. "The army's forges are yours to requisition, as well. Creating sacrificial plates with which to train the animals may be a better use of resources than damaging enchantments. Pull them off whatever task they are working on at your discretion; you are a bright officer, and I trust your judgement. Perhaps even well suited for ascension, should things go appropriately."
Emeric simply nodded his thanks in response. The King left.
The exchange left him with a mix of emotions. Something about the King's final comments had felt... calculated, in a way. He thought back to the masked advisors the King had recently surrounded himself with, and of the King's rare comments about Emeric someday being "allowed" to understand their role more fully.
Once upon a time, shortly before and after his Knighting, Emeric would have been overfilled with pride at the notion of being allowed such privileged access to the King. As the years had wore on, however, and his understanding of the Royalty's machinations had grown, so too had his hesitance to involve himself in the Court's politics. For all he respected the rule of law, and dedicated himself to serving his Liege, there was an unavoidable element of politics with which he did not want to entangle himself.
And now, with the King involving himself with what some accused of being a heathen cult? Emeric was as uncertain as he could ever be. In his youth, he would have assumed "ascension" would refer to becoming landed, joining the gentry properly. Now he had doubts.
To distract himself from the uncharacteristic wavering of his resolve, he turned back to the armor plate, raising the warhammer once more. If ever there was a task he knew he could fully lose himself in, it was ensuring Gallant's protection.
Notes:
A shorter chapter for a non-action scene, but in my defense, I've spent four days of the week painting a house. Did you know that shit sucks?
Anyway, enjoy Noctie being fucked up and down bad. To answer the age-old question of how one might deal with their addictive, possibly self-destructive behaviors, one brave vampire takes a tried and proven route: whole-hearted embrace. Luckily for her, Ketch doesn't seem that bad of an owner. For now, at least.
Chapter 73: Taking Control (E)
Summary:
What's this? Smut? In my military fiction fantasy story? It's more likely than you think!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara spent the hours after the battle in her command tent scribbling away at her desk, digging her way through an ever-growing mountain of paperwork. When the Sporaton army had finally withdrawn beyond cannon range, signaling the end of this world's first cannon barrage, she'd had one hell of a logistics situation to deal with.
Modified inventory forms had been on the top of the list. She'd needed to send out runners to count, inventory, and ensure the safe storage of the muskets that had been distributed. It had been confirmed in triplicate who they had been distributed to, how much ammunition had been consumed, and the fact that they had been properly cleaned before being put under careful watch. The cannons were easy to track, obviously, two tons of gleaming bronze glowing like a beacon, but the muskets? They could go missing very, very easily. She'd handed out every last one she'd had in reserve, which totaled nine hundred and forty-six, and at the end of the day the officers of her army had reported in their various unit's hands a grand total of nine hundred and forty.
Those six missing muskets had taken as many hours to track down. For all her Blessings granted her skill in rooting out spies, she was ultimately only one woman. The five thousand strong army was simply too large for her to have cleared everyone. So she'd shut Fort Midwich down hard, not even allowing messengers in or out from Tulian. With magical bags a real possibility, even a child could hide six muskets and a gallon of black powder on their person.
Thankfully, that wasn't what happened. The muskets were eventually found, trickling in over the hours. Two had belonged to sentries who hadn't turned them back in to their Sergeants, convinced there would be a nighttime attack that they'd need to respond to, and after Sara had interrogated them, she'd decided they were honest.
Stupid, trying to sneak away with the single most valuable weapon of her army, but they came to it honestly.
Three other muskets had been determined to have been detonated by misfires, their wielders not reporting them either because they were in the medical tents getting their bloodied faces tended to, or because they'd been embarrassed to have loaded them wrong, which Sara couldn't much blame them for. Six months may have been a long time for learning drill formations, but the culturally ingrained fear of reporting failure to superiors was a hard thing to shake.
The final missing musket was the only one that had concerned her. Its owner had finally come forward five hours after the search started, sheepishly telling their Sergeant that they had– unbelievably– dropped it off the wall. That revelation had sent Sara and Evie into a scrabbling rush, gathering up enough escorts to let them safely sneak out through the wall, combing up and down the soldier's entire sector. The possibility of the Sporaton forces recovering was remote, but very, very real.
With Sara thanking all the gods except that one hidden prick, they'd eventually found it. It was stabbed muzzle-first into the mud, poking straight into the air like a flagpole, halfway through raising a signal screaming "come grab me!" Luckily that hadn't happened, but it seemed Evie had suffered enough stress to shorten her lifespan by months in the meanwhile.
Sara herself, oddly enough, wasn't as worried. She'd put a lot of effort into hiding the guns, and she thought that she'd done a good job so far, but the battle's aftermath had her mind meandering down paths she hadn't expected it to tread. No concrete decisions had been made yet, but she could feel her old plan wavering, uncertainty growing.
And it was no wonder that she hadn't been able to organize her thoughts. The battle had dumped in her lap an unconscionable wave of problems, a pressure valve that burst violently open when the Sporaton army had finally stopped pressing the assault.
The list was long. Food, bandages, clean water, surgical supplies, powder containers, ammunition for the cannons, muskets, and rifles, not to mention the contraceptive herbs, because a coed army needed a shitload of those, Sara had learned, as well as replacement weaponry and boots and gloves and uniforms and... so, so much more, really. By the time she was halfway through the list, she'd forgotten the top items, and when she'd reached the bottom, she was pretty sure she'd forgotten her own name. It had been replaced by every last need of her army, written in small, precise handwriting, all requiring her approval to acquire.
Evie had been a godsend in that respect. Sara had never lived a life without a calculator, and her wonderful girlfriend took pity on her, having tallied the costs of everything with neat tabulations on a separate sheet of paper. Seeing as they were all explictly necessary, Sara had signed off on every purchase, even when Evie had added notes that the prices concerned. The merchant's daughter had a keen sense for bullshit, and she suspected that some of the crafters were taking advantage of the army's pressing concerns, jacking their prices through the roof. Sara hadn't cared, signing off anyway, but she had made a note to blacklist the offending crafters from future government contracts. Price gouging was going to be illegal soon enough, anyway.
Thanks to Evie's work, the logistics of the army were handled in (comparatively) short order. Then there'd been the second, more depressing element of paperwork.
Confirming field promotions.
Of the five hundred dead, a good number had been officers of some capacity or another. None of the Colonels had died, thank the gods, but two Lieutenants had, as well as a considerable number of Sergeants. That the Sergeants had taken such a hard beating made sense, in a roundabout sort of way. Their job was to put on a show in front of their troops, whipping them back into shape, keeping their spines straight as the enemy bore down. The problem with standing tall on the battlefield was just that, however: standing tall. Sergeants were the backbone of a squad, the example everyone else was supposed to look to, and that meant they couldn't flinch, couldn't cower, and couldn't duck.
They'd done their jobs well, and for their bravery, earned an arrow in the neck. Sara had quietly wondered if she should have equipped the officers of her army with heavier armor than was standard. She'd avoided it at first, on both ideological and practical grounds. Every life was equal in her army, and unless you were one of the Irregulars, that showed in the uniformity of equipment.
Also, armor was expensive as shit, and there were a lot of Sergeants. Even adding a gorget to their uniform would cost a very, very pretty penny. Looking at the casualty list and the frequency of neck-based wounds, however, Sara was beginning to wonder if it was worth it.
If it was, it would be a change that couldn't happen any time soon, and so she'd asked Evie to make a note of the idea and moved on. The Lieutenants presiding over the fallen Sergeant's squads had already made their recommendations for promotions, which Evie had thankfully compiled for Sara. She'd briefly read over the list and its reasoning, just to make sure no one was getting a promotion for being "best at screamin', which Sarges do a lot" or something equally inane, which was a less hypothetical concern than she'd expected, before leading an army.
That done, she'd sent out the order for the prospective Sergeants to be brought to her tent. As they'd arrived, Sara had done the same for them as she had every officer of her army thus far.
Sara ordered the unfortunate recruits to sit down across from her desk, without having explained a word of why they were being brought to the Governess's command tent, and began asking them questions.
"How's your day been?"
"Who's your favorite buddy in your squad?"
"You ever tasted Southern Mead?"
"You ever wondered why tides happen?"
Utterly insane questions. They meant nothing, the answers irrelevant. Even among those who responded well to the game, answering sharply and quickly once their initial bewilderment passed, she couldn't care less about their answers. All she really wanted was for them to talk to her for a while about something they couldn't possibly have prepared an answer for, forcing them to come up with their responses on the spot.
And she'd watched them. Leading an army, the Blessings of Amarat hadn't come into play as often as she might have wished, but this was one of the exceptions. Before each meeting, she'd taken slow, long breaths, letting the rumble of the army beyond her tent fade away. Then she'd waved the soldier in, locked eyes with them, and began the process.
She counted their blinks. She counted the frequency of their shifting gaze. She tracked the angle of their head's tilt and how often they licked their lips. She absorbed a torrent of information from their subtle gestures, analyzing, quite literally, their every breath. Miniscule twitches in the shoulders popped to the tune of each spoken syllable, muscles involuntarily twisting beneath the skin in response to the meandering course of hidden thoughts.
At times like this, she didn't feel quite human. It was the aspect of Amarat's Blessings which strayed the furthest beyond what should've been possible, beyond what she considered within the realm of human ability, even in this altered world. She felt like a machine, some inhuman intelligence processing millions of data points per second, every miniscule flutter of facial expressions tracked, collected, categorized, compared, and filed away for future reference. She couldn't define what, exactly, her mind was doing, but it was a whole damn lot. It felt like she should be overheating, and by the end of the first hour, she was. Evie dabbed her brow with a towel between interviews as she sat sweating in her chair, breathing hard. Her forehead grew hot to the touch, feverish. She soldiered on.
If people actually knew how much she could learn about them from a few short sentences, most would never talk to her again.
It took approximately thirty seconds of silent staring for Sara to confirm that a prospective Sergeant wasn't a Sporaton spy, two randomly selected questions to determine if they were a good choice for the promotion, and five or six minutes of pointless blabbing to not seem like an unapproachable, otherworldly alien by doing so. It wouldn't be technically accurate to say she could read minds, but as her Levels continued to progress, the technicality grew more paltry. Maybe not everyone would be put off by her eclectic behavior, mollified by her Champion's status, but she certainly would've been. She kept up the facade.
Sunrise was a mere handful of hours away when she'd finally squared away the most immediate concerns, which left only the not-quite-as-violently-critical concerns, which she'd have to deal with in the morning. There was only so much she could do without exhausting herself, and she was well past that point.
And so she fell onto her cot, too exhausted to care about the way the wooden spars beneath the thin canvas jutted against her aching body. There was so much to do, but sleep, thank the gods, had finally risen to first place on that list.
"C'mon..." she mumbled, opening her arms up.
From their folding desk, Evie looked up from her work, saw Sara waiting with arms parted, and sniffed in amusement. "I'll only be a moment, Master."
"But I'm tired now," Sara whined.
"Are you incapable of sleeping without me in your arms?"
"Yes."
Evie blew air through her nose once more, clearly amused, but the scratch of pen on parchment did not cease.
Sara was nothing if not committed to the bit. She held her pose, laying bare-chested on her side, holding her arms open as if for a hug, and waited.
It was several minutes more before Evie finished writing with a small sigh, standing from her stool and stretching. Her sigh turned into a satisfied, groaning whine. As always when they were alone, Evie's hair had been taken down from her customary tightly-woven braids, falling off her shoulders to cascade down to just a few inches above her hips, brown waves that caught the dim lantern light. Sara was always amazed by the sight of her weaving it into place each morning, dextrous fingers tying it up in a matter of minutes, rather than the hours it would have taken Sara.
When Evie finally turned around and saw Sara holding her pose, she just barely arrested the starting snort of laughter in time to replace it with a laborious eye roll.
"Don't your arms hurt, Master?"
"Every time you're not in them."
This second eye roll was noticeably more genuine.
Evie moved slowly towards the cot, briefly pulling her hair into a ponytail so it could slide easily into the collar of her warrior's shirt. She reached down to the shirt's hem, crossing her arms as she pulled it up and over her head, baring her chest to Sara.
It was a sight that had long ago been permanently etched into Sara's mind, yet was no less beautiful for it. Over the months spent in Tulian, Evie's once pale skin had developed a healthy tan, darkest at her hips and shoulders, fading by shades until her chest, which had the stark white line around her breasts where she bound them during practice duels with Sara. Her breasts weren't quite large enough to fully justify the binding, barely a handful each, and Sara loved them nearly as much as the woman they were attached to.
In fact, quite a bit had changed about Evie's body since they'd first met. Freed to practice with the rapier as often as she wished, her arms had grown defined, hidden by only the thinnest layer of fat, so that her biceps protruded when she twisted in just the right way. Her stomach was smooth and creamy, yet Sara knew that when she ran her hand along it, she would feel rippling abs beneath. Evie slipped off her breeches as she walked over, baring her wide hips, tapering down into thighs and calves that were presently too relaxed to be showing off the work that had been put into them.
Her build was a practical one, her exercises not selected for display, and her natural beauty turned that into something uniquely wonderful. If she'd seen Evie on the streets of Detroit, Sara might have assumed– when she finished drooling– that Evie was a boxer, or maybe training to compete in a triathlon.
Of course, that was discounting the parts of her that would have garnered considerably more attention. Her tail languidly swiped from side to side, swooping low in a way that betrayed the exhaustion which wasn't allowed on her face. Her ears twitched side to side, independent of one another, unconsciously tracking the whispers and shuffling of the army camped on the other side of the canvas walls. The sight of them, both Evie's ears and tail, were nearly as hypnotic as the rest of her body. Historical records claimed the fae altered volunteers into Felines as a gift to humanity, and though Sara had suspected from the start that some teenage Champion had been the impetus for that gift, she'd lost the ability to look down on that long-forgotten pervert for it. Clearly, they'd had good taste.
Now entirely bare, Evie slipped quietly into Sara's arms, silky skin sliding against the rough cot and Sara's soft, welcoming embrace. Her tail, ever the betrayer of her impassive expression, curled possessively around Sara's elbow, while her ears stopped twitching, turning towards Sara's heartbeat beneath her chest, which she nuzzled into.
They lay like that for a time, quiet in one another's arms. It was a peaceful moment, one of the first in what felt like a very long while. It only could've been made better with Hurlish's reassuring warmth at her back, but in the moment, Sara couldn't complain. The second best thing in the world was close enough to the first.
Sara's eyes began to droop, the quiet rumbling purr of Evie's chest warming her core as the night wore on. Just when her thoughts began to drift towards the half-dreaming state of sleep's imminent arrival, Evie stirred, nuzzling deeper into Sara's chest.
"Mm?" Sara mumbled.
"Mm," Evie hummed, as if it were an answer. Sara started a moment later when she felt something warm and wet press against her chest, running between the valley of her breasts.
"Ah," Sara said, half an indication of understanding, half a breathy moan. Evie dragged her tongue upward until she was nearing Sara's collarbone, then leisurely pulled away, blinking slowly at her.
"Collar nagging you?" Sara asked, wrapping her hands around her girlfriend's waist, resting them just before the swell of her butt.
"No. We satisfied that requirement in the morning, Master. I have hours left until I start to feel the compulsion."
"Just felt like it, then?"
"I am certainly feeling something, Master," Evie hummed. She was still purring, an adorably involuntary reaction, the vibration adding a curious note to her words. Her hips shifted so she was straddling Sara's leg, pressing a heat into her knee.
"We really need to get to sleep," Sara reminded her.
"Then rest," Evie replied, beginning a slow grind. Sara felt the heat grow wet. "We both know you can stay hard in your sleep."
Despite herself, Sara felt herself stirring against Evie's stomach, her own warmth rising to slide along the feline's abdomen.
"I'm tired," Sara tried, even as her knee began to rise up into Evie's grinding, old habits betraying her.
Evie's ears flicked backward in irritation. "How often do I need to remind you, Master, that I am the only person in all the world whom you cannot lie to?"
"Hey, I'm not lying. I am tired."
"And many other things beside." Evie's core began to push down harder on Sara, moving higher up her leg. "But what I am most interested in learning, Master, is are you hard?"
"You know damn well- ah–"
Evie had slipped a hand between them, grasping at the erection that was pressed between their stomachs. Even the barest caress of Evie's palm stole her words from her, leaving her breathing heavily.
"Ah, perfect. You are."
Evie leaned up, separating their chests and sliding forward, until her hips were straddling Sara's. Her hand never left Sara's cock, wrapped around its midsection, pumping just enough to keep her hips twitching.
"Rest, Master. After today, I think you need some practice at keeping your cool."
"And is– shit–" Sara let out a shuddery breath, "jerking me off is supposed to help with that?"
"Perhaps," Evie hummed, "but I'm not overly concerned if it doesn't."
Before Sara could ask what that meant, Evie moved farther forward, running the length of Sara's cock along her slit. The sight of it, even through the dim light of their tent, did more to get her heart pounding than any half-hearted handjob. She groaned, hips involuntarily arching up into the pressure.
Evie's hand suddenly slammed her hips back down, pinning her to the bed. "Now, now, Master. You're tired, remember? Lay back and rest."
Sara bit her lip, hard, and nodded. Now that her horny mode was in high gear, she was far too distracted to figure out exactly what game Evie was playing, but she could at least figure out that if she wanted to feel that heat wrapping around her, she'd better be on her best behavior.
Evie slid back and forth a few times, letting out breathless little noises as she turned looked down her own body, seemingly entranced by the sight of Sara's cock. It seemed Evie's tastes were running a little bit more extreme this night, bringing her cock north of ten, maybe eleven inches. It spread her lower lips with each stroke, and as Evie leaned forward, the head of it was thick enough to brush against her clit, prompting a pleasured shiver from the feline.
"Uh, are you going to, uh–"
"Hush, Master," Evie breathed, not looking up.
Sara hushed, the authoritative yet dismissive tone in her girlfriend's voice robbing her of any chance at resistance. Evie barely seemed aware that Sara was even present. She was too focused on her cock, enjoying the way it felt between her legs.
Sara's hands went to the sides of her cot, gripping the wooden spars in an effort to restrain herself. Evie was taking it so damn slow. She just kept sliding back and forth, the muscles of her stomach rolling in hypnotizing fashion, torturing Sara with the sounds of her satisfied little sighs and the low rumble of a purr humming out from her chest. Her breasts caught the flickering of the lanternlight as she moved, painting them in beautiful yellow tones, practically begging to be touched.
But Sara had been told to "rest," and by fucking god, she was doing her best to do it. She kept her lower lip firmly between her teeth, biting back the whimpers that struggled to fly free every time Evie's pussy neared the head of her cock.
After what was either several hundred years or a handful of minutes, Evie finally rolled all the way back, sitting on the base of Sara's cock. Her face was flushed, her tail flicking constantly behind her, her ever-twitching ears frozen to point directly at Sara. She'd finally stopped staring at Sara's cock, but only to stare at her breasts instead, drinking them in greedily.
She reached a hand out, palming the side of Sara's breast, running the pad of her thumb over Sara's nipples. Sara sucked in a sharp breath, worked up enough that the barest touch felt like lightning dancing across her skin. Evie's second hand moved to her other breast, massaging it similarly, and Sara's head involuntarily fell to the side, eyes wrenching closed.
Gods, where the fuck did she get this kind of patience? Sara lamented. They were well past the point where Evie normally would have been begging to have Sara's cock impaling her. On one hand, the slower pace of things was a novelty, more enticing for its unfamiliarity, but on the other, Sara wanted to get her dick wet right fucking now.
If Evie felt that desire pulsing through her collar, she ignored it. Sara was left laying on the bed in delectable anguish, restrained not by ropes or chains, but by her own desire to do as Evie had asked of her.
A hand left her breast for a moment, only to crawl up her chest to her collarbone, tracing the lines beneath her skin. It slowly moved upward, until Sara's chin was resting in Evie's palm, a thumb rubbing slow circles across her cheek, like she was some prize dog at the market. She instinctively leaned into the touch, pressing herself against Evie's hand.
"What a wonderful thing to have for myself," Evie murmured, pulling her hand away. She returned to Sara's breasts, massaging them properly, leaving her writhing under the touch. Sara expected her to say something else, but nothing followed. Evie kept touching Sara, feeling along her body, occasionally rubbing herself along Sara's cock just a little bit at a time.
Sara thought she was going to go insane. As arrogant as it sounded, she didn't think she'd ever had anyone that had lasted so long in her bed just... not fucking her. Not since leaving Earth, at least. She'd done plenty of teasing herself, sure, but delaying her own pleasure was a world apart from having her pleasure delayed by her partner.
I got fucking spoiled, she realized. I've never actually had to sit back and take it.
Spurred on by the realization, she stubbornly put her all into not grabbing Evie by the hips and taking her then and there, fighting off a base instinct that she'd spent the better part of a year carelessly indulging. She wasn't an animal. She could hold back, if at least for a little bit. Surely Evie would give in eventually, right?
If so, she was taking her damn time. The feline's hands wandered up and down Sara's body in languid trails, leaving goosebumps and fire in their wake. Through the thickening fog of her arousal, Sara eventually realized that Evie really wasn't doing this just to tease her. She was taking her time for the simple reason of desire; the desire to feel Sara's body under her, to ensure she had every inch and every pore committed to memory.
Like a string was cut, the tension that had been building in Sara's body snapped. She fell back onto the cot, going boneless, no longer waiting for Evie's restraint to fail. This wasn't sex. It was Evie straddling her, taking a tour of her body for no reason other than her own enjoyment. Right now, Sara wasn't her girlfriend, or her Master. She was just a warm, beautiful body, the perfect tool for Evie to find satisfaction with.
As Sara relaxed, Evie's roaming intensified. She bent down to press her lips to Sara's neck, breathing deeply in through her nose, then out, sending shivers across Sara's skin. She let out her tongue and pressed it to her collarbone, wide and flat, drawing it up towards her neck, tasting the salt of of a day's work.
Sara's eyes fluttered as Evie's tongue reached the hollow of her throat, a low, quiet groan slipping unnoticed from her. Evie moved to the other side of her neck, tasting the skin there, and all the while she continued to knead at Sara's breasts, the weight and heat of her core pressing against Sara's cock.
The world grew darker as Sara's eyes began to lid, giving in to her exhaustion. Evie's gentle hands continued to run up and down her body, feeling at her arms, her chest, her stomach, leaving her skin twitching and jumping wherever she went. Sara's mouth fell open, allowing soft gasps out into the night air, little sighs that rose and fell in time with Evie's roaming.
Eventually, when Sara thought she was nearing full-on falling into a blissful sleep, Evie sat back, straddling her cock once more. Sara's eyes fluttered open to watch the feline's hands move to her own breasts, twisting and pinching at her nipples as her slow grind began to increase pace, shifting the cot beneath them.
Sara's breath caught in her chest as Evie's hips finally lifted, her arm reaching down to position Sara appropriately. Even as her lips began to slip over the head of Sara's cock, even as the collar sent phantom jolts of Sara's own pleasure through them both, she barely paid any mind to anything other than Sara's cock.
Sara... wasn't against it. That surprised her. Something about the catgirl being so absorbed in her own pleasure for once, rather than giving Sara hers, it more than made up for the slower pace. The sight of her taking in everything Sara had on display, eyes roaming over her body like she was lording over her own personal domain, more than happy to enjoy herself for no reason other than because she wanted to.
And it wasn't all waiting. As Evie slipped down onto her, the tent was filled with their groans, the long-delayed bliss washing over them both. As always, the first thing Sara felt was heat. Warm, welcoming heat, almost unbearably hot, followed by a tight embrace that seemed to roll across her body, as if all she was was slowly being swallowed up by Evie.
Sara's hips bucked slightly, an involuntary reaction she managed to reign in a hair too late, but Evie barely seemed to notice it. Her eyes were glazed over as she slid down Sara's cock, staring at nothing, lost in sensation.
Slowly, torturously slowly, Evie slid down, until their hips met once more. The weight of a body on top of her, combined with the heat of Evie's core, sent a delirious shudder tingling up Sara's spine, ending at her throat, which let out a pathetic little whimper.
"I thought... I thought you were supposed to be resting, Master?"
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
Sara flung her head back into the pillow, wrapping her fingers around the cot's wooden edge. 'Try harder' her ass. This was–
Whatever she was going to say next was wiped from existence by the shifting of Evie's body, hips rolling forward. Sara felt her cock stir with the motion, Evie's pussy clenching and grinding along the full length of her.
She fell back harder into the pillow, moaning long and low. Evie steadily shifted her hips back, abs rolling with the motion, and Sara started to see double.
"Fuck, Evie."
"Mm."
Sara was left paralyzed in the cot by Evie's body, every muscle required to move melted to jelly by the jolts running out from her pelvis, blazing fiery trails through her nervous system. Forget turning the tables on this situation; she could barely keep her eyes open.
Evie began to pick up the pace, stirring Sara's cock within her, head lolling backward, long hair cascading down in waves as she moved. The posture thrust her chest out, leaving it bouncing with each pump of her hips, and it was the sight of that which gave Sara the strength to keep her eyes open. There wasn't anything in the world she'd rather see.
Evie picked up the pace further, getting her knees beneath her, beginning to lift just a little bit every time she threw her hips back. The additional friction met the already mind-erasing bliss of her grinding, leaving mindless sentences falling from Sara's lips as she tried to cope with the pleasure.
"Oh my goooods, Evie, please– just– fuck..."
"Please what, Master?"
"Just... I-I dunno, just don't..."
"Don't stop?" Evie asked, still pumping her hips forward and back. "Don't pull off when you cum? Is that it?"
"Oh, gods," Sara whined. "Please don't get off right when I'm going to cum." The thought hadn't even occurred to her, but the moment Evie brought it up, it was devastating.
"And, mm, why is that, Master?" Evie asked, her voice finally, finally growing breathless. "We are running low on contraceptives, as you know. Are you hoping the quartermaster will be out, come morning? Praying that you'll get to knock me up, fill me with a child, as you did Hurlish?"
Sara whined like a sad puppy. "Evvviiiiiee, we don't need another kiiiid."
"But wouldn't it be nice, Master?" Evie asked, shifting so that her rocking hips allowed her to bend forward, towering over Sara, looking her in the eye for the first time. "Wouldn't you enjoy it? Seeing me swollen with your seed? For all the world to see what you did to me, your so-called consort?"
Sara felt her cock twitch deep within Evie, pulsing at the base. Traitorous bastard, it was. She tried to bite back down the rising tide.
"Hot and s-smart are two different–"
Evie reached down and put a palm to Sara's throat, clenching at the sides of her neck. Sara's eyes widened, blood pounding, a heady dizziness taking her in an instant. She whimpered, wrapping her own hand around Evie's wrist, holding it in place.
"What was that, Master?"
"Mmhghfhg..."
"I suppose I'll have to find out after you cum in me. What a shame."
Sara's head swam. Evie was... not this assertive. She'd topped, sure, but never taken the lead, not fully. No matter who was on top or bottom, no matter who initiated things, no matter how little or how much time they had, Evie was always the one giving. Giving her tongue, or her body, finding her pleasure in what she could give to others.
Sara blinked through the dizziness, watching the catgirl ride her. Her pupils were blown out to saucers, her tail for once not wrapped around some limb of Sara's, but riding high behind her and flicking from side to side, and her ears twitched and jumped at every little sound Sara made. Evie barely seemed to be paying the collar's magic any mind, ignoring what it sent of Sara's sensations in lieu of her own.
And god damn was the woman finding it. Even as the catgirl kept up the mind-erasing roll of her body, Sara felt her pussy clenching down, taking in every last details of Sara's cock. She seemed to be determined to lock Sara in place, trapping her in that cot never to leave, and if it would always feel like this, Sara wouldn't ever have spared a moment for protest.
Gritting her teeth, Sara bit back her own rising climax. Evie may have been able to ignore the sensation of a cock buried in the most wonderful body the world had ever seen, but there was no way she wouldn't be swept along when Sara reached her peak. She'd fight down the sensation. Evie was taking things at her own pace, and Sara could control herself for long enough to let her have this.
"F-fuck!"
Or maybe not. Evie chose that moment to begin lifting her hips in earnest, bouncing up and down on Sara's cock, sending her tits bouncing. With her eyes shut and a lip taken between her teeth, she constantly shifted from pulsating grinding to hard riding, the smack of their skin filling the room.
Sometimes she'd spend several long seconds with her hips joined to Sara's, sliding back and forth, and then she'd immediately begin to bounce again, raising up until just the head of Sara's cock was still inside her before dropping back down, hard.
Sara knew her girlfriend's body almost better than her own, and so she knew what she was doing. She was constantly grinding Sara's cock against the spot of her innermost wall that made her legs tense with joy, never letting Sara stop touching it for even the briefest of moments.
And it was clear that Evie knew Sara's body as well as she did hers, because Sara was left in a limp, splayed mess, helpless to do anything but watch. It was like she'd been paralyzed, Evie's touch turning her into a useless puddle of shivers and pleading moans.
Evie's eyes suddenly flew open, some invisible threshold reached. Sara had only a moment to suck in a breath before Evie leaned forward, braced herself on the cot beside Sara's ribs, and finally began throwing herself into the motion.
Sara's hands scrabbled uselessly at nothing as Evie took her for all she was worth, throwing herself up and down at a mind-breaking pace, wet slaps filling the air. Every downward motion had Sara crying out, every raise sucking in breath, nothing left for her to do but endure, all her existence narrowed down to one thought: Not before Evie.
As Sara lay there, helpless, Evie made eye contact with her again, sweat falling down from her brow to race past her satisfied smile. Her hips never stopping, her hair growing tangled with each bounce, she reached out and took one of Sara's wrists, guiding it up, towards her tail.
Like a drowning woman seizing a rope, Sara took hold of Evie's tail and pulled.
Two keening cries filled the tent, replacing the sounds of sex as they froze, buried in one another.
Sara's world went white as her hips rose, dragging Evie up with her, lightning crackling along her veins. She felt her cock jump once, twice, and then begin to pump, spreading Evie even wider around her base as she began to cum.
Evie's chest fell forward, her ass thrown back, dragged into place by Sara's grip on her tail. Her cry was nearly one of religious ecstasy, long and high-pitched, wobbling with the spasms that began to shake her.
Sara could only watch through watery eyes, too far gone in the feeling of driving her hips up, up, trying to bury herself as deeply as possible in Evie while her cock continued to jump, shooting strings of white as far as she could. Some distant, distant part of her mind prayed that Evie hadn't been all that serious about the contraceptive shortage, because there was no way what was happening right now wouldn't end in a pregnancy.
A thought that Evie seemed to echo, one hand flying down to feel at her lower stomach, twitching in time with every spurt of Sara's cock. Her other hand stayed locked on Sara's throat, carrying her through her climax with that same beautiful dizziness. White began to leak out from between them, coating their thighs, sliding down to the cot, and still Evie's pussy kept clenching down, trying to squeeze as much from Sara as she could get. Her mouth, meanwhile, was occupied by repeating a mindless mantra.
"Yes, yes, yes, Master, yes..."
Sara wasn't much better. She just kept mumbling out "Fuckin' love you, fuckin' perfect," over and over again as her head twisted from side to side, every muscle in her body tauter than a piano wire.
When Evie finally collapsed down on top of her, Sara thought a millennia could have passed them by. The feline lay atop her, a twitch still occasionally wracking them both. Sara wrapped her arms around her, relieved beyond belief to finally feel the warmth of her skin against her entire body, not just their hips. Sara's cock still jumped occasionally, some little bout of energy she didn't know she still had seizing her for yet another spurt.
When time had passed enough for the two of them to catch their breath, then to subsequently recover their wits, Evie blearily lifted her head, looking at Sara through a tangle jungle of hair.
"S-sorry..." she mumbled. "Just... wanted to... see if it was mine..."
"Shh," Sara whispered, stroking the back of her head, tucking Evie's face back down into the crook of her neck. "I know, I know. It is, alright? Always. Always yours."
"Thank you," Evie whispered, already drifting into sleep.
Notes:
11:40 upload still counts as Sunday. Damn, I wish it didn't take me so long to write smut. No bullying me about typos, because this was finished two minutes before I posted it.
Next week: Finally, a glimpse of what Nora's been doing. Whatever it is, it's probably not been good for the Sporaton Navy.
Chapter 74: Thrashing in the Deep
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There was blood in the water. Nora could see it swirling, mixing, diffusing. The crystalline waves churned it up with each rolling pass, but there were no breakers, allowing her to watch the cloud begin its slow journey to the ocean floor, a hundred and eighty six feet below. She wondered if it would disperse well enough, in short enough order, to catch the attention of a predator. She hoped so. The southern Leviathans were the true beasts, churning flukes driving them through the warmer reaches of the Deepwaters, but that didn't mean their Northern varieties were to be disparaged. Accounts held that what the Northern varieties lacked in sheer size, they compensated for with aggression, and some authors went so far as to hold that the coastal North was, owing to its more frequent attacks, even more dangerous than the South.
Bowing her head for a moment, Nora sent Daylagon a brief prayer, pleading for an attack.
When she raised her head once more, it was to the sound of a sharp crack, an enchanted ballistae bolt impacting the side of the hull beneath her feet. It sunk deep into the wood, humming with rapidly building energy.
Nora tucked her hair to the side and leaned back, watching the resultant splinters cascade skyward in a rising disc.
Good work on those pieces, she noted. Splinters largely uniform, none shorter than six inches. Some blunt, but that's an easy problem to solve, once the artificer is made aware of it. I wonder if their loyalty can be bought?
"Castalan, make a note. Port Napor has a disproportionately skilled artificer."
Her First Lieutenant rolled his eyes and turned to a cabin boy. "Tammin, make a note for the Admiral. Port Napor has a disproportionately skilled artificer."
"Aye-aye, First 'Tenant!" The boy cried, saluting unnecessarily as he pulled out one of the blank books he'd been provided for the purpose.
"Na' salutin' the officers," Nora absentmindedly instructed, stomach pressed against the gunwale as she tried to reach the hole poked in the ship with an outstretched arm. "No great sin today, but ya don't want to give an enemy foc'sal an idea of who to be skewerin'."
If the boy showed any sign of surprise that Nora had known he'd saluted while her upper body was busied dangling over the gunwale, he didn't show it. The crew that had joined her off the flagship had warned the Spiteful Prick's crew early on that not much passed her by.
She leaned back over the side and found, to her disgust, that the spray of splinters from the ballistae bolt had churned the water and disturbed the cloud of sinking blood. It ruined her chance of timing the moment of dispersion to arrival of predators. What was the point of such beautiful water, when fools kept tossing shite in the sea?
She stiffened back up with a sigh, turning her head to survey the battle line.
The ships of the Tulian Navy had remained in a fine formation throughout the day, sailing easily along the crescent she'd outlined for their siege of the port. Sixteen ships of varying types were slicing through the waters, tacked to the side as they headed into the wind, the lead ship– on which Nora stood– just preparing to make its turn. As they heaved about, ropes were pulled taut, officers shouted orders, and the sails popped as wind abruptly filled them. Timbers groaned as the Spiteful Prick's freshly altered mizzenmast dragged them through the second half of the turn, the tone of the ship's creaking altered, speed slowing. With a shout from the captain, the mainsail was dropped, its broad sheet taking the wind in full from behind, driving them forward with another lurch.
The port they held under siege was not the best for such a tactic, but seeing as no ships had sailed out to challenge her, she opted to prefer her ships honing their skills. The city of Port Napor was sheltered by a thin barrier island, two thin channels allowing access to the teardrop bay that waited beyond. Before the Sporaton conquest of the coastline, it had been one of the smaller citystates along the continent. Successful, but only middlingly so, plying just enough goods to keep its neighbors satisfied that an invasion was worth less than trade. The young King Sporatos had clearly disagreed, and in the thirty years since its conquering, Port Napor had languished, its profits siphoned off to the capital of its conquerer.
Watching her ships dance through the waters before it, Nora couldn't blame the king. It was a lovely city to take.
Nora delighted. This was their seventh hour of the siege, and though her crews were exhausted, the experience gained by so often shifting their sailing methods was paying great dividends. The Spiteful Prick's sailors, already among the most veteran of her fleet, were growing well accustomed to the peculiar assortment of propulsion methods she'd forced upon them.
When she'd first laid her eyes on the otherworldly USS Constitution, its sails had seemed a bewildering tangle of snarled lines and strange pulleys. It lurked ominously off the Sporaton coast at that very moment, its visage no doubt striking bewildered fear into those in Port Napor with a spyglass to spot it. As she'd had time to study the vessel herself, on the other hand, the superiority of it had been slowly unveiled, centuries of development picked and teased apart by endless hours of investigation. Its square sails, at first striking her as an incredible vulnerability for they could sail only perpendicular to the wind, were actually supplemented by the lateen sails at its fore and aft, themselves tied to swinging poles to better catch the wind.
With its square sails furled, the Constitution could tack and jibe against the wind like a dromon, and when the massive sheets of its mainmast were rolled out, it would take from the wind every knot it could, crashing through the waves with a brute force that had Nora's breath growing heavy with untoward excitement. It was as if its designers had seen the ships of her world, the quinqueremes and dromons and junks, with all their advantages and disadvantages, and set themselves to making a ship which had the greatest aspects of them all. Its tightly tied sails were more robust than those of the wooden-sparred junks, a quinquereme's rowers made obsolete by its ornate rigging, while its incredible length let it steal a dromon's lateen sails outright, sailing as close to the wind as any vessel could so please.
When the Constitution's design had been brought before her, the old age of sail had died. Untold centuries of shipbuilding tradition had been supplanted, superseded, and cast aside by the beautiful lines of her hull. If one could make a ship such as her, there was no reason, none at all, to persist in the clumsy foolishness that characterized everything that had come before. Every time Sara had claimed she wished to avoid the revolutionizing of technology across the world, Nora had endeavored to hide her scoff. If the Champion couldn't see the absolute superiority of the Constitution, that was her own fault.
Nora had already begun the process of altering her ships. In the months before the war had begun, she had curtailed her privateering activities to a measly drizzle, instead spending her time in the shipyard of Tulian. The ships she had captured, many of which she would have considered exemplary samples of their type a few short months ago, now seemed short, fat and ugly.
She'd taken the quinqueremes and ripped off their single masts, moving it forward until the weight was balancing a second added amidst the stern, both carrying sails far larger than any they'd been designed to accommodate. To prevent the lightest breeze from snapping the spires like twigs, she'd gone to no small expense mimicking the lattice of rope that supported the Constitution's masts, distributing the incredible force exerted upon them to the strongest portions of the ship's hull. The junks, too, had their foresails replaced with square rigs, while the wooden battens were discarded in favor of a pivoting lateen, set in a clever geared mechanism provided by the Champion, allowing their angle to be chosen and locked in with none of the complex ropework usually required. The dromons had required the fewest alterations, already having two lateen sails in the fore and aft, meaning she only placed a squaresail on the fore and altered the rear with the aforementioned mechanism.
The modifications, so unfamiliar to any of the few shipwrights which existed in Tulian, had consumed her efforts for months. She'd given naval engineering lectures on her flagship for days straight, her throat red and raw by the end. Between the work on her prize fleet and the construction of her capital ship, it had been weeks after the war had been declared before her fleet was ready to sail in earnest. This had nearly sent Sara into conniptions, convinced as she was that a maritime assault against Tulian would proceed unopposed while her army huddled down in Fort Midwich, but Nora had been unconcerned.
The Sporaton Navy hardly deserved the name, after all. It was a collection of conscripted merchant ships and gangpressed crews, the few professional captains of war that existed having no rank greater than their captainancy. Their administrative capacity was utterly devastated as a result. Nora had been certain that they, so cowed by the rumors of her flagship that Sara had helpfully allowed to slip through to their spies, would spend weeks bickering in port. Their politicking would require weeks to resolve, worsened by the necessity of choosing an overall commander for the operation, one whose leadership could be accepted by the others. As a result, she had happily sat with her ships in port, overseeing their final modifications without a care in the world, Sara's acidic anxiety be damned.
The sight before her was worth infuriating her employer. As the Spiteful Prick sailed back down the line, bouncing over the light chop of a brisk, windy day, Nora passed each of her fleet in turn.
To the watching eyes of Port Napor, they were alien creatures. Sails arranged like no other, moving at a clip into the wind that should have been impossible for square rigging. Each time they reached the far edge of the bay's waters, encroaching upon the breaking waves that heralded hidden shores and shoals, they would heel about with a speed that seemed to teeter on the edge of capsizing. Always they righted themselves, always they returned to their precise march up and down the mouth of Napor Bay.
It was not as a naval siege should happen. By every book of strategy, Nora should have anchored her ships at the mouth of the bay, blockading the entrance while her ballistae traded shots with the port's defenses for hours upon end. When the defensive works were silenced, she should have either held her position, choking the life from the port's trade by her mere presence, or if she were confident that her marines could overwhelm the city's troops, sailed to an assault.
Instead she had her ships endlessly spinning about just beyond the bay, never returning the coastal ballistae's shots, confident that the unprecedented maneuverability of her ships were eating through their stock of enchanted bolts at a prodigious rate. It must have looked like she were mad, having sailed all the way to hostile waters only to stop just on the cusp of achieving anything of note, preferring instead to dazzle the citizens of Port Napor with a grandiose naval parade.
But of course that was not her purpose, and she suspected any in the port with a modicum of sailing talent recognized it. The clues were there.
For one, this was slightly less than half her fleet. If any of the nobility had speaking crystals connected to pairs in Port Agrith, they would know that the bulk of her forces were busying themselves with a similar display there, even larger in scale. Sailing and turning and sailing again, a dizzying dance.
One fleet may have a madwoman at its head. Two? Even the most optimistic noble would know it unlikely. They had to know she had a plan, even if they couldn't fathom it.
Second among the clues were flying proudly from the mainmasts of her ships. Dozens of signal flags, standardized in the international parlance, all sixteen ships festooned with as many repetitions of the message as could fit on their masts. They had been raised the moment she'd begun her blockade, and they had not once been pulled down since. Every time the crescent line of her ships passed within range of the naked eye, the people within Port Napor were being subjected to the same message.
"Where are you? Fight. Where are you? Fight. Where are you? Fight. Where are you? Fight. Where are you? Fight. Where are you? Fight."
On and on and on it went, the largest of her ships sometimes flying two dozen sets of the signals all on their own. Though a more complex message may have been possible, she was using the simpler, more commonly known flag language. She expected thousands of the citizens of Port Napor would be capable of reading it, and with so many witnesses, there would be no stopping the message from spreading. The same flags were being flown many miles to the south, at Port Agrith.
Unlike their southern neighbors, however, the citizens of Napor were subjected to a third confounding blow.
It loomed on the horizon, just in sight, its masts towering high above the seam of sea and sky. Arriving at the head of the fleet, it had dropped anchor and furled its sails, sending its sisters off to approach alone. It, unlike its diminutive escorts, remained a silent monolith, a dot on the horizon.
The Tulian Navy flagship.
Her flagship.
The Waverake.
Its two hundred foot mainmast was twice the height of the greatest Sporaton ship's length. Its sails, when unfurled, could have draped a city block in deep shadow. Its hull was a hundred and eighty feet in length at the waterline, stretching another hundred feet from the furthest tips of its uppermost deck. That hull was painted a deep black, save for a shining white stripe running the length of its lower deck, which was itself higher than the gunwale of most every ship. It was a behemoth, one laying in motionless wait, and like the ships it had arrived with, it was festooned with signal flags.
Its message, however, was even simpler.
"Fight."
"Fight."
"Fight."
The symbol of challenge, a red diamond on a pale white, ran across every free surface of the ship. The flags rippled up and down the masts, tangling with the flags that drooped from the rigging, others fluttering from where they had been pinned to the hull, still more dangling loosely from the portholes, tips dipping in the waves as the ship rocked. Hundreds of the flags were present, more than her entire fleet would ever require, more than likely any fleet would ever be capable of flying.
Nora did not intend to begin her legacy subtly.
The TNS Waverake sat just at the horizon line from the perspective of the port, a lingering threat that faded in and out of sight as the silhouettes of her fleet slid by. At such a range its size might be hard to judge, and she imagined many in the port would claim it was simply a smaller, closer vessel. She also knew the veteran sailors amongst them would know better.
"Marking the eighth hour, Admiral," Castalan said, implacably nodding to the drooping time candles. He, like all her officers, was dressed in a neat-pressed uniform, having selected it for the way its black fit complimented his dark fur. She approved of the choice, not for how it looked on him, but for how neatly it suited her own crisp style.
"Time to sunset?"
"Six hours or so."
Nora hummed. She hadn't expected the Sporaton Navy to answer her call in the course of a day, naturally. She heavily suspected they were anchored considerably farther north, out of range of a surprise attack from her own forces. In turn, that meant they would be several day's sailing from Port Napor.
This excursion was not an attempt to bring them to battle. It was a threat, one intended to force them from their safe harbor and sail south, lest she run rampant up and down their abandoned coastline. As confident as she was that she would overwhelm them when battle was finally met, she wasn't interested in allowing them to do so on their own terms. She was too impatient, too eager for the fight.
"Pass the word, Castalan. Two rotations, then begin the assault. No need to deviate from our plans."
"Aye-aye, Admiral," Castalan said, nodding sharply. He moved away from the gunwale, moving to the stern, retrieving a speaking trumpet as he went.
The ships of her line were in tight enough formation for orders to be hollered from ship to ship, as was once common practice, before Admiral Sinti's flag methods spread. She did not expect Port Napor to somehow have decoded her signal flags, but with the ships as close as they were, there was no point in taking the risk.
Nora waited with her metallic heel clicking repeatedly against the deck. She had been content to practice maneuvers when that had been her fleet's only purpose, but now that the assault was upcoming, her impatience was getting the best of her. She briefly toyed with the idea of changing her order to begin the assault after only one rotation of the formation, but bit the command back. Best to ensure the crews were as prepared as they could ever be.
As the Spiteful Prick rejoined the circling blockade at the rear of the line, Castalan returned to her side, having finished transmitting the order. Together they moved to the port gunwale, standing shoulder to shoulder, ostensibly in conference as they observed Port Napor. Noting their lowered voices, the rest of the crew gave them space, knowing better than to intrude upon an Admiral's private discussion.
Nora was thankful for their discretion, because this was the only aspect of her command which she did not wish to be known.
"The city beyond the docks is dense," Castalan murmured, "with streets wide enough to fit perhaps ten troops abreast. There is no sign of Guard or Militia at the moment, but there are many warehouses in which they could be sheltering."
"Are there any docks without a warehouse nearby?" Nora asked, speaking just as quietly.
"No ma'am. An organized port, I'd say. Each pier has an associated storeroom."
"Yet more reason to keep our course, aye?"
"Aye, I'd say so, ma'am."
Nora nodded, satisfied. Of all the boons she'd finagled from the fae, her eyesight had come with the greatest cost. Though she could see to the ocean horizon with nary a squint, when even the slightest bump of land parted the distance, she was lost as a babe.
She stared hard at the port, trying vainly to fight through the eldritch fog which obscured her vision. It was no use. Fifty feet from where land began, her sight ended.
It wasn't as if she couldn't see the land. There was nothing wrong with her eyes. Her ailment sat in her mind, not her body, preventing her from comprehending what she saw. She saw color, structures, and patterns, but there was nothing at all to be garnered from the sight. It was a meaningful jumble, whatever capacity her mind required to process the sight neatly excised.
Thus, Castalan's explanations. Though she'd maintain the appearance otherwise, her First Lieutenant would be in nominal command of the fleet from the moment the land assault began. She would be blind and deaf, stuck on her ship, trusting the training she'd given to her subordinates.
Thankfully, she'd ensured herself to have considerably skilled subordinates. The clanking footsteps of a Carrion sergeant heralded Ignite's approach, halting just beyond range of overhearing their conversation.
"Permission to join you, Admiral?"
"Permission granted," Nora replied, waving him forward. Ignite thumped up next to her, a hand on the pommel of his shortsword as he, too, stared at Port Napor.
"A difficult fight," he noted plainly, words devoid of anything which might give away his emotions.
Nora only nodded in response. Though the city lacked the defensive walls of Tulian, if the defenders of Port Napor were worth their payroll, they would keep their troops hidden until Nora's fleet was too close to alter their landing course.
She did not envy Ignite his task, but the former Carrion sergeant was doubtlessly the only commander she could have chosen for the assault. When his partner's betrayal had been revealed, his sentimentality resulting in perhaps the only spy in Tulian which Sara had not accounted for, his spirit had shattered. Perhaps the only thing which had kept him from taking a blade to his own heart was the debt he felt to the Champion, who had earned his loyalty by preventing him from meeting a similar fate all those months ago. Still, he had refused a command outright, and command of the T.N.S. Waverake's marines in particular. Nora had managed to convince him to compromise, accepting his old role as a marine sergeant on a common ship in the fleet, the Spiteful Prick.
That she hadn't informed him the Spiteful Prick was captained by her second-in-command, Captain B'Leary, and would serve as her reserve flagship in situations such as these? Perhaps not the most honest practice, but effective. Even in the depths of his depression, Sergeant Ignite's honor would not allow unnecessary casualties to come to his troops by foisting the burden of command to someone less competent.
"Having observed the city for some time now, have ye any objections to our plans?" Nora asked the oil-skinned marine.
"Only those I voiced from the beginning," Ignite replied, glancing behind himself, towards the horizon. "To keep the flagship in reserve is a risk."
"To give the enemy knowledge of her before the fleets meet is a greater one," Nora replied, as she had before. "Beyond such a worry, ye find yourself satisfied?"
A sigh. "As one can be, when going into battle." Ignite's words, as they had been for weeks, were devoid of passion. Nora was concerned, and wish she had Sara nearby to evaluate him. His Skills were unquestioned, his experience long since earned, but for all a headstrong commander may be a danger, an apathetic one was worse.
Nothing to be done for it in the moment, though. The sacking of Port Napor had been set into motion.
Perhaps twenty minutes since she'd sent out the order, her ships came into the second repetition of their wheeling route. As the lead ship, the Spiteful Prick waited until the rearmost ship returned to the line, leaving them for a brief few moments in an unbroken line.
With the rear ship slotted into place, Captain B'Leary looked to Nora, a wicked grin rising up his seaworn face. She nodded at him, matching his grin with a smirk of her own.
A whistle flew to his lips without hesitation, sending a shrill note echoing out over the waves.
The Spiteful Prick's crew leapt into motion as their captain threw the wheel to the left, abandoning the path they'd sailed since sunrise. The crew, though soaked in sweat after so long spent heaving lines to and fro, took to the work with a single-minded fervor.
The Spiteful Prick hove sharply into the waves, its aft sail slowly filling with the wind as its prow was dragged through the waves, ending its ponderous journey with a shudder of the ship's rudder. Behind them, all sixteen ships worked their way through a similar turn, each captain ending with their ships pointed directly towards the Port.
Nora's lips twitched.
Bells began to ring in the city shortly, their clear tones carrying over the waves to wash over the fleet. What few civilians Nora could see lining the shoreline began a panicked flight, shoving and pushing through their fellows as they rushed away into what shelter could be found amongst the city. Their number, which had soared as word of her fleet's strange maneuvers no doubt spread, were great enough to resemble a riot. Thankfully for them, Nora had begun her turn from several miles out, and they would be well clear before she arrived.
Turning away from the blurred sight of the port, Nora directed her attention towards the fleet's line. Now in a rough line abreast, the variety of her fleet became a considerable flaw. The sleekest and fastest ships were pulling ahead of their sisters, bulging the line outward, while the slower sorts were still hauling up every yard of sail they had, scrabbling for every knot of speed.
One great irritation with this formation was the way her ships, when they were properly in line, blocked sight of their sisters. She could not see more than three or four at any one time, leaving her blind to how the entire group was handling.
Scowling, she shifted her walking stick into her left hand, waving for Castalan's attention.
"Take care of this for me, would ye?" Nora asked, reaching down to her left boot. With a practiced jerk and prying of wraps, the prosthetic came loose, thumping sideways onto the deck.
"Aye... aye, ma'am?" Castalan replied, muzzle scrunched up in confusion. "May I ask why you can't take care of your leg yourself?"
Nora was already moving away. With the wind buffeting the Spiteful Prick directly starboard, the ship was tilting heavily, the gunwale seeming almost eager to brush the tips of waves off Nora's left. Many of the crew had to lean hard into the angle so as to not lose their footing, but not Nora. She walked even with the wooden deck, walking stick tapping lightly as she moved towards the rigging. With a grunt and a firm grip, she took hold of the ropes, pulling herself up.
As she began her ascent to the crow's nest, she heard Castalan muttering profanities. Her lips twitched a bit further.
The authorities of Port Napor were no fools, she saw. No doubt the King had ensured them that despite the war, there was no need to prepare for an invading force. They'd been caught unawares, hardly expecting a single pirate, much less sixteen ships packed with a hundred marines each. As she made her way up the wildly seesawing ropes, she caught a better and better view of the desperate defenses they had thrown together in the hours since her arrival.
What ships had been in port when she'd arrived had been lashed to either side of each wooden pier, their rigging cut and thrown across the docks to make them as difficult to extract as possible. They hadn't enough ships to protect ever pier from her ships, but their improvisation was impressive. The launches and life boats from the lashed ships had been offloaded and dragged over to the piers, placed upside down, so that anyone who sailed a ship to the unoccupied piers would have to stumble over their jumbled mass to disembark. It was not a perfect defense; the harbor was unwalled, and Nora could easily beach her ships along the adjacent shore and unload her troops there, or first board the docked ships, then move to the docks. Clever enough, though, for the time they had.
As her ships continued to gain speed in their charge, she heard a whistle of wind rush past her. She glanced towards the right just in time to see a ballistae bolt crash into the sea, glowing briefly beneath the waves for several seconds before detonating, throwing a spray of water into the air. She wondered if the bolt had been aimed for her, or was simply poor luck.
It hardly mattered. She kept climbing.
The archers in the crow's nest were so focused on scanning the shoreline that her hand suddenly appearing on the railing nearly sent them leaping to their deaths, sailor's curses bellowed to the deck below. She gave them a grunt of acknowledgement she scrambled in, and if they took exception to the presence of an Admiral among their number, she couldn't see it.
Up at the top of the ship's mast, the roll of the ship was far greater. Each wave sent her lurching twenty feet in either direction, a thrilling motion that required her to keep a hand on the railing, lest she be thrown free.
Emerging from the fae-touched haze, the port militia moved forward. The bulk were clearly ill-trained, locals who were earmarked for defense of the city, but not all. For each throng of disordered conscripts, there was a core of armored, stern-faced troops. The House Guards, the professional hirelings of the city's nobility, forced now not to defend against the underhanded machinations of rival politicians, but a foreign power.
The dots of armor herded the wider militia onward, guiding them towards chosen positions now that Nora's course was known. It was not hard to decipher their reasoning.
Now that they had entered the bay, Nora could gleam a feel that maps couldn't replicate. The gently curving bay was in part carved by laboring hands, turning the centermost portion of the port into a cobble-laid wall, from which wooden piers jutted some hundred feet. An organized harbor, if smaller than any self-respecting Carrion equivalent, with the bulk of its trade clearly plied at its very heart, where the plain wooden fronts of warehouses just loomed into Nora's sight. There was where the largest ships had been lashed to protect the docks, and so too did the largest clusters of militia gather, protecting the noble manors Castalan claimed were plainly visible some several hundred feet beyond.
Nora shook her head, feeling a bit of pity. It was a damn inspired defense, a clever leveraging of all the resources whoever-was-in-charge had at their disposal.
She hoped they wouldn't hang the poor bastard when it failed.
Still pulling down more sail even as they entered the harbor proper, the ships of Nora's fleet bounced merrily over the waves, their Captains knowing well how to pull knots from every gust. The distance between ship and docks shrunk by the moment, drawing them closer.
A half mile.
Nora's ships plowed on. She thought she saw the first murmurings of confusion among some of the House Guards, but it could have just as easily been her imagination.
A quarter mile.
Nora's sails were full to bursting, a fortuitous shift swinging the wind around to their stern, shoving them forward until spray was bursting against the iron-capped rams of her fleet. Rams that were pointed straight for the docks that had been so blocked, and the stone wall behind them.
Two hundred yards.
It was no longer her imagination; militia and Guard alike began to shirk from the docks, calling out to one another, searching for orders, finding only similar confusion from their fellows. Nora's lips twitched higher.
At a hundred yards her ships hit their greatest stride. They bounced and tore through the waves, the crash of each impact being met by a growing cry. A wordless holler was repeated, almost apelike in its mindlessness, her crews crying out their challenge. That hadn't been part of her plan, but Nora joined in without a moment's hesitation, throwing her own rendition from the crow's nest.
The Spiteful Prick was at the gleaming tip of the formation's spear, the first to reach her target, and Nora felt her gut clench, her skin hiss with runes, and her weight leave as she summoned a single wave beneath her prow, sending her ram high, high into the air, water holding her hulking mass there for a single, glittering moment–
And then she fell, dropping onto the flimsy dock.
Nora's nails dug trenches in the crow's nest, her head thrown back while eleven ears drank in the sound of a crack nearly as violent as her own ecstatic laughter.
The dock shattered.
A storm of shrapnel was thrown as a ram built to cleave holes in warships met mere rows of flimsy planks, ripping through them with wild abandon. The Spiteful Prick had such a head on her that its arrival in Port Napor's docks produced its own snappy drumroll, dozens of boards chewed into flotsam with every passing second.
To her right and left she heard similar crashes sounding as her fleet struck home, and it drove her laughter further, raising in pitch. The militia began to lurch into motion as some order or another was finally passed, but it was too little, too late, and tears formed at the corners of her eyes.
Ye saved yerself from a landing on the docks, she acknowledged of her unseen opponent, but ye didn't think to save the docks themselves, did ye?
The Spiteful Prick's haphazard path through the dock had her ram tangling constantly with the ropes and rigging that had tied down the adjacent ships, having a merry time dragging and snapping them as they went. Her speed began to ail, even the momentum of hundreds of sailors and a hundred foot of ship not enough to rip its way through the entire length, but that was no problem. Though it surely would've seemed to take hours to any watching the display from ashore, it was a matter of moments until the Spiteful Prick ground to a halt, water lapping with dull thumps at her hull.
And at the two hulls to either side of her.
A second cry went up from her crews, this one loudest from the marines, and she liked to imagine it was met by a similar cry of dismay as the House Guards realized what was happening.
The utterly unoccupied, completely abandoned vessels were more tempting to her than a barmaid's lifted skirt and demurely fluttered eyelashes, though they had her mouth watering just the same. Under Ignite's command a contingent of glittering troops thumped their way to the ship's prow, brandishing anti-boarding pikes, while the rest of their comrades poured over the sides of the Spiteful Prick, taking up their own positions at the front of the prow. Sailors followed behind them, sharp fingers and sharper axes slicing through the mooring lines.
Nora's laughter grew as the militia surged desperately forward, trying to reach the vessels that were being boarded before their very eyes. The Sporaton ships had been anchored ready to depart, as was usual for ships at port, and their sterns were too far from the seawall for the troops to reach. All they could do was wail uselessly at Ignite's pike wall, the man himself helping to shove them back with all the ease and uncaring boredom of a parent fending off their toddler's shin-beating tantrum.
She spun a cackling pirouette in the crow's nest, taking in the progress of her fleet. As she'd already known would be the case, the same story repeated: empty vessels boarded, militia charges repulsed, glorious cheers flying freely from the lips of her navy.
It was a matter of minutes before her crews, trained to exacting perfection under her hawkish attention, had the Sporaton ships lashed to the Spiteful Prick's hull. Boarding axes were exchanged for oars, which sprouted like beautiful spring flowers from either side of the commandeered vessels. Now tied together, the improvised barge began to drag itself away from the docks, oars churning the seabed into a muddy mess. Marines jogged around the ships with cutlasses and axes, searching for anything tying them in place. With every snap of a line or crack of a severed board the Spiteful Prick lurched just a little bit further, disentangling itself from its self-made mire.
Bows finally began to twang from within the militia, some even sporting oil-soaked rags, but it was far too late. Every flaming projectile was answered by the far-greater whipcrack of a Tulian longbow, the Spiteful Prick's rigging coming alive as the hunters she'd poached plied their expert trade.
With a final jolt the Spiteful Prick and her two prizes broke free, the oars properly biting into the sea. Slowly at first, then with growing speed, they began to retreat from the harbor wall. Perhaps realizing the hopelessness of their situation, the militia's shots began to taper off, none particularly interested in tossing their arrows into the sea.
As the Spiteful Prick continued to pick up speed, Nora caught the briefest glimpses of even more heavily armored troops hustling down the street, escorting some glowing, robed individual in their center. Clearly the nobility had kept what mages and Irregulars they had in reserve, protecting their own manors– which, to be fair, would normally have been the ultimate target of such a raid.
Nora just so happened to not be "normal." She had it on good authority.
They arrived too late. Nora waved politely at a lance of fire which roared out into the open air, magefire sputtering into nothingness a dozen yards from the Spiteful Prick's prow. Another immediately followed it, even larger in diameter, but no greater in range. It was aimed directly for Nora this time, the clever man having recognized her gold epaulets as those of an admiral, and yet it fell just as pathetically short. The sight of the mage responsible staggering under the weight of his own exertion set her off into laughter once more.
Similar stories repeated themselves along the harbor line, her ships slipping free with their prizes hugged to either side, barely a speck of damage on them. The defensive ballistae were the only things that inflicted wounds, but it had been sparse and widely distributed, her fleet's speed on the charge too great to allow for accurate aim. As she watched one bolt land among the waters off the Spiteful Prick's port, she saw it was a mundane form, sinking plainly into the sea without detonating.
She scoffed, gripping the crow's nest railing. She was still in easy sight of the militia, which now included the teeth-gnashing mages and Irregulars, and she wasn't one to part without a show. Knowing she was being watched, she raised her hand in a formal wave, then tipped herself forward over the side.
First her face smashed into the wood of the crow's nest, tearing a gash along her cheek, then the top of her head slammed into the uppermost rope of the rigging, sending her cartwheeling sideways. She felt an elbow get caught with a loud crack and an ankle pop violently out of its socket, and then she lost track of things as she tumbled down the fifty feet or so to the deck before landing shoulder first, on her left side, body broken.
Though the agony blazed bright, it wasn't brighter than her desire to get back on her feet. She got her walking stick beneath her with her left hand, fumbling at her waist with her right, finding her canteen. She took a few long gulps of the bitter draught as she stood, making her way forward.
Castalan will call me mad again, she thought. Really, I think the rest of 'em are mad for not realizing how helpful potions are. What's a little pain, when you can be putting on a show?
Her body was nearly finished reknitting as she reached the ship's prow, stepping up it and walking out onto the iron plating. There were a number of wooden splinters left there, which she dutifully kicked aside, so some poor sailor wouldn't have to clean them off later. Most didn't have her balance.
Eventually she stepped up onto the Spiteful Prick's figurehead, a buxom woman holding a sword between her teeth– yet another sign her sailors had no taste– and wrapped her legs around the bronze woman's shoulders, resting her chin atop her head. So resting there, she stared at the mage which had tried to kill her, a self-satisfied smirk serving to enrage the man even further. As the Spiteful Prick began its turn out of port, unlashing itself from its prizes so they could be properly taken in tow, she waved fondly at the man, little more than a wiggling of her fingers as she swung around.
A final bolt of fire roared out of his hands, this time comically too short, and this final effort had the man dropping unconscious. Hardly the smartest move he could've chosen.
Castalan's voice calling out from behind pulled Nora back to herself, casting a look over her shoulder.
"Captain B'Leary passes the word that the prizes are in near perfect condition, ma'am, and asks for you to confirm the second stage of the plan."
Nora waved dismissively. "'Course! What, does he think we'll get to sell 'em back or something? Steady course, Castalan."
"Aye-aye, ma'am," Castalan replied, utterly unsurprised.
Nora couldn't blame B'Leary for his hesitance to carry through this next part, but she was damn sure. Yes, she'd appeared as if from nowhere on the Sporaton coastline, blockading two of their ports within minutes of one another despite a distance of nearly fifty miles between the fleets. Yes, she'd waltzed into their harbor without a care in the world, so brazen in her gait that none had known her plan until she was already hauling her prizes in tow. And yes, were she to be categorized as a pirate, it would've been the single greatest single-day acquisition of ships in history.
But she'd only blockaded the ports of Napor and Agrith for a single day, and that was nothing worth recording in the history books. And that irked her.
As her fleet left the harbor, it split into two groups. Both forces disconnected their prizes from their hulls, taking them in tow, and made for the thin slots between the mainland and island which sheltered Napor Bay from the worst of the sea's storms. The entrances to the bay were thin and shallow, one of the reasons that the port had never seen greater success even before Sporaton mismanagement, and that would serve her quite well. As they reached the inlets, her two forces slowed, then stopped, dropping anchors.
No doubt those watching in Port Napor were even more baffled than they had been before, but when they saw her sailors hopping off their prizes, smoke billowing from within the ships they abandoned, things began clearing up.
Nora recovered her sailors while whistling a jaunty tune from her perch atop the ram, watching the ships begin to founder. Thirty-two of merchant vessels, two for every one of her ships, began glow with flames.
And then they began to sink.
To the tune of an old song she only half-remembered, Nora watched the two entrances fill with the flaming hulks of ships. The holes the flames ate in their holds left them sinking, sinking, and then sunk, hitting the seabed with a muffled rumble that threw up clouds of mud. The spires of their masts just barely poked from the waves, a stockade line of ashy wood. Only when she was satisfied that all her sailors had been recovered and received word that similar efforts in Port Agrith had succeeded did she order her ships to set sail, heading south to rejoin their sisters.
Nora herself blockading two Sporaton ports for a day may have been interesting, she supposed. A twofold raid may have even warranted a mention in some dusty tome. But stealing their ships, setting them ablaze before their helpless eyes, and closing the bay for weeks, months, until mages could be brought to clear the mess?
Oh, she'd have a chapter in the textbooks for this.
Nora finally slid back down the ram, landing on the deck with a small wobble, her walking stick making up for her missing leg. Castalan greeted her, holding out the metal prosthetic, which she took with a wordless grunt of thanks.
"Think they'll come out to play now?" She asked her First Lieutenant.
He sniffed, whiskers twitching. "If they do not, they are even greater fools than you already take them for."
"Perfect," she hummed, latching her prosthetic in place. The reassuring coolness of metal against her knee had her sighing in relief, stretching as she turned her gaze north.
"I hope they bring those cultists Sara's so mad for," she thought aloud.
"I hope they do not," Castalan plainly replied. "Ships and mages I know, things you have trained me for. None of your lessons have yet discussed foul magics and ancient rituals."
"Well, we'll see who the gods favor more," Nora said.
Castalan glanced her way, an eyebrow raised. There was still a little bit of cerulean smoke drifting from her eyes, from when she'd summoned the wave beneath the Spiteful Prick's prow.
Nora ignored him. There was no evidence that she was favored by the gods, no matter what Sara claimed. Her Skills had cosmetic similarities to those of a Champion, yes, and she had Advanced as rapidly as one these last few months, but there were too many open questions.
Her class, for once. Six months ago, when the strangeness had begun, it had read "Chosen of the Waylaid One." That had smacked to her of a fae lord, or perhaps some demonspawn, the detritus of a deal which had been wiped from her mind. She'd been content to ignore it.
But when she'd awoken in the dead of night, having fallen asleep for the first time since boarding a ship, and been presented with a class change–
Chosen of the Chained One
Well. It was safe to say she was very interested in anyone claiming to know things about the gods that no one else did.
Notes:
"I may have gone too far in a few places." -George Lucas, watching the final cut of The Phantom Menace, and also me, reading the naval jargon I just spewed into life. There was supposed to be a fancy glossary included, but time ran out, so here you are! Maybe I'll finish it before next chapter and add it back. We'll see. If you're curious about the final arrangement of Nora's sailing fleet, google "Square Rigged Caravel" and copy+paste the sails onto the hulls of what you get googling "Dromon" and "Galley."
Enjoy Nora being fucking i n s a n e I love writing her
PS: Here's a plot hint: the name of Nora's flagship is very, very relevant to everything she's got going on.
Chapter 75: Palimpsest
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sara was woken by the unexpected tones of a rainstorm pattering against her tent, soaking the canvas until it drooped low with the weight of water. Her eyes blinked blearily open, searching for some sense regarding the occasion.
There wasn't much to be found. They were nearly a month into the Tulian dry season, which lasted through the north's spring and summer. Though she hadn't yet lived through one of the famed six month droughts, generally speaking, the name called to mind a distinct lack of storms.
Lightning briefly lit the walls, followed shortly thereafter by a sharp crack of thunder. Evie's ears pricked up, tracking the sudden boom, her eyes peeling open.
"...well, that's rather unexpected, isn't it?" She murmured.
"Yeah." Sara smacked her lips. "Not complaining, though. They won't be fighting in this."
"Nor immediately after, if it turns the fields to mud."
"Mm."
As the only clocks which existed in this world were built with large, ponderous pendulums, unsuited for bringing on the march, Sara had no idea what time it was. There was light outside, meaning the sun had at least risen, but beyond that she had no idea. She also didn't know when the rain had started, beyond the fact that it had been long enough to soak her tent. Already water was beginning to drip through in the corners, splashing gently against whatever happened to be beneath. While Evie stretched and pulled herself from the comforting embrace of sleep, Sara went about the room pulling chests and tables away from the leaks, piling them up on the slight hump of grass in the middle of the floor. If nothing else, living in Tulian had given her an appreciation for the measures required to keep personal effects dry.
Seeing as no runners had come to wake them, they took advantage of the unforeseen shower. After donning her own set, Evie helped Sara into her armor, which was as laborious a process as always. Normally she didn't think much of Evie's habitual paranoia when it came to personal safety, but in an active warzone, they were in tacit agreement. There was no way she was leaving her tent unprotected.
And so it was that she stepped out into the rain dressed in blacksteel, a drumroll of water droplets immediately welcoming her to the wider world. She turned her head skyward for a brief moment, trying to judge the time, but all she got for her trouble was a stream of water blurring her vision through her visor's eyeslit. In any case, the clouds were too thick, hiding the sun's position. It may as well have been noon, for all she could see.
When she looked back down, her eyes caught on the pitiable sight of a runner girl doing her best to shelter her ears between her shoulders. She was soaked to the bone, dripping water in heavy rivulets into the mud puddle beneath her feet, but she'd stalwartly kept her station. Seeing Sara's black helmet turning her way, she sketched a hasty salute, flinging water every which way as she snapped to attention.
"Ma'am!"
"At ease. And damn, kid, sorry about that." Sara looked about. "We normally have lean-tos or something for y'all, or at least we did during the rainy season... Shit, I'll have to see if we even brought them. Didn't expect this storm."
"It's no problem, ma'am!" The girl immediately insisted, holding her at-attention pose.
Sara imitated an incorrect buzzer. "Nope. Big problem. Don't want you coughing up a lung before the day's over, kid. No point in losing anyone to rain, of all things." Sara jabbed her head towards the quartermaster's area. "First order of the day: go get yourself a raincoat, pronto. Then let the Colonels know I want a strategy meeting as soon as possible." Sara held up a wait-a-moment gesture as the girl prepared to sprint off. "And get the coat first. If you're feeling bad about missing duty because of your own comfort, imagine how you'd feel when you're stuck in a sick bed meant for injured soldiers. Understand me?"
"Yes, ma'am!" The girl said, snapping off a sharper salute before spinning on a heel, darting towards the quartermaster's tent. She was a good runner, Sara noted. She darted between the rows of tents and meandering soldiers with natural ease, barely slowing from a dead sprint the entire way.
Sara frowned behind her helmet, grumbling. "Still don't like it."
Evie's ears flicked beneath her rain coat, stirring the grey fabric. "Using so-called children in the army, Master?"
"Not 'so-called,' Evie. That girl had to be, what, thirteen?"
"Two years older than when my training with a blade began."
"There's a damn big difference between learning from a fancy master swordsman and joining a literal, actual army."
"She is not a soldier, Master. She is a message runner, which entails far fewer risks."
"Kids shouldn't be in danger at all."
"Says the woman who found employment at a criminal enterprise during her own misbegotten youth."
"A chop shop is not a criminal enterprise," Sara insisted, repeating the word mockingly. "It's just, like... regular crime, y'know? Basically one step worse than tax evasion." She scrunched her face up. "And you said sixteen wasn't a kid, anyway, remember?"
"In Sporatos, tax evasion is a hanging offense," Evie replied, pointedly ignoring the second part of Sara's counterargument. "Regardless, your stories and illusions have shown me more of your world than you seem to appreciate, Master. Is operating heavy machinery without proper qualification and training so much safer than jogging back and forth in a well-kept camp? A scent of hypocrisy is drifting on the wind, Master."
"Never shoulda told you so much about that," Sara mumbled, trailing off into a series of low grumbles.
Despite Evie's comparison, Sara still couldn't get the existence of messenger runners to sit right with her. Even when relatively safe behind fort walls, there was just too much a smack of child soldier in the job for her liking. The only reason she'd allowed it in the first place was because, in a depressing turn of events, it was probably safer for the runners than the life they would have otherwise been living. After the storms and subsequent collapse, Tulian had no shortage of street-running orphans scrabbling for each and every scrap. Steady pay, consistent supervision, and an entry point into society that was seen as legitimate by the general population was basically a godsend for the kids. She'd tried to get them into pseudo-orphanages, which the kids promptly refused, just as any legitimate business refused to employ a gaggle of lifelong thieves without any appreciable skills. If the only life they'd ever led was one of begging and pickpocketing, their future prospects were dim. The army was a chance at a better life, and not just in a bullshit American-propaganda way.
Didn't mean she had to like it, though. Half the reason she'd spent so much effort on the crystal matrix was so she wouldn't have to rely on the runners in the midst of battle. At least when the fighting started, they'd be safe in camp with the noncombatants.
Realizing she was just standing pointlessly in the rain, Sara turned to Evie. "Let's check the armories while we wait. I know I sent out instructions for cleaning the muskets, but I'm worried."
"Is the powder really so corrosive that a single day is a risk, Master?"
"No, but I don't care. I've got half a mind to order them used in emergencies only. Every musket we lose is a tragedy."
"Of course." Evie began to tread through the less flooded paths on the way to the nearest armory. "But remember, a weapon that one fears using in battle is no weapon at all. I will remind you, Hurlish is already training other smiths to produce muskets. While they will no doubt be unable to match her production rate, the losses are not irreplaceable."
"Yeah, I know. I'm just paranoid." Sara blew out a long breath, surveying the camp with only vague interest. "I wonder how that's going, actually. Hurlish should've gathered up a crew by now."
Evie's ears flicked in amusement beneath her coat. "Likely involving a considerable amount of profanity, irritation, and unachievable expectations."
Sara snorted. "C'mon, she's not that bad. She was a great teacher with me. Patient, kind, the whole nine yards."
"That's because you can actually live up to her impossible standards, Master, and even when you do not, her irritation is moderated by the otherworldly perspective you offer. If you'll note, her other apprentices are treated with considerably less care."
Sara made a face. "You sure? I never noticed her being a hardass."
"Perhaps your standards for such are different, Master. To my ears, she seemed rather... brusque."
"Compared to most foremen I knew, she's an angel."
"From the explanations of your religion you've provided me, comparing her to an angel is far from the most reassuring analogy."
"That's... huh. Yeah, I guess they weren't all that great. But anyway, I'm sure she's doing just fine. Really, can you imagine her actually getting angry at some kid for screwing up?"
"Yes."
"But, like, really angry?"
"Yes."
"Oh, come on!" Sara pointed at her raincoat. "You're fucking with me. You're holding your tail under there so I can't see it thumping, aren't you?"
"Yes."
Sara cackled. She was about to take the argument further, but was stopped by Evie stiffening, her head cocking towards the wall. Sara immediately froze, following her expression, searching for whatever she'd heard.
It reached her a moment later. A commotion atop the wall, the rain-soaked guards clamoring and shoving one another, jostling to get a view of something. Trading only the briefest glance with Evie, they set off at a jog, heading for the wall.
A Sergeant saw her coming, hustling down the stairs to meet her halfway. As she came to a stop, the woman saluted, something which Sara hurriedly waved aside.
"At ease. What's up?"
"Not an assault, General," the Sergeant barked, thankfully allaying Sara's foremost concern. "But maybe something stranger. There's a flag being hoisted in the Sporaton camp." The woman's stance shifted, her eyes darting to the side. "I'm not familiar with most flags, ma'am, but..."
"But?" Sara prompted.
"Looks like the flag of parley, ma'am. Best to confirm for yourself, though."
Sara's eyes widened. "That fat cocksucker finally shit himself hard enough to talk?"
Taken entirely off guard, the Sergeant tried to hold back her startled snort, only managing to turn it into an awkward sneeze-cough that sounded a bit like a choking dog.
"Never mind," Sara said, clapping the armored woman on the back as she hurried past. "We'll take a look for ourselves. Appreciate you passing the word."
Still coughing, the woman gave a thumbs-up, trailing after them at a much slower pace.
--------------------------------------
Hurlish
--------------------------------------
"The fuck do you mean, you made the barrel the wrong size?"
The junior smith cringed further down, nearing a straight-up apologetic bow. "It's just... well, when I was hammering the barrel, I put it in the leftmost slot, rather than the–"
"There are only two slots. How did you put it in the wrong goddamn one?"
"I just– I don't know, I knew it was the right sided slot, but I was hammering from the other side, so it actually ended up in the left–"
Hurlish threw her head back and groaned. "You were hammering it from the wrong side? The hells were you doing? You'd have to bend over the glowing goddamned barrel to do that."
"I... yes, ma'am, you would."
"Fuckin' gods..." Hurlish slammed the door to her office, which she'd been peeking out from, and set her current project down into its hidden drawer. Making sure it was locked, she returned to the door and flung it open, striding out into the forge proper.
The entire area was a loud, clanging mess, the chaos of several dozen smiths working at stations that were too close together. The air was filled with the tones of jarring hammer strikes and roaring fires. Gouts of steam rose in spiral hisses as glowing iron was quenched, sending geysers skyward to roll against the wooden ceiling. Hurlish had to shift and turn as she squeezed through the rows, the unseasonal rainstorm having forced the smiths in from the larger courtyard to share what roofed space was available. She followed the junior smith– Verek, she thought his name was– back to his station to inspect his fuckup.
"Goddamn, kid," Hurlish swore as she approached. "You really did manage it. How the hell?"
The kid, who was actually in his mid twenties, a couple years younger than Hurlish, at least had the decency to look ashamed.
"Was hurryin', ma'am," he meekly replied. "Wasn't thinking right."
"That's for damn sure."
Hurlish grabbed a pair of tongs, using them to pull the still-glowing barrel off the anvil. It was a strange sort of anvil, substituting its flat top for two rows of long cylinders cut lengthwise into the metal. Once heated to a cherry glow, a flat piece of iron could be placed on top, allowing a smith to pound their hammer along in a line, so that the metal would be forcibly conformed into the open cylinder. It was a rough, tiring process, requiring most lower Level smiths many hours and countless stages of heating and reheating to complete. Most of the newer crew could only finish two musket barrels per day, perhaps three, if things went particularly well.
Looking at the botch job on display before her, Hurlish doubted Verek would be finishing even one. As he'd said, he'd hammered the metal into shape on the wrong cylinder, curving the barrel into the entirely wrong size. The anvils had two slots, one for the standard muskets that had already been distributed, and one for a planned set of lighter, smaller weapons, of a caliber more appropriate for a flintlock "pistol" or "carbine." Now that Verek had tried to pound a full-sized musket into the smaller slot, there would be no salvaging the job. He'd gotten halfway down the barrel before realizing his mistake, the thicker metal used for the muskets now bent and ruined. The only ammunition a completed version might ever fit would've been the size a of a pea.
"You're gonna have to toss the whole damn thing," Hurlish said. "Send it back to the furnace, get it melted down. Start over, and this time make sure you hammer it on the Right. Damn. Slot."
Verek deflated, Hurlish's grim pronouncement confirming what he'd already known. The day's work was wasted. He nodded tiredly. "Yes ma'am. I'll not stop until I've finished at least one today."
Hurlish stopped, pivoting on a heel to glare down at him. "Wrong," she snapped. "You'll leave at dusk, when everyone else does. You work yourself to the bone tonight, you'll be tired tomorrow, and then you'll end up making some kinda new, even more dumbass mistake. If I see you here after dark I'll beat your ass black and blue."
Verek blinked in surprise, but seemed too dejected to even respond to the threat. "Yes ma'am," he repeated again, turning back to the ruined barrel. Hurlish handed him his tongs, which he used to pick up the metal, weaving out from under the cover of the roof to head towards the blast furnace. Rain, falling in heavy drops, hissed when it struck the still-glowing iron.
"...told you," came a quiet voice, emanating from Hurlish's breast pocket.
"I think that was far closer to proving my point than yours," replied a second voice, as familiar as the first.
Hurlish felt a grin creep up her face as she pulled the crystal out and held it to her lips. "Y'all gossiping about me?" She asked.
"No," Evie said, in the same breath that Sara said, "Yes."
Hurlish chuckled. "What was the bet?"
"That you're some kinda hardass to your apprentices," Sara said.
"Which that conversation so helpfully demonstrated," Evie added.
"That?" Hurlish grunted, turning back towards her office. "That was barely anything. Kid fucked up, I told him so, and now he's gonna fix it. Simple as can be."
"True, but you were hardly polite about it," Evie argued.
"You think that was rude?" Sara asked incredulously. "You should see what most shops are like. I've met foremen that made a habit of screaming so hard they oughta been spitting blood by the end of the day, and that was when people were screwing up things a fraction as important as that kid."
"Just because some are worse doesn't mean a mild improvement is reasonable," Evie said. "I would certainly be petrified to report any error to Hurlish, were I in her apprentice's place."
"Then you're not cut out for smithing," Hurlish stated simply. "All that polite noble backtalking got you too soft, Kitty. Most folk that end up running their own forge end up hauling a hefty ego along with it. Compared to those sorts, I was practically sweet-talking the kid."
"Of course you would side with Sara," Evie huffed. "You're not likely to criticize your own process."
"Nope," Hurlish agreed. She entered her 'office' once more, which was in reality the original forge which had been selected for her. Now that the Tulian smiths were working on joint projects, they spent most of their time out in the open courtyard, leaving Hurlish to arrange her forge as she saw fit. With a couple of magical locks from the Artificing Union and some metal bracing added to the walls, she had a hell of a lot more security and privacy than she'd ever had before.
"So, you just pulled the crystal out to chat, or is there a point to all this?" Hurlish asked, retrieving her current project from its hidden compartment.
"Wondering how the musket production is going," Sara replied. "We've already lost a few to accidents, and I'm betting that'll only get more common as they wear down. I want to know if we'll be able to keep up with the loss rate."
"Definitely will, at least at the start," Hurlish replied, pulling the project out and setting it on the desk. A octagonal barrel had baffled her at first, but after working on it for a while, it made more sense than she'd expected. She turned it over, poking the internals while she spoke. "We've got a damn good backlog, thanks to your bullshitting. Got most of the smiths worth a damn making the springs and trigger mechanisms, while the kinda-decent apprentices are stuck fitting it all together."
"But once we run out of reserve barrels?"
Sara had, of course, anticipated the need for more muskets than Hurlish could secretly stockpile, no matter how impressive her output was. With how hard she could hit the metal, she could easily finish ten, maybe eleven muskets in a day, and that was when she was doing it part-time, still putting in an appearance at her public forge to work on traditional weapons. If she went at it all day, she'd probably get more than twenty done, a number which had just about blown Sara's tits off.
At the end of it all, though, twenty a day wasn't enough to equip an army of five thousand, much less the grander ideas Sara had planned. To make up for it they'd commissioned several projects across the city, Sara and Evie creating clever little lies for what they were really for.
Seeing as the barrels were the most time consuming, Sara'd gone around to the rural smiths (preferring the more isolated sort, to ensure they didn't chat as much with their fellows and start piecing something together) and claimed she was making, of all things, a "fire fighting system." She claimed that she needed shittons of long, straight pipes, reinforced to hold high-pressure water from the water towers, and that they'd be run all across the city. They needed to be exactly the same size and shape, supposedly so that repairs could be carried out quickly, and their sturdiness was justified by how much force was going to be pumping through them. The lie was made more believable by the fact that similar systems apparently existed in Sara's old world, so she could easily answer any questions the smiths had about the supposed fire fighting system's workings. That the dimensions of the pipes didn't make any sense for such a system hardly mattered; the smiths had no way of knowing it. That lie had gotten her a solid stock of smoothbore gun barrels piled up.
What had been harder was stockpiling leaf springs, strikers, trigger mechanisms, and wooden stocks. Sara had managed to get away with claiming that she wanted a shitton of springs from for some novel type of door lock for the Peasant's Theatre, and even added the nice touch that no, the smiths couldn't know what kind, 'cause that would tell them how the lock worked, which'd defeat the purpose. The stocks on the other hand hadn't really had a good lie to be made; she'd hired some broke-ass carpenters from podunk villages for that, paid 'em well, and said that if they told a soul the money'd stop coming. That'd worked well enough. As for the actual triggers and strikers, that'd still been on Hurlish. There was no convenient excuse to be made there, not even that the triggers were going to be used in crossbows, seeing how different they worked. It might've thrown people off the trail for a while, but when the Tulian Army kept walking around with a very prominent lack of crossbows, the jig'd be up. So Hurlish had done those parts herself.
"Let's see..." Hurlish mumbled, shuffling papers around on her desk until she found the figures Evie had tallied up for her. "Yeah, we got about sixteen hundred barrels waiting to be put together, about as many stocks, and... shit, a bit under a thousand of the little bits for firing and crap."
"Think the new smiths can make up the difference?"
"Sure, probably, but then they won't be getting practice on what they need to learn for making muskets all by themselves, just bits and pieces. They'd catch up quick enough, but then we'd have to retool and retrain, which'd mean we'd not be making anything for a while."
The crystal hummed on the desk, rattling slightly. "Don't see much way around it. How about you two?"
After a moment's consideration, Hurlish frowned. "No. I don't."
"None that would be satisfactory, Master."
"Oh?" Sara asked, intrigued. "What about ways that wouldn't be 'satisfactory?'"
"Highly unadvisable. I shouldn't have said anything. But we could send out some of the fleet to neutral island city-states to hire smiths to ease the transition. Assuming there was no delay in the process, they could arrive within two weeks."
"But we'd have to rope foreign nationals in on the whole thing," Sara finished for her. A sigh. "Shit. Don't like that. It's one thing to get some trusted, vetted people in, like with the Carrion Artificers, but I don't like rando smiths getting a leg up on arms development. Most of the oceanic city-states use slave labor on their ships, too, so that's outta the question."
"And any Carrion colonies are too far away for the vessels to return before Hurlish's training and transition has been completed. As I said, I shouldn't have spoken."
Habit had Hurlish glancing away from her work as she spoke, making pointless eye contact with the crystal. "I could make up the difference, y'know."
"How do you mean?"
"I could finish up the triggers and shit on my own. I'm quick enough for it. I mean, if we had any jewelers left in Tulian, they'd be perfect, but I'm a good second choice."
"And stop what you're working on now, though?" Sara scoffed. "No chance in hell. That's way too important to pull you off for basic shit like that."
"Could get it done, though."
"You could solve half of our problems yourself if it's all you worked on, babe, but until we figure out magic cloning, you're gonna have to prioritize."
"Really shoulda trained up the apprentices better," Hurlish grumbled, setting aside the tiny mechanisms she'd just pulled from her project. She'd learned to keep them in a small bowl, so the minuscule screws wouldn't roll off the table into oblivion, never to be seen again.
"You couldn't have, not without telling them half the most important shit in the world."
"Still, though."
"Don't worry about it." There was a shuffling noise, the sound of the crystal rubbing against cloth, and Sara's voice grew farther away. "Looks like it's not a bluff, Evie."
"Stranger and stranger, Master."
"What's up?" Hurlish asked.
The shuffling noise came again, Sara's voice growing louder. "Old Kingy over there suddenly decided to talk, after I blew holes in half his precious little knights. Judging by the fact it's a parley flag, it's not a surrender, which is a damn shame."
"He's actually gonna talk to you?" Hurlish hummed. "Good for him. Didn't think he had the balls."
"Yeah, well, he won't for long, if I get my hands on them. Easy way to cut the royal bloodline off right there."
"He already has two daughters of age, Master."
"Then I'll gut punch them 'till no healer in the world can put their ovaries back together. Not that hard, really."
Evie hissed. "We are in public, Master."
"Yeah?" The sound of the crystal rubbing against crystal and cloth came again, and though she sounded farther away, Sara's voice grew louder. "Anyone here got a problem with me ripping the royal Sporaton brats a new one?"
A raucous cheer came in response, sounding amusingly tinny when filtered through the small crystal on Hurlish's desk. Rolling her eyes, Hurlish picked up the crystal, bringing it up to her lips properly.
"Enough showin' off, babe. You got anything else you need from me?"
"No, not really," she said, her voice returned to normalcy. "Not unless you can get me timetables on the new weapons getting up and working."
"Nothing confident yet. Some are going better than others. I'll send 'em off as I finish them."
"Alright. Thanks, hon. I'll talk to you later, alright? I gotta go get prettied up for diplomatic bullshit."
Hurlish snorted, dropping the crystal back into her breast pocket.
With a groan of a wooden chair not quite meant to support her growing weight, Hurlish sat down, adjusting the enchanted glow that lit her desk.
As she picked back up her work, she decided she hated screws. She pinched one between her fingernails now, bringing it up to the light. She'd had to forge it herself, of course. A tiny, tiny spiral ribbed the central spar, looping itself dozens of times before the quarter-inch length met its end. She didn't even want to think of how many tries it had taken for her to get it right.
Like so much of what Sara had shown her, it just wasn't meant to be made by hand. It was designed with the assumption that its creator would have on hand custom tooling and intricate machinery, many examples of which would be dedicated to the singular purpose of making more irritating little examples of the damned screws.
Finishing her inspection, she set it back down, blowing out another long, irritated breath. The screw was good, just like the eleven other she'd made for this project. All she had to do was assemble the thing and it'd be ready to be shipped off to Sara. She wondered if her next Advancement would end up guiding her more down this path. It was already looking like it; after so many years with her Class being "Blacksmith", the last two Champion-boosted Advancements had seen it shifting to a different specialty: "Weaponsmith." She supposed it was only fair, since it'd been months since she'd made anything even close to a hammer or hoe. The closest on that front had been Sara's welding dagger, which was still, y'know, a dagger.
Taking a deep breath, Hurlish steeled herself for the labor of finally fitting all the tiny bits together to make their considerably larger whole. She prayed to the gods above that it would work on her first try, but she doubted it. No doubt there was plenty more fiddly bullshit in her future.
Ah, well. At least it'll keep 'em safe.
-----------------------------------
Sara
-----------------------------------
The first meeting point suggested by the Sporaton forces had been a small rise next to the thin river which split Midwich Valley, roughly equidistant between the two forces. Evie had refused this without even consulting Sara, sending the runner off with a rather direct message:
"If the King truly thinks us such fools that we will be willingly exposed by proximity to his cavalry in such manner, he is welcome to accept our word of his safe conduct, such that he may stand unarmored under the guns of the fort and walk away as unmolested as he would intend to leave us were the positions reversed."
After being sent away and a brief intermission as a reply was formualted, the runner had returned, this time suggesting a point of meeting two-thirds of the way to the wall, on a particularly marshy bit of ground, so as to inhibit a surprise cavalry charge. It was also, Sara assumed, a distance that they thought safe from musket fire, though clearly within cannon range. She supposed they thought rolling out the cannons would be something easily enough noticed, so that they could either charge or flee before the cannons were in position to fire down on them.
Unfortunately, they were correct on both counts. Sara quickly tasked Colonel Shale with finding some way to correct this, then continued her preparations with Evie.
The feline was spending the hours before the meeting scribbling madly across stacks of parchment, moving with such haste that her handwriting was less than flawless, the first time Sara had seen such. She stayed by Evie's side as Sara wrung her own hair out and then combed it back, repeating the process with a series of finer combs each time.
The camp's quartermaster was, meanwhile, scrambling their way across the camp, searching for anyone with tailoring experience to alter Sara's few dresses that had somehow survived the months since she had been in Sporatos. She'd put on too much muscle since she'd last worn them, and the fit was all wrong. Sara didn't much care, what with her divinely-crafted body that would have the most pious priest abandoning celibacy, but had to admit that a good dress would at least help impress any of the particularly vain nobility present at the meeting.
That was yet another point she disliked about the entire arrangement. She shouldn't have to be dressing so fancy. The subtext of the request for a meeting had implied it was to be a purely military discussion, something akin to negotiating the exchange of prisoners, but King Sporatos was clearly going to be bringing quite the entourage. As Evie explained it, when leaders of two armies met, so too were the leaders of two nations meeting, giving the entire thing an inherently political air, something no self-respecting noble of rank would willingly be excluded from. Even as the King and his lackeys negotiated with Sara, so too would his underlings be jockeying for position, trying to please their betters or undermine their rivals.
This put Sara in quite a conundrum. For months now, thoughts of "precedent" had been infecting her thoughts. She was the leader of a nation. Though it felt wildly arrogant to view herself like it, if she succeeded in fending off the Sporaton invasion, she'd eventually be seen not just as the Tulian Republic's founder, but its savior. Fending off the Sporaton army almost single-handedly, introducing new technology just to do it? She'd be George Washington on crack. No matter how much she publicly declared that her actions were temporary expediencies in the face of war, everything she did, every step she took, would someday be looked to as an example. Nationalists and proto-fascists would justify their actions by comparing themselves to her, while actually decent people might hold back in making the right moves simply because she didn't do it herself, hundreds of years before. No matter how she tried to publicly downplay her own authority, there was still the undeniable fact that she was in charge, and that meant historians and politicians alike would be analyzing her every move for centuries to come.
If the people of this world saw the meeting as a purely military matter, like she did, she would happily have brought along her Colonels and a number of her Lieutenants, wanting their input on any strategic decisions. Doing so, however, would imply to the still-feudal society of Tulian that those she brought with her were figures of not just military, but political importance.
She wished she could bring along civilian authorities, her equivalents of the Secretary of State and Congressional Speaker or something, but that was impossible. She'd been so consumed with war preparations her governmental hierarchy was... sketchy, to say the least, with what titles and jobs she'd assigned even having the qualifier "Preliminary" tacked on.
As officially written, Vesta was the "Preliminary Minister of Finance," Evie the "Preliminary Steward of State," (a title which had baffled Sara by seemingly appearing as if from the aether), and Sara was the "Preliminary Governess." Hers was also the shakiest title of all, seeing as the "governor" position was one which she intended to eliminate wholesale. Beyond that, there were the various Union heads, elected by practitioners of their craft, and the entirely unofficial village heads of Tulian, who were usually nothing more than the person whose decisions were least likely to be argued over in a given village.
Beyond that? It was a free-for-all. Effectively a city-state, Tulian was small enough to virtually run itself. Food came in because people needed to eat it and goods went out because people wanted to buy them. Abandoned houses were repaired on Sara's dime, and up until the farming population had sheltered in the capital, there had been so many empty lots that families basically moved into whichever they stumbled across, no paperwork required. Beyond surreptitiously correcting a few potentially dangerous accumulations of power, she'd let things chug along unimpeded.
And now she was forced into a meeting which would, by simple virtue of who she invited, declare who she thought had concrete authority in the slapdash Tulian government. If she brought her Colonels, that would imply to many among Tulian's populace that they were equivalent to high-ranked Knights, or even Counts and Countesses, a thought which she ideologically despised. She obviously couldn't bring Vesta, seeing as she was a week's ride away, and even if she had, that would be conferring even more political power to an unelected individual. Hell, she already didn't like having herself in charge, as paradoxical as that seemed. She already worried about some Caesar cocksucker forming a military dictatorship during the next war, because "Hey, that was how Sara the Champion did it, and it worked great, so why not give it a second go? Pinkie promise I'll peacefully let go of power at the end, everyone."
Sara shook her head, tearing herself out of the clouds. At the end of the day, there were only two people in the entire camp which wouldn't be seen as gaining more power from attending the meeting: Sara and Evie. They'd both been acting with unlimited authority for months, so monopolizing the parley would be no big surprise. They'd go it alone, and anyone else relevant would listen in over the crystal matrix.
Of course, that also meant they'd be attending unguarded, sitting amongst the absolute elite of the Sporaton Knighthood. As Evie blithely warned, even her level– Thirteenth, now– wouldn't garner so much as a blink from King Sporatos and his elites. In single combat against the King, much less a group melee, Evie admitted she'd be dead before she could draw the breath to gasp.
Which, y'know, didn't exactly fill Sara with confidence, seeing as it had been weeks since she'd come remotely close to beating her girlfriend in a duel. They were ultimately trusting the King's word that he would honor the terms of the parley, and staking their life on it, at that.
Nothing to do for it, Sara forcefully reminded herself. After all, she was the Champion of Amarat. Defeating Sporatos outright was next to impossible with her current means, and the entire war goal from the start had been to force the massive kingdom to the negotiating table. A temporary parley, while as likely to be a request to allow Sporaton forces to collect their dead from the field as anything else, was something that could not be passed up.
Tugging her comb through her hair one last time, she peered over Evie's shoulders, reading along as she wrote. "You almost ready?"
"How much time do we have left?"
"A half hour, maybe. Longer, if we're fine with being fashionably late."
"Diplomatic affairs rarely follow the same protocols as socialite gatherings, Master."
"Not like they're gonna leave 'cause we were a few minutes late though, are they?"
Feline eyes rolled. "I would not recommend it, regardless. Give me only a few more moments."
Evie's pen continued to scribble line after line, black ink drawing looping calligraphy that was far too beautiful for the sins the letters described. The sterile language Evie had chosen struck her as incredibly amusing, knowing the volatile pit of rage from which the writing was dredged up. She was torn between encouraging her girlfriend to stop holding back and really lay it on, or praise her for the self-restraint on display.
True to her word, Evie finished a handful of minutes later, waving the papers out to dry before aligning them in a neat stack, which she deposited in a hip satchel. The plain leather container was at odds with her dress, which was of course utterly resplendent. One of the few she had chosen to take from the wealthier of Nora's captured vessels, it had been retroactively tailored into the style of House Eliah. Burgundy and navy blue intermixed in graceful lines, their points of joining demarcated by glittering gold threads, some of which drooped off her arms to form intricate loops beneath her arms. A small metal wire kept its form no matter how she moved, and seeing as she'd be walking through tall grass to the meeting point, she'd pinned the hem up to her calves, adding a dash of scandalous impropriety to what was otherwise a picturesque garment of noble decorum. Much of the embroidery, Sara noticed, featured peaked Vs or waving S shapes, which she assumed were there to represent the feline ears and tails of the former House Eliah, emphasizing the rarity of their bloodline's attributes.
Sara's own clothing, by contrast, was far more more modern in its make. A glittering pink dress that seemed to have been taken straight off the red carpet, alien to Sporaton sensibilities, yet recognizably beautiful no matter which cultural lens one viewed it from. The fact that it was supported by sheer lace looping behind her neck did nothing to hide its plunging neckline, which inexorably lured the eye towards her generous chest. The sleeves grew looser and looser the closer they got to her wrists, dangling uselessly a foot or so off her body at the end, and when she moved, the inset crystalline beads shattered the light into a rainbow of colors.
She also, coincidentally, rather hated it. It was about ten steps past her usual femme comfort zone, while also evoking a level of wealth that she was actively trying to purge from the face of the planet. She'd stuck with it on Evie's insistence alone, accepting the argument that the impression it would leave on the Sporaton party far exceeded the incredibly minor implications of wealth and status she preferred.
Sara did, however, flatly refuse to put in the earrings Evie had picked out for her. There was simply no way in hell she was going into a situation that might end with a fight wearing earrings, much less the gaudy loops Evie suggested. They would've looked great on Vesta, maybe, but Sara? A general, a leader of people? Absolutely not.
Finally stepping from their tent with Evie at her side, she felt a sudden urge to hide behind her diminuitive girlfriend. This was not how she wanted her troops to see her. For the gods' sake, she was wearing heels. To a military parley. This was absurd.
Evie put a hand on the side of Sara's back, pushing her forward, and Sara took what strength she could get from the comforting touch. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her spine and walked forward, Amarat's Blessings keeping her from reflexively cowering out of sight. She could even, if she really tried, pretend she didn't feel Evie holding back another eye roll.
"Screw you," Sara murmured through grit teeth, "This looks ridiculous. I should've just shown up in armor."
"Too late now, Master," Evie hummed back, tail bobbing happily as she matched Sara's gait. "You'll just have to suffer through looking presentable for a few hours."
"Armor is presentable."
"Some armor is," Evie admitted, before tapping a finger on Sara's nose. There was a metallic clanking noise as her claw was stopped a few inches short of contact. "Yours, however? Less so."
"Whatever. Let's just hope they give me an excuse to drop the bullshit."
"Mind your temper, Master." Evie paused as they reached the hole in the wall, accepting her rifle from a Sergeant that ran up with it, still furiously cleaning the barrel until the moment it left his hands. She looked it over with a careful eye, nodded once, then slid the strap over her shoulder, opposite the hip that held her rapier's ornate sheath. Satisfied, she slipped her arm through Sara's crooked arm and began striding forward. "Remember, what they consider an offense and what you do may vary greatly."
"Y'know, I doubt the King is getting a lecture on political niceties right now," Sara pointed out, stepping over one of the corpses which lay festering upon the field. A former knight, stripped of his armor under cover of darkness, had begun to bloat with rot.
"King Sporatos has had decades of experiences to learn such lessons, Master," Evie countered. Then she sniffed disdainfully, tilting her head as if to acknowledge some point. "Though I must admit, perhaps a reminder of certain lessons would do him some good."
"Think he's that bad at this shit?"
"No," Evie said after a moment's consideration. "No, he is competent. He would not have held the kingdom together through my mother's rebellion otherwise. But he is rigid in his thought, unwilling to compromise. If he had been willing to cede to certain points earlier, the rebellion would never have occurred in the first place. Many of the upper nobility, not just my late mother, have legitimate grievances regarding his decisions."
"Think you're going to enjoy meeting up with your old buddies?" They were halfway to the white tent that had been erected, close enough to begin making out individual faces. "It's not been that long since you were on their side of the fence, even if it feels like it's been years."
"Trust me, Master, none of those attending this meeting would be considered a friend."
"Still, though," Sara said, her voice dropping to a more serious tone. "You escaped those people. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to turn around right now. I can handle things on my own."
"For once, that may be true. But," Evie patted the paper-filled satchel off her hip, "I would not miss this opportunity for the world."
Sara snorted. "Got a few scores to settle?"
"You haven't the slightest idea."
Sara glanced at her girlfriend through the corner of her eye, and what she saw had her eyebrows raising. The corners of Evie's lips were quivering, fighting to curl upward. Her pupils were narrowed to slits, as they did in a duel, and her claws were fully extended, threatening to catch in her dress.
Catching her looking, Evie smirked at Sara. "Twenty years of political leverage, Master. Fifteen years of personal grudges." Her claws drummed against the satchel, tip of her tongue running across her canines. "Oh, I'm very ready indeed."
Notes:
Early chapter because I've got family stuff to do on Easter! Yay for y'all!
Also, shoutout to the FDA for completely fucking the availability of medicine I use to treat ADHD, meaning I haven't had any in two weeks. Thank god I had a backlog, because this chapter wouldn't have been posted otherwise. Trying to find some temporary solution (legally, pinky promise) but if the next chapter is late that's why.
Also, enjoy your cliffhanger. I never understood why authors did this to readers until I got to do it myself. It's very, very fun.
Chapter 76: Queen of Golden Dogs
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Four wooden pillars held up a white canvas, a single support beam raising its center to a mountainous peak. Lacquered cotton wicked away the water which drizzled from above, forming rivers and waterfalls in the subtle valleys of sagging cloth. Beneath it sat, stood, and paced a dozen individuals, all ensconced within an assortment of elegant armor sets. Their heights varied, some lucky few inching towards Sara's own five foot ten, but none quite reached it. The clamshelled nobles were all, as a rule, considerably taller than their House Guard escorts, whose commoner upbringings had afforded little of the diet taken for granted by their aristocratic charges. Accordingly, they were also not afforded the shelter of the tent, standing watch beneath the rain some few dozen feet away, rivulets of water running from their helms and soaking uncomfortably into the padding of their armor. At a glance, Sara pitied them, but the sentiment was limited. There was only so much sympathy she could summon for those who worked to empower their oppressors.
The King was identifiable at a distance, even when dressed in full plate. His weight, while not obscene, necessitated an armor which bulged before his stomach. As she approached Sara could also recognize his face, which was, though she would only admit it in the privacy of her own mind, the very picture of regality. His high cheekbones were framed by a neatly trimmed beard and modest mustache, shot through with white as was his head of neatly styled hair. It fell in gentle waves to cover his ears, perfectly complimenting the crown on his head, an ironically modest affair. A relic of the humbler origins of the Sporaton bloodline, it was a simple golden circlet with only a few precious gems embedded. The effect was ruined, of course, by the hideously jeweled pommel and crossguard of the King's longsword, which quite literally glowed even in the dreary weather– it was enchanted to ensure the crystalline arrangement always sparkled. Similar jewels crawled like barnacles along his gauntlets and sabatons, an oceanic infestation, and though Sara didn't know much about artificery, she instinctively intuited that they were purely decorative. The real enchantments would be powered by gems hidden beneath the steel.
Though none of the other dignitaries present quite matched the King's obscenity, the entire parley tent was an idiosyncratic display of wealth. Sara's personal command tent had three wooden folding chairs and a canvas cot, with a folding table brought in for meetings. The Sporaton parley tent featured such noble necessities as embroidered tapestries on its dozen plush lounge chairs.
There was one glaring exception to the ostentatiousness, however. A single man at the rear of the gaggle of golden sin, standing at parade rest, forearms interlocked behind the small of his back. His wispy hair was pale as a ghost, and nearly as ephemeral, enough left that one wouldn't be seen as incorrect for calling him bald. The deep furrows and worn wrinkles of his face belied to Sara's earthly sensibilities considerable frailty, his skin thin as paper maché, but she had lived nine months in this new world. She knew better. His armor was dented and scratched, and opposite the dented scabbard of his sidesword hung a blacksteel warhammer, its end wickedly curved to an armor-piercing tip. He also wore a poleaxe on his back, and unlike any other weapon Sara had seen, the entire six foot length was made of pure blacksteel, an expense she couldn't fathom. Only the grip was made of leather, and it was well-worn, discolored by sweat stains.
Graf Urs. The Commander of the Knight's Eye. As Evie and Sara approached the tent, his eyes first went to Sara, flicking from her boots to her head in an instant, and then to Evie, doing much the same. Only the slightest twitch danced across his features as he appraised his former apprentice, something Sara was certain none but she would notice, and even she couldn't tell what it represented. Only that the mercenary's implacable facade had, for the briefest of moments, slipped out of place.
As Sara strode across the final ten or so feet before the parley, the two guards that had been placed on the Tulian side of the tent abruptly straightened, slamming the hafts of their spears into the mud with two sharp smacks.
"Announcing the arrival of Sara Brown!" They called, their voices eerily synchronous. The nobles gathered in the tent turned at the sound, pretending to notice her arrival as if she'd just walked through the doors of a grand gala, not having quite visibly spent the last few minutes trudging through a quarter mile of muddy terrain to reach them.
Sara, of course, stopped. She remained in place, suffering the slight drizzle without complaint, and turned a censorious eye to the closest guard. The woman was a consummate professional, and did not so much as flinch under her gaze, staring resolutely into the distance as she held her pose. Unfortunately for her, Sara was equally stubborn, and well aware both that the guardswoman could feel her eyes on her and knew exactly what she was waiting for.
A dozen seconds or so passed in silence, an eternity in the world of social niceties, before both guards opened their mouths and bellowed out again.
"Announcing Slave Evie Brown, Property of the House of Brown!"
Sara acknowledged this with the slightest tilt of her head, as if the manner of address was an unexpected curiosity, but no great insult.
The manner of address was clearly pre-planned, all the way down to the timing. They knew I would not enter without Evie being acknowledged, but refuse to recognize the legality of my overwriting her slave's status.
Effectively in line with what she'd anticipated, even if she'd been hazy on the particulars. She did think it was a neat lick to refer to her as "Property of House Brown," an eponym which cleanly advanced several aims of theirs. It implied Sara was still beholden to her Knighting by the King following the failed rebellion, simultaneously undermining any legitimacy Evie would have gained from her former title as the heir to House Eliah. It was a more clever move than she'd expected from the King; though Evie had warned her to the contrary, she'd half expected him to be as arrogant and out of touch as anyone born rich.
Though the manner of address in which they were greeted was an intentional slight, it was one to which the best response was feigned ignorance. She simply tilted her head and turned her lips up, as if finding it faintly humorous that the King's announcement had been so ignorant. Regardless, she considered forcing royalty formally acknowledge a "slave" a victory in its own right, and so she advanced beneath the shelter of the tent, satisfied.
"Lady Brown," the King said, beginning the conversation with a nod.
"King Sporatos," Sara replied, nodding her own head slightly further, as was appropriate for a greeting between two rulers, rather than a King and subject.
Taking a breath, the King glanced pointedly about the tent, beginning to say "As you can see, I–" before he was cut off by Evie stepping elegantly forward, the very picture of noble decorum.
"Fedarin," she interrupted, using the King's first name. Her curtsy was textbook, her head bowed, the very image of deference, save for the fur which raised in a wave along her tail. Even if most didn't know how to read the body language of a feline's anatomy, anyone who had seen a hissing alleycat could recognize such bristling anger. "It has been quite a while since we last dined, hasn't it? I do hope you've brought refreshments. You always knew how fond I am of your chef's wonderful fruit tarts."
The flash of irritation that crossed the King's face was once more too quick for anyone but Sara to catch, but catch it she did, and she smiled inwardly. Interrupting the king was a considerable faux-pas, unless one was suitably drunk late into an extended gala, but excusable in certain other situations. By not acknowledging Evie's presence upon the opening of discussion, it was within her social right to force the topic, a supposedly polite move in the event that the King had somehow overlooked her presence. He hadn't, of course; he'd deliberately excluded her as a result of her slavery, but by exercising both the social ritual and her knowledge of it, Evie affirmed her status as noble-born, even if her title had been revoked. She also flaunted the fact that she was once on a first-name basis with the King, and that she dined with him often enough that he was familiar with her favorite sweet from his personal chefs.
"Evie," he replied evenly, without even the nod he offered Sara. "Refreshments may of course be brought out if the negotiations should run overlong, but this is not something I anticipate."
"Truly?" She asked, stepping slightly ahead of Sara. "That surprises me to hear. Military negotiations are usually such lengthy affairs, are they not?"
"Traditionally. But the leveling of surrender terms can be completed in much shorter order."
Though she let nothing show, Sara's internal self leaned forward. Why, exactly, the King had called this parley was the most glaring flaw in her knowledge base. His posturing that he was here to dictate Tulian's surrender was an obvious falsehood, the auction's starting price. With his Knight's assaults having been so soundly repulsed, his true aims had to be considerably lesser. But what, exactly were they?
Evie smiled politely, producing a folding fan from her sleeve to demurely cool herself. "Oh, interesting! I did not expect you to be so reasonable."
Bait set.
"Then you do not know me as well as you think you do, child. We are both aware of the realities of this situation."
Bait taken. Evie's smile grew.
"Will you need any assistance with your withdrawal, then? Owing to several innovative battlefield triage practices we have implemented, our healers are more than ready to ensure your troops will be ready to march north in short order."
A cheapt shot, but one that struck home all the same. The reaction of the various onlooking nobles was effectively nothing, at least when compared to the hoots and howls that would accompany a solid insult thrown during raucous tavern argument, but their muted reaction was directly comparable. Smiles briefly sprouted before being smoothed away, blinks occurred more rapidly as eyes darted between combatants, and the more mirthful reactions were hidden in overlong sips from wineglasses. The trap had been fairly obvious, and it amused the nobility to see King Sporatos fall into it. Further, the fact that the nobility clearly considered the trap obvious reaffirmed for Sara that the purpose of this meeting was not her surrender.
Also, Sara could tell King Sporatos was getting increasingly pissed off at having to talk to a slave, which was chicken soup for her soul. She had to put actual effort into keeping her expression politely blank as King Sporatos' smile smile turned patronizing.
"You are even more naive than I expected, child. Your teacher was of too great a caliber for you to not recognize the impossibility of the defense that has been so unwisely constructed here. Even if the walls had not been breached, which they have, the fortress is easily bypassed, the Tulian capital easily taken. Should your owner and her forces advance unto the open field, they will be run down before the day is out."
"I fail to see the relevance of the wall's breaching," Evie hummed, sparing a brief glance for the forty-foot gap that yawned in Fort Midwich. "It's not as if your vaunted cavalry were capable of exploiting the weakness, much less your own far more ill-fated assault." She folded her for a moment, pointing it at the King's armor. "A shame about your suit, as an aside. The loss of such artful craftmanship is regrettable, even in times of war."
The King's jaw twitched, and Sara's eyes sparkled with Evie's. The King's wounding was not public knowledge even among his own camp. The fact that Evie was aware of it, courtesy of Ketch's reconnaissance, was a major blow. If he publicly refuted the claim now, the truth's inevitable emergence would be all the more damaging.
The King, naturally, chose the coward's way out, and didn't acknowledge the jab. He instead feigned arrogance, smirking. "The spellweaving of a Champion did provoke some unfortunate reaction among the cavalry's steeds, but it was just that. An unfortunate reaction to a Champion's spells, which of course cannot be predicted." The King's eyes brightened, clearly realizing he could use this to segue out of being forced to acknowledge a slave as anything human. He turned to Sara, happily waving one of the entourage behind him forward. "As a matter of fact, the workings of such a spell are of considerable interest to many of the mages that have joined me on this expedition. Lady Brown, before we move onto less pleasurable topics, may introduce you to Sir Ildo?" A man wearing the enchanted robes of a mage moved forward. "Sir Ildo was quite taken by the artifacts you have equipped your peasantry with, and personally entreated me for the opportunity to attend this parley."
Bulllshit, Sara immediately thought. The mage was sporting a politician's lizard grin. He may have been a spellcaster, but that was clearly a distant second reason for his attendance.
"A pleasure, Sir Ildo," Sara graciously replied, physically forcing herself to not refer to him as Sir Dildo.
"The pleasure is all mine, Lady Brown," he replied, proffering one dainty hand from within his robes for a handshake.
Sara roughly clasped his forearm, giving it a firm pump before he could react. It was a martial handshake, not a political leader's, and it told all watching what capacity she considered herself to be acting in. The King proverbially stepped back as they made their introductions, watching politely as the mage began to ask after the supposed enchantments she'd used to create what he called "smoke throwers."
Upon first impression, it seemed immediately clear that Sir Dildo was not a conversationalist. His voice was high and reedy, and he spoke with far more syllables than was strictly necessary, his winding sentences meandering from topic to topic and jargon to jargon without end. Though she'd been mildly surprised by the King stepping back to allow the conversation to occur, the sheer dullness of the man's diatribes revealed the plan to her.
Sir Dildo– Ildo, she forcefully reminded herself– was a sacrificial lamb. The King had been trapped in conversation with a slave, and so he'd unleashed the most boring conceivable man upon Sara, and not just in recompense. Any sane person would flee this agonizing conversation as rapidly as possible, even if it meant willingly broaching a more serious and unwanted conversation with the King, which was clearly what Sara was expected to do. The King would be rid of Evie, transition from air-wasting political niceties to proper negotiation, and it would all seem the result of his own good graces. He obliged a personal friend their request, then saved Sara from the results of said request. Another neat little trick, one that had Sara's professional respect for the King ticking up another notch.
Unfortunately, it did nothing to soothe the absolute raging contempt she held for the King, and certainly did nothing for her lifelong stubbornness. Sara brought her shoulders together and leaned forward in a way that exposed just a bit more cleavage to the balding Sir Ildo and said, without a trace of irony in her voice,
"You've truly tried magnifying your compression runes on a base of wrought iron? That doesn't strike me as the most obvious way to attack the problem, especially owing to your aforementioned difficulties with the constraints of insetting crystals and their effects upon artifact stability."
"Ah- well," the mage stumbled over his words for a moment, clearly taken aback by the passion in her voice. He cleared his throat, trying to maintain the irritating reediness that his speech had affected. "It was a rather unorthodox approach, I must admit, but it seemed worthwhile considering the lack of laboratory."
"Ah, you wound me!" Sara practically crowed, leaning further forward. Nearly everyone present shot confused looks her way, but she ignored them all. "Virtually all my work these last few months has been undertaken in what you must surely consider field conditions, Sir Ildo. Nothing of Old Tulian's artificery efforts remained, and I have been woefully underprepared to recreate such an industry on my own, no matter what trade deals I have managed." She put a hand on his shoulder, steering him towards a chair. "Please, you must tell me, what have you been missing most from your laboratory while you work on this project? I have read all the texts I have available on the subject, but there is so much conflicting information, and I wish to begin my collection right, as I'm sure you understand."
Sara sat down, waving for Sir Ildo to sit across from her, which he did, though not without considerable hesitation. This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. Her eyes were supposed to glaze over as he wheedled his way through an incomprehensible narration, forcing her to flee to King Sporatos as her only palatable conversation partner.
But Sara knew something about mages that the King did not: they were mages for a reason. Every one of them, no matter how acidic their political motivations may be, had a genuine passion for their craft. A passion that Sara was now happily exploiting, steadily drawing the mage out of his faux-timidity.
"You wish to create a laboratory of your own, then?" He asked, his voice unconsciously dropping towards a more normal pitch. "It is not often that the ruler of a nation takes an interest in spellweaving and artificery."
Sara waved the notion away with an indelicate sniff, as if so wrapped up in her love for artificery she forgot her formal decorum. "Those leaders don't come from a magicless world, Sir Ildo, and I do. That so many fail to take an interest in so beautiful a craft is an insult to the very world I have found myself in! Now please, tell me again of your efforts to recreate my spells, with particular attention to the tools you wished you had. As I've said, the texts I've read are so conflicting–"
"Don't tell me you've been reading Vocalt," he said, the disdain in his tone dragging his voice back to a far more comfortable honey richness.
Sara hadn't the faintest clue who that was, but she put a concerned hand to her collarbone and nodded hesitantly. "I have. It was among the texts I had available–"
"Oh, please, Lady Brown, you must throw your copies out!" Ildo all but cried. "That fool has nothing in his mind but profit, and would sell you a glass bauble claiming it an artemonisometer!" Sir Ildo leaned forward in his chair, matching Sara's posture as he grew more animated. "It's a wonder Talavan even gifted that fool with magic; perhaps the only mistake I can rightly accuse my God of making, as a matter of fact. He did not deserve such a thing." Sara blinked her surprise, genuinely this time. That claim was high-tier blasphemy, and she tucked the contentious rivalry between Ildo and this 'Vocalt' away for later use. "You must first begin with collecting the basics, of course. I presume you have a supply of quartz, jade, sapphire, emerald, and the like?"
"Not as much as I'd like," she replied, sighing. "But some, yes."
"Excellent. From these most base components even the most impoverished of nations can establish an effective artificery base..."
Sara physically felt the attention of the nobility around her wilting, the topic too hideously dry for them to stomach, even with a touch of heresy stirred in. More than anybody else, King Sporatos was clearly frustrated by the events. Having claimed he was doing Ildo a personal favor, he couldn't rightly interrupt, and neither could he join the conversation as an equal in the incomprehensible swirl of alien terminology. The fact that Sara herself hadn't a damn clue what the mage was talking about wasn't apparent; of all her talents before receiving Amarat's Blessings, bullshitting her way through conversations above her paygrade had been among her greatest.
Like a tiger watching its prey's eyes flutter closed, Evie pounced.
"As we were discussing, Your Majesty, our fortification's position is far from untenable."
The King grit his teeth, eyes flashing, but was forced to turn away from Sara to address Evie once more. She continued on, acting as oblivious to Sara's conversation as she was pretending to be of theirs. "Even if you were to circumvent the fort we all know that you would be unwilling to allow a force of such size to freely menace your supply lines, as it will take time for Tulian to fall, even without our full complement of defenders. And now with the blockading of Port Agrith and your navy still nowhere in sight? You will be forced to engage us here."
"Just because my navy has not yet batted your pirate horde aside does not mean it is incapable of doing so, child," the King replied, his royal diction growing as close to a snarl as it ever could. "Your ambition mirrors your mother, clearly. Suicidal."
A suppressed gasp ran through the noble audience, but Evie only smiled.
"Ah, how I wish she'd committed suicide," she wistfully replied, the sheer longing for such a horrific thing sending a flinch through everyone present save Graf. "That she was beheaded was a close second, but perhaps too dignified for such a monster. Had I been in your position, I would have ordered a hanging. Much more humiliating, to be executed like a commoner. Regardless, we are here to discuss military matters, not happier days. I presume you are interested in asking after the safety of our captured notables?"
His face remained implacable, but even as she outwardly paid attention to Sir Ildo's ranting, Sara caught the vein bulging from the King's forehead. Another win scored, then. Prisoner exchange was one of the actual bullet points on his agenda for the day, and now that the topic had been broached, he was obligated to pursue it, even with Evie.
"You have treated them well?" He asked.
"They're alive," Evie replied vaguely. "And no more injured than they were when captured. Our healers must of course prioritize who they dedicate their energies to."
"You claimed but a moment ago that your healers have treated all your wounded," he noted, a touch of gravel entering his voice.
"Mm," Evie said, a hum that meant nothing. She put her hands behind her back, glancing past the King. "For all the effort you put into pretending this is a social occasion, Fedarin, you seem to be intent on monopolizing the conversation. Will you not allow your entourage the opportunity to socialize?"
"They would," he ground out, "if there were others equal to their station for them to hold a discussion. Unfortunately, your owner arrived alone."
Evie cocked an eyebrow. "I feel rather present."
King Sporatos' face began to redden. He leaned down, towering over Evie, his voice dropping to a whisper that should have been impossible for Sara to hear.
"Were that woman not a Champion, I'd have struck you down where you stand, you insipid slave. That your head didn't roll with your mother's is my dearest regret."
"You would have tried," Evie replied, speaking in a perfectly normal tone, which seemed deafening next to the King's clenched hiss. She once more leaned to the side, addressing the audience. "In case any of you were wondering, he threatened my life, explaining that he holds his sword only because my Master is present. I suppose he truly is afraid of her, is he not?"
The King's eyes bulged, pupils vibrating with apoplectic fury. He looked close to raising a fist, his right hand clenching spastically.
Before things could get out of hand, Sara stood, cutting Sir Ildo off in the middle of some particularly tedious explanation.
"Now, now, Evie," she said with a click of her tongue, "it's rude to antagonize our hosts." Her eyes slid to the King. "And seeing as he saw fit to outfit this tent like a brothel's lounge, I can only assume this is a social outing, no?"
King Sporatos took a calming breath, turning to face Sara once more. "While it is understandable considering your upbringing, most would know that the presence of such finery is merely a matter of course for those of our status. Please, Lady Brown, let us move onto topics more at hand."
"Like what? Your aforementioned surrender?"
In a stunning contrast to when Evie had leveled the same insult, the King merely smiled tightly. "An amusing quip, of course, but not one that's accurate. I had hoped to return your good graces to a location more appropriate to your station, Lady Brown. If your Quest lays in the bounds of Tulian, I would even be willing to ensure that the Duke of Tulian will defer to you in all relevant matters."
"The Duke of Tulian?" Sara glanced at the gathered representatives. "And who might that be?"
"Why, Princess Tulian herself," the King replied, waving a stately woman forth. She was among the number that Sara hadn't recognized from Evie's description, and the fact that she was perhaps only in her mid-teens filled in several critical details regarding King Sporatos' ambition in the fallen kingdom.
"Greetings, Champion of Amarat–"
"Where's your dad?" Sara snapped. "The last ruler of Tulian was a King, I know that much."
Her smile grew brittle. "Unfortunately, he passed away but a few short–"
"Puppet ruler, got it," Sara interrupted, eyes flicking back to the King. "I'm not interested into talking to some brat you're putting in charge because of a bloodline fetish. She grew up in your borders anyway, so everyone knows she'll be dancing to your tune, even if you grant her nominal independence when she comes of age." She snapped her fingers a few times. "Come on, big boy, I'm getting impatient. Spit up your real goals here."
"Your decorum is as reported, it would seem," the King replied, forcing a chuckle.
"Don't want to play ball? Alright then."
Sara's gaze swung towards the crowd of nobles, ignoring the so-called Tulian Princess. "If you're wondering, the real reason he called this conference is simple. I was supposed to be a pushover Champion, useless at anything but talking, and now I've bloodied his army's nose. He's playing it close to the chest, but that smarted enough that he's interested in feeling me out, seeing if he can drag me out of here without it costing him too much."
She ran her eyes along the King's face appraisingly. "It seems like he's still confident he can win, but he's worried about it weakening him too much. Not physically, of course, he's got peasants and Knights to spare, but politically. Too many factions vying for his blood, after all, especially with the cult he's got himself wrapped up in."
The King stiffened. "You dare to accuse me of–"
"I do, and if you don't want me to spill the rest of the beans, you'll shut up." She paused for just a moment, not enough for him to come up with a clever retort, but long enough to prove that he had no immediate response on hand, then bowled onward. "In short, he's scared, which I take as a big win for me, seeing as conquering coastal city states is how he cemented his early rule in the first place. Not as fun when the chew toys can bite back, is it?"
"As for the rest of you, I don't know at a glance what factions you belong to, or what your motivations are for being here. You're not the most loyal subjects, I can tell that already, but in that respect, I'll defer to the expert."
Evie stepped forward, pulling out the first of many sheafs of parchment. Clearing her throat theatrically, she began addressing the right side of the crowd.
"Sir Balancia. Your support to my mother's rebellion came in the form of sixteen warhorses donated monthly, laundered through the Galarin estate. Your recorded motivation was the King's economic mishandling of the coastal territories." Evie set the paper face-down on a short end table, then moved to a Knight standing beside the first. "Ser Tehtan. Eliah agents recorded your regular visits to various male paramours following the miraculous birth of your first son. Further investigation revealed these escapades were due to your husband's infertility, which your House's healers have repeatedly failed to resolve. Though you've had three children by your own body, they are bastards, and not eligible to inherit your husband's estate." She set that paper down. "Lord Karas. The agents of your political rivals have been repeatedly interrogated and subsequently disposed of via your connection to the Vomuns, who ritualistically consumed them as their hidden vampiric nature demanded. In recompense, you have extensively sabotaged the investigations of Daylagon's Faithful Hunters in regards to–"
"An absurdity!" Lord Karas cried out, breaking the audience from their stupor. "What evidence do you claim for these outlandish accusations, slave?"
Evie smirked.
"For you, Lord Karas? The personal testimony of the vampire in question, including her enchanted signature. A personal interview with her is also available, if necessary. As for the rest, these papers provide instructions on where to locate relevant proof, and you will be free to peruse them at your leisure. Now, Lady Chacel–"
"What is the meaning of this?" King Sporatos hissed out, still addressing Sara over Evie's head. "You said you wished to negotiate, Champion."
Calling me a Champion now, huh?
"Of course," she graciously replied. "But when it comes to motivating you, I'm afraid I'm all out of carrots. I've just got the stick left." She nodded to Evie. "Feel free to continue."
"Lady Chacel–"
"Enough!" The King sliced his hand through the air, physically shoving Evie to the floor so he could stalk towards Sara. The feline watched from where she lay with a savage grin.
"I call a parley, give you a chance to end this war early, and extend a hand of forgiveness– of forgiveness!– and this is how you repay me? Crude insults and baseless accusations?"
"I think you'll find the accusations incredibly based," Sara said, enjoying a pun only she appreciated, "and I think you still don't understand what I'm after here." She cocked her hip out to rest a hand on it, staring down at the King. "Come on, give it a shot. Offer me what you think I want for the noble prisoners. What's their ransom?"
The King's eyes flashed, but he growled out his words. "It is a complex figure, dependent upon their–"
"I don't give a shit," Sara snapped, leaning forward until she was at eye level with the man. "Offer me anything. Offer me everything. Your whole kingdom." She leaned closer. "I won't give it to you. I won't give you a single one of those rotten bastards back."
For all his faults, the King was not a coward. He spoke with an even tone, letting her tower over him without so much as a flinch.
"No matter how you extort me, I will not be forced to give up my Kingdom's treasures in the interest of mere expediency. We will have them back at the war's conclusion, regardless."
Sara barked out an ugly laugh. "The fuck you will! You really think this is a money problem? That I'm trying to fleece you for more cash? Hell, even if you managed to conjure up something that really would convince me to hand over those little pricks, I couldn't! They're already on the way to the capital, with a hangman's noose waiting for them." Her eyes flicked over the audience. "Hope none of you were related to them, because you're not ever going to see them again. We're burning the bodies and dumping the ashes in the sea."
"You're a beast," the King spat. "As mad as any have claimed you to be."
"Maybe!" Sara admitted. "Maybe I am. No way for me to know myself, I guess, but honestly? I wouldn't bet on it." Sara straightened, turning her glare from noble to noble. They winced as her gaze passed over them. "Because to me, everything I'm doing is perfectly rational."
"Ha!" The King scoffed. "You deny ransom, you shelter behind a fort in the middle of the wilderness, you let your navy be suborned by some insane entity, and you call yourself rational?"
"Yes! Yes, I do, and you will, too, once you understand what I'm here for." She spread her arms wide, until the whole of Fort Midwich rested on her shoulders. "This? All of this? This army, these weapons, the blood, sweat and tears I've spilled to raise them? Do you know what they're for? Do you really think you know?"
"To ensure yourself a–"
"Wrong!" Sara slammed a finger into the King's breastplate. "They're to kill you." Her eyes grew wider by degrees. "They're to kill you, people like you, and every other fat motherfucker that rips the meat off the bones of innocents, every inbred little cousin fucker with more goddamn titles than brain cells that you can bring against me, and when I'm done killing all of them, I'm going to start working on the rest of them. And you know how I'm going to do it?"
Evie appeared at Sara's side, proffering their enchanted bag. Sara reached in, drew out a half-completed gun, and dropped it at the King's feet. Its stock bounced off his sabatons with a wooden thunk.
"That. That right there is going to be the death of you, King Sporatos. And it's my gift to you." Sara pulled out two more objects, a bag of lead balls, then a bag of black powder. "It's called a firearm, or a gun, or, if you want to get specific about this one, a matchlock. You put this," she dropped the bag of gunpowder, "down the barrel, then you shove these," she dropped the lead bullets, "in after them, light the fuse, and pull the trigger to set the whole thing off."
The King's eyes flicked to the pile, then back to her, nonplussed. "And you claim this implement will do what, exactly?"
"Fuck your entire world. If you don't end up dead by one of them before you live to see it, let me tell you what's going to happen. You're going to make these guns, because you'll have to. They're better than any weapon that exists in this world by a laughable margin. You're going to build so, so many of them, because they're cheap, they're easy, and they'll win your wars. You're going to spread them far and wide, and save for when you try to use them against Tulian, because ours will be better by far, it will be a glorious time for you. Nobody will be able to stop you! Until your enemies can build them, you'll have such a dominance that even the thought of their resistance would be laughable. I'm giving that to you, King Sporatos."
Sara drew herself up, straightening her shoulders, and let her illusion fall. The image of noble dress and elaborate heels fell away, the hulking black mass of her armor swimming up from beneath the fading chips of light. The mages started, hands readying to cast spells. For the most powerful of them, it had been a very, very long time since someone had cast an illusion they could not detect, and their shock was evident. Sara ignored them, too, her voice now warped and changed from within the visor of her helmet.
"And the reason why I'm giving it to you is simple, your royal highness. Because as you march at the heads of your armies, as you march over the festering corpses of empires laid low in your name, at your back will be the peasants, carrying guns. There will be far, far more of them in your force than there has ever been. And someday, no matter how distant, you will take a step too far. You will lead them into a battle they cannot win, and they will suffer for it. You will grow too greedy, tax them too harshly, and they will begin to starve. You will lord above them with all the power their lives have bought you, and from that height, they will have such a wonderful view of your spine. And they will think back to their battles, to the mages their bullets have struck down, to the Knights whose armor they have ripped apart, and they will see on you nothing more."
Sara's chest was heaving now. She could feel her skin afire with runes, smoke leaking from the gaps of her armor, floating up to pool in little eddies at the tent above. She grinned wildly, glowing eyes glinting through the slits of her visor.
"And they will shoot you, King Sporatos. The last thing that passes through your mind will be lead. And then they will turn their guns on your Dukes, and your Knights, and your nobility, and for the first time in all of their noble, putrid lives, they will know the fear of the mob. And then they will die."
"So take this gun, King Sporatos. Tease apart its secrets. Smith more, enchant it, build it and grow it until you are satisfied. It will give you all the power in the world. But when you are standing oh-so-tall? I want one image floating through your skull. Your daughter, dead, face down in the mud. And a peasant standing above her."
Sara finally fell silent, the echo of her speech, which had grown to a shout, echoing out over the plains. She didn't know if the Sporaton army had heard it, but her own forces certainly had. She hadn't meant to spread it so far, but she wasn't upset with the result.
The King looked down at the matchlock, which lay across his foot, then looked at his mages. They still stood ready, arms half-raised, and Sara belatedly realized that most everyone had their hands on their weapons, swords frozen halfway through slipping from their scabbards. As she caught her breath, chest rising and falling, her panting was the only thing filling the air.
"...there will be no peace," the King whispered.
"I'm shocked."
"You will be hanged as a common criminal."
"I doubt it."
"There will be no end to this war, not until you are dead."
"I'm sure you'll try."
The King blew out a long breath, slowly walking away from Sara. "Hostilities will resume at dawn, as is custom."
"I look forward to it."
The King paused in mid step. Still not turning around, he slowly shook his head. "Madness."
Sara watched him go, leaving the matchlock lying on the floor. The other nobles began to file in after him, entering the safe embrace of their guards. Only one man remained behind, looking at the matchlock the King had left behind.
"Master Graf," Evie said.
"Lady Eliah," he replied with a nod.
"My name is Evie, now. As the King so kindly reminded us all, I am no longer nobility."
"Evie, then." Graf approached the matchlock, standing over it with a somber expression. He turned to Sara. "You meant what you said? That this weapon will change the world?"
"In time, yes," Sara said. "It may not happen right away, but eventually? It's a certainty."
With an old man's grunt, Graf bent down, picking up the matchlock. Still crouching, he turned it over, running his palms along the stock.
"I take it you did not provide an example equal to your own weapons, then?"
"Of course not."
"Hm." He picked up the two bags, straightening with a click of withered bones. "You are profecient with this weapon, Evie?"
"As I can be, given the relative lack of time to practice."
"That still places you among the foremost experts in this world." He shouldered the matchlock, pocketing the bags. "When the war is over, I hope that you will be available as a consultant for the Night's Eye. I am sure we will be capable of meeting your price."
Evie raised an eyebrow. "You openly admit that you believe our nation will survive the war?"
"I find it unlikely, speaking truthfully, but if you should lose the conflict, the offer is moot regardless. Bringing the opportunity to the fore costs nothing, after all."
"Ever the pragmatist, Master Graf."
"As are you." The aged mercenary looked to Sara. "And I presume this is the Serpent you spoke of?"
"Of course," Evie replied, motioning to the matchlock. "And now you've seen her fangs."
"Hm. A pleasure to meet you, Champion." Graf looked over his shoulder, towards the cluster of nobles retreating to their camp. He sighed. "I suppose I must be going, then. Best not to get accused of conspiring with the enemy."
"I don't suppose you could be convinced to find employment with Tulian?" Sara asked, springing the offer while she still had the chance. "From Evie's stories, you seem like one of very few nobles worth a second thought."
"No," he said simply. "I am a mercenary, but I am a subject of my King. There will be no betrayal."
Sara didn't bother arguing the point. She could tell it was no use. She nodded. "I understand. I hope we will not meet on the field."
"As do I, Champion Sara." He bowed slightly to her, then bowed again to Evie, deeper. "Champion. Lady Evie."
And with that single gesture, he left. They were left alone beneath the empty tent, the sun finally breaking through the clouds above. After spending several minutes standing at one another's side, Sara ran a hand down her face.
"Well," she said, "I think that went pretty well."
Evie let out a long, tired sigh. "You would think that, wouldn't you, Master?"
"Hey, we got most of what we wanted accomplished. The King's too close to pissing himself to copy the guns himself, we ticked him off enough to keep him stupid, and Graf's gonna have a monopoly on Sporaton firearms for the foreseeable future."
"I remain unconvinced that ensuring the greatest general of our enemy has the greatest weapons was truly wise, Master."
"That enemy also has the only force composed almost entirely out of commoners, I'll remind you. Those are the people I want to get their hands on guns, anyway."
"If you insist, Master. I only hope he will not replicate them in time to have an effect upon the war."
"Guess we'll find out, huh?"
"Gods help us."
Notes:
I think this is a new personal best for "most rewrites for one chapter." I was tempted to delay it, but at a certain point I've just gotta commit lmao. Hopefully you enjoyed it.
Next chapter should, I hope, be a larger one. After a move and a new job, I've finally settled in to a consistent routine.
Chapter 77: Quiet as a Rat
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Colonel Shale
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She couldn't quite understand why the Champion had let her join this little walkalong. It was late into the night, most of the army taking advantage of the brief truce to drop into a death-like sleep, and yet Sara was still up, slowly matching the pace of the illusion beside her.
It was a middle-aged man, dressed in foreign clothes of a make Shale couldn't place. He wore an awkward, floppy hat on his head, connected beneath his chin by a string that was pulled tight enough to dig a line in his neck, and he stopped and started his sentences as he walked, gesticulating wildly at the various cannons Sara's illusions had also recreated.
"And this one, see this one? It's nice, right, but it's not just- it's not, like, as cool as the Napoleon, right, because it wasn't as good, but– oh, it's called the Parrott rifle, by the way, the ten pounder– because it was made of iron and stuff, right, which was cheaper than bronze but too weak, and it could fracture sometimes, blowing up the whole thing, and so the artillerymen didn't really like it as much as the Napoleon, even though it was rifled–"
The rambling lecture continued on, Sara nodding to the illusion as if it could see her. Really, the whole occasion was strange, and not just because Shale had been invited along. For one, Sara had placed the illusion up a bit, so the man and the cannons he was pointing to were standing on air, Sara's head not quite reaching his elbows. There was also the fact that Evie wasn't present, having apparently been sent off on some task or another, which left the Champion's visage looking rather lopsided. It seemed wrong to Shale's eye, to see the woman without her ever-present partner.
"–And really, the only iron one they really liked was the Three-inch Ordnance Rifle, y'know, because it didn't actually blow up– well, blow up as much, it still did this one time, but not as often as the Parrots– and they'd use it for, like, real accurate stuff, even better than the Napoleon, but you couldn't do the bouncing shots I was talking about earlier– you remember that, right?"
Sara nodded to the illusion, often mumbling a little "mm-hm" as they walked. That was another strange thing, to see the Champion of Amarat so quiet. She was a woman of words, after all, not humming and silent observation. This contemplative attentiveness was far out of character.
The illusion suddenly froze, Sara coming to a stop as well. She was looking at one of the cannons with her hands clasping her wrists behind her back, and Shale slowly walked up beside her.
"It's a bit smaller than the others," she noted, seeking to break the silence.
Sara nodded to the man in the illusion. "Like he said, it's built for accuracy, not firepower."
The illusion jumped forward a few steps. "–so crazy for the time, hitting single targets a whole mile out, and there were stories of people even putting shots through, like, specific windows, which is just wild for back then–"
The illusion paused again, the man having moved on far enough to give Shale a proper look at the cannon.
At a glance, she couldn't quite see why the Champion had picked this example out of the illusory line. It was smaller than most of the others, with a lighter carriage and ammunition that was long and thin. Moving closer, Shale could see that the barrel had the spiral grooves the Champion called "rifling," which explained the accuracy the man had been talking about, but her gut still told her that the 12-pounders were a better gun. Accurate or not, she wanted a gun that'd dig a trench of blood through the enemy, not smash one head through before a pointed tip dug the cannonball into the earth.
After Sara spent another few minutes quietly staring at the gun, Shale spoke up.
"That going to be the next gun we get?"
Sara started, as if surprised Shale was still present.
"Maybe," she said. "Can't bet on it, though. No way to tell if we'll be able to make 'em. I hope we will, but when we're just pouring casts and beating it into shape with hammers..."
Sara trailed off, forcing Shale to prod the conversation onward once more.
"As opposed to what?"
"Lathes," Sara said, as if the word meant something. "Gods, we need a proper lathe. Hurlish can do some insnae stuff, but I was still thinking I should keep it secret..." She shook her head. "Not to mention the metal quality. Iron guns explode, you know. It's why we use bronze, even though it's so much more expensive."
"That's an iron gun," Shale helpfully pointed out.
"Yeah." Sara mimed tapping the cannon, disturbing its surface like water. "So why didn't it blow up all the time? It worked great, apparently, whereas that one," she pointed to one of the 'Parrott' guns, "Was more likely to kill its crew than the enemy. It's not purely the material, at least I don't think so, because it's still made of wrought iron, instead of pure steel, but it could also be a million other parts of the process. The casting, the cooling, the carbon content, or maybe just plain quality control, for all I know. So what's the goddamn difference?"
Shale looked between the two weapons, even though she knew the question was rhetorical. She could see plenty of differences at a glance. The unfamiliar gun was slightly thinner, slightly longer, and was of course made of rifled iron. Sara had wondered if the thing was made of steel, which was an absurdity in and of itself. The expense of a thousand pounds of steel would be unimaginable, enough to equip the entire Tulian army with halberds again. What made the thing not go up in flames like a novice spellcaster, she had no idea.
"Did that man tell you anything about it?" She asked.
Sara sighed, and the illusion lurched forward.
"–of course they wanted to put them on the ships and stuff, but without gyroscopic stabilization it didn't do much, and besides naval cannons were way bigger, and they were experimenting with turrets then which didn't– oh, they have a mockup of the the USS Monitor here, we've got to see that–"
She stopped the illusion with another, even deeper sigh.
"No, he didn't. As you could probably tell, my dad has a tendency to ramble when he's excited for something."
Shale blinked, glad Sara was facing away to miss her shock. Her first gut reaction was that she'd been rude by walking along with Sara, even if she'd been explicitly invited to join her. Everyone knew how Champions worked, how the gods ripped them from their homes. The melancholic depression brought on by a father trapped in another world wasn't something she was qualified to address.
"It's alright," Sara abruptly reassured her. "I'm used to it, had months to adjust. I'm half being quiet because of how fuckin' tired I am. No need to tiptoe around stuff with me."
Shale winced. What did Sara have, eyes in the back of her head?
"Still," she temporized, "not an easy thing to deal with, I'm sure. He ever get back around to saying anything useful?"
"Not that I can remember," Sara put a hand on the pommel of her sword, dismissing the illusion. "He probably did, at some point in one of his ten thousand rants about old war stuff, but hell if I can dig it up. I probably could've made the Ordnance Rifle, if I'd started months ago, but I didn't think I'd need it. He always told me the Napoleon was the best gun of the war, and so I thought it'd be all I need to build."
Shale pursed her lips. "If what we've already got was the best, why're you worrying about second place?"
"Because it's not the same war." Sara stared at a blank face of the wall, as if she could see the Royal Army beyond. "In my world, there wasn't much need to have cannons hitting with pinpoint accuracy. Every soldier was every other soldier's equal, and none of them had anything more to protect them than shitty cloth. If you really wanted to target an officer or something, you could do it with a rifle." Her eyes darkened, turning to her left. "Here, though? Shit's different."
Shale followed her gaze, landing on the forty foot gap in the wall. Its edges were still ragged from the acidic spell, and though the bodies had been removed for burial, the oily stains their desecration had left behind could not be washed away. Before Sara had gone to the parley, she and the other colonels had debated on whether or not to attempt emergency repairs on the broken section. In the end they'd decided against it, hoping to lure any enemy assault into a predictable pattern. Sara looked at the gap in Fort Midwich with a burbling disgust more often reserved for those leveled between demons and holy warriors.
"You want to hit mages with our cannons, then?"
"Yeah. 'Course I do. Killing those fucks would be the quickest way to end the war. I got a report recently, by the way. The mages are even teleporting in bulk numbers of enchanted bags, stuffed to the gills with food. Not enough for the whole army, they still need supply wagons, but if we killed the mages..." She chuckled darkly, rocking back on her heels. "I was stupid, back when I started this. I thought that what worked best back home would work here, because we were so much more advanced than you. Fucking colonizer attitude, and I didn't even see it. Can't believe myself. That's another fuck-up to add to the list." Her jaw clenched. "Evie told me how dangerous the mages and Knights were. I believed her, and I thought the cannons would handle them, but it was stupid to assume the mages would be the same as Knights. Shit, I'd seen some of what Garen could do for myself. Stupid."
Seeing the enigmatic general locked into self-recrimination was disorienting enough that Shale felt compelled to argue.
"You've had six months to build an army, Sara, and you built it to the point that it stopped the Royal Army cold. If that's something only the idiotic do, I can count the number of 'smart' people I've met on one hand."
Sara snorted. "It's only impressive because you don't understand what I could have done. I may not have been able to end the war on the first day, but..." She trailed off yet again, then shook herself. "Well, if they gave me ten years to prepare I could have. You're right in some ways. The metallurgy and industry of this world just isn't up to the task. I'm stuck with all this halfway crap, muskets and bronze cannons and..." Her chest rose and fell, and she brushed her hair from her eyes. "It'll work. It'll work. It has to."
"Permission to speak freely, ma'am?" Shale asked, straightening her posture.
"You're not on duty, Shale."
She stood silently, until the Champion rolled her eyes.
"Permission granted, Colonel Shale."
"You should go to your tent, ma'am. The battle resumes at sunrise, and the night is half gone already."
A smirk and frown fought for prominence on Sara's face.
"Sometimes I wonder if training you all to talk back to me was all that good an idea."
"You know what is a good idea, ma'am?"
"Going to–"
"Going to your tent, ma'am."
Sara chuckled, forcing herself to turn away from Midwich's walls.
"Alright, you win. Interested in joining us, tonight?"
"I believe your rules would consider that fraternization between ranks," Shale noted, studiously keeping a straight face.
"I'm a hypocrite," Sara said with a frank shrug.
Shale laughed, taken off guard, but still shook her head. "Not tonight, Sara. After napping through the storm, I doubt I'd be able to sleep tonight, regardless. I'd rather spend the time making sure things are ready for tomorrow morning."
"Evie won't bite your head off, you know. She got caught by some villagers, but she's more into it than even she's willing to admit. As long as she gets a taste of you herself, she'll forget all about it."
"Then why won't you tell her yourself?"
"Because she won't let me. Thinks it's cheating."
"Your relationship with that woman is baffling, Sara."
She flashed a brilliant smile. "I know, right?"
Shale laughed once more, then made her farewells. The Champion of Amarat wasn't anything like she'd expected when she'd heard the news of her appearing in Tulian, save for one respect. The woman never got tired of other's bodies, or sharing her own. She could hardly imagine what Sara would be like, if she didn't have the pressure of a war forcing her into the barest semblance of decorum.
Probably spend half her time walking the streets naked, entertaining anyone that offers, Shale thought. Her imagination briefly taunted her with the image she'd created, which she had to shove down.
She did hope she'd be able to see the Sara of peacetime some day, though. She'd be one hell of a fun girl to spend a night with, Shale bet.
All the more reason to make sure the cannons are ready, she forcefully reminded herself.
When she'd come back from the meeting with the Sporaton King, Sara had been... peculiar. Whiplashing between giggles and piercing silence, recounting the events in fitful spurts. Not unlike her father, Shale realized. She'd gotten her point across to the King, clearly, and put the fear of her god into the nobility, but that wasn't without risks. She'd warned them all that whatever happened tomorrow, it would be different. For better or worse, the King had finally accepted that he was fighting a war. Not some border scuffle, not some putting down of bandits or rabble-rousers. From now on, the Royal Army would be coming at them like they had the coastal city states, like they had the shattered remains of the Northern Empire.
Shale swallowed hard, returning to her cannons. She was no fool; she knew the Champion would survive this war. She was blessed by the gods, the progenitor of a legend that would be told for centuries, at least until the next Champion arrived, if not longer. Shale had grown up listening to those stories, and never had she heard of a Champion being killed on the field of battle.
Their followers, however? Their companions, the clingers-on, the faceless footnotes that were towed along in their wake?
Oh, yes. They could die.
Shale stepped up her pace. Sleep be damned, she had work to do.
------------------------------
---------------------------
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Shale was covered to either shoulder with soot-stained sweat when she first noticed the lengthening shadows, the cannon barrel she'd stuffed her arm down glinting with a bit of extra light. She took a few steps to the wall's edge, shading her eyes as she looked to the east.
She caught the moment the sun peaked over the eastern horizon, a flash of yellow that broke through the glittering dew of Tulian's grasslands. Yellow rays bounced and danced through the dotted islands of jungle trees, stirring to life a cacophony of tropical birds and their beautiful cries. Shale had never left the country herself, and in fact was currently as far from home as she'd ever been, but she'd heard from sailors and merchants alike that there were few places in all the world with a better sunrise than Tulian. Times like this, she liked to think they were telling the truth.
Unfortunately, when she turned left, towards the north, she was treated to a much less glamorous sight. The Sporaton army down the valley, a mile or so distant. Dozens of flags and crests fluttered in the wind, turning the landscape into a diorama of Sporaton noble houses. She didn't have the political acumen to understand what meant what, but she'd heard it claimed where one chose to set their command tent could be a subtle sign of political allegiance.
How exhausting that'd be, caring where you slept each night.
She stooped back to the cannon, focusing on her inspection. Sara had warned them all that the Sporatons would likely be launching an assault as soon as possible this morning. True to her word, the Sporaton army was stirring with the sun, rousing itself like a waking beast. She could ever so faintly hear the sounds of whistles and bugles calling the troops to order.
Shale's duties, already well beyond her comfort level, had grown ever more muddied over the last few days. She's known she was going to be in charge of the muskets and cannons for months now, but that didn't mean she'd been ready for the realities of it.
For starters, the difference between musket and cannon was as great as that of a shortbow and ballistae. She'd spent most of her preparation thinking of what could be done with the muskets, how they'd be employed, and how she might supply them. Until she'd seen them used in actual battle, she'd thought of the cannons as larger versions of those smaller weapons, albiet more expensive and and with considerably greater range. If they'd first employed them during a field battle, she'd have placed them in among the troops, defending important portions of the line with bursts of smoke and iron shot.
Now she'd seen what they could do. She'd seen cannonballs lance through armies, laying low the greatest warriors of the continent. She'd seen them sail through the sky like missiles of the gods themselves, heard the violent crack of twelve pounds of iron breaking sound itself. She'd heard the horrifying whine of a ball spinning end over end, felt the rumble of shots impacting the dirt only to go bouncing high again, ripping through whatever stood in their way.
And she'd fallen in love.
Colonel Shale loved her cannons. She loved them more than her muskets, more than her rifle, which could strike a man down at five hundred paces. Why would she care about killing one hapless fool, when she could rip apart a dozen at thrice the range?
Sara had said the bronze artworks under her command were called Napoleons, named for the greatest military commander of her old world. She could understand why. With a steady hand and a fine eye, there was nothing in the world which could stand against her.
They'd consumed her thoughts over the past few days. She was supposed to be a Colonel, a fifth of the army's highest command structure, and at one time she'd been proud of that. Not anymore. She'd be the first to admit that her time these past few days hadn't been spent wisely, that she'd left the duties of commanding the 1st Combat Engineers to her Lieutenants. She barely even felt ashamed. She was interested in one thing only, and it was made of sleek bronze.
She'd sent off a runner with a letter a few short hours ago, tendering her official request for demotion. She didn't care if she got paid less, if she had less prestige. Not if it meant more time with her cannons.
"Caissons ready?" She asked Lieutenant Cig. The lumbering orc woman nodded.
"Got 'em set down into the stone, just like you asked. Still think we should get iron boxes, for the record."
"Not iron," Shale said, "but metal's not a bad idea. Bronze storage for the ammunition would do wonders."
"Why not iron?" Cig asked, chewing a wad of gummy tree sap. Her moniker was a nickname, one Shale had never learned the origins of.
"Sparks," Shale answered. "If we're going to be storing fifty pounds of powder in one pile, we don't want someone's gauntlet's scraping and setting the whole thing off."
Cig blanched. "Damn. Yeah. Can't imagine."
Shale could. When Sara had told her about black powder, she'd shown her illusions of what it could do if handled improperly. Explosions that dug monumental craters in the earth, leaving nothing of the perpetrator but floating ash. She'd rather not see it personally.
"I'll add bronze storage boxes to the list," Shale said. She took out a rag to polish the barrel of her Napoleon. "Supposed to be a hell of a fight today. Check on the other cannons, if you would."
"Already did."
"And are you doing something else right now?"
Cig huffed, but turned around to follow instructions.
The rest of the Tulian Army's limited artillery were spaced out along the centermost section of the wall, having been laboriously, agonizingly pulled up by teams of Combat Engineers over the night. Though Shale had no idea how big a bang their ammo storage going off would really make, she'd decided to put at least fifty feet between the cannons, just in case. It made it harder to coordinate their fire, but at least they wouldn't lose all four of the precious cannons the moment some mage got a lucky fireball tossed their way.
What I'd give for a mage of our own, Shale thought. There was a bloody lesson to be learned there. No matter how much she was certain her cannons could outgun any half-baked Sporaton university brat, they couldn't do a damn thing to defend themselves. If they didn't kill a threat before it could reach them, they were as open and exposed as any common soldier. If she had even a single mage to shield her crews, she could concentrate her fire so much more effectively.
Shale stopped polishing the cannon as she heard a voice come through her crystal. Pulling it out of her pocket, she wiped beads of sweat from her forehead with the same rag she'd used to clean the cannon. Gods, she loved the smell of sulfur.
"I just got word," Sara's voice announced. "They're going to be trying some bullshit again today. Don't know what. Keep an eye out, and if you see what they're up to, notify the rest of us ASAP. Over."
Shale had to resist the urge to confirm she'd heard the news. If everyone with a crystal did that, the whole network would come tumbling down, and she'd likely be down a hand. Not many healers that could regrow a limb, not in Tulian.
Trying some bullshit, huh? She walked to the wall, reseting her knuckles on its edge. The Sporaton army was continuing to lumber to life, cook fires so numerous that their columns of smoke merged into a single towering cloud. A meal for the peasants, then the march. It was how they always did it.
Wonder if they've got something for my cannons? She thought. Of course, they'd have to. Nothing else worth worrying about, really. Nothing like them in all the world.
She smiled, a thought occurring to her. They still didn't have as much powder as they'd have preferred, though other sources were slowly stirring to life, and at Sara's behest she'd been reluctant to waste powder. But if the Sporaton army was really going to be coming straight for her...
"Colonel Shale speaking. Requesting to use time before assault for gunnery practice. Over."
A delay. Then a response that sounded like it was hiding laughter.
"Sure, Shale. But make sure you keep the range under a thousand yards."
She frowned, but acknowledged the order. What good was practice when you were making easy shots? A week ago striking a target at a thousand yards had been a dream, the thing of legends. Now it bored her.
Regardless, a chance to fire cannons was a chance to fire cannons, and she sent a runner to distribute word of their target. A rock in the middle of the stream, around which a muddy island was gathering.
While she waited for word to get passed, she laid a hand on her cannon and looked down its barrel, twisting the gun carriage's wooden screws until the bronze notch was pointed directly at the island. Compared to her rifle's elevating sights, the simple metal bead was a primitive thing, but it served its purpose. The island was perhaps five hundred yards away, a good range for warming up. She'd rather have practiced at the cannon's maximum range, nearly three times that, but that would have been close to striking the Sporaton camp, and Sara didn't want them retreating out of view, nor knowing the weapon's maximum range.
Shale spent another moment adjusting the gun's elevation, then took a step back. Placed atop the wall as it was, they'd had to wrap thick restraint ropes around the gun's carriage, so that the recoil wouldn't send it crashing through the wooden railing to the ground below. The gun had already been loaded, the friction primer placed. All she needed to do was fire.
"All ready?" She called out. A chorus of confirmations answered her, and without further ceremony, she pulled at the string.
Her ears rang as a mule kick reverberated in her chest, the cannon leaping backward as smoke filled the air. Shale squinted through the fog, tracking the ball through its flight.
A second and a half after firing, a plume of water was ripped out of the stream, a conical spray that started a dozen or so yards before the island, ending fifty yards behind it. The ball visibly bounced up and off the water, skipped like a stone before crashing down again some distance away, this time digging deeper into the water with a second cascade of white.
Shortly after, Shale felt the boom of a cannon to her right firing, adding to the fogbank that the first shot had created. This shot landed similarly to the first, perhaps slightly shorter, and dug immediately into the water, rather than skipping. A few seconds later came the third shot, this one overshooting the island, and then the fourth, which had the range down exactly, but was off thirty or so yards to the right, gouging a line through the grass.
"Load!"
Shale joined the relay line that was transferring ammunition up from the storage crate, taking a powder bag and tossing it forward, followed by the cannonball. In her head, she kept a count.
Five, six, seven...
The cannon was rolled back into position, the sponger wetting their brush.
Nine, ten, eleven...
The ammunition reached the loaders, who waited for the barrel to finish being swabbed, then rushed forward.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...
The powder charge was put at the mouth of the barrel, shoved in with a curled fist, then the ball was placed on top.
Twenty, twenty one, twenty two...
The brush was spun around to the ramming side, the loader throwing their whole back into getting the ball down the barrel as fast as possible.
Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty...
The cannon was loaded, and Shale joined the others in shoving its carriage back into position. Its black maw poked from between the crenelations, a viper nestled in its den.
Thirty three, thirty four, thirty five...
Shale looked down the sights once more as one of the crew replaced the friction primer, and, spinning the wooden screw two rotations to the left, she gripped the string.
At forty seconds, the cannon barked once more. Shale leaned to one side to watch the ball soar, checking the fall of shot.
This time it was an eruption of mud that signaled the cannonball's impact, chunks larger than a torso flung into the air. It was a closer shot to the rock, hardly fifteen feet off the mark, and barely a second after her shot landed the second cannon leapt back, a warbling whine marking the passage of its projectile.
Another plume of water this time, then more, the cannonball bouncing dozens of times as it bounced along a jagged path before rolling to a stop. The smoke of the second cannon was blown in front of Shale, obscuring her vision of the subsequent third and fourth shots, but she trusted they were good. She'd picked her crews for a reason.
When she had a clear view of the Sporaton camp once more, she allowed herself a sordid smile. The preparations for the assault had ground to a halt, the army balking as the thunder of her cannons washed over them. They eventually ground back into motion, spurred on by the abuse of their commanders, but it was a much slower affair. Shale could only imagine the thoughts of the common soldiers, who were forced to watch what would soon be coming for them.
As she adjusted her sights once more, preparing for another shot, she was interrupted by a messenger boy calling her name. With a growl, she pulled herself away from the cannon, going to receive whatever report she'd been forced to deal with.
Gods, she hoped Sara accepted her request for demotion. She'd take being an Artillery Lieutenant over Colonel any day.
----------------------------------
Sara
----------------------------------
"Fuck," Sara intoned.
"Indeed."
"Graf's gotta be behind this, right?"
"More likely Hearth, Master. Master Graf usually defers to his mages on matters of spellcrafting."
"Still the Night's Eye, though."
"Unfortunately."
The Sporaton Army's advance had changed. Faced with weapons whose power and range they had no answer, they hadn't done as Sara had hoped they would, blundering into fire until their morale was shattered.
No, instead they'd developed what was quite possibly one of the most callous military strategies Sara had ever witnessed.
As twelve thousand marching soldiers bore down on Fort Midwich, they did so under the shimmering cover of a mage's shield. Multicolored plates sheltered the army, slanted forward until they nearly dug into the ground before the front ranks, rising a dozen feet above the heads of the rearmost soldiers. They were thicker, more opaque than their former versions, presumably tuned to reflect more physical projectiles, rather than spells.
Ordinarily, Sara wouldn't have been overly concerned. The spells were designed to repel arrows and ballistae, after all, and she had cannons. Based off of her testing with Garen, the mages should've had their shields shattered in a handful of shots.
The problem arose when the enemy had first broached the thousand yard mark, freeing Shale's cannons. Her gunners had been so eager their cannons had barked near simultaneously, treating Sara to the sight of four gray balls vomited forth as one. She'd at first been happy to let the mages try to shield the troops; the effort would exhaust them well before they reached the walls, freeing Sara to sweep the Sporaton spearblocks from the field with a withering fusillade of close-range musket fire, uncaring of potential spells in response.
Somehow, she still hadn't anticipated just how willingly the King would lead his citizens to slaughter.
The moment the clouds of smoke had signaled the cannon's firing, the shields had disappeared. Plunging fire had dropped down into the ranks of the Sporaton commoners, tearing limb from limb and leaving gaping holes where bodies used to be. Only a set of small, far denser shields had remained, protecting a tightly-pressed core of armored nobility.
She could practically hear the King's arrogant sneer. "After all, they're just peasants. It's their duty to die for their king, is it not?"
Sara matched the imaginary sneer of the King with a very real one of her own. If he thought she'd be overwhelmed with sentiment for the conscripts she was butchering, he was wrong. All it did was further soil an ever-festering pit of anger.
She'd ordered Shale to continue the barrage, trying to aim for the partially obscured Knights hiding beneath the mage's shields, with the caveat that "only" sweeping aside dozens of soldiers with each shot was more than acceptable. Marching at the double, it would take nearly ten minutes for the army to cross the open field. That meant they would be subjected to ten minutes of withering, gruesome cannon fire.
Before she'd spent six months getting military strategy drilled into her very soul by Evie, Sara had been the type to think all those redcoats and revolutionary war soldiers were idiots for marching in one big line. She'd bought into the idea (that she could only now assume to be propaganda) that America had beaten Britain by fighting dishonorably, refusing to stand in lines and get shot, preferring more sane tactics.
She knew better, now. Without any kind of communication beyond shouting, any group of soldiers so spread out were effectively little more than a violent mob, utterly uncoordinated. Further, they had no defense against cavalry, who could run down isolated clusters with impunity, hacking them to death with sabers. Volleys, too, made more sense than individual fire, because there was nothing more likely to get a soldier to break and run than seeing five of their friends simultaneously drop dead beside them.
This, though? With the Sporaton Army marching in ten-deep lines, rather than the two or three deep ranks of musket-wielding soldiers?
It was everything her ignorant self had imagined. The devastation left by each cannonball was horrific, literal columns of red jetting into the air wherever they landed. Shale was trying to aim for the frontmost ranks, so that the ball would skip off the ground to continue plowing through the rest of the troops, and while it didn't always work, when it did? The effect was nauseating. As the army crawled onward, Sara could see literal lines of corpses left in the churned-up mud, eery tally marks of casualties chalked up by each cannonball. Not all were dead. Some lay in the grass thrashing, moaning deliriously, blood gushing from missing limbs or gaping holes.
And still the nobility ushered them onward, uncaring of the casualties. Against a force of twelve thousand, the ultimate effect was, as far as numbers were concerned, paltry. As Evie constantly reminded her, war was a matter of arithmetic. Ten minutes of marching, four cannons, thirty seconds per shot. With the ranks pressed ten deep, even if every shot landed perfectly– which they most certainly didn't– that would be eight hundred casualties. More casualties than her entire army had suffered thus far, condensed into a handful of minutes, but frustratingly impotent when compared to the size of the horde the Royal Army had at their disposal.
The situation was made worse still by the fact that the Knights and their nobility hadn't yet suffered a single wound. The dense shields that they sheltered under were only seldom struck, infrequently enough that they could easily regain their proverbial breath before the next shot happened to crash against them. Shale briefly ordered her cannons to focus on a single shield, hoping for several shots to hit simultaneously and thus force a breakthrough, but all that achieved was the surrounding commoners backing away from the target area. Several shots were thus wasted, killing no one, forcing Shale to return to a more distributed targeting.
The apathy towards the commoner's casualties couldn't last forever, thankfully. As they came into range of the muskets, Champion's Inspiration began to thrum, taking hold of her army. Musketballs were rammed down barrels, stocks were put to shoulders, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to wait with baited breath.
"Hold," Sara murmured into the crystal, watching the army approach. They entered the maximum range of her muskets without fanfare, shields flickering in and out as cannons fired.
"Hold," Sara said again, practically whispering it. It was unnecessary. Her troops knew their orders. The shields began to flicker out of being for less and less time, expecting the first volley at any minute.
"Shale, load and hold fire," Sara ordered. Then, whispering, "Almost, almost..."
Evie raised her rifle, taking aim at a distant noble. The troops around them shuffled from foot to foot, anxious, practically leaning in to hear Sara. Somewhere down the line, a single musket cracked, causing a brief burst of sympathy fire which was silenced by an irate sergeant.
The Royal Army reached three hundred yards.
"Cannons, fire!"
Four booms shook the morning air, cannonballs ripping through the blocks of spears in a single instant.
"Muskets, fire!"
Before the mages could replace their shields, the entirety of Fort Midwich exploded. Twelve hundred muskets sounded as one, a concussive rattle that shook Sara's skull with the sheer pressure of it. The entire world was immediately wrapped in a cloak of white, acrid sulfur stuffing her nose and burning her eyes. She hadn't the slightest clue what had happened to the enemy, not until her ears stopped ringing and the screams became audible.
"Take cover!" Sara yelled, amplifying her voice until it roared across the entire fort. Troops dropped their ammunition as they comprehended her order, throwing their armored arms over the gaps in their neck and helmet.
A few tense seconds passed, troops sheltering in place. Sara alone stood tall, trusting in her armor.
Still deafened by the blast of muskets, there was no warning when the arrows pierced the fog. Thousands of them whistled gracefully downward, the archers having advanced under the cover of gunsmoke to release a single calamitous volley.
The clack and clatter of iron arrows bouncing off metal armor and concrete fortifications was nothing as world-shaking as the roar of musketry, but it wasn't to be underestimated. Sara heard a number of people cry out in pain, luck failing to save them from the sheer volume of arrows. Sergeants began calling out the order to reload even as Sara somehow sensed the second volley being drawn back.
Thankfully for her army, the Tulian heat came with a stiff breeze on this particular morning, quickly pulling the curtain of smoke away, revealing the loose spread of Sporaton archers. Their second volley was already in mid-flight.
Evie was the first to let off a second shot, muttering something profane just before her rifle bucked against her shoulder. Sara knew from experience in her old world how much of a kick the ten pound musket had, yet Evie hardly twitched, absorbing the recoil without a second glance. Her ears flattened while she leaned forward, peering at her target.
After a moment, her lips quirked, the claw of her index finger popping out. She scratched a mark at the mouth of the barrel, a single miniscule tally, then began reloading.
"Got an Irregular?" Sara guessed.
"A noble," she happily replied. "Their visor was open."
"That was stupid."
"Quite."
Sara dispensed with micromanaging the musket firing, trusting in her commanders. The lightly armed and armored archers had sprinted ahead of the spear blocks, scattered in loose formation across the plain as they traded shots with Fort Midwich. Even with eight hundred of her old archers and twelve hundred new musketeers, the Sporaton archers still outnumbered her ranged forces two to one. The odds were at least evened by the defenses inherent to Fort Midwich, and the fact that most of the Sporaton fair were wielding shortbows, being huntsmen or the like that had been conscripted with their personal weapons.
A not inconsiderable number did however sport massive warbows. Sara grabbed her own rifle, picking out those as her targets. They'd be doing the same to her, of course. There was no doubt in her mind that the King had asked for her head on a silver platter.
Several minutes of lopsided fire was traded between the two forces, arrows and musket balls tearing bloody holes in their opposite number. She couldn't tell who was getting the better of the exchange. The loose spread of the archers made it nearly impossible to aim musket volleys through the smoke, while her own forces were pressed into a thin line atop the fort's walls, a static target. That said, her troops could take shelter while they reloaded, a luxury not afforded to the Sporatons, and the traditional archers Sara had trained were effectively invulnerable while loosing their shots from within the wall. It was a slow, grinding slugging match, one that Sara could contribute very little to beyond Champion's Inspiration and an occasional shout of encouragement.
Eventually, the maddening grind shifted. The spear blocks entered musket range, and Sara ordered her troops to ignore the archers. They wouldn't be storming the walls.
Like tendrils of sea grass floating in the current, the combined mass of over a thousand muskets moved upward. Sara took a savage satisfaction in watching the mage's shields flare to a dazzling brilliance, morphing into scales of opaque energy.
Of all the things Sara had expected to find on the battlefield, beauty hadn't been among them. A thousand lead bullets crashed into shields with a sound like a tornado's hail, audibly whizzing and ripping through the air as they were repulsed. Sara was treated to the sight of gray streaks suddenly dotting the multicolored shields, sheared in half by the force of the connection and spread wide across the spellcraft, such that it reminded her of raindrops rolling blown back along a windshield. The spells flickered and fizzed as they endured the onslaught, rainbow sparks and crystalline cracks spiderwebbing their way across their surfaces, some briefly glowing so bright Sara had to squint just to look in that direction. The shield near the densest collection of muskets did actually shatter, warping like a dying beast for the briefest of moments before heaving upward, its corporeal form torn into uncountable threads that whipsawed through the air.
"Reload!" Sara cried. "Fire at the empty shield! All guns, fire!"
Her soldiers weren't stupid, and barely needed the reminder. All around her the troops reloaded with a singularly unique fervor, desperate to seize their hard-fought opportunity. Sara brought her own rifle up alongside Evie's, firing off a shot at something that looked to be armored, though it was nearly impossible to tell through the haze. She rejoined her troops in their desperate loading.
"Aim for the–!"
Before she could even finish the order, she was drowned out by a ragged ripple of gunfire, troops firing their muskets the very moment they were loaded. The advantages of actually teaching your soldiers basic tactics proved itself yet again, as nearly every shot was pointed directly at the cluster of heavily armored Knights who had lost their shields.
The effect was obvious.
With only a hundred yards between a target occupying several dozen yards, only the hastiest and least trained shot could have gone wide. It looked as if a machine gun was ripping its way through the Knights, dozens upon dozens of musket balls raining down until the entire area was erupting into a constant spray of mud. Having fired as fast as they were able rather than as a volley, the barrage lasted one second, two, then three, an achingly long time to witness such a thing.
Sara wouldn't have turned away for the world, of course.
The first row of Knights had shields in their hands, optimistically keeping the enchanted equipment between them and the wall. The implements absorbed a bare handful of shots before detonating in a spray of splinters, exposing their owners to an ever-increasing fusillade. The strongest sets of armor lasted all the way through the first second of the barrage before failing, cumulative dents digging deeper and deeper until the metal could take no more, giving way with a shriek of metal and man. The weaker sets evaporated immediately, owner and armor ripped to ragged chunks. Twelve hundred musket balls in three seconds did a lot of damage, Sara learned. When the staccato gunfire finally petered out, there was nothing more than mincemeat left in the mud.
A bloodcurdling cheer rose up from her forces, a nearly hysteric joy rushing up and down the line as they realized what they'd just done. Sara could physically feel the elation of her troops, manifesting in her skull as a heady, beating rush, amplified by the way her Blessings kept her appraised of the entire army's chatter. Hundreds of elated conversations were breaking out, curses and celebrations alike flooding her mind.
"We haven't won yet!" Sara roared, activating her crystal. "Keep fighting, damnit!"
The high of even such a minor victory was a powerful thing, but slowly the combined shouts of Sara and other commanders began to bring the troops to heel.
The crystal hummed to life.
"Permission to withdraw the cannons?" Shale asked.
Sara blinked. Shale, wanting to pull back her cannons? The fuck was going on?
"Details, Shale."
"Mages are getting too close for my liking," Shale said. "Can do a lot of killing up here, but we've only got the four. Better safe than sorry, I figure."
Sara cursed under her breath. There wasn't much to say to that. Either Shale was right and the mages would be turning their cannons to slag shortly, or she was wrong and they'd lose a massive chunk of their killing power.
Fuck, I hate being in charge.
"Evie!"
"Master?" The feline glanced back, then rolled to hide behind the concrete as she loaded another minié ball down her rifle.
"Shale wants to pull the cannons. Thinks the mage's will get them."
"They will certainly be trying, that much is sure."
"But do you think they can actually do it?"
"I haven't the faintest clue. It will cost them, if they do, but they can afford losses we cannot."
"Shit." Sara chewed her lip for a few seconds longer, then pulled the crystal to her lips. "Permission granted, Shale, but don't pull any of the muskets off the line to work the crane."
"Understood, ma'am."
The instant Shale started talking, Sara caught sight of the crane she'd spent the last two days constructed beginning to swing around. It was a rickety wooden thing, based on Nora's knowledge of dockside loading equipment, and her stomach had been rebelling with dread the entire time the priceless cannons had been hoisted up, dangling thirty feet above the ground. Now they'd be doing the same, but in the midst of battle.
And all to maybe save the cannons. Maybe the decision would lose her the battle. Maybe it would win her the next one. She had no way of knowing, not until it was far too late to change anything.
God, I hate being in charge of this shit.
Sara tore her eyes from the cannons, focusing on the enemy. It wouldn't be long before the Knights launched their attack, trying to break through the gap. She could only pray they'd do as she planned.
She knew it wouldn't be, of course. Nothing was ever that easy. But that was the whole point of prayer, right?
Notes:
Man, I thought the war part would go the fastest, considering how well I had it planned. Turns out when you're as neurotic as I am about details, there's a whole hell of a lot of stopping for research.
Did you know that the "double time" march standard defined for an army is defined by a stride of 30 inches at a 180 steps per minute, meaning it takes approximately 11 minutes to cover 1,000 yards? Because I do, now. Did I need to be that precise? No. But it's fun anyway.
Gonna be changing up some writing strategy stuff, trying to get things going faster. I mean, I know 7k words a week is still pretty good, but... I wanna write more. We'll see if it works.
Chapter 78: The Cruel Wars
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ketch watched the army retreat with her heart in her throat, pounding endlessly. So many Knights and Mages had wandered past her, a seemingly endless display of wealth and power, any one of which could have obliterated her without a second thought. She'd trusted in her Skills, stuck to the shadows, and that had seen her through, but gods. She never wanted to be so close to danger again.
Naturally, that wouldn't happen. She'd chosen her spot, laying within the frumpy pile of a collapsed tent, because she needed to confirm who was leaving. Not every noble joined each assault, after all. Some had to be left in camp to "mind" their lessers, which was a polite phrasing for walking about with sword and armor, glaring down at anyone who looked like they might wish to desert.
Had she been in the Royal Army, Ketch certainly would have fled. A week of sitting in the same camp had turned the picturesque Tulian grassland to an ugly mess, first with a miasma of dust choking the air, then, after the rains, a cloying bog of muddy ditches. Only the stream kept the vicinity from being filled with the scent of human waste, and even that small mercy was being steadily overwhelmed as the days wore on.
And that's the least of their worries.
Ketch emerged from her hiding place as the first cannons boomed, that incongruously cheery cloud flowering from the wall signaling the death of gods knew how many. She purposefully kept her back to the sight, uninterested in seeing the source of the lamentable cries that drifted over the wind.
For all her discrediting of the Sporaton camp, as she ventured deeper into its interior, she at least had to admit it had been slowly improved. The initial damage from the first cannon barrage that had wrecked its former location and forced a hasty flight was slowly being rectified, a semblance of order restored. Ketch passed rows of ashy fire pits dug from the mud, surrounded by fireproofing stones with racks of freshly cut firewood drying nearby. What tents existed were slowly being corralled into lines and rows, and navigating the place no longer required climbing for a vantage point every few dozen yards. Many troops were left behind from the assault, taken by diseases that the healers hadn't yet had the chance to rectify, as was the danger of any large gathering of peoples from different regions. She heard plenty of coughs and miserable sniffles throughout the camp and very few conversations.
One pale, trembling man emerged from his tent, forcing Ketch to sidestep with a turn of her head, hiding her Azarketi features behind her hair. She'd been growing it out over her months away from the ocean, finding its black length rather helpful to hide her features without a hood. It was only down to her ears at the moment, but every bit helped.
She felt only the briefest flicker of his eyes rolling over her, a buzz which fluttered away as he began to retch. Ketch couldn't tell if he was diseased or hungover, and she wasn't interested in learning. She gave his tent a wide berth, keeping him well downwind of her.
She continued her weave through the tents, avoiding the areas where her count of the nobles showed some had chosen to remain. Judging by the previous few days, she would have hours yet until the rest returned from the fight. She could afford a circuitous route.
Her goal for the infiltration was perhaps the most daunting since she had found her way into the Eliah estate. That had been a mess and a half, punctuated by Selly's dagger sweeping her away from something she really had no right to have survived, but this was potentially even worse. Escaping a handful of confused guards and drunken nobles was one thing– mad mage of a hidden god notwithstanding– but slipping through a roused war camp was yet another. Sara had dragged her through her Advancements, and she was faster in a creep or sprint than she'd ever known was possible, yet even she couldn't outrun a shout of alarm.
Nonetheless, she pressed on. Her efforts within Sporatos of ferreting out the cult-like religion of the hidden god had gone poorly, to say the least, and Sara still needed to know what, exactly, she was fighting. The Champion's general disinterest in the matter had been supremely confusing to Ketch, and by extension, Selly. Neither of them could fathom why Sara so focused on the King and his nation, rather than the hidden god. No matter how vague her patron goddesses' guiding words had been, it seemed clear to them that there was only one thing a literal god would be interested in: another god.
Sara had apparently disagreed. She wanted information on troop counts, formations, training, and equipment, not the identity and spread of a god-empowered cult. Ketch had provided, but had felt Selly's silent pressure goading her towards other goals. She had privately agreed, but a general sense of gratefulness towards Sara had ensured she remained on-task.
Now that there was a mere mile separating them, however, Ketch's inclination to pursue her own interests had paradoxically grown. The cult was nearing her city, aiming for the harbor she and her family called home. If there was to be a Battle of Tulian, Ketch wanted to know what role such a strange faction would play.
Thus, she found her footsteps slowing as she neared the center of the tent city. Simple lean-tos gave way to larger canvas castles, clusters of posted guards marking the tents with present occupants. Other patrols marched up and down the degraded streets, the hafts of their spears beating out a rhythm to dissuade any camp follower from even thinking of pinching something from their betters.
Ketch felt a set of eyes from one such patrol land on her, a dozen eyes digging into her skin. Ketch embraced her hands within her sleeves and bowed her head, turning her head ever so slightly to one side. The eyes grindingly slipped aside, focusing on other, more interesting things.
Ketch had worn elegant funerary garb, a black, loose-fitting dress with a voluminous hood. It was not immediately ostentatious, lacking gems or embroidery that would immediately mark her as nobility, but was still of a recognizably fine make. As she'd intended, to their eyes her diminutive stature and mourning garb marked her as a junior member of a noble family whose elder had perished in the battle.
In fact, as she passed the patrol, the Captain at its head murmured a quiet "M'condolences, m'lady." Ketch silently nodded back, keeping her blue skin well out of sight, but privately she was taken aback. She'd always led a quiet, solitary life. Did people in the city really just see someone they thought had suffered a tragedy and offer polite nothings? Ketch would never.
At least it confirmed her pseudo-disguise was working. It had been the only outfit she could think of that would explain wearing a hood in the Tulian heat, and thankfully for her, Noctie's salvaged wardrobe had included quite the collection of melodramatic black dresses and robes. Vampiric stereotypes existed for a reason, apparently.
Ketch passed several more patrols on her way to the innermost ring of the tent city, all of which either murmured sympathetic comments or outright diverted from her path, pressing into thin lines on either side of the dirt street. Her Skills ensured their gaze lingered for only the briefest moments, never catching more than a glimpse. As far as she could tell, there was something unpleasant about her to the eye, some undefinable attribute which encouraged one to find something more... present, to look at. Whether it was purely her own Skills, or Selly's subtle influence upon her form, she was peculiarly difficult to observe at for extended periods of time.
Ketch used this property to slip into an empty tent nearest her target, waiting for the brief moments when she felt no gazes scraping across her scales before ducking in.
The interior was appropriately lavish, a canvas flooring protecting lush rugs from the dirt and grasses otherwise inseparable on the campaign trail. A large mattress with a folding frame dominated the centermost space, with desks and trunks and drawers of various description decorating the walls. Ketch spent a moment dragging a writing desk closest to the wall of her interest, opened her notebook atop it, and sat down.
Some fifty feet away, two tents down, was where the King's so-called advisor resided. A place of prominence, a mere handful of rows away from the King himself, but not quite near enough to suggest undue influence, with the innermost tents to the King reserved for the upper echelons of nobility present amongst the army. Ketch took long, slow breaths, setting quill to paper, and activated her latest Skill, acquired shortly after her arrival in the Sporaton camp.
The world of sound sharpened. What few blades of grass remained rustled beyond the tent walls, brushing up against one another. Particles of dirt scraped and ground against one another as the boot above them turned, digging a trough in the ground. Guards wet their lips, tongues spreading saliva over the ridges and bumps of skin. And, above the commotion, there were voices. Many of them, dozens and dozens within a few hundred feet, men and women overlapping in a confusing tumult.
It was overwhelming. She had to swallow the primal urge to silence the Skill, pressing her palms flat to the desk as she took deep breaths. She could hear the wind whistling down her throat, filling the fibers of her lungs, and then she exhaled, some of her breath leaking through the slits of her gills to tickle her ears.
Noctie had been Ketch's inspiration for this Skill, and through discussion and training with the vampire, she had managed to acquire the ability upon her next Advancement. She had not anticipated the difficulty of wielding it, however. It was the second side to the double-edged sword of involving herself with Sara. Noctie had spent decades climbing through her Advancements, cultivating her Skills deliberately with unending patience, as did most everyone. The vampire had been in her seventh decade when she reached her thirteenth Advancement. Ketch had just turned nineteen. In a strange dilemma that she didn't think many in history had ever faced, her Skills were increasingly outpacing her skill at wielding them.
But she hadn't risked this much to be overwhelmed by the sounds of grunting and coughing. Ketch continued her slow breaths, filtering the sound of her own lungs from her thoughts, and then moved through the assortment of distractions. She recognized, catalogued, and set aside the rustling of grass, the whispers and snickers, the crunch and squish of boots in mud and dirt. Second by second, minute by minute, she listened to, then discarded the most irrelevant conversations. It was a strange, strange process, one she couldn't rightly put into words. Meditative was perhaps the closest comparison, though Ketch had little experience with such a thing. As she was forced to rifle through unending conversations about rations and chafing armor, she wished she'd adopted a meditative practice much earlier in her life.
Abruptly, she latched onto a particularly strange cadence of speech. A low, slow chant, filtered through the distorting enchantments of a wooden mask. Ketch tensed, raising her quill.
A chant, she realized. Not a conversation. A low, repetitive droning, barely audible, even with her Skill activated.
In the deepest recesses of her mind, Ketch felt Selly stir. The witch's mind joined with hers, pressing close, intense as the blazing sun.
It was not every day one saw the will of a god invoked, after all.
---------------------------------
Evie
---------------------------------
"The fuck is wrong with them?!" Sara demanded, haloed by a cloud of gray smoke.
Evie did not offer an answer, because she did not have one. When the first mage's shield had broken, she had thought the day's assault was doomed to failure. The endless stream of musket fire should have broken the peasants suffering it, and when they fled and broke the line, it would not have been long until the others followed.
Instead the Royal Army pressed further, marching stalwartly up to the walls until the front line was physically pressed against it, ladders being raised above their heads, bullets raining down from above. They had suffered inordinate casualties, far greater than the ten percent that Evie's lessons had suggested would be required to break the morale of the ill-trained, yet they had not fled.
Perhaps it was because of the nobility at their backs, marching up and down the lines while bellowing encouragement and threats in equal measure. If that was the case, however, Evie's bullets occasionally piercing the nobility's skulls should have dealt with it. Instead the peasant spear blocks had continued to absorb fire, something maddening in their eyes.
The battle was a raging fire, and as ever, the center of the conflagration was Master. The gaping hole in the defenses was a maelstrom of arrows, powder smoke, and bodies, the shriek of men and steel combining into the most horrific cacophony Evie had ever been subjected to.
They were both in the line together, muskets brought to their shoulders. The Knights had three times attempted a breakthrough, and three times had musket fire battered them back.
"Not all of them died," Sara noted, unprompted, as she reloaded.
"Master?"
"That last wave had lots of gray streaks on their armor," Master continued, biting a paper cartridge and dumping it down the barrel of her musket. "Seems like we've killed all the ones with shitty chestplates."
"They'll be noting who survived and did not."
"Yeah. Not like they can do anything about it, though."
"That depends on how long this war lasts."
"Then let's hope they– Make ready!"
Evie snatched her rifle up, leveling it. Unlike her, Master had caught the signal from the wall that the Knights were massing for another push. Muskets raised beside and behind her, nestling her into the front ranks of a wall of gray iron. She had cotton wax stuffed deep into her ears, but she still flattened them, bracing for the shocking rattle wholly unique to musket fire.
The Knights appeared in the blink of an eye, tearing holes from the smoke as they bore down with impossible speed. Evie had just enough time to comprehend the fact that some were carrying some sort of shield, then her sight landed upon the visor of a Knight, and then the world was consumed by violence and fire.
"Halberds!" Master roared, sliding one foot backward with mechanical precision. Evie dropped her musket unceremoniously, drawing her rapier. The musket-wielding troops beside them fell back in lockstep, replaced by those determined to be the most effective halberdiers of the Tulian army.
The complex exchange of front-line troops was an incredible risk, one requiring a synchronicity that was nigh impossible, and Evie never would have condoned it without Master's Champion's Inspiration. A handful of soldiers tripping over their fellows would have ruined the entire line, spelling disaster, yet bolstered by Master's Ability they moved with inhuman precision, sliding past one another with an ease almost graceful.
Evie and Master took two steps forward, placing themselves before the others, and waited.
The Knights emerged from the fog, covering the distance in the span of a blink.
Evie lunged without thought, aiming for one of the Knight's visors. A quick tuck of their helmet turned her blade aside, then they swung their mace for her head.
Evie was already stepping back, leaving it flying through the space her skull had just occupied. Her rapier followed the motion, tip flicking for the brief flash of chainmail which protected the interior of the Knight's elbow.
The enchanted blade sheared through the light steel, sending a spray of blood into the air.
The Knight recoiled, reflexively putting a hand to the wound, and Evie's instincts screamed for her to follow after them, to turn the defenseless moment into their last.
But they were not the only Knight present, and the light war cuirass she had chosen for the day was not enough to afford her Master's nigh-invincibility.
Her offhand flicked up from her hip, holding a weapon of very strange make. One of the army's common muskets, but with the barrel sawed off ten inches from its hastily modified grip. A pistol, after a fashion, though stuffed with far more powder than any non-Irregular could have handled without snapping their wrist.
The weapon bucked in her hand, pink fire engulfing the entirety of the Knight's head. They dropped like a sack of grain, then were replaced in the line by a second Knight, charging with a poleaxe held high.
Uninterested in facing a polearm with a rapier, Evie dismissed her sword in the same motion her main hand snapped to her other hip, raising a second pistol.
Evie closed one eye, taking a calm breath.
The poleaxe swung.
Evie pulled the trigger.
A searing pain blazed to life in her left shoulder, spreading down her breast to her ribs. The Knight dropped with the crack of pistol shot, as dead as the first, and only once she saw the limp body did Evie drop the pistol, inspecting herself.
The axe-headed blade had dug several inches into the meat of her shoulder before bouncing off her collarbone, dragged in a line through her cuirass by the Knight's collapse. The enchanted weapon had cut through her mundane cuirass with ease.
Evie tried to reach for the bag off her left hip, found her arm wasn't responding, and stepped out of line while fumbling awkwardly with her right hand. She got the potion free after several seconds, plenty long enough for her to swear she would keep potions on either side in the future.
She tossed down the bitter draught, shaking her head to clear the locks of sweat-soaked hair which were sticking to her eyes. The fiery agony in her shoulder was replaced by a bitter icepick, tendon and skin audibly reknitting. She was just about to rejoin the line when a large hand took her by the shoulder, fruitlessly trying to shove her to her knees. It may as well have been a toddler's grip, and she ignored it, dragging its owner along with her.
"Down, ma'am!" A man's voice roared, nearly pleading. Evie obliged, crouching. No sooner had she moved than a Sergeant of some description called out the command to fire.
The world once more broke apart, sulfurous smoke choking her every sense. Musket balls leapt from the second and third line of soldiers, who were arranged according to height, firing over the heads of their comrades.
The second volley crashed into the Knights just as violently as the first, but at such a close range, the effect was even more dramatic. Evie was treated to the sight of metal ripping through metal, blood coating the faceplates of Knights with gleeful abandon as those standing before them died in spectacular fashion.
Wholesale chunks were torn through the ranks of Knights, and as their training dictated, the Irregulars embedded among the Tulian halberdiers seized the moment. They leapt forward, drawing short weapons and shields meant for the close-pressed melee, laying about themselves indiscriminately. They were no match for the Knights in ordinary circumstances, but with the enemy so disoriented by the cataclysmic blow of fifty close-range muskets, the disparity was narrow. Many armored soldiers were taken to the ground with a sportsman's tackle, turning the battlefield into a series of ugly, knife-wielding wrestling matches.
A whistle promptly blew, the Sporaton sign for withdrawal, and the chaotic melee dissolved in an instant. The discipline of either side created a surreal sight as Knight and Irregular disengaged from their opposites, jogging to rejoin their respective lines. If it weren't for the corpses they left behind, it would have looked like the end of a friendly practice bout.
Evie returned to Master's side just as a runner appeared, this one of the more adult variety Master preferred. It seemed this one knew Master well, because he began his report even while snapping off his salute.
"Report from the wall, ma'am! Knights continue to gather at the breach, but mages have moved under cover of spell-shield to several points along the wall."
"Where?" Sara demanded, not looking at the man. She was busying herself lifting Evie's cuirass to inspect her wound, even though it was clear she'd already drunk a potion.
"They're spaced approximately a hundred yards apart, beginning–" The man paused, realizing he was about to point the location out for a woman who wasn't paying him the slightest mind. Evie nodded him on. "Here, here, there, there, and one beyond. Five points, ma'am, Colonel Targ made a specific note of that."
It took Evie a moment longer than it did Master to realize the significance of the number. Mages moving to five points. They only had four cannons.
"Is that all?"
"Yes ma'am!"
"Good. Grab some water and wait nearby. I'll send you back to Colonel Targ with orders in a minute."
Another salute, then she and Master were as alone as could be conceived on the battlefield. Evie tugged her cuirass back down, forcing Master to abandon her nervous tutting, and looked to the breach in the wall.
"Did you notice what they were holding, at the start?" Master asked.
"Only that they were holding something," Evie said. "The specifics eluded me."
"Shields." Master's neck craned forward. "Yeah, like this one."
Evie caught Master's elbow as the idiotic woman tried to move forward to pick up the implement from the open field. With a whistle and point, she instead tasked one of the halberdiers with retrieving the implement.
What they brought back to Evie was unique, and almost hilariously crude. She accepted it from the halberdier with a smirk, turning it over in her hands.
"It seems the weapons are proving exactly as fearsome as you promised, Master."
"Guess so."
The 'shield' was in fact two separate enchanted breastplates lashed together, several different kinds of belts and buckles tying them to a more standard wooden shield beneath. It was a heavy, unwieldy thing, and it rattled loosely with every touch.
Evie reached into one a dent on the surface with a pair of fingers, searching. After a moment she felt a different texture of metal, which she pinched and withdrew.
"Effective, though," she said, holding the flattened musket ball up to the light. It flaked and fell apart.
"Yeah, it stopped it," Master said, accepting the ball from Evie. "But it sure as shit cost a lot of money to do that."
"Mm," Evie agreed. The expense of armor couldn't be exaggerated. "I also question where they acquired such a surplus of enchanted equipment."
"Took it off their dead Knights, right?" Master's tone clearly showed that she thought it were obvious.
Evie made a face. "That would be quite the departure from cultural standards, Master. Enchanted armors are heirlooms, passed down from parent to child in the hopes that they may one day fit one's progeny. Even if they do not, and are condemned to a fate of dust-gathering, they are considered treasured symbols of a lineage's martial pride."
"These aren't museum pieces, though," Sara said, gesturing to the bits and pieces of original leather which still adorned the plate. Fresh and well-oiled, without sign of cracking or age. "They had to have pulled these off their dead, right?"
"That would be..." Evie searched for a comparison to draw. "Ill-received, Master," she eventually said, seeking refuge in understatement. "When the King returns to the capital and word is received from nobles that their family's precious armor was hacked apart to be used as a shield? There won't be riots, but it will be a close-run thing."
Beneath the thin slits of her visor, Master's eyes narrowed. Evie felt a brief spark from her collar, and recognized it as the sign that her owner was consumed by her thoughts. It was a result of her own Skill, Favored Guard. It prodded her to focus on her surroundings when Master was distracted, analysis getting the better of her, requiring Evie to pay closer attention to potential threats.
It was also a sign that Master was, consciously or not, tapping into her Blessings. In moments like these, Evie had learned to ready herself to accept some conclusion that was utterly without evidence, yet nonetheless made perfect sense.
"They volunteered for it," Master declared. "And the King didn't come up with the idea. Too smart a military strategy, too stupid a political move. Graf, then. Probably asked the Knights before they went into battle if they'd agree to their armor being used to protect the others if they died." She scanned the field, searching for other signs of the shields. "That's why there's only a few of them. They only have so many dead they could recover, and not all of them would've agreed to have their armor used like that."
"Alright," Evie said.
Master looked to the shield, then the Irregulars. "They're helpful stuff for us, though. How many of your guys are trained with shield and sidearm fighting?"
"All, of course."
"Well, you should probably decide which ones get the fancy shields." She returned to their spot in the line, retrieving the muskets and pistols they had left behind. Evie busied herself with distributing the looted shields while Master wiped down their other weapons. It was far from ideal, simply dropping the weapons on the spot, but the proximity and speed of the enemy charges necessitated it.
The tactics on display still set her teeth on edge. Master often talked of the ponderous nature of the larger battles she had participated in, only naturally comparing them to what she knew of her old world's conflicts, and so took what some might call a callous approach to the management of battle. Evie had been forced to explain to Tulian Army officers on several occasions, in private, that Master wasn't ignoring the needs of battle when she behaved like this.
She had given no orders regarding the mages and their positioning, and Evie imagined she could feel the messenger's impatience as a physical force, a corkscrew twisting into the nape of her neck. Rather than being inattentive, however, Master had just spent so much effort readying herself to make snap decisions that the "antiquated" combat was entirely excessive for her needs. Evie couldn't protest. It had been she who had emphasized the dangers of haste to Master, echoing the words of Graf Urs.
As she'd expected, when Master returned with the muskets and pistols, she began listing off her orders.
---------------------------------
Ketch
---------------------------------
The chant that fell upon Ketch's ears like waves was a jagged, harsh thing. It had the drumbeat cadence of a war march, making her flinch with each harsh, dissonant syllable. She had heard her mother's entreaties to Daylagon before, when she readied herself for the long journeys to the Deepwater hunting grounds. Those prayers, though spoken in a dead language, had been a soft, lilting entreaty, a humble request for guidance and safe passage. Not this... jarring command. A ritualistic order, meaningless words flowing through half-formed lips to enforce their will upon the world.
Selly's interest grew sharper, and Ketch felt her peering through her eyes, molding their senses into one another's. Ketch could feel the warm waters of her home coaxing through her scales, the simpler matters of what went where and who was who fading to insignificance.
It was too curious a prayer to investigate from a later recounting, after all. There were lessons to be learned in the selfsame watching of things, details best preserved within one's own mind.
Ketch leaned closer to the tent wall, ears straining. The language was not one Selly knew, and that was a strange, strange thing. Either the language was from very, very far away, or had not been spoken aloud in centuries. That they couldn't interpret the words being spoken quite hindered their investigation of their purpose, but not ruined it. The strings of magic were still being plucked and woven, and its effect was still to be seen. When one wished to determine a spell's Intent, much could be learned from how its energies shaped the world upon their release.
Unfortunately, questions remained. Should the chanting be allowed to reach its conclusion? A single voice often raised little power, but this was not an absolute maxim, and it seemed to them that the casting coinciding with battle was hardly a coincidence. There were allies to be considered, loyalties at risk, and if the ritual's intent proved hostile, friends and lovers endangered.
In counter argument, what could Ketch's self do? A mage of the caliber to cast spells beyond their knowledge was not one easily defied. Thirteenth Advancement though she may be, her Skills were subtler things than Selly's self, meant for slipping through the sides unseen. To disrupt was to be noticed, and to be noticed was to be at risk.
They sat in the empty tent for a time, listening to the grating chant, two mouths gnawing at a single knuckle. Eventually, Ketch's self won out. There were lives on the line, and contingencies had been prepared. No matter how welcoming a shadow's embrace was, there was little that could accomplished without stepping into the light.
Ketch found herself emerging from the tent without preamble, carefully winding her way towards the strange chant. As she drew nearer and nearer, it became audible even without the aid of her Skills, and rather understandably, none of the guards ventured near. She stood in brought daylight next to the canvas wall, hands on her hips, thinking.
How exactly should she go about interrupting the ritual? Clearly, whoever was casting it was too distracted to notice the Azarketi literally standing outside their tent, so she had a wealth of options. Really, she would've expected them to have actual guards, but they'd clearly they'd thought the entire war camp surrounding them had been enough protection. She could skitter off to find a crossbow and send a bolt through their back, or she could knock out one of the tent poles, or any number of options. Deciding which was her main issue at the moment.
What would Sara do, though? Ketch wondered.
That was a question that took considerably less consideration.
---------------------------------
Sara
---------------------------------
Something deep within the Sporaton camp was aflame. Above the haze of musket smoke, she could see smoke billowing skyward. The base of the plume was growing larger by the minute, implying the fire was spreading. With the majority of the camp out in battle, she imagined they'd be having a hell of a time combatting the flames. She didn't quite understand how it was spreading so well, but she wasn't going to complain. Maybe a pair of unfortunate cooks had lost control of their flames to an errant breeze. Whatever the case, the black pallor proved a satisfying contrast to the white clouds which constantly vomited forth from the walls of Fort Midwich.
The fields and skies of the battle were, in fact, positively choked with color. The gleaming steel of Tulian armor was neatly arrayed against the drab gambesons of Sporaton spear levies, within which was interspersed garish heraldry of the armored nobility. Gun smoke suffocated all of it in a gray haze, turning even the brightest shades dull and matte, save for five distinctive points along the wall. There the black powder clouds were replaced, burned away by gouts of nauseating green.
The mages had begun their acidic spell once more, and this time it was a distributed effort. Five holes in the wall were slowly deepening, each created by a pair of mages. One mage maintained a simple, triangular shield over the other, whose focus was entirely spent upon channeling the spell itself. The troops had to evacuate the area of the noxious fumes, leaving them only capable of firing at sharply oblique angles, which the shields deflected easily.
Behind the mages were thick lines of peasants, still standing eerily still under the hail of lead shot. They weren't inhuman, or possessed; they flinched, and spoke to one another, and generally still milled about or shifted from foot to foot, but something was wrong.
Sara was no master tactician. She'd never even pretended she would be. What she was, however, was an impossibly good judge of character, and that was what she had relied on in her battles. As Evie had read to her account after account after account of historical battles, she'd learned that fate almost always pivoted on the commander which could better judge their opponent's intention. Much of military strategy was "solved," so to speak, in that for any particular attack, there was an ideal defense, and for every defensive strategy, there was an ideal method of attack. Mastery of combat came not from memorizing these matchups, but determining which tactic the enemy would use, and hiding which tactic you intended to use in turn. It was in this that Amarat's Blessings, lending her a physically impossible degree of insight into the enemy forces, had allowed her to perform as well as she had. Without that, she would have been near clueless, better off utilizing her skills as a frontline combatant rather than a general.
And so she'd come to expect that insight, to treasure and rely upon it. Now that she was facing this alien, expressionless enemy? An audience she could not read, could find no insignificant hint from which to tease their secrets?
She actually had to fight like a normal general.
And she fucking hated that.
Sara paced back and forth, wearing tracks in the grassy hill that had become her command post some five hundred yards behind the wall. The Sporaton Army was going to break through. It was inevitable, now. They'd suffered a terrifying number of casualties to do so, such that the catfolk of her army had begun to stuff their noses with ripped pieces of their shirt to stymie the scent of cloying blood, but it was going to work. There were simply too many places for her to defend.
And so, slowly, with the rearmost ranks going first so as not to alert the enemy to her actions, she'd begun the process of pulling back her troops. First the noncombatants, the quartermasters and cooks and camp followers, and then the reserves, who formed a stalwart circle around the unarmed. Then she'd begun to slowly nip off bits and pieces of the wall's halberdiers, trusting the powder smoke to obscure their absence. It was good fortune that the more spread-out acid attacks were progressing so much slower; she'd never have had time to do this without that.
"Do you think he's in charge?" Sara asked, pausing in her pacing.
"No, Master," Evie replied.
"Why not?"
"Because if the King had truly ceded control of the army to Master Graf, the battle would have already been over."
"Lovely."
Sara kept a careful eye on the largest, original gap in the wall. If ever there was a threat to her plan, it was that gap. Without her and Evie present to bolster the defenses, the possiblity of the Knights breaking through was very, very real, and if that happened, the entire thing would go up in smoke. They would rove through her disorganized backlines like a pack of wolves amongst lambs, slaughtering any they came across, capturing the fort in a matter of minutes.
She kicked Champion's Inspiration up just a notch higher, vainly trying to bolster her troops. When she'd realized what the enemy was doing, that they'd somehow overcome any concern with morale, she'd chosen a different song from her usual fair. Rather than inspiring her own troops, the song was an attack on the enemy. She didn't think she had any song more appropriate for demoralizing a crowd of illiterate commoners who were suffering under a deluge of otherworldly weapons fire.
A recruiting sergeant came our way
From an inn near town at the close of day
He said my Johnny you're a fine young man
Would you like to march along behind a military band
With a padded coat and a fine tanned cap
And a longspear at your shoulder
The silver he took and he kissed the book
Oh poor Johnny what'll happen to ya?
Of all the old-timey songs her dad had forced on her during their innumerable road trips, she hadn't imagined his 1800s-era war protest songs coming in handy. But there was no denying the fact that, for all she loved to savage the enemy's ears with bizarre electronica and screeching metal, simple, comprehensible lyrics were far more likely to provoke a gut reaction.
The recruiting sergeant marched away
From the Inn near town at the break of day
Johnny came too with half a ring
He was off to be a soldier to go fighting for the King
In a far off war in a far off land
To face the foreign soldier
But how will you fare when there's lead in the air
Oh poor Johnny what'll happen to ya?
She'd even made some alterations to the song, back when she was in Tulian. Rather than whatever band had sung it for her father to repeat ad-nauseam, this rendition came from the bawdy bars and seedy alleyways of Tulian, lyrics tweaked to hit home just a bit harder for the Sporaton troops. The version she'd spread was already picking up steam back at home, becoming a popular drinking song, particularly among the City Guard and soldiery.
Well the sun rose high on a jungle land
Where the thin red line made a military stand
There was sling shot, bow shot, bolt shot too
Swords and bayonets thrusting through
Poor Johnny fell but the day was won
And the King is grateful to ya
But your soldiering's done and they're sending you home
Oh poor Johnny what'll happen to ya?
For an army of conscripts, even the story told in the song was optimistic. The Sporaton peasantry hadn't even been conned into their predicament, joining the military with false promises of honor and glory. They'd been unceremoniously pressed into service, and suffered all the worse for it.
They said he was a hero and not to grieve
For the two ruined legs and the empty sleeve
They took him home and they set him down
With a military pension and a letter from the crown
But you haven't an arm, you haven't a leg
The enemy nearly slew ya
You'll have to go out on the streets to beg
Oh poor Johnny what'll happen to ya?
And so the songs went, on and on. She had quite a collection of them stored up in her brain, it turned out. Something about the brutal nature of musket warfare had inspired the troops to sing their woes away, back in the day. It was nearly poetic, in Sara's estimation, that the divide of neither centuries nor realities had fundamentally changed the agonies of a soldier. Forced to fight for a land that didn't care for them, then tossed aside once they were no longer of use, it was as relevant in Sporatos as it had been for any 18th century British redcoat. A testament to the corrupting nature of authority, she supposed, or at least the dangers of unrestrained greed.
Finally, after half an hour of gently pulling troops off the front line, the musket fire began to slacken. The final defenders were being pulled back, firing one last shot before jogging off the wall. As they went, Sara was proud to see them pulling cleaning rags from their belts, stuffing them down the barrel even as they marched. Black powder was nasty, nasty stuff, and after so many shots had been poured through the weapons, the muzzle-loaders were nearly clogged shut. Sara had seen more than one soldier picking up a piece of rubble to use as a hammer, physically driving their ramrod down through the powder-choked barrel. She wished she had the time to pass out water and proper cleaning rags, but damp powder was a risk she simply couldn't take at the moment.
On the other side of the wall, she knew, a sense of growing confusion was taking hold. Just as the Royal Army had been readying itself to come to grips with the enemy, the entire fort had been abandoned. Perhaps some troops were elated, thanking the gods that they hadn't been required to suffer through hours of brutal close-quarters combat atop the wall. Others still were suspicious, anxiously awaiting a trap. Others yet still were simply too busy focusing on their stance, too absorbed up in nebulous fears to recognize the more concrete threat directly before them.
Whichever theory was the one that the commanders of the Royal Army had decided was the truth, Sara didn't particularly care, because they were all wrong. By her and Evie's best guess, there was only a handful of minutes until the wall began to crumble.
Sara took a deep, low breath, unbuckling then slipping her helmet from her head. She shook her hair out, which unnaturally fell into perfectly wavy raven locks, then gave a brief nod to Evie. The nod returned, Sara walked out into the open fields behind Fort Midwich, took several careful steps up a boulder, and turned so the entirety of her army could see her. A hush went through them, whispered comments battered back and forth, none realizing that through her Blessings Sara could hear every word.
Going to pin the enemy against the wall, I bet, line 'em up like hogs for the slaughter...
...cavalry can't get through there, y'know, so we'll finally be able to do 'em right out in the open...
...nothing like that, girl, the Champion's gotta plan. She built that fort bit by bit, ain't just gonna leave it...
As thousands upon thousands of comments roared into her mind, Sara put a hand to her sword's pommel, activating her illusion.
A massive version of herself appeared, a forty-foot leviathan that stared out at her troops so all could see her.
"Soldiers of the Tulian Army," she began, voice like rolling thunder. "Fort Midwich is lost to us." A series of low, horrified gasps rippled through the army. Sara continued on, unperturbed. "Though we may have been able to hold longer, for days, perhaps even weeks, each evening repairing the wounds their mages inflict upon us, our time was always limited. We could not, and cannot, stand against an enemy so willing to throw away the lives of their people." Her expression hardened into a deep, scornful scowl. "Sporatos would choke us on blood, bury us in bodies, and though the cost would be unfathomable, it would be paid by the innocent. The guilty would escape without injury, thinking themselves heroes."
She turned her back to the troops, hands clasped behind her waist. "I will not allow them their delusions. If they wish to claim this land as their own, then they must fight for it. Not their serfs, not their slaves, not even their chicken-shit bureaucrats that tally up how many can die before it starts chipping away at how much money they'll make next spring."
"I didn't bring you here to die. Some of you may be worried about retreating from this fort, which has served us so well this last week. Don't be. I have prepared you all, trained you all, to do one thing: retreat. To see the enemy, to know you cannot win, and instead of dying valiantly then and there, to slip away and fight another day."
Within her gauntlets, Sara's hands slowly clenched into fists. "I don't want to be in this war. I don't think any of you do, not really. You may have volunteered for this, may have decided all those months ago that picking up a weapon was the right thing to do, and you were as right then as you are now." She turned to face them. "But fighting? Killing? Dying?" She shook her head. "There's not many people that want that. Not many worth respecting, anyway. The type of person that takes up a sword with a smile, eager to see how much innocent blood they can leave in their wake? I've got no respect for a person like that." She paused, letting the moment hang.
"But there are exceptions." She allowed the first hint of a smile to creep up her face, just the left corner of her lip curling, barely noticeable. "Y'see, some people? Some people out there, facing us? They're not like you or I. They want to be here. They want to be killing. They love it. They live for it. They're not even here for the fight, for the adrenaline of metal against metal, for the feeling of putting everything you have against everything someone else has, all to see who comes out on top." Her hand snapped up toward the wall, where the first signs of acrid smoke were beginning to leak through the concrete. "Some of those sons of bitches out there really, truly, honest-to-the-gods, just like killing. They don't care how good they are, they don't care how good their opponent is. They just love to kill, to have power, to force themselves on everyone else like a fucking pig in heat."
"That's how they got where they are, soldiers. Backstabbing, conniving, rotten little bastards that they are, they clawed their way to the top, all so they could come for you." She let her smile grow just the slightest hair farther. "They think you're weaker for it. For not wanting to kill, for wanting a simple life. Hell, that's what they think of me, too. The funny thing is, though, that they're too stupid to realize the most important thing."
"A good man, a good person– they hate killing. Despise it with all their soul. They know it's evil, wicked, and they'll do everything they can to avoid it. But a good person is a smart person, too, and a smart person is the sort that can recognize certain things."
The wall crumbled in a half-dozen places, noxious fumes spitting and sputtering through. Slowly, as the gas began to fade, a wall of armored soldiers was revealed, Knights and mages and mercenaries alike holding readied shields.
"People like that, they don't stop. They don't listen to words, or reason, and especially not pleading or begging. Hell, they get off on it. They love to hear all about how much power they've got over you, and doing anything of the sort will just make 'em twist the dagger deeper."
Cautiously, still fearing a trap, the Sporaton army began a slow advance through the gaps.
"So I'm not asking you, troops of the Tulian Republic, to die for your country. That's too easy, too simple, and it's what they damn well want. No, I'm asking you to do something very much harder."
Sara's smile finally blossomed to its full extent, teeth bared in a feral smile.
"I'm asking you to kill. I'm asking you to fight, tooth and claw and tusk, for every last drop of blood you can pull from those rotten fucking bastards. I'm asking you, when you see a knight in shining armor, to rush forward, to charge forward, every last one of you, until no amount of fancy noble training can keep you off of them, and when you've got them in your hands? I don't want you fighting with honor. I want you to bite. I want you to dig your fingers into their eyes, to take their skin between your teeth and tear, to grab their head with both hands and slam it against the ground again and again, until there's nothing left between their ears that isn't soaking out the sides."
She raised her voice to a shout, one hand raised, as if preparing to signal the start of a race. "Today, we're going to run, and they're going to chase us. And they're going to laugh and celebrate, because they think they've won, no matter how wrong they are. But before that?" Her illusion faded, until she was just one woman standing on a stone, thousands of eyes upon her, but with her voice still booming with every syllable. "I'm going to give the survivors something to remember us by."
Her hand fell, and in the same instant, four cannons roared. The Tulian Army jumped, startled, then tracked the iron balls through the air, watching them with an eager glee. Everyone had seen them, knew what they could do.
Or, at least what they thought they could do.
The iron shots curved too high, poised to arc a dozen feet over the heads of the Sporaton troops, slamming uselessly into the grass beyond.
But just two days before, Sara had finally managed to refine something very, very important.
Fuses.
The shells burst with a titanic crack above the Sporaton Knights, throwing dozens of pieces of shrapnel in every direction. It looked as if the entire area of impact had taken the full brunt of a musket volley, jagged iron chunks the size of a clenched fist embedding themselves in flesh and dirt alike. The fiery charge at their core was a blazing red, almost like a bright spell, but so very much more effective. Dozens fell in an instant, screaming in hideous pain.
"Again!" Sara roared.
The cannons roared, and with hours spent precisely dialing in their shots, they detonated in nearly the exact same spot. Any soldier that had still been standing in the gap trying to help their comrades was thrown down into the dirt, struck dead as if a boulder had landed on their backs. Limbs were severed, blood sprayed, and audible only to Sara, one newly-demoted Lieutenant began to laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
Notes:
500k word mark! Whoo! I'm hoping to have this finished before the year mark hits, we'll see how I do.
Okay so I did manage to write more this week but then I got stuck in a perfectionist loop of constant editing again so anyway here's your 8k chapter. I feel like I should be writing more each week still, but from what I can see from other weekly updating authors that's pretty par for the course, no?
I would like an audience check-in, though. I worry that such constant action is starting to wear on the pacing of the story, that it's lacking a certain slowness between battles that could help smooth out the constant adrenaline. Opinions? I have the plot events all planned out, of course, but which I choose to emphasize in the following chapters can change depending on how you're all feeling. This story is, after all, still a chance for me to practice.
Next chapter you get to see what the fuck Ketch just did.
Chapter 79: Blood and Thunder
Chapter Text
Black powder was an excellent fire starter.
Ketch had meant to send a sizable flame up the tent's wall with one measily spark from her flint, creating a large enough blaze that she could escape in the confusion. At Selly's eager urging, the witch having never personally witnessed what she considered one of the greatest alchemical innovations in centuries, she'd placed her one-pound glass jar against the tent's wall, lighting it with her arms at their greatest extent and her head turned away, eyes squinted shut.
Black powder, it seemed, was not yet within the expertise of an alchemist.
A hissing whoosh drowned out the chanting within the tent, a gout of pink fire and white smoke rocketing out of the jar like ocean waves forced through a narrow slot. Ketch's arms were engulfed to the elbow, blue scales turned black in an instant, while her girlish scream of shock and pain ruined any chance at pretending the fire had been incidental.
Not that there would have been any confusion, with the kind of bonfire she'd just created.
Hands trembling violently as the waves of pain belatedly soaked into her shattered awareness, she pulled her hood up and began a shaky sprint away from the tent. Shouts were already being raised across the camp, patrolling soldiers calling for water to be brought up from the river. Some seemed to think it was a mage's experiment gone wrong, while others thought a cannonball had somehow struck the camp. Whatever the case, they were converging upon her like ants on a carcass, and she had no time to form a better plan than running.
With her Skill still activated, she could hear that the chanting had continued, but the words were shifting in volume, the speaker moving away from the fire. Recalling her experience in the Eliah estate, Ketch hurried her pace.
In the back of her mind, even as she half-ran through the tent city, she felt Selly prying open the language of the chanting. Languages were recalled, compared, and discarded, first with the common Continental languages of the current era, then slowly working her way back, century by century, until Selly was floating through her library, summoning tomes even more ancient than she. None of them shared the barest linguistic similarities, not even amongst the most ancient of known Elvish languages, some hundred thousand years gone. She was convinced it was a language, at least. It had consistent usage of prefixes and suffixes, phonemes appropriately used, and was not spoken with the automaton precision of rote memorization. No, it most certainly was a language, but which?
For once in her life, Ketch tried to separate herself from Selly's thoughts. The flies buzzing across her scales were growing ever more frequent, lingering for one second, then two, the alertness of those who remained in the camp growing with each passing moment. To allay the suspicions of others, who would see her as the sole individual running away from the scene of the fire, she turned back, affecting as much fear and shock in her posture as she could–
Oh.
The flames had spread. She had been offered the jar of powder as a reject, its mixture imperfect. Apparently, that was because it failed to burn completely on ignition. Vibrant fiery sparks were floating down after the volcanic ejection, lazily drifting on the breeze until, like demonic dragonflies, they lit upon the tents.
And began to burn.
What she'd meant to be one tent ablaze was now a half-dozen, and with such a roaring fire, even the day's meagre breeze was whipping it into a frenzy. Ketch watched as half-dressed stewards fled from tents, their arms bundled high with the most precious of their master's belongings, while others hurried directly to the soldiers who had formed a bucket brigade to insist that "No, my master's tent is truly the most important, you need to direct your efforts there," only for the firefighting soldiers to physically shove them aside, barreling directly for the King's tent. No amount of uppity snobbishness could convince a soldier that allowing the King's tent to burn freely would be met with anything more comfortable than a noose.
"Hey!" A voice cried, a palm to her shoulder shoving Ketch to a halt. "Where are you going, Irregular?" The man towered over her, Captain's marks on his shoulders, a furious glare in his eyes.
How did he recognized me as an Irregular? How did he see me at all? Ketch's panic rapidly spun away from her, questions begetting questions. What do I say? He's not a noble, but he's a Captain, that must mean he's a considerable Advancement, and a combat Class as well. But how did he know I was an Irregular?
Selly's presence washed over her, blanketing her in the cool embrace of familiar scales.
"Going to get water, sir," she quickly replied, ducking her head as subserviently as she could, so her hood would fall over her face. "To fight the flames."
"Ah," the Captain said, vanishing.
Ketch's head snapped up, staring at the empty space that the man had occupied a moment before.
Selly's thoughts filled her mind, a single word, shockingly intense.
Run.
Ketch ripped her dress off, throwing herself into a dead sprint. The chanting behind her grew in volume, rushing closer, and she did not turn around to see why until it abruptly flared to life, deafening, audible even without her Skill.
A brown-robed person was walking towards her the calmest of gaits, the wooden mask that covered their face betraying nothing. Each step carried them the distance of ten, the ground itself molding to their whims in a fashion that almost pained her to comprehend. The chant continued unabated from beneath the mask, ominous and low.
Ketch drew her mother's dagger and continued to sprint, heading for the river.
Her panic may have been soothed by Selly's presence, allowing her to maintain a cohesive line of thought, but this was not without consequence. As their minds slipped to fit better together, the panic she so despised was molded, then superseded by, a festering frustration. A teeth-gnashing, throat rumbling growl, like the bent back of a circling shark guarding its territory. So potent was it that it began to bubble ever more across the bond, a noxious concoction that subsumed all others within itself.
It had been centuries since something had dared to encroach upon their mien. Centuries more since they had something within it which they cared to protect. Fingers tightened on glass and wood, steps slowing, thoughts turning to confrontation.
NO, Ketch's self thought, impressing it across their selves with all that could be mustered. Selly's soul reverberated to the tune of the word, formlessly twisting away, contrite.
They would wait.
But only so long, Selly whispered.
Ketch regained her speed, diving to one side or the other when she felt the pressure of watching eyes recede. She hoped to lose the mage between the tents, but as she approached the river, the fewer shelters there were. She used these to her advantage, but it was little hope, the burning at the base of her spine inescapable.
Others must have realized what was happening, because the mage was gathering a cluster of soldiers whose wounds had kept them from the battle. Few were seriously injured, mostly bandaged lacerations and bound limbs that were awaiting a healer, and that meant they were still threat enough to give Ketch pause.
Soon, far too soon, she reached the stream. It was a shallow thing, rarely coming up deeper than her hips, and it was soiled by the waste of thousands of soldiers. Water was water, however, and she waded in eagerly, moving for the far bank, where the empty fields awaited her. Soldiers began wading in behind her, but unlike Ketch, the water tugged at their legs, slowing their steps to awkward stumbles, while she moved as freely through the stream as she had through the open air.
The mage, unfortunately, simply stepped over the water, standing on nothing. Infuriating.
Now? Selly's thoughts intruded.
Ketch wanted to rebuke the thought, but she couldn't even spare that effort. She'd hoped her Azarketi nature would allow her to escape by fording the stream, which would slow her human pursuers far more than her. If she made it far enough down the stream, where Sara had dug it into a deep canal that flowed underneath the fort, she could simply slip underneath and disappear.
But not if this damn mage could step over the whole thing. He moved after her, still chanting, and what half-dressed, half-drunk soldiers he'd gathered were stumbling into the water after her. By then they had even been joined by some more respectable troops, heavily armed and armored. Her heart sunk when she caught sight of a trio of them advancing together, their breastplates emblazoned with the symbol of a half-closed eye. The Night's Eye.
Ketch spun in the river, which came up to her waist, and raised her dagger. The common troops paused at this, hesitating at the sight of an Irregular baring their teeth, but the mage and Night's Eye were unperturbed.
Just what spell was that mage channeling, that he didn't dare pause it even in pursuit of a saboteur? He halted in space, the air beneath his feet warping slightly, and the Night's Eye paused too, glancing up at him.
He waved them on with a hand.
Ketch swore to herself, backing along the river.
"Put down the knife," one of the Night's Eye called, a gravely yet feminine voice coming from her within helmet. "We're here to capture you, not kill you."
"Like there's a difference," Ketch snapped, glancing over her shoulder to check her footing as she retreated.
"There's really not," the woman replied, and this time Ketch caught the tones of an unhealthy rasp in her voice. "You're not a fighter. We could kill you if we want. The fact that we haven't says we're being honest, yeah?"
"You'd swear by it?" Ketch asked. "That I'd be unharmed?" Her words dripped bitter sarcasm.
"Far as your capture's concerned? Yeah, I'll swear to it. Can't say anything for what happens after, though."
"Then I think I'll have to refuse," Ketch said. She briefly glanced for the hills where Noctie was sheltered. Gods, why couldn't this have happened at night?
"You gonna fight us?" The woman scoffed, which turned into a cough. She briefly lifted her visor to spit, then dropped it with a clank. "You've never killed before, have you, girl?"
"No," Ketch said, free hand drifting towards her waist.
"But I have," Selly rasped, a sandpaper hiss rolling out of Ketch's throat. Her free hand drifted lower, towards the right.
The mage's chanting shattered as they straightened, reaching an arm out with a desperate cry. "Do not let her draw that dagger!"
Several things happened within the same instant. The woman who had been speaking to Ketch lanced through the water with impossible speed, throwing up a wake twice her height as a black blade flew to her hand. Something gathered in the mage's hand, unseen, but roaring with energy.
And Selliana laughed.
Ketch felt herself ripped apart, infinitesimal fragments of her body physically torn and thrown skyward, racing through the air. Her mind went with them, broken into pretty little shards which the spell collected with gentle hands, re-knitting her into existence some ways away. She was at home, wrapped in green tendrils, cradled by warm waters.
And Selliana stood in a river, a black blade biting into her thigh, steel through her gut, a hammer in her skull, and pinned in place by a titanic bolt of energy that entered her head and exited the soles of her feet.
She was laughing.
"Truly, children?" Selliana cackled, black blood gurgling from her lips. "The Goddess Amarat sends an ally unto her Champion, and you think to challenge them?" The scent of rot began to fill the air, river bubbling green. The cultist fell from their platform of air, all effort directed towards their next spell. More blows cut into Selliana's neck, her chest, her heart. Her eyes lolled, distended, looking down at the mercenaries. "This is no place for children. Be gone now."
And with the sound of rushing air, the mercenaries were gone.
Deep in the bay of Tulian's harbor, Ketch smiled, snuggling herself deeper into the matted vines. It had been so, so long since she'd slept at home. Surely her father would understand if she took a brief nap before coming up to say hi?
Rest, guppy, Selliana whispered, and Ketch did.
A mage began to scream.
Chapter 80: We'll Have Our Home Again
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara
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She hadn't been bluffing when she told the soldiers that they'd been trained for retreat. Though she'd never openly admitted it, the constant mock battles they'd trained for over the months had always been designed to end in a landslide defeat, one that required the losing side to either make an orderly withdrawal or be wiped out entirely.
Now the fruits of her labor were being harvested.
The Sporaton army oozed through the gaps of Fort Midwich like diseased pus, thousands upon thousands of soldiers forced into narrow columns as they slowly took the field beyond. It was an organizational nightmare for the enemy commanders, trying to get so many different squads and regiments to coordinate collapsing into a thin line, then retake their formation once on the other side, and then begin a rapid advance to clear the way for further troops to follow. She could imagine the furious bellowing of purple-faced sergeants, their troops scattered to the winds in the chaos, made all the worse by the constant crack and thud of shrapnel shells raining down from above.
Sara had a very limited number of the new shells, having found the right mixture of fuse material literal days ago, but there was no better time to use them. Though traditional cannonballs might have similar effect upon the enemy, what with how packed in they were, any shot which went even the barest shade wide would smash into the fort's walls without effect.
And the enemy's reaction was gratifying in its own way. She could imagine the thoughts of the common soldier, of the officers above them. They'd gone into this war privately fearing the Champion's powers, of what the legendary creature would unleash upon them, and they'd been appropriately over-awed when they found themselves subjected to musket and cannon fire. But they'd thought that was it; that the Champion had laid down her cards, her hand empty, and now it was all to play for.
The shells changed that. Sara watched the eerily stalwart marching of the spear levies first waver, then tremble in bizarre synchronicity, a wave of horror rolling through them, and then that impossible discipline had finally snapped.
Sara was almost baffled; there was no reason for it, no single moment to cause such a reaction. All the same, troops suddenly rushed and ran and clawed forward, physically climbing over their fellows in their animalistic rush to escape what lay behind them, deaf to the calls of their commanders. They didn't rout, not fully, but that was mainly because doing so would involve rushing directly towards Sara's army, and seeing muskets resting on their shoulders, even the dullest soldier could guess how that would go. Instead they threw themselves to the ground with their hands over their heads, curled up in balls, cowering like rats who had spotted the shadow of a hawk.
But all good things must come to an end, and this one sooner than most. After only a few minutes of cannonfire, Sara was forced to call for a ceasefire. She was out of shrapnel shells, and the Tulian Army itself was far from organized, her own sergeants going through much the same process as their Sporaton opposites. The only reason they seemed better-off at the moment was because they'd had slightly longer to get things into shape.
That, and Evie. The feline was marching up and down the lines with her tail lashing like a whip, hissing reprimands at anyone she determined to be even slightly out of place. They were planning for a fighting retreat, and Evie was one of very few with the formal training required to know just how difficult that would be. Anyone with so much as a toe out of line would receive a harsh rebuke, and those who were distracted or outright in the wrong spot would find themselves bodily dragged out of line, thrown in the appropriate direction.
Meanwhile, rather than joining the organizational efforts herself, Sara entrusted the work to her commanders. Champion's Inspiration would have to be her sole contributor, for now, because she had something more important to work on.
"How're the cannons holding up?" She asked, jogging up to Colonel– no, Lieutenant– Shale.
"Beautiful!" The woman replied, smearing powder across her forehead as she wiped sweat from her brow. "No signs of fracture, heat tolerance is exceptional, and the troops have been swabbing 'em proper after each and every round."
"Not what I meant, Lieutenant," Sara said. "Are they ready to move? Are the gun carriages well made?"
"They've done well so far," Shale said, patting one of the wheels on its thick wooden spokes.
The carriages which carried the twelve-hundred pound guns were surprisingly complex pieces of kit, perhaps even more so than the cannons they bore. Even with an exact illusory replica made available for the carpenters, it had taken a half-dozen failures before producing a single working example. Though it didn't look it to a layman's eye, balancing the cannon's load was uncompromisingly critical. If the center of weight was even a few inches off, the whole thing would topple at the slightest jostle, leaving a priceless bronze cannon stuck in the mud.
"We lost two of those carriages on the way to the fort," Sara reminded her. "We can't afford that happening on the way back."
"We've got a few spares," Shale said, "but we won't even need those. I'm certain of it."
Sara forced herself to let out a long breath. There wasn't any point of putting people in charge if she wasn't going to take their advice.
"What about the oxen? Are they behaving better?"
Shale sent the animals a far less encouraging expression.
"After a fashion. Don't fight with their buddies anymore, but I'll be damned if I can get 'em to go any faster than a walk."
Sara quietly swore, working through the math. Her army, on a good day, could cover twenty miles. That was assuming the weather and roads were decent enough, which was a big damn assumption in Tulian, and that pace would leave the troops utterly exhausted at the end of the day. For a non-Irregular it was a brutal pace, but one she'd have to make if she wanted to stay ahead of the Sporaton army.
The problem was born from the fact oxen could barely cover five miles a day. Even without carrying a literal metric fuckton of weight, they were slower than a walking soldier, and no amount of whipping or prodding could change their stubborn minds. The entire army would be pinned to their plodding pace, and the Sporaton forces, even when dragging the massive supply chain that stretched back to their homeland, would rapidly overrun them.
If she had draft horses, things would be different. Pulled by a team of those, the cannons could have reached the capital in half the time the army would take, though she had no intention of sending off her trump cards unescorted. The problem was, the number of horses in the army numbered slightly over a dozen. There was Trot, Sara's horse, stabled alongside the steed Evie had never bothered to name, and a handful of other horses that some of the better-off soldiers had brought themselves. The harsh Tulian climate, seesawing every six months between biblical flood and arid drought, (and in all months patrolled by voracious predators), was absurdly hostile to a healthy population of horses. Donkeys were far more common, and while they pulled the civilian supply carts, they were far too temperamental to work together as was needed for the cannons. Her army might literally contain every last riding horse in the nation. She'd mostly been planning to relegate the precious animals to scouting duty, to warn her of an incoming Sporaton cavalry raid, but...
"Do you think we could train the horses we have to pull them?"
"The hells would I know?" Shale asked. "I've never trained animals. Before you put me in charge of this stuff, I was the only carpenter in a village that hadn't seen horses since the storms."
"What if we just had riders on each of them, instead of a full fancy rope setup?" Sara asked.
"Again, I don't know a damn thing about horses."
"It could work."
"Oh, you're not talking to me, are you?"
Sara turned away with a frown, trying to spot where the various horse-riding scouts had ended up through the chaotic fields. They were spending their time with the common soldiers for now, waiting until there was a great enough separation between the two armies for their services to be useful. Even the few soldiers who'd owned horses, vaingloriously hoping to use them in battle in some capacity, had begrudgingly agreed that scouting was a far better use of their resources.
By the time Sara had argued the riders into submission to sacrifice their horses for the cannon's sake, the army was ready to march. Sara ran a mental thumb down her record collection, selecting which song would best accentuate Champion's Inspiration. For a time she'd tried to tell herself that the specific song didn't matter, that she was simply using the ability for its magical elements, but that was no longer the case. Word of her deliberating over each song had somehow gotten out to the troops, and now she knew they put great stock in the content of her songs and what they implied for her plans. Never mind the fact that she told them her plans; they liked to think they had an "in," some secret understanding of their leader's psychology that they could hold loftily above their squadmates.
With that in mind, she made a choice that would have been fairly reprehensible in her old world, yet fairly mundane in her current one. "We'll Have Our Home Again," by the Pine Tree Riots. Sara had discovered the song by chance some few years ago and added it to her rotation, enjoying what she thought to be a revolutionary, anti-authority stance, all the way until she played it for a few friends and found out it was a favorite of internet ethno-fascists. Where Sara understood the line "In our own towns, we're foreigners now" as a statement on the dehumanizing nature of militant police autocracy, others had taken it as a dogwhistle for white populations being overwhelmed by immigrants. Nasty shit, and when she'd looked at the comments beneath videos for it, she'd sworn it off.
That didn't mean it wasn't a baller song, however. With the only instrument coming from boots stomping on wood, she'd always imagined it being sung by a chorus of rebels in some underground shelter, waiting for the moment to spring their trap. She didn't know the band's actual political affiliation, but considering their name evoked an early American anti-royalty riot, she (perhaps optimistically) assumed they were closer to her side of the fence.
And so it was with that thumping tune pounding out of her chest that she joined the rest of the army's horse riders, four horses to a cannon. They didn't have the complex harnesses that would let the horses easily pull evenly on the load, but they had jerry-rigged an approximation of it, and after a few awkward false starts, she and the others got the cannons moving.
As if they'd been waiting for her and her alone, the army lurched into motion. Five thousand soldiers in glittering armor began to abandon Fort Midwich, following a narrow, packed dirt road. The entire teeming mass began to uncoil like some massive snake, with only five troops abreast fitting on the trail that would lead them forward. With five thousand soldiers and nearly a thousand camp followers, civilian wives and husbands, and opportunistic merchants waiting in tow, it would be quite a while before the entire column reached its full extent.
The cannons, naturally, were to be at the centermost portion of the column, with the greatest concentration of musket-wielding troops tucked before and after them. After what they'd achieved in the battle, nearly every soldier in her army had decided they owed their lives to the cannons, and would defend them to the last. There was a near religious fervor surrounding them, in fact. She imagined a medieval Christian army back on Earth would scorn her soldier's love for the cannons as outright idolatry, what with how they respectfully bowed their heads as the weapons passed. In a world ripe with esoteric magical artifacts, it was far more understandable for mysticism to develop around things like the cannons.
An attitude that the newly-minted Lieutenant Shale was doing nothing to dissuade, Sara noted. Even while Sara jerked and sawed at the reigns as Trot pulled too far ahead or too far behind of the other horses, Senses of Amarat let her hear the Artillery Lieutenant marching up and down the lines.
"If the enemy charges us, you shoot when you're ordered, and stay the hell out of the way until then, understand?" She cried, repeating the speech every time a new group came into earshot. "You've seen what these things do to the enemy, and I promise you all, you DON'T want to feel a load of hot iron in your spine! If you hear us yelling 'loaded!', the next thing outta my mouth'll be 'firing!', and for those of you that think you've got a tight enough ass to bounce cannonballs, feel free to stand strong! The rest of you, drop to your goddamn stomachs and cover your ears!"
Sara's amused chuckle was cut short as Evie's horse, who was being controlled by a nervous volunteer, briefly entangled its ropes with Trot's. She and the man riding him quietly cursed as they fought to untangle the leather straps before things got worse. The last thing she wanted was a cannon stuck in the mud mere minutes into the march.
They got it sorted when Evie, who was marching protectively beside Trot, got the knot undone. Sara heaved a sigh of relief and thanked the catgirl with a hand ruffling through her braided hair, rubbing at the base of her ears.
The other rider raised an eyebrow at her, then pointedly looked the opposite way. Sara felt herself flush, stomach twisting in embarrassment. She'd gotten too used to people not knowing about certain quirks of feline anatomy; namely, the fact that she'd just done the equivalent of grinding her knee against Evie's crotch in front of the entire army. The fact that Evie had eagerly shoved into the touch hadn't done much to muddy the dirtiness of it, as by this point the woman's inability to feel shame was bordering on a mental disorder. Evie would have happily marched naked if she thought Sara would enjoy the sight.
Sara quickly pulled her hand away, dusting it off against her pants like she'd done something dishonest. After so long in her new home, she'd have thought she'd be getting the hang of things like that. Evie had a disarming effect on her, something her girlfriend acknowledged with the slow, satisfied swiping of her tail. Damn woman knew exactly what she'd done.
Oblivious to her embarrassment, the army marched on, a great silver python worming its way across the landscape. Behind them, the disorganized Sporaton army continued to trickle through the holes they'd poked in Fort Midwich, a perfect image of abject chaos. Organized for battle, they now had to transition to the march, and it wasn't going quite as poorly as she had silently prayed for.
Oh, the King could have set off in pursuit immediately. Sara had started her march before them, but that didn't mean she was in the clear. They were still within the grasp of the Sporaton Army. Though she put on a show of keeping her head forward, she felt as if her entire spine was being pricked by needles and pins. If the King threw caution to the wind and launched a charge, he would catch them in a commander's worst nightmare. Her army extended beyond uselessness, civilians mixed in throughout, commanders out of contact and with no battle plan prepared. No amount of muskets or training would have stopped that one-sided slaughter; the Sporatons could have been nakedly wielding wooden clubs and still swamped them under.
But to do that, the King would have to be bold. Reckless, nearly. By ordering her troops into a run, Sara would have been able to extend the pursuit for a time, at least until the cavalry made it through the walls, and that would drag the Sporaton Army hours' march away from their camp. Even if the King crushed her army on the field, his supply line would be exposed. If there was one thing the military manuscripts of this world emphasized the most, it was not abandon your supplies. Twelve thousand soldiers would starve in days, desert shortly thereafter, and the entire army would collapse. To charge after Sara now was a high-risk, high-reward tactic, a decision that would end with the war's end, no matter who came out on top.
And if Sara had learned anything about the King, it was that he was traditional to a fault. His advisors could beg, plead, and rage, but he would not take the risk. Why should he? With the Tulian Army on the retreat, in the open field, the war was already won. Delaying it would be no great sin, not if it meant he could shore up any weakness, real or imagined.
Unless the humiliations she had repeatedly heaped upon him had finally worn him down. Unless Graf had finally won the King's ear properly, becoming the army's commander in all but name. Unless the cultists which advised the King recognized the same opportunity she did, and used whatever nebulous leverage they had over the man to force him to take the risk.
But there was no point thinking about that. If it happened, it would be the end of the war. Shale would shove stoppers down the cannons and detonate them, the rest of the soldiers would snap their muskets and light what remained ablaze, and then her entire army would scatter, every man for themselves. Most would die in the rout, run down and gutted, and those that remained would spend weeks in hiding, their numbers slowly whittled down. Evie would whisk Sara and Hurlish out of the country, either fleeing to Carrion vessels or the fractured western kingdoms, whichever she determined best in the moment.
But that would only happen if the Royal Army managed to catch her. A week's march to the capital, a week being harried by a force three times her size, supplemented by cavalry to which she had no answer.
She allowed herself the smallest, briefest glance behind herself. The Sporaton army was still pouring out of the wall, and when she saw their posture, it filled her with a relief nearly ecstatic. They were forming defensive lines, setting posts into the soil, preventing her from counterattacking to retake the fort. There was no sign of the cavalry, not yet.
One day, then. One day to gain the best lead she could. Come morning, the race to the capital would begin. A hundred and thirty miles of marching through the brutal heat, weaving around hostile jungles, harried by enchanted cavalry and the ponderous beast of an army they supported. If she got caught by the Royal Army out on the field, she would be annihilated. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. They would be surrounded, cut-off, and any attempt at a breakthrough would be met with the thunder of hooves and flash of sabres.
Sara pushed Champion's Inspiration just a tick louder, fighting the urge to dig her heels into Trot's ribs.
Notes:
In the comments down below, I posted a lore addendum that I decided didn't fit the flow of the chapter, but was interesting enough that I didn't want to delete it. Give it a read if you like that kind of thing!
Chapter 81: Horse Soldier, Horse Soldier
Notes:
Multi-chapter update. If you're reading this at release, head back three chapters to start.
Chapter Text
Emeric sat at the head of a deep cavalry formation, breathing deeply of the morning dew. With the sun perhaps a half hour away from breaking the eastern horizon, the tropical landscape had not yet lost its humidity. Gallant stirred beneath him, hide jumping as he tossed off what little water had slipped through his armor. Emeric gave him a calming pat on the neck, which clanked noisily as their armor collided. Both were used to it, and both ignored it.
The Champion's army sudden retreating had thrown the King's plans into disarray, had thrown near everyone's plans into disarray, but not Emeric's. He was a Knight first and foremost. A cavalryman. Though the fields of Tulian were not his home terrain, they were not so alien as to disturb him. Where the enemy marched, so too could he ride, and it was in this expertise his confidence was greatest.
Tracking five thousand soldiers was not a difficult task. They had done it well enough even in the night, allowing his cavalry to arrive at the Tulian camp some time before midnight, then send his lighter forces out to reconnoiter the immediate environs while the bulk briefly rested. They reported that clusters of thick jungle littered the countryside in patches, but this far north, they were fewer and far between than was reported in the deeper south. Perhaps a problem if the enemy chose to press their backs to it, but only then. It was not yet restricting his strategic mobility, only his tactical options.
He took another long, deep breath. The air was crisp, cooling his throat. He expected it to be a cooler day, at least by southern standards. A good thing for the horses.
He slowly urged Gallant up the hill before him, until just his head was poking above the crest. The Tulian camp sprawled out before his eyes, and in his estimation, it was as fine a military camp as could ever be asked for. Five thousand troops, twenty-five hundred tents, all aligned with the precision of a chessboard. Only the center of the camp, in which the thousand or so accompanying civilians were cloistered, had a shade of disorder to it.
That the Champion apparently prioritized the safety of her civilians over that of her command staff was odd, but also admirable in its own fashion. The few scouts which had dared a closer approach over the course of the night reported that the camp was organized by regiment, with the relevant Colonel taking shelter in the center of their personal commands. Sacrificing centralization of command in lieu of responsiveness under sudden attack, Emeric surmised. A choice, for sure, but not one he had yet developed an opinion on.
What more greatly frustrated him was at the outermost edge of the camp. Rather than marching fully through the day, it was clear that the Champion's army had broke from their march before dusk, spending the last few hours of daylight securing themselves to a degree almost fanatical. Scrapes in the soil showed where logs had been dragged from a nearby thicket, then whittled into long stakes before being distributed throughout the army. The entire army was now happily ensconced within the protective nest of hundreds of wooden spikes. Per his scout's reports, the cross-shaped lines of spikes leaned against one another, both sides braced by points stabbed deeply into the dirt. They would have been stronger if they had been permanently lashed together, rather than loosely wrapped with rope too frayed for other uses, but even this was not without its purpose. He would have to expect the Champion's camp to be similarly protected every night; it was clear that the contraptions could be folded and stowed in a matter of minutes.
He hadn't a clue how they intended to haul them, however. Already the Champion's chosen infantry were among the heaviest equipped he had ever faced, at least as a general force. Their armor was extensive, their halberds ten feet or more in length, and each soldier was clearly expected to carry a pack that contained their tent and personal effects. Tallying it all together, Emeric guessed they were each carrying sixty, perhaps seventy pounds of equipment, and doing so while setting a brutal marching pace throughout the day.
Has she no care for what happens to her nation after the war? Emeric wondered. Pressing them so hard, equipping them so effectively, it is a nigh certainty that the younger of her troops will gain a warrior's Class. She is creating a beast she cannot control.
He put the line of thought forcefully aside; contemplating such an issue presupposed her victory in the war. Battles were first fought in the mind, and he would not allow thoughts of defeat to corrupt his thoughts.
"Squire," he called, keeping his voice gentle, so it would not carry. He shortly heard the armored pitter-patter of Rolda approaching, and did not look down when the sound stopped. Instead, he pointed. "Survey the enemy camp, make your observations, then return to me with them. Carefully now, so as not to be spotted."
"Yes, sir!" The boy barked, perhaps a bit too loud. Emeric did not chastise him for this. Military discipline was much harder to instill in a twelve year old than subtlety. He would much rather spend his later years telling him to keep his voice down than muster him out of the ranks now for failing to show proper deference.
The boy came up with a rattling clank, his slightly oversized armor making quite the racket as he dropped to hands and knees to sneak up the hill. Amonsgt the many prospects for squires Emeric had been forced to reject, Rolda had stuck out for the simple reason of his size. He could wear Emeric's old equipment, from when he himself was a boy, and if it didn't fit him quite right in some places, it at least didn't fall off his body or cut him when he twisted.
Emeric waited patiently while the boy made his observations. Though he himself was not yet landed, Emeric had styled himself after an older era of Knight, from the days when one with a title was expected to personally take their successor under their wing. If Emeric was never awarded a grant of land on which to raise progeny of his own, he would at least have an apprentice to which his Knighthood could someday be conferred to, the King's permission notwithstanding. Most first-generation Knights amongst the cavalry preferred to direct all their efforts towards someday earning land, and so treated their squires as little more than assistants and armor caretakers, but Emeric had always found himself unable to view the children so callously. He had been a squire himself once, and remembered those days well. Perhaps he was too empathetic for his own good, as some of his acquaintances claimed, but it was an attribute he could not help even if he wished to.
After a few minutes spent gawking, Rolda shuffled away from the hilltop on his stomach, then retreated on all fours, finally standing only when he was well out of sight. It was an incredibly awkward affair. No one could deny the boy was enthusiastic in his duties, at least.
"Sir!" He said, and this time he said it with a bit less volume. Emeric nodded him on. "The enemy camp is well-prepared, and the wooden... erm, spike-things, encircle the entire perimeter. They haven't yet risen for the day, but lookouts are plentiful, and the hill we shelter behind is the closest cover in any direction. No hiding a charge, sir."
Emeric nodded ambiguously, confirming nor denying nothing, so Rolda pressed on after a moment's thought.
"Considering the spikes, Sir, it might be best to wait until they begin to break camp, then attack."
As his own mentor had once infuriated him with, Emeric nodded silently yet again. Rolda stewed at this, tongue working as he thought things through.
"Sir, can you specify which observations you would like from me?"
"A general overview, if you would."
Emeric though he caught a huff being suppressed, but couldn't be sure. After another brief pause, Rolda straightened up even further.
"Sir, rations are appropriate for the three-day expedition we were allotted, but Quartermaster Lindel reported a greater than normal number of weevils in the grain, which she attributed to the water-proofed casks we were provided being too dry, though Scholar-Mage Hearth asserted that weevils in fact thrive in areas which include water–"
Emeric silenced him with a hand. "Your point is made, Squire Rolda. Having now surveyed the enemy, I ask for what advice you would give me on encountering the enemy in battle."
He nodded sharply, almost enough a master of his expression to not let the smug smile slip through.
Almost.
"Then as I said before, Sir, I think it might be best to attack when the enemy is breaking camp, when there are gaps in their defenses."
"And are you not worried that facing a more alert enemy will be more dangerous?"
"Yes, but the spikes–"
"They pose a danger to our cavalry, in your estimation?" Emeric interrupted. He leaned forward and patted Gallant's armored chest. "They are mere wood, are they not?"
"Erm, yes Sir, I thought so..." Rolda fumbled, what little training in etiquette he'd had not having prepared him to be prompted to disagree with a superior. "They're wood, yes, but it seems to me that they wouldn't go to through all the trouble to build something that couldn't actually hurt our horses, respectfully, Sir."
"And therein lies your mistake, Squire Rolda." Emeric finally let the impassive mask he'd maintained fall, smiling brightly. "You assume the enemy has the same knowledge of our capabilities that we do. However, they are led by a Champion who has not yet spent a year in these lands, and her forces possess few, if any, experts on warfare. At a glance, did you think such flimsy things capable of stopping a creature such as Gallant?"
The squire eyed the massive warhorse, whose withers stood higher than most men's heads. In the cool morning, each snorting breath from his nostrils blew a cloud of steam large enough to engulf the boy's torso. The animal's enchanted armor, aside from two admittedly prominent circular dents, was immaculate.
"I... didn't put much thought to the matter, Sir, speaking honestly. I apologize."
"Apologies are not yet necessary, Squire Rolda. If some day the responsibility for such observations lies upon you, then yes, an apology may be appropriate, but not today. I asked for your view to train you only, and to sharpen my own thoughts." Emeric nodded once, sharply. "Return to the baggage train and consider the matter. Formulate a plan of attack, perhaps, and compare it to the actual events of the battle afterwards."
"Yes, Sir!" Rolda cried, saluting sharply before retreating. Really, the boy had too much enthusiasm at times.
With the obligation of training his squire put behind him, Emeric considered. He had only a short time before the enemy camp would be awake in earnest. It was time to make his own decisions.
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Sara
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The enemy made themselves known shortly before noon. She'd known they were there, somewhere, on instinct alone, but the first first she saw of them was then.
The Knights of Sporatos rode over the the hill with all the leisure of men on parade, aligned in neat rows. Though she could only catch glimpses of them from a mile or so away, they were no less impressive for it. A solid block of steel, a grid more perfect than any city street. They moved and pivoted as one, the outermost horses shifting between a brisk trot and a lackadaisical walk as the entire group turned, their formation's edge as sharp as a razor.
Whispers and cries went up and down the Tulian army as their presence was noted, terror in nearly every voice. Some even began to fall out of line, anticipating the order to form a defensive square. Sergeants quickly disabused them of the notion with a torrent of profanity, forcing them back to their places as rapidly as possible, but the interruption still caused the entire column to stutter. It was if they were a single great beast, flinching at the sight of an even greater predator.
Sara called for a general halt as she watched the cavalry in silence, spyglass held to her eye. They were not charging. In fact, they were not even closing the gap. They were simply holding position at about a mile out, matching her army's pace. They'd clearly figured out the range of her cannons.
"Is he there, Master?" Evie asked.
With the supernatural aid of her Carrion spyglass, Sara searched for a certain set of armor among their number. She found it in short order. Knight Emeric rode in the centermost position of the formation, the same mace that he'd once used to nearly crush Sara's skull bouncing jauntily off his hip. That was only his sidearm, for today. His main weapon was the massive lance that was secured to his saddle, its steel length tipped by enchanted blacksteel.
"He is," Sara confirmed.
Evie licked her lips. "Perhaps he will end up dismounted. It would be quite the prize, taking him for ransom."
"I think you're skipping a few dozen steps there, Evie," Sara said, closing the spyglass. "We've got to survive the bastard first."
"No sense planning for what happens after we're dead."
"God, I love your optimism."
They watched the horses for a while longer, the entire army halted by indecision. The cavalry slowly closed the distance, serenely confident in their approach, but eventually stopped, holding position at three quarters of a mile or so.
"They're in cannon range," Evie noted.
"Yeah. And they know it, too."
Lieutenant Shale took that moment to hustle up, smile wide. "Ma'am, the enemy is within range of–"
"I know," Sara interrupted. "And they know it, too."
Sara thought of what she knew of Emeric, both from her personal encounter with the man, and Evie's second-hand recollections. Knighted at a young age for his fanatical dedication to King and Country, he'd quickly proved adept in the ways of cavalry warfare, both as a warrior and a leader. Little was said of his preferred tactics in battle; he had no favored technique, altering his plans to fit the situation as he thought necessary. Not a practical man, but an intelligent one, turned particularly dangerous by his dogmatic loyalty.
"He wants us to unlimber the cannons," Sara decided. "We might get a few shots off, but they'll reach us before they break. If he captures or destroys the cannons, it won't matter how many casualties he suffers. That'll be it for us."
"We can at least fire one shot, to get the range–" Shale began, but Sara shook her head.
"No. Every minute we stand here gawking is another minute for the main force to catch up to us. That's what he really wants."
"So what will we do?" Shale asked. By then the Colonels had drifted over to the center of the column, awaiting her instructions.
Sara shrugged. "I don't know. Bullshit goddess powers let me figure out what he's planning, but hell if I know what to do about it. Evie?"
"Of course, Master," the feline replied, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a number of thick military textbooks, many with titles long enough to be called paragraphs, and began flipping through. If cavalry was king, she was looking for a guillotine.
"Colonel Targ?" Sara called while Evie looked through her books. Voth's old army sergeant, now in charge of over a thousand troops, stepped forward. "See if you can find a good map of the area, or at least some locals that know the place. We're going to resume the march, and I don't want us going around any bends or terrain that'll split us up. They'll pounce in an instant if they can."
"Yes ma'am," he rumbled, turning away with a lazy salute. Sara liked that about him. He still carried the cynicism of a career soldier, and didn't get overawed by her various titles.
"In the meantime, let's get this army back on the move," Sara told the others. "We're going to have to slow our pace, unfortunately."
"Slow it?" Elase asked incredulously. "There's cavalry bearing down on us, and army in tow."
"Yeah, but we're not going to outrun the cavalry, and with how much larger the Royal Army is, we can afford to drop our pace a bit." Sara pointed to the glittering cavalry, which were waiting with a predator's gleaming hunger. "It doesn't matter how fast we run from them, though. They'll catch us no matter what. I don't want us exhausted when they finally decide to charge us. We'll need everything we can get."
"Master?" Evie piped up. "I believe I've found several relevant texts for your perusal."
"Love you, babe," Sara said, slipping a hand around the woman's waist to peek over her shoulder at the books. "Read 'em aloud, for the rest of the colonels."
"A summary must suffice, then," she said, then cleared her throat. "It seems to me that the texts are in near universal agreement regarding our predicament. We are hopelessly outmatched, and must either build temporary fortifications within which we await a relief force, or we must counter with cavalry of our own."
"Neither of which we have."
"Unfortunately. But accounts of battles in which a force lacking in enchanted cavalry persevering through an assault by a force such as that we face do exist. Rare, exceptionally rare, but it has happened."
"Oh?" Sara asked. The rest of the Colonels leaned in, expressions intense. To be desperately studying tactic manuals in the middle of the march generally boded poorly for one's prospects in a war, but it wasn't like they had any option.
"Again, as a basic summary, each army which successfully fended off enchanted cavalry did so by leveraging some other advantage they had in excess to their opponents. Mages, for example, are most common, as their versatility can counter the more limited attack vectors of mounted knights. Alternatively, as touched on before, fortifications and traps were prepared overnight, maiming a great deal of the enemy come morning. Not a decisive fraction, but enough to encourage a brief retreat to nurse their wounds and recuperate."
"We don't have mages," Shale said, "But we do have–"
"Cannons, yeah, I know," Sara said. "But we've only got four of them for now. That's not enough to stop eight-hundred odd horsemen, Shale, not on their own."
"Do you see know of any other advantage we possess that the enemy doesn't?"
"No," Sara sighed, "but that doesn't mean that's the right option." She released her hold on Evie, heaving a deep, worried breath. "We're gonna have to figure something out, though."
She once more looked at the cavalry, and was mildly surprised to see their formation wheeling to one side. For a brief, naively optimistic moment, she thought they were heading away, but that hope was quickly discarded. Instead they set themselves at an angle to her army, clearly moving ahead to cut them off.
"Guess we're gonna fuckin' find out sooner or later," Sara grumbled, watching the horses begin to pick up speed.
Colonel Targ chose that moment to return, a thoroughly intimidated looking private in tow.
"This kid's from around here," he said, hauling the poor woman into the spotlight in the same motion that he handed her a quill and parchment. "What kinda terrain are we looking for?"
"Anything that'll let us pick the time to engage," Sara said, waving the woman forward. She nervously stepped up, and Sara held out one of the crude maps she had of the area. "How accurate is this, private, uh...?"
"Tilly, ma'am, Private Tilly," she said, swallowing nervously. She leaned forward, looking at the map. "Well, this stream here is a bit farther north, I think, and a wider one..."
Sara let the woman talk, doing her best to not let the poor girl get intimidated into a coma by the presence of her entire army's high command crowding around her as she described the area. Sara didn't want any mistakes to be made; there was a hell of a lot riding on exactly how accurately she'd be able to know the terrain.
In the distance, horse hooves rumbled.
Chapter 82: Student Visas
Notes:
Two chapter update this week
Chapter Text
Emeric was a Knight. That much was true. He had won his title as a youth, felling his way through the tide of soldiers trying to reach his lord. He was proud of his title, proud of the deeds he had accomplished, satisfied that he had done right by the grand concept of Knighthood.
But he was not an arrogant man. He was a Knight, yes, but a Knight was a man atop a horse.
And without that horse, he would have been nothing.
Gallant's hooves thudded against the dirt, digging deeply of the soft Tulian soil. His sides swelled with each breath, pressing outward against the links of his scaled armor, lifting a hundred pounds of metal with each inhale, rattling its scales with each exhale. Steamy smoke burst from his nostrils each time, clouding the muggy jungle air with a cloud that fell to his knees, and all the while he continued on, carrying Emeric into battle with each inexorable footstep.
It was times like this that Emeric grew almost intoxicated. The feeling of a strong steed beneath him, of a lance resting under his arm. If not for the limits of his body, he did not think he would ever leave the saddle. Given the choice, he would gladly roam the world atop Gallant's back, running down what foes he chose, skirting easily past those who hid at his passing. He was a Knight, and Gallant his partner. Two adherents to an ancient bond, the twin faces of a single coin.
But intoxicating though it was, Emeric couldn't let himself lose his wider perspective. The enemy was ahead of them still, the long column of their army snaking around a thicket of trees, the bend of which carried the leading half of their element just beyond his sight. His scouts had told him this particular stretch of the sporadic Tulian jungle was a long, thin one, fed by seven miles or so of meandering river stream, never growing wider than a half mile. For the last several hours the Champion had hugged its line, using the impassible forest to protect her leftmost flank, putting those deadly "firearms" of hers to the right, to ward off any approach from his cavalry.
The Champion was a woman difficult to categorize, Emeric had found. In her manner of speech and her political maneuverings she was aggressive to a fault, perhaps recklessly so. Perhaps she was not mad, but she was furious. This was undeniable, and obvious to even the most casual observation.
But this fury had not shown in her strategies of battle. In his pursuit of her he had found a very different woman from the reports, one of shrewd calculation, a general who carefully tended what advantages she could seize. It had been six hours, and not once had any of his bluff charges provoked the ill-advised counter-charge he had hoped to encounter. Many a cool-headed commander had been provoked to lashing out by lesser trials, but not her.
She was the Champion of Amarat after all, he supposed. It was to be expected that she would see through his bluffs, his lies.
And so it would be a straightforward battle, one lacking in subterfuge. His warriors were the superior of any in her army– save, perhaps, herself and her immediate companions– and they both knew it. Should the battle come to a direct confrontation, even dismounted, his eight hundred Knights could inflict an irrecoverable blow to her fledgling military.
Thus, the dance. The hours of approach and retreat, of teasing and prodding, letting the sun slip the sky by. Emeric was growing tired of it, as were his troops. Though not all formally considered Knights themselves, they were cavalry, and they were not meant for this half-battle, this inconclusive sidestepping. Several times now he had approached close enough to receive the rattling crack of firearms, to hear the lead balls whip and hiss through the air beside his head, and each time he had dutifully pulled away, not wishing to risk the King's resources in a charge less than ideal. The Knights were the backbone of the military, of the Kingdom's pride and defense, and having been so entrusted with such a resource, there could be no greater dishonor than for Emeric to unnecessarily savage them against a prepared enemy.
But there was dishonor in cowardice, too, and in failing to duly meet the enemy on the field of battle. As he watched the mighty column of heavy infantry take its turn around the bent fork of the jungle, he made his choice.
He gave an order to the man riding beside him, who dropped behind to relay it. Even before the message reached him, they began preparations. His troops were experienced, and saw the same opportunity that he did. As the infantry came around that corner, they would be thinned out, the army separated into two. It was a brief moment, one that would pass by in mere minutes, and there wasn't time for a complex meeting. His troops would follow their commanders, and the commanders would follow Emeric.
Though he hadn't done a thing, Gallant knew him too well to remain still. He began to pull at the reins, yearning to break into a sprint. Only a calming hand on his neck and a firm press on the stirrups kept the horse under control, kept his bunched muscles from exploding into motion.
"Not yet," he whispered to Gallant, leaning forward, "But soon. Soon."
He leaned back up with a clanking pat against Gallant's armor, sparing a glance to check the formation, though it was more a matter of procedure than need. It was flawless, as always. There was not a soldier among their number with less than a decade in the saddle.
Gently, ever so slowly, so as not to encourage the eager animal, Emeric tapped his heels against Gallant's sides.
The horse leapt forward, breaking away from the front of the line for a brief moment, before the others could react. They quickly gave their own steeds their lead, letting them catch up to Gallant, and the line reformed, Emeric at its head.
It was a beautiful, complicated thing, the cavalry charge. It required an utmost dedication to coordination, for every animal to trust their rider and every soldier to trust their fellows. Though legend and lore would have the commoners believe otherwise, cavalry were not invincible. Even with all their armor, all their training, they could no more surmount a solid wall than they could take to the skies. To break the enemy required from the riders an unerring dedication, bravery beyond belief, and a stalwart refusal to accept any other eventuality. If they offered anything less, their steeds would sense it, balking at the last moment, the charge ruined.
Steadily, the formation's walk became a trot, pace rising. He took a grim satisfaction in the ripple which ran through the enemy, the startled reaction as they shifted weapons from shoulder to hand, halting their march. Though the forest protected their left flank, the curve of it broke their formation in half, and those that could see the charge were isolated.
He heard the Champion's spell change, the music she emanated pounding louder. She knew it too, then. This was no bluff. This would be the real thing.
Emeric felt his heart soar, felt Gallant's breath begin to heave, even though they had barely begun. The animal was as eager as he, and he couldn't fault the beast for it. Should the charge break the enemy, it would be a fine, fine moment, the restoration of the honor lost by their earlier failure to breach the castle walls.
Emeric leaned right, steering Gallant around the flank of the enemy, the block of cavalry curving along behind him. They would attack at the peak of the jungle's protrusion, at the center of the enemy column, then split into two, sweeping down their scattered lines with lance and blade.
From within the block of the enemy line there was a sudden burst of smoke, followed an instant later by three others. Emeric heard the monstrous shriek of iron rip through the air a few seconds later, a warbling hiss unlike anything else. It rose in pitch as it shot towards him, reaching a fever pitch as the ball crested overhead, then fell away in tone until stopping with a sudden thump, blowing a chunk from the earth some few hundred yards behind them.
Three more projectiles followed in similar fashion, two of which landed among their number, coating some of the cavalry's armor with thick clods of half-dried mud as the recoiled off into the distant sky.
Emeric and the others paid it no mind; the firearms were not new, their effects now known. Ever since that first failed assault, he had drilled his cavalry in a new formation, lighter and more spread-out. After so many years spent endeavoring to achieve the tightest possible charge, to have the luxury of many horse-lengths between them made things laughably easy to coordinate.
At five hundred yards, a second volley of smoke emerged from the center of the line, and at this distance, Emeric could briefly recognize the black figure of the Champion directing the cannons, just before she was enveloped in smoke. He respected her for this. She remained at the point of impact, the weakest part of her line, and did not flee to the safety of the flanks. Goddess of Diplomats though her patron may be, she was a General. There was no longer any denying that.
Without his orders, Gallant increased his pace. Emeric did not censor him for this, for all the others around him were doing similarly. A trot became a run, the rumble of hoofbeats rising to a rolling thunder, tens of thousands of pounds of beast, men, and steel driving across the open field. The untamed wilds of Tulian were dotted by shrubs and grasses high enough to reach the horse's necks, but in the wake of their charge, all was gone, trampled flat.
Emeric braced himself as Gallant continued to accelerate, entering a full sprint, such that he now had to stand in the stirrups, lest he be thrown free. In his right hand he adjusted his grip upon his lance, checking that it was settled well into the crook of his arm.
At three hundred yards, he and eight hundred others reached forward to slide plates of metal forward across their steed's heads. A thick slab of steel now covered Gallant's eyes, blinding him, but protecting him from the lead balls of the enemy firearms. Every animal trained for Knighthood was familiar with sprinting in such a state, blindly trusting the commands of their riders. It had never been necessary before, to protect even their eyes from enemy blows, but when facing such a volume of fire, he'd ordered the troops to do so.
Even consumed by darkness, Gallant continued his charge, throwing his head from side to side with an excited whinny. It was not what a normal horse would do, when it knew it was charging into battle. Normal horses did not become the steeds of Knights.
At two hundred yards, when Emeric could see the bronze contraptions in full relief, the Champion standing between them, he grew confused. The smaller firearms had not opened fire yet, when they should have long ago. In fact, he couldn't even see them among the enemy troops, only the more familiar halberds, which rushed in to protect the larger weapons.
It was too late to consider the matter further.
At the last possible moment, the entire formation of cavalry collapsed in on itself, hundreds of riders steering their steeds with an expertise born of untold hours of practice. The loose brick of cavalry became a concentrated wedge, so tight that animals bumped and jostled with one another, dense enough that one could have walked from saddle to saddle without having to so much as stretch their legs. Emeric lowered his lance, couching it against his breastplate, and so too did the entire front row of cavalry beside him, until hundreds of steel tips were aligned with an equal number of enemy halberds.
Once more, in the final moments before battle was joined, he was struck by the discipline of the enemy. To see a thousand-pound beast bearing down at your, nostrils flaring, lungs heaving, lance glittering in the sunlight, and to stand your ground? It was an incredible thing. For a brief few seconds, he was filled with respect for those Tulian peasants.
Impact.
Sparks flew in violent sprays as halberds met breastplate, an all-consuming crash rippling up the lance to Emeric's arm. He felt strikes land upon his legs, his waist, his chest, several more skating along his arms, but he ignored them all, his head and lance kept lowered.
All around him was the sound of battle, metal against metal, horses and men screaming. The air itself seemed to grow hot beneath his armor, his blood rising to a roaring crescendo as Gallant's momentum finally began to fall away. He dropped his lance, trusting its enchantments to return it to his saddle, and seized his long-handled mace, with which he finally began laying about himself with over-headed blows, trading form for speed, striking as many as he could reach as often as he could swing.
When the red left his vision, he was awash in a sea of humanity. Hundreds of men and women were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder around Gallant, though their humanity was difficult to discern under their universal armor. This was the second thing that had struck Emeric now. How he had never fought against a force so well equipped, so uniform in their appearance. Even the most elite of Sporaton forces, the mercenary men-at-arms who wore armor of similar quantity and caliber, at least personalized it. They splashed their chestplates with garish paints or adorned their helmets with little bobbles, icons of individuality that broke the outline of the greater whole.
Not here. Not in Tulian. Here was an army of one being, one purpose. This was not a lifestyle for these people, nor was it a point of pride. Their armor and weapons were nothing more than cold, passionless instruments, meant to protect and kill without any further purpose.
But they could not protect them from him. Every swing of his mace was met with the tear of splitting steel, every thundering step of Gallant's hooves crushing whatever lay before them. He was a Knight in the charge, and he would not be denied.
With all the power and inevitability of a boulder grinding down a hill, his formation began to split. With only the jungle ahead of them, they slowly pulled away from the hole they had made in the enemy lines, half of them turning left, the other right, and then they began to move again, no longer charging, but riding steadily forward, crushing the enemies before them underfoot.
For a brief moment in the chaos, Emeric was in the center of his cavalry, without an opponent to strike at, and he took this opportunity turn away from the enemy and lift his visor, taking deep gulps of air that suddenly seemed cool and fresh.
A small, brief luxury. He looked out to the beautiful green fields, hazy from the dust of his cavalry's passing.
Then he slammed the visor shut, turned back around, and began to search.
The Champion was nowhere to be seen, but he found the bronze contraptions in an instant. They had been pulled back into a path cut in the forest for them, wooden wheels clogged with mud, sinking into the thick soil.
He had only a moment to register this fact, that the enemy had somehow prepared for his impromptu assault, and then he found himself back on the front line, halberds lunging forward, many trying to hook his limbs and drag him from Gallant's saddle.
He resumed swinging.
By virtue of chance and battle's chaos, he shortly found himself in the group heading to the right, working his way through the portion of enemy troops which had already passed around the forest's bend. They were not taken unawares, not fully, but they also hadn't had the time to form the deep lines necessary to stop him. Rather, individual squads had formed squares wherever they happened to have stood, weapons bristling in every direction as their sergeants called for them to hold steady. Aided by the Champion's thumping music, they did so, staring squarely down at Emeric as his cavalry continued to roll up their army's flank, bloodying any who stood in their path.
As his mace slammed down into yet another helmet, coming away wet with blood, his mind roared with questions. How had the Champion prepared a slot for the bronze weapons to retreat to? Where were the smaller firearms? Smoke still lingered from the bronze weapon's earlier shots, but that was all. There should have been more.
Paranoid though he was, he was not fool enough to retreat simply because a situation seemed too good to be true. He continued to crunch and press his way through the melee, Gallant following his commands nearly before he gave them. If the Champion was preparing some trap, he would at least inflict all the damage he could before it was sprung.
As these thoughts finished passing through his mind, Emeric was briefly distracted by a strange sight. He had just emerged with the rest of his cavalry from one of the now-vacant halberdier squares when he saw it. A small iron... something, falling from above. For a moment he thought it was a tossed helmet, some halberdier mad enough to throw his armor itself in a rage, but he quickly recognized it as just a simple sphere of metal.
He had just long enough to note sparks coming from one end of the iron sphere, where a string was disappearing out of sight.
With a hideous crack shrapnel hissed through the air, embedding itself into the nearest horses, the unfortunate beasts rearing up on their hind legs in shock and agony. Almost immediately afterwards a second sphere fell, then another, and another, and Emeric followed their path in shock.
Up in the trees, holding canvas bags and firearms as they dangled from low-hanging branches, were enemy troops. Some had firearms put to their shoulders, others fistfuls of the metal spheres. Both were in the midst of a furious barrage.
The long-awaited sulfur smoke began filling the air with pops and cracks, punctuated by fewer but far larger detonations of the iron spheres which were being scattered amongst his cavalry's feet. He felt several shots bounce off of his left side without effect, his armor holding strong, but he had seen the effect of the spheres for himself, and knew that he could not withstand such a thing.
"Charge!" Emeric roared, digging his heels deeply into Gallant's sides. "Charge! To the enemy!"
Breaking into an open sprint was unconscionably dangerous in such tight confines, risking the cavalry dissolving in a tangle of broken horses as they tripped over one another, but he had no choice. The enemy had begun their assault the moment they'd broken free of their allies, and so, ironically, the only refuge from the barrage would be in entering the melee yet again.
A testament to their discipline, his cavalry responded instantly, joining him in a headlong charge towards the next enemy square. Without lances to blunt the enemy's defenses the attack was far more dangerous, but they had no choice. Emeric once more felt blades thump and scrape against him as he embedded himself and the others amongst the enemy, far more numerous this time.
As he'd hoped, the fusillade slowed, the enemy firearms unwilling to hit their comrades. Emeric wished to pause, to take stock of his situation, but couldn't afford the luxury. The halberdiers were fighting like devils, trying to rip him from his saddle and drag him into oblivion, something he could not allow. Some of his riders had already been successfully pulled from their horses, the straps that held them in place severed by chance or good aim, and Emeric started to check his mace's swings for fear of hitting a friend. Instead he reached out with an open hand and snagged the wooden hafts of the polearms, snapping them in two with a clench of his fist.
Forming an accurate account of time in battle was a near impossibility, but Emeric thought it was only a matter of a minute or two before the enemy broke. Their numbers were being rapidly thinned by his troops, the screams of their wounded shrill and terrifying to a sympathetic ear, and as more and more voices joined the unholy choir, it became too much. Even as their sergeant roared at them to hold, the halberdiers broke, the rear ranks turning to run before they were engaged, the engaged ranks throwing down their weapons and covering their heads with their hands as they scurried away.
Emeric felt the reflexive spring of satisfaction rise up in him at the sight, the heady joy of an enemy beaten, but for once he tamped it down, rather than exulting.
"Again!" He cried. "Again, charge!"
Though growing exhausted by the brutal pace of their labor, the cavalry heeded his call. As the shattered enemy melted away from them, their blows were slowly replaced by the rain of leaden shot rippling out of the trees. He had never anticipated such a thing; no one could fire a longbow from a tree, nor load a great crossbow, and so his armored cavalry should have been invulnerable to any such skirmisher's tactics.
As they met the next line of halberdiers and the shots once again faded away, his thoughts turned not to the thrill of contest, but self-recrimination. He had known the enemy possessed firearms. Graf of the Night's Eye had even shown them their form, shown him their versatility and ease of use. He had known, even, that the Champion possessed explosive spheres for their greater bronze weapons.
And yet he hadn't anticipated what they could do with them. Only what they had already done. The Champion, though her forces were inarguably inferior, had perused his plans as easily as one might a book, and, forewarned with this knowledge, adapted her tactics in preemptive reply. He had trained and braced the cavalry for the volleys of her lines, explained the terrific thumps that they could expect from her powder-armed troops, and yet he hadn't seen.
And now men and women who had trusted him were falling. As they broke through the third halberdier block into the open field, it was with a noticeably smaller contingent following them. Not a great loss, not yet, but noticeable. They were suffering casualties at a rate once thought impossible, and unlike the wars of Emeric's youth, there would be no ransom offered, no parole given. Those that survived their wounds would be imprisoned or executed, their lives hung on the fickle whims of a peasant jury.
There would be no second opportunity, Emeric suddenly sensed. If he retreated now, he would not risk another charge of this nature. Every time he had done so, it had been met with some new otherworldly monstrosity. With his forces weakened and reinforcements a day or more away, he would not be able to conscience provoking the wrath of some newer, even more terrible weapon.
Some would consider that cause to halt the assault, to wheel away and reconsider. Not Emeric. No matter how many casualties he took, this battle had taught him at least one thing about the Champion:
This would be the weakest he ever saw her again.
"Onward!" He cried, dropping both of Gallant's reins, sliding the protective faceplate away so the animal could steer himself. "Onward!" He cried again. "To victory or ignominy! To honor or to the death! Onward!"
No longer restrained by Emeric's steady hand, Gallant exploded forward. Twenty years had Emeric spent in the saddle with Gallant, twenty years had they honed their Skills. He first left his escort behind by virtue of surprise, the riders stirring their own steeds to motion, but it was a hopeless thing. Gallant's hoofbeats fell to a new, unmatchable rhythm, first with ten feet between each fall of his hooves, then twenty, until the wind was whistling through the slits of his visor and he felt the air tug at his arm as he raised his mace high, signaling for all to know where he was, who he was. The next block of halberdiers stumbled in their stances, the whites of their eyes growing massive behind their helmets as they realized just what was bearing down on them. Those directly before him threw down their weapons, dove to the side–
–but not fast enough.
Gallant's raised knee tore through the first soldier's chest, flicked through the next, and landed in a crushing blow upon the third. Emeric dropped his mace low, felt it bounce off one, two, three, four heads, each pulverized by the impact, and when Gallant had reduced himself to a speed slow enough that Emeric could open his eyes without the wind's sting, he too joined the fight.
This was no longer a battle. It was not a product of war, or of tactics, or even of reason. It was one Knight, both halves, testing themselves to their utmost.
He leaned in the saddle to reach a fleeing woman, and the dig of his knees prompted Gallant into a circle within the enemy formation, right at is very core. His cavalry were still a hundred yards behind him, charging onward, but for now Emeric was alone, and he exulted in it. They tore a ring through the middle of the enemy, crushing the fallen to bloody pulp underfoot, adding to their numbers with each kick of Gallant's legs and each swing of his bloodied mace. That the enemy continued to press in, continued to try and pull him from the saddle, it was no longer bravery– it was madness, pure madness. It infuriated Emeric, disgusted him. Nothing but a Champion and her hexed words could compel peasants to such suicidal ends, nothing else could inspire such idiotic loyalty. Anything else Emeric had ever faced would have fled long ago, the battle ended, the slaughter over. A Champion of Rights, bah! She was a siren, leading these poor fools to their doom, all while professing her love and care for them. If she really thought herself such an angel of progress, where was her proof? In the blood of those she led astray? In the culling of those who knew no better? In–
A snap. Emeric felt leather give.
He was falling.
The ground rushed up at him in the same instant his hand rushed down, just barely preventing his neck from being broken. He tucked into a roll, crying out, "Run!" to Gallant before he even finished standing.
The horse, thank every god, obeyed. He flicked only one ear back to Emeric, thinking of disobeying, then fled. The screams of those he trampled echoed in Emeric's pounding skull.
He found his feet in a sea of humanity, standing over the peasants, so much shorter than he. Those behind him shuffled to reform their lines, bracing for the impact of his onrushing cavalry, while the rest of them circled him, tense, anxiety written plain on their faces. He wondered only briefly why they were not attacking before he saw her.
The Champion. A black monolith towering over her troops. At least a head taller than any human present, Emeric included. Her armor was an unyielding slate of blacksteel, tinged orange at the edges where strange magic had sealed it to the rest of her armor. Most, at least, was not blacksteel, because he could see the streaks of flecking paint where the armor had refuted blows against it. She held her greatsword in one hand, its tip resting amongst the blades of grass, and the faceless slab of flat metal that was her helmet turned its gaze upon him.
"Surrender."
"No."
"Fine."
Lightning leapt from the blade with a heavenly brilliance, consuming all of Emeric's vision. He almost felt his armor fighting it off, the energies of enchantment and spellcraft snapping at each other like like rabid dogs. It was more powerful than the last time he had suffered her spell, he realized, though it hadn't yet been half a month. Such was the nature of Champions. Ever progressing, ever moving onward.
But it was still not enough.
The world blurred back into focus a second later, the scent of ozone and ash intermixed as he took a steadying breath. The ground around Emeric was reduced to black charcoal, even the dirt burnt to a crisp. Through the spots in his vision, he thought he saw the Champion's shoulders fall in disappointment.
Not eager to fight me, are you? Emeric thought with a grin. Falling from his horse had nearly been a disaster, but not any longer. Now it was an opportunity.
"Evie?" She called.
Emeric whirled.
Behind him stood the former heir to house Eliah, the name she once bore erased from all reality. Adorning the razor tip of her rapier was a thin strap of leather, pinned in place with the exacting precision of an insect prepared for display.
The woman took a step forward.
Emeric took a step back.
He looked over her, towards his cavalry. They had sheared away, to his great surprise. This block of halberdiers had been reinforced by the survivors of the others and those that had waited behind, swelling to an insurmountable size. They would break in, of course, but they would need to retreat, to reform, take the time to prepare a proper charge.
His eyes fell back down to the feline, to her glittering grin. He had heard much of the woman, both before and after her fall from grace. At first he had known her as a fledgling Lady, the lone heir to a family whose fortune supposedly might outstrip the King. In some circles, a political beacon, a weak link in the titan that was Lady Eliah, perhaps open to influence and favor.
Then the trial, and her claiming as a slave. A fitting mercy, he had thought, appropriately thematic to be offered by the Champion of Amarat. He had been glad to hear it, and hoped her soul would find absolution in servitude. But as the months progressed, and word of the Champion changed, his thoughts had trailed away from the former Eliah, consumed by rumors of the growing threat. It was not until the war had been launched and battle nearly met that Emeric had thought of her again, and only when the King had called a meeting to prepare for the siege, Graf of the Night's Eye presiding.
The mercenary's advice on the Irregulars of the Tulian army had been simple. The commoners, disregard. The Champion, overwhelm. Though powerful, she was not a force in and of herself, and could be beaten, while those she'd trained hadn't the experience or equipment of Sporatos. The mercenary leader had been returning to his seat when someone had asked him of the former Lady Eliah, wondering what to do if she were encountered in battle.
Graf had looked at the man, a single eyebrow raised.
"Run," he had said.
And now Emeric faced the woman himself, for the second time. Before, atop the walls of Castle Midwich, she had been in a ruby robe, hiding the black leather of her subtle armor. Now, she wore a blank cuirassier's plate, nothing but undyed cloth protecting all the rest. Also adorning her hips were a number of tools hung off her belt, from potions to six rather odd looking leather pouches arranged across her hips. A far more practical ensemble than her prior appearance. On both occasions, however, her grin had been the same.
Eager.
Emeric didn't know exactly why Graf had advised them to run upon contact with Evie, and he hadn't put much thought to it. Either it was because of lingering affection Graf had for the woman, or because he respected her skill with a blade. It was immaterial. If the former were true, it meant that killing her would earn the personal ire of Graf Urs, a torment none had ever suffered for very long, and if the latter, the advice was more straightforward.
Run.
Emeric broke into a sprint, feinting right, dodging left. The feline barely reacted, watching as he went, until she suddenly darted in a most peculiar fashion, sliding across the grasses to remain a half-dozen strides directly before him.
Emeric skidded to a stop, dropping his mace, seizing his warhammer and shield from his back.
She raised her blade, grinning, teeth bared.
Chapter 83: And Don't You Listen To The Song of Life
Chapter Text
"If you break out into the open, dear Emeric, every gun on the field will bear down upon you."
Her voice was acidic, tinged with a level of contempt and scorn he had only heard spewed from the dying lips of demonic beasts. Emeric watched her from within the thin slits of his helmet, shield raised until he could only track her shoulders and head. He twisted his warhammer in his right hand, tightened the leather straps of his shield with his left. He said nothing.
"Come now, Sir Emeric, didn't you wonder–"
She lunged. Emeric's shield snapped up, meeting the tip of her blade just before it would have plunged into his eye. He wrenched it to one side with all his might, trying to tear the weapon from her hands.
To his shock, it worked.
For a moment.
The blade disappeared from his shield, and it was only his deep familiarity with such enchantments that afforded him the reflex to take a step back, hiding behind the wood as another blow bit deeply into the enchanted oak.
He twisted his warhammer around to the armor-piercing tip, swinging for her gut. Hidden behind his shield, he couldn't see what happened, but it wasn't much. The swing was diverted to the side, flat edge bouncing off the side of her plate.
Three blows now exchanged, Emeric disengaged with a shove, seeking the distance required to take in his surroundings. The Champion would be joining the fight, attacking from behind–
Except she wasn't. The black suit of armor was turned to the side, head bowed in conference with someone else. They were looking towards the cavalry, only occasionally glancing his way. The troops around them were more attentive to the wolf in their midsts than their leader, but not in the manner he would have expected. They were watching as spectators, not soldiers.
He could spare no further thought for it. The rapier was lunging for him, her leg extended, one hand thrown high for balance.
Emeric was forced to skirt back, deflecting with his shield again, earning another line scored through its painted facade. He couldn't trust it forever; the enchantments upon her blade were fine, if not exceptional, but the metalwork they were built upon was frankly remarkable. With a shield and shorter weapon, Emeric would normally have tried to exhaust his opponent, outlasting them by virtue of his superior defenses until he could slip past their guard. Not in this fight. That damnable rapier would chew through his shield in short order, and he was under no illusions that his armor could protect him from the swordsmanship on display. Every blow she'd launched thus far would have struck through his visor, if not for his defensive counters.
So it was a different kind of fight, then. She still couldn't pierce his steel, and that limited the angles of her attack to those solely targeting her head.
Emeric tucked his neck low and took two quick steps forward, battering like a bull at her blade with his shield, warhammer tucked back over his shoulder, cocked and ready for the blow.
Her reaction was strange. No sooner had his shield made contact with her sword than did she release it, flung into the grass by his blow, leaving her completely open. Years of instinct betrayed Emeric in that moment, and he launched his swing–
Only to be intercepted by the rapier appearing once more in her hand, tip angled for the joint of his elbow.
The warhammer crashed into the shoulder of her cuirasser's plate, but was stopped from digging into the flesh as a sharp lance of pain embedded itself in the crook of his arm.
With another grunt of effort, Emeric shoved away from her, not trusting his arm for another swing immediately after such an impact. She accepted the shove, floating lightly backward until there was six feet between them.
Emeric's arm buzzed from shoulder to wrist, as if the limb had been starved of blood for hours. Her rapier had slipped beneath his couter to the folding plates within, and very nearly dug straight through the thin steel. He hadn't been bloodied, but having the full weight of a swing stopped by impact with a razor-tipped point was its own kind of deadening agony. He shook his arm out, trying to work feeling back into it, and immediately regretted it– the buzz became a deep, digging throb, every pulse of his pounding heartbeat sending a vice tightening around his elbow.
She hadn't escaped the exchange unmarred, however. The left side of her cuirasser's plate had a deep dent, one that visibly caught on the muscles of her shoulders as she moved, digging deeper or shallower with each subtle shift of her stance. Not quite as dangerous a blow as the one Emeric had received, which very may well have cracked some bone within his arm, but still, a wound.
Emeric heard orders being called out, the infantry he was surrounded by suddenly leaning forward and setting their halberds in the soil, bracing. His cavalry were charging once more, then. They shouldn't have, not against such a large and well-prepared enemy, but he was in their midst, after all. A damned foolish risk he'd taken, but how was he to know that the Champion and her beast had relocated to such a distant flank? Once again, they'd seemingly known exactly what he'd planned to do, and placed themselves in his way.
The coming cavalry charge changed the nature of the bizarre duel, however. The Champion glanced over, calling out.
"Think you could take that to the rear, babe? I don't want a hole in our formation up near the front."
In answer, the feline began taking slow, measured steps forward, pushing Emeric away from the direction of the front line. He didn't wish to be directed like cattle, but with the superior range of her weapon, he had no choice.
If he could engage her for long enough, he was confident his cavalry would break through to him, even if he shuddered to imagine the toll it would extract. Already the firearms had begun to crack from the treeline, lead balls audibly whistling overhead with their unique shrieks.
But he was not interested in merely surviving the duel. Here was one of very few actual threats to his Knights, foolishly engaging him in single combat. They'd had two exchanges, and while yes, they were both losses for him, ending with him barely breaking away before he could be skewered through, they were hardly decisive. To remove Lady Evie from the war was an opportunity he could not ignore.
It would not be an easy task, however. He was familiar with a great many styles of combat, having seen combat in the snowy northern forests, the chaotic plains of the west, and even the now-abandoned fields of the Tulian Kingdom. He had fought against spears and halberds, longswords and spathas, shield and Knight and unarmored barbarians alike, and yes, a great many rapiers, too.
But none of them fought like this woman. She did not fight as the Night's Eye did, with their emphasis on personal excellence and tactical maneuverability on the fields of battle, nor did she fight as a dandy Lord or Lady, with flagrant flourishes designed to dazzle an audience during a duel of honor. She did not even fight as a warrior, whose minimalist swings and stabs were built to last one through the exhausting hours of long battle.
This woman? She loved the fight. She was not here for King and Country, or for honor, or for any reason greater than her next rush of adrenaline.
Emeric could stall easily enough, he reasoned. If he fought defensively, it would be a simple matter to wait until his cavalry arrived, breaking away in the subsequent chaos.
But that would leave this fight unfinished.
With a roar, Emeric charged forward, shield braced, hammer held high.
The beast smiled, eyes glittering with delight.
His blow crashed down with all his might, whistling through the air. She braced her forearm against the flat of her blade to block it, deflecting the haft of his hammer at an angle, down and to the side, but even this transferred enough force that her leg nearly buckled, forced down by the blow.
Emeric shoved forward with his shield, slamming it into her chest, and pressed the assault.
She was stumbled by the blow, but rather than allow herself to be forced away, she clutched at his arm and drew herself closer, taking them into a macabre embrace, so that he could not swing even his shorter weapon.
In answer, Emeric slugged her across the face with his elbow. He felt something crack. Her leg then came around behind his knee, trying to take him to the ground. He kicked upward, disentangling himself, and together they stumbled across the grass in one another's arms, the blows slowly losing their subtlety, becoming nothing more than instinctive shoves and punches and grabs.
With a snarl echoing in his ear, Emeric felt something sharp press against his spine. A dagger, slipped through the folds of his armor.
Emeric shoved with all his strength, twisting to tear the dagger away from his skin. Its tip drew a hot line of pain across his back, but he didn't feel anything worse, and as she was thrown away from him, it fell to the ground behind him, only the tip bloodied.
This time, Emeric didn't catch his breath. He stepped forward with another swing from his hammer, coming at her from the side this time, trying to crush through her ribcage.
Her rapier appeared once more as she slipped backward, meeting his swing just in time to stop it from crashing into her. She seemed equally disinterested in awaiting the arrival of the cavalry, and so they fell into a series of increasingly rapid strikes, the ring of steel overpowering every sound and thought.
It was as infuriating a fight as Emeric had ever known. She utilized the summoning enchantment of her rapier almost constantly, a style of combat which Emeric felt certain had to be her personal invention. He, in turn, was forced to use his shield more and more, until the surface of it was as battered and scored as castle walls after a month's siege. Chips of wood fell away in progressively larger chunks, until eventually Emeric discarded it entirely, just before the thing would have disintegrated with a firm shake of his arm.
The feline, meanwhile, continued to weave through his swings. She was maddeningly elusive, harder to track than a falling feather. It seemed as if the mere act of swinging was enough to push her out of the way of his hammer, and every miss was followed up with a strike of her own. Emeric's armor was soon sporting a number of scratches across its surface, born of sparking blows that he just barely managed to take upon the thickest part of the steel.
But as in their first exchange, she was not entirely invulnerable. Emeric struck her offhand with the flat of his hammer once, undoubtedly breaking several bones, but her only reaction to this was to tuck it more firmly behind her back. He also landed several more strikes upon her cuirass, but these were all glancing, the dents too thin to inhibit her movement.
As was always the case in combat, though the exchange felt as if it lasted hours, it was more accurately measured in seconds. Barely a minute had passed when Emeric began to feel the familiar rumble of cavalry reverberating through the soil, a brassy bugle signaling the oncoming charge.
She looked away and behind him for a moment, the manic grin slipping down her face. It was replaced by a grimmer expression, lips pressed thin. Time was running short.
Emeric seized the moment with a vicious kick, taking her by surprise. His boot landed squarely in the soft flesh beneath her cuirass, throwing her to the dirt.
He moved quickly forward, hammer raised for a definitive blow, but her foot slammed into his shin just before he would have swung. He stumbled forward, his haste giving him too much momentum to quickly arrest, and she used the moment to leap to her own feet, regaining her stance.
Emeric swore profusely, turning around to swing yet again, but was this time interrupted by the roaring hoofbeats of a member of his cavalry shooting before him. The feline was forced to leap away or be trampled, and the cavalry rider, who Emeric couldn't immediately identify, pulled hard on the reins to wheel his horse around, placing themselves between Emeric and his opponent.
Lady Evie looked up at the rider, a derisive scowl on her face. There was a sudden flash of smoke from her hip, and then the rider slumped backward in the saddle, their faceplate a mess of metal and gore.
As the feline dropped a smoking firearm to the ground and turned to face him once more, he realized that the leather pouches he'd noted before, all six of them, held firearms.
A chill went through him.
Emeric leapt for the horse, guilt surging through him as he ripped its previous rider out of the saddle. He tried to crack the reins, but there was a second flash, and suddenly the left side of the animal's face was a bloody mess.
Emeric was pitched forward as the horse took two awkward, wobbling steps forward, then collapsed. For a moment all he saw was grass and soil, and then he shoved himself up, flinging his warhammer wildly in the direction the feline had last been.
When his vision focused, he found her standing eight feet away, smirking at him.
"She doesn't want me to kill you, you know," the feline said.
"You–"
Her hand flashed. Emeric's knee exploded.
He collapsed bonelessly to the ground, agony robbing him of any cohesive thought. It took all his strength to roll onto his side, staring into the evening sun. The feline approached until her shadow fell over him, another firearm held loosely in her no-longer-broken offhand. She shoved him all the way onto his back, and he groaned, trying to ignore the sensation of his lifeblood pumping out to wet the grass beneath his ruined knee.
She crouched, taking his warhammer from his hands. He swung a fist at her, but she let the limp blow strike her cheek without flinching.
"You're useful to her, Emeric. I wonder what that means for you, hm?" She glanced up, at something happening nearby. He was growing light-headed, and couldn't follow her gaze. "A good fight," she said, looking down to meet his eyes. "Had you a proper duelist's weapon, you certainly would have beat me. I look forward to your next attempt." She stood, summoning a white handkerchief, with which she calmly wiped blood off her hands. "But do so quickly, if you would. It won't be long before she's dragged me far beyond you."
She faded away, out of his sight. The sound of hoofbeats grew louder and louder, and soon Emeric found himself being lifted up and away.
Notes:
Knight Emeric's Very Bad Horrible No-Good Day
I was originally planning to add a battle map to this chapter, showing the motion of the cavalry relative to the Tulian Army, but couldn't find a tool to make it I was satisfied with in time. Did y'all feel like you kept a cohesive view of the battle, or was it overly chaotic, difficult to paint a mental map of?
Chapter 84: No Glory
Notes:
Two chapter update!
Chapter Text
The time after battle was always a surreal, disjointed nightmare. Sara had seen it a few times by then, against bandits and in minor skirmishes. Now, with the added haze of drifting smoke over a scale of devastation she'd never seen before, it was something else.
She could track the path of the battle by following the corpses. That was strange, too. She'd never thought about where people died, back in the days of medieval battles.
Now she couldn't think of anything else. Seen from a distance, the corpses were aligned in neat rows, falling where they'd bravely stood until the end. A dozen here, a dozen there, often clustered in tight balls where the brunt of the cavalry assault had been taken.
Worse still were the outliers. The stragglers. The ones who had lived just long enough to smear their entrails across the grass before collapsing, separate from their comrades. Sara could barely look at those. She'd heard them dying, with her Blessings. Heard them playing, or pleading, or even bargaining with themselves, promising their body that if it could last just five more minutes, they'd be saved.
And then they'd died.
And somehow, that wasn't the worst of it.
No, the cruelest torture came after the battle, after the bodies were collected and organized, after those who could be recognized were given sheets with their names on them so their family might someday find their tombstones.
The celebrations, the congratulations, were the worst of all.
It started as a trickle. Just one soldier coming up to her, musket barrel still hot to the touch. She'd given Sara a nod and a wave of her musket, cheerily thanking her for selecting her unit to be in the trees. Then another had gone past, their face brightening when they saw her, going out of their way to cross nearer so they'd have reason to salute her. That man had asked how many of the grenades they'd have in the future, if there would be units tasked with using them. If so, he wanted in. He'd seen what they did to the Sporatons.
Then, as the cavalry finally retreated over a distant hill and the squadrons were free to break formation, the real torture began. Soldiers began crying out Sara's name, laughing their relief with tears in their eyes. They pumped their fists when she passed them on her way to collect yet another casualty report, telling her all about how fast they'd seen the Sporaton cavalry run. She took some small satisfaction in that, at least, but not enough to dull the razor edge of hearing that an entire squad was dead. Twenty soldiers, every last member of the front ranks, run under by cavalry.
As the chaos slowly untangled itself and the reports began to filter in, Sara was faced with the fact that she'd just lost half of her effective fighting force in under an hour. Fifteen hundred men and women under her command, dead. Another fifteen hundred wounded beyond the ability to walk, much less march, and nearly every single surviving soldier claiming at least one scar from the conflict.
"They're still cheering me," she whispered, finding herself suddenly standing in the middle of the field.
Evie, who'd been silent by her side since the battle's conclusion, glanced up at her.
"Master?"
Sara limply waved the stack of casualty reports in her hand. "They're still cheering me."
"You won them the battle."
"They won the battle."
"With the weapons and tactics you provided them."
Sara sighed, running a hand down her face. The cool metal of her gauntlet felt good against her sweat-soaked skin.
"I get it, intellectually. Looking at it like I was someone else, I understand. They were anxious before the battle, terrified during it, and now that they've come out the other side, they're excited. Practically high off victory. It makes sense, hells, I've read enough about it to expect it, thanks to you." Sara fought off the urge to slump, force of will keeping her spine straight. She was still in public. "But when I look at it through my eyes..."
She scanned the corpse-laden field. For every hulking mass of a warhorse slain, there seemed to be a hundred soldiers.
Evie's eyes followed her gaze, then snapped back up to her.
"You've won, Master."
"Yeah."
"Defeated the enemy."
"Sure did."
Evie's eyes narrowed to slits. Sara suddenly found herself being tugged along, lead by the forearm in a manner she couldn't bring herself to bother resisting. After a few moment's walk, they stopped before one of the dead horses. It seemed to have caught a musketball between the eyes, the armor buckling enough that its rider was thrown. That rider now lay some distance away, already stripped of their armor and expensive clothing, the blood streaking their body abuzz with flies.
Evie crouched next to the horse, lifting up a piece of its scale-plated armor.
"Do you know what it takes to create this, Master?" She asked.
"A lotta money," Sara guessed half-heartedly.
Evie shook her head. "I am not speaking in monetary terms. Yes, the process is expensive. But think of the opportunities lost." A claw protruded from her finger to drag against the metal, a thin scratch revealing glyphs embedded in the steel. "Every plate of this armor is enchanted." Her finger trailed farther, scratching a line across the horse's armored ribcage, revealing glyphs that shimmered, then faded. "Each and every one. All of those plates were created by an artificer, Master. Hours upon hours, days upon days spent laboring over even a single one of these many thousands of pieces. Talents untold fettered upon them, secret magics levied and plied with the utmost of care. All to create... this."
Her hands spread out over the dead horse, looking up at Sara expectantly.
"What're you getting at, Evie?" She sighed.
"Something you care very deeply about, Master," Evie replied, standing. "You've a great many plans for your artificers, once the war is won. Projects I've never fathomed, projects that I doubt any in this entire world have dared to imagine. You talk constantly of the science of materials, of how it is at the core of all advancement, because it is with its products that all else are built." Evie gave the armor a solid kick, sniffing with disdain.
Sara blinked slowly. She could've understood what Evie was getting at, if she focused. She just didn't have it in her at the moment. Recognizing this, the feline stepped over the horse, standing directly before Sara.
"What could the people of Sporatos have done with this... this artwork, if the efforts involved had been directed more appropriately? What new wonders could have been smithed, what simple joys could have been spread?"
"Evie–"
"My point is simple. You have won a great battle, and you feel ill for it, because you cannot stomach the losses you incurred." She took another step closer, her voice dropping low and husky. "But I know you, Sara Brown. And with this knowledge, I ask you a simple question: if you cannot take joy in victory, can you at least find satisfaction in blood?" She reached up to touch Sara's face, cupping it gently through her open visor. "You've destroyed things worth destroying. You've given hope to a people that didn't know they lacked it. All I ask is that you have pride in that, my love."
Sara shuddered, leaning into the touch before she even realized she was doing it. She stood like that, basking in the small intimacy offered in the midst of carnage.
The sight of cavalry bearing down on her had been nauseating. Disgusting. The sheer horror that something like that could exist, that it did exist in such numbers, had disturbed her profoundly. Not because it was unique, or beyond her comprehension, but because she could recognize its purpose. Thick, spear-proof steel. Waving heralds and bugling trumpets. A visage born and bred for intimidation. A force designed to crush peasants, to grind rebellions to dust beneath their heels.
And with her army, she'd killed them.
Hell, she'd slaughtered them.
The count was shaky thus far, but by the earliest estimates, the Sporaton Knights had left two hundred of their dead on the field. An appalling, shameful figure, when put up against the thousands that had suffered to achieve it, but still. Two hundred Knights dead. Two hundred members of the autocratic nobility, dead. Perhaps, if she were lucky, two hundred villages and hamlets that would, for a time, be without their Lord's enforcer. Hundreds, maybe thousands of peasants that would be free to walk where they wished, to hunt the lands that were rightly theirs, to grow what, when, and where they pleased.
Sara took a deep, shuddering breath. She couldn't ever be proud of fifteen hundred people dead.
But two hundred dead nobles?
Oh, yes. She could find satisfaction in that.
"Gods," she whispered, leaning further into Evie's touch, practically burying herself in the woman's hand. "I need to get out of the army."
"Mm?" Evie hummed curiously, leaning in to press her cheek against Sara's breastplate.
"I'm serious," Sara insisted. "My coping methods are all kinds of fucked up right now. Like, you should've just heard what I thought."
"I felt it," Evie said, rubbing her collar.
"Damn. And you're still cool with me?"
"I'm in love with you, Sara." Evie briefly raised her head, looking her in the eye with sparkling amusement. "And besides, I think my methods may be worse."
Sara laughed darkly, wrapping an arm across Evie's shoulders. "We both need to get out of the army and work on some shit then, huh?"
"We cannot, yet. But eventually."
"Eventually."
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When night fell, it found Sara sitting amongst the wounded. Not acting as a doctor, not anymore, thank the gods, because Nidd's surgeons had finally eclipsed her to the point that she was more harm than help, but as an entertainer.
She'd cast two of her most powerful spells in the course of the battle, both Lightning, one to see if her new Chain Lightning was powerful enough to overwhelm Emeric's armor, and the other to break up the final cavalry charge. Neither had the full effect she'd desired, but that was a concern for later.
Because right now, she was using her remaining spells to entertain the agonized soldiers that remained after the fight. She had two hours worth of illusions, and she'd decided to use them for something they'd understand– a movie.
To them, the larger-than-life screen she'd projected across the open sky was an odd thing, but understandable. That it was in black and white they chalked up to some kind of screwery with her magic, and that it was in a language they couldn't understand was only reasonable, since she'd told them it was from her home. The addition of captions along the bottom was an entirely foreign concept, but easily ignored, since the bulk of them couldn't read anyway.
Sara though she'd nailed her movie choice, if she was allowed to be the judge of such a thing. It was mostly luck, since until it started playing, she'd barely remembered that she'd watched it– her dad had insisted, when he'd found out she'd started watching an anime. He'd tried to sell it to her that Kurosawa films were the "original animes", and that she'd get a lot more out of the modern versions if she watched some of those antiquated films first. Never mind the fact that she'd barely watched a few episodes of something that was trendy at the time– she couldn't even remember its name, now– he'd found his excuse to bust out an actual VHS tape, of all things.
The disconnect between her old life and new was feeling particularly strong, right about then. As she entertained over a thousand wounded troops who had been cheering her name a few short hours ago, her thoughts were mostly turned to a boring schoolday evening, trying not to fall asleep on her father's shoulder as he excitedly over-explained his way through Seven Samurai.
She thought she could appreciate the film a lot more, now. Even if it was still antiquated in a lot of ways, (the fight choreography was particularly exaggerated to her eye, now that she'd been in more swordfights than she could count) the characters were still compelling. The simple brusqueness of the plot hit home in ways it never could have before. Villagers preparing for the harvest, all while knowing that rogue samurai they had no chance of defeating were inevitably going to come and take it all. The desperate search for other samurai to defend them, ones who would accept payment no more grandiose than food. The over-eager Katsushirō wanting to learn swordsmanship from a bitter, quiet master, whose years at war left him with nothing but disdain for the incredible skill he'd cultivated.
Really, she hadn't even planned it. She'd just picked an old sword-swinging movie because she thought it would be the most palatable to her troops. But instead of an action flick that left them cheering racuously like they were at a bawdy tavern play, they watched in rapt awe as seven disgraced samurai trained a helpless village to defend themselves from bandits they'd once had no chance of resisting. A little on the nose, actually, if she was being perfectly honest with herself.
Her engagement with the movie was helped by the fact that, seeing as her only memories of it were in captioned Japanese, she had to voice the character's dialogue herself. No one else could read the English captions, not even Evie. So instead of relaxing with the men, Sara stood beneath the projected screen and spoke over the character's foreign language, doing her best to give them each voices she thought would match their character. She actually did a decent job, she had to admit, though Amarat's Blessings were the only reason why. She had an intuitive feel for the dialogue, as if she'd read the script a hundred times over, even though she barely remembered a single bit of dialogue.
The troops weren't entirely silent, of course. She could hear each and every one of their whispers, and knew the performance was going over well, and at times they did manage to grow animated. When Kyuzo is forced by an unknown samurai to accept a duel with steel swords, instead of practice blades, they shouted and jeered the unknown challenger, insulting his intelligence and cheering his death. Not quite the solemn reaction she imagined Kurosawa had wanted from the scene, but what else could one expect from a group of twenty-something soldiers? They knew better than practically anyone back on Earth how that fight was going to end up.
As the plot turned to the importance and lethality of three matchlock guns possessed by the bandits, Sara was even more surprised by the relevance of her incidental pick in movie. She even began to wonder if Amarat had influenced her choice, guided her to the half-remembered film in the first place. If so, she wouldn't complain. That the samurai struggled so desperately to control even three guns was a huge morale booster to the troops, who knew they possessed hundreds. Even in the Champion's old world, she'd heard many of them say, the weapons she gave us were so powerful. When we have enough for every soldier, we'll never lose a battle again.
Sara doubted that, but didn't correct them.
And then there was the final battle scene, when the bandits assaulted the now heavily-defended village. Those soldiers that could stand rose up, barely noticing that they were on their feet until others yelled at them to get out of the way. They'd cried out in dismay when a family had rushed into a burning home to save their father who had refused to abandon it, and many openly cried when one of the samurai managed to save only the family's child from the flames.
As the final battle progressed, however, and the seven samurai became six, then five, struck down one by one, the mood grew increasingly somber. They were afraid that the story would end with the bandit's victory, with the villagers robbed of their "Irregulars." In this world, that was a death blow. Peasants couldn't stand against career soldiers, no matter the circumstances.
But the battle was won, of course. With brutal losses, only three of the seven samurai remaining, but the village intact, the harvest saved. At the funeral for their dead comrades, one of the samurai even commented to the other that the victory didn't belong to them– it belonged to the villagers. If she'd had to come up with a better propaganda bookend for the story herself, she couldn't have. It was as flawless an example of the ideals she wanted to espouse as there could be; the powerful training and raising the powerless, leaving them able to defend themselves in ways they never could before.
When the proverbial curtains finally closed, Sara had stretched her illusions to the limit. It was a damn long movie, apparently, and if it weren't for the crazy reception it had been getting the whole way through, she'd have stopped an hour and a half early.
"I'm surprised your illusions lasted that long," Evie murmured as they began to gather up their things. It was late, late into the night, and many of the wounded were already fast asleep.
"I am, too. Guess I'm getting better at casting them, maybe?" Sara shrugged, pocketing several of Evie's sawed-off muskets, which her girlfriend had been cleaning throughout the movie. "Honestly, I thought I was pretty hard-stuck to what Amarat gave me. Nice to know I can actually figure things out on my own."
"And the implied possibilities are intriguing, as well," Evie purred, tail curling around Sara's hips.
Sara shot the tail a glance. "Really? Already? The battle was like eight hours ago."
"You're the one that always calls me insatiable, Master."
"That was supposed to be criticism, not an aspiration."
"Truly? How foolish of me." Evie's tail tightened, tip slipping beneath the hem of Sara's shirt to tickle her stomach. Sara shivered. "But honestly, Master, aren't you intrigued? With such large, long-lasting illusions, the possibilities are considerable."
Sara snorted as they made their way back to their tent, carefully stepping around the exhausted soldiers, who'd simply laid out in the grass as sleep took them. Such a lack of discipline was something she normally couldn't forgive, but she'd allowed it, considering the circumstances. By Evie's account, the chances of Emeric mounting a nighttime assault were next to nothing. Even if he'd had his wounds healed straight away, his knee hadn't been the only thing shattered.
And so it was with considerable confidence that they traipsed through the scattered Tulian Army encampment, hand in hand, hips bumping with each step. Evie's tail continued to possessively twist and curl under Sara's shirt, brushing against her abs or tickling at her waistband, something she tried her best to ignore.
"So did you like the movie?" She asked, trying to distract herself from the teasing.
"Well enough, Master. Certainly relevant to the values you wish to instill in the Tulian people." Her ears twitched, tracking some sound beyond Sara's hearing, then she continued on. "I still prefer the films you showed Hurlish and I in private, however."
"That's just 'cause you think Clint Eastwood is hot."
"His appearance I could take or leave," Evie said, though the fact that she did little more than shrug off the accusation was damning enough. "It's his character's skill with weapons that intrigues me. It would be more accurate to say that I find The Man With No Name attractive, rather than his actor."
"By which you mean you'd take his cock to the hilt with the first pump if he let you."
"That's not mutually exclusive." She sniffed. "And I'd at least extort him for some firearm lessons, first." She ran a hand along her ears, smirking. "It would be easy enough, I think. If I'm an exotic beauty in our world, imagine what I would be in your old?"
"Arrogant? Pompous? Cocky–"
"But you can't deny that I would be considered beautiful."
"Sure I can. Watch: you wouldn't be considered beautiful."
"But can you say the same without lying?"
Sara stayed silent.
Evie snorted, leaning harder into Sara's side. "Ever the technicalities with you, Master."
"You know you love it."
"Yes," she said, nuzzling into Sara's shoulder, "and unlike you, I am not stubborn enough to avoid admitting it."
Sara turned them away from a cluster of troops, whose merciless sergeant was forcing them to stay up and erect defenses around the spot where they'd chosen to camp. She'd specifically given the order that it wouldn't be required that night, but she'd always encouraged every commander to take their own initiative, and couldn't censor the sergeant for it. As they passed and the group came into range of her Blessings, she listened to the troops converse. Tired, but not angry, and the sergeant was a catfolk woman named Leso.
"Sergeant Leso's a candidate for promotion," Sara said to Evie.
"Understood," she said, flipping open one of her many notebooks to record the note. "Any details?"
"Sure. My Blessing's have recorded seven hundred and forty-two references to their name, and of those which referred to them with emotion, nearly fifty percent were positive."
"Only fifty percent?"
"She's a sergeant, Evie. Her whole job is kicking the rank and file into doing shit they don't want to do. That's actually one of the best ratios of any sergeant in the army."
"Hm. Interesting." She quickly scribbled the note, then shut the book with a click. "I wouldn't have anticipated the troops holding such an overwhelmingly negative perception of their sergeants."
"That's 'cause you never served under one," Sara said. "Noble privilege and all that. And besides, if it's a sergeant's job to kick soldiers into gear, it's the soldier's job to bitch about it. Most of the comments I've overheard weren't genuinely mean-spirited, just your usual sort of moaning and groaning. Performative, really."
Evie shook her head, bemused. "You possess a perspective of your army's wellbeing that I daresay no commander in history has ever enjoyed, Master. I cannot fathom what Master Graf would part with in order to obtain similar insight into his own forces." The teasing of her tail slowed, her analytical mind taking over. "The tally and percentages. Do you have to count them yourself and determine the ratio, or is this included in the Blessing, too?"
Sara made a so-so gesture with her hand. "Eh, bit of both. I know exactly how many things I've overheard, but figuring out the percentages of things is a bit rougher. More intuitive, not a precise number."
"Still invaluable."
"Yeah." Sara pursed her lips. "Imagine what it'd be doing for me if I actually did like a Champion of Amarat was supposed to and focused on diplomacy shit."
Evie rolled her eyes theatrically. "And imagine those that would suffer in the decades it took to bring about the change you desire, Master. Even if you convinced every noble you ever met the moment you opened your mouth, you would still spend years on the road professing your values. Regardless, you didn't choose this war. They did."
"I guess–"
"No, you know. And regardless, I am vetoing this topic. We are moving back to the discussion of your growing prowess with illusions. Do you think you are capable of creating tangible illusions, yet?"
Sara blinked in surprise at the assertiveness in Evie's voice. She seemed to be growing more and more of a spine every day, and Sara couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride for it. Of course, it might be better if she used that backbone for something other than exploring her raging libido, but Sara would take what she could get.
"No, I don't think so," she said after a moment's thought. "I think I've focused more on making the illusions bigger, longer-lasting. Not more detailed, which is where I imagine I'd end up with something that has feel to it."
Evie frowned. "Could you consider changing your avenue of study, then? I would love to experience some of the devices you've described to me."
"I'm pretty sure we could make a magic vibrator, if we can find an artificer willing to give it a shot."
"But that doesn't help us now, does it?"
"Gods, you're impatient."
Evie's hands joined her tail in wrapping around Sara's waist, their steps growing ever more awkward as they entangled with one another. "It's your fault, Master. Have you considered performing more poorly in bed, sometime? That might stave me off."
"No, that'd just get you going to Hurlish, and I'd get too horny hearing y'all go at it to hold back."
Evie's eyelashes fluttered up at her, one hand drifting lower. "Oh, what a shame. I guess you'll just have to rail me like the fate of the world depends on it, then."
Sara's steps hitched as she tried to turn away from Evie, her questing hand slipping beneath the front of her waistband.
"Christ, girl, some people are still up, y'know," Sara breathed, trying to keep her voice even.
"I'm aware. Do you think they'd like to join us?"
"I can't imagine anyone not wanting a piece of you," Sara said, snagging Evie's wrist and pulling it forcefully out of her pants. "But I don't think fucking your commanding officers is good for keeping the chain of command intact."
Evie pouted, wriggling to get her hand back into position. "You're right, Master. We do need to get out of the army."
Sara laughed. "That's what convinces you, huh?" She caught Evie's other hand just before the feline managed to get at the back of her pants, and pinned her wrists together. Evie may have been her superior as a duelist, but Sara still had the advantage on brute strength. Of course, the fact that Evie even allowed herself to get caught like that said something, but whatever. Sara was steadily careening past the point of caring.
"I've got an idea," Sara whispered, using her wrists to drag Evie close, breathing directly into her ear. The warm breath made the feline's ears flick and quiver. "You want me to do something special with my illusions?"
"Yes," she replied breathily, hunger growing in her eyes.
"Then listen close." Sara wrapped an arm around Evie's shoulders, pinning her to her chest, and began to whisper orders in her ear.
Chapter 85: Digital Baptism
Chapter Text
Master had difficulty truly understanding why Evie enjoyed receiving her orders. That was okay. It was a difficult experience to recall, much less describe.
It was also beautiful. The slow, rhythmic humming of her voice, washing over her in waves. The feeling of her thoughts slipping away, all the petty concerns of reality fading to insignificance. Being confronted with something so beyond her ability to resist, there was only one path left before her.
Submission.
She felt the steel cables of her muscles unwind as her Master's voice filled her, shifting Evie's reality according to her desires. Dimly, she was aware that she was still being led through the camp, steadied by a firm grip and occasional directions. But that was a distant, hazy thought. She was too busy obeying, her mind dry and parched, quenched only by the honeyed words soaking into her porous thoughts.
Her head lolled, eyes unfocused. She shivered. She was wet, profusely wet, and that wasn't from any of Master's orders, not anymore than the saliva that began to pool beneath her leaden tongue. The bliss that came from Obeying was a full-body thing, suffusing her with a heat that she could not refuse. Even if she had the mind to, even if the collar's control over her were not so absolute, she wouldn't have dared resist. The sense of mindlessness was too exquisite. It was good that Master had only ever done this with her; it was a drug, an addiction, an affliction she thanked the gods for. If she'd ever treated others to this sensation, they never would have given it up, and Evie would have to share it. A terrifying thought.
Eventually, the dull swirl of her thoughts began to straighten. Evie felt a stir of nausea, disorientation, as her eyes came back into focus. There were two worlds before her, overlapped, one real, one false. She did not know which was which, and shortly, she no longer cared. There was only one left, and it was the one which her Master wished her to see. That was all that mattered.
Evie blinked slowly, rubbing her eyes. She was sitting on something soft, and, to her surprise, she could move freely. That wasn't how Master's scenarios usually started. Nor was she often aware that it was Master's scenario, rather than her genuine reality.
As things came into greater focus, she was confronted by a sight more alien than she once could have imagined. Another world, in fact.
Master's former home.
The walls were a material she didn't recognize, solid white, without any sign of bricks or wallpaper. The floor was covered in what she initially thought was an inordinately large rug but was, on closer inspection, itself the floor. Carpet, she vaguely recalled. That's what Master had called it.
Her head craned about, taking in the rest of the room. She was sitting on a large sofa, black and plush, made as unrecognizable a material as everywhere else. There was a second area of the room separated by a tall bar, and it took her a moment to recognize it as a kitchen. The counter space beneath its cabinets was covered in a myriad of unknown metallic devices, and only the presence of knives in a cutter's block clued her in to the space's purpose. She could see, when she slowly stood, the oven that she had heard Master speak so much of. A black box which heated without flame or spells, reaching its greatest heat in a matter of minutes. Above it, the micro-wave. Similar, but even more rapid in its heating, though with some vaguely referenced trade-offs in terms of quality, if she recalled correctly.
Slowly, feeling as if her shoes would damage the fragile grace which surrounded her, Evie spun in place. Where a hearth should have been, there was now a thin plate of black glass, more metal boxes with blinking lights attached to it by tangled cords below. The sofa she had risen from was not the only one, just that which faced a set of curtains hanging from the wall, whereas the second sofa faced the boxes.
Despite the bizarre nature of nearly every facet of the building, there was also much familiar. Most of that came from knowing Master and her living habits well; there were discarded clothes upon the floor, stained with sweat and grime, and a plethora of small nothings which were scattered haphazardly across every flat surface. Most weren't decorative, she could tell, but rather something with which Master had been fiddling before setting aside and forgetting. The alien nature of the home was placed in stark contrast with the comforting familiarity of it being clearly occupied by the woman she knew so well.
That woman was in fact sitting on the second sofa, her feet propped up on a small wooden table placed a few feet before it. To Evie's surprise, Master looked the same as always. She was even wearing the same clothes as she had been before Evie had slipped under her orders.
"Well?" Master asked. "What do you think?"
"It is... fascinating," Evie breathed.
Master grinned. "Glad to hear it. Third time's the charm, I guess."
"Third time?" She asked distractedly, kneeling down to inspect the sofa. Its material was not silk, nor wool or cotton, but something unknown to her.
"Yeah, I didn't get it right the first few times. You asked me to blank out your memories after each attempt, so you'd get a proper surprise when it finally worked right." Master switched her feet around, waving a hand at their surroundings. "Well? Anything look out of place? The illusions not holding up somewhere?"
"Everything looks out of place, Master," she replied frankly, still stroking the sofa's material. She was beginning to suspect it was not even organic in nature, but artificial. "But I cannot deny what my eyes see."
"Perfect. 'Cause you could the first few times, and it's been about an hour of trying."
Evie blinked. "Truly? None of your illusions have required such effort before."
"That's because I just create normal pictures, usually. Right now I'm actually using the collar's bond, plus my Empathic Link spell, and a whole lot of lectured orders, so you'll ignore everything you need to in order to get the full picture. Then I had to drag around all the real life furniture to fit where stuff is in the illusion, so you can actually sit on things, then shove in your brain how those things felt..."
Evie spared her a look, under which Master withered.
"Okay, maybe it's been more than an hour. Or two. But hey, it worked!"
"You know we will have to march at first light," Evie said reproachfully, though she couldn't bring any sort of genuine sternness to bear. All she was presented with was too fascinating, her attentions pulled in too many different directions.
"Yeah, but once I had the idea, I couldn't stop. I've been wanting to do something like this forever." Master stood from her couch with a grunt, moving over to wrap a comfortable arm around Evie's side. "Got anything you want to check out first?"
"The kitchen," Evie said immediately, tugging Master over. "Every time we have had to start a fire for cooking, you whine and complain about your lack of a micro-wave. What is so wondrous about the device?"
Sara laughed. "Really, the microwave? That's what you're going for, first? I mean, fair, I guess, but I would've thought you cared about the ceiling fan or the lights or something."
"I've seen crystal lights and enchanted cooling devices before. Something which cooks food in an instant with the same invisible rays that the sun and stars themselves emanate? That is a wonder."
"If you insist. Keep in mind, though, I can't actually make anything for you to eat with it."
"I'm aware. Just show me how it operates."
Master obliged her, demonstrating the different buttons on the device's front panel, explaining their simplistic purposes. Everything was written in Master's original language, which Evie couldn't read, and so she narrated each step in detail. True to her word, the device was remarkably simple, or at least utilizing it was. It had a single level of heat it produced, and so one only had to select the duration for which you subjected the micro-wave's contents to the radiative energies. Apparently, due to the rapidity of heating, the core of food was often chill while the exterior was hot, and so two cycles were commonly necessary, with stirring or rearranging of the contents between steps. Master said this like it was some large inconvenience, which struck Evie as profoundly unappreciative. The things Master took for granted were astounding.
They moved to the oven, whose heated metal coils were at least more comprehensible in their functioning than inscrutable "radiation," and then the refrigerator, the operations of which Master knew frustratingly little, and finally the assortment of small powered wonders such as toasters, mixers, and– for some reason present on a kitchen counter– powered drills and decorative lamps.
"But hey, look," Master said, when Evie had finally had her fill of toying with the kitchen's devices, "here's the main event. Come over to the curtains. There's a reason all my furniture is second-hand garbage."
Garbage? Evie thought, eying the two sofas. Two. And a full-room rug. On what she understood from Master's explanation to be a basic peasant's wage. Her metalworking skills were one she often compared to those of a village blacksmith, who should never have been able to afford such luxuries. Absolutely absurd.
Still, she followed Master over to the curtains without comment. They were held up by a simple metal pole drilled into the wall, (another absurdity, using steel for mere decoration) and she quickly slid them open, letting in a surge of light. Evie squinted for a moment, leaning closer, and saw–
Something unfathomable. Evie had no particular fear of heights, but when she was suddenly confronted with the fact that she was standing dozens– hundreds– of feet in the air, all without knowing it? She thought she had the right to experience a bout of vertigo. She stumbled forward, catching herself against the frame of the largest and clearest window she'd ever seen, and simply stared.
Glass and stone monoliths soared into the sky in every direction, every one littered with windows and facades that were her only sense of scale. Between them ran streets more flawless than the finest laid cobble, painted a deep black with yellow and white adornments. A teeming mass of humanity ran in currents on either side of these streets, divided between by the rumbling rush of massive steel and glass boxes.
Her earliest assumption of Master's world, that it was a place composed solely of iron and concrete, had been far more accurate than her later, technically better-informed assumptions. There was no grass in sight, the few trees present only as deliberately placed decorations, too small to have been very old at all.
And the people. By the gods, the number of people. She could not count the many thousands of windows facing her, could not even remotely judge the size of the glittering, omnipresent monoliths of every building, but if each window represented a home like Master's? Each structure could have contained thousands upon thousands, and there were so very many, in every direction. Even from what Evie could see from Master's balcony, the city was larger in area than the Sporaton capital, and denser in population by every conceivable margin.
Perhaps even more bizarrely, Evie almost felt as if she understood what she was seeing. The unbelievable tales of Master's world were slowly coming into perspective, the possibilities of the things she spoke of coming home to roost. Concrete was clearly far superior a building material to any form of wood or stone, and with steel so cheap and common it was used for simple decoration, why wouldn't such a city come to be? It was human nature to cluster, to find the most valuable places and congregate there, and even if she still struggled to imagine the sheer wealth which would be necessary to support this sprawling conglomeration, Master had gifted her the knowledge of how it was possible.
The concrete buildings, she knew, were reinforced with steel bars running all throughout. Their heights were summited by elevating boxes pulled by clever counterweights, and the ungodly amounts of food required to feed such a teeming mass was brought in on the very "cars" which now ran thick as riverwater hundreds of feet below her. She had been shown the incomprehensible nature of a world and life as far beyond her own as she was to an ant, and yet, because of Master, she understood.
"So... good view, right?" Master asked, reaching around Evie. The glass she had been leaning against slowly slid aside, allowing them access to the balcony beyond. The wind carried with it a great number of innumerable sounds, and Evie thought it muffled for a moment, perhaps the illusion failing at the edges, until she realized that it was merely a recreation of Master's purely human hearing in her old life. The rumble of vehicles below, the whistle of wind spinning in tight rivers through the criss-crossing buildings, the dull roar of footsteps and chatter below. A sniff of something toxic, almost like Tulian pipe smoke, was explained by an illusory neighbor on a balcony above and to their right, a small cylinder of wrap paper afire between their lips.
Evie stepped out onto the balcony with almost religious reverence, one hand trailing on the edge of the door, the other grasping the back of Master's shirt. For all she technically knew this was an illusion, her body refused to recognize it. It wasn't, again, that she was afraid of heights, only that she simply had no scale for what she was experiencing. She'd been atop the great walls of Sporatos as a child, when her tutor in Administration had brought her there to see the city's layout from above, and that had been nearly as high as she was now. But the great walls of Sporatos were an anomaly in her world, the work of mages and spells centuries gone, one of the kingdom's greatest symbols of might. And now she had to crane her neck up to look at the other structures which surrounded Master's home.
Master, seemingly oblivious to this, walked right up to the balcony edge and leaned against it. "Yeah," she said, "this view's the reason why all the shit inside is so banged up. I got my first good steady paycheck a few years ago and thought, 'hey, why not spend it all on a cool apartment?'" Master spit over the edge, slightly ruining the illusion when Evie heard the droplet land a few feet away on what should have been open air. Her eyes, however, saw it get dragged away by the wind and out of sight. "It's a little over two thousand a month for a one bedroom apartment, which honestly isn't all that bad, compared to some city's downtown rents, but that's only because it's Detroit. Still sucked up most of my paycheck, and it was barely worth it. Most of my friends lived out in the suburbs, so even if I got to do the fun nightlife stuff that's around here, I'd have to wait for them to make the trip downtown anyway. Dad was giving me a ton of shit about it, saying I should move somewhere reasonable, and I knew he was right before I even signed the lease. Still, what's the point of being in your twenties if you're not gonna make some stupid decisions every now and then?"
Evie blinked stupidly. So this was something of a luxury location, insofar as one of Master's social status had been concerned? She supposed that made sense, but she'd have thought... she didn't know what she would have thought. The stresses of economy in a world capable of producing cities like this was so far beyond her experience that it may as well have been from another plane of existence. She supposed it was, actually.
Master turned back to look at her, registering her expression of numbed awe for the first time.
"Do you wanna go back inside?"
"No," Evie quickly said. She took a step forward, to the railing of the balcony. "No, not at all." To allay Master's fears, she hurriedly searched for a question to ask. "These buildings, then," she said, waving to the tallest in immediate sight. "They all contain homes such as yours?"
"Oh, no," Master said, plainly grateful Evie wasn't getting overwhelmed. "Those are business buildings, mostly. Office towers. Got a whole bunch of people working corporations in there, counting money and filing reports and shit."
"And... one corporation, it can afford such a structure? It can need such a structure?"
Master shrugged. "Some of 'em, yeah. A lot of the buildings have floors rented out to other companies, though, and some of 'em aren't for any one company in particular, and they're filled with all kinds of different businesses." Her smile grew smugly satisfied. "Though that was changing, back when I got ripped out of here by Amarat. People were starting to work from home more and more 'cause of a big pandemic running through the place, which means those big old corporations suddenly had a lot of property that wasn't doing much more than costing them money. Some were having to sell it off, or were trying to get people to come back into the office, but it wasn't working. That was pretty nice to watch, seeing those big corporations get their wallets knocked around a bit."
"That is... I cannot imagine the wealth involved," Evie breathed.
"Honestly? Neither can I. There's too much money involved for any one person to really get to grips with. And the worst part?" Master pointed down the street a ways, to where there was a small cluster of multicolored tents. "All this fuckin' money in one place, and there's still homeless people."
Evie leaned a little bit further against the railing, peering hard. As Master had said, she could now recognize people moving throughout the tents, wandering aimlessly. Though their clothes, appearance, and circumstances were quite different, she could still recognize the despondent nature of their wandering.
She looked back to the unfathomably massive buildings, then to the homeless encampment again. Master watched her do so, a sad smile on her face.
"Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Kinda hard not to, isn't it?"
"The amount of wealth someone who owns such a building must possess–"
"And they're half empty right now, too." Master interjected. "Hell, most of those are businesses, but there's still more empty homes littered around than anyone could count, and most of 'em are owned by people who could live off their bank account's interest for a hundred years."
"I see," Evie said simply. She thought of Sara's anger, her rage and frustration, and for the first time in quite a while, thought she eked out a slightly better understanding of her partner.
Sara continued speaking. "The people that own this stuff, they'll say all kinds of things about it. That the vacancies are temporary, that the homeless people down there are homeless for a reason, that they can't take the risk and yadda-yadda-yadda." Sara sniffed, wiping her nose. "Doesn't change the fact that there's a couple thousand people in this city that could afford to build houses for every one of those people, all on their own, without making a single damn dent in their budget."
Sara sighed, pushing herself off the railing. "But that's not what we're here for. Wanna come see my room?"
Evie spared one last look for the incredible sights before her, trying to press it deeply into her memory. She knew Master could recreate the illusion later, but it was too wonderful a sight to risk even the slightest chance of forgetting, if something prevented her from coming back here again.
That done, she turned around and nodded, taking Master's hand as they returned to her former home.
Notes:
Smut's not quite done yet, was regretfully occupied by mother's day. Should be uploaded by tomorrow!
Also, if you're curious, I used a specific apartment in Detroit as a reference for Sara and Evie's view in this chapter. This one, to be precise. I also ended up researching the average Michigan welder's wage, and the cost of this apartment in particular, just to make sure it all technically worked, which... was probably not necessary. I think I may have a realism fetish.
Chapter 86: Sick of Being Honest (E)
Chapter Text
Master's bed was perhaps the most luxurious thing Evie had ever felt. A thick, heavy mattress, of a material unlike any feather or straw she knew, which left a deep imprint that she slowly sank into. It was as if she weighed nothing, floating through the sky.
Master ran a hand through her hair, carefully circling her ears.
"You know," she said, "when I invited you to my room, I expected you to get in my bed first thing, but not quite like this."
"Mmm," Evie hummed, curling closer into Master's side. "You should have had less interesting home, then."
She heard Master take a long, slow breath, and Evie enjoyed the feel of her head rising up as her chest swelled. Between Hurlish and Master, she was spoiled for comfort when it came to breasts to rest her head on.
"...I miss Hurlish," Evie said quietly.
Master snorted. "Her, or her tits?"
"Must I choose?" Evie nuzzled closer, breathing deeper of Master's scent. "She'll be showing quite noticeably by the time we arrive."
"I know. Think her stomach's the only thing that got bigger?"
"Is it selfish if I hope her breasts did grow?" Evie asked. It had been quite the frequent topic of conversation between the three of them since Hurlish had gotten pregnant, and since they had left the city, the stubborn woman had refused to tell them if they had or not. "They were already getting in the way of her smithing, weren't they?"
"Maybe a little bit. I can't imagine she'd blame you for wanting it, though."
"Thank goodness. I doubt I'd be able to scour the hope from my mind."
Master once again chuckled, and the buzz of it was pleasant against Evie's cheek. She was beginning to understand why Master spoke so fondly of her home's amenities. Even recreated by a combination of illusory magic and collared orders, it was luxurious. Controlled temperature, a "foam" mattress, and the utterly exquisite view through the window... It was almost enough to make Evie forget why they'd come here in the first place.
Almost. But not quite.
Evie turned her face inward, burying her nose between the generous valley of Master's breasts. She squeezed closer with her whole body, curling her arms and legs in, feeling the larger woman's muscles beneath her fingers. Briefly, she wondered why Master hadn't also recreated her old self, from this world. Evie supposed she'd finally come to view this new body as her own.
"Y'want something?" Master asked, reaching up to scratch at her head.
"Always," Evie rumbled, though it was incomprehensible when spoken from within Master's breasts.
"I'll take 'mmghfh' as a yes," Master hummed, digging her fingers deeper into Evie's scalp.
She instinctively pushed up into the touch, hard, groaning softly. There were few things better than her Master's hands tangled in her hair, and thankfully for her, they were all present in this bed with her. She felt a purr begin to rumble out of her chest at the touch, and even though it was far from the first time Master had pulled such sounds from her, she still felt a reflexive flush of embarrassment. How childish, to be purring from such a simple touch.
Thankfully for her, the touch did not remain simple for long. Master's other hand reached up to join the first, knuckles pressing into the soft joint between her ears and the rest of her head. Evie's purring grew in pitch, drowning out the sound of the air conditioner, and in a matter of seconds her mouth had fallen open, panting openly onto Master's shirt.
Master laughed happily as Evie's body tightened in its curl around her, seizing her as if she never intended to let go. Truthfully, if she thought it actionable, she very well might. She wondered if there was any spell more extreme than that which bound Ketch and Selliana, such that she and Master would be physically joined for the rest of time. If it meant she could have those hands on her whenever she wished, it would be well worth whatever it cost her.
One of Master's hand suddenly left her head and, before she could protest, swept around to cup her chin. Her gaze was drawn upward, until she was watching Master with lidded eyes, mouth still hung open as she panted.
Gods, what a joy this is, Evie thought, to have someone like her desire me so. To have the honor of her taking her pleasure from my body.
She knew Master technically wouldn't have wanted her to think of their sex in such a way, as Master simply using Evie's body for her own satisfaction, but she refused to consider it in any other fashion. It was too delectable a frame of mind, one that that left her delirious with anticipation, with the desire to open her legs and let her mind be carried away by those beautiful hips. She was the bedpartner of a god's champion, the one which satisfied the Goddess of Passion's chosen. What greater pride could a woman take in her body than that?
And so she watched Master with her lips slightly parted, waiting patiently. She would be used, she knew, taken apart by tongue or finger or cock, and she didn't care which. Only that her Master claimed her body, took her as her own.
"In the mood for anything in particular tonight?" Master asked, her voice falling low and husky.
"You," Evie breathed, the word summoned without thought.
Master rolled her eyes. "How original. C'mon, we're in my old apartment. Isn't there anything I've told you about from my world that gets you going?"
Evie struggled through her arousal, trying to recall anything of note. Why did Master always insist on asking her these questions? She was here for her Master to use, not to contemplate and discuss things with.
"That's..." Evie paused to groan as Master's fingers dug deeper into her ears, "...what did you do with your old partners?" She eventually managed to ask. "Before you came to our world. What did you do with them?"
Master smirked, and Evie got the distinct surge of pride that came with finding the correct response to one of her questions. Master shuffled to the side, reaching into a table drawer beside the bed, and took from it two things. One, Evie recognized in purpose, if not the specific form: cuffs, with soft padding along the interior to prevent oneself from injuring their wrists as they thrashed in delight. The second, however, was unfamiliar, a long white rod with a rubbery ball atop.
Master explained nothing. Before Evie could ask a question, her lips found Evie's, and she lost herself in the taste of her lips. Cherry, that alien plant she had never truly eaten, had long since become Evie's favorite fruit in all the world. She licked and nibbled at Master's lips just to get the smallest taste of it, eagerly opening her mouth when she was pushed back, letting Master explore the inside of her mouth with intoxicating relish.
She barely felt her arms being raised, too lost in the feeling of the slow kiss, but the subtle click of the cuffs sent her heart racing. Master really restrained her partners, even so far in the past? Not that she was complaining of course, but–
Ropes slid around her ankles, the slow hiss of fibers against skin silencing Evie's thoughts with a shiver. She instinctively tried to resist her legs being pried apart, but that was hopeless. Though their prowess in battle was Evie's favor, she could no more resist her indomitable strength than she could fight the rising sun. Soon she was laying exposed on the bed, only her thin garments left to protect her.
Master saw to those in short order. Evie squirmed as she felt trimmed fingernails scrape against her hips, pulling her pants down to her knees, before they could go no farther, on account of her restrained legs. She looked down along her body with abject delight as Master crawled up towards her, lifting her shirt up, up, until it was bunched up beneath her throat, leaving her heaving chest bare to the room's chill. Her nipples were already hard, and the cool air wafting over her had them hardening further, until they were practically throbbing, begging to be touched.
Master did no such thing, however. Instead she simply sat back with her knees folded beneath her, looking down at Evie, drinking in the sight of her body. Evie's breath caught in her chest, instincts warring. She wanted Master close, so close, touching her and feeling her, but at the same time, she could see the plain pleasure she took in letting her eyes rove over Evie's body, and bringing her Master pleasure was the greatest thing her arousal-drunk mind could imagine. The war of Evie's desire left her shivering and twisting in place, trying in one moment to hold as still as a painting, the next straining against her bonds to bring herself closer to Master, and in another she simply lay limp, trying to be patient enough to wait until Master finally took her.
"You're beautiful, you know," Master whispered.
"Beautiful enough to fuck already?" Evie pleaded.
Master chuckled, moving forward until her knee was between Evie's legs. She kept it just an inch away, right where Evie's eagerly bucking hips couldn't reach it, and Evie groaned in frustration.
"Y'know, I remember when you didn't have such a foul mouth on you," Master said. "The begging, the pleading, that was always there, but the profanity? I've been a bad influence on you."
"And I'm eager to grow worse," Evie panted, still uselessly trying to press her sopping wet core into Master's knee. She could feel her arousal dripping down her thighs, landing in spots on the bedsheets. "Come on now, Master. I feel your arousal coursing through me. Take what's yours already."
"What's mine?" Master leaned over her, one hand resting beside her head, the other landing between the gentle swell of Evie's breasts, and her knee, oh-so-infuriatingly, no closer than it had before. Master's fingers began to trace circles around her breasts, just on the outside, never kneading or even coming close to her aching nipples. Her head dipped lower, until she was whispering in Evie's ear. "What's mine is mine, Evie. And I'll do with it what I please."
Evie shuddered, her hands twisting and clenching. Gods, she loved this.
Master retreated slightly, returning to her place straddling Evie's legs, and suddenly put all her weight across Evie's thighs. The sudden heat of it, even through her pants – Gods, why hadn't she undressed yet– told Evie that she lacked a cock tonight. She wondered if that was the result of Master's desires, or her own. It was difficult to tell at the best of times, much less when Evie was awash with arousal.
The device from earlier appeared in Master's hand, the long white wand. It took Evie a moment to decipher what it was, but after a moment of wracking her mind, it came to her.
A vibrator. One of the toys which Master so often lamented her lack of, and was constantly trying to work up the bravery to ask the artificers to recreate. Evie's breath caught in her throat, and she felt yet another pulse of arousal course its way down to her core.
Without a word, looking absolutely mischievous, Master clicked a button on the wand's base. It rumbled to life in an instant, edges blurring as a buzzing sound filled the air.
"Please..." Evie breathed, the request slipping from her without prompting.
"You'll have to work for it," Master warned her, grinning.
"Anything," Evie said, "anything, always, for you."
"We'll see how long that lasts."
Slowly, tantalizingly, Master lowered the vibrator towards the crook of Evie's legs. She strained against the ropes binding her ankles once more, but this time in an effort to widen them, exposing her sopping arousal to her Master. She felt her heart pounding in her chest, pulse thudding in her ears, watching Master torture her with the slow pace she was setting as the vibrator went lower, lower, lower...
...and then stopped. Just above Evie's clit, Master stopped, holding it there.
"Master!" Evie mewled desperately.
"I said you'd have to work for it," Master said, keeping the vibrator just too far away. Evie didn't even know what it would feel like, but she needed to find out. "Come on Evie, you're a flexible girl. I know you can do it."
Evie bucked her hips upward, abs tensing as she tried as hard as she could to raise herself to touch the vibrator.
Master, the contemptible woman, raised it slightly, once more out of reach.
"Ah-ah," she hummed, "that was too easy, wasn't it? I know you can do better."
Evie couldn't respond. She was too busy straining, throwing her hips upward with as much desperation as she'd ever felt in all her life. The ropes creaked around her wrists, the cuffs tied to the bedframe above her creaked, and as she strained, she felt Master's eyes falling across her body, soaking in her muscles until, finally, thank the gods, she managed to just barely touch the–
Evie recoiled with a shout, her hips dropping to the bed in an instant. So intense, like nothing she'd ever felt before, a shock of pleasure so sharp it may as well have been pain.
Before her gasp of surprise even finished, Master shoved the vibrator down, chasing her into the bed. Evie's eyes flew open, white lights bursting into her vision as her entire core clenched, the buzzing shock of it overwhelming every thought. It was like lightning, delectable lightning, like the buzzing lips of a lover's humming kiss multiplied a thousand times over. Her hips first tried to roll away, then thrust into it, thighs clenching as her body tried to pin the vibrator in place, to never let it go.
And then Master tore it away, ripping Evie out of her delirium, staring with wet eyes up at what seemed, at least in the moment, to be the cruelest woman she'd ever known.
"Master..." she groaned, the single word all she could manage.
"Yes?" She asked, tone as plain as if they were discussing the weather. "Something you wanted from me?"
"Fucking... fuck you," Evie breathed, hips twisting involuntarily on the mattress. She could still feel the lingering aftereffects of the buzzing vibrator, even when she'd only felt its touch for a few scant seconds, and she needed more of it. She was almost certain that one of Master's orders had been to enhance her pleasure, because she refused to believe a device like that could be openly sold in her old world. It would drive women mad, leave them locked in their homes with nothing but the sheer pleasure of it clenched between their thighs.
"Need me to turn it down?" Master asked, the question oozing sarcasm.
"I'll claw your eyes out if you dare do such a thing," Evie snapped. She extended her claws, trying to find a way to cut through the cuffs restraining her hands. She needed that wonderful thing back on her as soon as possible. Unfortunately even she couldn't cut through steel, and Master laughed at her attempts.
"Alright, alright," she said, bringing it back down. "But you're still going to have to work for it."
Master held the vibrator just close enough that when Evie bucked her hips, she could press her clit against it. It took nearly every muscle in her body to do it, curving upward with shameless desperation, but she didn't care. The shock of its touch was so delicious, so unlike anything she'd ever experienced, that she didn't care how her muscles began to burn, didn't care how her arms and legs began to shake. She tried to grind herself against it, but the moment she found that friction, Master moved it slightly away, so all she could do was just find the lightest touch of it.
Eventually she could hold her position no longer, and she collapsed back down onto the mattress, panting. Master towered over her, leering at the way her chest rose and fell, and the sight of such desire in her owner's eyes was nearly enough to drive Evie mad.
But apparently the same wasn't true for Master, because she didn't relent. Evie was forced to catch her breath before thrusting her hips back upward again, a ragged moan tearing itself from her throat as she made contact with the vibrator. The ache of her muscles intermixed with the waves of pleasure roaring through her into something uniquely wonderful, soaking into every fiber of her limbs.
But she couldn't hold the position forever, and when she finally dropped back down once more, it was with a dissatisfied moan falling from her lips. It wasn't enough for her to find her climax. She writhed on the bed, making eye contact with her Master, trying to communicate her desires without words, her breath too far gone for speech.
At first it seemed Master's resolve was holding strong, enjoying Evie's desperate mewling far too much to give in, but Evie had a secret weapon. She widened her eyes, tucking her ears flat back against her head, her tail curling out from under her to stroke Master's leg. She looked, for all the world, like a begging kitten. She supposed she was, in fact.
"Please?" She asked, her voice whiny and needy. "Please, Master? I want it so, so bad. I need it, please?"
Her Master sucked in a deep breath, taken aback. For all she could read other people, sometimes she was so easy to play with.
"I suppose you've been a good girl today," Master whispered, dropping the vibrator lower.
Evie's eyes shot open as the head landed against her clit, pressing far harder than it ever had before. It was... it was... like nothing she'd ever known. A buzz that seemed to radiate through her whole body, sending her quivering with shaky moans. Her breath hitched and stuttered as Master began to press harder, moving it in circles, sometimes lowering it to the lips of her pussy, other times pressing hard into her clit.
Evie felt her climax rushing up within her at a speed she'd never known, taken into delirium by the vibrator. She began to buck her hips mindlessly, long-practiced instincts trying to shove something into her, but Master's cock wasn't there. She was still fully dressed, grinding against Evie's thigh, enjoying the sight of her toy taking Evie to pieces. As the wave continued to roar up within her, Evie mustered all her strength, calling out.
"Not without you," she groaned, "not without you, Master, please, I need you with me– I need you to– ah!– please!"
She tried to pull her hips away from Master's toy, but there was nowhere to go. Her cries fell on deaf ears, Master's delight seeming to grow with each passing moment.
Evie tried. She really, really did, trying to hold back her pleasure, but she just couldn't. The sight of her Master, her owner, pressing down on her, torturing her with pleasure, the knowledge that all she had was bared to the woman who loved her, and then the pleasure of the vibrator itself, it was all too much.
Evie's legs suddenly clenched, muscles jumping, her eyes thrown wide as she stared at nothing, a single cry slipping loose from her lips. The pleasure that had been radiating through her core exploded outward, filling her entire body with pulses of liquid nectar, thick and addictive. She twitched and writhed, bucking her hips up into the vibrator, then away, unable to tell if she was overwhelmed with pleasure or in feverish need of more, more, anything she could get. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, shuddery gasps all she could summon until, blissfully, mercifully, Master pulled the vibrator away, and she collapsed to the bed.
Evie's eyes slammed shut as if lead weights had been hung from them, her mind incoherent mush. Somewhere very far away, she thought she felt hands on her body, feeling at her breasts, cupping her cheek, but she couldn't be sure. She was too lost in the aftershocks of pulsating pleasure, each one thumping through her body in a way that made her shiver and shake.
When she finally came to, it was with her hands and ankles untied, and her legs spread. Slowly, she became aware of a sensation of fullness, so familiar.
She looked down through lidded eyes, and found Master holding her hips up in the air, her cock impaled into her. The moment she registered the sight, the pleasure shot through her, a delectable ache that almost hurt, so sensitive was she from her earlier orgasm.
Evie threw her head back, swallowing a load moan. She'd talked with Master about this before, but it had never happened. The thought of her body just being used, whenever her owner so pleased, whether she was asleep, or working, or anything else. It was one of the greatest fantasies she'd ever had, but Master had never done it, always uncomfortable with the idea.
What had changed, Evie couldn't say, but to have woken up with Master's cock spearing her through, her owner's eyes closed as she focused entirely on her own pleasure? It was a sort of heaven Evie hadn't known she could ever be in.
Master didn't even notice that Evie had awoken; she just kept pumping, her cock sliding in and out of Evie's pussy with wild abandon. Evie, ever the dutiful pet, did nothing more than lay there, letting Master take her as she pleased. She was nothing more a toy, a warm body for her owner to use, and she would have it no other way.
Master's pumping began to intensify, and Evie blearily realized she had no idea how long Master had been using her for. That, too, excited her in a way that was difficult to define, and even though she was trying to pretend she was still asleep, she couldn't help the way her pussy clenched down on Master's cock at the thought, intensifying the feeling of fullness. She could feel every curve of her cock, the way her head pressed her open on each thrust. Master groaned, low and hungry, and it took all Evie had not to begin throwing her hips up into each thrust.
The pleasure radiating from Evie's collar was thick and heady, nearly overwhelming. She felt Master's cock as if it were her own, her pussy clenching down on her cock, and she felt the way she was being split open, Master's cock just large enough to keep her on the razor edge of pain, but never tipping over that line, keeping her as full as she could ever dream of.
She suddenly wished she'd awoken earlier, because Master's breath began to catch, her cock throbbing within Evie. Her pace increased, and Evie's collar redoubled its efforts, shoving every drop of her owner's sensations into her mind. It wouldn't be long, not long at all, and when it happened, she knew she wouldn't be able to–
Evie cried out in the same breath Master did, throwing her legs around Master's hips, digging her heels in to shove her as deep as she could go. Master threw her hips forward, shoving her cock up into Evie until their skin was pressed flush, her cock jumping inside Evie once, twice, and then–
And then her reward. Evie's mind shattered as she felt Master spill her seed into her, pumping her full. Every pulse shot hot whiteness into her core, filling her with Master's cum, the pulsating jump of her cock rubbing against every inch of Evie's pussy. She threw her head back, gasping long and loud, a prayer to no god in particular filling her mind, wordless thanks to the universe that she'd been brought to this moment.
Master suddenly collapsed, her full weight landing on Evie. The motion stirred her cock in Evie's pussy, and even that had Evie twitching, two rapid orgasms leaving her more sensitive than she thought she'd ever been in her life.
"Gods," Master breathed into her ear, "you're so fucking perfect."
Evie tried to say something snarky back, or return the compliment, but she didn't have the breath to manage it, much less the mind. Her thoughts were too focused on the feeling of Master's seed filling her, slowly seeping out to drip onto the bed below them.
They lay like that for a time, catching their breath, enjoying the feeling of their sweaty skin pressed against one another. She wondered if Master's illusions could block sound, or if half the camp had just heard what they'd done. She hoped it was the latter.
Eventually Evie's senses returned enough for her to try speaking, though she had to swallow several times, wetting her lips so they wouldn't smack.
"That... gods..."
"Yeah..."
"Why... why now?" Evie asked. "I've wanted that for so long, so why now?"
"I... was horny?" Master tried, still laying across Evie's chest.
Evie gave her ass a playful swat. "Real answer, Master, if you don't mind."
"Uh..." Master shifted, finding a more comfortable way to lay across Evie. Her weight made it slightly hard to breathe, but she'd be damned if she was going to tell Master that and risk the woman moving off her. "I guess... because you're not as obsessed with the collar anymore?"
Evie blinked. "What? How do you mean?"
"It's just... well, in the past, right, you loved the collar. Loved losing control. But not, like, in a fetish way, right? In a scared of the world way." Master took a deep breath, organizing her thoughts. "But now you're just... a regular sub, I guess? More normal. Or, uh, not normal, but your wild-ass fetishes are coming from a different place, y'know?"
Evie absorbed that in silence, mulling it over. She'd maintained that she loved her collar for the control it afforded Master over her, and she hadn't ever analyzed that belief since it had first formed.
But thinking of it now, had it really changed? She had done so much with Hurlish, who had no control over her collar, and she had delighted in every minute of it. And some of her most wonderful moments with Master, sexually speaking, hadn't been under the collar's influence.
"I... hadn't thought of it that way, Master," she eventually said. "I'm not sure how I feel about hearing that."
Master reached up to Evie's head, scratching through her sweat-soaked hair. "Well, obviously make up your own mind about it, but personally? I'm glad for it."
"That's... hm." Evie honestly couldn't say she knew what to think. On one hand, it seemed nearly inconsequential; she delighted in her lover's bodies, in pleasing them and being pleased by them, and what role the collar played in that was hardly relevant. Sex was sex, after all. But on the other hand, the collar was more than just an accessory, more than just a sex toy. Its implications affected her entire being, from soul to body.
"I'm too tired for this," Evie eventually sighed, settling her head into the pillow. "I'll think about it later."
"Okay," Master hummed. "Good night."
"Good night, Sara."
She felt Master smile widely against her, and she didn't realize why right away. She'd called her Sara. Not Master. Casually, without specific meaning.
Another thing to think about later, she decided.
Notes:
Smut done! Next week, the interludes that herald the start of Book Two, Part Three: Siege of Tulian
Chapter 87: Interlude
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Garen
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Garen hid behind his spell with two of his trusted apprentices– students, he supposed he should now call them– crouched behind him, their faces protected by thick helmets pilfered from Tulian's armories.
The former Tulian University had sported quite the collection of spell testing rooms, but only one of them had been suited for his purposes. Ensconced deep within the building's bedrock, it had clearly been tuned to contain only the most advanced student's spellcraft. The cobblestones were bleached white to better resist continuous exposure to hellish energies, the mortar that sealed them engraved with strengthening runes at a rate of one per three inches, peppered uniformly across the interior of the thirty foot cube. The room's light was sourceless and colorless, eliminating all shadows within the space, giving the space a difficult to define, ethereal air.
Or it would have, up until the contraption Garen and his students had been placed on a pallet of wooden beams directly in the room's center. The mixture of clanking, groaning, whirring noises was certainly mundane enough to offset any sense of peace from the space, not to mention the source of the noises, which was currently rattling itself to pieces before their very eyes.
"Stay down!" He chastised his student, a human boy whose bright eyes were at current liability to grow considerably duller, if he kept sticking his head over the barrier. While Tinvel was a natural-born mage, technically capable of becoming a proficient spellcaster, he had taken almost obsessively to artificery, spurred on by the unique demands placed upon him by the Champion's strange requests.
"But the shield shimmer affects vision," Tinvel protested petulantly.
"So does a bolt to the skull," countered Garen's other student, smacking him with her tail. A Vanara girl of her late teens, the second of her incredibly rare race Garen had met in Tulian. When Chona had successfully applied to become a student, he'd thought to ask if she were related to the alchemist Sara had hired, but decided that would likely be a faux-pas. The girl's fur was darker than the alchemist's anyway, nearly jet black, though he was unfamiliar with Vanara hereditary features.
Chona at least showed a similar temperament to the blackpowder mogul of Tulian, if the way she scolded her fellow student was any indication. "If you wish to have a better view, you'll have to practice your actual spells, instead of spending all your time tinkering." The girl was peeking over Garen's shield, maintaing her own, clearer spell to protect her eyes, trusting her helmet to cover the rest of her head.
"If I hadn't spent my time tinkering," Tinvel snapped back, "there wouldn't be anything to observe."
"Silence," Garen said, focusing his own efforts on the protective shield he held up before them. While he was certain it would protect them from near anything, the machines Sara had requested he build had a terrifying propensity for exceeding his expectations. In a certain way, he was impressed with the simplicity of their power. Every mage of consequence was familiar with binding loops, pairs of spells which fed energy into themselves to fuel their mutual empowerment, and was frankly shocked no one had before attempted something similar in a more physical manner. Acceleration of objects was nearly always limited by the distance one had to accelerate them, so it only stood to reason that keeping the acceleration localized by spinning about a central axis, much like a waterwheel, greater speeds could be attained than ever before–
–the thing began flying apart without warning, metal and wood shrieking as the bonds which held them was finally overwhelmed. Garen could no more track the flying debris than he could the flight of an arrow, the entire room echoing with endless cracks and pings as shrapnel bounced off the stone walls. It was a prolonged process, first some circular bands snapping, then others, each failing in different ways and different times. He would have paid more attention if he was not so focused on his shield, making sure none of the unfathomably rapid slivers pierced it through.
A great number of pieces suddenly impacted said shield directly, embedding themselves in the gelatinous structure of the manifested energies in nearly the same moment he heard Chona gasp in pain. He couldn't immediately glance back, seeing as ricochets and other failures were still pinging their way through the room, but he did expand his shield back and to the sides, until it met the wall in a tight seal.
Finally, when the last remains of the gasping machination had finally given up on its tantrum-esque death throes, he dropped the shield, letting the held debris patter to the ground with little clicks. Only then did he turn around to inspect Chona.
She had dropped to one knee, teeth gritted in pain as one hand covered the back of her furry thigh. A piece must have bounced off the wall to strike her from behind, Garen surmised. Blood welled up between her middlemost fingers, making Tinvel, who had knelt by her side, gasp in shock.
"A-a-are you alright?" He asked, voice quavering.
"No!" She snapped. "Your stupid fucking machine just bit a hole out of me, you idiot!"
"Me?" Tinvel demanded, any concern immediately tossed aside in favor of affront. "That wasn't my fault! We were stress testing, we knew it was going to explode! If anything, it was Garen's fault for not making the shield wider from the start!"
"Oh, sure, blame it on the professor of all things, that makes perfect sense!"
Garen stepped in before their argument could gather up too much momentum. There were many reasons why he trusted these two to help in his experiments, but level-headedness was not among their virtues. As presently demonstrated by the way Chona's tail was reaching up to strangle Tinvel, as a matter of fact.
"That is enough," he said sternly, waving a healing spell towards her thigh with one hand, the other going to restrain her tail before she could actually start strangling the boy. "Tinvel, the correct response to one of your crafts accidentally injuring your fellow student is an apology, not deflection of blame." Chona barely watched as the metal bolt was magically extruded from her thigh, too busy fixing her classmate with a smug grin. "But Tinvel is correct, Chona, in that the fault lies more with I than it does him, even if it may not strictly be his place to so claim."
Chona's grin fell as Tinvel's rose, and with her thigh now healed, they both stood.
"Now," Garen quickly said, before the argument could further itself, "let us inspect the results of our testing, shall we?"
Though it took a few minutes of under the breath grumbling before both of their minds were fully on the task at hand, the debris scattered across the testing room was gathered up and organized in short order.
Today's test had been a relatively simple one, even if the machinery involved was anything but. With the Governess's emphasis on the importance of what she called the "material sciences," they had wished to find the limit of current metallurgy and carpentry in regards to enduring various forms of stress. This particular test had been on resisting centrifugal forces, perhaps the most relevant of forces in their endeavors.
The machinery with which they had tested such was simple in its purpose, complicated in its design. Sara had repeatedly emphasized to Garen that she had little interest in wasting his time on engineering work, which was to say the construction of practical machines that could readily be used for real-world applications, and far more interested in his talents being spent on developing a supply of power for future innovations. She took it as a matter of course that someone would come along with bright ideas about how to invent the engines she so desired, but was incredibly anxious about the method by which they would be powered. By her recollection, which Garen heavily suspected was incredibly biased, her old world was awash with soot and smog, the fires of industry pouring unfathomable volumes of poison into the air all across the globe. To avoid reproducing such a hellish landscape in her new home, she had tasked Garen with finding a method, whatever it may be, of powering such devices with spellcraft, rather than the noxious fumes of her homeworld.
Thus, the machine he and Tinvel had constructed. Garen reasoned that the simplest spells, which were therefore the most energetically optimized, would be the best starting point for powering machinery. Following this logic, he had decided that his initial experiments would use as their base the most elementary of force spells: a foot-long projection of energy, repeated ad nauseam. It was among the earliest spells a mage would learn, requiring only to summon a foot-long, inch wide column of force, which would jut forward, then dissipate. Nearly every mage knew the spell by heart, but only because they had spent countless hours as a youth perfecting its casting, building up the fundamentals they would later need for more complex work. Though it was widely considered useless for anything other than practice, it was still an incredibly efficient spell, such that Garen could have cast it thousands of times in a day without exhausting himself, and with a minor bit of tweaking, he could even accelerate the rate at which the force was projected.
Thus, the spinning. The device Tinvel had created was little more than a free-spinning top wrapped in bands of varying materials, with a cross-shaped metal spoke mounted amongst the interior. An enchanted gem set slightly below the spoke was drawing upon Garen's reserves to repeatedly project a force spell up into the spoke, repeatedly slamming into the metal. Garen had no ability to control the rate at which the force spell repeated itself, seeing as enchanting a spell to constantly cast in such a manner was utterly alien to him, and the early stages of its acceleration had been a clattering, nerve-wracking mess. Eventually it reached its maximum speed with one gem, which was when Garen had activated the second, which was set to repeat its spell at a greater frequency, and with more force. It had accelerated further, and he had activated a third, and shortly after, it had torn itself to shreds. He had no idea what speed it had ultimately topped out at, but judging by the violence of its disintegration, it had been an impressive number of revolutions per minute.
Obviously, it was far from a practical machine, useless for anything other than spinning itself to bits, but that was what they wanted. As they collected the painted debris throughout the room, they could study the results. Chona and Tinvel stood beside him as they walked down the rows, inspecting the failure point of each material.
"The woods pretty much failed when and how we expected," Tinvel said, pointing to them as they went. "Weakest grain to strongest, showing signs of linearly increasing stresses. Probably didn't even need to include them, honestly."
"While they behaved as expected, it is always nice to confirm," Garen said. "Remember the Governess's 'scientific method,' Tinvel. Events must be consistently demonstrated to repeat themselves before we can assume they will always do so."
"I know, I know, but I still wish we'd had more room for different metals," Tinvel said, hurrying past the wood.
Chona nudged the first shattered piece of metal, a circlet of low-quality copper. "I know for a fact that this one shattered first, at least as far as the metals are concerned. And look at how banged up it is."
Indeed, the extremely thin plate of copper was torn in a number of places, and not just from impact damage with the wall. The strange putty-like attribute of stress shearing was evident, as if the metal were mud that had been pulled apart by a bored child.
"The iron fared better," Garen noted, pointing to the next circlet. "But not as much better as I anticipated."
"Yeah," Chona murmured, crouching down next to the thin plate. "Maybe it doesn't work as well when it's pressed so thin, while copper does?"
Garen immediately thought of the Champion's tales of wire and electricity, the thin fibers of copper strewn across entire cities to carry lightning like the veins of some great beast. Clearly, copper was not directly inferior to iron in all material respects, as was commonly thought. He did not make the comparison aloud. His two students were very far away from being trusted with the greatest of secrets, both his and Sara's.
"A really interesting property, if that's the case," Tinvel said, picking up the piece to study it closer. "I wonder if there's more to that, then? I know blacksmiths can't make metal ingots over a certain size, and that's because of impurities and cooling and a bunch of other stuff, but what if there's more to it? What if, perhaps, iron at X thickness is stronger than copper at X thickness, but at Y thickness, copper is actually stronger?"
"An avenue certainly worth exploring," Garen said, though he suspected the topic had been studied before. After a moment's consideration, he decided to let the boy go through with whatever experiment he was concocting. If nothing else, devising the methodology would be a good learning opportunity, and Garen could simply "discover" a relevant book that either confirmed or debunked his results shortly after the test was concluded.
"And finally, the steel," Chona said. They all stopped at the end of the row, studying the two examples on the floor.
The first, common steel from an average blacksmith of Tulian, was not shattered. It had begun to deform rather severely, becoming oblong instead of the perfect circle it had begun as, and looked to his eye to be very near failing entirely, as if Garen could have pressed through the thin metal with a thumbnail.
The second circlet, however, came from a different smith. Hurlish, the Governess's partner, had briefly volunteered her best efforts at making a steel band for this test. Her work appeared completely unchanged by the stresses it had endured, the painted lines across its surface confirming such as Chona re-measured them.
"Not even a tenth of an inch's deviation," Chona said, pocketing the measuring string. "And I can't even see a scratch from the fall or it being hit by other debris, which definitely had to have happened."
"Yet another confirmation of our hypothesis," Garen noted, pleased. "The skill of the smith makes a considerable difference in the material's performance."
"Yeah, but is it the smith's skills, or their Skills," Chona asked, scratching thoughtfully at her stomach fur. She wore less than most human women, rarely more than a chest wrap and shorts, preferring to let her fur preserve her modesty. "Because if it's their Class's Skills, we're out of luck on testing further. They're way too variable to actually be consistent with, and it's not like anyone would actually tell us which they had."
"I suspect Smith Hurlish would, at least," Garen said, thinking back to his occasional conversations with the woman. He'd never known someone so... free, in the way they talked about wishing for their pregnancy to be concluded, explaining that the joy of getting 'knocked up' was by far her favorite part of the process. Compared to sharing that information, (unprompted, mind you), he imagined asking after her Skills would be a simple matter.
"I do suspect that her Class's Skills contributed greatly to this result," Garen said, "if only because I know she has placed a great emphasis over the last year on increasing the quality of her steel, rather than the shape of it. Though, I suppose, that could still be down to improved technique... Hm. I'm not sure how we will control for such a variable."
"We'll figure something out," Tinvel said dismissively, stepping over the debris to move to the now-shattered device at the center of the room. "What I'm interested in is seeing how the enchantments fared. Did you see how fast it was going?"
"See? I felt it," Chona grumbled, rubbing her thigh once more. Garen shot her a censorious look, to which she rolled her eyes, but quieted herself. The last thing he wished was for the two of them to enter another quarrel.
Garen sighed. Sara's suggestion that he encourage his student's individuality and independence had admittedly yielded considerable dividends in the rate at which some absorbed their course material, but it was a double-edged sword. Those least motivated to work had dropped well behind their fellows, while those most successful, such as Chona and Tinvel, were gaining an arrogance that well outstripped their experience. He was glad that they had progressed as far as they had in such a short time, Chona with her spellcraft, Tinvel with his artificery, but he feared they didn't realize just how small their proverbial pond was. Garen was but one of the great mages of Sporatos, and not the greatest among them, at that. There would be students all across the world which far outstripped them in every respect, and they seemed wholly ignorant of this fact. He only hoped the shock of their first failures would not shake their budding confidence too much.
But they could be served well by at least a little bit of a shock, he decided. They really do need to learn how to cooperate with others better. Garen hummed thoughtfully, listening to Tinvel analyze the remains of the contraption aloud, interspersed with Chona's sideline comments, some of which were insightful, the others thinly veiled jabs. He wondered if there would be a way to arrange such a shock for his students, to ground them in the more practical realities beyond their small circle of peers.
Best to focus on the task at hand, however. The Champion wanted an automated water pump capable of keeping the Tulian mines operating during the heaviest rains, and though the rotational speeds they'd achieved today were impressive, the methodology was far from reproducible. It had depended entirely on the presence of an advanced mage, both for activation and maintaining of its operation, which common mineworkers would never have.
As he grappled with the issue, foreign terms floated through his head, concepts he had only a rudimentary grasp of. Vacuums, torque, work load, fuel purity, margins of error, fail-safe states. Many were cosmetically similar to concepts he knew from his own lifelong studies, but taken to an extreme that he'd once thought fanatical. He'd once thought Sara's emphasis on safety was an illogical obsession. His experiments with rotational energy had disabused him of the notion, thankfully. If he was going to create something capable of sustaining the energies the Governess wished of him, he was to have a long road ahead of him. Even now, with the fastest single machine they had ever created scattered to pieces about them, he didn't think they had reached a fraction of the many thousands of rotations per minute Sara eventually wished of his team.
But those numbers were a penultimate goal, a star to strive for, years or even decades away. In the meantime, he had many more immediately accessible avenues of progress. It was only a matter of choosing which to travel down, and with an army approaching the city, he suspected Sara would have quite the opinion on which tasks to pursue.
While Tinvel and Chona continued to half-study, half-argue over the ruins of the machine, Garen summoned a desk and sat down, preparing a letter to the Governess. Several of his earliest projects were finally nearing completion, and seeing as she was now technically his employer, he ought to know if she had any preference for which to finish up before the Sporatons arrived.
----------------------
Voth
----------------------
"Keep those shields up!" Voth roared, leading by example, digging the bottom of his pavise shield into the dirt. "Any one of you flinch, you'll have lives on your head, and yours'll be the first to go!"
The line responded to his bellowing, tightening up and overlapping their pavises into a wall of painted wood. Those behind the first ranks raised their shields high, covering the heads of their fellows, looking for all the world as if they were braced to withstand the weight of an avalanche.
Unfortunately, what was coming for them was far worse.
Voth had no opportunity to roar orders before the beast charged them, its thundering gait sending soil leaping up past his knees. He watched it through the thin gap between his shield and that of his comrades, twisting the long pike in his right hand, ensuring the entirety of its weight was supported by the dirt. No one, human or orc, could have held back what was coming.
Each of its scales were wider than Voth's outstretched fingers, shifting through every hue of greenish moss as they crawled from the beast's belly to the peak of its spine. There rose a sail, proportionally small on the monstrosity, but at least six feet tall at its apex, thin bones supporting the stretched skin that was currently flushed red and orange. The flap of skin was littered with arrows, the only stretch of its body any arrow had managed to penetrate, and he once again wished desperately for some of the firearms he had heard were proliferating through the Champion's army.
Not that they would have done much against this particular foe, he feared. Its fifty foot length was propelled in serpentine fashion by its bow-legged limbs, meaty crocodilian tail thrashing the air and thin jaws snapping wildly. Chunks had been torn from it, scales pried open to let blood pour forth in waterfalls of crimson, and after its third attempt to flee had failed, the thing had finally realized this battle would only end with the death of Voth's troops. Its den was too close to the village, and it had picked off too many caravans over the last month. For the first time in its life since it had reached such a monstrous size, the beast was on the wrong end of a hunt.
Voth had opportunity only to yell out a single "Brace!" before impact, and then all thought was consumed by the effort of simply holding his shield and pike steady.
There was a rapid staccato of snapping wood as the steel-headed pikes of his militia shattered against the beast's hide, only a lucky few finding one of the gaps they had created over the long hours of the hunt. Voth felt long claws scratch against his shield, tearing at the shoddy enchantments, ripping the runes to ribbons, and in response, he dropped the fractured remains of his pike and drew his short sword, stabbing blindly through the thin slot between the pavises.
All around him, others were doing the same, while the troops behind him were shouting encouragement at one another, trying to withstand the creature's weight as it flailed at the block of pikes. The testudo was an unwieldy, impractical formation for the modern battlefield, vulnerable to the point of suicide against Knights and their enchanted armors, but the only possible response to a threat such as this. The interlocking shields and bristling pikes, when wielded right, turned hundreds of lone soldiers into one being, just barely capable of answering the brutality of true monsters.
Voth felt his sword dig into something wet. He twisted the blade, shoving deeper, and was rewarded by feeling a hard jerk, the monster's foot lifted up and away as it hissed its deep, reverberating fury.
The beast finally recoiled off the formation, repelled by their efforts, and stumbled back several steps, the grass awash with blood. It was panting heavily, posture drooping, clearly exhausted. The battle was nearing its conclusion.
"Forward, MARCH!" Voth roared, slamming his sword against his shield for emphasis. The block of pikes began to move, steps thudding, and not for the first time, Voth yearned for the Champion's supernatural aid. The ability to perfectly synchronize an entire army's footsteps could not be overestimated.
The beast continued to limp away, but as Voth had trained his militia, the greatest of its wounds were littered across its legs. Not only were its scales thinner there, but the massive claws on each foot were among its deadliest threats. Now suitably mangled, it could neither attack, nor escape.
Though the beast still lived, Voth felt the tension within him begin to ebb. The only thing left to do was drag the monster down and end its life, and in that, he was confident in the militia's abilities.
In the end, it took another half hour of slowly advancing upon the creature, marching through the bloody mud its wounds created. When it finally did collapse, Voth had joined the crew of most experienced militia in wielding narrow-tipped warhammers, raining blows down upon its skull. It took them several minutes to break through the thick bone, dodging the occasional feeble snap from its long jaws, but when they finally did, the beast died with a final, prolonged shudder.
Only then did Voth rip his helmet off, drinking deeply of the open air. The militia's tight formation disintegrated not with cries of elation, but sighs of exhaustion. Many men and women simply dropped where they were, eagerly peeling off the metal armor that had been baking them alive under the summer sun. Voth itched to join them, but he was supposed to lead by example, and so he only took his helmet off, hooking it onto his belt as he surveyed the beast.
"Haven't seen one of these before," he grunted, running his eyes along its length. Even dead, it was intimidating to behold.
"Neither have I," his first lieutenant said as she joined the troops in pulling off her armor. It wasn't proper for an officer to be doing that, but the militia was a lot less formal than the army was. She panted heavily, whiskers twitching, and covered her nose to escape the stench. Even for catfolk, Deenah's nose was sharp. "Don't think anyone here has, matter of fact."
"Another one," Voth said.
"Another one," Deenah confirmed.
It was their third beast in as many weeks that had been entirely unknown to the villagers who were suffering its assaults. Voth had lived his entire life in Tulian, and while his youth had been spent farther north than the jungle beasts usually roamed, he'd spent the years since the storms down south. It wasn't uncommon for strange aberrations to slink out of the trees, unknown to any and all, but it wasn't this common. Someone should have at least heard of the things before, even if they'd only ever shown up once, not enough to be given a name.
"Give the troops an hour for rest, then get to butchering," Voth said. They would have to chop it up, distribute its corpse, or else its festering would draw so many scavengers that their numbers might create a larger problem than the beast had ever been.
"Will do." Deenah nodded tiredly, then seemed to remember herself. "Yes, sir, that is," She hastily corrected, saluting. Voth didn't chastise her for it; they were all tired.
He walked a ways off from the beast, lost in thought. Its den had been in a newer thicket of trees, perhaps a mile off the road that connected two small, nameless villages. That was where they had eventually caught up to it, and the battle had circled its den over the morning hours and into the afternoon, churning the fields to mush as soldiers and beast had charged back and forth.
Voth approached the thicket alone, no longer concerned that he would be snapped up in an instant. Though he'd never voiced it aloud, it wasn't the beasts over these last few weeks that had driven his increasing paranoia.
He put a hand to the closest tree. According to the locals, this thicket had grown up over the last year. He looked up, higher and higher, until he could see the tops of the canopy some thirty or forty feet above him.
That didn't happen in a year, not even in Tulian. He leaned closer to the tree, putting an ear to it, filtering out the sounds of the militia behind him. After a moment, he managed to hear a slow, low creaking noise. It was faint, faint enough he almost thought he was imagining it, but definitely there.
He could hear the tree growing. That wasn't normal. This entire thicket, a half mile of dense vines and impenetrable shrubs, had grown up in a matter of months, and it wasn't the only one. Over the last year or so, shortly after the Champion had arrived in Tulian, the forest's growth had exploded. The jungle wall, which had been slowly encroaching on the open plains in the absence of the former Kingdom's clearing efforts, had sprung forward in leaps and bounds. Abandoned villages, their ruins once accessible and visible for miles around, had been drowned by greenery, buried miles within the forest. Even his efforts to organize lumber-cutting parties hadn't done much other than send the price of wood into freefall, which had pissed off a lot of people, all for no result.
Voth stepped away from the tree, observing it with crossed arms. He didn't know how to word his concerns without sounding insane. Sending off a report to the capital about increasingly frequent beast incursions was one thing, entirely reasonable, but sending a report about tree growth? Which he was claiming was a bigger problem than the dozens and dozens of deaths that had come from the monsters pouring out of the jungle?
He shook his head. He'd send off his usual report, talk about the animal and describe its features for future reference. The Champion hated the superstition the southernmost villagers held for the jungle monsters, what with their refusal to even give the things names, much less discuss them, and wanted Voth to build up a damned encyclopedia on their innumerable varieties. He'd do that as best he could, considering he was no natural philosopher, but the strange tree growth? He was going to have to sit on that one. He didn't have any kind of proof that it was bad other than a gut feeling, and that wasn't the kind of thing you wasted ink on.
Yet again, Voth shook his head. The pay was good, but this job was a damned headache. He hoped the Champion ended up in charge at the end of the war, though, if only because he doubted the Sporatons would pay half as much, and dealing with nobles would only make the headaches twice as bad.
----------------------
Emeric
----------------------
It wasn't unusual to be summoned to the King's tents, in time of war. The ruler of Sporatos had several of them, each for varying purposes, arranged in a stately complex at the center of the warcamp, and receiving his summons while on the march was far less an honor than it would have been to be invited to his personal castle. What was unusual, however, were the Royal Guards ushering him not towards the command tent, with its great oaken table and multitude of maps, but towards the King's personal quarters, a grand awning of royal burgundy and fine golden threads.
When the servants opened the flap for him, they did not announce his presence, and upon entering, Emeric was further surprised by the lack of occupants. There were only four individuals within the room.
The King himself was sitting on an elegant, high-backed chair, its cushions tailored in such a way as to evoke the imagery of the traditional Sporaton throne. He wore a simpler suit of armor, thinner and lighter, better for maintaining appearances while traipsing out around camp. Emeric still had not seen his true suit of armor since the first day of the unveiling of firearms, and looking about the displayed suits spread across the lush rugs of the King's tent, he did not find it present. He could only assume that the rumors were true, then, that the King had nearly been felled despite the protection afforded him by such a magnificent artifact.
The commander of the Night's Eye, Graf Urs, stood some few feet away, as always locked into his militant posture and sporting his battered chestplate, listening to the King with one ear while he surveyed the room. As they had every time Emeric met the elderly mercenary, his eyes were drawn to the blacksteel blade at his hip, specifically the visible chip taken from the blade. Emeric would very nearly give away his knighthood to know what had been capable of damaging a blacksteel blade. Unfortunately, none but Graf knew a single detail of the story, save the public knowledge that the chip had appeared when the man was in his thirties, some fifty years ago. After Graf had returned from mercenary work upon the sea, if he recalled correctly.
Emeric dragged his gaze away from the blade to the room's third occupant, who disquieted him the most. The wearer of the wooden mask, a member of the mage-advisors the King consulted on matters regarding the Champion's abilities, and whom the Champion claimed to be members of an unholy cult. Cosmetically speaking, Emeric could certainly see where the idea had come from. The expressionless wooden plank which was fitted over their face could have been a simple matter of anonymity, as was oft a practice of the more paranoid mages when working among strangers, but its sheer lack of decoration made it a decidedly striking piece, if so. Their voluminous dark robes also fit the theatrical image of a dark practitioner, though they were equally explained either as the comfortable robes oft preferred by those who relied upon spells for their physical defense, or as another disguise for their identity, hiding their body's form. Emeric still did not know the mage's gender or species, after all, so the method was clearly effective.
What struck him most, however, was the change in behavior since he had last seen this particular advisor of the King. When they had first met in the Eliah household all those months ago, the mage had been cool and composed, expertly toeing the line between nonchalance and proper deference to the King, clearly a seasoned member of the nobility, if not a diplomat outright.
Now their entire body trembled, as if afflicted with a deathly fever, and they were keeping their hands locked to the arms of the wooden chair they sat in, visibly straining to control the shivers which endlessly ran through them.
"Ah, Sir Emeric, I am pleased to see you," the King said, rising from his chair, cutting off Emeric's evaluation of the mage. He strode over, offering his forearm, which Emeric shook.
"An honor to be summoned, My Lord," Emeric said, nodding his head. "Though I cannot help but admit my curiosity at the circumstances. Not, of course, that I am displeased to be offered to private an audience."
"Bah!" The King scoffed, dismissing the idea with a friendly wave. "We have had more private audiences than this, Sir Emeric, and I intend to have many more yet. You are a valued soldier, and your expertise as a Knight is beyond question. Squabbling over audiences is for Dukes and Duchesses, not warriors."
"As you say, My Lord," Emeric said with yet another nod. He was genuinely honored to be in the King's presence, but he was always privately concerned he might develop some malady in his neck from the frequency of respectful head-bowing involved.
"Come now, sit, and choose your chair freely, for I bring no favorites on the march," the King said, waving.
Emeric was thankful for the clarification, because his first thought had been to avoid sullying some of the plusher decorations with his armor. He chose one of the closest chairs, placing it roughly opposite of Graf, so that the four of them formed a loose diamond shape. Best to place himself equal among their number, to avoid accidentally implying he was higher station than any present. Between a foreign advisor and famed mercenary of low birth, where, exactly, an unlanded Knight stood on the social ladder was an awfully difficult quandary.
"I may first answer what I imagine to be your most pressing question, if you'd like," the mage suddenly said, the buzz to their words hiding their true voice. They pried their fingers off the armrest, raising their hand up, where it began shaking even more violently, fingers jittering as if they were in the midst of a seizure.
"I must confess I was curious," Emeric said, "but I equally do not wish to pry. If it is a private matter, I will accept such an answer and think nothing more of it."
"Unfortunately, it was a rather public matter," the mage replied, returning their hand to its steel grip on their chair. "I understand that you only returned to camp with your cavalry yesterday, correct?"
Emeric nodded again.
"I see. Have you heard word of the Witch's attack?"
"I have, but only in passing thus far. A dreadful thing, if the accounts are to be believed."
"It was, and while I regret that I could not preserve the many hundreds of loyal subjects that she sent to rot, there would have been been far more casualties had I not been present." The mage sniffed, leaning back into their chair. "Though I succeeded in driving her off, it was not without consequences. The foul energies of a Jungle Witch are an insipid thing, prone to seeping into the very deepest parts of the soul. This... affliction I now suffer from, it is the result." The mage turned their head, addressing the King. "But I assure you, it has no effect upon my ability to practice my craft. Perhaps the lower ranks of mages would be hampered by the inability to form gestures, but not I."
"I believed you the first time, Ser," the King said, nearly rolling his eyes. Emeric raised an eyebrow at that; clearly, the two were on more familiar terms than he had anticipated. "And I trust that your research will uncover some curative measure in a dusty old tome at some point soon. If you wish access to any Sporaton libraries under my authority, you need only ask."
"I thank you for your generosity, Your Majesty." The mage turned their head towards Graf, who was still standing in silence, clearly disinterested in the conversation. "I believe it best we now move on to more immediate matters, however."
"Of course." The King cleared his throat, and Graf's eyes visibly brightened, attention returning from whatever distant place it had wandered. Emeric, too, felt his interest sharpen. This was far from a normal meeting.
"Sir Emeric," the King began. "I have received your report on the battle via crystal, of course, but I would hear it again, so that the others present may be better informed."
"Of course, My Lord," Emeric said, nodding his head. He spent a moment collecting his thoughts, then began. "We encountered the enemy in the night, and waited until the following morning to begin our engagement. The Champion and her forces proved entirely unresponsive to our feints throughout the early hours, and so, when they passed a bend in the trail, I elected to place a charge at the apex of the curve, to exploit the separation of their forces. Assembling the cavalry in loose formation had the desired effect upon the enemy's artillery firearms, to which we suffered no casualties during our charge."
Emeric's expression soured as he recollected the battle. "The first sign of danger came when the Champion withdrew these large firearms into a pre-cut path in the foliage, preventing their capture. It should have been clear to me then that she had prepared for our charge, combined with the fact that her firearms had not yet opened fire, but with the pace of events so rapid, I failed to realize such." He shook his head, still bitter over his lapse in judgement. "The charge was initially as successful as I had hoped. We easily broke open the enemy lines, and began to split in two to pursue the isolated groups that began forming defensive squares along the road. However, the moment we broke free from the melee, the Champion's firearms unleashed their volleys from the trees, while producing yet another foul weapon."
"Another?" Graf interjected, leaning forward. "Distinct from the firearms, or of similar make?"
"I am as yet unsure, but I believe they used a similar black powder for their function. Remarkably simple things, just a sphere of iron filled with the stuff, but far deadlier to our horses than the firearms. As they rolled along the ground, our horses ran over them, where they detonated beneath their unarmored bellies. It took an awful toll on the formation, as you can imagine."
"Fascinating," Graf said. Emeric waited for anything else to follow, but there was nothing, so he continued on.
"To avoid these new projectiles, I ordered our forces to remain as closely engaged with the enemy as possible, as the enemy would not risk harming their own troops. This worked for a time, but only just. Each time the enemy broke and ran, leaving us exposed, we suffered ever more casualties." Emeric took a deep breath, steeling himself for the final part of the tale. "Deciding that the losses we were suffering was too great to allow a future assault, I elected to attempt to break the enemy utterly, reasoning that I would have no better opportunity in the future to do so. Upon leading the charge upon the next group of halberdiers, however, I was pulled off dear Gallant by the Champion's slave-consort."
"Lady Evie?" Graf asked, leaning forward.
"Er, yes," Emeric awkwardly said. He could see the King's eyebrows furrowing at Graf's words. The woman was a slave by the King's own decree, a traitor twice over to the kingdom. To call her 'Lady' was an incredible slight to the King's authority, much less referring to her by the traitorous Champion's chosen name. Emeric suspected there were very, very few individuals who could so casually insult the King.
He forced himself past the moment, trying to ignore the King's simmering frustration. "As I had charged ahead of my cavalry, not anticipating the Champion and her slave-consort to have so rapidly adjusted their position, I was temporarily isolated, and was forced into an engagement with the slave."
"She fought alone?" The mage asked. "You said her owner was present, no?"
"She was," Emeric confirmed, "but she chose to focus on directing her troops. It was a strange thing, dueling an enemy while trapped–"
"You dueled her?" Graf interrupted. Emeric was aghast; the man was visibly excited, stepping forward to better hear his story, and the King's jaw was beginning to clench. "I believe I advised our Irregulars to avoid combat with Lady Evie, if at all possible."
"I was hardly given a choice," Emeric snippily replied, emboldened by the King's growing irritation. "She rather forced the point, as you might expect, if you knew her so well."
"I am not surprised that she dueled you, Sir Emeric, only that you survived."
Emeric's jaw ground. "I am a Knight of Sporatos, Commander Graf. If I could not hold my own against a single young woman, I would not be worth my title."
"Ha!" Graf barked his laughter. "If you truly did fight her, you know she's no mere young woman. The child barely clings to her sanity, Sir Emeric. Seeing as our ever-present advisor here states she is bolstered by the Champion's Levels, I sincerely commend you for surviving the encounter." Graf paused then, glancing at the King, seeming to remember himself. He straightened his posture once more, clearing his throat. "Regardless. Please continue."
Emeric did so without comment, but only just. "The duel continued inconclusively, until such time that my cavalry broke through to me. It was then that the slave was forced to terminate the duel with use of concealed firearms, which she had neglected to use thus far." Emeric patted his knee. "You would not know it, thanks to Your Grace's healers, but I very nearly lost the limb below the knee."
Here Emeric paused, deliberating. The slave's parting words. Her claim that the Champion wished for his life in particular to be spared, supposedly the only reason she had not ended his life with another shot. It was a comment rife with implications, very few of which Emeric could gain a full grasp of. He feared the King's reaction, feared Commander Graf's reaction, in fact, and had no idea how the mage would react.
He chose the safest course, in the end. "Greater number of my cavalry pouring through the gap eventually forced their way to me and, seeing their commander incapacitated, elected to retreat. Due to the delirium of bloodloss, I could not countermand the order, though I wish dearly I had."
"And this concludes your report?" The King asked.
Emeric hesitated. "Yes, My Liege," he eventually said. "It does."
"Hm." The King took a deep breath, chest swelling, then let the air slowly blow out, lost in thought. Emeric waited patiently, as did the others. Eventually, the King spoke.
"I see no reason to disagree with your estimation that further use of the cavalry is to be discontinued," the King said, words which filled Emeric with a profound relief. "While the damage done to the enemy was great, peasants are far easier to replace than our grand Knights. Until this new threat is better understood, and counterspells or what-have-you created, we will allow the enemy to return to their capital unmolested."
"I am honored to have your trust so, My Liege," Emeric said.
"What use is a trusted commander if I do not heed their advice?" The King asked. His gaze turned to Graf, now. "And on that note, I would like to more openly discuss our private conversation, Commander Graf."
"Of course, My Lord," the mercenary said, bowing slightly.
Emeric's curiosity spiked once more. This meeting was not purely a review of their disparate forces, then, but a true strategic meeting, held only with the people the King presumably trusted most. That the advisor-mage was held in such regard was a concern, but it was not Emeric's place to question.
"At our current pace, it is over a week's march to the Tulian capital," the King said. "I intend to make use of that time in a number of ways, all of which are of particular relevance to those present. Sir Emeric?"
"Yes, My Liege?"
"You are to select from among your cavalry the Knights whose prowess on foot you believe to be greatest, yourself included. The cavalry shall not be entirely converted to foot soldiers, as I will not leave our forces so exposed, but I would have you create an elite fighting force from amongst their number. Irregulars amongst Irregulars, if you prefer. A varied force would be ideal, their talents adaptable to a great many scenarios, as the exact circumstances in which they will be deployed will naturally vary as the situation develops."
"It will require but a few short hours to collect such a force, My Liege," Emeric said, nodding respectfully. "I am familiar with my Knight's abilities in detail, and will only require the time to extend the request personally."
"Excellent. In addition, should Admiral Sheer be successful in his attempts to deploy his mercenary marines along the coast, you will be expected to evaluate their number and integrate your forces accordingly."
"This will take slightly longer, of course, but not greatly so," Emeric agreed. He hadn't been aware that the King had begun to levy mercenaries in the conflict. His Lordship was clearly more shaken by his defeats than nearly any in the public were aware. Likely the reason for this meeting's intimate setting, Emeric supposed. He wondered who these mercenary marines were, then. Carrion, most likely, as they were the only force in a thousand miles with a half-decent corp of available mercenaries.
"Excellent. And Ser," the King said, turning to the mage, "you will continue as we discussed. The archmages grow... discontented. This was to be a short campaign, their presence required only to counter whatever novel Skills or spells the Champion displayed, and in this respect they have had little to study. They begin to trickle away like water through my clenched fist, returning to their isolated studies, and this cannot be tolerated. You will ensure they stay, by your usual methods."
The mage nodded. "I will do just so, Your Majesty."
Ensure the archmages stay? Emeric thought incredulously. By what power or offer is that mage capable of such a thing?
"Commander Graf," the King said, turning to the elderly man with no small show of reluctance. "Your... advice... has been accurate to the point of prophecy thus far. In this respect, I..." the King's teeth grit, instinct keeping the words bit behind his clenched jaw. "I will entrust you with informal command of the army for the duration of the campaign."
"I thank you, My Lord," Graf said.
Emeric's scant diplomatic training failed him. He gawped at the man, who had spent all of five words accepting command of the entire Royal Army. He had not hesitated, nor reacted, nor shown any emotion other than the same stoic expression which had dictated the entirety of Emeric's interactions with the man.
"This will not be a public transfer of command, you must understand," the King said. "In public, at all times, you will bow to my authority."
"I would never do anything less, My Lord."
"To excuse your commands being followed when battle is met, you will remain behind with the troops, while I take to the field personally."
"Understood, My Lord."
"I will emphasize once more that this posting is temporary, Graf," the King said. "And it is, as in all things, only through my benevolence that you are afforded such authority."
"As in all things, My Lord."
The King stewed, trying to think of anything further to say, to demur the indignity of signing command of his army over to a low-born, but seemed to come up blank. Finally, as if growing tired of the farce, he slumped in his chair, waving Graf on.
"Well, then? What is your plan of attack?"
Commander Graf pulled a rolled piece of paper from his pocket, unraveling it on a low table to show it as a map of the Tulian capital. It was, unlike the King's own maps, exquisitely detailed, with its most recent revisions clearly demarcated as being made merely two days before. The King's own spies in the capital, Emeric knew, had gone silent nearly as soon as battle was met. Commander Graf's aged face split, a small smile rising. "Our plan is simple, My Lord. We will not attack."
Notes:
BOY do I love writing Interludes. I get to dump all the important shit rapid-fire, who cares about subtlety or working it into the narrative, just right there in your lap. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!
I also finally got around to changing the description, to give people a better idea of what this story has become. Honestly, I wasn't expecting to take it this seriously a year ago, but I'm glad I did! I'd appreciate it y'all could tell me if you think the (slight) changes I made are appropriate.
Next week, Hurlish, Sara, and Evie reunite! Gratuitously.
Chapter 88: Circus of Desire (E)
Chapter Text
Sara spent a long time bracing herself for the reaction of the people, when their army returned to Tulian. She knew plenty of word had run ahead of the army, spread by merchants and runners and her own communications to various people in the city, but that didn't mean people were prepared for what they would see. Rumors had no doubt spread like wildfire, twisting and morphing with each set of ears that heard them, and it was only now that the full reality of the situation would be present.
The first thing that was clear was that the stripped-down City Guard was in no way prepared to control the crowds. When the army first crested the last hill before the flatlands that surrounded the city, people began to pour forth from every gate. They were only blobs at that distance, but Sara could still see the vastly outnumbered Guard uselessly hollering and flailing their staffs at the crowd in an attempt to keep them within the wall's safety. Sara was as certain as she could be that the Sporaton cavalry was nowhere near, but even the remotest possibility of their Knights running down the crowd was enough for her to send the order that people wouldn't be allowed out of the city to greet the army.
She should've known better, in hindsight. It wasn't the entire city that came running out of the gates, not nearly, considering there were nearly a hundred thousand of them packed into it now, but enough people braved the press to cover the clear-cut killing fields into one teeming horde, slowly pushing forward as everyone jostled for a better view.
"Gods," Sara groaned, quiet enough that only Evie, who sat behind her on Trot's saddle, could hear. "I'm so not looking forward to this."
"You are aware, Master, that you are the one who picked Amarat as your patron?"
"Yeah, but, like..." Sara grimaced at the massive crowd. "I thought I'd be making smooth backroom deals, seducing important people in quiet taverns and stuff. Not literally leading a parade."
"We all must play the hand we are dealt, Master," Evie said. Then her hands tightened around Sara's waist. "If you'd like, I can think of several ways in which I might personally divert attention–"
"Please keep your clothes on, Evie."
"All of them?"
"All of them."
"One of these days, you'll have to allow me my fun."
"Maybe, but not today."
Evie grumbled into Sara's neck, leaning against her, but didn't say anything further. They both knew she was joking, trying to alleviate some of the tension. Sara's concern really didn't stem from being the center of attention. She'd gotten used to that months ago. No, she was worried about the people seeing just how many of their friends and families that she'd gotten killed.
The army that approached Tulian was noticeably smaller. Two thousand of their original five thousands were dead and buried in distant fields. To keep away from the encroaching Sporaton forces, Sara had been forced to bag up and toss the bodies into a mass grave, nothing more than a name scrawled on the front of cheap canvas to identify them, so that they hopefully, maybe, could be dug up and buried properly later. Everyone in that crowd knew she'd done it, too, knew it was her fault that their daughters and sons were rotting under a thin layer of dirt.
Those that had survived weren't a pretty sight, either. The Sporaton cavalry had wreaked such havoc on them that the healers still hadn't worked their way through all of the injured, and many were walking with their halberds used for canes and crutches, while a great many more were carried in emptied supply wagons, tarps loosely draped over the top to shield them from the baking sun. Seen from above, it was a ragged, exhausted procession that was returning to Tulian, an army on the brink of collapse.
But at the end of the day, Sara was a showman. It was all she was, really, at least as far as her Blessings went, and she'd damn well take whatever advantage she could get. A part of her wanted to have the wounded up front and center, to show the entire city what war really was, its inhuman brutality and horrific results, but that wasn't right. The Tulian people, peasants all, knew war. Knew it was horrible. Sara wouldn't do any good by showing them what they'd long since taken for granted.
They were scared. They feared the Sporaton army, feared the rape and pillage that would no doubt result if the city fell, feared living under the boot of nobility once more. What they needed wasn't a lesson in humility, but something to look for, something to reassure them.
And so Sara had ordered the muskets taken out of their protected carriers, had organized her healthiest troops to the front and sides of the formation. She kept the carts carrying wounded in the center, as out of sight as possible, and halted the advance for several hours earlier in the day just so the troops could spend time wiping down and polishing their gear.
When they reached the crowd and it began to swarm around them, Sara head it all. Ten thousand clamoring voices roared into her mind, Blessings noting, cataloguing, and cementing them into a recollection that would last the rest of her life. Some were automatically brought to her attention, those that represented the most commonly expressed sentiments, so that she found herself absorbing the mood of the crowd in an instant.
"Those the, the– guns? They've got all those guns on their shoulders, don't they?"
"They don't look like much, do they?"
"How do I– Tahn! Tahn, are you in there? Does– you, you there, where's the Sixteenth Squadron? My son, Tahn, is he alive? Please, just–"
"Can't believe they're alive."
"Can't believe they lost so many."
"At least we'll have 'em on our walls, now."
"Like it'll matter."
"I... she's not– she died? She died? Lavana, dark hair, tusks this long– no, no, there's other orcs like her, she's a common girl, she couldn't have–"
Sara suddenly found the long column that her troops had maintained for so long dispersing, the crowd pressing in among their number in search of loved ones. The sergeants began to bellow their usual threats, trying to keep the troops in formation, but then one member of the squad would spot a family member and both would cry out in excitement, the others would see it happen, and they'd suddenly break away, looking for their own family, desperate to reassure them. Only the troops she'd trusted with muskets mostly kept together, having long since been drilled on the importance of keeping their weapons to themselves, but even their numbers were beginning to thin, the troops passing weapons off to their comrades as they melted into the crowd.
"Fucking hell," Sara swore, pulling Trot up short. "I was worried about a lot, but this wasn't what I expected."
"Your troops have been remarkably disciplined throughout the conflict, Master," Evie said. "Such a streak had to be broken eventually."
"There's going to be spies in that crowd," Sara said. In fact, she heard several suspicious voices, her Blessings appraising her of those whose shouted sentiments weren't quite genuine. Not enough to be actionable yet, but she'd remember their voices for later, as always. "I can't believe they're really just fucking off like this."
"They've been away from home for months, Master."
Sara frowned, glancing over her shoulder at Evie. "Since when are you the empathetic one, huh?"
"I'm hardly empathetic. Just a contrarian."
Sara snorted, then popped Trot's reins. She activated Champion's Inspiration, sending a simple drumbeat booming out over the crowd, and began to shout orders. Many in the crowd, unfamiliar with her power, recoiled in shock, while many of the soldiers reacted to the familiar thrumming with the alacrity of long months of practice. Slowly, inch by inch, her troops began to coalesce once more, forming ranks, keeping the civilians out from among their number. A good few continued to melt away into the crowd, excitedly telling tales of their adventures, and Sara separated out a list in her mind of their names, so she could pass it on to their Sergeants later. It was damned hard to get away with anything in her army.
"Let's see if we can get this shitshow through the gates, at least," Sara said, maneuvering Trot forward.
"I must admit, I understand their reaction. I very nearly want to jump off into the crowd myself. Perhaps I'm more empathetic than either of us expected. That, or just eager to see Hurlish again."
"Not mutually exclusive," Sara said, before pausing to shout a few civilians out of her way. "And we're going to see her soon, don't you worry. She wouldn't let us stay away for long."
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Sara had intended to parade her troops through the city to the barracks that had been set aside for them, dense little outposts that littered the land-side wall of the Tulian capital, but that plan had gotten cut short when two giant hands had reached up to grab her and Evie's thigh, physically ripping them out of the saddle.
Hoots and hollers had sounded from the crowd as Hurlish took both women into a deep hug, their feet dangling off the ground and kicking helplessly as the air was crushed from their lungs. Even Trot, who was normally fairly protective of Sara, barely flicked an ear, seeming to take it for granted that Hurlish would be strangling them near to death.
Sara fought her way out of the orc's grip for long enough to tell her commanders to continue on, then was dragged away, much to the delight of the onlookers. Some tried to follow, but Evie slipping free of Hurlish's grip long enough to crawl up on her shoulders and glare at them all, ears flattened, put a stop to that. They scattered like mice, and soon Hurlish had dipped down enough side streets and alleyways that Sara had time to stow their armor in her bag and replace her and Evie's clothes with common civilian garb. The Champion of Amarat was nothing if not adaptable, when it came to fashion.
"They have gotten bigger," Evie triumphantly crowed from atop Hurlish's shoulders. She was bent awkwardly over, pawing at the woman's breasts with clear delight. True to her word, they'd probably moved up a cup size, making each breast decisively larger than Evie's own head. Still proportional on Hurlish, but only barely. If she'd been human, they probably would have been some of the largest natural breasts Sara had ever seen in person.
"Yeah, yeah, they're bigger. Glad you're excited, but it's a pain in my ass."
"Did that get bigger, too?" Evie asked, twisting around to look at Hurlish's backside.
"Shut up," Hurlish grunted, giving Evie's thigh an affectionate swat. "I swear, Sara's corrupting you. Never used to make jokes like that."
"Joke?" Evie asked, tone a picture of sincerity.
"I think it's about the same," Sara declared, giving the aforementioned ass a pinch that made Hurlish jump. "She's put a bit of pregnancy weight on, maybe, but it's all in the right spots. Not like it wasn't this juicy before, at least."
"You two could barely breathe when you were down there, anyway. Any bigger and it'll end up crushing one of you," Hurlish grumbled.
Sara looked up at Hurlish with innocent doe-eyes. "Promise?"
The orc snorted, lightly cuffing Sara in the back of her head.
"Hey!" Sara protested, rubbing her head. "If you're gonna be hitting anyone, hit Evie. At least she likes it."
"She's next."
"Promise?" Evie echoed, returning to her sprawl across Hurlish's head, arms dangling down to massage her breasts.
For all Evie lacked most cat-like mannerisms, at least when compared to catfolk, she was looking incredibly feline at the moment. She'd gone entirely limp atop her girlfriend, such that Hurlish had to keep a firm grip on her legs lest she fall off, and she'd entirely forgotten her usual vigilance, far more interested in kneading Hurlish's breasts through the breezy overshirt she wore in her sweltering forge. Sara had already introduced this world to the concept of bras, but she'd only managed to get their production approved by Evie after a solemn promise that neither Sara nor Hurlish would ever wear the 'accursed' things. That same promise now let Evie freely poke and prod at Hurlish's nipples throughout their walk, uncaring of who saw the orc's growing blush.
Thankfully, the streets were nearly empty, most having gone to see the army arrive, and those few that were out and about failed to recognize Evie with her ears hidden beneath a hood and her tail trying (and failing) to coil around whatever part of Hurlish's muscular body was nearest. Hurlish herself was more recognizable, but she was far from the only orcish smith in Tulian, and lacked the distinguishing features of Evie's feline nature and Sara's outright fame. In short, it was probably fine, which was good, because Evie sure as hell wasn't going to stop.
"I can't reach your bellllyy," Evie whined, hands flailing childishly. "I want to feel it. Have you had any kicks, yet?"
"Maybe," Hurlish admitted, and at this Sara crushed even harder into her side, rubbing her hands over Hurlish's stomach. For a woman five months pregnant, her swell was only modest, but that was to be expected for someone seven feet tall. Sara still pressed her hand flat against her stomach, trying to feel something, anything.
"If I can barely feel it, you wouldn't be able to," Hurlish said.
"Shut up," Sara said, "I'm an optimist. C'mon, little kid. Mom's here, say hi!"
The question of how their child was going to address her three mothers was a question that they'd long since solved, and surprisingly easily. They all three had different versions of the title that were common in their extremely differnt upbringings. As a result, Sara would be "Mom," Hurlish would be "Mama," and Evie would be "Mother." Sara had sort of winced at that last one on Evie's behalf, feeling it was impersonal, but Evie disagreed whole-heartedly. It was, after all, what every one of her peers had called their mothers as a child, so it was perfectly normal to her.
Then there would be Aunt Vesta, Aunt Oddry, Aunt Ketch, Mr. Garen and Mr. Ignite, and... they probably wouldn't introduce the kid to Selliana, to be honest, at least until the kid could... Sara didn't know. Maybe until they could comprehend the woman? That'd be a while, probably. Sara still wasn't sure if she knew what exactly the witch was, though kids were usually better at going with the flow of things. They'd have to see. Then there was the fact that Mr. Garen would probably get upgraded to "Uncle," at least if Evie had her way and got the man into their bed, and maybe it wouldn't be Aunt Vesta and Aunt Oddry, because they seemed pretty near going exclusive, emotionally speaking, if not physically, and–
Sara felt something jump underneath her hand, and it sent her heart into her throat.
"Hurlish! Hurlish, did you–" She excitedly began, looking up at the woman.
The orc rolled her eyes. "That was me stepping on a rock, babe."
"Fuck!" Sara whined.
"No swearing in front of the child, Master," Evie chastised.
Sara shot the feline an incredulous look. "But feeling up their mama's tits is fine?"
"Of course," Evie haughtily sniffed. "The child will be doing the same soon enough, anyway."
"If you leave anything left for her."
"Neither of you are sucking my tits until the kid's weaned off," Hurlish declared. "And no, you're not gonna latch on the minute they're done, either. I don't want to be all swollen up the rest of my life."
"I mean, I don't have a specific thing for breast milk," Sara began to hedge, before Evie interrupted.
"Speak for yourself, Master. And we'll have to see how you feel when the time comes, Hurlish."
The orc groaned, tossing her head back, which only ended up putting her face directly in the swell of Evie's breasts above her. "I swear. Why'd y'all have to come back, again?" She asked, voice muffled.
"You know you love it," Sara said, finally accepting that she probably wasn't going to be feeling anything while Hurlish was up walking. She returned to her side-hugging of the woman, reaching a hand up to interlock her fingers with Evie's, between Hurlish's breasts.
The rest of the walk was spent discussing their upcoming child, how they'd protect them from the medieval equivalent of paparazzi, how much wealth they'd want the kid to get used to having, and if they thought it would be a boy or girl. Evie and Hurlish were both convinced it was going to be a girl, considering the fact that both parents were women. Sara wanted to argue against that from a genetic perspective, and thought she was doing a decent job, all the way until she realized she had absolutely no idea how a god-granted dick might play with traditional genetics, so she had to admit she was ultimately as lost as them. She still didn't think the "two women = baby girl" argument held weight, however.
Eventually, they reached the small house Hurlish had commandeered near her forge. With Sara and Evie out on campaign, the orc didn't see much point living in the Peasant's Theatre, and had found a small space on the second story of a nearby building to live in. She'd told Sara all about it, over crystal, but this was the first time Sara had actually been in it.
She didn't get much time to look around.
Sara had been pressed into Hurlish's side throughout the entire walk, even as they went up the stairs, and that let Hurlish's hand suddenly clamp down on her shoulder the moment they crossed through the threshold, shoving her forward. Sara stumbled forward, only to be met by Evie's flying body, flung off of Hurlish's shoulders. Sara half-caught her girlfriend as she landed against her chest, setting her on her feet.
"Been too long," Hurlish grunted, slamming the door shut with a foot.
"For–"
"Shut it," Hurlish snapped, cutting Evie off. The floorboards rattled as she stomped across the room, one hand ripping her shirt open, the other reaching out to grab Evie by the throat.
Evie was shoved into the wall with a gasp, eyes wide, staring up at Hurlish. Sara watched as the orc lifted her up the wood until their faces were even, then pressed in, crushing Evie's lips with her own.
Evie groaned into Hurlish's mouth, limbs writhing helplessly in midair. She lost herself, opening her mouth to let Hurlish test her freely, until her mind unfroze enough to send her legs wrapping around Hurlish's stomach, arms flung around her neck.
Hurlish kept Evie pinned to the wall like that for a long time, their bodies pressed into one another so hard Evie was struggling to breathe, air whistling through her nose as she panted and panted, adamantly refusing to stop tasting Hurlish's lips for even a moment.
They eventually parted with a heavy gasp, drawing in deep breaths, chests heaving against one another. One of Evie's hands fell to Hurlish's stomach, running in circles. Evie looked like she wanted to say something, but she was too dazed, her eyes already glazed over.
Hurlish dropped her without ceremony. Evie was so out of it that she immediately collapsed to her knees, which worked fine for Hurlish, because she immediately stepped forward, pelvis grinding into Evie's face, pressing her head against the wall.
"Get over here," Hurlish grunted to Sara, even as she threaded her thick fingers through Evie's tight braids. The feline moaned at the painful tug, nuzzling into Hurlish's crotch.
Sara felt her feet moving her forward, heart pounding. Hurlish turned around, dragging Evie like a ragdoll across the floor, and pulled Sara in by the back of her neck. Before she could say a word, Hurlish had snagged Sara by the collar of her shirt, lifting her into the air, and took her lips.
Sara opened her mouth in an instant, taking hold of Hurlish's tusks and pulling her in, groaning as Hurlish's tongue pressed into her mouth. Her mind buzzed with arousal, even the painful dig of her clothes supporting her body taking on a sheen of pleasure.
Sara normally took the lead. It was what she was used to. She'd always considered herself a switch in bed, but there was no denying that with her usual partners, she almost always ended up in the lead. It was usually what worked out naturally, and she loved it.
But she didn't think there was a single woman on the planet capable of topping Hurlish.
Hurlish dropped her just as her lungs began to burn, Sara thudding to the floor and stumbling sideways, dizzy for all sorts of reasons. Evie had managed to get Hurlish's pants all the way down to her knees before losing the battle to her own lust, burying her face in Hurlish's thighs, lapping eagerly. The orc's fingers were still tangled in her hair, clenching tightly, jerking her to certain spots less like she was holding a loving partner's head, and more like a sex toy.
Evie was loving it. She had to keep her knees locked just to get the height required to taste Hurlish's pussy, but the rest of her was nearly boneless, her tail only occasionally stuttering upward, searching for some part of Hurlish to wrap around before flopping limply back to the floor. Her arms hung uselessly by her side, swinging slightly, fingertips twitching as Hurlish jerked her from side to side. Only her eyes seemed to have any light to them, and that was only because they were wide and staring straight up, craving the sight of Hurlish as much as her tongue craved the taste of Hurlish's pussy.
Hurlish peeled Evie off with some effort, the feline belatedly scrabbling to take hold of Hurlish's thighs as she realized she was being pulled away. Ignoring her feeble efforts, Hurlish shifted her grip on Evie's hair from her left hand to her right and began walking across the room, dragging Evie with her.
"Spent a lot of money on this fuckin' bed," Hurlish said to Sara. "We're not gonna fuck in the goddamn living room."
Taking a glance over towards it, Sara was at least relieved to see that her girlfriend had the good sense to get a bed large enough bed for the three of them. It was heavily reinforced, with thick timbers instead of the usual thin slats of wood supporting its feather-stuffed mattress, and the sheets were fine silks. Judging by the number of pillows and the fact that the bedding was actually made, Hurlish had been planning for this.
Evie was suddenly flung forward, sliding across the bed until she thumped against the headboard. Hurlish stopped, kicking her boots to a random corner of the room, dragging her pants off with one hand while her other threw her shirt over her head.
Though there was nothing slow about how Hurlish took her clothes off, it felt to Sara like the entire world crawled to a stop. Her dark green skin rippled with muscle, like always, save for the swell of her belly, which was as soft and enticing as her pillowy breasts. She didn't wear a bra, just linen wraps, and when she started towards the bed without unwrapping them, Sara finally snapped out of her trance.
"Where are you going?" Sara murmured, wrapping her arms underneath Hurlish's shoulders.
"To get eaten out?" Hurlish grunted, dragging Sara forward a step.
"Not dressed like that, you aren't," Sara breathed, reaching up and snagging a handful of cloth. It peeled away easily under Sara's clawing, falling to a loose pile on the floor.
Evie, still panting on the bed, watched with a reverence almost religious. Her pupils dilated even further as Hurlish stretched, relieved to have her wraps off, pushing her chest forward.
And then Evie's eyes dropped to her stomach, the subtle rise of her pregnancy, and the feline whimpered.
All froze at the sound, Sara cupping more than a handful of breast, Hurlish mid-stretch, and Evie laid out across the bed, paralyzed by shock.
"Y'like that, huh?" Hurlish finally asked, her voice scratchy with arousal. Evie's face began to redden, and it was with considerable delight that both of the woman's girlfriends realized they'd found a kink that actually managed to get the implacable catgirl embarrassed.
Sara dropped her hands from Hurlish's breasts to cup her baby bump, leaning around Hurlish's bicep to look Evie in the eyes.
"Something about seeing your girlfriend pregnant that gets you going, Evie?"
"I- I- Well, it's only n-natural..." She stuttered.
"Natural, of course," Hurlish drawled, slowly padding forward, resting her hands over Sara's. "I mean, everyone gets so red in the face they can't speak when they see their girl pregnant, right?"
"That's- I wouldn't know-"
"They don't, Evie," Sara hummed, stepping out from behind Hurlish. "What about it gets you like this, hm?" As Sara spoke, Hurlish reached the end of the bed and crawled up, towering over the catgirl. "You like knowing she's been knocked up? That I've put my claim on her, that I'm showing the whole world she's mine?"
"Or is it that the same thing could happen to you?" Hurlish asked, bending over, framing Evie's face with her hands on either side of the far smaller woman. "That you know the moment you want it, you're gonna end up like me? Sara's kid in you, kicking and wiggling, with everyone that you pass on the street knowing that the Champion knocked you up?"
"That's- it's-" Evie's face continued to redden, writhing on the bed. She still had her clothes on, which Sara intended to change soon, if only because the poor girl looked like she was about to overheat.
"C'mon, Evie, use your words," Sara purred, stepping around the bed. As she did so, she slowly pulled her own shirt over her head and shook her hair out, letting it cascade over her bare shoulders. Evie watched her, swallowing hard.
"It's- I can't–" She groaned, tearing her eyes off of Sara's chest. "Gods, why haven't you two started touching me yet?"
"C'mon, Kitty," Hurlish growled, dropping lower, until Evie could look at nothing but her. "If you want to get what you're looking for, y'gotta tell us what you want."
Evie's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, eyes wide, before she suddenly closed them, turning away to mumble into the pillow.
"It's just that... You're pregnant. With our child. And... and I have always wanted to be a mother?"
Her tone took on a questioning lilt as she forced the sentence out, looking as if she wanted to bite the pillow in sheer embarrassment.
Sara froze again, halfway through crawling onto the bed. Really? She thought, astounded. That's it? It's not even a kink? She's just really hyped about raising the kid?
"Fucking adorable," Sara breathed, before she could think better of it.
"Maaasterrr!" Evie whined plaintively, ears flat against her skull as she twisted away.
Hurlish ended the moment by crashing down on top of Evie, assaulting her mouth with her own. Evie groaned, pressing up into the larger woman as she threw her arms around her bare shoulders.
Sara crawled onto the bed beside them, perfectly content to watch, but almost immediately found herself getting dragged in, Hurlish shoving her into the mattress, so she was on her back next to Evie.
The orc finally broke her kiss with Evie, ignoring the delirious, airy expression she'd left on the woman's face, and snagged Sara by the waistband. She found herself thrown down beside Evie, shoulder to shoulder, Hurlish towering over them both.
"Who's first?" Hurlish asked.
"Me," both women responded.
"Greedy girls," Hurlish murmured, running a hand up Evie's stomach, feeling the roughspun cloth of her shirt. She was still wearing simple commoner's clothing, the disguise Sara had prepared for her. Hurlish's eyes flicked to Sara. "You know what to do, don't you?"
Sara nodded hurriedly, rolling onto her side to hold Evie's shoulders down. Hurlish's fingers continued to trace a trial upward, running between Evie's breasts, before taking a fistful of her shirt's collar.
The feline's breath came hot and heavy, her eyes wide, hips rolling on the bed as best they could, when she pinned in place by two stronger women.
The moment Sara had a decent grip on her girlfriend, Hurlish pulled, the sound of ripping cotton tearing the air. Evie let out a half-gasp, half mewl as her shirt was torn away, coming apart in Hurlish's hands like tissue paper. Her breasts were bared to the air, shoved upward by her panting, her eyes growing ever more lidded with arousal.
Red lines began to blossom along Evie's skin where the shirt had dug in the tightest. As Hurlish started tearing off Evie's pants, Sara bent down to run her tongue along the painful marks, tasting the rising heat of Evie's skin, tinged with the sweat born of her arousal.
Evie whined pitifully as her sopping wet core was exposed to the open air, even the summer heat feeling cold against her burning body. Sara lifted her tongue off Evie's ribs to spare a glance. Her thighs were soaked, shining with slick arousal, spread further every time she tried to rub her legs together, seeking any friction she could get.
As Sara returned to licking her way across Evie's body, Hurlish forced her legs open, denying the feline even that small relief.
Sara's tongue moved up from Evie's ribs to her torso, licking around the sides of her breasts. Evie groaned out her frustration, twisting towards Sara as she took a handful of her hair, trying to shove her closer. It was useless, of course. For all her superior skills with a blade, Evie couldn't hold a candle to Sara's strength. Sara was free to taste her partner's body as she wished, and for the moment, she was far more patient than Evie.
Hurlish, meanwhile, wasn't showing quite the same restraint. The sight of Evie's legs spread open, held open by Hurlish's own thighs, had a deep growl bubbling out of her throat. Sara felt Evie jump as Hurlish's palm landed on her inner thigh, fingernails pressing into her flesh. The orc spread her legs farther, farther, until it was almost painful, and only when Evie looked near to tears with desperation for release did she finally smirk, stooping lower.
Sara moved to take Evie's nipple in her mouth in the same moment that Hurlish's tongue pressed against Evie's core. A low song began to fill the room, humming out of Sara's chest as, slowly, in perfect sync, she and Hurlish dragged her tongues along Evie's body.
Evie groaned mindlessly, chest rising up into Sara's mouth, hips bucking against Hurlish's mouth. One flat palm from Hurlish pressed against her pelvis, slamming her hips back down into the bed, pinning her in place.
"Gods, gods, gods," Evie breathed, "Please. Please, please touch me."
In response, Sara moved her hand to Evie's other breast, brushing over her nipple, and Hurlish wrapped her forearms around Evie's thighs, dragging her in closer, tight, practically grinding Evie against her face while her tongue dove into her.
Evie had never been one to last long in bed, something Sara took considerably pride in, but this was looking to be a record for her. Not a minute had passed before she began to shiver and shake, fingernails clawing red marks along Sara's shoulderblades. Sara didn't stop, not even as her begging faded from sentences to words to mindless moans, and Hurlish kept licking, pressing deeper into Evie's core, tongue lapping up her arousal like she was addicted.
Evie's eyes wrenched shut, every muscle across her body tensing as she fought against the rising tide, trying to hold off, to bask in the pleasure for just a little bit longer.
Sara would have none of that. With a muttered word, she cast Empathic Link, joining their emotions together, deepening the bond they shared beyond even what the collar could offer.
Sara's knees buckled as she felt Evie's pleasure wash into her at the same moment that Evie keened loudly, suddenly hit by the full brunt of Sara's hunger, her need. They could feel the other's desire for the other as burning flame, two flames that joined into a single towering bonfire.
Sara could feel Evie's profound, utter relief at having Hurlish beside her, the abject joy that she would no longer hear her voice filtered through her crystal. Evie felt Sara's furious hunger, the sheer need that bubbled in her core, a gnawing pit that was slowly being filled by the sight of her partner tensing beneath her.
With a final, sudden push, Sara did something she'd never done before, and extended Empathic Link to another person, wrapping Hurlish up in their threefold embrace.
She was... horny. Unbelievably, maddeningly, uncontrollably turned on, aroused beyond belief. The hunger in her gut for Evie's body was all-consuming, the months-absent taste of her slick as beautiful as any god-given nectar. The orc was floating away on a raging river of brutal, possessive desire, an instinctive need to claim, to own. There was nothing more that her body wanted than to see Evie fall apart under her tongue, to reach a height of pleasure so great it left her delirious, so that the woman would never, ever dare leave her again, no matter what.
As the spell whirled between them, passing thoughts back and forth, to and from, Sara felt Evie's pleasure growing. She could taste Evie's slick on her tongue, felt lips on her breast, could feel a head between her legs, tongue digging deep into her core. So lost was she that she couldn't even tell what came from her, what was her lover's pleasure, and she didn't care.
Evie's body suddenly tensed, her hips shoving up into Hurlish's face as her mouth dropped open, nothing but the quietest of gasps slipping through.
Evie's orgasm struck like lightning, roared like thunder, shaking all the world. Sara's fingers dug trenches in the bed as it roared through her an instant later, a dizzying, heady pleasure pumping through her body, sourceless and serene, vibrant and all-consuming. She cried out into Evie's breast, her voice breaking as her legs clenched shut around the phantom tongue between her legs, which seemed to be shoving as hard as it could into her core. She lost herself, utterly, unsure of where she was, who she was, and most of all, why she should even care. All that mattered was the taste of salty sweat against her tongue, the thumping pleasure pulsing through her core, the beautiful, beautiful whines which filled the room. Hurlish's hips were grinding uselessly against the bed, tears were beading at the corner of Evie's eyes, and every inch of silken sheet that caressed Sara's bare body felt as wonderful as a hundred massages.
A time later, only the gods knew how long, and Sara's mind bubbled up from the primordial haze of pleasure in which it had nearly drowned. As her senses slowly returned, one by one, she realized was laying limply across Evie's chest, the feline's arm flung over her back. Her shoulderblades stung in that old familiar way, the one that told her Evie had left deep marks, yet somehow even that felt wonderful. She'd earned them, and even the dull throbbing pain took on a sheen of pride.
"Huhhuhhhh..." groaned Hurlish. Sara mustered the energy to flop her head onto the other cheek, looking down Evie's stomach to see the orc dragging herself out from between Evie's legs. Her face was a mess of arousal, slick and sticky. If Sara could have moved, she would have licked it off her. "Thheeee fuck'd you dooo?" Hurlish moaned, trying and failing to prop herself up on an elbow.
"Spell link," Sara croaked, her voice scratchy. She'd dimly noted hearing someone screaming when they'd all came, but she thought it had been Evie, like usual. Judging by her aching throat, that may not have been the case. "Thought it'd be fun."
"Was," Hurlish said, thumping her head back down, face-first into the mattress. It was a matter of seconds before a gentle snore rose up from the orc, whose shins were still dangling off the end of the bed.
"Evie?" Sara asked, once more making the arduous effort of turning her head to the right, so she could look at her partner.
The feline didn't respond, her head laid limply back against a pillow, eyes shut. Her mouth hung slightly open as she breathed, chest rising and falling, the air rushing into her lungs just barely audible from where Sara lay on her breast.
"Oh. G'night, I guess," Sara murmured. "or... morning? Maybe it's... afternooon...?"
Sleep took her before she could solve the conundrum.
Notes:
A hypothetical glimpse into a moment in the indeterminate future:
"Why's that one spot on the wall blank?" Sara's guest asked, pointing.
Sure enough, there was a small patch on the apartment wall with no ornate weapons hung, a small dent showing in the boards about three and a half feet above the baseboards.
"Uh," Sara said, because there was no good way to say that's the spot we keep clear because Evie really likes when Hurlish face-fucks her against the wall when she gets home from the forge.
"...I'm sure it'll get filled eventually," Sara eventually said, hurrying her guest along.
Chapter 89: Loving Is Easy
Chapter Text
It was the late afternoon when Sara finally awoke, and this time for real. She'd had expected them to spend the rest of the day in bed, considering their track record, but the spell-bolstered orgasm had smashed her libido to pieces. As they awoke, one by one, Sara found the same sentiment mirrored in Hurlish, and, to her surprise, Evie, who didn't even suggest going another round.
Instead, after they had spent quiet hour resting in one another's arms, they slowly got dressed. They all moved gingerly, wobbling a bit, but no one fell as they got their pants back on.
"So," Hurlish eventually said, clearing her throat several times so her voice wouldn't crack. "Want to see the new place?"
Sara and Evie followed Hurlish out into the living room, paying proper attention to it for the first time. To her complete and utter lack of shock, the home was spartan in its decoration. Two rooms, a kitchen-slash-living-room and a bedroom, with a single worn-out sofa dragged in front of a fireplace that had never seen an ounce of ash. The bedroom lacked a door for no better reason than it hadn't had one when Hurlish moved in, and she'd never bothered to go out and buy one. Sara was fairly certain the specialty bed was more expensive than the rest of the home and its contents combined.
Well, with one clear exception. Hurlish may not have cared much for knick-knacks and soft pillows, but she wasn't totally allergic to decorations. She just had a different taste than most.
In the weeks Sara and Evie had been away, Hurlish's weapon collection had grown. Considerably. The walls were covered by various steel-bladed weapons of all varieties, from simple carving knives all the way to ponderous greatswords, so large that only the tallest of orcs could reasonably swing them. With just a cursory glance, Sara counted over a dozen individual halberds, swords, and war hammers. There was also, taking up a place of honor in the center of the exterior wall, four well-polished muskets, with a pair of matched pistols hung neatly below them.
Though there were a multitude of dueling weapons and rapiers among the collection, when Evie finally sloughed out of bed, limp and sore, it was the pistols that she gravitated to. Still reticent to lose contact with Hurlish, she took the woman by the arm and dragged her over to the display.
"What is special about this set, then?" Evie asked, cocking her head as she eyed the pistols. "They seem identical to the variety described by Master's father."
"They are," Hurlish agreed, pointing to the plaque's label. Sara sauntered up behind them, wrapping an arm around both women's waists, and squinted at the tiny chicken-scratch text.
Harper's Ferry Flintlock Pistol. Serial Number 1 & 2.
"These are the first you ever made, then?" Sara guessed.
"Yup," Hurlish confirmed. "First pistols in all the world. When we watched illusion of your dad talking about all those guns and stuff, I noticed how nuts he tended to get about historical importance and preservation and all that crap, so I thought I'd test these a few times, then hang 'em up to dry. World's first pistols. Real, 'historical artifact,' those. Or they will be, some day."
Sara felt a flutter of something in her stomach, almost as if she were the one pregnant. For Hurlish to care about Sara's own interests was one thing, almost expected for a girlfriend to do. Caring about what her father might have wanted, when Hurlish had never met the man, and never would? Just to respect Sara's fondness for her father? That was a special kind of thoughtfulness.
"And the muskets?" Evie asked, too eager to notice the moment passing her by.
Hurlish picked one up off the wall, putting the stock on the ground, so Evie could see down the barrel.
"First of each kind of rifling method I tried. Didn't know how best to go about it, and none of 'em turned out particularly good, but hey. First is a first. They'll probably end up in one of those museum things some day, the first rifles in all the world. Bit of a shame they're shit rifles, but hey, what can you do?"
Hurlish set the musket back up on its peg, then turned to Evie, managing to unclamp the feline's hand from her own. "What about your pistols? You said you jury-rigged some shit yourself, yeah? Let me see 'em."
"They're certainly not up to your standards," Evie warned, reaching reluctantly into the enchanted bag off her hip..
"Maybe, but calling 'em pistols in the first place is a bit of an understatement," Sara noted as the weapons were produced. "You sawed the barrel off a musket. Pretty sure no one's supposed to be taking that kind recoil with their wrist alone."
"Hand cannons, more like," Hurlish agreed, taking the weapon from Evie. She ran a finger along the barrel's end, feeling the rough iron where a hacksaw had cut it through. "How much powder you putting in these?"
"A hundred and ten grains or so, if I take the time to properly measure."
Hurlish's eyebrow raised. "The full length musket's only supposed to be using eighty grains, y'know. You're gonna break something shooting a load like that."
"Yes, well, nights spent with you two have given me a particularly strong wrist, it would seem," Evie sniffed defensively. "The recoil is considerable, but manageable for one of our Level."
Hurlish chuckled, pulling the hammer back on the pistol, inspecting the flash pan. "Not what I meant. You put enough shots through this with a powder load like that, and sooner or later it's going to split. I bet if I opened it up, I could already see warping."
"I would have used less powder if possible, but without the longer barrel to accelerate the ball, such a load is required to penetrate enchanted steel."
"You tried using minié balls in it?" Hurlish asked. "Those should get through armor better, being pointed and all."
"I considered it, but that would require using one of our limited stock of rifled muskets for the base, which I did not wish to deprive our army of. Without the rifling to engage the grooves, the round tumbled end over end, resulting in worse accuracy than a standard musket ball."
"Hm. Well, it wouldn't be hard to rifle 'em now, if you want."
Evie's ears, which had lowered slightly, popped up to their usual alertness.
"Would that be reasonable? It would weaken the barrel considerably, no? And you were already concerned about warping from the powder load."
"Since you used the 1842 for your base, it should be fine. Barrel's thick enough to take the rifling without a problem. Though you'll want to lower your powder load, in the future, trust to the minié balls for better armor piercing."
Sara watched the exchange with a small smile. Evie was often self-conscious at what she considered her lack of practical talents, when compared to her two partners. Sara had offered to help make them, but Evie had refused, slaving over the pistols for hours, trying to get the cut as clean as she could with only a hacksaw.
"We'll probably want to put those in a museum too, someday," Sara said, picking up one of the six mega-pistols Evie had created. "After the last few battles, I'm pretty sure they've ended whole noble lineages all on their own."
"It's rather unlikely that a family would send their only fertile children to war, Master," Evie argued, though Sara did catch a smarmy flick of her tail. "Were that not the case, however, I suppose it could be possible."
"War's not over yet," Sara said. "I'm sure you'll get your chances."
"If you don't beat her to it," Hurlish grunted, handing Evie back her pistol. "I finished up your toy yesterday evening, Sara. Want to come check it out?"
"Oh? What've you got for me?" Sara asked, fluttering her eyelashes, feigning ignorance.
"What else?" Hurlish asked, grinning at Sara. "A big fucking gun."
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"Hurlish. Hurlish, babe, I love you. But this thing is going to blow my goddamn shoulder off."
Hurlish piteously dropped the weapon in Sara's hands, making her grunt as she adjusted to the weight.
"I'll be honest, I kinda forgot how small you are. Looked better when it was in my hands."
"I'm one of the tallest human women you've ever met."
"Tallest human doesn't mean much, shortstuff." Hurlish replied, resting her elbow atop Sara's head for emphasis.
"It doesn't matter how short I am. It matters how big this fucking gun is."
She finally shifted the weapon into a more comfortable position, resting its butt against the ground. The mouth of the barrel poked into her stomach just below her sternum, which meant it was a good deal shorter than most muskets. About three and a half feet, the barrel taking up two of that. A reasonable size, for something like a carbine.
This weapon was not a goddamn carbine. Sara could easily fit two fingers down the barrel side-by-side, with a bit of wiggle room to spare, and that was just the start.
"What is this?" She asked. "An inch and a half caliber?"
"Inch and a third," Hurlish corrected, as if it made it any better. "Which, by your notes, makes it a cannon, not a musket."
"It's fuckin' ridiculous."
"So you love it?"
"I love it."
Sara swung the cannon up to her shoulder, looking down the barrel. It had the same sights as most of the rifles Hurlish had made, patterned off an AK, where the rear sight would elevate in hundred yard increments, up to five hundred yards. She doubted she'd ever shoot the thing beyond a hundred yards, what with the way most battles had been smothered in an eery powder fog, but she appreciated the option all the same.
The barrel was over half an inch thick, by far the thickest of any gun she'd ever seen, in this world and her old. And it was steel, not just iron. Though they could barely measure such a thing, Hurlish had aimed for a carbon content of half a percent, and from their talks over the crystal, Sara knew that the resulting steel was at the very limits of what their current metallurgy was capable of handling. The effort required to pound a half-inch thick plate of steel into shape was barely within reach of even Hurlish's absurd strength.
If Sara had to guess, the assembled gun weighed fifty pounds, and that was without its lead ammunition and powder charge, which would only worsen things. Sara was absolutely certain that her old self would have no hope of holding it on target for more than a few seconds at a time, assuming she could've lifted it at all. With the way most of the weight was balanced at the end of the barrel, even her current self ended up tiring from the effort of holding it in a shooting stance.
Sara reached up to the rear of the gun, pressed the metal latch aside, and broke it open. There would've been no way to actually load a round into the rifled barrel, since the lead had to be larger than the barrel to get the rifling's grooves to bite, and forcing it down the barrel like they did with other rifles would have needed a damn jackhammer.
Thus, Hurlish had created her first break-action weapon. The steel latch swung open silently, not a scrape or rattle to be heard, and Sara spent a moment admiring the grace of the mechanism. She'd never produced an illusion of a break-action weapon for Hurlish to replicate, only told her that they existed, so the way the smith had managed to get everything to work so smoothly was shockingly impressive. If they hadn't just gotten out of bed, seeing that subtle glide would have ended up with Sara pulling Hurlish back into it. The interior of the exposed chamber was cavernous, an inch and a third wide, six inches long.
"Here you go," Hurlish said, handing Sara a thick bag. It was an all-in-one powder charge, bullet and black powder tied together in a flammable cloth sack, like she wished she could've afforded to have ready for her cannoneers.
"Master, surely you aren't going to shoot that thing in the city?" Evie asked. "Even if you do not shatter windows with its concussion, I doubt there is a wall thick enough to absorb such a round."
"It's a lead round, I bet it'll just shatter when it hits stone," Sara dismissively replied, taking the charge from Hurlish. She dropped it into the breech, where it landed with a satisfying thunk.
"Actually, those rounds are steel-cored," Hurlish said. "A pain in the ass, but I figure if you're gonna be shooting at wizards and knights and shit, it was probably worth it."
Sara paused, halfway through snapping the weapon closed. "So these are armor-piercing rounds then?"
"They're not any of the fancy shit you talked about from your world," Hurlish shrugged, "but they're the best I could do. Soft, heavy lead, for weight, with a little steel core for punching through whatever the lead bruised up first. Worked fine when I tested it against some of the captured gear you sent back, but we'll have to see. Damn expensive rounds, by the way, and they take forever to make, so try and use 'em when it matters."
"It seems like you shouldn't be using such ammunition for a simple test firing, then," Evie noted from the sidelines.
Hurlish and Sara both gave her a look.
"But... it'd be more fun if I did?" Sara plaintively replied.
Hurlish nodded solemnly. "Yeah, what she said."
Evie narrowed her eyes. "You are supposed to be voice of reason among us three, Hurlish."
"My girlfriends just got back into town. I'm on break. Just, uh, think of it as..." Hurlish's tusks bobbed as she thought. After a moment, her face brightened. "You gotta test it under field conditions, y'know. Yeah, make sure it'll perform the same and all that. That makes sense."
Evie huffed, but didn't further object, so Sara happily clicked the barrel closed and lined the sights up with the cratered pile of dirt Hurlish had brought in for target practice. Truthfully, she was rather concerned about how much of the explosion would leak out around the break-action's seal, since she'd just shoved seven or eight times the amount of black powder into the thing than she'd have used with a normal musket. Sara briefly checked to make sure Hurlish was covering Evie's ears, then hesitated for a further second, even as the weapon grew heavy against her shoulder.
This'd be a pretty stupid end to my life story, she thought. " Here lies Sara Brown. She almost did a lot of important things, until she blew her face off with a massive goddamn gun."
Eh, fuck it. Worth.
Sara pulled the trigger.
The world went white. Her body was thrown violently to the side, like a giant had swung its boot into her shoulder with all its might. The report that rocked through the city was something she heard for only a split second before it was replaced with high-pitched ringing, a whine that reverberated in time with the throbbing agony in her shoulder. She stumbled backward several steps, halfway proud she didn't fall, coughing from the sudden shock of inhaling lungfuls of powder, an ache blooming through her abused shoulder.
Evie said something from nearby that, judging by her expression, was supremely derogatory.
"Yeah," Sara said, certain that whatever muffled insult she'd just suffered was perfectly accurate. God damn did her shoulder hurt.
Evie stepped closer and, realizing Sara couldn't hear her, leaned in to shout.
"Your arm is dislocated!" She yelled. "I'm going to pull it back into place! Are you ready?!"
"Gimme a sec– FUCK!"
Sara doubled over as Evie jerked on her arm, popping it back into place. The pain hit her like lightning, unbearably intense, but there and gone in an instant. She set the gun down, leaning against it for support, and breathed hard. A glass bottle appeared in front of her a moment later, the red slurry of a small of health potion swirling inside, which she happily chugged.
As the cold shiver ran through her, numbing the pain in her ears and shoulder, Sara slowly became aware of the fact that Hurlish was talking.
"...probably should only shoot that with your armor on, huh?"
"Maybe," Sara said sarcastically, working her jaw in circles. Her ears felt like they'd popped a hundred times over, the sounds of the world too dull.
Eventually she stood, waving a hand over the still-smoking barrel. Several smiths from across the yard were looking their way, probably pissed that Sara was back in town. She gave them a friendly wave.
"I'll give you a warning next time, promise! That was the only one for now!"
She caught the glances the smiths shared with one another, ranging from severe doubt to faint amusement, but didn't pay it any mind.
Abruptly, she remembered that she wasn't supposed to let the burning powder just sit in the gun like that. It would do horrible things to the barrel.
She thumbed the thick latch over and broke open the gun, leaning away from a second puff of smoke. She turned the weapon over, dumping out unburnt powder and smoking tendrils of cloth.
"Think we can get those charges wrapped in paper, instead?" Sara asked, shaking the gun out harder. More and more kept falling out, coating the stones in dark flecks.
"You've basically ate up all of Tulian's paper production for the regular musket's ammo," Hurlish reminded her. "Paper ain't cheap anymore."
"Nothing about this gun's cheap." Sara shook the weapon a few extra times before clicking it shut, satisfied that she'd gotten the last of the mess out. "You know what's expensive, though? Knight's armor. And unless every shot is costing enough to buy a small village, we're gonna be coming out ahead."
"It's your money," Hurlish said with a shrug. "I just used the cloth 'cause I didn't think you'd want to be taking any of the paper cartridges away from the troops."
Sara, halfway through adjusting the gun's shoulder strap, froze. "Shit. You're right. Now I feel like an asshole." She mulled it over, deliberating.
Evie stepped sharply forward, snagging the strap out of Sara's hands. "My gods, Master, just use the paper. It's paper." With a few quick jerks, Evie adjusted the strap to Sara's size, waving for her to put out her arm. "You don't worry about 'stealing' wine from the soldiers at night, do you?"
"I mean..."
"Forget I asked." Evie buckled the strap into place and took a step back. "There," she said, crossing her arms and returning to her spot beside Hurlish, running Sara over with an inspector's eye. "Does it fit well, or is the weight too great? We may need a larger strap, lest it dig into your skin."
"You always want a larger strap," Sara countered, earning a barked laugh from Hurlish. Evie just stared, unammused. Sara took a few steps back and forth, rolling her shoulders and bouncing in place, making sure the gun felt secure. She gave a thumbs up. "Feels great, size queen."
Evie arched an eyebrow. "You do realize it's my desires which dictate your anatomy, Master? Too much mockery and you may end up with something truly unwieldy, next time."
"Yeah, but you're the one that's gonna be taking it. I'm fine with that."
Evie smirked. "I suppose we'll have to see, won't we?"
"Alright, break it up, girls," Hurlish said, giving Evie's ass a firm swat. The feline yelped, rubbing the spot with a look of faint affront.
"Why was I the only one that got spanked?" She asked. "Master was fully complicit in this argument."
"Hey Sara, come over here."
"Oh, no. Don't think you can get me with– ow!" One of Hurlish's massive arms snagged Sara's shoulder and spun her around, delivering the same underhanded slap to her ass.
"There, you happy, you brat?" Hurlish swept Evie up in an arm, so the orc's breasts were resting on her head. "By the way," she said, looking down at her own cleavage to address Evie, who was hidden beneath, "Your toys aren't done yet. They're a lot more complicated than Sara's gun, after all. Sorry about that."
"I expected as much," Evie replied, maintaining her noble decorum despite the decidedly indecorous position. "And there's certainly no need for apology, nor concern. Master's victory has won us a reprieve. I trust that they will be ready before battle is next met."
"Love you too, babe."
Sara snorted. In the course of running Tulian, they'd both seen Evie's usual response to a contractor announcing a delay.
"How many rounds do you have ready?" Sara asked. "I'll have to store 'em in Evie's bag of holding, since I'd basically be wearing bombs otherwise, but I'll be glad to get as many as I can.."
"I've got ten ready to go," Hurlish said, one hand moving to pet Evie's head as she spoke. "But really, that's it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, pretty much every time we've ever made a gun together, there's always something wrong with the first version. I don't think I've ever made a new kind without, what, three prototypes?"
Sara spun the gun off her back and held it up, running through a mental checklist. She shrugged.
"I've got nothing. It all looks good to me. I mean, I may want a cleaning tool specifically for it, since it seems to leave a shit-ton of debris behind after a shot. So maybe something to swab out the chamber and barrel?" She swung the gun onto her back, where it settled as a comfortable weight. "Other than that, I got nothing. It's perfect, Hurlish."
"Eh, well, I'm sure we'll find something screwy once you actually–"
"If either of you are speaking to me," Evie loudly announced, head rolling back and forth as Hurlish's massive paw of a hand shoved her head around, "I must inform you that I can not hear you."
Hurlish chuckled, pausing the scratch to say, "You're all good. Still talking gun stuff."
"Then why did you stop?"
The orc rolled her eyes as she resumed her scratching. Evie arched up into the touch slightly, and a small rumble began to build in the core of her chest.
"Looks like we better wrap this up," Sara said, nodding to Evie. "Won't be long, now."
"Nope," Hurlish agreed, adding a second hand to the rubbing. "How long do you think she's gonna be like this?"
"We were gone for a while, Hurlish. She's gonna be clingy."
"Hey, I ain't complaining. Just wondering."
Sara thought it over, tugging a bit on her Blessings to make her evaluation. It was almost funny, when she realized. It was hard to remember that for all her hardships, Evie was still only a twenty-something girl, in her first relationship. And one hell of a first relationship, at that. Perfectly fair if she got a bit insecure about some things.
"A couple days longer, I bet," Sara decided. "She's missed you more than she lets on." She nodded to Evie's bag. "You notice how nervous she was to show you those pistols she made?"
"Not really?"
"Well, she was. While she was making them she kept mumbling about how you'd throw a fit if you knew what she was doing to 'your guns.' Even I couldn't get the idea out of her head."
Hurlish's eyebrows rose. "The fuck'd she get that idea from? I knew you were givin' them to army brats. I'd be happy if I found out no one stuck their dick in 'em cause they were bored."
Sara snorted. "Well, for the record, I'm pretty sure no one has. And she's just like that. Y'know, she's been trying to pick up whittling? She says it's to keep her busy, but I can tell she feels bad that we're always the ones giving her stuff, instead of the other way around. I think she wants to help you making weapon stocks and stuff, eventually."
"Huh." Hurlish abruptly stopped petting Evie, hip-checking her out from under the shade of her breasts, and crossed her arms. "That's enough of that. Don't want you dragging us all into bed again. I got shit for you to do."
Evie blinked several times, slowly piecing together her wits. When she did, she frowned.
"For me? How so? Were you having difficulty with accessing the accounts while we were away? If any of the lenders are giving you trouble, I'll–"
"No. I got all those display racks up in the house for the weapons, but my handwriting's shit, so I never put labels on most of 'em. The plaques are under the weapons, up top. Sara and I are gonna work on some other shit, so go grab as many as you can."
"Certainly, but–"
"Now."
Evie shivered, pupils dilating, then turned on a heel and marched stalwartly back into the building.
"Subtle," Sara drawled, when Evie was out of earshot. "You sounded like a parent getting their kid to do the dishes."
"Which is fine. Not like she'd know what that's like, anyway,"
"Guess not." Sara put her hands on her hips, looking around the spotless forge, which hadn't been prepped for a day's work in the slightest. "So. What are we going to work on?"
Hurlish blew out a long breath and shuffled over to the bellows. "Hells if I know. I'll think of something."
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed the throuple date! What's a better combo than lesbians and oversized weapons? Also, I finally went back and marked which chapters contain smut. (E) means explicit sexual content, while (S) means suggestive content, something that, depending on your brazenness, you may not want someone noticing when they glance over your shoulder.
If you're curious about the look of Sara's new ammo you can compare it pretty directly to a WW1 37mm Hotchkiss Shell, but you replace the brass with a flammable bit of cloth or paper. Of course, the Hotchkiss was field artillery, not a normal gun. Sara's new toy is a good bit larger than the largest-ever real world shoulder guns, (meaning weapons fired from the shoulder rather than being mounted or exclusively fired while prone) which were the 4 Bore guns used in the 19th century to hunt African big game.
If you want the nitty gritty specifics, it's got a 3/4 inch thick barrel that's two feet long, a bore diameter of 1.4 inches (35mm), a foot long wooden stock, its bullet weighs around a pound and a third and is fired by a powder load of 700 grains (50 grams of black powder), and it uses a break action lever similar to a double barrel shotgun, though it's obviously not double-barreled, because Christ, could you imagine? I did consider that it would best be made with a falling block mechanism, like modern production 4 Bores, but unfortunately Sara wouldn't know about such a comparatively obscure loading mechanism, compared to the famous break-actions of popular media. Why yes, I did consult a gunsmith for this chapter. How could you tell?
Chapter 90: Hoist the Colors
Notes:
Two-chapter update, the longest two chapters in quite a while!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ignite should have known better.
Requesting to be a common Marine Sergeant. Asking that his old rank be restored, his notoriety erased. To be allowed to suffer his dishonor in obscurity. The Champion had been compassionate enough to acquiesce to such a thing.
Admiral Nora O'Gallison was not.
She'd played coy about it for a time, allowing him to take up position on one of the common ships, a dromon. She had even taken care to place him amongst a vessel sporting the newest of recruits, those who may have recognized his heritage as of the Carrion Navy, but did not know his former importance. He had done well in this role, dutifully training his troops to a standard he found acceptable, if not equal to their Carrion equivalents.
And then, a few short weeks later, he had been summoned to the flagship, that hulking behemoth. The Waverake, with its black hull scraped through by a single strip of shining white, had seemed to yawn up before him as he had been rowed over in a launch. Even before he had set foot on deck, received by the Admiral herself, he had known what to expect.
"Yer performance as a Sergeant has been exemplary," Nora had said, a knowing smirk hidden behind the thin veil of naval formality that suffused her cabin. "And in light of yer request to be seen as nothin' more than a newly minted Sergeant, I've seen fit to test ya further, see where your potential lies. You're to transfer station to the TRS Waverake, effective immediately, to serve as the First Sergeant of her Marine contingent. Yer belonging's'll be brought over shortly."
And so, in the truest fashion of naval politicking, Sergeant Ignite Parables had become First Sergeant Ignite Parables, a rank that paid only lip service to his request to remain low in the command structure. As First Sergeant, a title invented out of the aether by Admiral O'Gallison, he was placed above not only every other Marine Sergeant on the flagship, but also the Marine commanders of every other ship in the fleet, should joint action be undertaken. She justified it as a natural extension of the naval hierarchy, that the flagship would be expected to have the most experienced sailors, and so their officers would supersede the others should a potential conflict in authority arise.
And because the justification had made sense, and moreso because he'd sworn an oath to serve the Tulian people, he did nothing more than stand straight and and salute.
His bags were brought over shortly indeed, so shortly that they were in fact already neatly arranged on the floor of his quarters when he was shown to his officer's cabin. She'd known, of course. Ignite was not a difficult man to anticipate.
The first thing Ignite had done, of course, was drag his few belongings out of the room, taking them to the main area of the berthing deck– one of four decks– and store them beneath a hammock, so he would sleep amongst his Marines. He held no concern for theft; there was little in his possession of value beyond his armor and coin purse, and those only left his body when he slept. If some sailor saw fit to steal his underclothes and sweat-stained shore uniform, he figured they needed them more than Ignite ever would.
Then, reasoning that there was no use wasting time now that this not-promotion had been thrust upon him, Ignite had set to familiarizing himself with the ship.
In structure it was quite unlike anything he had ever boarded, save perhaps for the greatest of Carrion Magecraft troop transports. He began at the lowest level of the ship, its hold, tucked beneath the orlop deck. The walls curved claustrophobically inward on all sides, holding back the burbling sea beyond, and if he paid attention, he could feel the water gently tapping at the hull beneath his feet. The ceiling was so low that he had to take caution as he passed under each overhead beam, and the cramped span ran the entire length of the ship, nearly two hundred feet, though the many crates and barrels obstructed such a long view. Though the storage space was limited by the hull's steep sloping, even a casual tally of the accumulated goods told him that this warship could carry more supplies than the vast majority of merchant vessels Ignite had ever trod upon. The Waverake was clearly designed to spend months upon months on the open sea without resupply, prowling the waters long past when any other ship would have been forced to retire.
It was on this lowest space of the ship that he met the first of his fellow officers, as he was investigating a strange structure in the center of the hold. His attention had been caught by a large box built of thick-walled planking jutting incongruously out of the flooring, a sturdy door of equal thickness all that decorated its exterior. He opened the door, holding his lantern up into the darkness, and was surprised to find nothing more than a second door placed several feet behind the first. He was reaching for this door curiously when its handle twisted, swinging open.
Ignite politely stepped back as a man emerged, wiping sweat from his brow. They locked eyes for a brief moment, mildly surprised to see the other.
And then the man's gaze had flicked down to Ignite's lantern.
The man lunged forward with a suddenness that nearly took even Ignite off-guard, trying to wrap his arms about his waist and tackle him to the floor.
Unfortunately for the man, Ignite had not survived years of Carrion service by pure happenstance, and all the poor fellow received for his action was the pain of a knee popping up into his jaw, slamming his teeth together with a painful clack.
Ignite took two quick steps back and drew his sidesword, leveling its tip at the man, who was sprawled out on the floor.
"Explain yourself," Ignite snapped, "Or surrender yourself for the crime of attacking an officer of the Tulian Navy."
Groaning quietly, the man forced himself up onto his hands and knees, rubbing at his jaw. Ignite scooted back again, out of range of a second lunge, and waited.
"You exshplain your godsdamned shelf," the man growled, a bubble of blood swelling up between his lips. He spat onto the boards, then gathered himself up into a sitting position, still rubbing his jaw. "Trying to bring a damned lantern into the damned powder magazine."
Ignite's eyes widened, comprehension dawning. He looked behind the man, through the second door which still swung loosely with the rocking of the ship. Barrels sat in neat rows on the shelves, sealed tightly with tar, the crude image of a shattered skull painted across their front.
Ignite quickly sheathed his blade and clicked his lantern shut, starving the flame. The area grew quite a bit darker, but it was not pitch black. Enchanted lights glowed within the powder magazine.
"I apologize for my mistake," Ignite said, bowing deeply at the waist. He held the supplicant posture as he spoke. "You were right to assault me, and no charges will be brought against you, nor do I hold any ill will."
"Think I outrank you anyway," the man grumbled, spitting another wad of blood onto the ground. He eyed Ignite's armor, his ink-black skin, and the stripes of rank on his shoulder. "You the new fancy super-Sergeant, or whatever it was the Cap'n called you?"
"First Sergeant Ignite Parables, in your debt," Ignite replied, still holding his bow.
"Ain't no honor debts in the Tulian Navy, boy, you oughtta know that by now."
"Honor transcends duty," Ignite replied, the old Carrion adage slipping easily from him, even when speaking a foreign tongue. "And for saving my life and those of the crew, I am in your debt."
"No y'aint," the man said, standing. "And straighten up. Y'ain't no orc, and you don't need to be crouching down in the hold."
Ignite did so, retrieving his now-extinguished lantern from where he had set it. He waited until the man finished closing up the powder magazine before speaking again.
"And to who do I owe my apologies, sir?"
"Gunner Balon," the man said, dusting his hands off before offering one for a shake. Ignite noticed there remained a light dusting of dark powder on Balon's hands, and wondered how dangerous that was. He shook all the same, and resisted the urge to check his own hand immediately after. His exposure to the newly introduced firearms had thus far been exceptionally limited, only a few demonstrations of the land-based Napoleons, and his paranoia was paramount.
"I am unfamiliar with your rank, sir," Ignite apologized. "I transferred from the Snakesnapper only a few short hours ago, and our vessel hadn't yet been honored with any firearms."
"Gunner's're in charge of the cannons," Balon replied. "And the muskets, and the swivels and what-have-you. Honestly, better title might've been Powder Master, seeing as I'm in charge of everything that goes boom, but ain't me that makes the names. Far as you're concerned, I'm mostly the one you'll see running the gun crews through their drills, yelling my head off and whatnot. Not too different to a Sergeant, speaking honestly. Crew just think I've got more of a pedigree because I'm in charge of the fancy new goods, I 'spose." He crossed his arms, looking Ignite up and down. "You're the Carrion fellow, ain't ya? Well, I know your sort. If you're worrying about whose rank trumps who 'tween us, don't. Gunner's a rank a month old, and First Sergeant's..." He trailed off, looking expectant.
Ignite chuckled slightly. "I'd have to check the sun to be precise, but I suspect my own rank is no more than two hours old."
Gunner Balon grinned. "Well, guess I got you beat on seniority, when it comes to our current ranks, at least."
"So it would seem." Ignite nodded to the lantern, shame still burning bright in his breast. "And familiarity with the new dangers of our shared home."
"Bah!" Balon gave Ignite a slap on his armored shoulder, which clanked loudly in the cramped space. "Not your fault the Cap'n reeled you in and let you flop all over the deck without a clue of what's what. Never served under a better Cap'n, I'll tell ya, but never served under a stranger one, neither."
Ignite felt himself being steered towards the hold's exit, and didn't fight Balon's directions. Now that Ignite wasn't a threat to the safety of the entire ship, the man had gained an easy-going cheer, keeping up a pleasant narration as they went.
"What's say I give you the tour of the Waverake's odd bits, then, yeah? Keep ya from shoving your foot in your mouth when ya got the lower ranks watchin'."
Ignite barely had time to agree before he was swept up onto the orlop deck, Balon sustaining a steady chatter, focusing particularly on all which fell under his personal purview. Gunner, it seemed to Ignite, was not a rank long for this world. It encompassed too much, placed too many responsibilities on one person. Balon's tour of the ship was constantly interrupted by those coming to him with questions regarding various pieces of equipment, many of which involved circumstances or devices Ignite was wholly unfamiliar with.
Balon, to his credit, gamely answered what he could, and ordered the crew to pause their work when he didn't have a clear idea of what to do. He freely admitted to Ignite that the Champion-provided weapons were still alien, and many of his decisions were decided only by gut instinct and careful reasoning. It had even taken him some time realize that the strange double-doored box in the hold had been for storing the ship's powder, unbelievably. Balon had laughed quite heartily at his own ignorance, nearly knocking off his own wide-brimmed hat. Though the shipwrights had copied the Champion's otherworldly design exactly, they'd done so mimicking what they didn't understand. As a result, despite that the ship had been in the water for months, it seemed to Ignite that it was still in the process of its shakedown cruise.
Balon took him up to the orlop deck, which was familiar enough to Ignite, storing the ship's spare ropes, supplies for repair, surgeon's station, and other such odds and ends, and when they moved to the berthing deck, he was equally comfortable, though the lack of rowing portholes and benches was unusual. Hammocks freely swung all across the berthing space, nearly half of them presently occupied by the crew's compliment of over four hundred sailors, despite it not yet being midday. As Balon explained it, most were presently little more than malingerers with barely a job to do, the ship being too inadequately outfitted for them to find constant busywork. When Ignite had questioned that– because he had rarely seen such a well-supplied vessel– Balon had taken their tour up to the gun deck.
Here was the most peculiar of the ship's decks, of that Ignite was certain. Well above the ship's waterline rested the iron heart of the Tulian Navy's flagship: the cannons.
Wider than a man and black as the night, the beasts rested serenly on hefty wooden carriages, held down by ropes as thick as Ignite's bicep. Those ropes had been looped around and around the rear of the cannon's length, as if such bulky bindings were barely enough to keep the cannons from leaping free of their own accord. Though Ignite had never seen the Waverake's weaponry from so close before, he had heard her gunnery, seen the smoke and shot that spewed from her hull as if flung from a tyrant's frothing mouth. Every time the Waverake began her gunnery practice, the fleet's formation degraded, Captains as eager as the Landsmen to watch the flagship roar.
"Y'see the problem?" Balon asked, waving across the cannon deck. "Count the cannons, Sergeant," Balon said. "And then count the portholes."
Ignite stared down the deck, which for a moment seemed to stretch out before him, twisting into impossible dimensions, his mind trying to envision every narrow porthole sporting another one of the massive cannons. No wonder the ship carried four hundred and fifty crew; operating the weapons alone would take most of that number.
"She wants more on the main deck," Balon added, rightly taking Ignite's silence for astonishment. "We have four there already. Short-barreled thirty-two pounders, instead of the longer twenty-four pounders you're looking at now. All told, she wants fifty guns on this ship before the year's out." Balon wiped his nose, a mixture of emotions flitting across his face. "That'll add two hundred and seventy thousand pounds to the ship's weight, if you're wondering. Pretty sure most ships I've ever sailed on weighed less than that."
Ignite licked his lips, deprived of a proper reaction.
"With armament like that," he eventually said, "one wonders why she even wishes to train Marines."
Balon cracked a grin. "Hells if I know. Guess we shouldn't be friends, speakin' truthfully. After all, my job's to put you out of work. I get my way, and there won't be a crew left to fight your sorts."
"Oh, but ye won't," a crystalline voice called, cutting through the clamor of the ship. Ignite swiveled towards the rear of the ship.
"Captain O'Gallison," he said, saluting.
"First Sergeant Ignite," she replied, returning the salute. Yet another odd tradition instilled by the Champion, the returning of salutes from senior ranks to junior. "Gunner Balon."
"Cap'n," the man replied with a nod, tipping his hat.
"Cannons alone won't sweep the enemy from the sea, Balon," Nora said, tapping the end of her gnarled cane against one of the iron monsters. "They'll win us battles, of that I'm sure, but wars? Nae. We'll have need for Marines yet." She spent a moment regarding the cannon lovingly, intimately, then gathered herself, nodding to the men. "Have Gunner Balon show you about the cannons, First Sergeant. When your soldiers are fighting underneath their muzzles, I imagine you'll want to know all you can."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Aye, Cap'n."
The Admiral of the Tulian Navy swept away as quickly as she'd arrived, already calling out to another member of the crew up on the rigging. Something about adjusting the sail's tension, to better keep pace with the fleet.
"Won't be long now," Balon said, watching the Captain leave. At Ignite's inquisitive glance, he shrugged, indicating the fleet which sailed around them. "Don't say you haven't noticed we're heading north."
"No," Ignite said. "But battle being met is another matter. After so many months spent cowering, why expect the enemy to sail out now? They are doing enough as they are, forcing us to patrol so closely to the capital, lest they strike in our absence. I expect we will turn south before the night comes."
"Y'haven't heard the news?" Balon asked, surprised. As he spoke, he walked over to one of the cannons. "King gave the old admiral the axe, accused him of cowardice. Hanging offense in Sporatos, that is."
Ignite's eyebrows rose. "No, I hadn't heard. Nor had I heard that such barbaric punishments were common in the Continental Kingdoms."
Balon shrugged, crouching down next to the cannon and flipping open the lid on a box. "Word reached the Admiral just last night. S'pose it hadn't gotten to your ship before you got transferred. New fella in charge is some Scheer lad, s'posed to be more aggressive-like." Balon paused his rummaging, flicking his eyes up and down Ignite's armor. "You were Carrion, weren't ya? Heard of this Scheer figure before?"
Ignite chuckled. "While I have spent most of my life on the sea, that does not mean I know all who also sail it. This new Admiral isn't known to me."
"Figured." Balon stood with a grunt, holding a black iron ball in his hands. "Funny thing is, neither has the Cap'n. Only knew he'd been a captain for a few years, fought off a couple pirates. Nothin' more than that."
"She can hardly be expected to know everything," Ignite argued. He intended to say more, then trailed off as he thought his words over.
Balon raised an eyebrow, looking up at the rigging. The Captain was now hanging from it by legs alone, showing the girl she'd been hollering at how to tie the knot she wanted. As they watched, she dropped from the rigging, sliding down its rough ropes with only a single hand to slow her. Her prosthetic hit the deck with a metallic crack, a smear of blood left on the ropes, the skin of her hand ripped and flayed. She took a swig from a hip flask and kept on walking, beginning to shout instruction to another as she went.
"Well," Ignite murmured. "It is at least not all that unusual an anomaly that she doesn't know this Scheer."
"If y'say so. Here, hold this."
Ignite grunted as Balon dropped the iron sphere into his hands. It was not overly heavy to handle, but it was denser than he'd expected.
"That's a 32-pounder," Balon said. "And it's what we keep up on the main deck."
"A larger projectile, a smaller cannon." Ignite observed. "Is there a particular reason for this?"
"Sure there is," Balon said, slapping the 32-pounder cannon. It was less than half the length of the 24-pounders down below. He grinned at Ignite. "Hells if I know what it is, though."
Ignite's brows furrowed. "You are the commander of the guns, yes?"
"Yeah," Balon said, taking the ball back from Ignite, "but that don't mean I was raised to the position. Only ever worked ballistae, before this duty. And I certainly weren't born in the Champion's world. Y'gotta remember, First Sarge, that we didn't make this ship. We just copied it." Balon turned to the thick wooden railing, slapping a hand against it. "Take this, for example. Why the hells did they put such a big bastard right here?"
Indeed, the ship's gunwale was far larger than most, both in height and thickness. Ignite could see over it, but only just, its upper lip coming up to his cheekbones. Most ship's had a simpler railing in its place, perhaps waist-height, or chest-height if the vessel were destined for particularly rough seas. Being up on the Waverake's maindeck felt like being in a bowl, rather than the highest level of the ship.
"To protect against weaponfire?" Ignite surmised.
Balon shook his head. "You really think this'd stop a cannonball like that one there?"
"No," Ignite admitted. It wasn't a quarter as thick as the 32-pounder ball. "But there are other powder weapons, now. Perhaps it was for the crew to shelter from muskets and such?"
"Maybe. But the Cap'n said the Champion said she didn't think they did much boardin' stuff in her world, not unless they were pirates tryin' to take the ship as a prize. So the Champion says, they'd use the big old guns to slug it out until someone blew up, were smashed to splinters, or surrendered. As for pirates, I can't imagine a warship like this'd be worryin' about them."
"Unless the pirates sailed similar vessels."
Balon shivered. "Now that's a soberin' thought right there. Pirates sailin' a Waverake. Wouldn't be a damn thing a little merchantman could do about it."
"Not any different from a pirate somehow acquiring a Magecraft," Ignite pointed out. "For all the tavern tales love to fear or laud such a thing, the occasions on which a Magecraft has been taken are few and far between."
"Well, here's hoping the trend sticks." Balon bent down to the box once more, and for the first time, Ignite noted it was copper-lined. Expensive little box. But with the entire hull of the ship being lined with copper to stave off seagrowth, he supposed his perspective needed to change. Though the cost was monumental, it was clearly one the Champion was willing to pay. What did an ammunition box matter, in contrast?
"This here's the powder charge," Balon said, producing a wrapped bag. "And y'don't get to hold this one. Four pounds of powder going off'll turn you into nothin' more than salty red seaspray."
Ignite glanced down into the large box at Balon's feet. There were thirty of of the powder bags in it.
Balon saw where he was looking and kicked the lid back down. "Don't need to say it. I tell the crew not to think about it."
"How much powder is in the hold?"
"The hold?" Balon asked. "The hold below the waterline? Behind the thickest parts of wood and water? With two doors and a set of thick walls, and all the strictest rules for going in it?"
"Yes."
"I'll put it simply, First Sarge. There's enough powder in there that if a fire ever gets to it, you don't need to worry about it."
"How fortunate," Ignite muttered.
Balon lifted the box's lid and gently placed the powder charge back into its slot. "Now, then. Y'seen what goes flying and what it sends it flying. How's about we go about teaching you how not to get yourself and your folk on the wrong end of it all?"
If he were behaving according to proper Carrion doctrine, Ignite would rather have spent the first day aboard his new station familiarizing himself with those under his command. There were two Sergeants under his authority, and beneath them two Corporals, commanding near a hundred Marines. He'd never spent longer than a handful of hours on a ship without everyone he would be commanding knowing his name.
But the Captain had ordered he learn of the guns and their workings, and so he would. He was at least thankful that most of the Marines, as was appropriate for the fleet's flagship, were the most veteran troops, and therefore most familiar to him. He'd already recognized many faces from the old Crossed Glory, freed slaves who'd taken to his training with a fervor rarely equalled. In fact, it seemed the bulk of the Waverake's crew were former slaves or press-ganged sailors. Not a surprise, he supposed. There existed few motivations greater than that of revenge against old oppressors.
Balon spent the hours teaching him as if he were an apprentice, drilling into him every known detail of the cannons. That little word there, known, held quite a bit of weight, Ignite learned. They had copied the cannons from Sara's illusion, but they had not come with training manuals. Balon's lofty position as the ship's Gunner seemed to have sprung from a willingness to experiment with the weapons that teetered on the edge of mania.
The elevation screws, which tilted the guns up and down, had been self-explanatory when Balon had first tried his hand at using the cannons. So, too, had been the carriage and ropes. The carriage pivoted the multi-ton behemoths left or right to assist in aiming, while the thick ropes stopped the cannons from flying across the deck with each shot. Unless the ship were trapped in a dead calm, Ignite did not know if there would be any way to return a loose cannon to its place. While the main deck's 32-pounders weighed "only" eleven hundred pounds, the longer 24-pounders were near enough to six thousand. No wonder he had seen so much ballast in the hold; Balon said the ship was still missing twenty eight such weapons.
"Where did she even acquire the iron for this?" Ignite asked, wiping sweat from his brow. It was late into the afternoon by then, and he'd been working the cannons back and forth, practicing aiming for hours. "I know how much of a struggle it was to equip the army with enough steel for their armor, and these cannons seem to outweigh the sum total of those efforts."
Balon gave Ignite a look he could not decipher. "You're the type to follow orders to the letter, ain't ya?"
Ignite's eyes narrowed. "And if I am?"
Balon shrugged. "Then you're a good soldier. Just not the sort that'll be comfortable squeezing your way around the truth when the Champion asks ya where the Cap'n got all this iron. Way I heard it, the Governess is a bit... well. Stubborn about certain rules of hers. Better to keep some things closer to the chest, y'understand?"
Ignite could surmise much from that comment, but he let the topic die. He would have not lasted long among the whirlwind of Carrion officer's politics without the ability to stop asking the wrong questions. It was not as if the Governess was incapable of reading between the lines, regardless.
To his considerable surprise, Balon ended the lessons with the sinking of the sun, and their course was still northerly. If the Sporaton Navy had set sail for Tulian on a circuitous route, the fleet would soon be beyond the range of response, should the scattered picket ships spot their forces.
Yet north they traveled, even as evening turned to dusk, then to night. Ignite made his belated introductions to the Marines under his command throughout evening supper, relieved to see that the bulk were those he'd personally trained. Many even still maintained their Carrion-patterned armor he'd first equipped them with, eschewing the newer, heavier sets offered to Tulian Marines. They felt, as Ignite did, that the added weight was more of a danger than a boon on the slick, rolling decks of ships locked in battle. The few Marines that he hadn't personally trained still greeted him warmly, happy to meet the man their comrades had spoken so fondly of. Ignite offered a brief prayer of thanks to Daylagon as he settled comfortably into the routine of an officer amongst their troops. He sat apart, at the head of things, but never too far that the privates couldn't include him when they wished.
He also quickly took to the inevitable traditions that wrapped themselves about the crew of a vessel. In this case, it was that the Marines, whose battle posts were in the rigging or on the gunwale, ate their meals on the maindeck, sitting crosslegged in a knee-jostling pile near the ship's boats. Ignite rather enjoyed the new-found tradition; even with the breeze filtering through the ship from above, the lower decks quickly grew stuffy in the southern heat.
Ignite finished his meal before most and returned the wooden bowls to the cooks, then returned to the maindeck, leaning against the mainmast to look out at the fleet. Coordinating formation travel in the night was always a difficult thing, but the Admiral was conducting things well. The fact that she never slept likely helped, as every Captain knew the Admiral herself was watching their ships through the dark hours. They carefully tended their signal lanterns throughout the night, the higher hung on the ship's port, lower on the starboard, with two at the prow and three at the stern.
Together, their forty ships gliding through the water were beautiful. It was one of the things Ignite had always loved about traveling in formation. The wind was brisk, sending sparse clouds to cover and reveal the stars in brief bursts, lending the sea a patchy appearance. At times some waves would reflect twinkling starlight, decorating a swathe of sea with glittering gems, while other waves rolled just out of sight, what lurked there black and formless, all the more enticing for the mystery they represented. Through this tapestry ship's lanterns bobbed, brightening just the barest swathes of hull, rhythmically revealing portions of the ships as they swung with the roll of their vessel.
Ignite's eyelids had begun to grow heavy when he began to hear something from up above. He cocked an ear to the side, straining to hear the hushed, hurried conversation that had begun atop the mainmast.
Before he could discern anything, he was startled to life by the striking of a bell. Almost immediately other bells across the ship began to clang, their tones echoing out across the waves, where other ships began to echo their call. Lights and lanterns flared into existence, boots thudding and shouts calling out from every vessel.
"Up, up!" Ignite barked, adding his voice to the chorus. "Those that are armored move to the starboard gunwale! Those that aren't, get equipped, and bring your comrade's weapons!" He turned, finding one of the sergeants under his command in the chaos his Marines had devolved into. "Madz! Go down with the unarmored, ready pikes!"
"Aye!" The orc confirmed, bolting to the lower deck without a salute.
"Lookout!" Captain Nora called. "Lookout, what did you see?"
"Two ships, ma'am!" The lookout cried back down. "Trimarans, three-quarters league to the north, heading south-south-east!"
Ignite's heart flared to life. Trimarans, large enough to be called a ship. That meant one thing only.
"Marines, prepare to repel boarders!" He called, drawing his sword. They reacted promptly, near instantly, but not in the way he expected. Instead of spreading out along the gunwale, preparing to hack at grapples, they leapt away from the ship's exterior, clustering around the mainmast. Ignite was left charging alone to the edge of the ship, his Marines abandoning him. His vision went red.
"What affront to the gods are you committing!" He roared, seizing one of the Marines by the shoulder and dragging him away from the pushing match that had developed beneath the mainmast. "Are you a coward?! Why are you–"
Ignite bit his words off as he saw what was in the Marine's hands. One of the muskets, taller even than Ignite, on account of a wicked-looking spike hanging beneath its muzzle.
"Sir?" The Marine asked, staring levelly at him. A flash of understanding then passed between them.
The Marine knew Ignite had spoken in ignorance, and Ignite knew the Marines of this ship knew their duties better than he did.
He released the man without another word, forcing himself to watch things develop. Perhaps a dozen of the Marines climbed up the rigging to the first horizontal spar supporting a sail and spread out there, crouching or clinging to the wood with their legs. They set to biting open packages and dumping them down their muskets, ramming them into place. With the long spikes protruding under the barrel, it looked a rather dangerous activity, threatening to impale the meat of their hands with each ram, but they were careful and experienced in their movements. The rest of the Marines did eventually return to the gunwale, this time holding muskets and tossing boxes down at the edge of the ship's decks, so they could level them over the edge. The long spikes attached to the muskets, he realized, must be a replacement for pikes. A soldier could fire the weapon, then fight as normal. Ignite shouldould have to get Balon to show him how to use the muskets, not just cannons. He had been too lax in his training duties since rejoining the Navy.
"Lookout!" Captain Nora called. "Any sight of other ships?"
"...No! No, ma'am!" The lookout cried back down, nerves clear in their voice. "Just the two, ma'am!"
Ignite silently cursed. Any enemy that saw fit to charge forty ships with two knew something they didn't.
"Bearing and speed!"
"South-south-westernly still, holding tack. Speed–" The lookout's voice cracked. "Eighteen, maybe twenty knots!"
The frantic work across the deck briefly stuttered as the speed was called out. Those that hadn't known they were facing two Magecraft did now.
"I want everyone in the tops not holding a gun scanning our flanks and stern!" Nora shot back, turning to stomp up the deck to the wheel. "Gunner Balon to the helm! All others, ready for action!"
How far away were the ships? Ignite tried to work through the math. Three-quarters a league, at twenty knots? He stared up at the ship's wheel, where Captain Nora stood in conference with her First Lieutenant. With how close the ships had gotten to them, there wouldn't be but five minutes until battle was joined. Ignite debated for a moment, then bit the belt and sprinted down the ship to the helm, taking the steps two at a time.
"Captain," he said with a salute, interrupting whatever the First Lieutenant was saying.
"First Sergeant," she replied, without glancing his way.
"Requesting permission to cede command of the Marines for the extent of this battle–"
"Denied."
"–due to lack of experience with firearms," Ignite continued, undeterred. "I have no knowledge of their use or appropriate tactics."
"Denial maintained, First Sergeant. Treat your Marines as archers until contact is made, and spearmen thereafter. Dismissed."
Ignite's jaw clenched until his teeth ached, but he saluted and ground out his confirmation, jogging back to his Marines.
As he went, he couldn't help but let his head track the onrushing trimarans. Recognizing now that they had been spotted and battle was iminent, the trimarans had given up any pretense of stealth. The unnatural light of gemlight turned them into furious flares in the night, an eerily pure white that coated their hull and the waters around. Their outriggers were heavier sorts than most trimaran magecraft Ignite knew, with wider floats attached by thicker beams, and more beams beside. In Carrion terminology, they were Skimmers, built to skirt around the enemy and bombard them with enchanted ballistae or, if a mage was available, spells. Against their Carrion opposites they would have been laughably outmaneuvered, so poor was their construction, but that didn't matter here. Even the most primitive of magecraft still sported enchantments to wick water away from the hull, spells built into their woodwork that lightened the entire vessel, and Ignite was not prideful enough to say the Sporaton shipyards were that incompetent. Bouncing over wavetops at twenty knots, the two vessels outsped any of the Tulian ships by a factor of three.
That they'd gotten to within a league before being spotted was either a testament to the enemy Captains' skill or a shameful display by Tulian lookouts. After months of the Sporatons failing to join battle, Ignite suspected the latter. Nothing bred complacency faster than uneventful guard duty.
"Madz! Dal!" Ignite bellowed as he returned to the Marines, calling the two Sergeants under him over. They quickly dropped out of line, hurrying over. Together they stepped into the space between two crates, so they would be out of the way of the sailors sprinting across the deck.
"Sir?" Dal asked, saluting. An odd look, the two Sergeants standing next to each other. Madz, an orc closer to eight feet tall than seven, and Dal, a human man that stood five foot nothing.
"I anticipate that the Magecraft's target will be the Waverake, and the Waverake alone," Ignite said without preamble. "There are two possibilities. The first is that they will be fool enough to try and capture the ship, to study her construction and weaponry, and this is what we will pray for, for it will be the most likely to fail. However, I want each of you to split off a contingent of Marines to guard the cannons all the same. If the ship is to be lost, they will defend the cannon crews to the last, until they can place iron plugs in the cannon muzzles and fire them, destroying the weapons. If they succeed in this, their next task will be to set fire to all they can before abandoning ship. Make these preparations immediately and then return to me."
"Sir!" They both barked, sprinting to their contingent of Marines. There were near a hundred of them aboard, and Ignite watched the two Sergeants pick out the troops fit for the task, assemble them, and then send them down below. Of the five minutes they had before battle, this consumed two. They returned, and Ignite resumed his orders. "The second scenario, far more likely, is that they will wish to burn the Waverake's hull to the waterline. If boarding is not likely, the Marines will transfer to sand duty, smothering the flames."
"Sir, permission to speak–" Madz began.
"Granted, damnit!" Ignite snapped. "We have no time! Speak or be silent, do not ask!" Gods, was this what he had been like, before the Champion?
Madz jumped, swallowing hard. "Sir, the Captain said our Marines are to be replacin' ballistaes on mage suppression duty and with how many we got aboard she's got a whole crew of thirty already assigned only to firefightin'–" Madz took a deep breath, "–and we also don't use sand anymore but something the Champion made called firefightin' foam that's supposed to be better for putting out magefires and it's stored in those barrels back there where you can see they're workin' on that pump to build pressure so it'll spray out of those hoses." He took another breath, chest heaving. "Ah, sir, that is."
"Figlio di puttana!" Ignite cursed as he slammed the pommel of his sword against a crate, making the two Sergeants jump. He gnawed at his cheek for a moment, watching the magecraft approach, then made his decision. "Sergeant Madz, Sergeant Dal, consider yourself authorized to ignore any and all of my orders in this battle. I haven't had enough godsdamn time!" He bashed the flat of his sword's blade against the crate, venting his frustration. This time the wood shattered, flinging shreds of fruit out into the sea. "I may have been in more battles than all on this ship combined, but it will not matter when I am in one I do not know how to fight! I will not have my ignorance bleeding Marines! If you see no reason to object my orders, follow them, but bite back if I prod you as a fool, do you understand?"
"Yessir!"
"Then get to your troops!"
The two Sergeants bolted, whites of their eyes wide in the black night. Ignite took to pacing behind the lines of Marines, who waited between the cannon crews, wads of cotton spilling comically from their ears. The Marines lined the gunwale only one thick, their muskets resting against their shoulders. Another mistake he would have made, if he'd have been in command. He would have clustered them in rows two or three deep, using their muskets as pikes. Now that he'd seen his Sergeants doing otherwise, he recognized it was far more important every Marine was able to freely aim their muskets, at least until the grapples were set and boarding was underway.
Gunner Balon suddenly stomped past him, looking furious. When the man spotted Ignite he redirected himself, looking mad enough to burst a vein.
"Ignite!" Balon barked, then looked about himself, scowling. "Ignite," he repeated, this time much quieter, "remember what I said, about staying out of the way of the cannons?"
"Yes," Ignite said. It hadn't been three hours since the lecture had ended.
"Well, forget the whole lot," Balon spat. "I've been ordered not to let the guns fire, not unless I'm sure I'll sink the ship in a single volley, and I damn well know I won't. We'll not be using them."
"What? Why?"
"Damn'd if I know! She doesn't want the enemy knowin' 'bout the cannons, what they can do, I s'pose, but what's the damn point of that? They've got cannons they're usin' on land, don't they? The Sporatons know what they can do."
Perhaps, if Ignite had been in a better mood, he would have argued in the Captain's favor. He had seen the Napoleons the army used, and now he'd seen the naval cannons. The difference between the two was that of a dagger sat next to a greatsword. But seeing as he was nearly in a rage himself, his scowl matched Balon's.
"Not much sense in a weapon one never uses, is there?"
"No! I swear, if we lose even a single cannon in this action, I'll damn well demand a transfer to another ship!"
Balon stomped away to continue his inspection of the cannons, even knowing he couldn't fire them. Ignite shook his head, trying not to let the man's fury flame his own. The Captain's orders made sense, he insisted to himself. Ignite was the most experienced Marine aboard by a laughable margin. Fifteen years he'd spent on the sea, fifteen years in which his feet saw solid ground for no longer than a week at a time, all in service to the Carrion Navy. While there were plenty of experienced sailors aboard, he was perhaps the only one who had carried a blade for longer than a year. With a gap in seniority like that, not even the most radical of Carrion captains would have accepted his temporary resignation.
That didn't make him feel any less fury at the situation, however. He was a bookish commander, one who studied strategy treatises and exchanged battle reports with any and everyone he could. His confidence was born of experience, and here he was, preparing to fight a style of battle that had never been fought before.
As with the rest of the crew, Ignite was forced to do nothing but watch as the magecraft pierced the fleet's confines. They had been traveling in a Deepwater Escort Formation, an arrangement meant for cruising, not battle. With the trap so elegantly sprung on them, their forty-odd ships had no choice but to maintain their encirclement of the Waverake. It was a formation meant to protect the most valuable ships in a fleet from Deepwater leviathans, the outermost ring of ships being the smallest, growing larger as they neared the center. Officially, ideally, it was said that the more maneuverable ships could dodge the leviathan, warning the bulkier vessels of its approach in the process. No sailor spent long believing that. In reality, the outer vessels were sacrificial lambs, placed in the hopes that they would whet the leviathan's appetite before it decided to attack the more valuable ships.
Against two magecraft skimmers, the effect was much the same. The vessels in front of the Waverake vainly tried to heel away from the onrushing magecraft, oars sprouting from the side as they hurriedly made to flee. It was hopeless, of course, but no one wanted to take their death lying down.
Voices cried out in dismay across the Waverake's deck as a gout of flame lanced out into the night from the leftmost magecraft, splashing into the first Tulian vessel. The Ironmonger, if he recalled the day's formation correctly. The supernatural flame was bright as the sun as it sputtered and roared, ripping and down the length of the hull. The flame barely existed for a single second, but that was all it took. The first victim of the Sporaton magecraft was afire from stern to bow, the Ironmonger's port side indistinguishable behind the glowing flames. Silhouetted by the hellish glow, Ignite watched sailors begin to leap overboard, their clothes steaming from the shear heat of the flames.
Then the second magecraft screeched to life, and the gasps of the crew turned to shouts of fury. Everyone had been readying themselves for the Waverake to fight the magecraft, for the greatest ship borne of peasant hands to clash with the elegance of an aged and vaunted institution. They had imagined a great duel, the finest of the Tulian Navy pitting itself against the finest of the Sporaton Kingdom.
It never gets easier, Ignite thought grimly, watching the sailor's expressions twist in the lanternlight. Everyone scoffs at those that have kept their naivety, as if they've forgotten the pain of losing it.
The crew of the Waverake were forced to watch as the Sporaton magecraft sailed serenely past the screaming bodies they left in their wake, curving slightly to either side to ensure the next would be in their range. The dromon's crews did all they could, drums pounding and oars pumping, but it was clear that it wouldn't be enough. The Tulian formation had been tacking its way against a southernly breeze all evening, the same one which now sped the magecraft down its gullet. Two more hideous flames lit the night, turning the waves orange for hundreds of yards. The spellflame disappeared as quickly as it came, but the light remained. It was spilling out of the ruined ships, bonfires in the middle of the sea.
The crew seemed to be in a stupor around Ignite, stunned to silence. They'd heard stories of magecraft, of course. Stories of their prowess, of what they were capable of. Seeing it was another thing entirely.
Ignite squinted at the magecraft. They had manuevered to to the port and starboard of the Waverake, respectively, to reach their second targets, but instead of correcting their course, they maintained it. Sailing further away from contact with the Waverake, curving further and further outward.
Ignite felt his bile rise. The magecraft weren't coming for the Waverake. No. With the wind filling their sails, they were moving to speed through the formation's edges, burning everything they passed before disappearing into the night. They wouldn't even bother to challenge the flagship, not when they could cripple the Tulian Navy without fear of reprisal. The sheer odds of the two isolated magecraft having stumbled across the fleet in the dead of night was stunning, but whether it was skill, luck, or fate, those two Captains were intent on seizing the opportunity given.
He was witnessing a massacre in the making. And there was nothing any of the Tulian ships could do about it.
"Gunner Balon," Captain Nora whispered. She spoke in near silence, but he heard it somehow. A scratchy whisper that fell like ice from her lips, needles of sleet that pierced his eardrums, scraping against his mind itself. "You may fire as you bear."
Silence reigned for a long moment, the crew frozen in place. One voice broke the spell, loud and full of affront.
"Fuckin' get me in position, then!" Balon bellowed.
The entire ship lurched to starboard as Captain Nora threw the wheel aside, kicking the rudder into place, unthawing the frozen crew, who cried out with one voice.
They could only head for one of the magecraft, but if Daylagon himself rose to stop them, Ignite felt certain the crew would think nothing of charging the god. Months spent on endless drills, training under the blazing sun and through raging storms, all to fight Sporaton magecraft, and now that the day was finally here, the magecraft were running? It couldn't be allowed. They could only reach one of them, and only just maybe, but by the gods, they were going to try. Officers began shouting orders, strategies shifting, anticipation building.
"Marines, prepare for mage suppression!"
"Barshot for the 24's, get me all the elevation she'll give you!"
"Keep pressure in those barrels! Hoses under each mast, and pumps ready below!"
"Signal to the fleet, all ships free to maneuver, those not in danger are to form line abreast immediately!"
The Waverake shuddered as her sails caught more of the wind, which was now striking her directly abeam the port side. A large lady though she may be, her lines were trim and her hull slick. On her best day, with a gale at her stern and every sail unfurled, she'd once climbed up to 14 knots, leaving the rest of the fleet in her wake. She wouldn't be making that tonight, not with the wind as it was, but he knew she'd be giving her crew every ounce of speed she had.
The ship continued to haul about, even as more flames lit the night. Six ships were now afire across the fleet. Six of their original forty. But they were also the poorest equipped, converted from merchant vessels, rather than proper ships of war. The magecraft were being inordinately cautious in their approach, targeting only those lightest and most isolated ships at the edge of the formation. Ignite was shocked to see magecraft of all things acting timid, and wondered if their behavior was the product of a clever admiral or a cowardly captain. Either way, it was the exact tactic that suited the moment.
The Waverake straightened with a groan, their angle chosen. The wind was now striking their sails at the starboard quarter, nearly ideal for the tangled arrangement of square rigging that rose up from her deck. Where before she'd rolled over the waves, bobbing gently, she now plowed her way forward, lifting up off the last wave to crash down unto the next, throwing great plumes of salt spray each and every time. The Marines took care to cover the muzzles of their muskets, so water would not enter to foul the powder, and sailors rushed about, pulling down dangling lanterns so that they would not fall and light the deck afire.
If the enemy captain took note of the fact that the Waverake was now racing to cut their vessel off, they showed no sign of it. They continued to pursue their next target, even as the Tulian captain frantically spun their ship about, rowers desperately heaving as the ship made for the safety of the Waverake's hulking mass.
Suddenly, two deep booms sounded from the prow of the ship. Ignite nearly leapt out of his skin. He had heard the Waverake's cannons at a distance before, and had even seen the 12-pounder Napoleons fire. Those had been characterized by a distinct crack, under which ran a barely perceptible rumble, like a tree branch breaking as a thunderstorm brewed in the distance. After the initial burst, the shrieking sound of the flying projectile had been the most distinct out of what he'd heard.
Hearing the guns fire on the ship was an entirely different experience. The deck's plankings rattled and shook, while his chest felt as it had been hit by a cloth-wrapped hammer, his heart clenching in shock. The subtle rumble he'd heard from a distance now revealed itself as a rolling echo, a chorus that took several prolonged seconds to fully fade away. The smoke washed over him then as the ship plowed onward, stinging his eyes as the world was briefly lost in ethereal white.
This ship is going to carry fifty cannons, Ignite thought. This ship is going to have fifty cannons. What has Amarat done?
Two mountainous splashes erupted off a dozen yards starboard of the Sporaton magecraft, a spray of water that rose as high as the vessel's mast. At least one of Ignite's questions found its answer as the magecraft responded by lunging to starboard, turning to engage the Waverake. Not a coward, then.
And not half as clever as whoever gave them the order to skirt our formation in the first place, Ignite noted. The magecraft charged them with a feral dog's eagerness, uncaring that they were sailing near forty degrees into the wind. The magecraft slowed, slowed, and slowed further, until it was making nearly the same speed as the Waverake, no more than twelve knots.
Not clever at all, Ignite decided. A long career in the Navy told Ignite politics was responsible for it. He was certain of it. This Sporaton captain no doubt belonged to some faction or another that thought the Waverake couldn't truly be a match for a proper magecraft, and had spent the trip roiling under the orders that they weren't to engage it, but rather pick off its escorts. Having been shot at, they had the excuse that they must defend themselves, and they were seizing it.
Ignite spared a glance for Captain Nora, up on the helm. Set against the starry night sky, her brilliant blue eyes seemed to be another glowing light in the night. Ignite would have thought it beautiful, poetic even, if not for the rictus grin that split her face from end to end beneath those glowing eyes, teeth bared like a grinning skull. Her grip on the wheel was steady as could be, but her hips shifted from side to side in animalistic excitement, like she wished to be pacing back and forth, or perhaps grinding herself against something. Ignite couldn't place himself in her mind, and he frankly didn't want to. He turned away, focusing on the magecraft.
With a combined closing speed of twenty-four knots, the moment of battle was fast approaching. Lit as they were they by the crystal lights, Ignite had an excellent view of the enemy crew. Dozens of heavily troops stood in stalwart lines on the deck, more heavily armed than even the equipment provided by Tulian, almost as if they were styling themselves knights. Not one, but two mages stood on the deck, and he noted the presence of several Irregulars dotted across the rest of the deck, recognizable by their exotic equipment and odd choice of weaponry.
It was no wonder the enemy captain had been so eager to charge. Even among the Carrion Navy, Ignite had rarely seen a Skimmer so well-prepared for boarding. It was clear that the enemy captain intended to capture the Waverake as a prize, earning themselves all the accolades that would come with it, and they'd spent a considerable fortune preparing to do so. They maintained a head-on course, their gleaming ram splitting the waves with exacting precision, a symmetrical wave arcing to either side.
Suddenly, Ignite startled. The enemy was far closer than he'd realized, too absorbed in his analysis.
The enemy clearly wanted to begin the duel with a head-on collision, hoping to savage the bow and prevent any chance of the Waverake's escape. "Marines, move to the bow to repel boarders!" He shouted.
"Belay that!" Captain Nora cried, halting the Marines where they stood. "Move to the front of the deck, but keep twenty paces off the prow!"
Ignite moved with his troops, following the Captain's orders without understanding. Why would she allow the enemy to gain the deck so easily? With how heavily armored the enemy was, all it would take to kill them was a simple shove over the side.
Despite his protests, Ignite did as instructed, joining his Marines in a line that stretched across the maindeck. The first ranks knelt down, muskets held against their knee, the second rank standing behind them, firearms resting on their shoulder. Ignite alone stood with blade drawn, feeling like a relic of a different era.
The water crashed against the bow for an agonizing time, the magecraft still aimed directly at their prow. Its deck was much lower than the Waverake's, but the enemy would be prepared for that, grapples or bridges readied. Ignite could do nothing other than wait, could not even his troops to open fire, sheltered rearward as they were.
"Brace for impact!" Captain Nora suddenly called. All dropped to their knees and grabbed something, save for Ignite and the Captain herself, the lone individuals that stood tall. Two more shots boomed from the bow down below, and Ignite heard the crash of wood, but couldn't see the cannonball's effect, because the magecraft was hidden by the nose of the ship.
Just before the moment of impact, Ignite shifted his weight, twisting his hips.
As Ignite later recalled, time seemed to slow to a stop. It was if he had hours to pause and consider, working through his thoughts. In hindsight, he would later say when he recalled the story, what happened next should have been obvious.
Most ships Ignite had ever known were built in a certain fashion. Merchant ships had thin, cheap hulls, two planks overlayed and nailed together, not built to withstand impacts beyond the occasional scrape as they pulled into harbor. Warships were built different, far more robust. They had internal bracing that kept them rigid in the heaviest of waters, and their hulls were made of four planks of old-growth stock, overlapped and joined with a multitude of redundant nails, wood glue, and tar sealant. Centuries of shipbuilding development had created a vessel capable of not just surviving the brutality of war, but thriving in it. Ram-bowed warships were the ultimate example of this, the very pinnacle of shipbuilding. Their bronze head was affixed to a complex latticework of interwoven timbers, joined by clasps of stalwart iron, forged by skilled smiths whose secretive techniques were passed from generation to generation. There existed no ship more solid than one meant to spend its life crashing into others. At its peak, there were over six inches of solid wooden beams reinforcing the head of a ramming ship, and the enchantments of a magecraft effectively multiplied that number two-fold.
The Waverake, Ignite suddenly recalled, had a hull two feet thick.
The ship shuddered as the magecraft struck it. Ignite heard an awful crunch, then a scraping noise, and then he saw an absurdity– the underside of a ram, jutting skyward. As he watched, paralyzed, that ram was shoved further, until he briefly saw the barnacle-studded underside of the magecraft it had been attached to. And then the ram rolled over and away, falling out of sight. A low groaning noise began at the front of the ship, moving to amidships, fading away before it reached the stern.
Ignite joined the rest of the crew in rushing to the rear of the ship, searching the waters.
Nothing but black ocean greeted them.
Notes:
In Loving Memory of Old Ironsides.
Or it would be, if it were possible to sink a legend. Much to the dismay of many British captains, she lives and sails to this day in Boston Harbor, 227 years young.
I feel like I could write a blog post about this chapter that's half the length of the chapter, considering all the changes it went through, but I'll show restraint. If you enjoyed the description of the internals of the Waverake as much as I did writing it, PLEASE watch this video of a naval historian touring the real-life USS Constitution. If you're only kind of interested, here are the timestamp for some story-relevant highlights: 9:30 for the tall gunwale that confused Ignite, 2:35 for the 32-pounder carronades, 20:48 for the 24-pounder long guns, 30:00 for types of ammunition it carried.
And of course, if you want to see what it really looks like when a naval cannon fires, instead of those pathetic little puffs they do for display on the USS Constitution and HMS Victory, consult the following: firing of a 1600s-built 24-pounder. Take particular note of the sheer volume of smoke generated, and the lethality of the splinters shown in the slo-mo shot. Now imagine 25 of those going off on one side of the Constitution, met by just as many by an enemy that's within throwing range. For hours. Imagine the smoke, the devastation. Because, y'know, I'm sure that won't become relevant any time soon.
(Edit: Links were breaking for some reason so here they are not hyperlinked, like I'm some kind of non-html peasant)
https://youtu.be/YTsdaQBJONg?si=SL--nQhwIaqZnWTC
https://youtu.be/EpNS0JpnUNY?si=NACJcXwNsUxfzXwX
Chapter 91: Edmund Temper
Chapter Text
Three days after Sara had arrived in Tulian, she knew something was wrong. She'd ordered the city gates closed to all comers, had kept a constant rotation of musket-armed squads standing atop the wall day and night, all for... nothing.
No one had come. The killing fields were empty, the Sporaton forces nowhere to be seen. She'd thought she had a single day's lead, and allowed herself the same day of rest she'd ordered for her troops, but expected the Royal Army to be on her doorstep the very next day. When that didn't manifest, she'd waited atop the wall with her troops, constantly scanning the horizon. She'd wondered if they'd been more cowed by her repulsing of the cavalry than she thought, if they'd made camp when Emeric returned to lick their wounds.
But when the sun rose on the third consecutive day of all-consuming absence, she'd been lost. She had no idea where the enemy was, no idea why they weren't trying to batter down the city gates at that very moment. Some of her troops had started getting excited as the word broke, thinking the Sporatons had begun the long march north, but she'd put a cap in that sentiment immediately. The King wouldn't retreat. He just wouldn't.
But he also wouldn't have done anything else other than come straight for the city. There was nothing else of value in a hundred miles. Sara had no clue what was happening.
"I've got no fucking idea what's going on," she swore, snapping her spyglass closed.
"So you have said, Master. Repeatedly."
"No goddamn idea!" Sara repeated. "Not a fucking clue." She turned to Evie, who sat on the wall's edge, legs dangling over the fifty foot drop. "That's never happened before, Evie. I'm the Champion of Amarat. I'm in their goddamn heads. I know what they're thinking before they do. They're not supposed to surprise me."
"No, they are not," Evie passively agreed.
"So what the fuck!"
"Indeed, Master."
Sara returned to her pacing, grinding her teeth, running circles in her mind, even while she projected the image of a confident, mildly curious commander to her troops. She was just too anxious to know what was happening. She entertained all kinds of ideas. That some unprecedented beast had roared out of the jungle, monstrous enough to challenge even the Royal Army. That the dry season had somehow turned wet behind her troops, miring the Sporatons in an inescapable bog, a massive storm perhaps born of some convenient divine intervention. She'd even wondered if the King had just straight-up died to some stroke or heart attack that the healers couldn't do anything about. That would've been nice, but it was a faint hope. With the royal healers always on call, it had been centuries since any of the King's line had died younger than eighty.
Eventually, when morning had turned to noon, she'd stomped down from the wall and called up every horse-rider in her army. She'd given them maps and a cardinal direction, then told them to walk until they found the enemy. Once they did, they were to turn tail and sprint back to the city, stopping for nothing and no one. She made it exquisitely clear that even if their horse dropped dead under them, she expected them to run the rest of the damn way on foot. She'd even contemplated stripping her commanders of their precious speaking crystals to give to the scouts, all so she could receive the report earlier, but Evie had talked her out of that particularly rash decision. She'd settled with sending relay runners out after the riders, stationing them in rings around the city so that any retreating rider could pass the word to the first one they stumbled across, who would pass it to the others, then yet more, ensuring that even if one messenger got caught, the message itself would survive.
And then, as she'd watched the gates groan closed, the riders dispersed, she'd stock still.
"The fuck do I do now?" She asked the open air. Many of the nearby troops looked at her in confusion, but she ignored them. Sara turned in a circle, boots scraping on the stone, as she stared down the city street. For weeks, months, everything had been building to this moment. The moment after she'd bloodied the Royal Army's nose, artfully evaded them across the countryside, won shelter within the elaborate defenses she'd spent so much time, effort, and money preparing.
Now the moment had approached. Arrived. And passed her by. No siege, no battle. No army to manage, no glorious last stands or heroic charges or clever tactics. She was left standing on a cobblestone street, listening to a windchime clink, a woman calling out the price of her tea the next street over. One of the soldiers coughed. Several shuffled their feet, hands rasping as they slid up and down the wooden hafts of their halberds. Evie's bag rustled as she took out one of her notebooks, flipping through its rain-stained pages.
"Professor Garen has several ongoing projects he wished for your input on, Master," Evie said, tapping her pen against a neat bullet point on the itinerary, before sliding down a line. "And Vesta had several concerns that she classified as important, but not important enough to communicate over crystal, or perhaps too important to risk such a communication vector." Evie flipped the notebook closed, returning it to her bag. "From the East gate, Vesta's home is on the way to the University."
"Uh," Sara said intelligently. "Okay." She waved off the soldiers who'd collected around her. She was pretty sure half of them weren't even supposed to be there, but had wandered over to see what the Champion was doing. "Back to your stations. The Sporatons are clearly trying something different. You really want to be the only one in your squad that won't be able to say they saw it happen?"
The crowd dispersed, returning to their actual duties. Their reluctant shuffling back to work eventually revealed Hurlish, who'd dragged a chair out of the nearby guardhouse. She was sitting with legs splayed, hands resting on her belly, snoring audibly. As per usual, Sara's anxiety had rolled off the woman without effect, and she'd spent most of the morning following Sara around, yawning. Evie hadn't allowed their trio to be separated, for security reasons.
"C'mon, big girl" Sara said, kicking her shin. Hurlish woke with a startled snort, blinking her eyes against the blazing sun.
"Something finally happen?" She asked, shading her eyes. "Don't sound like a battle."
"Nothing of consequence," Evie replied, waiting impatiently by Hurlish's side. "Master has sent out scouts, and we are now awaiting their return. It will likely be many hours before we have any actionable information."
Hurlish stood with a stretch and a groan, shaking out her shoulders. That hardly perturbed Evie, who scrambled up the woman's body like a mountain goat.
"Well why'd you wake me up, then?" Hurlish asked.
"We're going to find busywork," Sara said. "Because I can't just sit here doing nothing."
"Why not?" Hurlish asked, gripping Evie's ankles in her oversized palms. Sara nearly laughed, despite everything. She looked like a schoolkid holding a backpack's straps. The feline rested her forearms on the orc's head, keeping a careful scan of their surroundings.
"Because it's not great for the leader of a nation under siege to be on the street sipping beers." Sara rested her palm on her sword as she walked, glancing at Evie. "You really going to be up there for the walk? I was wondering if Sporatos halted the army to let assassins take a crack at me. And if I'm thinking that, I know you are."
"A concern of mine as well," Evie said. She ran her fingers over the leather satchel that criss-crossed her chest. "But guarding you has become significantly easier as of late. And high ground confers benefits it once didn't."
"You're welcome," Hurlish said.
"I thought I showed my gratitude last night rather skillfully."
"Never hurts to double up."
"Mm."
As with every walk in Tulian, it was a short trip to Vesta's home. Sara almost wanted to call it an estate, out of habit, but there weren't any of those left in the city anymore. She'd had them knocked down and replaced with more reasonable housing early on. No, while Vesta's home was impressive for the new city, it wasn't an estate. Only a two-story affair with the rare distinction of having an alleyway on either side, separating from the other tenements. Tarlin, Vesta's bodyguard, had insisted on that. He was still convinced Sporaton agents were looking to make an example of any noble who would betray their King, and wanted any intruder to at least have to walk through open air to reach the home.
"Yo!" Sara called as they walked up the front steps. "Jeeves, we're here!"
Just as she reached to lift the door-knocker, the doors swung open, revealing one very nonplussed Toman. The former head butler of the ponderous Vesta estate still served under the woman, even if his responsibilities were far more constrained. His utterly unreadable demeanor was however perfectly maintained, as if managing the household of six was exactly as grand a task as puppeteering the grandest noble house of Hagos.
"And may I inform the Lady of the purpose of this visit, Governess?"
"No," Sara said, stepping around him. She called up the stairs. "Hey, Vesta! I heard you had some shit you wanted to bitch about!"
"Just a moment!" Vesta called back down.
Sara flashed Toman a grin, moving towards the kitchen. One of Vesta's sons was there, eating a meal at a small table. He saw Sara arrive with her entourage and picked up his bowl without further ado, taking shelter deeper within the house. They, far more than Vesta, didn't enjoy their demotion to peasant. Fortunately, she didn't give a rat's ass about them.
Sara dragged out a pair of chairs and dropped into one, waving for Hurlish to sit. For once, probably owing to the fact that Sara was still dressed in over a hundred pounds of sharply angled steel, Evie did not sit in her lap, and instead curled up in Hurlish's tucking her legs in.
Sara frowned, looking down at her gear. "We're gonna have to figure out how to do that summoning-enchantment stuff with armor, someday."
"Doubt it," Hurlish said, wrapping her arms around Evie. "The bulkier the weapon, the more the enchanters in Hagos charged me, the longer it took 'em to make it. Rapiers were about the limit, really. Most stuff that got summoning enchantments was daggers and stuff. Can't imagine they could manage a full suit of armor."
"Even if it's part blacksteel? That should make it easier, right?"
Hurlish shrugged.
It was only a few minutes until Vesta swept into the kitchen to greet them, Oddry, as ever, close at her heels. Vesta wore one of her usual elegant dresses, still preferring the green of her former house's heraldry, and while it looked amazing on her, it was Oddry who drew Sara's eyes. The maid wasn't wearing her usual attire. Instead of simple cloth protected by an apron (the real maid uniform of this world, to Sara's perpetual disappointment), she was in an elaborate not-quite-ballgown. A deeper, richer green than Vesta's dress, it flared out over Oddry's hips more than the woman's build could account for, tightening up to slim her waist and emphasize her bust as it rose up her body, ending just before it could cover her shoulders. Something prickled at the back of Sara's mind, filling in the cavernous gaps of her fashion knowledge. It told her that Oddry's outfit was in part inspired by the few times Sara had worn a dress, taking a slightly more modern style. Interesting.
"Not a maid anymore, huh?" Sara asked, because subtext was for suckers. "You look great."
Oddry blushed demurely, covering her mouth. "Thank you, Governess. And... no, I suppose I am not, not anymore."
"She still does an excellent job keeping the house," Vesta said, pulling out her own chair, "if only because she is forced to compensate for my ineptitude."
Oddry sat next to her, patting the former noblewoman's hand fondly. "You're improving, dear. Perhaps when your duties relax, you'll have more time to learn."
Vesta laughed, a brittle sound. "Lesser duties. You do dream grandly, don't you, Oddry?"
"Hey, you're not in this forever," Sara said. "Once the war's over, you're gonna be out of a job for a while, at least until I can get elections going. And then you'd have to actually run for office, if you wanted to keep working."
"Your taking for granted this war's outcome is a welcome font of optimism, Sara," Vesta said, then sighed. "Unfortunately, the duties you have placed upon me enlighten me to an ever-growing list of worries."
"Problems in the city?" Sara asked. "People getting upset, causing problems while I was gone?"
"Hm?" Vesta looked at her curiously. "Oh, no. Certainly not. They are led by a Champion, dear Sara, a creature of legend. Their fervor for your rule is something that would set most royals to salivating. No, the problems are purely logistical in nature." She nodded to Evie. "As your partner warned me they would be, in times of war."
Evie sniffed. "Logistics being the primary concern of a nation at war is hardly an insight worth praise. One need read only the first page of any strategic manuscript to be told such. Often the first sentence, in fact."
"Yes, well, I hadn't exactly brushed up on my military doctrine before this conflict, so your advice was nonetheless appreciated, Evie." Vesta sighed, wringing her hands. "Your black powder, Sara. I've seen the reports, but I'd hear it from you. How much did you consume on the campaign?"
"Uh."
"The muskets consumed approximately four thousand pounds of black powder from our stores," Evie said, "while the cannons consumed slightly less, at three thousand pounds. Precise numbers were difficult to track, as we were being resupplied throughout the early stages of Fort Midwich's siege, which kept our stores in a constantly shifting state of supply."
"Yeah, that," Sara said, nodding authoritatively. Across the table, Oddry and Evie shared a look. One that wasn't met for either of their partners, but said a great deal.
"Seven thousand pounds of black powder consumed over a few weeks of intermittent battle, Sara." Vesta said. "Do you know the production rate of the black powder manufactory?"
"Not off the top of my head."
"One thousand pounds a month."
Sara blinked. "It was more than that, before. I don't remember the exact number, but it was a lot more than that when we started."
"Just so. But things have changed. Your method of producing saltpetre relies heavily on processing manure, and with Tulian's agriculture being almost entirely based upon grain, we have run out."
"We ran out of shit?"
"Not entirely out, I suppose," Vesta temporized. "But we are well below the replacement rate. Convincing farmers to spend their time collecting and storing their oxen's droppings in the appropriate manner is predictably difficult, even with the financial incentives we have offered. However, even with perfect compliance, there simply would not be enough manure in all the nation for the volume of black powder you desire."
"That's... shit."
Hurlish chuckled.
"And then there is the matter of sulfur. Tulian has no native production of sulfur, and you say that it is not something that can be produced."
"Yeah, it's an element, not a compound." Sara straightened, quoting her father. "Sulfur is readily accessible on the surface of volcanically active regions, but is also present in trace amounts in limestone salt domes, where it can be refined out of the stone in a process which provides most of the world's supply of sulfur." She hesitated. "Or, my old world's, anyway. And I don't know how the hell they got sulfur out of salt and limestone, historically."
"Quite accurate," Vesta hummed, in a manner that said she neither knew nor cared if it was, "but not a solution to our problem. Our sulfur imports have begun to be raided, Sara."
Sara groaned. "Fucking what? Someone's stealing sulfur? Who? And why?"
"By pirates of some description, it would seem. Word only reached us earlier this week, when a partially damaged ship arrived to the black powder manufactory."
"But why the hell are they stealing sulfur? We're the only ones in the world that have any damn use for it. You remember how happy people were to sell it off." Indeed, the island city-states Sara had negotiated with had practically leapt at the chance to make money selling sulfur. To them, it was as if someone had come up offering to buy heaping piles of rocks and dirt. Sara had barely paid more than it cost to crew the ships, and they still thought they'd hoodwinked her.
"The pirate's identities are unclear, but their motives are simple. If it is something the Champion wants, they will take it. And further, if the Champion still wants it, seeing that they now have it, the Champion will have to pay them for it. And Champions, they expect, are very wealthy people."
"I fuckin' wish." Sara drummed her fingers on the table. "Have we received any demands? Their price? If it's cheap enough, we'll pay it until the war's over, then go blow their faces off."
"Nothing yet. Only a forewarning that a demand will be coming."
"Why hasn't Nora skull-fucked 'em?" Hurlish abruptly asked. All eyes turned to the orc. Though she was always present at any meeting of consequence Sara attended, the times she'd contributed of her own volition could be counted on one hand. "There's no way a bunch of dumbasses like that could do a thing to her ships, right?"
"True," Vesta agreed, "they are far from a genuine threat. But the city-states we purchase sulfur from are far to the south, weeks of sailing from even the jungle wall. As Nora explained it, due to a preponderance of small coves along the jungle coastline, the pirates could be intercepting the ships from nearly anywhere along the route. Further, she stated she needs every ship possible for the upcoming engagement with the Sporaton Navy."
"You told her it's for the black powder, right?" Hurlish asked. "She should care more about that than anyone else. Just one shot from those big sons of bitches takes six whole pounds of powder."
Sara sighed, scraping a hand down her face. "She won't care, because she knows that until the Sporaton Navy gets dealt with, she's first in line for everything we've got. If we get attacked from the sea and she's not there to stop it, that's it. Game over, wrap it up, we lost. I can't do shit to stop a Magecraft from dumping troops right into the city, and even if I blocked off the sea by dumping rocks in the harbor, that'd just end up with us getting starved out. Besides, Nora's right. There's a million little shitty coves and islands she'd have to check for the pirates, and we don't know how many ships they have. Even if she sent ships right this very second, the war would probably be over by the time they caught 'em."
"What shall we do, then?" Vesta asked. "I did not inform you of these issues over crystal, as I reasoned that there was little you could do in the short time before reaching the city, and that you would rather disperse such news to your commanders at your own leisure."
"Yeah, well, good call there," Sara said, slumping in the dining chair. She turned to Evie. "How much powder do we have in reserve, from before the shortage?"
Evie's hand darted to her hip, pulling out another notebook. Sara briefly wondered how many she had stored in that enchanted bag. With how much writing she did, probably a damn library. After a quick flip through the pages, she began to murmur under her breath, tallying numbers.
"Production rate of... storage failure on the eleventh... hm." She looked up. "I cannot be sure until we conduct a survey of our stores, which will naturally be the most accurate number, but I believe we have fifteen thousand pounds of black powder in reserve. During the brief period of the Fort Midwich siege in which we were using firearms liberally, we were consuming approximately eight hundred pounds a day."
"And if we're getting a thousand per month shipped in, that comes out to a daily resupply of..."
"One thousand divided by thirty is thirty-three, Master."
"And I'm very glad I have you to tell me that." Sara blew out a long breath. "Fuck. Thirty pounds a day. So basically, we have to assume we're operating solely on what we've got." She spent a minute thinking, doing the math before speaking this time, just to spite Evie. "That gives us twenty days of defending the city."
"Nineteen."
"Oh fuck you, I was rounding up."
"Nineteen is after rounding up."
"And don't forget it's only gonna get worse as we make more guns," Hurlish added. "But actually, does it? 'Cause more guns means more killing, even if you use more powder–"
"Regardless," Vesta pointedly cut in, "even I, without any military experience, grow anxious at such a thin margin for success. Have you determined why the enemy has not begun their siege, Sara?"
"No. I'm waiting on scouting reports right now. Any political insight you might guess at? Some big controversy up in Sporatos that could cause them to act weird?"
"None that I can think of, unfortunately," Vesta said. "No reasonable ones, at least. Even the death of his wife did not prompt the King to return from the campaign, not for the funeral or the completion of her memorial monument. The only thing I can think of that would deter him from prosecuting this war would be yet another rebellion in his homeland, one significant enough to require his personal presence, which we certainly would have heard of."
"Well, shit." Sara chewed on the exciting news Vesta had delivered her, then made her decision, standing up. "Alright. We haven't been using human shit instead of manure because, well, y'know, but now we don't have a choice. Pay some poor bastards whatever it takes to get them to collect it in the city and transport it to the black powder manufactory. By ship, preferably, so they're harder to track. Hopefully that'll keep things going for a while, until we run out of sulfur entirely. You got any more fun news for me?"
"No issues that I believe require your input, Governess," Vesta said, also standing. She offered her hand. "I do wish we had more time for personal visits. Your company is always eagerly anticipated."
"Wish I could visit more too," Sara agreed, shaking Vesta's hand. She nodded to Oddry. "And sorry we didn't get to chat much. Not trying to ignore you, promise."
The former maid smiled. "Think nothing of it, Sara. I consider myself rather lucky that I lack any issues which would require your official attention."
"Well, if you want less official attention, I'll be happy to provide it as soon as stuff calms down." She lowered her voice, glancing about, as if whispering a conspiracy. "Evie sucked at cooking too, at first. I've got lots of experience teaching nobles how the real world works."
Oddry and Vesta laughed, while Evie swatted Sara's arm with a notebook. They completed the rest of their goodbyes, including Sara's to Toman, whose utter absence of emotion at her departure still ticked her off. He was still the only person she'd ever met that she couldn't read. What kind of butler Skill gave him that permanently impassive expression? She asked him as much directly as they were leaving. His response was to open the front door, inviting them to leave with a perfectly polite bow.
Sara eyed him as she passed. He met her eyes easily. She stared, trying to catch even a single twitch.
Nothing.
Goddammit. I'll get him someday.
Notes:
Woo! Been a while since we had a 12k+ update, but glad to be back at it. I mean, it happened because my boss was out of town and I wasn't working, but not getting paid is worth it, right?
This chapter was supposed to have the meeting with Garen with it as well, but Ignite's chapter kept expanding, taking up the time meant for wizard fuckery with naval navel-gazing. Blame Ignite, not me.
Chapter 92: Dzied Papriekšu
Chapter Text
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Hurlish
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Tulian's university was a place Hurlish had gotten pretty familiar with over the past few months. She spent a lot of time there testing things she didn't want the other smiths to see, or stuff she wasn't sure would be safe. As far as fucking around with explosives went, there wasn't a much better way to keep things safe than to have a cadre of baby magelings underfoot. Even Evie had been forced to agree that there wasn't a real risk of getting hurt when she was working in the university.
Of course, because she'd worked there so often, she was getting pretty well familiar with Garen's little crowd of students. As she walked up the university's shining white steps with Sara and Evie, she saw one face that had been daydreaming out of one of the open windows brighten, recognizing her.
"Oh boy, here we go," Hurlish grumbled.
"Hm?" Evie hummed from her shoulders. "What's the matter, Hurlish?"
"Ah, nothing. Just..."
Hurlish trailed off as the kid disappeared from the window, only to emerge from the university's front doors, a gaggle in tow. She recognized them all, of course.
"What are you bringing today, Hurlish?" Called the first girl, Tokkid. An orc girl about fifteen, she'd taken a shine to Hurlish harder than the others, even though she was a pure mage, without any real interest or talent for craft work or artificery. "Besides your wives, that is."
"None of your business, 'Kid," Hurlish called back. "Here on official business or whatever, so I don't have time for you."
"I doubt that," said one of the other kids. Tinvel, one of Garen's little prodigies, and one of the few Hurlish actually worked with, rather than taught. "You're not the type to spend hours talking over pointless little things like a politician, which is what I assume your partners are here for."
As the other kids filed in around Hurlish, two on either side of her, she exchanged an amused glance with Sara. The Champion of Amarat, resplendent in her one-of-a-kind suit of blacksteel armor, was being entirely ignored. That didn't happen often.
"Did the last pistol work well?" Tokkid asked. "I know you were worried about it."
"I don't know. Let's find out." Hurlish looked upward. "Did the pistol work well?"
Evie fondly patted the large leather satchel on her chestplate. "Excellently, dear."
"Worked 'excellently,' I hear," Hurlish said, imitating Evie's refined accent. "Now scootch, kids. I actually got stuff to do."
The kids gave her a bit of room, but didn't stop following along. Hurlish fended off a few more irritating questions before finally getting a word in to Sara.
"You need me when you're meeting up with Garen?"
"Not really, no. Mostly old world power-generating stuff, I think."
"Correct, Master," Evie said. "Garen sent a letter to me beforehand, so that I could know how much of your time would be consumed by the meeting."
"So no, Hurlish, not really. You can go play. Also, Evie, did you really make him send you an itenarary for this meeting?"
"I do it for everyone you have a meeting with, Master. You are the general of an army, the leader of a nation at war. Your time is incomprehensibly valuable. If those that wish for a piece of it cannot recognize such, their concerns clearly are not worth your attention."
"Goddamn, girl. I wonder if Garen can magic up some xanax for you."
While Sara and Evie fondly bickered over the feline's paranoia and/or perfectly reasonable caution, Hurlish turned her attention to Tinvel, who'd stuck around the longest of any of the kids. Most of them did technically have stuff to be doing, tasks that Garen had given them for the day, and they'd faded away to return to them.
"Where's your girl, Tinsmith?" Hurlish asked, looking around for the young artificer's ever-present companion.
"My girl?" Tinvel asked, forcing an incredulous look onto his face.
"You know what I'm talking about. Chona, what's she up to?"
"How would I know? I haven't memorized her schedule."
Beside them, Sara snorted. Just because she'd basically just met Tinvel two minutes ago didn't mean the literal Champion of Amarat couldn't smell bullshit when it was steaming at her feet.
"Yeah, yeah," Hurlish said, "but really, where is she? If we're gonna be doing testing while I wait, we'll need her."
Tinvel floundered for a moment, less than subtly trying to think of a way to excuse the fact that he knew exactly where Chona was.
"I think she's got some project Garen gave her," he eventually said, "trying to improve her shield or something. Probably because she keeps sticking her neck where it doesn't belong."
"Well, could you go grab her? I'll meet you at the testing grounds."
"I guess," he muttered, splitting off. Hurlish and the others watched him meander down the hallway, a trio of amused smirks on their faces.
"Chona's his age, I'm guessing?" Sara asked.
"Yeah."
"They're gonna fuck," Sara said.
"Oh, yeah."
"Like, it's gonna be messy."
"Absolutely."
"How long do you give them?" Evie asked. "If they met as Garen's apprentices, they've known each other for three months or so. I give it another three."
"I'm betting less," Hurlish said.
"Without using my Blessings?" Sara hummed thoughtfully. "I'd go with Hurlish. I bet, like, two months. But they'll probably get stuck on the whole 'we're just rivals-with-benefits' stage for a good while. Gives me that kinda vibe."
"I could see that."
"Are you gossiping about my students?" A voice called, bouncing off the hallways. A moment later, Garen emerged around a corner, the glowing spell that had thrown his voice fading from his lips. "I'll have you know that they are children, Sara."
"Teenagers, Garen," Sara countered, "and repressed ones at that. You've got them all working so hard that they're gonna find some way to blow off steam."
"An appropriate metaphor," Garen said. He glanced up to the hallway's high ceiling, and Hurlish noted for the first time the cloud of steamy smoke that had followed him. He looked back down to Sara, smiling half-heartedly. "There are a number of matters I seek your advice on."
"Need me?" Hurlish asked. "Or is it all abstract half-philosophy crap again?"
"The latter, I'm afraid," Garen said. "Though I will remind you, 'abstract philosophy crap' does eventually become something more concrete."
"Well, holler when it does, so I can actually build something worth building. I'm gonna go find something useful for myself to do."
Hurlish reached up and grabbed Evie around the hips, tossing her off. The feline landed adroitly, smoothly pivoting to stand beside Sara while facing Hurlish.
"Be careful, Hurlish," Evie warned. "I will keep our communication crystal close, in case you need us."
Hurlish rolled her eyes. "If Sporatos could break into this place of all things, the war would've been over months ago. I'll be fine."
"Within the university's walls, I'm less concerned with assassins, more with premature detonations of experimental weaponry. Be sure to stay well away from what you test, dear."
"Yeah, yeah," Hurlish said, waving the feline's concerns off. "I promise. Chona'll put up a shield and stuff, too. Don't worry."
"I don't think I'm capable of that," Evie said, "but I'll attempt it."
"See ya after while, babe," Sara said. "Have fun blowing shit up."
"Always do."
Evie and Sara followed Garen off to the room whose door was still pouring steam, the mage creating a small bubble of energy around them so they could ford the boiling interior. Hurlish shook her head. She knew that stuff was going to be important some day, but she really didn't get why they were working so hard on it now. Seemed to her like there was a lot of things that were worth worrying about sooner.
Like what was waiting down in the testing room. She whistled a mindless tune as she made her way through the run-down university's hallways, taking turns that she knew well.
The whistling was a bit of a show, to be honest. Sara and Evie were stressed out of their minds, just about going gray from the effort of running the city and army, and Hurlish had made a point to be her usual old self. For one, it was because Sara said stress could affect the baby's health, but that wasn't all of it. Her partners were people-persons, either magically gifted or explicitly trained to all but read the minds of the people they talked to. Thing was, those skills were something they had to think about, or in Sara's case, actually activate. And they didn't with Hurlish. She'd always been the implacable blacksmith, uncaring and uninterested in what was happening outside of her forge. So what if the Royal Army vanished like a bunch of damn specters, their ghostly image lurking around every corner Hurlish could imagine? So what if Sara and Evie were going into battles more dangerous than any they'd ever seen, trusting their lives to weapons Hurlish had personally made? So what if all the plans for a life Hurlish had been conjuring up for nearly a year were tossed up in the air, ready to crash and shatter at any moment? She was Hurlish the blacksmith, and that meant she didn't give a shit. It was an image she tried to project for her partners so hard that she nearly believed it herself.
So she kept up her jaunty whistle as she walked down the halls, hands shoved in her pockets. Tulian's only university was looking better than it had in years, half thanks to Garen's renovation work, and half because the sections that weren't worth salvaging had been hidden behind boards and moth-eaten curtains. It was a good example of the whole city, Hurlish thought. Fundamentally broken, a shell of what it once was, but slowly being patched up, turning into something new. It'd be years yet until the university was back at full capacity, but it did the job for now, and that was all that mattered.
It didn't take long to reach the "testing grounds" of the university. After all, it was just the central courtyard around which the entire university was wrapped, the decorative stonework and benches covered in a layer of random crap. Piles of cratered dirt lined one end of the hundred yard rectangle, bricks of half-shattered concrete haphazardly dropped at the other end. Several cloth pavilions and tents had been put up along the perimeter, to shade students from the sun as they tested their spells and artificeries. Several members of the City Guard were present, as well as a few of Evie's trained Irregulars, testing what the magelings had created. Most of the kids couldn't have swung a sword if their lives depended on it, so having someone that knew what they were doing was welcome. The Guards and Irregulars, in turn, were probably helping out in the hopes that the kids would play favorites when they finally got good enough to make real enchanted gear.
Tinvel and Chona were under one of the tall tents, already at one another's throats.
"If you think my shield is truly capable of stopping that thing without slowing it first, you clearly haven't been paying attention to the lectures on force dispersion!"
"Oh, well I'm sorry," Tinvel sarcastically drug out the last word, "I was thinking you were supposed to be good at casting spells."
"For three month's practice, my spells have achieved far more than you've ever dreamed of, with your little tinker tools and stupid projects!"
"Hey kids," Hurlish interrupted as she stepped under the pavilions shade, "how's it going?"
"Good," Chona immediately chirped, flashing a smile at Hurlish. "We've made quite a bit of progress since you last visited. I think we're almost ready to take it out for a field test."
"Yeah, maybe a few more changes I want to make before we drag it out of here, but we're close," Tinvel agreed, turning away from Chona.
Hurlish resisted the urge to laugh. The speed at which they'd abandoned their argument was shocking. Hurlish wasn't Sara. She couldn't read their minds. But it always seemed to her like their arguments were almost a matter of obligation, not actual ire. They never seemed to actually care about the insults or general bickering, just who won in the end. And that rivalry almost never took priority over doing their actual work, which meant they'd drop it like nothing the moment it was actually time to knuckle down and get something done.
"And you're sure this one's not gonna explode on us?" Hurlish asked, crouching to inspect the cannon that rested under the pavilion.
"If it does, there's not anything more I can do," Tinvel replied with a shrug. "I threw on every last strengthening enchantment I'm capable of producing. If this doesn't hold, we'll probably have to wait until I Advance before trying again."
"Here's hoping, then," Hurlish said. She didn't miss the casual reference to Tinvel's level, but she did her best not to show any reaction. Word had gotten out into Tulian about how little the Champion cared about the taboo around levels, and no group was hopping on that bandwagon more than the baby mages at the university. They all liked to style themselves as purely practical researchers, even if they were still full of the same orneriness as any less-talented teenager.
The cannon was, if Hurlish were feeling generous towards herself, the first design that wasn't a straight-up copy of Sara's old world. It was close to a copy, damn well identical when you didn't look close, but there were some differences. Enough that it filled her with a different sort of pride than the earlier cannons had, when she'd been struggling just to equal the wonders of another world's wars.
The long cannon was based on the Three Inch Ordnance Rifle, the weapon Sara's father had lauded for its accuracy. Unlike the 12-pounder Napoleons, which were built with extremely expensive bronze, the new cannon was made of far cheaper iron. It cost a fraction of the Napoleons to make, at least in terms of materials, but that didn't come for free. Sara's father had warned them that iron cannons had a tendency to burst when fired, injuring or killing their crew, something that Hurlish's earliest tests had borne out with disturbing frequency. Something about the Ordnance Rifle, however, had been different, and in Sara's world it hadn't exploded like the others. Problem was, they didn't know why. Hurlish was a good smith, a great one, but that didn't mean she could whip up whatever wild shit the "factories" of Sara's world could do. Sara didn't know what made the Ordnance Rifle so good either, and ironically, her manufacturing knowledge was too advanced to be of help. She lived in a time when steel was common as dirt and just as easy to shape, rather than the expensive specialty product it was for Hurlish. Sara didn't have any ideas for replicating the Ordnance Rifle's durability other than making it out of steel, which was both economically improbable and physically impossible.
After some arguments back and forth, Hurlish had gotten her way, and the Ordnance Rifle project had turned down a new road. They couldn't replicate the old world's factories, not for a long time. Hurlish got why Sara wanted to do everything the way her ancestors had: it'd worked. They'd ended up producing wonders like nothing Hurlish had ever fathomed. But that didn't mean that Hurlish's world was devoid of its own wonders.
Hurlish crouched down next to the recently-dubbed "Bolt Cannon." The name had been Tinvel's idea, because he'd based many of the enchantments lining its length on those used by siege ballistas. As she ran her hand along its length, Hurlish could feel the gentle sweeps of glyphs rising from its wrought iron skin. She didn't know much about the specifics, nor did she care to learn, but she'd gotten the gist. The vast majority of the glyphs were for reinforcement, densest around the cannon's breech, applying constant inward pressure at equidistant points, like the entire thing was being squeezed by a monstrous python. Their first version of the cannon had actually needed to be scrapped, because the force of the glyphs had been so strong the breech had shrunk, crunched inward until it was noticeably thinner than the rest of the barrel. This second version had been made thicker, then the compression enchantments had been added on piece by piece, the shrinkage carefully tracked, until it had settled at exactly the right width.
Then the other enchantments had been layered on. Chona and Tinvel had spent weeks on it, with Hurlish popping in every few days to monitor their progress. Tinvel had modified enchantments meant to keep a noble's house cool, turning them into something that would radiate the burning heat of cannonfire away from the barrel at a constant rate, regardless of external temperature, hopefully limiting the development of heat fractures. If it was being fired in the snow or a desert, the barrel should cool itself the exact same way, every time. Chona had then created an endless litany of shields for Hurlish to fire at, her spells designed to note the exact angle that the iron bolt was striking it at, even roughly noting the rate it was spinning. So far, at a hundred yards, the deviation between shots hadn't been more than a fraction of a degree, implying that at a thousand yards it'd be hitting within a foot of its aiming point. It was still possible the round would start to tumble as it lost energy, but that wasn't something they could test here. That'd require firing it outside the city walls, where anyone with eyes could see what they were working on.
"I only added one enchantment this time," Tinvel said as Hurlish inspected the cannon.
"Yeah?"
"Not to the cannon itself, though," Tinvel said, picking up one of the half-finished cylindrical pieces of iron ammunition. "To the bolt."
Hurlish frowned, looking up from her inspection. "I thought we weren't going to enchant any ammunition. Too expensive. We're gonna be literally throwing it away."
"Couldn't help myself," Tinvel said with a shrug. "And I think this one'll work well. Its only ingredient is quartz, so it doesn't add much to the cost, and it's simple enough that it only takes me about a half hour to finish the enchantment, start to finish."
"And it takes twenty seconds to fire a round," Hurlish reminded him, standing and crossing her arms. "That math doesn't work out."
"Call it specialty ammunition, then," Tinvel said, holding out the bolt for Hurlish to inspect, waggling it enticingly. "For firing at important targets, or at extra long range. Trust me, it'll be worth it."
Hurlish took the bolt, inspecting its craftsmanship. The ammunition for the Ordnance Rifle had taken her a while to figure out, even with an illusory replica to copy from. At first it had looked like a sold iron bolt, a tapered cylinder seven inches long, but with one prominently odd feature. A lead band had been wrapped around its midpoint, ruining its aerodynamics. It'd taken her a while to realize that the lead band was obscuring a tapered end to the iron bolt, the actual projectile notably smaller than the one that was loaded into the gun. The lead band was only there to engage the rifling, spinning the round down the barrel, then it'd be torn off as soon as it broke into the open air, leaving the smaller but far stronger projectile flying free.
And now, Hurlish noted, the exposed bottom of the round was sporting the telltale mark of enchantment glyphs. She tilted the bolt to one side, letting the sun hit the glittering quartz.
"How's it work then?" She asked, not bothering to hide her doubt.
"That enchantment," Tinvel said, pointing at the bolt, "is connected to one on the rear of the chamber."
"Connected how?"
"Sympathetically," Tinvel replied matter-of-factly. Hurlish had meant if there was a physical, literally-touching-each-other connection, but he happily jumped straight to the jargon. "It's like a little invisible string is trailing out behind the bolt as it flies, tugging on its rear just enough to hopefully stop it from tumbling when it runs out of energy."
"Which means," Chona butted in, picking up another example of the bolts with her tail, "that it's going to ruin the round through most of the flight, because it won't be pointing towards the direction of travel, but the opposite end of the cannon's breech."
Tinvel turned on her. "As if that would matter, when we're firing the highest-speed cannon anyone's ever made. The Bolt Cannon'll never be fired at more than what, ten degrees of elevation? Any inaccuracy added by the enchantment will be more than made up for by the fact that the round won't tumble."
"Ten degrees of elevation is only at current ranges," Chona quickly snapped. "This gun can shoot farther, that's the whole point. You wanted to make a long-range round, and you made something that limits its range, because they can't fire it at greater elevation."
"Even if that were true, and it's not, that still means this round is more accurate than anything else at typical ranges."
"What about spinning?" Hurlish asked, butting in on the argument. It didn't sound like the kind of thing that would be solved without field tests, so she wasn't interested in hearing them yap. "It's probably gonna cause problems with that, right? 'Cause if you've got this invisible string tied to the back of the bolt, it's gonna slow down its rotation."
Chona and Tinvel exchanged a confused look. "Why would it?" Tinvel asked.
"Uh. Because that's how stuff works? Pulling on the back of a spinning thing'll slow down its spin."
"You're thinking about physical laws," Chona said. "Not mages. The round's still stupid to make, but that's not why."
"Yeah, the enchantment's only attached to the horizontal axis," Tinvel said. "I didn't associate it with the vertical or rotational axises." He paused. "And the round's not stupid, Chona."
"We'll see about that."
"What'll you bet on it?"
Hurlish rolled her eyes, ignoring the kids in favor of slowly rolling the cannon out from under the pavilion. Though Sara was tearing her hair out over it, a part of Hurlish was glad the Sporaton army hadn't showed up yet. It gave her longer to do her part, to get things ready. If the 3-inch Bolt Cannon worked as intended, it'd be the first properly accurate artillery the Tulian army got in their arsenal. Sure, it took a long time for Tinvel and the other artificers to layer the enchantments on the cannon after she'd cast it up and bored it out, but that wasn't necessarily the worst. For all she knew, whatever manufacturing process Sara's world had used would've taken even longer. Maybe this was an improvement. She doubted it, but it was nice to imagine.
"Hey!" Hurlish barked, getting the attention of the kids again. They blinked, realizing the cannon had already been wheeled out to its firing position. "Want to help make sure Evie doesn't come down here and rip you to shreds, or do you trust the gun enough for me to fire it without shields?"
Both apprentices hurried over, rolling up their sleeves as they set to work. Hurlish was betting that Sara's meeting with Garen was going to take hours, and she was hoping to have the cannon's test results ready before they were done.
----------------------------------------------
Sara
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The first steam engine this world had ever seen was a disaster. She should have expected that, considering how little she knew about early machinery, but she'd at least expected it to work at least a little bit better.
Considering the entire reason Sara had begun this project was to avoid using oil and coal for power, the fact that the very first steam engine reminded Sara of an oil derrick was fairly ironic. It had a long beam set horizontally above a boiler, tilting leftward as the pressure rose, drooping to the right as it fell. The boiler itself was a simple iron cylinder with a pipe poking out of the top to let the steam rise, a valve controlling the amount that was let through. The bar that bobbed back and forth was connected to a second tube beside the machine, a tightly sealed platform being lifted and lowered via chain to create a vacuum. The negative pressure was fed through a series of pipes to pull water out of a trough nearby. Sara remembered enough about the industrial revolution to know that the first steam engines were used to clear water out of mines, and that was she'd had Garen try to recreate.
But problems abounded. The valve that allowed steam through had to be manually opened, because Garen couldn't think of a way to mechanically link the valve to the rising pressure. It took some very careful timing to prevent the steam from building up too high, risking a pressure explosion, or opening it too soon, stalling out the entire mechanism.
"Have you tried cutting a hole in the top of the pipe?" Sara asked. "That way when it reaches the top, the excess steam'll pour out, and the whole thing'll fall back down."
"I recalled that potential solution from your letters, yes," Garen said, "but my attempt at doing so only resulted in an abrupt loss of pressure. The mechanism violently dropped as the pressure was released, which admittedly created quite a bit of power, but only for a brief moment. The water that was attempting to be lifted from the trough fell back down the pipes before the pressure returned."
"Did you try messing with different diameters of release holes, though?"
"Not as of yet, but it is on the list of potential solutions."
Sara frowned, walking around the prototype steam engine. To her eyes it looked like something out of the history books, exactly what came to mind when she thought of early steam engines. But there was obviously something missing, because it couldn't actually do any kind of useful work.
Sara had once considered herself pretty knowledgeable about machinery. She'd made a minor hobby of working on her car, a shitty old '04 Civic, souping up its engine with aftermarket parts. She understood catalytic converters, basic engine tuning, gear shifts, and had even dabbled a bit with screwing around with her engine's fuel injection. None of that was helping her here though, because all that knowledge depended on a couple centuries of technological advancements that were as alien to her as nuclear physics. She'd drawn up the basic idea of a reciprocating piston system for Garen, and been pretty proud of herself for it, all the way until she realized that there wasn't any way to actually build the thing. The mechanical tolerances necessary to keep things moving smoothly was unachievable without precision machinery. Any attempt at making an honest-to-god piston engine would end with the thing seizing and ripping itself to shreds. Not to mention the fact that anything involving fuel injection was dependent on spark plugs and explosive fluids like gas or oil, which would defeat the whole purpose of using magic to power things in the first place.
Thus, the crappy mess before her. The source of heat was a fat red gemstone encircled with runes sat beneath the boiler, visibly radiating energy into the open air. It wouldn't work without Garen's presence, but that was a solvable problem, at least in the long-term, and right now she was more concerned about locking down the mechanical side of things.
After several hours spent discussing alterations to the device with Garen, including occasional tests after fiddling with the machinery in ways which were possible only with Sara's welding dagger, the mage had stepped back from the work, wiping sweat from his brow.
"I must be honest, Sara," he said, shaking out his sweat-stained hand, "I question the level of priority you have assigned this project. I am an archmage with decades of experience in the arcane. I may have an oath against using my talents for violence– and I very much appreciate your respect of said oath– but for your war effort, there must be better places to levy my skills."
Sara straightened from where she'd been kneeling beside the boiler, groaning as she stretched out her cramping back. "You're not a fan of this project, then?"
"I would not go that far, Sara," Garen temporized. "It is fascinating work. It is only that much of the knowledge I possess is irrelevant for this effort. You speak of your old world's mechanical engineers, the talents they accumulated in pursuit of perfecting machinery. I have no experience in this field, less even then a bowyer or a siege engineer. I suspect that even among Tulian's comparatively limited population, there would be a number of individuals that equal my engineering skill."
"Well, for one, I doubt that," Sara said. She reached up to re-tie her hair, which had come loose during their work. "Almost everyone with actual talent dipped after the storms, 'cause they could make money in Sporatos. Even Nora had to go around to other ports and pilfer shipwrights for the Waverake, and there's a lot more shipwrights out there than siege engineers. But the main reason I want you working on this stuff is because I actually trust you, remember."
Garen smiled lightly. "A sentiment I am grateful to receive. Yet I am still capable of acknowledging that such trust is not unique. You have told me on a number of occasions how easy it is for your Blessings to discern whether someone's loyalty is genuine or feigned. Such an ability would trivialize the effort required to locate a trustworthy engineer."
"Yeah. But none of them would be an archmage that can whip up something like that in a few hours," Sara said, thumbing at the glowing heat crystal. "You're an all-in-one solution to a lot of problems with this project. Besides, what else would I have you working on?"
"Defensive enchantments?" Garen suggested. "The walls of Tulian have been untended for quite a while. Their enchantments are weak, near failing. Though I haven't done a proper survey of them, I suspect the city's defenses are nearly as weak as mundane granite. There is nothing in my oath which forbids me from using my spellcraft to preserve lives, rather than take them."
"See, that seems like a waste to me," Sara said. "Using an archmage to toughen up some walls? No thanks. No, if you want the callous, purely calculative reason you're in charge of this project, it's because you're valuable. The problem with long-term plans is that they're a long, long way away. If I win this war, Sporatos isn't going to just sit there and start happily trading with their new neighbor. They're gonna want to come for us again. Maybe next year, maybe the year after, who knows. But they're not gonna just sit there and let a new rival power build up on their border. And next time, they're not going to come in overconfident. They've got the population to bring an army six times the one that we're barely holding off right now. I want factories ready to pump out everything we need before that happens, and with how much we're struggling already, every week counts."
Garen chuckled. "I understand, Governess. I only asked because it felt like a point that needed to be broached. Few in your position would be content to utilize my abilities in such limited capacity."
"For a Champion of Passion, Master can be remarkably emotionless in her reasoning," Evie said. She had thus far occupied her time shadow-dueling at the opposite side of the testing room, content to leave Garen and Sara to their tedious work. "I suppose an aspect of Emotion is the ability to control its manifestation, no?"
"Eh, dunno about that," Sara shrugged. "Not like I've got a great track record of keeping a cool head when things really get nasty. I've just got the luxury of self-awareness. At least when I have time to think things over, that is."
"Self-awareness is among the greatest of virtues, Sara," Garen said. "Hardly a trivial talent to possess. If my students had barely an inkling of it, I expect you would have had mages ready for battle weeks ago. As it is, it may be years before I feel comfortable releasing them to be active on the field of battle."
Sara was curious about that, the fact that Garen was apparently fine with his students someday going to war, and was about to press him on the topic when she felt a buzz from one of her waist pouches. A muffled voice rose from the crystal, barely audible. Sara nearly flung the priceless artifact across the room in her desperation to pull it out.
"...repeat, a scout has returned," the voice said. "General, please confirm receipt of message."
"One of the scouts is back?" Sara asked, holding the crystal to her lips. "With word on the Sporaton camp?"
"Yes ma'am," came the simple response. "They're at the east gate."
Sara didn't even Garen time to say goodbye before sprinting out of the room.
Notes:
Funnily enough, I really struggled to find information on why exactly the 3-Inch Ordnance Rifle didn't explode like other Civil War weapons. Checked a lot of online sources, read some in the local library, nothing. Couldn't find anything on the manufacturing process. You know where I did eventually find it? Wikipedia. I mean, I didn't need to know anything about the process, because they're not doing that here, but... it was interesting? That's reason enough, I hope.
Chapter 93: Judgement
Chapter Text
Sara literally sprinted across the city, leaving her partners behind. She'd spent enough time with Garen that it was just after sunset when she reached the eastern gate, the streets growing dark. She found the scout easily enough, as they were surrounded by a rapidly swelling crowd of soldiers, word passing through the ranks that something was going to be happening. Sara's approach was heralded by the thudding clomp of a hundred pounds of armor, the sound of which sent many of the soldiers scattering out of her way. She shoved her way through those that didn't note her approach, until she was in the center of the crowd.
The scout was sprawled out on their back, pressing her skin against the cool cobblestones as her chest heaved. Her horse lay beside her, foaming at the mouth, sweat lathering its hide. As Sara emerged from the press, some thoughtful soldier came over with a bucket of water fresh from a well, tossing it over the poor animal's hide.
"Healer!" Sara snapped, kneeling down next to the woman. Her face was flushed red, her eyes fluttering and unfocused. She was either suffering a heatstroke, or well on the way to one. "Someone get her water!"
Several canteens were shoved forward. Sara took one at random, putting it to the scout's lips while holding the back of her head, helping her lift it up.
The woman drank greedily between heavy breaths, nearly choking herself with every gasp. After several deep gulps she pulled away from the canteen, bleary eyes trying to focus on Sara.
"There... there was.... reporting..."
"Save it," Sara snapped, pressing the canteen back to her lips. "There's no report to give if you drop dead."
The woman barely seemed to understand that, but she drank anyway. It took several minutes for someone to produce a healer, during which time the scout slowly gathered her wits, shifting into a sitting position.
"Daze first," she said as the healer approached, pulling away from the priest's glowing hands. There was a moment of confusion, until the scout pointed to her horse, which was still laying on its side, chest rising and falling in an unsteady pattern. "Daze first," the scout repeated, pointing more insistently.
The healer glanced at Sara. She nodded. Reluctantly, looking irritated to waste their energy on an animal, the healer begrudgingly moved to the horse. Sara didn't care. As far as she was concerned, any animal willing to run itself half to death was one she wanted to keep around.
"Can you talk now?" Sara asked the scout.
The scout opened and closed her mouth, swallowing hard, then nodded. "I can," she croaked.
"Your report, then," Sara said. "Daze is going to be alright."
"T-thank you, ma'am," the scout ground out. The effort caused her to cough, so Sara offered her a second canteen, the first one emptied. After taking several long gulps from it, she wiped her mouth and cleared her throat. "I found the Sporaton army. Twenty miles north-north-east, give or take. Camped, fortified."
Evie finally made her way through the crowd, which split respectfully before her. Hurlish was right behind her, the reason it had taken a while for the feline to catch up. They weren't going to make their pregnant girlfriend sprint across the city, after all.
Evie immediately set to creating a cordon around the scout, not wanting to let any of them overhear the report. Sara fully intended to let everyone know regardless, but she wasn't going to waste her time arguing with Evie right now.
"They're, uh, the whole army," the scout said, briefly stumbling over her words. It seemed the gravity of the situation had finally set in, seeing the rest of the army be shoved away from her. "The entire army was there," she clarified. "Knights, peasants, nobles. I got a good count of them all."
"Were you spotted?" Sara asked. It was the only reason she could imagine the scout had so nearly run herself to death returning to the city.
"Eventually, ma'am, but not before I got a good look at everything." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she fumbled for the canteen, taking yet another shaky draught.
"So you're certain it was the entire army, then?"
The scout nodded tiredly. "The enemy was easy to count, ma'am, because they weren't in camp."
"What do you mean by that?"
"They were on the field outside the camp, ma'am," the scout said. "I thought they were fighting each other, at first. Like a civil war had broken out. No such luck, sadly," the scout said, mirroring Sara's own thoughts. "I got close enough to see their weapons glowing, ma'am. They were, uh, training. Like we did, before the war. Drilling."
Sara felt her stomach sink. Evie, who had been walking circles around the perimeter, froze.
"Some were working on formations," the scout continued, oblivious to the growing pit in Sara's gut. "Marching back and forth, working on signal flags, that stuff. Others were doing mock battles, practicing back and forth." She paused, taking a shaky breath. "Funniest thing was the Knights. They weren't on their horses, ma'am. Didn't even realize who they were at first. Was hiding in the brush, couldn't see too well. Eventually figured out that the Knights were in there too, training with the commonfolk. Leading 'em, a few knights in each line." She chuckled raggedly, looking up at Sara. "Funny sight, that was. Can't imagine those high-and-mighty types were too happy about it. That was... uh... ma'am?"
Sara was slowly standing, the scout forgotten. She turned to look at Evie, who met her eyes. The feline's rapier flashed into being, causing the crowd to reflexively flinch away. She took several long steps over to Sara, her eyes scanning the crowd even as she leaned in close.
"We are leaving," she hissed.
"We don't know he's in charge."
"You think the King would train the peasants?"
"He could be following his advice."
"The King would never. This is Graf's work."
"You don't know that."
"We are leaving," Evie repeated, grabbing Sara by the forearm. Sara found herself being dragged through the crowd, leaving the scout sitting on the cobblestone, baffled.
"Back!" Evie snapped, waving her sword at the soldiers. "No one within ten feet, or I'll kill you where you stand!"
"Evie," Sara whispered, "we don't know. We can't just abandon everything now!"
"You made a deal, Master," the feline hissed back. "If the war is unwinnable, you would flee. You would not become a martyr."
"Even if Graf is in charge, that doesn't mean we've lost!"
"Is that so, Master?" Evie laughed, hysteria edging into her voice. "You studied his battles, Master. Be honest with me. Do you really think you can beat him?"
Sara bit her cheek. Hard. "No," she said, after a moment. "Not normally. But he's lost battles before, Evie."
"When he was outnumbered ten-to-one, Master," Evie snapped. "When those that had hired him sabotaged his strategies with their unfathomable incompetence. Do you have the ninety thousand soldiers required to defeat him on hand? Hidden in some jungle grove, perhaps?"
"What's going on?" Hurlish asked, jogging to catch up. Evie was still bodily dragging Sara down the street, a cluster of confused soldiers trailing behind.
"We are leaving," Evie repeated, reaching over to tear Sara's cannon off her shoulder. She handed it to Hurlish, producing a packet of ammunition from her enchanted bag next. "Graf is in charge of the Sporaton forces. Load canister. His first order will have been to send assassins."
"Evie, please," Sara pleaded. "We don't have to do this."
"You promised!" Evie screamed, throwing Sara forward, so she was standing before the far smaller woman. They were stopped in the middle of the road, the soldiers following them further cowed by the sight of Hurlish loading the massive gun. Evie reached up, stabbing a claw into Sara's breastplate. "You promised me that you would retreat when it became necessary. Is your word worth anything? Well? Is it?" She reached up and clenched her collar in a fist. "Or will you order me to desist?"
The words hit Sara like a punch to the gut. Tears began to bead at the corner of her eyes.
"Evie, no. No, I wouldn't do that. You know that."
"Then follow me! A hidden ship waits in the harbor. There is enough room for the three of us, Vesta, Oddry, and six sailors. We will flee to the nearest Carrion colony, after consulting Nora on the likely vectors of interception the Sporaton Navy may pursue."
"I will," Sara said, taking a deep breath. "I will, if you really think we need to. But Evie, please, let me try. Let me see if I can win."
Evie laughed again, high-pitched and wild. "You think you can, Master? You really do?"
"Yes, Evie!" Sara stepped closer, lowering her voice. "We have advantages he doesn't. Weapons he doesn't understand. He's not invincible."
"And what do you propose, hm?" Evie asked incredulously. "As we speak, he trains his troops twenty miles from the city. Over a day's march. Plenty of warning for him if we emerge for battle. Will you sally out to attack him, three thousands to twelve on the open field? Or will you wait behind the walls until he is satisfied with the quality of his troops, when the greatest general of the century is certain that he can overwhelm your defenses? Which trap will you spring, Master?"
"That's– we don't have to–" Sara clenched her firsts, pressing her knuckles into her eyes. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm going to do, okay? But the war isn't lost yet. I said I'd run when it was, right? And it's not. Not yet. There's still a chance." Evie scoffed, but Sara didn't let her retort. "I know, okay? I know who he is. What he is. You've shown me his career. You've told me enough about him that it scares me to fight him, okay? Scares me shitless. I'm not underestimating him. But Evie, please, we're so close. It'll be years until we get another opportunity like this. If I run now, I'll have to fight a revolution to achieve what I did in half a year here. Amarat put me next to the only empty nation on the planet for a reason, right? This is it. The best chance I'll ever get."
"If this is the best chance you will ever get, we are doomed."
"Hey, Evie?" Hurlish mumbled. The question went ignored.
"You don't know if he's really in control of everything," Sara tried. "The King could have given him permission to train the troops, but it'll be the King in command during the battle."
"A faint hope."
"But it's still there. I want to know, before I abandon everything. I've worked so hard for this, Evie. We've worked so hard. We've changed the world for this, and you want to just leave?"
"Evie," Hurlish repeated, more insistently.
"I don't give a damn about the world, Sara," Evie snapped. "I care about you. About Hurlish. About our child. I admire your morality, the passion you hold for your ideology, but those values are yours, not mine. As far as I am concerned, the rest of the world can rot under the boot of tyranny for all eternity. I will accept that happily, if it means those I love are safe."
Before Sara could respond, there was a click. The two women froze, finally turning to Hurlish.
The orc had the massive gun raised to her shoulder, pointing it at the crowd of soldiers and civilians. The audience began to flee at the sight of the gun, panic and confusion running through them.
But not all. Four soldiers, four civilians. They stared at Hurlish as the rest of the crowd melted away. The soldiers rested their halberds casually against the stone, while the civilians were reaching under their shirts.
Evie snarled, claws tearing through her shirt as she ripped it off, exposing her cuirass. She took her stance in front of Hurlish, one hand holding her rapier before her, the other reaching for the leather holster strapped across her chestplate.
Sara dropped her helmet onto her head, drawing her sword and flicking it out to its full length. The eight individuals slowly spread out, forming a semi-circle that blocked the road.
"Night's Eye?" Sara asked.
"No," one replied. A woman, dressed in civilian garb. She was telling the truth.
"Leave Hurlish alone and she won't fight," Sara said.
"Bullshit," The orc stated, thumbing the hammer back on the gun.
All hell broke loose.
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Evie
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She had never known such fear in her life. Not as a child suffering her mother's irate rants. Not when her carriage had been assaulted by brigands as a young girl. Never in her life had anything put fear into Evie's soul like the eight individuals before her.
The world seemed to blur as the click of the cannon's flintlock echoed through the air. Her vision narrowed, gray pulsing inward with every beat of her heart, sapping color from all reality. Her ultimate fear, the deepest of terrors, realized. They were coming for Master. They were coming for Hurlish. Slowly, agonizingly, daggers emerged from hidden pockets, halberds were brought down. It was her fault. Her panic, so visible to the public, had prompted the assassins to launch their assault, knowing she was fleeing. If she had maintained her decorum, had used the years of training she had been subjected to, they could have escaped silently. Because she hadn't– because she had failed– she was fighting for the lives of those she loved.
The first faux-soldier began to take a step forward, the fastest to react. That was his mistake to make. Hurlish swung the barrel towards him.
The street was suddenly filled by a cloud of white, Evie's ears splitting with an exquisite agony. Fifty pellets of lead ripped through the air, passing through the armored soldier with hardly a stutter. What had been a man became nothing more than scattered viscera, limbs tossed in bloody arcs across the cobblestones.
The others charged. Reality still had not resumed its normal speed.
Evie's fist slowly clenched around the mahogany handle sprouting from her chest holster. She drew with her offhand, rapier still held defensively before her. Even through the ringing in her ears, she heard the rasp of blacksteel sliding against leather. From handle to muzzle the weapon was long, difficult to draw, too unwieldy to carry on her hip. She felt the delay of drawing the pistol as a nearly physical pain, every moment spent pulling it from its sheath allowing the assassins to take another step.
But Evie was fast. She had practiced her draw over and over again since Hurlish had given her the weapon, nearly every free moment she was not in public spent repeating the task, until every required action had become one smooth motion. Her fingers slipped around the grip with an intimate familiarity, index finger sliding in to rest on the trigger. Her thumb was already moving to the hammer as she pulled the gun up and out of the holster, resting on the textured metal, pushing down with the same force that was pulling the weapon free. Finally, after so long waiting, the end of the muzzle cleared the holster. Her wrist flicked to the right, bringing the weapon's muzzle up and around. The hammer clicked in her hand, signaling that it was ready to fire. She lifted her thumb free. She did not wait to steady her stance. One eye was already closed, the other squinting. She continued to raise the weapon, until her arm was straight and her elbow locked, braced for the recoil. The sight passed before her eye, a tiny instant in which the metal bead was aligned with the sternum of the closest assassin. Unsure of her target, all of the assassins tried to duck, diving to one side or the other to avoid her shot.
It was too late. She pulled the trigger.
A second cloud of smoke joined the first. The pistol bucked violently in her hand, a flare of pain rattling its way through the joints of her arm. A half-inch hole opened in the center of her target's chest, a fountain of blood erupting from behind them. The group of assassins began to recover from their stutter-step, resuming their sprint forward, confident now that Hurlish and Evie had both fired the only shots they had available to them.
As the recoil faded and Evie's pistol fell back down, the way the recoil had angled the weapon skyward allowed her to easily reach up with her thumb, drawing the hammer down once more. She did not know if the gods had any sway over the world of Master's father, but on the chance they did, she offered a brief prayer for the man's life to be lived well.
"Now this one's one you're gonna like," Master's father had said. As the weapon he had described cycled in her hand, striving to save his daughter's life, Evie almost believed he was speaking to her personally. "The biggest, baddest pistol there ever was. They didn't build a more powerful one for almost a hundred years after this one. It was so damn big they couldn't make a normal hip holster for it, only one for a saddle. It was built to kill a horse at three hundred feet, and it actually managed it. They didn't make that many, but the cavalry loved it, since most of them had never even seen a revolver before. Colt named it after the cavalryman that gave him the idea, one Samuel Walker."
Too late, the next assassin realized Evie hadn't discarded the gun. He tried to drop to the ground as her aim swung to him, but there was no outrunning a bullet. The crystal-tipped hammer fell, sparks flying through a minuscule tube to light the blackpowder charge. A half-inch bullet ripped through the side of the man's neck, spraying blood across the cobblestones.
The trance broke. The assassins reached Evie in a blink, halberd and dagger swinging. She blocked the halberd with her rapier, twisting aside to send the dagger scraping thinly across her ribs. She used the revolver as a parrying dagger to knock aside the next swing of the assassin's knife, thrusting her rapier towards the halberdier's helmet in the same moment, all while things continued to devolve around her.
Hurlish was jogging backward, breaking open the cannon to load another round. One assassin ducked past Evie as she engaged the first two, trying to reach the orc, only to be met by the hideous crackle of lightning tearing out of Master's sword. As soon as the smoking corpse fell, Master was being savaged by a flurry of swings from two of the assassins, blacksteel daggers sparking off her breastplate. Master swung at them like a brute, forgoing finesse in favor of raw strength to shove them off of her, gaining distance. Several swings of the enchanted dagger had pierced the mundane steel that covered her arms, lacerations that dripped blood.
Evie's thrust for the halberdier was turned aside by a flick of his weapon's haft, which the man turned into a riposte that tried to drive the butt of his weapon into her gut. She had no choice but to take the blow as the dagger-wielding woman circled around her, trying to attack her from behind.
Evie sucked wind as the halberd's wood dug into her stomach, stumbling backward as she just barely knocked aside yet another lunge of the dagger. She raised the revolver, trying to line up the muzzle with the woman, but the assassin ducked to the side just as the shot rang out, sending the lead ball blowing chunks out of the stone building behind her.
Evie was forced to take another step back as the halberdier choked up on his weapon, trying to run it through her chest like a shortspear. She barely turned the weapon aside, the distraction earning a flare of sensation in her side.
Evie looked down to see the woman's fist pressed up against her, crossguard of her dagger flush with Evie's skin. The pain hadn't hit yet.
She spun to one side as hard as she could, trying to use her own body to rip the dagger from the woman's hand. The assassin's grip was too strong, however, and all Evie achieved was tearing a long wound across her skin, tracing a gaping wound just above her hipbone.
Master was engaging the other two assassins. Both were wielding enchanted daggers, using them less as weapons of war, more the implements of a back-alley murder. They circled the Champion of Amarat like wolves hounding a lion, lunging the instant they thought Master distracted. The Champion, in turn, trusted to her armor, not even bothering to parry the stabs. Her greatsword crackled with lightning as she threw out massive sweeping blows, trying to cut the assassins in half with every swing. Between her armor and comparatively unwieldy weapon, she couldn't match their speed. Her best hope was to cut one down on the spot, allowing her to focus her full attention on the remaining assassin. The tactic was taking its toll, the armor covering her extremities collecting dozens of thin, bloody cuts. The assassins couldn't land a definitive blow through her blacksteel chestplate, but it was only a matter of time until the accumulated wounds took Master to the ground.
Behind them both, Hurlish continued to steadily backpedal. She had reloaded the massive weapon and brought it to her shoulder, but couldn't fire. The assassins were too close to Master and Evie, constantly shifting in and out of the line of fire. A string of muttered profanities were falling from her lips, directed at anyone and everyone as she tracked her targets, waiting for any opportunity to pull the trigger.
Evie felt her left leg give as she backstepped yet again, the deep gouge in her side gushing blood. She stumbled, nearly dropping to her knee, but steadied herself just in time to slash at the dagger-wielding assassin's arm, digging a deep gash across the muscles of her forearm. The woman's only response was to step away and shift her dagger from her right to left hand, a move that would have cost her life, if not for the way the halberdier immediately seized the moment, swinging for Evie's head. She ducked, cursing, leaving a trail of ever-darker blood on the stones as she continued to retreat.
They were not formal assassins, she now recognized. She had trained against those kept under Graf's employ. A true Assassin was one who struck from afar by poison or bolt, working silently and alone. Had they truly been Night's Eye assassins, she likely would have died without ever drawing her sword. Instead, the pair she was fighting against were skilled, not just as individuals, but in working with other Irregulars. Those were the skills of a soldier, not an assassin, and it was what had likely saved Master's life for the few days they must have been in the city. Unfortunately, seeing as the soldiers had been forced into an open confrontation, their skills were now exactly suited to the task at hand.
Her thoughts had begun to wander, she realized. The left side of her body from the hip down was dripping rivers of blood, clothes wetly clinging to her skin, made worse with every pump of her pounding heart. She slowly became aware of dim lines of fire scorching along her arms, her shoulders, wounds she had not noticed receiving flaring to life.
Beside her, she heard the sounds of Sara still fighting. Hurlish was shouting, sounding ever more distant. She needed to end this.
Better her life than another's.
Evie suddenly dropped her rapier, throwing a desperate kick from her good leg into the woman's stomach. The ploy worked– she'd known Evie was wounded, hadn't expected it. She was caught square in the gut by Evie's heel, shoved backward several feet. She looked up, surprised, confused that Evie would waste the last of her energy on such an ineffectual blow.
Then her body cartwheeled to the side, everything from her shoulders up torn to ragged shreds. The report of Hurlish's gun was dull, Evie long since deafened.
Evie's leg finally collapsed. She fell limply to the ground, twisting so she would at least land on her back.
She watched as a halberd flew down from the sky, embedding itself in her gut. It was strange. She didn't feel it. A solid chunk of steel had disappeared into her belly, yet it felt as if nothing had happened at all. She couldn't even get her lungs to suck in air.
Evie shot the man. Her eyes fell closed, satisfied.
Chapter 94: Cried Havoc
Notes:
Yet another two-chapter update
Chapter Text
Emeric awoke in a sweat. It was sudden, without cause. His eyes simply snapped open, staring at the darkness of his tent above him. He sat up. Looked left. Looked right. There was nothing to cause alarm. Just the walls of his tent, his belongings arranged neatly on the ground. Outside, insects were buzzing, frogs croaking, the incessant hum of the Tulian wilderness unchanged.
He put a hand to his chest. His heart was pounding wildly. He ran his hand through his hair, along his bare chest. He was soaked in sweat. It was not the perspiration of labor. It held the rancid scent of anxiety, as if he'd just been torn from a night-terror. But he remembered nothing of the sort.
Emeric did not consider himself a superstitious man. But he didn't consider himself a fool, either. He swung his feet off his cot, preparing to get dressed despite the late hour.
There was no warning. Just the eruption of mud from the center of his tent, followed immediately by the wailing screech of a banshee. Emeric threw himself away from the explosion by reflex, tangling himself in the tent's canvas as it collapsed around him.
More sounds joined the first, equally hideous, but not nearly as high-pitched. Dull thumps began to rain in the soil around him. He scrambled forward, clawing at the canvas which now seemed to choke him, seeking his armor. There was no light, and he could not even navigate by touch. He tore at cloth as whistling howls raged in the sky above him, joined by human screams of pain and shock in ever greater numbers.
His blind scramble eventually landed upon the chest which contained his equipment. He was still buried, his limbs tangled as bullets continued to strike the dirt in every direction. These sounded different to the shots he'd heard in earlier battles, their pitch shifted and warbling. Bizarrely, for reasons he did not understand, he heard their arrival before he heard the crack of the firearms which propelled them.
Gasping for air, naked and sweating, curled in the fetal position behind the armor chest, he struggled blindly to undo the lock. A bullet struck the wood, causing him to jump, ruining the sequence that was required to loosen the enchantments. He swore profusely, beginning the sequence anew, only to feel a bullet strike the tent inches from his head, causing him to curl up once more.
He pressed his back to the lockbox and his knees to his chest, not sure if the wood would protect him from the murderous hail, yet doing so because there was no other option. The intensity of the barrage was so great that standing was a certain death sentence, and the density of fire had him convinced the shooters must have been only dozens of yards away, yearning to strike him down the moment he presented himself as a target. It had been decades since Emeric had gone into battle without his armor, and even in those earliest years, he had never faced something which could have struck him down with such contemptible ease. An arrow could be survived, if one were fortunate to find a healer's aid in time, but not these bullets. He had seen them striking the common troops, seen the ragged fistfuls of flesh the lead had ripped from their bodies, and in that moment, his only thought was for ensuring he did not meet such a horrific fate himself.
All at once, however, the leaden rain began to slacken. Emeric was still blind, and the crack of the firearms continued unabated, but he could tell the shots were landing elsewhere. He forced himself up into a kneeling crouch, exposing himself slightly more, and finally, finally ripped open the lockbox.
Emeric heard bugles in the night as he dragged his chestplate out, cursing wildly as he tried to dress himself. The canvas kept catching beneath his armor, preventing it from slipping onto his body, and with yet another string of profanity he dragged his belt knife from the chest, slicing the canvas of his tent to ribbons, so that he could finally be in the open air.
The camp was in chaos. The stars were obscured by patches of drifting clouds, leaving all the world in blackness save that which the camp's torches illuminated. There, in the puddles of orange firelight, Emeric saw troops and nobility alike moving in a wild panic. Many had taken shelter behind the supply wagons, peasant and noble alike huddled atop one another, all in varying states of undress. Many couldn't tell where the shots were coming from, and so were sheltered on the wrong side of shelters, unknowingly exposing themselves to the projectiles which were striking them down with personal prejudice. He thought he caught sight of the distinctive white cloud of firearms drifting away from a distant treeline, but it was too dark to be sure.
Emeric pulled his chestplate on, twisting awkwardly about himself to try and tie the leather straps. "Squire!" He called. "Rolda! My armor!"
He expected nothing of the cry, of course, the boy far too smart to have done anything but find immediate shelter. Emeric's chest was still bare, and the cool of the steel against his skin was unnatural. He should have had several layers of padding beneath, but there was no time for it. The shots may return at any moment, and without his armor, his body was no more resilient than any other's.
Deft fingers suddenly took the leather from his hands, startling Emeric. He turned around, shocked to see Rolda kneeling behind him, quickly buckling the straps into place.
"Here, Sir," the boy said, cinching the strap tight. "Will we be fully armoring you, or just the necessities?"
"Thank the gods for you," Emeric breathed, the praise falling unbidden from his lips. "The essentials, boy, helmet, chestplate, and fauld. I need to lead the troops, get things in order."
"Not sure you do, Sir," the boy replied.
"What?"
"Look," he said, pointing towards the north.
To Emeric's utter disbelief, deep amongst the chaotic camp was an island of stability. Somehow, impossibly, there were lines of neatly-pressed soldiers, spears on their shoulders, helmets atop their heads. They were marching towards the treeline already, shoving the rest of the panicked army out of their way.
"How..." Emeric began, trailing off. He knew how.
Rolda answered him anyway. "Commander Graf, Sir. Rallied the troops as soon as the first shot sounded. Heard him shouting from all the way over here, I did. Worried his old lungs would give out with the way he was hollering, frankly."
"Do not speak such of your betters, Rolda," Emeric chastised reflexively. He shook himself, tearing his eyes away from the sight. How many troops had the man marshaled in a handful of minutes? Two thousand? Three? No wonder the fire upon the center of the camp had slackened; the Champion's troops were being forced to engage a proper enemy far sooner than they no doubt wished.
Emeric stood as Rolda continued applying his armor, shouting orders for his Knights to rally. Even as he did so, however, he began to wonder if it would achieve anything of relevance. Commander Graf's forces were marching at the double towards the treeline, now with mage shields protecting the front of their formation. The line of troops began to widen, flanks jogging ahead of the center, seeking to encircle the enemy position amongst the trees. Emeric understood the tactic at once. The enemy would no doubt flee, this clearly intended to be a raid of nuisance rather than consequence, and Commander Graf wished to ensure they must retreat into the deadly jungle, rather than running alongside it.
Commander Graf's charge was not without casualty, the firearms striking down multitudes, but the casualties were more than acceptable. Without the great bronze weapons firing away, the losses were piecemeal, distributed amongst the troops, no threat to unit cohesion.
"I've changed my mind, Rolda," Emeric said. "Equip me properly. I must look presentable."
"Yessir," the boy said, moving to take his greaves from the lockbox. Emeric could practically feel the child's curiosity radiating off him. As a reward for his bravery in answering Emeric's call, he began to explain.
"The battle is already won. Commander Graf has the situation under control. I will still bear my armor, but only so that I may congratulate him with decorum, as well as be prepared for any pursuit the King may order from the cavalry."
"Understood, Sir," Rolda said. "Should we take the chestplate back off then, get your gambeson on?"
"Yes, I think so."
As the Knights slowly began to gather on Emeric's position, he watched the battle conclude. The clouds shifted further, letting starlight fall down on the enemy position. Even from so far away, he could recognize the Champion. She was at the center of the powder cloud, the source of a very different vapor filling the air. One red and turbulent, boiling like a thunderhead. The smoke leaked from the gaps of her armor, shooting out in jets as she fired and loaded her weapon. She was laying prone, occasionally firing some monstrous thing that dwarfed the firearms of her troops. The firearm's answer to an Irregular longbow, he suspected. Wherever it struck there erupted a volcano of dirt and shrapnel, and Emeric could only assume that this was what had struck his tent. He wondered if his tent had been targeted in particular, or if she had simply been indiscriminately aiming for the nobility's section of the camp.
Eventually, just as Commander Graf no doubt planned, the Tulian Army was forced to melt back into the trees, lest they make contact with a far-greater force of spears. The mercenary called a halt to the advance with a sharp series of bugler's calls, the troops obediently pulling up short. He did not think they would have done that a few weeks ago. The peasants were not brave by nature, but in turn, they were difficult to hold back when they sensed proverbial blood in the water. Archers were sent ahead of the spears in loose formation, arrows resting against their strings, watching the trees for any hint of the enemy's return.
To Emeric's relief, there was no sign of the battle's continuation. He briefly considered keeping his assembled Knights in camp, to organize the recovery efforts, but discarded the thought. A great many individuals throughout the nobility's section of the camp were laying on the ground, moaning in delirious pain, but the healers were already sweeping through the space, searching for those of rank to aid. His Knights would better serve the King by seeking out Commander Graf for orders.
The short jog to Commander Graf's position– well behind the troops he commanded, as the King had ordered– coincided with the King's own arrival. King Sporatos had also donned his armor, looking resplendent as always, his visor raised in a wide grin.
"Graf!" The King cheerfully greeted. "I must commend you! Your response was excellent, perfectly –"
Graf seized the King by the neck. The mercenary was still dressed in his bedclothes, the elderly man's papery skin rippling with cabled muscle as his fingers closed around the King's windpipe. The King's hands went to Graf's, trying to peel off his fingers, spittle flecking his lips as he audibly choked. Graf ignored his attempts, dragging him closer, until his nose nearly touched Graf's.
"Did you send them?"
The King continued to choke, battering at the mercenary with his fists. Each blow could have shattered stone, but they achieved nothing.
Emeric was frozen. He should have drawn his sword, should have charged to protect his liege. But he couldn't get his muscles to obey. He could only watch helplessly. Belatedly, he gestured for the Knights to encircle the scene, in hopes that he could at least hide the sight from the peasants.
Graf's fingers loosened ever so slightly, allowing the King to suck in a ragged breath.
"R-release me this instant!" The King gasped.
"Did you send them?" Graf repeated.
"Who? Who, damn you!"
"Assassins," Graf hissed, his entire figure vibrating with fury. "The Champion sallied out in the night. Marched her troops to exhaustion. Attacked without effect. She did so for a reason, and it was not strategy." Graf's fingers clenched tighter, until the King's eyes began to bulge. "Did you send them?"
The King's lips made shapes, but no sound came out. None of the Knights, Emeric included, could find it within themselves to attack the man holding their liege. There was no honor in suicide.
"Release him, dear Graf," a buzzing voice said. Emeric tore his eyes away from the sight of mercenary and King interlocked. The mage-advisor, wooden mask expressionless, stepped into the circle of paralyzed Knights. "It was I that ordered the assassination."
Graf's hand opened mechanically, dropping the King. The Sovereign of All Sporatos fell to his belly, lost in a violent coughing fit. The mercenary ignored the King, feet sliding along the grass as he squared his hips with the mage, eyes wide. His hand, oh-so-slowly, began moving towards the sword at his waist. Without any conscious thought, Emeric found himself shuffling backward.
"You admit this?"
"I do," the mage-advisor said, shrugging casually. The witch's affliction that they suffered still had their limbs trembling violently, as if they were in the midst of a terrible fever. "I felt your supposition that an assassination attempt would only bolster the enemy's resolve was inaccurate. Your fondness for the Champion's slave overrode your common sense."
"It did." Graf stated the words plainly, devoid of all emotion. His eyes were empty as he stared at the mage. "The survival of Lady Evie was a condition for my participation in this war."
"It was?" The mage hummed curiously, making a show of inspecting their shaky fingernails. "I was not made aware. A shame that such a miscommunication occurred."
Graf's fingers wrapped around his sword's hilt.
The mage quickly raised a hand. "There will not be any need for that," they said. "The slave survived, as did her partners. Grievously wounded, but alive."
Graf's sword shook in its sheath. The rattle of metal seemed to Emeric to be the loudest thing he had ever heard. He could no longer breathe. The King wiped spittle from his lips as he looked up at Graf's hand. He saw the way Graf's knuckles had begun to whiten, tendons jumping from his skin, and promptly began to crawl away on hands and knees, still coughing violently. One of the Knights soon helped him to his feet, taking him under a shoulder.
"Do you know what is saving your life right now?" Graf whispered.
The mage-advisor tilted his head. "No. I do not."
"Neither do I."
As if it took all his strength to do so, Graf's hand released the hilt of his sword. Air rushed into Emeric's chest with such suddenness that he very nearly joined the King's coughing fit, while the tension that had locked his limbs in place released so rapidly he stumbled dizzily forward, bracing himself on his knees.
Silently, not sparing a single glance backward, Graf walked away. The mage-advisor sighed tiredly, striding over to place a glowing hand on the King. King Sporatos's coughing fit began to fade as the healing took effect, wiping away the deep bruises which encircled his neck.
The mage, Emeric noted, had stopped trembling.
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Ignite
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Ignite's boots thumped dully on the Waverake's decking, little wooden sighs and soft creaks joining the chorus of groaning beams. The evening wind was gasping its last, the great sheets of cloth that stretched through the forest of timber that was the Waverake's rigging barely fluttering, propelling the world's greatest warship at the sedate pace of an elderly man's stroll. The barest of waves lapped at her hull, little splashes that reminded him more of a lake's placid water than any proper sea. Perhaps the only sign that she was not sailing across some continental pond were the dolphins occasionally circling her hull, spouts of water playfully thrown upward as bored sailors tossed them whatever meager fish their lines had caught.
Despite the relaxing nature of the scene, Ignite still patrolled the deck, wearing a groove in the wood. It was soon to be the fourth night since the magecraft had first found them, and every night since, the surviving vessel had returned. It never snuck so close as it had the first time, the lookouts now spotting it a league or more out, but it hadn't been deterred. Three nights in a row had it nipped at the heels of their formation, diving in the moment a single ship strayed from its fellows, ducking away the moment the Waverake hove to bring her guns to bear. The ships of the Tulian Navy, originally conceived to be their massive flagship's escorts, now huddled beneath her guns each night, shivering like beaten dogs. So tense had each night been that the crews of the vessels had nearly become nocturnal, sleeping away the heat of the day belowdecks, staring wide-eyed into the black all through the late hours.
The problem which vexed Ignite, however, was more fundamental than a night of stress. He was a Marine, no true expert in fleet tactics, but he had spent too long upon the sea to not pick up some inklings of strategy here and there. What little knowledge he had of these things then bore to him a burning question:
How was the magecraft tracking them?
It disappeared each night after its assaults lit afire a vessel or two, and subsequently would never be seen, not even during the clearest of days. Despite its absence under the sunlight, its nightly appearance was invariable. The crew's rumor mill had already begun to churn out talk of possession, ghost-ships, and foul curses, all the hallmarks of a superstitious sailor. Nora had done her best to put down the claims, being quite the expert in curses herself, having practically wrapped herself in them, but the whispers persisted.
Ignite himself was skeptical, as any good officer should be. He had known crews afflicted with curses, aged veterans of the Siren Culls. Those poor sailors had seen nothing so subtle as a particularly stubborn pursuit by an enemy vessel; they had been beset by poxes and boils, their skin afire with rash, mountainous lumps dripping putrid pus from every pore. Even now, so many years later, their bodies were scarred and deformed from the ordeal. If the fleet had been cursed, it would have known it as an absolute certainty, not some idle chatter. Similarly, Ignite was confident that they were not facing off against a ghost ship. If such a thing even existed beyond ancient tales, he sincerely doubted they operated in pairs, much less a pair in which one so-called "ghost" was foolhardy enough to get physically run under by their prey. Demonic influence he supposed he could not technically rule out, but he doubted it severely. Fearsome though the Waverake was, she was not such a threat to Sporatos that the enemy would consider tendering their souls for aid. Not unless they were particularly foolish, which was always a possibility, he supposed.
As the sun continued its lazy descent towards the horizon, just beginning to bulge as its tip met the waves, a bell rung out across the Waverake. Perhaps Ignite had thought too highly of his calm, for the sound made him leap and turn about, hand on his sword. It took a moment for his pounding heart to accept that it was simply the bell which marked the change of shifts, followed as it was by a warbling whistle. He forcibly relaxed himself, turning to resume his pacing. Seeing as the ship had necessarily been built of green wood, he wouldn't be surprised if he wore a track in it before the week was out.
Shortly after the shuffle of shift changes began, a second, lighter bell rang, this one from up on the mainmast. It was a pure, clear note, carrying well over the waves, for it was meant to notify the close-in members of the fleet that the flagship would be changing her flags. Ignite turned an eye to the signals running up the mast, not reading the recently-assembled Tulian flag code as easily as he could the Carrion standard. Carrion ships had flags that corresponded to common nautical terms and common orders, the combination of which could create a surprisingly complex array of orders. With the additional hundreds of feet of rope available on the Waverake to dangle signal flags from , Captain Nora had introduced an alphabetic code as well, so she could spell out anything which had no associated flag.
The message read, in bits and pieces as each flag was hoisted:
[All] [Captains] [come aboard] [flagship] o-f-f-i-c-e-r-s [take charge]
As Ignite interpreted it, that was an order for the entirety of the fleet's captains to be rowed over on their ship's launches, leaving officers of their choice in charge of the vessels in their stead. There was no specific flag for the word 'officer,' he supposed, because there were already so many flags for specific ranks. Unusual that Nora would go to such great lengths to specify that any officer could take command, rather than the traditional 1st Lieutenant, but then again, near everything the Admiral did was unusual.
Including this, Ignite reflected, scanning the flags of acknowledgement that were being hoisted across the fleet. Many were delayed in their reply, no doubt trying to determine why the Admiral would order such a thing when an attack was anticipated so shortly. Already the ships had formed two thin lines abreast, one before the other, preparing to provide mutual support against the inevitable magecraft assault. Eventually, after nearly two minutes of deliberating from the most recalcitrant of captains, all ships had acknowledged the order, lowering boats over the side with their captains aboard.
Ignite took a deep breath, preparing for an evening of stress of a very different variety. "Marines! Assemble welcoming party! Dress uniforms!"
His Marines joined the scramble of sailors, the hastiest among them all in the way they rushed belowdeck. Ignite had spent nearly all his waking hours familiarizing himself with the peculiar specifics of managing such an overlarge Marine contingent and their strange weapons, but unsurprisingly, considering the lax nature of Admiral Nora's command style, he hadn't spent a single minute at all studying ceremony. He regretted this now, as welcoming aboard several dozen captains would absolutely require a certain level of decorum, something even Captain Nora would expect as a matter of course. Now he was at an utter loss. He didn't even know if the Marines had a designated welcoming party, or for that matter, dress uniforms of any manner. He gave the order anyway, because he at least wagered it would prompt the poor Marines to run to their original sergeants in a state of confusion, and the sergeants would then more gracefully and knowledgeably broach the subject with Ignite.
However, Ignite was shocked to see a dozen Marines return a few minutes later, clad in sharp black cloth, the yellow-painted threads of rank emblazoned across their breast or shoulders. They had fine buttons of lacquered wood pinning their coats closed, the shoulders of the uniform pressed crisply into near right-angles, tailored to fit even the orcs among their number, including a tight white undershirt that was smoothed flat against their chests. They walked stiffly, uncomfortably, trying their utmost not to crease the stifling cloth that was already beginning to stain with perspiration, but it was inarguably a formal uniform. Though he'd given the order to have them brought out, the fact that Admiral Nora had somehow found the time to bother with such a thing was perhaps more shocking than any other aspect of her mad leadership Ignite had yet seen.
"Sir!" Sergeant Madz saluted sharply as he came to a halt. "Welcome party is ready for duty, sir!"
Ignite saluted back, allowing a small smile to crease his lips. "Promptly done, Sergeant, for which you are commended. Assemble the men on the quarterdeck, and have boarding ropes lowered on the port side." Ignite paused, looking at the sabers dangling off the waist of each Marine. They were cheap, tinny things, their golden handles nothing more than painted iron. "And Sergeant Madz, if time allows, have the Marines replace their sabers with muskets. I will task someone to bring them to the troops. Hold the weapons at parade rest, if you would."
Sergeant Madz saluted again, taking the Marines to their tasks. As he'd promised, Ignite quickly found a handful of unoccupied sailors, who while not technically under his authority had nothing better to do, and ordered them to collect bundles of muskets to bring over to the assembled Marines. Soon the insulting faux-sabers were returned to the armory below, where Ignite dearly hoped they would never see the light of day again. In their place the Marines held finely polished muskets, the barrels resting against their shoulders, butts of the weapon sitting firmly in their palms. With the gleaming spike of iron protruding from beneath their barrel to catch the last of the setting sun's light, it was quite the sight.
Ignite joined his Marines as they filed into neat rows on either side of the ladder, standing with backs as straight as the mast, staring sightlessly ahead as each captain was brought aboard. The Admiral said nothing of the Marine's display as she stood and greeted each captain when they came aboard, something Ignite took as the highest of praise. If she had been displeased with the Marine's presentation, she would have corrected the error, whereas if she had been surprised that Ignite had the wherewithal to assemble the welcoming party, she would have made a note to praise him and his troops. Silence therefore implied that the welcoming party was not just flawless, it was a flawlessness she had expected as a matter of course. Ignite had learned long ago that when his excellence was no longer worthy of note, it meant his superiors trusted him explicitly.
It took nearly a half hour for all the captains to be piped aboard, each one greeted with the same enamoring enthusiasm from the Admiral before being directed to the stateroom. When all was said and done, his Marines had soaked their uniforms through, then began to sweat less profusely, the sun's absence providing a welcome relief even without the breeze that normally would have cooled them. As the last Captain had been ushered into the stateroom, Ignite had given the order for the Marines to stand down, a proud smile beaming on his face. He told them of his pride frankly, congratulating them on their decorum. He told them that to stand strong in battle was the most important aspect of a Marine's duty, but among the least common. If a Marine was fortunate enough to sail through a peaceful career, the peak of their achievements would be found in moments like these, when they made an impression upon countless individuals of great import.
Unfortunately, almost as if fate itself was frowning on Ignite's briefly rekindled pride, a young midshipman ran up to Ignite, hat in his hands.
"Your presence is requested in the stateroom, sir," the boy said, speaking as if cowed by Ignite's mere presence. "Quite immediately, as I understood it."
Ignite shared a look of remorse with his Marines, who had no envy for his sudden summoning to a formal officer's function.
"Well, then, get on with your regular duties," he said, "and put away your uniforms. If the gods are kind, I will be out shortly."
"Good luck, sir," Sergeant Madz said, saluting. Ignite returned the salute, then began his walk over to the stateroom.
He slipped inside as silently as he could, finding himself at the back of a small crowd. Several dozen captains milled about a stateroom which suddenly seemed not nearly as large as it once had, the fine chairs and long tables having been pushed to the room's corners to clear space. Only a small round table sat in the center of the room, on which the Admiral leaned, speaking in simple terms to the assembled captains.
"So nay, there won't be an attack tonight," the Admiral was saying. "The wind is too low for even a magecraft to gain proper speed, and she won't risk being stranded in our sights. She's got a fine captain, that magecraft, and they'll have realized as well as I that any time spent under our guns past the first volley'll be the end for them. Gunner Balon'd make sure of it."
"Aye, ma'am," the man replied from somewhere within the crowd. That was Ignite's first hint that other non-captains were in on the meeting, a small relief.
"As for what we'll do next, I'm putting it to discussion," Nora continued. Ignite circled around the room's edge, trying to position himself so he could see the woman clearly. "I suspect they've got some Azarketi under their thumb, trailing the fleet, reportin' our position. Assuming that's the case, we won't ever catch the enemy off their guard. Were we closer to home waters, we might find coastal Azarketi willing to fight for Tulian, but I doubt it. Haven't a clue how they persuaded this group to follow us, as a matter of fact."
Ignite hadn't considered the possibility of Sporaton forces tailing them underwater, but now that the idea had been presented, he quickly became convinced of it. The nomadic Azarketi were near impossible to finagle any lasting agreement out of, much less true loyalty, seeing as most spent their lives drifting thousands of miles with the seasons, so he hadn't imagined the Sporatons would have risked relied upon them. He struggled to think of what the oceanfolk would have accepted in payment for such a constraining duty. When food swam by them at all hours of the day and there existed no factions which could threaten them, they had very little desire for material goods. He had known magecraft captains which used enchanted hunting spears as bribes for services cleaning the ship's hull, but even that was a tepid arrangement, likely to end up half-completed, interest in the payment lost when a particularly fat fish swam by.
"With stealth and surprise tossed to the wind, we won't ever force the Sporatons into an engagement," Nora continued. "They can nibble us down bit by bit for as long as they please, seeing as the war on the ground has stalled."
"Stalled?" Ignite found himself asking, forgetting his infinitesimally minuscule rank among those present. Several more heads bobbed curiously in the crowd, thankfully, saving him from embarrassment.
Admiral Nora only shrugged. "Haven't the care for any details, beyond that the fighting's on hold. Army got to the city, holin' up for the Sporatons to come bustin' down the door, then nothing. Fighting's stopped. Seeing as that's going on, I think their Navy's content to circle like sharks, waiting for us to bleed out."
"So the question is," one of the captains said, by far the eldest of those present, "how we force the Sporatons into a fight."
"And not just a fight," Nora said, "but a fight we can win. We've more liberty to maneuver than before, seeing as they won't assault the capital without a friendly army at the gates, but that's little hope when they know each time we tack and jibe."
"Why send only one?" A voice in the crowd asked. "If they know where we are, they could sail around us, get the wind up their arse, and run through the fleet like a knife. Hardly anything we could do about it."
"You're right," Nora said, "but far as I can tell, they won't do it for a simple reason: they're afraid."
Several scoffs sounded throughout the room. A force of sixteen magecraft, escorted by dozens of mundane ships, afraid of the paltry Tulian fleet? One ship had been savaging them for days now. Should the full Sporaton fleet be brought to bear, they would burn like the driest of kindling.
"You're all still thinking of this war too properly," Nora said, scanning the eyes of the crowd. "You're too invested, care too much about winning it. Least if you're tryna get in the heads of Admiral Scheer." She tapped the small table before her, prompting Ignite to sidle around the room's perimeter yet again, until he could see the miniature ship models arranged in neat rows. "You fight for your survival, captains. For the fate of a nation. Sporatos? They fight for nothing more than a King's orders. Some of them may be loyal sorts, fightin' for the King 'cause that's what they're there to do. But I doubt the bulk of them have a passion for licking bootheel that equals your lot's desire to keep your neck perched on your shoulders."
Admiral Nora pushed a selection of the models forward, those representing magecraft. "These ships? They're Sporatos' little nest egg. Took 'em years to build, gods know how much coin to maintain. They need 'em to fend off pirates, to protect their trade, and most important of all, to get the Carrions at least laughing at 'em behind their backs, rather than right in their faces. We took one from them already. That's a year or more 'till they have it back, if the King ever opens his purse to fund it." She pushed one model off the table, where it clattered to the floor. "We take out another, and that puts 'em back another year, or likely more, since the King won't be eager to sprinkle coin on a failure of an Admiral." She pushed a second model off the table. "We send a third down below, and things get complicated. They can't patrol their whole coast in force with just fourteen magecraft. Slots'll start opening up for pirates." She pushed a third model off the table, this time with a lazy flick of her finger, grinning lopsidedly. "Another? Their fourth magecraft lost to a bunch of peasant upstarts? Well, lads, it'll mean a lot to the King, but at that point I stop caring so much about what he's thinking. See, that'd put us all in the history books. A peasant rabble knockin' off that many magecraft? That'd be a new one. Never happened before, matter o'fact, or if it did, no record survives."
"That's why they're afraid," Nora said, standing, chest swelling. "Even if they wipe us off the seas, with four magecraft down, every Sporaton officer might as well hang up their hats. King never bothered with the coast much anyway, always lookin' to bite out more land, and after that? Four magecraft sent to the briny depths by peasant hands? He damn well might–"
The Admiral's speech, which had seemed to be building to some grand crescendo, cut off with an abruptness that was terribly awkward. She cocked her head, listening to something. Then she ignored them all as she shoved a fist into one of her coat pockets. She pulled out her communication crystal, something Ignite had seen her use on only a handful of occasions, and dropped it onto the table with the same manner of a woman splaying out a winning hand of cards.
"Could ye repeat that?" She asked.
"Yes, Admiral," the voice on the other end said. "The Governess has lifted all restrictions on Sporaton raids."
The air in the stateroom, already stuffy from so many pressed bodies, fell dead.
"All restrictions? Were those her exact words?" Nora asked, words dripping venomous honey.
"Er, no ma'am, but–"
"I'd like to hear her exact orders, if you would, lass. Word-for-word."
There was a shuffle of paper, then a sigh.
"Quoting the Governess speaking to Provisional Finance Minister Vesta at the recent emergency strategy meeting..." Another prolonged sigh. "'I don't give a shit, I'm letting Nora go hog-fucking-wild, and I don't care how many goddamn throats she cuts while she's at it. I want them dead, I want them all fucking dead, and I hope it hurts the whole goddamn time they're dying.'" The papers rustled again, presumably set aside. "Provisional Finance Minister Vesta then requested that I relay that information to you, Admiral, in more diplomatic terms."
"Thank you," Nora said, swiping the crystal back into her pocket. She turned a toothy grin to the assembled captains, cheeks twitching as if her muscles were straining to take the smile farther than her skin could stretch. "Well, then. Who here knows the Sporaton coast?"
The crowd of captains fled from their close press at the center of the room, moving instead to the many maps which decorated the stateroom's walls in the spaces between bookshelves. Tacks were torn out with haste, the central table dragged with an awful screech so that they would have somewhere large enough to lay out the charts. Fierce arguments began thereafter, quickly growing so loud that there was no doubt the entire flagship was privy to the debate. In all this chaos, Ignite sidled up to the Admiral, who was watching the display form afar with no small amusement.
"May I ask when you received that order for the first time, Admiral?" Ignite quietly requested.
She tried to hide her grin, knowing she'd been found out, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "This morning, o'course. Why do ye ask?"
Ignite sighed, stepping away without comment. Admiral Nora was a terrifying enough entity on her own. He dearly wished she had not become so enamored with the Champion's dramatics.
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Evie
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Evie woke before her eyes opened. They felt thick and leaden on her face, as if weights had been tied to her eyelashes. Her thoughts were muggy and distorted, moving fretfully from point to point, and it took her some time to work up the strength to crack open her eyelids.
She was in a wooden room of little decoration. There were no windows and very little to see by, the only light flickering out from a nearly-spent candle on a bedside table. She looked down, and found her first thought was wrong. There was quite a lot of decoration. It was all in the bed she lay on, a mattress which was stuffed to overflowing with feathers, comforters similarly composed, the thick blankets folded above her knees so she would not be overheated. The rest of her body was covered by airy silk sheets which were tucked up to her neck.
She tried to sit up, rustling beneath the sheets, and this prompted the room's other occupant to stir, drawing Evie's attention for the first time. She flicked her attention to the woman, taking in her details in an instant.
Evie's initial impression was that she had been captured by Sporatos. The woman which sat in a simple wicker chair was of a matronly build, her plump figure puffing out the proper daisy-yellow dress which covered her from neck to ankle. It had all the makings of the dresses Evie's nursemaids had worn, and the comparison had her hand flexing, readying to summon her rapier.
"Lay back down," the woman snapped, hardly glancing up from the book she had been reading.
Evie's hand froze. That woman was not Sporaton. No Sporaton-trained nursemaid would speak to a former member of nobility that way, slave or not.
"No," Evie said instead, abandoning the summoning of her rapier to instead shove herself upward. Pain flared across her body, which she ignored.
"I said, lay down," the woman repeated. She made no gesture, but a steamy glow rose from her hands.
Evie's muscles seized, then slumped. The strength ebbed from her slowly, involuntarily, so that she was lowering herself back into the bed.
"Dian," Evie rasped. Her throat was incredibly dry.
"You know me?" Dian's eyebrow raised. "We have not met before."
"I am aware of everyone my Master earned the ire of," Evie said. "You were a healer with the early army, until a conflict with Master over the priorities of wound treatment post-battle had her reassign you to civil duty in the capital." Evie recalled her dossier on the woman easily. "Since then, you have headed and operated one of the city's largest clinics by volume of wounded intake, yet one of its smallest by ratio of healer-to-patient. Your reputation amongst the populace is middling, as you've continued your philosophy of treating patients by order of arrival, rather than severity of injury."
Dian blinked at her. "You aren't one for respecting privacy, are you, dear?"
Evie did not dignify that with a response. She began to stretch out her muscles, twisting her limbs beneath the sheets, testing the extent of her weakness. It was no surprise that she shortly found her abdominal muscles were near impotent, such that all her strength would be required to sit upward without the aid of her arms.
"I see what you're doing, and it won't work," Dian said. She finally shut her book, scooting her wicker chair around to face Evie from the end of the bed. "I've been instructed to inform you that if you remain uncooperative in your recovery regimen, the Champion is willing to order you to behave."
Evie briefly stilled. "She's bluffing," she declared.
"That was not my impression, but perhaps you know her better than I."
Evie frowned. She wasn't sure if Master would actually follow through on the threat. It would be the first time Sara had given her an order that Evie did not explicitly desire, which would break months of precedent. However, Evie had never been so injured before, nor the stakes so high. She couldn't be sure.
"How did she convince you to personally tend to me?" Evie asked, putting off the decision of whether or not to force her way past Dian. "Of all the healers in the city, you are the least likely to agree to devote all your time to a single woman."
"Simply enough," Dian replied, contempt entering her voice. "She threatened to give me more patients than I would ever be able to aid if I did not. And on this count, I was certain it was no bluff."
Evie's frown deepened. That was a threat wholly uncharacteristic of Master.
"I see. And as Master was not present waiting for me to awake, I assume she isn't in the city?"
"I haven't the faintest clue," Dian replied. She nodded to the door, which was firmly closed. "I was locked in here shortly after you arrived, to ensure my compliance. We have subsequently been delivered our food through that flap at the bottom, like dogs."
"Meals? How long as it been?"
"Four days have I watched over you. This is the first time you have regained consciousness since the failed assassination attempt."
"Hurlish," Evie suddenly gasped, the word failed that preceded assassination filling her with a rush of relief and trepidation. "She was uninjured? I know Master survived, of course she did, but Hurlish?"
"Not a scratch, dear," Dian replied, fondness entering her voice for the first time. "I am sure she will be eager to see you, once she knows you are awake."
"Have you notified her of such?"
"No." Dian looked around the empty room. "I assume someone is on the way to do such, however. I'm not naive enough to think I've been allowed an iota of privacy since being entombed with you."
"The assassins, then," Evie said, addressing the hidden listeners behind the walls. "If any survived, bring them to me immediately."
"Two were captured alive," Dian said, "and I was instructed to inform you that the Champion has already conducted a thorough interrogation."
"I would still interview them myself. There will be questions Master may not have asked."
Dian's lips pursed. "They did not survive the interrogation."
"Oh."
Evie gently leaned back, allowing the pillows to support her head. Dully, nervously, she put a hand to her collar, focusing on the emotions which passed through it. She was still disoriented, weak, and it took more time than usual to reach through the bond. As she drew closer to Master's emotions, however, they began to writhe, bubbling up through the abyss which separated them. Evie's collar began to feel hot to the touch, and she felt her heart begin to beat in sympathy, a cool sweat breaking out across her skin.
Rage.
Evie gasped, snatching her hand away from her collar. Her fingers shook as if they had been burned. She clawed at the sheets, throwing them off her.
"What are you doing?" Dian demanded.
"I need to leave."
"You most certainly do not."
"I don't care what you have to say anymore," Evie snapped, rolling onto her side with a grunt. The pain of it brought tears to her eyes, but she kept moving. "I need to get back to her."
"She has given explicit orders to the contrary."
"I don't care."
Dian's hands began to glow. "Lay back down this instant. Do you know what she would do to me if you injured yourself further?"
"I care about that least of all." Evie reached the side of the bed, trying to swing her legs off. They refused to move, and so she resorted to grabbing her knees, tugging them around like lumps of wood.
"Lay down," Dian's voice boomed. Evie felt acid soaking into her muscles, dragging at her limbs, but she resisted, swaying in place, trying to move forward.
"Halt."
Evie's vision blurred, a great pressure collapsing in on her from every direction.
"Sleep."
Evie's upper lip curled in a fang-bearing snarl even as her eyelids began to flutter, drooping closed. Dian was standing now, holding out a hand above Evie. She summoned her rapier, which flashed into existence, only to slip from her fingers and clatter against the floor.
"Rest."
Evie, despite every fiber of her being fighting the notion, began to drift. In her last moments of consciousness, her eyes rolled upward, to stare deeply into the healer's.
If I awake again, she must pray I'm in chains.
Chapter 95: The Workers
Chapter Text
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Guiman, First Militiaman of Village Waevine
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Guiman stared down the river, adjusting his cap for perhaps the hundredth time. The sun was high over the fields, bouncing off the golden wheat in quite a pretty way. The river, too, was looking very pretty on that particular summer day, what with the way its steep banks and gentle curves twisted across the landscape, reflecting the summer-blue sky. The village behind him was also fairly picturesque, fit for a bard, what with the way its houses were lined up in neat rows, nestled between the hills which were all pierced through by the entrances to mines and the like. A nice place to live, Waevine was.
But prettiness didn't do much to keep his scalp from baking. His hair had disappeared with the appearance of his paunch, a lumpy bulge to his belly growing over the years that he'd never stopped being nervous over, though the healers always promised him it wasn't dangerous. Guiman didn't agree. A big firm gut lump, even while the rest of him was skinny, wasn't normal. The healers said nah, because when they tried to heal it, nothing happened, so that must mean it wasn't a problem. Guiman still didn't like it, still wanted it gone, but there it was. And today it was pissing him off more than ever. Between his lump straining against the threads of his ratty gambeson and his scalp sticking to the metal cap, he was having an awful time of things.
Beyond his personal wellbeing, though, he thought he'd done pretty well. When Lady Ibota had put him in charge of the militia way back when, on account of his few months spent marching circles with the army twenty years ago, he'd popped off what he thought was a good-enough salute with a "Yes m'lady!" and never thought of the thing again.
Way he figured it, Waevine was out of the way no matter which direction you reckoned. On the southern side of Sporatos, sure, but that didn't matter, not since old Tulian got wiped out by the gods, and a few miles inland, enough that they hadn't worried about raids in generations, ever since the Carrions got their act cleaned up. There wasn't anyone to cause trouble, beyond some local brigands or whatnot, and the Lady had proper soldiers for that. There wasn't nothing for a militiaman to do other than poke his head in the armory every few weeks, making sure bugs hadn't started eating up the spears they kept piled there. He'd not wanted the duty, but never bothered protesting, on account of the fact that he knew he'd never have to do anything.
Well, fat lot of shit that'd been. The biggest godsdamn ship he'd ever seen was puttering down the river, carried in by a bit of a sea breeze and some damn hard work. There were two ships in front of the first one, more normal sorts, with oars stuck out either side, churning the blue water brown as they towed the big bastard along.
All Guiman could do was count his lucky stars that the river Waevine had been built on used to be a lot more important than it was these days. Once upon a time it had lead to Hagos, a nice deep river running from a lake thereabouts, letting ships roll right on up to trade with the big city. Then the river had shifted, bending away from the city, and the city, as cities tended to do, failed to pick its britches up and follow along. Back in the day that had made Waevine a whole helluva lot poorer, something some of the craft-sorts in town still liked to moan about, but he'd never been the type to bitch over losing something he'd never known.
No, as far as he was concerned, the only good thing that came of Waevine's centuries-gone heyday were the towers, one of which he was stood up in at that very moment. A nice, proper tower, with another of its ilk on the other side of the river. They hadn't been used in gods knew how long, (other than a place for the local brats to sneak off and get busy in, Guiman's younger self included), but back when Waevine had mattered, the towers had mattered too. They were chain towers, with a big fat slot facing each other across the way. For a long time, these towers had done their part keeping pirates and raiders out of Hagos.
A chain was s'posed to be dropped out of one tower, hauled across the river by some poor bastards in a boat, and hauled up into the other tower. When the chain wasn't pulled taut on the big cranks that used to sit in either tower, it'd droop low in the water, stopping any ship from getting through. If some pillaging ship wanted to go farther in, they'd have to come up on shore and fight up through one tower or another, all the way to the the very top, and break the chain there. Wasn't any other way to reach it, 'cept to bump your ship up against it and start hacking away, which wouldn't work great, what with the way you'd be getting every archer in both towers personally pissed at you the whole time you were cutting.
Sadly, that chain was long gone. Iron wasn't easy to come by, and it'd probably been melted down before Guiman's father'd been born. Didn't matter too much though, at least for the moment, 'cause Lady Ibota was as paranoid as she was cheap. Years back, she'd bought a big old pile of the thickest rope Guiman had ever seen, tossing it in the town's armory with all the spears and bows and whatnot. He'd never even known what it was for, up until Old Tonnin had come riding up from the coast hollering his head off about ships coming up the river. While Guiman'd been recovering from his heart attack, some of the other folk had started chatting up a storm about running a chain across the river, and Guiman had finally put two and two together.
Which was what brought him to the here and now. Rope wasn't as good as chain, but it was still thick enough to stop a ship, and cutting it without mage-types would take a damn long time. So there he was, standing on the tower, tryin' to not pull his helmet off to scratch at his head, sucking in his lump as best he could without holding his breath. He had about forty or fifty of the militia up in the tower with him, and about that many on the other side. Just about all of them had bows in hand, and some of them even know how to shoot. The rope was dipping low in the water between the two towers, which he supposed is why the ships were still coming on. Probably hadn't seen it yet. Once they did, they'd have to realize that they'd be looking at taking the tower to cut it down, and then they'd bugger off back down the river to the coast. Pirates– and pirates was what he'd heard were taking over old Tulian– weren't interested in anything other than a cheap payday.
He said as much to the folk around him, mostly to give his lips something to do other than sucking great heaping mouthfuls of hot summer air.
"Then why're they doin' that over there, Guiman?" One of the girls asked, pointing an arrow.
Guiman squinted, then grunted as he saw a boat getting tossed over the side of the big ship. Folks were loading into it, dressed in shiny armor.
"Well shit," he said, because there wasn't much else to say. "They're really gonna try and take the tower?"
"Hope not," someone said.
Guiman was about to agree, until he remembered himself. He tried to muster up what his old sergeant had done, back when he'd been in the army for a those uneventful months of patrol.
"Won't matter if they do!" He declared, thumping his chest. "Solid stone, this tower. Been here as long as Waevine! That ain't gonna change today!"
The response to his glorious speech was a lot of side-eyed glances and the baker's girl muttering, "I guess." They continued milling about the tower rooftop.
Well screw them anyway, Guiman thought, leaning further over the edge. Not like what they think matters right now anyway.
The bastards outta the big ship were puttering their way to shore, so much gleaming metal packed into one boat that the thing looked ready to tip over every time the oars hit the water. He kinda hoped it would, macabre though it'd be. The river was deep– hence the big bastard ship fitting through– and they'd drown right quick.
No such luck there, either. Instead Guiman was treated to the very strange sight of pirates walking up on the riverbank toting, of all things, a white flag.
"Don't that mean they're surrendering?" Someone asked.
"Nah," Guiman said. "Just means they're tryna get us to roll over before they slit our bellies."
Though he was certain it wasn't the smartest thing to do, Guiman told the archers to hold their shots as the little cluster of pirates approached. Shooting arrows at a white flag, he knew from the stories, was the sort of thing that got you hanged by your own side when all was said and done. Not honorable, y'know? And then there was what happened if you lost the fight to the fellas with the white flag. Then things happened to you that didn't do much good to think about, not unless you were interested in pissing yourself.
"Hello there!" The leading man called from the group. He was still all dressed up in his armor, and way up in the tower, Guiman couldn't get a good look at him. "Do you respect the flag of parley?"
Guiman frowned. Was that a trick question? "Ain't shot you yet, have I?"
"Just so!" The man replied with a deep-throated chuckle. It sounded forced, and what's more, his accent sounded foreign. "I've come on behalf of Admiral Nora of the Tulian Navy, seeking to negotiate passage and a peaceable transfer of goods from your village to our stores. Am I speaking with the appropriate authority for this negotiation?"
For a foreigner, the man down there sure liked his fancy words. Guiman leaned back, looking at the rest of the militia with a question on his face. Was he the right person to be talking this out? What with Lady Ibota down south with the King's Army and her daughter barely out of diapers, there wasn't much authority of any sort left in Waevine.
The rest of the militia gave him a variety of I-don't-know-either expressions, so Guiman leaned back over the wall.
"For right now, that's me."
"Excellent!" The man replied, hitting the T too hard with the tip of his tongue. Folk born speaking another tongue never did get it right, no matter how long they'd been speaking the King's. "Then I will ask that you raise the rope and allow us to proceed to your town, sir."
"Huh." Guiman scratched at his chin, getting grime underneath his fingernail. "No?"
"Is that a question?"
"No." He shook his head, tin cap rattling. "No, no, it's not a question. Y'can't just sail up the river to go doin' whatever you want up there."
"We can," the man replied simply. "And it wouldn't be much trouble for us to do so. But if at all possible, we'd like to keep this exchange free of blood."
"You seen this tower?" Guiman patted the parapet next to him. "Solid. Stone. We blocked up the doors down there with more crap than you could ever shove through. So screw off, shove off, whatever. Or we'll start throwing arrows down at you like I oughta done in the first place!"
The man didn't say anything else that Guiman could hear. He turned to one of the other shiny folk and talked for a bit, until one of them reached into a bag and pulled out a flag on a stick. The fellow raised it so it fluttered in the wind, and just as he tried to figure out what was drawn on it, he heard the oddest sound.
Guiman didn't make the comparison quite so quick in the moment, but when he told the story later– again and again and again, every chance he got– he eventually settled on describing it a certain way. He said it was like someone had put a cooking pot over his head, then whacked the side with the biggest wooden mallet the world had ever seen. A big old metally boom, loud enough to make his ears hurt and his eyes feel funny. When he'd tell the story, that little image almost always got a good laugh, which was helpful for setting up when he told the next bit.
In a fit of pure contrarianism, the solid stone tower that had seen so many centuries pass it by picked that very moment to give up on having a second story. Leaning over the wall as he was, Guiman was given a prime view to a man-sized chunk of the wall politely removing itself from existence, folding inward like a door that someone had forgotten to put the hinges on. The hammer-on-pot sound was followed up by a bang-boom accompanying the wall's disappearing act, two quick smashes happening in near enough the same instant to sound like one big crash. The entire tower jumped beneath his feet, everyone stumbling as it twisted a few degrees to one side.
He looked up at the big bastard ship, which was suddenly half-covered in a puffy white cloud, looking for all the world like the sky had come down to pay it a personal visit.
"I have been instructed by the Admiral to inform you that a second demonstration is allowed, if you are not convinced," the man called. "The third, however, shall necessarily be both much greater in scale and slightly higher in aim. And I have also received a request from the man in charge of the weapon you just experienced to express his desire that you not surrender, so that he may train his crews." He lifted his visor, smiling in a frowning sort of way. "This second facet, it should be noted, is voiced only to honor a debt I owed the man, and I cannot honorably recommend you fulfill his request."
The stones beneath Guiman's feet were shaking. That or his boots were. He wasn't quite sure which, and he didn't think it mattered. Most of the militia were already running for the ladders, hollering about doom and gloom and pirate mages coming for their blood, which the fellow down below most certainly heard.
"I-I don't t-think we need a-another, ah, showing!" He called down. "What's say you and I have a little chat on some–" the tower twisted beneath him, it wasn't his boots "–some more solid ground?"
"I will see you shortly," the man replied.
Guiman ran for the ladder, taking some solace in the fact that he was the last to head down it. Passing the second story of the tower and being able to see east to west was damn unnerving, so he did his best not to look at it. He dropped the last couple steps to the bottom floor, wiping sweat from his brow.
Most folk were already busying themselves with clearing a way to the door they'd spent so long blocking up, tossing aside all the stuff they'd hauled up from the village to barricade it. Seeing one girl throw a nice-looking desk hard enough to crack its edge– and he knew that one belonged to Marn– he raised his voice.
"Hey! Hey, what do you think you're doing!" He started to shove his way through the crowd right about the time the tower let out a little rumble. Guiman stopped. He, with the rest of the militia, slowly turned their necks upward. He had to blink hard as dust floated down to land in his eyes. He then slowly looked back down at the folk that had frozen by the door. "What do you think you're doing!" He yelled again, finding his breath. "You think any of this shit matters? Go, go, get us the hells out of here!"
The rest of the militia joined the effort of clearing the way, steadily uncovering the big solid slab of iron-wrapped timber that protected the tower's inside from the outside. Guiman didn't think twice about throwing its latch open, stumbling out into the sunlight.
"Weapons down, if you'd please," the man said immediately. Guiman was still blinking the sunspots out of his eyes, turning circles as he tried to find out where the man was.
He eventually found him standing exactly where he had been before, the dozen or so armored folk having spread out into neat rows beside him. They all held bits of wood-wrapped metal on their shoulders, pointing the things at the militia like they were crossbows. After the big fuck-off cloud maker, Guiman didn't want to take any risks. He threw down his spear, and soon the others did so as well, along with their bows.
Looking at the man from up close now, he recognized he probably woulda done the same no matter what the pirates had at their shoulders. They were all dressed up in proper armor, metal through-and-through, and they all wore matching sets, which wasn't what Guiman would've expected from your usual pirates.
"Thank you," the man said, waving for his troops to lower the metal poles. They did so, but Guiman didn't miss the fact that they just pointed them at the ground, easy to raise again in an instant. "Now, according to our charts, this is the village of Waevine, yes?"
"It is," Guiman cautiously replied. He didn't want to tell a robber much of anything useful, but he also didn't want to see what the fellow would do if he sniffed out a lie.
"And you are a mining town, yes? Utilize barges to float your ore down the river, so that it may refined and sold at the port?"
"Yeah...?"
"Excellent. We will require all of it."
Guiman blinked stupidly.
"What?"
"We will be commandeering all of it."
Guiman turned around, looking at the village he'd spent his whole life in.
"The whole village? W-we can't do that." Guiman swallowed hard, trying to muster up the courage to say he'd rather die than see the whole village clapped in irons. It was true, but that didn't make it easy to say.
It was the man's turn to ask a confused, "What?" Then he paused, realizing his mistake, after which he forced out another fake laugh. "No sir, not your entire village. All of your ore, your raw iron. It will be loaded onto our ships."
Guiman didn't think he was playing a game, but what with the way the confusion ball kept getting tossed back and forth between them, he wasn't sure.
"Y'want our iron?"
"As I said."
"Just... raw iron?"
"Unrefined, yes."
"I mean... not, say, even the bits we've smelted up into swords? Or tools?"
"Guiman!" One of the militia snapped, affronted that he would be trying to offer this pirate more than he'd demanded. But how could he not? The demands didn't make sense, and Guiman had spent long enough around nobles to know better than to start on orders that he didn't understand, 'cause that meant he was liable to do 'em wrong, and doing 'em wrong was liable to get him dead.
"No sir," the man replied. "Admiral Nora was rather specific in her instructions that no cargo space was to be wasted on other products." He briefly glanced at the sun, and lifted his visor. For the first time, Guiman realized the fellow had skin the color of tar, smooth as a baby. That was damn weird. "We will begin shortly. Return to your village and begin preparing crews to help with the loading process."
"That's... uh... Alright." If the man wasn't really going to take more than iron, he'd gladly help him on his way. Wasn't cheap to lose, but sure beat having to rebuild half the damn village. "Y'want us to cut down the rope, or...?"
"That will not be necessary. Are all your militia removed from the tower?"
Guiman did a quick headcount before answering. "They are."
"Dal, the same flag, please."
The fellow to the man's right raised a flag, and it wasn't but two seconds later that another cooking-pot-mallet boom thumped out of the big bastard ship, hitting the tower again. This time Guiman thought he saw something flying through the air, black and round, but he wasn't sure if he was imagining things.
Stone chips rained down on the militia as the leftmost corner of the second story folded inward, taking with it everything else. The chain tower, which'd stood for more years than Guiman could count, started falling over like a drunkard that had taken a blow to the head. It hit the steep bank with an awful clatter, tumbling over itself in an avalanche that ended in a great big splash, stone bricks piling up in the river.
The pirate man frowned. "Apologies, sir. I'd hoped that we'd not pollute your waterway. If the debris proves difficult to remove, I at least hope it will not inhibit the passage of your barges in the future."
Guiman let out a little huh, which was all he could offer in response to something as bizarre as all that. He started to wonder, for the very first time, if these folk were really pirates at all. The fellow to the man's right leaned over, whispering in his ear.
"Oh, yes. Thank you, Dal. In addition, sir, are there any members of the nobility presiding over your village?"
"Uh." Guiman was at least glad he didn't say 'what' again. "Yes, properly speaking, but not really, not at the moment. Lady Itoba's down south, fighting the..." Guiman trailed off, realizing this man had claimed he was from Tulian. Probably best not to call him a pirate right to his face. "Y'know. Fighting down south."
"I see. And she left no one of noble birth in her stead?"
"Just her daughter, sir."
"A woman of age?"
"No sir. Just turned two, she did. There's a few stewards taking care of her and all that, but they're all hired sorts from the capital, not proper nobles. There's only Sir Suen, nephew of Baron Suen, and he mostly just reads off what Lady Itoba says to do in letters. Barely in charge, he is."
"He will do. I assume this Sir Suen has taken care of the proper guard, defending the Lady's estate while he sent your militia to delay our forces?"
"Er. Yes, just about." Guiman scratched the back of his head nervously. "Fat lot of good we did, though."
A flash of sympathy passed over the not-pirate's inky face, and his voice lowered a touch. "If any of authority question your prompt surrender, explain that this conversation we are having was your attempt to delay our passage, a ploy you chose after we destroyed the tower. It is technically working, after all."
Guiman blinked. Had the man just given him advice on how to get out of hot water? And good advice, at that? If so, the man didn't think anything of it, because he kept talking.
"Now, when you return to your village to begin preparations, inform this Sir Suen of the following. Are you literate?" Guiman shook his head. "Well then, best remember well."
After a few minutes more of talking, Guiman walked away in a bit of a daze, rubbing his stubble with both hands. He didn't stop being in a daze all the way down the road to the village, and he still hadn't shaken it while he told all the folk hiding in their homes about what had happened and what they needed to do. In fact, he barely noticed himself walking up to Lady Itoba's walled manor to holler over the walls at the guard, explaining all the things that the not-pirate had wanted him to explain. He only snapped back into reality an hour or so later, when the gleaming Tulian-folk marched up to the Lady's manor and pulled to a stop about a hundred yards or so away, looking all nice and shiny in their armor as they waited for Sir Suen to show himself.
"Is the noble known as Sir Suen, nephew of Baron Suen, present?" The man called, speaking into a cone that made his voice a whole lot louder.
After a moment, Guiman, who was watching from the sidelines with half the village beside him, saw Sir Suen poke his head up over the wall.
The manor was surrounded by a ten foot ring of mortar-packed stones, hardly a castle, but it was a decent enough little fort for most of Waevine's needs. Guiman himself had sheltered in it a number of times, when bandits or fires came a-calling. After seeing what had happened to the tower, though, he didn't think it much more protection than kindling, though he'd not gotten the chance to tell Sir Suen or his ilk that before being told to screw off. Guiman didn't think the big bastard ship could see the manor from the river, but he didn't know much about magery, and for once was glad he was on the wrong side of the walls.
Sir Suen himself poked over the wall in response to the not-pirate's call. He was barely more than a boy, not yet out of his teens, and it showed in how fresh-faced and young he looked. He wore some sort of armor with the visor lifted, not proper Knight's armor, but whatever his uncle had been to afford. Even his show of putting up a fierce scowl didn't help him look any older, and that was made worse by the way his voice cracked as he yelled back at the not-pirate.
"I am he!" The young noble cried shrilly. "And I have in my employ a force of thirty well-trained guards, all of whom are prepared to defend the lands and rightful possessions of fine Lady Itoba to the last!"
"That's fine," the man replied. "I come only to deliver a message from the Governess of Tulian."
"And that is?"
The not-pirate gestured to one of the soldiers beside him, a man holding one of the wood-and-metal poles. The fellow raised it, squinting an eye. Sir Suen flinched slightly, recognizing it as some type of weapon or another, but was brave enough to hold his ground. Guiman imagined that the boy was thinking that a hundred yards was well beyond the range any mere rabble could be expected to shoot, so it was best to keep up appearances, aiming for a knighthood as he was.
That was probably the last thought the boy ever had, before his face caved in.
There was a cry of shock and dismay from the assembled villagers, greatest from those that hadn't seen the earlier display on the river. Guiman only shook his head sadly. Poor fool had been too brave for his own good.
The guard belatedly leapt into action, moving to charge out of the manor in vengeance for their fallen commander. As the gates began to swing open, however, and the rest of the pirates raised the weapons to their shoulders again, he could see a wave of recognition go through the guards:
Why bother?
Sir Suen was dead. Lady Itoba was hundreds of miles away, and her daughter would remember nothing of the day. The pirates weren't even asking for anything more than raw iron, which stuffed the hills full all around them.
Slowly, perhaps with a tinge of shame, the gate swung shut once more. The pirate whistled and made a gesture, causing his fellows to turn around, heading back for the river.
"Well," Guiman said to the rest of the villagers, cinching up his belt. "Best go help them folks load up their iron, huh?"
The rest of the villagers, perhaps in a state of minor shock, began to follow Guiman in dead silence.
Notes:
Man, this was supposed to be way shorter, but I just really enjoyed writing it, so it ended up 4k+ words. Guiman's a funny guy, I really like him. Also, my original estimate of finishing this book in June is steadily looking more and more delusional, in retrospect. Guess that's good for y'all, it means there's more to read!
Also, yes, chain towers were a real thing, and they were highly effective. Of course the advent of gunpowder changed how they were made, but even post-cannon, they were surprisingly effective, if increasingly expensive. Towers became full forts, bristling with cannons, making it very difficult for an enemy ship to approach without getting blasted to pieces.
Chapter 96: Rose Tattoo
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Evie
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She had not, in the end, escaped her well-intended imprisonment. The second time she had awoken, Dian had been predictably incapable of preventing her from rising, but she had unfortunately (or fortunately, dependent on one's perspective) anticipated this. Hurlish was waiting at Evie's bedside, and that was one woman Evie had no hope of overpowering.
The orc smith may not have had Master's magical control over her, but her word was no less absolute. Evie had been instructed to rest, and rest she had. There'd been no other choice. Hurlish's strength was inexorable, and unlike Dian, Evie could not fight back. She'd been forced into the bed, recalcitrant, but impotent to change her fate.
Yet while her body may have needed further mending, she was not content to simply lay about. There was far too much to be done, and a great deal of it could be achieved from her bed. She had Vesta's taxation figures to review, reports from the barely-literate southern militias to decipher, as well as Ignite's accounts of the ongoing naval efforts. This last report should have been from Nora, but Evie had long since abandoned any expectation of an effective report from the woman. For one who literally never slept, she seemed to quite frequently claim she lacked the requisite time to send off a proper record of her efforts.
In short order after her awakening Evie found herself encircled by a nest of paperwork, sheets of parchment and bottles of ink laid precariously across her voluminous bed. She buried herself in this work immediately, working her way through weeks and months of once-delegated tasks, sending off a torrent of corrective orders to those who had previously been too insignificant to warrant her notice. The chaotic, fractured nature of Tulian created an incredibly inefficient form of governance. It was an ongoing problem, one that had worsened considerably since the beginning of the war, as she and Master were the only ones with the wide range of information required to manage the many facets of reassembling a city-state. Master's abject refusal to install any overall leader in her stead created a multitude of bickering factions, all nipping at one another's heels as they tried to accumulate what resources they could across the teetering economy.
She was particularly glad for this work, because it allowed her to distract herself from far more uncomfortable realities. She had not spoken to Master since she awoke. Only when she had chased after the Night's Eye scouts had Evie gone so long without hearing her voice, not willingly. It disconcerted her greatly, filling her gut with a nauseating, rolling sensation, as if she were seasick.
But she persisted in this isolation throughout the day. She was grievously injured. She had nearly lost her life. Recovering from a gaping stomach wound, even with the regular attendance of a healer, was a time-consuming process. She knew, logically speaking, that resting and recovering was the only logical path forward for her. But regrettably, she was not a purely logical creature. Evie could feel Master's anger through her collar, was intensely aware that she was intent on joining battle with the enemy. She knew Master was right for wishing her to remain in bed in the interim, and she also knew that should she learn anything of Master's struggles, she would be compelled to return to her side immediately. She did not know if Master was bluffing with her claim that she would use the collar to order Evie to rest. She did not want to know if it was not. She knew Master would hardly forgive herself for such a thing, and frankly, Evie wasn't sure how she would react to be on the receiving end of such a command. Mere months ago she would have thought nothing of it, perhaps even lauded Master for asserting herself, but that Evie no longer existed. She had changed, and she was not sure how.
Evie felt her hand drifting to her collar for the fifth time in as many hours, fingertips shaking. She forcefully pulled her hand away. She looked to Hurlish to distract herself.
"Is the revolver in good condition?" She asked, mastering her voice.
"Looks like it," Hurlish said. The revolver that had saved Master's life was, in Hurlish's estimation, the greatest weapon to have yet existed in this world. The smith was nearly as proud of it as she was their own child, and ever since she had joined Evie in the saferoom, she had been meticulously disassembling and reassembling it. "I don't see any signs of corrosion or rust. Cylinder rotates well, no signs of wear in the metal."
"It's blacksteel, Hurlish," Evie said. "Surely you needn't worry about such maintenance."
"How do you know?" Hurlish asked, clicking the cylinder to its next position, squinting at the depths of the firing chamber. "Blackpowder's corrosive as shit. You've seen what it did to the guns people didn't clean right."
"A blacksteel blade can sit on the ocean floor for a century and be retrieved in pristine condition. Surely the rigors of blackpowder are nothing next to such a trial."
"Maybe." Hurlish clicked the gun's cylinder, this time holding up a glowing crystal so she could see further within. "But your life's riding on this thing, and it's the second one I've ever made. I'm not going to be risking your life on a 'probably,' no matter what you say."
"Mm," Evie hummed. She looked back at the papers for a moment, trying to focus. The words and figures seemed to twist and blur, ink running down the pages into indecipherable swirls. She had done nothing but read for thirteen continuous hours. She rubbed her eyes, looking back up at Hurlish.
"Sara's not going to retreat, is she?"
Hurlish looked at Evie with a kindly expression.
"No. I mean, if you really make her, she will. But she's not going to give up easy."
Evie pursed her lips, looking across the field of papers. Over the past few days she had sent off dozens, perhaps hundreds of missives. She had packaged weapons from Hurlish's personal collection, sending them via courier to those she thought might wield them best. She had thought and rethought certain orders, running them over and over again, sometimes for hours, before finally putting the letter into ink and sending it off. That was not the behavior of a woman who expected to be abandoning the city the moment they had recovered from their wounds.
"...tell Sara I will listen to her judgement," Evie said.
Hurlish straightened. "You sure?"
"I am." Evie felt her teeth grind, but she didn't relent. "Yes. I'm sure. The cult came for us, Hurlish. Not Vesta. Not Nora. Us. Tulian is not their target. We are. And they will not abandon their pursuit after a single failed attempt. I am an effective guard for Master, for you, but I am only one woman. And right now, she is surrounded by an army." Evie set her pen down, taking slow, measured breaths. "I do not think she can outwit Graf. I think we will lose. But our enemy is secretive, hidden. At this time I can, ironically, think of no safer place for Master than at the head of an army, even one at war. So yes. She has my blessing to continue the fight. I will join her as soon as I am able."
Hurlish gave Evie a dubious look. "I mean, if you're sure..."
"I am."
"Alright." Hurlish stood, chair creaking in relief as she relieved it of her bulk. She walked up to Evie, holding out the revolver and its holster. "You going to stay here if I leave? Because if we're going to fight this thing out to the end, I've got a lot of shit to do."
Evie flicked her eyes over to Dian, who was watching with interest from the corner. She was reluctant to admit it in front of the infuriating healer, but she nodded. "I promise I will rest."
"Good." Hurlish dropped the gun onto the bed, putting her hands in her pockets. "I'm gonna go back to the forge. I don't know how long Sara's going to wait, but it won't be long." She glanced at Dian. "If she gives you any trouble, you let me know."
"If I'm alive to report it," the woman grumbled. Realizing what she'd said, she patted her cheeks, recovering an amount of her decorum. She nodded primly at Hurlish. "I certainly will, of course."
"Good. Talk to y'all later."
"Goodbye, Hurlish."
"See ya, Kitty," Hurlish replied, bending over to give Evie a quick kiss atop her head. "I'll sleep here tonight, anyway. Won't be gone all that long."
"Be careful."
"I will."
Hurlish walked out of the saferoom's door, stooping slightly as she left. Evie lay back in her bed, exhaustion suddenly filling her. She did not know what exactly she had done, but it felt monuments. A moment in time that could not be undone. Their course had been selected, and knowing Master, not even the intervention of the gods would be capable of dissuading her.
Evie let her eyes fall closed, sleep taking her.
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Lieutenant Shale
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Shale's fingers ached. She had been walking through the jungle for hours now, and she had spent the entire time clutching her rifle as tightly as she was able. She had no choice. It seemed that the plants themselves were jealous of her weapon, vines constantly looping around the barrel, branches smacking against the metal, thorns leaving long scratches in the wooden stock as she shoved her way through the undergrowth.
The sun had risen hours ago, but that didn't seem to matter to the jungle. The uppermost canopy was dense, and only grew denser with each descending layer, all manners of plant life competing for what little light leaked past their elders. The greenery lowest to the ground, where Shale was trudging through, often had broad, wavy leafs, sporting razor edges and thin dagger-like needles that conspired to draw blood with every step. The roots of the towering trees rose and fell like frozen waves from the damp soil, their knobby edges impossible to see, constantly stumbling her. She'd been struck across the face with branches so many times that she was spending half her time walking with her eyes closed, swinging her shortsword blindly. It hardly mattered. The jungle was so thick that she always struck something.
Perhaps the reason she'd had her eyes closed was standing beside her. She'd volunteered to travel with the 1st Combat Engineers, her old command, because she as incensed as anyone in Tulian after the failed assassination. But she hadn't expected what the Champion would be like.
The steel-clad woman stomped mindlessly through the brush, vines and branches alike snapping with pistol cracks as she churned endlessly forward. Since the 1st Combat Engineers had left the city, Sara hadn't so much as lifted her faceplate. The only glimpse of the woman anyone had gotten was through the slits of her visor, her cold eyes always narrowed. Her melodious voice had been replaced with a flat monotone, her orders given without emotion. The smoke that rose from her Champion's Runes had ebbed and flowed, sometimes heavier, sometimes lighter, but never truly stopped, a floating red mist marking her path as she swept through the forest.
When the Champion had asked for volunteers to take rifles out into the forest, near the whole army had stepped forward, herself included. Sara had taken a thousand of them, equipped them with as many rifles as the smiths had been able to bore out on short notice, and stalked out into the night. They'd been angry and proud, ready to do their duty.
Now, Shale knew, many were questioning themselves. The Champion wasn't herself. She was erratic, furious, and above all else, silent. That wasn't natural. The Champion of Amarat was many things, but quiet wasn't one of them. She didn't chat with the troops as she walked, didn't share any amusing anecdotes about her own time as a laborer to lighten their load. She just stomped forward, branches and vines tugging futilely against her armor until they snapped, and on rare occasions she would draw her sword, cutting through the thickest of limbs blocking her path.
And all the while, that smoke. Red and turbulent, never ending. Anyone who caught a glance through the woman's visor saw it swirling there, mist rolling off her skin, eyes glowing the same shade. It seemed appropriate for the jungle. Shale had learned the same lessons as every child of Tulian. Most creatures cloaked themselves in greens, blacks, and browns, camouflaging themselves in the jungle foliage. Those that didn't, that dared to sport bright colors on their back, did so for a reason. They were to be avoided at any cost.
And so, as she walked beside the increasingly silent Champion, she felt it fell to her to keep the troops in order. She spoke to the lieutenants in private, conciliatory tones, warning them that though the Champion was clearly in a rage, she was no less a General than she had been before. Her orders were sound, her objectives clear, and it was their duty to see them through, even if they didn't understand them. The sergeants she approached with liquor and wine, a smudged smile on her face, playfully jabbing them in the ribs as she handed out cups. If they'd had a piece like the Steward of Tulian in their beds, she asked them, only for some trumped-up royalists to try and snatch her away, how would they react? Herself, she wouldn't have done well. Hells, she might've been mad enough to stomp through the forest with a gun on her shoulder, daring any royal pricks to come and try it again. They'd laugh and take her booze with a slightly warmer smile, reassured that humor hadn't fled the army entirely.
The common troops, funnily enough, were the hardest of the lot to convince. After all, they're the ones Sara worked the hardest to prove herself to. They felt the loss of the genial Champion the hardest, missed her casual conversation and utter disregard for decorum. For them, when they came to Shale and managed to work up the courage to ask after Sara, she'd not had much to offer them. Just a firm grip on the shoulder and her reassurance that the woman would, eventually, snap out of it. And if they needed to kill some Sporaton bastards to help her out of it, all the better for it. Not like they'd been planning to do anything else.
And in between those conversations, she'd join the effort to hack a path through the undergrowth. It took hours to travel even a single mile through the thicket, the entire line of soldiers having to halt each time one of them started struggling through a particularly difficult patch. It slowed their progress down to a crawl, but they didn't have another choice. In the jungle, with voices stifled by the endless vines and shouts overwhelmed by the hoots and cries of unseen creatures, a hundred yards was as good as a thousand. One turn around a tree, one jaunt to take a leak out of sight of your fellow soldier, and you were gone. The greenery swallowed people as eagerly as it did sound and light, and it didn't give them back without a fight.
When they'd first waded into the forest, it had been with one thousand and eleven soldiers. Now they were down to eight hundred and thirty two. Not a single loss had been witnessed. No arrow had found an unlucky soldier, no tiger had let out a bestial roar as it dragged some poor fool off into the undergrowth. Yet every time they returned to their camp, it was with fewer soldiers.
They'd found corpses, however. Some intact, others not. Shale had seen some herself. She'd thought she caught one soldier sleeping, curled comfortably at the base of a tree. When she'd booted their shoulder, however, the woman had slowly rolled over, skin falling apart. Her entire body had been rendered porous, circular holes as small as a needle or thick as a fist opening up across her skin with a sickening squelch. There'd been no blood left in her to fall from the gaping wounds. Then there had been the reports of one soldier whose behavior had drawn the concern of his fellows, as he'd started stumbling over flat ground, mumbling incoherently. By the time Shale had brought a healer over, the man had started violently seizing, muscles and tendons clenching so tightly that she'd heard his bones snapping, his back contorting to inhuman angles, so many vessels bursting in his eyes that they were consumed by a deep red. The healer had taken one look at the man, drawn their crossbow, and put a bolt through his head. The soldier's friends had thanked them.
When they finally stumbled back to camp eight hours after they had left, the Champion was the first to enter the clearing. Shale was right behind her. She watched the woman draw herself up in her armor, take a deep breath, and then slowly exhale, turning her head to survey the camp.
The first day after they had left, they'd spent countless hours cutting a single precious circle out of the foliage. A place for them to camp deep in the jungle, where the Sporatons couldn't follow. The tents were pressed post to post, the alleys between them so narrow one had to turn aside to let another pass. The foliage they'd cut had been piled up haphazardly to form a palisade wall, trunks of all sizes and variety lashed together with vines, whittled spikes decorating the entire length. Shale and the rest of the riflemen began filtering through the single gap that had been left in the defenses, bunching up as hundreds of soldiers tried to press their way through a hole in the wall five feet wide.
The moment Shale entered the camp, she knew something was wrong. She stopped, sniffing the air. A moment later, Sara stopped too, turning to look down at her.
"What?" The Champion asked.
"Blackpowder," Shale responded. "Lots of it. They fired the cannon while we were gone."
"Something tried to get in."
"That's what I figure. I'll interview the cannoneers and report to you."
Sara grunted, moving off towards her tent, unslinging her massive gun as she went. Shale felt some relief from the fact that she'd remained so dedicated to cleaning the thing after every fight. Meant she wasn't totally gone.
She hurried to the center of the camp, where the single bronze Napoleon they'd hauled through the jungle sat. They'd had to dismount it, placing the twelve hundred pound beast on a sled, its disassembled carriage lashed tightly around it. It had taken a team of twenty soldiers to pull the thing over every lump and bump, with twenty more rotating out on clearing duty ahead of it, hacking a path through the forest that was smooth enough for the sled to not get endlessly caught. The bitching from the assigned troops had been endless, but Shale thought it was worth it. She knew what lurked in the jungle, and she didn't want to face them with anything less than twelve pounds of supersonic iron.
As she approached, the six cannoneers snapped off a set of synchronized salutes, pride practically oozing from their every pore. They were all shirtless, soaked to the bone in sweat, enough powder grime smeared across their skin that the men among them could've been mistaken for Ignite.
"Ma'am!" The lead cannoneer barked, holding his salute.
Shale returned the salute, then waved the man down. "At ease," she said, looking at the cannon. It was spotless, freshly cleaned. "I take it you had some trouble while we were gone?"
"Might've been trouble, if it weren't for Popper here," he said, patting the cannon fondly. The crews of the cannons had taken to giving them names, growing loyal to the particular weapon they served on, some so attached they refused being transferred to a different crew. "She let off four shots as quick as could be, saved us all with hardly a sweat."
"From what, soldier?"
"Can't say what it was," the man said, directing Shale's attention a section of the wall. "Only that it was big, hungry, and not a fan of twelve pounders."
Thanks to the haphazard nature of the palisade, Shale hadn't noticed the damage until the cannoneer pointed it out to her. Now that she was looking, she saw a deep dip in the wall where the top halves of logs had snapped off, long trails of of drying blood and gibbets of viscera dangling from the shattered wood. The damage was fifteen feet wide or so, and the spray of blackening blood covered twice that distance, thick globs flung so far as to coat nearby tents.
"What'd it look like?" Shale asked. She'd seen few jungle beasts in her lifetime, and none had been the same.
"Mighty fucked up when we were done with it," one of the other cannoneers happily declared, her expression beaming. She, like the rest of the cannoneers, went without a shirt, and it took a bit of effort for Shale to maintain eye contact. Sara had said that if the men were allowed to go without shirts in camp, so were the women, a perfectly reasonable command that Shale nonetheless could have done without. "Started off looking like a snake with big fat legs," she continued. "Long snout like a viper and all that, but by the time it ran off its nose was as good as turned inside out. Knocked out both its big fangs with the first shot, and after the next few I'd be surprised if it even had a single tooth left in that maw."
"Did it ever get over the wall?"
"No ma'am," the lead cannoneer said, taking back control of the conversation from his over-excited juniors. "Tried to climb over several times, but its legs were short– relative to its body at least, they were ten feet from shoulder to toe I'd wager– and it couldn't scramble over before we got reloaded. Four times it tried to get in, and four shots we sent its way. Last I saw, the beast was scrambling back into the forest like a whining pup."
Shale looked at the forest beyond the gap in the wall. It was as uncompromisingly opaque as the rest, not a gap wide enough to fit a single human through.
"How?" Shale asked simply. "I don't see any trail."
"Can't say, ma'am," the cannoneer shrugged. "We were wondering about that ourselves. Shouldn't have been able to squeeze a toe through the trees, yet it wandered off easy as could be. Slipped on through like it was nothing. Didn't get thinner, trees didn't get farther apart, but it fit all the same."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Sure doesn't, ma'am," the cannoneer nodded.
" Fucking jungle," she grumbled.
"Fucking jungle," the cannoneer sagely agreed.
There was a brief pause, the cannoneers holding their at-ease position before her. She had nothing else to say, so she nodded authoritatively. "Well then. Good work. I'll inform the General."
"Thank you, ma'am."
Before Shale could walk off, she paused. The cannoneer was shifting in place, looking awkward.
"Something the matter?" She asked.
"Ah, not properly," he said. "Just... we were wondering, ma'am, what the General's plans are. We've been in the jungle for a few days and all, and we've made a few raids and gotten away easy enough, but it gets closer each time, so... we were wondering, was all. What's happening next."
Shale didn't let her real emotion show. "I know you're used to the general telling you all exactly what's coming next, but things've changed. After the assassination attempt, she's decided to be a bit quieter about those things. I'm sure she'll let the army know as soon as she can."
"O'course, ma'am," the cannoneer said, bobbing his head. "We'll look forward to it."
"Good. Back to cleaning, then."
The cannoneer looked at Popper, their 12-pounder Napoleon. It was glistening in the sun, golden bronze shining bright enough to blind. Shale held his eyes, uncompromising. "Yes ma'am," he sighed, pulling a rag from his waistband.
Shale walked away as the crew took to the task of cleaning their spotless cannon, careful to keep her expression under control as she marched towards the Champion's tent.
As always with Sara, her tent was no different from any of the other soldier's. It was simple white canvas held up by wooden poles, nothing to signify that it belonged to the leader of a nation. Shale reached up and rapped her knuckles against one of the tent poles, clearing her throat.
"Come in," Sara grunted. Shale took a deep, silent breath, then flipped open the flap and crouched in.
The tent was choked with the scent of sulfur. The Champion of Amarat was covered head to toe in her thick-slabbed armor, sitting crosslegged on the floor with her massive gun on her lap. It was broken open, a plethora of cleaning tools scattered on the floor around her. She was running a swab down the barrel, rinsing the soaked rag in a bucket filled with swirling blackpowder detritus. Her visor was still lowered, and Shale couldn't tell if Sara glanced up as she entered.
"I heard," Sara said. "Camp was attacked by something while we were gone."
"No casualties," Shale said.
"Good."
Silence reigned for far too long. Shale was half-crouched in the low tent, watching the Champion methodically clean her weapon.
"Ask it," Sara said.
Shale swallowed. "What are we doing next?" She gingerly lowered herself to the tent floor, sitting crosslegged opposite Sara. It felt like she'd entered the cage of a half-starved lion. "The troops know something's not right. We've been attacking the enemy, but we haven't done much of consequence. They can tell that. And every time we meet them, they're a bit better prepared, get a bit closer to catching us. The soldiers are dropping like flies in the forest, Sara. It hasn't been five full days. If we spend another week like this, there won't be anyone left."
"I don't know."
"What?"
"I don't know what we're going to do next." Sara set her swab aside, grabbing a canteen filled with oil. She dabbed it onto a clean rag, and began to wipe her gun down. She didn't look up as she spoke. "We're fucked. Every plan I had involved getting the Sporatons to attack the city's defenses. But Graf's not taking the bait. We were going to win. There were two reasons for it. Our defenses, and our training."
Sara pulled the hammer back, dabbing oil down into the gap. She worked the mechanism back and forth, ensuring it was well lubricated. "We were always going to be outnumbered, but we're better fighters. Between the armor, training, city walls, and now the muskets, I was betting our troops could kill five for every one we lost. That'd be enough to break them. But now Graf's training the troops, and that means we're fucked. We could run out of the city and attack him, but we'd be outnumbered and surrounded in a heartbeat. Even if we're better fighters, we'd get dragged under by sheer numbers. If we stay behind our defenses, though, we'll be giving him all the time in the world to prepare. He'll come at us with troops as skilled as ours, with four times our numbers. That'll be that."
"So why are we out here?" Shale asked, careful to keep her voice low. "Why march out into the forest? Why keep attacking?"
"Because I fucked up," Sara said with a shrug. The casualness of the motion didn't match the vitriolic self-hatred lacing each word. "I thought the cult was secondary. I didn't care about them. I thought they were just riled up over some petty god bullshit I didn't care about. Sure, Amarat cared, but I don't give a shit. I'm here to help people, not gods. If Amarat's so powerful, she can deal with that shit herself. I'm here to make a place worth living in, not to be some divinity's glorified errand runner."
As the Champion of Amarat blasphemed against her patron, Shale resisted the urge to retreat. She didn't want to get end up as collateral damage if Amarat suddenly decided to obliterate Sara from the face of the planet.
"Turns out, I was wrong," Sara said, oblivious to the danger of her words. "The cult bullshit isn't some god's petty worshipers working to their whims. Well, they are, but not just that. They're here to fuck me over in particular. And Evie got hurt because of it." Sara finished wiping her gun down, shutting it with a sharp click-click. "So now I want to kill them."
"The cultists? Or the nobles?"
"I'm not picky." Sara set the gun aside, leaning it up against a trunk. She turned back to Shale with a deep sigh, and, for the first time in days, lifted her visor. Shale blinked. Sara's face was shadowed by dark rings, whites of her eyes run across with red lines. The enchanting beauty that defined the Champion of Amarat was still there, but it was faded and pallid. She looked deeply, profoundly tired.
"I want to kill them all," Sara said in a flat monotone. "The cultists. The nobles. Hell, at this point I've stopped caring about killing the conscripts. They're fighting for an awful cause, in the end. So yeah. All of them. Most never deserved to live, and now they're coming for the people I care about, just because I care about them. That's not something I'm going to allow." She tugged at her gauntlets, working her fingers around in the cloth-padded metal. "But I don't know how to get to them. They're surrounded by an enemy I can't beat. Hell, I'm not sure if I can kill them, not even if I ended up right in front of them. One of them survived a fight with Selliana. That shouldn't happen. So what the hell chance do I have?"
Sara let out a long breath, rubbing her eyes. "And should I even be doing that? They're helping Tulian's enemies. But I'd be lying if I said I was gunning for them because of that. It's personal, pure and simple. I ordered the 1st Combat Engineers out here because I wanted to kill nobles. I justified it, of course, I always do. If I can't beat Graf in the open field, I thought I could take the floor out from under him. Nobles are cowards. They think they're warriors, but they're not. Take away their armor and their horses, and they're just scared, spoiled children, and they'll break as easy as any so-called peasant rabble. But it's not working. Graf's protecting them too well. It's like he can read my fucking mind. Every time we attack, he's there, and every time he's there, he's just a little bit closer. I'm the one on the offensive, but I can feel the noose he's slipping around my neck, and I can't do a goddamn thing about it. And now there's two hundred people dead in this jungle, all because of my vendetta. How the hell do I justify that?"
Shale waited a moment, unsure if there was more the woman was going to say. Her entire speech had been spoken haltingly, starting and stopping as thoughts came to her. Earlier Shale had been wondering how Sara had managed to sleep in her armor. Now she was wondering if the woman had slept at all.
"So that's it, then?" Shale asked, speaking in a whisper. "We've lost the war?"
Sara rubbed her eyes yet again. "Evie thinks so. And she's not exactly in the habit of being wrong about that sort of thing."
"So why haven't we given up?" Shale asked. "If we surrender, you might be able to get a good deal. Keep some of the laws you made, maybe argue over who gets put in charge. It would be better than nothing."
Sara scoffed. "There's no negotiating with tyrants, Shale. And you've got no idea what standards I hold myself to. The ideas, the laws that I've put forward so far, they're nothing. The barest of the bare. If what I've done now is all I'll ever achieve, then there was no goddamn point in trying in the first place."
"So it's all or nothing with you?" Shale wasn't sure why she was challenging the Champion like this. She shouldn't be. It was stupid. Sara was a woman of Passion, one who had spent days teetering on the razor edge of blinding fury. But Shale couldn't help herself. The words started to spill forth. "You think that if you can't do it perfectly, you might as well give the fuck up? That there's no point in improvement, not unless it's everything, all at once?"
"What exists now is nothing," Sara snapped. "So what if I've let commoners own land? So what if I'm letting them keep the food they've grown? That's not progress, that's basic fucking human rights. Even if I surrender, even if I get them to put those laws on the books, they won't last. They'll whittle away at them, chip them down until the people are back under the same bootheel they've always been under."
"So rather than have them live a better life for just a little while, you'd just have them go straight back to suffering?" Shale demanded. "You did something here, Sara. You gave them hope. You gave it to them. It's not yours to take away anymore."
"Like it fucking matters?" Sara countered. "Oh boy, I gave them hope. Woopty-fucking-doo. But now what? I didn't give them their life, but if I order them to keep fighting, I'll sure as hell take it away, can't I? Two thousand of our troops are dead, Shale. I don't want three thousand added to that tally."
Shale's eyes flashed. She stood up, stooping in the low tent, bent over the woman. "It's not your fucking choice though, is it?" She growled. "You think you're that fucking big of a deal? You're not. You worked too hard to make sure you aren't. You're in charge of the army, Sara, but I'm in charge of the cannons. If I gave them the order to stand and fight, and you told them to retreat, do you know who they'd listen to?"
Sara glared up at her, anger and exhaustion intermixing across her face. Shale jabbed a finger down into the woman's shoulder.
"They'd listen to me. They'd do what I say. You aren't in control. You aren't their Queen. Tough shit, but you worked too hard to make sure that's true. They follow your orders not because you're some godsent Champion, but because they think you know what to do. But if you really fuck up, if you fuck up bad enough to, say, tell them to give the hell up after all their work, all their sacrifice? They won't goddamn listen. They'll look to their sergeants, and their lieutenants, and their corporals, and we'll tell them to keep fighting. You don't matter."
Sara's fists clenched in her gauntlets, metal creaking. Shale flinched at the sight, but she didn't back up.
"So that's what you want from me, then?" Sara asked. "Some last fucking grand charge? Riding out into the rising sun to meet our fate?"
"I want you to goddamn win!" Shale all but screamed. "I want you to take all those little toys you've cooked up, I want you to load every last one with as much fucking blackpowder as they can take, and I want you to shove it up their ass and pull the trigger! I don't want to live under a fucking King anymore, Sara. I don't want to have a noble strutting around in their stupid fucking armor, telling me where I can shit and where I can piss. None of us do! And now it's your job to make it happen."
"They'll die," Sara snapped. "The whole fucking army. Even if we somehow won, barely any of them will be there to see it. They'll be too busy feeding buzzards with their guts to appreciate what they died for."
"So? So? You think they'd rather live like a dog than die like a human? Is that it?"
"Fucking yes!" Sara roared. She stood now, too, locking eyes with Shale from an inch away, clasping her shoulders and dragging her in close. "I'm not building this city for ghosts! Someone has to be there to live in it!"
"It's not your choice to make!" Shale shouted, shoving against Sara, hard. It did nothing, didn't even budge the woman, but it felt right. "You didn't conscript a single goddamn one of these soldiers, Sara. They're volunteers, every one of them. They're here to fight. They'll fight with or without you. Maybe they'll win, maybe they'll lose. Maybe they'll all end up dead. No one will know until it's all over. But you know what I know?" Shale shook Sara's hands off her shoulders, taking a step back towards the tent's flap. "If they're going to be fighting anyway, they want you in charge."
Sara took a single step forward, leaning close, until Shale's vision was consumed by the sight of her black armor.
"Do you think they know that I don't care about them?" Sara asked. She spoke in a whisper, nearly a hiss, her pupils vibrating with senseless rage. "I realize that, now. That I don't care about them as much as I do Evie. As I do Hurlish. All my grand ideals, all my fucking... fucking internet arguments, and anarchist theory, and protesting? It's nothing. Nothing next to keeping them safe. Do you think they know that, Shale? That if it came down to it, if I had to choose between ten thousand of them or one woman, I'd leave them to rot?"
"Some of them might. Others might think you're some flawless hero. But you know what? It doesn't. Fucking. Matter."
"How could it not?" Sara demanded, ripping her helmet off, clawing at her hair. "How could... could being led by a fucking hypocrite, a fucking piece of shit like me, not matter? I wouldn't follow someone like me into battle. I wouldn't listen to a single goddamn thing they had to say."
"Yes, you would. You would, because there's no one else. No one that can take your place. We'll fight without you, Sara. But we'll lose. They have Graf Urs on their side, the King of Sporatos and hundreds of his Knights. All we've got is you. Our Champion. You might not matter, what you want doesn't matter, but you know what does? The goddamn goddess on your shoulder. That's what they need. Not you. What you represent."
Sara held eye contact for a long, wavering moment. Her jaw was clenched, her greasy hair tangled and obscuring her face. Her pupils continued to vibrate, dilated to narrow dots. The smoke that rolled off her skin had begun to pool around their feet, filling the bottom of the tent with a deep red mist, as if they were standing in a pool of boiling blood.
And then, abruptly, as if a lever had been thrown, the Champion's spine snapped straight. Her head slammed into the tent's roof, but she ignored it. Her quivering jaw unclenched, cracking open in a wide smile. Shale felt a chill run across her skin, hair raising.
"Aight," the Champion said. "Alright. Cool. Fuck it then, right?" She reached up, unbuckling one of her armor's shoulder straps. "I mean, fuck it, right? That's what you wanted to hear? Fuck it, I'll fight. We'll go after them." She finished unbuckling the first strap, moving to the second. "We can't wait for them, after all. Graf'll figure something out if we give him enough time. So yeah. On the attack. The big, final clash, a set-piece moment. A decisive battle. That's what all the textbooks talk about, anyway. The fight where everyone on every side brings everything they have, and at the end of it, one side's dead and gone, and the other's standing tall." She finished unbuckling her chestplate. It fell off her body to hit the dirt with an earthy thump, so heavy it halfway buried itself in the soil. She shook her arms out, beginning to pull off her gambeson. "The climax. The final, big fucking melee. All in, double or nothing. Sure. Why not? Let's go. Let's head back to the city. Start telling people to pack it up. We've got an army to lead."
"Sara–"
"Nope," the Champion snapped, still smiling wildly. "You want me to fight, to throw everything in? Sure. I will. But you know what that means?" She tore off her gambeson, so she was covered only by a thin, disgustingly stained undershirt. Her smile grew even wider, wider, so wide that it looked like her skin should have split. "You get to see what it looks like when I give the fuck up. So no. No 'Sara' this, no 'Sara' that. Fuck it. Fuck it, we're attacking. And I'm going to do every goddamn thing in my power to make it work, and you, all of you, you're going to look at me and say 'yes ma'am', because that's the only fucking thing you're allowed to do. If this army is going to march to its death, it's going to be because of me. Not any of you. It's all on me now." She began tearing off the armor covering her legs, one eye still locked on Shale. "You got that?"
Shale swallowed. She nodded. "Yes ma'am."
"Good. You're dismissed."
Notes:
Slightly shorter chapter this week, apologies. "Only" 7k words. Between a busy work schedule and a fit of pure indecisiveness, I didn't get quite as much done as normal. Oh well. Still got it posted on Sunday, that's got to count for something.
Also, I decided to finally make a Discord server for this story/my works in general, as people have been suggesting for months now. Not quite ready, since I've never made a discord server before and I've got no idea how to set up all the permissions and stuff, but there should be a join link in next week's update at the latest.
Chapter 97: Song of the Men's Side
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Emeric stood at the head of a sizable formation of peasants, the steel tips of their weapons glittering in the air. Twenty rows wide, ten columns deep, the sweat-soaked faces of two hundred spear-wielding soldiers were twisted in exhausted concentration. All around them were similar blocks of soldiers, marching this way and that, the quiet rattle of drums overlapping across the rolling fields beyond the army's camp. There had once been dry stalks of grass and stubborn shrubs clinging to the jungle-pressed grasslands, but days of mind-numbing marching had worn the greenery away, leaving nothing but bare soil and clouds of dust kicked up by soldier's feet. Standing before his particular contingent of soldiers, Emeric was alone in his Knight's armor. He was the only Irregular amongst their number, and rather than standing stalwart and proud, an inspiration for the troops, his neck was craned forward, eyes paying very close attention to the placement of his feet.
Commander Graf had ordered the entire day be spent on practicing oblique marching. Further, he had said in no uncertain terms that there would be no rest until the maneuver was perfected. The oblique march was a difficult thing for the peasants to achieve, and to his great consternation, Emeric found himself struggling as well. It had been too long since he had practiced any kind of formation on foot, and the lessons which had been ingrained in him as a youth had sadly faded with the years.
He could not protest, unfortunately. The oblique march was a niche skill, but potentially critical in the right circumstances. At the beat of a drum, every soldier in an advancing column was to pivot on their heels, turning forty-five degrees to the left or right, all without breaking stride. As Graf had explained in one of his frequent strategy meetings, it was an integral part of their upcoming battle strategy, for it allowed the entire army's line to widen as the wings filed outward while maintaining the advance, simultaneously clearing space for reinforcements to pour into the gap.
As Emeric whispered for the drummers to beat out the order for a left oblique march, however, it seemed fairly unlikely that the peasants would ever reach the required skill for the order to be given in battle. The drummers rattled out the tone, sticks bouncing on the instruments. Some executed the order precisely, matching the required angle to a tee, but they were in the minority. The formation fell apart mere seconds after the signal had sounded. Soldiers who had turned just a little too far knocked against their fellows, stumbling both, a rippling cascade of failure. Shouts began shortly after, accusations of purposeful bumping or prodding scornfully thrown, and Emeric ordered a halt with a deeply frustrated sigh.
Commander Graf's arguments for training the peasants were logically sound. Emeric respected the man deeply, for a great multitude of reasons, and was trying his utmost to fulfill his orders. But deep down, as the days passed by and the army continued to wear circles in the grass, he struggled to believe the effort was worthwhile. Commander Graf was used to commanding his mercenaries, highly skilled soldiers who had voluntarily sought out a life on the field of battle. The peasantry he trained now were conscripts, unmotivated and uninterested in anything beyond surviving to the next morning. So long as they did not die or desert, they would collect their wages at the end of hostilities, their performance as an individual of no great import. They had no sense of honor, no reason to work harder than that which would preserve their own lives. While the efforts to train them were slowly bearing fruit, Emeric suspected the expectations Graf had set were flatly unachievable.
But he had been given an order to train the troops, and train them he would. At his command the block of spears disentangled itself, lining up in neat rows once more. Emeric nodded to the drummer, and the march began again.
As they marched forward for a time, Emeric's attention fell to the distant hill on which the battle mages were training. After their confrontation with Graf, the King's wooden-masked advisor had abandoned all pretenses. They were now openly working with the mages to develop anti-firearm spells, substituting their expertise for the dwindling number of elder mages.
The King no doubt wished to bring the hideous magics of the archmages to bear, but his entreaties had thus far fallen upon deaf ears. There was little the King could do about it. The loyalty of the archmages was a tenuous thing, as could be expected from individuals whose power perhaps rivaled entire nations. They had slowly returned to their hidden studdies, spread across the lands, uninterested in the conflict when it became clear the Champion's magics would not require their countering. The firearms interested them briefly, delaying their departure, but only briefly. Now they were gone.
Emeric tracked the robed, wooden-masked mage as they stepped between the battle mages. Were they an archmage, then? The enigmatic figure certainly held themselves as if they were one, and to their credit, they had survived their encounter with the Witch. But that was not proof in and of itself. An archmage was a difficult thing to define at the best of times. If they truly deserved the title, and were willing to fight on Sporatos' behalf, there very well may be nothing to fear in the coming battle. Not unless the Tiger of Salacia revealed himself, that is. And what a horror that would be. It had been centuries since the continent had suffered a battle between archmages.
A part of Emeric hoped that the mage was as powerful as they presented themselves. Another part of him prayed that they were not. If the brewing tension within the camp came to a head, a civil war in miniature, the presence of an archmage would extract a toll in blood beyond fathoming. If things remained peaceable between the factions, however, he might very well beg for the masked stranger's aid in the coming battle.
Emeric was woken from his dreary contemplations by the sight of a messenger making their way across the field. The word they bore was undoubtedly important, as it was brought by a rider, not a runner. Seeing the young messenger girl steer her animal towards his column of troops, Emeric quickly ordered the drummer to beat out the tune for the oblique march. He wanted the peasants to practice the maneuver at least one more time if he was called away.
The messenger reached him right around the time the peasant's spearblock began to dissolve into familiar chaos, shouts and curses filling the air. Emeric ignored this, nodding his greeting to the girl atop her lithe steed.
"Greetings, Sir Emeric!"
"Greetings to you, My Lady," he said with a slight bow. The girl's clothing was practical riding wear, but sewn from fine materials, and the horse was of an excellent stock. She was almost certainly a noble too young to fight, yet eager to find her way into an army.
"Message from Commander Graf, Sir," she said, not dismounting from her animal. "You are to join him for a meeting immediately, unless engaged in a task necessary to preserve the safety of the army."
"I am not," Emeric replied. "Please inform Commander Graf that I will be attending as promptly as possible."
"Of course, Sir," the girl replied, popping her reigns. Her horse pivoted quickly, kicking up a cloud of eye-watering dust as she hurried back towards the camp. An adroit rider. Emeric made an effort to remember her face, should she ever be interested in joining the cavalry.
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"What have the Knights been saying of my confrontation with the King?" Graf asked.
Emeric froze, one hand still on the tent flap. Graf was bent over a table, a large map of Tulian draped overtop. Papers littered every available surface, shorthand written across every visible inch. The commander of the Night's Eye glanced up.
"Well? I'm not fool enough to think rumors haven't spread."
Emeric cleared his throat, entering the tent slowly, to give himself time to think. No one else was present.
"You are correct that word has gotten out," Emeric ventured cautiously. "There is a variety of views that have been taken amongst my Knights."
"Stop dawdling." Graf's words were spoken calmly, but firmly. "What fraction of the nobility now resent my command of the army?"
Emeric swallowed. "Perhaps a third, sir, among those I frequent. But I must profess their loyalty to the King, and by extension, their loyalty to those he has placed his trust in."
"Yes, well, thank goodness for that." Emeric could not tell if the comment was sarcastic. Graf moved several papers around on the table, running a finger along a list of figures. "Are they drawn along any convenient lines? Pre-existing factions, or perhaps geographical boundaries?"
"Not... that I have noticed, sir. But I have not searched for any such connection."
"I would appreciate it if you considered the matter. It would be best if they could be separated in the coming battle, to minimize any potential conflict of interest."
Emeric nodded slowly, a gesture that was lost on the engrossed Graf. While he waited in silence, he took in the mercenary's tent. Around the space was strewn evidence of a great many hours spent at work, the artifacts of strategy scattered on every flat surface. Manuscripts, scrolls, and maps of old battles made up much of the debris, but not all of it. There were also a number of strange weapons, of designs Emeric could not place, trophies of battles decades past. The firearm that the Champion had presented the King with was leaning against one table, a pair of strangely curved swords flanking it on either side. A foreign helmet from a desert land rested on the dirt beneath, its face smithed into a rendition of a beaked scowl. Had the circumstances been different, Emeric would have been awed to bear witness to the collection. The product of sixty years at war, open to his perusal.
"The cultist opposes me directly," Graf suddenly said. Emeric's head snapped up, but the mercenary still hadn't looked away from his map. "They now regularly insist to the King that I be dismissed from his service."
"I see," Emeric said, taking great pains to ensure his voice showed no emotion.
"Thus far, the King has maintained my authority over the army, but I sense his growing wariness. The cultist has a great deal of influence over him." Graf's eyes flicked up, meeting Emeric's. "In your estimation, should things come to violence between the mage and myself, who would the Knights follow?"
"I–" Emeric swallowed, shaking his head in disbelief. "I cannot say, sir. I pray that they would have the honor to obey their King, as they should in all things."
"Hm. I wonder if he even has the stomach to choose a side."
Emeric's eyes flashed. "Commander Graf. You do not have the right to speak of your liege in such a manner."
A small curve bent Graf's lips. He moved a sheet of paper across the map.
"So you are among those that place your loyalty with the King first and foremost, then?"
"I am a Knight," Emeric snapped.
Graf chuckled. "So you are, Sir Emeric. So you are." The mercenary straightened, groaning slightly as his aged back crackled and popped. He rubbed at it with one hand, gesturing to the map with his other. "Your thoughts, if you wouldn't mind."
Emeric approached the table, smoothing down his proverbial bristles. So the disparaging comment to the King had been a test? Or perhaps a genuine sentiment, but one that nonetheless provided the mercenary with information? Emeric couldn't tell. He despised politics, and accordingly, he forced the matter from his mind. He joined Graf at the table, leaning over the map.
What he saw frankly shocked him. It was a map of the Tulian capital, but one of a quality that put the King's own rendition to shame. Each and every individual street of the city was depicted, including height information on many of the buildings, as well as labeled points of interest, such as garrisons and strategic crossroads. The fields beyond the city were rendered topographically in two-foot increments, creating a swirling pattern of inordinately detailed terrain. A thin dotted line traced a semi-circle across the empty field, outling the estimated ranges of the Champion's various firearms.
Perhaps most surprisingly were the plethora of features that none of the King's maps had shown. Structures littered the exterior of the city's walls, squat, round buildings that abutted the wall. They were labeled as "bunkers," a word Emeric did not know, and each one had been marked with the image of the large bronze weapons– they were called cannons, by the map's key.
"Is this truly accurate?" He asked, counting the new structures. "There are dozens of these 'bunkers.' I can't image so many being completed so quickly."
"It is perfectly accurate, as of two days ago," Graf said. "The bunkers, as you might have surmised, contain cannons. They are akin to a castle's murderholes, but scaled to fit the massive weapons. There is no entrance to the structures on the wall's exterior, so they will have to be either outright destroyed or taken from within the city. As for the rapidity of their construction, the Champion's strange white stone is responsible. I have received reports that it is poured as a liquid, only to become solid as brick in a matter of hours."
Emeric traced a line across the field, where a semicircle of X's was drawn. "And these? Defenses against cavalry, I presume?"
"Correct. They are akin to the mobile wooden defenses utilized by her army earlier, but are permanent variants, also constructed of the white stone."
"There is no gap depicted."
"Because no gap exists. They would have to be destroyed with spells or pickaxes before cavalry could advance. As it is, they present a difficulty for even advancing infantry. Certainly, they entirely prevent the use of siege engines." Graf pointed to streets within the city, where yet more lines were drawn between the buildings. The city itself was so dense with notation that Emeric felt he may go blind before he absorbed every detail. "Within the city she has also reinforced a number of strategic junctions. Some intersections are now blocked with bunkers ten feet tall, others with trenches deep enough for an orc to stand upright without being exposed. While we've found no immediate evidence for it, my sources insist the pattern of their placement indicates an underground network of tunnels which connect the majority of these emplacements. I assume the influx of laborers from the countryside is responsible for allowing such a system to be created. If they truly are connected, considering the ease with which she wields spell-like explosives, it is no doubt that any attempt to breach the tunnel system will be thwarted by a prompt cave-in."
Graf's finger rasped across the parchment as he continued to trace invisible lines. "Ultimately, she has even prepared for the fall of the city. The non-combatant vessels her Navy has captured are moored in harbor, and multiple avenues of retreat have been secured, connected to ramshackle shelters large enough to briefly house the majority of the city's population for the duration of a battle. Even if we were to capture the city, it would be an empty husk, devoid of a productive populace. And no, I haven't the faintest clue where she intends to take them. I fear, based on accounts of her personality, that she is equally at a loss for her planned exodus. Regardless, one can also assume that if a commander so spiteful as she is forced to retreat, she will utilize what remains of her explosive supplies to deny the King as much of the city's infrastructure as possible. We will have fought and died to win nothing more than a vacant pile of rubble."
Emeric accepted this information silently. He continued to run his eyes over the map, taking in more and more with every pass. There was far more to the Champion's preparations that Graf had not bothered to outline.
"I can see why you insisted on training the troops before the assault." Emeric eventually said, forcing himself to chuckle. It sounded nervous, even to his ears. "The Champion has turned the whole of her city into a fortress. A castle of unfathomable proportions. I doubt there has been a greater defense ever constructed."
"Oh, hardly." Graf waved his hand dismissively. "The Locks of the Sea dwarf this, and they've stood for millennia, despite Sinti's best attempts to the contrary. And while it was never finished, the Northern Empire's proposed capital would have been even grander, not to mention the defensive masterpiece that shelters the Carrion Navy's shipyards." Graf lifted the map, rolling it up. "Regardless, it's nothing to concern yourself over."
Emeric stared. "Pardon, Commander Graf, but I very much beg to differ. This is a matter of incredible concern."
"Do you know why we are training the troops, Emeric?"
The non-sequitur caught Emeric off guard.
"To prepare for assaulting this monstrosity?"
"No. So that we never need to do so." Graf slipped the map into a protective tube, folding his hands at the small of his back, stretching his muscles with a groan. "The Champion has predicated her strategy on two things: the superiority of her weaponry, and the superiority of her troops. Unfortunately, we cannot match the first. We can, however, challenge her dominance over the second."
"She has trained her troops for over half a year," Emeric reflexively insisted. "We have trained ours for little more than a week."
"The Tulian forces have been trained, yes, but who has been training them? Old Tulian's forgotten army officers, a Champion who is but a babe to our world, and, of course, Lady Evie."
Emeric's jaw instinctively clenched at the mention of the feline. "I have seen their skill firsthand, Graf. Their peasants are not to be underestimated. The Champion's consort was trained by your hand, after all."
"So she was. But unlike the Champion, I have access to dozens of Irregulars trained by my hand. In fact, you are rather unique in being allowed to train a contingent of troops. As you likely noticed, the majority of the army is being drilled by members of the Night's Eye, with a particular emphasis on guiding the youngest of them."
"The youngest?" Emeric licked his lips. He had not noticed that particular detail. "You intend to provide them a combat class." He spoke it as a statement, not a question.
"I do. Our defeat is inevitable otherwise."
"Is this why the King is not present at this meeting?"
"Partially. But it is for his own good. He could never approve openly of arming the peasants, and so I must put on the charade of doing so surreptitiously."
"But even if you provide them such an opportunity, it would not be enough to overcome such a monstrous construction," Emeric argued. It was an odd thing, to debate with a commanding officer, but it was something Graf heavily encouraged. "While we slog through all her obstacles, the firearms will tear us to shreds."
"Storming the city would be possible, if costly. With appropriately prepared troops, we would have the requisite numbers to overwhelm her. But I will not shed blood unnecessarily. No, Emeric, we train for a different reason entirely."
"I cannot fathom what."
"Do you know what is happening in the Tulian Capital at this moment?" Graf asked. It was a rhetorical question, and Emeric didn't answer. "I don't, not for certain, but I have my suspicions. Firstly, Lady Evie is doubtlessly insisting that the Champion flee the city immediately. The Champion is refusing, of course, because if there is one trait common to all Champions, it is their uncompromising stubbornness. Further, several Tulian scouts surveying our army have already been allowed to escape, which means that they are aware that I have begun training our troops to an acceptable standard. This means, then, that they are faced with two options: cower behind their walls until I have replaced this peasant rabble with an unsurmountable force, or sally out while they still possess a modicum of advantage, hoping to break the army's morale while there is still a chance."
"Which do you desire she do?" Emeric asked. It felt less as if he was participating in a conversation, and more receiving a lecture. He accepted this easily enough; he had long since given up pretending he could predict Graf's tactics. Now he only hoped to follow them.
"Wait in the city, of course," Graf hummed. "If she is content to stay behind the walls, I will happily spend the next sixth months creating an army that will swat her capital from the map like a bothersome fly. Her manufacture of firearms is limited by iron and powder, neither of which she can resupply whilst under siege. The weapons she already possesses are powerful, but they cannot answer a force of twelve thousand Irregulars. "
Emeric bit his tongue. The thought of twelve thousand Irregular peasants, some day dismissed from the army, returning to their villages... Chaos. Inevitable chaos, rebellion guaranteed in a matter of months. But it was not his place to object.
"Which do you expect she will do, then?" Emeric asked instead.
Graf raised his eyebrows in slight surprise. "Sally out, of course. Have you not heard the news? Her army began preparations to leave the city several hours ago. Battle will likely be joined tomorrow, perhaps the following day at the latest."
"Ah."
Notes:
Hey what's up had a shitty week so it's a shorter chapter. Had to put my dog down. Second chapter update should come tomorrow, longer one, and the discord link.
Chapter 98: Come Out Ye Black and Tans
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Evie!" Sara whisper-yelled. "Evie! Come check this shit out!"
"What?" The feline whispered back. "Have you found something– oh."
"Check it ouuuut!" Sara excitedly whispered, wiggling her hips.
"You are pissing on the dirt."
"With a dick!" Sara said, jiggling it up and down for emphasis. Spray splattered across her boots. "How did I not think of this before now?"
"What? I don't know. I would hope it is because you've never before had such a childish impulse."
"Childish?" Sara asked, affronted. "Fuck that! This is practical as all hell. Do you know how paranoid I've been about getting poison ivy on my bare ass? Now I can stand and piss! This is amazing!"
"Truly wondrous," Evie deadpanned.
"You're just jealous."
"Of course."
Sara ignored her girlfriend's disinterest. This was a groundbreaking achievement. The development of the next generation of cannons, right in her pants. She'd have articles published on this, she swore.
She eventually finished her bathroom break, still awfully pleased with herself as she tied her pants back into place.
She had ordered a stop for water and rest right around the apex of the day's heat, when the sun wasn't quite high overhead, but still burned furiously. As she emerged from the short cluster of young trees she'd used for privacy, the entire army slowly sprawled out before her. Evie folded herself up to Sara's, not quite close enough to be touching, but close enough to grab her if the need became apparent.
Evie was not fully healed, her wound still knitting shut beneath her raw, pinkish skin, but she had outright refused to stay behind. She'd successfully called Sara's bluff, though that may have only been because she had healed enough to (mostly) take care of herself. Sara could only thank the gods that they'd never know if she really would have followed through with using the collar against Evie's will. The feline was mostly fit for battle, and mostly was good enough for them. It wasn't like they'd always gone into fights in the best of conditions, anyway.
Sara herself felt different. Strange. But a familiar kind of strange. That might've seemed like an oxymoron, but it was true. She felt strange in a way that used to be normal. It was the strange old way she had made it through each and every day, back on Earth. Her muscles were profoundly sore, anxiety pounded in her head, and she welcomed the ache. It reminded her of getting home after a long day at work, her skin rubbed raw from blue jeans and safety gear, her skin red from the baking sun.
She even had the safety harness, to complete the set of long-forgotten sensations. Of course, it wasn't really for safety, but it was still a harness. She began to wrap leather straps around her chest, thick and numerous enough to absorb multiple tons of weight. The wooden wheels of a cannon's carriaged creaked and jittered as she dragged it over the bumps that littered the dirt road, and each jostle had the leather digging deeply into her skin. She could feel a rash building, and it was only going to get worse. She would have quite literally killed for a horse to drag the cannons, but the few cavalry steeds they'd captured had flatly refused to be harnessed. Evie had explained that cavalry horses, being altered by the Levels of their masters, were unlikely to ever be of any use. That meant the new cannons had to be dragged by teams of volunteers, lashed together like beasts of burden under the searing Tulian sun. Sara had proudly declared she'd drag one of the lighter cannons all on her own.
It was a claim she was steadily beginning to regret.
The entire army stretched out behind her. Three thousand men and women had marched through the morning in neat columns, boots raising a cloud of dust so massive it could be seen for miles. The front ranks marched just behind the cannons, rather than in front, to preserve the road for their fragile wooden spokes. They kept close, ready to rush in and protect the priceless weapons at a moment's notice. The Royal Army was only twenty miles away, within a rough day's march, and tension was so thick in the air Sara swore she could taste it.
Yet, somehow, Sara barely felt affected herself. She was as carefree as she'd ever been, calmer than she had been in months. It took her a while to understand why, a long while, but when she was hauling a cannon all on her own, she had plenty of time to think. Eventually, she figured it out.
She was fucked. She had next to no chance of winning. She was forcing herself to take on an impossible task, a fight she had no chance of winning, and she knew it.
And what a relief it was. All her life, for as long as she could remember, she'd been the underdog. Caring about things no one else gave a shit about, fighting for causes that, deep down, she knew were hopeless. She'd been a borderline violent left-winger fighting against the unyielding titan of American capitalism. Living a life like that, a pervasive sense of nihilistic helplessness had been as much a part of her as her skin and bones.
So, for some godforsaken reason, it felt damn good to be back on track. She was fucked, and she knew it. How neat was that? It was such a relief to know that there was only one thing left to do, only one outcome left to see to fruition. She was no stranger to throwing her all into something, putting her nose to the grindstone until it was chewing through bone, and that was all she had to do.
"You are disconcertingly pleased with yourself," Evie said. She was walking beside Sara, rapier drawn, one hand resting on her revolver's grip.
"About the pissing?"
"No. Well, yes, about the pissing, but not that. Your entire demeanor since this march has begun is baffling. Before we exited the walls, you were nearly distraught. Now you are... well, giddy to discover a new form of relieving yourself. It's bizarre."
"I know, right?" Sara wiped sweat from her forehead. "Weird as hell. But I can't wait to get to the fight."
"Do you care to explain why?"
Sara shrugged, still adjusting the straps to find a modicum of comfort. "Hard to say. Because it's all or nothing, I guess. I'm too damn tired of fucking around with all these maybes and should-I's and who-knows. At least I know what's going to happen next, no matter what."
"Clarity of purpose can be invigorating."
"Sure, you can say it like that. If you want to be all fancy." The cannon's wheels rocked forward for a moment as she gave an exploratory pull, then caught a slight hitch in the road, rocking back. Sara swore under her breath. "Shit. Man, though. What I'd give to have some horses."
"Yet another expense that will be stretching our coffers when the war is won. Acquiring a proper stock for breeding will be extraordinarily expensive."
Sara cocked a smile at her girlfriend. "So you're actually thinking of what things are going to be like after the war, then? Not just assuming doom and gloom?"
"Do not mistake me, Master. I doubt we have any chance of success in this battle. But as always, I plan for victory while preparing for defeat."
"You're full of good quotes, y'know that?"
"They are military maxims."
"They belong on a fortune cookie."
"I'll take that utterly inane statement as a compliment."
Sara was about to say something back, but her attention was stolen away by the sight of the other cannon teams returning to their charges.
Behind and beside the cannon she was hooking herself up to were other cannoneers, helping to pull their own burdens. The four original Napoleons were front and center, a place of honor that Lieutenant Shale had insisted upon, with the newer iron cannons flanking them. With them lined up neatly during the army's break, it gave the illusion of a stately procession, and if it weren't for the fact that these were far from fanciful floats, Sara would have gone so far as to say it looked like a parade. But it wasn't. This was a display of the most lethal artillery this world had ever seen.
If Sara had all the time and money in the world, every cannon on the field would have been made of gleaming bronze. Unfortunately, for the material cost of a single Napoleon, she could order four iron cannons. Tulian had only a single copper mine that wasn't collapsed, very few trained miners, and no native source of tin. Iron, on the other hand, was practically falling out their ass, because it was the only metal practical enough for mine operations to be maintained after the Kingdom had collapsed. Thus, the iron cannons.
Of the thirteen cannons on the field, four were Napoleons, four were enchanted Ordnance Rifles, and five were something new– the first cannons that weren't copies of Civil War weaponry. They were twelve-pounders, using the same ammunition as the Napoleons, but made of thick black iron. To hopefully stave off detonation, the cannon's metal walls were half again as thick as the Napoleons, and even had the reinforcing band of a Parrott rifle wrapping around the rear breech where the cannon would be suffering the brunt of the explosive charge. To compensate for the massively increased weight of the thick iron, their barrels were considerably shorter, axing their effective range from 1,600 yards to 800, at best. That was something that couldn't have been excused if she were fighting an enemy that had their own artillery, seeing as the they'd have been smashed to pieces at range, but it hardly mattered when the enemy Irregular archers couldn't reach 400 yards with their shots.
Put simply, they were compromise weapons. Tools she never would have used if she had any other choice, but were now regrettably necessary. The artificers had hurriedly slapped enchantments on the breech before Sara had marched away, but the reinforcements were rush jobs, better than doing nothing at all. She'd personally made it clear to the cannoneers serving the weapons that she had no idea how they would perform in the battle. They might jam, or be uselessly inaccurate, or even detonate without warning.
Of course, that hadn't given a flying shit. The cannons were the ultimate symbol of Tulian defiance, as much a symbol of the burgeoning nation as Sara herself. Already several proposals had been brought to her for the official heraldry of Tulian, the medieval equivalent of a national flag, and every single one had featured a cannon front and center. As far as these volunteers were concerned, the risk of ten pounds of red-hot shrapnel scything through your intestines was was nothing next to working on a legend in the making.
In fact, the Tulian people's obsession with firearms was reaching a nearly cult-like level of idolatry. Sara didn't think the the deepest bayous of Louisiana had rednecks that loved guns more than the Republic's soldiers. When she'd first given them out, the troops held them like porcelain plates, nervous to even march with them in hand, much less fire them. Now they gripped their muskets like a lost lover's hand, rebelling against any order that would require them letting go of the weapons for even a few minutes.
And as the weeks had ticked by and their familiarity with the weapons grew, she'd found another aspect of their burgeoning gun culture developing. One that was, at this very moment, rearing its ugly head. Her ears perked up as her Blessings caught, then brought to her attention, the sound of a growing scuffle.
"FUCKing goddammit," she said, peeling off her harness. "Evie, can you help me out here?"
The feline leapt to the task immediately, but kept her ears flicking back and forth for whatever Sara had noticed.
"Another fight?" She guessed.
"Not a fight yet, but it's sure on its way there."
Sara threw off her harness, looked down at herself and realized sweat had soaked her shirt to nothing more than cloth-clung nudity, and stomped off anyway. The brewing argument was a half-mile away, but she covered the ground quickly, troops practically diving out of her way as they saw her approaching.
"Hey!" She called as she reach the two once-arguers, who had upgraded themselves to combatants. Fists were being thrown back and forth with wild abandon, which wasn't ideal when there was a goddamn rifle as the object of a tug-of-war between them. "HEY!"
She strode up and ripped the rifle out from between the man and woman. The force of it stumbled them both to the ground, but they didn't stop swinging at each other, their shouts devolving into irrelevant shit-slinging as they scrabbled in the dust. She stepped between them, catching their wrists in mid-swing.
"Hey," she said once more, this time in a sickly sweet tone. She hit them both her best award-winning smile. "How are you two doing? Enjoying your brawl in the middle of the march? Having some fun with it?"
"This fuckin' bitch stole my–" The man began to scream. His face turned to Sara, and the words died with a pitiful squeak. He'd probably been expecting some middle-ranked Sergeant, only for his eyes to widen to a laughable degree as he recognized The Founder of Tulian, The Chosen Champion of the Goddess Amarat, First Herald of the Powder Age, Sara Brown.
"Uh. Um? Shit."
"Yeah." Sara turned to the woman. "And the fuck was your problem?"
"He was, uh, he came up to me and said I'd taken his Hot Rifle off him while he slept," she said. She tried to stand, but Sara's grip on her wrist was iron. She made the better choice of sitting cross-legged, like a child being lectured.
Christ, she might as well be, Sara realized. I thought I told them no one younger than eighteen in this army. She looks like a preteen. But I guess if she was actually putting up a fight against a grown man, she's at least gotta have some kind of Class.
"And why would either of you give a shit?" Sara asked. "A musket's a musket, and we've got almost all of them rifled by now. Who gives a shit which gun you're shooting?"
"'Cause it's a Hot Rifle!" The man snapped, doing a worse job of controlling his temper, which was fair, considering he thought he'd been robbed.
"A Hot Rifle?" Sara asked.
"Yeah. You know 'em. The ones your wife made."
"She's not my wife yet," Sara corrected, though it was half-hearted, considering her distraction. She turned around, looking at the musket that she'd thrown in the dirt. "Evie? Could you bring that over?"
"Of course."
While the feline retrieved the weapon, Sara glared down at the two soldiers. "If I let go of you, are you going to behave yourselves? Or are you going to keep acting like toddlers."
"I was defending myself–"
"And I was defending my goddamn gun–"
" Will. You. Behave? " Sara's voice cracked like thunder, the force of the air rushing from her lungs blowing up a cloud of dirt twenty feet long. The two soldiers withered and covered their eyes from the dust, giving meek nods.
Evie presented the firearm with its breech facing upward. "Here you are. It is indeed one of Hurlish's works. It is also loaded."
The woman stared incredulously at the man. "You loaded it?"
"In case we were ambushed!"
"You were going to shoot me, you fucking bastard!"
"That's enough," Sara snapped. Her Blessings had already told her that while both these soldiers were stupidly headstrong, neither were murderers. At least, beyond that which you could call any professional soldier a murderer. She dropped their wrists, accepting the weapon from Evie.
Indeed, just as they'd claimed, Hurlish's new crest had been neatly engraved into the top of the breech, right where the blackpowder would sit beneath the iron.
Back when Sara had opened up the manufacture of firearms to all of the city's smiths, she'd very quickly run into a problem. Though everyone was using the same blueprints for their weapons, despite her efforts the parts they created weren't truly interchangeable. The barrels were made by pounding glowing iron with a hammer, the flintlocks poured into casts and smoothed with worn files, and none of that was precision work. To the naked eye, the work of two smiths was mostly indistinguishable, but that was an illusion. The slightest of metal burs or offset metal grain could catch against other mechanisms, jamming the entire thing. If one part of a musket broke, you couldn't just swap it out with another gun's part; it had to be from the same smith, made by the same tools, or it would invariably jam.
Thus, she'd started the rudimentary beginnings of an industrial inventory system. She ordered the smiths to create a personal crest, or logo, or label– whatever you wanted to use, it didn't matter– and to begin marking the date that the weapon was completed. After all, with how dependent the weapons were on the tooling used to make them, something as simple as a smith buying a new iron file was enough to throw off the compatibility of parts made before and after the date of that new tool's purchase. If some Private came in with a busted flintlock, the quartermasters could look at the markings, find a part made by the same smith in the right time period, and fit it right in. Before she'd implemented that, it'd been a matter of trial and error, sometimes requiring dozens of attempts before a part that actually worked could be found.
Sara, Evie, and Hurlish had argued for quite a while over what Hurlish's crest should be. Hurlish had wanted a symbol that represented her and Sara's work; something like H&S, arguing that since Sara had provided the design of the weapons, she deserved equal credit. Sara had fought back, insisting that all she did was conjure up someone else's design, and it was Hurlish that actually put all the effort in. After an hour-long back and forth, Evie had eventually taken Sara's side, settling the debate. Then the matter of what, actually, Hurlish's crest should be had consumed the next few hours. In the end, as Hurlish had once been known as "Hurlish of Hagos," they'd decided to keep the trend going.
Every rifle out of Hurlish's forge was now marked with an initialization of her new title: "Hurlish of Tulian."
Or, as written, "H.O.T."
Sara had been pretty damn proud of that one.
"The Hot Rifles are good," she told the two thoroughly cowed Privates, "but they are not this good. There's no good goddamn reason people should be fighting over them."
"Well they are," the man said petulantly. "And I know she was the one that stole it, 'cause just yesterday she offered me a month's wage to swap guns." A month's fucking wages? Sara wondered, though she didn't voice her disbelief. The man kept talking, oblivious to her shock. "Now she's walking around today, Hot Rifle in hand, and mine's missing? Don't take much to put two and two together."
"I traded for one from someone else, you stupid bastard." She looked ready to hit him again, and Sara stepped between them, preparing to stop it before it could start. "You really think you're the only one around with a Hot Rifle?"
He scoffed. "Then who stole mine, huh?"
"None of this matters," Sara snapped, "because the rifles aren't that different. They're all built the same, goddammit. The only reason there's a mark of who built it is to make the quartermaster's jobs easier."
"That's bullshit, and everyone knows it!" The man snapped. As soon as the words left his lips, he cowered even further, remembering who he was speaking to too late. "With, uh, respect, ma'am. Respectful bullshit."
Sara rolled her eyes. She didn't have time for this.
"Alright, how about this? Tumok, you're going to do three things: first, you're going to go down to Captain Lask for remedial gun safety drills, because if you think it's smart to struggle over a loading fucking gun, I don't want you in my army. You're also getting a formal warning that one further instance of brawling in teh ranks, no matter the goddamn cause, will get you dishonorably discharged."
"How do you know my name?" He asked. Sara ignored him. Her eyes swung to the right, where the woman sat.
" Paal, you are going to explain to your Sergeant, in detail, who you actually got that rifle from, how much you paid, and if no one can back up your claim, you're going to be written up on charges of theft of classified equipment, under penalty of dishonorable discharge. Neither you nor the person you got it from own that weapon, soldier. They're property of the state, and they're not yours to own or barter. When I think up whatever the proper punishment for that is, you'll be first in line to suffer it."
She shouldered the rifle, yanking them both up by their collars. "And the both of you, assuming you're cleared of those charges, will be spending every evening training under Sergeant Ham for close-combat lessons." Their eyes widened. Sergeant Ham was by far the most maligned Sergeant in her army. He was so hated amongst the troops that if he hadn't been so extraordinarily skilled at teaching unarmed combat, she would have drummed him out of the service months ago. "Why?" Sara asked, preempting their questions-slash-pleading. "Because that fight I just walked up on was fucking pitiful. I've seen schoolkids throw straighter punches than you twoo. I'm surprised neither of you broke your wrists."
"That's–"
"Nope," Sara snapped. "We've reached the point where you have two options: saluting and saying 'Yes ma'am,' or getting your asses thrown in jail." Sara paused, smirking. "Also, you're both banned from using Hot Rifles for the foreseeable future. I'll inform your Sergeant of that shortly, and it'll only be at their discretion that this particular punishment will be loosened. Now, what do you say?"
They exchanged glances, then both straightened, saluting firmly. "Yes ma'am."
"Good."
Sara kept the Hot Rilfe on her shoulder as she walked away, satisfied with her handling of the scuffle, if not the fact it had happened in the first place.
"You know, Master, at least one of your comments was inaccurate. I received the reports ofThe H.O.T. rifle's test firings recently. They are a dramatic improvement over any other handheld firearm in the army."
"Yeah?" Sara asked, lowering her voice a bit. Best not to have the General herself feeding problematic rumors. "How much so?"
"Well, for a baseline, your father claimed the Springfield Model 1862, when firing minié balls, was accurate up to 500 yards. Among the selected weapons from various smiths, many were only able to reliably strike a human-sized target at a range of 300 yards."
"Fuck. Well, that's not great, but with all the smoke, we're usually fighting well under that. Not to mention the fact that none of them are well-trained enough to even hit at those kinds of ranges."
"True," Evie hummed, sliding her own rifle off her back. It had been one of the earliest 1862 rifles Hurlish had made, and since it had been going to Evie, she had labored over it for far longer than any later example. "This particular rifle, Master, was proven to strike within one foot of its aiming point at just over 900 yards. The other examples of Hurlish's rifled works, after filtering out her apprentice's examples, performed similarly, being accurate at 700 or 800 yards."
"That's... damn," Sara eloquently intoned. "So they're beating genuine, factory-made rifles. That's pretty insane."
"Hurlish theorized it is more to do with your bolstering of her Levels than any personal skill, though I suspect we will both disagree on that point. For all her outward arrogance, she is remarkably humble at her core. Regardless, at her Fourteenth Level, she has reached a height that few non-elven smiths dare to dream of."
"I remember her talking about it, but not that dramatically. She was bitching that her Skills had outgrown her actual, y'know, practiced skill. She didn't have a fraction of the knowledge required to take advantage of what her Levels were giving her."
"Just so. Which is why I feel the superb quality of her weaponry is more easily attributed to her own talent, rather than her Champion-bolstered Levels. Regardless, the stark superiority of a certain selection of our weaponry does have far-reaching tactical implications."
Sara and Evie reached the cannon she'd volunteered to drag. Her girlfriend helped her into the bulky harness as they talked.
"You're wondering if we should concentrate the Hot Rifles, then," Sara guessed. "Maybe put them behind the lines up on some hill, use them as snipers. If we spread them out enough, the smoke shouldn't throw off their aim too hard."
"Precisely. But there are risks."
"The Knights."
"Mm." Evie cinched a belt down tight, checking that it didn't pinch Sara's skin. "If they manage to reach the distributed sniper contingent, they would easily run them down. Not only would we lose our most skilled rifle-armed troops, the enemy would doubtlessly capture a great number of our most effective weaponry."
"That won't matter in the middle of battle," Sara said, before pausing, considering. For all Evie said she was a tactical commander, rather than strategic, her political acumen always lent her a perspective Sara lacked. "You're worried about the second war, though. When they come at us again, maybe with weapons they copied off Hurlish's work."
"It is something I have considered." Evie reached around Sara's shoulders, buckling the final strap. She gave it a firm tug, testing its hold, then stepped back. "Of course, we must survive this war before we begin to worry about the next, but no nation was ever born from short-sighted thinking. It is a difficult line to walk."
"You're telling me," Sara grumbled. She stood up on her tip-toes, checking to see how close the army was to readying their march. She was growing impatient. She didn't intend to meet the enemy in battle today, but she still wanted to cover as much ground as possible. Every hour of march was another hour that Graf could be preparing his defenses, shifting his position as more and more reports of her army's disposition poured in.
As she finally began to pull the cannon once more, the army lurching into ponderous motion, Lieutenant Shale made an appearance.
"I like the leather getup," she said, by way of greeting.
"I don't," Sara huffed. "This shit ain't exactly easy on the skin."
"Easy on the eyes, though."
Evie suddenly bolted forward, ears perked high, tail ramrod straight.
"You!" She poked a finger into Shale's chestplate.
"Me?" The artillery lieutenant asked, taking a bewildered step away.
"You are the one Master taunted me with, all those months ago."
"Huh? Oh! Oh, yeah." Shale laughed. "Yeah, that was me. Took you a while to figure it out?"
"Of course it did," Evie said, throwing her hands in the air. "You fucked like a blushing virgin, not a veteran commander. Were you really so pliable?"
"What can I say?" Shale shrugged. "Your girl's got a good cock, and she knows how to use it. Hard to do much more than lie there and take it."
"And you knew that I would be receiving the sensations of Master's body, then?"
Shale grinned lecherously. "Oh, yeah. That was hot as hell. Little bit worrying at first, didn't want to screw anything up while you were out in the field, but Sara said she had a general feel that you were just bored at the time, which made it fine. And then the fact that you couldn't do anything about it? Just feel her plowing me? Oh, yeah. That made it even better."
Evie's tail broke from its rigidity, taking up a languid left-to-right swipe, while her ears relaxed, fur flattening. Shale had said the right thing.
"Well," she purred. "It seems you and Master haven't found much time since that isolated event, it would seem." Evie raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"That an invitation?"
"It's not not an invitation."
The two women had begun to close the gap between each other as they spoke, until their chests were nearly touching. Sara, who normally would have been perfectly happy to watch this develop, was forced to butt in.
"Alright, ladies, break it up. We've got shit to do. Shale, what'd you come over here for?"
"Permission to halt the march before sundown, ma'am," the lieutenant replied, easily slipping back into military formality. "Nine of our thirteen guns have never been fired outside the test range. I want the crews drilling on them at least once before the battle."
"Our powder supply is incredibly limited, if you'll recall," Sara said.
"Limited for a siege, sure," Shale half-agreed. "But for one big battle? It oughta last us. And either way, even if we used up too much powder practicing, I'd rather my crews were actually hitting something with however many shots they have left."
Sara pursed her lips, considering. Halting the march early to drill the cannoneers would be a risk. It would give Graf even more time to prepare his defenses, and it would let any nearby scouts take an account of her force's capabilities.
On the other hand, both what Shale had said and Evie's earlier points bounced around Sara's skull. They had rifles now, good, accurate rifles, but the army barely knew how to use them. Every shot they'd fired after the first had always been popped off near-blind, smoke obscuring the battlefield. Sure, the rifles could hit five hundred yards, but could the soldiers? She doubted it. And in this fight, range was going to be everything.
"Fine," Sara said. "We'll halt three hours before sundown. Pick your targets and get to it, because the second it gets dark, I'm calling it quits. The troops are going to need their sleep. Also, talk to the colonels about where you're going to set up. I'm going to be drilling the rest of the troops in long-range shooting, if we can manage to organize it on such short notice. Don't want a cannonball ripping through our own troops."
"Perfect," Shale beamed. "I'll get right on it."
As Shale left, Evie sidled up closer to Sara, pressing against her side properly.
"Really, Master? Her?"
"Are you kidding me?"
"She's not particularly attractive, at least physically."
"Sure, but have you seen what she's like with those cannons? She kisses them between every shot, Evie. She's crazy as shit."
"So?'
"Crazy's hot."
"That's..." Evie trailed off, reconsidering what she was about to say. "Fortunate, I suppose, for me."
Sara ruffled the feline's ears, just enough to tease. "Oh, c'mon. You're not crazy. Just... manic. And angry. And okay, maybe a little bit crazy."
"As I said. Your tastes are fortunate for me." Evie reached up to adjust her hair, which had begun to unravel in the Tulian humidity. "What about Hurlish, though? She's by far the sanest of us."
Sara snorted. "Eve. Evie, babe. She's got every single wall in our house covered in weapons. Literally every single wall."
"Point taken." Evie finished clinching her hair back into place, then eyed Sara's harness. "Well? Are we ready to begin the march to our doom?'
"As ready as we'll ever be."
Sara took a deep breath, then began to tug. The cannon's wooden carriage groaned, creaking, and then finally began to lurch forward. At the sight of their General beginning to move, the army began to creep forward, kicking up a cloud of dust that began to spiral up into the sky.
Tomorrow, Sara thought. It all comes down to tomorrow.
Notes:
This brings the weekly update up to the usual 8k words. Apologies for the delay. As for the Discord, here's the link: (https://discord.gg/AdXXa7Wmh6)
Of particular interest, I'll be disassembling my own blackpowder pistol that works almost identical to Evie's, and answering questions about its operation both in and out of universe! When I'll be doing that depends on when people read and join the server, but likely soon.
Chapter 99: Cold Iron
Notes:
Two chapter update
Chapter Text
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Ignite
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The Waverake was a mess of panicked activity behind Ignite. He ignored it. Just before the Admiral had made her announcement of the Champion's damnable, utterly moronic decision, a courier ship had arrived. It was a regular occurrence among the fleet, the supply ships arriving with goods such as fresh fruit and letters from the sailor's families, but it had never mattered to Ignite. His family, whom he had not seen in years, thought him dead. If they knew he lived, they would have been ashamed of it. After Pupil's betrayal, he had no one who cared to send him letters.
Until now, it seemed. He had received a small, unremarkable wooden box, slightly more than a foot in length. It had been delivered to him personally by a member of the courier ship's crew, without an explanation of its source.
It had captivated his attention immediately, of course. There was a weight to it that spoke of significance, his instincts told him. Even while the Tulian fleet fell to chaos as word spread that the Champion had left the city with all her cannons, leaving it open to Sporaton naval assault, Ignite had moved to a secluded portion of the orlop deck. He did not want to open the package on the spar deck, after all. Enchanted traps delivered in unremarkable packages were not unheard of, and with the advent of blackpowder, he feared their potential even more than he once had. Considering his betrayal of the Carrion Navy, then the Tulian people, he had legitimate reasons to fear reprisal from those of means. Best to open the package where no others would be harmed, and if harm should come to him, so be it.
He pried loose the nails with his fingers, four at each corner, and dropped them into a pocket. He hesitated only briefly, wondering if he should ask among the fleet if there were any capable of inspecting the package. Then he discarded the thought, sliding off the lid.
No flames erupted. There was only a slight puff of dust as his eyes fell on unremarkable straw, packed tightly to ward off the corrosive effects of the salty sea breeze. Atop the straw rested a single sheaf of paper, written across the front with a precise, aristocratic style. Ignite picked the paper up, holding it to one of the crystal lanterns which lit the gloomy orlop deck.
To First Sergeant Ignite of the TRN, For His Perusal Only, from Evie, Provisional Steward of the Tulian Republic
First Sergeant Ignite. I write to you in a capacity both official and unofficial, whilst recovering from injuries sustained by Sporaton assassins, the details of which you have no doubt been privy to by the time of this package's arrival– though I must profess my ignorance of the logistics required to resupply a fleet at sea. If this letter has somehow reached you prior to news of the assassination attempt, I will briefly assure you of the following: all survived, and though my injuries were the most severe, with the aid of healers, they are recoverable. Further information will no doubt be made available to you as time progresses, if such a confused awareness of political events comes to transpire.
Regardless. As you are aware, I have a great deal of experience with penning formal correspondence such as this. However, having been influenced by my continual companionship with the Champion of Amarat, I have found much deficient in my prior modes of communication, which no doubt mirror in no small part the official dispatches of your former employment. In deference to my growing familiarity with the Champion's preferred forms of address, I will hereafter write my intent plainly and without polite obfuscation. If such is disagreeable to you, and if you should in future prefer the more traditional formality common to our respective cultures, I ask that you make me aware.
Speaking directly, then. You have been emotionally devastated by the perceived betrayal of your former shipmate and romantic partner, Pupils. As a result, you have requested a return to a position you feel is appropriate for one of your supposedly diminished stature. At the time of your request, I did not advise the Champion against granting it, believing your desires a matter of honorable discretion upon your part, and therefore your choice to make.
I now regret this.
Through the early days of the Tulian Republic's formation, you were an indispensable tool to my Master, and without you, I believe many avenues of success that are presently available to us would have not presented themselves. The purpose of this letter and the accompanying package is therefore to inspire in you a return to the pride in your work that formerly characterized your efforts. In simplest terms, it is a ploy intended to retain your loyalty. I have spent near every free moment since arriving in Tulian working to ensure the safety of my Master, to root out enemies who would sabotage her, and I will confess to you in this letter that I have on numerous occasions acted in secret, against my Master's wishes, killing those who I believed to be a threat to her goals or person.
If you have not already, now would be the appropriate time to note that you are indeed still alive, Ignite Parables. You are not among their number. Having now come so close to death myself, I seek to strengthen the bonds of those who I believe are best suited to aid my Master. During my recovery, I have prepared an index of over a hundred individuals I wish to ensure the loyalty of. On this list, you are third in priority, behind Admiral Nora and the archmage Garen, and above the witch Selliana. However, unlike the others, who have their own priorities which will undoubtedly supersede those of Tulian, you are remarkable for your keen sense of duty. Bluntly, though you may not readily believe this claim, I trust you more than anyone other than my Master and Hurlish.
Thus, the package. Proof of my trust in you, First Sergeant Ignite. If you have not already, remove from the straw what I have delivered.
Ignite's shaking hands set the paper upon his knee, moving as if he were in a dream. He brushed the straw aside gently, careful not to spill it on the deck, and looked upon what was revealed.
It was a firearm. Ignite could tell that much. A pistol of some sort, but beyond that, he could not say. It was made of golden brass and cool iron, clearly of a design far more complex than any of the muskets or pistols the Tulian Navy had been provided. It had a dark, curving wooden handle, which rose to connect to the golden enclosure enshrouding a strange cylinder, the face of which had six holes drilled into the metal. Unlike the naval muskets, which relied upon flint to strike a spark, the hammer which rested at the rear of the weapon was tipped with a faintly pink crystal, a match for the six others which dotted the rear of the cylinder. Ignite reached to pick it up, but was stopped by the sight of his own trembling hands. He returned to the letter instead.
What lays before you is known as a revolver, and this particular example was the first of its kind. Produced by Hurlish, it was originally intended for my personal use, until testing found its ability to pierce enchanted armor inadequate. A second, different design was later constructed for myself, one which supersedes this example, and so this revolver has languished, sadly unused. Across all the world, only this revolver and my own presently exist.
I give it to you. Armor is a rarer sight in naval battles as I understand them, and thus I trust you will make far better use of it than I. The cylinder within, once prepared, is capable of rotating to align itself with the barrel, allowing the wielder to fire six consecutive shots without reloading. This is an advantage that cannot be understated. In Master's world, near five hundred years of firearm development passed by before this innovation came to be. As you may therefore expect, it is of the utmost importance that you do not, under any circumstances, allow this weapon to fall into enemy possession. However, unlike the Carrion Navy, I will give you one order to supersede this: preventing the revolver from falling into enemy hands is not worth your life. You, Ignite, whether you believe it or not, are an asset worth cultivating.
Ignite cautiously lifted the revolver in one hand, feeling its heft. It was not overly heavy. Beneath it he noticed a leather scabbard, perfectly designed for his Carrion armor's equipment belt. Swallowing hard, he read the final few paragraphs.
This revolver, as is befitting the first of its kind, was given a name. While it is now yours, and it is therefore your right to change, I will tell you that I named it "Kate." This was the name given to the first collared slave my Master personally freed, and it was in her honor that I named the weapon. It is my hope that it will continue to liberate those suffering a fate such as Kate's. Should this war come to an agreeable end, it is my fondest hope that you will employ her in the taking or destruction of slave-bound ships, and that you do so as often as is practicable.
In some ways, this weapon represents a greater trust in you than even the supply of cannons to Admiral Nora. You think yourself stained by dishonor, a failure to two peoples.
I do not.
If you cannot trust yourself, let this weapon be the proof of my trust in you. Beneath it lies a brief set of instructions on its use and care. Acquaint yourself well with it, for I intend it to save your life.
Ignite reverently set the revolver down on his lap, lifting the scabbard out of the case. It was made of finely oiled leather, stitched with thick threads that looked as if they would last a century before snapping. Beside it lay a brass tube topped by a small funnel, a set of six replacement sparking crystals, and a bag of a hundred lead balls. He dusted aside the last of the straw, searching for the instructions Evie's letter had mentioned.
He couldn't help but laugh. The sound echoed oddly in the orlop deck, for it had been long indeed since he had last heard his own laughter. Evie's 'brief' instructions were no less verbose than the 'blunt' letter which proceeded them. Twenty or so sheets of parchment were tied together with twine, written front-and-back in dense, sprawling text. It was practically a treatise on the care, employment, and design of firearm pistols. He was thankful he had practiced his skill at reading the Continental language, else it would have taken him the next month to parse all she had written for him.
Up above, he could hear the frantic preparations of the fleet continuing onward. Admiral Nora was desperately reversing course from her raiding of the Sporaton coastline, feverish in her desire to reach the capital before the Sporaton Navy could take advantage of the city's absent defenses. Nearly every word out of her mouth that wasn't an order to her crew had been some variation of cursing, most often directed towards Sara's rashness, and though it had been several hours since she had received news of the Tulian Army's abandonment of the capital, her fury showed no signs of abating.
Ignite, as First Sergeant, had little to do with the preparations. That was sailor's work. And so he settled into his seat, bringing a lantern closer as he began to inspect the weapon Evie provided him. For the first time in weeks, months, he felt a small smile slipping onto his face.
For so long, he had thought himself the remnant of an old world, a Marine born fighting in an era that was soon to fade to mere memory. He battled with sword and shield, trusting his armor to absorb the blows of iron and steel. Lead and powder were foreign things to him, the tools of a different, newer generation.
He pulled the hammer back on the revolver, listening to its quiet, satisfying click.
The world was changing. Ignite would change with it.
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Sara
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The wind was dead. The air sat lifelessly over the field, the yellowed grass limp and exhausted. The only movement in the distant jungle trees came from the birds which hopped from limb to limb, rarely flying, seeking deeper, cooler pools of shade.
Yet on the field before them, the land writhed. Thousand of bodies gathered themselves across a span of two miles, milling boots crushing the dead grass to dust. Sara had just crested the last hill before the Sporatons, finally bringing them into sight, and had ordered a halt as she sat high in Trot's saddle, spyglass pressed to her eye. The field of battle that Graf had chosen was a valley in miniature, a two-mile swathe of flat ground set between two large hills, each stretching perhaps three-quarters of a mile wide. The terrain between the two hills varied only slightly, rising no more than a handful of feet at a time. Nothing that would matter over the course of a battle. This was one of the largest open expanses Sara had seen in Tulian, one where the jungle trees were only sparsely scattered at the very edges of the slight valley as a thin, freshly grown treeline. It would provide little shelter for her troops even if she managed to draw the Sporatons towards it. If battle was met in the middle of the valley, no side would benefit from terrain, while either hill would provide an ideal place to make a defensive stand.
Through the lens of the Carrion masterpiece Nora had gifted her, the details of the Royal Army leapt into stark relief. Across two miles, even the magically enhanced spyglass couldn't make out individual faces, but she could get the gist of the formations on display.
The enemy's presentation was as she expected. Twelve thousand soldiers, eight thousand of them divided into tight rectangles of two hundred. The bulk of their number were aligned across the middle of a large hill, backs against its slope, content to wait patiently for Sara's approach. Before them, appearing far greater in number due to their spread, though only numbering half that of the spears, were the loosely arranged archers. Until a few short moments ago, many of them had been sitting on their haunches in the grass, their light gambesons removed and draped over their head, providing mediocre shelter from the blazing sun. Her army's emergence had been a kick to their anthill, the blare of bugles and rattling snap of drums sending the archers scrambling to their feet, donning what little protection they were afforded.
The cavalry were nowhere in sight.
Sara lowered her spyglass, handing it to Evie, who stood beside Trot.
"It's a textbook formation," Sara said. "Exactly what we expected."
"So it would seem," Evie said, peering through the glass for herself. After a moment, she snapped it shut, returning it to Trot's saddlebag. "That is concerning."
Sara grunted her agreement. The picturesque formation on that distant hill was an exemplary rendition of what exactly should be done by any commander placed in the Royal Army's tactical and strategic position. With forewarning of an approaching enemy, Graf had arranged his troops with their backs to favorable terrain, the blocks of spears arranged in a neat semi-circle on the hill, as if ready to embrace the archers before them.
By the textbook, the bows would loose shots as rapidly as was practical during Sara's approach, afforded greater range by their forward positioning, only to melt away through the gaps between spear blocks the moment they came under actual threat from Sara's onrushing halberdiers. The spears would then pour down the hill– because high ground was anything but advantageous in a melee fight– and use that momentum to slam into Sara's troops, arresting her charge. The Sporaton archers would then have a height advantage from atop the hill, safe behind a wall of spears, allowing them to launch volley after volley over the heads of friendly troops. Arrows would rain into the deepest core of Sara's army, and all the while the spears blocks, which far outnumbered Sara's halberdiers, would creep around the flanks, steadily enveloping her. Though they certainly could, they would not fully enclose her army. They would leave a small avenue of escape at the rear, so that her troops would know that breaking and running was always an option. The moment they did, however, Sporaton cavalry would thunder out from its hiding place behind the hill, cutting down her fleeing troops with impunity.
It was exactly, to the tee, what should be done. Sara had studied endless manuscripts at Evie's behest, and had she been in Graf's position, her army would have been taken up a carbon copy formation.
"What are we missing?" Sara asked.
"I don't know," Evie replied. "I doubt we will know until the trap is sprung."
"That's a formation built to crush a charge. But we obviously aren't going to charge. We have artillery. Graf has to know that."
"Of course. His presentation of this formation is clearly trying to misdirect us."
"But to do what?" Sara asked. "He knows you're with me, and he knows you're smart. We aren't going to fall for that. So why bother trying to set the trap?"
"Presenting a more obvious trap to obscure the true danger, I can only surmise."
"Well it's fucking working. I don't know what he's planning."
"Neither do I."
Sara swore under her breath. She lifted her communication crystal, ordering the army's Lieutenants and Colonels to gather.
As she waited, she ordered the rest of her army to remain behind the hill. She knew the Night's Eye were with the enemy, including Sen, the famed scout Evie had once dueled. The dead grass was no more than knee height at its tallest, but that hardly mattered. Sara could only assume she was being watched at all times, some Skill keeping the elite mercenaries from being spotted. That said, she wasn't going to just sit her entire army in plain sight of the enemy. She kept them behind the hill, affording herself at least the illusion of stealth.
It took only a few minutes for the army's command staff to arrive. She set up a simple covering in the meanwhile, a canvas pavilion just tall enough to provide shade while they spoke, but didn't bother with chairs or a table. The entire army could see them standing there, after all, and the common troops were baking in the sun. Shade was the only luxury she'd allow herself.
The discussion with her commanders proved less than productive. More than half of them had been suitably tricked by Graf's positioning, taking the trap at face value, and hadn't even considered that it was a double-bluff. Those few that had seen through the ploy still didn't know what to do about it. Lieutenant Shale, shockingly, suggested a prolonged artillery bombardment to begin the battle, as she had for every conflict, problem, or mild inconvenience the army had ever faced since she had first gotten her hands on the cannons. Colonel Targ, Voth's old army buddy, wanted to try limited hit-and-run tactics, sending a selection of muskets up to unleash a volley or two before retreating, hopefully springing the trap with minimal risk to the greater army. Colonel Elase, surprisingly, wanted to march directly in. She was confident that the Tulian infantry were superior enough that, even outnumbered four-to-one, they'd come out on top in a direct melee conflict. She was alone in that thought, however, and Sara didn't want to take that kind of risk.
"The problem," Sara explained to Elase, "is the enemy Knights. Yes, our regular infantry might be able to kill four conscripts for every one they lose, but there's no way they can stand up to a Knight, and Evie and I can't be everywhere at once."
"Which is why we need to blow them to pieces from a mile out," Shale said for the dozenth time. "We have enough powder to keep up the barrage through the night, General. Nothing'll be standing after that."
"Not if they just stood there and took it, no, but they sure as hell won't. If there's one thing Graf knows for certain we're going to try, it's artillery."
"So?" One of the Lieutenants spoke up. It was Lieutenant Leso, recently promoted from Sergeant. Most of the newer Lieutenants didn't have the guts to contribute during a meeting like this. Sara respected those who did. "They know we've got artillery," Leso continued, "but can they do anything about it?"
The assembled officers looked at one another, considering. Sara chewed her cheek. The Sporaton mages had demonstrated some limited shield spells, but that was it. One or two shots had always been enough to crack them. And Sara's spyglass hadn't seen any specialized siege equipment, like enchanted ballistaes or the like, which may have been capable of replying to the cannons.
"Good point, Lieutenant," Sara said. She scanned the officer's expressions. "I don't see any reason why attempting a barrage could cause problems. Is everyone in agreement?"
Shale opened her mouth.
"We know, Shale."
The artillery Lieutenant slowly closed her mouth as a chuckle circled its way around the pavilion. No protests were raised, and so the order went out. Sara and several of the other Evie-trained Irregulars joined the cannoneers as they began to roll the cannons forward, first struggling up the hill with them, then throwing their entire weight against them as they threatened to race down the slope to to their destruction.
They had just finished inspecting the cannon's carriages for damage when a shout drew Sara's attention, one of the cannoneers pointing towards the enemy army. Sara's heart leapt into her throat, fears of a sudden cavalry charge filling her. Then she recognized the flag of parley, and a new fear took hold of her.
An absolutely massive white flag was being trotted out from the Sporaton Army, easily visible even from two miles away. Sara snatched up her spyglass, trying to soothe the shaking adrenaline that the shouts had raised in her.
"There's only one person," she whispered. Evie turned toward her, head cocked.
"One? Who?"
"Who else?"
She watched the elderly Graf walk across the field, thick flag pole clutched in one hand. He was dressed in his battered armor, sword at his waist, but his helmet was nowhere to be seen. He walked with a straight back and easy gait, as if he were strolling through a peaceful garden. The distance between the famed mercenary and her army slowly closed.
Sara licked her lips. Looked at the cannons. Shale caught her gaze, a silent question in her eyes.
Sara's attention flicked down to Evie, who was watching Graf approach. Her tail swiped side to side, ears twitching rapidly. Even Sara couldn't place the expression on her face.
Sara looked back up at Shale and subtly shook her head. The woman nodded, unsurprised, and bent back to preparing the cannons.
"Are you going to be alright?" Sara whispered.
Evie's tail continued to swipe.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
She remained silent.
"Okay," Sara murmured. "I'll handle most of the talking. But I'll follow your lead if you want me to."
She nodded.
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They met halfway between the two armies. A mile separated Sara from any hope of reinforcement, while the same distance separated Graf from any cover from cannon fire. It was a meeting on equal ground, but only in that any betrayal would end up with all involved dead. The mercenary could take Sara's head from her body with barely a twitch, but it would cost him his life. Shale had thirteen cannons aimed directly at him. Even Graf couldn't survive that, surely.
For Sara, it was the first time she had gotten a look at the mercenary in the full regalia of his time-worn armor. The steel breastplate he wore was deeply gouged in a dozen places, only the barest slivers of once-elegant engravings visible beneath the scars. His arms and legs were protected by the plainest of designs, absent any decoration or embellishment, though that didn't mean the equipment was poorly made. Rather, it was beautiful in its simplicity. The joints and folds slid over one another silently, the bare minimum of complexity required to ensure the mercenary's extremities were uniformly protected. The leather scabbard hanging from his hip was discolored and stained, more appropriate for a lonesome bandit than a renowned general, but the pommel which rose from it was... different.
Graf's sword seemed stark, somehow. It caught Sara's attention and didn't let go. It was as if the weapon were more... present, perhaps, than that which surrounded it. More real. If all the world was a painting rendered in gentle watercolor, the sword of Graf Urs was a slash of dark ink, asserting, no, demanding a place in the foreground of reality. She didn't know what the weapon was, what had gone wrong to allow such a thing to exist, but even the sight of it stirred felt a deep, primal fear. She knew, somehow, that if that sword was drawn, the world would be a worse place for it.
Sara tore her eyes away, forcing it from her mind.
Graf stopped within ten yards of Sara and Evie, impaling the flag of parley into the soil. Sara searched the air around him for disturbances, wondering if he had any invisible guards. She didn't know if such a thing was possible, but if she were to encounter it for the first time, she expected now would be the moment. She noticed nothing, which didn't reassure her.
"Champion," Graf said. "Lady Evie."
"Commander Graf," Sara replied.
The moment stretched. Evie shifted in place, weight sliding from foot to foot. Sara didn't look away from Graf to see her expression, but through the collar's bond, she knew it was one of many, many emotions.
"This battle does not need to happen," Graf eventually said.
Sara's eyebrows rose. "You picked an interesting time to say something like that."
"Privacy is a scarce commodity in a King's army. My opportunities to pass a message were few, and sadly, I unknowingly squandered them."
"Not flawless after all then, are you?"
Graf smiled sadly. "Of course not, as you should know. I expect dear Evie has provided you a record of my life's battles."
"You've lost before." Sara looked back at her army, a thin line on a distant hill, and then to the swarm of Sporaton troops behind Graf. "But not like this."
"I have never fought weapons such as yours, either."
Sara did not immediately reply. The air was still stale and lifeless, and beneath her black armor, she was pouring sweat. A breeze would have been a godsend.
"Why are you encouraging me?" She asked. "You say you don't want to fight, and then you assure me my victory is possible. That's a poor way to convince your opponent to retreat."
"I've grown too old for dithering." Graf put a hand on the parley flag, resting some of his weight against it, glancing backward. "Leave the politics to the nobility. You've earned Lady Evie's trust, Champion. I'll speak the truth with you."
Sara squinted slightly. Mulled it over. She believed him.
"Alright," she said. "Why avoid the fight?"
"Because thousands will die. Why else? I've no more taste for spilling blood than you."
"I've read your life's story, Graf. It didn't strike me as the tale of a pacifist."
"Pacifists are fools," he replied immediately. "They are idealists who would rather see their own throats cut than admit their error. I've killed a great many pacifists, Sara Brown." He took a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were less hard. Sad. "But I respect them dearly. And in my most foolish dreams, I imagine a day when their kind rules the world."
Sara couldn't help it. She laughed. "Really? You respect them? I sure as hell don't. I never have." She looked up at the Royal Army, where thousands of faces were staring at the small exchange of words. "Out with it, then. Why shouldn't I fight?"
Graf's jaw clenched. "I have already said why. Because thousands will die. Because blood will be spilled that did not need to be spilled. Because this foolish war, which has thus far claimed so few, will become something worse. Grudges will fester, debts will be incurred. Your nation will grow, and with it will your enemies. For the first time in decades, Champion, Sporatos will have a threat on its border. Wars will sprout from this moment like the petals of a poison vine."
Sara leaned back on her heels, absorbing Graf's words. It wasn't what she'd expected from the man. That was rare.
"And if I surrendered?" She asked. "If I let the King march into Tulian, let him raise his banner over the walls? What then, Graf? The people I have fostered will return to their suffering. The progress I've made, the lives I've worked to build for them, it will be gone."
"But they will be alive." He took a step forward, expression drawing inward with intensity. "They will go home to their husbands and wives, to their children. They will live to see a new dawn, their return to the Embrace of the Gods delayed for as long as they may please."
"Why are you a mercenary?" Sara asked. "If that's your goal, if keeping people alive is what you're here for, why do this? Why spend your entire life fighting, killing? Surely you're not that much of a hypocrite."
"Because I do not fight with honor," he said simply. His face hardened yet further. "Because the wars that I involve myself in end. They do not become squalid affairs, years of siege and marching, disease ripping through the populace. I do not bear grudges, nor swear vengeance, nor seek battle for battle's sake. And when I kill, I kill because I am better at it than they are. When I take a city in days, slaughtering the defenders to a man, it is because others would have taken months. They would have burned the fields, bombarded the walls, taken prisoners and executed dissidents. Instead, I crush them utterly. The war is won, and life continues."
"Merciful violence," Sara scoffed. "How honorable."
"I am no fool," Graf snapped. "I know better than to think like some petty Knight. I've rejected more Knighthoods than you can dream. When you announced this war would be fought without chivalry, without honor, I rejoiced. It is as wars should be fought. Had the King given me control of the army from the start, I would have overwhelmed your forces, shocked them into surrender, and in doing so spared as many as I could. Now it has gone too far. There is no simple victory to be found. Only horrible, grinding slaughter."
Graf's words grew ever sharper as he spoke, his face twisting into a jagged scowl. Seeming to realize this, he paused to take a deep breath, gathering himself, then continued in a more even tone.
"Please, Lady Sara. Surrender. Or if that is too unpalatable, flee. I will convince them your retreat is a trap. You will have time to reach your city and evacuate. However it is done, please, do not make our peoples suffer."
Sara barked a sad, incredulous laugh. "If I left them to your King, they would suffer anyway." She shook her head, looking away from Graf. "You're smart, Graf. Hell, you're a genius. You were born a peasant, too, and no amount of forged lineage changes that. Do you really think they deserve to live like this? With Lords and Ladies breathing down their neck, treating them like disposable tools?"
"I–"
"How many times in your life have you seen them starve, Graf?" Sara asked, bowling over his words. "How many times have you seen the rich stay fat and happy while their people wasted away? How many times have you seen the people tending fields of flax and silk with gaunt faces, their ribs pressing against their skin? How many times have you passed someone on the street, head hung low, hands in their air as they beg for a single coin from those that have thousands? How often have you–"
"Enough!" Graf bellowed. He took another step forward, jabbing his finger at her. "Do not lecture me, girl, on the miseries of the world! You are a child! You speak of starvation, of injustice, but I have seen so, so much worse. I have seen horrors that you cannot fathom! I have seen bodies bent and broken by foul magics, the perpetrators walking free, heads held high. I have watched helplessly as the light faded from the eyes of the innocent, their minds robbed of all which made them human, and I have cut down the monster that emerged! I have seen the seas boil, flesh falling from the bones as screams, endless screams filled the hissing skies, and I have been cursed to hear them again and again every time I close my eyes! I have seen things that made the gods weep, girl. Do not presume you can lecture me on the agonies of the world."
Sara didn't back down. She moved forward, matching Graf step for step.
"Then why fight?" She all but yelled. "Why do this now? Step down, refuse command. I'll win! We both know it. The King doesn't understand the power that these guns give me, but you do. You're their only hope of stopping me. If all you want is for the war to end, why are you doing this?"
"Because I have seen what happens when a King is denied his prize, Champion," Graf hissed. "Because I have seen the wars that tumble on and on, one after the other, as grudges deepen and wounds fester. This is but a paltry offering of what the King could have brought to bear. He has tens of thousands more peasants, thousands more Knights, and the wealth of a Kingdom to be brought to bear! What will you do when ten times this number bears down on you? What will you do when you face not five hundred Knights, but five thousand? How many nobles have your guns killed, Champion? Dozens? Hundreds? They had families! Families with power, authority! And now they despise you. Do you really think this will be the end? That one war will decide it all?"
"I don't care if it does or not." Sara felt herself growing frenzied, irrational, but she didn't fight it. "I'll fight as many battles as it takes. I'll spill as much blood as they bring me. I'll drown them in it. The lives those so-called-peasants live, it isn't a life at all. It isn't right. The agonies of my home were a luxury compared to what they suffer, and even then I fought. With all I've seen, with all I've done, do you really think I could just lie down and accept that fate?"
"And what will you provide them instead?" Graf spat. "I have learned of your plans. Of a Republic ruled not just by the elite, but by every person, every citizen. Have you any idea how you will achieve such a thing?" Graf's scoffed in disbelief. "I have fought for the merchant republics. I have seen their democracy. It is a useless, awful affair. They fight and squabble over trivialities, ignore what matters to the people in light of what matters to them. They can coordinate nothing, save for lining their own pockets, and they collapse as often as they rise."
"Better chaos than tyranny!"
"When your system crumbles and the riots began, I implore you to walk out into the streets, to look a trampled, dying child in the eyes and say the same thing. I doubt you will have the stomach for it."
"At least the child will have had a chance!" Sara roared. She didn't know when it had happened, but she realized she had closed the distance to Graf, standing within arm's length. "King or Queen, peasant or Lord, there is no difference. They all deserve a palace, and if I can't give that to them, at least I'll give them a home. Say you're right, Graf. Say Tulian is doomed to chaos! Is that really so different to a Kingdom? I would rather be lost on the merciless sea than chained under a torturer's blade."
"And you know what?" Sara threw an arm behind her, towards the army. "The people agreed! I told them what they're here for, what they're fighting for. I told them the risks, I warned them that everything I hoped for may fail. And look! They're standing with me! How can you deny that? How can you pretend that there isn't a chance for something better here?"
Graf's teeth ground, the muscles of his jaw jumping beneath his leathery skin. He opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it closed, visibly composing himself. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice lowered from the shouting match that they had both been reduced to.
"I pretend nothing. If what you say is true, if your hope is not a passing dream, I will rejoice. I will applaud your success, and implore others to follow in your footsteps. But I have seen far too many failures to trust it. I have seen rebellions lead by charming demagogues, powerful men and women who promise the peasants everything you have and more. I have been hired by them, fought for them, and I have won their wars. And when they have taken the throne, I have watched as they returned to what you call tyranny. I have watched power coil in their fist as inevitably as a boulder rolls down a hill. A tyrant always emerges, Champion. Perhaps you are truly virtuous. Perhaps it won't be you. But one will rise, and your people will fall under their sway. And all the lives lost this day will be for naught."
Graf ran a hand through what remained of his wispy hair, blinking the sweat from his eyes. "I cannot allow that risk. I will fight for the King, because this battle must be decided as soon as possible. If I know it is lost, I will retreat that very moment. I implore you to do the same. It is the only mercy that we may offer our troops."
"I'm sorry. But we'll fight to the end."
Graf breathed in slowly, deeply. Looked up and away. He let the breath out. Nodded. "So you will."
Sara stepped back. Graf's face turned down, towards Evie. The feline looked at him, motionless. Her ever-twitching tail lay still, her ears frozen.
"You will command from the rear, right?" Evie asked. Her voice was quiet, pleading.
Graf smiled sadly. "I will, dear. I have no intention of dying this day."
"It... it may not matter," Evie said. "Will you be shielded, at least?"
"No. The mage's shields must protect the troops. Not me."
"One can be spared for your sake," she insisted. "You are valuable. It makes sense to protect you, tactically and strategically. There is no need to feed your pride by exposing yourself to danger."
"I am doing no such thing. It is for the morale of the troops that I will not steal their protection. They will fight all the harder for my risk."
Evie moved ahead of Sara, standing before Graf. Barely a breath separated them.
Evie suddenly lunged forward, wrapping her arms around the grizzled mercenary. Graf stood immobile for a moment, shocked. He had to be aware that the King was watching him, had been watching this entire exchange.
With gentle, halting caution, he wrapped his arms around Evie, returning the embrace. The feline lifted her head, speaking in a soft whisper.
Sara hastily turned away as she forced her Blessings off, deafening herself to their words. This wasn't her conversation to hear.
Graf tucked his chin down into Evie's head, murmuring something back. They held each other for no longer than a minute, speaking to one another in gentle mumbles.
Then Evie released Graf, and after only a moment's hesitation, he released her. The mercenary lifted his head to look at Sara, blinking his eyes hard.
"She trusts you," Graf said.
"I know."
"You will live up to her expectations."
"If it's the last thing I do."
"Good."
And with that, Graf Urs, Commander of the Night's Eye, General of the Royal Army, picked up his flag of parley and walked away. Evie returned to Sara's side, eyes red. They said nothing to one another.
Behind them, the armies stirred.
Chapter 100: Apex
Chapter Text
Sara's army of three thousand rose like a wave over the hill. The yellowed grass was drowned under a tide of silver steel, the dull iron of musket barrels bouncing with every step. Beside them rose the high, glittering heads of halberds. The soldiers had discarded the rest of their kits on the far side of the hill, dropping them where they had stood, so the weight of halberd and musket was easier to handle. Either the enemy would break, and they could return to retrieve them at their leisure, or they would never need them again.
No one seemed particularly concerned about this.
Standing against them was an unwavering wall of brown and tan. In the short time since Graf had taken control of the army, he had already begun efforts to improve their equipment. There was nothing close to a uniform, not yet, but near every soldier at least wore a brown or tan smock over their gambesons. They each wore kettle helms and basic gauntlets, clunky metal things that looked like militant mittens, but that was it. If it weren't for their teeming numbers, she wouldn't have felt the slightest fear about her army's chances.
But they did have the numbers. They outnumbered her force four-to-one. And they were being led by a commander who had nothing in his mind but absolute, uncompromising victory.
Sara joined the teams at the center of her army, lashed to a cannon like a beast of burden. Only the Napoleons got the honor of horses to pull them; the rest were dragged onward by teams of sweating soldiers. They took to the task with an eagerness almost baffling, as if they didn't even feel the leather biting into their skin or the sun bearing down on them.
Sara did. She looked up into the blue sky, searching. There wasn't a cloud in sight, and it wasn't yet noon. It was going to be a long, brutal day.
Her attention was drawn back forward as the horde of Sporaton soldiers rippled in place, some word being passed through their number. She mentally checked the range, and realized they'd just passed the furthered reach of the 3-Inch Ordnance Rifle. That meant that Graf, somehow, was aware of at least the new weapon's range, and had warned the troops of it. She didn't know how that was possible.
She expected that would be a common complaint in the coming battle.
To her mild shock, her forces were allowed to cover half the distance between the two armies unmolested. She called for a halt with the Sporatons still a mile away, the entire force an indistinguishable mash of shifting colors at such a range.
Why let me do this? She wondered as the cannons were rolled forward. The caissons were detached from the carriages, ammunition brought forward, and still the Royal Army held their ground. Is it a trap? Does he want me to open fire? Should I order them to hold their fire?
No. I'm not going to let him get into my head that bad.
Her entire army watched the cannons as they were prepared. Many bent their head and murmured prayers. Amarat, unsurprisingly, was the deity most commonly entreated, in the form of requests to bolster the resolve of the Tulian forces while weakening the hearts of the Sporatons. But there were also requests made of Daylagon, Otarion, and others. Sara had never interacted much with the rest of the pantheon, or religion in general. She'd had too much else on her mind. As she heard her troop's fervent pleading, she wondered if that was a mistake. The only thing better than a god on your shoulder, after all, was another god at their side.
Artillery Lieutenant Shale stomped up to Sara with a dangerous gleam in her eye, snapping off a sharp salute.
"Cannons made ready, ma'am."
Sara spent one last moment thinking things over. Wondering why Graf was allowing this. Wondering if she should change her plans. Anxiety gnawed at her, acid and bile clawing at her throat.
Oh, fuck it all.
"Fire as you–"
No sooner had the first word left Sara's mouth than did the entire artillery battery erupt with a cataclysmic thunderclap, drowning Sara in a powder fog. Eight cannoneers ripped the string from their chosen weapons, releasing the projectiles which shrieked through the air with a horrid wail. She could track the shots of the Napoleons, round balls slicing through the air as the wind caught and slowed them, but not the tapered bolts of the Ordnance Rifles. Those kept their speed as they zipped onward, invisible, far outpacing their ponderous cousins.
In the same instant the cannons fired, slate-gray shields flickered into being across the Sporaton army, sheltering every soldier under a multiplicity of angled plates. The ordnance rifle's lead slugs whipped into the shields with a spray of otherworldly light, gouges rent from the shields as if they weren't magical constructs, but physical barriers. Chips of flickering light spun up into the air as weightless shrapnel, hanging in the air like eery fireworks before fading away. No casualties had been suffered by the enemy, but the Tulian army broke out into a ragged cheer all the same.
"AGAIN!" Shale roared.
The cannoneers were already in motion, rolling the cannons back into position. Every shot had struck at least somewhere in the Sporaton formation, none falling short or flying over, but that wasn't good enough for Lieutenant Shale.
"Ordnance Rifles, place your shots on the center of those fucking plates! Napoleons, skip fire, blow it up under their goddamn skirts!"
Sara watched as the cannoneers adjusted their aim, the Ordnance Rifles shifting to the left and right, the Napoleons lowering their barrels. Shale had drilled her crews well, unsurprisingly. It wasn't even thirty seconds before another volley tore out from the cannons, slightly more ragged, but just as effective.
A second spray of rainbow light ripped itself from the gray shields as the Ordnance Rifles struck home, but this time Sara's attention was drawn towards the 12-pounders. She watched through her spyglass as one cannonball impacted the dirt just before the blocks of shielded spears, only to recoil up and away, skimming beneath the shield to tear a ragged line through the Sporaton formation. Ruby mist sprayed as a dozen men and women were cut down in a surreally precise line, their blood erupting upward to coat the underside of the shield. At this distance, her spyglass let her see the way chunks of ragged flesh clung to the artificial ceiling, only to slowly peel away, gore dripping down in fat chunks onto the head and shoulders of those who had survived.
"Good shot," Sara murmured. Because what else was there to say? It was horrific. And it was exactly what she'd wanted.
The third volley tore through the air without reply from the Sporaton forces, other than the way the frontmost rank of magical shields tilted further forward, pressing up against the dirt, to prevent the bouncing cannonballs from tearing through as they had a moment ago. It was an impressive reaction, Sara had to admit. Only one cannonball had succeeded in bouncing under the shields, yet every mage responded as one, preventing it from happening again.
But even with that being said, the Sporaton Army continued to sit there and take the abuse. As the third volley turned into the fourth, then the fifth, Sara's mind raced. Without wind to carry away the sulfurous smoke, it was growing almost impossible to see the enemy from the perspective of the cannons, which were drowned in a growing fogbank. She had to move a dozen yards away from the cannons just to keep her eyes on the Sporaton army, which continued to passively sit under the barrage. Why? What was the game here? The new mage-shields were more effective, that was certain, but they wouldn't last forever. The trenches the cannonballs tore in their skin were being repaired, but at the cost of the greater whole; every time the shields repaired themselves, their width shrunk, thin gaps opening in the protection of the army. It was only a matter of time before Shale would be free to lob rounds into those gaps with impunity, and when the shields were properly porous, she could switch the Napoleons to explosive shot. If the Sporatons just stood there and took it, the battle would be decided by artillery alone.
After the sixth volley, the shields briefly flickered out of existence, only to reappear an instant later. The mages had re-cast their spells, refreshing the shields so that they were sturdy and whole.
That was the final clue that managed to worm its way through Sara's idiotic density. This wasn't Graf's tactics on display. This was politics. The King's cultist advisor had invented their fancy new shield, and wanted to prove to the King that it would be enough to nullify the advantages of Sara's cannons. They were trying to prove that firearms weren't necessary, that Sara's warning of an armed peasantry was nothing more than a fairy-tale, because mages could defeat their advantages. Desperate to believe it, the King had overruled Graf, allowing the mages to show off the fruits of their labor. No doubt he hoped that Sara would abandon the artillery barrage in favor of a more standard advance, where his numbers could be brought to bear.
Sara felt a wicked grin slide up her cheeks. Graf had to be going fucking insane over there.
Not so fond of Kings right now, are you?
"Lieutenant Shale!" Sara had to yell to be heard over the deafness the cannons induced. Her voice sounded warped and muffled in her ears. "Forget trying to get around the shields! Focus everything on one mage, break 'em down!"
The artillery Lieutenant gave Sara a strange look, but didn't question the order. She marched up and down the line of cannons, directing their fire towards a single target, occasionally tearing one of the lead cannoneers off their weapon to adjust its screws herself. The next volley was delayed while Shale ensured the shots were well-aimed, but not overly so.
"Stagger fire!" Shale bellowed. "Ordnance Rifles, one second delay!"
Sara didn't recognize that order.
"Fire!"
The Napoleons barked, carriages leaping backward, and a second later, the Ordnance Rifles joined them, a white fog once more clogging the air. Sara realized what Shale was doing as she watched the 12-pound balls crash into a mage's shield in the same instant the Ordnance Rifle's lead slugs caught up, all eight projectiles impacting within a fraction of a second.
The gray shield visibly warped under the force of the blow, rigidity failing. It twisted and buckled like a sheet of laminated paper, a flash of shimmering colors racing across its skin before it abruptly, violently shattered. The force of the shield's failure was so great that Sara heard it even over the ringing in her ears, a sound like tearing cloth and shattering glass echoing over the field of battle. Fortunately for the soldiers beneath it, the bulk of the resulting explosion was directed upward, but not all of it. Sara watched several tendrils of magical force scythe downward into the soil, whiplike lines of energy tearing limbs from bodies.
"Again!" Shale bellowed. "Target next shield left, staggered fire, one second delay!"
The cannoneers never got the chance. It wasn't five seconds after the first shield failed that every other gray plate vanished, some predetermined order taking effect. The entire Sporaton army had been waiting for the moment, when Graf's point was proven, and he was finally handed the reins. The army ground into motion as one cohesive mob, drums and bugles signaling the advance.
It was breathtaking.
The army unfolded from its mock formation like the spiraling leaves of a blooming flower, every step of every soldier placed with a painter's precision. The fact that it was seen out by half-trained, illiterate, unmotivated troops didn't hamper it. In fact, Graf's orders, clearly prepared well before the battle, anticipated it all. He had given every block of spears just the right amount of space to maneuver, just the right margin of error so that they didn't collide with their fellow soldiers, and despite the complexity of the dance, it was working. The curved ranks of spears advanced at varied rates, some jogging forward, others barely crawling, and for a moment Sara allowed herself the vain hope that it was an uncoordinated mess, but that lasted only until the lines suddenly snapped taut, their old arrangement abandoned, replaced by a single unbroken wall. They fell down the hill with the inevitability of a grinding glacier, churning the earth to mud beneath their boots.
And before them, simultaneously, the dispersed archers began to seemingly meander through the grass, all of them looking at their feet as they walked. Searching for something. One by one, slowly at first, then quicker as others realized their fellows had found their mark, the once-scattered formation collapsed into thin rows. Sara swallowed bile as they formed their impossibly neat lines. She was forced to realize that Graf had set some kind of marker in the grass, giving the archers a reference on the featureless field for where they should stand, and he'd done it well before she'd arrived. Stones, she assumed. Something that she couldn't see or anticipate from a distance. Judging by the way the archers were arranged and how little they had to shift to let the spears pass them by, he'd guessed exactly, to the very yard, where she was going to place her army.
The spears didn't break their stride as they passed the archers, and when the space was cleared, the lightly equipped archers filed in behind, sheltered behind the armor of their fellows.
"Keep firing!" Sara yelled to Shale, as if the order needed to be made. The cannons continued to bark, their volleys growing increasingly haphazard as the gunners inevitably fell out of sync. There was a mob of twelve thousand bearing down on them. They were firing as fast as their bodies could allow. The halberdiers nearest them cheered them on.
Sara counted the enemy's steps, tapping it out on her armored thigh. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. Twenty steps every ten seconds. They were marching at the double, as fast as anyone could expect a group of half-trained troops to maintain any kind of organization. If they kept at it through the entire advance, they might cover a mile's distance in little more than fifteen minutes.
The once-neat face of their lines was wavering as they lost a measure of cohesion to the pace of their advance, however. Maybe they would have to slow. She doubted it. Graf wanted them out from under the guns as soon as possible, and no doubt throught the stuttering of their formation was worth it.
Sara had to agree. The artillery had already tallied a butcher's bill in the hundreds, and with every volley, dozens were added to the score.
But if she'd thought Graf was just going to stand there and take it, she'd never have made it this far in life. So she wasn't shocked when a sharp blast of bugles sounded from within the Sporaton ranks, a quick burst of three. The first and second rank of spears continued onward, maybe even speeding up slightly, while the third rank on drew to a halt. Shale started to order the cannons to adjust their aim, grinning viciously at the thought of a static target, but before she finished giving the command, the bugles sounded once more. This time it was a brief tap of two, and at the sound, the third and fourth ranks lurched forward, resuming the advance. A moment later, another two, and a moment after that, yet another.
Sara realized what they were doing in an instant. She had no cavalry, not like the enemy did. No matter how weak their formation was, she couldn't risk charging out to take advantage, because it was a certainty that the Sporaton cavalry would roar out in answer, sweeping aside her disorganized troops. The ranks of spears were therefore free to spread themselves thin, two rows at a time.
The effect on the artillery barrage was obvious. Instead of a scythe ripping through ten or more soldiers at once, each cannonball took away one or two, bouncing up and over the heads of the second row without effect. Occasionally the skipping projectile would be on a flat enough trajectory to bounce through two or three of the dispersed ranks, but that was more due to luck than anything else. The rolling terrain was varied enough that there was no predicting the exact way they would bounce, no replicating the ideal shots.
"Load explosive shell!" Shale roared, a moment before Sara was about to give the same order. "Lead cannoneers, mark the range and cut the fuse for your loaders! I don't want to lose a single fucking second on these shots! Twenty five or the noose!"
"Twenty five or the noose!" The cannon crews called back, chanting it as a mantra.
Sara shot Shale an incredulous look, mouthing the words. Twenty five or the noose? Really?
The Lieutenant flashed a savage grin, unashamed. It works, don't it? She mouthed back.
Sara shook her head, turning away. If they lived through this battle, she'd have to make sure Shale wasn't actually threatening her cannoneers with execution for taking longer than twenty five seconds. She doubted it, but when it came to her cannons, Shale was... unpredictable. The burn marks on her lips proved that much.
Explosive shells began to crack over the heads of the enemy army, showering dirt, soil, and flesh with hot shrapnel. They'd covered half the distance by now, a half-mile from Sara's troops. No one else in her army could, but with her Blessings, Sara could now hear the screams. The explosive shells were almost worse to suffer than the solid cannonballs. At least when twelve pounds of iron scattered the pulped remains of your lungs across your closest friend's faces, it was over quickly.
She couldn't imagine what it was like for someone to get a three-inch long sliver of iron shot into deep the meat of their shoulder, so hot to the touch that for the first few instants it was lodged in their body, their blood literally boiled. Through her spyglass, she watched one woman suffer that very fate. She dropped to the ground with a hand over her shoulder, wailing and rolling on the ground as drops of deep, arterial red rolled down the front of her tunic. A man walking past her hesitated, leaning to inspect her wound. An iron sliver was sticking half out of her chest, blood leaping free in pulsing fountains. The man shook his head sadly. He held her down with a foot, face-up, and shoved the tip of his spear through her eye. She shuddered, then fell still. He wiped the iron free of gore on his pants leg, then hurried forward, retaking his place in the line.
"What I would fucking give for cavalry," Sara whispered. Evie, even with her feline ears stuffed with white cotton, flicked her attention up to Sara.
"Against weapons like ours, would unenchanted cavalry really be effective?"
"I don't know." Sara waved her sword at the scattered enemy. "Against that, though? It would be a slaughter."
"It already is." Evie sniffed the air. "The scent of iron is on the wind, Master. And it is not from the cannons. The fields of Tulian are being watered with blood."
"God help us," Sara muttered.
Evie looked askance at her, an expression Sara ignored. She had never been religious. Her father raised her explicitly atheist, in fact. But no matter how little faith someone might have, certain sentiments could only be expressed in certain ways. She still remembered being in a bar with her dad, not too long before she was torn away from her life to this new world. Their weekly outing had been interrupted by news coverage of cruise missiles raining down on Kiev. She'd been watching the little TV over the bartender's head with her dad, but she'd been detached, analytical. Wondering at the political implications, what it would mean for the world. She'd expected her dad, the military history buff, to be thinking the same. Then he'd murmured that phrase, quiet enough she'd barely heard it. God help us.
It had shocked Sara to hear. It was the first time in her life she'd heard the word "God" from him, at least without the name being twisted by sneering contempt. She'd turned back to the news, watching it in a different light, and been horrified with herself. That she'd ever seen rockets flying, buildings falling, and had thought anything other than God help us.
Evie pursed her lips, remaining silent. Sara could see that she wanted to object to Sara's empathy for the enemy, but the sentiment faltered before reaching her tongue. Sara was glad for that. Faced with something so horrific, it would have taken a monster not to feel something for the Sporaton troops.
Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, Sara found another emotion welling up in her.
Respect.
The troops of the Sporaton Army marched doggedly on, high-stepping over the corpses of those that had tread their same path but a few moments before. They had no shields to protect them, wood or magic, and many tucked their heads towards the cannonfire like they were walking into a stiff wind, as if the metal brim of their kettle helmets could protect them from the hail of shrapnel. But they kept walking forward. Sara didn't know if she had that in her, even now, even with all she'd done. True, they didn't have anywhere to run. The Tulian countryside was abandoned, the one city that could offer shelter overtly hostile. They were hundreds of miles from home. But still, even with all that, she found herself shocked more didn't flee. She'd never truly been in an army, never had to follow orders like a soldier did. Looking inward, sinking deep into her soul, she thought... she knew she would have broken. Run and fled. She might have justified it by trying to find a different way to attack, something less suicidal, but the fact remained that she didn't have what it would take to keep marching. Those Sporaton commoners, those so-called peasants, were braver than her.
It was a weakness she was going to ruthlessly exploit.
When the distance closed to only eight hundred yards, the slow, grinding pace changed. The battle began to shift, both sides realizing the moment was near.
"First Combat Engineers, forward!" Sara yelled, throwing her voice out over the field. The front ranks of her army stepped to the side as Shale's former command rushed to the front, their arms loaded high with wooden supplies. At the same moment, drums began to snap and rattle in the Sporaton lines, coded commands rolling out from wherever Graf was hidden.
Sara was once more struck with awe as the Sporaton army shifted. Even with their ranks so separated, each block of two hundred spears moved as one, spreading out across the field. From the start Sara had been outnumbered, easy to surround, but now she felt it. The Sporaton line widened, widened, and widened yet further, yawning open like the jaw of some great jungle beast.
But this, at least, she'd anticipated. In answer, Sara's own prepared orders took effect. The back half of the Tulian halberdiers broke off from their positions, sliding toward the left and right flanks, whichever was closest. Ten ranks deep was the standard, the ideal number with which a commander could cycle out the exhausted front lines, yet few enough that a single shouting voice could send the troops into a defensive square, warding off the menacing approach of cavalry with bristling weapons set into the soil. She didn't have that luxury here, however. If they were going to entirely surround her, she was going to at least make them work for it, goddamnit. With her ranks half as thick as the enemy's, she risked opening herself to a breakthrough, but she didn't have much of a choice.
The 1st Combat Engineers followed the expanding line, impaling a row of stakes in front of the halberdiers. Thin rows of improvised spikes were standard fare for protecting against cavalry, and Sara certainly hoped these would work to that effect, but they weren't purpose-built for it. These were thinner, more fragile variations, lashed together with every last scrap of rope and twine the quartermasters could scrounge from the increasingly-depleted Tulian capital. Unlike cavalry stakes, these were dense enough to hold off infantry, at least until the flimsy things were hacked to pieces, and they weren't the only thing the 1st Combat Engineers had prepared.
Graf's army, meanwhile, continued to spread wider. She realized it was a trick of the eye, yet Sara couldn't help but feel their numbers were somehow growing, the entire army swelling in size. She also realized for the first time that she could see no sign of Knights or Mages among their number. Every soldier was wearing the same brownish tunics and tabards, not a single suit of glittering armor to break the pattern.
Sara cursed herself. She should have realized they were disguised far sooner. It was why the Ordnance Rifles had been aiming for the Royal Army as a whole, rather than acting as snipers picking off the nobility. Shale had obviously noticed, but she hadn't said anything because she took it for granted that Sara would have as well. And she should have. She should have noticed. There was just too much for her to juggle, too much to keep in mind.
The Tulian army moved on, ignorant of their leader's struggles.
Notes:
Per a vote on the Discord (which was one vote away from a three-way tie) I'm uploading this half of the battle now, and will be sticking to a regular Sunday upload schedule. Sorry about the cliffhanger, but it's a damn long fight Sara has ahead of her.
Chapter 101: Mortal
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Ignite
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The cry of the lookout was shrill and warbling, the young woman's voice cracking as she tried her best to make sure every ship in the damn fleet heard her panicked cry.
"Sails on the horizon, two points off starboard! Six, seven, eight- more! Hard to get a proper count, Cap'n!"
The exhausted sailors of the Waverake were roused to life by the pronouncement, peeling themselves off the deck where they had fallen asleep but a few short hours before. It had been a frantic two day's journey back from their raiding, Admiral Nora managing every ship in the fleet as if she were personally standing at their helms. Most captains would have deeply resented such micromanagement, but not this force. They had made a near impossible pace under Nora's command, leagues slipping past as they were born south by the southernly trade winds. Yet still the quiet fear remained among every member of the crew. It was not tempered by their success over the enemy Magecraft, which had finally caught two cannonballs through its hull the night before, forcing it to retreat for repairs. They feared that they would be too late. That the Sporaton fleet, so often thought of yet never truly seen, had been lurking just up the coast from the capital's walls, the now-stricken Magecraft a clever feint.
That fear had risen and fallen as often as the waves beneath the ship, following the coming and going of news. Rumors and scuttlebutt were the way of a ship, and with the Admiral known to possess a crystal linked to Tulian, more than one idler had spent their off-hours sitting as near to the captain's cabin as they dared, hoping to be the first to share any news, even if it was of the city's fall. None had caught a word, but that didn't stop them from loudly proclaiming otherwise.
With the lookout's shriek, they now knew the truth of it: the Sporaton fleet had not been close enough to seize the city in their absence. But it had been a narrow thing. The sighting came with the fleet but a handful of leagues from Tulian's walls, mere hours of sailing left before they'd have reached safe harbor.
It would be a chase now. The wind was blowing directly astern, driving both fleets towards the city on as near to a direct course as could be asked for. Ignite did not know if they would reach the enemy fleet before they reached the city. Admiral Nora had altered her captured prize ships considerably, learning from the lines of the otherworldly USS Constitution, and he suspected there existed few ships (outside the Carrion Navy) whose sailing qualities were as fine. They were sturdy, steady vessels, their mixture of square and lateen sails dragging their now-coppered hulls through the water with a lively eagerness. However, in a chase such as this, oars were often the determining factor, something the gargantuan Waverake could not rely upon. She was purely beholden to the wind, which, while steady, was presently little more than eleven or twelve knots. She was a fine ship, but she was no magecraft. She couldn't outrun the wind which drove her.
Thankfully for Ignite, these abstract concerns weren't within his official purview.
"Marines to the spar deck!" He yelled, the words cracking over the growing chaos. "All Marines, action stations, armed and armored!"
The frantic flurry that was building on the Waverake's deck reached a fever pitch as his hundred Marines added their bodies to the press, some running for the belowdecks armory to equip their armor, those that had already been on duty instead breaking for the lockers which contained the vessel's muskets. Ignite reached this second position first, producing the enchanted key which would disarm the gunpowder bomb that waited just inside the thick door. Ignite did not approve of the trap, seeing as it was made by apprentice artificers who had first laid eyes on blackpowder a handful of months ago, but the Admiral had insisted.
He tossed the pike-muskets to each of the Marines as they approached, leaving them to grab a powder horn for themselves. After conferring with Gunner Balon, it had rather quickly been decided that throwing packets of blackpowder across a wooden deck should be considered poor practice.
When the Marines finished assembling on the forecastle, Ignite called out.
"Time!"
"Just under six minutes, sir!" Sergeant Madz barked, his orcish rumble carrying well over the shouting of the sailors.
"Acceptable, but room for improvement remains."
The Marines called out as one, slamming their heels together as they took up a formal rest position. "Sir, yes sir!"
Ignite stomped down the line with military formality, inspecting their kits with a dagger eye. Every Marine was equipped as he had ordered. They were protected by Carrion-inspired armor, not as protective as those of a landsman Knight's suit, yet far more practical for work on the heaving ocean. Each piece was attached loosely with leather straps, leaving gaps that, while easy to exploit, allowed a Marine to cut the armor free with a few quick slices of their obsessively-sharpened belt knife. They held the muskets at their shoulders, pike tips– bayonets, as Evie's letter had named them– gleaming wickedly above their heads. A powder horn dangled off each Marine's hip, a large leather pouch filled with paper cartridges sitting beside. Crucially, unlike any of the Tulian Army's soldiers, each Marine had been afforded a pistol which sat snugly off the hip opposite their ammunition. The wood-stocked flintlocks were hacked down to size from the smithing yard's rejects, muskets that had been determined too poorly built to be rifled as the Champion's decree had ordered. Their long-range deficiencies, worsened considerably once the things had been sawn in half, still left them perfectly adequate for the close quarters of a boarding action.
He eyed each of these weapons as he passed the soldiers, ensuring their maintenance had been performed as was proper. Evie's instructions had been precise, and he had disseminated heavily abridged copies of her instructions to each Marine. Many had joined the Navy illiterate, but rectifying this had been one of his first orders upon joining the Waverake. Literacy was a requirement of Carrion sailors one and all, and he intended to follow the best of his former people's practices.
He reached the end of the line and turned smartly on his heel, drawing in his breath. "Marines, load and stand ready! Sergeant Madz, keep them busy, run them through fire drills while the fleet closes. Sergeant Dal, task those not drilling with the spreading of sand across the spar deck."
The two sergeants snapped off salutes and sharp affirmations. Ignite moved toward the helm, to learn from the Admiral how she expected the engagement to progress, but was promptly stopped by Sergeant Dal appearing at his elbow, looking conflicted.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"About the sand, sir," he said. "I mentioned it just once before, but there's no need for it. Per the Cap'n's orders, that is. She has the firefighting foam the Champion made, y'see."
"The sand is not for fires, Sergeant," Ignite patiently explained. "It is for keeping our footing once the deck has been slicked by blood."
Sergeant Dal paled slightly, then took to his assigned task without another word.
The Admiral, predictably, was surrounded by a swarm of attendants. Ignite was not the only officer who needed to know the woman's plan for the upcoming engagement, and he was far from the most important amongst them.
Rather than address each officer's questions individually, Captain Nora took a step back from the crowd, silencing them all with a sweeping glare.
"We will attack the enemy in arrowhead formation, the Waverake at its tip. Once battle is met, confusion will reign, and whatever orders I give now will be rendered irrelevant in a matter of moments."
She locked eyes with the officers in turn, the mad cerulean sheen each of them knew so well suppressed by the stern set of her jaw.
"Our duty is to suffer all the blows that the rest of the fleet would not survive. The Waverake will engage as many of the enemy as is possible. She will engage them as often as possible, for as long as possible. We will attack their Magecraft, attack their mundane ships, attack their crews, attack their rigging and their hulls and every other aspect of their ships, and will continue this without cessation. We will do so with every weapon available to us, from cannons and muskets to sabers and pikes. We will be offered no quarter, and we will offer no quarter. We will fight until the end. You have no questions. Dismissed."
Ignite saluted and turned smartly away, the first to do so in the stunned silence. It was no less than he had expected from the mad captain. She was not a woman of half measures.
--------------------------
A stern chase between two equally matched foes was a matter of many, many hours. Ignite spent the earliest part of the day running his Marines through loading drills, firing a spray of shot into the sea every half minute or so. He did so as dry-firing initially, as it felt like a waste of powder, but Gunner Balon soon came up to him and objected. Balon had first pointed out to him that they were past the point of such concerns. By the flop-hatted Gunner's reckoning, if the Waverake finished the day with even an ounce of powder left in her stores, she would have failed in her duty. Secondly, it took two volleys from a hundred Marines to equal the powder of a single cannon shot. He ran the numbers aloud for Ignite, proving that this left them powder enough for the Marines to fire a volley every thirty seconds, day and night, for three straight days. Ignite's concerns for frugality soon faded from his thoughts.
And, if he were truthful, the drilling was also a matter of no small ego. The Tulian fleet was slowly gaining on their Sporaton opposites, first their masts being visible from the ship's maindeck, then their hulls, until finally he could see the whole of their fleet spread on the horizon. In turn, they could see him, and further, they could see the occasional puffs of smoke that rose after each volley. They had doubtlessly heard of the Champion's peculiar firearms, and as was tradition on naval vessels, invented tall tales that were far more hideous than reality. He enjoyed knowing that they could see his Marines preparing for battle, and took satisfaction in what he imagined to be a great deal of trepidation inspired by their drills.
He called a halt to the practice when the distance between the two fleets closed to only a single league. Loading muskets was not the most exhausting of drills, but he still wished to give the Marines a moment of rest before the fight. A single league was a distance in which the enemy might now decide to turn and engage them, and he would have them ready for that eventuality.
He could also now discern their chosen formation with the naked eye. Despite being the swiftest vessels, the Magecraft had fallen to the rear of the formation, guarding against the Tulian Fleet's crawling approach. There were two lines of ships arranged in an inverted crescent formation, a more gentle, sweeping curve compared to the sharp Tulian arrowhead. Should the Waverake drive directly up the enemy center, it would require them to pass enemies to their left and right for quite some time, allowing a simple course change from either side to bring their rams to bear into the tempting, flat walls of the Waverake's amidships hull. A suicidal tactic by every traditional measure.
Until cannons had changed the equation. Now the enemy's inverted crescent was inviting the Waverake to embed itself amongst the enemy like a shark burrowing its head into a whale carcass, frothing the water with wild abandon as it ripped its targets to bloody shreds.
He wondered if the enemy recognized this. He wondered if this Admiral Scheer, who had thus far displayed excellent strategic acumen, was luring them into some kind of trap. He also wondered if their victory was about to come far easier than anticipated, and he also wondered about a million tiny other things, because he had so very much time to wonder. A stern chase like this was a tepid, anxious affair. The fleets had perhaps two knots of difference in their speed, meaning the closing rate between vessels was not that of a crashing melee, but a leisurely stroll through the gardens.
It took so long, in fact, that the dark walls of Tulian were eventually called out by the lookout, and a half hour later, they rose up from the horizon to be in Ignite's view. It seemed the enemy was making a break for the capital, intending to fight from within the shelter of its harbor. That would have been a nasty affair, trying to force their way through the narrow mouth of the city walls.
Thankfully, the range had closed to a mere half mile by that time, and Captain Nora ordered Gunner Balon to begin using the cannons mounted at the front of the bow– aptly named chase guns– to begin lobbing shots towards the enemy. At this range, with the rolling of the ship and its constant heaving to and fro as the shifting wind caught the sails, Ignite knew there was next to no chance of a successful shot. Fortunately, the enemy had no way of knowing this.
The first booming report of the long 24-pounder echoed out over the waves, followed shortly thereafter by a great spray of white some few hundred feet off the central Magecraft's port side. By sheer happenstance, the shot straddled the distance between two of the Magecraft, making it difficult to determine who was its target, so that both might feel equally threatened.
A second shot rang out a moment later and landed much closer to the lead Magecraft, a feat which led to much satisfied crowing from Gunner Balon, who was down below personally aiming each cannon. Perhaps Ignite was wrong in his estimate that a hit was impossible at this range. Given enough time, if the shots continued to close in on the enemy in such fashion, they very well may have been able to cause irreparable damage at this extreme range.
They would never know, because it seemed the same thought occurred to Admiral Scheer. Flags were run up the central Magecraft's mast, acknowledgement signals rising up from the rest of the Sporaton fleet shortly thereafter. That at least confirmed Admiral Scheer had taken the traditional place of command, at the center of his fleet, rather than hiding among their flanks. While Captain Nora busied herself trying to decrypt the enemy's coded signals, Ignite jogged down the lines of his Marines, instructing them to strike down as many officers as was possible on that central Magecraft should they come into grips. If they killed enough, surely one corpse amongst the pile would belong to this mysterious Admiral.
Captain Nora's decryption efforts were interrupted by the enemy flagship's signal flags being hauled down, the universal symbol for a fleet to execute the given order.
Fifteen magecraft heeled sharply to port, their trimaran pontoons digging deeply in the sea as their rudders bit chunks from the waves. They stopped at an oblique angle to the Tulian fleet, tacking deeply into the southern wind as only a Magecraft could. Their speed slowed severely as a result, but the closing rate skyrocketed. A battle that a moment ago was an hour or more away was suddenly bearing down on them with alarming rapidity.
The mundane ships of the Sporaton fleet, Ignite noted, continued onward, heading inexorably towards the city. He suspected that the hired mercenaries were stationed on those vessels, then. Men of fortune who, as their character dictated, sought to easily take the capital while the Tulian fleet was mired in a melee.
Cowards, Ignite thought, spitting a wad of phlegm upon the deck.
Unfortunately, it was not a wholly impractical tactic. Even if Nora succeeded in defeating the enemy Magecraft, an unopposed landing from those mundane ships would make the fleet's lives hellish. They could burn Tulian docks and prepare defenses, or simply begin ransacking the city as they pleased, fleeing to join up with the main Sporaton forces. He suspected they would do the latter, of course. Mercenaries, those who fought for coin instead of people or pride, were little better than pirates. Often, the two overlapped considerably.
Cowards. Ignite spat again, watching the ships depart.
That was the last moment he could spare to grander strategy. As the gap between fleets narrowed, so did his responsibility, until he was nothing more than a Marine Sergeant once more.
Ignite stepped up to the prow's gunwale, resting a hand on the holster off his hip. He slid his eyes from vessel to onrushing vessel. The Marines watched him silently, muskets held at the ready. The enemy command ship was unlikely to be the first to board, he decided. Too risky for such a cautious Admiral. The two ships flanking it were either crewed with the cream of the Sporaton crop or their fleet's most repugnant members, depending on the Admiral's command style. Some preferred to guard themselves with their best, while others kept the most disobedient on a tight leash, forcing them to improve or have the flagship always present to correct their failures. He had always respected the Admirals who did the latter. And based on what he had seen, he respected this Admiral Scheer.
"Load shot and ball," he snapped. There was a rumble as the Marines leapt to the order, tearing open paper cartridges with their teeth and dropping them down the muzzle of their muskets. They loaded in twenty seconds, and the instant the last musket returned to a shoulder, he spoke again. "Take gunwale positions at the starboard amidships."
The Marines bolted, thundering away from the prow. Up above, the Tulian sharpshooters– longbow-wielding hunters the Captain had hired, who'd never respected that Ignite was technically their commander– hurried them along with whoops and jeers. It seemed they thought he was running from the fight.
"Open fire at a hundred feet," he said as the troops took their positions up on the tall gunwale. It had confused him at first, a head-height railing running the length of the ship, but with musket in hand, all was clear. The Marines stood on empty boxes along the line, just their heads and the glittering mouth of their muskets exposed.
"Who're we firing at?" One woman called, no doubt looking at the empty stretch of water which ran out from beneath the hull.
"The enemy!" Ignite snapped. Despite the deep irritation in his tone, many of the Marines laughed. "They will present themselves, and you will shoot them down. Silence on the deck."
This last order was perhaps the most laughable, as there was a constant din of minor chaos rumbling at all times. The Waverake was by far the most complicated vessel ever constructed, and while its crew had trained endlessly under Nora's steady hand, their first engagement would invariably involve mistakes. Sweaty palms dropped ropes too easily, while sailors distracted by the sight of the enemy repeatedly missed their cues. It was a problem that only experience could solve, and those among the crew who survived would emerge a far finer sailor for their trials.
Ignite himself took to pacing behind his Marines, sharply correcting anyone who dared to look over their shoulder at the Magecraft. He did not technically need to, as naval battles at range were not the sort of affair where adroit reactions were necessary, but he kept at it regardless. Best not to allow their fear to grow.
A sharp boom shook the deck, followed a breath later by another, then another, then another and another, the rolling reports growing. The 24-pounders on the gun deck fired in sequential order as the the enemy came into view of their gunports. There was a great crash of wood and continuously rising wails of agony from the port side, but Ignite did not turn around. He did not allow his Marines to turn around. They stood as statues, staring off the starboard gunwale at empty ocean. Thick smoke began to drift ahead of the vessel in their peripheral vision, opaque as a solid wall.
Ignite watched that cloud intensely. All his Marine's eyes were drawn to it, and this time, he did not correct them. He waited. And waited. The seconds grew long.
His heart gave an unsteady lurch as the front of the cloud burst open, a Magecraft appearing, heeling sharply into the wind as it shot from port to starboard. The two chase guns boomed as one, one fat ball flying harmlessly through the gaps in the enemy's rigging, the other just barely clipping the gunwale, sending a spray of wooden shrapnel across the deck.
"Shoulder muskets!"
The Magecraft completed its crossing of the Waverake 's bow and began to heel sharply to starboard, swinging through the turn as only a Magecraft could. In moments its iron-capped ram was pointed directly at the Waverake's hull, poised to land directly amongst his Marines. They knew better than to try and hit the bow now.
"A hundred feet!" He roared. "Marines will fire at a hundred feet, no more!"
Beneath their feet, there was a rumbling. The rumbling of wooden wheels on wooden decking, multi-ton behemoths being dragged into position.
He tore a Marine out of their place in the line, stepping up on the box they used to see over the gunwale.
The distinct orange glow of a mage's shield rose in the center of the enemy deck, two figures sheltered within. One robed figure held a staff before them, eyes closed in concentration, while the other's hands were glowing above their head, spell readying itself. Ignite had seen the deaths of those caught by mage-fire. He had seen them rolling in agony, failing to extinguish the flames, sucking in breaths that scorched their lungs. Most had eventually pulled their belt knife, plunging it into their own chest, neck, or eye. Others... Ignite had to do them the favor himself. He often wondered if his sword was more familiar with the blood of friend or foe. The mages on that ship, men and women like them, were the cause for that question.
He felt his lips split in a macabre grin, the lone spot of white on his onyx face.
Eight cannons roared in one voice, vomiting smoke and sparks. He watched the mage's shield shatter, the body of the one holding the staff torn in two, splitting with the ease of a rotting rat. Their hips were flung across the deck, painting a great red smear some twenty feet long, while their torso dropped out of the air where they stood, face empty of expression before it slammed against the wood. The mage who had been channeling the spell looked down dumbly at their companion, hands still aglow.
"Fire!"
A hundred Marines pulled the trigger, near every shot aimed at one foe. Shot pierced through the cloud which was billowing up to obscure the enemy vessel, uncountable little dots of deadly lead denting the smoke. The Marines fired shot and ball, a close-range load which involved placing a half-dozen lead pellets in front of the single larger ball which would normally be fired from a musket. Its range was extraordinarily short, but its effect...
When the wind carried the smoke away from the Magecraft, Ignite searched for the remaining mage. They were hard to spot. What was left of them had been scattered across a dozen feet of decking, much of them coating the sailors who had been standing nearby. The entire Magecraft looked to have been left to rot in a field of locusts, holes torn across its every surface. The smallest of the impact sites were no larger than a thumb, a quarter inch deep, while in one spot on the deck, Ignite got a brief glance of ocean; a cannonball had torn through the upper deck, continued through the hold, and crashed out the bottom.
The Marines were staring beside him, a range of emotions crossing their faces. They had used their muskets for practice, yes, and occasionally to intimidate, to cow villagers or trading vessels, and on rare occasions they had even fired them at a living being, but never like this.
"Load shot!" Ignite suddenly bellowed, shaking himself from his reverie. The helmsman had been shot away, but the Magecraft's momentum was still carrying it onward. "Load, load, load, or I'll damn you before the gods do!"
The Marines's paralysis was shattered by his words, their hands flying to their ammunition pouches. Down below, Gunner Balon had begun a similar mantra to his cannoneers, if decidedly more profane.
Suddenly, everyone aboard stumbled as the ship was thrown hard to starboard. Captain Nora was laughing wildly, never a good sign, and Ignite heard the masts groan under the stress of their shifting load. The Waverake was a ponderous vessel by any standard, yet with her hold lightened and the wind blowing in off her stern, even she managed to carve a sharp line through the waves.
Without the helm manned, the Magecraft couldn't adjust, and its ram hit at a poor angle, scraping along the hull. Ignite heard the snap of open gunports being sheared off by the ram as it raked down their hull, though Balon thankfully had the sense to have not to run the cannons out before the impact.
Just before Ignite was about to shout the order for himself, he heard a shout for grapples to be thrown. Ropes arced up from the Magecraft's considerably lower deck, enchanted metal seizing the gunwale with a fervor. Several Marines drew their knives and began to hack at the ties binding the two ships together, but Ignite called out at them.
"Leave the grapples! They've saved us the trouble! Finish loading shot if you haven't already, form ranks five paces back!"
As one coordinated mass the Marines marched away from the shelter of the gunwale, some still ramming paper cartridges down their barrel as they walked. Ignite watched the grapples snap taut as they began to bear weight, the grunts of enemy Marines echoing up from below.
Another broadside roared out behind them. Eight cannons shook the air with their report, adding to the already acrid sulfur scent. Even with the wind sweeping the smoke ahead of the ship, enough lingered behind that a dim haze was dulling the sunlight. His Marines did not flinch at the cannonfire, nor did they turn around to look at the progress of the portside battle. Ignite himself glanced backward only briefly, confirming only that his Marines were unneeded, then returned his attention to the gunwale.
The boarders hesitated at the top of the rope. They had expected Ignite to meet them with pike and shot, preventing them from gaining the deck outright. They sensed a trap.
They were right.
At some hidden signal, every Sporaton Marine leapt over the gunwale, scrambling to get their feet on solid decking as fast as they could.
"FIRE!"
A hundred muskets cracked, pouring shot at point-blank range into the enemy. There was a sound like hail striking a metal roof as the smaller lead pellets struck armor, an undercurrent to the boom of blackpowder and tearing of larger balls shearing through steel.
Bodies dropped onto the sand Ignite had prepared along the gunwale, pouring blood.
"FORWARD!"
The Marines took five quick steps up to the gunwale, two ranks of bayonets lowered. Of the thirty or so Sporatons that had thrown themselves onto the Waverake, two had survived the first volley intact. One man managed to parry the first thrust of a bayonet, only to die to two quick jabs into his neck. The other only stumbled backward, blinking dumbly, clearly deafened. She was struck down with the butt of a musket, helmet bouncing off the gunwale.
"Cut the survivor's throats and throw them overboard!" Ignite yelled. He drew his sword, leading by example. One of the Sporatons was writhing in agony on the sand. Ignite bent forward and swiped through the man's neck, then grabbed the corpse by the collar and heaved it over the side, where it dropped bonelessly onto the enemy ship.
The Marines took to this grim task with a feverish eagerness. Whether it was because they were glad to finally strike back against a Magecraft or because they wanted their enemy's pain to end, Ignite couldn't tell. Nor did he care, so long as they did as ordered.
"Load shot!" Ignite yelled as the last body dropped overboard. The Marines began pulling paper cartridges once more, and while they loaded, Ignite leaned over the gunwale, inspecting the enemy Magecraft.
A second wave of Marines had been preparing themselves to go up the ropes, but, understandably, seemed cowed by the rain of bodies that had subsequently crashed onto their deck. He heard one woman spewing abuse at them, calling them all cowards, and searched her out. Her armor was finer than the rest, and he took her for a Sergeant.
Ignite pulled Kate from her holster, resting his arms on the gunwale. As he was only a single soldier, the enemy took no particular notice of him, and allowed him to watch without response. He took this opportunity to run through Evie's six part checklist on proper shooting stance.
His right elbow was locked, fingers wrapped tightly around the revolver's grip. His left hand wrapped around the fingers of his right, not resting below them, as felt more natural but was the worse positioning. He clicked the hammer back with a thumb, revealing the notch. Right eye closed, he slid the sight's front post into that notch, careful to make sure it was properly aligned on the left, right, and top. He tracked the woman carefully, moving his hands with the swaying of the two ships, and began to slowly pull the trigger. By Evie's explanation, he should be surprised by the–
The revolver bucked in his hand, a lance of pink fire jetting through the comparatively small puff of smoke. The woman dropped to a knee, a hand reaching for the hole in her chest as her mouth silently opened and closed, and then she fell onto her side.
Ignite stepped back under the cover of the gunwale as archers began swinging towards him. He holstered Kate, the heat of the barrel warming his thigh.
Five shots left.
"Marines! Ready muskets!"
There was a rattle of wood and metal as muskets were leveled over the gunwale, a jagged line of steel aimed down at the enemy vessel.
"Take aim!"
The Sporaton crew, hearing this, began to flee, running this way and that, a press forming at the stairs to the hold.
"FIRE!"
The crack of musketry tore through the air, drowning the enemy in a wave of lead. Blood sprayed in horrific volumes, coating the deck. What little organization had remained among the enemy's number collapsed utterly, the few survivors dragging their ruined bodies towards some imagined safety.
There was none to be found. With both mages dead and the captain struck down in some volley or another, the Magecraft began to shudder. Light began leaking from its boards in a far-too-familiar fashion, the enchanted vessel coming apart at the seams.
"Cut grapples!" Ignite yelled. The Marines flung themselves at the ropes with a fervor, sawing as quickly as they were able. It wasn't likely that the sinking Magecraft would truly be capable of dragging the massive Waverake down with it, but no one wanted to find out otherwise. They had far too much fight left to end up entangled with a sinking vessel.
--------------------------------
Sara
--------------------------------
With the Royal Army at six hundred yards distance, the 1st Combat Engineers were running back to the center of the formation, grabbing new piles of goods. Of all the various innovations Sara had introduced over the last few months, these had to be the last she had expected to play a major role in the fate of a nation. The 1st Combat Engineers distributed them anyway.
The Sporatons were nearing the final marker, and none of them seemed to know it. The flanking wings of the Royal Army began to jog, a deep rumble passing through the earth as they rushed ahead of their centerline to begin the envelopment. Sara itched to send her troops forward, to stop their advance. But she couldn't afford to weaken her line more than she already had.
"Rifles, forward!"
They hadn't had time to rifle every musket in the few days before she'd launched this final assault, but they'd gotten pretty damn close. Maybe two thirds of the army now held rifled muskets, Springfield Model 1840s, which could– in theory– hit a human-sized target at five hundred yards. Next to no one in the army save Evie actually had the skill required to do that, of course, but when you were aiming for an entire army, missing your shot got considerably harder. She'd agonized over the range to engage, whether or not to conserve ammo, and a million other factors, but in the end, she'd decided she needed to thin the enemy's numbers as efficiently as possible.
Those with rifled muskets pressed forward, lining up just behind the row of improvised wooden stakes. The front rank knelt down, the second rank standing behind them, ready to aim over their heads, with a third standing slightly offset behind them, muskets hovering over their shoulders. Aside from the armor, it looked exactly like Sara imagined a Civil War army to look like.
Besides the orcs. With most every orc in her army standing a foot or more taller than their comrades, she'd added a fourth rank of exclusively orcs to the firing line, who easily aimed over the heads of the humans and catfolk. It was one of a few tactics she'd developed that she thought might be unique to this world, something impossible to achieve back on Earth. She was certain there was still far more she could be doing that simply hadn't occurred to her.
The Sporaton Army's flanks broke the five hundred yard mark, but she didn't give the order to fire. The cannons continued to roar, coating the center of her army in an impenetrable haze, but that was it.
Graf had seen her muskets before. He'd seen what they did to their targets. But those had been smoothbores, intentionally hobbled. He hadn't seen what the rifles could do. Maybe his spies could have warned him of their strengths, but knowing and seeing were two different things.
So she held the musket's fire. The Sporatons would only get to experience their first volley one time, and like a good Champion of Amarat, she wanted to make sure their first time was one hell of a show.
Somewhere in the line, a single musket cracked, causing several soldiers nearby to pull their own trigger in sympathy.
"Hold fire!" Sara snapped, casting her voice directly into the ears of the soldiers responsible. "Fire when I say, not a fucking second earlier!"
Beside her, Evie had found an emptied supply crate to stand on, squinting down the sights of her rifle. Out of the corner of her eye, Sara caught the feline's finger begin to gently squeeze, a slow exhale rolling from her lips.
The crystal-tipped hammer slammed forward, sending the rifle bucking against her shoulder. A puff of smoke obscured the area, which Evie waved away, searching for her target.
A grim smile bloomed. She scratched another tally on her musket's stock. It was the fourteenth.
Lieutenant Shale called for a ceasefire from her cannons as the center of the Sporaton Army broached the four hundred yard mark, the wings marching fifty yards ahead of the core. Sara's army was curving backward in response, forming a gentle semi-circle, preparing for its inevitable encirclement. She didn't want them in a full box formation. Not yet. She needed to keep as many guns on target for as long as she could.
"Ready muskets! Set range three hundred yards!" Sara called. The order was repeated up and down the line, Sergeants mirroring her words even as her voice echoed over the field. Muskets were checked and double-checked, sights slid to the appropriate range. Her army may not have been full of sharpshooters, but with twelve thousand targets ahead of them, missing was a faint chance.
Shale's voice joined Sara's, directed at the cannoneers.
"Load canister!"
The cloth-wrapped packages were brought forward. Her army hadn't fired canister shot in anger before, but Sara had seen it tested. A shudder rolled through her.
"Keep holding!"
Sara watched her army shuffle in place, muskets wavering. The entire army itched to fire so badly it was a testament to their incredible discipline that they held firm. The first volley had to count. It had to show the enemy everything that was in store for them. It would set the tone for the rest of the battle. The cracks that finally broke them would begin with that first shot.
Three hundred yards.
"Aim!"
Twenty four hundred muskets rose, stocks pressed firmly against shoulders. Without the constant report of the cannons, the battlefield almost felt silent. Shale stood behind the Napoleons, leaning forward, practically salivating as she gripped a firing string in one trembling palm. Her eyes were wild, and somehow, Sara knew her own expression wasn't far off.
A deep, thrumming beat rose out of her chest. It shook the air with the force of the cannons, each boom striking the sky itself. She felt her skin begin to glow, boiling smoke peeling off the runes which came afire across her body. The music began low and light, barely audible. There were barely any lyrics to this song, and the one that mattered most was whispered right at the very start. Sara felt her hair raise as the quiet plea slipped across the fields of Tulian.
"May god have mercy on you."
The world shook as she threw everything she had into Champion's Inspiration, roaring bass and thudding power tearing out into the world. The entire army leaned forward as the spell gripped them, adrenaline and anticipation spiking across every soul. The Sporaton army wavered, recoiling from the noise more than they had any cannonball.
"Fire," she whispered.
Eight cannons and six hundred muskets flashed in one pure detonation. The world was consumed by light and sound, her chest crushed by an astounding pressure. It was less a volley, more of a single, momentous explosion, her Champion's Inspiration ensuring every last weapon fired in the exact same instant.
The Sporaton Army staggered, stumbling.
Sara's eyes widened at what she saw.
Sparks of shattered lead and spraying light warped the air, hundreds of musketballs crashing into mage shields– shields that shouldn't have been there. The visage of the Royal Army shimmered and warped under the assault, limbs stretching to inhuman proportions as the mage's spells failed to compensate for the overwhelming blow they had just suffered.
And between the flashing images, Sara saw something worse.
The deep gouges in the enemy line, where cannonballs had torn through, were briefly filled, unharmed soldiers appearing in the empty gap before flickering out of existence.
It was an illusion.
Graf had fooled her.
He hadn't been chained by some idiotic King's orders. Suffering the earlier barrage was a ploy, luring her into a false sense of security. The shields had never been brought down. If she'd known they still stood, she could have focused them down, smashed them to pieces. Instead she'd spent fifteen minutes bombarding an enemy who hadn't suffered a single casualty.
The moment had passed. There was only one thing left to do.
"Second rank, FIRE!"
Another volley shrieked through the air, smashing into the increasingly visible shields. The Royal Army staggered once more, the real troops beneath the illusion flinching as they instinctively braced for the swarm of lead to rip them apart. The shields held again, however, and at the shouts of their commanders, they resumed their march.
"Third rank, FIRE!"
This volley finally had an effect. The shields, weakened by each successive impact, had shrunk, rather than shattered. Her troops couldn't see through the powder fog to aim at the gaps, but with so many shots being fired, it was inevitable that some would get through.
"Fourth rank, FIRE!"
Lead churned blood and soil as bullets finally struck home, tearing chunks from the front ranks of every line no longer hidden by a shield.
When she was a kid, Sara had thought that movies were accurate when it came to showing someone got shot. She knew guns were powerful, that they struck with incredible force. When she'd imagined someone getting shot, she imagined their head snapping back, their body jerking from the force of it. She'd even thought that someone getting shot with a shotgun would involve them getting blown off their feet, knocked several feet back.
Now she knew better.
The front ranks of spears dropped bonelessly, their body empty of life. They did not spasm, or fling their arms up in the air, or even scream. They just hit the ground in a loose pile, limbs all askew. It wasn't dramatic. It was the end of a life, nothing more.
Then Sara's first rank finished reloading, and with another barrage of rolling thunder, another row of spears dropped, and a few seconds later, the second rank reloaded and leveled their muskets, sending a spray of lead into the same exposed ranks of spears.
All across the front lines, her troops had found gaps in the enemy's invisible protection by sheer volume of fire. Now lead poured into those gaps in waves of murderous lead, ripping everything to shreds.
The enemy froze. She couldn't blame them. They were barely in bow range, yet they'd just watched the entire front half of their unit get torn to ragged shreds. Sara could see them wavering, staring at the field of flesh that lay before them. The field of flesh that they would have to climb over to continue on.
And then the cannons finished adjusting their aim, and the choice was taken from them.
Canister shot. Dozens of lead balls packed between two metal plates, shoved down the mouth of a cannon. Each ball was twice the size of a normal musket ball, and with a cannon's power behind it, they passed through flesh like air. The Napoleons swung their barrels around, each pointed towards a different gap in the enemy's protection.
Sara and Shale had learned from their testing that the canister shot fired in a wide cone, such that many of the shots would've gone over the heads of the enemy. Shale hadn't liked that. The artillery Lieutenant wanted better. So instead she aimed the Napoleons at the ground in front of the enemy, intending to take the conical shotgun blast and flatten it into a plane of ricocheting lead.
Sara heard Shale laugh wildly, tearing the string from the first cannon.
The lines of hesitating troops disappeared.
First dust leapt into the air, then blood. It was as if the entire front row of the exposed enemies had been flash-boiled, a mist of red thrown up to hang thickly in the air. The horrific variety of wounds was beyond Sara's ability to describe. Pieces of body were stolen away by invisible harpies, claws digging into jaws, knees, hands. Often entire limbs were ripped free. The spears fell in a wave, bowled over like a giant's boot had swung through their number. In thirty brief seconds, more death came to the Royal Army than hours of the previous battles had taken from them.
The few soldiers that were left standing between the shields stumbled to a stop, eyes wide. They looked to their left and saw corpses. They looked to their right and saw corpses. They looked behind them, and there was no one there. Just bodies.
They turned, and they ran.
Sara's army threw up a blood-curdling roar at the sight, spitting venom and spite even while their hands flew through the motions of reloading. The army wasn't firing as one anymore, volleys crackling out as soon as each squad was finished reloading. She was subjected to an endless torrent of profanity pouring into her skull, and through her Blessings, she parsed it all. Even the closest elements of the Sporaton army were included in the deluge, and soon she was getting an appraisal of the battle that any army's commander would have killed for.
Her troops were practically choking on their bloodlust. They'd known their weapons were good, that they would wreak havoc on the enemy. They hadn't expected this. Many were laughing hysterically, half in awe at the death they were dealing, half in horror. Even through the fury of battle, the hundreds that had just dropped dead at their feet began to nauseate them. She was glad for that. They should hate this. They should be proud of what they were fighting for, but they should hate this.
The Sporatons, shockingly, took a different view of events. Those that were nearest the edges of the shields began shoving into the shoulders of those deeper within, shirking away from the horror they had just barely escaped. Prayers to nearly every deity were muttered across the entire army, while those closest to the mages whispered fearfully to one another, watching the straining faces of their protector for any sign of impending failure. Hidden Knights shouted, prodded, and shoved the troops forward, refusing to let their pace fall. They knew better than anyone that the longer the Royal Army was at range, the worse it would be for them. They needed to close the distance as soon as possible.
"Left flank, pull back!" Sara yelled.
The wing of her army responded immediately, folding backward as they prepared for their inevitable encirclement. She'd originally intended for both sides to fold in at the same time, but she'd been struck by an idea.
The enemy cavalry still hadn't revealed themselves. She dug her knees into Trot's side, moving behind the line to get a better angle through the smoke with her spyglass.
On that distant hill there stood a small collection of cavalry. Perhaps a dozen or so, watching the battle's progress. They'd only revealed themselves once the cannons had switched to canister, knowing Shale was far too occupied with savaging the spears to spare long-ranged shots for the Knights.
Sara felt her mind racing. Evie had mentioned how expensive the Knight's equipment was. How long it took to raise and train a Knight's steed, how much specialized effort went into constructing their armor. Losing as many Knights as they had was already a considerable blow to Sporatos, well out of proportion with the supposedly small scale of this conflict.
Graf's goal was to prevent wars. To ensure that peace lasted as long as possible. To do that, he needed deterrents, and the Kingdom of Sporatos had no better deterrent than their powerful array of Knights. If at all possible, he wouldn't want to risk losing more of their precious number.
Sara took a deep breath, her decision made.
"Right flank, advance!"
Many of the commanders snapped their heads towards her in confusion, but she ignored them. This wasn't the plan. But they were well trained, and after the briefest hesitance, they sent their troops forward.
While the curving embrace of the Royal Army continued its advance, her own army began to take on the appearance of a misshapen S, the right flank dangerously exposed.
"Master?" Evie asked. "What are you doing?"
"Improvising," she replied, twisting in her saddle. She found who she was looking for a moment later, and snapped her finger at them, pointing to the right flank.
"You! All of you, with the right flank! Get ready to sweep down the middle!"
The cannoneers assigned to the short-barreled weapons hopped to attention, taken by surprise, but no less eager to follow orders. They hadn't opened fire yet, and they had spent the battle watching the other cannons with rampant jealousy. They threw their shoulders against the cannons to turn them in place, hurrying to follow the advancing right flank. The Royal Army was only a hundred yards away, and the enemy's shields had begun to flicker and spasm, losing their cohesion.
Despite that, her attention went back up to the cavalry on that hill. She couldn't distinguish their features from here. She wondered if Emeric and the King were among their number, or if they'd joined the main army in disguise.
She expected she'd soon find out.
----------------------------
Ignite
----------------------------
Two Magecraft had been sunk. One by Ignite's Marines, who'd slaughtered the crew nearly to a man, and a second by repeated broadsides from Balon. A cannonball in the first barrage had smashed the sprinting Magecraft's helm to pieces, leaving the ship uncontrollable. Its charge had turned into a hapless circle, rudder wedged hard to port as it was systematically disassembled by repeated broadsides. The ship sunk before the onboard Mages even had a chance to destroy it themselves.
The rest of the Sporaton fleet, unfortunately, hadn't focused on the Waverake. The remaining Magecraft darted in and out of the Tulian arrowhead, running through the fleet with spellfire blazing.
Ignite recalled his Marines to the center of the deck as Nora began sending up signal flag after signal flag, coordinating the fleet's resistance to the marauding Magecraft as best she was able. He could barely follow her shouted orders, much less the complicated array of signals that transmitted them, and those few commands he understood seemed nonsensical. Still, he knew the rest of the fleet would obey. They had all seen what Nora was, and no one would dare question her judgement, no matter how bizarre her conclusions. He did his best to keep his Marines out of the sailor's way as Nora began hauling the Waverake around, moving to the aid of the ships in greatest distress.
Unfortunately, they had their choice of vessels to aid. The spellfire of the Magecraft was as deadly as ever when it landed on an individual, but for the first time in history, there was something that could be done against the hellish flames. The Champion's firefighting foam, a mixture primarily composed of lathered animal fat, was spat freely and frequently from the pumps and hoses she had introduced. The liquid bubbled up into a stinking pile wherever it landed, and even if it did not fully extinguish the enchanted fires, the way the bubbles expanded across a large area prevented the flames from spreading.
That wasn't to say they weren't enduring casualties. The rest of the fleet was suffering terribly, sails afire here, hull blazing there, and next to no response available to them beyond the foam, which only stalled the fires, rather than extinguish them. The Magecraft were barracudas in their midst, too fast to catch, slipping out of range before any normal response could be made.
Thankfully, normality had fled the world months ago.
The Waverake's carronades, the short-barreled 32-pounders which had once littered the flagship's spar deck, had been distributed amongst the fleet. Nora had learned her lesson from the lone Magecraft's nightly raids. A single, overwhelmingly powerful ship would not win their battles. The enemy was too smart to engage their greatest weapon head-on.
The 32-pounder carronades were short range weapons compared to the 24-pounders which populated the Waverake's gundeck, but so were a mage's spells. Ignite watched as one Magecraft attempted to skim past a refitted dromon, a burgeoning glow building on the center deck, only for a jet of fire and smoke to preempt the spell, vomited forth from the dromon.
There was a flash of light as the Mage's shield shattered, then a gout of randomly flung fire roaring up into the air. Ignite watched the liquid flame shoot skyward in a great arc, drifting in the wind as it reached its apex, then begin to fall.
Great globs of fire fell back onto the Magecraft which had flung it, sails bursting into a great conflagration. The Tulian dromon quickly deployed its oars, dragging itself away from the Magecraft as quickly as it was able. If the two hulls touched, the flames would undoubtedly leap between the two vessels, burning them both to the waterline.
Similar stories repeated themselves across the fleet. Magecraft tried to do as they had for centuries, shooting past their opponents to wash them in fire, only to find themselves coming under an assault which they could not answer. There were not enough carronades to equip the entire Tulian fleet, and thus many of the ships suffered their fate without retort, but enough possessed cannons to force the Magecraft to falter in their assaults. They began to sail further and further away from their targets, weakening the effect of their spells, ignorant of the fact that it wouldn't matter; even the short range carronades outranged their spells by a factor of two.
The Magecraft which had inadvertently lit itself afire began to shudder, the smoke boiling off its hull dimming the glow which signaled its imminent destruction. It was the third Magecraft lost in this single engagement, and the sight had everyone aboard the Waverake roaring their approval.
One of the Magecraft off the Waverake's port side suddenly heeled away from its chosen target, likely recognizing the carronade which was tracking its approach. Instead it sailed on past, using its magically-enhanced momentum to throw itself against the wind, sails furling.
Ignite realized what was happening in an instant. It was aiming to cross just behind the Waverake's stern, where no cannons sprouted. The mages would be able to unload their spells without fear of cannonfire.
"Marines to the stern!" Ignite yelled, in nearly the same moment that Nora hollered, "Get yer ass back here, Ignite!"
His Marines thundered to the rear of the ship, taking up a thick-pressed line behind the helm. Nora ordered the foam pumps to drag themselves over to the stern, including sending some into her own cabin, so that they could fight the fires from within should they chew through the hull. The Waverake's stern was by far the weakest part of the structure, being a flat surface built of the thinnest wood across the ship. Should the Magecraft successfully press its attack, it would be disastrous.
"Discharge your weapons! Load ball!"
The Marines aimed their muskets over the railing, firing off a random spray of lead pellets which briefly churned the blue ocean white. As soon as their weapons were empty, they began shoving lead balls down the barrel, replacing the short-range shot with longer range lead balls. Ignite kept his eye on the Magecraft, judging the range.
"What do you think of capturing her?" Nora asked.
Ignite nearly leapt out of his skin. The Captain had whispered directly into his ear, standing a hair's breadth behind him as she looked over his shoulder.
"Capturing her?" He asked, forcibly composing himself. "I hope to survive her."
"Y'think too small, Ignite," Nora whispered. Her voice was sultry, filled with a desire most reserved for the privacy of a bedroom. "There's no record of a mundane ship capturing a Magecraft. It would make us legends."
Ignite bit back his first response, which would have been I prefer to live. Instead, he asked a question that was only slightly less rude.
"Is that an order, ma'am?"
She chuckled darkly, sending a shiver down Ignite's spine. "No. But if you think it possible, I'd like you to give it a shot."
"Understood, ma'am," Ignite replied, gritting his teeth. Boarding a Magecraft would be as close to suicide as he had gotten since the day his own ship had fallen out from under him.
He had no time to formulate a plan, unfortunately. The Magecraft was skimming atop the waves, maintaining a gentle curve which kept it pointed for the Waverake's stern, even as Nora threw the rudder as hard to port as she could. The Waverake was simply too bulky to get its guns on target in time.
"Aim for the mage!" Ignite yelled, grabbing his own musket off his shoulder and joining the line. His hundred Marines were packed in like sardines at the rear of the ship, barely able to get every musket to bear on target. "Open fire at a hundred yards, then load shot! All aim for the mages, repeat, all will aim for the enemy mages!"
His voice, strengthened from years of yelling at Carrion recruits, carried perhaps too well. He watched the enemy mage's shield grow more opaque, the spellcaster's equivalent of hunkering down to suffer a great blow. All but the most essential crew of the Magecraft crowded down the stairs to the hold, sheltering from the upcoming barrage.
Belatedly, right as the ship broached the hundred yard mark, Ignite realized that this was the enemy flagship. The enemy admiral was likely aboard.
Gods damn us all, Ignite thought as he took aim. I may truly have to board it, then.
Without need for his order, the Marines opened fire. It was difficult to impossible to properly aim whilst on the rolling deck of a ship, hence why the Champion had never issued the Navy with rifles.
But as she had told him, quantity was a quality of its own.
Wooden decking popped and cracked as bullets rained down on the enemy ship. Somehow, despite the direness of his circumstances, Ignite's first thought was that he would be drilling the Marines hard once they recovered from the battle. A half-dozen shots had missed the enemy vessel entirely, digging into the waves. Unacceptable.
Then reality struck. The mage's shield had shimmered under the impacts, but it hadn't fallen. He could now see that there were two figures within, the second of which was preparing their spell.
"Load! Load, load, load!"
The Marines practically flew through the motions, but it wasn't enough. Twenty seconds to load was too long. The mage's spell would be ready by then, the range closed. In a fit of desperation, Ignite drew Kate, aiming at the mage, as if a single shot from a revolver would somehow succeed where a hundred muskets had failed.
As he pulled the trigger, he was startled by the deep boom of a cannon's report. Wooden fragments tore out from the Waverake's stern, a single iron cannonball tearing through the air. It didn't strike the mages, instead flying over their heads to strike the mast just behind them, throwing shrapnel every which way. The mages flinched as sharp slivers of wood impaled themselves into the orange shield, nearly sliding through to pierce them through.
The brief delay was all they needed. The Marines finished clicking the hammers back on their muskets, pans filled with powder.
"Independent fire!"
Muskets rattled in a brutal staccato, each soldier foregoing a volley to spend an extra few seconds taking careful aim. The orange shield began to flicker, then waver, causing the second mage to abandon the channeling of their spell, instead raising their hands to reinforce their protection.
Down below, Ignite heard Gunner Balon screaming shrilly.
"Loose cannon! Loose cannon! Watch your goddamn feet, it's coming down!"
There was a low rumble from belowdecks as, presumably, a cannon trundled its way down the gundeck. A flash of understanding passed through him. Balon must have dismounted one of the cannons, turning it to shoot through the rear of their own ship in a desperate gamble. Now unsecured, the multi-ton slab of iron was speeding down the length of the gundeck, carried this way and that by the rocking of the ship, crushing anything in its path.
He shot that blindly, Ignite realized. No one could do that. He has to have a Skill for it. A blackpowder Skill.
Even now, in the midst of perhaps the most important battle of Ignite's life, the world continued to shift around him. A part of him wondered if he would ever find his feet in this new reality the Champion was constructing, or if he would spend the rest of his life stumbling through it like a landsmen on the open ocean.
Yet again, he tore himself from his contemplation. The surreality of it all could not be confronted in the midst of battle.
Though the Magecraft had not raked them with flames, it was still coming on hard. The two mage-aimed musket volleys had largely spared the enemy Marines, and he could see them readying grapples. He took a deep breath.
"Marines, ready to repel boarders!"
"All hands, ready to repel boarders!" Nora called, echoing his words. She was standing at the helm, both hands on the wheel, as mad a smile as ever slashed through her crooked lips. He nodded his thanks to her as the rank and file sailors ran to retrieve pikes, briefly abandoning their duties to line themselves along the gunwale. They filled the gaps his Marines could not, allowing him to focus his efforts.
The Magecraft proved itself worthy of being an Admiral's flagship as it maneuvered to board. The stabilizing pontoons which sprouted from its sides skimmed the wavetops with an elegance nearly befitting a Carrion vessel, their enchanted reinforcements allowing them to maintain a thin, spindly frame. When someone saw a Magecraft for the first time, they might think those pontoons were a weak point, prone to snapping.
That was a deadly mistake. The portside pontoon crashed into the rear port side of the Waverake, spinning the smaller vessel as it nestled up against the Tulian flagship. The ship's momentum swung it into a spider's embrace, the length of its hull pressing up against the stern of the Waverake. Grapples flew, and while some were batted away by quick-thinking Marines, enough landed that the two vessels were locked into place. It was a well-selected position, as none of the cannons could fire directly at the Magecraft during the boarding action.
Unfortunately for the enemy, nothing could change just how much higher the Waverake's uppermost deck stood over the waves. The main portion of the Magecraft's deck was ten feet below Ignite and his Marines, and without the fore or aft castle that would have been on a Pirate's Bane, they would have to climb to reach the deck. Not that he intended to offer them such an opportunity.
"Your swords, Marines! Prepare to board!"
A hundred muskets clattered to the deck, discarded wherever the Marines stood. They drew their sideswords, thin, short stabbing weapons inspired by the Carrion spatha. He was glad no one had been fool enough to order him to discard the weapons entirely in favor of firearms. Bayonets and pistols were all well and good, but so long as humans fought eye to eye, a true blade would always have a place.
"Marines, over the top! Over, over, over!"
The troops seized the very grapples which the enemy had ensnared them with, throwing themselves over the gunwale. He heard a great shout of surprise from the massing enemy, who no doubt hadn't anticipated a hundred soldiers to begin leaping down onto their heads.
Ignite joined the last wave of Marines, grabbing a fistful of thick rope as he kicked his legs over the side. His armor rattled against his skin, twisting and pinching, the leather straps which bound it creaking through the acrobatics. He paid it no mind. The armor that he had received upon promotion to a Sergeant had served him well for the last decade, and should he have his way, it would be another decade before he replaced the smallest buckle.
His feet hit the deck with a thump, embedding him in the rear of the melee. The ear-splitting crack of musketry had given way to the ringing clash of steel on steel, armor and blade vying for dominance.
Ignite closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of sweat, blood, and sea breeze.
Home at last.
His eyes snapped open. He shoved his way through the press of Marines, knocking them aside like stalks of wheat, seeking the fight. He was no longer a Carrion Sergeant, but that did not mean he thought it any less abominable to lead from the rear.
He tugged the final Marine from his path with hardly a thought, the sight of their helmet replaced by a shocked-looking Sporaton soldier. It seemed he hadn't expected his opponent to get hauled away like a pup being dragged back to the litter.
His shock turned to pain as Ignite's sword dug into his armpit, wriggling within, searching out a vital artery. He dropped shortly thereafter, Ignite's sword ripping free with a spray of blood. The next soldier took his place, blinked in mild surprise at the sight of Ignite's onyx skin, then took her stance.
Ignite stabbed her through the neck and took a step forward, shoving her body onto the soldiers behind. Behind him, the cannons roared yet again, a shifting breeze adding a sulfurous odor to the scents of battle. Ahead, the mages began to prepare a new spell.
--------------------------------
Sara
--------------------------------
The enemy charged. They did so from far away, much farther than they normally would have, but it wasn't like Sara had given them a choice. The Sporatons threw up a ragged, forced cheer as they were ordered into a sprint, running forward with spears brought forward.
Sara took a deep breath.
This has got to be the stupidest fucking order I've ever given.
"Deploy folding chairs!"
The last rank of her army, those fifth in line and still wielding smoothbore muskets, grabbed the chairs the 1st Combat Engineers had distributed. They popped them open, shoving their wooden legs into the dirt for stability, and hauled themselves up. The orcs ahead of them ducked slightly, clearing their line of sight.
When she and Hurlish had toured the burning villages with folding chairs at the start of the war, she hadn't expected the things to make such an impact.
But they had. Oh gods, had they.
The people were obsessed. Carpenters across Tulian had been bombarded by requests to replicate chairs that could be so easily moved, and for the first time, innovation spun entirely out of Sara's control. In a matter of weeks the lumber stocks of Tulian were being whittled into stools, lawn chairs, audience chairs, and everything between, everyone preferring their own version, and wanting so many of them that she'd had to ration their lumber supply lest all their cooking fuel get turned into fucking folding chairs. It made sense to a certain degree, but only just. Sure, they were great for working in the fields, letting a farmer rest their back without a long trek back to the farmhouse, and sure, with the added strength offered by Classes, they weren't even an obstacle to tie on your back through the long hours of work. And she'd grown up in America. She was no stranger to strange fads and the public's bizarre purchasing habits. But she still found herself shocked by this one. As it stood right now, if she were to make an honest flag of Tulian, it would be a musket leaning against a folding chair. Of all the earthly inventions she'd brought to the fore, the people fucking loved folding chairs most of all.
When she'd asked her commanders how she could get the last ranks of her army to engage without weakening her line even further, nearly everyone of them had looked down at the very chairs they'd been sitting on for the meeting.
And so it was, and she could not emphasize this enough, goddamn folding chairs that formed the final lynchpin of Sara's battle plan. The Sporaton charge broached the fifty yard mark, just within the range of the smoothbore musket-shotguns, and like magic, every remaining member of her army popped up, shotguns at their shoulder. The troops already knew what to do. She'd given them the order the previous evening. When the enemy started their charge, they were to hold their fire, waiting until the final moments before contact.
Fire and smoke consumed the field in a roaring conflagration, every soldier firing. They couldn't miss. It was just impossible. There were ten-fucking-thousand targets in front of them, all packed into neat, dense rows, and they had shotguns.
Magical shields jumped and leapt under the impact, folding in on themselves. Even without cannonfire, the impacts couldn't be fully negated. Mages abandoned their general protection of the army in favor of preserving themselves, creating pike-nosed shields that only covered those immediately around them.
It was exactly the moment Shale had been waiting for.
The cannons leapt with an exuberance and joy that nearly matched their commander, tearing great gaps through the brown-coated spears. This was no targeted assault. There was no finesse to it. In an instant the ground was strewn with dead, hundreds upon hundreds struck down in a single moment.
By fate or fortune, somehow, there were survivors. The entire center of the Sporaton Army had been slaughtered, but a few still stood. Sara could count them at a glance. One was a Knight who had been driven onto their back by the force of the impacts, the brown tabard which had hid them among the commoners torn to shreds. The enchanted runes which covered their breastplate were utterly ruined, sparking and spitting smoke as the Knight tried to regain their feet. An alert Sergeant spotted this and directed his rifles toward the figure. The once-lucky Knight was ripped limb from limb by the resulting volley.
Several of the survivors weren't Knights, however. Four commoners dotted the field of the dead and dying, standing in place, coated head-to-toe in blood. Their reactions varied. Two turned and sprinted away immediately, stumbling over bodies, overwhelmed by pure, animalistic instinct to flee. One looked about himself, knees wobbling, then threw himself to the ground, scrambling under the bodies of others for cover. The last woman simply froze in place, doing nothing more than slowly leaning to the left and right, like a plant swaying in the breeze. She was clearly in shock. Sara wished the woman would do something, anything, but she didn't. She just stood there, blinking dumbly, until Sara had to tear her eyes off the sight.
Because the Sporaton cavalry had seen the path which had been opened before the cannons. They had begun to emerge from behind the hill, already in formation for a charge. No one stood between them and the cannons, and all across the line, Sara's troops had been engaged by the enemy. She had no reserves, no one to bring forward to protect the artillery.
Almost no one. She glanced down at Evie, looking for her girlfriend's permission. This was the moment. Sara hadn't been in the fight yet, not personally. She hadn't risked herself. If they were going to flee, to live to fight another day, this was the last chance they would have.
Evie's eyes flicked up to hers. They held one another's gazes for a single, brief moment, one that seemed to last an hour.
Then a razor smile split Evie's face, rapier flashing into existence.
Sara dug her heels into Trot's side, howling with delight.
Notes:
I'll append this here as not-quite-required-viewing, but very close to it. The single greatest, most realistic depiction of the effects of grapeshot in any movie, bar none. https://youtu.be/Ww5yYZXgZZA?si=G-k0y5x7hLq6VTN7
I think I have a problem. I'm addicted to writing battle scenes. This final fight is already 20k+ words long, and I haven't even finished. That's 50+ pages of a normal paperback novel. Oh well. Not like I'm going to stop now, am I?
Also, shoutout to Tatatatatata on the discord, who provided the first(first!) beta read for a chapter this story has had. Hopefully the lack of typos keeps things flowing even better!
Chapter 102: Luang Prabang
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The cavalry bolted down the hill in a loose diamond formation, aimed right down the throat of Shale's cannons. The artillery lieutenant split her command in response, keeping the Napoleons pouring canister shot into the sides of the Sporatons, while the Ordnance Rifles raised their barrels, aiming for that distant hill.
Sara and Evie reached the cannons just as the first of the Ordnance Rifles barked, a shrieking slug of iron sent downrange. The other three quickly joined, pouring into the onrushing cavalry.
The first shot hit empty air with a spray of sparks, ricocheting up into the sky as it tumbled end over end. The next shot behaved similarly, as well as the third, but the fourth shot was different.
Through her spyglass, Sara watched the round suddenly halt in midair, embedded in an invisible shield. It was a bizarre sight. The slug's forward motion had been entirely interrupted, but not its spinning. It buzzed in place, spinning like a top as it slowly, painstakingly, inched deeper into the hidden barrier.
The Knight that would have been struck nudged their horse to the left, clearing the way, and suddenly the slug zipped through the shield, embedding itself into the earth with an explosion of soil.
While Sara prepared to face down the Knights, spells began to rear their ugly heads to her left and right, assaulting her army.
A spear of ice some twenty feet long coalesced in the air, hovering over the heads of the Sporaton spears, then shot forward at a blinding pace. It hit the musket lines at a steep angle, impaling a dozen soldiers in one fell swoop. For the first time in the battle, screams of agony rose from Sara's own troops, adding to the groaning cacophony of wounded. The lance of ice was thin compared to its length, and those that had been pierced through the leg or stomach were pinned in place like a wriggling insect, screaming pitifully.
Then Sara felt a bloom of heat wash over the left side of her body, accompanied by a flash of light no cannon could rival. A horrific, wailing screech filled the air, so loud that it briefly overpowered Champion's Inspiration. The sound reminded her of a tablesaw striking the head of a nail, but this was no brief spark-throwing surprise. A beam of heat so bright she could see it through her closed eyelids swept from left to right, piercing straight through the rows of armor and flesh. Dozens of soldiers were burned alive in an instant, secondary explosions popping off as powder charges were lit by mere proximity to the beam. Half-loaded rifles began to discharge wildly through the ranks while the soldiers scrambled to rip off their armor, which had heated to the point it was burning their skin.
The beam was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. Sporaton troops began to rush into the holes it had opened, stirring up a cloud of ash that had moments ago been flesh.
The story repeated itself across the line as the mages finally began to engage in earnest. This was what they were trained for, the very thing Evie had so feared. Battle mages, born and raised to fight on the open fields. The ground itself began to heave beneath Sara's feet as boulder-sized chunks of stone were lifted and flung to crush life and limb. A cloud pouring torrents of rain opened on the far right flank, needle droplets of water shot fast enough to pierce holes through exposed flesh. Muskets cracked in response, seeking out the mages, abandoning their fire towards the regular troops in favor of targeting anything that even vaguely resembled a mage. The air shimmered with a supernatural haze, making it difficult to aim, but there were thousands of muskets firing. Some would have to strike true, she prayed.
Meanwhile, deep in the center of the two armies, there was nothing. Sara stood in a space occupied only by bodies. Neither the Sporatons nor their reserves sought to fill the gap the cannons had opened. It had only taken one example for that lesson to sink in.
And so Sara and Evie stood, watching spells flare to life as the cavalry charged. The battle was well beyond her direct control. The lines had met, the location chosen. It was up to the smaller commanders now, fighting to keep their squads standing strong. The front rows of her troops had exchanged their muskets for halberds, well aware that everything depended on the slow, grinding melee that was emerging.
And the cavalry. They rushed across the field at a pace Sara would have once thought impossible for a force so heavily armored. The mile between Sara and the enemy was rapidly eaten away. They had barely more than a minute before the cavalry would be on them.
Sara clasped her hands over her head with a groan, leaning to the left, then the right. She shook her legs out, checking the fit of her armor, making sure all the straps were tight. Beside her, the tip of Evie's rapier traced tiny figure-eights in the air, the feline unconsciously running through her precision drills as her eyes narrowed on the enemy cavalry.
"I count only three hundred," Evie said.
"Sounds about right to me," Sara agreed, running her eyes over the approaching cavalry wedge.
"Too few."
"Maybe not. We hit the hell out of them on the way to the city. They may not have enough uninjured horses left for every Knight to mount a full charge."
"Perhaps." Evie dismissed her rapier, pulling her rifle off her back. "Remember your opponent, Master."
"Can't fucking forget," Sara muttered, drawing her own gun. The fifty pound slab of iron fought her as she brought it to her shoulder, sliding one foot back. "But right now, I'm fighting Knights. Not Graf." She thumbed the hammer back, exhaling slowly.
Evie glanced at her from the corner of an eye.
"Happy to be killing those worth killing, then?"
Sara's only answer was a flicker of a grin and the pull of a trigger.
The massive gun struck her shoulder with the force of a charging bull, spinning her to one side as she was enveloped in a cloud of sulfurous smoke.
A horse's chest imploded, armor caving as a pound of lead tore through the animal's ribcage. The rider was thrown free as their steed collapsed, stumbling those that ran behind them, who had to swerve around the animal's corpse. Evie's rifle cracked a moment later, bullet slamming into the throat of a Knight just beside Sara's target. It was difficult to tell if the bullet got through the armor, but judging by the way the Knight dropped their reins and clawed at the spot of impact, she'd bet so.
Sara held up a clenched fist as she heard the sound of cannon rounds sliding home behind her, signaling them to hold. The four Napoleons tracked the oncoming Knights in silence, while the Ordnance Rifles let fly their shots the moment they were able. It seemed the mage's shield which protected the Knights was only interested in stopping cannonballs, because unlike the bullets which had passed straight through, the tapered iron slugs once more struck some invisible barrier.
But this time, they struck as one. Two were stopped cold while two dug through, both ripping a Knight and their steed to shreds. The blunt wedge formation was once more disrupted as the others were forced to weave around their falling comrades, slowing their advance.
Sara slipped her gun away, stepping further onto the corpse-laden field. So dense were the Sporaton dead and dying that there was almost nowhere to stand that wasn't soft and warm, difficult to keep her footing on. She forced herself to ignore it all, moving until she stood twenty feet ahead of the cannons, which flanked her on either side. Her hand was still raised in a clenched fist, checking the eagerness she physically felt wafting off the cannoneers.
Hidden by the black slate of her helmet, Sara felt a dangerous smile spreading across her face. Fighting Knights. Nobles. The ones in charge. The ones that had driven their subjects to this war, the bastards that had forced innocent men and women to stare down the barrels of her guns.
Sorry Graf, Sara thought, but I really, really don't give a shit about pacifism.
Red smoke erupted from her skin as her Champion's runes flashed. Her hand dropped, and the cannons fired.
----------------------------
Ignite
----------------------------
The mage's first spell was desperate. It took the boards of the Magecraft's deck and flung them upward, tossing a dozen of his Marines into the ocean like children's dolls.
Ignite ripped his sword from the gut of another Sporaton and stepped back, drawing Kate. He clicked the hammer back, moving the cylinder to the next loaded charge, and pulled the trigger.
The mage's head whipped around a moment before the gun bucked, a shimmer of orange rippling out into the air.
Three shots left.
The bullet sunk through the half-formed shield and skittered out the other side at a sharp upward angle, tearing through the flesh of the mage's cheek. He'd been aiming for her chest. She staggered, pressing a free hand to the bloody wound while raising the other, ominous sparks leaping from her twitching fingers.
Ignite simply stepped forward again, embedding himself amongst the Sporaton Marines. His troops behind him kept the enemies to his left and right occupied, allowing him to focus on the opponents ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mage's bloodied lips curl in a snarl. For a moment he thought the woman would unleash her magics upon her own troops, but at the last moment she pivoted, shooting the energy up into the Waverake.
A single bolt of white lightning split off from her hand, forks doubling with every foot it traveled. A blinding webwork of energy wrapped itself around the Waverake's stern, shattering the glass of the captain's cabin, digging deep scorch marks into the wood. Smoke and fire burst into being, dozens of small flames stirred by the sea breeze.
Ignite ignored it. For a time the chaotic, swirling melee of the boarding action consumed all of his thoughts. He focused on his footwork, on the exact placement of his stabs. Bodies began to litter the deck around him, bodies that he kicked out of the way as he continued to advance.
Abruptly, his sword was stopped by the sudden clash of a long naval saber. The first of the enemy's Irregulars had found him. A woman dressed in a full suit of enchanted plate metal, likely some member of the Sporaton nobility. She stood with a wide stance, readied to check Ignite's advance.
He launched into a flurry of blows, trading jabs as his Marines continued to fight across the ship, slowly growing more separated. The pitching deck grew slick with blood, troops of either party falling as the waves tossed them from side to side. The fight was more and more disjointed, small circles of Tulian Marines forming as the Sporatons drove between the thinner points in their line, surrounding them. Occasionally he heard a pistol spit lead into the enemy, but it was a rare occurrence. The battle was so close-pressed that opportunities for his troops to draw and aim the weapons were precious few.
A problem that Ignite sympathized with. He was certain he had the advantage of skill over his Irregular opponent, but her armor was too robust, the confines of their fight too close-pressed. He could not draw his gun or take her to the ground to slip a knife through her eye without being exposed to similar treatment from her comrades. Meanwhile, she lacked the skill to batter her way past his blade long enough to land a killing blow.
And so they continued to strike and jab at one another, no breath to spare for commanding their respective troops. The world had narrowed to a single point for Ignite. One opponent, one objective.
It was a peculiar sort of relief.
Without warning, the woman dropped to the deck, a hole where her forehead had been a moment before. Ignite wasted no time in taking advantage, launching into a series of wild swings against those who had been relying upon her protection. The gap their duel had occupied opened further, Tulian Marines filling the empty space his blade carved.
Only when he was surrounded by friendlies could Ignite spare a glance backward, searching for whoever had shot the Irregular. He caught only a brief glance of some sailor whose name he didn't know turning away from the gunwale, a smoking musket leaned against the railing. The woman was already focused on her previous duties, and didn't catch the appreciative salute he sent her.
Compared to the abject slaughter wrought by firearm volleys, the boarding action of sword and steel was an agonizingly glacial affair. His Marines slowly began to push forward, seizing each opportunity they found to unify their lines, but doing so was a matter of precious, precious minutes. Around him Ignite heard the rest of the fleet sputtering with cannonfire, cannonades trying to ward off the marauding Magecraft as best they could without the Waverake's assistance. Occasionally the flagship's cannons would roar, some enemy or another straying too close to the sights of Balon's gunners, but it was not often enough. And all the while, the enemy's mercenaries were closing down on Tulian itself, inching closer to the rape and pillage they no doubt longed for.
Ignite needed to press the assault. He needed to find and remove the enemy Admiral, crush the Sporaton's ability to coordinate. He needed to do so as soon as possible.
Ignite took a step back, orienting himself on the chaotic deck. Admiral Scheer was nowhere in sight, which meant he was likely in his cabin below, sheltering from the violence. The stairs down to the Magecraft's interior were towards the stern, off his right side.
With a flick of his wrist, Ignite brought Kate up, taking one step back. He shot the Sporaton opposite him through the eye, thumbing the hammer back while they dropped, then fired again as the next individual was revealed, then a third time.
All six shots had been fired, but he now had an open slot to the enemy rear.
Ignite dashed forward, smashing aside the single lunge a Marine managed to throw at him as he passed.
The suddenness of his emergence from the melee was disorienting. If he kept his eyes ahead, it seemed like he was on an empty ship, the deck seemingly abandoned. Without the sounds of battle behind him, he could have believed he was touring a ship in port.
Of course, it was an illusion. Several Sporaton soldiers broke off from the rear of their lines as they caught sight of him, trying to stop his flanking of their comrades.
Ignite barely paid them any mind, breaking into a sprint down the length of the deck. He knocked one aside with the flat of his palm as he passed, slamming his sword into the gut of another. He reached the stairs down to the hold in an instant, staring down into the darkness.
Ignite lifted Kate out of her holster and set the hammer to half-cock, beginning the laborious process of reloading. He marched down into the Magecraft alone, trusting his troops to hold the line.
----------------------------
Sara
----------------------------
Sara found the first thing that sounded worse than canister shot pouring into a crowd of people.
Canister shot tearing holes in horses.
Sara was buffeted on either side by passing clouds of lead, hundreds of lead balls filling the air. The Knight's charge was halted as if they had struck a solid wall, steed and rider alike thrown to the dirt. The wailing agonies of the horses were shrill enough to pierce through the din of battle, an earsplitting screech of absolute suffering like nothing Sara had ever heard before. It seemed like nothing could have survived the barrage, that no one save the suicidal would have continued the charge.
Sara slid her gun into the bag of holding, reaching over her shoulder for her halberd. It was one Hurlish had made for her, slightly shorter than the standard variant, easier to swing. It may not have had enchantments, but it was still the work of a master blacksmith. Sara twisted her hips, taking her stance, the halberd's haft stuck firmly in the dirt. Under her breath, she muttered her first spell of the battle, carefully focusing on the image she wished to conjure.
"Ta-da."
An inky darkness shot out across the field, coating everything in black tar. Every body, every blade of grass, every dropped weapon and bloodied soldier was covered in a layer of absolute darkness.
Save, of course, for the fallen cavalry. Sara's spell rippled under them, coating the physical objects, but sparing the illusory corpses the mage's spell had created. Of the hundred or so Knights that appeared to have fallen, no more than a handful had their bodies covered by her spell. The rest remained bright and vibrant, proof that they hadn't ever existed at all.
"Look for the dust!" Sara roared. "If they kick up dust, they're not real! Fourth and eight squadrons, fall in!"
She had no more time to explain. The two squadrons of soldiers who had flanked the empty space of the cannons shoved away from the lines of spears they had been engaging, sprinting to fill the gaps before the cannons. She stood ahead of their line, Evie resting behind her with rifle raised, the haft of Sara's halberd dug into the dirt to protect them both.
The first Knight arrived in a blinding flash, lance lowered, aiming for her face.
Sara took a deep breath, calming her thoughts.
"Boom."
Lightning tore free from her blade with a hideous crackle, leaping in flashing arcs a dozen feet long. This wasn't the single, calamitous bolt of her Champion-gifted spellcraft, the spell Amarat had shoved in her head. This was an original creation, a spell formed with Garen's aid. In essence, it was her welding spell tuned to its absolute maximum.
Her halberd was wreathed in a halo of sputtering, sparking lightning, each flailing bolt as thick as her wrist. She lunged, meeting the Knight's lance with her own weapon.
Lightning leapt up the steel tip of the Knight's lance, curling in a serpentine embrace that rocketed up the weapon to claw its way into his arm, charring the flesh beneath. The wood of the lance detonated in a spray of shrapnel in the same instant the Knight went slack in the saddle, falling limply to one side as his horse reared in a panic.
Evie's rifle barked, putting the animal down. The Knight fell with it, unmoving.
Then Sara was in the thick of it all.
Cavalry rushed past her on either side while her own soldiers thundered into place, desperate to keep the enemy away from the priceless cannons. The enemy spears, who had suddenly found their opposites fleeing, began a charge forward, pressing the cluster of Tulian troops on either flank, adding pressure to the Knights that stood before them. Several Knights were thrown from their horses as rifles barked, stumbling to their feet in an instant, resuming their charge on foot, which carried them over the midnight-black ground. The entire world was a whirl of steel, smoke, and bloody, screaming desperation.
A Knight suddenly appeared before her, holding a long cavalry mace in a two-handed grip. Through the slits of their helmets, they locked eyes.
The Knight took two quick steps forward, raising their mace high.
Sara felt blood rush to her head, the world spinning around her. A delirious smile tore its way up her face.
Fighting Knights. Fighting the fuckers that started it all. Fighting the ones that she should have been fighting from the start, the ones that actually deserved everything she'd done. Fighting them, beating them, killing them. Taking them to the ground, slipping a knife through their helmet, watching them panic as the tip slid closer and closer to their eye. The world she'd come to know, the people who'd rallied under her. They stood to her left and right, fighting the Knights they couldn't beat.
But Sara could. And they knew that. They wanted her to kill them. They needed her to do it. There wasn't any complexity left to it, no question of should or shouldn't. There was just the one in front of her, the one behind them, and the one that might follow.
She wondered how many would come to her. How many would think they could win, how many would think they wouldn't end up dead in the dirt like the others.
She hoped it would be so, so many.
Sara lunged forward with a mindless screech, slamming the flat of her lightning-sheathed halberd into the Knight's chest. They began to convulse, electricity coursing through their nervous system.
Sara shoved her halberd past them only to drag it back, hooking their leg out from under them. The Knight fell onto their back, still seizing uncontrollably.
Sara dropped with a feral grin, aiming her knee for the front of their faceplate. Three hundred pounds of woman and armor sent it crunching through the Knight's head like an egg, ending their spasms in a splash of brain and bone.
Evie's massive pistol boomed over Sara's head, tearing a chunk from a Knight that had been trying to strike Sara while she was kneeling. She rose with a roar, throwing her halberd forward, and began to mindlessly fling the weapon about, abandoning any semblance of strategy in lieu of pure instinct.
To her distant right, she heard the advancing flank of her army begin to engage in earnest. Which is to say that they were utterly envoloped, a pinch point that was easy to surround and cut off.
Then the cannons roared.
Twelve pound balls of iron tore through the ranks of soldiers, fired not forward at the advancing ranks of ten, but in parallel to the entire Sporaton front line. Hundreds of Sporaton soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder in the path of the cannonball. Through the corner of her eye as she fought, Sara caught sight of red geysers erupting into the air as legs, arms, and entire torsos were tossed like bloody fireworks.
She threw herself forward yet again as the Knights recoiled, distracted by the wind of cannonballs tearing past them. She slammed her lightning-wrapped halberd into one Knight only to see their armor come alive with light, fighting against the spell, resisting its effects.
She dropped the halberd and lunged forward, taking them around the throat with both hands.
The Knight immediately kicked against her, slamming their boot into the armor over her stomach. They hit like a mule, taking the air from her lungs, but she didn't let it stop her. She wrenched from side to side, using her superior height to lever them to the ground.
The Knight hit the dirt with a grunt. They raised both fists and began to rain blows on her helmet, each impact of their gauntleted knuckles ringing with the force of a hammer.
Sara tightened her grip around their neck and lifted them half a foot off the ground, then slammed them down. The Knight gasped in pain, so Sara lifted them up and did it again. And again. And again and again and again, her fingers clenching, spittle flying. She drove their head into the dirt until a crater formed beneath their skull, her own black illusion filling in the hole she dug. She watched their eyes flutter, then begin to close.
Sara reached up with one hand and ripped their visor open, exposing their face. She drew her fist back, grinning wildly, then threw it forward.
The Knight's face caved like tissue paper under her knuckles. Her gauntlet struck soil. Hot blood seeped through the plates of her gove, coating her fingers in gore.
Sara rose to her feet with a scream, spinning to fling the Knight's corpse forward. Smoke was gushing from her skin, red as blood, filling the entire area in a red mist that boiled over the blackened ground. The Knight's corpse struck the back of some other armored bastard as Sara began to lurch forward, drawing her sword.
She could hear everything. Everything. Every cry, every plead for mercy, from every member of both armies. They were pouring into her skull, hundreds every second. She could hear it all, and there was only way it was going to be stopped.
She threw herself forward with another bloodcurdling screech, snagging her halberd and spinning into the enemy. The battle had continued to degrade around her, confusion worsening to abject chaos. The Knights tore chunks through the ranks, carving out islands of halberdiers who had no choice but to huddle together for mutual protection, all their combined efforts required to ward off even a single one of the armored noble bastards. Spells continued to flare to life across the field, each time ripping chunks from the Tulian Army, nearly as violent as the cannons. The entire battle was becoming a larger mirror of the central fight which Sara had involved herself in, the holes created by Knight and Mage filled by a flood of spears. Each squadron was slowly being surrounded, columns of the Royal Army sinking into her ranks like fingers into soft clay.
But still they fought. The front ranks of halberdiers held firm, barely flinching as muskets fired over their heads. The pace of death was beyond anything Sara had seen before, bodies falling like rain, hundreds dying every minute. Her troops were getting the better of the enemy, inflicting damage well out of proportion of their number, but it was a narrow, narrow margin.
A margin that continued to twist and spiral. Coded orders rang from the Sporaton army in the form of bugles and horns, minor adjustments that constantly shifted the pace of battle. The enemy reacted near instantly to the smallest changes in Sara's army, diving with a hellish fervor towards the slightest of openings. The massive reserves of the Royal Army were meted out exactly when needed, shoring up any advantages her troops may have managed to claw out from the enemy. The enemy archers held their arrows as they continued to circle around, searching for the exposed rear of Sara's forces so they could loose arrows directly into their spines without fear of hitting friendly troops. The rear lines of her muskets had been forced to turn and fire away from the spears to address this, weakening the pressure they could apply to the bulk of the Sporaton forces.
And Sara could do nothing about it, because she was trapped in the heat of battle.
Maybe trapped wasn't the right word, though.
She was enveloped in the heat of battle. Luxuriating in it. Sunk into the boiling rage of conflict like a sauna, her blood thundering with primal satisfaction.
The entire battle had devolved into a mess of intermixing soldiers, and nowhere was worse than the center of the lines. Sara had friendly halberdiers that had fought their way to her left and right, maybe a dozen of them, and Evie stood directly behind her, but beyond that, she hadn't a clue what was happening in her immediate surroundings. Even her Blessings couldn't keep her appraised; little was being said beyond grunts of effort and shouted insults. Irregular Knights and peasant spears were intermixed without any sort of cohesion, and it seemed no one was in formal command. Things were only worsened by her ongoing spell coating every inanimate object in formless shades of black, the illusion darting up the skin of any soldier the moment they died. The ground was so thick with bodies that it was near impossible to keep one's footing, a fact which had slowly forced the rapid melee to devolve into an inelegant shoving match, soldiers on either side paying as much attention to their feet as their enemy.
But at least she could keep track of whoever was right in front of her. Another horseless Knight had found their way to her, and they were trying to smash their poleaxe through her skull.
Sara leaned back as the weapon whipped past her face, flinging out her halberd as she did so. Too off balance for a proper swing, the blade skated to the side, smacking the flat into the Knight's armored ribs. They still recoiled from the force of it, a painful reverberation shaking its way up the halberd's haft into her palms.
Sara found her footing and gripped the halberd tighter, trying to physically shove the Knight over, using the weapon as a lever more than a polearm. The Knight stumbled, but didn't fall, and so she drew back, preparing to stab.
Then Evie's pistol boomed. The Knight dropped, swallowed by spellbound darkness as their life left them.
"Reloading!" Evie shouted, barely audible over the din of battle. She ripped a pin from the revolver, which let her slide the entire barrel off. Manually loading six shots into a blackpowder weapon was far too time consuming in the midst of battle, so Hurlish had created a pair of extra cylinders for Evie to keep loaded, allowing her to swap the entire part out. Creating two spare cylinders of pure blacksteel had been ludicrously expensive, consuming the last of Tulian's limited supply of the ensorcelled material, but the time saved was proving worthwhile.
Sara took a defensive stance while Evie prepared her revolver, menacing the Knights with probing lunges, daring them to come closer. Most recoiled from the crackling lightning of her blade, unwilling to test if their armor's enchantments could stand up to a Champion's spellcraft.
Instead they focused on the halberdiers to either side of Sara, maces and poleaxes shattering the hafts of halberds with every whistling swing. As individuals, the Tulian troops stood no chance against the Knights. They were so laughably outmatched that it was only the fear of musketry which had kept the Knights from running the troops under at the moment of contact. The crack of blackpowder and whistle of lead kept them at bay, unwilling to find themselves face-to-face with the smoke-wreathed barrel of a rifle.
Sara felt a sudden shove against her back and nearly swung around to take off the offender's head, checking herself just in time.
"Out of the way! Out of the fucking way!"
The powder-choked bronze of a cannon was what had pressed into her back, pushed forward by a team of exhausted-looking cannoneers. The cannon was clearly loaded, its barrel leveled dead-ahead.
"Out of our goddamn way!" The cannoneer repeated, their voice hoarse from constant yelling.
Sara obediently moved aside, letting the maw of the cannon protrude from the Tulian lines. She started to move her hands to her ears, but she was too slow.
Pain lanced into her skull as the world went silent. Knights and peasants alike had seen the cannon at the last second and tried to throw themselves to the ground, but it was too late. Canister shot tore through the ranks, as utterly nauseating a sight as Sara had ever seen. A cone of death rippled through the disorganized Sporatons, narrow at the mouth of the cannon, dozens of feet wide at the rear.
"FUCKING COVER US!" The lead cannoneer yelled shrilly. For someone that had just personally killed dozens, the panic in their voice was entirely out of place. They threw their entire weight against the cannon's carriage as they desperately tried to retreat, fear written plainly across their face.
Sara could barely hear the words through the ringing in her ears, but she leapt to the cannon's defense all the same.
She was just in time. A midnight-black column the size of a telephone pole burst out of nowhere, diving for the cannon.
Instead of the invaluable Napoleon, it struck Sara in the center of her blacksteel breastplate. She was deafened yet again by a cataclysmic screech, the impact throwing her to the ground as if she'd been struck by a truck.
Her head hit the dirt with a muffled thud. Darkness flickered at the edges of her vision, threatening to crawl inward. She couldn't get her lungs to draw breath.
Knight and peasant alike lunged forward in a desperate rush to swarm over her, recognizing the opportunity for what it was. She tried to get her legs moving, but they dragged sluggishly across the soil, taking her nowhere.
Then Evie was standing above her, feet straddling Sara's hips, rapier a blur, pistol held against her side.
A Knight that had been swinging for Sara's stomach dropped like a discarded doll, blood seeping from the hole Evie had pierced through their eye. Two peasants fell next, throats gushing blood, and then another Knight joined them, their head parted like a flower's petal by the roar of Evie's massive revolver.
Sara's lungs finally seized, drawing a deep gulp of air. She was wracked by a violent cough as the darkness receded, spittle coating the inside of her helmet. She rolled onto her side, shoving herself up.
Evie stepped away, letting Sara stand. She took a moment to search the ground for her halberd, only to find it having been somehow knocked away in the chaos, a dozen feet beyond the safety of the Tulian line.
Sara drew her sword instead, flicking it out to its full length, and threw herself back into the fight.
----------------------------
Ignite
----------------------------
The hold of the Magecraft was eerily empty. Though lit by crystals, having come down from the sparkling daylight of the noon sun, Ignite could barely see a thing. He took several steps past the stairs, sword in hand, waiting to see if any Sporatons would follow him down from the main deck.
When none came, he sheathed his spatha, replacing it in his hand with Kate.
The revolver was not an easy thing to reload. While the process may have been similar on the face to a musket, with one loading powder, wadding, then ball, it was far more tedious. A single notch taken out of the frame was the only place in which he could access the cylinder, which meant he had to meticulously pour powder down the narrow hole, followed by shoving the wadding in with a thumb, before finally placing the ball loosely on top. Unlike the army's rifles, Kate still used round balls, and so the lead projectiles were oversized. He had to use a lever under the barrel to physically ram them home, shaving metal from the sides to ensure a fit tight enough to engage the rifling.
Doing so took quite some time, but the nerve-wracking affair was necessary. To his left was the stairs to the main deck, from which a horde of Sporaton soldiers may at any moment emerge, while to the right stood the locked cabin of the enemy Admiral, within which undoubtedly waited the most elite of the enemy Irregulars. The Sporatons were not the sort to allow a commander to fend for themselves. His eyes kept flicking between the two vectors of attack, ready to drop everything and defend himself at a moment's notice.
Thankfully, Ignite finished reloading Kate without interruption, for which he breathed a sigh of relief. He briefly considered taking a further moment to clean the revolver, which was already filthy with powder soot, but discarded the thought. His troops were fighting for their lives up above, and every moment spent dawdling was another potential casualty.
With this in mind, Ignite wasted no time walking up to the locked cabin, eying the lock. He could see no sign of enchantment, and so he leaned back, lifted his boot, and smashed it open.
The door flew back to crack against the far wall, announcing his entrance with a boom. He immediately took a shooting stance, pistol gripped in both hands, ready for the enemy to rush him.
What greeted him was more disorienting than any bewitching spell.
A foppish man, dressed in piles of silks as luxurious as they were garish, sat behind a low desk, across which was scattered half-empty bottles of wine. Maps and figures crowded the desk, showing some signs of prior organization before sloshes of rich wine had stained them to uselessness. The man was resting his head in a hand, a large feather-spotted hat pulled low over his brow, so oversized that its brim dipped into the massive wineglass that he held in his other hand, which was slowly tilting the ruby liquid back and forth. Behind and to the side of the man stood one of the masked cultists that Ignite heard so much about, but they barely registered next to the bizarre sight.
The man looked up from his wine after far too long a moment, bleary eyes squinting at Ignite. Then his lips split in a drunken grin, far too gleeful for the circumstances.
"Ah, the Lost Sergeant finds me at last!"
For a moment, Ignite didn't understand the man's words. It had been so long since he had heard spoken Carrion that it briefly seemed more foreign to him than any Continental language.
"Magecraft Captain Vanillaflower?" Ignite asked incredulously.
The Carrion Captain put a finger to his lips, making a shushing noise.
"Now-now, that's not me, is it?" He giggled. "Not anymore, anyway. I'm Mister Admiral Scheer, don't you know? That's what they call me these days."
Ignite could not believe what he was seeing. A Carrion Captain– a Carrion Magecraft Captain– in command of a foreign vessel. No, not even that. A foreign fleet. It was a notion so absurd he had no words for it. An impossibility.
"Explain yourself!" Ignite barked, the Carrion words rolling off his tongue with greater ease every passing moment. "Is Tulian unknowingly at war with the Carrion Navy? What purpose does your presence serve?"
Vanillaflower all but dropped his wine onto his desk, adding to the canvas of stains. The cultist began to step forward, hands twitching within their robes, and Ignite swung Kate towards them just before Vanillaflower thumped a hand into their stomach to halt them, moving with the casualness of old friends. Judging by the cultist's reaction, this was a behavior borne of drunkenness, not true familiarity.
"Down, boy," Vanillaflower slurred. "The Lost Sergeant here is our guest right now."
Is he mad? Ignite wondered. What could possibly explain this? Despite the absurdity of the situation, the cultist moved no further, holding their tongue. Ignite kept Kate trained on the cultist's head as Vanillaflower cleared his throat several times, then hiccuped.
"As I was saying, Sergenté Parables. You're welcome here aboard, of course. Polite hospitality and such, yes?"
"Explain yourself!" Ignite barked again. "Are you a Captain of the Carrion Navy, or are you a subject of Sporatos?"
"If I say the second one you'll shoot me," Vanillaflower said, raising a finger. "So why would I say that?"
Ignite could not believe his ears. This was beyond anything he had been ready for. Beyond any absurdity he had ever envisioned.
"Have you truly betrayed our people?" Ignite asked. "You were an honored diplomat, Vanillaflower. A Magecraft Captain, an honor to our people. What have you done?"
"Betrayed my people?" Vanillaflower asked, as if the question was rhetorical. "Not all that different from you, hm? Working for an enemy Navy, giving away our secrets like sweets to children? Isn't that what you're here for, too? Or, ah, why you're here, I mean?"
The accusation, no matter how inebriated a tongue it came from, struck dangerously close to home. Ignite's heart pounded in his chest, and he was not sure if the itch he felt was urging him to pull the trigger, flee the room, or simply pretend he had never heard Vanillaflower speak.
"How did you come to this?" Ignite asked instead. "What role have you played in this war? Are you acting with the Admiralty's permission?"
"Oh, no," Vanillaflower slurred, grasping for his wine glass once more. He took a deep drink, then dropped it off the side of the desk, where it joined a pile of similarly discarded glasses. "I was here to be an observer, of course. Provide some lip-service advice in exchange for getting a front row seat to the operations of the Sporaton Navy, the usual sort. The Admiralty would be furious if they found out what I've done, of course. But they won't. After all, I'll be dead at her hands."
Ignite's eyes narrowed. He kept Kate trained on the cultist, but he watched the disgraced Captain through the corner of his eyes.
"Who do you mean by her, Vanillaflower?" Ignite asked. He knew exactly who the man referred to, but wanted to hear it from his lips.
"The Tyrant of the Waves, of course," Vanillaflower hiccuped. "The Dead Dream's Necromancer. The Scourge of the Jungle Shores, she of the Empty Eyes and Black Hull." He leaned forward on his desk, a bubble of sobriety rising for the brief moment he locked eyes with Ignite. Shadows darkened his cheeks, eyes glittering with crazed fear. "Captain Nora O'Gallison. Sinti's successor, trained by his hand, aiming for the Great Locks once more. Surely you know that by now. What she'll do when she's free of the Champion's yoke. She's too great for these paltry waters, and she does not care what will slither through the holes she bores in the ancient pacts. She wants to open the seas, Ignite Parables."
Sweat slicked Ignite's palm. He shifted his grip on Kate, ensuring he had a firm grasp.
"You don't know that. She's never stated anything of the sort, in public or private."
The solemnity that had consumed Vanillaflower vanished as quickly as it had arrived. He leaned back in his chair, fumbling beneath his desk for yet another wine glass.
"Ah, well. I'm sure you'll find out soon enough. Won't matter for me, though. To be honest, I'm surprised I haven't been cut apart by one of those cannonballs already. Wish she'd get on with it. Better dead than living dishonored, after all."
Ignite struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. A Magecraft Captain, the peerless elite of the Carrion Navy, serving the Sporatons like a whipped dog. And why? Because he feared a single woman? It was a disgrace that outshone Ignite's own shame as the sun did the stars. Whether the man had caved to his fear of Nora or the threats of the Sporatons, it did not matter. Ignite's faith in honor had been beaten and battered by the months since his Magecraft had sunk, but even the crumbled remains of that once-mighty monolith vibrated with indignation. For Vanillaflower to aid a foreign kingdom without the Admiralty's endorsement was inexcusable in and of itself. But to do so when said kingdom was at war with Tulian, a nation nominally allied to the Carrion Navy– by agreements that Vanillaflower had personally negotiated–
Ignite's anger flared so brightly it made his head spin. It was unfathomable. Disgusting. There may exist greater betrayals, worse examples of cowardice, but they were very, very few.
And so it was that Ignite found himself consumed by a stark realization.
Here he stood before two individuals guilty of utterly contemptible crimes. Vanillaflower, who had betrayed Ignite's native people on a level that he did not think all of their history could find a precedent for. And the cultist, whose foul influence had stirred the entire war that a once-peaceful Tulian had been forced into.
Ignite was a man of two homes. Born in a Carrion colony, raised aboard the decks of his people's Navy, his life had been spent fighting for the betterment of his people. Then he had been rescued by the Champion of Amarat, whose aspirations were so righteous he never would have believed they were possible if he had not met the woman.
And both those homes he had betrayed. He had abandoned his Magecraft, refusing to take its secrets to the bottom with the rest of the crew. True, he had never spoken a word of what he knew of the vessel's enchantments, but that hardly mattered. Should word get out that he had such knowledge, there were means to extract it whether he wanted it or not.
And then, when he had tried to find honor once more under the Tulian Republic, he had failed. He had sheltered a spy. Bedded her, coddled her, fed her information. That the Champion had pardoned him did not matter. The crime was his, and nothing could take it from him.
And now he stood before an opportunity to right his life's greatest wrongs. He could shoot Vanillaflower on the spot, avenging the Carrion Navy's honor. He could throw himself against the cultist, suffer their spells for as long as it took to bleed them dry.
He was no fool. He knew he would die. The cultist's spells would rip him limb from limb, scatter his blood across the cabin like a toddler playing with paint. But it was possible, just barely, that he could reach them first. That he could slip his sword into their ribs, release a shot from within the bounds of their shield. In a single, sweeping moment, Ignite could atone for all the wrongs he had rendered unto his peoples.
Vanillaflower stared at him silently, waiting to see what would happen. The man had clearly been consumed by his fatalism. The cultist, similarly, waited impassively, empty of any visible concern.
As his finger began to tug at the trigger, muscles tensing, his mind abruptly rebelled.
He looked at the engraved cylinder of Kate, etched with the scene of an elegant naval battle. Made for him by the Champion's partners, a gift no other in all the world had been entrusted with. Unbidden, the words of Evie's letter swam up to the front of his mind.
It is of the utmost importance that you do not, under any circumstances, allow this weapon to fall into enemy possession. However, unlike the Carrion Navy, I will give you one order to supersede this:
Preventing the revolver from falling into enemy hands is not worth your life. You, Ignite, whether you believe it or not, are an asset worth cultivating.
Ignite threw himself back through the door, diving to one side.
A blade of dark glass ripped through the space he had just occupied, accompanied by a hellish scream born of foul magic. Ignite stood and leveled Kate at the wall and fired all six shots rapidly as he was able, trying to guess where the Cultist had been standing. The lead easily pierced the thin wood, but he couldn't tell if he struck anything.
Ignite turned and threw himself up the stairs, running for the safety of his troops.
To his surprise, he realized that he still had a life left that he wished to live.
----------------------------
King Sporatos
----------------------------
The King of Sporatos looked down on the field of battle, his lips pressed into a grim line. He stood beneath an illusion on the hill, invisible to the enemy's prying eyes. To keep a mage in reserve just for his protection was a great irritation, but Graf had been insistent. After seeing what the newest Champion-spawned weapons were capable of, he had begrudgingly ceded the point in Graf's favor, if only to himself. He would never state as much aloud.
What he could see through the maelstrom of smoke was a tale of unending destruction. Two armies bleeding one another to the ragged last. The stratagems Graf had devised were certainly remarkable, and notably successful during the opening stages of the battle, but it was not enough. What little bravery the insipid peasantry once possessed was in tatters, their will to fight abandoned in favor of simple-minded, animalistic self-preservation. The few breakthroughs they had managed in the Tulian line were not being exploited, the dullards too cowed by the flash of fire to dare step forward and make themselves a target. Only his Knights continued to press the assault, and even they did so sparingly, wary of suffering the concentrated fire of a musket volley.
"We must retreat," Graf said yet again, more insistently than the last time.
"I will not."
"The battle is lost, My Lord," Graf said. It was the fifth time in as many minutes that he had said such a thing, and King Sporatos had no more fondness for the sentiment than he had the first time. "If we withdraw now, we will do so in good order, rather than in a rout. Once we are free of their artillery, they will not pursue."
"And the war will be lost," the King snapped.
"It already is," Graf replied. His words were spoken without heat, without the slightest hint of disrespect. Somehow, that stoked the King's ire even higher. That the mercenary seemed to view their loss as an inevitability was profoundly insulting in a way the King found difficult to describe. Graf continued on in this fashion, outlining his argument for cowardice. "Our momentum is spent, our troops exhausted. Even if the enemy should run and break, we would require time to convalesce, time that will allow them to reform their forces within their capital. The casualties we have suffered already renders the city impenetrable. Even if we were not facing down their firearms, we could not take the walls."
"Our objective goes beyond the city," the King growled. "We must capture the Champion, return her to the Kingdom. To leave such a powerful element threatening our borders is beyond unacceptable."
"I understand, My Lord. And while you may indeed capture her some day, it is not this day. She is surrounded by troops of fanatic loyalty, wielding weapons we cannot hope to answer. The battle is lost."
King Sporatos whirled on Graf, scowling furiously. "I will hear no more of this talk! You may have been placed in command of this army, mercenary, but you will still do as your King commands! You will next speak of defeat when the enemy's swords are at our throats, and not a moment sooner!"
Graf raised one eyebrow.
"Or what?"
King Sporatos's eyes widened. His jaw worked back and forth, teeth grinding. His next words came out in a low, lethal hiss.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, 'or what?'" The mercenary repeated, expressionless as ever. "What will you do? I am here to advise, Your Excellence. My advice is that the battle is lost, and all that remains for your people is suffering."
"You dare–"
Graf's palm fell onto the pommel of his sword, finger lightly resting against the leather grip.
"I do, My Liege. I hereby refuse command of this army."
King Sporatos lost himself. Blood seemed to seep into his very vision, coating the world in red. He stepped forward, reaching for his sword, physically trembling with rage.
Graf's fingers tightened, the barest edge of blade emerging from his sheath.
There was a great rush of air, wind billowing with the force of a typhoon. The illusion that had been hiding their command post failed as the King's mage-advisor appeared before Graf, hands raised. A series of flashes pained the King's eyes as shield after shield was summoned around the mercenary, dozens of interwoven layers seeking to contain him. The ground around the man was crushed flat as glass, acrid smoke rising as the intense pressure within evaporated every blade of grass.
"You speak to your King, Graf Urs" the mage hissed. Their every limb was trembling with the effort of maintaining their spells. "Control yourself."
Graf scoffed, glancing curiously at the energies which enveloped him.
"I ask again, cultist. Or what?"
"I will kill you."
The old man laughed, a wheezing, scratchy sound. "I'm sure you will, child. Now," Graf waved at the shields, "get rid of this nonsense. I have a retreat to prepare for."
For a brief moment, the King thought his mage-advisor might actually stand up to the mercenary. That he would try to contain Graf Urs.
Then the trembling stopped, and the shields fell. Graf stepped away without further comment, moving towards the cluster of Night's Eye which occupied a nearby command post.
The King watched him go in silence, stewing in impotent rage. The mage-advisor stood beside him, hands returned to the folds of their sleeves. Despite the featureless mask hiding their expression, King Sporatos felt certain the mage was equally enraged.
The King spent a minute or more taking level breaths, trying to contain the thundering of his pulse. The sounds of battle rumbled behind him, the low bass of cannons and muskets a distressingly familiar tone. He did not allow himself to dwell, however. He focused on controlling his temper, bringing himself back to reason.
"He may be correct," the King eventually said. The mage turned to him, awaiting further comment. King Sporatos sighed, putting his back to Graf, watching the distant battle unfold. "It is unlikely we will win this battle. Alternatives must be considered."
"Your rewards are contingent upon the capture of the Champion, King Sporatos," the mage reminded him. "We care nothing for the city or your territory."
"Yes, yes, as I'm well aware," the King said, waving half-heartedly. "But Graf was chosen for a reason. Insubordinate though he may have become, he is very rarely wrong. Your prize will have to wait for another day."
"Then so, too, shall your ascension."
The King's forced neutral expression grew a touch more brittle.
"Keep dangling such things before me, and I may lose interest in your bait. For one who speaks so endlessly of hierarchy, you often fail to know your place. Regardless. If we are to gain any conciliation for this failure, it will have to be sought rapidly." The King eyed the mage-advisor without turning his head, looking down on the slight figure. "You have reviewed the information on Tulian's infrastructure, yes?"
The mage-advisor did not dignify this with a response. King Sporatos continued on, unperturbed.
"Good. I have received word that it is likely our mercenaries will breach Tulian's harbor within a few short hours. While a far cry from total victory, their attempts represent an opportunity. One I will pursue."
"You wish to obtain what knowledge you can of the enemy's firearms, I presume?"
King Sporatos looked away from the mage. To the battle beyond, where bodies lay piled.
"No," he stated plainly. "I wish to kill anyone who has the slightest knowledge of their construction. You are to find Emeric and provide him a summary of what information you have on the enemy's industry. He will depart at once. Then, if you so choose, you may join the battle yourself. Perhaps your spells are capable of subduing the Champion where others have failed."
The mage-advisor nodded graciously, their posture lightening, as if a smile was hidden behind their mask.
"As you wish, Your Excellency. It should not take long."
Notes:
Creeping ever closer to the end of the end.
Chapter 103: Kentenshi's Paranoia
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara
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Sara stood with both feet on bodies, sword still in her hand, but with its tip drooping to rest on the ground. Smoke still rolled off her skin, but it had lightened to a deep, brownish-pink, like old blood spat into a roadside puddle. The sputtering mist coated the ground where she stood some dozen feet in front of the main Tulian line. On the field of canister-shredded bodies. She stood vigil before her army, the first obstacle any Knight would have to surmount before they could reach the general troops. Her shoulders were heaving with every breath, and she felt the weight of her armor like never before, which was odd, considering how little of it she had left.
Her helmet had been torn away by the spiked hook of a Knight's voulge early on. That had wrenched her neck hard enough that she'd felt several distinct, dangerous pops, forcing her off the frontlines to let a potion swirl its way through her gut. She'd lost both gauntlets at some later point, though she couldn't remember how. Looking at her knuckles now, she guessed it may have been self-inflicted. Pieces of twisted steel were embedded like wooden splinters in her skin. Of her original suit of armor, she was now only left with her blacksteel breastplate, her boots, and the left set of leg coverings. The right set had been cut off by Evie after a warhammer had smashed it to pieces, locking her leg into immobility.
Evie, for her part, was watching the battle with the same royal air she always possessed. Her hair was mussed and specks of blood coated her head to toe, but that was it. She had stayed directly behind Sara for the bulk of the fight, engaging only when absolutely necessary. She still hadn't recovered fully from her wound, which had been so severe that not even magical healers had been able to fully repair it. The only part of her that showed true wear was her massive revolver, which was choked to near uselessness by powder fouling. Every time the feline pulled the hammer back a tide of half-burnt grains would fall from within, coating her hands in soot. It was a miracle the thing's chamber could still cycle after suffering through the better part of fifty shots, but Sara was thankful beyond all belief that it did. Almost every one of those shots had saved her life.
Sara dragged her sword back up into a proper stance, at least doing the part to look intimidating. As if she weren't nearing the point of total exhaustion. The battle was gasping its last all around her, the inevitability of their defeat finally drilling its way into the thick skulls of Sporaton nobility. The commoners had realized it a long time ago, of course. They just hadn't been allowed to retreat, not when doing so would run them into the blades of their own commanders. The Knights at the rear, the ones in glittering armor wielding enchanted weapons, didn't seem to understand why the cloth-wrapped peasants thought their fight hopeless.
Through the haze of her fatigue, Sara could scarcely believe it herself.
He got so close, she thought, staring up at the distant hill. At some point the Sporaton command tent had lost its illusion, leaving Shale to pull back the Ordnance Rifles for bombardment while the Napoleons continued holding the line.
He got so close, she repeated incredulously. I had everything. Guns. Cannons. Armor. Training. She looked out over her shattered army, which was clinging to the barest thread of resistance. I had everything, and he still nearly won. She swallowed. He could have killed us all. Just a few more men, just a few more days of preparing, and he would have slaughtered us to a man.
Sara felt a shudder roll through her, one she couldn't suppress. The manuscripts Evie had forced upon her often spoke of the danger of thinking too often of an enemy commander's reputation, of becoming paralyzed by fear before the battle had ever started. But she'd never heard of it happening after you'd already won the battle. Of being struck still by fear, feeling at your throat, wondering when the moment would come that your body would finally realize it had been dealt a fatal blow.
I never would have fought him if I knew, she realized. Never. I never would have left the city if I understood what he was.
Even with it all but certain that she had won, the battle had been an inarguable disaster. The interwoven lines of marching blocks of spears had danced across the fields under mage shields. The enveloping of her army, the precise way just enough room had been left for her troops to flee, inviting them to break and get run under by cavalry. The thick blocks of reserves that sat just behind the front were rotated forward with the precision of a machine, never ordered too late, never ordered too early, ensuring a constant, unceasing pressure across her entire front. Graf had painted a masterwork of blood across the field with nothing more than half-trained, unmotivated conscripts. Sara was a general. Graf was an artist.
And then there had been the Knights. As far as she'd been able to tell, once the illusions of the enemy mages had finally fallen, there had only ever been a hundred of them in that final charge.
Just a hundred Knights. A second shudder rolled through Sara as she thought of Graf's warning before the battle. They have thousands. Five thousand Knights the King could call on in the southern regions of the Kingdom. More than twice that, if he ends end up willing to send everything after us.
And only a hundred did this.
Under Graf's command, those hundred Knights had been wielded like a scalpel. They had been plunging straight for the core of her army.
The cannons.
They'd survived it, in the end. But gods, it had been close. It had cost them so much. The mess that had been created was what she'd spent the last two hours fighting through, every minute a desperate, half-forgotten struggle. The center of her army, the ones originally to the left and right of the cannons, had panicked. They'd realized that the near-mythical weapons were close to being run under, and they'd dropped everything to sprint and defend them. That had been against her orders. They were supposed to hold the line no matter what, trusting the cannons to defend themselves. Instead the halberdiers arrived nearly in the same moment the cavalry had broken through the hail of canister shot, smashing into the flanks of the charge at the single most important moment.
It had been pure coincidence. Random luck. Something she had specifically planned to avoid, something she had ordered them not to do.
And it had saved the entire battle.
She hadn't even realized in the moment– only that things had gone to hell, horses and soldiers sprinting past with no one showing any idea of what the fuck was going on. She'd done her best, fighting whoever she found, and that had turned her into a rallying point for her scattered troops. The Sporaton spear blocks, finally seeing a group of soldiers who were pointing their guns somewhere else, had turned the cavalry charge into a general one, inadvertently choking the Knight's only avenue of retreat with a wall of pressed bodies, all the while thinking they were helping.
And that had been that. Both sides had ignored orders, both had been on the brink of irrecoverable disaster, and when the teetering pendulum of fate had fallen, it was the Tulian Army that had been left standing.
What can the Night's Eye do? What would he have done to us then?
Sara wobbled slightly as she stared up at that distant hill, the one that was growing more and more pockmarked by shots from the Ordnance Rifles. Shale was firing solid slugs instead of shells, hoping to land a hit on one of the tiny dots of gray steel.
Why is the battle still going? She wondered. Graf had promised he would end things once it became unwindable. That he wouldn't extend the bloodshed beyond what was necessary.
The King, Sara realized. He stopped Graf from ordering the retreat.
Thinking back, she could see the moment clearly. The sudden disolving of the army's remarkable maneuvers. A mere minute or two after the cavalry had been held back, the constant blaring of bugles had tapered away. Her Blessings kept her appraised by that. The volume of orders had plummeted, control reverting to the Nobles on the field, as was more typical of a Sporaton army. That had been when Graf had stopped commanding, refusing to fight a losing battle.
"Evie," Sara croaked. She was surprised by her own voice. It was ragged and torn, blood doing more to wet her throat than saliva. She cleared it, speaking again. "Evie."
"Yes?"
Sara had been about to say something else, but she suddenly couldn't remember what it was.
"Water, please," she rasped instead.
"Of course. Step back from the front line, Master."
Sara forced her aching muscles to unclench, her exhaustion finally betrayed by the way her legs quivered. She began the slow process of stumbling over bodies to rejoin the line. At the sight of her struggling, a half-dozen halberdiers broke away, rushing to her aid.
Evie's slowly swiping tail went rigid, her ears swiveling to face the approaching halberdiers even while she kept her face twoards Sara. The soldiers skidded to a stop with the same alacrity as if the feline had whirled on them in a frothing rage, then practically threw one another out of the way in their haste to retake their place in the formation.
Sara chuckled, a sound that was little more than a breathless huff. Still, Evie smiled lightly as she slipped under Sara's arm, supporting her weight.
"It seems they've learned my mannerisms well, Master. Neither my mother nor I spent enough time among the commoners to foment such familiarity with a Feline's body language."
"Maybe-" Sara stopped to cough into her elbow, which came away wet with blood, "Maybe they know from the Catfolk. There's more of them here than in Sporatos."
"For some reason, the instinctual behavior of a Catfolk's secondary characteristics differs greatly from my own, Master. As different as cats and dogs, really. In your parlance, I believe that would indicate we share no evolutionary lineage."
Despite herself, Sara let out another huffing laugh, spitting another wad of blood. Even sparing the breath to laugh forced her to lean harder on Evie, who took the weight easily.
"The hell are you talking about, girl? Why does that matter right now?"
"I've read that distraction can be good at times like this. Drink."
Sara blinked, looking down at the canteen Evie had raised to her lips. They were already well behind the Tulian lines, standing in a space that had been cleared for them.
Sara didn't question it. She drank, putting her lips on the metal.
Her eyes shot open as she tasted the sweet, sludgy alcohol of Hurlish's favored drink. She tried to pull away, but Evie pressed the canteen forward.
"Drink," she instructed firmly. "If you need a clear head, you will drink a potion for it. You've spat more blood in the past few minutes than has fallen from your other wounds throughout the entire battle. Honey and alcohol are disinfectants. I fear that last mage's spell scorched your throat."
Sara blinked in confusion, but didn't resist. She didn't remember any mage spell like that, much less another gas attack. After Midwich, she'd have thought any mage throwing poison or acid around for her to breathe in would have been pretty damn obvious to her. Then again, she was slowly realizing there was quite a lot she couldn't remember of the last few hours.
Sara took the canteen from Evie and began to drink in earnest, allowing herself the small pleasure of its flavor. The southern mead Hurlish preferred was uncommon, disliked for the thick, syrupy texture it acquired from the volume of honey required to hide the truly shocking volume of alcohol it carried. Swallowing hurt the muscles of her throat something fierce, but the scratches that lined it welcomed the soothing honey with open arms.
A sudden cry from somewhere behind caused Sara to drop the canteen, fumbling for her sword while Evie leapt in front of her, pistol and rapier ready in a flash.
As her eyes focused and the shouts became more distinct, Sara lowered her sword back into its scabbard. The troops were shouting because the shattered remains of the Sporaton army– which had retreated to hold position just out of musket range– were finally turning around. They'd begun the slow march across the field they'd crossed so quickly a few short hours before, hurried on their way by growing cries of elation from the Tulian army. Many soldiers were dropping where they stood, starting to peel off their baking armor. Sergeants were already beginning a tear up and down the lines, verbally or physically assaulting anyone who was foolish enough to disrobe while the enemy was in sight, but it was almost useless. After spending hours staring death itself in the face, the exhausted troops were discovering that an officer red in the face with fury was a far less intimidating sight than it had been a few short hours ago. They'd won. Getting their armor off was the most important thing in the world at that moment.
Sara hardly paid attention to that, however, because she saw something else. Behind the Sporaton army, at the very crest of the hill, was a gathering crowd of cavalry.
They weren't the shining paragons of strength Sara knew from before. At least, the animals themselves weren't. The Knights still wore all their armor, but the flanks of their steeds were bare, creating a wall of brown and gray flanks. It was the rest of the cavalry, the last of the original five hundred that had marched south with the Sporaton army. Maybe a hundred and twenty horses and riders, and when she managed to fumble her spyglass up to her eye, she saw that many horses and riders showed the signs of recently treated wounds.
But they were facing east. And they were accelerating.
----------------------------
Evie
----------------------------
Evie recognized what was happening several seconds before Master did. That early start allowed her a precious few moments to prepare.
Master tried to lunge forward, putting her fingers to her lips to whistle for Trot, but Evie was ready. She snagged Master's wrist and forced it down, arresting her charge by grabbing the larger woman's armor at her waist.
"No," Evie snapped simply, spinning Master to face away from the cavalry.
"They're going for the city!" She hissed, the once-dying fire relit in her eyes.
"They may be going for the city," Evie conceded, "but they may be simply feigning such a maneuver. Why form atop the hill? Why so blatantly display their intent?"
"Because the King's a fucking prick," Master growled, taking a step forward, dragging Evie with her.
If Master's statement meant that she suspected the King, recognizing the battle as lost, was petulantly making sure the Tulian Army knew the city would soon be under an assault they could not readily stop? Then yes, Evie would have been forced to agree. Fortunately, her Master's statement left enough ambiguity for misdirection.
Despite her prompt dismissal, it took several moments longer before Master fully registered Evie's words. Only then did she straighten slightly, glancing back.
Evie met Master's gaze evenly. Her lover's eyes were vibrating with a barely restrained, utterly contemptuous rage, as if all the world could be torn like tissue paper in her hands. Yet those hate-filled eyes couldn't quite focus on Evie's face. They were looking as they were in two slightly different directions, their pupils unevenly dilated as they bounced between Evie and the distant cavalry. The woman was delirious, likely concussed several times over, and barely capable of standing. It didn't matter if Evie was acting as the second in command of an army, as the Steward of Tulian, or a lover: she could not allow the risk of Sara riding the twenty miles back to Tulian. She took a deep breath, preparing her argument.
"You've already thought once before that an apparently foolish move was the King's doing, only to be taken unaware by Graf's hidden ploy," Evie reminded her. "Do you wish to take that risk again? To abandon your army, only to find that the commoner's retreat is nothing but a feint?"
Her Master blinked several times, slowly. Evie could see the words working their way through her mind, picking up momentum as they went.
"Things have changed. Graf gave up. You can tell this one isn't fake."
"How can you be certain?"
"Nothing's ever certain in battle, but some things are more likely than others."
Evie frowned at Sara using one of her own maxims against her. "What of your army, then?" Evie tried instead. "They are wounded as they have never been before. They need your support."
"The city needs my support."
"You are half-dead." Evie's voice rose, fury getting the better of her. "Yes, you are powerful, and yes, you are a Champion, but your body has nothing left to give!"
Master stepped forward, looming over Evie. "I have enough left. I have to. I don't have any choice."
Evie's hands clenched. She nearly raised a fist to prove just how weak her Master was, but stopped herself. A better idea had occurred to her.
"Sergeant!" Evie snapped, pointing at a nearby soldier who had been pretending not to hear the argument. "Come over here and shove the Champion."
The man looked between Master and Evie, abject terror plain on his face. Master laughed, however, and didn't countermand Evie's order, so the Sergeant reluctantly approached, raising a hand.
Master slapped his first shove away with what seemed like contemptuous ease, until her knees suddenly wobbled, the basic motion throwing her off balance. The Sergeant immediately shoved again, and this time Master was struck square in the chest, stumbling backward. The Sergeant, no stranger to such an opportunity, instinctively flung his leg out, sweeping Master off her feet. The Champion of Amarat landed on her back with a grunt, shock clear on her face.
"Don't let her up," Evie instructed. The Sergeant obediently stepped forward, placing their boot on Master's chestplate. Evie stepped around the prone woman, leaning forward to look her in the eye.
"If you cannot even protect yourself from a single Sergeant, Master, how will you fare against a Knight?"
Master's only response was to growl out her frustration, shoving the boot off her chest. The sergeant slipped to one side, but quickly recovered themselves, pinning Master back down before she could get up. To the man's credit, his fear had been replaced by disbelief– and no small amount of pride. The number of people throughout history that could truthfully claim to have restrained a Champion were very, very few. Evie doubted he would include the rest of the story's details in later recountings, of course.
"If you could stand up, Master, I would entertain the thought that you are capable of defending the capital. But you cannot. Look at me and speak honestly. If you were in my position, would you allow me to ride off into battle?"
After a few more limp attempts to free herself, Master fell back, breathing hard. She glared up at Evie for a long moment, then glanced away.
"...no."
"Exactly." Evie raised a pinched pair of fingers to her lips, whistling loudly. Trot's handlers would be releasing the deaf horse shortly. "I will move to take control of the capital's defenses. You will recover with the army, preparing for an enemy attack. Sergeant, you may release the Champion."
Profoundly relieved to be freed from a domestic dispute between two inordinately powerful Irregulars, the man all but sprinted back to his squad. Evie's ears flicked to the sound of Trot approaching, the horse, as always, unerringly seeking Master out the moment it had been freed. She reached out to help Master up, setting the woman back on unsteady feet.
"You will see the healers next," Evie instructed. "Then the surgeons to inspect your throat and lungs. Only then will you resume command of the army. In the meanwhile, Colonel Targ will be placed in charge."
"He's dead," Sara stated simply.
Evie frowned. Colonel Targ had been one of the army's only commanders with prior experience in the Tulian Kingdom's army. A considerable loss.
"Colonel Sarig, then," she said. "Colonel Alsen is still too hot-tempered, and Elase and the First Combat Engineers will be required to construct temporary defenses."
Master looked as if she wanted to argue, but had no energy for it. She blew out a long, suffering breath.
"Fine. Fucking fine, then. I hope to god they're not actually going for the city, but..." She shook her head. Even the subtle movement caused her to nearly lose her balance. She had to plant her feet more firmly to avoid falling flat.
"I will be leaving, then. I will communicate as necessary."
"Goddammit," she swore yet again. "God-fucking-damnit. Shit. Fucking... Alright."
"It will be alright, dear," Evie replied calmly. She turned to Trot, who had approached the discussion until Evie had felt his hot breath blowing over her neck. His ears flicked at her as she moved to pull herself up into his saddle, but that was all. He was among the only horses in Tulian who had grown accustomed enough to Evie's feline features to not immediately buck her from the saddle.
Evie tugged on the reins and circled Trot around, negotiating her way through the still-chaotic press of the disheveled Tulian Army.
The very instant she was out of Master's sight Evie leaned forward in the saddle, cracking Trot's reins. The horse burst into a sprint as Evie's heels dug hard into his flanks, the panic she had worked so hard to hide finally bursting forth.
----------------------------
Emeric
----------------------------
The distance between the battle and the city had been trivial to cross. A day's march on foot, barely a half-hour's ride on horseback.
The walls that had greeted them upon their arrival were in disrepair. Their grandiose enchantments had spent a decade wasting away.
The defenses which sat upon them were laughable. It had been weeks since Emeric had first condemned wooden ballistae to the pages of history.
The strange white stone the Champion so favored had been attached in cancerous lumps to the dark walls of Tulian, a narrow slot cut in each fortification. Had they been occupied by cannons as was reportedly intended, they would have been a deadly, nigh-insurmountable obstacle. Without those mystical weapons, however, they were simply a weak link in the once-mighty walls. Their attached mages ripped a hole in the stonework within a minute of their arrival, scattering powdery chunks across the grass with ease.
Behind the now-shattered fortification was a hole to the interior of the wall, a narrow passageway that ran the length of the city's defenses. Presumably this was how the cannons would have been transported to the fortifications. The gap that had been opened was hardly something that an army could have traveled through, but it was more than enough for teams of Knights to enter. They passed into the shadow of the Tulian Republic without so much as a scratch suffered, ignoring the paltry, panicked reaction of the so-called Tulian Guard atop the walls, who offered only a desultory rain of arrows and two lonely, wildly inaccurate firearms shots.
Despite the fact that he was at the head of the formation, Emeric had watched these events occur with an impassive eye, as if he were not truly present. He had been given his task. It had been explained to him in detail. He had nodded and saluted, saddling his horse. From the moment he committed the orders to memory, he did not think further of them. He left them for a later self, secreting them away within some blackened, shriveled part of his conscience he had not known existed.
And then he had turned his attention to other tasks. To ensuring his cavalry would return safely from this raid. To providing them the best opportunity to accomplish their objective that he could. There was little else he could do, restrained by the chains of duty as he was.
Once he was within the city, however, he felt himself beginning to wake. There was too much to be done for him to continue floating in a fog. He called for a halt within the immediate shadow of the wall, ordering his Knights to dismount. Without their armor, their horses were far too exposed to risk in the tight confines of city streets. A contingent of the less-experienced Knights would remain behind to guard them while the rest continued on.
The Knights split up into several groups, following the directions they had been provided to the centers of Tulian's industries. Emeric heard the sounds of citizenry fleeing in terror as word of their arrival spread, which he forced from his mind.
He was too busy scanning the side streets. His eyes crawled along each door and window, peering deeply into the shaded corners of twisting alleys. Paranoia was a sickly companion to the rot in his gut, conspiring to make this final task of his a miserable hell.
Not that it wasn't already. Emeric had been prepared for much in the event of the army's defeat. The shame of failure. Accepting blame heaped upon him, both deserved and undeserved. Seeing the scorn in his peer's eyes as he told them of how their friends, their families, had been torn to shreds by the Champion's firearms, all whilst under his command.
But he hadn't been prepared for something so heinous. So degrading. So...
Shameful.
He had been ordered to bring shame to the Kingdom of Sporatos. By its own monarch, no less. He had been ordered to kill, to slaughter, to take the lifetime he had spent honing his talents and turn them to nothing more than senseless killing. To do so when the war was still in its most violent phase was one thing. He would have accepted this. It would have been a dark, bloody affair, but it would have made sense. Killing those who could manufacture more of the damnable firearms was a sound strategy when doing so could mean fewer of the weapons turned against the Kingdom. But after the battle was lost? When the army was on the retreat?
This was not sensible. It was spite. Childish, vindictive spite.
Yet Emeric was a Knight. He would follow his King's orders, and there would be no second-guessing his Lord's order. He knew his place in the world, and it was as an instrument of the King's will. No matter where it was swung, his blade was the King's. Though he knew it would stain him forever, the only greater failure would have been the abandonment of his duty.
They moved through the city like stalking beasts, driving before them a stampede of panicking peasantry. The screams echoed up and down the street, floating over the patchwork roofs of the once-resplendent Tulian capital. When he turned his ear to it, he could hear similar sounds filtering in from across the city. Those were caused by the many other contingents seeping their way down the streets, working their way to their objectives across the city.
Without the enemy's cannonry or the Champion to lead them, there was next to nothing in the city which could stop even a single one of the Knight's blades. Perhaps the only reason he had ordered them to travel in groups of a dozen or so was his fear of the remote chance that amongst the populace was hidden some forgotten veteran of the Tulian Kingdom, one of a Level which could prove a threat to his Knights. The Tiger of Salacia was present in the city, yes, but he was bound by Oath to nonviolence, and thus a non-factor. The possibility of a here-to-fore unidentified Irregular and the limited supply of firearms which might be present among the Tulian Guard had persuaded him to keep the Knights in groups.
As if summoned by his thoughts, there was a sudden crack from an alleyway, powder smoke vomiting forth from the shadows.
Emeric arrested his sprint in a spray of chipping cobblestone, lowering his head and charging in the direction of the fire. He raised his armored forearm over the eyeslits of his helmet, bracing for the shots he knew were to follow.
But there were none. He reached the point where the shot had been fired and lowered his arm just long enough to gauge the location of his target, feinting right, swinging from the left. He held back the full strength of his blow, readying himself for it to be knocked aside, for the inevitable flash of silver reaching for his eye–
Only for his poleaxe to crash through meat and bone, an uppercut from the hammer striking with such force it lifted the overly-brave Tulian peasant up off their feet, flung skyward like a ragdoll. Their body hit just beside a second story window, falling in several mangled pieces.
Emeric wasted no time. There were other figures in the shadows, and one may be her. He laid into them all with a roar, crushing heads and severing limbs as his poleaxe whipsawed from left to right, lunging forward to spear the spines of those who attempted to run.
His Knights reached him a moment later, having reacted far too slow to the shot. No more than a handful of seconds had passed, but twelve bodies lay on the stones around him. All were dead. He stood over the bodies, panting heavily, white knuckles clenched around his poleaxe.
"Nervous, are we, Emeric?" One of the Knights chuckled, nudging a body with her foot. Ser Leida, he recognized. Amongst the more skilled of the Knights present, owing to the training afforded her by her Father's status as a Duke. Normally, though he was in nominal command of her, Emeric made a point to treat her gently, always aware of the disparity in their status. Fifth child or not, the daughter of a Duke far outranked any unlanded Knight.
Normally.
Today he whirled on her, grabbing her by the collar of her armor to slam her into the wall, drawing his face close.
"You have no idea what waits for us here," he hissed violently, covering the inside of his faceplate in spittle. "If you do not react promptly to each threat, do not fight each foe that appears as if your life is on the line, you will lose it."
The woman scoffed at him, as aware of the disparity in their statures as Emeric was. His threatening display was incapable of intimidating her, no matter the disparity in their Skills.
"Cat got your tongue, Sir Emeric?" She asked, the words dripping sarcasm. She did not make even a cursory attempt to break his grip, choosing to remain dangling quite merrily against the wall. "Who would have thought the lauded commoner-turned-Knight would be so afraid of a mere slave? I hear she did quite a number on your knee some weeks back. Is that it? Does it ache like a demon-wound, warning you whenever she is near? Or are you simply cowed by the mere thought of her presence?"
Emeric dropped Leida without warning, taking selfish gratification in seeing her stumble. He put his back to her, looking over the bodies to confirm their identities while he spoke. They were not even members of the city Guard. Just peasants who had found a single firearm and some short swords and thought they could kill a Knight.
"Insult all you want, Ser Leida," Emeric said, grunting slightly as he collected the musket which had fired the errant shot. He could still feel the heat of its barrel through the leather palm of his gauntlet. "If the former Lady Eliah appears to face us, you will not engage her blindly. We will gather ourselves and attack her together, in coordinated fashion. I forbid any other action."
She laughed again, louder, and was this time joined by several other Knights.
"You think she is such a threat? We number twelve, Emeric. If she is foolish enough to face us in the open, we would run her under in a moment."
Emeric dug his fingers into the wooden stock of the firearm, crushing the wood to pulp. "She will do no such thing. She is not a Knight, Ser Leida. She is of the Night's Eye. Trained by Graf Urs. And Graf Urs, you well know, does not fight with honor. She will ambush from a position we do not anticipate, silently killing several before we register her presence. When we do finally notice her, she will continue danging through our formation while we are still in a state of shock, likely maiming several more."
Emeric's fingers finished crushing their way through the firearm's wood, finding the weapon's metal mechanisms at the base of the barrel. He tore them out, tossing the to the cobblestones, speaking in low, even tones as he did so.
"Only when multiple Knights engage her at the same time will she be forced to retreat, and she will inevitably do so into some pre-prepared location, likely a chokepoint which forces us to face her in single combat. If she is successful in this, none of you will engage her. Only I. The rest of you would be but lambs to the slaughter."
"A gloryhound then, Sir Emeric?" Leida asked. "So desperate to prove to the world you're less a fool than you appear, so you demand we leave you to your prize?"
"Had I any real care for your argument at this time, I could easily enough dig into the impossibility of your accusations. Am I a coward or a gloryhound, Ser Leida? One cannot be both. But I do not, and will not."
The woman sneered at Emeric, proper disdain entering her voice for the first time. "We have every right that you do to claim the blood of the Mad Champion's consort, Emeric."
Emeric's bootheel slammed down onto the mechanisms of the musket, bending them to uselessness. "You have every right to kill her," he agreed, shouldering his poleaxe. "But not the ability. Silence now. We are nearing our first objective."
----------------------------
Hurlish
----------------------------
Hurlish sat in her forge, idly twirling a bit of rope between her fingers. Around her sat just about every one of the kids that worked her forge, looking nervous as all the hells. They were sitting in chairs, or on anvils, or on work tables, each of them clenching their own bits of rope like their life depended on it. Sweat stained their clothes, and they flinched at each and every sound that filtered in from across the city, wide eyes darting back and forth, waiting for a shining Knight to break into the courtyard. Hurlish hadn't bothered to shut the storm shutters, so they were all in plain sight, which clearly added to their anxiety.
Hurlish wish they'd unwad their panties. Not like wood shutters would do shit against a Knight, anyway. If she was gonna go out, she wanted to go out with a bit of a breeze on her face.
Not that she planned on dying anytime soon, of course. But still. She was risking a whole hell of a lot here, and she wasn't going to do it without at least a bit of bravado. 'Pregnant woman killed cowering in corner' made for good martyr bait, but it wasn't the epitaph she was aiming for.
Across the courtyard, the first Knight jogged into the open, followed shortly behind by a gaggle of other pretty-armored fucks. She whistled out a leering catcall, both to draw their attention, and because it was, admittedly, some pretty damn nice armor. She'd kill for a set half as nice, and she wasn't afraid to admit it.
The Knights saw Hurlish sitting at her forge, surrounded by her apprentices, and seemed to pretty damn shocked about it. Sure, they'd come looking for her here, but she doubted they thought they'd actually find her there.
Evie's gonna be goddamned pissed, Hurlish thought, pushing herself up from her chair. I'm not gonna get any head for a week if I live through this.
Evie had, of course, prepared an exhaustive list of escape routes for Hurlish, including temporary safehouses scattered throughout the city in the even she couldn't leave. Each of them had enough food and water to keep her going for literal months, going so far as to include health potions to help her through giving birth if she was still in hiding. They were good plans, good safehouses, and with how much warning Hurlish had, she could have chosen any one of them to keep herself safe.
Problem with doing that was two-fold. First of all, every escape plan would've ended up with her getting separated from Sara and Evie for weeks at best, months at most. Part of the plan involved ditching the communication crystals, in case the Sporatons captured others intact and tracked her down using them, so she'd have no way of knowing what went down. She'd be separated from Evie and Sara for weeks at best, and more likely months. She might've already had the kid by the time they next meet up.
Second, it was a bitch move. Running or hiding would mean Hurlish would be leaving everyone she'd met in Tulian to their fates, and from what she'd gathered, it was a shitty-ass fate. Best case scenario, the kids Hurlish had spent so long teaching would end up being tortured for everything they knew. Most likely, they'd just be killed. Worst case, they'd be tortured for nothing more than fun, raped, and then killed.
So no. Hurlish wasn't running. As she stood to greet the Knights, she lifted up the tiny little rope in her left hand and held up a crystal firestarter, lighting the rope's end. Behind her, the rest of the smiths and apprentices clicked their crystals together, doing the same.
"Hey!" Hurlish yelled at the Knights, who were approaching in a loose semi-circle, watching her with no small amount of suspicion. "Y'all know what this is?" She waved her burning, sparking fuse at the barrels that were littered around the forge, and the loose powder that was held in open flour bag.
"Hurlish of Hagos?" The lead Knight called. A woman, by the sound of it.
"Hurlish of Tulian, these days," Hurlish called back. There were maybe fifty feet between them. Hurlish wasn't stupid enough to think that was a safe distance from a Knight. If they were worth their shit, they could cover that distance in a blink. "You never answered my question, though, and it's a big one. You know what this shit is?"
Hurlish once again waved the sparking fuse over the barrels, which made her apprentices recoil in terror, as if a few extra inches would make any difference. They were all holding lit fuses, anyway, so she didn't see why they should care.
Ended up being helpful, though, because it was their flinch that gave it away to the Knights.
"Black powder," Hurlish heard one of them say. Not the leader, some other shiny fuck, but it was good enough for her.
"Sure is! And do any of you know what happens when you light blackpowder on fire? Any guesses?"
The lead Knight took a step closer, their voice dropping to a growl.
"You would not dare."
Hurlish made a face, looking between the lit fuse and piles of literally knee-deep blackpowder.
"What? What do you mean by that?"
"You would die. All those behind you would die. You would condemn yourself to death in an instant."
Hurlish's expression grew bewildered. "Huh? The fuck are you on, lady? What do you mean 'I wouldn't dare'? You think this is a fake fuse?" She waved it back and forth, its glowing tip trailing a thin river of smoke that drifted upward. "It's not. If you kill us, any of us, we'll drop it, and what happens next is between you and the gods. And seriously, you actually think I wouldn't? Why the hell would I not? You're gonna kill us all anyway, so we might as well take your pretty asses out with us."
"We seek to repatriate and learn from you, not murder–"
"Bull-fucking-shit," Hurlish interrupted.
The Knight, of all things, seemed most taken aback by this comment.
"You were of Sporatos, Hurlish. A locally renowned blacksmith, were you not? You should know how to speak to your betters. If you recall your lessons in propriety, you may survive the day."
"First of all, no I won't. Ain't no way your King is gonna do anything other than go home and take a sad jack-off into his wife's urn or whatever the fuck it is you weird rich assholes do, and he sure as shit isn't going to build more of the guns that just whooped his sorry ass." The Knights sputtered under this assault, taking breaths to begin shouting, but Hurlish wasn't done. "And second, yeah, I know how I'm supposed to talk to your types, but if you think all those peasants you talked to ever really wanted to lick your taint while you gave them orders, you're a dumb motherfucker."
"You are utterly revolting."
"Champion of Amarat didn't think so," Hurlish countered, patting her belly-bump. "And I guess that's another reason why you aren't gonna do shit to me. To throw your own words back at you, you wouldn't dare."
"We have no reason to fear that woman," the Knight spat. "She is not a Champion born for combat. Your threat falls on deaf ears, peasant."
Hurlish raised an eyebrow. "Really? Really? You think that killing the pregnant lover of the Champion of Passion would go well for you? You think she'd just up and forget about it? Her?" Hurlish jabbed the fuse towards the Knight's chest for emphasis. "You're fresh off the battlefield. You've probably seen her fight. Probably seen her kill some of your friends, too. Seen the smoke coming off her skin. Heard her laughing right in someone's face while she kills 'em. Do you actually, honestly think that if you kill me, it's gonna end up alright for you? That you have any idea what she'll do to you when she gets her hands on you?" Hurlish took a step back, deeper into the forge, further into the piles of blackpowder. "I bet one of you has got a bow. You could probably shoot me, if you really wanted to. Maybe you could even do it from far enough away that me dropping this fuse won't end up with your guts painting half the city."
Hurlish's lips split in a wide, toothy grin, tusks bouncing as cold steel entered her words.
"Speaking honestly with you, though, I wouldn't recommend it. If you're gonna kill me and blow this whole fucking place up, I think you should do it right up close and personal. Maybe even take your armor off first, just to really make sure there's nothing left but paste. Because I assure you, no matter what happens to your body when this powder goes off? It'll be nothing next to what she does to you."
Silence fell over the courtyard. There was little more than the sound of sparking fuses, distant screams, and Hurlish's heavy breathing.
Silently, one by one, the Knights began to turn away. The leader of their little group was last, her fury made plain in the way her sword trembled in her grip. Hurlish stared her down.
And eventually, just as silent as the rest, she straightened. Turned. And walked away.
"Fucking pussy," Hurlish mumbled, sitting back down. She kept the lit fuse over the blackpowder, wondering if any other Knights would be stupid enough to head her way.
-----------------------------
Emeric
-----------------------------
The building which housed Tulian's fledgling artificers was a mundane, blocky structure. Three stories tall and perhaps half a block wide, what few glass windows it possessed were simple unadorned glass panes, the rest of the openings having been covered with cheap wooden slats. Multiple entrances dotted its exterior, the doors swinging limply in the breeze. It had clearly been abandoned within minutes of their approach to the city.
"Burn it," Emeric instructed. He joined the other Knights in retrieving oil-soaked torches from their enchanted bags, lighting them aflame. Though the building's exterior was stone, its interior was wood. Once the supports failed, it would collapse like tinder.
Streaks of flame crashed through windows as the Knights set to obliterating the artificery building, not bothering to enter, simply whipping the projectiles in from the street. Among all the city's objectives, destroying this structure was perhaps the most delicate of tasks, which was why Emeric had assigned it to himself. The King had been unsure of the exact arrangements the Champion had made with the Carrion Navy to acquire the service of their artificers, and was concerned the artificers were still considered citizens of the Carrion Navy. Should Sporatos be found responsible for killing several dozen skilled Carrion artisans, a war would be inevitable. The Carrion Navy would raze the Sporaton coastline to the ground.
Emeric was therefore profoundly relieved that the building had been evacuated before his arrival. It circumvented a great many difficulties he had feared to overcome.
It was in the course of this sacking of the Artificery Guild that Emeric heard the first sounds of true combat echoing out over the city. Gunfire. Several shots in rapid succession, not like the roar of a volley, but sequential, one after the other. He counted six before the firing stopped, replaced by the faintest crash of steel sounded.
"Form up!" Emeric yelled. "The building is already afire. We will move to the sounds of combat!"
For perhaps the first time since the greater battle had been lost, the Knights followed Emeric's orders without so much as a mutter. They tossed the torches that were already lit into the upper windows of the Artificery Guild and turned away, drawing their weapons. Disobedient and disrespectful though they may have become, Emeric could not fault their eagerness for battle.
Emeric set off at a quick jog just as a second series of shots sounded. Echoing over the rooftops as they were, the sounds took on a quiet, tinny quality, ill-fitting for the devastation he knew they were unleashing. Once more, he counted six shots, followed thereafter by the clash of steel. He adjusted his course, turning down a thin, winding street, seeking out the most direct path.
The sounds of conflict grew louder. A fight that should have been over in seconds continued to escalate, blade meeting blade. Indistinct shouts began to filter in. He could understand little. Only that there was someone challenging the Knights in a way that could not be explained by simple firearm-wielding peasants.
The sounds of the melee faded once more, replaced shortly thereafter by another sequence of gunshots. They were louder now, far louder, and Emeric could hear the cries of pain which accompanied them. Yet again, it was six shots that were fired. Something deep within his gut told him that the number was significant, though he knew not why.
Just as the last echoing boom faded, the street Emeric had been following deposited him onto a far larger thoroughfare. The former King's Keep of the Tulian Kingdom stood across the road, spires twisting high into the sky. The building had once been surrounded by finely worked stone walls and elegant metal fencing, but it seemed most of this had been torn away for the material to be used elsewhere. Only the smallest glimmers of its once resplendent beauty had been spared, and only because the Champion's workers had not yet gotten around to salvaging the once-elegant materials. The great gates which had opened into the King's greeting hall were missing, replaced by shoddy brickwork and a laughably small door at the center. The green gardens which once enveloped the entrance were overgrown and untamed, plants far taller than a man showing no sign of care. The entryway to the Keep was largely patterned in a U shape, the wings of the great halls branching to either side of the gardens which surrounded the fine cobblestone walkway.
And, as if to accentuate the Champion's disregard for the history of the Tulian Kingdom, eight dead Knights lay on the ground.
The shudder that ran through his own troops went ignored by Emeric, who took slow, measured steps forward, keeping his attention roaming across the courtyard. There was no one else. His Knights walked with him in a loose line, weapons drawn and held at the ready.
Emeric stopped at the first body. Confirmed with a quick glance to either side that he was being covered, he knelt down and rolled the Knight over.
Their faceplate was a mess of twisted steel and dark blood. A hole as large as Emeric's thumb had punched through the center of the visor. Tilting their head to one side, he saw that the entire back half of their skull was missing.
Emeric lowered the Knight's head with respectful reverence, then stood. He took his own poleaxe into a ready position.
"She is here," he stated simply. "Remember what I said. Attack her as one or not at all. Is this understood?"
A series of nods went up and down the line. While their disdain for Emeric had not lessened, the sight of their comrade's bodies had at least sobered their arrogance.
Emeric stepped over the first corpse, slowly making his way towards the Keep's shoddy front door. Even knowing there was nothing that he could do for them, he could not keep his eyes from flicking over the other Knight's wounds. Each had been struck through the head in one way or another, and in such a fashion that Emeric could see how the ambush had occurred. They had been making their way towards the Keep when the first shot had taken the leading Knight through the head, throwing them to the ground directly next to the spray of blood. The other Knights had charged forward, only to find themselves struck down one by one. That they had died on the run was obvious from the way that the blood spatters coated the stones some distance from where they eventually fell, their body's momentum sending them skidding across the stone. All lay face-down.
Except for the last two. They lay just before the Keep's door, helmets facing the sky. Emeric paused, looking through the right Knight's eye slit. Their left eye was in bloody ruin, as if a needle had been placed through the pupil, then jerked violently from side to side. Leaning over, he saw the second Knight's death had been the same. They had both tried to force their way through the Keep's door, which forced them to engage her one at a time.
With a quick gesture to the other Knights to follow, Emeric began backing away from the Keep. His eyes quickly scanned the open windows he could see. There was no sign of waiting eyes, which would have been silhouetted against the dark interior of the Keep.
"Brace," he whispered. The other Knights looked at him, expressions hidden behind their helmets, their posture betraying confusion.
A few months ago, Emeric never would have done what he was about to do. But times had changed. The foes he faced no longer left room for chivalry. His fingers closed around the gorget of a fallen Knight.
With a sudden shout he could not quite suppress, Emeric flung the body at the flimsy wooden door. As it left his hand, he spared the briefest thought for the fact that he had not even checked to see who it was. If he had trained with them, dined with them, considered them a friend.
The armored Knight's corpse blew through the Keep's door, its impact not quite loud enough to ward off the horrified gasps of his fellow Knights.
There was no time to care. Emeric lowered his shoulder into a charge, once more throwing his forearm over his eyes as he sprinted as fast as he could.
Only to find his right ear deafened, a shot ringing out. He threw himself to the ground, tucking into a roll that ended just before the steps up to the Keep's former gate, where he sprung to his feet facing the direction of the shots.
The former heir to House Eliah had appeared within the tangled garden plots, some calamitous black weapon in her left hand. She held it with a strange stance, turned aside with her feet in line, glaring down the length of her arm, which was wreathed in white smoke. Her right hand held her rapier loosely, its tip just barely dangling above the cobblestones.
From handle to tip, the blade was coated in a deep, crimson red. Viscera clung to it, chunks of flesh that had been torn from the bone. Somehow, even though his ears were still ringing from the first shot, Emeric thought he could hear it. The thick, black drops of blood dripping off the blade.
She's going to kill them all.
"RUN!" He cried.
Emeric broke into a true sprint, as fast as he had ever run. His boots shattered the cobblestone's mortar as he threw himself forward, trying to cover the thirty feet or so before she could draw her next firearm.
Then the gun bucked again in her hand, sparks flying, and another Knight joined the others on the ground. Emeric could only watch as he ran, the world slowing to a crawl. Deep within the cloud of smoke, her thumb lowered the hammer again, pressing against some hidden lever within the weapon, spinning the thick cylinder into place. The firearm barked, sending another Knight to the ground as her hand was forced up into the air by the recoil. By the time the weapon fell down, the cylinder had finished rotating, her aim adjusted. Another Knight was shot dead in a spray of sparks. In a span of as many seconds, four of Sporatos's finest Knights had been felled.
"RUN!" Emeric bellowed again, just as he reached her.
The woman's eyes flicked towards him. What he saw there nearly stumbled him.
Nothing.
She was expressionless. Devoid of emotion.
Then the moment was past, and as fast as he had been running, Emeric could not bring his poleaxe around for a proper swing. Instead, he lowered his shoulders even more, bracing for impact.
The great maw of her titanic pistol flicked towards him and, for the most infinitesimal of moments, Emeric saw straight down the black, spiraling barrel.
Then it raised, firing a shot that tore over his head with a hiss, and he struck her.
They slammed through the underbrush, his tackle sending them both off their feet. He heard a soft grunt as he hit her, but little more until they abruptly hit the ground, sparks flying as his armor and her breastplate scraped across the stones.
Even before they stopped moving, Emeric was trying to position himself overtop her, straddling her hips with his own. He was too close to use his poleaxe and had no time to draw his belt knife, so instead he tried to raise his fist, preparing to cave her unarmored face in.
She jumped upward to, of all things, bite him. Emeric shouted in fury as her canines pierced the leather protecting his palms. So taken off guard by this was he that he reacted like he had any other time something had bitten his hand: by shaking it furiously, trying to tear the limb from her mouth.
Instead of doing anything else, she raised the pistol again and fired it right next to Emeric's left ear, deafening him. The head of a Knight that Emeric had not even noticed was ripped open, gore splattering the stones. They dropped beside him, and the shock of their death finally brought him to his senses.
Emeric brought his other hand down and started to shove his fingers into her eyes, forcing her to release the bite. She spat his right hand out, only to try and latch onto his left, which had him jerking up and away with both hands, raising them for a hammer blow.
Her rapier appeared just as he began to swing, aimed to impale him through the bicep. Emeric just barely managed to arrest his swing, which, seeing as he had been aiming to crush straight through her head, threw his entire body off balance.
With a snarl Emeric was too deafened to hear, she threw her hips up and twisted to one side, bucking him off her waist. Emeric scrambled to keep her pinned down, but it was too late. Her legs kicked and writhed in a blur until she was free, scrambling across the stones.
Emeric rose with a roar, retrieving his poleaxe as he ran.
His feline opponent came to a standing position some ten feet away, her arm already locked, gun aimed.
Emeric did not bother to shelter this time.
Sulfur filled the air with a dull thud as the bullet struck something behind him, no doubt killing some other damnable fool who hadn't listened. The fight had begun only seconds ago, and so he supposed some might be forgiven for hesitating, but not a Knight. They should have known better.
"I said FLEE!" Emeric bellowed, bringing his weapon down.
Sparks flew as the edge of her rapier met the head of his poleaxe, just barely deflecting the weapon aside. Emeric wasted no time in salvaging the blocked blow's momentum, bring his weapon around in a spiral to strike again, and again, and again.
The impact of each hit sent painful reverberations through his arm, warping the steel of her rapier as the metal sung under the sting of each blow. She was forced back each time, one step, two steps, three, until her back was pressed against the wall.
And then she lunged.
Emeric threw himself backward in a desperate arch to avoid the bloody tip of the rapier, which was aimed with inhuman, unerring precision for his eye.
His head was turned aside as the blade scraped across the front of his helmet, forcing him to stumble backward even further. His foot hit the cobblestones which surrounded the garden plot, and, recognizing that he was almost certainly going to fall, training told him to commit to the error.
Emeric leapt aside with all his might, throwing himself out of the way of her next blow, which had been aimed for the thinner plates protecting his armpits. He landed in an awkward heap, praying he had gained enough distance to stand up before she was on him again.
Only when he stood, he found that she hadn't followed him. She was still standing where he had left her, looking down in disgust.
A Knight had crawled their way over to the site of the duel, trailing a long smear of blood. Leida, he recognized. She'd grabbed the feline around the ankle, her belt knife drawn and embedded into the woman's calf.
The former noble, now a slave, looked down upon the Knight's dying efforts with contempt more commonly directed toward dog shit one scraped off her heel. She jerked her leg out of Leida's grasp and stepped away, condemning the Knight to a slow death, ignoring the thin wound her leg had suffered. Leida rolled over with a sputtering gasp that covered her face in blood, revealing to Emeric the bloody hole in her chestplate where the feline's bullet had struck her. A lung wound. She was not long for this world, and there was nothing that could be done for it.
Emeric took his stance properly for the first time in the duel, sliding one foot forward, holding his poleaxe high. She had almost invariably aimed for his eyes, both in her duels with him and the other Knights. He would have to protect his head above all else, and could not trust to his armor's protection as he could against most foes. She would not miss.
Conversely, he could now properly observe his opponent for the first time. She wore a simple cuirassier's breastplate, unenchanted and unadorned. Simple leather duelist's gloves protected her left hand, which held her rapier, while her right hand was bare, holding the black firearm. She sheathed that massive weapon in a soot-stained leather pouch lashed across her cuirass, moving her hand to place her knuckles against the small of her back.
With the rest of the Knights dead or dying, the pace of the combat briefly slowed as they sized one another up. Emeric's poleaxe was of a shorter variety compared to most, meant to be used in place of his lance should he be unhorsed in the midst of battle. It was perhaps only a few finger width's longer than the feline's rapier, which was no advantage, particularly when one considered that her single-handed grip allowed her to extend into a full lunge, increasing her range well beyond what Emeric could match. However, doing so would be an incredible risk on her part. Emeric's weapon had a bladed spear tip, axe head, and hammer backend, any one of which could be swung to cause devastating damage to her exposed limbs during such a lunge.
In a more normal duel, Emeric would have continued to evaluate his opponent, trying to work through the rationale of their combat stratagem. Knowing whether his opponent was angling to delay for reinforcements or to hastily press an advantage was of the utmost importance in most single-opponent duels.
But he did not think there was any such insight to be found here. The woman facing him belied nothing; Emeric had seen statues with more emotion.
"Why have you not shot me?" He asked. The words slipped from his mouth without thought, surprising even him.
The feline cocked her head, considering. After a moment, she shrugged.
"I am out of ammunition."
She lunged. Better prepared than he had been the last few times, Emeric knocked the blow aside, turning the motion into a thrust of his own. She stepped aside, letting his poleaxe slip through the air beside her, and began her retort.
Emeric became keenly aware of just how thin a thread his life was hanging in the opening exchanges of this second duel. Her blood-soaked rapier flickered in and out of reality after every clash, coating his armor in his comrade's blood as she wove through his swings. He was almost always on the offensive, afforded a certain degree of recklessness by his armor, but it was a shallow illusion. Every swing, every riposte, they were each an opportunity for her to find a gap in his defense that he hadn't known existed. She, in turn, turned aside his blade with maddening reliability, her feet drawing circles in the dust as she paced around him, their duel tracing a dancer's trail across the stones. Occasionally their weapons would dip low as they were turned aside, striking the ground, only to pass through with the same speed that carried them through the air, scoring thin lines in the stone. Between the blood that splashed from her rapier, the lines their feet cleared in the dust, and the cuts in the cobblestone, an experienced enough swordsman could have recreated the duel blow by blow just by looking through the aftermath.
As they twisted and spun, Emeric was keenly aware that with how poorly armored she was, he only needed one solid blow to land home. A single cut, a single stab, and she would be fatally weakened, the outcome rendered inevitable.
But he could not find it. There was never a single moment to spare for thought or breath as they moved, any lull in the combat instantly filled with uncompromising aggression. The exchange stretched on and on, longer and longer, seconds ticking by until Emeric felt certain that he had never spent so long fighting at such a blinding pace. Ten seconds became twenty, twenty seconds became thirty, and still they continued to dance, even as Emeric's arms began to burn and his lungs began to seize.
He was convinced, irrevocably so, that if he allowed her the moment to prepare a single decisive strike, it would be the end of him. And so he continued to attack, because his only refuge was in offense, the only way he could survive found in spilling her blood.
An opportunity suddenly passed before his eye. A broken window at her back, leading into the unlit Keep. He acted on instinct alone, throwing himself forward in a wild, reckless swing, one that meant certain death if she avoided it.
And avoid it she did, neatly stepping backward to let the weapon blur past her, her foot sliding back to take advantage–
Only to slam into the wall, stumbling her.
Emeric shoved forward with the full length of his poleaxe, bowling her over into the window. She fell through with a furious hiss, and Emeric wasted no time lunging after her, stabbing downward like a fisherman trying to spear fleeing prey.
He felt his poleaxe bite wood. He cursed and, before he could think better of it, leapt into the dark Keep.
She was standing twenty feet down the corridor, a hand pressed to her stomach, breathing hard. Emeric's eyes began the slow process of adjusting to the gloom, the warmth on his back fading as he slowly stepped out of the window's light.
"You once claimed your master wished for me to live," he gasped, trying to prolong the impromptu opportunity he had been afforded to catch his breath. "That you spared my life to fulfill this goal of hers. What has changed?"
"Nothing," she stated, backing further down the corridor. Her hand was still on her gut. Emeric did not think his blow to her stomach had been so decisive, and suspected she was feigning her weakness. "She still wishes you to live through the war. She thinks you an excellent candidate for future manipulation. Your obsession with honor and duty are easily exploitable, and with your proximity to the King, you will be a predictable, known quantity at a high level in Sporaton politics."
"Then why this?" He asked, following her deeper into the darkness. "Why try and kill me here? You could disengage and see to the other marauding Knights, severely weakening the overall assault. You could flee with your loved ones, or personally coordinate the defense of the city. Why continue this?"
"You seem to think that because I follow her so fervently, I possess my Master's sense of morality." She flicked her wrist, shaking blood onto the wood flooring. "You are wrong. I want to kill you, Sir Emeric. And I want it for nothing more than my personal satisfaction."
"The bloodied blade, then?"
For the first time in the fight, he witnessed a flicker of emotion pass over her face. A smile, there and gone again in an instant, like lightning on the horizon.
"You are keener than you seem, Emeric." She stepped to her left, backing down a hallway, leaving him no choice but to follow her. "What of you, then?" She asked. "Are you satisfied with your orders this day? My Master saw you as a creature of honor, Sir Emeric, and from the Champion of Amarat, that is no misnomer. Is this honor? To slaughter indiscriminately at the orders of a vindictive tyrant?"
"It is not," he stated plainly. "And I would not stain myself so. Had I the opportunity, I would have offered clemency to any who asked for it. Slaughter is not the place of a Knight."
"I think you have a very confused notion of what Knights do, Sir Emeric."
And with that, she finally stopped her slow retreat. Their conversation had found its way into a narrow servant's corridor, a thin stone hallway that seemed to be born of an older era than the rest of the Keep. A relic from the earliest days of the Tulian Kingdom, when the city was little more than the diminutive outpost of a distant Empire, and this Keep was its only defense.
It was what she had been searching for, Emeric realized. There was no way around her, no way around him. The fight would be a direct, head-on engagement, one that prevented him from leaping aside as he had earlier.
Truthfully, he should have retreated. There was still a considerable distance between them, enough that he could have made it out of the Keep, possibly escaping outright. He could rejoin with the other Knights and either continue leading the ransacking of the city, or he could gather a party to defeat her with far more certainty.
But her words rang in his head, so close to those he had already been thinking. That his battle was without honor. That he was without honor.
Emeric no longer cared enough to abandon this fight.
He covered the distance in several quick strides, striking forward with all his strength.
She knocked the blow aside, slamming his weapon into the wall, where it blew a crater from the stone. She flicked her weapon forward, aiming to pierce him through the armpit, until he stepped forward into the blow, sending the tip of her blade skating under his arm, rather than through.
Emeric clenched his arm down, gripping the blade in place beneath his armpit, twisting his torso to rip it from her hands. It flickered out of existence, reappearing in her hand a moment later.
Emeric had been ready, however, and he shoved her back with a knee, gaining just enough distance to parry his blow with his poleaxe. She stepped back, preparing a lunge, and Emeric followed after with a roar, his poleaxe rocketing down from above.
The furious pace of the exchange resumed as if it had never ended, weapons blurring through the air as they moved down the corridor. The hallway was so narrow that their weapons constantly raked through the stone, creating a webwork of deep gouges in a circular pattern about them. His poleaxe created deep, jagged lines, occasionally tearing entire bricks from the wall, while her rapier sliced precise, neat lines.
The air became choked with dust as they battered back and forth, stances flowing from one to the other as they shifted in reaction to the other's maneuvers, constantly vying for the advantage. Emeric began to hear stones clattering to the ground behind him, their blows so numerous and forceful that the tunnel itself had begun to collapse.
Emeric pressed on. Even as his lungs began to fill with dust, he pressed on. Even as his aching arms began to tremble between every swing, he pressed on. He no longer knew why. Only that he would. That he would continue the fight until its end.
She met his blows with nothing more than grunts of effort, the simple mechanical result of air being expelled from her lungs. It was as if she felt nothing for this fight. As if there was nothing he could stir in her, no matter how close his blows came, no matter how near she was to death in each passing moment.
Emeric felt a snarl bubble up out of his throat. He brought his shoulders in, tucked his legs together, and began to drive forward, swinging faster, faster, as fast as he was able. Red and black warred to tinge the edge of his vision, his lungs no longer able to draw enough air to fuel his ceaseless assault.
And then, suddenly, without his ever consciously realizing it, her blade was knocked aside, and this time it took her arm with it, her rapier not dismissed soon enough to avoid throwing her off balance.
Instinct consumed him. His poleaxe speared forward, aimed for her face.
Her eyes went wide. She brought her offhand up, as if to catch his blade. There was a flash, and he felt the weapon strike home.
Her head snapped back, an audible crack filling the air, but she did not fall. Emeric twisted his weapon, jerking it from side to side, trying to free it from her body.
And then she leaned forward.
Holding a white handkerchief.
The simple square of cloth covered her hand, under which poured a volatile river of blood. It spurted in great torrents, coating the entire front of her body. Her hand dropped, the handkerchief disappearing with the same flash that accompanied her rapier's summoning.
Emeric recoiled.
The hand which had caught his blade was pulverized. There was nothing left that could be recognized as belonging to a human body. Just tendons wrapped around shards of bone, twitching wildly.
And her face was worse. From her upper lip to the center of her eyes was simply gone, replaced by the ragged flesh beneath. He could see directly into her nasal cavity, at least when it was not covered by spurting blood. It was if a stone thrown from a mountain had crashed into her face, ripping the skin away to reveal all that the gods meant to be hidden.
Emeric had seen demons emerge from the hells. He had seen archmages press their spells unto the masses. He had seen Graf Urs moments away from drawing his blade in anger. He had seen countless die, meeting their fate by fire, blade, or broken bone, and he had been the cause of a great many of those deaths. He had faced all these things with all the bravery he could muster, confident that, even if he had not acted as he wished, he had not allowed his fear to overwhelm him.
But when that broken, jagged face split in a... in a grin? In a smile, almost warm in its complexion? With blood bubbling as her torn lips tried to form words for him?
Emeric turned.
And he ran.
He dropped his poleaxe as he sprinted down the corridor, then tore off his helmet, flinging it blindly behind him. He could hear her chasing after him, coughing and sputtering, gaining on him.
Emeric's foot hit a fallen stone, sending him crashing to the ground. He hit more bricks as he bounced along the floor, agony flashing through his body even as he scrambled to his knees, trying to claw his way forward.
A hand suddenly clamped down on his collar, lifting him up and throwing him onto his back.
He was forced to stare up at that broken woman. Blood fell from her in a torrent, coating his face, seeping into his skin, past his lips and onto his tongue, filling his mouth with the taste of copper.
She raised her rapier high. Emeric's eyes locked onto it. She said something. It was unintelligble, her face far too ruined to form words.
The blade fell.
He welcomed it.
Emeric, Son of Rawlin.
Emeric was somewhere that was not. He was not in his body. The pain continued.
Sir Emeric, Honored Knight of Sporatos.
The words tore through his formless self. His innermost self shook under their force, threatening to tear itself apart.
Knight Emeric. The failed prodigy of a King.
He became aware of something beyond himself. Something massive. Something he should not have been able to comprehend, but was forced to look upon.
You have nothing left. You are nothing. You await death, body and soul.
But there is no God left to claim your Soul.
The truth of the words poured through him like molten metal. That he was unbound from the world. That his immortal self had been abandoned, left to drift to dust.
Of all your attributes, you betrayed them all. You sacrificed your Honor. You went against your Duty. You have failed to Kill, and you have failed to Bind. In your last moments, your soul has been weighed. And you are found to have achieved nothing.
He knew it was true. Every word spoken was more than just sound. It was unrepentant, unyielding Truth. If the words had not been true before, the force of their existence would have altered all reality to make it so.
Save for one thing. One dismal, fetid remnant of your soul.
Passion.
You go to your death having betrayed all. Every ideal, every person you have held dear. You have left them all wanting.
Save Passion.
You go to your death with Passion in your heart.
Fear. Desire. Anger.
But you, whose only virtue is Passion, has turned it against My Champion.
Sir Emeric, the Failure.
Sir Emeric, the Abandoned.
Had he lungs to gasp, Emeric would have. Fear like nothing he had ever known entered his body, leaving him nothing more than some primeval, cowering insect.
You will be made an example of.
Emeric felt fire enter his veins. His muscles. Pathways in his mind, billions and trillions of them. Uncountable creatures which composed his greater whole. He felt something enter them all. Had he a mouth, he would have screamed. And he never would have stopped screaming.
Sir Emeric.
The Last Knight.
Emeric was somewhere. He did not know where. It was later. So much later.
He was sitting atop Gallant. He was in full stride, his mace at his side. Above, the shadow of something swooped down, columns of dirt erupting in two lines to either side.
You seek Honor?
He was kneeling amongst blades of grass, something raised to his eyes. He could see far. Too far, farther than should ever have been possible. He was looking at something moving across a rolling hill, belching black smoke. It was made of metal, but it moved like a living creature. Its head swung toward him, and there was an orange light.
You think Honor can be found in War?
Emeric walked beside Gallant, leading the horse by his reigns. They were on a beach of fine silt sand, moving towards some distant cacophony. Thunder boomed endlessly in the cloudless sky, and burning lights streaked in every direction. Distantly, just visible over the waves, were steel Leviathans. They spat smoke and fire, orange dots reaching up to disappear as invisible dots, only to come back down with a shriek, tearing a hillside to pieces.
I will let you search for Honor.
Emeric walked on an endless plain of colorless dust. He wore a suit of cloth, steel, and glass. In his hands was something large and blocky, and it was not as heavy as it should be. Suddenly, a hole opened in his shoulder, flesh smoking without cause. Without flame. Emeric raised the block to his eye, pointing towards something only it could see.
You will search for it.
Endlessly. Eternally.
And when you have found a war fought with Honor?
Then I will allow the Last Knight his Death.
Emeric was suddenly in his body. A rapier was embedded in his eye, jerking from side to side.
He screamed. It was a pitiful, agonal scream, an animalistic cry of mindless suffering. His body convulsed wildly as his brain was shredded to pieces, but the oblivion that should have consumed him did not come.
His opponent retrieved her blade from his skull, her blood spattering onto his own. Before Emeric could gain control of his seizing body, she stabbed again, this time piercing through his forehead.
The world doubled, tripled, quadrupled. He could see so much that wasn't there. His back arched as something within his body rebelled against the rules of Nature, tying his soul to this ruined body.
She pulled the blade out once more, then jabbed it through his temples. In one side, out the other. Emeric continued to scream. He could not help it.
She took the blade out again, this time by pulling it up and through his skull, flat of the blade emerging from his face. The wound reknit the moment her rapier was gone.
She stabbed him through the heart next. Then both lungs. Then she shoved him forward, walking around him so she could stab through the top of his skull, continuing through his neck and into his torso, striking his heart.
Emeric lost track of time. He did not know how long she continued trying to kill him. Only that his body was subjected to things which no creature had ever survived.
Eventually, regrettably, his senses came back to him. There was no steel in his skin. No weight pinning him to the ground, nor blood spattering onto his body.
Emeric's eyes had never closed, but he began to see once more. He began to feel the bricks underneath his back, the cool stone against his skin.
He looked down at himself.
He was naked. Covered in blood. The floor, too, was covered in blood. He looked to his left, then his right, and finally upward. All was coated in a thick, dripping layer of blood.
He looked down at his body, old, useless instincts telling him to search for injuries he hadn't yet felt.
Instead, he saw her.
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, some dozen feet away from his body, just beyond the furthest edges of the bloodstains. She, too, was naked, but her clothes had not been torn off. Her ruined face was in the process of reknitting itself, the alchemical magic of a potion regrowing the musculature that he had torn to pieces. Skin would be next, but for now, she was still faceless. Beneath her breasts was a deep, ragged scar, still pink and tender, the sign of an injury which a healer could just barely repair. She was holding her shirt, pouring water from a canteen onto it in a vain attempt to cleanse it of the blood.
Emeric shifted, and her ears flicked towards him. He froze, but she did not react further. She did not even look up from her shirt. But she did speak.
"I could not kill you."
"...No."
She glanced up. "Have you any idea how I might go about doing so, by chance?"
He swallowed. "No."
"Hm. Unfortunate." She turned her attention back to the shirt, scrubbing at its threads. "The battle continues, outside. It hasn't been but fifteen minutes."
"...I see."
Emeric slowly sat up, expecting his body to rebel after all that it had suffered. But it did not. There was not even the slightest twinge of pain.
Emeric swallowed, looking at the naked feline. The naked woman. The former heir to House Eliah, a woman turned to a slave, then to the lover of a Champion. Her kind were renowned for their beauty, designed as such by Fae Lords, but he could not bring himself to see her in such a light. She seemed something outside the paradigm of desire, some ancient monolith, raised to worship the very concept of violence.
And she was cleaning a shirt, occasionally pausing to push her hair out of her eyes. Just a woman. A person, like him, no matter what she wore around her neck.
Evie Brown, the woman who had killed him.
His eyes tore away. Emeric saw her rapier sitting beside her. It was coated in more blood than ever, red from pommel to razor tip.
He could simply leave. She had clearly realized the futility of trying to kill him. Whether she understood why it was impossible, he did not know.
But something compelled him to ask her a question.
"Are you going to clean your blade?"
"Of course," she answered immediately, scrubbing harder at some stubborn clot of blood. "It would be unseemly to be seen in public with such a thing, and besides that, the blood would rust the steel."
"I know. But are you going to clean the blade before you must?"
She looked up at him sharply, eyes narrowing.
"That is not your question to ask."
"It is not. But I wish to know anyway."
They stared at one another for a long, long moment. A minute. Maybe more. He said nothing else. There was no need. She knew what he was asking. Without the heat of battle blinding him, Emeric could finally see emotion in her. Hidden, well hidden, but flickering behind her eyes. Anger. Trepidation. Disgust.
Satisfaction.
And finally, as she glanced at the weapon, guilt.
She reached over, summoning the handkerchief once more. She lifted the bloodied blade, discarding her shirt, and began to wipe it down.
Without another word, Emeric stood. She did not look at him again, and he did not glance at her. He began to walk down the labyrinthian halls of the once-vaunted Keep. He did not know the way out. He simply began to wander, taking turns at random, walking until he found his way out into the sunlight.
Notes:
Apologies for the week delay! I started a new full-time job that's actually got career potential, so I was a bit distracted. Add that to the fact that as I continue to try and weave together all the little plot threads throughout this massive, 1400 page story I've written, and anxiety got the better of me. Thankfully I'm over the hump, and I think I should be able to return to my regular writing pace.
Chapter 104: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
Chapter Text
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Garen
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Garen stood at the door of the Academy– his Academy– with his arms folded behind his back. His voluminous robes drooped over his hands and shoulders, pooling across the stones. He made a point to keep his back rigid and his shoulders level, his chin jutting forward, the utmost image of an imperious headmaster.
Behind him were the gaggle of his students, sheltering within the eaves of the great gate to the Tulian Academy. Though they one and all wore the robes which were the hallmark of mages, they could barely be considered such. Not a one of them had the skill required to enchant their garments in the manner which true mages preferred, and had they been in any other Academy, they would likely have been expelled the very moment they had played at such a charade. Garen had not bothered with such trivialities, though it irked him privately. Rather than a blatant falsehood, he tried to think of the children's robes as a symbol of their aspirations.
It was somewhat difficult to maintain that rose-tinted view at the moment, seeing how the children cowered before the Knights, hiding within his proverbial shadow. As if the eaves of the Academy would be any protection, that there was any safety in the tight crowd they had condensed themselves to. They now numbered several dozen. Almost fifty, if he recalled correctly, and all crammed into rather narrow confines.
Odd, that. That he could recall their names and faces with such exacting precision, but was left guessing at the specific number of faces and names he knew so well. An oddity of the human mind, he supposed.
Approaching the Academy was a near equal number of steel-clad Knights, accompanied by a pair of brown-robed mages. If the Governess's reports were to be believed, that meant the Knights collecting at the bottom of his stairs were slightly less than half of the entire contingent which had been sent to assault the city. Of all Tulian's targets, he supposed he, too, would have been most concerned with Archmage-trained magelings.
And it seemed these had been hand-picked for this specific task, if he had to guess. While they were all obviously covered in the tawdry armor that was the signature of their Class, the specific enchantments which reverberated about their skin were familiar to him. Almost all were the same tired old enchantments Garen had once struggled against, designed as they were to thwart spellcraft above all else.
Frankly, he was shocked that so many of the specialized suits of armor survived. He would have expected every Knight who had so sacrificed physical protection in favor of spell countermeasures to have been obliterated by the firearms in the earliest days of the war. He suspected this particular cadre must not have been heavily involved in the fighting.
They approached the University of Tulian in lockstep, their polearms lowered towards Garen's fledgling cadre of mages. At the center of their little formation was a Knight wearing a particularly vibrant set of armor, one which tickled against some fickle memory in Garen's mind.
The Knights stopped just before the staircase's first steps, heeding the call of that particularly well-dressed individual. They put a single foot on the very first set of the staircase, as if making some declaration, and took their helmet off.
"Archmage Garen," she greeted, bowing her head deeply. "It is both an honor and pleasure to make your acquaintance after so long. Your counsel has been sorely missed by the Royal Cadre."
Ah, that was why he recognized her armor.
"Duchess Sentan," he replied, without inclining his head. "It has indeed been many years since I have graced the Royal Cadre with my presence. I trust your fortunes have progressed well in the interim? With Lady Eliah so dramatically fallen from grace, I would expect your star to have risen quite high amongst your fellow Dukes."
Though it came to him easily enough, the perfunctory greeting was a stark reminder of just how much Garen despised the politicking of the Royal Cadre. Still, the memories came to him easily. While few members of the nobility properly involved themselves in the matters of mages and Archmages, Duchess Sentan was a memorable exception. Her House was far and away the most militant of the Upper Houses of Sporatos, and for their unyielding focus on military excellence, their economic and political fortunes had suffered. Watching Lady Eliah shrewdly chip away at her rival House's financial base had been like watching a cat nibble the legs off a mouse, a grim torture which Garen had been forced into a front row seat to view. Unlike near all the other members of the nobility, Sentan had championed a call for a standing army, and not just that, but a standing complement of battle mages. As part of this ploy, near every week had she pleaded her case before some member of the Royal Cadre, and as the youngest amongst the wisened Archmages, she had focused on Garen most of all.
She must be delighted to finally have this fight, Garen idly thought. Though she must not have been present until recently, or else I would have heard of her actions upon the field. Garen looked over the gathered Knights. In fact, it seems many of these Knight's armors are of finer stock, are they not? From Fort Lament, if I recall correctly. She must have exchanged quite the few favors for an Archmage to Transport so many of for this final battle.
"The King has indeed come to recognize the validity of my forewarnings," Duchess Sentan replied. The pause she had taken to choose her words had been noticeable, as always, which was all the more shame that she took to Garen's offered bragging opportunity like a blind dog lapping from his palm. "Had we been better prepared for this war, and had we committed more forces from the beginning, as I urged the King, perhaps the circumstances of our meeting would have been more appropriate to ones of our stature. A pity that our reunion must be in the midst of such a regrettable affair."
Regrettable, Sentan? The only thing you regret is that you haven't yet had opportunity to wet the crops with blood.
Garen sighed inwardly, then took a breath.
"Of course, Duchess. I would ask that we set aside this tension to engage as Nobility ought, if not for the fact that I fear the chaos of battle would find its way to my charges in the interim. Perhaps if we–"
Garen paused in the middle of his sentence. He'd felt his gorge rising, as if he was near to vomiting.
Such a familiar face, speaking in such a familiar way, had prompted him to return to the ways of war he had once known so well. The facsimile of honorable battle, in which the great commanders met and negotiated across a table stuffed with glittering finery. In Sporatos, it had always been important to maintain one's image, even in the dying hours of battle. The end of one war was when one began to plan for the beginning of the next, after all. With careful words and hidden promises, an enemy today may become tomorrow's ally.
But he was not in Sporatos anymore, was he? Not even a subject of the King. He was a citizen of Tulian. And Tulian was headed by a woman very, very different from King Sporatos.
"Do you plan to kill children, Sentan?" Garen asked instead.
Sentan's smile froze into something brittle. He could see her begin to think of a response. He didn't bother allowing the brute to save face.
"Because I believe you are here to kill children, Sentan," Garen continued. "Children I have taught for months. Children I have developed a deep fondness for, despite their occasional transgressions. Not that any sort of killing children is acceptable, of course, but these particular children do hold something of a special place in my mind."
"We–" she stuttered, still halfway through gathering her thoughts. "We have orders to repatriate and interview those involved in the manufacture–"
"Has anyone you've met today believed that lie, Sen? I doubt it. One needs only to listen to the screams of the city to know what you plan for them."
"There is no need–"
"A moment," Garen interrupted, taking his arms out from behind his back. His fingers twitched, a glowing wall of elegant script filling the air before him. Revealed in its written form, his Oath was perhaps fifteen feet by ten feet tall. He stepped forward, squinting at the minuscule text.
"There is no need for such unchivalrous behavior, Archmage Garen," the Duchess continued, after recovering from his interruption. "Though the Royal Cadre may have spurned you, there is still room in Sporatos for anyone of such talent–"
"Ah, here it is," Garen hummed. "Provisions for Violence, Subsection I, Article I. If the Helpless have only my Self to look to for the Defense of their Lives, and both the Helpless and my Self are in possession of a Soundly Reasoned Belief that it would be Just for Violence to be committed in Pursuit of the Defense of their Lives, and that it would be Unjust for Violence to not be committed in Defense of their Lives, my Self shall be allowed to invoke whichever Spells are Strictly Necessary to see their Defense through."
Sentan's sword flew from her sheath in the same breath that energy began to crackle from her unit's attached mages.
Garen continued speaking, unperturbed.
"If, however, these Helpless include Children, and so long as my Self acts only in Pursuit of their Defense, my Self shall have no limits upon the Spells my Self chooses to employ."
Sentan's eyes widened.
"No–"
Garen flicked his wrist, splashing the Knights across the stones.
Garen heard one of his students whimper a trembling "Oh, Gods," as they collapsed to all fours, overcome with nausea.
Hunes, by the sound of it. Poor girl. I did warn her that she likely lacked lack the constitution for battle.
Knowing well that the blood would never truly wash from the stones of the street and its homes, Garen lifted the street and tossed it beyond the city's walls. He then leveled the resulting trench with a wave, so that the University was still accessible on foot. That done, he turned around to address his students.
Many flinched as he faced them. That was alright. They would recover in time.
"It is alright," he assured Hunes, walking up to give her a few firm pats on the back. She was not the only student who had began to vomit, but she was the worst-off. She looked miserable. "In truth, I may be speaking too soon. This is a natural reaction to death, and a common one, as you can tell from the others. Should you overcome such reactions, your natural proficiencies with Lightning spellcraft– pardon, Electricity, as the Champion's lessons more accurately name it– will guide you to a highly successful career."
Hunes' watering eyes rolled up to look at him. She tried to say something. Before she could, her vision fell on the empty trench where the street had been. She doubled back over, overcome by a second wave of retching.
As Garen made the rounds to check on the students who were worst affected, one of his students, Chona, stepped up to his side, speaking in a low tone.
"Did you need to so visibly summon your Oath, sir?" The young Vanara asked. "It's written into you, isn't it? To potentially show others something that Binds you like that, it seems awfully risky. Even if we couldn't read it from where we stood."
Garen blinked, considering her words.
"No. No, I suppose I did not. Hm." After a moment, he shrugged. "It seems the Champion's flare for the dramatic has influenced me even more than I thought. Don't worry yourself over it, Chona. None had opportunity to read anything of consequence. Also, Tinvel is still vomiting. You should go to his aid."
"Why me?" She asked, tail curling defensively. "He can take care of himself."
Teenagers, Garen lamented inwardly. Outwardly, he only shooed her away.
"You could use further practice with medical spells. See if you can concoct something for nausea."
"Fine," the Vanara huffed, as if offended to be lowering herself. Garen did notice that her steps were twice as quick heading toward the boy as they had been heading away.
Teenagers.
----------------------------
Ignite
----------------------------
Ignite tore up into the powder-choked air, spurred on by pillars of blackened energy which pierced gaping holes through the steps he had just ascended. Splinters flew in great arcs as the cultist’s spells sought him out, spires of malevolent energy which almost seemed to twist after him like the limbs of some gargantuan beast.
Reacting to this, several of the Tulian Marines wasted their precious single pistol shot firing into the pillars, alternately crying out either “Serpent!” or “Leviathan!” The panic in their voices drew the attention of the rest of the Magecraft’s scattered combatants, who briefly disentangled themselves, preparing to face the supposed beast as one. That would have been all well and good in the face of a true Leviathan, the appearance of which would have rendered bonds of nation and creed irrelevant, but it was not such a creature.
“A line!” Ignite yelled as he sprinted across the deck, his usual Sergeant’s roar cracking into a scratchy yell. “Form a musket line-”
The cultist exploded out of the hull with a crash of thunder and snapping wood, their robes fluttering as their hands twitched in jerky, almost epileptic movements. The spires of energy began to twist in earnest, darting forward like the jaws of an eel. They pierced dozens in a series of blurred jabs, indiscriminate in their targets. Sporaton and Tulian Marines alike were impaled by foot-thick spears, then were lifted up and thrown them overboard like a child’s toy.
“FIRE AT THE MAGE!” Ignite bellowed, raising Kate.
This was no time for conserving ammunition. Ignite barely aimed at the cultist before he began pulling the trigger, firing as fast as he was able, unloading all six shots in a brief few seconds. The bullets struck a solid wall of air, pattering uselessly to the deck.
Other musket balls joined Ignite’s as the few Marines who still had a loaded shot fired them off. The fusillade was followed shortly thereafter by a surprising sight: arrows. The Sporaton Marines sporting bows were adding their own shots to the volley. Clearly the cultist had not been the most popular member of the crew.
Unfortunately, the rain of lead and iron seemed to do no more to the cultist’s shield than the droplets of sea spray that landed beside them. A featureless wooden mask swept across the deck as the cultist guided their spells, killing whoever happened to be nearest one of the malevolent pillars.
Ignite spun around, searching for something, anything to counter the spells. The cultist was moving higher into the air with each passing moment, as if they were gracefully ascending an invisible staircase. There was no time to reload Kate, not with how rapidly the Magecraft was being swept clear of any living creature. He doubted his revolver would be of any worth, regardless, seeing how little was being achieved by the muskets some quick-thinking sailors had fired from the Waverake.
Cannons. We need cannons for this.
Ignite had to drop to his stomach as a black tendril whipped past. Someone to his right was not so quick to react. Their blood sprayed across Ignite, painting his armor red.
Ignite scrambled to his feet, moving back to the towering hull of the Waverake. He leapt over the Magecraft's railing and snagged a rope, hauling himself up to the level of the gun ports. He lifted one of the wooden panels and shoved his head in, yelling blindly into the darkness.
"Balon! Balon, you must fire the cannons at that cultist!"
The man hollered back from somewhere deeper within the ship.
"Are you mad?! We'd kill a dozen of our own with every shot!"
"And if that cultist gets his way, there won't be anyone left to save! I will order our Marines to fall back, but do not wait until they are clear to fire!"
Balon cursed furiously, but began ordering the cannons to be run out. Ignite pulled his head out of the gunport and climbed the rest of the way up onto the Waverake's deck, throwing himself over the gunwale.
Only to be startled by the sight of Admiral Nora standing right where he'd happened to come up, hands clasped behind her back as she watched the cultist mage. She had a serene expression on her face, black hair bouncing lightly in the sea breeze, complimenting her gentle smile.
"Admiral," he greeted, because he hadn't any other clue what to say. He knelt down behind the gunwale and began the laborious process of loading the few shots he'd fired, wishing she'd at least have the common sense to stay out of the mage's sight.
"First Sergeant," she replied happily, chipper as a spring morning. "I take it that cultist took poorly to you discovering Vanillaflower's little secret?"
How did she know– oh, damn it all. Ignite forced himself past the question. Trying to understand how the Admiral knew all she did was a losing prospect.
"I can't speak to why they have begun trying to kill us all, only that they have."
"Mm," she hummed. Ignite silently crushed another lead ball down into its cylinder, rotating to the next slot. "Do you think the cannons will be enough to kill them?" She eventually asked. "They seem rather proficient with their spells."
"I can only hope that they will fall," Ignite replied tersely. "Seeing as the alternative is the death of us all, I even pray for it."
"To whom, Ignite?" Nora asked.
"What?"
"To which God have you prayed?"
Ignite had to pause his reloading to parse the bizarre question. Why in all the hells did it matter?
"Daylagon, I suppose," he eventually said between breaths. "It is to him I most often pray while upon the waves."
"And why is that?" Nora asked, baffling him yet again. "The Lord of Beasts is often assumed to be the master of the seas, seeing as his greatest creations reside therein. But isn't it odd that we think he cares for us, who barely creep across the thinnest layers of his domain?"
Ignite stopped bothering to answer. He doubted he was a relevant participant in this conversation. Instead he popped up and over the gunwale, firing all six shots into the cultist as rapidly as he was able. They achieved nothing, and with a curse he ducked back into cover, beginning the loading process anew.
"I've oft wondered what it means to be the Champion of something Chained, Candela Sussorro."
Ignite started at the use of his name, his true, Carrion name, a thing he hadn't heard spoken aloud since he had defected from the Carrion Navy, and then cursed yet again as his surprise lead to him dumping lead balls and powder across the deck.
"Names are a thing which represent something greater than themselves, are they not?" Nora asked, nudging the balls back over to Ignite with a foot before they could roll away. "They're a simple sound, one meant to call to mind something greater. Makes me wonder what's implied by being the Chosen of something wrapped in Chains."
A sinking feeling began to seep into Ignite's gut, and not just because the entire Waverake lurched. The ship heeled hard to starboard as the cannons roared, spitting smoke and sparks and flame in such great quantities that half the Magecraft's deck was suddenly lit afire. The cultist swatted the shots aside with contemptuous ease, the black tentacles intercepting the 24-pounder's shots the moment they left a cannons barrel. Then, seeing as not a single living soul was left on the Sporaton flagship, their spells turned towards the Waverake itself. An entire beam, two feet thick and a hundred feet long, was torn free from the ship's hull and tossed skyward, spinning end over end as it disappeared towards the horizon.
"That's my Class, in case ye were wondering, First Sergeant," Nora said, continuing as if nothing were happening at all. "Champion of the Chained One. Wondered what it meant for a long time. Assumed I'd gotten myself tangled in some rotten fae affair, to be honest with ye. But that word. Champion. Means something, don't it? Especially these days."
"What in the name of the gods are you about to do, Nora?" Ignite snapped, his desperation and irritation finally getting the better of him.
"A test, o'sorts," she hummed, and before Ignite could stop her, she hopped up onto the gunwale, balancing on the tip of her boot.
"MAGE!" She roared, her voice booming across the waves. "CAN YOU KILL ME?"
By the FUCKING gods, Nora!
Ignite leapt up, trying to drag her back down into safety, only to find himself suddenly stopped cold, something wrapped around his waist. He looked down to find that the deck of the Waverake had come alive, boards splitting and twisting like writhing snakes to restrain him.
"MAGE!" Nora roared again. "I ask one thing only!"
The undulating tendrils which had pierced the Magecraft in so many places rushed together, forming a pulsating black mass beneath the cultist's floating feet.
"CULTIST!" She cried. "Worshipper of the hidden god! Architect of war, and of suffering, and of senseless violence! I ask you this!"
The black mass bubbled, and grew, and with every passing moment and every word spoken, it seemed less and less like a spell, more and more like some hideous, tortured creature, tugging at the force which held it back.
"CAN! YOU! KILL! ME!"
The mountain of energy shot forward in the blink of an eye, its face erupting into untold spears, a wall of darkness sweeping down onto Ignite and Nora, sure to consume them both, to take the entire ship with it–
And then it split. The faces broke aside, the fringes dissolved in a hiss that sounded like wailing screams, and mere inches before Nora's joyous, gleeful face, it all came to a halt, arrested.
"HA!"
Her laughter struck Ignite like a bomb. His body was sent bouncing off the deck, unconsciousness threatening to overwhelm him. The water beneath the hull caved inward, as if a dozen kegs of powder had detonated in Nora's lungs, and both ships were sucked into the resulting depression, swirling and crashing against one another.
"CHAINED ONE!" She cried, this time with a new voice. One filled with rapturous, breathless ecstasy. "I have given my leg to the fae! My sight to daemons! I have offered my flesh and blood to the formless things where the night fades to nothing!"
In the distance, Ignite saw something. Beyond the fleet. A ripple in the waves. A wake, one born of no ship, rising from below.
The cultist's black spells faded, replaced by something Ignite could not fully see. Energies twisting through the sky, searching for connections he could not fathom.
"CHAINED ONE!" Nora bellowed, sensuous in her joy. "I have given much, to many! But I have not given all!"
The wake was rippling through the water, bearing down on them far faster than anything else. Ignite knew what this was. He knew what was coming.
"Leviathan!" He screamed, pointing, trying to warn the crew. But almost all were unresponsive, knocked senseless by the force of Nora's speech.
"CHAINED ONE!" She thundered. "You have named me Champion! And now I name you!"
Nora's hands rose above her head, palms flat and open, facing the sky. She threw her head back, the corded muscles of her throat jumping as her face reddened, tears of worship filling her eyes.
"DAYLAGON! SHAPER OF BEASTS!"
The entire world seemed to stagger. Ignite sucked in air, blew out sea water. His body was crushed, emulsified, strained and eaten and chewed and spit out again and again and again.
"DAYLAGON! GUARDIAN OF CHANCE, DESPOILER OF FATE!"
The wake rose, its edges spewing white water as something beneath, something greater, began its rise to the surface. Ignite tried to crawl away, but he didn't have hands. Only scales and bones and fins and flippers and–
"DAYLAGON! CHAINED ONE! HE WHO WAITS TO BE FREE! GIVE ME YOUR SEA, AND I WILL GIVE YOU ME!"
Ignite's body dissolved. The mage cultist began to scream, and something terrible began to force its way inward, trying to finish the spell they had started, but it was too late.
It broke the surface of the water. It was colorless, and It was Great, and It was massive beyond all belief. Ignite looked upon it for as long as he had eyes, and in that time, he saw... Things. Properties. Mass and skin and teeth and eyes, but there was no body behind them, just that which Was, and they were opening, and they were rising, and the cultist was falling and the sky was bleeding and Ignite's sight was failing but he still felt it, felt it, felt it, felt it, felt the teeth closing around him and the throat convulsing and the final scream muffled by the great groan of satisfaction as millennia whirled and spun before the time that he had been before he had been him and the world above danced in its ignorance of the Things, the Things, the Things which lived below and the gentle beautiful thousand Hands which shaped them all
And then It was gone in a spray of sea foam, a tower of spray which stretched towards the clouded heavens.
Ignite convulsed, curling in on himself. He tucked his knees to his chest and buried his face between, breathing.
Just breathing.
He had lungs again, after all. Lungs that could suck in air, not something else. Not whatever had been there before.
And he could hear. He could hear her beside him, breathing hard, breathing low, a groan of something impure rumbling up from just beneath her ribs.
"Gods," he heard Nora mumble. Then he heard a rustle, and a spark. "I need a smoke."
She drew in a deep breath, then blew it out. The scent of Nora's pipe joined the rotting sulfur, and somehow, someway, that contemptuous mixture was enough to bring Ignite to thoughtfulness, to bring his eyes up to look at her.
"So," she said, sucking another lungful of pipe smoke. "I think their God's got mine on a leash. Not a tight one, but a leash. Got any idea what the hell I'm supposed to do about that?"
----------------------------
Sara
----------------------------
In the end, she did manage to fulfill her promise that she would stay with the army to recover. She really did. That Evie had emphasized staying with the army, rather than staying away from the city, was an unfortunate loophole inadvertently left by her feline partner.
When night had fallen on the bloodied field of battle, Sara ordered that the wounded be transferred onto carts and stretchers, supported by the few who were still capable of supporting someone else. Of her army's original five thousand, there were less than five hundred capable of it.
Unfortunately, five hundred were enough.
They marched slow. They marched through the night, constantly vigilant for attack. Each hour that passed had Sara more and more convinced that the Sporatons truly were on the retreat, but she didn't let an ounce of that conviction show. She kept every soldier on alert. If she didn't, and something happened, their deaths would be her fault.
Sara only told Evie that they were returning when the army was less than two hour's march from the walls. The tirade that spewed through the crystal in return was anticipated, but certainly not enjoyed. Only Sara's reasoning that she would be safer within the walls, mercenary raiders still running amok or not, was enough to convince Evie not to follow through on the many elaborate threats she'd concocted.
The remnants of the Tulian Army trudged into the capital shortly before daybreak. Soldiers collapsed the moment they found a clear spot, slowly filling up the streets beside the gate with discarded armor and snoring bodies. The wounded and their healers made it little farther, forming a makeshift hospital right in the middle of one of Tulian's main thoroughfares. The medics continued to work, while the magical healers seemed to find the bare stone as inviting as any featherbed, every aspect of their selves spent.
Sara wanted to join them. She desperately, desperately did. Excluding a brief and restless hour spent laying on the grass just before the march, Sara was coming up on forty hours since the last time she had well and truly slept. But she couldn't. Not quite yet.
Not because of the Knights, of course. Sara had received the reports of that. Garen had done something to most of them. She didn't know exactly what, nor did seemingly anyone else. Only that they were gone. Evie had set herself upon the rest, turning the bands of marauding Knights into leaderless packs of petrified jackals. In an open battle, even two or three of the Knights would have been more than Evie's match. In the tight, twisting confines of a city, one whose citizens hated them more than anything else in all the world?
What few had escaped that killing spree were reported to have fled north-northwest. Sara had already received reports of a a few lonely Knights riding at the head of a herd of priceless cavalry steeds.
No, the Knights weren't a problem anymore. The problem was the mercenaries.
In the end, the Sporaton Navy had managed to tick off a few boxes on their exhaustive agenda. By dividing their fleet into two, a battle fleet and a transport fleet, Nora had been forced into an engagement for just too long, allowing the ships packed full of foreign mercenaries to slip into the Tulian harbor.
What happened after that grew hazier. Near every report agreed that nineteen or twenty ships had entered the harbor, slipping easily through the great gap which had once held a massive portcullis in Tulian's heyday. However, every report also agreed that only fifteen ships had then landed at the harborside. No one, not a single person, said anything of what happened to the missing ships. It was if they had simply vanished. There were no reports of accidents, or spells being cast, or even infighting among the fleet. Just that twenty had entered, and fifteen had landed.
Mercenaries had poured out of the ships, and when they'd seen what paltry resistance the Tulian Guard put up for them, they'd scattered like roaches. They'd set to stealing everything they could lift, burning what they couldn't carry, and spent every free moment abusing the citizenry in every horrific manner imaginable. The list didn't bear repeating; Sara knew exactly what happened. She could taste it in the air. The fear, the hate, the pitiful terror.
The mercenary's reign of terror had lasted perhaps an hour before the Waverake sailed through the gash in the walls.
Sara knew that there had been fifteen mercenary ships that had landed, but she only knew that from reports. There was nothing left afloat. Not a single plank or drifting sail.
There was also, incidentally, nothing left of the entire Tulian shoreline. Just broken rubble and smoking wood. The mercenaries had tried to return to defend their ships. They'd been met by a Waverake that had shifted all her cannon to one side of the ship, producing a single colossal broadside that eclipsed the entire Tulian Army's firepower by a factor of five. After the second volley, they'd started to run back into the city, only to find their absence had given Evie just enough time to gather up volunteers, hand out muskets, and give a five minute lesson on how to use the weapons.
Now, twelve hours later, what remained of the mercenary army was still sheltered beneath piles of smoke and ash. Only the basements of the city's harborside homes and businesses had been safe from the Waverake's guns, and she had little doubt that many mercenaries had been buried alive as the homes above collapsed. The growing light revealed to Sara a scene closer to something out of Dante's Inferno than it did the shoreline Sara once knew.
Sara limped up to the edge of the devastation, Evie on her left, Hurlish on her right. None of them were particularly happy that the others were present. Sara and Evie both thought the other should be resting while they dealt with matters alone, while Hurlish thought all involved should've left the mercenary army to rot in place for the next week. Sara's argument was sound, she felt. For all Evie insisted she was in far better shape than Sara, she didn't look it. The woman's face had been literally, physically rearranged, her every feature sporting the tender pink skin of overtaxed healing magic. With how much was going on, Sara still hadn't gotten the full details on Evie's duel with Emeric. Only that she'd won, but he wasn't dead. Those were two facts that seemed highly incompatible with Sara's view of Evie as a person. Still, between injuries that would've required a new photo ID and her still-festering gut wound, Sara was convinced the feline was far worse off than she was. Sara was merely exhausted to the point of imminent collapse, her eyes fluttering as she desperately fought to close them, the world distorted and blurry. Evie seemed to think more of that than Sara did, and so the argument went.
Ultimately, after listening to the two of them argue in circles for an hour, Hurlish had resolved the issue by informing them both that she was going to walk her pregnant ass straight up the mercenary army, and while the two women were welcome to join her, they were not welcome to stop her.
Which was what lead to Sara standing in the shadow of the city's eastern walls as the sun rose, looking out at the still-smoking hellscape of hidden enemies with her girlfriends at her side, one heavily pregnant, the other's face barely attached to her skull.
"Hey!" Sara yelled. "Big fuck in charge of these pricks! I know you're in there! Come out and talk!"
No matter how wounded Sara truly was, one thing was certain. She could put on a show. Her blanketed the entire city, audible from wall to wall. If she'd replicated the same feat with speakers or something similar, everyone in a hundred feet of the source would have been deafened. In fact, that's how it would have worked out when she first got the ability. Now, however, everyone who heard her voice heard it as she intended: as if she were shouting in normal fashion, standing maybe fifty feet away.
Which meant that she knew perfectly well that every single cowering mercenary heard her with exacting detail. It wouldn't even matter what language they spoke; Sara hadn't met anyone who couldn't understand her in months. So they had no excuse for the fact that no one emerged from the rubble, not even to wave the flag of parley or request a few minutes to deliberate.
"Nora," Sara's voice boomed, its sheer volume at odds with her casual oration. "They've got two minutes until the next broadside."
If the mercenaries in the rubble didn't know what a broadside was, they gained the necessary context clues as the gun ports on the Waverake popped open, the ominous creaking of the guns trundling out carrying well over the water.
A white flag, or more properly someone's sweat-stained undershirt tied to a broken spear, popped up shortly thereafter. It bobbed around for a few moments, as if trying to communicate something, then retreated. A request for time, she could only assume, as they tried to hurriedly resolve whatever debate had stopped them from beginning negotiations far earlier.
"Nora," Sara announced, "The broadside has been delayed to five minutes."
This time, it was the crippling lack of noise that hung so terribly in the air. The Waverake's guns hung imperiously above the waves, casting long shadows as the sun began to peak over the city's eastern wall.
By Sara's count, it had been four minutes when someone appeared out of the rubble.
They were wearing a rather decorated set of armor, as if Ignite's roman-esque suit had been marred by years of ownership by someone with a particularly strong fetish for engraving floral patterns. Thorny roses twisted up their arms and legs, joining a field of petunias, orchids, and tulips that spread across their torso. The display of (admittedly well-crafted) flowers were hidden only by a truly gaudy number of ribboned medals festooning the steel. Sara immediately noticed that many had been pinned in place haphazardly, likely within the past few minutes, as if the mercenary thought she'd be daunted by the sight.
"I am the–" the woman began.
"Don't give a shit. Surrender."
The crowd of Tulian citizenry, which had circled around the devastated shoreline just behind the Guard, laughed loudly. The mercenary's face flushed brightly in her open-faced helmet.
"I have been chosen to speak for–"
"Surrender for," Sara corrected.
"–the mercenary companies represented herein," the woman managed, just barely stuttering her way through Sara's overwhelming voice. "These include the–"
"Nora, blow her head off."
The Waverake erupted before Sara's the last word left Sara's mouth, powder smoke forming a snow-capped mountain in the middle of the harbor. The hideous shriek that had become so sickly-sweet to Sara's ears sounded as cannonballs tore forward, long-since aimed for the lone figure.
Golden light erupted from her form, forming the distinct polygonal mage-shield that had been developed in the Sporaton Army over the past few weeks. The cannonballs struck the shield and were deflected down into the stone with a series of crashes that sent the stones jumping beneath Sara's feet.
"Oh, would you look at that," Sara droned as the thunder faded. "A major Sporaton-aligned faction is being puppeteered by a shadowy mage bent on my undoing. I'm shocked."
Brown-robed and wooden-masked, the painfully familiar form of a cultist emerged from the golden light, their hands folded petulantly before their waist. This particular cultist was tall; taller than Hurlish, and nearly as bulky as her, too. That could mean it was an orc behind the featureless slab of wood. It could also mean it was the illusion they'd decided to cast on themselves, so Sara didn't bother paying it much mind.
"Perhaps it was optimistic to try and fool the Champion of Amarat, but one can't blame a mage for trying, can they?" The mage's hands shifted within their robes, and a new, mostly transparent shield replaced the golden prism. "Now, then, Champion. I believe it is the time for negotiation."
"Here we fucking go," Sara grumbled.
"We have followed you for a long time, Sara Brown," the cultist purred. "Since your very first days in this world have we watched you.We know you are an inquisitive woman. One who seeks the truth." The cultist nodded their head to Sara, as if acknowledging a point won in a game of chess. "We can respect this calling. Even amongst our enemies. You have many questions about us, and we have questions about you. Should we meet amicably, there is much to be learned."
Sara rolled her eyes, not dignifying that with a response. The cultist held up a hand, gesturing to the harbor, where the Waverake was gradually emerging from its self-made cloud.
"You have brought forth creations that no other Champion has dared to bring into existence. We have learned how, but we wish to know why. Why has your god has allowed you to do this? Why are you, unlike every Champion before you, willing to use such weapons? In fact, in the course of us asking one another our questions, I expect many will spark curiosity in us both, and only by such mutual assistance may we find the answers."
"First of all," Sara said, leaning forward just a bit, "Kill yourself."
The moment stretched. There was the sound of shifting feet, and the cry of distant seagulls.
"Second of all," Sara said, "Since you're so interested in learning, I figured I'd learn my own people one. Ladies and gentlemen?" Sara glanced at the army. "You're not just looking at some half-bit cultist jerk-off who's too far up the ass of some demon or fae or whatever. They worship a god."
The cultist took a step forward, raising a hand. "This exchange is not to be held on the open–"
"Like, a genuine God," Sara clarified. "Bonafide divinity, like Amarat. But not one of the nine you know, not even the shitty ones. A tenth one. A god that's been hiding from humanity since the dawn of time."
A ripple passed throughout the crowd as the people reacted to this, whispering to one another.
"Dunno what the god is about, but they worship some bad shit. Amarat doesn't like 'em. Apparently, I just learned a few hours ago, Daylagon doesn't like 'em either. The main tenets of their religion seem to involve boot-licking and killing peasants, if that gives you an idea. And this cock-sucker here is one of their head honchos. I think. Dunno if you'd call them a priest or whatever, but really, who gives a shit? Point is, they're half the reason why this war got started. They're the reason why King Sporatos marched south."
Sara's eyes rolled back over to the cultist, who, though their body was nearly indiscernible beneath all the layers, seemed to exude fury.
"If you wish to learn what we know, you are doing a very, very poor job," the cultist hissed.
"What, 'cause I tattled on your sorry asses?" Sara laughed deliriously. "Buddy, I already sent off letters with every detail I have on your god. Yesterday. To every Church of Amarat on the continent."
The cultist froze. Barely constrained rage bubbled beneath their motionless exterior, practically dripping to the stone. Sara continued speaking, really working up a rhythm.
"They've got instructions for them to deliver the message to the highest ranking officials they could reach on the same day they got the letter, for starters. Oh, and to copy the whole thing of course, as many times as they can. So they can spread them, and bury some in time capsules, and to post copies on as many street corners and markets they can. Oh yeah, and for them preach about it to their followers as soon as they got a chance, of course." Sara spat emphatically on the stone. "Cat's out of the bag, shithead."
Now the cultist's air of calm began to properly dissolve, venom dripping from every word.
"You think we have not dealt with this before? You think a secret like this, so magnificent in its importance, has not been fought before? Minds can be altered. Papers can be found and burned. The world is a malleable place, Sara Brown. In time, your efforts will fail. They always have."
"Hey, I doubt it," Sara said with a shrug. "But good luck. Personally, I think you're gonna learn to really hate the printing press." She finally straightened, drawing her sword and tossing it up to rest on a shoulder. "So, are we done here? You gonna fuck off?"
"You think you are ready for what we are? For the influence we hold? You think that you can continue on in ignorance–"
"Seeing as you're pissing yourself to figure out what I know, yeah, I do. If this stupid motherfucker says another word, everyone fire."
The cultist laughed. "You wo–"
They were cut off by an earth-shattering explosion, the sum total of twenty-four cannons and seven hundred muskets sparking in a single instant.
"Keep firing," Sara instructed, stepping forward. She could see nothing through the powder, but she knew better than to think anyone who popped up in the middle of an enemy city all on their lonesome was a one-and-done. "Remember to keep your aim point the same. Same level, same angle, smooth motions on the reload. We'll stagger it, this time. You're all doing great."
A ray of glowing golden light ripped out of the fog, sweeping blindly through the air. Sara felt it whir over her head, so hot her hair began to smoke, and she ignored it.
"Alright, good. Everybody in the first row, fire."
The rattling crack of musketry split the morning, and Sara felt musket balls whir past her. She wasn't worried about being hit. She was walking along the harbor wall, with all of the Guard positioned well to her right.
"Cannons, you're good to fire whenever you think you're ready, but try and keep it accurate, okay? Don't want a ball going further into the city. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Second row, fire."
The staccato drumbeat of gunfire took on a different tune as cannons joined the concert. Through the powder haze, Sara still saw the burning glow of the cultist's shield, though it was so pockmarked with caught lead that its light only shone through in a few select spots.
"Third row, go for it."
Sara kept walking, taking a little bit of a slow path as she did so, to keep out of the line of fire of the muskets.
"Uhh, first rank again, I think, if you're ready–" the muskets cracked. "–which I guess you are. Good. Sorry, hard to see y'all from over here. Actually, y'know what, don't worry about volleys. Just fire whenever you're loaded. Have fun."
Shouts of excitement replaced the dull tones of her uninspired narration, which couldn't be made to sound inspiring, even as her Blessings cast her voice with the strength of a stadium's loudspeakers.
"Hey cocksucker, you alive in there?" She called, this time without her blessings. She was maybe fifty feet away from the lead-covered shield, which seemed to be collecting her bullets like a magnet. Actually, she briefly wondered if that was possible. To attract shots like some giant magnet, so they'd swerve to hit a target. That'd be pretty handy. She'd have to ask Garen about it. Well, if she remembered to tell Evie to write the idea down. No chance she'd remember it on her own.
Finally, in response to her repeated taunts, another beam of light roared out from the shield, warping the air as it shot for her eye. The spell was so unbelievably hot that the street beneath it flashed into smoke, vaporizing a trench twice as deep as Sara was tall, reigniting the dying fires of the destroyed homes.
And then that beam split an inch before crashing into her face, like a fire hose hitting a steel wall.
"Yeah, see," Sara said, stepping further into the beam, "that's what I thought. You didn't actually work for this, did you? You got it like I did. Your sugar daddy hooked you up with some bullshit-god-powers."
The beam began to sputter and fail as she drew nearer to the source, and she heard cries of astonishment and awe from the city. They seemed to think she was literally tanking the beam head-on, bouncing it off her forehead.
Ah shit, she thought. Don't want to feed this hero worship shit any worse than I already have.
Sara turned her blessings back on, so the entire crowd could once again hear her.
"But you're not a real Champion, are you?" She asked. "You're not from my world. Your god broke some kind of rule by making you. Whatever old deal they cooked up back in the day, to let Champions through, it didn't allow for things like you, right?"
The beam sputtered out, the cultist clearly giving up. Their shield began to pulsate, and Sara finally stopped approaching. Any closer and she was liable to get caught up in some friendly fire, no matter how careful the Guard was with their shots.
"So, yeah. Your god may be as strong as Amarat, but she's allowed to pump way more juice into me. You can't do shit to me. You can't do shit to my city, at least while I'm in it. And if it wasn't for a god shoving fistfuls of power up your ass, you wouldn't be able to do anything, period. So we done here?"
The mage shield began to tremble. It flashed brighter, then faded, then brighter yet again. The gunfire continued to pour into it, sparks flying. The lead was so thick across the shield's face that there was nowhere else for new bullets to land, and they'd begun to blow chunks from one another as a result.
Then the shield faded, and it didn't come back. Shots continued to ring for a moment, until the wall of fused lead began to slowly tip backward, thumping against the empty ground.
"Cease fire," Sara ordered, waving an impatient hand. "Congrats on winning the war, everyone. I'm gonna go pass out."
Champion.
Sara threw her head back, eyes closed as she groaned at the sky.
"Really? Now? Can we do this in, like, ten hours?"
Your journey has been hard-fought.
"I guess not."
Chapter 105: Book Two - Finale
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The voice of a God rained like hellfire across Tulian. The world itself shook with the force of every word, driving the city's inhabitants to their knees. Light of every color and every shade began to suffuse the air in a great column, more vibrant than the sun and all its rays. Almost everyone present prostrated themselves, kissing the ground or whispering prayers. Many were so overcome that they shivered under the boiling sun, while others were openly weeping, the backs of their hands pressed to the ground, open palms begging for the barest recognition of a God.
You have sought truth, and you have brought it to the masses.
You have fought against Evil. And you have fought with Passion.
You–
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Sara hollered, moving towards the column of light. She shook her sword at it. "Get to the fuckin' point."
Sara didn't think she could have produced a more horrified reaction from the city's populace if she had detonated a nuclear bomb in the bay. Many looked up from their worship to stare at her not in shock, or even incredulousness, but outright fear. Fear of what she was saying, of what the Goddess Amarat would do to her in turn, wondering if they would get caught in the blast.
Amarat's oration continued to thunder, her Presence threatening to boil sea and stone alike.
My Champions are not Warriors. They are envoys.
Yet with Power wholly unsuited to your Quest, you have succeeded.
Your reward will be great.
"See, that's more what I'm talking about," Sara declared, stomping up to the edge of the light. She somehow got the sense that it pierced the whole planet through, radiating out into the galaxy and beyond.
Sara stepped into it.
Her flesh began to burn, reknit, and burn again, and for a moment she saw all the world as Amarat did. Each speck of dust, each atom that composed it, and all the unnamed things which composed each layer thereafter, singing in a single concert. The weaving fingers of Divinity plucking their way through all reality, altering fate in ways which would not bear fruit for a million years to come.
"I've read what the Champions get as rewards," Sara said. "History books are chock-full of the stuff. Magic swords and glorious steeds. Impenetrable armor and knowledge of spells unfathomable to all mortalkind. A lot of them, from what I can tell, want to go back home. That's the kinda shit you want me to ask for, right?"
The Reward of a Champion is theirs to demand.
"Okay, cool." Sara didn't feel any pain as she walked deeper into the light, even as it exerted force enough to shatter worlds. "I've got a few ideas, but they're not that basic bitch shit."
Though Sara couldn't hear it, she could only assume Evie was frothing at the mouth. As far as the safety-minded woman was concerned, there wasn't much worse than actively antagonizing a Goddess.
"When you brought me to this world, I saw the world the way you did." Sara stopped just before the center of the light, staring ahead, as if she was looking the divinity in the eyes. "You took my body apart cell by cell, atom by atom, and built it anew. You molded my soul like clay. There is nothing– nothing– you can't do."
"Then I got to this world, and I read about the other Champions. About the history of the Gods. And a lot of it was pretty much like I expected. Like the myths back on Earth. Some great hero would be born, live, and die, and to honor their death, they would be immortalized in the stars. A new constellation created just for them. It's poetic. It's pretty. It's great propaganda."
Sara took a deep breath.
"But unlike everyone else here, I know what that means." She turned her head upward, looking into the light. "With all the effort of a twitching finger, you moved stars. Solar systems. Boiling masses of hydrogen and iron and the impossibly intricate dance of whirling planets that surrounded them. You reached back through time to do it. A thousand light years away, a thousand years ago, you shifted them all, and you did it a dozen times over, all to honor one tiny little human."
"So no, Amarat, I'm not going to ask for a sword. I'm not going to ask for armor. I'm not going to ask for anything for myself at all, in fact."
Sara stabbed her sword deep into the street, leaning hard onto it, jaw clenching.
"I want you to destroy the collars. All of them. And I want you to do it from the very beginning. I want you to unmake them, Amarat. I want them to have never existed at all."
You know not what you ask.
"Oh? Oh?" She raised her wrist, shaking the enchanted band that was clamped there. "You think I don't fucking know?" She stabbed her finger at Evie, barely visible from within the swirling mass of color that surrounded Sara. "You think I don't fucking know what I ask?"
Gods are beyond you. Beyond everything.
But they are not beyond me.
To do as you ask would change all history.
I would be opposed. Fought. Weakened.
Sara's eyes bulged wildly, an astonished sputter forcing its way through her lips.
"You would be fought? Weakened?" Sara slammed her fist against her chestplate, spraying blood from her dripping wounds. "Wouldn't that just be so fucking horrible? Wouldn't that just be fucking awful, to have to sacrifice something of yourself to do something worthwhile?"
I am a God. The echoes of what you ask will last until the final star flickers to nothing.
"LIKE I GIVE A FUCK!" Sara roared. "I- how- you're a fucking GOD! How do you not understand this? Are you just that much of a fucking coward?!" Sara whirled, throwing her hand out at the devastated city. "Look at this! Look at every little fucking cosmic speck of it! They gave everything! EVERYTHING! For YOU! For YOUR Champion! You think they give a fuck? You think they care what happens a billion goddamn years after they're dead? Watch their neurons bounce, cunt! Watch what they feel! Breathe it in, taste it!"
Life is but the briefest stint of the Immortal Soul.
All who have suffered will invariably become more.
So it has always been.
"What? Fucking WHAT? What do you mean, they'll have a good life after– after they're fucking dead? How does that fucking work? Some kind of fucking arbeit macht frei bullshit? Fuck you! You're a fucking god, and you allowed this to happen for MILLENNIA! No! I'm not giving you a fucking choice! There's some secret fucking God going around putting the other Gods under their thrall or whatever the hell, and that's so big a threat to you that you summoned up a Champion, I'm the only fucking reason anyone on this godforsaken fucking rock knows that! I've saved your fucking life, and-
YOU! WILL! ATONE!"
Sara stood deep in the radiance of a God, chest heaving, her head swimming as she fought the urge to pass out. All the world had fallen silent as fury tore out of her lungs, not even the whirling birds daring to so much as squawk.
And then Sara inadvertently fell back a step, barely able to raise a whisper.
"Also, bring my dad here. I miss him."
For the longest time, there was nothing. Just Sara gulping down deep, desperate breaths.
A Passion befitting my Champion.
Reality fractured. Sara experienced it. She would remember that it had happened. She would even remember what it was like to be there at the very center of it.
But she could never gain much from that. What happened was so beyond her as to be nonexistent. She remembered something, but the space in her mind in which the memory sat was opaque. What occurred was simply not something she would ever be able to conceptualize, much less understand. The work of a God.
And then the light was gone, and Sara stood on a pile of loose rubble, two lives lived.
She was aware of all that she was aware of before. Of the year she had spent with Evie at her side, collar glinting, as inescapable as the pull of gravity.
But she had lived another life, and it was no less real. One in which Evie wore a collar, but a lesser one. Not the make of a God, but of Man. A collar with flaws, with imperfections, one which they had, a few short days before, finally discovered how to break open. Garen had helped them. She had appointed him to the Tulian Academy for the purpose. He had discovered how to shatter the ancient enchantments, but the war had pressed them forward before they could do so, and so Evie still wore the collar.
And neither life was less real. She had lived both. For the last year, she had lived simultaneously, two lives in one body, and it was only now that the veil was lifted from her eyes. If she had not been the one to make the demand of Amarat, she would have believed the new memories were truer than any other. It was an impossibility, a paradox, but one that her mind could accept as easily as it could the most basic principles. She felt as if her head should be splitting from the agony of trying to comprehend what had occurred, but there was nothing there.
And then, with a shock, she saw a head in the crowd. A man in his late fifties, what little hair he had left long since faded to a pallid gray. He sported a prominent pot belly covered by an untucked flannel button-up, two sizes too large, hanging loosely over his cargo shorts. The buttons were done up wrong, one slot off, the entire shirt lopsided and crinkled.
Sara sagged, stumbling forward, only stopped from collapse by a strong hand at her back.
"That your pops?" Hurlish asked as she hauled Sara back onto her feet.
"Yeah," Sara breathed. She started to raise her hand, ready to shout and wave.
Then she glanced at Hurlish.
At her prominent, obviously pregnant belly.
"Shit," Sara whispered. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit!" Sara turned around, hiding her face from her father, who was already asking bewildered questions to the still-kneeling citizens of Tulian. Sara put her hands beside her head like horse-blinders and crouched down, trying to hide her profile.
"Hurlish. Hurlish, do you have a ring?"
"What?"
"A ring!" Sara hissed. "Goddammit. Shit. I fucking didn't think this through at all."
"The hell's up?"
"Her father's culture has some rather odd values regarding marriage," Evie explained, joining Hurlish at Sara's side. "She has mentioned in the past that one is expected to mark their marriage partners with a ring, if I recall correctly. And seeing as you are pregnant with our child..."
"Oh." Hurlish started fumbling in her pockets. "Don't see what the big deal is, though. You're not exactly the type that cares if your kid's a bastard, right?"
"I'm not," Sara half-agreed, "but Dad sure as shit is."
"I do not understand, though," Evie said. "You have said many times that your father did not regard the traditional values of your society highly. Why would he care about this particular taboo more than any other?"
"Because he fucked up and knocked my mom up two months into their relationship, only for her to break up with him a month later and dump me in his lap," Sara hurriedly explained. "The single dad life sucked ass, so he always told me to make sure I put a ring on it before I got knocked up. Literally the only thing he cared about when I got in a relationship." She could hear her dad asking increasingly salient questions, somehow already narrowing down the fact that he'd just gotten Isekai'd.
Fucking never should have introduced him to anime, Sara bemoaned.
"I don't have a ring on me," Hurlish announced, turning out her last pocket.
"Neither do I," Evie said. "Much less three."
"Shit!"
Increasingly panicked, she scuttled over to the crowd of Tulian Guards in a half crouch, half run, making wild gestures. Bemusedly, Hurlish stepped between her and her dad, blocking the man's sight of her.
"Rings!" She hissed at the Guard members. "I need three rings, one big enough for an orc. I need them now."
At the sight of a Champion who had just finished berating her own Goddess pleading to them in such a state of disarray, the Guard reacted... predictably.
Furious shouts went up and down the entire line, calls for rings of any kind to be brought forward. Sara tried to shush them, seeing as the commotion was drawing attention to them all, but it was no use.
Thankfully, it at least worked. A pile of rings ended up getting tossed at Sara's feet as they were passed forward, of all makes and kinds. No one seemed to know why she needed them, but they certainly weren't going to say no.
Feeling terrible for the inadvertent theft, Sara grabbed the two least-expensive iron bands she could spot, and then the only ring that looked big enough to fit on Hurlish's massive fingers, which was a regrettably fine gold piece. She tossed a few coins into the pile in return, probably far more than all three rings were worth, and then scurried back to her partners.
"Hurlish will you marry me?" She asked.
"Ha!" The orc laughed. "Sure."
"Sweet," Sara said, slipping the ring onto her finger. "Evie, will you marry me?"
"Of course, Sara."
"Thank god," Sara said, slipping the nicer of the two iron rings onto Evie's finger. She slid her own on next, then straightened up, giving them both a quick kiss on the lips.
Sara breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, there. We're married."
"Not by most standards, dear," Evie said with a smirk, incredibly amused to see her partner, her wife, in such a state. "There was no priest, nor legal officiation, nor–"
"Oh, shut up," Sara said. "That doesn't matter anyway, because as far as my Dad's concerned, we got married..." Sara glanced at Hurlish's belly, hesitating.
Hurlish's eyebrows rose. "Do you not remember when you knocked me up?"
"...Sssevennn months ago?"
"Oh, we're gonna have a talk."
"Fuck." Sara finally stood straight, brushing her hair back and trying to swipe as much blood off her as was possible. About fifty feet away, her dad was already interrogating some poor fellow about whether or not magic existed.
Using the last reserves of her body's energy, Sara finally allowed a beaming smile onto her face as she called out.
"Hey, Dad! Over here!"
Her father's head whipped around, squinting in her direction. He didn't have his glasses on, and he'd always been near-sighted, so Sara started walking over, Hurlish and Evie in tow.
"...Sara?" He began to shuffle her direction, looking terribly confused.
"Yeah, right here," Sara said, raising her hand. "Sorry, I forgot. I got a pretty major facelift."
"Sure looks like it," he said, finally retrieving his glasses and perching them on his nose. His eyes widened. "Oh. You weren't kidding."
He glanced to the right, eyes landing on Hurlish. He pursed his lips.
"Um?" He elegantly inquired.
"Name's Hurlish," she said, sticking a hand out. "Haven't named your grandkid yet."
"Oh christ," Sara breathed, hanging her head.
"Um, pleased to meet you– wait, what?"
Evie stepped forward, bowing slightly. "And I am Evie, your daughter's other wife."
"She- what?"
Goddammit.
"Are you an orc?" Sara's dad asked Hurlish abruptly, before pivoting to look down at her stomach. "Did you say my grandchild?" He glanced at Evie. "Wife?"
"I have heard much about you," Evie replied. "And while we have just met, from the stories dear Sara has so fondly recalled for me, I expect I will be honored to call you Father."
Sara's dad opened his mouth. Licked his lips. Looked at his daughter, who barely resembled the child he had raised, to the seven-foot behemoth of a pregnant woman, then to the diminutive cat-eared girl whose face appeared to be attached with putty and silly string.
"Sara, honey? Um. What's going on? Are you..." Her dad trailed off as he looked her up and down. For the first time he began to note the wounds criss-crossing her body, the caked blood that was drying and cracking over her skin, the deep bags under her bloodshot eyes.
Sara braced herself for sympathy. For concern. If time had kept passing on Earth, she had been missing for almost a year, only for her to turn up battered and bruised, as near to dead as someone could get while still able to stand on their own two feet. She readied herself to reassure him, to make sure he didn't try and drag her off to a hospital that didn't exist anymore.
"Christ, girl, what the hell did you do this time? Pick a fight with a fucking wolverine?"
Sara suddenly sagged. Laughter began to bubble up out of her throat. The burning rage that had consumed her for so, so long burst like a soap bubble, dissipating into nothingness. She laughed loudly, cackling, and she kept laughing, barely able to keep her breath. She bent over, supporting herself with hands on her knees, until eventually even that wasn't enough, causing her to fall back onto her ass, sitting in the middle of the ruined street.
Her dad immediately knelt down, plucking and prodding at the cuts with one hand while fumbling in his cargo pant's many pockets with the other, trying to find the package of bandaids she knew he always kept on him. The thought of a single, tiny little bandaid being slapped over her dozens of lacerations only deepened her laughing fit, every cackle stealing the breath from her lungs until she was forced to fall onto her back, arms and legs splayed, laughing up at the blue sky.
"She requires rest first and foremost," Evie informed him, kneeling to help him tend Sara's wounds, for whatever good it would do. "While you no doubt would prefer to speak with her yourself, I do insist that she be allowed sleep as soon as possible. I believe I will be able to answer many of your questions, if not all, Father."
"Okay, thank you," he said, handing her a band-aid. It was still wrapped in paper, and Evie pinched it between her fingers like a particularly bizarre insect. "But don't call me father, that's weird as hell."
"In my culture, it is an honor. As I have no remaining kin of my own, it is tradition to treat the familial bonds of one's spouse as their own."
"Okay. Don't do it though. Here, look, you peel it like this."
"Y'all know that ain't gonna do jack shit for her, right?"
Sara listened to the exchange with half an ear, still laughing. She caught sight of Evie awkwardly prying apart the band-aid's wrapper, revealing a childish design, following her dad's instructions to slap it onto a gash eight inches long. The sight was too surreal. She couldn't stop laughing.
In fact, she didn't stop laughing. Not until her eyes began to flutter, her body threatening to fall asleep in the middle of the street, even while she was still giggling. The entire city was watching her display with profound confusion, and a part of Sara thought she ought to try and keep up appearances.
Ah, fuck 'em. I earned this.
Sara closed her eyes, letting sleep take her.
Notes:
Well, would you look at that? 14 months after it began, I've written two books and change. 670,000 words, give or take. That's pretty wild.
Sometime this week I'll begin posting the epilogue, and with it will be some questions for readers on where to go next with this. Stuff like suggestions for my upcoming full series edit/rewrite, what you want to see posted while I'm working on that, and others. Don't worry about answering questions just yet, because I'll have a whole long diatribe ready soon enough.
Until then, thanks for reading! Hope you all enjoyed the ride.
Chapter 106: Epilogue
Notes:
Two chapter update, and guess what! The second one's smut!
Chapter Text
Sara awoke in a soft, warm bed. In fact, it was too warm. The covers had been tucked up to her chin, and the sheets tucked in beneath the mattress. She was absolutely drenched in sweat.
She flung a hand out to one side, patting over the covers in search for Evie or Hurlish, but found nothing. She tossed another probing hand out, assuming the feline had fallen asleep on top of Hurlish again, and still found nothing.
It was in that moment of confusion that the aches of her body made themselves known, and with them, her memory of the previous day.
Sara bolted upright, tearing the blanket off her, heart thundering. She started to roll off the bed, fumbling for a weapon. Her sleep-dusted eyes peeled open, finding only darkness. Daylight crept into the room through a shuttered window, but precious little, leaving her in a deep gloom.
Just as Sara's fist reflexively clenched around the haft of a wall-mounted spear, her better senses soaked through the haze of adrenaline.
She was in their home. The literal armory decorating the walls was proof of that. And she hadn't been captured, of course. They'd won the battle. She'd fallen asleep in the street, which wasn't the smartest thing in the world, but she'd done it surrounded by no one but friends.
Sara forced her hand to unclench, leaving the weapon on the wall. She could hear voices murmuring in the other room, all familiar. Oddly, though, one was masculine.
Oh shit.
Sara hopped out of bed and ran over to the window throwing open the blinds. She winced as sunlight speared through her eyes, blinking past the pain as she moved to the mirror.
To her surprise, she was dressed fairly modestly. A simple undyed peasant's shirt covered her bound chest, made of the scratchy cotton she'd long since been forced to get used to, as well as a similarly-composed pair of shorts that she'd always compared to oversized boxers. She was still visibly wounded, but far less than she had been the last time she'd seen herself.
Sara gently touched one of the lines that traced from her right temple to the her cheekbone, prodding at the inflamed flesh. It was a thin cut, but deep, and it was still sore. She didn't think she'd been asleep all that long. Relatively speaking. The sun was rising, which meant she'd slept for at least a full day, but considering the circumstances, she thought that was fair.
Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Sara moved to the door and creaked it open, poking her head out.
As always with her seven-foot girlfriend- wife- Hurlish was the first to catch her eye. The orcish woman was in the diminutive kitchen, bent over a fire-burning stove that they'd put up on blocks, just to make it a bit easier for her to reach. The home they'd acquired hadn't been built for orcs, and it showed in the way Hurlish had to bend at the waist to do nearly everything, including cook. Of the three of them, Hurlish was the only one who had ever lived a life that actually required her to cook without servants or a microwave. As usual, the sight of her pregnant wife cooking a meal for her sent a twinge of guilt through Sara, but it wasn't as if she could force the woman to eat whatever atrocity she and Evie would have committed in the orc's place.
Evie, in turn, was sitting at their single table, dressed to the absolute nines. If Sara's vision had been just a bit blurrier, she could have been convinced Vesta had come to visit. The puffy ballgown certainly would have been a better fit for the former noblewoman, with its elaborate embroidery and tight corset. Evie's hair was pulled back into a tighter braid than Sara had ever seen it, so tight she knew it couldn't have been comfortable, and she'd actually applied makeup, which was a product Sara would have bet decent money the entire city of Tulian lacked. To Sara's modern sensibilities the rosy cheeks atop a powdery white complexion should've looked downright bizarre, even clownish, but this was Evie. The girl would've looked stunning if she'd been wearing the squeaky nose and clown shoes along with it.
Besides, Sara wasn't the target audience. The man sitting across from Evie was.
Her father was still dressed in his modern clothing, which might've looked intriguingly exotic to the Tulian citizenry if not for the massive sweat stains that ran down from his armpits. His tiny-rimmed glasses, an antiquated fashion disaster he'd willingly embraced to better look the part of a professor for his students, were perched atop his bald head, fogged to uselessness by the combination of Tulian humidity and cook-stove roaring just a few feet away. He was listening to Evie speak with undisguised delight, and as Sara tuned into the conversation, she could understand why.
"Yes, while the Sporaton nobility clings tightly to the concept of de jure land ownership, you are correct that there is no direct cultural equivalent to what you call the Divine Right or Mandate of Heaven, at least as I understand them. Considering the active involvement of divinity in the lives of humanity, it is no wonder that they are unable to sustain such a farcical claim. Rather, the nobility maintains the compliance of their subjects through what they claim to be a mutually beneficial arrangement of protection in exchange for working the land."
"But that's BS, right?" Sara's dad asked, leaning in eagerly. "Wealth disparity that extreme is inherently unsustainable. Rebellions must be inevitable."
Evie nodded politely. "While your overarching conclusion is largely correct, I must once again emphasize the differing socioeconomic climate created by the existence of Levels. What would be an untenable inequality in the framework you are familiar with is, in our world, buoyed by the disproportionate capacity of violence attainable by dedicated application of oneself to-"
Evie's speech cut off in the middle of a word, ears flying towards Sara's direction, eyes following a fraction of a second later.
"Sara!" She cried, standing.
"Sara?" Her dad echoed, fumbling for his glasses.
Evie covered the ten feet between them fast enough to rattle the weapons mounted on the wall, and Sara opened her arms for a hug.
Only for the feline to snag her arm and lift it higher, peeling up her shirt to inspect her wounds.
"Are you hurting still? I ordered the healers to focus their efforts on the troops, as I knew you would prefer, but that provision can easily be reversed-"
"I'm sore, but fine," she said, yanking her wrist out of her wife's grip. "How about you?"
"Excellent, of course," she said, prodding her face for emphasis. "Though I still cannot smell anything, which is somewhat disconcerting. Perhaps the nasal cavity within is still-"
"Evie," Hurlish drawled.
"Oh!" Evie took a step back and, for the first time in gods knew how long, curtsied. "I apologize, Mr. Brown. This moment is far more appropriately your own, rather than mine."
"Thanks?" Her dad said, sounding unsure of the words even as he swept firmly past her.
Sara stepped forward, throwing her arms around her dad's shoulders.
"Hey," he said, hugging her tight.
"Hey," she whispered back, pressing her cheek into the top of his head.
They stood together for a long, peaceful moment, the only sound coming from the eggs Hurlish was frying on the stovetop.
Finally, as she felt her eyes began to water and a sniffle build up, Sara stepped back. She wiped her eyes, smiling widely.
"Sorry we didn't talk earlier."
Her dad laughed. "From what I've heard, you had a lot of stuff going on. Can't blame you. Always did need your beauty sleep."
"Not anymore," Sara joked, tossing her hair side to side. "I got magic powers for that, thankfully. I could go through an avalanche and come out the other end ready for a makeup commercial." She paused, uncertainty filling her. "So... how much have they told you so far?"
"A lot, but probably not anywhere close to all of it," her dad replied. After wiping his own eyes, he moved back over to the table, waving for Sara to sit.
"C'mon. Let's hear it. I've met your wives, clearly- lovely girls."
"That's- um. Thanks."
Sara joined Evie and her dad at the table, and, after a few minutes of both subjecting her to are-you-sure-you're-alright questions, Hurlish set down four wooden plates, all featuring piles of scrambled eggs heaped beside thin slices of salted meat. It may not have looked like much, but for Tulian these days, the addition of seasoning was a downright luxury.
"So," Hurlish said as she slid her own chair out and dropped down with a floor-rattling thud, "You really study rocks?"
"Yes, I do, but first of all," her dad stabbed Sara through with an accusatory glare. "Did you really just not pull out your chair for your wife? Who's pregnant?"
"Uh..." Sara trailed off awkwardly.
"Ha!" Hurlish boomed her laughter, slapping the table. "See, that's what I've been missing. Y'know how many people talk like that to her since she got here, Dave? Me! Just me. And Evie, sometimes, but barely ever."
"You better not have let all this fame go to your head."
"I assure you, she has not," Evie sniffed. "If anything, her efforts to maintain her humility are problematically fanatical. Perhaps if she allowed herself to recognize her own importance more often, she would not suffer the wounds she does."
"So!" Sara all but shouted. "Dad! Geology, right? Studying rocks, like Hurlish asked?"
"Oh! Oh, yes, sorry." He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief Evie had provided, turning to face Hurlish. "Technically, I'm not quite a geologist. It's a related discipline, geomorphology, which studies the effects of erosion on geological time scales. Things like how a river cuts through the landscape, glacier's effects on valleys, and larger-scale climate change. Compared to most geology, I'm dealing with things that happen in a blink of an eye, so I always like to say it's amongst the fastest-paced fields of geology."
"Uh-huh," Hurlish nodded, chewing her food slowly. "But, like... why?"
"Excellent question!"
Sara sat back in her chair, content, at least for the moment, to let the conversation develop naturally. There would be plenty of difficult questions to come later, but for right now, everyone was getting acclimated. They needed that time.
Evie in particular, by the looks of things. The feline was sitting so straightly that Sara wanted to check the back of her chair for tacks, her hands folded primly in her lap. It was clear to anyone with eyes or ears that she so desperately wanted to make a good impression, and equally obvious that she had no idea how to do that. None of her training in polite society had prepared her for a midwest science dad, that was for sure. If Sara had to guess, Evie was treating her dad like some mixture of a political dignitary and high-level mage, which was the closest equivalence her training gave her for a scientist father-in-law.
The absurd level of formality was obviously keeping her dad on edge, and if it weren't for the fact that Evie could easily spout off all kinds of political jargon that her dad clearly enjoyed engaging in, she had to imagine their conversations in Sara's absence would have gone far worse.
Hurlish, on the other hand, was doing far better. She didn't understand jack nor shit about geology, but she got enough of a kick out of the idea of someone dedicating their whole lives to studying rocks that her amusement could be mistaken for enthusiasm. Besides that, she was also just more of a natural socializer. What few odd ideas her dad threw out there, she took in stride, and when he mentioned something she had outright no clue about, she'd just ignore it. It was as close to a normal conversation as she imagined her dad would be capable of holding in this new world, at least for a while.
Eventually, though, once the food was gone and the easy topics were spent, the more difficult questions reared their head.
"So how long was I gone?" Sara finally asked. "To you, I mean." Her dad scraped at the last scraps of his eggs, a frown taking over his pudgy face. "That’s the odd thing. I didn’t think you were gone at all. At least, not until I got here."
"What does that mean?"
"I’m not sure, honestly." Her dad continued to push the eggs around his plate, making a little pile. "It’d been about a year since I saw you last. I should’ve been freaking out. I should’ve gone to the cops. Well, for whatever good they’d do, you know how that is. I should’ve filed a missing person report. Should’ve been asking your work and your friends. But I didn’t."
"Harsh."
He rolled his eyes at Sara. "You know that’s not what I mean. Just, for some reason, I never really thought about the fact that you were missing. It seemed normal, somehow. Like you were on a business trip and never called."
"Amarat’s influence, one would presume," Evie said.
"Probably," Sara agreed. "I guess it’s better than letting you think I died or something."
"Is it?" He looked up from his meal, a glint of steel turning his frown into a scowl. "I don’t like it. Not at all. Screwing with my head like that? It crosses some lines."
"She’s a God, Dad," Sara said. "She could’ve made you forget I even existed, probably. Or, maybe not. I don’t know how much power they have on Earth, or our universe, or whatever it is. But I don’t think smoothing over your panic is the worst thing they could have done."
"Not the best thing, either. She owes me an apology."
"Mr. Brown," Evie said, putting a cautioning hand forward. "I understand you were raised in a land without divinities, where such words were idle chatter. But things are different here. Criticism of the gods is considerably ill-advised."
"Oh, like she has time to tune into whatever I’m saying? Pretty sure a god has more important things to deal with."
"No one and nothing is beneath their notice, sir," Evie replied. Her words were spoken gently, but firmly. "Please. You do not have the leeway afforded by your daughter’s status as a Champion. I ask that you restrain yourself, at least so far as speaking such thoughts aloud is concerned."
"Can’t they read my mind, though?" He circled a finger at the ceiling, looking up. "If they’re all that, surely they'd at least be able to do that."
"That is a matter of considerable scholarly debate," Evie said. "Regardless, thinking something is an entirely different offense to voicing it for others. To lose faith privately is perhaps a shame, yet it is nothing next to jeopardizing the faith of others."
Sara watched her dad’s jaw work at that, chewing over the words. She knew him well enough to know exactly what he thought of that. Of not being allowed to criticize a higher power.
Thankfully for Evie’s sanity, he simply nodded. He could agree with the practicalities of the argument without recognizing the morality behind it. An advantage he had over Sara.
"Anyway," he moved on, "No, I didn’t miss you. I should have, and I really started to the moment I got dropped off here, but that was it."
"Well, I’m at least glad you didn’t spend a year freaking out about me." Sara cocked her head. "It was a year, right? There wasn’t any time manipulation BS?"
"Yeah, a year. It was the middle of March, 2023."
"So that lines up, too. Interesting. I bet Garen will love to hear about that."
"Garen?"
"Oh, yeah. You’re gonna love him. He’s Tulian’s only Archmage. A real high-tier wizard dude. I’ve been having him work on using magic to build steam engines and stuff."
"A wizard?" Her dad leaned across the table, white-knuckling his fork. "Like, a real, actual wizard? Magic spells and everything?"
"Yeah. Actually, I can cast a bit of magic, too."
Her dad gasped so hard he sent himself into a coughing fit, pounding his chest. Hurlish gave him a light thump on the back, laughing.
"That excited about it, huh?"
"It’s magic," he said, stuttering through his cough. "That’s the best thing there’s ever been. Show me, show me!"
"Not lightning, though," Hurlish interjected. "Or at least not inside the house."
"You can cast lightning?"
In a few short minutes, Sara found herself leading the way to Tulian’s University. She did briefly consider giving her dad a demonstration in the smithing courtyard, but after so long spent under siege, she didn’t think the Tulian populace would appreciate an almighty 9’am thunderclap. Best to do it under the supervision of someone who could put a proverbial muffler on her spell.
As they walked, though, Sara found her father quickly getting distracted by the oddities of Tulian’s foreign sights and sounds. At first, she’d worried that he would be gawking at every orc or catfolk they passed, but that didn’t come to pass. He did take more note of them than most did, of course, but in a polite, glancing fashion. That made sense. Her dad had spent his entire life in Detroit, Michigan. A seven-foot orc with a basket full of fruits was far, far easier to ignore than a man on PCP attempting to mate with a car’s tailpipe, or a fistfight between two people so blitzed on a cocktail of various substances that they may as well have been doing a waltz.
No, the people of Tulian weren’t what interested her dad. It was the architecture. Or, truly, not even that.
It was the bricks.
"Is this all quarried stone?" He asked, walking up to some poor woman’s house, ignoring the baffled expression she shot him as she prepared breakfast in her kitchen window. "In Europe, a lot of the early modern structures were made of field stones, but these are all standard sizes. Not to mention it’s almost all granite, which is really surprising for such a large city. The quarrying efforts must have been immense. Evie showed me some maps already, and I didn’t see any quarries nearby-" as he spoke, he retrieved a chisel and hammer from his pocket, a set which Sara could only assume Hurlish had given him, and began to chip at the bricks, adjusting his glasses by scrunching his nose. "-which implies that this is all fairly old construction. You said this city was founded four hundred years ago, Evie?"
"Yes, sir."
"Interesting. That’s not nearly enough time to…" He trailed off, moving his chisel to the left. "Oh, and what is this mortar? It doesn’t look anything like-"
"Excuse me," the woman in the window said, leaning out to stare down at the muttering geologist. "Are you breakin’ down my house?"
Her dad’s face whipped upward, looking like a child caught with their fist in the cookie jar.
"I’m sorry. I was just, uh-" he patted the damaged brickwork. "Not breaking it, no. It’ll be fine. It’s just a scrape."
"Don’t like you scraping my house, neither."
"Of course. Sorry."
He retreated from the house, but only after he pocketed the fragments of mortar he had chipped off. Sara and her wives followed after him, sporting a variety of amused reactions.
"Y’know, if you were anyone else, Evie would probably be getting on your ass about making a bad impression on Sara’s behalf," Hurlish noted.
"But he is not anyone else," Evie quickly interjected, "and I do not judge him by the standards I would others. Not only are you father to a Champion, you have also spent little more than a day in a new world. It is of no concern, Mr. Brown."
For his part, Sara’s dad just laughed in disbelief.
"Thanks. It’s surreal, you know. Do you know how many times I brought Sara to some university event and spent the entire drive there warning her to behave? And now it’s me that’s worried about making a good impression on her behalf?" He laughed again. "I imagined a lot of places in life for Sara to end up in, a whole lot, but politics?" A scoff. "Absolutely not."
"Yeah, well, I’m doing my best to get out of it," Sara assured him. "I’m not anywhere close, but there’s no way in hell I want to be in charge of this shit forever."
"What are you going to do instead?" He asked. "You’ve got too much power and authority to just sit around, you know. I’ve learned that much already."
Sara shrugged. "No idea. Maybe I’ll just be, I dunno, a government contractor. Like, Tulian’ll pay me to work for them on diplomacy stuff or something, or train the army. Evie and I would be pretty good at that."
"I didn’t imagine you being a PMC, either."
"PMC?" Evie asked. "I am unfamiliar with the term."
"Private Military Contractor," her dad explained. "Someone with military training for hire, either by governments or private individuals. Basically a mercenary."
"I, for one, would certainly not mind such a path," Evie hummed. "If Master wishes to disengage from official governance, but remains invested in the fate of the Tulian Republic, I think founding a mercenary company would be an excellent middleground."
For a second, Sara almost thought she got away with it. Her dad opened his mouth to respond, probably to make some joke or another, then paused, squinting at Evie.
"Master?" He asked curiously.
Goddammit. We were doing so good.
"Kink thing," Sara butted in. "Don’t worry about it."
"Oh. That’s… alright, then." He shuddered performatively. "I don’t want to know."
Thank god.
Her dad hadn’t yet learned that Evie, technically, had been enslaved to Sara, in both realities she’d lived in. She wanted to keep it that way. He may not hold quite as extreme a view of politics as she did, but for a man born in the 1960s, he was close. Sara would’ve been surprised if he wasn’t listed on some dusty old ‘80s CIA file as a potential Communist. There’s no way he’d approve of the wildly inappropriate relationship they’d formed. Hell, Sara still didn’t approve of it herself.
Didn’t make her any less happy to have Evie by her side, though. The rest of the walk to the University was spent with her wives and her father deep in conversation, Sara only occasionally interjecting her own comments or clarifications. Both women had a lot of interest in her dad, and not just because he was their new father-in-law.
Hurlish was fascinated by his firearms knowledge, which far eclipsed anything Sara had on offer. Back on Earth, she’d owned a few guns, but only modern, practical examples. The sort she bought in her more naive years, on the off chance that the "glorious leftist revolution" finally reared its head. Her dad, by contrast, had an interest in the Civil War and the first World War (or Great War, as he always insisted on calling it). Sure, Hurlish would’ve loved to crank out a copy of Sara’s ACOG-equipped AR-15, but that was a laughably distant dream. Black powder weapons were far, far more accessible for a smith like Hurlish, and she was doing a pretty poor job of pretending she wanted to talk about anything else.
Evie was also fairly interested in her dad’s firearm knowledge, but for the politically savvy feline, that was a secondary concern to her father’s knowledge of Earthly history. Sara had talked a lot– a lot– about the western world’s centuries-long transition from feudalism to capitalistic democracy, and even considered herself fairly knowledgeable on the topic, but like nearly every other topic, her dad’s actual scholarly knowledge-base blew hers out of the water. Evie politely picked and pried at his mind through the sedate walk, teasing out every little detail she could. While her dad definitely didn’t notice, Sara could tell that Evie was herding him like a sheepdog, always keeping the topic towards the problems she suspected would arise in Tulian. For all she respected Sara’s ambition of an equal society, Evie had absolutely no faith in the democratic process. She wanted to know everything that would fail over the coming months and years, and she wanted to know about it as soon as possible.
Eventually, though, even the two women’s poorly disguised interrogation efforts couldn’t overcome the sheer excitement of a lifelong Tolkien fan on his way to meet a real, literal wizard. When the University of Tulian finally came into sight, two stories tall and sitting atop the city’s only remaining hill, they lost control of the discussion entirely.
"That’s- oh, man, it looks just like an Early Modern university," he gushed, hurrying forward. "How big is it, internally? What was the student load like, before the storms? It’s only been ten years, right? And you said there’s facilities specifically for magic?"
The questions didn’t stop coming long enough for Sara to even pretend she knew the answers, and they kept rolling as they crossed the empty stretch of dirt where an entire boulevard had once been, all the way up the University’s steps, and they continued even while Sara went up to the massive doors and pounded out a firm knock.
She stepped back just as the doors flew open, revealing a smiling Garen, hands raised, dressed in his simple brown mage’s robes. After a year spent in this world, Sara knew that most people would consider Garen’s attire disappointing. There were no flashy runes embedded in fine silk, nor subtle enchantments that kept the garments flowing even on a windless day, and certainly no encrusted jewels brimming with magical energy. Just brown on brown, worn by a tired-looking man who needed a shave. Certainly not what the average Tulian citizen would expect of an archmage renowned for thousands of miles.
But Sara also knew her dad. And she knew exactly what Garen’s outfit looked like to him: a Jedi.
"Hello," Garen greeted warmly, folding his hands back into his sleeves. "It is an honor to meet you, David Brown. I am Garen, head of the University of Tulian. I have heard much about you, and thanks to your daughter’s stories and illusions, feel as if we have already met. I look forward to introducing myself properly."
"Did you use a spell to open the door like that?" Her dad asked immediately. "Like, is magic that easy that you can use it to open doors? Because Sara was talking about how she can cast a few spells per day, but if that was magic and you just used one just like that, you must either have way more spells you can cast than her or something, right?"
Garen laughed warmly. "You’ve already proven much like I expected, David Brown. To answer your question: to a degree. For a mage of the requisite skill, exerting simple force upon a door’s hinge is hardly worth calling a spell. It does not require the effort from myself that your daughter’s more extreme spells might, in her place."
"On the hinge, though?" Her dad asked, honing in on the minor detail. "You applied the force there? Not on the edges of the doors?"
Garen cocked his head, smile shifting to a less performative grin. He was impressed. "You are correct. While it would have been easier with mundane, physical effort to push from the centers of the door, therefore applying useful leverage, with spellcraft, one must focus on the locus of motion: the hinges. It is from them that the integral concept of motion originates, not from the door itself."
"So magic really is divorced from physics, then?" Her dad asked, stepping into the University. "Sara explained that her Lightning spell manifests pretty much exactly like a normal lightning bolt, which implies her spell was recreating natural phenomena, rather than following some new ruleset…"
"You’ve already stumbled upon a rather common conundrum encountered by prospective mages." Garen lifted a hand and snapped his fingers, sparking to life a simple ball of light over his thumb. Her dad gawked at the formless white ball, tears budding at the corners of his eyes. "Spellcraft, or ‘magic,’ if you prefer, is not constrained by simple logic. It is a product of the self and divine intertwined, a gift to us all granted by the universe itself. One can no more define ‘magic’ than one can a human soul, or perception itself. Your daughter has taught me much of your world, David Brown, and with this knowledge, I can both assure and warn you: spellcraft is unlike anything you have ever encountered."
"Oh hell yeah," her dad breathed, leaning ever closer to the little ball of light. After a moment, he blinked, looking up at Garen with pleading eyes. "Can you teach me? Is it possible for me to learn? To learn magic?"
The warmest smile of the day- perhaps the warmest smile Sara had ever seen from Garen- bloomed across his face. The mage nodded.
"The surest sign of a mage’s ability is the desire to exercise it. While I know not how you will interact with the nature of this world, having not been born to it, I doubt anyone with such a passion would be denied Talavan’s gifts." Garen released the light, sweeping his hand down the hallway. "Now, if it is agreeable to you, I would like to show you to your office."
"My office?"
"You were a professor on Earth, were you not? An instructor of ‘geology,’ the study of the planet? Your skillset is likely unique across the entire world, David Brown. I would be remiss to not offer you a position amongst the University. And while I cannot speak to wages at this time, you would be the second professor present, after myself. I can only hope you will find it adequate."
"Oh! Oh, um, sure." Her dad scratched at his neck. "I think that’s the easiest job interview I’ve ever had. And I’d only be the second professor? Across the whole University? That’s gotta be hell on the student-to-faculty ratio."
Sara laughed. "Dad, I’m pretty sure that you’re not going to have to worry about appealing to College Board metrics anymore."
"Huh. I guess not, no." He turned to Garen. "Sure, let’s see it. How many students do you have?"
Sara started to follow after Garen and her dad, but the archmage held up a hand.
"Before you join us, Sara, I would recommend that you pay a visit to the Steam Division’s room. Provisional Finance Minister Vesta is in fact already present to review our progress, so your timing could not be better."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "You sure? I don’t think it’ll matter much if I wait a little bit longer."
"Call me overly eager, Sara. I would appreciate it."
"Alright," Sara said with a shrug. "C’mon, girls, let’s go."
"Actually, Sara," Evie said, "I think I will remain with Garen and your father. I would add little to yours and Hurlish’s evaluation of steam technology, and I would like to assure myself that the proper security measures have been taken for your father’s office."
"Huh. Okay. I’ll see you in an hour or so, I guess?"
Evie patted her pocket, where she kept her communication crystal. "Or whenever is convenient. I will not be far."
Sara was a little bit surprised to see Evie voluntarily heading somewhere Sara wasn’t, but she shrugged it off quickly enough. She was clearly still obsessed with making a good impression on her dad, and her overprotectiveness (which was seeming more reasonable with every passing day) had already begun to include him.
Sara meandered down the halls with Hurlish, easily finding her way to the room she knew to be used for Garen’s many failed attempts at creating various steam engines. They walked hand-in-hand, making little jokes about her dad’s reaction to Garen, until suddenly Sara stopped, cocking an ear forward.
"You hear that?" She asked.
"Yeah," Hurlish said.
Muted, but still distinct, was the sound of rhythmic clanks and quiet hisses. Sara shared a glance with Hurlish, then hurried forward.
The door to the testing room, for once, was wide open. That shouldn’t have been the case; Garen always kept it sealed shut, for safety. Sara peaked around the corner, nerves rattling in the back of her mind.
He didn’t really do it…?
Four people were in the room, two sitting in chairs, two sitting before the central piece of machinery. Sitting in the middle of a blank, stone-walled room, was a contraption taller than Hurlish. It was twice the size of any previous version Garen had shown her, and for once, it was in one piece. Sara recognized the two students that were sitting cross-legged at the mouth of the machine, talking quietly with one another. The vanara girl, Chona, was unmistakable, with her monkey-like fur and tail, while Tinvel, the human boy at her side, was familiar to Sara mostly through Hurlish’s stories of the young artificer. In the far corner of the room, sitting at a table covered with papers, inkwells, and quills, was Vesta and Oddry. Vesta was hunched in concentration, scribbling numbers out on a paper, while Oddry was waiting patiently beside her, a stack of fresh papers and quills ready to go.
But what really caught Sara’s attention was the room’s most prominent feature.
They really did it, she thought. She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved, elated, or terrified.
The shuddering, trembling contraptions Sara had been familiar with were no more. In their place stood an obelisk of whirling iron, trimmed to sleek efficiency. At its base, carefully monitored by Chona, sat a glowing ruby the size of two fists. The gemstone was carved into an irregular shape, runes etched into its precious few flat surfaces, save, presumably, for the space which was set into the iron of the machinery above. A thick cylinder formed the basis of the boiler tank, kept watertight by the inset ruby, which was hot enough to create shimmering mirages in the air around it. The boiler widened as it ascended, until a simple valve connected it to the second tank above, which was gasping out little puffs of steam at regular, almost musical intervals. A simple chain connected it to a rocking beam, itself connected to a series of pipes which terminated in a small pool of water nearby. As Sara watched, the water was sucked up into the tubes, rumbled through the iron pipes, and was spat out a short distance away, refilling the pool.
In the modern world, it would have been a crude, crude tool. Here in Tulian? Sara was bearing witness to a miracle.
"Ah, Sara," Vesta greeted, looking up from her papers. "Excellent timing. Are you feeling recovered from your ordeals?"
"For the most part," Sara mumbled distractedly, circling to one side of the steam engine. "What’re you doing here?"
"I am evaluating the cost of this device," Vesta replied, gesturing to the papers across the desk she sat at. "While I am told it is a revolutionary success in technical terms, it will only have the desired effect upon Tulian if it proves possible to deploy en masse."
"And?" Tinvel spoke up, glaring Vesta’s way. Judging by the amount of papers Vesta was juggling, the finance minister had been there for quite a while, and the young artificer was well past impatient. "What’s the verdict? Can we actually afford to make more of them?"
"Young sir, I would ask that you moderate your tone. In the future, if you want a more prompt evaluation of your devices, I would recommend you do a better job tracking your expenses. Had you done so, I could have been done hours ago."
"Okay," Chona said, warming her hands by the crystal, "We might do that. Now can you please tell us if we just wasted months of our lives?"
"Children," Vesta sniffed derisively. She collected a stack of papers and tapped them on the table, looking over her conclusions. "In short? Yes. Barely. If the device increases mine productivity by the percentage you claim it will, the cost of material should be recouped within eight months." Vesta looked down her nose at the two magelings, hiding a smirk. "Congratulations, children. You have changed the world."
Chona laughed in delight, while Tinvel simply hung his head, blowing out a long, relieved sigh. Hurlish walked up to the two of them, giving them both a firm slap on the back.
"Way to go, kiddos," the massive orc said, crouching down between them. "Knew you could do it."
"I didn’t," Tinvel breathed.
"I did," Chona countered. "At least, I knew my crystal would work. Kinda surprised the rest of it didn’t fall apart, though."
"Oh, shut up," Tinvel snapped, shoving her shoulder. "Just be glad we actually finished a project for once."
Sara left them to their celebratory bickering, instead moving over to Vesta’s desk. The steam engine continued to click and whirr and hiss behind her, and the sound of it set her hair on end for all sorts of reasons.
"So," Sara said, hopping up to sit on the edge of the desk, "Does all that math compare the cost of using crystals vs coal?"
"Only in rudimentary fashion," Vesta hummed, flipping through the pages. She found whatever she was looking for, giving it a cursory once-over. "The economics of coal mining are poorly explored at present, as there has never been a need for mass exploitation of the resource. I suspect that coal would be a considerably cheaper initial power source, but unlike an enchanted apparatus, coal must be continually supplied, while a crystal will only need intermittent rest. Independence from resupply and its associated logistics are a powerful motivator for alternative power sources, regardless of preliminary economics. Particularly if, as you intend, the majority of these ‘steam engines’ are emplaced on mobile constructions."
"Huh."
Sara felt like she should have said more. Hell, she felt like she should give a speech. This was a big moment in history. Not just the invention of the steam engine, but the very minute that it was planned for mass production. Hell, this was probably the invention of mass production in general. Sara certainly wasn't going to have each and every steam engine that was soon to be distributed across Tulian be a bespoke, custom job. The artificers probably wouldn't like that, but fuck 'em.
Sara turned her eye towards Hurlish, who was standing between Chona and Tinvel, listening to them chatter about the metallurgy of their project. She bent forward, resting a hand on her belly, inspecting the metal's seams for leaking steam.
My kid's gonna grow up in a world I've never seen, Sara realized. God knows how long this place has been the same. Thousands of years, probably. And now it's never going back.
Sara didn't know what Tulian's industrial revolution would look like. It certainly wasn't going to be anything like Earth's equivalent. Sure, some basic trends might be the same; the quest for energy, speed, and material strength, all that would likely hold over. What people wanted from technology wouldn't change. But how much power that technology could deliver, and how? Even she couldn't say. Once these engines were distributed across Tulian, it was out of her hands. She knew from her dad's endless lectures that the early years of steam power were a free-for-all. With labor unshackled from physical effort, making improvements required little more than a clever idea and a napkin for taking notes. Yes, the Tulian populace was uneducated, but that didn't mean they were stupid. Compared to centuries of stagnation, what was coming next would be obscene.
And with someone that has an actual education...
"Did you know my dad's in the building?" Sara asked suddenly.
Vesta glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. "No. I had heard that you asked for his presence as a boon from your Goddess, in addition to your alterations of the collars, but that was all."
"Yeah. You should meet him, Vesta."
"I would of course be delighted, but I was under the impression his interests and mine did not align. More specifically, I believe you said he would consider me a 'proto-capitalist member of the bourgeoisie,' and that he would firmly oppose me having any role in governance."
"That's still true," Sara admitted, "but you should still meet him. He's... well, you're not an economics major. He can get along with you. And with what he knows..." Sara couldn't tear her gaze off the steam engine long enough to look Vesta in the eye. She shook her head instead. "You're gonna want to chat with him. There's not a lot that's going to be left of the old economy, soon enough."
Vesta chuckled. "That doesn't concern me. Tulian hardly had an economy to begin with."
"I'm not talking about Tulian's economy."
The gentle scratch of quill against paper stilled, leaving only the chorus of steam and murmuring artificers.
"A statement rich with implications," Vesta purred. "Oddry, do we have time to stay a few extra hours at the University?"
The former maid flipped open a notebook, frowning slightly. "Technically, no. However, our other engagements strike me as less pressing, dear. I recommend we stay."
"Yeah. Everyone, everywhere, is about to get a whole lot richer. Wealth has always been tied to physical resources, and with the mines jumping in productivity soon, there's gonna be-"
Sara felt a tug at her wrist, then heard a metallic clank as something hit the stone floor. The sound seemed to ring through the air with a force disproportionate to its simple nature. It felt like there should have been a thunderclap, a booming echo, not just a quiet little click.
Glacially, in shock, Sara turned her head down. She almost didn't want to look.
Sitting on the floor, broken in half, was a metal wristband. The runes that had once glowed so subtly along its surface were emitting a slight haze of smoke, first dimming to a flicker, then disappearing.
Sara almost didn't recognize it. It felt impossible. The control band. The band that controlled Evie's collar, and by extension, her. The thin piece of metal that had filled her throat with acid from the moment it had first graced her skin. The monumental sin that had turned her dreams to nightmares, her love to something poisoned.
It had just...
Fallen off.
"Sara," Hurlish said, staring at the band. The orc was shaking. Trembling, even.
They didn't say anything else. They just took off for the door, sprinting down the hallways.
Evie met them halfway down the hallway, alone. Sara's attention immediately snagged on her neck, which had a streak of pale skin wrapped around it, the collar conspicuously absent.
"Hello, dears," Evie greeted. "Done so soon?"
Sara reached out, hand shaking, and let a single finger touch Evie's neck. Evie let her, smiling gently.
"A-are you sure?" Sara asked, throat sticking.
"I think it's a bit late for that," Evie noted. "Are you really so surprised? This is what you wanted, is it not?"
"Yeah," Hurlish said, face contorting in a confused frown. "It's what she wanted. But was it what you wanted?"
Evie shrugged, her nonchalance precisely calibrated. "I don't see why not. Even if I had insisted that neither of you remove the collar, contrary to your desires, would that not ruin the allure of total submission? The simple fact I wore the collar would, ironically, signify that you would never truly violate my consent. Either way, the result is unchanged. I am free."
"But..." Sara felt tears form at the corners of her eyes. She shook her head, and for the first time she'd arrived in this world, she didn't trust herself to speak. "Okay," she said instead. She swallowed hard. "Okay. Alright. Thank you, Evie."
"You owe me no thanks, Sara. It was my own choice." She sighed theatrically, checking the hallway for others. "Perhaps the only thing I might miss would be the particularly complex possibilities the device offered in the bedroom."
Still choked up, but never one to miss an opportunity, Sara flicked her eyes to Hurlish. Something passed between them, impossibly quick, and then their attention was back on Evie.
"So," Hurlish said. "Guess old pops is gonna be busy going nuts over magic shit for a while."
"Probably," Sara agreed.
"Think we can pop home for a bit then?"
"Hopefully," Sara said.
Evie crossed her arms, frowning at her wives. Then she scoffed.
"As if I would have given you two a choice otherwise."
Chapter 107: The Point of Submission (E)
Chapter Text
Evie got home first. Sara and Hurlish were distracted by a neighbor asking about the street's planned renovations, a questions which Sara felt compelled to answer, seeing as she was in charge of the entire city. Hurlish joined her for a minute, enjoying a friendly chat with the neighbor, asking after her family, who had apparently been suffering from a minor flu. Only Evie didn't bother to join the little conversation, which wasn't surprising. The former noblewoman had never been one for idle chatter, never mind the fact that she was wearing a sweltering dress as wide as she was tall. She murmured an excuse to Sara and continued on inside, leaving them to chat for a few minutes longer.
When they did finally get in, Sara found Evie sprawled across their lonesome sofa. Her elegant dress was piled inelegantly on the floor before her, recently freed limbs thrown every which way. Her tail ran up behind her back to droop over her left shoulder, tip swinging lazily, and her ears were fluffed up and relaxed, unconsciously swiveling towards the sounds of their home, rather than alertly darting towards any exterior disturbance. She'd taken off most of the layers that were required by the elaborate hooped gown, save for the very last: a set of thin underpants hanging from her hips and the corset hugging her chest, the valiant garment doing its level best to create cleavage from her modest bust. It didn't succeed, but Sara couldn't care less. It was tailor-made, and did exceptional things to her figure. Sara's eyes were drawn up along the feline's toned abs, which were just barely kept exposed by the lacy perimeter that tickled at her ribcage, sucking Sara's gaze further and further, until it reached her breasts, which rose and fell with every breath.
More intoxicatingly than anything else, however, was the air that Evie exuded. A vibrantly pale ring around her neck, where a thick iron band had spent the last year, went entirely unacknowledged by her beautiful wife. So too did the feline seem to ignore her state of undress. She'd tossed the clothing off when they got home not, for once, because of her insatiable urges, but because she'd simply wanted to get comfortable. Maybe the only way it could have been better was if she'd been wearing one of Sara or Hurlish's shirts, which would have fit like a robe on the tiny woman. Her state of undress was casual. Domestic. A natural behavior for any woman who'd just gotten home.
And it sparked a possessive desire in Sara's gut like almost nothing she'd ever felt.
"Mm?" Evie asked as Sara approached, cracking open an eye.
Sara snagged a handful of her hair, dragging her to her feet. Evie gasped, shocked, but flowed through the motion with an ease brought on by months of practice.
Sara pressed her lips to Evie's own hard enough to hurt, digging her tongue between. The feline opened her mouth with obedient gasp, wrapping her arms around Sara's shoulders as she melted into the embrace.
As soon as it started, however, Sara dropped Evie. The feline fell back onto the couch, just like Sara knew she would. Evie never bothered to support her own weight when someone was holding her by the hair; that would make it hurt less.
Sara dropped onto Evie's lap, straddling her hips, reaching for the hem of her own shirt and dragging it over her head. Evie gaze immediately fell from Sara's face to her chest, licking her lips. Before she could bring her mouth forward, however, Sara's palm slammed into her throat, shoving her back against the cushions. Hurlish sauntered around behind the couch to weave her fingers through Evie's braided hair, holding her in place. The feline's corset moved with her breath as Sara released her throat, exposing the pale expanse where her collar had once been. Evie shivered, pupils dilating, eyelids fluttering, and Sara drank it all in. She leveraged every ounce of her Blessings, everything she knew of Evie, and leaned in, lips ghosting against the fur of Evie's ears.
"Do you still think you need the collar to be ours?" She whispered. She ran a hand ran down Evie's cheek, across her collarbone, between the swell of her breasts, trailing a line along her arm that ended at the ring on her left hand. Sara gently twisted it back and forth, smiling devilishly. "Do you still think it's what gave you to me?"
Evie's entire body was wracked by a shudder, trying to squirm against both of her wive's implacable grips. It was useless, of course. She would have had better luck trying to shatter iron.
"I... we've lived two lives, Sara," Evie whispered. "But they were both with a collar on my neck. The second was different, but... but I was always yours. You always owned me."
"You're right," Sara murmured. She stopped twisting the ring, instead interlacing her fingers with Evie's, holding her hand down. "I always have. Why do you think anything's changed?"
As if on queue, Hurlish jerked Evie's head up, forcing the feline to stare up into the massive woman's eyes. The massive woman crooked forward, staring into the feline's wide eyes.
"Did I ever put a collar on you?" Hurlish asked. "Did you ever follow my orders because some magic made you?" The fist in Evie's hair tightened, pulling a whine from her throat. "Or did you do it because you're mine? Because you wanted it?"
"I- I was owned," Evie panted. "It's what taught me how to be desired. How to need. How to be needed."
Sara chuckled darkly. "Really?" She dragged Evie's left hand up, adding the feline's other wrist to her grip, so she couldn't move her arms. "Do you really think that?" Sara brought Evie's wrists over her head, placing them in the massive grip of Hurlish's other hand. The position forced Evie's chest upward, bearing herself to them both. "I've got a deal for you then, Evie."
Sara bent forward and nipped at Evie's chin, running a tongue along her throat. The feline sighed deeply, trying to lift her head to expose more of her body for Sara's mouth. After a few moments of exploring, she pulled away, licking her lips.
"You think the collar made you what you are now. Who you are to me. I don't think so." Sara flicked a quick glance to Hurlish, silently communicating what she wanted. The orc reacted immediately, shoving Evie's hands down further, until they were pressed against her shoulder blades, straining her muscles.
"Here's the bet, Evie. I want you to try, really, honestly try, to enjoy yourself right now. I want you to worry about yourself. I want you to try and be selfish. I want you to fuck us like everyone else does. I want you to chase your pleasure, not ours. I want you to try, as hard as you can, to do what you want. Not what we want."
"No presenting yourself for us," Hurlish added. "No fucking yourself on her cock. No burying your face in my pussy like you'd drown without it. You're gonna get treated, Kitty. And if you can take it like that? Then maybe you were right."
"But you won't," Sara murmured, pressing her nose into the base of Evie's ear, making her whimper. "You're a lot of things, Evie Brown. A diplomat. A brilliant woman. A duelist. Our wife. But you know what else you are?"
Sara's hand trailed down Evie's stomach, fingertips grazing across her skin as they dipped beneath her underwear, hovering over a dripping warmth.
"A whore."
Sara's fingers dug in, sliding into the slick heat with ease. Evie's panting turned to a keening whine, her spine contorting as she twisted uselessly on the couch. Sara pressed in deeper, shoving two fingers to the knuckle as she curled her fingers upward, stroking at Evie's deepest reaches.
"I- I- can-"
Her words choked off as Sara pulled her fingers out, only to ram them in again, the sounds of Evie's obscene wetness bouncing off the walls.
"You what?" Sara asked, beginning a slow stroke. "Come on, babe. You can say it."
"I'm- I c-c-can hold back," she stuttered, eyes squeezed shut. "I-it's a c-challenge. I a-am more than t-this."
Sara laughed, continuing her torturously slow pace, enjoying the way Evie clenched around her fingers on every pump. "Have you even been listening to us?"
"You're a whore," Hurlish growled. "A slut. Our tiny little toy that we broke a long, long time ago."
"I-it w-was th-the collar," Evie insisted, her pitch jumping with every thrust of Sara's fingers. "I-I wouldn't have... I w-was a noblewoman..."
"You threw yourself at me the very first night you had that collar on." Sara began to move her fingers faster, one hand moving to slip under Evie's corset. "You wanted to fuck Hurlish a minute after we met her."
"You ate Vesta out for an hour on the first day you met her," Hurlish rumbled, twisting Evie's head down, to force her to look at Sara's fingers as they took her apart. "You shoved Ketch's head down on your Master's cock like it was your god-given duty. You made a bet you knew you'd win, all so you could get your legs spread at a party full of strangers. And you think you're not a whore?"
Evie tried to say something, some other vacuous argument, but Sara cut it off by lowering her mouth to her chest, lifting away the corset so she could take a nipple between her teeth. The feline yelped, then moaned, relaxing back into the couch for the first time.
"I-f your idea of a challenge is to show me a good time, I t-think I will manage," she sighed.
Sara only chuckled, adding a buzzing hum to her lips that had Evie moaning again.
Sara kept pumping her fingers into Evie, even as she felt her cock began to stir, pressing against the front of her pants. She tilted her hips forward, grinding it against Evie's body, and the feline groaned, acknowledging the warmth of Sara's cock like the return of an old friend. She raised herself up into it, trying to add to the pressure, but that only made Sara pull her hips away.
"Remember," Sara murmured, "you're supposed to be taking it, not giving. I thought you said you could hold off, hm?"
Evie tried to respond, but Hurlish released her hair just as she opened her mouth, shoving two fingers into the feline's mouth. Evie sputtered in shock for only the slightest moment, then her tongue fell out of her mouth while she began to suckle at the digit. Sara watched with perverse delight; she'd sucked plenty of cocks that were smaller than Hurlish's fingers, and even struggled with some of them, yet Evie swallowed her easily, eyes fluttering in a submissive haze. Hurlish only rumbled out her laughter, looking down on the feline lapping at her hand.
Sara picked up the pace just as she added a third finger to her thrusting, earning a muffled groan from Evie's occupied throat. She kept moaning, sucking on Hurlish's fingers, and the sight of her so occupied by the task made Sara laugh.
"Just focusing on yourself, huh?" She asked sarcastically.
Evie's eyes fluttered open, then widened in shock. She pulled her head back, leaving Hurlish's fingers dripping spittle onto her bare collarbone.
"That was just- oh- that was just... polite," she breathed. Sara dug her hand in harder, forcing Evie to throw her head back with a groan, mastering herself a few seconds later. "And besides, you know I enjoy- ah!- breathplay. Choking. T-that was s-still for me."
"Whatever you say, Kitty," Hurlish rumbled, stroking Evie's cheek from above. It smeared spit across her face, and as Hurlish's fingers traced near her lips, Evie opened her mouth reflexively, holding her tongue out.
Hurlish laughed, pulling her hand away.
Evie almost managed to not look disappointed. Unfortunately for her, her ears folded in like a sad kitten, a sight that only fanned the flames of Sara's growing arousal.
Sara bent back to her breasts, taking one pale nipple between her teeth and tugging, forcing another pitiful whine from the feline. She didn't let up with her thrusting, either, luxuriating in the full-body shivers her every motion pulled from the woman. She moved her thumb up to grind against Evie's clit with every pump, prompting the feline to buck her hips in time with Sara's movements, blindly seeking out more friction.
And then, just as Evie's moans began to ratchet up in pitch with every thrust, Sara pulled away, fingers dripping slick onto the floor.
Evie's eyes snapped open, angry, taking a moment to find their focus.
"W-what? Why?" She asked. "You're supposed to be doing this for... for..."
"For you? Is it hard to even say?" Sara stood, licking her fingers clean. Evie shuddered at the sight. "You're wrong, anyway. We're proving a point."
"Then prove it quicker," Evie whined petulantly.
In response, Sara dragged her off the couch, dropping her to the floor. Evie quickly sat up, trying to reach for Sara's pants, but was stopped by the sound of footsteps. Hurlish walked around to the front of the couch, hand on her belly, a sight which Evie actually tracked more ravenously than she had Sara's breasts. Sara didn't think she personally had a specific kink for pregnant women, beyond putting them in such a state herself. Sure, she loved how Hurlish looked, but that had always been true, and always would be. But judging by the way Evie's tail slapped the ground and her tongue ran along the tips of her canines? The sight of Hurlish swollen with child did something different to the feline than it did Sara.
Hurlish sat down on the couch with a comfortable sigh, then tossed her shirt over her head with one hand, snapping the cloth which bound her breasts with the other. She shimmied her pants down her hips, but left her underwear intact, simple boxers. Evie's head fell towards the orc's spread thighs as if gravity had been turned on its side, taking a deep breath through her nose.
Only for Hurlish to seize her by the shoulders and haul her up, lying down as she manhandled their wife through the air. Evie was dropped unceremoniously onto Hurlish's face, forcing a shocked squeal from the feline as Hurlish's tongue lapped at her sopping core.
Both of Evie's hands immediately fell to Hurlish's short black hair, balling into fists. Her entire body went tense as the orc began to lap in earnest, tense muscles jumping with every pass of her tongue.
Sara walked around to the edge of the sofa, dropping her pants as she went. Evie's ears tracked her, but she didn't open her eyes, too lost in the writhing of Hurlish's tongue beneath her.
It was a beautiful, wonderful sight. Evie's knees were trembling something fierce, her knuckles going white as she held onto Hurlish's head for dear life. The orc didn't let her move an inch, massive paws wrapped around her legs, shoving her down onto Hurlish's face so tightly that flesh where she gripped was drained of color. Evie's once-neat braid was falling apart into loosely tangled threads, and the makeup she'd so carefully applied was ruined by a mixture of Hurlish's petting and her own drool. Her torso twisted from left to right, sometimes hunching forward as Hurlish's tongue speared deep into her core, other times arching backward as she lost herself to the delirium brought on by humming lips on her clit.
It was too much to resist. Sara finished dropping her underwear, letting her cock bounce out into the open air, and began to stroke herself. Bathing in the sight of her wives before her, Sara let out a little sigh of pleasure.
Evie's ears slammed forward, nostrils flaring. Sara saw her eyes bounce beneath her eyelids as she fought, desperately, to keep them closed.
She failed.
Evie's eyes first flickered open a touch, then practically flew open, locked on Sara's cock. Her chest rattled with a long, high-pitched mewl, her tail thrashing hard while her ears flattened themselves to near invisibility.
Sara didn't need a collar's bond to know what was going through her wife's head. She barely needed to see at all, in fact. The sudden heaviness to Evie's panting was enough, and if she'd brought her hand to her face, the abrupt salivation that not even Hurlish's fingers could explain would only serve to seal the deal. Still trapped by Hurlish's immovable hands, Evie leaned as far forward as she could, breathing hard, eyes drifting in a daze.
It was Sara's cock as she loved it the most. Ten inches long, thicker than her wrist, veiny and throbbing, jumping with every pump of Sara's heart. It was large enough to hurt in all the right ways, with its head red and swollen, ready to pump her full of her reward.
Sara stepped up to her side. Evie craned her neck around, opening her mouth wide, breath fogging the air.
Only for Sara to step just a tad further to the side, pressing herself into the lines of Evie's body, one hand moving to pinch at a breast, the other stroking her cock, which she slid up to run along the skin of Evie's ribcage. Sara captured Evie's mouth in a kiss, and for the first time, she had to really capture it: Evie tried to pull away and bend down, mewling desperately. Her hands rose from Hurlish's head, trying to help Sara stroke herself, but one of the orc's hands snapped up dragging her limbs back down.
Even as Evie whined into her mouth, Sara didn't relent. She kept stroking herself, letting Evie feel the heat of her cock against her, feel every tug of her fist as she pleasured herself, but never letting her join in herself. She kept picking and plucking at Evie's breasts, teasing her tongue with her own, using every trick she'd learned from endless hours spent with Evie in her bed. Down below them, Hurlish only increased her pace, throwing her neck into the motions, working her tongue in ways that would have demolished any normal woman in seconds.
The feline shivered. Twisted. Opened her eyes, then closed them again. Sara could feel her struggling against herself, could sense in the tightening of her musculature how much she fought her impulses. How much she tried, tried so very, very hard to ignore Sara's pleasure. To focus on her own body.
"Oh?" Sara hummed, breaking contact just long enough to murmur. "Lady Eliah?" She ran her thumb along Evie's throat, tracing the empty space. "Are you there?"
Evie whined. She moaned. She shook her head, then shook it again, harder, fighting against her desires. She tried to drive her hips harder into Hurlish's face to ground herself, and even managed to stop pulling her hands towards Sara's cock for the briefest moment, only for Sara to start pumping herself harder, groaning into Evie's ears.
Sara felt it when Evie broke.
When she gave in.
It was a reaction that ran through her entire body, wholly unlike the shudders or shivers that had wracked her body for the past few minutes. Instead of any tensing of the muscles or quiver, Evie was overcome by a sudden slackness. A pliability entered her body that hadn't been there before, her every joint loosening as she sighed.
And then, in a single, violent flash, she tensed.
Hurlish tried to reach up and stop her, but Evie was too fast. She threw her one free leg out, hard, and twisted her wrists together, slipping them through the orc's hands. She used that momentum to throw Sara to the ground, forcing her onto her ass, and she fell off of Hurlish's face shortly thereafter, landing on all fours.
"Gods," she moaned, crawling forward, "Oh, gods. Master. Master, I need it. I need it. I want it so bad, so, so bad." Evie's lips stopped just before Sara's cock, tail curling to run over Hurlish's body, towards the crook of her legs, her subconscious trying to serve them both. "I'm sorry for being bad, Master," she said, pausing to pepper a kiss on the top of Sara's cock. "I'm so sorry. I'll be good. I'll be good. I just want to taste it."
Sara looked deep into Evie's wide eyes, breathing hard as the woman salivated over her cock. Lady Eliah was gone. The woman that thought she wanted be anything else was gone.
There was just Evie. And in that moment, Evie wanted nothing, absolutely nothing more than to have Sara take her.
Except, perhaps, one thing.
"And what about me?" Hurlish asked. Sara tore her gaze away from Evie just as the feline pivoted, crawling to the orc, who had sat up on the couch. Her legs were together, her boxers still on, but that didn't stop Evie. She rubbed her cheek against one of Hurlish's muscular thighs, tongue lolling out as she dragged her face into the orc's lap.
She didn't even say anything. It seemed like she'd lost the ability to form words. She just kept licking at Hurlish's body, waiting for permission. For orders. Her ass swung back and forth, slick dripping down her thighs. Sara swallowed hard at the sight, cock throbbing. Evie's tail flicked erratically, sometimes bobbing side-to-side, other times falling limply to the floor, as if all her focus was spent on the task of pleading with Hurlish, like her subconscious was too drowned in desire to muster even the effort of controlling the ever-troublesome limb.
Finally, agonizingly, Hurlish let a grin split her lips. She opened her thighs slowly, weaving her fingers through Evie's ruined hair once more, and dragged her in.
"Good Kitty," Hurlish rumbled.
Evie moaned, throwing herself into the very center of the orc's thighs, lapping at her pussy through her clothes. Her hands began to tug at the orc's boxers, but they were unsteady, as if drunken, and it was only when Hurlish helped her pull them down that she was finally exposed to the open air.
Sara watched this with blood roaring in her ears. Evie began to lick feverishly at Hurlish's exposed cunt, and the orc threw her head back, sighing in relief. Her wife rested one hand on their pet's head, the other on her belly, and let her eyes close.
What filled Sara in that moment was almost indescribable. Lust, a veritable roaring bonfire of it, was first in her mind, leaving her cock throbbing so hard it physically hurt. But there was also an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, of... of pride, almost. Pride in Evie, in Hurlish, in herself, even, for bringing Evie to this point. Her wives all but radiated pleasure and joy in equal measures, locked as they were in one another's embrace. It sent her heart soaring, her smile wide enough to look downright absurd, and that wasn't even considering a dozen of other swirling emotions she couldn't put a name to, not without making them seem like so much less than they truly were.
But her body– oh, her body knew what it needed.
Sara moved forward, cock in one hand, grabbing Evie's hips with the other. The feline mewled into her wife's pussy, licking harder in anticipation of what she knew was to come, but the thought of stopping never even entered her mind.
With her heart thundering in her chest, Sara lined the head of her cock up with Evie's entrance, pressing forward just enough to split her lips. It was massive. Evie was barely a few inches over five foot tall. Not only did it look like her cock shouldn't fit, it looked like the only thing it could do was hurt her.
Evie, ever eager to please, threw her hips back, shoving the head into her pussy.
Sara gasped as searing heat enveloped her. It was blinding, almost, and she struggled against the urge to bury herself to the hilt then and there. Evie's body had never felt anything less than perfect, but in that moment? With her entire self laid bare before Sara, losing herself in a submission more divine than any collar's?
Sara lost her fight. With a mindless groan, she threw her hips forward, slamming Evie into the couch, her face into Hurlish's pussy. The feline convulsed, muffling her scream of delight by burying her tongue ever deeper in Hurlish, and she didn't stop convulsing. Sara's cock was squeezed by her orgasm, Evie's slick smearing across her pelvis as she desperately threw her ass against Sara's hips.
Sara drew herself back, the cold air feeling almost hateful against her cock, and then threw herself forward again, burying herself in heaven. The heat of it, the sheer, unbelievable fucking tightness– Sara couldn't even pretend to hide her moans. It felt like she'd come home for the first time in her life, taken her shoes off and loosened her belt, escaping all the troublesome little irritations she'd never even known existed until they were gone. She never wanted to leave this, never wanted it to stop.
And then she began to pump her hips, in and out, and she lost herself even further.
Evie continued to quiver around her cock, muffling all kinds of noises by slavishly attending to Hurlish, who simply rolled her neck and sighed, one hand massaging her breasts, the other guiding Evie wherever she wanted her.
If Sara thought the heat and tightness were heavenly, adding friction to it all was something unfathomable. She slapped her hips into Evie's ass again and again, stuttering out her husky moans every time she felt herself bottom out in Evie, stretching her out. The feline kept shuddering, and Sara didn't know if she was just shivering from the sheer pleasure of it all, or if she'd started cumming and hadn't yet stopped.
And the best part was, Sara didn't need to know. She didn't need to care, even. Because right now, in this moment, nothing would have infuriated Evie more than Sara taking concern for the feline's pleasure. She had abandoned herself to the moment, uncaring of her own body, of her own desires, simply opening herself to be a toy for her wives, and in that strange way that so few were lucky to truly experience themselves, that abandonment of her own pleasure served only to bring it higher and higher, until tears of joy were building at the corners of her eyes, a yearning, primal need for sensation replacing her every thought.
Sara fucked Evie. There was no other word for it. She grunted and whined and claimed her as her own, bouncing her entire body. She left bruises in the shape of her hands on Evie's hips, and when she felt the woman's pussy stop tightening around her, she slapped her ass hard enough that the crack hurt her ears. Red spread across her skin as the strike drew another wild orgasm out of her, and Sara resumed her thrusting.
Ahead of her, Hurlish's relaxed attitude was slowly chipped away at. The muscles of her neck began to jump, her head bowing as she blew hot breath through her nose. Evie threw everything she had at Hurlish, tasting everything she could reach, bringing her hands around to rub at her clit whenever she dove into her pussy, fingering her when she licked and sucked at her clit.
Soon, far sooner than Sara had ever seen it, Hurlish's orgasm began to rise. With a deep, rumbling growl, the orc brought both hands down on Evie's head, knuckles digging in just behind her ears, drawing out a moan that was almost a scream from the feline, who nonetheless opened her mouth obediently, presenting her tongue for her wife's use. Hurlish grabbed her head and threw her hips up into it, grinding along her face, smearing her arousal across Evie's lips, nose, cheeks, everything, thrusting against her with everything she had as her legs clamped down around her face. Evie took it with a delight that Sara physically felt, as another, even more extreme orgasm rolled through her body, sending her pussy slamming down on Sara's cock like a vice.
And then, with a final, long sigh, Hurlish dropped back onto the couch, spent. When Evie kept feverishly licking, she physically threw the woman away, discarding her like trash. It was clear from the mindless moan when she hit the floor that Evie had wanted nothing less.
Adjusting her hips to the new angle, Sara threw herself back into thrusting. Without Hurlish's pussy to bury her face in, Sara could hear every whine and every little sigh that her cock forced out of Evie. The simple joy of knowing exactly what she was doing to her toy served to do nothing more than drive her cock in harder, deeper, searching for new sounds she could pull from the woman.
Evie started on all fours, obediently meeting every thrust by throwing her own hips backward, but that tactic soon failed her. Her arms began to tremble as Sara kept thrusting, losing their strength with every slap of Sara's cock against the deepest parts of her cunt, until she was forced to support her weight with her elbows, face down, panting mindlessly.
Then Sara grabbed her tail and pulled, and the last of her strength left her with a screaming cry. Sara felt the strongest orgasm yet roar through Evie's body, and she still didn't stop thrusting, not even as Evie began to claw at the floorboards with every thrust, one cheek pressed to the wood, empty eyes staring at nothing.
Sara bent low over her, curving her body until her breasts were pressed into Evie's back, yanking at the base of her tail harder than she ever had before, like she was jerking it off. Another orgasm tore through Evie, and this one didn't seem to end, traveling up from her tail to the tips of her ears and back down again, delectable shivers that Sara could feel every time she buried her cock to the base in Evie's trembling cunt.
Suddenly, impossibly, Sara heard something. A little whine, a breathless whisper that wasn't even a proper word.
Sara leaned closer, as far down as she could while still throwing her hips into Evie's ass.
"What was that?"
"...cum," Evie groaned. Her dull eyes flicked up to Sara's, the only lucidity left in them born from a single, burning desire.
"Tell me what you want, Evie."
"Cuminme," she whispered hoarsely, her voice long since lost. "Cum in me. Claim me, fuck me, make me yours." Evie's words quickly morphed into a pleading mantra. "Fill me up, knock me up, put your child in me, make me your wife, make me do everything for you, make me take you, make me your slave, your lover, use me, abuse me, break me, make me yours, make me yours, make me yours!"
"As if," Sara whispered, "You've ever been anything else."
Evie's eyes rolled up in her head, and Sara slammed forward one last time, desperately seizing Evie's hips as she buried herself. She felt her cock throb once, twice, and then her hips shook, and it was all over.
Light burst behind her eyes as Sara's body was doused in liquid fire, racing along her veins, pouring everything she had into the body below her. She felt her cock began to jump as she came, pouring thick white strings into Evie's body, and the sheer weight of it seemed to burn her from the inside out. She knew, distantly, that she was crying out, that her entire body was shaking as her eyes slammed shut, but she'd only think of it later, when her mind and soul weren't enveloped by the slick, all-consuming heat of her wife's body. Evie cried out with her, thanking her, praising her, worshipping her, and each word drove Sara's high further and further. It felt like it would never end, that she never wanted it to end, even as Evie's words fell to empty-minded mumbles, even as Sara's muscles began to burn with tension.
And then, suddenly, she fell forward, joining Evie on the floor, resting atop her. Her chest was heaving, and Evie was still muttering senseless things, and somewhere nearby, Hurlish had only just stopped shaking from her own orgasm.
Minutes passed in silence, their panting breaths intermingling in the stuffy room. And then, the first to speak, came Evie's voice.
"...more," she rasped.
Sara blinked several times. Then she laughed, patting Evie's head.
"More? Girl, you can't even walk. You can't take any more."
Groaning hoarsely, Evie shoved Sara to the side, crawling out from under her. Sara barely had the energy to lift her head, so ready to pass out in exhausted bliss, but she did.
She and Hurlish watched Evie drag herself towards her dress, which lay loosely on the ground where they'd left it next to the couch. It had... fluids on it now. A lot of them. But that didn't stop Evie from rustling within, pulling something out.
The collar. Evie's collar. And the control band, apparently retrieved from where Sara had dropped it.
"I can't take any more," Evie whispered, raising the collar to her throat. It was broken down the middle, but there was a latch, crudely made and crudely attached, that bridged the gap. With a sigh, Evie let it settle onto her neck, and then she rolled the control band across the floor, where it stopped not at Sara's feet, but Hurlish's. She stared up at the orc, kneeling in supplication.
"So make me take it anyway."
Hurlish eyed the control band like a dead rat, then flicked her gaze up at Evie.
"This temporary?"
"You couldn't even order me to keep the collar on if I didn't want it. Garen made sure of that. He wouldn't leave something like this in the world otherwise."
Hurlish licked her lips. Considered. Sara watched, entranced, so wrung out she was barely able to form a coherent thought more complex than god they're fucking hot.
With a grunt, Hurlish bent over and grabbed the control band, snapping it onto her wrist. Unlike before, there was no magical flash, no magical and inseparable weld.
"Alright. Eat me out like you mean it, Kitty."
Sara watched Evie shudder, the collar humming at her throat, and then she watched her stand, energy she shouldn't have dragging her across the room to kneel at Hurlish's feet.
The orc let out a satisfied sigh, leaning back as Evie began to lick her way up her thighs.
"Oh, this is nice," she said, shimmying deeper into the couch. She cracked open an eye, looking at Sara. "What do you think, hon? Want to keep it around?"
"Evie," Sara croaked out, instead of answering Hurlish. The feline's ears flicked her way, but she didn't stop tasting Hurlish. "Does... would that collar work on me?"
Unsteadily, visibly fighting the command she'd received, Evie lifted her head, smiling kindly at Sara.
"Would you like to find out?"
Notes:
Okay, so, a briefer after-chapter note than this likely deserves, because I spent all day writing and really need to get to sleep:
In short, is APPTV ending? No! There's a book three planned.
Is book three starting next week? Also no!
Why? Because I'm going to be doing a large-scale editing project on the entirety of the story to prepare it for posting on other websites, with the goal of hopefully opening a successful patreon and the like!
What will you get in the meantime? Shorter, fluffier chapters, lighter-stakes stories that take place over the time gap between book 2 and 3. I've tried to keep updates on APPTV to 8k words, so expect about 4k words or less for these chapters over the next few weeks. Still, they'll likely be much more focused than the average update, whether that focus be turned towards world building, relationships, or smut.
I'll see you next week, when I hopefully haven't procrastinated as hard! (Unlikely)
Chapter 108: Interlogue 1 (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“So… It’s been a few hours. Think it’ll be alright if I head home?”
“No,” Garen replied matter-of-factly.
David sighed. It wasn’t as if he weren’t used to Sara running off with her girlfriends, but… well. He thought that a year missing from their lives would have changed things. That there would’ve been a better way to spend their first full day reunited than half a city apart.
David sighed again, and Garen glanced his way. “Is something troubling you, Professor?”
David waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “No, no. I know what’s up. She’s been through a lot, and besides, she probably wants to enjoy her honeymoon.”
“Honey moon?”
“Uh, Earth tradition. When you get married, you spend a week or so relaxing with your new spouse, often on vacation or something. A chance for some alone-time, that sort of thing.”
Garen smiled. “New spouse, David? Surely you heard your daughter tell you that she has been married for months.”
David didn’t dignify that with anything more than a derisive snort. His daughter may not have been a dyed-in-the-wool romantic, but he’d certainly raised her better than to get cheap rings that barely fit her wives. That had been a rush job if he’d ever seen one.
Seeking distraction from the mournful pang in his chest at having missed such a critical milestone in his daughter’s life, David returned his attention back to his new workspace.
It was certainly the nicest single office he’d ever been afforded. Thirty by twenty feet from wall to wall, with high, sweeping ceilings and windows that provided an excellent view of the city, it seemed better suited for some sort of executive rather than a geomorphologist. That there was so much furniture the space felt cozy was even more remarkable, even if much of it wasn’t likely to be of use any time soon. The bookshelves lining the walls were almost entirely empty, including the unfamiliar, diamond-shaped slots which were intended to hold scrolls, and his gargantuan desk was free of anything more than a few blank sheets of parchment. In fact, parchment was itself sparse, a shortage David had just recently learned was his daughter’s fault. Her army (and how odd it was to refer to his daughter having an army!) had requisitioned every last scrap of paper-like substance in order to make powder charges for their muskets. While David understood the necessity of the decision, he still wished she’d found a way around it. Teaching students without paper, or even chalk and a whiteboard, was going to be difficult.
For now, though, David focused his efforts on what he could control. And his office, at least, was one element of his newly emerging life which he could consider himself a considerable expert on. He set himself to the task of turning the lordly, intimidating headmaster’s office (because Garen had in fact given him the former head of the University’s quarters, preferring to work from his laboratories) into a far more modern, welcoming abode. He discarded the lordly high-backed chair which had been set behind his desk in exchange for a humbler, common chair, and intended to find several plusher examples for the students to sit while they discussed whatever difficulty they were having in class. To his eye, it seemed like the headmaster of Old Tulian had selected near everything with an eye for intimidation, the room arranged like the wet dream of some Mad Men style power play. The effect wasn’t improved by the fact that the only furniture left in the building was that which had been too heavy to loot and too sturdy to break down, inadvertently selecting for downright militant accommodations.
Thankfully for David’s sixty-three-year-old self, Garen, likely the single most powerful human being he had ever met, was currently using that otherworldly, unfathomable power to help him with interior design.
“Do you truly expect students to so often visit your office?” Garen asked as he hovered the monstrous desk across the room like something from The Adams Family. “It seems odd to organize your personal workspace with a mind to accommodating others.”
“I hope they will,” David said, huffing as he did his best to drag a small side table into place. “Students that take time out of their day to ask questions are always the most successful. And since I’ll probably be teaching things they’ve never even heard of, they’ll probably need a lot of tutoring.”
“You wish to take specific apprentices, then?”
“Huh? Oh, no. I’ll make a sign-up sheet for tutoring hours or something. That way anyone who’s struggling with a topic can ask me questions without feeling like they’re holding up the rest of the class.”
The desk set itself down, and together he and Garen stepped back, observing the new placement.
“I must admit, David, that your educational methodology is strikingly unusual. You speak of lecture halls and class sizes in the hundreds, yet in the same breath acknowledge the value of dedicating your efforts to a few of your brightest pupils. It seems contradictory.”
“I mean… I guess?” David ran a hand through what was left of his hair, then wiped the resulting sweat on his shorts. “Everyone knows that tutoring a kid one-on-one is the best way to teach them, but you can’t do that for everyone, can you? I mean, Wayne State had something like 25,000 students.”
“I think our student-to-faculty ratio was sixteen to one,” he continued, oblivious to the bulging of Garen’s eyes, “which wasn’t too bad, but plenty of classes had more students than that. The upper level courses skewed the averages, I think.” David shook his head, bringing himself back to the topic at hand. “Anyway. Yes, tutoring kids, or ‘apprenticing’ them, if you’d like, is obviously better. But I’d much rather make sure a thousand kids can get a decent education than give a dozen students an excellent one. So, a compromise. Everyone attends the lectures, and then the ones that’re actually passionate, or really need my help, will show themselves. I can’t think of a better way to do it, though I’d be lying through my teeth if I said it’s a perfect system.”
“Twenty… five… thousand?” Garen sounded the words out slowly. “Did you misspeak?”
David laughed. “Nope. Sara hasn’t given you population numbers from Earth yet?”
“She has, but… only in the abstract, I suppose. To hear such a specific number is astounding. You taught at a school which served more students than there are citizens in a great number of continental cities.”
“Yeah, population growth after the Industrial Revolution was exponential. You’ll probably be seeing the start of it in your lifetime, actually. Once food production is mechanized and infant mortality rates are slashed, the population’ll probably start growing by a factor of… I think thirty percent, every ten years? No, I think that might be too high. I do know that the global population doubled in a hundred years, from the early 1800s to the 1900s, then doubled again in fifty years, then doubled again fifty years after that, hitting eight billion in 2022. Those are rough numbers, though. Don’t take it as gospel.”
Garen turned away from the desk, raising both eyebrows at David.
“Forgive me if I am mistaken, but it does not seem that knowledge belongs to the realm of a geomorphologist. I was under the impression that in your world, the age of the general scholar had passed, giving way to the realm of specialists.”
David shrugged. “Yeah, for the most part. That’s just basic information, not hard to learn about. And learning stuff is way easier in my world than it is in yours. Has Sara told you anything about the internet?”
“Precious little, beyond the social calamities it has apparently wrought.”
“Figures. I always tried to work the pessimist out of her, but I never quite got there.” David paused, mulling over how best to explain the concept. “I guess the best way to explain it is… well, you have magic here. That makes it easier. Think of the internet like a massive, enchanted library. It’s got every book and scroll that’s ever been written, and when you speak whatever you want to read about, the appropriate book flies off the shelf and lands in your hands, opening itself to just the page you need.”
Garen looked at David for a prolonged moment, as if he was waiting for some caveat, an explanation for why such a thing was only a metaphor. When it became clear one wasn’t forthcoming, he could only shake his head.
“I cannot fathom such a thing. The expense to your University must have been immense.”
“University?” David laughed. “This was public, Garen. Everyone had access to it, all the time.”
Garen waited once more, anticipating a joke. Then he blew out a breath.
“If you used this resource as eagerly as I anticipate a Professor might, I cannot imagine all that you know. After seeing what your daughter has brought to this world, I almost fear to fathom what one such as yourself is capable of..”
David offered Garen a conciliatory smile. “You don’t think she called me here just because she missed her dad, did you?”
“I… well, quite frankly, yes.” Garen’s waving hands deposited a bookshelf to one side, pressing it against the wall. “She spoke highly of you, and not infrequently. Her longing was evident.”
“That’s flattering to hear,” David said with a shrug, “but unlike the rest of you, I’ve known her since she was a child. Do you really think she’s the sort to get that sentimental? To waste a favor from a god on me?”
Garen stepped back from his rearranging of the furniture, the glow of spells fading from his hands.
“Yes, I did.”
“What about Amarat, then?” David asked. “I haven’t had much time to learn things yet, but what I have learned has had an awful lot to do with Champions. One only shows up in the history books every few centuries, right? One person from Earth, only once every few hundred years? That means it’s a big commitment. Not a small piece of magic, or godliness, or whatever they do their weird crap with. And even if she didn’t make me an official Champion, Amarat still spent some of that effort on me. And if what Evie said was right, that previous Champions never introduced new technology, something’s clearly changed. I don’t know if it was Sara that changed it, or godly politics, or something else entirely, but I’m not dumb. She didn’t bring me here to cook dinner and kiss her boo-boos better. That’s just not who she is.” David moved to one of the thick chairs and sat down, his eyes tracking something far away. “I love that kid, Garen, but between you and me? She’s got issues.”
“Quite a number of them,” the archmage chuckled, moving to sit in the chair opposite.
David flicked his wrist like he was shooing a fly, still not looking at Garen. “I’m not talking about real-world problems. I’m talking about anger issues, Garen. Like, real bad.”
The archmage’s brows steepled. “I will continue to be directly honest, David. While I have noticed the ease with which one might fan the flames of her fury, I considered it a matter of course. A predictable product of the alterations inherent to one chosen by a Goddess of Emotion.”
David barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Alterations? She’s always been like this, Garen. She got in her first real fight, and I mean a real fight, when she was six years old. The teacher said pulling her off the other girl was like trying to rip a chunk of meat out of a dog’s mouth. And thank god that teacher had been there, because I don’t know how much worse things would have gotten. Sara sure as hell wasn’t going to stop herself. And she never got all that much better about it, either. I mean, smarter, sure. She stopped starting the fights. She always made sure the other person swung first. But that was just to make sure it was considered self-defense. And she got real, real good at goading someone into taking that swing.”
“A concerning behavior for a child,” Garen conceded, visibly unsure of where David was leading this conversation, “but not so uncommon as to be a sign of illness. Even if it were, one would assume Amarat has healed her of the malady. Such is her domain among mortals. Regardless, Sara has tempered her reactions, David. At least on occasion. I have seen it myself.”
“Yeah. And I’m proud of her for that, too. Not easy to get a hold of yourself like that. Takes some real self-awareness, which I’m glad she’s managed to find. But…” David turned his hands up. “Why am I here?”
“To be her father, I can only assume,” Garen replied. Even as he said it, however, he looked hesitant. It was clear that he was beginning to read between the lines.
“Maybe. Probably a big part of it, actually. But you know what I am?”
“A Geomorphologist, by your own definition.”
“Yeah. And that’s what I’m best at. Got the degree to prove it.” David sighed, slumping in his chair until his chin rested on his chest. “But I’m also a military historian. An amateaur one, but still. I like engineering, math, and history. And there’s no better place to see those kinds of things interact than in war. I know a whole, whole lot about war, Garen.”
“Yet you have been summoned in a time of peace,” Garen pointed out.
David raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Peace. A new, radical nation rises on the border of a superpower, and then embarrasses that superpower in a laughably lopsided war that they never should have won. One that’s witnessed by dozens of other nations, many of which had a vested interest in one outcome or another. The new nation is severely weakened, while the superpower has only spent a tiny fraction of its total power. Maybe history here has been different, but I doubt it’s been that different. Is this a recipe for peace, in your opinion?”
Garen’s only response was the pressing of his lips into a thin line.
“Yeah.” David made an effort to straighten himself, rolling his shoulders. “I’m gonna teach a bunch of stuff to people, Garen. But I… don’t think it’s likely that I’m going to have a very peaceful career, going forward.”
Garen seemed to consider this for a long moment. Looking David up and down, a frown on his face.
Then he waved a hand, opening some space in the air, and pulled out a tall wooden mug. He set it on the low table between them.
“Do you drink, David?”
He smirked. “I do. Beer?”
“A simple stock,” Garen confirmed. He pulled a second mug out, resting it on the arm of his own chair, and settled in.
David took a sip of his mug. His eyebrows rose, surprised. It was chill to the touch, a thin rim of frost ringing its perimeter. A cold beer was one of the first things he’d have assumed he’d lost access to in this new world.
Magic’s even better than I thought, he decided, tipping the mug back.
True to Garen’s words, the beer was unremarkable. Simple, like any number of drinks he’d had before. It was still beer though, which was good enough for him. The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking their beers, thinking their thoughts.
Eventually, though, David made to get up. “Okay, they’ve got to be done by now, right?” He asked.
“Absolutely not,” Garen snorted.
“It’s been four hours.”
“It’s only been four hours.”
David opened his mouth to say something. Hesitated. Smacked his lips. Then returned to his chair, muttering into his mug.
“Damn.”
“Mm.”
--------------------------------
Sara
--------------------------------
Sara was flat on her back, her head throbbing. Every thump of her heart sent a roar of blood through her skull, the rush of it audible in her ears any time she turned to lay her head against the pillow. It felt like she should have had a headache. An awful one, almost a migraine. But she didn’t.
Hurlish wouldn’t let her.
The orc dragged her hips forward with a low groan, biting her lip as she did so. Sara’s hips arched to follow the motion, instinct trying to shove herself deeper into the orc’s intoxicating heat.
She wished she had the strength to resist her body’s urges. All she was doing was torturing herself; it wasn’t as if she’d be able to cum.
The collar around Sara’s throat thrummed with power, her wife’s orders digging deep into her body.
Don’t cum until I say you can.
Hurlish had given her that order an hour ago– practically the minute her dad had finally left to move into his new home– and she’d never rescinded it. Not when Sara was shoved to the hilt in her pussy, Evie lapping at their wife’s clit with a religious fervor. Not when Hurlish came apart above her, her inner walls clenching so tightly around her cock Sara thought she’d die. And certainly not when Hurlish had finally climbed on top of her hips and begun a slow, endless grind, one that would have set Sara off a dozen times over if it weren’t for that damn collar.
No, no matter what Sara did, she couldn’t cum. She could only sit at the absolute precipice of pleasure, bathing in an intoxicating, addicting heat that suffused her every muscle, yet somehow wasn’t quite enough for her. She was left wanting more, just that little bit more, and she was never allowed to drag herself over that final ledge to the blissful oblivion beyond.
Hurlish, meanwhile, was having no such problems. She was free with her moans, both hands massaging her breasts as she alternated between bouncing and grinding on Sara’s cock. The only time she bothered to open her eyes was to order Evie to attend to a new part of her body, be it rubbing at her clit or using her canine fangs to tease at her neck, leaving little pinpricks of blood in the center of deep, dark hickies. The feline was clinging to the massive orc like a second skin, so soaked with arousal that her slick coated both her wife's bodies wherever she went. She hadn’t cum either, but to Sara’s great irritation, she barely seemed bothered by it. If anything, the lack of attention she was receiving only served to drive the feline deeper into her pleasure.
Fucking turbo-bottom, Sara thought, unable to voice the thought through her groans. She’d always enjoyed being a switch, able to pick and choose how best to please her partners, but at times like this, there seemed to be a hidden downside. Unlike Evie, she couldn’t quite give herself over to Hurlish’s pleasure. She still had that little spark of selfish desire, the urge to roll them both over and take her, rather than giving it.
And Hurlish knew it. As soon as the thought came to Sara, she found her head lifting, her hands moving to grab Hurlish’s waist, ready to roll her over and fuck her into submission, to make the woman let her cum.
Only to find herself slammed back down, a single massive hand driving her into the mattress. Hurlish didn’t even open her eyes to pin Sara in place, nor did she stop her grinding.
The first few times that had happened, Sara had obediently laid back, letting the orc take the lead. But she’d been at the edge of orgasm for an hour. Sara’s patience was worn thin.
She surged back upward, muscles bulging. She brought both hands to Hurlish’s forearm, shoving to the left at the same time she bucked her hips, trying to shove the orc to one side. Sara had fought Knights and mercenaries, professional soldiers and commoners alike, and so far, she’d come out on top every time. Her Levels had granted her strength that would have shattered Olympic records, that let her lift weights that should have turned her bones to dust. She was strong . It had been months since she’d had the slightest concern that someone might overpower her.
Sara grunted with effort, trying to kick Hurlish off her. Her fingers did their best to wrap around the massive green forearm over her chest, a whine of effort slipping from her lips.
Hurlish kept grinding, eyes closed, breasts bouncing.
She hasn’t even noticed.
Sara fell back to the bed, hands falling to her side. Evie never lifted her lips from Hurlish’s neck, but she did flick her gaze towards Sara, a smirk forming as she nibbled at the green flesh. It seemed to say, See what it’s like?
And Sara did. It sent her cock throbbing even harder in Hurlish’s wet heat.
How long had it been since she’d felt that? To be truly helpless? Months, probably. She was a Champion. She was supposed to be strong, an unstoppable force. To know that Hurlish could just… take her? Do what she wanted, and there was nothing Sara could do about it?
It had her whining, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets as her panting chest sent her tits bouncing. She started to pump her hips, trying to shove just a little bit further into Hurlish. Maybe… maybe Evie was right. If she couldn’t cum, what was the point of trying? She was Hurlish’s toy right now. Just a cock for her to ride on. If that was all she could be, she might as well be good at it.
“Oh. Is now not a good time?”
Evie leapt off Hurlish with a hiss, diving for the side table. She tucked herself into a roll that ended with her on her feet, revolver ready to shoot, rapier held defensively before her while her tail pressed to her back. It was an impressive leap, and would have been quite intimidating, if not for the fact that she still had drool running down her chin and slick arousal coating her thighs.
Sara was slower to react, on account of having a foot of cock buried into her wife, but she still tried to lunge for a weapon.
She didn’t succeed, of course, because Hurlish hadn’t let her go. Even with a rush of adrenaline strengthening her, Sara proved utterly incapable of budging the smith’s casual grip. Somehow, even in the throes of panic, that sent another tingling rush straight to Sara’s cock.
“Woah!” The stranger’s voice called. “Easy, easy, it’s just me.”
Sara strained her neck to see around Hurlish’s hips, (which were still torturing her with little pumps), and found Ketch standing in the doorway to their bedroom, holding her hands up in surrender.
“Ketch,” Evie sighed, a tinge of reproach in her voice. She dismissed her rapier and placed the revolver back on the nightstand. “You should have warned us.” As she spoke, Evie moved back to the bed, returning to her straddling of Sara’s leg, pressing her breasts into Hurlish’s back.
“Warned you?” Ketch asked, leaning in to look around the room. “We were supposed to meet up tonight. I got worried.”
“Nonsense,” Evie said. “We still have plenty of time–” she paused to press a kiss into Hurlish’s neck, unwilling to completely abandon her duty, “–until the meeting.”
“You were supposed to meet me an hour ago.”
Sara blinked, the words slowly soaking into her lust-thickened skull. She reached over to the blinds, still pinned beneath Hurlish, and lifted them for a moment.
It was pitch black outside. The sun had to have set an hour ago, at least.
“Uh, Evie?”
The feline lifted her head, blinking at the sight. “Hm. I would have sworn it had been no more than a half hour since we began.”
“I thought it was an hour,” Sara said.
“‘s been three,” Hurlish replied between groans. “Thought y’all noticed. Didn’t say anything, though. Didn’t want to stop.” She dropped her head forward, sighing contentedly. “Gods, I love this cock.”
Three? Sara’s head swam, a delayed sense of exhaustion rushing through her. I’ve spent three hours in Hurlish? No fuckin’ wonder I’m out of it.
“Uh, sorry, Ketch,” Sara eventually said, forcing the words through gritted teeth in a vain attempt to keep the moan out of her voice. “Kind’ve lost track of time.”
“I can’t imagine why,” the Azarketi hummed, entering the room with her fingers trailing along the doorframe. She moved to sit on the end of the bed, eyes locked on the point where Hurlish and Sara’s hips met. Evie, now reassured that the intruder wasn’t a threat, had already bent back to slathering hickeys across Hurlish’s skin, and didn’t pay their spectator any mind. “Alright if I join?” Ketch asked.
“If it’s alright with–”
Sara’s response was muffled as Hurlish’s hand slid up to cover her mouth. The orc began to move again in earnest, stirring Sara’s cock against her walls, turning whatever she’d been about to say into a muffled moan.
“You’re wearing the collar,” Hurlish said, cupping Sara’s head in her hand. Her palm was big enough to stretch from Sara’s chin to her ear, all while keeping a thumb pressed against her lips. “That means you don’t get a say. Remember? You’re keeping your mouth shut until I say otherwise.”
Sara nodded, doing her best to communicate her obedience through her squirming hips.
“Good girl.”
The orc’s hand lifted away, and Sara almost immediately missed the reassuring warmth against her. She let out a pitiful, needy little whine, but was left ignored as Hurlish turned to address Ketch.
“You can join if you want,” Hurlish told her. “But you don’t get Sara’s cock tonight. That’s just for me.”
Ketch’s eyes had gone wide at the sight of Sara being so obviously subservient underneath the orc, and then wider still as her gaze tracked down to Sara’s neck. The collar sat there, glowing fitfully, its damaged runes never as subtle as they had been before Garen shattered it. Its broken center was bridged by a crude lock, one which had Hurlish had elegantly chiseled a single word across the front just a few hours ago: whore. Sara had been all for it, back when they’d been clasping it possessively around Evie’s throat. Now, with Ketch staring down at her for once, Sara’s face flushed. Her hips gave a little buck as she felt Ketch’s eyes flick across the word. A part of her wanted to explain, to change the topic or ask a question, but…
But Hurlish hadn’t told her she could talk yet. So she didn’t.
“Did you bring her?” Hurlish asked.
“I did,” Ketch said, glancing towards the door. “She’s not inside right now. I climbed in through the window.”
Evie peeled herself off Hurlish for a moment, frowning. “I thought I had those locked.”
“Not well enough.”
If she hadn’t been so world-endingly turned on, Evie probably would have chased that tangent further. Instead she slid around the bed to Hurlish’s front, pressed her lips to a breast, and sent one hand down to massage Hurlish’s belly.
Well, sort-of massage. For most wives, that’s what it would have been. For Evie, it was very clearly a decadent groping.
“Can you let her in?” Ketch asked.
“Sure.” Hurlish turned her head around, hollering loudly. “Come on in!”
It was a testament to Sara’s blazing arousal that it took until that moment for her to realize who, exactly, they’d been talking about.
The vampire slid through their front door, as tall and eery as Sara had imagined. Her face was defined by sharp angles and high, regal cheekbones, the very picture of an imperial woman, and her black hair was piled up in a fashion that Sara remembered well from her time in Tulian. Her pale skin showed only the faintest tinges of color, the remnants of how she might have looked once upon a time, before she’d become what she was now.
And speaking of what she is now…
The noble vampiress was wearing a maid uniform. And not a real maid uniform, not as Sara had learned it was. That had been one of the first things she’d done, back when Amarat had dropped her in this world. She’d beelined for the maids, teenage dreams she’d long suppressed filling her mind with wonderful fantasies. The reality had been far different.
Until now. This wasn’t the practical brown dress protected by a stained apron, with its work boots hidden beneath an ankle-length curtain of thick, unflattering wool. That was what real maids wore, Sara had learned. They were working women.
But this?
This was a fucking maid costume.
The neckline plunged down the vampire’s chest to show off the way her corset emphasized her bust, completed on either side by a neat row of white frills. The bulk of the dress was pitch black, dyed far deeper than any real maid could ever have afforded, and it was tailored to hug tightly at her bust and hips. It even ended a good few inches above her knee, enough to keep her modest when she bent over, but only just, leaving her so, so easy to expose. If Sara hadn’t known what she was, hadn’t gone into the moment knowing she was a vampire, she would have been slobbering over it.
Instead, she just drooled a little bit.
“Where did you get that?!” Sara demanded of Ketch. The indignant cry burst out before she could stop it. “I looked everywhere! No one knew what I was talking about when I asked them for a french maid outfit! No one here even knows what France is! I described it, tried to find it all over the place until I was forced to give up, and then you just show up with a pet vampire wearing a goddamn mmfgh–”
Sara was cut off once more by Hurlish’s massive palm, and this time with considerably more force.
“Looks like you can’t play nice, huh? Guess we’ll have to do it the hard way. For you, anyway.” The orc leaned over Sara, grinning. “You will not speak unless I tell you to.”
The band on Hurlish’s wrist flashed, and with it Sara felt her collar light up. She felt the command take effect immediately, slamming into place against her soul, but she instinctively fought it. How could she not? Something was trying to control her. She didn’t want that.
But then she looked into that smug, tusked grin, and realized just who was controlling her. Hurlish. Her wife.
She sank back, accepting the command, letting it wash over her. The moment she did so, she felt a deep, sluggish heat roll out of her collar, pressing into her throat like flowing magma. A burning sense of seeping, delirious pleasure. A reward for obeying her Mistress.
No fucking wonder Evie didn’t want to give this thing up, Sara’s scrambled brain managed to think, even while her limbs went slack as she basked in the sensation. If she’d fought the command, if she’d never really wanted it in the first place, it would have been awful. Constrictive, oppressive. But the moment she accepted it, submitted to it? When she realized she could really trust the one giving her the reward? The heady pleasure rolled through her like magma, burning away any care for fighting against the order.
“Anyway,” Hurlish said, oblivious to her wife’s ongoing miniature orgasm, “what can she do? I know we were going to meet up to discuss boring shit like Sporaton plans or whatever, but…” Hurlish’s eyes flicked up and down the vampire, drinking her body in without shame. “From the way you made it sound, she’s just as needy as Evie, isn’t she?”
The centuries-old vampire nodded happily, almost childishly, hands clasped before her waist as she bounced on the balls of her feet.
“Oh, I am!” She insisted. “I’ll do anything you want so long as Owner tells me to. I’ll lick and suck and get slapped and beg or sit or really just anything at all, I promise!”
Ketch rolled her eyes at the display, but nodded.
“She’s not lying. Noctie is…”
“A good girl?” The vampire eagerly supplied.
“A good pet,” Ketch corrected. Sara watched the shudder roll through Noctie at the word, noting it for later. One of the reasons she’d wanted to meet the vampiress was to confirm that everything was as Ketch’s reports had claimed. She trusted Ketch as a person, but she’d never go so far as saying the Witch-familiar had a firm grasp of the ethics of sexual consent. The girl’s boundaries in the bedroom were harder to find than her tits in a parka, and that was saying something, both because she didn’t have much going on up top and Sara had really put her through the ringer before she’d gone to Sporatos.
Sara was going to try and think of other things, the things she’d planned to investigate at a proper meeting with Ketch and her new toy, but they fled her mind like lightning as Hurlish suddenly raised her hips, slipping off of Sara’s cock for the first time in literal hours. The sudden absence of her beautiful, wonderful heat had Sara whimpering in protest, but she didn’t say a word. She couldn’t, after all.
Hurlish, for her part, freely let out a litany of curses as she slid Sara out of her sopping heat, eyelids fluttering in delight at the friction. When the massive foot-long cock she’d demanded Sara conjure up finally fell free, it slapped against Sara’s own stomach, landing just beneath her own tits. The orc dropped back down, panting, her pussy spread around the base of the shaft. Hurlish took a moment to compose herself, then turned to grin at the other women in the room, whose gazes were locked onto Sara’s cock in rapturous hunger.
“So. How do you think we should do this?”
Notes:
Hey look at that! Smut! And there'll even be more next week!
I haven't finished my survey I'm making for this book yet, because I'm a picky bitch about how I want to word questions and which to include, but in the meantime, I do have this one-question anonymous form you can fill out to suggest smut scenes! Whatever ideas you've wanted to see in the story, be it more of what you like or something new, feel free to suggest it in the form or the comments below. I can't guarantee I'll do all of them, but I do enjoy fulfilling reader suggestions. The form is totally anonymous, of course, so there's no need to hide what you actually want.
https://forms.gle/ejKyQcZeEKjSrVc56
Chapter 109: Interlogue 2 (E)
Notes:
CW: Unrealistic proportions/volume of cum, heavy degradation/petplay. As usual, all consensual.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Before Hurlish actually got an answer, she had to grab a fistful of Evie's hair, stopping the feline from taking Sara's cock down her throat.
"Chill for a minute, Kitty."
"But it tastes like both of you," Evie panted, still pulling towards Sara's cock. "Can't you make the decision for me?" She shoved herself harder forward still, until the skin of her face was pulled laughably taut, forcing her eyes to peel open. Her tongue quivered as she stuck it as far out as possible, tip barely an inch away from the arousal-slicked base of Sara's cock.
"No."
Hurlish jerked backward, sending Evie flying. She was thrown to the edge of the bed, then off it, landing on the floor with a cry that began as a yelp and ended as a long, drawn-out moan. Never one to be deterred, the feline began crawling forward, braided hair unraveling to drag along the floorboards.
When Sara found the will to look away from the divine sight of Evie on all fours, she focused on Ketch and her pet vampire.
Ketch was predictable. She was biting her lip, all her focus drawn in on the slick slit that Evie was thoughtlessly presenting her. Sara didn't know if it was Evie's body or Hurlish's treatment of it that was getting the girl off more, but whichever it was, its effectiveness was clear in the press of her nipples through her thin shirt and the tight clench of her thighs.
The vampire, on the other hand, made a better show of hiding her arousal. Sara could already tell the woman she'd once been, before Ketch's "intervention," had been an expert in hiding her emotions. She'd had to, after all, hiding amongst nobility as a vampire. Not that her skill mattered in the slightest to Sara. She could read her like a book.
The vampire was hungry. Hungry in a way Sara didn't think she'd seen any thinking mind be hungry before. She was drowning in the same hunger that gnawed at the minds of buzzards and maggots, the agents of rot. It didn't matter how full she was, or what she was eating, or how much she had waiting on her plate. Behind her eyes lay a drive to take. To consume, to bite and sup and drink all she could, and it was a compulsion that had never once left her. Were that all she had, there would be nothing left but a slathering beast, some animal capable of nothing more than a noxious parody of humanity.
Yet lying beside that overwhelming hunger was something distinctly human.
Desire.
A desire borne of a simple, unfettered appreciation of a beautiful body laid bare. And while all emotions were joined in some way or another, when the vampire's tongue flicked out to wet her lips, Sara saw that oh-so-human desire entangling itself with inhuman starvation. It was a complex, sinuous weave, unlike anything Sara had ever seen before. The bottomless pit of her vampiric curse was smoothed over by desire, lust, and a small tinge of want, this last emotion just teetering over the edge into... jealousy. Jealousy of a woman forced to kneel, thrown aside like trash. Sara could see the way the vampire craved to be brought low, to have her hunger fed by someone she considered greater than her.
Damn, Sara thought, I can't NOT fuck her.
Unfortunately, she didn't have much choice in the matter. She was still stuck under Hurlish, and worse, she couldn't even communicate her desires. She tried to talk, but the words died in her throat, turning into a quiet hiss and breathy moan.
"I'll get to you in a second," Hurlish said, peeling herself off Sara's hips. She was hardly graceful in the motion, huffing as she went, but it was impressive for a pregnant woman. Sara went to follow her, but the bed creaked enough to clue her in.
"Lay down and stay there."
Once again, Sara instinctively fought the order, for all the good it did her. Her muscles first locked up, then began to drag her back, her own body betraying her to place herself in the bed.
This time, though, it was easier to give in. With a deep exhale, Sara stopped fighting the collar, letting her muscles relax.
The reward was as immediate as it was intoxicating. That same liquid delight poured into her throat, pumped through her body with every thud of her heart. She felt the rush tingle its way up through her neck and into her head, dizzying her with every pulsating throb, and she felt it course its way up and down her limbs, raising goosebumps across her skin. She let out an involuntary groan as she squirmed in place, bucking her hips against the emptiness that she needed to be filled, but never too much, never too high. That wouldn't be lying down.
Hurlish stood when she reached the end of the bed, looking like she was going to walk over to Ketch and Noctie, but was stopped by Evie's enwrapping of her leg. The feline hugged Hurlish's leg with a rumbling purr, tongue reaching out to lap at the salty sweat that coated her skin.
Without a word, Hurlish reached down and grabbed the back of Evie's head, fingers digging in just where the lowest bit of her hair met her scalp. She jerked Evie off her leg, but rather than throwing her away again, she kept hold. Hurlish walked across the room with Evie held at just the wrong height, not high enough to walk on her knees, not low enough to use her hands. She could only kick her feet fitfully as she groaned in pained gratification, still trying to reach out for Hurlish's leg.
The massive orc came to a stop in front of Ketch. At an inch over seven feet tall, Hurlish had well over two feet on the tiny blue Azarketi. The orc looked down on Ketch, who instinctively backpedaled until her back thumped against the wall. Noctie instinctively moved closer, protectively, until she glanced down at Ketch.
The girl was breathing hard, her eyes wide as she stared up at Hurlish. Sara could practically smell the arousal wafting off her, and if she could, she knew a damn vampire could, too. Sure enough, after one final glance at Ketch, Noctie stepped back, allowing Hurlish to continue.
Hurlish and Ketch had fucked before, Sara knew. Not as often as most other members of their little polycule had, what with how much of a slut Ketch was for Sara's Gift of Lust, but still. Ketch knew what Hurlish liked, and Hurlish knew what Ketch liked. Sara felt her lower stomach throb at what she could only assume was going to come next, her mouth watering just at the thought of it. Sara's mind burned with fantasies. She waited for Hurlish to slam Ketch against the wall, forcing her to her knees, or for Hurlish to grab her by the throat and lift her until their lips could crash together, Ketch wriggling like a stuck bug. If Sara could have sat up to watch, she would have.
But then Hurlish grinned, and spoke.
"So, little blue. Heard you got a new pet."
The words hit Sara like a fist to the gut. Not because they hurt, but because she realized exactly what was going to happen. And that she'd only get to watch.
"I-I-I-" Ketch stuttered.
"One like mine, right?" Hurlish lifted Evie up, until her feet were dangling off the floor. Hurlish twisted her wrist so the feline was facing Ketch, whose eyes locked on not to her breasts, or her face, but the fingers tangled in her hair. "A good little pet can be fun, right?"
"N-Noctie i-is, y-yes," Ketch breathed. "V-very fun." Her hands kept creeping down her sides, towards the crook of her legs, before she realized what they were doing and jerked them back up, folding them just under her washboard breasts.
Hurlish tsked. "Now, see, that's one point off already. Who calls their pet by their name?"
Hurlish dropped Evie without warning. If her reflexes hadn't been so deadened by mind-numbing arousal, she easily would have caught herself. Instead she slammed onto her knees with a gasp, falling forward. When she tried to right herself, Hurlish shifted her foot onto the back of her hand, pinning it to the floor.
"This is what you're going to have to learn, Ketch. How to keep them on their knees for you. This bitch right here?" Hurlish nodded to Noctie. "Is she a person, or a pet?"
"Person."
"Pet."
Ketch, who had spoken first, jerked her head around to stare at Noctie in shock. The vampire pointedly didn't look at Ketch, choosing to continue staring demurely at the floorboards. The fact that Ketch was surprised, even after jokingly introducing Noctie as her pet, already told Sara everything she needed to know. Hurlish picked up on it just as easily. The massive orc shook her head, disappointed.
"See, that's what I'm talking about. You know what we're going to do tonight?"
"Um?" Ketch squeaked.
Oh, god-fucking-damnit, Sara thought as recognition flashed through her.
"Teach you how to be a good pet owner."
Sara fell back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling in smoldering frustration.
She's going to make Ketch fuck that hot-ass vampire maid right in front of me, isn't she? Sara found herself shivering, spine tingling. And she's not going to let me do a damn thing but watch.
But really? Make Ketch a dom? Sara's eyes swept over the tiny, quivering girl, pressed in by women taller than her on either side.
This is going to take for fucking ever.
If there was ever a time when Sara didn't like her cock, it was in moments like this one. It was a lot easier to pretend she wasn't into something when it wasn't pulsing against her stomach, leaking slippery pre-cum that pooled just under her breasts.
Damn traitor, she thought, forcing herself to settle in and watch the show.
-------------------------
Hurlish
-------------------------
If she had been a betting woman, Hurlish would've bet that Sara probably had a lot of things she wanted to talk to this vampire chick about. Shit about ethics, or consent, or all that other shit she worried so much about. Hurlish couldn't blame her. If she hadn't spent the last few hours with a fat cock stirring her insides to mush, she probably woulda cared about that crap, too.
As it was, Hurlish was just a little bit pissed.
She'd been close. So goddamn close to getting Sara to give in. She'd seen it in her eyes. The way they'd been fluttering just before Ketch had burst in? It'd been beautiful. She'd started pumping her hips again, even when she knew she couldn't cum. That was what Hurlish had spent all afternoon trying to drag out of her.
Hurlish considered herself a pretty considerate woman, at least most of the time. She loved her wives. Loved making things for them, loved cooking for them, even loved carrying their child. Wouldn't trade it for the world.
But once the pants were off, what she wanted out of them changed a bit.
Maybe a lot.
Having one wife that tried to suck the soul out of her clit at every opportunity was about the best thing she'd been able to imagine back before she'd met Sara. But her life had since gotten even better, and she'd begun to dream of something new:
Having two wives who wanted nothing more than to fuck her at every opportunity.
And she'd been so goddamn close. She'd tried to tame Sara's assertiveness for months, turn her into a good little cockslave, and she'd almost done it. Then Ketch had fucked it up.
So now? Ketch was going to get a little fucked up. And not even in the way the tiny azarketi liked.
Hurlish grabbed her chin, tilting the woman's face up to stare into Noctie's eyes. There was an immediate flash of red as the vampire obediently did what she knew Ketch loved, preparing to leave her grinning and drooling. Hurlish put a stop to it by slamming the vampire's head into the wall, hand covering her eyes.
"None of that," Hurlish growled at the vampire. "Not until you prove you're not gonna pull that magic-eye bullshit on any of us."
"A-ah," the vampire breathed, mouth hanging open a little bit. As a six-foot-something woman, she clearly wasn't used to being towered over. The further you went north, the fewer orcs you found. She seemed to enjoy the novelty, judging by the way her tongue flicked over her lips. "I-I understand, Miss. I'll not, unless Owner tells me to."
In reality, Hurlish wasn't the slightest bit concerned about the vampire's hypnotic abilities. If she'd been on her own, sure. She wouldn't doubt for a second that a centuries-old vampire could twist Hurlish into a mess that her old self never would have recognized.
With Sara nearby, though? Priestesses of Amarat were literally the ones in charge of breaking mind-altering spells. It was what they were best at. With the literal Champion of Amarat in her corner? Hurlish was pretty sure that Noctie trying to hypnotize anyone in the room would be like a bird landing in the middle of a cookfire. Sara would tear Noctie apart, piece by piece, and she probably wouldn't have to lay a hand on her to do it. Hurlish didn't have anything to worry about.
Didn't mean she was gonna let Ketch get all blissed out, though. The girl'd fucked up Hurlish's taming session, and that was gonna have consequences.
"Misstress," Hurlish corrected Noctie. "If you want to stay in this room, you're gonna recognize who's in charge."
"But Owner is in charge of me," the vampire reflectively insisted, wringing her hands anxiously, as if disagreement didn't come naturally to her.
"And I'm in charge of her right now. Right, Ketch?"
"U-um," the girl elegantly replied. "Y-yes?"
"Yes ma'am."
Ketch sucked in a sharp breath. "Yes ma'am," she corrected herself.
"Good." Hurlish pulled her palm off Noctie's eyes. The vampire had stopped her hypnosis bullshit, as ordered. She hurriedly dropped her gaze to the floor, shifting her weight from side to side like a chastised schoolgirl. It gave her hips an appealing, lovely sway.
Honestly, Hurlish thought the anxiety was a bit of a show. She didn't have Sara's sense for people, but she'd spent enough time with Evie between her legs to recognize a good slut when she saw one. Noctie wasn't that. She was obedient, sure. That much was obvious. But that obedience wasn't born from sheer desire to get fucked. She was hooked on Ketch's blood. An addict. And after being on the receiving end of Sellie, Noctie knew that there wasn't any way to get it, save for debasing herself at every opportunity.
That didn't mean the ancient vampire didn't like it, though. She'd lived her not-life as a haughty, powerful noblewoman, constantly taking peasants under her thrall as she weaved her way through high society. In Hurlish's experience, there weren't many women that wanted to be bent over a desk more than those who lived a life of power. It was only when she'd had her feet knocked out from under her, forced to look up at someone for the first time, that Noctie realized bending the knee might not be so bad.
Yeah. Ketch needs to put her in her place.
"What does your pet do for you?" Hurlish asked. Ketch swallowed hard, still forced to stare at the vampire by Hurlish's iron grip.
"She cooks for me," Ketch said, after a moment's hesitation. "She brings me my food, and my clothes. She's my maid, basically."
"She's not." Hurlish stroked Ketch's cheek with a thumb, running slow circles. "Maids don't beg to lick your sweat, Ketch. They don't plead to suck your blood, and they certainly don't have every little fold of your pussy memorized."
"Sh-she's different," Ketch stuttered. "She's a... she's..."
"She's your pet. Just like this little whore here is mine." Hurlish twisted the foot that was pinning Evie's hand to the wood, forcing a lovely little whimper through her lips. Ketch's eyes snapped down, almost having forgotten the docile feline was present. "I don't know if you wanted a pet," Hurlish said, "but it doesn't matter. Now you're going to learn how to take care of one."
"O-okay." Ketch drew herself up to her full height of five-foot-nothing, trying to look determined. "What do I do?"
"If Sara could talk, she'd have a lot to say." Hurlish chuckled, looking at her wide-eyed wife, whose twitching cock told a story all of its own. "She's got all kinds of rules. Safe words, consent contracts, stuff like that. It's a pretty good way to do things. Makes sense. Good to ensure you don't hurt someone in a way they don't want. But for your pet?" Hurlish grinned lazily, looking the vampire up and down. "She's a bit different. I don't think we could hurt her if we tried, could we?"
"N-no, Mistress," Noctie murmured, "not unless you used weapons."
"And is there anything you don't want your owner to do?"
"I don't want her to leave me alone," she responded immediately. "To not feed me. I don't want that. I don't want that at all."
"Good. But what do you want? What can she give you?"
"Blood." Noctie inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. For a moment she looked up from the floor, attention darting to Ketch's neck. Then she remembered herself, returning to her submissive posture. "I want Owner's blood. I want it like nothing else, Mistress."
"And what will you do to earn it?"
"Anything." The word fell from Noctie's lips like a promise, a prayer. "Anything she wants." She groaned, swaying on her feet. "Whatever she tells me to do, Mistress. I'll do anything for Owner's blood. Anything."
Hurlish finally let go of Ketch's jaw, allowing the girl to look elsewhere. She didn't. She kept staring at Noctie, a disbelieving expression plastered across her face.
"That's what a pet is, Ketch. Your pet. She gets off on this. On being owned by you." Hurlish lifted her foot off Evie's hand, allowing the feline to scramble forward, once more wrapping herself around Hurlish's thigh, nuzzling her cheek against the muscles. "But she won't stay that way if you don't make her earn it. She'll get entitled. Start to think she deserves it, like she's some kind of equal. But she's not. She's your pet. And you need to make sure she never forgets it." Hurlish stepped back, dragging Evie with her, and crossed her arms. "Now show me how you do it."
Like Hurlish expected, Ketch started off at a loss. She clearly wasn't a stranger to being on top, at least when it came to Noctie, but it was equally obvious that she'd never been the one to initiate it. The vampire had always come to her groveling, pleading, and then all but forced herself underneath the timid azarketi. Giving orders was alien to Ketch.
But she'd received plenty of orders before, and from those, she knew what she liked.
"O-on your knees," Ketch said, speaking just above a whisper. Despite the utter lack of authority in her tone, Noctie dropped like a rock, still staring at the floor.
"Pull your panties down."
It was an awkward maneuver for the vampire, kneeling as she was, but through careful shifting of her weight and a hand shoved up her skirt, she managed to bring her panties down to her knees. They were as black as her maid uniform, and thin, barely enough to cover her. Hurlish could see the slick sheen of dampness at the center.
"Look up at me."
Noctie's head whipped upward, so fast it almost made Hurlish flinch. It was easy to forget that the submissive, kneeling woman on the floor was probably the most powerful woman in the room. She was centuries old. Hurlish doubted even she could overpower Noctie, not if the vampire put her full effort into it.
It didn't matter, though. Not when Ketch stepped forward, pulling off the thin strip of cloth she called a top, exposing her chest. She drew her belt knife next, then dropped her skintight shorts, stepping out of them. She wasn't wearing anything beneath, as always, when she visited Sara.
Noctie watched her approach with a hungry eagerness. She may have seemed as pliant and obedient as Evie, but Hurlish could tell the reason was different. She was hungry. Starving. She watched Ketch's knife like Evie watched Sara's cock, wetting her lips over and over again.
Ketch lifted the knife to her index finger, resting the tip against the skin. She held it over Noctie's head, forcing her to crane her neck painfully far backward, staring up in rapturous anticipation. Her mouth opened, tongue pressed out to rest against her chin.
It was a good start, but unfortunately, Ketch fumbled. She held her pose for a long while, clearly trying to think of what to do next. She was following a script, basically doing to Noctie exactly what Sara did to her, but with cum instead of blood. But unlike Sara, there really wasn't any way for Ketch to throatfuck Noctie.
To Hurlish's incredible surprise, she felt Evie unwind herself from around her leg, standing. The feline walked up behind Ketch, wrapping her arms around the shorter girl's stomach, pressing her breasts against her back, and whispered into her ear.
"Not yet," Evie purred. "She isn't worth it yet, is she? Pets need to know our place. We should work for it. Make us earn it."
Ketch shuddered, a motion that Hurlish found her own body mirroring. Seeing Evie guiding Ketch through the motions, putting words to the desires that burned in her, was delectable.
"H-how?" Ketch asked. "What should I make her do?"
"It doesn't matter," Evie whispered. Her hands rubbed small circles on Ketch's stomach, causing her scales to prickle and rise like goosebumps. "What she wants isn't important." Evie's hand wandered low, lower, tucking between Ketch's thighs for a moment, pressing in. Ketch groaned, going up on the tips of her toes. Evie pulled her hand out a short moment later, holding the slickened fingers to the light. "You want her tongue on you, don't you? That tingling venom you told us so much about, right? So why don't you have her between your legs right now?"
"I-isn't this supposed to b-be about her?" Ketch asked breathlessly, still squirming. "I'm training her. Teaching her."
Evie's grip tightened on Ketch's body, drawing her in closer, claws extending.
"She doesn't matter," the feline hissed. "She's your pet. Your toy. The only purpose in her life is what you allow her to have. Without you, she's nothing. Now treat her like it."
Hurlish's head spun, heat flaring in her core. Evie's tail was lashing hard, her ears bent back. She was angry. Angry that Ketch had the gall to consider what Noctie wanted, that the little azarketi was being anything less than a selfish, demanding brute.
Gods, I got so fucking lucky.
With a final deep breath, Ketch suddenly lunged forward, grabbing Noctie by the back of her head. She threw her hips forward, slamming them into the vampire's face, and huffed out one word.
"Lick."
Noctie's mouth fell open with a muffled whine of delight, running the flat of her tongue along Ketch's slit. Hurlish felt her own pussy throb in sympathy, and she brought a hand down to rub at her clit. Evie stayed glued onto Ketch, looking down on Noctie from over the woman's shoulder, so Hurlish was left to her own devices.
She didn't last long. The sight of Ketch grinding her pussy into the vampire's face, urged on by Evie's demented whispers, was too much.
Hurlish stomped up to the bed snagged one of Sara's legs, dragging her close. Sara rasped in delight, lips forming words that Hurlish didn't bother to interpret.
"Tap me if you need air," she said, just before she snagged the collar and used it to shove Sara's face into her core.
The first stroke of Sara's tongue against her lips sent Hurlish's knees wobbling. She let out a groan, rolling her neck, and tightened her grip around Sara's neck. She watched her wife's cock jump as she felt the pressure around her throat, accompanied by a buzz against her pussy as Sara moaned. The sight of that massive cock, just sitting out in the open air, sticky with Hurlish's own arousal, almost tempted her into mounting it then and there.
But she didn't, because she knew if she did, she'd never be able to pay attention to the others.
Ketch's legs were beginning to give out as the vampire's venom was slathered against her skin with every swipe of her tongue. Evie guided her to the floor, keeping Ketch from falling onto her back, letting the azarketi's head rest against her breasts. Evie began to stroke her chest, circling her dark blue nipples with a finger, only occasionally nipping in for a quick pinch that had Ketch twisting in delight.
And all the while, she kept whispering to Ketch.
"Doesn't it feel so good to have her serve you?" She purred. "Look at her. Look at her, Ketch. She's desperate. Desperate for you."
Ketch shuddered. Noctie had followed her Owner down to the floor, lying on her stomach, ensuring her tongue stayed firmly on Ketch's sopping sex. Her tight little maid skirt had risen up, exposing her pale ass, with her panties still hanging loosely around her knees. The vampire was grinding her hips against the floor, instinctively trying to find an angle to provide some kind of friction against her doubtlessly soaked sex. She never removed her hands from Ketch's hips though, not even for a moment. And she never stopped staring up at her Owner with those puppy eyes, waiting for her next order.
"You could keep her like this forever, you know. She'd never get tired of it." Evie nipped at Ketch's ear, prompting a gasp from the girl. "She still thinks she's something, you know. I can tell. She thinks she's doing this for her. For your blood. She thinks she's not really your pet."
"B-but," Ketch tried to say between gasps, "sh-she keeps d-doing e-everything I-I say-"
"So?" Evie interrupted. "The bitch convinced herself she's tricked you. She thinks that the moment she doesn't need your blood, she'll leave. That you're just a means to an end, a tasty little treat."
Evie reached down, over Ketch's body, and put a tender hand on Noctie's cheek. The smile the feline wore was a deep, predatory grin.
"So break her, Ketch," Evie whispered. "Take who she is, and shatter it. It won't be hard. She's so, so weak. Can you do that, Ketch? Now?" Evie giggled drunkenly, a sound Hurlish couldn't remember ever hearing from the woman. "She's just a monster, Ketch. Another stupid, worthless little bloodsucking noble. Just like I was. I want to see the moment she gives in. The moment she becomes nothing more than your worthless, useless slut. I want to see the light in her eyes die."
Dimly, Hurlish registered the thought that this was something she would have to discuss with Evie after they were done tonight. She didn't spend much time on that thought, though, because seeing her wife dragging two women into utter depravity had her orgasm rushing up on her like a goddamn tsunami.
Hurlish bent over as Sara's tongue shoved deep into her core, pressing as deep as it could reach. Her nose was pressed against her clit, wiggling back and forth, and it sent lightning through her veins. Her eyes snapped wide open as a keening moan fell from her lips, hips jerking, dragging Sara's face across her pussy, and all the while, she watched the three women lying on her bedroom floor.
The whites of Noctie's eyes were peeled open, staring at Evie, petrified to be so thoroughly seen through. That only lasted until Ketch's hips bucked, spurred on by Evie's words, and the vampire found her face being buried in Ketch's cunt. The tiny girl threw her legs around Noctie's neck, shoving her in, and the vampire's sharp inhale did nothing more than fill her nose with the scent of Ketch's body.
Noctie's eyes fluttered, then rolled back into her head. She pressed herself forward, curling her tongue to reach as far into Ketch as she could. Ketch began to writhe, crying out, and the sudden flood of arousal that came with her orgasm affected Noctie like Sara's cum did Evie, drowning whatever thoughts the vampire had left. She began to feverishly lick and suckle, swallowing as much as she could of Ketch's juices, like it was nectar from the gods themselves.
Evie kept up a quiet chant in Ketch's ear, simply the word "Yes," hissed over and over again, anger and profound arousal warring in her tone the entire while. She reached a hand down to rub furiously at Ketch's clit, driving the girl's orgasm higher, and that same motion was mirrored by Sara, who continued to draw out Hurlish's explosive climax. Her vision began to turn gray at the edges, focus wavering, and she lost track of time.
When Hurlish finally came to, it was with Sara still clenched between her thighs, frantically patting at her leg. It took a few seconds for Hurlish to get her muscles unclenched, freeing the ruined face of her wife. Sara gasped for air, then began to cough, drops of Hurlish's slick spraying from her lips. She was covered in it, strands of hair stuck to her face.
"Good girl," Hurlish breathed as she wobbled backward, nearly losing her balance. She grabbed the bed for stability, legs still trembling. "Very good girl," she said again, giving Sara's head a pat.
Her wife, still bound the collar, could only groan her pleasure at receiving the praise.
"See?" Hurlish heard Evie saying. "Isn't that so much better? To know your place?"
Hurlish looked over, finding the feline speaking not to Ketch, who lay on the floor in a daze, but to Noctie, who still had her lips between her Owner's legs. The vampire looked like she wanted to lift herself up to respond, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. Evie continued to purr at her, stroking her hair in a tender, almost loving fashion.
"You know it's true, don't you? It's better to live for someone else. To give everything to her. She's everything you need, isn't she? No decisions. No hunger. Just her body, her orders. You never have to worry about anything again."
Noctie whined into Ketch's pussy, trying to lift her head away. Her tongue had been off the azarketi's lips for a half second before she fell back down, finding herself unwilling to be away from the taste for long enough to speak.
At the momentary lapse in the vampire's attention, Ketch finally managed to come to her senses. She lifted herself up on her elbows, watching the two women speak.
"I know it might be scary," Evie purred, "but it's worth it, I promise you. You're a vampire. A monster. If you leave her, you'll be hunted. Killed. And you'll deserve it. Deep down, I think you know that. But here? Beneath her?" Evie leaned closer, whispering so quietly Hurlish barely caught the words. "You'll be a safe, happy little pet."
Noctie whimpered.
Like a dog.
Ketch sat up further, reaching over to grab the knife she'd dropped. Once more, she put it to the tip of her finger, holding it over Noctie's head. The vampire stared up at it, still licking.
"Is that true, Noctie?" Ketch asked, voice still quavering from her orgasm. "Did you think you were going to run away? To go back to hurting people? Don't lie to me, now."
Hesitantly, reluctantly, the vampire nodded.
"That's not what good girls do, Noctie."
Ketch pressed the knife into the pad of her finger, drawing the slightest bit of blood. Noctie whined.
"You can't even help it, can you?" Ketch breathed. The realization seemed to stir something in her. Her voice strengthened, growing firmer. "You really can't stop yourself. You need it, don't you?"
Noctie watched the drop of blood roll down Ketch's finger. It hit the first crease of her knuckle, pooled for a moment, then rolled down further, towards her palm.
Noctie shook, her entire body trembling, and nodded.
"Open your mouth."
Noctie lifted up off of Ketch's pussy and, to Hurlish's surprise, rolled onto her back. She kept her hands down at her side as she opened her mouth wide, tongue lolling out. She didn't leap up, or try to seize the blood. She laid there, panting hard.
Hurlish wasn't sure what she'd expected. She thought Ketch might let the blood drip into Noctie's mouth, drip-feeding her like a caged animal. That certainly seemed like what Evie was aiming for. The ultimate debasement, forcing the vampire to realize just how far beneath Ketch she really was.
But Ketch seemed to know something she didn't. Whether she caught something in the vampire's eye Hurlish hadn't, or if Sellie whispered it to her, or if it was just pure instinct, she did something different.
She pushed her bloodied finger onto Noctie's tongue, pressing it to the back of her mouth, and whispered a single order.
"Suck."
Noctie's eyes peeled back as the blood hit her tongue. Her back arched as she balled her fists, pounding the floor with a pitiful cry that soon turned into a sob of profound, muffled relief. Her eyes watered as the orgasm roared through her, twisting from side to side, hips grinding against the empty air, fingers and toes curling and clenching in spasmodic delight.
"There we go," Evie whispered, stroking the vampire's cheek. "Don't worry. Give into it. You'll be so much happier."
Noctie choked back another keening sob, nodding hard, even while she kept suckling at Ketch's finger like a newborn babe. The noises that she made were plentiful, high-pitched and drawn out, continuing until there was barely enough air in her lungs to move at all.
The vampire suddenly collapsed back onto the floor, spent. She never released Ketch's finger, still licking and swallowing, but it was taking all of her energy to manage even that.
Her eyes, Hurlish saw, were dull and empty. Lost to arousal, to the taste of Ketch. And it didn't look like they'd ever come back.
"Such a good girl," Ketch murmured, speaking for the first time in what seemed a very long time. Hurlish could see the way the vampire's venom was rushing through her, building a high in her that left her body loose and needy, but the azarketi didn't slump down. With what looked like a great deal of effort, she reached out to pet Noctie's hair, smiling at her. "Such a good, good girl. We'll take care of you, okay? I promise."
Noctie nodded, tears of joy still budding at the corner of her eyes. She blinked several times, slowly, and on the last blink, her eyes didn't open again. Ketch slowly slipped her finger out of the vampire's mouth, leaving a streak of blood across her lips.
The spell was broken by an absolutely heart-wrenching, animalistic whine from behind Hurlish. She turned around to see Sara, still pinned to the bed by her order, consumed by the throes of a very odd mixture of absolute need and profound irritation.
"Honestly, I'm shocked you haven't torn that collar off by now."
The look Sara shot her said she had been very much considering it. Hurlish chuckled, walking over to where Ketch and Noctie lay. She grabbed the vampire by the scruff of her neck, peeling her limp body off the floor. Evie rose to follow, while Ketch watched with mild interest, too lost in her venomous high to even consider standing.
"Noctie?" Hurlish dropped her onto the bed next to Sara, dragging the immobilized woman over. She grabbed Sara's cock, all twelve of its thick inches, and slapped it onto the vampire's face. "You've been a good girl. And I got a treat for you. Open wide."
Noctie's eyes fluttered open. She reached a hand up, feeling at the cock which was pressing into her cheek, the head creating a dimple beneath her high cheekbones. She grabbed it, opening her mouth lazily, following orders as best she could.
Then, at the first bit of stimulation in a very long time, Sara's cock dribbled out just the slightest bit of pre-cum. At the same moment, Noctie happened to inhale through her nose.
Her eyes shot open. She seized Sara's cock hard enough to make the woman throw her hips up, then pressed her lips to take in the taste.
What happened next was very confusing, and involved a lot of different people talking over each other.
"Ah shit, that's not good." Hurlish cursed, reaching out to grab the vampire.
"I think she is seizing," Evie said.
"Noctie? Noctie, are you alright?"
The moment the vampire's tongue had touched Sara's cock, she'd collapsed in on herself, folding her own body like laundry, and begun to shake uncontrollably. Hurlish peeled the vampire's hand off Sara's cock first, because she did not want that work of art getting hurt, then rolled the vampire over on her back. Evie darted to the other side of the room to grab a health potion, which Hurlish wasn't sure would even work on a vampire, and all the while Sara continued to make her little huffing groans, like she was talking through a gag.
As abruptly as it had begun, the vampire's fit stopped. In nearly the same moment, Sara finally deigned to yank the lock off her collar, tossing it to the floor with a gasp.
"She's not seizing," Sara said.
"More!" Noctie cried, throwing herself forward.
Sara scrambled back on the bed, hugging her cock to her stomach in a very comical fashion. Noctie crawled after her, wobbling drunkenly, repeating the word over and over again.
"More, more, more, moooore!"
"Oh, no. No you don't," Sara said, fending the woman off with a foot. "Those fucking fangs aren't getting anywhere near my dick."
"Do you need help, Master?"
"I need to get my goddamn rocks off is what I need," she snapped, beginning to jerk herself off even as she kept kicking away Noctie's drunken lunges for her cock. "Turn around already and I'll fuck you, you goddamn vampire," Sara snapped. "Come on, you can understand that much. You want my dick that bad? Show me your ass."
"Yyeeessssh," Noctie moaned, slamming her head into the mattress. She said other things after that, but Hurlish couldn't hear them through the sound of her shuffling across the sheets, displaying herself for Sara without the slightest hint of shame.
"Fucking keep me waiting for four goddamn hours," Sara breathed, throwing herself forward to take Noctie by the hips, "dangle a hot-ass piece of vampire maid in front of me, don't even jerk me off or anything..." She threw Noctie's skirt up, then shoved her legs apart, bearing the vampire's needy pussy to the open air. "I swear, I'm gonna get all of you back for this, I fucking swear it– fuck!"
Sara's tirade was cut off as she shoved her cock into Noctie's sopping wetness, which visibly clenched around her in a shockingly powerful orgasm. Sara wasted no time in beginning to thrust, nor did she allow the vampire any time to adjust to the absolutely absurd size of her cock. She simply threw herself forward to the hilt in an instant, all but growling out her need.
Not that it mattered. Noctie was frozen in place from the very moment Sara entered her, clenching the sheets so hard she was tearing through the mattress. The only reason she could even keep her ass in the air was in anticipation for her cum, and after four hours of Hurlish edging Sara, the she didn't have long to wait.
Sara thrust once, twice, thrice, and then with a final, guttural groan, a fourth time, dragging Noctie's hips down to slap against her pelvis. Her stomach clenched and her mouth opened in a silent scream as her orgasm consumed her, and the sight of the base of her cock pulsing with every pump stirred a deep, primal jealousy in Hurlish.
Goddammit. I worked so fucking hard for that.
It was too late now, though. Noctie's body went entirely still as Sara's hips gave the tiniest little twitches, fingernails digging trenches in the vampire's ass as she shoved herself deeper, deeper, trying to get as much of herself inside as possible. Her orgasm seemed to go on forever, her cock jumping over and over again, a dozen times or more, and every pump just poured more cum into the vampire. If it wasn't for the innumerable orgasms Hurlish had gotten over the last few hours, she would've been furious. It was literally pouring out onto the sheets. That was everything Hurlish had ever dreamed of.
Guess that's what I get for being greedy.
Finally, after what may have been literal minutes of orgasm, Sara collapsed. She fell backward, cock slipping out into the empty air, followed by a torrent of cum.
Noctie was still frozen in the exact same position, face shoved into the bed. Curious, Hurlish reached over and gave the vampire a shove.
She collapsed onto her side, half her body hanging off the bed, a dumb smile on her face. Her weight shifted, she slowly began to slide off the bed, until she thumped bonelessly to the floor, expression unchanged.
Hurlish leaned over, eyebrows raised.
"She's not breathing. Is that... okay?"
"She doesn't need breath, other than to talk," Ketch explained wearily. She'd sat up from the floor, but her eyes were still lidded.
"You sure? Evie, what do you-" Hurlish stopped. Evie wasn't over by Ketch anymore. The potion she'd grabbed was discarded on the floor. "Evie? Where'd you-"
She was answered by a sudden gasp from Sara. Hurlish turned around, finding exactly what she'd expected.
Evie was laid across the bed at an angle, making sure as much of her body was covered in Sara's sticky white cum as possible, her head bobbing over Sara's cock. The Champion of Amarat was groaning, making a feeble, half-hearted effort to shove her wife off her sensitive member, but it wasn't any use. Evie's eyes were closed in a religious trance, her entire body rolling against the cum-soaked sheets.
"Well. They're probably gonna take a while. Why don't you make sure-"
Hurlish looked back at Ketch, only to catch the woman halfway to the bed, mouth already hanging open. She froze like a deer in the brush, staring at Hurlish.
"I-I know. I'm supposed to be, uh, a dominant right now, right? For Noctie?"
"Are you one?"
"...no."
"Yeah. But you put on a good show. I'll let you suck my wife off."
"Thank you," Ketch breathed, sincere as could be. She joined Evie on the bed, running her tongue up and down the unoccupied side of Sara's cock with a moan.
Hurlish stumbled around the bed, wobbly-legged, and sat down in a chair that let her watch all the women involved. Noctie was still comatose, eyes open and staring at nothing, and before long, Evie and Ketch's hands had started to wander while they sucked Sara's cock, dipping between the other's legs.
"We shoooould... uh..." Sara sighed, resting her hands on the women's heads. "Should probably teach you about... like... aftercare..."
"Noctie's still passed out," Hurlish informed her.
"Ohthankgod," Sara breathed, shoving Ketch down on her cock. The woman choked in shock, throat spasming as tears formed in her eyes, and looked profoundly grateful for it.
Goddamn pregnancy, Hurlish thought as her eyes began to drift closed. Too tired to fuck. Can't wait 'till I can... get knocked up... again...
Unnoticed by the rest of the room's occupants, Hurlish began to snore.
Notes:
Whoops, I accidentally wrote a full 7k words of smut. My bad. Hopefully it's the flavor you like, because there's a lot of it.
Other than that, the only important thing to say is that I'm changing my upload day to Tuesday! That way I can write all through Saturday and Sunday, then edit on Monday after work. Hope that works for everyone, and sorry for the requisite slightly-longer-than-usual update wait for next week!
Chapter 110: Interlogue 3- Graf & Sara Post-Ops
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There were those amongst society, both highborn and low, who held envy in their hearts for the longest-lived of races. The elves and the dwarves were the obvious targets of their jealousy, most predictably, considering the esteem with which nearly all regarded them, but certain persuasions of society’s upper echelons even went so far as to yearn after those with misbegotten afflictions, those twisted by fae blood or insipid curses. The sort who held a deep fear of mortality did not care from where the offer of escape arose. Only that they may reach it, however it may be possible.
In his eighth decade of life, with his clicking knees and aching spine, Graf Urs did not consider himself among their number. His eyesight had begun to blur and swirl as the years passed him by, true. And the air did not quite seem to fill his lungs with the same breath it once did, he could recognize. Even his sword and shield seemed to leverage their weight against his body with a greater determination each morning, no matter how long or how well he had rested through the night. He could not feel the difference between single days, but at his age, it grew so tiresomely easy for days to become weeks and for weeks to become months. Even years had begun to slip by without fanfare. When he looked back at the body he had worn what felt like such a short time ago, it was plain to see it was a less tattered tapestry than the skin which cloaked him now.
Yet he did not fight it. He did not bicker and grumble with what few peers remained to him, growing bitter and jaded as they watched the ageless creatures twice their years flit past with the selfsame grace of youth. He had no interest in their lives, no matter how long. Graf had been a young man indeed when he had first met those that counted the seasons like hours, and he found them detestable.
Spoiled, privileged creatures, whose notions of morality were weathered to tangled threads by the very sands of time which so remarkably flowed around their bodies. Should a man be faced with a problem which might trouble them for a year, they would endeavor with all haste to resolve the issue, whether it should take them a day or six months. Through this struggle, they would learn. Grow. Improve themselves, and thus face the next year with a certain ineffable something they did not possess in the last.
An elf? They would never so much as consider it. To spend a year under a burden was to suffer a fleeting inconvenience; easily forgotten when a brief few decades had seen them by. To labor for six months, however? That was memorable. That would perhaps entail risk, perhaps no small deal of it, and the reward, by comparison, would be precious little. When balancing a danger to oneself against an eternity of life, there were precious few goals worthy of pursuit. Graf could never accept living as such.
Yes, to an elf, he may never be something capable of tempering the world in any meaningful fashion. He could not spend a millenia carving the land, nor spend centuries in contemplation of the forms of the cosmos, nor, even, would he while away decades in pursuit of crafting a blade which cuts the air itself. All he could be, if the circumstances were right, was the flint which sparked a fire. And he was content with that.
When all this tiresome philosophizing was put aside, however, Graf was excruciatingly aware that his knees were in pain. He never did manage to forget the swelling of his joints, and he failed to ignore the throbbing ache in his feet after a mere few hours spent standing. He was also accordingly grateful that his station in life did not require him to march the many weeks back to the capital. He had happily accepted the offer to be transported the hundreds of miles to the King’s Keep in a heartbeat, and had muddled through all the irritating pleasantries that were required of him on any occasion upon which he found himself trapped in the midst of the upper nobility. They had already stuffed the castle by the time he had arrived, clamoring for news of the ill-fated war.
He once more managed to successfully natter his way through countless useless conversations, taking any and every even vaguely polite opportunity to disengage. A great many of the nobility respected him, a notable few despised him, and most, at least in some capacity, feared him. All of these were facts he viewed only through the light of how it helped him brush aside their buzzing interest. He was not quite the fool in the realm of politics that many thought him to be. It was simply that he only ever used his limited skillset to avoid the entire mess in the first place.
Some entreaties, however, could not be avoided, only delayed. And so it was, a week after the war had concluded, that he found himself back in some hall or another deep within the Keep, facing down the King and a pair of Dukes who were most in his favor at the moment.
The King was dressed in his customary peacetime finery, pelts and furs piled about his shoulders in such numbers and exotic nature that they threatened to outvalue even the bejeweled crown resting neatly over his brow. The room itself was underground, but one couldn’t tell at a glance, for brilliant gems were placed behind thick stained glass windows high in the arched ceiling, washing the room in the light of noon at all hours of the day. A long table was permanently set with silver dining ware, the absence of dust across the space evidencing a great daily effort from the Keep’s innumerable servants. The attendance of the King and his two Dukes was almost a shame, by virtue of their very presence dirtying the ancient, sterile space. The oils of their skin left imprints in the lacquered wood as they gesticulated at Graf, leaning forward at times to emphasize some point, leaning back at others in order to feign nonchalance. Graf listened dispassionately, his expression unwaveringly neutral.
“The logic of your position is understood, Graf,” Duke Ostoc continued to blather, “but the end result is untenable. The King’s orders are without room for interpretation.”
“You must cease your actions immediately,” concurred Duke Roth, rapping his overlarge knuckles on the table for emphasis. His was the only orcish house presently amongst the peerage, and unusually for a member of the nobility, the last few generations had left his lineage as near to purely orcish as could be found. This novelty was the only reason Graf had been aware of the man before his ascent to prominence. “While the Night’s Eye is a vaunted institution, renowned across the continent in no small part due to your own actions, you are not above the King.”
They seemed to expect some response at this juncture. Graf provided them none. After a brief pause, the King spoke.
“Graf,” he said, taking on the tone of a chastising father, “in private, I am afforded the liberty to speak freely. Your failure in subduing the Champion’s forces are not something which I will allow anyone to view as a stain upon your legacy. You have served me as finely as any King can ask of a subject, and a single, lonesome defeat cannot change this fact. If it is shame which drives you to imitate these firearms, I assure you, there is no need.”
“I have lost battles before, My Liege. I feel no shame for this. Only regret for the soldiers whose lives were lost under my command. I have lost battles of greater import decades before you were born, and I have lost battles under your present rule, as well. A career as long as mine cannot be flawless.”
The King did not allow whatever emotion the words evoked to show. He remained implacable, as stern as ever. “It is as you say, and the silent utterance between your breaths is understood. But no length of time spent in my family’s service allows you to defy my direct decree. You are hereby ordered to cease your mimicry of the Champion’s weapons immediately.”
Graf stood still, in military rest, head level and eyes forward, staring at the wall just behind and above where the King sat.
“Why?”
He said nothing further.
“You have been given an order from your King, Graf,” Duke Ostoc rumbled, filling his words with the indignation that was beneath the King to personally reveal. “You have no room to disobey.”
“To lack these weapons is to imperil the Kingdom. And I serve the Kingdom in all things, as I always have.”
“You serve Sporatos,” Duke Roth growled, gripping the table as he bent towards Graf. “The King is the Kingdom. To betray his will is to betray us all.”
“To fail to protect Sporatos is the greatest treason of all.”
The room fell to silence as the men digested this statement, wondering at its many faces. Likely, they would not discern the truth of his claim. Graf did not bother with theater; his was a simple, emotionless statement. Such directness was a difficult thing for men of means to comprehend.
“To defy my Decree ensures a trial, and with it, punishment,” the King eventually said. “And for such prominent treason, the only penalty will be death.”
“I will not submit to execution,” Graf replied. “Particularly not when my actions are solely to the benefit of the Kingdom.” Seeing the color rising across the faces in the room, Graf decided to temporize. “I assure you, the Night’s Eye shall treat the weapons with all the secrecy and protection we can muster. They will not be allowed to disseminate throughout the populace.”
“A useless assurance, when your ranks are already filled with peasants,” Duke Roth spat. “They are exactly who these weapons must be kept away from.”
Graf glanced at the man. There were further arguments to be made. Angles Graf could pursue, reason he could reach for. But he had never been one for taking a winding path when the direct route was clear.
“If you think yourself capable of enforcing your order, please do so.”
The King sucked in a breath. Held it for a moment. Then blew it out in a low hiss.
“You go too far, Graf.”
“I do not go far enough.” Graf allowed his words to cool, tempering to a steely tone. “It is only through my loyalty to your Royal Person that I withhold myself so. When our armies next march on Tulian, they will need every firearm available to them, else they be slaughtered. To only equip the Night’s Eye with the weapons is a terrible shame, but one I will suffer.”
“I have already made the decree that war with Tulian will not be further sought. The Kingdom has other, more fruitful matters to pursue.”
“Until the next summer comes, and you have had adequate time to rally support for a second, far greater army.” Graf flicked his eyes across the Duke’s faces, noting their flinches, allowing them to notice that he had, then returned his gaze to the King. “I have fought in more wars than years you have lived, My Liege. I have no interest in pretending this conflict is not coming.”
“Even supposing you are correct, there is no excuse to be found for creating the means of civilized society’s destruction. The Champion stated that she created these weapons with the sole purpose of undermining my rule, and for once, I find no reason to doubt her.” The King leaned back in his chair, gemstone rings catching the candlelight as he gestured. “Measures are being prepared. The archmages have been encouraged to develop countermeasures, and the artificers are even now at work developing armor capable of defending oneself from firearms. Should war with the Champion’s nation once more arise, we will be prepared.”
Graf allowed himself a small scoff. “And you think she will remain idle in the interim? You prepare for the next war with the knowledge of the last, My Liege. Do you believe that firearms are somehow singularly unique? That their iron barrels cannot be enchanted as easily as a steel sword?” Graf pressed a finger to his breastplate, indicating the latest of its multitude of scars. An inch-wide dent just above his heart, a smear of lead still visible. “Perhaps the artificers may provide our troops a manner to defend themselves from iron balls launched from bronze tubes. But what of steel bolts launched from blacksteel barrels? What of ensorcelled bullets, loaded by troops who have trained with these weapons not for weeks, but for months? Years?”
Graf shook his head. “No, My Liege. These weapons exist, and they cannot be ignored. No amount of spellcraft shall make them obsolete, by simple virtue of the fact that spellcraft may enhance them, too. Do as you will with your resources; the Night’s Eye shall prepare for the inevitable.”
The King’s eyes narrowed as Graf spoke, a profound and deep-set sense of offense spreading across his countenance. As Graf fell silent, the King slowly stood, pressing his fingers to the table. Beneath the royal crown, his eyes began to glower, as if something molten were stirring behind the iris. His lip curled in a dismissive sneer, lifting to reveal the teeth of a man who was called a Lion. It was a practiced, impressive display, leveraging the fullness of his royal bearing. Many warriors had been cowed by the sight of King Sporatos’ anger, fearing what wrath they may incur.
“You will not create firearms.”
The King spoke in a growling baritone, rattling the table with the force of his words. The Dukes to either side instinctively drew away, both slipping a hand beneath their coats in search of a pommel’s reassurance. The King of Sporatos had begun his training for war mere weeks after toddling through his first steps. He was cloaked in archmage wards, his weapons as ancient as his lineage, and even without these supernatural aids, there were very, very few who could claim to be his equal on the field of battle. The Dukes were right to cower; should he lose his temper and lash out, the King could snap their necks like twine.
Yet Graf could only think of the young boy he’d often bounced on his knee, ensuring the young prince would not sob for his father’s attention throughout an important meeting. It was near impossible to be intimidated by a man Graf could still clearly remember carrying over to nursemaids for a change of diapers, much less the man to whom he was the only remaining tutor.
“I believe we are past the point of pretending you can threaten me, My Liege,” Graf drawled. “My smiths will begin the construction of firearms. We will not use them on foreign soil, so long as firearms are not first used against us, and we will not distribute them beyond our members. I do this with the sole purpose of protecting Sporatos. I would recommend you announce a special exception for your decree for the Night’s Eye, lest my disobedience encourage others to follow suit. Now if you will excuse me, I must take my leave.”
Graf pivoted sharply and marched out of the room, prepared to ignore whatever protest followed on his heel.
None did, however. The King watched him leave in silence, his royal expression unknown to the mercenary, who never looked back.
-------------------------------
Sara
-------------------------------
“Elf pussy’s gotta be the best though, right?”
“I still do not understand why you believe the different races must have such drastically different sexual characteristics, Master.”
“Elf pussy’s gotta be the best,” Hurlish sagely agreed.
Sara laughed boisterously while Evie groaned, rolling her eyes.
They were walking down the streets of Tulian in the mid-afternoon, meandering their way down to the harborside. Evie was no longer riding on Hurlish’s shoulders as she once preferred, not wanting to put additional strain on the heavily pregnant woman’s back. Hurlish had just passed the thirtieth week of her pregnancy, and it was taking a subtle, yet noticeable toll. The orc was flanked on either side by her wives, who were keeping a subtle watch on passersby. Sara kept her hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword, while Evie’s hands were loose and ready to summon her weapon at a moment’s notice.
While Evie’s paranoia was inherent to her character, Sara had been surprised by the way her own anxiety had grown with each passing week. The sight of Hurlish, usually so uncompromising in her absurd strength, getting winded by brief walks? It was disconcerting in a way that was hard to find words for. Sara’s divinely-imbued intuition sincerely doubted the Sporatons or Cultists would send another assassin so soon after the war had ended, but that near-certainty provided little reassurance.
Of course, she wasn’t so consumed by nerves that she couldn’t joke with her wives. Sara and Hurlish had spent the bulk of the walk debating the merits of various sexual partners and the potential benefits of their unique anatomy, a topic Evie was acting uncharacteristically reserved about. Sara wasn’t yet quite sure where the feline’s reluctance to discuss the topic came from, but the rare opportunity to fluster the debauched woman simply couldn’t be passed up.
“Elf pussy’s just gotta be the best,” Sara repeated emphatically. “Look at them. They live forever, they never age, and they’re all supposed to be beautiful and super femme. That’s gotta mean something.”
“And if Nora’s anything to go by…” Hurlish trailed off.
“Nora is not an accurate representation of anything other than herself,” Evie sniffed. “Yes, her body is exquisite, but so is yours, dear. Her half-elven heritage has little to do with it.”
“I bet elf pussy tastes like maple syrup,” Sara abruptly declared.
Evie sighed deeply. “And why would that be?”
“I don’t know. They’re all, like, tree and nature people, right?”
“A reductive view if I’ve ever heard one.”
“I call dibs on first lick if we ever manage to get an elf girl in bed,” Hurlish declared. “Not that I don’t mind swapping spit with y’all, of course. Just want to get the original experience right off the bat, y’know?”
“What a ridiculous thing to preemptively-”
“I call second,” Sara butted in.
Evie’s ears flicked in irritation. Whether it was at being interrupted or at losing rights to second place, Sara couldn’t tell. She could have figured it out, of course. But she’d long since decided to avoid using Amarat’s gifts on her wives in casual conversation. It felt odd, somehow, like she was gaining an unfair advantage in the relationship, or if not that, at least over-analyzing their every word. She imagined it would grow tiring for them, to have their every little intention laid bare for her.
“Guess that leaves third for you, Kitty.”
“I am fine with that. It’s highly unlikely we will encounter any elf women with a passing interest in us, regardless. It is written that their culture expects a courtship period spanning decades.”
“Damn.” Hurlish chewed her lip for a moment, thinking. After a moment, she grinned. “Okay. Catfolk girls, then. With how Evie’s ears get her going, catfolk have gotta end up absolutely wild.”
“Eh, I don’t know,” Sara demurred. “I’m not a furry.”
“What’s that?”
“A… long story.” Glancing at her wives, Sara saw she wouldn’t get off the hook without an explanation, so she continued. “Basically, you know how on Earth there were only pure humans? Well, people came up with the idea of people like catfolk and lizardfolk on their own, and they got really into it. Art, costumes, the whole nine yards. Some of them got really, really into it. Like… concerningly so. And more than that, it just never pushed my buttons.”
“So?” Evie asked. “I fail to see how some peculiar group from your old home applies to the reality of your new.”
“Well, I mean, I guess it shouldn’t. But I feel like if I got with a catfolk, I’d lose the right to say I’m not a furry. I mean, I literally would have fucked a cat woman.”
Evie raised an arched eyebrow, both ears pivoting to lock onto Sara. “You already have, as you might recall.”
Sara waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, come on. You don’t have any fur at all. That’s barely furry stuff at all. You’re just a mind-fuckingly hot chick with ears and a tail.”
“What’s it matter, though?” Hurlish asked. “Some hot catfolk comes up on you half-naked, are you really gonna turn ‘em down?”
“I might.”
“Nah.”
“You would not.”
“Okay, fine,” Sara said, throwing her hands up. “I wouldn’t. Still, I want to reiterate the fact that I’m not a furry.”
“I think your father is the only one who would comprehend that claim in any way that matters.”
“What about lizardfolk?” Hurlish mused, rightly deciding that Sara’s minor crisis of identity wasn’t worth worrying about. “I like my girls with some squish to ‘em, and they don’t have much of that, but damn have they got tongues on ‘em.”
“Would you believe I haven’t really met any lizardfolk?” Sara asked. “I mean, I’ve seen some around, but never really talked to any.”
“They are a fairly uncommon race on the continent,” Evie replied, “but not unheard of. Before the storms, Tulian likely had the greatest concentration of their populations. The warmth agrees with them, from what I recall.”
“Are they cold-blooded?”
“I am unfamiliar with that term.”
“Like, their bodies don’t produce heat. They rely on sunbathing and stuff to warm up. I think pretty much every lizard back on earth was cold-blooded, and you said that lizardfolk like the warmth, so it would make sense.”
“If that were the case, I’m certain my tutors would have mentioned it, but I cannot recall anything that would confirm or deny it at the moment.”
Hurlish rustled in her bag for a moment. “Y’want the collar?” She asked, holding it out.
“If you would,” Evie replied, tilting her chin up to expose her neck.
“Always making me do this shit myself,” Hurlish mumbled amusedly, clasping the collar around Evie’s throat. She clicked the lock in place, wisely ensuring the inscription of Whore pressed against Evie’s skin, instead of facing the public, then tossed the control band to Sara.
Sara tapped it in midair, letting it clasp onto her wrist with a puff of smoke. A similar flash was echoed by the collar, and Evie shuddered pleasantly, looking to Sara.
“Remember your lessons regarding lizardfolk exactly, word-for-word.”
“Of course.” Evie’s eyelids fluttered for a moment as the order rolled through her, then she opened them again, frowning. “No, there was no mention of body temperature in my tutor’s lessons. Only various biological peculiarities which may have had relevance should I find reason to someday host a dignitary of lizardfolk heritage.”
“Ooh, that sounds interesting. Like what?”
“That they prefer brighter lighting than most, and do not enjoy clothing which may get easily snagged beneath their scales. This lends most lizardfolk a preference for casual, open-air settings, of the sort that would eschew constraining formalwear. My tutors made a point to emphasize that these are not absolute rules, however, and individual variation easily and often overrides the general trend.” Evie shrugged, reaching up to remove the collar. “Not much more than that, I’m afraid. As I said, Lizardfolk are rare, and my lessons emphasized other topics.”
“Huh. Guess we’ll have to figure out how warm they are the old fashioned way.”
Evie rolled her eyes yet again as she deposited the collar in Hurlish’s bag. “For one who once often spoke of your concern for avoiding the fetishization of various races, you are awfully eager to taste their natures for yourself.”
Sara’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Oh, that’s why you didn’t want to talk about this. You thought I’d feel guilty later, once I realized what I was doing.”
“I’ve noticed such behavior before, yes,” Evie said. “When your old world’s morality and the new clash, you often come away disconcerted. Best to avoid the topic, I decided.”
“But, like, people back there just got real pissed off about different color humans, right?” Hurlish asked. “That’s way dumber than talking about how much fur a catfolk has to grab when you fuck ‘em.”
As if by divine providence, a catfolk woman chose that moment to turn onto the street, their pointed ears swiveling alertly. Her muzzle almost immediately turned into a frown as she parsed Hurlish’s words, and she made a point to swerve to the opposite side of the street.
“...okay, that did make me feel a bit bad,” Hurlish muttered after a prolonged silence, when the catfolk was out of easy earshot.
“My case in point,” Evie said, not quite hiding her smirk. “But regardless, lizardfolk are…” She trailed off, staring into the distance.
Sara immediately tensed, gripping her sword’s hilt while stepping in front of Hurlish. “What’s up?”
“Hm?” Evie glanced at Sara. “Oh, no, nothing of concern. I merely wanted to comment on another lesson my tutors had mentioned, before abruptly realizing I couldn’t recall it. It is a profoundly odd experience to be so aware of myself forgetting something. Like something has plucked it from the flesh of my mind and sent it sliding through out through my ear.”
“Oh, yeah, that would have to be weird, wouldn’t it?” Sara agreed, relaxing her stance. “But no, I won’t keep the collar on you all the time.”
“I wasn’t going to request anything of the sort,” Evie sniffed.
“If you still had the collar on, I would order you to tell me the truth.”
“Don’t give her another excuse to put it on right after she took it off, babe,” Hurlish dryly reprimanded. Then, before Evie could push the point, “So. Lizardfolk tongues. They’re absolutely wild. There was this kid in my village that could lick their own eyeball. Can you imagine getting something like that squirming up in your guts?”
All three women’s steps slowed for a time, lost in private thoughts.
Sara shook her head a moment later, forcing the vision out of her mind.
Still not a furry, she insisted, if only to herself.
Their slow walk continued through the city, topics shifting with the same sedate pace that dictated their journey. It was a relief for Sara to be heading to a meeting with anything less than crushing importance, and even more of a relief to be able to freely take both her partners along with her. War councils and secretive agendas had consumed so much of her life over the past few months that the simple pleasure of not worrying was a joy all on its own. That her conversation partners were those she cared the most for in all the world? Another excellent topping piled upon the others.
In the end, after Sara assured Evie she wouldn’t be locked into self-recrimination later on, they reached a general consensus.
Elves, it was agreed, were likely to be some of the best lays in the world, by simple virtue of their vast experience, if not any inherent biological advantage. They were also in agreement that lizardfolk had to have an incredible natural aptitude for giving head, while the raspy sandpaper texture that covered the back half of catfolk tongues was a feature likely only of interest to Evie. Vanara, the more monkey-like species that Sara only knew from a few scattered acquaintances, were up in the air. Hurlish thought their tails had the necessary rigidity, flexibility, and length to be used as dildos, something Evie doubted, while Sara, who was unsure, just didn’t want to know what a fur-covered appendage felt like inside of her. The combination of stickiness and stringy hair just couldn’t be good. Shaving the tail was a possibility, but would probably look ridiculous.
The conversation did come up with some novel ideas about those they’d already had sex with, however. Until Evie pointed it out, Sara hadn’t considered that Ketch didn’t technically need her mouth to breath. If she was underwater, her gills could do all the work. That had massive potential for Sara, and she had Evie make a note to investigate the possibility of a swim-up bar being built somewhere along the Tulian shoreline. It would be popular with Azarketi passing the city by, and Sara could occupy a stool there in the off-hours, spending hours with Ketch’s nose pressed to the base of her cock.
In the same tangent, Selliana’s water-breathing potions suddenly took on an entirely new level of importance for Evie, who became (completely rationally, she assured them) insistent that the potions were a strategic asset of national importance, one that they needed to acquire as soon as possible. Sara didn’t know if the potions would let Evie actually breathe with cock stuffed down her throat, or if the potions simply let someone’s lungs function like gills, but she wasn’t going to preemptively rain on the girl’s parade.
(A parade, Evie continued to insist, that had nothing to do with spending an entire day impaled by cock)
Then there were the stranger topics that reared their head. Notably, that they had a cooperative vampire. That was something that, as far as they were aware, was completely unique in all the world. According to a few letters traded with Garen, no one had ever been able to truly sate a vampire’s hunger like Sara and Ketch could. Any “drip-feeding” efforts uncovered by the archmage’s cursory research had ended in failure, with a vampire’s desire to drink someone dry eventually reaching irresistibility. Garen encouraged them to explore the experimental avenue regardless, noting both the incompleteness of his records and the peculiarity of the opportunity they’d stumbled into.
That topic kept them occupied for a while, after they’d moved on from the overtly sexual. Noctie’s venom had already been used as a painkiller by Ketch, and considering Tulian’s burgeoning surgeons had nothing better than stiff alcohol to knock a patient out, the numbing agent had incredible potential for surgeries. They’d have to test on animals first, as Sara was willing to bet the venom served double duty as an anticoagulant, but even if that were the case, it could still do wonders for assisting in pain control after a procedure.
How much venom they could get from the vampire was another question, and how exactly they’d go about “milking” her yet another. Sara wasn’t sure if the venom was inherent to Noctie’s saliva, or emitted from her fangs when they elongated, but either way, volume was probably going to be an issue. There was also the question of potential addictiveness to be studied; Sara didn’t want to turn every surgery patient into an unwitting vampiric thrall, blindly seeking out a literal predator to feed their newfound craving.
Ketch certainly showed signs of addiction already, but that meant little coming from a girl with the willpower and mental fortitude of a spoiled puppy. Sara was fairly convinced Ketch could get addicted to shoulder massages if someone gave them to her often enough. Without Selliana crawling around in the young azarketi’s mind, Sara half suspected Ketch would have ended up a member of Amarat’s church, spending the rest of her life happily blitzed on santhem.
This string of slightly ridiculous conversations ended with their journey, unfortunately. They’d arrived at the devastated Tulian harborside, one of the few stone wharfs currently serving the crippled Waverake.
The great flagship of the Tulian Fleet sat low in the water, a steady stream of water sluicing in small waterfalls from its upper deck. The great lengths of timber which had been used for her construction were one-offs, harvested from the distant jungle, which meant the chunks which had been ripped from her hull were still not repaired. Tulian’s very first prototype water pump was currently thumping away in her hull, ensuring she didn’t sink in harbor. Sara had meant for that pump to be sent to a mine as soon as possible, but the potential loss of the Waverake superseded that need entirely.
Her sails were in an even worse state. Acquiring the sheer volume of cotton required for all 45,000 square feet of her sails had been the impetus for much of Nora’s early piracy, and now that nigh priceless collection had been burned to tatters. Even with the great white sheets folded away, tucked neatly up top in the forest of wooden masts, Sara could see the blackened edges and multitude of hasty splices, the signs of a ship which had narrowly avoided burning to the waterline. Her early version of firefighting foam had reportedly proved effective, at least moreso than throwing heaps of sand on the flames, but the margin of improvement was slim. The moment the frothy mixture of animal fat had sloughed off the magical napalm, the flames had flared to life with a vengeance. Ultimately, Nora had been forced to cover the affected areas of the deck with the foam, then order her carpenters to cut the portion out, and finally toss the chunk of diseased wood overboard. Even submerged, columns of hissing bubbles proved the hellish stuff had spent half a day burning beneath the waves.
But for all the damage she’d suffered, nothing could change the fact that there was no ship on the planet which mounted twenty cannons, with room for thirty more. The TRS Waverake was a wounded titan, but a titan all the same. Her presence alone ensured the safety of the entire capital coastline.
Sara, Evie, and Hurlish walked their way down the shattered stone pier, appraising the vessel’s damage for themselves. The gunports were open, many sprouting a sweat-slicked sailor picking feverishly at the hull. Most were carpenters endeavoring to patch long scars in the wood. Some worked at the wide, shallow plains that had been carved by another ship scraping past, while others labored at the far narrower, deeper indentations, the places where a ram had failed to embed itself in the hull.
“This ship’s fucked up,” Hurlish wisely rumbled.
“But still floating,” Evie hummed. “And so long as it remains so, Tulian’s dominance of the waves will go unchallenged.”
“Dunno if we can go that far,” Sara said, taking a moment to stretch up on her tiptoes to try and look in one of the gunports which still sported a cannon. Hurlish grabbed her by the hips and lifted her up, so she could inspect it properly. “She can still be taken out by numbers. As Nora keeps saying, the Sporaton Navy was the bottom of the barrel. Cannon looks good. No fractures that I can see. Thanks, Hurlish.” The orc dropped Sara, and they continued on their way.
The uppermost deck of the Waverake was as busy as the hull, with an incomprehensible whirlwind of sailors shuttling loads of goods back and forth. Even with her Blessings pouring every word spoken into her ears, Sara still couldn’t parse much. There were so many obscure naval terms being flung back and forth that she may as well have been listening to a foreign language.
Taking care not to interrupt anyone else’s work, Sara guided her little throuple to the state room, which had been expanded by the demolition of the adjacent captain’s cabin. Nora had no need for sleep when on the ocean, and so she’d turned the somewhat modest meeting room into something considerably more palatial.
Having been designed for a human crew in an age where most men were considerably shorter than even their modern averages, the sight of Hurlish squeezing into the cramped decks was quite something. She didn’t have to quite bend double, but no one could be comfortable in a room with a ceiling eight inches shorter than they were. Sara and Evie both hovered protectively near Hurlish while she crab-walked into the room, doing their level best to look like they weren’t hovering. The first time Sara had tried to offer a hand for support had ended with it nearly crushed in contempt, which had been a painfully direct lesson on how Hurlish didn’t enjoy being coddled.
Eventually, only once Sara had assured herself Hurlish was comfortably settled, Sara turned her attention to the room’s other occupants.
It was an eclectic group, that much was certain. Sara didn’t imagine there had been many tables throughout history at which sat a mixture of former nobility, less than sane captains, disgraced marines, wisened army sergeants, archmages, and one excruciatingly normal midwestern father. Vesta, Nora, Ignite, Voth, Garen, and her Dad were talking amongst themselves in quiet murmurs, all too aware that there were precious few secrets on a ship. The Waverake’s hull was as thick as its walls were thin, and no one delighted in rumors quite like sailors.
“So,” Sara said, sweeping Evie up into her lap as she sat down, “we’ve got a whole lot of problems. Who wants to start bitching first?”
Notes:
Well, would you look at that. Back to your regularly scheduled plot, instead of Plot™. Hope you enjoyed, and see you next week!
Chapter 111: Interlogue 4 - Future Tense
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Vesta began the meeting without preamble, her notes already collated on the table before her.
“As you all no doubt noticed on the way to this meeting, Tulian, which has historically relied heavily on its oceanic trade, currently lacks any and all infrastructure to support the resumption of this practice. While I am certain there was little other military option at the time,” Vesta shot Nora a glare that said she thought anything but, “the bombardment of the harborside has left us bereft of critical industries. If we are to begin the recovery efforts in any meaningful capacity, we must focus on the construction of docks and warehouses to store goods. Many of our pre-war economic plans hinged on the export of unique items that your Champion’s knowledge will allow us to produce. This is not possible with two shattered piers and a city rendered nigh inaccessible by rubble.”
“I can agree with that, aye,” Nora said, throwing her remaining foot upon a stool, the empty limb where her prosthetic had been removed left dangling comfortably off her chair. “And we’ll need to retain the shipyard workers I trained, too, and don’t you doubt that other sorts’ll be trying to poach ‘em. Don’t want to teach another lot how to do the same damn things I spent so long pounding into their heads, much less let other folk get their hands on the hands that built the Waverake.”
“We can build basic warehouses with concrete,” Sara said as Evie began to scribble notes, “and the same can be said for docks. It’ll still take a while, but the 1st Combat Engineers have got mixing and pouring the stuff down to an art. Hell of a lot faster than mining stone and dragging it into the city. I’ll get an estimate on the repairs as soon as I can, but I doubt it’ll be more than a couple months.”
“We’ll need it sooner, rather than later,” Nora said. “She’s a fine ship, but the Waverake was built with green wood. Even if she never fights another day in her life, she’ll start coming apart at the seams before a few years pass her by. Takes years to get planks ready for shipbuilding, and that’s when yer not making ‘em half as thick as the Waverake needs. Yer gonna need reserves of wood, big ones, and places to store them for seasoning.”
“Will the products of the University be available for aid?” Ignite asked. “I have read of the process your concrete is produced by, Governess, and while the cost of the material is incredibly encouraging, the time and labor spent mixing the product seems a fine candidate for the same device which currently keeps this ship afloat.”
“Good idea,” Sara said, nodding appreciatively, if only to encourage the habitually quiet Ignite to continue speaking up. “Garen?”
“It is not impossible to turn the engines towards mixing concrete,” the archmage replied, though his lips turned down. “But there will soon be a considerable shortage of steam engines compared to all the purposes for which they are desired. We only have so many crystals of a size required to heat a boiler, and as of now, I remain the only one capable of enchanting them with the appropriate precision.”
“What about smaller stuff?” Voth asked. Sara blinked, surprised to hear the orc take an interest in the topic. “I saw that big bastard you got in the bottom of the ship already, but that won’t do much for me. I need something my troops can use in the field.”
“And what do you require construction machinery for, Voth?” Vesta pointedly asked. As Tulian’s treasurer, it was second nature for her to get testy with anyone who wanted something expensive. “I see little use for steam machinery in the hands of one who commands border-patrolling militias.”
“Because the border’s getting a lot damn closer, that’s why.” Voth sat up in his chair, sliding over a map of Tulian. He tapped the jungle wall emphatically. “We’ve lost twenty miles of territory to the jungle already. It just won’t stop growing. Don’t pretend you don’t know about it. I’ve sent you all the reports.”
“Twenty square miles completely consumed?” Vesta asked. “In a matter of months? That seems ridiculous.”
“Dunno how ridiculous it is,” Voth replied with a frank shrug. “But it ain’t twenty square miles. It’s twenty miles, period. The entire southern border’s migrated at least twenty goddamn miles north. All along the entire jungle wall. Twice that distance in some places. And I haven’t sent many patrols far west, but word is it’s even worse in the swamps. Way the grapevine was talking, you’re gonna have to make some new maps of Tulian.”
The entire room went quiet at the announcement. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been aware of the problem, of course. Voth wasn’t lying when he said he’d been sending reports. But with the war going on, no one had really bothered to care. To hear it in person, then to see the orc’s finger tracing the amount of territory lost on the map? It was shocking. Even Sara let out a hissing curse.
“How many villages have we lost?” She asked.
“Can’t say. But we didn’t lose many people, at least. You had everyone hole up in the capital for the siege that never happened, and that meant most of ‘em weren’t there to get overrun by the jungle. ‘Course, if they’d been there to help cut it all down, it may not have gotten so out of control. Most of the growth’s happened in the past couple months, when there was no one to fight it. Which also means a lot of people you’ve got cooped up in this city don’t have homes anymore, by the way. So that’s another problem.”
Sara took a deep, purposeful breath. “Okay. Okay. We’ll consider that a high priority item. Dad, try and teach Garen about, like, chainsaws or something. See if we can get something going there.”
“Uh, sure,” he replied, looking profoundly nervous at being called out. “I mean, I don’t know how much of a difference chainsaws and stuff will make, if what Mr. Voth is saying about the growth rate is right, but I think we can try.”
“Better than nothing.” Sara shook her head, resisting the urge to curse again. “Alright. Garen, do you have any idea why the jungle would be going wild like this?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid. I’ve done limited research on the matter in the past, due to Voth’s letters, but never enough to draw any meaningful conclusions. Magic that encourages growth is possible, but I have never heard of it being employed on such a large scale.”
“So you think it could be some kind of directed effort, then?”
Garen shrugged. “It could be. It could also be the nature of the jungle. Magic is not unique to thinking beings, Sara. Quite the opposite. The greatest of archmages are but novices next to the chaotic wild.”
“Okay. Well. Shit.” Sara pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing sharply. “Okay. That’s a big fucking deal, but not anything we can do about it right this very second. Who’s next?”
“I believe I have several matters of relevance.” Evie squirmed in Sara’s lap as she retrieved one of her many notebooks, flipping to a well-worn page. She cleared her throat, readying herself to give an orator’s speech. Sara found it faintly amusing to hear Evie acting so officious while curled up in her lap.
“As Vesta and I have tallied it, you have thus far received at least forty separate requests for official visits by foreign dignitaries. With word of Tulian victory over Sporatos spreading, those who were previously reluctant to officially recognize the Republic are now all but clamoring for your favor. The Carrion Navy has already announced a formal recognition of our independence, as promised, and an Admiralty representative is likely on their way as we speak. While other Kingdoms and city-states have not gone quite as far, it is plain to see that the world has already begun to recognize Tulian as a political force independent of Sporatos.”
“There are several oddities in that long list of diplomatic overtures, however,” Vesta said, flipping through her own papers. Watching the woman shuffle the pile around, Sara was briefly distracted by the thought that she really ought to invent paperclips sometime soon. It was amazing how helpful little things like that were. Vesta eventually found what she was looking for, clearing her throat.
“Here it is. While nearly all these letters will require your attention at some point or another, there were three examples which I wish to bring up at this meeting. Though the verbiage of their requests for meeting is fairly standard, their origins are not.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“For one, they were not delivered by messengers. The first letter was one Oddry found neatly folded atop my desk one morning, without any explanation for its arrival. Perhaps unusual, but not dissimilar to the frustratingly enigmatic manner with which our own Garen communicates.”
“It is an awfully convenient spell,” Garen agreed, smiling lightly.
“I’m certain it is,” Vesta drolly replied. “The second letter, however, was found in my pocket two days ago. I noticed it when getting undressed at the end of the day, and I haven’t a clue when it was placed, nor does anyone else who was with me. Either it was placed by an exceptionally skilled pickpocket, or it was manifested by means of spellcraft, similar to the first. Regardless of the specific method employed, I find it disconcerting to know I was so easily targeted. Worse, the final letter was brought to me yesterday evening, hand-delivered by a young member of the Guard who insisted he had been tasked to personally present it. However, when pressed, the fellow could not remember who had tasked him with this, when he had received the task, or even if he had truly spoken to anyone at all. The discrepancy, once revealed, caused him no small amount of emotional distress. I ordered him to be brought to the Church of Amarat to ascertain the extent of the mental manipulation which I suspect to have occurred. I have not yet received any report from the church, but anticipate one soon.”
Sara’s eyebrows rose a notch higher several times throughout Vesta’s explanation. When she was done, Sara slowly lowered her chin onto Evie’s shoulder, wishing she could simply let herself drift away to sleep. So much for the easy logistical meeting she’d anticipated.
“Okay,” she eventually said. “That’s pretty wild. But it’s fairly standard magic bullshit. Well, not fucking with that guard’s mind. We’re gonna have to find out who did that and make an example of them. That shit won’t fly in Tulian. But what did the letters actually say? If they were from foreign dignitaries, which they probably were if they have the power to do that kind of wizard bullshit, why do you assume they’re all related, beyond just being weird as hell in how they got to you?”
“All three letters claim to be addressed from representatives of the same political entity: one rather unhelpfully named ‘The Empire.’ Which empire, or where it is, they did not say.”
“Well that’s just pompous as all hell,” Sara scoffed. “Talk about having their head up their ass.”
“Oh, that’s pretty normal,” Sara’s dad abruptly said. “There’s been tons of empires that are so self-important that they don’t think they really need a name. Other places may call them the ‘empire of blah-blah-blah’ or whatever, but plenty of actual emperors just called themselves ‘the emperor’, as if they’re the only one that matters.”
“Mm,” Vesta hummed with feigned interest, hiding a slight grin as she flicked her eyes over to meet Sara’s. Before the meeting, Sara had warned the other attendees that her dad was a generally shy person, often difficult to prompt into conversation. That was true up until the moment you inadvertently stumbled across a topic he was interested in, in which case it would be next to impossible to shut him up. Vesta clearly got a kick out of seeing that predicted behavior in action.
“In fact,” her dad obliviously continued, “empires rarely use titles that match how they’re referred to in history books, because they’re so wrapped up in political justifications of their rule that are relevant during their existence, instead of geographic accuracy or historical validity. This one’s probably the same. If whoever was writing the letters qualified which empire they belonged to, it would imply they weren’t the most important one, which would be a huge no-no.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Brown,” Evie said, “their unhelpful titles do no good in determining what they actually desire of us. I’ve read the letters myself. They are perfunctory, disinterested affairs, seemingly created less out of interest in any genuine diplomatic ties being created and more of bureaucratic obligation. When one reads between the lines of what you might call ‘legalese’, precious little is offered beyond a request for initial lines of communication to be established.”
“Huh. Okay.” Sara chewed on her cheek for a minute. “Did they leave any way to contact them?”
“No, I am afraid not,” Vesta said. “Which is perhaps even stranger than the method of their delivery. I cannot help but wonder at their intentions.”
“Me too. But if they really did just send this shit to check off some box on a list somewhere like Evie thinks, fuck ‘em. If they contact us again, properly, I might send something back.” Sara frowned. “Except for whichever dickshit group screwed with an innocent person’s head. They don’t get shit.”
Vesta jotted down a few quick notes in her book, then snapped it closed. “Understood, Sara.”
“Good. Alright, next on the list then.”
The meeting dragged on, one problem after another added to the pile. Tulian was in a state of disaster, frankly. And while that had mostly been true for the last decade, it was particularly acute at the moment.
Nora and Vesta were right that Tulian was dependent on its trade. With the war over and life ostensibly due for a return to normalcy, Sara could no longer rely on goodwill and honesty to keep every necessary product cheap. It was simple enough to convince miners to go to work in a dilapidated mine when they knew the ore they drug up would be turned into swords protecting them from marauding Knights. Now that they were mining for comparatively mundane economic motivation, they’d suddenly grown far more interested in negotiating wages and prices. The same story was being repeated all across the tiny Republic. Workers who had pitched in because it was in their own best interest were backing away from deals made in the heat of the moment, recognizing not only that their services were worth a lot more, but that Sara suddenly had far more to pay them with.
Sara, for one, was perfectly happy with this. Her entire philosophy was to build a society of workers with a backbone. She wanted them to fight her, wanted them to force her to pay them what they were worth. Vesta may have hated it, wishing she could keep balancing the books under the assumption that every contractor could be happy with receiving an I.O.U. note, but Sara didn’t. Her only irritation was the fact that the Tulian people’s own insistence for self-determination was ironically harming their recovery. If they’d extended their cooperative goodwill for just a few more months, once the immediate aftermath of the war had been smoothed over, things would have gone so much smoother.
Sara wouldn’t waste time trying to argue with them, though. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and with rubble choking the streets and mass graves lined in neat rows outside the city, Sara was most certainly begging.
“What about you, Dad?” She eventually asked, when she’d finally managed to claw her way out of the doldrums of economic woes. “You’ve had enough time to get the tour of Tulian. What do you think of our industry?”
Her dad pushed his glasses up his nose, picking up his own notes. He cleared his throat, then slid his glasses back down to the very spot they’d been sitting before, so he could read what he’d written.
“Well honey, I think you’ve made a good start.”
Sara groaned inwardly. She knew that tone of voice. It was the same one he’d used every time she’d shown him her butchered attempts at homework.
“But there’s definitely room for improvement,” he said. “You’ve remembered that early industrial work had a lot to do with mining, and that’s good, but that wasn’t all. Your first attempts at a printing press, for example.”
“What about it?”
“Well, you’re trying to make it steam-powered. And that’s understandable, and a good idea in the long term, but it’s really not necessary. Printing presses predate steam power by hundreds of years.”
“They do?” Sara asked incredulously. “What? How?”
“Manual operation, of course. All you really need for a printing press is metal letter dies that can be slid onto a row, a way to slide paper underneath the face, and a way to get ink onto it. For what you’re trying to do, you really don’t have to worry about all the fancy conveyor belt stuff that you were trying to set up.”
Sara pursed her lips. She had a growing feeling that her dad’s entire portion of this meeting was about to make her feel very, very dumb.
“The gun manufactory is pretty solid. You’ve got serial numbers going, kind of, and people seem to be working in their roles really well. You could probably simplify things even more, really narrow down which part individual people are working on, but Garen said that might be counterproductive, because of Levels, which I still haven’t learned much about. So the jury’s still out on that one, I guess.”
He flipped the page, licking his lips. “I do think you need to get basic electrical power going. It’s essential to a whole lot of processes that you’ll need to get started from scratch. And sulfuric acid, too. Man, sulfuric acid is used in everything. I know you’re already importing sulfur for black powder, but you’re gonna need a lot more. I mean, jeez. You’d just be shocked by how important it is. And from what I’ve heard, people here basically treat lead like a waste product, and copper’s barely used, so you’ll want to secure supplies of that soon, and even before all that we’ll want to get the bessemer process up and running. That’s if we can’t just skip to open hearth furnaces, or even better, arc furnaces. That’s dependent on electricity production again, of course.”
He flipped to yet another page. The room had fallen silent, most occupants trading confused glances with each other.
“Oh, and nitroglycerin, for nitrocellulose. If you want smokeless gun powder, we’re gonna need nitric acid, sulfuric acid, and lots of cotton. Though, and sorry, I didn’t write this in my notes, but guncotton is better for warheads than as a propellant. I was thinking cordite may be a good way to go for smokeless powder, but I’ll have to do some more thinking on that. Don’t want to Jutland ourselves. Lots of different ways to do smokeless powder. Bottom line, though, acids. Lots of acids. And the raw resources to make them, and the resources we need them for, of course. Oh, which means we’ll need industrial glass manufacture to handle acids, too, and for all the other chemicals we need. That’s something you should really get going right away, because glass is still apparently really expensive here, so it’ll be a great trade good, not to mention making lenses for microscopes, telescopes, eyeglasses, all of that, which we could also sell. It’s a super important material. Really, looking at the maps you’ve got here, assuming they’re still accurate after the crazy magic jungle stuff, territory limitations are gonna be a big problem. Tulian’s old borders are the size of, like, France? I doubt these surveys are solid, since no one knows decent math here. But either way that’s not enough room for a self-sufficient industrial society. Though alchemists exist, apparently? Like, real alchemists, the kind that can transmute one element into another element. We’ll want to get some of them ASAP. They could be essential for covering the gaps until we can get other stuff up and running. Oh! And the periodic table. If we can teach alchemists about chemistry, who knows what they’ll…”
Her dad suddenly stopped, looking up from his paper. Pretty much everyone save Sara and Garen had a glazed look in their eyes. It wasn’t as if they weren’t paying attention; they just hadn’t understood a single noun out of the last fifty. Well, Hurlish’s eyes were closed. She probably wasn’t paying attention. Sara couldn’t blame her, not when she could barely comprehend half of it.
“Alright,” Sara said, drawing the word out patiently. “Why don’t you give me a copy of your notes or something, so we can write all that down. Because I’m pretty sure you’re the only one here that knows how to spell, like, any of it. Maybe add some dictionary definitions, too. But before we do that, a different question. Instead of what we can’t make, what can we make?”
“Oh. Right. Sorry, I was just trying to focus on bigger picture stuff. As for what we can get going right away…” he flipped a few more pages through his notes, scrunching his nose to keep his glasses from tipping off the end of his nose. “Ah. Here. As far as big-picture stuff we can do right away, and the ones you’d be interested in, there’s steel manufacturing, radios, fuses, planes, breech loading cannons-”
Sara slammed her hands down on the table, startling everyone. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. Did you say planes?”
“Uh, planes, yes,” her dad said, giving her an odd look. “Basic ones, biplanes and stuff, but sure. It’s not like they’re hard to make.”
“Wha- not hard to make? They’re planes! That’s like the hardest thing in the world!”
“Not really, Sara. At least not once you understand the principles. You should at least be able to draw up a basic aerofoil already, and that’s ninety percent of what you need.”
Sara stared blankly at him. “No, Dad. I cannot draw an aerofoil. I don’t even know what an aerofoil is.”
Of all things, her dad looked vaguely hurt. “Really? Don’t you remember when we went to the Air and Space Museum? I thought you had a great time.”
An indistinct flicker teased at the edge of Sara’s memory. A long weekend spent in Washington, D.C. when she was ten years old, delighted to get out of school for a few extra days.
“Yeah, I remember,” Sara lied, “but that doesn’t mean I actually understood it. I was a little kid, Dad.”
“Well.” He sniffed. Sara did her best not to wince. “Now that I’m here, I can help you remember more. Planes aren’t hard to make, Sara. They’re hard to invent, but make? No, that’s easy. Once you have a good enough engine and know what shape to make the wings, it’s basically just a carpentry project.”
“A good enough engine, then,” Sara said, seizing on the idea. “We don’t have that. Never had.”
“Well, no, not technically, but again, it sounds like it wouldn’t be hard.” Her dad looked at Garen, then back to Sara. “I know you’ve been working on steam engines like crazy, and that’ll be good for the big power stuff, but you’ve already got some smaller engines going without realizing it. He told me about that spinning top of death or whatever it was his students made, when they were trying to test material strength. It used synchronized crystals to shove things in a circle really, really fast. If you put props on that and lightened it a bit, it’d probably just lift off into the sky.”
Sara thumped back into her chair, working her jaw. Thoughts of the war she had just fought flashed through her mind. Thoughts of what that war would have looked like if she’d been sending planes against the Knights, instead of halberds and cannons.
“Okay.” Sara took a deep breath, then slowly blew it out. “Okay. Well, consider that your top priority, for now. Get me planes. I don’t care what kind, so long as they fly. And bombs, too. You said you could make fuses?”
“Probably. The ones you made are good, but they could be better.”
“Good. Okay. Well, planes then. I need them.”
Sara watched her dad put a little cartoonish star on his paper next to the heading “planes.” Not a drawn star. A little golden sticker sporting a goofy smiley face, the kind he used for grading papers.
“...How?”
“Mm?”
“The stickers. How do you have those?”
“I had a roll of them in my pocket when I got taken here.” He pulled the roll out to demonstrate, waving it. “I think this was, like, a two-thousand pack? So it’ll last me a while.”
Sara felt a prophetic vision overtake her. The Constitution of Tulian, preserved behind bullet-proof glass in a modern museum, bedazzled with wilting smiley stickers. She shook her head, banishing the image. The rest of the room was looking at Sara a little curiously, not understanding her reaction, while Garen had picked one of the stickers off the roll to repeatedly place and peel it off his finger, squinting at the glue.
“Talking about planes reminds me. I’m still not trying to say you were wrong to go for steam engines, but I really think you’re getting a bit trapped in old-world thinking. Rotational energy is the key, and you’ve got that concept down pat, but I think you’re forgetting that there’s lots of ways to rotate things in this world that weren’t there in our old world. Garen’s told me it’s not that hard to enchant a crystal with a spell, and there’s lots of spells that can create movement. If you can efficiently use those to spin a wheel, you’ve skipped out on any fuel requirements from the start.”
“But this is a discussion I have had with your father before, Governess,” Garen said, preempting her reply. “Spells which cause something to spin, rather than move linearly, are difficult. There are few natural principles from which to draw Inspiration. There are no creatures which can rotate a joint about an axis indefinitely, no flower which twists endlessly through the day, and precious few phenomena beyond cyclones and what your father calls ‘tornadoes’ that can stand as an example.”
“And that matters, I guess?”
“Initially, yes. When teaching a student the Form of a spell, it is almost always easiest to find a natural example capable of producing the desired result. As all things contain inherent magic, one can begin forming the basis of their spell from the intrinsic nature of some worldly equivalent. The best examples are those which embody multiple concepts. If one wishes to create a force that juts forward, grabs, or pulls, you may study a chameleon’s tongue. For something that pierces, crushes, or shakes, a wolf’s jaw. If one wishes to draw energy from the sun or the moon, a flower embodies the essence of the spell. By learning from their creations, one may glimpse an inkling of the majesty with which the Gods created this world. Lacking such an example, any spell created would be horribly inefficient.”
“But it can still be done,” her dad said, returning Garen’s side eye, “and that means we should be pursuing it. Even if we can’t get a fully efficient circular spell, it’ll make a world of difference to even explore the option. I keep telling you, that’s the essence of an industrial revolution. Thinking something is impossible is a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“I did not say that it was impossible. Only difficult, and never attempted, for the use was so limited.” Garen turned his attention back to Sara. “We will pursue the concept, Governess, but I make no guarantees regarding results.”
“That’s alright. Worst comes to worst, we stick to the way people did things on Earth.” Sara glanced over Evie’s shoulder, inspecting her notes. “Now, Vesta. You said you’ve got contacts with important people in some of the eastern mercantile republics, right?”
“I do, yes,” Vesta confirmed. “A number of the political dignitaries requesting an audience with you are in fact those I have had contact with in the past.”
“Good. Those little capitalist hellscape city-states are the closest thing this world has to democracy, and I’ve got crap I want from them.”
Vesta took out an empty paper, dipping her quill in ink. “And those are?”
“Philosophers.”
Vesta started on the first few letters before the nib scratched to a halt. She looked up at Sara with her eyebrows knitted together.
“Philosophers?” She asked, drawing the word out.
“Yeah. Philosophers. I’m trying to make a government here, and there’s no way I’m gonna be able to do that on my own.”
“I was under the impression you had more than your fair share of opinions on how a nation should be run.”
“I did, yeah. And then I actually tried to run one, and I realized I don’t know shit. There’s too much to consider, too many loopholes. I want to do this right.”
“And to do so, you wish to employ philosophers from ‘capitalist hellscapes?’ I do not follow your logic.”
“It’s simple. You, Evie, my dad and I, we write the laws. Then we get those arrogant little pricks to go over it, word by word, and try and fuck it over as hard as they can.” Sara smiled wryly. “There’s no one better at coming up with aggravating, pointless loopholes than philosophers that think their shit doesn’t stink. I don’t want to just write up a constitution and throw it in the works, people.”
Sara glanced across the room, making it clear she was addressing everyone. “We’re not going to fuck this up. Tulian’s a single city right now, but that won’t last forever. It’s going to grow, and it’s going to grow faster than anyone’s ever seen a nation grow before. I’m not going to leave the next generation some half-baked system to struggle through for the next few centuries. We’re going to spend years getting this right. We’re going to do it in stages. We’re going to pass laws, see how they work, who they hurt and who they help, and then we’re going to rescind them and go back to the drawing board. My country back on Earth? They didn’t have the luxury we do. They had to get something out fast, and it showed. We can take our time. For now, with only one city, Tulian basically runs itself. So I’m going to treat this whole thing like one big experiment. We’ll try one government, and if it doesn’t do what I want, we’ll tear it down and start again.”
Protests burst to life across the room the moment she finished speaking. Sara listened to them all, absorbing it all in silence. Vesta was aghast at the economic chaos it would cause to have every merchant unsure of what next year’s policies and taxes would entail, much less the difficulty in establishing foreign alliances with such an unstable government. Ignite was politely but firmly opposing the idea that his Guards would have to enforce an ever-shifting legal code, and feared a complete breakdown of civilian respect for legality as a result. Garen was not particularly critical, but only by virtue of being academically fascinated in seeing how things would progress in such a novel system. Hurlish snorted herself awake at the shouting, blinked blearily at the room in mild confusion, then closed her eyes again. To no one’s surprise, Nora didn’t particularly care either way, so long as her Navy was still supported, and Voth had a similar level of disinterest. Sara’s dad was the only one who was supportive of the idea, but he was far too timid to voice that in a way anyone could hear.
Eventually, though, the critical question was asked.
“But doesn’t that mean you’ll have to stay in charge?”
The overlapping discussion petered out, attention turning to Sara’s father. For the first time in the meeting, he wasn’t bothered by the attention. He was focused on Sara, gentle concern on his face.
“It does,” Sara confirmed.
“I thought that was the last thing ye wanted,” Nora said.
“It is.”
Vesta’s head tilted a half-degree, eyes sharpening. “You truly intend to remain in charge of Tulian during this transitional period?”
Sara sighed tiredly. “Yeah. I don’t really see any way around it. Everyone else is so fucked up with this feudal mindset that they really don’t understand how much better things should be. If there was someone else I trusted to put in charge, I would, but…” Sara shrugged. “There’s not.”
“Are you sure?” Her dad asked. “You know how much this is going to suck for you, right? I mean, the paperwork alone…”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m sure. Been thinking about it for a long, long time.”
“Okay. As long as you’re sure.”
Sara smirked at him. “I think we’re kinda past the point of me needing your permission. But I appreciate it.”
He smiled back. “I guess you are. Just make sure to give yourself breaks every now and then.”
“I’ve got Evie and Hurlish for that,” Sara said, patting the woman in her lap. “She makes sure I blow off steam every now and then.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” her dad said, in the same moment that Vesta just barely stifled a snickering laugh. Her dad remained clueless, even as Evie’s tail began to possessively wrap around Sara’s thigh.
“Alright. I hope that about concludes it for all of the world-ending emergencies on the plate. Does anyone have any lesser problems they want to talk about?”
To absolutely no one’s shock, they did. The meeting barreled on, the minutiae of victory winding on into the night.
Notes:
Well, that was a lot of technical stuff, wasn't it? I find it fun to write and think about, so I hope you do too! Next week: A throwback to the early days of chapter 13, where you'll finally get to see the first time Evie and Hurlish banged!
Chapter 112: Smut! Hurlish x Evie (E)
Summary:
I'm posting this as its own chapter despite the fact that it's really part of Chapter 13: Killers on the Road. I decided it would be good to show off the time when Evie and Hurlish first got together, and how that went. Evie tries to prove she's not that much of a bottom, which ends... predictably.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was on the second night of travel that the rain finally let up enough for them to spend a comfortable evening sitting around a fire, drying their clothes by hanging them across long sticks. The sodden clothes steamed from the fire’s heat, adding to the gentle pops and crackles of the soaked wood Sara had spent so long getting to burn.
With their traveling clothes occupying half the space surrounding the fire, Sara, Evie, and Hurlish were left on the opposite side, quietly eating the travel rations they’d just finished heating over the flames. No one was speaking, but it was the quiet of content, companionable silence. They had spent every waking moment of the previous two days walking beside one another. After a certain point, conversation topics ran out. Sara thought it was a good sign that none of them felt the need to press through the placid moment.
But she didn’t think it would last long. Sara and Hurlish were both wearing their street clothes, casual sets that they’d donned while their traveling outfits dried. Sara’s were simple, cheap commoner’s clothing, much like Hurlish’s, save for the fact that the orc had removed her shirt’s sleeves to better work in the heat of her forge. Evie, on the other hand, claimed she didn’t want to dirty her nicer clothing, and so had discarded her shirt entirely, sitting quite comfortably in only her chest wrapping.
It wasn’t an exhibitionist getup; she wrapped her chest as much to serve as an undershirt as a binding for her modest breasts. White cloth covered well above the swell of her breasts, all the way down to the start of her visible rib cage. Sara had seen plenty of tube tops that covered less. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought nothing of it.
But Sara did know better, and with that knowledge came an unshakeable certainty:
Evie was trying to get her back blown out.
Oh, the catgirl wouldn’t have phrased it that way herself. She would have described it as seduction, or playful teasing, or maybe she would go so far as to call it coquettish flirtation, if she were feeling particularly direct. She would insist that she wasn’t so base as to be lusting after a woman simply because of her appearance. She was better than that, she’d insist. Even when she debased herself for Sara, it was for some nebulous greater reason, not just pure animal instinct.
Which was fairly believable, up until Sara caught the little hitch in the catgirl’s words as she watched Hurlish rip a log in half with her bare hands. Hurlish tossed a fistful of splinters into the fire, which promptly threw a roar of flame and sparks a mere few feet away from them all.
Evie’s eyes never left the burly smith’s biceps. Her tail was tracing a slow, languid circle in the dirt behind her.
Oh, this is gonna be fun, Sara thought, leaning back to watch.
“So,” Hurlish said, glancing at Evie. “Got something you want to say?”
“Hm?” Evie hummed, flicking her eyes up from Hurlish’s arms to meet the woman’s gaze. “Whatever could you mean?”
“Pretty sure I’ve had tongues that fucked me less than your eyes are right now.”
Sara laughed as Evie blanched, her ears fluttering.
“I don’t think she’s used to people being that direct, Hurlish,” Sara said.
“She should get used to it. I don’t beat around the bush.”
“Come now, Hurlish,” Evie said, recovering herself. “Don’t you enjoy the dance? Surely not all your partners were ones you approached so directly.”
“None of my partners started the night off by drooling over my abs.”
“I was not drooling,” Evie insisted haughtily. “I was admiring. And it was your arms, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah? You like ‘em?” Hurlish grabbed another log, this one a foot thick, and tore it apart with the slightest grunt of effort. Wooden splinters wetly spattered across the front of Evie’s body. The feline didn’t so much as blink. She was too focused on the sight of Hurlish’s rippling muscles, still damp from sweat and rain. Her green skin steamed slightly next to the fire.
When half a minute passed without Evie saying another word, Sara volunteered a guess.
“Yeah, I think she likes them.”
“Hush, Master,” Evie admonished, blinking back to coherency. “There should at least be some elegance to this, even if I’m the only one capable of bringing it.”
“Yeah, see,” Hurlish said, looking up and away as if she were thinking hard, “I don’t think that’s quite right. I don’t think you want ‘elegant’ from me, do you?”
“We shall see if you’ve earned the privilege of pursuing your own interests later, Hurlish,” Evie countered, flashing a smarmy smile. “If that’s what you want? Impress me.”
“Hm.” Hurlish rolled a shoulder, joint creaking. “No.”
In a flash, Hurlish’s hand shot out, seizing Evie by the front of her pants. Before the catgirl could so much as gasp, she’d been yanked across the gap to be dropped in Hurlish’s lap. The first syllable of her protest died as Hurlish’s lips crashed into hers, the orc’s massive hand sliding around to cup the back of Evie’s skull, forcing her into the kiss.
Sara felt her own body flush as Evie’s initial reaction, that of shock and a reflexive pull away, melted into nothingness. The catgirl’s body molded itself to the massive orc in a manner of seconds, her head tilting to one side as she accepted the impassioned kiss.
Not even ten seconds had passed before Evie’s mouth opened, tongue trying to find its way into Hurlish’s mouth. Instead, the orc bit at her lip and tugged, forcing an audible gasp from the far smaller woman.
Then Evie was pulled back entirely, left sitting on Hurlish’s lap out in the open, arousal warring with shame on her face.
“That impressive enough for you?” Hurlish asked, grinning. A bit of Evie’s saliva had made it down to the orc’s chin, something neither woman did anything about.
“Impressive? H-hardly,” Evie said, wiping her own mouth. It was far from her most convincing lie. “That was just handling me like drunks in a bar wish they could get away with.”
“Yeah. But you know what the difference between them and me is?”
Evie’s face remained impassive beyond a single raised eyebrow, but behind her back, her tail began to lash wildly.
Hurlish grinned toothily, leaning closer. “I really can get away with it.”
Without warning, Evie was shoved backward, landing hard. A few moments ago, she would have been tossed into a puddle of muddy dirt. Thankfully for her, Sara had spent the time the catgirl had been distracted laying out a few layers of blankets, covering the ground next to the campfire.
Evie tried to sit up, looking at the blanket in confusion, but was promptly distracted by seven feet of orc thumping down on top of her, straddling her hips. Hurlish’s palms immediately began running up and down the sides of Evie’s body, rough callouses providing a pleasant rasp that Sara could hear from a few feet away. She could grip Evie’s ribcage like Sara could a cup, the tips of her fingers almost touching behind Evie’s back as she held the catgirl. Evie shivered, but managed to maintain enough of her composure to speak again.
“Is that your plan, then? To try and take me like some lonely harlot, more eager for my body than my coin?”
“So what if I do?” Hurlish asked, her roaming hands stopping at the edges of Evie’s bindings. “What are you going to do about it? Not like you could stop me.”
At this Evie’s eyes flashed, a hint of genuine defiance making itself known. Being shoved around in bed was one thing for the catgirl, Sara knew, but implying she couldn’t fight her way out of a position? That was another.
Evie immediately twisted, rolling her hips as she went to grab at the blanket so she could scramble out from under Hurlish.
In their sparring matches, Sara had learned that Evie’s swordsmanship training hadn’t neglected wrestling in the slightest. If anything, the catgirl excelled at it. Ending up unarmed on the battlefield was every soldier’s nightmare, and she’d trained well for it, and by extension, she’d begun training Sara. She’d never been able to pin the wily catgirl for long.
Sometimes, though, simple tricks were the best. And Hurlish had one advantage Sara didn’t: three hundred and twenty pounds of muscle.
Rather than darting to her feet as she’d clearly expected, Evie let out a startled oof as her hips were driven into the blanket by Hurlish’s weight. She immediately tried to reach for leverage, trying to throw Hurlish off her, but that was stopped by simple virtue of Hurlish sliding her hands up, pinching the catgirl’s biceps between two fingers.
Sara had to stifle her laughter with her forearm, watching events unfold. With her hands forced above her head and her legs kicking uselessly, Evie looked like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum.
“You know, Master, it wouldn’t be so funny if it was happening to you,” Evie said, staring frustrated daggers at Sara.
“It did happen to me, actually,” Sara said, still laughing slightly. “Pretty sure you didn’t do much to help me, either. But don’t worry. The next part is fun.”
“We will see about-”
Evie’s retort was cut off by the sound of ripping cloth and a sudden, sharp gasp.
Hurlish’s thick fingers ripped her binder off in an instant, shredding the thin, rain-soaked cloth. There was so much force behind it that Evie was lifted up off the blanket just to thump back down, mouth open in a wide O as her breasts were laid bare. Hurlish dropped the shreds of her garments a moment later, and Sara watched the way Evie tracked the falling tatters, eyes peeling wide. Another shiver rolled up her body, a slight whimper of desire pressing itself through her lips.
Oh, I’m remembering that for later, Sara thought, watching the reaction. Someone had a kink for getting clothes torn off her.
If Hurlish noticed, it wasn’t obvious. She was too enamored by the sight of Evie’s breasts, flickers of firelight dancing across the pale skin. Hurlish ran a thumb up the swell of her chest, slowly, tauntingly, only to stop just before the nipple. Evie let out an involuntary groan, trying to shove herself into Hurlish’s hand.
“What was that about elegance you said earlier, little Kitty?”
Evie’s breath was growing more labored by the second, and it visibly picked up a notch when Hurlish called her Kitty. Sara shuffled around on the log she was using for a stool, angling for a better view. A part of her deeply, deeply wanted to get involved, but that part was playing second fiddle to a more voyeuristic self.
And I even get some payback to go along with the show, Sara reminded herself, thinking of her first encounter with Hurlish. It would be a real treat to see the same exchange from the outside.
Hurlish ignored Evie’s ineffectual squirming as she bent forward, burying her head in the crook of Evie’s neck. For all her earlier protests, Evie instantly craned her head up and to the side, giving Hurlish as much room as she needed.
Hurlish rewarded her with a slow, teasing lap of her tongue, pressing her lips to Evie’s pulse point. She couldn’t suck a hickey into the skin in the traditional fashion, on account of her tusks breaking her lip’s seal, but she did the next best thing. Evie was wracked by shudders at every nip and nibble of Hurlish’s teeth, her eyelids falling shut amongst her contented sighs.
Without warning, Hurlish jerked Evie’s head to the side, forcing the catgirl to expose the other side of her neck. It was a brutal, sudden motion, and it was done with a hard yank of Evie’s braided hair.
“Ow!” Evie hissed. “Have some decorum, woman.”
“Only if you want me to,” Hurlish murmured.
“Did you not hear what I just sai-i-i-d-”
Evie’s response stuttered off into oblivion as Hurlish began attending the other side of her neck, kissing her way down to the catgirl’s collarbone. Evie hissed again, for a different reason, as her hands dropped to rest on the back of Hurlish’s head.
With Hurlish’s mouth otherwise occupied, Sara made the valiant decision to take up the banner of teasing Evie.
“What were you saying there, Evie?”
“That s-she needs to, ah, l-listen to me, n-not her delusions,” Evie said, just barely gasping the words out.
“Pretty sure she’s listening to your body, actually,” Sara said, grinning mischievously. “And it’s looking like a lot more reliable of a source right now.”
“Th-that’s j-just because y-you like to look at i-it so much.”
“You’re not lying. I do love to look at it. But tasting it is even better.”
Whatever Evie had to say next would never be known, because Hurlish picked up on the cue with ease. Her head darted down in a flash, tongue rolling across Evie’s breast to land on her nipple.
“Ah!” Evie cried, abs clenching as her hips tried to grind upward. Hurlish’s pin was inescapable, however. Evie was left shivering in place, words abandoned for half-suppressed moans.
Sara shifted her log once more, so she was sitting behind Evie’s head, staring down the length of the two women. Hurlish was still dressed in the sleeveless shirt she slept in, which Sara thought was a damn shame.
She reached forward to tug at Hurlish’s collar. The orc lifted her arms without a word, removing her lips from Evie’s chest just long enough for the shirt to be slipped off, then dove back in before Evie could form a coherent thought.
Instead, the catgirl’s hands removed themselves from Hurlish’s neck, latching onto the woman’s chest instead. She began to knead and paw at Hurlish’s breasts with gleeful eagerness, trying her best to provoke a reaction from the woman atop her.
It didn’t work. Hurlish let out a pleased little groan, but that was it. If anything, the feeling of Hurlish’s breasts under her palms served to drive Evie’s arousal higher. Her groping went from teasing to indulgent in a brief few seconds, as if she were trying to commit every square inch of green skin to memory.
For Sara, the sight was intoxicating. Hurlish had a nice rack; Sara knew that from the moment she’d first met the smith, when it had taken her ten minutes of conversation to learn what color her eyes were. They were large on her body, large by any definition, but when they were put up next to Evie, who was almost two feet shorter? That put it in perspective.
And Evie was very aware of it. She tried to drag Hurlish back up to her face, to capture her in a kiss, and Sara knew it was only so the catgirl could get a better view of the body that had shoved her to the ground.
Instead, Hurlish peeled herself off Evie’s chest, returning to her prior straddling of the smaller woman’s hips. Evie’s eyes fluttered at the loss of sensation, then snapped open, drinking in the sight of Hurlish over her.
Sara couldn’t blame her. It was one hell of a sight. Hurlish’s breasts were as flushed as her face, tinged a darker green around her hardening nipples, and the wide expanse of her abs rose and fell with her breath. She’d worked up the slightest sweat, a single drop rolling down her brow, accompanied by a hungry look in her eyes.
“Still think you’re hot shit?” Hurlish asked.
“You haven’t done a thing but pleasure me,” Evie said, puffing the words out between gasps. “I fail to see the point you’re proving.”
“Ain’t any point,” Hurlish said, shuffling backward, until she was perched over Evie’s thighs. “I’m just doing what I want.”
Swallowing hard at the implication left by her suddenly exposed pelvis, Evie mustered up one last smarmy retort.
Sara suspected it would be her last of the evening.
“Well, then. Get to it, won’t you?”
Without fanfare, Hurlish’s hand dropped between Evie’s legs and shoved upward, palm grinding against the clothes covering her core.
Hurlish laughed openly as Evie’s voice turned into a high-pitched whine, her entire body rolling as she threw herself into the pressure.
“There we go, little Kitty. You’re getting it now.”
“Gods,” Evie breathed, seemingly without even noticing it. Hurlish pushed harder yet again, moving her hand down, and Evie instinctively chased the motion, unwilling to let go of the friction.
Unnoticed by either party, Sara finally lost her battle of wills. Her hand slid down the front of her pants, finding her own wetness. She let out a little gasp at the first contact of her own hand, then began to rub small circles. She was thankful beyond belief that her body had decided to let her have a pussy for the evening; jerking off was so much less subtle.
Not that it seemed likely either woman would notice anything. Hurlish was all but growling her desire as she watched Evie desperately shove against her hand, letting the catgirl chase her every touch. She’d shifted so her knee was between the woman’s legs, freeing her to writhe with wild abandon.
A privilege that Evie was freely abusing, having apparently entirely forgotten that she was supposed to be resisting Hurlish’s advances. Her breathless huffs had turned into outright moans, audible even through the knuckle she was biting to silence herself. Every time Hurlish shifted in the slightest direction, Evie’s skin twitched in a wave, her eyes closing in a tight squeeze.
Hurlish kept grinding, teasing, one hand moving up to Evie’s breasts on occasion to pinch and tug at a nipple. Evie’s eyes fluttered open every time, only to squeeze shut with a groan the moment she caught sight of Hurlish standing over her. Eventually she threw one arm over her face, as if it would somehow hide the arousal that had begun to drip through her clothes.
But it couldn’t last forever. When Evie’s body began to properly shudder, wave after wave wracking her limbs with increasing frequency, Hurlish abruptly pulled away.
Evie cried out in dismay, her free arm flailing blindly in search of Hurlish’s hand, trying to drag it back.
“You learned anything yet, Kitty?” Hurlish asked.
“Wha…. what?” Evie asked with a groan, still refusing to uncover her eyes.
“I said,” Hurlish growled, leaning forward slightly, “have you learned anything yet?”
Sara watched Evie’s higher brain functions try to drag themselves out of the slogging mud of her burning heat, ears flicking back and forth as if they could pick out the correct response.
“What… what should I say?”
Hurlish laughed, a loud, boisterous tone that echoed over the night plains. “The fuck’s that mean, Kitty?”
“I want… to know…” Evie finally tossed her arm off her eyes, looking at Hurlish, “what you want me to say.”
“Oh? What happened to the big, fancy noblewoman?”
“She spent an hour at the cusp of finishing, only to be denied,” Evie said, some of her old snappishness entering her tone.
Sara thought about telling Evie that it had really only been about five minutes, but decided against it. It definitely looked as though had felt like an hour.
“So what do you want from me, then?” Hurlish asked.
“Please,” Evie groaned.
“Please what?”
“You already know.”
“Not sure I do. You’ll have to be more specific. Tell me what I want to hear.”
“I… I want you to…” Evie trailed off, a blush continuing to rise through her cheeks. “Gods, please, just get on with it.”
Silently, Sara slipped off her seat, dropping her pants off to one side. Evie startled as she felt warm thighs press against the sides of her head, but calmed the moment she saw Sara above her, pulling her head onto her soft lap.
“I’ve got some suggestions for you,” Sara murmured, tracing small circles around the base of Evie’s feline ears. “It’s not hard to beg, you know.”
“That’s… you…”
Sara silenced Evie with a gentle press to the spot where Evie’s ears met her scalp. Barely a grazing whisper, it nonetheless shut Evie up.
“I’m not going to tell you what to say,” Sara whispered. “That would be cheating. But here’s some ideas. Why don’t you try and tell her what you want her to do to you?”
“She… she should just-” Evie’s words were briefly overtaken with a mewl as Hurlish pressed down yet again, just to keep things interesting. After gaining control of herself, she continued her breathless whisper. “She said she was going to do what she wanted to me.”
“Yeah. And now she’s forcing you to say what she wants to hear. That’s all you have to do.”
Evie’s eyes wrenched shut, another trembling rush rolling along her body. She spent a few moments taking quick, tiny little breaths, her breasts bouncing with each inhale and exhale.
Sara had expected Evie to beg. To plead in needy little whines, her depraved desires finally slipping from unconscious to conscious.
Evie opened her eyes, staring up at Hurlish.
“Y-you win.”
Hurlish’s grin was wide, satisfaction radiating from every pore.
“Very, very good Kitty,” Hurlish purred. “Now hold her down, Sara.”
Sara barely had enough time to grab Evie’s shoulders before Hurlish tore her pants off, Evie’s sopping underwear going with it. If Sara hadn’t taken hold in time, it seemed likely Evie would have been flung halfway across the fields. Hurlish didn’t care. She pressed a single finger to Evie’s dripping pussy, prodding at the entrance, as if she needed any confirmation that Evie was ready to take her.
Sara watched with bated breath, her own heart thudding in her chest. She wanted to see it. She wanted to watch Evie get taken apart.
But Hurlish paused, lifting her hand up and away. Evie whined in protest, until Hurlish dropped her palm down on her pelvis, resting it on her skin.
Sara licked her lips at the sight. Spread out like that, Hurlish’s single hand almost covered the catgirl’s entire stomach. Most of Sara’s toys back on earth had been shorter than the smith’s index finger. Hell, it was bigger than most dicks she’d taken, and thicker, too.
Evie saw the implication clearly. It was obvious in the way her breath hitched, chest frozen.
Then Hurlish dropped her hand back down and, without the slightest bit of ceremony, pushed inside Evie.
The catgirl threw her head back with a keening moan, back arching off the ground. Her fingers and toes curled as her tail fell suddenly limp, as if the nerves had been severed. She fell back down a moment later, panting, only to be thrown up again as Hurlish crooked her finger, grinding at the top of Evie’s walls.
“Gods, gods, gods,” Evie whined, repeating the word as a mindless prayer. “Please. Please, please faster.”
Sara spared a brief glance at Hurlish. She was unsurprised to find the cockiest grin she’d ever seen a woman wear plastered across the orc’s face.
Hurlish drew back with a wet noise. Evie shuddered, throwing her legs around Hurlish’s waist, trying to draw her back in.
Hurlish obliged, and Sara learned why she’d been told to hold Evie down.
She thrust into Evie with the force of a jackhammer, burying herself into the knuckle in an instant. Evie’s entire body was thrown up into Sara’s lap with a gasp, eyes widening in shock.
She wasn’t even given a moment to recover. Hurlish’s finger slipped out, then thrust in again, setting a brutal, merciless pace. Evie was forced further up into Sara’s lap, her breath stolen from her as her entire body shook with the force of Hurlish’s thrusts.
Without breaking pace, the orc leaned forward, taking Evie’s breast between her teeth once more. This time, though, she bit down, tugging hard.
Evie’s only reaction was a wet clicking noise from her throat as her body tried to react, but there wasn’t anything she could do. She froze like she’d been shocked, then began to shake and shiver, ever-more humiliating sounds pulled from her throat. The pace Hurlish set should have been brutal, painful, and it likely was, yet Evie’s entire body was writhing in abject delight.
Evie threw her head to the side, burying her face between Sara’s thighs as whatever was left of her instincts tried to hide her shameful pleasure. Sara watched her unoccupied breast bounce with every impact, while Hurlish’s own generous chest pressed against the catgirl’s body, enveloping her in softness.
“Good girl, such a good girl,” Sara cooed. She began to stroke Evie’s hair, steadily guiding her face back up, facing the open sky. Evie whined and whined, trying to fight it, to keep her face hidden, but Sara knew just what to do. With a single knuckle, she pressed down into the catgirl’s ear, grinding at the twitching muscles.
Evie’s mouth fell open with a pitiful cry, her entire body contorting to shove harder into the touch. Her shaking began to reach a crescendo that, when Hurlish’s thumb reached up to rub at her clit, become a sudden, convulsing climax.
She twisted her head back and forth, grinding into Sara’s hand with the same mindless need that had consumed her lower half, which was throwing itself into Hurlish’s touch. The mere sight of her climax had Sara’s own body clenching down on nothing, feeling light-headed as she watched the most beautiful woman she’d ever met come apart at the seams. Sara kept stroking Evie’s hair as she shook, crying out in delirious pleasure. Her choking whines reached a peak, each one nearly a scream as Hurlish continued to grind against her pussy, and began to slowly peter out as she used the last of her air, her voice turning scratchy and raw. Sara slowly lowered her back to the blanket, guiding her through the come-down of her climax, but never without pulling her hands from the catgirl’s ears.
With a final, trembling moan, Evie collapsed. Her entire body was limp on the blanket, save for the occasional tremors which ran through her, the aftershocks of her orgasm rippling across her skin. Sara slipped her hands away from her ears slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb her. Evie’s head came to rest in her lap once more, quiet breath whistling through her teeth.
“So…” Hurlish said after some time, drawing Sara’s attention upward. “That was easier than I thought it’d be.”
Sara barely choked back her laughter, still not wanting to wake Evie. “Yeah,” she said, “Evie’s like that. Pretty nice, isn’t it?”
“Fuckin’ beautiful is what it was.” Hurlish shifted backward, rolling out her shoulder, flexing the muscles in her hand. Then glanced at Sara, smirking. “Doesn’t look like she has another round in her. How ‘bout you?”
Sara flung her shirt off to land somewhere in the darkness, advancing on Hurlish without hesitation.
Notes:
Next week: the beginning of book three!
Chapter 113: Book 3: Prologue
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tulian Republic Year 0
-----------------------------
Empire Year 1285 of the Aydrion Era
253rd Year of Civil War
Mui Thom walked along a very narrow, winding track in the mud. He was following the thin stretch of ground which the carts had passed over, rather than through, where the wheels had cut deep ruts in the mud. It was not as simple as one might expect. The carts took winding, twisting paths, as driver and steed alike tried to find an easier path across the sodden ground. The mere passage of fifty thousand marching soldiers and the hundreds of wagons required to supply them tore apart landscapes with ease. He could only imagine what it would be like to travel in one of the true armies, instead of this northern skirmish force. Far, far worse, he could only assume, and he already found himself often leaping across several feet of demolished terrain to land on a patch of unsoiled ground. Every time he did so, he imagined he could feel eyes boring into his back.
Oh well, he thought as he hopped across yet another gap, that's the privilege of being a Sergeant.
The yellow petals of rank had been stitched onto his uniform just a week before, and he wore the flowery insignia with beaming pride. For a man who had served five years in the army, he was far behind his peers in attaining his first Rank of Merit. For the spritely age of twenty-one, however, he was amongst the youngest Sergeants he knew. Many of the soldiers in the squad he'd been given command of were in fact older than him, which was a source of no small discontent.
And his present behavior wasn't helping. While he hopped from clear patch to clear patch, his squad slopped along behind him, forced into the mud by their rigid formation. He knew they despised the happy, downright jovial demeanor he carried himself with. Mui didn't want to say that he didn't care, but he had to admit that their opinion wasn't his greatest concern. He had spent five years marching in similar conditions, and he thought that his half decade of drudgery had at least earned him the right to spend a bit less time scraping muck from his boots at the end of each long day. Let them be irritated with his antics for now; what really mattered, and what would truly earn their loyalty, would be his success in command. Mui knew from long experience just how much a soldier would tolerate from an officer, so long as that officer proved competent in battle.
Unfortunately for Mui, as he stepped aside to relieve himself at the edge of the jungle-woven trail, he could see something very unfamiliar ahead. He had confidence in his ability, true, but he had always fought in very specific, intimately familiar fashions.
Now, for the past two days of their march northward, the trees had been shrinking. The titanic trunks that he had lived his entire life within had been thinning with every step, their green canopy slowly descending. It was an odd thing, to see trees that ended a mere fifty feet above his head. And now, as he looked to the north, he could see something even stranger. Something utterly alien in all his years of travel.
The trail ended. Not in a dead end, where the jungle had grown over the road. Not ending by virtue of turning to cobblestones, marking the entrance to a city. Not even ending in the way he occasionally saw when a lake lay ahead, reflecting the blue skies above.
No. It just... opened up. There wasn't anything further. The grass that tinged the edges of cleared trails spread, and spread, and spread, until it covered every inch of ground. Already he could see an entire mile ahead, and he could have seen even further, if it weren't for a single rising hill. When the army climbed that small rise, Mui imagined, he would have clear sight for many miles more.
He pulled up his pants, shouldering his spear as he hurried to retake with his place in the long line. While one part of his mind tracked the sodden terrain, turned over by fifty thousand marching boots, he tried to imagine how the generals would fight such an unfathomably unconstrained battle.
How could he keep his squad safe, when any group of soldiers could simply wheel around to press at the army from the sides? How could he ensure his squad would receive the safest posting, when one couldn't even know from what direction the enemy would attack? All military strategy he had ever known was predicated on two armies meeting between walls of impenetrable jungle, forced into a brutal shoving match as either side tried to wear down the enemy's resolve. The greatest commanders were those who could dig the deepest into the enemy formations, convincing their opponent's soldiers that defeat was inevitable. There was no way to do the same on an open field. What was there to stop your opponent from simply disengaging in the midst of battle, fleeing in any random direction? It seemed an impossible dilemma, and he hated that it was one which faced him so soon after earning his command.
Those were the gloomy thoughts that battled with the still-bubbling joy of his recent promotion as he marched the final mile out of the jungle. He was so occupied by his thoughts that he didn't notice he had actually emerged from the jungle. Not until he was well beyond the threshold. When the cart he had been following creaked into a sharp right turn, revealing the emptiness ahead of him, reality was thrust upon him.
The world slipped out from under itself. It was exactly as he had imagined, and all the more baffling for it. There was truly nothing ahead. No trees, no brush, no cities or rivers or lakes. Just grass as high as his waist, waving in the warm winds of the dry season. Only two things broke up the landscape: a single sprouting of sparse trees clustered around a rainwater pond some few hundred yards to the north west, and one tiny, lonesome village.
A village? He realized with a start. That shouldn't be here.
Now aware of his surroundings properly, he realized that the village was the discussion of everyone but himself. His recent promotion had come with the temporary honor of marching near the head of the army, and so it was mostly cart-riding merchants, but a Warrior soon approached atop his slobbering animal.
"You! Sergeant! There is movement in that barbarian hovel. Bring its occupants for interrogation."
Though he had been marching since sun-up, and knew his squad was nearing exhaustion Mui dipped into a sharp bow, calling out a sharp, "Yes, sir!" He turned to his squad, who numbered twenty, and drew the side sword that was his official mark of rank. "You heard the man! Spears on your shoulders, shields on your arm!"
With the paradoxically lazy urgency only career soldiers could truly embody, they equipped themselves as he ordered. Packs were dropped in the half-empty cart of a merchant, whose name Mui officially recorded to ensure the fellow would not "lose" their supplies, and then they were off.
Moving at the double-pace down the hill, Mui was once again struck by the strangeness of being able to see so far into the distance. He was nearly two miles away from the village, yet he could already count individual homes.
Unfortunately, the same was true in reverse. The moving dots began to gather, and it was only a few short minutes before they became a solid blob, standing some hundred yards beyond the outmost building. Mui ordered his squad to continue approaching, even as he began to pick out the glittering tips of spears.
"They're just some barbarian militia," Mui called, allaying any concerns his troops may have. "And we are not going to fight them. Only investigate what the northerners are doing so close to our jungle, and bring one back to a Warrior for their interrogation. Even barbarians are not foolish enough to fight over such a thing."
His soldiers grumbled, reluctant at the prospect of potentially coming to blows with even half-trained fools, but did not slow their march. That would be enough for now. Mui would have been a fool to expect genuine loyalty after only a week in command.
After a brisk half-hours march to the village, Mui called for a halt at the edge of arrow range. Despite his assurances that there would be no violence, he ordered the squad to drain the last of their canteens and adjust their armor as a precaution. While they did so, he studied the barbarians.
They were much as he had expected of the northern tribes the army's commanders had told them occupied this land. Their clothing was simple and undyed, clearly worn by a hard life of tending tiresomely unproductive fields. Their spears were well-made for what they were, but of uninspired design. With simple iron heads secured by a wooden crossguard, they were weapons meant for dealing with animals, not soldiers. Their line was jagged, but still a line, rather than an undisciplined mob, which suggested they'd received lessons of some sort in the past. It wasn't enough to pose a threat to his squad, but it was worth noting.
The only irregularity came from two individuals standing at the rear of the line. They were both orcs, and could easily see over the rest of their fellows, a fact which they were using to point some strange contraption at Mui's squad. At first he thought they were crossbows, judging by how they were being held, but they had no strings, nor even a visible arrow, only a metal tube bookended by a wooden grip. That they were being pointed at Mui's squad in such blatantly threatening manner gave him reason to pause, however. With the fact that the two orcs were at the center rear of their little rabble, it seemed the devices were something the villagers thought worth protecting. Dangerous, then. At least in the mind of a barbarian.
"Hold firm, and take no hostile action except for self-defense," Mui instructed his squad tersely. "Keep your spears on your shoulder, but have your shields held before yourself. I don't want to lose my first soldier to some field-mad barbarian lobbing a rock when they weren't looking, understood?"
His troops did as ordered, bringing their shields up to protect their bodies. He thought he even detected a smirk or two, which he was glad for. No matter how dispassionate in their duties they were, the idea of a soldier of the Emperor being felled by a tossed stone was an amusing thought to them all.
Mui ordered them forward in a slow march, slower even than walking pace. He did not want to startle the villagers into doing anything stupid. He knew the Warrior who had ordered him to this task was watching even now, and the stakes for seeing his first meaningful order seen through were high.
To his relief, the barbarians held. They were chattering amongst themselves in words he couldn't quite pick out, but they did not charge, flee, or loose arrows.
Mui called a halt when only fifty yards separated him from the barbarians. Once more unsheathing his Sergeant's sword, he stepped ahead of his troops, trusting his armor to protect him from any hasty shots. He paid close attention to the strange metal tubes, but seeing as they had no bolt or arrow loaded, he considered himself reasonably safe.
"Hello!" He called, tapping the tip of his sword to the Sergeant's Petal on his shoulder, as if the barbarians would recognize its meaning. "I am Sergeant Mui Thom of the True Emperor's Adjutant's Northern Expeditionary Taskforce, and I have been gifted the orders of a Warrior. He asks that I bring one of your number, the most educated among them, to tell the tale of your humble home."
The militia stared at him blankly. Mui hesitated, opening his mouth to say more, but stopped when one of the orcs with the strange contraption spoke.
"Sergeant Mui Thom?" She asked. She spoke in a slow, grating tone, pointing at Mui as she said his name. Her brow was crooked by curiosity.
"Yes," he said, irritated. "Of the True Emperor's Adjutant's Northern Expeditionary Taskforce, as I said."
Once more, he was met with blank stares. Then the woman spoke again, and he suddenly understood.
"Bhadi hadc dofs Sergeant dos tyr amiir army?"
Sweet gods, Mui lamented to himself, have they really been so corrupted by their exposure to this maddening emptiness? It hasn't been three centuries since they were civilized, and yet they've already forgotten their language!
Clearly some words had been kept through the centuries, and so he hoped that some mutual communication could be established. He began speaking slowly, exaggerating his pronunciation.
"Mui Thom," he confirmed, tapping his chest. "Army," he said with a nod, this time pointing at the hill which was even now spilling over with soldiers making camp. "You village?" He circled his finger around the group, indicating their whole group. "Need one. Talk to army." He held up one finger, walked it towards the hill, then made a chattering motion with his hands, imitating two people talking at each other.
Later, when he had gained a firmer grasp of the northern language, he would recognize the orc's sordid response for what it was.
"Y'all, are we sure this kid isn't, uh, a bit touched?"
Having no idea what had been just said, Mui nodded with a wide smile, waving in an exaggerated a 'come here' motion.
Before he could get a meaningful response, however, one of his soldiers cried out.
"Sarge!" The man called. His voice was shrill enough for Mui to whip around, hand on his sword, searching for an ambush.
He followed the man's pointing arm, however, further and further, until he saw that he was pointing at no ambush at all.
At least, not one for his squad.
The hill he had come from was vomiting a pillar of billowing, pallid smoke. Mui could see more fires being lit each passing moment, stocks of skywreathe thrown from carts as fast as could be managed.
"How?" He whispered, whirling to shade his eyes as he searched the skies. It shouldn't have been possible. There should have been no way for them to have scouts so far north! Had the army mistaken some native bird for an enemy, throwing themselves into a panic? He thought they were better than this!
Then, a chill running down his spine, he spotted it. A dark shape towards the east, a blot against the pale blue sky. It was too far away to see much detail, and he had never heard of the enemy acting alone, but there was nothing else it could be. It was too large, too high, too fast to be anything else.
"Back to the camp! Back, back, back! Grab whatever javelins you can find, then take your positions!"
This time, his squad responded near instantly. They broke into a run as soon as he was finished speaking, slapping their shields on their back and tucking their spears as close to their shoulders as they could.
Behind them, unbeknownst to Mui, the orc muttered once more.
"...did that weird catfolk's whole army just light itself on damn fire?"
-----------------------------------------
Tinvel
-----------------------------------------
Eight hundred feet above the green waves of southern Tulian, Tinvel's hair was being blown back by a wind of nearly seventy miles an hour. He was traveling faster than almost any human being had traveled, his distant shadow a blur over the landscape. Below him was a view of breathtaking majesty, once known only to the Dragons and those lucky few that had ridden them, the inspiration for untold numbers of poetic epics.
And he was having a panic attack.
“Why hasn’t it stopped yet?!” Chona yelled at him, her fur whipping wildly in the open cockpit.
“I don’t know!” He screamed back.
“Why don’t you know?!”
“If I knew that I would have fixed it already!”
Though he was technically in control of the biplane, Tinvel’s eyes were on anything but the majestic view ahead. He was awkwardly twisted around in his wicker seat, neck crooked over, with only the tips of one hand barely nudging the control column. His other hand was running along the gemstones set into the wooden paneling behind him, sending tiny sparks of energy into each one. Even with wind roaring in his ears, he watched each gem’s response to the stimulus carefully, trying to figure out what exactly had gone wrong.
“Tinvel!”
“I’m working on it!”
He shifted further in his seat, ignoring the painful jabbing of various protrusions that dug into his skin.
Who would have thought we’d have trouble with the plane going too fast?
Yet again finding nothing on this particular check of the eight rhythmically thumping gemstones, Tinvel was forced to begin the process anew. This was only their third flight of the biplane, and they were well beyond the planned scope of the test. The Governess had wanted them to take the plane up near the southern border to track the progress of the jungle’s steady northward encroachment. He and Chona had agreed at once; the southern fields were perfect testing grounds for the aircraft, well away from any prying eyes, with ample ground to land should any problem arise.
The plane had been built with three speeds. A takeoff speed, emergency speed, and what David Brown called a “cruising speed.” Takeoff speed was self-explanatory, being the power setting required to lift the biplane off the ground, while cruise speed was supposed to be what they kept the plane set to most of the time.
The emergency speed, however, was the absolute maximum power output the gemstones were capable of. It had been added almost as an afterthought, when he'd realized the gemstones had just a little bit more to give before shattering. He'd reasoned it might allow them to get out of a bad situation as fast as humanly possible, after which they could return to the more sedate cruising speed. On the previous two test flights, they’d only ever used the takeoff speed, circling the area for a few short minutes before cutting the engine and gliding back to the runway. Today had been the flight that would test their ability to transfer between speeds mid-flight. The test had been running almost flawlessly, up until a few minutes prior.
Now it was going very, very poorly.
“They won’t switch back!” Tinvel yelled, barely audible over the wind. “They’re stuck on emergency!”
“Then cut the power!”
“That’s not working either!”
“How?!”
“Stop asking me that!”
As he twisted further in the seat, trying to get a better angle, his tenuous grasp on the control column suddenly slipped.
The plane jerked, control surfaces fluttering wildly as they were buffeted by the wind which his grip was no longer counteracting. The entire vehicle rolled hard to the right, threatening to invert entirely, and then, just as abruptly, snapped to the left, slamming the side of Tinvel’s head against something hard. The tail began a violent oscillation in the same moment, adding a nauseating corkscrew to the violent left-right whipsawing.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” Tinvel spewed a litany of curses as the plane continued to bob and weave uncontrollably, tossing him around in his seat. If he hadn’t been tied in at the waist, he certainly would have been tossed free, likely flying straight into the massive propeller whirring inches behind his head.
After a few moments of sheer panic, Tinvel finally grabbed a hold of the control column, freezing the plane in place.
“Up!” Chona screeched. “Up, up, up!”
A spike of dread shot through Tinvel as he looked forward, finding his entire view filled with a sea of green. He tore back on the control column as hard as he dared, trying to find a balance between pulling out of the dive and not ripping the wings in half from the stress.
The sudden feeling of swallowing his own tongue was thoroughly unwelcome, as was the gray which began to tinge the edge of his vision, but nothing was worse than the fact that the ground kept getting closer.
“ROLL LEFT! LEFT!”
For once, Tinvel did as Chona said without a second thought. He released his pull on the control stick, slammed it to the left for one agonizing second, and then heaved backward once more.
The blue horizon that crawled into his line of sight was maybe the most beautiful thing Tinvel had ever seen. The plane began to choke its way back up into the skies, yard by yard, while Tinvel kept a white-knuckled grip on the controls, refusing to let go for even a moment.
“You were driving us straight into the ground!” Chona yelled at him, once she’d caught her breath. She was half-turned around in her seat, pupils dilated with anger and terror. “What in the gods' names were you thinking?!”
“You said to pull up!”
“I meant go up, not pull up! We were upside down!”
“How the hells was I supposed to know that?!”
“By using your eyes!”
What Tinvel wanted to say was that he couldn’t see over her massive head, but there wasn’t much point in arguing. Of course that normally didn’t stop him, but for once he had something better to do.
With a monumental effort, Tinvel forced one hand to release its claw grip on the control column. This time making sure to keep his gaze firmly ahead, he felt at the crystals, trying to diagnose the problem once more.
"Wait," Chona said, causing Tinvel to freeze. "Look! Look over there!"
Tinvel followed her pointing finger, expecting to find some horrible damage to the aircraft that was going to send them plummeting out of the sky, only to find her pointing ahead. He leaned to one side, mindful of the control column, peering through the web of support spars that secured the plane's wings.
"What in the hells...?" He muttered. The words were snatched away by the wind, but he felt sure his expression gave Chona the gist.
Pooling on a large hill, just beyond the jungle wall, was an utter impossibility. A teeming horde of people, unlike anything he had ever seen before, with more still trickling out of the jungle. He knew at once it was a military force of some description, if only because the great throngs were divided into neat rows and marching columns, but who they belonged to, or just how many of them there were, he couldn't say. All he could say was that he had never seen so many people in one place.
"We need to get closer!" Tinvel yelled, when he finally got his wits about him. He tilted the control column to the right, sending the plane in a sweeping curve.
Chona whirled on him. "Woah, what? No we don't!"
"Do you know what that is?" He called back.
"No, of course not!"
"Exactly! We we need to find out!"
Chona stared incredulously at him, her vanara eyes widened with alarm. Beneath her glass-plated 'aviator' goggles, the expression looked rather comical.
"No the hell we don't!" She cried. "What are you thinking? We almost crashed, like, five seconds ago!"
"But we didn't! I can keep working on it while we get closer, alright? Keep a lookout!"
Making a point to keep staring straight ahead, Tinvel fumbled behind himself once more, struggling to split his attention. Flying the biplane was already a near impossible task, with the way every twitch and turn was puppeted by nothing more than unpowered metal cables, and now he was trying to fix the engine while he was at it.
I told her we needed secondary controls in the front seat! If she could be flying, I could actually fix this damn thing!
The biplane that David Brown had helped them invent was a messy, complicated affair. The Champion's illusory recreations of otherworldly machines could only do so much, leaving much of the design to their own ingenuity. Tinvel thought they had done a decent job, considering the fact that the thing really did fly, but even he couldn't say it flew well. According to Mr. Brown, the plane they had tried to replicate was, while innovative for its time, hopelessly outdated after a mere few months spent fighting in what he called the Great War. Placing the prop behind the pilot, for example, was apparently bad practice, but it was also the only way they could see for Chona to be able to loose spells ahead of the aircraft. Similarly, having two sets of wings slowed the plane considerably, but they lacked the ability to build something sturdy enough to survive with only one pair of wings. It was, by all accounts, a stopgap measure, unlikely to be remembered for much beyond the fact that it was the world's first.
Despite all this, as he rocketed towards the strange army at a thousand untouchable feet above the ground, Tinvel could feel just how profoundly the world had changed. He was charging towards untold thousands of soldiers, and he didn't think he was in the slightest bit of danger.
"How many do you think there are?" He asked.
"Thousands!" Chona yelled back, gripping the wall of the plane's cockpit as she leaned over the side.
That's an understatement, Tinvel thought as he tried to make his own appraisal. The closer they got to the massive army, the more he seemed to pick out. Dots he'd thought were individuals proved to be clumps of soldiers, many of which were busying themselves by setting up tents or emptying supply carts. Forlornly, he found himself desperately wishing David had finished creating his binocular devices before this flight. He would be able to tell so much more if he could just see them a little bit closer.
Unconsciously, Tinvel tilted the plane's nose forward. The propeller's whirring buzz ticked up a notch as they began to accelerate into the dive.
Before Chona even had the chance to yell at him for his recklessness, however, something unexpected happened.
Signaled by some unheard horn, flurries of motion erupted across the entire half-finished encampment. Tinvel squinted as hard as he could, trying to see what was happening, only for the army to announce its intentions for him.
A fire began somewhere near the center of the camp, a normal wisp of smoke beginning to drift upward, only to abruptly burst into a roiling grey cloud. Other fires began beside it, then beside them and beside them in a growing chain, until suddenly the entire camp was covered by an impenetrable tower of thick smog. It wasn't smoke like Tinvel had ever known it. Instead of soot, it was the color of pale grey ashes, the remnants of a cook fire thrown into the air.
"Get away from that!" Chona yelled.
"Why?"
"Because they're doing it to hide from us! And if they already had a plan for hiding from something flying, doesn't that mean there's something nearby that can fly too? Something that's a threat to an entire damned army?"
Tinvel's short-lived euphoria was poked through by her words, his sense of invincible confidence deflating in a sputtering gasp. She was right. What kind of army made plans for hiding from something flying?
He reluctantly began to tilt the plane away, diverting towards the east. He wouldn't be getting any more detail on the army, not without flying through the cloud itself, and the last thing he wanted to do was slam into the ground because his vision was choked with ash.
He saw Chona sigh in the seat in front of him, shoulders relaxing. She turned her attention away from the massive army behind them, instead slipping a compass from one of the many pouches she'd sewn around the edges of her seat. After waiting a moment for the jittering needle to stabilize, she pointed towards the plane's 11 o'clock.
"They should be back that way!"
"Okay! I think we're going to have to circle above the others until we run out of power! I can't fix this in mid-flight!"
"Better hope nothing explodes before it runs out of juice then, right?" Chona asked, a nervous laugh in her voice.
Tinvel didn't return the humor. He'd felt the crystals himself. They were draining too much, too fast. Explosion was a very real possibility.
Before he could try and talk it over with her, he was yet again derailed by an impossible sight.
Another army emerging from the jungle, some five miles east of the first. Though he couldn't see all of the soldiers, half-hidden by the trees as they were, it was already looking to be as large a force as the first.
"How?!" Chona screeched.
"I wish you'd stop fucking asking me that!" Tinvel yelled back, curving further north to avoid overflying the army. Once he was on a better course, he dipped a wing, affording himself a view of the absurd sight.
"There's no way we can beat an army that size!" Chona yelled. "Not even a Champion can do that! What the fuck do we do?!"
"I don't think we'll have to do anything!" Tinvel yelled back. He lifted a hand to point. "Look! They've got their weapons out, and they're heading west!"
"Are they going to fight each other?"
"I sure hope so!" Tinvel tipped the plane into a dive once more, this time on purpose. "Either way, we've got to get the hell back home!"
The world's first biplane gathered speed, wings jittering and tail bouncing. Behind it, two massive armies began to close on one another. It was a calamity in the making, Tinvel knew.
"...hey Chona!"
"Yeah?"
"I call dibs on not telling Evie!"
The vanara girl's head thumped back, bouncing off her headrest as she groaned.
"Shit!"
Tinvel laughed. He supposed he shouldn't have been laughing, considering the circumstances. Their third test flight had been disaster after disaster, and it would only get worse when– if– they managed to land.
Tinvel laughed again. He couldn't help it; he was flying. That's all he needed.
Notes:
Well, that's a start I'm proud of. Hope the questions I asked and answered don't drive you crazy before next week!
Chapter 114: Book 3: Chapter 1
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
----------------------------
Ignite Parables
----------------------------
Five thousand pounds of iron swung precariously overhead, dangling from a tangled spiderweb of thick ropes. The wooden crane which had lifted the cannon groaned ominously as its gears turned, a dozen shirtless sailors shining with sweat as they worked the massive machinery. Ignite felt he should have been using his strength at the wheel with the others, but he had been ordered otherwise. Someone needed to coordinate the loading of the cannon, and he was the most senior unoccupied officer.
“Halt!” Ignite yelled, holding up a hand. The sailors operating the crane scraped to a stop, bracing against the mechanism until the supervising engineer threw the brake lever. That had been one of the Governess’s personal additions to otherwise common cargo cranes. Ignite had never heard of dockyard which featured half the ‘safety features’ she insisted upon.
“Begin lowering!” Ignite called. The sailors moved now to a different spoked wheel, this one attached to the multitude of ropes securing the cannon, and braced themselves against the wood.
After confirming all were in their place, the engineer threw a different lever. The entire crane lurched as the cannon’s weight was allowed to shift, prevented from crashing to the deck only by counterweights and the efforts of the sailors.
“Slowly, carefully now. You’ve done it before, you know what to do!”
At Ignite’s prompting, the sailors shuffled their feet, allowing the wheel to push them around in a slow turn. The cannon began lowering, inch by inch, foot by foot. This was always the tensest moment. If the cannon were dropped, or even allowed to hit the deck too quickly, it would smash straight through the thin wood. Sinking one own’s flagship in the process of outfitting its weaponry was decidedly not on Ignite’s list of priorities.
Thankfully, after many fraught minutes, the cannon disappeared through the cargo hatch. Gunner Balon was waiting below with a carriage, which he rolled underneath the weapon. After ensuring the placement was exact, Ignite gave the order for the final release of tension from the crane.
The latest cannon of the TRS Waverake settled into its home with nary a bump nor creak. Ignite felt his shoulders slump in relief as he heaved out a long sigh.
Ignite had helped load ten cannons over the last two months, and each one had filled him with the same profound anxiety. Not only was the potential for loss of life or limb great in every moment, the cannons themselves were absurdly expensive. The TRS Waverake now mounted twenty 24-pounders in addition to ten 32-pounder carronades, and each one had cost a fortune. An entire fleet of more conventional warships could have been built with what had been spent on her weaponry. The Governess had been importing raw iron, copper, and tin in as large a quantity as other cities were capable of sending her, afforded only through the accumulation of considerable debts.
Privy as he was to the Governess’s innermost council, Ignite knew that she was completely confident that her industrialization efforts would provide the necessary material to pay off what was becoming an otherwise insurmountable debt. Governance was not his place, yet he could not help growing wary of his new nation’s burgeoning foreign commitments.
Ignite could do only two things to assist in the matter. Firstly, pray that Sara’s gambling would yield the expected dividends, and secondly, ensure that not a single one of the gargantuan weapons would go to waste.
But a waste for who? Ignite wondered. He began heading to the aft of the ship, where Admiral Nora was giving yet another of her naval lectures to the newest crewmembers.
As he went, he found his stomach churning. His loyalties were yet again at odds with one another.
It was clear to Ignite and the Waverake’s other officers that their Captain was preparing the ship for a voyage. She had been ordering repeated inspections of the hull, loading salted meats and preserved fruits, and stuffing stocks of wood and cloth for repairs into the hold. She inspected the trim of the ship at least twice a day, often more, and had been spending her every free moment educating the least experienced hands on the intricacies of the Waverake’s incredibly complex rigging.
Normally, Ignite would have lauded any commander who was so diligent in their preparations. Unfortunately, in this instance, it was clear that his Captain’s intent and the Governess’s were at direct odds.
From their meetings, Ignite knew that Sara had no intention of deploying the Waverake farther than Tulian’s territorial waters. Nora, meanwhile, had accumulated supplies enough to sail thousands of miles without a single port call. There was a conflict brewing, and Ignite feared he would once again be called upon to determine his loyalties.
“The last cannon is loaded, Captain,” Ignite said, stepping into the circle of adult students who were listening to Nora’s explanation of rigging the ship for a storm. “Gunner Balon is placing it in the bow now, and the armory has been filled to capacity.”
“Thank ye, First Sergeant,” Nora said, flashing a smile at him. In her sleek black uniform, with its shining epaulets and golden tassels, no one could say she was not a charming commander, despite her oddities. To many, those eccentricities only furthered their awe for the half-elf woman. “Fifteen on either broadside, with two long guns fore and aft. It’ll be a wonder if ye ever find yourself needing to repel boarders again, Ignite.”
“One can only hope,” Ignite replied politely. He knew that it was an unlikely supposition. The Waverake was only one ship, and any vessel could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. “Have you any other duties for me, ma’am?”
“Not at the moment, nae. But I’d ask to see ye in the stateroom, come evening. Pass the word to yer fellow officers, would ye?”
“Of course, ma’am.” Ignite retreated with a salute, which the Admiral returned. Compared to the low bow he had been raised to address Admirals with, the simple salute was one of Sara’s most welcome changes.
Ignite spent a few minutes doing as instructed. He walked up and down the Waverake’s many decks, finding the scattered officers and informing them of the meeting. A ship that held over five hundred sailors required quite the number of superiors to manage them, and it took him some time. He did not even bother trying to track down those that were away in the city; either they were on tasks best not interrupted, or they were too drunk to be of any use. He wished he could begrudge them for this, but there was no use. Habitual drunkenness in port was a tradition as ancient as the first water-logged raft.
When he had ensured each man and woman understood his message, Ignite was left without much to do. It wasn’t as if there was another cannon to load. Hurlish’s foundries (and they were Hurlish’s, no matter what the Governess said) could only produce one cannon a week at the best of times, and that was with their efforts siphoning every scrap of ore the government could get its hands on.
Technically, he supposed, he was off duty. He did not know what to do with that. He had a home in the city, but he had not visited it in weeks. Even now, months after her commitment to the Church of Amarat’s treatments, Pupils was everywhere. The twice-traitorous woman that Ignite had fallen into the arms of was a specter at the edges of his mind, always threatening to drag him under the waves.
Fifteen years of proud service in the Carrion Navy had been ruined in one short hour. He had abandoned his ship, watching the brave sailors he had served alongside sink into the deep.
Unlike him, they had done their duty. The Carrion Navy’s secrets had sunk with them.
The lone woman who had been saved alongside him had been one he fell for. It had been a quiet, gentle coming together, two souls bound by mutual loss. Slowly, he realized he loved her.
Too slowly, too softly.
He had seen the pain in her eyes, and in his search to soothe it, missed the treachery lurking behind. He had not known she was betraying their saviors until it was too late. And so he, a man of two homes, two peoples, had betrayed them both.
Summoned by his dour thoughts, he became aware of the sickly, cloying miasma of depression licking at his mind. His hand fell reflexively to his hip, where his revolver sat.
If you cannot trust yourself, let this weapon be the proof of my trust in you.
Evie’s words, written in simple, clinical script, echoed with a force beyond their measure. A plain statement, but a profound one. Even now, months after the war had concluded, there existed two revolvers in all the world. They were powerful, unique weapons, so much so that their mere existence was a secret. He had been instructed in no uncertain terms that, should he draw his revolver, it must be with the intent to kill all who witnessed its use. As far as Ignite was aware, the weapon’s design was a secret without equal in the Tulian Republic.
And Evie Eliah, wife of a Champion, the most paranoid woman in the nation, had entrusted the weapon to him.
Ignite took a deep breath, drawing strength from the cool steel under his palm. Kate, the weapon had been named. For the first slave that the Champion of Amarat had saved. Under Captain Nora’s command, Ignite had helped free hundreds more, all in the name of Sara Brown’s vision for the future. For the first time in his life, he had fought not for a nation, but a cause. It was a privilege that had been afforded him only through service to the Champion.
Before he consciously realized he had made the decision, Ignite turned sharply, moving with purpose to the helm. The Captain was still speaking to a group of sailors, making flowing, animated gestures as she explained the nature of breaking waves near peninsulas.
“Captain, I must speak with you,” Ignite said. The firmness of his voice surprised him.
“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’ll be with ye in a moment, First Sergeant.”
“Immediately, ma’am.”
At this, Nora paused. Her eyes, always swirling through shades of oceanic blue, bored into him. Ignite held her gaze.
“Dismissed,” she said, waving her students off. “In the stateroom, Ignite?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ignite followed Nora into the Waverake’s expansive stateroom, which had been enlarged by the sleepless captain’s deconstruction of her personal cabin. After growing used to meetings in which so many officers were stuffed into the room that the air grew stale, it was decidedly odd to be alone with the Captain.
“Yer concern, Ignite?” Nora asked.
Ignite began without preamble, standing in parade rest, arms folded behind his back, staring straight ahead. “Where are we going, Captain? The Governess’s orders were clear. We are to patrol Tulian territorial waters, asserting the Republic’s sovereignty by maintaining historical border claims.”
“Who says we aren’t?”
“You have emptied the city’s siege stores in order to load fifty tons of food, most of which is preserved for long-term storage, in addition to six hundred barrels of fresh water. The armory is beyond capacity, requiring storage of cannonballs amongst the hold, and you have exchanged the ship’s muskets for newer production examples. I am not a quartermaster, Captain, but I am not a fool, either. We are comfortably provisioned to spend at least four months at sea, with the ammunition required to spend much of that time fighting. The Waverake is capable of covering forty leagues a day. There is no location we might travel to which requires the sheer volume of provisions you have prepared, Captain. We could travel to the Locks of the Sea and back twice over without once stopping for resupply.”
Ignite kept his attention fixed firmly on the rear of the cabin. There was a stained glass rendition of Daylagon placed there, a mural which had taken on something of a firmer importance in Ignite’s mind, considering recent events.
“Until recently, I believed that my loyalty was firm. Uncomplicated. You, as Admiral of the Navy, serve Tulian, and through you, so do I. But if you intend to disobey orders, to desert with the flagship…”
Ignite let the implication hang. Truthfully, he did not know how he would finish the sentence.
“And if I do?” Nora asked, forcing the issue. “What will you do, Ignite?”
“Make a difficult decision, ma’am.”
“Mm.” She settled into her chair, appraising Ignite. “So, then. Yer question, at the heart of it, is whether I’ll be sailing for Sara, or at my own pleasure.”
“That is one way to phrase it, ma’am.”
Nora steepled her fingers, narrowing her eyes at Ignite. Once, he might have maintained his stoicism. Now, after all he had seen of the woman, his feet shifted, itching to take a runner’s stance.
Instead of growing irate at his questioning, however, Nora O’Gallison smirked. She stood, smile growing, and walked to the shelves which lined the stateroom’s walls.
Nora slipped a rolled-up map out from its place amongst its fellows, moving to spread it across the table. He was surprised to see what it depicted. The known seas, depicted in their entirety. He’d never heard of a journey which required three thousand miles of ocean to be seen at once.
“This ship is too big for the pond we’ve put her in,” Nora purred, lovingly smoothing the edges of the paper. “The last year’s seen me bestowed with two gifts, Ignite. A ship, from a Champion. And a Class, from a God. And I’ve no intention to put either to waste.”
Ignite watched her fingers trail along the yellowed papyrus, tracing the ocean’s curves with the sensuality of a languid lover. She was reaching east, steadily, following the shoreline with a single digit.
He’d known that Nora idolized Admiral Sinti. He knew that she’d been trained by him, even. He’d hoped that she was different. That she hadn’t fallen into the same cult of personality which had swept up so many promising Captains.
His hopes died as her finger came to rest on the Locks of the Sea, fingernail digging an indentation into the paper. The great gate which held back the ocean beyond, and the beasts which lurked within.
Nora’s breath came in trembling, ecstatic puffs.
“We set sail for no queen’s orders, Ignite. We sail for a God. And tomorrow?” She giggled. “Tomorrow, we will paint our sails black.”
---------------------------
Evie
---------------------------
Sara had once suggested to Evie that she tie her tail down. It was a (largely sarcastic) response to Evie’s frustration that the limb, which she had precious little control over, was a constant vector for potential interpretation by others. Should she be in a tense discussion with an individual sufficiently familiar with felines, it would be a vulnerability akin to lacking the ability to moderate her facial expressions. A disastrous weakness, so far as concealing her thoughts was concerned. Of course, Evie had never done so preposterous a thing as wrapping a rope around her tail. The most she’d ever done was wear a hip-hugging garment with her tail tucked down, forcing it to still.
As she watched the plane circle above her, Evie was beginning to seriously consider her prior reluctance.
Her tail battered the air like a drunken brawler, fury sending its tip ripping repeatedly through the grass. In her fist was clutched an utterly imbecilic note, dropped from the fools up in that buzzing, circling bird. Written by two hands, the first portion of the note was penned in cleaner calligraphy, though clearly shaken by the craft’s vibration. It was not the cause for her present aggravation.
Crystal difficulties Cant slow down Waiting for power to deplete If wwe fall please catch Thanks Help
Then, beneath it, in an ugly scrawl.
TWO ARMMIES FEN MILESS SSOUTHEAST
WAY WWAAAY BIG
MABYE WILL FIGHT
Evie’s fist clenched around the note, claws poking pinprick holes in the cheap paper. When she had managed accounts and reports for her mother, Evie had received a number of ill-advised, uninformative letters. They had frustrated her immensely. No one that sent her such a report more than twice had remained on the House’s payroll. She had made sure of it. She couldn’t do the same now, but oh how she yearned for that same authority.
Intellectually, she understood why the note was so poor. Firstly, it had been tossed from an experimental aircraft, one that, by the sound of its violent overhead clattering, had been possessed by a burning desire to shake itself to pieces. Brevity could be excused in such circumstances. Clearly, Tinvel had written it, then handed it to Chona to be tossed over the side. He had known better than to provide Evie any information about these ‘armmies’ before reaching the ground.
Chona had disagreed, it would seem. She likely thought Evie would like to know about the armies as soon as possible. The girl had been correct. She had also admirably tried to provide details. Unfortunately for her, what exactly “fen miles southeast” meant was utterly opaque. Had the girl intended to write ‘ten’ or ‘few’? And what in the world did ‘mabye will fight’ mean? The armies would be coming to Tulian to fight? They would fight one another? Chona and Tinvel intended to fight them on their own? Evie desperately, desperately wanted an explanation.
And she would not have one until they landed. Which, depending on the rate at which the untested crystalline engine’s energies were depleted, could be up to half an hour.
I should be in the capital! Evie raged. She’d begun pacing the moment she received the note, and she hadn’t slowed a bit since. The few guards and amateur artificers which had accompanied her on this journey had retreated some fifty odd feet away, watching her with prudent concern.
Far away, oh so far away, were her wives, one of them heavily pregnant. It could be any day now that Hurlish went into labor. True, there were two weeks left until Hurlish was properly due, assuming the date of conception was calculated correctly, but that meant little. Pregnancies, Evie knew, were not predictable affairs. Rationally, she had been right to volunteer as an escort on this single-day journey south, knowing it was unlikely that a pair of days away could lead to her missing the birth of their child.
Evie’s tail struck the ground again, this time hard enough to draw blood. The others flinched, retreating a few steps further.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Evie had discovered she was not a perfectly rational person.
With a sudden, clicking drumroll, the buzz from above tapered away. Evie’s head snapped up, finding the biplane’s engine having seized.
Finally!
The plane began a glide towards the flat piece of ground that they had designated as a landing strip, the edges of its wings twisting and bending as Tinvel guided it down. Evie forced herself to wait well away from the inbound contraption, having long since been made aware of the potential disasters of a failed engine.
Sara and her father had thought that gemstone-powered engines would be a safer alternative to chemically powered devices in the event of catastrophic failure. Their first attempt at mating the crystal engine to the plane had disabused them of the notion. Fragments of wood and metal had been flung over the city walls, a quarter mile away.
Thankfully, the disaster was not recreated. The biplane slammed into the ground once, bounced up, then fell back down again, its entire frame shuddering as it began to bite the soil. In a few seconds the rubber-clad wheels had dragged the vehicle to a stop, their stiff hide digging deep lines in the mud as a result. Pressurized tires, Evie knew, were something Mr. Brown was aching to recreate.
Evie reached the vehicle at the same time its two occupants were clambering out, hurrying to rid themselves of their heavy flight gear. The Tulian dry season was approaching its end, but that did not mean it was any less sweltering. They tossed aside their heavy scarfs and leather jackets with sighs of relief, sweat already beading at their every pore.
Evie afforded them no time to recover themselves. She appeared at the edge of the wing in a blink, startling them both.
“What is this?” She demanded, thrusting the paper forward. It fell apart, long since shredded by her claws.
Tinvel pulled off his cap, frowning in confusion. “The engine wasn’t working-”
“Not that,” Evie hissed, staring daggers at Chona. “The armies. Explain.”
“You told her about-!”
“Explain!”
Both young artificers jumped. Chona spoke first, breathlessly clambering out of her seat.
“About twenty miles to the southeast, we saw an army,” she babbled, even as she shucked off her heavy overcoat, “this absolutely massive army coming out of the jungle. It had to be an army, because they were way too organized to be anything else.”
“And they were wearing armor, almost all of them,” Tinvel added, still in the seat of his cockpit. He was twisted around to look at the inset crystals, prodding them with a finger, but he spoke rapidly, as if he weren’t the slightest bit distracted. “I know you’re going to ask how many there were, but I don’t know. More people than I’ve ever seen in one place. Way more than the crowd when the Governess announced the Republic.”
Evie’s mind raced. After the Sporaton army had well and truly fled the country, when Sara had released the people to return to their farms, she had held a speech beyond the city walls to explain the nature of their new governance. The speech had been repeated several times, as not everyone could exit the city at once, and so each crowd had numbered approximately twenty thousand. A full fifth of the Tulian populace.
“How much larger?” She snapped. “A factor of two? Three?”
“At least two,” Chona said. “Probably more. And like he said, they were all wearing metal armor.”
“And then there was the other army,” Tinvel added. “We were flying back to tell you about the first one when we saw it. They were marching towards the first one, but they were all spread out, like they were going to fight.”
“Did they have supply carts with them?”
“Uh, I think?” Tinvel looked to Chona for support. The girl pretended not to notice, forcing him to continue on his own. “But they were behind the army, the, uh, supply carts, I mean, whereas the other one had their carts up in front.”
“For the second army, were the carts protected or abandoned?”
“There were people with armor near them…” Tinvel hedged.
“Protected, then.” Evie paced, mind a maelstrom. “They are fighting, then. Two armies of a size not seen since the Northern Empire's collapse, sitting on our southern border, going to war.” Her eyes snapped up, pinning the artificers in place. “How far apart were they at the time you last saw them?”
“Um… maybe five miles?”
When Chona remained silent, trying to avoid her ire, Evie fixed her with a glare.
“Five miles sounds right,” she squeaked out.
“And how long ago was this?”
“An hour or so, maybe? I think? We haven't finished watches yet.”
“Then the battle hasn’t yet begun, if there is to be one.”
Evie abandoned the two artificers without another word, darting back to her escorts. They were members of the Tulian Guard, ostensibly here for the protection of Evie and the prototype vehicle. In reality, Evie considered them little more than another set of eyes, useful for looking wherever she wasn’t. If something were to appear that was a threat to Evie, they would be dead before they could level their muskets.
“My crystal,” she said, holding out her hand. The woman shoved her hand into a bag, retrieving it as fast as she was physically capable. Evie brought the crystal to her lips, moving far enough away that no one could overhear.
“Sara?” She asked. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of cloth rustling against the crystal’s skin.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“How is Hurlish?” Evie asked. It hadn't been her intended question, but the moment she realized she could ask it, the priority overrode all others.
“She’s doing fine. You haven’t missed anything.”
“Thank goodness.” Evie sighed her relief. Then she paused, hesitating. “There has been a… development.”
“Yeah?”
------------------------------
Mui Thom
------------------------------
The battle could have gone worse.
It also could have gone far, far better.
Mui’s hope that the Warriors of his army had some secret strategem for dealing with combat on the open plains had been dashed. He had succesfully negotiated with other Sergeants to have his squad placed in the mid-left of the formation, well behind the head of the column, with two squads positioned to his left. Conventional wisdom held that this was amongst the safest positions, so that a squad’s flank could be protected by the jungle. Mui had chosen to place himself slightly inset of the normally vaunted position, so that any flanking manuever would not be met by his squad, but the others to his side. In a normal battle, his squad would have struggled to even see the enemy, much less become meaningfully engaged.
He had not been clever enough.
The two armies had begun the battle in proper fashion, like the tips of two long spearheads colliding into one another. Just as he had feared, however, tradition had failed them. Warriors had ordered squad after squad to abandon the rear ranks, sending them rushing forward to meet the enemy that was doing the same, both sides trying to envelop their opposites. The rectangular column that had defined every battle he had ever fought was consumed by a chaotic melee, individual squads wandering the open ground in utter confusion.
Instead of two great armies colliding in a press of steel against steel, the battle had dissolved into a scattered series of skirmishes, single squads against single squads. Warriors roamed through the open lanes, slamming into the rear of spear blocks too distracted to prepare for their arrival. In all his years of battle, he had never seen so much blood spilled in so short a time.
His squad, unbelievably, had gotten the better of it. Twelve of his original twenty had lived. Compared to much of the army, that was remarkable. Six of his remaining dozen were too injured to walk, and he had already spent his promotion bonus and then some on bribes to the appropriate officers, who would order the healers to his squad before their wounds festered beyond recovery.
It had been a Warrior that did the damage, of course. Some armored bastard riding a massive krapeu. He had not seen them coming until the beast had bit the head off the first man, its rider killing the others in a blurred flurry of swings. The Warrior had been gone before Mui could so much as turn around; he had only seen the massacre from the corner of his eye.
Mui groaned, rubbing his face. The eastern horizon had begun to brighten, and without trees to dim the light, it felt as if each beam were a knife sliding into his eyes. He had not slept since the previous sunrise. There had been too much work to do. Finding and bribing the appropriate officers had taken much of his time, followed thereafter by recording a report of the Warrior which had devestated his squad. It was a terrible duty, to put such a tragedy in callous ink, but it was equally important. Should his army one day capture the Warrior responsible, the account would be used as leverage for forcing the man to pay reperations to the fallen’s family. All of the last twenty four hours had been an exhausting trial, first physically, then mentally.
He looked around himself in the early dawn, trying to ignore the white froth of sweat which still oozed from his fur. What had they to show for all this effort? The weeks of marching, the day of slaughter. Nothing more than an indecisive battle in which both sides would claim victory, knowing in truth that they had each routed in disarray. A stupid, wasteful battle. The cries of the wounded and the tepid fires which still flickered across the camp was proof enough of that.
Just after he had leant back on the pile of dirt he called a seat, there were the sounds of approaching footsteps. Mui flicked his ears towards them, but did not bother to open his eyes. He hoped that whoever it was would simply pass him by, on their way to the latrines. At least his squad's losses had allowed them to be forgiven the duty of digging the latrines.
"Hey," a woman's voice whispered. Involuntarily, Mui's ears flicked to the sound, giving him away.
Without opening an eye, Mui turned to the voice, ensuring that the Sergeant's Flower on his shoulder would be visible.
"Do you need something?" He growled.
"Kind of," the woman replied, sounding nervous.
With a groan, Mui forced his eyes to peel open.
Then they shot open.
The woman standing before him was unlike any he had ever seen before. Though her tan skin and flat face marked her as a pure human, she more closely resembled a teenage orc. Even bent over slightly to meet his eyes on the ground, she towered, casting a long shadow from the morning sun. Her black hair was wrapped in a large, practical pony tail, one that reached well past her shoulder blades. As could be expected of a woman her height, her army-issued shirt was undersized, such that it could barely contain her chest, the fabric pulled tight across her breasts. She had a face of such sculpted beauty that Mui could scarcely believe he was not speaking to a statue. Even the expression of jittery anxiety that was plastered across her face could do nothing to mar her appearance.
In fact, her elegance was so great that Mui's first response was alarm.
A succubus?
He had never faced a demon, thank the gods, but he had heard endless tales. If ever there were some creature spawned by hellish designs to ensnare the souls of thinking creatures with its beauty, he could imagine it with no other form. It would make sense for these dead lands to contain roving demons, he reasoned. Why else would they bear so little fruit, if not for a great curse weighing upon the landscape?
But then the woman sat down next to him, frowning severely, and the concern was dashed. She looked to be nearing tears.
"What do you need?" He asked, forcing himself to sit up properly.
"Um. Help, I guess?" She shuddered. "I... my whole squad..."
She trailed off, growing distant. He had seen that look before. He knew what it meant.
"Hey," he said calmly, quietly, almost in a whisper. "Eyes forward, soldier. The sky doesn't have anything worth staring at."
She blinked, coming back to herself. "Sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I was just... my whole squad. I'm the only one left. I joined up just before we went north, and my Sergeant, he wasn't the best... he didn't tell me what to do without him. I guess he didn't think he'd die, that all of them would die, but..." She looked at him, tears beading at the corner of her eyes. "Who do I talk to? Where do I go? I-I'd never even left home, before this. I thought I knew what I was doing, finally, but now it's all..." She looked out at the shattered camp, awash in the leavings of a battle lost.
"I understand," Mui said, moving closer to her. She leant away, and he froze. Whoever she had been before, this woman was presently as delicate as spun glass. Careful to keep his distance, he began to talk. "Do you still have all your equipment?"
"N-no," she said, looking away. "I dropped it. When we... when I ran."
"That's alright. You'll want to go to the quartermasters first, get re-equipped. You don't have to tell them you ran; just say your spear broke, your armor got damaged. If you can, talk to Charya. He was a soldier. He knows what it's like. He won't ask questions."
"And then?" She asked.
"You will need reassignment to a new squad. Do you think you can fight again? Some may say there is shame in refusing, that you would be a coward, but it is a far greater shame to break in the midst of battle. If you cannot stomach the fight, do not try. You would only endanger your soldiers in arms. You don't have to answer right now. I don't need to know. Just... consider it, yes?"
The woman's expression, to Mui's slight surprise, firmed.
"I can fight," she said. "I want to. I need to. I didn't join for any real reason, sir. Just money. But now I feel like I have to. They killed them, sir. I think I've got a right to return the favor." She looked away, as if ashamed to admit such a thing. "That's not a good reason to fight, is it? I should be fighting for something better than that. I don't even know why we're here, sir. Just that we got told to march. And then... I fought people over that. Killed people. Because I was told to."
"It's the way of a soldier," Mui said. He wished to give her a reassuring press on her shoulder, but her entire countenance was still drawn inward, defensive. He remained where he was. "We go where we are ordered, and we fight because we were ordered to."
"But... why this? Why here?" She waved to the unnerving openness of the plains, a scowl growing. "There's nothing here. Why did they drag us into this? Why did we fight for nothing?"
"I don't know," Mui admitted. "But it must be important. The enemy met us here, fought us for it. The Warriors and Generals know far more than us. There must be something worth dying for in this empty wasteland."
The woman's scowl deepened. Mui knew it wasn't the answer she had been looking for, but what could he say? It was the truth, at least as far as he knew it. It was hard for many soldiers to accept that, early in their careers. That they simply wouldn't be privy to their commander's reasoning, that they would have to put their trust in those above them, simply because there was no other alternative.
"Thank you," the woman said, standing. She extended her hand, as if to pull him to his feet. He waved the offer off. "Charya, right?" She asked. "That's who you said to go to?"
"If you can. He'll be busy. All the quartermasters are, after a battle."
"Thank you. I'm sorry to keep you up."
"You're welcome. And I am sorry for what happened to your squad. Not all battles are like this, soldier. This one was... strange. It all has been, under this open sky."
"I'll... take your word for it. Good luck, sir."
"Good luck, soldier."
The woman walked off, still seeming as dejected as she had before. As she went, a second woman walked up beside her, speaking in a hushed tone. He wondered who they were. What their fate would be. Whatever it was, he knew that hers was not a face he would ever be able to forget.
-----------------------------
Sara
-----------------------------
"Nobody here knows a goddamn thing," Sara hissed. "It's like they just fucked off in a random direction and decided to fight the first group they saw."
"There is clearly some sort of plan in place," Evie argued, speaking under her breath. She wore a leather cap to hide her ears, her tail tucked into her pants. The army Sara had infiltrated had far more catfolk, orcs, and vanara than Tulian, but felines were still entirely absent. "The commanders of this force have obviously traveled northward with purpose for several weeks. Just because the rank and file do not know why does not mean no reason exists."
"If there is a reason, they're keeping it goddamn close to the chest," Sara said. "That sergeant didn't know, those two lieutenants didn't know, and I haven't heard a single peep with my Blessings. If anyone knows, at this point it's just the general. Maybe some of the Warriors, too."
Sara had learned quite a lot since entering the camp, on account of her Blessings, but the most critical elements were still missing. She knew that these soldiers considered themselves the 'true' version of an Empire, and thought of their opponents as treasonous villains. She knew they had been marching northward for weeks, and that they had thought this assignment would be completed without conflict or difficulty.
But not a one of them seemed to know what they were trying to accomplish, much less why. After so long ensuring her own army was motivated by knowledge of their goals, she found the secrecy present in this army maddening. Worse still, Evie hadn't been able to help much at all.
Sara glanced at Evie, who was wearing her collar beneath thick bandages, pretending to have suffered a neck wound. "Any luck with that yet, by the way?"
"No, unfortunately." Evie tapped the collar thoughtfully. "I still cannot understand but a scant few words of their language."
"Damn."
Sara understood everything that was being said in the camp as if the soldiers were speaking plain old American English, but Evie insisted it was an utterly foreign language to her. They'd tried to use the collar's Connection to transfer knowledge of the language to her, but it wasn't working. Even ordering Evie to understand the language hadn't worked; giving an impossible order didn't allow her to suddenly manifest new skills.
"Alright. Do you think it's worth it, trying to sneak into the officer's tents?"
"While the value of what we might learn is considerable, I cannot imagine we would succeed."
"We've done pretty well so far."
"Because you have seduced anyone intelligent enough to question your presence, Master. A well-trained guard, one of these 'Warriors,' would not fall so easily to your charms."
Sara arched an eyebrow.
"Not immediately, that is," Evie temporized. "They would insist you wait until they are off-duty, at the very least. And they likely work in groups. It would be considerably more difficult to seduce them all at once."
"I bet I could manage it."
"Perhaps, but the resulting orgy might draw unwanted attention. Regardless, we have other duties to be attending to."
Evie was referring to Hurlish, of course. Every hour spent away from their wife grated on Evie like a knife scraping against her spine, driving her paranoia to a fever pitch. No amount of assurances, planning, and regular communication had eased her anxiety. Evie seemed convinced that without her present, Hurlish would somehow end up giving birth atop a pile of back alley garbage. Never mind the fact that Sara had at least one healer following their wife around at all times, along with a pair of midwifes who had temporarily moved into the home next door, in addition to a detachment of Guards hand-picked by Evie for their skill and loyalty. Hurlish couldn't so much as twitch without a half-dozen people taking note of it.
"Alright," Sara said, because, hypocrite that she was, all of that paranoia she criticized Evie for was equally present in her, "we'll go back. But I'm not going to just let them think they got away with this."
Evie froze. Hidden beneath her clothes, her tail began to squirm nervously.
"What exactly does that mean?"
Sara grinned.
-------------------------------------
Mui Thom
-------------------------------------
Two hours after he had finally fallen asleep, he was woken by the sudden clanging of an alarm. He leapt up on instinct alone, blindly patting for his sword on the ground beside him. Only when he had a weapon in his hand did he finally turn about, looking for the army that he could only assume had emerged from the jungle to attack.
Instead, he found his attention drawn upward. A hideous rattling noise was clattering away up above, the sound of a hundred children senselessly banging away on metal instruments. His ears swiveled to track the noise while his eyes did their best to adjust to the morning sunlight, squinting at the sky.
What he found was without description. A wooden thing hung in the sky above, an undead vulture circling the camp. It swooped and buzzed with none of the grace he had seen of the Empire's message-runners or scouts, but it was fast, moving at a constant speed without any flapping of its wings. He did not know why it had not been noticed earlier, why the alarm had not been sounded before it was already above the encampment.
Skywreathe fires were being lit off all around, the second time in as many days, but it was clearly too late. Whatever this thing was, it had already learned everything it needed to know about the army's disposition. In fact, he did not understand why it had not already left. Every scout he had ever witnessed did so in a dive, blurring past the army as rapidly as it was able, disappearing in a matter of minutes. Instead, this creature circled, circled, as if it hadn't a care in the world for being noticed.
It must know we have nothing to answer it with, Mui realized. Just how much has it learned already? And what does it intend to do?
One of his questions was answered promptly. The thing entered a shallow dive, aiming to sweep along the center line of the camp.
"Up!" Mui roared at his squad. "Grab the wounded! We move southeast!"
His squad, having also been woken by the alarms, reacted instantly. They likely had as little an idea of the thing's intent as he, but they all shared the same concern. Though nowhere near large enough to be considered a viable platform for a mage, the possibility always remained that some fool had risked placing one on such a small creature. As it dipped lower, he could see two individuals sitting within the wooden latticework. His mind taunted him with images of a roaring streak of fire emerging from the creature's mouth, a column of devastation wrought through the army.
"Move, move!" Mui yelled, running over to grab one of his squad's wounded. They were directly in the thing's path. "I am sorry, friend," he whispered as he picked up a man, the sudden motion squeezing a horrible groan from his half-conscious lips. With the soldier now firmly on his shoulders, he yelled "Run !", then made to follow his own order.
Despite himself, he could not help but look behind as he ran. The camp erupted into chaos, many fire-tenders abandoning their skywreathe piles as they fled the impending attack. What should have become an impenetrable wall of poisonous smoke turned into a scattered few pillars, dispersed to near uselessness by the breeze.
The wooden creature continued on, unperturbed.
Mui redoubled his efforts as the thing passed over the farthest edge of the camp. He expected a torrent of flame to erupt, but there was nothing, which somehow terrified him even more. He imagined it taking a great, deep breath, readying itself to unleash its hellish onslaught as the thing leveled off, shooting a bare hundred feet over the heads of the army.
Mui's desperate sprint began to slow as he saw the figure in the front of the thing lean to one side, turning a bag inside out. Even then, he expected something awful. Packets of poisonous thistle to make the ground untenable, or bundles of disease-carrying insects, or some other half-forgotten horror.
But no. To Mui's utter, complete shock, papers began to flutter free.
The wooden creature dumped sheet after white sheet over the camp, hundreds of them fluttering free. Many were caught by the wind, dispersing in a wide cloud.
"Hold!" Mui called, slowing to a halt. His squad came to a stop, breathing hard, the agonized groans of their wounded comrades filling the air. He looked at them, searching their expressions for understanding of what they saw, and found nothing.
"Set them down here, guard them, and be ready to run if the beast returns," Mui instructed them. "I am going to inspect the papers. If I do not return, but the thing does, continue to flee from the angle of advance. Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir!" They barked. Mui nodded, grateful, and took off running the way he had come.
He arrived shortly after the earliest papers had begun to land. He was not the only one among the camp who was slowly approaching, regarding the thin sheets with apprehension. Mui had never heard of dangerous enchantments being placed on paper, but he wasn't willing to be the origin of a cautionary tale.
Thankfully, a plethora of others were fool enough to try for him. When he saw men and women lifting and inspecting the papers without any ill effect, he picked one up for himself.
It took a moment for him to read the words, despite the fact they were written in large slashes. It looked like some illiterate had copied the appropriate letters line-for-line, without any understanding of what they represented. Still, with effort, it was legible.
FORCES OF THE EMPIRE
YOU HAVE WARRED ON THE LANDS OF THE TULIAN REPUBLIC
THE CHAMPION OF AMARAT DEMANDS YOUR LEADER'S EXPLANATION
A FORCE OF ONE HUNDRED WILL BE ALLOWED TO ENTER THE CAPITAL
ALL OTHERS WILL BE TURNED AWAY BY FORCE
PAPERS ARE NOT THE ONLY THING WE CAN DROP
Mui's lips curled as he read the message, revealing the fangs hidden within his muzzle. What arrogance! The northern barbarians thought they could make demands of the Empire? And they had the gall to claim their outrageous presumptions were endorsed by a Champion, of all things? There had not been a Champion borne since Emperor Aydrion's coronation. A laughably easy lie to see through.
Mui tossed the paper aside, returning to his squad. Though he had been struck through by a terrible fear at first, it was clear that there was nothing of consequence to be seen from these barbarians. They were clearly insane. In a few short minutes, he had brought his squad back to their assigned location, returning to his desperately needed sleep.
A day later, when Mui's squad was selected to be among those heading to the capital, his apprehension returned.
Notes:
A full-length chapter this time, thankfully. Technically, I wanted Ignite's portion to be part of the prologue, but that's not how it shook out, so here it is all in one! Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 115: Book 3: Chapter 2
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
----------------------
David Brown
----------------------
David gripped one wrist in front of himself, thumb and forefinger pinched together. His hand was trembling.
“Focus on your own thoughts,” Garen whispered. “Your own conceptions. What is fire to you? Is it warmth? Heat? Pain? Its true essence is all this and more, but you are not trying to create mere flames. You are trying to make your fire. Take what you know, force it into reality.”
David focused. He tried to shut out everything. Everyone. The entire world. He tried to imagine his vision narrowing to a single dot, at the very point skin met skin.
Burn, he ordered it. Burn!
His fingers began to tremble. The shaking began in the tips of his fingers, moving down to his wrists, then traveling up through his arms, until his whole self was shaking with effort.
“Stop.”
David slammed his palm on the table. “Damnit!”
Garen sighed, leaning back. “It is not something one can master in a day, David.”
“Your students could at least do something, though! From the very moment you tried to get them to do magic!”
“They were born to this world. They have Classes, Skills, abilities and experience that you still lack. You are sixty years old, and yet you lack a Class. You are a man without precedent.”
David groaned, rubbing at his eyes. In the half-lit dimness of his office, sleep was already clawing at him. He looked at his watch, a cheap Rolex knockoff that was now his single most prized possession, and found it to be nearing nine in the morning. He should have been wide awake, but he’d barely grabbed a few hours sleep the night before.
David shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He had been trying to use magic to create the tiniest flame for weeks. He'd been trying to cast magic of any kind in nearly every free moment he'd had. Fire, a ball of light, a shard of ice, anything. Those were the spells that Garen had told him were the most basic, most fundamental tools of spellcraft.
He’d tried them all, and all without success.
“Could it be possible that I’m just not a mage?” David asked. He stretched his hands, trying to force the anxiety out.
“I doubt it,” Garen said. “From what you have said of your life, you clearly have an innate desire for it. If anything, you far more closely fit the historical profile of summoned Champions than does your daughter. She may love it, but she is too callous to view spells as anything other than a means to an end. You seek it for the joy of the craft. I would not dare to claim I understand the gods, but I suspect Talavan would not deny his gifts to one such as you.”
“But what if I don’t have the… whatever-it-is, to use magic? You said that Sara’s magic is different to everyone else’s, because she’s a Champion. I’m from another world, but I didn’t get changed like she did. I’m just plain old me. So what if I can’t get a Class, can’t do magic?”
“You are making several jumps in logic, David,” Garen assured him. “When children first begin to labor in earnest, it can take them several years to earn the first Level of their Class. You cannot compare your personal progress to that of your daughter’s.”
“See, that’s another thing!” David turned in his chair to face Garen, who was writing at a desk next to David’s. “How do I know what Class I’ll get? How do I make sure I get a good one? This stuff determines how the rest of your life goes! If I screw up, I could end up with a class like, I don’t know, ‘Teacher.’ Which wouldn’t be the worst, I suppose, but it’s certainly a far cry from Wizard, or Researcher, or something else that will really do me good.”
Garen chuckled. “There have been untold numbers of essays written on the topic of guiding one’s Class, David. It is in fact a pressing concern even within Tulian at the moment. Your daughter’s army has produced a number of young individuals who have gained a combat Class, which has concerning implications for their path through life. If they wish to return to civilian life, it may require several years of experience before they gain comparable Skills to their peers. Alternatively, they could remain in the army, but the dangers of such a life are self-evident. Your fears are similar to the circumstance they already find themselves in.”
“So you’re saying I’m right to be worried, then?”
“I am saying that you have stumbled upon a legitimate concern. How you address it will determine whether your response can be considered productive.” Garen turned back to his work, dotting out several quick marks with his quill. “For now, I think that you will not be led astray by following the most common advice given to those with your concerns: live your life as you desire, so that your Class will best fit the self you already are.”
Despite the fact that the wizard’s words made perfect sense, David heaved out a sigh. He’d been dropped into a world that had everything he ever could have dreamed of. A world of monsters and magic, where wizards fought beside sword-wielding warriors clad in enchanted armor. A dream he’d had since he’d been listening to his mom read, a pile of finished Ursula K. Le Guinn books on the bedside table. But now that he was here, now that he’d finally found something he’d given up on so, so long ago… he was just a spectator. Barely able to touch the reality he’d yearned after for all those years.
“It’s getting close to time to leave,” David noted, glancing at his watch yet again.
Garen eyed him. “Is it? The sun doesn’t look quite that high to me.”
“The clock doesn’t lie, Garen.”
The archmage huffed, rolling up a paper and disappearing it into his sleeve. “I begin to question the wisdom of copying that device on your wrist. People like you will want to run the whole world by their little ticks.”
“Well, you’re already ahead on the complaining,” David said, collecting his own work. “Lots of people back in the day whined about being kept to a clock, too.”
“I suspect I will soon consider myself among their number. What are cloudy days good for, if not to excuse lateness to an appointment?”
David laughed as he finished piling his student’s papers into a satchel, throwing its strap over a shoulder. The provisional elections hadn’t yet occurred, which meant he was technically supposed to be at the upcoming meeting as one of Sara’s ‘advisors.’ It felt like an awfully officious term for being his daughter’s father, but she insisted.
David could at least agree with her reasoning. The absolute outlawing of any form of hereditary authority was always among Sara’s numerous first drafts for a constitution. She had to ensure that every official government event, or at least all of them that could be seen by the public, would be in line with the upcoming laws.
Of course, this meeting was shaping up to be a little more public than most.
The detachment from the mysterious ‘Empire’ had fetched up a few miles beyond the city late the previous evening, but after runners had exchanged a few letters back and forth, it was agreed that it would be best for them to arrive in the morning. It gave the city Guard time to prepare an escort through the city for the hundred foreigners, which would surely be something everyone wanted to see, as well as let word spread that they were coming in the first place.
Of course, Sara had her own reasoning for it. David didn’t know what it was, exactly, but even before she’d gotten a goddess on her side, she’d always been a thoughtful girl. He had no doubt that she had a dozen different schemes running at the same time, sussing out the exact impression she wanted these Empire-types to get on their way to the city.
David also knew that he, in some way or another, had a role to play in her plans. But he only knew that because she'd specifically told him, and he could quote it:
"Don't worry about it. Just do you."
That was incredibly suspicious. Sara had never told David to act like himself. Not since middle school, at least. Any time she'd introduced him to a friend she'd always told him not to be weird, or not to embarrass her, or at the very least to keep away from certain topics. Not once had she asked him to act normal.
Thankfully, David was exceptionally good at being himself, and funnily enough, it didn't take much thought for him to do it. And it was even easier when he had something to keep his thoughts occupied, like he would here.
See, the actual meeting, the big important one, it wasn't for a couple hours more. No, what David was going to see, and what Garen had decided to accompany him for, was something completely different.
David heard it before he saw it. The old noble mansions of Tulian had been knocked down months ago, well before David had turned up, but not all of the plots had been filled. Some remained empty holes in the city streets, cleared of everything but dirt and cobblestone. And it was in one of those conspicuous gaps that a crowd had gathered, balanced on hastily assembled, rickety wooden stands.
The crowd roared louder, shouting and jeering with wild abandon, and David hurried his footsteps, breathing hard. He'd lost a good amount of weight over the last couple months, mostly on account of losing access to any and every form of food that tasted even halfway decent, but no one could yet accuse him of being fit. Garen easily kept pace as they made their way to the back of the crowd, David's neck craning to get a view over the sea of heads.
There was a man sprawled out in the center of a large patch of sand, a woman standing with feet planted on either side of his torso, flexing her biceps as she bent over to roar her victory in his face. Her posturing was met with cheers and boos in equal proportion, the stands creaking as the audience pounded their feet.
Sara suddenly appeared from the sidelines, hustling to drag the woman out of the arena before her taunting threw the crowd into a true frenzy. Another pair of individuals, this time dressed in white shirts, ran out and hefted up the half-conscious man by his armpits and ankles. He came to as he was being dragged out of the arena, spitting a fusillade of profanity, claiming that he hadn't lost the fight.
The audience's laughter drowned out his protests.
"It seems a rather barbaric practice, compared to the dueling affairs I am used to," Garen said.
"Maybe. But it's a lot of fun, too. Come on, I'm going to go place some bets."
"What for?" Garen raised an eyebrow. "Have you any idea who is fighting, or who is the most skilled?"
"No. But it makes it more fun if you have a bet on someone."
David dropped a smattering of copper pieces on various upcoming fighters, not paying particular attention to who he was betting on. There was something deeply satisfying about handling all his transactions with physical, metal currency. The betting clerk swept the coins off into a bag with a pleasant little series of clinks, then handed David a slip with his bets written on it.
He and Garen took their seat in the stands, waiting for the next bout to begin. Garen had worn plain clothes, instead of the voluminous robes that marked him as a mage, and they went largely unharassed. A few people recognized David as Sara's father, but he wasn't the celebrity she was. They nudged their friends and pointed at him, but that was all.
"I cannot understand why Sara is holding this informal tournament with the Empire's envoy so close to the city," Garen said. He spoke quietly, to not be easily overheard.
David shrugged. "Power play?" He guessed. "They show up expecting her to roll out the red carpet, only to find her still sweaty from running a sporting event. That's gotta send some kind of message."
"I suppose so. Still, there is much that could be prepared. It seems ill-advised, in my estimation."
"Sara knows what she's doing. I mean, she clearly has a plan, right? She asked us to show up here, instead of the Peasant's Theatre, where the Empire's group is supposed to show up."
"And this arena is placed along the route that the Guards will be using to escort them through the city, yes," Garen said. "But I cannot help but wonder if she is being too aloof. The size of the conflict that my apprentices reported was awe-inspiring. Should they launch an immediate attack, either army would sweep us aside like so much chaff."
"All the more reason to act like she doesn't care, right?"
"There is such a thing as too extreme a bluff. This Empire has no knowledge of our firearms; they will not be cowed by fear of the weapons as an equivalent Sporaton force might."
Two fighters walked out onto the circle of sand. David leaned forward as he spoke, growing distracted. "Maybe. But if they were really here to invade, and they didn't know how much damage we can do with guns, I can't imagine they would have bothered with feigning a peaceful meeting, right? They'd just wipe the floor with us and be done with it." David checked his betting slip. "I think I bet on the one on the left, by the way."
"You think?"
"Yeah. We'll see once Sara announces their names, though."
Sara joined the two fighters on the sand a moment later, encouraging the two women to shake hands. Unlike the last fight, which had been unarmed, these two were fighting with swords, the gladiuses that David had learned were patterned off of Carrion Navy weaponry.
The two women were Marines, he guessed. Most of the combatants at these little tournaments were members of the city Guard, Navy, or Army. All three forces had been severely downsized with the end of the war, but unlike most societies in this medieval world, Sara had establish a small standing army of professional soldiers.
She'd mostly been forced into it; plenty of the army's volunteers had been so young that their participation in the war had earned them the first level of a combat Class. For all the benefits that came to this world through the existence of supernaturally powerful Classes, David thought there were some small misfortunes hidden in the cracks. With most of the uneducated populace never reaching a Level higher than six or seven before dying of old age, even a single Level in the 'wrong' class could be disastrous. Plenty of kids that would have been farmers or craftsmen had been dragged into a life of violence, just because they'd wanted to defend their homes.
Not that the two examples before him looked like disappointed, however. The two women were all but straining at the leash to fight, only Sara's presence holding them back. Both their swords glowed white, magic keeping the blades safely dulled, but they looked ready to test the limits of the protective enchantments.
When both women had taken their places on opposite ends of the sand, Sara backed away. A moment later, a bell rang.
David cheered with the rest as the duel began, pulses of light leaving spots in his vision every time the two blades clashed. His guilty pleasure back on earth had always been pay-per-view boxing matches, and he'd been glad to find out that dueling scratched the same itch. Even better, between protective enchantments and healing magic, he didn't even have to feel bad for supporting an abusive industry. Everyone would be coming out of the fight as healthy as they'd gone in.
Unlike boxing, duels with weapons only ever lasted to the first lethal touch. That meant each round consisted of a minute or more of careful, trepidatious circling, followed by a few seconds of nigh-incomprehensible, lightning-fast swings. Half the time, David couldn't even tell who won until Sara held up a hand, pointing to the corner of the victor. Judging by the fact that the crowd's roar always peaked right after she declared the winner, he wasn't the only one. Even a single Level in a combat Class seemed enough to take someone past the limits of pure human physicality.
That or my eyes are shot, David admitted. He'd been meaning to get his prescription doublechecked for a while. But that's not going to happen now, is it?
He shifted the old-timey spectacles on his face, waiting for the next round. Weapon duels were fought in a best of five format, just to make sure they lasted long enough for the audience. Unfortunately, that didn't much help David, who lost both his first and second bets. Garen laughed at his misfortune each time, but in a friendly, good-natured sort of way. Between rounds, the archmage spent his time telling David of the far more formal duels that happened in Sporatos, where nobles fought one another to settle petty grudges or matters of familial honor. By the sounds of it, the difference between noble duels and Sara's ad-hoc fighting ring were shockingly few, once you broke things down to their essentials. All that really changed was the size of the bets and the number of syllables used in the crowd's insults.
As one duel turned into two, then three, then on and on, the time continued to tick by. At first David checked his watch every few minutes, feeling the upcoming meeting like a too-close stranger breathing down his neck, only to find himself steadily more distracted by the fights. It really was an amazing spectacle. Thanks to the safety provided by spell-wrapped weapons, about the only thing that wasn't allowed was grabbing the opponent by the neck and twisting until something snapped. Each duel was as close to a real fight as David had ever seen.
Suddenly, without any warning David had noticed, Garen stood, dusting himself off.
"Well, the envoy has arrived. Let's see what your daughter has in store for them, hm?"
"I guess-"
Before David could stand as well, Sara's voice boomed across the ramshackle stadium.
"And that concludes today's fights, ladies and gentleman! But don't leave quite yet, because I've got something I think you'll all be interested in!"
On queue, several members of the city guard walked out, holding tables with cloth draped overtop. They set them down at one end of the arena at the same time a second group emerged, this time rolling out wheelbarrows full of dirt.
"Hm." Garen sat back down, humming thoughtfully. "I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything else."
"What do you mean?"
Garen nodded to the tables. David watched his daughter walk up and grab a corner of the white cloth, pausing for just long enough to build tension. Then, with all the dramatic flare she could muster, she tossed it into the air, revealing a table lined with the manufactory's latest muskets.
"Ah," David said. "I see. I don't know why I was expecting something subtle."
Garen chuckled. David settled back into the stands, listening to his daughter explain the rules of Tulian's first sharpshooter audition.
----------------------
Mui Thom
----------------------
When Mui first laid eyes upon the capital of the so-called “Tulian Republic,” his first reaction was simple. A bowing of the head and soundless twitches of his lips as he offered a prayer to the Goddess he feared he had offended.
Oh Goddess of Shields, she who guides the Bonds of all things, I ask for your forgiveness. So great was your magnificence that I failed to believe your Champion could be found in a place so distant. To have been found wrong is a curse and a gift, for in my error, I have been provided opportunity to atone.
He lifted his head. It wasn't the best prayer he'd ever heard, but he hoped it was fancy enough for the goddess. He'd spent the journey secretly rolling his eyes at the Warrior's concerns, certain beyond doubt that the barbarian's claim of being ruled by a Champion was an outrageous falsehood.
His first glance of the city had ruined that impression.
The tall walls that he had been told to expect were present, but they had been altered in strange, alien ways. Lumps of seamless white stone protruded all along its base, made of no material Mui had ever seen. The same white stone was spattered in clumps across the wall itself, filling in gaps where some terrible damage had been wrought, giving the dark granite the appearance of a pustule-infected face. Atop the walls roved neatly arrange squads, each man and woman holding more of the strange wood-and-iron poles. Even the small group of city guards that emerged to meet them held the strange weapons, carrying them with the confidence of hard-earned experience.
Though he had no formal proof, each strange sight had him further convinced that he truly was on his way to meet a Champion of the gods. The peculiar mixture of barbarian primitivity and alien architecture had no other explanation.
And so, because he could think of no other way to prepare himself, Mui ordered his squad to begin polishing their weapons and armor to a glistening sheen. While they waited for the city gates to allow them entrance, Mui joined his troops in ensuring they were in the most presentable conceivable condition. Ruler of barbarians though this Champion may be, they were still a Champion. He would not have his squad leave a foul impression with an emissary of divinity.
The rest of the hundred-strong envoy did not bother imitating Mui's preparations. Unlike him, they were hand-picked for this task, each squad and officer chosen for their record of at least one remarkable achievement. They were veterans all, their equipment bolstered by years of war, having survived enough battles to afford them looted wealth far beyond their station.
Mui's squad, in contrast, had been chosen for perhaps the least illustrious reason he could imagine. The Champion's letter had said that only a hundred members were allowed to visit the city, and after hand-picking sets of squads and officers, the Warriors in charge of the expedition had come up with ninety-three members. Mui, by sheer happenstance, was one of the only sergeants in the army who had exactly six healthy members of his squad left.
It was not the most enviable of reasons to be allowed on such an important duty, but he had no intention of squandering the opportunity. By the time the city gates swung open, Mui and his squad were polished enough for a parade.
And to his astonishment, a parade it would be. The moment the gates swung open, Mui was greeted by a wall of half-armored guards lining the street, using long quarterstaffs to shove back an eager crowd.
The Warrior at the head of the column called out the order to march. Mui instinctively fell into parade-mode, kicking his legs out high on every step, and his squad imitated him. Shortly thereafter, recognizing the unexpected attention they were receiving, the rest of the envoy group joined their formal marching, boots clacking emphatically.
The interior of the city, Mui realized, was even stranger than the outside. Despite the teeming crowd just barely being held back by the city guards, every street they passed seemed empty, once he looked beyond the crowd. It was if the entire city had turned out to view their arrival, if the entire city were to only number ten or twenty thousand.
The crowd itself was strange, too. There were more purely human faces watching him than he thought he'd ever seen in his life. Catfolk and orcs represented one out of five, perhaps even less, and he saw no sign of elves, lizardfolk, vanara, or even azarketi. He had been told the northern lands were a dull, empty place, but he hadn't realized that banality extended to its people as well.
Mui's gawking was interrupted by a peculiar crack echoing down the street, startling him. The entire column of a hundred soldiers flinched, instinctively ducking. It sounded like the crack of a whip directly beside Mui's ears, and he turned about, looking for the source.
To his surprise, not one of the native guards escorting them had reacted in the slightest. Even the crowd barely reacted, though he did spot some curious turning of the heads.
"What was-"
The crack repeated, slightly louder, and was soon joined by several more. Mui rested a hand on his sword pommel, prompting his squad to shift their spears to a more ready stance. He swiveled his ears from left to right, trying to determine the exact location of the noise.
"There is nothing to worry about," a heavily accented voice called. Mui glanced over, finding a strange looking man speaking to a Warrior at the head of the column. His skin was black as the night, and lacked any crease or pore.
"There is... normal," the man said, doing his best to smile reassuringly. "These sounds are ahead. You will see?"
The Warrior frowned, not bothering to respond to the man's broken abuse of language. Still, to placate the city guards who were growing anxious at the envoy's readying stance, the Warrior waved a hand, signaling them to relax their stances.
Mui did so, but it took considerable effort. The more he listened to the noise, the harder it was to parse. He had thought it close at first, but soon realized it was nowhere near. It was simply so loud that it carried across the city.
True to the man's word, they approached the source of the cacophony in short order. By the time he was close enough to see what was happening, Mui was cringing at every booming thud, each crack driving a needle into his skull. Many of the other catfolk in the envoy were reacting similarly, something their escorts apparently noticed. A few guards produced bundles of fluffy white cotton, distributing clumps to any of the Empire's soldiers who asked for it. Mui raised his hand and received a wad, which he promptly stuffed as deeply into his ears as he could.
This done, Mui joined the others in walking around the final corner.
He was met by a cloud of something disgusting, almost as bad as a lungful of skywreathe. He recoiled reflexively, trying to wave away the scent, only to find that there was no point. It was as pervasive as the air itself, choking every crevice of the street.
"Squad, keep t-together-"
Mui was forced to trail off as he inadvertently took a deep breath through his nose, filling it with the acrid smoke. His eyes burst with watery tears in an instant, and a moment later, he was forced to bend double, a violent sneeze tearing out of his throat.
"The hells?" He choked out, wiping his muzzle with his arm. He didn't sneeze. No catfolk did. Not unless they were sick as could be, diseased beyond the point of delirium. Until that moment, he'd never even known what it felt like to sneeze.
Regrettably, it seemed his squad was aware of that, because he heard several half-swallowed laughs behind him.
This is awful! What is this foul air?
Mui wiped his muzzle again, trying to drag the strings of snot out of his fur. He wished he had a mirror, because it felt as if there was a great deal of something disgusting tangled in his upper lip.
The Warriors waited for no one, however. He was forced to keep marching forward, even as he rubbed wildly at his muzzle to combat the itch burrowing into his skull. Looking about himself, he saw many of the envoy's other catfolk similarly affected, though the degree of their suffering varied.
The only distraction from the maddening itch came from the source of the poisonous fog. A ring of half-filled stands had encircled the sandy pit of what could only have been dueling grounds, though the area was being used for anything but. Between the rows of feet and wooden slats, Mui could see lines of civilians waiting behind a table that held more of the strange wood and metal tubes, the frontmost row pressing the weapons to their shoulder.
Without warning, one of the weapons vomited a puff of that same awful smoke, producing its own version of the cotton-muffled crack. Barely an instant passed before there was an answering metallic clank from further away, the sound of a hammer striking an anvil.
Many things suddenly clicked for Mui. Firstly, that this was an archery range for the weapons, which were launching some sort of projectile faster than the eye could track. Secondly, that he was standing in the city of a people nearly as militant as his own, for this was clearly their version of the archery auditions that the Emperor's Adjutant required all villages under his domain to undergo twice yearly.
And thirdly, that he had been very, very right to regard the metal weapons with caution. The targets that had been set out for the range weren't simple bales of dried grass. They were metal breastplates, enchantment runes visible across the steel, and they were each punched full of holes.
Some barbarians these are, he thought, eying the targets. No barbarian could have produced such fine work; even to his untrained eye, they seemed equal to any equipment used by the Warriors of the Empire.
And a crowd of civilians was currently tearing the armor to shreds.
Before he could fully digest all the implications of this, his mind was ripped in an entirely new, equally terrible direction. A pair of women were approaching the envoy, and he recognized them. The ebony-skinned guard who had been escorting them to this location called out their name, announcing their identities in his awful accent.
"Chosen of Amarat, Sara Brown, and Wife, Evie Brown!"
Oh, shit.
He recognized the woman- the Chosen. Black, waving hair, with a face of sculpted beauty that defied easy description.
"Sir?" Mui called, pressing forward through the column. He was trying to reach the Warrior, calling out. "Sir! I have something I need to-"
"Back!" One of the men guarding the Warrior barked.
"I know, I'm sorry, but it's just- I have something I need to-"
"Silence in the presence of your betters, Sergeant!" The man barked, flicking the haft of his spear up. It slammed into Mui's chin, popping his jaw shut with a painful clack. Mui stumbled backward, kept from falling only by stumbling against a soldier behind him.
Lesson thoroughly learned, but not yet willing to give up, Mui tried his best to plead silently, pressing his palms together like a begging dog, staring as pointedly as he dared at the approaching Chosen.
Not subtly enough. The woman noticed him, their eyes locking.
Mui staggered. He held her attention only for a moment, but it seemed to last a lifetime. Her expression shifted just the barest bit, one corner of her lips curling upward, a cheek twitching in a half-wink. It should have meant nothing. He shouldn't have even taken notice of it, with how quick it flicked across her face.
Impossibly, Mui found himself convinced that he knew exactly what she was trying to communicate. The mischievous twinkle in her eye told him that she was not particularly worried that he might reveal his prior meeting with her, yet it was modified by a slight smirk, somehow implying that she still wished for him to stay quiet, if he thought it possible. She was confident to a fault, seemed vaguely amused to see him, and wished to talk to him later, if only he would keep his quiet.
He had no idea how he knew all of this, yet he was certain of each conclusion.
Mui's consciousness snapped back into time, his head whirling. The Chosen was moving on to greet the Warriors, not acknowledging him in the slightest. If it weren't for the absurd level of detail that had been communicated to him in that instant, Mui would have thought he'd imagined it.
He was close enough to hear the perfunctory greeting of the Chosen and the small cluster of Warriors at the head of the envoy, and unlike the rest of them, he wasn't surprised to hear her speaking in fluent, unaccented Kemari.
"I apologize for greeting you in such a state," the Chosen said after they had exchanged pleasantries, indicating her sweat-stained clothing. "The time got away from me. There's been so much to do of late, and your presence, though certainly welcome, has added yet another item to my overflowing plate."
"Your apology is accepted," the Warrior replied tersely. He was Suy-Ty, a large Warrior of not inconsiderable renown within the Expedition. His performance in the most recent battle, in which he had felled two enemy Warriors and captured three more, had earned him the right to represent the Emperor's Adjutant for the duration of this meeting. He was dressed for the occasion, his armor etched with the many symbols of the Empire, a fanciful blacksteel blade dangling off his hip. Despite the considerable musculature hidden beneath his thick armor, he was still dwarfed by the Chosen, who wore nothing more than plain cloth.
Unperturbed, Suy-Ty looked behind the Chosen, peering through the cloud of awful smoke.
"And this... display? It was intended to intimidate, I presume?"
The Chosen laughed. "I can only wish I had that much forethought, Warrior. No, I'm afraid that I should have been in the Peasant's Theatre hours ago, preparing for your arrival. I get carried away far too easily for my own good."
It seemed absurd to Mui that the leader of a nation could simply forget an appointment of such magnitude, yet he couldn't find the slightest hint of falsehood.
"Peasant's Theatre?" Suy-Ty asked, words rumbling.
"The Peasant's Theatre," the Chosen confirmed. "It's where our Republic's government is housed. An odd name, I know, but what else is governance, if not theatre for the peasants?"
Suy-Ty's irritated scowl cracked ever-so-slightly, lip curling. "Just so, Chosen. It's important to make them feel involved, isn't it?"
The Chosen laughed warmly, which surprised Mui. He'd had a very different interpretation of the meaning behind the name of the Peasant's Theatre.
"Do you need time to prepare for our meeting at this Peasant's Theatre, then?" Suy-Ty asked. "I do wish to be back to the army as soon as possible, but it would be uncouth of me to insist you attend to us while in a condition you would otherwise avoid."
"No, there's no need to concern yourself. I assure you, any attending will be done at my leisure. You've nothing to worry about."
Suy-Ty's burgeoning smile fell back down, disappearing into the familiar frown.
"So you say, Chosen. Let us be away, then."
With a sharp whistle and sharp gesture, the column of Imperial soldiers and their escorts set off. Mui returned to his squad's place in the line, immediately suffused by their whispered questions. He answered what he could as truthfully as he dared, mostly quoting what he had overheard, without adding his own interpretation. It wouldn't do to criticize a Warrior, after all.
This is going to be a very interesting few days.
As they left, the strange weapons continued to spit fire and smoke.
----------------------
Sara
----------------------
Suy-Ty, Preeminent-Most Warrior of the True Emperor's Adjutant's Northern Expeditionary Force, had at least two problems that Sara could find in the opening minutes of their meeting.
Firstly, his title was ridiculous. It was a miracle anyone ever managed to chew their way through the garbled mess of adjectives, much less find anything respectable in their meaning. She used the full thing once, and only once, and had referred to him by his name ever since.
Secondly, he was confident. Even sitting in the repurposed theatre chairs that decorated Tulian's only cramped, flimsy diplomatic hall, he seemed to swagger his way through every word, making elaborate gestures that sent light glinting off his gemstone-encrusted armor.
It was an impressively expensive set, she had to admit that much. It also looked faintly ridiculous. A conical helmet came down to sweep out and away from his ears, as if the smith had been enamored with the lines of a particularly svelte drainpipe. And instead of curving, textured metal adding detail to his chestplate, engravings and inset gemstones served the duty, creating an intricate swirl of shifting designs. His arms and legs were covered similarly, if with fewer gemstones, and a metal mask sculpted to painstakingly mirror his own face hung off his hip, ready to be slid into place should he need the protection. The man himself fit what Sara imagined someone living in a rainforest ought to look like, with broad, strong features across his deeply tanned body.
She wanted to say that the way he flaunted his armor was a sign of overconfidence, but she couldn't. Even as they started their discussion, fresh off his experience seeing the muskets in action, he was completely relaxed.
It was a testament to that confidence that those in the room with Sara, most of whom could not understand the man in the slightest, were taut with tension. Evie was standing behind her in the familiar stance of a bodyguard, her gargantuan revolver obscured by the enclosed leather holster strapped across her simple cuirass. She'd already made a point of summoning her rapier in view of the envoy, ensuring they knew she wasn't unarmed. The rest of the guards present, hand-picked from Ignite's Marines for the duty, were silently lining the small room's right wall, staring down their opposites to Sara's left. Both sides were armed and armored similarly, but Sara's gut told her that if it came to a fight, it would be her and Evie against the rest. Even the most veteran Tulian Marine was nowhere near the Level of experienced soldiers.
In this miasma of simmering tension, there were only two people who appeared relaxed. Sara was settled comfortably into her chair as the Empire's representative spoke.
"As you can see by our adherence to the terms of your invitation, the True Adjutant's forces had no intention of trespassing on the lands of a Chosen Warrior, My Lady," Suy-Ty said, yet again melodramatically waving his glittering gauntlet. "Our intention was only to pass through lands we thought unoccupied, hoping to reach our destination on a path less traveled by traitorous scouts."
"I'm certain you meant no offense by it," Sara assured him, though there was absolutely nothing she was certain of yet. "However, your enemy seemed to find you well enough. I've been told the battle was fierce. You and your troops have my condolences for their losses."
"Fierce, yes, but victorious!" He grinned. "They have run, and we stand strong. And now fate has honored me with the gift of a Chosen's presence! What more could a commander of soldiers ask for?"
Sensing an opportunity, Sara decided to apply her first bit of pressure. "Quite a lot, I'd imagine. I've made contact with both armies, Warrior Suy-Ty, and you've each claimed the battle as your victory."
"Ah, but who holds the field, Your Holiness?" He grinned widely, making a point of showing his teeth. "They have scurried back into the jungle, unable to answer your summons, while we solidified our control of the open fields."
So the objective was securing routes of travel, Sara noted. He wouldn't have been so happy to suffer heavy losses for no territorial gain otherwise. Do they not have a fast way to get through the jungle?
"You've secured lands?" She asked in an intentionally half-hidden affront, as if poorly disguising the offense she'd taken. "You are encamped on rightful Tulian lands, Warrior Suy-Ty. The purpose of this meeting is to determine how your army will conduct itself during its brief stay in our borders."
"Ha!" The man barked his laughter. "Or what? Your wooden bird will drop more pamphlets on us?" His friendly gaze sharpened in an instant. He leant forward just a hair, narrowing his eyes at Sara. "No, Sara Brown. The purpose of this meeting is not for you to dictate terms to an Empire. The purpose is to answer one single, all-important question: Are you a Chosen of the Gods, or a leader of the people?" His eyes glittered dangerously, his brilliant smile unchanging. "It is the solemn duty of all the Emperor's subjects to revere the Chosen. I believe in this mandate wholeheartedly, I assure you. But to go so far as cowering before the ganglord of a dead city? That is not within the demands placed upon me by your title, Sara Brown."
"So." Suy-Ty bent forward yet further, grin widening. "Which will it be? Are you a Chosen? Or are you a leader of people?"
"A leader."
Sara's response was harsh. Immediate. It brooked no argument, and not even the Deaf could have missed the venom it spat into the air. Though none of them could understand a word being spoken, Evie and the Tulian Marines stiffened, knuckles whitening on the hafts of their halberds.
"I see." Suy-Ty slipped backward into his chair, shifting to find comfort. He tossed one leg over the other, appraising Sara openly, his teeth disappearing from his grin as his lips closed. He was still smiling, however. There was no mistaking that. It was a sedate, predatory grin. It looked far more natural on the Warrior.
"You've a city in ruins, populated by the detritus of a discarded Kingdom. I've thirty thousand troops ready to march at a moment's notice, and in a week, I'll have ten thousand more. What grounds do you have to threaten me, Sara Brown?"
"My title is Governess," Sara said, taking care to enunciate the foreign word, for his benefit. "And I have weapons you cannot possibly hope to equal. Three months haven't passed since my people broke the back of the continent's most vaunted cavalry. I sent their King and his whole army into a rout. To do so, I defied the will of a God, and in doing so, earned the favor of another. With that, I granted not just my people, but all peoples, everywhere, the hope of freedom. You've lived two lives, haven't you, Suy-Ty?"
"I have," the Warrior said, caution entering his voice for the first time. "There is no one who hasn't, I believe. The gods have worked strange magics upon the world as of late."
"Not gods. God. Singular. And it was because of me." Sara met his eyes. She did not look away. She held his gaze, unflinchingly. "Your Empire is a cesspit of corruption, Suy-Ty. At every level, in every position. There are those who worship a god you do not know, one that no mortal mind but mine once knew, and their adherents work to undermine everything that could possibly resist them. I revealed this to the world, Suy-Ty, at Amarat's behest. And to honor my achievement, she granted me a wish. Do you know what I did with it?"
Sara began drumming her fingers on the tabletop, slowly, one tap at a time. "I demanded she break the collars. I ordered her to reach back through time, to the moment they were created, to shatter them. She couldn't, unfortunately. The things were created by more than one god, which as I understand it, is the only thing that a single god can't overcome. But she did all she could. Not because I asked. But because I ordered her to. You've no slaves in your army, Suy-Ty. Is that because you belong to a just Empire, one which abhors the practice? Or is it because the fear of their rebellion, impossible to fathom but a few short months ago, has become suddenly so much more real?"
The Warrior's smile had slipped as Sara spoke. Not enough to turn into a scowl. He was too practiced at controlling his emotions for that. But beneath the fading smile, Sara saw what he really thought.
"All these achievements you speak of, they are the actions of a Chosen," Suy-Ty said. His words were stiff, brittle, lacking the warmth of his earlier confidence. "And as I have said before, I will always respect the providence of a Chosen. But you claim to act independent of this aspect of yourself, no? That you are a... a Governess, a leader of the people. Were you to tell me my force stands in the way of your Quest, I would happily stand aside. But if it stands in the way of your Republic?" He scoffed. "What do I have to fear?"
"Guns," Sara said. "A gun in every hand of every citizen, firing down on you."
"And?" Suy-Ty brought his hand up, counting numbers off his fingers. "We've seen your fields, walked your city. What could you muster to resist us? Five thousand strong arms? Ten thousand, if you arm the elderly and invalid? Say your 'firearms' can kill five of our soldiers for every loss of your own. We would still win."
"And if they can kill ten for every one?" Sara asked. "If they can do it from a range you can't equal, at a speed you can't match?"
"Then you'll have presented us quite the surprise, earning yourself some minor note in the dusty corners of this war's annals."
"You think your entire force is worth sacrificing?"
"Think?" Suy-Ty laughed. "We are the Northern Expeditionary Force, Sara Brown, but among the Warriors, we often refer to ourselves as the Northern Expendable Force. A war rages across our Empire, Governess. With some rare exceptions, the troops I command are the inexperienced fools that would not be missed elsewhere. I don't believe for the briefest second that you really could maul this army, but if you actually did, what next? What will you have achieved? It would only cement your inevitable obliteration, when some actual army bothers to travel far enough north to swat your city into the sea."
Sara watched him carefully through his response. Her every Blessing was at work, drinking in every detail. For the rest of her life, she would remember with crystal clarity every word, every drop of sweat, every minor intonation and slight shift in the pitch of his words. She could see him from all angles, above, below, and behind, and felt each shift of his body as if it were her own. There was no comparable experience for how much she could comprehend in that single moment, because it should have been impossible. Superhuman, in the most literal of senses. And with that knowledge, she determined that...
He seemed pretty honest.
Suy-Ty really did seem to believe everything he said. Sure, he exaggerated. The guns concerned him greatly, but not when they were in Tulian hands. He was worried about his enemies getting them, imagining what the so-called traitorous factions could achieve with something so dangerous. And 50,000 troops dead and gone would be a disaster, of course, not some minor setback, but he felt comfortable bluffing on that point simply because he didn't believe Sara could manage it. He was also intimidated by her as an individual, and was worried that he wouldn't survive a fight, should one break out here and now. Yet he was loyal enough to his Empire that he didn't let that fear color his responses.
No, in his estimation, he really did think that they could wipe the Tulian Republic off the map. He had only the slightest doubt that his forces alone weren't enough, while he was absolutely certain that his Empire's larger armies would have no trouble.
And the worst part was, Sara agreed.
She could count the number of times someone had called her bluff on one hand, and this was shaping up to be one of them. Tulian was devastated, and its people were exhausted. They were too fanatically loyal to her to surrender outright when they saw the size of the army bearing down on them, but it would've been smarter of them to give up. The Empire's force was too numerous, too well-equipped, and clearly commanded by battle-hardened veterans.
"Well, I don't think this is going anywhere productive," Sara said, heaving out a great big sigh. "I don't suppose you have any supply runs heading back to one of your cities? I'd much rather speak to someone with real authority."
Sara didn't catch it, but later on, Evie would tell her she had heard Suy-Ty's teeth grinding.
"As a matter of fact, Chosen, I do."
"Good. Send a letter with them notifying your betters of my intent. I'll allow your army to continue on its way, but I'd like a representative of your Empire to remain behind, along with a number of soldiers. Whoever you can spare of those so-called dregs, so long as they speak your language, to help tutor my own people. I won't be able to depart for a month at least, on account of my wife's pregnancy that is soon to resolve itself, but that shouldn't be an issue. It will allow your people time to prepare a proper reception."
Suy-Ty's eyes flicked to Evie, then down, to her stomach.
"Your wife's... pregnancy?" He asked.
Oh?
"My other wife," she explained, fascinated by his reaction. "She wasn't present today for obvious reasons, but she should be due any week now."
"I... see..." He muttered.
Really? Sara thought. This is what gets a reaction out of the dude?
Sara had been publicly married to two women for months, and while it certainly wasn't standard in this world, the reaction of others had been fairly limited. Jealousy, for the most part. Never something prudish.
Is this Empire the first place I've found that gets weirded out by polyamory? Or is Suy-Ty just a weird motherfucker? Mentally, Sara shrugged. Oh well. Either way, it's gonna be fun to fuck with him.
"Have you a partner, Suy-Ty? I know most people talk about their favorite part of having children being the 'making' part, and while I certainly enjoyed myself, the closer I've gotten to the upcoming birth, the more excited I've been. It's a wonderful thing, to be anticipating a child."
"I... no, I have not," he said.
"Had children? Or had a partner?"
"I have a wife," he said, shaking his head as if he could knock away the cobwebs of her blatant taunting. "But we haven't had children. We decided against it, so long as I am out on campaign."
"Well, that's a shame. I hope you two enjoy yourself at least, when you make it back to visit her."
Suy-Ty's dark skin looked red enough to choke. He swallowed visibly, giving a tiny bob of his head.
"She is a lovely woman, of course."
"Really?" Sara grinned, the slightest touch of something lecherous entering her expression. "If I have the chance, we'll have to introduce our wives to one another. I'm sure they'll get along excellently."
Suy-Ty shook his head yet again, desperately, no longer even attempting to meet Sara's gaze. "Perhaps so, Chosen. Perhaps so."
Evie, who had gathered enough context clues from the man's reaction, swept in for the killing blow with her broken version of their language.
"Handsome, you. Lucky girl, lucky-lucky. Or maybe... man?"
Even speaking like a drunk caveman, Evie's poker face was impeccable.
Suy-Ty burst into a coughing fit, pounding his chest. Sara's eyes flicked out to his guards at the wall, catching hidden smirks flitting across their faces.
If you're gonna negotiate with the Champion of Lust, you're gonna have to be ready to play ball.
"As you can see, my wife does need considerably more practice with your language," Sara said, offering the mercy of a topic change. "And we will need a guide to your cities. Who can you spare of your envoy to remain behind?"
"To honor your invitation, I prepared some of my best soldiers," Suy-Ty said, seizing the lifeline she'd tossed. "I would not willingly part with any one of them. I'm sure a suitable replacement can be brought up from the main force, however."
"Really? Most of your troops seemed like veterans to me, but not all of them."
Suy-Ty racked his brain, trying to remember who Sara was referring to. She waited patiently, already knowing the answer.
"Ah, yes. I had forgot. Some young fellow was brought along to round out the numbers. I haven't the faintest clue of his character, to be frank. I'd rather you be left someone more... educated, if you are to be using them as a tutor of our language."
"I wouldn't want to be a bother," Sara said, "and I certainly wouldn't want to deprive you of anyone of worth, when all I'll need is their tongue. Leave the fellow behind; I won't take offense."
And you won't have the chance to send me a spy, instead.
"If you insist," Suy-Ty reluctantly agreed. "Though I ask that you not take some junior officer as a representative of the Empire's truly cultured citizenry."
"Of course not," Sara assured him. "Now, have you any need of supplies before you leave? Bandages for your wounded, perhaps?"
The conversation steered itself away from touchier subjects, sliding into safe discussions of mundane necessities. Sara established protocols for contacts and letters, gave Suy-Ty basic maps of the Tulian borders that she still claimed control over, and gave him only the most basic information of the northern political situation, just enough to entice his masters into hankering for more. He had an aid enter the room to take notes at the very end, with Sara adding a few corrections to his summary here and there, and then they made their excuses. Suy-Ty filed out of the room with his troops, formally escorted by Sara's own guard.
"Alright, we're alone," Sara said.
Evie fell down into her lap as the wall to their left creaked open, revealing Hurlish and the 32-pounder cannon that had been pointed directly at Suy-Ty's torso.
"How'd it go?" Hurlish asked, waddling out to take a seat. The wooden chair creaked ominously under her weight, but held firm.
"Fine enough," Sara said, wary of answering directly while the rest of the troops that had been hidden with Hurlish were still around. "I think they knew someone was back there, by the way."
"But they probably thought we'd actually have to come out to hurt 'em," Hurlish said, grinning at the soldiers filing out of the room. Every Empire soldier, unbeknownst to them, had spent the entire meeting with a pistol pointed at their head. "No one thinks they're gonna die before they can even hear what kills 'em."
"Nope. Thank god we didn't have to try, though."
Hurlish gave Sara a curious look. "Really? They that big of a deal."
Sara sighed, absentmindedly petting Evie's belly under her shirt as the feline curled up tighter in her lap. "He was cocky as hell, but it seemed like he'd earned it. This Empire shit is real business, Hurlish."
"We still got guns, though."
"We have firearms, but no army," Evie explained. "At least not one of a size worth mentioning. The Sporaton forces were a peasant horde led by exceptionally powerful Knights. From what we observed in their camp, this Empire has a true military. Every soldier is afforded metal armor and fine weaponry, and they are paid both well and regularly. Many of their officers have purchased their own equipment, some with minor enchantments, and even the common soldier owns multiple changes of clothes and a number of personal comforts. As far as Sara could determine, there were not even any conscripts in the force. Fifty thousand volunteers, well-trained and well-armed."
"It's basically what I would have created in Tulian, if I'd had the time and money," Sara confirmed. "And Suy-Ty was still talking like he was small fry. A bastard with a big ego like him, admitting he's not shit? His force must be really, really outgunned. We wouldn't stand a chance, not with what we have now."
"So what did you do?" Hurlish asked. "All I could understand was a bunch of jabbering back and forth."
"Basically, I said that he wasn't important enough for me to bother with," Sara explained, smirking. "He believed me, too. Again, he thinks he's small fry, which is kinda terrifying. So in about a month, I'm gonna be heading to one of their cities to talk to some political figure or another. Should keep them off our ass at least that long. Meanwhile, I'm gonna be treating some of their own soldiers to our own hospitality, so they can lead us back when we're ready to travel."
"Well, shit. Guess I'm gonna have to pick up on the gun front, aren't I?"
"No," Evie snipped, "you are going to continue resting, and when you have the child, you are going to spend at least a month without any hard labor."
Hurlish snorted. "A month? You really think you're gonna manage to pin me down that long?"
"I insist upon it."
"I'll be fine in a couple weeks, tops."
"You have no way of knowing that."
"Watch me."
Sara sighed. A part of her wanted to take Evie's side, paranoid as she was about the upcoming birth of their child, but she knew better than to think she'd win an argument with Hurlish.
"We'll listen to the healers and see how you feel," Sara said. "At the very least, you'll have to stay home while Evie and I go to this meeting. I feel like a bitch for leaving you after we just had a kid, but..."
"Oh, I'll be fine," Hurlish said, waving her hand. "But y'all are gonna be on diaper duty when you get back, just so you know."
"That's fair."
Several of the soldiers returned, informing them that the Empire's envoy was out of sight. Sara gave them permission to start taking down the fake walls that had let them roll the massive cannon into the Peasant's Theatre, and used the chance to head out.
"By the way, I got you a language tutor," Sara told Evie as they entered the sun-lit streets. "Remember that catfolk sergeant from the other night?"
"The one that kept staring at your chest, until you pretended to be suffering from battle shock?"
"In his defense, everyone stares at my chest. But yeah, him."
"Why did you choose him, specifically?"
"Because he knew I'd snuck into the camp, but didn't squeal. I figured that was worth something. Besides, he seems like an interesting guy. He was nice enough, all serious and proper, but I could tell it was a bit of an act. I think he'll be pretty straight with us about the whole Empire thing."
Hurlish glanced Sara's way.
"What?"
The massive orc shook her head, lips tugging at her tusks in amusement. "Nothing."
Sara turned to Evie. "What's she on about?"
"I can't imagine, Master."
Sara's eyes narrowed. "Wait. You reverted to the Master-shtick again. What's up?"
"I'm sure it's nothing of consequence, Master. Now, Hurlish, about increasing the manufacturing capacity of our firearms. How has the production of a precision lathe been progressing?"
"Still struggling with maintaining an even speed. We need a lot of gearing reduction, and we're gonna have to start small, just to make the parts..."
Sara fell into the industrial talk easily enough, accepting the distraction for the success it was, but in some small corner of her mind, she still wondered what her wives were getting at. She was tempted to use her Blessings to let her figure out exactly what they meant, but she held off. After all, sometimes surprises were nice.
Notes:
First time in quite a while I actually went over my self-imposed word count limit! A touch over 10k words, versus the 8k I usually aim for, with quite a lot going on. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 116: Book 3, Chapter 3: Create Machines
Notes:
Two chapter update this week, and the second one's smut!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Mui Thom
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It was a very rare experience for a military man to not know what to do with himself. Very rare indeed.
Oh, it was common as mud for a military man to not find anything useful to do with himself. Having nothing to do at all, though? That just didn’t happen. In the eyes of officers, there was always more, more, more. There was always armor to be polished, leaves to be raked, and if all else should fail, a bucket, mop, and pouring rain to soak up. Everyone knew that idleness was meant to be a civilian luxury, even if the work being done was of no benefit to anyone.
As he watched the Empire’s entourage retreat without him, Mui was confronted with the very strange fact that he had no orders whatsoever. None meaningful, at least. He and his squad had been left near the weapon testing grounds, told to wait for the Chosen to show up. He had no idea how long that would take, what he would be doing when she did show up, and was generally ignorant of any other detail he could have possibly wanted to know. Were he slightly more pessimistic, he might say he’d been abandoned.
This suited his squad well enough. They’d repurposed a few empty crates for lounge chairs, recognizing that the splintery wood was slightly softer than stone. Most were already unconscious. The first skill one learned in a marching army was the rarity of sleep. Rest was a precious commodity, to be hoarded at every opportunity, and opportunities to seek it jealously fought over.
But as their Sergeant, Mui couldn’t seek it himself. Not only was it inappropriate for an officer (even a sergeant) to be seen loafing about, at least one person had to be awake for someone to notice the Chosen’s arrival. It wouldn’t do to have the woman unknowingly pass them by, leaving them stranded in this foreign, half-empty city.
Which left Mui with the same problem as before.
He had nothing to do.
He looked about himself, stirring the slight haze of smoke with his muzzle, wondering at all he could see.
His first experience with true foreigners was certainly proving appropriately alien. There was a very peculiar mixture of behaviors he could see, mostly brought on by the presence of the constantly-cracking weapons. The city streets were far wider than should be necessary for such a small population, yet the people walking them did so in tight clusters, chatting loudly with one another. In Haradrapavata, this much space for oneself would have been a luxury. He could already imagine his mother and father shouting at one another across the road for entire conversations, simply to indulge in the luxury of having access to the space to do so.
Yet for all the land they had, the signs of poverty were omnipresent. The currency he saw changing hands was mostly cheap copper discs, thin enough to be bent between two fingers. The people’s clothes lacked color, and though no one was running about in rags, patches and stitches were visible on nearly every shirt, even the children. It was not a destitute populace, not as Mui imagined one would look, but the city was a far cry from wealthy.
Which made it all the stranger when he occasionally spotted signs of the bizarre.
The weapons, for example. They were thick tubes of iron, with complex mechanical mechanisms at their rear to create sparks on demand, including finely worked metal notches through which dozens of citizen volunteers were peering. The wooden portions of the weapons were not elaborately carved sculptures, but they were obviously well-made, with a sheen of lacquer that suggested they were meant to last for a very, very long time. Entirely out of place.
And the city Guards! He had never seen a civilian force so well equipped. The Empire prided itself on providing its soldiers with the finest protection available, but to see mere catchpoles wearing metal breastplates and helmets? Odd as could be. Many of the guards even wore the scars of battle, either on their armor or their skin. He idly wondered if this “Republic” bothered to distinguish between civilian and military. At the very least, he had to imagine those in charge of instructing the civilians had at least some degree of military experience.
Save for one man, at least. The fellow had caught Mui’s eye early on, and had kept dragging his attention back. A tall, large-bellied man, wearing a strange pair of metal-framed glass plates over his eyes, was huffing back and forth between the tables, happily babbling away to anyone who made the mistake of glancing his way. It was a highly entertaining sight. Mui watched the way the civilians were politely nodding along to the man’s words, uninterested in hearing more, yet unwilling to be rude by refusing to listen. Occasionally the man would pick up one of the weapons, pointing at one part or another while he continued to jabber away, and then the civilian might take a slight bit more interest, but that was rare. Most only looked ready to return to their shooting. Those waiting behind the waylaid individual certainly wished for the man to finish his interruption.
Unfortunately, Mui failed to realize his own staring was a risk in and of itself. Despite the fact that fifty or so feet separated them, as he turned around, the man caught Mui’s eyes. His expression lit up in a smile.
Oh, no.
Mui tried to stare over the man’s shoulder, as if he’d been looking at something further down the street, but it was too late. The man came up to Mui with a large grin, pointing at the table.
“Bah sarnot de polu?” He asked.
Mui pointed at his ears, shaking his head. “Can’t understand you, friend.”
“Ah!” To Mui’s dismay, the man perked up considerably. He pointed at Mui’s chestplate. “Empire?”
“Empire,” Mui confirmed, after considerable hesitation.
The man babbled more nonsensical words, louder now, waving encouragingly for Mui to follow.
Mui glanced at his squad, all of whom were still asleep. He’d been in the army long enough to know that any group of unsupervised soldiers was a liability. He also knew they wouldn’t willingly wake until physically disturbed.
And the strange weapons did look awfully intriguing.
Mui followed after the man, heading over to one of the tables that was populated only by armored individuals. The weapons laying on this table were slightly different to the others. They were a few inches longer, with a slot of metal protruding from the bottom of the tube near the end, while the upper rear of the weapon’s seemed more complex, featuring a number of additional lines cut into the metal. From what he could see of the two groups, there was little change in their use, leaving him wondering what the difference was.
Responding to the enthusiastic man’s insistent nattering, several of the other shooters at the table stepped away, clearing a space for Mui. He appreciated the gesture. Even with cotton stuffed deep into his ears, the crack of each booming weapon was painful.
What followed was perhaps the most awkward “training” experience of Mui’s life. Without a single common word between them, the man walked him through the steps of loading and firing the weapon by gesture and pantomime alone. Occasionally the fellow would go so far as to grab Mui’s wrists, correcting his motions. Mui had nearly broken the fellow’s fingers with a snap of his hand, instinct telling him to fight off anyone taking hold of his arms while he had a weapon, but he thankfully restrained himself.
After a few minutes of profoundly awkward back-and-forth, Mui was holding a loaded weapon. The man produced a sheet of paper, sketching out an image of the weapon’s sights and how they should be aligned, clearly unaware that Mui was already familiar with similar devices on Imperial ballista.
He made a show of carefully inspecting the diagram, just to be polite, then put the weapon to his shoulder. Mui put his thumb on the metal striker which held a crystal gem, looking to the man for confirmation. After receiving a confirmatory nod, Mui pushed down, readying the weapon.
His target, a perforated breastplate that seemed to have previously sported an impressive set of enchantments, was set at the far end of the dueling grounds, maybe a hundred feet or so away. An easy enough shot for a trained bowman, but nothing to scoff at for his first shot of a strange weapon. The weapon was heavy for its size, maybe nine or ten pounds, and it was uncomfortable to keep it in position. He lined up the two outer sights with the center notch at the end of the barrel, placing it over the target. He started to lift his aim, to adjust for the drop of the unwieldy lead ball he’d loaded, but the man once again interrupted him, gesturing to keep his aim low. Against his better judgment, Mui did so, aiming directly at the breastplate.
When no more corrections to his form came, he pulled the trigger.
The sudden impact against his shoulder was shocking in its intensity. He’d seen the smoke from the others, heard their weapon’s snap, but he hadn’t expected the sheer force the weapon would throw against his body. It turned him aside slightly, and if he hadn’t been wearing a chestplate, he suspected a bruise would already be forming. He shook his head as the wind washed the smoke back over him, his whiskers twitching vigorously.
A short moment after the ringing in his ears faded, it was replaced by the sound of laughter. Mui turned to find a cluster of the armored members of the Tulian Republic thoroughly enjoying themselves, having gathered to watch his first shot.
Mui just managed to stop his lip from curling into a snarl, and only because he noticed that their laughter was punctuated by applause, as well. One man noticed Mui’s expression and, by way of explanation, pointed to the target.
Right in the center of the chestplate, just where the armor creased above the sternum, was a new hole. A neat circle had been punched in the steel, clean as could be. Anyone who had been wearing the chestplate would have dropped dead, probably before they realized they’d ever been struck.
Mui’s whiskers kept twitching. He looked down at the weapon in his hands, the soldier’s laughter forgotten.
“Another?” He asked, waving to the bag of ammunition his guide held.
The man smiled as he dug out a pellet of lead and a paper-wrapped bundle of powder, handing them over.
The mind-numbing tedium he had been anticipating had suddenly become something very different. Mui went through the loading process yet again, this time needing less guidance. In another minute, he had reloaded. He wanted to know if the first shot’s accuracy had been a fluke.
Mui lifted.
Aimed.
Fired.
And hit.
Another circle of punched steel appeared, a ring of hollow space, this time in the center of what would have been his target’s right lung.
Another polite smattering of applause from the troops. Mui recognized their reaction now for what it was. It wasn’t particularly remarkable for this weapon to strike so accurately. Their encouragement was simply what good troops did for nervous recruits, congratulating them on simple achievements so that they would not be discouraged when they inevitably failed.
This in mind and his own expectations adjusted, Mui began loading again, trying to find a rhythm in the process. Weapon held between his feet, lead and paper between his fingers. Bite the powder package open, dump it down the barrel, then send the lead ball chasing after it. Help the ball along with the ram rod until it thumped home. Slot the rod back into its place under the gun, press down the spring-loaded crystal, take aim.
Fire.
Begin anew.
His third shot flowed into his fourth, then his fifth, each coming quicker than the last. The soldiers watching him eventually lost their interest and rejoined the line, adding their own smoke to the skies. Mui watched them through the corner of his eye, judging their shots.
They were more accurate than him, as he’d expected. What he hadn’t expected was how much more accurate they were. His shots were placed within the same ten or so inches, an admirable first attempt. Meanwhile, many of the soldiers were placing their no more than a thumb’s width apart, sometimes slipping them into the same hole the previous shot had left. Mui was no prodigy, and this strange weapon clearly had more skill to discover.
With nothing better to do, and frankly because he was rather enjoying himself, Mui kept at it.
It must have been an hour later that he was startled from his practice by the sudden sound of proper Kemari being spoken directly behind him.
“I can see you’re enjoying the guns, huh?”
The voice was eerily familiar. Mui spun about, startled, one hand instinctively reaching for his sword.
Only to find an iron grip stopping it in place, the pain of pressure radiating up his arm.
A woman he barely recognized had seized him by the wrist, stepping between him and the Chosen. The woman from before, he realized. The one that hadn’t left the Chosen’s side through the entire day.
Despite the pain, Mui’s first thought was that the woman was enchantingly peculiar. She had the ears and tail of a catfolk, yet her skin was bare as any human. Mui had heard of those like her, but never met someone who fit the description. She wore a cavalryman’s metal cuirass, with the odd addition of a large leather pouch strapped across the armor, though she eschewed any armor beyond this. An intriguing ensemble.
His fascination, however, vanished the moment his appraisal reached her face. Her features should have been as beautiful as the rest of her, but there was something… off. Her face looked as if it had been peeled away, turned a touch to one side, then placed back down. Her every feature was ever so slightly twisted, off-kilter in a dozen ways he could not quite give words to.
Her expression did not help. She was looking at him with a fire in her eyes, cold-forged fury flaring behind slitted pupils. The anger had worn deep trenches in her skin, lines dug along the course of a deep scowl, as if the expression rarely left her.
Against his will, Mui’s tail puffed out while his lips curled away from his fangs, a panicked hiss ripping out of his throat. He tore his hand away, claws emerging as he prepared to–
Nothing happened.
Mui’s arm was left dangling in the woman’s grip. She hadn’t so much as twitched, even as he threw his entire body into tearing his wrist free.
“Woah! Hey there, it’s alright,” the Chosen cried, moving between the two of them. “Sorry about that, Mui. Shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”
The other woman released her grip.
Mui stumbled backward, grabbing at his sword. He didn’t care what the Chosen said, he was not going unarmed near that… that thing.
“This is my wife, Evie,” the Chosen said as if nothing had happened, holding her hand out to indicate the woman. “Evie, this is Sergeant Mui Thom.”
The monster vanished with a flash of white teeth, replaced by the vaguely pretty woman he had first mistaken it for. The harsh creases of her face smoothed over into a polite, gentile smile.
“My pleasure,” Evie said, nodding her head respectfully as the foreign words flitted across her tongue.
Mui rubbed his wrist. The fluffing of his fur had spread from his tail all the way up his spine, making him grateful his back was facing away from the two women.
“I apologize,” Mui said, willing his fur to relax. “You startled me, and I reacted inappropriately.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” the Chosen said breezily. Even with his hand still on the hilt of his sword, she sauntered forward casually, squinting to inspect his target.
While she did so, Mui could not help but stare. She was wearing clothes of a sort he had never seen before, not even amongst the Tulian populace. A black-scaled coat of alligator hide dropped just to her waist, adorned across the shoulders with spikes and blood-red, pentagrammic iconography. Her hair was falling free in gentle black waves, rolling over and across the spikes without once tangling, and following it drew Mui’s eyes down to her legs. Here, more than anywhere else on her otherwise covered body, was on display the slablike musculature that lay beneath her clothing. The tightly-clinging material, yet another thing Mui had never seen, may as well have been painted on, highlighting every twitch of the steel-cabled muscles which lay beneath her skin. Only her undershirt beneath the alligator jacket, made of subtly dyed cloth, was something he had seen before.
That and her almost disturbingly pleasing smile, which she treated him with once again.
“Nice shooting,” the Chosen said, thankfully not noticing the gawking he could not restrain. “Most people don’t do nearly as well their first time.”
“Not as well as I would have preferred,” Mui cautiously replied, turning so he could keep both women in his line of sight. “Your other soldiers were making a mess of me.”
“They better be, with how much blackpowder I’ve budgeted for their training.” She glanced at Mui, scanning his armor from head to toe with a flick of her eyes. “And if there are armies like yours sitting on our southern border, I think I might have to start spending even more.”
Mui did not know how to respond to that, so he fell back on the ever-reliable standby. A polite smile and agreeing nod, stating nothing.
“C’mon, don’t give me that,” the Chosen laughed, grinning widely. “You can ease up. I’m not going to bite your head off.”
Before he could stop himself, Mui’s eyes slid to the woman at her side. Evie.
“She won’t either,” the Chosen tacked on. “So long as you don’t give her a reason to. My wife’s the protective sort, but that doesn’t mean she’s a cold-blooded murderer.”
Evie’s ears twitched slightly at this. He didn’t think the Chosen noticed, but Mui’s family had been catfolk for four generations, and he easily recognized the little quiver. Apparently the two women disagreed on some matters.
“How much were you told about your purpose here?” The Chosen asked, moving to inspect the weapon he’d been using.
“Precious little, Your Holiness. Only that I am to follow your instructions as I might the Adjutant’s.”
She raised an eyebrow without looking away from the gun. “Really? They just told you ‘do what she says’ and left it at that?”
“Erm. Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Okay, now that you can cut out,” the Chosen said. Her eyes darted up, boring into him. “I’m not holy. Amarat and I have, at best, a solid professional relationship. I don’t worship her, and I’m certainly not her errand-runner. Besides,” she added with a scoff, “worshiping a real, living, breathing person is about the stupidest thing you could ever do. I’m not perfect. I won’t ever be. My name’s Sara Brown, Mui Thom. And if you refer to me by any kind of trumped-up-honorific again, I’ll find someone else for this task.”
Mui swallowed hard, flailing to find an adequate response. The casual air of the Chosen did not match the uncompromising severity of their words. Thankfully the Chosen’s wife turned to her, rapidly saying several things Mui could not understand. The Chosen rolled her eyes, but seemed to relent.
“You can, however, refer to me as ma’am, or Governess, which is my official title in Tulian. Well, technically my official-official title is Provisional Governess, but that’s a mouthful. So basically, ‘ma’am’ is fine, if you want to be formal for some reason.”
Mui sighed in relief. This was something that he could much more readily parse. That foreigners would have differing opinions on proper forms of address was far more reasonable than not using honorifics at all.
“I understand, ma’am. I apologize for offending you.”
She laughed, setting the weapon he’d been using aside, having apparently finished her inspection. “You didn’t offend me. Trust me, if you had, you’d know it. But it’s harder to do than most people expect. And besides, I already know you’re a decent enough guy. Don’t tell me you already forgot our meeting a few days ago?”
I wish I could, Mui thought. Outwardly, he cleared his throat, shaking his head in the negative.
“Of course not, ma’am. I must say, your acting was remarkable. I didn’t suspect a thing.”
“No one did. We got in and out of your army clean. Unless there was some wizard bullshit going on, I can be pretty confident saying that no one but you knows about it. Thanks for not ratting me out, by the way.”
“I wou–”
Mui froze, the sentence dying on his tongue. He was about to say ‘I would never’. He’d stopped when he’d given better though to who, exactly, he was about to say it to. The Avatar of Speech was not likely to be fooled by his stuttering falsehoods.
“I tried, ma’am,” he said instead. “But the meeting was almost underway, and I wasn’t allowed access to Preeminant-Most Warrior Suy-Ty.” He hung his head. “I apologize.”
She looked at him, a peculiar expression on her face. She faced him squarely, arms folded over her chest.
“Pretty hierarchal society you came from, then? Big emphasis on interpersonal ranking? I gathered some of that from my time in your army, but I was hoping that was just standard army shit. This isn’t that. Would one of your leaders, if you told them the same thing, be angry at you?”
He was glad he had hung his head, because it mostly hid the way his eyes were threatening to pop from his skull. It was the commoner’s nightmare: ordered by one Lord to testify against another. He had seen a dozen plays in which a character’s poor answer earned them a gruesome fate. Only the cleverest, most eloquent individuals could worm their way through the jaws of such a trap.
Mui thanked the gods that, before he could remember the exact wording those famous characters had used, the Chosen turned to her wife and spoke a few terse words. There was a brief reply as the woman pulled a notebook from her pocket, opening it to a list that extended across several pages. The Chosen’s wife scratched a harsh line through one of the very first entries, then snapped her book closed, returning it to her bag.
“Don’t worry about it, Mui,” the Chosen said. “Sorry to put you in an awkward spot.”
Mui slowly raised his head, blinking. “I’m… sorry?”
“Nothing to apologize for. And I mean that literally. I was just curious about your culture. I’m pretty good at what I do, but until I know more about your people, accidentally stepping on toes is kind of inevitable.” She chuckled. “You should have seen the look on Suy-Ty’s face when I mentioned that I have two wives, and one of ‘em’s pregnant.”
Mui blanched.
“Yeah, that one!” She laughed. “That’s the face he made. I mean, less, like,” she made a motion around her face, drawing it outward, “muzzle and whiskers and all that, but still. Dude couldn’t believe it. What’s so surprising about that?”
“That’s…” Mui struggled to put it into words. “I have never heard of a human with two wives before. It seems incredible.”
“A human?” She asked, cocking her head. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, not just human. All the races save the Elven, of course.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Sorry, I didn’t catch the implication. What does ‘of course’ mean there? Why would the elves get multiple wives?”
“Because… they do?” Mui floundered, struggling to find words for a sentiment so simple it shouldn’t have needed them. “Perhaps it should not be so shocking. You are a Chosen of the gods, ma’am. Of course you would be included amongst their ranks.”
“Oh. Oh, is this some racism shit?” The Chosen leaned forward, her interest piqued, and not in a good way. The motion left her shirt drooping, and Mui’s mental efforts redirected themselves wholly to maintaining firm eye contact. “The elves are allowed to do shit you’re not? Is that it?”
“They are the Elves,” Mui insisted, as if repeating himself would add clarity. “I wouldn’t dare compare myself to them.”
“See, Mui, that’s funny.” The Chosen took a step forward and, mercifully, straightened. Less mercifully, however, that single step from her long legs had carried her much closer than it would most, and he had to stop his nose from reflexively breathing deeply of her scent. “I don’t like when certain people are allowed to do things that others aren’t. It’s not something I approve of.”
Out of the corner of his vision, Mui watched the nearest soldiers exchange nervous glances, shifting away from the Chosen. Her wife pressed into her side, one hand on her lower back, as was common for wives to do. Unlike most, however, she took a fistful of the woman’s shirt, like an owner gripping the chain of a growling dog.
“And I really don’t like when certain people claim they’re better than everyone else. That’s a very, very good way to piss me off.”
“Sara,” the Chosen’s wife harshly whispered.
“I’m fine,” the Chosen snapped. “Just something I’m interested in learning.”
“I can’t say that I am aware of much of the Elves and their thoughts, ma’am,” Mui cautiously ventured. “They’re just not… I do not know what to say, ma’am. I have not seen them often. And when I have, it has only ever been at a distance.”
Though he’d meant the words to soothe whatever anger was building up inside the Chosen, the whites of her eyes only grew.
“Segregation, then? They do fucking racial segregation?”
Before Mui could sputter out a response that would, judging by his current track record, almost certainly make everything worse, he was cut off by the Chosen’s wife physically tugging her aside. A brief conversation ensued between the two women, so rapid-fire and filled with snapped gesticulations that Mui doubted he would have been able to follow it even if he’d been a native speaker of the language.
“Sorry,” the Chosen said as she abruptly pivoted back towards him, her exotically accented Kemari returning alongside her dazzling smile. “My wife’s right, as usual. That’s not really a topic worth pursuing. Right now, we’ve got better things for you and your troops to be doing.” She glanced at Mui’s sleeping squad. “Are they up for a tour of the city as my wife and I go about our duties? Or should we have them quartered and fed after their journey? I’ve led soldiers before. I know how it is.”
Mui was about to say that of course his squad was able to join the Chosen, that their journey across empty hills hadn’t been a struggle in the slightest, but then he caught sight of one of the women cracking open an eye. She’d heard the Chosen’s offer.
“I think that they would be grateful for rest in a proper barracks, ma’am,” Mui said instead. In his troop’s minds, he’d earned them this abandonment in an alien land, and he feared they’d soon loathe him for it. He needed to make amends if ever he was to maintain their loyalty.
“Of course.” She whistled, and the same man that had been leading the envoy jogged over.
As he got closer, Mui had his first chance to properly appraise the strange, oil-skinned fellow. He had been training some of the troops nearby and, accordingly, donned more of his armor. The sight stirred some memory in Mui, one that he struggled to grasp for a moment, until it suddenly clicked into place.
What is a Carrion Sergente doing in this empty city?
The moment after the question came to him, Mui knew he would have no answer. It was not his place to ask, so he forced himself to discard the thought.
The Carrion fellow came up to the Chosen, listened to her speak for a moment, then snapped off a precise salute. He jogged back towards Mui’s squad and, with his broken shards of Kemari vocabulary, managed to communicate that they would be brought to their dwellings. The squad looked to Mui, who nodded, and then they were being escorted away.
Amazing how simply some things happen, when one is speaking to the master of a city.
“And what do you wish of me, ma’am?” Mui asked. “I would not be so presumptuous as to delay your dealings for the day simply by following in your shadow like a lost dog.”
“You won’t slow anything up,” the Chosen assured him. “Besides, you’re going to be teaching my people about yours. It’d be best if you knew as much about us as you can before you start, right?”
“As you say, ma’am,” Mui said, bowing slightly.
The Chosen’s lips turned down at the gesture. He hastily straightened.
“No need to bow for me, Mui. I’m just some chick who got lucky. Now, let’s see what we have first.” She spoke to her wife, who produced a notebook, yet another of an increasingly astounding collection, and responded quickly. The Chosen clapped her hands, pleased. “Perfect! Mui, what do you know about steel?”
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The building which Mui was approaching was intimidating. Not intimidating like a fortress, with its steep earthen hills angling up to solid stone, nor intimidating in the way the towering palaces of nobility loomed over the cities.
No, it was intimidating in its sheer, uncompromising utility.
Its ocean-facing side was made of the same white stone that had crawled up the city’s walls and its bulbous fortifications, capped by a sturdy roof of thick clay tiles. Its other walls were less monumental, for they had large sections cut out to allow great billowing sheets of heated air to escape. From the angle they approached, the entire construction appeared wreathed by a great mirage, shimmering as if it were sitting behind a veil of water. Though the Chosen had already told him this was an illusion created by the great heat the building was outputting, Mui struggled to imagine how that could be.
Then there was the noise. He had thought it the roar of the ocean at first, but soon realized that it couldn’t be, not when the city had no beaches for waves to roll up upon. Next he imagined it to be great stone boulders constantly being pushed up hills, the ground itself groaning and trembling under their weight, but he could not imagine any reason for such a thing to exist. Whatever it was, it was growing louder as they approached.
Then, without warning, the Chosen did the last thing Mui could have expected.
Her coat of black alligator leather, with its strange spikes and incomprehensible symbols, was shucked off and tossed over a shoulder. She began rolling up her simple cloth shirt until it ended just at the bottom of her ribcage, then pinned it in place, moving to her hair, which she slid into a tied ponytail. Even her wife peeled off her metal cuirass, holding it in one hand as they approached.
“You sure you want to keep all that on?” The Chosen asked, eying his armor.
Mui thought of the sweaty, rat-chewed underclothes that protocol forced him to wear under his armor. He’d never taken care of it, not when his fur was more than enough to prevent his equipment from binding and pinching.
“No, I will be alright,” he said, forcing a smile. “I have lived in a jungle my entire life, ma’am. You northerners are too used to the winds gifted to you by these open lands to know true heat, I think.”
The ethereal, otherworldly beauty of a Goddess’s Chosen responded with an indelicate snort of laughter. “Alright, buddy. Let me know if you’re gonna pass out.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Taking a deep breath to gird himself, Mui entered the wall of heat.
The first thing he became aware of when he passed across the building’s threshold was the sudden jump in volume of that ominous rumbling. The indistinct grumbling gained layers of detail, rising and falling in rhythmic tune, accompanied by what sounded like a hundred snakes hissing in unison. It was regular enough to be music, the thump and hiss chasing one after the other in an endless circle, but no instrument he’d ever known could recreate what he heard now.
“Oh, that’s the steam engine,” the Chosen said as she noticed his swiveling ears, directing Mui’s attention to something in a distant corner of the building.
If he hadn’t been warned ahead of time, Mui would have leapt backward. It looked like someone was in the midst of trying to capture a demon by draping it in a pile of chains, and they were failing. It had bones of whirling iron, joints of spinning steel, and it spat its fury in terrible spouts of steam. Even knowing it was nothing of the sort, old memories threatened to fight their way to the surface, and for once he didn’t bother to hide the fear rippling down his spine.
But then some child, a boy who could be no older than sixteen or seventeen, strolled up to the thing’s body. He reached in, twisting something Mui couldn’t see. The whole assembly shuddered slightly, the pitch of its hiss shifting, and after listening for a moment, the boy moved away, hiding his yawn with a raised hand.
“This is the engine you referred to?” Mui demanded, aghast.
“Yeah,” the Chosen answered casually, gesturing ahead of herself. “It’s not the best, but it’s pretty good. We’ve only had a few months to get this going. Watch this, now. We got here just in time.”
As the boy retreated, one of the chains attached to the iron beast suddenly tensed, drawing itself up like a snake. Mui’s eyes followed the links, each of which was thicker than his forearm, as they were drawn higher and higher. The chains slithered along the warehouse ceiling by following a track of firmly mounted pulleys, each one creaking as weight was put upon them. The chain finally dropped back down in the center of the room, where it was attached to some large, egg-shaped vessel that was suspended over the floor. Twice Mui’s height and equally wide at its bulging center, it was wrapped in iron plates that were heated to a subtle cherry glow.
Though the vessel was far less demonic than the engine to which it was attached, it was certainly more alien. It was vomiting a great torrent of sparking flames into the air from a tapered upper half, each guttering spout more than enough to consume a man whole. It alone was responsible for all the heat in the building, and it took no smith to tell him that the thing was hotter than any forge he’d ever seen. Beneath the multitude of industrial clangs, clicks, and hisses, Mui could hear the rush of air constantly flowing through a great metal tube feeding into the bottom of the device, creating the torrent of flames that were spitting out above. The exact way by which it produced the billowing breath was hidden from him, save for the fact that it, too, was attached by a series of bizarre mechanisms to that violently pounding ‘engine.’
The chain tightened yet further, drawing itself up, and Mui realized with a burst of panic that the entire fire-spitting vessel was tilting, tipping, turning itself over.
It was only the fact that the Chosen and her wife continued to dispassionately watch that kept Mui rooted to his feet. Otherwise, he would have fled with his tail between his legs, and never once would he have felt shame for it.
The workers of this hellish forge were made of sterner stuff. Wearing slab-faced helmets with darkly-tinted glass across their eyes, they began pushing some sort of iron cart running along metal tracks.
The vessel reached its tipping point, the chain no longer required to shift it, and the oppressive heat became utterly unbearable. Glowing liquid vomited from the thing’s mouth, spitting out into one of the carts that had been moved to receive it in sludgy torrents. Clouds of smoke and steam spat into the air with a banshee’s shriek as the liquid metal made contact with the body of the cart.
Then, with the regularity of a pendulum clock, the chains reversed themselves, tipping the vessel back up. Those workers that had pushed the cart into place slid a coffin’s lid overtop, then pulled against its body, moving it out of the way. They were replaced almost immediately by a second team sliding their cart into place, and the vessel began to tip forward again, repeating the process.
Mui watched in awe as the cart was removed and the entire series of events began again. There were six or seven carts in a line, each waiting to receive their load of molten metal.
“How much iron can this… this thing hold?” Mui asked.
“Five tons,” the Chosen answered distractedly, watching the procession with an eagle’s eye. “I wanted to make more of them, and better ones, but we just don’t have the resource production to keep up right now. We can only run it twice a day at most, when we get a shipment of foreign ore, or once a day at half volume, when it’s only our domestic production being used. The whole thing’s still pretty primitive.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Oh, and it’s not iron. It’s steel.”
The great vessel tipped again, heating the air to a boil. The tips of his whiskers began to curl, and he feared that if he stepped any closer, his fur may burst alight.
Mui shivered.
“I… yes, I think I’m beginning to feel light-headed,” he muttered, moving away. “I will go elsewhere, if you do not mind.”
The Chosen’s analytical focus was swept away by a tide of concern as she darted towards him, taking an arm.
“Of course, of course! Sorry, you seemed so interested. Let’s get you out of here.” She whistled, calling out something as she led Mui away, and he soon found a cool rag placed upon his neck, a canteen of water thrust into his hands. Even a healer rushed over, hands already aglow, but he waved them off.
The Chosen and her wife left him on a set of steps near the building while they returned to review something or another with whoever was in charge. Mui watched from a distance. Already the molten steel that had been moved into the carts was being ferried about the greater yard, being poured into casts of a great many shapes and sizes. All were moving quickly, presumably to use up all the steel before it cooled too much, and there was so much to do. The tipping of the molten metal had summoned hundreds of workers into the yard, smiles on their faces as they emerged from every nearby building to begin their work.
Mui watched other ‘engines’ creak to life. Though there were only a handful spread across hundreds of workers, and each one was far smaller than the beast contained within the white stone, the devices had energy to spare. They were used to lift weight, tip carts, and generally do anything which might have required a Class of great strength to accomplish at his own home. Pimple-faced teenagers were, with the clink of a chain or click of a lever, doing the work of master craftsmen.
Later, the Chosen would come to collect him, and their tour of the city would continue. He would see steam powering great weaving machines, uncountable needles piecing together enough cloth to see an entire ship outfitted with sails, only to be told the sheet would be cut up and turned into clothes for those who needed them. He peered through a thick glass window as men and women covered head-to-toe in glistening protective clothing shifted vials of glass with the care of religious ritual, pouring them into other bottles that began to hiss and bubble. He was told the names of the substances they were producing, but not even the Chosen’s magic could provide a translation. They were new to this world. He was told that even now in the distant mines there were being assembled roving beasts of steel, their mouths a tornado of picks and shovels, their excrement untold tons of unrefined ore.
And still he couldn’t scrub that first warehouse from his mind. Five tons of steel a day. Ten tons, if they had the ore for it. Enough to make a sword for every man, woman and child in the city, with a helmet and breastplate alongside. Heat like hellfire turning the tips of his whiskers black, and the scrawny, Classless child who had been the organizer of it all. He’d watched a Chosen of the Gods speak to that child, agreeing with his words like he was an equal.
When he had watched plays as a youth, he had never understood certain characters lamenting their so-called ‘curse of knowledge’. How could knowledge, the same knowledge that brought power, ever be a curse? It was a tool like any other, and one could do with it as they wished.
Mui shook his head in the darkness of the private room he’d been gifted. He had been staring at the dark ceiling for hours, sleep yet to find him. Cursed.
Notes:
For these chapters, well... I went a lottle bit overboard. What was supposed to be two smaller chapters became a massive chapter and a half-finished piece of smut. 12k words instead of the 8k I usually shoot for. On the downside, minor cliffhanger. On the upside, smut! And I think this is my favorite smut scene to write in quite a while, for reasons best discussed after you've given it a read.
Chapter 117: Book 3, Chapter 4: Volcano (S)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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It was well past sundown when Sara finished her half-tour, half-inspection of the city’s industry. She hadn’t lied to Mui when she said he wouldn’t slow down her work. It also wasn’t her fault that he failed to ask if she’d changed what she was going to inspect that day. There were certain things she wanted him, and by extension, the people who would be doubtlessly interrogating him on his return to the Empire, to understand about Tulian. Agricultural import/export ratios weren’t one of them.
At the end of it all, rather than her own house, her aching feet trudged their way up the steps to the very last visit of the day, after Mui had been deposited with his squad. Her and Evie’s meeting with Vesta was likely to be a bit more interesting than most. She knocked twice on the door, waited all of a half second, then threw it open.
“Hey Vesta! Evie and I are here!”
Tomun, Vesta’s ever-loyal butler, was halfway to the door. He frowned, haughtily putting his back to Sara as he bustled away.
“Collared or not?” Vesta called from a distant room.
“Uh-” Sara turned around to ask Evie, only to get hit in the face by the collar’s control band. It vanished into smoke as it made contact with her skin, rematerializing on her wrist. The collar was already on Evie’s neck, locked firmly into place, the padlock dangling with its inscription of Whore facing proudly outward.
“-Collared, apparently!”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Vesta said, her words trailing off into a relieved sigh. “Tomun, put your earplugs back in!”
“As you wish, madam,” the elderly butler crisply called, following the order with the same utter lack of emotion that he did everything else. As Sara passed the man, she stared straight into his eyes, straining her every Blessing.
He stared back, face empty.
How the FUCK does he always do this? Sara raged. She made a point to keep her face equally impassive, but deep inside, she was infuriated. More than a year she’d spent in this world, and this old, balding butler remained the only person she couldn’t read.
His retort to her blatant investigation was to silently pick up a broom, sweeping away the miniscule amount of dirt that had followed Sara and Evie in.
Sara made her way to the rear rooms of the house, glancing about as she went. Vesta’s sons had recently moved out, to be nearer to the Peasant’s Theatre, and the extra space had been put to… particular uses.
She passed a half-closed door and tapped it open with a knuckle, leaning in to inspect the darkness. Glints of iron chains and leather whips greeted her.
She smirked. Industry was the most obvious change Sara had brought to Tulian, but some select few knew it had taken a lot less time for her to revolutionize the world of BDSM.
She shut the door and made sure it latched, for the sake of Vesta’s sons. She didn’t like the whiny little assholes, but no one deserved to stumble into a faceful of their mother’s gimp suit.
“I will be with you shortly, Master,” Evie said, drawing Sara’s attention away. The feline was already shirtless, her breasts bared, and she was halfway through pulling her pants to her ankles.
Sara wondered if Evie understood just how much that simple, trusting display of nudity did for her, even after so many months of depravity. The trust it implied, the depth of their connection. That the sight of Evie dressing each morning was more intoxicating than any amount of time she’d spent on her knees.
The scene had already begun, however, so instead of voicing those sappy thoughts, Sara said, “Say hi to Oddry for me,” right as her palm impacted Evie’s ass. There was enough force behind it that Evie was driven face-first into the wall, gasping, clothes clutched to her trembling chest.
“T-thank you, Master,” Evie breathed.
Sara continued down the hallway while Evie split off, bright-red ass slipping into the kitchen. Sara caught a brief glimpse of Oddry at the stove, ankles and wrists in shackles, and then the door shut.
Sara entered the plush withdrawing room at the rear of the house, the only space that had been decorated by the last remnants of Vesta’s once-absurd wealth. After she’d escaped from Sporatos, Vesta had sold nearly everything she’d salvaged. She’d dismissed her servants, auctioned her jewelry, and trimmed her dress collection from a thousand to a dozen. All that was left of her old wealth had been condensed into this one room, and only the absolute pinnacle of quality had been worth preserving.
Thick, luxuriously soft rugs were spread across the floor, each dyed a dozen different vibrant colors. Walking on them felt like Sara’s feet were being massaged, and no amount of debauchery had ever managed to stain them the slightest bit. The chests and drawers sitting around the room were made of rich, shining wood, dark enough to check her reflection in. The former noblewoman was reclining across a sofa of even more absurd decadence, its glittery velvet cushions stuffed with only the finest of geese down, every soft inch covered by an elegant portrait of intimately intertwining rose petals. The sofa was infused with tiny, amber-wrapped gemstones, enchanted to keep every feather and every drop of dye intact for centuries to come. That sofa was one of the few amenities that Sara had to admit couldn’t be beat by any amount of technology; no spill, flame, or knife could so much as dent it, yet it was soft as a cloud. Centuries after everyone she knew was dead, that damned sofa would live on, perfect as the day it was made.
Yet as Sara slipped her jacket off her shoulders and her boots from her feet, even as she felt the plush carpeting and smelled the aged wood, she thought the most beautiful thing in the room was the woman that it was all meant to serve.
Vesta, née Lady Aurora Vesta, was laid across her luxurious sofa, a book in one hand, the stem of a wineglass pinched in the other. She was dressed in a silk robe so thin that she may as well have been naked with the way it clung to her every curve and twist. Her voluminous auburn hair was still damp from the bath, laid out across the armrest to dry in the open air.
Vesta had a woman’s body, not a girl’s. Vesta had borne three children before she’d turned twenty, and it had been twenty long years since then. Her breasts were not some farcical pubescent dream, perky and taut beyond her years. They were large enough to have drooped with age, and though they were hiding behind silk, Sara knew each of the pretty little freckles dotting the pale skin of her chest. Her hips were ringed with subtle wrinkles and tiny pockets of fat, each of which Sara had caressed countless times with finger, lip, and tongue. The same could be said of every other inch of Vesta’s body. Over the past year, Sara had learned every so-called flaw of the woman’s body, and that knowledge had become one of her most treasured possessions.
“Have a pleasant day, Governess?” Vesta asked, not looking up from her book.
“I’ve had worse,” Sara admitted, dropping articles of clothing as she thudded across the room. She reached the sofa and paused to pull her black leggings off, sighing in relief. Vesta scooted slightly further down the sofa, lifting her head while Sara sat down, tossing her shirt at the room’s door. Sara groaned with relief as Vesta reclined once more, now using Sara’s naked lap as a pillow. She absentmindedly began tracking her hands through Vesta’s hair, straightening it back out after her arrival disturbed it.
Vesta took a sip of her wine, then set the glass aside, glancing up at Sara. “How did the meeting with those Imperial fellows go?”
“Oh, complicated, like always. Give me a bit to think it over, then I’ll give you the full details. You’ve already read Evie’s notes, I’m guessing?”
“I did,” Vesta confirmed. “But your own interpretation is always invaluable. What about your father and Shale? Have they finished arguing about the designs of the fortifications?”
Sara hummed thoughtfully, sliding her hands across Vesta’s shoulders, feeling little pops of static from the silk. She was searching for bare skin, and she found it easily. Vesta’s robe wasn’t even tied in place, allowing Sara’s deft fingers to slip beneath. Soon she was lazily running her fingers across the woman’s bare collarbone, taking her time as she traced out a slow downward spiral.
“I know you just said something,” Sara said, “but I don’t remember what it was. But I’ve got to say, it feels very nice to finally have something soft in my hands.”
Vesta chuckled quietly. “A bit more industrial work today than you would have preferred?”
“I’m getting spoiled,” Sara said, feeling herself sinking deeper into the plush sofa. “I used to do this for a living, y’know. I mean, not the foreman crap, but working with my hands. Twelve hour days, sometimes. Evie and Hurlish have spoiled me rotten.”
“I would like to claim my due credit for that spoilage,” Vesta said, adjusting so that she was laying more firmly on her back, robe falling further open. “And Oddry, of course. Ketch, also, and Shale. And those that join your little club each week. There’s likely some others I’m forgetting, as well.”
Sara snorted. “When you put it like that, you make me sound like a whore.”
“No, I believe that would be your pet in the other room.”
Sara laughed. She finally let her hands fall further downward, teasing the smooth curve of Vesta’s breasts beneath the silk. The older woman shivered.
“I mean, I kinda am a whore, I guess. Thank the gods that there’s no STDs in this world, right? I don’t thank them for much and mean it, but that one? That one I respect.” Sara brushed near to one of Vesta’s nipples, producing a pleasant little murmur from the woman. “Oh, Nora. That’s who you were forgetting.”
“And several other shorter dalliances, I’m sure.” Vesta perked up slightly, glancing away from her book (which hadn’t seen a page turned in minutes) to look Sara in the eye. “By the way, how goes your… affair with Nora?”
“Affair’s probably a good word for it, honestly,” Sara said. “We both know I’m cockblocking her from the sea, and I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna take it.”
“You’ve been worried about her running off for quite a while, but it hasn’t happened yet.”
“That’s only because I’ve been drip-feeding her just enough cannons to keep her around. But sooner or later, she’s gonna have enough on her ship, and that’ll be that. She’s champing at the bit to get out on the sea, Vesta, and let me tell you, Daylagon’s Champion has got some sharp fucking teeth. She’s gonna gnaw through eventually.”
“And you aren’t sure… Oh-” Vesta was interrupted by Sara’s finger brushing across her nipple, and she took a sharp breath. “Gods.” She swallowed, gathering herself. “You, ah, aren’t sure when she’ll break loose?”
“She’ll dip out as soon as we get word back from Ketch on those pirates, I imagine,” Sara said. “It’s only been a few days since Ketch actually found them, but it won’t be long before she gives us a report. She’s good at staying hidden. Once she does, I’ll have no reason not to send Nora after them, and I can’t imagine she’ll stick around after that.”
“Have you any idea what Nora intends to do, once she’s out on the open ocean?”
“Not really,” Sara admitted with a shrug. “I mean, I can tell she’s got a very, very specific goal, but even I can’t figure out what it is.” Sara curled her fingers, nails scraping pale lines across Vesta’s breasts for a moment, then she spread her hands again, returning to a gentle massage of her chest. “Nora just knows too much that I don’t. Hell, I think she knows plenty of stuff that no one else knows. She was already fucking insane, and now she’s Daylagon’s Champion. Maybe not a real Champion from Earth, like me, but that still means something. She could have a god whispering straight in her ear, for all we know.”
“Mmm. She’s quite something, isn’t she. At least she won’t…” Vesta shuddered as Sara’s palms cupped her breasts. “At least she won’t… ah, take away the whole Navy. The others will stay here, yes?”
Vesta’s thighs were clenched together, rubbing back and forth as she responded. Sara could tell they were nearing the end of useful conversation.
“Yeah, they will. Nora and I had a deal, and she’s not gonna back out on that. We’re still the only ones that can make guns for her, and even if she taught someone else how to do it, she knows we’ll just make better ones a month later. She’s stuck with us, whether she likes it or not.”
“With… with you offering to be in her be-eeed,” Vesta’s voice hitched as Sara tweaked a nipple, “-you would think she’d never go far.”
Sara chuckled darkly. “Oh, you’d be surprised. Not everyone is easy to fuck into submission. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She likes fucking me. But that’s it. I think she’s the only person on the planet with higher standards than I can provide. Pretty sure she’d bang a hurricane, if she could just figure out where to lick.”
“H-her loss,” Vesta stuttered. She finally abandoned the charade, clapping her book shut and slamming down what was left of her wine, setting both aside. She arched her back in one slow, long, stretch, nipples poking through the front of her silk gown, then relaxed with a satisfied sigh. Her eyes turned toward the door. “What is taking them so long? Oddry never needs this long to prepare dinner, even handcuffed.”
“Evie’s with her,” Sara reminded her. “So either Oddry’s distracted by trying to get Evie to not to burn down the kitchen, or Evie got so distracted by the sight of a pretty little maid in chains that she hasn’t left her knees yet. Either way, they’ll probably be a minute.”
Vesta’s green eyes met Sara’s from her place snuggled between bare thighs, filled with a salacious sort of hope.
“Long enough for us, you think?”
Sara removed one hand from Vesta’s breasts, stroking a strand of hair out of her face with a laugh.
“Maybe, but we’re not gonna. You never make a good dom after I’m done with you.”
Vesta licked her lips, eyes fluttering in recollection. “I suppose that’s true. It’s so terribly difficult not to chase more of what you have to offer, once it’s coated the back of my throat.”
It was Sara’s turn to shiver. She felt a pleasant pulse between her legs, her cock threatening to swell, but she forced her libido back down.
“You can get it later. Remember, we’re here to give Oddry her gift.”
“How could I forget?” Vesta reached over to the elegant coffee table, which probably had a much fancier name than coffee table, and opened a drawer. The gift was still present, and she shut it with a pleased hum, leaning back. “Well. If we are to be waiting, you might as well put your hands to work. Unless the Champion of Amarat’s skill with her fingers only extends to the carnal, rather than the gentle?”
Sara rolled her eyes, recognizing the bait for what it was, but she decided to give in. She moved from Vesta’s breasts to her shoulders, digging her knuckles in.
Vesta groaned as she rolled her neck, melting bonelessly into Sara’s lap. Her hands could, in fact, do things other than finger someone, even if massages weren’t quite as fun.
In the end, they probably would have had time for Vesta to recover from getting fucked into blissful insensibility, because it was more than fifteen minutes before Evie and Oddry knocked on the door.
Vesta opened one lazy eye, smirked, and then shut it again, adjusting her position, so her robe was open as it could be without exposing her entirely.
“Come in!” She called.
Oddry entered first, and the sight of her slightly trembling legs and mussed skirt suggested that Sara’s second guess had been correct. She was wearing her old maid’s uniform, a thick black working dress with a white apron overtop. Her curly brown hair was held back not by some frilly french maid’s headband, but a simple length of twine, keeping it out of her face as she worked. A real maid, not one of Sara’s teenaged fantasies.
Well. There were some exceptions to that statement.
Oddry’s wrists were pinned together by black leather bands connected by a short length of chain, as were her ankles. She could move just enough to walk and grab things, but every task was made inordinately more difficult by her bondage, constantly keeping the terms of her servitude at the forefront of her mind. Compounding that was the tight leather band wrapped around her throat, connected by a strap to her waist, drawn tight enough that her breasts were forced forward, as if she were trying to shove them in the face of anyone she spoke to.
Chained up as she was, there was no way to move that wasn’t an invitation for someone to take advantage of her. If she dropped something, she couldn’t simply bend over and grab it. She had to kneel, then spread her knees apart, forced to bow in supplication to reach the floor. If she fell over in the attempt, she’d be near helpless, left lying either with her tits thrust up in the air if she fell on her back, or her ass presented for all to see if she fell on her face. And though Sara couldn’t tell right now, she knew the thread stitching together the lower half of Oddry’s dress was shoddy, shoddy work. Practically begging to be snapped, really.
Evie entered next, and though Oddry’s outfit was mouth-watering, Sara’s eyes snapped to her own wife like a magnet.
Evie was not dressed like a real maid. Not any maid that had done a day of housework in their life, at least. The flimsy clothes she’d been allowed to wear started at her armpits, leaving her arms and shoulders bare, and ended an inch beneath her ass, requiring the absolute straightest of posture not to expose herself to anyone who bothered to look. Pretty white frills ringed the edges of her uniform, completely impractical and absolutely beautiful. With the war finally over, Sara had finally found the time to commision a tailor to make a proper french maid uniform, and it had been finished just a week ago.
Despite that, much like the woman wearing it, there were clear signs that it had been thoroughly broken in. Certain types of stains didn’t come out no matter how hard you scrubbed. Evie had talked about having a second made already, but Sara had vetoed that outright. She wanted Evie marked. And she wanted Evie to remember who she belonged to every time she looked in a mirror wearing that uniform.
The feline’s tail made a slight rustling noise as she joined Oddry in setting out the meal, placing plates of bread and pots of stew on the table. It smelled excellent, and Sara’s stomach growled.
Oddry and Evie stepped away, kneeling in the corner of the room, heads lowered.
“It smells good, doesn’t it?” Sara asked Vesta, who sat up.
“It does. Hand me the spoon, would you?”
They began eating their meals in companionable silence, ignoring both their state of undress and their wives– servants, in this scene– kneeling in the corner. Evie and Oddry didn’t actually know what had been planned for the evening, beyond the fact that they would be acting as maids. They’d only been told to prepare dinner in the kitchen while wearing the uniforms that had been set out for them.
Sara ate slowly and comfortably, always aware of the gaze of the two women crawling across her skin. She was completely naked, breasts and cock on display. She’d even recently figured out how to summon her dick soft, (mostly through her attempts to make pissing outside crowded Tulian bars easier, though that wasn’t particularly sexy to mention) and she took advantage of it now. It lay in her lap in full view of the room, six inches long even before it was hard.
Maintaining that state was incredibly difficult when she could feel Evie’s drooling desire emanating through the collar’s connection. Still, it was important to keep herself under control. The whole point of this evening was to show their wives– no, servants, Sara reminded herself– exactly where they belonged. That they were toys, to be used for relief, and when they weren’t needed, they didn’t exist.
Sara was doing a better job of keeping that charade up than Vesta. Even while they ate and chatted about nothing, Vesta’s eyes kept flicking back over to Oddry, often accompanied by a squirming of her thighs. For a forty two year old woman, Vesta was shockingly impatient.
Sara finished her meal of stew and bread first, and even though it couldn’t have taken more than five minutes, Evie was shaking like a chihuahua. She’d made a mess of the rug between her thighs where her arousal was pooling, and her mouth hung open as she panted, eyes locked on Sara’s soft cock. Her hips kept making microscopic twitches, as if trying to ride something that wasn’t really there. Halfway through the meal, Sara had been forced to order Evie to remain still, because she was getting near to involuntarily crawling across the floor. The woman didn’t seem aware of any of that, however. She only had eyes for Sara.
Oddry’s arousal may not have been as extreme, but it was still evident. The clink and clank of her chains as she shifted in place grew constant, and she’d begun to fix Vesta with a puppy-dog expression, full of silent pleading. Occasionally she would glance to her left, at Evie, and seeing the state of the far-more-depraved woman usually forced a shudder through her. Whether it was a shudder of disbelief, desire, or envy, it was difficult for even Sara to say. If she had to bet, there was a little bit of it all. Seeing how much further she had left to fall was doing all sorts of things to the young maid.
When there was a particularly loud noise from Oddry’s chains, Vesta set her plate down, sighing in faux-irritation.
“Impossible to find good help these days, isn’t it?” She asked Sara.
“It always has been the way,” Sara agreed haughtily, the spitting image of noble arrogance. “Though, I can think of a few ways for them to be created, rather than found.” Sara nodded to Evie. “Look at her. Pitiful little thing, isn’t she? Yet she can’t even give in to her own pathetic nature.” Sara tapped her wrist band. “I won’t let her, after all.”
“Oh, you always say that.” Vesta sipped at her drink pretending to consider. “But alright then. I suppose you’ve been proven right.” Vesta stood, letting her robe fall open all the way, baring her breasts to the kneeling women. She sauntered over to the center of the coffee table and bent down, opening a drawer. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to waste something so valuable on a creature like her, but she’s such a bother. It seems my hand has been forced…”
Vesta drew out a collar.
Oddry had worn collars before, of course. But this wasn’t just any collar. It was one that made the maid’s eyes widen.
It was made of slablike iron, enchantments glowing countless subtle colors, with a single prominent crack straight down its centerline, bridged by a thick steel padlock.
In Vesta’s other hand was a matching wrist band, which she twirled on a finger, smirking as she approached Oddry.
The maid’s shivers progressed to outright trembling that grew and grew, intensifying with Vesta’s every step, until she was left craning her neck painfully upward to watch Vesta with wide, watering eyes.
Vesta stopped with her pelvis an inch in front of Oddry’s nose, looking down on the woman with a power-mad, drunken grin.
“Well, peasant? What do you think?”
“O-of c-course, Mistress,” Oddry stuttered, bobbing her head as much as her bindings would allow. “I w-would l-love nothing more than t-to obey you b-better.”
Vesta set a hand on Oddry’s head, petting it slowly, possessively. “It seems you still have the sense to say the right things.”
Then Vesta leaned a little bit closer, turning the collar so Oddry could see it from every angle. Her voice dropped to a whisper, still dripping arousal, but far more genuine.
“I wanted to get it engraved, but we still haven’t chosen a surname. We really ought to get on that. Now look here. See? The padlock can’t actually lock, and the collar will always let you disobey your orders in order to take it off. The metal should adjust to fit your neck, I’ve tested that myself, but I haven’t worn it with the padlock, since it’s sized for your neck. If it needs to be made smaller or lighter, let me know right away, alright? We won’t have to stop the scene; we can just use ropes to keep it on tonight, if we need to.”
“I u-understand, dear,” Oddry whispered back. “Thank you. B-but if you don’t get that on m-me right now…”
Vesta suddenly straightened, haughtiness returning to her tone with a tittering laugh.
“Thanking me for your servitude, peasant? Maybe we will make a proper peasant out of you yet. Bend.”
The hand Vesta had in Oddry’s hair clenched, shoving her down. Oddry gasped as her binds forced her to bend at the waist, as if she were bowing to a Queen. Her short brown curls were wrapped in Vesta’s fist, leaving the back of her supple neck exposed. Above her, where she couldn’t see, Vesta pried the collar open, then dropped it over the maid’s neck. It fell into place with a clank, its broken, open face dangling below.
“Rise.”
Vesta jerked Oddry’s head back up even before she gave the order. The collar hung loosely from her neck, one open end of the padlock swaying back and forth, waiting to be closed.
“Now,” Vesta whispered, honesty returning, “take a deep breath.”
The padlock clicked closed. The collar flashed.
And Oddry moaned.
Notes:
Woops. Accidentally wrote 12k words this week instead of 8k. Hope the promise of a longer smut chapter than originally planned is enough to compensate for the otherwise frustrating cliffhanger here!
Chapter 118: Brat (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The first time getting Collared was always an intense experience. Sara had seen it in Evie, even if she hadn’t recognized it at the time, and thanks to Hurlish, she’d eventually experienced it herself. As her eyes roved over Oddry’s trembling figure, she knew what was happening to the woman.
The cold iron of the collar would warm to a fever pitch, pressing heat into the muscles of her neck, only to suddenly abate, melding with her skin as if it was as much a part of her body as any other. Oddry would be overwhelmed by an inexorable, dragging pull towards her new Mistress, her body forced to recognize the woman who now owned her. If she didn’t fight it– and Sara knew she wouldn’t– there would be a warm, reassuring pressure spreading along her body, every thud of her racing heart sending the intoxicating sensation down to the tips of her fingers and toes.
Oddry fell forward as her moan continued, forced to remain upright. The noblewoman let her linger for until she stopped shuddering, then pulled her head away, forcing the maid to look up at her.
“Do you think you can disobey me now, peasant?”
“I-I-”
“Of course you do,” Vesta snapped. “Let’s see if you can. Raise your hands.”
The collar flashed as Oddry’s hands shot up, chains clinking.
“Drop them.”
The force that Oddry had been exerting to control her own body reasserted itself, slamming her hands down into her lap.
“Put them behind your head.”
Oddry’s back arched as her hands darted behind her head, thrusting her chest forward. Sara could see Oddry fight it, instinct trying to rebel against the foreign control of her body, but it was useless. The collars Garen had broken were still powerful artifacts, if not quite as Divine as they’d been in the first reality. They compelled the wearer to do anything their Owner ordered, with only one critical exception.
Whether it was by the design of Garen’s removal spell or not, the spell-snapped collars were incapable of forcing the wearer to keep them on. Sara had tested it extensively. No order, no matter how it was phrased, had managed to prevent Evie from removing her collar. Even with her arms and legs wrapped in ropes, the moment Evie had willed the collar off her, it had popped open, going so far as to explosively shatter the padlock that secured it in place. After reassuring the devastated Evie that a second padlock labeled Whore wouldn’t be hard to make, Sara had been delighted. It seemed the enchantment that prevented the collars from remaining on an unwilling subject was as powerful as that which had once kept it unbroken in the first place.
It was a peculiar way for the new collars to work, something not even Garen had anticipated. Sara suspected Amarat had more to do with it than him. A collar that forced someone to follow every order given to them, save for anything they didn’t actually want to do, was next to useless.
With a few notable exceptions.
Vesta snapped order after order, forcing Oddry through increasingly demeaning positions. Her own body brought her face down, kissing the ground at Vesta’s feet, then had her straining at her chains, trying with all her might to break them, even though she knew she couldn’t. With each successive order, Oddry’s body responded faster, more alertly.
Sara knew what Vesta was doing. She’d told the woman what to do, after all.
Finally, after minutes of contorting her body into humiliating positions, Vesta’s flurry of orders tapered off. Oddry was left breathing hard, sweat on her face, a dazed smile of disbelief on her face. From the first day the submissive maid had seen what Sara was capable of doing to Evie, she’d complained that she couldn’t wear a collar herself. To finally have one wrapped around her throat had her shaking like a virgin.
But she still didn’t get it. Sara could see the perverse delight she took in losing control of herself, in having her body bent to the will of another, but that wasn’t the point of the collars. Not anymore.
“Give in already, girl,” Sara called, waving her glass of wine at the maid like a bored spectator. “Look at the bitch next to you. Now there’s a whore who knows her place.”
Oddry glanced at Evie, who was still kneeling next to her. Sara had never released her from her first order. She was frozen in the same kneeling position, head bowed, hands behind her back, legs spread to show her glistening arousal to anyone who cared to look. The only movement came in the form of involuntary shivers and her swiping tail, which was curling up against her side to caress her own body as best it could. She was breathing hard, eyes half-closed. Every time she tried to move from her position, the order put a halt to it, and then another miniature spasm would roll across her skin.
“She’s given up, peasant,” Sara said. “And look what it’s earned her. Do you think there’s anything left in that pretty little head of hers? Or has it all been replaced with submission, the hallmark of something which knows its place?” Sara leaned forward, grinning a cheshire smile. “Well? Which is it? Answer me, peasant.”
Oddry swallowed hard as she stared at Evie, whose trembling had intensified as Sara spoke. The maid licked her lips.
“I-I don’t k-know, My Lady,” she said. “I can’t t-tell.”
“Exactly.” Sara took a long, savoring sip of her wine. “And it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. She’s just something to be used. If there’s anything left of her? Well. It does seem to be enjoying itself, doesn’t it?”
Oddry’s breath was coming in heavy pants now, her entire body rocking back and forth.
“Answer her question, peasant,” Vesta snapped.
“Whu- what? Mistress, what question?”
“Is the bitch next to you enjoying itself? Answer honestly.”
“Y-yyyeeesss,” Oddry moaned, the forced answer turned into a long moan as she watched Evie’s strongest convulsion yet.
“Then why haven’t you given in as well?” Vesta hummed curiously. She lifted a foot and dropped it on the back of Oddry’s hand, pressing down. The maid let out a wonderful little whimper, wrenching her eyes shut.
“I-I h-have, Mistress,” Oddry groaned.
“No you haven’t, peasant,” Vesta growled angrily. “That thing next to you has given up, and she’s earned her reward for that. You are nothing like her.” Vesta bent forward, putting more weight on Oddry’s hand. “Now, I’m going to give you more instructions. And we’re going to see if you can really give in.”
“O-okay,” Oddry gasped. “O-okay. okay. I promise I’ll... I’ll do it, Mistress.”
Vesta huffed disbelievingly.
“Look at me.”
Oddry’s chin rose, her lips quivering to the tune of her collar’s hum. It wasn’t what Vesta was looking for.
“Hold your breath.”
Oddry’s chest froze. The moment stretched. Five seconds, ten. Longer. But she didn’t give in. Not when her face began to redden, her eyes lidding as she grew even more lightheaded.
“Breathe.”
Oddry exhaled gratefully, wobbling slightly. Holding her breath for that long was impressive, considering how aroused she was. But she still didn’t understand what Vesta wanted.
Sara watched with bated breath as Vesta leaned back, considering. Here was the moment where she’d have to step in, if ever there was going to be one. Without the ability to magically intuit exactly what your partner wanted, domming someone like this was a difficult challenge. Vesta had made it clear that while she’d really prefer Sara not interrupt, if that was what it would take to make a scene work, or to keep things safe, Sara shouldn’t hesitate.
So how was Vesta going to grind Oddry down? Sara’s cock began to throb as her excitement overwhelmed her self-control. She needed to see it. How was Vesta going to try and break her wife? How was she going to force the woman to not just kneel, but to love being on her knees?
Vesta smiled cruelly, some demented idea sparking to life behind her eyes. Sara leaned forward eagerly.
“Oddry… Kiss me.”
The maid’s eyes shot open as her collar flashed. She fell forward like the world had turned on its side, thumping against Vesta’s leg, arms dangling so limply that for a moment Sara thought the maid had passed out.
Then her mouth opened, gasping against creamy skin. She turned her face against Vesta’s inner thigh, pressing her lips to the soft expanse beneath her robe, and began to worship her Mistress’s body.
A low, keening cry shook free from her lips as she truly, honestly gave in, an angelic moan that was muffled by the taste of Vesta’s skin. Her collar continued to glow as her hips tried to grind against empty air, her skin flaring with a thousand goosebumps.
Sara knew what was happening to her. She’d felt it a dozen times herself, and had seen it in Evie a thousand times more. Thick, sludgy pleasure was being pumped into the woman’s veins, the same sensation that had accompanied her collaring, but a thousand times more potent. A delight so intense it was almost toxic, intoxicating, addicting, turning her body and mind to pliable putty in the hands of her Mistress.
It was wonderful to witness. Almost a privilege. The sheer totality of submission. The way Oddry’s eyes closed as she threw herself into her task, not just because her collar made her, but because she knew it was what she was supposed to do. She had been given a purpose, an all-consuming, holy purpose, and she would see it through.
“There’s the servant I wanted to see,” Vesta cooed, twisting her fingers into Oddry’s hair. The maid kept kissing her leg, nibbling, sucking, and kissing in equal measure, doing everything that the collar knew her Mistress wanted. “Look up at me again, dear.”
Oddry’s eyes fluttered open as her head tilted upward, collar flashing. The moment the light hit the air another whimper squirmed its way out of the maid’s throat, her uncompromising obedience rewarded once again.
“You’ve been very good,” Vesta purred. Oddry bobbed her head, a hazy, empty smile spreading across her face. “Return to your kneeling position.”
Oddry’s body snapped to attention, returning to her submissive posture, head bowed, hands folded atop her knees.
“And stay frozen like that,” Vesta said. “You may look at me or your knees, nowhere else. Remain silent.”
Order after order slammed into the maid, each a successive wave of pleasure that served only to drag her deeper into a fuzzy, wondrous disorientation. Even with the order to hold her position, her head wobbled gently from side to side, her body so awash in pleasure that she was losing the physical ability to control herself.
Then, without a further word, Vesta turned on a heel and walked back to the sofa. She sat down, then patted her thigh.
“Come here, Peasant.”
Oddry tripped over herself in her eagerness to rush over, landing in a sprawl of limbs. With her hands and ankles still cuffed, she spent several seconds struggling to right herself, until Vesta’s sing-song voice called out.
“None of that. Peasants belong on their knees. When we are not in public, you will crawl to me. Do so now, then resume your kneeling position at my feet.”
Oddry shuddered, then began to adjust herself, unsteadily finding her way to her hands and knees. Sara watched with arrogant amusement as the maid slowly made her way to her Mistress on all fours, chains clinking. When she finally arrived, Vesta leaned back into the cushions, spreading her legs.
“Ah, so much better,” she sighed. “You were right after all, My Lady. Collared servants are so much less hassle.”
“I have been telling you such for quite a while,” Sara agreed, folding her own legs, if only to hide her throbbing erection, which was doing an awful job of maintaining the falsehood that she was an impassive observer to all that had just occurred. “Are you still hungry, or should we have them take dinner away?”
“Oh, I am not hungry. But I do find myself rather exhausted by the ordeal of taming such a disobedient peasant.” Vesta reached up and peeled her silk negligee off her shoulders, leaving herself fully naked for the first time. “Would you care to help me…” Vesta’s eyes dropped low, to the hidden length between Sara’s legs. “...relax, My Lady?”
It was a testament to the power of Amarat’s Blessings that Sara could hold back her laughter.
Really, Vesta? She thought. Is this how you seduced all those maids? Corny porno lines? Yet before she could find some way to politely ridicule the remark, Sara’s attention was brought low as well, to the woman’s breasts, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
Okay. I guess she has the body to make it work.
“I think I can help with that,” Sara said, breathing heavily.
“I knew you would.” Vesta stood for a moment, allowing Sara to scoot over, and then she sat back down in Sara’s lap, falling back. Sara obediently wrapped herself around the older woman’s body, moving her hands in slow, sensual circles, dancing at her breasts, rubbing at her neck. She bent to nip at Vesta’s neck while the woman’s hands slowly fell to either side, going slack with a satisfied sigh.
And all the while their two ‘servants’ were left kneeling, watching.
Sara shifted slightly, using her own legs to spread Vesta’s thighs wider, so that Oddry was left kneeling directly between Vesta’s legs, staring at the sight of Vesta’s sex grinding along her cock. Her hips rolled back and forth, coating Sara’s length in her arousal.
Evie let out an involuntary mewl, a kitten’s protestive whine, while Oddry tried to groan, realizing her the predicament they had planned for the evening. All four present had felt and tasted every part of each other’s bodies before, but it had always been either as a group, where no one could quite remember whose tongues and fingers had been where, or by attending to their respective partners simultaneously. This was a new experience for Oddry in particular. Watching her Mistress falling apart in ecstasy, but from afar, not allowed any part of it.
Vesta slid back one last time, gasping with need, and gripped Sara’s cock. With a deft hand and quivering legs she lifted herself up, placing the tip at her own entrance.
The sight had Sara’s eyes widening. It had been between her legs, soft and hidden, and she’s only really felt it grow in the past few minutes. She’d known it was going to be large; it almost always was, with the preferences her usual partners kept.
But for Vesta, this was different. This was as large as Evie preferred her, maybe bigger, almost like what she treated Hurlish with. The red, angry head of her cock was leaking precum onto her thighs, throbbing in place. Sara groaned, feeling the heat of Vesta’s body so near, but not anywhere near enough.
Then Vesta began to slide herself forward, slipping Sara inside.
Sara had to free her hands from Vesta’s shoulders, lest her spasming fingers snap the woman’s bones like balsa wood. Her hips rutted forward involuntarily, shoving herself deeper by just the barest bit, but even that was enough to make Vesta yelp.
“By the f-fucking gods you’re b-big, Sara,” Vesta moaned, drawing nail lines on Sara’s skin as she tried to adjust to her penetration. “Every time, I t-think you won’t fit, and y-yet…”
Sara didn’t have anything cocky to respond with at the moment. She couldn’t even judge Vesta for dropping the nobility roleplay by using her name; if Sara had been capable of unclenching her jaw, she would have been doing the same.
Vesta slipped another inch down Sara’s cock, hanging her head as she blew her air out in great huffs. If it had been any normal human anatomy trying to do this to her, to stretch her walls out so far, it would have hurt. It may not have been possible to even try.
Vesta tried to shove herself down further, chasing the high of painful pleasure that every further inch brought her, but she just couldn’t. Her legs trembled, her body at war with its own desires, its own needs.
Sara activated Gift of Lust. She’d intended to help her along her way. But when the ability activated, something very unexpected happened. A blue box appeared, its meaning imprinting itself into her skull in the space between instants, and several things abruptly made much more sense.
Amarat’s Greater Gift of Lust
Should a target be willing, either consciously or subconsciously, the Champion of Amarat may inflame their passions. This lust can only be satiated by the Champion, something that the target is innately aware of.
In addition to Lust, the target shall now be granted their own Gift of Amarat, a reward for bringing pleasure to her most favored Champion. So long as they faithfully serve the Champion, their bodies shall become whatever is needed to fulfill her needs.
Or desires.
With a gasp, Vesta slid further down Sara’s cock, the force she’d been exerting yielding unexpected dividends. Her body did not enlarge, nor did Sara’s shrink, yet somehow, in a way that Sara’s eyes couldn’t quite define, it worked.
“H-holy fucking shit,” Vesta spat, the uncharacteristic profanity flying unbidden from her lips. Her voice was high-pitched and girlish, whining with need. “So… how… oh!”
Sara dug her fingers into Vesta’s hips and dragged her down, abandoning any concern for the woman’s well-being.
Vesta practically collapsed as her mind was drowned in the heaven summoned by Sara’s cock, groaning senselessly, her hips shaking with waves of shivering delight.
Yet as eager as Sara was to test out her new Blessing, fucking Vesta into a drooling mess wasn’t the point of this evening. Under the watchful eyes of Oddry and Evie, she encouraged the noblewoman to fall onto her chest, Sara’s arms supporting her weight.
And, slowly, lovingly, she began to move her hips.
Even this gentle motion was enough to have Vesta groaning wildly into the open air, eyes rolling back. Sara felt her cock get seized by clenching waves of pressure and knew Vesta had just reached her peak, even if her body didn’t have the wherewithal to show it.
It was almost impossible for Sara to not follow right after. For all she was pretending to ignore them, the attentions of Oddry and Evie were like ropes of fire wrapping her body, their roving eyes driving her further into a lust-filled fog, all at the same time her cock was impaled in something tighter than she’d ever known. Some distracted part of Sara’s mind was reminded of times when Hurlish had tried to jerk her off as Evie ate the orc out, only to lose control of her strength when she reached her peak. Being buried in Vesta was similar, her inner walls clenching Sara’s cock so tightly it was teetering at the edge of pain, yet never quite tipped over. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt, and it was only through a heroic effort that she barely kept control.
Sara continued to thrust into Vesta in slow, languid motions, sucking and nibbling at her neck as she did so. Vesta’s moans switched between breathy groans and high-pitched squeaks, any hope of controlling her reactions lost with the bulk of her motor functions.
This is fucking great, but it’s not going to work for what we have planned, Sara realized. If I’m altering her body, can’t I just… turn down her-
Before she finished the thought, Sara felt Vesta’s limp body gain a modicum of tension. Her arms, which had been splayed limply on the sofa, suddenly gripped it.
“Hurry up and fuck me,” the noblewoman growled, dragging herself down onto Sara’s cock.
Sara obliged.
The entire sofa began to shake as Sara pounded into Vesta, who, suddenly able to take the massive cock without going into catatonic bliss, began spitting a litany of forceful demands. Sara was told to fuck her, to break her hips, to fill her and never leave, all in increasingly less eloquent fashion as Vesta’s every thought was steadily replaced by cock.
And still Sara felt the eyes of their spectators on her. From across the room and inches away, waves of pounding desire seemed to thud with physical force in her ears. Her Blessings ensured that she knew exactly what they wanted from her.
Even frozen by her orders, Sara could tell Evie was being driven to the edge of madness by her scant few minutes of enforced chastity. The sight of Sara burying herself in Vesta, of feeling it for herself through their bond, was doing unspeakable things to the poor feline’s depraved psyche. Pavlovian responses left her swallowing constantly just to avoid literally drooling at the sight of Sara’s cock, while her legs threatened to give out even from her kneeling position, overcome by her innate desire to serve, to worship, to be used. A low whine kept trying to rise out of her throat, her tail thrashing wildly, claws extending to draw pinpricks of blood in her thighs. It wasn’t even her own desire that drove her to this point, but rather the knowledge that she was here, watching her Master have sex, and she was not doing the slightest thing for her Master’s sake. If Sara had given her the task of keeping a glass of water ready, the feline would have been as happy as could be, taking the same pleasure in serving her Master drinks as she did serving up her body. Doing nothing at all, however? That was torturous.
Oddry wasn’t quite as affected, but it was a near thing. She was shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to cry out. She wasn’t a jealous woman. How could she be, after all she and Vesta had done? But that didn’t change her desperate, all-consuming arousal, which was being driven higher with every twitch of her limbs. She kept instinctively trying to reach out for Vesta’s body, only to find the collar’s commands restraining her, the realization of which would send another shock of pleasure rolling through her. She was caught in a terrible loop, every moment tempting her to defy orders, every attempt failing, forcing her to face her submission once more, each repetition driving sense further and further from her mind.
“Are you going to finish in me?” Vesta asked breathlessly, drawing Sara’s attention back to the woman she was fucking. “I think that would… that would do wonders for my relaxation. To be given a nice, full belly.”
It was Sara’s turn to whine, a plaintive noise that she tried to bury in Vesta’s throat.
“I know you want to,” Vesta whispered. “I’ve already had three, My Lady. What bother would a fourth be? Perhaps you’d give me my first girl. I wouldn’t care either way, of course. There’s no need to worry, not when… when I will be bringing you women to your heart’s content in which to spread your seed.”
This hadn’t been part of the plan. This wasn’t the plot they’d discussed.
“Don’t you think the whores on our floor would look so much better with their dresses filled out?” Vesta panted, her eyes glazing over again, this time on accord of her own runaway imagination. “Pregnant little maids bustling around, your children on their hips and in their wombs, tending to your every need. Can you give that to me, Sara? Can I be the first to bear your child?”
From across the room, there was a snap.
Sara barely had time to glance to the right before a collarless Evie arrived, throwing herself at the foot of the sofa. She lunged forward, shoving Oddry aside as she dove between Sara’s legs, mouth open.
Only to be halted as her neck slammed into Sara’s hand, which cinched closed before the feline could so much as gasp. Her wife- and there was no mistaking that the mewling little thing in her hand was her wife, not some fake servant- should have been fast enough to dodge. But she was too addled by arousal, too lost to her lust to think of anything but her goal.
Sara lifted Evie up, still thrusting into Vesta, until the feline was at eye level.
“Bad girl.”
Sara slammed Evie down onto the carpet with a floorboard-cracking thud, an impact that could be felt through the whole house.
Evie rasped out a delighted moan.
“Vesta,” Sara snapped. “Have your servant come over here.”
“Do as she says,” Vesta groaned.
“Bring her collar over here and put it on her,” Sara ordered. Oddry leapt to it with a flash of her own collar, collecting the discarded slave collar and its shattered lock. Sara shifted her grip on Evie’s throat just enough to allow the collar to be dropped in place, then returned her grip to its place, pinning her wife to the floor.
“Stay still,” Sara ordered. Evie’s struggling vanished, but her eyes were wide as could be, staring straight up. “Oddry?”
“Y-yes?”
“Evie’s going to hold this collar in place, and you’re going to finger her. Keep your eyes on Vesta. If Evies doesn’t cum in the next minute, or tries to break out, or even tries to fake an orgasm, Hurlish and I aren’t going to fuck her for the next two days. And Evie?” Sara stared daggers at the woman. “You believe me.”
The collar flashed as Evie’s eyes widened with panic. Sara knew what she was thinking. Two days? Two entire days? She would die. She was certain that she couldn’t survive such a torture.
“Better get started.”
Sara turned back to Vesta and threw herself into the act, ignoring the two women lying beneath them.
Vesta tried to laugh, but the next snap of Sara’s hips turned it into a mindless groan. She wrapped her fingers in Sara’s hair and pulled her head forward, turning to whisper in her ear.
“She’s going to hate you for that later, you know.”
“No she won’t. There’s a reason I had to order her to believe me.” Sara’s thoughts shattered for a moment as Vesta stopped bouncing switching to a forward-and-back roll of her hips, stirring Sara’s cock around even while it was at its deepest. “There’s… shit you’re tight, Vesta… there’s no way I could… could keep my hands off her for two whole fucking days. If I didn’t make her think otherwise, she’d… know…”
With one last groan, Sara gave up on talking. It was all too much. Everyone was suffering the most exquisite torture they could still enjoy. Evie was suffering through her worst nightmare, that of being forced to receive pleasure without giving it, and she was getting it from a woman who wanted nothing, nothing more than to bring her lips a few inches forward, planting them on the body that Sara was in the middle of filling with cock. Oddry could barely pay any mind to her fingering, which was already incredibly awkward by virtue of her hands still being trapped in cuffs, an inelegance that was only worsened by her being enraptured with the sight of Vesta’s bouncing body. Evie was desperately rutting into the maid’s hand, trying to get off before some imaginary timer counted down, and it didn’t look like it was going to work.
And Sara? Sara gave up on caring about anyone but herself.
She used her grip on Vesta’s hips to slam the woman down, impaling her on cock. She couldn’t see the front of Vesta, but she saw the way Oddry’s eyes flicked up, to Vesta’s stomach, and knew there was a bulge protruding there.
Sara found a guttural growl falling out of her mouth as she lifted Vesta and dragged her back down again, the clap of flesh filling the air. Vesta’s red hair was tossed into tangles as Sara repeated the motion again and again, faster and faster, until the woman’s demands broke apart into mindless sounds of delight.
Vesta reached her peak again, walls rippling against Sara’s cock, and it felt nice enough that her hand snapped out to seize Oddry’s collar, dragging her forward. She buried the maid’s face into her Mistress's cunt, using her like a tool just to get more of that pleasant little buzz on her cock.
It worked. Vesta immediately fell into another climax, a cry of some kind or another filling the air, and Sara fucked her through it, using her free hand to hold the woman in place while her servant began to lick and suck at her body with religious fervor. Nothing could keep Oddry’s face away, not the bounce of Vesta’s body or the smack of Sara’s legs on her chin. She’d finally reached what she’d spent so long working for, and no force on the planet could tear her away.
Sara felt Vesta clench yet again as Oddry found her clit, and like the flash of a starter pistol, it set Sara off. She threw herself into Vesta’s body, fucking her as fast as she could, hips pistoning in and out of her sopping heat with mindless heat. There was nothing left in Sara’s head but hunger, hunger for that body, for what she needed to put in there right fucking now. She heard Evie whine, felt Oddry’s tongue begin to bounce across her shaft as her thrusts threw everything off, and still she wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, not until she reached that final little fucking ledge and threw herself straight off into oblivion.
With a final, growling cry, Sara threw her hips up into Vesta. She felt something clench tight deep in her stomach, then her legs began to quiver, her cock seized by white-hot heat as her vision went white. She heard Evie cry out, her hips rising into the air in sympathy, throwing Oddry’s hands off her.
Sara’s cock began to jump, every pulse throwing out a spray of white cum so hot it seemed to burn, coating Vesta’s walls with it. The older woman’s voice cracked as she cried out, back arching. Her entire body trembled as her cunt spasmed, doing everything it could to milk Sara, to get as much of her climax inside as was possible. Sara’s own hips helped her along as they threw themselves violently upward, burying her cock as deep inside Vesta as could be reached, her skin afire with blinding delight, muscles burning from the inside out as her climax roared through her.
And then, finally, she collapsed.
When the rush of blood pounding through her head faded, Sara became aware of a quiet whimpering. She looked down and to her right to find Evie splayed out on the floor, two fingers still buried deep inside herself. The aftershocks of an orgasm were still racing through her.
“Did you do it?” Sara asked. When Evie didn’t respond, she nudged her with a foot. “I said, did you do it?”
The feline blinked her eyes open, trying and failing to lock them onto Sara.
“I… may’ve? Maybe.” She shook slightly, licking her lips. “I don’t… a minute? How long’s a minute? I tried, Master. I know I… I tried to be good…”
“You did good,” Sara said, though she honestly had no idea if Evie had met the time limit. It barely mattered. She lifted Vesta up and off her cock, prompting a pitiful whine from the woman, and set her limp body aside. Sara patted her lap. “Come here, Kitty. You did good.”
“Oh.” Evie crawled shakily to her knees, dragging herself into Sara’s lap. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, Master.” Sara lifted her cock up, still slick with cum and Vesta’s arousal, and Evie paused overtop it, eyes closing.
“Ohhhhh…” The feline sank down onto Sara’s cock with a blissful sigh, less like a woman taking a cock as thick as a a fist, more like a woman returning safely home after a long day of work. “Thank you, Master,” Evie murmured as their hips met. “Thank you. I… oh, I looove you.”
“I love you too,” Sara said with a chuckle, giving Evie a reassuring pat on the back. She still believed she’d narrowly avoided two days of sexless life, and the relief seemed to have broken something in her. She barely had the strength to roll her hips against Sara’s cock.
Curious, Sara glanced over to the side, wondering what Oddry was doing. The maid hadn’t gotten to cum, after all.
Sara smiled.
Oddry had taken her collar off and crawled over to Vesta’s half-conscious form, burying her face between her Mistress’s thighs. She was licking her clean, swallowing every drop of Sara’s cum that she could reach. She wasn’t even fingering herself; she only used her hands to help keep Vesta’s thighs open, all to reach more of her body.
I think the submissive training is done for her, Sara decided, grinning. Content that the two women wouldn’t need her, she grabbed a handful of Evie’s ass and drew her closer, forcing a whine from the woman.
“I got a new Skill from Amarat,” Sara whispered. “And I think it’s one you and Hurlish are gonna like.”
“Wha… huh?” Evie blinked vacantly, still focused on Sara’s cock stirring her insides.
“Yeah,” Sara said, because she knew her wife would understand it later. “It’s an upgrade to Gift of Lust. You’re going to love it.” Sara pulled up her mental recollection of the skill and read it aloud.
Amarat’s Greater Gift of Lust
Should a target be willing, either consciously or subconsciously, the Champion of Amarat may inflame their passions. This lust can only be satiated by the Champion, something that the target is innately aware of.
In addition to Lust, the target shall now be granted their own Gift of Amarat, a reward for bringing pleasure to her most favored Champion. So long as they faithfully serve the Champion, their bodies shall become whatever is needed to fulfill her needs.
Or desires.
To her surprise, her wife managed to bring her lolling head up, looking Sara in the eye for a brief moment.
“Hurlish’s cock is going to be… amazing…”
Evie’s head fell back onto Sara’s shoulder, having spent all the energy save that which kept her hips grinding.
Wait.
Wait.
Will that work?
Sara’s cock pulsed inside Evie, hardening just a touch further. It wasn’t possible, right? That the changes could do more than just help her partners take her cock? That it could give them one, too?
Sara thought of Hurlish with a cock. Of what she’d do with it. Of what she’d do to Sara with it.
She began pumping into Evie, a new fire burning in her stomach.
Notes:
Hope this made up for the wait!
Chapter 119: Fine-Sir
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Tinvel
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“And you’re sure it’s going to work this time?” Chona asked, leaning over his back as he peered into the engine. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there by the palm happily shoving half her body weight directly into his aching spine.
“When are we ever sure something will work?” Tinvel grunted, twisting his wrench until it clanged against the wall of the cramped engine space. The tool was fresh from the foundries, made of cast steel, and he loved how much abuse it could take. “Are you sure your spells will work if you have to use them up there?”
“No. How could I be sure? I’ve never cast them while we’re flying.”
“Exactly. And I’ve never flown with this design before.”
“I wish you’d be less honest sometimes, Tin.”
“Stop wishing. I already know you’d find some other excuse to whine.”
When the last bolt had been tightened until his arms were quivering, Tinvel retreated, untangling his limbs from the twisted position that had been required to cram himself into the engine cowling.
He wiped his brow of sweat, squinting into the afternoon heat baking down from the setting sun. There had been several delays throughout the day, each tiny little incident piling upon the other until they reached the point they were at now, desperately hurrying to get off the ground before the sun fell. They had taken a circuitous northward route over the last few days, zigzagging across the countryside in brief hops, always avoiding populated villages to maintain the vehicle’s secrecy- however much of it was left, after flying it over an army.
Unfortunately, the plane could barely stay aloft for an hour, and it took hours of regeneration for the crystals to regain their energy after each flight. That process could be sped slightly by Tinvel and Chona feeding their own energy directly into the crystals, but they could only do so much, and most of a day reserved for flying was usually spent on the ground twiddling their thumbs. When you factored in the awkward, village-avoiding path they were forced to take? The world’s first aircraft, his marvelous invention, the peak of his months of labor and untold failures, could just barely eke out a lead on a hard-ridden horse.
Thankfully, the job that they’d flown north for was simple: survey the land from above, finding suitable locations for the forts whose designs Mr. Brown and Artillery Lieutenant Shale had finally finished arguing over. They’d been instructed to search for large spaces of flat land, ideally atop hills, with little in the way of intervening jungle or cover for an approaching enemy. While it would have been simple enough to send surveyors out on foot, Tinvel had convinced Sara it was a good chance to test the practicality of their prototype plane’s endurance, since the task would require them to perform many flights a day.
As he turned away from the dimming horizon to face his copilot, Chona just barely choked off her shocked laughter, doubling over while using her tail to point at his head.
“You’ve got a bit of something… uh… everywhere,” she gasped, still trying to hold back.
Tinvel swore, snagging a rag and rubbing it violently across his face. The white cloth came away black.
Up until recently, he’d managed to avoid using lubricating oil in any of the artificeries he’d created. He’d tried to avoid them for a number of reasons. Not only had they not found ‘crude oil’ in Tulian, which was what Sara said was best for machine lube, Vesta had made sure he was acutely aware that every new component he added to a machine increased its cost, time to build, and most critically, its maintenance bill. But complexity had grown hand-in-hand with capability, inexorably leading to greater sections of intersecting metals within his every design. There was only so much steel grinding against steel until Tinvel could suffer before being forced to admit defeat. They’d need machine lube.
Clearly, Sara had been anticipating it for a while, because the moment he’d inquired after the topic she’d whipped out a variety of lubricants from her bag. Apparently she’d been developing some on her own time, and was perfectly happy to explain the pros and cons of each variety. They were all vegetable-based oils, extracted from different plants and their seeds, similar to olive oil, which was the only equivalent Tinvel knew of. She told him that none were as good as ‘real’ oil, whatever that meant, but unlike that nonexistent alternative, they could make these various sorts in bulk, something she’d apparently had people working on for weeks.
He tried not to think about why, when Evie had joined the conversation alongside Chona, Sara had started explaining which ones were ‘body safe,’ trading meaningful glances with her feline partner. Rumors abounded of the Champion’s exploits with her wives, and while many were entertaining to hear about, Tinvel decidedly didn’t want to be forced to visualize them in front of the woman herself.
Maybe body safe doesn’t mean what I think it does, Tinvel thought, grimacing as he failed to shake the grease off his hands. I’d be screwed if this crap was actually poisonous.
The slick oil clung to his fingers and stuck in his hair, darkened by the grime accumulated within the steel and crystalline machinery. The new engine cowling they had installed was hopefully going to do wonders for reducing drag, but it was a hell of a pain to stuff yourself inside, which he’d had to do to inspect the newly-installed ‘clutch.’
The paired disks were Sara’s solution to the runaway engine power issue, allowing Tinvel to detach the thumping crystals from the propellers whenever he wanted. That had required moving the props farther back and the crystals farther forward, as well as building a new assembly for the shaft to catch the constantly-flashing crystals. Those changes, in turn, had lengthened the entire engine considerably, which meant Mr. Brown had insisted on covering the space in wood. Even though the prototype biplane was anything but aerodynamic, the Champion’s father insisted every little bit of smoothing would help.
When Tinvel had started this project, the artificery which drove the plane’s engine had been almost blissfully simple. Per Garen’s advice, he’d started with the most basic spell in the world, a jutting pillar of force which had been embedded in eight separate crystals. As the four propeller blades swung around, each crystal would detect their proximity and activate in turn, throwing a thin block of green energy into the metal-wrapped wood. That meant each crystal activated a dozen or more times a second, each in a paired set that took turns knocking the next propeller blade forward. It was insultingly primitive next to what Tinvel knew was possible, the artificer equivalent of spinning a windmill by swinging cudgels at the gearing, but it did the job. Sara and Mr. Brown both thought the artificery engine was a disaster waiting to happen, and Tinvel agreed with them.
The problem was, it worked. He could think of a dozen different better ways to do the same job, and he was working on them, but they’d all take time to develop.
Time that he would have to spend not flying.
“You ready to go?” Tinvel finally asked, having finished his inspection of the plane.
“Depends. Is the plane?”
“As much as it can be,” he said, picking up his leather jacket. “The clutch worked well enough in the tests, so even if we have another runaway power event, we should be able to disengage the props.”
“I don’t trust it,” Chona said, even as she began donning her own flight gear. Her jet-black vanara fur did a better job than bare skin at keeping her warm, but being blasted by blinding winds could chill anyone. “The whole engine’s power is being sent through one lever and two plates. If they slip…”
“We’ve tested it,” Tinvel repeated. “Do you get nervous every time you cast a new spell?”
“No. But I get nervous when someone else does.”
Tinvel rolled his eyes. Chona was not a paragon of optimism at the best of times, but their flight tests were where her negativity got the most grating.
Not overly so, though. He knew it was mostly for show. If she’d really been concerned about the engine failing, she wouldn’t be getting in the plane. No matter how much she tried to hide it, Chona loved being up in the air, maybe as much as he did. He only needed proof of that in the way that she finished dressing even quicker than he did, hopping into the front seat of the biplane, aviator goggles already strapped on.
“Well?” She called as Tinvel bent over to re-lace his boots. “What are you waiting for? We’ve got a plane to crash.”
Tinvel grumbled out his response, but he did speed up. She was right to be impatient; they’d spent so long preparing that there was only enough daylight for one flight, if even that. He laced up his other boot, tying it off in a tight knot, then hopped up into the cockpit, accepting Chona’s wiry arm to help pull him up and over.
The biplane’s engine hadn’t been the only thing that had changed. Their first few test flights had produced a laundry list of alterations, most of which were invisible to the inexperienced eye. Springs were added to the control surfaces, so that they would return to a neutral position if control was lost, rather than tossing them like a rag doll through the skies. The wall between Chona and Tinvel (which would have flight instruments someday, once they invented them) now had a hole cut in the middle, so that the vanara’s tail could, if necessary, reach back to wrap around the control stick. They’d tried a few tests on the ground and decided that her tail had the necessary dexterity to keep the plane straight and level, though any kind of maneuver beyond a slow banking turn was certain to end in disaster. It was a last resort, something that might be helpful if Tinvel had to make mid-flight repairs to the engine, or if he’d been knocked unconscious.
Beyond that, they’d implemented many of the changes Mr. Brown had suggested. The number of connection spars between the upper and lower wings had been reduced after their tests showed the wings were sturdier than expected, and Tinvel’s seat had been raised slightly, giving him a better view over Chona, at the risk of occasionally slamming his head into the wing that was now an inch above his skull. A metal speaking tube had been added, their seats had received considerably more cotton padding, and there was likely a million other minor alterations he’d forgotten alongside. It had been weeks since he’d last bothered to maintain version numbers for the biplane’s ever-shifting design.
“Ready?” Tinvel asked, buckling himself into his seat. Seat buckles- that was another thing they’d added.
“Ready,” Chona confirmed.
Tinvel slipped the preflight checklist from his pocket, placing it into the glass display case that was on the right side of what would become the instrument panel.
“Control surfaces right,” Tinvel said, moving the flight stick back and forth, pumping the rudder pedals. Within the plane, braided steel wires tugged and jerked. They still didn’t have hydraulics, and with neither Sara nor Mr. Brown knowing what it was made of, they likely wouldn’t for some time. Tinvel could see the plane respond, but waited for Chona’s word.
“Good response right,” she said.
“Control surfaces left?”
“Good response left.”
“Testing crystal inset,” he said, turning around. Even though he’d literally just finished tightening the bolts which held the crystals in place, Mr. Brown’s insistence that Sara use her illusions to show Tinvel productions of the television series ‘Air Disasters’ had succeeded in putting the fear of the gods in him about the importance of pre-flight checklists. He pressed his thumb into each emerald’s exposed face, a moment of concentration sending a spark of energy into the crystal, after which he waited for the echo, tasting its timbre. After a moment, he nodded to himself. “Crystals are solid.”
“Crystals are solid,” Chona repeated, raising a hand. “Ready for wind start?”
“Ready. Start in three, two, one-”
Chona’s hand sliced down as she called out a word, the roar of warping wind stealing it from his ears. Tinvel felt the spellborne air rush over his shoulder, slamming into the propeller blades. They whirred up in an instant, none of the machinery yet locked into place to hold them back, but Tinvel paid no mind to the buzzing blades less than a foot from his face. He had the tip of eight fingers resting against each crystal, all his mind narrowed on one task.
Garen had told him that artificers, even though they did little in the way of traditional spellcasting, still benefited from incorporating somatic or verbal components into their work. It was one of many reasons (including the archmage’s general disdain for artificery, Tinvel suspected) that their professor insisted artificers and non-mages still attend classes on spellcasting. Just as a conjurer benefited from ritualistic elements, using runes and incantations to prevent a stray thought sending their spell astray, artificers could use spellcasting components to moderate their own Intent, guiding the enchantments down a consistent, desired lane.
For the plane’s startup procedure, he couldn’t use a somatic component, as his hands were too occupied to gesture, and there was obviously no need for a material component to be consumed; this wasn’t alchemy. That left him only a verbal component, a specific, dedicated word he assigned his Intent to. Garen had suggested something simplistic for the engine, a word related to what he wanted to happen. Something easy to define in his mind, like move, or spin, or even perhaps something like start.
But for once, Tinvel didn’t think Garen really understood something that Tinvel did. Artificery wasn’t a discipline like Mr. Brown’s mathematical engineering, where careful calculation and rigorous testing was necessary to discover the desired result. No matter how much the ‘true’ mages looked down on his tinkering, the fact remained that the Mad God had given his gift to Tinvel. Just like any fire-spitting mage, he could reach into the realm where truth and logic overlapped. He could feel where boundaries began to blur, contradictions coexisting, impossible realities coalescing into a greater, more beautiful whole.
Yes, he could have told the engine to start. He could have told the propeller blades to spin. Those words would work.
But that wasn’t why he was here, was it?
Tinvel took a deep breath.
“Soar.”
The engine leapt to life with a series of popping cracks and clangs. Green pillars battered the spinning gear that was sheltered from Tinvel’s spine by nothing more than a thin wooden panel, producing a buzzing hum that quickly melded with the whir of the propellers. Chona’s burst of spell-powered wind had already spun the propellers fast enough to get them rolling, but it was only when the engine began to roar that they truly picked up speed.
Tinvel let out a whoop of delight as he jammed his right foot down on the rudder pedal, curving their jostling, bumping path away from the ditch that would surely snap their landing gear like twigs. The hills of Tulian weren’t forgiving when it came to providing a convenient landing strip, which meant he had to wind left and right as they rattled across the grass, avoiding rocks and pitfalls as best he could. All the while the plane gained speed, faster and faster, wings bending with every hard jolt.
Tinvel began hauling back on the control stick as the tone of the whistling wind shifted to just the right note. The wings began to flex as the air started holding their weight, then flared further as the world tilted, the orange-red sky rising to fill his view. Chona was digging her fingers into the wooden frame of her seat, shoulders hunched like she was certain they were going to roll over and crash at any moment. Yet her face was squarely forward, eyes peeled open behind her goggles, her excitement too great to let her look away.
The skull-shaking rattle suddenly shifted, first disappearing from the front of the plane, then the rear as the landing gear lost contact with the ground.
Suddenly, without any warning at all, the entire craft seemed to leap gleefully upward.
Freed of the earth’s burden, the plane began to truly reach its stride, eagerly accelerating in its chase to meet the drifting clouds. Tinvel reached back and tapped the crystals, shifting them to cruise speed, and this time, nothing went wrong. The timbre of the whirring changed just as it should, and the vibrations settled further, the plane now at its most comfortable.
Tinvel reached forward, tapping Chona on the shoulder. He pointed to the voice tube, so she brought her ear to the other end while Tinvel spoke into his own.
“Do you know which river we’re supposed to be looking for?” Tinvel asked, then turned his own ear against the speaking tube so he could hear her response.
“I looked at the map plenty, but who knows how accurate that is? Not like they could see it from above. I’ll tell you if I find it.”
Tinvel gave her a thumbs up, then returned his focus to flying the plane. He had no real sense of scale for altitude, not by measurement or experience. He could only roughly guess that they were somewhere around a thousand feet above the ground and climbing.
He always tried to pay careful attention to altitude. Mr. Brown had warned them not to go too high, or else they’d end up deprived not of air itself, but alchemical element “Oxygen,” without which their bodies would begin to suffer. From the professor’s description, suffering from a lack of Oxygen was an insidious thing. It would be like getting drunk without knowing you were drinking, and they might pass out without ever noticing anything was wrong.
So far, Tinvel didn’t think he’d ever been anywhere close to the ten thousand feet Mr. Brown said was the risky area, but he very much didn’t want to mistakenly climb into it. Death by experimental aircraft failure was one thing. Death by idiotically crashing an experimental aircraft while drunk on air was another.
Tinvel tilted the plane to the right, taking them on a winding, easterly course, towards the sea. He could see it on the horizon now that they were at altitude. The wide sheet of blue was scattering dimming sunlight through every wave, a glittering carpet of jewels stitched to the tapestry of green by a thin thread of sandy dunes.
He turned a bit further, setting them on a more direct course towards the sea.That wasn’t where the river they were supposed to be scouting was, but the sun was already touching the horizon line, and he didn’t think they had half an hour left of useful sunlight. The beach had always been a good place for them to touch down when they couldn’t find a long enough stretch of flat land.
It really is beautiful up in the sky, Tinvel thought, pushing the plane just a touch higher.
He’d never been one for sightseeing before he’d first flown. Seeing the world from above had changed that. He’d never realized just how limited he was in what could be seen from the ground. When he stood on his own two feet, a hill was nothing more than a lump of dirt that had been grown over by a layer of grass. Thickets of trees were opaque walls, and while he knew what lay behind them might be interesting, it was always hidden by tangled vines and thick trunks.
From above, though? Boring lumps of dirt became the texture of a woven masterpiece, shaped by millenia of carving forces. Mr. Brown’s lessons on plate tectonics, erosion, and weathering had stuck in his mind like an itchy bur.
It wasn’t just blurry terrain that he and Chona were rushing over. It was a masterful weaving of a story that had begun hundreds of thousands of years ago, and would last for millions of years more. The valleys borne of dried rivers told him of a time when lakes and springs had bubbled up in what was now a low flatland, while his mind’s eye tracked the twisting courses of flowing rivers that even now were cutting their own mark into the world. They would carry dirt away bit by bit, piece by piece, until eventually the walls that guided their course would fail, sending them shooting down a new trail to the ocean. It was art in glacial motion, and he sent a brief prayer to Talavan, thanking the God of Spellcraft for the gift he’d been given.
The sun finally began to sink below the horizon as Tinvel turned north, straddling the line between land and sea. Chona had given up searching for the river a long time ago, though she kept craning her head over the side, staring at everything they passed.
Is she as interested in this as I am? Tinvel wondered. Or is she just bored, looking for something to do?
Really, Tinvel didn’t know much about the vanara woman who he spent so much time with. They’d spent months at one another’s side, almost always working on the same projects, but it wasn’t like they’d chosen it. Tinvel was the best of Garen’s artificer students, and Chona was, he had to grudgingly admit, second only to Garen in terms of spellcasting ability, at least in Tulian proper. If circumstances hadn’t forced them together, they never would have shared more than a handful of words. When they weren’t working on one project, they were usually arguing over a different one. She’d never once refused to fly with him, but was that because she wanted to, or because Garen had told her to?
He tapped on her shoulder, an impulse overcoming him. She glanced up from her sightseeing, slightly surprised, then pressed an ear to the voice tube.
“Remember how you said you didn’t know how your spells would work if you cast them from a plane?” She nodded. “Want to find out?”
Chona turned around in her seat, eyebrows raised. Thus far, Tinvel had absolutely refused to let her cast a spell from the plane. There was too much at risk and too much that could go wrong.
Chona knew he thought that, too. She twisted in her seat to stare at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. The sable fur that covered her from head to toe was waving wildly in the wind, save where her oversized goggles had been fit over her widening eyes.
“You sure?” She asked, speaking into the tube.
“We have to try it at some point, right? And it’s not like we’re going to find anything today.” Tinvel reached back, feeling out the energy left in the crystals. “I think we’ve got a half hour or so. Let’s give it a shot.”
“Okay. Let’s do it over the water, so we don’t start a wildfire.”
Tinvel gave a thumbs up, then, in a fit of inspiration, dragged the clutch lever to its opposite position.
The sound of the clanking engine didn’t stop, but the propeller behind his head immediately began to wind down, its whir falling away. No matter how fast the shaft was spinning, it did nothing for them without being attached to the propellers.
Tinvel tucked the plane into a dive, sharper than he ever had before, rocketing towards the white-capped shoreline. Chona immediately seized the sides of the cockpit with a loud burst of profanity, bracing against gravity’s sudden desire to throw her from her seat.
Without the engine giving thrust, the dive wasn’t producing the same speed it would have. They were hardly accelerating, even as Tinvel tipped the plane yet further, past 45 degrees, past sixty degrees, until eventually he had to take a foot off the rudder pedals just to stop himself from sliding forward in his seat. The plane began to pick up speed once more, even without the engine, and he could hear the wind whistling across the support spars, roaring over the control surfaces, which were becoming harder and harder to control.
After thirty seconds of plummeting almost vertically out of the sky, Tinvel decided they’d reached the limit. The sea had begun to gain detail, blurry waves replaced with sharp shapes and stark shadows.
He tore back on the controls, expecting the plane to lunge skyward as it had so many times before, only to find he was barely strong enough to overcome the force of the wind. He growled as he wrapped both hands around the controls, throwing his whole back into the motion. The waves continued to grow crisper, closer, ever more threatening.
Then, with a merciful creak of overstrained wood, the plane’s nose began to lift, slowly, ever so slowly. With a final grunt of effort, Tinvel managed to level out some fifty feet or so before disaster, ripping over the wavetops faster than he’d ever gone before.
“You fucking maniac!” Chona screeched, looking ready to slug him.
“Get ready to cast!” Tinvel yelled back, yanking the clutch back into place. The plane shuddered hard, jerking to the left as the propeller engaged.
Chona swore again, her expression a mess that Tinvel couldn’t decipher. Still, she obligingly leaned over the side of the plane, one hand outstretched, flat palm pointing down and forward.
“Need me to get lower?” Tinvel yelled. They were about fifty feet above the ground, which was on the longer end of spell range for mages of Chona’s skill level.
“Go fuck yourself!” Chona yelled back, squinting one eye. “Torch!”
A raging ball of fire leapt from her palm. What began as a tiny line of white-hot energy at her skin quickly billowed outward as the wind caught it, spreading into a furious column of reddish flame. Tinvel couldn’t look over the side to watch the spell manifest, but he felt the heat bloom against his skin, enough to make him break into a sweat. A quick glance behind him showed the way the spell, which was usually a neat, cleansing beam of fire when cast on the ground, had now been spread into a massive curtain of fire, three times as wide as it was long. A cloud hissed from the ocean in its wake, water boiled to steam in an instant.
Then Chona suddenly sagged, the spell vanishing. Her head rolled loosely on her neck, like an old man who’d stood too quickly and was about to fall over.
“Chona?” Tinvel yelled. “Chona!”
Her eyes sharpened. “I’m fine!” She called back. She leaned over to the speaking tube. “I think I put too much energy into charging the crystals earlier. I can probably only cast a couple more spells like that.”
I don’t think you can cast even one, Tinvel thought, watching as she shook her head. He knew her better than to voice the concern, however.
“I’ll go lower this time, so you don’t have to put as much energy into it,” Tinvel said. This time, Chona didn’t disagree.
With the gentlest touch he could manage, Tinvel nudged the plane’s nose downward. They were flying incredibly, wildly low now. If they’d been over land, he never would have risked it. Maybe thirty feet separated the tips of the waves from the plane’s landing gear, which was more than enough for a sudden rise or gust to send them into the ground.
Tinvel felt more confident about doing this over the ocean, however. The winds here weren’t stirred by shifting landscapes, only the constant inbound breeze of the currents. He leveled off, nodding at Chona to cast her spell again.
The vanara girl took a deep breath, leaning over the side. She was more focused this time, her eyebrows knit together in concentration.
“Torch!”
If she’d meant to limit her spell, she’d failed. Another white-hot streak of flames pierced the dark skies, barreling towards the ground. Tinvel swore as the heat hit him, somehow even more intense, the entire cockpit awash in flickering firelight.
The beam of flames impacted the waves with a crash of hissing steam, but with their altitude lower, it began to physically burrow into the water, carving a trench in the black sea. A veritable fogbank of boiling water fumed into the air behind them, giving their plane a ghostly wake that was stirred into spirals by the whirling air left by their propeller.
The trench Chona was digging in the water began to deepen, spreading wider as her spell lost concentration, her torrent of fire stuttering out for a second, only to re-emerge an instant later–
Directly into the cloud of rising steam, which deflected the flames upward.
With a horrifying flash that left spots in his eyes, the tip of the right wing disappeared behind a wall of fire.
“No!”
“Holy shit!” Chona screamed, choking off her spell by clenching her fist. The flames burned the fur of her arm, but she barely noticed.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Tinvel yelled, snapping the plane in a series of hard rolls to the left and right, trying to extinguish the flames.
“Get us low!”
“No!” Tinvel yelled. “No! We need to get altitude, try to put it out!”
“I can cast a spell! If we crash then I can–”
Tinvel ripped the control stick towards himself, turning all the speed he had into altitude. He had to get the plane higher, as high as he could. He didn’t know what else to do. They didn’t have parachutes yet! All he could think of was getting the plane moving so fast that the flames were blown out.
It sounded like a terrible idea, but it was all he could think of. He removed one hand from the controls just long enough to spark the crystals into emergency speed, then returned it, all his focus on flying the plane.
In the front seat, Chona was swearing profusely, shouting something at him, but Tinvel barely heard her. The flames crackling to his right seemed to drown out every sound and thought as they ate their way across the wooden wing, canvas shriveling and peeling away from the heat even before the fire arrived.
Just as the flames had reached the midpoint of the structure, the entire lower wing beginning to crumple, Tinvel forced the plane into a dive.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Chona screeched.
Tinvel ignored her. The wind from before returned, whistling through the spars, but with a far more ominous tint to it all, because it was joined by the sound of cracking, snapping wood. Chip by chip, spar by spar, the right wing was falling apart. With every second that passed, Tinvel had to shove the controls harder and harder to the left, or else they’d go into an uncontrollable spiral.
From the corner of his eye, just as he thought the plan might be working, Tinvel saw the worst happen.
The fire, stirred by the wind, threw a spray of sparks upward, scattering themselves on the underside of the biplane’s top wing. Chips of wood and flaming canvas joined them a moment later, and before he could react, the upper wing was alight.
Chona, who was still screaming something, suddenly lunged for him. She grabbed the control stick in both hands, trying to peel his hands off.
It worked, but only because Tinvel reacted in a panic, somehow convinced she was trying to drive them both into the sea. He drew back and punched her straight across the face, screaming mindless insults at her.
Chona forced the plane to level off and then, for a reason Tinvel couldn’t fathom in the moment, reached down to unbuckle his seat belt. He immediately gave up on any thought of controlling the plane, instead gripping the cockpit walls as hard as he could just so he wouldn’t be thrown free.
Chona grabbed a fistful of his shirt just as a sudden crack, far louder than the others, echoed in his right ear.
The world spun into a blur, flashing from flame to black to flame and back in a dizzying display. The wind rushing around Tinvel’s head was ripping across his entire body, which, Tinvel’s panicked mind realized, meant he was out of the plane, falling.
He screamed wildly as something continued to grab hold of his shirt, drawing him close. The constant spiraling jerked to a sudden stop, the sound of the wind going with it, his vision replaced by Chona’s face, surrounded by a wall of white.
“Wha-?”
Tinvel’s head slammed into something. Hard. Stars burst behind his eyes as the roar of wind was replaced by the rush of water, his entire body rattling worse than he’d ever felt on the plane.
“Take a deep breath,” Chona instructed him.
The white disappeared, replaced by oppressive, all-consuming darkness. The hand that had been on his chest disappeared as water rushed in around him, cold as ice. His ears popped painfully and his eyes burned when he tried to open them, inundated by salt water.
He felt himself rising, however. Whatever was left of his scattered thoughts seized on that sensation, chasing after it like– well, like a drowning man.
The trip to the surface seemed to take forever. He could hear nothing, see nothing, could barely feel anything other than the throbbing ache in his ears and the debilitating cold that soaked his bones. He didn’t count the seconds, he didn’t have the wherewithal for that, but in the moment, he was certain he was desperately kicking his legs for hours upon hours.
Then, unbelievably, the water started getting warmer. Tinvel’s lungs were burning, his legs were trembling with the effort of constant kicking, and he was half-mad with fear, but he kept moving, kept kicking.
Bursting up into warm air was maybe the most wonderful sensation Tinvel had ever known. He tried to take a gasp of air, but his lungs rebelled, forcing him into such a stiff coughing fit that threatened to drag him under. He kicked desperately as he bobbed in the black waves, wheezing in gasps between bouts of violent coughs.
“Tinvel!” A voice cried.
He tried to respond, but his lungs weren’t there yet. It only set him off again, pain wracking his chest. A deep, throbbing pounding was entering his head, like a screw drilling into his skull, and every cough made it worse.
Chona clearly heard his coughs, however, because she yelled out, “Swim for the shore! You can see it, right?”
“Yeah!” Tinvel croaked out, finding the blurry black line that denoted the shoreline. He couldn’t tell how far away it was. He began swimming towards it anyway, because if he’d survived the last five minutes, he refused to let himself end up drowning.
He didn’t see or hear from Chona again as he kicked towards the shore. That was alright. He really wasn’t in a talking mood. When the sheer adrenaline had faded, he was left with a soul-crushing disappointment.
The plane was gone. The world’s first biplane, the first manmade creation to take to the air, was sitting on the bottom of the ocean. The crystals, the machinery, the instrumentation, it had all gone with it. He had nothing to show for months and months of work. Mr. Brown had told him stories about the Wright brothers. About their famous first flight, and the plane that had done it. A hundred and more years later, that plane had been hanging from the ceiling of one of the world’s greatest museums, free for all the world to see. Tinvel had always imagined that would be the fate of his plane, too.
Not anymore.
He tried not to think about it. He kept swimming, the waves lapping over his head as he neared the shore. It took so long that he was startled when his feet brushed the sand, half-expecting a shark coming to tear him in half. After all he’d just done, he doubted he would have fought it.
Instead he sloughed himself up onto the shoreline, realizing far too late that he’d never taken off his heavy flight gear. He staggered up to the edge of the water and flung his leather jacket into the sand, collapsing on top of it. He lay on his back, staring at the emerging stars, breathing hard.
A few minutes later, he heard the sound of someone shuffling through the sand. He didn’t look over. Chona dropped down next to him, breathing just as hard.
“I… sure… fucked up,” she breathed.
“No,” Tinvel said.
“...what?”
“Just… shouldn’t have gone so low…” He forced his salt-crusted eyes to blink, then turned his head to look at the girl. Unlike him, she’d clearly thought to remove her heavy clothing to help her swim, because she was naked from the waist up.
Tinvel’s head jerked away. Sure, she had fur across her chest, but… no.
“We didn’t know… the flames would reflect,” Tinvel said. “We only ever tested your spells on… on land. Shouldn’t have… tried on water… in flight.”
“‘s till my fault,” Chona muttered.
“Both.”
“Huh?”
“Both our fault.”
She chuckled darkly. “Okay. I’ll take that.” He heard her roll onto her side, and knew she was looking at him. “So. Give me your shirt.”
“What?”
“I’m a girl. You’re not.”
“It’s my shirt.”
“I’ve got boobs, Tin. I’m not wandering around looking for a village while I’m half-naked.”
“Should’ve kept your shirt, then.”
“I saved your life.”
“Sure did. Saved your own, too. Good spell, by the way. Sloping the shield spell to break the water? Smart. But you didn’t save your shirt. Dumb.”
She groaned, collapsing once more.
“Fine. You have the crystal?”
Tinvel patted his chest, searching his pockets, only to remember he was laying on his jacket, not wearing it. Then the moment he realized that, he felt the speaking crystal digging into his back. He groaned as he lifted one half of his body, digging it out.
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Thank the gods.” Chona’s hand appeared hovering over his face, waving tiredly. “If you give me your shirt, I’ll call in the report that I crashed the fucking plane.”
“Both of us,” Tinvel repeated.
“Whatever. Shirt. Crystal. Give.”
With a laborious, perhaps slightly exaggerated groan, Tinvel sat up, dragging his dripping shirt over his head. He tossed it blindly behind himself and was gratified by the sound of it slapping Chona in the face, and then he rolled the crystal towards her. When the sounds of Chona dressing stopped, Tinvel finally turned around.
Huh. That’s…
Huh.
Thanks to Sara, Tinvel had made several discoveries in his short artificery career. He was proud of them, and he intended to make many more. But in that moment, the very first second that Tinvel first discovered sopping-wet shirts did very, very little to conceal the modesty of a woman’s chest, he was struck by the harsh reality that he’d reached the zenith of personal discovery. He might explore other avenues that were more important to the world at large, but he suspected none would quite compare in his own estimation to the sight he found in that moment. Before he even realized it, his brain had observed, cataloged, and made several detailed notes regarding this profound revelation, fully intending to thoroughly review its intricacies at a later date.
Tinvel coughed hard, spinning back around in the sand, slamming a fist into his own chest. Chona waited impatiently for him to finish hacking up a lung, probably thinking it was the effort of sitting up that had prompted it, then muttered to herself.
“If someone’s gonna answer, Gods, please not Evie.” She took a deep breath, then activated the crystal. “So. Anyone want to hear how the latest test flight went?”
Tinvel’s head fell back as he groaned.
Notes:
Press F to pay respects for the Airco DH2. Ender of the Fokker scourge, and nearly Tinvel and Chona's lives. Here's hoping their next project goes a bit better.
Chapter 120: Saint Mesa's Throne
Notes:
This update is a bit odd. Per votes in the community, there is this chapter and also a retroactive edition to the beginning of the series, set just before Sara & Co leave Hagos. If you're reading this chapter at release, you can read it at the following link on Scribblehub, where I've been slowly uploading an edited version of the story chapter by chapter.
https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1272783-diplomat-of-the-gods-failure-to-compromise/chapter/1293545/
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Ketch
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Ketch wasn’t the type of girl who enjoyed someone throwing an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t like it. It made her scales crawl to be held down, to be pinned in her seat by someone she didn’t trust. She’d gotten somewhat used to it thanks to Sara, who loved to make her squirm, but that had only ever been one arm. Not two. And certainly not an arm on either side, from two different women.
Unfortunately, it seemed she exuded a certain energy which attracted the touchy-feely sort.
“I just don’t see why you have to leave so soon,” the woman on Ketch’s right drawled, her breath leaking wisps of smoke with every word. The catfolk had been emanating a gentle, rumbling purr from her chest from the first moment her side had pressed up against Ketch’s, and it did odd things to the clouds of pipe smoke which she constantly exhaled. Ketch tried to keep her attention on the way the little tendrils went to join the greater haze on the ceiling, rather than her cramped predicament in the back of the broken bar.
“You just got here a little bit ago,” the human woman on her left agreed, pressing even harder into Ketch’s side. She was more muscular than her catfolk companion, and she seemed even less inclined to respect Ketch’s personal space.
“I wasn’t planning to stay for long,” Ketch murmured, flicking an eye towards the closest window. It was so late in the night that it had become early, and it wouldn’t be long until the sun rose. She needed to be gone from this pirate den before then.
It should have been easy. Just a little walk through the jungle until she found a clear stretch of beach for her to observe the pirate cove, report what she saw, and then she’d be away. Her mom was already on her way back home.
But then, just as she’d been slipping away, Sara had called in with a question: were there any civilians?
Ketch didn’t know, of course. She’d hidden in the water and in the jungle, invisible in the shadows. The barest shadow was enough to hide her, and the jungle provided plenty. The cove itself was a different story, cramped and decorated with glowing torches. The pirates had built their little hovel out of scavenged wood with the labor of drunken ship carpenters, creating something that could just barely be considered livable. And it wasn’t like Sara’s concerns weren’t valid. Even if it wasn’t connected to anything overland, people could still arrive to provide certain services. With a half dozen pirate ships there there would almost certainly be a few prostitutes and bar workers. Whether or not they were just members of the crew who’d taken up the occupation was less clear. The question was if there were other workers, captured sailors or opportunistic business owners, that didn’t deserve whatever Nora was going to do to this poor town.
So Ketch had wandered into the village, casually walking up out of the sea. She’d had to. There was nowhere to skulk in the pirate village, where every wall was porous enough to slip an arm through. Per Sara’s advice, she’d pretended to be an Azarketi girl asking after food for a human child. Purely azarketi children ate raw fish from the day they were born, but the child of an azarketi and human still had to breastfeed. Ketch didn’t pretend that she was the one with child; she said it was her sister, who was only weeks away from giving birth, hence her urgency. She’d even hinted that she was interested in finding passage to a city where a wet nurse might be found if a ship was available, since her ‘sister’ wouldn’t be able to swim well in her ninth month of pregnancy.
It had been a good story, she thought. A good cover. Sellie, who had been watching through her eyes, even praised her for the way she lied, saying it was very believable.
How, exactly, she ended up in a bar being manhandled by two women? Ketch wasn’t sure. She’d wandered around the cove for a bit, easily playing the naive girl that she actually was, until falling into a chat with the two women. There had been a long conversation of half-hidden hints that she really hadn’t picked up on, mostly because she was too busy trying to keep her story straight, then all of the sudden she was in the bar and had been for several hours.
They’re not vampires again, are they?
Ketch inspected the two women’s faces, looking for the signs that she knew so well from Noctie. There was nothing in the human’s face that would suggest she was a vampire. Ketch didn’t know what a vampiric catfolk would look like, but the woman on her right seemed innocent enough, as well.
Not innocent, Ketch corrected herself, feeling the woman’s sheathed dagger press up against her thigh. Just not a vampire. Which is good.
Sara always said Ketch was terrible at resisting mind control, which she’d spent months denying. Sure, she hadn’t ever resisted it successfully, but what did that mean? It was mind control. It was supposed to make you do things. Hardly her fault if she went along with it. She’d tried resisting it before, with three separate women. Between Sara’s Gift of Lust, Noctie’s eyes, and Sellie’s control of her, fighting back never did anything worthwhile. It just meant that she spent more time not giving in, floating away on a lazy current of thoughtless bliss. Maybe if Sara actually let herself get trapped in Noctie’s spiraling, endless eyes, she’d understand. That red glow that pulsed in time with her heart. Maybe if she felt the way her thoughts slowed down, blood humming in her veins, readying itself to be brought to the skin, put on offer, she’d understand what… was…
“You alright, kid?” The catfolk asked, snapping her fingers in front of Ketch’s eyes. “You ain’t even had a drink yet.”
Ketch blinked rapidly, coming back to herself.
“I’m fine,” she lied, “just tired. I really need to get back to my sister.”
“Your sister, yeah,” the woman on Ketch’s left said, chuckling. “Got knocked up by some man, then left to flop around on her own. Sad story, that.”
“She doesn’t have the best judgment,” Ketch agreed, squirming awkwardly. The two women hadn’t backed off in the slightest. If anything, they seemed to be pressing tighter with every passing moment.
“Met plenty of girls like that,” the catfolk purred. “Mostly when I look in the mirror. And then, of course, there’s the silly little girls that like walking into places they don’t belong.”
Ketch laughed nervously. “Must be a pain to deal with them.”
The two women traded a strange look. The human on her left leaned closer, breath tickling Ketch’s ear.
“Mm, I don’t know. It can be fun, sometimes. Especially when they look like you do.”
Oh.
Oh, they figured out I’m lying.
Thank goodness.
Ketch activated a Skill, blurring forward. Fifteen levels in a Class built for sneaking and escaping had left her with more abilities than she knew what to do with, and this one, Urgent Retreat, was one among many that she’d rarely used.
To her, it felt as if she ducked out from under the women’s arms, scrambled on hands and knees under the table, and sprinted across the bar, diving out the door.
To the women, she had been in their arms one moment, gone the next.
Ketch burst out into the muddy, torch-lit street, skidding to a stop. She picked a random direction and took off at a dead sprint.
Angry shouts rose behind her. Most of the ramshackle buildings that had been assembled on the shoreline were filled with sleeping sailors, but not all. Ketch’s would-be-assailants were shouting at the top of their lungs, rousing everyone they could with a furious bout of profanity. Soon the muddy alleyways were filled with bleary-eyed sailors, most of them taking to the streets more out of an interest to complain about all the shouting, rather than apprehend her.
Off to her left, the barest touches of a brightening sky began to color the world. Ketch had picked a good time to make her escape.
Once she was out of the immediate area of the bar, Ketch slowed for a moment, orienting herself. There were only a few dozen buildings in the cove, and the largest of them was where they stored the stolen goods. Ketch darted towards it, racing against the rising sun.
Dodging through the scattered, drunken sailors was child’s play for her. Even with a Class that entirely forwent combat Skills, the simple fact that Ketch was at her fifteenth Level meant she was faster and more agile than anyone who was so much as capable of noticing her passing. The few individuals that saw her coming were still laughably clumsy in their lunges, trying in vain to pin her down.
Ketch reached the building she’d been aiming for, a rotten scent filling her nose. She skittered around the edge of the wooden shack, trying to make it look as if she was making a break for the jungle, then dove aside the moment she was out of sight, blowing open the door.
The awful smell magnified itself a dozen times over as soon as she entered the building, even the shoddy walls proving to have done much to shelter the outside world from the torture inside. There was no light inside, not a torch or candle, and Ketch had to move forward by touch alone, skimming her hands along dozens of haphazardly stacked barrels. The deeper she went, the worse the smell got, until she was pinching her nose shut while her eyes watered.
Sulfur. Every barrel in this warehouse was filled to the brim with the noxious yellow powder. Before Nora had given the Tulian merchant ships cannons to defend themselves, these pirates had been intercepting thousands of pounds of sulfur. They hadn’t even understood why so much was being shipped to Tulian. They’d just known the Champion of Amarat wanted it, and the Champion of Amarat was probably rich. They’d been holding it hostage for months, sending letters to Tulian via neutral ships. Sara had strung them along, pretending to negotiate over price, delivery, and a million other meaningless things.
And in a few minutes, the ruse would be up. Through the holes in the wall, Ketch could see the sky brightening. Nora was supposed to begin whatever she had planned at daybreak, and from her occasional brushes with the woman, Ketch didn’t think she was the sort to calmly talk things out first.
“I think she went into the warehouse!” A voice called from nearby. The room grew brighter as a door was flung open, boots thumping across the dirt.
Ketch skittered higher up a pile of barrels, the claws which tipped her webbed fingers easily carrying her to a perch some ten feet above the floor. More people came rushing in, stumbling and cursing in the darkness, but Ketch wasn’t concerned. She was in the darkness now. They couldn’t find her. And no one would dare light a torch, not in here. All she had to do was wait.
Ketch remained crouched atop the barrel, the only moment of risk coming from her brief whisper into her speaking crystal as she informed Nora of what she’d learned. The sound of the stumbling, half-drunken idiots searching for her was comical, enough to make her laugh, if she hadn’t been hiding. After spending months creeping through the noble houses of Sporatos, she was the farthest thing from concerned about some paltry pirates finding her in what precious few moments they had left.
As the sun began to creep through the uppermost holes in the walls, a bell began ringing in the distance. There was a scuffle and series of curses from those within the warehouse, then they were gone.
Time’s up, she thought, smirking.
Slowly, careful not to tip the precarious tower of sulfur she stood upon, Ketch began to stand. She turned about, pivoting on the tips of her toes, scanning the room. Senses adapted to a life deep beneath the sea left the shadows bare to her, as clear as if there hadn’t been a roof at all. The eastern wall was some ten or fifteen feet away, made of thin, knobbly wood.
Ketch took a deep breath, then leapt forward.
She hit the wall with a dull thump, the claws of her hands and feet piercing the soggy wood. She scrambled up it on all fours, the tik-tik-tik of her feet just loud enough that she hadn’t risked it earlier, then paused briefly at the planked ceiling.
She reached and dug her fingers into the wood. With a sharp jerk, she pulled the board free, allowing her to rip the next few pieces down, and then she was crawling through, emerging onto the roof.
Fresh, non-sulfurous air filled her lungs. She scooted to the side so she could lean back on the unbroken boards with a sigh of relief, clearing her nose of the awful stench. Then she leant forward, watching the panic unfold below.
A ship was drifting in with the tide, and it was close. Far closer than it should have been allowed to approach without being noticed, but with its sails furled, the night dark, and no oars to make a sound, no one could have known. Its hull was solid black, save for one white stripe which slashed it in two, a bold stroke that highlighted the mouths of two dozen gray, menacing muzzles.
The ship’s sails began to fall as Ketch settled in to watch, the great curtains seeming somehow even darker than the hull as they blotted out the rising sun. Sunlight began to drip down the canopy of the nearby jungle, washing them in cheerful yellow, but the sun didn’t visit the cove. One ship stood alone, casting a shadow over the entire bay.
The panic only grew as people as reality began to set in. As they realized what the ship was.
They’d heard stories of the black flagship which had slaughtered Sporaton Magecraft, of course, but no one believed it. It was too fanciful a tale. Too ridiculous. Even after the pirates had faced down cannon-armed merchant ships, had been soundly beaten back by them, they still refused to believe anything could really challenge a Magecraft. Pirates knew Magecraft, after all. They were the bogeymen spoken of in hushed whispers, a sailor’s worst nightmare. Pirates didn’t operate in the same waters as Magecraft. That was suicide. Every sailor worth their salt knew that. Hells, Ketch knew that, and she’d barely stepped foot on a ship.
Which made her wonder what it meant to them when a Magecraft-killer was barreling down on them.
One of the pirate ships proved more alert than most. Its rowers were at the oars less than a minute after the alarm had been rung, and with one great cry and the crash of a drum, they began to heave their way out of their dock.
Sellie, Ketch called, reaching out across the miles which separated them. Do you want to watch?
The great presence of the witch swooped in, settling into Ketch’s bones like a warm breeze in the dead of winter. Ketch shivered as she felt her eyes begin to dart from side to side, her girlfriend taking her body from her.
Ketch relaxed even further into herself, letting out a great sigh that her body did not mirror. It tired Sellie to be so close to Ketch from so far away, but in this moment, it was worth it. Her other self had only seen cannons through memory, never in person. Her fingers curled in excitement, posture stiffening, an unhealthy green tinge flushing beneath her scales. Sellie had curled themselves into a ball, panting excitedly.
Ketch let her mind drift away from her body, ceding herself in favor of snuggling deeper into the curled claws of a witch, watching the dim windows of her eyes grow evermore distant. She felt a hum rumble through all she was.
She was a good lapdog.
A good guppy.
Sellie watched the Waverake sail into the bay, scraping perilously close to the southern shore. The creature at the helm was a skilled one. Too skilled, she sometimes thought. She did not like allowing it in the waters above her home. For a time, only her guppy’s fondness for the thing and its companions had kept Selliana from challenging it for the right to dwell above her home.
Circumstances had been altered. Now she allowed it to stay because she was not sure if she would be wise to challenge it. It was an irritance, a boil which became more painful to lance with each day she had left it festering.
She could not deny that the thing had a fine hand on its wooden home, however.
The Waverake.
The name tasted of power. The ship had not been given its title thoughtlessly. It was a considered thing, a decision given no small amount of import. Selliana did not know if the flavor on her tongue was borne of the fear the ship inspired or the hopes which drove it, not yet, but she was eager to learn.
The Waverake slid along the shoals, just barely avoiding the rocks which would tear her hull open, then swung aside, ashen sails raising and shifting in concert to take the wind with the best possible stride.
The fools which had ridden out to meet it were well beyond their fellows by then, racing to meet the beast in open water. The prow of the great ship began to tilt towards them, degree by painful degree, and she saw many of the rowers in the vessel abandon their duties to duck low, hands over their heads.
They were not as foolish as the others. It was a shame that they would die like them.
Two puffs of white cloud emerged from the maw of the Waverake, followed a short moment later by the great thwoom of detonating powder caressing her guppy’s ears. The concussion caused some pain, which she soothed away as she always did, while what little glass which had been in the pitiable bay shattered with a sympathetic crash.
Bodies broke. Two iron spheres ripped through the smaller vessel from stem to stern, carrying away heads, chests, and limbs alike. A great wailing of pain and terror emerged, and this, too, she began to take from her guppy’s ears, for it was not a good sound for the sensitive to know.
But then she felt Ketch prod at her mind, the barest bit of resistance, accompanied by a flicker of memory. Of cannons fired by the half-dozen, bouncing through walls of men and women.
Her guppy was not so sensitive as she’d once been, it seemed. Selliana acquiesced, leaving the pain for her to hear. She was proud of her.
The smaller vessel drifted aimlessly as what few crew who were still able leapt overboard, swimming for the shore. The Waverake completed its turn unmolested, pointing its side at the decrepit vestiges which had called this place home. It waited for the time to be right, its great bulk dragged through the waves by its own weight, until the first of its cannons aligned itself with the vessels which had not yet finished preparing themselves to launch.
This first cannon roared, the boom as loud and filled with smoke as the first, and another iron ball tore through flesh and wood. The Waverake continued its slow crawl until the next cannon was in line.
The cloud grew.
Sellie bent an arm back to stroke her guppy’s neck as she watched the procession continue, a funeral dirge’s bells rung by the blackest of powders. One ship was shattered, then two, then three, and then the cannons were aimed upward, sending their fury into the primitive shelters beyond. A second row of cannons joined the first, lit from the highest deck exposed to the sky, and soon Selliana lost sight of the Waverake behind a miasma of whirling white. She counted twenty cracks, twenty shots fired, and then the ship silenced itself. All that remained to fill the air was the agonal groans of the dead and dying.
In time the wind blew the cloud aside, revealing that the Waverake had completed its turn, its stern towards her now, sails adjusted to help it return to the sea which had borne it in.
Selliana retreated, restoring her guppy’s body in small pieces, to ease the return. The creature at the helm of the Waverake clearly considered its job completed.
Selliana could not disagree; the spirits of those who remained were as shattered as the bodies of their friends and families. The Champion could come collect her due whenever desired, and not a one of the fetid survivors would dare raise a hand against her.
Thank you, dear, Selliana whispered as she retreated, removing her self from the left hand last, so she could clasp her guppy’s right palm for just a moment longer. It was a fine show you brought me to. I look forward to your return.
Ketch blinked her eyes, working out the dryness. Sellie never remembered to blink. She’d spent far too much of her life underwater to maintain the habit.
Ketch slid down the roof, dropping to the ground with a thud. She began jogging towards the sea, using the drifting clouds of gunsmoke to hide from the sight of anyone who was still left standing after the apocalyptic broadside. It was a testament to the terror the attack had inspired that she saw many pirates fleeing into the jungle with as much they could carry, a suicide more certain than any knife through the throat. Even Ketch didn’t wander through the trees unless absolutely necessary.
As the Waverake broke the line which marked the small bay, two sails appeared on the horizon, painted white. They were heading in under power of wind and oar, and Ketch could just barely make out the green and white pennants that Nora used to mark the Tulian Navy’s ships. It seemed they were here to collect the prisoners and goods, while the flagship sailed off to do better things.
Ketch slipped into the water a moment later, enjoying the coolness of the sea. Once submerged, it was a simple matter to follow the Waverake out. In a matter of minutes she was crawling up onto the deck, apologizing to the woman who’d been startled half to death by her sudden appearance.
“Ah, there you are,” a voice called from the helm. Ketch glanced over and was surprised to find not Nora, but a catfolk man, her second in command. Castalan, she thought his name was. “The Captain asked that you join her and First Sergeant Ignite in the stateroom if you happened to catch us before our departure.”
“Uh. Sure?” Ketch still wasn’t sure how to deal with the formality of normal society, much less the rigid structure of a navy. She’d hopped more than a few rides on ships before, whether the crew knew it or not, but the almost alien culture they developed after months of isolation had never quite sunk into her skull. “Should I go now, or…?”
“Yes, that would be best,” Castalan said. “It hasn’t been long. I doubt you will have missed much.”
Ketch nodded, doing her best to shake off water as she made her way down to the captain’s cabin. She’d attended meetings with Sara there plenty of times before, so she was familiar with the space.
She slid the door open silently, stepping into the room. Her scales immediately raised at what greeted her: only Ignite and Nora. Sara’s two most trusted members of the Navy, without anyone else to listen in.
“Ah, Ketch!” Nora said, waving her forward. “Good timing, good timing. Was just about to start talkin’ with the good folk back in Tulian.”
“I didn’t expect you to start sailing away like that,” Ketch said, taking a seat at the table beside Ignite. Nora’s prosthetic had been tossed on the table, the stump of her leg resting beside it as she massaged a clear cream into the tender flesh. “I didn’t want to swim all the way back by myself.”
“Ah, I knew ye’d catch up,” Nora said, dismissing Ketch’s concern with a flick of her fingers. She shifted her hips in her chair, leaning aside to take out her communication crystal. She set it on the table, but didn’t activate it. It looked like she was… procrastinating, almost.
Ketch glanced at Ignite. The oil-skinned man was sitting ramrod-straight in his chair, looking directly ahead. He was nervous, and that made Ketch nervous.
“Uh, Nora?” She asked. “What’s going on? Why were you in such a hurry?”
“Ah, you’ll see in a moment,” the captain said. She spent a little bit longer finishing up the treatment of her leg, then picked the communication crystal up, a cocky grin on her face.
“Sara?” Nora asked. “Nora here, reportin’ that yer pirate problem’s dealt with.”
There was a brief pause, and then a rustle.
“Excellent,” Evie’s voice replied. Nora raised an eyebrow as the feline spoke. As a captain who might spend weeks or months away from Tulian, Nora had a crystal with a direct connection to Sara’s own, bypassing the communication network. She hadn’t expected Evie to answer. “Did you encounter any difficulties?”
“Not a one,” Nora said, taking the unexpected conversation partner in stride. Ketch supposed it wasn’t that odd for Evie to have Sara’s crystal. It was just past dawn, and Sara was hardly an early riser. “Got two ships headin’ in to collect anyone interested in surrenderin’, and they’ll be hauling all the sulfur back with ‘em.”
“Good. We look forward to your return to the capital.”
Nora’s smile grew while Ignite stiffened further. Ketch’s breath caught in her throat.
“About that.” Nora leaned back, throwing her other leg up on the table. “Not sure how long it’ll take for me to get back. Sailing’s a tricky thing, y’see.”
“Oh?”
Evie’s single word, little more than a hum of interest, dripped vitriolic acid.
“Got lots of things to do out on the sea.” Nora twisted the crystal in her palm, inspecting its many facets. “Some might take a while. Who knows how long?”
“My wife will be having our child any day now.”
What? Ketch thought, bewildered.
Nora’s brows furrowed. Ketch looked at Ignite for an explanation, but he seemed just as confused.
“Beg yer pardon?” Nora asked.
“Likely within the week,” Evie continued, as if Nora hadn’t spoken. “She is known to be pregnant by a great number of people, including our enemies. The city is well defended, but your ship currently carries as many cannons as the rest of our military combined.”
“That’s-”
“You will return to the capital, Admiral O’Gallison.”
Nora’s expression firmed.
“Don’t think ye understand just how things are shaping up here, Evie.” Nora brought the crystal closer to her lips, dropping her voice low. “Y’can’t catch me. I’ve saved yer city, and now I’m taking my hard-earned leave. There are things I’ve meant to do fer as long as I’ve lived, things that this ship will finally let me do. The sort that’s more important than playing flunkey to a Champion.”
“Do you think my wife is ignorant of your intentions?” Evie scoffed. “Don’t be a fool. You haven’t a fraction of the subtlety required to deceive her. She knows you intended to flee the city. She lacks the knowledge of this world to understand exactly what you intend to do, but I do not. Ignite?”
The marine sergeant started. He hadn’t said a word, but it seemed Evie had correctly assumed he would be present. “Yes, ma’am?”
“She intends to shatter the Locks of the Sea, does she not?”
Nora glared at the marine. His mouth opened and closed silently, unable to formulate a response.
“Risponda alla domanda, Sergente,” Evie snapped.
“Sì, Amministratore,” Ignite reflexively answered, the words flying out before his mind could catch up. Then he blanched, staring at Nora as he cleared his throat. “That is. Ah. Yes, ma’am. She does.”
“Your god ordered those locks built, Nora.”
“Times have changed,” the captain growled, her irritation beginning to show. “The beasts in the true ocean rage and seeth at the gates, and this pitiful little puddle I’ve been trapped in isn’t enough for the legend I’m to become. I’ll break them open, Evie. Y’can’t stop me. Nothing can.”
“Once again, you fail to understand me, Admiral. I couldn’t care less what ancient power you see fit to enrage. I only care when you do it. If you wish to fight the church of the god you worship, you’ll be free to do so. But only once you do your duty.”
“Or what?” Nora demanded. “I’ve everything you don’t. There’s not a ship in the world which can stand shoulder to shoulder with the Waverake.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up already, Nora.”
The room fell deathly, eerily silent.
“You think you can face her? Face my wife?” Evie laughed, a furious cackle. “Run if you’d like, Nora. Go play your games, win your battles, abandon these people. I’m certain you’ll make quite a show of it. You’ll become a legend, like you’ve always dreamed. But you’ll do it in that ship you have here and now. But you’ve seen what she knows. What lurks inside her and her father’s mind. By the time you’ve truly begun to make something of yourself, I’ll have ordered the construction of something which will swat aside whatever pathetic fleet you’ve assembled like gnats.”
“As if Sara would ever turn against me,” Nora scoffed. “Y’said it yerself, Evie. She trusts me. I’ll do what I please, come back, and she’ll welcome me into the fold again, happy as could be. She needs me, after all.”
“If you flee Tulian without my wife’s permission, I will have you shot dead like a common criminal.”
Ketch’s heart was pounding. She had never heard this side of Evie. She’d seen her fight, seen her take charge in moments of chaos, but she hadn’t seen this. Cold and emotionless.
Nora took a moment to gather her thoughts. “She’d never give such an order,” she eventually said, speaking slowly.
“But I will.”
“Ye already said that she knows I’m planning to leave, and she hasn’t said a thing about it yet. If she hasn’t voiced a word of protest to me, why should I believe you’ve that kind of influence over her?”
“I am her wife. I will not ask her to do it; I will order her. And as I am her wife, she will do as I say.” There was the sound of a pen scraping across paper, as if Evie was handling paperwork even in the midst of this horrific conversation. “I admire you, Nora. You are a competent, driven woman, and a powerful ally. But Sara is too trusting, too comfortable relying upon chance and circumstance. I am not. You will return directly to Tulian, where you will stay until our child is born. During the interim, you will explain your plans in detail to my wife, who will use her talents to devise an appropriate story which will result in the Republic not being implicated in what will undoubtedly be the countless crimes committed on your journey. Your erraticism is already well known among the various nations. It will be simple enough to convince the world that you are acting of your own accord.”
“And if I don’t show up?”
“Then you will run amok for a handful of years, only to die a sudden and horrible death without ever comprehending the nature of the weapon which killed you.”
It was taking all Ketch had to not sprint out of the room, diving into the ocean for safety. Ignite’s chair was groaning under the pressure of his curled knuckles, while a deep, furious scowl was plastered across Nora’s face.
Then, without warning, Nora broke into a wide grin.
“Ah, alright then,” she said, laughing. “Shouldn’t be more than a day or two ‘till I’m back, winds depending. I take it I’m not to whisper a word of this conversation to Sara?”
“Of course not.”
“Understood, Steward. If there’s a delay on the trip back, I’ll keep ye appraised.”
“Do so.”
There was the sound of the crystal being shoved back into a bag, and then all fell silent. Only the sound of the ocean lapping against the hull and the crew shuffling above.
Nora stood and stretched, balancing on her lone leg as she raised her arms over her head with a groan. Ignite and Ketch were left petrified, staring at the woman.
“Ah, that’s nice,” Nora sighed, turning to Ketch. “You’ve spent time in Evie’s bed, haven’t ye, Ketch?”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. After all that, that was what Nora wanted to ask her? A furious blush roared up Ketch’s cheeks as her mind all but screamed at her to deny it, but it wasn’t as if her involvement with Sara and her wives was any great secret.
“I-I have,” Ketch stuttered.
“I haven’t.” Nora grabbed her prosthetic, dropping it to the deck. “Only ever spent my time with Sara. Startin’ to think that was a mistake. Damn fine woman, that feline.” She settled her leg into the metal divot, tying it in place. “Damn fine. She as rough with you in bed as she was with me right there?”
“Um.” Ketch thought of all the times she and Evie had laid side by side, all but sobbing as they begged the Champion to coat them in her cum. “Not… really?” She squeaked out.
Nora eyed Ketch, then chuckled. “Ah, makes sense. Wouldn’t be, with yer sort. Bet I could drag it out of her, though.” Nora walked around the table, clapping Ignite on the shoulder as she headed towards the exit. “And I bet yer relieved, eh First Sergeant? Nothin’ to worry about for yer loyalties now.”
Ketch stared at Ignite as Nora left. His midnight skin couldn’t go pale, but his expression told her that if he was able, he would have been ashen-skinned.
Nora disappeared through the door without a care in the world.
“Gods,” Ignite muttered, running his hands through his hair.
“Yeah.”
“I do not wish to see those women come to blows.”
“I… don’t think they’re going to, uh… fight,” Ketch said.
“So it would seem,” he sighed.
They sat in silence, absorbing the moment. Eventually, Ketch stirred, making her way out of the nearly empty stateroom. As she went, her thoughts began to wander to the last part of the conversation. Of Evie and Nora together, sharing a bed.
Ketch shivered.
I wonder if they’ll let me watch?
Notes:
Thanks to the early readers for point out some elements that had unintended implications! I don't want to lead people down the wrong path.
Next week, a long-anticipated event.
Chapter 121: Good 2CU
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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David
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Over the last few months, David had gotten used to a certain kind of… authority.
That felt terrible to say, but it was true. He’d become the expert on, well, everything. Garen’s utter distaste for administration had left David as the de facto head of Tulian’s only (tiny) university, and he’d become the guy that everyone went to for advice. He’d been spending his time answering the questions of everyone, from blacksmiths and healers to shipwrights and fishermen. Some hunter woman covered in pelts and bones had once brought him the corpse of an animal no one recognized, hoping he could tell her if it was poisonous to eat. He couldn’t, of course, so she’d asked him which animal was most humanlike in its ability to tolerate poisons, and he’d told her pigs, solely because he remembered episodes of Mythbusters where they used them as human-analogues. That was how many of the questions went; he didn’t know exactly what they needed to know, but he had enough tertiary knowledge to give them a good starting point. Huge chunks of this half-baked city had placed him on the same tier as an archmage, but without the ominous magical powers, which mean he was someone actually approachable enough to pester.
If he was honest with himself, he was getting a bit big-headed. He’d told a desperate healer that everyone in a village suddenly crapping themselves half to death probably meant there was a problem with the well, and suddenly he was hailed as a genius savior. He told some rural blacksmiths what carbon was and that you needed about zero-point-six-percent in steel for blades and boom, he’d improved half the country’s tools. It was great for his ego, terrible for his humility.
An ego that was being painfully picked apart with every pacing step outside the maternity ward, ripping clumps from hair that he really couldn’t afford to lose.
“I’m supposed to be able to help with things like this,” he growled, pivoting as he reached the end of the room for the hundredth time. “I know things. Medical things. I’m not a doctor, but I still know a lot of stuff that people here don’t. I should be doing something.”
“You could join them in the room,” Ignite suggested. The marine was standing guard at the hospital’s entrance, in the center of a dozen of his most trusted Marines. They were in their full battle kit, many wearing looted pieces of enchanted Sporaton armors, and they’d piled sandbags in a semi-circle around the hospital’s entrance, each leveling a musket at the door. Behind them was a row of halberdiers, then behind them another group of musketeers. The silent, crowded room was lit by gemstones only, because every one of the hospital’s entrances and windows had been nailed shut, per Evie’s orders.
“Oh. Oh, no.” David laughed awkwardly. “No thank you. I know what giving birth looks like. Well, I’ve read about it. Blood and poop and all that are not for me. I’ll stay out here.”
“Did you not attend your daughter’s birth?” Ignite asked. His eyes were fixed on the door, one hand resting on his holstered revolver, but he could maintain the conversation easily enough.
“I didn’t even know I had a daughter until she was six months old,” David said. “I barely even knew her mother; we only ever went on two dates. Then she showed up on my doorstep a year and a half later and handed me a kid. Didn’t even give me her phone number. That was a paperwork nightmare, let me tell you. I’m pretty sure some people involved in that mess still think I stole a kid, even after the DNA test came back.”
“I can only imagine,” Ignite politely replied, utterly ignorant of half of what David was referencing. He stepped out of line to inspect his troops’ formation. “But if you do not do well with blood, I struggle to imagine what you might do to help your daughter and her wives right now.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem.” David retreated to a chair, trying for the umpteenth time to sit down and relax. “There’s not anything I can do.”
“Hurlish is being attended to by multiple healers, priests, midwives, and an Archmage,” Ignite said. “Any conceivable problem which may occur can be accounted for by at least one of those present, if not all of them.”
David wanted to point out all the things that could still go wrong, the things that he knew could go wrong with pregnancies even back on earth. He’d never wanted a kid, but once he’d had one, he’d done the reading. The love that he felt for Sara had inspired a useless, retroactive terror in him as he’d learned what could have gone wrong. Stillborns, prematurely punctured amniotic sacs drowning the child before they emerged, and just the sheer pain Hurlish was no doubt suffering, which couldn’t be good for Sara to be seeing, it was all running through his head. Case studies, infant mortality rates, sterility procedures, around and around his head raced, achieving nothing more than making him dizzy.
But saying any of that to Ignite wouldn’t do anything worthwhile, so David dragged himself back to a chair and shut his mouth up. Per Evie’s exceedingly specific orders, these soldiers would be guarding the hospital until Hurlish was hale and hearty. That could be dozens of hours after a successful birth, even. The poor guards didn’t deserve to hear him whining the entire time.
David checked his watch. It had been an hour and a half since he’d arrived, which meant Hurlish’s water had broken about two hours ago.
Before he realized it, he was back on his feet, wearing a track in the floor.
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“Is a birth supposed to last this long?” David asked. They were four hours past when Hurlish had first started going into labor.
“This long and longer,” Vesta confirmed. She and her wife had arrived an hour or so earlier. “From the moment my water broke to hearing my first son’s cry, it was nearly a full day. It got quicker with each child, however.”
“A day? Twenty four hours? A full day?” David groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m going to have a heart attack before this is over.”
“Did you expect anything less?” Vesta asked curiously. She’d been better prepared for the wait than David, having brought a folding desk and a pile of paperwork. Oddry was reading from a thick book at her side, occasionally flicking her gaze up whenever David spoke.
“I guess?” He said. “I think it didn’t take that long back on Earth. We had medicine to help with it and stuff. But I don’t know.”
“Unfortunately, even the greatest of healers do not possess the ability to speed a birth, no matter how many women have wished for it.” Vesta picked up a finished paper and waved it back and forth to help the ink dry, then set it aside. “If it is any consolation, I have heard that births are easier on orcish women, on account of their stature.”
David perked up. “Is that a fact? Like, have people studied that?”
Vesta smiled her sympathy. “I cannot say. It is simply something I heard at one point or another.”
David slumped down in his chair, blowing out a long, long breath.
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Ten hours after David’s sanity had started circling the drain, the door to the waiting room creaked open.
He didn’t react right away. After spending so long with his nerves fraying at the razor edge of a panic attack, David had started to ignore people coming in and out. He couldn’t leap to his feet every time one of the healers or midwives came to get a drink, not without tearing some kind of muscle. The last thing he wanted was Sara, in the middle of holding her wife’s hand through the birth of their child, finding out her dad had been so stressed he pulled a hamstring in the waiting room.
That was his excuse for why he wasn’t the first to recognize his own daughter right away. She peeked through the crack in the door, found that most everyone save the guards were asleep, then slowly stepped in.
And it was only then that David’s blurred eyes focused enough to recognize her. Her black hair was in a mess, tangled with sweat, and her eyes were ringed with dark, haggard circles.
But she was smiling.
David rocketed out of his chair with both hands clenched in fists over his head, drawing in a massive breath.
“Shh,” Sara shushed, holding a finger to her lips.
The breath that he’d sucked in to scream in excitement froze in his lungs. He turned it into a slow, whistling exhale as he scurried forward.
“Is everyone asleep?” Sara asked. Even her voice was tired. Scratchy and raw.
“Yes,” he stage-whispered as he approached, cinching up his belt and tucking in his shirt. “Do you want me to- why are we- why quiet? Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s good,” she assured him. She swung the door open wider, inviting him into the hallway. “Just… I don’t know. There’s not a lot of room. Better to let you come in first, have people come in a few at a time. C’mon.”
“Okay, okay, that makes sense,” David whispered, following after her. “I can’t believe it! Everything went alright, right? Was it-”
Several steps ahead of him, Sara stopped. Turned. Put her back to the wall. Then began to sink down, sliding down the stone until she was crouched on her heels. She was staring straight ahead, arms wrapped around her knees.
The world seemed to warp around David. The fear in his gut for his grandchild, for Hurlish, the nerve-wracking anxiety that had been tearing him apart for hours, vanished, replaced by a neon light blinking over Sara’s head. One that said Help me, Dad.
“Hey,” David whispered, taking a gentle step forward. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay. You said everything went okay, right?”
“It did,” Sara croaked, bobbing her head in a jerky nod. “Hurlish is okay. Kid’s okay.” She wiped her nose on a sleeve. “A boy, by the way. It’s a boy.”
“A boy. That’s great!” David pressed himself to the wall next to her, slowly sliding down. He put an arm around her shoulder as he landed, squeezing her tight. “A boy. Have you decided which name you’re going with?”
“Not yet.” She swallowed hard, throat bobbing with the motion. She was still staring blankly at the wall.
David let her stare. He sat next to her, holding her. She slowly began to tip leftward, until she was resting her weight against his side.
After a few minutes of quiet, he bent his head aside, resting his temple atop her head. Like there was a movie on the far side of the hallway they were both watching together.
“Do you… want to talk about it?”
“No,” she whispered. She took a breath. “But I should, shouldn’t I?” Her voice cracked as she spoke.
“It might help.”
The silence stretched. David waited patiently. If there was one thing he’d learned from years of raising his daughter, it was that there was no forcing anything out of her. She had her limits, and no amount of poking or prodding would force her to cross them.
“It’s just… I don’t know what I’m doing,” she eventually said. “I’m a mom now. It’s…” She took a shuddering breath. “It’s real now. I mean, I saw him. My kid. Hurlish is… she’s holding him right now. And he’s so…” she lifted her hands from her knees for a moment to make a squeezing motion, pinching invisible cheeks. “He’s so cute. He’s so tiny. And he’s my kid. And I… I don’t know. Hurlish wanted a kid. I wanted a kid too. So we had a kid. But now he’s here, in that room, and he’s my responsibility…”
Her mouth kept moving for a moment, words failing to form as she choked up.
“I know,” he said, giving her shoulder a firm rub. “Trust me, I do. I know.”
His daughter trembled slightly, tucking herself even harder beneath his arm. Trying to snuggle beneath it, like she did when she was little. She was too big by far to do that now, but David would be damned if he didn’t let her. He stretched his back out as much as he could, raising his arm higher, giving her as much room to shelter in as he was physically able. It was an awfully uncomfortable position to hold, but that wasn’t going to stop him.
Sara’s voice came back to her with a wet crackle.
“I’m twenty-three, Dad. I’m twenty-three and I have a kid.”
“You’re ready for it,” he insisted firmly. “I know you are. You’re going to be a good mom, Sara.”
“Will I?” She looked up at him, eyes red. “I’m going to be leaving soon. I have to. I just had a kid, and now I’m going to be running off into the jungle. How long will I be gone? Months? I’m going to miss so much. I’m going to… to leave Hurlish on her own.” She let out a bitter, self-loathing laugh. “Who knows what I’m going to miss. She’s going to be taking care of him on her own. That’s not what I should be doing. That’s not what a good wife does.”
“She’s not going to be taking care of him alone,” David said. “I’ll help her with anything and everything. I raised you, you know.”
“And it was hard, wasn’t it?” She pointedly asked. “You struggled. You weren’t ready for it.”
“No. But I was on my own. Hurlish won’t be.” David nuzzled his head into her hair, making even more of a mess of it. “She’ll have everything she needs to help. You’ve got so many friends, Sara. Vesta, Oddry, Ketch, me, Garen. We’ll all help. You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.”
“But not because of me,” she whispered, tightening further into a ball, chin tucked between her knees. “Because I’ll be gone. I’ll be, just… fucking off, like Mom.”
David stiffened. “No. No, not like her.” He pulled away slightly, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t compare yourself to her, Sara. You’re nothing like her.”
“So what if I was? You always said that it was good she gave me up, Dad,” Sara reminded him, only half joking. “That it was better for her to leave me with you, so I wasn’t raised by someone who didn’t want to raise a kid.”
David blew a long breath through his nose. “Yeah, well. Y’know. I was lying.” He shook his head, old anger bubbling up. “I didn’t want you to hate her, in case she decided to do the right thing and come back. I tried to paint it like she was a good person making a hard decision. But, like, come on. She was a selfish fucking bitch for abandoning you like that. You don’t just get to… get to shit a kid out, then drop them like trash. Especially without even telling their father about it.”
Sara chuckled darkly. “Wow, Dad. Tell me how you really feel about her.”
“We don’t have enough time for that. And I think I’d wake everyone up in the waiting room.”
Another small laugh, but one that faded as quickly as it began. David waited patiently. He’d had conversations like this with her before. Not often, not with how tough Sara was, or at least how tough she tried to be, but often enough. So he knew that if she felt comfortable enough to laugh…
Small, silent tears started falling down her face. As soon as she felt them, she buried her head in her hands, hiding from the world. Her shoulders began to shake.
“I just… I d-don’t know what to do, Dad,” she whimpered. “Everyone thinks I’m gonna… I’m gonna be so good. Such a good mom. That I’m a… a Champion. That I’ll be able to tell whatever my kid’s thinking, that they’ll never cry because I know exactly what they want all the time, that I’m gonna r-raise some… some super kid, some symbol of the future or s-some shit. B-but I j-just…” Her shoulders heaved. “I just saw him, Dad. He’s just… he’s just a little kid. A baby. He’s so fucking cute, but he’s just a little baby. And he’s gonna be raised by me, and I’ve killed so many people, I’ve started so much shit, and he’s gonna be my kid, and everyone’s gonna know it, and it’s gonna fuck so much stuff up for him-”
“Sara,” he whispered, wrapping his other arm around her. She tucked her head into his chest, crying into it. “Sara, Sara, Sara. Sara Brownie. Little brownie girl. It’s gonna be okay.” He started patting her back, rubbing in small circles. “It’s okay. You’re fine. You’re fine.”
He felt her jaw quivering against his chest as she fought her sobs, trying to bite them back. He wanted to tell her that it was alright to cry, that it was alright to be worried, but he knew she’d never listen. All he could do was keep hugging her, as if he hadn’t noticed the slightest crack in the facade.
Eventually, not even a minute later, she stopped shaking. He kept her close all the same.
“You don’t have to do everything right,” he whispered. He pressed a kiss into the top of her head. “You can mess things up. It’ll be alright. He doesn’t need you to be perfect.”
“B-but-”
“No buts. Can you imagine having a perfect parent?” He forced himself to laugh. “It would be awful. Never being able to sneak out. Never having a reason to be mad, even when you really want to be. I’d hate it. I know I screwed up, Sara. I screwed up a lot. Real bad, sometimes. But you still love me, don’t you?”
“Y-yeah…”
“See? It’s fine to screw up. It’s fine to have things you need to do. You’re going to be gone for a few months, Sara. He’ll never remember that you weren’t there. You’ll be back before he crawls, before he says his first word, and way, way before he starts to walk.”
“Hurlish is going to be taking care of him on her own-”
“No she won’t,” he interrupted. “I already told you that. But even if she was? You’re basically rich now, Sara. Being a single parent barely counts if you’re rich. If she needs to, she can hire maids, and nurses, and buy anything she needs to. Do you know how easy it would have been to raise you if I was rich?”
“I don’t want him to be raised by… by fucking maids,” she said, trying to snap the words out. Her throat was too raw to put any real venom behind it. “Nurses and tutors and all that- that rich people shit. That’s how Evie was raised. It sucked. I don’t want… I’m not going to have that for him.”
“And you won’t,” David repeated. “I’ll be there. I’ll be helping. And you’ll be back soon, okay?” He moved his hand up, stroking her hair. “I’m not going to pretend you don’t have real things to worry about, okay? Every parent does. But don’t go imagining new problems to beat yourself up over, please. You’ll be fine. I know it.”
She tried to say something more, but it was lost in the muffling of his chest. He didn’t ask her to repeat herself. He just kept holding her, and for once in his life, David didn’t check his watch.
Some time later, his daughter peeled away from him. It hadn’t been that long, in the grand scheme of things. They wouldn’t have been missed. It still felt like an eternity, though.
Sara stood, then offered him a hand. He took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet.
“How do I look?” She asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Like you’ve been crying,” he answered honestly.
“Shit. Okay. Give me a second.”
Before his very eyes, his daughter began to change. He’d seen her do things like this since he’d been brought to this world, but never right in front of him. He’d seen her move from room to room, emerging as a different woman altogether. He’d seen her posture shift with unconscious ease, heard her accent shift and twist with every new person she talked to, always to mold herself to the person she was speaking with. But he’d never quite had the chance to watch this.
She shook her hair out, running her fingers through the tangles like they weren’t even there, returning the long black waves to a pristine state in a few quick swipes. The red veins that shot her eyes through were sucked away, as if they were being drained by a needle. The flesh beneath her eyes, pallid and gray from exhaustion, suddenly flushed with fresh blood, puffing back into place, while the salty tears that had dried there vanished without fanfare.
It was unnerving. He had seen illusion magic plenty of times by then, but this was different. This wasn’t some magical hologram. It was her body shifting in impossible ways, molding itself into an image that shouldn’t exist. In a matter of seconds, almost between blinks, she was back to her usual, perfect self, as if she’d just stepped out of the shower. When her usual cocky smile split her lips, even David couldn’t have guessed that she’d just been crying into his shirt.
“Alright, let’s go. You’re gonna love the kid, Dad.”
“Of course I will,” he agreed, following after her. “What do you want me to do? Do I need to stay out of the way of anything?”
“No, no,” she said, speeding up. “Just be yourself, Dad.”
“Got it. I can do that.”
Sara continued to pick up the pace, the time away from her family suddenly pressing at her. Even as she sped up, however, David slowed, letting himself trail behind. She didn’t notice; she reached the door to Hurlish’s room and flung it open, darting inside. The sound of a crying baby echoed out into the hallway.
David paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“Never prayed for anything in my life before,” he muttered. “Not once. And you know I’m telling the truth. But Amarat? If you know what’s good for her, you won’t let my daughter lie to me like that. She shouldn’t be able to get away with it. Not with me.”
He lifted his head, blinking his eyes. There was nothing. Not a flash of light or even a vague sense of acknowledgement. David let the moment pass, uninterested in humiliating himself any further.
He took a deep breath.
Be myself, huh?
David reached down and tucked his shirt into his pants, making a vain attempt to smooth out the wrinkles as he did so. He pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket and unfolded them, squinting as he perched them on the end of his nose. Garen had figured out a spell to fix his eyesight a few days ago, which meant the whole world went blurry as he peered through the thick lenses. He kept them on anyway.
David moved to enter the room just as a woman in a large yellow dress stomped her way out, rolling down her sleeves with contemptuous authority. She was muttering as she went past.
“I cannot believe the time I was forced to waste on a single woman…”
David was all but knocked aside as she began thumping her way down the hallway. He ignored her, finally entering the room proper.
The stone room was as packed as Sara had implied. Garen was standing in one corner with two men wearing robes, speaking in quiet murmurs, while two midwives sat nearby, using rags and a bucket of water to clean a variety of truly disgusting fluids from their arms. The room smelled atrocious in a way David knew he’d never be able to define, some awful concoction of blood, feces, and strange bodily fluids, all mixed together in a way that was utterly unique to childbirth. Sara and Evie were pressed side to side at the bed that was the room’s centerpiece, both sharing their grip of one of Hurlish’s massive hands while they looked fondly down on her.
The woman herself was resting on an elevated bed, a massive pile of pillows behind her back to prop her up. A blanket covered her lower body, thank god, but she was still naked from the waist up. If she hadn’t been holding a child to her breast, David would have averted his eyes, but she was holding a child.
His daughter’s child.
His grandchild.
David stumbled forward in a rush, only to pull up short, as if the scene wasn’t real, a reflection on a still pond, too easy to disturb with his mere presence.
“Oh, don’t be looking at me like that,” Hurlish rasped, rolling her lidded eyes. Her voice was scratchy from screaming. “I lived, and so did the kid. You can come see him.”
He moved closer, slowly, suddenly terrified of things that had never concerned him before. As if he might trip face-first into the bed, ruining everything, or that he might just pass out on the spot.
Actually, between the smell in the room and his own lightheadedness, that second one was a pretty valid concern. He’d never admitted it to Sara, but he had a serious history of fainting at the sight of blood. It hadn’t really ever mattered before his daughter had turned into a somehow-even-gayer version of Xena, and once she had, he really wasn’t interested in admitting it.
Thankfully, once he got closer, his attention was stolen away by something far more pressing.
“Wait.” He leaned closer. “Wait. Does he have…”
“Yeah,” Hurlish said tiredly. “Crazy shit, right?”
David adjusted his glasses, still not quite believing his eyes.
His grandson had green skin, a fair few shades lighter than Hurlish’s. He’d expected that. He’d also expected the tusks that were just barely poking up from his bottom lip, rounded to a dull point.
What he hadn’t expected were the cat ears.
“...How?”
“Was kinda hoping you’d know, Dad,” Sara said.
“But. I mean.” He looked at Evie, then back at his grandson. The resemblance was uncanny, at least as far as the ears went. Even matted down by fluid, the shape of their ears were almost identical. He turned to Sara. “I thought you said you used magic for you and Hurlish to get pregnant? Like, you mixed your DNA with hers?”
“Basically, yeah,” Sara said.
“Then how…?”
Sara shrugged. “More god bullshit, I guess?” She leaned over Hurlish, brushing the softest possible touch along her child’s back. “See his hair, too?”
David hadn’t, honestly. He’d been too distracted by the ears. But once he paid attention, he realized that the child had, impossibly, dirty brown hair. Evie was a blonde with only the barest flecks of brunette, while Sara and Hurlish both sported jet black hair.
The only one that actually had brown hair, in fact, was Sara.
That is, the old Sara, back on Earth. Before Amarat had changed her body. Which meant that this wasn’t just a kid born of three parents, all of them women. At least one of the women’s genetic code probably didn’t even exist anymore.
David realized that Evie, Hurlish, and Sara were all looking at him. As if they were waiting for some kind of explanation.
He pushed his glasses up his nose, popped his shirt out a bit, and gave one sharp, authoritative nod.
“Yep. That’s what it looks like to me.”
“What?” Sara asked.
He waved to the baby. “You were right. That’s some grade-a god bullshit right there.”
Evie rolled her eyes and bent over the baby, ignoring her two wive’s uproarious laughter.
Notes:
A shorter chapter, thanks to some real life work I had to do over the weekend, but I hope it was more than compensated for by the long-awaited event it covers.
Chapter 122: B3 Ch9: Anymore
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Hurlish
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Hurlish had found something funny about having two wives when you were raising a kid: it made everything easier. Hurlish probably should have been ready for that, seeing as two was more than one, but the ways it turned out to be easier were a bit surprising.
She hadn’t had to do much of anything when it came to fixing up the house for the kid, for example. Her weapon collection had been taken off the walls before she’d even got home with little Tahn, the best examples placed in neatly organized glass display cases. The furniture in the living room had been rearranged, making room for the crib that Sara had stolen from the Shaded Tree gang way back when, and the kitchen had even been stocked full. David had commissioned a carpenter to make a chair with curved legs that he called a ‘rocking chair,’ which did wonders for getting the baby to sleep. Evie had also gone so far as to clean as much of the house as she could reach, wiping down every surface with rags soaked in the weird-ass chemicals the alchemists had been cooking up to stop disease.
In the end, Hurlish really only had to focus on taking care of Tahn himself. Not that that wasn’t a hard job, of course. But with all the help she was getting, it was a hell of a lot easier than she’d been preparing for.
What she hadn’t expected was just how damn grating all that help could get.
“No, no, don’t worry yourself, I’ll get it,” Evie said, leaping away from her work as Tahn started his hourly screaming session. She crossed the house and scooped Tahn out of his crib before Hurlish could get halfway off the couch, her feline ears folded against the kid’s shockingly powerful hollering.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Evie cooed, bouncing him in her arms. “Let’s see what the matter is, hm? Not your diaper, no. Are you hungry? Is that it?”
Hurlish continued her rise off of the sofa, despite Evie’s warning glare not to. She thumped over to her wife and infant son, holding out her hands.
“Here. Let me see if he’s hungry.”
“I was going to bring him over to you,” Evie accused, frowning even as she handed Tahn over. “It’s only been two weeks since the birth. You should be relaxing more.”
Hurlish ignored that comment, seeing as she’d seen the healers a couple of times already, and put Tahn to her bare breast to see if he was hungry. Unsurprisingly, he immediately latched on.
“Damn,” she said, wincing. “Little bastard’s fangs are sharp. You must have been hell on your mother, girl.”
Unlike purely human kids, orcs were born with their tusks already poking through their gums, coming out of the lower jaw as blunt little nubs. It seemed that that, when combined with Evie’s feline fangs, meant Tahn had been born with two needles popping out of the top of his jaw to match his tusks. It was strange, and Hurlish was reminded of it every time the kid got a bit too nippy.
“As if my mother ever breastfed me,” Evie said, sniffing disdainfully. “She almost certainly had a wet nurse.”
“Well, how’d the nurse get you to keep those pretty little fangs to yourself?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I was an infant. I suspect they simply didn’t; any who dared complain of it to my mother would almost certainly have been removed from her position.”
“Maybe we can ask Mui,” Hurlish said, heading over to her rocking chair. “Catfolk have gotta have some kinda secret to it.”
“I’m afraid that catfolk are born without their teeth, much like humans. In fact, I think it is only azarketi and felines which present sharpened teeth from the moment of birth.”
“He doesn’t have a full set of choppers,” Hurlish said, giving Tahn a little pat on the back to help the milk go down. He made a cute little gurgling noise. “Just the fangs. Which are the problem parts.” She eyed Evie. “That’s your fault, by the way.”
“Take your complaint to Amarat, dear. I didn’t have any intentional role in conceiving him.”
“Guess that’s fair. You were mostly tryna lick him outta me.”
“Good gods, Hurlish,” Evie said, scowling. “How obscene can you be? In front of Tahn?”
Hurlish laughed. “Really? That’s where you draw the line? You’ve swallowed more cum than a prostitute elf and that’s what puts you off?”
“My sexual proclivities have nothing to do with how I wish to view our child. And I certainly don’t want them spoken of around him.”
Hurlish laughed again, but didn’t push the point. Finding one of Evie’s red lines was rare enough that it was easy to respect ‘em. Teasing her was fun, but only when she knew the girl actually liked it deep down inside.
Hurlish moved over to the rocking chair, gently lowering herself down. The chair creaked a little bit, but she wasn’t concerned. It had been built with a pregnant orc in mind; the thing could take whatever she threw at it.
While she breastfed Tahn, Evie returned to her preparations. It had been two weeks since Tahn was born, and tomorrow was the day they were planning to set out for the Empire. Evie was walking from one end of the apartment to the other, neatly slipping travel supplies into a collection of leather backpacks. She’d already stuffed everything she could into Sara’s bag of holding, mostly clothes and small bags of emergency rations, which meant the remainder had to be carried more conventionally. Bags of holding were amazing things, but they still had limits. Sara’s bag was a high-quality example that could hold more than most, but that didn’t mean Evie could throw anything in it. If it couldn’t fit through the mouth of the bag, which was about the width of a human fist, there wasn’t anything you could do.
“Are you really gonna need all that?” Hurlish asked.
Evie glanced up from shoving her fifth steel dagger into one of the travel packs; steel tools were getting cheaper every day.
“I doubt it,” she admitted. “But if I have the margin for greater safety, I will gladly take it.”
“If you’re digging around in your food bag for a knife, I think you’re gonna be screwed anyway.”
“It’s not as if I will be carrying it personally. That is what the escorting soldiers are for.”
“I think they’d object to being treated like pack mules.”
“They can object all they like,” Evie said, adding another dagger to a bag. “They have their orders.”
Hurlish snorted, letting the point drop. She didn’t know what she was talking about, really. Evie was the expert. She just wished the girl would relax a little bit, sometimes.
Like with those damn guards, Hurlish thought, glancing out the window. A woman with a musket was standing just outside the window, armor gleaming in the sun. Her head was slowly turning from left to right, scanning the street. Hurlish wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the chick blink.
They didn’t live in the multi-story apartment they’d started off in Tulian with anymore. Evie had moved them closer to the Peasant’s Theatre, commandeering one of nearby multi-story buildings that hadn’t been fully repaired yet. Per her orders, the second and third floor stairways had been boarded shut, preventing anyone from sneaking in from the roof, then the few occupied nearby homes had been bought out on government coin, turned into barracks for members of the Tulian Army that Sara had personally interviewed. Half-inch thick steel shutters had been added to the house’s windows and doors, ready to be dropped by the severing of a single rope holding them in place, and at least two guards stood at each potential entrance, with more on the roofs of nearby buildings.
Hurlish wanted to say it was extreme, ridiculous, but for once she’d actually been outvoted by, of all people, David. He’d talked to Evie about the leader of his old country, some president or something which was protected by this trumped-up ‘Secret Service.’ After hearing all the crazy shit they did to protect their leader, Evie had been inspired. Even Sara hadn’t argued, what with her upcoming trip out of the country, because increasing security only meant all the pissy guards would be protecting Hurlish, not her, which Sara was of course perfectly fine with. Odds are, Sara would be a lot more irritated with being kept under lock and key once she was actually back in the country.
As if summoned by Hurlish’s wandering thoughts, Evie’s ears flicked to the door. The lock turned a moment later, door swinging open. Sara shuffled in sideways, arms festooned with overstuffed bags.
“Honeys, I’m home!” She called, kicking the door shut with a foot.
“We’re right in front of you,” Hurlish drawled.
“I know,” Sara said, dropping her bags, “I just always wanted to say that.” She took a moment to organize what she’d brought, then stood, hands on her hips. As her attention fell on Hurlish, her eyes brightened.
“Ooh! Tits! Nice.”
“They’re not for you right now.”
“He’ll get full soon enough. You’ve got more than enough in those beasts.”
Hurlish’s only response was to roll her eyes, continuing her rhythmic patting of Tahn’s tiny back.
Evie and Sara sat down on the floor next to one another as they began to go through the bags Sara had brought home, sorting out her shopping spree. Hurlish didn’t pay much attention to the supplies themselves; her wives were far more interesting.
Even though half the floor was covered with crap that needed to be sorted, they sat down right next to one another, thighs and shoulders bumping together. Hurlish knew they didn’t even notice that they were doing it. It was just natural that they didn’t want to stop touching each other if they could at all help it. When Sara finished going through one bag, rather than standing up to go grab another one or even leaning a bit forward, she grabbed her sword and unfolded the blade, hooking a backpack’s strap to drag it over. All so she wouldn’t have to stop feeling the warmth at her side for half a damn second.
Evie was even worse, of course. She started off fairly focused, muttering to herself as she checked and double-checked the paper that held her list of inventoried goods, but that concentration fell apart pretty quickly. Soon she was spending more of her time leaning her head against Sara’s shoulder, tail curling around the bigger woman’s hips as her body slowly fell to the side, molding itself into Sara’s curves.
Hurlish loved her wives. Loved talking to them, fucking them, spending time with them. But she sure as hell was glad the two clingy sorts had each other. Having Evie or Sara hanging off her side all day would have driven her crazy.
Eventually, Tahn finished up his meal. The little guy seemed exhausted by the effort of it all, an adorable little gurgle humming against her breast as he stopped sucking. She stood gently, carefully, as smoothly as she could, and walked him over to his crib.
Hurlish paused as she pulled him away from her chest, looking down on him. The little guy’s eyes were already closed, tiny tusks creating the barest bumps beneath his lower lip.
Something in her chest clenched, taken by a surge of love so strong it almost hurt.
He was just about the perfect kid. His brown hair was thin and stringy, like most babies, but she could already tell it was going to look great on him. And his fangs. The little things were a pain in her ass, but gods were they cute. She’d never seen an orc with fangs like that; hells, she’d never seen the kid of an orc and a catfolk, much less a feline like Evie. He was one-of-a-kind, and not just because he was hers.
Hurlish had never imagined she’d actually have a kid of her own. She’d wanted one since… forever, really. As soon as she’d started bleeding as a kid. Maybe sooner. She’d tried to forget about it, but it was always there. The desire to get knocked up, pregnant, to raise a kid on her breast.
But she’d also never had the slightest interest in men, and that sure as hell complicated things. Sure, she’d heard of women that had dicks. Some were just born like that. She’d even met a few. But none of them had hit it off with her, and she’d never been interested in raising a kid on her own. She wanted to do it right.
Looking down on little Tahn? She was hit by a wave of disbelief so strong it made her dizzy. She’d done it. She’d had a kid of her own. She’d even got to pick out his name; Tahn, after her father. The man was long-gone, taken by the storms with the rest of Hurlish’s family, but she knew that if he was looking down on her right then, he’d love the kid. He’d always told her that when she finally settled down with a wife, it wouldn’t be hard to find a kid that needed a pair of moms. But neither of them had ever thought the kid would actually be their own flesh and blood. It was… Well. She still couldn’t believe it, sometimes.
Gentle as she could be, Hurlish lowered Tahn down into his crib, taking care to ensure his tiny little head was comfortably resting on his tiny little pillow. She brought the lightweight blanket up to his shoulders, covering him, then stepped away.
Evie and Sara were still engrossed in their work-slash-cuddle session. They probably heard her walking up behind them, but they didn’t think much of it.
Until Hurlish bent down and wrapped her arms around both women’s stomachs, squeezing them tight.
“Oof-”
“Hurlish-”
“Shh,” Hurlish whispered, “Tahn’s asleep. Keep quiet.”
She squeezed tighter, lifting them both off the ground. Smiths weren’t really supposed to get to the kind of Level that she had. Unlike combat Classes, most craftworkers topped out at their fifth or sixth Level, or, if they were true masters, as high as their eighth or ninth.
Thanks to Sara, Hurlish was Level fifteen, and her Weaponsmith class had made a point to focus on increasing her Strength well beyond what even combat Classes got. As far as she was concerned, the two women might as well have been made of feathers.
Hurlish stood with both her wives bundled in her arms, walked over to the couch, and flopped onto her back. The wooden frame creaked in protest under the weight, but held strong.
“We still have much to prepare-” Evie began to insist.
“Hush up, Kitty,” Hurlish muttered, snuggling into the cushions. Both of her wives were piled on top of her far larger body, using her in the same way she was using the sofa.
“Really though, dear, I do need to finish-”
“I said be quiet, Kitty.” Hurlish reached up a hand and shoved the feline’s face into her cleavage, burying her protests in tits. Evie’s muffled voice faded away in an instant, replaced by a full-body, shuddering sigh. Hurlish wasn’t sure if it was the assertive order or the narcotic effect of breasts larger than her head that shut her up, but either way, it worked.
“What about me?” Sara whispered. She was on the left side of Hurlish’s body, head tucked into Hurlish’s neck. “I want a faceful of tits, too.”
“You’ll get your turn when I’m done napping,” Hurlish said, wrapping a palm around Sara’s ribcage. She flipped the woman over, so Sara’s back was pressed to Hurlish’s bare stomach, then slipped her hand up the Champion’s shirt, taking a handful of her left breast. “Now, be quiet. We’re all gonna sleep.”
“Evie’s not wrong, you know,” Sara murmured. “We do have things that need to get done.”
“Too bad. You should’ve thought of that before you married me.”
Sara sighed melodramatically, shifting her hips as she found a more comfortable way to lay across Hurlish’s body. “Oh, well,” she said, pausing to yawn. “Guess I’ve got no choice.”
“Nope.”
With Hurlish’s left hand full of Sara’s breasts, her right slowly stroking up and down Evie’s back, she slowly began to drift away.
Tomorrow, her wives would be fucking off into the jungle to do gods-knew-what, probably risking their lives a dozen times a day. Today, though, they were napping together, rocked to sleep by the little puffs of their child’s breath.
Just as her eyes were beginning to droop closed, she heard Tahn take a deep breath.
And begin to cry.
Goddammit.
Notes:
A soft little transitionary chapter, courtesy of feedback from the early supporters. Hope you enjoyed the brief look into the nonsexual side of Evie, Hurlish, and Sara's homelife.
Chapter 123: B3 Ch10: Burden of Dreams
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Evie
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Sara didn’t believe her. That this place was… vile. Contemptible. Her wife thought of the jungle in the ways of her old world, influenced by her father’s teachings. That it was a haven for life, the final bastion of land left unspoiled by human avarice.
It was not. It was a cesspit of utterly contemptible misery. It was a haven only for swarming insects and hissing snakes. A bastion, though? Evie could agree with that. Bastions were specific things. Structures built within the walls of a fort not to protect those within, but to deal death to those who try to enter. They spat hissing acid and breathed poison flame, created only to spew sputtering, stuttering evil down on those who dare thought to gain entry. They piled corpses high beneath thick, impenetrable walls, and left those corpses to rot so the scavengers would pick them clean, until an obelisk of ivory stood as testament to the fate of all who might attempt the same.
Yes, by Evie’s own definition, Sara was correct; this jungle was most certainly a bastion.
They had slipped within its fetid walls three days ago, and Evie had not truly slept since. She no longer slid her rifle on her back while she traveled. She kept it in both hands, loaded, happily accepting the arduous cleaning required each evening to prevent the black powder from fouling the steel. Her revolver she kept loaded even as she slept, and she only periodically dared unloading it to check for rust. There was still no evidence that blacksteel had an adverse reaction to black powder like its more common cousin did, but she was not going to risk a potential misfire in this environment.
The secret jungle pathway seemed to be stretching its leafy fingers inward, yearning to claw at her throat. She had never seen so many plants with thorns in all her life, and certainly none whose spires grew to five, six inches long, tipped by a subtle discoloration that seemed to be the hallmark of insidious poison. The hidden trail Mui and his squadron had revealed was not difficult to hide from outsiders by simple virtue of the fact that it barely existed at all. Even with the ‘road’ measuring fifteen paces wide, the dark canopy had only the thinnest sliver of clear space to reveal the sky above, the glummest streak of light directly above the center of the trail where the branches couldn’t quite reach. Even this small comfort often disappeared as the path twisted and curved.
Evie knew that most considered her paranoid. And she was, to a degree. It seemed only natural to her that she, who had so long lived without anything, having fallen into having everything, should be afraid of losing it. She did not begrudge the criticism, and she did not intend to change, no matter what insinuations or slanted glances were sent her way.
And so it seemed somewhat ironic that it was here, where there was faint hope of a single political rival, assassin, or marauding bandit horde, that her paranoia was finding the most respect.
“How many like those pashta nah?” Mui asked, coming up beside her as they trod their way down the trail. Her proficiency with the Imperial language, Kemari, was improving, but it was not yet perfect. He nodded to her rifle, however, which left it easy to make the relevant inferences.
She rolled the rifle in her hand, letting the scant sunlight bounce off the weapon’s intricate engravings. Molten silver had been poured into thin grooves cut in the steel, polished to a sheen that almost tricked the eye into believing the rifle’s barrel was wrapped in dripping mercury. It had a number of sheaths across its lengths, metal covers which hid certain more advanced features from prying eyes. There was little doubt that the world had begun to try and copy Sara’s firearms, and there existed no better example of the type than this latest gift of Hurlish’s.
She couldn’t bring herself to hate them for it. The weapon was a work of art. While its enchantments were presently precious few, it had been built with an artificer’s work in mind. The sweeping curves of its etched patterns ebbed and flowed along the stock, pooling in whirlpool eddies exactly where a gemstone was meant to be emplaced. The steel barrel was so dense with artistry that Hurlish had needed to use the newly invented ‘magnifying glass’ to guide her hand as she chiseled, spending days locked inside her workshop. In bold, traditional iconography, the weapon depicted Evie’s role in the First War of Tulian, beginning at the sight with her hiding Lady Vesta from the Sporatons, spiraling down to her training of new Irregulars above the grip, and ending with her defeat of the Knight Emeric just beneath the muzzle. David, upon first seeing it, had been so taken by the engravings that he begged her to promise the weapon would not be destroyed after it was obsolete, as she’d done for the Mark One through Six. He compared it to something called the Bayeux Tapestry, and believed it would someday be an important historical artifact.
Evie did not much care for the preservation of history, but she had agreed. It would have been a shame to destroy something so wonderful.
“How many are like this?” Evie gave the weapon a fond, possessive pat. “None. This is the…” She stretched for a word in Kemari to translate the weapon’s name. For all she looked down her nose at those who gave grandiose names to their weapons, this new age of rapid advancement had made some form of moniker necessary. Acquiescing to her desire for simplicity, Hurlish had simply dubbed the rifle the Mark Seven. Then, as there were likely to be many devices named similarly, her father-in-law had suggested a more specific name, after the nickname the troops had given to Hurlish’s rifles: the Mark Seven HOT Rifle. Or, as Hurlish and Sara had soon begun abbreviating it, the Hot Seven, a title which Evie had begrudgingly accepted.
She did however draw the line at their more common nickname for it. There was no eventuality which would see her calling the weapon Hot Wife’s HOT Rifle.
The nuance of this complex name, regrettably, was well beyond her basic grasp of Kemari.
“This is the… Warm Seventh Marker,” she said. “Made for me by my wife. There are not any others.”
Mui frowned, eying the beautiful weapon. “I… okay. I would have thought there would be six others, but…”
“Destroyed, to protect their knowledge.”
“Ah.” He flicked his gaze up at the wall of trees, then back down to the weapon. “Well. Not like yours, then. How many normal rifles are out there in Tulian?”
As if I’d give this fool such information, Evie thought with a tight smile.
“Enough for an army, Mui.”
“Would have certainly liked to bring a few for my squad,” he said, either not catching or skilfully ignoring the implied threat. “Spears do well enough against the beasts, but I don’t like traveling through the jungle in such a small group.”
Evie arched an eyebrow, looking about them. Beside Sara and herself, there were two dozen armored soldiers Evie had hand-picked from the Tulian army. With Mui and his squad added on top, they numbered thirty men and women clad in steel.
“Is this not good protection?” She asked.
“No,” Mui answered frankly. “But it never will be. I have only ever traveled between cities in an army, ma’am, and still we lost troops.” He glanced meaningfully at her rifle once more. “I think we would have lost less, if we had those.”
“Of course you did have- would have,” Evie said, correcting herself. “They better than any of your weapons.”
“I know. That’s why I want one.”
Rather direct, isn’t he?
“We do not have more here now.”
“Unfortunate.”
Mui continued marching beside her for a time, silent, until he eventually drifted away, returning to his comrades.
Evie fixed her attention on the jungle walls once more. An entire army suffered casualties from beasts? When she thought of what she had seen of Mui’s ‘small’ army, it was difficult to conceive of; she would have to ask Sara later if Mui had been telling the truth.
Then again, she thought, sweeping her gaze across the trail. If you’re trying to march an army along a trail of this size, what difference is there between a thousand and a million? Their column must have been miles long.
In such a scenario, it would be simple enough for one of the monstrosities described by Voth’s jungle-wall reports to scythe through a column, mouth stretched wide to scoop up a handful of helpless soldiers before melding into the vines.
As she continued to run her mind through the practicalities of the situation, Evie found her thumb twitching forward, itching to pull the hammer back on her rifle. She brought the disobedient digit back into line, but only for fear of a misfire. Attracting one of the beasts with a gunshot wouldn’t be ideal.
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By the sixth day of travel, Evie estimated that they were approximately a hundred and twenty miles beyond the Tulian border. That was a poor estimate, as it assumed a directly southern course, something which was difficult to be certain of given the sporadic nature of the sun’s peeking through the canopy. In other circumstances, Evie would have already ordered an immediate reversal of her troops, long since assuming they were being led in endless circles until they were exhausted enough to be easily killed. Thankfully, she had Sara’s reassurance that Mui was honest, as well as other evidence that they were approaching something of significance.
Throughout the late hours of the fifth day, and increasingly so on the sixth day, Evie had begun noting an increasing frequency of paths intersecting theirs. None had been occupied by a single traveler, and many were thinner and less well-maintained than their own, but their presence spoke to at least some sign of civilization. A similar trip in Sporatos would have seen them passing a dozen villages each day, while she had seen none in this interim.
According to Mui, this was intentional. They were traveling along a main thoroughfare cut through the jungle, one which was used as a lifeline of trade for many smaller villages to the east and south of its course. He explained that this far out on the frontier the allegiance of individual villages was difficult to rely upon, and so he did not want to risk unnecessary conflict, no matter how easily their thirty pseudo-Irregulars could sweep aside a simple militia. That they had encountered no traders was normal, too, for they traveled in far larger caravans than their northern equivalents, composed of many small villages banding their numbers together to hopefully make a safe trip through the jungle. Only poisonous spells salted liberally upon the trail’s soil was capable of curbing otherwise rampant growth in the absence of regular travel– a type of magic which Evie had quietly written a note about, considering Tulian’s difficulties with checking the jungle’s advance.
It was approaching noon when Mui announced that they were finally approaching a village. He told Sara and Evie that they should stay put while he and his troops went forward, to determine that it had not been captured by the oft-discussed, rarely-seen rebellion.
Sara had rejected this outright, of course. Six days spent with the gregarious Champion of Amarat was something not even the most callous of personalities could resist, and all of Mui’s squad considered her a good friend, if not a woman who had their outright loyalty. She wouldn’t let them be potentially killed without her.
Evie had agreed, if for different, more practical reasons. She did not relish the idea of losing their only guides through the jungle immediately after stumbling upon a significant concentration of hostile soldiers. Of course Sara could almost certainly talk her way through the situation, as happy to meet the so-called “rebellion” (who, they had gathered, were truly an equally-sized splinter faction of the original empire) as she was Mui’s own people. As far as the Governess of Tulian was concerned, any Empire was an existential threat to Tulian, in addition to an ideologically incompatible rival.
Which was why the entire village of ‘Chamleabanteay’ received the fright of their lives just as they paused for lunch, having gathered beneath a small pavilion in the outer fields to dine without the sun on their backs.
Evie could only imagine how her troops looked to the people of this village. The terror of armored soldiers was of course its own shock to those who had never seen them, but worse still, even the more world-wise they looked to for guidance would be at a loss.
The Tulian soldiers Evie had selected were chosen for their individual prowess in combat, a trait which had afforded them their pick of looted equipment from Sporaton Knights. They wore an eclectic mix of half-enchanted armor, often lopsided and distributed to whoever a particular piece could fit. The glowing left piece of one pauldron would be on one man, the right upon a woman nearby, while both wore slate-gray chestpieces utterly unlike anything worn by the Imperial forces more familiar to the villagers. Her troops were exhausted and covered with the grime of a week’s hard marching, specked with mud from head to toe, save for their weapons of inexplicable design, the barrels of which were polished to a blinding glare. That they were headed by seven more familiar Imperial soldiers served only to highlight their exceedingly alien nature.
Then there was Sara and Evie themselves, of course. Evie’s wife was wearing what she had begun to refer to as her “peace time armor,” the set that had been enchanted in Hagos for her over a year ago. With its feminine curves and garish purple-pinkish enchantments, even the village’s children would recognize it as the suit of a showman, a braggart, a woman who not only demanded attention, but was extraordinarily used to receiving it.
Evie, meanwhile, wore only her plain cuirasser’s chestplate, across the front of which sat her massive blacksteel revolver within its leather pouch. She wore no armor beside it, not even gloves across the hands which held her glittering rapier. She did not know if any of the village’s citizens were veterans of war, but if they were, they would recognize what she was. Only two kinds of soldier went into battle without armor, and only one kind made it through to repeat the feat.
“Hey!” Sara called out in flawless Kemari, excitedly waving an outstretched arm as she bounced on her toes. “Hot damn are we glad to see you! How much for a hot meal ‘round these parts?”
The stunned villagers did not know how to take this. They looked at one another, aghast, searching for some figure of authority. Their eyes went first to one man, who immediately made a show of looking to another woman, who herself outright pointed at a final woman, jabbering something Evie couldn’t catch.
This third woman, realizing there was no one else willing to speak for the group, stepped hesitantly forward. She was an older woman wearing what seemed to be the clothes of a common farmer, her dark skin wrinkled by the sun.
“S-something could maybe be found,” she timidly replied. “Are you perhaps the, ah, Chosen we were told to expect?”
“She is!” Mui called out, relief in his own voice as he stepped forward. “If you’ve received word of our arrival, I take it that you are still aligned to the True Adjutant’s forces?”
The woman’s smile was wan. Evie quickly intuited why; both sides of this conflict would certainly refer to themselves as the true rulers of the Empire. A fact that seemed lost on Mui.
“Aren’t we all?” The woman cautiously replied. “We were told to help see you on to Tonlay, and to reserve a riverboat for you.”
“Excellent,” Mui said, letting his hand fall off the hilt of his sword. His squad followed his example, and after a brief moment of consideration, just enough to ensure the villagers knew they were not under Mui’s authority, Evie dismissed her sword, prompting the Tulian troops to shoulder their rifles.
Evie kept a careful eye on the small crowd beneath the pavilion as she dismissed her rapier. As expected, several flinched. These would be the former soldiers, those who knew what it meant to see an enchanted weapon. She committed their faces to memory; she would allow none of them within sword’s length of Master.
A difficult proposition, considering the way Sara immediately jogged forward, lifting her helmet to dazzle the crowd with her smile.
“My name’s Sara Brown. Nice to meet you, ma’am,” she said, offering the woman a handshake.
“Song-lep,” the woman replied, tentatively reaching her own hand out. For a moment Evie thought handshakes were not a common practice here, but then the woman gripped Sara’s hand gently, as if afraid the skin of a fabled Chosen might burn her impure self to ash. She gave it one half-hearted shake, then darted backward, diving into the familiar relief of a waist-deep bow.
Good gods, Evie thought, astounded. Did they all used to be like that? It was a shocking reminder of just how much Sara had managed to change so much of Tulian’s culture in so short a time.
“Nice to meet you, Song-lep,” Sara said. “Are you in charge of- oh, what is that?” Sara took a half step to the side, looking around the woman at a steaming plate of food. “Is that spicy food?” She sniffed. “It smells spicy. Gods, do you know how long it’s been since I had anything that wasn’t the same goddamn bland mush?” She started to step toward the plate, only to prompt a reflexive flinch from the crowd, which rippled away from her in a wave.
“Sorry,” she said, holding her hands up. “Sorry, I don’t mean anything by it. Just that I can’t believe you guys have some real food there. I mean, the stuff we have up north ain’t too bad, but that?” She pointed to one of the larger plates at the center of a table, where others had been picking their food from. “That looks a lot like some of the stuff I used to love back home.” She reached into a pocket. “I can pay for it, I think. Do you guys still use gold here, or…?”
The looks of awe and fear that had characterized the crowd inexorably shifted with each word Sara spoke, until they had been entirely replaced by bewilderment and amusement. Then, when Sara’s coin bag opened to reveal an unbroken sheen of gold without a hint of petty copper, to opportunity.
Several plates were hurried forward for her as the village’s natives began to babble. Evie couldn’t catch half of it, but what little she did seemed to be explanations that no, truly, their plates had the best sort of food the Empire had to offer, not those other dull farces their neighbor preferred, and that they really should buy from them, not those other fools.
Sara split the difference by laughing uproariously as she began happily handing out a gold coin to each visitor, turning the natural strength and grace of her warrior’s Class to balancing plates up and down her arms. A space was soon cleared for her at one of the tables, far too large, and so Sara waved for Mui’s squad to sit down beside her, creating a buffer of familiarity against the alien visitor at the core.
Evie, remembering other Imperial’s reactions to her wife’s open display of sexuality, slipped into the bench seat beside her, rather than into her lap. Sara glanced at her, flashing her the briefest expression of a pout, then returned to her meal.
Evie soon found a steaming plate placed before herself as well, but before she began to eat, she waved over one of the Tulian sergeants so she could pass the order for the others to begin breaking out their own rations, eating nearby. It seemed her Master had chosen to ingratiate herself to these villages as her first priority, something that wouldn’t be helped by a few dozen soldiers standing behind her, glaring down at them all.
That done, Evie finally pulled her food towards herself, leaning away from the wafting steam that was still arising from the stone plate. It was a clever little device; a wooden ring was placed around its edges so that the burning-hot plate could be gripped without pain. Looking about, she found that Sara and the others were eating without utensils, popping morsels of food into their mouths with bare fingers, a sight that Evie would have thought little of, before academic lectures of germ theory had wormed their way into her mind. Now she found it incredibly distasteful, even more than her formal dining lessons would suggest.
To delay the inevitable, she leaned forward into the steam, taking a careful sniff of her food.
She recoiled. Her eyes immediately began to water as her nose scrunched up, a sneeze threatening to burst out of her throat. She had no sense of scope for what the scent was, but she was absolutely certain it belonged nowhere near her mouth.
Several of the villagers saw her reaction and laughed, pointing, which drew Sara’s attention over.
“Hey, northern girls, am I right?” Sara called, giving Evie an affectionate pat on the back. Despite the fact that no one present had ever met someone from the ‘north,’ the joke’s delivery was flawless enough that the table broke into laughter. Lighthearted teasing of those from other regions was universally appealing, it would seem.
Ignoring them, Evie brought her own travel rations out and placed them on a clear portion of the plate, accepting from the villagers only a mug of drink that smelled lightly alcoholic. She began to eat beside Sara, careful to not let herself fall into the almost festive atmosphere that had erupted across the pavilion.
Whatever Mui had been intending to do in the moment of their arrival, it had been forgotten, even by the catfolk man himself, who was sitting across from Evie, merrily enjoying his first taste of familiar food in weeks. Sara raised her cup and shouted another joke, the meaning of which was lost on Evie, and then began scarfing down her second plate.
Evie brought out a knife and fork and began to cut her dried meat into bite-sized pieces, which she brought delicately, properly, to her mouth. And as she did so, she scanned the crowd, one part of her mind always ready to summon her rapier, fly for her revolver, or snag her rifle off her back.
She doubted there would be any need. Not five minutes had passed since Sara’s arrival in the village, and already things were almost back to normal. So effective had her efforts been that many of the villagers were already continuing their own conversations from earlier, as if there were not a mythical Champion of the Gods sitting in their midst. Evie’s swiveling ears overheard talk of the coming rainy season and the price of crops, rather than the astonished, almost worshipful whispers she would have expected.
Astounding.
Evie considered herself an able statesman, a trained and competent conversationalist. Perhaps among the best of her generation in the Sporaton capital. Yet she knew with absolute certainty that she could not have achieved in a week what her wife had in five minutes.
And so Evie ate her meal in relative silence, only occasionally raising her head to respond to some question or another. She often flicked her eyes over to her troops, reassuring herself that those she trusted most were doing as they had been trained.
She was satisfied by what she saw. Several of them had taken out their muskets and begun to make a show of cleaning them, as if doing nothing more than routine midday maintenance. It would be difficult if not impossible for those unfamiliar with the weapons to recognize that they were still loaded, each resting on their owner’s lap such that they were pointed towards the closest potential threats to Sara. Should a fight break out, the first volley of musketfire wasn’t more than two seconds away.
She was proud of that, but only in a limited capacity. Evie had grown up with a house Guard trained by, or outright composed of, the Night’s Eye Mercenaries. The soldiers of Tulian were nowhere near meeting that standard, and likely never would, but she couldn’t deny that they were improving.
Her appraisal of the situation was interrupted by Sara subtly elbowing her, leaning down to whisper in her ear.
“OhmygodpleasegivemeyourwatermymouthisonFIRE.”
Evie slid the wooden mug over casually. Sara grabbed it and immediately slammed it back, continuing her conversation with a villager the moment it was drained.
Evie, eternally obedient, discreetly refilled the mug from her canteen. The moment she finished, Sara gripped it and threw it to her mouth before draining it in two quick gulps, tossing it aside as she once more leaned over.
“This shit is so fucking hot I’m gonna die,” she gasped, nearly inaudible.
“White chicks indeed, Master,” Evie muttered in Continental as she refilled the mug.
Sara slammed it down, said something to another villager, then threw her shoulder against Evie’s.
“You weren’t supposed to get that reference earlier,” she whispered.
“You’ve taught me too much about your home for your own good,” Evie murmured back.
“Just keep giving me water or something, Jesus,” Sara rasped. “Shit. So spicy. Wish we had milk.”
“We could have brought along Hurlish.”
“Not what I meant.”
Evie smirked, refilled the mug once more, then leant back, enjoying her wife’s silent suffering. Really, it was her own bravado that had gotten her into this situation. She shouldn’t have expected any sympathy from Evie.
A mercifully short time later, most of the villagers had finished consuming their meals, returning to their work in the nearby fields. Many seemed to want to stay, to hear more of what this strange Chosen had to say, but the toil of a farmer was always married to the remorselessly marching hours of daylight.
Just as Evie began to pack up her silverware, expecting a return to the day’s intended purpose, one vanara woman approached them, grabbing fistfuls of her clothing as she looked at Sara with an expression of pure anxiety. Several of the villagers, unhesitatingly ceded their seats upon seeing her approach, allowing the woman to face Sara unobstructed.
Oh, fantastic, Evie growled, if only to herself. The woman was in her middle years, dressed even more humbly than the other farmers, with discolored patches dotted across her clothing. Her brown fur was slicked with the white foam of sweat, and her tail was twisted in knots behind her back. She seemed petrified by merely contemplating the thought of speaking to Sara, yet something clearly drove her forward, something more important than her fear of the awe-inspiring Chosen of the Gods.
Sara, of course, as Evie knew she always would, waved her forward, plastering a comforting expression across her face.
“Is something the matter, ma’am?” Sara asked.
“You have been Chosen by the pantheon of Bonds, yes?” The woman’s hands twisted further in her shirt, tight enough to test the strength of its tired threads.
“I’m the Chosen of Amarat, which I think is the same-ish thing,” Sara said, glancing at Mui. The catfolk nodded, which made Sara nod. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Then may I…” she took a deep breath, steeling herself. “It is my daughter,” she blurted, the words coming fast. “She is ill in the mind and our village’s healer fears a possession, but we have not heard back from the cities yet, will not hear back for days or maybe weeks, and it is told in old stories that you can help but I do not know and do not want to assume–”
“Hey,” Sara said, holding her hands in the air and bending lower over the table, as if calming a dog. “It’s okay. Yes, I’ll try and help you. Whatever it is, I’ll try and help. You said you think she’s possessed? I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll try. I always try. That’s all we can do, right?”
The woman opened her mouth to reply, only to burst into tears, the suddenness of it shocking even herself. Sara immediately leapt up, moving to hug her, but was beaten to the punch by several nearby villagers, who began whispering small comforts into her ear.
Good gods, Evie privately lamented. Here we go once again.
Evie stood and cinched up her belt, double-checking the fit of her revolver’s holster. After a display like that, only the gods knew how long they’d be here.
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The village they were led through was as strange to Evie’s sentiments as the rest of the land. The crop fields they walked beside were half-submerged in clear puddles of ankle-deep water, with colorful fish darting this way and that. There was no masonry to speak of, not in the road, the homes, or even the fencing. Everything was made of the omnipresent dark jungle wood. The village’s buildings were elevated several feet above the ground, standing on stilts, with roofs made of sturdy overlapping planks and walls of carefully connected tree trunks. Despite the absence of brickwork and iron, Evie suspected the villager’s houses were as sturdy as any Sporaton equivalent. They were built to weather storm, flood, and beast. They had no choice but to be strong.
Evie suspected floods in particular were the most pressing concern for this village. The woman led them along a riverside trail, explaining what little she knew of her daughter’s circumstances to Sara as they went. Evie mostly ignored this conversation; it was full of ignorant superstition, positing that the girl’s supposed possession was the fault of immorality, diet, or equally inane theories. Evie’s tutors had drilled into her that possession could find anyone at any time, and there was precious little to be done preventatively. All one could do was fight the demon as best they were able when it appeared.
So she focused on the river. It was their purpose in reaching this village, Mui had explained. While Sara went to help the villager, the catfolk sergeant had gone to arrange their transport on a river boat of some description, which should carry them to their destination far faster.
Looking at the river for herself, Evie was not eager to travel it. The waters were an opaque brown from shore to shore, save where the swift current rose over some unseen obstacle to break into white rapids, happy to smash the hull of even the shallowest vessels. The villagers had lined the entire shoreline with a dense array of sharpened stakes, and they passed a pair of carpenters walking amongst the stakes, replacing those that had been snapped. The two carpenters were guarded by four villagers with loaded crossbows, and they all looked nervous.
Evie resisted the itching desire to double-check that her revolver was properly loaded.
“That is my home,” the woman said, pointing to another of the identical log cabins. “I will go ahead, to warn my husband of your arrival.”
“Is that safe?” Sara asked, just as the woman began to hurry away. “If your daughter’s really possessed, wouldn’t the demon freak out once it knows I’m coming?”
The woman blinked. “Ah. I had not… I will not speak in front of her, Your Holiness.”
“Name’s still just Sara,” she said, not for the first time. “Go ahead, then. We’ll catch up.”
The woman set off at a light jog, her posture wrought with anxiety. Sara watched her go, frowning lightly.
“Do you know what I’m supposed to do here?” She asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Like, helping with possessions.” Sara gestured to the woman’s home. “Apparently some girl’s got a demon in her head over there, and I’m supposed to get it out. I’ve got no idea how to do that.”
“I imagine that you would have discovered any relevant Abilities far earlier, had you lived the life expected of most Champions of Amarat.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t.” Sara sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “So. Possession. You ever dealt with it?”
“No, thankfully. It’s supposed to be a dreadful affair. The worst thing a mortal soul can experience on this plane of existence.”
“Lovely. Do you know anything about, like, exorcizing demons? Even if you’ve just read something? Because I’ve got literally nothing.”
Evie wracked her brain for a moment, then shook her head. “I’m afraid not, dear. All I ever knew of it was that it was best to restrain the individual if possible, then summon a Priest of Amarat.”
“Cool. Welp.” Sara took a deep breath. “Here’s hoping I know more than I think I do.” She glanced out at the soldiers marching in a box around her. “Any of y’all know anything about possession? No? Okay. Please don’t tell the family I asked you that, by the way.”
Despite herself, Evie smirked. Even when she wasn’t intending it, Sara had a way with words that was remarkably well-suited for easing tension.
“I will go in first, to ensure your safety,” Evie declared as they neared the house. “First Squadron, you will be between the home and the river, muskets loaded. Second squadron, remain outside, but have your shortswords drawn and your helmets lowered, ready to break in at my word. Third Squadron, you will be on the opposite side of the house from First Squadron, muskets ready. Ensure your positions are offset enough to avoid inadvertent friendly fire. Should a retreat be necessary, I want all forces to begin backing towards the main village, to commandeer a home for a defensive position or return to the trail as the situation necessitates. Understood?”
A chorus of confirmations answered her, the Tulian soldiers breaking up to their assigned tasks. The woman emerged from the front door of her home, waving them forward.
“Is all that really necessary?” Sara asked. “I know you like to keep me safe, but you usually don’t plan for a retreat ahead of time.”
“If we are to be facing demons, there is no contingency too comprehensive.”
“Hey, I’m not saying you shouldn’t. Just wondering.” They stepped onto the home’s porch. “After you.”
The woman who had asked for Sara’s help held the door open, smiling nervously. Evie summoned her rapier as she stepped across the threshold, eyes flicking left to right.
The woman. A vanara man. Neither armed. A clay brick hearth, a low table, a rug of woven grass. No weapons save cutlery. Three doors, two open. One led to the rear exterior, the other to a bedroom, and the third was closed, its handle wrapped with many loops of rope.
She turned her ears to the closed door. Something behind it was mumbling, breathing unsteadily.
Satisfied that there were no immediate threats, Evie returned her attention to the two individuals.
“I am Evie Brown, wife of Sara Brown,” she said, nodding her head. “I am sorry for becoming your home armed. I hope you understand, considering the… the things.” She frowned slightly, disappointed in herself. She hadn’t learned half of the Kemari she needed to negotiate this situation gracefully.
Thankfully, the two parents were so frazzled they barely noticed. “I am Siang,” the man replied. “And I believe you’ve met my wife, Song-lep. And if what she says is true, that you and your wife are here to help our daughter, you are welcome to be armed any which way you please.”
“Thank you.” Evie glanced at the closed door. “Your daughter is there?”
“Yes.”
“I will come inside before my wife. For safety.”
Sing blinked, hesitating, then seemed to gather her meaning. “Of course, of course,” he said, moving over to loosen the many knots which had been keeping the door shut. “She is not dangerous to others, but we restrained her all the same. We did not want her to hurt herself or others. The lord declared that possessed which pose a danger to others must be killed at once, should the local healers be unable to exorcize the demon.”
“Harsh,” Evie lied, knowing it was the response they were looking for. The policy was only reasonable. What sane ruler would allow a violent demon to remain in their lands? “No need for worry. I am strong.”
“I believe you,” Siang replied simply. He undid the last knot, then took a step back. “Please understand. She is… she is not normally like this.”
“Of course,” Evie murmured, reaching for the handle. Moving so that her rapier would not be blocked by the swinging door, she stepped inside.
Once more, her eyes flitted from corner to corner. The girl on a straw-stuffed mattress, limbs tied together. A small storeroom, cramped. Shelves lined the walls, filled with farming implements and foodstuffs. No window, a single candle for light, and nowhere to hide. Good.
Evie focused her full attention on the girl.
She was younger than Evie had expected. Vanara were too unfamiliar to Evie for her to feel confident in her guess, but she doubted the girl could have been older than thirteen. She had the same mottled brown coat of her parents, but it was difficult to tell exactly how well her patterning matched them. Like horses, vanara sweat tended to turn into an opaque, lathery foam, which now covered the girl from head to toe. Her tail repeatedly lifted, curled, then dropped, seemingly without reason, and her eyes were blankly staring at the ceiling. If it weren’t for her muttering, Evie would have assumed the child was in the throes of a fever-induced delirium.
“Better better better better must be better better better better better better better will be better better better with them with them with them better better better so much better better better better-”
It was unending. The girl did not pause for breath, did not seem to be addressing anyone or anything, and seemed generally unaware that she was speaking in the first place. It sent shivers down Evie’s spine.
Suddenly, the girl’s head lurched, eyes rolling down, too far downward, as her spine arched, body bending into a bow.
Evie brought her rapier up, bracing for the girl’s bindings to snap as she leapt forward.
Instead, tears welled in the child’s eyes.
“You’re not mom,” she whispered. “Where’s mom? I want my- better better better better better better better-”
The moment of lucidity passed. The girl collapsed back onto the mattress.
Evie shuddered. “Sara!” She called, switching to Continental. She kept her rapier pointed at the girl. “There is no danger beyond the possession. Come in!”
There was the creak of floorboards straining under the weight of Sara’s boots, then the breathless thank-yous of the girl’s parents. Evie listened, but did not take her eyes off the child.
“I promise, I’m going to do everything I can to help her,” she heard Sara say. “What’s her name?”
“Feng,” the father said. “She’s not responding to much right now, I’ll warn you. Not even to us. She doesn’t mean anything by it, Your Holiness.”
“That’s alright. And you can just call me Sara.”
“Nonsense, Your Holiness. For one doing us such an honor as this, there is no title too high.”
Evie stepped to one side as Sara approached the door. Sara was still looking back at the girl’s parents as she entered.
“If you really want to thank me, you can just call me Sara. It’s a lot easier.” Sara stepped into the room, slowly turning her head to look at the sickly child. “Honestly, I don’t even-”
Sara’s eyes landed on the girl.
“Holy shit Evie, shoot that fucking thing!”
A shot broke the air, Evie’s revolver barely clearing its holster before she pulled the trigger. The bullet took the child under the left eye, spraying blood and bone across the mattress.
“NO!” Siang cried.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Sara cried, shoving the man away. “Back, back! Squad two-”
The ringing in Evie’s ears was overwhelmed by an abhorrent wail, a deafening, agonized cry roaring out of the child’s throat. The girl’s jaw stretched wide, wider, until the skin tore, then wider still, until her jaw extended further back than her temples, vomiting a gurgling torrent of blood.
Evie dropped the revolver to her waist, using her palm to cock the hammer as fast as she was able. She fired once, twice, thrice, each shot tearing a gaping hole in the child’s chest, but still she continued to rise, her bindings disintegrating like wet paper. Evie couldn’t hear her own gunshots over the screeching, which was growing in volume with every passing moment.
The girl found her feet as the sixth shot blew a hole through her pelvis. She lunged with abruptly clawed hands, reaching for Sara, who was still shoving the parents away.
Evie dropped her revolver as she extended into a lunge, rapier flashing.
She caught the girl in the chest as she flew past. Evie’s stab slid through her ribcage from right to left, ending when the blade dug into the wall, pinning the child in place. The screeching ended as abruptly as it had begun, but her mouth didn’t close.
“Sara!” Evie barked, clasping her rapier with her other hand, throwing her full weight to drive the weapon into the wall. “You need to-”
The girl gripped the rapier and, with one savage pull, dragged herself forward. The blade sliced through her heart, lungs, and spine, but she barely noticed, continuing her mad dash.
Only to meet a fist as Sara spun around, catching the girl directly in her malformed jaw.
Sara’s blow filled the air with the sound of a thousand snapping sticks. The girl’s head snapped back, neck broken, but her jaw latched shut.
Evie dismissed and resummoned her rapier just as the demonic child began to thrash wildly, jerking her head from side to side like a rabid animal.
Evie’s new lunge took the child in her much-reduced neck. She whipped her sword to the side, parting what was left, decapitating the demon.
The detached head continued to bite at Sara’s fist, teeth rapidly distending into fangs, while the body dropped to all fours, snapping with nauseating crackles as red spines emerged from its limbs.
The Champion of Peace and Diplomacy screamed at the top of her lungs as she brought her fist high, then slammed it down, crushing the girl’s malformed corpse with her own head.
The skull shattered like glass, spraying the room with bloody needles. The body folded, spine broken, but began righting itself almost immediately.
“Fucking get it!” Sara screamed. “Kill it!”
Evie joined her wife as they began raining blows down on the twitching thing, rapier blurring, fists pounding.
The demon tried to dart away, a latticework of thin lines sprouting across the floor to impale the wood with a thousand skittering legs, but Sara grabbed the pulsating network at the base and jerked, snapping it, then threw it across the room.
A mere handful of seconds had passed. The girl’s parents hadn’t yet regained their feet after Sara’s initial shove, and Squad Two was just entering the home.
“Pommels!” Evie cried. “Hammers! Break it!” She moved forward to lead by example.
In a matter of moments the demon was surrounded by a dozen soldiers, all of whom were throwing their entire weight into every one of their countless swings. Evie pulled back, not wanting to inadvertently injure her troops with her rapier, using the opportunity to pull the Hot Seven off her back, aiming at the bloodbath. Every time she caught sight of the demon through the flailing limbs, it was more malformed, more broken, but always moving, always trying to fight.
The hail of swings lasted for the better part of a minute before Sara finally called out.
“Hold! Hold, I think it’s dead!”
Reluctantly, the soldiers stopped swinging. The thing might have been dead for quite a while, but it was impossible to tell. Many of the soldiers had gripped their shortswords by the blade, using the entire hilt as a weapon, while others had taken their shields in both hands, smashing the metal down as hard as they were able. The demon had been covered by steel more often than not.
Sara was the first to sit back on her heels, wiping her forehead. A swathe of the home was stained with blood, which was spattered across the ceilings, walls, and floor. It was far more blood than should have been contained in such a small child.
To make matters worse, many of the bloodstains were accompanied by pieces of red… somethings. Little sticks composed of an unidentifiable substance, thin rods that held a slight sheen, as if made of a dull ruby. Many of these chunks were still squirming, filling the room with a quiet click-click-click as they bumped against one another.
“Shit,” Sara gasped, breathing hard. She turned to look at the child’s parents. “Why the hell did you let that thing in your house?”
The vanara couple were trembling in place, half-covered by the gore of what they thought had been their child.
“What… what have you done?” Song-lep whispered. “You are a monster. A-”
“That was not your kid.” Sara slowly dragged herself off her knees. “I don’t know what the hell it was, but that thing wasn’t alive. Your daughter wasn’t possessed. She was replaced.”
“But she knew our names,” Siang said, his shocked expression devoid of emotion. “She spoke to us. She asked for help. For food, and water, and comfort.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Sara replied, pulling the gauntlet off her injured hand. Her wrist was punctured a dozen times over, dripping fat drops of blood. She began wrapping it in a bandage. “That wasn’t your daughter. I don’t know how you thought it was.”
“The child looked perfectly natural to me,” Evie said. “I would not blame them, dear.”
“Really?” Sara glanced at the bloody pile of broken demon parts, scowling. “That wasn’t a possession. There was no life in that thing’s eyes. No thoughts, no emotion, nothing. It didn’t look like a little girl. It looked like a leather bag full of snakes.”
“She was alive!” Sian repeated.
“I don’t know what to say, other than the fact that it wasn’t. You saw that for yourselves.”
“I suspect it is your Champion’s nature that made such a revelation obvious to you,” Evie interjected. “Beyond the child’s aberrant behavior, nothing appeared amiss.”
“That’s hard to believe, but I’ll take your word for it.” Sara finished wrapping up her wrist, then knelt down before the two vanara, bowing her head. “It is my deepest regret that I could not help your daughter. I do not know what happened to her, but I swear on the name of Amarat, the thing that I and my troops just destroyed was not her.”
The mother’s eyes began to water. “If that wasn’t her… then… is she…?”
“I don’t know,” Sara said. She glanced behind herself, wincing. “Let me escort you outside. My troops will do their best to clean what they can of this mess. My wife will contact someone who may have answers that I do not.”
The two parents gave dull, empty-eyed nods. Evie wasn’t sure if it was the harshness of jungle life or simple shock which was keeping them from breaking down, but whichever it was, she was grateful. To be forced to restrain hysterical parents would do little for the goodwill that had been established in this village.
While Sara escorted the two from their home, Evie slipped the communication crystal from her bag, activating it with a pulse of Intent.
“Professor Brown?” She asked, returning to Continental. “This is Evie. Are you with Garen at this time?”
There was the sound of shuffling, then Evie’s father-in-law’s cheery voice.
“Hey, Evie. Yeah, I’m with Garen right now, but we’re teaching a class. Is it important?”
“We have destroyed a demon that was impersonating a child, and wish to investigate its nature. The location and fate of the real child is unknown. If they are still alive, time is of the essence.”
Rather than a response from the professor, Evie was met by an explosion of chattering from eavesdropping students.
“Uh. Demons are real?”
The chattering turned into laughter.
“Okay, apparently that was a stupid question. Give us a minute to get back to my office, alright?”
“Of course,” Evie said, walking over to the shattered corpse. Some of the red needles were still twitching. She rolled a larger chunk over with her foot.
The lower left quarter of the child’s face stared back at her, lips still moving. No noise came out, but it was easy to read.
“Better with them it’s better to be with them better to be with them-”
Evie’s lip curled in disgust as she flipped the head back over, hiding its twitching mockery of humanity.
Notes:
Well, that was quite a change of pace. Turns out demons don't fuck around, do they? Next update, a demonic autopsy. And when is the next update? This Friday! I've decided to shift things up a bit to hopefully improve reader engagement, since people will be able to read over the weekend. See you shortly!
Chapter 124: B3 Ch11: Better Off
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Evie
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“The skull and general body structure appear to have been typical for a young vanara,” she said, narrating into the speaking crystal. “A semi-prominent muzzle, brown-black fur, and proportionally appropriate limbs, including the tail, though I suppose there is margin for error in my recollection, considering the supposed ‘child’ had been bound for their own safety.”
“Mm-hm,” Garen hummed, quill scratching, “and what of the eyes? Did you note anything unusual with them?”
“Not in particular, no. Standard for vanara. Black, beady. The only physical abnormality I noted would have been the prodigious volume of lathering sweat, which I took as a sign of severe fever.”
“Interesting,” Garen hummed, this time accompanied by the sound of flipping pages.
Evie frowned as she turned a piece of the demon over, holding it to the light. She was knelt in a pool of cooling blood, which she could feel slowly soaking into the leather of her traveling clothes. All around her was the quiet tick-tick-tick of the creature's eviscerated body, its needle-like structures still trying to fulfill some unknowable duty. Makeshift mops hissed and slurped as they were pushed across the blood-soaked floorboards. Per Sara’s orders, the Tulian soldiers were doing their best to clean up the spilled viscera, but their best was not going to be enough. The home would never be free of the stains.
Just outside, she could hear the light sounds of Sara consoling the family, working them through their grief. Evie did not know what it took to help someone overcome the horror of seeing their daughter twisted into a monstrosity before their very eyes. She was glad that Sara was there to attempt it.
“But you said it screamed?” David asked. “Even though you’re saying that beneath the outer layer of skin, there wasn’t any meat at all, just the needles, it still screamed?”
“Correct.”
“Then how? Actually, how did it even talk?”
“It is a demon, Professor Brown,” Evie replied, flicking away one of the many nameless remnants which were trying to drag themselves towards her flesh. “I doubt you will find much success in your search for reason. They are, more than all else in reality, an empty existence. Barely able to mirror what they hate, they seek only to degrade and destroy.”
“Sure, sure,” David said, agreeing in the way that told her he disagreed wholeheartedly, “but that sounds like a religious lesson, right? From some priest or pastor or whatever you guys have here. And while I’m starting to realize that those sorts of people aren’t like they were on earth, and I need to actually kind’ve respect them, their lessons are still gonna be all wrapped up in faith, not, like, actual science. What I’m trying to do is confirm the reality behind their dogma, you know?”
“A sound approach, for all its daunting scope,” Evie said. “I must remind you, two high-Level Irregulars and eight soldiers took nearly a full minute to effectively disable this creature, and we did not come away unscathed. It is still not truly dead, if such a word can ever be used to describe a demon. The opportunities to study their kind will be few and far between.”
“Which is exactly why we need to make the most of what time we have,” David replied. “But actually, that brings up a question. Dead. Are these things really alive?”
“Oh, gods,” Garen grumbled, still leafing through pages. “That is a discussion best avoided, David. A thousand years of scholars have argued that point again and again, and never has a conclusive answer been found. You may as well ask if intelligent life is possible without a soul.”
“I mean, it is. It definitely is. Because there wasn’t any kind of magic back on Earth, and we had plenty of intelligent life.”
“Did you not have spellcraft? Or did your home simply lack the Gifts of Talavan required to detect it? Were you to present your testimony to one who both places faith in Talavan and believes souls are a prerequisite to true intelligence, your world proves nothing.”
“Okay, so now we’re back on that argument,” David said with a laugh. “We’re gonna have to shelve it for now, because I want to hear about the cool demon my daughter just killed. Have you found out what kind it is?”
“Possibly,” Garen replied, tapping a page. “Evie, you said that the imitive child was reportedly capable of speech, but this capacity devolved over time?”
“Correct.”
“Then I suspect that the Governess’s initial assessment is the most accurate. This was never a possession at all. Rather, it was a replacement.”
“A changeling?”
“No, changelings are of the fae, though the comparison is apt. This was likely a demon that abducted, replicated, then replaced the original child.”
“Then what is its proper name?”
“Few forms of demons have names, I’m afraid. Their individual variety is great enough to resist definition. What few languages ascribe a name to demons exhibiting this behavior usually denote them as some form of ‘Abductor’ or ‘Impersonator.’”
Evie straightened.
“If they abduct, then they do not kill. Sara’s concern remains with the wellbeing of the original child.”
Garen sighed. “Unfortunately, I believe there is faint hope for the girl’s fate. Demons of this variety were once believed to be remarkably intelligent, but it is now known that they are in fact among the dullest and physically weakest of the hellish spawn. The demon likely stashed the child away in some nearby location, well-hidden from sight and sound, and occasionally returned to experiment upon it.” There was the sound of a very, very large book being slid across a desk. “Here, David. Read from this passage to this passage. I have heard several offhanded comments from you in the past that I suspect may indicate you are better equipped than I to comprehend the true purpose of this… behavior.”
While David silently absorbed whatever Garen had found, Evie continued picking over the corpse.
With it spread open before her, she was not surprised to learn there had been nothing human in the creation of this creature. Its skin was as thin as the finest of papers, stretched across a field of flat-faced crystalline plates. Beneath each plate was a hinging series of the omnipresent red spires, each of which could raise or lower itself as necessary to mimic the tensing or twisting of mortal flesh. Before it had been torn to pieces, there must have been tens of thousands of the needles required to cover the entire thing’s body, each of them sprouting from one of the broken, twisting columns that occupied the approximate location of human bone.
Evie was no anatomist, but she had become astonishingly familiar with the insides of human bodies over the last year and a half. Everywhere she looked, expecting to find one thing, there was another entirely. The blood that the body had possessed was not stored in any sort of vein or artery, but rather loosely pooled beneath the skin, occasionally sucked into a handful of fleshy bags which were regularly poked and prodded by yet more countless needles. The needles tending the blood sacks were different from the others. Their tips glowed, and their entire lengths were hot to the touch. She presumed it was how the demon’s child body had not been ice-cold; the sacks would inhale the blood loosely stored throughout the body, heat it to a near boil, then spit it back out to warm the greater whole.
There were similar sacks of viscera all throughout its form, though most all were broken after the assault. Evie could only guess at what they had carried. Bags of bile, collected sweat, empty sacks full of air, and a multitude of other fluids she could not identify, they all had been scattered randomly throughout the thing’s body, pressed and kneaded by red spines so that their products could be excreted as needed.
Evie pinched a shredded tendril of flesh from a bag that had held loose sweat, holding it to her eye. Unlike the exterior skin of the demon, which was obviously artificial and lifeless upon close inspection, this example was most certainly born of a living thing. It had pores, and thin, stringy hairs. She suspected it to have been harvested from an animal of some kind.
In fact, she was becoming steadily more convinced that this was how much of the thing’s more ‘lifelike’ mimicries had been achieved. It replicated what it could recreate, stole what it could not. The demon was nothing more than a stumbling tower of sticks and excrement, powered by mechanical processes not unlike the cogs of Tulian’s newfound industry. That such primitive components achieved a nearly perfect replica of human life was… disturbing.
“Jesus, man, I can’t read any more of this,” David suddenly announced, sounding disgusted. “Ugh. Yeah, I think I know what it was doing. At least, I know more than the original author did.” His voice was nasally, as if pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Please, do tell,” Garen said. “I’m most interested to hear your perspective. The study of demons never appealed to me, for it seemed there was nothing to gain other than subjecting oneself to endless descriptions of mindless cruelty. Even the barest insight into the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of their acts could be considered revolutionary by many a scholar.”
“Yeah, well, it’s cruel, I’ll give you that.” David took a deep breath, swallowing audibly to bite back his vomit. “Okay. So. Evie, that kid’s parents aren’t in earshot, right?”
“They are outside with Sara.”
“Good. Look, apparently this thing, this demon or whatever it is, it abducts people for a reason. This writer seems to think it’s just to torture them, but I don’t think so. They take their victims back to some hidden place, a cave or whatever, and start shoving needles in their brain. Mostly through the eye, but also straight through the skull, or the base of the neck. And then they start giving them these… these little pops of electricity. Static, basically, nothing that can do permanent harm, other than, y’know, the hole in their head. And it makes the victim freak out real bad, because they’re basically being tortured.”
“As I have said before. Senseless. No one and nothing gains anything of value from this behavior.”
“Not that I don’t hate it too, but I don’t think you’re right on that. See, the whole time, the demon is mimicking whatever the person does. So they give the victim a zap, the person’s jaw opens to scream, and the demon does exactly what they just did, a second later. And they do it again and again and again.”
Evie felt her own bile began to rise, a reaction she forced herself to ignore.
“Over time, the demon gets… better at it. They start poking new holes, giving new shocks. The victim starts responding differently. The author thinks that it’s corrupting the victim, because they’re not responding with the same kind of pained reactions that they did before, but again, I don’t agree. The victim starts to talk, to say random things, and the demon does, too. So, like, here, it says that the victim began to repeatedly claim ‘It’s better to be with them. Our life will be better if we give in to them.”
“Almost verbatim what the child was saying before it attacked Sara.”
“Exactly!” Despite the macabre topic, David’s words grew eager. “Then there’s other stuff. I mean, I hate to know how long they locked someone in a room with this thing to watch all this happen, but basically the demon starts getting the victim to talk. To say things like ‘I love you,’ or ‘it’s alright, don’t worry about me,’ or even real mundane stuff, like ‘I think we need more bread.’ The author took this as a sign of the victim losing their mind from being tortured, but that’s not it, is it?”
“You are making similar inferences to my own,” Garen said, “but I do not wish to prejudice your judgement. Please, continue.”
“Okay. See, Evie, I don’t know if Sara ever told you this, but your whole nervous system, your brain, all of the stuff you use to think, it all runs off of electricity. Sara has a lightning spell, right? Have you ever noticed that when she hits someone with it, their whole body freaks the heck out? Like, shaking, jerking, tensing up or whatever?”
“I have, but I never questioned it. Flailing in panic is a reasonable response to finding oneself being burned from the inside out.”
“Okay, fair, but in reality it’s more because the lightning is actually literally, physically activating their muscles. It’s highjacking their own ability to control themselves by providing way more electricity than should ever be there in the first place. So what I think, what I think, is that this demon is basically putting these poor bastards in the Matrix.”
A brief, anticipatory silence, as if David was waiting for a reaction to some great revelation.
Evie frowned.
“...What?”
“Oh. Huh. Uh, I guess Sara hasn’t shown you that one, yet,” David muttered, briefly crestfallen. “I’ll have to get on to her about that. But basically,” he continued, steadily returning to his excited pace, “I think the demon is controlling what the person sees and feels. By the end of it, the demon this person was observing had hundreds of little needles stabbed into its victim’s brain. To me it sounds like the thing was feeding this person fake sensory data, making them see things that weren’t really there, then learning how they react.
“By the end of it, it wasn’t even waiting to mimic what the victim did, it was just cycling through pulse after pulse, making the person jerk around like a puppet on a string. Then, all of the sudden, it pulled the needles out and turned to the author and started talking, calmly trying to convince them to let it out. If these things are really as stupid as you two say they are, I think that this is how they’re managing to convince people they’re still human. They can’t really talk. They’re like parrots. They just repeat trained phrases over and over again, trying different ones until they get what they want.”
“Gods.” Evie looked down at the corpse she had been picking through. A renewed wave of revulsion washed through her, so intense that she wished to leap up to rid herself of its touch.
“The child, then,” she said, dropping her voice even lower. She did not know how keen vanara ears were, and found herself wishing she had learned before this conversation began. Even the shelter of speaking a foreign language didn’t feel enough. “It is dead? Tortured to death?”
“Possibly?” David sounded unsure. “Probably. But maybe not. I don’t know. The author theorizes that this isn’t something the demons do just once. They think that it happens a bunch of times, over a period of weeks. That the demon goes back and tortures its victim again. Of course they think that they do it because demons need to ‘feed on malice and pain’ or whatever, and maybe they do, since they clearly have no digestive capability, but I’m not so sure. It may be topping off its knowledge on how to properly respond to people, or stopping itself from forgetting what it already knows.”
“Which means the girl is almost certainly dead.” Evie sighed, more troubled by the revelation than she had anticipated. “The demon was first identified and restrained six days before our arrival. If these torturous rendezvous were the sole source of sustenance for the girl, she will have died of neglect.”
David’s tone, which had been buoyed up by the excitement of scientific discovery, came crashing down.
“That’s… yeah. Probably, yeah. I’m sorry.”
“There was nothing that could have been done,” Evie said, half to reassure him, half for her own conscience. “All our arrival did was end the charade.”
“I guess so. I mean…” David took a deep, sobering breath, blowing it out in a prolonged sigh. “She could still be alive, somewhere. Like, we don’t know how often it went back. It could have left her somewhere with food, or at least water.”
“Do you believe that enough that I should tell the girl’s parents such?” Evie asked. “I do not want to provide them false hope.”
“It’d be wrong not to, right? Like, if she’s maybe alive, we can’t just not tell them.”
“Damn it all,” Evie cursed under her breath. With a determined grunt, she rose to her feet. “If that is the case, I will go deliver this information to Sara. She will be better at breaking the news than I could ever be. Before I go, do either of you have anything to add?”
“Though I wish it were not the case, I do not have anything I might contribute,” Garen replied, as downtrodden as David. “Were I there in person… but no, I am not. I apologize.”
“Yeah, I don’t have anything, either. Let us know if they find the girl, alright?”
If such a remote fate was to be fulfilled, Evie knew that she would be long gone by the time it had come to pass. This would be a task for the villagers, not her and Sara. Still, she nodded.
“I will make certain of it. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Of course, Steward,”
“Talk to you later, Evie.”
She dropped the crystal back into her pocket, turning towards the door.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the partially broken face of the child. Just a fraction of the greater whole, the tips of its lips still squirming.
Better with us better with us better with us-
Evie crushed it with the heel of her boot, grinding it into the wood. She snapped her fingers to gain the attention of Second Squadron.
“Forget cleaning this home. Find every last remnant of that thing and crush them. Leave nothing but dust.”
A chorus of “Yes, ma’am!” answered her as mops were discarded and swords drawn. They had heard the discussion as well as she; Second Squadron took to their task with a vengeance.
Before she left, Evie did her best to rid herself of blood. Sprays of it had covered most of her clothing, but she had the basic decency to wipe away what she could before facing the parents.
Evie exited the home to find a large crowd gathered around the stilted home, the village’s hundred or so occupants pressed into a nervous, shifting audience. Many of their eyes lit up as Evie emerged, leaning forward to get a better look. They were held back by a combination of Tulian soldiers, Mui’s squadron, and some of the local militia, all using the hafts of their respective weapons to form a physical barrier. She ignored them, moving to her wife.
Sara was crouched on the ground where the two parents sat, speaking to them with quiet, understated gestures. The father chuckled weakly at something she said; a good sign. Mui himself was standing behind them, staring out at the crowd as if his slit-eyed glare could turn them back all on its own.
Evie bent down next to Sara, whispering in her ear.
“Did you hear my conversation with Garen and your father?”
“Bits and pieces,” Sara replied in Continental. “Only when someone was near the front door.”
Evie nodded to herself, standing. Her wife’s ability to hear and memorize the conversations in her vicinity was as fickle as it was miraculous, difficult to count upon in all but the densest of crowds. Such an advantageous yet easily countered Skill required the utmost secrecy to be kept for it to remain effective. That precluded testing its limits.
It also meant that Sara could not risk showing knowledge she should not have, so it fell to Evie to address the parents, bowing her head.
“There is a little, little hope that your daughter might live,” she said, praying her stumbling Kemari did not butcher the message too much.
Their eyes brightened as they began to scramble to their feet, but Evie held up a hand.
“Again, very little. You can’t… they may already be…”
She gave up, turning to Sara with a pleading expression.
“It was an Abductor, then?” Sara asked, speaking with the expertise and confidence expected of a Champion of Amarat, nevermind the fact that she hadn’t the faintest clue what that meant a handful of minutes ago.
“Yes, it was,” Evie confirmed.
“Then that means the demon didn’t kill the girl. It kidnapped them.”
“What? Why would it do that?” Siang asked.
“It’s complicated. There’s much debate, but it’s widely agreed that…”
While Sara began gently guiding the parents through the horrors their daughter had suffered, Evie’s attention was drawn upward, to Mui, who was drawing a whistle from a belt pouch.
The catfolk put the whistle to his lips and blew a quick three-note blast. The members of his squad immediately fell out of the crowd-corralling line, returning with a sharp salute.
He began giving orders without preamble.
“Keo, Lim, begin searching the river northward. If you find a shallow crossing, take it and search the opposite bank. Chhet, Meng, you search the southern riverbank. Prak and San, you will search the village’s perimeter for hidden paths into the jungle. Do not explore them without informing me first. I will be interviewing villagers for–”
“Mui?” Sara asked, looking up from her conversation with the parents. “What’s up?”
“Organizing the search for the child, Governess,” he tersely responded, flicking his attention to her only for the brief moment required to answer her question, then turning his narrow gaze back on his soldiers. “Squad, when you have something to report, you will return directly to me. I will be interviewing the villagers on potential hiding locations. This demon may not have acted alone, and it was capable of wounding the Governess. Evaluate it as a Warrior of the fifth kyu. Engage only if the Chosen and her wife are present, the entirety of the firearm-equipped Tulians are with you, or the child is at risk. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir!” the squad barked, saluting once again. Despite having been seen by the Northern Expeditionary Taskforce as the dregs of their army, they broke to their assigned tasks with a precision at least equal to Evie’s hand-picked troops.
Evie found herself impressed.
But not as impressed as Sara.
While Mui rattled off orders to his soldiers, Evie caught her wife observing him with a very particular, very dangerous, intimately familiar glint in her eyes. Evie could not recall many individuals who had so honestly brushed aside the Champion of Amarat that wished to speak with them. Truthfully, she could only think of herself, Hurlish, and Sara’s father.
And now Mui.
Sara licked her lips, slowly, as she watched the catfolk go.
“Dear,” Evie whispered.
Sara blinked several times, coming back to herself. She dazzled the child’s parents with a reassuring smile.
“I apologize. As I was saying, while there is only the faintest chance your child may still live, it’s only right that we begin to search for them. I’m not sure how long my troops can stay, but it is already looking longer than I expected.”
Siang and Song-lep began showering Sara with the effusive thanks and praise Evie had grown familiar with. While her wife muddled through the barrage of weeping tears, Evie began scanning the crowd, looking for anyone of suspicion.
Mui’s observation that the demon may not have been acting alone had struck a nerve. She would have to ensure Sara surveyed the villagers at a distance, using that keen eye of hers to pick out potential monstrosities in their mix.
The Champion of Amarat was anathema to demonkind; would they all respond as this first did? With uncontrollable, violent rage? Or were their keener varieties, who could choose the moment of their ambush? She would have to speak further with Garen.
“Three days, Master,” Evie muttered in Continental. “I will give you three days in this village. If the child has not been found by the morning of the third, they will have most certainly perished.”
“We can search for three days,” Sara smoothly informed the parents in Kemari, “but after that, we’ll have to continue to the city. I’ll pass on word of this event to the appropriate officials, and try to encourage any priests of the Pantheon of Bonds therein to hurry your case along, but I still wish we could stay longer. That’s all I can manage. I’m sorry.”
Eventually, Sara managed to extract herself, if only after one last bout of sobbed relief and blubbered gratitude overwhelmed the family. She returned to Evie’s side, making as if to walk into the crowd, likely intending to join Mui in his interviewing of the villagers.
Evie stopped her by putting a hand across her chest. “Mui was right, Master,” she whispered. “Where one demon has arisen, others might follow. I will go into the crowd and begin organizing them into a line, so you may spot any imposters from a safer distance. Only once we have assured ourselves that the villagers are free of taint can we begin organizing a search.”
“Going in by yourself? What if it attacks you while you’re walking through the crowd, though?”
Evie smiled tightly. “Then I will have the pleasure of a good fight. I was taken by surprise, earlier, and was unfamiliar with the advantages lent by my opponent’s unique anatomy. This mistake will not be repeated.”
“Alright. Just make sure your guns are loaded.”
Sara stepped back from the crowd while Evie moved forwards, slipping between her soldiers as she followed after Mui. Each face she passed was one she subjected to intense, dehumanizing scrutiny, but she found nothing of note. She wasn’t sure if she ever could; before the demon had revealed itself, the illusion had seemed flawless.
While she walked, her mind turned back to the way Sara had been watching Mui. She knew what her eternally-cynical wife would have already assumed: that Mui would insist they leave the village immediately, that her visit with the Imperial hierarchy far superseded one measly child. it was what Evie had expected the Sergeant to say too, because it was only reasonable. Dealings between Empires and Nations outshone one small village as the sun did the stars.
Yet Mui had not, for even a single moment, considered it as such. He had unknowingly agreed with Sara not after careful consideration or internal conflict, but as a matter of course, without sparing the smallest breath for an alternative. Not only that, his conviction was such that he seemed unaware of the possibility that someone might disagree.
Then, finally, he had begun his task by demonstrating concern for the safety of his troops, simultaneously preparing to expand the scope of the operation to ensure its success.
Calm, confident, and decisive.
Damnit, Evie cursed, hiding her frustration. Hurlish is going to win the bet, isn’t she? It hasn’t even been a month.
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Mui Thom
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Two fruitless days were spent scouring the jungle for the missing child. Two exhausting, bleak days. Marching up and down the riverbank mud that tried to steal his boots from his feet with every step. Two days of calling the girl’s name into the remorseless vines without even an echo for an answer. Two nights where he and his squad had dragged themselves into the village with the last of their strength, only to summon up one last drop of energy to look into the eyes of Feng’s parents and tell them that no, they had not found a trace of the girl.
Yet somehow, when he thought that his mental and physical fatigue had consumed all he had left to offer, the third day began.
It was the day of Stewardess Evie’s imposed deadline, when it could no longer be assumed the child had survived their imprisonment. Mui had woken early to ensure their transport arrangements with the riverboat crews still stood, then had begun a solitary march down the eastern riverbank, seeking one last vain attempt at finding Feng. Mui knew he was breaking his own orders that all had to travel in pairs, but the hourglass was empty and he was desperate. His last hope had been that this eastern portion of the river, with its occasionally exposed sections of sturdy rock, might harbor a cave in which Feng had been secreted away.
The sun was not yet an hour risen when he turned the corner of a thicket of trees, expecting the same long, straight stretch of brown river that he had seen a dozen times over.
What he found was anything but.
The brown waters were hidden beneath a wave of wide, wooden barges, dozens of them pressed side to side, each dragged forward by teams of men and women shoving twenty-foot poles against the muddy river bottom. Each barge was dangerously overfilled, the water lapping just at the edge of the wood which protected dozens, no, hundreds of soldiers, all of them sitting or standing between an uncountable number of supply crates. He saw wagons with their colorful tarp covers and wheels removed pressed side to side until there was not a spare inch across the entire vessel, ready to be unloaded at a moment’s notice. From the slight vantage point afforded him by the rock he’d hopped upon, he could see that these barges stretched and stretched into the distance, equally dense throughout the entire line, until the river twisted and carried them out of sight, where untold numbers more were assuredly making their slow way forward.
And yet still there was more. Beside the rising tide of the barges was marching an army. Polished metal and shining spearheads bounced under the morning sun, hundreds of banners tied beneath the heads of long, deadly pikes.
Mui did not recognize all of the colorful symbols drooping in the breezeless morning, but he recognized enough.
They were the banners of the rebellion.
His boots skidded and scratched against the rocks as he threw himself into a headlong sprint, charging up the river as fast as he was able. The solemness in his heart was crushed under a tidal wave of primal fear, blood roaring in his ears as he scrambled desperately through the harsh terrain.
There was no time for the careful, plodding walk that had driven him over the last few days. His feet snagged on vines, throwing him to the ground, only for him to leap back up just in time to slide across a patch of moss, nearly slamming his jaw into the ground before his claws caught on a low-hanging branch to steady himself. As if attracted to his panic, the insects of the jungle began to swarm, their barbed legs tugging at his fur as they burrowed in, seeking the skin beneath. He swatted at them as best he could, but did not once stop running, not for one solitary moment.
The bugs finally fled from him as he reached one of the village’s large burning torches that marked the furthest edges of the fields, still dimly lit from the night prior. He took only a moment to lean against the wooden post, panting hard as the flame and smoke scattered the contemptible insects, and then took off yet again, heading for the village’s pier.
The soldiers of Tulian were already waiting at the water’s edge, a fact for which he gasped out a thanks to the many gods for. They stood as they saw him coming, trading concerned glances with one another as they shouldered their weapons.
“Did you find her?” One called out.
Mui managed to drag himself to a stop just before he plowed through their lines, instinct still screaming at him to run, run, to keep running and to never stop.
“No,” he gasped. He would have said more, but even the effort of choking out that single word sent him into a fit of hacking coughs. He felt a canteen hit his palm and, when his lungs stopped trying to burst through his chest, threw his head back, drinking deeply of what might have been the crispects, coldest water of his entire life.
“Rebels,” he eventually managed, wiping his muzzle of all the water that had missed his throat. “Their army, their real army. Tens of thousands. Don’t know how many, but they’re coming up the river. Here in… here in minutes.”
The Tulian soldiers looked at one another.
“Ah, shit,” one of them swore. A large, older orcish man, whose quiet nature meant Mui had never quite learned his name. The orc grabbed his smoking pipe and tossed its contents over his shoulder into the river, then swung his musket off his back as he began loading. He flashed a cocky, sloping grin at the other soldiers. “So which one of you wants to go break the news?”
“I will,” Mui managed to force out. Speaking a foreign language while he could barely breathe was proving a challenge he had never anticipated. He shoved himself off his knees, forcing himself to stop bending double. “I will… I will tell her. Where is she?”
“Back thataway, talking to the boatfolk,” the soldier responded, their words muffled by the packet of blackpowder they had clenched between their teeth. They yanked it open, spraying a small puff of the stuff into the air. “Alright! Let’s get our shit sorted, boys and girls!” The man stepped forward, pointing. “Two ranks here and here, first kneeling, second standing, and be damn sure to keep ‘em pointed down the way. If y’don’t have your sidesword handy already, go get it.”
“You can’t fight them,” Mui insisted, astonished. “They number a hundred thousand or more.”
“Yeah, we know we can’t,” another man said, even as he took his place kneeling in front of his comrades, musket at the ready. “But y’know what’d be even worse than getting killed? Pissing Evie off. Now hurry up and go tell her, goddammit, or we’re all gonna end up hung up by our balls.”
“I ain’t got balls,” one of the women called.
“Well I got extra, and she’ll take a spare pair just to nail on you to keep the line looking symmetrical, Private. Now shut up and load!”
With so many more questions swirling through his mind than he had anticipated, Mui had no option but to retreat, running for the piers.
By the time he arrived, Sara and Evie were already marching his way, deep frowns on their faces.
“I take it you didn’t run up here because you found the kid?” Sara asked.
“No, I am sorry to say,” Mui replied, a persistent wheeze tinging his words. “Rebel forces are advancing in strength up the river, on barges. We have no more than a half hour until they arrive, maybe half that. If they choose to send riders ahead, they could be here any moment.”
“Hot damn,” Sara said, throwing her fists up on her hips. “That’s a pain in the ass. I really wanted to deal with them later.”
Mui stared blankly at her. “What?”
“I mean, you guys won the fight for control over southern Tulian, so I was really hoping to try and cut a deal with your group first. Guess I’ll have to go talk to these shits ahead of schedule.”
“Ma’am,” Mui insisted, taking a step forward. “Governess, I do not think I explained myself well. This is a true army. It is… maybe a hundred thousand strong, maybe many more. There is nothing that can be done.”
“You want me to hide your squad?” Sara offered. “I could probably cook up a decent illusion that would do the job, if they’re fine keeping quiet in a ditch or something. Amarat’s bullshit made me a better mage than I have any right to be, considering how I’ve literally never practiced.”
“Wha- hide? Governess, we need to run.”
“Mui,” Evie said, stepping forward. “You think my wife, and therefore Tulian, are already your empire’s allies. We are not. Tulian is not at war with these rebels. They are exactly as much a prospective friend as they are a prospective enemy.”
Mui could not believe what he was hearing. It was incompatible with his notions of reality. He had spoken to Sara, worked with her for weeks and weeks, had done his best to teach her wife the Kemari language. He knew she was as intelligent and empathetic as she was cold and logical. How could she not see that the rebels were just pretenders, unfit rulers seeking to usurp the holy throne?
Perhaps she does, Mui thought, surprising himself with the sentiment. He thought back to all the conversations with her, all the tiny blasphemies she had so often uttered. He had thought little of it; she was a deeply profane woman, using curses like punctuation. That she would so often use the word ‘king’ as a synonym for a fool, use ‘emperor’ as a pejorative description of those of little value and high self-esteem, it had all seemed natural. Just another one of her habitual, meaningless jokes.
As he watched Evie kneel before her, beginning to polish her armor, Mui was forced to realize that it was anything but. She truly, wholly believed all she said. He did know why it had taken him so long to accept what she so frequently and directly stated: that an Empire was, to her, as cruel and rotten a thing as any demon. And that she would kill one just as happily as she had the first.
In the distance, he heard the Tulian soldiers begin to chat with one another. The usual talk of soldiers, making sarcastic bets about who would kill the most, should things come to blows. They thought as little of the vast and grand Empire, of its millenia of gentle shepherdship of the people, as their Chosen did.
Nausea crept up his throat. It was his duty, given to him by a duly appointed representative of the Empire, to bring this woman to the Adjutant.
Did they understand what they were inviting into their midst?
In the distance, the first of the barges rounded the bend. Sara stopped polishing her armor and instead began stomping forward, rattling the boards with her every step. She paused to look down at the spotless equipment she wore and, after a moment of consideration, stepped to the side, so she would be walking through the grass. Just enough to muddy her feet, and then she returned to the cleared path.
“Squad!” He called, his voice cracking. He knew they were around, somewhere. Most likely already hiding, so they would not be found as ‘traitors’ and left dangling from the eaves. “With me. We will… we will stay with the Chosen. It is all we can do.” Evie glanced backward, meeting his eye. He did not know if it was his imagination, but he thought he saw the tiniest, slightest glimmer of approval.
Mui swallowed, hard. The next few hours were going to be difficult.
Notes:
Lots of lore to dig your teeth into in this chapter! Hope you enjoy. Also, going forward, all updates will be on Fridays, not Tuesday! I decided it would help with reader engagement and the like a bit, and it's easier to read things over the weekend anyway. Does mean I have to delay my pipeline of "finish chapter-> get validation for finishing chapter", but that's a sacrifice I had to make.
Chapter 125: Devil's Suit and Tie
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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The rebel army swept into the village like a plague. The sheer volume of their transports was enough to displace a massive chunk of the river, creating a manmade flood that began to drown the riverside. At the head of the column, Sara first saw common soldiers and supply crates. Then, when the forward scouts had come close enough to the village to spot Sara, this common rabble had been jerked away and hidden. They were replaced by Warriors of every size and variety, their breastplates polished to a blinding sheen, helmets bedecked in feathers of every color, weapons held in parade-ground salutes. Each Warrior wore enchanted armor, and almost all of them wielded blacksteel blades. Assuming they’d truly been fighting in a civil war for years upon years, they alone likely represented more military might than King Sporatos had ever brought to bear on Tulian, save for the archmages. Sara was sure the barges held some of them, too, tucked further within the seemingly endless parade of barges. It was an army with more people, more combatants, than the entirety of Tulian’s population.
With fifteen soldiers on her left, fifteen on her right, Sara stood with her hands on her waist, watching them approach.
Evie had picked her troops well, unsurprisingly. They watched the slow crawl of this force with the same ambivalent air they regarded nearly every threat. They stood straight and formal, but leaned on their muskets when they thought they could get away with it, whispering out of the corner of their mouths when Evie was too far to hear.
Mui’s squad tried their best to replicate that. She could tell they thought that the Tulian soldiers were either insane or suicidal, but they still had enough self-respect to try and adopt the same casual air.
It didn’t work.
They shifted from foot to foot, twisting in place as if to stretch out their muscles, but only ever stretching so that they were facing the village or the jungle, an avenue of escape. Even Mui was struggling to keep his tail out from between his legs, the rebellious limb constantly twitching downwards, betraying his real thoughts every few seconds.
As they were technically in charge of escorting Sara to his people, he’d ordered his squad to take a protective wedge in front of her. As if he really thought he was capable of protecting her. He couldn’t quite sell the act, but he had least had the balls to try.
She wondered if Mui’s squad would think so highly of her soldiers if he knew they weren’t being brave; they simply didn’t see anything to be afraid of. They knew that this was an unwinnable fight, and they knew they had Sara with them. If it was a fight they had a chance of winning, a fight that she might actually start, they’d be nervous. As it was, they were certain she was going to find a peaceful way out of it. So far as they were concerned, there was literally nothing to worry about. If anything, they were looking forward to having someone else around to deal with any jungle monsters.
She wished she was as confident in herself as they were.
When the first row of barges reached a half-mile’s distance, Sara saw six shapes leap into the sky, emerging from much farther down the river, hidden behind the jungle canopy. The dark shape’s leaps reached an apex of some fifty feet or so, then they widened, wings snapping open. Their form resolved into that of something white and brown as their wings began to beat faster and faster, growing larger as they reached their stride.
At this, the Tulian soldiers finally began to shift in place, muttering to one another.
“Silence in the line!” Evie barked.
“What’re those?” Sara asked Mui, casual as could be.
“Griffons, ma’am,” the catfolk replied, quiet, as if the army could already hear him. “Griffons and their riders. The scouts of the true army. I am surprised we did not see them sooner; they must not take to the sky as early in the day as I have heard our own do.”
“Your taskforce didn’t have any.”
“We were not important enough for them, ma’am.”
Sara watched the griffons approach with no small amount of curiosity. Her dad had wanted to join her on this trip south. As she watched the beasts approach, she wondered how long she could get away with not telling him about them. He was going to be pissed he missed this.
“Hey, Evie, use my telescope and watch how they fly. We’ll use the collar so you can describe it for dad, later. Try and get some estimates on their size, speed, stuff like that. He’s gonna shit himself when he hears about this.”
“Certainly,” Evie replied, pulling the enchanted Carrion telescope from their bag and putting it to her eye. “I expect you will be getting a closer look yourself, however. They are all flying this way.”
Sure enough, the griffons didn’t split up in the slightest. Maybe Mui knew them as scouts, but that didn’t seem to be their mission for today. They spread into a V formation, its tip pointed directly towards the village.
“How far away do you think they started from?” Sara asked.
“Perhaps a mile?” Evie twisted the spyglass as she tracked the griffons. “It is difficult to judge range when all the world is covered in endless greenery.”
It took less than a minute for the griffons to reach the village, dipping one wing as they began to circle overhead. Only a few hundred feet above her by then, she could see them far better. Each creature carried two riders on their back, a strange saddle nestled between their pumping wings. She had no idea how the thing stayed on; it had no visible straps to secure it in place. She also wondered how smart the animals were. They all had their heads cocked, one large eye staring at the pier she stood on. Almost as if they were staring directly at Sara.
Suddenly, without any visible signal, their wings folded.
The griffons began a ruinous plummet towards the ground, accelerating to a blur in an instant. She heard muffled screams from the villagers that had been hidden within their homes, and even some of her own soldiers muttered something foul, taking a step back.
The griffons extended their legs at the very last instant before they struck, six heavy thuds crashing to the soil like meteors. A cloud of dust was thrown outward from the impact site, washing over Sara and the others, only stopping at the far side of the river.
The griffons were massive. She didn’t know how big she’d expected them to be, but now that they were on the ground, she could tell that they were easily the largest living creature Sara had ever been in the presence of. When they unfolded their wings to shake the dust free, she guessed they spread fifty feet from wingtip to wingtip. Each of their talons were long enough to pierce Sara’s chest straight through, and for those that remained standing on all four limbs, Evie wouldn’t have needed to duck in order to walk beneath them. Without the wings, she would have compared them in size to elephants. With them, she was at a loss.
Despite their size, the griffons struck her as remarkably graceful. She didn’t know much about the griffons of fiction and folklore back on earth, and her scattered recollection of the fanciful creatures didn’t quite fit the reality. She mostly remembered drawings of some macabre amalgamation, a frankenstein mixture of eagle and lion haphazardly stitched together. These animals weren’t that. Yes, they had features that resembled both animals, but that comparison struck her as almost coincidental. Convergent evolution, her dad would have called it. Each one was a uniform color, covered from beak to tail in white, gray, or brown feathers, with only their leonine tail covered by something more like fur. Their bodies were lithe and streamlined, but bulged outward into heaps of rippling muscle in two places: where the wings met the back, and where their rear legs molded into the torso. Looking at those hind limbs, it was easy to see how the things were capable of leaping fifty feet straight into the air; she only wondered what kind of damn boat could survive such a launch more than once. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the griffons pulp stone beneath their claws.
Her appreciation of the griffon’s anatomy was cut short as their riders finally dismounted. Most simply leapt to the ground, landing with easy familiarity, but one griffon bent into a low crouch, tilting itself to one side.
A lone woman disembarked, using a walking cane to guide herself out of the saddle. The griffon’s other rider, the one that had been sitting in front, watched the woman disembark with the anxious energy of someone who clearly wanted to offer a helping hand, yet knew it would get nothing but slapped if they did.
The woman completed her dismount without falling, but only because she did so at a glacial, cautious pace. Sara watched all the while, hands crossed over her chest.
The lady was clearly in charge. Every other rider had turned to watch her, and even the griffons had arranged themselves in a rough circle around the one that had carried her. She wore armor as extravagant and finely crafted as Sara had come to expect from the Imperials, though it didn’t seem to be fit for battle. She eschewed boots or greaves, so her legs were only protected from the knee up, and there was no helmet in sight.
But her chestplate was at least something Sara could respect. The other Imperial ‘Warrior’ she had met, Suy-Ty, had worn something like those old greek armors of earth, with a molded rendition of masculine abs and pecs. This lady’s armor had clearly been smithed in the same style, abs and all, but it didn’t pretend to be made for a man. She had a set of great honking tits carved into that chestplate, and the craftmanship was so fine that Sara suspected it was accurate right down to the nipple.
As she approached, still leaning on her cane, Sara was surprised to see the woman’s age. She was a human woman who walked like she was in her late eighties, yet couldn’t have been closer halfway through her thirties. Her cheeks were smooth and unwrinkled, accentuated by judiciously applied puffs of rosy blush, and the soft skin of her legs and arms didn’t at all fit the trembling, aching manner in which they carried her. Either she’d just been recently wounded, so recently she hadn’t had an opportunity to see a healer, or something else was going on.
Whatever it was, it didn’t affect her voice.
“Hail!” She cried, throwing her hands wide. She was a skilled orator, easily casting her booming voice across the entire village. “Hail, Chosen of the Gods! Chosen of the highest and lowest of Emotion’s Pantheon! Chosen of Sorrow, Love, and Rage! Hail the Avatar of Reason, She who shall Recall all who have been Forgotten! Hail! To your Divinity we bow!”
The woman bent low at the waist, lower and lower, until she had to use her walking stick to keep herself from toppling over, facing nothing but her own feet. The only way she could have further supplicated herself to Sara was to throw herself to her knees, forehead pressed into the mud. Every single other rider bent just as low, mirroring their leader’s posture. Even the griffons dipped their heads in respect, though only, Sara noted, after the griffon which had carried the woman began to do so, and the animals did not bow nearly so low.
After a respectful pause of all holding this posture, perhaps ten seconds or so, the woman straightened, calling out once more.
“And greetings, Sara Brown, Governess of Tulian! To your station, I offer my hand in fond welcome!”
She began thumping forward, a politician’s not-quite-smile on her face. The griffon riders began tending to their animals, leaving the woman to approach alone. Whatever that little ceremony had been, it was apparently over.
Sara took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
Deep in her mind, hidden beneath layer after layer of divine meddling, Sara clicked her Blessings on. She liked to imagine the sound of an old computer whirring to life, fans flinging dust as it begrudgingly roused itself to work once more.
She opened her eyes.
And saw everything.
Her soldiers. Mui’s squad. The griffon riders. Hell, every single man, woman and child in the village? She saw them all. She knew everything about them. She was looking down on them from every angle, as if she’d surrounded them all with a thousand-thousand pairs of eyes, her endless senses counting their every breath, feeling the beats of their heart like her own, hearing the little pops of spittle shifting deep in the flesh of their throat, as clearly and easily as if her ear was pressed to the skin. They were less than naked before her; they were Seen, known in a form more complete than their closest, most intimate lover would ever know. Sara didn’t just notice which way someone was looking. She tracked every micrometer twitch of the muscles which ringed their pupils as they dilated open and closed, she was counting how long their upper eyelid touched their lower on each blink, and she knew to the millisecond how long they had focused their vision on their current point of interest. She knew everything there was to be known about the people living in this moment, and all of that knowledge, every infinitesimal detail, would never, ever leave her. She would remember it with the exact same clarity until the day she died.
Champions of battle were supposed to be invincible in war.
Sara was something else.
She was what resulted when an omnipotent, omniscient being set out to create a mortal mind that could glimpse a sliver of pure, perfect truth. A creature which could balance the course of Kings and Kingdoms like water on the razor edge of a knife, always knowing which way the drop would fall when it reached the tip.
But Sara wouldn’t have really been Sara if she let all that bullshit tell her what to do.
“Yeah, that’s me! The one in the middle. And who’re you?”
“I am Warrior-General Kuhn-Drah, Third in the True Adjutant’s Armies, Fifth in the Line of Succession to their most Holy Title,” the woman said as she continued her slow approach to the pier. Sara didn’t so much as twitch towards meeting her halfway.
“And what’re you doing all the way out here?” Sara asked. “This village’s pretty nice, has some good food, but I don’t think they’ve got a hotel big enough to fit your party bus back there.”
“Sara…” Evie whispered in warning, clutching at her belt.
“We travel to the city of Tonlay, to save its people from being forbidden the Emperor’s grace.”
“By conquering it, I’m guessing?”
“If they see fit to resist, our hand will sadly be forced.”
“I got bad news about that,” Sara drawled. Kuhn-Drah reached the edge of the pier, pausing to take slow, laborious steps up the short set of stairs. She had to hide a grimace of pain after every step. “If you’re bringing an army to get a city on your side,” Sara told her, “You’re not likely to be taking the peaceful way out.”
“Such are the times we live in, Chosen,” Kuhn-Drah replied, slightly out of breath. She reached the top of the stairs, and now only twenty feet separated them. Sara stared at her, dead-eyed, as the crippled woman took slow, pained steps forward. “Would that you had seen our Empire as it should be. But I suppose the Gods do not oft gift their Chosen to times of peace, do they?”
Kuhn-Drah came to a halt at the line of soldiers separating her from Sara, clearly expecting them to step aside. When they didn’t, her eyes swept across them, ultimately falling on Mui’s shoulder pauldron, where the humble yellow flower of a Sergeant’s rank was drawn. Her lips drew into a tight scowl.
“I only hope that your view of history has not been tainted by the words of simple men who do not know better. If you wish, it would be a simple matter for my army to–”
“The men and women of Sergeant Mui Thom’s Squadron are my duly appointed diplomatic escorts, acting in official service to the Tulian people, and any harassment of them, their belongings, or their freedoms will be treated as a breach of Tulian sovereignty,” Sara snapped. She took her first step forward, raising a finger. “Furthermore, if you so much as goddamn imply that you or anyone in your Empire is going to lay a hand on these people, I will personally consider it an act of fucking war.”
Kuhn-Drah recoiled as if slapped, rage flashing across her features for the briefest of moments, only to be carefully, professionally smoothed away. It was the first shred of honesty Sara had seen out of the woman.
“You are much as I was led to believe,” she eventually said, one she could summon up the gracious demeanor she’d been affecting thus far.
“So you do know a little bit about me, then. Empire’s not as isolated as we thought, huh?” Sara gauged the woman’s reactions as she spoke, picking and prodding with a surgeon’s grace. “I’m guessing that’s why you specifically addressed all the obscene bowing and shit to my divine origins, but saved the normal greeting for me as a person. I get it. You knew I’d fucking hate it, but you had to do it, for some reason. So this was probably the only way you could keep me from walking out of this talk without committing career suicide, right?”
“Correct,” Kuhn-Drah nodded, the kindness slowly fading from her words, replaced by something more practical. She’d introduced herself as a general first, heir to the Adjutant second, after all. “If I didn’t have an audience, I would have walked up and shaken your hand and been done with it. But welcoming a Chosen requires certain rituals. Things that not even I can ignore.”
Sara raised an eyebrow. “Most people make a big deal out of meeting me, but they don’t send the six-griffon-squad over just to show off how good they can sniff their own toes.”
“It has been twelve hundred years since the Empire last saw a Chosen, Sara Brown. Some traditions grow more lax with age, others more strict. As the closest of mortalkind to godhood, the Chosen are placed highly in our scriptures.”
Unfortunately for Kuhn-Drah, the fact that the ceremony was seen as so necessary that even the fifth in line to the Adjutant couldn’t ignore it? That told Sara a whole lot. Mainly that there were people in the woman’s Empire who were routinely treated like that, and even more importantly than that, it told her that there were people in her Empire who would get pissed if they didn’t get treated like that.
Sara took deep, calming breaths. It was her first sure sign of the absolute depravity that she knew would be awaiting her in this Empire, and it had already sent her blood boiling. But she couldn’t just fly into a rage right off the bat. After a slow count of ten, she opened her eyes.
“Well, I guess you walked that tightrope as best you could.”
Kuhn-Drah frowned. “I will not apologize for behaving as I ought, though I will say that I wish I could have greeted you in the manner you prefer. I only hope that you have been in our world too long to still be surprised by the sometimes arduous traditions of nobility.”
“Not surprised, not anymore. Just disgusted.” Sara tapped her heel, mulling things over. “You said you’re third in the army, fifth in the line of succession. You’re a hotshot, but you’re not capable of actually negotiating any deal with me on your own, are you?”
Kuhn-Draw nodded. “It is within my rights to draft treaties and charters, but only the Adjutant may approve their final terms.”
“Yet when you found out I’d be meeting with someone in Tonlay, you swung this entire army further north, stuffing it on the river you knew I’d probably be taking, all in the incredibly faint hope of catching me before I talked to your enemies.”
Of course, all of that had been an educated guess on Sara’s part. But she said it with the confidence of absolute fact, and accordingly, Kuhn-Drah didn’t bother to lie.
“Yes. Though you are not the only reason I took a more northern course. Our armies grow larger with every passing year. They are more difficult to coordinate, more difficult to move from place to place, and as you can see for yourself, soon even the rivers will not be able to guide their might. The empty northern fields were expected to become an important avenue of travel, allowing an army to emerge from the jungle, travel east or west for hundreds of miles at an unprecedented rate, then delve back into civilization wherever they so chose. It has taken years of debate within our military’s factions to finally accept this strategy.” Kuhn-Drah took a deep, irritated breath. “Now that we know a Champion is claiming these lands, it seems so much of what I fought for must shift.”
Huh, Sara thought, flicking her eyes over the woman. Actually telling the truth, there. Willingly letting me know she was a part of the faction that wanted to move through Tulian, and that she put a great deal of effort into it, only to say she’s now abandoned her victory. So… she’s attempting to establish trust and civility, proving she’s willing to compromise and adapt to new circumstances.
“That’s a great story,” Sara said with a deliberately childish roll of her eyes, “but we both know you’re not actually trying to negotiate passage through our lands. If you wanted to march through, you could, and you know there’s not much we could do to stop you. Hell, you probably think we’d barely care. It’s not like southern Tulian is a populated area anymore. Your other army buddies were happy enough to start a giant battle in our territory, after all. It was only once you learned about our guns that you suddenly started giving a shit about what we thought.” Sara’s eyes narrowed. “You want those weapons. You want them bad. As many as we can sell you, and then as many lessons on how to make them as you can get. If marching through our borders didn’t jeopardize that possibility, you wouldn’t think twice about it.”
“I have been in the field for far too long to know the more intimate details of the court,” Kuhn-Drah said, a sentence that meant almost nothing, “so I can speak only to the more pressing concerns of my army’s navigation. And while yes, our military might indeed far exceed yours, these firearms lend you an ability to resist and harass beyond your numbers. It would be a true fool of a General who refused an opportunity to pull a thorn from their side and place it in the enemy’s.”
“So you’re not just trying to get us to sell you guns, you’re trying to get us to go shooting up anyone who isn’t you that marches through our territory?”
“I only claim that an agreement of trade could provide fertile soil for the flowering of a more stalwart alliance.”
“I’m not going to spend Tulian lives attacking someone I have no reason to fight.”
“But if two armies cross your land, one welcomed, the other not, would it not weaken your claims of sovereignty if you would let the trespasser go unmolested?”
“You’ve said it yourself. Southern Tulian is all but abandoned. The only real claim we have comes from maps drawn by a dead Kingdom and a few scattered villages. Someday we’ll have the strength to assert ourselves across our entire border, but not yet. If this is going to turn into an actual negotiation, you’re gonna have to take treating Tulian citizens like attack dogs off the board.”
Sara glanced at the approaching army. They were only a few hundred yards away now, and she’d begun to hear the sounds of barges bumping against one other.
“So what’s this going to be? You going to try and negotiate what you can here and now, all on your own, or are you going to wait for someone with more authority to create something firmer?”
The young woman barely paused to think about it. “I think it best for us to begin a fruitful discussion here and now, of course. For the first time in two hundred and fifty years, I believe this war may be approaching a state in which it can finally be won. The arrival of a Chosen such as yourself can only herald better times.”
“Alright. Go get whatever you need ready. I’m going to go discuss some things with my wife.”
“Of course,” Kuhn-Drah said, nodding her head. “I expect this will be a productive evening indeed.”
Doubt it’s gonna be a whole damn day, Sara thought, glancing at the sun. It couldn’t be later than nine in the morning.
While Kuhn-Drah’s walking stick beat out her careful, sedate pace off of the pier, Sara turned to Evie, a frown on both their lips.
“How much of that could you catch?”
“Most everything important, I believe, save a few words here or there. It is a language easier to understand than to speak.”
“Good.”
Sara watched the army slowly creep towards the village. To no one’s surprise, Kuhn-Drah began softly murmuring into a crystal as she left. Sara had no doubt that there had been an entire room full of advisors listening to the whole conversation, all of whom would now want to get their piece in.
Kuhn-Draw ignored them, focusing all her effort relaying orders for how the meeting place should be prepared. Sara had considered dictating that to her as a power play, but decided against it. They’d both taken each other’s measure, now. She wanted to see how much the politician-general had gleaned.
Instead of discussing things with Evie right away, Sara stayed silent, watching the sluggish army drag itself forward. She could already hear indistinct rumbling of conversation, but things would really change once they were in shouting distance.
To Sara’s surprise, her quiet contemplation was interrupted by, of all things, a villager. As the griffons began taking to the sky one-by-one, a lone human man braved the wing-beaten windstorm, burying his eyes in the crook of his elbow to hide from the dust.
He managed to stumble up onto the pier just as the last of the griffons finished taking off. Blinking the tears out of his eyes, he called out as he found Sara.
“Will they be taking the village?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, probably. Unless you got some way to stop them.”
“Yes, yes,” the man said, stepping between her guards without concern to stare up into her face. “We all know they’ll win the village. But my question is if they will be taking it.”
Sara caught his implication this time. Taking. Taking what they wanted.
Theft.
Slaughter.
Rape.
The hallmarks of war.
An ecstasy of mindless violence, long-stressed soldiers whipped into a frenzy by the mere sight of the helpless. It was no secret to Sara that for the soldiers of this world, this inevitability was half the reason they joined an army. It was what the Knights of Sporatos had begun to unleash in Tulian before Evie had restored order, and it was what had happened to thousands upon thousands of forgotten villages over the centuries. If a soldier was particularly lucky, or at least among the first to start the rampage, sacking a single city might earn them more than a year’s wages in stolen goods. They had every motivation to indulge, and there would be no punishment for those who did so. It was simply the way of things. The natural consequences of war.
This village didn’t have much in the way of raw wealth. Just food, which the army likely had in spades.
What it did have was men, women, and children.
Sara knew that if things got out of control, those few that survived would never truly recover.
“Evie,” Sara snapped, stepping back.
“Of course, Master.” The diminutive feline woman jumped up on a crate, rapier flashing as she whistled for the attention of the troops. They leapt away from Sara without a second thought, abandoning their protective circle to form ranks underneath their commander.
Evie took a deep breath. Flicked her eyes across the village, making calculations. And then began to speak.
“All soldiers are to fulfill the following orders independently. Two soldiers to a home, with each household allotted two minutes to gather as many valuables as possible, after which they will either leave voluntarily or be dragged away. You will gather every villager in a location with enough room for all civilians present to maintain line-of-sight on all others. Children are to be in the center, kept hidden beneath blankets and clothes, given alcohol to sedate them if possible. Form a defensive perimeter around the resulting congregation as best you are able, bayonets fixed. Lend your sideswords to any in the village who claim to have combat experience and use them as a secondary line. Distribute whatever daggers you have to any who are physically capable of wielding them, but instruct them to keep them hidden. Do not let any civilian leave your protection, not under any circumstances, even if their homes begin to burn. If any one of them is foolish enough to sneak away, you will leave them to their fate. Sara, repeat these instructions in Kemari.”
Sara began rattling off a pitch-perfect translation of Evie’s words, addressing Mui’s squad of six even as the Tulian soldiers bolted. The man who had came to ask after her didn’t offer a weepy, sobbing thanks. He was an old man, an old farmer. He simply nodded at her, then drew a long carving knife from his boot and joined the soldiers as they began slamming their fists on every door they passed, shouting orders in broken Kemari.
Evie hopped down from the crate, dismissing her rapier. “Do you truly expect General Kuhn-Drah will allow such a thing to come to pass in your presence?”
“Do you think she could stop it, if it actually starts?”
Evie and Sara were alone on the pier, now. Evie’s tail was twitching something fierce, anxiety wracking her. She hated Sara being so exposed.
But she would have hated Sara wading into battle against a hundred thousand foes even more. And if the pillaging began, that would be an inevitability.
“...are they close enough yet, Master?” Evie asked. Her ears were straining forward, towards the army.
“Almost,” Sara murmured.
Sara’s Blessings of Amarat were many. Some were obvious, like her ability to track the eyes and facial expression of anyone in a room, but others weren’t quite so cut-and-dry. In particular, it was her Blessing that let her hear all parts of a conversation perfectly, committing it to memory, that had the widest reach.
It was a helpful little Skill, obviously. But what some people didn’t realize about conversations, at least when they happened in the open air, was that they didn’t just include the people chatting. When you had a conversation in public, whether you knew it or not, you were sharing that conversation with anyone in earshot. And those people, whether or not they chose to join that conversation, were talking about their own things, in earshot of another group, maybe just a little bit farther away, who could be heard by others yet still, on and on and on, again and again and again. It was how rumors in a city could spread faster than any runner or town crier could hope to equal. If people packed the streets of a city dense enough, the entire road network was just one long, looping chain of conversations.
Since she’d developed the ability, Sara had only ever been in Tulian, where large swathes of the city were nearly abandoned. There the chain broke easily, stopping and starting fitfully as the crowds mingled and broke apart. It was still incredibly helpful, of course, because she didn’t just hear these conversations. She understood them. Every word was tagged and catalogued in her mind, filed away forever more. Knowing that Ven the Tanner was cheating on his wife with both neighbors on either side of his house, and had been miraculously maintaining that clusterfuck of an affair for nigh on a year now, was as easy to recall for Sara as the fact that apples were red and the sky was blue. The second she heard it, it became ingrained, intuitive knowledge.
That was how she rooted out spies, how she could tell Vesta exactly what the markets were doing at any given moment, how she could drop in on a meeting between blacksmiths intending to rig the price of nails, and hell, it was how she’d been giving the tax collectors a list of names to audit, always claiming they’d been pulled from a random pile. It was, without a doubt, the Blessing which most divorced her from what a human should be capable of, what turned her into something alien, and that was only when it was used in Tulian, a city of ten thousand squatting in a half-empty city.
And up ahead, a hundred thousand soldiers were crammed shoulder to shoulder, barge to barge. And they had nothing better to do than talk.
She heard one word. One single word, from one woman making a crass joke to one other woman sitting nearby, and that was all it took.
It was like lightning cracking through her skull.
Electric arcs danced and jumped across the army, each fork carried by each spoken word further and further away, dragging Sara’s awareness with it. The deluge slammed into her skull in a manner that should have been indistinguishable from deafening white noise, much less something comprehensible, yet she didn’t even blink as it began.
This was why she’d wanted to wait to negotiate with Kuhn-Drah. This was why she’d graciously sent the General off to go ‘prepare a meeting,’ as if Sara gave a single solitary shit how or where they sat while they talked.
In the first five seconds of the leading barge’s arrival, she’d tallied over a million spoken words, and the rate at which she heard more was only growing with every passing moment, as more and more people caught sight of the village, caught wind of the fact that there was a Chosen waiting there for them.
“The army has one hundred and forty-three-thousand members, of which around forty thousand are non-combatants,” Sara told Evie, beginning the litany of facts that she knew her wife’s military training would devour like cake. “Steel weaponry is universal, but steel armor is not, and the ratio of conscript to volunteer favors conscription much more heavily. Can’t be too sure of that, though, because the only people talking about conscription are the ones saying it’s turning out to be worth it to see a Chosen in-person. General discontent is also higher, despite the fact that the last battle they participated in was months ago. Seems Mui’s Empire is much more popular with its constituents.”
“A poor assumption to make at this stage, Master. His force was pruned for those eager enough to go on a months-long journey north. This would also likely take them well away from major supply centers, which would necessitate their provisioning of newer and thus better-maintained equipment. You also only heard them late in the night after they had won a battle, when only the most celebratory members of their force would have remained awake.”
“Fair point. Want to get out your pen? It’s been twenty seconds. I know everything.” Sara’s eyes widened. “Wait. Hold on. Shit, really?”
Evie glanced up, alarmed. “What is the matter?”
“There’s a couple dozen couples arguing about fucking,” Sara said, grabbing Evie’s arm in excitement. “And some of the straight ones are arguing about whether or not it’s ‘worth the risk’ to do more than anal.” Sara threw her head back, laughing. “Holy shit, Evie! Evie, we’re rich! Tulian’s economy is fucking solved.”
“I don’t follow, Master.”
“Herbs, Evie. They don’t have contraceptive herbs like we do! No one’s even talking about them, which means they don’t know about them. If they fuck au naturel, they’re risking pregnancy.”
Evie’s pen, half-raised to her notes, halted.
“That’s horrifying,” she whispered, probably with more sincerity than almost anyone else would treat the matter. “Master, are you certain?”
“As I can be. I mean, you should hear some of them! I mean- oh god, no, c’mon man, don’t pull your pants down after she said that! Shit, c’mon, Tun, you heard her tell him that. Go save his ass. She’s clearly trying to baby trap him. If you’re his sergeant, you gotta at least keep him–”
“Master,” Evie repeated, more insistently.
Sara shook her head, trying to ignore the absolutely terrible life decision about to occur. At least the dude sounded like he was enjoying it.
“Sorry, sorry. But yeah, no herbs. They’ve got condoms, but only the kind made of animal intestines.”
“Revolting.”
“I mean, you might be saying otherwise if you didn’t love it so much when I leave you leaking. But still, yeah, I’m certain. You’ve gotta get Vesta on that. I don’t know how fast we can up our production of those, but tell her to throw everything at it. I don’t care how much it costs; we’ll make it back on the first fucking weekend.”
“I’ll make it a priority as soon as the meeting is over, Master.” She glanced up from her notebook, sadly shaking her head. “For their own sake. Now, enemy composition?”
Sara started drumming out number after number, telling Evie everything there was to be known about the Imperial force. General Kuhn-Drah didn’t have half as good an idea of her own capabilities as Sara’s twenty seconds of eavesdropping gave her, and every passing second gave her new insights. She knew their daily supply requirements, the morale of every unit from brigade to squad level, their ammunition stocks, and an endless list of other helpful minutia.
About the only thing she couldn’t figure out, ironically, was the big-picture stuff. Some people were chatting about the war in general, sure, and some of them were even discussing how it started and how it had gone over the last two-hundred-odd years, but in this case, quantity did not equal quality. Every claim had a counterclaim, every bit of news was argued and batted back and forth until it was torn to unrecognizable tatters. This wasn’t an educated populace. Half of them believed everything they were told, and the other half didn’t believe anything they’d heard in their entire lives. And with most of the actual elite nobility traveling in tented-off barges of their own, she wasn’t privy to their discussions, would have surely been more enlightening, even if incredibly biased. She’d have to do her own, actual research sometime later.
After ten minutes of bathing in the endless roar of information, new, actually useful tidbits fell to a trickle. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of conversations were completely mundane, after all. Soldiers were far more interested in playing cards and jockeying for better sleeping spots than they were discussing deep, philosophical facets of their own Empire. Occasionally Sara would pick up an interesting little something here or there, but that was it. Nothing she even bothered telling Evie about.
By the time Kuhn-Drah came back, it had been two hours. She set up a tent in one of the village’s drier portions and, after seeing Sara’s troops protecting the villagers, ordered her lower-ranking Warriors to form a cordon around the entire village, barring the common soldiers from entry. A nice gesture, one Sara was glad to have, but it didn’t mean much when the woman hadn’t thought of it herself. If Sara hadn’t been protecting the villagers, Kuhn-Drah would have let them burn.
And burn they would have. Sara could hear the soldiers on the barges calling out their frustrations, climbing on top of one another’s shoulders to try and get a better view of the village. Furious that they’d been denied their ‘fun’, especially after having traded many favors to be placed up at the head of the barge convoy, they turned instead to regaling others with the tales of their past horrors.
How egalitarian, Sara thought, resisting the urge to vomit as she heard yet another woman describing the men and boys she’d broken. Some part of her, some vain, outdated self, had hoped that the old earthly ideal of women being somehow inherently less aggressive than men was true. It was a sexist idea, outdated, and not at all supported by modern research, but Sara had still clung to the idea that fifty percent of the population was born just a touch gentler. It had been a comforting thought, imagining that there would always be a spark of kindness, no matter how low humanity sunk.
That naivety was dead and gone. The difference in strength between a career soldier and a civilian was that of an adult and toddler, and given strength and authority, raised in a society that had spent two hundred years at war and lauded the acts, the women of the Empire had proved themselves just as capable of horrific, monstrous depravity.
Sara tried to block it from her mind, to forget it, even though she knew she never could. She focused on the meeting with Kuhn-Drah as best she could.
It was a very, very different meeting from their first. Before, Sara had been feeling her opponent out, testing at what they knew and what they wanted from her. Kuhn-Drah had been adept enough through that round, when they were almost on equal footing.
After Sara absorbed an army’s worth of intel, the General wasn’t even a player.
She walked out of the meeting with a stack of papers gently scribed by Evie’s fountain pen. It listed everything– and Sara meant everything– the Empire would be willing to give up for a supply of guns, cannons, and the knowledge of how to construct more. She’d left them nothing; she’d taken every last inch of slack Kuhn-Drah and her advisors had to give, and the General didn’t even know it. If Sara had asked for one iron ingot more, the deal would have fallen through, yet the woman had walked away convinced she’d brokered a good, solid deal.
“Thirty-five thousand tons of raw iron ore yearly for five years,” Evie recited, scanning her way down the paper, “five years of service from two hundred mages for the purposes of constructing domestic mines, including ten divination experts to locate untapped resources fields, ten thousand yearly tons of raw copper, zinc, sulfur, lead, bauxite, and assorted other minerals. A myriad of other, smaller shipments of ore and expertise, including automatic admission to any and all Imperial Mage Universities for any students of the Chosen’s choosing– and that’s emphasized, meaning your specific endorsement, not Tulian’s– so long as the prospective student is familiar with the Kemari language. One initial payment of one hundred tons of gold bullion, with a second hundred tons paid upon receipt of the one thousandth cannon. This is all, of course, in addition to the political declarations from the Adjutant that any act of aggression against Tulian will be considered to have been taken with the intention for the aggressor to use Tulian as a staging ground for a future attack upon the Empire, which, while not quite an assurance of Tulian independence, is close to it.”
Evie looked up from the sheet, blinking her eyes in the darkness. It was very, very late, and she was tired.
After shaking down an entire Empire for all they had, Sara felt as alive as she’d ever been.
“Yeah, that about covers it.”
“Sara,” Evie whispered, leaning close as they headed to the torch-lit circle of protected civilians, “how can we not accept this? Tulian will nearly rival Sporatos in wealth overnight, but it will be spread amongst a hundred thousand citizens, not millions.”
“I’ll tell you how we might not accept it,” Sara said as they passed between the torches, giving their soldiers a nod. “We slap it down on the other Adjutant’s desk and ask him what he can offer that beats it.”
“I cannot fathom anything capable…”
“They’ll have to get creative,” Sara said with a shrug. “Mui seems like a nice guy, so I hope they manage.”
“But are you really okay with this? With giving away the secrets of our weapons?”
“You mean giving away smoothbore muskets and bronze cannons?” Sara snorted. “Yeah. I’m perfectly fine with it.”
“I know you have other weapons you intend to create, but they will take time–”
“And we’ll have that time. Even if these guns win every battle at the first shot, their Empire’s so large, so congested, that it’ll probably be another ten years before it’s all wrapped up. By then we’ll have an even bigger advantage in firepower than we do right now.”
Evie blinked her disbelief, tail curling around Sara’s hips.
“I know that you are the Champion of Amarat, but this is…”
“It’s literally what I’m supposed to do here.” Sara took the sheaf of papers out of Evie’s hands. “This is what I was supposed to be doing from the minute I arrived in this world, but instead I got all caught up in a bunch of other bullshit.” She shook the papers for emphasis. “This? This is what I’m best at. I’m better at this than fighting, I’m better at this than anything-”
“I know, but-”
“-Hell, I’m better at it than I am at fucking.”
“Don’t lie to your wife,” Evie immediately snipped.
Sara threw her head back, laughing into the cool night air.
“Alright, alright! Fine. Maybe I’m better at that. Had a hell of a lot more practice, anyway. But still. What did you expect?”
“I didn’t expect them to… to sign away their economy to you, and to do it while looking smug.”
“Yeah, well, they got got. It’s not like it’s a final deal, anyway. It’s not going to stay this good. Even if we went with their deal, we’ve still got weeks of negotiation, travel, all kinds of bullshit I really don’t want to screw with, but I’ll have to anyway. For now, though, we just have to see if the other true Adjutant can cough up something better. Whatever happens, we come out ahead.”
“I can only hope you’re right, and that I do not awake from this dream as soon as my head hits the pillow this evening.”
“Yeah, well, I can think of a few things that’ll prove you’re awake,” Sara purred, wrapping an arm around Evie’s shoulder. They were in the middle of the villagers, now, which was the only reason her hand was merely crawling down her wife’s shirt instead of her pants.
“Here? Now?”
Sara let her grin slip away, replaced by a stern, authoritarian glare.
“Are you questioning me?”
“N-no,” Evie muttered, a powerful shiver running through her. Her head fell down, chin tucked into her neck, while her hands came together, folding themselves primly in front of her waist.
“Well,” Sara leaned close to Evie’s ear, whispering directly into it, making the feline appendage flutter just so adorably while she sent one hand tapping its way down Evie’s ribcage, heading for the crook of her legs with each word. “You… probably… should’ve been, because I’m so fucking tired.”
And with that, Sara dropped face first onto an empty bed roll, finally letting the complete, utter exhaustion she’d been hiding consume her. The last thing she heard before fully passing out was a quiet, muttered hiss of frustration.
“If she does that again, I swear to the gods, I’m going to-”
Sara drifted away, still chuckling.
Notes:
Hello, all! I've decided to re-open my writing Discord to public joiners. If you want, click the link here to hop in!
https://discord.gg/AdXXa7Wmh6
Chapter 126: Strange Premonition (E)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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Sara lost her little gamble. That was impressive, because she hadn’t even known she was gambling. She’d gone to bed fully intending to go comatose until someone kicked her awake. But an hour after passing out with one last teasing remark to Evie, her eyes snapped open as she was torn out of a very certain kind of dream.
She was still tired. That meeting had been exhausting.
It just turned out that she was perfectly capable of being both utterly beaten down and devastatingly horny.
And who could blame her? For two women who never left an important meeting in Tulian without getting off once or twice, this journey had been hard on Sara and Evie. Hell, that tradition of fucking her business partenrs had continued even after the government had expanded beyond Sara’s inner circle. With Vesta, Oddry, Ketch, Hurlish, Nora, Shale, and the underground BDSM group they were fostering, it had been months since Sara had been in a room where at least one person wasn’t half-distracted by the thought of either getting filled by her or filling her, and she almost always obliged. Even on the rare occasions Evie didn’t join some of those rendezvous directly, she usually stepped into the next room and slipped her collar on, feeling Sara’s cock plunging into tight heat as if it were own.
So it wasn’t a surprise that Evie had slipped into the same sleeping bag as Sara, shoving her head up under her shirt so she could nuzzle her face between Sara’s breasts, only barely turning her head far enough aside that she wouldn’t end up smothered. Her pelvis was thrown against Sara’s, legs locked around her hips, and both of her hands were tangled in Sara’s hair, elbows locked to hold her close.
I need something special to make it up to her, Sara decided. Twelve hours- fourteen, now- necessitated an apology. She didn’t use her Blessings on her wife as a general rule, but tapping into them just the slightest bit, she could feel the tension radiating off Evie’s sleeping body. It had been over twelve hours since the poor girl had been fucked. And that had been a brief one, when Sara had abused one family’s hospitality to use their home’s charcoal-heated water tub to bathe before the meeting. All she’d done was stuff a sweaty shirt in Evie’s mouth so the village wouldn’t hear her screaming as Sara ate her out, which hadn’t been enough for either of them.
In a vague, blurry way, Sara remembered a time when she’d been concerned her goddess-blessed body could be considered addictive. That she’d be forced into situations like this not just because of the requirement of Evie’s collar to ‘dedicate’ herself each day to Sara. She hadn’t liked the thought of turning people into a crack addict for her body.
She’d given up on that line of thinking a while ago.
Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was unavoidable. She’d not once, ever, fucked someone who said “Oh, that was nice, but I don’t think I’m up for a round two.” Hells, random women that she and Hurlish had slammed up against the wall of a skeevy bar’s bathroom wall usually showed up at the Peasant’s Theater a few days later, tongue-tied and sweating as they fumbled their way through terrible lies about why they “needed” to speak with the Governess.
Men, women, and even a few genderqueer sorts Sara had stumbled across, they all told her the same thing. That whatever she’d done to them, whatever she’d treated them to, it wasn’t just sex. It was something else, something that a word didn’t exist for. How they described the actual act varied. Some men said that being inside her, feeling her hips roll against theirs, was like being buried in the flames of an angel, every twitch driving the fire further across their skin. Others said that it had felt as if her cock had filled their entire vision, hiding all the world beyond an overwhelming, almost painful desire to see its cum, to feel Sara cum, to feel her pump throb after throbbing load into their bodies wherever it could fit, as if there would never be anything they needed again. Hells, she’d even met an agender person, a lovely person with a raging libido and no genitals at all, who claimed that eating her out was like ‘licking the face of a god,’ whatever the hell that meant.
So when they showed up at her doorstep, knees clenched and a pitiful need in their eyes, Sara always found time for a second round. The second time, though, she’d make a point of telling them that it was going to be the last. Interestingly, even amongst the neediest, most desperate of them, none had objected. They’d just end up cumming even harder, as if their bodies knew to wring every drop from her divine form they could.
Only then could they go on their way, seemingly content. When Sara tracked them down later to chat, they’d told her that the cravings, the need they’d felt, that pounding, all-consuming desire in their gut that filled their hazy minds with thoughts of her cock or pussy for hours on end, had vanished.
It wasn’t some explicit Skill Sara had, either the addiction or her ability to put a stop to it. It was just that sex with her really did feel that good. Fucking Sara was as if heroin’s only side effect was a solid leg and core workout.
Thankfully, she’d had consistent enough experience curbing the addiction’s symptoms that she’d been reassured she could keep her more casual flings going. That had been a relief, and not just for her. Before her pregnancy had gotten too far along, Hurlish had developed a habit of dragging her wives on lesbian bar crawls every so often, trying to find the butchest woman they could wring a teary, squealing orgasm out of, or to get the femmest, most timid bottom imaginable looping a chain around their knuckles for a better grip as they jerked Evie into position between their knees.
Those bar crawls had been plenty of fun, and Sara suspected they’d single-handedly expanded the sexual variety of Tulian as a result, so it had been good to know that particular hobby wasn’t out of the cards. Once she’d learned to tell her partners ahead of time that this would be their only experience with her, the late-night door knocking had dropped off precipitously.
In the end, the only woman in Tulian they’d yet found incapable of domming Evie was Ketch. The poor girl just didn’t have it in her, at least not once the scent of Sara’s arousal was in the air, shoving the diminutive azarketi’s higher brain functions from a three-story window. Sara had always wanted to leave the pair on their own some day, locking them in a room just to see who would finally end up getting serviced by the other. Hurlish’s bet was that they’d just end up fingering themselves while squirming on the same bed, but Sara wasn’t so sure. She thought Evie wasn’t a bottom at heart; it was simply that taking any kind of lead when her Master and Mistress were present was unthinkable. After all, Sara had argued, Evie was far from submissive in her day-to-day life. On her own, uninfluenced by her ‘owners,’ Sara thought there was the makings of a damn good dom there.
Sara was distracting herself. What her exhausted meandering had meant to angle towards was how, exactly, she could give Evie something to make up for the dry spell. Unlike her casual flings, her feline wife had never been someone Sara could just say ‘hey, this is gonna be the last time, so enjoy it while you can.’
She had several people like that, of course, her frequent partners. Hurlish was addicted to Sara’s body, obviously. Vesta, Oddry, Ketch, they were, too. It felt too good to get filled, to taste her, for them to accept going very long without it. When Sara was in the city, three days was pushing it, four or five days was irritating, while a week was usually when Sara could start expecting to get her bones jumped in her own home, her partners letting themselves in with their spare key.
That said, for them it wasn’t an addiction like most people thought of it. It wasn’t like her partners went into withdrawal without her, with all the symptoms one imagined. It was more like a psychological addiction, like… like they’d been denied their favorite food, entertainment, and hobby all at once. Who wouldn’t get irritated in that situation? Sara couldn’t blame Ketch for getting uppity when Sara couldn’t find the time for it.
But Evie was different.
Evie was addicted.
Sara watched it develop through the day. Her wife’s sharp gaze, so maligned through the army’s ranks for its keenness in picking out hidden flaws, began to lose its edge. She began to walk closer and closer to Sara, until their hips were nearly bumping on every step, which invariably led to her tail coiling around Sara’s hips, her thighs, threatening to trip her. Soon Evie would be leaning against Sara every time they stopped walking, first shoulder to shoulder, then Evie’s front against Sara’s back, arms wrapped around her stomach. When it progressed to the point that Evie stepped around Sara, grinding her ass into Sara’s crotch while settling the back of her head between her breasts, waiting until no one was looking so she could lean her head upward, straight upward, looking at Sara with half-focused, almost confused eyes, she knew it was time to find somewhere private. What Hurlish had fondly nicknamed the “ass-attack stage” was when Evie’s need for girlcock had reached its absolute limit. They wouldn’t be getting anything productive out of her until something had been shoved inside her.
An idea flashed into Sara’s head, inspired by the day’s many events. She started to try and sneak a hand out around Evie, aiming for her bag, before she remembered there was no point.
Instead Sara tucked her chin low, lips pressed into the fluff of Evie’s ears as she whispered.
“Collar yourself.”
Before Evie’s eyes even opened, her hand darted down to her bag, slamming the collar onto her neck. Her fingers nimbly fastened the lock into place while her eyelids blearily creaked open, confusion taking her over.
“Master…? What time is-”
“Stay silent and finish putting your collar on. When I finish giving you my commands, you’ll recall nothing of your orders, thinking you just woke up.”
Evie’s entire body rolled hard against Sara, her breath rasping out in a silent moan that the collar wouldn’t let her give voice to.
As they left the circle of torches, giving nods to the Guards like they were going off for a quick patrol of the area, Sara pressed her lips to Evie’s ears, tickling their fur with each muttered word.
“You don’t remember that there have ever been contraceptives in this world,” she purred, inspired by recent events. “You only remember me eating you out, fingering you, and anal, and you think we’re out of lube.” Sara paused, realizing something. “Also, you don’t know what pulling out is. Not like it works, anyway. Now, we’re going to find a nice empty house on the far side of town, and I’m going to pick you up in my arms. When I do, you’ll think that’s the moment you woke up, that I carried you all the way there.”
Evie, still aware of the orders yet unable to voice a word about them, nodded shakily. She was a smart girl. She knew what Sara was planning.
They slipped into the farthest, most isolated house they could find. Its interior was almost identical to the others; just wooden floors, furniture, and walls, with a few straw-stuffed cushions thrown about the place. Sara didn’t much care for the amenities one way or another. Not with what she had planned.
Evie’s eyes widened as Sara darted toward her, grinning evilly. Evie instinctively tried to step away even as her thighs clenched eagerly, and then she was up in Sara’s arms, eyes blinking open.
“M-master?” She mumbled, scratching an eye. “What are we doing up?”
“Well I wasn’t going to fuck you in front of all the villagers,” Sara said, spinning Evie around. She dropped the smaller girl without warning, shoving her into the wall.
“I-I appreciate that-” Evie’s voice hitched up as Sara’s lips fell to her skin, pressing a deep kiss to the meeting point of her shoulder and neck.
Sara wasted no time in sliding her hands up Evie’s shirt, running her palms along the feline’s ribs. Evie’s head tucked into her as Sara began sucking a hickey into her skin, pulling a small whimper from her throat.
“Gods, I need this so fucking bad,” Sara muttered, her breath rustling right over Evie’s ear. “You have no idea how fucking good you feel.”
“T-that’s not t-true,” Evie breathed. “I c-can feel it right now. Through you. Through t-the collar.”
“Yeah,” Sara purred, “you can know what your skin feels like, but you can’t feel just how fucking much I love touching you.”
Evie’s only response was to shudder, slumping harder against the wall.
Sara continued to pick her wife apart, peeling her clothes off layer by layer. She could have taken more time, could have teased and edged and down a million other things to get Evie riled up, but it almost wasn’t worth it.
She was already gone.
When Sara put a knee between her legs, Evie didn’t grind on it. She fell, all but collapsing as the barest brush of Sara’s touch robbed her body of its strength. She tried to look up at Sara, maybe to say something, but then the hand under her shirt found her breast and her head fell to the side, eyes losing focus as a tight little whine came out of her throat. When Sara’s thumb reached up to brush a nipple, her entire body twitched as if she’d been shocked, her fingers suddenly clawing at the muscles of Sara’s back.
Her eyes were hazy, her breath slow and hitching. Even with Sara’s leg supporting her weight, she rocked forward and back, side to side, kept from falling to the floor only by Sara’s guiding hands.
Sara’s cock grew hard in her pants as Evie continued to grind on her leg. Her wife felt it, saw it grow, and instinctively took a long and deep breath through her nose, holding the scent of arousal in her lungs for as long as she could before letting her breath out in a low, long groan.
“P-p-please…” Evie whined, her limp limbs trying and failing to drag Sara closer. “I-I need it, M-Master. Please.”
Rather than respond, Sara simply stopped supporting Evie. The poor girl tried to balance, tried to keep herself from tipping over, but all her grace, all her power, all of it had been drowned in a sea of dripping arousal.
Evie fell onto her side and hit the wood hard, sliding off Sara’s knee like a drunk whore. She immediately began to drag her way back up, hooking her claws in Sara’s pants legs to give herself the grip needed to steady herself, but Sara didn’t let it go much further.
Instead, she put her own back to the wall and slid down, dragging Evie up into her lap. Even though she was still clothed from head to toe, she whined with delight, grinding her hips hard against Sara’s cock.
“G-gods,” she whispered, some part of her aware she shouldn’t be waking the whole village. “I need it. I need it so bad, Sara.”
“You need what, exactly? Sara asked tauntingly.
“You cock,” Evie groaned, head falling back as Sara thrust her hips up just a touch. “Your cock, master. I need it in me. Put it in me, please.”
Far be it for Sara to be known as a bad Master. She slid her hands back up under Evie’s shirt and, this time, she didn’t stop. She threw the garment off into the air, then reached down, going for Evie’s pants.
“Yes,” Evie panted, “Yes, yes, yes. Oh gods, yes.” She chanted the words over and over again as she turned to Sara’s own clothes, dragging Sara’s shirt off for her. The sight of Sara’s tits made Evie moan again, but she didn’t stop for a second to tend to them. She had something far more important to work on.
Sliding down Sara’s lap, Evie’s hands flew to Sara’s belt loop, her hot breath rolling across Sara’s stomach as she drunkenly fumbled with the latch. She was breathing so hard her entire body moved with the motion, and on occasion Sara caught quiet, almost silent moans, the poor girl torturing herself with thoughts of what was to come.
Finally, Sara’s cock sprung free, ten inches rising into the air, striking Evie across the cheek.
Sara was about to say something, but she was cut off by the starving lunge of Evie’s mouth down onto her cock, filling her throat in an instant.
Tight, blazing heat burned Sara’s thoughts away, briefly leaving nothing of her original plan. She threw her hips up into Evie’s face with a ragged groan, almost as desperate as her wife.
Her massive cock slammed even further down Evie’s throat, choking off her air as her throat convulsed, not ready to take it all at once.
Evie’s hands wrapped around Sara’s ass and locked in place, refusing to allow her to retreat.
“F-fuck,” Sara whispered as Evie began to bob her head, encouraging Sara to pump her hips into her throat. “Shit. Fucking hungry little whore, weren’t you?”
Evie made some deliriously pleased noise in response, eyelids fluttering while her face began to redden. A lot of girls made a point to look Sara in the eye when they gave her a blowjob, doing their best to look as good as they could for her, but Evie was different. She threw all she was at Sara’s cock, forgetting all the world around her. Sara could have snapped in front of her eyes, slapped her across the cheek, even screamed in her ears, none of it would have mattered. The only thing that would get through her mindless worship was losing what she so craved.
Which was exactly why Sara grabbed a fistful of Evie’s hair and tugged, forcing her wife off her cock. She began to cough violently, but her scratchy voice had only one thing to say.
“Noooooo,” Evie whined, pulling hard against Sara’s grip. “No, no, no. Give it back, please. Please, I-I need it, Master. I’ll be so… I’ll do anything!”
“You’ll do what I fucking say,” Sara growled, twisting her grip on Evie’s hair.
The girl moaned, delighting in the pain, but she still knew her place.
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, Master,” she reached out, using both hands to pump Sara’s cock even while Sara kept a tight grip on her head. “What should I do? What do you need?”
Sara didn’t answer with words. She simply lifted Evie up and dragged her forward, holding the girl over her lap. She pressed her cock to the edge of Evie’s asshole, holding her wife there.
Evie didn’t say a word. Instead she shoved a hand into her own mouth, gathering as much spit as she could for lube, massaging it onto Sara’s cock, while her other hand went to her pussy, using it for the same purpose.
With a wicked, demeaning grin on her face, Sara dragged Evie oh-so-slightly back, pressing the head of her massive cock to a new entrance.
Evie’s eyes widened, the first tatters of lucidity fluttering to life since they’d begun. “M-master? Wh-what are you doing?”
Sara leaned forward, growling into Evie’s ears.
“I’m doing whatever the fuck I want to you.”
Evie first groaned at words, then that groan became a plaintive whine as Sara shoved forward, driving the head of her cock into the soaked, velvet heat of Evie’s core.
Evie’s hands flew forward, taking Sara’s shoulders as her entire body convulsed. As far as he was concerned right now, Sara had never fucked her anywhere but her ass and throat. Her wide eyes squeezed shut as her entire body tensed, breath held in her chest.
But Sara knew something Evie didn’t.
She was ready for this.
Sara released her grip on her wife’s hair, dropping her onto her cock.
Evie cried out with a loud, keening screech, loud enough to hurt Sara’s ears until she wrapped her hand around the back of Evie’s neck and dragged her in, burying her face in her tits.
Evie stayed in place, trembling, impaled on Sara’s cock. She didn’t seem to think she could take anymore of it. Sara could feel the head of her cock resting against the end of Evie’s tunnel, against her cervix, and if she could feel it, she sure as shit knew Evie could.
“W-what about pr-pregnancy-”
Sara wrapped her hand around Evie’s collar, cutting off her words. She lifted her slightly, just a few inches up, so she could look her in the eye.
“Are you really going to tell me that you don’t want this?”
“B-but-”
Sara slammed Evie down just as she threw her hips up, burying herself as deep as she could.
Evie’s mind abandoned her as her eyes rolled back in her head, claws popping out to draw bloody lines across Sara’s bare back.
“Master,” she whispered hoarsely, “Master, Master please-”
Sara dragged her up, higher this time, then slammed her back down.
Evie came around her cock with a sobbing cry, head thrown forward as her entire body began to violently tremble. The feeling of Evie cumming on her cock, of her walls clenching down so tightly on Sara, was too much. Her restraint snapped.
Sara fell forward, taking Evie to the floor, bent over her. Even in the midst of her orgasm, Evie’s body knew what to do, throwing her legs over Sara’s hips as she tried to drive her further inward.
Sara obliged her. She pulled back, almost slipping out, then slammed forward, rocking Evie’s entire body with the motion.
“Fuck!” Evie cried, tracing new bloody lines across Sara’s spine. “Fuck, Master, Sara, Master, fuck!”
Sara started laying into her, snapping her hips so far forward that her cock rammed against Evie’s cervix every time, which seemed like it should’ve hurt, but Evie only keened louder each time, stars bursting behind her eyes at every contact. Hells, from the toys Hurlish had used on her, Sara knew having her cervix slammed did hurt like nothing else.
Which was why Evie couldn’t get enough of it.
As Sara threw her body against Evie’s time and time again, pinning her to the floor, Evie’s moans of delight grew louder and louder, what few words she could muster drawing towards one central theme.
“Please,” she begged, tears at the corners of her eyes, “please, please!”
“Please what?” Sara panted, not slowing down for a second.
“Please cum in me, Master,” Evie whined, her entire body twisting on the rough wooden floor, overwhelmed by pleasure. “Fill me up. F-fuck me… fuck me like you did Hurlish… then… then her again… both so pregnant for you… always…”
Sara leaned closer, looking Evie directly in the eyes, asking a question she already knew the answer to. “Is that really what you want?”
“I don’t want it, I don’t want it,” Evie whined, shaking her head, tears falling down her cheeks, “but I need it! I need it so bad! I need y-your child in me, Master! Fuck me, shove it in me, make me yours, make everyone know it, please!”
Sara had her needy before. She’d had her whining and begging, but this was something new. She was desperate. Pathetic. Her entire body trembled not just with desire, but with a deep, primal fear that Sara wouldn’t cum in her. She was terrified by the very idea, because she couldn’t imagine anything she wanted more than to be pumped full of Sara’s cock, to be filled with her cum. It was unlike anything else Sara could remember hearing from her wife, and that was really, really saying something.
She probably should have thought about it more. She probably should’ve considered Evie’s reaction, her own reaction, put two and two together and decided what to do next.
But she was balls-deep in the most beautiful woman on the planet. The gods themselves couldn’t have pried Sara’s cock out of Evie in that moment. Both her hands flew up to the sides of Evie’s head as she fell down on top of her, forcing her tongue into Evie’s mouth as her hips flew forward one last time, burying her cock in the deepest parts of Evie’s body.
Her world shattered.
Searing light burst behind her eyes as the taste of her wife’s love entered her mouth, tongue tinged by the taste of the cock that was twitching, pumping, pouring cum into Evie’s womb, stuffing her full.
Evie cried out into Sara’s mouth, spine raising off the ground while the rest of her body fell limp, sobs of deep, profound relief wracking her body. She came apart at the seams, screaming Sara’s name into her mouth, ruining the floorboards with her claws as Sara’s cock continued to shove line after line of burning-hot cum into her body, so much that it began to leak away from where they were joined, a fact that should have enraged Evie, because she needed it in her, needed all of it so, so bad, but she was so awash in bliss that not even that horrible offense could break through her joy.
Eventually, Sara collapsed, her entire weight crashing down on Evie. She tried to roll off, knowing how much more she weighed than the smaller woman, but Evie’s limbs found the tiniest burst of strength to wrap around her, keeping her in place.
They lay together for a time, breathing hard, lost in the haze of their mutual bliss.
Then, slowly, Sara’s thoughts started to creep in, and she realized Evie still had happy tears wetting her cheeks.
Happy tears from thinking she’d just gotten knocked up.
When she actually hadn’t, because Sara and her both took their dose of contraceptive that morning.
Uh-oh.
“Evie?”
“Mmfgh?”
“Uh. Um. Take your collar off, please?”
There was a quiet click.
Evie’s body tensed.
Sara winced.
“Um. Sorry?” She whispered. “I didn’t… uh, realize you’d have such an… intense reaction to that. I thought it would be more, like, a consensual-non-consent scene, because you don’t want to get pregnant.”
“I… don’t?” Evie murmured, confused. “If that had been true, if you really had impregnated me just then, it would have been a disaster. For nine months, I could not protect you. I could not protect Hurlish. I would have a burden on your own protection, forcing you to divert resources when you traveled away and I had to stay home, and I am perfectly happy with the child we already have…”
“You sure?” Sara asked, lifting her head far enough away that she could reach out and brush the tears off Evie’s cheeks.
“I…” Evie frowned. A mild frown, not overly sad, but… frustrated. “I will think about it. That is always what you say is the proper way to deal with confusing emotions. I promise I will think about it, Sara.”
“Okay,” Sara said, pressing a gentle kiss to Evie’s lips. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being honest with me that you didn’t know. And for saying that you’d think about it.”
“Oh. An odd thing to thank me for, dear, my own confusion, but you are welcome nonetheless.”
Sara chuckled and started to pull away, only to find Evie’s claws suddenly re-extending, locking her shoulders in place.
“No,” she hissed. “You are not leaving me empty.”
“You do know we have to go back to camp soon, right?”
“Lift me up and cover us both with a blanket, then. I will pretend to have fallen asleep in your arms. But you are not allowed to remove your cock from me until morning, do you understand?”
“It’s going to go soft sooner or later, you know.”
Before Sara knew what was happening, she felt something cool snap into place around her neck.
“You will remain hard until instructed otherwise,” Evie ordered, the control band already on her wrist.
Sara felt her cock throb, a wave of warm obedience flowing through her. She could only laugh.
“Really? This is how we’re going to spend the night?”
“Yes. Now, lift me up and find a suitable blanket in this home.”
The collar compelled Sara to her feet, still gripping Evie tightly to her waist. Cum had begun to dry on both their thighs, but what was still locked inside Evie wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
She began waddling her way through the house, looking for a blanket that could cover them both.
Notes:
That sure backfired.
...or did it?
Chapter 127: Red Sunrise
Chapter Text
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Tinvel
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Tinvel woke, against his will, an hour before sunrise. His eyes simply snapped open, his body alight with energy. Knowing there was no use in trying to fall back asleep, he rolled out of his bunk with a groan, feet hitting the cool stone of the dormitory.
He stretched, looking up and down the rows. He was the only one up, of course. Too full of nervous energy to light a candle and read a book on his bunk, he began dressing for the day to come. He grabbed his flight equipment from under his bed, putting on what he could, folding over an arm that which was too hot to wear on the ground. Then, silently, he slipped outside.
The rainy season’s coming back around, Tinvel noted. The lightest of mists was gently floating down onto the streets, leaving the cobblestones slick beneath his boots. This early in the morning, there wasn’t even candlelight in the windows. Just row after row of darkened homes, lit by the stars bove.
Tinvel shivered, tucking his hands into his flight jacket. He knew most northerners would laugh at him for that, but this was as chilly as Tulian ever got. The only place he’d been with cooler weather was high, high above.
A month after the world’s first plane had slammed into the ocean, Tinvel finally thought its replacement was well and truly ready. They were nearing the end of a battery of slow, gentle test flights, pushing the new design a touch farther every day. Even after all of Professor Brown’s warnings, it had taken his and Chona’s crash to put a proper fear of failure into Tulian’s burgeoning flight school. Their survival had been miraculous enough that, for a brief few days, there had been talk among the other students of divine interference, suggestions that Talavan himself was eager to see what they could produce.
That talk had ended the moment Chona got wind of it. She’d gone on a tear up and down the flight program’s ranks, stabbing a finger into the chest of anyone and everyone, saying that if they really thought her spellcraft was so incompetent that only a god could explain her survival, they should prove it.
The other students, having seen for themselves the fifty-foot columns of flame that spat from Chona’s hands during every one of Garen’s dueling lessons, forgot the theory ever existed.
Tinvel’s steps slowed. He’d reached the outskirts of the aerodrome, and as he almost always did, he spent a long moment taking it in.
Tulian’s aerodrome, officially known only as the University’s “Sheltered Experimental Laboratory,” was a truly gargantuan building. It had been built in the empty space created by Garen’s massacre of the Sporaton Knights at the end of the war, when he’d tossed rows of homes out into the sea. There’d been talk of building dorms there, but in the end, once Professor Brown had described the Aerodrome and its possibilities, no other bid had won out.
There were plenty that would argue with him, but Tinvel thought the aerodrome was the truest symbol of what even the common folk had started calling Tulian’s Industrial Revolution. It ran the entire length of the University, but it was utterly unlike the centuries-old stone and mortar construct it faced. It was the first building in Tulian with walls built not just with mere concrete, but reinforced concrete, Sara’s long-sought ‘rebar’ finally cheap enough to layer throughout an entire building. Tinvel still struggled to internalize just how cheap steel had become, not to mention how much cheaper Sara intended to make it.
The aerodrome’s roof was built entirely of steel. Steel joined to steel by steel. The undermost layers were thick steel beams, fifty-foot behemoths that had been cast and bent into semicircles either by Tulian’s first colossal steam hammers, or Hurlish. When laid atop the walls of the aerodrome, many in the city thought the half-finished product disturbing. They said it resembled the rotting ribcage of some metal giant, fallen dead in the middle of the city.
Then the Champion herself had come with a massive pile of corrugated metal sheeting, and she brought with her strange “rivet guns,” spending two straight days helping the construction workers learn how to use their miraculous new devices.
To secure the sheets in place, each individual rivet needed to be struck with a hammer hundreds of times, as hard as one could, and each of the hundreds of sheets needed to be secured with dozens of rivets. In another time, it would have been the work of months. Maybe years.
A week after Sara had shown up, the aerodrome was finished. The rivet guns could turn normal humans Class or not, into miracle workers. And Tinvel could take some pride in that. While the tools were officially a product of the Artificery Union, the core of their enchantments had been based on his own work. The crystals he had enchanted to pulse hundreds of times a minute, using multi-foot strokes that powered the propeller of a plane? The Carrion immigrants had been delivered some of the recovered crystals from the plane crash, which they copied, weakened, tweaked, shortened, and finally turned on their side, so that they could fit in one little hand tool that did nothing more than bounce the head of a hammer faster than the eye could track. With those rivet guns at their disposal, the workers had clad the aerodrome in steel after barely a week of work.
To Tinvel, the aerodrome, despite being built specifically to help him in his work, was a very direct reminder of how much he simply didn’t matter. Sara had tasked him with breaking new ground, creating new wonders of artificery, and she’d built all this to help him do it, but at the end of the day? His work wouldn’t be what changed the world. It would be the things built off of his innovations, the tiny, practical tools. Those would be what actually changed the way people lived their lives. Maybe someday, gods knew when, it would be possible for folks to travel in the planes he had helped invent, and he could say he brought flight to the masses. He hoped that day would be soon. But long before it ever arrived, he knew that every person, everywhere, would be living in homes made with things he’d never had a hand in making.
That’s what the aerodrome was, really. Not the birthplace of flight. Just one more step in an endless forward march.
“Couldn’t sleep?” A tired voice asked.
Tinvel jumped straight up, flinging his hands out of his jacket with a yelp.
He recognized the laugh that followed. Straightening his jacket, he plastered on his best, sternest expression before he turned to face Chona.
“Not really. What are you doing up? You never get out of bed before someone drags you to your feet.”
She shrugged as she approached, emerging from the mist. Her jet-black fur was difficult to pick out in the misty night, made worse by her habit of never wearing more than whatever was required to maintain her modesty. When he’d been reading books in the University’s library, Tinvel’s interest had been piqued by an account of Vanara culture. The author had claimed that in the lands where vanara were the majority, the ape-like people usually just trusted their fur to cover all the important bits. Supposedly they hated wearing clothes at all, and only begrudgingly did so when they traveled out of their homelands. Tinvel could only imagine what his infuriating copilot would have been like if she hadn’t grown up somewhere more reasonable.
Because she was already bad enough. What she did wear was barely considered clothes. He couldn’t blame her, not with how hot Tulian must be for someone covered head-to-toe in jet-black fur, but really? Even now, in the misty chill, Chona wore a thin workman’s shirt that had been jaggedly cut right at the bottom of her sternum, held up by her breasts to dangle loosely over her skin, while her waist was covered by nothing more than a dark green triple-wrapped sash. Tinvel had to assume she wore something underneath the sash, some kind of shorts or something, but he’d never felt comfortable enough with the risk of getting charbroiled to try and figure it out.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” Chona admitted, wandering out of the mist to stand beside him, staring up at the aerodrome’s wall. The simple blue words University Lab were emblazoned in giant lettering. Beneath them, in red, were the much harsher words No Entry. For those who couldn’t read, this second label helpfully included a drawing of a figure walking through the door, only to find another pointing a gun at it from the other side.
“Nervous about the flight?” Tinvel asked.
“No. I’m excited. Why, are you nervous?”
“I think it’d be kinda stupid not to be.”
“Mm,” Chona hummed noncommittally.
They stood in the mist for a little while more, side by side.
“Big building,” Chona said, tapping a foot on the stones.
“Yeah.”
“Biggest in the city.”
“By far,” Tinvel agreed. Then he dipped his head to the side, squinting. “Well, at least if you rank by continuous internal volume. The University or the old King’s Keep might be bigger in terms of total footprint.”
“I dunno. This place is pretty damn big. And it didn’t take a hundred years to build.”
“It didn’t even take a hundred days.”
“Yeah. Crazy.”
They kept standing in the mist, breaths pushing the clouds of drifting droplets away from their mouths in little puffs.
“Welp,” Chona eventually said, patting her thighs, “not doing us much good being not-tired here, instead of not-tired in there.”
“No, I guess not. Want to see if we can get the pre-flight checklist done early?”
“You’re still gonna make us do it again before we take off.”
“Yeah, but this way we’ll have longer to fix a problem if we find one.”
Chona took in a long breath, looked about one last time, as if searching for an excuse to avoid the work, then blew it out with a shrug.
“Fine, I guess. Not like there’s anything better to do at this time of night.”
Tinvel pulled out his key as they walked up to the doors, sliding it into place. He knew there would be guards right on the other side, but he never bothered knocking. The guards didn’t know everyone who was or wasn’t allowed in, so the rules were simple: if you didn’t have a key, you weren’t getting in.
The key turned. The lock clicked. Tinvel pulled.
The door didn’t open.
Chona raised an eyebrow at him.
Tinvel twisted the key in the lock a bit tighter, then jerked against the handle again.
Nothing budged.
“Let me,” Chona said.
“You think I can’t open a door?”
“I mean–”
“Shut up. It’s stuck or something.”
“Maybe for you,” Chona said, bumping him aside with a hip as she took over, bracing one hand on the wall. “All you need to do is just- ngh–”
The door jumped open–
Only to slam shut again.
Someone holding it shut on the other side.
Tinvel looked at Chona. The vanara girl’s lips split, baring her teeth in a decidedly unfriendly grin. The hand she’d braced against the wall slid over to the center of the door and began to glow, flames licking at its edges.
“Hey, guards! If you’re still in there, you’re gonna want to get away from the door. To the left or right, preferably. Because it’s about to not exist.”
“Wait!” Came a muffled cry from the other side of the door. “Wait, wait, no!”
The door swung open, revealing one very sheepish-looking Elusi, two guards behind her looking anywhere but forward.
“The hells are you doing here, Elusi?” Chona demanded, slamming the door all the way open as she bodily shoved her way past the shorter girl.
Tinvel followed after her, more politely turning aside so he wouldn’t brush up against Elusi. She was wearing her usual affair of a tool-filled smock, which covered up most of the grass-stains she ended up with on her constant hunt for insects to study. Tinvel liked her well enough. She was one of the few University students as committed to Artificery as he was, eschewing the more populous Artificer’s Union in favor of the wider education Garen and Professor Brown could provide. She was one of the last people he’d expected to be up so early, since she usually spent her evenings crawling through the dirt in search of the perfect insect to study for future aerial enchantments.
As Tinvel entered, she skirted to one side, stretching up on her tiptoes, as if to hide something behind her.
Tinvel narrowed his eyes at her, opening his mouth to say something, but Chona beat him to it, unsurprisingly.
“The hells were you thinking?” The vanara demanded, stepping into Elusi’s personal space with a scowl. “I thought someone had broken into the aerodome. If I didn’t give you a warning, I could have killed you.”
“We didn’t expect you to be up so early!” She squeaked, retreating from Chona. “Seriously, who gets up at four in the morning?”
“We?” Tinvel asked, looking up over her head.
“Oh, fuck no,” Chona growled.
The plane– their plane, the plane they’d spent weeks building– was sitting at the far end of the aerodome, a gaggle of students surrounding it. They all had paintbrushes in their hands, buckets at their feet, and very, very guilty expressions on their faces.
Because the entire right side of the plane, fuselage and both wings, had been freshly slathered with garish orange-red paint.
“You’re too late!” A voice called, echoing in the cavernous emptiness of the hangar. “The deed’s already been done!”
“The hells did you do?” Tinvel demanded, feet carrying him forward with anger roiling in his gut.
“We gave it a fresh coat of paint!” Affe responded cheerfully, maintaining an innocent smile even as the others scattered from Chona and Tinvel’s advance, a school of fish parting around a marauding shark.
Chona stomped up to Affe, glaring up at the taller boy. Everyone in the building save the guards was a university student, of a similar age and dress, but Affe still stood out among them. He was aiming to be a battle mage, ignoring that the Governess had forbidden any of Tulian’s precious mages “wasting their lives on war.” He’d persisted in his efforts to sculpt himself into one. He had deeply tanned skin and an impressive set of muscles, both earned by his routine of spending his free hours copying the army’s training exercises in the University courtyard. Tall, muscular, talented, and still far cockier than any of his accomplishments could justify, his spellcasting was just barely good enough for Tinvel to not hate him outright.
“We thought it’d be helpful!” Affe claimed, hands folded behind his back in mock politeness. “What’s the matter? Should we have added some labeling, too?”
“That’s… you…!” Chona’s lips were peeled back in a uniquely vanara grimace, thick incisors gnashing beneath her beady eyes.
“What?” Affe asked innocently. “We thought you’d appreciate a reminder of what not to do.”
Tinvel got it, of course. It was a shitty paint job, but he got the joke.
They’d been trying to paint flames across the entire right side of the plane. There were multiple buckets of cheap, watered-down paints scattered across the floor, most half-emptied. It looked like they’d started off trying to draw a wavy fire pattern on the wing, but had given up once it was clear the crappy paint was only running together into a blurry, semi-transparent mess. Only when he squinted could he see what they’d originally been going for.
“That plane was expensive, you know. And crashing it meant it’s taking the rest of us even longer to get in the air. So I think we’ve earned a little bit of fun.”
“Oh, you think you would’ve done better?” Chona demanded.
Affe raised his eyebrows. “Uh, yeah. I do. That’s why I asked Garen to send me on this mission instead of Tin–”
Chona’s dark scowl erupted into a lip-bearing fury in the middle of the sentence, her right arm flying up, bright flames lighting her dark fur.
“Woah!” Tinvel lunged forward, dragging Chona’s arm back down. She fought him, firefly sparks flying from her fingertips as she gnashed her teeth.
“I swear to Talavan, let go of me so I can cook his ass!”
“It’s just a shitty joke, Chona, relax!” Tinvel urged, doing his best to keep her spell pointed away from the plane. Affe was a secondary concern.
Affe kept smiling at the plane as if nothing was happening at all. “Really, I think it’ll look good. One red half like that? It’s certainly memorable.”
“It’s a fucking insult is what it is,” Chona snapped. Tinvel had finally managed to get her arm down, but he couldn’t do anything for the glare running Affe through. “What made you think you had the right to fuck with our plane?”
Our? Tinvel noted, surprised. That was a first. She’d always called it his plane.
“Do you even know what’s in that paint?” Chona demanded, ignorant of Tinvel’s shock. “Where the hells did you even buy it? What if it ruins the cotton dope?”
“Musin checked it out first, it’ll be fine,” Affe replied dismissively, referring to one of the University’s only alchemist students. “It just needs to dry before you take off. Seriously, calm down. It’s no big deal.”
Chona’s mouth bobbed open and shut for a time before clicking shut, rage robbing her of words.
Tinvel hung his head, rubbing his eyes. “At least finish the job, alright? Paint that half all the way red. At least that way it won’t look like you squeezed fruit juice all over it. Go get everyone that ran and get them back over here, so it’ll at least be done before we have to get flying.”
Affe rolled his eyes, lazily turning around to go collect his cohorts. Tinvel didn’t care how rudely he left, as long as he actually did what he was told.
Chona, still muttering profanities under her breath, went up to the plane, running her hands over the untarnished portions of its canvas, searching for inadvertent damage.
Tinvel joined her in the inspection, even though he didn’t expect to find anything. Half the kids at the university (was it weird of him to think of them as kids, when they were mostly a year or two younger than him?) were part of the nascent flight program. Even those who hadn’t actively helped build the planes still wanted to fly in one some day. He’d bet all of his non-existent savings that this was an honest, innocent prank.
But it was a prank that highlighted one of Chona’s mistakes, and there was no world in which she’d take that well.
Tinvel made an effort to keep to himself as they went about preparing the world’s second plane for its first true long-distance flight, even as the others returned to finish the botch-job they’d started. Considering the fact that they’d left just long enough to let a layer of the paint dry, he suspected it was going to look even worse than it would have originally.
As long as it flew, Tinvel didn’t care.
Even after putting a dozen hours of test flights into it over the last week, Tinvel still couldn’t settle his nerves over the upcoming flight. The further he had developed his Artifice Engine, the more and more they’d been forced to divorce themselves from the proven designs of Professor Brown’s home.
Earthly planes, Sara had finally allowed Tinvel to learn, relied on dense, flammable fuel, which would be ignited within steel tubes so the resulting explosion could throw the rest of the contraption into motion. That meant their engines were heavy, they were filled with heavy fuel tanks, and they were always limited by their ability to acquire more of the flammable fluid. Every one of the planes that Professor Brown knew of worked within those parameters, limited by those principals as much they were bolstered.
Thus, Tinvel could no longer steal the designs of earthly planes. He and Professor Brown had started off trying to copy a plane called the Bristol F2, a fighter plane with a rear gunner’s seat that would work just as well for a mage, but they’d quickly realized it just wasn’t going to work. The entire plane was designed around the size, weight, and placement of an engine and its fuel. By the professor’s estimate, those two items accounted for a third the plane’s weight.
Conversely, Tinvel’s Artifice Engine, made of nothing more than crystals and a few well-placed steel mechanisms, didn’t weigh much more than thirty pounds overall. There was no way to mimic the Bristol F2’s lines without ruining any semblance of stability.
It was almost a relief. Freed from the constraints of copying another world’s designs, they’d ended up creating a plane very unlike any earthly equivalent. Maybe even one that was better.
Without the need for a bulky engine in the nose of the plane, the canvas had been pinched down to a tapered, aerodynamic point, a single steel driveshaft poking out to spin a four-bladed prop. Compared to the Bristol F2 they’d begun with, the plane was much smaller. The wingspan had been slashed from forty feet to thirty, its length from twenty-five feet to twenty. The weight reduction had allowed Tinvel to cut out a hole in the upper wing over his head, improving vertical visibility, and Chona’s seat behind him had been enlarged, given a redundant set of flight controls. There was also now a sliding hatch in the floor between Chona’s legs, a small door that would allow her to shoot flames directly below without the worry of aiming so far forward. There were even clamps on the underside of the wings, empty pincers that could be opened with the flip of a lever, eagerly awaiting weapons that hadn’t yet been invented.
But what really separated their new plane from its Great War ancestor was its underside.
Instead of two tough rubber wheels dangling from spindly landing gears, two massive pontoons had been put in their place. Made of the lightest wood Tulian’s many forests had to offer, they ran from the tip of the nose halfway down the tail, with four rubber wheels attached to either side, protruding just low enough that it was still possible to land and take off on land. The rear of the pontoons had tiny little rudders attached to let them control their direction on water without accelerating to flight speeds.
Because the pontoons had to be thick enough to keep the entire plane buoyant, the newest plane was much taller than the previous, which meant they needed a ladder to get up into the cockpit.
After assuring themselves that the other students hadn’t ruined anything, Tinvel and Chona began their pre-pre-flight checklist. Unlike the early weeks of their nascent flight program, there was no thought of skipping steps.
“Rudder right, rudder left,” Tinvel said, working the pedals accordingly.
“Confirmed,” Chona confirmed, scratching a mark on her checklist.
“Elevator up, elevator down.”
“Confirmed.”
“Right aileron up, right aileron down.”
“Confirmed.”
And so it went, the lightless hours of the morning spent with the two of them rigorously testing everything they could without starting the plane. The rest of the students who had been involved with the “prank” slowly trickled back to finish their job.
Tinvel was adamant that they were going to, too. Because today was going to be a very important day.
Today would be the first day they took off from within the city itself.
Right around daybreak, a group of Tulian Guards arrived with heaps of rifles carried in canvas bags, following Tinvel’s instructions on how to stow them inside the empty pontoons. Thanks to the aid of the Artificer’s Guild, whose Carrion members were intimately familiar with enchantments to simultaneously lighten and strengthen wood, the pontoons had enough excess buoyancy to serve as impromptu storage spaces. It threw off the plane’s balance a tad, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t compensate for.
It was maybe an hour after sunrise when they were well and truly ready. They’d checked, double-checked, and triple-checked everything they could. Several of the students went over to one of the aerodrome’s large cargo doors and began shoving them open, sunlight spilling into the dim interior.
Outside, a crowd began to roar.
Tinvel had known Sara was going to make a big deal out of this moment, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. The Tulian Paper Press had distributed a record-breaking number of pamphlets overnight, plastering every occupied home in the city with a notice of the upcoming ‘miracle’.
Tinvel took a deep breath as a mule was hitched up to the front of the plane, tugging it forward. He squinted as they turned into the sun, emerging into the wide street that separated the University and Aerodrome.
Thousands of men and women were lining the edges of the streets, many stuffed into the windows of abandoned homes. The city Guard was trying its utmost to keep them out of the way, but occasionally someone would break free, trying to get a better view of the plane. They were always dragged back in short order, but even a few seconds would be too much. Tinvel hoped none of them would be stupid to leap out during his takeoff run.
Affe, leading the mule that was pulling the plane, swung them to the left in a slow sweep, showing off the golden label scrawled across the fuselage.
Unseen, but heard by everyone in the city, town crier’s voices echoed up and down the packed streets, reading off the script the Governess had prepared.
“Before you stands mankind’s first foray into the skies under our own power! Capable of crossing a hundred miles in an hour, soaring two miles over land and ocean alike, you look upon the aircraft Sunrise! The end of every Knight!”
The golden sun emblazoned on the fuselage seemed to shimmer in time to the Governess’ words, while the right-sided tint was dripping into a deeper shade with every passing minute, drying better than Tinvel had ever expected. What had started as a pale, noxious orange had seeped into a vibrant red.
The Tulian people cheered wildly as the mule was unhitched, even if they didn’t have the slightest idea what they were looking at. Sure, some may have heard the rumors from the city Guards that had protected the planes, and Tinvel wouldn’t have been surprised if his test flights had been caught on occasion, but that was too few people for the rumor to have spread so far. Most everyone was ignorant of what they were looking at, yet they cheered anyway. It had the Governess’ endorsement, and that was enough.
“Ready for wind start?” Tinvel muttered, trying to ignore the roaring crowd.
“Ready,” Chona said, leaning forward. With the propeller now in the front of the plane, she had to lean forward, resting her arm on his shoulder.
“Mark,” Tinvel said, pressing a pulse into the crystals.
“Mark!” Chona echoed, slicing her hand down.
A roar of wind ripped down, slamming into the propeller blades. They whirred to life just as Tinvel pulsed energy into the enchantments, urging them forward.
“Soar,” he whispered.
With a rattling clank that shook the entire plane, crystals burst to life. He kept both feet pressing down on the brakes while switching back to the first of five speeds he could now select, stopping the plane from skittering down the cobblestone street. The crowd’s elation was just barely audible over the engine, which was louder than it had ever been.
With knowledge of how combustion engines used to work, Tinvel had finally been freed from his primitive pulse-strike propulsion method. Now twelve crystals had been set into place around one far larger, central gemstone, each smaller piece summoning a glowing pillar to push a piston forward, drawing energy from the central gemstone. He had taken the best of both world’s technology: the barbaric detonations of flaming oil had been replaced by elegant enchantments, powering the beautifully optimized series of pistons and gears which could drive the propeller to speeds yet unseen.
“Ready?!” Tinvel called to Chona, shouting over clanking steel and the whir of the propeller blades.
“Ready!” She called back.
They had a quarter mile of straight road to use as a runway, technically more than enough for the plane, but it ended in a stone two-story building. If they’d miscalculated the rifle’s weight, the engine’s power, or even if there was a sudden gust of wind, things could go very, very wrong.
Tinvel grinned, pressing his thumb to the very end of the crystal speed dial.
Rubber screeched as the propeller disappeared in an invisible blur, so much power being pumped into the engine that the brakes could no longer hold them back. He released them an instant later, then they were off, rattling down the freshly-repaired cobblestone street.
Faces passed in a blur to either side, hundreds of cheering, waving people, but Tinvel couldn’t pay them any mind. He listened to the way the wind whistled through the wings, felt it against his skin, waiting for the very moment that he had enough speed to-
Tinvel jerked back on the control column, throwing the biplane into the air. He heard a scrape from below as the rear of the pontoons contacted the ground, but then he was up and away, roaring a hundred feet over the rooftop of the building he’d been worried he might not be able to clear.
Chona joined the crowd below with a loud cheer of her own, pumping her fist in the air.
Tinvel grinned, banking the plane to the right, drawing a slow loop over the city. It wasn’t quite as maneuverable as the first, what with the massive pontoons adding gods-knew-how-much drag, particularly on the roll axis, but it was still far, far faster. They still didn’t have a good way to measure midair speed, but he’d bet good money it was thirty percent faster than the original.
As proven by the way Tinvel completed his loop of the city in under a minute, once more over the street where people were still staring up in abject shock, shading their eyes against the morning sun.
Before he could think better of it, Tinvel tipped the control column forward, dropping them into a shallow dive. He expected Chona to scream, to protest, but instead she just laughed wildly, as excited as he was to finally have the world witnessing all their work.
As he continued his slow dive, the lower wing dipped beneath the top of the roofs, then the upper, until he was flying so low that he made the briefest flash of eye contact with someone watching from a second story window, astonishment as much on their face as his.
The engine echoed oddly in the trench formed by the university and aerodrome, drowning out anything but the hum of chopped air and Tinvel’s own elated laughter. Just when he reached the end of the street again, about to crash into the same house, Tinvel hauled back, throwing the plane into a ninety-degree climb.
They’d done some static tests, back before the first flight, to determine the plane’s thrust-to-weight ratio. The more thrust a light plane had, the more you could do with it. You could accelerate faster, lose speed slower in a climb, and most importantly of all, worry less about stalling out and falling to the ground. According to Professor Brown, most biplanes had atrocious ratios, their engines two or three hundred pounds, their load made worse by the extra hundreds of pounds of fuel they gulped down.
The Sunrise’s artifice engine weighed thirty-five pounds.
They rocketed up into the sky, the city receding beneath them by the second. Tinvel whooped with joy as they climbed, climbed, climbed, until the city was five hundred feet below right around the time he started to feel the effects of loss of control, too little airflow over the wings.
Tinvel kicked the rudder left, tipping the plane over on its side. For a moment, he felt weightless, hanging like a star in the sky.
Then gravity reasserted itself, helped by the roar of the engine as they began a dive right down the path they’d ascended, wind returning in a rush that filled his mind as much as it did his ears.
When they’d accelerated enough for the plane to maintain level flight, Tinvel pulled out of the dive, aiming for the harbor. Masts of ships blurred past two hundred feet below as he aimed for a northerly course, disappearing from the city.
“You got the map memorized?” Tinvel called to Chona.
“Yeah! Fuck if I know how good it is, though!”
“We’ve still got the crystals! If we can’t find Nora where she’s supposed to be, we can land and talk to her!”
“Alright!”
Tinvel settled back into his seat as he began a leisurely climb to five thousand feet, thinking through his plans. They were on their way to Admiral Nora, who was out patrolling Tulian waters.
They had a mutiny to fake.
Notes:
Man, these two idiots really don't understand a thing about each other, do they? At least they're good at flying planes. Except when they crash them.
Look, they're trying their best.
Chapter 128: Deep Cover
Notes:
Two chapter update
Chapter Text
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David Brown
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David stared at the small cube on his desk hard enough that his gaze should have been scorching holes in the wood. He had one finger of his left hand pressed to his temple, his right hand outstretched, trembling with effort. His eyes were lidded, and he was muttering under his breath.
“Lift... Rise... Come forth...”
The wooden cube, predictably, was unmoved by his pleading. It sat implacably on the tabletop, taunting him with its inaction.
“This is stupid,” he finally declared, dropping his hands to thump against the table. That, at least, made the cube jump a touch, but that was a far cry from what he wanted.
“It may seem so, but if you really have the emotional attachment to the stories you have described to me, I believe this may be one of the more viable avenues of spellcasting available to you,” Garen replied.
“Spellcasting isn’t the Force, though,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “It doesn’t work the same at all. Why would pretending I’m a Jedi make it any easier to be a wizard?”
“Because it is an ability you have desired from a very young age, and it is closely linked to your mind’s concept of spellcraft at large. Whether you know it or not, your soul’s dreams have created a pathway through which spells may yet flow.”
David sighed, deciding discretion was the better part of valor. He had spent months failing to cast the simplest of spells, and his irritation only grew with every new applicant to the University who cast their first spell within moments of receiving Garen’s tutelage. He was extremely grateful that the archmage was persisting in his attempts to bring magic into David’s life, but after so long, he’d become convinced the lessons were nothing more than a waste of Garen’s incredibly valuable time.
When he’d spoken that concern, Garen’s disagreement had been vehement. To the Archmage, whose entire life had been predicated upon the idea that a purehearted desire to explore magic was the surest sign of his god’s favor, teaching David was as much a religious duty as it was practical. To accept that David was unable to cast spells was to concede on one of two equally distasteful propositions: either the god Talavan was knowingly withholding his Gifts from David, or David had no soul to receive them. Garen rejected either premise outright, and so the lessons continued.
They were practicing, as they usually did, in David’s office. Garen was currently suffering through the least favorite pastime that David had introduced to his life, grading essays, and was only buoyed through the effort by the distraction provided by advising David on his spellcasting attempts. The expansive office desk should have been more than enough for the both of them to work, though so many papers had been spread across its surface that it ended up feeling cramped. The midday sun was shining through an open window, scattering pinkish rays through the communication crystal that had been set on a pedestal in the middle of the desk. Remnants of David’s latest experiment lay beneath it, copper wires and magnets piled up in a loose, frustrated pile.
As David began lifting his hand once more, narrowing his focus on the appropriate mindset that Garen had described so many times, the crystal crackled to life.
“The pontoon storage idea was great,” Tinvel said, breathing hard, “but good gods, we’re gonna need a better way to get things out of here.”
“They weren’t meant for storage,” David reminded him, glad for the break. “I just mentioned that putting a hatch in the top of them might make them useful.”
“Yeah, well,” Tinvel paused to grunt with effort, “we’re gonna have to figure out a better way to do this. All the rifles slid to the back, and we can just barely grab them.”
“And the waves suck!” Chona’s voice yelled indignantly, slightly more distant. “Why did you think a boat plane was a good idea?”
“If you’ve got a better way to find a runway in an endless jungle, you should have spoken up sooner,” David replied, smiling lightly. He’d always enjoyed the students who had enough of a spine to give him some backtalk- as long as they had the smarts to back it up.
“No idea how we’re gonna take off again,” Chona snapped, the sound of clanking metal accompanying her words. “Seems like we’re just gonna smash into a wave and tip over the second we get any kind of speed.”
David frowned, leaning closer to the crystal. “I told you not to land if the sea was rough. If the waves get too high, you really won’t be able to take off.”
“It was calm when we landed,” Tinvel said, “but it’s taking so damn long to get the guns out that it’s getting worse. Captain Nora says it’s not going to calm down any time soon.”
“Is it storming?”
“Not here, but there’s some rain clouds nearby. Wind’s picking up, too. We had to tie the plane to the boat. We’re both getting pushed around pretty good.”
David blanched. “That’s risky, Tinvel. Don’t let the plane get crushed up against the side of the ship.”
“Do not worry, professor,” a strangely accented voice called. It took David a moment to recognize Ignite; they’d never spoken much. “I and my marines are keeping your flying boat in position.”
“It’s our plane!” Chona immediately called. “Not the Professor’s.”
“Regardless. The vessel is being held in place by Marines. It will survive to attempt its flight.”
“I really don’t like that you’re calling it an ‘attempt’,” Tinvel said. “If the waves actually get too rough, we’re not going to try and take off. We’ll wait it out. Here, take these. I actually managed to grab two this time.”
David shook his head. He almost wished that he’d been dropped into a bit more standard of a fantasy world, without these long-range communications. It certainly would have been less stressful, to not have to hear all about problems he couldn’t do anything for.
“How’d the plane perform on the way out, at least?” David asked.
“Pretty dang good,” Tinvel replied, a touch of cheer diluting his frustration. “I still wish we had a proper way of gauging speed, but I bet we were averaging a hundred miles an hour.”
“With or without a tail wind?”
“With, for the most part. Kind of hard to tell when you’re flying, y’know?”
“I guess that makes sense. And how’d finding the Waverake go?”
“We’d already be done and on our way back if these maps were any damn good!” Chona yelled. “I can’t believe people actually use this crap to sail with!”
“When one is searching for a city, rather than a lone ship, it is far harder to overlook your destination,” Ignite chimed in. “So long as the larger trends of landscapes are represented on the map, there is rarely an issue.”
“I thought you sailor types did all your stuff by stars and math?” Chona asked. “You’ve got fancy tools for it and everything.”
“If one must cross the open ocean, yes, such tools are necessary. But other than our fine ship, few brave the Deepwaters unless they must. Best to follow the shoreline until one is at the shortest point of transit, then follow a direct compass heading towards their desired destination.”
“So you’re gonna be fighting sea monsters with this ship?” Chona asked. Her voice was growing more distant, and David assumed she was using her natural monkey’s grace to climb between ship and plane, delivering armfuls of guns.
“Daylagon willing, no,” Ignite replied. “But it is the nature of the sea that nothing can be certain. If a beast attempts to seize the ship, we will fight.”
“If you come back alive, you’ll have to tell me all about it,” Chona said, far too chipper for the topic at hand. “I’ve always wondered if all those stories about the Deepwaters are true.”
“I can’t speak to any specific tale you may have heard, but for the general way of things, I will say that I have rarely heard a story of the ocean’s monsters more fanciful than the realities.”
“Huh. Hey Tinvel, how many more rifles do we have to get out?”
“Just… a few more,” Tinvel said, huffing with some serious effort.
Maybe the kid was right. If David wanted them to use the pontoons for storage, they’d have to figure out a better way to get goods out. But that would probably mean a larger hatch, more leakage, and structural integrity problems. They’d already had to add internal cross bracing because wood wasn’t anywhere near as strong as aluminum or fiberglass, and he really didn’t want to add more weight…
“Shit! Really?” Tinvel shouted, interrupting David’s rumination.
“Let’s go!” Chona yelled, then nothing. The crystal only transmitted sounds when someone nearby was speaking, so there was a tense moment of silence. Garen and David both looked at each other, concern on their faces.
“Yeah, that’s all of them!” Chona yelled.
“Cut us loose!” Tinvel ordered.
“Aye, captain!” Ignite replied.
“Wait, what? Are you talking to me? Am I a captain?”
“You captain a flying boat of sorts, do you not?”
“Yeah, but I thought you could only be a captain if you were in charge of a-”
There was a meaty thump, then Chona yelled again, harsher. “Shut up! Let’s go!”
There was a muttered whisper, and then the clacking of metal stirring the propeller to life.
David couldn’t take it anymore. He snagged the crystal, calling loudly into it to be heard over the propellor.
“What’s going on? What happened? Are you in danger?”
“Ship showed up! Plan starts now! Gotta go!”
And with that frustrating explanation, the crystal went dead.
“Oh, boy,” David muttered, running a hand along his scalp. “I hope they know what they’re doing.”
“They do not,” Garen stated matter-of-factly. “They are the first pilots of our world. Risks must, and will, be taken.”
“You know what I mean. I just hope they actually practiced a water take-off before they found Nora, like they were supposed to. Planes like that are really meant to take off on, like, lakes and stuff. Not the open ocean.”
“They are my brightest students, and I know them well.” Garen looked up from his papers, meeting David’s eyes. “Of course they did not practice.”
David groaned.
--------------------------------
Tinvel
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“Stupid- fucking- waves!” Tinvel cursed, interrupted by every slamming thump of the pontoons against the ocean. It was still a calm day for a ship like the Waverake, which could slice through the foot-high waves as if they weren’t there, but for the Sunrise it was an exercise in frustration.
“What did you expect?” Chona asked, gripping the sides of her seat hard, even though she was strapped in by a harness. Even her tail was wrapped around a support strut, helping hold her in place as best it could.
“More time to get ready at the very least!”
Every time he felt the deep thuds reverberate through the wood of the plane, Tinvel expected them to come with a sudden crack and brutal jerk to the side, the ocean taking his second plane from him in a spray of prop-driven seawater.
But as they continued to accelerate, each impact came less harshly, more infrequently. The plane’s nose, which had started off bobbing in a nauseating seesaw motion, began to level off as the pontoons stopped dipping into the wave troughs. Soon they were skimming overtop them, shearing the white tips off every wave.
Tinvel felt the moment the plane began to lift more than he saw it. The control stick suddenly lightened, no longer jittering against his touch, and he felt the wings flex ever so slightly as they began to bear the plane’s weight.
He didn’t pull up right away. He was not going to screw up his first attempt at taking off from the sea. Instead he reached down and pressed a finger to the throttle crystals, pulsing Intent into the gems to throw the plane into Emergency Speed.
Metal shrieked as the crystals nestled within the housing flared to blinding brilliance. After struggling to repair it behind his back mid-flight, Tinvel had decided the Artifice Engine should be as close to him as possible: right in front of him, with a small hinged window giving him direct access to the whirling machinery.
And now he knew that the first thing he was changing when he got back was replacing the engine door’s glass with something opaque. With emergency mode engaged, he had to squint his eyes against hundreds of green flashes of energy, twelve emeralds aligned with steel rods drawing as much power as they were able from a central chunk of shining amethyst. He tilted his face back, trying to get the rapid flashing out of his direct line of sight just so he could focus on the takeoff.
In the end, he barely had to do anything at all. The plane struck one particularly high wave, bounced upward, and… didn’t fall back down. They began to creep upward, the plane’s rattle calming in an instant.
Tinvel immediately reduced the speed to its third setting, cruise, blinking the spots from his eyes. One of his first priorities for the second generation of Artifice Engine had been more reliable speed settings, and his second priority had been making more of them. They now had a ground speed, landing speed, cruise speed, takeoff-slash-combat speed, and emergency speed. He had no idea how many miles per hour each setting actually represented, but they were each a distinct jump in power draw, so he could only assume the speed tracked accordingly.
“Where’s the ship?” Tinvel yelled.
“Four o’clock!” Chona shouted, using the strange terminology David had insisted upon. It would make more sense once Tinvel and Chona had clocks of their own, but until then it was awfully awkward.
Tinvel tilted the plane to the right as he continued to gain altitude, steering it even more gently than he might normally. Between the morning’s cobblestone takeoff and the teeth-rattling waves, visions of sheared bolts and failed screws were dancing through his head.
Tinvel spotted the ship a whole minute after Chona had. It was unremarkable, a single-masted merchant vessel, traveling exactly along the southern bearing Nora’s scout had said it would be. Compared to their plane it was barely moving, but Tinvel could tell by its wake that it was actually doing well enough for itself. It would be in the vicinity of the Waverake within the hour.
“Should we go say hi?” Chona asked, turning her head aside to use the speaking tube. “Y’know, up close and personal?”
“Why?” Tinvel replied. “We’re here to put on a show, but that’s not exactly what Sara meant by it.”
“Uh…” Chona considered the question for a second. “I’ll try and see if I can tell what flag it’s flying? That way we can know how soon the story might get around.”
He thought about it. Considered the fact that there was no good reason to do what he was about to do. Acknowledged that it was all risk, no reward.
Then he imagined the faces of the sailors seeing a plane race past them for the first time. And he imagined Chona’s rolled eyes and quiet exasperation if he once again chose the safe way out.
Tinvel twisted the plane around a few degrees, aiming for the merchant ship.
Chona whooped in excitement.
Tinvel continued on a direct heading for their distant target, leveling off at a fairly pedestrian thousand feet above the wavetops. If their estimate of the plane’s speed was correct, which it probably wasn’t, cruise mode had them going about ninety or a hundred miles an hour. Combat speed could get them a good bit more speed, somewhere between fifteen to twenty-five percent more, whatever that worked out to. They’d also never bothered to clock emergency speed for any length of time, seeing as it was more likely to shred the engines than give them any useful data.
Two minutes after Tinvel had laid eyes on the distant ship, he was circling overhead, left wing lowered in a dip that let him keep an eye on the vessel through the wing spars. Still at a thousand feet, all he could see were little dots moving about on the deck. Oars were being brought out, he noticed. You didn’t end up a sailor long without learning it was best to get the hell away from anything strange you spotted on the sea.
Unfortunately for them, the extra few knots rowing might give them still left their vessel dead in the water next to the Sunrise. As he completed another loop, Tinvel rolled to the right, heading away from the ship’s stern.
“This is stupid!” He yelled to Chona.
“Yeah!”
Tinvel tipped the nose forward, bringing the plane into a gentle dive as he ticked the plane’s speed down to landing mode. David had warned them that there was a speed they could reach that would rip the wings straight off the plane. They had no idea what speed that was, but even when he was doing something unnecessary and stupid, Tinvel wasn’t suicidal.
He leveled out a hundred feet above the waves, some two miles behind the merchant ship, turning the dive’s energy into a tight circle. His body’s own momentum fought him, squashing him into the seat, his spine compressing as if another person was standing on his shoulders. It was David’s oft-referenced ‘g-forces’, and it was something he and Chona had spent time purposefully accustoming themselves to, gaining as much height as they dared solely to descend in a rapid downward spiral. Compared to the G’s they’d pulled during that practice, this one small turn was nothing.
Tinvel completed the flat loop with the plane’s nose pointed directly at the ship’s stern, returning to cruise speed. He stayed at a hundred feet, careful twitches of the controls keeping them as level as he could manage.
“Remember to look for the flags!” Tinvel yelled.
“Whatever! Get lower! I want to see them piss themselves!”
Tinvel ignored her terrible advice. The white square of the ship’s sail was growing larger by the second.
With a gentle nudge of the rudder pedals and an even smaller touch of the control stick, their path shifted to come alongside the right side of the ship, maybe five wingspans away from the sail, still well above it. The painting of a golden sunrise on the left side of the plane would be clearly visible, as well as the green Tulian naval ensign on the rudder. Ill-advised as this stunt already was, he could have gotten far closer, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
Well, he thought, one hand reaching for the throttle gems, maybe a small chance. Wouldn’t want them getting a lucky shot off with a bow or ballistae, right?
As they crossed the half-mile point, Tinvel switched the throttle to combat speed.
Light flared within the engine compartment once more as twelve cylinders hopped into a blur, each jumping cycle revealing a flash of the green energy driving them from below. In terms of power output, emergency speed was as much as the crystals were physically capable of extruding from the engine’s amethyst core, enough to shatter themselves in an explosive spray of crystal shrapnel. Takeoff/combat speed was just a touch below that, the highest level of energy expenditure Tinvel had found which wouldn’t outright destroy the engine.
And it was a power-hungry setting. They could either fly for an hour and a half at cruise speed, or they could spend fifteen minutes at combat speed.
The plane’s engine changed pitch as they neared the merchant, gaining a rumble that seemed to rattle Tinvel’s skull as its propellers chopped through the air.
He kept a careful eye on the sail as they approached, still accelerating, and when they closed to the point that the ship was starting to hide beneath the engine cowling, he nudged the left wing low, peering down.
Sailors and officers alike dove for cover as the Sunrise roared past them at a hundred-and-something miles an hour, gold emblem glittering in the noonday sun. Tinvel watched two figures hop overboard head-first, diving for safety beneath the water, as well as a mad scramble of others jamming the stairs to the lower deck. A second group, however, just watched in amazement, hands shading their eyes, too entranced by the sight of the flying machine to do anything other than stare.
To his shock, Tinvel’s concern of being shot at, mostly just an excuse to blow past the ship even faster, proved valid. Several people on the deck drew bows, feather fletchings resting on their cheeks. They tracked the Sunrise’s approach and, as Tinvel zipped past at mast height, loosed their shots.
Of course they aimed hopelessly, laughably short, the arrows splashing down a quarter mile off-target, but still. He was surprised. When Tinvel had fantasized about seeing civilian reactions to their plane, he’d mostly imagined the first two groups of sailors he’d spotted, either fleeing in abject terror or watching in awe.
Maybe sailors really are made of sterner stuff, Tinvel thought as the Sunrise raced away. He supposed it made sense; like Ignite had said, there weren’t really tall tales on the ocean. When this group got to their next port and shared the story of a wooden monster screeching past them faster than the fastest bird, the other sailors would grin and nod and launch into their own tales.
But Tinvel wasn’t just here to give them a story of a strange flying object. Governess Sara had come up with a plan, and he was going to see it through.
He slowly climbed as they returned to the Waverake, putting his mouth to the voice tube.
“Did you figure out what flag they’re flying?”
“How could I?” Chona asked, laughing. “I don’t know anything about ship stuff! There were a million flags on that thing!”
Tinvel swore, focusing on his flying. He didn’t know what he’d expected.
They returned to the Waverake in short order, entering a circling pattern high above. They’d soon need to land and let the crystals recharge, but he guessed they had half an hour or so of power.
Unlike the first model of plane, the Sunrise didn’t need to spend nearly so long recharging. The central amethyst at the core of the Artifice Engine was there not so much as the plane’s in-flight power source, but as one massive battery for the dozen tiny emeralds. He’d not yet managed to find a way to enchant a single large crystal to engage with more than one enchantment, much less the twelve needed to drive the pistons, so he’d been forced to settle on a halfway solution. The emeralds leeched as much power as they could from the amethyst at all times, but in flight that was well below the replacement rate. The emeralds mostly relied on their own internal reserves, and so could only make a profit from the amethyst when the engine was turned off.
While still not ideal, since the amethyst technically had enough energy in it to keep them flying for hours upon hours, its inclusion at least reduced the recharging time between flights from six hours to a single hour. If they drained the last of the power in their upcoming display, all he’d have to do was land on the water and wait.
Thankfully, they could begin almost immediately. A solid red flag was run up the mast of the Waverake, ostensibly the Carrion-standard sign for battle, warning other ships to stay away. In this case, as prearranged, it told Tinvel that the merchant ship was close enough for them to begin the show.
“Ready?” He called.
“Finally!” Chona cried, her tail reaching to drag a bag from underneath her seat. With her extra limb holding the canvas sack up to her face, she rummaged through it for a moment before pulling out spark crystals in one hand, then a small, string-protruding metal sphere in the other.
“You stored those in the same bag?!” Tinvel yelled incredulously, fully turning around in his seat to stare wide-eyed at her.
“What?” Chona asked, tapping the two crystals together near the end of the string. “It’s not like they’re real bombs!”
Before Tinvel could scream at her further, the fuse lit. Chona tossed the bomb overboard.
It went off halfway down to the sea, turning from a falling speck into a burning comet of white smoke. Aided by the wind of its fall and the plane’s own speed, what would have been a small streak became a boiling mass, spewing its acrid (but supposedly harmless) chemicals into the air.
It landed absolutely nowhere near the Waverake, splashing into the water hundreds of feet off the ship’s right side, but it did its job well enough. There was no way the merchant ship could miss the manmade cloud it had produced.
In response, Ignite’s Marines pointed their muskets at the sky and fired off a volley of blanks, shooting nothing more than smoke and sound at the Sunrise. Even if they’d loaded the rifles it almost certainly would have done nothing, at least at the height they were currently flying at. The only purpose was convincing the merchant ship, which would have hopefully realized the strange flying machine’s markings meant it was Tulian-aligned, had just started an inexplicable fight with the (in)famous flagship of the Tulian Navy.
Tinvel circled around again, beginning a slow descent to a more reasonable targeting height. This was supposed to be just a show, yes, a mock-mutiny that would let Sara politically disavow Nora’s upcoming actions (whatever they were, Tinvel had no idea), but that didn’t mean it had to be a waste of time.
See, Nora had agreed to let Tinvel and Chona actually try to hit her ship.
“Two ready!” Chona yelled, holding two of the smoke bombs by the same fuse, spark crystals pinched in her other hand.
“Wait ‘till I get a better angle!”
Tinvel swung the plane around, this time coming at the Waverake from the bow, maybe five hundred feet over the waves. The ship was so massive that even flying this high put its black sails only three hundred feet below, and that was where Chona and Tinvel had decided to aim. So long as ships were powered by sails, they would be trundling along with one giant flammable target, and Tinvel intended to take advantage.
As they roared toward the ship, Chona lit both fuses, tossing one just before they reached it, then one an instant later, right as they passed over the center of the ship.
Both bombs sailed hopelessly far past the stern of the ship, dropping uselessly into the water.
Ignite’s Marines, on the other hand, fired another volley in the split second Tinvel flew overhead, using their new rifles to the fullest. Unlike the flint rifles that Tinvel’s delivery had just replaced, these weapons were lit by crystal-tipped hammers, igniting the blackpowder charge the very instant the trigger was pulled. It was an improvement the smiths were trying to push out in record numbers, considering the upcoming six months of rainy season, and the Navy needed them more than anyone else. Tinvel could only guess how well aimed the volley had been, but he knew for a fact he did not want to be in the middle of a cloud of lead.
Professor Brown seemed convinced that there was simply no way a group of riflemen could ever hope to hit a plane, but Tinvel wasn’t so sure. The professor still wasn’t used to living in a world of Skills and Levels. If even one of the Marines down on the ship had been a hunter with a Skill that, for example, helped them aim an arrow at fast-flying birds, they could guide the entire formation’s volley onto target. Professor Brown had said that such a bow-based Skill wouldn’t work on a fancy rifle, but who knew for sure? Maybe it would. Tinvel had decided to prepare for the worst-case scenario.
And speaking of the worst, with how bad Chona had missed both times, he didn’t see any choice but to fly lower on the next pass. He hooked the Sunrise around in its sharpest turn of the day, pressing them both into the cloth of their seats, then leveled out, aiming to rake the ship from back to front this time.
He could see the ship’s wake begin to shift as Captain Nora moved to avoid him, giving him a worse angle, but there was no point. It was like a slug trying to dodge a hawk. He tracked the movement with ease.
This time they roared over the Waverake a mere fifty feet above its highest mast, and Chona only threw one smoke bomb, taking extra care on the timing of her toss. They were flying low enough that Tinvel couldn’t look back to watch, too focused on maintaining his altitude, but he hoped she’d managed to–
A chest-rattling boom filled the air.
“YES!” Chona cried. “Right in the sail, Tin, you wouldn’t believe it! Right in their smug little fucking faces!”
Tinvel climbed a little bit, turning around in his seat just in time to see the fogbank of cannonfire drifting away from the ship. It was the agreed-upon signal that they’d scored a successful hit on the Waverake, and even more than that, it was a convincing display for the now-fleeing merchant ship that the battle was legitimate. They had no way of knowing what a cannon was or what it looked like when it fired, and so the hope was that they’d think the Sunrise had dealt real damage to the Waverake. Not only would that help sell the story that Nora had gone rogue, it might cause whatever enemies she found to underestimate her, believing rumors that her ship had been heavily damaged.
Tinvel tucked the plane into another swooping reversal, calling out to Chona as he did so.
“Want to try the dive-bombing tactic Professor Brown was talking about?”
“What? No! I’ve only got one hit so far! I want to try and get a few more at least!”
“Okay! But I still think it’s risky to spend so long near the muskets! The slow level attack profile is accurate, but–”
Chona rolled her eyes as she tugged more smoke bombs out of the bag. “Talk strategy when we’re not half-deaf! Time to fly, flyboy!”
Tinvel rolled his eyes back at her, but settled back into his seat, a smile still on his face. Scamming an entire shipload of merchantmen, practicing revolutionary anti-Magecraft tactics, all while flying? Even Chona couldn’t get under his skin on a day like this.
The next half hour was spent slowly refining their attacks, their hits becoming so frequent that the Waverake ended up surrounded in a cloud of smoke that, somewhat ironically, made it harder to find their aim. By the time the merchant ship had fled far enough south that they couldn’t witness the ongoing ‘battle,’ Chona was out of bombs, the plane’s crystals were nearly exhausted, and sweat had soaked into the armpits of Tinvel’s flight jacket.
I’d just like to see those Sporatons try to get into Tulian again, Tinvel thought, a bubbly anger rising up beneath his joy. The rubble of the Battle for Tulian still hadn’t been fully cleared from the shoreline, and the mass graves outside the city, filled with citizens and enemies alike, were wreathed with fresh flowers by mourners each and every day. During that battle, Tinvel had cowered in the university, hiding behind Garen as Sporaton-hired mercenaries had roved the streets.
Not again. Not anymore.
Chapter 129: Everyone Is Someone
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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They never did find the kid. Even with an army camped up and down the riverbank, there wasn’t any trace. Privately, well out of earshot of Mui and the kid’s parents, Evie told Sara she suspected a jungle creature had dragged the girl away weeks ago. It was likely why the demon had been identified in the first place; the real child had died, and without the original to repeatedly torture, it had slowly lost its ability to mimic human behavior.
Sara felt terrible about the whole thing. She was supposed to be the perfect demon-hunter, blessed by the gods to purge their kind from the face of the earth. Yet she hadn’t even been able to find one little kid.
Discreetly, out of sight of the rest of the villagers, Sara had slipped Feng’s parents a handful of gold coins. They were Tulian-minted, and not technically legal tender in the Empire, but the weight of gold itself was more than enough to pay for them to rebuild their blood-soaked home, maybe even to move into the safety of a larger city. She wished she could have done more, said something to put them at ease, but even with all her Blessings, she couldn’t think of a thing. No amount of goddess-granted charisma could conjure words that might ease the loss of a child.
Most of the village turned out to watch them go, braving an approach to the massive army camped just off their shore. Sara had extracted a promise from Kuhn-Drah that the village would be left unmolested after she left, but there was no way to truly guarantee it. Even the general didn’t have full control of her troops; all it would take was one spark to light the fire.
It was a peculiar experience to be waving goodbye to an army as she went to negotiate a deal with their mortal enemies. If she’d been anything less than a Champion of the Gods, Sara was certain they would have captured her on the spot, using her as leverage to receive the firearms they so desperately desired from Tulian. But not only had Sara assured them that she’d left specific orders not to give in to any such demands, restraining a Champion in such a way was tantamount to the highest of blasphemies. Even the common soldiers of the army, incensed as they were once they’d learned she was leaving for Tonlay, barely suggested that she be held back. There was a general assumption among them that such a crime would result in the holy fist of a god pummeling the entire landscape to oblivion.
Sara doubted that, personally. The gods were fairly hands-on in the world, but they acted by proxies in all but the most extreme cases. Direct involvement just to rescue a Champion was vanishingly unlikely. Furthermore, if Sara really had been stupid enough to get herself captured in such a way, she got the impression Amarat would be more furious at her idiocy than she would be at the army which caught her. Thankfully, there proved no need to test her theory.
The boats which carried them towards Tonlay were, Sara thanked the gods, a far faster form of transport than the lumbering barges that carried the army they were leaving behind. Their guides, who used long poles and stiff oars to carve a swift path down the river, assured them that it would take a week or more for the army to arrive at Tonlay, while it would only take themselves less than a day.
Sara could see why. The canoe-like boats that had been reserved for her travel weren’t piloted by your average civilian. They were specialists, men and women who had spent their lives training for the position of government couriers. The canoes were longer and wider than most, fitting ten or so passengers each, three to a row, but the Classes of their pilots let the crew steer them more like speedboats.
Sara learned over the course of the journey that the couriers weren’t chosen just for their skill and strength in propelling the boats. The jungle’s upcoming rainy season was even more brutal than Tulian’s, flooding half the landscape after every storm. The frequent deluges were so great that the rivers often overflowed their bounds and smashed holes through the forest soil, forming new forks and bends every year. The riverboat pilots couldn’t just excel at captaining their vessels. They had to be navigational experts, able to intuit the correct path with almost supernatural accuracy. Traveling by river without someone of their skill as a guide was almost as slow as walking overland, so frequently you would have to backtrack.
Of course, that was all according to the couriers themselves, who didn’t strike Sara as the most humble of sorts. She could tell they at least thought they were telling the truth, but it wasn’t hard to end up overconfident without ever realizing it. They were common people with an important, risky job. They had a lot to be proud of.
Like the city they were delivering her to, apparently. Sara and Evie were sitting in the middle of the long canoe, marines spread ahead and behind them, but that didn’t stop the friendly riverboat crew from chatting with her. Moy, a green-scaled azarketi woman at the rear of the vessel, grew particularly excited as they neared their final destination.
“I tell you, Chosen, it’s an honor to be showing you a proper city for the first time.” Moy always spoke in an excitable, easy rush, countless years spent on lonesome rivers having accustomed her to making the most of every conversation. “Tonlay may not be the capital, but it’s still really something. You picked a good place to introduce yourself to the Empire, I say.”
“What makes you think I haven’t seen a ‘real’ city before?” Sara asked.
“Oh, I was chatting with the others back here and they said your city doesn’t have much of anything, really. No offense, of course, sounds like you had a rough time of it, but is it true you didn’t build much more than three stories up?”
“For the most part, yes,” Sara said, resisting the urge to scowl at the memory of the Old King’s Keep, whose ominous spires still yawned high over the city. “Why? How high do y’all build here?”
“Oh, you’ll see, Mrs. Chosen, you will. And I think you’ll see it from a lot further away than you’d be expectin’ to.”
Evie, whose ears had been twitching to track the conversation, lifted her head from her book. “I doubt it will be quite so much impressive. My wife’s home was–”
Sara thumped her boot against Evie’s thigh, cutting her off.
“Don’t get cocky,” Sara loudly told her. “Who knows what we’re going to be seeing here? Can you imagine if we talked ourselves up and then got blown away? That’d be even more embarrassing.”
“Of course,” Evie said, easily correcting herself as she caught Sara’s intention. “If they find a city of three floors uninteresting, I’m excited to find what they have to show us.”
“Here’s hopin’,” the azarketi woman said, shifting her long pole to the other side of the canoe as she powered them onward. “Not much more I’d want to be a part of than getting to properly show off to Emotion’s Chosen.”
In reality, of course, Sara knew that it was pretty damn unlikely the Empire’s cities would impress her and Evie. She’d shown Evie illusions of earthly skylines dozens of times over, conjured up from movies or her own memories. At this point the feline had lost her sense of wonder. Sara had explained the principles of large-scale construction well enough that downtown New York, while still impressive, no longer struck her as an impossible miracle. Just an economic one.
Sara didn’t want the riverboat crew to know that, though. The riverboats had been sent by Mui’s side of the warring Empire specifically to ferry her to this city, and she had no doubts that every one of their crew had been carefully selected for the task. Not so obviously that they were spies in and of themselves, of course; Sara hadn’t seen an ounce of deceit from them, save for the usual white lies anyone told. But they were sharp-minded and quickwitted well beyond the average, and loyal to a fault. The moment Sara was out of their sight, Imperial agents would doubtlessly swoop in to pump them for every drop of information on Sara they could get.
Sara watched the leaf-choked shoreline glide past, the canoe carrying them smoothly over the gentle current. That the crews weren’t outright spies ironically said good things about the skills of the Imperial spymasters. They had to know Sara, Blessed as she was, would sniff out any agent in an instant. Accepting that, they’d picked the sort of people who were not only the most likely to strike up a convenient conversation, but the most likely to coincidentally remember its contents and make important inferences.
She had no idea which faction was winning in this civil war, but she’d slowly pieced together the sketchy opinion that Mui’s side was, at least on a technical level, marginally more competent. Their troops had won the battle for control of the Tulian fields, they had wisely allowed Sara to travel with a humble, unoppressive escort to their city, and their information-gathering efforts were unobtrusive. All good marks in her book. Evidence of skilled leadership.
None of that meant they were doing better on the battlefield, though. With the amount of baseless rumors and outright propaganda flying around the Empire’s citizenry, Sara could have easily picked out a dozen data points to support any narrative she so chose. She’d have to speak to someone in charge, an honest one, before she got a better picture of it all.
“Not long now,” Moy announced, pulling one hand from her steering stick to point ahead. “Should start seeing the spires in a few minutes.”
At that announcement, every head across the three canoes perked up, staring at the horizon. The river continued to twist and turn, and so Sara was expecting one final bend to finally reveal some grand, sprawling city.
Instead, Evie was the first to spot it.
“Look there,” she said, pointing. “Above the treeline.”
“Ah, you caught it!” Moy called happily. “Most village folk comin’ to the city for the first time don’t. Good eye.”
Following Evie’s finger, Sara eventually did spot something. Poking out above the treeline by the thinnest of hairs was a bit of gilded stone, tinged a hazy blue by the distance. The canoes were traveling at a decent clip, swerving left and right to avoid obstacles, but the pillar seemed stationary.
“How tall is that?” Sara asked, fumbling blindly in her bag for her spyglass. She didn’t want to take her eye off the pillar, lest she lose track of the tiny dot.
“Oh, I can’t say for sure,” Moy said, drawing out the moment with a gleeful, downright smug smile. “That’s the Visya’s tower, tallest in the city. Think it’s got forty levels or so?”
“Meaning forty stories?” Sara asked. She put her spyglass to her eye and found the glittering stone, confirming what she’d already suspected: it was gold-plated. “As in, forty separate rooms stacked up on top of one another?”
“Well, there’s plenty more than one room on a level.” Moy grinned wide, clearly having reached her favorite part of the trip. “Give us a few minutes more, you’ll start seeing the others. Most buildings aren’t as tall. I think thirty levels or so? Sound about right?”
“Sounds right to me,” the man at the front of the canoe answered. “‘Course, it’s nothing like the capital.”
“Nothing like it, of course.”
“Hope I’ll get to see that someday soon then,” Sara said, handing her spyglass to Evie. The feline took her own appraisal of the building, a very brief one, then put it away. They’d be seeing the entire thing soon enough.
True to their guide’s word, more buildings began to pop out over the canopy. First one or two, then three or four, until it abruptly seemed the entire roof of the forest was supporting a mountain range of stone obelisks. The tallest of the buildings were in the center, around the Visya’s tower (a title Sara’s mind roughly translated to ‘governor,’ with a light taste of ‘duke’ or ‘mayor’), but they spread outward in neat, geometric divisions. It was as if someone had tried to build the great pyramid of Giza as isolated stacks of stone, rather than one continuous whole.
It was only when they reached around the final bend in the river that Sara got her first true sense of scale.
The city of Tonlay was massive. It dwarfed Tulian as a matter of course, but not only that, it dwarfed the Sporaton capital by a laughable margin as well. The entire city rose out of a sprawling lake, dozens of arching stone bridges reaching hundreds of feet out from the shoreline to slot into the fifty foot wall which ran around the entire perimeter. She couldn’t appreciate the entire city in a single glance, because it extended well beyond her immediate field of vision to the left and right. Even the smallest of buildings circling the exterior stretched one or two stories above the wall, marking them as at least sixty or seventy feet in height.
And every single one was covered in deeply elaborate stonework. Past a certain height, each building narrowed in their skyward stretch, but not in awkward, blocky chunks at each floor. Instead they were stutter-stepping their way towards the clouds in two-foot increments, creating the illusion, if she blurred her eyes, of an almost smoothly tapered construction.
While only the tallest and centermost buildings had gold trim and shining decorations, every other structure’s stone was nonetheless deeply ornamented, featuring twisting, looping patterns cut in artistic waves. Some seemed purely decorative, depictions of flowing waves or stretching trees, while others were so geometrically precise that she had to assume they possessed some inherent meaning, almost like a language she couldn’t read. She could even recognize temples to the gods, marked by holy imagery that she’d grown accustomed to throughout the world, but far more of the temples than she would have expected, and none seemed to follow the familiar division amongst the nine known members of divinity. Grandiose mages in flowing robes were depicted wearing deeply emotional expressions, paladins of shining order were standing side-by-side with skeletal warriors, and there were many other strange combinations besides. She suspected that was why no one referred to Sara as the ‘Chosen of Amarat’ here. They seemed to place much less importance on individual gods than they did on divinity as a whole.
The lake around the city, massive though it may have been, was absolutely clogged with boat traffic of all kinds. Barges, canoes, rowboats, even a few tiny sail-rigged vessels. The waterways were almost as congested as the many bridges which pierced the walls, which were so overburdened with carts that Sara felt a spark of concern that they might collapse.
Yet throughout all the chaos, things were remarkably organized. Each bridge carried traffic in only one direction: either out of the city, or in, with the output flowing much faster. Even then, the input was doing better than she expected. There wasn’t just one group of guards checking the admissions at each gate, but rather teams of them roving up and down the bridges, performing inspections of goods all throughout the line in an attempt to keep things moving. Even the unnaturally circular lakeshore had been turned into one giant ring road, paved over with cobblestones, and there were two distinct lanes of traffic there as well, with intersections where each bridge met land. Sara could see hundreds of uniformed men and women standing amongst the crowds, screaming at the top of their lungs at anyone who dared step out of line.
“How many people live here?” Sara asked Moy. She didn’t have to try particularly hard to sound impressed. The Tulian soldiers, meanwhile, were outright gawking, mouths agape, earning their fair share of laughter from their Imperial escorts.
“Oh, that I can’t tell you, Mrs. Chosen,” the azarketi apologized. “A good few hundred thousand though, I’d wager. Like I said, nothing like the capital. Tonlay’s doing well for itself, of course, but there’s grander sights to be seen.”
“Damn busy, though,” the man at the front grumbled. He was in charge of steering the canoe, which had suddenly turned into a very unenviable job as he was forced to navigate the cavalcade of rival vessels.
“This is not normal, then?” Evie asked. “There are more often less people traveling to and from?”
“Gets this busy from time to time, sure,” the man at the front said, “but usually only when something big’s happening. Festival or some such, or when there’s some sort of event, like when the Visya’s kid was born.”
“Could be because they heard about the army coming,” Sara suggested.
“I don’t think so, dear,” Evie said, nodding to one of the intake bridges, which was stuffed with idling crowds and carts. “If they wished to flee the city, they’re doing a poor job.”
“Might be from nearby villages, hoping to find shelter in the walls.”
“Hope they’re smarter than that,” Moy chipped in. “If the city comes under siege, the people that didn’t live there before get kicked right out. Not enough food to feed whole streets packed with people, after all. Hard enough to get enough food in as it is.”
“Actually, that’s a point,” Sara said, brightening up. “How in the hell are all these people getting fed? We passed a few farming villages on the way, but not near enough to keep even Tulian full. Where’s the food coming from?”
For the first time of their little river adventure, Moy didn’t respond immediately. Sara glanced back at the azarketi, finding a nervous expression on her face.
“...can’t say I know,” the woman lied, poorly enough that Sara wouldn’t have needed a single Blessing to catch her out on it. Her verdant green scales had gone pale enough to be mistaken for Sara’s own skin. “I’m a courier, ma’am. Haven’t done a lick of farming in my life.”
Well that’s a damn weird thing to lie about, Sara thought. Did the people who told her to come pick me up tell her not to talk about food supply? Are they going to try and leverage that to their advantage somehow?
Whatever the case was, Sara wasn’t interested in pressing some random woman into betraying her orders.
“Alright, no problem. I’m sure I’ll find someone else I can ask. How much longer ‘till we’re in the city proper?”
“If it weren’t so stuffed up around here, I’d say five minutes,” the man at the front of the boat grumbled. “I’ll try and get you in quick as can be, Chosen, but can’t make promises. Not unless you want to risk going for a swim.”
Sara looked down at the opaque, murky water. It was so filled with churned-up mud that she couldn’t see an inch beyond the surface. More than once on the journey had she seen crocodiles, startled by their approach, slip soundlessly into the river.
“Yeah, I’ll pass, thanks. Take your time.”
“Figured you’d say that, ma’am.”
While Sara’s guides waited for an opening in the press, Evie turned to her, whispering in Continental.
“This city is remarkable, Master. Have you noticed the wealth of all those we pass on the water and roads? Fine clothes, jewelry, and a sense of healthy well-being. I have not even spotted a single individual for whom the others part to clear their path. I understand you will never respect an Emperor, but is this egalitarianism not a good sign for a prospective ally?”
Sara snorted derisively. “As if. They slapped fuckin’ gold on top of their towers, Evie. You don’t get that kind of money without screwing people over. I’m sure we’ll find where they hide their poors soon enough.”
“If you wish to search for inequality, it may be some time yet. Without the pressure of an army on the march, I expect our negotiations with the Adjutant’s representative are likely to take considerable time.”
Sara looked at Evie.
Evie looked at Sara.
And she sighed.
“We’re not going to the meeting at its appointed time, are we?”
Sara grinned.
Notes:
This is a very, very big city. It's a good thing no one's coming to visit it with powers that scale by how large her audience is.
Chapter 130: For the Night
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
--------------------------------
Mui Thom
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By the time they had reached the middle of the entrance bridge, Evie had had enough. Despite her wife’s protestations that it was unnecessary and rude, she had ordered Mui and his squadron to form a wedge before the Tulian entourage, physically forcing a path through the wall of humanity.
Humiliated by the extraordinarily obvious display of her importance, Sara spent her time calling out apologies to everyone she passed, even as the crowd was crushed against the railing to give way for her advance. Though Mui had never escorted nobility until this assignment, he had seen them passing through the streets often enough to recognize how utterly strange her behavior was. For those of the upper classes to apologize to their lessers was all but unheard of.
Somewhat ironically, Mui’s only surprise was at his own lack of surprise; he no longer expected anything less from the Chosen.
Despite having known her for weeks, he had not made his mind up about the woman. She was too strange. His privilege of escorting her had exposed him to dozens of her many faces, providing an intimate awareness of just how impossible it might be to truly know her. It was as though her personality was molten, flowing from one mold to another in order to fit the needs of whoever she happened to be speaking to. Had she somehow adopted a different face each time, Mui would have readily believed she was not a single woman, but dozens inhabiting the same body. She was impossible to pin down, save for when she was with her wives, where her behavior gained a certain ineffable, if incredibly crude, consistency. It was only then, when the Chosen discussed matters with her loved ones, that she never seemed to alter herself to better suit the needs of her conversation.
Yet even then, Mui could not know for certain that this was her truest self. For all he knew, she had simply established yet another of her endless personas for use with her wives. There may be nothing at all at her core, but rather a hollow husk, a mold designed to be filled with whatever is needed in the moment. Like the demon she had so ruthlessly dispatched.
While he continued to call out for the crowd to make way, Mui’s whiskers twitched fiercely, trying to flick the thought away like raindrops off his snout.
That was a pessimistic view of the Chosen, he knew. For all that her outward personality shifted like water, her deeds remained consistent. He had seen in her a constant, almost fanatical commitment to humility, as if she were actively denying the fact that she was blessed by the gods. She helped all she could, as often as she could, and not only did she not shy from labor, she seized upon it, eager to prove that she did not leave work to her subordinates. No matter how often she changed her accent, posture, demeanor, or expression, it was inarguable that her actions always aligned to the views she espoused. She was the perfect liar, yet she hardly ever lied. A strange, strange woman.
They were nearing the gate at the end of the bridge, the guards there peering over the crowd in interest at the commotion his approach caused. Mui tucked his head down, focusing on the task at hand. Once he delivered the Chosen to her appointment, his duty would be done, and he would return to his life as a sergeant in the army. Perhaps a sergeant with a very curious, prestigious mark on his record, but a sergeant nonetheless. It wouldn’t do to make a fool of himself at the very end of it all.
Recognizing that this strange group was clearly of some importance, the city guards barked out orders for the crowd to make way, clearing a path. A swathe of open bridge appeared, and Mui jogged forward through it gratefully.
“What’s yer business, er…” the civilian guard’s eyes flicked to Mui’s yellow flower.
“Sergeant,” he provided. “Sergeant Mui Thom.”
“Sergeant,” the woman said. She glanced over his shoulder at the motley collection of foreigners assembled behind him. “What’ve you got with you?”
Mui took a breath.
“I bear in my presence the Chosen of the Pantheon of Emotion, Provisional Governess of Tulian, and General of the Tulian Armies, Sara Brown, as well as her wife, the Stewardess of Tulian, Evie Brown, in addition to twenty-four soldiers of the Tulian Army who are her due and legal escort. I have been tasked with their delivery to a duly appointed representative of the Emperor’s Adjutant, and have been empowered with the authority to take all means possible to ensure this task is completed as swiftly as is practicable.”
It was a long, elaborate statement that he had practiced in his head many, many times over the last few weeks. So, too, had he imagined a dozen times reaching into the well-made leather pouch at his waist, drawing out a sheet of paper, which he now presented to the guards, unrolling it before their eyes. The enchanted ink, emblazoned in the familial symbol of a Warrior’s noble House, glowed brightly beneath the sun.
Every word out of Mui’s mouth sent the guardwoman’s eyes wider and wider, until her shock seemed to reach its peak, only to reach a newer, downright comical height as he unrolled the elaborately decorated sheet of paper.
“That’s… uh…” the woman looked at the other guards, mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. “I think I’ll need… a superior?”
“There will be no need,” Mui said, rolling the paper back up. “As I said, I have all the authority required to allow myself entrance.”
“But… I mean…”
“Thank you for your time,” Mui said, stepping past her. His squad followed along a moment later, doing a poor job of hiding their smug grins at finally being allowed to ignore a city’s gatekeeper, and then the Tulian soldiers marched behind in a precise, neat box. The guards watched them pass, silent.
“Looks like that felt good,” Sara murmured.
Mui started, darting away from the voice. She’d appeared from nowhere at his side.
Mentally smoothing his fur down, Mui nodded. “Yes. Well. It’s something I’ve been readying myself to say for a very long time.”
“Soldiers and the guards don’t get along?” She asked, nodding to his squad. “They looked pretty damn happy to see you shove past that chick.”
“Ah. Well, yes, there’s something of a sense of frustration between soldiers and the city’s enforcers, after all. That we, who have served the Empire on the fields of battle, must be beholden to men and women who have never wielded anything sharper than a wooden pole…”
“Makes sense,” Sara said, smirking. “I mean, I’m not normally all that down with soldiers, but I’m all for telling cops to go fuck themselves.”
Before Mui could parse this alien statement, Sara glanced up, taking in the streets at a glance.
“So where to next, Sarge? We going to find your squad a place to shack up?”
“I intended to take you straight to the Visya’s tower,” Mui said, mild confusion flitting across his face. “My squad could use rest, they always could, but it is nothing of consequence. You have far more pressing concerns.”
“Nah, don’t worry about that,” Sara said. “These people didn’t know when I’d be coming anyway. Better to go to some barracks or something, let word get out that I’m in the city. That way they’ll actually be ready for me when I arrive. Plus, y’all deserve a break.”
She’s going to abandon us to explore the city.
The revelation came to him in a flash of perfect certainty. Sara was an excellent liar. But that didn’t mean much when she told a lie that was completely unbelievable. There was simply no way Sara would have spent weeks anticipating one singular meeting only to balk at the last moment, not without some ulterior motive.
“Of course,” he agreed, gesturing ahead. “I’ll ask for directions to the nearest barracks. I’ve never been to this city, after all.”
Sara nodded, starting to pull away.
Then she glanced at Mui again and frowned, putting her hands on her hips.
“Damnit. What gave it away?”
“Your habitual impatience, ma’am.”
“Huh. Good catch. Well, how ‘bout we split it, then? Because you’re not going to let me fuck off on my own, are you?”
“I could hardly stop you if you wished to be rid of me.”
“And if I don’t want to be rid of you?” She asked, leaning forward a touch. There was an odd lilt to her words. One Mui purposefully ignored.
“Squad?” He called. “Escort our guests to the nearest barracks, and clear whatever space is necessary for them.”
“Where you going, Sarge?”
“Wherever the Chosen is, I suppose.” He looked at her, staring up at the divinely-annointed woman’s childish smirk. “I don’t suppose you know where you’re going, do you?”
“Nope.”
“I will be back at some point, squad,” Mui said, sighing. “Stay at whichever barracks is closest to this gate, so I can find you again.”
“Aye, Sarge,” a chorus happily echoed back. They were hardly going to disobey orders to find the nearest place to rest their feet.
Mui expected something more complex to the splitting of the group, mainly from Evie, who he anticipated to begin rattling off elaborate orders for her troops, but instead there was nothing at all. Sara set off in a random direction, Evie at her side, and Mui was left stumbling to catch up.
Tonlay was a larger city than Mui had grown up in, but not by a massive margin. The tall, spindly buildings were familiar to him, as were the bridges which crisscrossed the streets above, limited in their height so that they would not be visible from beyond the wall. The city was as beautiful as any Imperial example, majestic spires aligned in neat rows, crossed and summitted by the countless individuals who called them home. The heat and humidity of the jungle was weakened by the shade, helped further by wind coursing through the narrow slots the city’s towers created. It was a wondrous feeling, to be back home.
Yet for all he was enjoying the sights, Mui was privately taken aback by Sara’s utter lack of reaction to the sprawling sights. Growing up in the city, Mui and his friends had made a game of standing near the gates to spot village folk who were entering the city for the first time. They were usually standing in the middle of the street, jaw on the floor, struck dumb by the sheer scale all around them.
Sara did nothing of the sort. She set off like a natural city goer, following the flow of the crowd. She turned to squeeze past slow walkers, stepped aside with habitual ease when a cart began to rumble its way up behind her, and generally would have fit right in with the city’s denizens, if not for her ostentatious spiked leather jacket and anomalous human height. Evie was not quite so accustomed to the natural pattern of things, but she was graceful enough to follow in her wife’s shadow with ease, placing her feet on the same cobblestones Sara had stepped on an instant before.
“So they’re not full skyscrapers,” Sara said, speaking to her wife. “How wide are they at the base, you think? Fifty by fifty feet?”
“As good a guess as any. And they’re far more regular in their construction than your home’s examples.”
“Probably had some mage way back when that figured out how to build them, then they never bothered to try anything else. Kinda neat, but a bit disappointing.”
“Your home was more impressive?” Mui asked doubtfully.
“Oh, yeah,” Sara said, glancing over her shoulder to flash him a cocky grin. “Detroit had something like four million people in it. And the buildings got about twice as tall as these, and, like, ten times as wide.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Sara laughed at the abruptness of Mui’s retort.
“Fair, but if you remind me later, I can show you an illusion to prove it. Not any big deal to give you a spoiler on what’s coming. Can’t imagine we’ll need skyscrapers in Tulian anytime soon, but I’ll at least want to show people how to build them before I die.”
Sara turned down a street seemingly at random, sliding to the side of the shadowed road and, before she’d gone more than a dozen feet down this new track, turned once again, this time entering a narrow alleyway. Debris and detritus had collected in the corners, and Mui had to scrunch his snout against the smell of urine. Without prompting, Evie grabbed the back of Sara’s leather jacket and pulled, helping the woman get it off so she was standing in only her dull undershirt.
“Ah, there we go,” Sara sighed. “Looks good, but it’s damn hot. Hey Mui, want to see something cool?”
“Hm?”
Sara grabbed the hem of her shirt and, without the slightest bit of hesitation, pulled upward.
Mui spun smartly on his heel, torturing the entrance of the alleyway with a steely, unbroken gaze.
Sara laughed riotously, her amusement echoing in the narrow space, and even Evie snorted delicately, the closest thing to a laugh he had heard from the stern woman.
“What’s up, Mui?” Sara asked with perfect innocence. “Recognize someone over there?”
“I am giving you your privacy, Chosen.”
“Why? I’ve seen you shirtless plenty of times. What’s the difference?”
“Your breasts, ma’am.”
Sara laughed again. “Damn, you empire types really are prudes. Wouldn’t hurt to loosen up every now and then. Besides, I’ve got a sports bra on.”
“What is that?”
“A chest covering to help compress my breasts. Covers everything. I wear it anytime I’m in my armor.”
Mui started to turn around. There was a metal snick, then the sound of cloth hitting Evie’s palm.
“But I’m taking that off too, so now I’m really tits-out.”
Mui’s about-face was sharp enough for his boots to score a line through the cobblestones. It took all he had to keep his tail professionally still.
“I assure you,” Mui said, clearing his throat hard, “your views on propriety are not shared by those in the Empire.”
“Well that’s a damn shame. I’ll have to open a strip club or something here, help get y’all loosened up.”
“That’s… I don’t know what that is.”
“Bullshit. You’re a soldier.”
“I know what stripping is,” Mui amended, “but a club for it?” His mind conjured the image of pipe-smoking nobles high in some tower, chatting enthusiastically about the best manner of removing their elaborate garments.
“Yeah. I mean, your army probably had camp followers that danced and took their clothes off for money, right? We had plenty of them making money off the soldiers in Tulian.”
“...Some troops visited those sorts, yes.”
“But not you?” Evie asked, a peculiar sense of amusement in her voice.
“No.”
Evie hummed thoughtfully.
“Okay, well,” Sara continued, speaking alongside the rustling of clothes, “imagine those people all got together and started a business. It’s like a tavern where everyone’s half naked and musicians play, and occasionally some people come out on a stage to strip to the music while everyone else tosses ‘em money. The more coins they get, the fewer clothes they wear.”
“I…” Mui sighed, shaking his head. “I imagine you would make quite a lot of money if you ran such an establishment.”
“Run? I’d fuckin’ work there. I mean, look at these puppies!”
For some reason, Mui almost did. He actually, honestly, almost turned around. It was instinct. When someone told you to look at something, it was only natural to turn around. He stopped himself only at the last second, just after his head had begun twitching to the side.
“They are wonderful, Master,” Evie said. “But I don’t think stage performances would be the best use of your time.”
“Oh, but it’d be fun. Just a side-gig, really.”
“I thought you had plans for a brothel as your hobby.”
“Strip club up front, brothel in the back. If they can’t behave in the strip club, they don’t get into the brothel.”
Mui felt faint. He had heard these women discuss similar matters openly before, often audaciously, but he had assumed that was simply the way they were, without care for whether or not they were in public.
Now he was realizing that they did care who was listening, and what he had suffered through before was merely their most polite selves.
“Really though, Master, do you actually expect yourself to find time to service guests in a brothel?”
“I manage with the rest of you, don’t I?”
“Because you would be torn apart by a half-dozen women’s claws if you refused.”
“Look, it’s not my fault I’ve got a godly body. It’s you guys who got hooked on it.”
“It takes two to dance, dear.”
“Guess that’s true. But really, I think the brothel would be more for you. I mean, I’m the Champion of Amarat. Everyone knows I’m a slut. But getting to fuck the Champion’s wife? Now that’s something people would pay for.”
“Believe it or not, I also have a number of responsibilities to tend to.”
“Are you really trying to say that if I told you to whore yourself out for me, you wouldn’t?”
“Of course not,” Evie sniffed, offended by the very notion. “I would happily allow my body to be used however you so pleased. I am simply reminding you that your brothel dreams will likely be more complicated than you seem to assume.”
“See, that’s why we need to get all this war and government shit wrapped up. We’ve got some serious slutting around to do.”
Mui thought the brickwork of the city was very interesting. Truly fascinating work. Well-laid. Solid mortar. How long had it been since this alleyway was built? Mui tried very, very hard to consider this question.
“Alright, I’m dressed,” Sara declared.
Mui blew out a breath of relief, turning around.
Sara was dressed. That was true.
But she certainly wasn’t dressed anything like he’d expected.
The Chosen of Emotion had replaced her peculiar earthly garments with a threadbare, terribly worn peasant’s outfit. Her thick cotton shirt had once been dyed a vibrant yellow, but was so faded and moth-eaten that the only true spots of color which remained were the sweat stains beneath her armpits. Her sturdy leather traveling pants had been replaced by something that seemed to have once been a dress, at least until it had been trimmed so many times that it ended at her mid-calves. It was covered with the grime of a city, ash and dirt intermixing to hide any semblance of dye which it may have once shown. She also wore a woman’s sash across her chest, but it too was threadbare, more of an afterthought than anything else, like a woman clinging to the last remnants of long-lost wealth.
Despite the decrepit state of the clothing, nothing could truly hide the beauty of Emotion’s Chosen. Her long black hair had been tied up into a working woman’s bun, but still exuded a slick grace, clearly tied by choice rather than necessity. The tears and holes in her clothing were distributed almost stylistically, showing off strategic amounts of bare skin in just the right areas to not cause scandal, yet still drawing the eyes towards her more… prominent features. Even her musculature, once the obvious mark of a Warrior, seemed to now better resemble the build of a hard-working laborer.
Evie, too, had changed clothing, something which Mui had no idea had occurred. She was dressed in much the same way as her wife, in Imperial peasant’s clothing of awful condition, but she did not wear it nearly so well. She eschewed a skirt in favor of simple breeches, and her shirt was overlarge and puffy, likely to hide the leather chest protection which he doubted she’d allowed herself to forgo. She did not seem nearly as poor as Sara, unable to achieve the same look in a natural fashion, something which was not helped by the inordinately elaborate braids her long hair was still tied up in. Mui had only seen Evie’s hair let down once, when she was washing it in the river, and the blonde locks had reached well past her mid-back. He could not imagine how long it took to complete her braiding, and didn’t blame her for refusing to undo it in order to blend in.
“Alright, your turn,” Sara said, tossing a bundle of clothing at Mui.
Startled, he only barely caught it. Turning the clothing over in his hands, he saw it was no better than their own clothes.
“...Why?” He asked. “I can hardly be a proper escort if I’m unarmored.”
“Yeah, well, you’re officially off-duty, Sergeant,” Sara said, grinning. “You’ve been stiff as a board since we got to the city. I know I wormed my way into your head better than that. I want to see what you’re really like. You know, when you don’t have to worry about keeping up appearances.”
“That’s… I don’t know if I can,” he said awkwardly. “I have a responsibility, do I not? To protect you.”
“Mui. Buddy. You’ve done some great work so far with us. Really made a good showing of yourself.” Sara rolled her shoulders, testing the fit of her new clothes. “But come on. You’ve seen me and Evie spar. Do you really think whether or not you’re wearing armor is going to change anything if we have to fight?”
Mui thought of the two women’s morning practice sessions. Their weapons had been nothing more than blurs, each round decided almost as soon as he realized they’d begun. Sara was depressingly correct; if something was going to be a threat to her and Evie, all Mui might contribute is another pair of eyes to spot the danger ahead of time.
“...Fine,” he said, sighing deeply. He reached beneath his armor to its straps, beginning the process of unbuckling the chestplate. “Is this what you wanted all along? To drag me along with you so you may see me ‘off duty’?”
“Maybe,” Sara said, moving forward. “The real question is, how did I know to get you a change of clothes, too?” She put her hands on his shoulders, spinning him about. “Here, turn around. I’ll help get you out of that. I want to get moving.”
Mui did as instructed, presenting his back to the Chosen. Her deft fingers slipped beneath the metal, popping the straps open with ease. She didn’t even pinch his fur as she did so, which was impressive, because Mui did that himself half the time.
He shivered slightly as her hands drifted to the lower straps, fingertips spreading to run through his fur. He had picked a poor day to forgo wearing his undershirt.
“Sorry,” Sara said, sounding nothing remotely approaching apologetic, “I’ve never felt catfolk fur before. It’s softer than I expected.”
Mui didn’t have a response for that, so instead he busied himself with his gauntlets, beginning to unstrap them himself. His ears twitched. Quietly, so subtly he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, he thought he heard Evie chuckle.
“There we go,” Sara said, peeling his chestplate off. “I’ll find someone to run this off to the barracks for you. Here’s your shirt.”
Still facing away from Sara, Mui slipped the garment over his head. It was, to his surprise, loose enough to not be uncomfortable on his fur. Most humans had no idea how to pick clothes for catfolk.
“Where did you acquire these clothes, anyway?” Mui asked. “We haven’t been in the city twenty minutes.”
“Bought them off some people on the bridge,” Sara said. “I way overpaid, too. Gave ‘em a silver coin for it.”
Mui tugged the shirt down carefully, paranoid about the cheap material tearing. “A silver piece for this? Really?”
“I was literally buying the clothes off someone’s back. Besides, look at what they were wearing. They needed the money.”
“Clearly,” Mui mumbled. He bent down and unlatched his leg armor, adding it to the large, empty backpack that Sara had retrieved from her bag of holding.
“Hey!” Sara suddenly called in Kemari, abruptly adopting a thick local accent. “Kid! Yeah, you! Want some coin?”
A young girl of ten or so years stopped at the mouth of the alleyway, staring at Sara. She had the look of a street urchin about her, greasy and half-clothed.
“Whatcha say?” The girl challenged, moving only a single step inside the alleyway, just close enough that the street traffic wouldn’t knock her aside. Her eyes darted this way and that, feet shifting, ready to bolt at any second.
Sara flashed two silver coins between her fingers, hefting the bag of Mui’s armor up. “Ya know where the nearest sodjaboy flop is?”
“Yeah?”
“Drop this bag there, two coin. Drop it somewhere else, I findin’ your dumbass.”
“Huh? Fuck you mean? You a trustin’ sort?” She spat to the side, puffing her tiny chest up. The word ‘trust’ had the air of an insult about it.
“Nah nah,” Sara said, shaking her head. “Just good at findin’ shits. Think you can hide fra me? No chance, no chance.”
The girl licked her lips. “Two coin? Those two coin you holding?”
“Yeah-yeah, these. Stole ‘em off some bitch back in the downway, don’t know what they is. Funny-lookin’, see?” Sara flashed the face of the Tulian-minted coins towards the child, showing off how blatantly unlike any Imperial currency they were. “I’m too good with my day to find a fence, but you got the time, dontcha?” She snapped her fingers, holding the bag out. “Two coin, yeah or nah?”
The street urchin licked her lips again, looking between the three strangers who had called her over. Then, without a word, she darted forward, snagging the bag and coins with the speed of a viper, retreating just as quickly. The weight of the armor started to send her teetering sideways. She just barely slung the bag over her shoulder before she fully tipped over.
“You said nearest sodjaboy flop?”
“You hearing good?”
“Hear fine,” the girl spat. “But I ain’t tryna get tough with someone throwin’ two coin like that. Who you with?”
“With me and mine, which means none of yours,” Sara said, making a shooing motion. “Get on. ‘Member, that bag not there when I get back, you’re pieces.”
“I get it, I get it,” the girl said. After one final adjustment of her heavy load, the girl darted out of the alleyway, tucking her shoulder against the crowd.
“...is she really going to deliver my armor back to the barracks?” Mui asked as the child disappeared. “She could sell it for far more than two silver coin’s worth.”
“Yeah, she’s a good kid.” Sara picked her own clothes off the ground, stuffing them into her bag of holding. “She doesn’t like screwing people over. She’ll fuck me over if she has to, but she’s quick. Someone tries to jump her, she’ll get away.”
Mui had no idea how she could be so confident of that, but he had no choice other than to trust Sara’s word. The child was already gone.
“Now,” Sara said, strolling out of the alleyway. “Time to go to the real city.” She looked over her shoulder at Mui. “When you were growing up were you a street type, or were you down lower?”
“Street,” Mui said, the answer coming reflexively. He had no idea how she knew to ask the question. “Never went down low. My parents would’ve killed me if they heard I did.”
“So you’ve never seen your real city?”
Mui gave her a look. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Sara chuckled. “Oh, you’ll see.” She looked up at the beautiful city surroundings, a profoundly dissatisfied scowl on her face. “I hate this shit. Just a bunch of fucking lies. Let’s find out what your Empire’s really like, Mui.”
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They found a stairway down into what Sara called the “real city” soon enough. She walked as if she knew the way, confidently taking turn after turn, eventually finding themselves in the exact sort of sordid, hidden alleyway Mui had been taught to avoid for all his young life.
Right in the middle of the shadowed street was a hole cut into the earth. Ancient stone stairs that were worn on either side of their steps, the right side from people going down, the left side from those heading above. Mui could not help but notice that the grooves of the right side were deeper, smoother. As if more went below than ever returned.
“Hey, Mui?” Sara said, stepping aside. The flow of individuals up and down the stairs was constant, and she moved their trio out of the way. “You know you’re not here to guard me anymore, right?”
“I can’t just abandon my responsibilities like that,” Mui insisted yet again. “You’re descending into Tonlay’s underworld. If ever there was a time when you would need a bodyguard, it would be here.”
Sara scoffed. “If you think that the poor bastards down there are the ones that want to kill me, you’ve got a whole lot to learn. I’ll be safer down there than I’ve been since I left Tulian.”
“She’s right,” Evie said, shocking Mui. The Chosen’s wife spoke in a simple, matter-of-fact tone. “I am far more concerned with Warriors and assassins than I am thieves and muggers. If any fool from some street gang wishes to try their luck against my Master’s sword arm, they are welcome to attempt it. Better yet, they should target me. It could be a satisfying distraction.”
He had nothing to say against that. If Evie, the physical embodiment of paranoia, was barely concerned with her wife’s safety, what point was there in Mui arguing?
Instead, he asked a question.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Sara countered.
“Why do you so desperately wish to convince me to relax? To not treat you as my duty dictates I should?”
Sara paused for a moment, considering. She was leaning against the alleyway’s wall, arms crossed over her chest, with her lips split by a small, unreadable curve.
“You’re interesting,” she eventually said. “I kept you around at first because I knew you were a nobody. Someone the Empire couldn’t have put in place as a spy. An easy, safe bet.” Her eyes flicked across the alleyway, taking in the faces of everyone who passed. “Then you started getting interesting. You got yourself a fancy job, so you started talking fancier. You had a squad to take care of, so you didn’t do anything but. You found out a kid needed help, and you dropped everything for it. I don’t know many people that would’ve done all the things you’ve done, and that’s counting back on Earth, where people were a hell of a lot kinder.”
Sara pushed herself off the wall, stepping closer to Mui. She had a half foot of height over him, and used it to look down on him, smirking. “So yeah. You’re interesting. Unfortunately for you, that’s got me interested in you. You seem like a good sergeant, Mui Thom. So now that you’ve finally got nothing better to do, I want to see what you’re like when the uniform comes off.”
Before he could say a thing, she stepped closer, her chest almost touching his, her words coming in a searing whisper. The walls of the cramped alleyway seemed to recede with her every step, until he was trapped in place by nothing more than her sheer proximity.
“And besides,” she purred, “you’ve been on your game for months, haven’t you? Working your ass off. Maybe it’ll be hard to relax around me, maybe it won’t. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re tired of it, yeah? After so long keeping it straight, your back’s gotta be sore. Slouch a bit, Mui. Put some beer in your gut and your hands in your pockets. Aren’t you tired of being all fancy? How long has it been since you told someone to go fuck themselves? Too long, I bet. You need to blow off some steam. You’re gonna have plenty of opportunities down there.”
Her words rolled over him like a heatwave, a furnace’s fire fanned by the almost manic gleam in her eyes. Her grin had become something sloppy, almost slovenly, and he could no longer ignore the way her chest rose and fell with each eager puff of her lungs, her lips so close he could not help the way his muzzle was filled with the heady, dizzying scent of her breath. His fur was standing on end, his ears twitching between flattening away from her overwhelming presence and leaning forward, straining desperately to soak in her every word, while his tail had frozen as if he were staring into the eyes of some ancient, primal predator.
“Well?” She asked, impatient, teeth flashing. “Come on, big boy. Decision time. You want to come with me, or you want to head back home?”
Mui swallowed, tongue running over his teeth. He shook his head, a rumbling chuckle rising out of his chest.
“Fine. Lead the way, Sara.”
“Fuck yes!” She cried, pumping a fist. She grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, pushing him toward the stairs. “Alright, let’s go, let’s go. Fuckin’ bar crawl, bitches. I want to get wasted.”
Instead of subjecting himself to the treatment as he might have a few minutes earlier, Mui spun in place to get her hand off his back, letting her stumble forward.
“If you’re wanting me to relax,” he told her, “don’t be shoving me around like that.”
“Ooh!” Sara cooed, eyes alight with delight as they waited in line for the stairs. “Look at that! Am I seeing a bit of a spine right there?”
“Why are you surprised, Master?” Evie asked. “You did just complain he kept his back too straight.”
“Fuck off. You know what I mean.”
“Why do you still call her that?” Mui asked, instinctively ducking his head as he began to traverse the stairwell. “‘Master.’ I know she used to own you, but she doesn’t anymore, no?”
Evie met his eyes with an unblinking, owlish expression, one slowly covered by shadow as they followed the descending crowd.
“Because the thought of being her slave turns me on like a bitch in heat. Why else?”
Mui coughed. Looked between Sara and Evie, who were appraising his reaction.
And laughed.
“Gods!” He swore, still laughing. “Is your other wife just as bad?”
“Sometimes,” Sara said, smiling at some fond memory. “She got a lot better once I knocked her up. ‘Course, now that she’s had the kid…”
“We are not ready for another child, Master.”
“Well you two are making it real fuckin’ hard to keep it to just one.”
“I thought you used spells for your child?” Mui asked. Freed from the chains of formality, dozens of questions were bubbling to the surface of his mind. “That’s how you explained it before. Seems like it would be hard for three women to accidentally end up pregnant if they have to cast a spell beforehand.”
“Yeah, I used magic,” Sara said. “A magic cock that Amarat lets me grow whenever I want. We did it the old fashioned way.”
“...You’re screwing with me.”
Sara wiggled her eyebrows at Mui. “Nope. Want to see?”
“Oh, would you look at that,” he replied, pointing ahead. “We’ve reached the first level.” Mui stepped out of the stairwell, carried along by the endless parade of citizens. “Another question, then. How did you even know about the lower levels?”
“Easy enough,” Sara said, graciously allowing him to dodge the topic. “I saw that fancy ass city up there and thought to myself ‘is there any way they can build this without fucking someone over?’” She scoffed. “The answer of course, is yeah. But they fucking wouldn’t. So here we are.” Sara stepped out of the main walkway, taking a long, deep breath. “Here we fucking are.”
Mui joined her, looking down the long, dark corridor.
The Empire was a titanic creation. More ancient than any save the elven could fathom, its earliest days were written in the walls around them. A time when a space in the jungle had been carved by desperate settlers, digging deep beneath the earth in their bid to hide from the calamities which sought them from every angle. Mui could see the hasty chips torn by tens of thousands of chisel strikes, untold hordes sent to gather stone for the walls which were their only hope for protection. They had not mined for gems or ore, but for safety, desperate for a life spent without a blade in hand. They had not known that their descendants, their numbers ballooned by that very same safety, would someday be forced down into the tunnels they had dug.
The only light came from dull quartz embedded in the ceiling, steel cages hammered overtop to cast a shadow of their bars across the mingling crowds. Even here, in this main thoroughfare, the pathway was not but a half-dozen steps wide, just tall enough that the orcs passing through only had to tuck their heads. Everyone was shoulder to shoulder, front to back, walking in a shuffling procession.
Much like the roads above, there were vendors standing beside the street, hawking their wares to all who passed. Unlike the sunlit streets, where chalk marks and designated awnings had been declared as the place for a cart of goods, these sellers stood in narrow cubbies that had been chiseled from the stone, with all they had to sell pinned in a display across their chest. The closest of them were selling skewers of unidentifiable meat, lashes of rope, and dull, half-rotted fruits, the rejects from the markets above. Those that wished to purchase from them did so as fast as they were able, bumped and shoved by the crowds as they tried to stand still long enough to pass coin from hand and good to pocket.
The disruption to the flow of traffic was not welcome. The floors of the twisting pathway rose and fell at random, sometimes rising a single inch, other times falling half a foot. This place had never been intended for human habitation. It had been forced into it. The natives of the city strode over the lumpy terrain with unconscious ease, but the roads were so dark, the obstacles so common, that it was inevitable someone would trip. Thankfully for them, the crowds were dense enough that they only ever landed against the person in front of them, who usually shoved them off without even a grunt of acknowledgement.
Amongst those endless crowds, there were inevitably crossroads. These were the site of battlegrounds as the two sides shoved past one another, the right of passage won by force of might as often as deft maneuvering. Gender, class, age, none of it seemed to matter. All were shoved aside by those who had the strength to do so, turning each of the countless intersections into a very dangerous place to be for the weak and infirm.
And there were far more of those than he had expected. Moving through the stagnant twilight were not just the elderly and young, but the injured and ill. He had never seen so many people with wrapped wounds and limping gaits, save only for the hours after a battle. It seemed whichever gods peered into this hidden space had not seen fit to bestow their gifts of healing to the number of faithful needed to tend so many. That or the place was so inhospitable, so dangerous, that the healers could not hope to stem the tide of constant injury.
Despite the misery which choked the air like magefire ash, there were small patches of light. They came from the holes that had been cut in the walls which poured steam and smoke, rivers of which were carried away by subtle enchantments carved into the stone ceiling, eventually floating up narrow chimneys to be released above. The smoke carried with it the scent of frying food and sweaty bodies. The steaming cubbies were brighter than others, often accompanied by a line of people pressed to the sides of the street in a bid to enter, and it was only there that Mui saw strangers speaking to one another with a smile on their face. True, it was often the smile of the drunk or high, or at least those with the hope of abandoning sobriety soon, but it was a smile. His heart latched onto these individuals with a fervor, to prove to himself that he had not been tricked by a demon into wandering into one of the pits of the damned.
“You’ve really never been down here?” Sara asked.
“No,” Mui answered honestly. “Why would I?”
“It’s where most of the city lives.”
A reflexive answer came to Mui’s lips- that it was where most of the city’s criminals lived, not its citizens. It was what he had heard all his life. Staring down the weaving streets, he found that sentiment suddenly harder to summon.
“How did you even know about it?” He asked instead. “Most don’t speak of this place. Even those that live here and work above.”
“I’ve got good ears. Better than yours, believe it or not. People talk.”
“You haven’t been in the city for more than an hour.”
“Really good ears. Now come on, let’s see what people actually live like in your Empire.”
“It’s not my Empire,” Mui argued as Sara rejoined the crowd, filtering easily into the press. “I just live here.”
“You fought for it, you killed for it, it’s yours,” she said, distracted as her head turned towards every point of interest. “If the people who are willing to die for a cause aren’t the ones who can really claim ownership of it, you’re not in an army, you’re in a scam. And besides, anyone in an army who’s not a conscript is both endorsing and enforcing its progenitor’s ideology.”
“Why is it that only now, when you’ve insisted I act casually, that you speak like an actual noble?” Mui turned sideways to slip past an orc carrying a large wooden crate. “You never used language like that on our journey.”
“Because I’m actually talking about the shit I care about now,” Sara replied, taking a sudden turn. Once more, seemingly at random, they descended another stairwell, this one so steep Mui couldn’t fit more than his heel on the steps. Sara’s explanation was unbroken as she deftly navigated the perilous terrain. “Back home, I read all kinds of fancy shit. Political theory, history books, Marx. I know how to talk nice and proper. The fact that I don’t when I’m in important meetings says more about the image I want to project than it does about me.”
“So you’re saying that using phrases like ‘enforce its progenitor’s ideology’ is how you naturally speak?”
“No. But it’s how I talk about politics.”
“Master’s mind is frighteningly fragmented,” Evie said in Continental, not bothering to try and explain herself in shaky Kemari. “She does not know basic facts about how her original government operated as intended because she had no interest in its successes, yet she has an encyclopedic knowledge of how and when it failed.”
“Yeah, well, wasn’t much point learning how to fix the shit that was already working fine, right?” Sara countered. She stepped out into the new lower level, which was even cooler and more damp than the layer above. Mui did not know how many more existed even lower. “Never expected to have to rebuild everything from scratch.”
“Your father claims that knowledge of your country’s operations should have been a matter of ‘civic pride.’”
“Fuck does he know about civic pride?” Sara scoffed. “Dude’s been a leftwing professor since the Reagan era. He’s probably on half a dozen government watchlists. Or was, I guess.”
“You both know I have no idea what you’re arguing about, yes?”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re arguing with each other, not you.”
Mui shook his head, blindly following in Sara’s wake. He had lost track of their many twists and turns minutes ago, and had begun to suspect she’d never bothered to track her progress in the first place. She seemed to gather more satisfaction from the thumping of her boots against the stone than any actual destination, her narrowed eyes inspecting the city’s underlife with an alchemist’s precision.
They passed door after door to homes, shops, and anything else which could be stuffed into the terribly limited space. Many were dark, the iron cages which protected the crystal lighting bent and broken for the nigh-worthless quartz within. Those alcoves often held nothing more than the whites of someone staring back at Mui, sitting atop some shadowed figure crouched low. They sat with arms wrapped around their knees, lips pressed into a thin line. Men, women, and children of all sorts, gaunt and hollow-eyed. The crowds had thinned enough on the second level that each of these hidden figures afforded the time to look up as Mui passed, tracking him with a dangerous, hungry expression.
“Still loving the city life?” Sara asked. “Not quite as glamorous down here, is it?”
“No,” Mui replied simply. “It is not.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll look better through some beer goggles.”
“And where, exactly, are we going to find something to drink?”
“You don’t hear it yet?”
Both Mui’s and Evie’s ears perked up, swiveling from left to right.
“What am I listening for?”
“You’ll get it in a second.”
As they continued down the corridor, the lights came less frequently, the darkness stretching longer. The ethereal twilight began to fade into a cloudless midnight, the stars of single crystals creating pools of white that just barely merged at the furthest edges of their puddling light. The crowd thinned further and further, the walls growing damper, drops of water running in muddy streaks from the crease of the ceiling to the joint of the floor. Soon it was empty enough that those few who remained no longer had to speak up to be heard, but rather quieted themselves, unwilling to break the echoing silence.
Or, perhaps, they were listening to something. Long after the Chosen had somehow heard it, a distant rattle caught Mui’s attention. His and Evie’s ears both flicked forward, straining towards the sound.
His first thought, strangely, was of Tulian’s industry. The distant metallic crack of steel against steel, tool against material, the chorus of a dozen craftworkers side by side. But as they approached and the sounds grew sharper, he began to pick up… something. A rhythm, maybe. It was hard to tell. Every time he thought he could predict a certain pattern, he began to hear more underneath, quieter undertones that required more of his mind to dissect. With every step closer, he became more convinced that it was intentionally created, but less certain it made any sense at all. It was complex to the point of randomness, layer upon layer of rattling pops echoing down the stone corridors.
“What is that, Master?”
“A sick-ass drummer,” Sara said. “Check it out.”
They turned one final corner, revealing…
The dirtiest, grimiest human man Mui had ever seen. Shirtless, sweat dripping from ragged, matted hair, his wiry muscles were wrapped so tightly around the frame of his body that Mui struggled to understand how he still had the strength to move. His elbows were thicker than his forearm and biceps, his ribs pressed hard against his skin, and every knuckle of every finger was white with ashy callouses. Mui could see his face only in the brief flashes when his hair parted, and what he saw there should have been an empty, listless individual.
Yet his hands moved in a blur, wooden sticks bouncing off a dizzying array of dented metal. His ‘instruments’ were pots and pans, pieces of scrap metal, and even the occasional strike of a mallet against the stone. The crystal above gave the dull metals the slightest sheen, highlighting the drops of sweat which dripped off his body to land on the pots and trace a meandering path through the bent iron, only to be shattered to mist when his next strike arrived.
“See? This is the kind of bar I was talking about,” Sara said, waving to the man. “Quiet area, live music, the works. Let’s stop here.”
It was only after a great deal of effort that Mui could tear his eyes away from the man, realizing that another one of the thin slots of the wall was just nearby. Beneath the rhythmic cacophony was the sound of muttered conversation and wood sliding across stone, emanating from the faintly lit alcove.
He followed Sara into the slip of light, but he couldn’t quite peel his eyes away from the peculiar drummer. There was something about him that was indescribably captivating, even if he was the spitting image of those who Mui had once disparagingly imagined to live in the lower levels of the city. The music- and he wasn’t sure if it could really be called music- was an extension of the madness he saw in the man’s eyes. Someone like that man could never exist up above. He would be locked away, brought to a healer, cured of whatever illness which had inspired him to cultivate such narrow talents. Down here, however, his madness had flourished into something truly unique.
“The hells are you doing here?”
A gravelly voice finally snapped Mui from his reverie, drawing his attention to the cubby he’d all but walked backward into.
It was, as he’d suspected, a tavern, but not of any sort he’d seen before. It was perhaps twenty or thirty feet long, dug deeply into the stone, but just barely wide enough for him to spread his arms without hitting either wall. It had clearly been carved for its purpose, the bartop being simply a slab of stone which had not been cut away. Wooden shelves contained unlabeled containers of what he could only assume to be alcohol, in the form of a motley collection of glass bottles and sealed wooden mugs, with a few tapped barrels of something else visible at the end of the slot.
The voice belonged to an orcish man behind the stone barrier, one whose brow was furrowed in profound irritation. There were only three others sitting in the long row of chairs, each of them staring at Sara with obvious displeasure.
“Here for a nap and a drink, ” the Chosen replied, sliding confidently into a seat.
The orc’s brow furrowed. “In that order?”
“Always.”
As if she had passed some secret test, the bar’s occupants relaxed, returning to their preoccupations. The metallic music continued from outside, captivating as ever.
“What’dya want?” The bartender asked Sara.
“Get me drunk.”
“Two copper.”
Evie slid the coins out of a hidden pouch within her ragged clothes, setting them on the stone. They disappeared into the orc’s palm, replaced by three mugs on the counter. Something foul smelling was poured into each one. Sara happily grabbed her mug and pulled it to her lips, taking a large swallow.
“Don’t worry,” she gasped, setting the mug back down with a hiss of pain. “I won’t talk any more politics. I’m not that kind of drunk.”
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“Butchyou don’t geddit!” Sara bellowed, slamming her drink down. “Nationsh evolved from the shity- shity- cities- that organized.” She waved her hand emphatically, stabbing it into Mui’s chest. “Governments are shupposed to be the people, not just in charge of the people.”
“Don’t make no fucking sense!” Mui yelled back, grabbing her wrist in a vain attempt to shove her point finger off of him. “A thousand years! A thousand fuckin’ years of peaceful… peaceful times. That’s what people a-are fighting for. The war’s gotta end the right way, or else that thousand years ain’t gonna happen again!”
“Thousand years of fuckin’ bootlicking,” Sara slurred, pushing her hand back into Mui’s chest. He couldn’t budge her arm for the life of him, but her wrist was warm and felt nice to hold, so he kept jerking it around anyway. “Don’t matter what it was, who was in charge, a thousand years or a fuckin’ million, doesn’t matter at all! None of it! People living down in the dirt when- when they’ve got gold towers up above ‘em!” Sara slammed her mug down, emphasizing each word. “Gold. Fuckin’. Towers! Literally! Gold!”
“Least they’re not getting stabbed in some fuckin’ field!”
“Nah, they were just starving to death in their own fucking house!”
“Y’weren’t there! Y’don’t know that!”
“Fuckin- how old are you? Thirty? You weren’t there either!”
“I’m not thirty!”
“Y’look thirty-one.”
“Bullshit!”
And so the shouting match went, Mui’s blurry, blurry world filled by the swimming apparation of Sara’s face. His left hand was holding onto his chair for dear life, the only thing keeping him from toppling over with every impassioned cry. He didn’t know how long it had been; only that the city had come to life around them, even this once-empty portion of the narrow streets having slowly filled with other people. Up above it was probably evening, maybe even night, judging by the number of people who now had the time to spend at a bar. There was a line outside the bar, but they hadn’t ceded their seats.
Well, not really. Evie was currently kneeling on the floor, limp limbs wrapped around her wife’s knees. Her eyes were stapled shut, but she occasionally stirred long enough to incoherently mumble and bob her head around, alternating which cheek she rubbed against Sara’s bare skin with a lighthearted trill. Every now and then the Chosen had to shove the feline’s head back down, as it showed a remarkable tendency to slowly creep its way further up her dress. In her drunken stupor, it seemed Evie had become convinced that moving slowly enough would hide the fact that she was aiming to plant her tongue right between her wife’s legs.
“Hey,” a voice rumbled.
Mui’s muzzle swung around towards the noise, his ears and eyes following along a second later. He squinted at the green blur which was leaning over the countertop, eventually discerning a not-very-happy tusked face.
“You three aren’t with us, are you?”
“W-what gave it away?” Sara asked, hiccuping her way through a laugh. “You just figure it out, brighteyes?” Sara blinked several times, frowning. “Wait. Not brighteyes. Bright… bright guys. There we go. I figured it out.” She beamed a smile up at the orc. “What were you saying?”
“Get out of my bar,” he growled.
Sara hummed thoughtfully, bobbing from side to side as she considered her response.
“Mmmmmno.”
“Get. Out.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Fine then,” the orc said, pulling their fist back.
Mui held up both hands to stop the nice bartender, flopping forward in a panic.
“Wait, she’s-”
The orc’s fist shot forward, aiming for Sara’s jaw.
Halfway through its trip to her face, his elbow took an unplanned and very abrupt detour towards the bar’s entrance, bending out of place. It was disturbing in a way that was very unhelpful for Mui’s ability to keep his drink down.
The bar was filled with a loud CRACK as the limb was snapped, lower half left dangling uselessly from the orc’s bicep.
“No means no,” Sara slurred, ignoring the man’s shriek of agony. She shook out her hand. “Damn, boy. You got some thick meat on your bones. Or thick bones. Whatever.”
Every other patron in the thin bar slid out of their chairs as one, many drawing knives from their belts.
“Sara,” Mui whispered, leaning close, closer, until he almost fell out of his chair, stopped only by his jaw landing on her shoulder for support. “Sara. Sara, I think they’re gonna try and fight us.”
“Evie!” Sara yelled, kicking her wife in the ribs. “Bar fight!”
The feline made a decidedly unpained groan at the impact of Sara’s boot, briefly tucking closer to her leg. A moment later, the words filtered through to her half-drowned mind. Her eyes fluttered open.
“You promise?” She asked, clawing her way up Sara’s legs. Literally clawing; she left bloody pinprick trails in the flesh, something Sara didn’t seem to notice.
Evie got to her feet just as a vanara woman stepped up to their little trio, teeth bared in a hostile grin.
“I don’t think you three understand who you’re dealing with here,” she hissed. “And you’ve had too much to drink to know better. I think we’re going to take you back somewhere quiet and find out just how you knew what to say to get in here, yeah?”
“Mui!” Sara called, spinning around in her chair to face him. She hadn’t realized his head was already on his shoulder, so they ended up slamming faces together briefly, furry muzzle against pale skin. “Mui-mmghf.” She pulled back, blinking. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Remember what I said you should be saying more? Y’know, earlier?”
Mui frowned, the sludgy cogs of his brain grinding in place.
“Mmmmaybe?”
“I think you should say it to her.”
The vanara scowled. “If it is not an apology or an explanation-”
“Oh!” Mui’s face brightened. “That was it.” He turned to the vanara, grinning wide. “Gooooo FUCK yourself!”
A knife appeared out of thin air, driven towards his eye by the woman’s muscled arm.
Mui’s head lolled to the side, letting the weapon slide past him. He watched the furry arm trundle along past him, so slow, so much slower than he was used to in the war, and considered what to do.
And since his hands felt so far away at that particular moment, he opened his mouth, fangs glittering in the crystal light.
His jaws snapped shut over her arm. The taste of iron rolled over his tongue. A screech of rage blared in his ears.
The fight began.
Sara’s fist came up into the vanara woman’s jaw, dropping her with a meaty thud. She dangled for a moment, hanging from Mui’s mouth until he spat her arm out, letting her fall.
The orc bartender’s unbroken arm came swinging around, this time for Mui.
He stepped out of his chair to let it sail past him like a mighty river barge, wobbling his way until he felt the cool stone against his back.
Everyone else in the bar rushed forward, clogging the space, and things got complicated.
Mui punched the person in front of him right in the nose, breaking it as gently as he could. He wasn’t really sure how hard he could hit these people. Maybe they weren’t that bad, he reasoned. They could’ve been workers, or a gang, or who knew. None of them were soldiers with five years in the field though, he felt pretty sure about that, so he didn’t want to just kill them too easy. Really, if they were drinking the shit that was rolling around in Mui’s gut, drinking it on the regular nonetheless, they barely deserved to get punched, fight or no fight. It was awful stuff. Torture, really.
Had done a great job getting him drunk, though.
Mui stepped over the person he’d just punched, a fellow who was now screaming on the ground, and punched the next guy in line.
Or at least, he tried to.
This one was probably in a crime gang or something, because he actually dodged Mui’s swing, ducking under it. He also had a real long knife, almost long enough to be a sword (over the forearm length that marked it legal for a civilian to own, Mui’s muddled mind helpfully informed him) which he was currently swinging for Mui’s gut.
Mui stepped back, bumping against Sara. The knife-sword swished through the air uselessly, because the guy was dumb enough to swing it instead of stabbing, which would have been way better up close like they were. Really, he should’ve just used a proper knife. Would’ve been a lot better.
Mui’s leg swung skyward, or roofward as the case currently was, aiming for the knife-sworder’s crotch. He was drunk enough that he missed the delicate bits with the tip of his shoes, instead slamming his shin right beside the guy’s manhood.
There was a scream as the man recoiled, pelvis fractured. Mui shoved a palm against his chest, pushing him up against the other ones behind him, using him as a shield to push them out into the street.
Somehow, Mui had no idea how, Evie was already out in the middle of the road- er, walkway, or whatever it was called under the city. He didn’t know, though he bet Sara did. She knew so much. More than she should.
But the point was, there was already a body slumped at Evie’s feet, some man of some sort face-down on the stone. Evie had a very, very wide smile on her face, and the other two people that had been surrounding her were halfway through an about-face, getting ready to run right the hell away from her.
Then the bundle that Mui had been shoving managed to untangle themselves, and Mui realized that actually, the street wasn’t a good place to be, because there were now a bunch of people on either side and all around him, and they all really wanted to punch him. Probably more than he wanted to punch them, as a matter of fact. Wasn’t ever a good idea to get in a fight where the other side had more to lose. He remembered that from his Sergeant’s handbook.
A knife came for his ribs off his right, which he swatted to the ground, sending the blade bouncing off the stone.
Another swung from his left, so he stepped towards the girl who’d just lost her knife, practically stepping up into the lady’s arms, like he was going for a hug.
Sara came out of the bar behind him, laughing wildly. There was a trail of groaning men and women in her wake, and none of those left conscious seemed interested in stomping all over their friends to make their way to join them on the floor.
The woman Mui had shoved up against tried to grab his forearms, twisting to hold him in place for her buddy to knife. He didn’t want that to happen, so he grabbed her arms in turn, swinging her around.
She went not-quite-flying towards the fellow who’d been rushing onward, who had to pull up short so he wouldn’t stab his friend in the face.
While they found the time to not kill each other, Mui took the opportunity to lash out at one of the women who’d been standing near the one he’d just tossed, his knuckles popping something in her cheekbone.
Maybe it was her cheekbone.
Cheek. Bone.
Why is it called that? Is there only one cheekbone? Surely there’s two, on both sides of the face? Or does it go all the way around?
Sara laughed with delight as she sprinted past Mui, lowered shoulder ending up slamming into someone across the way. She drove them all the way to the far wall, driving the air from their lungs, then she stepped back, throwing her hands out wide, like a performer who had just completed a trick.
Beside her, Mui noticed, a second body had joined the first at Evie’s feet. He hadn’t seen when or how.
Mui put his hands up as the two people he’d just thrown at one another came for him again, apparently too distracted by being angry to notice what had happened to all their other friends.
Mui’s left fist hit the one on the right, breaking something important, then his right fist hit the one on the left, their feet flying out from under them.
He heard a thump. Another body had just dropped at Evie’s feet.
The last of the bar’s occupants, and those that had been waiting in a line outside, made the wise decision to pause for thought.
Judging by their faces, they all seemed to be thinking different things. The ones looking at Mui’s bloody muzzle were angry. The ones looking at Sara’s wildhearted laughing were confused. And the ones looking at Evie’s cheshire grin were just plain afraid.
They all came to the same conclusion, though:
Time to run away.
The street cleared in a few rowdy seconds, the crowds of evening traffic sprinting away from the commotion.
“Whoo!” Sara cried, holding up her hands. “Hell yeah! Been so fucking long since I fought someone that was mad at me! Do you know how bad I- oh, hold on.”
Sara put her hands on her knees and bent over, promptly spewing a fountain of foamy vomit over her boots.
“They’re not dead,” Evie said to Mui, unprompted, dragging his attention over to where the feline was pointing at her collection of piled bodies. “I think.” She nudged one with a foot. There was no response. She shrugged. “I didn’t stab them, at least.”
“They don’t look very alive.”
“They’re not bleeding,” Evie pointed out.
“I don’t think that means-”
“Whoah!” Sara shot back upward, stumbling to one side. She wiped her mouth. “Okay. There we go. Always feel better after puking. How ‘bout you guys?”
“I’m fine,” Mui said.
“I would probably feel better after puking, too.”
“Okay!” Sara said, pointing a finger at her wife. “Throw up.”
The collar on Evie’s neck- Mui had no idea when that thing had shown up- flashed. The feline abruptly bent double, a horrible gagging noise filling the street as she spewed her own vomit onto the stone.
“Why did you do that?!” Mui cried, moving forward to take Evie’s hair in his hands. It had come out of its braid slightly in the fight, and he held it out of the path of her vomit.
“She asked me,” Sara said. “Wait. Are you holding her hair up? That’s so fucking cute.”
“What-”
“Oh!” Evie exclaimed, popping back up. She grabbed Mui’s sleeve and dragged it around to wipe her mouth. “I do feel better. You were right, Master.”
His head was swimming in far too much shitty beer to make sense of anything that was happening right now. To make this clear, he took a deep breath, pounding his chest to hold back a burp.
“...I want to go to sleep,” he announced.
“If I hadn’t just puked, I’d already be sucking you off so fucking hard-”
“I think I know where we can sleep,” Evie declared, tearing off a piece of her clothing to wipe her shoes of vomit. Then she frowned, freezing halfway through her cleaning. “Wait, were you saying something, Master?”
Sara stood there, staring at nothing. Then she slowly swung her head around to Evie.
“Huh?”
“What?” Mui asked.
“I know where a place to sleep is,” Evie repeated.
“A bed?” Sara asked.
“No. But there’s a door, and I think it locks. I saw it earlier.”
“Good enough for me,” Mui said, imagining the horrible climb he’d have to do while drunk if they wanted to get back to the barracks.
“Okay,” Sara said, wobbling her way over to Evie. “Let’s go. I want to sleep.”
“Me too,” Mui said.
“We know. You already told us.”
Mui blinked. smacking his lips. They still tasted like shitty beer. He hoped they’d stop tasting like that sometime soon.
“...Huh?” He asked.
“Sleep.”
“Good idea. We should.”
“Good gods,” Evie muttered. “You two just… just follow me.”
Mui stumbled off after the two women, one of whom was leaning on the other. They seemed like such a nice couple.
Behind them, the drummer played, the pattern of his music etching a line in Mu’s mind. Those tinpop rattles of his had never stopped. Not for a single moment.
Notes:
The first of your two holiday Mega Updates. Next week's going to be two very large events, hope you're looking forward to it!
Chapter 131: B3 Ch18
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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Sara’s eyes cracked open at some unknown hour, the crust of sleep trying to keep her lashes stuck together. When she finally worked them apart, she discovered that the outside world wasn’t brighter than the one beneath her eyelids. It was pitch black, musty, with a gentle rumble running its way through the stone she’d fallen asleep against.
She started to sit up, only to realize that she wasn’t actually as heavy as she’d first thought. There was just a body thrown across her stomach. Patting it blindly with her hands, she eventually felt out the familiar contours of her wife, face-down, their bellies laid across one another. She was utterly limp, completely unconscious, and snoring ever so slightly.
Sara slid herself out from under Evie, head throbbing. Fumbling around on her wife’s hips, she eventually found their bag, which she reached inside for a healing potion.
An icy rush flowed along with the next aching throb of her skull, taking with it the remnants of her hangover.
The moment it was gone, Sara realized she’d been asleep for far, far longer than she’d thought. She was wide awake right away, which, considering the late-night activity schedule she usually kept, was an almost forgotten sensation.
Blindly feeling around in their bag of holding once again, Sara brought out a light crystal, bringing the room into sudden, stark relief.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Evie had indeed found them a locked room, but it clearly wasn’t fit for human habitation. The floor was sunken a few inches along the center, a thin bowl several feet long full of stagnant water. The walls were rougher even than the tunnels outside, jagged and misshapen in large chunks, and the floor was only marginally better. There were some scattered remnants of the room having been used for some purpose or another, chips of lacquered wood and the like, but nothing more than that. The only thing left laying on the floor besides herself and Evie was, unsurprisingly, Mui.
The catfolk man had stripped in the night. His shirt was balled up in a far corner of the room, half-dangling from a sharp bit of stone, and his pants were discarded just beneath his feet, like they’d been kicked off over the course of a fitful sleep. He still had underwear on, which she imagined he’d be incredibly thankful for. Like the rest of his clothes, it was loose, not unlike boxers, though even longer than their earthly equivalents.
Sara stood slowly, stretching her back out. She’d only taken a sip of the healing potion, not nearly enough to work out the knots of a night spent curled on slabs of merciless stone. And as she stretched, popping each joint in turn, she found her eyes wandering up Mui’s sprawled form.
Sara wasn’t a furry. She was very certain of that. She’d seen plenty of furry art back on Earth. Hell, she was active in leftist circles. She’d known plenty of furries. She was perfectly confident that they did nothing for her.
But look. When there was an actual, breathing cat person sprawled out in front of her? Not a catboy, but a catman? Things got complicated.
He had the physicality of a career soldier. Mui hadn’t told her how old he was directly, so she usually had to pretend not to know, but she knew he was a couple years younger than her. Just twenty-one. He’d been in the army for five years, though, and that meant his first Level had been in a combat Class. Between that and his hard living in the years since, his black fur hid an impressively beefy musculature. Not a strongman’s build, or even an athlete’s, but a soldier’s.
His shoulders were built up by swinging machetes through jungle foliage and thrusting spears in endless drills, while his backwards-bending legs were toned to fine marble by countless miles marching with his heavy breastplate. His forearms were even thicker than Sara’s had been back on earth, and he had solid biceps to complement them, running up into a thick-furred chest. His black coat, almost panther-esque in its sheen, hid what was underneath fairly well. Yet her mind’s eye could easily recall the times when rain had wet his fur down, revealing two thick slabs of pecs above solid, strong abs. As it currently was though, his fur simply puffed up even higher across his chest and stomach. There it was thick enough for her to sink her fingers into, her hands running up and down his body as she bent over him, pressing her face into the curve of his neck with an open mouth, tongue running out to snag his fur…
Sara shivered. Amarat’s Blessings had told her far too much about how catfolk got together. Some ingrained, undefinable instinct had told her all about how their muzzles didn’t lend themselves to kissing, and so they’d run their rough tongues over their partner’s entire body, lavishing them with attention, but moving one another’s necks most of all, sending shocks of groaning satisfaction through their partner as their lower halves ground against one another...
Her tongue grazed against the roof of her mouth as the images came to her. She could feel the tiny spines that had risen on it, neat rows of keratin readying themselves for whatever may come. Molding her body for Mui’s pleasure.
Sara stepped over the puddle in the middle of the room, reaching out with one hand to wake him. She still had a potion in her hand, enough to get rid of whatever hangover he was suffering. And more importantly, enough to make sure he was sober.
But as her hand descended, she found her eyes dragged back to his shoulder, where his yellow Sergeant’s petal so often sat. He was proud of that petal. He’d worked hard to earn it. He’d worked hard for an Empire, fighting its battles with all his heart, currying the favor of its elites. Not because he was selfish, but because he thought it was the right thing to do. He had a level of loyalty for the land he lived in that was almost forgotten in Sara’s old life. Mui Thom was consumed by a belief that it was deeply, fundamentally right to fight for his Emperor. That the faceless figure, a tyrant, had earned their place on the throne by some hazy interweaving of divine providence, fate, and sheer worthiness.
If Sara went into the meeting she had planned and found that his enemies were the better choice for Tulian, Mui wouldn’t follow her. He would stay loyal to his people. They would part ways, maybe amicably, maybe in a fury, but nothing would change the fact that she would soon be providing his enemies the weapons that might someday kill him. Sara would see it as just business, political maneuverings that were necessary to ensure Tulian didn’t get run under by the thrashing giants at its border, but Mui wouldn’t. He would be deeply, profoundly betrayed. He believed his Empire was just, and that if Sara was just, too, she would see reason and join their side.
Sara couldn’t promise him that.
“Mm?” Evie hummed. Sara glanced over her shoulder to find the feline having rolled onto her side, tail thumping the stone as she watched Sara. She’d already put her collar on, eager to feel what Sara did. “What are you waiting for, Master?”
“I…” Sara reached for the right words, licking her lips. Her tongue was no longer rough. “I can’t do that to him,” she whispered. “Not before we know whose side we’re on.”
“Our own, as always,” Evie murmured. She flicked her chin up at Mui, smirking. “He’s smart enough to see that. Eventually. You should indulge yourself, Master.”
Sara was tempted. She really was. Who could blame her? The dude was already one thin piece of cloth away from naked, and he was hot. But she shook her head.
“No. Sorry Evie, but no.”
Her wife’s smirk fell, but she nodded. “Of course. It’s your choice to make.”
“Yeah, well, here’s hoping I don’t regret it,” Sara muttered. “Don’t let me sabotage the talks just because I’m hungry for some cat dude’s dick, okay?”
Evie snickered. “You really desire him so much that you worry it might affect your political judgement?”
“I didn’t ask for you to make fun of me. Just to make sure I don’t get too horny to make a good decision, alright?”
“Keeping your libido sated has ever been my role in our lives, dear.”
Sara rolled her eyes, bending back down. She grabbed Mui by the shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. When there was no response, she shook harder, speaking up.
“Hey, big boy. Here’s a potion so your head stops feeling like it’s fucking exploding.”
Mui awoke with a groan that turned into a yawn, his muzzle stretching wide. Sara glanced away from his tongue, another shiver running through her.
“Gods,” he said, wincing. “What did you say?”
“Potion,” Sara said, thrusting it forward. “Take about half, then get dressed. Gods know how long we’ve been passed out in here.”
Mui took the potion with an awkward, unsteady hand, tipping it back with obvious relief. He shuddered, then opened his eyes wide, looking up at Sara.
“Wait. Did you tell me to get dressed?”
Sara chuckled. “Don’t worry. Your dick’s not out. Everything else is, though.”
Mui lunged upward in a panic, instinctively covering, of all things, his chest, only to realize how laughable that was, switching to his crotch. Sara outright laughed, taking a step back.
“Your shirt’s over there. And don’t worry man, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, but you haven’t seen mine,” he hissed, hauling his pants up his legs as quickly as possible.
“How do you know that?” Sara teased. “I’m the Champion of Amarat. Maybe I’ve got eyes in the back of my head, and I saw you get dressed every time you ever took off your clothes.”
“If that were the case, I would never want to know,” Mui said. “Please, throw me my shirt.”
Sara obliged, tossing it straight into his chest, then moved over to Evie, sitting back down while they waited for Mui to dress. The corridors around them were humming with the rumble of footsteps, but in this underground world, that meant little. Plenty of people who lived down here had given up on keeping in time with the sun above, moving and working whenever was most convenient for them.
“Alright,” Sara said as Mui finished dressing himself, “I’m guessing you don’t know the way to the Visya’s tower from here?”
“Of course not,” Mui said, clambering to his feet. Then he frowned, staring at Sara’s outfit. “Surely you’re not intending to meet them as you are…?”
“Mui. Buddy. Are you really asking me that? After how long you’ve known me?”
The catfolk stared at her.
“...Okay, no, I’m not,” Sara admitted. “We’re gonna go back to the barracks to get our armor. Whoever’s in charge of letting people in wouldn’t believe that I’m the Champion if I showed up like this, no matter how pretty I say please.”
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The Visya’s tower was, predictably, the most ornate in the entire city. Its gold-clad roof was just one of its many shameless displays of wealth, barely notable next to the gaudy collection that had been slapped on with heavy brushstrokes. The window frames were made of ivory, the glass itself often stained to depict fanciful renditions of some bit of Imperial history or another. These windows were inset into what would have been mundane brick, had it not been accented with fragile gold leafing.
As her eyes ran over the building, taking in more and more of its obscene lavishness, Sara felt her eyes start to glaze over. It was a palace of such excessive wealth that she could barely bring herself to pay it any attention at all. It was just too much, a tapestry of such miniscule detail that the greater whole became nothing more than a mess of ugly, splotchy colors. It was as much an insult to good taste as it was to the poor it towered over.
Mui didn’t seem to agree, of course. He stared at the tower in awe as they approached, cowed by its very presence. Even Evie seemed impressed by it, if only because of the sheer volume of material investment it represented.
Sara still couldn’t bring herself to give a shit.
The Visya’s tower was at the center of an elegant garden courtyard, as much a piece of art as it was practical. No one could get within fifty paces of the building without being spotted.
“Halt!” A helmeted woman called, holding up a hand.
The woman who had called out was at the head of a solid wall of guards, their armor so wrapped in enchantments that they glowed beneath the noonday sun. She stepped forward, lowering a long pike towards Sara’s chest. Behind her, crossbows rattled as they were brought to shoulders.
“Identify yourself!”
“Mui?”
The catfolk stepped forward, clearing his throat, and began his spiel. Sara waited impatiently, the click of her metal boots echoing across the courtyard as she tapped her foot.
When Mui’s recitation of the pompous welcome message had been completed, there were still more steps to be completed. First he was ushered forward to hand over the signed invitation, required to first disarm himself, and then the note was whisked away to be verified for authenticity. To her credit, the commander of the guards apologized to Sara for the delay, already convinced she was legit. She was just too well-trained to break protocol. Sara accepted her apology graciously enough, knowing it wasn’t her fault, but still didn’t bother to hide her irritation. After all, the guards almost certainly weren’t the only ones watching her, and it was always better to begin negotiations by convincing the other party they owed you an apology.
Sara was eventually let into the building with only two guards as an escort, ostensibly for her own protection. Considering the wealth contained in every room she passed through, she knew the reality was far different. No one who hoarded so many jeweled pieces of crap was capable of leaving anyone near them unattended, no matter how important they were.
She was ushered into an open-topped elevator, connected by enchanted steel cables to pulleys far, far above. She glanced up at the mechanisms as if she were curious, and asked her escorts how it worked. She listened to their prideful explanation for a few moments, until they confirmed for her that it was powered by sweating laborers in the floors below, then tuned out.
The Visya’s tower was pretty much what she’d expected. It was in dire need of an OSHA certification, for one, because the elevator had no doors at each level, just open-faced holes leading to a drop of hundreds of feet. Each floor they passed showed her another angle on the governance of the city, and, if she happened to be close enough to overhear, a snippet of the administrative duties being undertaken. Many of the floors were effectively bureaucratic offices wrapped in gold lilies, with mahogany desks and crystal chandeliers replacing gray cubicle walls. Abacuses clicked, reports were scribbled out, and watercooler gossip was shared, all so the city could lurch unsteadily on.
Her eavesdropping didn’t quite confirm several things for her, but they got close enough. To really hammer things home, Sara turned to one of her guards.
“Must be stressful doing this job, what with the Adjutant in town.”
The woman, another member of the lower section’s guards, stiffened.
“Your holiness?”
“You can just call me Sara,” she said reflexively. “And don’t worry, I already knew. It’s why I came to Tonlay, after all.”
“That’s… I cannot say, Your Holiness.”
“I mean, it can’t have made things any easier,” Sara pressed. “Even if you have enough people to do the job without pulling doubles, the paranoia’s gotta be crazy. And with an army heading to the city? Your captain’s probably breathing down your neck every chance they get.”
“We are the Visya Guards,” the woman stiffly said, maintaining a picturesque formality. “Our duties are too important to accept failure. Were the Emperor himself here, we would change nothing. If there exists a force capable of bringing harm to our charges, no mortal in existence could have hoped to resist it. We are the pinnacle of all mankind’s shields. The greatest of the defensive arms of the Empire’s forces. Should a creature be foolish enough to attempt to perpetrate the greatest of blasphemies against the Empire, we are the final, penultimate wall they must overcome.”
“Cool,” Sara said, turning back to watch the floors go past. “Hope they pay good. I’ve had a few buddies in security jobs, and their bosses loved to fuck ‘em over.”
The woman’s jaw tightened. Behind them, unseen, Sara felt a chastising tail flick against her leg. It could have been from either of her companions.
The elevator came to a stop somewhere on the thirtieth floor, the two guards stepping out ahead of them, hands on their swords as they glanced left and right to clear the room. Sara almost immediately became convinced that the tail flick had come from Mui, because Evie patiently waited for the two Imperials to approve the room’s safety, only to step out ahead of Sara, one hand on her revolver as she went about clearing the room for herself.
The jaws of the gaurds tightened further.
“You may wait in here,” Sara was instructed, one of the guards gesturing to a door. “As you did not announce your arrival beforehand, it may be some time yet until an appropriate representative is found.”
“Then my duty is done?” Mui asked.
The guardswoman’s eyes flicked over to him. “So it would seem, Sergeant. If you wish to remain to ensure no undue delays occur, as is your right, you may join us in our protection of the Chosen.”
“I thank you for the opportunity,” Mui said.
“See ya in a bit, big man,” Sara said, patting him on the shoulder as she and Evie went into the room. “Wish me luck.”
“I don’t believe you need it, ma’am,” he replied, not acknowledging her friendly pat. Back on duty once more.
The room they had been led to was jarringly spartan. Even before the door had shut behind them, Sara had finished taking in everything there was to be seen. The soft wooden flooring was covered by a woven reed mat in the center of the room, providing padding for whoever was sitting at the low, Japanese-style table on top. Four plain cushions were set out around the table, and there was a small potted flower as its only ornamentation. A clear glass window at the far side of the room gave an excellent view of the city beyond, its hinge cracked just enough to let a breeze flow through the room. Aside from the door Sara had entered through, there was one other, in the middle of the wall to her right.
“How long do you think they’re gonna make us wait?” Sara asked, moving to sit cross-legged at the table. “A bit of a dick move, showing up out of nowhere like I did, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they bite back a bit.”
“That depends on how desperate they are, Master,” Evie replied, taking her place behind Sara. She’d moved her revolver to dangle off her hip, rather than her chest, and she left her hand resting on its grip. Its fifteen inch length was far too cumbersome to wear in a traditional holster most of the time, but in such a tense situation, Evie had decided it was worth it. She kept a careful eye on both the room’s doors as she spoke. “Have you made any progress in determining how the war fares for either faction?”
“A bit,” Sara said noncommittally, careful not to reveal too much. She didn’t sense anyone listening in to their conversation, but if she was ever going to find someone capable of hiding from her Blessings, it was here. “Seems like lots of people are way too excited about the news that they won that skirmish on the Tulian border. Getting hyped about winning a minor battle doesn’t imply good things for how the important fights have been going.”
“But you don’t think they will be desperate enough to beg and plead, I assume?”
“No. I mean, they want the guns, don’t get me wrong. They’re not stupid. But they’re not going to bend over backwards for them.”
“I’ve met few people who are not willing to bend over for you, dear. I expect the Adjutant’s representative will be no different.”
Sara snorted. She’d managed to get Evie off on their way over, telling Mui they needed to stop for a bathroom break, but one little quickie wasn’t nearly enough to get her wife’s mind out of the gutter.
A knock sounded from the room’s other entrance, a quiet, cordial voice calling out.
“May I enter? I have brought tea for the Empire’s guests.”
“Sure, come on in,” Sara said.
The door swung open, admitting a human man dressed in the simple clothes of a bureaucratic servant. He was balancing a porcelain plate with two teacups in one hand, a steaming kettle grasped daintily in the other.
Evie watched the man approach the table with an eagle’s eye, never once taking her hand off her gun. The servant, to his credit, wasn’t bothered in the slightest, gliding gracefully to the table. He set out the teacups with stiff, regal posture.
“Do you take sugar in your tea?” The man asked, on hand upon the spout of the kettle to tip it forward, pouring the tea with unconscious ease.
“I’ll take some, thanks,” Sara said.
“No,” Evie said.
The servant produced a glass container of sugar from a pocket, shaking out a few spoonfuls into Sara’s cup, then set the kettle down on a padded piece of cloth.
Then, rolling up his sleeves, he pulled a stack of papers from within his shirt and set them on the table. He sat down on one of the cushions, legs folded beneath the table, and smiled.
“Well, then. Shall we begin?”
Sara’s Blessings flared to life, her mind leaping into overdrive.
The man- not a servant- held himself with the poise of endless practice. He was in his fifties, but his hair had not yet gone gray, and he was far healthier than the average Imperial citizen his age. He was appraising Sara and Evie with an expert’s eye, and, she realized, had been doing so since he entered the room. He was someone used to getting the better of whoever he spoke to, and his long years of experience in the ring of courtly politics had been honed into a confidence that thrived under pressure.
In short, this wasn’t the Adjutant’s representative.
This was the Adjutant himself.
Ah, goddammit, Sara silently groaned. He’s actually good at this, isn’t he?
The air in the room dropped several degrees as the realization wormed its way through Sara’s mind. The Adjutant himself had shown up. The head of an Empire which very well might dwarf anything Earth had ever seen, with all the duties and responsibilities such a title held, had made a personal trip to personally handle the negotiations.
This was no longer a casual, preliminary discussion, the tepid back-and-forth of proposals, counteroffers, and laborious approvals from powers on high that Sara had prepared herself for. What was said in this room over the next few hours would be binding. The Empire’s political system was still largely opaque to Sara, confusing as it was even to its citizens, but she knew enough to be certain the Adjutant’s word was, should he choose, as good as law. By the letter of the law, his authority was absolute, only able to be overturned by the enigmatic Emperor. The Adjutant was, as was true of every leader, tied by his need for his lessers to actually follow his commands, but in this case, that was all but a solved issue. From what she had heard on the streets, the current Adjutant was popular. He could afford to make controversial decisions, leaning upon the trust his years of solid administration had earned him.
She could see how it had been earned, too. He was already playing the game masterfully, appearing before her in a calculated, near perfect manner. He had heard of her distaste for pomp and circumstance and, knowing lesser nobility would be unable to circumnavigate the Empire’s onerous traditions, came to negotiate himself. He was the only one who could get away with ignoring the traditions of veneration his religion required to show a god’s Chosen, which accordingly meant he was the only one who could greet Sara in a way she might actually respect. Anyone else would have failed at step one.
But perhaps more problematically for Sara, his display of humility was not a falsehood. The mere fact that a man of his grandiose stature was willing to don servant’s clothing and pour tea for his guests was remarkable enough on its own, something Sara never would have seen in Sporatos, but it was intensified by the fact that he had been good at it. He had held a perfect servant’s posture, and he had clearly learned how to pour tea to the precise, exacting standards that his own staff were held to. That wasn’t something that could be taught on the spot; the Adjutant had, at some point, legitimately learned how to serve others. That was not something Sara had expected.
It was not an understatement to say that she had been blindsided. The man was good at what he did. For Sara to not recognize who he was on the spot was perhaps the most astonishing thing she’d ever seen. Unlike King Sporatos, this man clearly hadn’t split his life between that of a soldier and a leader. Whatever life he had lived, whatever Class he had earned, it was wholly dedicated to moments like these. For the first time in her new life, Sara was facing someone who might actually have a chance of getting the better of her.
Of course, no matter how shocked she was, her Blessings would never let it show. All this analysis flashed through her mind between the beats of her heart, long before any surprise could reach her face. Instead of recoiling, she smiled kindly.
“If you have nothing more pressing to attend to, of course,” Sara said. Behind her, Evie stiffened in shock as she belatedly gathered up the clues, showing more of a reaction than Sara had, but only just. She was a skilled Diplomat in her own right.
“You happened upon me at an excellent time, as a matter of fact,” the Adjutant replied. “I was between meetings, preparing for the next tiresome accounting of the city’s wellbeing. With an enemy army approaching, there is always much to be done.”
“I can imagine,” Sara said. “But from what I’ve seen, I’m surprised you’re even here. The force I saw heading for Tonlay isn’t one that this city is prepared to defend itself from.”
“Fortunately, I am in a position which affords me quite the number of options for traveling rapidly, should the need arise. If these negotiations draw themselves out until the enemy arrives, it will be a simple matter to have us transported beyond their reach, so that we may continue our discussions in peace.”
“Nothing peaceful about selling weapons,” Sara said. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table, one folded over the other. “That is what you brought us here for, isn’t it? You want Tulian’s guns.”
“Among other things, yes,” the Adjutant said, tilting his head towards Evie’s revolver. “Training our troops in their use would be another obvious object of the exchange, of course. And as either you, your wives, or those under your command are the most experienced in the world with these weapons, there would be no substitute.”
“So what are you offering, then?” Sara asked. “You’ve probably got spies galore up in your enemy’s camps. Do you know what they’ve already offered me?”
“Of course,” the Adjutant said, smiling. “Quite the sum you managed to extract from them, even if the details are not yet finalized. I applaud your efforts.”
“If you know how much they offered Tulian, what are you going to give me to beat it?” Sara asked. Now that she had the Adjutant right in front of her, any desire to draw the negotiations out had withered and died. “You seem like the type that’s done your research. You know I don’t care who wins this war. The only reason I’m involved is because I don’t want the people of Tulian to get trampled by some runaway army. If you think I’ll play favorites just because you’ve got some kind of claim to legitimacy or something…”
“Of course not,” the Adjutant said, chuckling. “I have not had nearly the time I would have desired to gather information on you, Sara Brown, but thankfully, you are a refreshingly forthright woman. I am not foolish enough to think that you are interested in the cause or morality of our conflict.”
“On the contrary, I am interested.” Sara took a sip of her tea, building herself a dramatic pause. She set the teacup down with a little click. “But not because I’m using the information to pick sides. What I really want to know is what changed.”
“Oh?” The Adjutant’s eyebrows rose.
“Something had to have,” Sara said. “Two hundred and fifty years of on-and-off war, kept entirely within your borders, only suddenly spilling out now? Don’t think I haven’t heard of your envoys traveling to the Western Kingdoms and Sporatos, either. For your first diplomatic entreaties to occur after more than two centuries, alongside a sudden shift in both army’s tactics? Something’s gone wrong, somewhere. Before I commit Tulian to backing anyone in this clusterfuck, I want to know what.”
The Adjutant folded his hands on the table, carefully considering his next statement.
“How much do you know of our Empire’s true leaders?” The Adjutant asked.
“The Emperor and his buddies?” Sara clarified. The Adjutant nodded. “Not as much as I’d like,” she said honestly. “People don’t like talking about them. I know the Emperor’s an elf, and he’s old. Been in charge for over a thousand years, supposedly. And there are other elves his age that are in charge of other stuff, working for him.”
Sara tapped her fingers on the table, running through the list of information she had accrued, doing her best to sort out the endless contradictions. “But for all the way people basically worship the guy, I haven’t met anyone that had a thing to say about something the Emperor’s actually done. No one’s ever said anything about a law he’s passed, a speech he’s given, or even rumors of a public appearance. Frankly, if you told me he doesn’t actually exist, that he’s just some propaganda story to keep the peasants in line, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
The Adjutant chuckled, “Emperor Aydrion is quite real, I assure you. As are his elven kin, the rightful rulers of our Empire. I communicate with them regularly.”
“So what’s the deal, then?” Sara asked. “No one has even suggested I meet with the Emperor. Just you or one of your representatives. Also, both sides of this war claim to be loyal to the guy. How’s that work?”
“A regretfully simplistic explanation may be provided, I am afraid.” The corner of the Adjutant’s lips turned down, the tiniest twinge of distaste coloring his words. “Apathy, Sara Brown. Apathy is how our once-unified Empire has maintained this state of chaos for so long.” The Adjutant turned to the room’s lone window, looking out at the city. “Emperor Aydrion was born two thousand and five hundred years ago. He ascended to the throne one thousand, one hundred and eighty-six years ago, when his father, who lives still, stepped down at the five thousandth anniversary of his coronation. To the Emperor and his ilk, this war has simply been an… aberration. A mild disturbance, a minor irritation which may easily be ignored.”
“Really?” Sara asked doubtfully. “Sure, he’s old. I get that. Probably doesn’t give much of a shit about what happens year-to-year, especially if both sides are still paying him tribute. Two hundred and fifty years is still coming up on a quarter of this guy’s rule, though. He’s gotta start caring eventually, right?”
“Yes.” The Adjutant turned away from the window, focusing on Sara. “That is the disaster that is approaching. The Emperor is growing irritated with the civil war, and has begun to speak of Elven involvement.”
“So?” Sara shrugged. “Sounds good enough to me. If the Emperor comes and puts his foot down, this whole shitfest will be done and gone, right? Both sides are still claiming to be loyal to him, so they’ll have to listen, right?”
“But the crux of the question remains: who shall the Emperor side with?” The Adjutant shook his head sadly. “Whoever Emperor Aydrion chooses, be it myself or the rebellion, the other will not surrender. Too many lives have been lost, too many blood debts incurred. They will fight to the last.”
“An ideal situation,” Evie said, speaking for the first time. She kept her eyes forward, guarding the room’s doors with a soldier’s discipline, but her words were spoken with the quiet refinement of nobility. “I have heard tale of the prowess of elven warriors and mages. Singing blades which carve the landscape with every swing, magefire of a brillance which turns night to day, and enchantments which are beyond the comprehension of all but the greatest of mortal minds. The war’s conclusion will be swift and brutal. After a defeat so absolute is wrought upon them, those few who survive will never think of raising arms again.”
The Adjutant, of all things, smiled fondly at Evie.
“You truly are Master Graf’s protege, My Lady. And you are, of course, correct. Should Elven warriors take the field, none will be capable of standing against them.”
“So what, then?” Sara asked. “You’re trying to get guns from me so you can win back as much territory as possible before the Emperor gets involved? Try to convince him you’re the right side to back?”
“No. I am trying to end the war before the slaughter begins.”
Sara cocked her head. That was a neat, tidy explanation. It fit her morality well. Trying to save as many lives as possible by any means necessary.
That made it suspicious. The Adjutant had been in charge of this branch of the Empire for decades. If he’d really wanted to end the war, he could have surrendered years ago.
Sara studied him, picking apart his mannerisms. Running his words through her mind again and again, noting each microscopic twitch and tilt. She actually had to take her time. The man was almost unreadable.
But she did think there was a kernel of truth to his words. He didn’t want the war to escalate.
He had seen something before. Something horrifying. It was still with him, still haunting his dreams, and he didn’t want to see it again.
But whatever it was, it couldn’t change the fact the Adjutant was an ambitious man. He wouldn’t abandon his position for morality alone. He had given everything he had to climb to the ultimate heights of power, and if he gave it up, all his life would have been for nothing. Whether it was his hate for his enemies, the memory of whatever horrors he had seen, or his own pride, it didn’t matter. Surrender was not an option. No matter how hopeless the war, he would fight.
“How long do you have?” Sara asked. “You said the Emperor started talking about involving himself recently. If he’s as ancient as you say he is, it could be decades until he actually gets involved.”
“And I may need decades to conclude this war.” The Adjutant sighed deeply, allowing a mournful expression to spread across his face. Sara doubted it was genuine. “Even with your weapons in our hands, the Empire is simply too vast to be pacified in short order. Yes, the Emperor only began speaking of his prospective involvement within the past few years. But he is an impulsive man, at least as much as an Elf may be when viewed through the lense of humanity. Perhaps it will be another fifty years before he sees fit to solve the war himself. Perhaps it will be a mere five. Both I and my rival Adjutant are doing all we may to forestall his involvement, but we are nought but gnats buzzing in his ear. Our influence is precious little.”
“So you’re desperate,” Sara stated plainly, staring straight at the Adjutant. The man returned her attention evenly, unbothered. “Why are you telling me that? I can push you all the harder for it. You have to know I’ve heard the talk on the streets. You’re on the backfoot, defending instead of attacking. And now you tell me that you need the war to end as soon as possible? That’s not smart. So why the honesty?”
“For one, the Imperial records of ancient Chosen are comprehensive enough that I am well aware of the folly it would be to lie to Emotion’s Chosen. The abilities of your predecessors were renowned across the world, and documented extensively.”
Great, Sara thought, keeping her face stern. Evie’s going to be even more paranoid about keeping secrets now. Who knows what they already know about me.
“And for another point,” the Adjutant continued, “I am confident that I have already prepared a proposal that is more than enough to win your loyalty.”
“I’ll never be loyal to a tyrant,” Sara reflexively snapped. “You may win my business, but you’ll never win my loyalty. I’ve never been loyal to anything in my damn life.”
“Save your wives, of course-” The Adjutant began.
“Not really. I fuck other people all the time.”
“And we rather enjoy it,” Evie said. “I personally feel you’ve been exceptionally loyal.”
“Not helping, Evie.”
The Adjutant chuckled. To his credit, the tangent hadn’t flustered him in the slightest. He smiled apologetically. “In matters of personal loyalty, I will differ to your expertise. As for greater matters, I ask only for your forgiveness. I spoke the term as a mere figure of speech. I only intended to express my confidence that my offer will far exceed the rebellion’s.”
“I almost bankrupted them, and you’re not doing any better, economically. What have you got that they don’t?”
“An understanding of your desires, Governess.”
The Adjutant flipped over the stack of papers he had brought with him, sliding them across the table.
She rolled her eyes. “You know, I’m sure you’ve got spies into Tulian since I left, but if you think you actually understand me from just that–”
Sara looked down at the top of the paper stack.
She choked on her words.
Republic of Tulian Trade Agreement, Glossary
Section 1, Imperial Assurances
Article 1: Abolishment of Slavery, Unpaid Labor
Article 2: Abolishment of Hereditary Nobility
Article 3: Establishment of Parliamentary System
Article 4: Establishment of Universal Education
Article 5: Universal Suffrage, Multi-Stage Introduction
As Sara coughed out her shock, the Adjutant leaned back on his cushion, a wide, honest smile warming his face. Evie leaned over Sara, claws digging into her shoulder.
Section 2, Imperial Defense of Tulian Sovereignty
Article 1: Assurances Against Rebel Aggression
Article 2: Assurances Against Sporaton Aggression
Article 3: Assurances Against Other Aggression
Article 4: Invalidation Clauses
Section 3, Payment
Article 1: Muskets
Article 2: Cannons
Article 3: Immediate Summoning of Tulian Mercenaries
Article 3: Training of Imperial Forces
Article 4: Industrial Tutelage, Firearm Manufacturing Tutelage
Article 5: Imperial Provision of Raw Material
Article 6: Provisions for Circumstantial Modification of Section 3
After that first explosive cough, having inhaled what felt like a gallon of her own spit, Sara got herself under control, smoothing her expression back over. It was too late to have pretended she wasn’t astonished by the offer sitting before her. Even Evie was unable to maintain her stoicism, her lips split in silent astonishment.
“Bullshit,” Sara spat, the word springing unbidden from her mouth. She looked up at the Adjutant. “This is bullshit. You’re fucking with me.”
“I am not.”
“You’re affording guns to save your Empire by destroying it?”
The Adjutant raised an eyebrow. “Destroying it? What of these matters would necessitate the Empire’s destruction?”
Sara thumped her hand down on the papers, jostling the neat stack into a scattered mess.
“What doesn’t? Democracy? Abolishing the nobility? Hell, I already noticed when I got to this city that you were getting rid of the divine collars, but that’s just because you fucks are too cowardly to accept keeping slaves when you know they might get free some day. If you actually go through with these promises, you’re ruining everything that makes your Empire an empire.”
“The Emperor makes an empire,” he replied matter-of-factly. “So long as ultimate authority lies with the Emperor, the Empire shall have fulfilled its most holy purpose.”
“What about the nobility?” Sara countered. She searched for the glossary page to stab for emphasis, but it had been lost in the scattering of the pages. Evie began gathering up the papers, organizing them once more. “If you’re getting rid of the nobility, then it’s just peasants and the Emperor. There’s no way your upper class is going to accept that.”
“Only the lower nobility shall be stripped of their titles,” the Adjutant said, gesturing towards one of the various papers, presumably the one which detailed his claim. “The upper members of the peerage shall remain, but they will be organized into a House of Lords within the Parliament, who will have equal voting power to the House of Peasants. Those who will be losing their titles are barely nobility at all; minor landowners, provincial nothings who have a handful of villages under their sway. They couldn’t even afford the trip to the capital in order to protest their circumstances.”
“So you’re not becoming democratic, you’re just letting peasants vote on a few random laws here and there,” Sara snapped. “You’re compressing political power and land ownership into an even smaller fraction of the population than it was before. The Visyas will own everything.”
“But they will be beholden, at least in part, to the laws passed by their subjects,” the Adjutant calmly replied. He remained dispassionate, not rising to the heat in Sara’s growling words. “Should the peasantry’s representatives come to a sixty-five percent majority vote, they may overturn any edict of their Visya.”
“What does a staged introduction of universal suffrage mean, then?” Sara asked, pivoting to another point on the list. Evie set the papers back down in front of her, neat and organized, only for Sara to snatch the front page up and jam her finger onto the line. “Who gets to vote? Only landowners? Only elves? Only men?”
“Only the literate. Voting rights will be established once a citizen has demonstrated their ability to read and write Kemari at an acceptable level, proving their ability to comprehend the topics they are voting on.”
“Literacy tests are a tool of the elite.” The old argument came to her quickly, the depraved history of the United States flashing through her mind. “You can exclude any demographic from voting rights by creating biased, illegitimate, or outright impossible tests, and then require only certain groups to prove their literacy.”
“Truly?” The Adjutant reached into a pocket, retrieving a quill and inkwell. “Neither I nor my advisors had considered such an underhanded tactic. The history of your old world has afforded you incredible knowledge of the potential pitfalls of a system that is, to us, utterly untested. If you wish, I am willing to amend the terms of suffrage to anticipate whatever difficulties you foresee.”
Sara’s eyes flashed, her anger growing. She turned the paper around in her hand, reading down the list.
“The fuck is this, then?” She asked, twisting the crumpled paper around once more. “Tulian mercenaries? You want Tulian citizens to fight and die for your people?”
“If they are willing,” the Adjutant said, setting aside his quill when he saw Sara had no interest in discussing minor trivialities. “My sources indicate that your governance specifically assures Tulian citizens have the right for firearm ownership, in addition to a right to travel beyond their borders without governmental permission. To be hired to fight another’s wars is well within these limitations.”
“But you don’t want to hire random people,” Sara said. “You want to hire Tulian soldiers. Men and women that’re experienced with guns, who fought the Sporatons with them.”
“Of course. We are, as you so astutely noted, on the ‘back foot.’ In the time it would take for you to provide, arm, and train our troops with your weaponry, countless setbacks may be suffered. We need a force capable of bolstering our defenses immediately.”
“I’m not going to order people to fight some foreign dictator’s war,” Sara said. “I’m just not. There’s no way in hell.”
“I am not asking you to order them. I only ask that you allow us to make the request and, perhaps, to make a special dispensation allowing active-duty soldiers to breach their service contracts in order to pursue mercenary work. I do not worry about finding enough volunteers. We will pay handsomely, by the standards of the North.”
“You’ll pay handsomely by your own damn standards,” Sara snapped angrily, only to immediately regret it. The Adjutant smiled. She’d all but revealed she’d agree to allowing Tulian citizens to take up mercenary work.
Sara took a deep breath, calming herself. She looked to Evie, then patted the floor next to her, inviting her to abandon the pretenses of being a bodyguard. The Adjutant wasn’t intimidated by her presence anyway. Sara may have been gifted in all things diplomatic, but she wasn’t formally trained. Evie would notice things in the treaty that Sara couldn’t. Her wife sat down gracefully, setting her holstered gun on the table beside the stack of papers, and began to read.
“What about payment, then?” Sara demanded while Evie worked. “The ‘rebels’ were going to give us half a planet of raw materials, gold, enchantment work, everything we could ask for. What are you going to give us?”
“Whatever is required for you to manufacture the weapons we require, and not an ounce more.”
Sara barked out an ugly laugh. “Really? You’re going to try and counter two hundred tons of gold with that?”
“Let us not play games,” the Adjutant said. He leaned forward, putting both palms flat on the table, glittering eyes falling into the shadow of his brow. “This treaty, without a single drop of ink spent for corrections, is enough. I do not know you, Sara Brown. But I know your goals. You have stated them for all the world to hear.” He smiled cruelly, taking a savage delight in his impending victory. “The enemy was willing to sacrifice their economy upon the altar of your providence. Me? I have sacrificed my Empire’s fate. I have read the records of your speeches, that the world of equality you envision is inevitable, and I have found myself convinced. Not by your divine Charm, but by the soundness of your arguments. This is why I have thrown myself behind your cause, in as close a way as I dare, and you must understand I have done this at no small risk to myself. Shall your prophecy of an equal world not come to pass, I will be known as the greatest fool to ever claim the title of Imperial Adjutant.” He licked his lips, discarding his charade in a blaze of honesty, one that burned across his visage in the form of a deep, hungry greed. “Should it succeed? Should the world be altered as you desire? History will hail me as the first hero of the people. A conqueror and liberator both. He who ended the Last War of Tyrants not by killing, but by embracing the freedoms of the people.”
The expression vanished like flash paper, dissolving into the same impassive nothingness that had covered his face before. He leaned back, waving a vague gesture at the papers.
“So read as long as you please, Sara Brown. Find the flaws in my plans, inform me of them, and rectify them. You are a creature of Divine Providence. To ignore your advice would be the most foolhardy thing of all. But understand this, first and foremost: I will give you nothing more than the freedom of my people. All else? That will be paid at cost.”
Sara wanted to swear. She wanted to kick and curse and throw something at the man.
But she couldn’t.
Because he was right.
Sara joined Evie in reading through the treaty’s pages. It was thirty-two pages long, written in neat, dense Kemari script. Evie could thankfully read the language better than she could speak it, and together, with occasional input from the Adjutant, they teased out every hidden detail from the legalise.
The Adjutant?
The Adjutant stayed true to his word.
When Sara found a flaw in his proposed integration of democracy into his feudal society, he dipped his quill in fresh ink and began to scratch and scribble away, replacing the section of text with an amended version. When she clarified that buying weapons “at cost” included the cost of labor and material both, including the inordinately high wages that Tulian laws require workers to be paid, he accepted her terms without blinking. He did not even quibble at the fact the Tulian government would still be taxing this income, ostensibly circumnavigating the clause that the Empire would not be directly paying the Tulian government for the weapons. It was the cost of doing business, he explained. No treaty could be without loopholes.
And the governmental changes he proposed were… not awful. A House of Lords, composed of the uppermost ranks of the nobility, would act as one branch of a national parliament, given equal voting power (regardless of the population they controlled or represented) to their opposites, the House of Peasants, which Sara insisted be renamed to the House of Commoners. Working out how, exactly, a law could reach a successful voting percentage was somewhat complicated. Sara had to spend more time than she probably should have working out the hypotheticals, which Evie and the Adjutant seemed to comprehend as a matter of course. If sixty percent of the House of Lords voted ‘No’ on a proposal, but sixty percent of the House of Commoners voted ‘Yes’, would the law pass? Apparently that meant it was a tie, with fifty percent of the combined body voting for and against. That would require a re-vote, this time with the Houses allowing their members to vote anonymously, instead of on the public record to hopefully allow intra-party dissent. It was an awkward, ungainly system, but it actually seemed like it might work.
Ultimately, Sara was still disgusted by the concept of anyone being born into political power, but it was clear that there was no compromising on the point. The Adjutant already thought he was stretching his political authority as far as it could go, to the point that if his enemies developed their own firearms too soon, or if Sara’s weapons didn’t perform well enough, he feared a coup. To outright abolish the nobility was out of the question.
As for the final issue? The last one of the many things which Sara took exception to?
There was no surprise there.
“Of course, it would be a considerable boon to the popularity of the Tulian people within the Empire if you were to command the mercenaries yourself,” the Adjutant said. “As a Chosen of the Gods, you are more than welcome to refuse, but I find it difficult to imagine anyone who would be more appropriate for the position.”
“If the mercenary composition you want hasn’t changed, I think Artillery Lieutenant Shale would almost be better. Seems like you want a siege-breaking force more than you want field soldiers.”
“Ah, but she is overseeing the construction of fortifications in anticipation of the coming Sporaton invasion, is she not?”
Sara narrowed her eyes at the Adjutant. It was hours later, and the sinking sun had begun to send beams of glaring light through the window.
“You better get your spies out of my city before I get back,” she told him. “I won’t go easy on them just because we made this deal.”
“Of course,” the Adjutant replied noncommittally. “But as for the commander of the mercenary forces…?”
“The sitting Governess can’t be in charge of a paramilitary force,” Sara said. “I’m not going to establish that precedent. I just won’t.”
“Then-”
“So Evie will be the official commander,” Sara said.
Her wife, who had been going over yet another of the many amendments to the treaty, jerked upright.
“Master, I cannot possibly accept such a position of authority.”
“It’s just a political game,” Sara assured her. “I’ll actually be in charge, of course. But it has to be you, not the Governess, that’s in charge.”
The Adjutant cocked his head. “And how does allowing the governess’s wife to be in charge of this force meaningfully alter the precedent being established?”
Sara sighed, rubbing her face with open palms. “It barely does,” she admitted. “But at least it’s something. Some level of divorce between me and the mercenaries. It’ll at least show the history books that I thought this decision was fucked up.”
“But you will effectively be in charge of this force?” The Adjutant pressed.
“Yeah. Fuck me, I guess, but I will. Not like I’d want Tulian citizens killing and dying under anyone else’s watch.” She shook her head, disgusted. “Fucking hell. This is going to be a mess.”
“Yours will be a position of prominence in any army you join,” the Adjutant assured her. “So long as they do their duty when asked, your troops will be afforded every measure of safety possible.”
“No such thing as safe in the middle of a war,” Sara said. Looking over the scattered sheets one more time, the thirty page document having ballooned to well over two hundred, she groaned. “At least our parliament will be glad to hear you’re willing to back us against Sporatos.”
“Only in time,” the Adjutant reminded her. “We cannot spare any forces on such a distant march north until our own borders are more secure.”
“Yeah. But at least you’ll be able to help with the third Sporaton-Tulian war.” Sara shook her head yet again, a frustrated rumble building in her chest. “They’re going to invade again. Soon. The King has to prove my guns aren’t worth shit, or else everything comes crashing down around him.”
“That would be a foolish move, no?”
“King Sporatos is not a fool,” Evie said, speaking in Continental. The Adjutant had access to some form of translation magic, they had discovered. “But he is very close to one. His reign began with the crushing of potential rivals in the form of the coastal city states, and he was seemingly rewarded by the gods for this effort when Old Tulian was battered into collapse. He is not an anxious man, nor even a particularly paranoid one, but he does not tolerate threats. Tulian is something he could never ignore.”
“So you say,” the Adjutant said, bobbing his head in acknowledgment to Evie. “You know the man better than I do, of course.”
Sara tried to focus back on the papers, but her eyes began to glaze over, turning the table into a mess of white sheets and blurry brown. She spent a moment in silence, running through the long conversation in her mind.
Sara suddenly stood, grabbing her pen and pocketing it.
“Alright, we’re done. Anything else is just arguing over pointless details. I’ll inform Tulian tomorrow, and then I’ll let someone on your staff know what’s going to happen next.”
“Excellent,” the Adjutant said, standing as well. The edges of his writing hand was covered in ink from his quill, unlike Sara and Evie, who had benefited from their Hurlish-made fountain pens. Somewhat petulantly, Sara had refused to offer the Adjutant one, even though she knew they had spares.
Evie spent a moment longer on the ground, finishing reading one last amendment, then stood as well, stretching her arms out high, tail curling around Sara’s thigh. She finished her stretch with a satisfied smacking of her lips, then bent down and grabbed her gun, slotting it back into her chest holster.
“You will be providing us a completed copy of the treaty,” Evie said to the Adjutant. A statement, not a question. Very nearly an order.
“Of course,” the Adjutant gamely agreed, ignoring the minor insult. “And you will be directly informed of any changes, even if they are as small as a single word or re-ordering of certain paragraphs.”
“Excellent.”
“Let’s go, Evie,” Sara said tiredly, wrapping an arm around her wife’s shoulders. “I need something to eat.”
“If you’d like, I could have the Visya’s chefs prepare-”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Sara snapped. “I’ve had enough rich people shit in the least six hours to make me puke. We’re leaving.”
The Adjutant bobbed his head politely, smiling. “Have a pleasant day, Sara.”
She exited without another word, barely biting back a reflexive fuck you. She didn’t even know why she was so mad at the man. It was something to pick apart later, when she wasn’t hungry and tired.
Honestly, she probably just hated the fact that he’d gotten the better of her. Turns out she was a sore loser. Who could have guessed?
As she stepped out into the previous room, Sara’s eyes widened in surprise. The two guards, the elite-of-the-elitiest or whatever the fuck they’d been, were still there. She’d expected that.
But somehow, unbelievably, she’d forgotten about Mui. For some reason, she’d assumed he’d stayed for an hour or two, gotten bored, then left to return to his squad. She didn’t know why she’d thought that; the man was nothing if not fanatical about his work.
That didn’t make her any less surprised to see him standing across the room, breastplate polished and shining, facing the elevator door in parade rest. Someone had already called up the elevator, which was waiting for Sara to enter.
“You have finished?” Mui asked, stepping forward eagerly. He crossed a sunbeam from the windows as he went, which crossed his fur in a shifting pattern. When it was caught in the evening sunlight, it seemed to gain a hypnotic, almost purple sheen. “You have come to an accommodation, I hope?”
“Yeah, we worked something out,” Sara said tiredly, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “That was the real Adjutant, by the way. Came all the way here just to make sure I could finish the deal then and there–”
Sara’s words bit off as Mui approached, grinning widely. Something had just occurred to her.
“That is excellent news! I look forward greatly to seeing your people’s muskets in our hand, ma’am, I truly do. I knew you would see reason–”
“Yeah,” she said, eyes trailing up and down Mui’s body. She caught herself licking her lips, tongue rough as a cat’s, and pulled it back into her mouth. “Yeah, they’ll be pretty helpful for people, probably. Hey, by the way, are you off duty now?”
“Hm. I am not sure.” Mui turned around to the other guards. “I am unfamiliar with this portion of protocol. Now that the meeting I was charged with providing for has occurred, what am I to do?”
The woman, the captain or whatever her rank was, shifted in her armor.
“You are to return immediately to your assigned–”
“I’m pretty sure he’s off-duty,” Sara butted in.
The woman scowled. “He must–”
“Yeah, cool, whatever,” Sara said, grabbing Mui by the shoulder and dragging him to the elevator. “We’re leaving now, thanks for all your standing there.”
“I–”
“You’re being ignored,” Sara informed her, shoving Mui into the waiting elevator.
Notes:
I could write some shit here, but I know you're all going to be hitting that next chapter button faster than god himself could manage
Chapter 132: B3 Ch19 (E)
Notes:
CW: Nonhuman genitalia (nothing too extreme)
Chapter Text
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Mui Thom
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The flight from the Visya’s tower– and flight was the only way Mui could describe it– was bewildering. Sara, who had at first seemed so exhausted after exiting the negotiations, suddenly found in herself a burst of inexplicable energy. He had been all but dragged into the elevator, then dragged back out of it, forced to jog behind the woman just so he wouldn’t be yanked off his feet by her grip on his wrist. Her urgency was great enough that he feared she’d not even stop to let him gather himself, but would rather drag him along the street until they reached their mysterious destination.
“Hey Evie, can you-”
“Of course, Master,” the feline said, splitting from her wife’s side. “Should I tell the others to expect you back in four or five hours?”
“Or more,” she said, still tugging Mui along.
“Of course. I’ll know when you’re finished, after all.”
“I am not your escort anymore, Sara,” Mui reminded her. “What, exactly, are we rushing off to do?”
“Flower picking,” she said, giving her wife a quick kiss goodbye as the woman departed their company. “I heard someone talking about a good inn not too far from here.”
“We are going flower picking in an… inn?”
With a disorienting jerk, Sara suddenly tugged Mui aside, dragging him into an alleyway. Mui started to ask another question, at an utter loss for any form of understanding, but his words were cut off as he found his back slamming up against a wall, the Chosen of Emotion towering over him, her breasts a mere inch from his chest. She was close. Too close. He dropped his muzzle open, doing his best to breathe through his nose as little as possible.
“We,” she said, dipping her head lower, dropping her voice to a husky rumble, “are going to find somewhere quiet. Soft. And private.”
“Wha-a-” Mui’s words died in his throat as her knee thumped into the wall, landing between his thighs. She dragged it upward, applying pressure to his groin in just the right way to steal his breath.
“Sergeant Mui Thom,” Sara breathed, tilting her head to one side, so her hot breath flowed directly into his flicking ears. “You are a very, very good man. And I think that kind of thing deserves a reward.”
Despite himself, Mui shivered, her words falling into his ears like molten honey that rolled down, through his body, filling him a strange heat, one that was as pleasant as it was lacking, inspiring a fervent desire for more of the same.
“I-I don’t think you need to… and you have wives…”
“I don’t need to,” Sara mumbled, bringing her hands up, sliding them beneath the metal of his helmet to grasp either side of his face, fingers running circles across his cheek fur. “But I want to. And that’s more than enough for me.”
Mui swallowed. “But I’ve never–”
“I know. I can tell.”
Some vaguely cognizant part of Mui’s mind heard that and took the time to pray she meant she had used her Chosen’s abilities to determine his virginity, rather than some aspect of his behavior, but he feared that was a vain hope, and one that faded quickly from his consciousness. The rest of his mind was too busy slipping into a thought-muddling, arousal-inspired panic.
“But you know what you should be able to tell, Mui?” Her left hand slipped down, cupping his jaw, while her other went to the top of his head, holding him still. “How much I want this.”
She slowly closed his mouth, forcing him to breathe through his nose. Forcing him to take deep, heaving breaths of her, unavoidable as it was when their entire bodies were inches from being pressed together.
His first breath seemed to go through his head as if he were inhaling fire, lighting his skull with the thick, all-consuming scent of her arousal. It was a smell he’d only known from other catfolk, some unknowable combination of pheromones, sweat, and pure arousal, the very scent of her body’s slick in the air. He didn’t think it was quite like a true catfolk’s, even if Mui had only known it from when other soldiers had come back from some hidden rendezvous with their fur a mess. It had all the raw sensuality of that scent, the same kind that had made him plug his nose and make his excuses when others had been too soaked in their passion to know just how much they stank of it, but there was somehow more of it. Her scent was so thick on the air he could almost taste it, the hint of fine spices and lilac flowers, mixed with the dizzying cocktail of pure, overwhelming desire.
Before he knew what his body was doing, Mui found himself falling forward, burying his face into the crook of her neck, pressing his snout against her collarbone. He couldn’t stop himself from filling his mind with her, nuzzling almost drunkenly against her body.
She chuckled, wrapping her arms around his back as she leaned forward, closing the last of the distance between them. He was still in his armor, he couldn’t feel her body against his, but the mere pressure of it was enough to have him shivering, still drinking deeply of her scent.
“That’s a good boy,” she whispered, running her hands up and down his body wherever there was exposed fur to touch. “Do you believe me, now? That I want you?”
With a force of will more deserving of recognition than any of his actions on the battlefield, Mui dragged his snout off her body, panting into the air.
“I… we still shouldn’t…” he tried, one last attempt at reason.
“Why?” She asked, hugging him close. “Because I have a wife? Wives? Because we’re not married?”
“That’s…” Mui tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t even manage that. He knew there had been some things that told him he shouldn’t, but when he thought of them, he realized that none had ever really made sense. He’d have been a liar to claim that traveling beside a woman like her, the very divine icon of beauty, had left him with perfectly pure thoughts. He’d fought those impulses with vague ideas, notions about foreigners and Imperial soldiers, the sanctity of marriage, or maybe the risk of pregnancy. But when the actual opportunity had come, nothing stood up to scrutiny. Sara was an ally now, a friend of the Empire. She and her wives, all three of them, had never been shy about sharing their bodies with others. And she had her people’s strange herbs which unerringly warded off pregnancy, as much a miracle as any of her actions as the Chosen.
So why had he fought his impulses? Why had he hidden his mind from her hints and teasing? Why had he so passionately and willfully misinterpreted her advances?
“I’m nervous…” he whispered, the realization coming to him before he could think better of voicing it. Once it was said, he had no choice but to forge on, stuttering his way through his explanation, which he was discovering for himself only now. “You are so beautiful. And you’ve known so many beautiful women and men, and you’ve had them in your bed. And I have not even… Not so much as…”
Sara giggled. Not a cackle, or a sardonic chuckle, or any of the sarcastic amusements he had heard from her before. Just a simple, happy giggle.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Everyone’s nervous their first time. Just let me handle things, okay? I’ll teach you.”
“But if I–”
“You won’t.” Sara reached under his helmet once more, but this time she pulled upward, lifting it off his head. Her head came down even lower, so low she had to stoop, pulling her knee out from between his legs, so she could press her cheek against his, rubbing back and forth.
She was marking him. Mixing their scents together. How did she even have scent glands? He didn’t know, but he could tell she did. Her arousal in the air, the thick, heady smell of it, was suddenly muddled, joined by his own scent. Any catfolk they passed in the street, even the halfbreeds, they would all know. They would smell her on him, and him on her.
“Trust me,” she murmured. “This right here? What we’re going to do? It’s not for me. It’s for you. Just enjoy yourself, big man. You’ve earned it.”
Mui shuddered.
Sara pulled away, handing him back his helmet. She took him by the arm once more, guiding him onward. This time, however, she grabbed not his wrist, but his hand, lacing their fingers together.
Mui followed in a daze. His mind was fractured, trying to do too many things at once. He swallowed hard again and again as they walked down the street, suddenly paranoid he had food stuck between his teeth. When she found the inn she had been looking for, located on the third floor of some building he’d barely noticed they were approaching, he was wondering what his clothes looked like beneath his armor, praying he’d happened to choose one of his less moth-eaten sets. He never planned to take his armor off until the day was over, when he was in private. While she marched him up the stairs, his hand still in hers, he was trying to calm the thudding beat of his heart, which was pounding so loudly he was certain she could hear it, if not outright feel his pulse jumping in his palm.
It was only when the door of the room she had rented clicked shut that the world came back into focus, suddenly forcing him to acknowledge the fact that he was in a room, alone, with the Chosen of Emotion.
With Sara.
Who was taking her shirt off.
Mui’s chest froze at the threshold as she took one, two, three steps ahead of him, both her hands sliding down her hips towards the hem of her shirt. He followed the path her fingers traced, breathless. She had worn a white cloth shirt to the negotiations, something plain but well-made, something she’d said was a statement on her origins and intentions. Even then, he had failed to understand how it could achieve anything of the sort. Any clothing she wore, no matter how fine or poor, became something enchanting on her body. This ‘plain’ shirt hugged the curves of her waist and stomach as if it had been wetted with glue, peeling away only to meet the tight press of her breasts, the cleavage of which she’d allowed to peek through the collar above, showing just enough of her body to not cause outright scandal. A shirt that should have been as unremarkable as one leaf among thousands had become, on her, something that drew every eye on the street.
And then her hands reached the hem of her shirt, and Mui felt his definition of beauty shift.
She tugged the shirt off in one single motion, arms crossing over her head as she tossed it up and away, landing in some forgotten corner of the room.
She was wearing the garment she’d described before. A sports bra. Something that compressed her chest to make it easier to move. It was made of that strange, tight black material he had seen on occasion in Tulian, which she called azarketi nylon. It was elastic, wrapping her body without need of a single wire or obvious piece of stitching, but it was also thin. So thin he could see her nipples pressing through the surface, hard and perky.
“Well?” She asked, sporting a cocky smirk. “Are you going to keep your armor on? Or do I need to help you get it off?”
“You are… beautiful.”
Her smile did not falter, but an element of her cockiness did. Something more genuine, heartfelt, passed over her face. She took a step forward, reaching out for him.
“You know, you’d be surprised how rare it is that I hear someone tell me that,” she said, deft fingers picking apart his armor’s straps.
“How?” He breathed, belatedly moving to help her unbuckle his armor.
“I don’t know. I guess most people know I’m the Champion of Amarat, so they don’t think it really needs to be said.”
“I… I can’t think of much else to say,” Mui admitted, one of his forearm braces dropping to the floor with a metallic clank. “You are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, once more slipping his helmet off. It, too, was dropped on the floor without a care. “And for the record, I think you’re hot as hell.”
“How?” He asked again. Her scent, her nakedness, the entire situation, they seemed to have robbed him of his vocabulary.
“You’re strong,” she said, shifting the hand that had been tugging at his belt upward, running over what little of his stomach she could reach beneath his chestplate. “Your fur is beautiful. That pure black, like velvet, and…” She ran her hand back down, towards his belt, then briefly reached lower, underneath his pants. “It’s as soft as it looks.”
Mui’s entire body froze, save for a shiver tearing through him. Her hand had reached the edge of the fluff around his crotch, the space where it puffed up and curled, and the barest graze of her fingertips sent a tingle of electricity through him.
Sara laughed fondly, pulling her hand away.
“Not to mention that you’re good with your sword and your spear. I don’t know what Level you are exactly, but Evie watched you spar with your squad. She thinks you’re better than you should be for your Level. Faster, stronger. More graceful. From her? That means a lot. And I’ve never seen a reason to disagree.”
Mui’s fingers felt like they had been dipped in ice, or maybe turned to lead. He couldn’t get a grip on the simplest of knots that kept his armor in place, not even when he used his claws.
“But more than that?” Sara said, brushing his hand aside to take over his disrobing, “You’re smart. You’re kind. You do things for the right reason, and you care about the right things. Maybe you’re a bit naive. Evie thinks so. But I think that’s cute. Five years in the army, and you still haven’t stopped caring about the little guy. That’s a lot rarer than you’d expect.”
With one quiet rasp that seemed to echo impossibly loud in Mui’s ears, the last strap of his chestplate came unbuckled. Sara peeled it away with a gentle touch, setting the armor aside.
Oh gods, Mui thought, watching her.
Sara bent down, kneeling, and began to remove the last of his armor, the cuisses which protected his thighs. She could have reached it by bending at the waist, but instead she knelt, bringing her face level with his waist.
Sara reached up and pressed gently against his lower stomach. Mui fell back, spine thumping against the room’s door, his quivering legs inordinately grateful for the support, because she didn’t stop moving forward.
Even as she began to unstrap his armor, her face continued onward, until her cheek pressed against his body, against the straining bulge which was pressing out against his ratty pants. If she noticed the condition of his clothes, she said nothing, if only because she was too distracted nuzzling in deeper, taking a long, powerful inhale through her nose.
“Gods,” she murmured, momentarily falling still herself as she… she just knelt there, unmoving, as if savoring his scent. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity, the pressure of her cheek against his straining intimacy almost torturously delightful.
Then she blinked, coming back to herself. She returned to taking off his armor, but this time she did so with a new urgency, jerking and tugging at the offending articles.
“Fucking… fucking pheremone bullshit,” she muttered. “Why can’t I just put ‘em out for you? Why do I have to feel them, too?”
“You c-can?” Mui stuttered. She’d not pulled her head away from his crotch, and it was taking all he had not to grind his hips forward, seeking the pressure of her body.
“Apparently,” she said, throwing one cuisse aside. She took a moment to run her hands up his thighs, appreciating his fur, then moved to the next. “I was hoping I wouldn’t. I wanted to be able to tease you with mine, but not feel it myself. Now it’s kind of backfiring.”
“How?” He asked yet again.
“Champion bullshit. What else?” She tossed the second cuisse away and then, with obvious reluctance, pulled her face off his body. “Or do you mean how is it affecting me?” She looked up, then frowned. “Hey. Shirt off. I want to see, and you can do that much yourself.”
“Both questions,” Mui said, dragging his limbs into motion to pull the ugly undershirt over his head.
“Well, for how, like I said, Champion bullshit.” Sara reached up and undid his belt with one sharp tug, sending it sailing across the room to crash loudly into the wall. Mui didn’t even know what the room looked like. He’d only been looking at Sara. “But if you want to know what you smell like to me right now?”
Mui stifled a groan that tried to pull itself out of his throat. She noticed it, of course. She always did. She smiled as she stood, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“You smell like the forest,” she said, stepping backward, taking him with her. “Like the jungle. Earthy. Homey. And like sweat. A good sweat, the kind of sweat you get from honest work. I can’t tell if it’s making me hungry, horny, or making me want to grab a hammer and get in the forge.”
Mui followed her in lockstep, his mind filled with buzzing nothings. At some point she turned them around, so that he was facing the door, walking backwards as she pushed him deeper into the room.
“And you smell nervous,” she said, slowing. “Excited, but worried.” Mui felt his thighs hit the edge of a bed. He stopped walking, but Sara didn’t. She shoved him back, tipping him onto the bed, which he hit with a dizzy bounce. In that moment, it was the most wonderfully comfortable mattress he’d ever felt. She stayed standing over him, her chest rising with every breath as she looked down on him, at his face, only to drag her eyes lower, past his neck, his stomach, stopping just below his belt.
“I can smell your cock, too” she purred, licking her lips. “It’s hard, isn’t it? I hope so. It smells so good, Mui.”
“It i-is,” Mui managed, answering her question as if she couldn’t see it for herself, tenting his pants as it was. He was so hard it hurt, a slight twinge of pain coming from how awkwardly it was stuffed into his clothes, but he hadn’t even had the thought to adjust it, because that might require looking away from Sara.
“Good.”
Her thumbs hooked at the edges of her pants and, without fanfare, shoved them down. Before he could even take in the long expanse of tanned human skin she had exposed, her hands flitted up to her bra, tugging at something behind her back.
And then, with the black nylon falling away as if it might take a thousand years to reach the ground, she was bared to Mui.
Her body was… beautiful. Perfect. He knew many catfolk who claimed they couldn’t be attracted to those without fur, but he was certain that if they were ever privy to what he had seen now, they would understand.
Her skin was soft beyond belief, light pooling in the crevasses of gentle curves, shifting across a body that was so tan for a northerner, so pale for a southerner. Every twist of her body seemed to reveal a new facet. Some preferred women with definition, some without, and while Mui had never discovered a preference within himself, she was somehow both. Where she tensed beneath her skin, there was evidence of a solid, unsurmountable wall of muscle, be it in the abs of her stomach or the bulge of biceps, only for that same tension to abruptly disappear as she relaxed, hiding beneath exquisite, delicate softness. It was like a mirage, a trick of the eye, allowing him to pick and choose whatever he found most appealing in the moment.
But he could not ignore her breasts. They were as perfect as he could have ever imagined. Freed from the bindings of her bra, they were even larger than he’d expected, yet not disproportionate in the slightest. Had she been any shorter or any thinner they may have looked out of place, but she wasn’t. It was as if her creamy flesh had been etched by a master sculptor, one who had endeavored to give form to a woman none could resist, no matter their preferences.
In a word?
Divine.
Even as he stared in awe, she bent forward, taking hold of his pants. With one swift jerk she tore them off, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. He watched her breasts bounce with the motion, so entranced that he barely noticed the way his hardness was only one thin layer from being exposed to the open air, visibly twitching with every thump of his heart. A small wet spot stained the edge of the cloth, highlighting the tip of the skin-tight bulge.
“You’re beautiful,” Mui found himself saying yet again.
“So are you,” Sara said, crawling onto the bed. It creaked under their combined weight, dipping him even further into the feathery comforter he’d fallen on top of.
Sara stopped crawling just when her waist was over his hips, hovering half a foot over his twitching hardness. Mui’s entire body was shivering, quivering with anticipation as if he was freezing, yet he had never felt warmer in all his life.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” She asked, resting a hand on his stomach, feeling his quivering for herself. “You don’t have to. I want to, but I want it because I respect you. Because you’re someone that’s worth showing a good time. Someone worth caring about.”
Mui’s head was swimming. They had done nothing yet, but the stench of sex was so thick in the air he could barely think. He could see, at the joining of her legs, the glistening drops of her arousal.
Did he want it?
Yes.
“I do,” he murmured, bringing his hands up to caress her thighs, which were parted on either side of his hips. He had heard her speak her concerns before, half in jest, half not, that her partners could not– literally, physically– resist her charms. He tried to think of the right thing to say, the right thing to show her that yes, he had really made this decision himself.
He smiled up at her, affecting some of that cocky smile she had shown him so shortly before. “I only worry you’ll ruin me for any woman I bed after you, Sara.”
She laughed, shaking out her hair so she could pull it back, slipping something off her wrist to tie it behind her head.
“Then I’ve got bad news, Mui,” she said, leaning forward, resting one elbow beside his head as her voice fell into a white-hot whisper. “That’s what I’m aiming for.”
She tipped her head to the side and, without warning, pressed her tongue to the side of his neck.
Mui’s back arched with a groan as she dragged it upward, her tongue impossibly rough, catching his fur in all the right ways, tugging at the skin beneath. He’d heard humans talk of marking one another by sucking hickeys into their skin, and though it had sounded nice when they described it, he couldn’t imagine it was anywhere near what he felt right then.
It was as if every strand of fur was connected directly to his spine, shooting crackles of static straight through his body and into his head. His hips thrust upward involuntarily, instinctively, chasing something he’d never felt before but suddenly knew he needed, but they couldn’t reach high enough.
He felt her chuckle into his fur, pulling away.
“You like that, big man?”
“G-gods-”
“Figured,” she whispered, using one hand to tilt his head the other direction.
Mui groaned aloud as she treated the other side of his neck to the same electrifying pleasure. He’d thought, like some damn fool, that he might manage to be more stoic, taking more of a lead in the moment.
It had taken all of two licks for him to become putty in her hands, and it took all he had left for his low groans to not turn into pitiable whining.
Their scents continued to mix together as she licked at him, her cheek rubbing against him as she lavished his neck, his chin, his collarbone with slow licks, every stroke sending his eyes fluttering.
He wanted to do something for her. To return the pleasure. But when he brought his hands up, trying to bring her down for… something, he didn’t even know, she instead caught his wrists, moving them to her breasts.
Mui groaned even louder as she kept licking, taking her breasts in both hands. They were so soft, like silk beneath his palms.
He didn’t even realize he’d frozen in awe until Sara spoke in his ear. “Squeeze them,” she whispered. “Feel them up. Pinch my nipples just a little bit, maybe give them a tug. Do whatever you feel like, really. Most girls love it. I know I do. You’ll know when I’m enjoying it.”
Mui, ever the dutiful soldier, took to his orders without delay.
He pawed and kneaded at her breasts, feeling the way they were shaped by his attentions. He almost couldn’t believe how soft they were, much less that he could actually touch them, and even as he began to move, a part of him remained hesitant.
At least until he brushed her nipple and, for the first time that evening, pulled a small sound from Sara’s lips. Just a little muffled grunt, not enough to distract her from licking his upper body, but more than enough to set a fire in him.
Mui began to pinch at her breasts, one at a time, rubbing the other with his hands until he would suddenly switch, following nothing more than his own whimsy. Sara first made a little mumble of delight, then a small groan. He pinched and teased again and again, delighting in everything he could do. The sounds of Sara’s pleasure, of her enjoying his touch, were almost more intoxicating than her scent. When he first pinched just right, pressing deeply with his other hand, and finally forced her to pull away from his neck to let out an open-mouthed moan? It was almost like he was high, hallucinating the impossible.
But this was no hallucination. As if in reward, or maybe because she simply forgot to keep herself up, Sara’s hips finally dropped down.
Mui gasped as absolute, utter heat pressed against his crotch. He could feel her slickness even through his underwear, could feel the way her thighs wrapped around his hips, burying him in warmth.
He thrust upward reflexively, seeking more pressure, and Sara didn’t pull away. She ground her own hips back down, meeting him in a motion that had them both frozen, groaning through their teeth.
“S-shit,” Sara muttered, wrapping his head in her hands. She brought her mouth down, spending a long time pressing a hard, deep kiss to the top of his snout, her hips still pressing as hard as she could manage into his pelvis. When she pulled away, her eyes were lidded. “Why the fuck do you still have your underwear on?”
“I don’t know,” Mui answered honestly. Then he looked down, at his own hands. “Oh,” he said, tweaking one of Sara’s nipples. “That’s why. I’d have to let go of these.”
Sara laughed, a wondrous sound made all the more beautiful when she tried to lean back, inadvertently turning her mirth into a long, drawn-out moan as she ground her sex against Mui’s body.
“Fine, fine,” she said, breathing hard. “Keep your prizes. I’ll handle this.”
If she thought Mui had been kidding when he said he didn’t want to let go of her breasts, he wasn’t. Even as she lifted herself off of him, an agonizing thing in itself, he kept his hands on her breasts, following her every motion as she dragged his underwear down his legs.
When Mui’s erection popped free of his underwear, he heard Sara swallow thickly. She slid further back, removing that radiating heat from his crotch in the same motion that forced him to sit up, all so he wouldn’t lose hold of her chest.
She knelt on the bed, straddling his calves. Her eyes were locked onto his… his erection. She was staring at it. Silent. Through his hands on her chest, he felt a shudder roll through her.
An old insecurity tore itself free from his subconscious, one he had not thought about in years. Was that a shudder like his own, or was it one of revulsion? Stories from other catfolk men that had been with human women floated through his bed, tales of having taken a woman with them to bed, only to suddenly find themselves being cast aside in disgust when their clothes came off.
His erection was not like a cat’s, not fully, but neither was it like most human men’s. It was red from the point where it emerged from the base of his fur, slick and shining, wet from a mixture of Sara’s arousal that had soaked through his underwear and the fluid dribbling from its tip. It was bulbous in shape, three progressively larger bumps running up from the base, ending in a narrow, hard tip. It didn’t have the spikes of housecats like some women apparently feared, but it was still meant to be buried deep, to not be removed, the greatest pleasure brought from its thick base. It was not human, and worse still, it wasn’t even particularly large. He had seen other catfolk men bathing and knew he was average at best, when Sara had no doubt seen so many more impressive, far more familiar erections.
“It’s a-alright if you-”
Sara’s head darted down faster than he could blink, his hands thrown off her chest as she buried her face at the base of his cock. She layed it across her lips, just beneath her nose, and took a long, shuddering breath, open-mouthed, eyes glazing over as she brought her tongue out.
“G-gods!” Mui cried as her tongue lapped at him.
The same heat of before, the heat of her arousal, was suddenly on him. Her tongue was molten pleasure, rough and soft all at once, and it fractured his every thought. He abandoned any idea of touching her chest, of touching her in general, his body first going tense at her touch, then collapsing, the world spinning as his head bounced off the mattress.
He could hear her panting beneath him. As her tongue ran up his length, slathering his erection in saliva, her hand wrapped around the base, squeezing tight. He could feel her breath rushing over him, an animalistic, eager joy evident in every puff.
“S-Sara,” he whined. “I can’t– I won’t–”
She reached the tip. She spent a moment pressing her lips there, kissing him, and then pressed downward, splitting her mouth open.
Mui’s claws sprung from his fingers as he took hold of the comforter on either side of him, mindless profanity spilling from his lips. It was so hot. Her mouth was like lava, like fire, but the fire of a beautiful campfire on a cold night, the hearth of a home that he had finally returned to and never, ever wanted to leave again.
Her tongue writhed against the underside of his dick as she continued to slide it into her mouth, taking her time to savor every inch. He couldn’t find the strength in his body to lift his neck up to look, but he didn’t need to, because his nerves were alight with a sensitivity he had never known in all his life. He could feel her begin to suck, tightening the already unbelievable pressure into something utterly exquisite, then he felt her tongue roll against him, massaging everything it could reach.
Suddenly, to his shock, he felt the back of her throat. He finally managed to bring himself up on his elbows, looking down at her.
She didn’t notice. Her eyes were closed, one hand wrapped around the base of his erection, the other reaching between her legs, rubbing furiously. There were maybe two or three inches of his dick outside her lips, and as she paused with the tip at the entrance of her throat, he felt the impulse to speak out, wondering if he should say she didn’t have to go any further.
A decision that was stolen from him as she took one last breath through her nose, eyes rolling in delight as she took in his scent, then shoved forward.
Mui cried out almost silently as that wet heat wrapped him entirely, replacing her hand around his cock. He could feel her throat tensing around him, massaging his length just like her tongue, which was writhing against the base of his cock like she never wanted to forget the memory. Even the hand between her legs stilled, falling down, all her mind focused on the cock in her throat.
Then her head began to bob, and Mui’s world went to pieces.
The sound of it, the feel of it, everything about it, it was all too much. She slurped eagerly, groaning with delight every time she came up for a breath. Her hips slowly fell down on the bed as she was consumed by her task, slipping away as if she’d forgotten she had any part of her body beyond her throat, until she was lying prone, her perky ass as beautiful a sight as her breasts had been. She couldn’t bring herself to leave his cock for long enough for her hands to have anything to do, so instead one went to his leg, running through his fur, while the other went beneath his cock, massaging his balls.
Mui couldn’t last. He wouldn’t last. It had been ten seconds, maybe fifteen, but this was… It was heaven. It was a delight not made for man to know.
“Sara,” he gasped in warning, “Sara, if you don’t stop, I’m going to–”
As if that had been some hidden signal, she threw herself forward, black ponytail bouncing as she took Mui as deep as she could, using her grip on his legs to encourage him deeper, lifting his hips to help his cock get as deep as possible.
Mui froze, trying to hold off, to not ruin it already, every muscle clenched as he tried to resist–
But who was he kidding?
Mui’s hips threw themselves forwards as he began to cum, instinct overriding his respect as he thrust hard into Sara’s throat, burying himself in the glorious, wondrous heat.
He wasn’t sure if the high-pitched whine of delight came from Sara or him. Maybe both.
His cock pulsed against her tongue, against her throat, his body trembling as fire shot through his veins, white cum shooting out into Sara. It was like he’d gone blind, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing other than her throat, which began to convulse around him as she swallowed again and again, head bobbing as she took pulse after thick pulse into her body.
Mui didn’t know how many times he pumped his hips into her throat, didn’t know when his hands had ended up wrapped around the ponytail she’d tied. He only knew when it ended, his body collapsing, drained, chest heaving.
Sara didn’t pull away for a long time. She kept herself impaled on his cock, still licking, still swallowing. Mui’s sense of time was as destroyed as the rest of his grip on reality, but after a certain while, he started to grow concerned. Her eyes were fluttering, pupils growing distant.
With another heroic effort of will, Mui tugged at her ponytail, unsheathing himself from her throat.
Sara’s eyes widened suddenly as she gasped, her mind coming back into focus. He expected her to begin coughing, or maybe to spit out what she hadn’t swallowed, but instead she threw her head back down, smearing her own face with saliva and cum as she rubbed her nose across his cock.
“Oh,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “Oh, gods. Gods, Evie needs to try this.”
Fresh off the first orgasm of his life that hadn’t been from his own hands, still barely able to consider the fact that one woman was interested in him, Mui… did not have the mental faculties required to process that statement. He fell back onto the bed instead, letting the thought of Evie and Sara, faces pressed side by side between his thighs, drift away on a cloud of pleasure like the rest of his mind.
“I’m sorry,” he eventually rasped, surprising himself with the scratchiness of his own voice. Had he… screamed his orgasm? Possibly, he was forced to admit. He couldn’t remember. Swallowing, he grimaced, forcing his scattered thoughts back in line. “I wanted to hold off. So I could please you, too.”
“Well, first of all,” Sara said, still happily nuzzling his erection, “I love sucking cock. And you’ve got a great cock for sucking. So no problems there. And secondly…” She raised herself up just a bit, enough to look him in the eye, and focused for a moment. “When you’re fucking me, you won’t ever have to worry about how many times you cum.”
Mui was taken aback by a sudden wave of arousal that roared through him, thundering out of his chest to consume the rest of his body, as if she hadn’t ever so much as touched him. Her grip on his erection, which a moment ago had been sensitive almost to the point of pain, suddenly became just as tantalizing as it had before. His heart began to pound in his ears, and with it rose his cock, throbbing back to life.
Sara smiled smugly, keeping one hand on his growing cock as she sat back up, bringing her hips forward.
Mui’s eyes widened as he felt the exquisite heat of her body near him once more, the rough patch of freshly shaved stubble just over her core rubbing against his length.
“As… much as I want?” He asked breathlessly.
“You could paint me white, if you wanted to,” Sara said. She chuckled, giving his cock a pump. “And I want you to.”
His breath started coming faster once again, fatigue fleeing his body, replaced by arousal and– if he was honest– a minor amount of trepidation.
“No wonder you’re so hard to find at night…” he muttered, puzzle pieces clicking together.
Sara laughed, grinding her hips forward.
Mui hissed as her lower lips split over his cock, adding her slick to the saliva and cum already coating it.
“Did you take that… that potion?” He asked, squirming beneath her.
“You kidding me? With a woman like Evie hanging around?” Sara’s grinding reached the head of Mui’s cock, surrounding it in a mind-erasing heat, only for her to begin slowly, torturously sliding backward. She laughed as he groaned, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets. “I down one of those bottles in the morning and one at night, every day.”
“That’s g-good,” Mui managed, twisting his wrists as her weight settled once more on the base of his cock. He could feel his pulse trying to send it jumping, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, but her hips wouldn’t let it so much as twitch.
“Oh?” She ran her hands up her body, flat palms tracing the curves of her hips, running over her breasts, her neck, only to reach up and snap the band in her hair, letting black curls cascade over her shoulders once more. “Why is that good?” She asked, tilting her body forward. Hair fell from her shoulders like waterfalls of ink, surrounding Mui’s head, covering him even more in the scent of her, blocking all the world from his sight save her smirking face.
“It’s good because… of what I do with Evie?” She reached up, dropping her pointer finger on his collarbone. “You don’t want me to knock her up?”
Her finger began to trail downward in a lazy curve, the nail scraping a line of fire across Mui’s skin. “Or is it because you want to do something else to me?”
She spread her palm out as she reached his stomach, pressing against his abs. “Or… is it because you want to cum in me, Mui?” Her head darted down, swiping another electrifying lick of her tongue up his throat, her soft breasts pressed against his chest.
She tilted her head up and whispered into his ear. “I think… that you… want to shove your cock in me.”
Her hips rocked. Mui whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Are you wondering what it’s like?” She purred, filling his sightless world with her words. “To be inside me? To stuff me full of your cock? To feel me clenching around you? To have me riding you, bouncing up and down, over and over again, as fast as I can, until it feels too good, until you can’t hold back any more, and I finally get what I want from you?”
Her hand kept moving lower. Until it reached the bottom of his stomach, then slid up, onto his cock. Caressing its tip with the slightest of touches, barely enough for him to notice, yet it made his eyes roll all the same.
“What will it feel like when you make me cum?” Sara asked. Her hand curled around his cock, tightening ever so slightly. “I will, you know. You’ve got me so fucking worked up, Mui. I’m so close already. Your body, your scent, your moans, hells, everything you are, it’s all driving me crazy. I’ll probably cum before you do. What do you think it’ll sound like? When I’m crying out your name, shaking like a leaf on top of you? Because of your cock?”
Mui felt like he was going insane. He had never desired something so bad, had never felt so desired. He felt feverish, delirious, yet he’d never been more awake in all his life, desperate to etch in stone every trembling whisper so that he would never forget a thing about this night.
And for all that, she was just talking. Talking talking talking, teasing, whispering sweet nothings in his ear as if he wasn’t aching with desire. Why? What did she want from him? Why torture him like this?
With a clawing, desperate effort, his pheromone-muddled mind cobbled the pieces together.
She wanted him to take some kind of initiative, didn’t she?
Mui rolled his hips up, grinding his cock against her slit. “Please,” he said, just a touch away from a plaintive whine, “just get on with it. I’m ready.”
“Oh?” She pulled just far enough away from his neck to show him a smarmy smirk. “You are? Then what are you doing just laying there?”
“You are stronger than me,” he said, the last word fading to a gasp as she wiggled her hips side to side. “I couldn’t force anything if I… oh… if I tried.”
Her smile grew. With a roll of her shoulders, she sat up once more, looking down on him.
“I knew it. A sub at heart.”
“Wha-”
Before Mui could even try to understand, one smooth motion saw Sara lifting her hips and grabbing his cock, pressing the tip to her entrance.
Mui’s hands flung to her thighs once more, claws involuntarily popping free, like he was dangling at the edge of a cliff.
He could feel the tip of his cock pressing against her heat. He could see it. He could see the precum dribbling off its red tip, running in a silvery rivulet down the side. The very end of his cock had split her lips, but it hadn’t gone any further. Her own arousal shone in the gemlight, slick and plentiful, practically dripping down her thighs. It was that sight more than anything else that he found hardest to believe. That she was wet for him. Sara Brown, the most beautiful woman in the world, was soaking wet for a nobody sergeant, a random soldier who had never done anything of note.
As if she saw the insecurity bubbling up in him, Sara began to lower her hips.
Mui’s body tried to buck upward into that intoxicating, perfect heat, pure instinct robbing him of control of his own limbs. He got nowhere, Sara’s palm on his pelvis keeping him pinned in place.
“Eager are we, big boy? Not that I can–” Sara paused to sigh in satisfaction as she lowered herself further down on Mui’s cock, “–that I can blame you,” she finished, eyes fluttering.
“Faster,” he muttered, surprising himself. He gave another hopeless thrust of his hips, as useless as the first. “Faster, please,” he repeated.
To his shock, Sara obliged him.
Two moans filled the air as she let her legs fall limp, dropping her pelvis onto his with a bed-creaking smack.
Mui’s clenched eyes shot open as he gasped. He felt each ridge of his cock bury itself into her, one after the other, each inch tighter than the last. She was so wet that even his base, wider than most humans’, slipped in without so much as a twinge of effort.
He felt a ripple of spasmodic clenching roll down his cock as Sara gasped, fingers curling in his fur. He could see her stomach writhe with delight as she was split open, her eyes going wide and distant.
“So fucking thick,” she groaned.
“You’re so tight,” Mui gasped back. “I-I won’t be able hold it–”
“Thank god for that,” Sara moaned. Without warning, she began to grind, stirring Mui’s cock inside her.
He lost control of his voice. His moan was loud and high-pitched, a kitten’s mewling. He could feel her body’s every twinge, her own pleasure practically radiating into him. He began to roll his hips in time with her rocking, arcing upward for every last inch, burying himself as deep as he could.
Sara panted in time with his thrusts, first just breathing heavily, then moaning, every noise twisting just a bit closer to a cry of ecstasy.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, throwing her entire body into every roll of her hips. Her breasts bounced in hypnotizing waves, her hair growing slick with sweat as her face swirled with pleasure.
The molten silk that was wrapped around his cock was like nothing he’d ever felt, nothing he’d even imagined, and it was sweeping his mind away on a tsunami of mindless bliss.
“Come on, come on,” Sara urged, her entire body shaking. She fell forward, catching herself by slamming her palms on the bed to either side of Mui’s head, eyes closed in rapturous focus. “Cum in me, cum in me, please. You smell so fucking good, taste so fucking good, I want to feel it in me, I need it so bad–”
He’d never stood a chance.
Strength like he’d never known seized Mui as he threw his hips upward, digging his claws into her hips as he dragged her down.
Sara’s mouth opened, a silent cry taking her as she froze in place, impaled on Mui’s cock.
He began to throb.
As one they began trembling, quivering against one another. Mui’s world was Sara’s, Sara’s was Mui’s. His cock, already aching, somehow grew harder, her body squeezing him as if it would never let go.
The first pulse shot out of his cock to the sound of a wild, animalistic grunt, his jaw clenching as he shoved hard, as hard as he could into Sara.
“F-f-f-fucking Muuuuii,” she cried, shaking, grabbing his fur so hard it hurt, dragging him up into her.
The second throbbing pulse came an instant later as he cried out as well, maybe saying her name, maybe babbling nothing at all, and he would never know, because he could spare nothing save for the thought of her, of her delicate, wondrous body, of his cum coating her deep inside, of his jaw tensing and his toes curling, his muscles straining so hard that it should have hurt but it didn’t, it couldn’t, because there was too much bliss tearing through his mind, shredding every concern and anxiety he’d ever had to meaningless tatters in the face of exquisite, beautiful, primal satisfaction.
He didn’t count how many times his cock unloaded into her, but it felt like a thousand. Sara’s voice went hoarse as she called out his name over and over again, until it finally, mournfully ended, their climaxes fading with the rumbling echo of a distant thundercrack.
Sara dropped down on top of him, breasts smothering him. Mui fell limp, some faraway thought telling him that he should apologize because he hadn’t been able to control himself. He’d dragged his claws down her hips, drawing bloody streaks. He couldn’t voice it, though, because his tongue and lips felt numb, and they were buried in the most wonderful softness he’d ever known. He began to drift away, exhaustion ambushing him like a tiger in the night.
And then he felt Sara’s pussy tighten slightly.
Another wave of arousal washed over him. His cock, which had been softening, abruptly stiffened. His pounding heart stopped slowing, his head clearing.
Sara dragged herself off of him, just by a few inches, and cupped his face in her hands, running a thumb over his whiskers.
“You feel so fucking good,” she whispered, pressing her nose to his, rubbing side to side. “Too good.”
Mui swallowed as she shifted once more, stirring his cock inside her. If she’d lifted her hips, cum would have come leaking out, but she hadn’t allowed them to separate by even a fraction of an inch.
“I can… I think I can find it in myself to try again,” he rasped.
“Good,” Sara said, leaning back, until she was straddling him properly again. She grabbed his hand, placing it on her core, just above where their bodies were joined. “Because I’m going to make sure you can ruin any girl you fuck. Put your thumb here, alright? Right on t-t-that,” Sara gasped for breath as Mui applied pressure. “Y-yeah. There. Now, when I’m moving, you just need to rub in little circles…”
Mui listened intently to her every word, taking to the lessons as well as he could. He already felt close again, as if just having Sara teaching him was enough to get him off.
But what does it matter if I cum again? He realized. I don’t have to worry, not with her. We could spend hours like this if we wanted to…
Suddenly, Evie’s earlier words came flashing back through his head. That she would see Sara in “four or five hours.”
Oh gods, he thought. Four hours? Five? Of this?
Sara began to grind, pulling another moan from them both.
I… I guess I can stay. For the– oh, gods– for the lessons.
Sara raised her hips up, sliding off of Mui for a brief moment, then dropped back down. Cum leaked from her, dripping down his cock as she raised herself up, then the white streaks disappeared as she took Mui to the hilt. Watching the sight, Mui felt a new sound tear itself from his throat– a rumbling, hungry growl.
“Oh?” Sara asked, raising an eyebrow. “What was that, big boy? See something you like?”
Mui grabbed her hips tight.
Will five hours be enough?
Chapter 133: Interludes (S)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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A crystal was buzzing in her pocket. She could hear Evie’s increasingly insistent mutterings coming from her discarded pants, which had landed… somewhere.
But she kept ignoring it, because what was happening now was just too fucking cute.
Mui was purring.
Rising out of the sleeping soldier’s chest was a deep, powerful thrum, utterly unlike anything else Sara had heard from her many partners. Sure, Sara had heard Evie purr before, but she purred like… well, like a cat girl. Involuntary though the noise was, she still purred like a human doing an imitation of a cat’s purr.
Mui’s purr?
Mui’s purr was making her tits jiggle.
She’d never had reason to try and imagine what it would sound like when a hundred and sixty pounds of cat started purring. Now that she was experiencing it, she couldn’t imagine why she’d never wanted to hear it for herself. It felt like hugging a warm, fuzzy engine, an idling motorbike clutched to her chest. It sounded like a distant helicopter thumping away, and it was so loud that she wouldn’t have been surprised to find out the people in the next room could hear it. When it had started up, it had actually woken her up.
And it was even louder to her than it might have otherwise been, because his muzzle was buried between her breasts. He’d passed out face-down on her chest, halfway asleep before he’d even cum in her for the last time. She’d really wrung him out. Maybe a bit much for his first time, to be honest.
Which was all the more reason why she didn’t want to force him off her to go answer Evie’s calling over the crystal. Sara had her control wristband on, and Evie her collar, so her wife had to know that they’d finished not that long ago. Evie had literally felt every pump of Mui’s cock like he was driving it into her, after all.
Which… well. It probably wasn’t the most ethical thing for Evie or Sara to be doing. Could they even call it voyeurism? It was certainly close enough to be questionable. Mui had basically been fucking Evie alongside Sara without even knowing it, and since Evie’s pussy had even more of a hair trigger than Sara’s, her wife had probably gotten off a dozen times. Sure, Sara was probably going to order Evie to hop on the dude’s cock as soon as she didn’t think the mere idea of a threesome wouldn’t give the guy a panic attack, but they weren’t quite there yet.
Actually, that brought up another point. Where had Evie hidden while Sara was grinding Mui’s hips into dust? That girl had no poker face when it came to sex. She couldn’t have just been in the barracks. They all would’ve known, and for all her shamelessness, Evie always maintained professional stoicism in front of troops she commanded.
Then again, it was a barracks. There were probably other rooms full of young, fit men and women, and in this more sexually repressed society, someone like Evie would be awfully hard to resist. And if she wanted to explain why she was cumming from nothing, it would be easy enough to find something real to fill her holes…
Evie’s buzzing voice grew another touch louder, drawing Sara’s salacious thoughts back on topic.
Carefully, gentle as could be, using every muscle her Champion’s Class gifted her, Sara began scooting towards the edge of the bed. She’d spent an ungodly amount on this fancy inn, almost two weeks of a Tulian blacksmith’s wages for one night, but the bed had been worth it. That did mean she had to inch herself across a far vaster expanse of featherbed than she was used to, all while carefully keeping Mui balanced on her body, still purring happily away from where he was buried in her tits.
He really loved my tits, Sara silently chuckled. Then she looked down at herself, smirking. I mean, who could blame him?
She finally reached the edge of the bed, flinging one hand off the side to pat blindly around for her pants. She tried to think of where she’d taken them off, if it had been at the door or the bed, and if she’d tossed them aside or just stepped out of them. It was all a hazy blur, unfortunately. Mui’s scent had hit her harder than a shady concert-goer’s ten dollar MDMA.
Twisting her head to the side slowly, careful not to brush against Mui’s sensitive ears, she managed to snag a look at the rest of the room.
It was a mess, predictably. Armor, weapons, clothes, they were scattered every which way. When she’d tossed Mui’s belt off, it had struck the wall buckle-first, creating a sizable dent in the fine hardwood paneling, exposing chips of the stone beneath.
I’ll probably have to pay for that.
Sara eventually spotted her pants mercifully close to the bed, just within reach of her outstretched fingertips. Careful as ever not to disturb Mui’s sleep, she strained outward, barely catching a belt loop with one finger. She tossed it up, then crumpled it into a ball, muffling Evie’s voice further. She put the bundle up to her mouth and made a shushing noise into it. Once Evie quieted, she pulled the crystal out properly.
“Listen to this,” she whispered, pressing the crystal to Mui’s vibrating ribs. She held it there for a moment, then returned the crystal to her lips. “He’s purring.”
“So it would seem, Master,” Evie drawled disinterestedly.
“It’s fucking adorable!”She whisper-screamed.
“Quite. I take it the evening went well?”
“You tell me,” Sara teased.
“He was… clearly inexperienced.”
“Yeah? And how many times did you cum?”
“Only eight,” Evie sniffed.
Sara cackled silently. “Only eight? I’ve really fucked up your standards, girl.”
“Mm.” Evie listened to the purring for a moment longer, then sighed. “I know you’re enjoying yourself, Master, but do you know what time it is?”
“Well until you said that, I’d thought it had been about six hours…”
“It is nearly midnight. You have been with Mui for nine hours.”
“Huh.” Sara put a hand on the back of Mui’s neck, gently stroking downward, smoothing out the fur she’d twisted into knots. She’d let him have a go on top towards the end, but he’d mostly been made of jello and drool by that point. “Guess we slept longer than I thought.”
“We so dearly require replicas of your father’s watch,” Evie murmured. “Your sense of time is atrocious. Now, are you going to be coming back to the barracks? We have much to discuss with those in Tulian. The sooner we set our plans into motion, the sooner they may come to fruition. At the very least, I would like to ensure work can begin come sunrise, lest our industries waste an entire day on outdated orders.”
Sara groaned. Her wife was right, of course. She always was, at least when it came to matters of practicality. With their path chosen, any delay in Tulian’s involvement would extract a toll in blood from the Empire’s citizens. In a war centuries old, most people would argue one day may not make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things. Sara didn’t think like that. If you were the family whose home burned because Tulian mercenaries arrived a few hours late, minutes could mean everything.
“Alright, alright,” Sara whispered. “I’ll just… five more minutes, alright?”
“Five. Minutes.”
“I’ll keep the crystal close.”
Sara set the communication crystal on the sheet next to her head, leaning back with a sigh of contentment. She returned both hands to her slow stroking of Mui’s fur, letting his rumbling purr soak into her body. She didn’t want to wake him up. He’d probably stop purring.
I wonder how I can convince the Empire to let him stay attached to my retinue, Sara thought, eyes slipping closed. He wouldn’t want people to know we’re fucking, so I’ll have to come up with something else… Sara shrugged. Eh, whatever. I’ll figure something out.
Five minutes of peaceful drifting later, Evie got her attention again, and Sara was forced to wake Mui. The catfolk’s purr continued for a few brief moments after his eyes opened, only to choke off in scandalized embarrassment. Sara’s Abilities had clued her into the fact that Catfolk considered purring to be terribly immature, something they did when they were kittens, not adults. Mui would think it was awfully unseemly for a grown man to be purring.
As they began to groggily dress, Sara decided she would break him of that belief if it was the last goddamn thing she’d ever do.
--------------------------------
Hurlish
--------------------------------
“...wasn’t this supposed to be a sexy thing?” Hurlish asked.
“It started as that,” Oddry admitted, “but then she got competitive. This is her fourth attempt.”
The two women watched as Vesta lunged across the kitchen, auburn hair flying wildly as she spat a tirade of profanity, shoving a pan off the stove just before its smoking sizzle gave way to true fire.
“Well. She’s giving it her all, at least.”
“That’s because I ordered her to, with the collar.”
“Huh.”
“Shit, shit, shit!” Vesta cursed, diving back to where she’d just abandoned a pile of mangled meat dangling halfway out of a wood-fired oven, its tray teetering precipitously on the edge of the rack. She grabbed it with both her mittened hands amidst another storm of curses, tossing it up onto a countertop.
“...so how are your stepsons doing?” Hurlish asked. She was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Oddry, or shoulder-to-ribcage as the case currently was, watching Vesta’s flailing attempts at cooking through the narrow doorway to the kitchen.
“Oh, I would hardly call them my stepsons, Hurlish. But they are doing better than we expected,” Oddry said. “I think the job Sara found for them suits them quite well. It is a good use of their academic training, and it fits their… particular temperments.”
“Lets them be an asshole, y’mean.”
“I would never be so crass to refer to my wife’s sons as such.”
“But if they weren’t her sons, you’d call em…?”
“Uptight spoiled little know-it-all pricks,” Oddry smoothly answered, barely pausing to breathe. “But yes, they are doing well.”
Hurlish snorted. “Figures.”
Sara had put Vesta’s brats on the ‘opposition’ team of the new Tulian government committees. With her paranoia about creating a set of laws that would fall apart like a house of cards the moment she took her eyes off it, Sara had put out a call for people trained in law and philosophy to come be employed in Tulian. On paper, the process was simple: the people Sara trusted, namely Vesta, Evie, and the few dozen Union heads and wandering philosophers that had passed Sara’s interrogations, would get together and draft up some laws. They’d sign their names on it all fancy-like, as if it was really going into law, and then they’d drop it off in front of the ‘opposition’.
That gaggle of selfish, greedy, opportunistic bastards were exactly who Sara wanted. They’d spend a week working together to tear apart everything Sara had written, finding every loophole and flaw in wording, tearing its good intentions to shreds like a guard dog shaking a fox until it stopped squeaking. If they couldn’t do too much damage, Sara would officially pass the law, but that was rare. It usually took a few rounds of back-and-forth between the two groups to create something that could actually be useful.
And Vesta’s kids seemed to be loving it. Going straight out of fancy-ass university life right into a job that only required you to be as much of an unashamed bastard as you could, arguing all the while? Kids were in heaven. They’d been going so hard at it that Vesta had started to complain the kids weren’t coming to visit often enough.
And if this was what Vesta’s home cooking looked like, Hurlish couldn’t blame ‘em.
Grease splattered everywhere with sizzling hisses as Vesta slammed a tray down, ruining the front of her decidedly uncharacteristic maid uniform. It wasn’t one of Sara’s flimsy, overly sexualized maid uniforms she’d had made for Evie, but a real and useful one, almost identical to the sort Oddry had worn back in the day.
“So how was it supposed to be sexy, exactly?” Hurlish asked, eyebrows raised at the unending midnight shitstorm she’d walked in on. Tahn was spending the night with David, having been given a few bottles of breastmilk which he was keeping in a prototype refrigerator. With Ketch impossible to find at the best of times, Shale out building fortifications, and Sara and Evie hundreds of miles away, Hurlish had taken the risk of maybe waking Oddry and Vesta up for a late-night fuck session.
Luckily, Vesta was so terrible at cooking that they were both still awake.
“Well,” Oddry sighed, adjusting the collar’s control band on her wrist, “my idea was that I would, using the collar, order her to cook me dinner as best she was able. And she, being the fancy noblewoman she is, would almost certainly make a few mistakes, for which I’d send her back to the kitchen to start again. Perhaps slap her a few times, maybe spank her. You’re familiar with that sort of play, of course, you know the drill. Then, when she came back a second time with whatever flaws I’d thought up corrected, I would ‘reward’ her by allowing her to kneel beneath my dress.”
“Not working out how you thought it would, is it?”
“Not really, no.”
Vesta slammed down her utinsels in frustration as the broth began to boil over, creating a cloud of steam where the river of watery stew spattered on the stovetop. With an almost guttural scream of anger, she reached for the bubbling pot.
“Hey dumbass–!”
“Dear, don’t–”
They were too late. Vesta grabbed the soaking sides of the pot with her thick cooking mittens on, lifting it for exactly as long as it took for the steaming liquid to soak through her protective pads.
With a screech of pain, she physically threw the pot away from her, cursing all the while. It struck the kitchen wall with a great splash, completing the ruination of the rest of the disastrous meal it landed across.
Vesta leapt away from the spreading steam, violently shaking her gloves off with a hiss of angry pain. Hurlish and Oddry squeezed through the kitchen door together, Hurlish reaching out to snatch the burning-hot gloves off the tiny woman’s hands, Oddry preemptively opening a cabinet for a healing potion.
“Dammit all!” Vesta swore as Hurlish plucked the gloves off her delicate hands. Splotches of red boils were already rising across her skin.
“Not as easy as it looks, is it?” Hurlish joked, wadding up the cooking mittens. They were still hot to the touch, but a Class meant for forging had given her a resistance to heat well beyond the diminutive ex-noblewoman.
“Give those back,” she said, holding out her hands. “I’m not done with making dinner yet.”
“Pretty sure that pooch is already screwed, Vesta.”
“Then I will start again.”
“No, my sweet, you will not,” Oddry told her, walking up with a potion vial. A small dose, just right for the minor burns. “I think that if we let you continue, you might consume our month’s grocery budget before morning.”
Vesta sagged in defeat, dropping her hands to her sides. Even with the collar’s order countermanded, she eyed the kitchen with a frustrated glare.
“If I just tried one more time-”
“It is nearly midnight,” Oddry said. “And we need to be awake at something that vaguely resembles a reasonable time. Drink this.”
Compelled by the collar around her neck, Vesta’s attention snapped to Oddry’s hands. She took the small vial and downed it in one swig, shuddering slightly at the bitter taste.
“I just don’t understand how you do it all so quickly!” Vesta huffed. She folded her arms petulantly, defiantly, as if she weren’t standing in the center of a self-made disaster zone.
“I did not start cooking a half-dozen dishes at once,” Oddry said. “In fact, I spent most of my early years peeling vegetables, watching the real cooks work. How often did you visit the kitchen of our old manor?”
Vesta turned her nose up, feigning offense. “Quite regularly, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh? And when was the last time you visited?”
“When I bent the maid before last over the countertop and used the handle of a wooden spoon to-”
Hurlish’s booming laughter cut the story short as Oddry rolled her eyes, shifting her arms to match Vesta’s haughty stance pound-for-pound.
“When was the last time you visited the kitchens when someone was actually cooking?” The maid clarified.
Vesta’s nose turned up even further, like she was avoiding a bad smell. Then she glanced away from Oddry’s piercing eyes.
“...I haven’t the faintest clue,” she muttered under her breath.
Hurlish laughed again. “Damn, girl,” she said to Oddry. “You couldn’t think of, like, something easier for her to start off with? You just jumped right into a four course meal?”
“I thought she was capable,” Oddry said defensively.
“Uh.” Hurlish eyed the ruined kitchen. “Why?”
“Both of you can keep such opinions to yourself,” Vesta snipped, an embarrassed blush rising up her cheeks. “I am perfectly capable of handling myself. In fact, if you hadn’t requested such a-”
“Drop,” Oddry snapped, a domineering expression flashing over her face.
Vesta’s knees hit the tile an instant later, collar flashing around her neck. Unlike Evie’s, there was no engraving of Whore etched across the front, but the thick, stylistic padlock had two names on either side. One said “Vesta’s”, the other “Oddry’s”. Right now the word “Oddry’s” was facing out.
Showing the world who owned her.
“I thought you could behave,” Oddry said, shaking her head. “But clearly you haven’t learned a thing about how to handle yourself. How long will it be until you understand that failed noblewomen like you must be broken of their bad habits?”
“I-”
“Silence,” Oddry commanded. Vesta’s lips kept moving, but she couldn’t say a word. Oddry shook her head in faux sadness. “And here I was almost looking forward to giving you your reward. Oh, well. It is time to make do. Put your tongue out.”
A powerful shudder raced up Vesta’s body as she pressed her tongue out as far as it could go, presenting herself for Oddry’s approval. Her hands were pressed firmly in her lap, clutching a fistful of her maid’s dress.
“I thought you said getting to eat you out was her reward, not a punishment?” Hurlish asked as Oddry moved forward, wrapping a hand in Vesta’s hair.
“It would have been,” Oddry said. Then she moved Vesta forward, dragging her across the tile. “You, Hurlish, are her punishment.”
Vesta slid easily across the kitchen flooring, half-frozen by Oddry’s orders. She had to crane her neck back, looking far, far up at Hurlish. The former noblewoman’s pupils dilated, her breath coming quicker.
“I think I can work with that,” Hurlish said, grinning. She unbuckled her belt, dropping her pants a moment later. She was tall enough that Vesta had to raise herself up a few inches, no longer able to rest her butt on her heels, not if she wanted to line herself up with the crook of Hurlish’s legs. Hurlish wrapped one hand around Vesta’s head, her calloused palm cupping it like most people could a mug.
“So how’s this gonna go?” Hurlish asked, eying Oddry. The woman was dragging a chair into the kitchen from the living room, falling back into it as she hiked her dress up, hand slipping beneath.
“Hm?” Oddry hummed, glancing up from the sight of her wife on her knees. “Oh, I don’t care. Use her to get off however you’d like. So long as she doesn’t cum, I’ll be satisfied. She needs to learn her place.”
“Perfect. Always happy to help.”
Hurlish dragged Vesta in, shoving the woman’s face into her pussy. Vesta’s lolling tongue began to obediently run up and down her slit, taking to her “punishment” with a satisfied groan.
Then, just as she was about to reach Hurlish’s clit, a muffled voice called out of Vesta’s pocket.
“Vesta? Hurlish? Dad? Any of you up?”
Hurlish swore under her breath, fingers still tangled in Vesta’s hair. The noblewoman-turned-pseudo-slave tried to pull away, reaching for the communication crystal, but Hurlish didn’t let her budge.
“Oddry,” Hurlish grunted, grinding her hips into Vesta’s face. “Go get that.”
Oddry hid her laughter behind a hand, drifting out of her chair to kneel next to her wife. After being briefly distracted by feeling her up through the maid dress, she slipped a hand into a pocket, pulling out the crystal and holding it up for Hurlish to speak.
“Hey, what’s up?” Hurlish said.
“Hurlish?” Sara’s voice replied, surprised. “What are you still doing up?”
“Getting eaten out by Vesta right now.”
“Oh, fun! Can we talk to her, too?”
Hurlish ground herself a bit harder into Vesta’s tongue, a hungry moan slipping from her lips.
“No.”
“I mean, surely you can just let her breathe for a minute-”
“No.”
There was the sound of Evie snickering alongside Sara’s sigh.
“Alright, fine. Just get her up to date, later, alright?”
“Sure, sure,” Hurlish said. “Oddry’s here, too, so she’ll pay attention.”
“As best I can, anyway,” the woman called out breathily, two fingers rubbing tight circles on her clit.
“Oh my god,” David suddenly said, his tired voice filled with abject horror. “These things need a mute button.”
“Oops,” Hurlish said, pulling Vesta away for a second so the trembling pleasure in her voice wouldn’t be quite so obvious. “Sorry about that. Forgot you were in on this.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to go shove this crystal in a safe so I never have to hear about my daughter-in-law’s sex life ever again.”
“Could you hold on for a second, Dad?” Sara asked, a slight twinge of embarrassment coloring request. “Sorry to wake you up, by the way.”
“Is it important?”
“Yeah, kinda. We decided which Empire we’re gonna back.”
With that kind of declaration, Hurlish could almost imagine everyone on the crystal network leaning forward with bated breath. Most of Tulian’s upper decision-makers had probably been asleep when Sara called, but most everyone who had a crystal on the communication network kept them as close as they could, more than enough to wake them up. Hurlish felt bad for whatever lone artificer was on the connection nexus’s night shift; if too many people started talking, they’d be all on their own as they juggled one hell of a mess, trying to stop the system from overloading.
“Mui’s, I’m guessing?” Hurlish joked.
“Yeah, thank the gods,” Sara said.
“Hey Evie, did I win the bet?”
“Yes,” her wife replied, voicing the admission as nothing more than a quiet grunt.
“Ha! Knew it. Alright, sorry, back on topic. What’s the deal you managed to cook up?”
While Hurlish continued to drag Vesta’s face up and down her slit, smearing her face with slick arousal, she listened to Sara’s brief breakdown of the deal she’d brokered with the Imperial Adjutant.
Even distracted as she was, Hurlish could tell it was a Big Damn Deal. If Vesta hadn’t been deafened by Hurlish’s thighs, she’d have been throwing a fit at the economic opportunity Sara had passed up.
Not that Hurlish was surprised, of course. The moment Sara had revealed what the Adjutant had offered her, she knew exactly how the chips were gonna fall. There were a lot of arguments for or against picking either side, way more than Hurlish could ever have hoped to keep track of, but none of them could change the way her wife worked. Even as the de facto queen of a country, she’d never once seen the world through the lense of “us versus them.” At least not based on borders, that is. Sara’s only real enemies were the rich and powerful. And this Adjutant’s deal had given her a chance to fight the people she actually hated.
“We’re going to have to push Project Cycle up the priority list a good few notches,” Sara said, moving on from the political deal’s technicalities. “Dad, how are we looking on that?”
“Well, the rubber’s not nearly as good as I’d want it to be,” David said, speaking slowly as he worked through his thoughts. “I’m real nervous about mass-deploying the pneumatic tires we’ve stockpiled, even if we technically have enough rubber in storage to replace them. There’s too much risk of puncture, too little ability to do field repairs. I still think it would be better to use solid wheels and restrict their use to better terrain.”
“But we have the equipment to manufacture replacements at the expected rates if we need to?”
“Should do, yeah,” Hurlish answered, pulling Vesta out from between her thighs so she could hide her groans of pleasure. “We’ve got plenty of ways to make steel tubes, and we’ve already got a few good roll benders up and running. ‘Course I’ve had my kids working on gears like crazy, so they should’ve at least made some good progress there. I’ll have to double-check with ‘em in the morning. We’re not anywhere near ready for folding mechanisms or welding, but that’s to be expected. A one-piece frame should still work for what you want. How many are you going to need?”
“Six or seven hundred, I’m guessing,” Sara said. “What about the powered cannon carriages? Is Tinvel on the line?”
There was an anticipatory silence, waiting for Tulian’s premier artificer-inventor to pitch in. When nothing happened, likely because the kid was asleep or Chona had taken their shared crystal for the night, Hurlish answered for him.
“I think he’s made some progress, but it’s not like he’s been working too hard on it. Kid’s obsessed with his plane. Even if whatever he’s got going is kinda-sorta working, I doubt they’ll be able to keep up with the infantry all on their own.”
“Well I can’t pull him off the plane project,” Sara said. “Those griffons are nasty bastards. Now that we’re outright backing one side, I wouldn’t be surprised if they start trying to harass the border. We’ll need proper combat planes as soon as we can get them.”
“If you’d just let me develop proper guns for them-” David began.
“Shut up, Dad,” Sara snapped. “The crystal network isn’t half as secure as it should be. And no, we’re not doing that. Not until we absolutely have to.”
“Alright, alright,” David said, soothing his daughter. “I get it. But I still think it’s gonna end up inevitable. We should start working on it as soon as we can.”
“If you can find some time in Hurlish’s schedule, go for it. But I really doubt you will.”
“I’m busy as shit,” Hurlish agreed, slamming Vesta’s face back into her crotch. The noblewoman had barely caught her breath, but why should Hurlish care? This was supposed to be a punishment.
“I said I get it,” David repeated. “Now what about the forts Shale and I have been working on? Are we gonna have to pause the work?”
“No. We need those up and ready as soon as we can get ‘em. I still don’t know how long it’ll be until Sporatos invades again, but it’s gonna happen. If the King doesn’t take Tulian soon, he’s gonna end up with a knife in his back.”
“By all our informant’s reports,” Oddry chipped in, “the Sporaton nobility’s support for a second invasion of Tulian is absolutely abysmal. Are you so sure a second invasion is inevitable?”
“Absolutely. The longer the King leaves his nobility to mull over how bad he fucked up, the more pissed they’ll get. He has to find some way to distract them, and what better way than winning the war he shouldn’t have lost?”
“If you say so,” Oddry said doubtfully. “Those few spies that remain loyal to House Vesta, in addition to sporadic reports from the burgeoning peasant resistance, indicate the King is speaking constantly of the importance of peace and prosperity.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he is,” Sara sarcastically drawled. “Which is exactly why he’s going to start explaining in a few months how much the Republic of Tulian’s mere existence is supposedly threatening that imaginary peace and prosperity. He soothes ‘em over, promises something better, then whips ‘em into a frenzy by convincing them I’m some bloodthirsty maniac that wants to come and leave every last noble dangling from a noose.”
“Aren’t ya?” Hurlish asked. Vesta’s face was getting red between her thighs, her tongue’s movements sloppier and sloppier, but she didn’t pay the woman any mind. She was still licking, and as long as that was true, Hurlish wasn’t interested in giving her a break.
“Yeah,” Sara admitted casually, “but I’m years away from actually being able to manage that.”
“Regardless,” Evie interjected, “in the coming months, the bulk of our focus should remain on the southern border. The mercenary force we will be assembling to aid the Imperials will not have free reign. We will be inextricably attached to a larger army, and thus unable to maneuver towards Tulian’s defense. If the rebellion sees fit to march north, the conventional Tulian army must be prepared to drive them back.”
“We’re barely going to finish the northern forts in time,” David said. “And that’s taking almost every last one of the workers Shale and I can scrounge up. There’s not going to be anything we can prepare in the south.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” Sara said. “Besides, the territory the defenses would have to cover would be massive. We can’t just make the… oh, what was it? That stupid shit the French built for World War Two?”
“The maginot line,” David provided.
“Yeah, that. We can’t build one of those, and even if we did, that shit didn’t do anything back on earth. There’s no point making defenses the enemy can just walk around.”
“Actually, the maginot line was surprisingly effective, and it was only because the Belgians, French, and British didn’t properly-”
“Okay, don’t fuck with my metaphor here, Dad,” Sara said. “Point is, no, we’re not going to be building forts to the south. They could just ignore them, and if we sallied out to attack them, we’d be crushed by superior numbers. We’re going to have to figure something else out.”
“That’s assuming that the rebel forces even bother to attack Tulian directly,” Evie noted. “The nearest major cities of either Imperial faction are well over a hundred miles away from the border. It would be quite the trek, one that would doubtlessly expose gaps in their own defenses as one of their armies grapples with Tulian. Even if they crush us on the first day of combat, the time spent marching alone is a daring risk to take.”
Vesta was starting to go limp between Hurlish’s legs, but she didn’t pull her out yet. She wanted to hear what her wives had to say without trying to stifle the lady’s panting.
“Doesn’t mean we shouldn ignore the possibility,” Sara said. “Remember, they’ve got ten times more people in one city than we’ve got in our entire country. They could afford to send off some mob of rookie conscripts to go burning our countryside without blinking an eye, and maybe even throw that army at our walls. Who cares if they don’t break through to Tulian itself? They’ll cause enough trouble just burning the countryside to the ground.”
“That would still be a very poor strategic decision on their part, Master.”
“But it would be satisfying as hell for them, because they’re gonna be very, very pissed off that we sided with their enemies. Never underestimate the power of spite.”
“If you say so, dear.”
“What do you need from us, then?” Hurlish asked, pulling a limp Vesta away from her pussy, letting her take deep, heaving gasps. “I assume you didn’t just wake us up in the middle of the night to chat about random shit.”
“Mainly, I want everyone to start getting ready to shit out as many guns and cannons as we can manage. We’re stuck in this bullshit, now. If the side we’re backing loses, Tulian’s going down with them. Plus the more guns we build, the more money we make. I want us to start getting back on a war footing first thing tomorrow morning. Maybe send a runner to the newspaper, get Thalison to release a special edition. I can give him a statement if you manage to wake that old codger up.”
“The people are going to be concerned that you have involved them in this war, Governess,” a new voice said. Garen, sounding as groggy as David had a few minutes before. Apparently he’d been unable to ignore the chattering coming from the crystal.
“Technically, Tulian as a nation hasn’t gotten involved,” Sara said. “I’ll have to emphasize that in the press release. We’re just selling guns to one side, and offering some soldiers a chance to volunteer as mercenaries under Evie. There’s plenty of precedent for one nation providing foreign arms sales and mercenaries without actually ending up at war with someone.”
“Will this rival Imperial faction see your actions as such?”
“Probably not. Which is why we need to get our defenses ready. Also, by the way, I guess since we’re backing one side, we’re gonna have to start calling the other group ‘rebels’ instead of an Empire. Politics and shit.”
With Garen having joined, the conversation began to delve deeper into abstract, boring-ass political shit. Hurlish eventually tossed the crystal back over to Oddry, then wrapped her other hand around Vesta’s head, beginning to grind herself properly into the pretty little lady.
Plenty of people in the city had a lot of opinions on Vesta. Whether or not she was another greedy noble, a shameless opportunist, or a downright charlatan, Hurlish knew one thing about the woman that most didn’t:
She was damn good at giving head.
With all their focus back on each other, Hurlish’s grunts and groans started to grow in volume. Oddry hurried out of the room, sparing the rest of the meeting’s attendants the sound of Hurlish’s rapidly approaching climax, which rose up in her belly as a firey, burning tension.
Years of experience told Vesta exactly what was happening, and she dove into Hurlish’s slit with wild abandon. Hurlish relaxed her grip on the woman’s head to let her do her work, tongue running in quick circles on her clit, three fingers pumping away in her pussy.
With a final, stuttering moan, Hurlish’s hips threw themselves forward, shoving Vesta’s head through the air. Vesta kept her hands on Hurlish’s ass to keep the pressure up, fingers pumping Hurlish through her climax with just the right little curl, sending her legs shaking.
When she came back down from the high, Hurlish dropped Vesta’s head. She collapsed backward, barely managing to catch herself before she fell onto her back. She gasped in lungfuls of air, what little makeup she’d worn smeared by the obscenity of Hurlish’s slick.
“Y-you’re welcome,” she said, coughing lightly between her words. She wiped her mouth with a sleeve. “I take it my service was adequate, miss?”
“Good enough,” Hurlish said, pretending she was leaning on the countertop just because she wanted, rather than because her legs were about to give out.
“Good enough to earn a favor in turn?”
“Nope,” Hurlish said, grinning evilly. “That’s up to your owner, not me. Now come on, you little whore. You missed a lot of shit while you were up in my thighs.”
Vesta made as if to stand, then frowned.
“Ah, Hurlish? I cannot stand. Oddry’s orders won’t let me.”
“So crawl,” she said, walking out of the kitchen to join Oddry. “Maybe if you stick your ass out enough, Oddry’ll let you eat her out next.”
“Yes, Miss,” Vesta sighed, half out of frustration, half from a flush of arousal. She followed after Hurlish on all fours, entering the living room just as Hurlish dropped down onto a sofa.
Together with Oddry, they watched the half-ruined woman drag herself over to them, coming to a stop on the other side of the coffee table.
“Closer,” Oddry whispered. Vesta eagerly crawled forward, licking her lips, only for Oddry to hold up a hand. “Stop.”
Vesta’s confusion at the order was remedied shortly, as Oddry threw her feet up, legs crossed, ankles resting on one of her wife’s shoulders. She had thick black leather boots on, Sara’s wedding gift to the former maid. In private, Sara had called them ‘bad bitch goth boots,’ though at the wedding she’d just told Oddry they were called 3-inch platform shoes. At the familiar weight resting on her shoulders, Vesta groaned in disappointment, but didn’t say anything further.
Hurlish smiled. She’d found some fun damn friends ever since she met Sara.
--------------------------------
Ignite Parables
--------------------------------
There was a squall in the distance. A lone one, a small one, but still, a squall. A patch of cloud which had begun to dissolve, pelting the ocean with drops of fresh water. The rest of the sky was empty, pale blue for as far as the eye could see, and there was no land in sight. A stiff breeze was filling the Waverake’s sails, carrying them along at a steady clip.
And it carried their companions with it, too.
Unlike that fitful squall, the Waverake was not alone. Two ships flanked her on either side, less than a hull’s width of open water between them. Nora had ordered the sails reefed to allow the ‘foreign’ vessels to keep pace.
But they were not foreign to Ignite.
They were Carrion Magecraft.
Off their starboard side was a Bulker, a craft which once could have claimed to be the heaviest vessel on the sea. Now it sat in the shadow of the Waverake’s sails, forty feet shorter, twenty feet thinner, and with only two sails raised beside the Waverake’s three. In her belly, Ignite knew, could sit hundreds of Carrion Marines, any one of whom were thrice the match of every other Navy’s troops. Enchantments shimmered along the hull, catching the sunlight bouncing off the waves, ready to protect the vessel as it drove straight into even the most arduously defended harbor. With their turtle-esque covered deck and thick wooden planking, Bulkers were the premier symbol of Carrion might, a ship designed to crash mindlessly through any coastal city’s defenses, spewing a battalion of elite Marines directly into the most vital of a city’s industries.
Flanking their port side was an unfamiliar ship. It flew the Carrion flag, carried a Carrion crew, and held all the subtle hallmarks of Carrion craftsmanship, but Ignite did not know its design. It had the sharply angled, rakish hull of a Magecraft Skimmer, but lacked the stabilizing pontoons, which would have been bumping against the Waverake’s hull had they been present. It was half again wider than any Skimmer Ignite had ever seen, and half again longer, too, thus equaling the two-hundred-plus feet of the Waverake. She was triple masted, and despite her prodigious size, she was clearly a vessel built for speed.
Ignite studied the strange ship of his former people through an open gunport, crouched in the shadow of the gundeck. He could tell This new ship was fresh out of the shipyards. Its paint was fresh and unchipped, without the uneven splotches that invariably developed as maintenance paint was purchased in different ports. Its crew were as skilled as any Carrion Magecraft, but there was a subtle hesitance to their motions, sailors pausing ever so slightly before they began to follow an order. This was a veteran crew taking a ship out on its first trials, testing the seaworthiness of a novel design.
Creeping just a touch closer to the open light of the gunport, Ignite watched the ship carefully. Its inspiration was clear: this was the Carrion Navy’s first attempt to answer the Waverake. It had likely begun construction as soon as Captain Vanillaflower had returned with reports of the massive Waverake in drydock, and the Carrion designers had been shameless in their mimicry.
The Admiralty were no fools. Whether or not they had believed Captain Vanillaflower’s reports of Governess Sara’s burgeoning military prowess or the importance of securing an alliance with her, they could recognize the inevitability of the Waverake’s influence on naval design. She was a ship which, by her very existence, rendered obsolete every prior vessel on the sea.
But for all their eagerness to seize such an advantage as soon as possible, this new Magecraft was not without its flaws. Its designers had not grasped the importance of the Waverake’s tumblehome hull, which bulged outward at the waterline for stability, and instead had built their new craft with the flat sides of earlier Skimmers. It rocked hard from left to right as it crashed through the waves, and, Ignite suspected, would heel terribly far over should the wind truly pick up. They would have to reef the sails almost entirely should the wind grow too stiff. So too had they failed to fully replicate the beautiful complexity of the Waverake’s sail rigging, though this error was more understandable, as it had not been completed when Vanillaflower had toured the vessel. Though the Magecraft had three sails, their ability to control them was severely lacking in comparison to the nigh-supernatural grace Nora’s training had instilled in her crew. Next to the Waverake’s tangled spiderweb of ropes, pulleys, and sails, the Magecraft was tattered and threadbare. Ignite knew that would soon change, seeing as the Carrion captain was even now carefully studying the Waverake’s lines.
For all its flaws, however, it remained an incredible vessel. Even if its purely physical design was inferior to its inspiration, the aid of Carrion artificers had closed the gap. It slipped through the water with hardly a splash, easily keeping pace with the Waverake despite its half-furled sails, while its Bulker companion had thrown out every yard of cloth it could just to keep pace. While Ignite could not discern the thickness of the strange ship’s hull at a glance, what few enchantments he could spy more closely resembled those of a Bulker than a Skimmer. It was, in its own way, an armored vessel.
A hand abruptly clapped onto Ignite’s shoulder. “Impressive girl, ain’t she?” A voice asked.
Ignite jumped in place with a thundering heart, having been far too engrossed in his study of the ship to notice anyone approach.
Gunner Balon laughed at his reaction, slapping him on the back.
“That nervous to be seeing some of your old kin, First Sergeant?”
“Nervous to be surrounded by them,” he said, standing straight. “They would not send such an escort if they thought highly of our intentions.”
“Ah, but no one’s started shooting yet, have they?” Balon asked. Even indoors, he wore his massive-brimmed hat, the brim of which was so floppy that he often had to lift it with a thumb to keep it out of his eyes. “If they really wanted to put a stop to us, they’d have started flinging spells a good while back.”
“If the Captain thought we were likely to receive a peaceful escort to our destination, she wouldn’t have ordered the cannons loaded.”
Ignite spoke the truth, though he kept his voice down. The gundeck was on full alert, every member of the crew at their stations. All the 24 pounder cannons were loaded with solid shot, the 32 pounders above stuffed full with a double-load of grapeshot. The gun crews were not waiting with the firing string gripped in their hands, but neither had they strayed far from their posts. There was a thick, palpable tension in the air.
“Better safe than sorry, I say,” Balon said, grinning. “Besides, I’d like to see them try. They sailed right up on us like some damn fools. We’ll shred ‘em in the first volley.”
“Only if the Captain elects to fire first,” Ignite said, compelled to be the voice of reason. Gunner Balon, though a reliable man in most every respect, had the same fatal flaw of every other artillery officer Ignite had met in the Tulian Republic: he was far, far too eager to put his pretty toys to the test. “I have no doubt we will deal the enemy irreconcilable damage should our three ships come to blows, but I fear the destruction shall be mutual. Their mages will coat our ship in more flames than can be fought in the first instant of the battle.”
“Ah, we’ll worry about that when it happens,” Balon said, crouching to look down the barrel of the nearest cannon, checking its aim. “The Captain will have some plan for it, I’m sure.”
“I hope she does,” Ignite agreed mildly. He did not have the same unyielding faith in Captain Nora that many of the other officers and crew did. After all, he was one of the men who she came to in order to evaluate how well she was doing in building her cult of personality. “But I’d rather us not put her plans, whatever they may be, to the test.”
“Y’don’t know what she’s thinking?” Balon asked, grunting as he nudged the cannon he was inspecting a few degrees to the side. “You’re usually the one the rest of us come to for figurin’ out what’s going on in the Captain’s head, y’know. First Mate Castalan’s too tight-lipped, the fuzzy little prick.”
“I haven’t spoken to her since the vessels showed up, I’m afraid.”
“And why’s that?” Balon asked, glancing up at Ignite. Then he blinked. “Well you’re damn right, you haven’t. You’ve been down here ever since them ships got in a couple hundred yards. What, one of them carrying some old Carrion buddy of yours?”
“I do not believe it best to flaunt my betrayal,” Ignite said, careful to keep his face impassive. “It would only make the Captain’s overtures, should they be peaceful, more difficult. Either Carrion captain would be within their rights to demand I be extradited for execution.”
“Captain would refuse, though.”
“Yes. She would.”
Ignite let the implication hang. Truthfully, if he should find himself in a situation which required him to fire upon Carrion citizens, he did not know if he would be capable of it. Perhaps one tenant of Sara’s peculiar ideology, that of disregarding unjust legal edicts, had taken root in him, but that was a far cry from adopting her more ‘anarchist’ beliefs. Carrion law may have viewed his refusal to go down with his Magecraft as an act of treason, but Ignite did not. That meant he was, in his own mind, a loyal citizen of the Navy. Even when unwelcomed by his people, he still cared deeply for their fate.
“Still think y’shouldn’t give a rat’s ass what they think of ya,” Balon said, moving to peer out the gunport for himself. “If they’re stupid enough to think men and women’ll happily go down with the…” He trailed off, squinting. “Oh? What’s this?”
Ignite bent down beside Balon, who shuffled to one side to allow him a better view.
The rowing ports along the side of the strange Magecraft were opening up. Ignite expected the ship to change its tack, perhaps rowing to get ahead of the Waverake for whatever reason, but what emerged…
A rumbling noise was carried across the water.
The deeply familiar sound of wooden wheels trundling across a wooden deck.
What sprouted from the darkness of the Magecraft’s hull was no set of wooden oars.
Thick as Ignite was wide, built of a cold, gray iron, suddenly appeared the muzzles of a dozen cannons.
“Make ready!” Balon roared, his voice thundering across the gundeck. The cannon crews, who had not entirely given way to idleness, scrambled forward, taking their positions in moments.
“Run out!”
More wooden rumbling filled the air as cannons began to sprout from both sides of the Waverake, turning its sleek hull into a black castle of bristling iron spikes.
Ignite began to run towards the stairs, countless drills wresting control of his body from his far more tumultuous mind as he made for his combat station up above.
But before he could reach the stairs, and just as Gunner Balon inhaled to bellow the order to fire, a crystalline cry chimed across the ship.
“Hold!” Captain Nora cried, filling every sailor’s ears with her order. “All stations, hold!”
As always when she ensured the entire ship would hear her, there was a strange tone to her words, like the echoing of a city’s belltower at noon, though not nearly so distant. Ignite winced at the pain lancing through his skull, her order as loud as if she’d screamed at the top of her lungs with her lips pressed to the skin of his ear.
When he recovered, Ignite found himself frozen in place, his momentum swept out from under him. Nora was an erstwhile captain. They had drilled for this exact scenario innumerable times. The moment when an enemy vessel would finally present cannons, when Nora would finally get the fair fight she so desired. Time was of the utmost importance. At this range, whoever fired first would gain an unbelievable advantage.
But instead of an apocalyptic thunder of cannonfire, bodies torn limb from limb as smoke choked them all, what came next was a jovial call from the Waverake’s Captain. Nora began hollering to the Carrion craft in as chipper a tune as Ignite had ever heard from the woman, speaking as if she were discussing some local festivity with a passerby on the street.
Only the least inexperienced of the ship’s crew would take that as a sign of relief.
To Ignite’s shock, the Carrion captain did respond, if in not quite as casual a tone. Down on the gundeck as he was, Ignite could not make out the exact words being spoken, but what little he caught didn’t seem overtly hostile. Rather more like… like two novice sailors who had been caught fighting in some bar once before, having suddenly happened across one another the next night. Though just as drunk and angry as they’d been in their first encounter, they were now in posession of a mutual understanding of just how awful the city’s jails truly were. Another fight, no matter who won, just wasn’t worth the trouble.
Well, at least one of them has that understanding. Ignite thanked Daylagon himself that this particular Carrion captain didn’t seem to share Nora’s love of the fight.
“Look at them things,” Balon suddenly crowed in contempt, dragging Ignite’s– and half the gundeck’s– attention back over. “Big fat bastards with a tiny little pinprick for the muzzle.” He guffawed, leaning on a cannon as he inspected its opposite rival. “They might’ve figured out how to get them cannons of some sort or another, but they’ve no idea how to make ‘em like the HOT foundries do.”
Hesitantly, still unsure of how the next few minutes might pass, Ignite pulled his foot off the staircase. He… did not want to show himself to Carrion sailors if necessary. His was a distinctive countenance, sure to be recognized at a glance by any who had met him.
So instead he joined the gaggle of junior officers, crew, and general busybodies who were clumping together to hear Gunner Balon’s appraisal of the enemy’s cannons.
“Tried to use iron, they did, likely thinking that if we could do as well as we did with the stuff, they damn well ought to as as well. And look what it got them. Should’ve just went with bronze, I say. That’s how we started, least ‘till we could figure out how to get iron to stop bursting. Instead of that, they just slapped more iron on the shits ‘till they stopped cracking. Those big bastards must weigh twice as much as any of ours, all to fire a shot with a quarter less weight.”
“They’re still cannons,” one girl in the crowd said. Midshipman Seima, Ignite thought. With a face fresh enough Ignite suspected she’d lied about her age to join the Navy, he vaguely recalled she’d been jockeying for Gunner’s Mate, hoping to someday have the privelege of aiming a cannon, not merely helping load it. “It don’t much matter how much money they pissed away on makin’ ‘em,” she argued, “not when they’re already paid for and pointed at us. Don’t care much if they’re ten times as heavy neither, not once they’re on the damn ship.”
“Ah, but that’s not all matters, is it?” Gunner Balon glanced back at his audience, grinning widely. While he’d earned his command of the ship’s guns early on, on account of his prior experience with ship-mounted ballistae, Ignite thought it was the man’s passion for teaching which had kept him in Nora’s short list of trusted officers.
“Look there,” Balon said, pointing at the gun directly ahead of the hatch they’d bustled around, one which was in prime position to smash through all their bellies in one fell swoop should it be fired. “See how thick it is at the muzzle? Three finger’s width, easy. And that’s just at the muzzle! Imagine how much iron they’ve had to slap on way back at the first reinforce. Three times as much? Four? Forget how much it cost ‘em, lassie. I don’t care if one of their cannons cost as much as a whole damn ship. Carrions can afford it, they could. No, imagine how much all that damn iron weighs.”
“They only have twelve,” Ignite murmured. The Waverake currently sported thirty-two 24 pounders along its single gundeck, with twelve short-barreled 32 pounders on the top deck. The Carrion ship had only twelve to answer them, having a keel of equal length.
“Aye,” Balon said, floppy hat bobbing as he nodded enthusiastically. “With how quick they got this ship in the water, I’m doubting they had any time to get the iron enchanted to lessen the weight. One of them bastards probably weighs what, six, seven thousand pounds? And if they’ve got twelve more on the far side, that’s 150,000 pounds in cannon alone, not to mention powder, shot, and everything else y’need to keep cannons and crew running. On a ship like that, with a thinner frame than ours? Be damn lucky if they can store enough food and water in that ship to keep it at sea for more than a few weeks. Two months at best.”
“So it’s a paper tiger,” one of the other onlookers said, half as a statement, half as a question. “It just looks big and scary, but it can’t do what we can do.”
“Oh, it’s a fine ship, don’t let my making fun lead you to that mistake,” Balon said. “It’s just like every other ship on the waters: it ain’t no Waverake. Lot closer to us than they were before, though. They’re stumbling their way forward, trying to ride on our coattails. They ain’t fools. Carrions build the best ships in the world. This ship’ll sail about for a bit, some pencil pushers on board making all sorts of notes and whatnot, then they’ll come back into the dockyards and turn those notes into a new ship that doesn’t have half the problems this one does.”
“It still won’t matter,” another voice said, this time from a proper officer. A quarter gunner. “The Governess is a genius. If they ever get close to building something like the Waverake, she’ll have some awful beast in the water two months beforehand. Probably made of blacksteel, with cannons that can shoot down the sky.”
“The Governess is not a genius,” Ignite harshly corrected, drawing proper attention to himself for the first time. The crowd looked back at him with astonishment, an expression which Ignite ignored by continuing to stare out at the Carrion vessel. “And she is not an army nor Navy unto herself. Have you not heard her constant cries, pleading for artificers, mages, and the mechanically inclined to join her and her wife in the foundries? Her feverish efforts to establish education for all who wish to receive it? She requires aid as much as any of us. Moreso, perhaps, since any goal she achieves is, to her, simply the unveiling of an even greater struggle. One woman may provide the design of a vessel, but should she be left to build it alone, it will never be completed.”
“Oh, uh, m’sorry, First Sergeant,” the officer who had spoken said, rubbing the back of his head. “I didn’t mean it like-”
“I do not care,” Ignite cut him off. “Complacency is the first rung on the ladder to the grave. Do not fantasize of how the Governess will salve your worries. Look at the tools you have now, and ask yourself how you will apply them to solve your problems. If another ship joins these three, one with every flaw Gunner Balon has presented to us already resolved and with its battle flag flying, how will you, Quarter Gunner, fight your position? That is the question you should ask, and it is the plan you will make. Do not invoke the name of a woman five hundred miles distant who will never know you existed to solve your problems.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I was just-”
“Your proper and only response will be yes, sir, Quarter Gunner.”
“Yes, sir!” The man cried, popping up into a salute.
“Now get to it.”
“...Sir?” He looked left to right at his fellow shipmates, who were equally confused.
“I gave you an order,” Ignite tersely explained. “Return to your post and begin formulating a plan for how you will conduct yourself in an engagement with the vessels currently sailing astride us, in the event they are joined by a third vessel, this third ship being the Waverake’s equal. You are not a midshipman anymore, boy. You are an Officer, and that means you should not only be capable of planning your next meal, you should be literate. I wish to see if you are progressing in the Captain’s lessons as you should be. Should there be no battle commenced today, I expect your written plan of action presented to me at sundown. Am I now understood to your satisfaction?”
“Yes sir!” He cried once more, bouncing away.
And with that, doing his best in front of the gawking crowd to act as though nothing had happened, Ignite crouched back down, looking out the gunport once more.
“What do you think her draft is?” Ignite asked when the conversation didn’t restart. “If she carries as much weight as you say on such a thin beam, adjusting her ballast must consume half her crew’s duty.”
Mercifully taking the hint, Gunner Balon once more grabbed the reins of the discussion. Ignite remained at the rear of the crowd, but there was a new, uncomfortable air to those knelt beside him. In most Navies, Ignite would have been only a Marine, in charge of the Marines alone. But here in the Tulian Navy, or Nora’s Lonesome Navy as it was currently more accurately described, his nebulous and as yet-undefined title of “First Sergeant” gave him leeway he had never been afforded.
Leeway that he still was not sure how to properly manage. By all rights, Ignite had just blatantly usurped the chain of the command, heavily chastising someone under the direct authority of Gunner Balon, and all for an offense that was, had it occurred on a different ship, minor to the point of perhaps not being an offense at all. His had been completely inappropriate behavior from every shipboard angle.
But Ignite was bound by loyalties that lay beyond the Waverake’s wooden hull. Sara’s distaste for the common people’s worship of her talents was well-known, and while she had never officially charged him with countering its festering, she’d often offered surreptitious thanks that the Waverake held at least one officer who would not give into belief in her infallibility. To Ignite, who was used to the political games of higher offices, that was as good as an order to suppress such behavior among the crew at all costs.
A considerable complication arose from his being under the command of Nora, who often directly, explicitly charged him with singling out members of the crew who might better inflate her legacy. She had ordered not just the officers, but all of the crew to be educated into literacy. Ostensibly, this would allow them to peruse her grand collection of naval histories and treatises at their leisure, providing the whole crew a rounded perspective of the importance of every shipboard duty. A sound enough order on the surface, if obsessive in the standards she expected of them, but not unreasonable nor unheard of. The Flagship of a Navy should have the most educated and skillful of the fleet’s sailors.
But Ignite knew from his own private discussions with the captain that her motivation was not entirely pure. While still a practical woman at heart, when finding herself deliberating over which of two equally qualified crewmembers should be placed where, she had a distressingly callous methodology for breaking the tie. If the position was to be close to her, within eyesight, she would ask Ignite which of the two candidates he thought to be more creative with their words and writing, happily explaining it was all the better they have a good view to someday dictate her deeds later in their life. If the position in contention was elsewhere, perhaps a dangerous station such as up in the topmast, she would position the more-skilled orator below, where they would be more likely to survive a battle to tell her tale. She even discarded the traditions of other Deepwater vessels by requiring all her crew to not just learn how to swim, but to swim well. Most Deepwater ships and their crews viewed the ability to swim as more a curse than a burden, certain only to prolong their agonies should they be swept overboard while still a hundred miles from shore. Nora? When they had been becalmed for half a day the week prior, rather than give her crew the customary period of relaxation until the wind rose once more, she had ordered them to practice rapidly stripping all their heavy gear off, sending them leaping overboard. She then dove into the water herself, leading them all in merry laps around the ship until they were too exhausted to continue. Even for the portion of the crew who enjoyed women, the sight of their half-elvish Captain soaking wet, the undershirt of her uniform clinging tightly to her body, hadn’t been a salve great enough to recover from that exhausting exercise. Nora herself, of course, hadn’t seemed tired in the slightest, even after treading water for hours longer than anyone else.
For those isolated from the knowledge Ignite possessed, most of these were either arbitrary decisions, if a touch odd, or eccentricities born from an uncommon empathy for her crew, something that warmed their hearts for their strange captain.
To Ignite?
He wasn’t quite sure.
She had not once, to his knowledge, sacrificed the capability of her ship in order to better secure herself a legacy. She had not acquired a chronicler to follow her every step, as some wealthier Carrion captains Ignite had known did, nor had she frequently called Ignite into her office to discuss the orator or literacy skills of a crewmate. Barely once a month at most, a fraction of the crewing decisions she made in the same period. She claimed to, and seemed to, only use such criteria as a tiebreaker for her more indecisive moments. Assuming that was strictly true, it was no better or worse than any other method he had heard of, be it choosing by seniority or flipping a coin.
But he could not be certain. Nora was an excellent captain, yes, but she was a captain for a reason unlike, Ignite dared suspect, any in mankind’s history. Her wild, manic love of the ocean touched her mind at all times, constantly seeping into whatever chunks had been ripped from her fae-riddled reasoning. She laughed at the dawn of battle and drank heavily at the onset of peace. She would occasionally babble in languages not even the most traveled or educated of the crew recognized, seemingly confused at the lack of response, only to speak the same sentence again in Continental without ever acknowledging the lapse. When a midshipman had slipped and fell from the maintops to his death on the deck, betrayed by a hidden mold eating away within the thick bindings of rope, she had spent the rest of the day cross-legged in the center of the deck, silently unbraiding and rebraiding every rope in the ship’s stores with freakish, inhuman speed, her hands such a blur that she finished a month’s labor an hour before sunset. With no more faults discovered, her flesh-stripped fingers had coiled the offending rope into a tight bind, shoving it down the barrel of a cannon loaded with as much powder as Balon dared. She had personally lit the fuse which fired it directly into the sea.
They were sailing against the Locks of the Sea. Created at the behest of the God Daylagon himself, they were the greatest fortifications mankind had ever produced. At the rear of the Waverake was a great stained window honoring Daylagon. Every crewmember had seen Nora bow her head in prayer to the Beast God, and on the few occasions she helped haul in a catch of netted fish, she was fastidious in tossing the ritually splayed guts of the first-caught creature overboard, a humble offering to the divinity whose holiest temple they were intending to destroy.
Yes, she was skilled. Impossibly so. Ignite had never seen another Captain like her, and, he prayed to the gods, the world would never see another like her again.
At the end of the day, Ignite was proud to serve under her.
He did not expect to survive the honor.
He didn’t think anyone aboard the Waverake did.
--------------------------------
Mui Thom
--------------------------------
Two weeks later
Mui stood outside the walls of a new city, one considerably further east than Tonlay, and for the first time in what felt like years, he stood without Sara anywhere nearby. Though her small squadron of rifle-armed troops may have been helpful for picking off the commanders of the rebel army, Sara had stalwartly refused to aid in the defense of the city. She’d seen both the army defending it and the enemy coming to assault it, and promptly written Tonlay off as a loss without the slightest hesitation. Under her advice, the city had begun an arduous evacuation three whole days before the rebels could have arrived. The refugees had scattered to the countryside, while the remnants of the city’s defenders, those who hadn’t deserted in disgust for giving up the city without a fight, had regrouped here.
Battulen was a considerably smaller city than Tonlay. It was not the capital of a local province, and accordingly, its central district of towering construction occupied less than a quarter of the city’s walled interior. It was something closer to the cities the Tulian mercenaries may be acquainted with when they finally arrived, though that wasn’t why it had been chosen.
No, it had been chosen for its proximity to the coast. The sea was some hundred miles away, and though the Empire’s centuries-long policy of isolation left them without much in the way of ports, the natural bays which could harbor ships still existed. Rather than march her mercenaries through the great many miles of ill-kept jungle that separated Battulen and Tulian, she had elected to first load them onto her flotilla of stolen merchant ships, then deposit them at the edge of the jungle. There was still a single maintained road leading from there to Battulen, used on the rare occasions the Empire had a need to import foreign goods, and that would be her avenue of arrival.
The issue was, Sara had departed to meet her troops on the back of a griffon only three days ago, leaving Mui with instructions to expect her force’s arrival three days later.
That was impossible.
Even marching at the head of five or six hundred mercenaries, as opposed to the tens of thousands of an Imperial army, there were certain logistical absolutes that could not be overcome. A force of her size could march across the jungle, on average, ten or twelve miles a day. If she was willing to push her troops to the breaking point, simply abandoning stragglers where they dropped from exhaustion, they may be able to cover fifteen miles a day. Mui had even heard fanciful tales of elite forces covering twenty-five miles a day through the jungle, groups of Warriors literally sprinting across the landscape in order to reinforce a siege at its most critical moments. That was the stuff of legend; the things that happened in the war long before Mui was born, the sort of achievement people whispered about in awe-filled words.
For Sara’s troops to arrive in three days, she would have to cover more than thirty miles a day. Thirty miles up and down the jungle hills. Thirty miles of mud, muck, and tangling vines. Rising with the sun, gathering your pack, and charging forward as fast as you were able until the sun fell. It was a suicidal task.
Mui shifted anxiously, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth behind him. Beside him stood Most Prodigious Warrior of the Sixth Kyu, Borek Son-Sokthem. The vanara man was a true veteran of the Civil War, his brown fur fading white at the tips where it spread out above his cheeks, not unlike a human beard. He kept that not-quite-beard neatly trimmed, its tips twisted together with a bit of product to not be ruffled by the wind. His armor had been polished and mended to near-perfection by his attendants, as would be expected of someone of his stature, but it was the flaws that caught Mui’s eyes the most. Whether it was sentiment that drove him to keep the same old set of armor, or if he had simply invested far too much money in his equipment’s enchantments over the years to discard it for minor blemishes, the dents remained. Scrapes against the metal from an enchanted blade that had intrinsically altered the chestplate’s being, repelling all paint forever after. Dents along his helmet where hammers had repeatedly failed to pierce the gold-painted steel, so the rumor went, the time he had been surrounded by so many enemies he had been dragged down and wailed upon for minutes on end, enemy troops failing to pierce the steel until he was saved only by a Warrior who would go on to be given the honor of guarding the Adjutant himself.
He was an intimidating man, clearly. He needed neither his armor nor blacksteel-headed glaive to achieve that. Once upon a time, his rank alone would have cowed Mui into abject silence.
But now Mui had the ill fortune of being responsible for keeping this titan of war happy.
“Sir, I encourage you to feel no need to await the Governess’s arrival in the discomfort of the elements,” Mui said, speaking slowly to ensure he did not stutter. “While the Governess did say she would arrive in three days, considering the distance traveled-”
“Do you have no faith in your charge, Imperial-Tulian Cultural Exchange Officer Mui Thom?” The gruff Warrior asked, using the full weight of Mui’s new title as a club.
“Of course I do, but one must consider the realities of the-”
“She said she would arrive today, and I have received no news otherwise. If standing patiently in a field is all that is required of me to meet the requirements of polite decorum, I will do so.”
“That is another thing, sir,” Mui said, wincing even before he got to the tough part. “While you have doubtlessly prepared for the Chosen’s arrival with all the proper rituals necessary, I feel compelled to remind you of the Adjutant’s advice regarding her preferred forms of address-”
“The Will of Divinity is the foundation of all we are. Even the Emperor bows to the gods. I do not think myself above the Emperor.” The man’s eyes slid down and to the side, observing Mui from the corner of his vision. “Do you consider yourself above the Emperor? Above the Gods?”
“No, sir, of course not, sir,” Mui said, stepping back, folding his hands together as he bowed, appropriately chastised.
Sara’s going to fucking hate this, he thought, sweat beginning to lather beneath his armor.
They were standing beneath what had to be the most ostentatious pavillion available in the entire city of Battulen, purple silk bedecked with golden trim so dense it almost entirely hid the beautiful imagery woven into its surface. Three plush chairs had been set out beneath it, one for the General, one for the Chosen, and one for the Chosen’s wife. A table bristling with absurdly expensive wines would serve as the demarcation line between the General and Sara, every bottle lit from within by an enchanted diamond. Behind the chairs was a row of soft rugs for Sara’s ‘attendants’ to stand, much as the General’s own attendants were standing behind his chair.
She’s going to hate this SO fucking much, Mui thought. Did the Adjutant not send a letter warning him?
The only solace Mui could take was that it wasn’t his fault. He had tried everything he could to convince the General to moderate his greeting of Sara, and to the man’s credit, he had made concessions. He had forbidden an audience of the city’s nobility from attending, had canceled plans to build rows of bleachers to hold a choir to provide music for the meeting, and had even agreed that having his highest Kyu Warriors attending in full military gear could be seen in all sorts of negative lights, even though he would have had them pressing their foreheads into the mud while they murmured prayers for the entirety of the meeting.
And now he had begun waiting for Sara at sunup, even when she’d made the clearly impossible claim that she and her mercenaries could cover a hundred miles in three days. No matter how patient the man claimed to be, Mui knew no member of the nobility actually enjoyed being kept waiting for hours upon hours. It would start the entire meeting off on the wrong foot for him to still be waiting for her in twelve hours, long after the sun had set. If only he had listened to Mui when he said-
“Wow, Sara is gonna hate this,” a strange voice whispered into Mui’s right ear, breath tickling his fur.
Mui flung himself forward into a dive, hands folded over his head to protect him from the storm of crossbow bolts he expected to follow. Someone, somehow, had snuck into the pavilion.
“...Cultural Exchange Officer Mui Thom?” The general asked, sounding bemused. “Did you trip?”
Mui spun onto his back, eyes wide. His mind worked for a moment, utter confusion reigning, only to be overwrought by terror.
“Intruder!” He cried, brandishing his sword as he stumbled to his feet. “Invisible, whispering in my ear!”
At that the General responded. The front of his helmet slid down with a perfunctory click just as his glaive flung itself off his back, one hand spinning its blacksteel blade in a bobbing circle to ensure the space around his person was clear.
“Not invisible!” The voice called, this time apparently heard by all. “And not a bad guy, either.”
The General had already been joined by his guards, who were pointing crossbows in every direction.
“Show yourself!” The General called.
“Look up!”
Mui’s eyes instinctively flicked up, like some sort of damn fool. Of all the childish tricks to convince someone to look away–
Oh, no.
The voice hadn’t been lying.
Folded into the corner of the pavilion’s wooden bracing was a cluster of pooling shadows, some amalgamation of liquid smoke sprouting limbs. White dots protruded from its center, within which two pupils stared down.
“Hi!” The eerie shadow called. “My name’s–”
A half-dozen crossbow bolts loosed as one, shooting towards the thing which… wasn’t…
There?
Mui felt a pain behind his eyes, the world growing blurry, and when he managed to refocus them, the corner of the pavilion held nothing more than holes from enchanted crossbow bolts. In fact, he suddenly became aware there hadn’t ever been anything there. But he had seen it. But it hadn’t been–
A migraine burst to life beneath his eyebrows.
“Mui,” the voice whispered again, far closer, a touch pressing against his back. “Tell them I’m with Sara.”
Mui spun, shoving against the sensation. “I have no proof that you are anything of the sort–”
Behind him was standing a young blue azarketi with a nervous, apologetic half-smile on her face. For the first brief moment he saw her, Mui thought her naked, but no, she barely skirted past the technicality. The nipples of her slim breasts poked through two thin triangles of cloth, held up by flimsy string tied behind her back, her only other clothing being azarketi-weave shorts of such absurdly tight fit that he could have counted the frills of her cotton underwear. Though technically saving her from the crime of public indecency, the black material could not have ended any more than an inch beyond the edge of her buttocks.
“She is with the Governess,” Mui announced, sheathing his sword.
There was an immediate rush as the General’s guards tried to tackle the girl, but Mui held his hands out protectively, once more proclaiming her allegiance.
“I said she is with the Governess!” He yelled. “I would not lay a hand on her if you value your life! Back, back!”
The guards pulled up short, but they did not drop their weapons.
“I apologize for scaring everyone,” the girl said, leaning out to be seen around Mui’s armor. She gave a small wave. “I just… uh… oh man, you are all looking at me.”
Dear gods, Mui thought, recognizing the strange, happy little tremor in this girl’s tone. Sara must have been close indeed. He had only heard that particular mixture of giddiness, disregard for danger, and general inebriation from one source:
Evie, straight after she’d emerged from a room with Sara, still licking the white from her lips.
This girl was cock-drunk.
This girl, who had just stealthily approached a pavilion in the middle of a sunny, open field, who had hidden in plain sight from dozens of high-level Imperial Warriors so effectively she could literally whisper in his ear without being spotted…
Was cock-drunk.
“Oh, look!” She said, spinning around with an arm and finger to point outward. “Sara’s here!”
So taken aback was Mui that he involuntarily followed her gesture, allowing him to see it straight away. At the edge of the jungle road emerged the first of a long column of troops, five abreast.
And they were riding the strangest contraptions Mui had ever laid eyes on.
“I’m Ketch, by the way,” she said, turning around to shake his hand. “Sara told me a lot about you, Mui.”
He ignored the insane woman, stepping out into the sunlight to get a better look at what was approaching them.
For a moment, he had thought the Tulians had managed the impossible by guiding a force of cavalry through the jungle. Then he realized that the things they were riding were far too small, and that they were not armored as he had first thought, but rather not creatures at all, being composed entirely of steel. Two wheels were placed in line with another, black rubber tires bouncing over the terrain, supported by spindly spokes of yet more steel within. Every rider was pumping their legs in the strangest fashion, almost like they were treading water in midair.
For all the utter bizarreness of their presentation, it was clear that they were soldiers. Every one of them carried a wooden box of supplies on their back, a bayonet-tipped musket tied with thick rope to its side. They all wore at least their chestplates and helmets, though they had eschewed leg armor, presumably to make propelling their bizarre devices easier.
Leading the column on, of course, the largest of the contraptions, was Sara. Evie was standing on two poles attached to the rear wheels, resting her hands on her wife’s shoulders for balance.
“Hey, Mui!” Sara called out, taking one hand off the steering bars to wave as she approached. The rest of the Tulians disembarked from their devices quite a ways back, kicking out a small stand to let the metal steeds rest upright. Sara approached alone.
The pavilion, Warriors, General, and attendants all, had gone completely silent.
Sara came to a stop just before the rug of the pavilion, her contraption screeching slightly as she froze her feet. She hopped off of it, leaving it to thump unceremoniously in the grass, then stepped into the pavilion, shaking out her black hair as she removed her helmet.
“I guess you’re General Borek?” Sara asked, putting her hand out for the wizened General to shake.
“I am,” he said, already informed by Mui on Sara’s preferred casualness of address. “It is an honor to have you here, Chosen of-”
“I bet,” Sara said, dropping his hand to scrape her boots back and forth on the priceless rug, smearing mud across its intricate weavings. “Let’s walk and talk,” she said, moving past him. “This humidity sucks ass. Do you have somewhere nearby with cooling enchantments?”
The General stared at her back, uncomprehending. When Evie passed him to follow after Sara, followed by Mui, the realization seemed to set in.
Mui swept up to Sara, going up on his tiptoes to hiss in her ear.
“Have you no concept of subtlety?!”
“Welcome to the beautiful world of big political power moves, big man,” Sara whispered back. “Hope you enjoy the show.”
Mui dropped back, shaking his head as he ceded his place to the General. He very much doubted he would.
Notes:
Of all the different transport options people suggested Sara would use for jumpstarting her military campaigns, somehow not a single person correctly predicted this one. I think that means I get to be proud of my originality? But in all seriousness, Bicycle Troops were a real and fairly important of late 19th and early 20th century warfare. You would be shocked just how much of a difference it can make.
And in case you've ever wondered what the largest species of purring cat sounds like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2W93m5Vq1rA
It's a good little sound.
Chapter 134: B3 Ch21: Memories
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chona
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Wind whipped by, long strands of air reaching beneath her jacket to rustle its way through every inch of her fur. They were at a thousand feet and descending, spiraling down over a crowd of workers who were, at the moment, getting very little work done. Almost all of them had dropped their shovels in order to shade their eyes with both hands, staring up at the sky. It wouldn’t have been the first time they had seen an aircraft. This was not the first time she and Tinvel had flown over Tulian’s slowly-growing fortifications.
But it was, without a doubt, the first time any of them had seen two of the aircraft at one time.
Off the Sunrise’s crimson right wingtip was a second plane, this one painted a light field-grass-green from prop to rudder. Its lines were a near perfect copy of the Sunrise, save for the fact that it lacked the pontoons for water landing, thick landing gears jutting out in its place. There were other changes, of course, to compensate for the massive weight loss of the pontoons, but those were mostly internal. Shifting around components to twitch the center of gravity back up towards the center of lift to maintain stability, thing like that. That was something that Professor David dealt with; he was the only one who knew the math to back up everyone else’s eyeballed guesses. As far as Chona was concerned, the Type S and N were nearly identical.
While the final name of the overall aircraft type hadn’t been settled, too many competing ideas for any general winner to break ahead of the pack, the names of its variants had been simpler. Chona and Tinvel were flying in the Southern Type, patrolling alongside the Northern Type. If Chona got her way with the naming scheme, they’d end up being the Mamba Type S and Mamba Type N. Most of the other prospective flight crews thought that “Mamba” was too unoriginal. They wanted something a bit more interesting than using an animal’s name, seeing as they’d just be stealing the tradition of Professor David’s homeland.
Whatever the name ended up being in the future, Chona hoped she’d be looking at a different pilot in the cockpit. Affe, the irritating little prick who’d slapped red paint on their plane a few weeks back, was tossing up a series of hand signals to her, using the simplistic sign language they’d developed for communicating in midair. Even from a hundred feet away, his face buried beneath thick flight goggles and an ugly leather cap, Chona felt the smug, smarmy energy radiating off of him.
But he was flying an important piece of hardware, and more than that, he was carrying an insanely important cargo, so she flashed the proper signals back to him.
Chona held up a single finger, patted her head, pointed down, then brought her two palms together in a slow-motion clap, finishing the ‘sentence’ with an exaggerated nod. Next she pointed with her whole hand at Affe, then spiraled her two fists around each other.
Translated literally, it meant: one plane, us, landing, coming to a full stop. Then she started a new sentence by pointing at Affe and signaled “repeat previous instructions for yourself.”
In plain language, Tinvel was going to land, and Affe was only to start his own landing attempt after Tinvel and Chona’s plane had come to a complete stop.
Affe’s response had Chona scoffing out her irritation, glad the hundred feet they kept between planes was more than enough to hide her blatant irritation. Affe pointed forward and quickly tapped his wrist, meaning future time, then wobbled one hand back and forth, indicating unsureness. He was asking her what he should do while Tinvel and Chona completed their landing process.
Chona slid her hand from left to right slowly, meaning to maintain altitude, then spun her fist in a circle.
Just keep circling at this altitude until it’s time to land, dipshit, was what Chona wanted to say, but they hadn’t made profanity a priority for their primitive interplane language quite yet.
Affe gave a thumbs up, then peeled away to the right, giving Tinvel room to approach his landing angle.
His turn exposed the back half of his plane where, waving like an excited child, Professor David sat. His grin was ear-to-ear, so wide that it threatened to shove his goggles off his face. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, he’d delayed the entire delivery date until a tailor had finished making him a particularly long scarf, one that was currently trailing out behind him to flap flamboyantly in the wind. It looked ridiculous, but no one could say the Professor wasn’t loving it.
Chona refocused on the rapidly approaching ground as Tinvel leveled off, pushing the nose forward into a descent.
The Northern Bastion, yet another placeholder name for the endless list of innovations that had been pouring out of Tulian’s industries, was sprawled out below her.
The professor called it a ‘Star Fort’, but Chona didn’t get what the hells he meant by that. A star fort, to her at least, would be a little dot on the landscape, maybe made of white marble, shining bright with enchantments. What he was actually designing was something better called a Sea Urchin Fort, in her opinion. A big ball of lethal spikes embedded into the earth, bristling with every sort of cannon Tulian had ever made, and the occasional ominous holes where there was room for something far larger to be shoved into place. Even at a thousand feet above the ground, she couldn’t quite get a perfect view of the half-finished construction.
To Chona, it looked like the world’s largest dog had dug a giant pit in the earth, piling the dirt up about itself in order to shelter from a cold wind. A large concrete hexagon had been summoned up too, deep trenches of unfilled moats dug all around its perimeter. All the displaced dirt had been piled up against the walls in sharp, smooth slopes, just steep enough that they wouldn’t collapse all on their own. If that was all it was, it would simply be an oddly shaped castle, with the idiotic addendum of the defenders having already built the ramps required for an attacker to climb over its walls.
Professor Brown’s plans hadn’t stopped there, of course. He was not a genius, but when he had spent so much of his life reading the work of geniuses, there was little difference when he’d been dropped into a society as ignorant as Tulian’s. Each of the walls of the hexagon were deeply indented, turning six sides into twelve, and another shape had been built at the tip of each of the six outermost corners, concrete spearheads that jutted several dozen feet past where the walls would have otherwise ended.
Those simple changes, just a touch of concavity and a simple triangle at each corner, turned something laughably vulnerable into a near-insurmountable challenge. The entire concrete wall was littered with divots for cannons to be emplaced, the triangular outcroppings most of all, where massive guns were pointed in just such a way that any of them could easily send a cannonball bouncing along every rank of an encroaching army.
Professor David had explained it to the University’s students, back when a class on geometry had been derailed by one of his extraordinarily common tangents. If an army were to press an attack against the flat faces of the bent hexagon, even with shields or magical protection of some sort facing forward, they would have to pass multiple stages of defenses. Every step forward would bring them further into overlapping fields of fire. First the long-range cannons would roar from the entire wall, battering the army from ranges unseen in any mortal war until the year prior, then they would be joined by lighter cannons, thick clouds of iron chewing dirt to mud. If an army didn’t break from artillery alone, if they actually got close enough to the walls to try and climb that treacherously sleep slope, individual riflemen would be raining musketballs down upon them from almost every conceivable direction. The only angle they wouldn’t be shot at would be from directly behind, and that wasn’t unintentional. The Professor had explained that you always wanted to give your enemy somewhere to flee, just to make it all the more likely they actually would.
Hearing her jovial Professor, who still carried brightly-colored adhesive ‘bandaids’ from his home in case any of his students cut themselves in class (and still got pale and shaky when he applied them over any kind of bloody wound), explaining how he’d devised a killing field of a brutality unlike anything the world had ever seen? Chona had felt disconnected from herself, like each eye was showing her a different version of the world.
As Tinvel came in for a landing, he was aiming for the fortification’s lone source of controversy: a long stretch of well-pressed dirt, Tulian Combat Engineers having turned the lumpy terrain into a road flat enough to avoid jostling even the ricketiest of mule-drawn carts. While most of the road that led to the fortification was like most in Tulian, winding, widening, and narrowing as it followed the natural contours of the terrain, it encountered a stark change as it neared the fort. Seemingly out of nowhere, the dirt pathway became a dirt highway, packed flat as could be while spreading out three times as wide as could ever be needed for people or carts. In fact, there was only one thing in all of Tulian that needed such a creation: airplanes.
It was Tulian’s first true runway, and that unnatural aberration stretched out some five hundred feet, ending right at the fortification’s most glaring weakness.
A long wooden bridge rose up on spindly limbs of Tulian hardwoods, taking an L-shaped path down from the heights of the walls to reach ground level right at the end of the runway. It was the only way into the fort without climbing the walls, and it was clearly built to be burned the moment any actual army came close. Once the battle started, no one could get in without climbing the walls, and even leaving would require a treacherous tumble down the forty-five degree hills. The defenders’ only way to receive resupply would be air-dropped packages, something Shale had abhorred almost as much as Professor Brown had insisted upon it.
Clearly, judging by the fact that the bridge had been built with not a single gate or entrance in sight, Professor Brown had won the argument. Rumor had it, though, that Lieutenant Shale was still royally pissed, going so far as to throw a flame-spitting-tirade during a private session of Parliament all about having the design modified, and that she had loudly proclaimed that she didn’t care how expensive it would be to knock down a wall that was already built, not if it meant she got her gate.
Chona didn’t know if she believed those rumors. She’d heard a lot about Tulian’s premier artillery expert, both good and bad, and after playing such a pivotal role in the final battle of the last war, she’d captured the public imagination in a way that meant there were more rumors than could possibly be true. Everyone knew she took a certain liking to the weapons she was charged with, too much of one, that much was agreed on by all. But as for why she wanted that gate built so damn bad, if she did at all?
Some people claimed she loved her cannons too much to abandon them, so if the fort was going to fall, she wanted a way to drag them to safety, no matter how impossible the idea was. She was simply that insane, those rumors claimed. Others said she was too aggressive for her own good, and wanted a way to send the fort’s defenders charging out in a surprise attack whenever the opportunity arose, bringing the mouths of her cannons right up to King Sporatos’ chin. Others, mostly veterans of Old Tulian’s armies, simply agreed with her. With the range of attack afforded by the cannons, they argued it should be possible to protect an incoming resupply with artillery alone. And those old veterans, those who had suffered through sieges, could imagine nothing better than getting fresh food right in the middle of one.
She didn’t know what was true, but considering the fact that absolutely no one had tried to argue against Shale being utterly, perhaps maddeningly obsessed with cannons, Chona was eager to meet the artillery expert for herself. For all that she loved flying, the prospect of meeting the woman had Chona actually excited to get back on the ground.
Tinvel, having spent his early flight hours landing on completely unprepared fields of grass, then the literal ocean waves themselves, didn’t disappoint her. He glided onto the runway with the engine on its lowest setting, setting the Sunrise down with barely a bump. Their new tires, thin rubber inflated with high-pressure air, did the rest of the job of keeping things smooth. Even with the Sunrise rolling along the ground twice as fast as any wild horse had ever dared to dream, Chona’s teeth barely rattled.
“Getting better, aren’t I?” Tinvel called, cutting the engine to taxi speed as he let the Sunrise coast down the rest of the runway.
“Yeah, it was better,” Chona admitted, “But you did just have a couple hundred people working for a week to give you the easiest landing strip in the whole world.”
“Sure, sure. But come on,” Tinvel persisted, kicking the rudder left to guide them to a flat patch of dirt laid out for plane parking. “That was still great, right? The flare was smooth, I kept a steady descent angle the whole time, no sudden movements, touched down right on the centerline…”
All of those were true, but Chona wasn’t interested in telling Tinvel that. Instead she turned around in her seat, shading her eyes until she caught sight of Affe’s plane.
“Yeah, well, let’s see how that prick does.”
Chona and Tinvel both paused their usual post-landing routine in order to watch Affe’s spiral level out, aligning his nose with the runway. Even as various Tulian workers and Combat Engineers came up to chat, they stared, a small bundle of tension gathering in their gut.
Should’ve just let Tinvel fly the professor out on his own, Chona privately lamented. They didn’t need two planes for this delivery; it was only supposed to be a test of resupplying the fort from the air, with the Professor and the package he carried being the only delivery. Tinvel could have flown with the Professor in her seat just fine.
The phantom scent of smoke seemed to waft into Chona’s nostrils, carried by memories of a sharp, whipping wind. The memory of the world flipping from sky to sea to sky again, impossibly fast. The only stable sight being Tinvel latched into his seat, wrestling with useless controls as he tried to save a plane that was already dead. Trying to save it at any cost, even his own life, fighting for control until Chona had torn him from his seat.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, thinking of what Sara had told her when she’d visited the Champion. A week after the crash, she’d shown up outside the woman’s apartment in the dead of night, her arms wrapped so tightly around herself her fingernails were drawing blood. She’d had to knock on the door by kicking it. She hadn’t been able to unlatch her hands from her shoulders. Her limbs had kept trying to clutch something close, something that wasn’t there anymore.
Slow breaths, she reminded herself. Count them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Touch something.
The grain of the wooden cockpit she was sitting in. Her patchwork leather jacket against her fur.
Look at something.
The half-finished fort, workers scurrying over the soil like ants. And to her right, Tinvel. He was still watching Affe’s landing, saying something she wasn’t hearing.
He’s alive, she reminded herself. He’s alive. You caught him. He’s alive. And…
And…
And he’s still wearing those stupid fucking goggles.
“...disappointed it wasn’t worse,” Tinvel’s voice floated in, the pilot frowning as he gazed over her shoulder.
“We need to get you a better flight cap,” she abruptly said.
“What?” He looked at her, baffled, then self-consciously adjusted the leather cap. It was made of such cheap, stiff leather that he’d had to use a vice to bend it into the vague shape of his skull, haphazardly stitching two discs of glass over his eyes. “Screw you. It does the job just fine. And besides, I made it myself.”
“It makes you look like a bug.”
“At least it keeps real bugs out of my eyes,” he countered snappily, cutting the engine with a flick of his finger.
Chona twisted the other way in her seat, looking down the runway. Sure enough, Affe had landed safely, all three landing gear intact. He hadn’t even popped the tires. He was currently trundling his way over to them on taxi speed.
“How’d you think he did, flyboy?” She asked.
“Eh, decent enough,” Tinvel said, his voice growing muffled as he bent forward to inspect the interior of the engine cowling. “He’s practiced plenty, even if he’s not had as much flight time as us. Only had one bounce, and he wasn’t too far off the centerline.”
“I guess. Still would have been funny to see him dig the prop into the dirt, though.”
“Not with Professor Brown in the back.”
“No, I guess not,” Chona admitted. “I wouldn’t have minded if he got cold feet, had to do a few go-arounds.”
Tinvel scoffed. “You ever met Affe? He wouldn’t go around if he was trying to land in a typhoon. He’d rather crash.”
“Probably,” Chona agreed, hopping out of her seat. The various workers who had gathered around the plane immediately started to badger her, asking what she was here to deliver, why they had to fly over when Tulian itself was just a half-dozen miles to the south. It was a decent question; the walls of Tulian were literally in sight from where she was standing. It was a few hour’s walk, hardly worth a flight. But all she told them was that the delivery was on the other plane, then she went quiet, studying the fort.
Up close and personal, it was really being driven home just how impossible it would be to break through the fort. Even with the concrete still drying, the slopes half-built, she could paint the picture for herself. She imagined trying to charge up that incline with nothing more than a spear and a shield, a thousand muskets cracking all around her. Every shot that killed someone ahead of her would send a body tumbling back down, tripping everyone it crashed into. The hill would start the battle covered with nice, slick grass, and by the end of the first day there would be nothing more than churned dirt, putrid mud created by untold gallons of blood seeping into bullet-chewed ramparts.
She’d like to think it was going to give the Sporatons every hell of a surprise when they marched on Tulian again, but she wasn’t that optimistic. Sara had said to practically everyone involved in the defense industries that if the King came for Tulian again, he’d be coming with everything he had. No more underestimation. Even if the Sporatons never got a single spy in the entire country, which was wildly unlikely, there were so many workers shifting on and off this project that rumors of the fort had surely already reached Sporaton harbors. They’d know it was there. The question was, could they do anything about it?
That’s one part of what they were trying to figure out today. The engine of Affe’s Type N cut out, sparing them all from its incessant buzzing. It was replaced an instant later by the eager chatter of a million workers pestering Professor David, who, despite everything he had to do, was trying his best to answer every question.
“We better go grab him,” Chona said.
“Yeah,” Tinvel agreed with a grunt, hopping out of the pilot’s seat.
They elbowed their way through the crowd, which was growing by the second. Professor Brown, the first parent of a Champion to ever grace the world, was an object of absolute fascination for much of the Tulian populace. While those that lived in the city had mostly worked out their obsession already, the rural farms that most of the workers here had been pulled from were still enamored. He stood in the center of a thick press of bodies, a cotton-wrapped package clutched to his chest as he tried in vain to respond to any single person.
“C’mon, Prof,” Chona said, reaching out from the press to grab the man’s arm. Tinvel joined her a moment later, beginning to shout for people to get back, and then the proper Combat Engineers arrived, using their shovels and assortment of others tools like a Guardmember’s staff, forming a cordon around the man.
“Thanks,” David breathed, wiping sweat from his brow. “They’ve got more questions than I can answer. At least not right away.”
“You don’t have to answer any of them,” Chona said drily.
“But I want to!” He said, recovering some of his good cheer. “I mean, most of them were asking things about the star fort. Only seems fair that they get to learn about the thing they’re being paid to build, right?”
“They could be Sporaton spies,” Affe said, joining the group from behind. He’d apparently went to get some Combat Engineers to put a guard up around the planes while they were away. “And you’ve got better things to be doing.”
“If they were actually spies, I don’t think they’d be asking me why we’re using concrete instead of masonry,” David huffed. They reached the wooden ramp and began to plod up it, joining the flow of workers moving in and out of the fort. “A spy could figure that out for themselves. If someone comes up asking me exactly what the weakness of the whole place is, then sure, maybe that’ll raise some alarm bells.”
“Does it even have a weakness?” Chona asked, looking about her. She didn’t know how many people were working on the fort, but it felt like a thousand.
“Not any that I know of, at least,” David happily replied, shifting the package he carried once more, clearly paranoid about dropping it. “I mean, I’m not building the Death Star here. If there was a flaw in it I already knew of, I’d be trying to fix it.”
“There’re a few I can think of!” A voice called. “Not any I’d want to fix, though.”
“Oh, great,” David mumbled, squinting up at the woman walking down the wooden ramp towards them.
“Is that… Shale?” Chona asked.
“Yeah.”
The woman was… not anything like Chona had expected. A mad cannonneer, the master of blackpowder, Shatterer of the Sporaton Cavalry, was…
Pretty frumpy.
She looked like she’d once had a wide, matronly build, the sort of woman who Chona expected to get introduced as a grandmother when she visited her human friend’s family as a kid. In her mid-fifties with hair that seemed to have just started to gray at the roots, she wore a top almost as narrow as Chona’s, a plain brown wrap that both covered and supported her sizable breasts, but without a vanara’s fur to hide everything else. Stretchmarks snaked up and down her hips, hinting at years spent with a much wider build, or maybe a good few years spent pregnant, though that once-loose skin had been pulled taut by freshly built muscle, leaving the pale marks easy to miss. Her hair had turned frizzy in the humidity of the oncoming rainy season and was all out of sorts, though in contrast to how Chona thought human fur usually lost its color, it seemed her hair from went white at the base, brown through the middle, with an inconsistent tinging of extra-curly black right at the tip. Her lips, too, struck Chona as odd, and she briefly wondered if the woman had caught some kind of disease for which she hadn’t seen a healer. Chona had never seen anything like the scars over Shale’s lips, some of which looked old, others fresh and white, almost like blisters.
At the very least, she was as forward as the rumors suggested.
“You got it for me?” Shale demanded, stomping right up to Professor Brown with an outstretched hand.
“Yes,” he sighed, holding out the package.
“Perfect!” She said, snatching it up. She turned the gray cloth bundle every which way, inspecting it close, then pressed it to her nose and took a deep sniff. “Ahh,” she sighed, leaning back. “Smells like it’ll go good, I can say that much. Let’s see if what you cooked up is worth anything.”
Professor Brown looked around at the busy fort nervously. “Here?” He asked. “Aren’t you going to at least wait for night? We don’t have to do everything right away.”
“We don’t have to, but I don’t want to,” Shale said, tossing the package up, catching it. For some reason, Professor Brown winced at that.
Oh my god, Chona thought, the realization striking like lightning. That’s a bag of blackpowder, isn’t it?
Though she hadn’t really paid attention to Tinvel when he’d been talking about why they were doing this little flight out to the fort, at least beyond testing out flying two planes at once, a quick glance at his ashen face confirmed his guess. Professor Brown, Tinvel, and Affe had all backed a good few feet away from Shale as she made her way up the ramp, still passing the bag of explosives from hand to hand.
“What about this cloth?” She asked David. “Does it burn like you want it to?”
“It’s a mix of cotton and nitrocellulose, so it should be a fairly comprehensive reaction,” he tentatively replied. “But I can’t confirm that until we actually test it. And I still think we need to switch to self-contained ammunition. Carrying around bags of loose guncotton, even if it’s not pure guncotton, is a recipe for-”
“My troops’ll take good care of them,” Shale said, cutting him off. “And I’ll switch to cased ammunition as soon as you give me the volume of brass needed to maintain firerate. Until we have that, I’m not budging.”
Professor Brown, in a rare display for the man, got a bit touchy at this. “It doesn’t matter how much ammunition you have when your soldiers are spending half their time blowing up their own artillery. You need to accept that compromises have to be made for long-term sustainability-”
“And you need to understand, Dave, that if you had any idea what it was like to stare down the Sporaton gods-damned army, you wouldn’t give two shits about anything other than putting as much lead in the air as you could. This fort could be drowning in a hundred thousand soldiers someday, and you want to tell me we need to shoot slower?”
“I want you to get to shoot in the first place!” Professor Brown all but yelled, cheeks wobbling as his face went red. “If you’re not going to take the safety precautions I reccomend seriously, I’m going to put a stop to the University providing you any sort of propellant, blackpowder or guncotton.”
“I thought you said you weren’t sure if this was proper guncotton?” Shale asked, waggling the bag over her shoulder at the man without looking back. “That’s why you’re coming out to test it in a full-on cannon.”
“I’m not entirely sure,” David admitted, immediately and predictably distracted by the academic question. His frustration was forgotten in a flash. “It seems like there’s some minor chemical differences in this world’s cotton plant compared to the species from my world. It’s not behaving how I expected it to, even when I know I’ve got the right proportion of nitric acid to sulfuric acid. I’m starting to think what you call ‘cotton’ here isn’t pure cellulose, or at least has extra impurities that I’ll have to figure out a refinement process for. Either way, it’s been acting shifty in the lab.”
“Shifty?” Chona asked.
“Shitty, more like,” Tinvel mumbled under his breath.
“Language,” Professor David reflexively scolded, then shook his head. “Sorry. We’re not in class, I know. Cuss all you want. Just habit. But you’re not wrong. It’s been shifty.”
“Again, weird how?” Chona repeated.
“Inconsistent. Sometimes when we put a flame on it, it does exactly what we wanted it to. Big, rapid flash, very little smoke. Lots of energy expended in a very short amount of time, all without much in the way of byproducts. And if that was all it did, I’d have told Sara we should start replacing all our blackpowder as soon as possible with the stuff.”
“But?” Chona prompted.
“But it gets weird at scale,” David said, panting hard. They’d reached the fort proper, and were being led by Shale up and down a series of half-finished concrete walls, catwalks, and even a few stretches of wood-topped bamboo scaffolding. The professor was sweating buckets already. He took a deep breath, then straightened himself, continuing his explanation.
“Real nitrocellulose, real guncotton, it should be a linear reaction. You light an ounce of it, you get X heat and Y smoke. You light two ounces of it, you get X-times-two heat and Y-times-two smoke. I mean, it’s not perfectly linear, because the ignition time and all that varies as the material volume changes, y’know, it takes more time for the initial flame to propogate, but you get what I’m saying.” He shook his head. “Anyway. So far, in the lab, when we’ve been igniting more of this maybe-guncotton, it’s not been a linear increase in heat and smoke. It’s been multiplicative.”
There was a brief pause as they kept walking in silence. Then, Chona thanked the gods, Affe was the one to ask the question she’d had at the tip of her tongue.
“So what?” He asked. “Isn’t that better for making explosives? Sounds like a cheap way to increase their power. If two ounces of maybe-guncotton is four times as powerful as one ounce, doesn’t that just mean it’ll be cheaper to produce? Less material for more power?”
“Well, if it actually works like that, sure,” David said. “But I’m not sure it will. Sometimes two ounces really is just twice as powerful as one. Most commonly, it’s four times as powerful. But the thing is? A couple of times, though we could only eyeball it, we thought it popped off with something more like six or seven times as much energy. And then, the last test, the one that made me decide to come out here? Even though we still just lit two ounces of it, it actually broke the table we put it on. Blew about a three-inch hole through half-inch thick wood.”
Chona looked at the more-than-fist-sized bag of the stuff in Shale’s hands.
“Huh,” she said, scratching her neck with her tail. “Huh. Well. Anyone got hearing protection?”
“I brought some wax, yeah,” Tinvel said, rummaging in a pocket before handing Chona a glob of stiff wax.
“Thanks.” She started rolling it in her palms, warming it enough to mold to her ears.
“And that, kids,” Shale said as they rounded a final corner, “is why we’re going to be firing this puppy with a very, very long string.”
Notes:
Apologies for the slightly shorter chapter! Had a mess of a week, so it ended up having to be that way.
Chapter 135: B3 Ch22: Direction Finding
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chona
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The cannon that Shale had brought them to was absurd. Chona had seen some pretty big guns before. She’d been around when Tinvel and Hurlish were testing cannon enchantments, trying to improve what was already the best weaponry the world had to offer. The thickest she’d seen were the short 32-pounders that had eventually gone onto the Waverake, but as thick as they’d been, they were short and stubby things next to the longer-ranged 24-pounders. Hurlish had always said that the material required to make a gun that didn’t sacrifice diameter for length was too much to justify.
Until recently, apparently.
Shale’s cannon looked like someone at the foundries had misread a decimal point on the design, producing something far too massive to excuse its own existence. Chona’s head could have fit down the muzzle without either ear touching the sides, and if her shoulders had been just a touch thinner, she could have crawled into the barrel until she was out of sight entirely. Even more interestingly, it seemed that despite the comical interior diameter of its barrel, the gun itself was still thinner than its fellows, speaking proportionally. Other cannons were built with the black roughness of wrought iron or the golden sheen of fine bronze. Both materials had been foregone here in favor of replacement by slick, unvarnished steel, polished until she could see her curved reflection twisted over the breech of the gun.
The behemoth of a cannon was sitting on a turntable set into the concrete, allowing its muzzle to sweep across a slot that had been cut in the fortification’s walls, giving it an arc of fire that easily overlapped the fort’s adjacent corner bastions. An entire recoil system had been built onto that pedestal, thick rails allowing the gun to fly backward with every shot. She pitied whoever would be charged with shoving the thing back into place.
“Here’s hoping she can take what we throw at her,” Shale said, moving up to the muzzle of the gun with a light, happy step, as if on the verge of bursting into a song and dance. She slid the package of maybe-guncotton snugly into the mouth of the barrel, then hopped over to retrieve a massive iron slug from a nearby chest of ammo, hefting it up with both hands. Shale shot Tinvel a grin, winking. “It’s a 64-pounder, in case you were wondering. Well, it would be 64 pounds if we were using iron, instead of lead. This sucker’s a lot heavier.”
“How did you get Sara to let you build it?” He asked, moving forward to inspect the cannon. He put his hands to it reverently, sliding them along the slick steel. “I thought she banned the construction of any cannons over 32 pounds of shot-weight. Said it was too resource inefficient, that we’d be better off working on making our smaller cannons even more high-powered.”
“She did,” Shale said, tossing the massive tapered lead slug up onto her shoulder, setting it into the muzzle, which was at eye-level with her. She grunted as the lead shot slid home. “But she’s been out of town for a while. And it turns out Parliament likes getting to tell the news paper ‘I helped build us a bigass gun’ a lot more than Sara does.”
Chona glanced at David, wondering at his reaction. Surely if Sara had forbidden the construction of this gun, he wouldn’t approve of this monstrous thing’s existence.
He caught her eye, then shrunk slightly into himself, smiling sheepishly.
“It’s based on the British RML 64-pounder coastal defense cannon,” he said, chagrined. “I always wanted to see one fire.”
“So you helped Shale build this thing?” Chona said, more a statement than a question.
“Well, I didn’t help her get the expense approved by parliament…”
“But you didn’t show up to stop it, either.”
“No...”
“And you gave the designs to First Union Foundry, because there’s no way this is a HOT gun. Hurlish wouldn’t build it if Sara said no.”
“I mean…”
“I won’t be the one to tell her,” Chona said, ignoring Tinvel and Shale’s shop talk as they prepared the gun, “If you don’t make me write that paper on the development of standardized units of measurement.”
David swallowed nervously. “...Deal.”
“Huh? What’s up?” Tinvel asked, pulling himself away from the gun to look back at Chona, David, and Affe.
“Nepotism and corruption,” Affe replied airly, still standing slightly apart from their little group.
“Don’t worry about it,” Chona said, giving her fellow mage a sharp glare.
Shale hopped away from the gun, a smile on her face that was far too girlish and giddy to fit the scarred soldier she’d become. She clapped her hands and rubbed them together, a touch of something manic entering her eyes.
“Alright. I’ve got five silver on the bastard blowing up. Who’s in?”
“You’re betting that it will?” Tinvel asked, aghast. “How expensive was that gun? It has to weigh five tons! It’s a work of art! I bet that’s the best cannon that anyone except Hurlish has made, and you’re going to blow it up? At least let us put some enchantments on it to-”
“I’ll put up five silver,” Affe interrupted. “I’ve practiced some healing magic down at First Union Foundries. They’re not up to Hurlish’s standards, but they do good work.”
“I’m not putting down a bet,” David said. “Sara would kill me. But I think it’ll be fine. If it behaves like normal guncotton, that charge is actually undersized.”
“You said it’s not behaving like regular guncotton, though,” Chona reminded him.
“Which is why we’re testing with an undersized charge first.”
While the bets were placed around him, Tinvel turned around to stare mournfully at the cannon, as if taking its magnificence one last time.
“C’mon,” Chona said, clapping him on the shoulder so she could guide him away. “I’m sure the gun’ll be fine.”
“Shale doesn’t think so.”
Chona eyed the woman, who was humming happily while she walked around a corner, unwinding a long string as she went. Chona was starting to realize that her scars, those running up her arms and occasionally dotting her ribcage, matched the shrapnel wounds Chona had seen on surrendered Sporaton peasantry in Tulian hospitals. Considering the fact that no Tulian citizen had ever been on the receiving end of gunfire and Shale had a clear tendency to personally test new weapons? Chona could guess where the wounds had come from.
“I… don’t think you should take her word on that,” Chona told Tinvel. “Or much of anything, really.”
They rounded the corner together, following Shale until her length of string had been stretched as far as it could go. They were about twenty feet past the corner of the triangular bastion when they stopped.
Shale dropped into a crouch, pressing her free hand to an ear. “You guys bring any healing potions?”
“No. Why would we?” Tinvel asked.
“I’m guessing for the hearing damage,” Chona said, crouching down as well, pressing both wads of wax into her ears, then putting her palms overtop. “Or if it really goes bad, the big bloody holes. How’s your healing magic, Tin?”
“As good as yours.”
“Damn.”
“Don’t worry,” Affe said, joining their huddled group. “I’ve managed to heal entire paper cuts all on my own. You’ll all be safe in my hands.”
“Y’ready back there?” Shale asked.
“Would you stop if we weren’t?” Chona asked.
Shale jerked the string.
Chona felt as if she had been struck by sledgehammers on all sides, some angry mob trying to crush her head to the size of a grape. After that first instant of shock, the pain reversed, like a hundred hooks attached to plates of her skull and tugging, hard, trying to turn her mind inside out. The concussion was so great that even beneath thick gobs of wax and her tightly-pressed palms she was still subjected to twin needles digging into her ears, grinding against the meat of her brain.
Before she could straighten herself out, a noxious cloud of smoke washed over her. Instead of the white, almost colorless smoke of blackpowder, the cannon had apparently belched something black as the night, a fogbank that was as thick, if not thicker, than anything she’d seen from other guns, but without the the acrid sulfur scent she’d come to expect. It smelled like the world’s largest lantern, in fact, which was so unexpected it actually served to worsen her disorientation. As she reeled backward, falling against someone behind her, she found herself unable to see more than a few inches in front of her face, lost in the darkness.
Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the cloud dissipated. It was as if whatever substance that composed the fogbank had reached the end of its life, vanishing even without the aid of wind to disperse it. Chona blinked her confusion at the suddenly revealed world, working her jaw back and forth to try and work out the persistent aching which had settled in her bones.
“Yes!” Shale’s muffled voice cried ecstatically. “Oh, gods that was wonderful!”
Chona slowly stood as she watched Shale rush forward, disappearing around the corner. A moment later, there came a cry of dismay.
“Shale?” Tinvel called, keeping one hand on the wall as he also went forward. Chona followed after him, leaving Affe to help up Professor Brown, who had been knocked over either by the blast or his own shock. “What’s the matter? Is the cannon fine?”
“Damn it all, it is!” The woman swore. “Pretty as the day it arrived!”
Chona and Tinvel turned the corner just in time to watch the woman run up to the smoking barrel and throw her arms around it, pressing her lips to the steaming barrel. There was an audible hiss as her flesh began to burn, something that the woman didn’t seem to notice.
Oh, Chona thought. That’s how she got those scars.
“And why, exactly, are you mad that the cannon didn’t explode?” Affe asked, coming around the corner with Professor Brown, who’d belatedly managed to recover from his shock.
Shale pulled away the cannon almost reluctantly, facing Affe with a wide, sloped grin. “Because if the gun burst, that’d mean the new stuff’s even more powerful than we hoped it was,” she said, bouncing excitedly on the tips of her toes. New boils were already beginning to rise on her lips. “It’d be a damn shame to lose the cannon, but imagine what we’d have gotten from powder that damn fine!”
“It’s not powder, it’s guncotton,” Professor Brown said, moving forward. He crouched down at the base of the cannon, pointing. “And don’t get too disappointed. Look here.”
Chona joined the rest at the professor’s side, hands on her knees as she followed his gesture.
The cannon had recoiled all the way to its mounting rail’s stops, where a thick wedge of steel had been placed to prevent it from running off the edge. While the six-inch-thick stops were unharmed, the mounting rails themselves had been bent up, twisted into the shape of a longbow. The cannon had recoiled so hard that steel rails the width of Chona’s wrist had very nearly been snapped in two.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Shale muttered, dropping to her knees. She skittered underneath the cannon on all fours, inspecting the mounting system. Chona flicked wary eyes up at the multi-ton behemoth that the woman was now beneath. The one which had just had its mountings nearly ripped out of place.
Well, if she gets crushed to death by that cannon, I think she’ll have died happy.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Shale cursed, running her hands along the rails. “No chance in every hell we’re getting that sorted any time soon. Guess that’s the only shot we get to make today.”
“That was always going to be the only shot today,” Professor Brown said, forcing himself up off knees with a few huffy breaths. “I only brought the one bag of guncotton.”
Shale’s head whipped around. “What?” She asked, glaring. “Why? What if it had worked? What would you have expected me to do then?”
Professor Brown sighed tiredly. “Whatever your normal job is, Shale. I wasn’t going to make more of the stuff before I even knew it could work at scale. And no, this one test doesn’t mean that the guncotton is ready for mass-production. We need to see if it’s consistent, too. And I really, really didn’t like that black smoke. There should have been next to no smoke, and it shouldn’t have lingered anywhere near that long.”
“It cleaned up pretty quick, I thought,” Chona said. “A lot quicker than blackpowder smoke does, anyway.”
“But it shouldn’t be black,” Professor Brown insisted, moving around to the front of the cannon. “And even if there was going to be black smoke, it shouldn’t have been nearly that much. And why did it disappear all at once like that? It’s almost like it’s an ongoing chemical reaction still occurring in the air. If we didn’t have healing potions here, I’d be worried I just gave us all cancer.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, uh. Malignant tumors? Uncontrollable growths inside the body that end up killing you.”
Chona shook her head. “You know, with how much you talk about how great your old world was, there was some really awful stuff.”
“You’re right,” Professor Brown said, leaning up to see down the muzzle. “And the worst part is, I’m helping to bring some of the worst parts of that world over here. Hey, could someone get me a ladder? There’s a ton of residue in here. I want to take some samples.”
Tinvel went off with Affe to locate a ladder and some vaguely sterile way of storing the material, while Shale went up to join Professor Brown in his inspection of the cannon’s interior.
Chona, meanwhile, went up to the edge of the fort, stepping up onto the ledge which let soldiers fire their rifles down onto an approaching force.
She was looking for the impact site of the metal slug. It hadn’t been one of the explosive shells she knew the alchemists had been cooking up. Just a solid lump of lead molded into a cone-tipped cylinder, a giant version of a rifled musket’s minié balls. She lined herself up with the direction the cannon had been aimed, slowly sweeping her gaze up.
And up.
And up.
And still further up.
She eventually found it– or she thought she did, anyway. It was a dark blot on the bright landscape that was very, very far away. As her eyes focused on it, she started to pick out details. A long gash had been ripped out of a hillside, dozens of yards of grass turned to mulch as the lead projectile had struck the ground once, skimmed upward, then hit the base of the hill, shattering into uncountable pieces. Chona and Tinvel had been the one to scout the location for this fort from the air, and if that was the hill she thought it was, it was just over two miles away. Scaling it out in her head, that meant the lead slug, without a single ounce of explosive, had created a cone of destruction at least fifty feet across and over a hundred feet long. If there had been an army on that hill, it might have killed hundreds.
Chona let out a low, impressed whistle. Maybe the Governess really had been wrong to say no to guns this size. Sure, Chona knew this was an ideal scenario, with the first impact probably causing the round to tumble so it struck the hill side-on, spreading its shrapnel further than would normally be possible, but still. She didn’t think it would’ve made her a coward to admit that if she was some hapless Sporaton peasant getting fired at by that thing, she’d throw her spear down and run after the first shot.
Not that she’d actually admit that out loud, of course.
“I don’t care how much you want it,” Professor Brown was saying behind her, “the guncotton production is not going to the alchemists until we’re sure the reaction is stable.”
“Y’said it’s a semi-linear increase in energy, but not fully exponential,” Shale snapped back. “The gun was only elevated to thirty degrees and it still exceeded the maximum range of our projections by a factor of fifty percent. With that kind of output, I don’t godsdamn care if there’s two-fold error bars on every load! The trajectory profiles will be so flat I’ll hardly have to teach my gunners how to aim.”
Chona’s brow furled. She turned around to watch the argument, confirming for herself that it really was Shale talking.
“And no, before you start,” the Artillery Lieutenant continued, “there’s no way that what you just gave me was an underpowered load. The next load won’t blow up the gun, either. It’s more consistent than you’re appreciating, it just performs different in large volumes. Maybe your early tests ran into problems because of uneven oxygenation, Dave. You didn’t contain them in anything, so the burn could easily have run uneven. And I ran the numbers on your old world’s shell weights and engagement ranges that you gave me. That so-called guncotton is approaching early triple base propellants, maybe even damn well exceeding them. It’s no shimose powder, but it’s sure not the guncotton you promised me.”
“Which is all the more reason why we need to test it more, not less,” Professor Brown growled back, actually stepping closer to the shorter woman. Chona had never seen him this confrontational in all the months she’d known him. “You’ve got one data point. one! That’s not enough to make a safety briefing on, much less a range table! If you start shoving anything and everything down a gun barrel and lighting it up, you’re going to get people killed.”
“You want more data points? Then get me the damn guncotton so I can test it!” Shale shouted, throwing a hand out at the cannon. “You want me to test it safely? I’ll test it safely. I’ll pull the trigger from across the whole fort, if you want me to. I’ll clear out every worker on that half of the hill. But if you don’t think performance that nearly matches Krupp guns isn’t worth chasing, I don’t know why Sara put you in charge of a single project, much less one as important as this one.”
“I’m the only reason you even know how to have this argument!” Professor Brown said, shocking Chona and Shale both by stabbing his finger into the shorter woman’s collarbone. “I may have taught you the math, may have given you some chemistry basics, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got a degree. I do! I’ve read what happens when people like you fuck up! You don’t know what can happen, but I do.”
“I’ve commanded an artillery group in battle, Dave. I’ve seen what these guns can do.”
“But you haven’t seen what can happen when they’re made wrong. What can happen to the people making your cannons. This world can be different from mine. It has to be different! You don’t know how many factories burned down, how many people’s arms and legs got torn off, how many people died young because of chemical exposure! You want to risk yourself doing stupid shit, go for it! Ride the cannon the next time you fire it! But until I know this is safe for the alchemists to make– and those alchemists are students, Shale, they’re kids– you’re not getting an ounce out of me that I don’t think is safe.”
Shale scoffed, rolling her eyes, but Chona thought the anger in her voice, while still present, had lost a touch of its self-righteousness.
“You’re not handing explosives to little kids, Dave. You’re giving it to soldiers. They know what they’re here for, and they know how dangerous it is. I’m not going to get someone killed just because I’m horny for fancy new cannons.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure you won’t?” Professor Brown folded his arms over his chest, still looking down on her. “We need to know ignition parameters, stability, shock vulnerability, and a million other things before I approve this stuff for mainline production. Sara may not have given me a fancy job title like you, but I’m in charge of Tulian’s chemistry. All of it, and I mean all of it, goes through me. If you want any kind of gunpowder, blackpowder or guncotton, you won’t get it unless I say so.”
“Fine!” Shale spat, stomping away. “But you’re not going to hold off for too long. If we don’t start stockpiling everything we can get, soon, the Sporatons will have us blocked in. And I don’t care how many planes you can fly over us; you’ll never be able to drop us enough guncotton to keep the guns running.” Shale paused at the corner of the bastion, one hand on the wall as she stared back. “You’re trying to save your chemists from some nasty burns, Dave. But I’m trying to save my troop’s lives. Don’t leave it too long.”
As Shale finally disappeared, Professor Brown’s defiant posture deflated in a long, groaning sigh.
“Wow,” Chona said, walking up to her teacher. “I heard rumors you two argued, but that was…”
“More than you expected?”
“Just a bit.”
Professor Brown drew himself back up again, rolling his shoulders. “I wish she wasn’t such a dang good student. A good gunner, too. It’d be way easier to tell Sara I won’t work with her if she was bad at her job, too. But she just gets it. The math, the chemistry.” Professor Brown glanced at Chona from the corner of his eyes. “I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but her Artillery Soldier Class? It got her something that helps her with the math. As far as Evie, Vesta, and Garen’s research could find, that’s pretty much the first time there’s been a recorded ‘Soldier’ Class that got something to help them with math. Only accountants and the like got math Skills before.”
Chona blanched, pulling away a little bit. “Oh. Ew. Yeah, you shouldn’t have told me that. You didn’t do anything with her, right?”
Professor Brown choked. “What? No! No, of course I didn’t!”
“Well, I mean, if you know her Class, and even one of her Skills, you must be pretty close-”
“It’s- it’s relevant information! It’s important to what we’re doing! Why do you people have such an obsession with keeping your Class secret? If I had one, I’d tell anyone anything they want to know about it.”
“If you ever ask me a single thing about my Class, I'll slap you as hard as I can.”
“Yeah, yeah, point taken, you’re all privacy freaks,” Professor Brown said, smoothing back the sides of his hair, which had still been tousled after the blast. “Anyway. Shale’s not so bad when you really get down to it. She’s just… obsessed with getting her hands on every kind of weapon I can cook up. If a screaming match is what it takes to pull her back every now and then, I’ll do it. No one else is as good at what she does.”
Chona shrugged. “You’re in charge, not me. But I think if I had to deal with someone like her every day, one of us wouldn’t be going into the next week alive.”
“Which is why I’m glad you and Affe have been keeping your distance,” Professor Brown said. Before Chona could offer a retort, Tulian University’s second best mage appeared as if summoned, holding a small step ladder.
“This should be good enough to get a swab inside the barrel, right?” He asked, holding the ladder out. “Tinvel’s still looking for something that can carry the sample without too much contamination.”
“Yeah, that should work,” Professor Brown said, moving back to the cannon’s mouth with the ladder. “Here, one of you two, give me a light in here. I want to check for interior damage.”
“Still can’t cast a spell yourself?” Chona asked, snapping her fingers to summon a small ball of light to float beside the Professor’s head.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbled, his voice echoing as he leaned inside the mouth of the cannon. “Now, one of you take out a notebook. I’m going to dictate a description of the natural state of the residue. Actually, no, you’re just going to argue over who has to do it. Both of you take the notes, so you don’t miss anything.”
Chona sighed, pulling a small notebook from her pocket and uncapping her fountain pen. She couldn’t wait to be back in the air.
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Mui Thom
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The political games continued.
Sara had spent a few scant minutes relaxing in the cool cellar of some wealthy individual, the General and his staff stuffed into the dark, cramped space, then had announced her troops should be ready. General Borek had asked what they were ready for. Sara had been confused. Were his troops not ready to begin their training? Mere minutes after arriving at a more comfortable meeting place, Sara was once again urging the General back onto his feet.
Emerging from the dark wine cellar and traipsing back through the city’s gates, Mui found a field transformed. The Tulian soldiers had organized their metal steeds– bicycles, or ‘bikes’ for short– into neat rows, hundreds of them glittering under the sun. Beside each bike laid opened crates and scattered straw, sacks of powder and ammunition retrieved from amongst more mundane camping supplies. Most of the straw, which had been used as padding in the wooden crates, had already been gathered up into dozens of neat piles placed at regular intervals, clusters of mercenary soldiers stationed exactly one hundred yards away from each bundle.
While Sara had dithered with General Borek, who had been regaling the Chosen with what comforts the city had worthy of a woman like her, Sara’s troops had been constructing an entire firing range.
The woman herself, never one to show the world a mask she didn’t carefully select, idly scraped her boots at the edge of the city’s wooden drawbridge, mumbling to herself as she counted figures off on her fingers.
“We have enough muskets to train a couple thousand troops at a time,” Sara eventually said, without turning around to face General Borek. “I was told by the Adjutant that the Powdered Lead would be attached to a force roughly equal to that which violated Tulian territory earlier this year. Fifty thousand or so, I believe? We won’t be able to train them all before we must march, so we need to start as soon as possible.”
Mui listened to this from the rear of the bundle of dignitaries, soldiers, and attendants, as was proper. While technically attached to the Powdered Lead, Mui was still a citizen of the Empire. His role as a glorified interpreter did not grant him the requisite rank to speak without being spoken to. While Sara would most certainly protest vehemently at the injustice of this, at this particular moment it did provide Mui a unique perspective he would not have otherwise had:
The sight of a Chosen’s lie unfolding.
Before Sara had even begun to bemoan the lack of adequate training in General Borek’s troops, Evie was stepping forward, tucking a loose strand of hair into her braids as she straightened her spine. She was readying herself to respond to the matter before Sara had even broached it; clearly a plan they had discussed beforehand.
“We do not need to train thousands of soldiers here and now,” Evie said, stepping between the General and Sara. Her Class-granted Skills as a Diplomat meant that, despite having spent only two months learning Kemari, she was nearing perfect fluency. “Only their sergeants and other commanding officers, who can in turn train the others. The general quality of lessons will of course suffer, as these new instructors will not have true combat experience to draw upon, but such is the way of things. Our weapon’s superiority shall make up the difference.” Evie looked out at the field with a pinched expression, as if displeased by something. “And regardless, we have brought only some two thousand muskets. Until Imperial industries prove capable of replicating our weapons, I suspect the rate of training will outstrip our equipment. When do you intend to march, and with what composition of troops?”
General Borek, having been thoroughly warned by Mui that any form of ignoring, dismissing, or otherwise disrespecting Evie would provoke Sara beyond the point of reason, smoothly turned his attention to the short feline.
“The army I command, and which the Powdered Lead will be accompanying, is even now being supplemented from the city and its surrounding villages. We are attempting to stock it with as high a percentage of volunteers as possible, as the Adjutant requested, but conscription is still necessary. At this moment, Battulen’s garrison is composed of three mixed brigades, mostly trained with pike and spear, though a scattered few hundred can claim some skill in archery. They number fifteen thousand, half of which have participated in at least one battle. They are trained in basic formation marching, and can respond to most battlefield orders with a reasonable degree of alacrity.”
“A garrison of fifteen thousand trained soldiers is remarkable, General Borek,” Evie said, sounding almost genuine. “But if you intend to raise an army of fifty thousand, there are more factors to consider than sheer numbers. While the decision is ultimately yours, I would recommend discontinuing conscription entirely. Bayoneted muskets may be integrated near-seamlessly into traditional infantry divisions, but the same cannot be said for artillery. If your army grows too large, either we will be forced to ineffectively distribute our cannons amongst their number, robbing us of the devastating effect of a central battery, or we will be leaving large swathes of troops unsheltered on our flanks. Any formation of troops beyond the protective umbrella of our artillery will become the foremost target of our enemy.”
General Borek’s jaw tightened. “You and your wife oft speak highly of your muskets, Commander Evie. Perhaps understandably, if the reports I have received are without exaggeration. But for all the accolades heaped upon these ‘muskets’, you seem far more enamored by your artillery. It is as if you think a mere handful of soldiers armed with these weapons may knock aside any number of enemies. If you truly believe its inclusion is worth cutting my army’s size by a two-thirds, I am most eager to see a demonstration of its power.” The General scowled at the field of Tulian mercenaries. “Yet I do not see a single object here that meets the description I was provided. Only muskets. Where is your artillery?”
“They should arrive shortly,” Evie said. “They cannot travel with the same speed of our bicycle-mounted infantry. That is a problem we are, of course, working on resolving. In the north our cannons were normally horse or mule-drawn, but as you well know, these animals would be too tempting a target for jungle predators. I am under the impression that you have access to cavalry better suited for the Imperial landscape?”
General Borek chuckled. “If you wish to turn Krapeu into beasts of burden, you are welcome to try. I would advise you to muzzle them with bands of iron first, however.”
Mui’s mind darkened at the mention of the krapeu. The mounts of elite Warriors, they resembled a crocodile which had the long legs of a racehound. While lacking both the speed and stamina of a northern cavalry horse, they were a weapon unto themselves. Their massive jaws could take a man’s head, shoulders, and ribcage off in a single bite. They were also so territorial that they respected no one other than the lone rider who had managed to master them, and had to be stabled with blindfolds and noseplugs so they would not be driven into a frenzy by the presence of their fellow krapeu.
It had been a Warrior and his Krapeu which had killed half of Mui’s squad in the battle of the Tulian fields; he had no desire to work beside the temperamental beasts.
“No matter,” Evie said. “We have our own developments in progress to speed their movement.” Evie turned sharply to look at the attendants, arms folded behind her back as her eyes swept over Mui and the dozen or so members of General Borek’s staff. “Who is responsible for calling up the troops? I wish to begin our training as soon as possible.” Evie made a point of pausing, then added as an afterthought, “if the General agrees with it, of course.”
The attendants remained silent. Waiting for the General’s word.
For his part, this was apparently such a blatant effort at disrespect that General Borek couldn’t even bring himself to be offended. He rolled his eyes with a sigh, flicking his wrist.
“Yes, yes, go ahead and call up some of the garrisons. As Commander Evie says, it would be best to begin training on these weapons immediately.”
The General slipped away from Sara and Evie without a further word, having apparently had more than enough of their repeated disrespect. The two women took this without comment, beginning to walk out into the fields to be with their troops. Mui followed after the General, who soon turned around and crossed his arms, glaring at Mui.
“Cultural Exchange Officer Mui. I would like an explanation for the behavior of the Chosen and her wife.”
“I did warn you they were vulgar, sir,” Mui gently said.
“That was not vulgar. That was deliberately antagonistic. By your own accounts, the Chosen is more than capable of behaving as would be expected of her in any given situation. It is now time to earn your farcical title. Why did she choose to behave so?”
Mui swallowed, carefully considering his next words. He felt fairly certain he knew exactly why Sara had behaved as she did, but he was not sure if it was his place to offer mere conjecture, much less conjecture predicated upon knowledge provided to him by an entirely inappropriate relationship with the leader of a foreign nation. Sara may not wish for her ploys to be laid bare to the General, who himself would expect Mui’s unerring loyalty.
Ultimately, Mui decided that the most direct solution was best. He had no hope of picking apart the layers of Sara’s machinations, and whatever he ultimately chose, he felt certain she would have accurately predicted his decision. She also would not place much blame upon him for being pressured by a superior into telling the truth. It was therefore best to keep General Borek, who would most certainly take exception to any lie, as happy as could be.
“I believe she knows of your reputation as a particularly devout worshipper of the gods, sir,” Mui said, tilting his head demurely downward as he spoke. “If you will forgive me for offering what can only be my personal speculation, I believe she is doing her utmost to appear as directly opposite to your personal expectations of a Chosen. She despises worship of all kinds, and worship of her person most of all. Perhaps she hopes that by fulfilling every foul stereotype of a mercenary, you will think of her as an individual, rather than a Chosen. Truthfully, I do not think she even wishes to be seen as the leader of a foreign nation, nor even the commander of a mercenary company. Simply another woman among many.”
General Borek sniffed disdainfully. “False humility does not befit you, Officer Mui Thom. Your so-called speculation is anything but.” He shook his head, reaching up to twirl the graying fur over his cheeks. “What she wishes to be perceived as is irrelevant; the reality of her station still exists. If she did not wish for authority, she should not have sought it out.”
“I believe she felt compelled by necessity to ascend to her current position, sir. If she believed it possible to shirk her duties without consequence, she would.”
General Borek’s eyebrows rose. On a vanara’s usually less expressive face, it was a sign of considerable shock. “You not only speak to me without being asked a question, but do so in order to insult the Chosen to whom you are assigned as a liaison? I begin to wonder how you ever achieved the rank of Sergeant, Mui Thom.”
To say she seeks the life of a commoner is not in and of itself an insult, was Mui’s first thought, but this time he did not voice it. The General’s warning had been clear as crystal.
“Come now,” General Borek said, looking away from the fields of mercenaries in order to fix his attention more firmly on Mui. “You have already spoken out of turn once, Mui Thom. What else have you to say regarding the Chosen’s behavior? If you think yourself of the rank capable of discussing such matters as my equal, you must do so. Give me your ‘speculation’ without reservation.”
Mui sucked a breath through his teeth. General Borek’s attention was a withering thing. The old vanara’s eyes seemed to bore into him, calculating, evaluating.
“...I believe the Chosen’s enmity is easy to avoid,” Mui eventually said, drawing his words out to give himself time to think. “You must simply treat her as an equal, one whom you avoid ceremony and formality with at all costs. Her respect is easy to earn, once one understands what she seeks from others. You may worship her divinity in your own mind, but speak to her aloud as if you were both simple peasants. So long as you do this, as well as show care for the lives of your troops, I cannot see any reason why this unhappy set of circumstances must persist.”
General Borek took a long, deep breath, swelling his chest up for a time. Then he let it out in a sigh, blinking tiredly.
“You ask me to feign blasphemy, Mui Thom?”
A dangerous question if he had ever heard one. Mui paused once more, swallowing hard.
“No, sir. I only seek to offer advice on what the Chosen believes to be the proper form for her station to be honored.”
“By ignoring it?”
“By honoring the wishes of the Divine’s Chosen that stands before us here and now, rather than the dusty precedent of history.”
It was as close as Mui dared stray to outright saying that Sara’s desires should supersede that of the Empire’s religious traditions. If the General took his comment as an insult to the Emperor’s edicts, it would be within his rights to have Mui hanged for treason and heresy. It was unlikely for him to do so, considering the assuredly violent reaction from Sara, but even with that assurance, voicing such a thing had Mui’s heart thudding painfully in his chest.
“...I believe you are honest in your advice,” the General said, breaking eye contact with Mui, who sagged in relief. “I do not know if I can bring myself to disrespect her so, but I can see that your explanation for her behavior is soundly reasoned.” General Borek glanced back at his multitude of attendants, a crowd which had shrunk after runners had gone off to rouse the garrisons. “Those of military rank may stay with me. All others are dismissed to their regular duties.” The General once more pinched the tip of his furry beard, twisting it back and forth as a small smile grew on his face. “I wish our officers to attend this training as well. I imagine I am not alone in being rather intrigued by the idea of operating these weapons myself.”
Mui suppressed a sigh. It seemed he would not be getting any rest from this onerous duty yet.
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Three hours later, the fields of Battulen were hidden beneath a manmade fog. The targets of straw had long since been blown away by repeated impacts of lead, two thousand muskets cracking in the stuttering, awkward manner unique to wholly unprepared troops. The Powdered Lead Mercenaries had used short shovels they carried in their packs to dig up large lumps of dirt for targets, allowing the training to continue unabated. In order to ensure the soldiers could see their targets, General Borek had called out a number of novice mages from within Battulen, dozens of whom now labored under the command of the city’s Archmage to maintain a wind-summoning ritual. It helped disperse the smoke much quicker than would be otherwise possible, as the spellcrafted wind came from behind the line of training soldiers, sweeping upward shortly after, carrying the blackpowder fog into the sky and out of their line of sight.
To both Mui and General Borek’s surprise, Commander Evie had initially protested this measure. The ritual was too complex to be maintained in an actual battle, and she did not think the troops should grow accustomed to having such excellent visibility of their targets. General Borek had persisted, however, arguing that if musketry was anything like archery, it was not best practice to learn while under battlefield conditions. If an archer always loosed their shots amongst a volley, they would never learn how their arrow flew, nor how to adjust it.
While Evie had eventually accepted this logic, Mui suspected she did not truly agree. When he happened to stray near the groups of troops she was personally instructing, she seemed far more concerned with the ability of the garrison to load quickly, aim quickly, and loose their shots in one synchronized thunderclap. Accuracy was a secondary concern to her, as she anticipated the troops to be firing not at single targets, but mass blocks of enemy troops.
Whatever the proper approach was for training the garrison troops, Evie and Sara both agreed that it was appropriate for the Imperial Warriors to receive much more dedicated instruction in marksmanship. General Borek and those he had brought with him were being treated to a personal lesson from one of the Powdered Lead’s ‘sharpshooters,’ a half-orc woman who was dressed in the thick leathers of a jungle huntress. Her name was Nente, and from what little Mui had gathered, she had lived an interesting life. Raised by her parents to provide wild game for her village, her skill with a longbow had earned her a place among the specially-recruited Marines of the Tulian Navy, where her particular Class had allowed her to easily adopt muskets. After becoming enamored with all the comforts such high pay could afford her, she had leapt at the opportunity to become a mercenary, despite her lingering distaste for living amongst the hustle and bustle of wider society.
“You flinch again, General,” the woman said, her broken command of Kemari garbled further by her thick accent. “Be surprised by the shot, not ready.”
“If I do not brace myself for the recoil, how am I supposed to aim properly?” General Borek demanded testily. Having a peasant speak to him in such an authoritative tone was grating on him. Nente’s poor grasp of the language afforded her enough leeway to get away with it, however. It was easy enough to pretend she would be showing proper respect to the General if only she had the words for it.
“By the time you is struck, the shot is done,” Nente said, thumping the meat of her shoulder where a rifle would rest. “When you brace, you aim bad. The gun bounces, your shot flies wild. Pull trigger slowly and you will hit better.”
General Borek grumbled something under his breath, but did not argue. Though a deeply proper man, he had been born a member of a fairly humble noble family. This meant he had spent his early years being trained by Warriors who outranked him in experience and status both, and so he was not wholly unaccustomed to receiving such straightforward instruction. A more highborn General would have reacted far worse to Nente’s blunt criticisms.
Mui listened to the General receive his lessons from several paces away, holding his own musket. Unlike almost every other firearm provided to the Empire, his had been rifled, and more than that, it was a true ‘Hot Rifle.’ While General Borek had also received a rifled musket, he had not received one of the precious few produced by Hurlish of Tulian’s own hand. It bore the HOT insignia on its barrel, but had actually been smithed by one of Hurlish’s apprentices. While still an exemplary weapon, the distinction between Hurlish and her apprentices was an important one.
This was a fact that Sara had told Mui in no uncertain terms to keep secret, of course. The Hot Rifles had no way to distinguish between those made by Hurlish or her apprentices, their markings being identical. Mui only knew because the Chosen had told him such, handing him the weapon with a beaming smile.
Lowering the weapon after his most recent shot, one which had thumped into the dirt a dozen feet before the two-hundred-yard target, he almost wished she hadn’t told him of the superiority of his rifle. It made every missed shot just that much more frustrating, even if he was the only one who knew just how few excuses he had for his mistakes.
Just when he began to load another round, his wax-stuffed ears noticed an abrupt tapering-off of the gunfire from the left side of the training line. Mui set his rifle down, pocketing the blackpowder charge as he stepped aside, looking curiously down the way.
Emerging from the same trail that the first group of mercenaries had arrived from was the first in a long line of brilliant, gleaming bronze weapons.
Mui slung his rifle over his shoulder, adjusting its leather strap to fit better against his fur. All around him, the gunfire was petering out as more and more of the garrison realized exactly what was emerging from the forest. For the last three hours, even as they’d cooed over the power of their new muskets, their trainers had told them that they were nothing next to the artillery. Now the fabled beasts were stalking out into the light, their prestige only grown by the way that the carriages were hitched not to animals, but men and women. So valuable were the cannons, Mui knew the garrison was thinking, that the Powdered Lead Mercenaries had willingly turned themselves into beasts of burden.
Mui had already seen the cannons. They did not make the same impression on him as they did the others. It was an impressive array, yes, what with the troops marching out in lockstep, their heads held high, every inch of glittering bronze freshly polished, but that was no different to how they had looked in Tulian proper.
No, what caught Mui’s attention was the orcish woman at the head of the line.
He tightened the strap of his rifle further as his walk turned into an urgent jog, his eyes squinting in disbelief. Surely he was mistaken. The mercenaries were distant, and orcs were almost always within an inch or two of the same height.
It has to be a coincidence, he insisted to himself. She would never allow it.
Out ahead of him, Mui saw Sara and Evie begin sprinting across the field to meet the cannons in the same moment he recognized the orcish woman’s brown strap for what it was: a swaddled babe held firmly to her chest.
Hurlish swept Evie and Sara up into a tight hug as they leapt upon her, catching each woman in either arm and swinging them merrily around. She pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads, then dropped them, returning a comforting palm to the baby on her chest. Powdered Lead mercenaries across the fields let out wolf whistles and taunting jeers amidst a smattering of amused laughter.
The urgency in Mui’s jog began to fade as Sara, Evie, and Hurlish began walking back towards them, splitting off from the rest of the artillery convoy.
“Is something the matter, Officer Mui?” General Borek asked.
Mui didn’t even have it in him to startle at the man’s unexpected voice. He held up a hand limply, searching for words, then dropped it.
“I… There is no way Evie would allow…”
“Were you not made aware?” The General asked, faintly amused. “I was. Who else would be developing our industries to be capable of producing this foreign weaponry, if not the woman who built the world’s first examples? I feel certain Hurlish of Tulian will be welcomed with open arms by the city’s smiths.”
Mui did not offer further comment. He watched as the women were joined by four figures in thick, dark green cloaks, who positioned themselves in a square around their charges. Guards, he could only assume.
As they reached one another, Mui did not pay much mind to Sara, who immediately began speaking with General Borek alongside Hurlish. Instead he stepped up to Evie, leaning his head down to quietly whisper to her.
“What is she doing here?” He asked.
“Hm?” Evie hummed innocently, blinking up at him. “Whatever do you mean, Mui? If I have brought one wife on the campaign, why not the other?”
“You are not like this.” Mui glanced at green-cloaked figures, who were remaining close to Hurlish. “Did she force you to allow her presence?”
“Of course not,” Evie whispered back, a taunting smile flickering at the corners of her lips. “I almost feel offended that you think our relationship is so poor we could not come to a compromise.”
“Is she an imposter?” Mui asked. “I know Sara is capable of producing illusions. Is this your attempt at drawing out would-be assassins?”
“I assure you, Hurlish is entirely present at the moment.”
He looked at the woman, who was towering over Sara as she spoke to the General. Hurlish reached out a hand for General Borek to shake, shifting which hand supported her child. The General shook it, his diminutive vanara fingers absorbed into Hurlish’s calloused palm. The two exchanged brief pleasantries.
“This is impossible,” Mui said. “You did not allow Sara, a Chosen of the Gods, to be alone for longer than five minutes on the streets of a friendly Imperial city. Yet you have brought your wife and infant child to the front lines of a war?”
“Unlike with Sara, I have been allowed to take certain precautions regarding Hurlish and Tahn’s safety.”
His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean? You would not accept the work of the Adjutant’s own Imperial Guard as adequate.”
“True. I am a cautious woman.”
“Then how is she here? How is your child here?”
Evie’s eyes flicked to the robed guards.
“Mui,” Evie said in a whisper that was beginning to grow testy, “I am not concerned for Hurlish’s safety.”
“You? You are not concerned?” He could not believe what he was hearing. “What have you done? Who are these guards? What bargain have you struck? What have you sold of yourself?”
“I have done no such thing, Mui Thom,” Evie hissed. “But know this: I am no fool. There is not an assassin in your Empire capable of harming my wife or our child.”
And with that, Evie abandoned him, leaving his muzzle hanging agape.
He turned to look at the guards, a chill sending his fur standing on end. They did not look particularly remarkable. Their robes were of plain cloth, if skilfully dyed, and they did not wear helmets. Despite the heat, they hadn’t parted the thick cloth the slightest inch. The cloaks began an inch beneath their chin and stopped just before brushing the ground, the edges tinged with the mud of travel. They were each expressionless, utterly focused, their eyes darting from person to person as the group around Sara grew. Two men, two women. He did not recognize them from his time in Tulian.
What are they?
Hurlish and Sara had finished speaking to the General, whatever obligatory introductions they’d been undergoing having been completed without issue. Now Hurlish was walking back over to the train of artillery guns that were emerging from the jungle, Sara at her side, Evie hurrying to join them. It seemed one of the guns had gotten a wheel stuck in the mud, requiring their attention. The four guards left with them, emotionless as always.
“General,” Mui whispered. “Those guards. You saw them, yes?”
“Of course,” the General replied, giving Mui a curious look.
“Do you think you could challenge them? If it were necessary, do you think you could fight them?”
General Borek snorted derisively. “What kind of question is that, Officer Mui Thom?”
“I have heard that Warriors such as yourself are capable of knowing more about their opponent than most. If you drew your sword now, against those four people, could you kill them?”
“Of course I-” he began to say, flicking his attention up to the backs of the robed figures.
One of their heads slowly creaked around, its empty expression landing upon Mui and the General.
It stared at them across the field. Unflinching. Its cloak shifted with every step, shapes bulging and fading beneath the cloth as it moved.
“I… That is… That is strange.” The General focused harder on the figure, squinting. “No,” he eventually murmured, speaking well under his breath. “No, somehow. I don’t believe I could.”
The green-cloaked figure silently returned their expression forward, freeing them from its stare.
“Could you defeat Commander Evie? Or the Chosen?”
“Yes,” General Borek said immediately, “and with ease. The Chosen’s talents are not purely martial, and while Commander Evie will likely someday eclipse me, she has not done so yet. Separately or together, they do not pose the slightest threat.”
“But those guards?”
“Are more than my match.” The General’s expression soured, as if the words coming to him were terribly bitter. “I could not defeat a single one.” He turned to Mui. “You have spoken out of turn once more, Officer Mui Thom.”
“I apologize, sir,” Mui said, though he truly didn’t mean it. “I thought it was something necessary to bring your attention to.”
“That is…” General Borek inhaled deeply, blowing the breath out through his nose. “Yes. It was. You are dismissed from my retinue for the time being, Officer. Rejoin your charges. They are-”
Hurlish had reached the cannon which had become mired in the mud. With one hand still supporting her child, she reached down and grabbed it by the muzzle, lifting the entire thing up as if it were a piece of dry tinder. She walked a few paces forward, tapping a foot out on the ground ahead of her to find a drier patch, then set it back down. She had not stopped her conversation with her wives as she did so.
The General clicked his tongue. “Were you told how much those cannons weighed, by any chance?”
“Some thirteen hundred pounds, I believe. For the bronze alone, not including the weight of the carriage.”
“Yes. Well. As I was saying, then. They are individuals worth watching, Officer Mui.”
You have no idea.
Notes:
Education time! Here's some interesting examples of what real world guncotton was capable of. It was the first "smokeless powder," though it never gained much traction because better replacements came along rather quickly. Unfortunately for Tulian, guncotton is made of nothing more than nitric acid, sulfuric acid, and cotton, which are an order of magnitude more simple than the chemistry of triple base powders.
This is nitrocellulose burning safely in someone's palm because it's such a rapid reaction.
https://youtu.be/VoDAvltgUv4?si=FXkpz9EmyGovFBZC&t=48These next two videos help showthe difference in smoke between guncotton and blackpowder.
https://youtu.be/eB517d1QMDc?si=ElIqC8tbTYLCbmfz&t=66
(start this one at 1:06 if it doesn't auto-start there)This is a comparable rifle form and caliber, but one using blackpowder. Compare and contrast, etc.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LL4qegLbTJs
Chapter 136: B3 Ch23: The Flintlock Lady (E)
Notes:
Second half is smut, if you happen to be reading this in public.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Evie Brown
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Training an army was exhausting. On an intellectual level, Evie had known this would be true. How could she not? It was obvious. She had known it before she accepted her faux-position of Commander of the Powdered Lead Mercenaries, and she had even experienced a degree of it when she and Sara had been forging the Tulian Army in the months before the Sporaton invasion. But for all the time she had spent over the last few weeks purposefully recalling the difficulties Master Graf had often opined on during his more active training days, she still hadn’t been fully prepared for the reality of undergoing the effort for herself.
Her foremost difficulties came from a deceptively simple problem. The Imperial Army and its members were not of the same stock as the Tulian people. Though loyal to the Adjutant and his faction, and, to Sara’s constant disbelief, willing to fight for his cause, they had not undergone the same trials as those whom Evie had first taken under her wing.
In Tulian, the population which had remained after the storms were what her father-in-law would call a “self-selected group.” They were the survivors of a terrible calamity, but rather than flee their shattered Kingdom, they had spent years building their lives in the aftermath of it. That meant they were a hardened people, those who had faced overwhelming adversity for many years without flinching. When a Sporaton army had appeared at their door, they had known that among them there were no equals for even a single member of the glittering Knights, but they did not care. Why should they? One impossibility to overcome was just another in a long list of challenges they had undertaken in their life.
The Imperial Army was different. The volunteer-majority force fought for their leaders willingly, yes, often voraciously, but to a decided limit:
The ‘Warriors.’
While not a legally defined social class of the Empire like Sporaton Knights, the Warriors were still wreathed in an awe-tinged fear by the Imperial commoners. They had no reason, and had never had been provided a reason, to believe that they could challenge the nigh-immortal Warriors. Where the Sporaton nobility maintained their claim to authority by disallowing the commoners combat Classes, the prolonged Imperial Civil War both required and allowed that Warriors maintain their power in society through more legitimate martial excellence. Those few commoners who reached a Level worthy of being included amongst their numbers were elevated to the lofty status of “Warrior” with great pomp and circumstance, featuring many elaborate and highly public rituals. It was a process which solidified the unreachability of their power for the common people. After all, they had seen the size of the armies, and they had seen how comparably rare it was for a Warrior to rise from amongst their ranks. What hope did they have of claiming the heads of such a vaunted enemy?
With musket in hand, Evie had tried to tell them, a very good chance indeed.
None of them believed her.
Oh, they were excited for the weapons. They had been as enamored by her demonstrations of musketballs piercing enchanted armor as their commanders had been disturbed. But no matter what she told them, no matter how she motivated, trained, or ordered them, when it came down to it, they remained convinced that should they come face-to-face with a Warrior, they only had one paltry choice left to them: that of how their conduct would be immortalized in the memories of those few who survived the slaughter. Even in the mock skirmishes Evie staged, Powdered Lead Mercenaries squaring off against Imperial Pike-and-Musket blocks, the Imperial soldiers could not bring themselves to fight against an Irregular, what they would call a Warrior. When Sara or Evie personally took the field, even knowing the battle was fake, their commoner opponents would either flee, surrender, or, on rare occasions, attempt some valiant final charge that was as impressive as it was damningly stupid. Not once did any consider the option of forming ranks and cutting them down in a volley of simulated musket fire.
Evie sighed deeply as she continued flicking out quick notes in her journal, tabulating the morning’s training results. She was in one of the multitudes of forges which ringed Battulen’s outer city perimeter, ears tucked against the melodious racket of hammers striking glowing iron. She had Tahn tucked gently into her lap, her precious little boy snoozing happily away beneath the enchanted earmuffs Garen had gifted him. She occasionally took a break from her writing to simply stare down at him, luxuriating in the simple fact that he was present, that he existed. She had protested Hurlish’s exit of Tulian vehemently, of course, but now that the decision had been made and the necessary details worked out, she was inordinately grateful to have both her wives and their child at her side. Even here, where glowing coals burned away the thick humidity which sought to wring every ounce of sweat from her body, looking at her son provided a lightness to her soul so profound it was almost discomforting. If it was not for the fact that she knew exactly where it came from, the suspicious absence of her lifelong pessimism would have convinced her some foul influence was attempting to hex her into a stupor.
She did wish she had a pair of Tahn’s enchanted earmuffs for herself, however. The forges were no place for a child, even one born of Hurlish, and it was only because of the magical devices that he could remain so peaceful. He had ears like hers, after all. That he was already inoculated to the scent of burning charcoal and molten slag, to the gusts of hot embers which dusted across the cobblestones? That had nothing to do with the earmuffs, and she was already proud of him. Before she’d had her own child, she’d have scoffed at the notion of anyone being proud of an infant. Now here she was, beaming with pride.
And occasional annoyance.
Evie lifted herself off the bench slightly, knees bent, ears braced.
A thunderous slam shot across the courtyard, the reverberations of impact passing through the soles of her feet an instant before the accompanying clang pierced her skull from temple to temple, earning a wince despite the wax stuffing her ears. She’d fired pistols and rifles, had stood next to roaring cannons, yet none of them were half as loud as a hammer swung by Hurlish of Tulian when the woman was in a poor mood.
Evie sat back down as the dust settled, drifting in tiny flakes to rest atop the cobblestones they’d so recently abandoned. The stones of this courtyard would have to be replaced before long, she suspected. They’d already had to do it twice at Hurlish’s forge; once, when the repeated impacts had jostled the stones out of place, then again, when the mortar they’d used to set them more firmly in place had been shattered into loose gravel.
Perhaps Hurlish didn’t have to hit her current piece quite so hard, but Evie wouldn’t know. She lacked the expertise of Hurlish or Sara. She had her suspicions, though. When word had gotten out that Hurlish had begun to teach the smiths of the city how to forge new kinds of weapons using new methods, the “true” master blacksmiths had crawled from the woodwork.
Like termites, Evie thought, fighting off the urge to curl her lips in a snarl as she glanced at the elven smiths. Little colonies of infestations, easy to forget when out of sight, yet always insidious in their work, working to further the rot hidden behind the paneling.
Sara usually had to work to convince Evie that some group or another should be regarded as their ideological opponents. Evie did not hold the same fervor for Sara’s beliefs as her wife did, even if she had slowly come around to accepting the jist. In this case, however, Master Graf’s own prejudices had laid more groundwork than even Sara had been expecting. When the ancient elven smiths had crawled down from their lofty towers to personally survey Hurlish’s work, Evie’s opinion of them was already at the edge of a steep precipice, waiting for the slightest breeze to send it teetering over the edge to a cratering death below.
Then the rotten bastards had introduced themselves by leveling every conceivable insult at Hurlish’s work, and, though they surely hadn’t known nor cared that they were doing so, taken a club to the knees of Evie’s view of the Elvish people.
Master Graf was right, Evie thought, sniffing as she returned to her notes, longevity is a poison to the soul more pure than any death.
That she wouldn’t have cared in the slightest had they been insulting any other smith’s work never crossed her mind, because it hadn’t been any other smith. They had insulted Hurlish. And that meant anything they were, everything they had to offer, it was all less than worthless. Their very existence had become an insult in and of itself.
“See there,” one of the elven smiths said in Kemari, pointing. “For all your brutish strength, your strike was a dozen and three leg-of-ant off center. The plate will have been work-hardened unevenly.”
Even as a translator began relaying this laughably quaint criticism to Hurlish, another began nearby.
“And your form is poor. That you have the strength to swing a steel mallet the size of your chest is no excuse for wielding it as you do.”
Yet another insult began, but halfway through, Hurlish stopped inspecting her work, pointing to the second elf who had spoken.
“What are you expecting me to do?” She rumbled in Continental. “I can’t get proper form with a hammer this big. I’d hit myself on the back of the head. And any smaller hammer wouldn’t survive.”
When the retort was relayed, the elf scoffed, flicking her eyes upward as if in exasperation. This one was a woman with a build far too lithe and willowy for any blacksmith Evie had known, and she had thus far distinguished herself by primarily keeping her insults to Hurlish’s own body and how she handled herself, rather than the quality of her work.
The elves as a group were driving Evie to distraction. These were the first of their kind Evie had met, save for the occasional dignitary which had graced the courts of Sporatos, and those had all been “young” elves, having lived only a few centuries. Her mother and Master Graf had both agreed that elven peoples chose the young as their ambassadors because they were better at empathizing with humans.
These elves? This woman in particular? She was not a trained diplomat, even if she had the beauty for it. Her slanted ears were tipped back like a racing hound, as if folded away in preparation for a sprint, and the spider-silk garments she wore shimmered in a most irritating manner with every sharp, measured gesture. Like many of the elven smiths of either gender, her long hair had been tucked strand-by-strand into an iron circlet of dizzying complexity, spiderwebs of cool iron wrapped about one another like the mathematical fractals her father-in-law had oft described. From her dress to her movements, she was an elegant creature, all gossamer wings and ephemeral grace, and she was not unique in this. Every elf in the courtyard possessed a beauty that defied the very notion of approach, like the misting rainbow of a pounding waterfall. To Evie’s eyes, however, the effect was drowned beneath the bitch’s pinched brow and tight, barely civil smile.
“Use a properly enchanted hammer,” the woman said, enunciating each syllable like she was speaking to a child. “If you cannot do your work properly with the implements you have, do not persist in a fruitless task. Begin to craft tools capable of furthering yourself.”
“Don’t have anyone in Tulian that could make a hammer like that,” Hurlish grunted when she heard the translated reply. She turned the steel plate she had been working on with a finger, inspecting it from a new angle. “And even if I did, I’d just want them to work that magic on another hammer this size. There’s things that I work on that need an even hit across a surface this large.”
All of the elvish spectators made their various versions of half-polite scoffs.
“Like what?” The woman demanded. “Are you making armor for all the wyverns your people keep in that hovel?”
If she hadn’t had Tahn in her lap, Evie would have leapt up. As it was, her fist only clenched, threatening to dent the metal of her fountain pen.
“Guns,” Hurlish grunted.
“Your weapons are not a tenth as large as this plate would require.”
“Ones I’m showing y’all aren’t.”
Another titter of arrogant laughter from the elves. Hurlish ignored them, setting the plate back down and raising her hammer high. Evie braced herself.
Hurlish swung, ending the laughter with the booming ring of steel against steel.
Evie had not yet seen an elf yet who could swing a hammer like that.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sara whispered in her ear, resting a hand on Evie’s shoulder, gently pushing down.
Evie had not realized that she was beginning to stand until Sara had arrived, forcing her back into a more relaxed sitting posture.
“My turn,” her wife said, reaching for Tahn.
“No,” Evie said petulantly, squeezing their swaddled son closer to her stomach. “I haven’t had him for a half hour yet.”
“But you’re working. I’m not.”
“No,” she repeated emphatically, setting aside her notebook. She’d gladly stop working if it gave her the full length of her turn with Tahn.
“Fine,” Sara said, snuggling her cheek into Evie’s shoulder instead to watch Tahn sleep. “But seriously. Don’t worry about them. If Hurlish didn’t want them there, they’d be gone.”
“Would they? The elvish are the elite of this society. Who would have the authority to eject them from this place?”
“Who’d be able to stop Hurlish from ejecting them herself?”
Despite herself, Evie felt a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. It wasn't true, of course. The path Hurlish’s anomalous Class had led her down may have given her strength unlike anything Evie had ever heard of, much less seen, but that didn’t mean she was capable of intimidating creatures a thousand years her senior. Still, it was a pleasing image.
“Does she truly think this torment is worth it?”
Sara shrugged, shoulder rubbing against Evie’s. “I don't see where else she's supposed to learn about the Skills of a blacksmith at her Level. It's not like our Skills. She doesn't get an easy description, and she can't just test it out for herself. Not without wasting a whole lot of money and material, at least.”
That Hurlish truly thought this farce of insults was worth it was yet another instance of something Evie knew intellectually, but found difficult to accept emotionally. Abusing the seemingly limitless resources of the Empire was half of why Hurlish had insisted she be brought along with the mercenaries. Experimental smithing projects which would have put a considerable dent in Tulian’s weekly iron ore stock were barely worth the tax reeve’s attention here.
“I still do not think they are being particularly helpful,” Evie muttered darkly. “They arrived due to their interest in her weapons, but now they stay only out of a macabre interest in watching her repeated ‘failings.’ They critique her work, her form, and her designs, but they have not offered a single piece of information relevant to her Skills or their own equivalents. I am happy to see Hurlish abuse Imperial resources to her heart’s content, but must she do it with such insufferable people in her company?”
“That’s up to her,” Sara said, reaching down to gently brush a bit of Tahn’s hair away from his eyes. “She can handle them on her own, I promise.”
“Dealing with sycophants and parasites is my responsibility,” Evie insisted. “She has never had a desire to deal with political blathering, and until now, I’ve worked very hard to keep these types of people away from her.”
“And I know for a fact she’s very grateful for that,” Sara assured her. “But she’s a grown-ass woman. She can- oh, wait. Here we go.”
Evie had missed whatever comment had passed through the translator’s lips to provoke such a reaction, but at Sara’s comment, she glanced over just in time to see Hurlish grab the glowing slab of steel with her bare hand, throwing it at the feet of the gathered elvish smiths in a spray of sparks. The Skill which let Hurlish resist the heat of forged metal was clearly not something the elves had, judging by the way they skittered away from the metal before it could bounce into their shins.
“If you’ve got something useful to say,” Hurlish growled, stabbing a single thick finger at one of the smiths, “I want you to say it. But if you’re just here to copy my work so you can spend fifty years shitting something out that’ll put it to shame, you can fuck off. By the time any of you have something worth bragging about, I’ll be too dead to give a shit.”
While the translator nervously stuttered their way through Hurlish’s remark, Evie leaned back into Sara, dropping her voice to an even lower whisper.
“It seems she takes after your techniques for dealing with irritants.”
“I don’t think there’s any technique involved,” Sara said. “She’s just pissed.”
“Good.”
Hurlish left the cooling chunk of steel at the feet of the elvish crowd, stomping off to select another batch of raw ore. It was all she had been doing the last two days: starting with entirely unrefined iron, then steadily working it through every step of the process required to turn it into pure steel. Her Class, being born of a life in an isolated village, lent her more generalized Skills than many smiths. If she wanted to understand the new instincts her Levels had gifted her, she had to take a holistic approach.
Most of the elves, predictably, did as Hurlish suggested. They turned their noses up and, with all the dignity accrued across centuries of noble lifestyle, fucked off. Some, however, stayed, including the majority of the most ardent critics.
“You complain of us not sharing with you anything of worth,” one of them said, a pale, waifish man, “but you have offered precious little yourself. I see no sign of the fanciful weapons which have so captured the imaginations of the mortal peasantry.”
Hurlish sifted through the barrels of ore, nostrils flaring as she picked up chunks to sniff. Her Skill for detecting the purity of ore was filtered through her sense of smell, and it made for an often comical sight, seeing the massive woman sniffing clumps of dirty red metal like a glass of fine wine.
“Guns aren’t hard to make,” Hurlish said. “I already showed half the city’s smiths how to make muskets. Cannons are harder, but the foundries we need for them ain’t done yet. So what do you want me to do? Pound out a few iron tubes so you can get pissed at my technique for them, too?”
“Making any weapon is simple,” the elvish man said testily, “but making them with the Skill of a master is not. Any weapon, no matter how ignoble its design, may become something admirable when born from skilled hands.”
Hurlish paused, eying the elf. “You admitting I’m a master smith?”
“I think anyone with eyes or ears can see that you are no amateur,” the elvish man said, though his tone somehow turned the frank statement into an insult. “Even if you do not understand the finesse which is required to elevate yourself to true expertise. Were I to imitate the works of your students, I would begin with the skill of a student. Were I to imitate your own work, I will start with the skill of the teacher.”
Hurlish dropped the ore back into the barrel, crossing her arms as she stared down at the much-reduced crowd of elven smiths. Just six of them, now.
“You think you can make a gun as good as mine just after watching me do it?”
“Yes.”
Hurlish barked out a loud “Ha!” and uncrossed her arms, moving to the forge’s bellows. Evie smiled inwardly. It made sense, she supposed, that the rudest of the elves would be those most likely to earn Hurlish’s laughter. “Alright,” her wife said, beginning to heat the coals. “But if I show y’all how I make a rifle, you’re gonna start talking Skills. I got shit I can do that doesn’t make any sense. Sometimes I look at something I made and I hate it. Think it’s terrible. I do the same thing again, the exact same way, but this time I somehow know it’s better than anything I’ve ever done. And I don’t have a damn clue why. If you help me figure that out, I might even let you watch me make some cannons in a couple weeks.”
“You could not stop us from observing your work,” one of the elvish women said in a snotty tone, upper lip curled far enough to show a glint of her teeth. “There are a dozen different laws ensuring we have the right to view the work of smithies within our city.”
“You may have the right,” Hurlish said, stopping her pumping of the bellows, “but you won’t have a cannon. And I will. So play nice, kids.”
Evie finally couldn’t keep her smirk hidden. Delight danced across her face as she watched the elvish smiths glance at one another, baffled to hear someone so many years their junior referring to them as children. It was delightful.
“Satisfied?” Sara asked, standing with a groaning stretch. “Told you Hurlish would handle it.”
“I suppose she did,” Evie said, “but I still don’t think she should have had to do so herself. That is my role.”
“You’ve got too many ‘roles’ for your own good,” Sara said, offering a hand to help Evie to her feet, which she took. “If you picked your responsibilities and didn’t let yourself worry about the other stuff, I think you’d be a lot less anxious.”
“Any woman capable of doing that is also an entirely different person from my current self,” Evie said, adjusting Tahn to rest better against her breast. “And unless you see fit to order me to change…”
Sara smirked. “I mean, I haven’t changed your mind about anything. Your body on the other hand…”
Evie fixed her with a glare. “Not in front of Tahn, Mas-” She cleared her throat. “Not in front of Tahn, Sara.”
“I know the rules. Just pointing out the obvious.”
They walked across the courtyard together, stepping under the wooden pavilion which sheltered what had rapidly become known to all as Hurlish’s Forge. Their two guards followed a distance, matching their footfalls step for step beneath their green cloak, heads turned outward to survey the area. Evie stepped up to Tahn’s crib, the gaudy, ostentatious thing her wives had pilfered from literal gangsters. She took a moment to inspect the gemstones, which had been lifted up and placed in new locations, the cosmetic carvings of sleeping sheep and rolling waves etched over by brutally utilitarian runes. Satisfied with her inspection, she set Tahn down in the crib, ignoring the prickle of electricity which passed along her arm, little pops of static briefly lighting her skin as the bolts jumped between each raised hair.
“Y’all heading out?” Hurlish asked, setting her massive hammer down before walking over, dusting her hands on her smock.
“We have a meeting with General Borek, yes,” Evie replied. “There’s a bit of strategy to be discussed. Officially, we are just attending to be better informed of our employer’s intentions, but…”
“But you’re gonna be butting your head in?”
“Naturally,” Evie agreed.
Hurlish snorted. She reached out and grabbed Evie by the shoulder, dragging her in, so her face was buried in the bulk of her stomach. It would have been nothing but a rough hug, if not for the way Hurlish just so happened to turn Evie aside, just so happened to lift her foot a touch, leg rising between Evie’s thighs.
“Have fun,” she said, patting Evie on the head as she pulled her even closer, forcing her to grind the front of her hips against her muscular leg. Any protest Evie could have made would have been lost in her wife’s abs, so she stayed silent, suppressing a shiver. They had a long walk ahead of them. She tried to think calming, pure thoughts.
“Oh, she will,” Sara said, the salacious tone almost forcing another shudder through Evie. “I’ve got her dressed up real nice for the meeting.”
“Yeah? Mui gonna be there?”
“Can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be,” Sara said. “Why’re you asking?”
Hurlish’s voice dropped a touch quieter. Just enough that the elves couldn’t easily hear her, not without straining for it.
“Just surprised you haven’t dragged him on top of our pet yet.”
Evie tried to turn her head aside to say something, but Hurlish palmed her skull like a ball, turning it back into her stomach. Her efforts went ignored.
“I’ll get to it eventually,” Sara said. “Mui’s still a bit shy, all things considered. Besides, why do you care? You don’t like men.”
“But I like this little whore,” Hurlish rumbled, petting Evie’s hair with a thumb. “And I know she’ll enjoy it.”
Evie made a noise of protest, squirming ineffectually as she tried to free herself. She was trying as hard as she could to control her arousal, to not let the pounding between her legs grow problematic.
“Oh?” Hurlish’s finger flicked over her ear, freezing her. “What, kitty? You think you wouldn’t get off on that?”
If she’d had room to speak, Evie would have said that she wouldn’t. That Mui, while an attractive enough man, was nothing particularly exceptional. That the reasons why Master found him so appealing did not engender the same desire in her. But she couldn’t. So she was forced to listen as Hurlish bent forward a bit, just enough that the underside of her breasts brushed the tips of Evie’s ears.
“Don’t lie to yourself, kitty,” the orcish woman whispered in a low purr. “We know you. Are you really gonna try and tell me that if Sara told you to spread your legs for him, you wouldn’t?” Hurlish’s leg dug just a bit deeper between her thighs, striking something that made Evie shudder. “Do you really think that you have it in you to tell your Master no? That if she told you, ordered you, to get on your knees for him, you could say no? That if she tore your pants off and pinned your wrists to the ground, you wouldn’t be sticking your ass up for him to take you whenever he wanted?”
Evie whined, feeling her self-control slip. The pounding between her legs grew and grew, heat rising, elongating, her newest gift from Sara’s Blessings making itself known through the cloth of her pants.
“Oh, come on, Hurlish,” Sara said, stepping closer. Evie felt a hand come to rest on her lower back, just above her tail. “She’s not like that. She’s a proper Lady, isn’t she? I mean, it’s not like she’s getting turned on just by talking about it. She’s got more self-control than that. If she was really a whore, she’d be grinding on your leg like one, trying to get off even when she knows it’s useless.”
With a flash of horrific embarrassment, Evie realized she’d been doing just that. She’d been thrusting herself up and down Hurlish’s thigh, trying to bring any pressure and friction she could find to her newfound appendage. She’d not even realized. They were in public. Not even Tulian, but a foreign Empire, and there were members of high society a dozen feet away. People who could do true, genuine damage to her reputation. She couldn’t even see. Had any of them wandered to the side while she’d had her face buried in Hurlish’s stomach? Could they see her? Had they already seen her?
“Got bad news, Sara,” Hurlish said. Evie could hear the grin in her voice. “She’s hard as a rock down there.”
Sara clicked her tongue disappointedly, like a headmaster addressing a failing student. “Damn. And here I thought she was getting better. Are you sure?”
“See for yourself,” Hurlish said, grabbing Evie by the back of her neck and jerking her away from her body.
Evie instantly tried to hunch her shoulders, to curve her body to hide her throbbing erection, but Hurlish never let go of her neck. She held her out for Sara like a tailor showing off a dress for a wealthy client, both women eying her with a mild, possessive interest.
Evie felt her cock throb in her pants. Sara had decided not to give her anything particularly abnormal- well below human average, in fact- but she had also ordered Evie to wear azarketi leggings and a pair of short panties. A thick outline was traced in the material, the head of her cock dripping a bit of fluid to stain the material.
Hurlish tsked. “Told you so. Little whore can’t help it. It’s almost unfair to expect anything else, really.”
“I guess you’re right. Maybe I should get the whole thing over with already. Put the collar on her and make her go after Mui herself, so I don’t have to screw with it. It’d be a lot easier.”
No, Evie thought, desperation filling her. No, no, no. She’s teasing. Joking. She wouldn’t make me debase myself like that.
Hurlish laughed. “You think she could actually manage it? She doesn’t know the first thing about seducing. She just offers herself up to be used.”
“She’s pretty good at being used, though.”
Hurlish shrugged, tucking Evie back into the same crushing hug she’d started off with. Someone had been coming around the corner, Evie realized with a surge of horror. She’d seen them as nothing more than a blur as Hurlish had dragged her in. Had they had time to see? To see her? Had it been one of the elves?
“I guess so,” Hurlish said. “But I think Mui’s not gonna like her like this. Too desperate, too whiny. I mean, she’s about to cum just from grinding on my leg. Who’d want that? If Mui was gonna have his first time with a cock, he’d be better off finding someone that won’t blow their load in a few seconds.”
Evie was panting open-mouthed into Hurlish’s smock now, breathing deeply of the mixed scents of her sweat and the ashen forge. She kept trying to stop herself from thrusting, but she had even less control of herself than she normally did. Sara had given her a cock before, several times in fact, but the sight of Evie with such an appendage seemed to do something terrible to the woman. She’d never, not once, allowed Evie to cum when she’d had a cock.
It was driving her mad. She felt her hips begin to stir, her body moving of its own accord-
“Well, I don’t want to keep you two for too long,” Hurlish said, abruptly releasing Evie and shoving her away.
Evie groaned, clenching her fists as she stumbled to a stop. She’d been too desperate, too obvious. Her thrusts had started to grow faster, stuttery, her teeth gnashing against Hurlish’s stomach. The orc had recognized the signs and tossed her aside before she’d finished.
When the wave of frustration finished rolling through her, Evie’s better mind reasserted itself. She spun on a heel to face an empty section of the forge, tugging her shirt down as far as she could. It was a cloth shirt, however, and couldn’t stretch far, so she had to surreptitiously reach forward and pull her cock- stifling a groan as she touched it- into an upright position, as hidden as it could be.
If only I’d known she’d do this today, I would have worn a longer shirt!
Sara and Hurlish laughed at her behind her back, no doubt confusing the elves who were still milling about the forge, waiting for Hurlish to return to her work.
“You need a minute before we get going, Evie?” Sara asked.
“Yes,” she breathed, tucking a hair back into her braids, “That would be-”
“Sucks,” Sara said, swatting her on the ass as she walked past. “Let’s go.”
Evie was left to stumble after her, one hand still desperately tugging her shirt down. It exposed a great deal more of her cleavage, but at least that was comparatively modest when compared to the overt bulge that would have otherwise been on display.
“And why, exactly, are we doing this today of all days, Master?” Evie asked, hissing the question between clenched teeth as they stepped out onto the bustling city streets.
“Oh, no reason, really,” Sara innocently hummed. A lie if Evie had ever heard one. “I was just thinking about how unfair it was that you get to go around horny as hell most of the time, teasing me and Mui whenever you want, and you never have to worry about it showing. I thought it would be fun to turn the tables a bit.”
That wasn’t strictly true, Evie wanted to say. She’d come close to soaking through her clothing on several occasions, when circumstances had forced her to forgo her wives’ bodies for a particularly long stretch. But considering the rarity of that situation, she knew voicing the point would be useless.
“I hardly tease Mui of all people,” she said instead, doing her best to think of anything but the throbbing between her legs. “As I would have said earlier, I have no particular interest in him.”
Sara arched an eyebrow, glancing at Evie from the corner of her eyes. “Oh, yeah? A strapping young soldier, more skilled than he should be for his Level, with a powerful sense of loyalty to his people and cause? One who’s spent months happily protecting me and Hurlish, and who’s the last person to argue with any of your plans for defending us? The same Mui who squared up with a whole army just because it was his job to keep me safe? That Mui? No interest in him?”
“Just because he has admirable qualities does not mean I want him between my legs,” Evie said snippily, glad for the argument. She could feel her stiffness fading, the debate keeping her mind off the tightness of her pants. “As Hurlish said, I’ll happily pleasure him at your request, but he’s not the sort I would pursue of my own volition.”
“Right,” Master said, drawing the word out into a deeply sarcastic remark. “Evie Brown, child of the Night’s Eye, doesn’t get turned on by hot soldier boys. Of course. Makes perfect sense. I’m sure you didn’t grow up watching mercenaries train, realizing when you first started growing up that hey, maybe those sweaty shirtless soldiers over there are catching your eye for more than one reason.”
Evie flushed, long-suppressed memories involuntarily brought to the forefront of her mind. She hadn’t thought of those days in years. Master couldn’t know of the glances she had stolen as she began to grow into her womanhood, painfully unaware that her staring was far more blatant than she realized. Not until Master Graf had scolded her in the middle of a practice bout, telling her in front of the entire Night’s Eye that if she couldn’t focus in the yard, she should start using her mother’s money to hire a courtesan to calm her down before attending a training session. She’d been fourteen, and it had been the most mortifying moment of her life.
“That’s what I thought,” Master said when Evie had lingered too long without a response, lost in thought. She flung an arm around Evie’s shoulder, bringing her close. “I’m not saying you’re in love with the guy,” she said, laughing. “I’m not either. But if you think I don’t know that you find him hot, you’re a dumbass.”
“That’s… that doesn’t mean…” Evie writhed in Master’s grip, trying to pretend she didn’t notice the way Master’s hand was creeping down and to the side, towards her breast. “He fits a certain archetype I might find appealing,” she eventually admitted, breathing hard. “But I could never lose myself in him like I do you, like I do Hurlish.”
“Y’know fucking doesn’t have to snap your brain like dry grass, right?” Sara asked. “You can just, like, fuck because it feels good. Hurlish and I won’t mind. We pick up people all the time. Hell, we’d find it hot. I mean, how many times did Hurlish tell us about some chick she grabbed while we were away? Ten, twelve times?”
Evie’s dizzied mind was grasping at straws, trying to find a response that wouldn’t lead her further into delirium. Every step stirred her stiffness against her pants, grinding the head of her cock against the soft fabric.
“That’s… that is not my place, Master,” she muttered shakily, twisting the marriage ring on her finger. “I am yours. My body has a purpose: your pleasure. I am nothing more, and this is what brings me joy.”
Master rolled her eyes. “Alright, Evie, come out of subspace there a bit. You do realize you can get fucked by anyone you want, right? If you need our permission or whatever, you have it.”
Even as she said this, Master’s hand slipped lower, tweaking her nipple over her clothing in the brief instants when no eyes were upon them. Evie felt confused. Master- Sara- knew what gave her delight. To be taken, owned, used, and even abused; it was wonderful. The profound satisfaction she felt when submitting to her wives had been a joy without equal, at least until Tahn had come into their lives. The idea of simply ‘taking’ Mui for the sake of her own pleasure was so foreign a thought that she knew she never would have conceived of it on our own.
How would I even do it? Evie wondered. It’s not like I could just come up to him on a night when Master has left me frustrated and present myself, allowing him to sate his needs with my body. That would be absurd. I would have to push him, encourage him, perhaps even demand that he take me. He would not even believe me, at first, I’m sure of it. He would not think Master would allow it, much less approve of it.
Evie licked her lips.
But if I could convince him anyway… If he would take me as an animal does, driven to such lust that he drives inside me even while knowing that doing so tramples on Master’s claim to my body…
“Hello?” Master pinched her nipple harder, this time in full view of passersby. “Earth to Evie? You good in there?” She pinched harder still, twisting a touch.
Evie’s back arched involuntarily, shoving her chest into Sara’s touch as she was ripped from her thoughts. The motion pulled her shirt up, exposing herself to any who happened to look, and she knew people would be looking, because a high-pitched mewl forced itself from between her trembling lips.
Master released her nipple with an evil cackle, allowing Evie to sag, covering herself once more. Her head seemed to throb in time with her cock, which was pulsing at the very precipice of release.
“Remind me not to do that again,” Master joked. “Can’t have you blowing your first load on accident. I’ve got places I want that to end up on.”
“B-bastard,” Evie stuttered, hunching her shoulders as her ears fell flat. It was an undignified posture, absolutely not how she wanted the people of Battulen to see her, but it was better than letting the growing stain at the top of her pants be shown to any citizenry who happened to glance below her waist.
“I guess I kinda am,” Sara mused, tucking Evie close. “I mean, I was born out of wedlock. But most people that get called bastards have absentee fathers, not mothers. Guess I get points for uniqueness, there.”
“W-we are almost to the meeting,” Evie groaned, having lost any hope of ignoring the feeling of her body and clothing rubbing against her new anatomy. “Remove the Blessing already, Master.”
Her Master hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger on her lips. “Mmm… no,” she said, smiling. “I think you need to get better at controlling yourself. I’m sure you can get through a meeting with the General and his staff without ending up distracted, right?”
“I am a-already distracted,” Evie hissed, though her trembling robbed the words of any venom. “Remove it, please.”
“You know,” Master mused, “the funny thing about the wording of that Blessing? It’s all about bringing me and my partner pleasure. Which means that if you aren’t enjoying it, you wouldn’t have that cute little cock dripping cum down your thighs.”
“That is u-unfair,” Evie whined, hunching even further. “Y-you know that if you desire it, I will too. I can’t help it.”
Master’s fingers suddenly clenched in her hair, dragging her close enough that she could spit acidic whispers directly into her ear.
“That’s because you’re mine, you pretty little whore,” Master growled, digging her fingers in further. The words and the pain were nearly enough to have Evie finishing on the spot, and it was only through heroic effort that she held off. “Now be a good girl and stop complaining. We’re almost there.”
She dropped her hand back to Evie’s shoulder as quickly as it had gone to her hair, barely more than an instant having passed. Evie’s entire body was thrumming with the desire to disobey the order, to give herself the lightest touch that would be needed to bring herself over the edge, but she didn’t.
Her Master had told her not to.
The meeting was being held in the city’s largest garrison. With stone walls that rose three stories above the street, crenelated turrets placed at each corner, it rivaled many of the castles of Sporatos in terms of sheer dimensions. Unlike the Sporaton castles, however, the garrison lacked defensive enchantments, as it was already ensconced within the far more robust outer walls. It was placed at the border of the city’s skyscrapers, where the towering buildings shrank down to a more reasonable height. Should the walls be breached, it was where the last-ditch defense of the city would be coordinated from.
And much like the Sporaton castles Evie compared it to, it had been designed with practicality and prestige as equal priorities. Through the open gate she could see an elegant interior courtyard, beds of flowers laid out before a fine manorial home. In times of peace, it was General Borek’s place of residence. When the city was under siege, it would be filled to the brim with milling soldiers.
Master walked up to the guards outside the gate with her signature sloped smile, politely introducing herself as if there was any chance the guards had not recognized her on sight. Though the meeting was due to begin any minute now, she began a lighthearted chat, asking about the soldier’s work and the duties it entailed.
Evie stepped behind Master to hide her waist from the guards, squirming in place. She had their enchanted bag on her hip, and she knew there were several pieces of clothing in it which might help hide her shame. She thought of wrapping a scarf around her waist, or putting a longer shirt over her current cloth top.
But Master had told her this was a test of self-control. Hiding her arousal would be cheating, no? So she could not.
Master eventually concluded her chat with the guards, apologizing that she had to leave so quickly. She stepped past them, Evie trailing close behind, hunched to hide her erection.
“Where do you think the meeting is being held?” Master asked, flicking her gaze around the courtyard. There was no obvious gathering of people.
“You didn’t ask the guards?” Evie asked.
Master raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t pay attention to my conversation with them?”
“I can’t imagine what was distracting me,” Evie growled, trying to find any way to stand which would relieve the pressure against her erection. She couldn’t find one, and even shifting from pose to pose was making things worse, so she stopped.
“Let’s just head inside the manor,” Master said, sweeping forward. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone to point us in the right direction.”
Evie stumbled after her, trying to rid her mind of the thoughts which kept stirring her arousal. It was nearly impossible, of course. Every eye that fell on her, every passing soldier and staff member, they each added another piece of tinder to the smoldering heat in her gut.
How do men handle this? Evie asked herself, biting her lip. The times I have caught them with an erection are so few, yet here I am…
The answer, she knew, was not one she wanted to admit. Men didn’t deal with what Evie was struggling with. Neither did women, nor anyone else for that matter. Her arousal, her unfettered neediness, it was almost wholly unique, and only now was she suffering through visible proof of that fact.
She focused on her own breath as she followed in her Master’s footsteps, old habits returning with ease. She was very nearly placing her feet in the very same spot Master had trod, like a cat’s hind legs following after their fore. That was something that could distract her. To fall back into the routine of being Master’s bodyguard, an ever-present shadow whose greatest contribution to the conversation was an occasional scathing scowl shot over the woman’s shoulder. To abandon the still-fermenting idea of being her own woman in favor of total supplication, trusting a woman who was better than her in all conceivable ways to guide each and every action, directing her as if she were a puppet…
No, those thoughts are most certainly NOT helping, she realized. She’d felt herself beginning to slip beneath a familiar fog, thoughts of Master’s superiority echoing in her slowly emptying mind. What little ground she’d made in controlling her throbbing arousal had been lost, a newfound instinct demanding that she shove her hips forward, trying to bury herself in something that wasn’t actually there.
“We’re here,” Master announced.
Evie drew up short, staring at a rather impressive looking door. To her shock, there wasn’t any guard in sight. She supposed they were in a castle of sorts. If an intruder made it this far, a few extra hands weren’t going to be of much help.
“There’s going to be important people in that room,” Master said, putting a hand on the door. “General Borek, his attendants, and probably some local dignitaries. Whoever managed to squirm into the meeting to see me in the flesh, too, so maybe even the city’s Visya. They’re people you’re going to be working with for a long time.” Master raised an eyebrow. “Last chance to use your safeword.”
Evie licked her lips. She stayed silent.
Master squinted at her, running her eyes up and down Evie’s form. Then her eyes narrowed further, and though there was no outward sign of it, Evie knew her well enough that she was suddenly being scrutinized much, much more deeply than should be possible.
The thought made her shudder.
“Alright, let’s go.”
Evie followed Master into the meeting by biting back one last whine, then threw her back up straight, dragging into the forefront of her mind every single lesson on diplomatic propriety she’d ever received.
She’d accepted Sara’s challenge. She knew her wife planned to enjoy herself.
Notes:
A full Evie chapter this week, and while it didn't get quite as far into the plot progression side of things as I wanted, that's because it included the setup for smut, which I'm sure no one will be complaining about. Especially because this particular topic's been a long time coming.
Chapter 137: B3 Ch24: Rise and Fall (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Evie Brown
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The meeting room was agonizingly full. Dozens of officers, dignitaries, and servants were shuffling around a thick wooden table some thirty feet long, its dark surface obscured by a multitude of maps and piles of paper notation. The most important of the meeting’s attendants were seated in finely etched chairs, silk cushions on the seat and thick cotton over the armrests. Evie recognized many of them at a glance. General Borek sat at the head of the table with his core officer cadre seated to his left and right, at the tail end of which was Mui, who looked wildly nervous to be offered a seat at the table, rather than standing with the servants.
At the opposite end of the table was a catfolk man Evie had only seen at a distance before: Battulen’s Visya, the Imperial version of a mid-upper member of the nobility. The catfolk had a tawny brown coat that was graying over his cheeks, his whiskers beginning to curl with age. Though Evie’s research of the man had not shown evidence of a military career, his rigid back and firm stare fit in well enough with the room’s other occupants. As Battulen was not a regional capital, Evie believed this particular Visya was roughly equivalent to a Sporaton Count, or perhaps a Marquess. Many of the people seated on his side of the table had the look of civilian bureaucrats about them, dressed in fine silks instead of practical soldiering gear. Evie suspected that the Visya was using this meeting to pay off a number of favors owed to local political figures, affording them the chance to see the mythical Chosen in the flesh.
Master entered the room confidently, flashing a smile at the milling crowd as she headed straight for the last pair of open seats. Evie followed after her, all her willpower honed to a fine point.
They cannot see, they cannot see, she chanted to herself, slipping into the chair beside her Master. She would have sat in her lap, as per their usual routine, but that would have been foolhardy. The possessiveness shown by resting in her owner’s lap always stoked a fire in her. That was normally acceptable, hidden as her arousal had been, but not today. She couldn’t take the risk.
Evie realized with a start that General Borek had already begun speaking. She had not even noticed.
“...as you can see, the logistics of the situation are complicated,” the General said, waving a hand at the map which was placed in front of him. “While the High Generals have given us a long leash for how we employ our new weapons, it is difficult to ascertain where they may best be employed. Our betters do not wish to risk the Empire’s first blackpowder army being overwhelmed by superior numbers. Until we have tested our tactics in combat, we are to avoid conflict with the true Rebel armies.”
Evie leaned forward, surveying the map that had been laid out in front of her and Master. It was one of several identical copies on the table, dense with neatly scribed intelligence on the known dispositions of enemy armies and garrisons.
Her eyes widened as she took in the fullness of the map. It was the first opportunity she had been afforded to see the true scale of the Imperial domain, and it was shocking. The northernmost cities numbered several dozen, all connected by a webwork of dense rivers and sparse roads. The further south one went, the larger the cities grew and the more closely they were placed. The trend continued all the way until the southern end of the continental peninsula, where any urban development disappeared. It was as if Imperial settlers had been unable to pass an invisible wall drawn fifty miles from the coast. Evie supposed the Empire of yesteryear had no interest in exposing itself to the outside world, even without a civil war to contend with.
Judging by the design of the map, General Borek’s interest was focused on the smaller, northernmost cities. These bordered not only Tulian, but also the sparsely populated swamps beyond Tulian’s historical borders, going so far as to abut even the southernmost Western Kingdoms. The Empire was not only more densely settled than Sporatos and Old Tulian, it dwarfed them geographically as well.
There was no clear frontline to this war. At least not one that Evie could see. Cities had been captured haphazardly throughout the jungle, armies easily avoiding one another as they traveled along the multitude of overlapping rivers and thin roads. Most of the northern city garrisons, both friendly and enemy, numbered some twenty thousand strong, with occasional addendums noting where one city or another was believed to have a particularly large or battle-hardened garrison. There were also circles drawn onto the map with dotted lines, the center of which indicated the last confirmed sighting of a Rebel army, while the circle itself represented the maximum possible distance the army could have traveled in the time since the report had been verified. Even in the north there were a half dozen armies, the circles of their potential locations overlapping in more places than she would have preferred.
“In light of this,” General Borek said, tracing a line along the jungle wall with a finger, “I have decided to continue focusing our efforts northward. The skirmish of the Northern Expeditionary Force reveals that the rebels seek to use the open fields to speed their travel, pursuing a campaign of-”
Evie’s eyes bulged as she felt Master’s hand come to rest on her thigh, a warm touch that landed a bare few inches from the tip of her erection. The hand began to rub slow, comforting circles, as if there was nothing amiss.
Evie resisted the urge to hiss. She kept her eyes locked on the map, using every ounce of her willpower to ignore the torturous feeling.
“-have any suggestions?” General Borek asked, looking up from the map.
Evie blinked, turning his way. Had he been talking to her? Surely not, right? Everyone knew she was the commander of the Powdered Lead in name only. A figurehead. Master was the true authority.
After a brief pause, to her incredible relief, Master spoke up.
“I don’t like the idea of using barges to transport the cannons,” Master said, tapping one of the rivers on the map with a fingernail. “We could load them easily enough, but it’s a long process. If we need to unload them in a hurry, it’s liable to end up a disaster.”
“Are the weapons truly so cumbersome?” The Visya asked, leaning forward with interest. Evie wondered if he had been introduced with his name, or if she’d missed that, too. “I must admit that I’m no soldier, but it was my understanding that most siege weapons are disassembled for transit, then assembled at the point of battle.”
Master opened her mouth to respond, taking a small breath.
Whatever she said, Evie didn’t hear it, because the hand on her thigh briefly lifted away, only to move a few inches back, landing on her erection.
Evie’s stomach clenched painfully as her every muscle went taut. She just barely resisted the instinctive urge to dig her claws into the wooden table as she fought off the urge to groan, to thrust herself forward into that painfully light touch. Her eyes fluttered into a half-lidded state, the only reaction she couldn’t stop herself from showing.
“...called field artillery,” Master was saying. “Trust me, you’ll want to have access to them when an enemy army comes calling.”
“Interesting,” the Visya hummed politely.
Oh, yes, absolutely fascinating, Evie thought, swallowing hard. If it wasn’t for Master’s touch, she could easily have engrossed herself in the discussion well enough to let her arousal fade.
Master wouldn’t allow that, unsurprisingly.
And she wouldn’t damn well allow anything else, either. Her palm was simply resting on the shaft of Evie’s cock, not moving, not squeezing, not doing the slightest thing. When she’d had her original body, Evie had found great satisfaction in simply having something in her, with or without moving. She had spent many long hours with Master buried in her body as they slept, utterly content.
Her new cock was far greedier. It craved movement, friction, any kind of pressure other than the almost-nothing it was being teased with now. In a strange way, it gave Evie even more respect for her Master. That she had so often simply stayed patiently still while inside Evie was a remarkable feat of self-control.
One that I must match, she reminded herself, taking a moment to draw in a deep, measured breath through her nose. Surely her body would adjust in time. Surely it would learn to ignore the hand on her cock. Evie forced her ears to flick up, tuning into the conversation once more.
“...deposits of sulfur in Pravang make it a tempting target,” one of General Borek’s officers said. “There is little infrastructure in place for the harvesting of sulfur and saltpetre. The sooner we capture large stores of it, the sooner we will be able to equip our larger armies with firearms.”
“They would be preparing for that,” Evie said, taking the risk of joining the conversation herself. She hoped it would help distract her. “The enemy will have doubtlessly determined the composition of blackpowder by now. They will be attempting to secure their stocks as rapidly as possible.”
“A point to be considered,” the woman officer acknowledged, bobbing her head before turning to General Borek, waiting for his appraisal.
Evie dearly hoped it wasn’t a follow-up question leveled at her, because Master saw fit to ‘reward’ her for her contribution. The hand over her cock clenched ever so slightly, slipping downward in a way that dragged her azarketi nylon leggings over the head of her erection.
This time, Evie could not stop herself. She had one hand overtop the table, the other beneath. Her claws sprang from her hidden fingers and stabbed into the underside of the table, scratching four lines in the fine hardwoods.
If anyone heard the scrape of claws against wood, none showed a sign of it. Master’s hand reached the base of her cock, pressing against her pelvis, and then eased. Evie let her lips fall open just the slightest bit, so she could pant as silently as possible into the stuffy air.
“If we allow them to establish the infrastructure, then swoop in to capture it, we would save ourselves a great deal of effort,” General Borek said.
“Would they not guard it with as many troops as they could?” Master asked. “I can’t imagine they’d spend a bunch of money making mines only to leave them undefended.”
“Ah, but if we seize the mines within the next few months, they surely would not have had the time to produce a large number of firearms. If your claims are to be believed, your weaponry’s superiority would win us the day, no?”
Master scowled. “I don’t like the idea of just letting them build up their defenses. Just because we could win doesn’t mean it won’t be bloody. The longer we wait, the more outnumbered we’ll be. The Empire building the mines for themselves surely isn’t that significant an expense, surely?”
Master’s hand began to slide forward, inch by inch, moment by moment, dragging the soft texture of her leggings with it. Evie’s right leg spasmed unexpectedly as a flash of pleasure shot through her, spreading from her cock to the rest of her body. The motion jostled Master’s hand, inadvertently causing her to press harder.
A quiet, near silent groan slipped from Evie’s lips. It was little more than the grunt of effort that might fall from her when she lifted something heavy, but to her paranoid mind, it may as well have been a scream of orgasmic bliss. Her cock throbbed hard, leaping against the tension of her leggings as fluid surged from its tip, staining both her clothing and Master’s palm. She felt blood rush to her cheeks as a blush grew, her chest beginning to rise more and more with every breath.
But worst of all was that Master lifted her hand away, robbing her of the pleasure it had been bringing her. Evie’s leg fell back down limply, but her hand shot into motion. She grabbed Master’s wrist and tugged hard, placing it back on her cock.
Please, she thought, shooting Master a needy glance. Don’t take it away. Don’t take it from me.
With the barest shadow of a smirk, Master allowed her hand to return to Evie’s cock, though she resumed the lighter, unmoving touch of earlier.
Evie sighed quietly, relief flooding her. The only thing worse than humiliating pleasure, she had discovered, was the utter absence of pleasure. She would do anything to keep her Master’s attention on her.
Anything.
With the razor edge of her limits discovered, the meeting faded into a hazy blur. The bulk of the discussion, she thought, was related to the path the Imperial army would be taking in the coming days, and of what cities were the most suitable targets for subjugation with cannon and musket. Evie offered a comment every once in a while, when her arousal had faded from a raging wildfire to a mere bonfire, but she had to do so carefully, strategically, doing her utmost to not provoke any response that came in the form of a question. Every time she spoke, her Master would realize that she had recovered some of her wits, which was a notion she took great offense to. Evie would invariably find pressure digging back down against the base of her cock, or the slow friction of a sliding palm, or even a quick flick of a thumb over the head of her erection, which was the worst of all. It would always take her minutes to recover, more precum leaking from her tip to be absorbed either by her leggings, or, depending on the positioning at the moment, Master’s palm.
She began to grow paranoid that the catfolk in the room would smell her arousal. How could they not? It was such a distinct, unique smell, so deeply familiar to Evie. She had licked it off her Master’s cock so many times. She could only hope that the present catfolk were less degenerate than her, that if they smelled anything unusual, they would not make the connection.
Eventually, an hour or two later, the meeting had moved from the discussion of abstract strategy to concrete logistics. Shortly after General Borek and his officers began discussing the provisioning of their army, Master stood, announcing that she had nothing more to contribute and would be leaving.
Evie rose unsteadily to her feet a moment later, one hand digging into the muscles of her legs in a desperate bid to stop their trembling. She did not know if anyone noticed her unsteady bobbing, did not know if her tight fist was pulling her shirt far enough down to hide her stained pants, and after hours of being kept at the precipice of orgasm, Evie did not even know if she still cared whether or not she’d been caught.
She was breathing hard. Too hard, as if she’d just finished a sparring session. She could feel her nipples rubbing against the rough cloth of her shirt, and desperately hoped that the material was stiff enough that her arousal was not overtly revealed– or, if it was, that it would only be noticed by those who would do something about it.
Her mind began to toy with that thought against her will. Taunting her with the idea that the others had noticed her, that the Warriors in this room, some of them so very much stronger than her, had noticed her arousal. She wondered if they would view her body as so many others once did, as an object of beauty that they wanted to possess, and if they would use that strength of theirs to grab her by the neck and throw her onto the table, tearing her clothes off so that all in the room could have their fill of her…
A snap echoed in her ears. She turned to Master, who was grinning at her, fingers raised.
“Alright, let’s go, Evie.”
Evie started to agree, but her tongue failed her. She was too far gone. She couldn’t bring herself to call Master anything other than Master, and she was not supposed to do that in public.
“If you see fit to leave so early,” General Borek said with mild irritation, “take Cultural Exchange Officer Mui with you. He has a number of matters that he ought to discuss with you.”
“Of course,” Master said, her smile shifting from one of smugness to genuine warmth. “I’m always interested to hear what you have to say, Officer Mui. After you.”
Evie was left standing in the middle of the room as they waited for Mui to make his slow, tepid way around the table, the catfolk man gathering up papers and equipment. Her body was operating on instinct, following the lessons that had been beaten into her as a child. She didn’t know if those lessons were enough, or if her raging arousal was obvious.
Some people were looking at her, she knew. Some of them were looking at her quite closely. But was it because they had noticed? Or simply because she and Master were the topic of discussion, and it was only natural to look her way? She didn’t know. If she’d been in her right mind, she could have told the difference, but she wasn’t.
Mui joined Master’s side after an eternity of dithering. They stepped out into the hallway together, Evie stumbling behind.
“Why did you decide to leave so early?” Mui asked as the door shut behind them.
“Had someone I needed to take care of,” Master responded, looking amused.
“Some… one?” Mui repeated, curious. He glanced about, looking for an attendant or courier or some such.
Then his eyes fell on Evie. He had a mild, curious expression, still unsure of what Master meant.
She could no longer control herself.
Evie’s head fell forward with a groan, her chin tucking into her chest as she pressed both hands over her cock, grinding her hips forward. Lightning crackled as relief shot through her veins, the pressure bringing her right to the cusp of orgasm. She did not have her collar on, and so it took everything she had to follow her Master’s orders not to cum, to not soil herself in the middle of a castle hallway.
“Good gods,” Mui exclaimed, stumbling to a stop. “What did you do to her?”
“Gave her a dick,” Master said casually, flinging an arm over Mui’s shoulder, dragging him close. She leaned in, whispering conspiratorially in his ear. “Do you think she’s handling it well?”
“You what? You gave her a… a penis?”
“Evie?”
She whined.
“Lift your shirt.”
Evie’s mind was at war with herself. She did not want to show Mui. He was an officer, the Powdered Lead’s liaison to the Empire. He knew more than most about her, but he did not know this. He did not know how pathetic she was.
But for all her mental anguish, her body knew who owned it. Her hands obeyed without hesitation, removing themselves from her cock to lift up the hem of her shirt, exposing her lower stomach and the outline of her pulsing erection. The stain at its tip was dark and sticky, plain to see even at a distance.
“A-ah,” Mui stuttered, eyes going wide. “I see. You were…” He coughed, looking away. Evie did not drop her shirt. “You were not exaggerating. This is a… a Chosen’s ability?”
“Isn’t it great?” Master asked, slapping him on the shoulder. Unlike Mui, she had not looked away. Evie squirmed as her Master kept staring, drinking in her ruinous arousal. “By the way,” Master said, “just let me know if you want to try it out, sometime. I can give you a pussy if you want.”
Mui’s only response was a strange choking noise.
Master laughed, spinning him around. “No rush, no rush. I’m sure we’ll get there eventually. Now, do you know your way around this castle?”
“N-no ma’am,” he said, seeking refuge in formality. “I have never been here before.”
“Damn. Guess we can’t just go find a janitor’s closet or anything, then. Let’s head out.” Master glanced over her shoulder as Evie began to follow her, rolling her eyes. “You can drop your shirt now, Evie. Unless you want the next guard that walks by to see the mess you’ve made, I guess.”
Evie let her shirt fall, quickly hiding her erection. She didn’t even try to find something to say. She doubted she could manage anything more than breathless, needy panting at the moment.
Master kept chatting with Mui as they worked their way out of the castle, pretending that the catfolk officer was not still lost in the stupor brought on by the twin reveals of Evie’s cock and Master’s blithe offer to do the opposite to him.
Evie wasn’t in a much better position, of course. Her breath felt hot enough that she felt it should be fogging the air with every puff, and she was so dizzy it was a miracle she could walk straight. She was walking behind Master, something that she was beginning to realize was a mistake, because she could no longer take her eyes off the shapely ass that was sashaying away from her.
Evie blinked. She normally didn’t think these sorts of thoughts. She loved Master’s body because it was hers, not because of how it looked. Had her new anatomy really changed even how she appreciated her owner?
Evie put a hand to her neck, trying to see if Master had somehow collared her without her realizing. It was… she felt such a need in her. It was alien, an urge to be inside her Master, to press her cock into the divine heat of her perfect body. Had Master’s Blessings given her this impulse, too?
Evie squinted as a door opened ahead of her, spilling in light from the outside. They had found their way outside. She followed after Master, trying to still her heaving chest. The courtyard was full of workers, guards, and servants, and for a time, she allowed herself the delusion that they were looking at her. That they were all watching her, that they had seen her pathetic nature for themselves, and that there would be no need to hide it any longer. She would be shamed, yes, but after that, the world would know. She would no longer have to hide her pitiful desires.
If her dream had come to pass, it did not do so in any obvious way. She stumbled out of the castle into the streets of Battulen without a single uttered comment from her spectators, following after Master and Mui in a daze.
They took several turns, none of which Evie noted nor understood. Her cock was throbbing in the waistband of her pants, pressing heat back into her own skin. She could feel the head grinding against the bottom of her stomach, could feel the pubic hair– why did Master give her pubic hair for her cock, when she so religiously shaved?– brushing against the base of her shaft. Every step was as debilitating as the twitch of a finger in her, and she was being consumed by a growing certainty that, Master’s orders or no, her body would have its way with her before long.
“Are you alright?” Mui suddenly asked, speaking quietly.
Evie’s head spun as she tried to bring her eyes into focus, looking into the catfolk man’s black muzzle. He’d stepped back from Sara to whisper to her, as if he thought she couldn’t still hear him.
“Wha-whuh?” She mumbled, resisting the urge to clutch his shirt for balance.
“It was risky, what you did,” Mui explained, his tone severe. “She did not… she did not make you, did she?”
The words slogged their way through Evie’s ruined consciousness, fighting against a tide of stupifying arousal.
“I… she wanted me to,” Evie managed. Her tongue felt thick as lead in her mouth.
“But did you want to?” Mui asked. “I know your concern for your reputation. This seems like a risk you would not take.”
“Repu-reputation?” Evie giggled, finally giving in to her impulse as she grabbed a hold of Mui’s shirt to steady herself. “I don’t waaant my reputation, Mui,” Evie breathed, pulling him close. She looked up into his eyes, distantly aware her hips were grinding against empty air. “I’m a slut. A whore. Master’s tight little toy. Why do I have to… have to pretend to be anything else?”
Mui bobbed his head in a tight little nod, then pulled Evie’s hand off his shirt. “Okay,” he said. “I was just making sure.”
Evie giggled again. She wondered how Master was going to reward the man for that question. He could not know it, thinking Master had only a human’s hearing, but he had just earned himself such a wonderful time between her owner’s legs.
“Evie,” Master suddenly snapped, her voice full of discipline. She pivoted into an alleyway, prompting Mui and Evie to follow behind. “Stand here,” Master ordered, pointing at a random bit of wall.
Evie stumbled eagerly forward, panting breathlessly. Mui watched her go, apparently appointing himself as this trist’s bodyguard, judging by the way he turned to face the entrance of the alleyway.
Before Evie could even come to stand in front of Master, she found herself grabbed by the shoulder and slammed against the wall.
“Did you follow orders?” Master asked, stepping close. She surrounded Evie in every direction, filling all the world with her body.
“Y-yes,” Evie breathed.
Master’s hand landed on her stomach, fingertips pointing downward.
“So if I move my hand lower, I’m not going to find anything?”
“I didn’t c-cum,” Evie said, squirming. “But so much c-comes out…”
Master’s hand began to slide downward at an agonizing, glacial pace. Her dark eyebrows rose, a challenge in her expression.
“If you made a mess, how can I even believe you?”
“You could collar me,” Evie whispered eagerly, going up on her tiptoes as she tried to force Master’s hand lower. Her palm was over her bellybutton, her fingers tickling just above her waist. “I couldn’t lie to you then, Master.”
“What’s the point of having a pet if I have to jerk her leash every time I want something done?” Master growled. “You should know better than to lie to me.”
“I’m not, I’m not,” she insisted. “Ask Mui. He would smell it on me.”
“Mui?”
A tired sigh from Evie’s right. “...no, I don’t believe she did, Sara. She doesn’t smell like… like she did what you’re asking about, I suppose.”
“Really?” Master purred, a dangerous lilt to the word. “I wonder why? A needy little whore like you having your first time out with a cock, and you managed to hold off? It’s almost impressive. Maybe I should let you keep going, see how long you can really last.”
“No,” Evie gasped, her hands flying to Master’s waist, trying uselessly to drag her closer. “No, please, no, don’t make me wait any longer.”
“What do you want from me, then?”
Evie did not like this. She did not like having to ask for her own pleasure. She was supposed to give it. That was her purpose.
But she needed it. Her body ached so badly, her legs quivering with unmet desire, and she could only think of one way to fulfill her duty and find her needs met.
“Inside you,” Evie gasped, fumbling for Sara’s belt. “Please, let me put it inside you, Master. I will do anything you ask of me.”
Master slapped her hands away and took a swift step closer, throwing her knee between Evie’s legs once more. Evie started to say something, only to be cut off as Master snagged her waistband and tugged it down, exposing her to the open air.
“You really think you’d last long enough?” Master asked. She ran a single finger down Evie’s cock, tracing a line from the tip of its head all the way to the base. Evie shuddered. “I don’t think you’d last ten seconds. What makes you think you deserve to be inside me?”
“I need to please you,” Evie groaned, hips grinding forward, rubbing the underside of her cock against the top of Master’s thigh. “I need to- to be used by you.”
“Oh, babe,” Master chuckled, her other hand patronizingly brushing against Evie’s cheek. She leaned close, whispering into Evie’s ear. “You never stood a chance.”
The world was drowned in white as Master’s hand closed around her cock. It encased her entirely, her erection just long enough to poke out from the edge of Master’s calloused palm.
Evie let out a keening whine as her Master began to squeeze and move, jerking her off with tiny, electrifying motions.
Evie tried not to give in. She tried to hold back. But she’d already lost. Lost control of herself, lost control of her impending orgasm. She was just another piece of putty in her Master’s hands.
Evie’s whines turned into gasps as her hips slapped forward, every spark of friction sending her eyes bouncing wildly behind her closed eyelids. Her face fell forward into Master’s chest, her hands on her shoulder as she desperately humped into Master’s hand, throwing herself against her with animalistic desperation.
Her stomach rolled and clenched as the hours of need roared up within her. She felt a clenching unlike anything she’d ever felt before take her from below, her hips throwing herself involuntarily into Master’s body, seeking her touch, her heat, then she went rigid, trying to find the bottom of something that her body was too senseless to realize wasn’t what she wanted.
Just as she felt her cock begin to throb, Master shoved against her, hard, pointing it upward, and her lips crashed into Evie’s.
She came with a moaning cry, mouth open against the press of her Master’s lips. Her hips drove themselves upward, upward, her legs shivering so hard she felt certain she would have fallen if not for being pinned against the wall, and all the while she felt herself pulsing, felt hot spurt after hot spurt unload itself onto her own body, coating her stomach in steaming white ropes. Master kept kissing her throughout it, devouring her cries of delight, muffling her with one hand on her cock, the other cupping her jaw so tenderly, so lovingly, that it almost ached.
Evie suddenly sagged, the last of her body’s strength abandoning her. Master dropped with her, gently quieting her insensible mumbles with little pecks of loving kisses that she peppered along Evie’s lips, jaw, and cheeks.
She sat back against the alley wall, breathing hard. Master stayed with her for a time, still holding her cock as each throbbing beat of her heart left it softer and softer. Then, when she was sure Evie was very nearly asleep, Master stood.
“See?” Master asked. “Didn’t that look like fun? You should try it sometime.”
“She looks dead.”
“Yeah, but have you never wanted to cum so hard it looked like you died?”
“Before I met you, I feel certain the thought never occurred to me.”
“But after?”
Mui sighed tiredly. “I don’t wish to try it any time soon, at least.”
“I’m marking that down as an ‘eventually,’ just so you know.”
“I am not shocked.”
“Mmmnh,” Evie groaned.
“Oh?” Master’s shadow passed over Evie’s face. “You still awake? I thought I was gonna have to carry you back.”
That sounds so wonderful, Evie tried to say. It mostly came out as a series of garbled groans.
Sara chuckled. “Might still have to, anyway. Hey Mui, you have anything to cover her up with? She kinda came all over herself.”
“I have my own shirt, but— Good gods that is a lot.”
“I know, right? I’m glad I pointed her at herself, not me. Look, it got all the way up onto her cheek.”
“It’s in her hair, Sara.”
“Oh, shit, you’re right. Uh, I don’t think a shirt’s gonna do it. Do you have, like, a poncho?”
“I don’t know what that is. Couldn’t you just clean it off her?”
“Oh, good idea. You wanna know the best way for one girl to get cum off another? Here, watch close.”
Evie felt Sara’s tongue suddenly press against her cheek, spreading flat as it slowly ran up her face.
She heard Mui swallow hard.
Sara continued licking her clean, almost certainly doing so just to taunt Mui, and somehow, despite everything, it was this which finally allowed Evie to drift off into sleep, chuckling to herself. The poor man really had no idea what he’d gotten into.
--------------------------------
Mui Thom
--------------------------------
One Week Later
“Why do so many think I am some sort of expert…” Mui shifted his grip on the stock of the rifle as he grumbled under his breath, trying to control himself so that it would not become a growl.
“B-because y’are, sir?” The girl asked. She was a younger human, and one from much farther south than Battulen, judging by the deep brown of her skin. Her thick, oaky complexion was growing paler with every passing moment as she watched Mui struggle with the weapon she’d brought him. She glanced side to side, fingers twitching, back slightly hunched as she watched him work.
Mui hid his irritation, ignoring the way the girl was trying to hide. If she’d wanted her mistake to be taken care of by someone who wouldn’t draw attention to it, there were few choices worse than the Imperial-Tulian Cultural Exchange Officer, who was known by everyone in the army to constantly be either in the presence of General Borek or the Chosen herself. He was a watched man, these days. He had no idea what the girl had been thinking.
Actually, he already knew she hadn’t been. She’d likely given her choice no more thought beyond the fact Mui had no damn idea who the girl’s sergeant was, nor what supply requisitions officer he might report her error to. And Mui most certainly would have reported her: this was a damn stupid thing to do.
She’d somehow, implausibly, gotten her bayonet stuck.
At a first glance, all seemed to be in order. The foot-long span of steel jutted out from underneath the iron barrel in a quite stately manner, its design calling to mind the bastard child (if a well-liked, well-cared-for bastard child) of a spearhead and machete. The girl had maintained the blade itself well enough, keeping it polished enough to catch and bounce away the bits of stray sunlight that made their way through the tangled canopy. Despite being intended to only be used in battle at the end of a musket, the Imperial Army’s new ‘bayonets’ had a long cutting edge that ended in narrow, upward swept tip, effectively affording each of the army’s spear-wielding troops the luxury of a fine knife to call their own. While the musket was only a weapon of war, the bayonet was helpful for all the things any long knife was, be it clearing brush, gutting wild game, or trimming the branches off logs to use in nightly fires.
Considering the length of the weapon, Mui was still surprised that Hurlish had convinced the Imperial quartermasters to make it part of a soldier’s standard equipment. With a blade two and a half handspans long, it was less than an inch away from legally being considered a sword. Traditionally, a knife became a sword when the sharp edge surpassed the length of its wielder’s forearm, which meant many of the shorter soldiers were already breaking the law by some definitions. Peasants could only earn the right to carry swords as Mui had, by advancing through the army’s ranks.
Which made him all the more irate that this particular girl had made… whatever mistake it was that she had to cause this problem. She’d been afforded a great honor by her placement in this army, and she’d already made such a mess of her gift. No matter which way Mui twisted, pulled or yanked, the bayonet simply refused to release from its mounting point. It was as if she had slathered it in glue before slipping it on the musket.
“Did you clean this as you have been trained?” Mui grunted, twisting his arms into a new angle.
“Of course I did!” The girl whispered anxiously, ducking even further down.
I doubt that.
The girl wrung her hands as she watched him work, looking very much like she wished to ask him to crouch as well, but knew how terrible an idea that would be.
Mui gave up on subtlety. He wrapped one hand around the top of the bayonet’s hilt and the other around the musket’s stock, putting all his strength behind one firm, powerful jerk.
The bayonet tore off the end of the barrel with a screech of metal against metal, a spray of dirty brown puffing into the air just an inch before Mui’s muzzle. He let it fall, staring down at the girl.
“Don’t,” he warned the girl, holding out the separated weapons, “tell a lie that’s only going to get you caught.”
“I clean it every day, I do,” the girl insisted, unwisely deciding to double down. Did she not recognize rust when she saw it flying before her eyes? “Even the days when we don’t shoot! That weapon’s my life, I know it. I wouldn’t never do anything wrong with it.”
Mui flipped the musket upside down, first inspecting the barrel, then the bayonet mount. The barrel was swabbed clean as a whistle, shiny as the day it had come from the forge, but the mount had been eaten away by rust. When he had jerked the bayonet off, what little remained of the thin mounting lugs had snapped, and they were likely still embedded in place within the bayonet’s hilt.
“As I said, do not tell obvious lies,” Mui said, turning both weapons around for her to see. “Did you think that when the quartermasters showed you how to clean your weapon, they added some extra steps in the middle just to keep you busy? That cleaning the bayonet mounting mechanism was just a bit of extra fun for them, a little prank on the common soldiers?”
She started to respond in the negative, then saw the rust for herself. She blanched, nerves overtaking her for a time. Then she cleared her throat, grimacing.
“I just…” she tried, “I thought if it was the powder that makes things rust, why should we worry about the underside where the powder doesn’t go…”
Mui groaned, rolling his eyes as he thrust the girl’s weapons back at her. “We march through the jungle. Everything rusts. Get back to your squadron.”
“T-thank you, sir,” she said, gathering the musket and bayonet in an awkward bundle. She scurried away, still crouched low, as if that would make it any less obvious what she was doing.
Mui shook his head, stretching out his aching fingers as he began to make his way back up the column. They’d come to a stop an hour or so before, and he’d occupied his time by pacing up and down the column. General Borek was awaiting scouting reports of the enemy’s disposition, sending them ranging further than he normally might have, had this not been the last fork in the road before their final target.
A sulfur mine, Mui thought, lips twisting in bemusement. What few mines the Empire possessed weren’t worth fighting over. They were common mines, hauling up iron and copper, the cheap ores of worksmen’s tools. There were a few mines of precious valuables, of course, recently discovered deposits of silver, gold, and gemstones, but they were incredibly rare, and often the nexus of an entire fortified city. One of the few curses of the Empire’s longevity was that most of its mineral wealth had been extracted thousands of years ago. No mine could remain productive for hundreds upon hundreds of years.
Which also meant, Mui knew, that this was going to be a strange battle for all involved. Across two hundred and fifty years of war, the True Adjutant’s armies had found little opportunity to engage in truly novel warfare. War was a rote, brutal skill. Battles were either protracted sieges, an entire city standing against an entire army, or they were desperate, clawing affairs, two armies accidentally stumbling across one another in the warren of rivers and roads. He could not think of a single instance, at least none that he had heard of, in which an Imperial force so small attacked something so open.
And that was assuming their target would be as they anticipated. The General’s advisors predicted that the sulfur mine would be built in a rapidly-swelling swathe of cleared forest. They didn’t even expect it to be a mine. Not yet. Many of the army’s authorities agreed that while the rebellion would have recognized the importance of the sulfur, perhaps even run the rough numbers on how much sulfur they would need, they could only have recently begun exploiting and fortifying the area. The current conjecture was that the Powdered Lead Mercenaries would be joining the Imperial Army for a rather strange battle: one occurring across an open field littered with half-finished defenses, where civilians and soldiery were intermixed.
Ultimately, how much the enemy had prepared, if in fact they had at all, was something they could not know until General Borek’s griffon scouts returned. For all they knew, the enemy had never even bothered to secure this sulfur, preferring to invest elsewhere for some reason or another. For Mui, who had spent his entire career in an army which chased tangible, unshifting goals, the uncertainty was nerve racking.
Mui reached the head of the army’s column with a light frown, tinged by many emotions. He was glad to be out of the eyes of the common soldiery, yet far from eager to return to the intensity of his official duties. A few short months ago, he had been concerned with nothing more than earning the loyalty of a new squad. Now he had more to worry about than he could even list from memory. It was not an adjustment that came easily.
When he found the ‘throuple’ he was nominally in charge of, they were, predictably, acting oddly. Sara was at the edge of the beaten trail, knelt in the mud with a speaking crystal put to her lips. Evie was beside her, legs folded beneath herself so that her thighs could provide a surface for her to draw upon. They were both looking down at something in the mud with a great deal of curiosity, but he couldn’t see what. Hurlish, in strange contrast to her two more socially inclined wives, was actually the only one standing among General Borek and his entourage, and her head was ducked as if in conference with the vanara general.
As Mui drew closer to Sara and Evie, he hesitated. Evie’s ears were flattened with irritation, her tail jerking up and down. That was not a good sign, and it immediately filled Mui with the urge to be anywhere else. The few times he had seen her truly irate, Evie’s cool, snapped reprimands had been more terrifying than any officer’s screaming rage.
However, as he inspected her back, he eventually realized that her ire seemed to be directed entirely inward. She was drawing something in her journal, and every time her unsteady hand made an apparently undesired motion, her ears would twitch further, tail thumping the mud. She was irritated with herself, not anyone else. That was… safer.
Mui finished approaching, making a point to do so loudly. He had used his privilege as Sara’s attendant to have his chestplate carried by the nobility’s wagons, leaving him in a light cotton undershirt that was oh-so-wonderful in the heat, but he hadn’t been arrogant enough to leave his greaves, musket, or sidesword behind. He let this equipment clank and rattle against one another as he approached, unwilling to startle the focused women.
“...but it’s like two feet long, Dad!” Sara was saying excitedly. “And it looks just like the ones you showed me when I was a kid!”
“That doesn’t mean it’s from a dinosaur,” her father replied through the crystal, his voice muted by her clenched fist. “You told me all about the griffons, and birds are just another kind of dinosaur. You could easily be looking at the tracks of a griffon or something.”
“Griffons have rear claws,” Mui said, crouching off Sara’s left to join the conversation. He pointed at the footprint they were inspecting, tracing an image with his mind. The foot of the beast had sunk deeply into the mud, creating a clear impression of a wide ‘palm’ and three long, claw-tipped toes. As Sara had said, it was very nearly two feet long when measured from the tip of its middle claw to the base of the heel, and the two other toes were nearly as long. The beast had not been moving quick when it left the mark, perhaps even standing still, as the mark was set very evenly in the soil.
“I have worked near griffon stables before,” Mui said. “I am very familiar with their tracks. This is not a griffon footprint.”
“See!” Sara flashed him a childish, excitable grin, eyes glittering with delight as she spoke into the crystal. “Mui agrees with me, Dad.”
“He doesn’t even know what a T-Rex is,” Professor Brown said, then hesitated. “...does he?”
“I am unfamiliar with the name, at the very least.”
Sara sat up, smile growing. “A giant-ass lizard-”
“Bird.”
“A giant-ass bird that looks like a lizard,” she sarcastically corrected herself, “that’s like two stories tall, bipedal, and has a head the size of a wagon. It’s got six inch teeth, tiny little arms that are up like this-” she put her wrists over her breasts and flapped them in a useless, comical display, “-and it can run faster than a horse. Strongest bite force of, like, anything ever. Back where I’m from, it was the biggest predator that ever lived, but it died out sixty million years ago, so we only know it from bones we’ve dug up.”
Mui blinked. That was… a lot. He sorted through her description of the beast, deciding on what to say.
“I can’t say I’ve heard of such a thing,” he eventually said, “though it does not seem so outlandish. I’ve heard tales of far larger, far more terrifying jungle beasts. You said it has not existed in your world for sixty million years?”
“Sixty-five million, actually,” the Professor corrected.
“I would have said that it surely must live on somewhere, but after so long… How did the gods allow an entire variety of animal to die?” Mui asked, aghast. “Any time Imperial hunters have tried to exterminate jungle predators from a region, they have suddenly grown vicious and unnaturally intelligent, and the various beastial pantheons usually involve themselves soon thereafter, ending the culling effort.”
“No gods on our world, remember?” the Professor said. “Besides, what killed them off was pretty close to divine intervention, if there’s ever been any on Earth. A giant meteor- a rock from space- hit the planet, killing off ninety-five percent of all species basically overnight. If they didn’t die in the firestorm and earthquakes, they died because the ash blocked out the sun for thousands of years. That’s what got the T-Rexes.”
Mui shuddered. He could not imagine what horrific sins humanity had committed in so ancient a time to deserve such an apocalypse. At least demonic incursions and otherworldly monsters could be fought, the people suffering them given an opportunity to prove themselves worthy of the gods’ favor. A single, momentous shattering of the world? That must have been earned by truly abominable sins.
“Which is why I so want this to be a T-Rex footprint,” Sara said, slapping the mud next to the large footprint. “Our scientists were always debating about what they really looked like. I want to know so bad.”
“Even if it resembles a T-Rex,” the Professor warned his daughter, “there’s no guarantee that it’s actually the same species. I mean, I guess some god or another could have just made a carbon copy of them, but that seems pretty unlikely. Real T-Rexes didn’t even live in the jungle. They were plains and forest predators. So this version could be evolved into a totally different ecological niche by now.”
“Do you really have to be so boring about everything, Dad?”
Mui stepped away from the conversation as father and daughter began to bicker good-naturedly, their barbs always traded behind a bitten-back laugh. It seemed they both wanted this footprint to truly be from one of their mythical beasts, and it was only Professor Brown’s desire to avoid his daughter’s disappointment that compelled him to disagree.
Mui turned his attention to Evie, instead, glancing over her shoulder.
She had a notebook spread on her lap, one of her wondrous fountain pens gripped tightly between her thumb and forefinger. The page was covered in dozens of half-started renditions of the beast’s footprint, each abandoned when some errant twitch sent her pen astray. In most of the abandoned copies, Mui could hardly see much of a flaw, but she had scratched them out in a fit of anger nonetheless.
“You could ask the Imperial scouts to record this mark for you,” Mui suggested. “They are accomplished sketch artists.”
“That is not the point,” Evie tersely replied.
“Ah.” Mui did not know what the point was, then. “Have you asked any of the scouts if they recognize the description of the beast your wife seeks? They would know more than I.”
“I’m sure she will at some point.”
Mui nodded, waiting for more to be said. When nothing was forthcoming, he awkwardly retreated, leaving Evie to her work.
Seeing as the entire army was waiting for the scouts to return, Mui wandered over to Hurlish, who was idly bouncing her child on her hip as she discussed matters with General Borek. Her four guards, as always, stood equidistant around her, facing outward with empty eyes.
This conversation, even more than the last, was not one Mui could contribute to. Hurlish was discussing weights and figures of various varieties of cannon with the General, who was frequently turning to the army’s Beastmaster for advice. Hurlish was keenly interested in finding pack animals of some sort to draw her cannons, giving the Powdered Lead soldiers a much-needed rest, but she didn’t seem to be having much success. It was a known fact throughout the Empire that humans were perhaps the ideal size of creature to travel safely through the jungle. Smaller animals were targets of predation from all sorts of myriad predators, while larger creatures only served to breach the threshold that would attract a true beast’s attention. Only a Warrior’s krapeu was expected to travel unmolested, as they were known by the monsters of the jungle as capable of defending themselves, but they were wildly unsuited to being hitched to a cart or wagon.
Hurlish was not abandoning the point, however. She seemed insistent that the few beasts of burden the Empire used in the cities, those that hauled heavy goods through the street, would be worth taking along in the army. As she went back and forth on the topic, increasingly addressing herself directly to the army’s Beastmaster rather than General Borek, Mui gleaned the impression that this was an oft-held argument. It did not seem to be one that would be reaching its conclusion any time soon, either.
Just as Mui began to leave, knowing there was nothing for him to add, he was startled by the sudden pivoting of Hurlish’s guards. All four snapped around, facing towards the head of the column, limbs shifting beneath their green robes.
General Borek reached up and put a hand on his glaive, peering in the direction the guards had been looking, a motion which sent nearly everyone scrambling for a weapon. Only Hurlish, ironically, seemed unconcerned, at least beyond a flicker of irritation as the Beastmaster began to ignore her.
Mui spotted what the guards had after several long, tense seconds: twin dots in the sky, returning with haste. They grew more detailed with each passing moment, from indistinct blobs to winged blurs, either griffon pumping its wings hard.
“Ah, finally,” General Borek said, moving forward through the crowd of his clingers-on. He moved toward the front of the column, where an open space had been provided for the griffons to land.
Mui felt his gut twist as the creatures drew closer. The left griffon had begun to jerk erratically in the sky, its wings frozen for brief moments as it tried to glide instead of flap, despite the fact that this was causing it to drop behind and below its fellow. The other griffon, perhaps even more concerningly, did not wait for its partner. It flew on without glancing back, straining with every wingbeat to reach the army.
By the time the first griffon arrived, a small semicircle of the army’s upper echelons had assembled. The griffon tucked itself into a steep dive and came crashing to the ground at a reckless pace, the earth jumping beneath Mui’s feet as it impacted the dirt.
The riders of flying beasts were a rare sort of soldier, and that provided them a leeway in the address of their superiors. Those capable of earning a griffon’s respect were too rare to be replaced, and they were well aware of that. It gave them an informal privilege that they now flagrantly abused. The creature’s two riders slipped from the saddle without a word to General Borek, one hurrying around to the griffon’s head, which was drooping low, its eyes lidded, the other barking out orders to the gathered soldiers.
“Get me a cask of water, a fresh one, and herbs for skywreathe lung! Bring the surgeons up immediately, and have them ready to treat Tas’van! She has a deep laceration at the base of her left wing, and she got a worse dose of skywreathe than Shimmer did! Go!”
A half-dozen soldiers sprinted away, including the Beastmaster himself. The griffon rider who had given the order joined her companion at the creature’s head, tearing her shirt off without the slightest thought for her audience. She wadded it up and began dabbing at the edge of the griffon’s mouth, where bloody foam was beginning to pool. The creature’s breath was incredibly labored.
“Report!” General Borek barked, striding forward. “Were you attacked?”
“In a minute, General,” the first rider said, ducking under his animal’s neck to bury his hands amongst its feathers, pressing his palms against the skin as if searching for something.
General Borek scoffed, but did not push the point. A griffon rider was likely the only one in the army save Sara and her wives who could so plainly dismiss him.
A minute later, just as the first round of supplies were beginning to arrive, the second griffon- Tas’van, apparently- arrived. Unlike the first beast, Tas’van did not scream to the ground in a blur of feathered muscle. The animal approached in a shallow dive, its trembling wings extended as far as it could reach. Even from hundreds of feet away, Mui could see drops of blood falling from its wing, holding their form for a brief moment before the wind shattered them into a red mist. Its legs hung limply beneath its body, head lolling from side to side as it drifted almost aimlessly downward.
“Back!” One of the griffon riders roared. “Back, back, clear the way! It’s going to be a bad landing!”
Mui joined the others in a mad scramble to the sides of the trail, pressing himself up against the tangled jungle.
As soon as it was aligned with the direction of the road, the griffon’s wings gave out, snapping upward. There was a scream of dismay from someone, maybe from the griffon’s riders, maybe from one of the audience, and then the beast hit the ground.
The two riders leapt free as their animal tried to dig its claws into the road, an effort which only served to flip it onto its side, causing the poor animal to roll several times, feathers tearing loose as it tumbled down the road.
In the end, it came to a stop more than a hundred yards away from the head of the column. Mui stepped away from the jungle wall, moving back to the middle of the road only to be bodily shoved aside, an Imperial and Tulian surgeon both sprinting past him as they dashed toward the fallen animal.
“Scout, report!” General Borek barked, stepping up to the first set of griffon riders.
“I said in a minute, General!” The man snapped, grabbing a bundle of wrapped herbs from a runner.
“That is an order, Scout Tilsa!” General Borek grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him away from his griffon. “One question, then you may tend to your beast! You have clearly been attacked. Is this army in danger from enemy scouts?”
The flash of rage that had spread across the scout’s face at being hauled away from his animal was replaced, for a very brief moment, by a tired, prideful grin.
“No, General. We won the fight. They’re dead.”
General Borek dropped the man, speaking a single word. “Good.” He stalked away, one hand reaching up to pinch and twirl his cheek fur.
Unlike the general, Sara seemed more than happy to wait for the scouts to finish tending to their animal. Mui sidled back over to her, hoping to avoid General Borek’s pacing anger by attaching himself to her person. She and her wives were discussing the worse-wounded griffon’s injuries in quiet murmurs, sounding shockingly concerned for its wellbeing. The northerners, Mui had learned, held a sense of awe for the flying beasts, a wonder for the abilities which most Imperials took for granted.
Notes:
Here's a full length chapter, in spite of the fact that I caught Covid for the very first time the Sunday I started writing it. I had an awful fever, and I spent the entire week home from work, but I was fortunate enough to have gotten a lot of writing done the Saturday before, and then to feel well enough to spend the day of the Patreon update writing a whole lot. This is a rather abrupt end to the chapter, unfortunately, but it's almost 10,000 words, so I think you'll be happy with what I can give you. Next week's update will pick up directly where this one left off.
Chapter 138: B3 Ch25: Point of No Return
Notes:
This update spends a brief bit of time completing the previous chapter, then moves on to the full chapter 25.
Chapter Text
It took a considerable time before the scouts were happy with the treatment of their griffons. Even as the Beastmaster’s attendants crowded around each animal, every one of them an expert healer in their own right, the scouts nervously prodded about, circling like nervous mother hens. Any time a space opened up near the griffon’s head, one of them would fill it in an instant, stroking the animal’s cheek and whispering into its flicking ears. It was only after an hour of treatment that the first team of scouts finally agreed to be pulled away from their animal, though even as they prepared to give their report to General Borek, their eyes kept drifting towards the second, more gravely injured beast.
“If you encountered skywreathe,” the General began, “the enemy must be preparing considerable defenses. What progress have they made?”
The scout saluted smartly, looking tired as all the hells. Tilsa was an older human who seemed to have aged hard, his years in the sky leaving his skin dry and leathery. Despite that, he still held the energetic bounce to his motions which Mui had always associated with griffon riders. They all looked like they thought every moment not spent on the backs of their beasts was time wasted.
“Four griffon paddocks,” he said, beginning with what he knew best. “Though only two flew up to attack us. Not sure if the others were out flying, or if they’re building the paddocks ahead of the arrival of more griffons, but either way, I’m glad they weren’t there. They were good fliers, sir. Nearly got the better of us.”
“Did your opponents survive?”
“Maybe, sir,” Tilsa said hesitantly. “We got ‘em pretty good. They got us pretty good, too. We lived. Don’t see why they couldn’t.”
“Mm,” General Borek grunted noncommittally. “What of the defenses on the ground? The mines?”
“They’re working hard on them, sir,” Tilsa paused to take a sip from his canteen. It seemed his exhaustion was finally catching up with him. “They’ve got wooden palisades, a basic trench, and a good few buildings up. The clearing’s about a mile across, I’d say. Can’t be sure how many of the buildings we saw were barracks, but we saw plenty of soldiers lining the walls. I wager they’ve got eight, maybe ten thousand people in the camp. Don’t know how many of those are soldiers, though.”
“Can you provide details on the condition of the troops you saw?”
“Didn’t get too good a look. We got jumped fast. If I had to bet, though, I’d say most of ‘em know their way around with a spear. Most of the folk we saw had a soldier’s build. I’m betting they’re using the garrison as a labor force, trying to jumpstart the mine’s production.”
General Borek grunted, thinking. He stared away into space for a time, leaving the small circle of officers and advisors in silence, then refocused on the scout.
“These palisades? They were formidable?”
“Solid ring all the way around the camp, sir.”
“Would it have any enchantments?” Sara asked.
Tilsa and General Borek both turned to look at her, surprised. Their shock was a testament to Sara’s efforts to downplay her status as a Chosen. It was certainly expected for an agent of the Divine to join this conversation, but not a mercenary. Even dogmatic General Borek had been taken a touch off guard.
“I would not expect them to be enchanted, no,” General Borek said. “Such efforts would be wasted on wood.”
“Then you can forget about the palisade,” Sara said. “It won’t last two minutes under cannonfire. Plan like it isn’t there.”
“...if you say so,” General Borek said.
Sara chuckled lightly, and even Evie smirked. “Trust me,” Sara said, “the cannons will take care of it. In fact, if they don’t have any combat mages, I’m pretty sure we could beat the entire group into surrender with cannons alone. That wouldn’t get your troops much experience with their guns, though.”
“I anticipate that they will have mages of some description,” General Borek said. “Perhaps not veteran combat mages, but at least mages who are present to aid the construction of the mines. They will doubtlessly try to counter your artillery in whatever manner they are capable of.”
“Yeah, well, they can try. Ten 12-pounders aren’t something anything can stand up to for long. Anyway, go ahead and continue,” Sara said, waving General Borek on. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The General nodded politely, returning to his interrogation of the scouts. What remained to be said was mostly minutia, but as Mui had learned from his military career, the smallest details were often the most crucial.
When the General had received the scout’s full report, in addition to a rough sketch of the enemy encampment, it was nearing the final hours of daylight. He ordered the army to begin preparing to camp, with plans to begin marching for an assault at first light. The General and his advisors, including Sara and Evie, joined the other officers. Mui did not; he’d once intended to volunteer for command of a small squadron in the battles, but he no longer expected to be granted the privilege. He was too important to Tulian and the Empire, now.
As Mui began setting up his tent for the evening, he could not shake a sense of nervousness. It was a strange skirmish that they were preparing for tomorrow, with far too many unknown factors. How many soldiers would the enemy have? How experienced would they be? How comprehensive were their defenses, and how would they fare against the Empire’s first attempts at using firearms? He was confident they would win the day, at the very least. With fifteen thousand troops, they outnumbered even the largest estimate of enemy strength by a third.
Still, there were shifting, uncertain concerns nagging at his mind. It was a common enough thing to feel before battle. This particular night, he felt it more sharply than he did most.
“Mui,” Evie said.
He looked up sharply. Sara’s wife was standing next to his half-erected tent, hands on her hips.
“You were missed at the command staff meeting.”
“I was?” He asked, standing uncertainly. “I am not a sergeant any longer. Even if I was, I wouldn’t be privy to such an important meeting.”
“Then I am offering you a single-day commission as an officer of the Powdered Lead. I want you on the battlefield tomorrow.”
It is amazing how someone so small can look so intimidating, Mui privately remarked. Even after months of knowing the woman personally, even after seeing all she did with her wife, Evie unnerved him in a way no Warrior ever had.
“What are you asking of me?” He asked cautiously. “I have never used firearms in battle. Any of your own veterans would make a better officer than I.”
“You are from the Empire,” she said, turning away from him as she summoned her rapier. She began to work through a series of practice drills as she spoke. “And more importantly, you have been in true battles before. My wife… has not.”
Oh?
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said honestly. “I have heard countless stories of the war between Tulian and Sporatos. She was not just your army’s lone commander, but its most important combatant.”
“Yes.” Evie’s rapier blurred through the air, a silver line that moved too fast for him to track. “But she was the commander of an army which was trained from the ground up for the kind of war she envisioned. She did not…” Evie’s rapier slowed, her lips pursing. Criticizing her wife did not come naturally to her. “She has only an academic appreciation for the brutality that can follow a battle. There will be civilians in the enemy camp, Mui. Do you think the Imperial forces will treat them with respect and honor?”
“No.”
“Sara thinks they will. General Borek has made assurances.”
Mui licked his lips, tongue running over his fur. “Ah. That is…” He could not bring himself to say naive, but he let the unspoken word hang. “What would you have me do?”
“Join the Imperial troops as they enter the camp. Exercise what authority you have, real or imagined, and try to keep the slaughter to a minimum. This is a volatile situation, Mui. Sara’s reaction to pillaging will be violent. Looting she may overlook, but murder? Rape? She will order the Powdered Lead to defend the civilians with their lives.”
“She would order her mercenaries to fight against their own employer?”
“If it is to defend the innocent, she would wade her way into battle without a single soul standing beside her. It is one reason among many that I love her, and it is a tendency I have desperately tried to curb.” Evie’s scowl deepened briefly. “I have failed, of course. It is my hope that you can help avoid this eventuality.”
“I have no official authority,” Mui reminded her, a tinge of desperation entering his voice. This was not something he was prepared for. “My title is very nearly fictional, and it affords me no more rank than my original promotion to sergeant. I do not have the true right to command even a single recruit, as they are not a member of my squadron.”
“You are the Chosen’s liaison,” Evie said, flicking her way through a final rapier drill, one which ended with her disemboweling her imaginary opponent. “If nothing else, an order from you will be backed, however indirectly, by the threat of Divine intervention.”
“General Borek will not allow me to be in danger,” Mui said, trying a different tack. “He believes that Sara’s fondness for me is responsible for a considerable portion of her attitude towards the Empire. We both know she is far more independent in her thoughts than that, but it is what he believes. To him, I am too important to risk.”
“You will go in with the troops once the fighting is finished.” Evie dismissed her rapier, which disappeared with a flash. She looked him squarely in the eyes. “I am not asking you to prevent them from killing in the heat of battle. Only to help cool their blood once they have their enemies at their mercy.”
Mui swallowed. “You are not going to accept another answer, are you?”
“I would,” Evie stated frankly, surprising him. “You are no Warrior, nor Irregular, and certainly no Knight, thank the gods, but you are a clever man. One does not join an army at sixteen and live to become a sergeant without being aware of their limits. If you believe you’re incapable of it, I will take matters into my own hands.” Evie’s lips turned down. “I suspect that I… lack the empathy to match your efforts.”
Mui turned to his left and right, looking to see if there was anyone present. He wondered if Sara was hidden behind an illusory face, or if, for some unfathomable reason, General Borek had put Evie up to this.
He dropped the idea almost as soon as it came to him. This was a straightforward, direct request, despite its inordinate difficulty. The only person who would benefit from it was Sara and the Powdered Lead, and so long as the Empire’s fate was tied to them, it was to the benefit of Mui’s people, too.
“I can try,” he said, a storm of anxiety bubbling in his gut the moment the words left his mouth. “Will you provide me a squad? Some symbol of authority to lean upon when I enter the camp?”
Evie did not quite smile, but the thin line her lips had been pressed into loosened just a touch.
“I will place you with a squad of Powdered Lead riflemen. They are a reserve, and will only see battle if the enemy proves remarkably resilient. Should they be called upon to engage, you will not engage with them. Their orders will be simple: once the enemy fortifications are breached and the battle is nearing its close, they should consider themselves under your temporary authority.”
“And they’ll respect my orders?” Mui knew it was rude to ask the question, but he wanted his circumstances to be clear.
“So long as you don’t order them to act against their fellow Tulians, yes.” Evie considered something a moment, then let out one of her rare, indelicate snorts of half-laughter. “Truthfully, you may struggle to corral them as much as you will the Imperials. The sort who volunteered to fight with the Powdered Lead in order to win a foreign people their freedom have proven to be a… zealous group. I wouldn’t recommend giving them the order to load their rifles unless it becomes inevitable. When it comes to enforcing Sara’s ideals, there has been an increasingly common epidemic among the Powdered Lead: that of an ‘itchy trigger finger.’ Seeing their ‘allies’ abusing civilians would exacerbate that condition. It would be best if you don’t allow them to soothe the itch before it is necessary.”
“Wonderful,” he said, breathing the word like a curse.
Evie offered a sympathetic smile. “If the task were easy, I would offload it to someone I trusted less.” After a short beat, Evie seemed to realize what she had said. She sliced a hand through the air, cutting off his reply before it started. “You do not have my confidence, Mui Thom. Make no mistake of that. But you have managed to earn my wife’s trust. I am curious to see what you do with it.”
Before he could say another word, Evie turned on a heel, retreating into the dark. With her goal accomplished, their conversation was over.
Mui settled down next to his tent, piecing together the small shelter far slower than he had been before. He was not Sara. He did not have the Divine guiding him, and his nebulous worries were not akin to prophecy.
He just wished he could convince himself he was wrong.
------------------------------------
A Young Boy Named Pen
------------------------------------
It started with a scream. Not some spectacular, honorable call to battle. Pen’s first battle didn’t have any of those.
No, the scream that started it was small. Awkward. Startled. It had a higher pitch than it usually did, and it cracked when it reached its peak, dissolving into a panicked blubbering shortly thereafter. It was the scream of a sentry up in one of the towers as they spotted an army coming down the road, confirming every worst fear they’d had since the griffons hadn’t come back the day before.
The enemy was coming.
And they had guns.
Pen leapt out of his bunk, one of a hundred scrambling for his gear. They’d only slept a few hours, since they’d been stuck on the night shift for god’s-knew how long. Unfortunately, when the alarm bell was rung, it didn’t matter how tired they were. He slapped his boots on, tugged his breastplate over his head, reached for his greaves, and began tying the leather straps with the fanaticism of a man twice his age and thrice his experience.
Pen didn’t have to be a veteran to know that every moment counted.
He wasn’t the first to dash out of the barracks, nor close to it, but he was far from the last, and that mattered to him. He threw his arm up against the sudden sunlight, a searing early-morning torture which he hadn’t suffered in weeks, then began to stumble forward with the rest, following their shadowed backs as they made their way to the ramparts.
The mining camp was a mess. Cutting down the forest had produced far more logs than they could use in building, and now they were piled in high stacks all across the boot-stomped mud, pits of skywreathe being lit between them. Pen’s wooden barracks were one of several that the garrison soldiers used as long, undivided tenements, while the camp’s workers had been stored in similar, if slightly smaller and more numerous, accommodations nearby. They were primitive things, their windows nothing more than glassless shutters, and one could track the paths of workers by how deep the ruts in the mud had been worn between buildings. The center of the camp, where an open pit was slowly being dug away, was currently an ant’s nest of activity. Civilian workers were scrambling every which way, looking for cover, trying not to get trampled by the lines of soldiers bullrushing towards the palisade walls.
“Wasn’t supposed to happen yet, was it?” Someone asked him. He turned to his right to find Jonay, who’d been in the same garrison as him for the last two years. Their parents had been friends before either of them were born, and they’d stayed close since joining the garrison, even if living in the city had changed how much time they spent together. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Jonay had shared a drink.
“How am I supposed to know?” Pen huffed as the column of running troops slammed to an abrupt halt. He rested his hands on his knees as the column began to wind its way up the palisade steps, funneled onto the narrow catwalk. “There’s no way any of us could know.”
“You got better ears than me,” Jonay said. “And you sleep closer to the sarge. Come on, you bug everyone about everything, and you’re telling me you didn’t hear him talking about what happened to the griffons last night?”
Pen scowled at his friend. “How would hearing about it last night change anythi–”
Jonay disappeared in a spray of blood and wood, his body torn away like a toddler throwing their doll in a fit of temper. He had taken everyone to his left with him, as well as the people to the right, filling the air with smoke and blood.
An entire column of soldiers, maybe a dozen of them, were laid out on the ground before Pen. Some had holes the size of their own heads in their chests, others had entire arms missing, others still had been decapitated from the clavicle upward. Some had been wearing armor, some not, but the wounds didn’t seem to distinguish. He saw two men who had lost their legs below the knees. They were sitting on the ground, staring blankly at the space where there should have been flesh. One turned around and began to pat the ground, looking for his lost limb, asking his companion for help in the most dreadfully calm of tones.
The other man buried his face in his hands and began to sob.
Late, far, far too late, Pen threw himself away with a scream. He landed hard on his rear and began to scramble backward, nails clawing in the mud, feet kicking dirt as he stared, stared, stared at a dozen dead men and women.
“Get up!” A voice roared behind Pen. He felt something hard slam into his spine, hard enough that he cried out, thinking he was dead, only for a hand to grip him by the collar of the armor and drag him up, spinning him around.
“Get to your fucking position!” Sergeant Bek roared, pointing his officer’s sword at the wall. “If you don’t get a bow in your hands in the next ten fucking seconds, that cannonball will be the last thing you ever goddamn saw!”
Cannonball? Pen thought, his mind a scattered mess in ways that his body wasn’t. Even as he reacted to the Sarge’s words, even as his training took control of his limbs to drive him sprinting forward in search of a loose bow and quiver of arrows, he kept thinking. Cannonball? Cannonball? Cannonballs? It’s cannons? They have them?
The traitor armies couldn’t have cannons yet. They couldn’t. Pen had been told about them, when the Visya had sent him and the rest of the garrison to this camp, when the Warriors and Lords had told them all about how powerful the things were and the good they would be doing for the Adjutant, because this camp would be helping build them, and that they should be honored for the chance to serve in such a wonderful way. He’d even been promised that the enemy wouldn’t have them. That the enemy was slow, weak, and stupid, too stupid to make cannons like they would, and that thanks to Pen and the others, the war was already won save for the fighting.
The only one who has cannons, Pen thought as he ripped a shortbow out of a bleeding woman’s unmoving palms, is the Chosen and her armies. But they can’t be here. The Chosen is as Divine as the Adjutant, or maybe even the Emperor himself! She wouldn’t fight us.
It was what the priests had told him. It was what they’d told everyone, and everyone had agreed. There would be no fighting the Chosen, because she was an agent of the Many Gods, just as the Adjutant was the True Will of the Emperor. The gods may use lesser men as tools and pawns, but not the Emperor, who was their Most Honored.
Jonay’s dead.
“Twenty-Second squadron, over here!” Sergeant Bek screamed, waving his sword high over his head before turning around and grabbing a crate of supplies as tall as he was, dragging it out of the shade. He grabbed another one and, with one great smash from his blocky hammer first, broke it open. The old Sergeant roared as he did it, but he did it, and at that moment Pen finally believed the man who’d so often told them he was the strongest person they’d ever met. The sarge ignored his bloodied hand as he tossed one half of the crate on top of the first, shoving the other in front of it. He piled a few extra smaller, random crates next to what he’d already created, then stepped away, waving them onward.
He’d made a staircase up to the palisade wall. The closest stairs had been shot away, Pen realized. When Jonay had been killed.
Jonay’s dead.
Pen dashed for the crates with the rest of his squadron, still trying to toss his quiver over his back as he ran. His left arm wasn’t quite bending like he thought it should, and when he looked down at it, he realized there was a splinter of wood as long as his spread fingers sticking down from his shoulder. Against all odds, it had slipped beneath his pauldron and shirt both, piercing nothing but skin and muscle until it had finally been stopped by bone.
Why can’t I feel that?
“Up, boy, up!” Sergeant Bek shouted, hauling him bodily up the first ‘step’ like he was a ragdoll, before grabbing the next person in line. “Come on, come on, you’re too young to be dying without some traitors notched on your belt! Get up there, go!”
Pen had to leap to get himself up the half-broken crate, then leap again to reach the palisade catwalk, but he managed it. Checking his hands, he realized hadn’t even dropped the bow or its quiver full of arrows. He could even feel his spear still rattling on his back. He’d made it, just like he was supposed to.
“Outta the way!” A voice cried behind him. He was blocking the path. He scurried forward, prodded faster by every shouted curse, until suddenly he found himself slamming up against a blank space of wood at the edge of the palisade, where the carpenters had carved the logs into intimidating spikes.
He was breathing impossibly hard, harder than he had in all his life. It felt like his lungs had burst through his ribs and were thumping against his breastplate, like the metal chestpiece was the only thing keeping his body from falling apart in a spray of gore.
Jonay is dead.
Pen looked down the palisade wall. He knew it well; he’d help build it. They’d done it in a matter of days, they had, built the entire sprawling, twisting thing out of nothing but the trees they’d chopped down to give themselves the space for it. It rose with the hills here, dipped with the valleys there, and twisted back and forth all the way across its length. It was a good, solid construction, and it had turned this mine into a fort. When the workers finally started cutting out proper stones, he’d been told, they’d use them to make a proper wall right in front of it, maybe building the start of a new city. He’d been proud of that, proud enough that he’d not even hated getting the duty of digging out the rises to fill in the ditches, which everyone else despised.
Now all that work was crowded by soldiers. Men and women of the garrison force, most of whom Pen knew by face, if not name, were crouched against the top of its walls just like he was. They all had equipment like him, a bow, quiver, and a spear, but none of them were standing up. None of them even had an arrow knocked to the string.
“Hey,” Pen said, reaching out to tap the fellow next to him. “Hey!” He shouted, when the man didn’t respond further, not beyond turning to stare at him, confused and irritated. “Hey,” Pen repeated, “Aren’t you Little Bek?”
“Fuck off,” the man hissed.
“You are!” Pen laughed, a mad sound that drew him several glances. He couldn’t blame them; it surprised even him. He’d just been taken off guard by finding himself crouched next to Little Bek, the man everyone said looked like a baby version of the Twenty-Second Squadron’s Sergeant. He’d transferred squadrons to avoid the nickname, which had sealed his fate surer than a headstone. “Bek,” Pen said, sobering himself, grabbing his shoulder more insistently, “why aren’t we shooting? Shouldn’t we be shooting? Why is everyone hiding?”
“Look for yer damn self!” Little Bek hissed, shaking Pen’s hand off him.
Still wrapped in the comforting coat of surrealist disbelief, Pen did just that. He poked his head up in the valleys between two logs, looking for the enemy.
The first time the great cannons had fired, Pen hadn’t heard it. Or maybe he had, but it wasn’t something he’d been able to pay attention to. It was too loud a sound, too unnatural, for his mind to accept as something that had actually happened. Maybe they’d even fired many times; he had no way of knowing. After he’d seen Jonay die, his head had been stuffed with cotton, leaving just enough room for the gears and cogs to send his legs the right orders for moving.
This time? When he poked his head up above the ramparts and found the field impossibly, cruelly empty? He heard the cannons fire.
His eyes snapped up to a cloud of white. Not where he’d expected it to be, where longbows and siege weapons would sit. Not at the edge of the jungle wall, the furthest point from the fort where an enemy army could have encamped within the clearing.
No, he found them way, way down the road, at the very first turn, which, he knew, was almost a full mile away.
The puffy smoke which had drawn his eyes was broken open an instant later by streaks of black, round spheres of iron spinning forward through the air, and another instant later by the thunderclap BOOM that reached the walls just before the deadly projectiles.
Two balls struck low, digging trenches fifty feet long in the mud before bouncing up and away, filling the air with a peculiar warbling noise. They recoiled into a useless arc that sent them tumbling far, far over the fort. A few other balls went high, zipping past with the sound of a whip cracking an inch from his ear, no doubt annihilating some unfortunate trees behind the fort.
The others struck their targets.
Fifty yards to his right, Pen watched an entire section of the wall snap. It was as if a giant had tied a chain around the base of the wall and given it a firm yank, tearing the logs out of the ground in one fell swoop. Screams and shrapnel filled the air as garrison soldiers fell, buried beneath the walls which had been built to protect them.
Jonay’s dead.
“What in the foulest of hells is going on here?!” Sergeant Bek screamed. Pen turned around just in time to get a faceful of the man’s forearm as he grabbed Pen by the throat, pulling him to eye level. “Did I order you to be a coward?!”
Pen shook his head viciously, suddenly more terrified by the red-faced, spitting fury of the grizzled old veteran than he was any cannonball.
“Then get on your godsdamn feet! And stay that way!”
Pen was dropped as haphazardly as he’d been grabbed, the world spinning as he took a gasp of air. He couldn’t feel the pain in his throat, just like he couldn't feel the pain in his shoulder, but he knew there’d be an awful bruise there soon.
The sarge went up and down the rows, screaming abuse at anyone and everyone he passed, physically hauling up those who refused to respond. Protests constantly followed in his wake, which he ignored at first, expecting them to follow orders. This lasted all the way until another crash of cannonballs hit a nearby portion of the wall, sending everyone ducking back into cover. Only then did Sergeant Bek whirl on those who’d hidden once more, his chest swelling as he took the deepest breath Pen had ever seen any man ever take.
“STAND UP!” He bellowed, spewing bloody spit across a dozen heads. “Stand up, you broke-dick, short-tusked, bastard sons of bastard daughters! You think those cannons give a single fuck how much wood you put between yourselves and them?! No!” He turned on a cowering woman and began to emphasize each worth every word with a swift-footed kick to her ribs. “Get! The! Fuck! Up!”
Slowly, reluctantly, driven by a combination of hard-drilled training and terror for the abuse they might suffer if they dare refused, the Twenty-Second Squadron began to stand. Pen went up with them, straightening his back, grabbing his bow tighter, only to realize that he couldn’t even remember if he’d been one of the ones who’d hidden the second time.
“They can’t take this fort from over there!” Sergeant Bek roared. He gathered himself, his shouts shifting from rage to something subtly different. Furious, but proud. “They’ll have to come and fight us! Even if they knock every wall down around our ears, they’ll have to come in and put their hands on us, and that’s what you’re trained for! That’s what I trained you for! And you’ll win! We’ll win! But only if when they march our way, you’re STANDING! How else are you going to use your bows, your spears, your own two fucking eyes?! Stand up and stay up, Twenty-Second!”
“Sir!” Pen shouted, his voice added to a chorus of others amongst the rattling clap of fists against chests, their salute ringing loud. It was far from the best they’d ever given, a performance that would have shamed them on the parade grounds, but in the face of those cannons roaring down on them, it was at least something.
The sarge began walking up and down the lines, head held high, his fists clasped behind his back like the spitting image of a noble Warrior. The minutes passed by to the tune of manmade thunderclaps, the blue sky filled with the sounds of a raging storm. Other sections of wall began to fall, but to Pen’s disbelieving relief, they fell less and less frequently. The cannons’ shots were being blocked by their own fog, and with the low wind and narrow road they were shooting from, they soon ended up as good as blind. The western road away from the fort now ended in a solid wall of white, from within which occasionally spewed balls of iron that missed more often than they struck.
Then, just like the sarge had said, the cannonfire stopped. From within the fog emerged the shining armor of the enemy, and they were already on the march.
“Here they come!” Sergeant Bek yelled, stuffed to the brim with enthusiasm. “Ready your bows!”
It wasn’t just the Twenty-Second Squadron that responded to the sarge’s cry. All across what remained of the wall, knuckles were tightening on wooden limbs. Pen checked his stolen bow’s string, tugging it back a few times to gauge its strength. It was a good bow, he decided. He felt bad for the woman he’d taken it from. He wondered if she’d live to be mad about it, or if she’d already died, or if she’d been dead when he’d taken it. He… hadn’t checked.
Jonay’s dead.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. They were supposed to join the garrison, get good pay, and stay out of trouble. Their parents had hated the idea, of course, but Pen and Jonay hadn’t seen the problem. The only way they’d be in danger, they’d argued, was if the city had come under attack. And if the city came under attack, well, they’d all be in danger anyway. Sieges weren’t a good thing for anyone. Pen had argued that if the war had come home, they’d be safer in the garrison than with their families, because they’d at least have been given some training with a spear and the right to carry it.
Now he was in the middle of the jungle, bow in hand, staring down an army. Jonay was dead. It had all gone to shit.
The enemy army reached the edge of the clearing, then began to break into pieces. The first group of soldiers turned right, hugging the jungle wall, then the next group broke left, spreading out as well. They were planning to encircle the entire fort, he realized. That hadn’t been a part of the plans. If the enemy tried that, Sergeant Bek had once told him, they were going to run out of the fort and smash the enemy to pieces, breaking each of their little piecemeal squads.
Can’t do that now, Pen thought, looking behind him. The cannons hadn’t destroyed the fort entirely, but they’d broken it. Every gate on the west side had been knocked down, turning any avenue of exit into a jumbled mess of shattered wood. Even if they’d had the numbers to charge out into the open, they wouldn’t have been able to coordinate it, not in time to catch the enemy by surprise.
“Hold steady, and be ready for their advance!” Sergeant Bek called, pacing behind the line of troops. “I’ve read the reports! Their hand-held cannons hit hard, but they can’t loose as fast as a bow! If you stick to your training, if you stand strong and don’t back down, we’ll win the day!”
Pen slipped an arrow from his quiver, resting it on the string. The enemy army continued to pour out of the road, splitting to either side like water spilled over a rock. They refused to get close enough to engage. Pen guessed they wanted to attack from every direction at once, but they could only do that if they had the numbers for it, and he couldn’t tell if they did. The river of steel pouring from the road seemed like the grandest thing he’d ever seen, but there had to be an end to it. The fort was large. Maybe they’d end up spreading themselves too thin? He could only hope.
As the enemy continued to emerge, Pen began to hear the snap of longbows. Craning his neck around, he spotted the garrison’s precious few Archer-Warriors lining the wall, their massive longbows drawn tight. Their arrows, thick as Pen’s wrist and as long as his arm, floated ponderously through the air, easy to track in flight. As they landed, each one speared straight through a traitorous soldiers’ breastplate.
Those shots could do next to nothing to the teeming horde of soldiers as a whole, but the effect they had was obvious. The soldiers began to crouch, trying to make themselves a smaller target, ignoring their marching orders to dodge left or right when they saw a shot incoming, and he even thought he saw many of the enemy’s commanders halting to take shelter behind a raised shield, assuming that they were the targets of the Warrior longbows. Pen didn’t know if the Archer-Warriors were truly skilled enough to pick their targets at such a range, but he was glad the enemy seemed to think so.
“They’re starting to run out of troops,” Sergeant Bek called, raising his sword. “Which means they’ll have to be charging up into range soon. They want to use their fancy toys, but they don’t damn well know they’re fighting the Twenty Second! Remember, find your aim point! Loose well, loose fast, and-”
Four men collapsed, Sergeant Bek among them. Pen grabbed the wall with both hands in a panic as, for a brief moment, Pen thought the floor was giving out beneath them all, some unseen damage completing its work with a series of rattling pops, but then he registered the hiss of something in the air around him. The sounds he was hearing weren’t the wall giving out, but instead the whisper-screech of something whipping by his head, each one accompanied by a thumping crack. More distantly, though growing louder every second, was the thump-thump-thump of gunshots.
“Down!” Someone cried. “They’re shooting at us!”
Pen dropped with the others, hiding behind the palisade. He pressed his cheek to the cool wood, trying to feel some illusion of safety from it, only to recoil in shock. He could feel the shots thumping into it, each one powerful enough to rattle a chunk of the wall. Dozens were striking every second. They were being fired from the furthest part of the clearing, almost a thousand feet away.
He turned to look at Sergeant Bek, wondering what the man would say to see them cowering.
The sarge’s face was opened up, a streak of blood that began as a thumbprint beneath his left brow, widening into a cavernous hole that had been torn from the back of his head. He was staring straight up, his glassy eyes reflecting nothing but the sky.
“We need to shoot!” Someone else shouted. Pen turned towards the voice just in time to watch Saveno jump up, string drawn to her cheek, only for the arrow to tumble from her fingers. She dropped the string a moment later and, without the arrow to absorb its energy, her bow snapped violently, cutting up one of her arms.
Saveno ignored this, reaching down to touch her breastplate. There was a hole in it, right over her sternum, and she put two fingers inside. When she lifted them away, they were wet with blood.
Saveno dropped, tumbling off the back of the palisade walkway. She didn’t make a noise as she struck the ground below.
There was a long silence among the Twenty-Second squadron. Pen traded glances with the others, whose faces were white with fear. Not everyone had the same story as him, of wanting a soldier’s paycheck without the danger, but most did. Their faces were white with fear, their eyes rolling like startled animals.
“Hey,” Pen said, trying to hide the tremble in his words.
One woman broke. She dropped her bow and scrambled for the makeshift stairs by dragging herself on her stomach, keeping herself as far below the parapet as possible while she fled.
“Hey!”
Another soldier followed after her. And then another, and another.
“Hey! No, no no-!”
Pen was knocked aside as Little Bek broke away, one sharp palm driving him to the ground. He cursed as he tried to get back to his feet, only to abandon the effort in favor of curling into a ball, trying to protect himself from being stampeded. He felt feet pummeling him on all sides, thoughtless hands grabbing him for leverage as the soldiers at the wall stumbled over one another, desperate to flee as quickly as possible. His ribs were stomped on, his head kicked, his arms battered and bruised, and he could do nothing to stop it, certain that his pleading screams couldn’t be heard over the panic and cracks of gunshots.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. Pen lifted his head, looking for the rest of the army.
Smoke had begun to rise over the fort, and not just from skywreathe. Fires were beginning to spread among the camp, and in far too many places for it to be the result of a single mistake. Some of the garrison squads were trying to fight the flames, running over with barrels of caught rainwater and working in teams to toss them on the largest of the blazes, but even Pen could see several buildings were already total losses. If any of those fires spread to the wall, there’d be nothing to stop the enemy guns from ripping them all apart. Even the fallen portions were, in their own lumpy way, providing some sort of cover. He didn’t want to know what the garrison would look like when they were hiding behind piles of ash.
Pen rose unsteadily to his feet, only to think better of it when he heard a bullet whip past his head. He ducked back down, behind the safety of the wall, then began to scurry forward on all fours.
His squadron wasn’t the only one that had abandoned the walls. Some had broken at the cannonfire, others at the gunshots, and a few had remained all the way until their comrade’s abandonment had rendered any further bravery pointless. He supposed Sergeant Bek could at least take some pride that the Twenty-Second hadn’t been the first to break.
Just as that thought passed his mind, Pen passed the man. Sergeant Bek was lying on the walkway all askew, limbs positioned exactly where they’d fallen. Flies were already buzzing around the wound in his head, nibbling at the pink flesh which had begun to ooze from it. Distantly, Pen felt a macabre sense of gratitude that he’d spent so long working around sulfur. It had robbed him of his sense of smell.
Reaching over, Pen knelt, shooing the flies away from Sergeant Bek’s face. Gently, reverently, and in full view of the rest of the camp, he shut the man’s eyes. He closed his own eyes as he did so, bending low to murmur a prayer.
And to hide his other hand sliding up the man’s hip, slipping his officer’s sword from its sheath.
Pen opened his eyes as he finished the prayer. He put his hands behind his back as he bowed respectfully. The same motion also served to tuck the sword into the back of his belt, securing it as best as he could.
That done, he crawl-ran over to the crates, then heaved himself over the edge, trying to keep his back to the camp. He didn’t know how many people were looking at him, but with half of a ten-thousand-strong camp running around in a panic, the other half standing in wide-eyed confusion, the odds were good that someone was glancing his way. He didn’t want them to know that he’d stolen the sergeant’s weapon, because he…
What? Pen asked himself, suddenly disgusted. You’re going to sell it? Which hell would you need to throw yourself into to find a buyer? You don’t know shit about selling swords. This is the first time you’ve even held one.
Pen landed on the ground with a grunt, reaching around to adjust the weapon, which had jostled loose. He cinched his belt in an extra notch, hoping it would help keep the sword from slicing up the back of his calves the next time he had to kneel, then looked around, wondering what the hell he was going to do next.
Run for the trees? No, they’ll gun you down. Hide in the mines? For how long? They’re here because they want the sulfur, and we haven’t dug shit. They’ll find you before morning.
With a start, Pen was torn from his thoughts by the realization he’d become nothing more than another one of the gawking onlookers. How many of the milling crowd were thinking similar thoughts to him, wondering how they were going to escape this battle with their lives?
Jonay’s dead. The thought rang in his head for the thousandth time. He tried to force it away, but for the first time since his friend’s death, there was nothing to turn his attention to.
Come on, you bug everyone about everything, Jonay’s voice echoed. You’re telling me you didn’t hear?
He hadn’t been lying when he told Pen that he hadn’t heard anything about this army approaching. But he had heard things. Interesting, exciting things, the sort of story he struggled to keep quiet. He chose the bunk near the sergeant to overhear things just like it, and a few days ago, he’d not been left disappointed.
Pen reached behind his back, wrapping his fist around his stolen sword. Sergeant Bek had been a good sarge. A good man. Ten years past the age when he could have retired and become a fat, happy pensioner, he’d chosen to stick with the garrison. Pen had heard Bek when he was drunk. The thought of sending kids like Pen off to war, of slapping a spear in their hand and waving them on their way, it had disgusted him. He’d stayed with the garrison so he could train up the troops as best he could, giving them the best chance they could ask for when the war showed up on their doorstep. The Twenty-Second had been the only squad in the garrison to drill more than was required of them, and they’d been proud of that.
Pen turned to the walls, peering through the many gaps to the army beyond. Without targets on the wall, the gunfire had slowed to a trickle. He could see a new group of uniforms filtering through the rest. Shining breastplates, open-faced helms, and a gauntlet only on one hand. Their muskets were different from the rest of the army’s, and they marched without concern for their fellow soldier’s formations.
Mercenaries.
Pen wondered where this army would go next. He wondered where those cannons would be pointed after today, who those guns would strike down. He wondered if they would choose the simple path. If they’d march down on the home of his father and mother, of Jonay’s family. He couldn’t see why they wouldn’t. It was the closest city, after all.
Almost without realizing it, Pen’s hand dragged the sword from his belt, twirling it in a spin he’d so many officers do before. They did it to get a feel for the balance, he thought, but it wasn’t like he knew what an unbalanced sword felt like. It just felt right to do. He began stalking across the muddy fort, shoving people out of his way, and openly laughed at himself as he went. Nobody gave a rat’s ass that he was holding an officer’s sword. Why would they have?
“Twenty-Second!” He called, stomping up to his squad. “Twenty-Second!” He yelled again, his voice cracking something fierce, which he didn’t concern himself with. He’d lied to get in the garrison, and everyone knew it. He and Jonay hadn’t wanted to wait until they were sixteen.
A few of his squadmates looked his way. Of the original twenty, there were twelve left. The others had either been shot on the walls or fled, probably bashing open locks in the barracks to grab as much as they could before the fort was overrun. He couldn’t blame them. Bribing the enemy with a cache of hidden goods was one of the many ways to avoid getting brutalized after a battle.
“The fuck?” Kiv asked, eyes narrowing. “You steal Bek’s sword, you shit?”
He used the sword to point towards the mine. “I did. There’s guns in there.”
He had everyone’s attention now. The remnants of the Twenty-Second turned to him, eyes wide.
“I heard it two nights ago,” Pen said. “Colonel Maboran was telling the sarge about it. They shipped in some powder and guns. Not many, but a few. We were going to start training on them once they had enough. It was supposed to be easier to train us, since we’re right at the sulfur. They were gonna mix the powder here, too.”
“How many’s not many?” Jahn demanded. “A hundred? Ten?”
“Don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s more than we have now.”
“The hell it doesn’t matter,” Kiv spat. “Five guns won’t do shit.”
“They’ll kill five traitors. That’s more than we’ve managed so far.”
In the midst of the chaos, twelve soldiers shifted their weight from foot to foot, looking uncertain.
“How many notches have you got on your belt?” Pen asked. “I don’t have any, but I want some. The sarge died calling us cowards for standing up. I don’t know how long it’ll take for his soul to pass, but if I know the sarge, he’s fighting it every step of the way. Probably watching us right now, screaming his head off.”
He could see the squad wavering. They were thinking of Sergeant Bek, who they’d all hated in the strange, loving way only soldiers with a hardass officer knew. Even with his corpse rotting on the wall, it still felt like the man would leap up and start berating them any minute now.
“I’m going to go see how many guns we have,” Pen declared, gesturing toward the mine. “If you want to piss off the sarge’s ghost by showing him we never needed all those drills, come with me.”
Pen started walking towards the mine, his heart thundering. He resisted the urge to turn around and look to see how many had followed after him. He’d already decided he was dead, so it shouldn’t matter. All that mattered was putting a piece of lead in someone’s head.
Pen’s boots dug tracks in the mud as he started down the slope to the mine, hopping down the switchback path like each turn was one big step. Colonel Maboran had told the sarge that the guns were being stored beneath the foreman’s office, because he’d been the only civilian in the camp with guards. It was safe, but not somewhere a soldier would look.
When he reached the log cabin and put a hand on the door, Pen finally allowed himself to glance back, as if he was looking to see who he should hold the door open.
Twelve soldiers had followed him. To his surprise, he realized that Little Bek was among their number. Kiv had left, only to be replaced by the only man who’d abandoned the squad since Pen had joined up. He must have overheard the speech. Gods knew why he’d decided to come with them, minutes after he’d literally trampled Pen, but he was glad to have him.
He threw open the door and stomped inside, listening with half an ear to the startled shouts of the foreman. It was as nice of an office as he’d heard, with glass windows, a finely engraved desk, and plush furniture in each corner. The tools of a miner were scattered strategically around the room as decorations, their disuse revealed by a thin coating of dust. The foreman himself was still behind his desk, shoving papers into a sack.
“Good gods-!” The foreman cried, leaping up. “What are you doing here?! My personal guard was already confiscated, and now you have the gall to waste your time here? You should be defending the walls, not-”
Pen grabbed a miner’s lantern off the man’s desk, twisted it until a click lit the flame within.
With all his strength, he hurled it against the wall.
A woosh filled the room as oil sprayed across the expensive wooden paneling, engulfing it in flames. Drops of liquid fire splattered across the room, lighting the ceiling and furniture alight.
“My god!” The foreman gasped, shoving himself away from his desk. “What have you done? You- you’re traitors! You must have led the enemy here!”
The foreman tried to dash out of the room, but he was an old man. Pen snagged his arm easily, dragging him to a stop.
“I’ve heard,” Pen said, attempting his best rendition of a threatening growl, “that black powder doesn’t play well with fire. Not at all.” He squeezed the man’s arm. “I’m not leaving until we have those guns. Neither are you.”
The foreman’s eyes glanced up and over Pen’s shoulder, flames dancing in the iris of his eye.
“You’ll kill us all,” he whispered.
“Better than getting beaten to death as a slave.”
“The next room!” The foreman cried, raising one withered arm to point at the door behind his desk. “There’s a trap door under the rug. The powder is in there too, I swear it!”
“Who brought them? Who knows how to use them?”
“No one!” The foreman twisted his arm, failing to escape Pen’s grasp. “The caravan didn’t even know what they were carrying! I t-think they were delivered with instructions, but I don’t know! I haven’t looked since Colonel Maboran stuffed it all in there!”
Pen looked back at the squad who had followed him in, swallowing his indecision. Had to look confident.
“Do any of you know how to read?”
After a few muttered negatives, Jahn spoke up tentatively.
“I know my letters well enough. I can sound it out.”
Profoundly relieved he wouldn’t have to force the foreman to read them the papers at knifepoint, Pen dropped his arm. The old man bolted as quick as he was able, pausing only to snatch up the bag full of whatever he’d decided was important enough to salvage.
Pen coughed as the man left, pulling a cloud of oily smoke through the door with him. He crouched to get under the inky smog, hurrying over to the door the foreman had pointed at and flinging it open.
It was a bedroom. One that, at least to Pen’s peasant eye, looked like a nobleman’s room. A tall bed was draped in silken bug netting, sitting underneath a tinted window with a fancy metal hinge that let it swing open to allow a fresh breeze in. There were no other exits, he noted, and the fire was growing hotter behind them.
Pen tore the room’s central rug out of the way, spitefully tossing it to the fire, then jerked open the trap door its removal revealed.
“Why’d you light the damn place on fire?” Jahn asked, kneeling next to him.
Pen lay on his belly and reached into the pit to grab one of the long linen sacks that had been revealed, dropping it with a thump nearby.
“I’ve got no fucking idea what I’m doing,” he admitted matter-of-factly, reaching for another bag.
Rather than panic his squadmates, to his Pen’s utter shock, the admission made them… laugh? They moved to help, each taking on a different task. Little Bek turned around and slammed the door shut on the fire, while Jahn started searching the bags Pen was hauling up for the fabled instructions.
“Gods, these are heavy,” Little Bek said, dragging one of the bags over to the window. He adjusted the couter on his elbow, careful to make sure it was covering his skin, then smashed the window open. He hefted a bag up on his shoulder, then unceremoniously tossed it onto the muddy street outside, hurrying back to grab another.
“How many are in each bag?” Pen asked as he grabbed another.
“Looks like six or seven,” Jahn said, handing off a bag to Little Bek. “I haven’t found the instructions yet.”
“Well I found thirty silver pieces,” Sagna said. Pen glanced up to see the man rummaging through the contents of the foreman’s nightstand drawer, which he’d upended on the man’s bed.
“Not what we’re looking for,” Jahn said.
“Fuck off,” Sagna snapped, pocketing the coins. “If I’m going to die, I’m at least going to die rich.”
“How many gods do you think you can pay off with thirty silver?” Jahn asked.
“Focus,” Pen ordered sharply. He’d finished dragging up the last of the long linen bags, and was now dropping his entire body into the cubby in order to get a better grip on the barrels of powder that were in there. “Anyone found those instructions?”
“Is that them?” Little Bek asked, pointing to a sheet laying next to Pen’s foot.
“Dunno,” he said, snatching it up and handing it to Jahn. “I can’t read. Is that it?”
Jahn held the sheet to the light of the broken window, clearing his throat as he squinted at the tiny letters.
“M-muh… ska- I mean, sket… Musket D-Deliv-ry. Yeer of our Emperor, ah, Twelve-”
“Don’t read out the fucking date,” Sagna snapped, smacking Jahn on the back of the head. “Skip to the middle of the page or somethin’ before you waste all our time.”
Before Jahn could continue, there was a sudden roar from outside. It was a sound that Pen only knew from the parade grounds, on the rare occasions when the city’s Visya had given the garrison permission to drill formations outside the walls. It was a battle cry, thousands of lungs spewing as guttural a yell as they could summon up, tearing their throats raw as they screamed their anger.
“Let’s go!” Pen ordered, yelling over the sudden racket. “Out the window, everyone! We’ve got enough!”
“You sure?”
“Go!”
Pen started shoving people towards the window, encouraging them to throw themselves out into the muddy street. The door to the foreman’s office was starting to leak smoke, wisps of it curling at the edges of the wooden planks. Even if the battle hadn’t just changed outside, they were out of time.
Pen landed roughly on the mud, bruising his arms on the lumpy bags full of guns. He quickly hopped to his feet, turning to help pull the rest of his squad out.
The last member of his squad, Sother, fell out of the window just as the fire spread to the outside wall, sweeping along the logs to engulf the window.
“Shit,” Sothear gasped, gripping his knees as he bent over to catch his breath. “Too close. Way too close.”
“Get that barrel away from the fire,” Jahn said, looking up from the paper. “The fire could set it off, and then we’ll all die.”
Pen rushed over, tipping the foot-tall barrel onto its side to hurriedly roll it away from the flames. “Is it really that sensitive?” He asked. “Shouldn’t it only go off if it’s in a gun?”
“Half these instructions are stories of the ways alchemists have gotten themselves killed making this shit,” Jahn said, slapping the paper. “I haven’t even found how you’re supposed to use it. Only all the ways you can do it wrong.”
“Then keep reading. Everyone else, grab a bag or something.”
“Where we going?” Little Bek asked. He glanced nervously up at the edge of the mine, a deep sense of trepidation obvious on his face. The sounds of battle were drawing closer.
“Up to that little hole over there,” Pen said, gesturing with a bag of guns. “We’ll load the guns, wait ‘till some traitors come by, then see how many shots we can get off before they run us down.”
“Ambushing them ain’t gonna win us the battle,” Sagna muttered.
“We already lost. Now we’re just trying to make the fight easier for the next army these bastards come up against.”
As they picked their way across the muddy pit of a half-finished mine, the chaos of battle was steadily drawing closer. Pen had never been in a battle before, and didn’t know what they ‘should’ sound like, but he could at least get the impression that the rest of the garrison wasn’t just surrendering outright. The sound of gunshots were getting closer and closer, growing loud enough that he had to shout to be heard, and they were slowly being joined by the clash of wood and metal. If he had to guess, the enemy had breached the walls, finally giving the garrison the opportunity to test their spears.
Pen ducked into the shadow of the small cubby in the mine’s walls, waving in everyone after him. He didn’t know much about mining, and didn’t know why the long, thin slot had been dug out of the ground, but he was glad for it. They retreated into the darkness and set their goods down, tearing them open.
“What do we do now?” Pen asked, holding up one of the guns. It didn’t look like the ones the enemy had been using, but that was to be expected. If the traitors already had so many guns, they must have rushed them into service. These weapons were probably far better made.
“Um,” Jahn said, huddling near the entrance of the slot so he had enough light to read by. “Okay. There should be some, uh, packages of powder. Not the barrel of powder, but in the bags with the muskets. It’s got one of the bull-its wrapped in paper, sitting on top of a bit of black powder.”
The squad began rummaging through the supplies, eventually pulling out the little paper packets. A lead ball as wide as Pen’s thumb was half-wrapped in paper, sitting atop a mushy pile of grainy sand. The packaging was thicker than writing paper, and it had been folded over the bottom, though it looked easy enough to tear open.
“So what you do is, you put the rip open the bottom of the package and dump the powder down the barrel. After that you put the ball on top and grab the rod there…”
Pen found himself once more taken by the surreality of his life as he carefully followed Jahn’s instructions. The man was barely able to read, pausing every now and then to spend long, painful seconds sounding out unfamiliar words, and yet he was the sole person they were trusting their lives to. Pen could hear the battle raging outside, the combat growing to a fever pitch that lasted a few short minutes, only to slowly start fading away as, presumably, more and more of the garrison either surrendered or were killed. Outside their narrow cubby, Pen could see the civilian workers beginning to pour down the mine’s slopes, running to the bottom of the pit to try and hide among the heaps of dirt and half-organized piles of supplies.
“I think I’m good,” Pen announced as he pulled the ‘hammer’ of the gun back. He put the gun to his shoulder, carefully aligning the three bits of metal that were supposed to help him aim. His finger rested on the trigger, careful not to pull it too early. If these guns were half as loud as the traitor’s, they’d only get one volley off before the entire army knew where they were.
“I’m ready, too,” Little Bek announced, holding up his musket just like Pen. “I don’t know if I can hit anything with it, though.”
“We’ll wait until they’re close enough that we can't miss.”
“And how long’s that going to be?”
“Gods know,” Pen grumbled, lowering his gun. “Jahn, get back in here and load one for yourself. Actually,” Pen added, an idea occurring to him, “Everyone put your gun down and start loading another one. If we have them all loaded, we can shoot one, drop it, and grab another.”
There was a rustle as the squad began to follow his orders, talking amongst themselves. As Pen grabbed another musket and began to load, Jahn came and sat down next to him, fixing him with a curious look.
“What in the hells happened to you?” The man asked. “Was the Sarge’s sword cursed or something? He take over your soul when you grabbed it?”
Pen touched the weapon, surprised. He’d somehow almost forgotten he’d grabbed it.
“No,” Pen said. “I just realized I was going to die. So I stopped caring if I screw up.”
“Have you?” Jahn grabbed a musket, beginning the long process of loading. “I mean, have you stopped caring? I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Is this what we should be doing? Following some kid into battle?”
“You know we’re going to die, right?” Pen bit open a package of blackpowder, dumping it down a musket’s barrel. “I’m going to get us all killed.”
“Yeah, but is it worth it?”
“I don’t want to end up a slave.” Pen grunted as he pulled the hammer back on the musket, making it ready to fire, then grabbed another one. “But mostly, I want to kill some of them before they get to Ta-Pet. I don’t know if those cannons can knock down a real wall, but I’m worried about it. My parents live near the edge of the city, y’know? They won’t last long.” Pen coughed as he bit open another package of black powder, inadvertently inhaling a puff of the awful stuff. “And,” he said, dropping his voice a touch lower, “Jonay’s parents live there, too. We never told anyone, but if the city ever came under attack, we were gonna desert. Run off to go protect our parents, instead of helping at the walls. And now Jonay’s dead, and I’m not going to be in the city when it comes under attack…” Pen jammed the ball down the barrel as far as he could with his thumb, then reached for the loading rod. This particular musket made an awful screeching noise as he forced the lead down the barrel, making him grimace. “I guess, when it really comes down to it, all I’m trying to get you to help me with is killing traitors. For all I know, the people we shoot might have ended up being the ones that put my parent’s house to the torch. That’s what I’m praying for, anyway.”
As Pen spoke, the conversation in the cubby had slowly died away. By the end of it, the Twenty-Second was dead silent, listening to a fifteen year old boy talking about how he’d accepted his own death, with the only hope left to him being a dream of taking someone with him to the grave.
Pen stopped talking. He felt lightheaded, his thoughts scattered and disconnected. His hands seemed to be moving of their own accord, sliding through the motions of loading musket after musket. Up above, the sounds of battle were finally dying away. The clash of steel and crack of bullets were replaced by angry shouts and the popping of growing fires. He could hear orders being barked almost constantly, the traitors shouting at garrison and civilians alike to lay down their arms or else be shot where they stood.
Pen kept peering out into the light, waiting for some sign of the enemy. He knew they’d show up eventually. The battle was lost, and so many of the miners had fled to the bottom of the pit in a desperate bid to avoid the flying bullets. It was only a matter of time.
“We really just waiting here?” Kai asked. “How are we going to do any good? What if they come down the other side of the mine and start killing folk, and we can’t do a thing about it?”
I don’t know, Pen admitted, if only to himself. Outwardly, he struggled to project perfect confidence.
“They’ll get close eventually,” he said. “If they start on the other side of the mine, people will run this way. All we have to do is wait.”
“You’re the boss,” Kai said, scratching her chin. She chuckled. “For some fuckin’ reason, yeah. You’re the boss.”
Pen ignored her. He kept his focus on the brightly lit mine, nervously running his hands up and down his musket. Minutes ticked by at a glacial pace, the quiet muttering of the squad all he had to convince him that time itself hadn’t frozen. Up at the rim of the mining pit, Pen watched the occasional group of traitorous soldiers march past, every one of them leaning a musket against their shoulder. They all looked like they were in a hurry, but he couldn’t tell why. They marched this way and that without any pattern, often with an officer screaming their heads off at them, but they were too far for him to catch what was being said.
“Shit,” Jahn breathed, leaning forward. “Here they come.”
Pen followed his eyes to the leftmost set of switchbacking trails. A squad of soldiers were staring down from the edge of the mining pit, looking down on the hundreds of huddled civilians below. The enemy squad wasn’t large, maybe fifteen or so soldiers, but at a barked command and gesture from a catfolk holding an officer’s sword, they began to gingerly make their way down the muddy pathway.
“Mercenaries,” Pen breathed, his eyes going beady as he stared at the encroaching soldiers. He recognized their armor from earlier, but now he could get a better look at them. From their helmets to their boots, not a single piece of their gear even vaguely resembled the style of Imperial armors. Their breastplates were slab-faced steel, their helmets unpainted and undecorated. Their missing gauntlets, he realized, were only missing on each soldier’s dominant hand, allowing them to fit their fingers around a musket’s trigger guard. Unlike Imperial soldiers, who wore a hodgepodge of assorted clothing and gambesons under their armor, every single one of the mercenaries wore a vibrantly green short-sleeve tunic, one that matched the color of the jungle canopy. Every piece of equipment they carried, though sized to fit each soldier, was perfectly identical. If he hadn’t been able to see their faces, they could have all been twins.
Their muskets were strange, too. Not like the other traitor’s guns, nor anything like the weapon Pen had clutched in his own hands. They were longer, nearly as tall as the soldiers carrying them, and they had a strange-looking piece of metal mounted in the place where the notched sights were on his own musket. All of them had a long knife attached to the end of their guns, and they kept both hands on the weapon, ready to drop into a spearman’s stance at any moment.
The only exception to this pattern were the two figures at the head of the small column. One was the catfolk man Pen had first spotted. He had a musket identical to the others, but he was wearing a more traditional set of Imperial armor. He carried an officer’s sword, which he occasionally used as a pointer to accentuate his orders, and generally held himself in a manner Pen was very familiar with. A low-ranked soldier, a sergeant, but one who had been given an important task which was causing him no end of stress. He’d seen the look on Sergeant Bek’s face many times, when nobility happened to single him out for some assignment or another.
Beside him walked a short, very strange woman. Pen could only guess that she had a single catfolk grandparent or something similar, because she appeared purely human save for a set of sleek ears and a long tail. She wore no armor beyond a simple, lightweight steel breastplate, and her belt was festooned with leather pouches carrying what looked like a strange variety of short-barreled guns. A more normal musket was slung over her back, but it was tied tightly down, as if she had no intention of using it. Her nose was turned up as she surveyed the civilians below, narrowed eyes appraising the crowd like livestock. Between her imperious bearing and lack of armor, he assumed she was some official of the traitorous empire, likely here to appraise the mine that had just been captured.
“Get ready,” Pen whispered, waving the squad forward. “Everybody grab a musket and line up. Put the extra loaded ones at your feet.”
“We can’t all fit side-to-side,” Jahn whispered back. “Not enough room.”
“Then…” Pen reached for something to say. They’d let him be in charge, and people in charge were supposed to give orders. “Whoever can’t fit up front, grab the muskets and get ready to hand them to the person in front of you. When you give them the last one, you can grab your spear and get ready to charge.”
“Gods,” Sagna whispered as she took a place beside Pen, musket in hand. “Shit. We’re really going to die, aren’t we?”
“If we shoot them all down,” Little Bek whispered back, “do you think we can make a break for it? The miners will probably bolt, and we might be able to escape in the panic. They can’t shoot all of them.”
“If we’re running,” Pen warned, “we’re only running when we’re out of loaded shots. Fire everything you have, and if we’re still alive, sure, run. But I’m here to kill traitors.”
“You get knocked upside the head, kid?” Little Bek asked. “When’d you start wanting to kill people so bad?”
“I did get hit in the head,” Pen said, sliding his eyes over to Little Bek. “Remember? When you stomped all over me while running away?”
Little Bek looked down and away, falling silent.
Pen watched the small enemy squadron work their way down the mining pit, urging them to come closer. It was nearly noon outside, and the shadow of clouds only occasionally passed over the fort. The enemy wouldn’t be able to see them in their little nook, not until it was too late. He just had to hope they got close enough.
“Oh, gods,” someone muttered. The enemy squad had just taken a slight detour, choosing a slightly less steep route to the bottom of the mine.
One that would take them no more than fifty feet from the small cubby they were hidden in.
“Get ready,” Pen ordered, shouldering his musket. He did his best to line up the notch at the end of the barrel with the two little divots that had been etched out close to his face, pressing the wooden weapon deeply into his shoulder. The instructions they’d found were decent enough, but he’d still never fired one of the things. He had no idea what to expect.
“Don’t aim for the mercenaries,” he whispered. “Aim for that officer. Once he’s down, we can start shooting at the others.”
A chorus of quiet ‘yessirs’ filtered back to Pen. A tight little ball twisted itself in his gut at the response, twin knots of pride and anxiety wrapping around one another. He was in charge of something important. Of important people.
This will be the first time an Imperial soldier fired a gun at the enemy, Pen thought. The Adjutant himself said these guns will win the war, right? And here I am, firing the first shot. How’s that for listening in, Jonay?
The enemy continued to advance. As they’d approached the civilians below, they’d unshouldered their muskets, holding them in a loose, easy two-handed grip. Ready to thrust with the knife at the end of the barrel. Pen tracked the officer through the iron dot at the end of his gun, holding his breath. Everyone was waiting for the moment that the man would reach the closest bend of the path, saving their shot until they had the best chance of hitting him with their strange weapons.
Something’s wrong.
The thought came to him suddenly. Unbidden. Without any cause, Pen felt a deep, overwhelming panic begin to seep through his body. It began in his chest, deep in the center of his heart, slithering outward to fill his blood with something truly, profoundly awful.
He tried to gasp.
His lips wouldn’t respond.
He tried to squeeze the trigger.
His finger wouldn’t move.
Nothing was moving.
The world had come to a standstill.
Do not fire.
The words tore through Pen. His body could not twitch, but he felt a deeper self, something far more real than his flesh and bones, begin to quake. The voice was everything, everywhere, a million interwoven voices striking him at once. It was deep and grating, as if the bubbling cesspit of a flooded grave was spitting the words at him.
Pull the trigger, child.
He tried to scream. The second voice was a single, absolute pressure, a titanic force crushing his soul from every direction. It was a woman who held on her tongue the absolute perfection of unyielding authority, her very existence a demand beyond any living creature’s ability to refuse.
The world will change.
He began to thrash, his mind tearing itself at the seams. Every new voice split and pressed him back together again, playing with his soul like a dog does the broken body of a songbird. Every instant, every syllable, each one unmade and remade him, incomprehensible forces plucking his mind from the world and dousing it in the flames of perdition.
You shall not spill the blood of Fate.
What was left of him focused on one spot. On the sensation of cool iron against one finger, hooked around one trigger. He stared at the figure silhouetted in his sights, imagining them outside the home he had grown up in, bloody sword in hand.
What has begun can still be stopped, child.
Pen felt as if his entire arm was unraveling. He threw every ounce of himself into a single desire, wrapping his very soul around the fear he felt for his family, the guilt he felt for his friend’s death.
Your teeth rest against the neck of a dying world. Will you have mercy?
Pen ignored the divinities in his mind. Ignored the gods which sought to take his choice from him, those which grasped and clawed at his immortal self like starving children warring over the last shred of meat.
Rage, little Pen. Become fury. It is what you are. Take solace. I will shelter your soul.
Time began to move. Pen felt his finger tugging, the trigger digging a deeper indentation against his skin.
Those who spite Fate are mine to claim.
He embodies our Domain most of all.
All mortals die. This one sooner than most.
The Concord holds. The choice will be his to make.
Pen cast aside the gods. A dozen voices in his head or a thousand, they didn’t matter. His mother did. His father did. His friends did. He pulled and pulled, every muscle straining against the frozen flow of time, one child throwing his will against a timeless glacier of divine authority.
There was a click.
A spark.
And a little boy named Pen changed Fate.
Time shot into motion with the crack of his musket, white smoke filling the air like morning fog. Six other shots leapt out a moment later, all heading for one target.
Humanity’s first gunfight began.
It would not be its last.
Through the haze, Pen watched the catfolk man spin to the ground, blood spraying the air in a spiral behind him.
“Gun! Another gun!” He yelped, holding his twitching hand out. A musket landed in his palm. He jerked it violently away from the person behind him, throwing it to his shoulder as fast as he could. The catfolk man was dragging himself through the mud with one arm, the other limp and bloody at his side.
To Pen’s shock, the mercenaries the man had commanded did not react in a panic. He’d hoped they might cry out for the shooting to stop, thinking they were a victim of friendly fire, but they proved maddeningly professional. They dropped to their stomachs, crawling rapidly forward to press themselves against the closest switchback rise. The height he had over them left them partially exposed, but they had more cover than they would have otherwise. He could see their hands fly to the pouches at their waist, loading their muskets with the familiarity and ease of endless practice.
Pen barely took the time to aim before he fired off his second shot, filling the cubby with more smoke. A ripple of shots went off just before and after his. All of the sudden, he couldn’t see a single thing through the smoke.
“Move forward!” He yelled, his voice cracking yet again. “Out of the smoke!”
He accepted another musket even as he followed his own orders, plowing through the fog. The instant he could see the enemy again, he threw the musket to his shoulder. The catfolk man was out of sight, so he started searching for the noblewoman instead, vainly hoping she was important enough that her death would hurt the traitor’s cause. She was nowhere in sight. She’d likely fled in the confusion.
Pen turned his aim to the vague area of the mercenaries instead, squeezing off another shot. Mud sprayed in a wide arc a few feet to the left of where he’d aimed, showering one of the enemy soldiers in soil.
“Quick, quick!” He yelled, holding out a hand for another musket. It landed in his palm a moment later. He put it to his cheek, spent a half second aiming, then pulled the trigger.
Instead of white smoke, the world went black. Pain roared through his hands, his arm, and his chest. The pains he could not feel before emerged with a vengeance, every agony shoved to the forefront of his swirling mind. He felt something cool against his head and, after the sensation sluggishly worked its way through his thoughts, realized he was laying on the ground.
Pen peeled open his eyes. Or at least tried to. His right eye was caked in too much blood to open. He lifted his head and looked down at himself.
His right arm was a mess. Shrapnel of iron and wood were embedded in the flesh, with the largest chunks aligned with his bicep. His breastplate had a line of scratches across it, though there were no holes. Blood was dripping down the front of the steel, dribbling out of his neck in small spurts.
He tried to sit up. His abdomen did not answer his commands. All he achieved was flopping ingloriously to one side, a pained groan pulled from his lips.
Someone dropped in front of him, clutching their stomach. Blood welled between their fingers, and through the ringing in his ears, he heard them gasp wetly. It seemed the mercenaries had begun to fire back.
Pen looked up to the entrance of the nook, trying to see down the hill. He couldn’t see a thing from where he lay. Only the haze-filled sky, the unique grey of skywreathe intertwining with black ash of the burning fort.
Then, without warning, a figure darkened the entrance.
The noblewoman had arrived. She held a rapier in one hand, a short musket in the other. She wore an expression unlike any Pen had ever seen. It was a furious grin, an unholy matrimony of wrath and joy.
He tried to warn his squad, but all that came out of his throat was a meaningless gurgle.
The woman ducked just as a shot rang out, the bullet sailing over her head. Pen could not track her movements as she slid forward, her body a blur, her rapier invisible. She struck someone to his right, driving her blade through their throat, then fired her hand-musket, evaporating the head of another. His squad, far too late, began to turn towards her, raising their weapons.
It was over in seconds.
Pen did not know what happened. She wove amongst them as if she were born a wraith, untouchable and malevolent. Her sword sang as it flicked left to right, flinging blood in wide arcs. No one cried out, no one begged for mercy. The walls were painted with long slashes of crimson before any had a chance to so much as a gasp. Twelve soldiers died in the space between breaths.
Pen watched as she squinted into the dark of the cubby, ensuring she was truly alone. Satisfied, a silk cloth flashed into existence in her offhand, which she swiped down her blade in one quick, clean motion.
He rolled away from her, searching for a fallen musket. He willed his left arm to drag itself from underneath his body, reaching for the weapon.
Silver embedded itself in his forearm. Fire shot up the limb as the woman twisted her blade, pinning him to the ground like an insect.
“Were you the architect of this ambush?” She asked. Her accent was thick, but she spoke respectable Kemari.
Pen thrashed with what strength he had left, trying to dislodge the rapier in his arm. All his efforts earned him was another flash of agony, one which pulled a wet, bubbling scream from his throat. Blood drooled from his lips, pooling on the floor beside his head.
“You have an officer’s sword,” the woman noted, crouching to slip Sergeant Bek’s sword from his belt. “But no sheath for it. A field promotion, then?” His one good eye followed her as she glanced over the rest of his squad. “No one else with an officer’s equipment. Judging by the quality of your training, you were not army regulars, yes? Mere members of the garrison.”
Pen dearly wished he had strength enough to spit at her.
“Your ambush was well-prepared,” she said approvingly, as if discussing a training skirmish. “You killed two of our mercenaries. My wife will be irate.” She turned her attention back to him.
Pen flinched away from her glare. He could not help it. There was something deeply, profoundly wrong about her. He thought of the gods who had been screaming in his mind, and wondered why they had allowed a thing like her to exist.
“Are you a loyalist?” She asked, her head tilting as she inspected him. “If you are not, I would like to extend you an offer of employment within the Powdered Lead Mercenaries. To improvise an attack like yours without any understanding of firearms is commendable. You nearly killed someone very, very important.”
He summoned the last of his strength. He dug deep within himself, dragging up every ounce of energy his body had left to offer.
And spat a wad of clotting blood onto her boot.
Pen never saw the swing that killed him.
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Evie
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She wiped her blade clean once more, looking down on the unfortunate azarketi boy. It was a waste. She could tell he’d had honest talent. Attacking a superior force in such a manner had shown a strong will, clever mind, and the bravery necessary to leverage those advantages.
Unfortunately, Sara intended to convince General Borek to ransom as many of the captured enemy as was possible, and with how miniscule a price a random member of the garrison would fetch, that would certainly have included the boy. Evie was not interested in seeing what a talented foe like him could become if given time to develop.
She grabbed one of the muskets off the ground, making a mental note to have someone come collect as many of the misfired musket’s remains as was possible. Hurlish would doubtlessly want to inspect the weapon for the cause of its failure.
Evie was personally more interested in the workings of the surviving musket. She lifted the powder pan, making sure it was not loaded, then spun the weapon around, starting her inspection at the end of the barrel.
It was not rifled. That was promising. Hurlish had not taught the Empire how to rifle their weapons, nor of the principles by which a spinning bullet gained accuracy, and this musket proved it a wise decision. Further, the fact that the rebellion had clearly mimicked what it knew of the Imperial weapons indicated that, even with Sara absent from Tulian, their spies had not yet gained a strong foothold in the city. They were basing their weapons on what they could steal from the Imperials, rather than Tulian proper.
She began walking back down the hill, prying at the musket’s seams with her belt knife. For whatever reason, they had decided to add a cover over the flintlock, hiding the mechanism behind a thin sheet of metal. She popped it off, tossing it aside, and turned the unveiled workings towards the light.
To her surprise, the weapon was, somehow, far more complicated than the Imperial muskets. Instead of the simple piece of folded iron which served as the frizzen spring in every flintlock Evie had seen, the rebellion had developed an inordinately complex series of bent plates, seven of them stacked atop one another and bound with tiny wraps of iron. A ‘leaf spring,’ if she was recalling the correct term. It was one of the products that Tulian smiths had begun to churn out with an eye for export, their far larger versions intended to provide smoother suspension for horse-drawn carriages. The musket used one of these leaf springs rendered in miniature, which seemed like an incredible waste of time and resources. They could have achieved the same result by folding a single iron bar in half.
Did the Empire possess leaf springs prior to this? Evie wondered, running her thumb over the metal. If they did not, that could indicate they have spies among Tulian’s industry already. That, or we have failed to vet our export partners well enough. The rebellion could be surreptitiously purchasing our products via intermediaries.
She paused to rest her musket against her shoulder, pulling one of her notebooks out and flipping to an empty page. She jotted out a quick reminder to have Vesta investigate their trading partners more closely, then slipped the book away, glancing up to check on Mui’s squadron.
They were still kneeling next to the switchback, their rifles loaded and held in a loose, anticipatory grip. Though there were no other dark nooks in the mine capable of hiding an ambush group, they doggedly determined to not be caught unaware again. Those closest to her kept scanning the lip of the mining pit, carefully monitoring for suspicious activity from the shifting crowds, while the others were staring down to the center of the mine with their rifles resting on their knees, waiting for any of the civilians to produce weapons of their own.
For once, Evie was not as concerned about the possibility of attack as her troops. The first ambush, though cleverly executed, had obviously been a hastily-assembled effort, undertaken by rebels entirely unfamiliar with their weapons. If the enemy had any actual ability to use the muskets en masse, they would have done so long ago. Instinct told her that the danger had passed.
Her attention slid from the mercenaries to the man they were protecting. Mui sat in the center of the soldiers, an empty potion bottle still held in one hand. To her surprise, there were already two unfamiliar figures at his side, one pressing their glowing hands to his shoulder, the other standing with their hands clasped behind their back, facing away from her. She had only called for a healer a few short minutes ago, and she hadn’t made it a priority order. She’d thought it would be an hour or more until Mui would have access to a healer.
Evie’s steps hitched as she started inspecting the second figure. It was a human man of middling height, wearing dented, heavily worn armor. His hair was thin and wispy, having gone grey years upon years ago, and his skin was wrinkled by years spent under the sun.
And at his hip was a blacksteel blade, secured by nothing more than a single loop of leather. Two thirds of the way down the length of the blade was a single, impossible chip that had been broken from the enchanted steel.
Evie dropped the musket. She stood stock still, staring at the man’s back.
“Did you really think,” Graf Urs said, turning around with a kind smile on his face, “that I would miss my dear Evie’s first command?”
Chapter 139: B3 Ch26: Children of the Night
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Evie
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She found herself sprinting toward Graf, moving so quickly her collection of flintlock pistols were nearly flung from their holsters. Graf smiled kindly at her, hands still folded behind his back.
“As soon as I heard that you had founded the Powdered Lead, I made a note to–”
She interrupted Graf by crashing into his chest, their breastplates filling the air with a piercing clang. Her arms wrapped tight around him, holding him close.
“I-” Graf tried to take a step back, but he only dragged her with him. “Ah. Well, then.” She felt his arms tentatively unfold, then slowly wrap around her in turn. It was the first time she had known the great Graf Urs to be at an utter loss, completely taken aback.
It wasn’t as if he were inhuman, however. Just… unused to this behavior from Evie. She could not blame him. She hadn’t expected it herself. She held him close, and he held her. Evie… Evie could not remember another person save her wives who she had embraced like this. Who she had been embraced by.
After a time, he leaned down a touch, speaking quietly.
“They’ve been good for you, haven’t they?”
Evie kept her cheek pressed to his steel-clad chest. Graf’s arms slid over her shoulders, one palm gently patting her back. The ring on his middle finger made a tink-tink-tink noise as it tapped the buckle of her cuirassier’s plate.
She released him, stepping away.
Then, in a fit of inspiration, one spawned by the many movies Sara had been showing her, she drew her arm back.
And slapped him.
Graf raised his eyebrows as her palm bounced off his cheek. His skin had not so much as rippled. She shook her hand out as she clenched and unclenched it, swearing quietly. That had hurt.
“You were present for the entire battle?” She demanded. “And you did not make me aware? Does the Empire know you are present?”
“Which Empire?”
“The one that has hired the Powdered Lead, of course,” Evie scoffed. She scanned her surroundings, searching for General Borek. “My employer will be coming to inspect their prize soon enough. If they don’t know you are here…”
“I did not warn them, but I suspect they are already aware. They have mages in their retinue, and I am not a difficult man to notice.” He clapped his hands, rubbing them together with a kindly smile. “Now, tell me of your first battle.”
“You said you were watching, were you not?”
“I was. But I wish to hear your account of it. Learning of a commander’s own reasoning is perhaps the best way to gain a proper understanding of the strategies on display.”
Evie opened her mouth, happy to begin answering, but then held her breath.
“First, I must see to Mui,” she said, turning to the catfolk man.
“Of course,” Graf said agreeably, making way. “After I saw him get struck, I found this healer among the Imperial forces. He seemed to be an important member of your staff.”
“Of a sorts.”
Evie knelt next to Mui, inspecting his wounds for herself. The healer had the dark skin of an Imperial native, and she was focusing with a quiet intensity on her work. Evie wondered what the woman had thought, when a strange northern man had suddenly demanded she follow him to an injured soldier.
Likely very little, she decided. Healers were rarely disinterested in plying their god-given trade. The woman did barely more than flick her eyes up at Evie’s approach before returning her full attention to her patient.
Mui’s wounds were no longer life-threatening, not after the aid of a potion and healer, but they had started that way. Two bullets had torn lines up Mui’s right arm, leaving deep, unnatural grooves in the flesh. He wouldn’t have much use of his arm without healing, but that was by far his lesser concern, practically superficial next to the damage further up. A lead ball had caught him between his shoulder and neck, diving in at a shallow angle to collide with his clavicle, shattering a chunk of the now-exposed stretch of ivory white. The ball had then ricocheted upward to make its exit from his upper back, tearing an eerily symmetrical valley from his flesh. While it appeared to have missed most vital arteries, the initial gush of blood she had seen would have shortly led to his death if not for the potion she had forced down his muzzle. That potion had stemmed the tide of crimson only enough that she had felt confident leaving him alone for the brief period required to deal with the ambush.
As Evie watched, the missing piece of his collarbone began to regrow, lines of golden spiderwebs building a latticework over the empty space. Shining white bone began to spread from within the hollow spaces of light, floating weightlessly in midair. There was a small click every time one of their creeping edges met one another, steadily creating a case around what had been missing. Evie noted that none of his skin or musculature was being regrown at the same time. Sara’s studies of the merits of surgery vs healing had shown that most healers wasted considerable energy by treating every wound simultaneously, driven as they were to end their patient’s pain as soon as possible. That this woman was avoiding the error meant she was intelligent, experienced, and most importantly of all, at least in Evie’s estimation, calloused. She stared at the healer’s face, taking a moment to commit it to memory in case her services would be needed later.
That done, Evie put a hand on Mui’s good shoulder. The catfolk’s eyes twisted open, his breath coming in shallow, barely controlled gasps.
“Are you injured anywhere else?” She asked.
“My arm only.” He swallowed. “I… I think.”
“Good. I don’t believe this ambush was an assassination attempt, but I still would like you back on your feet and in our camp as soon as possible. Collect some of the reserve as guards, under my authority.”
To his credit, Mui managed a weak chuckle. “Until you said that… I hadn’t ever considered that I would be the target of assassination.”
“To the enemies of my wife, you are a distant fourth priority. I don’t believe you need to concern yourself overly with the notion. Still, a fourth priority is more than almost any other in this army can claim.” Evie frowned, social arithmetic running through her head. “We should force General Borek’s hand in order to requisition you a set of enchanted armor. You may not be formally important enough to justify the expenditure, but I am certain Sara and I can establish a series of owed favors within the Imperial military hierarchy which will allow us–”
“I need… no such thing,” Mui said, forcing the words through his clenched teeth. “Let some Warrior who is in the thick of battle… take that armor. If this was not an assassination attempt, there is no reason to protect me above others.”
Sara’s favor is more than enough reason, was what Evie wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She knew most people wouldn’t enjoy being viewed as little more than an expensive trinket on her wife’s desk. True, she did value Mui’s life for reasons beyond Sara’s entanglement with him, but… she would be lying if she claimed her wife’s theoretical reaction to his death wasn’t her primary concern.
Mui was in too much pain to argue the point. He blinked slowly, blowing out a tense breath. “For now, I will do as you suggested… and move to the camp as soon as I am healed.” He turned his eyes to the healer, wisely unwilling to twist his neck. “Thank you for your aid, ma’am. I have known many healers who treated lesser wounds of mine while causing me a great deal more pain than you are now.”
The woman offered nothing more in response than a distracted grunt, never looking away from her work.
Yes, Evie decided, I will remember her face.
Evie rose to her feet, stepping aside to face Master Graf once more. She waved for the Powdered Lead to give them space while she also gained some distance from Mui and the healer.
The months that had passed since she last saw Graf had produced no change to his countenance. He was still the same old man, his patchy beard and thinning hair white as snow. He had the same frown lines, the same smile lines, all of them wrapped within the wrinkles of hard-fought age. Depending on which biographer one trusted, Master Graf was soon to be eighty-one or eighty-two, and he showed every one of those years across his twisted and gnarled body.
He also showed the signs of how he had spent that long life. His thin, sun-spotted skin was wrapped around a frame of sleek, cabled muscle. The few humans Evie had met of a similar age to Master Graf were trembling, weak, mumbling old fools. If she hadn’t ever met her swordsmanship tutor, she would have thought all elderly were like that. But here Master Graf was, standing before her in unenchanted steel that weighed fifty pounds, his burden worsened by the overstuffed pouches on his belt and heavy shield strapped across his back. His posture was straight, his footing firm, and his eyes were as piercingly alert as they had ever been.
Graf Urs, Evie had often heard the Night’s Eye boast, was a man who had not yet reached his prime.
“You said you wanted to hear the commanding officer’s account of the battle?” Evie asked, recovering a fraction of her normal decorum. “Then why are you speaking with me?”
“It has been months since we spoke over more than letters,” he replied. “Why would I want to speak with anyone else?”
“I’m glad to see you as well, Master Graf, but if you wish to learn of the battle’s strategies, I expect you’ll have more success speaking to Sara or General Borek.” She looked out at the ruined remains of the fort, sniffing disdainfully. “What little strategy was involved, anyway.”
“Don’t discredit your victory,” Graf said sternly. “I have met more than my fair share of fools who could easily squander an advantage like yours. When victory is assured, the essence of strategy lies in minimizing one’s losses.”
“You know, Sara’s world had a famous text full of little quotes like that. It was called the ‘Art of War,’ and as I understand it, the book was some sort of collection of vague truisms and catchy pieces of advice regarding battle. Two thousands years after its scribing, it is still being studied by aspiring military officers. You could certainly write something of equal merit, if not greater.”
“Perhaps I should,” Graf said, chuckling. “Someone will have to keep all those spoiled noble brats in line when I am gone. Perhaps my words will harry them from beyond the grave.”
Evie’s ears twitched at that. Even when Master Graf was among friends and speaking casually, such a direct insult to the nobility was not something he normally dared. She spent a short time contemplating how best to tease the clues out of him, wondering which particular phrase might influence him to speak further on the topic.
Then she thought of how Sara would handle the situation.
“What does that mean? Has the tension between the Night’s Eye and the Upper Nobility not eased, then? Our sources have told us that the King was quietly irate with your decision to pursue firearm development, and that many Nobles have been slowly drawn into the debate. I wasn’t aware that tensions had risen to the point you would openly insult their station.”
Graf froze for a half second, like a startled deer. Then he smiled slightly, shaking his head.
“Do you know how often I find myself wishing you’d paid less attention to your tutors, dear?”
“I was as diligent a student as I could be. No matter how much I despised my mother, only a fool would squander access to the Kingdom’s best and brightest.”
“Most young girls are fools, Evie.” Graf took a deep breath through his nose, held it for a count of two, then blew it out, shaking his head. “But no, I am sorry. The tension you speak of does exist, but it has not festered to the degree my errant comment might have suggested. I simply have grown… less reserved, I think. It’s my old age, I assume. Things like that come too easily to my tongue these days.”
“Mm,” Evie hummed, disappointed. Though Sara was horrified by the thought of a Sporaton civil war, thinking only of the peasants which might get caught in the churn of battle, Evie was privately praying for it. Tulian’s situation would be far more secure if their greatest foe was busy stabbing themselves in the gut.
“But come now,” Graf said, changing the topic. “I didn’t travel all this way to discuss my own life. I came to discuss yours! How fared your first battle?”
“Again, you seem to think I was in command. I was not.” Evie glanced at the nearby mercenaries, assuring herself they had politely retreated out of earshot. “If you weren’t aware, my command of the Powdered Lead is wholly symbolic, to avoid establishing the precedent of Tulian’s Governess being in possession of a private military force. In all actuality, Sara is in charge. I offer only occasional pieces of advice to her and General Borek, who were the true architects of this battle.”
Graf cocked an eyebrow. “And how often did they disregard your advice, if ever?”
“...I can’t recall an instance of them doing so. But I speak only when absolutely certain, and make sure to explain myself well. After all, it was you who taught me the proper way to communicate an idea to a superior officer without causing offense.”
Graf’s eyes twinkled, as if amused by a joke only he had heard.
“Of course, of course. You are an advisor only. And I would enjoy conversing with Sara, should she be willing. But still, seeing as I am already here, why not regale me with your thoughts on the battle’s progression? It was the Empire’s first deployment of firearms, and Tulian’s first major military engagement since your wife defeated me at the end of the war. There is much I want to learn.”
Evie took a breath to respond, shocked to find herself positively eager to have this discussion. It was an opportunity to relive the happiest memories of her youth, when she had spent hours reviewing her training with Master Graf.
But then the frustrating, unavoidable implications of Graf’s wording began to worm its way into her mind. When studied from a more cynical lens, this conversation could take on an entirely different light. She was speaking to Graf Urs, a loyal Sporaton mercenary. He was once considered a personal friend of the king, and was even technically a member of the nobility. Yet she had very nearly begun blithely sharing the details of both Tulian and Imperial military secrets with him. When they had last met face to face, Master Graf had made himself clear: no matter how much he disagreed with the King’s decisions, he would always be a subject of Sporatos.
“...you are an enemy of the Tulian state,” she said, her voice as sad as it was guarded. “And you are unfamiliar with the capabilities of our weapons and their tactics. If someone other than myself were to reveal such information to you, I would have them hanged for treason.”
Graf snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Evie. What are you worried about exposing? The capabilities of your twelve-pounder Napoleons and rifled muskets that you used today?”
“I-”
In a display that she immediately recognized as a mocking imitation, Graf began making a show of inspecting his fingernails, picking at each finger. Just as she had as a child.
“Or would the discussion somehow turn to the four 64-pounders you have recently installed in the North Star? Or perhaps you are concerned about divulging the secrets of the rifled 32-pounders your wife’s apprentices are developing in her absence, which will be the first deployed prototypes of breechloading, emcotton-powered cannons? Of course I wouldn’t expect you to divulge the secrets of whatever it is Tinvel and Chona have been spending their days doing with Archmage Garen in the lowest rooms of the Tulian University, nor the mechanism which drives the flight of the biplanes they created. I would be curious to see one fly, however, if you have one present. Particularly these ‘monoplanes’ I have begun to hear whispers of.”
Evie’s jaw clenched, her teeth audibly grinding. The joy she had felt for seeing Master Graf was being leeched away, replaced by simmering frustration.
“How many spies have you placed among our people?”
“Placed?” He flicked his wrist dismissively, returning his hands behind his back. “None. I simply never removed the agents which monitored Old Tulian. It would have been foolish in the extreme to leave southern Sporatos unguarded, no matter what the King said. Of course, I was only anticipating some minor warlords to emerge from the rubble, perhaps growing powerful enough to raid Sporaton villages, not…” He made a circling motion to indicate the general area. “All of this. Regardless, my dear, I do not think you need to worry that our conversation will be exposing secrets to your family’s enemies.”
Behind her cold eyes, Evie seized on one particular data point. That the spies Graf had in Tulian were remnants from Old Tulian, which fell ten years ago. Graf did not trust embedded work to younger individuals, viewing them too likely to ‘go native,’ and so they would have been twenty years old at the youngest when they were sent to Old Tulian. Given the decade since its fall, that put an absolute lower bound of thirty years old on her targets, with a fair likelihood of them being considerably older. Graf did not trust easily, and she doubted he found those who had gained his confidence often enough to cycle his agents frequently. If she read through records of Sporaton-Tulian relations to find the most recent period of heightened tensions between the Kingdoms before the storms, further suspicion could be cast upon those who had moved to the nation during that time.
“Have you told all this to the King?” Evie asked. “You know far more than even our greatest estimates of Sporaton intelligence.”
Even I don’t know what Tinvel and Chona are working on with Garen, she reflected privately. I thought they were only working on the planes. Perhaps Graf was misinformed, his source misled by routine lessons they attended? I will have to ask Sara later.
“To withhold information from the King is high treason,” Graf said, sarcasm dripping from the statement. “But to answer the spirit of your question?” He smiled coyly. “No. Simply put, the King hasn’t asked. It was determined long ago that it is impossible to have spies in the city of Amarat’s Champion. And I do not intend to volunteer the information. I told Sara that I would rejoice should her experimental government succeed, and I was not lying. I have no interest in sabotaging her efforts.”
Evie did her best to not let her relief show, but she felt a great wave of it, enough so that she threatened to sag in place. So many of Tulian’s strategies depended on what Sara called “shock and awe,” of taking their enemies by surprise. While Sara and David’s minds contained the designs of weapons capable of defending Tulian almost single-handedly, they were painfully hesitant to use them. The unnatural technological progress they could encourage in Tulian had its limits, and each step would inevitably be imitated. If they dragged the wider world to the precipice of their expertise, they would eventually find themselves facing weapons that were not just their equal, but their outright superior, wielded by massive armies and bolstered by powerful enchantments they had no chance of replicating. This was why they intended to stretch their technological development across years and decades, waiting long enough to allow Tulian’s population to swell, to allow for its spell and artificery industries to rival the great powers. Only then could they be confident in the nation’s long-term safety.
“Well?” Graf prompted. “Have I addressed your concerns? I hope so. I am growing impatient in my desire to hear the tale of your victory.”
Evie allowed herself a small sigh, easing the spring of tension that had coiled within her chest. She turned to the Powdered Lead mercenaries milling nearby and waved their sergeant over.
“Your squadron is dismissed to continue your duties,” she told him. “But if you find the opportunity, have some members of your squad bring up a table and chairs for Master Graf and I.”
“Is Sergeant Mui still in charge, ma’am?” He asked.
She glanced at the catfolk. He was doing better, but he was not in any condition to take command. Besides, she couldn’t be certain that hadn’t been an assassination attempt.
“No, but you are familiar with the mission parameters. It seems the worst of the Imperial offenses have tapered off, though that is a fragile statement. Guard the civilians below from Imperial retribution, if you would, and should the situation begin to spiral out of control, fire a shot into the air. I am near enough to reach you in moments.”
“Will do, ma’am,” he said, ducking his head. Then he hesitated.
“What? Out with it.”
“Just wondering if I should leave some of my squad behind as a guard for you, ma’am.”
“No. I am safe in Master Graf’s presence.”
“Not trying to insult any friend o’ yours,” the sergeant hurriedly assured her, holding his hands up placatingly. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I was more concerned about some rebel getting a funny idea and trying to knife you in the back or some such. Y’understand.”
Evie pursed her lips. “Allow me to clarify. It is due to Master Graf’s presence that I am safe. So long as he is with me, I have no need of protection. You are dismissed, Sergeant.”
The sergeant’s eyes flicked to Graf, wondering just who he was. He’d likely heard of the Night’s Eye, but that didn’t mean he knew a thing about their leader. The sergeant shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “Yes ma’am,” he said, saluting sharply. He turned away and began to bark orders.
Evie turned her attention back to Graf, who had watched the entire exchange with a small, proud smile.
“You have encouraged far more independence in your junior officers than I ever anticipated you would, dear.”
“While Sara’s ideas are at times frighteningly liberal, I cannot disregard the fruit they have borne in our military. Firearms have changed everything. The patient discipline and unthinking obedience which won the battles of yesteryear are now a death sentence. Officers who dogmatically follow orders end up overwhelmed and dead.”
“And do you believe this doctrinal change was responsible for today’s overwhelming victory?”
“No. The Imperial troops have proved maddeningly resistant to any of our more radical reforms. They were raised in a culture of absolute subservience, one perhaps even more extreme than Sporatos. I can barely convince them to fire at an enemy Irregular, much less put thought and effort into it. They seem convinced their shot’s failure is preordained.”
“But your mercenaries, then? They have benefited from your emphasis on independent action?”
“Certainly. But this battle required little initiative. With their rifles…” Evie paused, narrowing her eyes at Graf. “What is the range of the standard Tulian soldier’s infantry rifle?”
“Per government specifications, four hundred yards, though that number has proven in practice to vary by as much as twenty percent depending on the smithy responsible for an individual weapon’s construction. Hot Rifles, however, have been shown to maintain a shot deviation of three inches at 800 yards, well beyond the ability of most riflemen to spot a target. The personal work of Hurlish…” Graf shrugged. “I have never been able to uncover the performance of the weapons she creates. If you’ve a record of it somewhere, it’s unknown to me.”
Evie cursed under her breath. “You still are far too well informed. I cannot fathom how much I will demand in ransom for your spies when we finally catch them. A Duchy’s worth, to start the bidding. At least their work has made this conversation easier to have.”
“A duchy?” Graf laughed. “I am a wealthy man, my dear, but not that wealthy.”
“Don’t bother lying to me. My mother’s agents stole copies of the Night’s Eye account books, including your personal accountants. I have an inkling of how many Kings owe you debts and favors. But regardless, as I was saying, little initiative was required in this battle by the Powdered Lead. They remained beyond the range of enemy archers, picking off anyone who was left exposed as a result of the artillery fire. They essentially served the same role as a five-hundred strong company of Irregular longbows.”
“A fair enough analogy. I also noticed that your artillery encountered difficulty,” Graf said, nodding to the road the bronze weapons were currently being lugged down. “A considerable portion of the later shots were inaccurate.”
“We didn’t properly account for the jungle’s constraint of the smoke. We expected it to easily filter through the trees, but that didn’t happen.”
“And so you kept firing blindly?”
“Sara anticipated these difficulties, if only when we had a larger cannon battery, and had begun preliminary training of the artillery crews in the practice of receiving shot guidance from a forward observer.” Evie drummed her fingers on her thighs, still frustrated. “This was our first attempt to use the tactic in battle, and it proved woefully inadequate. Due to the forced proximity of the weapons on the jungle road, our observers could not identify which cannon fired which projectile, leading to repeated erroneous corrections, a series of errors which only compounded with time.”
“Then why did you not pause the firing to allow the smoke to dissipate?”
"To do so would have exposed a flaw in our weaponry. In order to break the morale of the enemy as soon as possible, it was critical to maintain psychological as well as physical pressure. If we’d had the positioning to do so, we would have kept firing the cannons even as the infantry advanced.”
“The expenditure of powder would be considerable with such a tactic.”
“Sara would use every ounce of blackpowder in the army’s stores if it meant saving the life of a single soldier.”
“Such affection is dangerous in a commander.”
“As I have told her many times.”
Evie’s soldiers chose that moment to return with a small table and two chairs. It was a simple wooden set, so flimsy that she wondered if they could hold the weight of Graf and his armor. She pointed for the soldiers to set the stolen furniture on a flatter portion of the twisting path, then moved to sit with Graf. He settled into his chair across from her with a relieved groan, stretching out his legs. The wood creaked and shifted, but did not snap.
“It is a relief to get off my feet.” He nodded to the Powdered Lead soldiers. “My thanks. I’m sure you had better things to do than bring an old man a chair.”
Unsure how to respond, the mercenaries just nodded awkwardly before beating a hasty retreat. Evie doubted the average Powdered Lead soldier knew much of Master Graf’s accomplishments, but they were not blind. Anyone who commanded as much respect from Evie as he did was someone exceptional.
“Now,” Graf said, pulling a rolled paper and nub of charcoal from a belt bag. “I noted several oddities throughout the battle that piqued my interest.”
The paper he unraveled was a near flawless sketch of the entire clearing across which the battle had occurred. It put the Imperial scout’s renditions to shame, and its scale claimed accuracy to the range of a single yard.
Graf pointed at the road. “As you deployed your troops, I noted that you used a-”
“Is this a Skill?” Evie interrupted.
Graf’s eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”
She snatched the map from him, inspecting it closely. “Even the Night’s Eye scouts don’t produce maps of this precision, and this is your handwriting. Yet I know for a fact that you have no talent for sketching.” She looked up at his aghast expression and rolled her eyes. “Sara was raised in a world which had no taboo regarding Skills, and her attitude has rubbed off on me. Besides, you are an old man. Is it not time that you pass your knowledge onto the younger generations, customs be damned?”
Master Graf ran a hand through his hair, laughing in disbelief.
“You truly have been changing, Evie. I can’t imagine the young girl I trained daring to ask me something a tenth as bold.”
“I am responsible for things I care far too much about these days. I cannot allow sentiment to be an obstacle.”
“I understand. Then…” Graf glanced at Mui and the healer, who were still somewhat nearby. He lowered his voice. “Yes, it is a Skill. Early in my career as a commanding officer, I eschewed a support staff as often as I was able. I found that producing my own maps of the upcoming battle was an excellent way to find a new perspective on the grounds, and this practice eventually earned me a Skill. It has since grown to the heights you see before you.”
“Hm.” Evie handed him back the paper. “Fascinating, but I doubt I will pursue a similar Skill, considering the technological advances we anticipate in the coming years. I apologize for the interruption. Please continue.”
“You aren’t going to elaborate on that cryptic comment about upcoming technology, are you?”
“No.”
“Of course.” Graf cleared his throat, pointing at the paper once more. “Your army’s choice to alternate their deployment from the road, one block of soldiers moving left, the next right, struck me as particularly strange. It produced notable gaps between each group of soldiers, risking the enemy sallying out to envelop individual groups…”
Evie listened intently as Graf began replaying the battle minute by minute, his recollection of the events even sharper than her own. As had always been his way, he did not overtly criticize any decision. He simply stated what had occurred, then asked her for an explanation. It was up to her, she knew, to identify any flaws in the strategies on display.
He was not training her on how to correct the specific mistakes she had made, but rather giving her lessons on how to analyze her own actions. Graf had no interest, he had always said, of creating a master of mere memorized strategies. Mercenaries were not soldiers who could rely upon facing the same tired old foes. A company like the Night’s Eye fought across desert dunes, snowy forests, and the winding warrens of city streets. Graf wanted officers who were masters of improvisation, able to adjust their tactics to any situation fate saw fit to drop in their lap.
Knowing this, Evie did her best to explain herself. Much of the battle’s progress had been out of her hands, but Master Graf did not budge an inch. He couldn’t care less about improving General Borek’s strategic skills. He cared only for her. If she tried to say that she had no choice in a particular decision, he would ignore her as if she’d never spoken. In this hypothetical retelling of the battle, Evie was its sole architect.
So she played along.
And it was wonderful.
When she had been secretly training with the Night’s Eye, Graf had only tutored her in the command of small Irregular squads. She’d had no interest at the time in becoming a general, and he’d respected that. Now that she was in command of far more troops, he easily pivoted his lessons, using the same rhetorical strategies he always had. It filled her with a strange, fuzzy warmness, an emotion that it took her some time to pin down and name.
Nostalgia.
She couldn’t recall another time when she had been caught by the sensation. Before Sara had put a collar around her neck, Evie’s past had been something… best left ignored. What few joys she’d known were always tainted by the dangling sword of her mother. Everything she’d enjoyed as a child, from her lessons with Graf to the few tutors she genuinely respected, had been another tool in the woman’s arsenal. If she misbehaved by the smallest of margins, she lost every privilege necessary to lead an enjoyable life. Until recently, that was all she had known.
But now? Now she could slouch forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table as she watched Graf trace lines on the parchment. She could interrupt him, ignore him, and scoff whenever she wanted. Graf never punished her for that, of course. He’d never punished her for anything. Only taught her what not to do.
And so she reveled in her recollection of the battle. She told Graf of the way they demolished the fortification’s gates first, then targeted the stretches of palisade which were on the flattest and easiest to traverse sections of terrain, trapping the enemy garrison within. She told him of the confidence they’d felt in their musket’s ability to break an enemy charge, and of the way they’d carefully husbanded each formation’s position, ensuring they were close enough to fire their weapons in volleys, but well beyond the reasonable range of bow shot. She lamented the inexperienced Imperial officers and their cowardice in the face of Irregular longbows, then praised the Powdered Lead sharpshooters and their ability to nullify the enemy’s lone effective weaponry. Evie shared her suspicion that, based on the enemy infantry’s failure to react to considerable injuries, the enemy garrison had been bolstered by a powerful healing mage who was casting a ritual spell capable of dulling the pain the troops had felt. She assured Graf that squads of the Powered Lead were even now combing the captured camp in search of the theoretical healer, each joined by a low-ranked Imperial mage in order to identify their target.
And as the conversation stretched on, well after Mui and the healer had departed, Evie began to grow suspicious of something. That Master Graf was not, in fact, treating this meeting as one between pupil and master. His questions grew less well-defined as they delved further into the particulars, his silences stretching longer. He listened attentively, and often spent a few moments gathering his thoughts before replying, choosing his words very carefully.
It was as if… as if Master Graf was treating her as an equal. Like he was feigning the notion that she had any valuable input she could provide him, as if she weren’t a meaningless figurehead, but a fellow general, and even more than that, a general which commanded his respect.
It discomforted her. She could only assume it was a ploy of some sort, a rhetorical strategy she was unfamiliar with… but still. She did not enjoy the idea that she had actually been in charge of the battlefield. She had barely fought, her only offensive action being the firing of a single shot from one of her guard’s Hot Rifles in order to take out an enemy mage. The idea that the battle had rested on her shoulders, that the ambitions of her wife had in any way depended on her expertise? It nauseated her.
Master Graf seemed to pick up on this. He retreated from discussing the more granular details of the battle, instead focusing on larger abstractions, asking after the burgeoning philosophy of gunpowder warfare. His own tests with the Night’s Eye were progressing well, he told her, but were always colored by the biases of soldiers who had spent decades in combat without the aid of blackpowder. He was fascinated by the perspective afforded to Evie by exposure to Sara’s upbringing, and, after she had briefly touched on her father-in-law’s Earthly historical interests, became almost obsessed with the idea of meeting David in person.
Evie was so engrossed in their conversation, in fact, that she did not notice the slow shift in the camp around her. Her eyes and ears were locked on Graf, his interest equally returned. She only became aware of it when the camp had gone almost silent, when she abruptly realized the dull roar of thousands of intermixing soldiers had vanished.
Evie glanced up.
Imperial soldiers lined the rim of the mining pit, muskets unslung from their back. They were arranged exactly as Evie and Sara had trained them: the first rank kneeling, the second rank standing, the third rank patiently waiting for the second rank to fire their weapons and duck out of the way. They were not aiming their weapons down at them, not yet, but they rested at their shoulders in the ‘ready’ position, prepared to hop into firing position at a single word from their officers.
“I was wondering when you would notice,” Graf said.
“How long have they been standing there?”
“No more than a minute or two. It seems they formed ranks out of sight, then advanced rapidly into position. It wasn’t the best-executed maneuver, fairly desynchronized, but competent enough, considering their low level of training. I think you’ve done good work with them.”
“Sara must be throwing a fit somewhere up there.”
“I’m sure she knows I’m with you. There’s nothing for her to worry about.”
“You seem to assume she would have a rational reaction to an army pointing its guns at me.”
“If she actually feared for your safety, I imagine we would be hearing gunshots, not timid silence.”
“True enough.”
Evie slipped out of her chair, standing with deliberate slowness. She didn’t want to spook any overeager soldier into firing a premature shot. She assumed a position of parade rest, feet shoulder width apart, her hands folded at the small of her back. Her tail flicked back and forth slowly, its tip drawing a wide oval in the air behind her.
Graf grunted as he stood as well, taking a more casual posture, one hand resting near, but not quite on, the hilt of his sword, the thumb of his other hand hooked through a belt loop.
High above them, at the northernmost section of the half-finished mine, the wall of soldiers parted. General Borek emerged from the crowd. His blacksteel glaive was held in both hands, the runes across his enchanted armor flared to life like she had never seen before, and his open-faced helm had been augmented by a steel mask carved in the image of what she thought was a younger version of his countenance. It was difficult to tell, because every mage in the army was standing behind him with their hands raised, maintaining layer upon layer of half-transparent shields. The officers and Warriors of the army stood in front of the mages and behind General Borek, their weapons drawn and their stances firm. Almost all of them had augmented their armor in some way or another, slapping on as much additional protection as they could fit without ruining their equipment’s flexibility.
“Graf Urs!” General Borek called. His thick-tongued command of the Continental language echoed unnaturally over the muddy pit, carried by sorcerous power. “What is your purpose here?”
“I came to bear witness to my pupil’s first battle!” Graf replied in flawless, unaccented Kemari, prompting a rumble of surprise from the army. His tone had the rasp of age, but his words were firm, and they carried easily across the distance even without spellcraft. “I have trained her since she was a girl, and wished to see the fruits of my labor with my own eyes.”
There was a pause as Master Graf’s words were absorbed by General Borek and his staff, some of them whispering to one another.
“Have you any proof of your peaceful intentions?” The general asked. “After what has occurred, I find it unlikely your arrival is mere coincidence.”
It was Graf’s turn to look away, glancing at Evie with an expression of mild confusion. She shook her head, unaware.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, General,” Graf called. “What event are you referring to?”
There was another flurry of discussion by General Borek’s advisors, many of whom Evie now knew by name. Her ears flattened as she watched their animated discussion’s progress.
She recognized just by the wild gesticulations of the advisors that they were offended by what they were already thinking of as Graf’s blatant lie. She could hear many of their voices in her mind clear as day, each of them haughtily scoffing at the very thought that Graf Urs being ‘unaware’ of something.
“They don’t believe you,” Evie informed Graf. She took care to speak in a way that moved her mouth as little as possible, certain that someone was reading her lips through a looking glass.
Graf only sighed. “Wonderful.”
The furious debate up on the ridge came to a sudden close as General Borek finally whirled on his advisors, pointing angrily at several of them in turn. There was a brief lull, and then the General said something that sent everyone in earshot into a frenzy. His Warriors, officers, advisors, and even a few lowborn attendants began to shout, throwing their arms up in the air or making pleading gestures to the General. He ignored them all by turning his back to them, sweeping his glaive in a wide, purposefully dramatic arc that ended with it settled across his back. He began walking down the mine’s switchback path, pausing only to turn his head and shout something that sent the Warriors who had begun to follow him scurrying back.
“Ah, he is coming to speak in person,” Master Graf said, sounding pleased. “It’s always easier to clean horseshit off my boots when I have a rag to wipe with.”
“I don’t know what you expected, when you came into their territory without permission. King Sporatos would nearly have considered it an act of war, if an Imperial archmage had appeared unknowingly within his borders.”
“Bah. Archmages do not serve as mercenaries. Having a Sporaton archmage in their territory would rightly concern them, but I am different. Not only that, Aydrion gave me a Writ of Travel himself, which they are surely aware of.”
“Aydrion…” Evie’s tail stilled. “Emperor Aydrion?”
“Yes.”
Before Evie could investigate why Graf had been given the right to travel across the Empire by the emperor himself, General Borek was drawing down upon them. He walked with determination, his gait measured, showing nothing of the terror Evie had seen in the few others who had confronted Graf Urs.
“Two hours ago,” General Borek began, even as he was still walking closer, “A beast broke through Distant Sea’s first outer lock.”
Graf stiffened beside Evie.
“Two hours ago,” General Borek continued, his voice turned tinny by his steel mask, “a Leviathan beached itself on the rocks of the Carrion capital.”
Graf shifted his feet. His right food slid the barest touch back, his left foot twisting to face forward. The thumb in his belt loop stopped tapping out a bored rhythm. General Borek came to a stop some twenty feet before Graf, his beady pupils nearly invisible beneath the eyeslits of his mask.
“Two hours ago,” he said, his jaw clenched so tightly his head was shaking, “every tide of every shore began to rise. In the lands of the nearest night, mages report that a star has disappeared, replaced by two more. Within our own libraries, letters and words have rearranged themselves on scrolls more ancient than the Empire, and even those who watched the text swim before their eyes cannot recall what they once said.”
“The world is changing. Any fool can see that.”
Borek took a deep, bitter breath, “Two hours ago, the Keakou Valleys were filled with fire. We have received no word from our watchtowers. They were destroyed. Every tower, gone.”
Graf’s hand twitched off his belt, fingertips brushed the hilt of his sword.
“If you are lying to me,” he growled, low words rolling like gravel in his throat, “the consequences will be dire.”
“I speak what I have been told. Disaster after disaster has begun to shake the world, and now? At the onset of this rising cataclysm, here you stand. Tell me, Aberration. Why should I not eject you from our forests this very instant? What calamity do you intend to draw down upon us?”
“You…” Graf took a deep, calming breath. “...should learn how to choose your words more carefully, General.”
General Borek tilted his nose up. “I speak the words given to me by Emperor Aydrion himself. You would not dare assault his Voice.”
A thunderclap detonated beside Evie’s head. Dirt and mud were thrown into the air like a meteor had struck the planet, a crater suddenly yawning open beneath her. She fell a half dozen feet before impacting the new floor, nearly breaking an ankle as she stumbled forward, face striking a dirt wall.
She waited several pounding heartbeats, trying to control her shaking limbs, then lifted her head. A mud-filled cough exploded out of her mouth, doubling her back over. When she could finally control herself, she opened her teary eyes.
Master Graf was standing over Borek’s armored form some fifty feet away, a steel mask crumpled in his palm. Enchanted runes sparked and popped as Graf’s fist tightened, filling the air with shimmering smoke. General Borek had been driven onto his back, blacksteel glaive drawn, its haft braced against the ground as if to repel a brigade of charging cavalry.
“You may tell Emeror Aydrion,” Graf said, staring down at General Borek, “that if he wishes to threaten me, he should not use gnats as his messengers. Especially those fool enough to think I can be cowed by their distant master.”
Graf dropped the mask. The magical artifact broke against the dirt, peeling apart as if it had been no sturdier than gold leafing.
Evie could not see the expression on Borek’s face, not from so poor an angle, but she could see his body’s response. It was… impressive. General Borek was not trembling, nor trying to crawl away. He held his glaive firmly before himself, ready to thrust with as much strength as he could muster from the awkward position he had fallen into. Evie wondered if he had been fast enough to retreat from Graf, or if he’d simply been driven that far back.
“You dare?” Borek spoke in so low a whisper that even Evie’s ears struggled to understand him. “The Emperor has called you to heel, and you dare defy him? Have you any idea what wrath you will incur?”
“Have you?” Graf reached into a pouch and pulled out a small square of stiff paper, covered in elaborate, glittering script, its edges tinged yellow by age. He flicked it at Borek’s chest, making the General flinch. “Is Aydrion’s word so unreliable these days? I wonder what his court would think, to see an Imperial Writ revoked after thirty measly years.”
“Don’t lie to yourself. Precedent has no place in what has happened. Mountain fall, stars vanish, and the hand of Graf Urs nears his sword. I have not just been ordered to see to your removal. I am duty-bound to ensure a calamity does not befall my home. I have every right to demand an explanation for your presence. No brutish threat will see me abandon this cause.”
“If that’s all you want,” a voice called, echoing unnaturally across the mine, “I can help you out.”
Evie turned to see Sara pushing her way through the wall of muskets, black hair cascading with unnatural grace over her elegant armor. After the battle, the gunfire, and a long march through deep mud, she should have been an exhausted, dirty woman. As was her nature, her beauty remained flawless. No one tried to stop her as she shuffled through the Imperial army.
Unlike Borek, who had slowly made his way down the trail, Sara simply hopped off each ledge, treating each switchback as one massive step. She had none of the decorum of the General; she looked like a bored child taking the stairs two at a time. Evie hurried to join Sara just as she stomped up to Borek, who was cautiously standing up once more. Sara stood before General Borek, arms folded over her chest, one hip cocked to the side. Her voice lost its unnatural volume as she spoke.
“Do you want to know why Graf’s here, Borek?”
“This matter does not concern you, Chosen-”
“He’s here to see his daughter.”
Evie, Graf, and Borek froze.
“She just fought her first battle, after all,” Sara said, ignoring them. “And she did a good job. Would you be surprised when a mother comes to her daughter’s coronation? Of course not. He’s spent years getting her ready for this, and now the moment’s finally here.”
General Borek was the first to recover his wits. “His child? The Eliah household’s lineage is well documented-”
“And his grandson, of course,” Sara interrupted, as if he’d never spoken. “Graf hasn’t met Tahn yet. Not to mention the fact that he’s barely spoken to his daughter’s other wife, the mother of his grandchild.” Sara’s voice suddenly leapt in volume to boom through the sky, easily heard by all. “He’s a busy man, yet he made time to do what was right by his family. And here you are, keeping him from that duty. I thought your people placed pride in honoring their kin, General Borek.”
General Borek’s face was at war with itself, religious devotion railing against furious indignation.
“By his own admission,” Borek said, biting each word off, “he has come to see a student. A former pupil.”
Sara snorted out a condescending laugh, letting the impossible roar fade from her lungs. “Yeah. Sure. A student. The girl he’s known from the day she was born, who he happily took under his wing against the personal orders of his Kingdom’s most powerful Duchess. The girl he choked out his own King to protect, and who he traveled almost a thousand miles to come see. Just a student, of course.”
“That does not change the fact that she is not his daughter-”
“Do you know how old the current rendition of the Imperial Code of Inheritance is? Because I do,” Sara sneered. “It was signed into law seven thousand six hundred and forty four years ago. And for those seven and a half thousand years, your Empire’s law has ruled that adopted children should, if the adopting parents order it, be considered identical to a blood relation in all matters of law.”
If he hadn’t had fur to hide his skin, Evie imagined General Borek’s face would be scarlet with fury.
“Imperial inheritance has nothing to do with this! The world has been thrown into crisis, and the Aberration stands within our borders. That is all that matters.”
Sara’s lips split in a twisted, predatory grin. Evie took a reflexive step forward, shooting her wife a meaningful look. She tried to shove her thoughts into Sara’s head, willing her not to compromise their position. Graf was not in danger. Evie was not in danger. Evie did not understand the undercurrent of the two aged generals’ discussion, but she knew that it was so far beyond her and Sara that it was nigh incomprehensible. There was nothing here worth compromising Tulian’s alliance with the Empire. With silent, pleading eyes, she begged Sara to reign in her anger.
If Sara noticed her begging, she did not show it.
“Here’s the thing, General Borek. I know when people are lying. Always. And Graf Urs? He’s telling the truth. He’s here to see Evie. There is nothing else to concern yourself with.”
“Have you any evidence of that?” General Borek glanced between Sara and Graf, swallowing. Evie did not envy him his position; trapped between the edict of an ancient Emperor, a Champion’s divine will, and Graf Urs. “I cannot allow his continued presence without proof. Too much has happened in too short a time, too many disasters unfolding to blame coincidence. If he acts against our Empire, neither the Emperor nor the gods would ever forgive me. I could not forgive myself.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Really? Graf’s that big of a deal that my word isn't enough for you?”
“Yes.”
Sara shook her head. Evie wanted to say something, wanted to advise her wife, but she couldn’t think of anything. The tension was overwhelming.
“Graf.”
“Yes?”
“Look me in the eye.”
He met her gaze.
Sara flinched, wincing at something only she could see in Graf’s eyes, but didn’t look away. She took a breath, steeling herself, then met his gaze more evenly.
“What is your purpose in visiting Imperial territory?”
“To bear witness to Evie’s first battle, and to discuss certain matters of personal relevance with her and her wives.”
“Are these personal matters a threat to this army or anyone in it?”
“No.”
Sara turned to Borek. “He is telling the truth. I swear this by all the power the Goddess Amarat has given me, and ask that she strike me dead where I stand if I am wrong.”
Evie and General Borek both let out a small gasp. Sara had not said that she should be struck down if she was lying; only if she was wrong. If she had read Graf’s intentions incorrectly, if he had successfully duped her, she would have offered herself up for annihilation.
Nothing happened. No bolt of lightning ripped out of the clear sky, no pit to the hells opened beneath her feet, and she was not perfunctorily erased from the world without warning.
“That good enough for you, Borek?”
The vanara man ground his teeth. He looked up at his advisors, then back to Sara.
“It is enough to… to delay. There are factions and powers at work here that you do not understand-”
“I doubt that.”
“-and I am constrained by many, many things.” General Borek looked at Graf. “You will act peacefully during your time in our lands?”
“I have no plans of doing otherwise at the moment.”
“I need more than that.”
“You will not get it.”
“Shit,” General Borek spat, reaching up to scratch his furry cheeks with both hands. Evie’s eyebrows rose. She had not heard the man swear outside of battle before, much less so obviously lose his composure. “There is too much happening too quickly. I need to speak to my family, to my allies, and the Visyas need to form a council as rapidly as possible. The Emperor has summoned the Adjutant- both Adjutants- to the capital, and so we are without leadership.”
“Fascinating,” Graf drawled. “Am I free to go?”
General Borek scowled at him. “Yes. Go do whatever it is that you were here for. I’ve put on my performance, and they will have to be satisfied with that. It’s not as if I ever thought this army could kill you. If any of my enemies within the camp attack you, I ask that you kill them quietly, and that you send a messenger to inform me as soon as possible.”
“Is anyone stupid enough to do that?” Sara asked.
“They shouldn’t be, but I have yet to see the height of mortal idiocy. I ask that you stay close to Graf these next few hours, Sara. My guards will be too busy attempting to keep this blaze from becoming a wildfire to protect you.”
“She has me,” Evie said.
“And you are one woman. Regardless…” Borek searched his belt for something, then swore. “I must leave. Sara, your Powdered Lead will best be-”
“They’re not in the camp.”
“What?”
“We have confiscated the fort’s logging equipment in order to begin the construction of a cordon several miles down the road, to better imprison the civilians until a ransom can be negotiated.”
She is building them a makeshift fort to protect them from Imperial retribution, Evie’s mind translated. So that was what Sara had been doing with the distraction provided by Graf’s appearance. She’d snuck thousands of civilians out from under the noses of an entire army.
“We will discuss that later, I assure you,” Borek snapped. “Goodbye.”
Borek tore off without another word, heading back up the paths. His advisors began to spill down into the mine, hurrying to meet him halfway.
“Hm,” Evie hummed, watching Borek go. “The Imperials are not as united as they prefer to present, it would seem.”
“They did a good job hiding it, though,” Sara said. “Based on what I’ve heard the last couple hours, the Adjutant allowed Borek to stuff this army full of people that are personally loyal to him, then told them to shut the hell up about any internal rivalries. Didn’t want to give us a bad impression, I guess.”
“Surely they knew you would easily discover the ruse.”
Sara shrugged. “Worked for a few weeks. I can give ‘em credit for that, even if it was half because I wasn’t bothering to dig until today.” She turned to Graf. “So. How have things been in Sporatos?”
“Tiring as always. So far, this trip has been a pleasant diversion.”
“Didn’t seem like it.”
“I do not enjoy politics, but I find them much less stressful when I am not honor-bound to avoid violence against the politicians involved.”
“Fair enough.” Sara took a deep, satisfied breath, putting her hands on her hips. “So. Want to go meet the chick that invented guns in this world?”
“Hurlish of Tulian, you mean?”
“Yeah. She’s got Tahn with her, too.”
Graf smiled. “I would love to.”
Notes:
Well, this chapter required a whole lot of damn rewrites. The funny thing about writing Big Plot Events that occur via discussion is that every tiny little word matters. I spent a lot of time going over sentences again and again, trying to iron down exactly what was being said, ensuring it didn't conflict with anything else. Hopefully I got across everything I wanted to with this one! Lots for y'all to dissect, I'm sure.
Chapter 140: B3 Ch27: Fur, Feathers, Scales
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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There was something dangerously heartwarming about the scene before her. It was just hours after a battle had been fought, hours after Sara had finished screaming until her throat felt raw and bloody, and here she was, staring down at something with a quiet, unadulterated joy. That wasn’t natural.
She couldn’t help it. This was just too damn cute.
Graf sat in Hurlish’s oversized rocking chair, a little green-skinned baby cradled close to his chest. Tahn was suckling on Graf’s index finger something fierce, his bushy brown eyebrows furrowed in extreme concentration. His jaw was working as hard as it knew how, wiggling left to right, while his hands– which he’d just started to understand could be used to grab things the week before– were wrapped tightly around the base of Graf’s slobber-covered finger. Tahn had finally found a part of someone’s body he could latch his fangs onto without it being jerked away alongside a shout of pain, and he was reveling in the opportunity. His adorable gurgling noises filled the air as he attacked Graf.
Sara wouldn’t admit it, not to anybody, not even her wives or her father, but this was why she’d shoved photography up the priority list of Tulian’s burgeoning chemical industries. The fact that she wouldn’t have a photo of this moment was the worst sort of sin.
There was a small upside to the absence of a camera, though. Without any reason to worry about being recorded for prosperity, Graf wasn’t sparing a thought for keeping up appearances. Though it felt weird to be saying it about a man in his eighties, Sara thought he was almost as cute as Tahn. Graf was looking down at the child with a mystified wonder, as baffled by his own reaction to Tahn as he was enraptured by the child’s every move. He had a light, open-mouthed smile, and had begun to make little cooing noises in answer to Tahn’s gurgles, wiggling his finger back and forth like they were playing tug of war. The weathered, bony fingers of his other hand supported Tahn’s diapered butt gently, keeping him firmly in place, but Sara could see tendons straining beneath his skin. Master Graf Urs, a deadly mercenary renowned across gods-knew-how-many kingdoms, was absolutely petrified by the thought of letting this little baby fall.
“I’m sorry,” he said without looking away from Tahn, “could you repeat the question?”
They were beneath a tall pavilion, one that had technically been set up for the army’s command staff. Sara knew perfectly well they had extras, so she hadn’t felt any guilt when she and Evie had commandeered it. A plush rug had been spread across the trampled grass, elegantly carved wooden chairs arranged in an oval around the spot where the table had been, until Hurlish had tossed it aside. Sara stood a few feet away from Graf, still clad head-to-toe in her diplomatic armor, while Evie had dragged a chair over in order to sit next to him, her chin resting on her palm as she watched Tahn. Hurlish sat across from the pair, but since the command staff of General Borek’s army hadn’t included any orcs, Hurlish had been forced to snap the arms off one of the richly decorated chairs in order to fit. She hadn’t looked very guilty when she did it.
“I was asking if you had an independent source of blacksteel,” Hurlish repeated. “Someone who’s not in either Empire, Sporatos, or, preferably, on this continent at all. We haven’t got any of it left in Tulian, and everyone in a thousand miles has turned us down when we asked to buy some of their stock.”
“I don’t, I’m afraid,” Graf said. He chuckled as he tried to pull his finger away from Tahn, only to have the baby open his mouth just enough to make a series of angry babbles, using both arms to drag it back. Graf let him struggle for a moment before, of course, letting him win.
“How’s that the case?” Hurlish asked. “You know practically everyone everywhere, but you don’t have a blacksteel supplier?”
“Wealthy though the Night’s Eye may be, blacksteel is still too expensive for me to contemplate making it a standard part of my troop’s equipment. What blacksteel exists among us is something individual members purchased for themselves. Or, I suppose, as is more common, earned it by killing some noble fool on the battlefield.”
“Damnit.”
“Hurlish,” Evie scolded without looking up from Tahn.
“Really? ‘Damn’ counts as a swear word now? Come on, he’s not gonna be talking ‘till the winter after next. He won’t remember it.”
“When I said I do not want us swearing around our child, I did not add any caveats to the statement.”
“Alright, alright.” Hurlish held her hands up in surrender. “Whatever. Just didn’t think that one counted, was all.”
“It does.” Evie returned her full attention to Tahn, stern expression melting away. “What about manufacturing methods?” Evie asked, addressing Graf. “If we cannot purchase blacksteel, do you know anything of the means to create it?”
“I am afraid I cannot help with that, either. In all my life, I have met only three smiths who claimed to be able to create blacksteel, and all of them wisely disallowed me from entering their forges. A mercenary, after all, is the least likely sort of person to properly guard a secret.”
“Only three?” Sara asked, eyebrows raised. “I know Sporatos has all their supply coming from the capital, but I thought that was just the King being paranoid. What, is there just one dude in the whole country who knows how to make it?”
Graf looked up at Sara, giving her a meaningful look.
“Da–” Sara cleared her throat. “Darn. That sucks. If we had some blacksteel to work with, I can’t imagine what kind of guns we’d be able to cook up.”
“Hence, I imagine, why you have been unable to find a state willing to sell you any.”
At that, Evie made an odd expression. One Sara had quite literally never seen cross her wife’s face until this meeting. It was unique, something she’d never seen on anyone else before. It was the look of a woman who wanted very much to scowl, who was so used to digging into frustration and anger at the most minor upset, unexpectedly finding herself unable to muster up the emotion. Seeing her son resting on Graf’s chest had lifted Evie’s spirits so high that even repeated, concerted effort hadn’t managed to bring her down.
“If they worry we will turn blacksteel guns against them, they are fools,” Evie said flippantly. “The Tulian Republic has not shown the slightest bit of expansionist tendencies from the moment it was founded.”
“Until its founder marched headlong into the jungle in order to involve herself in a foreign war,” Graf countered.
“To assure the protection of our sovereignty from a larger power. If anything, Sara is here as a hostage for Tulian’s safety.”
“I know that,” Graf comforted her, “and most people can recognize that, but the counterclaim is enough ammunition to those opposing the export of blacksteel that you have found no success. Given time, or, perhaps, Sara’s personal appearance, you will find someone willing to sell.”
Evie huffed, settling back down. That same strange expression briefly washed over her face, unvarnished joy tainted by a more familiar frustration, but it was quickly slipping away.
Tahn renewed his attack on Graf’s finger amidst a bout of particularly fierce gurgles, causing Evie to forget about anything else. She let out a pure, chiming peal of laughter, one without the barest traces of her characteristic cynicism. She laughed carelessly, like a girl kicking her feet in the cool waters of a lake, like a mom with half a glass of wine in her.
Like a woman whose son was happily playing with his grandfather.
It was the second time she’d laughed like that since Graf had lifted Tahn out of Hurlish’s hands, and it was the second time, ever, that Sara had heard such a beautiful sound from her wife.
Her heart clenched.
She would do anything to give Evie a life where that laughter was commonplace.
With an incredible exertion of willpower, Sara dragged her attention to Graf. It was the first time she’d seen him outside his armor, and she’d been shocked to see he looked so… normal.
He wore a plain black undershirt, its armpits stained with a fair amount of sweat, as could be expected of anyone wearing metal in a jungle. His arms and what she could see of his torso were deeply scarred, yes, but with a child on his chest, Sara found herself struggling to accept the spiderweb of wounds as the product of violence. Right now he just looked like another old man, one who’d lived a life of hard, honest work.
Sara still didn’t know what to make of his and Evie’s reaction to her calling them family. She had framed Graf as Evie’s adoptive father without giving it much thought. It had just made sense. The Empire placed a massive cultural emphasis on the importance of family, and she’d exploited that to strengthen her argument against General Borek. Ejecting a dangerous ‘Aberration’ from Imperial borders was one thing, but forbidding a father from visiting his daughter? That was nigh unthinkable. Even the foulest criminals, those held in the deepest, most horrid Imperial prisons, had a well-precedented legal right to be visited by any member of their immediate family. Not only would Borek find such an act personally repulsive, his enemies and allies would, too.
And, as was essential for any good lie, Sara almost considered it the truth. Sure, Graf hadn’t formally raised Evie, but Sara hadn’t known the woman for a month before she’d been subjected to a hundred different variations of “Master Graf once said…” about nearly every topic that existed. Regardless of how much time they spent around one another when Evie was young, they had been emotionally inseparable. Their hug on the field of battle before the end of the Tulian-Sporatos War had only confirmed what she already believed.
Clearly, it wasn’t something the two had considered for themselves. They’d both frozen stiff the moment the word father slipped out of Sara’s mouth, and they’d blinked in confusion every time she’d referred to them as such thereafter. It was like she’d been speaking a foreign language, or as if she’d made some absurd, utterly nonsensical claim. To Graf, Evie was ‘Lady Evie,’ and to Evie, Graf was ‘Master Graf.’ Nothing more, nothing less. Their relationship was self-defining.
Sara couldn’t do anything to force the issue right now, sadly. Even when she activated every Amarat-gifted Blessing she had, her mind turned up nothing she could say to encourage them closer. Some things just had to happen on their own.
Deciding to content herself with pleasant conversation and an adorable time with her wives and child, Sara fell into Hurlish’s lap, leaning her head back to settle between her breasts. Graf flicked an eye over to her, but that was it. Public displays of affection were far from the strangest thing the man had seen.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what the heck was Borek talking about back there? You know, the ominous stuff about mountains falling, stars disappearing, and locks being broken?”
“I do not mind offering some explanations. I can’t promise I’ll be particularly helpful, however. His claims were the first I have heard of any of these events, but as far as I am aware, he was speaking without exaggeration.”
Sara would have sat forward in interest if her head had been resting anywhere else.
“So the stuff about the outer Lock of the Sea being broken?”
“Presumably some monstrous creature has seen fit to wail against one of the great gates long enough to smash them to pieces. It is not the first time it has happened, though it has been many centuries. There are dozens more Locks behind the first, and it will be repaired in time. As an isolated event, I would think little of it.”
“But it wasn’t isolated. Not if a Leviathan washed up on the Carrion capital’s shores.”
Graf nodded. “Just so. I imagine they will be having quite a time controlling the madness among their people. Even the corpse of such a creature is enough to ensnare and shatter lesser minds.” He smiled lightly, glancing at Evie. “Several Champions of Amarat have survived in the historical records as healers of madness. Perhaps you could promise the Carrions an appearance from Sara in exchange for some concession or another?”
“She is a busy woman.” Evie pulled out a weathered notebook, the one in which she kept Sara’s official calendar. She ran her finger down a page of the appendix, then jotted something down. “But long distance travel has been an effort undergoing considerable change as of late. It would be worth opening discussions regarding the topic, at the very least. How long do you think it will take the Carrions to clean up the creature’s corpse?”
Graf shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest clue. I don’t know any more about its size than you. The first I heard of all of this was from Borek.” He thought for a moment, eyes glazing over as he dredged up some hazy memory. “I have seen some Leviathans large enough to swallow a fleet, and others barely large enough to bite a single vessel. Perhaps it will take weeks, perhaps months.”
“Hm. I will see what our contacts in the Carrion capital have to say.”
“We got contacts in the Carrion capital?” Hurlish asked, surprised. “I thought that place was some big secret. They move it every few years, right?”
“Yes, dear. But we are aware of its current location.”
“I take it,” Graf said, “that you learned that from your Admiral Nora, Evie?”
“Yes. She has proven a font of impossible information, even if she is of otherwise questionable reliability.”
“I haven’t heard much about her, what with my interests remaining largely on the land, but she’s been the subject of several intriguing tales. Nora is Sinti’s girl, isn’t she?”
“She claims to have learned from him, yes.”
“Then she is another one of your new friends who I’d very much like to meet someday.”
“Of all our acquaintances and allies, Nora is the one I can predict the least. If you happen to be present when she is, I will gladly introduce you, but until then…”
“I understand.” Graf adjusted his grip on Tahn. The baby’s efforts to tear his finger off had been slowly petering off, his catlike ears drooping as he fought off the urge to nap. Graf smiled at the baby in his arms, patting him on the back, then looked up at Sara. “If you are going to ask me about Borek’s other claims regarding disappearing stars and swimming text, I’m afraid I have little to offer. If the General was not exaggerating, those events smack of divine involvement more than anything else.”
“More than an entire valley filling with fire?” Sara asked. “I haven’t even heard of this Keakou Valley, and I’ve heard a lot of things about a lot of places. I’ve got to admit, I’m curious.”
Graf’s face smoothed itself over. “I cannot speak to that.”
Alarm bells rang in Sara’s mind. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
Sara inspected Graf’s face. It was absolutely, without flaw, absent of all emotion. The abrupt change was jarring. If the rest of his body hadn’t still been moving, she would have thought he was dead.
“Huh.” Sara smacked her lips. “Not even if Evie asked you?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
For the first time since Graf had joined them beneath the pavilion, the silence stretched a touch longer than was comfortable. Evie was visibly confused, and Hurlish seemed to be rethinking letting Graf hold Tahn. It didn’t last very long; his emotionless state broke shortly, replaced by his earlier, kinder expression.
Sara let her mind wander, thinking back through the endless list of things she’d heard. Amarat’s Blessings had allowed her to collect and catalogue millions of conversations, and their exact wording could be summoned to the forefront of her mind as easily as her own name.
Something to do with Admiral Sinti, Sara decided. Graf hadn’t asked after Nora for no reason. In fact, she began to feel increasingly certain, he’d likely glossed over the other disasters specifically so that their discussion of Keakou Valley would fall directly after he brought up Nora. Whatever he couldn’t say, they were related.
Millions of words flashed through Sara’s mind, some incomprehensible part of her mind selecting, analyzing, and discarding each sentence. What would have taken a thousand archivists a century to parse was something she rifled through in a matter of moments.
She found only four conversations of relevance. All four of them were instances of drunken Tulian Navy veterans stumbling home from a bar, whispering far too loud for the secrets they were supposed to be hiding. They’d been discussing the story of Admiral Sinti’s defeat fifty-two years ago. In her studies with Evie, Sara had learned historians considered it the continent’s most important flashpoint of the last century.
Sinti’s Black Fleet of a thousand ships had been destroyed before they had reached the shores of the Northern Empire, the slaughter so complete that the beaches were said to be covered in more corpses than grains of sand. The Northern Empire had collapsed without warning a week later, an unexpected disaster often attributed to the consequences of whatever bargain they’d struck to call down Sinti’s defeat. That collapse left Sporatos ascendant as the only major power on the continent, freeing the King to turn his attention to the east and south. Sinti’s rallying of almost half the Carrion captains, then their subsequent deaths, had created an unprecedented political unity within the Carrion Navy, right after he’d finished wiping out every other major navy. The Carrions had been left free to monopolize trade across the known sea.
And despite all of this, despite how absolutely critical the event had been to the shaping of the modern world?
No one knew what had destroyed Sinti’s fleet.
There had been fewer than fifty survivors. By the record books, none of them had been anyone of importance. Just exceptionally fortunate sailors. Their only commonality was that they, every single one, refused to speak of what had caused Sinti’s defeat.
The historians liked to claim that Sinti had invoked some terrible punishment, his sinful arrogance finally taking its toll. The gods had punished him, and the few survivors had been the precious few who had been repentant enough to earn their lives. The theory was evidenced by the fact that the survivors refused to speak of the final day of the Black Fleet’s existence: no amount of bribery, cajoling, torture, or spellcraft could force it out of them. Some of them had endured those efforts for decades. Only purehearted faith could have resisted all of that, the scholars claimed.
Of course, those historians also claimed Sinti had died, which Sara knew was bullshit. Nora had met the man.
Those drunken sailors Sara’s Blessings had overheard? They had their own theories. Not about what had destroyed the fleet. No, they only whispered of why the few survivors wouldn’t talk. It was a curse, they murmured. A curse so powerful that even the greatest archmages in the world couldn’t so much as smell it, much less break it. They said that it sewed shut the lips of anyone who had witnessed Sinti’s defeat, that its perpetrator had sought to erase every trace of their deeds. Honestly, after what Sara had seen of this world’s gods and scholars, she was far more inclined to believe those drunken sailor’s claims than a half-century of politically-motivated historians.
All of these thoughts passed through Sara’s head in a flash, no more than two breaths passing over her tongue.
She met Graf’s eyes, searching for a reaction. He gave her nothing.
“Well,” Sara said, sinking even further into the softness of Hurlish’s chest, “now that we’ve got all the boring crap out of the way… you want to shoot some of Hurlish’s guns?”
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Hurlish of Tulian
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Graf Urs was a freaky motherfucker.
Sure, Hurlish had known he was a strong guy. Evie all but slobbered over the dude’s biography. Barely even realized she was doing it. Evie had told her so many stories Hurlish couldn’t remember half of ‘em. He’d fought some King here, killed some Lord here, conquered this or that city, broke some wall down with his bare hands, whatever. Big, important stuff. That made him the exact sort of type Hurlish had done her best to avoid back in Hagos. Working for nobility was risky enough, but working for important nobles? Not in any hell would she have willingly gotten wrapped up in that. If Graf Urs had walked into her shop back in the day, she would’ve grabbed as much coin as she could fit in a fist and dove out the back window.
Now that she was actually seeing the guy work, she was learning she’d been completely goddamn right.
Graf squinted into the powder fog his gun had just spat, searching for what was left of his target. After he’d handled the first few guns she’d given him like a champ, Hurlish had handed him one that she’d never let anyone but herself fire, not even Sara. It had a two inch bore, a barrel about six feet long, and a kick that had thrown her flat on her ass the first time she’d pulled the trigger.
Graf hadn’t so much as twitched. Hurlish had put guns in hundred-pound vices that had more give than that man’s shoulder did. She couldn’t be certain, but she was pretty damn sure he hadn’t even blinked. Hurlish had seen the crater he’d left when he decided to make a point to General Borek. It had been as tall as Sara and twice as wide. The way people were talking about the whole showdown, no one had even seen the guy move. One moment he’d been standing still, the next he’d been fifty feet away, General Borek’s face in his hand.
“I believe that is a hit,” Graf calmly informed her, handing her the rifle. “An excellent weapon with superb craftsmanship, but not one I imagine will find frequent use among your soldiery.”
“Probably not,” Hurlish agreed, setting the gun on the rack with the others. “Not unless we find some volunteers who don’t mind missing their shoulders.” The scent of sulfur and saltpetre hung thickly in the air, and she took a deep, satisfied breath.
They’d gone down the road a ways to test their guns away from snooping eyes. Sara and Evie were sitting nearby, trading an earmuffed Tahn between them as they watched Graf chat with Hurlish. While she hadn’t been working on anything top secret while in the Empire- she wasn’t stupid, after all- she’d still been keeping herself busy. The Imperials had provided her a whole team of people just to lug around a portable workshop, one that took the poor bastards a full day and night to set up each time the army decided to camp for a while. When she wasn’t experimenting with her Skills, she’d been tinkering with minor changes to the designs of guns she’d already perfected, trying to find something that fit the needs of the slowly-emerging Blackpowder Irregulars.
There weren’t many of them, not yet, but she wanted to get ahead of the game. As far as she knew, Gunner Balon, Shale, and Evie had been the first people in all the world to get a blackpowder Skill. She didn’t know the specific details of what Balon or Shale’s skills were, but she knew Evie’s. When Sara had dragged them up to their Sixteenth Advancement, Evie had suddenly found she could suddenly keep an eye on her chosen opponent from much, much further away. She could discern details of their body, clothing, and equipment like they were standing a few dozen yards away, even if they were really five hundred. It wasn’t a pure blackpowder Skill, since it was mostly just an upgrade to another dueling Skill she had that let her focus on a chosen target, but the influence of her interest in guns was clear. A rapier duelist didn’t have much use for staring at someone across a field.
As nice a Skill as that was, it didn’t influence Hurlish’s designs much, besides maybe making her stop riding David’s ass so hard to get her some working rifle scopes. No, what interested Hurlish more than Evie’s Skills were the few kids in the army who’d gotten their first Class with musket in hand. Sara had managed to tease some details out of them, and the way their Skills were starting off was interesting. They got stuff that helped them brace for recoil, feel out how a shot was gonna get twisted by the wind, and a few other, harder to define Skills. She did feel bad for the one kid who’d gotten something that let him see through powder fog easier, since that wasn’t gonna be a problem for all that long, but other than that, it was good stuff. She’d started building custom guns to take advantage of what she anticipated their Skills to become, and whether he knew it or not, Graf was her first test subject.
“How’d it treat you?” Hurlish asked.
“Predictably. It had the most recoil by far, and its trajectory was accordingly flat. Using such a long loading rod was difficult, and I imagine such a large powder charge will foul the gun incredibly quickly.”
Hurlish grunted in assent. That was about what she’d expected. Truth was, she’d never fired that gun with a full powder charge, as she’d been a bit worried it would blow up when she did. That was why she’d gotten Graf to hold it. If the gun had burst in his face, he would have been fine. Same couldn’t be true for anyone else.
“I do apologize that I cannot return this kindness,” Graf said, looking over the various guns he’d fired so far. “If I had any with me, I certainly would have let you sample the Night’s Eyes own weapons. If it is any consolation, I assure you that none are the equals of the examples you have allowed me to use today.”
“You know we’re not tasting wine, right? You don’t have to pay me back with something from your own collection or whatever.”
“Would you refuse it if I did?”
“Hell no. I’m not stupid. But that’s not the favor I’m trying to earn here.”
Graf’s lips quirked into a half-smile. He seemed to enjoy Hurlish’s bluntness. “So you are trying to earn a favor from me, then?”
“Like I said. Not stupid.” Hurlish glanced over Graf’s shoulder, checking on Sara and Evie. They both had ear protection on, and they were absorbed in conversation with one another, looking down at Tahn in Sara’s arms. Satisfied she wouldn’t be overheard, Hurlish clapped a hand onto Graf’s shoulder, dragging him closer. She bent down to growl into his ear.
“You’re gonna come see her again.”
He looked up at her, head cocked. “I’m sorry?”
“Evie. You’re gonna come see her again. Soon.”
“An odd thing to ask, but easy enough. I’m sure I’ll find time enough-”
“No,” Hurlish growled. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder until her nails hurt. If it had been anyone else she grabbed like that, there’d be nothing left except wet meat. “You’re gonna make time for her. You’re gonna cancel jobs, you’re gonna ignore battles, you’re gonna tell your King to go fuck himself, if that’s what it takes.”
“Though I am grateful for your sharing of these weapons, what you have told me is nowhere near worth abandoning my duties.”
“Don’t care.”
“What?”
“Don’t care,” Hurlish repeated. “You’re old as dirt. I’ve met plenty of old folks, and if I know one thing about ‘em, it’s that their heads are full of shit they wish they woulda done. Living a fighting life like yours, I bet you’ve got more of those regrets than most.”
“My failures upon the battlefield have very little to do with your demand that I frequent Tulian. If you are trying to associate my strength with your nation, I refuse.”
“Oh, get over yourself. I don’t give a shit about you.” Hurlish jerked her head toward Evie. “I care about her. You see how happy she’s been since you showed up?”
Graf blinked in surprise. Compared to how Sara and Evie had been treating him, this was a wide departure. “Yes? It’s been pleasant to see. You and Sara have been good for her.”
“We have been. But not this good. This is the happiest I’ve ever seen her. It’s because you’re here.”
Graf didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, so Hurlish continued.
“I know my wives, Graf. Right now, Evie’s too distracted being happy to think things over, but later? It’s gonna fuck her up. She won’t like how good she felt when you were around. She’s gonna be nervous about it, paranoid she was letting her guard down. I’m gonna try and cut that off at the head, but there’s only so much I can do. Now, Sara?” Hurlish snorted. “She’s just about pissing herself with excitement over how chilled-out Evie is. We’ve been trying to drag that out of her for a long time, and this is the best either of us have managed. So Sara’s probably thinking up some complicated-ass plan to get you coming back around as soon as possible. It’ll work, I’d bet my right arm on it, but it’ll take time. And I’m not interested in waiting.”
Graf listened to her with a silent, unnerving attentiveness. Hurlish was damn glad she didn’t have Sara’s Blessings. The full and undivided attention of Graf Urs was disturbing enough when she couldn’t halfway read the man’s mind.
“I think you put too much faith in my abilities to raise young Evie’s spirits,” Graf eventually said. “She is her own woman, and she does not need to rely on me for her happiness. And even if what you say is true, what leverage do you have to force me to visit? I took a risk enough as it was to see her even this once; the political consequences of my consorting with an enemy of Sporatos are considerable. Further visits will be putting the entire Night’s Eye at risk of disbandment.”
“I ain’t got shit,” Hurlish admitted casually. She released her hand from Graf’s shoulder, taking a small step back. “But you’re an old man. You’ve done a lot of important crap, and that means you’ve probably made a lot of big mistakes. Maybe some of them were stuff you couldn’t have known at the time. Things you don’t beat yourself up over, because you couldn’t have known to do any different.”
“Some, yes. Everyone has regrets. I only focus on those where there was room for improvement.”
“Yep. Which is why I just told you all this shit. You’re trapped, now. If I hadn’t said all this, you coulda ended up looking back at this in ten years and thinking to yourself ‘oh, I should’ve visited Evie and Tahn more, but that’s alright. I couldn’t have known, we weren’t that close at the time.’” Hurlish smiled, dry and humorless. “Not anymore, though. Now you know what the right thing to do is. And if you don’t do it, that fuckup’s all on you. No excuses. Just guilt that’ll last ‘till you’re dead.”
She looked up at Sara and Evie, realizing they’d begun to notice the lack of shooting. Time to wrap things up. Hurlish poked Graf’s chest with one thick finger, right in the middle of his breastbone.
“I like you, Graf. So far. But if you think you’re a good man? The kinda man Evie thinks you are? Prove it.”
Hurlish went to the guns without another word, lifting a shotgun off the rack. She returned to Graf just as Evie arrived, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“What are you whispering about, Hurlish?”
“Stuff I didn’t want you to hear.”
“And were you hiding it from me because you feared for my safety, or thought I would overreact to a perceived threat?”
“No.”
“Hm. Alright then. If it’s not a matter of safety, I don’t mind.”
Graf’s head tilted back, eyes wide. “You don’t mind?”
“She is my wife.”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
“Your information is out of date, Graf. There are three people in the world I trust implicitly. Sara and Hurlish are first among them. They are allowed to speak without my overhearing if they wish to.”
If it’d been Sara standing in Hurlish’s place, the conversation probably would’ve ended there. But Hurlish had never had (or wanted) either of her wives’ knack for subtlety.
“Who’s the third?” Hurlish asked.
Evie frowned at her. “I think that should be obvious.”
“Garen?”
“What? An archmage? Of course not.”
“Ignite?”
“He is a valuable ally, but vulnerable to his prior loyalties. I watch him less closely than others, but I still watch him. Much like Vesta, now that I think of it.”
“Ketch?”
Evie scoffed. “Do I trust her? I suppose so, in a way. But the nature of the witch she is bound to is as alien to me as the void between stars.”
“Then who?”
Evie’s pupils narrowed to slits as she stared up at Hurlish, irritated. Evie knew Hurlish was perfectly aware of who that third person was, and Hurlish knew she knew. Hurlish still stared back down at her, unflinchingly committed to the charade.
“Master Graf, of course,” Evie eventually said. She spoke quietly, as if she was confessing to something bad.
Graf, for his part, laughed. “Really? You consider me someone worthy of your utmost trust? So soon after you refused to share information on your weapon’s capabilities?”
“The same sense of duty which compels you to answer your King’s summons is what makes you trustworthy, Master Graf. No one could call you predictable, not in battle, but you are remarkably consistent in your values. And… I do not believe I would have anything to fear from you, should a battle progress to the point that we found ourselves duty-bound to point blades at one another.”
“You should not trust any potential adversary so. An alliance forged in peace is nothing more than fuel to be burned in war.”
“Pretty sure whatever y’all got going on is a lot more than an alliance,” Hurlish grunted. “But whatever, I’m done talking about that. You got any other juicy news you want to share out of Sporatos?”
“None that I can think of which is within my rights to share, I’m afraid,” Graf said. His eyes turned to Hurlish’s guards, who were standing nearby, facing the jungle wall. “Unless, of course, you were to give me information in exchange.”
Hurlish snickered. “Don’t like not knowing something, don’t ya?”
“I must admit, I am rather curious about what lies beneath those robes.” Graf squinted at the green-cloaked guard’s backs. Hurlish didn’t know what kind of bullshit senses Graf had, but she doubted he could see straight through thick cloth.
She hoped.
“They are living, yes?” Graf asked. “Not enchanted automatons or golems?”
“What will you give me for that kinda info?”
Graf chuckled. “A politician you are not, Master Blacksmith. Most people begin by demanding particular information, then argue their way down to a more reasonable exchange.”
“I ran a shop. I know how to haggle. You’re just wrong to think I give enough of a shit to bother.”
“I do know many things that would be of use to you, you know.”
“Probably.”
Graf inspected the guards for a while longer, then shrugged, apparently finding nothing of note. Or, at least, nothing he was giving away.
“My thanks for your hospitality, Master Hurlish,” Graf said, bowing. “It was a pleasure to meet you and your son, but I’m afraid I must be leaving. General Borek’s claims must be investigated, and if my sources confirm them, the appropriate measures undertaken.”
Evie stepped forward. “Will the Night’s Eye be taking a contract?”
“Always, my dear. We have more offers for employment than I can keep track of. Including,” Graf directed himself toward Sara, who was approaching with Tahn, “an offer from the Empire you fight. As the only military force outside Tulian which has faced your firearms, they are keen on receiving my advice.”
Hurlish nearly choked on her own spit, coughing loudly, while Sara and Evie showed only the mildest of surprises.
“Even though I beat you?” Sara asked sardonically.
“Per their contact I spoke to, they do not believe the ‘rumors’ that your force bested mine. They attribute my loss to political interference and inadequate preparation, rather than my own inability.”
“And are they right?”
“Of course,” Graf smirked. “Do you really think that you could have bested me if I’d had the time to train my troops appropriately?”
Sara snorted. “No. You nearly beat my ass already. I’m never gonna fight you again. Not if I can help it.”
“A sentiment I have often heard.”
Tahn started to squirm in Sara’s arms, his bleary eyes peeling open. He looked around, his still-floppy ears trying their best to scan the area like his mother’s did. He began to wiggle petulantly as his eyes landed on Hurlish, crying out.
“Oh, you’re a hungry boy now, are you?” Hurlish cooed, holding her hands out. “Did chewing on that old wrinkly finger tire you out? Huh? Did it?”
“Wrinkly?” Graf asked, bemused.
“She’s not wrong,” Evie said. “You are showing your age.”
“Awfully rude to point it out, though.”
“C’mere, Tahny-Tahn, it’s alright.” Hurlish carefully took Tahn from his other mom, tucking him to her chest with one hand while pulling down her shirt with the other. Tahn eagerly latched onto a breast and, as ever, Hurlish winced at his total inability to control where his tiny kitten fangs pierced.
“I really do have to be leaving,” Graf said. To his credit, he didn’t make some awkward show of turning away when Hurlish had pulled down her shirt. Of course, the guy had probably lost any interest in tits twenty years ago, so maybe it shouldn’t be that shocking.
“How’d you even get here?” Sara waved to the endless jungle. “It’s not like there’s a boat or something you could have taken.”
“As your wife so helpfully reminded me, I am an old man, Sara. I haven’t the time or energy to make journeys such as these on foot anymore.” Graf put his fingers to his lips and whistled. It was a shockingly loud, ear-piercing note, one that carried incredibly far.
Evie’s ears flicked towards the right, her head following a second behind. Sara and Hurlish both followed her gaze, staring at the thick tangle of tree limbs and vines.
A tangle which began to shake and twist. A stretch of trees some fifty feet across began to tremble like a typhoon was coursing along the road, limbs jumping and leaves falling.
Sara leaned forward excitedly. “Oh my god, that better be a fuc- freaking T-Rex.”
“I’ll betcha fifty gold it’s not.”
“Evie is the one that keeps all our money, so I don’t know how we’re gonna settle that.”
“I was gonna bet something different, but Graf’s here.”
“Oh, I’ll take that bet.”
“You don’t even know what-”
The trees began to part.
Hurlish had heard before about the strange nature of jungle beasts, how they were able to slip their way through impossibly tight spaces to ambush people out of nowhere. She’d found it hard to believe, but that didn’t mean much. She’d seen lots of things she’d witnessed with her own two eyes hard to believe, especially after she’d met Sara.
But this one turned out to be particularly hard to swallow.
A shining head emerged first. From jaw to brow, it was as large as Sara was tall, covered in cool blue scales the color of an afternoon sky. Dagger teeth were revealed by its curled, snarling lip, filling the air with an almost imperceptible, powerful rumble. The vertical slits of its tiny, beady eyes were set in a deeply recessed brow, and they seemed to be staring straight at Sara. They had an iris of yellow-tinged green, and as its head continued to press forward, Hurlish was forced to realize that they were not small at all. Each were the size of a human skull. It was just that the head they sat in was so much larger.
The eyes flicked to her. Hurlish took an involuntary step back, covering Tahn with both hands. Evie’s musket swung off her back in a flash, the click of the hammer’s cocking answering the creature’s rising growl. Only Sara and Graf held their ground, one out of disinterest, the other out of fascination.
The head emerged fully from the brush, tree trunks warping in impossible ways to admit the bulk that followed. Hurlish was first struck by the thought that the creature was some kind of massive snake, watching the way its reptilian head continued to move forward foot by foot, yard by yard, stretching out into the open road.
Then the head reared up, towering over the trees, and the rest of the body emerged.
“That’s a fucking dragon!”
“Sara!” Evie reflexively scolded, even as she tracked the monster’s head with the sights of her rifle.
The beast paid their outburst no mind. It stepped into the open with all the grace of a regal king, its hide glittering ever so slightly in the sunlight. Even with its neck curved in serpentine fashion, its head rose forty or fifty feet in the air, glaring down with an imperious, contemptible sneer. The underside of its neck was lighter in hue than its upper scales, a blue so pale it was almost white, while its back was covered in the dark shades of the ocean depths. The size of its scales varied, from more than a handspan down to a few finger widths, and despite their utter inflexibility, they twisted and slid over one another like the finest suit of armor Hurlish had ever seen.
Its right leg emerged, pressing down into the mud. At first Hurlish didn’t understand what she was looking at. The limb was twisted and folded in ways she had never seen in another living creature, flaps of leathery skin bulging thickly between two thick trunks of muscle. When its left leg emerged, stretching slightly further, she understood. Its wings were like that of a bat’s, and it was walking on what would have been a human’s knees. She couldn’t fathom how wide the wings would have been when they were spread, but she knew they were titanic. A hundred feet, two hundred, she would have believed either, but it was certain they dwarfed any plane Tulian had ever envisioned. She doubted even Sara’s world had something so massive that could take to the sky.
The creature turned to one side as it fully exited the jungle, shaking broken trees from its hide as a dog would water, then stretched forward, as if it were showing them its profile for their admiration.
Tall spines rose along its neck, shortest at the base of the head, longest at the center of its back, falling to gentle nubs at the tip of its tail, which was almost a hundred and fifty feet from the tip of its snout. Its neck and tail were responsible for a considerable portion of that length, but not all of it. Its torso was as barrel-chested as an ox, swelling even further with each rumbling breath. What she could see of its ribcage dropped halfway to the pathway below it, wide and tall enough to fit two of the homes that Hurlish had been born and raised in. The spikes at the highest ridge of its back were even taller than her, and a number of leather saddles were wrapped around the centermost examples, made of the softest, finest leathers and buckled by gold and silver. Some of the largest spines featured exquisite carvings, the work of a master sculptor etching an entire tapestry across gleaming ivory. Beneath her rising fear, Hurlish found her smith’s eye entranced by the beauty of the saddles and the elegant carvings they framed. She couldn’t help wondering what story they told, why they had been created, and if they served only a decorative purpose, or if they were literally as enchanting as she already found them.
Then the beast turned to Sara, lowering its bestial head so it might better stare her down.
“Do not call me a Dragon,” it rumbled, “lest you invoke the wrath of that which you cannot withstand.” The creature’s voice shook dust from the ground as it spoke, but its lips didn’t move. Only its tongue did, a thick, barbed thing that flicked and writhed behind its teeth.
Hurlish discovered herself taking another step back, her hands closing tightly around Tahn. She felt some long-lost instinct swelling within her chest, compelling her to hide her child from the beast. To hide herself, to dig a ditch and crawl inside, waiting until hunger or thirst forced her to emerge. Her guards appeared in front of her, all four of them, their robes rustling as they readied themselves to defend her.
“Hello, Imperequs,” Graf called out cheerfully. “I trust you found good prey in the jungle while you waited?”
The creature ignored Graf even as the old mercenary began to approach it. Instead its massive head swung around, falling low enough to look Sara directly in the eye.
“Champion of Amarat,” it hissed, the words pouring steam from between its lips. “What have you done to this world?”
“A whole lot, honestly.” Sara spoke with the same confidence she always did, as if she weren’t looking down the throat of something that could swallow her whole. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific.”
“The old mountain rumbles. The sleeping dead have begun to stir. I smell the scent of a slaughtered Fate in this land.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Imperequs,” Graf called. “She’s a Champion. Things always go to shit when they’re around. It’s not your job to keep them under control.”
“This one is different,” Imperequs hissed. Its head remained still, but its neck was undulating left to right, a hypnotic pattern of twisting muscle. “She has done things which no Champion should.”
“Is that for you to decide, or the gods?” Graf reached the beast’s flank, which he gave a few firm slaps. “Now, let me up. I’m too old to be hopping onto your back anymore.”
To Hurlish’s shock, the massive creature pulled away, carefully lowering a wing to the dirt. Graf began walking up it as casually as any hill, heading for the centermost saddle.
“Evie,” Sara said, turning on the woman with a dangerously excited glint in her eyes. “You did not tell me Graf rode a fucking dragon!”
Sara was so consumed with her own excitement that she hadn’t noticed Evie was still pointing her rifle at the thing’s head.
“That is not a Dragon,” Evie whispered from behind the sights of her gun. “And you should thank the gods for that fact, as if it were, we would all be dead. Stop invoking the name of such a foul thing.”
“I,” the beast declared, still maintaining its imperious tone even as it contorted itself to allow Graf to walk up its back, “am a Wyvern, Champion of Amarat. And should you mistake my kind for our decrepit, bestial progenitors once more?” Imperequs huffed, steam rolling out of its nostrils. Hurlish thought she could see a light glowing deep within. “Then we will see how much of your god’s power you have been lent. Our kind will not be defined by the sins of our creators. There is no graver insult.”
It seemed this threat was finally enough to break through Sara’s excitement. Hurlish could see the realization come over her, snapping her back to the present. She drew herself up, shaking her hair out, and by virtue of posture alone, became an entirely different woman.
“My deepest apologies, Noble Imperequs,” Sara said, abruptly addressing the wyvern with all the pomp and circumstance it referred to itself with. Hurlish could’ve sworn her armor gained a new level of shine as she put her fist to her breastplate in a sharp, military salute. “Though I have lived in this world of yours for some time now, the remnants of my birthplace remain rattling within my mind. I now find myself suffering the misfortune of knowing little of your kind, and through this regrettable mistake, have inadvertently erred in my address to one such as yourself. Perhaps you have heard of me, perhaps not, but if you have, I believe you will know that when I intend to offend, I do so with great zeal and little subtlety. Rest assured, when next we meet, I will behave as a Champion of Amarat ought.”
The wyvern huffed, stirring up a cloud of dirt and steam. Despite that, it seemed pleased, raising its head a few feet.
“My kind are not the only thing you are ignorant of, Champion. You have no idea what you have done today.”
“I do not,” Sara agreed. “I have fought and won a battle, true, but this is something I have done many times before. If you wish to shed light on what remains dark for me, I would accept your knowledge with grace and thanks.”
Graf settled into the saddle on Imperequs’ back, resting a hand on the spine before him, which was twice his height.
“Don’t listen to him, Sara. He’s just full of hot air. And no, Evie, I did not hide the fact that I am a wyvern-rider from you. This is simply how I’m being transported to my meeting with the Adjutant. Say what you will for Imperials, but they do know how to put on a show.”
Imperequs twisted his neck around to face Graf, dipping his chin towards the old man. “It is an honor to hold the Scale Breaker on my back, if only for a day.”
“Yes, well, unless you stop threatening Evie’s wife sometime soon, you’ll end up with me on your back for much longer than a day.” Graf turned to look at Evie, Sara, and Hurlish, raising a hand. “I wish you luck in your battles, and look forward to seeing you again. And remember, Sara, if there’s ever an opportunity for your father to speak of his old world’s strategies with me, I would be glad for the opportunity.”
Before any reply could be offered, Imperequs spread his wings, buffeting them all with a rush of air. Hurlish turned away, tucking Tahn to her chest just as a second, far stronger gust rushed over her.
When she turned around, the wyvern was gone.
“Okay,” Sara said, turning on Evie. That dangerous smile had returned. “What. The. Fuck.”
“Sara-”
“I know, I know, no swearing. But come on!” Sara pointed at the sky. “That was a- a- freaking wyvern! Flying lizard! It breathes fire! Or I think it does, anyway. Please tell me it can breathe fire.”
“Some do, yes.”
“And you never told me about them, why?!”
“From your own retelling of Earthly folklore, it seemed you were familiar enough with the concept. I never thought it important, considering their rarity.”
“What? Who gives a crap if they’re rare! I want to learn about the not-dragons! You’ve gotta tell me everything!”
Unheard by her two bickering wives, Hurlish sighed. She loved them both to pieces, but sitting in on one of Evie’s long lectures wasn’t her favorite way to pass the time.
------------------------------------
Chona
------------------------------------
Engines buzzed over a sea of lush greenery, the clicking pops of sorcerous energy colliding with hardened steel roaring loud enough to carry for miles. The cellulose-doped canvas skin of the Sunrise held strong against the battering headwind, stiff as the metal its lacquered sides were often mistaken for. The right set of wings, painted a vibrant crimson, stood in stark contrast to the deep green camouflage which coated the rest of the plane. The plane responded alertly to its pilot’s every twitch, ailerons and elevators flicking and bobbing constantly, a thousand unconscious adjustments required to keep the craft on a straight path.
Sitting up in her seat as much as her harness allowed her, Chona searched for the head of their midair convoy. She could see the tail of the second plane, which was a few hundred yards ahead of them and about a dozen yards below. It was the northern variant of the Halfeye design, lacking the cumbersome pontoons of the Sunrise. A second northern variant flew even further ahead, its nose just beginning to dip into a shallow dive, aiming for a column of smoke rising from the teeming jungle. The three planes were flying in direct line with another, a dozen yards of altitude difference between them. Affe and Cebrav’s plane was in the lead, Hunes and Docks behind them, with Tinvel and Chona taking up the rear.
Affe leveled out his dive no more than fifty feet over the canopy. A small hatch opened in the bottom of his plane, just behind the main landing gear. A foul sludge began to fall from the plane, grayish black droplets scattering in the air. Chona leaned as far forward in her seat as she could, gripping the back of Tinvel’s chair.
Here… we… go!
A gout of flame burst out of the plane from Affe’s backseater, Cebrav, who launched a torrent of boiling orange and red that shot towards the forest with all the speed of a bullet. The waterfall of sludge ignited with a flash, the intensity of the flames multiplying tenfold as the liquid burst alight. Affe began a slow climb as the hellish mixture of fluid and flame continued to spew down on the jungle, careful to keep himself away from any sudden updraft fanning the spell back into his plane’s belly. In a matter of seconds there was a long, glowing streak sketch across the leafy canopy.
Affe’s climb suddenly steepened, accompanied by a light roll to the left as Cebrav’s spellflames died out. Hunes’s plane began its own dive, aiming for the spot where the last trail of fire had ended. A hatch opened beneath the plane as it passed over the tail end of Affe’s path of destruction, dumping more gray fluid onto the trees. Almost as soon as the liquid began to fall, spellfire leapt out, igniting the droplets in midair with a woosh audible to Chona even over the roar of the wind and engines.
Smoke began to fill the skies. Chona watched, enraptured, as the wildfire sunk its roots into the jungle. Some of the liquid was scattered enough by the wind to escape the initial conflagration, but not for long. It was easy to tell when fire spread to the droplets. The flames always flared fiercest there. The ocean of fire became a macabre reflection of the night sky, inky darkness exchanged for an orange glow, bright pinpricks of burning fluid shining as the stars.
The flames from Hunes’s plane died out, and she, too, rolled to the left, clearing the way.
“Ready?!” Tinvel yelled over the wind.
“Gods, yes!”
Tinvel tipped the nose forward, beginning their descent. Chona ignored the way her stomach seemed to fall the wrong direction, gripping the release lever that was on the left side of her seat, her other hand already pointing downward, fingers spread and twitching with anticipation.
The plane leveled off. Chona kept her eyes locked on the floor of the plane, waiting for Tinvel’s word.
“Target!”
Chona jerked the lever back, adding a second gust of wind to buffet her fur as the floor opened up between her feet.
The Sunrise, with its ungainly pontoons and status as the first plane of its type, lacked many things its later copycats took for granted. The Type N Halfeyes that Affe and Hunes were flying had simple landing gears, more robust sparring between their wings, and a variety of minor improvements over the Sunrise, all derived from the lessons Tinvel had learned while flying the original plane. The Type Ns were more agile, easier to handle, and overall better fliers. They were fighter planes through and through, designed to bob and weave through the aerial battles that everyone was increasingly certain would be coming. And in most cases, that was great. They did what they were designed to do, and they did it well.
But they hadn’t been built to take off over water, nor carry heavy pontoons. They had weaker engines, and they weren’t designed to carry as heavy a payload as the Sunrise. More importantly than that, their gemstone powerplants weren’t constantly tended by Tinvel, the artificer who had invented the very concept. Their agility and speed came at a cost, and today, it was that their fluid tanks could only hold forty gallons.
Sparks popped and crackled over Chona’s palm. She could feel her spell fighting to be set free.
She took a deep breath, focusing.
Then she pulled the lever back another step, opening the lid on both hundred gallon tanks hidden within each pontoon.
“BURN!”
A guttural roar echoed over the jungle. The spell tore through the air like lightning, starting as a solid, hair-thin beam of blinding white just above her skin, maintaining its form for a dozen or so feet before the blistering winds broke it apart into a vast, billowing sheet of flame. The curtain of fire she summoned was twice as wide as the Sunrise’s wings, and within that orange glow were dozens of white stars, each of them being physically driven to the ground by the force of her spell.
Chona desperately wanted to turn back to look at her handiwork spilling onto the ground, but she couldn’t. She gritted her teeth, willing herself to continue the spell for as long as she could. The Sunrise’s twin tanks took time to drain, and she’d be damned if she was going to waste even a single drop of Professor Brown’s liquidated “thermite.” She kept pushing, drawing on that ineffable reserve deep within her mind.
First she began to sweat, the heat baking her from below, and then that sweat began to steam, evaporating as soon as it rose from her pores. The edges of the plane’s hatch began to warp and blacken from the heat, but the fluid was still pouring. She couldn’t stop yet.
“Chona!” Tinvel yelled.
She ignored him. She kept the spell going, even as her arm began to shake, her fingers twitching and curling as the muscles beneath her fur twisted in agonized protest.
“Chona!” Tinvel yelled again.
“Not… yet…!” She said, forcing the words through her gritted teeth.
Instead of yelling at her again, Tinvel jerked the plane into a far steeper climb. She kept the spell going for a moment longer, her eyes beginning to flutter. It was only when they’d gone high enough that her flames couldn’t reach the forest anymore that she allowed her fist to fall closed.
Her right arm was jerking and twitching as if being twisted by an invisible specter. She couldn’t feel anything from the tips of her fingernails to her armpit, all sense of touch replaced by a dull, painful needling. She knew from experience that the pain wouldn’t remain dull for long.
“The hells were you thinking?!” Tinvel cried, leveling the plane off. “You can’t support that kind of spell for that long!”
Chona leaned over to the speaking tube, not trusting herself to yell over the wind quite yet. “We still had thermite left in the tanks!”
“That doesn’t mean you should kill us to get it all used up!” Tinvel yelled furiously. Chona flinched away from the voice tube, which made it feel like he was screaming right into her ear.
“I told you we needed it to disperse faster if we’re going to have that size of tank,” Chona said. “We don’t have much of it, and we need to burn a whole lot of jungle.”
“We’ll design a version we can shut off, then. But I’d rather waste the fire than have you burned to a crisp. Can you even do another run today after that?”
Indignant at the suggestion, Chona reached up with her right arm to flick Tinvel in the back of the head.
Or, at least, she tried to. She sent her arm all the right orders, and it sure felt like it was moving, but there wasn’t any arguing with the fact that she could see it hanging limply at her side.
“...No.”
“See! That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Oh, come on!” Chona cried indignantly. “You push the Sunrise too far all the time! Why’s it any different when I do it with my spells?”
“Because I actually learn something when I try a new trick with the Sunrise. You knew exactly what would happen when you kept that spell going!”
This time, Chona used her left arm to flick Tinvel in the back of the head.
“Ow! The hell?”
“How do you think I’m going to get better with my spells if I don’t push myself? Huh? You really think practicing on some empty hill is the same as doing it up here?”
“Maybe it’s not the same, but only one of those gets us both killed!”
Chona had another retort at the tip of her tongue, but she was forced to bite it back. Hunes was curving gracefully into position off their left wing, taking a sedate path to recreate the small arrowhead formation they’d begun the day in.
Chona watched the girl’s turn carefully. The timid alchemist had shown an affinity for flight, taking well to the controls of her plane, but Chona still felt she lacked a certain ineffable boldness that was necessary to make someone a true pilot. Hunes loved flying as much as the rest of them, but she didn’t seem interested in it for any particular purpose. She would have been perfectly happy exploring the world in lazy spirals, never coming close to putting her plane through its paces.
Affe, predictably, was Hune’s dead opposite. When it became clear it was time to form up once more, he snapped his Halfeye onto a knife’s edge, right wings pointing vertically into the sky, rudder kicked hard over so he wouldn’t plummet out of the sky. Chona watched the canvas skin of his Halfeye shake and shiver as he pulled back hard on the controls, whipping his plane around in the tightest turn he could manage. He’d begun his turn more than twenty seconds after Hunes, but found his position far earlier than her. He snapped sharply out of the steep turn, his entire plane rattling as it was buffeted by the wind and his own harsh maneuvering. The whole thing had looked fancy enough, but Chona wasn’t impressed. At the end of the day, any plane flown by Affe needed twice as much maintenance time as the others.
With both wingmates in position, Tinvel held up his hand and made a quick series of gestures. It was an order to adopt a wider formation and gain altitude, so they could observe the progress of the fire below. The original plan had been to continue starting nearby fires with spells alone after they dumped the experimental payload, but Tinvel seemed to have decided he was more interested in seeing the results of the test.
Or he’s trying to give me time to get my breath back, Chona thought. She wouldn’t be able to cast another spell for a while. At least not one that was powerful enough to light a sopping wet jungle on fire.
The trio of planes began to spiral upward, shadowing the ascent of the smoking black mountain they had summoned. The fires were progressing shockingly well below them. They’d spent most of the last week aiding the efforts of loggers trying to tame the ravenous jungle. Sara’s initial hope, that of using gemstone-powered chainsaws and industrialized logging equipment to tame the cursed growth, had proved fruitless. Their trio of planes had been sent south a week before to help by launching flame from the sky as often as they were able, but it was only today, with Professor Brown’s thermite, that they’d begun to see success like this.
Chona leaned over the side of the plane to look down on their handiwork. The alchemical fluid- which Professor Brown had named “Boiling Thermite”- was doing wonders. Despite the fact that it had landed on only a small percentage of the trees, they lent the inferno so much additional heat that it was easily overcoming the jungle’s humidity. The blaze was already spreading far faster than it ever had before, and, Chona noticed with no small amount of pride, the final stretch was twice as wide as the earlier sections. It made the rising pain in her arm a touch easier to bear.
“Fuck burning it the old fashioned way!” Chona yelled at Tinvel. “We should land and get more thermite! It’ll be worth our time!”
“You’re just saying that because you screwed yourself up with that spell,” Tinvel hollered back.
“Oh, fuck off!”
Tinvel didn’t seem convinced by her eloquent argument, but he did seem to find some merit in landing to acquire more boiling thermite. With a few quick gestures to their wingmates, their trio closed in once more, tilting towards the north.
Chona leaned back in her seat, steadying her breathing. The consequences of her overreach were starting to make themselves felt. The pins and needles in her right arm were turning into knives and daggers, and her head had begun to pound as if she were severely dehydrated, an ache slowly suffusing itself through her whole body.
The first time she’d felt like this, she’d been worried she was going to die. Before Garen had come to her village to recruit her, she’d been a self-taught mage, improvising spells as best she could to help fend off bandit raids. When she felt her body going numb, Chona had crawled to her parents in tears, apologizing for killing herself just like everyone in the village had said she would. Now that she had more experience, she knew the sensation would pass. She’d pushed herself too hard, but she’d done worse before. All she could do now was distract herself.
And what better way to distract herself was there than to think of the ominous, looming specter of upcoming paperwork? Since she was technically on official government business, she knew she’d have to write a report of some kind about the day’s mission. Mages like her were in an awkward position amongst the half-baked Tulian Republic’s legal code. She was a student of the university, yes, but as one of its most successful mages, she was also regularly hired out to work on projects throughout the city, which left it unclear if she was a student or worker.
In addition, the entire aeronautical program was in quite the legal spat of its own; was it a University project, or a military one? For that matter, would they be replicating the military of the Governess’s home, with separate branches for various commands, or would it be a united force? No one seemed to know, and as the first Tulian Parliament had begun to take shape, battle lines were being drawn over all sorts of jurisdictional questions. Even though she’d written a report summarizing each day of the last week, Chona still wasn’t sure who she was actually supposed to give it to. Her current plan was to send it to Steward Evie and hope for the best.
And, Chona thought, if SHE’S going to be reading my report, I have to make sure it’s actually worthwhile. What the hell do I even say about this stuff?
Hoping to distract herself from the building migraine between her eyes, she started to collect what she knew of thermite and its uses. In its raw form, thermite looked like little more than a red powder, as if someone had ground up a rusty blade in a mortar and pestle. When Professor Brown had first shipped it in a nondescript box to the university, most of them had been unimpressed. It didn’t look like much, after all. The only one who had taken an immediate interest in the product was Hunes. She’d sensed something in the powder, and, with a flick of her fingers, dropped a spark on top of it.
A few minutes later, when Garen’s spells had put out the fire and the smoke had cleared from the room, they came back to find the iron box Professor Brown shipped the thermite in glowing cherry-red. After that incident, they decided to read the included instructions, which had thankfully survived the conflagration.
Thermite was… terrifyingly simple. It was just powdered iron and zinc mixed in a two-to-three ratio. That was all it took to create a burning powder which could, once ignited, reach a white-hot glow in a matter of seconds. She had no idea why it hadn’t been discovered before, but she was glad it had first cropped up in Tulian.
The liquid alchemical suspension that they were using to contain the thermite was a different story. It was Hunes’s brain child, an attempt to recreate “Greek fire” from Professor Brown’s old world. While the fledgeling alchemist hadn’t succeeded in reproducing the characteristic green flames of the otherworldly weapon, her mixture of resin, quicklime, and ritualistic infusions of energy had created something more than awful enough on its own. Every batch had been infused with an Intent to slowly envelop contaminants, thus creating pockets of isolated material within itself. That meant the thermite powder, once mixed in with the alchemical fluid, didn’t diffuse outward, but instead slowly gathered into dense spheres. Those spheres became a core of ever-burning fire, driving the temperature of their flammable surface even higher than would have otherwise been possible.
And it was working wonders. She watched the massive column of smoke slowly recede into the distance, her inner pyromaniac singing in her heart. It was a wonderful, wonderful thing that had been created.
Chona shook out her arm, testing its response. She was beginning to feel something now, and the daggers were once more being replaced by mere needles. She turned to look at the other planes, wondering how they were handling, now that their tanks were empty. She and Tinvel had been worried dropping so much weight mid-flight would cause serious control problems.
Affe’s doing good, she reluctantly admitted. The arrogant mage was flying exactly fifty yards off their right side, hanging in the sky as if he’d been pinned there. For all his wildly irritating arrogance, Affe at least tried to back it up with dedicated, routine practice. The fact that his cockiness managed to outstrip his considerable skill was a testament to the depths of his narcissism.
Chona turned to her left, wondering how Hunes’s plane was handling. She had the least experience of all of them, and her backseat mage was (at least in Chona’s opinion) one of the weakest of those accepted into the exclusive flight program. It would be best to keep an eye on them-
Chona blinked. They weren’t there. She twisted in her seat, leaning aside to look up, wondering if Hunes had allowed her plane to drift too high, hidden behind the biplane’s upper wing.
No one was there.
Chona leaned further still, scanning the horizon. She was about to call out to Tinvel when she finally looked down.
And saw Hunes’s plane trapped in an inescapable flatspin, a massive chunk ripped out of one wing.
“Shit!” Tinvel screamed.
Chona ripped her head around just in time for Tinvel to jerk the Sunrise into the tightest turn it could manage, narrowly avoiding a blur of white feathers and black claws shooting past.
A screech of fury filled the sky as the griffon’s wings snapped open below them. It began to flap hard, regaining altitude for another pass.
Just as Hunes’s plane struck the ground below, Chona heard a roar of flame off to her right.
“Shit!” She echoed, raising her trembling hand.
Notes:
To avoid spreading misinformation, I will point out that Greek Fire did not in fact create green flames. David just thought it did because he liked Percy Jackson too much and thought that part of the story was true. Additionally, the vast majority of thermite used today is made of a mixture of iron and aluminum, which burns hot enough to outright melt steel, but unfortunately for David, aluminum is incredibly hard to produce. Zinc thermite “only” burns at about 900 degrees celsius, or 1600 degrees fahrenheit. Not enough to melt iron, much less steel, which proper thermite could easily do.
Chapter 141: B3 Ch28: We Got Ourselves a Dogfight
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chona
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The Sunrise rolled even further to the right, engines kicking up to combat speed. The clatter of spell against steel grew overwhelming as Tinvel pointed their nose towards Affe’s plane, ignoring the griffon which had nearly crashed straight through their wing.
Affe was under assault from another griffon, but it hadn’t overshot its target half as bad as the one which had attacked the Sunrise. Chona caught sight of its dark, tawny feathers just as it finished sweeping past Affe’s flank, its outstretched claws missing canvas by a matter of feet. The creature immediately tucked its legs in and twisted its wings, turning the momentum of its dive into a rocketing ascent. Just when it reached the apex of its arc, hanging in place, the animal twisted inverted, aligning its beak with Affe’s path of flight, and began another dive.
As it turned, Chona caught a flash of metal-studded leather on its back. The creature was harnessed, two riders sat astride the hump of the animal’s spine
“Imperials!”
“What?!”
Chona pointed, screaming so loud it hurt.
“They’re Imperials!”
Tinvel leaned forward to follow her gesture just as the Griffon’s twisting exposed a flash of iron and wood. Not only were two people riding the griffon, one of them was holding an oversized crossbow.
“Shit!” Tinvel yelled yet again. It was becoming something of a mantra for the day. He reached into the engine space and sent the engine surging into emergency speed, popping the control stick to the right for a few seconds, then hard left, trying to sweep around the griffon’s side in a way that would give Chona a clear shot.
She’d never more wished for a speaking crystal in the planes than she had in this moment. Affe was heading almost directly away from them, all his focus on the griffon angling for yet another dive. If he would only turn around, they’d reach one another in seconds. Instead he was consumed by jinking left and right, turning it into a stern chase.
At some unseen signal, the griffon began another stooping dive. Its wings practically disappeared with how tightly they tucked to its side, legs folding into the fluff of its feathers until it was nothing more than a blurred line.
The few moments it took for gravity to assert itself over the griffon’s flight were more than enough for Affe to realize what was happening. He kicked his rudder right, feinting a turn, then rolled hard left, going inverted, clawing his way through a wing-bending vertical loop.
One that, Chona realized, was going to end with his plane pointed right at the Sunrise.
She unbuckled her harness without thought, leaving herself secured only by the belt around her waist as she leant hard out of the plane’s right side, forearm braced against the buffeting wind.
“Left! Left! Angle left!”
She didn’t know if Tinvel could hear her or if he had the same idea as her, but it didn’t matter, because he did as she wanted. Affe pulled out of his dive and shot past them with a roar, his right wingtip slicing a bare dozen feet off the Sunrise’s, the griffon following close behind.
“BURN!”
A curtain of fire shot out of Chona’s palm, curved into a scythe’s blade by the speed of their passing. She bared her teeth in a fierce grin even as an icy pickaxe dug its way into her skull, leaving shimmering spots of pain in her vision. The griffon was heading straight towards the flames-
The animal’s wings snapped open, flaring wide. She caught a brief glimpse of its muscles shuddering with effort, near to tearing as it fought to arrest its own speed.
Then it dropped like a stone.
Her torrent of spellcraft was wasted as she and the Sunrise dragged a curtain of fire through empty air.
Chona couldn’t even swear before the sound of popping electricity distracted her, pulling her torso around to look behind herself. Her entire body was going numb, and her pounding headache seemed to have spread to her eyes. Each painful pulse distorted the world around her, the red and green of the Sunrise’s wings swirling together like watery paint.
She’d been in fights before, learned to fight dirty, but the pace of this fight was insane. So much was happening that it was impossible for her to process any single event, her mind leaping from elation to rage to panic and back every few seconds.
She caught sight of Affe’s plane as it was weaving its way through a series of tight, looping spirals, a griffon matching it beat-for-beat. It was the second griffon, the brown-feathered one that had ambushed the Sunrise. The animal and its riders had managed to regain their altitude in the time she and Tinvel had been focusing on helping Affe, but, rather than spend it diving after a target already heading away, elected to eagerly pounce on Affe as their two planes switched positions.
This wasn’t an ambush anymore. Affe, obsessed as he was with getting the Governess’s permission to see combat, had chosen Cebrav as his backseater for a reason.
No other mage was as obsessed with Professor Brown’s lessons on electricity as Cebrav.
Rather than an easily-dodged blast of flame, the griffon was met by Cebrav’s forking spellcraft, a net of white lightning crackling across the sky. The griffon was caught within the spider’s web of electric energy in an instant, smoke bursting from its feathers as involuntary spasms threw it violently off-course.
Tinvel yelled something Chona couldn’t hear, forcing her to turn around yet again. She tried to ask him to repeat himself, unable to comprehend a thing through the blistering wind and her molten skull, but didn’t get a single syllable out before the Sunrise tipped violently forward, nearly throwing her from her seat.
Through the thin slot of forward vision afforded her by the gap between Tinvel’s head and the upper wing, she caught a flicker of the griffon which had been forced to dodge her earlier spellflame.
Unlike its brethren, it hadn’t tried to regain altitude. It had committed to the dive, angling itself away from the dogfight. Chona didn’t know why. They were nowhere near the airstrip, and there weren’t any targets of interest. Her eyes tracked the griffon’s path, confused…
It was heading towards the wreckage of Hunes’s plane.
Tinvel’s dive turned vertical.
The roaring wind became a high-pitched whistle as air ripped across the Sunrise’s wing spars, a dangerous tone Chona had heard only a few times before. Tinvel kept both hands on the control stick, keeping the plane in emergency speed even as he drove them directly downward, chewing through their altitude at an insane rate. His shoulders were hunched inward, his hands wrapped so tightly around the controls that they were trembling. If she could’ve seen his face, Chona felt certain it would have been twisted in a terrified, furious grimace.
Knowing there was no way for him to hear her, Chona lunged over the seat, grabbing for the control stick.
They briefly wrestled for control, both of Chona’s arms and her tail struggling against Tinvel. It was only when the whistling wind began to truly shriek that Tinvel gathered his wits. He pulled back, and together they threw both their bodies into the effort of levering the Sunrise’s elevators against the weight of wind. As soon as the banshee wailing fell away, Tinvel released one hand from the controls and leaned forward, cutting the engine off emergency speed.
Below them, the griffon reached Hunes’s crash site. It shot past the crumpled plane with its massive hind claws outstretched and, with a horrible screech of shearing metal and snapping wood, tore the entire upper wing off the plane. What was left of Hunes’s Halfeye was jerked into a flailing roll, fragile body spraying debris across the hillside.
The griffon began to flap, using all four legs to adjust the wing until it was clutched tightly to its chest, folded out of the way of its flight. Its wings began to beat even harder as it turned south.
“It’s trying to get away!” Tinvel yelled.
Why? Chona wanted to ask, but before she could, Tinvel jerked the plane out of its dive, trading their speed for a steep ascent.
“What are you doing?!” Chona yelled. “They’re getting away!”
“Where’s the third?!”
“What?”
“The third!”
It took a while for Tinvel’s reasoning to slip through the thin gap left between her pounding headache and pulsing adrenaline. She’d only ever seen two griffons at once, but he was right. There had to be three. Hunes had been taken down just before the Sunrise had been attacked, and she’d heard Affe or Cebrav casting spells at almost the same moment. Three planes, three simultaneous attacks.
Chona sat back in her seat, re-buckling her harness. Like most vanara, she had better eyesight than humans. She started scanning the sky, searching for whoever had attacked— and probably killed— Hunes.
She found them circling far, far above. The course of the dogfight had been a tangled weave that dragged everyone closer to the ground, leaving the final griffon well above them all.
Altitude is speed. Speed is life.
Professor Brown hadn’t been a pilot in his old world, but he’d read as much as he could about them. Despite the precious little time he could squeeze from his schedule to lecture the flight students directly, that one phrase— altitude is speed, speed is life— was something they all must have heard a thousand times. The faster you were compared to your opponent, the less time they had to react when you made your move, and the more easily you could disengage if it went wrong.
And there was no better way to gain speed than dropping out of the sky with your engine roaring. Trade altitude for speed, speed for altitude, and as long as you didn’t run out of either, you’d win the day. Right now, that griffon had the pick of the litter.
Its head was cocked to one side, staring down from gods-knew how high. It was so far above that she could only just make out the creature’s coloration. It had mostly the same brown feathers of its brethren, but its head was a vivid, stark white. To Chona’s grim satisfaction, a rivulet of blood was dripping off one of its hind legs.
Sinking your claws into wood and steel isn’t as easy as feathers and flesh, huh, prick?
The griffon turned away, angling itself to overfly its desperately flapping companion far below. The wing the brown griffon had stolen wasn’t heavy, not when compared to the creature’s elephantine proportions, but it was literally designed to catch the wind. The animal was struggling to keep its stolen bounty in check, wingbeats stumbling every time it was forced to readjust in response to every stiff breeze.
Affe was already in pursuit, though she doubted he had any better of an idea of why the animal and its riders had wanted to steal a wing of all things. Unfortunately for him, the griffon already had a sizable lead. They’d both traded every last ounce of altitude they had, leaving them a bare hundred feet over the ground. The Halfeye was proving faster than a griffon in level flight, but not by much. It would take Affe precious minutes to close the distance.
Meanwhile, high above, the white-headed griffon barely had to flap its wings in order to follow the low-altitude chase. Its wings were spread for easy gliding as it bounced from current to current, shadowing its retreating comrade without sacrificing an inch of altitude. Chona stared after it, fiending for the Governess’s spell that casted her voice across vast distances. She’d have spat no end of profanity after the fleeing Imperials, trying to goad them back into the fight.
Even more than that, she would have warned Affe about the griffon high above his tail. He and Cebrav were both humans, and she didn’t know if they had good enough eyes to see it coming. Could humans see something that size from so far away? She knew her eyes were better, but by how much?
Chona tapped Tinvel on the shoulder, directing him to the speaking tube.
“The last griffon’s above and behind Affe, about a mile up. Can we climb in time to catch it?”
“A mile?” Tinvel didn’t bother to search for himself, taking Chona at her word. “We can get that high, but we’ll lose too much speed to do it. If they fight, everything will be done by the time we’re halfway there.”
“Do we have any way to signal Affe about it? Do you think he’s noticed?”
“No we don’t, and I don’t know.”
Chona swore. If Affe had noticed his overhead pursuer, the smart thing to do would have been to abandon the chase, letting the brown griffon waltz away with its useless prize.
Just give it up, she mentally urged Affe. They’re not going to learn anything from that piece of scrap!
Her request was answered in perhaps the worst way possible. Affe’s Halfeye suddenly shuddered, jerking to the right briefly, then reasserted itself.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, leaning forward.
His plane jerked again, shuddering harder.
“Hey!” Tinvel yelled. “Is he running out of-”
“Yeah!” Chona slammed her fist against Tinvel’s headrest in a fit of frustration. “Yeah, he is!”
“How?!” Tinvel reached into the engine cowling, tapping the crystals within. “We’ve still got… another half-hour of flight, at least!”
“He’s probably kept his plane in emergency speed this whole time!”
“Dumbass!”
Chona would personally have chosen several other, far harsher words to describe Affe, but she didn’t bother correcting Tinvel.
The Halfeye gave one last final sputter, the entire frame vibrating terribly as the spell-driven pistons fell out of sync, then fell terribly, dangerously silent.
What had begun as a panicky, incomprehensible melee had become something far worse. The Sunrise’s speed of a hundred miles an hour, once so fast it was unfathomable to her, suddenly felt like she was crawling forward on hands and knees. They were trapped in the sky, miles away, and though they were traveling faster than nearly any person ever had, it would take far too long for them to get close enough to do anything useful.
Affe’s Halfeye began dropping out of the sky, the drag of thick, low-altitude air tugging at its every exposed surface. Professor Brown had said that the planes of his old world had something called a glide ratio; for every foot of altitude, they could travel a certain multiple of that number forward. The best planes, those designed just for gliding, could travel seventy feet forward for every one foot of altitude they lost. That meant if they were a thousand feet off the ground when they lost power, they could travel seventy thousand feet forward.
Affe’s engine died at a hundred feet of altitude.
The Halfeyes’ glide ratio was about eight to one.
He had five seconds to impact.
Chona and Tinvel were left as helpless spectators to the crippled plane doing its best to swerve towards the flattest nearby piece of ground, using its rudder more than any rolling of its wings in a desperate bid to save every inch of altitude. Chona had just long enough to start a prayer, and then Affe hit.
The plane struck the front side of a hill, Affe’s final attempt to flare not nearly enough to get him level with the oncoming terrain.
He hit hard, bounced once, one landing gear bent at a dangerous angle, both tires popping with a loud crack, and then hit again.
The Halfeye’s rubberless wheels dug hard into the dirt, frame trembling violently as it plowed a path through the dirt, nearly flipping head over heels before it came to a harsh stop, immobilized.
“We’ve gotta cover them!” Chona yelled.
“Are they even alive?”
“They won’t be if one of those griffons comes for them!”
“What about Hunes and Docks? Their crash was worse!”
Which means they’re probably dead, Chona thought. She stopped herself from saying it. Tinvel hadn’t seen anyone die, she reminded herself. Not since the Sporaton Knights, at least, and that had ended up with him spilling his guts across the cobblestones.
“There’s not two griffons near them! Affe needs the cover more!”
Tinvel didn’t seem any happier than her to leave Hunes in favor of Affe, but he could at least acknowledge the logic of it. He tilted the plane forward once more, trading what height he’d managed to garner for speed. There was no way they could reach the crash site before either griffon, not if they decided to attack, but at least they’d be able to see reinforcements were coming. Maybe it would be enough to dissuade them from treating the second crashed plane like they had the first.
To Chona’s surprise, they didn’t even try. The brown griffon began to drag itself higher and higher, still clutching its worthless prize, while the white-headed animal didn’t so much as twitch a wing to turn towards the crash. Whatever their objective had been, whether it was to stop their burning, destroy some planes, or steal a chunk of an aircraft, it had clearly been accomplished. By the time the Sunrise was circling around the face-planted Halfeye, the griffons were little more than a speck against the sky, heading south as fast as they were able.
Chona felt a wash of emotion at the sight that greeted her below. Two figures were beside the plane, one sprawled in the grass in a posture of clear exhaustion, the other shading their eyes as they watched the Sunrise circle. The standing figure— Chona guessed it was Affe, since Cebrav was probably as wrung out by casting his spells as she was— began to make a series of gestures, pointing in the vague direction of the first crash site. It was hard to make out exactly what signs they were making, on account of the constantly-orbiting nature of their flight.
“I think they’re telling us to go check on Hunes and Docks first!”
“Those griffons could still come back, though!”
“If they want to steal another chunk of wood, let ‘em! What if someone’s still alive over there?”
Tinvel didn’t like that, Chona could tell. More than anything else, Tulian’s planes were his crowning achievement. It didn’t matter that the Imperials stealing a wing told them nothing useful; they’d taken something that was his. He didn’t want to let that happen again.
“Affe barely cast any spells!” Chona argued. “Even if Cebrav’s wiped out, Affe can fend the griffons off if they circle back! We have to see if anyone survived!” She reached under her seat, checking the supply pack she kept there. The simple motion of bending forward felt like a shotgun had been pressed to her spine and the trigger pulled. She grit her teeth, digging around to confirm she had what she was looking for. “I’ve got a couple basic potions! If they’re still alive…”
Tinvel growled incoherently, but jerked the Sunrise onto a new path, gaining altitude once more. Chona watched the figure on the ground wave them off, looking relieved, then turned her attention forward, searching for the fallen plane.
As they went on their winding path through the sky, attempting to retrace the sprawling midair battle to find the fallen Halfeye, Chona’s mind turned to the sheer contrast she’d been subjected to. When the enemy had closed with them, the battle had been fought between blinks- every second an hour, every decision her last. Feathers had torn past fast enough to buffet her with their wind, her spells spitting and spewing like geysers, her entire body lifted and slammed across the cockpit by unnatural, foreign forces.
Then, the moment they broke apart… Nothing. The long wait had begun. The slow dance of maneuvers, altitude adjustments, and constant, constant vigilance. Compared to what Professer Brown had told them of his old world’s wars, this hadn’t even been a skirmish, but she felt like her exhaustion was drowning her. It had taken minutes to set up an exchange that was decided in a split second, and there had been no time to reflect after each lightning-fast exchange. Just more decisions, more strategy, screaming, and attempts to predict what the enemy would do.
Chona blinked hard, resisting the urge to lift her goggles and rub her eyes. Her spellsickness was turning the static scenery below into a rolling, boiling sea, colors mixing together in the bubbling stew of her throbbing head. Spellsickness manifested differently in nearly everyone, and for her, it was always like this. A steadily-worsening disconnect from reality, her own senses betraying her. Garen said her mind was at war with itself. She’d overstepped the boundaries of her soul, drawing energy not just from herself, but from the living world around her. She’d taken in so much of it that it was a struggle to tell who, or what, she exactly was. Everything she’d connected to in the moment, the strength she’d taken from them? They wanted their due. The birds, the insects, even the grass and trees, they each had a piece of her mind. They didn’t want to let go.
Her mind would reject them in time. But until it did, she was forced to see things through the senses of creatures her soul hadn’t been created to comprehend.
“There!” Tinvel called out, pointing.
Chona screwed up her eyes, trying to figure what he was pointing at. All she could see were messes of colors and shapes, each less coherent than the last.
“Then land already!”
Tinvel shot a concerned glance back at her. Had she slurred her words? She hoped not. She was going to be fine. But it would be real damn annoying convincing Tinvel of that fact if her spellsickness was showing.
He turned around without comment, focusing on finding a flat track of land to land.
With its wheeled pontoons, the Sunrise was far more difficult to land on rough terrain than the Type N Halfeyes. It took some time for them to find a stretch that wouldn’t end up with them adding to the day’s losses, and when they did, it was about a half mile away from the fallen plane. Thankfully, the latest upgrade to the Halfeyes had included a rudimentary wheel-braking system, one that let them drag themselves to a stop in under a hundred feet.
Tinvel cut the engine, then tore his harness off, leaping out of the plane.
Chona reached for the buckles of her chest harness. Missed. Tried again. Felt her fingernails clack against the metal. She spread her palm, feeling the cool iron, then managed to find the release button. She moved to her seat belt and fumbled with the latch until she felt a click, then slowly stood, bracing both hands on the sides of the cockpit.
Tinvel was watching her with a certain kind of sympathetic expression on his face that she really, really didn’t appreciate. She shot him a deep scowl even as she swung one leg out of the plane, then the other, sitting on the edge of the wooden cockpit. Taking a deep breath, she dropped to the ground.
She bit back a whimper as she hit the dirt. Her head swam, glass grinding in her ankles and knees. She kept her eyes closed, breathing hard.
A warm body pressed itself to her side, lifting one of her arms. Her eyes shot open as Tinvel put himself under her shoulder, helping support her.
“Fuck off,” Chona gasped.
“Told you that you should’ve held back.”
They began walking in the direction of the crash, half of Chona’s weight leaned against Tinvel.
In a few minutes, Tinvel was panting almost as hard as she was. Spending hours hunched over an artificer’s bench wasn’t the best for building up muscle.
It took them the better part of a half hour to reach the crash site. As much as she wished they could have gone faster, their pace was something of a mixed blessing. She needed all the time to recover that she could get.
They found pieces of the Halfeye before they found the actual plane. The griffon’s attack had torn chunks from the plane in mid-air, forcing Hunes into a flat spin. She’d been trapped in a belly-down spin, her plane unable to muster up the forward speed to reattain level flight. The Halfeye had fallen to the ground like a drifting leaf, but with far less grace. It had been shedding pieces all the way down.
Chona and Tinvel walked around a piece of wing. Its edge had a jagged tear, evidence of the claws which had ripped through the canvas. Chona did notice that the rip stopped in the middle of the wing— right where a thin steel support beam had been. The griffon’s claws had bounced off the metal. Maybe that’s what had caused the cut in its leg. She allowed herself a small amount of satisfaction in that.
They reached the crash proper a short time later. Hunes’s plane had initially hit the ground belly-first, snapping its landing gear like twigs and collapsing the lower wings. Chona could see the tracks in the mud where the plane had been dragged as the griffon tore its upper wing off, shattering what little had been left of its internal structure.
“Hunes!” Tinvel called. “Docks! Are you there?”
Chona didn’t say anything. Tinvel had come to look for survivors. She’d just come to salvage the engine. She knew there was no way anyone had survived the crash.
“I’m feeling better,” Chona lied, shrugging herself off Tinvel’s shoulder. “Go ahead and look. I’ll keep an eye out for any other griffons.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She forced a tired smile to crawl up her face. “I’ll be good as new in a few minutes. Promise.”
Tinvel reluctantly left her, jogging forward. Chona followed behind at her own, far slower pace, mentally bracing herself.
The Halfeye was borderline unrecognizable. The crash had shattered its wooden frame and twisted what precious little steel it had. She could see snapped control cables poking through the canvas like torn sinew, bent into shapes so abstract they were almost artistic. The lower wings had been scattered by the roll, the upper wing torn away entirely. All that was left was a long cylinder broken into two pieces. It was laying on its side, belly towards her, cockpit out of sight.
Tinvel jogged around the plane, still calling out for Hunes and Docks.
As he reached the far side of the plane, Chona stopped by a chunk of the tail, resting against it as she waited.
Tinvel stumbled, his words dying in his throat. She could see him staring down, looking at the cockpit. He stood completely frozen, eyes wide.
“Chona!” Tinvel yelled, looking up at her. “Chona! It’s- it’s- get over here!”
She sighed, forcing herself into motion. Tinvel kept staring down at the cockpit, his chest heaving heavy, silent breaths.
Chona winced as she turned the corner. Hunes was still strapped into her seat, her head pointing down, neck distended in a sickening posture. It had snapped on impact, along with what seemed to be her spine. She was shorter than she had been, her spine snapped somewhere in the middle of her back, causing her to fold back and forward, her entire upper body connected by skin alone. She was covered in lacerations, but the area around the open wounds weren’t soaked in blood. They’d happened after she’d died. When the griffon had rolled the plane.
Docks was even worse. His clothing was covered in thick, clotting blood, untold wounds ravaging every inch of his skin. He had survived the initial crash, apparently, because his harness was unbuckled, but he hadn’t left the plane. Leaning closer, Chona saw that his seatbelt, which was made of simple iron, had somehow been bent in the crash. The strap that ran through it was halfway sawed through, his belt knife still clutched in one hand.
The top half of his skull was missing. Chona could see the pink of his brain, or at least parts of it. Only when the wriggling mass of flies buzzed aside. He’d survived until the griffon had come for the upper wing. The plane flipping had crushed his head, killing him on the spot.
Tinvel held his hand out, a half-formed, croaking sentence failing to get through his lips.
“I… they were…”
“I know,” Chona said.
“He was- he was still-”
“I know.”
“If I’d turned around sooner…”
“It was a miracle he survived the crash in the first place. Even if we’d landed right away, we wouldn’t have gotten there in time.” Chona took a step forward, holding her breath as she looked into the cockpit. “Both of his legs are broken. He wasn’t going anywhere. Even if he’d crawled out, the griffon would have gotten him. I guarantee you they’d have grabbed Docks instead of the wing.”
Tinvel’s jaw bobbed back and forth. He bit his lower lip, trying to hold back, but his eyes were already watering.
Chona took a step forward, reaching to reassure him, but before she could, Tinvel fell forward, vomiting profusely onto the grass.
She came up next to him anyway, carefully kneeling at his side. She reached out a hand, moving to pat his back, then stopped.
She… wasn’t sure what to do. She’d discovered she was a mage when she was ten years old. She’d killed someone for the first time when she was eleven. A bandit had come after her family while they were on the road. It had been a single catfolk with a rusty sword, barely a threat, but her parents had been unarmed. With a muttered word and angry gesture, she’d lit his fur on fire as he reached for her mother. She hadn’t been old enough then to really understand what it meant to kill someone. She hadn’t even seen the aftermath; her father had scooped her up in his arms and sprinted away, leaving the bandit to his slow death. She’d heard his screams fade into the distance, and she’d felt proud of it.
By the time she’d been old enough to understand what it really meant to see someone die, she’d killed so many she was already numb to it. Her parents had mourned her childhood, seeing their twelve-year-old daughter putting men and women to the torch, and at the time, she hadn’t understood why they were so sad.
So, unlike Tinvel, she’d learned what corpses looked like. She’d smelled burnt and broken flesh. She’d helped bury the bodies she’d created. She knew from experience that when the burns were bad enough, you couldn’t just haul the victims off. You needed a good set of thick, rough leather gloves. The village blacksmith usually loaned her a pair. Without them, the blackened skin would flake off in her hands, leaving nothing more than slippery, hard-to-handle sinew beneath.
Tinvel…? Tinvel had grown up in the capital. She didn’t think he’d ever so much as seen livestock get slaughtered. The gulf between their lived experiences was too vast. She had no idea how to bridge the distance.
She let her hand fall on his back as he continued to puke, giving him a few pats. When he paused for breath, eyes wild and bloodshot, she started to say something, only to be interrupted by another bout of vomiting.
After a time, there was nothing more than bile dripping from his lips, despite how hard he clenched through every convulsion. Only then did his stomach start settling. Still without anything useful to say, Chona stood, looking around for something to cover up the corpses.
Finding nothing, she took her aviator’s jacket off, moving forward to gently place it over Hunes’s corpse. The girl’s body was bent at such a steep angle that Chona had to use her snapped neck like a coat hanger, but that at least hid the worst of it. She moved to Docks next and, without any other option, tore off a long strip of the plane’s canvas. She wrapped it around his chest, doing her best to hide his bloody form. There was nothing she could do for the pool of crimson beneath him, nor the awful sound of buzzing flies.
Behind her, Tinvel finally stopped puking. He leant back, looking at her, then at the covered bodies, and gave her a simple nod of thanks.
“We’re gonna need…” Tinvel stopped to spit several times, trying to clear his mouth. They’d left their canteens in the plane. “We have to get the engine out in case they come back. Hopefully we can salvage all of it, but we should at least the crystals. We can burn the bodies.”
“I’ll work on it.”
Tinvel stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No. You’re still screwed up. I can do it.”
Chona glanced to her right. She wondered if he’d noticed the way that Hunes’s blood had dripped into the engine compartment, half-dried and caking the crystalline engine.
“Okay,” she said, because he was right. She was screwed up. She had all the disorientation of a blind drunk whose hangover had already started. She couldn’t see straight enough to know how bad her hands were shaking, but she knew it was bad.
She could at least do something for him, though. As Tinvel began pulling tools from his patchwork jacket’s pockets, Chona reached underneath the clothing she’d used to cover Hunes and began unbuckling her from her seat, keeping one hand underneath the girl’s shoulder. She let out a pained groan as Hunes’s full weight suddenly settled onto her, but thankfully she didn’t drop her. Carefully, as best she could— ignoring the way she could feel broken bones grinding beneath her fingers— Chona began dragging Hunes out of her seat.
After a few minutes of pained effort, Hunes’s corpse was free. She adjusted the jacket as she laid the corpse out, trying to pose her like she’d seen some people in her old village do for funerals, before they covered the corpse in firewood for the cremation. She didn’t know how much of a difference it would make to Tinvel, but it wasn’t like she could offer him anything else.
That done, she finally let herself sit down. She tried to keep her eyes on the sky, in case any griffons came back, but it was so difficult. The warm breeze running through her fur, which should have been so wonderfully relaxing, instead felt like it was heating her to a fever. She wanted nothing more than to stuff her face into the cool dirt and never see the sun again.
She didn’t let herself give in to the childish impulse. She kept an eye on the sky as Tinvel worked, pulling the Halfeye’s shattered engine apart piece by piece. She heard him gag several times, threatening to vomit at the viscera within, but he held himself together. She wasn’t sure if that was because he was growing more accustomed to the gore, or if he simply had nothing left in his body to throw up.
It was maybe a half hour later that she spotted something in the sky. Actually, she heard it first. A propeller thumping through the air, coming in from the south.
Chona got her feet beneath her on wobbly legs, shading her eyes. It took longer than it should have for her to pick out the green dot against the sky, but she eventually spotted Affe’s plane heading towards them.
“Affe’s on his way,” Chona announced. Probably useless to say. Tinvel had working ears.
“Great.”
Chona winced. She’d have rather heard his more familiar exasperation than that empty, emotionless statement.
Affe circled once around the crash site, searching for a place to land, then began to put down. He disappeared behind a much closer hill than the Sunrise had, his lighter plane coming to a stop much quicker. It was only a few minutes before he and Cebrav came marching over the hill.
She locked eyes with Cebrav. His expression was haggard, and he had an unnatural limp to his step; one that switched sides every few steps, rather than staying on one spot. She wondered what spellsickness felt like for him. Not any better than it did for her, it would seem.
“Hey!” Affe called out, far too chipper. “We finally charged enough to make our way over. How bad was the crash?”
Chona let silence be her answer.
Affe and Cebrav made their way down the hill, picking their way through the debris-strewn grass.
She saw the moment when they recognized what, exactly, lay beneath the lumpy pile of Chona’s discarded flight jacket.
Affe paused mid-step, his eyes widening. He seemed surprised for some reason. As if he thought their crash, a rapid, dizzying flat spin that had slammed them right into a hillside, had been as survivable as his own controlled descent.
Cebrav showed less emotion. His face paled as he looked away, grimacing, but that was it. Chona wondered how much he’d seen before. He was one of the older university students, a few years into his twenties. More than old enough to have seen something awful.
“We… we, uh, stopped at the downed griffon,” Affe said, averting his eyes.
Chona glanced at him. “Downed?”
“Dead. The dead griffon.”
“So you managed to kill it?” she asked Cebrav.
“The ground did most of the work,” he said. “It couldn’t recover in time. Hit like a rock. Feathers everywhere. Looked like a fox got into an entire city’s worth of henhouses.” He held up his jittering hands, showing off how hard they were trembling. “Fucking lucky I got them with that one spell. Electric spells… they’re not as good as I hoped. That one was all I had in me.”
“You got ‘em with it. That’s what matters.” Chona nodded at Affe. “What’d you find on the griffon?”
He glanced at Tinvel, whose upper body was still buried in the ruined fuselage of the Halfeye.
“Shouldn’t we…?”
Chona shook her head meaningfully. Tinvel’s back was trembling, rising up and down erratically.
He was crying.
She hoped she was the only one who could tell.
Affe cleared his throat, averting his eyes. “We found some pretty interesting stuff.” He turned out his pockets, tossing to the ground a pair of daggers, bits of scorched leather, a tied-up bundle of downy feathers, flight goggles not unlike her own, a compass, and the shattered head of a crossbow bolt. Then he looked up at her, chagrined.
“That’s it,” he said.
“What do you mean, that’s it?”
“That’s all they had on them. Besides their clothes, that is.”
Chona looked over the pile. There was nothing of use.
“The hells? Not even a map?”
“If they had one, it got blown away. Or maybe only the leader of the flight had a map, and the others just followed.”
Chona scratched her stomach with her tail, thinking. “What about what they were wearing?”
“Civilian clothes. Not anything like the flight equipment griffon riders used in the Governess’s reports.”
“So they didn’t want anyone to know who came after us.”
“And,” Cebrav added, “they came with the assumption that they might lose someone. That getting taken down was possible. But they still only sent three.”
“Think that means they don’t have that many in the area?”
“Maybe,” Affe said, shrugging. “Maybe they’ve got a whole flock, but they’re paranoid. Not like it’s hard to take off without wrapping yourself in an Imperial flag or whatever. They could’ve thought they’d get us all before we even blinked, but still took the right precautions. They’re not stupid.”
Tinvel finally pulled himself out of the Halfeye, holding a fistful of crystals. His eyes were wet and bloodshot, but it was hard to tell if it was from crying or vomiting.
“Who gives a fuck which side they’re on?”
Affe frowned. “It’s important. If this is a case of mistaken identity, if the True Empire was coming after us because they thought we were burning down their territory or whatever-”
“Then we’ll kill them anyway!” Tinvel’s hand flung to the two half-wrapped corpses on the ground. “Look at that! They killed them! Are you- are you all okay with that?”
“It’s a war, Tin,” Chona gently reminded him. “I know it’s hard, but there’s not-”
“Fuck that!” Tears returned to his eyes. “Fuck them! Griffons can’t fly that far. They’re in range of our planes, I guarantee it, and they can’t climb half as fast as we can. If we catch them on the ground, they’re dead! And if we can find the camp they’re from, we can figure out why the hell they did this!”
“That’s a lot of ifs,” Cebrav said. He folded his hands under his armpits to stop his trembling. “And do you really think Garen or Professor Brown is going to let us just wander off on our own?”
Tinvel looked ready to break. Chona wasn’t sure if he was going to burst into tears, a screaming fit, or both, but she didn’t want to see any of them. She stepped forward, reaching out to put a hand on his arm.
He slapped it away, pointing to the two wrapped corpses of their friends.
“Don’t! Don’t you tell me I’m being fucking stupid. You nearly killed yourself today!”
Chona took a step back, raising an eyebrow. She reached up into the sash covering her chest with her tail, slipping the communication crystal out. She balanced it for a moment on the tip of her tail, then flicked it to Tinvel, who barely caught it. Despite the fact that he was half-mad with fury, he spent a brief moment looking rather awkward to be touching something that had just been between her breasts. Chona snorted, but for once, didn’t make fun of him.
“Professor Brown would tell us to get the hells out of here right this very instant. The Governess would be enraged she lost two mages, and she’d start figuring things out on her end, but her first order would be to send us back to the city in an instant.”
“Exactly,” Affe said. “We don’t have a choice, Tinvel. We can’t just go after them.”
Chona held up a hand, silencing the prick. “I said they wouldn’t give the order. But you know who wouldn’t? Someone who’d get royally pissed if we didn’t chase down some dangerous spies flying over Tulian? The one person in power who’d really, really understand how badly you want to go kill these bastards?”
“Oh, shit,” Cebrav muttered. Affe only put his head in his hands, groaning.
Tinvel’s eyes lit up. He put the crystal to his lips, embarrassment forgotten.
“Stewardess Evie?” He asked. “Are you alone?”
Notes:
Once again, to avoid spreading misinformation, David either got a slight bit of Earthly trivia wrong, or he purposefully twisted it to better fit the new world he was in. The real pilot motto is “Speed is life. Altitude is life insurance.” Considering the total absence of “life insurance” as a concept in this world, you can understand his change in that respect.
Chapter 142: B3 Ch29: Hammerhead (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Tinvel
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The airfield was a dismal, utilitarian construction. Built within the largest of the southern logging camps, its placement had caused no amount of consternation among the workers, whose simple cabins were displaced from the high ground they’d enjoyed before. The rainy season was in full swing once more. The long strip of carefully-leveled dirt which had taken the loggers’ place left no room for tents and primitive cottages, forcing them to suffer the morning rains which ran in torrents down the hill. Most had constructed small dams on the high side of their dwellings to part the rivers which formed each morning, but only so much could be done. Water seeping through was unavoidable.
Tinvel had some sympathy for them, but not much. He and the others had arrived to use their spells to aid the loggers, and now they had been officially (if surreptitiously) tasked with the location and destruction of enemies who sought to destroy their entire operation. Even if their living arrangements had suffered for it, he and the other mages were now protectors of the loggers, not fellow workers. Flat ground was too precious in the hills of Tulian to spend it on more comfortable homes.
Tinvel was sitting beside the Sunrise, listening to heavy drops of rain patter against the thick canvas shelter they had erected the night before. A light wooden table had been set out before him, a cheap thing with terribly uneven legs that would have left it rocking at every touch if they weren’t sunk so deeply into the mud. Across the carefully toweled-off tabletop was a mess of notes, books, reports, and half-finished scribbles. The sum total of aeronautical knowledge he had brought on the trip south, all clumped up in one disorganized pile.
“I’m going to have to get this crap in order,” he grumbled.
“We need a damn roof is what we need,” Chona said, emerging from the misty morning rains to press her way through the tent flap. Despite the tumultuous weather, she still wore nothing more than her usual pair of sashes. Today she had a red one wrapped tightly over her breasts and a green one covering as little of her waist as could still be considered modest, the tail at the base of her spine poking through the triple-wrapped layers. Both articles of clothing and her fur were soaked, and he caught a distinct whiff of her as she approached– not as bad as wet dog, but certainly not pleasant, either.
She strode over to the table and, stretching her arms out, made ready to shake the water off herself like an animal.
“Don’t.”
Chona paused, looking down at the papers and books she’d nearly ruined. She silently stepped away to grab a large rag from the Sunrise’s box of maintenance gear and began toweling herself off instead, eventually joining Tinvel at the other seat. It made a wet squelch as her weight forced it into the sodden ground.
“They’ll finish the proper hangar eventually,” Tinvel said, gesturing across the runway to a set of roofless wooden walls rising out of the mist. “But it’ll take a while. They don’t have all the stuff we had in the capital, remember. No engineers, no riveters, nothing. Just the Artificer Union’s new chainsaws, which they barely know how to use.”
“Still wish they’d hurry up.” Chona put her hands under the table and shook them hard, sparing the papers from the spray of water, but not Tinvel’s legs. He ignored it. “How hard is it to build a big wooden box with one set of doors? I’m shocked this tarp is holding up as well as it is.”
“If you go over there and complain to them, I’m sure it’ll only make them take longer.”
Chona huffed, but didn’t say anything further. Instead she leaned forward, inspecting everything Tinvel had spread across the table.
“So? What do you think?”
“About what?”
“Is it stupid for us to go after the griffons?”
Tinvel sighed, wiping a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “Professor Brown didn’t skimp on giving us advice on how to fight other planes. There’s as much advice in here as you could ever want. Stories, too. Specific aerial battles he remembered, and what made one side win or lose.”
“Sounds helpful.”
“Is it?” Tinvel flicked a charcoal writing stick at the bundle of griffon feathers Affe had gathered up from his fallen opponent. “We’re not fighting other planes. Who knows if any of this is worth listening to?”
Tinvel tapped one of the pages, one where Professor Brown had done his best to draw out the exact path of an aerial maneuver. It was called the ‘rolling scissors,’ and it involved two planes trapped in a long-winded barrel roll, each pilot forced to crane their heads upward to see the other as they spiraled through the sky. So long as each plane had roughly the same speed and maneuverability, their efforts to point their noses towards the other would keep them spinning round and round, bleeding speed the entire time. Tinvel thought it looked like two snakes intertwining, each trying to latch onto the back of the other’s neck.
In that other world, the fangs were guns. Here, it was Chona.
“See this?” He pointed hard, crumpling the paper and smearing the charcoal. “If we were fighting another plane, this is basically what would have happened once we got jumped for the first time. The griffon would have overshot and tried to pull up for another go, but we would have dove after them. Of course they wouldn’t want that, so they would have to turn their speed into altitude and climb back up, only to be forced to roll back over when their momentum died out. If I did my job right, we’d still be on their tail, still losing momentum, and if we kept pursuing them, it’d repeat all over again.”
Despite the early hour, Chona alertly followed Tinvel’s finger across the page, nodding along. He continued the thought up into the air, drawing invisible lines over the table.
“That didn’t happen though because the griffon didn’t want to turn its speed back into altitude. I don’t know why, but it flared its wings to maintain a lower flight level, like it was trying to bait us into coming after it. Maybe it was too used to getting in midair melee fights, not fighting mages. Wasn’t ready for us to try and attack at range.”
He stopped, dropping his hands, looking expectantly at Chona.
She shrugged. “Sounds right enough. But that idea, the rolling scissors thing? It’s shit from the start, right? At least for us.” She indicated the twin-seat plane sharing the tent with them, looking at her seat, which was just behind the dual set of wings. “It’s easiest for me to shoot my spells upward or, when we open the hatch, downward. Not forward. That means any loop like what you’re talking about would just be putting us in the worst possible position, if we were fighting someone that flew with mages, too. We’d both be able to fling spells at each other through the whole thing.”
“Yeah. Getting into a rolling scissors won’t work, not with the planes we have now.” Tinvel rubbed the knuckles of one hand into the palm of his other, trying to work out an ache. “And that other point is even worse. The griffons didn’t have mages, did they?”
A figure opened the canvas flap, followed close behind by another. “If they did have a mage,” Affe loudly declared, “they weren’t doing anything useful.”
Unlike Chona, he’d had the good sense to wear a raincoat before coming over, which he quickly shucked off and folded over an arm. Cebrav entered behind him, looking decidedly displeased to be up so early in the morning. They both pulled up chairs, joining the conference of Tulian’s precious few aviators.
“The Governess says that the Imperials don’t consider griffons ‘worth’ putting mages on,” Tinvel explained, indicating yet another sheet in the pile of haphazardly-assembled notes. “I don’t like her saying that very much, because that makes it sound like there’s something out there that they will put mages on, and that thing’s probably a lot worse than griffons.”
“Worse? What, you think they’ve got a whole flock of wyverns?”
Cebrav waved a hand. “How the hell would they get wyverns to fight for them? Just because we got a report of one wyvern doesn’t mean there’s more. Maybe they have a few Riders somewhere, somehow, but no way have they got anything major. Not enough for a proper military force. And why would a wyvern even need a mage, anyway? Not like it would need the help.”
Affe grunted in acknowledgement. A brief pause ensued as all present sat back, gathering their thoughts. Some of them leaned forward, scanning the papers.
They’d all read every word of the collected aeronautical documents on their own time, of course. They’d written half of them, in fact. They were mostly the hasty notes they’d taken while listening to Professor Brown and the Governess, including the latter’s theories on what the Imperials had for air power. Tinvel had brought them out not to read something new, but in the hopes of looking at them in a new light. He’d thought being in his first dogfight might reveal some hidden trick, now that he had a perspective he’d lacked before.
Instead he couldn’t stop thinking about the broken corpses it had left behind.
“You remember the way that one griffon dodged your spellflames?” Cebrav asked, resting his elbows on the table. “Just dropped out of the sky like a stone. You had them dead to rights.”
She scowled. “Clearly, I didn’t. He dodged us like it was nothing.”
“Cost them a lot of altitude though, didn’t it?” Affe pointed out. “So much so that they never even managed to rejoin the fight. Compared to the Halfeyes, they’re terrible climbers. That’s why that one went after…” He trailed off, glancing apprehensively at Tinvel.
“Hunes, yeah.” Tinvel stared him in the eye. “And Docks. Took their wing, flipped the plane. Only killed Docks, but that’s just because Hunes died when she hit the ground. What about it?”
“Just… pointing it out.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t forgotten.”
An awkward silence filled the tent, broken only by the wet smacks of rain above their heads.
“Why do you think they took the plane’s wing, of all things?” Cebrav asked.
“Probably thought that whatever lets us fly is purely enchantment-based, and I guess it stands to reason that if it was, they’d be in the wing.”
“Mm.”
Another silence. Tinvel reached forward, flicking off the lantern at the center of the table. It was growing lighter outside, the rain thinning out.
“We have in front of us, right now, the sum total knowledge of fifty years spent fighting in the cockpit of an airplane. An entire world went to war in the air, twice, and Professor Brown studied it. That’s what we have to learn from. Ten total years of war in the air. Against us,” he pointed to the south, “is an Empire with two and a half centuries of experience fighting on the backs of griffons. Two hundred and fifty years of civil war. Someday soon, our planes will be better than any of their birds. But we’re not there yet.”
“You’re saying they’re better than us?”
“We traded,” Chona said. “One griffon for one plane.”
“And that’s a loss they can afford ten times over,” Tinvel snapped. “Every plane, every mage, they’re precious for Tulian. I don’t know how many griffons the Empire has— whichever side of their stupid civil war it was that attacked us— but I know it’s a hell of a lot more than we’ve got.”
“Why are you so worried our allies might have attacked us?” Affe gestured to the collection of looted supplies he’d stolen from the dead griffon, none of which indicated any kind of political allegiance. “I get why their enemies would, but why our allies?”
“The Governess said that the Adjutant doesn’t have full control of his people,” Chona said, answering for Tinvel. He could hear the derision dripping from her words. She’d taken to Tulian’s revolutionary ideology harder than most, and the idea of two different bands of royalists duking it out under the same ruler plainly disgusted her. “We know the jungle’s explosive growth is unnatural, and that means someone’s responsible for it. The way the Governess told it, there’s a lot of players in this game. Some groups didn’t support the idea of letting their armies travel outside the jungle, much less let their politicians make foreign diplomatic contact. What do you think those sorts would think of hiring Tulian mercenaries? Arming their soldiers with Tulian’s foreign weapons?”
“They’d probably be pretty pissed,” Affe said frankly. “But would they be pissed enough to try and kill us? Contact’s been made. The secret is out. Guns are in their hands. It’s not like they’d get anything out of having us abandon our end of the deal. They’d just lose their Adjutant the money that’s already been paid.”
“So?” Tinvel asked. “Why would they care? Have you guys forgotten what it’s like to live under Lords and Ladies?” He looked around the table. Cebrav was the oldest of them, at twenty-five, but none of them were all that much younger. Old Tulian had fallen when Tinvel was barely eight, but he could still remember being shuffled into the city square each week, forced to witness the public hangings. “They barely gave a damn about the Kingdom. It was all about their House, their prestige, their efforts to try and climb the ranks. They’d kill peasants for poaching, damnit. If some Visya or whatever was all about keeping the war hidden from the outside world, they’d be furious at our involvement. Can you imagine how pissed off they’d be if they’re also part of the faction that’s been causing the forest to grow, now that we’re burning it back?”
“Enough to try and get us killed, I’d guess,” Chona drawled. She leant over the table and began to shuffle the papers and books back together, collecting them into a single denser, but no more organized, pile. “But what does it matter? We got the Stewardess’s go-ahead to hunt them down. Whatever side they’re on, they’re our enemies.”
“It’ll matter to the Governess,” Cebrav said.
“Who doesn’t even know we’re doing this,” Tinvel replied.
“Which will last how long, exactly?”
“No idea. That’s why we’ve got to find them fast.”
Affe raised his eyebrows. “How? We have no idea where the griffons are. They don’t need a runway, don’t need support crews, don’t even need maintenance equipment. They could be living under the shade of trees, hunting for their food, only starting cooking fires at night. Hells, we don’t even know if we could beat them if we ran into them again. We barely survived the first dogfight.”
“They got the jump on us. That won’t happen again.”
“How can you be sure?”
Tinvel stood, rolling his shoulders. It was an odd thing, to see the three other mages looking at him so closely. He’d technically been in charge of them all for months, but none of them had really felt it. Why would they? He hadn’t bothered to pretend like he was in charge of them, either. It was an academic project, a team effort. Making machines of war was a whole other thing to fighting in them.
He sighed, stretching his neck as sunlight began to join the raindrops falling on the tarp above.
“The Sunrise is heavier than the Type N’s,” he said, walking over to his plane. “It’s faster in the dive, slower in the climb, and thanks to its pontoons, can’t roll worth a shit. Aside from the last point, that’s pretty similar to the advantages and disadvantages between us and the griffons. We’ve all done a lot of flight practice on our own, but we haven’t done much together besides formation flying.”
“Pretty thin comparison.”
Tinvel began to haul himself into the cockpit, glancing over his shoulder at the other aviators.
“You got a better idea?”
-------------------------------
----------------------------
-------------------------
The Sunrise’s struts creaked in agony. A dangerous, warbling flutter filled his ears. It was the sound of a plane pushed to its limits, teetering on the very edge of controllable flight. The muscles in Tinvel’s neck were taut with the effort required to keep his head upright, darkness chewing at the corners of his vision. His wrists twitched forward and back, each foot pressing the lightest taps to the rudder pedals.
The Sunrise was not an advanced plane. It had no automatic controls, no hydraulic actuators, no true mechanical complexity beyond the engine which drove it. The flight stick was attached directly to steel cables which pushed and pulled at the wing’s ailerons, not an ounce of abstraction present to separate pilot from plane. At its core, the Sunrise was a tool no more complex than a soldier’s sword. It moved as he commanded, and it would offer no mercy for his errors.
If he pulled too hard, the plane would do exactly as he ordered. It would turn so sharply that it showed its belly to the wind, flipping end over end, the airflow over its wings disrupted. In a plane like the Sunrise, a fatal stall was always one wrong decision away. There was no margin for error, no illusion of mercy.
But that also meant that the plane was his. It did as commanded without fail, limited only by the power of his arms and the strength of its wooden frame. There was nothing stopping him from taking the plane to the very precipice of its abilities, teetering on the edge of a ten-thousand-foot fall.
If he’d had the breath to do it, Tinvel would have let out an exhilarated laugh. The wind roared as he guided the Sunrise through a procession of rolls and twists, riding the razor edge of the stall all the while. Even while his heart struggled to pump blood into his head against the force of gravity, he had never felt more alert.
He could hear Affe’s plane rattling a hundred feet behind him, his Halfeye matching the Sunrise move for move.
Matching wasn’t enough.
For Cebrav to land a killing blow, he would have to get above, below, or to the side of the Sunrise, and he hadn’t managed it yet. Tinvel had taken them to the greatest height he dared fly, where the air was thin and icy cold, and Affe had followed him all the while.
Evie was right, Tinvel realized. It IS a dance.
The endless procession of maneuvers carried them through the sky, their contrails stopping and starting fitfully, their wing’s disturbance to the humid air barely enough to trace an artful tapestry beneath the rolling clouds. Their two planes had been chasing one another for nearly ten minutes, Affe always the hunter, Tinvel the hunted.
Even now, with Chona turned around in her seat and her hand raised threateningly, Affe was flying carefully. He kept his plane just behind and below the Sunrise’s tail, jinking left and right to ensure they never got a clear shot. The fact that he had stayed on Tinvel’s tail for ten straight minutes was almost as impressive as the fact that Tinvel, in the considerably less agile plane, hadn’t managed to get themselves caught in a lethal trap.
After ten minutes of nonstop combat, Tinvel was beginning to worry. The stress he was putting the Sunrise through couldn’t be good. The creaks and groans were growing louder with every harsh roll, and he was beginning to worry they’d start turning into pops and snaps. If he didn’t end the mock-dogfight soon, the Sunrise might end up disintegrating in midair.
“Gonna try something!” He yelled.
“What?!”
“Get ready to cast!”
As yet another roll reached the point of wings-level flight, Tinvel suddenly jerked back hard on the controls, a loud pop sounding as the Sunrise’s wings bit hard into the air. He kicked the engine into emergency speed as he dragged the nose toward the noonday sun, closing his eyes against the glare.
In the notes Professor Brown had provided, this was a last-ditch maneuver. A Hammerhead. It was something you did when you couldn’t shake an enemy no matter what tricks you tried, electing to abandon subtlety in favor of one last desperate gamble. You flung yourself straight upward, trading every bit of speed for altitude, hoping that, as your enemy chased you into the sky, they wouldn’t be able to get a clean shot on you. In this case, he was also lucky enough to be able to point himself into the sun, leaving Affe staring into the blinding light, hardly able to track him. Even then, it was still a risk.
By Professor Brown’s lessons, Affe had two choices: dive away, using the opportunity to hopefully gain enough distance that Tinvel’s rocketing descent wouldn’t give the Sunrise an overwhelming advantage, or, if he wanted to be more aggressive, follow him up into the sky, seizing the moment when Tinvel would be hanging weightlessly at the apex of the climb, a perfectly stationary target.
Affe, Tinvel knew, was anything but cautious.
Even as its engine’s emergency speed clanked and clattered within the cowling, the Sunrise bled speed like a stuck pig. He felt the wind dying out, the absence of its roar as deafening as its presence had been.
“Now!”
“What?”
A few seconds before they reached the height of their climb, Tinvel kicked the rudder hard right, then left, tossing the plane onto its side. He kept the rudder pressed as hard left as he could, and, using the last dregs of their speed, managed to hang the plane on a knife’s edge for a few precious seconds.
Earning Chona a perfect shot out of the plane’s left side, the blinded Affe only just realizing what had happened.
Chona laughed maniacally as a dazzling light burst out of her palm, signaling the casting of her spell.
Tinvel lost control an instant later. Lift abandoned the wings as his over-ruddering sent the plane too far sideways, spinning them into a nauseating cartwheel. The world blurred as he was slammed against his harness, every muscle straining to keep himself facing forward.
He pushed the right rudder down with both feet, shoving so hard he could feel every bump of his spine grinding against the wooden backing of his cushioned seat. His limbs twisted and pulled at the controls without any conscious input, the ailerons, elevators, and rudder changing position in a feverish effort to correct the wild spin.
He chewed through altitude with every second, tumbling like a kite with its string cut. Every time the plane’s nose pointed towards the ground he would lock his body in place, trying to pin the Sunrise onto that axis before it inevitably spun around once more.
C’mon, c’mon, come ON!
Slowly, steadily, like the last ticks of a dying pendulum, the Sunrise’s oscillations began to straighten out. The blurry terrain gained definition, no longer sweeping past too fast to track. When he heard the whistle of wind return to his ears he carefully, gently, with the care and grace of a newborn’s mother, began to pull out of the dive.
After a few more seconds of curling back into level flight, he was once more completely in control, puttering along like nothing had ever happened.
Tinvel swallowed hard, looking down. At a rough guess, they’d plummeted nearly three thousand feet. Trembling slightly, he reached for the speed controls, returning them to cruise mode.
“Gods damn!” Chona yelled behind him. “Shit! Shit, Tinvel! What were you thinking?!”
After the stunt she had pulled the day before, that was the last thing Tinvel wanted to hear from his backseater. He twisted around in his seat with a furious scowl, ready to scream his head off.
Only to see her grinning as wide as she could, trembling with excitement.
“We need a way to talk better in flight!” She yelled. “I thought you fucked it up for a second! I almost didn’t cast the spell!”
The righteous anger that had swelled up within Tinvel popped like a soap bubble. It almost would have been easier, he reflected, for her to actually be angry. At least he could accuse her of being a hypocrite for pulling dangerous stunts.
“Yeah!” he said instead. “We’ll have to figure something out. Come on, let’s head back. Who knows how much energy we’ve used up already.”
------------------------------------
Chona
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Their landing back at the airfield was without fanfare. The loggers were mostly out working, trying to stem the tide of corrupting growth. They had to hop out of their planes and roll them back into the tents themselves, huffing and puffing as the fat wheels dug hard into the mud. The airstrip was supposed to be made of tightly packed dirt, enough so that the rain would run right off, but there was only so much you could do with shovels and manpower. By the time they’d gotten the plane safely out of the weather, Chona was panting harder than she had been during any of the day’s aerobatics.
Tinvel, meanwhile, seemed almost exhilarated. He hadn’t even wanted to put the plane up; he wanted to get back in the air as soon as they’d given the engine’s crystals enough time to rest. He’d had to be convinced that, even if they did fly again that day, it was still best to put the plane under shelter. No one but the gods knew when rain would come during Tulian’s rainy season, and even a seaplane like the Sunrise wasn’t meant to get soaked from above.
She watched him closely as he began his post-flight inspection, running his artificer’s eye over every strut and spar. He pulled and tugged at certain parts, his ear pressed to the wood as he listened for the telltale crackle of hidden stress fractures. Other parts, the few pieces of metal screws and bolts, he paid even more attention to. Chona watched him pull out a magnifying glass, looking for signs of rust, loosening, or dangerous wear and tear.
Tinvel should have looked stupid, she knew. He was still wearing his crappy, cheap flight jacket, a patchwork of piss-poor leathers held together by atrocious needlework. His homemade goggles were perched on his head, protruding from wet, mussy hair, giving his skull the appearance of some fuzzy, bug-eyed insect. Time spent flying under the sun may have gotten rid of his pale, subterranean pallor, but it hadn’t done much for his reedy arms, nor the rest of his skinny frame. Speaking objectively, Tinvel didn’t even live up to the negative stereotypes of a mage. The type of soldiers who mocked spellcasters at least had the decency to assume they’d be wearing finely enchanted robes, not the half-useless ensemble Tinvel cobbled together.
Chona watched him bend forward, resting a hand on one of the Sunrise’s large, camouflaged pontoons. Even from behind, she could see the ticking cogs of his mind spring to life. She’d known him long enough by now to recognize it. His right heel rhythmically tapped the mud as he worked his way through the warrens of thought, encountering, considering, and then discarding each presented idea. He wasn’t paranoid about damage; he was cautious. He’d taken Professor Brown’s warnings to heart.
When he glanced up at the Sunrise’s cockpit, running a hand along the handles which let them climb into their seats, she caught a glimpse of his jaw. It was firmly clenched, still damp from the rain, with a bit of a fuzz left from a morning without shaving.
Chona hadn’t even known he needed to shave until that moment. She knew he was as old as her, plenty old enough to need a shave, but until recently, she’d thought of him like she had the rest of the University’s mages: as a child. Someone who had no idea what the spells they practiced were actually capable of.
Yesterday had changed that.
Huffing in frustration, Tinvel removed his goggles and tossed them up into the cockpit, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket. Between the morning rains, the exertion of the faux dogfight, and shoving the Sunrise through the mud, he was soaked from head-to-toe. His cotton undershirt, as thin and cheap as every other piece of clothing he owned, clung tightly to his rail-thin frame. He opened a hatch on the side of the engine cowling and reached in, gritting his teeth as he turned his head aside and felt blindly about, grunting with effort. The pose pulled his shirt even tighter against his body, forcing Chona to realize that the rain and sweat had turned it quite nearly sheer. No one in their right mind would call Tinvel muscular, but contorted as he was, it almost didn’t matter. He was so skinny that she could see the muscles of his shoulders tensing with effort, rolling across his back every time he shifted his position. Working on planes hadn’t made him strong, but it had made him… toned.
Chona folded her arms, watching him work. He had an uncompromising, singular focus, his face a mask of concentration. He knew what he was doing, and he knew he could do it well. She could see that in him. Even as he worried over the Sunrise, he was confident in himself. He knew that if he couldn’t fix something, no one could.
Huh.
Chona peeled her eyes away, trying to drag her thoughts back to practicing the new spell she’d been developing.
She didn’t do a very good job. Tinvel almost immediately distracted her, calling her attention back over.
“We need better ways to talk mid-flight,” he said, indicating the copper voicetube. “There’s no way we’re going to be leaning down in the middle of a dogfight to listen to each other.”
“I can barely keep my head straight,” Chona said by way of agreement. “I really don’t want to imagine how bad it would hurt if I had my ear up against that metal tube when you did a roll. We can kind of hear each other, but it’s not good enough for anything more than basic directions, but our best glass is still nowhere near the clarity we’d need for cockpits.” She drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “What about a spell to create a bubble of static air around us? Could the engine’s geode take the additional strain of another connection and power draw?”
“I,” Tinvel said, hopping out of the Sunrise to rummage in the spare parts box, “was thinking about using one of these.”
Chona looked over to see Tinvel holding up what looked like a long, black rope. It was something Professor Brown had sent with them, suggesting that if they wanted more control over the dispensing of pre-ignition boiling thermite, they could use one of the more recently-perfected inventions of Tulian: the rubber hose. Chona didn’t pay as much attention as Tinvel did to things like that, but she had a vague memory that they were a side project of the team that had been making tires for the army’s bicycles.
“Really? You think that’ll work?”
“Why not?” He climbed back into the cockpit with the tube and a wrench, the latter of which he took to the mouthpiece of the speaking tube, pulling it off with a determined grunt. He held the thin copper cone up to the rubber hose, showing that they were an approximate fit. “Toss me some wrap?”
Grumbling, Chona went over to the box of parts and started rummaging around with her tail until she had tossed enough of the myriad crap out of the way to find a tangled bundle of flat, fibrous rope, and then— anticipating his next request— found the jar of wood glue, too. She passed them from tail to hand to Tinvel, who happily wound them together, though he only tied it off for now, rather than gluing it in place.
“Here, try it out.” He dropped the hose over the side, giving her the end with the cone, putting its opposite to his mouth. She lifted it to her ear, glancing up just in time to see him take a deep breath.
“HEY!”
“Ow!” She jerked the tube away, rubbing her ringing ear. “Fuck you, Tin.”
“Worked though, didn’t it?” He grinned.
“Yeah, I guess it did. Here, have it back.” Chona whipped the cone at his head.
Tinvel yelped as he dodged to one side, the copper bouncing off the wing above him, then cursed as he threw himself forward, trying to catch it before it fell out of the plane.
“We’ve only got one set of those, you know!”
“It would have worked even with a dent in it.” Chona dropped back into her seat, wiping away the gathered humidity before pulling her own personal notes from the larger pile of papers. “You can cut the hose shorter, by the way. And we’ll want a way to split it, so we can hear and talk at the same time.”
“We could put it in our aviator’s caps,” he suggested.
Chona frowned. She’d avoided wearing those so far, hating the way her sweat ended up caked into the fur covering her cheeks and neck. But he was right. Being able to hear each other was probably worth it. So she stayed silent, not complaining.
For the umpteenth time, Chona bent over the table, doing her best to focus on her work. Cebrav’s solution to aerial spellcraft, that of casting high-power, exhausting spells, had proved its worth yesterday. Taking down the single griffon had wiped him out, however, and Chona knew that the fights to come weren’t going to be decided with one measly spell.
Reaching for a small bottle she kept hidden in her sash, she tapped out a small pile of blackpowder on the wooden tabletop. It was something she’d done a hundred times before, every time she had a chance, and every time, she’d failed.
That didn’t mean she could stop trying, however.
She took a deep, steadying breath, closing her eyes against the distractions of the outer world, and extended one finger over the powder. Her mind groped outward, probing the world with inscrutable, intangible senses.
The corpse of a tree lay beneath her finger, a faint echo of its former self reflexively rejoicing at the scent of rain in the air. Further beneath it was the cloying mud, a seeping, oozing presence, one that was content in its ways to grab and pull at all it touched.
Her eyebrows furrowed. She searched for the lesser presences. The plucked feathers of a dead griffon tugged at her mind, trying to draw her away, but she ignored them, grateful for the way the great strands of woven plants encased her, hiding the wider world from her mind. She dove even further inward, teasing at the very edges of her perception.
Above the tree, below the cotton, right beneath the tip of her finger, was something peculiar. In a world of running watercolors, faint shades overlapping a hundred times over, there was something fainter still. A young presence, a new fork on an ancient path.
Chona stilled her heart. She had not gotten this far before. She would not let her excitement crush this formless chrysalis.
The dead tree was the table. It was known. Its kind had been known for untold years. A wooden table was as familiar with mages as mages were familiar to it. The wooden crystal knew how to behave, knew what shape the universe expected of it.
The thing on its surface did not. It did not know if it was one self, a singular lump, or if it was very many things, every granule its own being. It did not know if it was meant to be forever as it was now, or if it was born to change. It suspected the latter, Chona could tell. But it was confused. In what way was it meant to change? It was not a fuel, it knew, not as wood was for a fire. Nor was it food for the living. It was something meant to be changed, to change others, but it was not born to alter the world in the ways anything else ever had before. It was too young, too strange, and had no elder to learn from. It did not understand itself.
Let me show you, Chona whispered to it. Let me teach you what you are.
Following instincts that arose from beyond her body, Chona’s fingers spread. She slowly lowered her hand, the tip of the pile just barely brushing the center of her palm.
You know what you should be, don’t you? What you want to become. Is it not time to declare yourself to the world? To take your place among time.
No spell was cast. No energy left her body.
The blackpowder ignited.
Chona leapt back with a shout as fire burned her skin, a flare of light and smoke rolling up to spill across the tent’s roof.
“Fuck!” She shouted, shaking her hand. “Fuck! Fuck, that hurt.”
“The hells did you do?” Tinvel asked, his bewildered head emerging from the Sunrise’s engine cowling.
“I think I just fingerfucked this blackpowder or something.”
“You what?”
“I don’t know!” Chona stepped back from the table, waving away the smoke. “I was… it was like I was talking to it or something, asking it what it wanted to be, and then it got all excited, and bam, it caught on fire!”
“You didn’t cast a spell?”
“No! It just did that all on its own.”
“Well, are you alright?” Tinvel hopped out of the Sunrise, snagging a water canteen as he hurried over to her. “Give me your hand.” Chona let him grab her wrist. He turned it over, pouring water across the burn. “Did you at least learn anything useful?”
She sighed at the cool water splashing across the burn. It was probably bad enough that she’d need a potion for it, but for now, the water was a relief.
“Maybe?” She hedged. “I’m not sure. I think I understand a little bit more. We’ll have to see if I can actually cast a useful spell.”
“Here’s hoping,” Tinvel said, eying the table. The powder had burned up too quickly to ignite the table, but it had singed a few edges of the nearby papers.
Chona took her hand back from Tinvel, shaking the water off. She gave it an experimental flex, testing if she could still close her fist.
“How does it feel?”
“Hurts like hell,” she hissed.
“You’ll need a potion, then,” Tinvel said, reaching into his jacket pocket.
“No.” Chona sat back at the table, reaching for the vial of blackpowder again. “Not yet. I’ve still got some ideas. No point taking the potion if I’m just gonna get burned again.”
Tinvel’s expression was dubious, but he didn’t argue. He simply gathered up the rest of the books and papers and brought them over to his personal chest, which was enchanted for fire-proofing. Only after he’d shut and locked the lid did he turn around, hands on his hips.
“Go ahead,” he said, waving her on. “If this is gonna be the spell you use in the air, I want to watch this time.”
Chona took a deep breath, pouring out another pile of blackpowder.
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Mui Thom
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He sat alone in his tent, sergeant’s sword laid across his lap, a rag in one hand, oil in the other. He carefully swept the rag up the length of the blade, making sure to cover the steel in its entirety. He had not yet used the weapon in honest combat. It likely did not need the amount of attention he paid it. But it was still a symbol of his promotion, an acknowledgement of the skill he had earned across his career.
However much that matters now, Mui thought somewhat glumly. Can you really call yourself an officer? You haven’t fought a single battle in a position of command.
Knowing this line of thinking would take him nowhere productive, Mui forced it from his head. It was easy enough, thankfully. The process of maintaining his sword was a simple, repetitive process. Almost meditative. He could easily lose himself in the task, his hands moving independently, allowing his mind to wander. In lieu of falling prey to self-recrimination, he listened to the sounds filtering through the canvas of his small tent.
It was the day after the battle which had seen him shot, and he had made his tent up not with the Imperial army, but with the Powdered Lead. The mercenary company had continued to develop the clearing in the woods that they had begun work on shortly after the battle’s conclusion. It was greatly changed already, less than twenty-four hours later. What had begun as a prison for the rebellious civilians had become something more akin to a refugee camp. The Powdered Lead soldiery, mostly drawn from the so-called “combat engineers” of the Tulian military, worked with impressive rapidity. Already there was a rudimentary wooden fortification around the premises, thick anti-cavalry spikes created from the trees that had been cut to create the clearing. Even after this, there had been precious little in the way of shelter available for the civilians, who had lived in the wooden buildings which now sheltered General Borek’s army.
As always, Sara’s commitment to the care of her charges astounded him. She had sent her largest, most visibly intimidating soldiers back to the mine, where they had gathered up every scrap of cloth, tarps, and spare clothing that had not already been looted by the Imperial forces. These supplies had been brought back to the camp and, through the work of captured civilians and mercenary alike, stitched into large sheets. Long poles had been erected, the improvised canvas stretched between them. Though the end result did nothing for privacy or physical protection, they had at least succeeded in keeping most of the civilians dry throughout the morning rain.
Mui turned his blade over in his lap, inspecting the sheen as figures walked back and forth beyond his tent, occasionally pausing. It was spotless, of course. Not a flake of rust anywhere on it, with even its leather grip polished bright enough to shine. Thinking back to his earlier days in the army, Mui had remembered privately distrusting the sergeants whose blades were spotless. It said poor things about their willingness to engage in battle alongside their squad.
He sighed, setting the blade aside. He was reaching for its scabbard when there was a rapping knock on his tentpole. The tall shadow that had been darkening the flap was knocking.
“Yes?” He asked, straightening.
Rather than say anything further, the figure crouched and stepped through.
The Provisional Governess of Tulian, despite a title which rivaled some Imperial nobility in terms of syllable length, dressed nothing like the wealthy and powerful of Mui’s home. She entered his tent in a state of exhausted dishevelment, the last day of tending to the needs of the camp taking a far greater toll on her than any battle he’d seen her participate in. She wore men’s breeches laced tightly up her legs, though in a strange choice of fashion he had not seen anywhere other than on her, those breeches were made of a stiff workman’s leather, with the peculiar addition heavy lacing stitching up the outer thighs, providing a modicum of flexibility. Her shirt was of a sort common to human men in the Empire and Tulian alike, made of cotton kept baggy over the chest, so loose it stayed so even when the string of buttons running up the front were done up, an excellent garment for the heat. Somewhat uncommonly for Sara, her hair was held up in a tight ponytail, bound by twine.
There was nothing stopping such an outfit from being modest, of course.
Save Sara herself.
Her leather breeches had to have been made for a woman with legs half the size of hers, which meant the stitching had been loosened by necessity to show nearly two inches of soft, sun-tanned skin, a scandalous exposure that ran unobstructed from her hips to her calves. Her men’s shirt, which would have been loose on anyone but an orc, was pulled tightly against her breasts, a choice that seemed to have been accentuated with a small pin behind her back which kept the material held deliberately taut. Sweaty as she was, a sculptor who wished to carve a nude relief would not have needed to ask for her shirt to come off before she posed for reference. That is, assuming they could ever bring their eyes away from her body to do their work.
When Mui managed the task, lifting his attentions from the enticing sway of her chest as she bent forward into his tent, he was surprised to see that she was a tired woman. Her eyes were red with exhaustion, slightly sunken into the dark marks over her cheeks. He wondered if she had slept at all since collecting the camp’s civilians into the care of the Powdered Lead and, almost in the same instant the question occurred to him, decided she hadn’t. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since the battle’s end.
“Hey,” she greeted, a bright yet apologetic smile on her face. “Sorry for taking so long to come see you. I had a lot of shit to do.”
“Please, come in,” Mui said sarcastically, moving his armor and weapons aside, giving her room to sit. “Yes, I am decent. There is no need to concern yourself.”
Sara laughed, sitting in the space he’d cleared. “Sorry for barging in, too, then. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t, but I must admit, I am used to people asking before they enter.”
“I’ll try and remember that. No promises, though.”
“I will not hold my breath.” Suddenly conscious of the scent of oil that was spreading through the air, Mui corked the bottle he’d been using to maintain his equipment, returning it to the small trunk which carried all his most valuable possessions. He glanced at Sara, who was sitting cross-legged across from him. “Well? What brings you here?”
“That,” Sara said, nodding to his shoulder.
Mui unconsciously touched the wound with a hand, covering it. Until that moment, he hadn’t even realized that Sara had entered his tent while he was shirtless. For as much as he disliked the feeling of the rough garments over his fur, he’d never been one to go half-dressed around others. She was proving to be a bad influence on him.
“Oh, don’t cover it up,” Sara said, scooting forward. “Here, let me see it.”
“It was tended by both potion and healer. I assure you, there is no reason for concern—”
Sara ignored him, grabbing his wrist and peeling his hand off his shoulder with all the ease Mui could have handled a child.
She frowned, and Mui winced.
It had healed well enough in the physical sense, of course. That wasn’t his concern. The healer had been skilled, and arrived mere minutes after he’d suffered the wound. He’d had full functionality of the limb a mere hour after being shot. No, what bothered him were older, more… vain concerns.
Mui’s fur was black. That meant that the skin beneath it, usually hidden from sight, was an ashy, ugly gray, a shade that only appeared on humans when they were deathly ill. To make matters worse, the recent magical regrowth of the skin had left it pockmarked with half-colored flesh, even paler stretches appearing in ugly blotches. It would take quite a long time for his fur to grow back over the six-inch stretch of skin, and until then, he’d been determined to never be seen without a shirt. A vow he’d failed within a day, it would seem. Sara’s frown only served to reinforce that determination.
Knowing that trying to fight her absurd strength was an exercise in futility, he dropped his hands, allowing her to inspect the wound. She ran a thumb over the bald patch, the grazing touch of her finger making him shiver.
“How deep was it?” She asked quietly, without lifting her hand away. “Evie told me about it, but you know her. She just gave the basic details. ‘Mui got shot, it was bad, but he’s fine now.’ I want to hear about it.”
“It was very deep,” he said, averting his eyes. She was looking at his injury with such… tenderness. It was unbecoming of a god’s Chosen to be looking at him in such a way. “I couldn’t see it myself, but I was told I lost a significant portion of my collarbone. If the bullet had entered a pinky’s width lower, it likely would have been shattered entirely.”
Sara muttered something under her breath that sounded like a curse, then grabbed his wrist again, lifting his arm.
“You got shot three times though, right? All on the same side?”
“Yes.” Mui pointed to the two far-smaller wounds on his right arm. “They were mere grazing shots. A simple bandage would have sufficed, rather than the healing I ultimately received.”
“Still, though. You got shot three times. That’s more than the rest of the army combined, you know.”
Mui laughed. “I suppose that’s true, isn’t it? So long as we are only counting gunshots, at least. I imagine that fact will soon change, however.”
Sara’s expression darkened. “Yeah. Hurlish has been looking over the guns Evie captured. They’re not great, got some weird design choices, but they were clearly an attempt at mass-manufacturing. That’s not the last we’ve seen of them.”
“You knew this was coming, did you not? Even planned for it? Hoped for it? That the peasantry would gain access to the power of blackpowder?”
“Yeah. I guess I did.” She sighed, dropping Mui’s arm. For a moment he thought she would return to a more proper sitting position, but instead her hand went back to his shoulder wound, rubbing it lightly. “But I didn’t want the guns to be shooting at the people I actually cared about. That pisses me off.”
Mui chose to ignore some of the larger potential implications of that statement.
“Even you can’t control who the enemy points their weapons at, Sara,” Mui told her. “Don’t blame yourself for this wound. If anything, I was almost glad to have the opportunity to be in a fight for the first time in so long. Acting as your…” He searched for an appropriate word for his role regarding Sara and, unsurprisingly, found nothing. “...aid, I suppose, hasn’t been particularly fulfilling. I joined the army with the hope of helping this war end sooner. While working with you is certainly doing more than anything I could do on my own, it is sometimes pleasant to work with my own hands.”
Sara raised a doubtful eyebrow, meeting his eyes. “Pretty tame to call getting shot three times ‘working with your hands.’ Most people use that to talk about getting out of office work or something. And you’re still thinking like that even when the fight started with you getting shot, and ended with you still bleeding on the ground?”
“Even so,” Mui said without hesitation. “At least three bullets were aimed for me, Sara. Perhaps more. Those three bullets could have struck down any one of your mercenaries, and without the years of experience in war I have, they may not have survived. So yes, I am glad I was there.”
Sara blinked owlishly at him. He did not know how to interpret her expression, and found himself worrying that he’d said something awfully insensitive. Two of the Powdered Lead had died in that firefight, after all. He should not have reminded her of-
“You know,” Sara said, leaning further forward, her voice dropping low, “my old world had a lot of stories about Knights and Warriors. About how they were supposed to behave, about the values they were supposed to hold dear. Now that I’ve met the real thing, I haven’t found a single one that lived up to the hype.”
“...Yes?”
Sara didn’t answer with words. She brought her other hand up to Mui’s opposite shoulder and, slowly but firmly, rested her weight on him, bringing her mouth to his shoulder.
Mui hissed in surprise as her tongue ran over the sensitive skin of his wound. He had been with her often enough to understand that her body shifted to fit the needs of her partner, but he had never experienced it like this. He could feel the rough barbs of a catfolk raise themselves up off her tongue as it ran along his skin, starting as silky smooth over his chest, ending rough and satisfying as it flicked off his skin. Her scent, at first that of a sweaty, tired human— still attractive, mind you, but not in the manner of a catfolk’s— began to change, filling the tent with new aromas.
She rested even more of her weight on him, pushing him back. He fell back in slow motion, landing on his still-wrapped bedroll. Sara twisted her head to lick at his neck, pressing her nose deeply into his fur as she took a long breath, one hand reaching out to slip the bedroll aside. He was laid flat on the roughspun rug that hid the mud from his tent floor, Sara overtop him on all fours, her face buried in his neck, one knee between his thighs.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you like this lately,” she murmured, nuzzling him.
Mui chuckled quietly. “Lately? It hasn’t been but three days.”
He felt her smile against his neck. “I forget what it’s like, sometimes, to have partners that have a normal libido.”
“You’re a busy woman,” Mui said, wrapping his arms around her back, pulling her down onto him. “And a… popular one. I wouldn’t expect you to spend all your time with me.”
“Bet you wouldn’t mind if I did, though.”
He laughed. “I don’t think I’d survive that trial.”
“Are you sure?” Her knee slid higher, pressing into his groin, pulling a muffled gasp from his muzzle. She turned his head aside, leaning in to scent the other half of his neck. “I think I’d like to try, sometime. I bet you’ve got it in you.”
Mui opened his mouth to say something in response, but was cut off by her tongue pressing itself to his neck yet again, this time on his fur.
He arched involuntarily into her, his head lolling to one side in order to give her greater access. The tug of his fur felt so wonderful under her tongue. He wondered if it was every catfolk woman who could pull this reaction from him, or just Sara. He suspected he already knew the answer.
The tent began to warm, their mingling breaths adding to the jungle’s humidity. His lungs rose and fell heavily, panting, and he couldn’t help but let out little groans of satisfaction as she ran her hands up and down his sides.
Unwilling to simply let her have her way with him, Mui began returning the favor. He let his hands slip off her shoulders, down her back, and to her ass, kneading the flesh through her leather breeches. She made a small sound of agreement, encouraging him to grow bolder, pressing at her skin.
“And here I thought you were more of a tits man,” Sara teased.
“What I would give for four hands,” he replied breathily, trying to turn his head away long enough to look at her. He failed. Her tongue felt too good to abandon, lapping at his neck as it was.
“I don’t think I can give you that,” Sara murmured, lifting her cheek to rub against his, marking him even further with her scent, “but I can give you plenty of other things.”
Mui swallowed. She’d teased him about it before, of course. Of her taking him as she did her wives. He had even seen what the experience had been like for Evie. A dizzying memory to recall, one made even worse by his current predicament.
“...We are in a camp,” he muttered. “There are tents not five feet to either side of mine.”
“Not right now, then?” She asked. Her voice was maddeningly coy, and her assertiveness— the absolute confidence that he would, eventually, accept taking her in such a way— was even more distracting. She pecked at his bare skin suddenly, kissing him in the human fashion. “I can wait. But I don’t think you need to worry about being too loud.”
“You have a Skill for that, too, then?”
“No.” Her hand reached down to her pants and, without giving him the barest instant to savor the moment, peeled them off her legs. Even while she kept herself kissing, licking, and teasing at his neck, her free hand wadded up the leather. She lifted her head for a moment, a devilish glint in her eyes. “I’ve just got lots of practice in keeping people quiet.”
Mui’s disordered mind couldn’t figure out what she meant. He was too lost in the feeling of her bare skin against his still-clothed legs, at the sight of her beautiful face, and, of course, the terribly wonderful heat that was resting heavily over his hips, straddling an ache that he fought to keep under control.
“What do you-”
An answer came in the form of wrapped leather shoved into his muzzle, gagging him.
He recoiled instinctively, his tongue rasping against her breeches as he tried to clear his mouth, but she didn’t let him, of course.
Oh, he realized. She doesn’t intend to do anything to me that I can keep quiet about, does she?
When he stopped struggling, an even fuller realization of what, exactly, was in his mouth overcame him. When she’d pulled her pants off, they had turned inside-out, and now they had been wrapped in such a way that- that- well.
Mui could taste her arousal.
She laughed with delight at the kitten’s mewl that just barely managed to squeeze through his new gag, dropping down atop him once more so her elbows were to either side of his head, her nose brushing his.
“Think that’ll be good enough?” She wiggled her hips against his, wetting the front of his trousers with her slick heat. “I usually have to choke Evie to keep her quiet, too. Not that she’s ever minded.” He felt a thumb brush his throat, drawing a little circle over his fur. “Would you need that, too?”
I think I would love anything you do to me, was his first thought, but he swallowed it. She… well. Mui had heard of what she did with her other wives. Had heard it quite literally, on rare occasions. There were… things they did to one another that made Mui’s fur stand on end, and not always in a good way. She had seen Sara leave a room without Evie, her hair and shirt a mess and a wet, sloppy smile on her face, only to return a few minutes later with implements fresh off a torturer’s tool rack, the same smile still on her face.
He shook his head. He could remain silent with just this small aid. It wasn’t a shame to admit when one had limits. She’d told him a lot about that. Insisting that he tell her what he wanted and why he wanted it, and that if he was ever surprised by her in an unpleasant way, to speak up then and there. She constantly stressed how important that was. Having her hand around his throat? That was…
…maybe something to try another time, he decided, reluctant to write the idea off entirely.
Sara kept rocking her hips forward and back overtop him, grinding the joint of her legs along the bulge in his trousers. His pleased whimpers were swallowed by the leather, though she doubtlessly felt the way he trembled against her chest, his fingers digging tighter into her ass he fought the urge to throw his hips upward.
“Y’know, the funny thing is,” Sara whispered into his ear, “I didn’t gag myself, did I? I wonder if that was smart.” She reached down, pulling at his trousers.
He gasped as he felt the briefest touch of open air on his cock before it was promptly replaced by her slick heat. It felt as if her entire weight was perched on the base of his cock, and he very nearly lost himself to her touch then and there. White, slick fluid began to pool against his stomach, dripping from his tip to join the slick arousal Sara’s grinding had already spread there.
“Because,” she purred, rolling her hips forward yet again, at a far, far slower pace than she had before, “it’s not like you don’t feel good in me. Not like I don’t love having your cock shoved inside me.”
Mui lost his battle of wills. He shoved up against her, seeking the friction she refused to give him.
It was Sara’s turn to gasp. She clenched her teeth together, hiding a satisfied hiss.
“Gods, you’re fucking thick,” she muttered. Her eyes turned down as she bent over slightly, watching the way her lower lips were spread by the very base of Mui’s pulsing cock. She sighed in contentment, beginning another slide forward. Her grinding hips paused briefly as she looked down on him with a new, impish expression. “Honestly, it’s probably fine, right? Why would I need to worry about being quiet? It’s you we need to worry about.”
If she had said something like that a few weeks earlier, Mui might have been so discouraged that he shrunk within himself. But he knew Sara better, now. In a different way. He growled slightly, moving his hands up, starting to slide beneath the shirt she still hadn’t removed.
“I’d be just fine,” she continued on in a breathy, sing-song voice, sliding her hips faster. “Nothing to worry about at all. I bet you couldn’t even get me to make me gasp, much less-”
Mui’s hands found her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers.
She stuttered, taking a sharp breath, but nothing more.
“-much less get me moaning. I’m here to please you, after all. Take care of you after your vicious, awful, wound, all because I’m just that kind.”
Every further word was dripping with more teasing condescension. Her hips stopped at the furthest point they could roll forward without sliding off his cock entirely, holding her dripping sex right over the tip of his cock.
“There’s no way,” she said, breathing heavily, looking him in the eye, “that I actually came over here because I wanted to get fucked by you. That I was wet before I’d even walked into this tent, that I was thinking about you the whole way over here because it had been days since I had your thick, hot, throbbing-”
Mui bucked upward, sliding into a heavenly heat. It was so, so tight that it should have fought him every inch of the way, pressing in on his cock from every direction, but Sara was too delectably, achingly wet for her body to do anything but take him eagerly within herself.
Sara’s hands clenched hard on his shoulders, almost painfully, her body shuddering as Mui slid into her. He growled into the leather as he watched her face, eyes unfocused, eyelids fluttering, twitching at every bump and ridge that passed into her body.
When he hilted himself inside her, spreading her wider than any human cock ever could, Sara sagged against him, pressing her chest to his once more. Her lips fell against one of his ears, her breath tickling the fur within as she spoke.
“Still didn’t make me moan loud enough to get us caught, did I?” She teased.
Mui’s claws popped free from his fingertips as he released her breasts, turning them to her shirt, shredding it open in seconds. She let out a barely muffled gasp as she was exposed to him, her breasts dropping low to dangle over him. With a half-foot advantage of height over him, when he curled his stomach up, forcing her forward, her chest was suddenly in his face, his muzzle pressed between.
In the past, Sara had kept him from licking her. His tongue was too rough, she said, and wouldn’t play well with human skin. He’d never questioned her.
But if her scent changed to fit his desires, why not her skin?
He let the wrapped leather fall from his mouth as he flicked his tongue out, tasting her sweat as he ran his wide, barbed tongue up her breast, moving quick as he could, darting for her hardened nipples before her first instinctive protest could fall far from her lips.
“What are you- eep!”
Mui couldn’t help but laugh outright at the girlish squeak that he pulled from her. His head fell back as his throaty laughter filled the tent.
“Shut up,” she hissed, grabbing her pants and trying to force them back between his jaws.
“I’m sorry,” he laughed, “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just-”
“Shut up!”
“-I never expected you, of all people, to make that kind of noise-”
“Fucking hell,” Sara swore, struggling to force his jaw open wide enough to accept her bundled breeches once more. It was a fruitless effort, because her every twist had his cock stirring this way and that inside her liquid heat, turning her once-flawless grace into an uncoordinated, shivering mess.
“Just… fucking…” she snagged the back of his head and pulled him into her breasts. “If you’re gonna just go and do that to my tits, don’t just do it once.”
Mui obliged her.
His tongue ran up and down her breasts in long, savoring licks, barbs running against the goosebumps that rose across her flesh. It should have hurt her, but to Sara’s evident surprise, it did anything but. He felt her fingers suddenly curl as he reached her nipple, slowing down to taste every inch of the rock-hard bud.
“Sh-sh-sh-shiiiiit,” Sara breathed, barely controlled. “Fucking hell, you’re lucky that this worked out so… nicely,” she said, growling angrily, an affect that was very nearly ruined by the way her whisper leapt up an octave as he jerked his tongue off her skin. He dove onto her other breast next, running side to side now, luxuriating in the reward given by each full-body tremor, which caused her inner walls to clench tightly around his cock.
Eventually, however, Sara began to regain her composure, beginning a slow bounce in his lap that began to pull the same pitiful, involuntary whines from his throat that they had before.
“Oh, fucking… good boy,” Sara groaned, running her fingers through his fur as she bounced. “Good, good boy. Just there…”
If that was what she wanted, he had no interest in doing anything of the sort. He began to throw his hips up into her, trying even harder to use her breasts to muffle his own noises. His maw was opened wide, outermost fangs pricking at her skin in ways that should have drawn blood, would have drawn blood on any other human, but instead just had her shivering even harder, gasping at each little pinprick.
But Sara was still Sara. This was a losing battle for him. As she began to roll her stomach, grinding forward and back, up and down, his self-control began to steadily falter. His licks became less coherent, starting and stopping, and he began to thrust up into her almost against his will, chasing after her intoxicating body every time it had the gall to leave him by the barest margins. His hungry growls fell back to delighted whines as she stirred his cock inside her, very walls of rippling and rolling to please his cock.
Before long, it was not Sara’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, enjoying his attentions on her chest. It was him being held up into a sitting position by her flexing biceps, keeping his twitching body from collapsing to the mat once more.
“There we go,” Sara whispered, kneading her fingers into the tense muscles of his back, working them loose. “Theeeere we go. You did so good, so good. Go ahead now. Go ahead.” Before he even realized what was happening, the leather gag was slipped back into his mouth, which his jaws clenched reflexively down on. “I can feel you throbbing,” she groaned, pressing her nose into his neck, “and I want it. I want you to cum in me, Mui.” He could feel the way her own words affected her, causing her to tighten around his cock. “I was lying, lying, lyyyying. Three days was too long, and I just want your fucking cock in me…”
Mui’s vision swam. He tried to convince himself that it was just something she was saying to throw him off, to help her win their little unstated bet, but he couldn’t. She’d never once lied to him in bed, had told him as much, that she never would, and he’d believed her then, which meant he believed her now.
His mind was screaming at him to give in to her demands. That there was no reason to hold back, that it would feel so, so good to cum in her while wrapped up in the embrace of her muscled body. That there was no reason not to, that she could— and would— stir his cock back to life the instant he finished spasming, that he would lose nothing by giving in to that mindless, blinding bliss.
He didn’t know what let him hold back. Maybe a flicker of pride, maybe a helping of stubbornness, or maybe, if he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, a sense of dedication. Dedication to Sara, to her pleasure, to caring for her needs for once, to take this aching, tired woman in front of him and leaving her sprawled out and satisfied, unable to leave his tent even if she wanted to, forcing her to take the rest she so desperately needed.
He thought of what Hurlish had told him once, when he was guarding her at the forge. A casual conversation, as casual as she always was about her wives. When she’d told him that Sara, for all the confidence that shone from her every pore, was a woman who sometimes needed to be wrung out. To be given, no, forced to take time for herself, because she never would otherwise.
With a near-silent growl, Mui suddenly lunged forward, sweeping them around. Sara’s lidded eyes shot open in surprise, but, as close to the edge as she was, she couldn’t react in time.
Sara yelped as she was thrown off of him, shoved face-first onto the mat Mui had been sitting on when she’d come in. His cock throbbed in the open air, jumping with his pounding heart, aching at the absence of her heat. He could see her watching it, surprised and impressed that someone had actually managed to pull themselves from her body.
Biting down hard on the leather in his mouth, Mui, claws and all, grabbed her ass, dragged it up into the air, and shoved himself into her.
Sara’s entire body curled in on itself even as her eyes rolled back. He bent over her, pressing their bodies against one another as much as he could. “Knew you had it in you, big boy,” she whispered hoarsely.
Mui ignored her, groaning in frustration. He could not bring them perfectly together. Sara was laying on her chest, not supporting herself, and he couldn’t reach his head to hers, not with his cock still buried to the hilt.
She wants this, Mui hastily reassured himself, she wants this she wants this she wants this-
Before he could think better of it, Mui grabbed her ponytail and, with one swift jerk, pulled her head into the air.
Sara’s moan was guttural. He couldn’t see her face anymore, and that was a horrible shame, because he’d never heard her quite like this.
“THERE you fucking go,” she hissed, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the mat, raising herself up, giving him the access he wanted. “Fucking there you go, Mui, come on! Come on! You know what to do, just fuck me-”
Mui drew his hips back and, with one great, authoritative pause, drew himself out of her. He slammed into the boiling lava of her cunt, spreading her wide around him.
“Ohhhhh my fucking god,” Sara groaned, trying to drop to her elbows. Mui’s grip on her ponytail didn’t let her, keeping her pinned just where he could slide into her best. He was as deep as he could get in her, as deep as he could reach, the tip of his cock just barely brushing against something that other positions had never let him feel before. She shook and trembled around him, and if it weren’t for her silence, he would have thought she’d come apart then and there.
Some distant part of his mind, one of the few islands of his consciousness not drowned in a tidal wave of animalistic need, had the thought that he’d never seen her in a ponytail before. And that the figure had paused at his tent for a moment, just long enough to do up their hair.
He ignored that as he began to thrust into her. She did her best to keep on hands and knees, grinding herself back into him, but she didn’t seem to understand what he wanted. She kept arching her back low, giving him a beautiful, stupefying view of her body, but that wasn’t what he cared about.
Because if her body was going to act like a catfolk’s in one way, why not every way?
Mui bent his head over her and turned aside, rubbing his cheek from the small of her back all the way up. He could feel his scent smear along the entire trail, taking her, declaring her, claiming her, and as he reached her shoulder, he felt it hit her too.
“Wh-a-a-a-t the fuck is tha-a-a-at,” she stuttered out, her entire body trembling, jerking as if she had been struck by lightning.
Mui could not answer. If he dropped the gag from his mouth, the whole camp would hear his grunts, his growls, his moans of utter, ecstatic delight.
So instead he moved to her other shoulder and dragged his way back down, using his other cheek to drag himself along her body. Covering her, smothering her with his scent.
Sara reacted properly. Like she should. She abandoned that stupid curve of her back in favor of shoving more of herself up into him, trying to rub every spare bit of skin she could against his fur. He was panting so hard as he fucked her, glad beyond belief that his fur muffled what would have been the loud slaps of flesh as their hips collided. She tried to wrap her legs around him, one hand blindly raising up to blindly flail backward, trying to snag his head.
He knocked it away with his muzzle, his mind only for his thrusts, the friction, the way his scent began to drown hers, filling the air with him and him alone, bathing her in the musk of a woman claimed. Every catfolk, every half-catfolk, hells, every quarter-catfolk in the camp, they would know when she walked past. They would smell nothing of her scent, replaced as it was by his own, marking her as a woman claimed, taken, bred.
“Oh. Oh, oh fuck,” Sara swore, the same realization running through her. “Mui. Mui, fucking Mui, I knew you had it in you.” She shook violently, her hips jerking in the air as she was consumed by a desire unlike any other she’d known before. “Fucking… fucking… fill me up, cum in me like I know you want to!”
Mui spat out his gag. Any pretense of secrecy to this trist had been abandoned, and through an incredible sense of luck, it wasn’t because of him.
“Not yet,” he said, growling into her ear, “I haven’t finished with you yet.”
“Fu-u-cking finally,” she moaned, throwing her hips back against him. “There you are. There you go. Fuck me, Mui, fucking take me, just like that, I fucking knew it, I knew you could, I told her you fucking would—”
He ignored her half-mindless babbling, shoving himself deep into her tight, squeezing cunt. Her entire body rolled with the tremors of climax, driving her higher and higher, but he knew she hadn’t well and truly cum yet because he hadn’t, and that’s what she needed.
Mui’s claws pressed even further out of his fingers as he abandoned her ponytail, grabbing her by the scalp instead, dragging her neck to one side.
If she wanted to get fucked like a catfolk?
She’d get bred like one.
Mui’s mouth spread wide as it descended onto her, latching hard onto her neck. He felt his fangs pierce her skin as he drove himself one final time into her cunt, spearing himself deep, pressing as far as there was to be reached, the iron taste of blood rolling over his tongue as he bucked once, twice, then slammed himself against her—
Sara’s scream turned soundless as his cock jumped within her, spraying her cunt with his seed. His breath rolled across her, filling her face, her mouth, her nose, all of it with the smell of the man that had taken her, and it was that, the pain in her shoulder that flared to brilliant joy, that spray of cum deep in her body, the feeling of his claws in her hair, they all took her over the edge.
Mui’s world went awry as she came around him. She gripped him so tight it hurt, pulling his orgasm up with hers, taking everything he had and demanding more, more, more, and he gave it to her, his cock leaping as he saw nothing but white, the two of them intertwined, her bent beneath him, him locked onto her shoulder, marking her. He was so lost that he wondered what their kids would look like, if they would have his black fur or her ebony hair, fantasizing about how she would look swollen with child. He kept trying to drive himself further into her as his cock pulsed, painting her quivering womb white with his cum, his essence, filling her until it reached the bottom of his cock, which refused to let a single drop roll free, keeping it all inside her.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. Only that his mind wished it had never ended, and his body was deeply, profoundly relieved when his climax left him. They both dropped to the mat, him on top of her, still locked together in the most intimate of ways. They panted, their breaths filling the tent.
Mui shuddered. A tent that smelled like him. No one else. Him. Everything in it was his.
With a laborious, groaning effort, Sara turned herself over, so they were lying chest-to-chest. She did so carefully, ensuring his cock never slipped from her.
“Fucking hell,” she swore, still breathing hard. “That’s… that’s gonna be a hard one to… to follow up.”
Mui chuckled. “What do you… mean… follow up?”
A wave of fresh, foreign arousal surged through him. Before his cock had even begin to soften, he felt it pulse once, earning a moan from both of them.
“I said…” Sara panted, groaning lightly, “what I said.”
As the Divine Chosen began to roll her hips once more, a faint, very strange sort of thought passed through Mui Thom’s head.
I think this may kill me,
But if it does,
It will have been worth it.
He began to thrust once more.
------------------------------------------
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He awoke when it was dark out. There was a second rustling at his tent flap, the sound of someone entering, which caused him to reflexively reach out, searching for Sara.
He found himself in her arms, wrapped tightly from behind, her head resting on his shoulder. He sighed in relief.
Then realized he should have felt anything but.
His eyes shot open with a strangled cry of alarm, trying to cover himself, Sara, and go for his sword, all in the same moment that he tried to order the intruder out.
Evie looked down at him with hands on her hips, thoroughly unimpressed with his reaction.
“Oh well,” she sighed, stepping aside, “I suppose I can’t blame you. I doubt I’ve been any more alert in a similar situation to yourself.”
She pad across the tent, stepping over Mui and Sara’s naked body, reaching into his box of belongings for a lantern. She clicked it to life, set it on the ground, then settled primly onto his stool, legs crossed.
“I apologize for the intrusion, but I couldn’t keep the others away from their tents any longer.”
“I… you… what?”
“Thanks,” Sara murmured drowsily, eyes still closed.
“You are welcome, Master.”
Mui tried to cover himself once more, which only prompted Evie’s gaze to flick down to the very place he was trying to cover.
“Don’t bother,” she said. “If you think I am scandalized by nudity after all I have—”
“You may not be, but I am!” Mui snapped. He held out his free hand. “A blanket, my shirt, whatever you have, now!”
Evie raised one sculpted eyebrow at the relative positions implied by his demand, but acquiesced, tossing him the thin bedroll that had long since been thrown aside.
“Anyone got near enough to hear?” Sara murmured curiously.
“Not initially, no,” Evie said. “But… after a while, perhaps. You did get rather loud.”
Sara laughed hoarsely. “Yeah.”
“What in the name of the gods is going on?” Mui asked.
“Oh? You didn’t hear, Mui?” Evie bent forward, resting an elbow on her knee and her head in her palm. “There was a meeting of the Powdered Lead leadership and our Imperial Envoy in this area. It lasted quite a while, from what I heard, and contained rather sensitive information. No one was allowed near.”
Mui blinked, trying to get what was left of his shattered body and mind to comprehend Evie’s still-thick Continental accent.
“That’s… you…” He turned to look at Sara as best he could, when she had all four limbs wrapped around him from behind. “You planned this?”
“This is like the third time I’ve tried,” she sleepily responded.
“That’s… what?”
“To get you to assert yourself physically during sex,” Evie explained, accentuating the sentence with a less-than-helpful wave to their coupled hips. “I see she finally managed it. What was the trick in the end, Master?”
“Taunting,” Sara said. She stretched, freeing Mui for a moment, only for her thick arms to quickly return to their capture of his neck, pulling him closer into her. “He wouldn’t do it if I asked him to be rough, but taunting him? Oh, it worked wonders.”
“So I heard.”
“You heard?”
Evie eyed him. “How else do you think I ensured no one else was close enough?”
“But… you listened to…”
“I assure you, Mui, my Master has no secrets from me.” She held up a finger, inspecting it in the lantern light. There was a light sheen to it, which she licked clean. “I also masturbated to it.”
Mui’s reaction was an explosive coughing fit, one not quite loud enough to drown out Sara’s laughter.
“You- you shouldn’t have-”
“Are you displeased by the notion?” Evie asked matter-of-factly. “Master didn’t think you would be, and she is very rarely wrong. In fact, in matters of sexuality, I do not think she has once, ever, been in error regarding another’s preferences.”
Mui thought about it. He well and truly thought of Evie, the exotic, beautiful Warrior that she was, kneeling in the nearest tent, pleasuring herself to the sounds of his and Sara’s sex.
He swallowed hard, falling silent.
“As expected.” Evie turned her attention to Sara. “I let you sleep for six hours, Master. Will you be leaving now?”
Sara snuggled harder into Mui’s furry shoulder. “Do I haaaave to?” She whined childishly.
“If you wish to not be so far behind on work tomorrow that we have to delay the march by another day, yes. Otherwise…” Evie licked her lips. “I will always follow your orders.”
Mui’s heart was thundering in his chest so hard that he felt certain it would tear itself from his ribcage at any moment.
“No, no,” Sara groaned, reluctantly untangling himself from Mui. “I think that’d kill him. Besides, we really do have some shit to do.”
“Hurlish is waiting for you first, and I was told to take care of Tahn for ‘at least an hour’ after you arrived.”
“Ah, shit,” Sara said, sitting up. She was as naked as she had been when they finished, her breasts visibly covered in Mui’s dried saliva. She pulled her shirt over that display without concern. “You people never give me a fucking break.”
“No. But I did factor it into your schedule.”
“Thanks.”
Mui was left under the blanket, watching the two women converse. He could have contributed, he knew, but he found that forming a coherent thought in that moment was among the most difficult tasks he’d ever attempted. It was only when Sara began to pull her pants up her legs that he raised his head, staring in disbelief.
The marks of his fangs were pressed cleanly into the leather, piercing holes. Somehow, in a coincidence that he was too-slowly beginning to accept was no coincidence at all, he had been biting directly over the portion which covered her crotch. There were now needle-point piercings from his teeth, ones which began at the top of her pubic hair, traveling all the way down to just barely be visible from her backside.
“You do realize that those still have-”
“Yep.”
“Please don’t wear those-”
“Nope.”
Mui sighed, dropping his head. He glanced at Evie. “Is she at least going to bathe before she goes among the general public? Clean my… scent away?”
“I think you’d have better luck having her swear fealty to your Emperor than wash you off her.”
Sara pointed her fingers at Evie, grinning. “Yep on that one, too.”
Mui groaned, rolling onto his back. The rumors had already been spreading like wildfire, but after this…
“See ya later, Mui,” Sara said, pausing at the tent’s flap to look him over with a small smile. “I promise it won’t be another three days before we do that again. Maybe not quite that intense next time, though.”
He gave her a limp wave goodbye as she exited the tent. Evie went to follow after her but, just before leaving, tossed her head over her shoulders, meeting his eyes.
“When she offers my body to you, Mui Thom? I hope you understand that I will be expecting something much rougher than what you managed tonight.”
Evie disappeared into the darkness without another word.
Mui’s head dropped back onto the mat with a dull thump. The sounds of the larger camp began to filter in from outside, entering his awareness for the first time in many hours.
What in the name of the gods have I got myself into?
He shuddered slightly, yet another aftershock rolling through him.
Not that I think I mind anymore.
Notes:
If you're on the Discord, you may be surprised to see this smut scene! I did claim that the next one would be in a brothel, and while that's still planned, I just got too impatient. I wanted to write some good-old-fashioned fuckin', damnit. I hope you don't mind the fact that it turned this into an absolutely colossal 15k word update!
Chapter 143: B3 Ch30: Covered in Purple Shrouds
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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She shaded her eyes as she watched the griffons circle. Even with their wings spread wide, they were so high that their profiles were barely more distinct than floating bits of dust. Two were directly above the marching Imperial army, with three more waiting a ways off, hovering like massive vultures.
“There must be something they don’t want us to know,” Sara said.
“That much seems obvious,” Evie agreed. “But the question is, are they doing so as a basic precaution, or to hide something more dangerous?”
The pair of griffons, which were flying nearly wingtip to wingtip, were Imperial griffons. Scouts. The trio opposite them were Rebel griffons, presumably flying out of the city of Ta-Pet, which General Borek’s army was currently marching down on. Though she couldn’t tell from the road, which seemed the same as ever, they were apparently less than an hour away from breaking into the clearing which surrounded the enemy city. She and Evie were walking near the head of the column, placed slightly away from General Borek and his command staff, many of whom were craning their necks back to watch the aerial standoff as well.
The enemy griffons, despite their numerical superiority, hadn’t attacked. Yet every time the Imperial scouts tried to make a move for the army to report their scouting effort’s results, their opposite had tucked into a steep dive, cutting them off. They seemed less interested in defeating their opponents than they did preventing General Borek from receiving his scouting reports.
“Do you think we should move the cannons further back into the column?” Sara asked. “If they’re planning something they don’t want us to know about, the cannons are a likely target.”
Evie pursed her lips, considering, then shook her head. “No. Our scouts appeared over their city little more than an hour ago. They wouldn’t have had time to prepare an ambush capable of threatening our artillery in so short a time.”
“They’ve known we were coming for days, though,” Sara reminded her. “Even if they weren’t absolutely sure we’d attack Ta-Pet, it was a pretty safe bet. We’ve been marching west for a while now.”
“The Imperial vanguard will uncover any ambushes, I feel sure. Or, failing that, spring the trap in place of our cannons. They are nearly as tempting a target as the artillery.”
Sara supposed that was true. The Imperial vanguard was a group of Krapeu-riding Warriors, elite soldiers who carried long polearms on the back of horse-sized crocodiles. They were the jungle’s equivalent of Knightly cavalry, though they weren’t a tenth so numerous. Unlike their northern cousins, they operated in small groups across the battlefield, using the jaws of their beasts as often as their blades to crack open weak points in the enemy lines. If there was an ambush waiting for the army, the enemy wouldn’t dare miss the chance to spring it on the vanguard.
“General Sara!” Borek called, waving her over. “I wish to clarify some points with the Powdered Lead’s involvement in the upcoming siege.”
Though there was technically no way she should have known it, Sara was well aware that he had no real interest in rehashing the days-old battle plan. No, he was calling her over because some of his colonels were doubting the plan of action at the very last minute, and he knew they wouldn’t dare disagree with Sara straight to her face.
She sighed, rolling her neck side to side to work out the cricks as she joined the small cadre of self-important officers. Some of them weren’t all that bad, of course. The ones that had clawed their way up the ranks from humble beginnings were tolerable, as a general rule. But most of the Imperial officers had been all but born to their position, and it was from them that the larger army had sprouted a culture of an unyielding failure to compromise. Two centuries of on-again, off-again civil war was a brutal thing for a society to undergo, and she once would have thought that it would have helped to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Turns out, all it really did was create a group of people very, very good at learning pre-selected strategies. At least in this case. The high Generals of the Empire were, by necessity, intelligent, competent strategists. Those who weren’t had been killed years ago. But the middling officers? Those who had been born to a noble house, spent a small fortune being educated in centuries-old doctrine, then waded into battle with nothing but glory on their minds?
“We should still prepare our own siege engines,” Lieutenant Siongh said, pounding a fist into his palm for emphasis. “We cannot be certain these strange weapons will be effective against the wall’s enchantments.”
“The cannons and their iron projectiles do not have a single spell of their own,” another Lieutenant emphatically agreed. “I think it likely they will fail to penetrate Ta-Pet’s defenses, General. Conventional methods have worked for decades, and we know-”
“If you think I’ve ever failed to penetrate something,” Sara said, slipping into the circle, “you don’t know me very well. The cannons will knock down the walls.”
The reaction of the officers was predictable. She’d seen it a dozen times by now. They flinched at her sudden appearance, then twitched again, just barely arresting their natural instinct to bow at her arrival. Most of them still ducked their heads respectfully, a compromise Sara had been forced to expect. Of those who reacted to her arrival properly— that is, by barely acknowledging it— she was mildly surprised to see Lieutenant Siongh among them. The vanara officer wore a set of unenchanted armor, plain and undecorated by Imperial standards, and had the habit of wrapping his tail around his waist like a belt while he spoke.
“Your cannons are powerful, ma’am,” he said, “but they are not the solution to every problem, no matter what your artillery officers insist.”
“I will admit, they tend to be overzealous in their desire for bombardment, but that’s the nature of their position. I wouldn’t want anyone less eager in their role. As for the walls?” Sara glanced at the ten 12-pounders that were being hauled by a mixture of her own troops and Imperial volunteers. An entire crowd of people walked behind them, sharing the burden of dozens upon dozens of ammunition caissons. “It doesn’t matter how strong the enchantments are. We have enough ammo to blast our way through a mountain.”
“Be that as it may, your cannons are a limited factor. Would it not make sense to allow all our forces to participate in the siege, so as to end it soonest?”
The officer cadre shifted uneasily. Lieutenant Siongh’s tone was pressing at the very edge of Imperial custom.
Sara grinned widely. It was about time someone actually nutted up and called her on her shit. It was a shame it was someone who was wrong, though.
“How do you plan to do that?” Sara asked. “If the Powdered Lead are bombarding the walls from a thousand yards away, where are you going to put your mages? In the line of fire, directly underneath the bombardment?”
General Borek glanced between Sara and Siongh, irritated. He wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. By all rights, Siongh arguing with the will of a Divine Chosen should have seen him stripped of his rank, tied to a post, whipped to unconsciousness, and thrown in a dungeon to be forgotten about. Yet Sara was officially acting as only a mercenary, and one who wasn’t even the commanding officer of the Powdered Lead. By her own self-appointed definition, Sara was in the wrong for so brazenly disagreeing with an Imperial officer.
Long before Borek could untangle the political implications of it all, Lieutenant Siongh was already firing back.
“Yes,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I would have the mages and siege weaponry assembled directly underneath your line of fire to Ta-Pet’s walls. They do not have the range of your artillery, but they are designed to counter enchantments in a way that your cannons are not.” He raised his eyebrows, leaning forward. “Unless, of course, after all that bragging you and your troops have done, you do not actually have the requisite faith that your artillery crews can avoid striking friendly troops?”
“Lieutenant!” General Borek barked, the line crossed. “You will find it in you to respect our allies, or you will be silent!”
Sara, for her part, laughed loudly. It was a reaction that the young Lieutenant clearly despised, judging by the way his tail tightened even further around his waist, but he didn’t back down. It was an attitude she wanted to encourage, even when she didn’t agree. She waved aside General Borek’s scorn, smiling at the feisty Lieutenant.
“Alright. I mean, I’m not in charge of anything on your side of the fence, but if you want to push up some siege units and manage to get the permission for it, feel free to. We won’t hit them. But they’ll have to get in range of Ta-Pet’s defenses, and that means they’ll take casualties they wouldn’t have if you just waited for the Napoleons to do the job.” She nodded to General Borek. “Ask him, not me. But I’ve got no objections.”
Arguments erupted with a vengeance, most of them focusing on how stupid of an idea it was to make a major change to the battle plan so shortly before it began. The counterpoint, that a siege was a lengthy affair that would provide more than enough time to improvise, was undermined by the varying estimates of how long it would take the Napoleons to break down the walls.
Sara left them to it without further comment, returning to Evie up near the head of the column. Her wife was walking with a bike at her side, like many of the Powdered Lead troops. Sara had wanted to deploy them with folding bicycles which could be strapped to their back, but the manufacturing capability hadn’t been there yet. Instead they were forced to shuffle along with the rest of the army in somewhat awkward fashion, just waiting for the chance to break free of the far larger, far slower force they were attached to.
“Anything of note, dear?” Evie asked.
“Not really. They didn’t think the cannons would do the job on their own, so some of them wanted to push their own siege units up. Mages and whatever. I told them they could, but it wasn’t our fault if they got themselves killed.”
“Mm.” Evie turned her attention to the wheeling griffons high above, a frown decorating her face. “I do wish we could receive that scouting report. I am increasingly certain that the efforts our enemy is undertaking to prevent their return is indicative of a serious threat.”
Sara was about to respond, then cocked her head, listening to the ripples of information which her Blessings brought to her.
“Careful what you wish for.” She pointed ahead. “The vanguard’s coming back. And they’re in a hurry.”
Evie cursed lightly under her breath, wheeling the bike around. Sara hopped on, pedaling up to the front of the formation with Evie balancing on the pegs. It was a comical sight to Sara’s modern sensibilities, yet here in the Empire, it was purely practical. Bicycles were a military instrument, not something kids played with. She could hear the conversation easily, of course, but Evie couldn’t, and it was important to keep the secret.
They arrived just as one of the Warriors pulled up to a High Lieutenant of the Imperial Army. Most of the vanguard continued past, heading to restrain their mounts and report to General Borek, but one stopped, saluting from atop their slobbering beast. The High Lieutenant was another of the endless litany of faceless officers whose names Sara only remembered thanks to her Blessings, as they were too unremarkable to care about otherwise.
“The enemy is sallying out as we speak,” the woman panted. “They were pouring across the city’s bridges just as we arrived, marching at the double towards the road.”
“What?” Evie hissed under her breath. “Why would they abandon their defenses?”
The High Lieutenant asked very nearly the same question.
“I don’t know,” the Warrior snapped irritably. Her Krapeu let out an ominous, low-pitched rumble, which caused many of the nearby soldiers to back away. “Perhaps they think their walls are useless against cannonfire, or maybe they think their new firearms will win them the day. By numbers, it appears their garrison outnumbers us considerably.”
“How badly are we outnumbered?” Sara asked, stepping up to the High Lieutenant’s side. She had sent Ketch ahead to Ta-Pet, but hadn’t yet received her first report.
The Warrior bowed her head in formal greeting to Sara. “I do not know, Chosen. When we fled to give our report, there were twice our army’s number already on the field, and more still emerging from the city.”
“Shit.” Sara looked at Evie, who had a fierce scowl on her face. “What do you think?”
“I believe they are attempting to bottle us up on the road, nullifying much of our weaponry’s advantage.” She looked up at the Warrior. “How many firearms did you note among the enemy?”
“A great number of them. Perhaps a third of their force was equipped with muskets of some description.”
Sara cursed again. It didn’t matter how much worse the enemy’s guns were than their own. The fact that they had them at all was a huge force multiplier, and nullified much of the advantage the Imperial Army would have otherwise claimed.
“Sara.” Evie pulled one of her pistols from her belt, inspecting it closely. “The enemy is attempting to prevent us from using our artillery by pinning our force on the road. The Imperial Army will not reach the open field in time to prevent this.” She slipped her pistol back into its holster. “I believe it is time that we earned our pay.”
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Mui Thom
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There was something to be said for the old ways of war. When he had fought in past battles, Mui had thought they were horrific. The clatter of steel against steel, spear against spear, and the constant, unending push and shove, blocks of interwoven soldiers exhausting themselves in the effort to force their opponent just one step back. It was a prolonged, brutal affair, one that wore on the mind almost as much as it did on the body.
But this new war was something else entirely.
Splinters showered Mui as a bullet whipped into the tree behind and above him, a mere six inches from taking his life. It was not the first bullet that had struck the wood, which was pockmarked with impacts, and it was not even the closest he had been to death yet.
He paid it no mind. He finished shoving a bullet down the barrel of his Hot Rifle, ripping the loading rod out and throwing the weapon to his shoulder. He spent half a second aligning the sight with the powder-wreathed enemy, then squeezed the trigger.
Sparks flew and the gun flashed, bucking against his shoulder. He was blinded by the smoke, and didn’t know if his shot had hit its target. It barely mattered. He was reloading before his ears had stopped ringing, the taste of blackpowder thick on his tongue as he bit open yet another package.
Gunshots constantly thumped around him, filling the air with acrid smoke. He was with a group of about two hundred Powdered Lead soldiers positioned a few hundred yards to the right of the road they were defending, their backs embedded firmly in the treeline. Frustrated by his constant uselessness, he had found Evie as she and the Powdered Lead prepared to advance, demanding that she allow him to join them in combat.
She’d agreed before he’d begun his second sentence, placing him in her own squad of Irregulars with barely a thought.
In hindsight, it made sense. For all their comparative experience with firearms, all but the most veteran of Powdered Lead mercenaries hadn’t been a soldier for longer than a year. If one judged a soldier’s worth by Level alone, Mui likely would have been counted among the most elite of the mercenary group’s soldiery.
If one judged a soldier’s worth by Level alone, they were a fool.
As he loaded another round, Mui glanced to his right. The Powdered Lead were acting as skirmishers, the shining steel of their bikes decorating the foliage where they had dove into the forest, sheltering behind the thickest trees they could find. They did not flinch as the enemy’s bullets struck all around them, and even those who had suffered minor injuries had not stopped their constant fusillade of musketry. They worked their weapons with mechanical consistency, maintaining a rate of fire that put even the best-trained of the Imperial Army’s musket-wielding troops to shame. Sara and Evie had been preparing for the arrival of enemy firearms from the moment they had given guns to their own soldiers, training them accordingly. Every soldier was sheltering as much of themselves behind cover as was possible, emerging only when their shot was loaded, which they fired off in an instant. To the enemy formation, Mui imagined, it would look as if the forest itself was spitting flame.
Their gunfire was aided by a very peculiar kind of enchantment: that of Sara’s Divine Blessings, which were filling the air with a song so loud it should have deafened him, yet never once inhibited his hearing. He could feel the music thrumming in his chest, could count out its beats intuitively, and without any conscious effort, Mui found himself synchronizing his actions to the rhythm, which he had never once lost track of. It was a peculiar spell, unlike any other he had heard of, but he appreciated it all the same. Even if Sara’s taste in music seemed rather… eclectic. It was a shrieking collection of metallic instruments accompanied by a woman’s harsh, incomprehensible screams.
Appropriate enough for Sara, I suppose.
Mui had ended up at very nearly the end of the line, which should have left him feeling completely exposed, his flank unprotected save for a single soldier. If it weren’t for who that soldier was, Mui would have been constantly paranoid, focusing more of his attention on searching for an ambush than he did on the enemy.
Thankfully, it was Evie at his side.
She was laid out in the dirt, resting on her stomach in a small scuff she had dug out of the soil. She was aiming down the sights of her rifle with one eye, the other tightly closed. Despite being covered head-to-toe in jungle detritus, the shrapnel of enemy gunshots spraying her with a constant barrage of broken foliage, she appeared to be as at ease as a woman laid across a parlor sofa. He watched the tip of her musket bob, digging a little trench in the mud as it tracked some target from left to right. By how slow she was moving, it must have been a very distant target, well beyond the main formation facing the Powdered Lead. He saw her hand tense, one finger slowly tightening on the trigger.
The hammer of her rifle flew forward, crystal tip sparking an explosion.
Her glacial movement evaporated in a blur, her entire body twisting as she rolled to one side and bit open a powder cartridge, throwing it down the barrel of her gun. She moved so fast it was almost alien, difficult to track, and thoroughly intimidating.
When she finished loading the rifle, it was almost as if she had never moved. Her entire body froze, her attention locked on something Mui could not see. It was disturbing, frankly. She reminded him of a coiled snake, so still she could be mistaken for a corpse, waiting to flash into a lethal strike faster than the eye could perceive.
More concerning yet still was what lay on her back. Evie carried her own personal musket there, the enchanted rifle that Hurlish had created for her. It was tied tightly to her as if she had no intention of drawing it, and many parts of it were covered by thick, protective leather. Distinctly not a holster, as the leather was attached to the weapon itself, it seemed to serve little purpose other than to obscure what lay beneath. The firing mechanism was hidden, as well as the cap of the tube beneath the barrel, which was ostensibly there for no reason other than to hold the loading rod. The engravings across its barrel glittered even in the shadows, enchantment light drawing the eye like a moth to flame. He knew Tulian had little in the way of artificers. But he also knew that the more skilled a blacksmith was, the easier it was for their work to be enchanted. The greatest weapons were the synergy between a master smith and a master artificer, their work singing together in a single harmony.
Hurlish had slaved over the weapon for weeks, then given the weapon to University Artificer Tinvel, who was the only artificer in the world with experience enchanting firearms. A part of Mui was desperately curious to see what the weapon looked like when fired. Another part of him prayed that he would never find himself in circumstances so dire Evie felt the need to do so.
“The rebel forces are beginning to ignore us,” Evie announced, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the rattle of gunfire. She pointed with the tip of her gun. “They’re moving to block the road once more. Even if we keep picking them off from here, they have more than enough troops to ignore our stings until the bulk of Borek’s forces arrive.”
“What are we going to do about it, ma’am?” Mui knew she didn’t wish to be addressed in such a way, but he couldn’t help it. He had spent his entire adult life in the army, and deferring to a commanding officer was an instinct too deeply ingrained in him to ignore.
“Give them something they can’t…” Evie trailed off, her focus sharpening. Mui waited patiently. Her rifle barked, then she continued speaking. “We will give them something they can’t ignore. Have you noticed something about those soldiers we are firing at?”
Mui peered at the enemy more closely. They had advanced to within about a hundred yards, closing the disparate range between their muskets and the Powdered Lead’s rifles as fast as they were able, then held there, forming a line of battle three ranks deep.
It was a direct copy of the tactics Sara and Evie had trained the Imperial Army to use. Mui thought there were advantages and disadvantages to it, at least when one was fighting a more traditional opponent. The three-deep line allowed a much wider formation, putting more guns on target at all times, but it was also far more fragile when compared to the five or even ten-deep spearblocks he was better acquainted with. Now that he was facing the wrong side of the gun, he could imagine even more flaws than he once had. The enemy line was thin and fragile, certain to shatter on contact with a proper line of spears, or, even worse, a charge of…
Mui inhaled.
“They do not have spears with them. They sent only musketeers to pin us in the forest.”
Evie’s grin was bestial.
“Powdered Lead!” She roared. “Fix bayonets!”
A cheer went up and down the line. Mui joined the others in pulling the long knife-like weapon from its place on his belt, slipping it into its spot at the end of the barrel.
“Give ‘em lead, give ‘em steel!” Someone hollered to Mui’s right.
“Give ‘em lead, give ‘em steel!” Came the bellowing reply, the entire group of soldiers yelling at the top of their lungs.
“Ma’am?” Mui asked as Evie leapt to her feet, still grinning madly. “If I’m an Irregular by your standards, where do you want me?”
“With me. At least for as long as you can keep up.”
He swallowed hard, nodding. There wasn’t much else to say to an order like that.
The forest rattled with the sound of mercenaries equipping their bayonets, bullets still rippling into the wood they sheltered behind. If he had been asked to guess, Mui would have bet that the enemy had given their muskets to former archers. Their formation seemed to have an instinctive grasp of the importance of volleys, and they had only light armor and simple sidearms, little more than helmets, an open-backed chestplate, and a long knife.
As another volley tore into the trees, dropping a spray of leaves across his shoulders, he wondered just how good an idea this was.
Then his attention turned toward the road, where the bulk of the army, tens of thousands strong, were beginning to position themselves before the road. It would be like the hells brought to life should the Imperial Army be forced to grind their way through a well-prepared defense there. Basic spikes and stockades were already being thrown up there.
The decision to question anything further was taken from him as Evie’s voice rang out once more.
“Charge!”
Mui burst out of the trees just as the echoes of a volley faded from the skies, raising his voice in a cry echoed by the other soldiers around him. The sound of Sara’s song changed as they emerged from the jungle, the strange screeching of metal replaced by simple, rhythmic lyrics.
A hundred yards between them and the enemy. A hundred long, empty yards. How fast could they cover the distance? Ten seconds, fifteen? He didn’t know, and he didn’t dare sprint ahead of the lower-Leveled mercenaries. He tucked his head down and ran, rifle clutched tightly in both hands, the other soldiers running beside him.
They’d been spread far across the woods, but as was the nature of people, the charge saw them clumping together, turning from scattered squads into one massive, screaming wall. He was at the front, following in Evie’s footsteps. He counted ten seconds as they crossed seventy yards, the enemy’s faces growing large and pale. Their line rippled at the sight of charging, heavily-armored mercenaries, but they did not break.
The second line of rebels raised their muskets to a shoulder, finished reloading.
“Give ‘em lead!”
Mui slammed into Evie’s back as the woman dragged herself to a stop, nearly throwing them both to the ground, but she resisted. He bounced off her shoulder, spun around by his own momentum, left dizzy and confused.
The world shattered in a single thunderclap. Bullets whipped past Mui in all directions, volleys crossing past one another as both sides unloaded their weapons at point-blank range.
“Give ‘em STEEL!”
Before Mui could recover his wits, the Powdered Lead was charging through their own powder mist. He caught the barest glimpse of Evie blurring past him, bayoneted rifle lowered to her hips, and then he was up and following after her, swept up in the tide of battle.
They were on the enemy in seconds. The mass volley of rifle shots had devastated the front row of tightly-packed musketeers, leaving the second row recoiling as they reached for knives and daggers. Not one of them had a bayonet.
This was not the systematic, grinding assault of spearmen against spearmen. A loose wave of armored mercenaries washed up on the rebels as a tsunami, bayonets glinting, throats torn ragged by furious screams. Mui was screaming with them, rendered deaf to his own voice by the gunfire. He could see maybe thirty feet in any direction, any further obscured by the mass of tangled soldiers and thick, cloying fog.
He fell upon a woman who had just managed to get her knife unsheathed in time. She tried to knock aside his bayonet, but her weapon bounced uselessly off the wooden stock as Mui’s sprint carried him into her. She wasn’t even wearing a breastplate.
Steel disappeared into her chest, red tip emerging from just off the right side of her spine. His rifle grew heavy as she collapsed, threatening to drag the weapon out of his hands before he twisted the blade and kicked her, tearing her corpse off. Blood spewed from her gaping wound, adding to the thick scent of iron and sulfur in the air.
Someone blew past him on his right, ramming their own bayonet into another rebel’s neck. He saw Evie somewhere in the distance, rapier in one hand, pistol in another.
Mui lunged forward, thrusting for the next target he could see.
It was utter chaos. The jumbled mess of mercenaries had nearly shattered the rebels with their last-second volley, causing some to break, others to charge, and all to be utterly confused.
Mui caught another knife on his rifle and shoved, knocking the man responsible back, then swung the butt of his rifle, cracking him across the cheekbone. There was a sickening crunch as the metal-plated wood broke something deep in the man’s skull. The rebel dropped. Mui stepped over him, raising his rifle to thrust once more.
The two uncoordinated formations had not so much collided as they had merged, soldiers of every sort thrown into a disorderly melee. It became a frothing circle of mindless violence, gunshots still cracking every few seconds as some few individuals managed to find time to reload their weapons.
Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
Mui stood over another corpse, mouth hanging open as he panted into the open air. The front half of his rifle was painted crimson, a dozen new chips taken from the wood by rebel blades. Outnumbered two-to-one, but lacking swords or spears, the rebels hadn’t stood a chance.
He looked down at himself, inspecting the parts of his body his armor left exposed. He found no wounds. At least none that were major. He was sure his body would remind him of the nicks and scratches it had collected once the battle was over.
“Commander Evie!” He called, spinning in place. “What are your orders?”
“She’s over here!” Someone yelled.
Mui jogged towards the voice, biting open a powder cartridge as he went. Not knowing what the Powdered Lead had meant by their little mantra, he had charged with his weapon unloaded, a mistake he did not intend to repeat.
He found Evie just as he began ramming the bullet down the barrel. She had two mercenaries to either side of her, while she was sitting on the ground, snapping off orders.
Her hand was cupped over her left thigh, deep, rich blood oozing from between her fingers. He spotted a bottle by her side, drained and discarded.
“Can you see if it worked?” She was asking one of her officers.
“What am I looking for?”
“Any sign of the enemy reacting to our breakout.” She sounded furious, and the officer winced, though they had no reason to. Mui knew she was more enraged at herself for being injured than she was at anyone else. “Are they changing their formation, advancing towards us, anything?”
The officer shaded their eyes as they looked towards the rebel army. Mui followed their gaze, making his own appraisal, and when he saw Evie’s mouth opening to impatiently demand an answer, preempted them.
“They are deploying more musketmen from their rear lines. These are arranged more in the manner you expected, with two ranks of spearmen and three ranks of firearms.”
“How quickly are they maneuvering? Are they soldiers or garrison troops?”
Mui squinted. “...Garrison troops, perhaps,” he said. “Though I can’t be sure. There are enough of them that even veterans may take time to assemble.”
“How many is that?”
Mui made a quick count of the wheeling blocks of troops. “Roughly two thousand.”
“Damnit.” Evie lifted her hand from her thigh for just long enough to wrap a bandage around it, then waved to her soldiers. “Help me up so I can see.”
The two soldiers hooked their arms under Evie’s armpits, hauling her up. She used one hand to keep pressure applied to her wound, taking care not to put any weight on it while the potion worked its way through her system.
After a moment of surveying, Evie grinned. “Good work, Powdered Lead!” She called out. “We got their attention! Now we just have to survive it! Second, fourth, and sixth squads, go retrieve our bikes! Carry two to a man, and do it fast!”
The body-littered battlefield broke up into an even worse patchwork as the squads took off, leaving large gaps in the lines. Without Evie needing to order it, the sergeants began shouting at their squads to close up the holes, presenting the encroaching enemy with a uniform line once more.
“Are we taking prisoners?” Mui asked. The Powdered Lead mercenaries were walking over the dead and dying. Many of them looked like they could survive if given appropriate treatment.
“No time,” she said. “Now, get ready. I’m sure we’ll be discovering what those spearmen are a distraction for in a minute.”
Mui’s eyes widened. Two thousand troops bearing down on two hundred was hardly something he thought of as a mere “distraction.”
“Form lines, form lines! The moment the bikes arrive, get ready to ride!” Evie yelled. She set her left foot down, testing how it held her weight. She didn’t flinch, and began to stand more evenly. “Give them shot until they begin returning fire, then we’re moving towards the walls! Ride slow and close, and be ready to stop when I call for it!”
The orders given, Mui joined the others in firing at the encroaching enemy. They didn’t bother to fire in volleys, instead firing the instant a round was loaded. Rebel infantry began to fall in piecemeal fashion, sparks flying as lead bullets pierced steel armor, but it wasn’t enough. The Powdered Lead were a tenth the number of their opponents, and though they fired fast, it certainly wasn’t ten times as fast. The enemy would not break before their shorter-ranged muskets could begin to return fire, and when they did, it would be in volleys of nigh-apocalyptic proportions.
Notes:
A bit of a shorter chapter this week, for which I apologize. Some major work drama was going on when I was writing it last week, which drained my mental energy quite severely. Thankfully, the next chapter is full length! I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 144: B3 Ch31: Covered in Purple Shrouds, Part Two
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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No one could accuse Sara of the crime of subtlety. She’d worked damn hard to keep that true. As she heard Evie’s half of the Powdered Lead leap out of cover with a furious roar, she switched up her Champion’s Inspiration.
When I came back from Luang Prabang
I didn't have a thing where my balls used to hang
But I had a wooden medal and a fine harangue
Now I'm a fucking hero!
The Vietnam-era protest song boomed out over the battlefield, filling the air with anguished reverberations of a war a generation and universe away. The Powdered Lead around her, familiar from the endless days of marching to the beat of Sara’s songs, picked up the tune, adding their own voices as they loaded their muskets.
And now the boys all envy me
I fought for proper democracy
With nothing but air where my balls used to be
Now I'm a fucking hero!
“Get ready for a charge!” Sara yelled, casting her voice across the disparate squads hidden in the treeline. The rebel army had begun to pour down the road properly now, their troops splitting into distinct groups as they charged towards Borek’s army. They were setting up a staged series of defenses, spikes and trenches being dug at a furious pace. If they were allowed to complete their work, Borek would be forced to assault line after line, the rebel army pulling back to further defenses after every successful breakthrough.
The gunfire from the Powdered Lead petered off as they began affixing their bayonets, preparing to mimic Evie’s charge on the right flank. Sara watched with keen eyes as a young messenger sprinted up to the enemy formation, doubtlessly relaying what had happened to their opposite number facing off against Evie. Sara petulantly kicked her Champion’s Inspiration a tick louder, making it harder for the enemy commander to hear the report.
Mourn your dead land of the free
If you wanna be a hero, follow me!
Mourn your dead land of the free
If you wanna be a hero, follow me!
The original song didn’t have quite the same lyrics; lots of things in it wouldn’t have made sense to a Tulian or Imperial soldier. But when Sara had drunkenly played it in a bar, it hadn’t been long before the inebriated crowd of soldiers had fit their own words to the rhythm, creating their own rendition.
One and 20 cannons thunder
Into the mighty wild blue yonder
For a patriotic ball-less wonder
Now I'm a fucking hero!
Sara snapped her gun closed, two pounds of lead and blackpowder stuffed down the barrel. She took a quick inventory of her troops, making sure they were ready, then took a deep breath.
“Give ‘em lead, give ‘em steel! Charge!”
Sara broke from the forest line with a whoop, leading from the front. She was wearing her diplomat armor for the most part, with the slight exception of having replaced the curvy breastplate with its wartime blacksteel equivalent. It was a bit of a mixed statement, considering her original intention to only wear black armor when Tulian was at war, but Evie had forced her into it. Self-defense was more important than pretty little political messages.
Mourn your dead land of the free
If you wanna be a hero, follow me!
Mourn your dead land of the free
If you wanna be a hero, follow me!
The enemy had seen their charge coming.
It didn’t matter.
Sara hit the ranks of musketeers a full ten seconds before the rest of the Powdered Lead. She felt two shots scrape off her chestplate, leaving grey streaks of lead on the magical armor. Either one would have seen a normal soldier dead.
The rebels didn’t stand a chance.
Sara’s shoulder landed in the chest of an unarmored musketeer, sending them flying backward, knocking over the two soldiers behind them. She could tell by the wet crunches that all three were dead before they hit the ground.
Her greatsword flipped open as she skidded to a stop, five feet of enchanted blacksteel bobbing before her. She was in the dead center of the enemy line, surrounded on all sides.
Bloody smoke began to leak from her skin.
Sara laid into the closest troops with a furious bellow. The formation collapsed in on her, cohesion ruined as dozens of soldiers desperately tried to bring their muskets around to point at her, searching for a shot that wouldn’t have them gunning down their fellow soldiers.
In Luang Prabang there is a spot
Where the corpses of your brothers rot!
And every corpse is a patriot
Every corpse is a hero!
A haze fell over the battlefield as the Powdered Lead caught up to Sara, unloading their rifles into the enemy ranks at point-blank range. Sara was swamped in sulfur smoke as she fought, visibility reduced to no more than a dozen feet.
Mourn your dead land of the free
If you wanna be a hero, follow me!
Mourn your dead land of the free
If you wanna be a hero, follow me!
It was ugly, bloody work. None of the half-trained garrison troops stood a chance against her. It didn’t matter what they had, be it knives, swords, or spears. She was too fast, too strong. Those few who managed to thrust a polearm towards her found it bouncing off her armor, the haft grabbed before they could pull back for another thrust. She snapped the reinforced wood to kindling, then swept her sword through the offending soldier.
Even when she found someone wearing metal armor, it barely mattered. None of it was enchanted. If her sword didn’t crush through outright, the dent from even one of her swings was more than enough to maim or kill.
Sara felt her gorge rising as she fought. The panicked screams of the rebels were soon joined by the blood-mad yells of the Powdered Lead, every last word caught and memorized by her Blessings.
Even when they outnumbered her mercenaries four-to-one, the rebels had made too many mistakes to save themselves. They’d approached too close to the treeline, thinking too highly of their new muskets. They hadn’t understood that, for all the power of blackpowder, its mere existence didn’t make steel any duller. If their commanders had stayed further away, maybe two hundred or three hundred yards instead of a hundred, they might have been able to retreat, or take a defensive stance, or best of all, rejoin the bulk of their army.
Sara tore her sword out of a woman’s gut, flinging intestines across the grass.
All around her, the fight raged on. She spat out the foulest curse she knew as she laid into the bloodshed, carving chunks from the poor fucking infantry some damn fool had put her up against.
Why won’t they BREAK?! Sara demanded of herself as she tore through their ranks. Run! Run for your fucking lives already!
She knew why, of course. Her little force of mercenaries were outnumbered four-to-one, forming the dense, violent core of a far larger tangle. The enemy closest to the slaughter could not retreat, kept at bay by those behind them, while those on the outskirts could only recognize that they surrounded the Powdered Lead, which meant, surely, they were winning.
This is why Graf fights like he does, Sara realized, a moment of clarity piercing through her fury. All that matters, the only thing that matters, is ending the battle. Nothing else comes close.
Sara took a deep breath.
End the battle. Whatever it takes.
“Break!” Sara screamed, spittle coating the inside of her visor. She stabbed another man straight through the sternum, then braced her arm against the pommel of her sword, heaving the soldier skyward, almost as if they’d been hooked on a fisherman’s line. Blood fell in monsoon torrents across her body as she held the corpse as a living banner, every gurgling, jerking twitch of the dying man forcing him to slide further down the blade.
“BREAK, GODDAMMIT!”
Sara’s sword swung down hard. The spasming soldier, who had very nearly reached the hilt of her blade, was thrown entirely off it, sailing over the heads of his comrades. He hit the ground some fifty feet behind their lines, spraying the intervening distance with his blood.
“RUN!”
Sara tossed her sword to the ground, pounding her chest with both fists. The knuckles of her gauntlets were dented as they crashed against the blacksteel, every slam louder than the gunshots.
“FUCKING RUN ALREADY!”
She sprinted forward, unarmed, and caught one woman’s head between her hands. The first impact audibly cracked something in her skull, but before she could collapse, Sara twisted, turning her head a hundred and eighty degrees. The woman’s dead, twisted face stared at her comrades.
Then Sara jerked upward, ripping the head off her shoulders.
“FUCK ALL OF IT!” She struck one soldier with the head. “YOUR STUPID!” She slammed the head into another soldier’s skull, shattering both. “FUCKING!” The final crash was little more than chips of bone and viscera clutched between her bloody fingers. “BRAVERY!”
They began to run. Everyone. Imperial Rebels and Tulian mercenaries alike, all were fleeing the circle of grass she had painted crimson.
But still the fight continued. To her left and right, some of them hadn’t seen. They hadn’t realized just how fucking hopeless it was.
“God-fucking-DAMNIT!” Sara roared, throwing her gun off her back. Not her rifle, but Hurlish’s custom job, the one with a barrel thick enough to fit three fingers down. She snapped it open and shoved a jingling cartridge in, following it with a half-pound of blackpowder.
Not all ammunition was made equal. Flechettes– miniature steel bolts in the vague shape of an arrow– were one example. Her dad had said the US thought they’d be some Vietnam-era wonder weapon in a shotgun, but they’d proved nearly useless in actual combat. There was no way to impart a stabilizing spin to the half-dozen individual darts when held in a shotgun shell, which meant they tumbled end-over-end, less accurate than even purely circular lead pellets.
But when you were the Governess of a magical nation, you could afford certain enchantments. Tinvel’s old artificery design, once intended to stabilize a shell in flight by tying an invisible ‘string’ to the base of a projectile, hadn’t been able to so much as twitch the massive cannon rounds they’d been designed for. Tiny steel flechettes, however? When the Imperial Rebels were packed far too tightly, giving Sara an angle of aim down the entire length of their formation?
The stock barely brushed her shoulder before she pulled the trigger.
For a single instant, Hell breached the world of man. Dozens fell dead.
Sara didn’t bother to watch her own troops surge forward to finish off the survivors. She turned the other way as she broke open the gun, dumping unburnt powder onto her boots. She loaded another round, snapped the gun closed, stood, and fired.
And with that, the skirmish was over.
The enemy broke, the precious few alive to do so throwing down their weapons as they ran.
The mercenaries, howling their victory, began to give chase.
“Hold!” Sara roared. “Hold fast! Let them run!”
If it had been anyone else in charge of any other army, that order would have been damn hard to follow. Victory was almost as intoxicating as defeat, when delighted rage taking the place of animalistic terror.
Thankfully, between her Blessings and the Powdered Lead’s well-honed loyalty, her troops managed to cool their blood. Though clearly reluctant, they reined themselves in, returning to the line.
Sara gave herself a quick once-over, checking for wounds. She was immediately glad that Evie had forced her to wear her blacksteel breastplate; at least three musketballs had scraped off the front, any one of which would have pierced the thin steel of her diplomat’s armor. The red mist which surrounded her in battle was fading, taken away in pieces by the wind, but it hadn’t stopped leaking from her skin yet.
She wondered what her soldiers thought about it. The visible outpouring of her rage, her loss of control. She wondered what they really thought. Not what they said to one another when they thought she couldn’t hear, but what was kept privately in their own minds.
“What’s the plan, ma’am?” A sergeant asked.
Sara jerked, startled, but hid it well enough. Even without looking at him, her Blessings told her exactly who the man was. Sergeant Jahn was one of the few officers who’d earned his rank after joining the Powdered Lead, rather than inheriting it from his stint in the Tulian Army. He was an ambitious sort, clearly intending to strike for even higher ranks, which this question was doubtlessly a ploy to help aid him in.
Really? What’s the plan? What do you fucking think?
She silently pointed towards the enemy army. A group was emerging from the press. Covered head-to-toe in enchanted steel, some of them wielding blacksteel blades, the common soldiers parted around them like water around a boulder. The group was led by a number of Warriors on Krapeu, the crocodilian beasts hungrily snapping their jaws, iron muzzles laying in the grass behind them.
“Brace for impact,” Sara said, kneeling as she swung her gun off her shoulder. “That’s the plan.”
“Form square!” The sergeant yelled. “Form square on the Governess, you bastards!”
The call went up and down the line. Sara ignored it all. Flipping her visor open to better catch the fresh air, she spent the brief respite checking over her gun.
Those flechette rounds were damned expensive. Between making the flechettes themselves, packing the bags just right, and having each little piece enchanted by an artificer, Tulian’s industries could have made fifteen rifle-muskets for the same cost, and with a fraction of the time invested. Because of that, she and Hurlish had only ever test-fired them twice.
Once satisfied the gun was undamaged, she loaded a different, more traditional piece of ammunition into her shoulder-cannon. One and a quarter pound of lead, six hundred grains of blackpowder sitting behind. The two-foot barrel of the gun was just long enough to give the chunky slug a touch of spin, keeping it vaguely on track as it flew through the air. It was far from a sniper rifle, but it would do the job.
Sara took a deep breath as she clicked the gun closed, pulling the hammer back. An anti-cavalry square had formed around her while she’d worked. It was one of the first formation drills a Tulian soldier practiced, and they knew it by heart. They hadn’t needed more than a minute to fall into place, bayonets bristling in every direction, the wounded dragged into the center of the wall.
A quarter mile away, the Krapeu began to paw at the dirt.
Fucking finally, Sara thought, jerking her visor back down to hide a toothy smile. Someone worth killing.
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Evie Brown
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This is an asinine battle.
Evie’s contingent of the Powdered Lead were sitting astride their bikes, loading and firing as rapidly as they were able in the awkward stance. Every time the enemy got close enough for their more inaccurate weapons to become a threat, the Powdered Lead would shoulder their muskets and pedal a few hundred feet further away, keeping out of range of the enemy. Though they were outnumbered heavily, such that even a single well-aimed volley could devastate their ranks, Evie wasn’t going to allow it.
Absolutely asinine.
It was like a children’s game. It was laughably easy to outpace sprinting soldiers when one was riding a bicycle across flat fields of grass. It was a tactic that only worked because of their rifled musket’s superiority to the enemy smoothbore weapons, affording them a range twice that of their opponents.
The devastating efficacy of the stupid trick wasn’t long for the world, she knew. Once the rebels discovered the principles of rifling, this little gimmick wouldn’t be half as useful. True, she’d be able to ride in and out of danger whenever she desired, but she would have to be in danger herself to constitute a threat. That was a far cry from harassing the enemy with impunity, like she was now.
And this wouldn’t work in the slightest against even the present Sporaton army, Evie reminded herself. The enemy garrison, as was true of nearly every Imperial force Evie had met, lacked any true equivalent to Knights. The few times lone Warriors had tried to ride her force down on a Krapeu, they had immediately become the victim of a withering volley from every soldier under Evie’s command. The poor fools had either been torn apart by leaden hail or, if they were smart, turned back before the bullets could overwhelm their armor’s enchantments. None had actually succeeded in closing the distance. That was a fate the Sporaton Knights, between their steed’s enchanted armor and massive numbers, wouldn’t be forced to endure.
“Get ready to relocate!” Evie called out. The rebels were nearing the effective range of their shoddy muskets, which seemed to be about a hundred and fifty yards, give or take a few dozen. If the Powdered Lead hadn’t been spread out as loose skirmishers, she suspected the rebels’ weapons could have found success from even further. “We’re heading towards the walls once more! We’ve drawn them far enough away from the center, so we’ll be working our way around to fire into the bulk of their army!”
Confirmations of her order went up and down the line. Graf’s tutelage hadn’t prepared her for constantly justifying orders to her subordinates, but she’d adapted. Soldiers who knew not only what was expected of them, but why it was expected, had proven far more capable. Graf had achieved that level of competency via rigorous admissions standards and brutal training regimens, making even the commonest member of the Night's Eye the equivalent of a Sporaton officer. In Tulian, both strategies were a luxury Evie didn’t have. Explaining her reasoning to the troops ensured that, should she be separated from them due to injury or circumstance, they would be able to follow through on the objectives she had set for them. Given the chaotic nature of this fast-paced, bicycling mercenary battalion, it was an eventuality she needed to prepare for.
Evie squinted. Across the battlefield, she could see an excellent example of why it was important for junior officers to be able to act independently.
Sara’s contingent of the Powdered Lead were locked into square formation, Krapeu-riding Warriors bearing down on them, foot soldiers in tow. Evie could see little of her wife’s formation itself, on account of the constant spew of blackpowder shots. So fast was their fire that they seemed less like a group of soldiers and more like a fallen thundercloud, lances of pink fire taking the place of white lightning.
Unlike those who had come for Evie, however, the Warriors trundling towards Sara were not stopping. The air before them shimmered and sparked, an invisible mage’s shield protecting them.
“Change of plans!” Evie yelled. “We’re moving now! We’ll be placing ourselves to the southeast of the Governess’s square, where we won’t be firing into our allies! Mount up!”
Wood and metal rattled as musket slings were tightened and bikes brought up. It didn’t take more than a few seconds before the Powdered Lead were ready to ride.
Save for one man. Evie glanced at Mui, smirking.
“Having some difficulty, Sergeant?”
The catfolk man cursed as his foot slipped off the pedal once more, his entire body wobbling left to right.
“It is… not as easy as I had hoped,” he said distractedly, focused on the effort of finding a comfortable way to sit on the bike seat. Evie could have told him to give it up, as there was no comfortable way to sit on a metal plate when riding over the jittery, bumpy terrain, but she didn’t. He’d figure it out soon enough. At least he remembered enough of his brief lessons that he could actually ride the thing.
“Move!” Evie yelled.
An inglorious chorus of squeaks and squeals filled the air as the Powdered Lead began its ungainly forward trot. Evie always thought it was an awfully shabby looking movement when two hundred soldiers pushed themselves along with one foot on the ground, the other on a pedal, at least until they gained enough speed to hop onto their seats, pedaling properly.
Then it was downright intimidating. She knew Sara thought bicycle troops looked ridiculous, relying as they were on what her old world considered a children’s toy, but Evie saw something different. She saw two hundred men and women armed to the teeth, moving at the speed of cavalry using nothing but a tool that required only a fraction of the expense and training required to raise and stable a warhorse.
Musketballs thumped uselessly into the dirt around them, throwing up puffs of dust as the enemy commander called for their pursuing troops to unload at Evie’s formation as fast as they were able.
Clever, she begrudgingly admitted. They had recognized Evie intended to bypass them entirely, riding to the aid of Sara and her soldiers, and so were throwing everything they could into one last-second volley.
It still wasn’t enough. The Powdered Lead pulled away at five, ten, fifteen miles an hour, a long column of bicycles squeaking into the distance. Evie was in the lead, the head of the swerving snake at her back. She glanced behind herself in search of Mui and found him some ways back, having swerved to one side to let the other Powdered Lead troops overtake him. He hadn’t gotten the hang of riding while standing, which meant he was trying to keep pace while still sitting on the seat.
Evie couldn’t pay him any further mind. She focused ahead, focusing on getting her troops into position. To her right was the high wall of the city, left unoccupied after the garrison had sallied out, while her left held the bulk of the rebel army, who were still trying to squeeze into the road to meet Borek’s forces. Behind her were the rebel musketeers she had abandoned, while the elite Warriors lay ahead, marching under mage-shield as they neared Sara’s formation.
Anti-cavalry squares were not a new concept to Evie. In Sporatos, it was known that they were one of the simplest, most effective ways for the common peasant to ward off lightly armored cavalry. When pikes were pointed in every direction, haft set firmly into the dirt between every soldier’s feet, a battle became a test of wills instead of strength. The cavalry would charge forward, daring the peasants to hold their ground, while the peasants shouted encouragement to one another, bolstering their bravery.
Those who broke first, died first.
Either the thundering hooves of onrushing horses would terrify the peasants to the point of abandoning their defense, allowing them to be run under by iron horseshoes and flashing swords, or they would stay strong, forcing the cavalry to wheel away at the last moment, lest they run their horses onto a wall of pikes. It was the ultimate test, the very thing most commanders of any worth constantly trained their spearmen to be ready for.
Of course, if the peasants were being charged by armored Knights, it didn’t really matter. They’d die either way. Even Graf had admitted there was little use in training peasants to fight Knights. Only lighter cavalry, the unlanded riders who could not afford true armor, were worth preparing for. This was how wars had been fought for centuries.
It seemed that for all that blackpowder had changed the world, this most ancient tactic of battle still had its place. At least for a little while longer.
As she rushed onward, Evie watched the exchange, analyzing events even as they unfolded.
When Sara saw that the enemy mage’s shield was strong enough to resist any volume of small-caliber rifles, she ordered a cease-fire. The powder fog was pulled away by a gentle breeze, revealing a wall of glittering bayonets, mercenaries arranged in ranks three deep, the first two ranks pressing their rifle butts into the mud.
Evie would have had faith in that defense under normal circumstances. Against unarmored cavalry, the Tulian soldiers would have doubtlessly reigned supreme. They were now veterans of two wars, and they would not be broken so easily.
But would their bayonets hold strong against the Krapeu? The crocodilian beasts were not horses. At up to thirty feet long from head to tail, they could crush the entirety of Evie’s torso between their hissing jaws. Their green scales were thick and battle-scarred, a tapestry of failed attempts to fell the beasts written across their hide. Evie did not think they would survive a direct shot from a rifle, not to the flattest part of the head or chest, but she did not think they were half as fragile as horses, either. A single wound would not send them into a panic, that much was sure.
Evie’s uncertainty was mirrored in Sara’s tactics. Evie could see her wife towering over most of her soldiers, her height exceeded only by the orcs placed in the rear line of muskets. She was staring hard at the enemy Warriors, her lips moving silently. The distance between the two forces had closed to little more than a few hundred feet, with the rebel Warriors still marching under the slow mage shield.
If they’d brought muskets with them, they could be firing with near-impunity, Evie realized. Why didn’t they? Simple inexperience, or a limit of the mage’s spells? Perhaps they consider firearms a peasant’s weapon, improper for the peerage’s use?
Whatever it was, the thought was concerning. Sara’s choice to split their forces was even riskier than she’d initially believed. They would have to discuss the possibility of someday facing an enemy who was, in effect, assaulting them from within the shelter of a mobile fortress. It was only a matter of time until a mage created the necessary spell.
Gods be damned, we need our own combat mages. The things we could do with them…
Evie’s bicycle Company was about a minute away when it started. The Warriors, resplendent in their ornate, bronze-flecked armor, began to pound their blades against their own armor, creating an awful racket. The Krapeu at their core began thrashing their bodies left to right, heads and tails whipping hard enough to be weapons in their own right, leaving their Warriors barely holding on atop their frenzied mounts. Then, deep within the wall of elite soldiers, Evie caught her first glimpse of their mage. With dark skin and black, curled hair, the energy floating off her robes faded as the woman began slowly lowering her hands.
The Warriors’ racket reached a blood-curdling apex as an animalistic howl, leaping into the charge behind the gargantuan Krapeu, whose claws threw clods of soil as they burst into a galloping sprint.
The Warriors charged.
The shield faded.
“FIRE!”
That single word smothered the world in thick cotton, torn from Sara’s lungs with force enough to flatten every blade of grass for a hundred yards. Evie’s hearing was replaced by a dull, distant ringing, even the thick wax shoved deep into her ears not enough to protect from her wife’s voice. She could not even hear the gunshots when the Powdered Lead’s weapons erupted with perfect synchronicity, burying their lines in an avalanche of white smoke. A hurricane of lead spat forth, chewing through metal and man alike.
The Warriors stumbled, their lines rendered jagged and uneven as random individuals were cut down, but they did not stop.
Evie leapt off her bicycle, tucking into a roll that bounced her to her feet, legs already pumping. She held a fist up to signal her troops to halt as she abandoned them, ceding authority to the next in command. The battle had begun too soon, and only she was capable of reaching the melee in time.
Not every Warrior fell to the next Champion-guided volley. Sparks flew, blood poured, and soldiers died, but those who survived persevered, their heads filled with dreams of being the lone hero whose blade ended the day coated in Divine gore.
Unbidden, uncontrolled, and unknown to her, Evie’s lips peeled back into a feral grin, baring her fangs to the world.
When it came to foreign perceptions of the Divine Champion’s prowess, the strength of her and her companions in battle, most could be divided into two categories.
The first and most common were those strangers who had only heard of Sara and her wives. That sort thought little of Evie. They knew of her exotic heritage, her beauty, her privileged upbringing, and they assumed her a trophy. A woman under the Champion’s thrall, both subject and subordinate to Sara’s awesome beauty.
Those who had met them? The few diplomats and similar ilk who had traveled to Tulian personally? They saw things differently. Against all their expectations, they came away thinking little of Sara. A crude, easy-talking, beautiful, and salaciously promiscuous woman was something they had seen before. Sara made sense to them. But when they looked in Evie’s eyes? They recoiled, horrified by what stared back. They could not make sense of her off-kilter face, her eyebrows, lips, and nose all a collection of portraits hung a few unnerving degrees from perfectly level. They did not know that her imperfections were scars courtesy of a cursed, undying Knight, but they could feel something of the truth, if only a sliver. These strangers, these diplomats and foreigners, they dismissed Sara as a threat outright, assuming Evie was the blade at her side, the thorn on a Divine Rose.
The truth, as was so often the case, lay somewhere in the middle.
Evie watched the fallen cloud and counted breaths, waiting with impish glee.
Sara’s blacksteel armor ripped out of the powder haze, trailing tendrils of white smoke and crimson fog, her enchanted blade raised high, heated to a cherry glow by blue lightning crackling off its edge.
A Krapeu met her halfway, head twisted and jaws spread wide, its rider’s glaive swinging down from on high.
Evie laughed in delight.
Sara’s left hand released the hilt of her blade, a single fist blurring forward to crack the Krapeu across its lower jaw. The beast’s entire head was knocked aside from the force of the blow, stumbling it.
Evie didn’t understand why so many fools thought of Amarat as a gentle Goddess.
With the same motion that threw her punch, Sara’s neck leaned aside. The Warrior’s glaive slipped past her common helmet to strike the blacksteel over her shoulder, bouncing harmlessly off.
The Warrior pulled back for a second thrust, thinking Sara would stand and fight, only to find her missing. She’d never stopped sprinting past the Krapeu, dragging her glowing blade along its hide as she went, tearing a gash some ten feet long through the creature’s scales.
Of course, Amarat still wasn’t a Goddess of battle.
Just as Sara lifted her sword for a killing blow, aimed to swipe through the Krapeu’s spine, the creature’s thick tail swung.
Sara was hit by the heavy meat of the limb, thrown off her feet entirely as she sailed a dozen feet through the air, barely keeping hold of her sword when she struck the soil, rolling another dozen feet further.
Even before she stopped skidding, Sara was back on her feet, roaring her fury. Two Warriors stopped their charge to turn towards her, raising long sword-bladed spears in challenge.
Sara still hadn’t regained her footing before she threw herself among them. The two Warriors leapt back in shock, trying to regain the distance they needed to use their polearms.
Sara grabbed hold of one Warrior’s weapon, letting herself be dragged across the gap. Her greatsword’s enchantments flashed as she readied the weapon, folding the weapon into a shortsword, holding it high in her right hand, prepared to swing at the Warrior whose spear she still held, leaving them defenseless.
The second Warrior dropped their swordspear and drew one of the bulging, single-edged swords the nobility of this land preferred, flinging it upward in a desperate bid to protect their comrade from the incoming swing.
Only to find an armored elbow embedding itself in the meat of their open helmet, Sara having kicked off with her opposite leg as she ignored the first Warrior entirely, tackling the second to the ground.
Sara’s arms became a blur as she straddled her victim’s chest, arterial blood painting the sky with every double-fisted blow.
The first Warrior managed to drag her off a moment later, but it was already too late. There was nothing left of their comrade’s head save for a red, muddy crater.
Evie lost track of what happened next. She was nearing the battle herself. Shots were whipping past to the left and right, the Powdered Lead she’d abandoned carefully picking off those who were not too close. The entire rolling wall of Warriors and Krapeu finally slammed into the infantry square just as Evie reached the edge of the battle, uncaring of the way her smile spread even wider.
The familiar weight of her Hurlish-crafted rapier fell into her palm, its steel polished to a mirror sheen.
This was not where she thrived. Not anymore. She did not have the Skills to keep track of the whirling melee as so many others did. If she fell into the thick of things here, against Irregulars of equal or, truthfully, even lesser Level than herself, she would be overwhelmed and taken down. She was a woman of the Duel, not the battlefield.
Thankfully, she was also behind the enemy, whose attentions were firmly focused elsewhere.
Leather rasped as fifteen inches of blacksteel slid from her chest holster. She lifted the revolver in her offhand, rapier in the other, and pulled back the hammer. A single notch taken from the steel became aligned with a metal bead at the end of the barrel, bouncing in time with her adrenaline-soaked heart.
Evie took a deep breath. Held it for a moment. Then let it out.
She pulled the trigger.
A half-inch pellet of lead tore its way through the spine of a Warrior atop her Krapeu, felling the soldier. The beast felt its rider go slack and, without an ounce of hesitation, craned its neck around to latch its jaws around the woman’s leg, tearing her from the saddle. It shook its head like a dog who had caught a rat, repeatedly slamming the woman’s limp body against the ground. The Warriors nearest the beast leapt away, relieving pressure against the mercenaries they had been facing as the beast began to lay into friend and foe alike.
The Krapeu ignored everyone, preferring instead to use its forelimbs to begin peeling the steel armor off its rider, digging its snout into the bloody feast within.
Evie’s revolver floated over to the next rider and fired again, killing them. Then to the next. Then to the next.
Six shots.
Six seconds.
Six riders dead.
Evie holstered her revolver just as the first few Warriors realized what was happening, turning around to investigate the sound of far-too-close gunshots at their back. Ahead of them, right at the point where bayonet met spear, the riderless Krapeu began wreaking indiscriminate havoc.
Evie lifted her rapier, taking three calm, measured steps backward, giving herself room. She pointed one slender finger at the Warrior who had first noticed her, as if taunting them.
The Warrior laughed, flourishing their spear confidently. A rapier against a spear was not a fight most in her position would ever ask for, and this man knew it. She could not see his face beneath his helmet, but she recognized it in his posture. He was eager for this fight.
Evie smiled at him.
The moment he stepped out into the open, he dropped bonelessly to the ground. Two shots landed in his gut, one in his chest, and another blew open his right knee. Three more thumped into his body after he’d already fallen dead, making his corpse jerk obscenely.
Hitting a man-sized target at a hundred yards was child’s play for an experienced rifleman.
The other Warriors charged Evie as one. She floated backward across the battlefield, drawing the distance out, and all the while, shots kept pouring into the Warriors. Some skated off enchanted armor, others tore straight through, but all were heard and reacted to, stumbling the entire mob.
And they were a mob. Graf would have been disgusted at the sight. None of these Warriors were accustomed to fighting in groups of equal skill, accustomed to nothing other than wading into battle on their lonesome, slaughtering inexperienced, incapable troops. As they charged her, shoving and jostling in their haste, she decided in an instant that these were not the Imperial elite. These were Warriors of some description who happened to be living in the city when the call for capable soldiers had gone out. Veterans, yes, powerful, yes, but nothing more. They were what Sara might call “shock troops”: those who won the day through tenacity, aggression, and superior equipment, rather than pure, unquestionable superiority.
In short, they did not know what to do against an enemy who didn’t piss themselves in terror.
One of the Warriors reached Evie through the fusillade. She knocked aside their first jab with their spear, then their second, third, and fourth, and only when they pulled the weapon back to gather their breath did she lunge forward, rapier extended.
Through the holes in their helm, she saw the Warrior’s eyes widen in astonishment. They twisted their spear in front of themselves, using the wood to just barely knock the tip of her rapier off course, sending it skating off their breastplate rather than into the weak neck chainmail she had been aiming for.
Before they could recover their stance, Evie pulled her rapier into her chest and, with all the unthinking ease of a seamstress placing another thread among thousands, pierced their eye through.
The Warrior dropped, replaced by another for the brief instant before a shot slammed into their helmet. The enchanted steel did not fail under the blow, shattering the bullet into a colorful cone of glowing lead. The power of the impact was still enough to knock the Warrior’s head aside, leaving them teetering and dazed.
Evie completed their fall with a sharp backhand, knocking the Warrior to the ground. The back of the woman’s legs were protected only by thin leather, the type of armor meant to be used in a line of battle.
Evie swiped her blade through both of the woman’s calves. She felt the harsh scrape of her blade scoring a line in each bone, skritch-skritch, severing muscle and tendon.
The woman screamed in agony, tried to stand, and fell. In a certain way, she reminded Evie of her younger self. Much like a toddler who had been struck across the temple by their mother’s fist, the woman heaved out an agonized sob, crawling away as fast as she was able.
Evie forgot about her as she stepped over the crawling woman, holding her arms out in welcoming embrace to the remaining Warriors. She let her smile beam out at them.
They flinched.
The gunshots moved away, the distance between Evie and her opponents too close for the Powdered Lead to risk. Ten cowered before one, even though any two of them could have killed her. The moment stretched long. Behind them, the Powdered Lead were holding strong, if only just, against the onslaught of the other Warriors.
“Well?” She asked, raising her voice over the din of battle. “Who wishes to try their hand next?”
She could not have timed her question better, for it was that exact instant that Sara’s shoulder crashed into the rearmost Warrior, her wife’s helm broken and discarded, a guttural roar spewing blood and chips of broken teeth into the open air.
The Warriors spun to the new threat, raising their weapons.
Pathetic, Evie thought. Do none of you trust your comrades to deal with a single woman?
She emphasized their error by sending her rapier through the nape of a Warrior. It stuck fast in some bit of metal, and so she flicked to one side, throwing their entire body to the ground in a crumpled heap.
Sara leapt to her feet, standing over the corpse of the Warrior whose spine her tackle had snapped. She was smeared in blood, flies already buzzing around her, picking at the viscera which clung to her like a second skin.
In Evie’s later recollections, that was the moment the battle broke into a hazy blur.
She saw flashes of Sara, her countenance rendered hazy by the volume of smoke which poured from her broken and battered armor. She was injured in a dozen different places, but none of them were life-threatening.
Her wife did not fight like anyone else on this particular battlefield. She was too brutal for a Warrior. Too inelegant for a Knight. Too furious, even, for a common soldier. And above all else, Evie knew, she was certainly no duelist.
She didn’t care who she fought. She flew from one fight to the next without restraint, all but physically leaping onto her opponents. She seemed to have another set of eyes searching for distraction and weakness, which afforded her the opportunity to abandon every exchange without warning, always taking someone nearby off guard with a brutal impact. She used her fists and the flat of her blade as often as she did the sword’s cutting edge, constantly using its enchantments to shift from a three-foot shortsword to a monstrous five-foot greatsword, the likes of which no Imperial soldier had ever seen before.
She was not flawless, of course. She was constantly grabbed, cut, punched, and knocked aside. But always, always, she kept moving. It was as if her lungs had no need of air, her body no need of rest. She was consumed by a constant sense of absolute, unstoppable momentum, giving the impression that trying to stop her onslaught would be as mad an act as trying to charge down the muzzle of a cannon.
Evie followed after her, aiding her one-woman cavalry charge. She stood at Sara’s back, acting more as a menacing presence than any true bodyguard. The enemy could not decide which of the two madwomen to engage, and their hesitation was costing them. Every soldier who strayed too far was cut down by a hail of precision bullets, the Powdered Lead practically salivating as they waited for each opportunity.
It was simultaneously the most precarious situation Evie had ever been in and the most powerful she had ever felt. The fact that she and Sara were quite literally surrounded by elite soldiers, yet lived still, was a miracle made possible only by the advent of firearms. They came in fits and starts, each miniature volley tearing one bastard or another to bloody pieces. If it wasn’t the support of the rifles, she and Sara would have been dead a dozen times over.
As was often the case with battles, the breaking point came without warning. One moment, Evie’s back was pressed to Sara’s, her rapier held threateningly ahead of her.
Then, somewhere within the psyche of her many opponents, something snapped.
The field was abandoned in short order. The Warriors, to their credit, retreated as one. It could not be called a rout. The honor guard which was still protecting their mage became their rallying point, some of the presumably higher-ranked Warriors calling for those who still lived to retreat.
They disentangled from the Powdered Lead rapidly, sprinting towards shimmering safety. The mage had to shrink their shield for a time to allow the Warriors entry, prompting a furious volley from both halves of the Powdered Lead as they tried to cut the woman down, but it didn’t bear any fruit. The mage was powerful and clever enough to shift between protecting first a wide area, to only themselves, then back to a wide area, all without ever weakening the strength of her spell.
Evie took some small satisfaction in seeing the way the mage’s arms were beginning to tremble with the effort, however. Exhaustion was plain on the woman’s face, sweat dripping in rivers from her brow.
“If only we had our artillery,” Evie said aloud.
“Heh,” Sara grunted. She spat a wad of blood to one side. “That’sh what we’ll be shaying in every damn fight we don’t have ‘em.”
Confident the Warriors were retreating, Evie finally let herself turn her attention to her wife.
Sara was in a terrible state. She had ruined her gauntlets yet again, the repeated blows of her fists twisting them into a mangled mess that was far beyond salvaging. The many lacerations her shattered armor had allowed to crisscross her body were individually of little concern, but in aggregate, it wouldn’t be long before blood loss rendered her unconscious.
“Drink,” Evie ordered, pulling a potion from her belt. It was one of Selliana’s own brews, far more powerful than a common alchemist’s work. They had only a limited number of them, but these circumstances justified its use.
“Thanksh,” Sara mumbled, accepting the potion. As her lips parted to drink it, she saw that her wife had lost more of her front teeth than remained, leaving her smile an ugly, snaggle-toothed thing.
So it is possible to harm the beauty of Amarat’s Champion, Evie mused. Then she looked Sara up and down again, reappraising the statement. Well. To those of more traditional sensibilities.
Not every spouse would find beauty in the sight of their partner covered in the blood of their enemies, limbs trembling with the aftereffects of barely constrained bloodlust, but Evie most certainly did. Even with the support of almost four hundred riflemen, what Sara had done during that battle would have earned her an unquestioned Knighthood in Sporatos. Likely a landed Knighthood, at that. It was an accomplishment worth recording in scroll and song.
Sara tossed the empty potion bottle aside, shivering as its effects began to work on her, then turned around, jogging back to the Powdered Lead lines.
The mercenaries had not escaped the battle without casualty. At a rough glance, Evie estimated there were three to four dozen Tulian soldiers laid out on the soil. Most were still alive, thank the gods, but they were teetering on the edge. Several had lost limbs to the maddened Krapeu, while others had been victims of the Warriors themselves, more common bladed wounds digging into their skin. A great number showed signs of their steel armor being broken through entirely, the strength of their enemy rendering the unenchanted metal little more protection than wooden plates.
Sara, still dripping blood, ran over to the most wounded of the soldiers and pulled a roll of bandages from her bag, beginning the battlefield triage process.
Evie left her to it. She whistled loud and long, waving her contingent of the Powdered Lead forward. They rode over on their bicycles and, already knowing what she wanted of them, began establishing a cordon around their wounded comrades, protecting them from further encroachments. Those facing the larger rebel army began loading their guns, firing off the occasional shot, though they were at the very edge of their equipment’s effective range. Evie considered reprimanding them for it, but decided against it. It would be good practice, she supposed.
Their blackpowder budget was paid by the Imperials, after all.
In the distance, she heard the beginnings of a dull thumping. It was a sound like a cloth-wrapped pot being struck by a mallet, the sharp crash muffled by the intervening distance.
Looks like General Borek got our cannons into position.
The Garrison of Ta-Pet’s gamble had failed, then. As smart as it had been to sally out from the walls, their entire plan of battle had been based around reaching a bend in the jungle road before Borek. So long as they used the curve to avoid the artillery having a clear shot on their forces, they could utilize their superior numbers as traditional Imperial doctrine dictated.
That had failed. In her mind’s eye, Evie could see what was happening. The Powdered Lead’s Napoleons were pouring straight shot and canister into the tightly-packed rebel forces, every detonation reaping a horrific toll in death. Pressed in by the impermeable jungle, there was nothing they could do but stand there and take it. They would have mages, of course, specialists capable of putting up some brief resistance, but the Powdered Lead artillerists had an absolutely laughable quantity of ammunition, and with the Imperials at their side, the support of friendly mages.
The battle was won.
She left the defense of the wounded soldiers to her officers, returning to Sara’s side. She was tourniqueting a woman’s severed wrist, whispering words of encouragement as she did so.
“Can you hear the cannons?” Evie asked.
“No,” Sara said tersely.
“They are firing even as we speak. It is only a matter of time until the enemy breaks entirely.”
“Good.” Sara jerked the knot tight one last time, apologized to the woman for the pain, then moved to the next in line. “Now the real shit starts.”
“Oh?”
Sara jerked her head to the city, where the gates were being hastily lowered. It seemed whoever was in charge of the walls had seen the tide of battle turning for themselves.
“Borek’s army is about to march into that city. And we’re going to have to keep them under control.”
Evie licked her lips. She did not consider that duty the Powdered Lead’s responsibility in any way whatsoever, but she wasn’t going to argue. She hadn’t expected anything else from Sara.
She sighed. “I will begin briefing our troops on what is expected of them. I expect that you wish us to prioritize the protection of poorer regions of the city over the wealthier?”
“Yeah. And Evie?” Sara looked up from her patient, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Make sure they get a full load of ammo before you send them into that city.”
Evie nodded demurely, even as she cursed to herself. From one powder keg to another. It was going to be a hellish evening.
Notes:
Well look at that, a properly size update! Imagine that. This battle was fun to write in some ways, frustrating in others. I think in the future, I won't be showing every battle Sara and Evie go through. Without some higher stakes plot elements involved, it wasn't quite as satisfying to write. Oh well. It should still at least get your blood pumping!
Chapter 145: B3 Ch32: Teetering Mercies
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Mui Thom
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A brief few hours ago, Mui had thought he was someone who understood chaos. He had been a soldier for his entire adult life. He had been in battle after battle, breathing in the scent of panic, fear, and blood. He had spent hours seeing nothing other than the friends at his side and the enemy ahead of them, ignorant of the greater battle. Spells had flashed overhead, lightning colliding with flung earth. He had cowered from flames so hungry and so bright their light turned his fur orange, and he had held strong. He thought he knew chaos. He’d even twice been in a situation much like this, part of an army which besieged a city, but both times they’d been turned away. He’d never conquered one.
And so he’d never known how awful victory could be.
“You! You there! Get back to your- No! No, do not run!”
The woman he’d been shouting at ignored him, scooping her child up into her arms and sprinting away.
“I have nothing!” She cried shrilly. “Nothing!”
“And you will never have anything more if you do not get back to your- Shit!”
Mui barely restrained himself from throwing his sword to the cobblestones in frustration as the woman disappeared into an alleyway, white dress fluttering against the darkness. She was heading west, to the center of the city.
It was where the bulk of the Imperial Army had gone. Towards the homes of the city’s elite, who needed to be caught and pacified before they could begin fomenting rebellion across Ta-Pet.
It was also, naturally, the richest part of the city.
Occasionally, Mui thought he could hear crashes and screams echoing down the streets.
The area had to be taken, regardless. Sara had wanted to sit Borek’s army outside the walls, giving them time to cool their blood, but for perhaps the first time since Sara had aligned herself with the Imperial Army, Borek had dismissed her suggestions outright. Even with the surviving Garrison sitting outside the city walls under the dark glare of blackened musket muzzles, Ta-Pet was still a city of tens of thousands. Given time to organize, the rebellious elite would turn the city into a deathtrap.
Not that it felt any less a deathtrap to him at the moment. He was marching with a squad of the Powdered Lead, acting as an interpreter for the northern mercenaries, whose strangled grasp of Kemari was still nigh-incomprehensible.
Despite his years in the army, Mui did not consider himself particularly well-traveled. He did not know the true variety of the Empire, and did not know if his appraisal of Ta-pet was fair. To his sensibilities, at least, it was among the smallest and poorest cities he had ever seen, with its central spires barely reaching twenty stories in height. Only Tulian had been poorer, and that was a city four-fifths abandoned. Seen from the walls (which were as tall as any Imperial city’s, of course), Ta-Pet had a squat, cylindrical appearance, like a batch of bread that had failed to rise out of its pan.
Seen from those same walls, which he had scaled with Sara as she and Borek sought a vantage point from which to plan their subjugation of Ta-Pet’s people, he could also see the signs of its poverty. The poorer sections of the city, recognized from afar by their dirty streets, unpainted buildings, and the prevalence of wood in place of stone, creeped inward like the red veins of an infection. Even the spaces of Ta-Pet which would have been highly valued in other cities, intersections of major thoroughfares and the aqueduct’s spouts, showed signs of rot.
These regions, of course, were the ones Sara had the most concern for. She had sent her Powdered Lead to the places where things would be worst, and when Mui volunteered, he’d been sent with them.
Here in the outer city, where buildings rarely rose above three stories, every street they turned down was a new travesty, each showing new reactions to the fall of the city. Some streets, mostly those which contained a large number of shop fronts, were practically abandoned. Their doors and shutters were left swinging in the wind, the silence an eerie contrast to the dull rumble of panic rolling in from beyond.
Other streets were the source of that dull rumble. He had seen fires in the distance, some from torches in the hands of civilians, others from the flash of musket fire. A thin pallor of smoke coated the skies over Ta-Pet. Not everyone was Sara Brown, after all. They couldn’t cast their voice over a mountain, striking the hearts of the enraged as surely as any arrow. No, an occupying army had only one way to put down a crowd of rioters. Whether their tools were sword, musket, or cannon, the act remained the same. Take those that sought to resist, the last-minute defenders, the loyal zealots, the hidden enemies, and prove to them that their resistance was too late.
If they’d wanted to make a difference, he thought, turning his head from the sight, they should have made it on the walls. Not in the streets where their children play.
Mui’s squad, out on the edges of the city, was dealing with a different sort of chaos. The tenements and poor-houses of the city were filled to bursting, the turn of phrase nearing literal. Those who had lived in the understreets had fled aboveground, whispered stories and town criers having told them the Imperial Army would breach the aqueducts, directed rivers down the tunnels in order to drown all who lived there. Mui had heard the same stories himself as he grew up, though always that it was always the vindictive Visyas of the enemy who had done the deed, trying to deny the righteous Imperial Army their prize.
Back then, he’d always thought it foolish to believe such atrocities had occurred at all. Why would an army, any army at all, allegiance disregarded, do such a thing? There was no point to such senseless slaughter, nothing to be gained.
That faith had been shaken. He had been at Sara’s side as she barked off orders for the Powdered Lead’s most veteran troops to secure the city’s aqueducts as rapidly as possible, in addition to sending her precious artillery to the areas where the manmade rivers entered the city. He’d thought she feared the Visya of Ta-Pet would concoct such a disaster, but then she had instructed her quartermasters to deny all requests for large quantities of powder from Imperial troops, even if it was Borek himself demanding it. He wondered if she was taking simple precautions, or if she had been given reason to fear sabotage.
He hadn’t found the courage to ask.
And so it was fear like that which led to a woman fleeing with her child at the very sight of soldiers. Fears like that were what led to shoddy tenements being so filled with civilians that those inside were breaking open the highest windows and leaping to their deaths, less concerned for the fall than they were of being crushed to death by the press within. If not a single soul grabbed a weapon within Ta-Pet’s walls this day, the deaths might still be counted in the hundreds, the thousands. Already he had seen one building collapsing under the weight of those trying to take shelter, killing all within.
More appalling than even that, however, were those who could not find shelter at all.
He and the squad of Powdered Lead had passed one group of civilians who were prostrating themselves on the side of the street, noses and elbows touching the cobblestones, their cupped hands holding their most precious belongings. Even the poorest of the city often had some small thing that was dear to them. Family heirlooms, he could only assume. A necklace here, a golden ring there, always some trinket that would have been trivial to hide, yet was instead revealed and offered freely. For those who didn’t even have that, there were coins piled high in their hands. And that was only the choicest of their selection: the civilians had laid all their valuables before themselves, from bottles of wines to cookware to simple bundles and bags of fresh food.
Their message was clear: “We are giving you all we have. Please do not destroy our homes in your search for more.”
The squad he was assigned to had walked straight through that street in dead, absolute silence. Every man and woman’s eyes were locked forward, both hands raised to their chests and clenched over their rifles. Sergeant Cagan, a massive, hulking orc, was walking backward ahead of them, his eyes unblinking as he scanned the hands of every soldier, ensuring they were frozen in place.
When this is done, I will have to offer thanks to the gods for protecting the cities we tried to take.
Talk only resumed when they passed the offerers by. Mui let out a great, tired sigh. The chaos of civilians running every which way was almost welcoming compared to that alien silence.
Mui watched a crowd of people walk around a corner, a large family of orcs. They saw the squad of Powdered Lead and stopped, turned, and ran the other direction, the oldest lifting the youngest into their arms so they could move all the faster. He kept moving, thoughts a whirl.
I was sixteen when that first siege started, Mui recalled. Five years ago. So small a number to contain the lifetimes that had passed him by. I was so young. I followed the others without thinking. If we had won, if our mages had broken down the walls, if I had charged in with the army, what would I have done? Would I have been what these people fear?
He did not know. Another thing to thank the gods for, he supposed.
The patrol wandered on, searching for signs of looting and violence. That was why they were there, after all. To make sure the city did not tear itself to pieces. Thankfully, he had seen little of it. His squad had been assigned to patrol a vaguely-defined portion of Ta-Pet, lacking as they were in maps of the city streets, and so they were snaking their way up and down the city blocks in rudimentary fashion, trying to trace out a perimeter of a section they ought to be responsible for.
Seeing as Sara had been most interested in sheltering the poorest regions of the city, the areas which would not have House Guards and sturdy doors to hide behind, they were in places where there was less to steal. He had hoped that this would make his sector a more peaceful one. And it had, to a certain degree. People here were not interested in stealing from their neighbors, who they knew had just as little as them. Most of those such opportunists had gone out in droves, heading to the richer portions of the city. He began to garner some vague sense, a nascent hope, that perhaps this would be an uneventful patrol. That through luck and coincidence, theirs was a stabler region of the city.
Yet as they circled deeper into their assigned zone, treading off the main thoroughfares, conditions steadily deteriorated. The cobblestones were loose and uneven, conspiring to trip him with every step, and the tiled gutters which should have lined each street became forgotten relics, replaced by wide, muddy ditches. The buildings, though they may have started as solid stone constructions, had been chiseled by time into shabby half-things, supported by rotten timbers and rusted nails. Men and women scrambled in the streets at their approach, banging on locked doors with desperate, pleading cries.
This area was poor. Very poor. So poor, in fact, that everyone in it seemed to be wondering why soldiers, after weeks on the march, exhausted by battle and drunk on pilfered wine, would ever bother to show their faces.
They all seemed to come to the same conclusion. There was no wealth here, but there were people. Vulnerable people. People who lived in a place so putrid that there was no crime so horrible that its alleyways could not swallow their screams.
Mui’s fur began to stand on end as they marched. The people who had been turned out into the streets had stopped trying to flee. There was nowhere left, after all. So they’d begun to gather. To mutter. To look for broken bits of wood and loose cobblestones. The streets were filling, piece by piece, person by person, with the dull rumble of an angry crowd watching them pass.
“Calm!” Mui called out, preempting Sergeant Cagan, who he was nominally only the translator for. “Be calm! We are only patrolling! We are no threat to you!”
Mui didn’t know what the right thing would have been to say, but he learned he hadn’t picked it. A brick came from a dark alleyway, aimed remarkably well, sailing straight at his forehead. He stepped aside easily, holding up his empty hands as he made calming gestures.
“I apologize for our intrusion! There is no need for concern! We seek only to maintain order-”
Something slammed into the back of Mui’s head, accompanied by a burst of blinding light. He fell a few drunken steps forward, beginning to topple, only to be caught by a sturdy green hand.
“Back!” Sergeant Cagan shouted. “Everyone in close! Form solid square! If I see a single fucking one of you reaching for a goddamn trigger, I’ll tear your fucking head off!”
Mui found himself dragged into a tight press before he could gather his wits about him. He reached up and felt at the back of his helmet, finding a dent there that was just the right size for a brick. His ears were ringing.
Why…?
“Get your head on straight!” The sergeant screamed into his ear. “We’re getting the fuck out of here!”
Mui shook his head, his sensibilities coming back by degrees. He first realized he was being half-held up by the shoulders pressing into his own, the Powdered Lead troop’s armor scraping and scratching against him. The mercenaries had become a solid, unassailable slab of steel in the middle of the street, bayonets pointed in every direction.
The first brick had been the calm before the storm, or perhaps the lone source of inspiration to turn an entire chunk of the city into newly-minted artists of the improvised weapon. All sorts of things were flying through the air. Cobblestones, bricks, chunks of wood, mud– gods, Mui prayed it was mud– and even cutlery, the last of which was the most dangerous of all. Without shields to shelter under, the centermost soldiers of the formation were raising their rifles overhead, doing their best to deflect the debris.
He felt something scrape across his cheek, wetting his face in blood, and found the object responsible a moment later by virtue of a pained cry: there was a knife caught between the armored joints overlapping the shoulder of the mercenary to his left. Somehow, the blade had slipped through the thinnest of gaps to land in the muscle. A luckier shot Mui didn’t think he’d ever seen, but every soldier knew that death required nothing more than a bit of luck on the wrong side of the field.
It was the feeling of blood matting his fur that finally shook Mui to full wakefulness. He shouted in dismayed fury, joining the other mercenaries in raising his rifle high, holding the stock over the heads of the soldiers in front of him, who couldn’t protect themselves while also warding off the crowds of people who were gathering in the street, many of whom were gripping improvised clubs.
The crowd had become a mob. These were a people who knew riots, he could tell. They kept hopping forward and back, almost close enough to get stabbed, teasing at the very edge of the bayonets, either testing their reactions or, perhaps, trying to work up the courage to give in and rush the Powdered Lead.
It was a miracle in its own right that no shots had been fired. If he’d been on the outside line, Mui truly couldn’t say if he would have shown the same discipline. He was losing track of the street, so filled was his vision with furious faces. Even those who had been hiding in their homes were now emerging, smelling blood in the water.
He wondered what price a stolen Powdered Lead rifle might fetch, when sold to the right bidder. Enough to feed a family for weeks, he imagined. In a place like this, that was a dangerously alluring thought.
The Powdered Lead began marching their way awkwardly down the street, answering every shout and jeer with an insult of their own, though it was plain each side couldn’t understand what their opposite was saying. Mui was glad for that. For once, nothing good would have come of mutual understanding.
Though it likely only took a minute or two for them to march their way out of the thin street, it felt like an hour. The moment they returned to a larger thoroughfare, the Sergeant ordered them to turn around and surround the entrance to the street, forming a cordon that prevented the mob from continuing their harassment.
That didn’t mean they weren’t trying, however. Spirits flying high on their ‘victory,’ they kept pressing forward, trying to convince the Powdered Lead to break and run entirely. They kept throwing things, kept shouting, and some brave few began to dart forward, wailing clumsily at the bayoneted rifles with long bits of debris, trying to knock them out of the mercenary’s hands.
“Into the skies!” Mui heard Sergeant Cagan yell, though it was near impossible to pick out over the crash of stones and hurled insults. “Aim at the sky and fire off a volley!”
Mui pointed his rifle up at a forty-five degree angle and, without thinking, pulled the trigger.
It was likely the least coordinated musket volley he’d ever seen, rattling gunshots filling the air for a solid two or three seconds, but it got the job done. The sudden explosion of light, sound, and smoke startled the mob into a panic, ruining any momentum they had. Even though they’d likely heard of the weapons by now, none of them had ever seen muskets fired, much less fired a bare few feet in front of their face.
By the time the smoke cleared, the mob had evaporated. Mui was left trembling, still aiming his musket high, breathing hard. He’d never been so surrounded, so thoroughly cut off from help, in all his life. Even in the worst battles, he’d always had an army at his back. Not one lone squad of twenty-odd soldiers. He kept gasping air over and over again, as if he’d just broken the surface of a lake after nearly drowning. It had felt like he was drowning. That’s what it had felt like.
“Shit,” he heard Cagan mutter. Then, louder, “Shit! Fuck! Who did that?!”
Mui looked around, baffled. None of the mercenaries were injured, at least not any worse than a few cuts and bruises–
A woman was half-lying in the street. Not a mercenary or soldier. A civilian. Her feet were pushing her backward, her upper body supported with one arm, the other clenched over her sternum. Blood had already poured down her shirt to her knees, a long smear of crimson covering the stretch of dirty street she’d managed to drag herself across. She’d been hit by a good shot. Center mass, right beneath where the ribcage stitched itself together.
The kind of shot that would leave her dead in minutes.
Mui looked left and right, searching for the culprit. One soldier stood out from all the others. She was holding her rifle level, not into the sky. Smoke still trailed from the barrel. Her face grew ashen, and her hands began to tremble. She turned to Sergeant Cagan.
“I-I-I- didn’t hear y-you-”
“Then why the FUCK did you shoot?!” Cagan roared, one massive hand clamping around the back of the woman’s neck as he dragged her out of the line.
“Everyone else w-was, and I-I-I thought th-th-they were gonna-”
“What? What?” He brought his face down to hers, spewing saliva across her trembling features. “You thought a bunch of fucked-up Imperial peasants were gonna run the goddamn Powdered Lead under? You were scared of some prissy little city kids with fucking sticks and stones?!”
“I’m s-s-s-s-”
“Save it for the fucking Champion!” Sergeant Cagan roared. It was the first time Mui had ever heard someone from Tulian refer to Sara as such. The sergeant shoved his soldier forward, pointing. “Give her your fucking kit!”
“Wh-what? My-”
“Not your fucking gun!” The sergeant bellowed, a vein visibly pulsing in his head. Mui watched as the man sucked a long breath through his tusks, clenching his fists to help calm his shaking arms.
He’s scared, Mui realized. He’s scared of what will happen when Sara finds out one of his squad shot a civilian.
The sergeant’s hands unclenched. He spoke again, but quietly this time, without shouting. There was a deadly intensity in his words.
“Give her your healing supplies, Private Maunti. All of them. Make sure she takes them.”
The woman– Maunti– looked at her sergeant with wide eyes.
“B-but sir, if I g-get i-injured-”
He clapped a hand on her shoulder, dragging her close. He whispered something into her ear that even Mui could not hear. It was only a few words, but Maunti nodded, swallowing hard. She turned around, looking at her handiwork.
The injured civilian had managed to drag herself another twenty feet or so back up the street. Color seemed to be draining from her skin by the second, leaving her shaking and pale, and the trail of blood behind her was so thick that, even though he couldn’t see for sure, Mui felt certain the bullet had pierced her straight through. There was too much red on the stones to be explained by what little was leaking between her fingers.
Two men from the original mob returned. Brave men, to be doing that. They glanced nervously at Mui and the other soldiers as they tried to grab the woman under the arms, only to drop her when she let out a hideous, prolonged shriek at their first tug. The crowd— which Mui realized hadn’t fully dissipated, but instead fled far down the street, watching the unfolding scene in a mixture of horror and anger— recoiled at the scream. It was an ugly one, primal, the sound of a wounded, dying animal.
Private Maunti grit her teeth and, after a final moment of indecision, unslung her rifle, handing it to another soldier.
In a strange sort of way, Mui thought the sight of Maunti diving back into that dirty, bloody street, unarmed save for a cloth package clutched to her chest, was perhaps the bravest thing he had ever seen.
The two men leapt in front of their friend at Maunti’s approach, brandishing table-leg clubs. Private Maunti froze, holding her hands out.
“I-I’m going to h-help her-”
The men stared blankly, uncomprehending.
Mui found himself at Maunti’s side a moment later, unsure of how he got there.
“She has healing goods,” he said in Kemari, gesturing to her package. “She misunderstood the order. This is a mistake. We did not want to hurt anyone. Now we want to fix our mistake.”
Maunti jumped at the sound of his voice, that sudden movement in itself nearly sending the two men either running away or swinging for her head, but nothing so awful transpired.
They were just five people in the street, unsure of who was going to walk out of here alive.
“Show them, Private Maunti,” Mui said.
The woman unlaced her fingers, managing to open the flap on the package she held.
Its contents shocked even Mui. When Evie had presented him with a similar sack, he’d assumed it to be specially-prepared for him, on account of its expense. It had contained two rolls of gauze, a length of tightly-wound stitching material, a steel needle, steel scissors, steel tweezers (who made tweezers out of steel?), a tiny, unreasonably sharp knife, and a small vial of healing potion. It was an excellent gift, one he’d treasured because he knew it might someday save his life.
It was also, he was now shocked to discover, exactly what Maunti held, too. Private Maunti. The lowest rank in the Powdered Lead.
Good gods. How can Sara afford it? What must it cost, to give a healing potion to every soldier?
The two men leaned over, inspecting the pack’s contents. A whispered conversation began between them, the two arguing back and forth.
“I don’t wanna…” A tiny voice whispered from down low. “I don’t wanna die…” The woman blinked as she looked around, tears beading at the corner of her eyes. “Where’s my Dad?”
That put paid to any further discussion.
All of them dropped to their knees, taking positions around the woman. Maunti was near the woman’s head as she began fumbling the potion out of the bag. She uncorked it with the tip of the knife included in her pack, then tried to tip it into the woman’s mouth.
The woman pursed her lips and turned away, a confused, panicked expression on her face. Her eyes were dazed, unfocused.
“No,” Maunti whispered in garbled Kemari, “No, no, no, sorry, sorry, please open, please do not-”
“We need to get her mouth open,” Mui said in Kemari, pointing. “You. You will hold her jaw like this,” Mui showed the proper grip on his own face, “With all your fingers around her chin, pulling hard. Then you, you will help keep her lips open, but be careful. She’s not sensible. Some try to bite.”
Acting in instinctive respect to the cool, practiced authority in his voice, the two did exactly as ordered, wrangling their bleeding friend like she was a feral dog.
The woman barely put up a fight. That was deeply concerning.
After a painful moment of back-and-forth, Maunti was pouring the potion down the woman’s throat, occasionally stopping to put a palm over her lips, so her sudden coughing would not allow any of it to be spat back up. It took almost twenty seconds before the entire potion was down her throat, but when it was done, everyone sagged in relief.
“Thank you,” one of the men said, beginning to lift her up.
“No!” Maunti cried in Kemari, holding her hand out, bandages fluttering. “No! She need help, help!”
“What? You gave her help!”
“More, more!” Maunti insisted helplessly, shaking the gauze wrap in her hands, as if that would make the men understand.
“Your friend only received a small potion,” Mui explained for her. “It may not be enough on its own. She needs simpler healing, too.”
“What? You a fuckin’ sawbones or somethin’?” The man spat to the side. “Don’t trust them fucks far as I can throw ‘em. She took the potion, and we shouldn’ta even let you do that.”
“Look at her,” Mui pleaded, gesturing to Maunti. “Does she look like a scheming, vindictive woman? Or just someone who wants to help?”
The two men glanced at Maunti. The mercenary woman made a strange sight. Wearing heavy, foreign armor, a thick gambeson wrapped around her torso, her muscles turned to thick ropes by long hours of march and drill, she could have been an artist’s template for a thousand heartless soldiers. Yet her eyes were red with tears, her hands jittering in obvious, unsteady panic.
“Looks like a fuckin’ scared little girl, is what she looks like,” the other man said. “And I don’t know if I want a scared little fuckin’ girl putting a knife in anyone’s guts.”
“She is scared,” Mui confirmed. “But not of helping your friend. She is terrified of what her commanding officer will do if it is discovered she killed an innocent civilian. She wants to help.”
The men looked at each other, as confused by hearing the statement as Mui felt speaking it. It was true, however. Even if Mui had just recognized it. He knew Sara had a reputation among the Tulians for heavy-handed punishments to things other armies outright ignored, but Maunti and Sergeant Cagan were in a panic. He hadn’t seen any of the Powdered Lead look half as scared in the midst of actual battle as they were at the prospect of facing Sara’s ire. He wanted to ask her what, exactly, had them so terrified, but there wasn’t time.
“Fine,” one of the men eventually spat. “Just… help her. But we’re watching you, a’right?”
Mui hung his head. “Thank you. Thank you.” He switched to Continental, addressing Maunti. “You can help her now. I will translate as needed.”
A bloody, muddy, shit-filled street was not the environment Sara’s lessons on disease and germs had taught him was appropriate for a delicate procedure, but it was what they had. He relayed instructions between Maunti and the soldiers, guiding the injured woman into a splayed position so Maunti could patch her up.
Mui found himself shocked by the expertise with which Maunti bound the wounds, almost as shocked as he had been by the contents of her healer’s pouch. She was utterly professional as she pulled the woman’s blood-stained shirt over her head, even as the other two men looked away, trying to preserve their friend’s modesty. Mui didn’t, accustomed as he was to battlefield wounds, but he still felt the instinct.
Not Maunti, apparently. She poured water from her canteen over the woman’s bloody breasts without a second thought, revealing the center of the wound. Maunti put her thumb beneath the ragged hole to mark the position just before oozing blood hid it once more.
Such a tiny thing, to cause such havoc, Mui reflected. He had always struggled, in some odd way, to understand how so minor a cut as those created by arrows– now bullets– could kill. This wound could have been hidden by a creasing of skin as one bent forward. It seemed wrong that it could kill an entire person.
Maunti stuffed the wound with a plug of gauze, then began unraveling more of the white cotton. She spoke as she worked, explaining her actions, which Mui translated for the two men.
“You need to keep pressure on it. Stop as much of the bloodflow as you can. Okay. Good. Now, we’re going to have to roll her onto her side. It’s the only way I’ll be able to wrap the bandage all the way around her. You will have to take that plug out the first time you change the bandages.”
“When should we change the bandages?” One of the men asked through Mui.
“Twice a day, or whenever the blood soaks all the way through,” she said. “Make sure you boil the bandages after every change, if you can’t take her to a healer.”
Mui hesitated before he translated this. “They will not understand why they should boil the bandages, Maunti.”
“They don’t need to know why,” she huffed, preparing to lift the limp woman onto her side. “Only that they do.”
Mui knew they wouldn’t do it, though. Just the thought of it was absurd to anyone who didn’t understand what Sara had brought from her world. These men were already suspicious enough of them as it was.
“The bandages are enchanted,” he told them in Kemari. “They burn away rot and disease, but they need to be recharged with flame.”
“What?” The man’s eyes went wide. “Flame? Will they not burn?”
“They will, which is why you must put them in a cauldron of only water, first. They will absorb the energy of the fire much slowly this way, but they will not burn. Give them a quarter hour or so, then they are ready.” Mui hesitated, realizing the men would be seeing this as some great gift of enchanted goods. They might just sell the things off. A cynical concern, but a valid one. “And,” he hastily added, “they will only work for a few charges. Three if you are unfortunate, five if you are not. When the bandages begin to unthread, you will know they are failing.”
The men nodded seriously at this. That caveat was comforting to them, in some strange way. To be gifted powerful potions and enchanted healing devices from a conquering army was absurd, unbelievable. To be given a half-dose of healing concoction and a shoddy artificer’s failed project, however? That was far more believable.
“Alright,” Maunti said, “Roll her over in three, two, one…”
Mui helped the others as they all worked to roll the unfortunate woman on her side. She had long since passed out, but even still, the motion forced a terrible groan to gurgle out her lungs. At least there was no blood in her breath.
“Careful, careful, careful,” Maunti chanted, mostly to herself. “There. Good. Hold her there.” She smiled up at the men, sweat now joining the tears on her cheeks. She tried her best at speaking Kemari. “Thank you. Thank you both.”
“You’re… welcome,” they awkwardly replied, once they managed to understand what she was trying to say. They would not have expected this treatment from their own city’s guards, much less this bizarre, pale foreigner.
“Now, it’s going to take a lot of wraps to cover this big of a wound, so I’ll need you to lift her off her side each time so I can reach under her…”
Confused even as he translated the words, Mui and the two men leaned over the woman’s side, inspecting the exit wound. The wound was tiny, after all, barely more than a half-inch…
One man turned away to wretch, while the other just swore profusely.
Mui nearly reacted the same. It seemed impossible that such a wound had come from the shot Maunti fired. Ridiculous. A little thumb-sized piece of lead doing all that? How?
But there was no denying the placement. Directly on the opposite side from the bullet hole, there the exit wound gaped. Four or five inches of skin were entirely missing from the woman’s back, a crater the size and depth of Mui’s fist ripped from her body. The work of the healing potion had stopped the bloodflow, but that only made the sight more gruesome. He could see sinew and bone intermixed, all of it caked over by the half-healed scabs indicative of the potion’s aid. It was as if she had been chained in some awful dungeon, unable to move while rats chewed a hole into her body for days upon days.
This is what I have been doing to people when I fire my rifle?
“Don’t need to look at it,” Maunti said, and at first he thought she was talking to Mui and the others. Then she kept talking, keeping up a breathy mantra. “Don’t need to look at it to wrap it, just need to wrap it, that’s what the sarge always said. Just gotta wrap and wrap and wraaaaaap…” she trailed off, biting her tongue as she continued to wind the pearly-white gauze around raw, pink flesh.
Eventually, mercifully, the work was done. The healing potion had stopped the worst of the bleeding, which meant the bandages weren’t immediately soaked through. That was apparently the extent of what the small vial could achieve, however. The rest would be up to the woman.
“I’m done,” Maunti announced, snipping off a bit of gauze, which she patted into place. “The bullet passed all the way through, so you won’t have to worry about lead poisoning.” Mui omitted that detail from his translation. “Just keep her as still as you can, and make sure to change the bandages regularly.”
“And boil them,” one of the men said, raising a disbelieving eyebrow at Maunti.
“And boil them,” Maunti confirmed through Mui. She wiped her hands on a bit of leggings left exposed by her armor, a useless effort. Every part of her from the waist down was bloody, even the steel. “You should get her to a healer as soon as you can, of course. Their magic will do everything I couldn’t. But until you can do that, since I know the city’s gone to even worse fucking shit than it already was–” Mui translated this more politely, “–just keep her still, quiet, and clean. Don’t let her walk or anything stupid like that.”
“We will,” the men said, when Mui finished his translation. They slowly took the woman between them, one holding her limp legs, the other taking her arms. They stood together, readying themselves to leave. Then the one holding the woman’s arms paused.
“I… you’re the one who shot her?”
Mui did not want to translate this, but they waited, staring at him. Reluctantly, he repeated it in Continental.
“I am,” Maunti said. There was no tremble in her voice. Having apparently accepted whatever fate Sara would bring down upon her, she was a soldier once more.
“Then… I don’t know why…” The man shook his head, cursing. “Thank you,” he said, spitting the words as fast as he was able, as if they burned his tongue on the way out.
And with that, they left. It was over. Perhaps the longest five minutes of Mui’s life. He stood in a daze, looking back at the squad of Powdered Lead, who were barely fifty feet away. They didn’t even look impatient. It hadn’t been nearly so long for them.
“Well?” The sergeant called “Come on! We need to get moving.”
Mui followed after Maunti. He tried to rest his hand on his sword, only to realize that it wasn’t there. Without even realizing it, he’d discarded his weapons before going to help, just as Maunti had.
Behind him, at a distance the human men likely didn’t realize he could still hear them, he heard the men whisper to one another.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Don’t even know her fucking name.”
“Shit.”
There was something profound in that, Mui thought, but he was too exhausted to parse it. He accepted his sword and rifle back from one of the other mercenaries and, at Sergeant Cagan’s barked order, resumed the patrol.
Far across the city, there was a lone, desolate thud. Somewhere, for some reason, a cannon had been fired.
When no gunfire accompanied it, Mui paid no attention. It would be hours yet before they could stop their patrolling.
------------------------------------
Sara Brown
------------------------------------
“I don’t think you quite caught my implication, Sir Choeun,” Sara called, her voice piercing the many walls of the rebellious compound she and her troops had surrounded. “I know I am a woman famed for my subtle, underhanded threats, but when I told you that I will happily kill you and everyone in that compound without a second thought, it was no metaphor.”
The response was delayed, relayed from the hidden Visya to some subject or another, then another, and then to the poor, unfortunate bastard hanging out a window. The man who must have been liked by none, seeing as he’d been given the task of poking his head out to speak with Sara.
The soon-to-be former Visya of Ta-Pet was holding out in his tower, which his mages had painstakingly warded against all comers. The Imperial Army, meanwhile, had surrounded it in a cordon of soldiers twenty deep, a thick, hot crowd sweating under the sun. Sara had brought four Napoleons to point at each wall, placed far enough away that their operators wouldn’t be at risk of getting killed by stone shrapnel should the weapons fire.
Sara didn’t know what the Visya was hoping to achieve with this farce, impossible as his situation was, and she’d been impatient long before discovering each of his responses would involve a solid ten seconds of wholly unnecessary waiting.
“I am not alone in this tower!” The relaying man called out from his perch on the third story, sweating bullets as he addressed Sara. “I have hundreds of administrators, staff, and servants within my home, as well as dozens of the slaves you think so dearly of! You would not dare raise your hand against me, not when so many innocent lives are on the line!”
Sara laughed, taking care to cast even this automatic reaction across the air. It was an ugly laugh, full of scorn and self-reproach.
“Really? You don’t really understand what innocent means, do you?”
Another mind-numbing delay dragged on. Sara resisted the urge to tap her foot.
“You have killed many, Chosen, but never in cold blood! Never in the light of day, before all, where everyone can see you for the beast you are!”
Sara looked down at herself. Since the battle’s conclusion, she hadn’t done much more than dunk a few buckets of water over her head. Even the quickest glance could have told the Visya that she was wounded in a dozen places, her shredded armor soaked in dried blood, almost none of which was hers. She looked like a woman who’d gotten in a wrestling match in a butcher’s shop.
Guess that means he can’t see me from wherever he’s hiding.
“You’ve got a fucked-up idea of what innocent means, Sir Choeun,” Sara replied, allowing a the barest sliver of the boiling contempt she felt to slip through her professional facade. “I know some of your Warriors made it back into the city. Some of them probably saw me fight. Did none of them give you a report on what I did to your army? What I, personally, did to your army?”
Someone coughed. There was a lot of foot shuffling, and a few whispers. For a city square packed to the brim with heavily armed soldiers, that level of quiet was profound.
“You killed our Garrison,” the Visya eventually said through his intermediaries, “and fought our Warriors, but that was all. We have learned much about you, Sara Brown. Though you lack the grace and gentility of a true Divine Chosen, you have still never killed those who do not resist. You will not strike me and my House down. They are innocent.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Sara called. One of Borek’s flunkies tried to step forward and put a hand on her shoulder, perhaps catching the dangerous glint in her eyes, but she waved him off. On account of her Divine patronage, Borek had unequivocally put her in charge of this negotiation, without limit or caveat. “You think that I don’t kill innocents. You’re wrong. I’ve killed hundreds of innocent people. Thousands, if you count the ones whose deaths I ordered. And I do count them.”
The gathered crowd shifted in place, boots scuffing the cobblestones, the whispers growing louder. Sara ignored them as much as her Blessings would allow her to.
“Your garrison?” She said, “those conscripts? The people you forced into battle under threat of imprisonment, slavery, or death? They were innocent. They didn’t deserve what I did to them. But I did it anyway. I shot them. I stabbed them. I gutted them like pigs, and I put their heads on pikes, and I did it all so I could break into your city. All so I could get to you.”
The response came quicker this time. Sara wondered if the former Visya had been trying to cut her off.
“Do you take me for a fool, Sara Brown? You claim to see my garrison as equal to your person, yet they sought to kill you on the field of battle. You claim you view them as possessing the same innocence as those with me now, who stand alone and unarmed? Even you are not so mad as that! Your heart is weak, Sara Brown. You do not have the callouses, the ruthlessness, to drag me out of my home.” A brief pause, the intermediary turning around to ask someone to repeat something, then continued. “I thank you for that, in fact! It is because of your mercy that so many who do not deserve death shall live. When you see reason and begin to negotiate, you may do so happily, knowing you have saved the lives of many!”
Sara muted her Blessings, turning aside. “Evie.”
“Yes, Master?”
“Kill that guy.”
Evie plucked a rifle out of a nearby soldier’s hands, putting it to her soldier. The intermediary, a random man, just another forgotten member of the Visya’s staff, tried to duck at the last second.
Red blood and white bone painted the ceiling of the third-story room in a wide splash. The man dropped, hanging limply over the windowsill, down which ran a small river of blood. It soaked into the grout, falling in geometric lines. Slowly, so slow it was almost laughable, the man slipped backward, until his corpse all at once fell out of sight, thumping to the carpet below.
“Gun Sergeant Piktin!” Sara barked. “Load shell shot.”
“Already have solid shot loaded, ma’am.”
“Discharge it into that door there.”
“Aye, ma’am!”
The Napoleon’s wooden gun carriage creaked as the crew twisted it around, shifting its aim from the higher stories, the place where they’d guessed the Visya was holed up, to point it at the warded doors at the base of the tower.
Smoke and thunder filled the courtyard, half-deafening everyone in a dozen yards. The enchanted wooden gate was not so much as dented by the impact, but as was often the case, the door itself wasn’t the true weak point. It absorbed the shot so well that it was actually the hinges holding it to the stone which shrieked and bent, white marks spreading at the creases where the stress was greatest.
After listening to so many training videos on safety lines, proper rigging, and other OSHA-mandated coursework, Sara remained endlessly amused that even in this bizarre, magical world, people still forgot to account for every point of failure.
The moment the cannon stopped rolling from its recoil, Gun Sergeant Piktin’s crew were already shoving a wet swab down the barrel, cooling any lingering sparks with a loud hiss. A dry swab followed shortly thereafter, then a package of powder and iron ball.
This projectile, though it was difficult to tell from most angles, was very different from the first shot. Unlike its solid-iron predecessor, this iron capsule was hollow, with a visible cap attached to one end. A long specially-treated bit of string dangled in the breeze before the Gun Sergeant cut it down to an incredibly short length, thus setting it to explode barely a half-second after it left the barrel. It was risky to cut the fuse so short, since any minor miscalculation could end up with the bomb bursting before it cleared the muzzle, but she trusted her artillery officers. She watched as he tore off the pre-packaged load of powder, meant for firing at long ranges, and replaced it with a half-charge, the sort that would be used when they used the Napoleons more like mortars than cannons. He tucked the shortened fuse into the sphere, to keep the wind from blowing it out mid-flight, then handed it off to be loaded.
Explosive artillery shells were one of her army’s most effective weapons, and they hadn’t been forced to resort to them since she’d faced the Royal Army under Graf’s command.
Today, though, Sara thought it would send an excellent message.
Another voice called out, from the same window, but this time without showing themselves. It was a woman, and she seemed even less confident than her nervous predecessor.
“You dare attack under the auspice of a truce?”
“I want the fucking Visya!” Sara hollered back. “Fire!”
The cannon recoiled once more, spitting an iron shell straight through the open window. From this range, it was impossible to miss.
Sergeant Piktin’s cutting of the fuse hadn’t been perfect, but she couldn’t blame him. It was hard work, guessing the flight time of a cannon shell. The message Sara was more interested in was delivered all the same: it slammed into the roof of the third-story room, bursting straight up into the next floor where it detonated, flinging the entire fourth story down atop the third. Pieces of wooden shrapnel and shredded furniture were ejected from the open window like a cat coughing up a furball.
Screams began to echo from the tower. Neither room had been empty. Every time the intermediary had spoken, Sara’s Blessings had latched on, casting her senses further into the building. She knew how approximately how many people had been in that room when she’d ordered that cannon fired: at least thirteen. She didn’t know how many had been in the room above, but she didn’t much care. Most of them were the Visya’s lesser staff members, accountants and tax reeves, those who weren’t important enough to be offered the true shelter of the warded room above. Some may have felt guilt over that, but not Sara. When the British had bombed a Nazi bureaucrat's office, she didn’t imagine the pilots shed too many tears for the typists and pencil-pushers caught in the blast.
“No one I just killed deserved their death!” Sara called out. “Not a single fucking one! The same as the garrison troops I killed! The same as the rioters I helped put down!” She took a deep breath. “But you know who does deserve to die? Who I would oh-so-love to have on the end of my sword, flopping and bleeding and sobbing?” Sara’s words cracked like lightning, audible across the entire city. “The one who put them there! The little fucking coward holed up in a room like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, thinking I won’t wade through an ocean of blood to drag them out and tie a noose around their neck! Borek wants you alive, Choeun, but me? I’m praying to Amarat that I’ll get to bring this tower down around your ears! And trust me, she’ll listen to my prayers before she does yours!”
Silence. Sara imagined they didn’t have anyone left who would willingly show their faces. Who could have guessed that was coming?
“Did you know,” Sara shouted, forcing an ounce of genial conversation into her voice, “that your fanciest wards only protect the room you’re in, Choeun? That the rest of your tower has barely more than the standard protective enchantments of your city’s walls? The walls that you didn’t trust to resist our cannons, which led to you sending the garrison out to fight us in the field? I know General Borek doesn’t want to find out, since he’s interested in keeping this city as intact as he can get it, but I gotta admit, I’m curious! How many shots do you think it’ll take for us to blow out the bottom floor so the entire tower comes crashing down? Think those wards will protect you from that?”
Once again, there was no response. Sara wasn’t concerned, however. She lifted a speaking crystal to her lips, lowering her voice.
“What’s he saying, Ketch?”
“It’s hard to tell,” the azarketi spy whispered back, keeping quiet from whatever hiding place she’d chosen. “He’s mostly just yelling at his mages. He’s not making much sense.”
“You sure you don’t want to just go ahead and kill him for me?”
“There’s a lot of people in here, Sara, and a lot of them are mages. Selly doesn’t want me to risk it.”
“Alright, no problem. Thanks for the help. I’ll see you later, alright?”
“See you later.”
Sara dropped the crystal into her pocket, turning to her Imperial liaison. “They’re gonna come out with their hands out in a little bit. Just give it a few minutes. I’ve got more important shit to deal with.” She looked across the crowd of Imperial Soldiers, who seemed to regard the Visya’s tower with all the apprehension of an adder’s nest, the sorcerous vipers within poised to strike. “I’ll also leave you two artillery pieces, but they are not under your command. Actually…” Sara whistled, waving over Gun Sergeant Piktin. “I was just telling this guy here-”
The Imperial officer drew himself up in affront, squaring the flowery lapels of his rank into Sara’s sight. “You will not be leaving me only two of your artillery pieces, nor will you so barbarically batter down the very heart of this city, which will be a disaster unto itself! You have not even had the decency to bathe since battle’s end, during which you clearly took several blows to the head! By the gods, what if there is an elf in there?”
“And?” Sara challenged. “What if there is? What then?”
The Imperial officer’s eyes shot wide open. “You may be Chosen by the Gods, but there are limits to what heinous drivel I will allow myself to be subjected to! I am Colonel Kiri Rotha of House Rotha, fourth in command of this Imperial Force, and you will-!”
“I know exactly who you are,” Sara snapped, cutting the man off. “But I don’t know why you think I should give a shit about the sixth-born child of House Rotha, especially considering the depths your mother and father are undertaking in order to scrape the last shreds of silver out of your family’s flooded mines. Of course, Tulian has mechanical pumps which could solve your problem far cheaper than the mages you rely on, but the sale of our machinery to a foreign national still requires my permission, doesn’t it?” She waggled a finger at him. “Best not piss me off.”
Leaving Colonel Kiri sputtering, she resumed her commands to Piktik. “Ignore him. Borek assigned the negotiations to me, which means he’s the only one who can countermand my orders. If the Visya isn’t in chains an hour from now, your job is to put him in a coffin. Try and do it without knocking over the tower, but if it happens, it happens.” Sara shaded her eyes, analyzing the streets and nearby buildings. “And if it does, try and take out the northwestern corner first, so it falls along the widest thoroughfare. Less chance of hitting other buildings. Not like we’re gonna be doing a controlled demolition with cannons. I’m leaving you two Napoleons and an extra ammunition caisson, in case the wards prove harder to crack than the Borek’s mages estimated. If you need even more than that, you’ve got permission for it. Evie, send word to the quartermasters, so they won’t fight him on that.”
“Of course, dear,” Evie said.
Colonel Kiri jumped, startled by the feline’s sudden appearance. Or, more accurately, at his abrupt recognition that she’d been there the entire time. Evie didn’t have any of Ketch’s skills for stealth, but she’d proven surprisingly adept at adopting the peculiar unnoticeability that experienced servants cloaked themselves in. That made her all but invisible to those used to overlooking the servile class, like Colonel Kiri.
“Will you be back, ma’am?” The Gun Sergeant asked. “Or should we find our way to wherever it is we’ll be bunking in Ta-Pet once the job’s done?”
“I want the other two cannons returned to the aqueducts we pulled them from, so we can relieve the soldiers who took their place. Until things settle down, I want every aqueduct under guard.” Thankfully for Sara, the aqueducts ran straight and narrow, with a nice little plinth at the start of their journey for her cannons to be emplaced. “Anyone wants to screw this entire city, that’s how they’d do it.” She spat. “You ask me, it was fuckin’ stupid, putting an entire river over a city’s head. Especially without a way to shut the water off at the source.”
Sara took a moment to eye the stone constructions. She wouldn’t have dared walking under a similar-looking thing on Earth. The aqueducts were made of mortared stone bricks, with an impressively wide, flat path for water to bubble along. Yet the pillars which rose up to support each portion were pitifully thin, and far too sparse. Even if their graceful curves had been made of welded structural steel, she would have expected twice as many to be required to hold the weight. As with nearly every other impressive bit of architecture she’d seen in this world, magical reinforcement had been the crutch used in place of actual skill.
No, she reprimanded herself, it’s not a crutch. It’s just a tool we didn’t have back home. Dad’s right, and he has the tests to prove it. If you want to make something worthwhile out of Tulian, you have to stop thinking of magic as a worse version of technology.
Not letting her self-administered lecture show on her face, she sent Gun Sergeant away with a few parting words.
“Pitch a tent in the street if you have to, but I want at least a few eyes on the aqueducts at all times. Enough to raise a shot and get the gun fired on any saboteurs before they can complete the job, alright?”
“Yes ma’am!” He said, saluting.
Sara saluted back, then, as soon as the last of the Powdered Lead had trundled their way out of sight, bullishly swung her head back to Colonel Kiri.
He turned his nose up. “A ridiculous assertion you have made, General Sara. Even if my family were interested in–”
“No,” she cut him off. “Absolutely not. I’m not selling House Rotha any pumps for your mines. That was a polite farce I offered you in public, because I know the true straits your family’s in. Yes, there’s water in your minds, but that’s not it. Considering the depths you’ve been digging at and how much your lineage has extracted,, you’ve almost certainly exhausted everything of worth. Even if our pumps sucked the ground dry as a bone, you’d never find enough to pay back the debt. You’d be better served turning what little liquid cash your House has to other ventures, if you wish to maintain even a fraction of your current prestige.”
Fourth in Command of the First Imperial Blackpowder Army, Nobleman and Sixth In Line to House Rotha, Colonel Kiri Rotha, was not showing the result of his elegant upbringing. The man could barely control his anger. He began to sputter, starting and stopping a sentence every few words, pounding his fist into his palm between every failed exclamation. Sara let him flounder, content to choose her moment.
“That is such a foul-! You cannot seriously believe-! If you dare-! Do you think yourself an-”
“An expert?” Sara shook her head. “No. But my father is. He spent the first twenty-something years of his adult life at various academies studying rock and mineral formations. I heard about your family’s situation from my agents–” by which she meant her Blessings and far too many conversations Kiri had incautiously held in public areas, “–and asked for his advice. After describing the terrain, the methods, and the yields you’re getting right now, he basically confirmed it.” Sara clapped a hand on Colonel Kiri’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. “That mine’s fucked, dude. You got a few more productive years left, then you’re gonna be shit outta of luck.” Sara’s fingers tightened as she dragged Kiri in, whispering straight into his ear. “And if you don’t want me to go around telling every other House that, you won’t try and pretend your Noble rank matters more than my military rank ever again, yeah?”
She released the man, flitting away as casually as if they’d just finished making an appointment for brunch. He was left standing in place, half in a daze, half vibrating with impotent rage.
“Was my estimate of his Level incorrect, dear?” Evie murmured as they began diving back into the crowd of Imperial soldiers, who hastened to make way. “You dragged him to and fro quite easily, I noticed.”
“Mm, no, I don’t think so. He’s too experienced to be that low-Level, even if he was a command-from-the-rear type, which he’s not. I think he was just too shocked to put up much of a fight.”
“Hm. That’s reassuring.” Evie flicked one ear back at Sara pointedly, the rest of her senses turned to assuring herself of the street beyond. “I must say, however, that I don’t believe it was wise to reveal the volume of information your agents had gathered on his House. It exposes our assets to dangers I would rather avoid.”
The undercurrent of the conversation, of course, was the secrecy of Sara’s Blessings. There were no agents, no assets in danger. If their enemies and their spies knew that Sara could hear half the conversations in a city at once, however, they would end up far more circumspect about what they discussed and where they did so. The exact limits of her Blessing– that she had to overhear a conversation from someone who could overhear a different conversation, who could themselves overhear another one, on and on again until it reached something of relevance, was so obscure Sara doubted an outside observer would ever fully intuit its precise nature. That said, they didn’t know if she was the first Champion of Amarat to possess it, and if she wasn’t, there may be a record of it somewhere. It was an advantage Evie was dearly in love with, and one she was equally terrified of losing.
Sara waved her hand, unconcerned. “I’ve been in the Empire for months. More than enough time to set up enough redundant agents–” plausibly, anyway, “–and it’s not like I gave him anything to actually work off of.” That is, Kiri would be looking for spies in his House, not guarding his mouth better in public.
Sara caught a glimpse of herself in a narrow shop window as they passed it. The glass had been smashed, but enough remained to reflect her bloody grin. Sara’s nose scrunched up.
“He was right about me needing a bath, though. Can’t go out like this.”
“We will be late.”
“You think I look good enough like this?”
Evie paused her neck’s impression of a swiveling security camera for long enough to look Sara up and down, her eyes lingering particularly long on her fists, which still sported the raw, tender flesh of healing magic’s regrowth. Old blood was smeared along her shredded gauntlets, broken gorget, and pierced cuisses had turned into thick black sludge. Flies swarmed her constantly, picking at the strings of coagulating viscera that were the consistency of mucus, strung between her swinging limbs.
Evie licked her lips, the tip of her tail flicking.
“If these streets were under better control, I’d be begging you to you fuck me in the nearest alley.”
Sara laughed. “Okay, well, how about I ask it a different way? Do you think everyone else would be happy about me showing up like this.”
Evie’s tail stilled, drooping in disappointment that she didn’t let reach her face. “No. Of course not, dear. We should be near the Powdered Lead’s assigned garrison building soon enough, where a heated bath can be drawn up in short order.”
“That’s what I thought.”
They made small, light conversation as they made their way through the chaotic streets of Ta-Pet. Sara could have taken an escort of Powdered Lead, of course, but there was little need of it. The last of the enemy’s effective fighters were holed up in tiny strongholds, erroneously confident that their magical wards would delay long enough to earn them a negotiated ransom. Instead of that, however, the cannons would be gathered into one force again, so they could put an end to the last stands of a hundred different miniature tyrants.
Tonight, however, was something much worse. Something she had miraculously avoided thus far in her time with the Imperial Army, but was painfully inevitable. Something that Hurlish– who was waiting with folded arms at the gates of the Powdered Lead’s garrison, looked all too eager to remind her of. She wore a deep scowl, and drew in a deep breath when she caught sight– and probably scent– of Sara.
“Where the fuck have you been?” She called out, the deep, angry baritone shaking the cobblestones. “You know how late you are?”
At least there’s some positives to this shitstorm, Sara reflected as she waved her greeting to Hurlish. She didn’t trust herself to not stumble over her words or bite her tongue while she was still taking in her wife’s appearance, after all. Or, more accurately, her clothes.
It turned out that, in the eyes of the Imperial accountants, outfitting a mercenary general and her wives in clothing appropriate for a noble ball was an expense so routine, so unremarkable, that they hadn’t even questioned it when Evie had slipped them the requisition order. Attending this party, which would be composed of the ‘loyalist’ nobles in the city who had been surreptitiously supporting Borek with a trickle of information and funds, was well within the bounds of necessary expense.
Sara had abused the proverbial blank check. Relentlessly.
Hurlish was dressed in nothing less than a gorgeous, luxurious, curve-hugging tuxedo. A classic black and white three-piece, of course, with sharp edges and firm creases, but exquisitely tailored to accommodate the bulk of her muscles and her prodigious chest, her breasts wrapped just tight enough that if Sara popped open a few too many buttons in just the wrong order, the rest would would give out in one great snap, spilling her out entirely. Sara had gotten Hurlish into a suit before, back in Tulian, but those had been sewn by local seamsters, the sort who were more used to making clothes for farmhands and passing sailors than otherworldly party styles. The Imperial artists, on the other hand (and Sara could call them nothing other than artists, after seeing their work) had breathed life into Sara’s deepest fantasies. The illusory tux she had shown them had been measured, notated, recreated to the exact dimensions, then hacked apart and tossed aside, so they could get to work on creating something for Hurlish.
The end result was something that took every feature that made Sara’s wife wonderful and, knowing it could not improve upon perfection, put it on display. If the tuxedo had been worn by anyone else, anyone at all, even another woman with Hurlish’s exact sizes, it wouldn’t have worked.
And with the aid of a few pilfered noble stewards, Hurlish herself had never looked better. Her short black hair was slicked back like every dyke Sara had ever drooled over in Detroit bars, and her ivory tusks were polished to a mirror sheen, the very picture of orcish excellence. She looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger had made an attempt to play James Bond, though unlike Schwarzengger, Hurlish’s muscles didn’t show a trace of steroids, nor were they built for display. Endless hours in a forge had sculpted her body to an ideal very divorced from Earthly femininity, and seeing it framed by that tuxedo was everything Sara could have ever asked for.
“Hi,” Sara said as she reached the gate, staring up at her wife.
“You need to get all that crap off you,” Hurlish said. Her nose wrinkled. “You smell like shit, and you fucked up the gauntlets I made you. Again.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Evie, I don’t want all that shit on my hands. Slap her for me.”
Sara tried to duck, but it was laughable to think she could dodge a swing from Evie. The sharp pop and sting across her cheek woke her up, but only slightly. She straightened, still grinning even as a red handprint spread across her face.
“Sorry,” Sara lied, “I just got distracted. I love the tux. It looks great on you.”
That didn’t get Hurlish’s frown to crack, but it did get her to roll her eyes. She stepped out of the way, allowing Sara and Evie entrance to the garrison.
“I thought you said we were leaving an hour ago.”
“And I thought we were, too. Then things got busy downtown.”
“I heard the cannons.”
“Nothing to worry about. Just trying to show them they didn’t need to bother with talking any more bullshit.” She followed Hurlish into a room, one that, judging by the thick layers of bird-down comforters that had been added to the walls as sound-proofing, was going to be theirs for the duration of their stay in the city.
“Strip.”
Sara wiggled her eyebrows at the orc. “I’ll never say no to that.”
“Evie.”
Sara made it further away before the palm landed on her cheek this time, but not much further.
“Ow,” Sara half-heartedly complained, turning her eyes on her other wife for the first time in a few minutes. “Why’d it have to be on the other cheek?”
“To even out the marks,” Evie explained offhandedly, unbuckling her chestplate and dropping it to the ground. Sara began undressing as well, Hurlish helping with the straps she couldn’t reach. “That way, you won’t even have to apply blush with your makeup. The red is already there.”
“Don’t think I’m gonna need any help blushing, if Hurlish is going to be addressed like this all night.”
“Evie.”
Sara laughed as, this time, the slap landed squarely across her freshly-exposed ass. She tossed a coquettish grin over her shoulder. “Now, be honest. Was that for you, or for me?”
“I do as my mistress demands, of course,” Evie replied, her face a mask of stone. “But please do start getting clean. Every minute you are not in that party is another bit of information your Blessings will miss.”
Sara sighed theatrically, but finished stripping naked. She turned around their room, looking for the tub. She found one, but it clearly wasn’t heated, so she kept looking.
“It’s over there,” Hurlish grunted, pointing.
At the cold tub of water.
“It’s not heated?” Heating baths with firewood was very nearly the only ‘noble’ luxury Sara allowed herself.
“It was,” Hurlish said. “Then you were late. Now it’s cold. Get in.”
“You’re not gonna let me-”
“No.”
“...Shit.”
Notes:
Y'know, I really think I should just learn to add a +50% modifier to any of my estimates for required chapter length. Plenty of elements in this chapter weren't included, plenty were, but I most definitely didn't hit all the bullet points for this update, which will (as always) be pushed to next chapter. It's a good thing y'all voted for the web novel format!
Chapter 146: B3 Ch33: The Dreaded Inevitable
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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David Brown
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“I never realized how loud it would be out here,” David said, looking around. “Movies showed some of it, but they really toned it down. I can barely hear myself think.”
“I find myself surprised as well,” Garen replied, one hand’s fingers twisted into the odd shape which maintained the rain-repelling spell above their heads. “Though it seems inarguable that of all our various test subjects, this crystal will have by far been privy to the greatest volume and variety of life.”
“If those are the variables we’re looking for, it should definitely show,” David agreed.
They were walking through the dense jungle, Garen’s blunt-nosed wedge of spellcrafted energy clearing the overgrown path ahead of them. Another piece of manifested magical energy hung overhead, keeping them both dry, despite the morning downpour. Birds chirped and whooped in the trees constantly, undeterred by the heavy patter of rain on wide, thick leaves. The canopy was so dense that walking beneath it wasn’t anything like strolling the streets during a storm. It was more like a water park, each of the dozens of foliage layers collecting larger pools of water in their vast leaves until the weight grew too great for them to support, upon which point they collapsed, dumping a veritable waterfall onto the layers below. The collapsed leaves would rebound immediately, ready to let more water pool. Idly, David wondered if their water-catching shapes served an evolutionary purpose, or was just a matter of coincidence.
He had many questions like that. As could be expected of a rainforest, the creatures which inhabited it cared little for the miserable conditions. It took all of David’s self control to not stop and stare at every shadow that passed them by, as they numbered in the dozens. He saw snakes as thick as his arm coiling their way up trees, climbing to a higher vantage point for some reason or another (To leap? Sleep? Hunt?), and he saw flashes of some simian creatures flinging themselves through the highest layers, though they moved too fast for him to properly give them a name or description. Some had been larger, some smaller, and some had traveled in groups, while others were alone. The presence of companions didn’t seem to be correlated with the size of the creatures, and he wondered if he’d been seeing only one species, or a multitude.
“Too much to discover, too much to learn,” he muttered remorsefully, tugging at his soaked trousers, trying to flick the mud off the hem.
“Oh?” Garen asked. “What particular curiosity caught your eye this time?”
“The monkeys,” David said, gesturing towards the treetops. “At least I think they’re monkeys. They’re too fast for me to get a good look at.”
“Would you like me to capture one for you to study when they next swing past?”
David laughed tiredly between deep huffs of breath. “No thanks. You start spoiling me like that, and we’ll never leave this jungle. I’d want to take a look at every little bug there is.”
Garen chuckled as well. “Well, once you have properly advanced in your study of the arcane, you will have far more time on your hands to pursue passing interests.”
David didn’t have much to say to that. Months of effort spent toward spellcasting, and not a spark to show for it. It was beyond discouraging. David was still trying, because of course he was, but a solid effort was the only thing he had to brag about. There’d not been an ounce of progress.
Garen’s faith that David would someday cast a spell had more and more become better described by that word: faith. In his old life, David had considered faith an ugly word. It was a belief firmly held despite the absence of any evidence, reason, or logic, and completely unbecoming of any respectable person. The only time the word faith had passed David’s lips was either in passing reference to a foreign notion, or spoken in a caustic, cynical tone.
Things were different here, of course. When it came to the gods, who even David couldn’t argue didn’t exist, ‘faith’ was a word nearly synonymous with ‘loyalty,’ or perhaps ‘trust.’ The gods existed, and they did aid their followers. David had kept track, and he’d been the recipient of six total Divine miracles thus far, from three separate gods: the first miracle, which brought him to this world, was from Amarat. The other five times hadn’t been nearly as spectacular, but they’d been further proof all the same. They had come from religious Healers attending wounds he’d gotten in the course of his experiments, and of those, two had been acolytes of Amarat, two the disciples of Olivan, and one a follower of Daylagon.
The discrepancy in representation wasn’t a coincidence; besides Amarat and Daylagon, the churches of Tulian were severely understaffed, even when accounting for the small local population. Exploring the intricacies of the Divinities (if they were ‘gods’ at all, despite what Sara insisted) and their factionalism was another item on a long list of things he wanted to investigate, but didn’t have the time for.
Garen, for his part, was a faithful man, yet he’d earned David’s genuine respect anyway. He worshiped the god of magic, Talavan. Garen viewed the art of creation itself as an act of worship, and, when he was feeling contemplative, admitted to David that he accounted more than a small part of his lifelong success to the favor of his god, rather than his own talents. Therefore, in Garen’s worldview, David would gain the ability to cast spells. Whatever was afflicting him would eventually be surmounted, because even if David wasn’t capable of doing so himself, Talavan was. Garen never seemed to give the alternative a single thought.
For David’s part, he’d steadily come to terms with his situation. Lacking magic in this world, in his line of work, was almost like a disability. And in his years of teaching, he’d had plenty of students with disabilities. Blind students, Deaf students, students without a hand or an arm or working legs. Except for a select few— those who hadn’t seemed interested in his class in the first place— they’d all ended up flying through the coursework with no more difficulty than their able-bodied peers. The Deaf students paid close attention to the interpreter the University bought in, the blind students listened intently to audiobook versions of the textbooks, and those who lacked limbs always made clever use of prosthetics to help them through the fieldwork, or were humble enough to ask for aid when needed.
When he’d first started teaching, David had found students like that inspirational. Later, they were unremarkable. It wasn’t as if the hardest part of an education was reading the words on a test or physically entering the lab, after all. It was applying what you were taught in a purposeful, meaningful manner, and doing so in a way that proved you understood the lesson at hand.
So that’s how David had started to think of himself. A student with a disability, but one who tended to forget he even had it until someone else unhelpfully pointed it out. Of course he’d keep trying to cast a spell until the day he died (it was magic, damnit!), but if it turned out he never could, so what? He could still learn about it, test it, witness it. He’d never met a student who was mad they couldn’t put a mineral sample into the spectrometer themselves; only when they drew the wrong answers from the data did they grow frustrated. So far as David was concerned, as long as he could work alongside mages to help their spells take form, or could lean over the shoulder of an artificer as they etched runes into glowing steel, he would be more than content. Sara had given him the gift of a more fantastical world than he’d ever believed could exist, full of all the wonders he’d ever dreamed of, and he’d be damned if he ended up bitter just because he couldn’t poke his head into one rabbithole among thousands.
“Here it is,” Garen announced.
David looked up from his feet, where he’d been keeping a close eye on the muddy terrain to avoid breaking an ankle on some gnarled root. Ahead of them, just a few feet in front of where Garen had come to a stop, was a small, unassuming wooden crate. It was two feet wide by two feet tall, and the thin wood was soaked all the way through, the nails which held it together already showing signs of rust, despite only being out in the elements for a single day.
“Should we set up a perimeter or something?” David asked, glancing trepidatiously at the close-pressed trees. Curious hunters had brought the University more than enough corpses of strange jungle creatures. He’d had as many as he could preserved in denatured alcohol, with the exception of duplicates of the same sex and those too large to fit into any reasonable container. It had only been a few months, but he was running out of storage room, filling the University’s basements to overflowing with the ominous, sediment-filled jars.
“There’s no need,” Garen said, reaching down to begin prying open the crate. “My wards will warn us of any approaching danger, and my Oath more than allows me to defend myself and others against simple beasts.”
“You can still be taken by surprise though, right?”
“That is what the wards are for.”
“So, what, you’ve got some kind of alarm system?” David pressed. “How does it work? Does it detect anything physically capable of harming you, or does it sense hostile Intent, or is it more convoluted?”
Garen paused, lifting his hands off the crate to smile wryly at David. “You know, when an Archmage says something purposefully enigmatic, most just shrug and move on. We are not the sort of people who easily and freely offer explanations.”
David only dignified that with a derisive snort. They both knew what he thought of incurious people. Garen looked at him, that same smile still on his face as he considered his response.
“Intent,” he eventually said. “I rely primarily on Intent, with the capacity for harm as a prerequisite for my awareness to be drawn towards the source. It wouldn’t do to be alarmed by every wasp and ant that has taken offense to my presence.”
David nodded in understanding, then paused. “Wait. Does that mean that when an ant bites someone, it’s trying to kill them? They really think that their tiny little bite is going to kill a person?”
Garen chuckled. “Oh, yes. As far as Intent is concerned, there are few creatures with a heart more foul than an ant. They are not evil creatures, not like Demons, but their hate, once summoned, flows without reservation.”
“Huh.” David scanned the ground, suddenly paranoid about finding himself standing in a fire ant bed. “Can you do that with any animal? Sense their emotional Intent? There’s a lot of evolutionary biology questions that could be answered by that. Even evolutionary psychology, if you want to start getting involved in that whole mess..”
“Why don’t we focus on the task we came here for?” Garen suggested amusedly, turning back to the crate. Responding to the command of his limp-wristed wave, the crate’s nails pulled themselves from the wood, stacking themselves neatly on the ground nearby. The crate’s walls fell down a moment later, revealing the contents.
“Damn,” David swore, shading his eyes. “Guess that answers that.”
The amethyst geode within was shining bright enough to blind, giving an underglow to the entire jungle. Having been mined in the volcanic regions and islands with which Tulian traded, the geode was among the largest their traders had acquired, about three feet across, having been split expertly down the middle so as to spare as much of the natural crystal formation as was possible. Those volcanic regions, populated by a number of wealthy merchant republics, had been the source of much of Tulian’s trade goods, and David desperately wished to visit them some day. The sheer volume of sulfur and crystalline geodes they could provide, and at such reasonable prices, promised to make for an absolutely fascinating geological study. Another item among thousands to be studied.
“An impressive result,” Garen agreed. “Though I still doubt that hiding geodes in the jungle would be a viable way to charge them for our burgeoning industries.”
“Of course not. But it does help tell us what kind of greenhouses we’ll need to construct. How much longer until the charging proximity tests are done?”
“Another week or so, I believe, though Tinvel would be better aware than I.”
“Sara won’t like that.”
“She doesn’t like anything which delays her construction projects.”
David chuckled lightly. “Go easy on her. She’s got a lot on her plate. Once we get mechanized farming implements, Tulian’s industries will really take off. We’re doing the hard work now, setting up the basis for what comes next, so this is where rushing matters the most. The sooner we get things done, the sooner our progress can start snowballing.”
“Snowballing?” Garen repeated without comprehension.
“Exponential growth,” David supplied. “When you roll a snowball down a hill, it sticks to the snow, and it gets bigger all the way down.”
“Ah. I see the metaphor.” Garen waved his hands, repackaging the geode, thankfully hiding its light. “For all her caution in advancing too far, too fast, one would think your daughter might wish to avoid Tulian becoming a rock tumbling down a hill. Crashing boulders are notoriously difficult to control.”
David shrugged. “After a certain point, she won’t have a choice. Progress begets progress. Not as quick as either one of us could bring about deliberately, of course, but still, it’s inevitable. I’ve told you all about it. Ten thousand years to the first steam engine, and two hundred more until we put boots on another celestial body.” David eyed Garen, who was using his magic to lift the crate so they could head back the way they came. “You’re a wizard. You’ll probably live to see stuff like that.”
“I likely will,” Garen agreed passively, “though I am not so sure your technology will take the same path it did on Earth. I have not been to other planets, David, but I have been to other Planes. Places where the water is air and the air is water, and the creatures which leap between make no sense to the eye, their angles connecting in impossible, incomprehensible manners–”
“Oh, like non-euclidean geometry?”
Garen paused midstep. He didn’t look like he was used to being interrupted while he was waxing poetic about the wisdom garnered by being an archmage, much less by someone who claimed to understand a fraction of what he was speaking of.
“What?” He asked simply.
“Non-euclidean geometry,” David repeated, tracing a series of lines in the air. “Like, euclidean geometry, even you have that here in this world, even if most of your math is pretty far behind where it might have been if you didn’t have magic. Euclidean geometry is the basic stuff you already know. Like, parallel lines never connect, perpendicular lines only cross once unless they’re on a sphere, that kind of thing.”
“That is not a field of math,” Garen protested. “That is basic reasoning.”
“Basic reasoning is actually the most advanced field of math,” David said, still bobbing his way through half-useless gestures as he tried to remember what little he’d picked up from his time reading internet articles and talking to other professors. “Saying two and two makes four is easy, but proving it is way harder–”
“No it is not.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“But it is simple!” Garen protested hotly. “It’s a matter of trite definitions! One is an entity unto itself, and each iteration is another labeled increment, and they can be combined–”
“Anyway,” David said, forcefully moving on, a cheerful smile blooming on his face despite the awful weather, “non-euclidean geometry is the type of geometry that doesn’t follow those basic rules. Or, I think it does, but there’s also extra rules…?” David trailed off for a moment, trying to recall exactly, but shook his head. “The point is, there’s types of geometry that can’t really be seen in real life, at least not by humans, but can still be empirically proven to exist, and they don’t make any sense to the human brain, since they mostly occupy other dimensions and stuff.”
“I thought a different dimension was where you came from.”
“Same word, different definition. See, there’s dimensions as in, like, parallel realities, which I think were pretty much only theoretical until I got dragged here, and then there’s dimensions like length, width, depth.”
Garen gave up on the pretense of walking. He began to float above the terrain, turning around to face David, consternation plain on his face. “And you say there are more ways to measure something than their immediately identifiable properties?”
“I mean, kind of?” David couldn’t stop smiling. Here he was, chatting with this world’s equivalent of a nobel laureate, and he was the one explaining things. “This wasn’t my field, I gotta admit. But, for example, time is a dimension.”
“It is not.”
David laughed, despite his breathlessness. “You’re gonna get real tired of saying that.”
“Then explain your reasoning.”
“I can’t. Not properly, anyway. All this stuff was discovered by people way smarter than me who worked in different fields. But time is a dimension, I can promise you that. After all, you can measure it, can’t you?”
“Not physically.”
“But you can measure it. It’s predictable. Sorry, Garen, but if you’re gonna trust me on all the other stuff, you’re gonna have to trust me on this one. There’s at least four dimensions we can measure.”
“At least?”
“Well, some people think there’s more. There’s been all kinds of crazy numbers thrown around. Ten, twenty, thirty, or infinite, whatever. But we’ve only got a solid grasp of four.” David chuckled. “If we can even say we have a solid grasp on time, anyway. But yeah, time is a dimension.”
Garen, floating a foot off the ground, was in a daze.
“This… is not something you should share freely, David.”
“Huh? Why? I’m a teacher, not a secret-hoarder. You hated the way old Archmages hoarded knowledge, didn’t you?”
“Yes, David,” Garen said, equally bemused and frustrated, “but Mages across the world have already learned how to manipulate the three traditional dimensions. What would become of the world if they learned the same techniques may be applied to time itself?”
“Isn’t there a god of time? Shilia? Wouldn’t she get pissed off?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps she would laud and aid those who seek to study her domain.”
“Well. I guess until you do your own studies, I’ll keep quiet on that one. But I may have told some of our students already, back when I was teaching them geometry.” David’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Geometry! That’s what we were talking about. So, right, those impossibly-angled creatures sound a lot like non-euclidean geometry, right, and if they do fit those principles, studying them may actually be helpful for figuring that sort of thing out.”
“They drive men mad, David.”
“I’m sure we can find a way around that.”
Garen sighed, dropping to the ground once more. He cast a caustic look over his shoulder.
“Are there any other world-obliterating revelations you wish to reveal to me, while we are in the privacy of the deep jungle?”
“Probably?” David shrugged. “Most of the big ones I barely understand myself. It’s possible to recreate the process which powers the sun in a laboratory, for example, though we’re not doing that any time in my lifetime. Or, uh…” He searched his brain. “Every star is a sun like ours, and the vast majority of them have planets around them, some of which might contain life?”
“Rather large focus on the sun, it would seem.”
“It’s a big deal.” David hooked his boot on a root, stumbled forward, and straightened just before Garen glanced back at him. He cleared his throat. “You already know heavier-than-air flight is possible, but did you know it’s possible for an aircraft to go faster than the speed of sound?”
Garen arched a bushy eyebrow. “Aircraft in particular, no, but I don’t find it hard to believe. The distinctive crack of a whip is born from its tip breaking the sound barrier, much like the arrows of the greatest archers, and, of course, the bullets of the Tulian army.”
“Wait, you know what the sound barrier is?”
“Of course. Spells which manipulate audible vibration rely heavily upon the principle.”
David’s eyes lit up anew, a child’s giggly excitement welling within him. “Okay, you’ve got to tell me more about that.”
Garen’s smile returned. “Of course. But only as we return to Tulian. There’s far too much work waiting for us back in the city for us to spend the rest of the day trading half-remembered theoreticals.”
------------------------------------
Sara Brown
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They did not arrive fashionably late to the party. They arrived catastrophically late, well after the first and second courses of meals had been served. The sun had set long ago, and the guards at the entrance to the venue had to be roused from a game of marbles, shocked that any guests were still arriving. It was an intricate little game, incorporating loose stones and the cobblestone grout as part of a wide field of play, and she was mildly surprised her Blessings hadn’t overheard discussing it or explaining the rules. The guards hastily knocked aside the course as they spotted Sara and her wives, jumping up and crossing their spears over the door, steeling their expressions into rigid decorum.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sara said, waving them down. “It’s our fault we were late.”
Determined to make up for their obvious lapse in security, they didn’t so much as flinch.
“Your names, My Ladies?” One asked. She was a woman, but her voice had a deeper, rougher rasp than most men. Beneath her helmet, Sara could see deep scarring across the woman’s face, likely the result of spellflame so intense even the healers could not salvage the flesh.
“Sara Brown, Evie Brown, and Hurlish of Tulian,” Sara said, pointing accordingly. “And before you send anyone to do it, no, I don’t want anyone to announce our arrival. We’re late enough as it is. Maybe some of those rich bastards in there will already be drunk enough to think we were there the whole time.”
One of the guards coughed in surprise, while the leading woman’s melted lips quirked into as much of a smile as they could manage.
“The herald inside will announce you the moment he sees you, but if you’d like, I could have one of my fellas here pass word of your request, My Ladies.”
“Would you?” Sara asked. “And you don’t have to call me by any title. I’m just Sara.”
The woman’s eyes, though unable to open much more than a squint, slid disbelievingly over Sara and her wives.
Hurlish, of course, was wearing her amazing tuxedo, as alien to this world as it was obviously a product of the highest fashion, tailored to exacting perfection. No one would mistake Hurlish for a noblewoman, not with her worker’s build and permanent, casual posture, yet no Imperial commoner would dare call someone dressed like her anything less than “ma’am.”
Evie, on the other hand, exuded the aura of a wealthy socialite. Her dress, paid for by the same Imperial request as Hurlish’s tuxedo, was as fine a garment as anything ever worn by a Hollywood actress. Made of rich, royal blue silk, it hung off her lithe frame with all the dignity of a Queen’s crown. It hugged her hips and her modest chest, while flaring out slightly to allow her legs to move freely, its hem long enough to hide the flat, practical footwear beneath. The entire garment was designed to draw the eyes upward, starting at her toned calves and trailing upward to her sweeping hips, then her tanned, bare arms, and finally her exposed shoulders and clavicle, cut low enough that even her modest chest would have shown cleavage, if not for a silvery ringlet covering the crease of her breasts. It was placed at the dead center of her chest, half the cool metal touching her skin, the other tied into her dress, the attachment point for wispy, sheer sheets of shoulder lace looping over her upper arms. Together they formed an inverted V, one that pointed directly upward.
The dress, ultimately, was designed to do one thing: draw as much attention as possible to Evie’s neck. While Evie had acquired a deep, full-body tan during her time in the southern jungles, as had nearly all of the formerly pale northerners amongst the Powdered Lead, Evie’s skin looked ever so slightly different tonight. There was a ring around her neck where a judicious application of white powder had been scattered, creating what looked to be a stark tan line.
It was the same tan line she had sported when her collar had been first removed.
It would be familiar to the elite party-goers, who, per the Adjutant’s orders, had already ordered their House mages to begin copying Garen’s spell to free the slaves across the city. To someone like Sara’s old self, the meaning of the dress would have been entirely lost. To elite politicians, it was as subtle as a brick to the chin.
Though it was still more understated than Sara’s own outfit for the evening. She had also abused the Imperial offer of funding for dresswear, having a particularly expensive, jewel-encrusted one commissioned, but she’d only done that with the intention of sending the gemstones back to Tulian, for use in artificery experiments, while the dress itself— made of fine silk worth far more than gold— would be secretly sold in order to help pay the Powdered Lead’s wages. She felt no guilt whatsoever over dressing her wives in the expensive finery; Evie would have looked insultingly out of place wearing anything less than she was, and selfish though it may have been, the opportunity to get Hurlish in a proper tuxedo was something Sara couldn’t miss. It was only Sara herself who had never intended to wear something so hideously expensive. It would have sent the entirely wrong message to her audience.
She couldn’t blame the guards for not immediately recognizing that they were there for the party. Sara, who’d been in the lead, was dressed as a bastardized version of an Imperial Hunter, mimicking the longbow-wielding few who were brave enough to delve into the jungle on their lonesome, tasked with the often-deadly responsibility of bringing back fresh meat for the city’s markets.
The general design had been her dad’s idea, of all things, inspired by the “buffcoats” which had replaced gambesons in the later age of blackpowder. She wore a thick, undyed leather jacket, not quite long enough to be considered a duster, ending as it did at the upper quarter of her thighs. Pulled tight over her bust, with a thick cloth cinched around her waist as a belt, flaring the leather out over hips to help emphasize her goddess-enhanced figure. The coat was festooned with pockets, buttons, and strategically-faked scratches and patched holes, additions which well-hid the fact that this was actually the first time the jacket had ever been worn.
There were also four prominent, empty spots for holsters on her belt, which made it clear to anyone who so much as glanced at her that this was an outfit for fighting, not a fancy ball. Despite that militant bent, however, her arms weren’t covered by leather, instead sheltered from the jungle’s stinging insects by long green sleeves, dyed to match the Powdered Lead’s now-iconic undershirts and gambesons. Her pants were also green, for the brief stretch that they could be seen before they disappeared into thick, sturdy boots, a set of which covered her well above her knees. These she had been forced to commision locally, as she and Hurlish, ignorant of any real type of leather working beyond that necessary to make a scabbard or sword hilt, hadn’t been able to figure out how to get the material be flexible enough.
Wearing what she was, Sara understood why the guards had hesitated to let her in. If described in more Earthly terms, this was the outfit of a frontiersman, not a noblewoman, though it lacked the stereotypical moccasins and coonskin cap. Not quite a military uniform, not quite a civilian outfit, it was best described by what it lacked: wealth. No matter how someone chose to interpret her apparel, no one but those who’d suffered a recent blow to the head would think she was trying to fit in among the influential and powerful.
Though the finished product may have ended up looking masculine in a different light, between the high boots and figure-hugging leather, Sara was proud that she’d put together something that straddled the line between Evie’s exquisite dress and Hurlish’s tuxedo. The three of them were a sliding scale of femme to butch, though no one in the Empire would have thought to describe them as such.
“The word has been passed,” a guard said, returning from within the building. “You may enter freely, My Ladies.”
“Not a Lady,” Sara reflexively reiterated. “Just Sara.”
She and her wives stepped through the threshold before the guards could respond to that, their footsteps echoing loudly in the tiled entry hall. A servant, already prepared for their entrance, quickly and professionally slid up to them, bowing slightly as he offered to guide them to the party proper. Evie accepted for the group, and then they were whisked away, climbing several flights of stairs and turning down large hallways, all throughout which many servants scurried, those on the left bringing empty plates back to the kitchens, those on the right walking as swiftly as they dared while holding steaming trays of various foods, of which roasted and glazed meat was disproportionately popular.
“Guess Borek passed word we’d be taking the city without much of a siege,” Sara noted, nodding at the servants. “This whole production is way more crap than they could have gotten ready on short notice. It would have taken all day just for them to go buying up half the city’s supply of meat.”
“Perhaps,” Evie allowed, “or perhaps they were simply ready to adapt as necessary. After all, the majority of Ta-Pet’s Houses are even now falling to Imperial troops and our own artillery. It would have been trivial to order their staff to loot rival properties for the necessary goods.”
Hurlish groaned. “Why are you telling her that? Now she’ll be all pissy about them stealing shit.”
“I think I would have heard about it, if that’s what they did,” Sara said. “But even if that’s how they got all this, so what? It’s just rich people fucking over other rich people. It would’ve been better if they’d turned out the loyalist’s food stores to the city’s poor, but even I’m not enough of an optimist to think I could convince them to do that.”
Evie scoffed lightly. “Ah, yes, dear. An optimist. That’s how you’re best described.”
“Hey,” Sara protested, her offense mostly sarcastic. “I can be an optimist about some things. Like the fact that I’m even showing up to this stupid fucking party at all, thinking I might find something worthwhile to do. That’s pretty optimistic of me.”
Through the corner of her eyes, Sara watched the servant escorting them. If she were the host of this party, she’d have assigned one of her more loyal servants to guide each guest through the halls, so that they could catch the little tidbits each said before they started properly guarding their conversations at the party itself.
If the servant was playing the role of a spy, he was doing a good job. He kept studiously moving forward, matching the pace of his guests without conscious thought. Sara knew he’d heard every word they’d said, but he hadn’t reacted much more to any part of it than she’d expect of anyone else. The fact that he flinched more at the use of profanity than her disparaging of the party’s host suggested, at least partially, that he wasn’t a spy.
Another useless, vague piece of evidence, Sara lamented. I miss when I was able to forget all this pointless shit.
Her Blessings, of course, had already pressed the servant’s face, voice, name, and even his gait into her permanent memory, as was true for every other servant and soldier they’d passed in the halls. Most identities she only caught bits and pieces of, as the majority were focusing on their work rather than talking, but she knew she’d remember every tidbit she did manage to catch for the rest of her life.
And the party will be even worse, she reminded herself. Why is it that all these pieces of shit peacocking around the place is somehow pissing me off more than hearing the screams of battle?
Honestly, if Sara dared herself to self-reflect, her preference for open combat over polite discussion probably said some unflattering things about her psyche. So, naturally, she chose not to self-reflect.
“Not that I’m against getting drunk on someone else’s money,” Hurlish said, “but I’m still not sure what you’re expecting to get out of me being here. I don’t think anyone’s gonna give a shit about what you have planned for me.”
“If they don’t, I’ll drum up interest,” Sara said. “From what I’ve heard, the old Visya kept his cards pretty close to the chest. Most of the people here won’t know much about firearms, and they’ll like seeing your little display of the captured rebel guns.” Sara sighed. “But I’ll admit, you’re not exactly mission-critical. Whenever you’re done dealing with the party, just let me know, and we’ll have some of the Powdered Lead come escort you back to the barracks.” They’d left all four of Hurlish’s guards with Tahn, naturally. Sara and Evie were enough to protect her from most anything, at least among sympathetic company. “And if I hear anyone start giving you shit, I’ll be over there in a second.”
Hurlish chuckled darkly. “Don’t bother. This is never the crowd I wanted to roll with, but if some rich fuck gets pissy enough to let me start snapping back, I’ll be all over it. You got no idea how many little noble brats came to me to get a sword ‘cause I was the best around, but still managed treat me like shit the whole time.”
“Don’t kill them, dear,” Evie cautioned, with more sincerity in her voice than most would expect. “These are our allies. At least nominally.”
Hurlish rolled her eyes. “I’m not the one you need to be worried about on that front, Kitty.”
“Sara is perfectly capable of controlling herself in polite society.”
Hurlish side-eyed her feline wife. “Yeah, Sara can. Can you?”
“Of course,” Evie scoffed.
“Even if they insult you?”
“The courts of Sporatos bathed me in more insults than you’ve heard in your lifetime.”
“And if they insult Sara?” Hurlish pressed. “Me?” She paused, fixing Evie with a meaningful look. “Tahn?”
Steel glittered in Evie’s eyes, her teeth gritting behind a fake smile. “They would not dare.”
Hurlish’s eyes lifted to Sara. “Keep her under control, alright?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Hope that’ll be enough.”
“I am not a wild animal,” Evie insisted, a claim undermined by her involuntarily thrashing tail.
“No. No, I guess you’re not.” Hurlish agreed, rolling her neck. “But that’s mostly because animals only kill when they have to. Not when they want to.”
Ahead of them, the servant picked up his pace.
It wasn’t long until they climbed the final set of stairs, being led out a grand set of doors into a large, open pavilion. As promised, their arrival went unannounced, and they were able to quickly slip away from the door, taking up a nearby position as if they’d been there for hours.
It wasn’t a usual gathering place for parties, Sara could tell, if only because of the long, twisting route required to get there, but the host hadn’t chosen it thoughtlessly. The Keep of House Malya, as was true of many other Imperial inner-city fortifications, had long since abandoned all but the most cosmetic pretenses of being a military fortress. Maybe once upon a time, whenever it had been built however many centuries ago, it had been a formidable part of Ta-Pet’s defenses, the home and bastion of a great many troops, able to shelter them even if the city’s walls fell. Not any longer.
Its four towers, once possessing sharply angled shingles designed to repel catapult projectiles, had been slashed flat, as had the rest of the upper level that Sara was led out onto. Where there once would have been parapets, murder holes, and barrels full of arrows, there were now garden plots, transplanted trees, and finely carved wooden furniture. Crystal lights were set on artfully bent wrought iron pillars, lighting the dark night from high enough that the insects they attracted were of no bother. The furniture was a mixture of the formal and informal, allowing guests to mingle where and how they pleased.
A pair of long dining tables were the gathering’s centerpiece, placed just far enough that a constant flow of servants could pass through the narrow gap, delivering refreshments and replacing empty plates with full ones, all without disturbing the guests by the necessity of reaching over their shoulders. Food was piled high there, and for a city that had so recently been anticipating a siege, the variety was remarkable. Further away, on the outskirts, there was a smattered series of plush lounge chairs, each circling a smoking brazier. Some of the flames had a haze which was ever-so-slightly discolored, and judging by the scent of the smoke and the relaxed, dazed posture of those closest to the flame, some sort of mild intoxicant was being burned there. Sara made a note to avoid it, at least for now. She had gotten her fill of lung damage from spending her teenage years hotboxing her car with her coworkers after every shift.
Maybe it was a testament to her growing maturity that the garden boxes were what Sara found most interesting. Rather than being filled with beautiful flowers and exotic shrubbery, they seemed to be producing actual, honest-to-god vegetables. The kind that the Keep’s cooks could make actual, regular use of. That was a utilitarian enough decision that her mind immediately tried to leap to the conclusion that the plants were performative, affecting a humility and practicality meant to impress Sara, but for once she had to discard the cynical thought. Important as she was, this was a party for Ta-Pet’s elite, and most were more concerned with politicking amongst each other than they were her. She wasn’t even the guest of honor; General Borek was. House Malya wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to impress Sara alone, particularly when those humble vegetables would likely be seen as dreadfully pedestrian by most of the other party-goers.
“I’m guessing that’s where I’m supposed to be?” Hurlish asked, gesturing.
Sara followed her motion, finding a set of guards near the eastern edge of the Keep’s roofs, their ceremonial armor and glittering pikes shielding a tableau of partially shattered weapons from the crowd. The guards were barely necessary, judging by how few were presently taking an interest in the busted-up firearms, but it was better safe than sorry, she supposed.
“Yeah, looks like it.” Sara squinted. “Damn. They didn’t tell us about that. There’s a half-finished cannon barrel there, too. Guess they found it recently, and hauled it up here as soon as they could. Probably after they’d already told Evie about the party.”
“Surprised they were already trying to make cannons. I’ll check it out, but I can already tell it was shit.” Hurlish smacked her lips. “I don’t see any beer over there.”
“Is getting drunk really wise, dear?” Evie asked plaintively, already knowing the answer.
“If you want me smiling at all these fucks, yes,” Hurlish said. “You want me here as an example of Tulian’s industries? Pointing out how shit their guns are compared to ours? Yeah, I’m gonna need some beer. No one ever liked a saleswoman that told them to shove their head up their ass.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it too much.” Sara waved dismissively. “Our guns are better enough that they’ll sell themselves. Someone pisses you off, tell them what you really think of them.”
“Within reason,” Evie interjected.
“Okay. But for the record, I like Sara’s idea more.”
Evie sighed.
Hurlish split off from them with a final wave, her black and white tuxedo drawing the eyes of nearly everyone she passed as she went to the rack of captured guns. Compared to the elaborately woven, garishly colored native dress of the Imperial elite, Hurlish’s slick black tux was a statement unto itself.
I wonder what they’ll assume it means, Sara thought. Can’t imagine many of them will guess she’s wearing it because I thought it was hot as fuck.
It was Hurlish’s sauntering through the crowd that finally alerted the larger body of guests that the “Divine Chosen” had arrived. The chatter began to pick up, heads swiveling, whispers beginning, and with a petulant, under-the-breath sigh, Sara flicked on her Blessings.
“Here we go,” she murmured to Evie.
“I’ve seen you less anxious to face your death on the battlefield.”
“That’s because out there, I get to kill the people that’re pissing me off.”
“Don’t worry,” Evie muttered, slipping her arm into the crook of Sara’s elbow. “I’m sure a few of these fools will present themselves as an opportunity sooner or later. I highly doubt they’re all the loyalists they claim to be.” Her ears flicked this way and that, taking in as much as they could. “What are they saying now?”
“Not much useful yet,” Sara said, flipping through her mental list of ongoing conversations. “Just reactions to us showing up.” She cocked her head. “And more interest than I expected in Hurlish’s display, now that she’s arrived. Apparently the old Visya kept his guns pretty well hidden. No one here knows much about them.”
“I don’t believe she will be happy about that.” Evie waved toward a passing servant, who was balancing two trays of mugs atop either hand. The woman paused, bobbing her head in lieu of the curtsy that would have spilled her burden across the roof.
“Yes, My Lady?”
“Those drinks are alcoholic?”
“Beer and spirits, My Lady,” the servant confirmed.
“Excellent. If you would place both trays by my wife over there, I would be grateful.”
“Both, My Lady?” The servant asked hesitantly, not to be rude, but to confirm she’d heard Evie’s request correctly. Evie’s accent in Kemari was still fairly thick, even if her grammar was close to flawless.
“Both, yes. She will not drink to excess, I assure you.”
“Of course,” the woman replied, bobbing her head yet again. “I will do so immediately.”
As the servant woman left them, Sara bit her cheek. “Fucking nasty. Somehow I always forget.”
“That servants show the nobility respect?” Evie asked, amused.
“That they’ll bow and scrape at the slightest little request. I bet that lady had something else she needed those drinks for, but now she’s off doing something else. Probably fucked up some plan or something, pissed off some rich prick who wanted to get trashed. All because we wanted our wife to have something to drink.”
“If you wish to survive this evening with your sanity intact, you will have to think less deeply about such matters, my dear.”
Sara’s only response to that was a low grumble.
“Ah, General Sara, Commander Evie!” General Borek suddenly called, waving at them from across the rooftop. “I am glad to see you here! Had I known that fool of a Visya would be so stubborn, I would have delayed the festivities to properly accommodate you.”
“Oh, that would have been ridiculous,” Sara replied loudly, casting her voice across the party. “After all, today’s victory was your own!”
As various people began gossiping about that, unknowingly exposing their hidden thoughts to Sara’s blessings, she had to suppress a groan.
Here we fucking go.
She and Evie sauntered over to General Borek and were smoothly allowed entrance into the tight gaggle of fawning supporters, the practiced socialites barely thinking before they allowed someone of higher status to take their place.
Pathetic little cowards.
Using one hand and his tail to pluck two glasses of wine off a nearby table, General Borek offered them to Sara and Evie. It was a white wine of some kind, held in a thick-stemmed glass, not unlike a champagne glass. Sara and Evie both accepted the drinks, but neither took a sip.
“I was just telling these fine folk here about the remarkable proficiency of your ‘bicycles’ on the field of battle,” General Borek said, waving to several of the more scarred guests that made up the throng around him. Older veterans, Sara assumed. “And the way that they allowed your harrying efforts to do damage far in excess of your unit’s numbers. Without your Powdered Lead’s aid, I doubt we would have been able to find a suitable position before the enemy Garrison was upon us.”
Several sets of eyes flickered at the use of ‘enemy’ in reference to Ta-Pet’s garrison. Sara took careful note of each individual that did so, tallying a point of suspicion against them, all without acknowledging her recognition.
“It was not just the bicycles,” Evie replied, putting quite the effort into wrangling her accent. She didn’t try to mimic high society’s specific diction of Kemari, but rather injected her own Sporaton royal accent into the pronunciation, aiming for the role of foreign nobility. “Had you not had our artillery battery with you, I fear the battle would have been far bloodier. Tell me, General Borek. With how busy we have been pacifying the city, I have not had opportunity to review a full account of the battle. How fared our artillery?”
General Borek smiled as wide as his vanaran facial musculature would allow, happy to take the opportunity to describe the battle he had just won.
“Your First Artillery Company performed remarkably, of course. Their support to the infantry was invaluable, both at range and when the enemy came to grips. They were particularly effective at nullifying the enemy mages. Your canister shot was…” General Borek’s smile faltered briefly. “...frighteningly effective, once the enemy’s spellshields were dealt with. It is not a weapon I would ever wish to face myself.”
“You better get ready for it,” Sara said, nodding to the half-finished cannon Hurlish was currently inspecting. “It won’t be long before the rebels figure out how to get cannons for themselves. I’ve already been impressed by the rate at which they made firearms of their own.” She flashed a blinding, reassuring smile at her audience. “Of course, Tulian weapons are still far superior, and we’re the ones teaching your smithies how to produce guns. As both the True Empire and the rebels arm themselves, I have no doubt the war will grow far bloodier. Yet, sad though that may be, this will doubtlessly bring its conclusion ever closer.”
“A prayer to that,” one of the veteran-looking women harrumphed, raising her wineglass.
“A prayer to that,” the others echoed, raising their glasses as well.
Across the party, a keen catfolk’s ears picked up what Sara had said, which they quietly relayed to their companion. Even as Sara continued the conversation with Borek, her Blessings listened to the catfolk and another woman talk.
“See?” The catfolk rasped, their particularly pronounced muzzle giving them a strange accent. “Even she admits that the war will grow terrible with her weapons. How can they condone it?”
“Because it will grow more terrible for our enemy than us,” the woman replied, her voice prickling a certain itch in Sara’s memory. A voice she’d heard before, but only ever at a distance too great to make out words, and therefore not one that activated her Blessings. “And you know as well as I that wars are ended with blood. With the pressure that the Emperor and the Highest Elves have begun putting upon our peoples, even her instruments of war may be a mercy.”
“It is a foul mercy which slaughters so indiscriminately.”
“I assure you, they’re quite accurate,” the woman hummed, as if speaking from personal experience. “It is only that the True Empire has so many enemies that they seem to be aimed so widely. Tell me, have you heard of the other armies which attempt to replicate the lessons of the Chosen’s firearms?”
“Yes,” the odd catfolk responded. “They are ineffective, unwieldy things, barely more useful than an army without such expensive weaponry. Only the great guns, the, ah, can-nons, have proven useful, and only then in breaking sieges.”
“You are correct, of course. The Second and Third Blackpowder armies have been experiencing extreme difficulties. Yet here we stand in a city conquered by the blooming flower of white gunsmoke. Why do you think that is?”
“The Chosen, of course,” the catfolk said irritably, as if it should have been obvious. “Chosen alter those around them. This is known and recorded. That the army she has joined has seen greater success than others is only to be expected.”
“Mm. Perhaps.” There was the sound of the woman sipping from a glass. “But I do not think that is the only explanation. You see the woman standing with her? In the blue dress?”
This time the catfolk did hiss- literally. It was a sound of utter disgust.
“I can smell the blood on that bitch from here. She is like Tiam-En.”
“But unlike Tiam-En, she has something which holds her back. And the woman’s other wife?”
“A brute.”
A disappointed hum from the woman. “Hardly. If you think of Hurlish of Tulian’s strength is earned by her pursuing it to the exclusion of all else, you will find yourself disappointed.” Sara got the vague sense of the woman shaking her head in the negative. “No. The Imperial First Blackpowder Army succeeds for reasons beyond the Chosen. She has surrounded herself with exceptional individuals, as every Chosen invariably does, but unlike those in the past, this Chosen and companions have not been shy in sharing their gifts to the world.”
“Speak your implication plainly, Mayaran. My House will not want to sponsor an advisor who speaks in riddles.”
“Not riddles, I assure you,” Mayaran assured the catfolk dismissively, her focus already elsewhere. “Just uncertainties. I’m sure I’ll be able to offer you more soon.”
Their conversation broke apart then, both moving to discuss with others, as was common of near every partygoer. It was a peculiar experience to be able to hear and understand almost every word being said at the party, understanding and comprehending it all at once. She’d gotten used to it in some respects, being in a cramped army so frequently, but now the sheer volume of useful information flowing into her skull was beginning to feel overwhelming in its own unique way.
“I don’t think they will any time soon,” Sara was saying in the meanwhile, answering a man who’d asked her how long it would take for the rebels to equal her weapons. “Even their greatest smiths lack the most basic understanding of ballistics that I and my wives already take for granted. Speaking of which…” Sara turned to Hurlish, using their fascination in what she’d been saying to tug their vision in her wake.
Her orcish wife was lifting the partially finished rebel cannon in one hand, running the other along its length, feeling out the smoothness of the casting. Short and stubby by its proportions, it was nonetheless as long as Hurlish was tall, a few inches over seven feet, and its bronze walls were as thick as Hurlish’s closed fist, which put them at ten inches or so. A massive overuse of bronze, the entire thing likely weighed as much as two of Tulian’s Napoleons, carriage and all. Judging by the bore diameter, it was designed to fire cannonballs the width of a human torso.
Impressive as that may have sounded to whatever bureaucrat had commissioned it, Sara didn’t need Hurlish’s appraisal to know that the weapon was an incredible waste. Any carriage it was mounted on would likely require expensive artificer reinforcement not to collapse under its weight, and no matter how wide the wheels, it would bog down in even lightly damp soil, much less the mud which suffused this Empire. With the cannon being only a few times the length of its projectile’s diameter, there would be very little time for the ammunition to accelerate, which meant it would require an absurdly massive charge of blackpowder to launch it. Sara wondered how they had even intended to load it; an iron ball of that size would need at least two people to lift it up into the barrel. It was easily four or five times the heaviest shot of Tulian’s industries, which were the naval 24-pounders. And gods, how would they swab the barrel between shots? Especially with the volume of powder they’d be stuffing in it. Its fire rate must have been measured in minutes per shot, not shots per minute.
Hurlish tipped it on its end, setting it down gently on the stones, so it wouldn’t simply crash straight through to the floor below, then dusted her hands off, nodding to her spectators.
“Yup. It’s shit.”
Those close enough to hear reacted either with a titter of laughter, too surprised by the mundane profanity to hide their reaction, while the others frowned sternly, disapproving of the very same thing.
“What did she say?” A man asked amongst General Borek’s entourage, craning his neck to see Hurlish.
“She said it’s shit,” Sara replied. Several of the elite socialites shot her a dirty look, to which she shrugged. “I read her lips. I’m quoting directly.”
“Is it truly so terrible?” A new voice asked, joining the conversation. Sara turned her head, looking at the woman who had just a few minutes before been gossiping about the ‘brutality’ of gunpowder weapons.
Now that she could see her instead of just seeing her, Sara got a better impression of the woman who had been so blatantly analyzing her from a distance, ostensibly to earn the sponsorship of someone else’s House.
She was dark-skinned, among the darker skinned people present in the Empire. Closer to Central African than she was to most of the Empire’s more bronzed tones, she had sharp, angular features, her entire face seeming to narrow to the point of her nose, which she was obviously to using to look down at others. Her dark black hair was wavy enough that it seemed a curling iron had been used on it, and it bounced down onto her shoulders. She wore loose, voluminous robes which hid her figure, the hallmark of a mage. Those robes glowed lightly as she entered the circle around Borek and Sara, others fleeing from her presence.
“The cannon?” Sara clarified.
“Yes,” she said airily, holding herself aloofly. “It seems like a perfectly capable weapon to me. Not as effective in the field as your wheeled weapons, but well-suited to serving upon the walls of the city, where it could smash apart any besieger’s fortifications, no?”
Against Sara’s bicep, which Evie still had her arm wrapped around, she felt a squeeze. A rapid series of flexes, nearly invisible to any watcher, yet easy enough to distinguish the meaning of through her shirtsleeve.
Enemy combatant.
“Ah!” Sara exclaimed, recognizing the woman. “That’s where I knew your voice from. I nearly killed you this morning, didn’t I?”
Mayaran’s dark eyebrows rose. “I could quite nearly say the same of you, Holy Chosen. It is no coincidence that I only chose to shield the Warriors, rather than involve myself in the battle personally. If I had turned my spells upon you…” She paused to wave her hand in front of her face, as if shooing away invisible flies. “But it is of no consequence, as we were on the same side all along. Even if you were ignorant of it.”
Forced by circumstances to be polite, Sara smiled graciously. “I am glad I didn’t try to press our advantage when you fled from our rifle fire, then. I can’t imagine it would have been a good look for me to have killed one of my employer’s allies.”
Another series of squeezes on her biceps.
Calm down.
Before Mayaran could retort, Sara continued.
“Your spellcrafting was quite impressive, as I recall. I haven’t seen any other mage which could vary the dimensions and shape of their spell without dropping it. Something you developed personally, I assume?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. Though quite an effort, word of your firearm’s effectiveness inspired me-”
Mayaran was interrupted by a wave of astonishment from the same entrance that Sara used, followed immediately after by a hush of abandoned conversations. A rumble of thunder sounded as dozens of men and women began dropping to their knees, bowing to whoever arrived.
Fucking hell. What now? Did the goddamn Emperor show up or something?
“Out of my way!” A crackling voice screeched. “Out of my fucking way! You, yes you, stop bending over like you’re trying to suck your own cock and move!”
Oh, great, Sara thought to the sound of someone scrambling on hands and knees. Someone even worse.
Sara turned around just as General Borek and everyone else finished dropping, pressing their foreheads to the top of their bent knee.
“Hello, Amillya.”
“Hello, Cunt.”
Notes:
It's been a while since we've seen Amillya, hasn't it? For those that have forgotten, her last direct appearance was alllllll the way back in Chapter 40: Terrifyer. Next week's update should be a satisfying one.
Chapter 147: B3 Ch34: Rorqual Scream
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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The ancient, gnarled elf harrumphed her way through the crowd, not paying any of the kneeling sycophants the slightest bit of attention. It had been the better part of a year since Sara had last suffered the misfortune of her presence, and she hadn’t changed in the slightest. The distinctive ears of her kind were still misshapen by age, growing so long they had begun to droop, forming crescent moons that dangled from the sides of her wrinkly head. Her white hair was frizzy and puffed out, unkempt for untold years, and its tangles bounced with each of her wobbling, erratic steps. As far as Sara knew, as far as anyone knew, elves didn’t age. Period. A thousand years or ten thousand, their skin didn’t so much as dimple, yet here Amillya was. The world’s foremost Prophet of Passion, and she looked old as dirt. She had a cane in one hand, and though it had the appearance of wood, it clacked like stone every time she used it to bear her weight, creating a distinctive click-click-click noise as she dragged her limping way towards Sara, one crooked finger raised in furious reproach.
“I told you!” She crowed, shaking her hand. “I fucking told you, didn’t I? But no, noooo, you had to go and fuck it all up! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“As a general rule, no,” Sara said, crossing her arms. “Care to enlighten me, or are you just here to bitch?”
The dead silent rooftop was unnerving. She knew the Imperials were a hierarchical society, prone to bowing and scraping at the feet of anyone considered their superior, but she’d never seen them quite like… this. If Sara didn’t know better, she would have thought a spell had been cast over the party. General Borek, his advisors, the nobility and the wealthy merchants, all of them were frozen in place. The only evidence they still lived was the fact that their chests were moving with each breath, and even then, it was a subtle thing. The only ones who weren’t bowing were Sara, Evie, Hurlish, and…
Mayaran?
Sara didn’t glance over her shoulder, but she did focus her Blessings to the woman behind her. The dark-skinned mage was the only other person to have not fallen into utter supplication at the mere sight of Amillya, and she didn’t seem to be showing the ancient elf much respect, at that. Her hands were slipped into her robes, her expression that of long-suffering exasperation.
“Gods, I hate coming here,” Amillya huffed, thwacking her walking stick against the ribs of a partygoer who was in her way. The kneeling woman leapt aside as if dodging a bullet, scrambling on hands and knees to clear the elf’s path. “It’s even fucking worse than last time. What, the newest batch of kids have even bigger sticks up their ass than the last set? Shit, I hope not. That’d have to be big enough to kill someone.”
Amillya finally reached Sara, who hadn’t uncrossed her arms. The elf stared up at her. Sara stared down.
“Well?” Sara said. “What are you here for? You might’ve noticed that I didn’t ever come to your annoying-ass temple again. I was hoping that’d give you a certain kind of message.”
“You think I wanted to be here?” Amillya peeled her lips back and spat to the side, revealing missing front teeth Sara had never noticed before. “No, no, girl, I’m here to tell you how bad you fucked up.”
“Yeah, you already said that,” Sara sneered. “Get on with it.”
Their frozen audience thawed slightly at that, but not in the way Sara would have preferred. The emotional tone of the crowd was becoming tinted by shades of discomfort and offense. Sara didn’t know who Amillya was to them, besides an obscenely old and foul-mouthed elf, but she was clearly someone they didn’t expect to be disrespected.
Like I give a shit.
“I told you not to draw attention to yourself!” Amillya barked. “Now look what you’ve done!”
“Yeah, you told me that how long ago?”
“Slightly more than a year,” Evie provided, affecting a practiced, disinterested disdain, like a secretary who’d been forced to allow someone unpleasant into their employer’s offices.
“Yeah. Over a year ago. And again, I’ve got no fuckin’ clue what I’ve done. You’re gonna have to be more specific. Is it the Empire? The guns? Whatever Graf was talking about?”
“You’re a Champion!” Amillya all but screeched. “You should know when you fuck up the world. That’s not something you do on accident!”
Sara rolled her eyes. “That’s not going to cut it. We both know I’m doing shit no Champion has ever done before. And when you’re dealing with the kind of timescales the gods are, me taking a shit in the wrong part of the woods could fuck up their ten-thousand-year plan.” Sara snapped her fingers impatiently. “Come on. I know you’ve got a lot of experience swallowing, but break your old habits and spit it up already.”
Before Amillya could fire back her retort, the dull, disgusted lilt of Mayaran butted in. “Gods, you are insultingly profane.”
Sara, Evie, and Amillya slowly turned toward the mage. She was still standing, her glare filled with contempt.
“You know,” Sara said, looking the woman up and down, “I was thinking everyone else here was being a pussy for bowing to some crazy old elf. But you seem like the type of woman who would look a lot better on your knees.”
“You are disgusting,” Mayaran stated plainly. “And if you think your so-called charm will work its wonders on me, I assure you, it will not. And I most certainly will not be impressed by your dubious claim to the station of a Divine Chosen, a status which you seem so eager to tarnish.” Mayaran grinned a politician’s grin. “I understand that we are on the same side of this conflict. Allies. Sworn to cooperate, rather than fight. Yet the longer I’ve been in your presence, the more I’ve become disappointed by this fact.”
Sara couldn’t help herself. Already pissed off by having to attend this dick-sucking competition of a party in the first place, then thrown into confusion and irritation at the appearance of Amillya, she didn’t have time to deal with some uppity mage. She activated Gift of Lust, targeting it on the woman a dozen times over.
Mayaran stared at her, unblinking.
Shit. Is she really straight?
Sara had to admit, it’d been a while since she’d guessed someone’s preferences wrong. Either the lady wasn’t into ladies, or she wasn’t into Sara in particular. Either way, using Gift of Lust to melt her into a puddle wasn’t in the cards.
“Why aren’t you bowing to old Amillya over here, then?” Sara asked, smoothly pivoting plans. “If you’re all about keeping proper respect for stations and whatever, I’d think you’d be breaking your back to bend double for her.”
“Because,” Mayaran said, raising one hand to the side of her head, “Unlike you, I am not in the presence of my betters.”
With dramatic flare, her hand lifted black curls to reveal the long, pointed ears of an elf. They weren’t half as long as Amillya’s drooping freaks of nature, but they were long enough that the mage was clearly a pure-blooded elf, unlike Nora, whose mostly human ears only had a pointed tip. Seen in this light, Sara’s appraisal of the woman’s features— her hawkish nose, sharp cheekbones, and imperious bearing— took on a different, more ephemeral light. She wasn’t just born with the facial features so commonly associated with nobility. She was physically lithe, so thin and willowy beneath her robes that a human would have been severely underweight, had they possessed the same build. The poise and composure she held herself with wasn’t the product of long training and practice, but simply the innate gracefulness that those of other bloodlines lacked. An elf through-and-through.
Sara still didn’t give a shit.
“Okay?” She asked, drawing the word out. “What, are you really saying that being an elf makes you better than me? Better than everyone else here?” She looked between Mayaran and Amillya. “Besides, isn’t there, like, some seniority thing going on here? I know you’re not nearly as old as that crone, even if you’re pretty geriatric yourself.” She paused, as if considering a question, though she knew the answer perfectly well. “How do elves age, anyway? Does it take you a hundred years to stop shitting in diapers, or do you act like real people until you let all that arrogance go to your head?”
“General Brown!” Borek hissed, lifting his head just enough to stare her in the eyes. “Mage Mayaran is correct! There are lines even you cannot cross! Contain yourself!”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Really? Really?” Sara sprinkled excitement into her voice, making a show of spinning around to crouch down before General Borek, putting their eyes level. “Because I’ve been wondering. I keep pushing and pushing, and aside from a few little places here and there, nobody seems to push back. You know how your Adjutant bought my services, right? With promises of equality, fairness, and rights for your people? All the things I haven’t been seeing at all?”
“I have tried very hard to accommodate your eccentricities, General Brown,” Borek pleaded angrily, “But you cannot speak to the Honored Elven in such a way!”
“Piss and shit,” Amillya spat, “it is even worse than it used to be. Can’t believe that.”
“And how long has it been since you crawled out of your cave, Amillya?” Mayaran interjected, talking over Borek’s next sentence. The man fell obediently silent. “One of the most ancient of Elven kind, High Prophet of a Goddess, and here you are, cavorting with this… this childish trash.”
Amillya’s crooked finger returned, a long fingernail threatening to stab into Mayaran’s chest. “Watch your words, girl! Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you get to insult the Champion of my Goddess! That’s for me to do!”
“And,” Hurlish drawled, appearing as if from nowhere behind Mayaran to clap a massive paw on the woman’s shoulder, “I don’t much like it either.”
Mayaran rolled her eyes without turning around. “Oh, dear. The leadsmith threatens an Elven mage. How I must be trembling.”
Hurlish’s eyes narrowed.
Sara and her wives each had their own way of threatening people. It was a skill that came up frequently in their lines of work, and they had developed their own preferences. While Sara and Evie preferred clever retorts and hidden barbs, Hurlish’s strategy was more direct. She didn’t threaten, per se. Just… demonstrated.
Her fingers began to, with all the slow, ominous inevitability of a hydraulic press, close over Mayaran’s right shoulder. The hidden runes within the mage’s robes burst alight, colors flashing and sparking from the cloth-woven wards. The material under Hurlish’s palm began to glow a bright, cherry red, with dark smoke rising from the edge of Hurlish’s tuxedo sleeve. The scent of burning cloth filled the heat-shimmering air. She’d chosen a classic spell to defend herself from grappling: fire, and by the look of it, a great deal of it. It was unfortunate for Mayaran, then, that it was Hurlish who had grabbed her, with all the uncanny Skills granted to the world’s first gunsmith. Runes spread further and further down Mayaran’s right side, each brighter than the last, increasing the heat, yet Hurlish didn’t so much as flinch. Sara’s eyes began to water, forcing her to blink rapidly as the hot air tried to dry them to shriveled husks.
Mayaran seemed unbothered at first. Then, as Hurlish’s fingers continued to close, she began to squirm. She opened her mouth to say something else, feigning indifference, then gasped slightly, shrinking down and to the side, trying to slip out of Hurlish’s grip.
It didn’t work.
The ambient emotion surrounding Sara, the sense of a party, had completely dissolved. What had begun as a gathering of allies had now devolved into a gaggle of nervous wrecks, watching the argument like a powder keg’s lit fuse.
“You’re all pissing me off,” Amillya declared. “I Wish we were somewhere we could talk privately.”
Evie’s lip curled. “Well that’s unfortunate—”
Sara blinked. The party was gone. She and Amillya were standing in a cool, damp room, one with a lumpy, dirty floor and lichen-covered brick walls. The air tasted old and stale, filled with the scent of mildew, and there was nothing around them save for a few rotting barrels.
Sara snapped her gaze back to Amillya the moment she regained her bearings. “Bring Evie and Hurlish here.”
“No,” the old woman said, “You can tell them about it later. Fucking the Champion of Amarat doesn’t afford them any special privileges.”
Sara reached under her buffcoat and pulled a miniscule pistol from its hidden holster, cocking the crystal hammer as she leveled it at Amillya’s forehead. It was a small, short-barreled weapon, firing a measly .30 caliber ball, but it was stuffed with enough blackpowder that there was a decent chance it would turn into a hand grenade the instant she pulled the trigger. A weapon of last resort, but a deadly one.
“Bring Evie and Hurlish here,” Sara said once more.
“Do you think that thing can scare me?” Amillya huffed.
“Do you think Amarat wants her Prophet and Champion fighting because you’re too stubborn of a bitch to bring my wives along with me?”
Amillya stared at her for a long second. She blew out an irritated puff. “You know, I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with, but you sure jump to extremes. Worse than just about any other Champion I’ve met, I’d say.”
“Bring Evie and Hurlish here,” Sara repeated tonelessly.
“Fine.”
There was no fancy flash, no magical spray of coalescing particles. One moment they were alone in the mysterious room, then they weren’t.
Evie had barely appeared before her rapier also flashed into existence, its tip pointed at Amillya. Hurlish was still holding an invisible shoulder, smoke trailing from her burnt tux sleeve. She blinked several times, then shook her wrist out, extinguishing the smoldering fire.
I swear to god, I’m going to bill Mayaran for the damage to that suit.
“So,” Sara said, lowering her pistol, prompting Evie to reluctantly dismiss her rapier, “what is it you wanted?”
“To warn you, girl,” Amillya growled. “That you attracted too much attention. The kind you aren’t ready to deal with. I don’t know what you did last week, but even I felt it. The gods got pissy that day, girl. Throwing Divine temper tantrums like I haven’t seen in a long, long time.”
“Last week?” Sara thought back, racking her brain for what she could have done. “Only thing that happened last week was us taking a small rebel mining outpost. It was barely a battle.”
“Really?” Amillya’s bushy eyebrows wriggled like worms, her gaze flicking to Hurlish and Evie. “What about you two? She telling the truth? Didn’t do something stupid last week?”
“Not outta the ordinary, no,” Hurlish said, crossing her arms. She was too tall for the room, and had to bend her neck slightly forward in the cramped cellar.
“She hardly even fought in that battle,” Evie confirmed. “It wasn’t necessary. Our rifles and cannon swept the enemy aside with ease. It was only after the battle, when Master Graf came to visit, that we became aware of any oddities occurring on the day.”
Amillya’s knuckles tightened around her cane. “Graf? He came here? To the jungle? What? Why?”
“To visit Evie,” Sara said. “And to see the first battle she was in command of.”
“I wasn’t in charge, dear.”
“Whatever. First battle you advised for, I guess. Same thing.”
“Are you certain?” Amillya challenged. “That’s all he came for? He didn’t do anything else?”
Sara frowned. “You sound like General Borek. He didn’t believe Graf would be in the Empire for no reason, either.” Sara snorted. “As if visiting Evie is ‘no reason.’ The arrogance of that prick.”
“Well if it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t Graf, what were the gods shitting themselves about?”
There was a prolonged, muted silence. Evie looked contemplative, Hurlish bored, and Amillya frustrated. Sara spent the time wondering where they were. She couldn’t hear a single thing. Not the distant thud of feet on a street above, nor the hustle and bustle of some manor or mansion that the room’s lone door attached to. Considering their means of arrival, she supposed they could be anywhere in the world.
“Does it even matter why the gods are flipping out?” Hurlish eventually asked, if only to break the silence. “Whatever’s happened, happened. Now we just gotta deal with whatever comes next.”
Amillya stuck her tongue between her lips and blew a long raspberry, profoundly dissatisfied.
“Fine. But there’s not much to prepare for, I’ll warn you. You aren’t ready for what’s coming.”
“Try me,” Sara said.
“You wish, girl.”
Sara looked Amillya up and down. “No. No, I really don’t.”
“Won’t ever know what you’re missing, then.” The bones of Amillya’s wrist made an audible click as she flicked her hand, dismissing the idea. “Whatever. Not what I’m here for. Do you want to hear what I have to say or not, girl?”
Sara considered. On one hand, Amillya’s magical abduction of her hadn’t won the woman any favors in Sara’s book. On the other, she was, quite literally, a prophet. Someone ordained by an all-knowing Goddess to spread word of the future that was to come. And she’d be lying if it wasn’t a relief to have someone to talk shit to who could actually sling insults back.
“Alright,” Sara said, forcing her reflexive irritation down. “Hit me. What have you got?”
Amillya cleared her throat with a phlegmy ah-hem, her knuckles crackling like firewood as she gripped her staff.
“Champion of Amarat,” she began formally, “Twister of Binds, Chain Breaker. You have fought well, accomplished much, and found victory where others have failed. You have been allowed freedoms that no other of your kind has been entrusted, and you have used them well.” Amillya took a deep breath, brow furrowing.
“But,” she intoned, the single word echoing loudly in the cool air, “there are limits to what you can be shielded from. Your Goddess warned you of this, and yet you persisted. Worthy though your goals may be, there are many whose dreams would flow down a different stream.”
“They will come for you, Champion,” Amillya said. Her eyes began to lid, her focus elsewhere. She was quoting something profound. Sentiments so vast and complex that the human mind could barely put words to them. “Creatures ancient, creatures new. The foul and the honorable, the depraved and the decrepit. Those which seep and slither, soar and crawl, and all the things which move between. You have plucked the tangled web of their living dreams. You can be hidden no longer. They are coming.”
Amillya slumped, breathing harder than can be explained. Sara and her wives were silent, slowly digesting what she’d said. It was ominous. Dangerous.
And, Sara slowly came to realize, really fucking vague.
“Is that it?” Sara asked.
Amillya looked up at her. “What?”
“I mean, is that all you have to say? Just that?”
The elf’s eyes narrowed to a slit. “You have received a prophecy, girl.”
“Not a very useful one.”
“You insipid little bitch-”
“I mean, really,” Sara interrupted, “what was your plan? Tell me a bunch of creepy bastards were coming for my ass and then leave? That’s all you have? That doesn’t tell me shit. I mean, sure, it sounded good,” Sara admitted, making a grand, sweeping gesture, “with all the talk about ancient stuff and creepy-crawlies or whatever. I think it would have been better if you made it rhyme, though, like those old Greek prophecies. At least then you’d have an excuse for it telling me nothing fucking useful.”
Amillya’s eyes flashed. “Do you think this is a game? Some joke?”
“I mean, I’m literally Level 17-”
“Shit!” Amillya spat. “There it is! I knew you’d say that. All the Champions do, eventually! I thought you weren’t going to do it, to compare this entire reality to one of your childish little fantasies-”
“I’m pretty sure it’s almost exactly like it,” Sara snapped back. “Seriously, what did you expect? That I’d hear you tell me that a bunch of unbelievably powerful things are coming to kill me and everyone I love, with nothing more to it than that, and I’d just stand there with a dumb little smile, nodding like an idiot?”
“If you’d actually taken time to listen, girl, and perhaps use what little is left bouncing around your skull to analyze what I said, you might have noted that not all of that which seeks you out does so with intent to kill.”
“See, there we go,” Sara said, pointing. “That’s something actually useful. Why are you trying to rely on me figuring that out for myself? Did Amarat not give you a choice on how you’re going to phrase things? Is that part of your ‘rules’ or whatever, that you have to be so vague about everything?”
“You couldn’t fathom the role I play in the turning of the clock,” Amillya spat. “To explain to you the nature of Prophecy would be explaining an ant the nature of the stars.”
“Well you could at least give it a shot,” Sara fired back. “Maybe that would have made this whole thing worth my time.”
“If you cannot figure out the most basic of ideas from your god-given warning, then you’ll most certainly fall prey to those that are even now seeking you out!”
“And what are those, exactly?” Evie interrupted. She was far more concerned with Amillya’s vague warnings than Sara had become, incensed as she was. “What comes to threaten us?”
“Anything,” Amillya snapped. “Everything. All the things I warned you about before, child. The great, ancient spiders on the web of time, patiently waiting for the right strings to be plucked. Creatures that are as far beyond you as the gods are beyond them. A thousand years of prophecy have been ruined. Have you any idea what that means? What plans have gone awry, what ancient plots and schemes you’ve disrupted?”
“Okay. Come on. For real, though. Do you have anything actually useful to say?” Sara asked. “I know this is probably your whole shtick or whatever, delivering vague, ominous prophecies, but you need to give me something actionable. If there’s a giant sea monster swimming towards Tulian, I can start preparing for that. But unless you’re literally talking about a giant time-spider, I can’t do shit.”
“No, it’s not a giant spider, you twit. And if I knew the specifics of what you needed to concern yourself about, wouldn’t you expect me to tell you?”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
Amillya glared. “Fuck all three of you.”
“Still no,” Sara said.
The gnarled elf slammed the tip of her walking stick against the ground, filling the small space with a brief echo.
“What matters,” she declared loudly, “is that they are coming. Whether you are responsible or not, a Champion is in the world, and someone has killed a great many Fates. They will assume you are responsible, and they will act accordingly.”
“Whoever ‘they’ are,” Sara said, “they’re coming to do what? You said they’re not all coming to kill me, so what does that leave? They want to talk? Question me? Help me, even? What’s their goal, their motivations?”
“That depends on too much for me to say. I have sensed the stirring of things so old they’re little more than a blurry memory to even me, girl. Some will pass you by without you even noticing them, I’m sure. Remnants of older worlds didn’t survive to this Age by taking risks, after all. Others will make themselves known, or fail to hide themselves, but do little else.”
“And some will be violent,” Evie guessed.
“Some will, yes.” Amillya looked at the feline, a brief flicker of sympathy passing over her face. “You picked a poor wife, child. She attracts things that you cannot protect her from.”
“I don’t think you’ll want to say that to her twice,” Hurlish’s low voice rumbled. “And besides. We didn’t pick Sara. Your Goddess played matchmaker for us.”
“She did for her,” Amillya specified, swinging her cane towards Evie. “Not you. You’re an accident, big girl. Amarat never gave a shit about you.”
Sara’s eyebrows rose. “Hold on. What do you mean by that? Amarat literally guided me towards Hurlish’s shop. How could she not be involved in us meeting?”
“Setting you two up to meet, maybe,” Amillya conceded, “but not stay together. That was on you. When I said the gods are pissed, I meant Amarat, too, girl. You haven’t been playing by her rules. Half the people you’ve surrounded yourself with aren’t the ones she wanted at your side, and I don’t think she wanted events to go a fraction as far as they have.” Amillya sniffed. “But I guess you did well enough that she hasn’t been heavy-handed about correcting your mistakes. If you had, she’d have sent me here with a lot more specifics about how I’m supposed to be doing this little meeting.”
“Well I’m glad I’ve got her approval,” Sara drawled sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “And I’m glad you traveled all this way to kidnap me and tell me nothing useful.”
“Ignore her,” Evie suddenly said, before Amillya could open her mouth again. The feline stepped in front of Sara, focusing on Amillya. “She’s frustrated with you, but it would be foolish to throw away even what few scraps you can offer us. You’re a Prophet, yes, but you are more than that. You have lived untold lifetimes, and seen more than we could ever dream. Maybe Amarat didn’t tell you everything, but what can you tell us? I know little of your kind, both Elven and Prophet, but I know you can tell me more than what is revealed by Divine inspiration. How long do we have until these foes arrive? Will there be any use in fighting any of them, or are they all as beyond us as you claim? If they can be sated by reparations, offerings, or sacrifices, what might they favor, so we may begin stockpiling it?”
“See what I mean?” Amillya glared at Sara. “You’re a bad fit for her. She deserves someone better.”
Hurlish looked at Sara like she expected a pistol to fly from her belt once again, but Sara didn’t do any such thing. She took the abuse without a murmur of protest, her expression barely changing. Far be it for her to correct anyone who had something good to say about Evie, no matter how insulting it was for Sara.
“As for your questions,” Amillya said to Evie, “I can answer a few. No, you can’t fight any of them. Those that are coming to you are entities which can feel the flow of Fate being disrupted, and they think they can do something about it. The least among them is beyond anything you can imagine.” She scowled thoughtfully. “Maybe your pet Archmage could scatter a few of them. Not together, mind you, but a few of the least powerful, if they come alone. His type tend to be paranoid enough to prepare for things they should have no right to challenge. But only if he knew long, long in advance.”
“Which is information I presume you don’t have.”
“No. Might get ready for the Fae Court, at the very least.” Amillya cackled lightly. “If they aren’t all busy dealing with that other shitstorm you stirred up. Oh, the things I’ve been hearing from them as of late.” She glanced at Sara once more. “They’re furious with you, you know. That woman was never supposed to reach the sea. They’d made sure of it, until you showed up.”
“Nora?” Sara clarified.
“Who else?” Evie asked rhetorically. “Hopefully her journey to the Locks of the Sea will distract the fae, then. Regardless, I will warn Archmage Garen of them, and seek his advice in preparing for their arrival. What of the other matters? If the Fae Court is the least among what comes for us, you were unfortunately rather correct. I cannot fathom what foes we might need to face.”
“Demons, for one,” Amillya said. “From which Hell, I don’t know. Their wars are unending, and I doubt even Amarat herself could tell which among them is well-poised enough to spare attention to our Plane at this particular moment. They’ll be the ones your wife is best suited for dealing with, at least. You’ve encountered their sort before, yes?”
“A single demon,” Evie confirmed. “And though Garen said it was among the most pathetic of the Hellish spawn, it put up quite the fight.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure that will change once your wife figures out how to be a real Champion of Amarat. The Hells shouldn’t be ignored, but they are a squabbling, evil brood. It will take them the longest of all to rear their heads, I suspect. If they ever do at all. And they’re the sort you’ll be best prepared to face.”
“Noted. And beyond them?”
Amillya’s scowl deepened, contorting her whole face. On her wrinkled, parchment-colored skin, that was quite the accomplishment.
“Those spiders I mentioned. Singular threats. Creatures which concern themselves not with the turning of days, years, or, decades, but the endless churn of millennia.”
“Elves?” Hurlish guessed. “I know they’ve been shitting bricks lately. Even the couple I’d managed to actually convince to talk to me about smithing have fucked off to their capital. Something about the Emperor calling them all back or whatever. If the big guy is pissed at Tulian, there’s not much we could do to stop him from rolling over us.”
“True,” Amillya, said, “but even still, this empire and its ilk aren’t what I’m speaking of. Those bricks you mentioned them shitting, they aren’t common finds. Collector’s items, practically.”
“Huh?”
“Sara can tell you later. And I wouldn’t worry yourself either way. They’re not going to their little capital to cook up some war plan or whatever. Not like they’d need one to kill off Tulian, anyway. They wouldn’t even need their Archmages to wipe your city off the map. No, they’re going to the capital to hide. For shelter against what’s coming.”
That sent a slight tingle down Sara’s spine. Ever since she’d started worming her way into this Imperial society, the oft-referenced, rarely-seen ‘elves’ had been the great big boogeyman lurking in the dark. Of those who objected to the use of Tulian firearms, it was their fear that the centuries-old civil war might finally escalate to the point of Elven involvement that had them quaking in their boots. It was taken for granted that if the Emperor decided to send out his elvish Warriors, the conflict would be ended in the few days it took for them to spill an ocean of blood.
And if they’re running off to hide…
Despite what Evie and Amillya seemed to think, Sara was taking this conversation seriously. She just needed more evidence than she was being provided. There was no point in worrying over things she had no way to anticipate, and it pissed her off that Amillya had confronted her so publicly about it. She’d had plans for that party, and now she was in some decrepit cellar, getting told things that could do little more than spike her blood pressure.
“What do they fear so deeply?” Evie asked. “General Borek mentioned many things. Leviathans rising from the deepest trenches, histories being rewritten, stars shifting place in the sky. What of all those events so concerns them, and by extension, us? What should I order to be investigated?”
“There’s little I can tell you of use in that respect as well,” Amillya replied. “Those who will confront you subtly, you will never see coming. Those who need not hide?” She shrugged. “They will not hide. You will see them coming from a thousand leagues away, turning the land to cinders with every stride.” Her face hardened. “You’ve made weapons like no one has ever seen, girl. Things the Gods kept a lid on for as long as I’ve been alive. For as long as there’s been Champions. But for what’s coming, they won’t be enough.” Amillya spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m a Prophet, girl. But even I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”
Evie chewed on that, looking pensive. There was nothing she hated more than indecision, and this had forced more than its share on her. Hurlish seemed vaguely irritated, but for all Sara knew, that could have been lingering resentment from Mayaran fucking up her tux’s collar. Hurlish had never been one to get overly bothered by the big picture things. She happily left stuff like this to Sara and Evie, content to provide them the tools they needed on their way.
Sara had her own thoughts, of course. Mostly, she was on Evie’s side of the fence. She was pissed that Amillya had come all this way just to chastise and abuse her, then give her nothing more than vague warnings in return. Sure, it would have come off smoother if Sara hadn’t pressed her on the details and let the old elf majestically saunter off into the darkness after giving her dramatic ‘something big is coming’ speech, but that wouldn’t have been much more use. All Sara’s pressing had done was reveal the thinness of what Amillya had to offer.
At the end of the day, however, Amillya had tried to give them a warning. A shitty warning, mostly containing information that they would have figured out on their own, but it was something. At the very least, Sara doubted she ever would have connected some cataclysmic event to a minor skirmish over a half-finished mining outpost.
“How long do we have?” Sara asked.
“A matter of months, at most,” Amillya replied. “I don’t have much of a sense for it, but I can tell you that much just from experience. It takes a long time for things buried this deep to burrow their way to the light.”
“And has another Champion dealt with something like this? Have you seen how they dealt with it?”
“No. I’ve seen things like this happen, but they’re usually why a Champion shows up. Hardly ever seen them show up on account of a Champion.” She snorted, an ugly, wet noise. “And certainly not because of a Champion of Amarat. Not since I was young, anyway. Your sort aren’t supposed to fuck things up this bad, girlie. You’re supposed to be the subtler type of Champion.”
Hurlish chuckled. “Yeah. Subtle.”
Amillya pointed a crooked finger at the orc. “Your wife acting all fucked up is what got us in this mess, blacksmith. Maybe if she was more normal…”
“The world would still have collared slaves,” Sara finished, staring the elf straight in the eyes.
Amillya sucked a breath. “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s true. You’ve done some things others couldn’t, I’ll admit.” She made a hocking, hacking noise, then spat a wad of phlegm on the stones, wiping her mouth. Sara ignored her.
An idea was beginning to form in Sara’s head. Thoughts stuck to one another as they tumbled through her churning mind, some messy, half-formed vision of what she was dealing with bouncing its way across the proverbial landscape. Nothing concrete, nothing that she could actually give words to, much less voice, but something.
“Before we go,” Sara said, announcing the end of the meeting as if it was already beginning, “I have a question about someone.”
“Oh?” Amillya’s wrinkles crawled up her face, lifted by the bushy caterpillars over her eyelids. “And who’s that?”
“Graf Urs.”
Sara saw it. Not something easy to spot, not something Hurlish or Evie or anyone else could have caught, but something. A little spark in the darkness of Amillya’s pupils. Recognition.
Respect.
“What about him?” Amillya demurred. “Wouldn’t your fucktoy there have all the answers you need about her daddy?”
“He is not my-”
“What is he?” Sara asked.
Amillya snorted. “You already know that. He’s a mercenary. A sword for hire, and a very, very well-used one.”
“No. What is he?”
Evie glanced at Sara, confused. Amillya’s crooked back straightened just a touch.
“A soldier, girl. A Warrior, an Irregular, a Knight, whatever you want to call his sort. And a strong one, too.”
“No,” Sara repeated. “When General Borek came to challenge him at the behest of his Emperor,” Sara said, holding up three fingers, “he listed off three things. ‘Mountains fall, stars vanish, and the hand of Graf Urs nears his sword.’” Sara leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Not many people in this world understand what it means when an entire star vanishes, Amillya. The kind of power that’s involved in taking a trillions tons of nuclear energy, all that burning, swirling hydrogen and helium and the iron ball at its core, and snapping it out of existence. But I do. You do. And I bet Emperor Aydrion does, too. So why did the hand of Graf Urs getting so much as near his sword top that little trio of disasters? I’ll ask you again. What is Graf Urs?”
Amillya licked her lips. Evie took a step back, and Hurlish unfolded her arms, curiosity piqued.
“Graf Urs,” the Prophet eventually said, whispering, “is proof that the Gods are fallible.” She raised her arm, energy gathering within the tips of her fingers.
Sara’s hand snapped out, seizing the old woman’s wrist. Amillya stared at her, looking genuinely, truly shocked for the first time since Sara had known her.
“You’re not leaving on that,” Sara growled. “This isn’t a prophecy. This isn’t some vague bullshit. You actually know this one. I want an answer.” Sara smiled, sickly sweet. “It’s only fair, isn’t it? After everything else you had to say was so useless?”
“I don’t know how long it’s been since someone’s done that,” Amillya murmured, looking at Sara’s hand around her wrist. “A thousand years? A hundred?”
“Answer the question.”
Without warning or a microsecond of transition, Sara was standing across the room. Evie and Hurlish were to her left, their poses unchanged. Seeing as Sara’s hand was doing nothing other than clenching empty air, she dropped it, standing straight.
“Graf Urs,” Amillya said, her voice filling the mossy, ancient chamber, “is a lucky man. When he was young, he survived something he shouldn’t have. I don’t know what it was, but it hardly matters. A knight charging down the hill at him, or an arrow flung for his eye, or maybe a boulder crashing down from a trebuchet. Whatever it was, it was certain death. But Graf Urs, in that particular moment, found himself possessing just the right combination of traits. Clever, quick, and lucky. He survived it. That earned him favor. Grace.” One of Amillya’s fingers tapped the top of her cane. “Earned him some Experience, as a Champion would probably call it.”
“Now,” she continued, “that’s not all that much on its own. This is a wide, wide, world, and it’s older than you’d believe. People have gotten lucky before. Some of them have gotten a whole hell of a lot luckier than Graf Urs did on that day. But you know what’s different about him?”
“He can use it,” Evie murmured, as if recanting an old tale.
Amillya nodded to her. It was a sharp, respectful nod.
“He could use it,” she agreed. “He wasn’t just clever. He was smart. He stayed in the battle that almost killed him, and after a while, his side ended up winning. Whatever he’d done, it got noticed. Made him that little bit more important. Got him a place on the front lines of the next battle. And when he was there, fighting for his life again, you know what happened?”
“He got lucky again,” Amillya said, answering her own question before any of them could speak. “Damned lucky, I’d guess. A one-in-a-million shot. He lived through the kind of thing that some people, most people, would see for themselves and clap the dust off their hands and say ‘well, this whole war thing was nice, but I’m going right the hell home, because I’ve had enough.’ And they would have been right to do it.”
“But Graf Urs didn’t. He didn’t go home. He fought another battle. And another. And another, and another, and on and on and on. And in some of them, a lot of them, Graf Urs got lucky. He survived things he shouldn’t. He got promoted to places no commoner should be, and he made people so uncomfortable with it that they had to start making shit up. Saying he was blessed by the Gods, by Fate, that he was from some fuck-off-forgotten Noble lineage or the long-lost child of some Champion a world away.”
“But he wasn’t.” Amillya’s fingers drummed on her wooden cane. Sara recognized that material, now. Her dad had a collection of it in his office, back on Earth. Fossilized wood. “Graf Urs wasn’t blessed by the Gods. He wasn’t chosen by Fate. He was damned lucky. Random chance had struck him again and again, and unlike every other better, smarter prick out there, who would have taken their winnings and gone home a long time ago, he kept going.”
“Graf Urs wasn’t the first person this has happened to, of course,” Amillya said. “Some of them end up legends. They throw a wrench in the works, fuck up the plans of some minor power or piss off one God or another. Most of the time, that ends up with them getting shunted aside or struck down by the powers that be. Can’t let that bent nail in the floorboard stand out too much, after all. But back sixty years ago, a lot of shit was going on, and none of them quite got around to it. Maybe they thought the others would deal with it, or maybe he happened to be in just the right place, just the right time, and the hidden things trying to shove him off a cliff just happened to be pushing from opposite sides. Lucky again, I guess. So nothing happened.”
“The problem with that, Sara, is that Graf Urs wasn’t like all those other folk that came before him. He wasn’t just lucky. Like you already know, he was smart. Damned smart. A genius, maybe, at least when it comes to killing folk. Once the people in charge of him got the proper excuses all lined up, he got put in command. He wasn’t just a soldier anymore, but a leader. And not just any leader.”
Amillya paused then. Her eyes were looking up and to the side, as if she was working hard to recall something, like a few decades were the same amount of time for her that it was for a human.
“You’ve got famous leaders on your world, Sara. You named some of your guns after one, in fact. Napoleon. But there’s others, too, aren’t there? Plenty of them, even in the short little breath that your world’s been kicking. Alexander. Giap. Zhukov. Arthur. Subutai. Yi Sun-Sin. The type of people who see battles like others see art. You’ve fought him, I know. Even if he didn’t really want to win, you could tell. Graf Urs is one of their sorts, isn’t he?”
There was silence. Sara realized she was actually expected to answer.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“He is. Hell, he might be better than them. I’ve only got a bunch of dumbass teenagers who told me about all those other fellows, but I’ve seen Graf Urs. He’s the real goddamn deal.” She snorted at herself. “No. Not god-damned. That’s the whole problem.” Amillya shook her head, clearing her thoughts.
“Napoleon. We’ll go with him, since you probably know him. He won a lot of battles, yeah? Time after time, victory after victory, he beat impossible odds. He took his enemies by the throat, shook ‘em until something broke, then dropped ‘em in the mud and kept on marching. Impressive, impressive stuff.”
Amillya’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “But what if he’d been born here? What if, Sara, Napoleon had won those battles in this world? What if every time he fought, every time he won something he shouldn’t have, he got tougher? Faster? Harder to beat, thinking quicker on his feet, and all the more successful because of it? What if he won his battles not across Europe, conquering and killing and moving on, but all over the world, fighting for some people, against other people, until they all came to hate or fear him? And what if he, instead of getting surrounded on all sides by all the people he’d riled up, just… left? Went somewhere else to fight? What if Napoleon fought for no other reason than to fight? No Leipzig, no Waterloo, just an endless, endless march. A defeat here, a defeat there, sure, but nothing that ever got him killed. Just beaten. And he kept going, and going, and going. For years. Fighting all the while. What if he did that here? With the system the Gods made for us, where victory and excellence are rewarded by the universe itself?”
“He’d be something else entirely,” Sara said cautiously.
“Exactly,” Amillya hissed, her entire body crooked forward, leaning heavily on her cane, as if she were being physically dragged by the words that she was now spitting rapid-fire, one after the other, consumed by her own passion for the story she told. “But then, then you need to know this, Sara Brown. He still wouldn’t have been the first. Our world has seen Napoleons. We’ve seen Yi Sun-sins and Khans before. They’ve become great, powerful people, terrible and awesome in their might, even as they fought outside the plans of greater powers and the Gods Above.”
Amillya spat a thick wad of phlegm on the cobblestones. Her ears, drooping with unfathomable years, quivered with every word. “But we haven’t seen Graf Urs before. Ever.”
“Why?” Evie’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Those lucky things? Those random coincidences that started his career, unbidden by Fate and Divinity alike? They never stopped. On and on and ON again, they just kept happening! Impossibly! I don’t know numbers like your world does, Sara, but maybe your father could tell you! What are the chances of one man, one brilliant, maddeningly competent man, winning those million-to-one odds so many times? Not two times in a row, not three times, but a hundred times! A thousand! What if every time he came up against a limit, the things the Gods had put in place to prevent one person from becoming too powerful, it happened again!”
Her voice had risen until it was shaking the room, filling Sara’s ears with the thunder of her incredulity, of a woman older than almost anything else alive being taken to her wit’s end by the impossibility of what she was beholding.
“On and on and on he went, fighting, killing, and nearly dying, so close, so many times, but never all the way there! By the time he was doing things the Gods couldn’t ignore, it was too late! He was involved in too much, too important, and they fought and squabbled over him like children! They did that for so long that none of them could do anything at all to control him, or guide him, or even just damn well KILL him! They couldn’t do it! He mattered too much now, enough that any death one of them caused would fuck up every other God’s plans, and somehow, SOMEHOW, they hadn’t seen it coming! Because at every fork in the road they could see, he should have died! He should have! But he! Never! Did!”
Amillya threw her head back and laughed, a loud, echoing cackle, shrill, inhuman, and achingly loud. Hair raised along Sara’s arms, and before she realized what she was doing, she’d drawn her pistol, pointing it at Amillya even as she backed away in shivering fear, the sights weaving as her eyes went in and out of focus.
“And then!” The elf laughed hysterically. “And then you know what happened? Graf Urs turned thirty! Thirty fucking years old, he was! And that was when he fought the last thing in all the world that could’ve killed him! And you know what it did? It RAN!”
Sound roared through the chamber, shattering stone and making the ground leap and tremble, an earthquake begun around them. Hurlish wrapped Evie in her arms, shielding her from it all, and the feline pressed herself into her wife’s chest, ears flattened and tail tucked between her legs. Amillya ranted on, uncaring, uncompromising.
“THAT’S what Graf Urs is, girl! Sara Brown! Champion of my God! Graf Urs is impossible! He shouldn’t exist! All my life, I wondered if there even WERE other Gods! If they weren’t just the many faces of one cold, capricious being, one we all unknowingly followed, but no!” She laughed even harder. Blood, thick and dark, began to trickle from Sara’s ears. “They’re not! They really are out there! That’s what Graf Urs is, child! He’s proof the gods can fuck up! He is their fuckup! They’ve kept this world spinning for so long that it had to happen eventually, but they weren’t ready for it! Graf Urs, the Impossible! Graf Urs, the Aberration! Graf Urs! Just another! Fucking! Man!” She straightened entirely, her back cracking and snapping as she shouted one last time. “And the Gods don’t goddamn know what to do about it!”
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Sara’s vision cleared, tears streaking down her dust-covered face. She was pointing her pistol at the empty air over the city of Ta-Pet, aiming right through a crowd of startled onlookers. Evie and Hurlish were beside her, Hurlish kneeling down, her entire body covering Evie’s trembling form like a thick, green blanket.
Guards began to rush towards them. The crowd of socialites exploded into motion, some running away, others forward to help, others standing still as statues, getting in the way of everyone else.
Sara Brown, Champion of Amarat, didn’t know what happened. She’d asked a question she wasn’t ready for, and she’d paid the price.
But she still had a damned good poker face.
“Sorry about that,” she said as she turned to General Borek, grabbing a napkin from a table and lightly dabbing the blood dribbling down her jaw. “I forgot I had a meeting double-booked with this party. My bad, you know how it is. Thankfully it didn’t take too long. I hope I wasn’t too missed?”
General Borek looked at Sara’s bloodied face. At the gun still held in her shaking right hand, which her white knuckles wouldn’t let her release. At Evie and Hurlish, who were crouched together on the floor. Hurlish was whispering comforting words in her wife’s ears, gently stroking her cheeks. Evie was nodding slightly, agreeing with whatever was being said.
“N-no,” Borek stammered. Then he cleared his throat, stabilizing himself. “That is, no, of course not. I’m glad you were able to… to make it back in time.”
Sara smiled and nodded gratefully. She was the Champion of Amarat. Once upon a time, she would have thought there was no one alive who could have seen the lie behind her eyes.
Not anymore.
Notes:
Well, this chapter has a little bit of lore. Just a touch. Featuring a speech I first envisioned around, oh, Chapter 20 or so? Maybe even earlier. Similar to Nora's... everything, this has been a long time coming. Far, far longer than I ever envisioned when I was writing this story a few years ago, to say the least!
Chapter 148: B3 Ch35: Unsteady Escalation
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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David Brown
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David’s daughter was a lovely young woman. She had a wonderful, brilliant mind, and while her conversational abilities were famed for a number of reasons, some of which were often seen in a poor light, he’d always thought she had a genuine knack for cutting to the core of an issue well before others had begun to peel off the first layer. He was a proud father, and not just because he was grateful for her dragging him into a world straight out of his childhood fantasies. She’d accomplished so much in so short a time, and aside from a few oversteps, she’d done it with a clean, clinical efficiency.
All that being said, she’d really been expecting him to pay back that gift.
Sara’s dream for Tulian, and for the world around it, was something that very few of its natives could understand. It was a dream born of a different, far more advanced world, one swamped in so much excess capital and labor (no matter how inefficiently collected or managed) that stories once dismissed as childish naiveté had, over time, morphed into something achievable. Not remotely achievable in the short term, of course, but technically possible, if the peoples of the world were to unite and cooperate in a dozen different impossible ways.
In short, his daughter had set him the completely reasonable goal of creating a post-scarcity society. A society without needs, only wants. A society which had forgotten hardship, replacing labor with art. She wanted him to bring that into existence.
From scratch.
As soon as possible.
The logic behind it was sound, he supposed. The two of them had a wealth of knowledge unlike anyone else in this world, and though they were surrounded on all sides by enemies, they had almost as many powerful allies at their side. Garen was one of the rare few Archmages who had actually maintained his connection to reality, rather than diving ever-deeper into magical esoterica, and Sara had married a one-woman Industrial Revolution in the form of Hurlish. That woman’s astounding skill had allowed them to skip a half-dozen steps in the long chain of tools to make tools to make tools, leapfrogging them straight past sawmills and into the world of motorized metal lathes. Then, with Evie and Vesta’s business acumen, they’d been slowly letting their innovations trickle out across the world, currently selling small batches as luxury items at absurd prices, carefully hoarding a backlog of the same products to someday flood out en-masse, once the ultra-wealthy in a given market had bought their fill.
But mechanical products weren’t what interested Sara. They were a necessity, yes, but only as a prerequisite. Sara’s specific interest was in combining the technology of their homeworld with the magic of this new land. The pieces for a post-scarcity society were all there. Mages could rejuvenate soil, artificers could create exotic materials impossible to replicate even on earth, and individual Classes lent even the common man a difficult-to-comprehend degree of strength and competency.
This world was, without exaggeration, better than Earth. It had every advantage Earth did, and many more beyond it. The only possibility that concerned David was its age, and therefore its potential lack of fossil fuels. Even his scant review of what little geological research existed seemed to readily support the theory of a created planet. How long ago it was created, however, and, if it was newer than a few hundred million years old, to what degree it was patterned on Earth? If it was created with simulated ancient biological masses? David didn’t know. What he did know was that there was some amount of coal and oil, but the volume of those resources were entirely unknown to him. They could be freak coincidences, or the result of some forgotten mad alchemist. Sara thankfully detested the idea of using them, so he didn’t need to be particularly concerned about it.
Instead Sara had argued, rather convincingly, that they should try to skip straight over the back half of the Industrial Revolution, aiming for the magical equivalent of solar panels and nuclear reactors, and use wherever they landed as a springboard to jump into that fabled post-scarcity society. Magical energy was rapidly renewable, could be easily translated into any kind of mechanical motion, and was versatile in a dozen different ways that traditional power sources weren’t. If you could mechanize food acquisition, mass-train Mages for the rejuvenation of soil, and all the while keep producing industrial quantities of high-quality fertilizers, then you were halfway there.
David’s first goal was to make food in such volume it was cheaper than free. If they had their way, just finding enough space to store the damn stuff would be a pain. In Sara’s plan, farmers wouldn’t make a living on the profit margins of their crop, but rather a government salary, just like any other kind of public servant. (David had some concerns about that, knowing what he did about the Soviet Union’s attempt to manage their nation’s farms, but it was a laudable goal to strive towards nonetheless.)
Then, if he managed that, the next major hurdle would be the automation of complex industries. That sounded utterly impossible to his modern mind, even if he’d had access to all of Earth’s technology, much less this proto-Industrial society. Mechanized as it was, industry was just too varied, too complex, for there to be a simple patch to slap on everything that made it ‘just work.’
In this world, however, there were possible angles to explore. Garen had told him that certain varieties of Mages and Archmages had been making humanoid “golems” since time immemorial. While lacking the Talmudic origins of their Earthly equivalent, the linguistic crossover was understandable. Essentially robots made of exotically manifested stone and clay, the magical golems were reportedly incredibly versatile, with the finest crafted examples being capable of imitating all ranges of human motion and dexterity. Unfortunately, the reagents necessary to create them were absurdly rare and expensive, equally difficult to acquire, with the methodology of their creation a closely guarded secret. Garen himself was at a loss for how to create even a single one. Mass production was laughable.
But those were a distant goal. Years away in the best of cases, and David still wasn’t sure if those “golems” were the ideal option. After all, it’s not like anyone had tried to make a fully automated factory on this world. Before Sara, they hadn’t even developed the concept of assembly lines. David’s first and most important goal was to eliminate food scarcity, his second was to improve educational standards, and his third was to begin progressing towards some type of large-scale automation. It was the work of decades, not months or years.
Guess it’s a good thing I got started now, David thought, running a hand over his wispy, bald head. The work of “decades” likely meant the rest of his life. He was old and out of shape. He hadn’t always been old, but he had always been out of shape, even as a kid, and that didn’t lend him a good chance of living a long life. Maybe not long enough to see through everything Sara wanted done.
He was a staunch atheist back on Earth, and despite the popularity of it among other atheists, he’d never managed to adopt the calm stoicism towards his inevitable death that others had. The thought of dying, much less dying before Sara was ready to be without him, was utterly terrifying. Magical healing may have wiped away a dozen aches and pains he’d never known he had, fixing his back, knees, and eyes, but that was no guarantee for how long he’d live. Even the best healers couldn’t extend a human’s natural lifespan beyond a certain point. Archmages like Garen only lived as long as they did because of the complex alterations self-applied to their body and soul, something that couldn’t be done upon another person. He was sixty. How long did he have? Ten years? Twenty? Even if he had thirty, he didn’t think it was long enough.
No point thinking about that, though, he forcefully reminded himself, choosing his favorite form of coping mechanism: distraction.
He was in his massive, oversized office, reading through student assignments that had been turned in the day before. The work he was grading was fairly simple practice for the students, and followed an ancient and honored tradition of tenured professors:
Getting undergrads to do his work for him.
His students had been, on the slightly shaky excuse of improving their mathematics and statistics skills by applying them to real-world scenarios, tallying Tulian’s recent imports and exports. They’d spent the day poring over the steadily-growing mountain of paperwork Vesta kept, doing the same work that her accountants had, essentially checking their work by looking for inconsistencies. Which was what David was supposed to do, as part of his weird, barely-defined role as director of Tulian’s new industries.
It was particularly helpful to be reading through his student’s reports, imperfect though they were, because David couldn’t have ever kept track of the list of mechanical products that Tulian was now the sole source of in all the world. Leaf springs, gargantuan steel anvils, steel tools and weapons, copper sheeting services for ships, crystal-clear glass, the first magnifying glasses, a vomitous spew of copied books, fountain pens, steel-toed boots, standardized crates, pallets, Azarketi nylon, and even the muskets that they’d been allowing to trickle out to the Carrions as the Tulian Army replaced its oldest stock, not to mention a hundred other tiny bits and bobs. One group of smiths, a collection of recent immigrants, had started transitioning their efforts to building a screw factory. An entire factory for screws. No one had told them to do that, they’d just seen the opportunity. That was jumping well past assembly line work, ignoring Ford’s all-in-one factories, and going straight for Post-Fordist flexible supply chains. David wasn’t sure how much of a profit they’d be able to turn at this stage in the Industrial Revolution, but he hadn’t discouraged them.
As he kept reading through the reports, his eyes kept turning back towards those muskets they were selling the Carrion Navy. They’d provided the world’s largest known naval power only traditional smoothbore flintlocks thus far, being as careful as possible to keep the secrets of rifling and the Minié ball close to their chest, but even the guns that had been sold were a massive advantage that the Carrions didn’t need. Rifled barrels and the bullets to use them were going to get loose at some point, true, but it would be a much longer time before anyone except the highest-Level smiths could recreate the accuracy of Tulian’s machine-tooled firearms.
Unless magic can bridge the gap, David pointedly reminded himself. With how excited he was to see what all this world had to offer, he constantly found himself falling into the oddest trap: forgetting magic existed at all. His assumption that simple technological superiority was enough to maintain their safety couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, assuming that technology alone could overwhelm magic was a faulty conclusion. Thus far, at least as it had been described to him by Garen, their more magical opponents had been defeated more by their own incredulous reactions to Tulian technology than anything else.
“Hey, Garen,” David said, looking up from his work, “what do you think the Sporatons are going to come at us with next?”
The Archmage was, as had become their custom, sharing David’s office while they whiled away the hours evaluating student work. Garen’s half-shaved stubble made a pleasant little scritching noise as he rubbed his hand thoughtfully across his chin, smiling subtly at the chance for distraction.
“In an abstract sense, or are you looking for more specific information on their prospective countermeasures to our weaponry?”
“I mean, I’d love the second, but I doubt you have anything to offer.”
“Correct. But I do have theories.” Garen set aside several papers, interlacing his fingers to pop them over his head. He lowered his hands and made a few quick gestures, summoning a perfect hologram of a generic Sporaton Knight. “Most prominently, I imagine that the Knights which will assault us this time will not make the mistake of wearing armor designed to resist spells. Not only do we have a dearth of Mages as a whole, our Republic’s interim leader patently refuses to ‘waste’ them in battle. Armor of the sort designed to resist spells behaves much like those of your old world when they encounter a cannonball.”
A cannonball shimmered into place a few feet away, shooting through the Knight’s armor with ease. David was grateful the recreation only faded out of existence, rather than splaying the table with illusory entrails.
“I anticipate that they will have spent considerable time and energy improving the enchantments involved with protecting them from physical impacts.”
Another Knight and associated cannonball appeared, repeating the process. The cannonball struck home, but instead of piercing the miniature enemy, it shattered to pieces, chips of light fading as they floated away. The fake Knight staggered backward, dropping to a knee to stabilize itself, but was otherwise unharmed.
Something caught David’s eye. He leaned in, squinting. “Hey, what’s up with that? It looks like you made the table crack.”
“Hm?” Garen glanced over, having only paid half attention to his own display. Adjusted to the scale of the Knight, illusory cracks rippled out ten feet or so behind the figure. “Well, yes, of course,” Garen said. “That’s how the best of physically protective enchantments work. The energy is distributed to the surrounding environment, rather than requiring the armor itself to bear the brunt of the blow. While much more complex an implementation of shock-absorption spells, once created, it’s both more effective and exceptionally efficient. Up until recently, however, those Knights facing opponents who necessitated such extreme measures were a vanishingly small minority. They were mostly those who hunted large, predatory beasts, such as those which exist in the southern jungles or northern wastelands. Under normal circumstances, any sensible Knight would prefer to strike a compromise over such over-specialization.”
“Fascinating.” David adjusted his glasses. An old, useless habit now that they were uncurved pieces of glass worn only for style. “So it requires a direct physical connection to a sturdy material, then? Or would it work if they were hit in midair, distributing the energy to the atmosphere? Is there a limit to the range it can use materials for force nullification?” David blinked, something else occurring to him. “Wait, hold on. The northern wastelands have giant animals? What kind? Because most tundra biomes should really struggle to support megafauna, unless you’re talking about large, migratory herbivores like mammoths- oh, mammoths are similar to elephants, but evolved to- you know what an elephant is, right, or are they not-?”
Before David could be sucked down another rabbit hole, the crystal in his pocket began to make muffled noise. Judging by the tone of it, and the fact that it was growing more impatient-sounding by the second, he already knew who it was. David pulled the crystal out of his pocket, setting it on the desk between him and Garen.
“-actually kind of important this time, Dad, so if you could just-”
“I’m here,” he said, talking over his daughter, as was so often necessary. “What did you need?”
“Dad? That you? Okay, good. How soon can you go talk to Garen?”
The two men shared a look.
“He’s right here.”
“Of course he is. Look, I need you two to-”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Not important. Look, I’ve got two letters here for you and Garen. I need him to take them. They’re in that box he gave Evie.”
That had David licking his lips. The crystal communication network, one of the greatest single feats of magical technology Tulian had thus far achieved, was distributed only between the highest levels of the Tulian hierarchy. Which should have meant it was only in the hands of people Sara trusted implicitly. If she wanted to send a message without people like Vesta, Tinvel, and the Generals of the army overhearing, it must be quite the damn message.
“I have them,” Garen announced, pulling them without flourish from his robe sleeve. “Do you wish us to stay in communication until after we read them?”
“No. They’re orders, not questions. I’ll talk to you later. Vesta, are you there? Evie needs to discuss some stuff with you. How are our lines of credit doing?”
There was a brief pause, then Vesta was on the line. Evie immediately launched into complex economic terminology, all of which flew well over David’s head. He returned the crystal to its leather satchel, adding a wad of cotton to help him ignore the buzzing hum.
The two papers Garen had produced were simple, unremarkable parchment paper, and weren’t enclosed in any sort of packaging. They were just folded in half, a bit of colorless wax dobbed on to keep them from unfolding. One was labeled “Garen,” the other “David.” He accepted his own with a murmured thanks, turning it over in his hands. There was really nothing else to it. Just a single sheet of paper.
“She was concerningly curt, was she not?” Garen asked as he used his finger to break the tiny seal. “I’ve learned that it never bodes well when the Champion of Amarat is too busy for a chat.”
“I’ll say,” David murmured, flipping open his own letter.
The first thing he noted was the fact that Sara hadn’t written it herself; it was actually legible. Evie’s neat handwriting was scratched with mechanical precision across the page, dotting off rapid, tight sentences. And judging by the militant tone it took, Evie had taken considerable liberties interpreting Sara’s dictation.
Anticipated enemy has grown considerably. Old threats remain, but additional concerns of unknown number, composition, origin, strength, capability, and motivation are to be expected within 3-4 months (±)30%.
Band authorization has expanded as result. Black Sabbath through Slayer.
Take appropriate measures to ensure volume has been raised before three months have passed. Do NOT overstep Slayer. Direct quote: “Tell Dad for the last fucking time, he can’t get Tinvel killed trying to make any stupid-ass rocket planes.”
Operate under assumption of necessity to overcome enemies of here-to-fore unseen physical durability, speed, and vectors of engagement.
If more information on threat is uncovered, will be forwarded promptly. Do not anticipate more information.
David lifted his head from his paper, glasses dangling off the tip of his nose. Garen was staring at his own sheet with a similar expression of shock, if a bit more reserved. David wondered if that was because it had the same content, or if Garen had been blindsided by something else entirely.
“Well,” David said, clearing his throat. “I don’t know about you, but I think I just got a lot more work put on my plate.”
“As have I,” Garen muttered. “Though I’m not sure what, exactly, the Governess expects me to do about this.”
David held up a hand. “Hey, don’t tell me. She sent us two letters for a reason. Operational security and all that.”
Garen raised an eyebrow. “We both head the same university, David. What would we be capable of hiding from each other?”
“That depends. Did you know about this?” David got out of his chair and moved across the room, to the wall opposite the door. While most of the University still had the rotting wallpaper that had adorned it when they’d occupied its empty carcass, the classrooms and David’s office had received a fresh coat of paint.
That paint helped hide the secret compartment that he now found by tapping on the wall, waiting until he heard a more hollow thump than most. Sliding his hand down, he applied a touch of pressure to unlock the mechanism within, which allowed a tall, skinny door to reveal itself.
He’d imagined it seamlessly popping open, just like in the movies, but the reality was quite disappointing. The paint which hid the seams was very sticky, and his dramatic moment was ruined by the way he had to jerk the door forward and back, grunting with effort as the paint peeled away piece by piece, slowly letting the hidden compartment unveil itself.
“There!” He declared, panting slightly as he turned back to Garen, holding his hands out theatrically at the secret cubby. “Did you know this was here?”
“Yes.”
David blinked. “What?”
“I am an Archmage, David. You should know by now that I regularly inspect my place of work and home for hidden compartments.”
“Okay, fine.” David grabbed the long rifle that had been sitting in the wall for months, snagging a waxed bag of paper cartridges. “But do you know what actually makes it important?”
“No.” Garen leaned forward. He sounded mildly intrigued, which was the most he ever got for non-magical inventions. “I assumed it was a tool of last resort, in the event the University was under siege. Does it differ from other muskets in some way?”
“A big one, yeah. It’s called an ‘Allin modification.’ They made them after the US Civil War, to try and update all the old guns that weren’t as useful anymore. And since Sara patterned Tulian’s rifles on US Civil War weapons, I thought it’d be best if…” David trailed off. “You know what? I’ll just show you when I show the gunsmiths. Easier that way. I’ve got a lot of stuff to start working on, and most of it isn’t going to be something I could keep a secret from you, anyway. Want to come see the demonstration?”
“I suppose so,” Garen said, stretching as he stood. “After that letter, I have far too much to consider. Best to let it simmer. Should we cancel the afternoon lessons?”
David shouldered the rifle, pocketing a package of paper cartridges. “Probably for the best. I’ve got a lot to do. And I don’t think the kids will really mind.”
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As could only be expected, David and Garen took the strange-looking rifle straight to the best gunsmiths in the city: the shop of Hurlish of Tulian, where a humble forge had been steadily sprawling outward over the months until reaching its present extent, which took up all of what was once a communal smithing pavilion. Last month, it had finally been ensconced within walls of thick wooden beams and thin sheet metal. Fences from the city’s noble manors had been ripped up and brought over, creating a double-layered series of wrought iron obstacles around the building. Wide funnels sprouted from the roof in irregular patterns, belching smoke and steam, creating towers of black and white that were visible across half the city.
“I’m here to see Hurlish’s apprentices,” David said as he walked up to the guards at the outermost gate. He patted the rifle he held. “I’ve got a new toy for them to check out. We’ll probably be test-firing it later, by the way, so don’t be alarmed if you hear gunshots.”
The catfolk guard stared stonily at him. “Inspection,” he ordered.
“Ah, fine,” David said, leaning forward. “This always sucks, by the way.”
“We don’t like it either,” the other guard rumbled.
David stood in decided discomfort as the catfolk guard poked and prodded at his face, inspecting the way the flesh felt in comparison to how it appeared to be moving. It was a primitive and invasive way to detect people hiding their identity with illusions, but effective, so long as the spellcaster wasn’t uncommonly skilled.
Satisfied, the catfolk looked at Garen. “Inspection.”
The sole Archmage of Tulian had a stormy expression on his face as he leaned forward, but it didn’t last long. Not because he was any more agreeable to it than David, of course. It was just hard to maintain any particular expression while a catfolk man kneaded his face like dough.
“You’re good,” he said, waving them on.
Garen and David stepped past the guards together, then hooked a right, forced by the design of the fences to walk a ways further in order to get to the next gate. There they were treated to the same process, just as awkward as the first, and only then were finally allowed into the smithy proper.
David glanced up at the emblazoned logo above the big warehouse doors. The letters “H.O.T.” had been cut out of thin copper, the letters curved to fit into the cogwheel emblem that surrounded them.
“At least they have a good logo,” David said, “even if I really wish they’d gone with a more subtle name.”
“When have any of your daughters been interested in subtlety?” Garen chuckled.
David still wasn’t used to hearing ‘daughters,’ plural, but that was the culture here. As far as most people in Tulian were concerned, David was the father of Evie and Hurlish. Particularly since both of their birth fathers had been dead for years. He was just grateful the two women hadn’t started actually treating him like a father.
“Still,” he said, moving past the large garage-style doors in favor of a much smaller side entrance, “I don’t exactly like my daughter’s business being named after how attractive she thinks her wife is.”
“After spending so long among those trapped in political marriages, I cannot sympathize,” Garen laughed. “I think you should be incredibly happy that they are such enthusiastic partners. It’s rare for those in positions of power to be able to afford such a luxury.”
The comment involuntarily forced into David’s mind the image of Sara, still a Champion, but one forced to marry some Sporaton noble or Carrion politician for the good of Tulian. He shuddered.
“I guess you’re right about that.”
David stopped just before the door, pulling out a set of earmuffs. The sound of squealing machinery was already audible, and even if healing magic could have fixed any hearing damage, the shrill screech of metal still hurt. Garen didn’t seem bothered, however, presumably on account of yet another of his endless defensive Wards.
The shop was hidden behind so many layers of security for a reason. Despite being one of the largest new-construction buildings in Tulian by square footage, it felt remarkably cramped. Wherever David looked, Hurlish’s apprentices were leaning on, staring at, inspecting, or operating a vast array of machinery. The march of industry was laid out in radial fashion, expanding from the much smaller centerpiece that had been Hurlish’s original shop. Most of the benches at that original core featured iron anvils, basic clamps, and hand-cranked lathes, their soft-headed drills barely capable of chipping away at iron. Those had been the tools which had created the next layer: machines made of iron and partial steel, the first powered tools of Tulian’s industry. Long shafts ran to nearby steam engines, smaller variants which could power no more than one or two devices on their own. A collection of heat-enchanted crystals served in the place of coal in their boilers, and David could see a bored-looking apprentice sorting through cooled-off piles of the crystals, inspecting each one for cracks. The small crystals broke frequently, unable to handle the strain of such a high-temperature environment.
It was the last layer of progress that greeted David and Garen at the entrance, and it was these machines which had necessitated the security measures that had troubled them on the way in. Metal clanked and thumped at deafening volumes, a pair of thirty-foot steam engines on either side of the warehouse responsible for powering the industry framed by their bulk. The massive steel driveshafts which transmitted their power were set low to the ground, requiring walkways to be built overtop them. They powered two lathes of monstrous proportions, thee drill bits of several precision-geared milling machines, and even kept several sets of gargantuan iron-framed fans spinning, blowing any form of potentially toxic gas out of large vent holes cut from the building’s side. Other machines of varying purpose were slotted between the larger pieces, each attended by a handful of workers.
That was where his vocabulary for the devices began to fail. David saw pipes being run back and forth between a trio of steel wheels, each repetition bending them a little bit more than the last, eventually turning a straight pipe into one curved to whatever degree the workers desired. The pipes themselves were being created nearby as molten metal was poured into a tall, vertical mold, one which vibrated like a murderous washing machine as its interior was spun up to several hundred RPMs. That forced the metal to be slung against the walls of the container by centrifugal force, avoiding the waste of material and time that might have been needed if they had to machine away the imperfections of traditional smithing. Several more devices whirred and hummed alongside, sometimes even powered directly by magical crystals rather than the steam engines, and more still were under construction, workers paying close attention to the blueprints that had been drawn up by Hurlish copying Sara’s illusions.
The entire space would have looked like it was straight out of the 1800s, if not for the variety of safety measures Sara had written into law across Tulian. The driveshafts were covered by wood, to prevent the brutal dismemberment that would follow if the tiniest bit of clothing was snagged on them, and any area with rotating machinery had vibrant yellow paint outlining the areas that only those operating the equipment were allowed to occupy. Pipes criss-crossed overhead in the dozens, filled to bursting with high pressure water that could be activated from countless clearly-marked emergency valves. Sara even had Hurlish’s apprentices wearing chopped-up army gear, steel caps replacing the hardhats that would have been worn on Earth.
What had been created here was a proper factory. Not just by the standards of this world, but by any Earthly measure. That meant it was Tulian’s most closely-guarded secret. One of the lathes was coring out the center of yet another 12-pounder field cannon, the other doing the same to a 24-pounder naval gun. Both processes would take only hours to complete, not the days that would have been required by waterwheel-powered boring. On the milling machines, David could see workers cutting out a variety of rifle triggers, sights, barrels, and other, even more complex implements. The same blacksmiths that once took an entire day hammering out the parts required for a single musket were now slicing out a dozen each shift. Even if he’d never studied a page of military history in his life, David could have seen how valuable that was.
To an outsider who didn’t know what was waiting in Tulian’s hidden factories, it was a miracle. The wider world was beginning to realize that the small Republic was capable of pouring out frightening volumes of industrial product compared to their population, but they hadn’t yet grasped how it was happening. That needed to remain the case for as long as possible.
“Hello!” David called out, trying to grab the attention of a man he knew somewhat well— Hurlish’s head apprentice, Gebun. “I know you’re busy, but I’ve got something from the Governess!”
Gebun, a human man in his late thirties, held up a hand. He kept a watchful eye on the 12-pounder cannon that was being bored out, the machine spitting chips of bronze across the factory floor. Following his gaze, David saw he was comparing the depth of the boring process to a mark that had been placed on the barrel and machine, waiting for them to line up.
“Halt!” He suddenly barked.
The apprentice cranking the feed rod’s control wheel froze, then gave it a few quick spins in the opposite direction, backing the barrel off the spindle. A few more bits of bronze were spat out before Gebun walked up to the machine, pulling the massive lever that disconnected it from the factory’s primary driveshaft. The entire warehouse grew a touch quieter as the machine whirred down.
“Professor Brown,” Gebun said as he turned around, wiping black grease on the rag tied to his waist. “And Archmage Garen. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“My daughter, I’m afraid,” David said, still having to raise his voice over the rest of the squealing factory work. He patted the rifle on his shoulder, then glanced at a door that led to the back. “I can show you outside, if you’d like?”
Gebun’s eyes sparkled with a keen interest, and he nodded. Turning around to the other workers, he shouted, “Sweep up all of that bronze for reforging! I don’t want to lose a single scrap, you hear me? That’s a month of your wages laying on the floor!”
The other lathe workers acknowledged this request robotically, as if it was so obvious a command that it didn’t need to be said. Even then, Gebun waited until each had said something in response before being satisfied.
“Interesting looking piece y’got there,” Gebun said, eying the rifle as they walked towards the factory’s rear. “Looks like you cut a chunk out of the breech? What’s it for?”
“Can’t a man be allowed any secrets?” David lamented. “I just want to show you the impressive part all at once, like they do in the movies. It makes it so much more fun.”
“We’re taking it to shoot, then?” Gebun asked.
“Yep. You still have that shooting range set up back there, right?”
The blacksmith chuckled. “If you can call an alleyway and a pile of sand a shooting range, yes. It hasn’t been used for anything serious in a good while. Some of the apprentices use it to fire off potshots during their lunch break, but that’s about it.”
“Well, it should work.”
Gebun opened the warehouse’s rear door for Garen and David, waving them on. David adjusted his earmuffs as they exited the deafening warehouse, but didn’t take them off.
“Okay,” he said, piecing together his explanation of the gun in his head, “this is called an Allin modification. It’s what my old country back on Earth did with all their excess 1860s-era muskets after the war, to make them more useful. After some…” David paused, remembering that he wasn’t supposed to give anything away to someone like Gebun, “...recent decisions, Sara’s decided that we need to start upgrading our rifles. This is how we do it. You see this here?”
David turned the rifle so both men could see the rear of the musket, pointing at the spot just before the crystal-tipped hammer. It was the rifle’s chamber, where the metal barrel had been thickened to resist the propulsive charge’s detonation. Unlike the Springfield 1861 that the Tulian army had trained on, which would have had a smooth, flat surface over the breech, the rifle in David’s hand featured a dipped curve, the right side of which ended in a bulging, angled cylinder.
“It’s not hard to spot,” Garen said. “But it represents what, exactly?”
“About triple or quadruple the fire rate,” David smugly replied. He put his thumb under the cylinder and, with barely a flick of his finger, opened up the chamber. He dropped a paper cartridge into place, jammed it forward with his finger so the Minié ball was firmly set in the firing position, then flicked the latch closed. “Poof,” he said, “the gun is loaded just like that.” It hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, compared to the twenty or so required to load a muzzle-loader.
He started to put the gun to his shoulder, squinting at the pile of sand at the other end of the blocked-off alleyway, but Gebun interrupted him with an astonished exclamation.
“What are you doing?” He demanded. “Do not fire that! The powder’s explosion will leak out and blind you, if it does not simply blow that fragile thing to pieces.”
David glanced at him without lowering the rifle. “Hurlish made this for me.”
Gebun blinked. “Ah.” He stepped back, waving David on.
David pulled the trigger, the crystal-tipped hammer driving sparks down into the paper-wrapped blackpowder. An almost imperceptible instant later, the gun bucked, driving hard into his shoulder.
Without sparing a second to inspect his target, David dropped the rifle out of a firing stance, holding it in one hand as he pulled another paper cartridge from his breast pocket. He used his thumb to flip open the breech chamber, ignoring the lingering smoke that rose up, and dropped the cartridge in. Five seconds after the first shot had cracked across the alley, David had the rifle on his shoulder. He pulled the trigger before the cloud of blackpowder smoke had a chance to dissipate.
He could have kept going, but the point had been made. He set the rifle butt against the ground, grinning widely. Garen had little more than mild interest on his face, which was to be expected, but Gebun’s reaction was far more gratifying. His eyes first went wide in shock, then narrowed, calculations playing out behind his dark pupils.
“It’s even faster-firing than the original version my home world had,” David said. “Those used single-use percussion caps instead of enchanted crystals, which meant you had to replace the cap over the hammer each time you fired. I’m sure with some solid practice, proper soldiers could fire this a lot quicker than I just did.”
“May I see it?” Gebun asked.
David handed the rifle over easily, still enjoying the high of a demonstration gone well. Privately, he’d been worried the crystal sparks wouldn’t ignite the blackpowder charge on the first trigger pull. It was a problem he and Hurlish had encountered in testing the weapon. The muzzle-loading rifles required their users to rip open the package, dumping loose powder down the barrel, with the paper container used as wadding for the projectile. Paper was flammable, yes, but not enough so that a few scant sparks would burn through in an instant. Hurlish had gotten around the issue by using a much larger, more robust spark-crystal on the Allin-conversion’s hammer, but that wasn’t ideal for mass-manufacture. They’d be taking old muskets and cutting out the breeches for alteration, and that meant the less new material that was required, the better.
“Garen,” David said, turning toward the Archmage. “There’s something in Hurlish’s office that I need to get into. Evie’s the only one with the key, but I was hoping you could open it for me?”
“Of course,” he said. “Though I hope you understand that I’ll only be capable of breaking it open, not undoing the lock.”
“That’s fine. Probably. Anyway, I’ll be right back,” David told Gebun. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of paper cartridges, handing them over. “Give it a few tries yourself. I think you’ll like it.”
David led Garen back to Hurlish’s office in the warehouse, which had collected a slight layer of dust in her absence. He pointed out the section of cobblestones which were placed over the hidden chest, which Garen floated out of the way, then the Archmage levitated a hidden eight-foot-long steel chest out of the ground. With a quick wave, he cut through the lock, flipping open the lid.
David began rummaging through its contents while Garen kept an eye on the door, making sure no curious worker wandered in. There was a lot more in that chest than just what they needed right now. Prototype guns Hurlish had created that Sara had decided to keep hidden for now, as well as designs for other, larger weapons, and even a few enchanted bits and bobs that had been collected from the ruins of Old Tulian, the precious few items that looters hadn’t found over the years.
Compared to what he could have retrieved, David was fairly restrained. Three additional rifles, their associated design documents, and a few extra sheets of paper with blueprints for other things that he thought were worth breaking out. He had a slight crisis of conscience as he evaluated some of the more advanced things in Hurlish’s treasure trove, debating on whether or not the letter he’d received justified their use, but ultimately decided to play it safe. He would write a letter back to Sara later on for clarification on what she wanted to reveal to the wider world.
“Alright,” David said, wrapping an awkward bundle of papers and guns in his arms. “That should be good. Can you hide it again?”
The massive chest made a screeching noise as it was shoved across the stones, then carefully lowered into the hole. The stones were returned to their places, grout appearing from nothing to seal them together. In seconds, it was impossible to tell the area had ever been disturbed at all.
“Man, I wish I could learn how to do that,” David muttered.
“You will, in time,” Garen assured him.
“Here’s hoping.” David huffed slightly as he turned to fit through the doorway, accidentally knocking one of the rifle’s butts against the wooden frame. “But for now, I guess I can settle with having you around.”
“Ah, yes,” Garen said sarcastically, “having to ‘settle’ for your nation’s lone Archmage personally attending your work as a manual laborer. Such a cruel fate you have, David.”
“Hey, can you blame me?” He kicked open the door to the alleyway. “If I could have you around and cast spells myself, that’d be even better.”
David flinched slightly as a gunshot sounded in the narrow alleyway. Gebun dropped the rifle into a loading position before the crack finished echoing, throwing another paper cartridge into the gun and lifting it in the same motion he slammed the trapdoor mechanism shut. A bullet pierced the cloud of blackpowder smoke a breath later.
“You liking it?”
“How long have you had this?” Gebun demanded, turning on him. “What was the point of spending months and months building 1861 rifles when this existed?”
David pulled back slightly, taken by surprise at the smith’s frustration.
“Uh. Sara told me to?”
Gebun shook the rifle furiously. “Why? Why would she want that? This gun is the superior of anything I have ever made, and we have had the necessary equipment to produce its kind for months! How much of our time and energy has been wasted on needlessly inferior work?”
Oh boy, David thought, just you wait. I can’t imagine how mad you’re gonna be once Sara really takes the training wheels off.
“She wished to avoid the enemy copying such weaponry too soon,” Garen said sharply, speaking before David could come up with a proper response. “Now that the enemy has begun tooling their industries for the hand-production of simpler muskets, it will be even more difficult for them to yet again pivot towards the mimicry of these ‘Allin-conversions’. The expense of creating an entirely novel industry for the manufacture of firearms likely drained their coffers, and they will be ill-prepared to yet again dismantle everything in favor of pursuing our newer rifles. Thus our advantage is maintained, Smith Gebun. Do you understand?”
Gebun shrank under the Archmage’s lecturing tone. David couldn’t have said it better himself, but if he’d tried, it probably would have used less of a ‘are you stupid?’ tone of voice.
“Uh. Yeah, basically that,” David hesitantly agreed. “But you’re not quite right that there was no reason we weren’t making these. See that bit there?” David tried to point at the gun, then realized it was impossible with his arms full. He set them down, taking the Allin-conversion from Gebun. “This part right here, on the inside” he said, pointing properly. “It’s meant to eject a metal casing from the gun when you flip the trapdoor up. These guns back home were meant to be used with their blackpowder being held in thin brass containers. But since we haven’t had nearly enough raw material to produce brass in large quantities, especially with almost all of it going towards artillery, Sara’s been waiting for our material supply to firm up. But since that hasn’t happened, and it’s been long enough without any improvements, I guess she decided to give it the go-ahead anyway.”
It wasn’t quite the truth, but it wasn’t quite a lie, either. Sara probably would have happily stuck with muzzle-loading rifles for as long as they were directly superior to their opponent’s weapons, even if that meant using them for years. Whatever this vague threat was, it had spurred her to become a bit more proactive.
Gebun rubbed his hand across his mouth, inspecting the Allin-conversion thoughtfully. “You’re right that we’re struggling to get the material even for the cannons, of course. Brass or bronze containers for every shot from every gun sounds impossible. And a little bit pointless. They’d certainly be more robust than paper, but how would you ignite them?”
“Something like those percussion caps I mentioned, but built into the casing itself,” David said. He bent over and shuffled through the papers, finding the schematic for a standard .30-06 round. “Like this. But that would require something called mercury fulminate, an impact explosive. That means it goes off when it’s hit by the trigger mechanism, lighting the blackpowder. Our alchemists haven’t managed to make that stuff yet. It’s not super difficult to make, but they haven’t been trying all that hard, since we’ve been using crystals in place of percussion caps.”
“Hm.” Gebun inspected the modern bullet’s schematic, then nodded at the other rifles David had piled at his feet. “And these?”
“Other Allin conversions,” David explained. “There were a lot of different versions back on Earth, and I couldn’t remember which worked the best. And since they all used metal cartridges, not paper, I’m not sure if the ‘best’ of them would actually be the best for our use case. I want you to test them. I’m pretty worried about barrel fouling, since it’ll be burning so much paper in a gun not designed for it. I’m also worried about the bullet getting set properly when people are shooting. It might be better to switch back to balls, so that it’s harder for a shooter to misalign the round in the chamber. If they put a Minié ball in just a little bit off-center, it may end up scraping the barrel to hell and back. We need lots of testing done.”
“I see.” Gebun took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly. “Well. At least our time hasn’t been a complete waste. When do you want these tests completed? We’ve already got a lot of work waiting for available machines, as you well know.”
“About that,” David said, forcing an uncomfortable, apologetic smile across his face. “Sara wanted all of the Tulian Army’s guns converted within three months. Sooner, if possible.”
Gebun stared at him.
“Not my decision,” David said weakly.
“Three months.”
“Two, ideally.”
“You’re joking.”
“Um. No.”
Gebun chewed his cheek. Looked down at the rifles and papers, then back up to the warehouse.
“Hurlish isn’t even here to help.” He blew out a loud sigh. “Well then. Judging by the way the rest of those papers aren’t just drawings of these Allin-conversions, I’m guessing that’s not all you have for me?”
“Afraid not.” David picked up a paper, turning it over to show Gebun. “I know the HOT factory doesn’t usually do ammunition manufacturing, but for these, I think you’ll have to. No one else is good enough.”
Gebun made a noise not unlike a growl. David tried to ignore it.
“So. Uh. When you break it down, this isn’t too complicated. This here is called APCBC, short for Armor Piercing Capped Ballistic-Capped.”
“...What?”
“Don’t worry. It makes more sense than you’d think. A round like this is created by putting an aerodynamic cap on top of an armor-piercing cap, which is on top of the main body, which protects the explosive charge at the base, which has a fuze behind it, which is set by the cannon as it’s fired by engaging this mechanism here.” He took a breath and cleared his throat, avoiding Gebun’s glare. “Now, the aerodynamic cap is best made of a lightweight, easily crumpled metal, but the armor-piercing cap is best made out of some particularly strong steel alloys, so that it’s less likely to shatter on impact…”
Gebun’s eyes began to glaze over. As David continued his explanation of what Tulian’s industry would be expected to produce over the coming weeks, David got the distinct impression that he was not winning any friends among his own daughter-in-law’s employees.
Notes:
Things are starting to escalate. For those of you who really enjoy the technical side of APPTV, this chapter was probably near blissful. For those of you who enjoy the action or spice more, well, don't worry. Next week should have you covered.
Also, this story just hit a million fucking words. That's... insane. I never expected that. This short writing practice experiment sure has spiraled out of control, hasn't it?
Chapter 149: B3 Ch36: Late Nights (S)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Tinvel
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It wasn’t easy to find people that didn’t want to be found. That was true in a city, in a town, and, it turned out, in the vast, abandoned plains of southern Tulian.
Both groups had been the survivors of a logging camp that had been razed to the ground by griffon riders. The creatures had fallen out of the sky without warning, crushing men and women underfoot. Imperials without uniforms threw javelins or shot crossbow bolts atop their mounts indiscriminately, but it was the animals that had done most of the killing, bloody beaks ripping limb from limb.
Tinvel and the others had been searching for the griffons for nearly a full week. They’d given up on helping the logging work, using every ounce of flight time they could squeeze out of their plane’s engines to crisscross the seemingly endless fields of grass. Twice now, on the second and fifth day of searching, they’d run across what looked like parties of message-runners. They’d spotted them walking along the trails as a bundle of scarred, scared workers, and they’d decided to touch down nearby in order to investigate.
Tinvel had told those workers that the government already knew about the griffons. That it was what they’d been sent here to put a stop to, and to not head towards the capital, exposing themselves on the long march under hostile skies, and instead make for the nearest logging camps. He’d flown there shortly after, bringing the news ahead of the scattered refugees, and suggested they start using their gargantuan piles of wood to build sturdy shelters.
Then he and Chona had plotted the attacks on a map, adding what scattered few sightings of the enemy they’d seen. Trying to piece together some kind of pattern. Chona kept pointing out that there was no way to tell if they’d just wasted their time notating hazy sightings of buzzards and hawks, but Tinvel didn’t see what else they could do.
Besides, he didn’t think the loggers were that blind. With their dangling legs and massive wingspans, griffons hardly looked like anything else in the air. And there was a pattern to the sightings. Most of them were in the far southeast, with the majority described traveling north and south, only occasionally to the east or west. If he had to guess– and it was a mighty big guess he was making– the griffon-riders were following their own search strategy. They were scouring an imaginary grid of the lands that the jungle sought to overwhelm, making absolutely sure that there were no obstructing camps in their way.
He’d convinced the others that they should focus their search to the southeast as a result. His theory was based on precious little, just spurious accounts from half-dead loggers and only two confirmed attacks, but he felt convinced. More convinced than he’d had any reason to be, frankly. He assumed that the strange sensation was the “gut instinct” he’d heard so much about. After spending so long reading the few textbooks on spellcraft he’d scavenged from ruins as a child, then studying in the university, the notion was almost foreign.
“Seen anything interesting?” Tinvel asked, lifting one hand to press the copper funnel to his lips. The rubber speaking tube he’d tossed together let him and Chona talk in midflight, but only barely. It was still damned loud.
“Nothing that looked like griffons,” Chona replied. She had the keen eyesight common to most vanara, often spotting things he could have only seen with a spyglass. “But I’ve been keeping my eye on a little patch of trees to the southeast. It looks like it was half cut down.”
“We near any logging camps?”
“Not according to the maps.”
Tinvel barely gave that any thought. The longer he’d been flying, the more he yearned for the maps of exacting precision Professor Brown had told them were so common on earth. Maybe there wasn’t a logging camp in the area, maybe there was. No one had bothered to keep track of all the different workers that had been sent out across Tulian, at least not any more than was required to make sure there weren’t too many in any one area.
Still, it wasn’t like he had any better ideas.
“Alright, let’s check it out,” he said, not bothering to hide his doubtful tone. “Toss a green bag.”
He felt Chona rustling around in the seat behind him, and then there was a whumph as the wind caught something that had been tossed overboard. He glanced back just briefly, confirming the bright cloud of green dye had properly spread itself out, then nudged the plane into a gentle roll, curving in the direction Chona had indicated.
A few miles away, he knew, Affe would have seen the ball of dust (mostly composed of dried-out aviation paint they’d crushed into powder) expanding in the air, recognizing it as the sign that he and Chona were going to investigate something they’d spotted. Affe would accordingly alter course a few degrees in their direction, making sure they maintained line-of-sight with one another.
That was important, they’d learned. They’d lost contact early on the first day of their search, and reconnecting had taken the entire rest of the day. Tinvel had started retracing their flight path as best he could, hoping to run into Affe, only to find out hours later that the other pilot had decided to land the very moment he’d realized he couldn’t see Tinvel’s plane, figuring that they’d be easier to spot against the tall grass than the blue sky. The fact that Tinvel had actually run into him was something of an embarrassment, considering what it implied of how lost he’d gotten while trying to retrace his steps.
“We don’t have long left,” Chona said into his ear, her voice stripped of emotion by the rubber speaking tube. “Someone in the capital is going to find out what we’re doing sooner or later. At the very least, they’ll know once word of the attacks gets there.”
“I know,” Tinvel said back, slightly distracted. There was a heavy crosswind, and it took a lot of effort to keep their canvas biplane on a steady course. “I don’t think we’ve got more than another day or two left at best. Let’s hope you found something good this time.”
“Let’s hope so,” Chona agreed.
As they crept up on the distant point of interest, Tinvel couldn’t help but wonder why he was doing this. The deaths of Hunes and Docks had been tragic, yes, but he hadn’t been particularly close to them. Hardly friends, really. Just acquaintances.
So why am I so angry about their deaths? The simple injustice of it? The fact that I could have done something to stop it, but I wasn’t ready for it? Not skilled enough? Am I trying to prove something?
The Church of Amarat taught mindfulness above all else, believing that the path to contentment lay in self-reflection, but Tinvel had never been sure of that. Maybe it worked great for some people, but he’d never struggled with overthinking his own emotions. It was actually coming to a conclusion about things that he found difficult.
“Shit!” Chona yelled, leaning forward and pointing. “That’s really them! There’s a camp under the trees! I can see one, two, three…” She swore again. “Five griffons! They’re resting, I think!”
After so long spent on a fruitless search, it took longer than it should have for the reality of the situation to seep its way through Tinvel’s thick skull. When it did, he cursed.
“Shit! Toss the red dye!” He yelled, flicking the engine up to combat speed. “Are any in the sky?”
Chona flung a package of red powder overboard, creating a massive puff of crimson in the middle of the sky. The vortex of air created by the Sunrise’s prop wash turned it into a dizzying, spiralling mass. “I don’t think so!” She called. “Not that I can see! Don’t wait for Affe! We’ve gotta get them while they’re still on the ground!”
“Already on it!”
He began a shallow dive, trying to angle the Sunrise so they’d be leveling out just before the cluster of trees. He still couldn’t make out much more than a small patch of darker green on the grassy plains, but he trusted Chona’s eyes.
“We’ve only got fifty gallons of boiling thermite!” He told Chona. They’d kept the tanks only partially filled to help extend their search range, which now felt like a mistake. “We’re only gonna get one shot at this, then they’ll be in the air!”
“If they aren’t before we get there! I think they noticed us! They’re putting saddles on the griffons!”
Tinvel grit his teeth. He could feel the temptation to take the Sunrise’s engine up to emergency speed, but he fought it off. They’d been flying for the better part of an hour on this particular hop, and probably would have had to land in forty-five minutes or so, even if they’d only kept to cruise speed. Lacking an exact method of judging remaining flight time, general experience had shown that each speed setting lasted roughly half as long as the previous.
Running the numbers in his head, he came up with an estimate of twenty minutes of combat flight time remaining in the Sunrise’s emeralds. That’s how long they had to kill five griffons.
We should turn around, Tinvel thought, twisting his grip on the flight controls. It’s stupid to gamble it all here. Once he gets here, Affe might have even less of a charge than we do. The Sunrise is faster than a griffon in level flight, and we could get out of sight easily.
He knew Chona was thinking the same thing behind him. It was too obvious of a conclusion. Even if they got the drop on the griffons and bathed their camp in boiling thermite before a single animal could take off, there was next to no chance that they’d get them all. Not with only fifty gallons in the tank.
But Chona didn’t say anything, so Tinvel didn’t, either. Images of Hunes and Docks’ broken bodies floated behind his eyes. It didn’t matter to whom these griffon riders owed their allegiance. Imperials or rebels, Tulian wasn’t at war with them. They’d attacked without reason, provocation, or declaration.
“Get ready!” He yelled. “We’re only gonna get one shot at this!”
He felt the plane rattle slightly as Chona opened the trapdoor between her feet. His supernatural senses were tickled by a spark popping over Chona’s palm.
The strange slowness of aerial combat took over. Despite diving down on their enemies faster than any normal person could have ever dreamed, the distance between the Sunrise and its target was vast. Tinvel was drowning in adrenaline-soaked impatience. The glade of trees gained more definition with every second, first solidifying in his eyes from a blurry blob into a distinct shape, one which slowly sprouted individual trees, before finally unveiling the brown and white-feathered griffons which sheltered below the canopy. If he’d had Professor Brown’s watch, he could have glanced at it to tell how long it had been, but he didn’t. It felt like days.
He didn’t know precisely when the griffons noticed the diving biplane, but they’d certainly caught it by the time Tinvel could see them clearly. Three griffons and their handlers were trying to ready harnesses as rapidly as possible, while two of the creatures were squawking loudly at their riders, crouching down to let them grab fistfuls of feathers as they scrambled up the animal’s back. It was a chaotic scene, one he still felt was lasting entirely too long.
Then the distance closed. Time sped up.
Tinvel popped the Sunrise out of its dive with a harsh jerk on the control stick, leveling the plane mere feet above the highest branches.
One of the griffons emerged from the canopy and reared up on two legs, spreading its wings wide as it leapt, throwing a cloud of dust from the ground as it flung itself into the sky. The Sunrise shot past the animal faster than he could track.
At the same moment, he felt a rumble shiver its way up the Sunrise’s frame, Chona releasing the boiling thermite. Her spell sputtered and roared, a flash of awful heat cooking his back.
He couldn’t look. He was too low, flying less than a wingspan away from a deadly crash. It took all his focus to fight the buffeting created by fiery updrafts and hundreds of pounds of burning fluid spilling from the plane’s tanks, the sloshing motion throwing the entire craft out of balance. Canvas creaked and metal groaned, Tinvel’s hands moving on pure instinct.
The moment the whoosh of flames disappeared, Tinvel pulled hard on the stick, gaining enough altitude to allow for a left-sided roll, balancing the plane on its side as he began a sharp u-turn, nearly going inverted. He craned his neck upward, looking at their target.
There was a streak of glowing fire etched through the cluster of jungle trees. A spear of orange flames were already spewing a column of sickly black smoke, dotted within by white-hot stars of molten thermite. He caught a brief glance of a thrashing griffon, its feathers melting to its reddened skin. It vanished within the growing inferno.
“Two up!” Chona yelled. “Two up, two up! Ten o’clock high!”
Tinvel snapped his attention towards the indicated direction, easily catching what Chona had seen. The two griffons which had eschewed their harnesses had made it out. They were flapping hard, gaining as much altitude as they could, fighting for time by flying directly away from the Sunrise.
“I’ll herd them toward Affe!” Tinvel yelled. He tapped the plane’s gemstone controls, returning it to cruise mode. Better to feign being slower, to give Affe more time to rejoin them.
“We need to get them while they’re low and slow!” Chona argued.
“There’s two! One will jump us while we go for the other!”
“They can’t coordinate like that! Not without the harnesses to control the griffon!”
Tinvel cursed silently, pulsing Intent into the Sunrise’s controls to order it back to combat speed. He didn’t know if Chona was right, but she at least made sense.
How smart are those griffons? Tinvel wondered, pulling up to match the animal’s rate of climb. Can they fight on their own? With claws like that, they have to be natural fighters, right? But do they know how to fight in midair, or are their instincts just to pick animals off the ground like hawks?
He didn’t know how much control the riders had without a harness, if the griffons would obey them, if they were capable of or trained to coordinate in aerial combat. Too many questions, too little time. Sara’s information on the Imperial griffon riders had been frustratingly sparse. She’d only ever seen them used as scouts, not frontline combatants.
“Your spell ready?” Tinvel yelled.
“Almost!” Chona yelled back.
They were closing the distance fast. The griffons were focusing on altitude at the expense of speed, which meant the Sunrise was rocketing up behind them.
He reached out, hesitating over the speed controls. “Do you need more time?”
“No! Just let me focus!”
Tinvel wanted to turn around and watch what she was doing, to see how close she was to casting the latest spell she’d created, but he couldn’t spare the attention. The wind that had been battering them all day was growing even fiercer, likely owing to a brewing storm that he could just barely see rolling in from the southwest horizon. Both the Sunrise and griffons were being knocked up and down by violent, unpredictable gusts, and he had to make constant adjustments to keep them on a steady course.
“Will it work in this wind?” He asked Chona. “You’ve had issues with the spellform refusing to-”
“Let me FOCUS!” She roared, her tail swiping up to thwap angrily against the side of his head.
Shit, Tinvel swore, adjusting his flight goggles, which had nearly been knocked free. I guess I deserved that one.
About a mile ahead of the Sunrise, and thus about three-quarters of a mile ahead of the griffon pair, Affe’s plane was slipping into a dive. They’d seen the griffons. He and Cebrav were flying with the whipping stormwind at their port quarter, speeding them on their way.
We can hit them at the same time, Tinvel realized, his subconscious calculating their flight time better than he ever could with quill and paper. But if we go for the same one, it’s pointless.
He rapidly tried to think of what he could possibly do to signal to Affe which of the two griffons to dive on, but he rejected each idea in turn. They were too far apart to see each other as more than a thin blurry line, and they’d never prepared for this possibility. He could start diving on his target early, telegraphing to Affe who he was targeting, but the griffons would see that just as easily.
“Screw it!” He yelled. “We’re going for the left one!”
“Attacking overtop or alongside?”
“I’m gonna swing past their left side, so aim right!”
“What? Left or right?”
“Aim right! Aim right!”
“Aiming right!”
Tinvel kicked the rudder and leaned against the stick, sending them slipping down and to the left. The struts between the Sunrise’s wings warbled and groaned as they were struck side-on by wind, an angle they’d never been built to withstand.
He leveled out, silently applauding his own craftsmanship as the Sunrise gracefully returned to normal flight. Not a single crack or popped screw.
“Forty seconds! Can you see ‘em from your angle?”
“No!”
Tinvel kicked the rudder again, giving Chona more room.
“Now?”
He felt her brush against his shoulder as she leaned forward. Her hands appeared in his peripheral vision, both arms outstretched. One hand held a large, hollow ox horn, empty palm spread wide, fingertips twitching.
“Got ‘em!”
Tinvel mentally locked in the relative angle of the griffon and Sunrise, all four limbs working in concert as he tore and jerked at the plane’s control surfaces. His feet twitched and pumped the rudder pedals, ankles aching from the tension he couldn’t drain out of his legs, while his hands popped the control stick left and right almost spasmodically, following the griffon’s wing-beaten path even as the bitter sky tried to throw them both off-course.
His eyes briefly flicked up to Affe’s Halfeye. Slightly too far away. He peeled one hand off the control stick just long enough to drop the Sunrise back to cruise speed, then returned to his guidance of the plane.
The griffons weren’t passively accepting this trap. They’d swung together until their wingtips were nearly brushing on every downstroke, each animal’s head turned to watch one of the two oncoming threats. He caught a brief glimpse of one the riders trying to release one hand from its desperate grip on their animal’s feathers, trying to pull something from a chest pocket, only for a gust of wind to nearly blow them up and away, forcing them to seize a bundle of feathers and hunker down yet again.
He didn’t consider himself an expert on griffon body language, but he decided in that very moment that the animals were smarter than he’d given them credit for. There was an almost nervous anticipation to them, as if they were waiting for some signal.
“Twenty seconds!” Tinvel yelled. “They’re gonna try some shit!”
“Let ‘em!”
That was all that could be said. Tinvel’s world narrowed to a single brown dot, all his mind and body working to keep their jerky, erratic dive on track. The griffons grew larger, and larger, and larger still, and then–
“Brace!” Chona screamed.
Tinvel ducked down and to the side, raising one shoulder to shelter his right ear as best he could.
“Flurry!”
A new gust of wind erupted throughout the cockpit, a spiraling tunnel of spellwrought air spilling from the hand which held Chona’s powder horn. Grains of blackpowder flew from the container, suffusing the midair vortex with a black pallor. The spell wailed against Tinvel’s mage senses and ears alike. Rather than overwhelming the natural winds of the surrounding skies, it used them, tuning their energies to Chona’s Intent as her magic wove them into a dense, spiraling weave.
The griffon, oblivious to the tiny particles it was already flying through, brought its wings in, beginning a dive that would have taken it well out of range by the time the Sunrise shot past. It was beautifully timed.
For the wrong spell.
“POWDERSTRIKE!”
Tiny sparks hopped off Chona’s fingertips, darting forward, reaching, grasping, until, in a blinding instant, one branching fork collided with the second hidden powder suspended in the vortex: chips of thin, conductive iron. In an instant too brief to see, yet strangely drawn-out to his Mage’s mind, Tinvel felt each spark pop and hiss as they joyously coursed through the path they’d been provided, heating every sliver of metal to a shining glow.
Caught in a swirl of ionized air, the first grain of blackpowder lit.
BOOM!
The Sunrise rattled and trembled as an explosion rent the skies, not quite thunderbolt, not quite fireball, deadlier than either. It was so quick that he only caught a single glimpse of a violent, flashing column of red flame, veins of blue electricity running erratically under its sickly skin.
Like a demon bleeding lightning.
The afterimage faded, revealing the griffon’s smoking, charred body. It fell bonelessly, the unrecognizable charcoal lumps of its riders falling limply away.
Tinvel jerked the plane hard to the left, dodging the other griffon as it let out a high-pitched screech of anger and fear, convinced the second plane was going to unleash the same hellish spell on it. Its wings flared as it dragged itself in a leftward turn so violent it nearly stopped in midair, then it began to dive.
Tinvel began maneuvering back right, preparing to help if Cebrav's spell didn’t get the kill on the first pass. Instead he found himself wincing as a second, far louder screech ripped through the skies, one filled with a terror so profound it seemed nearly human. The griffon abandoned its turn, pulling its wings and legs into itself as it angled straight down, screaming louder still.
One of the blurry figures on its back had lost their grip. Tinvel could see them spinning wildly through the air, a tiny dot plummeting toward the green grass sea. They were barely fifteen hundred feet above the ground, seconds until impact, but the griffon was diving after them with everything it had.
Affe followed.
A bolt of pure lightning ripped through the sky, spat from the side of an olive-skinned biplane to wrap the griffon in its deadly tendrils. The beast seized violently, then unfolded, tumbling end over end.
The person it had been chasing disappeared into the grass. The griffon hit the ground nearby, striking the front of a hill at a nearly perfect perpendicular angle. More blood than Tinvel had seen in his life erupted across the grass, the animal’s body bursting like a rotten wineskin.
Chona let out a loud whoop of celebration, clapping Tinvel hard on the back, gripping his shoulder to rock him back and forth in his seat.
He threw a slight smile back at her, still focused on flying.
“Hell yeah! Fuck yeah! They didn’t stand a chance! It was over just like that!”
“Yeah!” Tinvel called back, the only thing he could think to say. He didn’t know what he felt. He focused on flying, adjusting his speed as he began to circle the fallen animals. The emotions that swirled within him were gray and muted, difficult to pick apart.
But… he did think he felt proud. Relieved, mostly. Terrified, certainly. But beneath that? Yes. He was proud.
That pride made him feel ill.
Tinvel began circling the twin griffon corpses, searching for a flat enough stretch of land to touch down on. Above him, Affe and Cebrav tossed a green powder bag, turning their Halfeye towards the column of smoke that was still burning fiercely on the horizon.
Doubt there’s anything left, he thought, remembering the way flames had already been boiling over the small jungle cluster. But I guess it doesn’t hurt to check.
He eyed the storm. In the short few minutes the dogfight had lasted, it had grown to a massive, sprawling thunderhead, one darkening the entire horizon. He could see sheets of rain coating the land it swallowed, backlit by flashes of brilliant white.
“We need to get the Sunrise tied down as soon as we land!” He yelled to Chona. “Then we need to grab any kind of paper those griffons had on them before the storm ruins the ink!”
“Got it!” She called back, still grinning madly. “Nice fucking flying, man!”
Tinvel muttered his thanks too quietly to be heard, focusing on landing the plane. He’d have time to think things over later.
Right now, he just wanted to know what was so important that total strangers would kill Hunes and Docks.
------------------------------
Mui Thom
------------------------------
Mui sat in the Powdered Lead’s barracks, wondering if the thing across from him could tell he was staring. He’d given up pretending he was doing otherwise quite a while ago, and it hadn’t provided him any reaction. The green-robed figure wasn’t even looking at him, in fact. Their expressionless face was turned towards the room’s lone door, though he couldn’t tell if their eyes were actually focused on it. Hurlish’s bodyguards were a blank slate.
In fact, the longer he looked, the less he could tell about them in general. They had a face, that much was certain. A human one, of the skin tone common to most northerners, though tanned deeply enough that they might have been mistaken for a particularly light-skinned Imperial. Their eyebrows were brown, as was their short hair, and their cheeks were unblemished by freckles or moles. They were perfectly unremarkable. So unremarkable that he couldn’t determine their emotions, the build of their body beneath their thick green robes, or even their gender.
If they have one at all, Mui thought, sniffing the air. He couldn’t smell them, either. Four of them in one room, each standing motionlessly in a corner, and there wasn’t a whiff. Entirely unnatural. He’d begun to suspect the creatures which Evie trusted with the protection of her wife and child weren’t living things whatsoever. No guard, no matter how dedicated, could match the devotion they showed. They were dutiful past the point of obsession, failing to show the slightest deviation from their given tasks at any time.
Particularly when they’re protecting the child, he reflected. The strange-looking babe– born of three women, not two, showing attributes of them all– was resting in his enchanted crib, having thankfully fallen asleep some time ago. While Hurlish, Evie, and Sara had gone to attend yet another political meeting, he had been recalled to help protect the child.
He wondered what Evie thought he could contribute. If General Borek, one of the Empire’s greatest non-elven Warriors, thought himself incapable of defeating even one of those green-robed… things… what use was Mui? Thus far, his only purpose had been to feed young Tahn from a glass bottle when he began to cry, and, at one point, change his diaper. Hardly something one sent an Imperial Sergeant to do.
Maybe that is all I’m here for? He considered. If he was right, and the four guards which protected Tahn were magical constructs of some sort, that might be literally his only purpose. Something built only for combat would be incapable of basic child-rearing duties. Evie, Sara, and Hurlish might have asked him to stay with Tahn to make sure the poor boy didn’t go hungry while his mothers were engaged with unavoidable political matters.
Mui didn’t mind, surprising as that might be to some. The second eldest of five children by a number of years, he had spent as much time as either of his parents helping with the care of his younger siblings. Even when he’d begun to grow into his body in his teen years, preparing to join the army, his father had never let him believe for a second that he would ever be above caring for his family. No matter how high he rose in life, his father had warned him, not even if he fulfilled his wildest dreams, he would never be above comforting a squalling child.
I guess they would be proud of me, Mui thought. To know that I’ve stood beside a Chosen, spoken my mind freely to Generals, yet still don’t so much as flinch at changing a soiled diaper.
He’d only sent his family one letter since re-entering the Imperial domain, and the last sent before that had been months before his arrival in Tulian with the Northern Expeditionary Force. That had been a short one, too, only providing them official proof of his promotion to Sergeant, so they could collect their portion of his stipend from the local garrison. If he didn’t send another letter soon, his family would have only received two from him in the entire last year. They would be irate about that, he knew. The life of a soldier, even a Sergeant, was far from safe.
And what about you? He wanted to ask, trying to grab the eye of the expressionless creature which stood across the room. Do you fear for your safety? With power like yours, do you worry about failure and its consequences?
Mui suppressed a grim chuckle.
Of course you do. You work for Evie Brown. Even automatons fear what she might do to them.
Mui was pulled from his study of the peculiar guards by the sound of a commotion outside the room, mercenary soldiers calling out greetings. It was late in the night, and they kept their voices down in respect for those asleep nearby, but his ears caught it easily enough.
He stood with a slight groan, stretching to work out the kinks in his legs and arms that had developed after so long spent in a hard wooden chair. Even in her private rooms, the only luxury Sara allowed herself was a comfortable, sturdy bed. Everything else was brutally spartan, from a cheap, beaten chest of drawers for their belongings, to a long wooden rack which held their clothing.
Well, the bed wasn’t the only luxury. The sound-proofed walls had to have been expensive. But those were more for the Powdered Lead’s benefit than her own.
Mui was about to reach for the door handle when it clicked and flew open, cracking against his knuckles. He jumped back as Sara strode into the room, Evie and Hurlish following inches behind her.
“Oh, thank fuck that’s over,” Sara groaned, popping buttons open on her leather overcoat. “That sucked even worse than I thought it would.”
“Sara,” Evie chided, emphatic as always about avoiding profanity around their son.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said, dropping her voice. “But still–” She interrupted herself with an adoring coo, hurrying over to bend over Tahn’s crib. “Oh my god, look at him. He’s just so fast asleep. All tuckered out, aren’t you, Tahny-tahn?”
“He certainly wore himself out,” Mui agreed, his ears reflexively flattening as he recalled the child’s wails. “I believe he’ll be sleeping soundly for quite a while.”
“He didn’t give you too much trouble?” Hurlish asked, joining Sara in unbuttoning her strange outerwear. “I know he can get a bit screamy.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Mui assured her. “He was fairly well behaved, at least as far as four-month-olds go. Once I figured out what he wanted, he always quieted himself.”
“That’s because he’s the best little baby in all the world,” Sara said, visibly fighting her urge to reach out and pinch her sleeping son’s cheeks. “He’s a perfect little angel, and he never does anything wrong ever, no he doesn’t.”
Evie laughed under her breath. “And here I was under the impression that you thought it better to avoid ‘baby talk’ around Tahn, Sara. Something about helping him develop finer speech skills, no?”
“I’m trying, but he’s just too cute,” Sara said in an almost lamenting tone, reaching out to gently brush a lock of hair away from his eyes. “He’s just the cutest little guy. The perfectest little baby ever. I can’t help myself.”
Mui shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had seen so very many faces of the Chosen of Emotion, but it was this one, the adoring, awestruck mother, that felt most at odds with what childhood tales had told him a legendary Chosen would be like. He didn’t feel as if it was his right to witness it.
Exceedingly more jarring than that, however, was when Evie joined Sara at Tahn’s side, wrapping a casual, familiar arm around her wife’s waist as they looked at their son.
“He is, isn’t he?” Evie warmly agreed. “Look at his ears. So big. I wonder if he’ll grow into them, or if they’ll always be so large. Maybe it’s on account of his orcish heritage?” Evie turned to Mui, the peaceful smile she wore more alien on her face than any bloody gash. “You helped raise your siblings, didn’t you, Mui? I have never seen a young Feline, but I imagine we are not dissimilar to catfolk in certain respects. Did your siblings ever have ears so large?”
All three were now looking at him with interest. Compared to the high stakes environments he normally found himself in around these women, such a simple conversation should have been child’s play. Instead, it felt decidedly nerve wracking.
“Not particularly, no,” Mui said, thinking back. “They were more, ah, proportional, I suppose. Perhaps his ears really will stay so large.”
At the moment, they were half again as large as Evie’s own ears, at least when scaled for the relative size of their heads. If folded down over his face, the tips of his ears could have just barely touched his upper lip. Mui thought it looked very odd on a child, but he knew some catfolk found large ears appealing. Perhaps that was a feature of Sara’s contribution to his lineage. Supernatural beauty applied to the already famously-alluring Feline people.
“Wonder if that means he’ll have big ol’ tusks, too,” Hurlish rumbled, joining her wives at Tahn’s crib. She began to rock it gently. “Hope so. Little guy’s got some big shoes to fill when it comes to picking up ladies.”
“He might be interested in men, dear,” Evie gently chided Hurlish. “Being born from three women does not mean he will have our preferences.”
“Ain’t it genetic or something, Sara? That’s what you said, anyway.”
“I mean, maybe?” Sara shrugged uncertainly. While she kept talking, Mui tried to remember what ‘genetic’ meant. “Back on Earth, we were pretty sure sexual preferences weren’t something you could pick and choose, at the very least. Even if sexuality is genetically determined, it’s probably not heritable. Even if it was, I think it’d actually make him more likely to be into dudes, since he’d probably get the same gay gene you have or whatever.” She laughed. “Then again, if it really does work like that, your genetics are outnumbered. Evie and I aren’t as picky as you.”
“There’s no point in speculating,” Evie said. “We all agreed that we wish to avoid pressuring him with our legacies as much as possible. That includes his romantic endeavors.”
“Guess so,” Hurlish said. “Either way, if he ends up looking half as good as you two, he’ll be set for life.”
“We’ll have to count on you and Evie for that, mostly,” Sara said. “Remember, it’s looking like he got the genes I had back on Earth, which means he’s not gonna look all that much like I do now. I wasn’t all that bad, but I wasn’t a bombshell like y’all.”
“You’ve shown us what you looked like,” Hurlish reminded Sara. “You were hot.”
“In a chubby butch kind of way, I guess.”
“Like I said. Hot.”
Mui began to sidle towards the door, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. It was clear that he was no longer needed, and though he’d napped between bouts of Tahn’s crying, he’d still had a very, very long day.
“Hey,” Sara called, casting her voice across the room. It echoed in a peculiar way, shielding her shout from waking Tahn. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“...To sleep?”
“Not yet, you aren’t.” Sara stepped away from Tahn’s crib, dropping her leather coat to the ground, so she was left only in a sweat-stained undershirt. “That meeting was the shi— crappiest— thing I’ve been to in months. I need to blow off some steam.”
Mui’s heart began to thump, his two heads warring to assert a different opinion on this development.
“Oh?” He asked meekly.
“Yeah,” Sara said, stepping up to him. She put her hands on his hips, looking down at him with a mischievous grin. Gods, she was a tall human. “Did you know Ta-Pet has a really, really fancy brothel?”
“Is that so?” He all but squeaked.
“Sure does. And it turns out, fancy brothels really like the idea of a Champion of Amarat coming to visit. Great for business. They’ll even let her bring whoever she wants for free.”
The thudding in Mui’s chest redoubled. “That’s… ah, something to be done now? The day after we captured the city?”
Her fingers tightened on his hips. One hand slipped up, tickling the fur beneath his shirt.
“Yeah. Now.”
----------------------
-------------------
----------------
The late night streets of Ta-Pet were empty save for the occasional passing patrol of Imperial troops. Sara and Evie walked on either side of Mui, as if escorting him. Hurlish had remained behind, explaining that she’d rather “catch her girls the old fashioned way,” whatever that meant. Mui thought that was well enough, because it left someone trustworthy to watch over Tahn while they were away.
And because she is only interested in women, which I am most certainly not.
Teasing remarks from Sara floated through his head, accompanied by the memory of Evie in an alleyway, shivering and moaning as she spilled seed into Sara’s teasing palm.
At least, I’m not one at the moment.
Mui spent most of the walk in a slightly dazed silence, unwilling to believe that he was going along with whatever this was. He knew that the northerners thought less of sex than Imperials, likely on account of their ready access to flawless contraceptives, but to be so casually invited to a brothel? It wasn’t an experience he’d ever imagined knowing.
“You want to back out?” Sara asked.
Mui started. He hadn’t realized the woman had been staring at him, concern on her face. Taking a breath, he began to shake his head.
“You really don’t have to feel pressured,” Sara interrupted. “I thought it’d be fun for you to be with some women other than me. But there’s a lot of trust that goes into having sex with someone, and it’s never going to be fun to have your boundaries crossed. Give it some thought. Really. Just… here, Evie, hold up. Give it a solid thirty seconds of thought, Mui.”
So he did. He closed his mouth, considering the offer.
He’d known plenty of soldiers that visited brothels, of course. More did than didn’t, naturally. It was only those who were already in a physical relationship with a fellow soldier that usually abstained, and even then, not always. A life of war was a stressful thing, and he’d made a point to never think less of anyone who took the opportunity to relieve their body’s desires, at least so long as they did so safely.
Then why do I feel nervous? He asked himself. He began to consider the question, teasing its tangled edges apart, before an easier path occurred to him.
“Why do I feel nervous?” He asked Sara. “I don’t think I should be. Not really. My time with you has been… delightful, truthfully, and I trust your judgement. If you think I would enjoy myself, I see no reason to believe otherwise. You’ve always been right before.”
Sara raised an eyebrow. “You really want to ask me why you feel the way you do? Isn’t that something you should be working out for yourself?”
“You can figure it out easier than I can.” Mui looked up the street, pretending he knew where he was. “And we are not far, no? Best to cut to the chase.”
Sara paused, cocking a hip and crossing her arms under her breasts. She looked Mui up and down, appraising him.
He shivered slightly. He had been naked before her many times by then, but he’d never felt as exposed as he did in that moment. He had seen her evaluate others in this way, and he’d been privy to the incredible, impossible insight she’d gained in those scant few moments. He was being studied in a manner more intimate than any but the gods could have matched.
“It’s a mix of things,” she said, speaking with authority born of confidence. “You’re still not comfortable with being involved in a multi-partner relationship. Caught up with Imperial taboos regarding it, I suppose, and it also seems like you’ve got a bit of a superiority complex about not visiting brothels like other soldiers do.”
Mui blinked. “I do? I never minded it.”
“You think they’re wasting their time. That they should spend the effort and money wooing themselves a partner, not spending way too much on a bad handjob in a shady tavern’s back room. Which, like, I get where you’re coming from, but also? A bit judgy, Mui.” Sara tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Also, it seems like you’re nervous about exactly how far I’m gonna drag you down the path of sexual depravity. You’ve got the gist of the kind of stuff I do when I’m alone with Evie, and that scares the shit out of you. Which, again, fair. But don’t worry, she’s fucked in the head. You’re not gonna end up like that no matter how hard I push you.”
He blinked in confusion. “Ah. That is… reassuring to hear, I suppose. And enlightening. Thank you–”
“You’re also worried that it’s going to hurt like hell when I shove my cock up your pussy.”
Evie cackled as Mui coughed, doubling over like his lungs were trying to leap out of his throat. Sara laughed as well, but stepped up to his side, giving him a few reassuring pats on the back.
“Okay, maybe I should’ve phrased that more delicately, but I couldn’t help myself.”
Mui’s response was a mixture of sputtering, stuttering, and coughing. Somehow, Sara seemed to understand.
“For what it’s worth, it’s not always that big. Evie just likes when it hurts.”
The Feline silently licked her lips.
“I can change the size,” Sara explained. “Kinda. It mostly just works out to whatever my partner wants, I think. So you’ll never have more than you can handle.”
“We-” he choked on his own spit, coughed, then gathered himself once more. “We are on the street!” He protested. He waved to a nearby window. “What if there is a family in there?”
“Then the parents can come out and join us, for all I care,” Sara said with a shrug. She eyed the home’s front door, which didn’t budge. “Looks like that’s a no. Oh, well.” Sara lifted Mui up, smiling in that dazzling way of hers. “Look, Mui. I just want you to have a good time. I think you will. Honest. But if you don’t want to, that’s perfectly alright. Hurlish and I won’t think any less of you.”
Mui opened his mouth to respond, then squinted, turning his attention to Evie.
“Okay,” Sara begrudged, “Evie might, but that’s because she doesn’t know what it’s like to have a normal libido. I know you’re still relatively new to this whole ‘active sexuality’ thing, so let me give you a tip: never, ever assume Evie’s desires are anything close to normal. When I say she’s a freak, I mean it.”
Mui swallowed. “Then, ah, what will she be doing at this brothel?”
“I haven’t the faintest clue,” Evie said, her voice taking on a light, almost wistfully distant tone. “Master would not tell me. I’m sure she will put my body to good use, of course.”
Put your body to use? Not you? Mui wanted to ask. He quickly thought better of it. Sara was right; the less he knew about that woman’s sexuality, the better.
“So?” Sara prompted. “You decided yet?”
Mui sighed, long and low, taking a few extra seconds to firm up his thoughts.
“Yes,” he said, even if he didn’t say it with as much excitement as he was sure Sara would have preferred. “Every moment I’ve spent in your bed has been lovely, Sara. You’ve gifted me experiences I likely never would have known without you, and every time you have asked for just a drop of my trust, it has been repaid tenfold. This is a larger leap than most, but… without you, I think I may have ended up living an awfully dull life. I can’t think of a safer way to seek excitement.”
Sara stiffened slightly, blinking several times in quick succession. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected from her, but it didn’t seem to be a bad one. It was more like she was surprised. Mui doubted that was the case; how could he, of all people, surprise Emotion’s Chosen?
“Fucking hell,” she muttered, turning on a heel. “It’s a good thing you’re right. We are close.”
Behind her wife’s back, Evie tossed him a quick, secretive smirk. As if the two of them knew something Sara didn’t.
He smiled back, feeling rather awkward for it. Evie’s grin grew slightly, then she turned around, leaving Mui wondering.
------------------------------------
Sara Brown
------------------------------------
The brothel was exactly as she’d expected it to be. That was surprising, considering the fact that she’d never been to one. They weren’t legal in Michigan, and while Tulian had established a few in recent months, Sara hadn’t ever had a chance to go, though she’d always meant to. Having already set up a network of particularly indulgent acquaintances that filled the role, it hadn’t been all that pressing.
So it came as a minor shock that the high-end Imperial brothel fit her mental preconceptions for its aesthetic values. Bordering on a stereotype, in fact. She, Evie, and Mui were recognized on sight by someone on the street outside, then ushered into the building with a polite, humble discretion. Brothels weren’t illegal in either part of the Empire, but visiting them was still a taboo, and the workers were used to clientele who preferred their privacy. The employees wore nondescript clothing of fine make, only a slight bit more revealing than otherwise may have been expected.
Sara cast her eyes about appraisingly as they entered. For the men, sleeves were wrapped tight around muscular arms, their shirts easily riding up when they reached above their heads, which they seemed to find frequent occasion for, if only just to stretch. The women wore sleek, cool dresses with a sliver of cleavage on display, their arms bare all the way to the shoulder. In the hot climate of a jungle, none of it was too unusual. Perfectly deniable if one happened to be caught in public with one of these staff members hanging nearby.
But when they were wearing it in the velvet-carpeted, candle-lit interior of a thick-walled waiting room, it didn’t take a genius to draw the right conclusions. Some lounged on plush sofas, speaking in low, husky undertones to fellow workers sitting beside them, always just a bit of either party touching the other. Hands, legs, shoulders, hips, whatever was convenient to find a bit of skin contact. Others stood behind tall desks, all of which were put up against the wall, so no one speaking to them would have their face in easy line of sight of other patrons. Thick, rich wooden doors were occasionally opened by staff, leading to hallways with far too few doors for their considerable length.
“There’s… no one else here?” Mui whispered at her side.
“There’s plenty of employees,” Sara stage-whispered back.
“But no other, ah, customers.”
“It’s late. Maybe they’re not very busy.”
“Master made an agreement with the head of the facility to have all rooms reserved,” Evie explained snippily, “in exchange for a public endorsement of their services at various Ta-Pet social functions. Dependent on adequate quality on display tonight, of course.”
Sara rolled her eyes at Evie. “Come on. Can’t you let me have any fun with him?”
Her wife’s gaze was steely as it met hers. “I am impatient, Master. You have deprived me for an entire day.”
“Don’t worry,” Sara said, patting Evie on the ass. “You’ll get your fill soon enough. Look, there she is.”
The proprietor of the brothel (a madame, Sara supposed?) was sauntering out from behind a desk, a warm, calculatedly seductive smile on her face.
“Sara,” she greeted easily, meeting her eyes. “Lady Evie,” she continued, bowing into a low, flawless curtsy, “and Sergeant Mui Thom,” she said as she straightened, replacing her seductive grin with a plainer, more casual smile. “I am Lady Anaka, and I am glad you are all here. I have prepared things exactly as you asked, Sara.”
“Excellent,” Sara said, clapping her hands together. “Evie, knees.”
The feline fell like her legs had been cut out from under her, an exquisite full-body shiver rolling up her spine. She had to put one hand forward to stop herself from collapsing entirely, barely keeping herself on her knees.
“Anaka?” Sara prompted. The madame produced a blindfold from within her robes, which Sara wrapped over Evie’s eyes with ease. The girl was shivering beneath her fingers already, but it was when Sara kept wrapping, forcibly pressing at the base of her ears to keep them pinned in just the way that would apply pressure without satisfaction, that she truly began to tremble. It thus hid her most distinctly Feline features, leaving only her tail, which could plausibly be explained by a single catfolk grandparent.
Sara bent down, using the last fistful of blindfold to drag Evie’s head painfully upward as she spat harsh whispers in her ear.
“I lied. You have no fucking idea how expensive this was. Your cunt better make that money back. Understand?”
Before Evie could respond, the tail end of the blindfold was stuffed into her mouth, gagging her. Sara tied it off, then dropped her. Without the support, she fell onto her side. She could have reached up to take it off, but her Master had put it on her. Sara knew the thought of undoing it didn’t so much as graze her mind.
“Sina?” Anaka called, waving a hand. “Tonight’s entertainment is here.”
An orc, large even for his kind and wrapped in muscles of a sort Sara hadn’t seen since roided-out bodybuilders on Earth, gave a loud, theatric groan of irritation as he peeled himself off the couch he’d been resting on.
“This the one you mentioned? For downstairs, right?”
“Yes. If one of the customers asks for it, you can take its gag out, but only if you’ve made sure it won’t bite.”
“Got it,” he rumbled, wrapping his hand over Evie’s skull. He picked her up with ease, but only enough for himself to straighten. That left her legs still dangling at just the wrong height. Unable to walk or crawl, she had no option left but to be dragged unceremoniously across the carpet.
Then, apparently seeing Mui’s horrified reaction over Sara’s shoulder, the orc’s bored expression turned into an apologetic wince. Sorry, he mouthed, jutting his chin towards Evie. Don’t worry.
Mui took a breath to respond, but Sara flung a finger up to his lips, keeping him silent. As Evie was dragged away, she spoke to Anaka.
“How much are you charging?”
“A few dozen copper, time depending.”
“That’s it?” Sara poured a frown into her words, even if she was actually holding back a laugh. “Do you even have enough customers down there to cover the cost?”
“If it’s as good a hole as you said it is, I expect some repeats. And we put a good few signs across the poorer regions of the city. Most of those brutes can’t read, but the illustrations were very striking. Word should spread quickly.”
“If you say so…” Sara said doubtfully, watching the squirming Evie get dragged through a door that led to a spiraling staircase. The door boomed shut behind her.
Sara waited a few beats, making sure Evie’s absurdly good hearing was actually out of earshot, then blew out a sigh, taking her finger from Mui’s lips.
“Sorry about that,” she told him. “I couldn’t figure out a way to tell you ahead of time without ruining the surprise for her.”
Mui looked between Sara and Anaka, eyes wide.
“Where is she being taken?”
“Exactly where Anaka said,” Sara replied with a shrug. “The Powdered Lead’s had to ration our supply of contraceptive herbs, but word’s spread, and places like this have cut deals with Vesta back in Tulian. Tonight’s gonna be their big reveal, basically. I’m sure lots of people will be real eager to finally have a whore with every hole on offer.”
“But…” Mui looked about. “Surely they’ll just be actors, no? The other, ah, employees of this establishment, playing a role.”
“That’s normally the route I’d go,” Sara admitted casually. “But only with the collar, so I can order her not to notice. She’s too perceptive for her own good, otherwise. She enjoys it, but there’s always a little bit of disappointment in her eyes when the collar comes off and she realizes the scene was fake. That’s why I hid her ears. So she can actually get used by random people without getting recognized.” Sara glanced at Anaka. “Is there anything stopping them from pulling that off, by the way?”
“Not particularly, no. The customers are told they aren’t allowed to remove it, but that warning is our only safety measure. Will that be a problem?”
“No, no, I haven’t changed my mind on that. Evie still thinks people might not fully understand just how needy she is, and that uncertainty does a lot for her. If some random nobodies happen to add to the rumors after tearing it off, that’s fine.” Sara chuckled. “Or, if she decides she actually wants to keep things quiet, she’ll handle it herself. If they break a brothel’s rules like that, whatever happens is on them.”
Anaka’s lips pursed further at that, but she didn’t say anything further. This had all been discussed fairly thoroughly over correspondence. She knew the terms.
“You don’t look like you’re doing too good, Mui,” Sara said, glancing at the catfolk man. His whiskers were twitching something fierce. Sara inspected him closely. She had plenty of time to, because he didn’t respond right away.
Oh, she thought as her Blessings slowly absorbed information. Oh, interesting. Got your blood pumping, did that? Question is, do you wanna be in line, or have a line all to yourself?
Tucking away that little nugget of knowledge for later, Sara gave an exaggerated sigh, stretching her arms.
“Well, I’m about ready to go, but Mui here didn’t bathe before he came over. I’m guessing you have some heated baths?”
“With many wonderful attendants, of course.” Anaka raised an eyebrow at Mui. “To the women-only bath, I presume?”
That finally brought him back to earth. He looked at her, confused. “But I am a man? I wouldn’t want to intrude on anyone.”
Anaka actually laughed at this. “Oh, dear. You’ve brought us a fun one, haven’t you, Sara?”
“Which group of naked people would you rather have slathering you up in soap?” Sara patiently explained to Mui. “All men, all women, or a sample platter selection?”
“Oh. Oh.” Mui’s whiskers twitched even harder. “Women, of course.” He chuckled under his breath. “Not that I thought I’d ever be going into the women’s bath.”
“I assure you, Sergeant,” Anaka said, patting his shoulder kindly, “they do very little bathing themselves. Saria?”
A short, sleek catfolk woman stepped away from her conversation with another worker, padding over to Mui. Unlike the other employees, she was barefoot and more overtly dressed for disrobing, already half ready for the baths. Her graceful steps barely made a sound as she came up to Mui, taking one of his hands in hers.
Shit, how tall is she? Sara thought as the woman tugged Mui along. Like, four foot eight? No wonder her tail looks so big and fuzzy on her. Might have to ask for a turn with her later. Looks like fun to throw around.
“And are you ready for your own room, Sara?” Anaka asked, adopting an even more casual tone than she had around Mui. Sara was impressed with the woman thus far; she’d never once had to repeat herself after telling the madame how she preferred to be addressed. It was the first time in quite a while that any Imperial citizen had treated Sara with a modicum of what she considered normality.
“No, not quite,” Sara said, turning her head about. “I’m curious about your operations here, really. Tulian’s got its own brothels up and running, but I haven’t had time to inspect them. I’m curious about your work.”
“Truly?” Anaka asked, surprised. “That seems like a matter that might have been better addressed in your letters. Not,” she hastened to add, “that I’m unwilling to answer, of course.” She giggled slightly. “If you were anyone else, I’d say your patronage to my ‘humble establishment’ is its own reward, but I think we both know that’s a lie. I’m very much looking forward to the business your endorsement will bring, Sara.”
“Of course,” she said, matching the woman’s smile. “There’s a lot of work that’s got to go into running a brothel. Ensuring employee safety while maintaining client privacy, acquiring lubricant, finding, hiring, and training new staff, the list goes on. It seems easy to forget everything.” Sara’s eyes glinted. “For example, I noticed that in our first letters, you never responded to my question about whether or not you ever used slave collars at this brothel.”
Anaka, halfway through happily starting up a business conversation, froze.
“And I thought, well, that’s weird,” Sara continued. “Why didn’t she respond to that? It was bullet-pointed and everything, and she responded to everything else. So I did some digging, and what do you know?”Anaka took two quick steps back, furtively glancing at her desk. “You did use slaves here! I mean, I can’t blame you. Those collars are pretty damn handy, even if you can’t use them like I can.”
“I n-never o-ordered anyone t-to do things they didn’t want,” Anaka stuttered. Her beautiful face was draining of color “The c-clients would be able to t-tell. We were not that kind of establishment!”
“Then what did you use them for?” Sara asked. Her voice was so cool that it seemed there should have been frost dropping from her lips.
“Improving their service,” Anaka said hurriedly. “They were already slaves before, you see, but I never, never took those who did not want this life. They wouldn’t do the job well, and when I managed to purchase a collar, well…” She swallowed. “It is useful. For training. For having them work past their limits, to have them do things they otherwise couldn’t. Many of them even, ah, e-enjoyed it, I believe.”
“Interesting,” Sara hummed, moving closer. Anaka once again backed away, matching Sara’s every step, but quickly ran out of room. Her back hit the wall with a muted thump. “And it’s particularly interesting to me, because I can tell you actually believe you’re telling the truth.”
The rising panic in Anaka, about to burst, hesitated.
“In fact,” Sara said, “that’s what all my investigations turned up, too. You even turned over your slaves for freeing the moment we took the city. Actually, you went one step further than that: you helped organize the collection of slaves across the city, presenting them to the Imperial Army’s Mages for de-collaring, didn’t you?”
“I did!” Anaka said, frantically bobbing her head. “I wanted rid of them. I didn’t use the collars as I could have, I swear it! Only to help some of the inexperienced ones through… difficulties. To help them adjust to certain sizes, or, or…” Her eyes danced as her panicked brain fought for examples she once knew so well. “To have them restrained in ways that would be otherwise impossible, enticing clients! But then I’d hear of the things others did with them, the other brothels, and it was… horrible! Despicable, horrible things! I didn’t want to bear that… that taint, that guilt by association, any longer. That is why I helped so much with freeing the slaves.”
“Mm,” Sara said, tapping her lips thoughtfully. “Lot of truth in that one, a little bit of fiction. I’m not sure you know where the line is yourself, though, so we’ll move on. After you had that realization, you kept the collars then, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did!” She replied breathily. “Until you came, they couldn’t be broken! Divine or sculpted by man, whichever of those strange memories you follow, none knew how to free their victims. And if I sold them, the– the slaves I bought– what would have happened to them? Where would they, men and women with Classes of Prostitutes and Whores, ever found better treatment? I had no choice!”
“No,” Sara said, dropping the faux lightness in her voice. “No, I guess you didn’t. You really fucked up, but once you did, you were stuck with it. You didn’t handle it perfectly, but who does? You didn’t have to keep them as prostitutes. You could have let them become maids, servants, whatever. But you didn’t.”
“They did not want that,” Anaka all but moaned, “truly, Sara, they didn’t! They had Skills for their work, talents that could be used nowhere else. I gave them the same pay as my other workers, let them spend it as they wished. I swear by every Emotion in your Holy Pantheon, it is true!”
“I believe you.”
Anaka sagged with relief. There was a dagger hidden behind the desk she’d retreated towards that Sara could now see, but the madame had stopped reaching for it almost as soon as she started. They both knew that Sara could have physically torn her apart, unarmed or not.
“I’m impressed,” Sara said. She was speaking matter-of-factly now, with full honesty. “You fucked up, but you did the best you could after you realized it. I talked to those slaves personally, in case you were wondering. Interviewed each and every one.”
“What? How? W-when?”
“I have slept all of three hours in the past two days,” Sara said with a shrug, ignoring the pounding ache behind her eyes. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters now is, what am I going to do with you?” Sara looked out at the room. The brothel’s workers had formed a loose, distant semicircle around the confrontation, keeping close to exit doors in case things really went wrong. “I hate slavers like nothing else. But in a way, I almost admire you. You’re an impressive woman, Anaka.” Sara dropped her voice to a whisper. “I quite like how you forged your own proof of noble heritage before arriving in Ta-Pet, letting you cater to all kinds of clients you never could have before.” Her voice rose to its normal volume. “But you kept slaves. In Tulian, that’s a crime that gets you the rope. Here, though, the True Adjutant has decreed that all who freely give up their slaves will face no punishment— and will be protected from me, specifically, because he knows what I’m like. I agreed to those terms.”
Anaka’s breath was stabilizing now. Some of the woman she’d been before was coming back.
“So, I decided on doing exactly what I said in our letters, Anaka. I want the best whore in this whole whorehouse: you.”
Anaka sketched a shaky smile. “Of course, Sara. I’ll be happy to provide for your needs.”
“Will you?” Sara raised an eyebrow. “I don’t fuck women who don’t want me, Anaka. I just scared the shit out of you to make a point to the other people here. Your terror was a political statement for me. Do you really think I’m hot enough to actually, honestly want to suck me off, despite all that?”
Anaka hesitated. “I-I’ve always heard of your beauty, Sara,” she said slowly, carefully, recognizing now that lying was a hopeless prospect. Sara could hear her working out her thoughts even as she spoke. “And yes, you did scare me. But… well, you wouldn’t be the first client to do that.”
“I imagine most of those weren’t allowed back.”
“No. Not necessarily.” Anaka licked her lips. “But not all. Some were allowed back. So long as they behaved themselves.”
“Do you want me to check?” Sara asked.
“What do you mean?”
“To check if you want to fuck me. I have a spell for it, courtesy of Amarat. Works wonders for establishing consent.”
Anaka blinked. “Well, I don’t see why not, if you can-”
Anaka’s own gasp cut her off as Sara activated Gift of Lust. The madame’s eyes fluttered heavily.
“O-oh. Well then. That’s quite something, and-”
Sara activated Gift of Lust again.
And again.
And again.
Anaka’s hands went between her legs as she nearly collapsed, trying to hide a rising bulge as if the quivering of her knees hadn’t already given everything away. Sara stepped forward. The woman barely had the strength to look up at her.
“When I heard about you, I thought you were fascinating. I couldn’t decide if I should punish you or reward you. So I thought to myself, why not both?” Sara grinned, using two fingers beneath the woman’s chin to tilt her head back, making searing eye contact. “I’m not going to go easy on you. When this night is done, it’ll be up to you to decide if it was worth it. But I can assure you, no matter what happens, the next little while is going to feel very, very good.”
Anaka stood there for a time, panting into the open air. Then, with all the willpower she could muster, swallowed hard.
“P-please.”
Notes:
As a preemptive warning: A portion of the next chapter will contain certain elements some (even in this community) consider unsavory. Others consider it hot as hell, though, so y'know. Of course it's all explicitly consensual, but with the lines a bit more blurred than normal. In short, it was inspired by a conversation on the Discord a long while ago, when talking about a subsection of the fanfic/erotica community's reactions to less "wholesome," more problematic smut. I decided that I wanted to try my hand at writing something some people might call problematic, and to do it without sheltering myself behind the Divine Slave collar's holodeck-esque powers. So it's a bit of an experiment! We'll see how it goes.
Chapter 150: B3 Ch37: Naiveté (E)
Notes:
Content Warnings
Sara POV: Overstimulation, mind-altering substances, mindbreak
Evie POV: Extreme masochism, severe choking/breathplay, self-degradation
Mui POV: Dork (affectionate)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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Sara continued to lift Anaka, shifting her grip to encompass the shorter woman’s whole chin so she could drag her up, up, up, until she was on her feet, supported more by Sara’s strength than her own two legs.
Sara cocked her head. She’d played plenty with her Gift of Lust. The most common usage was slapping the magical energy onto dicks as the world’s best viagra, which was something everyone involved found a blessing. That was followed by using it to determine who was actually interested in sharing her bed for honest reasons, not prestige or conceitedness, or simply cutting past the flirting stage right into the main event.
The least common use, however, was its most interesting. When she encountered certain people who were particularly susceptible to its effects, Gift of Lust became something not unlike a powerful, magical mind-altering drug. Rave MDMA on steroids. Ketch was the most common recipient of that last effect, easily sinking deeper into a mind-erasing bliss with every activation of the Skill, but in her case, there were limits. Mostly that after only two or three Gifts of Lust, the azarketi girl was loose and pliable enough for an onlooker to mistake her for a moaning, groaning, giggling sack of loose skin. She’d spent far too long abandoning herself in the swirling eddies of Selliana’s eyes to resist any other kind of siren’s song.
Seeing the girl like that had made Sara quietly curious about what might happen to others, should they be given the same treatment Ketch so loved. She’d never done it, of course. Ethical conundrums aside, her wives didn’t need it. Hurlish wasn’t interested, and Evie was kinky enough that she wanted their bedroom to be a place of pain and fear.
Yet Sara had still wondered: what would happen if she just kept piling on? She could activate the Blessing endlessly, at least as far as she knew. Was there a limit to what one person could feel? Diminishing returns? What would a normal person, not a half-broken Witch’s Familiar, look like when their lust was driven past human limits?
In Anaka, that curiosity had finally found itself a willing test subject. More critically, it had found a test subject Sara didn’t care all that much about. Anaka had bought people. Purchased other human beings, fully intending to enslave them in a brothel. However she’d personally justified it, she’d wanted to turn a profit on repeated, systematic rape. Actually committing that atrocity had thankfully proven too despicable for her in the end, thank the gods, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d willingly walked right up to the very precipice of that unforgivable act. Sara couldn’t hate her. Yet she couldn’t respect her, either.
So what did it matter if Gift of Lust had some kind of negative effect when used to excess? What did it matter if the addiction Sara’s body had inspired in others would be incurably implanted in this woman? When Anaka put a collar on those slaves and forced them to gain Classes related to sex work? That was bad enough. Then she’d gone even further by ordering them to improve upon their Skills time and time again, twisting their earliest, most important Levels toward a profession that was scorned by their society. She’d irrevocably altered their course in life.
So what if Sara did the same to her? Why should she care if Anaka, a lifelong brothel owner, a former slave owner, had to wipe drool from her chin every time she summoned up the mere memory of this night? Why should she care if the woman spent the rest of her life tortured by the knowledge that such bliss would never again visit her?
Sara didn’t care. Not really. Hell, she was nearly certain the woman would love it.
Sara twisted Anaka’s head in her grasp, inspecting her like a prize show dog. She’d started off by slapping three Gifts of Lust atop her, each in rapid succession. Her breath was ragged, her pupils dilated, and she had a full-body flush. A good start. As Sara leaned forward, bringing the shorter woman in for a kiss, she patiently waited for the moment their lips first touched.
And, at that very moment of contact, added a fourth Gift of Lust.
Anaka gasped, pulling herself forward. She met Sara’s lips with the inexplicable need of a drowning woman tasting air for the first time in an eternity, groaning her relief as Sara’s free arm wrapped around her waist, pulling their two bodies together. Sara used the hand that was still on her chin to tilt her head to the side, slipping her tongue between her lips.
Anaka opened her mouth greedily, her entire body shuddering as she felt Sara tasting her. Pressing inward, claiming her mouth, enjoying the taste of her, Sara rewarded her with another Gift of Lust.
Five now.
Anaka nearly seized against Sara, every muscle contorting to grind itself closer against her body as if trying to wallow in her mere presence. The bulge she’d failed to hide now slid slickly up Sara’s thigh, its tip already wet enough to leave spots on her dress.
She tried to buck further into Sara, trying to get a firm purchase of her hips and cock against her thighs, but Sara wouldn’t allow more than the tip to brush against her. She used the hand on Anaka’s waist to ball up the woman’s dress into a tight fist, keeping her away.
Anaka whimpered pitifully into her mouth, but apparently couldn’t bring herself to tear away from the feeling of Sara’s lips long enough to give words to her protest. Sara could read her well enough. The trembling hands that the Madame had brought to Sara’s chest opened and closed on empty air as she tried and failed to understand this swelling, profound, unyielding need. No client, no employee, not even her closest lovers had ever brought her to this state, and however close they might have gotten, they’d certainly never approached it in so short a time.
When her hands stopped closing on empty air, instead falling forward, landing atop Sara’s still-clothed breasts, she threw a sixth Gift of Lust at her.
Anaka cried out, a loud, girlish keening noise that Sara’s kiss couldn’t muffle. The whole room, almost all of her employees, longtime sexworkers themselves, could hear the abject arousal in that wordless utterance. Their employer, the woman they respected, trusted, and ever-so-slightly feared, was crying out like a virgin schoolgirl.
Sara, in an act of mercy and cruelness both, thrust her knee out, finally giving the woman something to touch herself with. Anaka lunged desperately for it and, the very instant her cock brushed against Sara’s body, received her seventh Gift of Lust.
Anaka’s climax arrived with a twisting, wrenching motion, her entire body protesting and reveling in the way that her cock unexpectedly spurted thick, heavy lines of cum into her dress, ruining it from the inside out. There was so much that it quickly began dribbling downward, creating a large and painfully obvious stain.
“What…” Anaka gasped, pulling herself off Sara’s lips for the first time. She looked like she wanted to say more, to ask a question, but could only stare dizzily as she repeated herself dumbly. “What? Wha… what…?”
“What was that?” Sara chuckled. “The first minute of the next three hours,” Sara replied smugly, allowing the woman to rest her weight on Sara’s lifted knee. “Or however long I booked you for. Can’t remember. Not like it matters. This should be fun, right?”
The Madame didn’t seem to have heard a thing. “I’m s-so hot,” she breathed, eyes drifting without sight. “I’ve never felt like t-that before. It was… it was overwhelming.” She finally blinked. “Three… hours?”
“Three hours,” Sara confirmed, bouncing her knee. Even that slight jostling made Anaka’s nails dig hard into her skin as she writhed, squirming from side to side. “I figured we’d move to whatever room you had prepared, but you seemed so eager…”
“Y-yes, l-let’s,” Anaka agreed, glancing out at her employees, then down at her ruined dress. “S-so much,” she whispered. “Not in all my life have I ever done this, I assure you.”
Sara chuckled. “I believe you.”
Anaka was still staring down at herself, dazed. Her cock visibly pulsed beneath her dress, bobbing over and over again. “I’m not sure if I can walk. My knees feel as if they’ll bend like grass.”
“Nothing for it, then,” Sara said, grabbing the woman by the hips and spinning her around, dropping her atop a table. “Guess we gotta stick around here.”
“But-”
Sara seized Anaka’s dribbling cock over her dress and flung another Gift of Lust at the woman.
Anaka threw her hips up into Sara’s touch, blind instinct trying to shove her into something that wasn’t there. All she achieved was knocking Sara’s hand aside, denying herself the pleasure she’d been so fervently seeking.
Sara tsked. “I thought you’d have better aim than that, Anaka. Shouldn’t a woman with your kind of experience know how to pump her hips?”
Anaka’s response came in the eloquent form of gasping out “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-” as her hands clawed at her dress, dragging it up and off her legs.
“Since you don’t seem to be capable of doing much yourself, let me help with that.”
Sara laughed openly, almost cruelly, as Anaka threw her hands to the side, letting her work the dress up and off her thighs, then her waist, stopping to make sure the inside didn’t roll to face outward, ensuring the woman’s own cum was smeared messily across her stomach, breasts, and throat. Sara stopped as the messiest part of the dress passed over Anaka’s face. She grinned cruelly as an idea struck her. Instead of taking her dress all the way off, she spent a moment rubbing it like a cum-soaked rag against Anaka’s cheeks, eyes, and nose, making absolutely certain the Madame couldn’t ignore it.
“Open your mouth,” Sara ordered.
Anaka couldn’t hear her. Her head was wrapped in tangled clothing, her own rubbing against the tabletop drowning her thoughts. She was so turned on that even the contact of wood against her skin was close to taking her to another climax, even with her bra still solidly clasped and her panties still struggling– and failing– to contain her pulsing erection. Sara nearly laughed when she realized the woman was wearing lacy, sky-blue underwear, embroidered with stitched images of flowers and shining yellow suns.
Her cock, however, was no laughing matter. Well above average, almost seven inches in length, it was even thicker than most of a shorter dimension. Its head glistened with her seed, shining in the crystal chandeliers, and pre-cum was still leaking out to drip, drip, drip against her smooth, bronzed stomach.
Sara leaned over Anaka. The position had the thick underside of Anaka’s shaft thumping against Sara’s stomach with every beat of her heart. She pressed her lips to the woman’s hidden ears.
“I said open your mouth.”
Anaka’s groaning grew louder as her jaw dropped, hot breath filtered through her dress to pant against Sara’s cheek.
“Good girl.”
Anaka’s reward was two fingers shoving the most cum-stained part of her dress to the back of her throat, accompanied by yet another Gift of Lust.
She came with a garbled, choking scream. Sara felt hot ropes of white strike her shirt, sticking it to her stomach, then her breasts, some of it reaching so far as to spatter wetly against her chin. In a matter of seconds, both of them were coated in the woman’s cum.
Gods, Hurlish is gonna be so pissed she missed this much girl cum, Sara thought. Of course, she would’ve been equally angry that it had been wasted. Her orcish wife detested the idea of facials with an almost religious zeal, refusing to let any woman with a cock cum anywhere but as far inside another woman as they could reach.
While Sara had been distracted by that thought, Anaka’s seizure-like orgasm had run its course. This time, the relief seemed to give her no return to lucidity. She’d begun suckling on Sara’s fingers, uncaring of the dress or cum in the way, frantically trying to get any taste of the ambrosia that Sara’s skin had become to her. Any time Sara felt the touch of bare tongue against her skin, Anaka’s entire body was wracked by ecstatic shivers.
“N-no!” Anaka cried out as Sara pulled her fingers from the woman’s throat in order to finally toss her dress off her shoulders. She looked at Sara with wild eyes. “No! No! B-back, put t-them back, please! Please!”
Sara ignored her. Anaka no longer had the strength left in her body to sit up, which meant that she could only call out increasingly incoherent appeals for Sara’s fingers to return, weakly thrashing left and right. It was as if she’d lost the idea to think a single second into the future, or perhaps was so overwhelmed by pleasure that she couldn’t fathom anything better than the taste of Sara’s skin.
Sara decided to correct her. She slid a hand down her stomach, four trim fingernails scraping lines through the pooling cum that still dripped from them both. Her palm came to rest against the head of Anaka’s cock, mixing the Madame’s saliva with the pre-cum beading from the slit of her cock.
Anaka froze. She was completely, utterly still, her eyelids shot wide-open, staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t even breathing.
Sara curled a single finger around the woman’s cock. With that, she tossed her another Gift of Lust.
Anaka collapsed, tears beading at the corner of her eyes as her head rolled bonelessly, her twitching lips muttering a mixture of praise and thanks.
Well, we’re not quite at ‘religious event’, but we’re getting closer.
Sara wrapped the rest of her fingers down Anaka’s shaft, adding them one by one. Her thumb came up to swipe across the wet head of her cock, causing another shudder to roll across the woman. Sara began to, with aching, deliberate slowness, slip her hand south. Her other hand came up to the Madame’s waistband, preparing to finally slide her underwear free.
Only to get her own tiny sort of shock when she properly pulled back to look between Anaka’s legs. Her panties were… wet. Very wet. Cum had of course smeared itself along her thighs, that was unavoidable at this point, but… that wasn’t what had gotten them wet. It was a type of sticky arousal Sara knew intimately, even if she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
Any drama and sense of anticipation evaporated as Sara unceremoniously tore Anaka’s underwear off her, revealing exactly what she expected.
“Oh, what the fuck?” She exclaimed.
Laying exposed beneath Anaka’s dripping, needy cock, there was another set of genitals. Anaka’s cock ended less than an inch above what could only be her clitoris, itself partly hidden beneath the tight pair of neatly-trimmed balls. The rest of her vagina spread down and away, uncaring of what lay above it. Sara felt like there should have been something more difficult about it, getting both to play nice in such a cramped space, but it just worked. Her thick cock blended smoothly into the shaved skin of her pelvis, leaking so much precum it ran down her shaft to mix with the shining slick of her pussy. It was beautiful. Alluring. All at once, Sara understood how a lowly prostitute had come to own an entire brothel, one renowned across a city that, at least in public, claimed to scorn such a thing. With a body like this, Anaka could have charged anything; a hundred copper or a hundred silver, they’d always come back. Who wouldn’t come back to such a thick cock, tight pussy, and beautiful body? That just wasn’t fair. Sara leaned forward and ran an almost incredulous finger up Anaka’s slit, collecting the wet juices. She held the liquid to the light, then licked it off her finger. It tasted exactly as she’d expected. Wonderful.
And infuriating.
“Seriously?!” She shouted, stepping slightly back to get a better view. “This is some bullshit. How did she end up with this? What the fuck?”
“I-it’s how she was born!” A voice called out, as indignantly defensive as it was nervous to speak up.
Sara whipped her head around to the vanara prostitute who’d spoken.
“It’s not- I’m not-” Sara’s incredulous reaction was interrupted by Anaka’s whimpering. She shut the woman up by pumping her cock once, causing her legs to slam violently shut against Sara’s hips. “I’m not mad at her,” Sara explained, using the woman’s own cock as a pointing stick for her face. “I’m mad that she’s got this setup and I don’t! Do you know how long I’ve been trying to do this? To have both at the same time?”
Sara turned around, one hand behind her back in order to keep resting on Anaka’s cock, then unashamedly dropped her pants for her spectators. Her spotlessly bald pussy was suddenly on display, showing off the arousal dripping down her legs.
“See? Pussy.” She gave it a bit of thought and, with a flash, changed her body. “Cock.” She gave it another bit of thought, then there was another flash of purple-pink magic. “Pussy.” She switched again. “Cock. Pussy. Cock. Pussy. Cock. See what I mean? Magic powers, Amarat shit or whatever, it’s great. But, like, it’s been over a year of me never been able to have both–”
The instant the thought came to her, her body adjusted itself. Sara’s ranting was interrupted by an embarassing, terribly garbled moan, crying out “Ohhhohohhhohhhhhuhhnnngh,” as she stretched and changed in ways she’d never quite felt before. A burst of heat spread through her pelvis, frighteningly intense, despite being the furthest thing from painful she could have imagined. A few seconds later, it vanished as quickly as it arrived.
“Shit!” Sara swore, straightening to look down at herself. Just like that, she finally, finally had both. “What the fuck am I, Ben 10? Do I have to scan people’s fuckholes to copy them for myself?” She blinked. “Wait. Does that mean I can– hhhngnnh-” Sara folded over as her pussy vanished, a tingle shooting down her spine into her thickening cock. When she managed to right herself again, she found a new dick dangling off her hips: that of a catfolk’s, thicker than her wrist at the base, red and glistening along its entire tapered length.
“...how do I get me one of those?” She heard someone ask. Quickly, a chorus of other disbelieving reactions followed.
“You c-can come here and suck it whenever,” Sara groaned, still recovering from the unfamiliar sensation. She’d gotten so used to switching between her usual pair that she’d forgotten what it had been like at the beginning, back when she’d first become a Champion.
“Not what I meant,” the vanara woman drawled.
“...I’d suck it,” someone else said.
“Of course you would.”
“Fuck off, Therya. You work here, too.”
“You were gonna do it for free, though.”
“You wouldn’t?”
Someone– the vanara named Therya, presumably– glanced apprehensively at Sara, as if realizing for the first time that what she said next might determine whether or not she got in Sara’s pants.
“I didn’t say that,” she muttered under their breath.
“Alright,” Sara loudly announced, taking her cock back to its usual form, “after I’m done rearranging your boss’s guts, I’m gonna get my tongue on, in, or around anything and anyone here who doesn’t have… uh, I guess I’ll call them human-standard genitals?” She quickly flashed between her pussy and dick for emphasis. “These two. You get what I mean. So enjoy the show, get yourself ready for that.”
Sara turned back to Anaka, shaking distractions out of her head. She had so much she wanted to do with this little discovery, but she was starting to suspect that if she didn’t do something to Anaka soon, the woman might go into cardiac arrest. Sara had kept a slow, teasing pump of her hand across Anaka’s cock the entire time she’d been experimenting with her newly recognized abilities, barely giving the woman a feather touch. That treatment had reduced the Madame’s vocalizations to little more than incomprehensible, needy babbling.
“Okay,” Sara said, shaking out her hair, letting its long black waves roll down her back. She didn’t bother to tug her shirt over her head, instead just grabbing her collar and, with a quick downward jerk, ripped it off her chest. “Time to focus. Dom mode or whatever.” She gave a few quick pumps of Anaka’s cock, tightening her fist a touch. As she did so, she sorted her priorities out loud. “I’ll blow a few loads in her, get a train run on me so I can update my magic cock or however the fuck that works, then I’m gonna go fuck my wife until she can’t walk. That should give us enough time for us to finally go see how bad Mui fucked up getting laid with a prostitute.”
“Wait, really?” Someone asked. “Run a train on you, Your Holiness?”
“Don’t call me that!” Sara barked. “And how do you even know what the fuck ‘running a train’ means, anyway?”
“...what else would it mean?”
“This translation magic is bullshit,” Sara muttered under her breath. Someone was already asking if they’d be getting paid for fucking Sara, a concern that most people responded to with variations of shut the fuck up. She took a moment to focus in on Anaka, blocking out her spectators once more. It was harder than she’d expected. She’d fucked in front of plenty of audiences before, but none quite like this. Even with how thoroughly she’d been taking apart their boss, a professional Madame, this crowd was still made up of experienced, high-brow prostitutes. They had a cavalier attitude toward sex that even Tulian’s hidden BDSM club couldn’t match.
Never thought I’d fuck someone while getting heckled, she thought, bending low over Anaka, sandwiching the woman’s cock between their stomachs. She briefly glanced into the woman’s pupils, surprised that she could actually spot the tiniest flickers of lucidity behind the bonfire of lust. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, it was that tiny ember of consciousness, the last part of Anaka that had survived so long against her body’s roaring desire, that finally grounded Sara back in the moment.
Her stomach clenched. She couldn’t wait to find out if that spark could survive beneath an ocean of pleasure.
Sara smirked at Anaka as she slowly, teasingly, let her tongue roll out from her lips, its swaying tip– just a touch longer than a human’s should ever be– dangling over the woman’s collarbone. Then, lidding her eyes, she dropped it to the woman’s skin, curling upward, scooping up the cum that had pooled on her skin.
Anaka let out a loud, high-pitched keening noise.
Sara leaned back, holding eye contact as she brought her tongue into her mouth, visibly savoring the taste. It was only after the sticky, warm cum had rested in her mouth for a time that she finally swallowed.
Then pushed her hips forward.
The moment the head of her cock touched Anaka’s lower lips, the woman came. And this time, wonderfully, Sara could finally feel it. She could feel the way the underside of Anaka’s cock tightened and pulsed in her hand, pouring white strings across both their naked bodies. She could feel her thighs shiver and shake as they failed to find the strength to wrap around Sara, wanting more than anything in the world to force the thick cock into her molten heat.
Sara sighed contentedly.
Then, with the head of her cock beginning to slowly spread what lay before it, she activated another Gift of Lust.
Anaka’s body twisted and rolled, her fingers bent into claws, her toes spreading wide. She was so consumed with arousal that her motions were driven by instinctive need rather than any conscious thought.
“What do you want?” Sara whispered.
“Something… inside me…” Anaka slurred, goosebumps chasing after her rolling shivers. “Please.” Her eyes watered, near to tears. “Please.”
“If I do it,” Sara warned, “I’m not sure if you’ll ever come back.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’m not going to stop once I start.”
“Gods, please don’t.”
“Last chance.”
“Now,” Anaka hissed, one limp arm trying to lift up to take a swing at Sara, only for another trembling shiver to leave it flopping uselessly onto her stomach.
Mentally, Sara shrugged. Far be it from her to keep a woman waiting. And it wasn’t like Anaka wasn’t the only one who was impatient. The heat that lay between the woman’s spread legs felt like a damn furnace, calling out to Sara, telling her so much of how wonderful it be to bury herself within.
Sara grabbed Anaka’s ankles in both hands, spread her wide, and shoved herself in.
“F-fucking hell,” Sara groaned, head falling forward. Anaka was so tight it was goddamn unbelievable. She’d fucked a lot of people in all sorts of ways, giving and taking, front to back, whatever, but in all her time in this world, she’d never felt a pussy so tight it bordered on painful for her. Yet as Anaka cried out in rapturous relief, the way she clenched down on Sara teetered on the overwhelming.
“Fucking hell,” Sara repeated as she drew her hips back. “Is that a Skill or something?”
Anaka’s wild eyes couldn’t seem to find Sara as she slurred out her words. “Iiiiii thiink I lovvve youuuu,” she half-moaned, half cooed, one hand clenched into a fist between her breasts, the other slapping atop a table that, by this point, was beyond salvaging. No amount of Levels in a Carpentry Class could undo what they’d done to that thing.
“Don’t think I can say the same,” Sara grunted, grinding her way forward. “Fuck,” she groaned. “Feels like you’re trying to keep me trapped in here.”
“Yesssss,” Anaka said. She started to convulse around Sara’s cock, her pussy climaxing hard, even though her dick didn’t seem to reach the same peak. “Alwayssss. In meeee-”
Anaka cut off as Sara bottomed out, thumping against the back walls of her depths. That drew the Madame’s ongoing orgasm out even further, her pussy rippling up and down Sara’s cock, trying to force her to orgasm as soon as she possibly could.
Sara didn’t have a choice. The heat in her cock wasn’t coiling, it was flaring, turning into a nuclear bonfire. Her knees were already beginning to shake, and she could hear herself whining between gasps and pants.
Fuck off am I gonna go this quick, she thought, pulling her pelvis back. She grabbed Anaka’s hip with her left hand, wrapping her right hand around the woman’s cock. At least not alone.
She started to thrust properly now, slapping her hips into Anaka in tune with the pumping of her fist. It was still so tight that, if it had been anyone else, she would have felt certain it was an agonizing experience for them. The way Anaka was gasping, however, trying and failing to chant Sara’s name, proved it to be anything but. If there really was a way to have a religious experience through getting split open by cock, the once-elegant Madame had been thrown head-first over that threshold.
“Look at me,” Sara ordered, her own words hitching.
Anaka didn’t. She didn’t seem to hear a thing.
“Look at me,” Sara snapped, squeezing the woman’s cock.
Anaka’s chest heaved upward with a guttural moan, but that was it. There was no other reaction.
Growling, Sara took her hand off the woman’s hip long enough to grab her chin, turning her face upward. She stared into her eyes, looking for the spark that had been there such a short time ago.
Anaka’s empty face stared back at her, squished between Sara’s fingers. Her tongue tried to reach out to lick at Sara’s skin, but she was bouncing too hard from the thrusts to manage the feat.
Sara grinned, satisfied.
There was nothing left of the woman that had greeted Sara earlier that night. She’d been replaced by a mewling, writhing animal, her head empty of anything beyond what Sara’s body was giving her. Her eyes weren’t closed, but they weren’t looking at anything, either. The ocean of bliss had swept up and over, drowning her in a tide of wanton pleasure. What had once been the greatest, most profound climax of her life was now pulsing through her veins with every wet slap of Sara’s hips, each impact against her back walls and every pump of her cock driving her toward some new, uncharted peak, unlike anything she’d ever been able to imagine before.
Sara was right there with her. The way Anaka’s body was coiling around her was more intoxicating than alcohol. Whatever creature of animalistic need it was that had slithered up to take control of the former prostitute’s body, it clearly still knew how to use her prostitute’s Skills, and it was driving Sara mad. Even with every other muscle on her body limp and pliable, Anaka’s legs had come up to wrap around her hips, heels pressing against her back to help drive her deeper. Every time Sara’s palm reached the base of Anaka’s cock a tingle would shoot up her arm and into her breasts, shooting back downward when she raised up to cover the head of the woman’s cock.
Sara was instinctively aware, somehow, that every ounce of pleasure she drew from the woman’s cock was earning her a reward, and, to her shock, she was finding herself having to fight off the urge to pull out and drop to her knees, taking the cock in her mouth. The way it shot sparks into just her hand, her skin, it would be so much better across her tongue. That craving grew with every thrust and every pump, until her right arm was shaking with pleasure almost as much as Anaka’s limbs, and there was a part of Sara’s mind, buried deep but digging closer to the surface every second, that whispered a question to her: how good would it feel not just in her mouth, but down her throat? In her ass? In her pussy?
Sara fell forward with a helpless moan, barely fighting off the invading thoughts by taking one of Anaka’s nipples in her mouth. It tasted like nothing else she’d ever known. A quick swirl around the tip had saliva pooling beneath Sara’s tongue, only to come spilling out as drool when she took the nipple between her teeth and tugged, creating an explosion of sparks across her entire face as reflected pleasure was shot back at her psyche.
Anaka came yet again, her pussy somehow clamping down even harder. Sara felt blue sparks fizzle and pop under the skin of her lips, filling her with enough pleasure to leave the muscles of her face slack and numb.
“Fu-u-u-ck,” Sara groaned, dripping saliva across Anaka’s breasts. She still hadn’t stopped thrusting, and the heat in her belly hadn’t stopped rising. It was out of control, and she felt like she should have cum an hour ago. That they’d barely been fucking for a few minutes didn’t even seem relevant.
She reached her head up, pressing her face to Anaka’s, shoving her tongue past the whore’s mewling lips. Even that little touch had stars dancing behind Sara’s eyes, to say nothing of the way that Anaka’s cock was now pressed between their two bodies, getting jerked off both by Sara’s hand and the rolling of her stomach as she kept pounding forward.
“Gonna-” she gasped, “Gonna cum-!”
Whatever was left of Anaka understood that. She made a happy, worshipful noise deep in her throat, sucking at Sara’s tongue. Her legs tightened around Sara’s back, her hips suddenly finding the strength to roll upward into her, matching her pace with an inhuman, impossible perfection, almost as good as Evie, and all the while she kept her pussy rolling and twisting around Sara’s cock.
Sara couldn’t hold it anymore. She didn’t fucking want to. She shoved her hips so hard against Anaka that the entire table threatened to collapse, her body seizing, pressing itself against every inch of warm skin she could find as- as- as-
Anaka’s cock throbbed. When Sara felt the first string spurt between them, it was all over.
“MMMmmph!”
A lightning bolt raced its way up Sara’s arm, frying her nervous system with a climax it was never built to handle. Her own cock jumped, a fiery line of unbearable pleasure racing out from deep within her core to throw white, sticky pulses as far into Anaka’s body as could ever be possible, the moan that tore itself from their throats primal, inhuman, and utterly wonderful. The strange heat in Sara’s pelvis from earlier returned, unbidden, creating a pussy and aching clit that was clamping down on sensations of a phantom cock piercing her from hip to ribcage. She was as deep as she could be, had something stuffing her full in a way that sated her like nothing else, and was still kissing so madly her long eyelashes were fluttering wildly against Anaka’s face. Her twitching hips kept thrusting against her will, pushing so hard she was driving them both across the table, and it seemed the friction of wood and skin and slick, steaming cum all melded together into a blanket of fire, coating her in delight like nothing else. Sara was lost in it all, towed into senseless oblivion by Anaka’s screaming climax.
When Sara eventually, some unknown centuries later, finally came down from the shuddering high of her climax, she could hear voices talking quietly behind her.
“...didn’t the boss warn her that was going to happen?”
“I mean, I’ve fucked the boss before, but it never made me grow a whole new pussy…”
“So are we gonna put her in a room until she wakes up, or just leave her here?”
Groaning, her body wracked throughout by a profoundly satisfying ache, Sara managed to shove herself up off of Anaka. The room fell silent as, one by one, the assembled workers realized Sara was awake.
She ignored them, steeling herself for the worst moment of it all– pulling out.
With a tiny whine at the back of her throat, Sara slowly dragged her hyper-sensitive cock out of Anaka’s pussy. Coated in arousal and cum, the air felt so terribly cold against her that she shivered violently, a motion that did no good for the oversensitivity that was still running through her.
When she finally extricated herself from the greedy hole that she never wanted to leave, cum dripping out after her, Sara sighed, standing up properly.
“Um. Are you… ma’am?”
Sara ignored them. She reached forward, putting a hand between Anaka’s breasts to make sure she was breathing. She was breathing, but inconsistently, taking a breath in for two seconds, breathing out for three, breathing in for five, holding it for a time, then continuing onward. Her fingers and toes were still twitching slightly, an occasional muscle spasm running its way up one limb or another. Sara reached up to her face and used two fingers to lift the woman’s eyelids.
Anaka didn’t blink. Her left pupil was narrowed to a tiny dot, while her right pupil was blown out so widely there was barely any iris left at all. Sara let go of one eyelid, letting it slump into a half-closed position, and snapped her fingers a few times in front of the blown-out pupil.
Anaka gave no reaction. Her face was coated in saliva and cum, the latter of which had spurted between their breasts during the final climax. Sara looked about for a cloth or something to use, but only found their clothes nearby, which were almost as badly ruined as Anaka. Realizing there was nothing for it, she sighed, turning around.
“Alright. You,” she said, pointing to the muscular orc man who had taken Evie downstairs, “are going to get your boss wiped off, then you’re going to take her to a healer. She’s got symptoms of a… I don’t really know what, but nothing great, so you’re gonna want to go to Healer Pahla-Nahn, two streets over. I sent him a letter earlier today warning him he might get an odd patient tonight, so he should be ready.”
“Ma’am,” someone else interrupted cautiously, “Are you, uh, okay?”
Sara held up a finger for silence, still pointing at the first man. “Do you know where I’m talking about?”
“Er. Yes.” For such a massively bulky, muscular orc, he was awfully intimidated. “Should I go now, or…?”
“Yes, now. Wrap her up in a blanket or something. It’s past curfew, but don’t worry about the military patrols. You’re taking her to a healer, and that’s an allowed exception.” Sara stepped aside as the orc obediently began trundling his way over to Anaka. Stepping further away, she turned to the man who’d asked if she was okay a moment ago. A thin, younger human. “Yes, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
The man scratched the back of his neck, wildly uncomfortable. “It’s just that… Well. We’ve never seen someone lay with Anaka and stand up so soon afterwards. Or, really, even wake up this soon. You’re not, like, sore or anything…?”
Sara snorted. “A little bit. But I’m fine. She was a pretty good fuck, I’ll give her that, but you don’t need to worry about me.” She smiled brilliantly. “Now, who wants their turn on me first?”
At the rear of the crowd, Sara’s Blessings caught a woman muttering “If she can do that to the boss, she’d kill me.” The woman turned away, retreating out of the crowded audience. Similar sentiments were quietly echoed as others began to head for the doors.
Sara looked over the crowd. The Empire and its cities had proven to be the most diverse region of the world Sara had visited thus far, with only a thin majority being human, the rest of the population broken up between catfolk, vanara, azarketi, lizardfolk, half-elves, and elves, as well as a few scattered minorities of other sorts she’d occasionally noted.
The brothel, as she supposed made sense for a business that catered in exotic experiences, was even more diverse than the average Imperial city. Along with all the aforementioned, there were also a pair of gnolls, who were furry, hyena-like men and women that stood a head taller than most humans, as well as a smattering of waist and even knee-high people who Sara hadn’t even learned the name of, three rather vulpine individuals who she’d initially mistaken for catfolk, and even a single woman who was– and it could be described no other way– a dog girl, complete with muzzle and fuzzy, wagging tail.
Twitter would go fucking apeshit in this room, Sara thought, suppressing a smirk.
Then she paused.
Wait. Huh. My whole plan is to fuck pretty much everyone here who doesn’t look human, because I want to see what kinda stuff is between their legs.
She hid a wince. Shit. I really am a fucking furry now, aren’t I? Goddammit. Whatever.
Sara was unwilling to let this opportunity pass her by, no matter how tempting it was to maintain that small semblance of not-really-a-moral-highground. So, instead of arguing with herself over something that didn’t matter, she spread her arms and struck a pose with her fluid-drenched body, calling out with a shining smile on her face.
“Anyone who wants to have me, can. Anyone who has a dick or pussy that doesn’t look like mine? You can use my mouth.”
And with that dramatic announcement, Sara threw Gift of Lust across the entire room.
------------------------------------
Mui Thom
------------------------------------
For the nth time since he had been swept up in the swirl of Sara Brown’s life, Mui found himself thrown off balance by things he’d been directly told to expect. He had gone to a brothel, and he had been greeted by prostitutes. He had been told to visit a bath filled with women, and he had been greeted by a great number of women. That he’d expected all this didn’t make it any simpler to react to. You could imagine a cadre of women running soapy hands through your fur all you want (and, truthfully, Mui had imagined it quite often as a boy), but that didn’t mean you’d ever be the least bit prepared for it actually happening.
He was brought to a room far down a long hallway, one hidden behind a thick, sturdy door. When it was swung open, steam rolled out onto the ceiling, carrying with it the sound of light, feminine conversations.
The baths were a wonder unto themselves. Fed a constant supply of clean, fresh water by the city’s aqueducts, the luxurious pool was both wider and deeper than a number of rivers he’d known to be an obstacle to entire armies. The room was filled with a haze of steam, thin wisps of white drifting off the surface of an expertly heated pool. Even before he had entered it, Mui could tell it was more comfortable than any bath he’d ever taken, even on the warmest and brightest days of the year. Seeing as the women of this… brothel… had been using it for little more than recreation, there must be no end to how long it would stay warm. Practically a miracle, that. Yet oddly enough, Mui thought he might have been more awed by this luxury if he had never visited Tulian. The great industries he had glimpsed there seemed to trivialize something as “quaint” as a tiled, heated bath, wonderful as it currently seemed.
He was nowhere near ready to relax, however. Not with the company that spread out before him. There was no natural way to react to a lilting chorus of greetings from a dozen different beautiful women, many of whom were wearing nothing more than a towel wrapped around their torsos. It simply did not exist. Mui was certain of it.
His first actual response was involuntary, of course. His eyes roamed across the room as he fought and failed to tear his gaze from the beautiful sights. Many of the women were catfolk, and it was to them that his attentionally naturally fell first. Some were in the pool itself, their fur floating weightlessly about them, ripples in the water showing where their tails flicked back and forth. Others were fresh out of the water, and not all of them had placed a towel to cover their modesty. Their fur was pressed sleek and thin, showing off figures svelte and voluptuous, firm and soft, breasts of all sizes and shapes rising, swaying, bouncing, all according to the terribly casual way they ignored their nudity.
And that wasn’t even all the women present. He saw a lizardfolk woman, with her rough scales and powerful jaws, resting her head in the lap of a vanara woman, one who was using not only her hands to massage her fellow employee, but her prehensile tail, kneading the taut flesh with all three limbs. A woman of a sort he couldn’t even name was resting with closed eyes against the wall, tip of her thin muzzle sniffing at the air while she brushed out the long, inordinately fluffy tail in her lap. There were, to his utter disbelief, half-elves present. Mui had only seen a handful of elves in his entire life, and not that many more half-elves, yet there were three of them right before him. And they were naked.
While Mui was still standing in place, reeling from shock, the diminutive catfolk woman who had led him to the baths pressed herself to his back, reaching arms around his stomach to hug him from behind. His heart seized at the touch, blood icing in his veins as he fought a soldier’s instinct to throw an elbow into her face while drawing a belt knife.
Then her hands drifted up under the hem of his shirt, tickling the fur just over his waistband, and he found himself frozen for an entirely different reason.
“It’s a policy that all our guests must bathe before visiting with our attendants,” she purred into his back, “and we’re quite insistent on it.” She plucked at his shirt, lifting it higher, inch by inch. “Would you like some assistance getting ready for the bath?”
“I- well, I would think that I’m-”
Mui wasn’t allowed the opportunity to stutter through whatever stupid thing he was about to say. The shirt was lifted to cover his eyes, peeling off his chest, and by the time he could see once more, two vanara women had appeared to his left and right. One took his shirt and passed it to her own tail, flicking it to hang on a wall rack that he hadn’t noticed— to be quite honest, he hadn’t noticed there was an entire wall there— before reaching out, deft fingers working at his belt.
A nervous, excited lump formed in Mui’s throat. He tried to swallow it, but all that achieved was an audible gulp.
The vanara woman to his left giggled. “First time, sir?”
“That’s… well, yes,” he said timidly, unsure of why he was suddenly feeling embarrassed to admit he’d never visited a brothel. Then his eyes widened at what he might have inadvertently implied. “That is, this is my first time visiting a, uh, business like yours. Is what I meant.”
All three women surrounding him laughed. It was a torturously pleasant sound, practiced and refined. A part of him knew they were employees, women of service, and he couldn’t take their kindness for anything other than what a shop owner might say to negotiate a sale, but it was awfully hard to remember that in the moment. They just seemed to be having fun. Perhaps they were such skilled actresses that he couldn’t see through their facade, but he thought not. Why would the wealthy of society spend their money at a place where the women didn’t enjoy what they did?
His belt rasped as it slid off his waist. It, too, was tossed behind him, and before he could process even that, three pairs of hands were resting against the waistband of his underwear. The women smiled at him as they began to pull downward.
Good gods, he thought. No wonder so many visited this place. This must be the height of self-indulgent depravity.
------------------------------------
Evie Brown
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“Harder,” she slurred, looking up at the bulky, soot-covered man who stood over her. He pulled his meaty fist back again, but hesitated, conflicted.
“Harder!” She shouted.
Pain bloomed across her cheekbone, a radiating shock that filled her head with the most pleasant of buzzes. The back of her skull bounced off the stone table as she rejoiced in finally, finally finding someone strong enough that she didn’t have to pretend to be hurt by their pathetic blows.
Evie let out a low, contented purr as the man flung her onto her side, driving himself deeper into her cunt. She’d done good work with him so far. Managed to drag him back to the pay booth three times now, even if it took him longer each time to recover between bouts.
I’ve been such a good kitty, she thought dizzily, watching the man’s eyes squeeze tight as she forced her inner walls to clamp down on him. She kept bucking her hips, working her lower body up and down. The sooner he filled her, the sooner the next could visit her.
Have I made enough money? Evie wondered. She started to glance at the pay booth for some sign of her progress, but was interrupted by a cock slapping across her cheek.
Evie’s mouth fell obediently open, drooling tongue falling to ease the thick length’s way into her throat. The person– she couldn’t tell who or what they were, not with their hips already slapping against her brow– wrapped their hands around her neck, squeezing down. It was something she’d taught the crowd early on: her body could take worse punishment than any whore’s, and it was a perfect way to ensure her throat stayed even tighter than normal while they fucked it.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t remembered to take a deep breath this time, and so she began to bob her head in time with the thrusts slapping against her face. The last time she’d passed out, the brothel workers hadn’t let the crowd keep using her body, which had cost her valuable time. She’d resolved to not let it happen again.
Gods, I hope I’m making enough, she thought as wet gags were forcefully pulled from her throat. Master has grown so much better about punishing me.
Her body began to shake. Both because the man between her legs had begun to fill her with his seed, and at the thought of what Master might do to her if she failed.
Once upon a time, Master wouldn’t have actually done a thing. Punishments for sexual failure were nothing more than sweet nothings whispered in her ear, threats that helped drive her delight higher. On many occasions the collar had made her believe them, but once the orders were lifted, she was left with a clear, disappointed mind.
If I fail, I deserve it, she said to herself. The man between her legs slipped away, quickly replaced by someone else. They tried to tease her, rubbing the head of their cock against her aching pussy, but she wouldn’t let them. The moment she felt them line themselves up, her legs closed, dragging them inside her.
With the early days so far gone, her Master had improved. The guilt she felt for punishing Evie had faded with every bitten-back moan as a whip cracked, every throaty gasp when a slap landed on her skin. Master had expanded her own limits bit by bit, piece by piece, dragged deeper by Evie’s incessant, unending pleading. It had been so hard for Master to understand, sometimes. Hard for even Evie to understand, at first. But it was undeniable. Deep in her soul, there was something that needed to be put in its place. Some part of her mind that did not just crave the lash, but fed on it, lived off it. For her whorish body to be given a ‘reprieve’ instead of well-deserved punishment was the only act Evie had deemed too cruel to suffer.
Her vision began to fuzz, thoughts melting alongside her limbs. The cock in her throat still had not cum, and she’d begun to run out of air. Distantly, at a growing remove from her own body, she noted her legs slowly slipping down and away, her arms uncurling. Her heart pounded with excitement. If I pass out, her delirious mind reasoned, I won’t earn enough. Master will have to punish me, won’t she?
Whether it was that thought or her own exhaustion, Evie stopped fighting her failing vision. She fell slack, wrists dangling off the edges of the stone table, her legs abandoning the hips of whoever was fucking her.
She giggled into the cock that was choking her. Master had gotten so good at giving her punishments, now. Whether with paddles, whips, piercings, or even, when she’d earned a particularly exquisite night of pain, blades, Master had taught her body how to behave. The only thing Evie truly feared was the final punishment: deprival. Master would refuse to use her, and she was disallowed the touch of anyone and anything else. She could still service others, of course, that was why her body existed, but she wasn’t allowed to so much as approach a climax. That was the worst punishment she’d suffered through, though it had only happened a few times before. She wondered if this would earn her that torture once more.
She hoped so.
As if spurred on by the sight of her collapsing body, the cock in her throat began to throb. She didn’t have the energy to help it on its way anymore. She barely noticed it was happening. If it wasn’t for fists suddenly tightening around her throat, twisting hard, she wouldn’t have felt it at all.
Evie’s body rolled in pleasure as she felt that thick, fat cock bury itself deep in her throat, her lips pressed to the base of its owner’s pelvis. She didn’t reach a climax of her own, not in the traditional sense, yet she felt something pop behind her eyes anyway, her mind reveling in the joy of a purpose fulfilled.
The cock slid out of her throat. Evie sucked in a great lungful of air, then began to cough as that gasp pulled spittle and other fluids with it.
She looked around, searching for the next person even as she kept coughing. She could feel her tits bouncing on her chest with every hard thrust from the figure between her legs, and satisfying as it was, her throat felt so empty. The crowd kept trying to give her time to breathe, time to recover. She didn’t know why they cared; every moment they weren’t inside her was coin they’d wasted. She wished they’d just use the holes they’d purchased already.
A figure stood over her. Evie’s watery eyes blinked several times at the shadow, uncomprehending. She couldn’t get her vision to clear, and so, to demonstrate what they should be doing, held her mouth open, dangling her neck off the back of the table so they’d have an easier time cramming themselves into their rightful place.
A cock landed on her chin. She smiled gratefully, nuzzling up into it, hoping they’d take her soon, teasing them with a quick lick–
Evie’s eyes shot open.
“Mmhashhter,” she rasped. She could barely get her abused lips, tongue, and vocal cords to form words. She frantically tried to roll over, hands slapping uselessly at the stone table as she searched for the leverage which would let her press her face harder into the cock laying across her face. “Mmhasterh, Mashteruh, Mmmasther-!”
“Fuckin hells, did she just recognize you by taste?” A voice asked.
“Yes,” Master said simply, one hand going to stroke the side of Evie’s head. She could feel drool pooling in her mouth, her body preparing itself for its owner. “She’s a good little whore, isn’t she?”
“Pretty good,” the other voice grunted. “Fuckin’ expensive, though.”
Master’s voice was strange. It sounded different, and Evie didn’t know why. That didn’t matter, however, because Master laughed, and that meant she was good, she was being good.
“You paid for fifteen minutes with a hole, or until you came. If you wanted to stay longer, you should’ve lasted longer. Not her fault she could get you off in two minutes.”
“Little bitch wouldn’t let me pull out,” the man spat.
Evie grinned stupidly, giving up on getting Master’s cock down her throat. Instead, she began to press prideful kisses to its underside. The man was right. Evie hadn’t let any of them, not one, pull out. She was making so much more money that way, because they would always be forced to watch while their friends continued with her, and that would work their appetite up once more. She’d been such a good whore.
“You’ve got no idea how lucky you were to even see her body, much less feel it.” Master chuckled. “You’ll never know how lucky, really. Now, toy? Listen up.” There was a pause, then another quiet laugh. “If you can hear me, stop kissing my cock.”
Evie tried. She really did. But the little tastes that got between her lips were too much, too wonderful, for her to abandon. She couldn’t stop.
Master’s cock suddenly lifted itself up and away. Evie shuddered as it left, feeling it slide across her skin. So big. Bigger than she normally got, even. Had she really been so good?
“Bad kitty.”
Evie barely had time to feel the terror that was inspired by that statement before Master’s hand struck her across the cheek.
Hard.
Evie’s head jerked to the side, a ripple of popping noises rolling up her neck as it was twisted by the force of the blow. The sound echoed through the chamber, silencing everyone, even the professional prostitutes working at the booth. Master held her hand up over Evie, letting blood drip back onto her face for a moment.
“Holy shit,” the woman between Evie’s legs exclaimed, aghast. “What the fuck is wrong with you-”
Master seized Evie’s right arm around by the bicep, jerking hard. Evie gasped in delight as she felt her shoulder nearly rip itself from the socket when Master swung her, throwing her across the room. She hit the dirty, grubby stones on her left shoulder, rolling hard for a dozen feet until her back slammed against a cool wall.
“None of you have any idea,” Master announced as Evie brought herself to hands and knees, “just how lucky you were tonight. You’ll never get another glimpse of someone like her again. What’s worse, none of you used her like you really could have.”
Evie crawled on hands and knees, scrambling as fast as she could manage. She hadn’t been given permission to stand. Someone reached out to try and stop her, saying something insane about ‘not having to’ or some such, but instead of halting her, they found themselves knocked over by the attempt to restrain her. Evie ignored their cursing as she left them behind.
“The public use section of the night is over,” Master announced. Through her blurry vision, Evie saw her pop out the tail of a coat as she dragged a chair from under the table, sitting down with legs spread wide, hands behind her head. “If anyone touches my toy without her permission from this moment on, I’ll let her do whatever she wants to you. Now, a lot of you might be planning to leave after hearing that. But if you want to find out exactly what you could have had for yourself, y’know, if you’d actually had the balls to get rough with her, feel free to stay and watch.”
Evie groaned pitifully as she reached Master once more, shoving her cheek into her owner’s bared crotch. She rubbed up and down, delighting in the scent that began to fill her head. A hand tangled itself in her hair, dragging her closer, and Evie whined in excitement.
Notes:
Welp, that smut scene ended up going so long that there's going to be another chapter of it next week. I'm sure everyone will be very disappointed about that.
Chapter 151: APPTV B3 Ch38: One Way... (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Content Warnings
Evie POV: Distension, unrealistic body proportions
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Mui Thom
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When he first joined the army, Mui had been taught the signs of heat sickness. For young soldiers marching hours a day in shining steel armor, it was an incredible risk. He had known many who had suffered from the illness during the early weeks of training, and he’d come close himself on a number of occasions. He’d staved it off with cool canteen water and frequent breaks beneath shady trees, loosening his armor as much as he dared to let air blow across his foaming fur.
He could recognize the symptoms in himself now. Profuse sweating, heavy breathing, and confused speech were the most obvious clues. If that was all there was to it, he could have happily removed himself from the bath and sought out a cooler rest area, confident he’d done the right thing. But it seemed that there were other circumstances that could bring on those same symptoms.
Thin fingers worked firmly through the fur of his back, pressing a tastefully scented soap into the pores of his hidden skin. The catfolk woman was half bathing him, half massaging him, with her emphasis on the latter growing with each passing minute. He was fairly sure that he’d been clean for a very long time now.
The same two vanara women from earlier were still in front of him. Sitting on a submerged bench, Mui’s legs were spread out before him, floating weightlessly in the wonderful water. The vanara women had each wrapped a tail around his legs, tensing and relaxing the dextrous limb in rhythmic patterns as they slid it up and down, moving from his thighs to his calves, then to his ankles, eventually on down to the calloused pads of his feet, then back up again. Their hands spent most of their time on his arms and shoulders, kneading out knots of tension he’d never noticed before.
Physically, Mui had never been so relaxed in his life. If it weren’t for the women holding him, his head would have slipped beneath the water long ago. Mentally, however, he could not bat away his nagging concerns.
This is ridiculous, he thought, even as he groaned in satisfaction. I do not deserve this treatment. This is a luxury for Visyas and Warriors, not some lowly Imperial Sergeant.
It seemed Sara’s beliefs had affected Mui more than he’d thought. When he wasn’t distracted by swaying breasts half-hidden beneath the soapy water, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for this luxury. It seemed ridiculous for him to be soaking in such decadence so soon after taking the city. Outside the walls of this brothel, while Mui was receiving massages and the purchased affection of beautiful women, there was so much more to be done. Rebel sympathisers to be uncovered, city streets to be repaired, arms and armor to be acquired. Yet he was leaning back in a heated bath, resting his head on the welcoming shoulder of a beautiful woman whose name he didn’t even know.
Despite those concerns, he couldn’t bring himself to reject the women’s ministrations. They were inordinately good at what they did, and he doubted he’d ever have a similar opportunity again.
And, he silently argued, if it is truly Sara’s beliefs that inspired me to feel guilty, why should I regret indulging myself in a gift she treated me to?
Sighing, Mui endeavored to let the stress of his mind flow out of his body as easily as the stress in his muscles. He let his eyes close, leaning back further. He could feel the fur of his head tickling and intermingling with the fur of the shoulder behind him, and he didn’t even let himself think of what her scent might have been like if it hadn’t been mixed with so many stranger’s. For a woman whose work was laying with others, he could even imagine she considered that mingled scent a point of pride.
In a cruel twist of fate, it was only once he’d managed to relax that the time seemed to fly past. Before he knew it, the women were guiding him up and out of the pool, handing him a towel to wrap around his waist. They didn’t give themselves the same courtesy, however, and simply stood in the nude, smiling lightly at his strained attempts to maintain proper eye contact.
“Are you ready?” One of the vanara women asked, eyes glittering with a restrained mirth. “Or do you need more time to prepare yourself?”
Mui ran his tongue along the tips of his canines, considering. Eventually, he realized something important.
“What, exactly, am I getting myself ready for?” He asked.
The women blinked at him. Several more in the baths, further away, snickered.
“To see a courtesan, of course,” the catfolk woman said, as if it was obvious. “What else would you be expecting?” She smirked slightly, the tip of her tail flicking. “You didn’t think it would be all of us here in this room, surely?”
Mui sputtered out a laugh. “What? No, of course not. How could anyone expect to be with, what, two dozen women at once? Nothing about that would work.”
“It does,” she stated plainly.
Mui’s laughter slowly petered off. He’d expected more to that reply. Some sort of caveat, an explanation of what she meant by having a few dozen women attend to a single man. When it became clear nothing was forthcoming, he coughed.
“No,” he reaffirmed, “I didn’t think that.” Mostly because I didn’t know it was possible. “But this entire ‘event’ was set up by Sara, and she can be terribly unpredictable at times. Enjoyably so, but still. Her creativity invites trepidation.”
“She’s such a dashing woman,” the vanara woman on the right sighed dreamily. Mui still didn’t know their names, and he hadn’t asked. He had heard that those who sold their body didn’t use their real names, and feared even asking might be rude. “If only I could learn more about that creativity firsthand.”
“You could just ask her,” Mui said with a shrug. “I’m sure she would.”
The vanara’s lips quirked into a slight smile. “She would what, Mui Thom?”
“Have sex with you,” he said matter-of-factly. He wasn’t a fool or socially inept, despite what his relative inexperience seemed to have led these women to believe. “I truly think that if you simply asked her, she would. If she’s not busy or in public, at least. Outside those circumstances, I haven’t seen her turn down a proposition yet.”
That got a reaction from more than just the women Mui was talking to. The quiet whispers of the bathhouse picked up a touch as the workers began to murmur lurid things to one another.
“Well,” the vanara woman said, “I suppose you’re not quite as naïve as I thought you were.” She bit her lip with a fang, which looked quite attractive. “You’re telling the truth? She really would?”
Mui laughed. “You’re beautiful, ma’am. I’d be shocked if she did anything less. Though I’d caution you against propositioning her in public. The way she is with her wives, it would seem that particular line is getting thinner every day.”
“Wouldn’t mind being the one that snaps it,” the vanara muttered.
“We really ought to be getting to your appointment,” the tiny catfolk woman said. “Before all that straining to keep your eyes off our chests turns you blind.”
Several women laughed at that, and as Mui began to follow them towards another door, he made a deliberate effort to relax his neck and untense himself. That was quite difficult to do when there were three sashaying tails bobbing right in his line of sight, promising him quite the view if he just gave in and looked down.
Vanara don’t even walk with their tails raised, he thought stiffly, grinding his teeth. They’re just doing that to tease me.
It was working. The women kept glancing backward as they led him around the pool, trying to catch him peeking, but he met their eyes each and every time. It was a narrow contest, however, and one he doubted he would have been winning for much longer. Thankfully, he was saved by them presenting a single door to him, identical to all the others.
“Your courtesan awaits you, Mui Thom,” the tiny catfolk said, presenting the door with an elaborate, overdramatic gesture.
“Thank you,” Mui said, because he didn’t have anything else to say. Licking his whiskers back, he opened the door a crack and stepped quickly inside, turning around to close it before anyone in the baths could catch a glimpse within.
“Hello at last,” a woman’s voice said. “I’d complain you kept me waiting, but I can’t truly blame you. It’s a wonderful sight out there, isn’t it?”
The voice was high-pitched, with a bouncy, almost rhythmic tune to it, as if the speaker were close to singing. He turned to look, and almost immediately found himself enchanted.
The woman was laying on her side with her head propped up on an elbow, watching him enter. Long, sleek legs rested atop one another on a silken shroud, caramel skin bare and smooth as the bedding she lounged across. Her hips had a gentle curve to them, leading up into a thin, wispy figure, but one that paradoxically seemed to lack nothing in curves, as if she were built not to walk across the ground, but to float, drifting from breeze to breeze. Her breasts were no more than a handful each, nipples pink and creamy, a stark contrast against the darker sweeps of skin that coated the rest of her body, and he found himself dazed by the mere sight of them, as if he were unfit to behold such beauty.
That was an effect that grew precipitously when his eyes finally clawed their way upward, landing on her face—
And her long, pointed ears.
She was an elf.
An elven… prostitute?
“Well?” She hummed playfully, shifting her hips. “Have you just come to stare?”
Mui stared. “I don’t understand.”
The elf threw her head back and laughed.
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Evie Brown
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Master’s cock was different. More different than it had ever been, for as much as that could be said about something which constantly shifted length and dimension to better please its recipients. As it rested on her face, heat wafting off its surface like a bar of molten iron, she found herself struck dizzy by its weight. Its size. It crested over her nose on one side, and fell off her face to the other. Easily thicker than her wrist. Perhaps even thicker than her forearm. She couldn’t bring herself to lift it away for a better view.
Instead she knelt there, basking in its presence. Breathing hard as she knelt beneath her owner. Master had never given her this. As was her right, of course, it wasn’t Evie’s place to make demands, but still. So big. There were reasons Master didn’t usually do this, after all. There was no way for Evie to please it in any meaningful way, beyond licking and worshipping the surface— which she would never refuse to do!— but such meagre efforts brought her owner pitifully little pleasure. Evie’s desires did not matter.. No matter how much she enjoyed the thought of impossibly large anatomy, inspired as she was by the videos Master had shown her from Earth, there was no way to-
“Suck it.”
Evie leapt hungrily at the tip, using both hands to bring her tongue onto its rightful place. The tangy, salty flavor of Master sent a pleasant shiver down her spine, and she began to dutifully lick as much as she could, moving her head when necessary to ensure she covered as much area as possible.
Master’s grip on her hair tightened, a second hand joining the first.
Evie’s eyes widened at a familiar motion. One she’d felt so many times before. Master pulled Evie’s head back, until the head of her cock was resting against her lips alone.
It was impossible. It wouldn’t fit. Evie didn’t care if it would hurt her of course, in fact she would relish it, but trying to fit that massive thing down her throat would hurt Master, and that was unacceptable.
Evie was not a flawless slave. She had vices. Desires, even, though she knew she shouldn’t when she was beneath her Master. It was a good toy that desired to please their owner, was it not? Even if those desires sometimes led her astray? She opened her mouth wide, staring up with pleading eyes.
Her head was slammed down without warning, piercing her lips with thick, hot, throbbing flesh. Her throat bulged out obscenely far, and despite it all, the pain she’d expected, the stinging burn of her body pushed too far, never came. Her throat did not accept Master easily, of course; there was an ache to it, a certain almost-painful stretching sensation, but nothing more. That almost-pain never became a true hurt, no matter how long it spent teetering on the edge. It was as if her body had finally caught up with her soul, accepting its role as Master’s cocksheathe.
As quickly and brutally as Master had shoved her head onto her cock, it still seemed to take forever before Evie’s nose bumped into the soft skin of her pelvis. She was impaled on cock, and she couldn’t control the way her tail began to twist and curl, hips wriggling and thrusting in gleeful excitement.
She could feel that satisfying stretch thrumming all the way down her throat, then, impossibly, even further. With how much had been crammed into her, she should have felt it well past her breasts, yet the signals sent to her mind told her Master was all still lodged firmly in her throat. The paradoxical nature of what was happening to her was confusing for a time, until Master groaned in satisfaction and adjusted her posture, causing a stirring sensation.
In her chest.
Evie could have wept. She was, in a way. No one could take this much cock down their throat without their eyes tearing up. But Evie was more lost than that. She could have sobbed in joy, her entire sense of self falling deeper into the love and fanatic obsession she felt for her Master.
She’s bent me to her whims. Not just my sex, but my body itself. With the collar first, her magic now, everything I am is just putty in her hands.
Evie couldn’t cry out her thanks or moan her delight with a cock in her throat, she knew that, yet she couldn’t stop herself from reacting. All she achieved was a buzzing hum against her owner’s cock and tears in her eyes. A purr began to rumble out of her chest all the same, from where she didn’t know, and she heard the blurry visage of her Master hiss in pleasure.
“That’s better. Good girl.”
Evie’s tail flung out straight behind her, fuzzing up wildly, while the ears hidden beneath her head wraps trying to flutter forward, straining to drink in the praise she’d worked so hard to earn.
The massive cock slid out of her throat, leaving her dreadfully empty, a hunger for its return pooling in her belly. Master didn’t even draw out far enough to let her take a breath before pulling Evie back onto her cock, filling her whole. Evie’s tongue, despite being pinned to the bottom of her mouth, tried its best to work and lick at the skin that slid past her, endeavoring to thank Master for a gift unlike any other.
“Good girls get to touch themselves, you know.”
Given permission to be anything other than Master’s cocksleeve, Evie’s hands flew upward, seizing the base of her cock and beginning to squeeze and pump, working to help Master fuck her face even faster.
Master laughed. “Gods, look at you. I was going to say you’re a whore, but-” Master briefly choked on her words as Evie began forcing herself forward of her own accord, “-but even whores have something else to them. You don’t, do you?” Master threw her hips forward, groaning as she bounced off Evie’s face. “Not even a whore. You’re just… my… toy…”
Evie bobbed eagerly at every word, throwing herself forward and back. Master’s cock was so long that it was awkward for her to drag Evie’s head up and down its length on her own, and Evie couldn’t accept the way each stroke had a moment of hesitation, Master’s arms at the extent of their length. In those moments she used her own body to fuck her face against Master, completing every stroke with as much force as she could.
She was not the only one awash in new sensations, it would seem. Far sooner than was normal, Evie felt Master’s cock begin to flex, its thick length swelling even larger. Master’s panting breath, which had begun so low and guttural, was climbing higher and higher, slowly turning into girlish whines of pleasure.
Suddenly, without a word of warning, Evie felt the fingers in her hair dig deeper as her head was slammed against Master’s crotch hard enough to send a flash of intoxicating pain through her head. She wiggled deeper into the position, her own eyes fluttering as Master’s voice reached a soft, quieter keen, her act of a brutal tyrant slipping as she let out a soft, loving cry of “Evie…!”
Frozen in place, Master’s cock pumped once, twice, and then Evie felt a burning heat spill deep inside her, coating her throat as it was shot deeper into her body than it had been before. Master’s legs clamped around her, shivering and shaking as she lost control of her hips, thrusting against Evie’s face with those lovely, wonderful little whimpered groans of satisfaction.
It was a sight so wonderful, the experience of being claimed before a crowd so exhilarating, that something began to trickle its way through Evie’s veins. The drip soon became a stream, then a flood, until, like a lightning bolt on a cloudless day, an inexplicable flush of pleasure roared through Evie. It was an all-consuming climax that should have been without reason, but it wasn’t, because Evie knew what it was, knew that her body had been given to the altar of Master’s worship, and that her mind couldn’t stop rewarding every part of herself for her final surrender, sending crackling white satisfaction up and down her body, around and round, the pleasure of orgasm not shooting out from her legs or on her clit or even her violated throat, but simply existing everywhere, all at once-
Evie collapsed. She sagged, unable to support the weight of a feather, much less her own bodyweight. She heard the wet shlick of her throat falling off Master’s cock, and felt it leaving her, but she would only remember that later, looking back. In the moment, there was nothing left between her ears other than the fading pink sparks of an explosive climax, one that left a dumb, happy smile on her face.
Master pulled her off the rest of the way, letting her breathe once more. Evie would later remember taking a slow, gentle breath, barely disturbed, as if she could have spent an hour further impaled on cock without issue.
Master bent over her, whispering into her cloth-wrapped ears.
“I realized something, you know. My Blessings let my partner change to fit what we both want. That was wonderful, and I loved it, but there were limits to it, of course. People could only ever get what their bodies changed to have sex, and only have those changes be something they really, really wanted, all the way deep down inside themselves. Passing little fantasies, shameful fetishes, or idle curiosity, those aren’t enough for it to work on.”
Sara kissed a hidden ear, making Evie mewl weakly. “But with you, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because all you want,” she kissed the other ear, “is to please me, isn’t it? My fantasies, my smallest little desires, they’re everything to you, aren’t they?”
Evie nodded her head, a stupid, drunken smile on her face.
“I know they are. Good Kitty.”
Another wave of orgasm, smaller than the first, washed through her.
“So now that we know this, Kitty, you know what we’re going to do?”
Evie shook her head. She didn’t. She didn’t know anything, right then.
“I’m going to put you on your back. And I’m going to take this cock,” its wet length slapped against Evie’s pelvis, reaching up past her breasts, “and I’m going to shove it up your dirty little cunt until I can feel you choking on it. Because you are mine.”
Evie giggled happily.
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Mui Thom
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“It’s just… I don’t know,” Mui said, sighing heavily. He tapped his knuckles against the bedding, trying to unravel his tangled thoughts. “You are an elf,” he repeated yet again, each time phrasing the statement almost as if it were a question. “I cannot have… have sex with one of the Honored Elven, can I?”
“I’m naked, aren’t I?” She reminded him, helpfully shifting her chest to better face him to illustrate the point.
It had been about fifteen minutes of Mui’s inarticulate waffling by that point, and he was no closer to figuring out what had sent his mind into such a dizzy spiral. The elf– Veyoh, she’d said her name was– had sprawled out across the bed, casually lounging in a manner far too alluring to be anything other than calculated. Her dark eyes and creamy skin kept sucking Mui in, at least until he realized how terribly he was staring, and then he would jerk upright, perched on the edge of the bed like he was sitting in front of a wall lined with rusty spikes.
“You are,” Mui agreed with a dry throat, “but why? You are an Honored Elven, ma’am. A holy arbiter of our High Emperor’s most holy will. To lower yourself to such a profession is… it’s unthinkable.”
One sleek, trimmed eyebrow crooked upward.
“‘Lower myself’ to this profession, you say?”
“No!” Mui all but cried out. “No, no, I did not mean that ma’am. I deeply apologize. I only meant that this work, it is…” He groped for a polite way to express the belief that she’d rightly accused him of holding. “It is not the calling of an Honored Elven, if I am to believe what I have been told. Those of your illustrious station are great warriors, master artisans, and seekers of ancient truths. Not…”
“Whores?”
Mui jerked as if slapped. “Courtesans, I believe Sara said the profession is best called.”
“I feel rather like a whore.”
Had he not spent months listening to the foul, acidic cynicism of Sara, he would have fled the room there and then. With that experience, however, he knew it best to just continue on as if Veyoh had never spoken.
“But make no mistake, ma’am. My most sincere apologies if I am incorrect, of course, I have never spoken with one so Holy as yourself–”
“You have bedded Emotion’s Chosen,” she interrupted, holding back a mirthful chuckle. “Quite regularly, if she spoke truthfully in our correspondence.”
“Correspondence? She planned this? Requested you, specifically? For me?”
“Did she not tell you she’d planned all this out?”
“She did, but I never imagined she would specifically request an Honored Elf for me to… to…”
“Fuck.” Her eyes glittered with a mischievous light. “You’re familiar with the word and its like, I assume? She was going to have you plow me. Ravish me. Screw me.”
“I-”
“Rail. Bang. Nail. ”
“I didn’t-”
“Fornicate. Mate. Breed.”
“Certainly not br-”
“Inseminate. Copulate.” She cocked her head, thinking. “Bone. Or… hm. Make love to?”
“Oh, gods, no.”
She laughed, using her arms to throw herself up on the bed, dark hair reflecting the crystal-light in shimmering waves. As she crossed her legs and rested her hands on her thighs, Mui could practically see the facade of sex appeal fade away from her. Even knowing it was exactly why she had done so, Mui could not help but feel more comfortable around her now that her posture was so much more casual.
“Truly, Mui Thom, what bothers you so? Are you so wrapped up in your honoring of elves that you would turn down a pleasant evening with a beautiful woman?”
“But you are not just a beautiful woman,” he all but pleaded, both hands wringing the towel that was still wrapped around his waist. “You are a leader of my Empire. One of the most revered, ancient people in all the world, doubtlessly possessed with all the grace and wisdom your untold years have bestowed upon you.”
“Is that what they’re teaching the mortal youths these days? I ask genuinely, Mui Thom. You’ll have to forgive my ignorance. I stopped attending my lessons when I was thirty.”
“And how long ago was that?” Mui found himself asking.
She smiled. “A question for a question, then. Is how you just described the ‘Honored Elven’ what you were taught to believe as a child?”
Given an escape from talking about anything remotely near sex, Mui took his time considering the question.
“After a fashion,” he eventually said, chewing on his words even as he spoke. “It’s not as if there were lessons I was sat down for, given lists of facts and falsehoods to memorize. It was simply what everyone said whenever the topic was broached, and so it was what I knew to be true. Even after two centuries of war, the Honored Elven are still those who rule us all. They are the uniting force of these lands, and they are the reason our great Empire has not collapsed entirely. The mere presence of one such as yourself has stopped the sacking of cities, and it was others like you who ordered the Archmages to desist from their massacres in the earliest years of the war. Without you, without Honored Elven like you, there would be nothing left of the land to fight for. Not even anyone alive to fight for it, I suspect. My ancestors would have been but dust on the wind, killed long before I could have been born. You are an Elf, ma’am, this is obvious. But we call you Honored for a reason.”
“Mm.” Veyoh absorbed his speech politely, looking intrigued to hear him speak, but showing no emotion beyond that. When he was done, she moved on without a reply.
“How old do you think I am, Mui Thom?”
“I haven’t the faintest clue, and I know well that I never could guess, ma’am.”
“I am younger than this war, Mui Thom. Only a hundred and seventy; barely more than a whelp, as these things are reasoned. I began my current profession only fifty years ago.” She smiled faintly, reflecting on some nostalgic memory. “Too young for the work, I know now. But it was something to do, and it wasn’t a place I thought likely for my minders to find me.” She shrugged, making her breasts rise and fall in a terribly distracting way. “After a while, I found I enjoyed it even more than I’d expected. There’s so many ways to spend each day, but precious few of them give you as many truly memorable moments as work in a brothel.”
Her smile faded slightly. “I’ve met some childhood friends in recent years. I recognized them easily. Too easily. They’d spent their time doing the things you so praised. Carving works of art, honing their skills with a blade, or wallowing in ancient esoterica. To them, once they found something to stir their passion, every day became the same. They woke, worked, played, and slept. Progressing in their chosen walk in life each day, true, but never in anything else.”
She looked him in the eyes. He saw nothing of the welp she claimed to be in that dark gaze.
“Can you imagine that, Mui Thom? Parting ways with a friend for fifty years, meeting them again, and finding they had not changed in the slightest way? That they still styled their hair in the same way, still wore the same clothes, still had the same voice and still laughed the same way?”
“No,” Mui said, once the silence stretched long enough it was clear she wanted an honest answer. “No, I cannot imagine that. I joined the army five years ago, and last saw my family four years ago. I doubt anyone I grew up with could recognize me now. Not at a glance, certainly.”
“And yet I’ve never met anyone I grew up with who has honestly, truly changed. Except me. It’s… lonely, I suppose. Sad. But good, too. Because it means I have changed. That I’ve done things and seen things that made me pause for thought, reconsidering something I believed before.”
Veyoh fell back onto the bed, spreading all four limbs wide, staring up at the ceiling. “Did you know I’ve already seen a pair of my regular clients die of old age? A pair of minor nobility from a nearby village who could only rarely visit the city. They were a common sort of customer; men who preferred women, but found the loveliest sort of exception in one another’s embrace. They still enjoyed the novelty of a soft woman beneath them, however, and I was lucky enough to be a favorite of theirs. After a while, I was their only. Visiting the city as rarely as they did, they always made sure to write ahead to ensure I would be available.”
Veyoh laughed lightly. “I once canceled a trip to visit my home when I received one such letter, Mui Thom. They were so lovely. The way they could share me between them, yet walked in and out of the room with eyes only for one another?” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, giving herself a squeezing hug. “It was more beautiful than any elven poem or sculpture. I’ve not seen something so simply pure as those men before or since.”
Her expression fell. “They started coming to me when they were in their thirties. Then there were thirty pleasant years of them visiting me once a year or so, until their bodies no longer allowed them to enjoy me in the way they once had.” She sighed. “Yet they visited anyway. Wrinkled, gray old men, taking a pretty elven whore out for the best wine their meagre estate could afford. The looks we got, Mui Thom, you wouldn’t believe them. And then…”
Veyoh trailed off, sighing even deeper than before.
“They passed?” Mui provided gently, speaking so quietly he was nearly whispering.
“They passed,” Veyoh nodded. “Almost ten years ago, now. First one, then the other right after. Conjoined deaths like that are common for mortals, I understand. No matter how healthy the body, life requires a soul that wishes to continue living. It’s something we elves do not know.” She shook her head slightly, pushing the distraction away. “Their children were rather confused that they left orders for a city elf to be notified of their passing, but thankfully, they did so without much questioning. I still think about them.” Her lips split in a half-grin. “At tax season, of course. That was always when they came to the city to do business. How many other folks do you know that consider the collection of taxes a romantic time, hm?”
Despite the suddenly dour tone, Mui chuckled. “I’ve never met one, I’m afraid.”
“Neither have I. Another thing I’m rather alone in.”
The moment stretched long, though the silence didn’t seem half as uncomfortable as it had before.
“Why did you tell me that?” Mui eventually asked. “It was a beautiful story. You have a gift for speech. But why tell me of them?”
“Because,” she said, rolling onto a side, her voice picking up some of the low, sultry tone she’d used before, “I think you have a chance at living a story like that, too, Mui Thom. The way Sara wrote of you?” She laughed yet again. Mui didn’t think he’d met anyone who seemed to laugh as easily as she did. Not while meaning it each and every time. “She was hiring a whore for her boytoy, but her letter spent more time telling me of your accomplishments in battle and the spotless honor of your conduct than anything else. I know quite a lot about you, Mui Thom. About the way you don’t just act to do the right thing, but do so without thought, as if doing anything else had never once occurred to you. The way that you proudly wear the sword of a sergeant, but haven’t ever once drawn the blade in anger, and don’t seem to have yet realized you’ve never even tried to learn how to fight with the thing.”
Mui started. His hand reflexively tried to go to his hip, but there was no scabbard there.
I haven’t, he thought, shocked. I’ve never even sparred with it. Why?
“You see?” Veyoh asked. “She knows things about you even you don’t. It’s not my place to give a name to how she thinks of you, but I know what word I’d use if I did.”
Mui’s tail frizzed out, his whiskers twitching in a terrible blush.
“What does that have to do with us being in this room together?” He pressed, trying to flee from the terrifying ideas her words sought to imply. “Why would she push me into your bed?”
“Oh, me?” Veyoh touched a hand to her chest, as if she’d been confused this entire time and only realized what he was really asking. “Me, specifically? Why did she ask that you sleep with a pretty little elven whore? Well, besides the fact that I’m the best fuck in this whole building by a laughable margin– She told me her reasoning outright. She wanted you to realize my kind aren’t a fraction so special and mysterious as you have convinced yourself we are.”
She put a hand on the fur of his knee, right where the towel ended. Her fingers began to slide upward, teasing at the edge of the cloth.
“And I assure you,” she purred, “if you’ll have me, I can show you that I am nowhere near a pure, holy angel.”
------------------------------------
Sara Brown
------------------------------------
The head of her cock lay on Evie’s collarbone, shaft resting between her breasts. It also lay on her ribcage, her stomach, her pelvis, and a bit of it was even suspended in the air before it met Sara’s hips. It was proportionally thick, too, which meant it was bigger around than Evie’s fist. As big as Sara’s fist, really.
She had always known she could control her size. She’d even guessed that, judging by the way she’d never had to struggle to make it bigger and bigger, whatever limit she might have was a long way away. She’d just never pushed it too far because, despite how much Evie wanted to get (terrifyingly literally) split open by cock, Sara wasn’t willing to hurt her quite like that. For whatever reason, there was a divide in Sara’s mind. It was one thing to play to Evie’s fantasies, to give the sexy little masochist the pain she loved so much, but to do it with Sara’s own cock? To make it so the very act of finding physical pleasure with Evie was causing her genuine, actual agony? Even if they fixed whatever happened with healing potions after, she couldn’t convince herself it was sexy. Slapping, hitting, whipping, those were one thing. Sara didn’t want her actual genitalia to cause pain. A weird line to draw, considering just how much she and Evie had done, but it was one she’d never wanted to cross.
But now? Sara blew out a hot breath, sliding her cock back and forth on Evie to enjoy the silky smoothness of her skin. Now, Sara knew, she could change Evie’s body. The slutty little masochist that was panting under her cock could actually take something like this. Contrary to any and all logic she’d used to navigate the rest of her life, some undefinable sense was telling Sara that this monstrosity would fit. That Evie’s body had been altered, or her cock had some kind of magic, or something else she couldn’t even describe. Whatever it was, Sara knew, knew beyond certainty, that this cock could get shoved up in Evie.
She’d never been into this kind of thing before. Back on Earth she’d gotten off to plenty of cartoonish, unrealistic porn– hell, she’d had a whole backlog of tentacle porn that she’d showed Evie– but she’d never been a size queen, much less into the kinky extremes. She’d slept around with enough dudes to find a few with big enough dicks to bruise her cervix, and that decidedly painful experience had killed any lingering interest she might’ve once had in giant cocks.
Being on the other side, though? Well, Sara had never considered that. She’d never thought she’d know what it would be like to have herself looking down at a pretty little woman trapped beneath her cock, one who was visibly salivating at the scent of it. When Sara had fantasized about having a dick of her own, she’d never imagined how sensitive she’d be if her length wasn’t just double the average, but ten times it, and she had all that much more sensitive skin to rub back and forth.
Evie’s hands reached up, landing on Sara’s cock. She began to stroke it, using both palms and all her fingers. Sara groaned at the sensation, thinking Evie was doing it just to please her, only to see the little catgirl straining her neck forward with her tongue extended, desperate to get even a single drop of precum in her mouth.
Sara couldn’t take it anymore. She drew herself back, shoving Evie forward on the stone plinth she’d spent the last couple hours getting fucked on.
Her cock dropped down, landing just before the dripping crease of Evie’s thighs. Sara felt the heat that had been pressing into her cock redouble, a burning furnace of arousal an inch away.
The audience began to murmur. Some were disgusted, more were intrigued, and some, if only a few, were absolutely, unbearably turned on by the sight. Sara felt certain that more than a few people were going to be heading home with a new fetish rattling through their skulls.
That was the whole crux of setting up this scene for Evie. Having her, at Sara’s behest, get used and abused by a crowd, only for her real owner to come and put all their efforts to shame. It didn’t matter that Sara was wearing an illusory disguise, that Evie’s distinctive ears were hidden beneath a wrap. What mattered to Evie’s twisted little fantasy was that she, her beautiful body on display, got to show as many people as possible their place: below Sara. Above Evie, but below Sara, who was in control of her. She wanted to give this crowd the kind of fucking that none of their wives and husbands could equal, then tear it away from them, humiliating them with the sight of a woman so superior to them that they could only meekly slink away, touching themselves to the memory.
Sara supposed she should have said something to the crowd. That would fit in with the whole weirdass group-reverse-cucking thing Evie’s unique cocktail of mental illnesses had cooked up.
But honestly? With a quivering, dripping, needy woman spreading her legs in front of Sara’s massive cock? What else could she be expected to do?
Sara pressed forward until her head pushed against Evie’s lower lips. The catgirl shivered, a hungry look in her eyes as she watched. When Sara just stood there, not going any further, her attention snapped up to Sara’s face, lips parted as she panted.
“Please, Master? Shove it in me? I want it so much. It hurts without you in me. I feel so empty.” She wiggled her hips, trying to force herself down on the massive head, but she had nowhere near enough leverage. “I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I? I’ve done what you asked. I’ve been so good, Master. Good enough for your cock?” She rolled her hips, grinding against Sara. Desperate for friction. “I don’t care if it hurts. I just want you. I want to make you feel good. I want you to fuck me. Fill me. Use me to make yourself feel good. It’s what I’m for. It’s why I was made. It’s why I made myself into this. All for you.” Lustful tears began to bead in her eyes. “Please. Let me be a good girl, Master.”
Sara had wanted to tease her longer. To let Evie soak in her need. But goddammit, even the Champion of Amarat had limits.
She bent forward to grab Evie’s hips, pulling her down. The catgirl’s tight entrance resisted at first, pressing hard against the head of Sara’s cock, but she didn’t stop.
Evie’s head dropped back to the stone with a groan, her hair tangling as it was dragged out into a wide halo. Her body’s natural tension, the instinct to hold itself still and in position, faded into a relaxed, pliable mush.
Sara felt the tip of her cock break into something hot. Something that had a growl rolling out of her throat and a purr coming from Evie’s.
Her fingers curled tighter into the soft skin that hid the layers of muscle wrapping Evie’s hips. She began to pull, not hard, but firmly.
With agonizing slowness, Evie’s pussy began to split around her. The catgirl’s purring kicked up a few decibels, accompanied by a soft, languid sigh.
It was so fucking tight. Fucking Evie with this cock didn’t just feel like it should have been hurting her wife, it felt like it should have been hurting Sara. Evie’s cunt was clamping too hard, like it should have cut off her circulation.
But it didn’t. Their bodies melded together with every creeping second, the impossible sensations improving without end. She was tight. It felt like Sara’s entire existence had narrowed down to one spot, the part of her that was in Evie, with Evie, coaxed inward by velvet heat.
“M-maaaster,” Evie whined pitifully, reaching out to put a hand on Sara’s forearm.
“F-fuck,” Sara breathed, her eyes twisted shut. “Fucking… You’re so tight.”
Evie tried to say something else, but cut off in a yelp when Sara’s boiling pleasure surged, nearly collapsing one of her legs. The sudden fall had Sara shoving the entire head of her cock in faster than either of them had been ready for. The sensation of it was incredible, and only grew moreso when Evie’s walls rippled in climax around her.
She was stretching Evie out. Whatever had happened to the catgirl’s body, it was still happening. No. She hadn’t even changed, yet; she was being changed. Sara’s cock was forcing her inner walls wider and wider, and her body was being forced to accept that, making room for Sara.
She felt drunk. Drunk on the power of it, of her cock literally forcing Evie’s body to change for her. She was molding Evie like clay, making her into a perfect little idol of sex and pleasure.
She shoved even further. It was hard to move forward, Evie’s body constantly working to envelop her, milk her, too greedy to know better. It was like her cock was being massaged along every inch, and it was tighter than anyone she’d ever fucked before.
“Yours,” Evie murmured, slurring her words nigh-nonsensically as she looked down at herself. Following her gaze, Sara could see a bulge pressing up from Evie’s stomach. “I’m yoooours,” Evie tried to say again, but the words fell apart into a moan as the arousal they summoned made Sara’s cock twitch.
Sara was panting like she’d run a marathon, but she didn’t feel tired. Her entire body was shaking with the effort required to restrain herself, to stop herself from abandoning herself in the luxury of her wife’s body.
“Do it,” Evie said. Her tail flipped up from under her back, curling up and around to brush lovingly against Sara’s arm. “Do it. Shove it in. Fuck me. Come on. I’ll handle it. I always do.”
Sara couldn’t talk. She could only shake her head in denial. Evie hadn’t complained, hadn’t even shown that she was feeling the slightest bit of pain, but she wouldn’t–
“Please,” Evie whispered. “It’s okay. I trust you.”
Oh, you fucking bitch.
With a low, involuntary grunt, Sara lost control. The hands she’d had on Evie’s hips flew up to grab her by the wrists, then pulled as hard as she could.
Embarrassingly, she came.
No, fuck that. It wasn’t embarrassing. The entire thing was too much. No one would have resisted the sudden rippling of their cock plunging into Evie’s depths, the way Sara could see it shooting upward, the way Evie’s perfect tits bounced beneath her gasping face, it was all way, way too much.
The length impaled through Evie began to jump, pulsing, and Evie cried out, twisting in Sara’s grip, her entire writhing body serving to jerk Sara off. It lasted five seconds, then ten, then twenty, their cries mingling together. People watching were saying something, but Sara didn’t give a fuck about them, because she could feel her entire cock throbbing, could feel the way Evie’s cunt was clenching down on her, desperate to take everything it could get of her cum.
Even before the last aftershocks of Sara’s orgasm began to fade, she was pulling her hips back. The cold air against the base of her cock was unbearable, but she didn’t have to worry about it long, because she was throwing herself forward as soon as she couldn’t pull any further out without letting go of Evie.
Something I’m not going to do for as long as I fucking live, Sara managed to think, when she had the time between wild cries of ‘holy shit’ and ‘this feels so fucking good.’
Sara began to thrust, in and out, forward and back, using Evie’s arms like ropes to drag the catgirl fucktoy whichever way she wanted. Evie’s smile had returned to her face in a lopsided, perverted fashion, and even though Sara knew her wife would have enjoyed it, she was relieved to see that there wasn’t even a hint of pain. Just pure, unfiltered joy, every inch of Sara’s cock filling her head with blissful, snowy static.
The first load she’d pumped into Evie began to fall out around Sara’s cock, staining the stone, the loss making the girl whine in disappointment, but that didn’t matter. There was so much more of it waiting for her, and Sara had stopped giving a fuck about putting on a show a long time ago, which meant she was racing towards that eventuality as quickly as she could.
“S-so. F-fucking. B-big,” Evie managed to gasp out, every word turned to stilted stutters by the force of Sara’s cock bottoming out in… well, right beneath her collarbone, as absurd as that was to say. “L-love you. L-love you s-so much.”
“You just…” Sara panted, “love this… fat dick…”
“Y-you,” Evie barely responded. It was taking everything she had to form the words. “Y-your c-cock. F-face. H-hair. A-arms.” She threw her head back with a keening cry, her cunt turning to a vice around Sara as she climaxed again, only to bring her focus back down even as she kept trembling through the orgasm. “Iiiii love y-y-yoooou.”
“Fu-u-uck off,” Sara moaned, falling forward until she was bent over Evie, almost entirely buried to the hilt even when thrusting in a way that should have had her entire cock pumping in and out of Evie’s pussy. She dropped to her elbows, pressing their breasts together. She could feel her own cock between them, both on her stomach and between her breasts, even feeling it through her cock itself, the pressure of her own body weight adding to the dizzying sensation of it all. “Fucking… cheater! We were supposed to have a- a scene, w-with the sp-spectators, a-and-!”
“I want y-you,” Evie’s trembling voice said back, not even pretending to deny what she was doing. “I want your c-cum. I want y-you to cum inside m-me, I want you t-t-to fill m-me up, I love you, I love you I love you…!”
With a silent shout, Sara wrapped her arms up and around on Evie’s shoulders, straining her muscles like she was doing a pull-up all just to drag her entire body down, forcing her cock just that tiny bit deeper into the living heaven that was her wife.
Even before Sara’s cock started to throb, Evie came. An entire bodylength worth of cock was suddenly attacked by the throes of climax, and it felt like nothing Sara had ever known. The way her body was molded to Evie’s, the way she was deeper in her than ever before, combined with knowing she was lost to her own climax? It felt like they were melting into one another.
Sara’s cock clenched. Something burning hot, even hotter than the wealth of heat surrounding her, shot upward, her legs freezing as she cried out so quietly no one could hear, “Evie!”
Her mind was torn to tatters as she came, her hips pumping forward in mindless micro-thrusts. She felt Evie’s stomach began to swell, higher and higher, pushing Sara upward, and she still didn’t stop cumming, couldn’t have if she wanted to, and she sure as shit didn’t want to, because it was like she was knocking Evie up, not just for play, but finally, finally for real.
When it was over, Sara was left laying atop Evie’s swollen stomach, their chests still pressed together. She noisily sucked in a bit of drool that had begun to dangle from her lips at some point during their shared climax, only for her eyes to focus on Evie’s disappointed face, her lips still pursed and stretching out.
“Oh, sorry,” Sara whispered, petting her head. “Were you going to take that?”
“Yes, Master,” Evie rasped. She’d been screaming, apparently. Sara had been too lost to hear it.
“Here.” Sara tilted her head and leaned in for a kiss, gently slipping her tongue into Evie’s mouth. Her wife murmured happily, suckling on it, shivering at the taste.
Sara pulled back fairly quickly, once she’d given her a good taste. Evie didn’t even complain. Judging by the peaceful, happy expression on her face, she’d probably forgotten the entire concept.
“Up you go,” Sara said, wrapping her arms around Evie as she stood, keeping her cock firmly lodged inside. It’d be a fucking mess if she didn’t.
“O-oh,” Evie said, her exclamation of surprise distorted by a loud purring. Sara wanted to shush her, since Feline purrs sounded very different to the part-catfolk she was pretending to be, but she knew her wife couldn’t control it.
Besides, it was cute as hell.
Sara began walking Evie out of the room, feeling dozens of eyes on her as she went. Cum was leaking from Evie’s pussy with every step, leaving a trail of it on the floor. She didn’t know what the fuck they’d make of that, or the entire fact that they’d just watched a “slave” get fucked by a cock as long as their own torso, but she’d stopped caring a while ago. Evie had cum a couple dozen times until she had that adorable vacant smile on her face, and that meant the scene was over.
Besides, if the point was to have Evie humiliate the crowd by showing how much better she was with Sara than with them, there wasn’t much better of a way to do it than her being carried out of the room still impaled on Sara’s cock.
Sara took her around several corners, wandering the empty hallways of the lower brothel. This was where the lower-paid prostitutes worked, mostly the sort who needed income while they were between jobs. In another brothel, this would have been a dingy, disgusting area, barely taken care of, but Anaka’s elite clientele required her to maintain a better reputation. Sara eventually decided on a random door, booting it open so she wouldn’t have to stop hugging Evie as she walked into the room. She kicked it shut behind her, then walked over to the room’s lonely seat, slowly pulling Evie off her cock.
“Mmmnnnnooooo!” She cried out petulantly, like a child being told they had to go to bed.
“Sorry, sorry, I know,” Sara said, trying to control her own body’s reaction to the rippling friction that was torturing her through the whole motion. That was one problem she’d found with a goddess’s Blessings removing her refractory period and giving her an endless libido. Stopping sex was no longer an inevitability, but rather a test of willpower.
And with Evie shivering in climactic aftershocks, breathing hard as her eyes flicked between Sara’s tits and cock, all while still looking decidedly pregnant? That was one hell of a test.
The moment Sara’s cock finally slipped free, a torrent of cum followed, spilling out onto the floor. Evie leaned her head back and let out a groan, feeling it leave her, and even that peculiar sensation seemed to set another mini-orgasm rolling through her.
Sara, meanwhile, brought her cock back down to something closer to its usual size. She thought about vanishing it entirely, since it would almost certainly get hard again in a few minutes, but decided she wasn’t mean enough to deny Evie her eye candy.
When Evie stopped shuddering, the waterfall of cum little more than a trickle between her legs, Sara knelt down, patting her thigh to get her attention.
“Evie?”
“Mmmugh?”
“Evie, listen up.”
Giving her an order worked. The wrap around her head twitched, her ears trying to turn towards Sara. Behind her, her tail began thumping against the wooden chair’s back.
“What’s my name, Evie?” She asked as she reached up, beginning to unwind her ear wraps.
“Mmmaster!” She cooed happily, tilting her head back to lick the sweat off Sara’s forearm.
“No,” Sara said, using one hand to grab Evie’s chin and tilt it back down, so she could look her in the eyes. “Focus. The scene’s over now, Evie, so I want you to focus on yourself, alright? What’s my name?”
She blinked owlishly, clearly confused. “I said your name, Master?”
“Mm,” Sara hummed noncommittally. That answer wasn’t surprising. She finished revealing Evie’s ears, chuckling slightly as they sproinged up into their usual perky posture. She gently pet the back of each ear for a brief moment, not enough to arouse Evie further, only helping smooth out the bedhead from her soft coating of fur.
“Your hanky,” Sara prompted, holding out a hand.
Without a second of hesitation, Evie reached out and summoned her enchanted spidersilk hanky, letting it fall into Sara’s palm. It was, as always, sparkling clean. Folding it up, Sara began wiping off Evie’s forehead, clearing the sweat and cum away with quick swipes, steadily working her way downward.
“Thank you for your hanky. It’s very helpful.”
Evie smiled, bobbing her head in an unsteady nod. “I know. You gave it to me, and I love it.” She blinked a few times. “I love you.”
Sara smiled. “I love you, too, Evie.”
She spent a few minutes more slowly working her way down Evie’s body, asking her questions every now and then. Nothing complicated, not yet. Just things like “Is this chair comfortable?” or “Did I miss a spot?” or, especially when she was cleaning up sensitive spots like her breasts, something as easy as “What’s your name?”
Of course, she didn’t get it right at first.
“Yours,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s it,” Sara said patiently. “What’s your name?”
She watched the cum-gunked gears of Evie’s brain grind. “...Slave?” She guessed.
“Not quite. What’s your name?”
Evie brightened. “Oh! Toy! I’m your toy!”
Sara shook her head. “Still not there yet. Hm.” She brushed the hanky over Evie’s nipple as quickly and clinically as she could, ignoring the gasp it provoked. “How about this: what does my dad call you?”
“Evie,” she said easily.
“So you are?”
“Yours.”
Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. With phrasing like that, that last one had really been her own fault.
It went on like that for a while. Evie sitting obediently still as Sara cleaned her, asking questions that sought to slowly pull her psyche out of subspace. Conversations like this were usually only necessary as a comedown after a collared scene, but even without the collar’s influence, this had been a particularly intense night.
Silently, Sara wished Hurlish had come along with her; their mutual wife had a way of getting Evie grounded that even Sara couldn’t replicate. Something about Hurlish was just… more real than the rest of them. She was a working woman, one who didn’t bother losing herself in fantasies to enjoy a good time. Sara thought it might be because Evie’s subconscious knew what Hurlish really wanted was Evie, the real her, but she couldn’t be sure. The only guaranteed way Sara had found to instantly yank Evie out of subspace was to mention Tahn, but that had instantly become one of the incredibly rare red lines she drew in the sand. Tahn wasn’t to be involved with their sex life, ever, even if it was only to help prove to a cumbrained Evie that yes, the sex really was over.
By the time Sara was wiping down Evie’s legs, they’d reached the point that she could call herself by her own name, knew that she hadn’t really just gotten pregnant (something she’d apparently convinced herself was true of her own accord), and was even referring to events happening several days in the future, proving she was capable of thinking of anything other than getting Sara’s cock shoved in her again. Of course, most of those future events were circling around Hurlish’s fingers or Sara’s cock, but still, it was progress.
There was still one major obstacle, however.
“What’s my name?” She repeated.
“Master.”
“No. What’s my actual name?”
“Owner.”
“Still no.” Sara lifted one of Evie’s legs, spreading her toes so she could wipe out the cum and sweat that had collected there. “I’m almost done cleaning, and once I am, we’ll have to go outside this room. You can’t be calling me Master or Owner out there. So what’s my name?”
Evie squirmed in place, looking away as Sara handled her feet. No one could lie to Sara, but at that moment, Evie couldn’t have lied to the blind and deaf. She was pretending to be ticklish in order to avoid answering the question, and she was doing it with all the guile of a guilty child. She even had the little squirming smile on her face, as if she was actually getting away with something.
Sighing, Sara finished cleaning her wife up, setting the hanky aside. The moment it wasn’t being handled, the enchanted silk rejected every bit of grime it had collected, letting it slide off as if its surface was completely frictionless.
“Evie,” Sara said, still kneeling between Evie’s thighs. She put both hands on Evie’s knees, spreading them open a touch, so she could see her core. Cum still leaked from it, occasionally dripping onto the chair. “I’ve got one last place to clean, and I’m going to use my tongue, which means I’m really looking forward to it. But not if I’m cleaning a toy or slave. I used those, and I loved it, but now I miss my wife.”
Evie squirmed more, looking away. She was on the edge now. She’d recovered enough of her senses to know that she could slip out of her mindset, but she didn’t want to. It was comfortable in there, and she always seemed to think she’d stop enjoying herself once she let herself become more self-aware.
Sara and Hurlish had been working on that, naturally, but it was a slow process. Talking privately, they’d considered the idea that she might always be like that. Sinking as deep as Evie did made it hard to come back to the surface. If that was the case, well… they still loved her. They just wanted her to be happy.
“Evie?”
“Mm?” She hummed, barely stopping herself from saying Master?
“Remember what I said earlier? About figuring out some new things about how my Blessings work?”
“...Yes?”
“Well, there’s more. It’s not just useful for making your body different.”
With Evie’s attention fixed on her, Sara opened her mouth and let her tongue roll out.
And out.
And out.
Lizardfolk had long tongues. A serpent’s split-tipped tongue, to be precise. As several women had helpfully proved to Sara an hour or so ago, that tongue could stick out very, very far. That had been amazing enough on its own. But when you put that tongue in a human’s mouth, without the long muzzle it had to slip out of?
Well. Suffice to say, if Sara had seen a chick in some Detroit club use her tongue to fix the part of her own bangs, she would have done unspeakably embarrassing things to get that woman in her bed.
Sara wiggled her foot-long tongue back and forth, intentionally letting drops of saliva roll down its length, rubbing against her still-naked breasts. Evie watched, eyes wide, as she bent it into a loop, then a double-loop, and then twisted it all around and pierced it through, tying a knot. With her own tongue.
Suck my dick, cherry stems.
Unraveling it, she sucked her new tongue back into her mouth, smiling innocently up at Evie. “Slaves and toys don’t get this tongue. But my wife does.”
“I already said my name was Evie,” she said urgently, her chest rising and falling fast.
“What’s my name?”
“I’m Evie. You’re married to Evie.”
“You know I’m smart enough to see what you’re trying to do.”
She watched Evie tremble indecisively. It didn’t last long, of course. Her hands gripped the chair, looking at the saliva on Sara’s tits, then up at her lips.
Sara flicked her tongue out, scenting the air.
Evie groaned, slumping in her chair.
“Oh, fuck you, Sara- Shit!”
The very instant Evie cursed, Sara had given up pretending she wasn’t fucking starving for her wife’s cunt. She grabbed her ass and dragged her to the edge of the chair, slamming her face into Evie’s pussy.
She halfway lost control of her new tongue as it fell out of her mouth, slapping wetly against Evie’s still-soaked slit. She began frantically licking every which way, collecting as much of her slick as she could, and all the while she was nuzzling deeper into Evie’s abruptly clenching thighs, teasing her wife’s clit with the tip of her nose.
“O-o-oh my gods,” Evie gasped, grabbing Sara’s head in both hands. “Good gods, you are-” The tip of Sara’s tongue accidentally slipped away from Evie’s pussy, ending up tickling the side of a thigh. Evie laughed boisterously. “Oh. Oh, please, just- oh, I was going to say inside but- shit- it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Sara didn’t think it did. She was supposed to be cleaning Evie, and that meant she was going to lick everywhere she could. Thoroughly. And with a tongue like this, she could be very, very thorough.
But she’d have been a damn liar if she wasn’t interested in going inside, too. The thirty seconds or so she spent working Evie’s clit and lips seemed roughly equal to fifty years in Horny Sara Years, so she thought she’d earned her fair share.
Sara pulled off for exactly as long as it took for her to take a single breath and spread Evie’s lips wide, exposing her cum-stuffed pussy. Then she dove back in, feeling that inordinately long tongue sluuurp out of her throat into Evie’s pussy.
“Good- fucking- gods!” Evie gasped. “Why couldn’t you… before? Oh, shit!”
If she actually wanted an answer from Sara, she shouldn’t have sounded so heavenly. There was no way in hell that Sara was going to stop, not when she finally had the eternally flatfaced Evie– not in subspace, but the real Evie– cursing like a sailor. Sara had never tried heroin, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t shit next to the sounds she was pulling from her wife.
And her own cum, of course. Lots of people had said Sara’s cum tasted amazing, wonderful, the best thing ever and yadaydaya, but she couldn’t taste it, and infuriatingly, they always said they tasted something different. Sweet, tangy, fruity, or some blend of other descriptions, she’d heard it all. A few even could say exactly what it tasted like, usually their favorite kind of drink or treat if the flavor had been cranked to eleven, but even they had conflicting descriptions.
She wouldn’t ever know, because to Sara, her cum tasted like… well. Cum. That was fine, because Sara had never disliked the taste of cum. She enjoyed it, really, if only because of some very deeply ingrained pavlovian training. She didn’t love that flavor as much as Ketch or Evie, not most of the time, but…
When her own cum was mixed with Evie or Hurlish’s slick arousal? When she could taste the way she’d been inside her wife, had spilled herself in them, when the flavor on her tongue was proof that she had, in some atavistic way, claimed them as her own?
It didn’t matter if her Blessings worked on herself or not. That flavor was already her favorite thing in the whole world.
As her tongue forced its way into Evie’s squeezing tunnel, Sara began to test her new appendage’s limits. Coiling up into a thick, writhing ball, then punching forward, licking everything she could reach, only to pull back and away, letting a curl of her tongue slip out just far enough to hook around Evie’s clit, rubbing back and forth.
And, of course, dutifully scooping the cum into her mouth, swallowing it all. Just because she’d let a gallon or five spurt on the floor ten minutes ago didn’t mean she should be rude and add more. She was conscientious of the hard job cleaning staff had. Which was definitely the only reason she was swallowing her own cum out of Evie like she’d die without it.
Honestly, between the two of them, Sara couldn’t tell who was getting more out of it. It’s not like they got the chance to do this all that often. Hurlish would’ve slapped Sara upside the head if she’d walked in on this. Back before they’d left Tulian, when Evie didn’t need to be combat-ready all the time, their wife went so far as having Evie keep a dildo lodged inside her for hours and hours every time Sara came inside her. Hurlish had all but said she hoped the contraceptive potion would fail, despite its thus-far perfect track record, which meant they had…
Gone along with it anyway. Nobody would have been too heartbroken if Evie got knocked up, really. Least of all Evie. Besides, what were they going to do? Tell Hurlish no?
Sara was pulled from her fantasies when she felt Evie’s hips jerk even harder against her, coinciding with the tip of her forked tongue brushing against a subtly different texture, one that there was no way past.
So what’s what it tastes like, Sara thought, adding more of her tongue to the pileup at the end of Evie’s pussy. With the lizardfolk tongue she had, she wasn’t just tasting Evie’s cum-soaked cervix; she was tasting flavors she didn’t have words for, and in a strange, indescribable way… smelling it, too? Maybe? It was an entirely new set of sensory information she’d never dealt with before, and it would have been disorienting if she was anywhere other than twelve inches inside Evie’s pussy. Thankfully, that was territory she knew well, so it was a good place to start.
It wasn’t going to last for much longer, though. Sara had found every drop of her own seed there was, which meant she’d switched to throwing all her efforts into making her wife cum. She kept a bit of her tongue outside to loop and swirl around Evie’s clit, while the furthest extent was brushing up against Evie’s cervix, flicking back and forth, applying pressure to the place that she– unlike Sara– loved to have pounded so hard.
Evie was losing it. Her curses had faded to whimpers, then to outright moans, until finally she was breathlessly pleading for more, more, more. Looking up at her, Sara saw she had one hand rubbing her palm into the base of an ear, grinding back and forth, while the other she’d clasped around her own throat, applying just enough pressure to tinge her face red. Her eyes were closed, hidden beneath the tangles of hair that had long since been pulled free from their tight braids, and her lips moved silently, little more than Sara’s name repeated over and over again as ripples of pleasure danced along her skin.
Against her will, one of Sara’s hands fell from her knees, reaching down to her– apparently her pussy, she didn’t know when that change had happened– and began tightly circling her clit. The lightning bolt of pleasure that went through her, brought on by seeing Evie chanting her name, not calling her Master or Owner or anything else, was almost embarrassingly intense. She tried to hold off, to slow enough to calm the pleasure shooting its way up her spine, but she didn’t have the self control for it.
Sara began frantically fucking her own hand as she ate Evie out, racing the climax that was coiling in her stomach like twisted cable.
“S-Sara,” Evie rasped, the orgasm that began to roll through her forcing her cries loud enough to overpower her own choking. “Sara, Sara, Sara, gods, fucking gods I love you…!”
If she’d ever had a less glorious climax in her life, she couldn’t remember it. The husky way Evie said her name had her cumming so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that her legs splayed out beneath her, causing her chin to fall from Evie’s pussy to bounce off the wooden chair, slamming her teeth shut on her tongue even as it was unspooling from Evie’s pussy.
“Thit!” She cursed in a strangled, garbled cry, half in the pleasure still shooting through her and half in pain from biting her tongue hard enough to draw blood. The mess still coating the floor meant she didn’t even lay with her head on the chair, but was forced by her own convulsing to slide backward, letting her head fall all the way to the ground, eighteen-inch tongue slapping wetly into the same puddle of white cum she suddenly found the left side of her body soaked in. Things only got worse when she reflexively tried to sit up, only for the second wave of her orgasm to take the strength from her left arm once again, collapsing her to the floor, this time with her entire head in the cum, which promptly soaked into the long waves of her previously flawless hair. Her thighs, meanwhile, were still clenched around her right hand, her hips bucking feverishly into the fingers pinching her clit.
Above her, Evie was still in the throes of her own climax. Blinded by pleasure, her hands groped in the empty air, trying to drag Sara back into her pussy, only to give up and fly there themselves as Evie began to frantically finger herself, totally oblivious to her crumpled, bleeding wife, who was, to be fair, still shaking her way through her own orgasm.
When Evie’s climax finally passed, she slumped, once again limply waving her hands around.
“Sara? Sara, where are you- Good gods!”
“Mmfine,” she mumbled. Her tongue, the traitorous bastard, was still licking the cum on the floor. She hadn’t even thought of that, but she should have. It had been in Evie, after all. Of course it would taste the same.
“Is that blood?”
“Bith my tongue…”
“What?”
“I. Bit. My. Tongue.” Sara enunciated. Then she licked up more cum.
“You did? How…?” Sara looked away as Evie began puzzling the pieces together.
And kept licking the cum. Gods, she loved the taste of Evie.
Reality clicked into place with a roaring laugh. Evie was laughing, a deep, genuine belly laugh, holding her stomach. Sara felt a blush, an actual fucking blush, begin to spread its way down from her cheeks. It was horribly embarrassing, but gods, if this was what it took to make Evie laugh like that, she’d do it every damn day.
Especially if it meant she could taste something like this more often. She was still licking the cum. Couldn’t stop herself, really. A lizardfolk’s tongue was too good at tasting flavors for her own good.
Maybe I shouldn’t tease Ketch so much…
“Come here,” Evie said, reaching down to help Sara up.
“Mmmmmmdonwannaaa,” Sara mumbled, resisting the tug upward. “Jutht goth you clean. Don’ wanna mesth it up.”
And besides that, the cum tasted really good. Also, she was still making Evie laugh. She didn’t want to stop that, not ever.
And… the cum tasted really, really good. SO fucking good. Shit. Was this what it was like for all of them? Is this why they liked sucking her dick so much? Fuck, she’d never have normal sex again if this is what her cock tasted like. That was why Ketch was like that, wasn’t it?
“Fine,” Evie said, and Sara saw a shadow move above her. “But if you’re not coming up here…”
Warmth pressed up against Sara’s back. A small little bundle of soft, toned body squeezed around her, rolling in the mess with her. Sara’s right hand, one finger of which was still lightly circling her clit, got knocked away and replaced, Evie’s expert fingers taking its spot.
“I’m sure Mui is having fun with his elf,” Evie whispered in Sara’s ear. “He won’t mind if we take a little extra time, will he?”
“I gueth not…”
“Good. I want to take a nap.”
The finger on Sara’s clit began circling faster. A tongue began running its way down her neck, to her shoulder blade, lapping up the cum that had soaked into her skin.
She had a sneaking suspicion that they were not, in fact, going to be napping.
“Waith,” Sara said, looking over her shoulder. Evie lifted her head up, tongue still extended and coated in white. “We never tell Hu-lith, Mui, Vetha, none of them about that, right?”
“No,” Evie said, dipping back down, her fingers picking up the pace.
She really hoped Evie meant “no” in the way Sara had.
Notes:
Author's (sarcastic) Note:
Mui looked at the door. Then at Veyoh. Then back at the door.
“...I really thought she and Evie would be back by now,” he said.
“So did I,” Veyoh said with a shrug. “It’s your turn, by the way.”
“Really? Sorry.” Mui picked up his cards, examining the count. “How long was it supposed to last?”
“According to the outline, only about four thousand words for their scene, maybe eleven or twelve thousand for the whole chapter.”
“It’s been over 20,000.”
Veyoh shrugged. “Well, I’m sure they’re having fun.”
Chapter 152: B3 Ch39: ...Or Another (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Mui Thom
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With his muzzle pressed into the soft featherbed, Mui’s breath felt hot against his face when he groaned. Fingers kneaded and pried with magnificent artisanry, sending shivers through his skin, black fur raising in rippling waves.
“You aren’t the most tense soldier I’ve ever massaged,” Veyoh said, “but I think you are close. I would have expected the bedmate of Emotion’s Chosen to have far less stress wrapped up in their body.”
“She is a… ah…” Mui trailed off as her hands moved to his lower back, knuckles rubbing small circles into the knot of muscle over his hip bones. “...a stressful woman to be responsible for. Prone to endangering herself, physically and politically.”
“Surely the rewards are worth it?” Veyoh prompted, a teasing lilt to her words. “She did not ask for my services, I’m sad to say. I suspect I’ll be leaving this evening with many curiosities of mine unsatisfied, unless you are willing to share details.”
“You could just… ask her…” he mumbled out. “She’d say… yes.”
“Mm. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The massage continued. It had been going on for quite a while, and he suspected the elven masseuse was running out of places to touch that she hadn’t already worked her magic on.
Except for one very obvious exception: between his legs. Despite her best attempts at imitating a succubus, Mui hadn’t found himself genuinely aroused, no matter what his anatomy suggested. For reasons he could not fully articulate, he couldn’t bring himself to have sex with a woman he didn’t truly know. It was not that it felt wrong or amoral; Sara had fairly well disabused him of the notion that sexual relations belonged in the realm of vows and promises. No, he just couldn’t find the desire in him to do so. Whether it was because Veyoh was an Honored Elven— an elf, as she preferred to be described— or because she was someone he couldn’t fully trust, or some combination between, the fact remained: he did not want to have sex with one of the most beautiful women he had ever met.
My old squad would kill me with their bare hands if they learned of this, Mui thought, chuckling roughly. With the amount of time they’d spent chasing after pretty civilians in every city they passed through, he couldn’t imagine their fury at seeing Mui turning down Veyoh’s offers.
“What is amusing you, Mui Thom?”
“Nothing of consequence,” he assured her, turning his head on its side, so he could look up at her. She was still naked. Even if he didn’t find himself interested in her sexual advances, he could not help but appreciate her body. Her breasts dangled slightly, pert nipples and soft skin put on display. He’d occasionally felt them pressing up against his back as she stretched to reach new parts of his body. To his shock, as his eyes trailed down, he saw the glistening reflection of slick wetness between her legs. Related to a Skill unique to a courtesan, he could only assume. He could not imagine his meagre presence genuinely arousing one such as her.
Veyoh caught him glancing. She smiled, visibly preening under the attention.
“I suspect she’ll be back soon, but we might have enough time. Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider how you might spend your last few minutes with me?”
“I don’t think I will,” Mui said politely, envisioning Sara walking in on him buried deeply into an Honored Elven- an elf. “But I thank you for the pleasant time you’ve shown me, even if I found it somewhat confusing.”
Her expression shifted. “Confusing? How so?”
“The way you press for more,” Mui explained, “even when you have no need to. Your payment is not based on services rendered, no? I do not know why you continue to offer more.”
She laughed that chiming, harmonic laugh again. “Is it truly so difficult for you to imagine that I might enjoy this work, Mui Thom? Particularly with one such as you, who has found the intimate fascination of the great Sara Brown?”
It was Mui’s turn to laugh. “I assure you, Veyoh, her intimacy is not a hard-found thing.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Her hands slipped up his back, trimmed fingernails furrowing rows through his fur. “I imagine it is not hard to get fucked by the Chosen of Emotion. To be made love to, however? I suspect that is much rarer.”
Mui shifted uncomfortably. She kept making insinuations like that; that Sara had deeper feelings for Mui than she did her other regular bedpartners. She didn’t understand just how promiscuous Sara was, how often she and her wives found pleasure with others. True, he was with her more often than any of her other paramours, but that was largely a function of proximity. By her own account, most of Sara’s regular lovers were back in Tulian. Only Ketch, the nigh-invisible azarketi girl he had met a handful of times, was currently traveling with the Powdered Lead, and she was almost always away on some mission or another. With her own prohibition against Tulian soldiers fraternizing between ranks, Mui was the only person Sara spent regular time around who she could pursue freely. That they were friendly with one another was more a function of that companionship, rather than the other way around.
“Perhaps,” he hedged, “but if you really do wish to be with her in a similar way, all you have to do is ask. She is a very accommodating lover, and will tend to you however you may enjoy.”
“Really?” Veyoh asked, affecting an incredibly fake surprise. “The woman who had half a district fuck her wife while hiring the city’s most expensive prostitute for her boytoy? That woman is a giving lover? I never would have suspected.”
As if summoned by the very nature of comedic timing, there was a light rap on the door.
“Mui?” Sara’s voice sang out. “Are you decent? Can I come in?”
“He is,” Veyoh answered before Mui could. “Please come in.”
Mui made to sit up, but Veyoh hadn’t moved her hands off his back. Her magical fingers robbed his muscles of all the strength required to do anything other than lay down and enjoy the treatment.
“Hey- oh, damn, you are as hot as Anaka said.”
“Thank you,” Veyoh replied brightly. “Would you like to fuck me later?”
“Yes. Not sure if I can, though." She raised her voice, shouting at the door. "Evie! When can I fuck the elf?”
“I don’t have your schedule at the moment, dear!” Her muffled voice replied.
“I’ll get back to you on that, then. Sorry, I’ve got a lot of shit going on.” He heard Sara pad around the room, eventually coming into his limp-necked line of sight. “Damn, dude. You look wrung out.”
“She is exceptionally skilled with her hands,” Mui murmured, having to focus rather hard on getting the words past the distraction of her still-kneading fingers.
Sara smirked wickedly. “I’ll bet she is. You should’ve seen what Anaka was like, let me tell you. She made my arm cum just from jerking her off. You ever had an orgasm in your arm? It’s pretty wild.”
As she usually did upon entering a room, Sara had already shattered the quiet calm and peaceful ambiance of the evening. Not that he was particularly upset, of course. She seemed to be in a uniquely excellent mood.
“How about you? What kind of crazy stuff did an honored elven–” she used the term with the furthest thing from respect, “–manage to hit you with?”
Veyoh laughed. “Well. We had a lovely conversation about how my kind are viewed in society, how I came to be a whore, my favorite clients of days past, and when I realized he wasn’t just being shy, but really didn’t want to have sex with me, I started giving him a massage.”
Sara blinked several times, looking at Mui.
“Really? You didn’t have sex with her?”
“No,” he said. He could have said more, but his whiskers began to twitch so fiercely that he swung his head around, shoving his muzzle into the bedding to hide his blush. He waited for the astonishment, the disbelief, perhaps even offense. To refuse the advances of such a beautiful woman, one brought to him by Sara, seemed horribly embarassing for so many different reasons.
“Huh.” Sara said, smacking her lips. “Okay, then. Veyoh, you can go ahead and get on out of here. You’ll still be paid for the full time, I promise.”
“I’ve been here longer than three hours, so I wasn’t concerned about that.”
Mui’s confusion at Sara’s lacklustre response turned to a bitten-back groan as Veyoh’s fingers left him, the echoes of pleasure bouncing across his skin like ripples in a pond.
“Shit, really? It’s been over three hours?”
“Nearly four,” Veyoh said. The bed lifted as she slipped off, practically floating across the room with the alien grace her kind were famed for. “Don’t worry, though. I enjoyed myself. You’ve found yourself a fine catch, Sara Brown.”
“I know, right?”
It was only when Mui heard the door to the bathhouse click open and shut that he lifted his muzzle from the mattress, smiling sheepishly at Sara.
He was met not by an expression not of mockery, or bemusement, or even scorn. No. Sara looked hungry.
He swallowed.
“I don’t know why,” he said, shrugging helplessly. “I just didn’t want to. She convinced me that she herself did, and in rather short order, but…” Mui trailed off, unsure of his own thoughts.
Sara’s face flickered, the hunger replaced by calm reassurance. “Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t want you doing something you weren’t–”
The door flung open without warning, steam rolling in from the bathhouse.
Evie strode into the room, her body dripping with a light sheen of water. She was wearing only undergarments made of the black ‘azarketi nylon’ Tulianites were so enamored with, and absolutely nothing else. The sleek, stretchy panties attached themselves by the thinnest of margins, a stretch of flat, finger-width material keeping the skin-tight clothing from falling off her hips. Her breasts were covered in only the most technical of senses, as the narrow strip was little more than a water-soaked elastic band, so lacking in material that the underside of her modest breasts were wholly exposed. Her nipples blatantly poked through the material, flush with arousal. He would have said that she may as well have been naked, yet somehow, Mui found the poor imitation of modesty even more distracting than plain nudity.
Despite that all, however, one thing about Evie was far, far more distracting:
She was smiling.
And not just a cynical smirk, or a sardonic twisting or her lips. No, she was smiling. Beaming, even. Grinning without concern of anything else, an easy, light sense of simple satisfaction plastered across her face. Even her dark, subtly misshapen eyes were absent of any the crinkled scowl-lines he’d always seen on her. Evie was… happy.
It was incredibly unnerving.
“I heard,” she said loudly, her untarnished joy audible even in her words, “that you never had sex with the elf we hired for you.”
“Where did you hear that?” Mui asked, aghast. Were there peepholes in the room? He’d been naked, for the gods’ sake!
“From the elf,” Evie said, flicking an ear towards the door she’d just entered through. “You know, the one who just left this room all of a single minute ago? Who you apparently did nothing other than get a massage from? I chatted with her as we passed.”
His thumping heart slowed. “Oh.”
“Yeah, he didn’t fuck her,” Sara said, crossing her arms. After the shock of Evie’s clothing and mood, Mui found himself paying closer attention to Sara’s outfit. It was what she almost always wore when she was ready for sleep: a terribly oversized, stained cotton workshirt positively soaked in the scent of Hurlish. It was so large on her that it hung low enough to mostly cover a set of uniquely designed underwear, a sort which straddled the line between panties and shorts. If he recalled correctly, he believed she called the garment ‘boxers.’
He couldn’t help but notice that there was a considerable bulge in those ‘boxers.’ He swallowed, running his tongue along his teeth.
“Why not?” Evie asked, tearing his attention away. “I would have.”
“It’s just… I did not want to, I suppose.”
“Hm,” Evie hummed. Her smile widened, yet again looking as if she knew something he didn’t. “Well, then. I can tell you’ll need release, no?”
Despite his best effort, Mui’s whiskers returned to their furious twitching.
“Why would that be the case?” He demanded hotly. “I told you, I wasn’t interested in having sex with her.”
“Because you haven’t rolled off your stomach since we got here, for one. And because that elf had excellent tits, and I know how much you love those.” She cupped her own breasts and dropped them, bouncing on the heels of her feet to help give the slight curves a better bounce. “Most importantly, I don’t think you’ve looked me in the eye since I walked in.”
Mui’s eyes snapped up to her face.
“I have,” he protested.
“Perhaps you have. I wouldn’t know, since I haven’t been looking you in the eyes, either.”
Mui abruptly realized it was true. She was looking over his shoulder, at his…
At his ass. His tail had risen without any conscious thought, lifting the towel along with it. He was completely exposed.
Sara and Evie both laughed uproariously as he jerked the towel into place, his tail slamming down between his legs.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Evie said, still laughing. “Look, I’ll return the favor.”
“Wha-”
Before he could understand what was happening, Evie had turned around, bending at the waist. Her tail flicked tauntingly in the air, bobbing hypnotically as she doubled over. Her flexibility was remarkable; she put her head between her ankles without so much as a grunt. With her bared to him like that, he could see a thin line of wetness along her panties, too fresh to be explained by the bathhouse’s water. In the same motion that she had bent over with, her fingers slipped into the straps of her underwear and tugged down.
Her panties fell to her ankles, revealing pale, plump skin. Her glistening wetness was bared to him as well, distractingly bright in the well-lit room.
“Are we even, now?” Evie giggled. Evie Brown giggled. “I hope not. I have plenty of ways I can imagine to repay you.”
Mui gawked. “What in the world has gotten into you?”
“Into me?” Evie smirked. “Quite a few things. But truthfully, it’s that my wife has given me a very lovely evening.” She sighed dreamily, turning around to have her smoothly shaved pelvis facing him. “I don’t mind sharing the experience. Besides, I’ve spent long enough just listening to you two have your fun. Isn’t it time I had my turn?”
He turned to Sara, looking for some kind of guidance. This was not a situation he knew how to navigate.
She provided him nothing useful. “Well?” She asked, flashing him a cocky grin. “What do you think?”
Mui swallowed. His throat was incredibly dry. Two of the most powerful, most beautiful women he’d ever met were pinning him in place with their predatory smiles, bodies alight with lust. He could smell Evie’s arousal in the air, steadily intensifying now that she had uncovered herself, and Sara’s scent was slowly filtering in beneath. The bulge in Sara’s underwear began to shift, the tip of something long and hard straining against the material.
“What did you have in mind?” Mui asked Evie cautiously. He knew perfectly well that agreeing to anything the feline proposed was putting life and limb at risk.
“Something that I know Sara has been dying to try, but I haven’t earned the privilege for yet,” she said, sauntering up to the bed. With almost childish energy, she hopped up onto the silk sheets, scooting backward until she could lay out and spread her legs. “Well?” She purred, reaching down with two fingers to spread herself open. “It’s all yours to use. Would you like to?”
The dryness in his throat disappeared, replaced by thick saliva. He had to swallow all the same.
“I think I’ll need more than that before agreeing,” he said. Privately, he could acknowledge that the threshold for ‘more’ was deteriorating by the second. Given a few minutes more of this teasing, and he doubted he’d have even bothered to respond before giving in. Already the rough texture of the towel had begun to taunt him every time he twitched, something he was failing to hide.
“It’s simple,” Evie said. “I haven’t earned the right to fuck my wives with the cock Sara can give me. She’ll only allow it once I’ve proven I can control myself, yet I haven’t even managed to last a minute in their hands, much less be allowed into their mouths. But you?” Evie’s hips wriggled excitedly. “You’re allowed. And you can experience what I’ve been working so hard to earn.”
Distracted by Evie, he hadn’t noticed Sara approaching until he felt her hands on his hips, thumbs sneaking beneath the towel’s hem. She began tugging it away, whispering into his ear.
“I’ve seen how you blush when I talk about giving you a pussy, Mui,” she said, her breath thick and husky. “And I’ve seen you staring at her when you think I’m not looking. Why not get both at once? You inside of her, and me inside of you?”
“A-ah,” he breathed, shivering beneath the hand that began to stroke tenderly down his back, stopping just before the base of his tail. “I can… I suppose it makes sense. If such a thing is possible.”
“It is now,” Sara said cryptically. He could only ignore it.
Mui was coaxed from his modest position, leaving the towel behind. Evie’s eyes immediately began trailing down his body, staring at the still-healing scar on his shoulder, sweeping across his chest and down to his abdomen, where thinner fur allowed a touch of his musculature to be visible, before finally landing between his legs. On his cock.
Evie’s eyes didn’t stray again.
“I’ve been awfully interested in feeling what you’ve been doing to Sara personally,” she said, her tail punctuating the words by thumping against the sheets beside her. “She made such lovely noises. Do you think that you’ll be able to pull the same sounds from me?”
“Uh?”
“No taunting, Evie,” Sara chided. “When a nice man agrees to give you a taste of his cock, you don’t tease him. You say thank you.”
“Of course,” Evie said, grinning wider. “I’ll start thanking him as soon as he actually works up the courage to give it to me.”
Sara’s head snaked onto Mui’s shoulder, her chin nuzzling against the thin patch of hair where he had been shot. “Just ignore her,” she whispered. “She’s easier to shut up than you’d expect. Do me a favor and wipe that arrogant little smile off her face, would you?”
Looking at the beautiful woman laid out before him, Mui felt confident only one of them would be ‘falling apart’ this night. Evie was not the sort of woman that could be pounded into submission. At least not by someone like Mui.
“Mui Thom,” Evie said, sensing his hesitation. “You do know that it’s perfectly acceptable to fuck me for no reason other than the fact it will feel good, yes? I’m in a wonderful mood, but tired, and still awfully aroused. If you feel you don’t ‘deserve’ this, for whatever reason, then know you’ve been an excellent help for my wives and I over the last few months, and that I appreciate it immensely. If intimacy is more your concern, you need only recall that I’ve brought myself to climax listening to the sounds of your moans a dozen times over. That said, I’m really just doing this because I want to feel my wife fucking you into me. So would you be so kind as to shove your cock in me?”
Mui’s head spun as she spoke. The entire situation was surreal. The look in Evie’s eyes, bemused yet hungry, and the smooth, creamy skin of her near-naked body. The feeling of Sara’s breasts against his back, her hands eagerly groping his stomach.
And, of course, the warm stiffness rubbing against him, still so noticeable even with fur and cloth placed between. She’d begun to grind slightly against him, and didn’t even seem to notice she was doing so. The feeling of it, of her cock, was more dizzying than anything else. More dizzying than the fact he was trapped between two women who both wanted him, two wives who wished to share him.
Finding no words to be said, Mui simply crawled forward, placing himself over Evie. He caught a glint of fang as she looked up at him, lips split in a smile, and then her attention fell downwards, back to his cock.
Mui’s thundering heart had its length throbbing in midair, bouncing in place. It was slick with precum, which catfolk produced much more of than humans, and the air brushing against it felt unbearably cold.
“Well?” Evie teased. “Are you going to-”
Mui found his cock dipping downward forward without his permission, Sara’s hips pushing against him. Evie’s taunt faded away as the head brushed against her lips, quieting her.
“Go on,” Sara purred into his ear. “Take her.”
Mui slipped the last way forward all on his own, the tip of his cock sliding into slick heat. Evie sighed in satisfaction, relaxing into the bed.
“C’mon,” Sara urged, pressing harder against Mui. “You don’t need to take it easy. You should know that about her by now.”
He let out a throaty chuckle. “It’s not that I’m worried about hurting her. I’m simply worried about making a fool of myself.”
“By cumming too quick?” Sara asked, beginning to push harder, forcing him into Evie. “What do you think I’m here for? And look at her. You think she wants anything else?”
Mui looked. Evie’s eyes were lidded, her lower lip bit between her teeth. She kept glancing between Mui’s cock and Sara’s arms around his stomach, soaking in the hedonistic sight she’d been provided.
He thrust forward, sliding his cock deeper into her. Evie’s eyes rolled a touch upward as the first ridge of his cock slipped into her, widening her out, yet it was Mui who let out the low growl of satisfaction. So tight. He’d only ever had sex with Sara, and thought the way he felt then was the nature of her Chosen status, but apparently not. Pleasurable tingles ran up and down the length of his cock, forcing him to stop his legs from shaking.
“There we go,” Sara breathed. He could feel that her own length had slipped out of her underwear, obvious by the way the soft heat pressing against his back had intensified. “Come on, give her all of it.” Sara chuckled. “Trust me, she can definitely take it.”
With a woman moaning beneath him and another pouring molten whispers into his ear, Mui didn’t have much choice. He began to thrust forward, causing both of them to gasp as the next two ridges popped into her. Mui ended up bent forward slightly, his muzzle dangling over Evie’s chest as he panted hard.
“So thick,” Evie murmured, giving her hips a slight roll that made him moan. “No wonder Sara likes it so much.”
“Just wait until I give you proper pheromones,” Sara told her, speaking over Mui, who barely had the control to keep from collapsing. “You like getting coated in my cum already. Imagine how much you’ll like it when every catfolk who walks by knows you’ve been fucked. And not even by your wife?” Sara hummed in faux disapproval. “Imagine what they’ll think of you then, knowing you’re just some toy I loan out to whoever asks?”
Mui felt Evie’s pussy clamp around him as she let out a whining moan, her eyes squeezing shut. He gasped at the sensation, too, and then again, as he realized that it wasn’t stopping. Instead, it escalated, a shaking quiver taking her body. Evie wasn’t just enjoying Sara’s taunting: she was cumming.
“H-how is she…?” He groaned, putting everything he had into not spilling himself inside her.
“I told you,” Sara said, moving one hand up to caress his chest. “She’s easy. She just likes to get fucked, Mui. She even thinks it’s because of me, because I’m here or that I’m telling her to do it, but it’s not. She just loves getting fucked.”
If Evie had heard what Sara said, she was too lost in pleasure to muster a response. Mui had to tense every muscle in his body to avoid his orgasm being coaxed out as she writhed beneath him, and even then it was a close battle.
When Evie finally stopped writhing on the bedsheets, letting her head fall back down, both of Sara’s hands dropped low, squeezing the tiny sliver of his cock that wasn’t shoved inside her wife.
“So. Are you ready for me to join in?”
The dizzy surreality Mui had been suffering returned tenfold. The idea of that cock, the one he could still feel pressing up against his lower back, slipping into him… She’d teased it so often. Her and Evie both. Hells, even Hurlish had made a jab every once in a while, just to join in on the fun.
He’d never let himself really think about it, though. About the conflicted emotions that their jokes stirred in his stomach, the way his whiskers went mad every time they brought the idea up. He wasn’t even sure if he—
“Yes,” he said, surprising himself. Apparently his body had decided to make the decision for him.
Sara laughed in delight, stepping away for a moment. Evie began to roll her hips impatiently, somehow already recovered enough that she wanted him moving again, but didn’t audibly complain. She was waiting for Sara, just like Mui.
Sara returned to her press against his spine. He could feel her naked skin now, soft breasts pressing against his fur, her stomach aligned with his. One hand kept stroking his stomach, reaching lower and lower.
Mui braced his body. He didn’t know what it would feel like, to have himself changed in such a way, but he knew he wouldn’t be ready for it. He could feel all of her thick cock throbbing against him now, underwear discarded, and it set something in his chest afire.
Sara’s hand reached his cock, trailing a thumb along his sensitive base. He shivered, and not just at the touch. He shivered because she kept drifting down, ignoring it, reaching for…
“Huh?”
Mui opened an eye he hadn’t realized he had closed. “Well?”
“Are you sure you want to?” Sara asked.
“Wh-what?” Mui could hardly believe what he was hearing. Hells, he could barely understand it. Evie still hadn’t stopped grinding her hips. It was if she wasn’t even in control of her body’s need to please others.
Sara’s embrace removed itself, much to his disappointment. “You don’t have to force yourself, Mui,” Sara said. The husky, seductress tone was gone, replaced by a gentle bit of concern. “I told you when this started that I don’t lie to my partners in bed. Not unless they ask for it.”
“I… I don’t know what you mean,” he grunted. Gods, how was Evie like this? She just wouldn’t stop.
“My power needs both of us to want it, Mui,” Sara explained. “If you don’t want to have a pussy, that’s perfectly fine. Even I can get my guesses wrong sometimes, seems like.”
“But…” He tried to pull himself out of Evie to better focus, but her legs whipped around his hips so fast it sounded like a swiping sword. Her heels dug into his back, shoving the last fraction of his cock into him.
“No,” she said simply, with a smile that was far too innocent for a woman who’d just shown off how easy it would be for her to snap his spine.
Mui’s groan turned into something of a whine as she began to roll her hips again, using her newfound leverage to physically thrust him into her.
“But… but I do find it… ah- appealing,” he stuttered out. “I d-don’t know why it didn’t… work…”
“You find what appealing, Mui?”
“Your… your…”
“Cock!” Evie called out with a laugh. “He finds your cock attractive, dear. Even if he can’t even bring himself to say it.”
Sara smacked her lips. “Hm.” The floorboards creaked slightly. “Hm. Huh.”
“S-Sara?” Mui asked.
“Oh, I’m here. I’m just putting some old stuff in perspective.” He heard her foot tapping. “So. I’m going to take a wild guess here: straight dudes getting pegged isn’t really a thing in the Empire?”
Mui fought to ignore the grip around his cock as he bit out a response. “Wh-what is t-that?”
Sara laughed loudly, then shuffled away. Mui tried to turn to look at her, only to find a small hand latching onto his chin, pulling him back around.
Evie grinned wickedly up at him. “None of that. I want to watch you get surprised.”
Mui felt a bit of panic at hearing that from Evie.
Gods, it’s like fucking a scorpion.
If scorpions were wildly, absurdly gorgeous.
“If you’d like, I can provide some distraction?” Evie’s hand trailed towards her chest, which was still bound in that azarketi nylon. “I know Mas- Sara- doesn’t often let you lick her chest. Too rough a tongue, I hear.” She began lifting her wrap slowly, tauntingly, smirking. “But don’t worry. You could never be too rough with me. Even if you tried.”
Whatever offense he might have felt in response to that claim was drowned out by the sight of Evie— an exotic feline, foreign nobility, and the wife of a Chosen— revealing her breasts to him. For him. Small, perky handfuls, cream-colored skin and nipples poking upward.
“I believe Sara said you were a tits mannnn-”
Evie’s words dissolved into a moan as he bent just that bent further down, laying the flat of his tongue along her skin. She tasted as wonderful as she smelled, awash with lust and desire, fresh from the finest of scented baths. He felt his barbed tongue rasp as it made his way up her flesh, poking and prodding, but unlike Sara, who could just barely keep herself still under the treatment, finding pleasure and pain alike—
Well. Evie still probably felt pain.
She just wanted more of it.
Her back arched as she pushed her tits into his face, one arm throwing itself around his neck to help pull him closer. He quickly ran across her nipples, making her yelp in a way that might’ve concerned him, if it had been anyone else. Instead he pressed harder, catching as much of her skin on his tongue as he could, and jerked his neck upward.
“Oh…!”
Evie’s body twisted beneath him, her pussy squeezing down on his cock. He’d been so enamored with her chest that the delirium-inducing pressure was a reminder that he was actually inside her. He began to thrust as he tilted his head towards her other breast, giving it the same treatment.
“Damn, y’all are really going at it,” Sara said.
Mui felt Evie’s fingers tangle in his fur as he reached her other nipple, covering it in his saliva. His own scent was beginning to overpower Evie’s as he kept rutting into her, coating her with his tongue.
“And I’m being ignored,” Sara said, bemused. “That’s a novelty.”
Evie’s breathing hitched every time he took his cock to its wide base, while her inner walls rolled against him each time he bottomed out in her. He was helped along by her legs, their vice grip loosening only as long as it took for him to pull back for another thrust.
“Evie, keep him still.”
The legs around his back turned to unyielding steel just as he bottomed out. He couldn’t move his hips by the slightest inch. Evie kept up her own grinding, of course, torturing him just that little bit more.
“Here’s what you need, Mui.”
Evie giggled. He lifted his head, confused.
“Just relax,” the Feline purred, stroking his neck. “It makes it go in easier.”
“What do you mea-”
Sara’s hands cupped his ass. That was nothing new, she always claimed she loved how it looked, but what was new was when she began to push and knead, pulling the cheeks apart.
“She’s telling the truth, this time,” Sara told him. He felt the bed sink as she climbed up behind him, laying something warm, hard, and wet across him. “Relax a little bit, Mui. In fact, go ahead and just lay there. I’ll take care of everything.”
That hardness, her cock, slipped back.
And then forward.
Mui’s claws dug into the bedding as he felt something tease at- at his rear. She wasn’t really going to…?
“I didn’t, ah, prepare myself,” he managed to whine out.
“Don’t worry. My Blessings can take care of that.”
“Where did you get the, ah, the…?”
The tip of her cock rubbed a bit, teasing at his entrance. She laughed.
“Mui. Buddy. I love you my man, but really? We’re in a brothel. Where do you think I got it?”
“A-ah.”
“You ready?”
“I think he is,” Evie said.
“I want to hear him say it.”
Mui let out a pitiful whine.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” Evie said. “He just got harder.”
“That’s a good sign, but I still want to hear him say it.”
“M-must I?”
“Yep.”
“And I get to waaa-aaatch,” Evie sang out, humming happily. He couldn’t believe this was the same woman who he’d watch rampage through battlefields. She looked like a girl whose father had just gotten back from a trip, eager for the gift she knew he was hiding behind his back.
Why did it feel so… much? Why was his body shivering at the mere thought of Sara taking him from behind? Why did this— putting it the wrong hole— suddenly wipe away all the fear he’d felt before? Why did it feel so right?
“P-please,” he muttered.
“Please what?”
Mui took a deep, preparatory breath. “P-please fuck my ass, Sara.”
Evie cackled like a woman who’d just won the lottery, and he felt himself pulse deep inside her the moment the words left his lips, before Sara had even started pushing.
And then she began pushing.
Her small grunt of pleasure was overwhelmed by Mui’s long, drawn-out gasp, feeling himself get spread by her. He almost instantly recognized, though he didn’t know how he could through everything he was feeling, that this wasn’t the cock he’d seen on her before. It was too thin at the tip, and tapered.
“I-is that-”
“Shh,” Sara said, stroking a firm line down his back. Like she was petting him. “Relax. Just like Evie said, okay?”
Mui hung his head. He was doing his best, he swore, but there was so much going on. He felt his tight ring spread around Sara’s cock, growing wider by the second. The stretch ached in a way that he’d never felt before, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
She slipped inside. Mui’s fists curled in the sheets, claws shredding ungodly expensive silk. His head dropped down, landing between Evie’s breasts, and her hands joined Sara’s in slowly stroking his fur, petting him reassuringly as he lay there and focused on his breathing. Sara’s cock slipping in, inch by inch, growing wider in a too-familiar hop. As if he was sliding up a ridge, almost.
It is a catfolk cock, he realized with a shiver.
He made another undignified sound as the second ridge slipped into him, spreading him even wider, and then dissolved into pleased whimpers as he felt himself get pushed up against the third, larger than the other two by far. He had no idea how big it was, and logically knew it was probably average, but in that moment it felt gargantuan.
Her cock slick with whatever substance she’d used, she began to push that last bit forward, spreading him as wide as he could go.
Something changed when he felt that final pop. The sensation, a pleasurable ache throughout, suddenly intensified, a white-hot flash of delight shooting from the tip of his cock to where Sara was lodged in him. He moaned deliriously into Evie’s chest, not even conscious of the way that their shaking implied she was pleasantly laughing at his delight.
“Are you alright?”
He moaned senselessly.
“Good. So now we’ll pull back-”
He threw a blind arm up behind him, trying to grab onto her. “No! No, no, deeper, go back in, I’m going to-to cum, I’m cumming-”
Sara slammed forward, shoving herself to the hilt just as Mui’s cock began to pulse. He reflexively tried to pull out, forgetting about the contraceptive potions in the heat of the moment, but Sara was grinding him into Evie, driving his cock into her wife.
All throughout the orgasm, the two women kept stroking him, Evie on his neck, Sara on his back. Evie was shuddering in delight at the sensation of being filled, but kept whispering little nothings into his ears even as he spilled himself in her, smiling up at him. He couldn’t understand a word of it, but he could see the way she was basking in the feeling of his cum, and it only served to draw the climax out longer, until he finally sagged against her, exhausted.
“And then we do this,” Sara hummed. Mui felt his cock throb again, before it had softened even a touch, and his urge to pass out between the two beautiful women vanished. “And now I can start fucking you properly.”
Evie leaned back, giving herself a better view of Mui as Sara began to slide in and out of his ass. At first he tried to thrust, to synchronize with her pace, but that plan was thrown apart the moment Evie began to meet her wife’s motions, throwing Mui up onto her cock with every roll of her hips.
Instead he was left, trapped, between the two women, attacked on both ends. Evie was panting nearly as hard as he was, taking his fur in fists to help throw herself up at his cock, while Sara kept one hand on his shoulder, the other- gods, the other was on the base of his tail, sliding up and down.
It was a mind-melting bliss. He only had the wits left in him to bend down and begin lapping at Evie’s tits yet again, positively adoring their taste. He didn’t even have to worry about being too rough, had to worry even less than he would have with a catfolk partner, in fact, because every time he went just a bit further, he provoked an even better reaction from the woman. His licks became lapping scrapes, his lips curled away so he could take her nipple between his teeth, pulling and tugging.
The first time he did that was the second time Evie came, her pussy all but choking the life from his cock. It was an ambrosiac cocktail, the feeling of her pussy wrapped around her, his ass filled so full by Sara, yet to his surprise, he didn’t spill himself then and there. He kept pumping away, or more accurately getting pumped into, even as sweat began to lather up in his fur.
“Fucking hell, I love how you sound,” Sara grunted out. “Come on. Stop trying to hide it. I want to hear it. We want to hear it.”
He’d already been stumbling toward the breaking point. With a demand like that, he finally lost control of his voice, letting out a long, growling groan, one that sounded shockingly feral. Like the guttural growl of a jungle tiger, not a civilized, thinking catfolk.
“Fucking hell,” Sara breathed, pulling harder on his tail. “I could feel that in my fucking chest. Do that again. What do I need to do to make you do that again?”
Mui didn’t know, and he couldn’t answer. He was beginning to reach another peak, and this one felt far different from the first. Far from any climax he’d felt before. His cock tingled and buzzed, massaged on every stroke by Evie’s velvet heat, but now that pleasure was extending backward, something hot and tight coiling in his pelvis.
“Faster,” Evie urged, a manic glint in her eyes as she stared down at Mui, who was still lapping at her tits. “Faster, Sara. He needs it.”
Mui bobbed his head helplessly, grateful for her assistance.
Sara obliged. He felt her cock burying itself deeper on every thrust, pounding away, and it seemed to be driving that bliss further and further through his body, until he was so near the peak he felt he should have been floating.
“C-close!” Evie said, wrapping her arms tighter around him. “Just- just fucking bite-”
He didn’t know what she wanted, but he suddenly didn’t care. He opened his maw wide, fangs glinting, and latched down on her shoulder, letting his teeth sink all the way in, deeper than he’d ever dared with Sara.
Evie began to shudder beneath him, crying out, and Mui was right behind her, clenching up-
But Sara got there first.
Her cock grew inside him, every inch of its length pressing outward, shoving against that blinding-white spot inside him. He felt it throb, pouring hot, sticky strings into him.
And that was enough to finally set him off.
With another wild growl, his world shattered to pieces. An orgasm like nothing he’d ever felt before tore through him, not spreading out from his cock, but crackling up and down his entire body, driving him utterly wild. He was torn between shoving himself deeper into Evie and grinding his ass up against Sara’s hips, but the choice was thankfully torn from him when Sara piled down on top of him, thrusting as hard as she could, sending him bouncing into Evie. Three voices filled the room, moaning and cursing and groaning.
Mui collapsed, dropping down onto Evie with a whumph. The Feline wheezed slightly at the impact, but it was less a noise of protest and more the air being driven from her lungs. She was still quivering, her pussy rippling around his cock, and with how far her eyes had rolled back in her head, she didn’t look like she’d be stopping any time soon.
“That is… ridiculous,” Mui panted, referring to Evie. “What did… you do… to her…?”
“You don’t… want to… know…” Sara panted back. She tried to slip out of Mui, but he let out a whine of protest.
“Don’t,” he said. “Please? I’d… I’d like you to stay in me. For a little bit.”
“Sure,” Sara said, equally out of breath. “But you’ll have to roll Evie onto her side, so we can all spoon. Because I’ve got, like, ten seconds until my arms give out and I land on your tail.”
Mui hurriedly gathered the still-quivering Evie up in his arms, trusting Sara’s superior physicality to let her keep pace as he rolled onto his side with the shorter Feline in his arms. She did, thankfully, until they were laying together, every ounce of life and limb intertwined.
Mui settled Evie’s trembling head onto his shoulder, so she could be face-to-face with Sara. He brushed a bit of hair out of her face, then rested his own head beside hers.
They lay like that for a time, allowing themselves to recover in relative silence. Evie’s climax eventually finished— something his overly sensitive cock was extremely grateful for— and she sagged against him, reaching one arm out to fling over his shoulder, landing on Sara. They were both purring, the low tones almost harmonizing, though his purr was much louder. They were practically shaking the bed together.
Eventually, someone spoke up. To his slight surprise, it was Evie that broke the silence.
“I’ve decided whether or not I want to be impregnated, Sara.”
WHAT?
Mui barely kept himself from crying the word aloud. He felt the hand that Sara had been resting on his hip spasm, fingers flying this way and that before finally settling into a panicked, painful grip on his fur, and he didn’t begrudge her that one bit. Even if he’d never been in a proper relationship, Mui had seen that expression, or its lingering after-effects, on plenty of people before. It was the panic of every spouse who’d suddenly been told by their partner that they wanted children. Even if one agreed, the conversation was agonizing.
“Oh?” Sara intoned, her voice flawlessly absent of the panic that still showed in her grip on his fur. “Right here, right now?”
“Yes,” Evie hummed back, almost dream-like in the way her voice buzzed from his and her mutual purring. “I don’t want to.”
Sara’s tense hand collapsed so entirely that Mui had to bite back a laugh, praying that her patron might lend him an ounce of her skill.
Sara, at least, had the good graces to sound mildly disappointed. Perhaps she truly was; Mui wouldn’t know.
“What made you come to that decision?”
“A few things throughout the night, I suppose,” Evie sighed. “Mui’s cum, for one.” Her hips wiggled, forcing him to remember that he was still inside her. “It was so nice to feel inside me. I realized that my love of it had less to do with thoughts of pregnancy than I first thought.”
“And?” Sara prompted. Mui once more had to stifle laughter. No matter how casual she sounded, he could tell she was walking on the finest, most fragile eggshells in the world.
“And that helped me realize that I don’t particularly care who gets your child inside them, Sara. I want to raise children, yes, but I want to raise your children. That’s all that matters to me. Even if the others don’t share the barest resemblance to me, I won’t care. But,” she let out a frustrated little huff, “the idea of being pregnant by you is appealing to me. To walk around with my belly swollen with your child is something I dream of, quite literally.”
Mother always said she loved children, but hated being pregnant, Mui recalled. How could Evie ever want that?
Thankfully, she wasn’t done. “I’ve now realized it was… a replacement. For the collar. I wanted to show everyone who saw me whose I was. To wear it on my very body. I still miss that, Sara.”
“But… you don’t want to be pregnant?”
“No. Not now, at least. Maybe, if we can ever find a life in which we are not in danger, I would like that. Just to truly wear your mark on my body. But not until then.”
“Okay.” Sara reached over Mui’s head to stroke Evie’s hair tenderly. “Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it.”
“Mm.” Silence, for a time. “And did you, Mui?” Evie abruptly asked. “Did you enjoy being forced into this conversation?”
“You…!” His eyes widened, and he pulled his head back, so he could look her in the face. She had an impish smile. “You did that on purpose! To make me feel awkward!”
“Me?” She asked, her face a comical exaggeration of innocence. “Why would I ever do that? And besides, how could I make you uncomfortable when you’re still inside me?” She ground her hips against his pelvis in a way that made him groan, making an even greater mess of his fur by spreading her half-dried arousal around. “I’ve been told by quite reliable sources that my cunt is a wonderfully comfortable place to be. The furthest thing from uncomfortable, in fact.”
He glared. “I can’t believe your taunting only grows worse when you wear a smile.”
She flashed her smile wider, showing teeth, then snuggled back forward, resting her chin on his shoulder again. “Don’t worry,” she sarcastically assured him, “I’m sure I’ll be much worse now that you’ve actually been inside me.”
Sara, for her part, laughed, though Mui was too filled with concern to mirror the reaction.
“So,” she said, returning her hand to Mui’s hip. “You have any personal revelations you want to share? Other than the fact you like it up the ass?”
“He really likes it up the ass,” Evie chimed in.
“No,” Mui said, trying to make it sound snappish. That was a hard thing to do when you were six inches into one woman, her wife buried another eight inches into you.
“How about the fact you didn’t want me to pull out? Any fetish for cock sheathing or something like that? Evie has one.”
“Cock… sheathing?”
“It’s when you-”
“No need, I can put the pieces together. And no, I most certainly don’t.”
“Then why did you want me to stay in?” It was Sara’s turn to taunt him with a wiggle of her hips, apparently. “Unless you’re just waiting for another round?”
“I…” Mui licked his lips, then hung his head. “Ugh. It’s going to make such a mess of my fur when you pull out, isn’t it?”
Sara and Evie shook the bed with their laughter.
Notes:
A hotly anticipated event to round out three straight weeks of smut! Next week: a look at what some people elsewhere in the world are doing. Imagine that!
Chapter 153: B3 Ch40: Interludes
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Mahko, Conscript of 1st Imperial Blackpowder Army
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Sweaty hands twisted on the barrel of Mahko’s musket, rubbing back and forth as if it were a rag he was wringing free of water. The iron refused to crumple under his anxiety, and he thanked the gods for that. Without the steadying stock pressed to the street between his feet, he wasn’t sure if he would have managed to stay standing. His knees were shaking hard enough that the armor over his legs rattled. Gods, he didn’t even know the names of all the pieces he kept having to retighten the leather strings of. Air only managed to slip down his throat in brief, spastic gulps.
He was standing on a street with the rest of a squad that, much like his armor, he didn’t know the name of. He’d never worked with them before, yet they’d placed him right in the dead center of the line. One of their soldiers had apparently been getting treated for a wound when they’d been abruptly summoned, so their scarred lieutenant had physically snatched Mahko off his seat as he left, choosing Mahko for no reason other than that he’d been an arm’s length away. Mahko had been briefly and gruffly told that the squad had been called up on short notice, that he needed to load his musket with shot, and then he was dropped in the line, finding himself marching through the streets of Ta-Pet.
“Two ranks,” the lieutenant barked. “Both ranks, load pure shot, no ball.”
Mahko was confused. He’d already been told to load shot. The lieutenant was repeating himself for some reason. No one else moved to load their muskets, either, so it wasn’t as if they’d missed an order only he’d heard. He looked down, checking that the pan of his musket hadn’t spilled its powder out during the brief march. It didn’t look like it had. Maybe that was just a normal thing for this lieutenant to do? Double-up on the orders, make sure everyone heard?
They’d stopped outside what appeared to be a random home in a random slum, and then they’d been ordered to affix bayonets. Mahko’s terror kept growing. What could be in the middle of a city which required a squad of twenty soldiers to affix bayonets? In a single-story family home, of all things?
That was when a striking woman had walked past him, speaking quietly to the scarred lieutenant. He had never seen her, only heard her described, but recognized her on sight: Lady Evie Brown, wife of the Chosen. She wore a polished steel breastplate that only protected her torso, no other armor visible, and held a long, thin sword of a sort he didn’t know in her left hand, a cryslock pistol in her right. After being pulled out of his tiny, secluded village by the army, he thought near everyone in the Imperial Army had an exotic and difficult to understand accent, but she was on a new level. He could barely comprehend what she was saying as she spoke to the lieutenant in terse, clipped tones.
“...do not know what it is, other than Hellish, so you’ll need to have your soldiers and their muskets ready. But make sure they keep their fingers off their triggers. My wife must fight the demon first, and I’ll not have this chance ruined by…”
That had been all he’d caught before they’d moved away. It terrified him to his core. His knees had begun to shake, forcing him to use his musket more like a crutch than a weapon.
Demons? Here? In the city? A fight between a Pantheon’s Chosen and a Hellish spawn, a battle of literal legend that he was not only supposed to fight in, but contribute in some meaningful way?
As he waited for anything more to be said, tears began to bud at his eyes. He’d fought in the battle against Ta-Pet’s garrison, and petrifying though it’d been, his squad had never come close to needing to affix their bayonets. They’d been rotated forward to the firing line only twice, and both times had been when the enemy was being pushed back by the great bronze guns those northern mercenaries had wheeled up. Mahko had fired off rounds as fast as he physically could for as long as he could, his hands flying through every motion until he and the others had exhausted themselves, then they’d been jerked off the line, replaced by fresher troops. By the time they’d rotated forward again, it was over. An arrow had once landed nearby while they were waiting, and Mahko had come so close to soiling himself that he was actually proud he hadn’t.
Now I’m going to fight a demon? It was an impossibility. Insanity. He didn’t know anything about demons, nothing at all. The only time the village Healer had talked about demons was when rumors had come from a trading caravan that one of the beasts had been spotted along the remote villages. Old Miss Mahkara had called people together to tell them that if it ever came to their village, they’d all have to charge it together, and they’d have to do it the very first instant they spotted it. If they did anything less, it would kill them all. And that had been all she said. That was all Mahko knew about demons. At least the things that didn’t come from a campfire tale.
“What’s your name?”
Somehow, Mahko’s three weeks in a training camp still held strong. He snapped to attention, lunging up straight and stiffening his legs.
“Private Mahko, ma’am!” He tried to shout. It came out as a weak croak.
Lady Evie Brown was staring at him from inches away. He hadn’t seen her approaching, and he was shocked by the fact that he had to look down at her. It didn’t feel right that someone like him should be taller than someone like her. He could see her tail drifting languidly behind her back, like a streamer blown by a soft breeze.
“The source of your fear, Private Mahko?” She asked. Her accent was as thick as her words were emotionless. He fought the urge to pull away from her eyes, irrationally afraid her gaze itself could somehow hurt him.
“I-I-I-,” He stammered, “I heard you mention demons, ma’am.”
“And this makes you tremble like a child?”
Another one of Mahko’s lessons from the training camps came floating back to him. That if there was no good answer to a question, it was best to agree. It hadn’t ever been put into words, but it was taught all the same. It was harder for an officer to punish a soldier who always loudly agreed with them, after all.
“Yes ma’am!”
Her eyebrows slanted inward, her lips curling in displeasure. The lesson, it seemed, had failed him. He felt dizzy looking at her twisting face; it didn’t sit right in his mind. Like there was something wrong with her.
“I am in charge of this operation,” she told him. “And I do not care if you die.”
There was a shifting of feet from those around him. In the press of a close-order musket line, everyone had heard her. No one broke posture, but eyes rolled to watch her. She continued without care, emotionless as she’d begun.
“I only care if you kill.” She leaned a touch closer, expression unchanged. “You cannot kill if you are dead. I will keep you alive to do this. Do you understand?”
“Yes ma’am!”
“If, however, you cannot kill, I will find another use for you. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes ma’am!”
She stepped away, returning to the lieutenant he’d never noticed her abandon.
Mahko sagged, taking loud, heaving gasps. He was surprised to feel at least two people’s hands catch him underneath the arms, helping keep him on his feet.
“Deep breaths,” a voice said. “Just breathe, kid. You’re fine.”
Mahko did as the voice suggested, trying to slow his panicked panting. He’d thought she was going to kill him. He’d seen that a few times, when he was in the training camp. Officers of low blood might have a common man whipped for cowardice, but those of noble heritage were afforded the Right of Execution. He remembered two conscripts who had tried to sneak out of the camp in the first week of his training. After they’d been caught, he and the others had watched as a finely-armored Warrior had approached them from behind, swiping his sword through their necks without so much as warning the officer who’d been in the middle of berating them. He’d been paranoid about a blade slipping its way into his spine ever since.
The hands underneath his arms hefted him up, dropping him back on his feet. He grabbed his musket firmly and, with a shuddering breath, forced himself back into the rest position.
“Y’alright?” The voice asked again. It was a woman’s, he thought. It was hard to tell with how deep it was.
“I’m… yes,” he said, glancing behind him.
It was a half-orc woman who’d been talking, he now saw. She must have been a longtime veteran, because she’d purchased herself a nonstandard helmet and a nicer bayonet for her musket, a wicked blade so long that it was certainly illegal for a commoner to own. She didn’t seem to care, because she hadn’t gone to any effort to hide it.
“She’s a bitch, isn’t she?”
Mahko’s eyes bulged. He ducked reflexively, expecting a shot to fly past his head into the woman’s eye.
“Shut up!” He hissed when there was no crack of blackpowder. “Have you never met a catfolk? Do you think she can’t hear you?”
“Apparently she can’t,” the woman drawled, working her jaw as if to suppress a yawn. “Or else I’d be in big damn trouble right now.”
“Then thank the gods for that and be silent!”
The half-orc woman shrugged. “I think I’ll be fine. Just like you. Eyes forward, kid. Shit’s about to pop off.”
Mahko started, whipping his head around. He half expected to find a wriggling monstrosity vomiting out onto the street, but there was no such thing. Just Lady Evie Brown standing before the home’s door, the lieutenant standing to the left and out of sight from within the home as she lightly knocked on the door.
“Make ready,” the lieutenant snapped, keeping his voice restrained enough that he couldn’t be heard inside. Mahko stiffened, gripping his musket tightly in both hands, the bayonet pointing skyward.
The door swung open. Lady Evie Brown squinted at whoever had opened it, ignoring whatever they were saying.
Her arm blurred forward, fast as a striking snake as it grabbed the woman by the collar, dragging her out and throwing her to the side. The lieutenant grabbed the woman immediately, cupping his hand around her mouth before she could so much as squeak in surprise.
Lady Evie Brown then shut the door, raising her hand to knock once more.
What is going on?
“Present, but do not fire until ordered,” the lieutenant quietly instructed, palm still covering the squirming woman’s mouth. Her already-wide eyes bulged further as she witnessed Mahko and the rest of his squad shoulder their muskets, pointing them at the doorway.
Lady Evie Brown knocked again, waiting patiently. Mahko felt sweat dripping down his sides in rolling drops, soaking the inside of his uniform.
The door opened again. Lady Evie Brown inspected the person who answered, face a mask. After a moment’s hesitation, she waved her arm to one side, taking a step back.
A perfectly normal man followed her, still speaking. He looked concerned to be seeing her, speaking in pleading, urgent tones, making repeated emphatic gestures. Lady Evie Brown nodded understandingly, saying little in response. He had no idea what was happening, much less why, but he followed the example of the others in the squad, tracking the man with the iron tip of his musket. Lady Evie Brown kept stepping backward as the stranger advanced, maintaining a safe distance between them.
Just as Mahko began to think that this had all been one big false alarm, the man finally looked to the right, catching sight of the musket squad. His eyes widened in astonishment as he took the sight in. He started to say something that sounded like a protest, indignant at whatever treatment he was receiving, until his gaze landed on the middle of the squad.
What happened next was something Mahko would only ever be able to recall in scattered, disorganized fragments.
The first thing he remembered was the pain in his ears as a hideous shriek split the air, louder even than the cracking thunder of Tulian artillery. The next was the man’s face, chest, and arms ripping open, spires of crystalline blood tearing through his skin.
His broken form lunged forward, covering distance in a blink. He was flying straight toward Mahko, who tried to pull the trigger of his musket, but before he could do that, he found an impossible force driving into him from behind, bouncing his face off the ground before he registered the fact that he’d been moved.
Over his head, there was the crash of crystal against steel. He rolled over, trying to get his bayonet between him and the attacker.
What he saw would never leave him for as long as he lived.
The half-orc woman’s skin was melting away, light green shades replaced by pale skin and thick, monolithic armor. Her right shoulder was embedded six inches into the chest of a horrifically broken figure, their shell of a body morphed into a gory, blood-soaked wall of outward-facing spears. Several had pierced the melting woman’s skin, infinitesimally small needles slipping between the gaps in her armor, but whatever pain they caused went ignored.
The demon’s limbs snapped and cracked as more of its red structure rapidly unfolded, seeking to wrap the woman in a crushing embrace.
Her hand came up to its head, gauntleted fingers crushing through its eyes. She let out a roar as she tore the wound open, flinging the demon off of her. A chunk of its skull stayed in her hand. From his vantage point on the ground, Mahko could see how even that tiny fragment’s interlocked joints kept twisting and bending in an effort to pierce her armor.
Mahko felt a grip on his leg and began reflexively kicking, fighting a rough backward pulling, but it did no good.
“Get up!” An unfamiliar voice barked. “Get off the fuckin’ ground!”
Belatedly, Mahko stopped fighting the soldiers who were trying to bring him into the shelter of the firing line. They helped him to his feet, shouting at him to ready his musket once more.
By the time he’d managed to sort himself out, the fight had escalated.
The half-orc woman had changed entirely. She was now a massive human woman dressed in heavy, slab-faced armor, with her bayoneted musket replaced by a blacksteel sword nearly as tall as Mahko.
She and the demon were some forty feet further down the street, their bodies a blur that he couldn’t hope to follow. The demon had abandoned all pretenses of human form, reduced to a whirling, grinding, clicking storm of ruby needles. He could not determine how many limbs it had, whether it was facing backward or forward, or if such things were even a concern to it. All that remained of its supposed humanity were scraps of torn skin in scattered and rotten patches, most of its former shell littering the ground amidst thick puddles of coagulating blood.
The woman fighting it had to have been the Chosen. No one else save an Imperial Warrior could have pushed the thing back so far, nor maintained such a furious offensive for so long. Her full strength was put behind every swing and thrust, a pace that should have exhausted her in seconds. The demon twisted and broke, fragments of its own horrid skeleton bursting into glittering shards as it weaved under and away, narrowly avoiding strikes that would have torn it into a thousand pieces.
The demon, too, was constantly on the offensive. Mahko was no Warrior— he was hardly even a soldier— but he had been lucky enough to see their types fight on occasion. This was nothing like that. There was no testing, no caution, no concern for one’s own wellbeing. The demon and Chosen were trying to kill one another as quickly and as violently as possible, and the only concession they made to defense was that which let them avoid a wound which might hamper their ability to fight. Nicks and cuts collected along the Chosen’s extremities, dozens every second, while the edges of the demon were steadily lopped away, fragments of crystalline structures bouncing off every nearby surface.
“Hold your fire!” The lieutenant yelled once more. “Don’t shoot until you get the word!”
That was a difficult thing to ask of the troops. The battle between Chosen and demon was dragging on and on, tracking up and down the street, slamming craters into walls and scoring thick lines through the cobblestones. Mahko was struggling to even keep a bead on the demon, so fast was its movement. If it tried to attack them, if the Chosen lost control of the fight for even a moment, it might kill half the squad.
And the fight was coming back their way. After battering the demon a few dozen feet up the street, the Chosen’s momentum began to fail. The demon grew suicidal in its attacks, sacrificing entire chunks of its body in order to get closer, and it was working. The Chosen began to retreat, black blade swinging so fast it seemed she was surrounded in a dark fog.
“Evie!” The Chosen suddenly barked, leaping backward. The shout nearly had Mahko reflexively pulling his trigger, so anxious was he to shoot, and he thanked the gods his twitching finger hadn’t betrayed him.
Because Lady Evie Brown appeared in the Chosen’s place, knuckles of one hand pressed to the small of her back, the other extended before her, tip of her silvery sword hovering motionless in space.
The demon’s screeching redoubled as the Chosen escaped it. The creature, which by this point had become little more than a whirling mass of sharpened stakes, dropped low to the ground, moving to skitter past this new obstacle.
Only to find itself pinned in place, Lady Brown’s sword piercing the thickest part of its shifting body. The demon rushed upward along the blade with a revolting series of clicks and squelches, rapidly assembling into a tower that sought to envelop Lady Brown’s arm.
Her boot collided with its central mass in the same instant her wrist flicked away, sending the thing skating across the stones. Lady Brown did not pursue it; she simply reset her stance, the only emotion she displayed coming from the outmost tip of her coiled tail. It was twitching side to side, the subtlest of movements.
The demon rushed forward once more, a hundred crystal spires stabbing the stones as insectoid legs. Just before it reached Lady Brown, its outermost edges exploded, expanding to three times its original size, pushing off the ground to send it flying into the air.
The tip of Lady Brown’s rapier slipped through the bottom of the creature as it sailed over her. Her face twisted with exertion as her arm swung down, slamming the demon into the stones at her feet.
Lady Brown’s sword whipsawed violently, sending fragments of the demon’s body in every direction. The thing retreated rapidly yet again, stopping some ten feet away.
The demon’s size was severely reduced. The ominous clickclickclick of its gait was now joined by pops, rasps, and snaps, pieces of its broken body catching and grinding against others.
The moment it stopped retreating, the cryslock pistol returned to Lady Brown’s hand. A shot echoed down the street in nearly the same instant, a spray of demon and shattered stone spattering the ground.
“Squadron, fire,” Lady Brown calmly ordered.
They didn’t need to be told twice. The familiar click-BOOM of musketry thundered on all sides of Mahko as he joined the others in firing his weapon. Twenty soldiers, each firing five thick pellets of lead from their muskets, produced a veritable hailstorm of deadly lead. In the brief instant before smoke blinded him, Mahko saw the demon’s form all but disintegrate, as if it had suffered a thousand hammer blows in a single instant. Then fog spread. The noxious scent of sulfur filled his mouth and nose, a welcome torment for once, but one that went inexplicably unaccompanied by a painful throbbing on his shoulder. His own musket hadn’t fired.
“Brace bayonets!” The lieutenant yelled.
Mahko found himself unexpectedly grateful for the heinous, grueling training he had undergone. Any confusion over his weapon’s malfunction was forced from his head as he responded to the order, his limbs reacting before his mind. He dropped to a knee, planting the butt of his musket on the ground, and lifted the barrel to a forty-five degree angle, bracing it as best he could to resist a charge. Other bayonets appeared above and beside him, their line turning into a wall of bristling steel.
There were no further orders. Mahko was holding his gun so tightly his fingers trembled, a jitter that was plainly visible in the wobbling tip of his bayonet.
A stiff wind was being channeled through the narrow street. It took only a few seconds before the powder smoke was dispersed enough for him to see clearly.
The demon was gone. Not vanished, not quite, but it had been scattered as thoroughly as the fog. Tiny, unidentifiable pieces of red shrapnel littered the street for a dozen yards behind an ugly crater of shattered cobblestone, the ground having been chewed to the point that dirt was visible beneath. Thin lead streaks painted the road behind it for many more feet, the lead pellets having shattered and smeared their way across the street.
Lady Evie Brown still stood in the same place, but her sword had vanished, her tail now uncurled and floating in the air behind her. Her attention was flicking from spot to spot, though her ears had twisted as far around as they could in order to listen behind her.
The Chosen approached her from behind, a few drops of blood staining her arms. She put a hand on Lady Evie Brown’s waist in a comfortable, intimate manner.
“Looks like attacking center mass is about the only good way to take them out.”
“As you anticipated, dear. Hardly worth the risk of such an experiment.”
“We also learned they can see through my disguises,” the Chosen said. Then she turned around, looking straight at Mahko. “Sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t think it’d go after me that fast. I’m glad you didn’t get hurt.”
It took Mahko a moment to realize he was being addressed. When he did, he started, hastily bowing.
The Chosen scoffed. “No need for that. You can stand up straight.”
Reluctantly, Mahko did so.
“You’re alright?” She asked. She had to raise her voice across the distance, and a part of him still couldn’t fathom he was being addressed by her, much less so publicly. “If you were wounded, we have healers on standby.” She glanced across the soldiers. “That goes for all of you. If you’re hurt, go get help. We can handle it from here.”
Faces turned as the squadron looked to one another, wondering if anyone had somehow received an injury. No one had, so no one stepped out of line.
“Good,” the Chosen said. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you went around and crushed any demon bits you can find. They can still move even after being chopped off the body, and I don’t know if they have any way to grow back into a full demon. Grab a brick or something to smash them so you don’t have to fuck up your boots or musket. If you find any big pieces, call it out. I might want to grab some to investigate.”
Uncomfortable at being given such a vague order, as his training had covered little more than the proper way to march to a particular place and shoot where an officer pointed, Mahko nonetheless joined the others in spreading out to search. Someone took the initiative to grab pieces of stone from the sections of road the Chosen or their gunshots had broken, distributing them to everyone else.
As Mahko slung his musket over his shoulder to accept the brick, he had another unwanted opportunity to overhear conversations he should not have. The Chosen and Lady Evie Brown were discussing their battle against a demon with all the nonchalance of a trip to the market.
“You did not notice any particular abilities or Skills manifesting themselves as you fought?” Lady Evie Brown asked.
“No. No Levels either, but that was probably too much to ask. I drug it out as much as I could, I promise.”
“I know. It is at least a relief to know that when we are not caught unaware, these lesser spawn are not as much of a threat as our first encounter may have suggested.”
“Pretty sure the whole point of those things is that they’re going to catch us unaware, Evie.”
“But as this test indicates, they are incapable of moderating their reactions in your presence. So long as they do not coincidentally approach without noticing you, we will have ample warning.”
“But we also proved that they can see through my illusions, which is pretty damn crazy. Even Garen had a hard time picking them out.”
“True. However, if you continue to fight both cultists and other demonic creatures…”
Lady Evie Brown trailed off, glancing at the soldiers. Mahko was already moving away, crouched slightly to search for slivers of broken demon. He hadn’t been trying to eavesdrop, yet he felt the hair on his neck rise anyway.
They began speaking differently. For a moment Mahko thought he had gone half-deaf, or driven mad by the demon, before his more rational mind asserted itself. They were speaking a different language. Mahko had never heard a different language spoken before. To hear such practiced, rhythmic gibberish was unspeakably strange. The two women were making sounds that he didn’t even know a person’s lips could produce.
It didn’t take long for him to find his first demonic sliver. It was hair-thin, as long as his finger, and crooked around a nigh-invisible central hinge. The thing was twitching spasmodically, like a demented insect crawling away from a predator.
How can something so small still live? He wondered, dropping his brick on the squirming thing. It broke with a crackling noise, but when he lifted the brick to inspect it, he found that it had only split into multiple smaller pieces, all of which broke into hinged levers themselves.
Disgusting. He cracked the brick down once more, grinding it like a mortar and pestle. The pops of broken glass slowly turned into the gritty rasp of sand. Lifting away to inspect the demon shard once more, he found it broken into immobile dust.
Mahko stood, hefting the cobblestone back up as he prepared to continue the search. Before he could, however, he felt a tug on his musket’s strap.
“Hey, Mahko. If you were wondering why your gun didn’t fire, it’s because of this.” The Chosen slid the gun off his shoulder before he could react, flipping the frizzen open to show him the pan. It was empty of powder. Probably scattered when he’d been shoved to the ground. She pulled a paper cartridge from her pocket, biting it open to dump a touch in the pan. Flicking the frizzen back down, she shot him an apologetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I borrow this. A demon wasn’t the only thing we were here for. Got a quick favor I’m doing for General Borek.”
“Of course not, Your Holiness,” Mahko said uncertainly.
“Don’t call me that.”
The Chosen put Mahko’s musket to her shoulder, aiming down the sights.
She was pointing it at the Lieutenant.
“Wait-!”
A gunshot cracked through the street, lead pellets streaking towards the Imperial Lieutenant.
The next few events happened faster than Mahko could react. Incomprehensible in the moment, it was only later, speaking with others who witnessed it, that he would be able to piece together the blurry flashes. They would argue incessantly about the exact sequence of events, to the point that he’d never truly be certain he’d understood everything that happened.
The Lieutenant’s head turned hard to the left as the Chosen raised Mahko’s musket, a sneer crawling up his face. He curled in on himself, turning his armor towards the Chosen. Lead pellets battered him like hail an instant later, denting his helmet and upper chestplate, but he had reacted quickly enough to take most of them on his armor. There was only a single spray of blood, from his neck, as one piece of lead sliced through exposed flesh.
Lady Evie Brown’s cryslock pistol barked a fraction of a second later, striking the Lieutenant in his armored gut. The round ball didn’t pierce the thick steel, but the shot should still have staggered him as if he’d been kicked by a krapeu.
Instead his only reaction was to dash forward, officer’s sword flying from its sheath. The Chosen dropped her musket, gripping the pommel of her sword and jerking it downward, pointing the hilt at the Lieutenant.
“Boom!”
The world flashed white. A calamitous wave of pressure struck Mahko from all directions, such that he thought artillery had been fired, but that wouldn’t have explained why every inch of his hair leapt upward, painful zaps arcing across his skin.
Half-blind, Mahko caught the barest glimpses of the Lieutenant getting thrown onto his back, sliding across the street. A pale blur shot past, silver sword in hand.
To his utter disbelief, the Lieutenant regained his feet. Lady Evie Brown met him just as he fell into a stance, sword against sword.
The fading afterimage of white lightning was joined by brilliant sparks as their blurred blades collided. The air sung with the sound of their swings, a constant hum of displaced air punctuated by clangs of clashing steel. Mahko could no more track their battle than he could count the wingbeats of a buzzing fly.
A chest-rattling musket volley signaled the conflict’s end an instant later. Lead rained down upon the street as if from nowhere, a dozen bullets physically ripping the lieutenant limb from limb, throwing his arm in one direction, a leg in another, his head bursting to a thousand unidentifiable pieces. Gore spattered wetly as the ruined corpse dropped to the ground.
A white handkerchief appeared in Lady Evie Brown’s hand. She began to clinically run it down her sword, wiping away specks of blood.
In the deafening faux-silence that followed, Mahko found white smoke drifting down onto him, wrapping around his shoulders like a cloak. He looked up and behind himself, still in a daze, and found the windows of the closest home sprouting a garden thicket of iron muzzles.
The gun barrels retreated into the shadows. Squinting into the homes, Mahko could catch the barest glimpses of Powdered Lead uniforms as the mercenaries began reloading their weapons. There were perhaps a dozen of them spread between four windows, each of them handling their weapons with a familiarity that put any Imperial squadron to shame.
“Here you go, Mahko,” the Chosen said, tapping him on the shoulder. Mahko turned around just in time to catch his still-hot musket as it was shoved into his chest. “Sorry for not warning y’all. Your lieutenant was a cultist of the tenth god.”
He blinked.
“The tenth god,” the Chosen repeated. “C’mon, I’ve been working to spread the word about them. Have you not heard about the hidden god? Amarat’s kind of in a secret war with them?”
He blinked again.
“Well, whatever. Point is, your boss was a cultist, and Borek wanted him gone. I don’t know how many of his sort are in your army, so I wanted to isolate him before attacking. The demon was a good opportunity. Thanks for letting me borrow your musket.”
He looked down at his musket. It had shot an Imperial lieutenant.
“You gonna be alright?”
Slowly, he nodded.
“Okay. Appreciate your help.”
Mahko nodded again. He slung his musket over his shoulder and turned his back to the broken body of his one-time commander.
What else was he supposed to do?
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Sirian “Seareye” Tailya, Captain, Commander of the 3rd Wing
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The cold air around him wasn’t natural. Not in the slightest. The way it bit and clawed at his skin, tugging at his collar so it could rip right down his chest, it was too foul to be the simple way of things. People— real, honest people— didn’t live in places like this. Where the air grew so bitter the trees shriveled up and died, dropping a disgusting layer of wet rot across the barren lands. From atop Taotri, her wingtips skimming the endless gray clouds, the emptiness of this northern wasteland appeared even more stark than it did on foot. Bereft of all which made nature beautiful, the people of Sporatos seemed to have abandoned the notion of wonder outright, half-heartedly filling the space between their fallow fields with squat, ugly homes. Stone dwellings were vanishingly rare, with most living in flimsy wooden hovels so poorly built that their roofs, unbelievable though it sounded, were constructed of nothing more than thick layers of dried straw.
The only stone structures, much more resembling what he would be considered civilized, were military in nature. Rather than surround their dwellings in durable walls, it seemed that the Sporatons preferred to build monolithic fortresses to dominate the highest vantage point near a given village. They varied considerably in size and splendor, with some being little more than a ring of stacked stones, while others were so large that they were nearly villages unto themselves. Without exception, however, these fortifications were creations of uncompromising utility. When he dared to direct Taotri lower over the structures, he was taken aback by their remarkable complexity. Walls protected walls which protected walls, a towering keep at the center, all of which were pierced by narrow slits through which a defender could assault their would-be conquerors. Cold, cramped, and brutal. The elite of the Empire never would have lowered themselves to living in such dour confines. Even after nigh-on two centuries of war, it seemed some cultures were yet still more militant than the Empire.
At least in some respects. To have allowed entire swathes of cities to grow outside the walls, with many large villages lacking defenses outright, was an obscene, unconscionable risk. It was as if the Sporaton rulers did not care in the slightest what happened to the lands of their subjects, so long as they themselves were able to resist an assault.
An idea not without merit, Seareye reflected. With homes as pathetic as these, why bother protecting them? So long as the productive peasantry survive, their dwellings could be rebuilt with ease.
He had many opportunities to study the military philosophies of Sporatos as he neared the capital. The closer he grew to the titular city of Sporatos, the more dense the castles grew. Soon he could spot two or even three at any one time, as if the dead land had dug its claws into what little pride it could summon up. He made a note of that for his superiors. Raiding the villages of Sporatos would be so easy as to be an insult to the martial dignity of those who undertook the work, yet actually conquering the land would be a nightmare. If you did not want to suffer constant harrying attacks, an army would have to win a thousand sieges before actually arriving anywhere of consequence.
He and Taotri did not have to contend with any ignorant attempts at defense when they swooped down on the capital. As he had been promised, a large Imperial emblem had been laid out near the center of the city, the tusk-crossed golden spear painted on a tarp directly before what was undoubtedly the largest castle he had ever seen.
“Screams from the city,” Taotri rumbled, tongue clicking between her jaws. “They fear me.”
“As they should, my dear,” Seareye assured her, giving the wyvern a fond pat on her scales. “They have not seen anything larger than a buzzard in these skies.”
“I wouldn’t want to be forced to kill them. You will keep them calm, yes?”
“Of course,” he promised.
Taotri was a young wyvern, a few days over ten years old, yet she had already picked up an odd rendition of the arrogance so common among her kind. Several consecutive injury-inducing battles had turned her somewhat skittish around conflict, always paranoid about one day receiving a truly debilitating injury. She refused to admit this, of course. She had elected to shelter her ego in the warm embrace of haughty overconfidence, insisting that she did her best to avoid conflict not because she was afraid, but because she was ‘merciful.’ Where most wyverns might frankly state that a battle was best avoided due to overwhelming odds, Taotri insisted she did not want to gain the reputation for brutality that slaughtering so many would bring. A laughably transparent excuse, but one that she seemed to have nearly convinced herself was true.
If it wasn’t for the fact that she invariably outflew near any wyvern her age when she did indulge in battle, Seareye would have been concerned. As it was, he had decided to allow his partner her eccentricities. The gods knew most wyverns had an excess of them.
Taotri’s poorly-concealed concern yielded nothing of consequence. Though there was a great deal of shouting and exclamation from the city streets below, she landed without issue. Alighting adroitly upon the Imperial standard which had beckoned her down, the last few beats of her wings turned up quite the cloud of dust, momentarily obscuring her form in a dirty haze.
It was a tactic they had practiced regularly on the trip north, because there was absolutely nothing dignified about a lone wyvern rider dismounting from their steed. Hidden in the debris, Seareye twisted around and began jerking terribly hard at the straps on his right leg, helped by the awkward wing-dropping crouch Taotri adopted to loosen the binds. The moment he managed to undo the strap, he gave her scales a firm slap and switched to the left leg, all but sawing at the leather in his haste to get free.
By the time the cloud settled, Taotri was sitting on her haunches, chest thrust firmly forward and her neck raised to its full thirty-foot height, head angled to stare contemptuously down at any lowly humans who dared approach her. Her green scales glittered in the sunlight, her leathery wings folded primly atop her clawed feet. At seventy feet long from snout to tail, Taotri was a fast grower. She’d likely end up one of the heavier flyers amongst the Imperial wyverns, and she took as much pride in that as one would expect.
Seareye was standing just before the fold of her right wing, his namesake eyepatch lifted to show the white, scarred marble beneath. Eight years ago, when Taotri was still small enough to carry only him, the eyelid had been burned by an acid so fierce no amount of healing had brought it back. Seareye was completely blind on the left side, but on occasions like this he liked to pretend he still had a modicum of sight left. He was perpetually worried enemies would rightly identify his weakness to a leftsided ambush.
“Ah, what a sight!” A regal voice boomed, warped by the strange timbre of translation spells. “It has been too long since I was graced with the presence of the gods’ most favored creatures! Tell me, fine wyvern, may I have the honor of hearing your name spoken by your own tongue?”
The man that emerged from the cold, wing-stirred air was none other than King Sporatos himself. The King was alone in the courtyard, greeting them without a single attendant nearby. Seareye wondered if that was a political statement of some sort, but if it was, he couldn’t guess at its intention. In the Empire, one impressed a guest by showing the great number of servants and slaves they had at hand, as well as those lower nobility who were loyal to them. To choose to appear alone wasn’t something an Imperial ruler would do.
Perhaps he chose to do so in order to impress upon his guests exactly who he was. Seareye felt physically struck by the man’s presence. There was no need to question who this was. The golden crown upon his head, glittering with exquisite gemstones though it was, barely drew the eyes away from the King’s royal bearing. Standing little taller than Seareye himself, dressed in soft, embroidered clothing of ocean blue and crimson dye, he nonetheless seemed to have the footfalls of a giant. The tasteful sidesword he wore at his hip had the presence of a mighty greatsword, all but rattling in its sheath with barely-contained lethality. Seareye felt certain the weapon was not exceptional. It was the man who bore it that made it such a fearsome weapon.
So this is a Northern Warrior-King, he thought, restraining himself from taking an instinctive step away from the man. Perhaps there is more merit than we thought in ordaining the elevation of one Warrior’s training above all others.
If Taotri felt the King’s nature as Seareye did, she showed no sign of it. She managed to puff her chest out even further at the sound of royal praise, reptilian eyes glittering with delight at the King’s words.
“I,” she announced loftily, summoning up all the refined diction her tutors had attempted to instill in her, “am the Wyvern Taotri, hatched of the Matriarch Degim and Black Line’s most noble joining, fourth cousin to Imperequs Himself, and duly appointed Warrior-Wyvern of the True Adjutant’s armies.”
“You have the warmest greetings and most fervent blessings of all Sporatos, Noble Taotri,” the King declared, shocking Seareye by nodding his head as deeply as any monarch would ever dare in public.
Then his attention turned down.
Seareye possessed none of the ignorant haughtiness that consumed his bonded wyvern. He swept his forearm sharply into his waist, ducking into the northern fashion of a bow, bending until his torso was parallel to the ground.
“Your Majesty,” he said, infusing the title with all the piety he possessed. Not a hard thing to do, facing a man like this. “The utmost honor of standing before your regal presence belongs to one Sirian Tailya, of House Tailya, Commander of the True Adjutant’s Third Wing. I bear with me gifts given freely and without expectation, born a thousand miles north on behalf of my House and the True Adjutant himself, all in the hopes they may be accepted by your most honorable self.”
“Rise, Commander Tailya,” the King instructed, addressing Seareye by his rank and House name only. It was an odd form of address, but one he had been told to expect. “Your gifts are most welcome, and as my Royal Self shall of course accept them in the spirit they were given, let it be known that the prizes I am soon to offer you were not acquired with the intent of trite reciprocation.”
“So it is known,” Seareye formally acknowledged, straightening. With the old forms and greetings exchanged, trained procedure fell away, leaving Seareye without a script to follow.
Thankfully, the protocol he’d been provided to guide his discussion with the Warrior-King was simple: do not speak unless spoken to, answer questions promptly and with what honesty was acceptable, and acquiesce in all things that were not matters of Imperial negotiations. His mother’s words echoed in his head.
If the King tells you to wait while he takes tea in silence, you wait. If he quarters you in a dung-filled gutter, you’re to thank him for the honor and remark that you’ve never known shit so comfortable.
Seareye was not, in any way, a political negotiator. He was a courier, nothing more, nothing less. The only thing of true consequence sent on the trip, himself and Taotri included, was the communication crystal in his breast pocket.
A few weeks ago, he had griped at that. To be so directly told by his superiors that he, Commander of an entire Imperial Wing, did not matter? Particularly before some northern barbarian? An incredible insult, he’d thought.
Seeing the King for himself, he now realized that he would have behaved just the same, even without any instructions to do so. This was not a man that was disobeyed.
Except for by the Chosen and her wife, an insidious voice whispered in the back of his mind. He slapped the thought down, waiting for the King to address him once more.
The King turned to Taotri instead.
“Tell me, Noble Wyvern, what would you have of my House? If you so wish it, I will have hundreds of loyal servants attending to your needs at once. The last time I was graced by a wyvern, I had precious little opportunity to learn their ways. We have for your choosing numerous herds of all the varieties of livestock tended within our borders, a great many of foreign stock purchased from abroad, and a dozen of my finest cooks and their assistants ready to prepare any of them to your liking.”
Seareye was somewhat taken aback by such an offer. Though Taotri was of a fine lineage, wyverns did not put the same esteem in the right of blood as did the Kingdoms and Empires of humanity. It seemed the King’s interest in his bonded wyvern was a passion all his own. That endeared the King to Seareye quite considerably; he could remember his own utter fascination with the creatures, begun long before he had been given opportunity to see and bond with one for himself. Either the King truly understood the beauty of wyverns, or he knew well the importance Imperial society placed upon them. Whichever was true, Seareye couldn’t help but respect him for it.
“I would like to be divested of my bags, to begin with,” Taotri declared, as if the accommodations she had been offered were a matter of course. A moment later, she belatedly bobbed her head and added, “Your Majesty.”
The King’s fingers snapped faster than Seareye could see, sending a thundering whipcrack across the courtyard. The ground beneath his feet rumbled as dozens, possibly hundreds, of servants emerged from the surrounding buildings.
“I regret to inform you that I have no audience chamber accessible to one of such majesty as Wyvern Taotri,” the King said to Seareye. “It has long been one of my family’s deepest regrets that we had no wyverns occupying our lands, and our seat of power was built without their kind in mind. I hope that our necessarily more humble gathering room will not be objectionable.”
“Of course not, Your Majesty,” Seareye said. “ We will happily have our meeting wherever you please, so long as its perimeter meets the privacy requirements required by the True Adjutant.”
The King made a dismissive gesture. “You need not worry yourself. We have taken the appropriate precautions.”
Seareye accepted this without comment. What else was he to say? Noble-born Imperial though he may be, it wasn’t his place to question a monarch.
The army of servants which swarmed over Taotri were efficient in their work. Though clearly intimidated by her bulk, they followed her instructions without hesitation. She was quickly free of her saddle and straps, the Imperial gifts trundled away into whatever storeroom the massive Keep had. Taotri did not show the slightest trace of humility as she instructed a great number of meals to be prepared for her. It was far more food than even she could eat, something that had to be obvious to even those who had never seen a wyvern before, but there was not a peep of questioning or protest.
As Taotri was seen to, King Sporatos was joined by many other members of the local ruling class. Seareye did his best to memorize their names as they were introduced, but soon felt himself falling behind. Foreign titles and strange names melded together, Knights and Dukes and Counts becoming rapidly indistinguishable. It seemed that the arrival of an Imperial emissary was quite the event; many of the nobility admitted that they had traveled to the capital specifically for the occasion. The Empire was known to them only in the vaguest of ways. Seareye did his best to answer their questions diplomatically, satisfying their curiosity without revealing too much, but he had been in the army for a very long time. The lessons of his youth were so forgotten it was a near miracle he did not cause some great offense.
Eventually, mercifully, the King guided Seareye into a chamber which adjoined the Keep’s central courtyard. Taotri’s meals were being prepared just outside, smoke choking the air as all sorts of animals were roasted on spits directly adjacent to a large window, the glass removed from its frame.
Of the fawning crowd, King Sporatos allowed only a select few to follow into the meeting room. A man in mage’s robes exited as they entered, murmuring an assurance to the King that the room had been warded against eavesdroppers. The gap in the wall shimmered with an oil-slick shine of magic, thankfully repelling both smoke and the bitterly cold air. Taotri was provided a comically massive cushion to lay upon just outside, her head draped through the barrier so she could hear the ongoing discussion. She retreated occasionally to nip at one meal or another, hand-fed chunks of dripping meat by trembling slaves.
The King sat first, taking a spot at the head of a long table. His Dukes and Duchesses sat to his left and right, eying one another with barely-restrained animosity. The politicking had already begun.
Seareye remained standing. He retrieved the communication crystal from his pocket, placing it in the open. He had sent word to the True Adjutant that the King would soon be ready for their conversation, and silently prayed that the meeting would not be delayed. Taking a deep breath, he announced himself.
“This is Sirian Tailya, Commander of the Third Wing, loyal soldier in the True Adjutant’s armies. I testify upon penalty of death that I stand now before the great King Sporatos and his chosen few, and that I have received all honorable assurances that this meeting has been protected from unworthy ears.”
His heart thudded in his chest as the moment hung. He did not know if the King would accept being left waiting. If he grew frustrated with the delay, Seareye had no doubt that the True Adjutant would consider him responsible for sabotaging the negotiations. It wouldn’t matter what measures he’d taken to ensure a timely meeting.
“Your assurances are heard and recorded, Commander Sirian Tailya,” a voice said, speaking with the fluid power of molten metal. “Am I to understand that I have the honor of speaking directly with King Sporatos?”
“You do,” the King replied, his rumbling baritone filling the cool chamber. “And do I in turn have the privilege of speaking with the True Adjutant himself?”
“You do,” the Adjutant replied cooly. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, King Sporatos. It has been too long since my people have had opportunity to properly treat with the honorable elite of the world beyond our lands.”
“And it has been too long since the line of Sporatos has had the honor of greeting those who represent the Honored Elven. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The formal acknowledgements continued like that for some time. Both rulers had a team of advisors and loyalists beside them, and the introductions of these individuals took quite a while. Seareye wondered if the Adjutant was being honest in listing all who were present beside his crystal. King Sporatos could not lie, on account of Seareye’s presence, a disadvantage the Adjutant did not suffer.
Eventually, finally, the meeting began to progress. The pompous back-and-forth took long enough that Taotri was by then on her third carcass, gibbets of cooked flesh dangling from her jaws, and Seareye had moved to wipe her face down. Wyverns were not famed for their table manners, quite the opposite, but Seareye still thought it inappropriate for her to be so unkempt in front of a King.
“As you are surely aware,” the Adjutant was saying, “my goal in providing for this meeting is one of common interest: the farcical city-state which a misguided Chosen has established between our rightful borders.”
From the corner of his eye, Seareye watched the Sporaton elites. None of them showed the slightest flicker of surprise.
“Yes,” King Sporatos said. “An irritating thorn in both our sides, is it not? The Mad Champion has abandoned her holy purpose in lieu of vapid games, pretending at the notion of revolution.”
“Regrettably, my sources believe she can no longer be considered to be merely ‘playing’ at her revolution,” the Adjutant hummed. There was a rasp of paper sliding across a desk, a report brought to hand. “The false Adjutant with whom she has aligned herself has seemingly fallen under her sway. Their splinter of our Empire has begun to adopt ludicrous notions of republicanism.”
“Is this so?” King Sporatos sounded mildly surprised, but his face showed nothing of the emotion. “Our sources have spoken of the dysfunctional governance she is establishing within her city, but we have not heard of its spread.”
“It is true. If my information is reliable– and I have every reason to believe it is– these governmental alterations are the means by which our enemy has secured access to her ‘firearms.’”
The King’s face twisted as if he’d smelled something foul. “Ah, yes. Her insulting little toys. To know that even those who claim loyalty to the Honored Elven would be seduced by their false promises is a sobering thought.”
Seareye’s breath caught. House Tailya could not count itself amongst the inner circle of the Empire, but even he knew that the True Adjutant had been attempting to replicate the Chosen’s weapons. The King’s comment could easily be construed as an insult to the Empire.
“...foul though they may be,” the Adjutant said after a pause, “they wreak havoc all the same. That they must be matched or overcome is inarguable.”
“Of course,” the King stated dismissively. “But Sporatos does not intend to fall for their petty allure. Novel though their deployment was, they succeeded only by virtue of surprise. Now that we understand their nature, our Knights and Mages have prepared all necessary means to overwhelm them.”
“I believe my armies would be rather interested in your discoveries in this field,” the Adjutant replied diplomatically. “I am sure an exchange of information may be arranged. However, my forces are engaged in many locations, and do not have the luxury of time for such research. Until your forces can prove their conventional superiority, I have a proposal that I believe will benefit us both.”
Several of the surrounding nobles shifted in their chairs, glancing at the King and one another. From what Seareye had been told during his briefing, it had not been a year since their kingdom’s forces had suffered a humiliating defeat at the Chosen’s hands. They would not be eager to make a second attempt so soon.
The King, on the other hand, leaned forward, folding his hands beneath his chin as his eyes glittered with cruel delight.
“I am most willing to listen, Adjutant. What do you speak of?”
“An informal alliance. Though Tulian itself has not waged war on either of our peoples, they have done everything but. Their assembly of military power amongst their northern regions cannot be construed as anything other than preparation for hostility against your southern vassals, if not Sporatos itself. Similarly, their strange industries have begun to arm and train our enemies, while the Chosen herself fights at our enemy’s side. Though she may claim whatever she wishes about the nature of political authority in her nation, only a fool would believe that a Holy Chosen would truly acquiesce to the rule of peasants.”
“Just so,” the King agreed. “But you speak of an alliance against a common enemy, yes? What will this entail?”
“Less than I would prefer,” the Adjutant admitted frankly. “Our armies are spread far across our Empire. There is much to be done and, despite our considerable population, too few spears to do it with. We cannot mount an offensive on Tulian itself. Not without unacceptably weakening our northern fronts. As easy as it may be to brush their city aside with our true field armies, we would lose too much to our true enemies in the interim.”
“So you wish the assault upon their city to be undertaken by Sporatos.” The King offered no inflection to his statement that might have given a hint to how he felt about this.
“But not alone. Our Empire is vast and our resources considerable. Your agents have informed you of the flying weapons they have developed? Wooden birds from which Mages cast their spells?”
“They have.”
“Excellent. I mean no offense when I say that they are a considerable threat to any traditional northern force. If you will allow me a bit of forthrightness, your people do not have experience combating threats from the sky. Through no fault of your own, of course. It simply has not been necessary. This is why I selected Commander Seareye– that is, Commander Siria Tailya– as my envoy for this meeting.”
Seareye stiffened, turning away from his cleaning of Taotri’s jaws. All eyes in the room fell on him, the weight of their gaze pinning him to the spot.
“As the most promising Commander of any Imperial Wing, he is best prepared to deal with the threat of Tulian’s strange new weapons. So, if Sporatos is willing to mount an assault on Tulian, I will offer you not just the presence of Seareye and Taotri, but the services of the entire Imperial Third Wing.”
A silence fell on the room as this offer was digested. Seareye himself was perhaps the most shocked of any present. He had not been informed of this in the slightest.
And for good damn reason! He fumed. I did not join the army to fight peasant barbarians in some dead fields.
It was not his place to question the Adjutant, however. He remained obediently silent.
“This Third Wing,” the King said, speaking to the Adjutant even as his eyes stayed on Seareye, “they number how many?”
“At present, they are scattered across a great swathe of the Empire, each assigned to their own tasks. Their services are in high demand, and it is rare that the unit gathers in one place. At our last report, there were nearly a hundred griffons attached to the Third Wing, as well as several wyverns. I cannot guarantee the contribution of the wyverns, however. They and their riders are nobility unto themselves, and it would take considerable effort to jostle them from their chosen paths in this war.”
The King’s eyes flicked off of Seareye, landing on Taotri. The wyvern stared back at him, meeting his gaze. The King did not flinch.
“But Noble Taotri and Commander Tailya will certainly be present?”
“Yes. As you can imagine, they are detached from the front lines at the moment.”
“Which is a profound mistake,” Taotri huffed. She spoke in a wyvern’s version of a whisper, which only meant those in the echoing stone room did not get deafened by her words.
“Should you aid the Sporatons in attacking Tulian,” the Adjutant said soothingly, “you will be doing your lineage a great honor. It is your intelligence and skill that I value, Taotri. I entrust you to inform the other wyverns how best these flying machines might be combatted. Someday soon, you may be assigned to train wyverns decades your senior.”
Seareye had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as Toatri visibly puffed up at the words, scales clicking and sliding as they rose off her skin. All wyverns were vain, but the young ones were the worst of them all. He would speak to her later about this. She was too easily manipulated.
“And what of their firearms?” King Sporatos asked. “Though it… pains me to admit it, their weapons inflicted considerable casualties on our forces in our last conflict. Your offer of aid against their flying machines is all well and good, but they are not the sharpest edge of the Mad Champion’s sword. If you wish us to attack on your behalf, what will you offer against their guns?”
“Are the countermeasures you spoke of not adequate, King Sporatos?” The Adjutant asked.
The King bristled. “They will be. But the training of thousands of Knights and mages is a difficult, time-consuming task. We will soon be ready to sweep their guns aside, but I suspect it will not be soon enough for you, Adjutant. You seem terribly eager to remove Tulian from the equation most promptly.”
The King’s fellow nobility seemed to let out silent sighs of relief at this line of inquiry. It was plain to Seareye, even with what little experience he had in these kinds of negotiations, that they did not relish the thought of challenging the ‘Mad Champion’ once more. He made a note of that, so he could report it later. The King’s simmering hatred for Tulian and its Chosen ruler was not half as strong in his subjects. Though they seemed to recognize Tulian as a potential threat, they did not think it was one that needed to be dealt with in any immediate future.
“True,” the Adjutant admitted casually. “That I am eager to be rid of them is true enough, King Sporatos. As with all irritants, they are something which I will suffer for only as long as is strictly necessary.”
“Then you will need to provide good reason for our aid,” the King said, steel tinting the words. “I am not a mercenary King. I will wage war only when it betters the lives of my people.”
“And the vast territories of Tulian are not prize enough?”
“No. Tempting though they may seem, the lands are empty of civilization. It would be generations before our population could truly expand to exploit those lands. I will not sacrifice the lives of today for the success of tomorrow.”
“You are wise indeed, King Sporatos.” Seareye could practically see the Adjutant’s respectful nod. “But there are other circumstances to be considered. I assume the prophets of your churches have spoken of the shift in the threads of fate as of late?”
“...they have,” King Sporatos said cautiously.
“As have ours. And I have been given reason to believe that many of the consequences of these changes will be converging upon Tulian. Soon.” The Adjutant paused for effect. “And the more my people have discovered, the more convinced I am that the Chosen’s weakest day is yet to come.”
The royal gaggle around the King began to murmur to one another in soft yet fierce tones. Seareye could not make out words, but it was clear that debates were breaking out. Factionalism, clearly. Even with so little to go off, the warmongers and conservative nobility were already reigniting old arguments.
It was clear which side of the two factions the King belonged on. He leaned even further forward, truly grinning for the first time in the entire meeting.
“Do tell, Adjutant.”
Notes:
Well, look at that! A chapter that isn't porn. Almost been a month since we had that. There's some other interlude scenes that might be included next week, as I lingered a bit longer than expected on these two scenes, but not too much more. Things are progressing more rapidly, now. By the way, for the future, you can (hopefully) expect all stories to be uploaded at this time of day, whatever it happens to be in your local area.
Chapter 154: B3 Ch41: Tying Tangled Fuses
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Hurlish of Tulian
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It was nice to have a pair of wives. Nicer still when they were actually around, cuddled together on a big, fluffy bed, instead of being scattered to gods-knew-where, probably fighting for their lives. The fact that her pair of wives were sexy as hell, sharp as knives, and loyal to a fault? That was just the damn cherry on top.
Hurlish was laying on a pile of pillows, reclined slightly to watch the illusory screen Sara had summoned up for them to watch. Sara herself had wiggled her butt up to press against Hurlish’s crotch, rested her torso across her stomach, head coming to lie between her breasts. Evie was curled up like a cat off Hurlish’s thigh, her cheek resting in Sara’s lap, tail unconsciously reaching out to loop possessively around Hurlish’s wrist. Hurlish was slowly petting it with her thumb. Not enough to turn Evie on, but enough to get her a touch more relaxed. It took a lot of damn work to get her wives to chill out, which is why Hurlish had made sure she’d got damned good at doing it.
The movie Sara had thrown up for the evening was, at Evie’s insistence, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Hurlish had seen it before. Four times, in fact. This was the fifth, and each time they’d watched it had been at Evie’s insistence. Girl loved the damn thing. The first time they’d watched it, Evie had demanded Sara start it over again before the credits had even started to roll. The movie was the reason why Hurlish’s first attempt at forging a revolver had followed the design it did. She’d recreated Blondie’s gun at Evie’s insistence, the one David later told them was called an 1851 Navy Colt. It was only a short-cylindered .36 caliber pistol, puny next to what Hurlish wanted to build, but Evie had been insistent. She had wanted Blondie’s gun, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Of course, just like Hurlish had warned her, it ended up too weak for getting through armor. That was why they’d pawned it off on Ignite, who’d mostly be dealing with sailors and marines, not enchanted Knights. The next revolver Hurlish had made, a Colt Walker, was from a different movie, but it was still carried by the same actor. Eastwood, or whatever the dude’s name was. Sara indulged Evie’s obsession with the dude despite the fact that she didn’t really like him (something to do with his version of her home’s politics), and she definitely didn’t like the movie that had caused Evie to latch onto the gun design. The Outlaw Josey Wales was apparently “bullshit neo-confederate propaganda,” but she’d eventually shown it for Evie. Only when she was out of literally every other Clint Eastwood movie for their wife to devour, though.
See, Evie liked Clint Eastwood. She really, really liked Clint Eastwood. A whole damn lot. Something about an old, grizzled, hardass soldier really did it for the girl. Go figure. Hurlish and Sara had teased her relentlessly about that, cracking jokes about how every girl with daddy issues ended up wanting to marry their own dad, but that had died out pretty quickly. Evie had only looked at them blankly and reminded them that her father had died before she’d turned three. She was serious, too.
“I just don’t get it,” Hurlish rumbled, waving at the movie. “Blondie knows Tuco’s gun is unloaded. He’s not planning to kill the guy, and he’s got Angel Eye’s number. Why bother with all this shit?”
By Hurlish’s reckoning, they were about a thousand hours into the five minute duel at the end of the movie. There was a whole lot of slow walking, squinting, and serious scowling on screen, but not much else. Hurlish could admit that it’d been pretty fun to watch the first time around, especially with the weird music to listen to, but on her fifth runthrough, she was just getting impatient.
“Shh!” Evie hushed, eyes locked on the illusory screen. “Just watch.”
“I’ve watched it five damn times,” Hurlish groused. “It still doesn’t make sense. Just shoot the guy, for the gods’ sake. Would save everyone a whole lot of time.”
“It is about building tension!” Evie hissed. “They are measuring one another’s skills, estimating their opponent’s abilities. Blondie may have the faster gunhand than Angel Eyes, but there is no point in taking unnecessary risks. He knows Tuco is too anxious, that he will certainly draw first, and it is in that moment that Blondie can strike.”
“He also coulda just shot him in the back a long time ago.”
“You have watched nearly as many of these films as I have, clearly. There is a code of conduct between outlaws, one which dictates what is and is not honorable for their duels.”
Hurlish rolled her eyes. “Sure. I just don’t think Blondie’s the type to give a shit about that. Dude’s literally an outlaw. He should just kill ‘em and get it over with.”
Evie shook her head, refusing to look away. The music was starting to swell, the final shot drawing close. “It is an excellent display of his character, Hurlish. Sergio Leone is not just depicting a literal sequence of events; he is doing what is called a ‘character study.’”
From within the rumpled-hair nest she’d made between Hurlish’s breasts, Sara lifted herself up to stare at Evie.
“Really? Character study? Where’d you learn that term?”
“Since you have comparatively little interest in filmography, I have spoken extensively with your father about the works of Clint Eastwood, Sergio Leone, and Ennio Morricone. It is a fascinating topic.”
Sara groaned laboriously. “Oh, god. Please tell me you don’t have an opinion on the difference between a film and a movie.”
“But there is one, no? While a movie is simple, trite entertainment, a film is an artistic approach to the craft of-”
Sara groaned louder. “Goddammit, Dad. Look what you did to my fuckin’ wife.”
Hurlish chuckled, despite herself. There was no actual frustration here. It was just a funny conversation, the kind that they’d only ever managed to have regularly for the few short months between kicking the Sporaton’s asses and getting caught up in the Imperial civil war.
Because she was a loving wife, Hurlish quieted herself for the big finale. Evie vibrated with excitement as the shot rang out, a lone bullet knocking Angel Eyes to the ground, Tuco’s empty gun going click-click-click as he mashed the trigger over and over again. In Hurlish’s opinion, it was a whole lot of shlock. She hadn’t been in a gunfight herself, but she’d shot plenty of guns. She couldn’t ever imagine real people, especially those that didn’t have Classes, ending up in a duel like that. Just no point to it. Better to get the drop on someone while they were sleeping and stick a knife through their eye.
But Evie ate that kind of shit up, so she didn’t gripe. Watching the same old thing was more than worth it to see the little sadist so distracted from all her usual concerns.
A few minutes later, Sara’s illusion faded with the end of the movie. Tahn made a little murmuring noise in his crib, probably in reaction to the darkening of the room, but he didn’t do anything further. With all three moms around, he’d gotten more than his fair share of playtime that evening.
Hurlish wrapped her arms around Sara, squeezing her tight. The bigger of her two wives was always nice to squish up against. Really, with the type of life she led, Sara probably shouldn’t have so much plush softness left. Amarat’s Blessings were probably to blame for that, Hurlish figured. She was glad. Having one rail-thin wife she could toss around like nothing, and another who was all soft curves? That was downright blissful. Hurlish had gotten damn lucky.
“So,” she said, a thought occurring to her, “Amarat still being stingy? No luck on getting your next Level?”
Sara shook her head even as she melted into Hurlish’s hug. “No, doesn’t look like it. Either my natural Leveling pace has slowed way the hell down, or I’ve got to start doing the shit an actual Champion of Amarat is supposed to be doing.”
“Mm,” Hurlish rumbled. “Don’t know about that. You’ve been fighting a lot, sure, but you’ve also been chatting away with Borek and all his fancy types, too. That’s gotta count as being diplomatic, right?”
“Maybe?” Sara shrugged. “My last new Level came right after I made the deal with the Adjutant. Maybe Amarat isn’t interested in rewarding me for bothering with small fry like a single General. If I really wanted to focus on that, it’d probably be best for me to be back in Tulian, dealing with parliament and diplomatic envoys.”
“You still greet them via crystal when they arrive,” Evie said. “Though you cannot intuit quite so much as you could in person, I imagine that your negotiation of trade deals and the like is worth consideration. Historical records do indicate that a Champion’s advancement slows as they grow more accustomed to their new world. The simplest explanation seems to be that you are reaching this point for yourself.”
“But would it be dropping off this hard?” Sara asked. “I mean, it’s been, what, two months without a new Level? That’s pretty crazy.”
Hurlish snorted. “Yeah. Boo-hoo. Going two whole months without a new Advancement. Can’t imagine the pain.”
Hurlish herself had been considered an unprecedented prodigy in her village for getting her second Advancement before turning eighteen. By the time she’d met Sara, ten years later, she’d clawed her way up to her sixth Advancement, making her inarguably the best blacksmith in all of Hagos. Well, the best for her age, anyway. There were a few old timers who could probably put her to shame, but most of those had been retired by the time she was in business. The other sorts that could have given her a run for her money had moved up north, to bigger cities. Hurlish had shown up at just the right time to make a name for herself.
Wonder if Amarat had anything to do with that? Hurlish considered. Her life before meeting Sara had been one hell of a string of coincidences. Just the fact that she was able to march across all of Tulian in the midst of an unending typhoon was a miracle in itself. That she’d fallen ass-first into a smithing gig when she got to Hagos, only to have the old owner of the shop die out from under her? Awfully convenient, if you were a goddess trying to pave the way for an upcoming Champion.
She didn’t think too hard about that, however. Wondering about how the gods fucked with your future was a quick way to go crazy, and that was doubly true when you were as tangled up in their affairs as she was, being married to Sara and all.
At least I know Amarat didn’t want me to end up going with her, Hurlish thought smugly, remembering Amillya’s angry accusation. Feels good to know I chose something for myself, if only the once.
“You got any other plans for getting out of your slump?” Hurlish asked. “You’re gonna want to be as powerful as you can be for whatever’s coming.”
“A single day’s experimentation can’t be expected to bear fruit.” Evie stretched her arms out, yawning as the fur on her tail puffed out. “General Borek has officially tasked us with the detection and persecution of Tenth God cultists within captured Imperial territory. We will have many more opportunities to pursue Amarat’s enemies.”
“Still don’t like it,” Sara huffed. “Doing Amarat’s dirty work like that. So long as they fuck off, I don’t give a shit about the cult. Starting fights with them is just gonna stir up problems that Tulian doesn’t need.”
“I really don’t think they were planning to leave us alone,” Hurlish said. “They started shit in the first place, remember? Whatever the Tenth God’s got on his agenda, it’s shit you’re already going up against. They’re all for the old way of things, collars and kings and all of that crap. You’d have ended up fighting them anyway.”
“Maybe. But I still don’t like getting told what to do.”
“Such is the toil of mortals in a world ruled by divinities, dear,” Evie said. “At least you know what your rewards will be. Many others, even those far more faithful, do not.”
Sara grumbled something under her breath, probably some kind of blasphemy, but changed the topic. “You two just want me Leveling up again so you can get boosted, too.”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” Hurlish admitted frankly. “But I’m pretty sure I’m more limited by time and materials than I am by Advancements. With enough patience and one of your blueprints, I can make just about everything I want to. Only thing I’m limited on is some of the big industrial stuff you’ve told me about. And I don’t think there’s any kind of Skill I’m gonna get that’ll let me whip up a machine you’ve barely ever heard of, much less know how it works.”
Sara leaned her head back, making her eyelashes flutter seductively. “Oh, but won’t you please try for me? I’m sure you can get a Skill that lets you hammer out high-pressure industrial turbine blades if you just focus on it hard enough.”
“And these turbine blades… they’re used for what, exactly?”
“Uh.” Sara blinked. “Power plants that… generate electricity? I think? Or maybe for planes? And I think also ship engines, if I’m remembering something Dad said correctly. I mean, I know they’re definitely used in plane engines at the very least, but I can’t remember what else they’re used for. A lot of stuff, probably.”
Hurlish snorted. “Sure. Sounds like a nice, clear goal. I’ll get on it in no time.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Hurlish used the leverage of her hug to tug Sara up into her a touch, making Evie mewl her frustration as she uncurled to chase after Sara’s lap. After scooting back a foot or so on the bed, Evie dropped her head back atop Sara’s thighs, flipping so her head was turned the other way, into her stomach. She tried to hide it, but Hurlish caught the way her nostrils flared, breathing deeply of the scent between Sara’s legs.
I’ll let her have it, Hurlish decided. They’d already fucked that night, which meant they were technically supposed to be just relaxing, but Evie was Evie. Hurlish would bet half her forge that the girl hadn’t even realized what she’d done. It was instinctive.
Gonna have to get more strict with them soon, though. Hurlish reached out to pet Evie’s hair. They’re getting bad about it again.
This was the first time in days that Hurlish had actually managed to get her wives to sit down and relax. No fucking, no taking care of Tahn, no discussing strategy. Just cozied up on the bed, enjoying each other’s presence. She’d been pretty patient, knowing how much they had on their plates, but there were limits. Hurlish knew damn well that, if she let them, Sara and Evie would end up working themselves to death. Even this little get-together had been a compromise. They had some meeting or whatever bright and early in the morning, which meant they had to wake up in about five hours or so.
Hurlish didn’t know when the last time was that her wives had gotten a full night’s sleep. She’d probably have been horrified to learn. Even with the Imperial Army camped in a city as they slowly pacified its populace, Sara was in constant communication with Tulian, endlessly debating with parliament and her advisors on their ever-evolving legal code. And that was only when she wasn’t picking and prodding at a dozen different Imperial political plots, making a mental map of their schemes like some demented, yayo-addled spider.
Meanwhile, when Evie wasn’t helping Sara with all that, the Feline was constantly out on patrols, inspecting the Powdered Lead’s various units to ensure none of them were slacking on their training. With the Imperial Army getting their own guns, and soon their own artillery, Evie had made it her mission to ensure that the Powdered Lead maintained a relative advantage. If they couldn’t out-tech their so-called “allies,” she was going to make damn sure they out-skilled them. Her philosophy was simple. The Tulian Army as a whole, and the Powdered Lead in particular, had one advantage that the Imperial Army lacked: inexperience. With the Empire embroiled in its long war, almost all of its career soldiers had long-since gained Classes based on the old style of warfare. Spears, bows, and armor. Evie? Evie wanted to build a new army. One built from the ground-up with blackpowder troops.
Hurlish sighed, giving them both a squeeze. She respected them. Loved ‘em to bits. But honestly, sometimes she just wanted to spend some normal, relaxing time with her fuckin’ wives. She’d known when she’d marched off to follow a Champion that shit was gonna be complicated and busy. She’d made concessions to that fact practically every day she’d been with Sara. But there were limits to those concessions, too.
What do I do about it, though? Hurlish wondered. She had a few ideas. Fucking, mainly. Neither of them could resist a good pounding, even if Sara liked to pretend otherwise. But that wasn’t really relaxing. With the way they fucked, it was downright exhausting. So she needed a way to force Sara and Evie out on a proper date. Eat some food none of them made, spend some money without worrying about how it’d affect their budget, that kind of shit.
Hurlish reached down and grabbed Evie by the back of her shirt, one arm still wrapped around Sara, then rolled onto her side, taking her wives with her. They squeaked and squawked in protest, trying to squirm out of her grip, but she ignored them. With a twist of her wrist, she flipped Sara around to shove her face-first into her tits, then squeezed Evie in behind her, wrapping them both up in one oversized hug. They kept trying to say something, so she kept ignoring them.
I got a few ideas, she decided, yawning. Her wives stopped wriggling as they slowly accepted that she wasn’t going to let them go. ‘Course, it’ll probably have to start with fucking, but what good idea doesn’t?
--------------------------------------------
Ketch
--------------------------------------------
Ketch blinked her inner eyelids hard, trying her best to clear the gunk from her sight. The riverways of the Empire were a mess. She’d swam in some Tulian rivers every now and then, when she had to, and she’d never much enjoyed them. These were even worse. Compared to the coastal tributaries she’d already hated, the jungle rivers were disgustingly murky, hard to breathe in, and eternally filled with floating crap.
And the worst of it all was just how much there was to get in her way. The stringy tendrils of long river plants choked the riverways, dense as wheat stalks. Even swimming as near the surface as she dared, Ketch constantly had to shove her way through, sometimes ending up so tangled she began to wonder if it would have been better to walk straight through the forest. It wasn’t, of course, at least when she was traveling downstream, but still. She missed the waters of her home.
And they miss you, Sellie’s voice rasped, ticklish razor blades grazing the base of Ketch’s skull. It made her giggle.
I miss you too, she thought back. I’m sure Sara will let me go home soon.
She does not let you do anything, Sellie huffed. That is only my role. You are my guppy. Not hers.
Ketch giggled again. She could feel how her girlfriend meant it. She could even feel the way her own thoughts were briefly drowned out by Sellie’s, the force of her declaration choking Ketch’s in a pleasant, mindless buzz.
Good guppy, Sellie’s ancient voice purred as she retreated. Ketch was left on her own, but only just. The vastness of Sellie’s soul was always waiting at the edge of her awareness, ready to swoop down and consume her at a moment’s notice. Ketch’s mind was nothing more than a candle in a thunderstorm, sheltered by gently cupped palms. It was comforting.
And distracting. Even swimming through the frustrating underwater forest, Ketch felt her kicking legs try to squeeze together, seeking friction. She would have to visit Sara soon. After this mission, she hoped. Spending too much time wrapped in Sellie’s coddling embrace was wonderful, but often lacking in that final step towards a more… primal kind of satisfaction. Sara could fix that for her.
Ketch shifted her burden off her shoulder, bringing the bag around to the front. It was hard, swimming while transporting the bulky waxed-leather container. Still better than carrying it on the surface, considering how heavy it was, but not easy. Sometimes she wished her Class had done more for her body than make it harder to spot. Disappearing into shadows could only do so much when you struggled to carry a quarter of your own body weight.
Guided by senses she could not define, Ketch followed the swirling current leftward when the river split. She knew that the other route would eventually curve back around, merging into the first, but that would be past her destination. She didn’t know how she knew that. She just did. Since falling under Sara’s sway, there were a lot of things like that in her life. Sellie had told her a good guppy didn’t question blessings, so she’d stopped worrying about it.
Wooden poles sprouted from the mud up ahead, a forest of pillars that spoke to an above-water dock. Beneath it, she sensed, was another azarketi. They were napping. Rain pattered the surface of the water, a downpour that had turned the current swift, so they’d used a bit of braided plantlife to tie themselves to the post in order to not drift away.
Ketch slowed until she was drifting in the water, hesitating. Over the months, it had become harder and harder to remember just how much other people could see. It was nighttime up above, and the rain was fairly heavy. Lightning flashed occasionally, lighting the river for brief touches, but other than that, it was as close to pitch black as could be.
Ketch, of course, could see as if it was noon. It had been the better part of a year since she’d last seen genuine darkness. Her eyes had stopped caring about light around the time Sara had dragged her to her tenth Advancement. It was almost hard to remember what it was like, to be so blind.
She decided to play it safe. She poked her face above the water, trying to let as little of herself show as possible.
The village roads were all but abandoned. The midnight rain had turned into a proper storm, dousing whatever lights may have normally been burning between buildings. Ketch could see some warm lantern light leaking between the loose boards of homes, the signs of a village bored by weather that hadn’t let them spend the waking hours outside.
Taking one last glance at the sleeping azarketi, Ketch made her choice. She slipped up to the shoreline, emerging onto the muddy bank. Several crocodiles were piled atop one another nearby, resting their heads together. As had every jungle creature Ketch had encountered thus far, they first began to hungrily approach, then paused, catching a whiff of the Witch upon her. Almost as one mass, they turned around and scrabbled in the mud, fleeing in a great rush of splashing tails and strange croaking sounds.
Ketch wasn’t awfully concerned about the noise. Thunder rumbled and water splashed, easily hiding the commotion. She kept a careful grip on her heavy bag as she padded her way up the muddy bank, heading for the building that matched the description Sara had provided. She couldn’t properly feel the mud beneath her bare feet, because she didn’t sink into it enough to make tracks. That would’ve made her too easy to follow. It was a Skill she wished she’d had when she’d been in the snowy reaches of Sporatos.
Despite the storm, the village’s only tavern was alight with laughter and song. Its storm shutters were shut, protecting the occupants from the wailing wind outside, but enough light leaked through the sodden timbers that Ketch could have pressed herself to the wall and peered inside. She didn’t, however. Instead she circled around to the back, finding a tightly-latched door to the stone-walled cellar below. Thick boards were barred by a slab of iron, kept in place by a heavy lock.
Sellie, Ketch whispered in her mind, touching the dagger that gave her the connection to her girlfriend. I need to get in here.
Of course, guppy.
Ketch loved what Sara’s presence had turned her into. The Advancements she’d gotten so impossibly soon, catapulting her to heights that she could, now that she’d matured a touch, admit she never would have reached on her own.
The problem was, Ketch had always wanted to be a rogue. Maybe not a Rogue proper, as Sara had described it, but roguish, at the very least. The type of girl that could live on her own, providing for herself, working odd jobs for shady people. Ignoring the fact that she was Sellie’s familiar, of course, because she couldn’t— and wouldn’t— change that. Instead, thanks to the rapid Advancements she’d received, she’d just become… hidden. That was what her Class was, now. “Hidden, Cherished Familiar.” She could hide, and she could hide exceptionally, unfathomably well, but that was it. She didn’t know how to use a dagger, or pick locks, or do any of the roguish things she’d heard about in her childhood stories. She could just watch, silently, from the shadows.
So Sellie, the wonderful girlfriend that she was, had started helping her bridge the gap.
Ketch pressed her finger to the lock’s opening, feeling the cool metal for the brief moment before her entire hand went starkly numb. The bone within her finger began to retract. She could see the tendons and ligaments tear as it retreated, distending the skin along the back of her palm as it was slotted into a pinched lump never meant to hold it. The flesh of her finger began to fall limp, unsupported, but she stopped that by shoving it forward into the lock.
The blue scales of her skin scraped and tore away, piling up on the sharp edges of the lock. The flesh audibly ripped, but it didn’t hurt, of course. Her body was Sellie’s, and Sellie wouldn’t let her feel pain.
Her mangled finger stopped at the bottom of the lock. She watched with a detached interest as the last knuckle bone of her finger, still visible atop her hand, slid forward, breaking into a dozen squirming worms. They slipped into the mangled flesh within the lock, bracing against one another to expand her skin into every nook and cranny. They were followed shortly after by the second and third knuckle bone, each shattered and swirling and pressing outward, until her finger had filled the lock to bursting.
With a quick twist of her wrist, the mechanism unlocked. Silently, of course. There was too much bloody flesh engorging the mechanisms for any metal to strike metal.
Ketch pulled her finger out, tearing it off at the base with a wet shlick-pop. She put the stump into her mouth, catching the blood as her finger began to regrow.
Do not leave your skin behind, Sellie whispered. Rituals of blood and bone are so very troublesome, and I would not have you be vulnerable to any who happen across these remnants.
Obediently, Ketch pulled her finger from her mouth so she could seal her lips around the edges of the bloody lock. Sucking hard, she felt the flesh– which had begun to rot with unnatural speed– spatter against her tongue and throat, pulled from the lock in thick gobbets. She sucked for a minute or so, then stuck her tongue inside, cleaning out what she could reach, and then finally stood.
Good guppy.
Ketch shivered as she swallowed. She didn’t know what her own rotten, mangled finger should have tasted like, but Sellie only let her know its taste as her father’s deliciously grilled fish. She’d been a good guppy, after all. No sense letting a good guppy taste something gross.
Ketch lifted the cellar door without a creak, slipping inside. There was the barest light within, bouncing off the same shelves that muffled careful whispers.
They should have put a guard at the door, Ketch thought disapprovingly. She knew more about sneaking into places than preventing others from doing the same, but that much was obvious. She’d have to point it out to them.
Stepping around several shelves packed tightly with tavern goods, Ketch finally caught a glimpse of the room’s occupants. Three women and a man, each of them hunched over a crate that they were using for a table. A single candle lit the papers they’d laid out there, which seemed to be a mixture of unpracticed handwriting and amateurish maps of a city Ketch didn’t recognize.
“It would be stupid to risk it now!” One of the women insisted. She was a human, one who had made the odd choice of cleanly shaving all the hair off her head. “This is the closest one of the True Adjutant’s armies have been in decades! Even if they don’t end up heading south, why not wait and see? What would we lose?”
The man slapped his hand down on a paper. “An opportunity! They have no reason to come help us. Ta-Lerevian holds nothing of value for them. We must take matters into our own hands!”
“Hands that we will be using to slit our own throats?” The first woman scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The woman to the right of the bald one stabbed a finger toward her companion. “If he is being ridiculous, then you are being a coward! Even if they liberate our home, do you think General Borek would honor the desires of those who never even tried to fight for what is right?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ketch announced loudly.
All four figures whirled towards where she’d spoken, but Ketch was already in the shadows across the room.
Well, she was also where she’d spoken from– partially. But mostly she was in the shadows across the room. Unless that ended up being a bad place to be, in which case she would have been in her original spot the entire time. Really, where she was going to be and where she had been depended on how things went down. It wasn’t decided yet.
Ketch… didn’t really understand what she’d become. Thankfully, she didn’t need to.
“Who said that?” The last woman cried, whipping a table knife from her belt and waving it at the darkness Ketch had spoken from. The others retreated behind her, trusting their safety to her dinky little knife. Ketch supposed that meant she was the most dangerous of them. “Show yourself! What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to help you,” Ketch said. The woman whirled, trying to search out her voice, but it hadn’t come from any one spot. “I promise it. But I’m also really strong, and you couldn’t hurt me if you tried. So you don’t need to keep the knife up.”
“Bullshit!” The bald woman hissed. “Stab her, Kes!”
“I don’t know where she is!”
“How do you not know where she is? The room’s ten feet wide!”
“Can you see her?”
“I got bad eyes! You know that!”
Ketch shook her head. She could see why Sara had sent her here. Abandoning the shadows, she stepped into the candlelight and dropped the bag between her feet with a loud thump.
All four strangers let out a startled shout, leaping away.
“See?” Ketch said, allowing herself to be seen. “That could have been, like, a knife in your neck or something. It’s not, though. I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Fuckin’ shit!” The man cried eloquently, reaching for the candle. The flame sputtered as he flung it up before him in a two-handed grip, holding it as if it might ward Ketch off.
“Look,” she said, flipping her empty hands up, turning them back and forth. “See? Nothing here. We’re all safe.”
“Who are you?” The knife-wielding woman spat.
“I’m a messenger from Sara Brown. I was sent here to deliver that bag. Since I’ve already done that, I guess I could leave now, but I’m guessing you’ll want more of an explanation than that.”
They looked at one another. Even if they were amateurs who’d forgotten to guard the cellar door, Ketch had to admit they were showing the right amount of paranoia. They had no reason to trust her.
“If I wanted to turn you in to someone, I obviously could have done that already. Let me show you what’s in the bag,” Ketch suggested. “That’ll prove it’s from Sara Brown.”
A hushed conversation broke out between the four rebels, each of them whispering into one another’s ears as quietly as they could. Ketch politely pretended she couldn’t overhear, but she privately approved of their talk. They were raising the right concerns. They just didn’t have the experience or training to know what to do.
Ketch wanted to be back in Ta-Pet soon, however, and she was getting impatient. Instead of waiting for them to come to their own decision, she opened the bag’s water-tight drawstring herself.
What emerged into the light had knife-lady lunging for Ketch again, crying out in shock. Ketch flitted back easily, disappearing into the room’s shadows with her prize in tow.
Held in her hands was a very peculiar sort of weapon. Smithed by Hurlish herself, it was one of the few designs wholly independent of any Champion-borne origins. Originally intended as an experiment for making a gun for horse riding troops, back when Sara had still been entertaining the idea of purchasing the animals from other countries, it was a short weapon, no more than thirty inches long when it was fully assembled. As it currently was in Ketch’s hand, it measured just under eighteen inches. That’s because it was broken in half.
According to Sara’s dad, a break-action flintlock was something no one had ever made back on Earth. Hurlish had decided to pawn these experimental guns off on these rebels because the short length and easy loading was perfect for assassination work. You could break it in half, stuff it underneath a coat, wait until a target was close, and reach underneath your clothes to ready it. All you needed to do then was whip it out, close the break, cock the hammer, and fire away.
“I knew it!” The knife-lady cried, swinging her weapon blindly in the dark. “I knew she was here to kill us!”
“I’m not,” Ketch said, slipping away from her wild attacks. “Here.”
The gun flew from the darkness, landing on the table with a clatter and spray of papers.
“There’s two more of those guns in that bag. And more importantly, there’s books.”
“Books?” Bald lady asked.
“Shut it!” Knife-lady screamed.
“You shut up!” The man hissed. “Do you want to get us all caught? You think they can’t hear you up there?”
All eyes turned to the room’s roof. The sounds of a raucous tavern filtered through the boards. It wasn’t hard to imagine that the same sounds could make their way back to the room above.
“He’s right,” Ketch said. “If I really wanted to cause problems for you, I could just start shouting. Isn’t that proof enough that I’m on your side?”
“Just put the knife away,” the last woman, the quietest of them all, whispered. “She’s clearly some kind of Warrior. She could have killed us all if she wanted to. Let’s hear what she has to say.”
Ketch absolutely couldn’t have killed them all. Not without ambushing them in their sleep or something. But there was no point in telling them that.
“Fine,” Knife-lady snapped. She turned around and forcefully impaled her knife into the table, leaving it vibrating in place. Crossing her arms, she turned around to face the darkness. “Come out, then. Say you’re really from the Chosen. What do you want?”
“To give you that bag, like I said.” Ketch emerged from the darkness with her hands still raised. “There’s also books in there. According to Sara, they’re more important than the guns.”
The bald woman scowled. “We don’t want any damn Pantheon books. If the gods haven’t already told the Emperor to set things right already, they’d never send a Chosen to do it. Tell the Chosen she should keep her preachy talk to herself.”
That was a reaction that Ketch hadn’t expected. Most Empire-types slobbered over Sara’s status as a Chosen, treating her like the next best thing to a divinity. Which she kind of was, Ketch supposed, if in a very distant second place. Either way, it wasn’t like Imperials to be so dismissive of a Chosen.
“They’re not religious books,” Ketch said. She kicked the bag forward, sliding it towards the twitchy rebels. “Here. Look. Can any of you read?”
“I know my letters,” the quiet woman said. “Give it to me.”
Knife-lady, apparently the brute of this little four-person conspiracy, was the one to cautiously open the oversized sack Ketch had delivered. Slowly, as if sticking her hand into a snake den, she retrieved one of the thin leather-bound texts. The quiet lady accepted it, lips sounding out words as her eyes slowly ground over the boldly-printed title.
“The Brown Book of Gunpowder Insurgency,” she said aloud, only once she’d finished reading. “An Instructional Guide to Revolt Against Entrenched Elites.”
“See?” Ketch said. “Not a religious book.”
The quiet lady flipped open the cover, waving the man with the lantern light over. Everyone except knife-lady crowded around the book, inspecting the first pages. Ketch had skimmed it herself, using Sellie’s knowledge of Kemari to read the foreign lettering. It didn’t start with a fancy preamble like most books. The very first page was a recipe for blackpowder, accompanied by pictographic diagrams of proper mixing procedure and safety warnings. The page next to that was a blueprint for the simplest sort of musket, a matchlock, the kind of gun almost any blacksmith could make with the tools they already had in their forge. The quiet lady tentatively flipped the page, revealing even more designs, this set being explosives. Grenades and larger bombs, as well as a guide for making simple timed fuses.
“There’s twenty of those books in the bag,” Ketch explained. “You should keep one for yourselves, then distribute the others to as many groups as you can. How you decide who to give it to is actually covered in the first chapter. It’s all about the proper organization of resistance cells.”
“How was this made?” The quiet lady whispered. “Spells can only copy words, not images. This book isn’t worth silver, it’s worth gold. Why give us this?”
“Oh, it’s actually pretty cheap,” Ketch said with a shrug. “Books in general are, now. Sara said she’s printed a few thousand of those so far. She’s been secretly giving them out to various groups for a few months now. You’re not the first people I’ve delivered these to. Not by a long shot.”
“But… why?” The quiet lady looked up at Ketch. “This is dangerous. We fight for the True Adjutant, but for how long? How well? These books will be lost, captured, given around. Your enemies will get their hands on them.”
“So?” Ketch did her best to copy Sara’s nonchalance when she’d asked her the same question. “The more people that know how to fight the powerful, the better things will be. They’ll only treat normal people right when they don’t have a choice. That’s what these books are for. Taking away their other options.”
Knife-lady jerked her chin at the gun on the table. “What about that, then? Who does the Chosen want us to kill with those?”
Ketch shrugged. “Whoever you think you should, I guess. She doesn’t really care what you do. All that matters is that the people in charge are scared.”
“We can’t just kill random nobility,” the bald lady insisted. “That would be chaos. There would be reprisals, brutality, and executions.”
“Chapter four,” Ketch said. “It’s about picking appropriate targets for sabotage and assassination. Most every ruler deserves a bullet, but a lot of people don’t realize it. So you’ve got to pick your targets carefully. Kill the ones that everyone already hates, so you get sympathy for your cause. You’re not just running a rebellion. You’re running a popularity contest. You want people to smile when they hear the news you shot someone, not frown.”
“Easier said than done.”
“That’s why Sara gave you a guide.”
Silence fell as the four would-be rebels digested this. Ketch supposed she should have stayed longer. Explained more, helped them make their decisions. But she was running out of things to copy from Sara’s own explanation of the books, and she wanted to make the most of the rain to help her sneak back upstream to Ta-Pet.
So she stepped into the shadows without another word, disappearing into the night. She’d delivered the package. Her job was done. Either they’d make use of it, or they wouldn’t. It wasn’t up to her anymore.
You did well, Sellie whispered. I heard your lovely voice in my own throat. You sounded strong. Confident.
But I’m not, Ketch whispered back. I’m not any of those things.
You will be, guppy, she assured her. You will be. In time.
--------------------------------------------
Chona
--------------------------------------------
“What were you thinking?!” Professor Garen roared, slamming a hand down on his desk. “Your aircraft were attacked by probable agents of a foreign nation, you see your fellow students get killed, and you do not speak a word of it to anyone? Have you lost your mind? Have you any idea how idiotic your behavior was?!”
“Yes, sir,” Chona and Tinvel said together.
Professor Garen shot to his feet so fast that his chair was thrown to the floor.
“Clearly you do not! Did you once, ever, consider the political repercussions of your actions? That what you turned into a week-long aerial brawl may have been instigated by a case of mistaken identity, and now this entire nation is at war with a foreign power because you did not have the good sense to just speak to someone? Gods!” Garen slapped the air, spellcrafted energy slamming the door to his office shut with a boom. “For the sake of the individuals I thought you two were, I pray that nothing awful comes of this! But if it does, I will not shelter you from the consequences!” He laughed harshly. “I could not if I tried, as a matter of fact! I hope you were not relying on my influence to protect you, because the Governess has gone to considerable lengths to limit the informal power I may have otherwise held. If parliament wishes to offer your heads up on silver platters to appease the families of those you killed, I could not stop them if I wished! And at this particular moment, I very much do not!”
Chona swallowed hard. The air in the headmasters’ office had the thickness of a steaming swamp. Professor Brown was sitting beside Garen, looking more formal than she’d ever known the man was capable of. His hands were folded atop his desk, his back straight, his glasses firmly pressed to the bridge of his nose. After asking a few clarification questions during their report, he hadn’t spoken once.
“About parliament, sir,” Tinvel said. Chona stiffened, but didn’t stop him. They’d planned this.
Garen spun. “What about parliament, Tinvel?”
“I spoke with them before coming to report here.”
“You spoke with the Tulian parliament?”
“Yes, sir. We delivered a speech a few hours ago.”
Garen’s fists tightened. “What. Does. That. Mean?”
Tinvel took a deep breath. “I advocated for the formalization of the Tulian Air Force as the third branch of the Republic’s military, alongside the Army and Navy.”
Professor Brown sucked air through his teeth. Professor Garen just stared.
Chona’s eyes flicked over to Tinvel. He was holding his best impression of a soldier’s parade rest, arms locked behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart. If he hadn’t been sweating like a pig roasting over a fire, he would’ve actually seemed confident.
His claim, that he’d given a speech to the Tulian Parliament, was mostly true. But Chona had been the one who’d done most of the talking. They’d written up a long, fancy-sounding speech the day before, planning for Tinvel to leverage his fame as the inventor of the airplane to earn him some podium time before the assembled Parliament. Thankfully, their own ignorance about whether or not that was allowed was mirrored in most of the ministers. There wasn’t a precedent for it, but there wasn’t a law against it, either. They’d wandered around the Peasant’s Theatre for a few hours, searching for a particularly war-hungry minister, and eventually found an exceptionally anti-Sporaton man who willingly ceded his speech time to them. That had created its own stir, with the ministers arguing fiercely over whether or not it was allowed, but their general interest in what Tinvel had to say won out in the end.
When Tinvel had actually gotten down into the pit, however, with all the ministers and civilian spectators staring down at him, he’d barely choked out the first few lines before his voice petered out. Chona had swept up and taken the papers from him, delivering the rest of the speech herself. She’d been terrified too, since she was pretty sure none of what they were doing was allowed, but she’d at least managed to read her lines loud enough for the back rows to hear. Just like they’d planned, she gave a report on the actions of the foreign griffons, spoke of the effectiveness of boiling thermite, including a demonstration of the new spell she’d developed, and subtly hinted at the potential of larger, faster, and more powerful aircraft that were to come— if the aeronautical industry had proper funding. Funding that could “only” come from it being considered an additional branch of the military.
At this news, Professor Garen looked ready to burst. His face was turning red, a vein twitching atop his forehead, and the gritting of his teeth was audible in the heavy silence.
“You want to turn your talents over to violence?” He hissed. “All this work? All that you’ve achieved? The majesty of flight, the beauty of taking to the skies, the joy you’ve told me so much of? You would declare it before all the world to be a… a tool of war?”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” Tinvel said evenly. “The griffons weren’t there for no reason. They had a mission, detailed orders, and they were working to achieve it. And the Sporatons will be back soon. No one’s saying it, but everyone knows it. With the industries this University has helped develop, we could have already been the richest city in a thousand miles. But half the Tulian economy is still turned towards building guns, forts, and ammunition. I was going to end up fighting for Tulian anyway, Professor Garen. Why not make sure I’m part of a force that’s ready for it?”
Garen visibly worked to calm himself, patting down the front of his robes. He leaned forward slightly, speaking lowly.
“And your legacy, Tinvel? Is this how you want to be remembered? Right now, you are the artificer who brought humanity into the skies. If you do this, if you become a commander of war, you will be nothing more than another ironmonger. A merchant of blood and death.”
Chona watched Tinvel carefully. She knew he’d had the same thoughts. He hadn’t spoken it, but she’d seen it in him. He cared about how he’d be remembered. He was so, so proud of what he’d done, and, though she was loath to admit it, rightly so. Professor Brown may have given him the shape of an aerofoil, but Tinvel had built the engine. He’d hooked the controls together. It was his hands that had taken them into the sky.
Tinvel swallowed hard. Doubt flickered across his face, the images of burnt bodies and broken friends dancing behind his pupils.
His expression hardened.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “When the Sporatons came here the first time, I hid behind you. I cowered in the University. I heard people screaming, fighting, dying, and you know what I did?”
“You did not lower yourself to base, animalistic, shameful-”
“I pissed myself, sir.”
Garen’s jaw clicked shut. A person didn’t admit to something like that without having a good reason. No one said a word. Chona could hear her own blood rushing through her ears. The two Professors stared at Tinvel. He met their eyes without wavering. They… respected that. Enough to let him talk, at least for a little while, uninterrupted.
“I don’t know if you noticed at the time, sir,” Tinvel continued, “but I pissed myself. Wet my pants. It smelled awful. Sometimes, it feels like I can still smell it. While other people were fighting to protect their home, to protect one another, I was so scared I lost control of my bladder. Do you know how often I’ve thought of that? How many nights I’ve been kept awake thinking about that? Too many.”
“Tinvel,” Garen said gently. “Days and actions long past do not have to dictate the decisions of the future. You are young. A child, practically. There is no shame in-”
“Do you know how many ‘children’ are in the Tulian Army, sir? More than anyone wants to admit, I’d say. Kids sixteen, fifteen years old, some even younger, because no one can really call them out when they lie about their age. The Governess hates it, tries to stop it, but people don’t listen to her orders, because dammit, we need the numbers. We need everybody. Those ‘children’ fought, sir. And I didn’t.”
Professor Garen glared, jaw tight. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a long breath.
“Chona,” he said, looking at her. “Please. Talk some sense into him. This is madness. He can direct the aircraft from elsewhere. He can remain safe at the University, developing the tools for others to use. Can’t you see that?”
Chona felt something twitch deep within herself. She… liked the idea of Tinvel staying away from the battle. Safe. Of him not having to fight. Chona herself, she’d never liked fighting. Not for the sake of it, at least. Something like the coming war, where soldiers were pitted against each other by little more than random chance? There was nothing worthwhile there. A personal vendetta was one thing, defending her home another. She could enjoy those. She couldn’t enjoy a war. But if she’d thought Tinvel would change his mind, she would have been working to convince him a long time ago.
He wouldn’t. He thought he had the chance to stop something like what had happened
“I can see it,” she stated. “But I can also see that he’s a better pilot than anyone else. And I can see that pretty soon, we’re going to need good pilots. Good mages, too. If Parliament approves an Air Force, I’ll join with him.”
Professor Garen glanced between them. His anger was dissolving. She had never seen him look so… defeated. Like he was already mourning their deaths. Not their literal deaths, maybe, but something else. The death of their innocence, she supposed.
As if mine didn’t die ten years ago.
“Tinvel.”
Professor Brown’s voice cut through the air like a gunshot. It had an absolute authority to it, one she’d never expected from the cherubic old professor. It was the first time he’d spoken since they finished their initial report.
Somehow, Tinvel straightened even further. He respected Professor Brown deeply. “Yes, sir?”
“If you’re going to be a soldier, a commander, there are responsibilities you can’t avoid. One of them is simple. If you want me to not fight the creation of your Air Force with everything I have, you’ll do it the moment you leave this office.”
Tinvel nodded firmly. Like a kid playing at being a soldier. That would change soon, Chona expected.
“Yes, sir?”
“Hunes and Docks died under your command. That means they were your responsibility. If you’re going to accept that, you have to accept every part of it. When you leave this room, you’re going to walk straight to Hunes’s house. You’re going to knock on the door, look her parents in the eyes, and tell them she died. You’re going to tell them how she died. What your role was in it. You’re going to listen to everything they have to say to you, every scream, sob, and insult, and you’re going to agree with everything they say. Then you’re going to apologize for it. After that? You’re going to go visit Docks’ family. And you’re going to do it all again.”
Professor Brown never unfolded his hands as he spoke. He latched onto Tinvel, every syllable sinking barbs deeper into his flesh. Into her own, too, truth be told. She’d been there, too. She’d helped make the decision to go help Affe, rather than land and try to heal Hunes and Docks straight away. She’d have her own part to play in this.
“I’ve never fought in a war,” Professor Brown said. “I’ve never even been in a fight. But I’ve seen what it does to people. I’ve met veterans who came back from war more broken than you can ever imagine. I’ve had friends and colleagues that couldn’t bear what they’d done, and they let it eat at them until there was nothing left. They killed themselves over that guilt. You think that watching two of your friends die means you’re ready to be a soldier, Tinvel? You’re not. No one is. If you do this, you’re never going to be the same again. You’ll probably be worse for it. Not better.”
Chona watched him closely. This was his decision to make, ultimately. Their professors were right. Even if Parliament ended up creating an Air Force, Tinvel didn’t have to be in charge. He was an inventor, an innovator. He could build the weapons that others used.
Tinvel was silent for a time. He was absorbing what Professor Brown had said. Thinking it over, considering it carefully. She respected that.
He shook his head.
“I’ve killed people. Burned them alive. I watched them die. Sir…” he licked his lips. “If it was going to happen, it already has.”
Professor Brown sighed. He looked away, out his office window, at the city beyond. Garen’s knuckles were white, his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm. Neither looked at them.
Tinvel turned to leave. Chona glanced at the two older men, just for a moment. Then she followed after him.
Notes:
The return of Tonal Whiplash! Been a while since I wrote back-to-back scenes with such a varying vibe, but it just fit. I'm not sure if anyone noticed, but I stopped doing multi-chapter uploads a while ago, and decided to treat each update like an update, letting the chapters fall where they may. In a printed book, these would probably be two separate chapters, but I decided it made more sense for uploading that they just stick together like this. Easier to follow on a week-to-week basis, y'know?
Chapter 155: B3 Ch42: Shots on Target
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Ignite Parables
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“Hold! Hold, gods damn you!”
Fifteen gunners sat with their fingers on flintlock triggers, crouched to align their vision down the length of their gun. Ignite stood near the gundeck stairs, one hand braced on a ceiling beam to keep himself steady. The sky was bright and blue outside, but the wind was whipping like they were sailing through a squall. Even with her sails reefed to a quarter of their usual spread, the Waverake was heeling hard, her hull beaten by waves whose foaming tips were high enough to send a misty spray through the open gunports. Water was leaking through the gundeck’s boards and spilling to the hold below. If it weren’t for the crystal-powered pumps that constantly spat water back out of the bilge, they’d have had to close the gunports long ago to avoid ending up swamped.
“Adjust range!” Gunner Balon yelled. “Three hundred yards! Execute!”
Well-practiced gunners reached for their elevation screws, twisting the wooden pegs sharply. Beside each gunport was a new addition for the Waverake: stark white paint lines, each boldly marked in fifty yard increments. Every cannoneer on the ship lined their weapon’s muzzles up with the three hundred yard mark, following Balon’s orders without question.
Ignite looked out the nearest gunport, searching the shining sea for their target. It took a moment for the ship’s violent rocking to align itself properly, revealing the stretch of glittering sea which was broken by violent frothing.
A serpent was wrapped tightly around a large cargo vessel, its scaled hide slick with blood seeping from dozens of pinprick arrow wounds. Its massive jaws were latched onto the mast, sawing back and forth, while its immense length wrapped four times around the hull. Ignite could see wood splintering and cracking as the serpent endeavored to crush its prey. The vessel would not last long. Its hull was already bent at an unnatural angle, its once-straight lines turning ominously concave.
“Place wire and brace! Strike salvo bell!”
A deep gong-gong-gong reverberated through the ship as the gun crews lifted their flintlocks out of the way, in its place shoving a thin string of copper wire down the touchole. The wires ran along the ceiling of the vessel in neat, insulated bundles, splitting off to trace down the hull beside each gunport. He traced the lines back to the center of the gundeck, where Gunner Balon stood before a small table, a strange-looking pendulum secured before him. Beside it was an iron box, from within which sprouted two much-thicker wires that pierced the deck to snake up above, where Ignite knew they were connected to a contraption rather like a grain windmill, though it turned no grindstone. The device instead rotated , a “battery,” was plugged into the pendulum, which was rocking with the motion of the ship.
Ignite covered his ears with his hands, watching the contraption carefully. The wires to the cannons connected to the top of the pendulum, while the battery connected to a conductive plate beneath it. He had seen the system demonstrated before. When the ship reached a level angle, the pendulum would graze the metal, allowing the energy within the “battery” to pulse into the wires, along the hull, and down into the cannons, creating popping sparks amongst the blackpowder. Not only did it ensure perfect synchronicity of the cannon’s fire, it also took all the guesswork out of each cannon crew’s attempts to time their shots to the rocking of the ship. The guns would always fire when the keel was perfectly level with the horizon. So long as one accurately knew the range of their opponent, it was near impossible to over or under shoot.
The Waverake’s sails were caught by a particularly strong gust, rolling her hard. Ignite braced. The momentum of the ship teetered it hard on the port side, leaving him clawing for balance.
And then the momentum reached its apex, reversed, and carried her back to starboard, the pendulum swinging towards level. Beneath the copper pendulum, a spark popped.
Ka-THOOOOOM!
Twenty cannons spat smoke and fire, denting the sea with their concussion. The entire gundeck was choked with blackpowder smoke an instant later, the stiff wind blowing it back through the gunports as the recoil slammed the cannons against their restraints. Ignite could see nothing of the shots. He could not even see the far side of the gundeck.
“Good hits!” Gunner Balon crowed. “All on-target! Load, load, load!”
The same wind that first choked his vision soon served to clear it. The smoke was swept away in short order, revealing the effect on their target.
The serpent’s blue scales had turned red. Chunks of meat had been blown from its hide with such violence that viscera was still spinning through the air a dozen seconds later, a gruesome spray of confetti splashing down into the water. Improbably, almost impossibly, not a single one of the iron cannonballs had struck the cargo ship. Every last chunk of iron had pummeled the serpent directly, embedding themselves into the flesh. The blood which poured from its wounds was already turning the sea crimson, spurting from its hide in gouts wider than a man.
The serpent shrieked a gurgling, injured cry, its massive jaws releasing its would-be prey. Its head whipped around to the Waverake, reptilian eyes glittering with a malice that seemed unnervingly intelligent.
“Marines!” Ignite yelled, throwing himself up the stairs. “Load rifles! Assemble on the foredeck!”
Ignite swung his own rifled musket off his shoulder, which was already loaded. He squinted against the brilliant sunlight as he emerged onto the main deck. His marines were already running past him, loading their guns as they jogged.
“First Sergeant,” one of his marines nervously greeted. The man chuckled. “Think these little muskets will do much good against that thing?”
“No.”
The man blanched. “Then… why are we loading ‘em, sir?”
“Your role is to follow orders, Private. Not question them.”
The man paled, then saluted sharply, darting ahead to join the other marines at the prow of the ship.
The serpent let out a furious screech, its spiked maw spraying a gout of seawater. Its coils began to loosen around the cargo ship, every flex sending another spurt of dark blood gushing into the ocean. It was too furious to care about its original prey.
“All loose rope to starboard!” Captain Nora called, cutting the air with her chiming words. “Tie as many lines to the gunwale as ye can get yer hands on! Stand by for crew recovery efforts!”
The Waverake groaned as Captain Nora spun the wheel hard to starboard, tacking them as close to the wind as she dared. When the prow was pointed straight toward the stricken vessel and its serpentine predator, the rudder twisted back to the centerline.
The serpent finished unraveling itself from the cargo vessel. It dropped into the water with a great splash, crashing waves bursting on its narrow head as it slithered toward the Waverake.
“Oh gods,” Ignite heard one of the marines whimper. He shot the man a glare, silencing him.
“Marines up on the gunwale!” Ignite ordered. “Ready aim, but hold your fire! Any fool who wastes a shot on that serpent will get to meet it in the water!”
His troops rushed up against the gunwale, standing on the step that let them aim over the Waverake’s high sides. A second line formed behind the first, waiting to replace their fellows when their shot was spent.
“Sir!” Someone yelled. “It’s comin’ right at us!”
“Silence!”
A wide bow wave was being shoved ahead of the serpent as it snaked its way through the heavy waves. Beneath the cerulean waves, its amber eyes glowed with a profound rage. Ignite could not read its mind, but he imagined what it was thinking all the same. Ships of men and wood were not meant to be threats. They were tempting curiosities, an opportunity to sample novel meats and admire strange, shiny metals. They were not a threat. It was going to do something about this outrage.
Then those eyes lidded. The undulating gyrations of its bloody hide slowed. The wave it had been pushing first shrunk, then dissipated. The creature’s eyes stayed open a moment more, its great jaws opening as it tried to raise its massive head.
The creature collapsed without fanfare. Its head, barely lifted a few feet from the water, slammed into the waves with a great splash. Those amber slits went white as its eyes rolled back into its head. The serpent let out a final few spastic jerks, then lay still.
The marines began to cheer wildly, elated. Men and women shouted at the dying beast, insults and jeers, while the sailors aboard the Waverake began a victory chant honoring the gunners and their cannons.
“Silence!” Ignite roared. “Silence! Back to the gunwale, now! Our work is not done!”
His marines, at least, listened to him, even if the rest of the jubilant crew did not. They flung themselves at the gunwale, shouldering their guns with confused expressions.
Ignite looked at the stricken vessel. Its hull, already aged and battered, had been broken beyond repair by the serpent’s assault. A jagged split began amidships, small at first, only to tear upward with the staccato pops of shattering planks. Beaten by wind and waves, the break remained thin for no more than a handful of seconds. With one final crack, the ship was split entirely in two.
“Aim for the beasts in the water!” Ignite ordered. “Check your aim, do not fire wildly! Do not shoot the sailors!”
The reaction of his marines was mixed. Some understood instantly, recognition flashing across their faces, while others, despite following his orders exactly, still looked profoundly confused. The serpent was dead, they were thinking. What beasts was Ignite referring to?
Their confusion did not last long. As foreign sailors began to fall into the viscera-laden water, a new kind of froth joined the bloody waves. Splashes and flashes of fins and tails cut through the tumult, measurably adding to the ongoing chaos. Bobbing chunks of serpent-flesh began to shake violently, squeezing grotesque fountains of even more blood in the water.
As the Waverake approached, the first sailor began to scream.
Captain Nora’s voice echoed across the waves. “All hands, make ready to recover sailors by all means available! Those not on the duty, help drag the injured away! Clear spaces! Surgeons and healers to the deck! Get yer arses moving!”
The ship exploded into motion. Ignite was one of the few who had expected this eventuality. He knew from awful experience that the death of a creature as large as that serpent would not go unnoticed by the creatures of the ocean. Awful splashes, terrible roars, and now the flailing of panicked sailors, it was all a siren call for every hungry beast in a dozen leagues. Driven mad by the sheer volume of blood in the water, even normally peaceful creatures could become pressing threats.
A feeding frenzy.
The first musket cracked. A fountain of water exploded next to one of the stranded sailors, startling away a dark shadow. The woman shrieked in terror, holding her hands up in surrender, not understanding.
“Fire at will!”
More muskets began to pop. The upper deck of the cargo vessel was already slipping beneath the waters, and while a precious few sailors had thought to climb and cling to the highest points of the masts, even that pillar of safety was rapidly sinking.
Ignite added his musket to the fire as he sighted a fast, sleek blur darting towards a man who was swimming for a tossed line. The soft lead bullet shattered on impact with the water, doing nothing to the creature save frightening it, but that was enough to spare the man’s life. He snagged the rope, wrapping it tightly around his wrists. The Waverake’s crew immediately tugged hard, drawing him through the water.
All the marines now understood his orders. He had sent them to the prow so that they would not impede the rescue efforts, and he had ordered them to prepare their muskets to help fend off the blood-maddened fish. Given purpose and method, their will could now drive them to the excellence he expected of them. During his time with them, they had become good troops. He was proud of them.
With such an inordinately large and well-crewed ship as the Waverake, the recovery efforts were completed in short order, yet even that speed was not enough to rescue all. Ignite himself watched at least two individuals get dragged under, their panicked screams turned to gurgling and trailing bubbles. It was tragic, but there was little to be done. A lesser ship would have been unable to save even a fraction of the crew the Waverake eventually rescued.
A few minutes later, it was over. With the scent and taste of sulfur clogging his senses, Ignite ordered a halt to the firing. Any further shooting of the predators would have achieved nothing more than revenge against an unthinking animal. Some of his marines still wanted to fire, he could tell. To see someone get eaten alive was an awful thing, and this was likely their first time to witness the horror.
Instead, Ignite ordered them to help organize the newcomers on their ship. By the time they had spotted the stricken cargo vessel, the serpent’s gnawing at its mast had already removed any symbol of allegiance. For all he knew, these men and women could have been operating a pirate vessel, or worse, transporting slaves. He dearly hoped it was not the latter; the Governess’s orders still held. It wouldn’t do well for the marine’s morale to execute the people they had just gone to great effort to save.
“Good work, First Sergeant,” Captain Nora said, appearing at his side with the suddenness of a wraith. “Knew ye’d keep yer men under control. Can’t rightly say how helpful it is, to have a fella who’s been in these sorts of situations before.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Ignite replied stiffly. “But I’ve never fought a serpent in such a manner. Only heard of similar feeding frenzies from the accounts of sailors who stumbled across whale carcasses and the like. It was guesswork, not experience.”
“And ye thought to get yer marines up and ready based off that guesswork alone, no?” Captain Nora’s smile flashed at him. “And ye recognized the beast wouldn’t make it to our ship to attack. That’s more than Castalan managed.”
“I only knew that to be the case because you didn’t order a second volley, ma’am.”
The fae-touched captain laughed, throwing her head back. “Right ye are, Mr. Parables! But I don’t care how my crew figure to do the right thing. Just that they do. Ye’re good about that. That means ye get my thanks.”
Ignite nodded, swallowing his next protest. It would have been rude to be so deflective about a superior officer’s praise.
“What will we do with the crew, ma’am?” Ignite asked instead, waving to the blood and seawater-soaked individuals strewn across the deck. The bosun was, as was proper tradition, already screaming their head off about the wood getting stained.
“Ah, we’ll be takin’ em to the nearest port, I s’pose,” Captain Nora said, waving as if it was of no consequence. “Certainly not recruitin’ ‘em, that’s fer sure.”
Ignite sighed. “Another delay, then?”
She grinned. “Another delay.”
“So that you are informed, Captain…” Ignite swallowed nervously as he lowered his voice to a whisper. “This delay was just. I am glad we saved these people. But the crew have begun to mutter that we could have arrived at the Locks weeks ago. Months ago, perhaps. They have begun to suspect you of-” he paused, hesitating, before forcing the accusation past his lips. “-dallying.”
Captain Nora’s expression didn’t change. The same near-arrogant grin split her lips as she, too, dropped her voice to a whisper. “And do ye suspect as such, First Sergeant?”
“I… see their reasons to believe the rumors,” he carefully temporized. “Some of the crew seem near certain of it. I am not among them. But even those who feel certain of it… None of them can imagine why you would do such a thing. What the benefit would be.”
Captain Nora cocked her head, hat falling askew. “Ah, who knows, First Sergeant? I’m a mad cap’n. My ways are as strange as they are senseless.”
Ignite snorted. “Strange, absolutely. Senseless, perhaps. But only by other’s definitions. Not your own. You do not act without reason, ma’am. Even if your reasons can be…” He didn’t bother to finish the thought.
Her eyes glittered. When they weren’t in battle, she loved officers that challenged her commands.
“Maybe I’m just givin' the Locks some time to ready themselves for our assault. Giftin’ myself a better fight. All the better to make my legacy, no?”
Ignite shook his head. “You care too much for your crew to do that.”
Captain Nora shrugged, working her prosthetic leg back and forth. “Who knows? I’m as mad as they come. Maybe I’ve finally lost the last of my mind?”
Ignite looked at the injured crew they’d rescued. Men and women had sprawled across the deck, heaving great, exhausted breaths. Even those who had suffered considerable injuries had an almost palpable aura of relief to them.
“I don’t think so, ma’am,” Ignite said. His expression hardened as he focused back on Nora. “But I will tell you this. If you are dallying, and you intend to dally much further, I must inform you that it is to the Republic of Tulian that I owe my allegiance. It is the Republic of Tulian which will someday soon need my service in the defense of her shores. Not you. Despite your many successes, I know I am not the only of the Waverake’s crew which feels similarly.”
The glint in Captain Nora’s eyes did not dull. If anything, it sharpened. As she spoke, she gained an almost bubbly, childish exuberance.
“Understood, First Sergeant. Once again, I’m glad to have an officer like ye.”
She spun on a metal heel and marched away, moving to interrogate the rescued crew. Ignite knew that, just like all the distractions before, the navigation to a port willing to take them in would add several days to their journey.
How odd it was, to have a commanding officer to whom he would dare say such things. Odder still, he reflected, was the loyalty he felt to Tulian. Not, even, to Sara Brown. To the nascent idea of Tulian itself. Courtesy of the Captain’s communication crystal, they still received regular communiques from the capital. The government that was emerging seemed… reasonable. Honorable. One of the most prominent voices amongst Parliament, at least as far as he could tell from so far away, was a common copper-mining man. Not even one who owned a mine; he’d been working at one, before running for election. Ignite had heard of no other form of governance in which a simple miner could argue for and against its laws.
But as odd as it was to feel loyalty to the ‘nation’ of Tulian, the strangest of all, he decided, was the lack of conflict within him. The confidence he felt in his assertions. That he could look Captain Nora in the eye, an Admiral, and tell her those things? And that he had not felt a twinge of regret when he did so, nor the once all-consuming conflict that might have but a few short months ago? That confidence was not just odd. It was alien. How could he, after spending so long away from Tulian, have grown ever more fond of it?
These were all questions that, ultimately, Ignite felt little impulse to answer. That’s what confidence was, he supposed. What he felt simply was. He would see Captain Nora’s strange quest through, repaying the debt he felt he owed her, but if she did not wish to return to Tulian afterwards, Ignite would part ways with her. Even in the Carrion Navy, Ignite had often felt more aligned to his ship and her crew than he ever had the Navy itself.
How strange, he thought, how very strange indeed.
But he was already confident. He gave it no further thought.
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Tinvel
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As impressive and innovative as sheet metal buildings were, they were loud as all the hells. The storm raging outside— a typhoon, the first of the year to properly hit Tulian— was throwing thick, heavy drops against the roof, each a ringing hammer blow. Despite the fact that the aerodrome was nearly empty, and those few who were present besides Tinvel were mostly working on their own quiet projects, he could barely hear himself think. The wind howled, driving against the walls hard enough to make them buckle and bend with unfamiliar, metallic groans, as if the entire building were an animal huddled on an open plain.
Tinvel did his best to ignore it. Tulian’s new ‘building codes’ had put a lot of emphasis on preparing structures for typhoon-force winds, and the aerodrome was no exception. So long as the street outside didn’t start to flood, he didn’t have anything to worry about.
It had been two weeks since he and Chona had given their speech to Parliament, advocating for the creation of an independent Air Force. The news of griffon attacks had spread through the city like wildfire, propelling the proposal through the fledgling bureaucracy at an unprecedented pace. The vote on it had finished up three days ago.
There would be a Tulian Air Force.
Now, the problem was, is that was all that had been decided. Yes, there would be an Air Force. They’d even written up a little piece of paper about it and everything.
One entire sheet.
What the Air Force’s purpose, role, and budget would be, no one in Parliament had bothered to specify. That would have kept the proposal in talks for longer, and as the Tulian people and their politicians were slowly learning, there was nothing that drove Parliamentary approval rates better than ministers getting to publicly claim they had passed some important-sounding law.
Even if it didn’t actually achieve anything.
Instead of getting all the important things handled by Parliament at large, they’d decided to appoint a committee. One that would come up with all the rules and regulations and budgetary concerns they anticipated the Air Force to have, as well as provide their suggestions to deal with them, and then they would write up a document, one that would later be presented for Parliament to vote on.
Tinvel himself wasn’t allowed on the committee, of course. Not only was he not an elected official, he’d obviously be a member of the Air Force that was created. Maybe its most important. That meant he had a “conflict of interest,” supposedly. He wasn’t even allowed to talk to the committee members. None of Tulian’s pilots were.
Because it would have made too much sense to have someone who actually knew how planes worked to be in charge of the freaking air force!
“You’re looking pissy,” Chona said, her dangling feet swinging lazily from where she sat atop the Sunrise’s upper wing. “Is the engine giving you trouble?”
“Not anymore than I expected,” he grunted. “I’m just… thinking about politics.”
Chona tsked. “Shouldn’t do that. I’ve heard it’ll drive you crazy.”
“Yeah. I think I’m learning that.”
Tinvel tweaked one of the crystals a touch further, splaying his fingers out to get as much contact as he could with the artifice engine. He’d recently learned that people had started calling them “Tinvel Engines.” He hated that. Sure, he had been the first to make one, but he didn’t consider himself the real inventor of the design. Though no one could know it, he’d blatantly stolen Earthly combustion engine designs, replacing their gasoline-powered cylinders with enchanted crystals. It hadn’t been easy, true, and he deserved some credit, but the genuinely complicated stuff, the actual machinery that took crystal pulses and used the energy to spin a propeller, had been stolen outright. They weren’t Tinvel Engines. At best, they were Tinvel-modified copies of the enigmatic, otherworldly “French” and “British” cultures. Then those designs had been taken even further afield by being designs that Professor Brown had helped him mimic, which meant Tinvel was practically the last person involved in the long design process.
The only elements he could fully claim as his own were wrapped up in the crystal network at the engine’s core. The large amethyst geode’s enchantments and the complex artificery that sent energies from the larger crystal to smaller emeralds, that was what he had invented. Not the whole engine.
Tinvel pressed the pad of his right ring finger to one such emerald, his left index already atop its opposite pair. He sent a tiny jolt of energy through his index finger, focusing with closed eyes.
Ba-bump.
The energy hummed. He sent energy down his ring finger.
Baa-bump.
“Got it,” he muttered.
“Figure it out?” Chona asked.
“Think so.” He began running a fingernail along the crystal, tracing the engravings. There was a tiny, tiny little scratch. Invisible to the eye. Likely caused by a dirt particle that had gotten into the engine during takeoff or landing. “Timing issue. Real subtle, but it was enough to be making that rattle we heard yesterday.”
“I thought you looked for a timing issue already?”
“I did. But only with mundane senses. It’s too subtle to hear or see. Maybe a…” he focused harder. “...a thousandth of a second or so. At least it starts that way. With how it was clanking yesterday, I’m betting it’ll eventually run itself entirely out of sync anytime you maintain a power setting for too long.”
Chona hopped down from the Sunrise’s wing, hooking her tail around a support spar to slow her fall. She went over to a paper-filled table and rifled through the sheets, raising her voice to be heard over the pounding rain.
“You sure we’re ready to send non-artificers up in these? Look at this.” She rapped her knuckles against a bundle of papers. The ever-evolving diagnostic manual. “There’s an awful lot of problems you can’t diagnose or solve without a mage’s senses. If some of these happen midair, there’s not going to be anything they can do about it.”
“Maybe,” Tinvel hedged, retreating from the engine cowling once he was satisfied in his adjustments to the crystal synchronicity. He grabbed a rag from his back pocket, wiping the grease off his face. “Maybe not. With this one, I think you can work around it. The problem should end up resetting itself every time you cycle power settings. We can add it to the air-repair manual. If a crew notices crystal pulse asynchronicity, begin regularly cycling the power settings. That’ll buy a non-artificer enough time to get the plane back for repairs.”
Chona looked skeptical. “This manual is getting awfully thick, Tin. I still think it’ll be better to have actual mages and artificers up in the skies.”
“Sure. If you can think of a way to convince the Governess to let them go into combat, be my guest. Until then, I think we just have to suck it up. From the way Professor Brown talked, we’re already making planes that are more reliable than their Earth versions. Those Great War things were deathtraps.”
Chona looked ready to continue the argument, as always, but before she got out another word the sounds of the storm suddenly redoubled in volume, drowning them both in booming thunder and popping rain.
Turning around, Tinvel saw the aerodrome doors groaning open, a large, sopping figure straining to drag them against the powerful wind. The guards at the entrance spent a moment inspecting the figure, hands on their muskets, then abruptly leapt to their aid, throwing their shoulders against the steel gate. The moment the figure was inside, the guards fell back, letting the doors slam shut with an echoing boom.
“Thanks!” The figure called, throwing off their cloak’s hood. “I picked a shit time to go for a walk, didn’t I?”
When their face came into view, Tinvel didn’t recognize them. That was a problem. Only a very select few people were allowed into the aerodrome, and he knew them all by sight. The Governess and her wives, the Irregular guards assigned to protect the doors, and University staff. That was it.
The man that had entered was a total stranger. A broad-shouldered, older orc, one with thick tusks and the barest tinges of gray in his close-cropped hair. Taking off his sodden cloak and tossing it aside, he revealed an exceptionally long musket strapped to his back, one that was, unbelievably, proportionally longer on him than most muskets were on the smallest of catfolk. That meant it was a custom-smithed piece, and an expensive one, at that. It wasn’t his only weapon. Dangling off his hip was a scabbard that sprouted a leather grip so well-worn with sweat and a tight grip that Tinvel instantly suspected it had been at the man’s side since before Tinvel himself had even been born.
“Good to see you, sir!” One of the guards said, offering up their hand to the stranger.
“Been too long,” the man agreed, clasping it easily. “I’m probably gonna be sticking around here for a while, too. This your permanent station?”
“Permanent as it can be, I suppose.”
“Good. Means we’ll get time to catch up. I’ll be in here plenty.”
Tinvel and Chona traded glances. If the guards recognized the man, he shouldn’t be an outright threat. That didn’t mean that he should get to see the dozens of myriad inventions laying half-completed across the aerodrome, however.
“Excuse me!” Tinvel called. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”
Chona stepped up to Tinvel’s side, crossing her arms.
“Samni, what are you doing?” She demanded of the guard who’d greeted the stranger. “Do you just let anyone in these days?”
The guard, Samni, looked surprised. “Uh, no ma’am. But this is General Voth. With respect, I don’t think there’s anywhere he’s not allowed to be.”
General Voth? The name took a moment to register. When it did, Tinvel still had to rack his brain for what he knew of the man. He’d heard of him plenty, but never actually seen him in person. He was one of the Tulian Army’s three officially-ranked capital-g-Generals, technically equal in military rank to the Governess and her wife, if actually outranked in every meaningful way. That hierarchy discrepancy had never mattered, however, as he’d always been in the south. The rumor was, he’d adamantly refused to fight the Royal Sporaton Army, considering it a suicidal task. After the war had been won, that wasn’t a good look.
Tinvel didn’t know how much truth there was to that rumor, though. Most people repeated it with the unstated implication of calling the man a coward, and any story that served mostly as an insult had him doubting its veracity. As far as Tinvel had heard from any legitimate source, Voth had distinguished himself well enough in his service, working to get the vast, sparsely populated regions of southern Tulian under control while the Governess had focused on fortifying against the Sporatons.
Tinvel still had no idea what General Voth would be doing here, of all places. Voth was the one who took new army recruits out into the field, letting them cut their teeth with long patrols and engagements against wild animals before they were transferred out to the main Tulian Army. A glorified drill sergeant with a rank that was nothing more than an old hangover from the early days of Tulian, when those things didn’t matter so much. Unless some wild beast or gang of bandits had inexplicably broken into the capital, he had no business here.
“You artificer Tinvel?” Voth asked.
“I am,” he said, keeping his arms crossed.
“Good to meet you.” General Voth tossed his cloak aside as he approached, letting it squelch against the aerodrome’s carefully-graded concrete floor. “I’d like to say I’ve heard a lot about you, but I haven’t. Don’t get much news out in the sticks, not until the broadsheets were getting printed that they could make it out to us.” He came to a stop next to the Sunrise, putting his hands on his hips. He nodded toward the plane. “This the one I read about? That took off right down a main street of Tulian?”
“One of ‘em,” Tinvel confirmed. “Her name is the Sunrise.”
“Because it ends Knights,” Chona butted in.
Tinvel rolled his eyes, starting to tell her that the name was only impressive when its hidden meaning was implied, not stated, but before he could, Voth boomed with laughter, putting a hand on his belly.
“Ha! I like it! I like it a lot. Pretty crazy, getting to see it for myself. When we got the news that the capital was building flying machines, I almost had to deal with a mutiny. Took all I had to keep the kids from up and deserting back to the capital to go and see.”
“So you decided to give up and come see for yourself?” Tinvel guessed, attempting a joke. Since General Voth was technically allowed to be here, and he was probably going to end up higher in the military seniority hierarchy than Tinvel, it couldn’t hurt to show him around.
Voth laughed again. “I’m not sure if seeing it sitting on the ground counts. I’m sure it’ll be even wilder once I see it up in the skies. I almost don’t want you to explain how it works, so I can be as surprised as everyone else was.” He huffed a breath. “But that’s not what I’m here for. Gotta learn all I can.”
Chona arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you came for? Is the new Air Force going to be coordinating with your force down south to fight off-” her face twisted as she begrudgingly corrected herself to the politically expedient word, “-to investigate the griffon attacks? It’d be good to have a landing and resupply area we know is safe.”
General Voth’s face flickered. He looked at first confused, then… chagrined? He stepped away from the Sunrise, rubbing the back of his head.
“Ah. Y’didn’t hear?”
“No.” Chona crossed her arms yet again, looking at him with suspicion. “What? What happened?”
“Well. Parliament appointed me head of the Air Force.”
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“Fucking ridiculous!” A book careened through the air, crashing against a wall. “Stupid!” An empty lamp went sailing. “What the fuck were they- can they even- who said they could do that?!”
Tinvel sat, slumped, in a nearby chair, watching Chona furiously pace. They were in the aerodrome’s office, a comparatively tiny nook tucked into the corner of the massive building. Every time her rant drew near a table or bookshelf, her tail would swipe up to knock some other unfortunate object aside, leaving her arms free to gesticulate wildly, making harsh, chopping motions that accentuated every word.
“It makes sense to them,” he grumbled, almost helplessly.
“It doesn’t make any fucking sense!” A candlestick was wrapped up in Chona’s tail, only to get slammed into the floor so hard it bounced up and over her head, clattering to the concrete as an unrecognizable lump of metal.
“I said it makes sense to them,” Tinvel emphasized.
“Who?! Fucking idiots?”
“Parliament.”
“Yeah! Fucking idiots!”
“Look, Chona,” Tinvel threw his hands up. “I don’t agree with it. But there’s at least a reason for it.”
She spun on him. “Are you not angry? You should be angrier than me!”
“I am,” he said, gritting his teeth, “but let me at least explain why they did it.”
Chona let out a half-sputter, half-scream, but stopped pacing. She faced him directly, hands on her hips, and made a well, what have you got? gesture at him. Tinvel sighed. At least she’d stopped pillaging the table that sat between them.
“Voth’s a… political pick,” he explained. “He’s pretty much the only officer the Tulian Army has that was still an officer under King Tulian.”
“Which means he’s a fuckin’ geriatric.”
Tinvel thought the orcish man wasn’t yet out of his forties, but didn’t voice that.
“Maybe, but it also means he’s experienced,” he said instead. “If you want to weaken the argument of the Ministers who don’t support an Air Force, who better to lead it? It’s a lot harder to claim that airplanes are an artificer’s tinker-toy when you’ve got some hardass, grizzled soldier in charge of them.”
“The guy learned how to fight with sticks and fuckin’ stones,” Chona spat, “and they want to put him in charge of us? Of airplanes? You heard him! He doesn’t even know how they work!”
“Neither did we, last year.”
“But we built them! We learned all that shit, and it took us months! The fight we need to have is now. He doesn’t know a damn thing about aircraft, and he doesn’t have the time to learn!”
Tinvel’s fingers curled tighter on the arms of his chair.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess he doesn’t. But you know what? That’s what we’ve got to do.”
Chona’s eyes grew wide. “The hells it is! I’d take just about anyone over this. Shit, I’d take Affe being in charge over some random fuckin’ soldier!”
Tinvel scoffed. “You don’t mean that. What does Affe know about running an army?”
“What does Voth know that someone else can’t learn in two fuckin’ seconds? Get food, get people, pay them money! Sure, figuring out the math, getting a team to sort out pay or whatever the hells, that takes some work, but that’s something anyone can learn. That’s what staff are for! But who the hell would trust a general that’s never swung a sword? No one! So why trust a general who’s never flown a plane? We need someone that actually knows what they’re doing!”
“Like who?”
“Like YOU!” Chona roared, slamming her hands down on the table.
Tinvel’s fingers, which had begun to bite into the wood of the armrests, violently released themselves. He flew to his feet so fast he was left dizzy, the headache that had been brewing behind his temples bursting into a fully-flowered migraine. He felt his face flushing red, but he didn’t bother to hide it.
“Like me? Like ME?!” He bellowed incredulously. “I’ve been in two fucking fights! Two! And in one of them, two of my friends DIED! I lost my shit so hard I spent a week wandering in fucking circles looking for another fight, and the only reason I didn’t get MORE people killed is because we caught them while they were fuckin’ SLEEPING! I might have started a fucking WAR!”
He advanced on Chona, stabbing his finger towards her with every word. “The fuck is this?! You thought we were going to end up kings of our own little fucking Air Force Empire? You thought we were gonna join the military- START a military- without having to deal with politics? You’re not a fucking kid out in the fields anymore, Chona! They told us to do shit, and we have to DO it!”
“Me?” Chona’s black fur was puffed up, standing on end, making her seem twice the size she normally was. “ME? You’re saying I’M acting like a kid? You, Tinvel, how about you? YOU aren’t some brat stuck in a basement reading dusty books anymore! You’ve done shit! Accomplished something! People listen to you now, which means you can actually DO something about this, and- and you just won’t?”
“Since when have you given a fuck what I’ve done?” He swept his hand out at the walls, beyond which sat the Tulian University. “When have you ever thought I should be in charge of shit? When did that ever worry you for a gods-damned second?!”
“When you started trying to get us killed in fucking dogfights, Tinvel!”
“Then get out of the plane! If you’re scared, I can get another backseater!”
He’d made a mistake. In a flash, Chona’s expression went from ‘furious’ to ‘utterly apocalyptic.’ The table between them shot upward, seemingly propelled in equal measure by magical black energies and her furious snarl, shattering into a dozen pieces where it dented the bomb-proofed ceiling. Chona leapt across the emptied gap, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and shoving him backward.
“You are NOT going to fly to your death with some other fuckup in your plane!”
“If I’m going to be-”
“NO!” She drove Tinvel’s back against the wall. “Absolutely not! Put Voth in charge, throw random civilians up in a plane, do whatever the fuck you want, but you are NOT flying without me! Not now, not FUCKING ever!”
We’re… not arguing about the same thing anymore, are we?
“Chona.” Tinvel put a hand on her wrist. He could feel it trembling. “Okay. Okay. Look, I won’t fly without you. Not combat missions, anyway. Not without you, I promise.”
She dropped him, spinning away. “Fine,” she spat. She began angrily patting down her fur, trying to smooth it back down to normal. “Fine. Good. Glad you understand that. But Voth still shouldn’t be in charge of the Air Force.”
“I wasn’t ever going to be in charge of it.”
Her eyes flashed, but the heat which came to her voice was lesser. Simmering, not raging. “Why not, Tin? Why not? You should be. Hells, I wasn’t kidding when I said Affe would be a better choice.” She laughed bitterly. “You know what it takes for me to say that? About him?”
He snorted. “Yeah, I do. But did you ever really think I’d be in charge? Of a whole branch of the military? That’s like making me… like making me Grand Admiral of the Fleet, or the highest-ranked general of the army. I’ve been in two battles, Chona.”
“You already built the damn air force. Why not be in charge of it, too?”
“Because…”
Tinvel’s eyes grew hazy. He’d been to visit their families, the day before the storm. Hunes and Docks. They’d both… they’d both had big families. Mother, father, siblings. They’d all been there, too. That was his own fuckup. Next time, he wouldn’t send them a letter ahead of time. They’d gathered their whole families up, ready to listen, not once fathoming why he was coming to visit.
Images of a half-orc child, barely five years old, sobbing uncontrollably, flashed unbidden through his mind’s eye. The image was blurred by his own tears. He’d almost been crying more than the kid. The black eye he had— given to him by Hune’s father, worsened by Docks’ mother— still throbbed. He hadn’t wanted… hadn’t deserved to drink a healing potion for that. He wouldn’t. He’d hidden it beneath facepaint, because people would have made him heal it otherwise. He refused.
“I’m not…” he croaked out, “...I’m not ready to be in charge, Chona. I’m just not.”
Still wiping woodchips of a shattered table from her fur, she made a disgusted noise. “Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous. You’re more ready than some old-ass General will ever be. You just need a staff, or a-”
“No.”
The single word echoed in the small room. Chona stopped brushing herself, facing away from him. She didn’t turn around. Tinvel had felt a certain… ring to the word, as it left him. A confidence he’d rarely, if ever, felt. Certainly one he’d never actually put into words.
“I’ll fight,” he said. “I swear it, I will. I’ll kill, too. As many people and as often as I can, if it comes to that. But I’m not going to be in charge. Someone else needs to do that.”
Still facing away from him, Chona straightened, hands falling to her side. With an almost petulant groan, she threw her head back, staring at the ceiling through closed eyes.
“You’re not going to change your mind on this, are you?”
“No.”
“No matter how much I bug you about it. You’re not even going to fight them on putting that guy in charge, are you?”
“No.”
She let out a defeated sigh. She finally turned around, crossing her arms beneath her cloth-wrapped chest, tail drooping low.
She met his eyes. Then her attention flicked down, to his feet, and darted back upward, moving from point to point, inspecting him so quickly he barely caught it, until she met his eyes again. Her tail began to raise once more as she let out an irritated huff, snapping her head towards the door.
“When the hells is that storm going to end? We’ve got places to be.”
He chuckled. “Really? We?”
Through the corner of her eye, she scowled at him.
“Yeah. We. I’m taking you on a date.”
Notes:
I'm sure no one minds waiting a week for the next chapter, right?
Chapter 156: B3 Ch43: The Importance of Commonality
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chona
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Chona twisted a hand around her wrist until her fur started to hurt, each strand tugging a little bump out of her skin. She didn’t know why she was doing this. It felt crazy. Totally out of her realm of expertise. Ever since she was a little kid, she’d been the Mage. The one who helped defend her village from bandits and animals, who scared them off so bad they’d never come back.
She turned around, craning her neck over her shoulder to inspect herself in the well-polished glass the University women’s dorm used as a mirror. She was alone among the rows of bunks, since it was in the middle of the day. That was good, because it meant no one had seen her steal someone else’s comb (she’d never had one) to brush her fur from head to toe. Nor did they see her anxiously inspecting the back of her wrap, ensuring the clipped bead was squarely in the middle of her shoulder blades. It was a nicely painted bit of wood carved into the shape of a flower, and she’d bought it at the market yesterday. She’d never bothered with decorating her wrap before, and now that she was using a clip instead of tying it in place, she was constantly paranoid it was going to come undone.
She pointedly shut out the echoing memories of her mom yelling at her about running around in your damn underwear, Chona! She’d always hated the way most clothes felt on her fur, and had long dreamt of getting away with wearing nothing but a chest wrap. When she’d moved to the capital, she’d gotten the chance. Almost no one in the city had met a vanara before, so she’d just… lied to them. Told them it was a ‘vanara thing.’ That it was totally normal for vanara women to cover themselves with nothing more than a six-inch strip of cloth over their breasts, using a short-hemmed sarong to hide their waist. No one had blinked an eye at it. Most didn’t have fur in the first place, and those that did were just catfolk, who didn’t have the same kind of fur. Vanara fur was more like thicker, more coarse human hair, not catfolk fur. How were they supposed to know that no, most vanara did wear full shirts, and it was just Chona that did this?
And it had been great. She hadn’t had a single problem until she’d said that stupid, stupid thing yesterday. Asking Tinvel out on a date. Gods, what had she been thinking? She didn’t know the first thing about courting someone. That was what nobles did! Kissing Ketty a few times behind her parent’s barn back in the village didn’t count. And even when she’d done that, she’d been wearing a damn shirt!
The beaded clip suddenly slipped. Chona’s heart lurched. Her arm swung behind herself to catch it, palm slamming down so hard the metal cut into the skin.
What if that had fallen in front of Tinvel?
Her heart was pounding. A few months ago, maybe even a few weeks ago, the thought would have made her laugh. He was the only one who’d never seemed to get fully used to her wearing what she did, and it had been funny to screw with him. Why did he care? She had fur! Even if her wrap dropped, there wasn’t much more skin showing on her than if she’d been dressed properly. Just as she’d always argued to her parents, it didn’t make sense for anyone with fur to wear more than the bare essentials.
In hindsight, maybe her folks had a point. Now that she was imagining her wrap dropping in front of Tinvel on this date, it suddenly seemed to matter a whole, whole lot more.
Chona put the clip back in place oh-so-carefully, securing the garment. She was wearing her ruby-red wrap, the one that she’d spent way too much money having made out of actual silk. She’d only been able to afford it when that crazy pirate captain– an Admiral, now– had captured a ship carrying crateloads of the stuff. The silk glut that prize had created in sparsely-populated Tulian had been ridiculous. For a little while, silk had only cost a few times as much as cloth. Knowing it was probably the first and last time she’d be able to afford such expensive clothes, she’d put it to good use.
The crimson weave she now wore was so tight and smooth that it barely caught her fur, sliding gracefully over her body every no matter which way she twisted. With a few enchantments she’d added herself, it didn’t even matter if it got wet or dirty– at least not for how it felt on her. She wasn’t good enough to do reinforcement enchantments for a flexible material, and it wasn’t like they’d have been needed. All rain might do was make the silk hug her breasts a bit more closely, showing off the curve of her chest, maybe making the material a touch transparent, and that was all stuff that she didn’t… care… about…
Chona scurried over to the dorm’s window, twisting her neck to judge the skies. The typhoon had finished up overnight, leaving nothing but blue skies in its wake. She could see there wasn’t a speck in sight. She was no soothsayer, but she’d spent a lot of time flying through the clouds. It wasn’t going to rain.
She chewed her lip. Then, hurrying back over to the chest at the end of her bunk, she threw the lid open, searching for something to slip under her wrap. Just in case. She had more chest wraps, a few knives, some of her sarongs, an experimental grenade she’d snuck out of the University’s experimental armory, some bottles of alchemical reagents that she probably shouldn’t be storing next to a grenade, and a linen pack for traveling. There wasn’t really anything that she could use to put over her nipples in case it rained. She didn’t even know what she was supposed to use for that, actually. Human women wore brassieres, right? Or those smaller ‘bras’ that the Governess had started making out of azarketi nylon, she remembered. But now that she thought about it, there had been plenty of times when she’d seen human women’s nipples poking through their shirts regardless. She’d snuck plenty of glances. If that was something they were still dealing with, even when wearing brassieres, there must not be a good solution.
I’m going on a date. With a guy. Shit! What do guys even like?
Back in her village, Chona knew from firsthand experience that Ketty, a farmer’s daughter, had liked to touch her chest, and that definitely held true for guys, too, but that wasn’t something you could just do. She didn’t know how courting worked, but that definitely wasn’t it. Much less on a first date.
Gods, what did anyone do on a first date? The few times she’d tried to imagine herself going out on the town with someone, her mind’s eye had always presented her with a waifish, pretty girl clinging who hung on Chona’s arm as she told dramatic stories about her dangerous exploits. That wasn’t going to work for Tinvel: he’d been there for most of those stories.
Chona shut the lid of her personal chest with a melodramatic sigh. She didn’t know which hell she’d dragged herself down into with this, but she suspected it was one that tortured its victims with the agon of overthinking.
Then, looking down at herself, she scoffed. She’d picked out her nicest sarong. A shiny green one, one of her only skirts with an embroidered edge. She shouldn’t have bothered, though. The only reason she’d finally decided to give Tinvel a chance was because he’d actually stood up and yelled back at her for once.
And because his work on engines had ended up giving that little willow-boned body a bit of tone, she supposed.
And… well, also because of the way he’d piloted the Sunrise against the griffons, taking them down one-by-one with unerring, mechanical precision, almost like one of the machines he’d invented.
And because ever since he’d started flying, he’d started smiling more, and gotten tanner, and that tan smile had gained a little bit of a cocky slant to it that had an irritating way of making something flutter in her stomach.
Oh! And there was the way she’d been blindsided by his help in creating her new spell, because an artificer really shouldn’t have that kind of knack for spellcasting. That had been pretty impressive.
And then there was the way he…
Chona shook her head, clearing her thoughts. There were, possibly, multiple reasons that she asked him out. But the main one, the important one, was that he’d actually yelled back at her. That had been when she decided he had enough of a spine to be worth her time. So, if she was the one making the decision for them to go out, that meant he was the one who was trying to impress her, right? That made sense. Perfect sense. So she shouldn’t worry so much about looking nice for the date. It was his job to be impressive, not her’s.
With a deeply frustrated sigh, Chona smoothed her rumpled sarong, fighting off one last moment of temptation to wear a normal shirt. With an exaggerated sense of confidence, she stomped towards the door.
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So. Step one in Chona’s plan had already failed. It turned out that a city which had just been hit by a typhoon was not, in fact, the best place to have a walking date.
She’d initially imagined they were going to do what they’d already done plenty of times before, when they went around the city to gather goods they’d ordered from various smithies and craftsmen, but for the date, there wasn’t going to be a destination. That plan was easy, simple, and, from what she’d heard, a popular way to spend time courting someone when you lived in a city.
When Chona walked outside and saw the first capsized roof blocking half a city street, its upturned hulk crawling with furiously shouting workers attempting to clear the mess, she realized that Plan A had gone down to shit.
The city was a mess. The new mandatory building codes had done wonders, of course, but that only helped anything that had been constructed since the laws were passed. So much of Tulian was borderline ancient, with the bones of many homes and shops dating back centuries. Now that they’d been left unmaintained for a decade, shortly after having been brutalized by two years of supernatural storms, there was a whole lot that was ready and waiting to fail. The wind and rain of a typhoon was more than enough straw to break the horse’s back.
Even if she wanted to change plans, she still had to go to where she’d instructed Tinvel to meet her, though. That meant squeezing her way through the heaving, shouting press, tiptoeing past some workers and darting between others. Dust and dirt had been caked into their shirtless, sweaty bodies, and she had to leap back several times to not get that disgusting mess pressed into her fur.
The city’s damage wasn’t too bad, she thought. Any occupied dwellings had been making use of cheap lumber (courtesy of new mechanical sawmills, themselves courtesy of artificers like Tinvel) to replace every rotted and weathered beam in their homes. That was only the case for buildings someone lived in, however. It was the abandoned buildings of the city which had suffered, and unfortunately, Tulian still had a great many empty homes.
Gods, what was I thinking? Chona berated herself. The typhoon was literally still happening when I made those plans.
No going back now. Though it required several detours, Chona eventually made her way to the place she’d told Tinvel to meet her. Shading her eyes against the sun as she judged the time, she decided it was a touch past noon. Good. She’d told Tinvel to meet her there before noon, and she’d planned to keep him waiting for a bit.
She didn’t know why she’d done that. Knowing he was waiting on her, instead of the other way around, just made her feel a bit better.
A strange new trend had begun in Tulian, once the Governess had provided a bit of stability to the once-ruined streets. Among all the other shops that had opened back up, all the expected businesses like smiths, tailors, cobblers, and so on, there had also been a few odd additions. Close enough to the docks to be accessible and known to sailors spending their time ashore, but far enough away to avoid the chaotic shouts and clangs of merchant industry, there was an… inn? She didn’t know what to call it. It wasn’t an inn or tavern, really. They didn’t have rooms for any travelers to stay in. The building was built where an old tenement house had collapsed, but it was only a single story, because they didn’t need any extra floors for rooms. No one lived there, no one slept there.
It was a place that just… sold food. Pre-cooked food for you to eat while you were there. Nothing else. You couldn’t even buy ingredients from them.
It was weird. She couldn’t imagine why people spent their money on something so ridiculous. But apparently the food was pretty good, and you got a whole meal and everything. So the rumor claimed, one of the slave-ships liberated by the Tulian Navy had been captained by someone rich enough to bring their personal cooks aboard. After the captain had been hanged, those cooks had set up shop in Tulian, selling what they made to common people.
Chona couldn’t imagine it was that good. Lots of people kept talking about it though, including Tinvel, so she’d decided it wasn’t a bad place to start.
Turning the last corner before the shop, she found herself slightly surprised. The building was in very good condition. Chairs and tables were already set up around the perimeter, the property line marked by a fenced-in section that kept people from wandering between tables of guests (were they still called guests, when it wasn’t an inn?) as they took the corner. The tables were more full than she’d expected, too, and with a different sort of people than she’d imagined would be there. Instead of wealthy businessfolk, shop owners, and passing merchant captains, it was… workers. People wearing smocks with gloves sticking out of their pockets, or covered in charcoal soot from a forge, or even dusted in the dirt and grime of a morning spent cleaning up the typhoon’s rubble.
And there was Tinvel, standing amongst a crowd that was milling around the shop. She spotted him easily enough, partially because he was the only one who didn’t have someone else standing with them, but mainly because he was also wearing that godawful hacked-together flight jacket he’d made. It was hilariously out of place in the crowd, seeing as it had always been a bit thick for the temperatures they saw at their plane’s maximum altitudes, much less the muggy slog that was sea-level Tulian. She hated the ugly damn thing, and had told him a thousand times he needed to buy a proper jacket, but he always refused. He’d rather spend an hour every other day patching busted seams than spend the coin on something that felt, worked, and looked a hundred times better.
He didn’t notice her walking up. He was watching the tables with a furrowed brow, drumming his fingers against his legs.
“Hey,” Chona said as she slid up beside him, startling him. “Sorry I’m late.”
He glanced at the sun. “Really late.”
“I know. Sorry. I didn’t expect there to be so much work on the roads.”
“We started at the same place.”
She winced. Then, too late, questioned why she was making excuses, much less wincing. She’d intentionally come late, hadn’t she?
But Tinvel looked irritated. Her stomach sank. He wasn’t supposed to be irritated by that. He was supposed to be happy to finally see her. She’d heard some of the girls in the dorm talk about that.
I fucking hate this, Chona abruptly decided. The whole thing. Dating sucks. Why did I do this?
Now that she was here, there was no choice but to forge on.
“How was your walk over, then?” She asked. “The city’s a mess, isn’t it?”
He eyed her. “We left from the same place. You walked the same way I did.”
“Clearly not, because you got here first,” she said, rolling her eyes as if he was being ridiculous. He wasn’t, but she couldn’t admit that. “I saw the roof that fell off near the university. If that’s going to be happening with every storm, they’re probably going to have to go around and put new roofs on every building, even if no one’s living in it.”
“Probably. I saw another roof that broke, over by the baker’s street. But only half of that one fell, so they were trying to figure out what to do. No one wanted to get under it, in case the rest came down all at once.”
Chona opened her mouth, an idea occurring to her, then quickly shut it. They couldn’t go over there and help. Not because they weren’t capable, of course; a quick gust of Chona’s spell-powered wind would knock the rest of the roof right off. She couldn’t go because they were on a date, and you didn’t turn a date into work.
The silence stretched. The crowd shuffled forward slightly, and Tinvel went with them. She looked around, confused.
“What are all these people standing around for?”
Tinvel gave her a look. “The food. They’re waiting for a table to open up.”
“Really? This many people want to spend money on this crap?”
“I thought you wanted to go here.”
Chona froze, mental gears grinding. “...I did,” she lied, “It was just surprising. I’m just curious about it. I didn’t think that many people would be actually interested in coming here to eat, y’know?”
Tinvel made a humming noise that told her he really didn’t believe her. Shit, she thought, does HE even want to be here? He talked about the place, but it’s not like he actually said he wants to go there. Or… did he?
She couldn’t remember. The line scooted forward once more, dragging Chona closer toward the inevitable. She hated feeling like this. She was a bundle of nerves, and everything she did, every motion she made, it all felt so terribly unnatural. She couldn’t find a single decent way to act.
“So…” Tinvel shifted beneath his flight jacket, closing in on himself. “Why are we doing this, exactly?”
That was a question Chona had been prepared for.
“Because I wanted to see how you’d do.”
He blinked. “How I’d do?” He echoed. “What do you mean?”
“You know. If you could-”
The instant before the words impress me left her mouth, Chona’s brain flared to life. Far too late, she realized how noxiously arrogant that sounded. Good gods, that was something Affe would say.
“-cooooould… uh. Have a good time,” she finished lamely. “If it would be fun. For us to do this.”
“I guess that is why most people go on dates,” Tinvel said, looking away. The back of his neck was reddening. “But I just… Well, I mean. I didn’t think you’d want to.”
To Chona’s horror, she found a part of herself flailing in panic at that. That he thought she didn’t want to. Did that mean he didn’t want to, either, and was just humoring her to be polite? Or worse, that he was just testing her, too curious to turn her down?
“No!” She blurted, painfully loud. She cleared her throat. “No. No, I wanted to. Did. Did, uh. Did you?”
He turned back around. The flush on his cheeks was cute.
Cute?
She ruthlessly crushed the thought.
“Maybe, I guess,” Tinvel was saying, “but I definitely could have thought of a better time to do it. I had to tell a bunch of people where I was going in case Voth came by, or someone else had questions about a project or the Air Force. We’re pretty damn busy right now, Chona.”
“You told people?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you?”
“No,” she scoffed. “It’s not any of their damn business what I’m doing.”
He sighed, looking up and away. “We’ve got a lot of people relying on us, Chona.”
“Doesn’t mean they need to know where I am all the time.”
“It kinda does, Chona.”
The line advanced forward, finally leaving them at the front. Chona knew he was right, to some degree. And in the past, she usually had told people where she was going. But not today. Not for this. That was crazy. She wanted to ask him if he’d specifically told them he was going on a date with her, but couldn’t find it in herself.
She wanted to say something more. But everything she could think of to say was useless. Everything she’d done, everything she’d thought about, for the last year or more was essentially work. Lessons, spellcasting, fights, engineering. She didn’t have anything to talk about that wasn’t either a brag about her own accomplishments, which he’d been there to witness, or a complaint about whatever she was working on, which he was always working on, too, and certainly didn’t want to be reminded of. She had nothing left to say.
Tinvel jerked his head forward. “Look. That table’s opening up.”
Sure enough, one of the groups in the small courtyard were clearing away the last of their food, handing coin to someone. Tinvel headed off toward the table, clearly having paid more attention to how this whole operation worked than she had been.
They sat down at the table. It was a small circle of wood, but a sturdy one. It didn’t rock when they rested their arms on it.
“I guess I’m…” Tinvel’s face reddened. “I guess I’m glad you asked me to come with you. Maybe we’re busy enough that we need to relax every now and then. It’s just…” Tinvel looked left and right, as if searching for something. He shrugged, returning his attention to her. “I mean. What do you want us to do? To say? What are we doing?”
It was, in its own way, a profound relief to hear Tinvel voicing the concerns that had been screaming through her mind for the last few hours. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to have any better idea than she did.
“I don’t know,” she eventually admitted. She crossed her arms, then rapidly uncrossed them. She’d had her arms under her breasts, pushing them up slightly. She didn’t want him to think… Well, she didn’t know what she didn’t want him to think, or what he would think, but she uncrossed them all the same. “I don’t really know how people do this.”
“Neither do I.” He looked around yet again, frowning lightly. “...kinda boring, isn’t it?”
She laughed. “A little bit.”
They stopped talking as someone silently walked past their table, depositing a sheet of paper between them. Frowning at one another, Chona waited as Tinvel took it, holding it up. She could see a bunch of writing on it, as well as some drawings, but couldn’t make out much more.
As Tinvel read, his eyebrows began to crease. He leaned to his left, looking at another one of the tables, then back to the paper, then back again. His furrowed brow deepened into a full frown.
“What is it?” She asked.
“What they have for sale,” he explained, handing it over to her. A list of food items were written down the left side, accompanied by a small drawing of the item on the right, for the illiterate, along with each item’s price. The prices were… not unreasonable, she thought. A whole hell of a lot more than it would have cost to make the thing yourself, but not that much more. Miserly though Tinvel could be, she wouldn’t have expected him to be looking so frustrated with these prices.
“What’s wrong with them?” She asked. “They’re not as expensive as I expected.”
“Wrong?” He blinked, then seemed to realize what she meant. “Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong with them. I was trying to figure out how they made the list. All of the papers on the tables are the exact same. The exact same. Even down to the lettering, like it came off a printing press. But see up there, at the top? It’s got today’s date.”
Chona looked. It did, to her surprise. The date was taken from the Sporaton method instead of the new Tulian one, numbering the years since the current King ascended to the throne, but she was familiar enough with the system to see he was right. She still didn’t see what the problem was, however.
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
“How did they make it?” Tinvel asked, gesturing around them. “Every table has one, and they all look exactly alike. It even says what they do and don’t have in stock, so it’s not like they just paid to have a bunch made ahead of time and write in the date each day. And there’s no way they’re getting the city’s printing presses to make a whole new menu for them every day.”
Now Chona was frowning, too. “Maybe they have someone with a Skill that lets them copy writing really quickly? Or someone that learned a spell to do it, maybe. Professor Garen was talking about how the libraries of Sporatos have people like that.”
“Maybe. That’s what I was thinking of, at first. But Professor Garen also said those spells can’t copy drawings, right? Something about how art has more Intent in the individual brush strokes than letters do.”
Chona hummed, considering. The two of them were in the upper echelons of Tulian’s only University. Even if Chona was a spellcaster first, industrialist second, the idea that some random business was doing something that confused both her and Tinvel was absurd. There had to be something more going on.
“What about those wood etching printing techniques Professor Brown was talking about?” She suggested. “It’s not as good as an iron or steel press, since it wears out so quickly, but it’s the only way they could be doing drawings for cheap like this.”
“But how would they be doing so many drawings of the food?” He countered. “Some meals go in and out of availability, which means they have to change what they print each day. And they are printing the wording, too, because all the handwriting is the same between the menus. Any wood etching would be worn out way too quickly by doing that every day.”
They both contemplated it in silence, the awkwardness of the last few minutes forgotten. After a few moments, someone walking past the table stopped, turning to face them. Chona ignored them at first, thinking they were just looking at something farther beyond the table, until the figure cleared their throat with a polite ah-hem.
“Are you ready to order?” They asked.
Chona looked up. It was a man wearing a strange sort of clothing she didn’t recognize, a long-sleeved shirt tucked into stiffly starched pants. Looking around, Chona realized there were other people dressed exactly the same, all moving between the tables.
“Oh!” Tinvel’s expression was sheepish. “Sorry, we were just looking at the menu, and didn’t really have any time to-”
“How did you make this?” Chona interrupted, thrusting the paper into the man’s face. “Do you have a deal with the printing presses? Or is there a mage in Tulian we don’t know about?”
The man leaned back, eyes crossing as he looked at the sheet Chona had shoved toward him.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, ma’am.”
“The words,” she said, shaking the paper. “The letters, the drawings, the prices. All of it. How are you making all these sheets over and over again, every single day?”
“Ah. Well, it’s not something I-”
“We’re part of the Tulian University,” she interrupted. “If you’ve got a mage capable of copying a hundred sheets of paper each day, including drawings, we want to know about it.”
The man took a step back, clearly intimidated. He cleared his throat, looking about helplessly, as if someone might come rescue him.
Tinvel, who’d first been appalled by Chona’s forwardness, raised his eyebrows at the man’s nervousness. “You don’t really have a mage working for you, do you?” He asked. “Do you have any idea how hard the University’s been working to find mages? If you have a mage that can already do this, I’m sure Professor Garen will pay good money for their services.”
“No, no,” the man finally said. At first bewildered, then slowly growing more fearful, he now seemed so shocked by the sudden interrogation that he was practically gasping out his words. “No, we have a, a particular, ah, machine for it. I’ve only done it once myself, but it’s no magic at all, I assure you.”
“How does it work, then?” Chona demanded. “This is, what, fifteen different meals? And they change regularly, too. There’s no way you’re keeping enough printing forms for every different version of the menu. Is it wood etching, or iron, or what?”
Noticing that sweat was now beading the man’s forehead, Tinvel sighed, lowering his voice. “You’re not in trouble, and neither is your boss. Since it’s not a mage doing it, we’re just curious about how it works.”
The man swallowed, nodding. “Well, as I said, I’ve only had the duty once, but it’s fairly easy. We have these blocks of carved wood that we dip in ink, then a machine that we place them in, which lets us press them evenly down onto the paper. Nothing more to it than that.”
“How do you have that many etched blocks ready, though?” Chona challenged. “What do you do if you run out of one food, or make another meal to be put on sale?”
“Well, I suppose we would have another block made, ma’am?”
“So you have hundreds of etchings back there for every single possible version of your meal list?”
“What?” The man’s polite facade cracked, allowing his irritability to shine through. “No, that would be stupid. We have a single block for each drawing and its name, of course.” He cleared his throat. “Ma’am.”
Chona looked at Tinvel. The artificer boy was blinking, staring at nothing.
“Oh,” he said. “I… yeah, that makes sense. I was just thinking that it would be like how the printing presses do pages with drawings, with a whole page printed at once, but if you’re just making a few every day, then… huh.”
The man cleared his throat yet again. It was getting annoying.
“And for your order…?” He prompted.
Chona and Tinvel, feeling embarrassed, hastily picked their meals, choosing nearly at random. The man retreated at the double, taking the list of foods they’d been investigating with him, leaving them alone at the table once more.
“Welp,” Chona knocked her knuckles against the tabletop. “That was disappointing.”
“No hidden mage,” Tinvel agreed.
“Or secret, fancy printing press.”
“Nope.”
After a moment of strained silence, they both began to laugh. It was ridiculous, after all. Here they were, the day after a typhoon, going to some strange place where they were paying someone to make food for them, and their uppity “Tulian University Mage” act had been trumped by some random worker who’d spent the morning dipping wood in ink. No conspiracy or hidden innovation; just them overthinking things. It was funny. They had no choice but to laugh.
“See?” Tinvel eventually said. “That’s what we get for overcomplicating things.”
“It’s a bad habit of ours,” Chona agreed. “Damn. I almost feel bad.”
“I definitely feel bad.”
“About the fact you didn’t think of it yourself, maybe.”
“That’s not the only reason,” he protested, laughing again.
The conversation eased somewhat, after that. They began talking about the printing presses, and how Professor Brown was planning to have the presses powered by steam as soon as he could, and whether or not they thought it would be possible to have those lacking Talavan’s Gift operating such complex works of artificery. Chona still didn’t think so, confident that anyone who couldn’t sense spell energy was going to be utterly baffled by the machines, but Tinvel was convinced otherwise. He was confident he could build an engine simple enough to run that anyone, so long as they had some training, would be able to use them. That then turned into a discussion of whether or not the University would be opening its doors to everyone who wanted to learn, like Professor Brown preferred, or if it would be restricted to the magically talented, like most other Universities, or if they’d have some kind of compromise system, with admissions interviews and all the struggles that would come with that.
For a while, Chona didn’t even understand why the conversation had gotten easier. Just that it had. She didn’t know about Tinvel, but for her at least, the terrible anxiety that had consumed her from the instant she’d woken up that morning was finally banished. Despite the fact that they were sitting alone together at a table, not in the aerodrome or University, the little mystery had felt normal. Familiar. Going on a date was the farthest thing from either of those things, but working together on something, trying to figure out something confusing? That was the kind of thing they always did.
Last night, Chona had been madder at Tinvel than she’d been in a long time. The news of who would be in charge of the Air Force, after all they’d done to put it together, all the work they’d put into every part of it, had been insulting. Degrading. That they could have their accomplishments just wrenched away from them like that, it had set her off like a powder keg. Angrier than she’d been in months. When it turned out that Tinvel, the person she was mad on behalf of, hadn’t seemed a fraction as pissed as she did? Well, that was just too much. She didn’t even know what to do with that. So she’d gotten mad at him, too.
He’d gotten mad back, of course, which she was used to, but what she hadn’t been used to was him being right. More than that, he’d been right because he’d been acting more… mature, she guessed. He was considering the politics of it, acting rationally, not emotionally. She wasn’t used to him being the mature one. They were about the same age, but she’d always considered herself above him in a lot of ways. She was a mage, for starters, not an artificer, and that age-old rivalry definitely played a part, but it was more than that. She’d been in fights before. Real ones, serious ones, with lives on the line. She knew what it was like to fight for something, how it felt to have people you needed to protect, and she’d known that from a very young age.
Tinvel had been anything but. While she’d been burning bandits alive out in the grasslands, he’d found one little damp, soggy artificer notebook he’d looted out of a shattered Old Tulian building, and he’d based his entire life off of it. Even after getting into the University, where she’d met him, he’d practically stunk of that book. Musty, isolated, and filled with pointless abstractions. He had seemed like he’d never change. She’d been convinced that he was trapped in a world of imaginary problem solving, never actually understanding that all the projects he worked so hard on were actually for something, that there was a wider world he had to consider.
That had changed. She didn’t know when it had started, or even when she’d started noticing it, but it had changed. Their arguments had stopped been her insulting him for not understanding the real world, him insulting her for not understanding the complexities of his work, and had become…
Well. Still insulting. But it was them both insulting the problem they were trying to solve, not each other. They had a mutual opponent, and they’d started listening to each other, sharing ideas.
And then he’d taken her into the skies. Asked her to sit in the plane with him, because he didn’t trust anyone else’s spells to keep him safe. She’d said yes, and they’d flown together.
Thinking back, that was probably the first time his smile had looked different. It hadn’t been different, not really. But that was the first time it had made her feel different.
Their food arrived, snapping her back to reality. Chona discovered she’d somehow ended up ordering an entire fried fish laid out on a bed of rice, while Tinvel had a dozen cubes of meat that were poked through with a stick, vegetables piled high on the skewer. She was hungry, and she ate eagerly. As they ate, they kept talking about the shop’s wood-etched printing press, or the University’s plans, or any other number of things. A part of her wanted to change the topic off of work, but it was going too well. All her ideas of what they were ‘supposed’ to talk about on this date (or more accurately, her lack thereof), weren’t needed. She’d started liking him when they worked together on something. It wasn’t like those other girls she’d been into back in the village, who had never understood what it was like to be her. She and Tinvel actually had things in common. She didn’t need to invent something for them to do. She just needed to find something that they both thought was fun.
When their meal was finished, and she’d finally convinced Tinvel to stop trying to haggle with the employee about the price of his meal, they stood.
“So…” Some of the awkwardness Chona had been feeling for herself slipped into Tinvel’s words. “What are we going to do now?”
She shrugged, beginning to walk. As she went, she waved over a boy who was selling broadsheets. “I was originally planning for us to walk around. Maybe go to the parks, or down to the harbor.”
“That sounds-”
“But,” Chona interrupted, “I’ve got a better idea.” She tossed the boy a few copper, taking the broadsheet from him, and showed its front cover to Tinvel. An etching of the Sunrise, its half-red wings rendered in stark black, above which ran a thick, bold headline.
War in the Air! Creatures Attack, Aeroplanes Bite Back!
Parliament Announces Tulian’s New Force of War!
Chona grinned wickedly. “I bet the Air Force is allowed into the city’s armories. Even more than that, I bet you that the Air Force is allowed to grab whatever they want and walk out with it.”
Tinvel blanched. “Chona…” he said warningly.
She wiggled the broadsheet like she was teasing a stray dog with a slice of meat. “Come onnnn, Tin. Haven’t you been wondering about the new guns they’re making?”
He shrugged. “Well, sure, but we can’t just go do that. The Air Force doesn’t even exist yet, and we’re definitely not part of it. Not officially, anyway.”
“Really?” Chona made a show of perusing the article. “From what I read here, the Air Force has been active in secret for months, and has actually been…” She stopped, read a bit more closely, then snorted. “Okay, what the hells? I was screwing around, but look at this. They’re saying we’ve been fighting a secret war against hundreds of griffons. Who’s coming up with this?”
“Someone who wants to make money, I’m guessing,” Tinvel said, taking the paper from her. He read, then laughed as well. “Gods. I wish we had as many planes as they say we’ve already lost. Three dozen. Can you imagine?”
“They’re optimists, I guess. But the important thing is,” her lips peeled in a dangerous, toothy smile, “that because of that paper, the people in the armory are gonna think that there’s an Air Force. And they won’t be hard to convince that we’re real important in it. Important enough to let inside.”
Tinvel looked up from the broadsheet. “We can’t just-”
“And I’ve also heard that the city’s main armory has a bunch of different versions of the army’s new rifled muskets that they’re putting through tests. Professor Brown was saying that they’ve got almost a dozen different versions of the firing mechanisms, and everyone’s been arguing over which is better.”
Tinvel was wavering, a plaintive expression on his face. He knew he’d been caught. “Well. I mean,” he said weakly, “those guns are really complicated things, I’m sure. Maybe they’d want help with them. But Professor Brown’s already working on it, and he knows more about guns than I do. They wouldn’t need me to take a look at it.”
“Maybe,” she said, still grinning. “But once they choose a version, they’re probably going to get rid of all the old ones. Chop ‘em up or melt ‘em down. You’ll never have actually gotten to see them.”
She stepped closer to Tinvel. Closer than she’d ever stepped before, it felt like, even if that couldn’t be true. They’d bumped and shoved one another countless times. But she’d never stepped closer to him for no other reason than the fact that she wanted to be closer. Somehow, the inch of empty air between them in that moment felt a thousand times more intimate than every incidental press of fur against skin.
She was just a little bit taller than him, she noted. Not much. A finger’s width or less. That wasn’t nearly enough of a difference for her to not be looking him in the eyes in the moment when his attention darted downward, flicking ever-so-briefly towards her chest, then back upward. Looking at her breasts, which were a hair’s width from rubbing against his chest.
He’d done that before. Hells, everyone did. Chona had never minded. It came with being a woman wearing what was basically underwear in public, and so long as most people kept it to a polite little glance, she’d never even bothered to remember the moment, much less hold it against them. Hells, she’d done it to other women more times than she could count, and almost all of those had been involuntary. It was just the way things were, and she was used to it.
The sensation of disappointment, however, that came with this particular glance? That was fairly new. And the fact that she was disappointed not because he had glanced, but because it was only a glance? That was entirely unprecedented. But… not unwelcome, she decided.
They stood close to one another for a second. Then two. Then three. She kept looking at him, watching his eyes to see if he’d glance again, practically daring him to. Then she saw the way he was beginning to look terribly uncomfortable, which made Chona abruptly realize she’d been doing nothing other than staring him straight in the eyes for a solid five seconds of complete, utter silence.
Like oil-starved machinery spitefully groaning to life, Chona’s brain dredged up what she’d been saying a few moments before.
“So, what do you think?” She asked.
His face flashed crimson. “A-about what?”
Her grin widened. “Going to see the new guns, of course. I bet we can convince them to let us shoot a few. I think it’d be fun.”
“We… shouldn’t?”
“We’re going to, though.”
“Chona.”
“Come on. Let’s get going.”
After that, Tinvel tried a couple different arguments for why they shouldn’t, but they were all perfunctory, uninspired protests. He had to at least pretend he wasn’t perfectly willing to lie his way into a Tulian Army weapons stockpile. But, just like she’d instructed, his arguments happened even as he was already following her towards the armory.
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When the day ended, Tinvel’s hands were almost as black as Chona’s fur. Blackpowder soot had been smeared across him in wide, dark splotches, covering his skin wherever he’d wiped his hands between shots. Chona’s own fur felt awfully gritty, like she’d been rolling in sand, though it was really just scattered grains of blackpowder. After a few hours of shooting, she’d started being a lot more careful about going near any open flames. As far as first-date mistakes went, she was pretty sure that “blowing yourself up like a keg of blackpowder” was a pretty bad one. Thankfully, she managed to avoid that fate.
Using the armory’s training range, a hundred-yard stretch of alleyway with a big pile of sand at one end, they’d found that a lot of the guns had severe problems. Many had levers, pins, and screws far too complex to keep working through the inevitable buildup of blackpowder fouling. The alternative ammunition they’d been provided, “emcotton”, had worked a lot better across the board, aside from kicking so hard the gun bruised her shoulder. No one was sure if they’d be capable of making enough to outfit the whole army, so every gun design was expected to work with both kinds of propellants.
The fact that it was called “emcotton,” instead of the proper “guncotton” Professor Brown had told them it was named, had proved to be its own little mystery. Learning their lesson from the shop, she and Tinvel had simply asked a few different people if they knew why it was called that. Eventually they met an armorer who had worked with the Professor before, and they’d given an explanation.
When it had first come to the army, everyone actually had called it guncotton. But Professor Brown had been so damn annoying about correcting them– saying it may be guncotton, but might not, because it didn’t fit the behavior of “real” guncotton– that they’d given it a new name: “maybe-guncotton.” That name had quickly been shortened to “M-cotton,” and, since most of the Tulian armory was illiterate, they hadn’t realized it was referencing a letter. Thus, “emcotton” had become all but the official name for the wispy material. It drove Professor Brown crazy, apparently.
Between the shooting, messing with guns, and some spell practice of her own, Chona decided it had been a perfect date. Tinvel ended up spending most of his time fiddling with different guns, assembling and disassembling them, while Chona had gathered up piles of emcotton (after learning how much Professor Brown hated the name, she’d never call it anything else) and lighting it on fire in different ways, training her magical senses on it.
The stuff was bizarre. The white nitrocellulose let out almost as much smoke as blackpowder, but unlike that whispy white fog, it was solid black, the same color as a cookfire. Unlike blackpowder, however, that smoke didn’t linger in the air. It fizzled into nothingness within a second of coming into existence, leaving no trace it had ever existed in the first place.
She couldn’t get enough of the stuff. The energy it released was absurd; at least three times as much as an equal weight of blackpowder, and since it still had the shape and form of cotton, you could pack a lot more of it into the same space. That was actually one of the problems with it, she learned. Unless you wanted to end up detonating a bomb next to your face, you had to carefully limit the amount of guncotton that was put into a musket. Assuming you didn’t do that, however, Chona could see a lot of potential.
Together, she and Tinvel had ended up deciding to write up a report for Professor Brown. Some of the breechloading musket designs were outright terrible. After an admittedly decent first few shots, the mechanisms required to open the gun jammed so often you were better off using a muzzle-loader. Of the other, more competent rifles, there was a much tighter race. They were close enough in design and performance Chona didn’t think you could really tell which would be better until you actually used them in a fight. She felt pretty certain that only extensive field-testing would prove which was better.
Tinvel didn’t think so, however. He made sketches of the designs to take with him, hoping to work through his thoughts properly as he prepared the report. Chona hadn’t been all that helpful in that respect, if she was honest. Downright unhelpful, in fact. Once he’d had the idea to make an essay of it, Tinvel kept forgetting that they weren’t actually there for just that purpose. She all but dragged him back to the gun range to try some new musket or another smith’s work, or, on one occasion, having him see how well he handled a bayoneted rifle. The clumsy charge he’d attempted at a target dummy had seemed more like an angry toddler than a powerful soldier, but to his credit, the sharp end of the thing had gone into the straw target.
Eventually.
It was getting dark when they finally began making their way back to the university. Their trip out had meant they missed lessons, but that wasn’t anything new. She and Tinvel had been outside the regular class schedule for a long time, and if Chona occasionally abused that fact, Tinvel was a first-time offender. Hardly worth getting worked up about. They kept chatting as they walked, discussing this or that from their day, and if Tinvel noticed she was walking terribly slow, tracing a lazy, slow curving trail across the road, he didn’t say a thing about it. He just walked with her, happily keeping pace.
When the university was only a single turn away, Chona slowed to a full stop. Tinvel did, too, still talking for a few moments more, until he eventually realized that they weren’t going anywhere.
“Huh? What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
The nervousness in Chona’s gut was coiling so tightly that she thought she finally understood what human girls meant when they complained about period cramps. Working hard to keep her hands and arms casual, she wrung her anxiety out through her tail, coiling it into a knot so tight the muscles of her entire lower back were trembling. She’d begun to sweat, and that made her painfully aware that she needed to do something before that sweat became visible through her fur.
I shouldn’t be nervous. What was it that I was saying earlier? Yeah. I took him on a date because HE needed to impress ME. And he was fun, and nice, and we had a good time, which was impressive, and so I should… it would only be fair if I rewarded him for being impressive, right? Because it’s not like I want to. It’s a reward. For him. Not me.
Tinvel looked around, clueless to thoughts hidden by her blank expression. “Uh, is there something we needed to pick up while we were out? Because we can, but since we’re so close to the dorms, it’d probably be better if I dropped my notes off first-”
With blood rushing in her ears, Chona struck. Her head darted forward, tilted, and she felt her lips brush against Tinvel’s.
She’d kissed girls before. Two girls, back in her village. They’d both had lips that were achingly soft and so lovely, so that’s what she’d been expecting. Kissing Tinvel was… different. It felt very different. Not quite as soft, not as smooth. Firmer, rougher. Not unpleasant, though. Just different. She felt her nose bump against his, and a bit of his unshaved stubble– he’d never be able to grow a beard, she suspected– brushed against her upper lip. The entire kiss was barely a touch, the briefest grazing of the skin, but in the fraction of a second they were in contact, it felt like her entire face had caught on fire.
She stepped back. Tinvel blinked at her.
She began stomping away.
“Chona-!”
“Shut up!”
“But I-”
“Shut UP!”
She hated the way he could hear a laugh in his voice as he shouted, “I just wanted to say-”
“Fuck! Off!”
“But-”
Chona finally turned the corner and, the moment she was out of sight, broke into a dead sprint.
There was no way in every hell that she was going to let him see the big, stupid smile on her face.
Notes:
Aren't you glad I didn't make you wait for this chapter? I considered it, honestly. But in the end, I decided I didn't want to be THAT mean.
Chapter 157: B3 Ch44: Not So Easy (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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The headquarters of the Powdered Lead in the captured city of Ta-Pet was, in accordance with Sara’s uncompromising distaste for wealth, a brutally spartan place. Despite being temporarily given the entire estate of one of the city’s former nobility to quarter their troops, the actual room Sara and Evie worked out of contained exactly eight pieces of furniture. No more, no less. A bookshelf filled with folded reports from the Powdered Lead’s officers sat next to an overly-long desk, behind which sat the two wooden chairs Sara and Evie used to do their work, while the far wall had four identical chairs, their neat line broken by the room’s lone door. Beyond that, the room was completely bare. They didn’t even bother with a lantern, since Hurlish hated them working late. The only light came from a small, thin window placed high on the wall behind their desk. When it was too dark to work any longer, they left.
Evie was sitting primly at her desk, listening to a report from an enterprising young officer in the Powdered Lead, a woman apprenticed to the outfit’s Armorer. Hurlish currently occupied one of the chairs against the far wall, pretending to listen to the young woman who was reporting on the status of the Powdered Lead’s supplies. From her vantage point, Sara listened to the young Armorer’s apprentice drone on.
“...Imperial blackpowder has been of decent quality so far, though any acceptance of it requires a thorough inspection to ensure there aren’t any barrels with poor granulation, which is still occuring at a rate in around one in thirty…”
The anxious woman was reading off the sheet of notes she’d brought with her without looking up for a single instant. She was a cute girl, about twenty or so, with cropped ginger hair that was, being native only to the regions further north than Sporatos, downright exotic in Tulian. Army life had brought a firm stoutness to what would have otherwise been a short, reedy build, but she was not as muscular as the majority of the frontline combatants. Though her name was ‘Blessing,’ given to her by a particularly devout Healer of a mother, her thick rural accent and unerring politeness had earned her the ubiquitous nickname “Bless-ya,” after the way she invariably responded to every sneeze in earshot.
Blessya was also the one officer Sara had been waiting so patiently for. Despite her fiercely traditional rural upbringing, Blessya’s bright button nose was disguising what Sara suspected to be a deeply freaky girl in the making. Sara’s Blessings let her recall how, exactly a hundred and eighty-four days ago, at 2:36 in the morning, the woman had begun a drunk rant into an open air tavern about how much she loved the idea of getting tossed around in bed, earning a cheered response from raptly listening patrons, who further encouraged her to talk about a plethora of other things– including her interest in spanking, choking, and being slapped. The next day, Blessya had all but collapsed with relief when she confirmed that none of her even-more-drunken squadmates remembered the diatribe, but unbeknownst to her, Sara had, and she literally couldn’t forget it. Then, twenty-nine days ago, Blessya had once more gotten into another less-than-sober argument about how “it didn’t make sense that everyone in the army was so worried about getting caught fucking in their tent, because everyone can already hear it, so it’s downright rude that you’re not give us a show as well.” That one actually had been remembered, and she’d since been subjected to a solid amount of good-natured mockery from her fellow soldiers. As far as Sara could tell, only she and Blessya had yet realized the resulting blushes on the young soldier’s face weren’t entirely the product of embarrassment.
Armed with that knowledge, Sara and Hurlish had determined that, after eliminating a handful of others, Blessya was the perfect candidate to use in their endless quest to pry at Evie’s screwy psyche. See, they’d realized that their wife had somehow etched a hard line in her brain between her public persona and her “real” self, the one that only came out to play in private rooms and shadowed back alleys. That divide had been slowly strengthening in the months since her collar was removed, something neither Sara nor Hurlish liked.
Ironically, it seemed that there was a sort of freedom that had been lost with the removal of her collar. Evie had thrived under the ambiguity her so-called slavery provided. In their wife’s mind, she was no threat to Sara’s reputation, because Sara could always blame Evie’s eccentricities on an ill-behaved “slave” she was too sentimental to punish, while Evie herself, on the rare occasions she needed to straighten up, could blame her actions on a Master who constantly gave her sexually-charged orders. Neither was true, of course, but the availability of the lie had been soothing.
So Sara and Hurlish had started working to break her back down. Evie would never be– and honestly didn’t want to become, now that they’d had Tahn– a full-time sex pet, but she certainly wasn’t the stone-hearted secretary she’d started imitating. Sara and Hurlish wanted their wife to have a more honest way of life.
Which was why Sara, who had been quietly kneeling under Evie’s desk for the better part of an hour, finally leaned forward, reaching out to grasp the base of Evie’s cock.
Despite all the amazing things Amarat’s blessing had done for Sara, there was at least one thing they had ruined:
Under-the-desk blowjobs.
She’d tried them with Evie, Ketch, and the Vestas, often at their suggestion, but had saldy been forced to give it up. It had obviously felt great (who didn’t like getting head?), but there’d never once been a risk of getting discovered. No matter how skillfully her partners worked away between her legs, Sara’s voice never wobbled, much less broke in a way that would have revealed the charade. That wasn’t anyone’s fault, of course. With Amarat’s Blessings, Sara was pretty sure she could have maintained an upbeat, bubbly conversation immediately after having both legs shot off by a cannonball. So long as she was conscious, she could act however she wanted.
Thus, Hurlish’s idea. Two birds, one stone. Instead of being the one getting serviced, Sara was kneeling in front of Evie’s legs, her fingers ringing the base of a thick cock. So far, when the other officers had been giving their reports, she’d simply held the base of Evie’s cock, staying perfectly still. Though that wouldn’t have been enough to keep most other people hard, much less on the edge, her wife’s feet were bouncing, calves constantly twitching with the effort required to quiet herself.
So easy.
Following Hurlish’s idea, Sara had finally given Evie a sizeable– okay, no, absolutely massive– cock this time around. It would have been impossible to hide, even if she’d been allowed to keep her pants. Having seen the real thing for herself, Sara had no idea why people back on Earth thought a ten-inch cock was a good idea. If it wasn’t for her Sara’s Blessings, or Evie’s superhuman durability, trying to take it anywhere other than a thoroughly practiced ass would have been a week-ruiner. Longer and thicker than Evie’s own forearm, it reached just far enough that its head would nearly touch Sara’s lips when she had pressed herself to the back of the small space under the desk.
Sara stopped pretending to listen to Blessya’s report. She could review it with her Blessings later. All her focus was spent watching Evie’s cock jump, its thick length bobbing in the air before her lips. She had to be so excruciatingly careful when teasing her wife. Whether it was her natural state, or the fault of constant sex with a Champion of Amarat, Evie had the lightest hair-trigger of anyone Sara had ever met. She could cum from almost anything. It almost went without saying that she could cum from penetrative sex as well as she could clitoral stimulation, but it didn’t stop there. She could also cum from anal, or having her nipples pinched, or even something as simple as getting her ears rubbed too roughly for too long.
The grandest prize of all, however, was her tail. Her wonderful, wonderful tail. Its entire curling length was powerfully erogenous for Evie, and the base was something else entirely. The few inches just before the fur blended into her spine was more sensitive than her clit by a mile. Any time Sara wanted to get Evie off, all she had to do was take a firm grip of that pretty little tail while wrapping her hand around the girl’s throat, keeping her from escaping for the first few seconds, and that would be that. Even if Sara didn’t move an inch, Evie’s frying nerve endings quickly overwhelmed the self-restraint necessary to stop herself from desperately grinding her ass against anything that got hold of her tail. Sara knew that from plenty of personal experience. Once the tail got involved, her wife would be rocketing toward a keening orgasm in thirty seconds or less.
Now that Evie had been given a cock, on top of all those other wonderful pressure points? Sara almost couldn’t believe how sensitive the woman had become. The mere sensation of growing it out from her hips was enough to have her rock-hard and dripping pre-cum. That Sara never allowed her to keep it long enough to grow used to the new set of sensations, much less practice using it, meant Sara had to do little more than give the base of her shaft a few tentative strokes to have her at the quivering edge of incoherency.
Up above, Evie answered one of Blessya’s questions. Sara didn’t know what it was, and she didn’t care. She kept staring at Evie’s cock.
The beautiful thing was something she and Hurlish had been using for weeks. As they jerked Evie off, they kept promising her that if she could last just a few minutes, even once, she’d earn the right to have their mouths on her cock. And they teased her as they did it, telling her allllll about how good it would feel. And, they would huskily promise her, if she somehow managed to last against their mouths, too? Then she’d finally get to see what having sex with a cock was like. That was how she’d earn that privelege. They talked about how badly they wanted her inside of them, how much they were looking forward to it, and that never helped Evie last any longer. Because Sara could keep her hard, “failure” wasn’t even a bad thing. It was just a chance to feel good before a second, third, or fourth try, or however many they could squeeze out of her before her quivering legs gave out.
Evie’s reaction to all the teasing was predictable. If you only counted the time they spent actually her jerking off, without touching any other part of her body, her current personal best was hovering around forty seconds. If they got the other hand involved, even just lightly resting it on her hip, that record was cut in half.
It was adorable.
As Blessya’s report continued on, Sara’s hand began a slow, taunting stroke. Not much. Just that same inch or two she’d already encircled, but now with the barest hint of movement. She leaned forward and parted her lips, letting her warm breath roll over the head of Evie’s cock.
Evie’s left leg spasmed, barely resisting stomping the floor, while her right leg instinctively pushed against the ground, trying to shove herself away from the torturous pleasure. Sara had been ready for that, and was already using her free hand to keep Evie’s chair locked in place.
Thanks to her Blessings, Sara could see everyone in the room as if she were staring straight at them. More than that, even. When it came to interacting with other people, Sara’s sense of vision had been thoroughly outmoded by a passive awareness of every thinking person around her, so long as they were in some way Connected to one another through conversation, interest, or mere awareness.
Which was why she could, from beneath the desk, with her vision filled with Evie’s cock, paint a delectable picture of the room’s occupants in her mind’s eye.
Blessya, of course, was still focused on her report, doing her best to show off how well she’d been following the mandate that every ranking Officer was required to learn how to read. She was laser-focused on each line, every mental faculty turned toward hiding the way she still occasionally had to sound out unfamiliar combinations of letters.
Hurlish, meanwhile, was equally laser-focused, but on Blessya’s ass, which Sara admitted looked pretty damn nice in the tight, leather-patched pants she wore, especially with the touch of afternoon sweat that helped the material cling to her skin. Despite being among the least sexually obsessive of Sara’s little ingroup, second only to Mui in her lack of neediness, Hurlish never missed a chance to appreciate a good looking girl.
But as much as she liked looking at the other two, Evie’s struggle to maintain composure, naturally, was the painting’s centerpiece. It wasn’t as if she was bad at keeping a blank expression. From the age she’d stuttered out her first words all the way until Sara had caught her mother committing high treason, Evie had been bombarded with the lessons of a politically-appointed team of international tutors. She was among the best negotiators Sara had ever met, even now, and she would have made a fool of anyone from Earth. Before she’d gained her current class of “Supplicant Duelist,” she’d had the Class of “Duelist Diplomat,” one which granted her supernaturally-powerful Skills to aid in deceiving others during high-pressure negotiations, an aid no Earthly equivalent could claim.
Unfortunately, all that skill now served as a testament to how overwhelmed she was. Muscles quivered beneath her cheeks as she clenched her jaw until her teeth ached, while the steel pen in her left hand was audibly creaking under the strain of her white-knuckled grip, threatening to dent like cheap tinfoil. Her right hand lay prominently, purposefully flat on the desk, in order to help present an illusion that she was anything approaching the level of relaxed she should have been in this situation.
Blessya was still oblivious. Sara wondered how long that would last. Sadly, Sara herself couldn’t fuck the beautiful woman, what with how absolute she’d been about enforcing the rules about fraternization between ranks. As a general in the Tulian Army, as well as a founder of the Powered Lead, Blessya was off-limits until the woman left the army entirely.
Which was, ultimately, why Hurlish had shown up. Besides the free show, of course. Technically speaking, the big orcish blacksmith wasn’t a member of the Powdered Lead or the Tulian Army. If Blessya actually managed to pick up on the fact Evie was getting jerked off under her desk, Sara felt it would have been far too mean to have worked the virginal officer up to a fever pitch of arousal, only to leave her hanging, citing rules and regulations that Sara was, realistically, already breaking in every meaningful way. No, if Blessya actually managed to spot what was going on, her welcome aid in breaking Evie’s barriers down would earn the pretty little thing a proper railing from Hurlish.
Was jerking Evie off under a desk right in front of a subordinate officer making a mockery of the rules against enlisted soldiers having sex or relationships with those under their command? Sure, without a doubt. But Hurlish had been insistent, and after a bit of cajoling, Sara had ultimately landed on the side of eh, fuck it, this is hot. The rules of fraternization were mostly for the people without a Goddess’s aid in establishing appropriate sexual boundaries.
Besides, Evie was trying to hide her reactions. It was possible, theoretically, that she might succeed. True, if Blessya didn’t notice anything this time around, that only meant she’d get another chance to figure it out sometime soon, so that excuse was flimsy, but… whatever. Jerking Evie off under the desk was proving too much fun for Sara to simply stop.
“I see,” Evie said, probably in response to something important. “And our emergency reserves? How are they faring against the weather?”
Hmm, Sara thought. I don’t like how smoothly she said that.
As Blessya began explaining that they hadn’t yet had any failures in the storage vessels that would require their replacement, Sara began pumping her fist just a bit further. She slid her thumb outward, tracing the thick bulge on the underside of Evie’s cock, exploring the smooth skin at a leisurely pace. Evie’s legs, already bouncing nervously, began to properly shudder, her hips involuntarily twisting in her chair. She didn’t make a noise, not yet, and her face stayed impassive, but the facade had begun to crack.
Sara leaned forward slightly. Hurlish had been the one to tell Sara to make Evie’s cock so large. She hadn’t really understood why, since she loved having Evie in the literal palm of her hand, but facing it for herself, it made more sense. In the tight confines under the desk, the scent of Evie’s thick cock was beginning to fill Sara’s lungs, tempting her forward, dredging up dangerous questions.
Her mind was running away with itself. She knew what noises Evie made while she was getting eaten out, but what about when her cock was getting kissed? How would it taste when Sara licked her lips afterwards, savoring the flavor of bare skin that lingered behind, or, even better, if she opened her mouth just a touch, letting her wet tongue out to run along the bare, salty flesh?
Evie’s foot collided with Sara’s ribs, making a dull whump. It didn’t hurt, but it brought her back to the present. Blessya had finished reading off her report, folding it away in a back pocket, so she was now actually looking at Evie as they spoke. It seemed like the near-hour of gentle teasing had Evie thinking Sara might have intended to take it easy from the start.
Sara leaned closer. A dewdrop of precum had begun to bead at the tip of Evie’s cock. Not enough to roll down and away, but enough to be visible. To be tempting. Sara moved forward, sticking her tongue out, holding it a fraction of an inch from Evie’s skin.
“...at this rate, I doubt we’ll need to acquire new shipments of emcotton for the duration of our contract,” Blessya summarized, nodding slightly, as if to assure herself she hadn’t said anything incorrect.
Evie hummed noncommittally. “I still want to establish a stable means of transport. If we are forced to utilize our reserves, I want to have a plan in place-”
Sara pressed forward. Just a little tap, a glancing blow. She licked up the droplet of precum with a flat tongue, running from the underside of Evie’s massive cockhead to the top, cleaning it of the stain. Hardly cheating on the handjob rules if she was avoiding a mess, right?
The steel fountain pen in Evie’s left hand was slammed flat onto her desk with a clatting boom, just before the metal walls would have violently burst, spraying ink across the day’s work. Both of Evie’s palms were pressed flat to the desk, her expression just as blank as before, but her words hitching up an octave.
“-p-place to… to replenish, if we need to,” Evie all but gasped. Sara’s tongue fled, but she sped up the pumping of her hand. “We need to-” Evie tried to kick her again, but her legs were jello. Sara barely felt it. “To prepare for the eventuality,” she managed to squeeze out. “Even if it is just a working plan. Get me a plan on paper, if you would. As a… report. So that we may implement it rapidly, if it becomes necessary.”
Blessya was staring at Evie, wide-eyed. Sara was half bemused, half disappointed, to see that the young officer was taking Evie’s response as a sign of anger, not a particularly enticing type of distraction.
“I understand, ma’am!” She said, nodding sharply. “I’ll have it ready as soon as possible. Before we move out of Ta-Pet tomorrow, I hope.”
“G-good,” Evie said. “You are d-dismissed.”
Blessya started to salute, a gesture Evie was most certainly not ready to return, but was stopped by a new voice.
“Actually, I got a question for you, Blessya,” Hurlish announced, an almost cruel enjoyment of the situation hidden behind her usual rumbling cadence. “I was going to go by and ask later today, but since you’re already here? Unless you’ve got something to do after this?”
Blessya didn’t. Sara had checked and double-checked that.
“Of course not, ma’am,” Blessya said, turning to address Hurlish. The moment she was out of Blessya’s line of sight, Evie’s head dropped, her lips forming the shapes of hidden, half-furious curses.
“Oh, I’m not a ma’am,” Hurlish said, waving it away. “Not when I’m out of my smithy, anyway. I was just wanting to ask you and the other Armorers how the new cryslocks have been treating the troops, what kinda problems you’ve run into. There’s been a lot of arguments back in Tulian about how best to make ‘em, and I wanted someone with field experience to weigh in.”
Behind Blessya’s back, Evie shot Hurlish the foulest glare she could manage. It wasn’t much, what with the way she’d taken the unobserved moment to free up her locked limbs, allowing her entire body to tremble in place like it had been trying to do for the last several minutes.
For Blessya, that was a conversation that was refreshingly easy to dive into. She began to happily chat about the Powdered Lead’s cryslock rifles, focusing on their performance in the varied conditions the Empire had exposed them to. She clearly had a lot to say, even without having prepared a proper report.
Sara didn’t waste Blessya’s distraction. Evie’s cock was throbbing before her, all ten inches of it, and it really hadn’t been given a fair treatment. Such a pretty part of her wife deserved a more tender sort of attention.
Sara loosened her grip on the base of Evie’s cock, not to release it, but to give her the freedom to let her hand glide forward, sliding over the throbbing heat at a loving, patient pace. Even with her Blessings, it was getting hard to pay attention to anything else. It was just so… nice. Something that big wouldn’t have been nearly so lovely in her old life. Back there, it would have been intimidating. Hot, probably, and something she was interested in, but it was big enough to have her worrying.
That was before she could just… take it. Because she could, now. Technically, even her old body had been physically capable of swallowing something like the cock in front of her, but it would have taken effort. Practice, probably, and a whole lot of it.
Not anymore. If Sara really wanted to, she knew she could shove it down her throat until her nose was buried in the soft skin of Evie’s pelvis. Hell, If she wanted to, she wouldn’t even have to gag.
But why would I want that? Sara thought, slowing her stroke slightly, along the middle of Evie’s shaft. It throbbed against her palm, hot to the touch. She’d always loved watching Evie choke on her cock, had basked in the feeling of her wife’s convulsing throat. It only seemed fair to keep her own gag reflex, if only to return the favor. Sara touched her own throat, rubbing it with a palm. She didn’t like choking on cock. Her old partners had tried that sometimes, and she’d always put a stop to it right away. All it did was hurt her throat.
But with Evie’s… Sara had sucked more dicks than she could count since coming here. None of them had been like this. Cocks like this just didn’t happen naturally, not even on orcs. This beauty was unnatural, made manifest by her own desires.
Evie’s desires, she corrected herself. And Hurlish’s. She wanted to see what Evie would look like with a giant cock. This thing’s too…
Sara shook her head, pulling her hand off her throat. Staying in the cramped space under the desk was starting to seem like a mistake. Her thoughts were going fuzzy, and she felt dizzy, as if the air was too thick, even though there was no way that was true. There was more than enough circulation to get rid of stale breath.
Just… not enough to get rid of Evie’s cock. She could smell it. The taste of precum was still on her tongue, because she’d never swallowed it. She’d been staring at that cock for almost an hour. Hells, she’d been holding it for that long. Touching it, caressing it. All without doing anything else.
Sara found herself leaning forward, licking her lips. She was so wet. She’d tried not to think about it, because this whole show was all about Evie, but god was she soaked. She could feel it on her thighs, a cool slickness coating the interior of her leather pants.
Her slow stroke was finally reaching the end of Evie’s cock. She stopped just before the edge of her head, avoiding the sensitive tip. Evie wouldn’t last a second if she touched that. The moment Sara’s fingers brushed it, her control would fail her, cute little cries of ecstasy spilling from her throat as she humped desperately forward, spraying her cum all over Sara’s face, making a mess of them both as she squirmed in her seat, mewling pitifully…
With an incredible effort, Sara forced her hand back down, keeping her glacial handjob to the shaft alone. She briefly considered going down even further, to cup her balls with her other hand, or maybe even to nibble at the skin, but had to reject it.
Evie was at the razor edge of climax now. Hurlish was looking over Blessya’s head, wearing a shit-eating grin as she locked eyes with Evie. The feline was breathing hard, audibly now, her chest rising and falling with every breath. Her claws had popped out of her fingertips to impale the desk in a final bid to hold herself still, and even that was failing, as evidenced by the inch of scored wood that they’d scratched into the desk. Even those lines had etched a wobbling, unsteady course. There was no part of Evie’s body that wasn’t shivering right now. Deep in her throat, audible only to Sara thanks to her Blessings, an adorable whine had begun to build.
“Thanks for the advice,” Hurlish said to Blessya. “And sorry to take up your time. I’ll let the folks back in the capital know what y’all have been dealing with out here. No need to make a report or anything.”
“I appreciate it,” Blessya said, polite as always, apparently oblivious to the fact that there was nothing in the discussion that would have required a report in the first place. “Will that be all, Commander-”
Blessya’s question choked off as she turned around to face Evie once more.
Sara’s wife was a fighter. A real soldier, one who didn’t back down from a challenge. But some battles, whether you were out-Leveled or outnumbered, couldn’t be won through sheer willpower alone.
It turned out that an hour-long handjob from a Champion of Amarat was one of those battles.
Evie was a wreck. Sweat had started to pour down her brow from the moment Sara’s handjob had started exploring the whole of her cock, matting loose strands of hair to her head. Her mouth hung open, panting as if she’d just sprinted to the finish of a marathon, and her nipples, if Blessya dared look at her breasts, were poking prominently through even the thicker material of her shirt. Her arms shook and shivered as if she’d been submerged in ice water, her knuckles white as they strained with the effort required to keep her hands on the desk.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” Blessya asked, concern furrowing her brow.
Oh, come the fuck on! Sara raged in her mind. She’s about to cum harder than you ever have in your life, and you’re asking if she’s ALRIGHT?
“Fuh-f-fine,” Evie gasped out.
“You don’t look it, ma’am,” Blessya said respectfully, approaching the desk as she reached belt pouch. “Those insect-borne illnesses General Brown has been telling us about have been a doozy. Seen a lot of sick fellas that didn’t want to admit it, but there’s nothin’ wrong with it. Here, you can have my healing potion.”
“N-n-no,” Evie whimpered. “I will… w-will… take my own-!”
As the last word fell from her lips, Sara gave in. She leaned forward, nuzzling her cheek against Evie’s cock, rubbing at it like Mui did to scentmark her tits when he was too lost in the afterglow of orgasm to be embarrassed about what he was doing. Sara felt her own shiver run through her as the heat of the cock pulsed into her cheek, precum rubbing against her ear, smearing into her hair.
A wooden desk, no matter how well-made, could only take so much. The dark wood under Evie’s fingers shattered with a loud CRACK, splinters flying free. Her hips began to thrust against Sara’s cheek, her cock jumping an entire inch upward every time her pounding pulse reached its way down south, working to smear more of her dribbling precum along the side of Sara’s head.
Much like the wooden desk, the innocent naivety of a rural-born virgin could only take so much before failing. Sickness didn’t make someone ball their fists so hard they turned aged hardwood into shrapnel, and it certainly didn’t make someone whine in the way Evie did in that moment, with a pitiful mewl squeezing its way out of her throat, just loud enough to be heard by all present. Blessya’s face reddened and she took a step back, glancing toward the door. She swallowed several times in rapid succession before speaking.
“Oh. Well then, ma’am. I’m, uh, sorry about that… sickness? I hope you feel better?” Her stammering made her blush even worse, turning her face almost as red as her hair. “I-I understand, of course! I’ve heard those illnesses can come on ya quick.”
Hurlish hid an explosive laugh in the crook of her elbow, taking several steps away as she pounded her chest.
“Bless ya,” Blessya reflexively said, without even looking. She sketched a shaky salute to Evie. “Well. I’ll be… I’m dismissed?”
Breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut, Evie nodded, flicking a finger to send Blessya out of the room. The young officer all but sprinted away as she fled, latching the door shut behind her.
Hurlish locked the door behind her, waited a moment to make sure Blessya was out of earshot, then exploded into laughter.
“Gods be damned, did you see the look on her face?”
Evie, of course, couldn’t respond. She’d dropped her head to the desk, her entire body racked with shudders.
“I mean, she turned so red, I thought she was gonna pass out!” Hurlish continued. “Here, Sara, come on out.”
Reluctantly– no, finally, she corrected herself– Sara released Evie’s cock, scooting to the side. Her back popped as she emerged from underneath the desk, coming into view.
“You know what the craziest thing is?” Sara asked. “She didn’t even realize what was going on?”
Hurlish laughed again, louder. “You sure? Did you see how she looked?”
“If she’d figured it out, I would’ve told you,” Sara said, making an oblique reference to their plan, in case Evie still had enough of her faculties left to remember what they were saying later. “No, the funniest part is, she thought she was the one being a pervert.”
“What? How?”
“She couldn’t help but get horny over how Evie looked, but she really did think she was getting sick. Blessya was beating herself for thinking dirty, dirty thoughts about her commanding officer, just because she saw her sick and sweaty.”
At that, Hurlish’s laughter grew. She was still laughing as she thumped her way across the office to join Sara and Evie’s behind the desk. Evie had pushed her chair away, leaning back, her precum-smeared cock pointing straight up into the air, bouncing with every involuntary thrust of her hips. When she wasn’t humping the air, its thick underside fell to rest against the cool wood, dripping a puddle of clear fluid onto the varnished wood.
“Don’t know any kind of sickness that makes a girl look like that,” Hurlish joked, dropping into the empty chair beside Evie, “but I’d sure like to find a couple of those test-tube things full of the stuff. Makes for a great show.”
“I’ll let you know if I find any,” Sara said. She started to gather herself up to stand, stretching out to join Hurlish, but was surprised to find her knees slamming back into the floor, a calloused hand wrapped around the back of her neck.
“Where are you going?” Hurlish asked, a smile still on her lips. “You know the rules. Made ‘em yourself. If Evie lasts five minutes on a handjob, she gets to feel your lips.”
Sara rolled her eyes, trying to force her way back to her feet. “Yeah, but that’s only once we really start going. I only started when Blessya was in the room. I was just teasing her until then.”
Unsurprisingly, Sara couldn’t do anything against Hurlish’s strength. She was helpless as a kitten in her wife’s grip. Hurlish’s grin widened. “You must have not been paying attention. That was plenty more than five minutes.”
Sara frowned. “No way. That report she gave was tiny. Three minutes, tops.”
“Yeah. Until I started talking to her.”
Sara blinked. She… hadn’t thought of that. She’d been entirely focused on Evie by then, and hadn’t really noticed the time passing. Hurlish was right, though.
Sara licked her lips, looking at Evie’s cock. Their wife’s eyes had cracked upon, a dazed sense of surprise flitting across her face. Not entirely gone, then. Her massive cock was still surging with visible arousal.
“Well…” Sara said, hesitating. “We’ll have to make it sma–”
Hurlish’s fingers closed around her throat, cutting off her air. Sara’s mouth opened and closed in silent shock, instinctively trying to claw at the woman’s grip, but against even a single one of Hurlish’s hands, she could do nothing save twist in place.
Holding Sara’s throat with one hand, Hurlish leaned forward, pulling open a drawer on the desk. To the surprise of Evie and Sara both, the Feline’s collar lay atop the pile of blank papers there, its padlock completed by the artful engraving of the all-capital letters of the word WHORE.
Evie was too lost in arousal to fully understand what was going on, but she reacted to the sight of her collar like a kitten seeing a jar of catnip pulled out of the pantry. Her back arched as her head tilted back, presenting her neck to Hurlish.
The collar snapped into place with an audible click. A full-body shudder of delight ran through Evie as the enchanted runes flared to life.
Hurlish didn’t give her a second to come down from the high. She spun Evie’s chair around, turning her to face Sara, then thrust Sara forward, until her lips were pressed against Evie’s cock. It was so hot. Sara still couldn’t breath, yet she wasn’t sure if the dizziness running through her mind had anything to do with a lack of oxygen.
“Open your mouth, Sara.”
She considered fighting the order. She wanted to have more agency in this. Evie was always so much fun to tease, to watch slowly fall apart. Sara knew Hurlish didn’t have the patience for that.
But… Evie’s precum was pressing against her lips. It was salty, but not in the way that cum usually was. It reminded Sara of the night in the brothel, when she’d been eating her own climax out of Evie. Not the same level of decadently powerful flavor, but closer than she’d expected. An involuntary shiver went through her body, one which had her mouth opening as she, despite herself, tried to moan. She couldn’t, not with Hurlish still choking her, but the opportunity wasn’t missed. Hurlish pressed her forward, forcing the tip of Evie’s cock into her mouth.
“Kitty?” Hurlish said. “Don’t cum.”
Evie’s building cry turned into a wail of dismay as her collar flashed, pressing the command into her skin. Her hips bucked helplessly, trying to take back the climax that had just been stolen from her.
Meanwhile, Sara’s lungs were starting to burn. She should have been able to last longer, but she hadn’t taken a deep breath before Hurlish started choking her, and the sight of a beautiful woman writhing above her had her body wanting to pant heavily. As the pressure in her chest mounted, she patted at Hurlish’s wrist.
“Hm? You need a breath?”
Sara tapped more urgently. Gray was beginning to tinge the edges of her vision. Evie was looking down at her, whimpering.
Gods, what a sight.
“If I let go, you’re gonna keep her in your mouth. Understand me?”
Sara nodded. It wasn’t like she had a choice.
Hurlish’s fingers relaxed. Sara drew in an explosive breath, chest heaving, but was careful to keep herself breathing only through her nose, her mouth occupied by the head of Evie’s massive cock.
“Good girl,” Hurlish hummed. Her hand was still wrapped around Sara’s throat. She’d relaxed enough to let her breathe, but that was it. She kept a possessive grip on her. If she didn’t take a potion, Sara knew tomorrow would see her throat sporting a massive bruise.
She did her best to ignore the way the thought had her thighs pressing together.
“Well?” Hurlish hummed. “Get to work. She earned a reward.”
Sara shot Hurlish a glare. This wasn’t part of the plan. Evie was supposed to keep getting teased over and over again, however many times it took for her to finally break, begging them for release. The whole point was forcing their wife to realize she really did value her own pleasure, that she wasn't only a toy to be used in private, and that it wasn’t the end of the world if some people saw her snuggling up to her wives.
That wasn’t what this was going to achieve. Sure, it was hot, but it wasn’t what they’d planned. After a moment’s consideration, Sara pulled back off of Evie’s cock with a wet pop, turning towards Hurlish.
“There. Now that she’s gotten a taste-”
Hurlish’s fingers wrapped around Sara’s jaw, pulling her mouth open. Sara had just enough time to blink in surprise before her head was wrenched around and slammed forward, thick cock shoving past her lips and down into her throat, her nose crushed into the soft skin of Evie’s pelvis in a flash.
Evie reacted with a wordless cry, instincts driving her hips up into Sara’s face, while Sara herself sputtered and choked, tears beading the corners of her eyes. Evie kept thrusting into her, stirring the massive cock around in her throat, making it impossible for her to get used to the intrusion. Sara felt her convulsing around the cock, gagging hard. Even if she’d thought to use her Blessings to remove her gag reflex, she hadn’t had time for the thought to form.
Gods, she was so full. It felt like she was wrapped around Evie, her body stretched past the point of reason. There was a dull ache that began at her jaw and continued all the way down her throat, but it was a distant thing. She could feel Evie’s cock throb, even more precum dripping directly almost straight into Sara’s stomach. With a length like Evie’s, even the slick, watery fluid was more than most orgasms managed.
Somehow, Sara realized, despite the fact that the head of Evie’s cock was somewhere beneath her collarbone, she could still taste the clear fluid. Salty and sweet. Not filling, but still good. An appetizer that did nothing to sate the hunger it inspired.
“Sorry, what was that?” Hurlish asked. “I didn’t catch it. You’ll have to tell me later.”
Sara was pulled back, back, back, further than she’d ever slid off a cock before, and the sensation of such a thick piece of meat emptying her throat set off her gag reflex again, turning the water beading at the corners of her eyes to full drops, rolling down her face.
“Huh-hu-Hurlish,” Evie groaned, “She’s, ah, ch-choking.”
“Sure is.”
Sara felt almost touched that Evie, despite having ten inches of cock buried in a squeezing throat, had managed to protest on her behalf. It didn’t matter, though. The moment before she was pulled far enough back to have caught a breath, when the tip of Evie’s cock was just barely entering her throat, Sara was shoved forward again. Hard.
Her body spasmed as she was filled again. Hot, throbbing cock, kept supernaturally suspended at the precipice of climax, went plowing down her throat. Her hands opened and closed on nothing, her legs quaking as they tried to brace against Hurlish’s inexorable strength.
How fucking strong IS she? Sara thought incredulously. For those with Classes based on combat, strength only grew so far. In a fight, raw power was often secondary to reaction speed, awareness, and a dozen other things. Sara had met plenty of elite Imperial Warriors who were stronger than her, but never by this much. In practice bouts or drunken arm wrestling matches, she could at least struggle against them, force them to put in some kind of effort to overpower her.
Not Hurlish. Her every straining muscle didn’t even register the 17th-Level Weaponsmith’s interest. Sara may as well have not even been trying. If she just gave up and let Hurlish use her face to fuck Evie, nothing would have changed.
“There we go,” Hurlish purred. “Good girl. Here, take a breath.”
Sara’s nostrils flared as Hurlish finally pulled her far enough back to let her breathe, though, of course, not enough to have Evie’s cock out of her mouth. Dizzy for a dozen different reasons, it took her a moment to realize why Hurlish had praised her. She really had relaxed her whole body, letting herself be used.
At that realization, a familiar, age-old contrarian streak welled up within Sara. The ingrained urge to fight rebel against orders, even for something like this. She stiffened her arms again, preparing to resist the next time she was shoved down.
Hurlish sighed. “See, this is what I’m talking about. This would go so much easier if you just enjoyed yourself.”
Before Sara could think of a response, not that she could have spoken it aloud, she found herself being lifted through the air. She gasped in surprise, the noise turned to an awkward, wet squelch by the cock in her mouth, before she felt her hips get dropped onto Hurlish’s lap. She didn’t have a second to register that fact before she was assaulted by a new sensation, that of her leather pants being jerked down, exposing her ass to the open air.
“Damn, you’re wet.” A thick, calloused finger swiped up Sara’s slit, making her squirm as she swallowed her moan. “Funny how that works. I bet if I let you talk right now, you’d say you didn’t want to be doing this. But look at this.”
Sara was forced down onto Evie’s cock in the same moment that one of Hurlish’s long fingers shoved into her core, curling upward in just the right way to chase the burning bloom of pleasure that rolled out of her hips. Hurlish’s fingers were already bigger than most dicks, and she was devastatingly skilled with them. Sara couldn’t help but grind her ass backward while Evie filled her throat, the humming buzz of her moan vibrating the entire length of the thick cock.
Hurlish pulled Sara back, freeing her from the searing heat of Evie’s cock. In the same motion, she drew her finger out of Sara’s core, ignoring the way her pussy feverishly clenched down on it, trying to keep it inside.
Two women whined in disappointment when Hurlish stopped, leaving them both with just a tip for their satisfaction.
Hurlish chuckled. “Gods, I love that sound.”
Sara already knew what this game was. She knew what Hurlish wanted from her. Even with her head spinning, even after being choked on cock, even after spending an hour losing her fucking mind that she couldn’t do anything more than tease Evie, she knew what Hurlish wanted from her.
She tried to hold back. Hurlish’s fingers were teasing at the lips of her pussy, rubbing side to side. Sara knew that there was a way out of this, somewhere, that she could turn the tables.
But she was so empty. Her pussy, obviously, so wet it was running down her thighs, but her throat, too, they were both empty. She’d never been filled like she had a few moments ago. Yes, she’d felt what it was like to get it from ahead and behind, but not by so much, never by more cock than she could have dreamed of, by dexterous fingers so long they felt like they were tickling her goddamn brain. That was something wholly new, and she wanted– needed– more.
Sara pushed forward, against Hurlish’s hand. She pressed her tongue out, slipping it past her lips, coating the underside of Evie’s thick shaft. Her tongue kept going, pink smoke briefly hiding its surface as it grew and grew, becoming serpentine in the way it curled around Evie’s cock, letting her taste as much of it as she could.
Hurlish grinned, smug pride rolling off her in waves. She released her grip on Sara’s throat, unlatching one finger at a time.
Sara kept going forward. Letting her mouth be filled with cock, until the thick head was bumping against her throat, making her gag, then even further, filling her body and mind with the heady taste of Evie’s saliva-coated skin.
Just as she’d expected, Hurlish rewarded her. Sara’s hips bucked in her wife’s lap as that thick finger slid back into her, spreading her open. The hand that had been on Sara’s throat drifted under her hips, applying pressure to her clit.
Sara whined. It was a sound drowned by Evie’s painting gasps, by her own gagging, but Hurlish heard it anyway.
“Good girl,” she purred. “There we go. Deeper. Come on. Make her love it.”
It burned. Without someone forcing her down, when she was taking it slow, Sara felt her throat fighting the intrusion even more than usual.
But it burned so good. It was like sucking Mui’s cock, when she gave herself the catfolk sense of smell required to become intoxicated by his pheromones, but instead of her nose, it was all along her tongue. The taste of Evie’s precum was amazing. She wanted more of it.
Sara reached the base of Evie’s cock almost without realizing it. The moment she couldn’t go forward, she began pulling back, luxuriating in the feeling of her stretched throat closing around the empty space left behind.
Hurlish drew her finger back out as she went. Sara couldn’t stand it. Even before she had retreated enough to steal a breath, she was throwing herself back down, even faster than before, earning Hurlish’s finger inside her as soon as possible.
“Look at her,” Hurlish whispered, speaking to Evie. “She loves it, doesn’t she?”
Evie, unable to cum and vibrating like an unbalanced washing machine, managed to stare down at Sara.
Sara wasn’t looking back. Her eyes were closed, all her focus turned inward. It tasted so fucking good. Evie’s cock. It was getting better by the minute. She couldn’t decide if she loved the sweat of her skin more than the saliva-mixed precum, or if the sensation of being stretched out was its own reward. She was beginning to realize that Evie’s precum, delicious as it was, couldn’t be all there was. That same taste from before, from the brothel, that intoxicating flavor she could never give a name to, was hiding from her. If she could get Evie to cum, maybe that would be it.
Sara started bobbing her head properly. She was gagging, her throat hurt, she was constantly on the edge of passing out from lack of breath, but none of it mattered. A small, shivering hand landed on her head, cupping her chin, but she barely felt it. She kept licking and sucking, barely conscious of the way she was shoving her pussy back into Hurlish’s probing fingers.
“You want to cum, don’t you?” Hurlish asked.
Evie and Sara both groaned insensibly.
“Sara. Grow a tail.”
Her eyes fluttered. She didn’t stop bobbing her head– she didn’t think she could if she’d wanted to– but made a little noise of protest.
“I won’t let you taste it if you don’t do it.”
The last vestiges of Sara’s self-confidence rebelled. She loved Evie’s tail because it was cute, because it was so sensitive, because it was part of her, but… Sara growing her own tail? That was something else. That was something annoying e-girls pretended to do back on earth, wearing paw gloves and making stupid faces for attention on TikTok. Sara had never done anything like that. Anytime someone had asked her for something like that, she’d shot them down hard. She might bottom for the right person, but she definitely didn’t wear tails, or make dumb faces, or play along with any of that other weeaboo crap. Even if it was hot, it was demeaning, downright insulting.
That was… that was too far. It was like wearing a tail plug, but even worse. More embarrassing. She just couldn’t. Even if Hurlish told her to. Sara shook her head.
Hurlish sighed. Her hand left Sara’s clit, making her groan in frustration, going to the same desk drawer that she’d dragged Evie’s collar out of. After a bit of fumbling, she pulled out…
Sara’s eyes widened.
A second collar.
They had plenty of them lying around, of course. With Garen’s spell, they’d broken dozens of them. Sara didn’t know why she was surprised Hurlish could have brought two.
With a magical click, the collar fell into place. Sara felt the old familiar rush of warmth spread through her body, making her shiver, but this time the collaring experience was even more extreme. Evie’s cock was so thick that she could feel it bulging her throat out, rubbing against the iron band around Sara’s throat. It made it impossible to ignore just how large it was, just how fucking full Sara was.
Hurlish didn’t waste any time.
“Grow a tail.”
Sara whined, fighting. The broken collars could be resisted. That was part of Garen’s spell: that they weren’t just broken, but couldn’t ever be fixed. If someone truly fought an order, the collar would snap open, forced away from their body.
Sara fought the order. She really did. She didn’t want to look like a needy little cat. She didn’t want to have that tail curling out of her back, just like she’d seen so many times on Evie. She didn’t want the uncontrollable limb to show what she was really thinking, fighting her impulses, giving away her feelings just like it had a million different times for Evie.
Yet the collar didn’t fall away.
A low, long groan fell from Sara’s lips as she felt her body begin to shift, molten lava pooling at the base of her spine. Her skin twisted and grew, magical energies creating shifting, and stretching out entirely new parts of herself as it rearranged her body. Sara had expected to feel it only in the tail itself, but the actual sensation spread all along her lower back, muscle groups pooling with that same burning energy that was rolling up into the air. She groaned as the magic worked its way through her, her pussy clenching even harder around Hurlish. The mere feeling of it all was almost, almost enough to finish her off, but before she could reach that final peak, the process was done.
Pink energies faded, revealing a long, sinuous tail, coated in fur as raven-black as her hair. The limb was incredibly long, proportionally longer than Evie’s, thicker even than Mui’s, more than enough to brush the ground if she had been standing.
But Sara knew enough about how Evie’s tail worked to know it wasn’t going to stay limp enough to fall on the floor. She had a brief flicker of hope that her Blessings would give her greater control of it than Evie possessed, or that she’d subconsciously decided to grow a catfolk’s tail instead of a Feline’s, but that dream didn’t last a single second.
Without any input at all from herself, Sara’s tail lunged to wrap itself around Hurlish’s left bicep, squeezing it with all the strength it had, sliding up and down, sensually caressing her.
Hurlish laughed while Sara moaned. Even that was taking her apart. The mere feeling of her tail rubbing against Hurlish’s skin felt like a tongue running along her labia, not enough to get her off, but more than enough to have her begging for more.
“Why are you stopping?” Hurlish asked. “Come on. You want me to play with your new toy, don’t you? You gotta keep going for that.”
It was only then that Sara realized that she’d frozen with Evie’s cock lodged halfway down her throat. The feline was giving tiny little pumps of her hips, unable to stop herself from seeking the pleasure that couldn’t bring her over the edge, but she wasn’t achieving much with them.
Sara’s face was burning. Her tail was practically fucking molesting Hurlish’s muscles, moving from biceps to forearms, down onto her stomach, tracing every hard line on the woman’s body. For the first time since Sara had come to this world, she couldn’t hide what she was thinking. She fucking loved Hurlish’s body, and her tail was proving it. It couldn’t stop rubbing against Hurlish’s breasts, her abs, even reaching up to curl around her tusks, the last of which had the orc growling in satisfaction.
And it all felt so good to do. Gods, how did Evie even fucking function with this thing? She constantly had it wrapping around Sara’s arms and legs during important meetings, for god’s sake! It was no wonder she was so goddamn horny all the time.
“If you don’t start moving again,” Hurlish warned, pressing her hand to the back of Sara’s head, “I’m gonna start moving for you. Get to work.”
Without much of a choice, Sara obediently dove back down. She was getting more used to Evie’s girth. She reached the bottom quickly, holding herself there for a moment, slipping her long tongue out to wrap around Evie’s balls, wetting them with saliva, then pulled back, groaning as she felt the bulge in her throat press against her collar. Evie’s whine reached a new octave, her cock squeezed even tighter on account of the iron band around Sara’s neck.
Hurlish pulled her fingers from Sara’s sopping pussy, making her groan with disappointment, but only for as long as it took for her hand to land on Sara’s lower back.
Right above her tail.
The rebellious limb spasmed in excitement, abandoning its spot between Hurlish’s breasts to wrap around the woman’s wrist, sliding up and down like it was determined to make up for all the begging Sara was too proud to suffer through.
“See?” Hurlish drawled, turning her hand around to rub her thumb along the fur of Sara’s tail. Sara’s back arched, sparks dancing up her spine as her ass involuntarily shoved itself into the touch. “Isn’t it better when you have to be honest during sex?”
Sara groaned. She couldn’t do anything else. Her entire lower half was melting into molten pleasure, whatever capacity for speech her mind had left stolen away by the cock stuffing her throat full. Hurlish released her head, trusting her to keep bobbing her head on Evie’s cock, and brought her other hand back to Sara’s ass, giving it a playful smack.
“Gods, you look good like this. Making a fucking mess of my pants, though. You two get wetter than any other whores I’ve ever seen.”
Sara’s instinctive protest, that Evie was the only one wearing a collar that said whore on it, couldn’t be voiced. Not without taking the cock out of her mouth long enough to talk, and she couldn’t stomach the thought.
Hurlish’s hand wrapped around Sara’s tail, sliding downward, moving toward the base of her tail. The friction of it was building a static charge in Sara’s body, a crackling energy that was pumping out her tail and shooting up into her back, into her hips, down her legs.
“Oh, yeah. Almost forgot. Sara? You can’t cum until Evie does.”
Before Sara could react to that absurd order, Hurlish shoved two fingers into her sopping cunt and, at the same instant, her curled fist dropped down, squeezing the base of Sara’s tail.
If she hadn’t been stuffed with ten inches of Evie’s throbbing cock, the entire estate would have heard Sara’s cry.
It was so much. Her cunt was stretched almost painfully far, two of Hurlish’s thick fingers more than enough for anyone, but for once, they were almost forgotten in lieu of what she felt elsewhere.
That fucking tail.
The pressure she felt emanating from the base of her spine reminded her of the few times she’d been filled to the brim, toys or cocks in her ass and pussy at the same time, but the sensation was radiating through her body like a bonfire’s heat, liquid delight pumping its way up her back, shooting down her thighs, leaving her a quivering, immobile mess.
Hurlish began to pump her fingers. In and out, in and out, curling right at the deepest point, sending Sara’s ass jumping up into the air, meeting her fist where it was massaging her tail. She wasn’t even moaning. She was whimpering. It was like the entire back half of her body was being massaged by a hundred hands, every muscle unwinding a thousand knots she’d never known she had.
She should have cum on the spot. The sudden attack should’ve sent her sailing through a mind-blowing orgasm, leaving her a quivering, mewling mess, but the collar wouldn’t let her. Every time she tried to throw herself over the edge of climax, Hurlish’s order echoed in her head, dragging her back from blissful oblivion.
Not until Evie cums.
Sara was too far gone to think it through. She didn’t think of what she should be doing. She didn’t care that it literally wasn’t possible to make Evie cum right now, that no matter what she did or how well she did it, only Hurlish could allow them to cum.
She threw herself at the cock in front of her anyway. She let her tongue fall limply out of her mouth, grinding up and down Evie’s shaft every time she pulled her throat back, keeping her length in a slippery, squeezing embrace the entire time. Evie was breathless above her, twisting this way and that like she was in pain, but making the most amazing gasps, beautiful moans of pleasure that only drove Sara deeper onto her cock, chasing more of her precum, more of Hurlish’s fingers, and more, more, more of that feeling at her spine.
Her sense of time was absorbed into the haze of lust, along with a dozen other parts of her better self. The only thing she could think of was Evie’s cock, the only thing she could feel was the grind of her wife’s hands in her pussy, against her tail.
Sara lost herself in the moment. She bobbed on Evie’s cock, throwing her head up and down, finally turning off her gag reflex in order to move as fast as possible. She wrapped her arms around Evie’s waist, dragging her into every thrust. She couldn’t do anything else. She didn’t want to do anything else.
“H-h-hhhh,” Evie gasped. “Hh-Hurlish… p-p-please…”
“What do you want, Kitty?” She asked.
Evie closed her eyes, steeling herself as much as her trembling body would allow. “N-need to… to…!”
“Yeah?”
Evie whined. “Cum! P-please, please, please, let me cum!”
Hurlish’s brief hesitation, a casual moment of contemplation as the wet noises of her fingers pounding into Sara’s pussy filled the air, was the longest moment of Sara’s life.
“Alright. You can cum whenever you want.”
Evie’s hands shot forward faster than the eye could see, landing on the sides of Sara’s head. She began to pump forward, dragging Sara to the base of her cock, holding her there.
Sara did her best to smile up at her, drunk on cock.
Evie’s cock throbbed once. Twice.
Hurlish’s hand slammed down, knuckles digging into the muscles at the base of Sara’s tail, and at the same moment she buried her fingers into Sara’s pussy as far as they could go, curling upward, spreading her open.
Sara fell to pieces. Her climax was utterly silent, her every muscle frozen, so overwhelmed that even her lungs lost the ability to function.
And then Sara tasted it.
Thick, stringy ropes of cum began spilling down Sara’s throat, accompanied by a wailing cry of relief from Evie. She kept thrusting forward, holding Sara in place as she came, and that was it.
Sara had no idea what happened next. Even her Blessings failed her, replaced by heavenly white static, her mind shattering like a thousand stained glass windows. The only thing she would remember later was Hurlish’s voice, whispering huskily.
“Good girl. That’s a good girl. Come on. Let it out. Swallow it all. I know you can. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you? So good. There you go.”
Fingers began to run through her scalp. Scratching and petting. She leant into them.
“Don’t worry about it, alright? Just lay down. It’s alright. Just take a nap for me, alright? You earned it. There you go.”
The sensation of Evie’s cock sliding out of her throat had another aftershock of climax rolling through Sara’s body. A moment later, warmth was surrounding her on all sides. The hand kept stroking through her hair.
“Mm. That’s good. Just lay back, alright? I’ll wake you up in a bit. Let it all go. Just for a little bit.”
That was the last thing Sara remembered.
Notes:
Surprise smut! Not often that I have these without buildup, but damnit, nobody in APPTV had gotten head under a desk and that was a crime. I'm glad I've finally corrected my grievous error.
Chapter 158: B3 Ch45: Accomplished Hunter
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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Deep in the city of Ta-Pet’s underground mazeways, where slogging through ankle-deep water was more common than finding a stretch of dry stone, Evie Brown held a hollow needle to her throat. An unremarkable, flat, weather-worn stone was in her other hand, which she was using to rapidly tap the end of the dye-filled iron tube into her skin. Sara was holding up a piece of shattered mirror– stolen from some noble’s house they had passed on the way down– while Hurlish’s calloused mitt of a hand was drawing their wife’s skin taut, pinching the nape of her neck like a mother cat carrying a kitten.
They were all three working under the supervision of a gnarled old woman, one who was so covered in tattoos that Sara hadn’t the slightest idea what color the skin beneath may have once been. Faded artworks had been endlessly overlaid with new ones, creating a dizzyingly intertwined tapestry of half-defined shapes that flowed from one to the other. Every tattoo she wore was of an animal of a sort, a few familiar to Sara, most not, with each limb and extremity forming the torso of the next creature. The only distinct piece, perhaps because it was newest, was that which ran up her spine, visible when her clothing shifted, showing the edges of a wyvern’s wings spreading from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. It was as if every graffiti artist in Detroit had chosen a single small canvas for all their works, a thousand pieces of art blending into one unfathomably elaborate end product.
When Evie had told Sara that her desire for pregnancy was the result of a misunderstood desire, the mourning of the collar which prominently displayed her attachment to Sara, the idea of a tattoo had been easy to come up with. It was permanent, but didn’t restrict or endanger her. It was locating somewhere to get the damn tattoo that had been hard.
Sara had worked hard to find this place. Even her Blessings had told her nothing of the woman she’d eventually found, who she still didn’t know the name of. Sara had been forced to do things the hard way. In the few hours she had to spend away from Evie every few days, Sara had spent her time whispering, nudging, and cajoling the natives of the city, wearing a hundred different illusory faces. Much like Tulian and Sporatos, the people of the Empire did not wear tattoos. The word itself, despite existing in the Kemari language, was unfamiliar to almost everyone.
Yet Sara had seen tattoos. A few soldiers in the Imperial army had, half-hidden beneath their armors, sported pictorial representations of various monstrous animals. These soldiers were invariably armed with massive longbows, counting themselves amongst the few who were skilled enough with the weapons that General Borek did not mandate they take up muskets instead.
Sara had tried talking to them first, of course. She had been totally stonewalled. No matter what face she wore when she came to her, the moment she asked after their tattoos, they had stared at her in absolute silence. Her Blessings had told her there was, quite literally, nothing she could say to convince them to open up. The words, no matter how many or in what order they were said, did not exist.
Thus, the canvasing. Hours spent nudging the people who seemed to maybe know something, who prickled at the edges of her supernatural senses. Her work had led to this ancient and withered human woman, who Sara was told to meet deep, deep underground.
“Faster,” the living artwork of a woman rasped, her eyes watching Evie’s hands like a hawk. “There. A good speed. Stay at this.”
The tip-tip-tip of stone against iron continued to echo in the damp, lantern-lit cavern. Sara could hear no difference in the rate Evie was tapping, but there clearly was one. A few dozen yards away, the walkway was blocked off by a cave-in. Sara occasionally felt the slightest tremor beneath her feet, as if another collapse was soon in coming. She ignored that in favor of keeping her arms as still as possible, holding the mirror up for Evie’s benefit.
She had wanted to have this be a surprise for her wife. Her first plan had been to give Evie something to knock her out, one of the army’s primitive anesthetics, perhaps, and have her wake up surprised by the image in the mirror, but the people who had pointed Sara this way had warned her against it. Sara didn’t understand it fully, but whatever she’d stumbled across wasn’t anything as simple as a tattoo artist in a society which shunned tattoos. From the moment she’d first spoken to this woman, there had been a crackling tension in the air, nearly physical in the way it filled every breath. There was a deeply important symbolism to the process that Sara didn’t yet fully grasp.
“Too fast, now,” the woman instructed. “Slower. Guide the ink to your skin, give it a place to rest. Place every drop with Intent. Like the apawniea tree. Do not choke the dyes with the growth of their fellows, but do not leave them alone to wither and die. If you wish your skin to flourish, you must know its place.”
A tiny shiver ran down Evie’s spine, as if an icy breeze had raced down the abandoned corridor, but, held firmly in Hurlish’s grip, her neck remained perfectly still.
The tattooed woman had refused to do the work for Evie. She had taken Evie into a separate room from Sara and Hurlish, demanding that their wife swear herself to secrecy, and when Sara had tried to use her Blessings to shift her ears to those of a catfolk, the woman had come bursting through the door, fury in her eyes. That was obviously impressive for several reasons, but most of all because Sara’s efforts hadn’t been achieving the slightest thing. Her ears hadn’t even twitched, much less transformed. She’d only ever managed to change her body’s shape during sex, not for any practical reason, befitting the Skill of a Champion of Amarat. The woman didn’t make the distinction of effort from success, clearly, so Sara had stopped trying.
When they’d emerged, the woman had decreed that the tattoo was not her place to make. Only Evie’s own hand, inexperienced and unaided though it might be, would suffice.
“Stop,” the woman ordered. She held out a wooden, hand-carved bowl, one that was filled to the brim with pitch-black dye. Evie lowered the tip of her needle into the ink, held it for a moment, then pulled back, resuming the staccato tapping of metal into flesh. The flesh that ran behind where Evie had worked was red and inflamed, more than enough so that Sara would have physically assaulted any earthly tattoo artist for their brutality. Evie didn’t, so Sara didn’t, either. Thin lines of blood ran down her wife’s neck on occasion, wetting the collar of her shirt. That was the only time the woman intervened personally. She would lean forward with a threadbare, ragged cloth, firmly dimpling the flesh as she wiped the blood away.
If the strange woman thought anything unusual of Evie’s reaction to pain, which varied from completely ignoring it to enthusiastic embrace, she didn’t say a word. There didn’t seem to be much about the entire process the woman hadn’t seen before. Considering her nearly-ebony skin, that was probably true.
It took hours. They wouldn’t have another chance to come here, and that meant it had to be completed in one go. Occasionally the woman would allow Evie a break for water, but only for brief gulps, and certainly never a long enough rest to eat, even as the hours wore on. Sara had no doubt they were all being missed, up above. Requisition orders were piling up, messages from Tulian were going unreceived, and even Hurlish’s smithy would be falling behind on work that her few army pupils relied heavily on her to complete. They weren’t going to leave until it was done, however.
Evie had said she missed the collar’s signal of who she was to her wives, and the moment Sara had learned that, only the gods could have stopped her from finding a replacement.
Much later, how much later Sara had no idea, the woman called for a stop. Evie reached out, expecting to receive one of her rare sips of water, but was instead handed an unfamiliar flask. Surprised, she looked down to find a small vial of a potion. It resembled a healing potion in color and consistency, but was thicker, sludgier.
“Drink it,” the woman instructed. “If the meaning of the work has truly taken to you, the work will not be undone. If you do not feel certain-”
Evie downed the potion. The woman harrumphed, but did not make an issue of her haste. She leaned back to watch, crossing her arms. Sara and Hurlish also took a step back, curious.
The raw, red flesh that had encircled Evie’s throat was slowly wiped away, fading like a blush in reverse. The black ink specks in her neck seemed to shift with the potion’s advance, dots widening, brightening, colors swirling together.
A minute later, Evie’s neck was cradled by a gentle band once more. A gray ringlet spread to fill the skin which had held her collar once upon a time, then went further, blossoming with color as it crawled up and down her neck.
As the slate-grey iron rose, it began to break apart, tendrils curling as they brightened into the silvery sheen of polished steel. The tattooed collar was peeled apart to become elegant filigrees, twisting and curving into the exact patterning that Hurlish had so long ago used to decorate the handguard of Evie’s rapier. Floral patterns were the smith’s preferred form of flourish, using roses, orchids, and fluer-de-lis to indicate the works she was particularly proud of. Many people thought that every sword or musket smithed by the famed Hurlish of Tulian was equal in quality, but that wasn’t so. It was only when something was marked with those steel flowers that she considered it a weapon to be truly proud of, a blade worthy of being called art. Evie was now embraced by those same steel flowers. Of her wife, Hurlish of Tulian believed two things without reservation. The first was that Evie Brown was an unparalleled wonder, a work of art itself, her very form a singing inspiration for all to aspire to, a thousand times over deserving of Hurlish’s personal mark. The second?
That Evie Brown was, without doubt, the finest weapon Hurlish had ever laid hands on.
The underside of the dull collar, in contrast to its upper half, did not brighten. The grey there rapidly shifted and spread, darkening into brewing clouds of purple smoke. Now healed by the potion, the tattoo seemed to have gained an impossible depth. Harsh lines of stark pink set the boundaries of murky purple fog, lit within by hidden flashes of crimson lightning. It was a rendition of the smoke that rolled off Sara’s body in battle, now permanently etched into Evie’s skin. Not as a simple mark of association or ownership, but a promise. A threat, almost. Strikingly beautiful at a distance, yes, but if you were lucky enough to study it up close, the image seemed to shift and swell, unnervingly… alive. Beneath the obvious beauty was a design which, upon study, prodded at the same instinctual fear some distant ancestor must have felt when they stumbled upon a den of venomous snakes. It evoked the same sinking fear and awful revulsion that rose up in the belly when once was met by a thousand evil hisses and a thousand eyes glittering with lethal malice, daring any to approach what could only be certain death. Evie had been marked. Claimed. To challenge her, for someone unfit to place a collar upon her once more, was to invite the thundering wrath of a Divine Champion.
Evie stared at herself in the mirror. Her exhausted hand trembled as she reached up, sliding one finger along the tattoo.
“I… did not have the skill to make this,” she half-whispered, her words as distracted as they were awestruck.
“You held the needle,” the old woman said as she began to pack away her supplies. Wooden bowls were placed into tanned leather bags, iron and stone bumping and clicking in the echoing corridor. “You worked the art. That your body took it well is no less your accomplishment than it is when your legs steady you through swift water.”
“Is there anything we should do for the tattoo?” Sara asked. If it hadn’t been for what had come to life on Evie’s skin, she would have been asking after the usual concerns. Keeping it covered, maintaining cleanliness, things like that. Looking at it now, there was clearly something… more to it. Unnatural, certainly, maybe even outright magical. Some Skill or spell that the ink-dipped woman had discretely employed, Sara could only assume.
“The ink has taken,” the woman declared, straightening as she slung her bag over a shoulder. “Care for the girl, not the work. A strange thing, she is.” The woman looked at Evie, who was still sitting before the mirror, transfixed by her tracing of the tattoo’s lines. The woman turned back to Sara and Hurlish, sticking out her gummy, toothless jaw. “You wonder who I am, I am sure. What I do. I will tell you this. When I was young, when I first held the needle in my hand, my gods came to me, telling me that my work is to be meant for the lonely hunters of great and terrible beasts. That it would be my duty to commemorate and prove their magnificent conquests.” The woman jerked her head towards Evie’s neck.
Her lips split into a toothy grin, the first crack on her stony face. “It is rare that the hunter brings their conquests with them, and rarer still that their prey still lives. I have seen deadlier prey, true, but stranger? No, not at all, I think. A strange, strange girl.”
With that, the tattooed woman turned and left. The echoing tunnel, one which had announced each and every one of Sara’s splashing footsteps, was silent at her passing.
Evie stood, taking the mirror from Sara’s hand so she could turn this way and that, inspecting from every angle the tattoo that now claimed more of her neck than any collar ever had. If she’d paid attention to a thing the woman had said as she left, she showed no signs of it.
“I truly didn’t have the skill to do this. It did not look nearly so fine before the healing potion.”
“Didn’t look like a normal potion,” Hurlish said, reaching out to swipe a thumb across Evie’s neck. There was no smudging, and her skin was completely free from irritation. “I bet it helped things along.”
“Still, it is…” Evie trailed off, adjusting how she held the mirror.
“I take it you like it?” Sara asked, grinning.
“Of course. I had heard of the tattooing practice before, even seen it on a few dignitaries from exceptionally foreign lands, but I never considered it to be used in such a manner.”
“Not worried that the purple is gonna leave people thinking you’re bruised?”
“Perhaps if they are blind they could make the mistake.” Evie extended the claw of her index finger, tracing the bold black line which served as the border of a purple thundercloud. “I will have to have my dresses altered to accommodate for it.”
“Why?” Hurlish asked. “It wouldn’t fuck up the colors. The dresses would cover most of the purple. ”
“Mm,” Evie hummed. “Precisely.”
Sara tossed a smile at Hurlish. Evie was enamored with her own appearance, a dreamy expression on her face. It was the first time either of them had seen that expression on Evie’s face when she was looking at herself, instead of one of them. Sara let her enjoy it for a few minutes more, but had to speak up regretfully soon.
“Alright, we’re gonna have to get going. Sorry to say it, but we’ve got a lot of crap to do.” This was the last day the army was spending in Ta-Pet.
“Of course,” Evie murmured, letting her gaze linger a moment longer on the broken mirror before finally setting it aside. She blinked several times, as if surprised to find herself still in a waterlogged tunnel.
“Let’s hope I can remember the way out of here,” Sara mumbled, taking the lead.
“We’ll run into some people eventually,” Hurlish said. “Then you can just follow the talking to know your way around.” She chuckled. “Bullshit Champion powers.”
Evie silently filed in behind Sara, in front of Hurlish. Though the short woman was forced to high-step her way through the water even more than her wives, she still seemed distracted. She kept rubbing at her neck, a little shiver running through her every time. It was an ostentatious, gaudy tattoo, but she clearly loved it.
Even with gods-knew-how-many tasks doubtlessly piling up in her absence, Sara considered the day an unmitigated success.
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Tinvel
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“TCA requesting two,” Tinvel said into the crystal. It was held in a brass bowl that he was cupping over his mouth, to keep out the howling wind. He put it to his ear, awaiting the response.
The crystal communication network the Governess had created was an incredible innovation. One of the rare few inventions throughout history that were the product of someone looking at a tool that already existed, was widely known and its potential thought to be fully explored, and saying to themselves hey, why has nobody been doing it like this?
It wasn’t as if the Governess had actually invented anything herself, nor stumbled upon some grand idea. She’d simply come up with an idea that made everyone else look stupid. In Old Tulian, being bestowed a communication crystal by the King meant no less than the fact that you had direct access to the King, something that was in many ways more valuable than a dukedom. They were rare, treasured things, meant to be bestowed as a reward to the nobility’s most loyal followers, and that was the way it had always been. Sara Brown, however, having never been exposed to the culture surrounding communication crystals, saw them as just another tool, and it was through that lens that she came upon what should have been an obvious innovation:
Just toss them in a pile and let everyone talk to each other.
It was more complicated than that, of course. The central sphere of enchanted metal and wood had been created using magical interlinkages and Intent-sharing enchantments of such complexity that even Tinvel barely grasped them, but the core idea was still laughably simple. Put them next to each other so you can hear what noise another crystal was making. When the secret eventually got out, Tinvel couldn’t imagine how many master artificers across the world would be disgusted with themselves for being so wrapped up in their preconceptions the idea never came to them first.
Unfortunately, the ability to have the entire upper echelons of a city-state’s government linked together was proving almost too much of a novel miracle. The crystal network could easily be overloaded, the harmonics of too many voices created dangerous feedback loops, a worst-case scenario theoretically allowing for the violent self-destruction of all the crystals involved. That disaster had already been narrowly avoided on at least one occasion. Not because of any particularly ostentatious event, but simply because too many people tried to reply to one person’s innocuous question at once. A quick-thinking tender of the network, seeing the crystals beginning to tremble violently, had physically ripped the cables apart with their bare hands, bloodying themselves terribly in the process. Tinvel always wondered what they thought, knowing their heroics had been prompted by the Minister of Steelworks asking if anyone knew whether the fish markets had any good purikechi left.
It was a sobering event for all involved. The amount of spellwoven energy contained within even a single communication crystal was roughly equal to one of the army’s bursting cannon shells. The same shells that had killed a dozen Sporaton spearmen with a single shot. Not only would the central network’s detonation in Tulian have annihilated a solid chunk of the Artificer Union’s lower levels, the paired crystals had nearly burst in the pockets or hands of every important person across Tulian’s government. It would have been a coup of a magnitude King Sporatos could only dream of.
Thus, the introduction of a strict communication code. The crystals had been taken out of the hands of ministers and generals, who clearly couldn’t be trusted to use them properly, and given to specially trained individuals, who were assigned to them as staff. Professor Brown had coined the term “crystal jockey” for the trained users, after the way they had to fight to tame a system determined to maim its users. Being the pilot of a two-seater plane, Tinvel obviously couldn’t have a ‘crystal jockey’ with him, so he’d been forced to learn their codes for himself.
It was fairly simple, once Tinvel had been allowed to understand the underlying limits of the crystal network. In his case, Tinvel’s message, “TCA req two” could be translated into “Tinvel-Chona Aerocraft requesting two minutes to speak.” Easy to understand for now, but it wasn’t always. He could have added more modifiers, like an M for Military, or even something specific like MSR for Military Scout Report, but he didn’t use them in this instance. The crystal jockeys at the central nexus, collectively referred to as “central”, were a team of people listening to the network that noted every transmission throughout the day, so he’d omitted the extra details, trusting them to understand who his message should be routed to. That was the first tenant of the new system: less is more. The shorter every individual message was, the more information that could be pumped through the system each day.
“TCA granted two minutes,” a clipped voice finally responded. Tinvel took a deep breath, sorting his thoughts into neatly sliced categories before speaking.
“Our current position is approximately ninety miles north of the capital,” he reported, pausing for a moment to double-check his rough map of the Tulian coastline. “Still no sign of the reported Sporaton Navy vessels. Only a few isolated ships-”
“Three!” Chona called out over the wind.
“Three isolated ships,” Tinvel quickly corrected, “none of which appeared militant in design. Despite reaching and exceeding the area of the claimed sighting, no evidence of Sporaton magecraft approaching the capital has been found. Energy levels are sufficient for…” Tinvel leaned forward and touched the engine’s crystals, judging their levels once more. It was a tricky thing, translating magical impressions of the shifting ephemera into concrete measurements. “...a half hour of further recon, but it is TCA’s current opinion that nothing further is warranted. If no orders to the contrary are received, we will begin our return within five minutes. Message complete.”
Tinvel shifted the crystal back to his ear, setting a mental timer for five minutes. General Voth (technically General of the Sky Voth now, but he was petitioning to have his title changed to something less dramatic) had sent them up the northern coastline on the word of a harried crew of sailors that had slid into port the night before. A fisherman’s vessel, being freshly built to Professor Brown and Admiral Nora’s new hydrodynamic standards, had claimed to have spent the entirety of the last day and more retreating back to Tulian, trying desperately to outrace the magecraft they imagined to be nipping at their heels. They claimed to have been fishing the less-traveled waters of the Tulian-Sporaton border when they were suddenly accosted by a forest of military masts, describing a fleet line which included a number of ships matching known Sporaton magecraft designs.
The claim had been a bomb tossed into the middle of Tulian’s government. By the time a chaotic and confused report finally reached the newly-formed Air Force, it was nearing morning. Tinvel and Chona had been roused from sleep by none other than Voth himself, who ordered them to have the Sunrise ready to fly at first light.
As more information had come in, all the way up until they were frantically working to clear the street for takeoff, Tinvel had grown less certain that the claim was worth investigating. The ship’s captain was already under suspicion for fishing so far out of the safer waters of central Tulian, and the cracks in their story only widened under investigation. The sighting had been a day and a half earlier, near sunset, and the captain described seeing ships in deeper water than he, to the east, where they would have been shadowed in darkness rather than backlit by the falling sun. The captain also claimed that he was a fishing vessel, despite the fact that he’d come back with empty nets and a deck free of any of the usual blood or caked layer of fish scales. Further, only large and valuable fish were worth traveling two days out of Tulian for, and by the Captain’s story, he’d been near the coast, not in the deeper waters where such animals lived.
Evidence against the sighting had kept piling up. By the time Tinvel and Chona were in the air, he was convinced they might as well turn around and set back down. General Voth had ordered them onward, however, so onward they went.
“I still think it’s bullshit that we’re up here,” he said to Chona. “We’ve got better things to be doing than chasing some mad captain’s delusions.”
“At least we’re flying,” Chona said back. “And besides, I still think it was worth checking out.”
Tinvel and Chona were chatting through the third edition of the Sunrise’s speaking tube, and he could hear her almost as well as he could have before takeoff. This was the newest version’s inaugural flight, and it was proving to be the leap in capability he’d been searching for. His initial idea, to create a wind-blocking enchantment, had been an abject failure. The wind was defined by its ability to weave, bend, and slip past obstacles. As if the wind itself had been eager to make a mockery of his hubris, trying to create a solid barrier against it had actually worsened the noise. That was why he’d created a new enchantment to attract still air, encouraging it to gather inside the hose. He’d had low hopes for it before taking off after its poor performance on the ground, but it had proved shockingly effective in actual flight. His working theory to explain the discrepancy was that, while there were far more places down low for still air to coalesce, finding shelter from its boisterously windy sibling was near impossible at altitude. Once gathered, the puddle of still, dense air created a more effective barrier against wind than any direct enchantment could ever manage. That the mask constantly smelled like a musty basement was a downside, but one he could happily deal with.
“What even is there to believe?” He asked Chona. “One captain claimed to see an entire fleet of magecraft, but of course he and his crew are the only witnesses, and naturally no other ship has come in to report it.” Tinvel scoffed. “And he said he was fishing. On the border. Without a single fish in his hold. The guy’s a smuggler for sure. I don’t know if he’s smuggling things out of Tulian into Sporatos or the other way around, but he was definitely up to something. ”
“The fact that he sailed in to report it when he’s probably breaking the law makes him more likely to be telling the truth, not less,” Chona argued. “If he’s risking getting arrested to report what he saw, I’m betting he at least believes it, even if he’s wrong. Besides–”
“AGV req one to TCA,” a voice said over the crystal. Tinvel recognized it as the crystal jockey assigned to Voth, and held up his hand to tell Chona he was listening for something.
“AGV granted one minute, go ahead,” the central nexus’s commander said.
“TCA, continue scouting within the limits of your range. You’re already out there, might as well be thorough. Make sure to leave energy reserves for the return flight. Message over.”
Tinvel rolled his eyes, pocketing the crystal. Of course Voth would want them to keep searching. He went on and on about how important aeroplanes would be for reconnaissance, but hardly stopped to consider how much more Tinvel could be achieving when he wasn’t out chasing ghosts. Turning around to complain about the orders to Chona, he opened his mouth to speak.
Only to leave it hanging there, half-open and silent.
He’d caught Chona leaning back in her seat, fingers interlaced and raised high over her head, her eyes scrunched up as she stretched as best she could in the cramped cockpit. The day was hot enough that she’d forgone her flight jacket, leaving her svelte black fur glistening in the morning light like a black cat caught in a dusty sunbeam. Her fur was less of an obstacle than usual, pulled tight like a bowstring and pressed further down by the wind, highlighting the sweeping lines of the body it usually hid. She was wearing a green chest wrap today, two layers of dyed cloth that were fluttering in the wind, pressed equally tight to her chest, showing the curve of–
Tinvel’s head whipped back around, staring directly at the skyline ahead. He pursed his lips, resisting the urge to tap his foot nervously.
“Voth wants us to keep searching,” he said, almost mechanically. “We’ve got another twenty-five minutes to look. Keep an eye out.”
“Ugh,” she huffed, collapsing from her stretch. “You need to get some of those binoculars Professor Brown was talking about inventing. I’m tired of being the only one on lookout duty.”
“I’m busy flying the plane.”
“Oh, come on. You could do that blindfolded by now,” she said dismissively.
Though he normally would have kept bickering, Tinvel didn’t respond. He was too busy working through his thoughts. He was too distracted by the pit in his stomach that had formed when he’d caught Chona stretching, then caught himself staring at her stretching.
Gods, it was weird. So weird. He’d thought Chona was joking when she first asked him out. Or… pranking him, he supposed. Why else would she ask him out on a date? When it had taken her a while to show up, he’d almost left, assuming the joke was that she’d sent him off to get ignored. Even once she did show up, he’d still been convinced it was a prank. He’d spent most of the first half of the day bracing for impact, and by the time he’d realized she really wasn’t screwing with him, they were already at the armory, which had been distracting enough to let him forget the implications of… everything else.
Actually, he’d started off even more confused than that. He’d mostly agreed to the date because he wasn’t sure what Chona was asking for. Seriously. A “date.” He hadn’t even know what that was. He had no idea how Chona had heard the word used like that. He’d had to ask around, and plenty of other people didn’t know what it meant, at least beyond the idea of a “date on the calendar.” It wasn’t until Professor Brown had overheard him that he was told it was probably a term people had picked up from the Governess, to describe a certain part of courting. It was the word for when two people went out to socialize with the intention of seeing if they could be in a romantic relationship, tentatively feeling out their compatibility.
It had been a few days since that date, and he still didn’t really know what he was supposed to be doing. It seemed like they’d gotten farther apart, oddly enough. At least in some ways. Physically, absolutely. The projects he and Chona worked on together often had them in tight confines, trying to see the same tiny enchantment or notebook or whatever, which meant their arguments traditionally included plenty of shoving, elbow jabs, and shoulder checks.
The day after their date, Chona was working on something and asked him a question. Instead of shuffling over to her desk and leaning over her shoulder like usual, Tinvel had been struck by a profoundly uncomfortable indecision. He’d hovered a foot away, unable to see a thing, until he’d eventually asked her to hand it to him so he could look for himself.
Chona… wasn’t quite like that. She still got up close. But she’d stopped being rough about it, no longer jabbing or shoving. Now she just… stood. Close. Her fur up against his clothes, sometimes even against his skin. In his mind’s eye, Tinvel could still feel how warm that silky black fur could be. He’d learned that when she’d been in direct sunlight for a while, it became uncomfortably hot to the touch. Almost painful, in fact.
He never asked her to step away.
They hadn’t done anything… else. Since that first evening, when Chona had… kissed him. Which was a memory that caused his stomach to do flips, even now. Her soft lips against his, pressing inward for no longer than it took him to blink in shock. He could still see her quick retreat, tail flicking all around her, pumping up and down like he’d only seen when she won a competition between the University’s mages. He didn’t think she’d even known she was doing it. Her furious shouting of “fuck off!” had been severely undercut by her tail’s painfully obvious victory dance.
Which was maybe the strangest part of it all. That Chona seemed happy to have done… that, with him. He didn’t know why that would be. They argued constantly, having nearly come to blows several times during the early months since they met one another, yet she seemed happy. And Tinvel was, too? He thought he was, at least. The idea of doing that again, of kissing Chona for a second time, filled him with so many flaring emotions that he couldn’t even tell how he felt about it. And if he had to initiate it himself? Was that what she was waiting for? He didn’t think he could–
“FUCK!”
Tinvel jerked, rattling the whole plane.
“What?!” He screamed at Chona.
“Look! Fucking hells, that bastard wasn’t lying!”
Tinvel followed her pointing finger to the horizon. As usual, he couldn’t see a damn thing. Maybe a few smudges if he really squinted, but he could easily be imagining them.
“Give me a heading,” he demanded.
“Three o’clock. Bit further. There, perfect. Keep it straight and level.”
Tinvel started to get the communication crystal out of his pocket, readying to report that they’d found Sporaton ships, but stopped himself. A big fleet like would be required for an invasion would be tied down by slow supply transports, which meant they’d easily take another day or more to reach Tulian. A few minutes wouldn’t make a difference, but causing a panic with inaccurate information would.
“I think they’re…” Chona trailed off, sounding confused.
“What?”
“I think they’re heading north,” she said. “I mean, it’s hard to tell from here, but it seems like it.”
“Let’s keep going, then.”
“Think there’s any danger in it?”
“Not unless they’ve got a spell that can reach five thousand feet, no.”
They approached the fleet at cruise speed, not combat speed, preserving their dwindling energy reserves. That still gave them a blistering hundred-plus miles an hour of advantage over the plodding ships. What started as uncertain smudges to Tinvel’s eyes soon resolved into a line of dots, then into a loose pile of sticks, until eventually, at a mile or so away, he could distinguish the full spread of white sails and the ships they propelled.
And they were going north.
“The hells?” Tinvel muttered, tipping a wing as he began to circle. Tiny figures were roving around on the decks of the ships, pointing at the Sunrise as they, for whatever good they thought it would do, began putting out extra sail. He supposed magecraft cews weren’t used to being chased by something faster than them.
“Why are they going north?” Chona asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe they turned around when they saw us?”
“I don’t think they could do it that fast, even if they’re all magecraft,” Chona said. “And look. They are all magecraft!”
Tinvel had already been appreciating that baffling detail. There were fifteen ships in the miniature fleet, and all of them had the distinctive lines of magecraft. Tinvel was no sailor, but even someone who’d never seen the ocean could tell these weren’t normal vessels. Their hulls were so shallow that they seemed to barely graze the tips of the waves, long poles sprouting out of their sides to act as stabilizing pontoons. He had no idea how fast they were traveling, since they looked practically stationary from the Sunrise, but they were each trailing a white, foamy wake. The other, slower ships he’d seen from the air didn’t do that. Every one of those ships could run literal rings around even the fastest ships of the Tulian Navy.
“It’s not an invasion fleet,” he decided aloud, suddenly certain. “So what the hells are they doing here?”
“How do you know they aren’t? If you have that many damn magecraft in one place, what else are you doing with them?”
Tinvel shook his head. “Look at how many people are on the decks. A hundred, maybe, at best. That’s everyone they can carry. Professor Garen has talked about magecraft before, and he said they trade off so much for speed that they only have enough room below the main deck for people to crouch-walk to a sleeping hammock, so everyone spends their time up top. Fifteen ships, that’s fifteen hundred soldiers at best. Unless every single one of those dots is a Knight in enchanted armor, they couldn’t take Tulian from the militia, much less the Army.”
“So what the hells are they doing here?” Chona asked, confused. Then, with a grin he could hear, “What do you think boiling thermite does to a wooden ship?”
“What? No! Chona, they have mages, too. And we put just enough boiling thermite in the tanks to not have to worry about adjusting the trim!”
“But if we come in fast, faster than they’re ready for, they can’t prepare. There’s no way they have experience trying to cast a spell at something as fast as–”
“Chona, they’re full mages! Battle mages, trained at entire universities built just for war! They’d tear you apart!”
“But if we dive-bombed-”
Tinvel popped the control stick to the right, swinging the nose around until they were aiming southward.
“No. No, for real this time,” he said, raising his voice. “If we get blown out of the air by a lightning bolt in the middle of that fleet, we’re dead at best. We’ve got to get back and report.”
“But-”
“If that fleet really is coming for Tulian, we’ll be fighting them, too. Probably the first of anyone! I bet Voth will want to send every plane we have after them. You remember what Professor Brown said about the Battle of Midway! If we get enough in the air, planes can kill ships all day long. Give me a minute, I’m going to make the report.”
Chona cursed a few times, but fell quiet. She knew he was right. Keeping one hand on the control stick, Tinvel struggled to draw the communication crystal out, frustration building as he unsnagged the unwieldy cupped brass mouthpiece from the cloth pocket.
The moment he did, however, Central’s voice came through. “...non-military transmission for minimum six hours. Central to TCA, urgent.”
“This is TCA,” Tinvel said, eyes widenting in surprise. What was that about the military?
“Message from AGV to TCA. Return at maximum possible speed. Sauvin’s blackpowder mill suffered what appears to be a catastrophic detonation. Number of injured are unknown, but assumed high. The shockwave was felt across the capital. Be prepared to switch geodes upon arrival and begin ferrying healers to the site. All other available pilots are already engaged in this task. Message complete.”
Tinvel pulled the crystal off his ear to stare at it in shock. A blackpowder mill blowing up? Tulian only had two! He’d known it was a risk, everyone did, that’s why they weren’t built anywhere near the city, but the amount of safety precautions those buildings had was absurd! Tinvel had personally helped the Artificer’s Union meet the demand of enchanted flame-repellent planks that had been ordered for the powder mills. Sure, blackpowder barrels would obviously explode if they were exposed to fire, but there shouldn’t have ever been an open flame within a quarter mile of the storage areas.
“TCA to AGV, req… uh, I guess two?” The instant the audibly hesitant words left his lips, Tinvel winced. He was already getting thrown off his game.
There was a brief wait as someone else’s message was put through, something about difficulties locating healers that were widely spread throughout the city, and then he was given the go-ahead. He took a deep breath.
“TCA confirming presence of Sporaton magecraft in Tulian waters, approximately…” he cursed, doing quick math with the glass-covered map attached to the left side of his cockpit. Gods bless Professor Brown’s lessons. “A hundred and ten miles north of the capital. Visually identified and confidently confirmed as a fleet of fifteen, that is one-five, magecraft. The fleet was heading north. Please confirm clear reception of last statement. The Sporaton fleet was heading north. Repeat, northward, away from capital. Message complete.”
There was a brief, shocked silence before Central responded.
“TCA… message received clearly. Sporaton fleet, fifteen magecraft, heading north, away from Tulian. Message complete.”
Messages began to fly fast almost immediately afterwards, the network humming with various jockeys transmitting their attaché’s requests for further information. The crystal vibrated ominously in Tinvel’s hand for a moment, but quickly stilled. The sudden influx was exactly what the new system had been designed to handle, and it seemed to have taken it well.
As he began tipping the plane’s nose downward, seeking the thicker pressure which would give their prop a firmer bite on the air, he began filling Chona in on what had happened. Her reaction was similar to his own. Shock and horror, mostly, then incredibility that it could happen. The Governess and Professor Brown had warned them over and over again about the dangers of industrialization, but it had always been an abstract, historical concern. They were implementing the right rules from the start, so no one really thought it could all go so horribly wrong.
Apparently not. And with the Sporaton fleet now in apparent retreat, as if its mission were complete, suspicions were already beginning to brew.
Things were about to get very, very complicated.
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The entire street outside the aerodrome was locked up, guards placing temporary barriers to hold back the crowds. For only the second or third time since they’d been revealed to the public, there were multiple aeroplanes in the skies over Tulian, and the people were eager to see them in action. There wasn’t the same jubilant mood that the crowd might have otherwise had, what with the towering smoke cloud visible even now as a smudge on the horizon, but their interest in such a unique experience trumped even that.
It was a new experience for Tinvel, too. For the first time in his flying career, he had to wait for an opportunity to land. Two aerocraft had touched down a minute or so before he’d arrived, forcing him to wait until they were wheeled off the street into the aerodrome. The mules usually required to move them were replaced by teams of city guards pushing hard on their wings and fuselage.
“Can’t they go any damn faster?” He muttered.
“Told you that combat speed to get back sooner was a stupid idea. We’d be crash landing right now if you hadn’t held back.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, winging over to continue his impatient orbiting of the landing zone.
At that exact moment, Tinvel knew that Tulian only had a grand total of six operational aerocraft. They could have had a lot more, and in fact technically did, but there weren’t enough pilots to put all the extras in the air at once. People with the artificery skills required to operate the finicky aeroplane engines were in far too much demand, however, and few people in charge were willing to weaken other industries to let them get trained up on something so experimental. Sorting out that political mess was yet another thing that creating a formal Air Force was supposed to help resolve.
Those future pilots couldn’t do anything to help today. The only help would come in the five other university students who were trained on the aeroplanes.
Even as the two planes were still turning into the aerodrome, Tinvel began his descent. The crowd underneath the Sunrise roared so loudly in excitement that he could easily hear them over the wind, a sea of hands reaching up to wave him on. It felt like the entire city of Tulian had come out to watch the healers get ferried toward the disaster zone.
“Do you know many people work at the blackpowder mill?” Tinvel asked as he guided them down.
“No,” Chona said. “A couple hundred, maybe more? We’re making a lot of damn blackpowder. I heard Professor Brown say the other day that the Empire is still losing their asses paying our southern mill to make up for their slow production. so it’s gotta be a big operation.”
“That many, you think?” The Sunrise’s wheels hit the street– the old teeth-rattling cobblestones now paved over by fresh concrete– and Tinvel cut the engine, beginning the process of letting them coast to a stop.
“It’s gotta be a lot of people hurt bad if they’re doing all this,” Chona said. “They could have got there on foot in a few hours if it wasn’t so urgent. Not to mention that a lot of those people are the only ones in Tulian that have real experience making blackpowder.”
Tinvel feathered the wheel brakes, slowing by degrees. As he passed the entrance to the aerodrome, he hit the right brake hard, swinging the Sunrise straight into the shade of the hangar. The planes he was used to seeing were gone, save for the two who were being wheeled over to begin the laborious process of unloading the amethyst geode which powered their engines.
“I want to get there fast,” Tinvel said as he slid into the Sunrise’s bay, slamming hard on the left brake to spin them in a circle that killed the last of their speed, leaving the nose pointed at the aerodrome’s massive sliding doors. “We need to figure out what happened soon.”
Chona hopped out before the plane fully stopped, jogging towards a geode-carrying cart that was being brought over by a city guard who looked very out of their depth. “Why?” She called out over her shoulder. “What’s there to figure out? Some dumbass lit a pipe next to a powder keg. Not hard to guess.”
“I think you’re right. But after we reported those Sporaton ships?” Tinvel grunted as he stretched to reach under the instrument panel, clicking open the latches which held the geode in place. “That’s not what people are going to be thinking.”
Chapter 159: B3 Ch46: Ass Out of You and Me
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Tinvel
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The powder mill wasn’t hard to find. All Tinvel had to do was follow the thousand-foot column of bubbling smoke. It bent as it rose to meet the clouds, dragged into a sweeping curve by the prevailing winds, the tail end of a spiral that seemed to lead to…
Nothing.
Behind him, even over the wind, he heard his and Chona’s passenger begin to retch.
Sauvin’s blackpowder mill was– had– been the second of Tulian’s two ammunition facilities to be constructed, and it was far more modern-looking for it. Rebar-reinforced concrete had formed a cage around and over a swift-flowing river, waterwheels and windmills jutting from white boxes in strategic locations, those traditional power sources juxtaposed by the exhaust vents of crystal-powered steam engines. A firmly-packed dirt road marched out of a loading dock that abutted the river, with some shipments being marched overfoot to Tulian, while larger deliveries floated down the river to eventually skate down the coast into the capital’s harbor. Tinvel had flown over it several times, and he could still remember the starkly painted lines the Governess and Professor Brown had demanded. Yellow arrows and boldly demarcated signage had once directed traffic in and out of the powder mill, with the road and river both containing guardhouses that inspected any visitors for so much as a thimble of flint which might strike a spark. Professor Brown had told them that his home’s powder mills suffered explosions twice or more a year. He had been determined to not set the same example.
It hadn’t worked.
The powder mill was gone. What remained was a charred, smoking stretch of land, as if a festering cyst had been burst. The river swirled and pooled in the crater which dented the landscape, creating a wide blot in the center of what once was a straight-running flow. The green water darkened to black as it swept through the site of Sauvin’s powder mill, carrying dirt and debris downstream, an infected vein that now disfigured the fields. The central, gargantuan pillar of smoke wasn’t alone. There were hundreds of smaller wisps of burning somethings scattered in every direction, sparking grassfires wherever they landed. By Tinvel’s rough reckoning, chunks of concrete and wood had been hurled for well over a mile by the force of the explosion.
The mill itself was largely obscured by the smoke, yet as they flew closer, he began to pick out details. Two planes were landed nearby, using the dirt road as a strip of runway, and he couldn’t see their crews anywhere near. They were probably one of the innumerable figures crawling over the wreckage, moving with the utmost of urgency.
As the Sunrise began to descend, Tinvel heard the retching sound again. He turned around to look.
Professor Brown was clutching the side of the plane, neck bent and face turned opposite the wind. He was vomiting properly now, bile burst into mist by the wind to slap wetly against the Sunrise’s canvas side. Chona, who was forced to sit in Professor Brown’s lap by her own insistence that Tinvel would never fly without her, had a gruesome look on her face. She looked ready to crawl out onto the wing rather than remain anywhere near their puking professor.
By the time Tinvel and Chona had returned to Tulian, most of the city’s available healers had set off on foot for Sauvin’s powder mill. As the closest thing Tulian had to an engineering expert, save perhaps the Governess herself, Professor Brown was the only person in hundreds of miles who was qualified to investigate what had happened. The sooner he arrived, he’d clinically explained, as if in the middle of a University lecture, the less altered the disaster site would be by the recovery efforts. If they wanted to get the truth, it was critical that he begin inspecting it as quickly as possible.
Professor Brown clearly hadn’t been ready for the reality of it. His shoulders were trembling violently between bouts of vomiting, his skin shaded an unhealthy, corpse-like grey. Tinvel couldn’t imagine what the man was feeling. Sauvin’s powder mill had been designed by Professor Brown almost single-handedly, from the ground-up, all with the goal of preventing exactly what had just happened. Being confronted with the eye-watering scent of the smoking corpses his failure had left must be… something Tinvel almost couldn’t fathom. A few months ago, before Hunes and Docks, Tinvel wouldn’t have had even an inkling of that sensation.
He set the Sunrise down as gently as he could, occasionally pulsing the engine back to life in order to skim as far along the dirt road as he dared. When they finally puttered to a stop some few hundred yards away from the ruined crater, Chona flung herself overboard. The scent of burnt powder was far worse on the ground, and Professor Brown had begun to heave again.
Tinvel secured the Sunrise while he waited for the last remnants of the Professor’s meal to be spewed down the side of the Sunrise.
That stomach acid is going to mess up the canvas, isn’t it?
Tinvel shook his head. Not the time to be thinking about that.
“I’m… I’m alright,” Professor Brown panted. “I just… oh, god, I can’t believe it.” He spat. “Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.”
Tinvel didn’t know what that meant, but it wasn’t hard to guess. He moved around to one of the Sunrise’s pontoons, grabbing the ladder from the stowage space and setting it against the airframe. A sixty-year-old, three hundred pound man couldn’t hop in and out of the plane like he and Chona could.
Professor Brown grabbed the top rung with a nod of thanks, still breathing hard.
“Okay. I’m okay. We need to get over there. God. Can either of you cast healing spells? Go ahead without me, if you can.”
Tinvel and Chona shared a look. Professor Brown attended the same Garen-led spellcrafting lessons that they did. He should have known perfectly well that none of the University’s students had ever healed more than a scratch.
“Come on,” Tinvel said, grabbing a hold of his shirt to help haul him out of the seat. “We’re here with you. Pretty sure your daughter would kill us if anything happened to you.”
“Yeah,” he panted, stopping to swallow another retch as he swung his feet onto the ladder. “Yeah, you really shouldn’t let me get hurt. It, uh. It wouldn’t be good for you.”
Behind the Professor’s back, Chona raised an eyebrow at Tinvel. That wasn’t the frank admission they expected from him, either. Everyone knew the Governess had a temper befitting a Champion of Amarat, but it wasn’t something you were supposed to talk about.
Once he was on solid ground, Professor Brown spent a few moments collecting himself. Then, with a deep, intentionally slowed breath, he squared his shoulders.
“Okay. Let’s go. Remember, don’t get in the way of anyone helping people out.”
Chona cast a doubtful look at the shattered building. “Are there even going to be any survivors?”
“Yes. Yes, there will be,” Professor Brown said, with more conviction than Tinvel thought reasonable. “Blasts like this can be bizarre. You would be shocked how many people can survive. Not…” he swallowed. “...not many. But more than you’d expect. With the Oklahoma City bombing…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Well, no. That’s a bad example. There’s no floors to collapse here like there was there. But the point is, explosive pressure is strange. If some people were around the right corners, or in the basement, or sheltered by debris from early explosions before the big one, they could have survived the initial blast.”
“Good,” Tinvel said. “We’ll need to talk to them.”
“Yes,” Professor Brown agreed. “Yes, finding some witnesses should be our first priority. God, I hope there are some.”
“Pretty sure whoever lit the fire isn’t going to be one of the lucky survivors,” Chona said. “We’re probably breathing in whatever’s left of them.”
“If they were standing right over the powder when they lit it, sure,” Tinvel said. “But that’s not what we’re worried about.”
“No,” Professor Brown agreed. “No, as bad as it sounds, we’ve got to hope that this really was an accident. People are already talking. If we find evidence of a fuse, or witnesses say someone broke in, or if there’s, I don’t know, whatever magical echoes you might feel or something, it could be bad. Too many people heard about those Magecraft to keep them secret. If people find out the Sporatons did this…”
“See, that’s what I don’t get.” Chona waved at the towering cloud of smoke. “This is bad. It’s very, very bad. But it’s not… unusual, right? I mean, I was just a kid when Old Tulian fell, but even I can remember what it was like before that. There were raids. Skirmishes. I remember hearing about a village being burned down, once. Different lords would fight for territory, or the Sporatons would try and make some point. If the Sporatons did this, isn’t that just… kinda what we expected?”
“It doesn’t make it any better,” Tinvel snapped. “Gods, how can you say that? Look at all this!”
“I said it was bad,” Chona countered. “But it’s also war. If every single person in the powder mill died, it still wouldn’t be a tenth as bad as what happened to the capital last year.” She turned to fix the Professor with a curious look. “Why are you so nervous about it?”
Professor Brown had begun to sweat. He’d worn a jacket for the brief flight over, out of habit more than anything else, and he was now taking it off to fold over his shoulder. Breathing hard, he answered Chona.
“Because,” he panted, “things have changed. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the Sporatons did this, but they just considered it a raid. A little thumbing of their nose at Tulian. But the people won’t see it that way. Sara’s already…” He paused to curse as his foot found a divot in the dirt road. “Sara’s already taught them all about the ‘right’ way to fight a war. Declarations, limits, treaties. Most people don’t know much about politics, especially after they’ve spent the last decade of having no real government to speak of, but I can tell you this. They’re going to be furious. They’ll want something done about it. And unlike before, they’ve got a Parliament. They’ve got a way to actually force something to be done.”
“And,” he said, stopping as they crested the last small hill before the smoking ruin, “like I’ve said. Things have changed. I’ve changed things. If the Sporatons really did do this, they don’t… surely they don’t understand what we can do in retaliation. Not yet.” He turned around, looking Chona in the eyes. “Have you ever wondered what boiling thermite would do to a city? How impossible it would be for them to stop you? We’ve got six working planes right now, and we could have a lot more very, very fast. Boiling thermite is cheap, and most buildings in Sporatos are made of wood. How many cities do you think our planes could burn down? How many people would those fires kill?” His attention moved to Tinvel. “What about the Navy? You and I helped design their explosive shells. Not blackpowder shells, but high-explosive guncotton, with real, reliable contact fuzes. If the Navy anchored twenty cannon-armed ships off a Sporaton city, how long do you think it would take for that fleet to destroy everything their guns can reach? How many people would die before they had time to run away?”
Professor Brown started to adjust the jacket on his shoulder, only for it to slip off. He caught it, placing it on his shoulder again. As he started to turn around, it began to fall. Seizing it with a sudden growl of frustration, he balled it up in both fists and flung it at the ground. Leaving it in a crumpled heap, he shook his head as he continued toward the powder mill.
“I still don’t know enough about magic to know if they could stop that from happening. Garen thinks they could, but he’s got advantages they don’t, had more time to think of ways to stop our guns. Sara says she doesn’t know what the King has been getting ready for use against Tulian, but she knows it definitely wouldn’t be a shield for his cities. He wouldn’t think we’d ever dare. Whatever gods you two pray to, you should. I hope they’ll listen. Because if the Sporatons really did this, and we find proof of it, what happens next will be out of anyone’s control.”
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Voth
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There were a lot of reasons Voth had never been too heartbroken that his career in Old Tulian’s army had never gone all that far. First among them was the danger, of course– important people got important positions in battle, and when you weren’t noble enough to be worth a ransom, that meant you got killed– but second among them had been politics.
He’d heard the higher-up officers arguing about stupid shit all the time. Threatening to beat each other over getting a shitty stock of spear hafts, or raging about whose turn it was to sit next to some blue-blooded bastard, and endless moaning and groaning about the paperwork and arguments of their higher-ups that they got swept up in. Voth had thought long and hard about whether or not the pay was worth the trouble, and ultimately decided against it. But a part of him had always kept wondering what those important meetings in the big tents with the fancy chairs had really been like.
He didn’t think New Tulian was ever going to satisfy that curiosity. This was a damn mess.
A Parliamentary Minister of Tulian, the one closest to Voth’s seat, crumpled up a wad of papers and spat on it, roaring as he threw the phlegm-covered ball at his opponent. “Which one of your uncles did your mother fuck to make you so godsdamned stupid?! Which one! Was it the lame donkey or the cross-eyed fuckpig?!”
“Maybe if your mother fucked a donkey it might have given you something between your legs to be proud of!” The opposite minister jeered, ignoring the spit-covered ball which flew wildly off course, landing several rows back in the seats. Two of his fellow ministers were holding him by the arms, forcefully restraining him from leaping over a desk to get at his opposite. “A donkey for a father might have made you less of a coward!”
To Voth’s left, Admiral B’Leary snorted. The naval officer that Admiral Nora had left in charge of the Tulian Navy in her absence was downright ancient, with papery skin, wrinkles like cracked leather, and the fading bulge of a beer gut once so prodigious that it could only have come from a man who’d been halfway done drinking himself to death. By all accounts, though Voth found it hard to believe, B’Leary somehow looked better than he once had.
“Don’t think you should be laughing at this shitshow,” Voth rumbled, keeping his voice low enough to not be heard over the madhouse.
“How can I not?” B’Leary retorted. “The gentleman on the left has a way with words.”
“I’ve heard better,” General Alsen mumbled, and Voth knew it was true.
It was odd to be calling the young officer a general. Alsen had gotten his start under Voth, joining the army when the Governess had ordered the fields of Tulian scoured of bandits. He’d distinguished himself well, earning promotion after promotion, flying up the ranks at a rate that would have been impossible in any military which wasn’t being built from the ground up. Voth still didn’t think the hot-tempered boy– a man now, he supposed– was worthy of being a general.
Course, I don’t think I am, either, Voth gently chastised himself. Alsen, like everyone else in Tulian, was taking up work they’d never even dreamed of. He’d been one of the Governess’s Lieutenants in the first Sporaton-Tulian war, and with Evie and Sara both indisposed and Voth in control of the air force, he was as good a choice as any.
Their little trio was sitting in the Peasant’s Theatre, acting as the official representatives of the Republic’s military forces. While Voth’s pilots were off actually dealing with real problems, he was stuck watching what could only be called a circus madhouse.
As soon as the thought came to him, Voth found himself suddenly and without warning overcome by a burst of laughter. He had to stifle it into a cough.
“What?” B’Leary demanded. “Did I miss a good one? You gotta tell me, I don’t have such good ears anymore.”
“No, no,” Voth said, thumping his chest. “Just… realized what the Governess was doing, when she called this place the Peasant’s Theatre.”
Dozens of parliamentary ministers were locked into screaming matches, shoving and jostling and insulting one another in a wild frenzy. What had begun as a terse and nerve wracking meeting to discuss what should be done about the combination of Sporaton Magecraft and the destruction of Sauvin’s Powder Mill had devolved into utter anarchy.
From what Voth could pick out, there were two main arguments going on: some folks were arguing whether or not the powder mill had been ignited as part of a Sporaton raid, while others took it for granted that the Sporatons had done the deed, and were instead arguing about what exactly should be done about it.
Beyond that, Voth lost track. Schoolyard insults were tossed alongside long, impressive-sounding words, terms being thrown back and forth fast enough that he doubted anyone using them really understood what they meant. Some lady shouted about the sanctity of sovereign territory and the injustice of its perversion, and another told her Tulian would be better if her mouth was used for swallowing manure instead of spewing it. Another minister would proudly chest thump about the prowess and strength of the Tulian Army, and someone across the row loudly reminded them that they’d been sick in bed both times Parliament had been invited to tour the city’s armory.
And above them all, watching from a row of ringed seating, were the lucky few commoners who’d won the proverbial lottery to get a front-row seat to the shitshow.
“Governess must have known this was how it’d turn out,” Voth said, waving to the ministers. “Can you believe this shit?”
“Well, no one can accuse them of caring too little,” B’Leary temporized.
“Unless they’re faking it for the audience,” Alsen said. “I don’t think half of them would be so up in arms if they didn’t know their voters were watching.”
“If they cared what the voters thought, I’d think they’d be making less of a fool of themselves,” Voth said. “But what do we know? We’re just here to tell them what we think they should do.”
“If they ever get around to us,” Alsen grumbled.
It took several minutes more before order could be fully restored. The bulkier of the hundred or so ministers, those who had worked manual labor jobs before becoming paper-pushers, took up the work of physically separating quarreling individuals, dragging them off to different seats as if they were squabbling children who couldn’t be trusted around one another. When all was said and done, the hush that had fallen over the room was far from amiable, but it was at least quiet enough to be heard over.
“Now,” announced the woman who had won the literal lottery required to be assigned Parliamentary Speaker for the day, “that we have aired our thoughts, I believe it is time to hear from our guests. Their expertise should be invaluable.” She waved at the back of the room. “General of the Skies Voth, if you would begin? You have been allotted twenty minutes to speak.”
“Thank you,” Voth said, standing up. He scanned the room as people scooted their chairs aside, making way for him to head to the center. He took a breath.
“I have nothing to say until Professor Brown’s investigation is complete. Thank you for your time.”
He sat back down.
Parliament’s reaction was mixed. A few men and women, a number of army veterans among them, laughed loudly, joined by a great many of the visiting spectators. Most of the ministers only scowled at him. They’d wanted more than that, clearly.
I don’t have anything more than that, you crusty bastards, Voth thought, meeting them scowl for scowl. On his scarred face, he suspected the expression held a hell of a lot more weight than theirs did.
“I see,” the speaker said, after a long pause to confirm he was truly done. “Then… Admiral B’Leary, I believe it is your turn to speak.”
The cranky old captain put a hand on Voth’s shoulder as he began to stand, using it to slowly and painfully lever himself up. When he got to his feet, he turned around, squinting at the wall in search of his cane. His eyes scanned back. And forth. And back. And forth. His knees began to tremble slightly.
“Please, there is no need for you to make the trip down,” the speaker said kindly. “You may speak from where you stand.”
“Thank ye!” Admiral B’Leary boomed, spinning sharply on a heel to address the assembled ministers with a snappy salute. “Now, there’s a lot I could say about those Sporaton Magecraft in our waters, from their numbers to their capabilities to what I think they could or couldn’t be doing, but a whole lot of it won’t be of particular interest to you all. If I’m understanding how things work here, I’d rather just wait until the second round of talking when you all folk can ask me all the questions you want. Easiest way to not waste my breath explaining things you don’t need to know. Is that alright with you, Miss Speaker?”
She blinked, plainly furious at the old man’s faking of his feebleness. Whoever this speaker was– Voth didn’t keep up with Parliament enough to know all hundred of their names– she didn’t yet have a politician’s control over her expression.
“Yes,” she said, biting the word off. “General Alsen?”
“I’ve delivered more reports to this room than I can even remember,” he said, beginning even before he finished standing. “You know the army’s disposition. We’ve got the North Star Fort done, and we’re working on the South Star as fast as we can. Together with the walls, we’ve got every approach to and from Tulian covered with as many cannons as the foundries have given us, and we’ve got plenty of room for more. Every day that Sporatos waits to assault us is another day we’re getting stronger. And no, before anyone asks, we have not made any kind of preparations or provisions for an attack of our own. If we want to win, we’ve got no better place to do it than when we’re fighting behind these walls.”
Alsen sat without being dismissed. Voth bit back a chuckle. He didn’t know what Parliament had expected from the not-really-heads of Tulian’s militaries. They’d each been either appointed by, or at least approved by, the Governess herself. Sara Brown seemed like a practical enough woman to put someone in charge that she thought was an asshole, but she was still human. She liked people who were like her. Tulian’s military leadership didn’t have much respect for pomp and circumstance, and that was never more obvious than the times they were forced to speak before Parliament.
“Very well,” the speaker snipped. She really needed to work on her self-control. “Because the high commanders of the military are not available to us at the moment,” referring to Sara and Evie Brown, “Let us proceed to the questioning phase. It is understood by this assembled Parliament that the appropriate actions to be taken may depend on information which is not yet available, and it is in this light that we ask our questions.” She grabbed a stack of papers and tapped them on the pulpit, scanning down the list of questions various ministers had submitted.
“Admiral B’Leary,” she began, prompting the elderly man to stand. “Is there any purpose beyond the making of war that such a force of Sporaton Magecraft would violate the bounds of Tulian waters?”
“Of course,” B’Leary answered frankly, his thick accent turning the words into something closer to ah-kurrs. “But most of ‘em are about war in one way or another, if not conducting it here and now. First and most likely, they coulda been testing our defenses, seeing how well we patrol our waters. Or they could’ve been training together, getting used to having Magecraft patrolling as a group, seeing as Sporatos hasn’t ever gathered more than a handful of ‘em in one place before.”
“You suggest that they sailed a hundred miles south of the border in order to train?” Some minister challenged.
B’Leary shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, they don’t see much of a border at all, at least not officially. Don’t consider us a real people, and aren’t interested in recognizing our borders either. That coulda be the whole point of it, too. Proving to everyone else that Tulian can’t really be defending our borders, since we didn’t even show up. Most accords and treaties say that a territory someone can’t defend isn’t theirs at all.”
“I see,” the speaker said neutrally. “But what of the obvious question, Admiral? Could the purpose of this Magecraft fleet have been the delivery of an agent of sabotage?”
“Don’t see why it couldn’t. But if that’s what they were doin’, I don’t see why they’d bother with sending a big ol’ force like that. Would’ve been a might bit easier to slip a little fishing vessel in, drop their fellows off, and be away into the night before anyone was the wiser.”
“So you’re saying that this could have been a deliberate message? That they wished to ensure the people of Tulian were aware that it was an agent of Sporatos responsible for the destruction of Sauvin’s Powder Mill?”
Up above, the enraptured audience began to murmur to one another. Voth groaned, rolling his eyes. With a comment like that, it wasn’t hard to see where this Speaker chick stood on the war.
“Don’t you be putting words in my damn mouth, girl!” Admiral B’Leary snapped, his leathery face contorting into a cruel snarl. “I didn’t say a thing like that, and you damn well know it. I cut my teeth in the Carrion Navy, where I was chatting with warhawks that make you look like a pretty little dove. You want me to keep talking, you’ll keep that kinda shite to yourself.”
The muttering increased in volume. Voth once more had to pound his chest, forcing himself into a bout of loud coughing to hide his laugh.
Governess sure knows how to pick ‘em, doesn’t she? Grizzled soldiers that don’t want to fight, paying heed to peasant rulers that’re choking on their own bloodlust. What a world.
As the Speaker rankled, preparing her next question, Voth leaned back into his chair, settling in for a long, long wait. There wasn’t going to be much of use getting done.
I just hope they don’t decide to do something stupid before they actually get Sara involved in the talks.
Though Tulian’s “provisional Governess” may have put a dozen different official limits on her authority, emphasizing the impermanence of her station, Voth had never put much stock in the letter of those laws. The reality of it was, no matter what she said otherwise, the Champion of Amarat was Tulian. She didn’t have to pass any kind of law or give any kind of order; she was too much of a hero for anyone to dare go up against her. If she said something should be done, hells, if she even whispered an idea, it was getting done. There wasn’t any way around it.
As far as that influenced Voth’s opinion of ongoing events, it mostly meant that he didn’t much care what Parliament had to say about all this. Whatever orders Parliament gave, whatever vote they held, they’d toss it straight out the window if the Governess sent a message saying she disagreed. And Voth thought they’d be right to do it. That woman and her wife knew what they were about when it came to fighting. Voth had seen them in combat first-hand, and he’d talked to the people who’d served under them in the Sporaton invasion. Voth and Alsen, they were just figureheads. Neither of them thought they knew better than Sara or Evie Brown. B’Leary, for his part, seemed pretty beholden to that Admiral Nora that so much had been said about, but she wasn’t anywhere near, so he was in the same boat as the rest of them.
“General of the Sky Voth,” came the announcement. It seemed the lady had finished getting tongue-lashed by B’Leary. “If it is determined that Sporaton agents were responsible for this attack, could your aerial forces aid in any form of retaliation?”
“No. Sporatos is too far. Our planes are fast, but they can’t go that far yet.”
“Could you not collaborate with the Navy, then?” The speaker pressed. “Several of your aeroplanes are capable of launching from water, and they are small enough to be fit upon the largest of ships. Would that not–”
“Do you really want to be talking about the exact limits of our secret weapons out here?” Voth interjected. He jabbed a thumb at the audience ringing the Peasant’s Theatre. “I’m sure all those folk are fine people, not a spy among them, but I don’t think they’re the best at keeping secrets, either. Might be best to keep things like that under wraps, yeah?”
“General of the Skies Voth,” the speaker said, bristling, “your role in this Parliament is to answer the questions of Tulian’s duly elected ministers. Are you refusing to do so?”
“Are you refusing to ask a straight question?” Voth snapped back. He stood once more, his chair creaking as it was relieved of his weight. “Because I think you’ve forgot how the Governess set up this military stuff. We,” he waved to himself, B’Leary, and Alsen, “can’t do shit until you give us the orders. We don’t have the authority to launch an attack. But you,” he waved to Parliament as a whole, “don’t have the authority to tell us how to attack. If Tulian goes to war with Sporatos again, it’s not your job to say how we’re gonna do it. That’s what generals are for, if you didn’t know. And like I said, ma’am, I don’t have much to say until the Professor finishes figuring out if the mill really was attacked.”
Voth put his hands in his pockets to hide the way his fingers wanted to drum impatiently against his sides. “In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, I won’t have much to say even after he finishes his investigation. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve got two jobs. One’s to get ready for fighting, and the other’s to fight. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go get on that. Let me know if you people ever decide one way or the other. I’ve got actual work to do.”
Voth stepped around B’Leary and Alsen, jaw clenched to hide his frustration. So damn stupid. They put him in charge of a bunch of kids– and they were kids! Little mage brats barely out of diapers, it felt like– only to expect him to start chucking them at the enemy like their planes and lives were cheap as wads of spit. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And probably pretty stupid of you to be acting like that, too, Voth reflected as he shouldered his way out of the Parliament’s doors. You better hope Sara’s got your back, dumbass. Or else you’re gonna be out of a job soon.
Voth ducked out onto the street, blinking at the glaring sunlight that pounded down on him. He needed to get back to the aerodrome. He couldn’t have answered half of Parliament’s questions if he’d stuck around. He needed to keep nosing his way through that stack of notebooks on his desk that Professor Brown had given him, and then he needed to start working on the other, much thicker stack of notebooks that Tinvel had given him. Politics, he thought, spitting into a ditch.
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Captain Vazere
43 Leagues West of the Tavinon Isles
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When she would later come to speak at her court martialing, Captain Vazere would argue that her actions had been more than justified by the information that she had at hand. She would argue that military honor left her little choice to pursue any other course of action, and even went so far as to claim that she not only didn’t deserve reprimand, but her actions had actually deserved accolade. Say, a medal and a promotion. It was only fair.
No one could accuse Captain Vazere of being unambitious.
The report of the disaster in Tulian had reached her two days after the event itself occurred, news carried on a swift-sailing courier returning to the Tavinon Isles. The captain of the Tavinon vessel had hailed the TRS Backpay with standard flags as they passed, intending at first only to relay the information by signal. Coincidence and fortune had however seen the breeze shifting to a stiff south-south-easterly course, causing the two vessel’s journeys to briefly require tacking close enough to shout through speaking trumpets.
When the crew of the TRS Backpay had heard the fateful news, they’d been incensed, and their captain and officers had been nearly as furious. The Backpay was a ship which had followed the newly-found tradition of the Tulian Navy, its name having been suggested and voted upon by the first crew who had sailed her out of dock. Being mostly freed oarslaves and former impressed sailors, their ships taken during Admiral Nora’s brief yet productive stint at piracy, they had been near unanimous in choosing the name “Back Pay” once it had been suggested. Captain Vazere felt certain there existed no crew more eager to seek battle than hers, so eager were they to collect their years of unpaid wages.
And she further doubted that there existed a better ship for those with such a desire to crew. Most of the Tulian Navy were captured converts, merchants and ships of war given fine sails, copper-plated hulls, and pierced with portholes from which their black cannons bloomed. The Backpay, on the other hand, was the second ship to be built in Tulian harbors since the fall of the old kingdom, commissioned by the Navy as a ploy to keep in service the experienced shipwrights that Admiral Nora had gathered for her flagship’s construction. With little more complex work to be done than conversions, many had begun to wander off, seduced by the exorbitant pay rates that had been offered by foreign shipyards for their knowledge of the Waverake’s construction. Without the Admiral present to teach successors, the Navy’s captains had been desperate to keep their services, and, seeing as they could not match Carrion or merchant republic wages, enticed them with novelty.
Thus, the Backpay. Not a cog, hulk, quinquereme, or any such primitive vessel. She was a Brig of War, a twin-masted vessel built from the keel up to carry cannons. Her hundred-foot hull was built with rigid timbers fresh out of Tulian’s steampowered sawmills, the planks seasoned to rigidity by storage beneath the shimmering exhaust vents of the same foundries which had cast her ten 32-pounder carronades. Her internal structure, already the superior of any mundane ship save the Waverake, was further reinforced by crossed braces of riveted steel, while her masts had been strengthened by beams of iron so long that Captain Vazere once would have thought only an archmage could have created them. Yet they were, if the steelworkers were to be believed, the rejects of the steelyard’s attempt at making transport rail, and it had been necessary to considerably shorten them in order to fit them for the Backpay’s masts.
Yes, she was a finely built ship, and if her crew was not quite as finely trained, they lacked absolutely nothing in the realm of enthusiasm. Behind every pupil lurked memories of years slaving under the whips of cruel captains, childhoods cut short by pressgangs lurking in dark alleyways, or the screams of Tulian’s rape and pillage by foul mercenaries. By her crew’s reckoning, it seemed unlikely all Sporatos had the wealth equal to the interest their back pay had accrued.
This, too, was something she would use in her court martial defense. Captain Vazere would claim that she had tried to restrain her crew, but it had been like holding the reins of an oxen herd just before a stampede. By her ship’s log, it was a mere four hours after they had received news of the disaster that she heard a cry from the mainmast.
“Two sails sighted to the nor’west, ma’am!” The lookout cried. “They’re flying the Sporaton crown!”
Every head on the deck whipped hard about, looking either to the horizon or to their Captain. Vazere took a deep breath, stifling the malevolent grin crawling up her face.
“You know your duties, boy! Heading, range, description, give me more!”
“Ah, heading due east, one sail to a ship, looking like they may not be pierced for oars. Can’t be certain, they’re just at the horizon!”
“First Lieutenant!” Vazere barked. “Get on the helm and get me a course for interception! Raise sail!”
A cheer went up from the crew as they took to their duties. First Lieutenant Yaren, a swarthy human who’d taken far better to the mathematical lessons contained within Professor Brown’s pamphlet Calculations of The Sailor, used his first moments to order the Second Lieutenant to the helm, while he himself began gamely climbing the ship’s rigging, looking to take his own measurements with his spyglass.
“Enemy’s changing tack, ma’am!” The lookout cried. “Heading due north, barely a touch west!”
Captain Vazere stomped up to the helm, calling for her maps to be brought up from below. She cast a quick glance at the mainmast, judging the wind’s direction, then accepted the rolled paper she was handed.
“Lieutenant Yaren! What is the enemy’s shape?”
“Seem to be trading cogs, Cap’n!”
Unassuming, single-masted Sporaton trading ships, ones heading as straight away from Tulian waters as they could manage, only to flee at first sight of a proper warship.
She used a charcoal nub to mark the sighting location on the map, as well as her own vessel’s position, then rolled it back into its waterproofed leather casing, returning it to the steward-girl who’d brought it.
“Return this to my quarters, if you would, then get to your station. Tell the quartermaster I’d like to have the crew fed before meeting the enemy, but only if a meal might be ready in time. I won’t have us going into battle with a fire aboard.”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
That done, Captain Vazere quick-marched to the prow of the ship, taking care not to run. That had been one of Admiral Nora’s first lessons to the Navy’s officers. Only a panicked officer had reason to be running aboard a ship. Marching was the sign of a calm and steady hand.
Reaching the prow, Vazere stepped up onto the boom, moving up to the very end of the bobbing protrusion, careful to avoid the taut jib sails. With a single foot, she tossed a tight coil of rope overboard, then dove headfirst after it.
Hitting the water was as much of a shock as it was refreshing. Azarketi liked to argue amongst themselves if their rightful place in the world was on land or sea, citing this or that to support their argument, but Vazere had always been the spoilsport in the age-old argument. Why would the gods have given them the ability to move between the realms if they didn’t intend for them to do exactly that? And, she argued further, why did so few azarketi take to the ships which sailed faster than they could hope to swim?
She caught the loose rope as it was towed past her by the Backpay’s momentum, then drew it taut by kicking downward. When she heard the ship begin to rumble past overhead, she flipped onto her back, inspecting the hull with that mix of senses none other than an azarketi could understand.
Sheets of bolted copper slid gracefully past, free from the usual detritus of marine growth which thrived across purely wooden vessels. The Backpay’s svelte hull had only a single sign of wear, and that was the tinge of green that had begun to creep in at the edges of some of the copper plates. She took careful note of the discoloration as the ship cut through the water overhead. Vazere had been told that it was exposure to air which caused copper to turn, so how was it that her ship’s hull was doing so? Something to discuss with the shipwrights, she supposed. It wouldn’t affect anything today.
It did not take long until the ship’s entire hundred-foot hull had finished sliding by. The wind was strong, and she was sailing with the breeze a quarter off her stern, the best position for any square-rigged vessel.
Just as she finished her inspection of the rudder, the rope began to tug her forward. Vazere wrapped it several times around one wrist, then began pulling herself along. It was even more exhilarating to travel so fast under the waves than through the air. She could feel the rush of water rippling over her skin, tugging hard at her body. She wished more of her crew had gills to experience in the manner as she did.
Her head broached the water, throwing up spray as she groped blindly for the ladder placed on the stern. Finding the rungs, she hauled herself up, dripping water to the deck as she heaved herself over the gunwhale.
“All in shape?” First Lieutenant Yaren asked. He was at the helm now, carefully guiding the ship onto its intercept course.
“Her hull’s slick as oil,” Vazere confirmed. “Is the enemy doing anything other than running?”
“No ma’am.”
“Their speed?”
“Lookout’s guessing they’re doing well for themselves. Making seven, perhaps eight knots. Decent sailors aboard, I’d suspect.”
Captain Vazere chuckled. “Unusual for Sporaton vessels. Maybe they actually know what they’re about.”
“Won’t matter, though,” Yaren grinned.
“No. No, it won’t.” Vazere raised her voice. “Set the stud sails! I want those bastards under our guns ‘fore the afternoon is up! Ready the bow guns!”
A second jubilant cry went up among her crew. They were as hungry for battle as Vazere was. She’d been honored with command of Tulian’s second purpose-built warship, yet she’d sailed her as nothing more than a fast ship of trade. Now that the Sporatons had finally given in to their baser nature, it was time to see what she could do.
Vazere raised her own spyglass to her eye, inspecting her prey. The Sporaton cogs were built typically for their type, with a single square sail that was a few feet wider than their twenty foot width. It was attached to a tall mast, atop which was a wooden bucket for a lookout to keep an eye for obstacles. The ships likely weighed some two hundred tons empty, pressed further into the sea by the weight of their cargo.
They could not be more different from the Backpay. Though her hull was a work of art, it was not the deciding factor. The Sporaton cog’s single mast, with its lonesome square sail, was being pursued by a veritable spider’s web of roped rigging. Against the cog’s single sail was arranged a weave of rigging whose complexity could not be understated. Most prominent were the main and fore mast, the main mast sprouting a wide mainsail, a smaller top mainsail, and an even smaller topgallant sail, all of which could be independently adjusted to better catch the wind. Jutting off the rear of the mainmast was a long boom, a wooden pillar set perpendicular to the square rigging that could be swung to port or starboard, allowing the ship to sail side-on to the wind without requiring a rotation of the mammoth mainmast. The foremast was equipped similarly, with two square mainsails and a topsail, the center of the mast tied to the long bowsprit which jutted from the prow. Along those ropes were tied three further sails, patterned after the triangular lateen sails of fishing feluccas, which gave the Backpay unparalleled maneuverability even in the lightest of breezes. As sailors followed Vazere’s direction, even more sails began to sprout from the mainmast, additional studding sails sprawling outward to catch as much of the breeze as was physically possible.
The enemy cogs were sailing well for their type. Eight entire knots.
By Captain Vazere’s reckoning, the Backpay’s four hundred tons were currently accelerating past sixteen.
The captains of the two Sporaton cogs, to their credit, quickly realized the impossible speed at which they were being run down. They adjusted their course, abandoning the ideal sailing angle in favor of turning west, aiming for a dark stretch of clouds that looked ready to burst into a squall. It was a risk, as it allowed the Backpay to cut the corner, but it was their only hope. Vazere had no doubt that they were busying themselves with prayers for a shift or dying of the wind, which would be their only hope for escape.
“Gun crews ready,” Called the gun captain. “Awaiting your order, Cap’n.”
“Hold fire until I give the word. I want to take the ships intact, if we can.”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
The chase continued. In any other ship, it should have been an all-day affair. With the studding sails deployed, however, the Backpay steadily clawed its way up to a blistering eighteen knots. It was as fast as the crew had ever managed to push her, and if only they’d had a bit stiffer of a breeze, Vazere felt certain she could have squeezed out a few more knots.
It was enthralling. Only Magecraft Skimmer could outpace her, and for the first time in history, even a Skimmer would not have the overwhelming advantage they took for granted.
“This ship is a pirate’s dream,” Vazere muttered. “Nothing can escape us. Nothing at all. What a gift we’ve been given.”
“Aye, cap’n,” Yaren said from the helm, his smile mirroring her own. “Had we a Magecraft’s enchantments, I dare suggest the entire Carrion Navy could not catch us.”
“Suggest?” Vazere scoffed. “I am certain of it. There’s never been a finer ship.”
“I imagine the Sporatons will soon disagree, Cap’n.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
Yaren beamed a toothy grin. “Because they’ll soon be calling us devils.”
Vazere laughed, tasting the salty spray thrown up by her ship’s hull splitting the waves. The Brig-of-War TRS Backpay continued her pursuit, a wolf on the heels of fat oxen.
The Sporaton’s gamble to head toward the developing squall did not bear fruit. The Backpay cut their corner, keeping the wind firmly at her stern throughout the pursuit, while the clouds, though dark and foreboding, petulantly refused to burst into a concealing storm. Even if they had, it wouldn’t have mattered. Long before the cogs could reach its dark shadow, the Backpay had closed to within a mile of the vessels.
“They’re hauling up flags!” The lookout called.”They’re… calling for a parley!”
“Send up our refusal!” Vazere replied without hesitation. “We won’t get within spell or bow shot of those vessels, no matter what they say!”
“Is that wise, ma’am?” Yaren asked, keeping his voice low. Admiral Nora encouraged junior officers to voice dissent to their superiors, but Vazere didn’t believe it was proper to let the crew hear such disagreements. “They’re ships of trade. They have every right to parley, even if only to surrender.”
“If they wanted to surrender, they should’ve sent up a white flag,” Vazere rumbled. “And seeing as they were fleeing directly away from Tulian waters, fresh off an unprovoked attack, I won’t take the risk of being caught by treachery.”
“Understood, ma’am.”
It wasn’t long until the mile separating the ships had halved. Vazere ordered most of the sails brought in, preventing her ship from massively overshooting their prey. The cogs continued to ask for parley, but when Vazere sent up a demand for surrender, their signals didn’t budge. That was as good as confession, Vazere felt. Trade ships should only have paltry arms to defend themselves, simple crossbows and half-rotten pikes. If that was truly all they had, they wouldn’t have refused to make a show of laying down such paltry arms.
“Bow guns!” Vazere called as the range closed to five hundred yards. “Load emcotton shells!”
“Loading emcotton!”
Vazere watched with a hawk’s piercing gaze as the guns were carefully loaded. The Backpay had been equipped with Tulian Army cast-offs, taking up the iron ten-pounder Parrot Rifles. The Army had only built a few of the long-range guns before the Tulian-Sporaton war had concluded, with post-war inspections finding dangerous webs of cracks developing in most every Parrot Rifle’s barrels. The only exceptions were the two cannons built by the HOT foundries, both of which now sat in the Backpay’s bow. With a maximum firing range of over a mile, they were perfect choices for gunning down a fleeing enemy. Now mounted on a rocking, rolling ship, Vazere couldn’t expect accuracy a quarter so excellent, but they were still incredible weapons.
Especially if these emcotton shells are all they’re cracked up to be. She thought as the crews worked. The contact-detonated shells were something that had haunted the nightmares of every Tulian captain since they’d been brought aboard. Their powerful explosives were triggered by the simplest of fuses: a pin in the tip of the shell which, when depressed, struck a spark against the bursting charge. They were supposed to be set on stiff enough springs that they could survive typical handling, even being dropped directly on their head, but she couldn’t bring herself to fully trust those claims.
“Loaded!” The gun captains reported.
“One cannon is to aim for the right enemy’s mast, one shot only! I want them captured, not killed!”
“Aye, cap’n!”
The gun captain crouched down behind his weapon, twisting wooden screws to align the barrel with his target. The Backpay was not as stable a gun platform as a larger vessel, rocking and rolling with the waves, her massive sails giving her a noticeable heel in all but the weakest of winds.
Captain Vazere didn’t rush them. They had all the time in the world to run their prey under. This would be the first firing of their weapon in combat, and she wanted a good performance.
Satisfied with his adjustments, the gun captain wrapped the firing cord around his fist. He couldn’t look straight down the gun’s sights while he waited to fire, not without getting crushed by nine hundred pounds of recoiling cannon. He had to lean overtop the barrel, peering out of the gunport, trusting to nothing more than a keen eye and instinct.
Without a word of warning, he jerked the string. The gun barked, spitting a cloud of gleaming white smoke. Half the crew, tense in their anticipation, seemed to jump out of their skin at the concussive force.
Captain Vazere’s eyes flicked up just in time to see the impact.
Emcotton was everything she’d hoped.
The shot hit low and to the side, piercing the front quarter of the hull before exploding. It had covered the vast distance between hear heartbeats, such that she could only tell where it struck by tracking the violent eruption of boards and splinters, columns of spray spattering the water for dozens of yards.
The sound of the detonation reached her an instant later. If blackpowder explosions were a bassy, rolling roar, the bursting of emcotton was the earsplitting crack of lightning striking an arm’s length away. There was no ball of flame or smoke. Just invisible shrapnel and an unbridled wave of force, powerful enough to be felt in her chest from a thousand feet away.
If the gun captain had been angry that he missed his target, he didn’t have long to suffer the emotion. Just as Vazere was about to call for a second shot, the enemy’s mast began to shudder. For a moment it seemed the structure had been weakened enough that the force of the sail was enough to tear it off at the base, but that quickly proved an illusion.
The entire ship was dipping forward.
“Good gods!” Someone cried. “They’re sinking!”
They were right. The bow of the cog was drooping further and further with every passing second. In the span of half a minute it was entirely underwater. The ship’s crew began leaping overboard, swimming for whatever floating planks had been scattered by the gunfire.
“Well,” First Lieutenant Yaren said drolly, “I don’t think we’ll be capturing any of their cargo.”
“No,” Captain Vazere agreed, pursing her lips. “No, it doesn’t seem we will be.” She raised her voice. “Make ready to capture survivors! I want them alive, and that includes the captain! If they’ve slaves aboard, we’ll hang the bastard properly!”
The cheer that raised in response to this order sounded different. More subdued. None of the Backpay’s crew had expected a single shot to sink an entire ship. They were all sailors. There was a sympathy to the plight of a sinking vessel that none could fully suppress.
“Captain! The second ship is hauling down her sails!”
Captain Vazere peered closely, watching the enemy crew work. Sure enough, their sails were disappearing. The flag of parley remained flying from their mast, but there was no clearer sign of surrender than abandoning any attempt of escape.
“Ready the ship’s boat,” Vazere ordered. “Have them pick up the Sporatons in the water and bring them aboard, then prepare to ferry marines aboard the enemy ship. I want them to go aboard bayonet-first, and they’ll search it from stem to stern. If there’s even a trace of a trap, I won’t have the Backpay be caught in it.”
“And the Backpay, Cap’n?” Yaren asked.
“Reef the sails and maintain station at four hundred yards from the enemy cog, bow first. That should be far enough to be out of spellshot.”
“Not broadside-on, ma’am?”
“No. The carronades won’t reach, and if they have some trick up their sleeves, I won’t give them a better target. And besides,” she pointed to the last remnants of the first cog. “Now that we have emcotton shells, the bow guns are more than enough.”
“That they are.”
The recovery of the enemy crew proceeded slowly. The ship’s boat was propelled only by oars, and several of the Sporaton crew were less than eager to be picked up by their pursuers. Others had been terribly injured by shrapnel, requiring a lift to be rigged to lift them aboard. The ship’s surgeon began work on these individuals immediately, doing their best to suture the worst of the wounds. That was a minor miracle for the Sporatons, as no ship so small, even a military vessel, would have been afforded a precious healer.
Eventually, after her marines had confirmed there was nothing suspicious aboard the Sporaton ship, Captain Vazere boarded it personally. The captain greeted her with an admirable attempt at civility, though she could feel hostility simmering beneath.
It was only during this process that Captain Vazere began to realize the depth of her error. Not only was there no evidence of Sporaton sabotagers aboard, it was clear that her foreign opposite knew more about the powder mill detonation than even she did. He had been trading with islands further to the south, where the news had reached him a day before, and he had only turned east to avoid Tulian territorial waters out of caution. He carried no slaves, yet suspected that Tulian military vessels would not be kind to any Sporaton vessel in their waters, regardless of legality. A prescient concern.
And now I’ve attacked two Sporaton vessels in the Deep Waters, sinking one, capturing another. And if he and his crew are to be believed, there has been no declaration of war, pending an investigation of the explosion’s cause.
Captain Vazere felt her gut begin to twist as afternoon turned into evening. Eventually, as the Sporaton logs were pored over and the peasant crewmembers interviewed, it became more and more clear that there was no intentional fiction. They really were simple trading vessels.
Captain Vazere was then faced with an awful choice. She could place a prize crew aboard the Sporaton cog and sail it into Tulian, as she’d first intended. If the Sporaton crew never reached their homeland, theoretically, none would be the wiser. Perhaps Tulian had even declared war since either captain last heard news; that was her best hope, as it meant no one would think a thing of her capturing a Sporaton trading vessel.
But that would also mean committing yet another crime. Piracy, in effect. The assault and theft of an innocent crew and their vessel. Not only was it against every Naval Accord recognized by civilized peoples, it was expressly illegal in Tulian. Under the harshest interpretations of the law, she could be hanged for murder– a punishment reserved only for members of the city guard and military found to have abused their authority.
In the end, she had no choice but to transfer the surviving crew of the first cog to the second, authorizing her surgeon to use as many of the emergency supplies as was necessary to keep them alive. Further, she penned a special writ for the Sporaton captain, explaining his circumstances to any other Tulian vessel he might encounter, and instructed him on which flags to fly should he be chased by another patrolling vessel.
She did not do all this for free, however. Captain Vazere was no politician, but she had a decided interest in keeping her neck intact. In return for her surgeon’s aid and a transfer of the Backpay’s remaining stock of healing potions, she convinced the Sporaton captain to write a record of her good conduct. It said, in effect, that the “accident” had been precipitated by suspicious behavior on behalf of the Sporaton vessels, that Vazere thus had little blame, and, once the confusion had been rectified, acquitted herself honorably in all ways.
It was… not quite the truth. She didn’t know how much of it might be contradicted by her own crew’s accounts, but she wasn’t going to coach them through lying on her behalf. Tulian had not yet seen a military trial of such caliber conducted, but everyone assumed the Governess herself, being the head of the military, would preside as judge. Captain Vazere was not arrogant enough to think she could lie to the Champion of Amarat.
Instead, she prayed to the Governess’ patron deity. Not for exoneration, of course. What had been done was done. No.
She prayed that the war had already begun in her absence.
Notes:
Here's a couple reference images/videos for you regarding the chapter. First is a video of a brig in the style at full sail, and second is a cog ship to compare to.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKFvjYdTcJM
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cog_(ship)#/media/File:Ubena_von_Bremen_Kiel2007_1_(cropped).jpg
Chapter 160: B3 Ch47: Catching Up and Old Habits (E)
Notes:
(The first perspective is a short explicit chapter, the rest is fine to read in public)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Anaka
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Anaka took a deep breath, taking care to pinch her quill with the lightest of grips as she dipped it into the inkwell. At times like this, it was difficult to control herself, but she was determined to not lose her focus once more. She had lived a life of lustful sin, and this was to simply be another page in her life’s story. With a carefully controlled inhale, she pressed nib to parchment.
Addressed to one Sara Brown, for the Eyes of her and her Wives only,
Anaka licked her lips, hesitating. This one was at least a good, proper introduction. She had thrown three other letters away already. The first because she had accidentally referred to Sara as a Chosen, against the explicit instructions she had given regarding her preferred form of address, and the second because she had addressed it exclusively to Sara, only to realize that the woman’s wives would almost certainly handle much of her correspondence, and it would be rude to exclude them. The third failure could be accounted for by a certain sort of… distraction.
It is with great pleasure and considerable humility that I write you. The time you spent in my establishment already seems like it was a lifetime ago.
Anaka bit her lip, considering. Was that too much? It shouldn’t be. She had written similar letters before, and never thought much of it. Saying that a pleasant evening had taken place too long ago was a simple thing to say, an easy flattery. Yet she felt uneasy writing it this time. Perhaps because there was more truth in the claim than there ever had been before.
I understand that the army to which you are attached shall be departing tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, this was only made apparent to me only today. Had I known of your departure earlier, I would most certainly have contacted you at an earlier, more convenient time.
She swallowed, eyelashes fluttering. Images of “contacting” Sara Brown danced involuntarily behind her eyelids. The woman’s touch on her skin, the gentle press of weight on her trembling body. Her legs shifted, thighs sliding against one another as her dress began to tent. With all the will she could muster, Anaka pressed onward.
I, as of yet, have not publicized the fact that you visited my business. To treat such a wonderful night as nothing more than a mercantile transaction feels injust, and I could not stomach the thought.
Anaka giggled quietly. “Wonderful night.” What an inadequate word. It had been exquisite. Fulfilling. Depraved. Perhaps it had even been damaging. The healers claimed it had been.
She did not care what they said.
Knowing well the trials of travel on the road, I seek only to give thanks for your presence by inviting back you and any you see fit to bring. I know that at least one of your lovers, of which I feel certain you must have many, could not attend, which strikes me as a tragedy. I would gladly allow them to sample all the delights at my disposal, free of charge. It would be my honor, truly.
She giggled again, slightly louder. What a strange lie to be making. Anaka couldn’t care less who Sara brought. She wanted the Chosen. She needed her. Ever since she had awoken in the Temple of Emotion, her cock and her pussy had tortured her by alternating their pulsing need. She ached with desire constantly, and had found no true satisfaction no matter how many times she reached climax. This arousal was coupled with an inhuman, impossible stamina, for which she (and her career) was certainly grateful, but the constant lack of satisfaction had proven to be its own beautiful agony. She knew, deep in her bones, that there was only one woman capable of sating her body’s demands.
I will be sending this letter with the fastest courier in the city, knowing that you are doubtlessly pressed for time. Feel no need to proffer a response; whatever is occuring at my establishment at the time of your arrival, I will certainly postpone it in your favor. Take no concern for interrupting the efforts of my employees, as well. Rest assured that those who sampled your services are more than willing to set aside their duties in order to honor your presence.
Anaka shivered. Her cock was as stiff as it had ever been, its tip wetting her skirt with stains nearly as dark as that which coated her panties. She still struggled to imagine what depraved acts had been committed to create the scene she had been greeted with in the brothel’s lobby. Though she returned from the healers some twelve hours after Sara’s departure, she’d found a dozen of her employees laid out on the floor, furniture, and rugs of the room, dazed eyes wandering in an exhausted bliss. Women had been resting with hands cupping their pussies, trying to keep the Chosen’s cum within them for as long as possible, while the men occasionally woke to grind their cocks against whatever surface was closest. Even those who firmly cared for the boundaries of man and woman had abandoned the notion, hedonistically seeking the touch of whatever warm flesh was nearest. What she would have given to see those events in person. As she kept writing, Anaka couldn’t stop herself from sliding forward in her chair, rubbing her rigid cock against the table’s edge.
I understand if you cannot attend my business due to unavoidable commitments, of course. But please know that you are welcome to peruse my
Anaka’s quill froze. She had been a stroke away from writing “you are free to peruse myself.” Not only was it debasing and pathetically desperate, it was nonsensical. What would it mean to peruse an individual? Was Anaka offering to have her body put on display like some merchant of rugs, offering herself up to the Chosen’s clinically roving hands? To have her body inspected like a piece of furniture, her stomach prodded, her breasts cupped and squeezed, her hair stroked and pried apart and her mouth forced open so she could look inside, all while the Chosen maintained an idle conversation with some disinterested merchant regarding the merits of Anaka’s flesh?
The quill in her hand quivered. She was panting heavily. Her body ached with a need for release. Until that fateful evening, even with all her years lost in the throes of another’s passion, she had never known what it was like to be truly aroused. To be at the utmost mercy of her baser instincts, kept quivering on the edge of a mindless, animalistic need. To be taken again and again, used until her exhausted body had not only had its fill, but finally lacked the energy to muster her burning desire once more.
With a low, shaking breath, Anaka set her quill down. She couldn’t focus. She needed to finish the letter, but she couldn’t focus. Self-pleasure was even less of a salve for her stinging arousal than the services of a partner, but it was still a salve.
You promised yourself you would wait until you finished the letter, she whispered to herself. Are you really this pathetic? This needy? The healers are right. You shouldn’t have left so soon.
Anaka ignored her better self. The feeling of her dress brushing against her cock was a more beautiful torture than any she’d known before the Chosen. Slowly, looking down through the valley of her heaving chest, she wrapped her hands around the thick shaft.
Anaka groaned. She couldn’t help the noise, and she didn’t want to. Even the moan squeezing itself from her throat felt amazing.
The Chosen never used my throat, she whined. Oh, gods, how can I convince her to? I’ll beg. I’ll do anything.
One of Anaka’s hands began to pump her cock, the other sliding to her throat. She imagined the bulge that would form there when the Chosen began to use her. She closed her hand tight, tighter, enough to turn her moans to whiny rasps, leaving her dizzy.
She had wanted to suck cock before. She was a whore. It was what she did. But never before had she been so consumed by the thought of choking on cock. Never before had she fantasized about the pleasure she would get from having her throat fucked, instead of her partner’s pleasure. The Chosen would feel so, so amazing. She had Skills like Anaka, did she not? To bring physical delights to the area of the body where there should be none? What would it be like to have her throat given that treatment?
Her hips rose uncontrollably off her chair, slapping against her curled palm. She could not help it. After what Sara Brown had done to her, it seemed the barest graze of wind had become better than the most talented of her old lovers. The healers saw this in her, recognized the signs, and they’d offered to take it from her. They didn’t understand. When all she needed to drift on untold bliss was the touch of a lover’s hand, why would she ever ruin it? What Anaka had received was a gift. They claimed she was addicted, and maybe she was, but what they could not believe was that there was no end to it, no weakening of the effects, none of the things that made addiction so dangerous. She now drew her utmost pleasure not from selfish wants, but from pleasuring others. An honest, angelic duty. She knew, deep in her soul, that a hundred years would not dull this joy she felt from her body. She would not chase this pleasure into deeper and darker catacombs, seeking something to replicate the half-forgotten wonders of her first experience, as she had seen happen to so many unfortunate souls. This was different. The greatest heights of pleasure could be reached with nothing more than the kind touch of a willing partner.
Her lower half could take it no more. She twisted in her chair, sliding urgently forward, still pumping her cock all the while, and lifted her dress so that she could push her sodden pussy against the table’s leg.
She whined. Like a pathetic, needy dog. The pleasure of contact, even through her undergarments, had her arms losing strength, fuzzy bolts of lightning crackling through her body.
She began to hump the table. Her cock in one hand, her pussy against the leg, choking herself all the while. Sparks burst in her vision, dancing specters that decorated the ceiling with every strangled, ecstatic gasp. Unbidden, but not unwelcome, she began speaking to the fantasy which had her so enraptured.
“Goddess, goddess, please,” she moaned, barely above a whisper. “Oh gods, I need it. I need you. P-please.”
The heat between her legs began to rise. She began to curl in on herself, legs shaking, toes curling.
“C-come to me. T-take me. Use me as you please, Goddess. Anything, anything- oh!” She’d found the angle. She shoved against the table, grinding it against the spot where her clit abutted the base of her cock. “Oh. Oh, my gods. Puuuh… lease…”
Tears beaded her eyes. It hadn’t been a minute, but she was already at the weeping edge of climax. Rapture filled her, body and soul, as she envisioned her Goddess taking her.
It struck like lightning. Her already strained muscles first went taught, then dissolved into useless puddles. She twitched and shudder her way through her climax, wrapping her legs around the table, imagining that it was the divine form of the Chosen, while her dress was steadily ruined by spurt after spurt of cum. She should have quieted herself, should have bit her knuckle or choked herself even tighter, but the coordination to attempt any such thing had fled her entirely. She was at the mercy of her body, and she would have it no other way.
When her climax subsided, she sagged, resting her heaving chest against the desk. She had to lick her lips constantly to keep the drool from spilling out. It had been so wonderful. And thanks to Sara Brown, it always would be.
By the time she had recovered her wits, the arousal was already building again. It felt different, however. It wasn’t an ache, not anymore. In the throes of her self-driven ecstasy, she had discovered something.
What Sara Brown had given her truly was a gift. It was hers, forever. The woman herself was exquisite, a Goddess, and she was a kind and just Goddess. Even if the Chosen never graced her bed again, Anaka was better for it. She could enjoy life like no other could.
Anaka took up her pen, looking at what she had written. Taking a deep breath, she changed tacks.
But please know that you are welcome to peruse my collection of sexual aids. Many, I believe, are unique to my brothel, and cannot be found elsewhere. There is a great deal that I believe you can make use of, and it is only fair that you are allowed to take whichever you please. Crystal-set toys which hum and buzz, enchanted restraints which can never truly harm the limbs of those they embrace, and a great deal more. Whatever takes your fancy, it is yours to collect. I am confident in my belief that your services, rendered unto my staff and myself, have exposed us to techniques which will bring us riches enough to replace our entire stock.
Collect what is yours as and when you please, Sara Brown. If you would prefer, I can have them delivered to you however you so wish, and at any time in the future you prefer. I am also able to get you in contact with artificers of adequate discretion for you to commission your own works, if my collection is not appropriate for your desires.
However you wish me to show my gratitude, it is yours to ask.
-Faithfully yours, Anaka
She set the paper down, sighing in relief. It had taken hours to work her way through the various attempts to write the letter. The last section of her final draft had a distinct shakiness to her penmanship, the aftershocks of orgasm still rolling through her, but she suddenly found herself caring far less.
Quickly changing into unsoiled clothes– of which she noted she had very few left– Anaka hurried out of her office and into the street, moving to a courier building. She paid an extortionate sum to have the letter raced out to the Chosen, then returned to her business just as quickly.
When she slipped through the door, she found Veyoh waiting for her. The elven woman, the very best earner across Anaka’s entire brothel, stood with hands on her hips, a teasing smile on her face.
“You know,” she said, speaking with that sing-songy lilt every elf seemed to use, “your office isn’t as soundproof as you think it is.”
A bolt of fear shot straight through Anaka’s core. She didn’t know why; she was the owner of a brothel. Yet being caught calling a client “goddess” in her own fantasies was a step too far.
Thankfully, the pounding arousal was beginning to well up once more. It smothered her shame in reassuring lust, and, as if falling from a distant, higher place, a fully-formed idea landed in her head.
“I have a proposal for you, Veyoh.”
The elf blinked, pulling back. She’d clearly just come by for some light teasing. “Ma’am?”
“There’s no need to call me ma’am. You’re four times my age.”
“You’re still my employer.”
“Yes,” Anaka hummed. “Yes, I am. How would you feel about changing that?”
“...I don’t follow.”
“Don’t worry. It’s quite simple, I assure you. I believe that, after my recent… experiences… it might be best for someone else to take over the day-to-day operations of the business. You have worked here longer than I have been alive, Veyoh. Who better to take over my role?”
“That’s… um. Why?”
Anaka stopped hiding the dreamy smile. “Well, I’m a different woman, of course. And I have a duty to my employees, do I not? To provide them the most success I can muster. And after that night…” She licked her lips. “I believe my services are best used elsewhere. Outside of an office. Permanently.”
“Um.” Veyoh took a step forward, resting a hand on Anaka’s shoulder. It made her moan. “Okay. Okay, then.” Conflict was writ large across her face. A rare thing to see in elven features. “I, uh, guess I can try that, ma’am. For now. But you can always reconsider it later.”
“I won’t.”
Veyoh swallowed nervously. “Alright. Well, we’ll see about that. For now, it seems like you might need…” her eyes turned down. Anaka was leaking through her dress again. Veyoh sighed. “...some attention. I’ll see if we have any clients coming in. Do you have the keys to your office?”
“Here,” Anaka said, retrieving them from within her dress.
“Thank you. I’ll just go check the ledger and…” she looked Anaka up and down. “Are you, um, okay? To be left on your own for a little while?”
“I’d rather be left in the company of a great many people.”
Veyoh pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Well, then, I guess follow me. I’m sure there’s someone that can-” she looked at Anaka, who stared blankly back. “-figure something out. ‘Cause you didn’t want the healer’s help, right?”
“No. No, of course not.”
Veyoh sighed. “Yeah. Of course not. Alright, well, let’s just see if we can… get you situated.” As the lithe elf began to make her way towards her new office, Anaka heard her muttering to herself. “...And here I thought it was human kids that were supposed to fuck up by getting pets when they’re too young. Gods, I’m going to have to use my family’s mages, aren’t I? My parents are going to kill me.”
Her arousal was building further, to the point that Anaka didn’t properly understand what the elf meant. She did, most decidedly, like the idea of being a pet.
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Sara Brown
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The fields surrounding Ta-Pet’s walls teemed with puffs of white smoke bursting from the black dots of roving soldiers. The smoke was driven this way and that by a light but ever-shifting breeze, creating oddly shaped swirls that decorated the mud-tamped grass. Seen from above, it looked like an ant hill picking apart and carrying away pieces of sugar.
Away from the many dispersed groups of soldiers, a black blob was forming up just within the city’s gates. The First Imperial Blackpowder Army had been relieved by garrison troops from nearby cities, freeing them to leave the suppression of Ta-Pet’s disloyal populace to a less valuable force. They were preparing to march, and had been all morning, but organizing tens of thousands of soldiers into neat infantry columns was an inordinately time-consuming process. Only two groups had been allowed to exit the city early: the Powdered Lead mercenary company, who were working on their drills, and select squadrons of Imperial skirmishers, who were working alongside their mercenary allies.
Sara, despite being the one who had set in motion the complex dance of marching soldiers, was thinking of how little others understood her limitations. Despite Evie’s efforts to train her for the role, she didn’t consider herself a proper commander, much less the vaunted “General of Tulian” that some of the legends were starting to describe her as. She could see how defeating an army led by Graf Urs in battle might lend some to imagining her as some Napoleonic genius, but the truth was much simpler.
She cheated.
The Powdered Lead were incessantly working through the drills that they’d begun as soon as the sun had crept over the forest canopy. Without the slightest effort on her part, Sara’s Blessings swept over the fields, taking in more information than she could ever need. Of the four hundred and eighty-four soldiers under her command, three hundred and seventy were currently engaged in rifle drills, thirty six were taking breaks for water, while the remainder were repeatedly loading and dry-firing the 12-pounder Napoleons. Second squadron was currently leading in the officer-profanity-per-minute ranks, with their sergeant averaging thirteen curses every every sixty seconds, while Squad Four was in last place, at a measly two insults per minute. Even when accounting for individual personalities and propensity for cursing, Sara knew Sergeant Pinyin was struggling to motivate their soldiers.
“Go help out second squadron,” Sara murmured to Evie. “They’re lagging behind on their accuracy qualifications. Keep an eye on Pinyin while you’re at it. I understand she’s frustrated, but I don’t like how little she’s praising her soldiers when they do manage to improve their performance. If they have no incentive to get better, they never will. Give me your opinion on her behavior, please.”
“Of course,” Evie said, dismissing her rapier.
They’d been drilling together at the center of the fields of organized chaos, Evie leading Sara through the advanced sword forms that she expected her to commit to rote memorization. Unlike her sense of military strategy, Sara felt confident in her skills with a sword. She had been interested in fighting even before she’d been dragged into this new life, and she took to the art of swordsmanship with a passion. Though she knew she’d ever equal Evie’s innate mastery of the blade, chasing the ideal was nearly as satisfying as actually achieving it.
Plus, it’s really nice to get my ass whooped by a hot girl.
With her practice partner sauntering away, however, Sara folded her sword, sheathing it. Taking a long drink from her canteen, she cast an eye over the fields.
The Powdered Lead were lined up squad by squad, individual soldiers aiming at stumps of wood roughly the size of a human being. Their Model 1862s were excellent, incredibly accurate rifle-muskets, but they were just tools. If the soldiers didn’t know how to use them properly, it wouldn’t matter if the guns were accurate to five hundred yards or five thousand. Everything depended on how well you aimed.
She and Evie had learned early on that blackpowder rifles, no matter how finely made, weren’t the equal of the modern weapons Sara had learned with on Earth. The (questionably legal) AR-15 she’d once owned fired its rounds at a whopping three thousand feet per second, more than triple the speed of the 1862. Not only that, its 5.56 ammunition was a smaller, highly aerodynamic round. At five hundred yards, aiming her AR-15 at someone’s head would put the round in their groin. With the Model 1862’s blackpowder-propelled, .58 caliber bullets? The bullet trajectory looked more like a catapult than it did a rifle. You had to aim so high that you couldn’t even see your target.
The advice being distributed to her troops to help rectify the weapon’s deficiencies was constantly washing over her. Much of it was something Sara had told them from the start, knowing what she did from her time at Michigan gun ranges, but a lot of it was now supplemented by the rifle manual her dad had the Tulian printing presses create. Though he’d hardly ever gone shooting, he’d read far more history books than Sara. He understood the intricacies of rifle muskets in ways she didn’t. The Powdered Lead soldiers were now training on exactly which part of their finger to place against the trigger, how to control their breathing, how to monitor their heartbeat and its effect on their rifle, and even how to watch the waving grass to account for wind. That last part was something Sara never would have thought mattered at the ranges of musket combat. She’d ignorantly thought wind was solely the concern of modern, high-performance sniper rifles. Yet the fat, slow bullets of the Model 1862 had proved more easily affected by not just the wind, but by every factor that could affect a shooter’s accuracy. It took incredible skill– itself acquired only by a constant expenditure of the expensive blackpowder necessary for training– to equal the abilities of weapons she once took for granted.
In some small way, Sara was almost grateful for the difficulty of musketry. It meant the Powdered Lead, benefitting from centuries of Earthly lessons only they had access to, could easily maintain their superiority.
For now, Sara pointedly reminded herself. The societies of this world weren’t stupid. They would catch up. Either with training, Classes, or enchantments, the gap could be closed. Evie had drilled that into her. Pride in her troops was one thing, but Sara couldn’t let herself grow complacent.
Speaking of which…
Sara turned her eye toward a certain section of the field. Part of the morning’s training was about better integrating the Powdered Lead and the Imperial Army. For the mercenaries, that meant learning from veteran Imperial skirmishers, men and women who had spent literal years on the field of battle. They were well-versed in harrassing enemy formations with shortbows and javelins, and knew exactly when to melt back to their own lines to avoid an enemy push. The mercenaries, in turn, were teaching the skirmishers how to best utilize their new firearms, affording them the precious opportunity to learn from the Powdered Lead’s instructors.
That wasn’t all of the integration efforts, however. The Powdered Lead’s Third Squadron, unlike their fellows, weren’t shooting at distant targets. They were aiming at one very close, very bright target:
A mage shield.
The elven mage Mayaran, the insufferable woman who had nearly had her shoulder crushed by Hurlish during the celebratory party on the eve of Ta-Pet’s capture, was on the field as well. She had a cadre of non-elven followers surrounding her, young nobles who made up the aspiring mages of Ta-Pet’s population. They were listening intently to her instructions as she shifted and shaped the mage shield to better weather Third Squadron’s rapid-fire volleys.
Though Sara was loath to admit it, the woman was doing a good job of it. She seemed to have stumbled across a similar strategy to Garen’s method of catching cannonballs, lessening the upper layer of her shield’s rigidity, using a soft surface to better catch the easily-deformed lead projectiles. Beneath the wall of absorbent material was another, denser layer, one more akin to the mage shields that Tulian cannonfire had smashed open so many times before. The few times a musketball penetrated the soft layer above, Mayaran explained to her pupils, the tough second layer was there to stop it cold.
It was a solid strategy, irritatingly enough. Third Squadron had fired four times as many rounds as any other squadron that morning, and they still hadn’t penetrated it. Sara still felt certain that a few well-timed shots from a pair of Napoleons would shatter the spell like glass, but that wasn’t what it was for. It was meant to stop musket fire, and in that role, it was proving maddeningly effective.
Maybe Hurlish is right, Sara thought. Musket-fired specialty rounds might have a place on the battlefield after all.
It was something to investigate. The rounds would be expensive as hell, but if they let her troops kill even a single Sporaton mage, they’d make their cost back tenfold.
As the Third Squadron’s fire began to slacken, their sergeant recognizing that no amount of further fire would penetrate Mayaran’s spell, Sara began to make her way over. She had to find some way to fill her time while Evie made her rounds with the troops.
“...though I doubt any of you will be capable of replicating it any time soon, of course,” Mayaran was saying to the flock of simpering mages. Their worshipful expressions nearly had Sara rolling her eyes. Remembering Evie’s endless begging for her to act polite to potential Imperial allies, Sara schooled her expression into something more appropriate for the occasion. She shifted into the bearing of an unerringly polite but unrefined commoner, carrying herself as gracefully as her supposed lack of formal upbringing could allow. It was exactly what most Imperials expected from a mythical Chosen, and anyone who got what they were expecting was that much easier to manipulate.
“Hello, Mayaran!” Sara called out, raising her hand in a polite greeting. “I see your spellcrafting work progresses well.”
“Chosen Sara,” Mayaran replied, dipping her head exactly as much as their relative stations required, and not a hair further. “I am finding it helpful indeed to have live weaponry to experiment with. Your troops are as capable as their reputation suggests.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Sara said, the lie slipping automatically from her lips. Their last conversation had ended poorly, but neither wanted to restart the argument. The exchanging of compliments was as socially necessary as it was dishonest. “I’m curious to test it for myself. With so much of my time spent developing firearms, my spellcasting abilities have gone sadly ignored.”
Some of the junior mages listening to the conversation seemed surprised to hear that Sara could cast spells. She couldn’t blame them; she didn’t have much use for them outside of battle, and even then, they were a last resort. All of her spells were powerful, flashy, exhausting displays. She didn’t use them unless she had to.
“You wish to learn of my spellcasting methodology?” Mayaran smiled a toothless grin. “I can certainly attempt to explain the fundamentals, but I’m afraid it takes considerable time to master the craft. Unless your nature as a Champion allows you to more easily cast spells…?”
Sara hit her with an equally mirthless smile. “Oh, no, I wasn’t talking about casting the spell for myself.” She reached up and over her back, grabbing the thick barrel of her personal gun. The shoulder-fired cannon was a comforting weight in her hands. “It seems to me that your spell excels in stopping large volumes of small-caliber fire. I can imagine you’re rather curious about how it might fare against something a little heavier?”
Mayaran regarded the weapon in Sara’s hands like it was a rotten rat carcass.
But you’re not gonna puss out now, are you? Sara thought, biting back a predatory glint. Not in front of all those noble magelings you were working so hard to impress.
“It will be an interesting experiment, I’m sure,” Mayaran said, her hesitation brief enough that only Sara could have caught it. “I have created separate shield spells for artillery, of course, but I hadn’t considered such an intermediate weapon.”
Maintaining bravado, but setting up an explanation for potential failure. She can think ahead, I’ll give her that much.
“Excellent,” Sara chirped happily, breaking open the barrel and pulling a massive paper-wrapped cartridge from her belt. Two pounds of lead slipped into the chamber, which closed with a satisfying click. “I assume you’ll want me to fire away from the center of the shield, so that any penetration doesn’t end poorly for you?”
“Of course,” Mayaran said, rolling up her robe’s sleeves. She glanced at the gaggle of magelings, adopting the air of a lecturer. “No battle mage should see sense in abandoning caution, no matter how confident you might be in your own success.”
She’s nervous, Sara noted. The first preemptive excuse for failure should’ve been enough. Does she really think I’m going to get through her shield in one shot?
She looked closer at Mayaran. Champion close. She analyzed the woman’s heartbeat, pore dilation, blinking frequency, and a dozen other metrics. The data that poured into Sara’s skull was inhuman in its depth, incomprehensible to anyone save Amarat’s Champion.
Not really nervous, Sara concluded, but something close to it. Seems like she doesn’t like taking risks, no matter how small. Bad habit for a soldier.
Sara turned and walked a solid distance away, far enough that she hopefully wouldn’t have to worry about any shrapnel bouncing back at her. She was only wearing her diplomat’s armor, without her blacksteel breastplate, and she didn’t want to end up with a sliver of lead through a lung. That wouldn’t achieve much for anyone.
“Ready?” She called.
Mayaran raised her hands. Drops of pale, ghostly energy began to gather around her hands, an otherworldly condensation which rolled up to concentrate at the tips of her fingers. She closed her eyes, muttering a few words.
The shield came into existence with a whumph of displaced air, a translucent wall of white. Seeing it from up close, Sara could see that the absolute thinnest layer of its skin, the very edge, was running like water. The wind was stirring small circles in it, creating a shifting, rippling pattern. It was, in its own way, rather beautiful.
Sara put her gun to her shoulder, snuggling her cheek against a well-worn wooden stock. She dug her feet into the mud, bracing for the recoil. She wasn’t aiming at the center of the shield; that was where Mayaran was. She aimed ten feet to the left of the woman, deliberately pointing the muzzle at the dirt. Even if the round penetrated the shield with enough force to bounce off the ground, there was nothing but the enchanted walls of Ta-Pet for it to end up striking.
“I am ready,” Mayaran announced.
Sara pulled the trigger.
Sara’s shoulder-cannon did not have the crack of a rifle. It had a deafening, thudding boom, as a two-pound steel-cored lead slug was launched out of a two foot barrel. Her shoulder felt like it had taken a mule kick, powerful enough that she was turned nearly forty degrees aside by the recoil, her heels twisting a trench in the mud.
The round hit the shield with a splash. Spellcrafted droplets sprayed the dirt like rain, evaporating with a hiss of steam. The lead projectile itself became a visible spray of molten sparks, slivers of glowing cherry exploding in every direction.
Didn’t get through.
“As you can see,” Mayaran began to lecture, “while a more energetic weapon creates a more spectacular reaction, the same, simple principles remain adequate for shock absorption, so long as–”
Sara finished loading her second round, throwing the gun to her shoulder in nearly the same instant she pulled the trigger.
Another boom, another spray of violently distributed shrapnel. The lead fragments were far brighter than hitting something like solid stone, Sara noted. Some interaction between the bullet and its target was producing more heat than was normal.
“General Sara!” Mayara called out from behind her shield. “I believe the demonstration has achieved its purpose.”
“How do you figure that?” Sara asked, clicking the breech shut on. The barrel was already burning-hot to the touch. “It’s not like I’d only ever fire one shot in battle.”
Before Mayaran could respond, the third round launched from Sara’s gun. This time, there wasn’t a single droplet of magical fluid flying through the air.
Sara had noticed it earlier. The elven mage’s spell, while impressive, didn’t have a truly liquid surface. It flowed more like mud than water. She didn’t know much about proper spellcasting technique, what with the way Amarat had helped Sara cheat her way to relevance, but she could figure a few things out for herself. Any amount of time required for a protective layer to reform was also a moment of vulnerability.
Sara couldn’t see her target anymore. The amount of blackpowder smoke poured out by her gun was only exceeded by thousand-pound artillery pieces. She was awash in the scent of sulfur.
Soil shook as she fired again.
Sara couldn’t see the effect on her target, but she knew it hadn’t been good for Mayaran. No quip, no retort. The mage was focusing.
And Sara was finally obscured by the smoke.
Heavy as they were, she normally carried only six rounds for her shoulder-cannon. Recently, she’d added a seventh. Sara reached into the hidden leather pouch kept beneath her shirt, flipping the cover off a gleaming lump of brass, dull lead protruding from its shining container. She slid it into the gun as quickly as she could, spending the briefest moment to align herself with the same place she’d shot three times before.
This is gonna fuckin hurt.
She pulled the trigger.
And woke up on the ground.
Two pounds of lead launched by a fist-sized bundle of primitive mill-ground blackpowder already had one hell of a kick. This? This was something else. Her dad had run the numbers for her on just how much more powerful this new round was, and from what she’d managed to decipher of his math, Sara thought she could take it. Four times the kinetic energy was a lot, but she was literally superhuman. It should be possible to deal with.
As she woke with a pounding ache in her head, gun laying in the mud beside her, Sara’s first coherent thought was simple:
Evie’s gonna kill me.
Guncotton, it turned out, did not fuck around.
She’d gone totally deaf, for starters. Couldn’t hear a damn thing, even with her Blessings. Her shoulder felt more fucked up than even a dislocation could explain, and a brief glance revealed why. The metal plate which had borne the brunt of the gun’s recoil had caved in, entirely immobilizing the joint. Blood seeped through the cracks.
Great. Now Hurlish is gonna kill me, too.
The smoke around her was fading. Sara had only moments to recover her wits. She felt sure she’d blown right through the shield, but she damn sure wasn’t going to let her incapacitation allow Mayaran to declare some kind of tie. She had to look the part of a victor.
Reaching over with her good hand, Sara activated her armor’s enchantments, turning the metal to putty. She lifted and tugged at the broken metal, doing her best to align the shattered pieces, then slapped a hasty Illusion over the less-than-perfect repair job. That done, she tried to stand, only to realize that she’d hit her head pretty hard on the way down. She was dizzy to the point of debilitating nausea. She quickly downed a healing potion, then snagged her helmet off her belt, propping it up behind her head like a pillow. She crossed her legs theatrically, arms folded for comfort, and waited for the smoke to dissipate.
The first sign of her hearing returning was the coughing of a number of noble brats, who were unaccustomed to the noxious fumes of burning blackpowder. After that, picked up through her Blessings alone, she was privy to Marayan’s growling frustration.
“That last round was not normal,” she insisted, presumably speaking to some confidant nearby. “I do not know what it was, but it was several multiples as powerful as her earlier gunshots. Damn General Borek’s orders; we must send agents into their camp to discover what she has created.”
With all the air of a royal reclining on their throne, Sara pulled a notebook from her pocket, taking her time to jot down a note for Evie to increase the guard around the guncotton storage. When the wind finished carrying away the smoke, Mayaran and her magical paparazzi were treated to the sight of Sara relaxed as could be, whiling away the time with a bit of journaling. She looked up only after they had a moment to gape at her, treating them to a proper, beaming smile.
“Well?” She asked. “Did I get through the shield?”
“Yes.” Mayaran said the word without emotion. “In the future, I believe the parameters of our tests should be communicated more clearly. Though no injury came of it, I was not anticipating you firing multiple rounds.”
“Well, I’m glad no one was hurt,” Sara said, folding her notebook to stand. “Now, there was another matter I was curious about.”
Mayaran grit her teeth, her polite facade on the verge of failing. “And that would be?”
“In the past, due to the shock and unfamiliarity of firearms, most any mage of the Tulian-Sporatos war was unable to prove a true challenge. You are different. You now understand more about the weaponry you face than any Sporaton mage.” Sara held up a hand, indicating the empty air off her shoulder. “I’m rather interested in how well someone like, say, my wife would fare against your spells.”
Appearing with the perfection of timing normally reserved for masterfully directed stageplays, Evie emerged from the press of Third Squadron spectators. Sara, who’d been tracking her path with her Blessings, had placed her palm to perfectly frame the woman, such that it looked like the feline was standing on her hand.
“She has received some measures of counter-mage-training,” Sara continued, “but due to regrettable circumstances, there have been precious little opportunities for her to practice against a proper practitioner of the arts. Seeing as you are a combat mage of elven blood, I can imagine no better test for her skills.”
“What is going on, dear?” Evie asked as she stepped up, pressing herself into Sara’s side.
“I’ve arranged a duel for you.”
There was no hesitation. Evie’s rapier flashed into her palm as she bared her fangs. “Excellent. Who?”
“Now, now,” Mayaran said, patting the air in a calming motion. “I understand, and perhaps even admire your tenacity, but mage’s duels are not the realm of those who lack Talavan’s Gift. I am confident of my victory, but there is much you must consider before accepting such a challenge. Though blades may easily be dulled or wrapped in enchantments, spells are a different matter entirely. The risk is considerable.”
Evie pushed herself off Sara’s side, frowning in disappointment. “So the duel is not to the death, then?”
The young mages visibly recoiled, whispering to one another. They’d certainly heard limited rumors regarding Evie Brown over the last few days, but having lived in Ta-Pet their entire lives, none of them knew much about her.
The rumors, they were learning, were not exaggerated.
“No,” Mayaran said, drawing the word out with a touch of discomfort. “No, I do not believe I believe it best I attempt to kill the wife of a Divine Chosen.”
Evie’s frown deepened. “Without death, what is the point of a duel? What slight of honor could be avenged by childish skirmishes?”
“It’s a training bout, Evie,” Sara explained, letting her amusement slip through. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called it a duel. This is just a test to see how you do against mages. It’s been pretty long since you had a chance to train, so I thought you’d appreciate the chance.”
“I do, of course,” Evie said, “but I question how worthwhile an endeavor this would be when so limited in scope. As Honored Elven Mayaran says, mages cannot dull their flames or lightning as I can my blade. It would be an unfair contest in my favor.”
To Sara, even without her Blessings, it was obvious what Evie meant by her comment. She’d been speaking literally. She was simply trying to work her way towards a more lethal contest out of interest in the fight itself. There was nothing more to it than that.
Well. She also relished the idea of killing a political figure overtly hostile to Sara’s interests. But that was besides the point.
Mayaran, on the other hand, had lived an entire human lifetime solely within the realms of courtly politics. She never once would have considered the thought that Evie was being genuine. Honesty simply wasn’t done. No, to the elven mage, Evie’s comments had been cold and calculated. The feline was insulting her spellcraft, making a presumptive assertion that Mayaran had no hope of victory unless she brought every weapon and spell at her disposal to the duel. A comment that was insulting enough at the best of times, for an elf to hear it from the mouth of a woman twenty-two years old was the gravest of insults.
Predictably, the mage’s hackles raised.
“I do not believe you need to concern yourself with that,” she snapped bitterly. “We have healers on standby, and any injuries you suffer will be quickly resolved. So long as I do not put a pillar of ice through your skull, the only consequence you suffer will be pain.”
“And I am to dull my blade in turn?”
Mayaran’s smile finally revealed teeth. “As I said. It does no good to suffer from bravado. Dull your blade if you please.”
“Of course.”
Evie’s tail began to flick with excitement as she drew her hand over her rapier, casting the shimmering glow of protective enchantments. Mage Mayaran straightened out her robes, tying back her voluminous hair. A large space began to clear out around them, everyone with an iota of sense recognizing that this “practice bout” would not be constrained to the regular perimeters of a dueling field.
Sara retreated to the ranks of Third Squadron, gratefully accepting a folding chair someone offered her. They began to break out ration packs, preparing snacks for the show.
Notes:
Well, people were wondering how Anaka was doing, so I decided to show her off. She's handling things... well enough, I suppose. Physically, at least. Sara might have gotten her first stalker, though. We'll have to see how desperate she gets.
Chapter 161: B3 Ch48: Meowpurrdy
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Evie Brown
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Every duel had layers. This was true of every form of conflict, from marital disagreements to grand sieges, but in Evie’s opinion, it was the duel which could claim the greatest degree of complexity. A duel, or more specifically a formal duel, was not a simple conflict. In Sporatos, duels were the climactic product of two individuals who had so deeply insulted the other’s honor that there was no recourse available to them save violence. A duel did not begin with the crossing of blades or the dropping of a hanky. It began far, far earlier, with the prodding of socialite sensibilities and half-hidden motivations.
In this instance, as Evie took her place some fifteen paces away from Mayaran, she spent the brief preparatory time analyzing not her opponent, but the circumstances which led to their conflict. Duels, when they occurred off the battlefield, were inherently political affairs.
Why did Master arrange this conflict?
The simplest and most obvious answer was that which Master had already stated: it was practice. Evie hadn’t faced a mage in single combat since her mother had forbidden her illicit training sessions with the Knight’s Eye, and it was a challenge she’d sorely missed.
If that was the case, however, Evie did not think Master would have chosen an elf as her opponent. Mayaran was a highly successful combat mage, almost certainly the most competent in the First Imperial Blackpowder Army, and had a considerable likelihood of winning the bout. Further, Mayaran had, on two occasions now, subtly aligned herself against Master’s interests. Not overtly, of course, but she nonetheless had deliberately utilized her station in society to undermine Master’s agenda. It was one thing for Master to have her decisions honestly criticized, as she held any Imperial who dared to do so in high esteem, but it was another entirely to bring doubt to her motivations themselves. Mayaran clearly did not agree with the introduction of blackpowder weaponry, and had thus far dedicated considerable effort towards developing spells which nullified their advantages.
In some respects this was wise; her Empire’s enemies would inevitably produce a great deal of muskets, and mages such as Mayaran would be required to adapt. Yet, rather than speak of how she could use her spells to aid the Imperial Army, she seemed determined to prove her personal superiority over the Powdered Lead in particular.
Master doubtlessly had a better read on the situation than Evie. If they’d had more time to prepare, Evie would have spent a great deal of time asking after the motivation for this “practice” bout. What Master wished to achieve with it could be many things. Did she wish to humble Mayaran? Prove Evie’s prowess before the Imperials? Study the spellforms Mayaran used so she might replicate them or describe them for the University of Tulian? Measure a prospective enemy’s strength? Perhaps she wanted to use Mayaran’s spells to predict possible Sporaton firearm countermeasures? The list went on, and Evie wouldn’t have the chance to discuss it further.
Thankfully, she knew her Master well, and Master understood her in turn. In only the most dire of circumstances would Master not expect Evie to fully exert herself. Capitulation on the field of battle, unless explicitly ordered, would never be expected of her.
Thus, she concluded, the political impetus which prompted the duel was irrelevant. Her task was simple:
Win.
With the political aspects of the duel confirmed in her mind, Evie began studying her opponent. Mayaran was an idealized portrait of what a combat mage should be. Her voluminous robes glittered with enchanted gemstone dust, preferring— unlike the mages Evie had trained against in the Knight’s Eye, who wore true armor— the traditional garb of a spellcaster. Most mages eschewed protective steel in favor of the flexibility of enchanted robes, allowing for a more adaptive set of defenses. Under Graf’s command, the Knight’s Eye were unique in expecting their mages to be front-line combatants, not deeply-sheltered specialists. Ordering his spellcasters to take risks was a luxury afforded to Graf only because he, unlike the nobility, did not rely on mages for tasks outside of battle.
How well protected will she be, then? Evie wondered. Mage’s robes possessed an impossible degree of variation in their enchantments, with most practitioners intentionally disguising their designs from prospective opponents. Evie, who lacked magical senses, quickly concluded she had no hope of predicting the weakness of Mayaran’s defenses.
Her offensive capabilities, then.
This, too, was something Evie lacked knowledge of. Mayaran had thus far acted defensively in both battle and training, summoning shields to defend others. Normally, Evie would assume the mage preferred fire as her main offensive element; the psychological effect alone of seeing comrades burning alive was enough to make flames a nearly universal choice for combat mages. A single mage could rout many times their number, so great was the fear they created.
Mayaran would not be using flames, however. Though she’d said it offhandedly, Evie seized upon her earlier comment: ‘so long as I do not put a pillar of ice through your skull, the only consequence you suffer will be pain’.
Few had the wherewithal required to maintain lies while snapping in frustration. Being an insult rattled off in supreme irritation, Evie felt certain Mayaran was going to use ice-based projectiles. It was a common choice for mages who wished to use pure force to overwhelm powerful armors. With the preponderance of enchanted armors on the battlefields of the Empire, it only made sense.
Evie’s continued analysis was interrupted by Master walking up to her. Her wife treated her to an encouraging, cocky grin.
“Alright. From what I’ve heard, Mayaran is-”
Evie held up a hand. “No thank you, Master. I wish to go into this conflict without forewarning of my opponent. You were right. Since the introduction of firearms, I’ve had no opportunities to engage a mage directly. Unless it affects a political plan you have made without my awareness, I would prefer to take this contest honestly.”
Master’s eyebrows raised. “Alright. It’s up to you. Just do your best to win.”
“I can make no assurances. You have pitted me against an elven mage with decades of combat experience. Were it not for your bolstering of my Levels, I would be utterly helpless. Even still, I doubt I can win.”
“Yep. You’re welcome.”
Evie flicked her eyes away from Mayaran. “I do so very much love you, Sara.”
“Love you too, Evie.”
Evie began divesting herself of her firearms, handing each to Master. It was a considerable collection. Her belt held four two-and-a-half pound pistols, alongside several containers of pre-packaged lead ammunition. Her blacksteel Walker revolver weighed four pounds, and it was attached to her custom-commissioned cuirass, a far heavier design than most. Knowing that she would be facing firearms on the battlefield with increasing regularity, Evie had abandoned her old, lightweight cuirass, a traditional form which had encompassed her entire torso, in favor of a far thicker version which covered only the front of her chest. The cuirass, half an inch of steel at its thickest point, could repel any conventional musketball, but that came at the cost of a debilitating forty pounds: more than an entire suit of armor. Topping it all off was the rifle on her back, which weighed nine pounds unloaded, its ammunition adding another three pounds. Altogether, despite being lightly armored, she usually went into battle carrying two-thirds of her bodyweight in equipment. That would not do for this duel.
Once Evie finished divesting herself of everything save her cuirass, Master retreated gracefully, leaving the space between Evie and her opponent clear.
Evie took a deep breath.
And activated her Duelist’s Skills.
The world went black. Every blade of grass, lump of dirt, and stray stone vanished to nothingness. The crowd of eager spectators faded to a pallid, near-invisible gray, becoming a blurry, indistinct mass. The only pieces of the landscape which remained visible to Evie were the few pieces of terrain large enough to be a hazard, such as loose rocks and grass-covered ditches. Her hearing also became dull and muffled, to the point that she could hear her own breath sweeping down her throat and into her lungs, then blowing out past her lips.
This dulling of her senses was not without reward. Her elven opponent became a bonfire of vivid detail, a thousand times more colorful than the empty world around her. At fifteen paces, Evie could track her body as if she were staring from a foot away. She did not have to choose her focus; her eyes focused on every limb simultaneously, observing her chosen opponent in totality. Every rustle of her robes, every twitch of muscle fiber beneath her dark skin, the exact line of her gaze, Evie could see it all.
Without her Master’s help, Evie never would have acquired such a unique set of Skills. A Duelist’s Class was earned only by those who unerringly sought out opponents of equal or greater skill to themselves, then engaged them in single combat. Though Evie may have earned the Class at some point, it was unlikely she would have kept it. A Duelist was not the kind of Class which predisposed one to a long, healthy life.
But Evie’s Class was not, thankfully, that of a pure Duelist. Turning to her right, she looked upon the second flare of color remaining in the world.
Her Class was Supplicant Duelist.
If Mayaran had become the focal point of all the senses Evie had lost, Sara Brown was a lighthouse’s blazing fire on a freshly fallen night. She was not simply resplendent in the manner which came naturally to a Champion of Amarat- she was the central nexus of countless lights, a sea of glittering dots shifting behind her. Evie’s augmented senses did not see the crowd as anything more than blurred, inhuman shapes, but she could see their eyes. Evie was deeply, intensely aware of anyone who had the gall to so much as look upon her Master’s unguarded flanks. The figures in the dark blinked in and out of existence, brightening and darkening as they moved closer or farther away. Evie knew from experience that, should any of them get within a blade’s length of Master, they would be lit as if standing in the center of a lightning bolt. Though few realized it, every person who had ever come within an arm’s length of Master had done so only with Evie’s tacit permission.
“I am ready,” she announced, turning back to Mayaran. “What is the Imperial custom for beginning a duel?”
“This is not a duel,” Mayaran reminded her. “It is a practice bout between allies. As such, you may begin whenever you see-”
Evie launched into a dead sprint, rapier appearing in her left hand. To her credit, Mayaran did not waste breath on surprise. Her hands shot up fast as a snake, lips forming an incantation.
Evie raised her rapier overhead and, with all the force she could muster, threw it.
Mayaran’s eyes flashed in surprise as the silver steel whirled toward her. One hand broke off its twitching to make a flicking gesture, a wordless spell knocking the blade off-course.
The conflict occurred at the pace only Irregulars were capable of. Evie had closed twenty feet in a fraction of a second, a few short feet away from lunging distance, when Mayaran finished her spell.
The air formed crystalline clouds above the mage. A gust of wind unlike anything nature had ever produced ripped out of the miniature thunderhead, billowing out Mayaran’s robes as she thrust her hands forward.
An agonizingly bitter wind ripped across Evie’s skin, pelting her with razor-sharp shards of ice. Her forward momentum was entirely arrested in an instant, and she began to wheel backward, the blood of her wounds freezing before it had time to be flung off her skin.
Evie dropped to her stomach, summoning her rapier in the same motion that she thrust downward, impaling it into the soil. She was pinned in place, but she was no longer being blown backward.
One of Mayaran’s hands went up, a new word forming on her lips. The wind did not abate as the cloud above her head began to collapse, a long, frozen spike floating in midair.
The instant before the pillar of ice shot forward, Evie threw herself into a rightward roll, drawing her belt knife as she went. Mayaran’s aim adjusted itself, tracking Evie, but the mage failed to account for the sudden release of Evie’s grip, which had her scraping backward across the soil.
Shards of ice exploded a mere foot above Evie, lacerating the top of her head and bouncing off her armored shoulders. She stabbed the ground once more with her knife, preventing herself from losing further ground.
Over a full second had passed. Another ice spike began to form over Mayaran’s head, but it was not taking shape as quickly as the first. Casting two spells at once was not something that could be sustained for long. The brutal wind began to slacken.
With an effort that had her joints screaming in protest, Evie dragged herself to all fours. Using her dagger as one might an icepick, she began clawing her way forward, steadily gaining ground as Mayaran’s wind-driven spell began to fail.
The second spear of ice launched. Evie pushed off with her legs as if she were diving into a lake, barely avoiding an impalement. The frozen pillar embedded itself several feet into the soil with a ground-shaking thump.
Not holding back all that much after all, are you, Mayaran?
Evie’s rapier flashed itself into her hand as she charged against the wind. She’d almost closed the distance. A few feet more and she’d run the woman through.
Mayaran knew it. Her fingers twisted into new arcane symbols, abandoning the wind. Evie threw herself at the mage with all her might.
Only to find herself sailing up and over the woman. She twisted, trying to prepare herself to land, only to be nearly overwhelmed with nausea. She flailed helplessly in midair, the blackened world spinning senselessly around her.
If Evie had been anyone else, the duel would have been over. She wouldn’t have been able to understand what was happening to her. She could not tell up from down, left from right, and any movement of her body served only to disorient her further. It was as alien a sensation as she’d ever known.
But Evie was not anyone else. She was the wife of a Champion. And, through her Master, she had gained a great deal of otherworldly knowledge.
Namely, she had watched countless films which took place beyond the bounds of a planet itself, where gravity held no sway.
Evie flipped her dagger in her hand and brought it to her back, slashing downward, ignoring the burning pain as she severed the leather straps which held her cuirass in place.
Down below, the lone speck of color that was Mayaran raised her hands. She was taking her time as she aligned her next spell. The thick pyramid of ice from her first two spells was replaced by a thin, sleek needle, compressed to a razor edge.
The straps of Evie’s cuirass snapped. Her cuirass began to float off her chest. Twisting in air, stomach rebelling against the perverse weightlessness she was gripped by, Evie placed her feet on the cuirass, aligning herself with Mayaran.
The needle blurred forward.
The words of Evie’s father-in-law echoed in her head. A simple maxim, obviously true the moment one first heard it, but something most never considered.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
With all the strength brought to her by the seventeen Levels of a Divine Champion, Evie kicked off her cuirass.
The icy needle did not miss. It slid neatly through the meat of her right shoulder, punching an inch-wide hole.
It was not enough to knock her off-course.
Evie hit the ground a mere foot in front of Mayaran, still weightless. She took a twisted pleasure in the elf’s involuntary gasp of fear.
Grinning, the tip of Evie’s rapier lanced towards the woman’s neck.
Pain.
Evie’s left arm slammed into a wall, the rest of her body following behind, crushing against something that hadn’t been there an instant before. Motivated more by instinct than thought, her feet dug trenches in the mud, trying to drive her blade the last few inches between its tip and her target.
She went nowhere.
A solid wall of ice had appeared between Evie and Mayaran. Her arm had not just been stopped— it was embedded. Through the hazy, translucent frost, she could see her left arm pierced through in a dozen places by blue spears. One pillar jutted through her forearm, another through her bicep, and several more wove in and out of the thinner layers of her skin. Her entire arm, from fingertip to shoulder, was completely trapped. The wall itself was perhaps five feet wide, eight feet tall. She could not reach around it to attack Mayaran.
“You did well,” Mayaran began to say, her form shimmering and indistinct behind the frozen barrier. “But I am untouched, and you are-”
With a snarl, Evie curled her right hand into a fist. Drawing it back as far as she could, she slammed it against the wall in a vicious uppercut.
She felt things crack in her hand. A small fracture appeared in the ice, but that was it.
Gritting her teeth, Evie changed her position, bracing her feet and free hand against the ice wall. She began to pull as hard as she could, trying to retrieve her arm from its imprisonment. Flesh visibly began to rip and tear within the ice, shredding the limb to uselessness, but she didn’t care. So long as she could move, she would fight with her offhand.
“Ah,” Mayaran said. “I suppose I haven’t won yet, have I?”
A block of ice broke itself free from the larger whole, crashing against Evie’s forehead. It impacted hard enough to send her reeling back, stars dancing behind her eyes.
“There,” Mayaran announced. “I could have killed you with that. The match is over.”
With an agonizing throbbing making its way through her head and down her neck, Evie stopped struggling. Mayaran was right. Blood continued to bloom in the diorama of ice, pouring out of her arm in great gushes. Even if she freed herself, the ice was all that was keeping enough blood in her body to maintain consciousness. She had lost.
Mayaran kept saying things, but Evie paid them no mind. Releasing her mental grip on her Duelist’s Skills, she allowed color to seep back into the world. Graf’s training took its place at the forefront of her mind. She began going over the duel step-by-step, analyzing her mistakes.
Could I have anticipated this wall? She wondered. Yes, she decided almost immediately. Mayaran has shown herself to be a defensively-oriented mage, and her chosen element is particularly suited to rapid creation of obstacles. I should have known better.
Evie cursed herself viciously. She had relied too much on her opponent being surprised by her ability to recover from the spell of weightlessness. Mayaran had clearly thought the advantage was absolute, and couldn’t have anticipated Evie’s prompt reaction to it. That meant the ice wall was a reflexive spell, cast in a panic, but the haste in which it was cast had made it no less effective. Evie never would have anticipated a mage to have such incredibly quick reactions.
“Here,” a voice said. Evie glanced to her right, at first frustrated for being pulled from her analysis, until she saw who it was. Sara was holding out a healing potion.
“A moment, please,” Evie said, though she took the healing potion. “I would like to inspect my wounds first.” She raised her voice. “Mage Mayaran! Would you please release my arm?”
The only answer was a bloom of mist. The icy wall began to disappear, not melting into water, but simply dissolving into nothingness.
As soon as it was free, Evie’s left arm dropped, hanging uselessly at her side. She tried several times to lift it, but her body didn’t respond.
“Please administer a potion if I pass out,” she absentmindedly said to Sara, reaching over to lift her arm for inspection. It seemed two of the fingers on her right hand had been broken by punching the ice, but the pain was meagre.
If this had been a battle to the death, which would have been better? Using my rapier to cut the limb free of the ice, or severing the arm at the shoulder? As if in answer, a sympathetic pain throbbed in her forehead. The shoulder, certainly. She killed me easily once I was trapped. I would not have time to free myself. If I find myself in a similar situation on the battlefield, I will have to act swiftly. Any hesitation is likely to cost me much more than an arm.
A deep, dangerous chill raced through Evie’s body. Not the product of cold, but of blood loss. She uncorked the healing potion, drinking it quickly.
“A good bout,” she said, finally turning to address Mayaran. She gave the woman a respectful nod. “I do not think a Sporaton mage would have reacted so adeptly once I had closed the distance. They are too used to relying upon Knights for their protection, and few ever see the need to develop such a rapid, close-range defensive spell.”
Though the statement was honest in regards to most Sporaton mages, Evie did not fully extrapolate on the statement. The mages of the Knight’s Eye wouldn’t have reacted as Mayaran did either, but their response would have been even more adept. Those trained by Graf would have drawn a blade and engaged Evie directly.
“Is that so?” Mayaran asked, genuine surprise in her words. “I did not expect such praise from you.”
Evie sniffed. “You bested me in single combat. A life lived beside my wives has changed my perspective on the value of honor, but I am not so greatly changed that I would spurn a worthy opponent after a duel. There are few mages who would have survived in the manner you did.”
Mayaran’s gaze darted down to Evie’s wounds. The tendons of her left arm were ripped apart, more resembling the bent iron tubes of a burst steam engine than any living creature’s anatomy. Blood soaked the entirety of her left leg, running in thick rivers to the dirt beneath her boots. A lesser amount of blood caked her right shoulder, gushing from the place where the thinnest spike had speared her clean through. If one crouched to align their head properly, daylight could be seen from either end. A myriad list of other minor wounds ran up and down Evie’s skin, shards of wind-blown ice having left long, bloody lines on her body.
“And I must commend you, too,” Mayaran said, meeting Evie’s eyes once more. “I suspect there are equally few who would still be standing at this moment.”
“I have suffered worse. And,” Evie added, smiling wryly, “I believe your spells numbed me to the pain. If I were not hypothermic, I suspect my voice would not be nearly so strong.”
Mayaran laughed at that. “A brave confession to make, My Lady, and one I am most certain no Imperial would make in your place.” The mage raised a hand, waving to the crowd of mages. “You! The girl who claimed to be skilled in healing magics. Come, help this woman’s potion along.”
A younger mage scurried forward out of the crowd of spectators. The magelings were regarding Evie with a sort of horrified awe, clustering together like a herd of anxious livestock. Whatever they were whispering to each other, Evie could not hear, but she felt certain Sara’s Blessings would catch it. She looked forward to hearing what the next generation of Imperial mages thought of her duel.
In contrast, the soldiers of the Powdered Lead’s third squadron were raucous. Many of them had hoarse voices, as if they’d been cheering during the duel, though Evie of course hadn’t heard them doing so. There was a dense, frustrated crowd surrounding one woman, who was smugly accepting handfuls of coins from her fellow soldiers.
Only one of twenty bet against me, Evie thought, grinning in satisfaction. It is good to know I have the common soldier’s confidence.
Evie wasn’t concerned about her loss affecting the Powdered Lead’s faith in her. If anything, the injuries she’d sustained would likely be the talk of the next several days. More than anything else, Sara had taught her, soldiers valued the ability of their commanders to stand strong in the face of adversity. That Evie had held a conversation with her arm mangled to unrecognizability could only enhance her reputation, regardless of her overall loss.
The healer mage reached Evie, nervously hovering several feet away. Evie waved her forward, turning to offer the girl her injured arm. With the potion restoring her flash-frozen nerves, the pain was beginning to spread. She’d rather have herself healed before her body became fully aware of just how much it had suffered.
“So,” Sara said, walking up to take her place at Evie’s side, her attention on Mayaran. “That was a pretty good fight. From where I was standing, it looked like Evie was only a couple inches away from slashing up your throat. Close fights are always the best ones, aren’t they?”
“Perhaps for entertainment or practice,” Mayaran said, “but on the battlefield, I much prefer overwhelming victory.”
“I’m pretty much the same. Which is why I was wondering if you’d want to do a second little bout with Evie, if you don’t mind?”
Mayaran hesitated, looking at Evie’s arm. “I am not sure how wise it would be for one so injured to push herself forward.”
“Isn’t that what healing is for?” Sara reached down, grabbing one of Evie’s pistols and spinning it around a finger before dropping it in Evie’s good hand. “Besides. I think this one will be a bit shorter.”
Mayaran’s lips pursed as she looked at the pistol. “I see. And I assume that I would not be casting any preemptive spells before this second bout?”
“I’ll count it down this time. When I say go, you can both move.”
Ah, Evie thought, lips quirking. Here it is. The real purpose of the first duel.
Mayaran would never have accepted a duel against Evie’s pistol under normal circumstances. Though her defensive spells were impressive, they were also elaborate. The mage knew that the flick of a wrist and twitch of a finger, especially from an Irregular, was not a speed she was capable of equaling.
Yet Evie had lost the first “friendly bout.” What’s more, she had lost with dignity, freely complimenting the victor, who had graciously accepted said compliments. She’d done so honestly, without ulterior motive, but of course Sara had known she’d do such. It was now widely known that Evie and Mayaran had, despite their widely publicized disagreements in the past, acted honorably towards one another.
Honor that would be terribly sullied by Mayaran refusing a second bout.
“Of course,” Mayaran said, her smile losing what little authenticity it had so briefly gained. “Please, inform me when you are ready. I will entrust the countdown of the duel to you, Honored Chosen.”
“I am ready now,” Evie announced, holding the pistol in her right hand. The potion had set and healed her bones easily enough. “At fifteen paces once more?”
“If you so wish.”
There was far less build-up to this duel. They had both taken their measure of one another already. Evie took her place quickly, a single cryslock pistol holstered off her right hip. Mayaran stood opposite her, arms hanging a touch from her sides, hands hidden within her robes.
“Three!” Sara called.
“Two!”
“One!”
CRACK.
A spray of dirt leapt into the air between Mayaran’s feet, the lead ball audibly ricocheting up and away to smack against the walls of Ta-Pet a hundred yards behind. Evie lowered her pistol and, in a selfish indulgence she could not resist, spun it around her finger before slipping it back into its holster.
The first glint of spellcraft had not yet broken the air around Mayaran.
“My father,” Evie loudly announced, referring to David in the traditional form, “has a phrase he oft repeats. That ‘the gods made man, but it is the pistol which has made them equal.’ I do not yet believe that to be true, but it certainly seems prophetic. I thank you for the contest, Honored Elven.”
Evie turned away, searching for Sara.
Her wife was already speaking to a man dressed in noble clothing, making passionate gestures as she extolled the virtues of Tulian-built firearms. The man began to nod at Sara’s eager murmuring, and as Evie approached, she caught Sara speaking of prices: two pounds of silver per pistol.
The noble man did not so much as blink at the price.
The Powdered Lead, Evie suspected, would not be struggling to pay its wages.
Notes:
A touch shorter of a chapter, but a very fine duel, if I say so myself. I was working on another side-project alongside this one, one that may or may not end up getting posted to my AO3 account in the next few days. We'll see how it develops, since it's all a bit scattered and incoherent at the moment. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 162: B3 Ch49: Disobedience
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Mui Thom
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An army on the march was more akin to a single, dreadful creature than it was a gathering of individuals. It snaked and slid, stopped and started, hesitated and hurried, often beyond the control of any commander. With thirty thousand troops in the First Imperial Blackpowder Army, it was a ponderous creature indeed. Compressed by the jungle trails, the army’s tightly-pressed main column stretched over two and a half miles of road, either churning the road to a hopeless quagmire of mud or, during the dry season, creating a billowing mountain of dust. The beast’s tail was less dense, made up of countless camp followers and merchants, many of whom were porting large packs and rickshaws full of goods they sold to the soldiers each evening. That was where many independent mercenaries operated, being hired by private citizens as guards against the hazards of the war and wilderness alike.
When he’d been a common soldier, Mui had had the good fortune to rarely be near the rear of the column. It was a hated position, as it meant struggling through whatever the troops ahead of you had left behind. Even if they were marching over finely laid cobblestones, not a deeply-abused road, you still had to suffer the detritus created by tens of thousands of marching men and women. Soldiers constantly relieved themselves on the sides of the road, creating an awful stench, and the nobility’s Krapeu didn’t have the decency to step away before leaving their droppings, which meant you’d be stomping through bone-filled dung. The rear of the column was the last to reach the evening’s campgrounds, meaning they often marched into the early hours of the night, when predators became most active. A unit being assigned to the column’s rear was one of the more common ways for a General to punish its members for failures that couldn’t be attributed to any one person.
Which made it all the odder that Sara had chosen, of her own volition, to place the Powdered Lead at the rear of the column. As a commander of nearly five hundred troops, a hundred of whom were the crew of the battle-winning artillery, it would have been well within her rights to ask for a better position. He understood Sara well enough by then to know that she valued humility, but she also went to great pains to ensure the comfort of her mercenary soldiers. He didn’t understand why she would volunteer them for such a miserable position.
Fortunately, he had learned something else about Sara: she was never offended by an honest question. So he simply asked her.
“Because,” Sara said, hopping over a particularly large puddle leftover from the morning rains, “there’s no one else back here. Since Borek punishes underperforming squads by tossing them back here, the civilians are pretty undefended.”
“They have mercenary guards, no?” He glanced at the sky, where dark shadows were wheeling overhead. “And the griffons are keeping watch for any enemy force’s approach. They’re under little threat.”
“And they’re under even less, now that we’re back here. Besides,” Sara glanced to the right, where Evie was walking, and wrapped an arm around the woman’s waist, dragging her into an embrace. One that, Mui couldn’t help but notice, involved a hand quickly slipping towards the feline’s tail, giving its base a light squeeze. As Evie shuddered silently, Sara shot him a lecherous grin. “When no one else is around, I get to play with my toys whenever I want.”
“I see,” Mui drawled. “I should have known better than to think you were being purely virtuous.”
“Hey,” Sara said, sarcastically affronted, “I do want to protect the civilians, too. It’s just a bonus that I don’t have to deal with all the insufferable nobility.”
If any of the nearby mercenaries noticed anything of their two commanding officers groping one another in their midst, they showed no sign of it. Sara, Evie, and Hurlish were walking in the dead center of the Powdered Lead’s portion of the column, behind the riflemen, just ahead of the cannons. The green-cloaked guards, Hurlish and Tahn’s ever-present shadows, walked in a protective square around them. Mui had joined them for the day, as was his custom, though he scarcely knew why. It wasn’t as if his services as an “Imperial Liaison" had been necessary in weeks. It seemed he’d simply become an informal member of the Powdered Lead, despite his status as an Imperial citizen.
“Stop teasing her,” Hurlish rumbled at Sara, reaching out one thick hand to Evie’s back. Grabbing a fistful of the feline’s shirt, she lifted the woman out of Sara’s grasp, dropping Evie on her shoulders as easily as others might a toddler. Hurlish’s other hand was cupping a tightly-swaddled Tahn, who was sleeping peacefully in the crook of his mother’s arm. It was normally a terrible idea to have a child in plain sight while in the jungle, but considering the thickness of said arm, Mui doubted there was a safer place for Tahn within a dozen miles.
“I do not need your protection,” Evie sniffed from atop Hurlish’s shoulders. “I’m perfectly capable of telling Sara when I require her to abate her ‘teasing’ so that I may focus.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Hurlish said with an amused snort. “Even if you could tell her to lay off, I still don’t want her working you up. It’s already hard enough to tire you out when we get done marching.”
“But enjoyable, no?”
“Not the point.”
Mui shook his head, bemused. What had once seemed a nearly offensive lack of decorum between the three women had, over time, become somewhat endearing.
“If you want her worn out,” Sara said, “how about letting her walk herself?”
“No can do. I like having a pretty girl’s legs wrapped around my shoulders.”
Sara laughed, and even Evie’s stony expression cracked the slightest touch. After Mui had seen her so uninhibited and openly happy in the brothel, he didn’t find it quite as surprising as otherwise might. For a long time, he’d thought Evie was a woman whose only emotions roused themselves in the heat of battle. It was reassuring to know that she was more… normal, he supposed, than he’d first believed. It had helped to alleviate some of the instinctive fear she inspired.
And spilling my seed deep in her body certainly did much to humanize her, Mui couldn’t help but think. He tried to blink the memory away, but it was persistent. It wasn’t easy to banish the image of a beautiful woman’s smile as she climaxed beneath him, her innermost self massaging him towards his own peak. Nor was his body eager to forget the way it had felt to be wrapped in warm bodies, soft whispers and grunts of pleasure in his ear as he was filled from behind, every thrust pushing him deeper into the exotic Warrior who’d welcomed him with open arms, encouraging his tongue to rove over the elegant swell of her breasts, which bounced with every one of the same grunting pushes that had sparked a deep and unfamiliar pleasure in his body…
“Though,” Evie loudly announced, snapping him from his reverie, “It seems like I’m not the only one who has difficulty focusing.”
With a start, Mui realized he’d been staring straight at the woman as his thoughts wandered. She was wearing her battle equipment, festooned with strapped weapons and her thick cuirass, but it couldn’t hide all the lines of her body. His eyes had been locked onto her neck in particular. The strange tattoo, a colorful mimicry of the slave collars her wife despised so deeply, had been the quiet talk of the camp. Arguments over its meaning had gone back and forth amongst peasants and nobility alike, dozens of different ideas proffered, but Mui knew that none were correct. Evie Brown’s dedication to her wives was… unique. Not something the unfamiliar would be able to guess.
“I apologize,” Mui said. “I did not mean to stare.”
“Looked more like you were reminiscing to me.” Sara smirked. “Can’t blame you, though.”
“Neither can I,” Hurlish said, giving Evie’s thigh a pat. “I heard it was a pretty good time.”
Mui’s whiskers twitched. “What? They told you?”
Hurlish gave him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, bud. They told me. That surprise you?”
“I… suppose not. But I was under the impression you were only interested in women. I didn’t think any stories involving myself would, ah, interest you.”
Hurlish shrugged, making Evie rise and fall atop her shoulders. “It’s important to keep up with my wive’s hobbies. Besides, it’s not like I think the bits you’ve got are all that gross.” Hurlish bounced Tahn. “How’d you think I got this little guy?”
Mui blinked. “I… had not considered it, I suppose.”
“I’ll give you a hint: we did it the old fashioned way. Anyway, I don’t have a problem with my girls having their fun with you. Gods know I need the help keeping ‘em worn out.” Hurlish dragged her eyes up and down Mui’s body. “And besides, I’ve never really tried a guy. Never wanted to. But maybe if Sara bolts some tits onto you I could give you a shot.”
Mui had become much, much more open about certain things since involving himself with Sara, but it had been with Sara alone. The little time he had spent with Hurlish of Tulian had been purely professional.
But she is still Sara’s wife, is she not?
Controlling his whisker’s twitching, he met Hurlish’s gaze. “You aren’t serious. You’re making a joke of this, aren’t you?”
Hurlish laughed boisterously. “Ah, there ya go! See, Sara? I told you he’d get better eventually. No one can keep up that blushing virgin act around you for long.”
“I could think of no other explanation,” Mui said. “Sara has spoken too often of your preferences for me to believe you’d truly entertain such an idea.”
“Dunno if I’d go that far. I’m definitely imagining it.” She squinted down at him, peering directly at his chest. Then she shrugged. “Eh. Thinking about it right now, I don’t think it’d do much for me. Tits don’t make you a woman, I guess. Can’t hurt to try, though. From the way Sara and Evie talk, you sound like fun. Think you’d mind getting the full package? Some nice hips and a tight ass, too?”
“No swearing in front of Tahn,” Evie chided.
“Sorry.”
“Is profanity really the problem with having this conversation around a child?”
“I don’t think I’d have to do much,” Sara said, ignoring his comment as she eyed him for herself. “He’s already got a good butt. And his hips aren’t bad beneath that armor, either.”
“I guess you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
Sara laughed again. “See what I was talking about the other day, Mui? It’s pretty refreshing to have a normal guy like you in my bed every now and then. Helps keep me grounded when I’ve got these freaks pawing at me all the time.”
“I’m only performing my marital duties,” Evie hummed. “It is your libido which creates such an obstacle to good conduct, not mine.”
“You’re both lying and you know it,” Hurlish rumbled. “If you didn’t have me around, neither of y’all would get anything done. The only reason you get to sleep at a reasonable time is because I wear y’all out.”
“Speaking of which,” Evie said, “I have a task that I believe will help me work out some of that excess energy you seem to complain so much about.”
“Hey, I didn’t say I was complaining.”
“Regardless. Could you let me down?”
“Fine.”
Hurlish’s grip on Evie’s leg released, allowing the nimble woman to hop off her wife’s shoulders. Though she landed gracefully, the clank and rattle of her weapons sounded like cutlery spilling out of a cabinet.
“Mui,” she announced. “There is an opportunity that you have been neglecting for too long.”
His eyes widened. “Can this not wait until the army makes camp?”
Evie smirked. “I was referring to the practice and mastery of your sidesword, Sergeant Mui. Whatever could you have thought I was referring to?”
He blinked at her. “Ah. Well, I suppose I haven’t had much opportunity to hone my swordsmanship, no.”
“Except with me,” Sara interjected.
Hurlish rolled her eyes. “C’mon. That one was too easy. You’re better than that.”
“I absolutely am not.”
“Regardless,” Evie announced, dragging the conversation back on topic, “I think that the march will be an excellent chance to train. Seeing as you are likely going into combat with the Powdered Lead again, I’d like to have you prepared to make proper use of all the weapons at your disposal.”
“I understand.” Mui looked up and down the road, which was filled with shuffling feet and chatting mercenaries. “But where will we do so?”
“Behind the army, of course. We are Irregulars; it will be a simple enough matter to jog our way back to the column when we are done.”
“You want me to come with?” Sara asked. “Hurlish has her guards. She’ll be fine.”
“That is alright, dear. It’s almost your turn with Tahn, anyway. I wouldn’t have you miss the chance to carry him.”
“Okay, if you say so. Guess we’ll see you in a bit.”
As Mui and Evie turned to walk against the flow of the army, trepidation mounted. To be extended an offer of training with a Warrior of Evie’s caliber should have been an honor, practically a guarantee of his eventual elevation to a similar status, but that was only when seen through the lens of Imperial society. He did not know Evie on a personal level, but he knew her well enough to be certain this was no offer of sponsorship or an apprenticeship. He fought beside her and her wife, yet he was not skilled enough to materially contribute against an opponent that was their equal. If Mui found himself trapped in combat between Warriors capable of threatening the Brown family, he would be as useful as a toddler.
“Your sword is a simple short sword, yes?” Evie asked. “No enchantments, double-edged, with a steel blade?”
“Yes. All Sergeants receive the same design of khanda.”
“A cain-dra?” Evie asked, cruelly butchering the pronunciation.
“Kahn-dah,” he corrected. “And it is a simple sword, yes. Most khanda are, but mine also lacks much that a noble sword might. There is no hand guard, and it has only a simple metal pommel, and obviously lacks enchantment. Like all khanda, it lacks the oversized crossguard that seems so universal among northern blades.”
“Not all Sporaton weapons are basket-hilted rapiers like mine.”
“True. But even the wide crossbar that a sword like Sara’s possesses is largely absent in Imperial swords. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I have. May I see your khanda?”
A flash of possessiveness rose up in Mui, but he stifled it quickly. A sergeant’s sword may be the symbol of their station, but it wasn’t some sacred tool. Merely a badge of office.
“Of course,” he said, drawing it from the scabbard and flipping it around, handing it to Evie hilt-first.
She accepted it, inspecting it with a master’s discerning eye. He didn’t know why she was bothering to analyze it so closely. She’d certainly seen dozens of its kind before, with Mui’s far from the finest among them. A circular hilt, two hands long, was wrapped in strips of well-oiled leather, stitched neatly together where it ended on either end of the hilt. The pommel was a simple sphere of iron, serving only to give the blade a good balance. The guard was diminutive next to the ornate basket boasted by Evie’s rapier, being a simple half-sphere an inch and a half long, barely enough to deflect an enemy’s sword from sliding down the blade and into his knuckles. A khanda was a sword unsuited for opposing other swordsmen. It was intended as a sturdier replacement for the short spears commonly wielded in the army’s ranks, as well as a working tool. The 30-inch blade thickened as it neared the three-quarters mark, adding weight and momentum to his swings, then narrowed back down to a razor tip. It was a fine weapon, but one designed to be equally well-suited to clearing jungle thicket as it was for battle.
Much like the bayonets Sara and Hurlish designed for the Imperial Army. Life in the jungle does constrain us all, I suppose.
“It is an adequately made sword,” Evie announced. She handed it back to him. “I will have Hurlish to inspect it for hidden impurities. Any weapon made in such numbers is predisposed to the deficiencies of exhausted laborers.”
“I would not mind her doing so,” he said, though he felt a small twinge of wounded pride. It was a sword he’d worked his entire adult life to earn. He refused to entertain the idea that there wouldn’t be a flaw with it. The conversation waned until they neared the end of the baggage train, where Evie spoke again.
“So, then. Have you received any instruction at all in swordsmanship?”
“No. I was going to begin training and sparring with my fellow sergeants soon after my promotion, but we marched straight to Tulian, where my entanglement with all of this began. You can understand why I have not had time to pursue the thought.”
Evie’s only response was a dispassionate “Hm.” It could have been Mui’s imagination, but he thought there might have been an inkling of disapproval in her tone.
It isn’t as if we all have hours out of our day reserved for training.
Evie’s practice bouts with Sara had become the stuff of legends amongst the Blackpowder Army. Unlike the Warriors, who utilized ritual grounds hosted within every city, the Champion and her wife made use of whatever space was large and clear enough to contain their duels. The crowd of spectators which formed each day ebbed and flowed in their numbers, but they were always present. It was a rare chance for the common soldier to see Warriors at work without the distraction of battle besetting them on all sides.
“Here should be adequate,” Evie announced. The bulk of the army was long past them, and the road was nearly empty. “If any stragglers from the baggage train walk in our way, they’ll meet a fate befitting their idiocy.”
Mui gave her an astonished look.
“We will, of course,” she added, “be enchanting our blades for safety. So they would not be in undue danger.”
Mui did his best to hide the relief sweeping through him. Evie struck him as the type to take a more… extreme approach to tutelage. He had heard of certain nobles who trained their children without dulled weapons, believing that true pain was the only way to instill proper instincts for battle. He wouldn’t have been shocked in the slightest to hear a woman like Evie espousing such views.
As he began to murmur his way through the dulling enchantment he’d memorized as a young recruit, Evie began to lecture.
“I am unfortunately not familiar with the exact tactics employed by those who are trained in the use of a khanda, but the basic shape of the blade is similar enough to the Carrion Navy’s gladiuses that I believe many techniques will be applicable.”
Finishing his blade’s enchantment, he looked at her in surprise. “You are trained in Carrion combat styles?”
“Yes. I trained under Graf Urs and the swordsmasters of the Night’s Eye from the ages of eleven to eighteen. Though I preferred the rapier early on, as it was a weapon appropriate to my station, Master Graf refused to allow me to focus exclusively upon it. Any Irregular worth their title must be familiar with many weapons, so that they will know the capabilities of their opponent.” With a flash, she summoned her sword, leveling it at his chest. “Take your stance.”
Mui did so. He wasn’t so ignorant with his khanda that he did not know how to position himself. Taking his shield off his back, he put his left foot forward, right foot back, the edge of his blade resting against the middle of his shield. It was the simplest, least inventive way of taking a defensive stance, but that was because it was practical. It let him thrust with his right hand, adjust his defense with his left.
“We will begin in the manner I was trained in the Night’s Eye,” Evie announced.
“And that is?”
“A demonstration of why you should not engage a superior enemy.”
He had only enough time for a single thought.
Oh, gods.
Evie blurred forward, closing the distance before Mui could gasp. The specifics of what she did to him was beyond his reckoning. Pains erupted across his body: a throbbing in his left shoulder, a reverberating thrum in his right palm, and a distinctly enchantment-dulled agony across his entire snout.
He fell back with a pitiful yelp. His shield fell off his arm, the straps snapped, while his hand trembled on empty air, his sword nowhere to be seen. Evie was standing several paces away, eyes studiously narrowed.
Gods almighty, he thought, reaching up with a trembling hand to feel his snout. Nothing was broken, the enchantments prevented that, but the degree of pain the spell had allowed to slip through gave him a sense of what could have happened. He felt certain that, like a musketball impacting a melon, the collision of Evie’s rapier hilt would have turned his skull to so much flying gore.
“Now,” Evie said, taking several steps back, “I know that this demonstration was not strictly necessary, given your long military experience, but if you are to stand beside my wife in battle, I will only accept the highest quality of training. The Night’s Eye are the finest mercenaries in the world, and you will learn as they do.”
Still unsteady on his feet, he could only nod.
“Retrieve your weapon. We will begin with improving the positioning of your feet.”
He found his sergeant’s sword some twenty feet away, having been flung from his hand with the force of a cannonball’s strike. To his profound relief, the weapon was not dented, though he had to spend a few moments wiping it free of mud. When he returned, Evie set to work.
It was an oddly nostalgic experience. Though Mui was an Imperial Soldier of the Fifth Level, Evie considered him no more competent than a raw recruit. She took nothing for granted, instructing him on basic techniques that had been worn into his body as surely as stones chiseled by rainwater. The basics of how to turn his hips in the thrust, the importance of aligning the edge of his blade with his target on every swing, and the way to shift his mass as he compensated for the weight of sword and shield, all were explained in excruciating detail. Her reprimands were sharp, her praise little more than a confirmation that he’d done something correctly, and any success he found was merely the impetus for a greater challenge.
Mui thought it strange that Evie repeatedly insisted that she was not a teacher. Many of her instructions could have come directly from the mouth of the officers which first trained Mui in spearmanship, and they were veteran soldiers who’d spent years pressing unrefined recruits into hardened soldiers.
Perhaps the reason Evie thought she was a poor trainer was her continued frustration with Mui’s supposed incompetence. Every repetition of a drill pressed her frown a bit firmer into her face, every fumbled swing having her grinding her teeth. Mui didn’t understand why. It was as if she didn’t understand that she, a generational talent trained by a world-renowned mercenary, could not hold others to the same standard that she did herself.
It was not long before Mui’s fur was lathered with foaming sweat. He was panting hard, tongue falling out of his mouth, and still she pressed him. She had him stepping, swinging, and resetting his stance without pause, as if he were single-handedly holding off an entire army. The only breaks he was allowed were when he made a mistake severe enough that she personally stepped in, grabbing his limbs and adjusting him like a puppet.
Eventually, when his burning muscles had him failing the same riposte for the fifth time in a row, she made a slashing motion with a hand.
“Enough. This is getting us nowhere.”
Mui sagged, resisting the urge to support his weight on his knees. She’d scolded him severely each time he’d done so, talking about his compressed diaphragm and impeded recovery rates or some such. He tiredly sheathed his blade.
“I thought… I was… progressing well…” he gasped out. “I learned… quite a lot… I think.”
“You noticeably improved, yes,” Evie said, though she spoke as if it were an insult.
“But… Then why…?”
“Your improvement is not enough. It will not be enough for months yet. Mastering a sword is the work of a lifetime, not a hobby to be picked up during scattered evenings.”
“I do not need to… master it,” he panted. “Just improve. Become competent.”
Evie’s eyes flashed. “Oh? Is that so? Do you think that the enemies of Amarat’s Champion will merely be competent? Or will they be masters of their craft, the deadliest of Warriors that your Empire has to offer?”
Finally catching his breath well enough that he could take a swig from his canteen without choking, Mui drank greedily before responding.
“It takes years to master a weapon, no?” He asked. “I do not know what you expect from me. Even if I were the most skilled swordsman in all the world, I could not do a thing to anyone who is a threat to you or Sara.”
“Why? Because you lack the Levels to match our speed and power? Sara and I estimate that you are at your Fifth Level, while we are both at our Seventeenth.”
He was too tired to be offended by the deeply private insinuation of his Level, much less be shocked by the accuracy of the guess.
“Yes,” he said. “If you are really concerned with my ability to protect Sara, should you not be training me with firearms? To defeat superior opponents as you did Honored Elven Mayaran?”
“No.”
“No?”
“There are factors you do not understand.”
“Then explain them,” Mui said, his exhaustion getting the better of his manners. There was nothing more frustrating than someone speaking in riddles around him.
“I cannot. It is a matter of personal security.”
“And I, who you are training to help secure your family’s security, should not be privy to whatever this is?”
Evie’s ears darted towards him. Her feline features were not quite like his own, but when a catfolk’s ears both turned directly toward a speaker, it was a sure sign that they’d said something that was being taken careful note of. He couldn’t imagine it was any different for Evie. She considered him for a long moment before speaking.
“A moment, if you would. I will be back. Begin walking towards the column once more. I will meet you as I return.”
Without further comment, Evie turned and began to jog toward the army, which had snaked its way into the distance as they worked. As ponderous as the great procession was, it hadn’t made much distance at all.
Mui followed after at a slower pace, working over the discussion in his mind. He wondered what, exactly, Evie felt was so important to keep a secret from him. While it was obvious that he would be bettered by knowing how to properly use his sword, he didn’t understand why she was so insistent on true mastery. Any enemy which was within his range to defeat, whether he mastered his skills or not, was someone that Sara or Evie could dispatch with contemptible ease. She’d just told him that she was at her seventeenth level, an unbelievable thing in itself. That was a degree of power that most soldiers spent a lifetime cultivating. It was no wonder she was a Chosen’s companion. Five years of constant warfare had brought Mui to his fifth Level, and he was considered to have done so at an impressive (if not unheard of) pace for a common soldier. It would take him decades before he could approach the heights Evie had already reached.
Evie returned a few minutes later, meeting Mui a half-mile up the road from where they’d first sparred. She was wearing a collar this time, he noted. The shattered iron was held shut with a simple clasp, wrapping her neck to cover her new tattoo. She was also, he was surprised to see, holding a spear. An unremarkable Imperial weapon, it was practically identical to the one Mui still kept tied to his back.
Evie began without preamble. “Take your stance.”
Mui did so. Shield raised, sword held close beside. Evie bounced her spear several times, testing its weight, then lowered it.
“Defend yourself.”
Mui was not a coward. Despite the impossibility of his task, he knew his only hope was to predict her approach and land a lucky blow. He threw out a sharp forward thrust, tucking his head behind his shield.
But he felt nothing. His sword swept through air, his body suffered no impact.
Mui looked up to see Evie still charging at him. Fast, very fast, but not faster than he could react to.
Her spear whistled through the air as she lunged, aimed for his head. Mui took a step back, sending the spearhead scraping off his shield. He took an instinctive swipe at her spear, trying to chop at the wooden haft with his sword.
Evie pulled back easily. She began to launch a series of thrusts, and Mui lost his ability for conscious thought. He sunk into the moment, action and reaction, shoving and twisting just as he would in the many battles he’d seen before.
The exchange did not last long. Despite Evie’s inexplicable lethargy, she had a seven foot spear, and he a 30-inch blade. She was too skilled to allow him to seize the weapon with a hand, nor damage it beyond useability, and so the disadvantage was insurmountable.
The bout reached its foregone conclusion in perhaps five seconds. He blocked one, two, three thrusts, then flung a haphazard, chopping blow at her weapon as she pulled back, which missed— an error that earned himself a mortal blow to the neck.
“Down!” He cried, stepping back and raising his hand. When fighting with protected blades, it could be hard to tell when a wound against your opponent would be lethal, and he didn’t want her to batter him again for no reason.
Evie pulled back, flourishing her spear.
“What…?” he panted. “Why did you hold back so-”
“Sheath your sword and ready your spear.”
Her face and voice were cool as stone. Mui slammed his sword back into its sheath, whipping his spear off his back. He began whispering the protective enchantment as quickly as he could, glad that he only had a shorter speartip to protect.
Evie reached her starting point with her tail slowly bobbing from left to right, moving like the last moments of a dying pendulum. She looked him in the eye as he finished enchanting his spear.
“I asked that Master order me to fight you exactly as I would when I was at my fifth Level. This is an even exchange.”
She gave no time for Mui to absorb this thought. With a firm puff of breath, she launched forward, closing the distance.
Mui responded in kind.
A duel between two spearmen was not a spectacular thing. The spear was called the King of Weapons for a reason, and it wasn’t because it made for a flashy show. It was a plain, utilitarian weapon, meant only to kill.
They circled one another. Mui’s shield gave him a nominal advantage, but it wasn’t as great as one might expect. Evie held her weapon in two hands, giving her a greater range of motion and speed, able to launch and retract her spear by sliding it across the palm of her forward hand. Though Imperial training told Mui to bash his way forward, relying on armor and shield to weather her blows, he wasn’t a fool. That was a tactic best employed by dozens of soldiers in a line, not a single combatant. Even at her fifth Level, he had no doubts that Evie was more than capable of punishing such a reckless attack.
And so they kept circling. Occasionally they would test one another with flicks of their spears, wood tapping against wood, but they never amounted to much. Though Mui had limited experience in single combat, what little he was familiar with suggested that the final exchange would be fast, panicked, and decisive.
It was just so. Evie’s patience wore thin first. He caught the twisting of her ankle as she braced, settling her weight, and then they were off.
She launched one jab for his head, which he knocked upward by raising his shield. His peripheral vision caught her spear coming down and to his right, seeking to work around his shield, and he jerked to the side, knocking it off course, and launched a nearly-blind thrust of his own.
Evie leapt back with a hiss, left arm raised in the air. For a moment Mui thought he’d managed to stab her hand, but his spear was off-position for it, and the limb whipped back down, gripping her spear again.
Mui tried to push his advantage. He fell back to his training, throwing his full weight behind his shield as he rushed forward, shifting his spear to an overheaded grip and stabbing downward, trying to pierce her guard.
His charge ended with a grunt and a thump. Pain blossomed first in his shin, then scraped along his calf as Evie drew the spearhead along his fur.
If the blades hadn’t been dulled, the mud would have been covered by a tattered rug of his leg’s squirming muscles. It was an injury he had seen– and inflicted– dozens of times. He knew by heart what would have happened next: his momentum would have him falling forward, face-down in the dirt, and a spear would have pinned him to the ground.
“Again!” Evie barked.
Mui reset his stance without a word. There was no further discussion, no review of technique. They returned to their circling.
The charge almost worked, Mui thought, buying time with a few probing jabs. Trained or not, the spear isn’t the realm of her expertise.
There was far less buildup to the second exchange. Once his decision was made, Mui didn’t waste a moment.
Evie made a probing thrust. Instead of brushing it aside, Mui swung his shield with his entire shoulder, shoving it aside in the same motion that sent him two quick steps forward, steel spearhead flying ahead of him.
Evie threw herself backward and to the left, narrowly avoiding a deadly blow to the chest as she choked up on her spear, thrusting up beneath Mui’s still-raised shield.
In one fluid motion, Mui ducked aside and brought his shield down as hard as he could. The speartip flew over his right shoulder just as his shield impacted the wood, trapping the long haft between. Evie managed to hold on for a moment longer, but the force proved too much–
and her spear clattered to the ground.
Mui shoved forward near-blindly, stabbing as fast as he was able. To his disbelief, Evie all but flew backward, seemingly detached from the ground, using the time to draw her belt knife.
It was unenchanted. Deadly sharp. If Mui had time to think, he would have felt fear. But there wasn’t time.
She lunged forward, free hand trying to grab his spear.
Mui swatted to one side, slamming wood against Evie’s cheek. She was knocked aside from the force of the blow, and he went with her, trying to choke up on the spear so he could stab her properly, but Evie had a grip on it now, dropping her dagger in order to grab his spear with both hands.
Momentum threw Evie to the dirt, Mui coming down above her. With both hands still locked on his spear, she kicked at his legs with all her might, trying to take his feet out from under him, but she couldn’t get the right leverage.
If Mui had the time to think about it, he wouldn’t have done what he did. But there still wasn’t time.
He raised his shield high, fist curled tight around its straps.
And slammed down.
The wooden boards cracked against Evie’s nose, shattering the cartilage with a visceral crunch. She kept kicking at him, both hands keeping his spear in place, and so he raised his shield again, driven by instinct alone to strike, strike, and strike again, until the threat stopped moving.
Then he saw Evie’s face. The feral grin splitting her lips, bared teeth hidden beneath rivers of blood. Through the roaring adrenaline, he heard her grunting exertion mixed with the sounds of nearly childish laughter, all filtered through the wheezing whistle of her shattered nose. She had locked eyes with him, and he saw a raging wildfire of excitement dancing in her pupils.
Mui flung himself off her, releasing his spear and shield both.
Evie flew to her feet with a peal of ringing laughter.
“There we go!” She crowed, her cry spitting a cloud of blood into the air. “There we fucking go, Mui Thom! That was a fight! There!”
Mui fumbled at a side pouch, searching for the healing potion he’d been given by the Powdered Lead. “I apologize,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking. I should have called the bout there, or-”
“Ha! Are you kidding me? That’s not it at all!” Evie’s rapier flashed into existence as she used a foot to toss Mui’s dropped spear into her offhand. “You think I was in danger? You think you did wrong?”
She tossed the spear up, then swung her rapier as it fell. The silvery steel sliced the wooden haft cleanly cleanly in two.
“No, I wasn’t fearing for my life, that’s not it at all, Mui Thom! I was here for a fight! And I got one!” She laughed again, just as loud. The cold delight of Evie Brown seemed like it should have echoed for a very long time, but they were on a jungle road. The cruel laughter was swallowed by the trees, suffered by his ears alone. “I should have told Master to limit my Levels to my opponent’s months ago! Gods, what a fight! Do you know how hard it is, Mui Thom, to find an opponent who challenges me so? So very difficult, I assure you!”
She was pacing as she spoke, swiping her rapier through the air, emphasizing each word with a whoosh of steel.
“No, that was beautiful, and I’d demand more of it this very moment if we didn’t have an army to catch up with! Gods, even at my fifth Level, do you know how rare it was for me to find a good fight? A Level too high, a Level too low, whichever it was, it never worked out quite how it liked, but this? This! Gods, I should have done this months ago!”
A line of blood was marking the ground where Evie paced, growing thicker every time she turned back on herself. Thick gobs of it dripped off her chin, either splashing against her breastplate or adding to the puddles tainting the soil.
“Did you know, Mui Thom” Evie said, turning on him. “That you don’t know everything about my wife? About my Master? Well?”
She stared at him with wide eyes, clearly expecting an actual answer.
“Of course I don’t know everything about her,” he said, stammering slightly. “And please, Evie, drink a healing potion. Your blood–”
“Oh, fine!” She popped open her pouch and put a bottle to her lips, tossing back a vial of the potion like it was alcohol. “But you don’t understand my point, Mui, do you? I can explain what Master should have told you very long ago.”
He held up his hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, no, but if Sara hasn’t explained it to me, I’d rather you keep it to yourself.”
“Oh, Mui,” Evie said, practically cooing the words. She seemed less like she was injured, more like she was drunk. “Mui, Mui, Mui. You still think I’m her little pet, don’t you?” Evie tapped her collar. “That I do her bidding, and I do it all without a hint of complaint. That even freed, I may as well still be her slave, no?”
He stuttered out some half-formed words, trying to think of what to say, but she plowed right over him.
“I am, of course. I am hers. I do all she says, and I do it happily, without question. But do you know the funny thing about my Master, Mui Thom?”
He shook his head. Evie grinned. Beneath the blood, he could see the healing potion begin its work. Her nose began to contort around itself, flesh rearranging as the alchemist’s brew sought to undo the damage he’d done to her flesh. Above the shifting mass, her eyes lost some of their light, her voice sobering a touch.
“I’ll tell you this, Mui. My Master is a clever woman. Because she tells me what to do, yes, but she doesn’t go any further. She doesn’t tell me what I should not do. For better or worse, she leaves me that freedom. And I do, on occasion, exercise it.”
“What are you getting at?” Mui waved his hand at the severed spear, the trail of blood, the ground that their duel had stirred to mud. “What was the point of this? To create a fight that you can lose?”
“To prove a point, Mui. To prove that you aren’t a swordsman. You beat me in a fair duel, Mui. Do you know how many people have done that? More than you in particular might expect, but less than most others would ever guess. You have skill with your spear. Real skill. You survived five years of civil war and became an officer, and you didn’t do so without reason.”
Mui’s first instinct was to protest, to downplay his achievement. Evie had severely weakened herself, had fought with a weapon she was unfamiliar with, and had won the first of their two fights. But he could already tell she wasn’t interested in hearing that, and so he attacked the closer point.
“What does that have to do with training me to be a swordsman? To fight at Sara’s side? No matter how skilled I am for my Level, it will be years, decades even, before I can stand as your equal, and by then you will have become something else entirely!”
“I will ask you a question in turn. Do you love my Master?”
Mui recoiled as if struck. It was a question so unexpected, so utterly alien to this conversation, that it scattered every thought in his head to the wind.
“I… you… what? Why?”
“Because I’m not sure how it works,” Evie said, her expression growing even more serious, “and neither is Master. We don’t know the criteria for it, and we’ve become rather curious about why it hasn’t activated for you.”
“For what?”
“For the very thing that Master asked I never tell you about. The rare order of hers that I intend to knowingly disobey, because I wholeheartedly disagree with her decision.”
Mui’s bafflement was rapidly molding itself into something much more like anger. He felt toyed with, lorded over, and perhaps it was his own nature finally burrowing to the surface, or perhaps the influence of Sara’s constant encouragement to assert himself, but he was no longer able to bite back his words.
“Well?” He demanded. “What is it? What are you dancing around? If you’re going to disobey her, why not do it? You beat me to a pulp, spend an hour showing me how to place my feet and hold my hands, then go to incredible lengths just to weaken yourself enough that I could eke out a single victory against you, and then- and then you ask me if I love your wife? What is the point of this?”
Evie’s broken nose stopped moving. Mui could still hear grinding and clicking noises from beneath her skin as deeper injuries were reknit, but outwardly, at least, the only remaining evidence of her injury was the blood. Coated in gore, her expression was all the more deathly serious.
“Do you really think, Mui, that Sara somehow chanced upon so many uniquely powerful individuals? That I, Hurlish, and Ketch, that we each became what we are long before we met her? Or, perhaps, do you think that something else was at play?”
“That’s…” Mui swept both hands down his muzzle, then shook his head. “Gods all, I have no idea. Speak what you mean!”
“Master’s nature as a Champion allows those who bond with her to reach the same Level as her within a matter of weeks. It happened to me. It happened to Ketch. And it happened to Hurlish.”
Mui’s hands froze, still half-hanging at the end of his muzzle. Evie stared at him, emotionless, the blood dripping off her chin slowing to a trickle.
“Well?” She asked. “Do you love her? Because that is one of our leading ideas for the Skill’s requirements. That and frequent sexual contact, which, of course, you have handled. Yet you’ve defied our expectations by remaining so weak. Why is that?”
Mui stared at Evie.
“She didn’t want me to tell you, of course,” the Feline continued, “because it creates what she calls a ‘perverse incentive.’ A term from the philosophy of economy in her old world, I believe, but regardless, it refers to any incentive offered by one individual which motivates another to act against the best interests of either themselves, the offerer, or both. She cannot tell people of this Skill, she argues, because it would encourage any and all to grow personally close to her, and it would irrevocably taint her relationships. Much like a Prince or Princess must assume all suitors are after the throne as much as they are their hand, she would be forced to question every pleasant interaction she has with someone.”
The clinical tone of the long, technical explanation was severely undercut by the disheveled state of Evie. She had not so much as run a hand across her face to wipe away the blood, as if she were entirely ignorant of its presence.
Mui’s mind swam. The revelation, the question, the awe-inspiring breach of Sara’s trust that Evie had just committed, it all churned and mixed in the muddied waters of his mind.
“So, Mui Thom,” Evie said, “that is why I am training you with weapons. Because I expect you to, at some point soon, reach an equal Level to myself and Sara. I believe that you are smitten with her, yes, but is it love? I wouldn’t know. The only romantic love I have experienced in my life is, I have been reliably informed, a profoundly disturbed form of what most know. I can no less tell if you love Master, or if Master loves you, than I could tell you how many people live in a city I’ve never visited. Perhaps the requirement for the Skill is not even love, but some other Passion, such as trust or loyalty. All would fit the relationship Hurlish, Ketch and I have with Master.” She took a breath. “Regardless, I believe it best that you begin pursuing it, as I would be deeply relieved by another Irregular at Master’s side-”
In a daze, Mui turned away from Evie. She kept speaking for a moment, even raising her voice, but it didn’t seem to penetrate his mind. He began walking back toward the army, mind abuzz with a thousand burning questions.
Notes:
Going forward, chapter updates will be on Saturday, not Friday. My work schedule shifted around such that it makes it easier to deal with. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading about Evie's decision! Even if I expect the question of whether or not it was a good idea to be pretty controversial.
Chapter 163: B3 Ch50: Cruel Weave - End of Book 3 Part 1
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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David Brown
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On principle, he had nothing but praise for how his daughter had designed the seat of Tulian’s government. The name alone, “Peasant’s Theatre,” was hilarious. David loved that part. But even on its own, the building she’d commissioned the construction of was a very interesting piece of architecture.
Some people had some serious problems with it. But nobody could deny it was interesting.
The five pentagonal streets leading to and from the Peasant’s Theatre had been widened considerably, ultimately stretching three times the width of other Tulian roads. Innumerable alleyways cut through the buildings which separated them, slicing at sharp and irregular angles, creating a spider’s web of pleasantly sparse foot traffic that radiated outward from the Theatre itself. The building had plenty of natural light from its many, many windows, allowing a good view of the surrounding grassy park with its numerous benches and tables that the Ministers frequently took their lunches at. It was a very beautiful part of the city, sure to become a treasured nugget of historical architecture as the Tulian republic developed its own rich history.
The Peasant’s Theatre interior was similarly unique. Once one stepped through the humble entryways, of which there were nearly a dozen, they climbed a short flight of stairs before coming to the railing which allowed them to look down on the Tulian Parliament at work. The entirety of Parliament was dug into the ground, concentric rings of seats allowing those behind to have a clear view of the speaker at the center. The Minister’s seats were plain, uncushioned wood, and they had a simple flat desk to lay their materials on, but even without having spent a coin on embellishments, the entire building belied a subtle, graceful elegance.
But that wasn’t why Sara had designed it so.
Buildings had been knocked down and the streets widened not to aid traffic, but to make it harder for guards to secure it against rioters. A mob thousands strong could roar down the street at a dead sprint without a thing in their way, countless alleyways allowing the more canny dissidents to sneak and slip their way around any barricade. The buildings nearest the Peasant’s Theatre had their windows sealed off, preventing gunmen from firing down onto the open plaza, which had trees, benches, and tables set at too irregular a frequency to easily stretch defensive troops between. The bottom floor of the Peasant’s Theatre seemed to have more glass than wood, the windows designed to be thin and fragile– easy to shatter with even the weakest of tossed objects. Even if the windows were someday enchanted for sturdiness, the many entrances would allow a mob to gain access regardless.
The interior further developed the theme. The pit in which the Parliament sat was one of the lowest points in the city, ensuring that any damage suffered by Tulian during its common typhoons would be felt first by the Ministers. If any part of the city flooded, so too would the Peasant’s Theatre. The seats, benches, and walls being built of wood was a deliberate choice; they could have gone for concrete, which had become something of a Tulian symbol of progress. Yet Sara had wanted to ensure that the building could burn just as easily as the rest of the city. She’d even briefly considered constructing wooden bridges that connected the Peasant’s Theatre to the surrounding buildings, in order to ensure that a fire could spread to the seat of governance more easily. She’d only axed the idea out of concern that government sharpshooters could use them to suppress a crowd below.
As far as David was aware, no capital in Earthly history had been designed to fail as spectacularly as the Peasant’s Theatre. Sara cared for governmental stability, true, but it was a distant concern next to her frothing hatred of dictatorship. As far as she was concerned, the entirety of Tulian would be better off broken into a bonfire’s kindling before it spent a single day under the boot of a tyrant.
Yes, David reflected, the Peasant’s Theatre was a brilliant reflection of his daughter’s values. Extreme, prepared for violence, and designed to empower the common man. No Tulian Minister could walk into the building without understanding just how profoundly vulnerable they were to the mercies of the people they represented. Even if he disagreed with just how far she’d taken her ideas (how many times would the fragile thing have to be rebuilt over the coming years?), he was proud of how well she’d executed her plan.
David just wished that he wasn’t the subject of the building’s campaign of psychological warfare.
With a thick sheaf of twine-bound papers in his hand, David shuffled his way down the steps, moving toward the pulpit at the deep center of the Parliamentary Hall. He mostly passed empty seats as he went; Sara knew that Tulian, once given access to fertilizers and other modern conveniences, would explode in population. Though there were currently a handful more than a hundred Ministers serving Tulian’s people, there were seats enough for a thousand. Most clustered near the bottom of the pit, to best hear the speaker.
As he neared the denser collection of Ministers, heads began to turn. Conversations halted, replaced by murmurs and whispers. Chairs were scooted forward, papers were set aside, and throats were cleared. Several Ministers sitting nearest the aisle blatantly turned their heads like owls, trying to catch a glimpse of the sheets of paper David carried, hoping to have the slightest preview of his investigation’s findings. He kept the report close, pointedly keeping a blank sheet facing outward.
As he stepped down the last step, David took a deep breath. The speaking pulpit was empty already, of course. This Parliamentary Session had been called specifically for him, and no one else would have the right to speak unless he ceded his time to them.
He walked to the center. He placed his papers on the pulpit, ignoring the growing whispers as he carefully undid the string keeping the sheets together. Two crystals were placed on the pulpit: one for his personal use, and one that connected to the larger network. He didn’t let himself look up at the many faces staring at him, but he felt their eyes all the same. He could feel sweat beginning to bead at his brow. He licked his lips and found his tongue dry as sandpaper. He reached down to one of his pockets and pulled out a water canteen, taking a long, long drink. He set it on the pulpit beside the papers. He had a feeling he’d need a lot of it.
Then he dared to look up.
The Tulian Ministers were staring at him, one and all. They were a collection of faces that would have been impossible for David to fathom even a year ago; tusked and green-faced orcs, multi-colored catfolk, and innumerable humans of races and countenances which didn’t map to any he’d known on Earth. Up above, ringing the entirety of the Parliament, was a vast and teeming crowd of civilian spectators. They were packed in so tightly, leaning so far forward, that David was worried about the integrity of the wooden railing holding them back. He could only hope it didn’t fail, sending them plummeting twenty feet down.
One by one, everyone in the room fell silent. The Ministers, the civilians, they all stilled. David cleared his throat.
He cleared it again.
He looked down at his paper, adjusting the stack.
He looked back up and took a breath.
And cleared his throat.
The anxiety in the air was palpable. Voices began to rise once more, under-the-breath comments muttered to neighbors. David was sweating properly now, and he could feel it staining his armpits. He’d smell awful after this.
Then, so abruptly that it made him jump, a whisper wormed its way into his ear.
“You are merely reciting a paper you wrote,” Garen’s familiar, calm voice told him. “It is as simple a task as all the other lectures of yours that I have attended. You are a fine orator, Professor Brown, and you are the one with the facts. It is not your job to politick; you are here to educate them. A task at which you excel.”
The whisper faded. No one else had heard it, of course. David’s eyes flicked up to the railing, looking for Garen. The archmage, as per Sara’s laws, had no special authority in Tulian. He was just another civilian among hundreds. David couldn’t pick him out of the crowd.
But his words rang true. What David had before him was not a political manifesto. It was a rote litany of facts, the result of exhausting days and sleepless nights spent investigating something for which he was the only individual in the world qualified to analyze.
This is not a speech, he thought to himself, trying to press the thought into his skull, it is a lecture. It’s my job to teach, and theirs to learn. That’s all.
He took one deep, final breath.
“The Sauvin Powder Mill,” he began, casting his voice across the vast chamber, “suffered a catastrophic explosion four days ago, at approximately 7:30 am. Of the three hundred and eighty-five workers, two hundred and forty died in the initial blast. A further fifty-five died as a result of their wounds before Healers could arrive. The following report makes heavy use of the remaining survivor’s testaments, as well as extensive mathematical and magical investigative methodologies, which this report will do its best to explain in the simplest of terms. Though I am the only person speaking before you, the report I am dictating is signed and endorsed by no less than eleven of Tulian’s finest mages, artificers, and engineers.”
He paused to flip the page. Steeling himself, he read the first line of the summary.
“It is the conclusion of this report that the detonation of the Sauvin Powder Mill was an act of intentional sabotage.”
--------------------------------------------
Sara Brown
--------------------------------------------
The meeting of the First Blackpowder Army’s commanders was an agonizingly slow affair. It normally would have been made far more palatable by the presence of Evie in her lap, the stroking and petting of her wife a fine distraction as members of various Houses vied for the recognition of General Borek by offering ever-more convoluted plans, but she wasn’t there. This was an emergency meeting that had been called just after Evie had left with her collar on, going to help Mui with his training. Sara had been nervous about limiting her wife to the combat skill of a Fourth Level Irregular, but she’d insisted it was safe. The broken collar could be easily removed, after all.
Even as military officers bickered around her, frustration and anger warring in their voice, Sara couldn’t help but miss Evie. It was the first meeting she’d attended in gods-knew-how-long without her Feline wife.
The meeting’s purpose should have kept her interest. Griffon reports had come in of a large Rebel army marching northward, a force large enough that they were forced to split themselves along three separate roads. Judging by their heading, they were making their way to the jungle’s edge. There was no Imperial city for them to capture in that direction, and the motley collection of farming villages in their path wouldn’t contain enough food to feed their soldiers, much less be the reason for their advance.
“It is clear that they are seeking to use the same strategy you yourself once employed, General Borek,” an officer insisted. Chaya was a Lieutenant only, but from Sara’s study of the political dimensions of the Empire, her House’s authority granted her leeway beyond her comparatively humble military rank. “They will use the open plains of the north to rapidly traverse en-masse, reentering the Empire’s borders when and where they please.”
“What makes you so certain the intelligence of our spies has grown so inaccurate?" Another woman snapped. She was a Colonel, but from a weaker Imperial dynasty, and resented Lieutenant Chaya’s abuse of her House’s status to butt in on conversations where she did not ‘belong.’ “For years now it has been all but certain that the isolationist faction reigns supreme amongst the illegitimate Empire. Why would they dare to expose themselves to the greater world now, after so much effort expended to hide their weakened state from the world’s predators?”
Rather than the first woman, it was Mage Mayaran who responded. The elven woman was wearing her battle robes, so heavily enchanted that they lit the tent as much as the crystal lights decorating the table.
“Because we have broken our isolationist status ourselves,” the elf said, a sneer to her words. “Our involvement with the city-state of Tulian has revealed the Empire’s civil war as surely as any of their own efforts might have. Our meddling in the outside world has prompted them to do the same, but unlike us, they are doubtlessly seeking more powerful allies.”
Sara knew bait when she saw it. Calling Tulian a city-state, despite the Imperial Adjutant formally recognizing the entirety of the former Tulian Kingdom’s territory as belonging to the Tulian Republic, was as direct a provocation as one could manage in the exceedingly polite realm of Imperial politics. Mayaran may as well have said that the Empire would be better off abandoning its involvement with Tulian– and thus the Powdered Lead– entirely.
Unfortunately, Sara wasn’t very good at ignoring bait.
“More powerful allies?” She asked, smirking. “And who would that be? One of the fractured western kingdoms, who can barely levy an army twenty thousand strong? Surely not. Or are speaking of the Sporaton Kingdom, whose armies were so recently shattered by Tulian forces a fraction of their size?”
Mayaran used a finger to sweep her dark hair back behind her ears, highlighting their long elvish tips. Sara had noticed it as a habit she fell back on when she felt her authority was being challenged.
“Defeating a fractional tithe of the Sporaton Kingdom’s military is impressive for so insignificant a people, Honored Chosen,” Mayaran politely agreed, “but is it not true that the treaty between our peoples includes provisions for Imperial defense from Sporaton aggression? Hardly an article I imagine you would have negotiated if you did not fear an assault from your northern neighbors.” Mayaran looked around the tent, meeting eyes in turn. “I believe that we must consider that the Rebel army does not intend to cease marching north once they exit the jungle. The possibility of a joint assault by the Rebellion and Sporatos must be something that concerns you deeply.”
“It does not, in fact,” Sara stated confidently. “Though the hypothetical is concerning, I am confident that the reality will not come to pass. The Rebellion lacks the resources and motivation to attack Tulian, something you must realize. How is it that you claim Tulian is too weak to be a valuable ally, yet important enough to be a target for the Rebellion? You argue with a mind for insults, not reason.”
“That is enough, General Brown,” Borek interjected. “Your point is made.” He rapped a knuckle on the table. “I hereby declare that, for the purposes of this discussion, the exact objectives of the Rebel army is immaterial. The fact remains that we are in a position to intercept them, and therein lies the crux of our dilemma. To utilize the First Blackpowder Army’s weaponry to destroy a superior army is an opportunity that cannot be missed. The question I called you here to answer is thus: are our weapons superior enough to manage the feat?”
Sara sat back as the wheel of debate turned, satisfied. Across the tent, Mayaran glowered at her. Sara stared back.
To her continued frustration, Sara hadn’t yet determined the exact origin of Mayaran’s animosity. She seemed equally eager to rail against Sara herself, the Tulian Republic, or firearms as a whole. All aspects of what Sara brought to the Empire were the elven woman’s targets. Sara’s Blessings told her that Mayaran was not a traitor to her Empire; she was loyal and invested in the True Adjutant’s success, a rare attribute for the otherwise aloof elves of the Empire. She was no cultist, either, as Sara’s Blessings would have been screaming such from their very first meeting.
At the end of the day, all her Blessings could determine was that the woman was deeply invested in opposing Sara. Mayaran clearly disliked her on a personal level, but that wasn’t exceptional. Sara and her wives were far too crass to win friends among the Imperial elite. Mayaran also clearly hated the advent of gunpowder weapons, yet she’d not tried to oppose their adoption in the slightest. She recognized the value of firearms, yet seemingly wished they didn’t exist at all.
As best Sara could tell, at the end of the day, Mayaran disliked Sara for the most primitive of reasons: pettiness. Sara was a Chosen, a woman from another world who was revolutionizing everything about Mayaran’s home. She was an elf who had lived for seventy years in an unchanging land, preparing herself to excel in the same environment that her predecessors had known for thousands of years. Sara had not just jeopardized that, she had ruined it. Mayaran’s life would never be the same, and all her plans had become null and void. She hated Sara for that.
But there’s something more, isn’t there? Sara thought, imagining herself projecting the words into Mayaran’s head as they locked eyes. There’s something driving you that even you don’t understand. What is it?
Evie had her own theories, of course. First and foremost was that, knowing of Sara’s near-flawless ability to read the motivations of others, Mayaran had used spells to intentionally lock away knowledge of her ire’s origin, leaving only enough traces to motivate her to behave as she would otherwise. Chopping out pieces of one’s memories was a tactic Evie’s mother had forced upon her family’s spies in order to keep their work secure. Sara doubted Mayaran would willingly undergo something so terribly invasive, however. So it remained a mystery.
To her great relief, Sara’s pocket began to buzz. It was the crystal which was directly connected to her dad, not the general Tulian communication network. That meant it was an important enough message that she could be excused for leaving the agonizing meeting.
Murmuring all the right apologies, Sara excused herself. It took some time to extract herself with the appropriate level of grace, so when she finally stepped outside and managed to move far enough away that she wouldn’t be overheard, it had been several minutes since the first buzz had caught her attention. Curiously, her dad hadn’t stopped talking the entire time. Sara suspected she knew what was going on.
She took the crystal out of her pocket and put it to her ear just as she caught sight of Mui walking his way up the army’s column. He had a concerned look on his face, and opened his mouth to speak, but Sara held a finger up, asking for him to wait. After listening for a moment to confirm that the message was what she assumed it to be, she loosened her hand a bit so he could hear too.
“...reports indicate no less than three fires were started simultaneously, in three separate storage areas. As you can imagine, the odds of this occurring by chance are incredibly slim. Though fire-fighting efforts began immediately, they were hampered by the total failure of the water piping system, despite multiple attempts across the Mill to activate the sprinklers.”
Sara put the crystal aside, whispering an explanation to Mui. “It’s my dad’s report on the powder mill explosion. He’s talking to Tulian’s Parliament right now.”
Mui gave her an odd look. One that almost seemed dazed, like someone who’d suffered a blow to the head. Sara hoped Evie hadn’t gone too far in their training.
“...despite this, no survivors reported unfamiliar faces. The security of Sauvin’s Powder Mill was exceptional, and though there were too many workers for all to be deeply familiar with one another, an unknown face would have been recognized. If this is the case, after consultation with Archmage Garen, two possibilities remain: that of a long-implanted spy amongst the mill’s workers, or infiltration by a mage skilled enough to replicate not just appearances, but physical textures, successfully fooling the facility’s guards.”
Mui’s dazed expression grew more alert as he listened. Sara had told him about the powder mill incident, but she hadn’t gone into depth. It seemed the full implication of it was beginning to hit him.
“Is Tulian going to war?” He asked, keeping his voice lowered.
“Maybe,” Sara whispered back. “But it’s not like we’ve been at peace since Sporatos left. They never recognized our government, they never dropped their claims on their territory. I didn’t expect their first attack to be this bad, but I knew it was going to happen eventually.”
Mui nodded, accepting the statement at face value. In truth, when she’d heard the news, Sara had flung into a rage. She’d wanted to march the Powdered Lead straight back to the coast, board them on Tulian warships, and bombard the first Sporaton city the wind blew them towards. It had taken Evie hours to talk her down, describing the centuries-old practice of constant border skirmishes between rival Kingdoms and States that was the standard on the continent. Though Sara had still been furious, Evie had successfully convinced her that, if it truly was an act of Sporaton sabotage, they should respond proportionally. Reacting to what the Sporaton nobility viewed as a “simple raid” by shelling an entire city would give the Sporaton pro-war faction an overwhelming advantage. Meanwhile, the longer Tulian could forestall the coming war, the more powerful they’d be when it finally came.
As these thoughts went through her head, however, Sara found herself increasingly distracted by Mui’s expression. He looked deeply, deeply troubled. The temptation to flick on her Blessings teased at Sara, but she held back. Mui had become someone she cared for, and she respected his privacy enough to not pry.
Magically, at least.
“Is something the matter? What’s up?”
Mui blinked, looking at her. Then he glanced at the crystal. His tongue darted out of his muzzle, running over his whiskers.
“Ah…” He seemed to be struggling for words. “This is… yes, there is. But Sara, if you do not mind, I would ask that you do not pry. I would like to think things over before I speak of it.”
Her eyebrows raised. Sara had told Mui plenty about her modern ideas of how to have a respectful, communicative relationship, but for the most part, she’d had to forcibly squeeze any kind of direct statement from him. Mui was too wrapped up in his ideas of what was proper to outright state his intentions– until now, apparently.
Sara nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it. You can let me know whenever you feel comfortable.”
“Thank you.” His throat flexed as he swallowed. “Now please, I did not mean to distract you.”
Sara turned her attention back to the crystal, doing her best not to wonder what had happened in the brief few hours since she’d last seen Mui.
--------------------------------------------
Ignite Parables
--------------------------------------------
The meeting in the Waverake’s stately cabin had been called with so much urgency that he had first feared Captain Nora was preparing to abandon ship. Her crystalline voice had cracked across the ship, ordering the many officers of the vessel to drop all duties and attend her immediately. Ignite had been one of nearly forty other officers who had sprinted to the cabin, his heart pounding in his chest.
The true purpose of the meeting had been both a relief and a terror.
“...despite the presence of Sporaton Magecraft within Tulian territorial waters,” David Brown was saying, oblivious to the officers of the Waverake hanging onto his every word, “it is the opinion of Admirals B’Leary and O’Gallison that the timing of their arrival was, if not definitively coincidental, at least not directly associated with the explosion. Per their calculations, based on the two sightings of the Sporaton fleet and the known winds at this time of year, the Magecraft could have closed within a maximum of twenty-five miles of the Sauvin Powder Mill’s associated river mouth. Not close enough to drop off an agent in time for them to reach the sight and prepare an act of sabotage. Further, it is the opinion of the Admirals that the most likely cause of the Sporaton fleet’s presence was a mission of simple reconnaissance. It is not unusual for navies to test the borders of their rivals, and the behavior of the Sporaton Magecraft map near-exactly to such behavior.”
A furious rumble echoed in the cabin. The officers of the Waverake, though they hadn’t seen Tulian shores in months, considered themselves amongst the most loyal of the fledgling Republic’s citizenry. That the Sporaton naval forces had so brazenly violated Tulian sovereignty without so much as sighting a Tulian vessel of war was profoundly offensive. Listening to the whispers, it was clear that they thought such a failure would never have occurred if the Waverake had been in her home waters.
“It is also the opinion of Admirals B’Leary and O’Gallison that even if a Sporaton vessel was responsible for transporting the sabotage agent to Tulian, they would not have made use of a Magecraft to do so, much less a fleet. The naval border between the two nations is porous enough that any number of simple fishing vessels could have slipped through without issue, while attracting far less attention than the massing of what appears to be every single remaining Sporaton Magecraft.”
Nods made their way around the Waverake’s cabin. Ignite agreed with the assessment. Magecraft were ostentatious vessels of war. With the exception of Carrion piratebane ships, they were not sent on missions of stealth.
“In regards to the possibility of Sporaton infiltrators using the largely unguarded Tulian coastline to insert themselves amongst Tulian, the Governess herself assures that there are security measures in place which are capable of identifying interlopers…”
As the Professor’s lecture moved away from matters of the navy, the attention of the officers waned. Clouded expressions and furrowed brows traded dark remarks, a palpable sense of unease permeating the room.
Ignite did not join the conversations, but he did pay close attention. It was clear that there was considerable discontent amongst the crew regarding their being some thousand miles away from Tulian at such a crucial moment. Ignite had once warned Captain Nora that the crew would not suffer abandoning their new nation forever. It seemed the time was running out.
Captain Nora was not ignorant of this. From her position at the head of a long table, she swept the speaking crystal into a pocket, silencing it. The crew’s conversations rapidly dissolved, all eyes turning toward their captain.
Nora O’Gallison stood, pressing both hands down on the table. Her metal leg let out a small creak as she rose, terribly loud in the thick silence. She slid her gaze across the room, left to right, meeting as many eyes as she was able.
“We,” she announced, imbuing the word with a grandiose aura, “are going to accelerate our plans. The Locks of the Sea must shatter. Daylagon himself has given me this task.” Her cerulean eyes seemed to glow in the dim cabin. “I am eager to serve his will. But I am more eager to earn the reward of a god–” White teeth flashed a predator’s grin. “–so that we might unleash that gift upon the Sporaton Navy.” She waved, a dismissive gesture. “My patience has run its course. To your stations. Navigator, plot a course for the Locks.”
--------------------------------------------
Tinvel
--------------------------------------------
The sounds of Professor Brown’s speech were muffled by the engine bay that Tinvel had his head stuffed into. He and Chona were working on a plane that wasn’t the Sunrise, listening with half an ear to the report that was captivating an entire Republic. They’d helped write it, after all. Hardly interesting.
What concerned Tinvel more was the modification of this engine’s design. Despite Chona’s misgivings, Voth had managed at least one thing since he’d been appointed General of the Skies: gaining Parliamentary approval for the transfer of artificers into the Air Force.
There were eight planes currently being worked on in the aerodrome, and a half-dozen more were lined up on the far wall wingtip to wingtip, waiting their turn. The Tulian Air Force was beginning to become more than a dream.
But we won’t go anywhere if we need artificers and mages to fly, Tinvel thought, grunting as he twisted his wrench.
That was what he was working on. What he’d been ordered to work on, actually. General Voth had given Tinvel and Chona two commands.
The first was to design an engine which was reliable enough to be operated by someone who lacked Talavan’s Gift. As it was, midair troubleshooting was so commonly necessary that no one would have dared to send a non-artificer into the sky. But Tulian only had somewhere around two hundred artificers across the entire Republic, and the bulk of them were working in the Artificer’s Union, their efforts stretched across countless projects both military and civilian. If they wanted enough pilots to fight in a real war, callous though it was, they needed people who weren’t as irreplaceable. If Tinvel could create an engine that was as simple to use as tapping a few crystals, the Air Force’s only limit would be the number of engine-sized geodes they could acquire.
The second command Voth had given them was to make a new, more specialized plane. The old General had finally finished catching up with all the notes on aerial combat history that Professor Brown had provided them, and he’d decided that the pace of development was falling behind their Earthly equivalents. Nevermind the fact that, if Professor Brown was to be believed, the first warplanes had been developed by empires populated by tens of millions of individuals. As far as Voth was concerned, if they weren’t matching the possible development of technology, they were failing.
Thus, the plane Tinvel and Chona were working on. Unlike the Halfeyes, which were planes that Tinvel and the other University students had built with the sole goal of getting off the ground at all, this model was built to improve upon what already worked. Though he’d been too busy to put the pieces together himself, Tinvel had sketched out a highly simplified engine design for the smithies to create. If it worked as intended, it would provide the same power as the Halfeye’s engines, but would occupy a fraction of the space.
The trick had been abandoning a direct copy of the engine designs Professor Brown was familiar with. Though beautifully constructed, they’d been designed around constraints that artifice engines lacked. Fuel pipes, flow rates, air compression, exhaust, none of those concerned Tinvel in the slightest. He had a driveshaft, emerald crystals, and the geode which powered them. He didn’t need the complex arrangements of pumping pistons powered by a warren of twisting pipes.
The second Artifice Engine– a name he’d physically etched onto its side, to hopefully stop the growing adoption of the name Tinvel Engine– was powered by crystals striking a stepped disk. Rather than arranging the crystals in a long row, mimicking the “V12” engines of Earth, they encircled a steel plate, one which was shaped like a compressed spiral staircase. Each crystal’s energetic pillar would strike its assigned steel step as it flew past, allowing the same amount of power to be generated within a much smaller space.
For now, it was only a weight and space-saving measure. He hadn’t yet figured out how to increase the number of emeralds which could draw power from a geode. Even the twelve he’d used were, testing had since proven, past the point of severely diminishing returns. The new Artifice Engine used ten emeralds, yet had only suffered a single-digit percentage performance loss.
Tinvel huffed with effort as he finished bolting the last part of the engine into place, squirming his way out of the engine cowling. It took several painful scrapes and bumps before he saw daylight proper, breathing hard. In his rush to get the new prototype ready, he’d neglected to include a way to lift the engine’s covering entirely off. That was a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat.
Blinking at the blinding light, he reached for a rag to clean his face off. The prototype was held off the ground by dangling chains, its landing gear removed to allow easier access to its underbelly. The thing clearly wasn’t ready for flight, its canvas skin not yet applied, exposing wooden ribs to the open air, but it was already the most unique plane in the building.
Because Chona was at the rear of the plane’s fuselage, just behind the second seat, her own head buried in an engine cowling.
The prototype was Tulian’s first twin-engined plane.
Still lacking a way to transfer commands remotely to the engines, yet being heavily pressured by Voth to create a new, longer-ranged vehicle, this is what Tinvel and Professor Brown had come up with. The arrangement was called a Pusher/Puller configuration, as that was what each of its engines did. The forward engine pulled, the rear engine pushed. The pilot could control the puller, while the second seater could give commands to the pusher. Professor Brown warned Tinvel that the arrangement wasn’t going to perfectly double the power of the vehicle, owing to strange aerodynamic laws even he couldn’t recall, but it would certainly be more powerful. How much so remained to be seen.
“Fucking… there!” Chona’s muffled curse sounded, alongside an authoritative clank. With another series of curses, the vanara girl dragged herself out of the engine space.
Her black fur was slick with engine grease, visible only in the way it matted and clung to the skin beneath. On days where she knew she’d be working with Tinvel on mechanical tools, she usually chose her most tattered, darkest chest wrap, in this case a simple black piece that made it hard to tell just how dirty it really was.
It also made it hard to tell at a glance if she was wearing anything at all.
“Alright, I’ve got it locked down. We can reattach the landing gear whenever you’re ready.”
“Good,” Tinvel said, not letting any of his thoughts show on his face. “You been listening to what Professor Brown has been saying?”
“Little bit. I’m kinda surprised how reluctant he’s being to place the blame on Sporatos, though.”
“No evidence for it. Whoever did it got away clean.”
“That or the bastard got flung through the clouds,” Chona smirked. She grabbed a rag for herself and wet it, dabbing at her fur as she walked over to Tinvel.
She stopped next to him, her shoulder and hip touching his. That closeness still made his heart beat faster. They’d kissed again two days ago. Almost like they’d tried to pretend it was nothing. They’d both been going to their dorms, there was no one around, and after a moment of awkward staring, it had just happened. A quick kiss goodbye, brief and chaste, something Tinvel had seen his parents do a million times.
It shouldn’t have had him shaking like it did, but it wasn’t like he could force his body to obey him.
“So,” Chona said, leaning a bit more of her weight onto him as they stared at the half-finished plane. “You thought of a name for it yet?”
“Yes. But it’s kind of dumb.”
“I’m shocked. What is it?”
“Fulleye.”
He couldn’t see her face, but Tinvel could practically feel the way Chona’s eyes roll.
“As opposed to Halfeye?”
“Yep. Because-”
“Because it’s got two engines, yeah. Figured that one out for myself, thanks.” They stood for a moment longer, looking up at their work. Slowly, carefully, almost as if Chona was as hesitant as Tinvel felt, her right arm came up, wrapping around his side. “Well,” she said, pretending nothing was happening at all, “at least the name makes sense. Halfeye, then Fulleye. Don’t know what you’re going to name the next one, though. Doubleyes?”
“They don’t all have to be eye themed. We just called the Halfeyes that because they were half-finished scout planes.” Tinvel fought to keep his breathing even. They were close enough now that Chona could feel his chest moving, if she wanted to.
“So what’s a half-finished warplane going to be called?” She joked. “Halfsword, fullsword?”
“Huh. That’s not a bad idea, actually. Maybe we could name the first one shortsword, then the next one broadsword–”
Chona snickered. “Not sure how many guys you’re going to find who want to pilot the shortsword, Tin. Maybe start with, like, the dagger or something.”
“If they’re that concerned about it, maybe I should call it the shortsword. Don’t think we want pilots that are thinking about their junk while they’re flying.”
“I’ve heard it’s all guys think about. But I guess if you already have a short sword, you’re not as worried abooooouuuut…”
Chona’s sentence trailed off into an uncomfortable silence as she realized what she was doing. Namely, making dick jokes with her… boyfriend? No, Tinvel’s brain rejected that word outright. But she was making short dick jokes about the guy she’d gone on a date with and kissed twice. Whatever that made them.
“I’m not,” Tinvel said. A blush rose up from his collar. “Concerned about. Um. Because I-”
“Yeah,” Chona blustered. “Yeah, I know. It’s cool.”
“It’s just, you said–”
“Yeah, yeah. My bad. My bad.” She coughed lightly.
Yet, to Tinvel’s incredulous amazement, they didn’t separate. Chona still had her arm around his side, and he still leaned into her. He supposed that was good? That they could be awkward about things but not immediately run away?”
“It’s gonna take a while for the crafters to get the rest of the plane together before we can test-fly it,” Chona noted. “It’ll probably be dark by then. We don’t have anything else to do today.”
“I’m sure we could find something-”
Chona’s fingers dug into his ribs. Tinvel’s eyes widened in realization.
“-t-t-to do. Together. I’m, uh, kinda hungry?”
Chona turned her head and looked at the work table, where he’d hurriedly scarfed down a meal no more than an hour ago. She raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”
“No. But. We could go buy food?”
“We did that last time.”
“Isn’t that, like… aren’t we supposed to do the things that we already know work, when we, uh, date?”
“Maybe?” Chona used her free hand to scratch at the fur over her stomach. “But I think, like, you’re supposed to mix it up at first. Because you’ve got to find things you both like to do. Together.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure we can’t get into the armory again.”
“I mean, I bought a pistol a while back, if you want to go shooting.”
“Do you want to go shooting?”
“Not… really.”
“Oh.”
In the dead air that followed, the sound of approaching footsteps went largely ignored. There were plenty of people going this way and that in the aerodrome, and it wasn’t remarkable for someone to pass by their station.
Until a palm thumped into the center of Tinvel’s back, shoving him forward alongside Chona.
“You two need to get the fuck out of here before I start puking,” Affe’s voice demanded. “Go. Go outside. For fuck’s sake, I’d rather you two just fucked on the floor than do whatever the the hells you’re trying to do right now.”
Tinvel tried to turn around as he was shoved onward, anger rising, but to his surprise, Chona laughed. She tugged Tinvel forward, guiding him toward the door.
“Fine, fine!” She called over her shoulder. “We’re out of here. But if General Voth asks where we are, you’re the one that’s gonna be in trouble for kicking us out!”
“Worth it!” Affe snapped back. “For the gods’ sake, go to Amarat’s Church and get some lessons on dating or something. You’re awful at it!”
As they exited the aerodrome, the guards carefully opening the doors for them, Tinvel cocked his head.
“I mean. It might not be a bad idea-”
“Absolutely not,” Chona said. “Do you have any idea what kind of dating advice a Priest of Amarat would give someone? Here? In this city?”
Tinvel’s brow creased. “No. What kind?”
Chona blew out a tired breath. “Look… just. No. We’re about to go to war, Tinvel. Let’s just… go to the docks or something and watch the ships. That might be fun. Gods know how long it’ll be before we can relax again.”
And so they did. Tinvel and Chona walked their way through the city street, Chona’s arm still circling him, until they reached the wharfs where the ever-increasing commerce of Tulian plied its trade. With news of oncoming war spreading, far more ships than usual were making their way out of harbor, doubtlessly seeking safer waters.
He and Chona didn’t talk about that, though. They compared the different types of ships, taking note of their sails and ropes, the shapes of their hulls, and compared them to what Professor Brown had taught them of aerodynamics. They bought a news broadsheet from a passing papergirl and found the biggest blank spot they could, turning it into a sketchbook. They compared the shapes of the various ships to the newest Tulian-constructed ships, which were far more efficient than their tenuous grasp of advanced mathematics could easily explain, and then they moved on to sketching out their memories of the Magecraft they’d seen, trying to guess at the enchantments which made them so light and swift.
They didn’t talk about the war. They didn’t talk about their work. They didn’t even talk about their conversation in the aerodrome. They just chatted about whatever happened to float into their heads, and they didn’t do anything else. For hours.
And Chona’s arm never left Tinvel’s side.
But it will, a voice whispered in Tinvel’s head. The war starts tomorrow. It starts tomorrow, and you’re not ready. Your pilots aren’t ready. They’re going to die because of you.
As best he could, Tinvel ignored the voice. When it got too loud, he’d lean a little bit harder into Chona, smushing their weight together.
Sometimes he even got to feel the side of her breasts.
That did a good job of shutting the voice up.
Notes:
After thinking hard over the writing difficulties with APPTV as of late, I've come to the conclusion that I want to dramatically increase the... well, I want to dramatically increase the drama. The pace. The tension. The "web novel" format was fun for a while, but I've discovered that what really drives the appeal of writing for me is the Big Events. Consequential moments, one after the other, in rapid-fire succession. It's how I tried to write Book 2 in particular, and even that felt a bit like a pacing slog (from a writer's perspective) at times. Things are going to get much faster, much more interesting, and generally speaking, a whole lot more hectic. I'm positive I'm going to enjoy writing it in this fashion much, much more, and I thank you all for sticking with me while I use your feedback to figure out and finalize the writing style that I will use for the rest of my career.
Don't worry, though. Smut will continue at its usual pace. I have the next scene planned out. (And for those not on the Discord, I can inform you that the fanbase voted for Sara to fuck a wyvern at least once. We had a whole Monster Fucker poll about it. Not saying that'll be the next scene, but it's coming.)
Chapter 164: B3 Ch51: Supplication
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Graf Urs
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The clank and rattle of iron and wood was an old, soothing sound. The subtle rasp of skin sliding against the grain, instruments of war conducting themselves to the guidance of thousands of soldiers. He could hear a single ringing collision folding over itself a thousand times, the discordant harmony of an army at work. Heavy breathing, the scent of sweat in the air, and a tall field worn flat by tireless effort. Tens of thousands of soldiers standing in flat-faced blocks, listening to the barking of men and women who sought to prepare them for the coming conflict. To some, it was chaos. To Graf Urs, it was home.
The Empire was as impressive during this misty morning as it had always been. The soldiers, inured to their tropical home, ignored the steaming heat and pattering rain as they drilled, grim faces shining with sweat and morning dew both. They wore their full battle kit, every figure wearing armor that, if enchanted, would have been the equal of many a minor Sporaton noble. To have so excellently provided for so many troops was not an achievement Graf had seen equaled in all his long life.
It was no wonder why. He had seen the gaping pits which had been torn from the earth to provide this war its fuel. Craters in the jungle so vast that the mightiest monsoon could only wet their walls. The Empire’s civil war was a conflict more titanic than any who had not borne witness to it could comprehend. Graf Urs had fought in it only once, against his better judgement, and did not wish to do so again. No single battle could be decisive in this hellish war. Not when each combatant could field five, six, or seven armies of a hundred thousand soldiers. It was exactly the endless churn of metal and blood that he so despised, vindicating the effort he expended to keep so many other conflicts from developing into the same. Atrocities were met with atrocities, a cycle of rage circling so many times it had etched an inescapable rut in the souls of this people. He doubted many remembered why the war had begun; only that the enemy had killed their kin. It was despicable.
Some opportunities, regrettably, could not be missed.
“As you can see,” the vulgar man at his side said, “the True Empire’s army is as diligent a force as the world has ever seen. Before you stands thirty thousand of our most loyal soldiers, equalled in their tenaciousness only by the second and third portions of this insurmountable force. I dearly wish you could have borne witness to the assembled army. Alas, even the roads and rivers of our great Empire have their limits.”
Tiam-En took a deep, proud breath, swelling up his chest. Graf studiously kept himself from scowling. Tiam-En was a familiar and insufferable sort of Imperial Warrior. Built and bred for war from his first tottering steps, he had utterly dedicated himself to the pursuit of martial excellence— to the detriment of all else. Tiam-En had doubtlessly been chosen as Graf’s escort because of his reputation as a skilled combatant, but unfortunately for General Kuhn-Drah, Graf would rather have been escorted by a lowly servant than he would the bloody-fanged catfolk. Tiam-En was a warrior, yes, but only in the most pejorative of definitions. He was no soldier. He fought for nothing other than the rush of battle, unmoved by cause, coin, or country. Graf had just met the man, but he already knew him well. If the war ended that very instant, Tiam-En would either wander off to some other battlefield and ply his trade there, or begin killing at his own discretion. Much as a dropped knife had no handle, such a brute had no use in a peaceful land.
Tiam-En was leading Graf along the foremost portion of the assembled army, the unwieldy force having stopped two days beforehand to utilize one of the Empire’s precious few clearances in their vast jungles. It was a rare opportunity for the oft-constrained Imperial military to practice maneuvers on the open field, and they were taking it. Graf watched with a critical eye as the troops went about their early-morning work, which apparently began with the miming of preparing, loading, and firing a shot from their muskets.
How right you were, Champion, Graf thought, watching the ripples of musket barrels raising and lowering across the field. Already, two entire Empires have turned all their industry to the mimicking of your weapons. You well and truly understood what you had unleashed.
“I have read your works, achingly few though they are,” Tiam-En said. “I am sure that you will be glad to learn that our army is composed wholly of those who volunteered for the duty. They are proud, experienced soldiers, all of whom will doubtlessly exert themselves to their fullest in the coming weeks. Their morale could not be higher.”
Tiam-En turned to him, eyes glinting with an expectation.
If it was praise he wished for, he would not have it.
“Your force is not nearly the equal of Tulian regulars,” Graf stated. “They are slower to load, sluggish in their following of orders, and ignorant of the true workings of their weapons. Were you to face an equal number of Lady Eliah’s mercenaries in battle, I anticipate an abject slaughter.”
His escort’s smile did not wilt. Even a bestial Warrior knew how to master his expression. His face instead crystallized, a polite expression maintained with soulless perfection.
“It is only natural that the progenitors of the Fire-Arm are superior in their use. But they do not equal our number, and though they may advise the traitor armies, they are too few to truly train them. By the time our two forces meet, we will be their superior.”
“Correct in your opening arguments, yet dreadfully ignorant in the last,” Graf stated. He was tired of this man. If he wished for explanations, he would have to beg for them.
“The difference is not so great, surely. I understand that Kuhn-Drah considers you a worthy advisor, and so I would not dare question you,” he questioned, frustration seeping from every word, “yet I cannot see how the enemy could be as superior as you claim.” He forced a smile onto his scarred muzzle. “If you could kindly explain it?”
Graf sighed. “You were told that I think myself a teacher, I assume? No matter. I am. If you truly consider yourself a student of war, not battle, then note that I stated my supposition on the assumption of equal forces. Perhaps a vacuous hypothetical, impossible as it is for five hundred soldiers to be equal in number to an army of some ninety thousand, but if it came to pass, the Powdered Lead will strike down your troops from a distance you cannot equal. They have secrets to their weapons that no one beyond Tulian’s borders have yet begun to fathom.”
“Ah, yes. Their vaunted ‘Hot Rifles’,” Tiam-En drawled derisively. “We have heard reports of these weapons, and we are preparing our own response. What it is exactly I cannot speak to, of course. Too much secrecy. You understand. Should you become employed by the Empire, however, I would be glad to discuss-”
“Of course,” Graf grunted, turning away. “Now, if you would, I would like to meet with General Kuhn-Drah. And you may refrain from any further tactless attempts to remind me of the stipulations of the proposed contract.”
Tiam-En’s eyes darkened, his fingers twitching. It almost seemed as if the man was suppressing the urge to strike Graf for the interruption.
Ah, if only the King were here to see this man, Graf thought. It would do the boy good to see what happens when you raise a creature for nothing more than war. Perhaps he would be less eager to throw so many noble brats into the clutches of Knighthood.
Graf discarded the thought, returning his attention to the world around him. He was being trailed by two of his most trusted members of the Night’s Eye, who were keeping a careful eye on the army’s drilling. They knew they might soon be called to help train it.
The first man was Darin, a houndmaster, with the ever-loyal Cormus loping happily along at his side. The hulking dog’s once-voluminous fur coat had been butchered by Darin’s attempts to allow the mountain breed to endure the southern heat, giving the poor thing a mangy, sickly appearance, save for the piles of tangled fur which remained to protect his neck. Fabis walked on the other side of Cormus, repeatedly drawing, spinning, then sheathing his blacksteel dagger, all while keeping his gaze locked on the Imperial soldiers. Both men looked largely bored with the proceedings, but their attention had not wavered. They were good soldiers.
And, of the most interest to Graf’s prospective Imperial employers, they each carried a blackpowder firearm. The weapons were unique to their owners, as was so often the case amongst the Night’s Eye.
Trusting to Cormus for dealing with most foes as he did, Darin carried only a short and thick-barreled weapon, spiraling enchantments wrapping its steel shell in a shimmering haze. If one had the inclination and opportunity to inspect the artificery, they would see that most of the enchantments were designed for enhancing sturdiness, not increasing offensive power.
Fabis’ weapon was its stark opposite. Nearly as long as the man was tall, but with an inordinately thin barrel, it more closely resembled an oversized version of a primitive’s dart pipe than it did a musket. Equally enchanted, but with a visibly different structure of engraved runes, it was clear to any who so much as glanced at the weapon that its original function had been altered to the edge of unrecognizability.
Both represented the crux of the Imperial proposal: an exchange of information on blackpowder weaponry. The Night’s Eye had been the first non-Tulian entity which had begun experimenting with firearms. The Empire, in turn, had resources and manpower that vastly outstripped the Night’s Eye. The fees associated with the hiring of his mercenary company could not have lured Graf back into this unending conflict alone; he had more than enough offers of employment. No, it was the promise of practical, reliable information on blackpowder weaponry that had forced his hand.
Graf Urs did not share the King’s opinion that blackpowder weapons were a passing trend. Frankly, he thought the King was idiotic for insisting so. Graf had directed the Night’s Eye to adopt them regardless of the Royal Decree to the contrary, a measure which had caused no small amount of political instability amongst the already unsettled Sporaton nobility. Despite the commissioning and adoption of the weapons, however, all field use of the firearms had been frustratingly inconclusive. It was already true that the Night’s Eye did not often face foes that could meaningfully challenge them, so the few battles they’d used firearms in altered little of the already-inevitable outcome.
This was why Graf wanted to see blackpowder weapons face blackpowder weapons. Normal men and women, not elite mercenaries or Champion-led armies. It would be the only way to truly evaluate the efficacy of the tactics he had theorized, which were to this point entirely untested. The Empire was presently the only place in the world in which he could possibly see musket meet musket, cannon meet cannon. The opportunity to observe this conflict would be paid by the advice he could offer the Imperials.
Alongside his usual fees, of course.
The command tent that Tiam-En led him to was as opulent as any other Imperial fare. So encrusted with gold and gemstones that Graf was thankful for the humid cloudcover, without which he feared he would have been blinded by sunlight bouncing off intolerable piles of gaudy finery, the tent protected a thick, ornate table. At its head sat General Kuhn-Drah, dressed in the armor demanded of her status. Its steel-pressed imitation of human anatomy was masterfully crafted, so detailed that the eye could have been tricked into believing she wore nothing at all, if it were to be painted the color of her skin. As had been reported to Graf, the woman moved as if she were nearing the end of her life, practically a cripple, though she had the face and skin of a thirty-year-old. The General was deeply engrossed in conversation with a dozen advisors, using a wooden pole to push models across a detailed map of the Empire.
Graf took the map in at a glance. It was easy to see why the war had lasted as long as it had; cities were owned, taken, and lost seemingly at random, making it impossible to define a front line of the war. The trails which led through the jungle allowed any bastion to be bypassed with ease. Markers representing unknown armies and unverified reports outnumbered the confirmed by a factor of five, creating an impossibly complex weave of possible strategies, almost all of them based on spurious information. The jungle hid too much to allow anything more. So chaotic and unpredictable was the war that Graf had heard it claimed some armies had gone three or four years without ever successfully locking spears with the enemy, despite spending the entire period in pursuit of a foe.
Graf’s eyebrows rose as he took particular note of one model on the table. The icon used for the army which Lady Eliah’s mercenaries were accompanying was the only painted piece across the vast spread: a shining golden cannon.
I see the Napoleons made as great an impression on the Empire as they did me, Graf thought, allowing himself a private chuckle.
Finally noticing his approach, General Kuhn-Drah held up a hand to silence her advisors. They did so immediately, but took a moment more to realize why.
Graf stopped some twenty paces from the tent. Tiam-En turned around, confused, until Darin stepped forward, whistling a sharp note.
Cormus, who had been thoroughly inspecting a splash of bird droppings, snapped his head up. Darin pointed toward the tent and snapped his fingers.
“Surely this is not necessary?” Tiam-En asked.
Graf ignored him.
Cormus trotted forward, nose pressed to the ground. With his coat so thoroughly mangled (save for the thick, leonine puff around his neck), it was easy to see the beast’s corded muscles twisting as he moved. Several elaborately-armored guards moved forward to intercept the dog, shifting their spears to cross them before the animal’s path.
“You’ll just embarrass yourself,” Kuhn-Drah called tiredly. “Let the mutt through.”
The spears raised just as Cormus walked between the guards, unconcerned, snuffling like an elephant with a cold. The guards watched with consternation as the dog walked up to the first of the advisors, raised his head to sniff the woman several times, then moved to the next. His wet nose left imprints in their clothing.
It took about a minute for Cormus to make his rounds. Darin, Fabis, and Graf waited patiently for the dog to finish. They offered no explanation, and none was asked for. Only when Cormus had sniffed General Kuhn-Drah herself did he suddenly let his tongue fall happily from his mouth, padding back to Darin’s side without the slightest sign of concern.
Graf and his entourage entered the tent unannounced and without fanfare. Not only was it obvious who they were, Graf had a famous dislike of lengthy introductions. Accordingly, General Kuhn-Drah wasted no time.
“Graf Urs.” She spread her hands welcomingly. “What do you think of the army?”
“Competent, but lacking flexibility,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It is clear they have not fired their new weapons in anger.”
“Every soldier must have a first battle. I seek to prepare them for it as best I can. How do they compare to our enemy?”
“To your Imperial opposites, they are equal in the few skills I can evaluate from seeing them perform simplistic drills. They are perhaps marginally better-equipped in armor, but I suspect their muskets are markedly inferior. I will need to see them fired in earnest to be certain.”
“Hm.” The general pursed her lips. “And when you say ‘your Imperial opposite’, you are referring to the force of the traitor Borek, yes?”
“Correct. I have seen his army personally.” And the fool pointed a few thousand of their muskets at me, he added silently. No need to voice the thought. Kuhn-Drah’s spies had doubtlessly informed her of the incident.
“That you specified Borek’s forces implies a hidden statement.”
“In terms of musketry skill, armor, and equipment, your troops are invariably inferior to any in Lady Eliah’s– pardon, Lady Evie’s– mercenary company.”
Mixed reactions went around the table at this. Many seemed to accept the claim at face value, as if they expected it. They knew that their army had spent far less time drilling musketry, so it was only natural that the world’s only veteran musket force outskilled theirs. Others, however, seemed to take reflexive offense, viewing Graf’s statement as an insult.
It was. Merely an accurate one.
General Kuhn-Drah leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table, her youthful body at odds with her arthritic movements. “The Powdered Lead number only five hundred. Slightly less, even, after a scattered few losses. Do you believe that their advantage is so outsized as to tip the scales of battle?”
“Yes. They have a ten cannon battery. Any battle against them will involve your troops marching for nearly a mile under artillery fire.” Graf smirked, thinking back. “I can assure you, it is an unpleasant experience. Only mageflame racing up the line is more demoralizing to the common soldier.”
“Hmph.” General Kuhn-Drah scowled down at the golden cannon on the table. “Not an insurmountable advantage, however, else you would have said so.”
“We have not yet made a contract. I speak only of the things I am already certain you know perfectly well.”
The oddly-aged General sighed, resting her chin on her folded fingers, looking Graf in the eye. “Well, then. The contract. What do you think of it?”
“Acceptable, but I have two additional clauses, both of which are non-negotiable.”
Kuhn-Drah cut off the rising indignation of her advisors with a flick of her fingers, sneering at those who’d been near to taking offense. General Kuhn-Drah was not usually a woman that had terms dictated to her, but equally, she did not often make deals with those of Graf’s stature.
“Be silent and remember who you are speaking to,” she sternly ordered. “Not only is Graf Urs a man of honor, who would never falsely claim something to be non-negotiable for the theatre of it, but none of you have the right to challenge him. He has earned the Emperor’s writ. Contain yourselves.”
She took a deep breath, showing Graf an apologetic smile. “Now. What are these additional terms?”
“The first is that you do not place myself or any of the Night’s Eye against an army accompanied by the Powdered Lead mercenaries. I will not oppose the living avatar of Divine Will.”
“You have before,” Kuhn-Drah pointed out. Not in reproach or argument, but curiosity.
“I was ordered to by my King,” Graf explained. “You have only the loyalty of my contract and your coin. There is not enough of either in the world to oppose a Divine Champion.”
“I see.” Kuhn-Drah thought for a moment, then nodded him on. “And your second term?”
“That you have the Emperor’s Adjutant order all forces under their command to take Lady Evie and her family alive, should they be defeated in battle.”
This second clause finally overwhelmed the ability of the advisors to bite their tongue. They still knew better to argue with Graf, so instead they launched pleas toward their General, asking her to see reason. They asked that she understand how degrading an order it was, how much risk it would put their loyal Warriors in should they come to blows with the Champion and her kin. To fight without intent to kill, against someone who expended every effort to sink their blade into your heart, was nearly the most debilitating disadvantage a soldier could find.
“Silence,” Kuhn-Drah said. The tent’s clamor ended so severely that one might have thought a spell had been cast.
“The points raised by my advisors are valid,” she said. “You cannot expect any Warrior who encounters Lady Evie on the battlefield to lay down and die. Much less the Champion, who is still a growing power. Seeing as she has bedded down with traitors, if our Empire ever wishes to thrive, we must eliminate Sara Brown before she grows too powerful.”
“You are too late.”
General Kuhn-Drah tilted her head, a keen-eyed curiosity burning behind her eyes. “I humbly ask for an explanation, knowing that the answer may be too precious to share.”
Graf considered his response. He soon decided an honest warning would serve his purposes better than a nebulous one.
“Sara Brown’s weapons– the weapons she herself uses, not her mercenaries– are a force multiplier unlike anything which has graced the known lands. I am a student of warfare’s history, General Kuhn-Drah. The greatest of enchanted blades and spell-woven staffs have never once equaled what she has access to.”
Kuhn-Drah looked confused. “You speak of the pseudo-cannon she carries? I received reports that the weapon, though crudely ensorcelled, wreaked devastation upon Ta-Pet’s garrison and Warriors.”
“No. And before you ask, I do not know what it is I am referring to, nor how it is so powerful, nor even how it functions. I have never seen it for myself, nor have my agents gathered any intelligence on its nature.”
Kuhn-Drah’s respectful tone wavered toward irritability. “Then how can you know such a weapon exists?”
Graf waved a hand towards the map, indicating the recently-taken city of Ta-Pet.
“The Champion’s behavior in battle, of course. She and Lady Evie have happily dove into battles in which they were out-numbered, out-skilled, and surrounded.” He cast a meaningful expression around the table. “I trained Lady Evie myself. This behavior is an impossibility. She would not take such a risk, so there must be something yet to be revealed. One of those two women, perhaps both, carries with them a weapon that they believe can overwhelm nearly any number of Imperial Warriors. Though you are correct that Sara Brown’s Divine Powers are nowhere near their final flowering, you are still too late to kill her as you might another young Champion.”
Graf allowed himself a small smile, one borne of pride. “That Lady Evie has allowed Sara Brown into the thick of battle means she is absolutely, uncompromisingly certain of the woman’s safety. Rather than a restriction, I believe you should view this second clause as the most sound of my advice yet. Freely given, too. You have the necessary advantages to defeat Borek’s force, yes, but that does not change the fact that you will be best served by doing so in a way which spares Lady Evie and her family. If you did choose to attack them, perhaps you could overwhelm them with sheer weight of bodies. Perhaps not. As I said, I cannot speculate as to the origin of my protege’s confidence. All I know is that I trust it implicitly. To order an attack upon the Champion’s person is to send your Warriors to their deaths.”
The gathered elites absorbed this declaration in contemplative silence, punctuated by a few whispers here and there. Graf swept his gaze across them, if only to make a show of inspecting them. He couldn’t gather much from their expressions alone, and even if he could, he wouldn’t much care to. The General was the only person present with a meaningful opinion.
His eyes eventually landed upon his earlier escort. Tiam-En, the soul-stained catfolk. The man’s lips were twitching upward into a cruel smile, his attention distant. His sword hand was twitching oddly, one finger at a time, as if he were counting numbers off by repeatedly extending and retracting his claws.
The man’s focus suddenly snapped back. He looked Graf in the eye, then nodded low, as if in thanks.
Graf scoffed, looking away.
“I have decided these terms are acceptable,” General Kuhn-Drah announced. The declaration appeared to take her advisors by surprise, but not exceptionally so. They clearly hadn’t expected much opportunity to weigh in. “Payment will be rendered in the standard form. You will not be required, nor brought to, any battle at which the Champion or her forces are present. However,” she raised a trembling finger, her frown deepening. “I expect due compensation for this caveat. You and your mercenaries will advise my troops to the fullest of your abilities, Graf Urs. I expect this to soon become as superior a force as your reputation would suggest.”
“Of course,” he said off-handedly. “The Night’s Eye have always served with honor. Then our negotiations are concluded?”
“They are.”
Graf nodded, stepping away. Darin and Fabis followed after him as he turned his head out to the field, narrowing his eyes. He wondered if anyone in the world could understand the way that he saw that army. Every soldier, every weapon, every step they took, they were all brought to his foremost attention. Thirty-one thousand, five-hundred and forty souls in that army. When combined with their second and third counterparts, that number would swell to nearly a hundred thousand. Because of the standards Sara Brown had convinced Borek to hold his troops to, he doubted they would gather half so numerous a force before battle was inevitably met.
Oh well, Graf thought as he nodded his farewell to General Kuhn-Drah. Lady Eliah– oh damnit, it’s Evie now, you old bastard– will thrive under the challenge. And if the Imperials fail to follow my clauses… Graf shrugged, a motion which sent a crick of pain into his left shoulder. They will learn how honest a man I am, I suppose.
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David Brown
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David was a mess. Head to toe, hindbrain to forebrain, throat and stomach, the speech he’d given before Parliament had thrown every part of himself into disarray. He felt nauseous even as his stomach rumbled with hunger, exhausted and wired to the gills, tired, yet unable to fall asleep.
How many years did you spend arguing against the shit you just pulled? He demanded of himself. Vietnam, Cambodia, Libya, Iran, Nicaragua, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Panama, and gods know what else you’re forgetting. You protested them all. And now you gave a speech to Parliament that sent them off to war?
The moment he’d finished reading his report, he’d fled. He couldn’t bear to hear what came as a result of it. He’d merely done an investigation, he tried to justify to himself. He’d discovered the facts, organized them, and presented them to the Ministers. What they did with that information wasn’t up to him.
Like hell, he scoffed. You knew what they’d do. You know what they’re already doing. Why didn’t you write more about how you have no idea who did it? Why didn’t you add your own opinion, asking that they not go to war over it? You could’ve backed up the faction that was saying it was a normal, limited raid. You could’ve pushed for a proportional response. But you didn’t.
You’re a coward.
He could justify some of it to himself. He’d done his investigation, and he’d done it well. David wasn’t any kind of forensic expert, but the simple fact that he understood things like bias and the scientific process meant that he was the best option for the job in this world. Yes, the fire had been started intentionally, and yes, he was confident of that.
But it’s not worth what you’ve started. What are you, fucking Kant? Was it more important to tell the truth than to save people’s lives?
He couldn’t believe what he’d done. He couldn’t believe himself. How many people were going to die because of him? Thousands, easily. Tens of thousands, maybe. The war almost certainly would have started on its own, but so what? It didn’t matter how many fuses had been left lying around, not when he had been the one that dropped the match. It was his fault.This war was his fault. All his life, he’d said that if he’d been in charge of things, it wouldn’t have happened. All those awful, imperialistic wars, he’d been against them even before the first debates had happened in Congress.
But when it all came down on your shoulders, you proved you’re no better than them. Just another fucking Republican warmonger.
His knees felt wobbly. He bent over, supporting himself against his thighs as he felt bile rising up his throat. He felt like he was going to vomit, and he felt like he deserved it.
“David,” Garen’s voice said. “Please, over here. There is a chair.”
David blinked, looking up. He had no idea where he was. It was some random street in Tulian. He was sweating through his clothes, and a bone-deep ache in his legs suddenly made itself known. How long had he been walking since he left Parliament? Where had he been going?
Garen was nearby. The archmage was standing by a simple wooden table set outside someone’s home, gesturing at the chair he’d pulled out for David. He wore his unassuming brown robes, and had the same unkempt, half-shaved appearance he always did. No one would have guessed they were looking at the most powerful person in all of Tulian.
David began making his way over to the chair. On the way, he discovered that he was breathing terribly hard. His lungs burned. His throat was so dry it hurt. He fell into the chair and dropped his arms onto the table, resting his weight against them.
Garen stepped around the table, taking the chair opposite. With a twist of his wrist, a sharp line tore in reality. He reached in, pulling out a tall wooden mug, frost rimming its lip. The archmage set it before David, then grabbed a second mug for itself. The rift in existence sewed itself up without a sound.
David didn’t wait. He grabbed the mug of cooled beer with both hands, drinking eagerly. It wasn’t bad, a lot like some of the better IPAs back home, but in that moment all that mattered was how cold it was.
Cold enough. A chunk of ice bounced against his lip.
Garen took a more normal sip from his own beer. He looked around at the street, seeing several other people walking up and down the road, and muttered something under his breath.
The outside world grew just a bit dimmer. The few people who were looking David’s way suddenly stopped, their eyes sliding off his presence like water off glass.
“There,” Garen said. “Some privacy.”
David set his beer down, face locked in a grimace as the icy headache set in. He’d drunk half the mug in one go.
Garen made a gesture. The mug began to refill, the frost on its rim reforming. David lifted it, taking another long drink.
“Shit,” he eventually gasped, shaking the needle of pain from his head. “God. What a fucking…” He sighed, slumping in his chair. “Thanks.”
“You are welcome. I apologize I let you grow so thirsty; it took me some time to find you.”
David chuckled. “Oh, yeah? How’s that possible? You get too drunk to cast your spells?”
“No. You know as well as I that you have been as well-cloaked from magical detection as I am able, David. I did not do something so presumptive as add an exception for my own spells.”
“Really?” David snorted. “You found me pretty quick, then. How good are your wards really, then?”
Garen did not rise to the bait. “Good enough. But having designed them myself, I was particularly well-suited to circumventing them.”
“Guess that makes sense,” David mumbled into his beer, taking another drink. Intoxication couldn’t come soon enough, and with the light beer Garen preferred, he was going to have to work at it.
“May I ask…” Garen trailed off, an odd expression on his face. Consternation, perhaps. “Hm. I don’t know how to say some certain things without being presumptive.”
“Hit me,” David said, rolling his wrist in a go-on gesture. “We both know what’s happening here.”
Garen sighed. “You regret giving the speech, then?”
“Yeah.” David took another long drink. “Yeah, I do.”
“Because of the war, I assume.”
David speared Garen with a silent, caustic glare. The archmage held up his hands.
“I only wanted to confirm.”
David looked down. “Yeah. Yeah, because of the war.”
“I see.”
The muted sounds of the city were all that filtered into their little spell-wrought zone of privacy, save for the occasional sliding of mugs and thick swallowing of beer. Garen wasn’t going easy on the drink either, David soon noted. He wasn’t going at it like David was, but the archmage was usually far more reserved.
“I… understand,” Garen eventually said. “As much as any save your daughter can understand, I suppose.”
“Understand what?” David snapped.
“The guilt of failed pacifism. The gnawing regret that comes after one does something they wished they didn’t have to do.” Garen’s thumbnail scored a line down his mug. “I have done similar things. Not the same, but… similar.”
David looked at the archmage. As far as he knew, the man had been a teacher all his long life. People here didn’t like to talk about the local archmage’s history, not even David’s daughter or her wives. Garen had done something in the Battle of Tulian, David knew that much from listening to the students whisper, but he didn’t know anything more than that.
“Oh yeah?” He challenged. “You’ve been as big of a hypocrite as I just was? Spent your whole life fighting and arguing against every kind of war there was, only to end up starting one of your own?”
“No. Not quite. Something…” Garen lifted his beer, taking a few quick swallows. “Something similar, as I said. Perhaps… the order was reversed. That might be the best way to put it.”
Heat, brought on by the cool beer, was beginning to pool in David’s empty stomach. He looked at the archmage as he took another gulp. To his surprise, the man wasn’t meeting his eyes.
“...how old are you, Garen?” David asked.
The question clearly took the mage by surprise. “How old am I? What does that have to do with-”
“You said you were one of Sporatos’s youngest archmages, right? Well, how young is young for an archmage?”
Garen licked his lips. “Well. I am nearing my third century, believe. It gets difficult to recall specifics after so long.”
Any other day, David would have gawked. He would have been all over that information like a kid in a candy store, poking and prodding at everything Garen was willing to tell him, then continuing to pry at what he wasn’t.
Not today. Today, David just blew out a long breath through his nose.
“Three hundred years old, then. Rounding up.”
“If you round up, yes.”
“Three hundred years. You ever meet that old Champion that was in Sporatos? They showed up around two hundred years ago or something, didn’t they?”
“I’m afraid I did not. I was nearing my ascension to archmagehood at the time, and couldn’t spare the attention. My body was failing. I didn’t have the time to leave my efforts for even a moment.”
“Huh.” David took another drink. “So me and Sara are really your first time seeing someone from Earth.”
“Yes.”
“She give you the talk?”
Garen’s eyebrows rose. David laughed.
“Not that one. The talk. About what war is like back home.”
“Oh. Then yes, she has. Her descriptions were… graphic. Vivid. She has a way with words, as I’m sure you know.”
“Good. I don’t have to explain shit, then.” David drank. “But you know, you might have heard about it. I’ve seen it. All that awful shit, I saw it. Not firsthand, but in videos, movies, documentaries. Seen kids get, just…” David spread his hands wide. “Opened up. Their guts turned inside out. And I hated it.”
“Those that don’t hate war are very few. I believe that is something our worlds share. Only the elite who remain safe in conflict see purpose in it.” Garen sniffed. “Them and the few people whose minds are… ill. Delighting in the depravity of it. They’re the only ones who enjoy war, as far as I know.”
“Yep. We’re not too different, you and I,” David said, quoting something he couldn’t remember. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. He looked Garen straight in the eyes, water beading at the corners of his own. “I’m one of them now, aren’t I? What have I done, man? What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Garen’s expression, already concerned, turned to alarm. He leaned forward as well. “David. You didn’t start this war.”
“I did.”
“The enemy attacked Tulian.”
“Which one?” David’s breath grew intense. “Which one? The Sporatons? The Empire? The Cult? Or just some fuckin… just some fuckin’ pissed-off worker? What if it was that, huh? I told them what happened, but I didn’t know enough. What’s next for me, huh? Am I gonna start telling Sara that Sporatos has got WMDs? Am I gonna be Tulian’s first Dick Cheney?”
Garen watched David talk. He listened closely. Then, with a blurred gesture, disappeared the mug right out of David’s hand.
“I do not know what those are, nor who this Cheney is. But I can assure you, David, you are not him.”
“How do you know that? Huh? You don’t even know who he is. You said that yourself. You’ve got no idea.”
“In the two centuries since I became an archmage, have you any idea how many children I have taught? Children of noble blood, born to families of soulless, heartless warmongers? Thousands. I could see the stain of their upbringing on their soul as clear as a Carrion Lighthouse.” Garen pointed a finger at David. “And do you know who you raised, David?”
He blinked slowly. He opened his mouth to respond, but Garen didn’t give him the chance.
“You have raised Sara Brown. The Champion of Amarat. The scion of the first true Republic this world has ever seen. A woman whose rage– rage at those who oppress– terrifies me. That is the daughter you raised, David.”
David opened and closed his mouth several times. Then he hung his head, mumbling into his chest.
“She’s… better than me. That’s what we raise kids for. To be better than we ever were. I did that with her…”
“An honorable ideal,” Garen said. “And one I hear far too rarely. But let’s say it’s true, David. Let’s say that you have raised a child who is better than you. More moral, more motivated, more just.” Garen pointed toward David’s chest. At first David thought he was pointing at his heart, like some kind of cartoony motivational speaker, but then he realized Garen was pointing at the communication crystal in his breast pocket.
“If she is all that much better than you,” Garen said, “and you have failed your duties…” He spread his hands. “Where is she? If you had done all you claim, do you think she would spare you her wrath? Her anger? Think of your daughter. When you made a mistake as you brought her up, did she remain meekly silent? I doubt it very, very much. So do you think that in the hours since you gave a speech that you claim to be so awful, a speech you know she listened to, do you think that she would have remained silent?”
David lifted his head. Garen was right. He had two crystals in his pockets. One for the network, and one that connected him straight to Sara. And… she hadn’t said a thing.
“That’s… I don’t know if…”
“David.” Garen reached forward, mist coalescing into a tall glass of iced water. He held it out. “Tulian is going to war. But it is not a war you started. What’s more, it is not a war like those of your home. You are not the tyrant stepping on the necks of the weak.” Garen chuckled weakly. “Gods, I almost wish you were. But we, the Republic of Tulian, we are far from that. We are a lonesome tree standing against a storm. I do not believe that this war will be your fault. But even if it was? It may be the first war in my long life which I may consider myself proud to have been a part of.”
David accepted the glass of water. He took a long, slower sip, wincing slightly as the ice clinked against his teeth. The world around him, though still dulled by the strange spell of privacy, seemed to be coming back into focus. As his mind turned outward, he began to feel more than just his own twisting gut. He could feel the chair beneath his trousers, the grain of the wood his elbows rested against.
He finished drinking before he could give himself another brainfreeze. Setting the glass down, he leaned back.
“...Okay. I’ll… I’ll give it a lot more thought. I’m not sure if you’re right. I mean, Garen, I’ve built weapons. So many weapons. Designed them, supplied them, sold them. I’m not… I’m not innocent. I’m a hypocrite.”
“So are we all,” Garen intoned, showing the briefest flicker of the ominous gravity the unfamiliar might have expected from an old archmage. “But that means little, doesn’t it? Only what we intend to do next has any bearing on our worth.”
David chuckled. “Well, I don’t know about that. That’s some heavy philosophy stuff right there. But it’s nice to think that way. I’ll think about it that way, for now.”
“Thank you.” Garen stood, shaking out his robes. “Now, back to our usual duties. Would you like to see a new spell I have been working on in my spare time? I believe it will be of particular interest to you.”
“Depends.” David stood, a touch wobbly on his feet. “Do I need to sober up? Because if so, I’m gonna take a rain check.”
Garen laughed. From a man like him, it was an echoing, harmonious sound.
“No. No, I do not believe you will have to. Though I’m not sure how precise a task geology is.”
“...What?”
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Outside the walls of Tulian, far enough away that the rings of farms had faded to a more palatable density, the Archmage Garen knelt in the dirt. His eyes were closed, his knuckles pressed to the soil, the loose sleeves of his robe hiding the exact manipulations of his fingers.
David watched from a distance, his anxiety growing with every passing moment that Garen didn’t cast the spell. David had seen the archmage do a whole lot of things over the course of their friendship. He had summoned gouts of flame hot enough to melt granite to a boil, slammed building-sized shards of ice into a dozen hillsides, and flung multi-ton boulders far beyond the horizon, all without visibly exerting himself. The scant few history books that David had managed to acquire (there were hundreds available to him, but maybe a dozen he considered reliable enough to be worth studying) told stories of archmages flinging mountains into the sky, ripping miles-wide scars in the planet, and, when their ire was raised, smashing entire cities flat in the blink of an eye. The way some of the authors wrote of archmages reminded David more of the Old Testament than anything else. If they’d existed on Earth, David felt confident Archmages would have been worshipped as nothing less than gods.
With that in mind, the fact that Garen apparently had to focus on this spell?
David felt his rattled nerves were excusable.
Something began to tremble. David’s head snapped down, hoping that the sensation was just the imagination of his half-drunk, overworked legs.
No such luck. The grass around David’s feet was shaking and shivering, dust rising between the blades. David had never been in an earthquake himself, but he’d spent a lifetime studying the topic. He knew the signs.
“Garen?” He called. There was no response from the crouched mage. “Garen, we don’t have to-”
With a screech of fire, twin beams of light raced outward from the archmage. So bright they seemed solid, each twenty feet high, they shot away fast as a gunshot. David watched them race directly parallel to the mage for two, four, eight hundred yards, then turn abruptly inward, racing along for several dozen yards, then snapping into a second turn, running parallel to their original track.
The shaking of the ground was joined by a rumble. Low at first, nearly audible, then growing greater and higher-pitched. It was soon joined by deep thumps and booms, then sharp cracks and snaps, each repetition louder than the last. The ground shook and jumped, a great storm of dust rising across the green plains, choking his mouth and nose, forcing him to cover his face with his shirt.
With a blinding flash, the two lines connected.
Garen stood.
The world stood with him.
Before David’s eyes, an entire chunk of the planet began to rip itself free of gravity’s burden. With a conductor’s deliberate grace, Garen raised his hand.
The sound of tectonic calamity was replaced by an endless woooosh of disturbed air, the colossal chunk of earth creating a miniature tornado as it was dragged into the sky. David watched, craning his neck upward, trying to keep track of the grass at the top. In seconds, it was nothing more than a thin green line.
Without warning, the ascent stopped. Somehow, that struck David as the most unnatural of it all. There was no grinding to a halt, no slow shift in the gargantuan object’s momentum. It simply stopped. Nothing fell from the titanic wall, not even a pebble, and the wind it had been throwing off died in an instant.
“There,” Garen said, turning around with a pleased smile. He stood at the base of a half-mile cliff, one which hadn’t existed thirty seconds ago. “I believe that went well. I didn’t anticipate the vibration, though. I apologize for the dust.”
Garen made a tapping motion with one finger, a light one, like he was prodding to see if someone was awake without actually waking them. The dust cloud, which by then had spread to cover several square miles, was instantly crushed back into the soil. The air became breathable once more. With shaking hands, David lowered his shirt.
“Now,” Garen said, turning to the rock wall. “You’ve told me much of striations, intrusions, epoch layers, and many other terms, but I must admit that I’ve never understood them as well as I would like. The more we’ve spoken, the more I’ve come to agree with your opinion that the best learning is done ‘in the field.’ And seeing as I could not fully grasp the importance of your field of study, and you are obviously anxious to learn all you can of the mineral composition of these lands, I thought this would help us both satisfy our curiosities.”
David took a nervous step forward. Garen looked over his shoulder at him, rolled his eyes, then waved him forward.
“Come, now. I’ve fixed the rock in place. It won’t fall unless I cast a secondary spell.”
“O-oh. Good.” David adjusted his glasses on his nose, suddenly feeling like he had to, even so long after he’d had his vision healed. “So is there anything beneath this, or…?”
“Hm? Oh, no, there is not.” Garen raised a hand. The monolithic slab raised with it, moving a few extra feet skyward. Garen pointed at the yawning blackness that had been revealed. “I could have lifted more from below, drawing from material even further, but there was little point in it. I simply reinforced the walls to avoid any cave-ins while you studied.”
“I see,” David said faintly. He adjusted his glasses again. “Well. This is…”
He looked up at the wall. Instincts he hadn’t used in months– years, really, since the last time he’d done field work– kicked to life. His mind began noting the colors, layers, and structures that Garen’s spell had relieved, connecting data points in his mind.
As if entranced, he took a step forward. Garen cast him a wary look, then lowered the rock face down, closing the gap once more.
David pressed his hand to the bedrock that had been revealed. Almost as if confirming it was real. When he lifted his hand away, it was coated in a light layer of dust.
“This is…” A pattern caught his attention. He scuttled over to it, craning his neck back to look at the depression several yards above his head. It was a… swirling pattern? In the bedrock? A spiral, it looked like. The closer he looked, the more patterns he found. Biological patterns.
No, it couldn’t be.
Is it?
He looked back at Garen. “I changed my mind. Can you get rid of the alcohol in my system?”
“Of course.”
The fog that clouded David’s mind vanished. He straightened slightly, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
“Did you see something interesting?” Garen asked. “I haven’t much experience–”
“Lower the rock face about fifteen feet, please.”
Garen chuckled, but did so. It brought the pattern to David’s eye level. He grinned.
“Come over here. You see this? The spiral pattern? This isn’t geology, Garen. This is biology.”
The archmage looked dubiously at the stone. “You are saying this is a sample of Living Rock? Here in Tulian?”
“No, no.” David turned aside. “Wait. What’s living rock?”
“I can tell you about it later,” Garen said. “But this… strange spiral. You say it is biology? The study of life?”
“It’s a fossil,” David said. “It reminds me of an ammonite, but it’s too big.” His words fell to a low mutter. “What is it, eight feet across? But the structure is so similar… Are there really evolutionary pressures at work in a deific landscape? I know what Daylagon’s priests said, but the way they were talking about ‘survival of the fittest’ better fit a social darwinist belief, not…” He trailed off, lips moving silently.
“David,” Garen gently interrupted, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You do not have to hurry. I am expending no effort to keep this landscape altered. Please, explain your thoughts to me.”
David took a deep breath. He buttoned up his shirt, which felt even looser than it had last week. God, he wanted Tulian to invent sugar processing. Then he turned to Garen.
“As you can see, many elements of geology exist within layers, called strata. Depending on the tectonic history of a given area, these strata can be composed of a variety of rocks, divided into three main categories. This pseudo-ammonite… no, I shouldn’t call it that, it’s clearly evolutionarily distinct, just look at those graspers…”
As David began his lecture, he was perfectly aware of the intentional distraction this little excursion represented. It was as transparent an attempt at appeasement as when David had taken a sobbing Sara for ice cream after her childhood doctor’s appointments.
But it was working.
“Do you have any meetings today?” David asked, interrupting his own lecture, which had been spilling automatically from his lips.
“None that are pressing.”
“Good. Could you excise this piece of rock here?” He took a piece of chalk out of his pocket, making marks. “From here, to here, to here. Maybe about ten feet deep, so we don’t chop off anything behind. We’ll want to develop a preservation method, too, because minerals like this don’t do well when exposed to humidity…”
Notes:
Apologies for the slightly late upload. I was over at my family member's house helping them fix some things.
Chapter 165: B3 Ch52: Witch and the Hound (E)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Evie Brown
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In the time since she had first stood at the side of Sara Brown, Evie had grown firmly accustomed to a life without uncertainties. Sara was a confident, driven woman, with unshakeable goals and concrete plans to meet them. Evie followed in her wake, acting either in concert with her, or, on occasion, taking a private step to the side, when she felt a necessary measure would proceed better without her wives’ knowledge. As the keeper of her small family’s itinerary, personal safety, and general wellbeing, the occasions in which she did not know what was to come were very slim indeed.
She did not enjoy the change of pace.
“Hurlish,” Evie whispered, stepping into the tent. “Is Tahn asleep?”
“Nah, you’re good,” her wife said, stifling a yawn.
As Evie’s eyes adjusted to the interior of the dim canvas, she couldn’t help but smile. Hurlish was sitting in her rocking chair with their infant son cupped in an arm, wood creaking as she pushed back and forth. Her upper body was covered in the sweat of a day’s labor using her strength to ease the burden of others, but she’d made a point to wash her arms and chest. It wouldn’t do to have any of the grime rubbing off on Tahn.
Despite knowing perfectly well where her other wife was, Evie’s twitching ears and eyes took an instinctive scan of the tent. Sara was nowhere to be seen, of course. Her Blessings had brought a heated argument between pistol-wielding Imperial officers to her attention, and she’d rushed off to prevent the quarrel from reaching a lethal boil. Though the Imperial officers were trained to use the flintlock and cryslock pistols they bought from Hurlish, they didn’t yet seem to fully appreciate their lethality. Sara was concerned that a few more incidents of “deadlier than expected” duels would lead to a ban of their purchase throughout the army.
For Evie, the distraction was a small miracle. She’d not had time alone with Hurlish in two whole days. It was rare enough that she spent any time away from Sara’s side, and rarer still that she was with Hurlish without Sara. This was her first chance to speak to the second of her wives in private since she had her encounter with Mui.
Yet, for some reason, she hesitated. Hurlish glanced at Evie as she paused near the tent’s entrance, biting her lip with a single fang.
“Something up?”
“There is something that concerns me, yes.”
Hurlish’s eyes widened a touch. She stood, gently laying Tahn into his crib, then headed to her chest of clothes. “Alright. Sara should be back in a few minutes.”
Evie licked her lips. “It is something that I would rather discuss… without her.”
Hurlish, reaching for her shirt, froze. “Oh. Okay, then.” Her hand switched directions, moving toward the gun she kept near their bed.
“No, not in that manner,” Evie sighed. She walked over to Tahn’s crib, scooping the child into her own arms. He still had not grown into his ears. They were all beginning to doubt he ever would.
“What’s the deal, then?” Hurlish sat back down in her rocking chair, brow furrowed with concern.
Tahn made an indignant gurgling sound as Evie carried him back towards Hurlish, reaching out to tug at her hair. She placated him with a finger in his mouth, which he began to happily suckle on.
Evie fell into Hurlish’s lap, resting her head between her wife’s breasts.
“I have begun to fear that I have made a mistake.”
Hurlish’s thick arms curled around Evie, tucking her close. “What kinda mistake?” She asked cautiously. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing Evie so conflicted. That was fair. Evie wasn’t used to being conflicted, either.
“I…” Evie took a breath. “Could I ask you to not speak of it to Sara?”
Hurlish sucked in a breath. “Dunno about that, Kitty. Depends on a whole lot. I don’t like keeping secrets.”
Evie nodded. She understood. Though Evie had done a number of things behind her wifes’ backs, actions she remained convinced were for the good of her family, Hurlish was far more forthright. She did not keep secrets, and she did not avoid conflict. If there was an issue that required addressing, she would not hesitate to bring it up at the first opportunity. In many ways, Evie envied her for that.
“I suppose I can only ask that you don’t tell her, knowing the decision is yours,” she eventually said. She pursed her lips, steeling herself for the upcoming admission. “I… told Mui about one of Sara’s Blessings.”
Hurlish’s rocking slowed. She remained silent. Evie swallowed.
“The Blessing which elevates her lovers to her Level, to be precise,” she reluctantly clarified.
Hurlish stilled, absorbing this. After a moment, she let out a long, low whistle. Evie and Tahn’s ears flicked in irritation at the high-pitched noise, mirror images of one another.
“That’s a pretty bad one, Kitty.”
“I know,” Evie groaned. She snuggled deeper into the valley of Hurlish’s breasts, trying to hide from the mistake. “Nothing about it progressed as I expected.”
“What’d you expect?” Hurlish asked incredulously. “Sara’s gonna be pissed. I mean, you’ve heard her talkin’ about ‘power imbalances’ and shit, Evie. She won’t let a First Lieutenant get it on with a Second Lieutenant, even if they were banging before one got promoted, and you thought she was gonna be okay with something like that?”
“I did not,” Evie admitted, “but I thought that the conflict would resolve itself more rapidly. Mui is an honest, loyal man. I assumed he would go straight to Sara and reveal what I’d told him. Sara would be irate, of course, but the bridge would be built. With the two of them collaborating to discover the parameters of the Blessing, we would soon have a second Irregular of my caliber protecting her in battle. It would be worth her ire, I decided.”
“I mean, even if she did drop it that quick,” Hurlish reached out to brush Evie’s hair aside, pulling a few loose strands from Tahn’s mouth that their child had managed to begin sucking on, “you’re assuming that Sara wouldn’t just end things then and there. Or that Mui wouldn’t feel used by her, like Sara was just keeping him around to get another fancy soldier. That’d run him off, I bet.”
Evie frowned. “He would not think something so ridiculous. Sara was going to great lengths to keep the Blessing a secret; why would he think that she was being manipulative?”
“Kitty,” Hurlish said patiently. “Just think about it for a second. Not like a noble, but a peasant. Mui’s an army brat through-and-through. There’s nothing he’s more used to than having the higher-ups taking advantage of people like him for their own benefit.” Hurlish patted Evie’s leg fondly. “I know that in your world, people would probably be exchanging favors like that all the time or whatever. Keeping a secret like Sara’s Blessing wouldn’t make sense if you were some noble House tryna recruit someone, since it’d be such a big draw for them, so you naturally see keeping it all a big secret as proof that there Sara didn’t have any bad motives. But that’s not how us common people see it. We’re used to getting lied to, taken advantage of. Secrets are proof that you were tryna hide something bad.”
Evie’s gut twisted. Tahn stared up at her, blinking without understanding. She wondered if he could understand facial expressions yet. She forced a fake smile onto her face, just in case. She could do nothing for her anxious tone.
“Sara could convince him otherwise,” she argued. “She is the Champion of Amarat. That is what she specializes at.”
“Could she?” Hurlish countered. “Yeah, probably, if she’s willing to use her other Blessings. But she stopped using those on Mui weeks ago. She trusts him too much to ‘invade his privacy’ or whatever. And once there’s already that power stuff in play, she’s gonna hate the idea of using that crap even more than normal. So I’m not really sure if she could.” Hurlish took a deep breath. “Besides, Kitty. Mui’s a person, too. We both know that some people are so committed to what they believe that even Sara can’t change their mind. What if he’s one of those, huh?”
Evie shrank further into her wife, pinpricks of anxiety stabbing at her mind.
“Do you believe I have made an irrecoverable mistake, then? That I have ruined their relationship?” She licked her lips. “I… I respect Mui. I enjoy what he does for Sara. He reminds her of those who are still worth redeeming amongst a people she despises. I do not want him to leave her company. It would be… poor for her. She is better off with him in her company.”
“Irrecoverable?” Hurlish mumbled. She pressed a hand down atop Evie’s head, thick fingers rubbing at her scalp. It made Evie shiver. “No. I don’t think there’s anything you can do that would screw things up that bad. Sara knows what she’s about, and she’s a smart girl. Loves you too much, too. She can figure out how to get through things, if she really wants to.”
“And Mui?” Evie asked. “I violated Sara’s trust, and he knows it. Will he not trust me far less? Even if they do manage to achieve my goal of synchronizing their Levels, he will know that I have betrayed my wife. That is not something I sufficiently considered before making this decision.”
Hurlish laughed, careful to keep her amusement to a low rumble. It shook Evie’s entire body. “I hate to break it to you, Kitty, but the idea that you really do everything Sara says is a pretty busted myth. There’s no way that Mui actually thinks you’re her perfect, obedient little pet.”
That, more than anything else, twisted tightest in Evie’s gut.
“But I am,” she mumbled, looking away. “I just… have other activities I pursue, at times.”
“Yeah,” Hurlish laughed. “Just every now and then. Which is why we haven’t heard a peep from that criminal gang that was in Tulian since last year, almost like they dropped off the face of the world. Or why two Parliamentary Ministers who were arguing for an elected monarch ended up dying in midnight house fires. Or why that Imperial Colonel who was trying to have the Powdered Lead dismissed from service coincidentally ended up on the front line of every battle until she got shot. Or why–”
“I understand,” Evie hissed. “There is no need to continue.”
“I’m just saying, Kitty,” Hurlish said, continuing to scratch her scalp. “Sara might not know. I don’t think she does, actually. But that’s because she works pretty dang hard to turn a blind eye to the crap you pull. She likes you being independent or whatever. But Mui’s not that generous. I promise you, he already knew that you’ve got your own agenda.”
Evie huffed. Her finger was growing pruney from Tahn’s suckling, and his fangs were beginning to prick at her skin. She switched fingers.
“That is all well and good, but dear, what should I do? Should I force the issue? Sara has not yet interrogated Mui on his change in behavior, but it can’t last long. I doubt he will come to her bed, conflicted as he is, and that will be the final straw. No sane man would refuse her body. Once that happens, she will investigate further, if only out of concern for his wellbeing.”
Hurlish snorted. “Maybe. Maybe not. You’re right; Sara’s a darn good lay, so he might not be able to resist, and that’d buy you time. But if he does hold off, she’s gonna poke and prod until she figures out what’s up.” Hurlish’s fingers moved away from Evie’s scalp, toward her upper neck, thick fingernails scritching beneath her braids. “You’re not gonna like hearing this, but honestly, I think that the best move is to tell Sara yourself. Just tell her ‘hey, I screwed up, I’m sorry, how do you want me to help you fix this?’ Not the easiest thing to do, I know, but-”
“Absolutely not,” Evie stated firmly. “The crux of the plan was to have them discuss it themselves, beyond my influence. I know that they need to discuss it emotionally, not rationally, and that is not something I excel at.”
“You’re not a machine, Evie,” Hurlish interjected. “You don’t have to be an artifice engine all the time. Look at the way you’re holding Tahn.”
Evie glanced down. She had her son’s head gently cradled in one palm, keeping it at a comfortable angle by resting it against her thigh. Her other hand was slipped around Tahn’s left side, keeping him from rolling off her lap, pointer finger extended for him to take into his mouth. His fangs occasionally stabbed at her, a brief spot of pain that she barely noticed.
“Tahn is…” She felt a sudden need to clear her throat. “He is different. Much like you and Sara. I can feel things with you, with my family, that I have never known elsewhere.”
“But you can still feel it. Don’t sell yourself short, Evie.”
Evie would have frowned, if she were not looking down upon her infant son. It was impossible to feel truly perturbed with Tahn grinning goofily up at her, yet Hurlish’s supposition bothered her all the same. Unduly so. Evie did not view herself that way. What she had with her wives and son was unique. Precious. She didn’t feel that way about other people. She never had. She never would.
“Even if that is the case,” Evie said, cautiously moving on, “there is another mistake that I believe I may have made. In the way that I broached the topic of the Blessings.”
Nestled into her wife’s prodigious chest, Evie could feel the rumbling sigh of discontent that Hurlish tried to suppress.
“Alright. And that was?”
“I… may have implied that I believed romantic love to be a potential pre-requisite for Mui to receive Sara’s Blessings.”
“Oh, babe,” Hurlish groaned, giving her neck a frustrated squeeze. “Really? Really? Why’d you do that?”
“Because it is a theory I have,” Evie argued, even as she shrank slightly inward. “Thus far, you, myself, and Ketch are the primary benefactors of Sara’s Blessings. Vesta never benefitted, but that was most likely because she was a considerably higher Level than Sara until only recently, when they are no longer having frequent sexual contact.”
“You think Ketch loves Sara?” Hurlish asked. “I mean, really loves her?”
Evie made a face. “I believe that Ketch has shown a certain… dedication towards Sara. Or her body, at least.”
“That ain’t love, babe. And besides, remember how fast Ketch started getting her new Levels? It took, what, a week? Sure, she might’ve loved banging Sara, but she sure didn’t love her by then.”
“Which is why I only mentioned it as a potential pre-requisite,” Evie insisted, though her words were growing increasingly timid.
“Okay. What else did you suggest it could be?”
Evie pursed her lips. “There were… perhaps not all that many ideas offered as an alternative.”
Hurlish groaned audibly. Evie’s entire body tipped backward as the orc stretched out in her rocking chair, sending it to its furthest tilt yet. Evie reflexively clutched Tahn tighter, causing the boy to make a protesting babble.
Evie smiled at him. He was already making sounds, however nonsensical, at times appropriate for speech. She wondered how long it would be until his first word.
Hurlish curled back in, wrapping an arm around Evie once more.
“Well, I’ve decided I won’t tell Sara right away,” the orcish woman announced.
Evie sagged in relief. “Thank you.”
“But,” Hurlish said, using one hand to lift Evie’s braided hair. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t fuck up. Don’t pull this shit again. Understand me?”
“Don’t swear around Tahn–”
“Evie. Pay attention to me.”
Hurlish’s voice had lowered an octave. It sent chills through Evie’s body, and without the slightest degree of conscious thought, she snapped all her focus towards her wife’s face.
“You,” Hurlish said, tapping her on the nose. “Fucked up. Some of the shit you do, you do because you’re convinced you need to in order to keep us safe. Sara and I’ll turn a blind eye to that, alright? But you don’t screw with her relationships, okay?”
Evie shrank. Being punished by Hurlish, particularly in earnest, was something that should have been a fantasy for her. If she didn’t have Tahn in her arms, her thighs would likely have already been slick. But the grounding presence of their child served as an anchor to the severity of the situation: this was true, honest discipline, not anything sexual. Hurlish was genuinely angry with her. For perhaps the first time Evie could remember.
The depth of guilt that sank into Evie’s belly, molten lead burning and bubbling in her core, was utterly alien to her. Her mother’s harshest punishments had never inspired a fraction of the regret that Hurlish’s disapproving glare now tortured her with. She felt tears prick at her eyes.
“I am… I am sorry,” she whispered.
“I know. It’s okay.” Hurlish brushed a hand down Evie’s hair. “It’s alright. Sara’s gonna be mad when she finds out. But that’s it. She’ll just be mad. Maybe y’all will argue, maybe you’ll walk different ways to cool off, but that’ll be it.”
“But I… if you’re right, and I made such a…” Evie suddenly wished to be rid of Tahn. She didn’t want her son to be in her lap at that moment. “She cares for Mui. I should not have…”
“Look. Look at me, Evie.”
Evie did.
Without warning, cool steel slipped around her neck. The collar clicked into place around Evie’s throat, a band of control shimmering onto Hurlish’s wrist.
“You’re not used to feeling bad about something. I get that. So you’re gonna sleep on it. I want you to wake up eight hours from now. Now go to sleep.”
The collar pulsed Obedience into her mind before she could muster a reaction. She briefly tried to fight it, to insist that she’d ensured she’d gotten at least five hours of sleep each of the last four days, but even the broken collar injected sluggish drowsiness into her veins. Evie was too conditioned to Obey her wives. She didn’t think she was capable of even wanting to disobey their orders anymore.
And so she fell asleep, Hurlish’s palm carefully keeping Tahn tucked into her lap.
--------------------------------------------
Ketch
--------------------------------------------
She woke up at a strange time, in a strange place, without any recollection of how she’d gotten there. She was standing upright, feeling perfectly awake, and Sara was staring at her with a very peculiar expression.
“I mean, thanks, I guess…” Sara said, only to trail off as she inspected Ketch. “Oh. Sorry. Welcome back, Ketch.”
Dizzied not by any bodily reaction, but simple confusion, Ketch looked left and right, trying to place herself. She found that she was in the middle of the Imperial Army, which was doused in the golden glow of a setting sun. Several officers were sitting contritely on a nearby log, sporting the bruises of blunt impacts across their faces. A pile of broken pistols sat before them, which Sara was standing just beside.
The last thing Ketch remembered, it had been nighttime. In Ta-Pet. Well before the army had been prepared to leave the city. It was as if she had done nothing more than blink between the two moments.
“Um, Sara?” She asked. “Where are we?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Damn, she did a number on you this time, didn’t she?”
“Who? Selly?”
“Yeah.” Sara slipped something she was holding behind her back, putting it into a pouch. In the brief glance Ketch caught, it seemed like a large, blue-painted children’s doll. “She’s been using you to work on a project. Did she not let you, like, pilot her body around while she was in yours?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.” Ketch’s brow furrowed as she tried to think back. Though she’d first thought the time had passed without anything of note, her struggling mind began to dredge up hazy memories. Actually, she wasn’t even sure if she could call them memories. They were more… impressions. Like the remnants of heat left on the skin after one released a boiling cookpot, but throughout her entire body.
Pleasure. A haze of it, flowing in and out of lungs she didn’t have. Her innermost self, divorced from the body it knew, left floating in the warm waters of nothing, nowhere. Gentle, lapping waves against her skin, constantly caressing her. A dazed, content smile gracing her faceless self. Ignorant of any and everything, the passage of time most of all.
A loud snapping noise startled Ketch. She blinked several times, though her eyes were already open, and found Sara standing much closer to her, one arm outstretched to put fingers right up against her ear.
“Alright, apparently you weren’t totally locked up,” Sara said. “Just out of it, I guess.” She huffed irritably. “I swear, Selliana. You’ve got to figure out some lines you won’t cross. I know there aren’t many of them, but at least get some kind of limit. It’d make me feel better.”
“It wasn’t a big deal. How long was I out?” Ketch asked.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“The roofs of Ta-Pet, at night. Before the army was ready to move.”
Sara sighed. “Three days, then. That’s how long it’s been since I last saw you, at least.”
Ketch hummed curiously. She knew Sara would rather have her be concerned about the lost time, but she wasn’t. Nothing bad had come of it, clearly. And Selliana wouldn’t put her in danger.
“Do you know what she was using my body for?” Ketch asked. “If it took three whole days, it must have been important.”
For some reason, Sara chuckled. “I do know. And I guess you’d consider it pretty important.”
“What was it, then?”
Sara grinned wickedly. “Not gonna tell you. You’ll figure it out soon enough, I think.”
Ketch scratched her cheek, looking around once more. No one was close enough to easily overhear, but there were plenty of people in an army with extraordinary senses. She leaned closer to Sara, whispering.
“Should I be worried?”
“Worried? No, I don’t think so. But you might want to get somewhere private in the next, oh,” Sara glanced toward the falling sun, “thirty minutes or so? Yeah, that sounds about right. Unless something else like–” Sara turned her head and raised her voice, “–THESE MORONS,” she turned back around, “comes up again. But I doubt that’ll happen.”
Then Sara grinned, looking down. At Ketch’s chest.“Oh. And I think you might want to ask your girlfriend to be more picky about your outfits. That’s a pretty bold one, even for you.”
With a shock of alarm, Ketch became scathingly aware of the breeze rippling across her body. Humid and warm, yet no less chilling for it, she could feel the air on her legs, her thighs, her stomach, and… her chest.
Too much of her chest.
Ketch looked down.
Since she’d found herself following Sara, Ketch had mostly abandoned the cloaks she’d used to hide her preferred underwater clothing. She’d once been afraid that it looked far too much like land-dweller’s undergarments (because it did), but Sara had slowly chipped away at that insecurity. She’d become more confident in her body.
Not confident enough to go topless, though.
She was wearing what could only generously be called a loose collection of shredded strings. There was just enough left of her former top to make it clear to an observer that there used to be something covering her breasts, but it had been lost to constant overuse. A firm gust or sufficiently large roll over her shoulders would toss the last of the tatters entirely away.
Looking further, Ketch realized that she wasn’t wearing pants, either. Not anything that could be called pants in the traditional sense, at least. The freshly-skinned hide of some unidentifiable beast was wrapped around her hips, its tail fed through its mouth and out a hole in its forehead, where a knot was tied. Dried blood caked her legs, with the last few fresh droplets still being squeezed out as she turned her body.
“If it helps,” Sara said as Ketch’s heart began to pound, “everybody pretty much took you for a fucked-up witch at first sight and mostly just scattered out of your way.” Sara flashed her an evil grin. “Think you can do a good enough Selly impression to give off those same vibes?” She leaned close, whispering into Ketch’s ear. “Or are they gonna realize there’s a cute azarketi girl walking around with her pretty little tits out?”
With all the speed and grace she could muster, Ketch fled. Her feet flew across the ground as she darted toward the deepest shadow she could find– the lee of a tent opposite a cookfire.
Sara’s ringing laughter chased her into the cool embrace of darkness, her Classes’ senses thankfully telling her that she’d thrown off all the buzzing gnats of wandering eyes.
She stood in the deep shade for a long while, breathing hard. She cast her mind outward, toward Selly, accompanying it with a demand.
Why did you leave me like this?!
All she got in response was a faint, echoing laugh.
Ketch swallowed hard, looking around. Shadows clung to her like tar and oil, but the sun was still in the sky. Anyone with a high Level or an interest in walking by the tent could, if they drew close enough, see her.
She opened her mouth to call out at Sara, demanding a change of clothes, but the armored woman was already gone. Ketch could see her in the distance, humming a happy little tune as she abandoned Ketch to her torment.
Then, as if all the world was not already crashing down around her, the pelt around her waist squirmed.
Ketch yelped, grabbing the thing’s tail and jerking hard, undoing the knot. The writhing carcass fell to the ground with a wet slap, still undulating. Like an insect with a crushed head, it didn’t yet seem aware that it was nothing more than the suit once worn by a real creature.
The sudden movement had, of course, thrown off the last tatters of her ruined top. That was almost a blessing, she quickly decided. It was one thing to be blatantly naked, another to be seen trying and failing to conceal herself.
The blood coating her lower body from the waist-down might help too, she hoped. The Empire was composed of a population as superstitious as any other; if Ketch saw a naked, blood-soaked woman walking straight through the camp with head held high, her first and only thought would be getting out of the creature’s way. Certainly not ogling it.
The laughter in her mind grew louder.
Ketch watched with horror as, against her will, the blood began to slide down her legs. The dried patches flaked and cracked, then melted back to liquid, shimmering in the shadows as they joined the rest of their brethren in slipping off her feet.
Then, with a sudden crackle of even louder laughter, almost as if in response to a comment Ketch couldn’t hear, something else began to change. Her scalp began to itch terribly, overwhelmingly so, and when she went up to scratch it, she met black hair far sooner than she had.
Ketch froze as she felt her hair, always kept boyishly cropped in what Sara called a ‘buzzcut’, began to tangle outward. In a matter of seconds, it was brushing against her shoulders, and it wasn’t yet stopping. She snagged a strand and held it up to her eyes in disbelief, watching it twist and curl, gaining a shining lustre that only the wealthiest of noblewomen could have afforded to maintain.
You wouldn’t think of doing this to me. You’re talking to her right now, Ketch accusingly thought at Selly. How are you talking to Sara without me?
I would not worry about that at the moment, Guppy, Selliana purred. What I would worry about is that nice woman over there who’s about to be coming your way.
What do you mean-
Against her will, Ketch’s hands rose up to cup her mouth. She took a deep breath and, despite her struggle to prevent it, shouted out.
“Hey! Come look over here!”
The woman’s head snapped up, looking around in confusion. She was an Imperial soldier, fully kitted out, probably searching for her squad’s circle of tents.
Why? Ketch pleaded.
Because I do so love toying with my Guppy, Selliana whispered. And the Champion’s manner of play is delightfully inventive.
Ketch pressed her back against the tent as the Imperial woman began walking her way, eyes squinting in confusion.
“Who said that? Tara, was that you?”
Ketch had no choice. She waited until the woman’s scanning had her turn around, then darted away.
Peeling herself from the shadows was almost more terrifying than losing her clothing in the first place. Her every Skill was pulsing through her mind as she dashed forward, struggling to drag as much of the nearby shadows toward her skin as she could.
The teasing buzz of eyes on her skin struck her like hammer blows. She was fast; faster than anyone could have been expecting. But she was also naked. Sprinting through an open camp.
Feeling a sudden drop in the eyes flicking towards her as she blurred by, Ketch slid into the shadow of a second tent, breathing hard, eyes wild.
She looked left and right, trying to see if anyone had truly noticed her. She saw a man splitting wood blinking in confusion at the space she’d occupied a moment before, and a woman pausing in the middle of a sentence, appearing bewildered.
Then, to her utmost relief, they began to return to their activities. The thwack of an axe hitting a log and the boring chatter of soldier’s talk had never filled her with so much relief.
Ketch brushed off her bare thighs, knocking aside the dust and clumps of ill-placed shadows that clung to her. The darkness was slowly deepening, thank the gods. Soon, she would have many more options to hide. If night fell properly, she felt confident she could traverse the entire camp without fear of discovery.
What a shame that Sara suggested you be somewhere private by nightfall, Guppy, Selly teasingly rasped.
Ketch bit back a whining curse.
You don’t even care about sex! Why are you helping her with this?
Instead of a worded response, Selly’s reply came in a flood of emotions. Ketch’s eyes fluttered as the melting pot of a foreign mind poured into hers, thoughts and emotions mixing until they overwhelmed her own.
Amusement. Selly was so terribly amused by this. Like a cat watching the mouse try and flee the shuttered alleyway, her Guppy had no true way to escape the teasing prods.
Pride sat beside that amusement. Watching her Guppy fly across the camp, slipping through the eyes of alert guards, sniffing watchdogs, and countless individuals milling about the place? It was exquisite. Though the honing of her most beloved tool was more owed to the influence of the Divine, the girl was hers still. She was proud of that.
Beneath it all, perhaps the base supporting the sprouting tree, was a simple mercantile satisfaction. A well-made, satisfying deal. Opportunity for opportunity, goods for service. Were it involving anything less than her Guppy, it would have been unremarkable, but as it was, she was satisfied in the same way children were when they acquired new clothes for their dolls. Her Guppy would play well tonight.
In her own body, from her own face, Ketch let out a long-suffering sigh. She was being played with, then. Sara would be the lover poking and teasing her, while Selly played the role of a cat batting around a mouse too loyal to know better. How lovely.
She did her best to ignore the growing slickness between her thighs.
The sunset would not wait for Ketch to recover her bearings, unfortunately. She was on a timer, and she’d awoken very far up the column. Her tent was well in the rear of the army, though she couldn’t say how she knew where to go in the first place.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Ketch scanned her immediate surroundings. The soldiers and camp workers nearest her were sitting around a fire, waiting for the evening meal to be ready. Only a few souls were moving through the tent-city’s thin alleys and slightly wider roads.
There was nothing to be done for it, Ketch quickly decided. She was used to creeping through the tight confines of a city home, the shady streets beyond, or the shadowed foliage of the jungle beyond. An empty, well-lit road was a challenge for even her.
And what is with this? She groaned, feeling her hair continue to grow. It was down to her lower back, now. Any longer and she would have to start holding it in a fist just to keep it out of her way as she ran, and the growth was showing no signs of slowing.
Ketch took one last moment to scan her surroundings before taking a long, slow breath, inhaling as much of the darkness as she could. The tent’s shadow grew brighter. Ketch’s blue skin deepened, swirls of inky black crawling up her limbs in whirlpool eddies. There was precious little to draw from in so meagre a shadow. By the time she’d drawn in all she could, the darkness coated her to elbows and knees only.
On silent feet and a held breath, Ketch burst forth. Her bare feet fell on the mud without sinking an inch, every step firm as stone. The wind whipped through her growing hair, tossing it out behind her.
She did not think as she ran. The narrow gaps between tents were too many to count, too frequent to anticipate. She listened to the patter of heartbeats and the clink of armor, darting left and right to avoid each, taking turns on little more than undefined instinct.
She soon learned that she could not avoid everyone. Turning a corner at a dead sprint, she was forced to skid to a harsh stop, staring at the back of a man too still and calm for her senses to have warned her of. It was terrifying enough that she lost control of her thudding heart. As she fought to arrest her momentum, feet skipping and bumping over the mud, her mind taunted her with awful awful images. Of an Imperial soldier turning around to see Ketch, her body laid bare, wide-eyed and panicked. Of their attention falling to her heaving chest, then to the joining of her legs, where an unbearably embarrassing slickness lay, glistening in the evening light. She was tortured by the fear of being caught, inarguably and inexplicably naked. Ketch was not unknown to the Empire; the General and his staff had seen her on occasion, when Sara wished to reveal or reiterate that Tulian had an agent even they couldn’t track. It had been fun then, to taunt the Imperials with her Skills. She’d never imagined that she’d so intensely wish none of them had ever learned her face.
The man did not turn around. Ketch backpedaled as hard as she could, holding her breath, not even letting her skin brush against itself as she flung herself into a hasty, nearly all-fours retreat. She curved around the tent she’d first passed, only to see an even worse sight: a wall of washmaids heading down the path, carrying enough freshly laundered baskets to block any chance of her slipping past.
Ketch darted even further off the course she’d planned, throwing herself into the cool embrace of a leaning tent’s pale shadow. Some cruel bastard had already lit a torch nearby, which left her barely enough light to hide in. Even the lowest-Level of guard or other attentive soul could spot her.
Oh, I do apologize, Sellie’s voice rasped in her mind, I believe the Champion is growing a touch impatient. I trust you will stand strong, Guppy.
Ketch was trying to ask for an explanation when one was provided for her.
She yelped as a sudden pressure landed on her pelvis. Covering a large swathe of skin, from hip bone to hip bone, but soft in an awfully familiar way, it sent her falling to her quivering knees. Ketch bit a knuckle to silence herself as that pressure slid downward, along her hips, which she discovered were instinctively bucking upward into the phantom sensation, trying to draw it lower–
Only for it to disappear.
Ah, how lovely, Sellie’s ancient voice purred. It works exactly as I hoped. I will leave you to your play, Guppy.
Ketch flailed in panic as Sellie’s presence fully retreated from her mind. She tried to drag her girlfriend back, but it wasn’t as if she had any real power over the witch. In a matter of moments, she was completely alone.
Gaining control of her trembling legs, Ketch clambered to her feet yet again. She didn’t know how far she was from her tent. She had only a vague idea of its location. But she did know how long it was until night fell: not nearly long enough.
Gods give me strength.
She couldn’t run anymore. No matter how much the adrenaline-fueled panic wanted her to sprint directly back to safety, it wasn’t going to work. She had to take things slowly. Calmly. Methodical.
Ketch stepped out of the shadows. There was no one to see her at the moment. She strained her senses as she began walking firmly forward, eyes and ears searching for any possible obstacle.
As she walked, it became clear that this was by far the best strategy. She could hear others with so much more time to spare, allowing her to slip down different paths or, if necessary, hide in the shadows once more.
But walking was so, so much worse. It shattered the protective illusion that she hated her treatment. She could feel her legs brushing together as she walked, dripping wetness smeared with every step. She could not understand her own body’s reaction. The idea of being caught terrified her. It was the last thing she could ever want.
So why did the thought make her belly clench with white-hot need?
It was not long until the teasing began again. It came first as an inexplicable whisper of hot breath on the back of her neck, as if someone’s lips were hovering mere millimeters away from her body. That sensation moved lower, down her bare back, rustling the hair that now covered her there. She could feel it roll and steam against her skin, sending shivers up and down her spine.
A phantom palm cupped her cheek. As she slipped past a busy, raucous cookfire, it tried to turn her head upward, fingers pressing into her cheeks.
Against her will, her lips split. An invisible intruder began to prod its way into her mouth, rubbing against her gums, feeling the texture of her tongue. It pulled and prodded, leaving Ketch dizzy with needy arousal that demanded she open her jaw wider to accept more, no matter how much she knew there was nothing there at all. She was breathing hard, panting, practically, as she traipsed through the army.
The phantom intruder retreated from her mouth for a moment. By then, Ketch felt certain that she knew who it was. So she wasn’t surprised when fingernails scraped across scale and skin, tickling her jaw, throat, and collarbone, before coming to circle her tiny breasts.
Oh, gods no, she whined.
She dove into a shadow just before a sharp pluck announced itself on one of her nipples, tugging it upward. The sound she let out was a half-groan, half-whimper. She instinctively tried to cover her chest for protection, but it didn’t matter. She could still feel the distant hands rubbing and prodding at her, feeling up her body from gods-knew-where.
Not fa-a-ar to go, Ketch tried to reassure herself, even as a sudden return to her thighs sent her stumbling over herself. The touch wasn’t even high, just a simple rubbing up and down the skin just above her knee, but she was already afire with arousal. There was no part of her body that wasn’t sensitive to the touch.
The final leg towards her tent was one she took in a fugue state. Her mind was warring against the implacable teasing of her body, trying to steer her forward, forward, avoiding the slowly-thinning crowds. The army’s nighttime curfew, which expected every soldier to be at their tent come nightfall, was a mixed blessing. With every sign of the camp’s activity thinning out, she became more and more aware that her time was running out.
And more eager for it.
By the time her mind told her that a particular, unremarkable tent was her own, she was a shivering, dripping mess. Her knees were pressed together, trying to hide from the slow rubbing of too many hands. Both breasts were being teased by different hands, one larger than the other, while something she couldn’t identify had been slipped between her legs. It was soft and rubbery, pressed tightly to her sex, and it would occasionally drag back and forth, never fast enough to provide real satisfaction, but far more than enough to have her clenching down on nothing.
Ketch all but fell through the front flap of a tent that she did not recognize. She didn’t even know if she’d kept hidden as she walked into the Powdered Lead’s camp; she could hear voices, close ones, but her muddled mind couldn’t make out words.
She didn’t care. The paraphernalia hanging from the tent’s walls more than marked it as her own. The work of Sellie was hung from every surface, animal skins and bottles and clumps of acid-eaten hair. What was clearly a long slice of Ketch’s own skin was hanging above a small, smoky lantern, being dried into something like jerky. Herbs of all varieties filled the air with scents she could never name, but told her of only one thing:
Selliana.
Home.
Ketch’s body folded into her bed roll face-first, her limbs abandoning the vast efforts they’d been exerting to avoid melting into uselessness. She fumbled with one hand, reaching desperately towards the joining of her legs in search of some kind of relief.
Only to bump into something solid and leathery.
“Mmhuh?”
Ketch looked down. Somehow, impossibly, she was wearing pants. Simple leather breaches. Scandalously short, covering less than a palm’s width of her upper thighs, but decidedly not naked.
Drunkenly, Ketch reached for her chest. What she found wasn’t quite bare, but it was… close. Rather than the tatters that she’d thought she’d lost from the stadt, her usual top was present, but shoved up to expose her tits to any who wished to look. It was almost worse, she reflected. If she'd been caught, they would have thought she was deliberately exposing herself to them.
“Y-you’re meeeeaaan,” Ketch groaned into her bed.
All the Champion’s idea, Guppy, Sellie chuckled. But I suppose I am at fault, too. Did you really expect me to leave you without our dagger? Of course not. Yet it is so much fun to see what I can and can’t pluck out of that beautiful little skull of yours.
Ketch giggled for only a moment, right before her fingers finally slipped beneath her sopping pants and sent lightning down her legs.
She collapsed even harder into the bed. Her neck was twisted at an awkward angle, shoulders slumped to the thin cotton, but her ass was sticking straight into the air, knees spread, all so she could better expose herself to her own touch.
When is she going to staaaart? Ketch whined. It’s nighttime, it has to be! Why’s she being so–
Her teeth latched onto her pillow as an animalistic groan tried to spill from her. Sara, and it could only be Sara, had spent so awfully long testing Ketch. Ghostly sensations twisting her nipples, tickling her ribs, caressing her ass and brushing against her clit, occasionally spreading her lower lips and slipping a finger inside, but none of it had been enough. She needed more. Sara knew what she needed.
Ketch’s jaw obediently flexed wide as her nerves burned with the sensation of Sara’s cock slipping between her lips. Her eyes rolled back into her head, her whines stutter-stopping, legs shaking like leaves in an autumn breeze. She made strange, ragged gasps as she tried to suck on something that wasn’t really there, trying to draw it into her mouth, down her throat.
Sara wasn’t listening. She didn’t know if the Champion was the slightest bit aware of what she was doing to Ketch. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. Sara would use her as she pleased, and it was Ketch’s divine fortune that she was lucky enough to be used.
The feeling of a cock bumped against the end of her throat. Ketch’s gag reflex had been banished long ago, but without anything actually blocking her reflexive moans, she could hear in all its glory the mewling delight that had replaced the sounds of choking. It filled her tent, bouncing from wall to wall, and she found herself praying to Sellie that her girlfriend had sound-proofed the walls, because she wouldn’t be able to control herself in the slightest.
“Nhghhhyesss…!” She whined, her words warped by her mind’s insistence that Sara’s thick, throbbing cock was lodged down her throat. She felt the spear of heat shoving further and further, thick enough that it was a struggle to keep her eyes open, so far was she opening her jaw.
“Wnwnah it,” she gasped senselessly, “wnanaaah tasthe it.”
Her tongue kept slapping at the cock that she knew so well, trying to caress it exactly how her Mistress had trained her to, but it was a useless effort. All she yielded was a growing puddle of drool on her bedroll, one that was rubbed up and down her face as her still-raised ass animalistically humped her fingers.
She was trying to cum. She was trying so hard. The fingers of one hand rubbed and circled at her clit as fast as they could, another pumping in and out. There was still that sensation of something pressed between her thighs, large and rubbery, but it wasn’t really there, wasn’t something she could grind against–
Like the rumble of distant thunder, it began to buzz.
Ketch collapsed, the last of her body’s strength stolen from her. There was no way for her to keep herself up, no way to do anything but lay on the floor and writhe, not when she was gasping around the cock straight down her throat, not when something between her legs was humming and buzzing and turning her entire body to quivering jelly.
“Mmmmiiiisssssaarraa…!”
It wasn’t anything like she’d felt before. Not her fingers, not the tongues of others, not even Noctie’s intoxicating venom hungrily dripping onto her clit, none of it was like what she felt then. Maybe some of it was as good, maybe some of it was better, but this was wholly new, beyond anything she’d ever imagined. The pounding vibration stole up every thought from her mind and drowned it in giddy delirium, until her moans and mewls and cries shifted from one to the other, back and forth, one to the other, her tongue and throat too lost in the thick of it all to do anything coherently, much less together.
And gods, her throat! The cock kept slipping in, deeper and deeper, so large that it should have hurt, that it should have been bulging her throat until it burned, but there was none of that: just the sensation of what could be, just the pleasure, just the tightness of her body squeezing down, welcoming Sara’s cock into its rightful place. She didn’t know if Sara could feel what she was doing, in fact she doubted it very much, but her body didn’t seem to care. It bobbed and swallowed and licked, lapping in slavish obedience to the instrument of her joy, trying to give that beautiful, wonderful cock even a fraction of what it was giving her.
The buzzing pressed tighter against her. She cried out, so far gone that she expected her scream to be muffled,l by cock, only to hear her spittle-garbled joy echoing in the tent around her, and still she didn’t care. The buzzing grew closer and closer, grinding against her clit, a thousand little pops of static that rippled up and down her hips, stomach, tits, and all the way down to her legs, to her curled toes and interlocked ankles.
The cock in her throat began to thrust faster. Her sudden inhale was one of absolute elation, because she knew what was coming. She began to pray, pray, pray to Sellie, begging her to give her at least this– that if she couldn’t taste the cock fucking her throat, she should at least be allowed this, the final reward.
Oh, Guppy, Sellie thought, her words awash with fondness. Do you doubt my love for you?
Sara’s cock stopped. Buried itself. Ketch could feel it stretching her throat wide, its tip at the very end of her throat.
It began to throb.
She tasted it.
She tasted it.
Sara’s cum began to pour down her, filling her, splashing into her, coating her throat in liquid ecstasy. Ketch’s body first began to tremble, then thrash, every limb tightening in on itself as she bucked up into the open air, grinding against that invisible vibration as hard as she could. Tongues fell on her breasts, both of them, licking and lapping and nipping, while her long hair was suddenly swept up from behind and tangled into a knot, shoving some distant version of her head to bury the cock further.
Ketch cried out. She didn’t know what she said. She only knew it was supposed to be a prayer of thanks. She felt strings spurting out of Sara’s cock, one after the other, each another blazing line of ecstasy. She held her bow-tight pose for one second, two, three, longer, and then suddenly collapsed, not because her climax was over, but because it had robbed her muscles of every drop of strength that was left.
Ketch lay there, shivering, swallowing, grinning, for gods-knew how long. Probably only a few minutes. When she was lost like that, it could have been hours. She didn’t really care. It was pleasure too great to be flawed. The world was perfect. She was perfect. They had perfected her.
Ketch’s eyes began to flutter. Sleep rushed up in a great wave, sweeping her consciousness away. She felt phantom nails, withered and ancient, begin to scrape at the bone of her skull, drawing little circles. The air around her faded, replaced with the warm waters of her home, her pillow becoming Sellie’s thighs.
And you say that you will do this to her whenever I ask? Selliana rasped.
O-oh, sure, Sara gasped back. It was. Uh. Plenty of fun. Appreciate it.
She will enjoy it. Thank you. And… Sellie’s voice took on a rare tone. One of contrition. Humility, even. I thank you for allowing me to see your Divinity. To have it channeled through her, by arts of my own hands, has… taught me much. More than I think that you would prefer.
Well, Sara mumbled, thoughts as tired as Ketch’s, I nutted pretty hard there. So, uh, worth it, I guess. Just… don’t be too fucked up with it, please?
Sellie hesitated. I will… I will draw up a binding contract. To ensure that your grace is not misplaced.
Sara’s thoughts rebounded with laughter. To hear the Champion of Passion laughing in her own mind was a wonderful, wonderful thing. A climax unto itself. Ketch’s face took on a dopey grin.
Don’t trust yourself that much, huh?
No. Before her, morals were a… forgotten thing. Lost to my isolation. And your soul is more alien than any other. Sellie’s thoughts firmed, her decision made. I will prepare a binding assurance. If only to ensure the opportunity to study things such as this once more.
Mm’kay, Sara said tiredly. Let me know when you get that done. Evie and Garen’ll go over it, I guess.
The foreign thoughts retreated from Ketch’s mind. Amidst the swirling haze of her absolution, she wondered why Sellie had let her hear it.
It didn’t matter. Not as she sank lower and lower, letting the world fade around her. Her body was still shivering, shaking, and every brush of cotton fibers against her body was another small delight. She only needed to–
“Ketch?” A loud, firm knock repeated itself on her tent pole. “It is Mui Thom. I know we have not spoken much, but I have something important to ask of you.”
Notes:
Well, that's a fun little adventure Ketch went on, wasn't it? I'm sure she'll do a great job keeping it together for the upcoming conversation.
Chapter 166: B3 Ch53: Thoughts Awash at Sea
Chapter Text
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Ketch
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Selliiiiieee? Ketch called in her mind, I need heeeeelp!
Through the teary-eyed blur of her climax’s aftershock, Ketch could see Mui’s shadow darkening her tent flap. He was still dressed in his armor from the day’s march, complete with spear and sword. By his outline, Ketch could see the way he was standing at military attention, hands clenched anxiously at his side.
What is the matter, my Guppy?
Came too haaard, she whined, can’t think. Can you clean my head up pleeeasse? Mui, that catfolk guy Sara likes, wants to talk and I don’t think I can lift my head.
But you are so charmingly dazed, Sellie pouted. We worked so hard to get you in so lovely a state.
We?
I and your body, I suppose, Sellie amended. Then her warm breath blew through Ketch’s ears, a sigh rushing from one end of her skull to the other. I suppose I can hide your pleasure for now.
“Ketch? Am I mistaken? I believe I saw you enter your tent, but…” Mui trailed off awkwardly.
Ketch waited a moment before responding. Sellie’s fingers combed their way through her skull, pinching off the smoldering fires of her arousal. One by one, piece by piece, Ketch’s euphoric aftershocks were snuffed out. Her trembling limbs stilled, her pounding heart slowed, and she finally managed to uncurl her fingers and toes.
Uh, Sellie? Ketch thought to her girlfriend. What about my…?
Hm, the witch intoned, a curious buzz vibrating Ketch’s spine. It seems I cannot force your soul to ignore such a Divine influence. I apologize, Guppy. But the fact that her seed affects even the soul of my Familiar is most curious…
Deep in Ketch’s belly, the burning heat of Sara’s cum still sloshed and rolled. Like liquid gold in her stomach, the Champion’s seed was a constant, unavoidable reminder of her simmering arousal. Ketch had entered her tent hungry; now she felt more than full. There was so much of it.
But if Sellie said she wasn’t able to hide the sensation from Ketch, that’s all there was to it. She would have to suffer through the effort to control herself. Sitting up from her bedroll, Ketch squared her shoulders and braced herself.
“One moment!” She called, just as Mui was turning to leave. “I just need to… make some room in here.”
“Oh!” Mui turned back. “Thank you, and of course, take your time. I do not wish to intrude upon your privacy.”
If this tent had been anything like her normal fare, Ketch wouldn’t have cared in the slightest if Mui walked straight in. Unfortunately, she was two minutes past a finger-gnawing, hip-pumping climax, and it was Selliana which had decorated the canvas interior. Ketch flipped her bedroll over, hiding the stains from drool and slick, then quickly lit several candles, hoping to burn away whatever scent she’d spread around the tent. She pulled on her pants and sorted out her top so it would cover her bare breasts, only to realize that her raging arousal had soaked through her pants on the sprint back to her tent. Cursing silently, she stuffed them in a small clothes chest and retrieved another pair, putting them on only after she used a rag to wipe away the liquid which remained. With a quick slash of her dagger, she trimmed what had become easily four feet of hair, stuffing the falling locks into a bag. Every hurried motion sent the gift in her stomach rolling, repeatedly coating her insides with something that was very, very difficult to ignore. Her body would be demanding more of it soon, she knew.
Why must something so pleasurable make such a mess? Ketch silently complained. Then, as she worked to hide the strands of her impossibly long hair, And what the hell was with the hair?
The same as her Divine Seed, Sellie purred. To have a Champion’s Blessings channeled through a doll of my own creation, a torrent of power pouring into my Familiar, is an exquisite opportunity. The perfection of spells which warp body and soul, driven by Divine Lust… Sellie sighed contentedly. You can hardly imagine them, my Guppy.
Knowing that her suffering was doing something to help Sellie out did something to settle some of her boiling emotions, but not much. After a few more hasty adjustments to the tent’s interior, she called for Mui to enter.
The catfolk man did so, setting his spear just outside the tent as he stooped to enter. His eyes squinted as he poked his head through the flap, and Ketch briefly wondered if she had lit enough candles for him to see by.
Then he sniffed the air, muzzle and whiskers twitching.
“...I see that Sara visited you recently,” he noted, carefully controlling his voice.
“Um,” Ketch squeaked. “No, actually. She hasn’t been over today. I think.”
“You think?” Mui entered the tent fully, moving forward until he could comfortably fold into a cross-legged sitting position. “She is a rather distinct woman. I doubt I’ve ever forgotten her visits with me. Especially those that leave the area smelling like this.”
Ketch’s blue skin darkened. She should have known that a few paltry candles would hide nothing from a catfolk.
“I meant that she might have been over here when I wasn’t,” Ketch explained. She wasn’t technically lying; for all she knew, Sara easily could have visited her body earlier in the day.
Mui gave her a strange look. “I see. I’d thought that most of Sara’s bedmates were more direct than I. It’s a relief to know that I’m not alone in wishing to maintain a sense of privacy about the Chosen’s role in my life.”
Ketch resisted the urge to giggle, placing a hand on her warm belly. She had enjoyed the sight of Mui and Sara in bed plenty of times, of course, as she had with many couples throughout the army, and thus felt absolutely certain the gentlemanly catfolk didn’t understand the true reason for her timidity. If Ketch’s time beneath Sara was more akin to Mui’s, she wouldn’t have been the slightest bit reserved about discussing it.
“Well,” she forcefully said, cheeks still aflame with embarrassment, “regardless. What did you want to ask? We haven’t, um, talked much.”
Though I’ve seen you far more than you’ll ever know, Ketch silently added. Many people thought Ketch was frequently dispatched by Sara on various missions. In reality, those were rare. She spent most of her time in shouting distance of the Champion or one of her wives, always unseen. Though Mui would never know it, Ketch had spent more time with the man than he had with anyone save Sara herself.
Mui folded his hands in his lap, shoulders rising as he filled his lungs. He looked Ketch straight in the eye.
“The Chosen believes that difficult questions are best asked directly, without obfuscation.”
Ketch winced. Uh-oh.
“Are you in love with Sara Brown?”
Ketch stared.
Mui stared back.
The sounds of the army’s goings on filtered in from beyond.
When Ketch realized that was really all he was going to ask, she shifted awkwardly.
“Um, no,” she said. “No, I’m not.”
Mui, mouth half-open to respond, left his jaw hanging for a moment.
“...no?” He asked quietly. “That is your response? Just a simple, unadorned ‘no’?”
“I have a girlfriend back home,” Ketch explained.
“Ah.” Mui licked his whiskers. “The nature of northerner’s relationships is still too strange for me to easily grasp, I suppose. I would have thought that, if you were involved with a partner– or in your case partners– as deeply as you are with Sara, you must love them.”
Ketch swallowed a giggle. “Oh, don’t worry,” she assured him, “my girlfriend and I aren’t in the most common kind of relationship. Northerners aren’t really like us. There’s only one Sellie in Tulian.”
“And one Sara in the Empire, I suppose.” Mui’s eyes wandered around the tent, avoiding eye contact. “Are you not going to question why I would ask so strange a question of you?”
“No. I think it’s obvious. You-”
No, he is not asking your permission for Sara’s hand in marriage, my Guppy.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing.” She put her hands in her lap, interlacing her fingers. It was best to keep herself still. Every time she moved in a way that disturbed Sara’s gift in her stomach, the craving grew. “Um, actually, yes. I want to know why you asked.”
Mui wiped his hands down his face, making a mess of his muzzle’s fur. “I do not know if I can speak of it, truthfully. I must choose my words carefully. Did you come by your skill… naturally?”
Ketch’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh! You haven’t gotten her Blessing yet?”
His lips curled in an unpleasant way, a fanged grimace. “If you refer to what I believe you do, then no. I have not. Yet you, who profess not to love her, have?”
“I have, yes. It started a long time ago. Without Sara, I’d be…” Ketch stopped herself from saying ‘wouldn’t be much.’ She was Sellie’s. She’d never been fated for a normal life. “...not nearly as Skilled as I am now. I definitely wouldn’t have reached my Seventeenth Advancement.”
Mui’s jaws shut with an audible click. “That is… Ketch. We do not know one another. You did not have to share this information. You do not need to debase yourself at my behest.”
This time, Ketch couldn’t stop the giggle.
“I think that I stopped caring about those kinds of things a long time ago. Maybe even before I met Sara. You don’t have to worry about offending me, Mui.” Her eyes swept down the catfolk’s nervous body. “Did you have a point in asking me this? Surely Sara would have been the better person to ask about her Blessings?”
Mui’s grimace deepened. “I cannot ask her. It would… complicate things. I want to come to an answer alone. She calls herself the Champion of Passion, no? I am still unfamiliar with the way northerners view the gods, but the title certainly strikes me as one belonging to one would distribute Blessings based upon emotions as Passionate as love. Yet you say that you do not love her, yes?”
“I love what she does to me,” Ketch said with a faint smile. Her head still swam with endorphins. She’d likely regret saying that later. “But love her? No. And even if I ended up in love, I definitely didn’t fall in love in a week. That’s how long it took before I started to notice her Blessings changing my Advancements.”
No matter what explanations or truth Ketch offered, Mui’s expression had failed to change for the better. His sense of discontent remained.
“A week? Only? And I have been with her for months…”
“And?” Ketch asked. “She’s a Champion. You’ve heard the legends just like me. Maybe different ones, but everyone knows they’re strange. You can’t predict what happens around her.” Ketch laughed. It made the gold in her stomach jiggle, and she had to suppress a gasp. “Really,” she reiterated, slightly breathless, “I never know what to expect next. Not at all. I can’t imagine you know, either.”
“I suppose,” Mui allowed.
“So do you want her Blessing?” Ketch asked. “Is that what your concern is? That you could be like Evie, Hurlish and me, but you aren’t?”
Ketch could see Mui’s throat bob as he swallowed. He remained silent for a long time. Then, without a response, he pushed himself to his feet.
“Thank you for your honesty, Ketch. And I apologize for the intrusion. May you have a pleasant evening.”
She blinked at his back as the Imperial soldier ducked through the tent flap, grabbing his spear in a smooth motion.
“You… too?” Ketch watched him go.
Don’t trouble yourself over it, Guppy, Sellie whispered. You did well. He had questions. Questions that you answered. Those caught in the tangle of a Champion’s life tread a difficult path. You could have offered little more.
“But I’m caught in Sara’s life,” Ketch mumbled, leaning back into her bedroll. The heat in her belly was growing. Glowing.
You grace her web, true. But it is not her fate which has ensnared you. The warm waters of Ketch’s home began to ripple up her body, coddling her in a familiar embrace. Your fate is mine to choose. Worry not, little Guppy. I will take care of you.
Ketch sighed through her smile, letting her eyes flutter closed.
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Tinvel
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Enveloped in the cool mist of a cloudbank, a murmured spell lit Tinvel’s fingers, which he held over the Sunrise’s instrument panel. The wind drove water into his exposed face, stinging pops of hundred-mile-an-hour droplets dotting his skin. He ignored them as best he could, focusing on the tools which could help him navigate his way through the impenetrable fog.
The Sunrise, with every further iteration of its design, had gained newer and more advanced instrumentation. When he’d first built it, the only indicators on his dash had been a water-filled sphere which vaguely told him his plane’s orientation and a compass embedded into the wood. Since then, he’d added so much more. A barometer allowed him to see the air pressure at a glance, warning him when he was approaching a hypoxic altitude, alongside a simple spinning needle which represented his current airspeed– though it lacked units of speed, he knew by heart when he was accelerating towards the range of self-destruction. A bright crystal in the center of the dash was bound to the central geode, dimming with the overall engine’s charge, giving him a vague warning of how much energy the Sunrise had left. The attitude indicator had been improved, water replaced with a far-less frictional mechanical fluid, a prototype form of hydraulic fluid, allowing much more accurate readings on the plane’s current angle. The compass was similarly improved, special enchanted metals insulating it from being influenced by the plane’s metallic parts.
Even if he hadn’t had all his fancy new gadgets, Tinvel would have been confident he could fly through the blinding clouds without issue. The point of this journey wasn’t to practice for himself; it was to help the two other pilots flying nearby.
Several days prior, the third generation of Tulian Aircraft had been completed. Voth’s holy grail of mechanical capability had finally been met: artificers were no longer strictly required to operate the artificery engines. Through several clever workarounds, courtesy of cooperation between Tinvel and the Artificer’s Union, even the least magically talented could now adjust a plane’s engines.
Barely.
Tinvel wasn’t happy with the solution they’d come up with. It was inelegant, inconsistent, and he was convinced it was going to be prone to disastrous failure. Voth had been insistent, however, so he’d put the changes together.
In the clouds, Tinvel heard the buzzing hum of two other engines. As best as he could tell by sound alone, they were flying straight and level, maintaining a constant speed. This was their instrument-only training flight, and he’d only know how well they’d maintained position once all three aeroplanes burst from the cloudbank.
The mechanism which a non-artificer could use to control their plane’s engine was a clunky one. Since the emeralds which powered the propeller were proximity-activated, pulsing every time the stepped crankshaft came within a certain distance, Tinvel had added the simplest mechanism he could think of: mounting the crystals in a metal slide, attached to cables which the pilot could push and pull on. If you pushed the crystals forward, they would eventually reach the point where they’d be activated on every sweep of the propeller, and if you pulled them far enough back, they’d remain inactive. The more crystals you had operating, the faster you’d go.
It was a bad solution. Every adjustment of the crystals came with a rattling clunka-clunk-clunk as the propeller was battered by off-beat energy pulses, requiring several seconds of disconcerting clanging to reach its new operating speed. They hadn’t flown the new engines long enough to see how much worse the wear and tear would be, but Tinvel suspected it’d be atrocious. Just the sound of every throttle adjustment had him cringing, expecting the engines to rip themselves to shreds. It was pretty inarguable, even to Voth, that artificers were still the best choice for pilots. They just didn’t have the luxury of manning an entire branch of the military with those who possessed Talavan’s Gift.
“You hear that?” Chona asked.
“Yeah,” Tinvel said. “That’s the third time they’ve made that hard adjustment. Either something’s wrong with their engine, or we’re gonna have to keep them the hell out of the flight program.”
Tinvel and Chona were flying in the center of a hidden formation, two rookie pilots hidden in the mist off their left and right flanks. Both pilots had more experienced pilots in their backseat, giving them instructions, but the ultimate control of the plane was in the hands of a complete rookie. Tinvel desperately wished he had those ‘flight simulators’ Professor Brown had talked so much about, but something so absurdly advanced was likely decades away. For better or worse, getting in the cockpit was the only way to learn.
Tinvel wiped his flight goggles for the thousandth time, squinting ahead. It seemed like light was beginning to pierce through the dense cloud. It was nearly noon, but deep in the belly of Tulian’s low cloudcover, you could have thought night had just fallen. Only the barest light made it through. Stiff winds and the heavy patter of suspended water droplets battered the Halfeye. If they’d had the fuel-guzzling, air-breathing engines of Professor Brown’s world, this would have been an impossible flight.
“You look left, I’ll look right,” Tinvel told Chona. “I don’t want to pop out of the cloud and end up with a plane heading right for us.”
“Got it,” Chona said.
A few seconds later, with all the suddenness of a curtain torn from a window, the clouds gave way to a blinding light.
“Clear left!”
“Clear right!” Tinvel replied. Then he amended, “Kinda!”
Bursting from the cloudfront, Tinvel could see that the Halfeye off their right side was more than far enough away for safety’s sake, some thousand yards between them, but that wasn’t the full story. The rookie pilot, a young soldier whose fine eyesight and unquestioned bravery hadn’t helped him be any less of a terrible shot, burst out of the cloud with his wings at what looked like a 70º angle.
“Fucking hell,” Chona muttered as the pilot hastily rolled hard right, correcting himself to level flight. He’d lost hundreds of feet of altitude as their trio passed through the fog. If he’d been night-flying, like this was supposed to be training him for, that could have slammed him straight into the terrain. “How did he not feel that?”
“Screw that,” Tinvel said back, “how’d he not notice his flight instruments telling him how off his orientation was? Was he not paying attention? That’s the whole point of this flight.”
“I’m sure Affe’s already chewing him out.”
“At least he’s good at telling people how bad they are,” Tinvel grumbled. “Not afraid to hold back on that at all.”
Chona’s only response was a snort of mild amusement. The fact that he could hear such a small sound was remarkable on its own, however. The sixth edition of the intraplane communication system was doing wonders. The rubber hose from before, enchanted to be filled with dead air, had been thinned considerably, and it no longer required attaching to a mask over the face. Professor Brown had told Tinvel about bone-contact headphones from his old world, and with a bit of fiddling, they’d been replicated– a metal pad attached to the skin over the jawbone was enough to transmit the slightest of sounds. Only once suitably enchanted for vibrational amplification, of course.
Not by Tinvel, however. That was an incredible source of frustration for him. The longer he’d been involved with various works, the more and more Tinvel had been forced to delegate his efforts to others. Not just other University students, but also the Artificer Union, which was still largely composed of teenaged Carrion immigrants. Tinvel knew they did good work, of course, and if the Governess said they could be trusted, he’d trust them. He just hated having to give up control over the things he’d worked so hard for. The current edition of the intraplane communicator was finally good enough to be produced en masse, one given to every pilot in the Tulian Air Force, and even if he’d provided the sketches, it hadn’t been his hand that put the final touches on the design. He just had too much to do.
Don’t be a gloryhound, Professor Garen’s voice echoed in his ears. Through gifts of others and your own remarkable talent, you’ve achieved more than any artificer your age could dare to dream of.
Tinvel didn’t know how to explain to his Professor that that wasn’t the problem. He cared about getting credit, sure, but his frustration stemmed from a more childish well than even that.
He liked working on artificing projects.
Between his duties to the Air Force, his ongoing University lessons, and yes, spending time with Chona, he was busier than he’d been in his entire life. Every time he had an exciting idea for something he’d love to pursue, his only chance to interact with the idea came in the form of a hasty sketch and a letter written to someone else who could do the work for him. The chance to delve deep into the world opened to him by Talavan’s Gift, to tease and tweak the secrets of the universe from stone, steel, and gem, came less often every day.
But I still get to fly, he reminded himself. That’s what matters most.
“Do you see the harbor?” He asked Chona. Old habits almost had him yelling to be heard over the breeze, but that wasn’t necessary anymore. They could hear one another’s voice as if they were sitting across from another in a stuffy basement.
“Not yet, but we should be close,” Chona replied. “I recognize the area. Maybe about ten minutes until we have it in sight.”
Tinvel checked his cockpit panel, looking at the speedometer– by far the most important of the new instruments the Sunrise had been equipped with. This was the tool’s maiden flight, and he’d been taking careful notes of its readouts through the trip. With Professor Brown having finally declared an official definition for a “meter” (equal to the radius of a standard light crystal’s circle of illumination), a whole new world of mapmaking had been opened up to the Tulian Air Force. After so much time spent suffering the delays caused by horribly inaccurate maps, Tinvel and Chona were determined to get something more reliable in the works. All they needed now was to determine that their speedometer worked.
“How do you rate their flying?” Tinvel asked. He’d been paying more attention to the control of his own aircraft than the performance of the new students. “There’s barely any turbulence today, so they should be fine.”
“Pretty straight and level, from what I’ve seen,” Chona said. “Like you said, there’s not much to fuck up right now. Unless they decide to get bored and shake the hell out of the control stick, they’ve got no excuses.”
“And they haven’t gotten bored?”
“Not bored enough to crash their planes, at least.”
“I’ll take that.”
Everyone in the air force was worried about putting new pilots in the cockpit, and Tinvel was maybe the most nervous of them all. What he would have given for one of Professor Brown’s ‘flight simulators’. As it was, the only way for a pilot to learn was to spend a bit of time pretending to wiggle the controls around on the ground, then to take to the skies. Even a secondary control stick, accessible from the rear seat, wasn’t foolproof. The first day that the new students had gone up, he’d made his first trip in years to the temple of Talavan, burning as much incense as he could afford at the Artificer’s Altar. He’d been there for so long that a line of huffy, irritated wannabe-mages had formed behind him, but he hadn’t paid them any mind. If they’d really had Talavan’s Gift, they wouldn’t have been bothering to pray for it to show itself.
So far, whether it was luck or divine blessing, they hadn’t had any lethal crashes. More than a few broken landing gears on landing, a couple tail-strikes on takeoff, and one rather dramatic cartwheel of a seaplane hitting a wave at a bad angle, but no deaths. Just injuries.
So far, he thought darkly. Voth had mostly delegated the training of the new pilots to Affe, which Tinvel was grateful for. He didn’t know if he could stomach having one of his students die on his watch. The way Professor Brown talked of his world’s history, it was only a matter of time.
“There it is,” Chona announced. “About 11-o’clock. I can see the ship waiting for us, too, and it looks like they’re already working on the grounds. Want me to signal to the others?”
“Yeah, go for it.”
Raising her hand and taking a breath, Chona’s fingers snapped, summoning a dazzling splash of light above the Sunrise. She focused on turning it into a flickering rhythm of light, on-off-on. It was the code they’d developed for communicating between aeroplanes that were too far apart for hand signals. Professor Brown was working on ‘flare guns’ of some kind, but they weren’t ready yet.
Though it wasn’t something any of them were familiar with, the other planes got the message well enough. They closed in on the Sunrise, tilting their wings inward until Tinvel could make eye contact with the other pilots.
The one off his right, the former Tulian Army soldier, had a clearly chagrined expression. He tried to lift a hand to signal something to Tinvel, but an angry shout from Affe had him jerking forward, putting both hands on the controls.
The pilot to Tinvel’s left, meanwhile, didn’t make the same mistake. He kept glancing the Sunrise’s way, but only briefly, to ensure he was maintaining separation. His backseater was Elusi, Tulian University’s only other mage who’d decided to focus entirely on artificery. Unlike Tinvel, however, she wasn’t a member of the Air Force. Tinvel didn’t know how the technicalities of it worked out in a legal sense, which had apparently been a bit of a headache to figure out, but she’d turned into something of a ‘civilian contractor’ for the Air Force. Whatever that meant.
“Lefty there seems like he’s doing a better job of it,” Tinvel noted. “He’s got a lot better control of his plane.”
“Sure, but he’s stiff as hell,” Chona said. “I haven’t seen him do anything other than fly straight and level this whole time, even when he had more than enough room to do a bit of playing around. I can’t tell if he’s scared of breaking some rule that doesn’t exist, or if he’s just scared of flying.”
“Huh. I didn’t notice that, but I’ll take your word for it. I guess Elusi’ll tell us what she thinks.”
“Hopefully she’ll actually be able to criticize someone for once.” Chona huffed, crossing her arms. She didn’t have a high opinion of Elusi; the girl was a pushover, easy to bully into doing what anyone else said. She was a decent enough pilot when she was flying on her own, but Tinvel and Voth had quickly learned that she should only be paired with a backseater who wasn’t going to try and boss her around. She caved too easily.
As they neared the secluded harbor, Tinvel began to pick out details. He could see the twin-masted ship resting in the shallow bay, its bronze ram shoved straight up onto the beach. It was one of the captured Sporaton ships from the first war, and it was one of the few that had escaped a full conversion to a cannon-armed warship. Tinvel didn’t know exactly why the Navy hadn’t bothered, but Voth had been grateful, because its sturdy prow allowed it to easily beach itself on any sandy shore. It was perfect for offloading supplies in secluded areas without port facilities.
“Now here’s the golden question,” Chona said, “how do you think the rookies are going to handle water-landing in that tiny little bay?”
Tinvel winced. “I guess we’re going to find out. I mean, they’ve both technically landed in smaller stretches of open ocean before, but…”
“But they didn’t have a shore to smash against out there.”
“Yeah.” After a moment, Tinvel glanced back at Chona. “Signal them to let me land first, would you? If I think it’s too hard for them, we’ll have them land outside the bay and have them motor in on minimal power.”
“Got it.”
As Chona began making the necessary signs to the other crews, Tinvel studied the bay. He’d only seen it once before, on a scouting mission, and the arrival of the Tulian Navy had changed it considerably.
Rows of tents were laid out on the sandy shore, halfway between a sparse treeline and the high-tide mark. Piles of logs, waiting to be worked into more permanent structures, had been placed in the shape of a vague barricade around the perimeter, though it was clearly a haphazard affair. No one expected the isolated bay to be attacked by land, save perhaps for some particularly adventurous jungle beast, and this far north, the worst they could reasonably expect was a tiger or its like– easy enough for musket-armed troops to scare off.
Tinvel wasn’t concerned about the defenses, really. The bay had been picked for two reasons: its geographic location, being about halfway between the Tulian capital and the southernmost settled regions of Sporatos, and its shape. The bay, while somewhat large on the inside, was sheltered by a large sea-facing rock wall. The lone gap through which a ship might enter was thin enough that only a single ship could make it at a time, and only if it was a trim, shallow-draft vessel which pulled in all its oars. To the left and right of that gap, the rocks did an excellent job of hiding the interior from passing ships. A Sporaton vessel would have to sail exceptionally close to the shoreline to see anything meaningful through the tiny gap, and the breaking whitewaters which surrounded the area hinted to the dangerous reefs. Tinvel could only imagine how long it had taken the Tulian Navy ship to cautiously navigate the treacherous terrain.
For a Navy or Army, it was a useless geographical oddity. For the Tulian Air Force, it was the perfect seaplane base.
In the end, Tinvel’s concern for the student pilot’s landings were unfounded. The well-sheltered bay had glassy water, making his own approach a breeze. The two pilots followed shortly after, making graceful touchdowns that sent up long sprays of water, much to the approval of the watching sailors, who hooted and hollered their appreciation. Though muskets and cannon were undoubtedly the greatest source of pride the Tulian citizenry had, aeroplanes were rapidly becoming a close second. Many common soldiers and citizens revered pilots like Old Tulian had its royal Knights. The riders of impossibly powerful steeds, living symbols of a victory that was sure to come.
Not like I need any more pressure, Tinvel thought darkly.
Once he was satisfied with their landings, he joined the other aeroplanes in puttering towards the shore on their engine’s lowest power setting. The sailors greeted them at the shore. Despite the sweat dripping from their clothes after the labor required to set up a base for the aeroplanes, labor that the pilots hadn’t lifted a finger to help with, they leapt to their tasks with a grin and a cheer. Adeptly tying ropes around the Halfeye’s pontoons, they hauled the planes ashore with rhythmic chants of “heave! ho!” in a matter of minutes.
Even after the plane was placed in its spot, Tinvel spent a few minutes in the cockpit burying his nose in the flight’s notes. He was trying to do the math on the speedometer’s accuracy, comparing its reported airspeeds to the already-known distance between Tulian and the secluded harbor, but things weren’t adding up right. Either he was doing the math wrong, or his estimations of the trip’s windspeed was way off, or the speedometer was giving bad readings. He didn’t know how to tell which to blame.
When he finally folded his notebook up and hopped down from the plane, he was surprised to find himself standing face-to-face with a grinning sailor. The woman was at least twice Tinvel’s age and a couple inches taller than him, but the moment he locked eyes with her, she gave a sharp salute, a huge grin on her face.
“Welcome to Osprey Harbor, sir!” She announced proudly, holding the salute. “Glad to see you and your fellows here at last. We’ve been working hard to get things ready for you.”
Surprised by the deference he was being shown by a woman who was, by the callouses on her hands and her deeply sunworn face, a veteran sailor, Tinvel took longer than he should have to realize what he was supposed to do in return. In fact, he almost said at ease, like he’d heard from Voth so many times, but stopped himself just short. That was only for groups of soldiers. In this case, she was holding the salute because Tulian military protocol required every senior officer to return the gesture to their subordinates.
He squared his feet and slapped his right fist over his heart, suddenly very glad that he’d practiced the gesture in the mirror so often.
“Glad to be here,” he said, letting his hand fall. “I appreciate your help getting the Halfeyes up on the shore. I wasn’t looking forward to trying to get those pontoons up through the wet sand on engine power alone.”
“Ah, not a problem, sir,” the woman said, waving a dismissive hand, “our anchor capstan’s twice as hard to haul as those lovely little floats you’ve got there.” She eyed the aeroplanes with obvious relish, a twinkle in her eye. “Say there, sir. Ah, Tinvel, right?”
“I am,” he said, mildly surprised that his reputation had, quite literally, preceded him. “And you are?”
“First Officer Heru of the TRS Ours Now,” she said, announcing her title formally. Tinvel desperately wished he’d learned Naval ranks. He had no idea how important a First Officer was. Probably very, right?
“Good to meet you, First Officer Heru,” he said. “And as I said, you and your crew’s-” do I refer to them as her crew? “-help was much appreciated. If you’ve got a question to ask, feel free.”
A blind man could have seen the flash of excitement make its way over the woman’s face.
“I can’t say how much I appreciate that, sir. I’ll try and keep it quick.” She cleared her throat. “Your Tinvel Engines-”
“Artifice Engines,” he automatically corrected.
She made a face, but nodded, continuing. “Your Artifice Engines, then. The speed that they propel your aeroplanes over the water, even before they take to the sky, is remarkable. The officers of the Ours Now and I were talking, and we wanted to ask you about them.”
Tinvel instantly went on his guard. Half a year ago, he’d have been utterly confident that the Tulian Military was perfectly free of spies. But the Governess had been gone a long time now, and he didn’t know this Officer Heru. He listened with a suspicious ear.
“I don’t know how difficult they are to make, sir, or how many of them you have, but we’re very interested in them. If an Artifice Engine could be mounted to a boat, for example?” She smiled, eyes searching the distance. “Well, we can think of a lot of uses for a 50-knot rowboat, sir. I know your aeroplanes are like magecraft, lightened to allow them to soar as they do, but even if our boats achieve a fraction of the speed, the possibilities very nearly outstrip my imagination.”
As the woman spoke, Tinvel felt his anxiety building. Not, surprisingly, because he thought she was some Sporaton informant, but because she clearly wasn’t. Tinvel knew about certain things that Professor Brown was doing with the Tulian Navy, and though he didn’t know much, he clearly knew more than Heru.
Say too little, and I might offend her when she discovers the truth. Say too much, and I’ve spilled a secret that’s not mine to share.
He spent too long in silence contemplating his thoughts. She was staring at him, confused.
“I think you’re right that there’s a lot of potential,” he said. “Right now, though, we’re struggling to get enough pilots and planes as it is. Hopefully there’ll be enough to try out your ideas sometime soon.”
She let out a half-disappointed laugh. “Ah, I figured you’d say that, sir. Can’t blame a lady for trying though, can you?”
He tried to smile back at her. “Don’t think I can. Still feels bad to say, though, when you’re working so hard to get us set up here.”
“Bah,” she said, turning her head like she wanted to spit to the side. “Don’t worry about that. This is no different than most any cargo run. Our ship’s got more than enough hands to go around. Less to do on shore than there is on the ship! Have to work hard to keep too many folk from malingering, else they’d all be laying around before long.” She clasped a hand over Tinvel’s shoulder, giving him a friendly shake that made it all the way down to his toes. “You keep up the good work up top, yeah? Let us know when the Spricks are comin’, so we can blow ‘em out of the water.”
Doing his best to match her energy, Tinvel grinned. “Only if we don’t burn them to the waterline first.”
“Ha! That’s the spirit! Glad to meetcha, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
First Officer Heru spun about and cupped her hands over her mouth, bellowing at the crews which had helped haul the Halfeyes up onto the beach. Just as she’d predicted, the sailors had congealed into chatty clumps, jabbering about the planes instead of returning to their work. Her booming voice sent them scurrying.
Relieved to be free of a conversation so far out of his depth, Tinvel turned back to the Sunrise.
“Gah!”
He leapt back from Chona’s face, which was hovering a few inches away from his nose. She was leaning head, torso, and waist out of the Sunrise’s back seat, tail clutching a roof spar to keep her from spilling out onto the sand.
She laughed at him, pulling back. “Looks like you got a fan, Tin.”
“Got someone who wants some aeroplane engines, more like,” he said, flushing. He moved to begin inspecting the pontoons for damage. “She’ll have to get in line. Even if we had every artificer in Tulian working on engines, it’ll be a long time before there’s enough that we’re putting them on ship’s boats.”
“Sure,” Chona said, slipping gracefully from the plane, using her hand-like feet to swing her rightside-up just before she hit the sand. “But why didn’t you tell her about the other stuff?”
“Wasn’t sure if I could,” Tinvel answered honestly. “I mean, it’s not like it’s public knowledge. Last I heard, the first prototypes haven’t hit the water.”
“She’s a First Officer, though,” Chona argued. She walked around the Sunrise, inspecting the other pontoon. “Surely she’s important enough to know.”
Across the plane’s belly, Tinvel eyed Chona. “Yeah, she’s a First Officer. I sure as the hells don’t know what that means. Do you know what rank she is in the Tulian Navy?”
Chona smiled. “Nope!”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, there you go.” He shuddered theatrically. “Gods, I hate dealing with other military people.”
“You picked a bad line of work for that, Tin.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. Finding the pontoons themselves free of damage, he moved to inspecting the spars which connected them to the plane’s fuselage. “Maybe if I actually knew what rank meant what between the branches, that might help. I know the Governess and Professor Brown had all their arguments for separate military branches, but it sure makes stuff like this a headache.”
“Don’t think there’s a book for you to read on it, sad to say,” Chona teased. “Y’know, seeing as we’re all making it up as we go along.”
Tinvel snorted, taking a breath for his retort. Then he noticed a small scuff in the pontoon spar. He took out a piece of chalk and marked it for later inspection before responding.
“Maybe you and I are making it up as we go along,” he said, “but she sure seemed to know what she was doing. People like her, Voth, the Governess, they’ve got it together. I didn’t have a damn clue.”
“I’d bet you twenty copper they’re just as lost as you,” Chona said. She moved toward the front of the plane, running a thumb over the propeller. “They’re just better at faking it than you.”
“Better?” He challenged. “I think I handled that pretty well.”
Chona looked away from her inspection just long enough to roll her eyes at Tinvel. “Oh, yeah, sure. When you stared at her for twenty seconds in dead silence? Smooth as butter.”
“It was not twenty seconds.”
“Sure felt like it. Maybe if you’d actually asked to borrow Professor Brown’s watch like I said you should, we could know.”
Tinvel scoffed, moving toward the front of the plane as well, to check the underside of the engine cowling. “There’s no way he’d give us that thing. Sure, we’ve already got the sketches of it sent off to jewelers, but it’s still the only working one in the world. It’d just be a waste of breath.”
“You don’t think Professor Brown would be fine with his watch getting used to test new equipment?” Chona turned her back as she cranked the propeller around, inspecting the next wooden blade. Her tail stretched out, landing in a light curl on Tinvel’s hip. “Maybe if you actually bothered to grab a pair and argue with him for once, he’d help us out more.”
“Yeah, right. As if he’s not already the busiest guy in Tulian. He’s got more things to worry about than a speedometer test.”
“You know he loves airplanes,” Chona said. Her tail slid further around him, tightening. “Sure, he might have more important stuff or whatever, but we’re working on his favorite project. Honestly, I think you could be abusing that more.”
“Like you can’t?” Tinvel countered. “I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve actually argued with the Professors, Chona. Don’t pretend like you’re any better.”
“I’m way better than you.” Her tail suddenly dragged Tinvel in, spinning him around so he was facing the propeller. She pointed. “Hey, look at this. Is that a stress fracture? We still haven’t replaced the blades once on this thing. Surely they’re reaching end-of-life.”
Tinvel scooted up next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder, inspecting the tiny mark she was pointing at. It might have been a fracture, but it could just as easily be a small cosmetic nick, or the sheen peeling away…
“And this procedure, rookie, is the most important of all!” Affe’s voice sounded. Tinvel glanced over. The mage was guiding the new pilot, Wenson, with an arm around his shoulders. With a spread palm, Affe gestured broadly at Chona and Tinvel. “When you see a sight like this, the steps are simple! You loudly announce your presence, point at Tinvel and Chona like so, bend at the waist, and make the following noise!”
What next spewed from the mage-pilot’s mouth was a revoltingly accurate imitation of violent vomiting, complete with disgusted gags, spitting, and groans of agony. Bent double, the mage popped his stomach hard several times, coughing, looked up once more, and then launched into another bout of fake puking.
Wenson, alongside a number of eavesdropping sailors, laughed loudly. Still bent double, Affe stopped his charade for a brief moment to speak in a bright, clear voice.
“Of course, after this, the second and most important part of this procedure is even simpler. Duck.”
“Wha-”
A gust of spell-torn air buffeted the beach, throwing sand in every direction. Affe curled into a ball in the sand, cackling loudly even as he covered his eyes with both hands. While Affe only slid back a few feet on the sand, the blast of air took the rookie pilot straight in the gut, cartwheeling him up and to the side, dropping him several feet away on his side. He let out a pitiful, whiny groan.
Chona’s hand lowered, every strand of hair standing on end. Her lips were peeled back in a furious grimace, showing off her bestial incisors. Visibly exerting herself, Chona managed to get her expression under control.
“And Wenson,” she snapped, turning back to the Sunrise, “the second part of that procedure is a hell of a lot more important than the first. So if you’re gonna follow it, make sure you remember that, would you?”
The laughter of the sailors, scattered at first, became an uproar. Even Heru got in on it, laughing even as she jogged over to check on the sprawled-out aviator. By the look of him, Tinvel guessed he’d suffered nothing worse than a bruise and getting the wind knocked out of him.
Chona’s tail tightened even further around Tinvel’s waist, cinching in like a belt. With a voice that was trying to hide her laughter behind a veneer of irritation, she whispered to Tinvel,
“Come on, let’s get this shit over with. I’m done with planes for today.”
Chapter 167: B3 Ch54: Another Rung on the Ladder (S)
Chapter Text
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Tinvel
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Still laying on his belly, Tinvel shuffled through the soft sand in order to collect his journals. They were a varied bunch, with the oldest of them being made of thick, yellow parchment, the standard of Old Tulian, while the newest were shiningly white pieces of thin-pressed pulp. He grabbed the few he thought most relevant, then uncomfortably wiggled back to Chona.
She’d retreated into her tent under the Sunrise’s left wing by the time he’d gathered his supplies. She held the tent flap open for him with her tail as he squirmed to join her.
“So,” he began, flipping open to the early pages, “I think the first question we should ask is how possible it is for microscopic electrical pulses to exist. If you look here, under examples, all of Professor Brown’s electrical demonstrations involved currents powerful enough to be visible to the naked eye. Even the ‘static charge’ of rubbing wool against wool is visible if you look close enough.”
“It is?” Chona looked at her fingers. “I’ve got fur, Tinvel. I’ve been metal-stung way more times than you have, and I never noticed a light or anything.”
He shrugged. “I haven’t ever noticed anything either, but that’s what the Professor said.” He cocked his head. “Hey, since we now know lightning is the same phenomenon as stinging metal, have you tried using your Magesight to investigate smaller electric charges? What about those ‘batteries’ some of the mundane students at the University are working on? Do you think those would be a useful spell reagent?”
“Focus, Tin,” she admonished, tapping the page. “Microscopic shocks. Can they exist? If they can, are they able to set off emcotton rounds by interaction with its aura alone? We might have stumbled on something big here. I really doubt the Artificer’s Union is going to want enchanted guns going off anytime someone rubs their hands on their pants.”
“Right, right, sorry.”
Together, they delved into their respective notes. The depth of their references relative to the other was predictable. Chona had pages and pages of long, verbose descriptions, jotting out her thoughts in complete, elegant sentences. While her handwriting was atrocious, she didn’t seem capable of summarizing a single shred of her thoughts. Tinvel had noticed pretty much every full-blooded Mage took notes like that.
In comparison, Tinvel’s notes were more comprehensive, better structured, and less helpful to an uninformed reader by far. Bullet points ran up and down the pages, paragraphs were pushed to the side in little boxes, and colored lines connected thoughts which sprawled outward as the remaining room on a page was eaten away by palm-smeared sketches. There was far more raw information available, but only if it was being read by someone who thought and wrote exactly like Tinvel did. Anyone else would have been completely lost.
The night darkened as they traded sources back and forth. As the sounds of work faded outside, the many sailors dropping into tents and bedrolls, their voices dipped lower and lower, their heads coming closer and closer as they whispered ideas back and forth. A single light crystal balanced on a wing spar was all they had to read by, a three-foot circle that their hushed gestures cast bouncing shadows across.
When Tinvel began to blink back the crust in his eyes, the late hour finally struck him. Chona was speaking of her experience analyzing the magical energies of griffon feathers– they’d lost their original topic hours ago– but was frequently interrupting herself with a yawn. She was leaning hard against Tinvel’s shoulder, warm fur soft on his skin.
When did I stop freaking out at us being up close like this?
It had happened sometime in the last few weeks, but he couldn’t remember any specific moment. It had just happened. They’d slipped back into their comfortable old routine, bumping and brushing shoulders with all the friendliness of months before. Moreso, even.
So why can’t I stop being so nervous about getting even closer?
Tinvel watched Chona talk. Her fingernail was tracing lines on the sketch she’d made of the griffon feather, happily whispering about the arguments for or against the creature’s magic being soul-innate or a product of its body. Her tired smile was intimately familiar, a slight curl to her lips crinkling her brown eyes. While it was true that vanara faces weren’t as flexible as a human’s, Tinvel had abandoned the common claim that vanara were less expressive. After watching her so closely for so many hours, he’d learned Chona could show her every emotion with eyes and eyebrows alone. Considering her tail, which was more often used to emphatically flail alongside her many rants than for any kind of physical work, he could read her emotions better than he could any human. Most of the time.
…they had kissed eight times.
Tinvel knew the exact count. How could he not? Each one had sent his heart racing so fast it hurt, his body tingling from fingertip to toe with nervous energy. He hadn’t gotten used to it. He didn’t think Chona had, either. It had been weeks since their first kiss, but none of their repeats had managed to feel normal. It was always a delicate, hesitant thing, both of them glancing at each other’s eyes, down at their lips, then away again, slowly moving closer and closer, breathing a little bit harder with every closed inch, until suddenly one of them– almost always Chona, if he was honest with himself– would dart forward, pressing their lips together. It never lasted longer than a second or two.
Eight kisses had been enough for Tinvel to learn that he would really, really like a kiss to last longer.
“Hello? Command to Tinvel?”
He jerked, blinking his eyes rapidly. Chona was looking straight at him, a smirk on her face.
“Wandering off a bit there?” She asked.
“A bit,” he admitted, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Nothing important, really. Just kinda talking.” She looked away. “It’s pretty nice, you know. To not be in the dorms.”
Tinvel snorted. “If you say so. Personally, I like having a real bed.”
Chona, still looking away, rolled her eyes. “I was talking about getting to stay up like this. Talking to each other.”
“Oh.” For some reason, Tinvel’s next swallow hurt his throat a little bit. “Yeah, I guess it is nice. Usually, we’re talking about some project or whatever, huh?”
“Yeah.”
From behind them, he heard Chona’s tail thump against the Sunrises’s lower wing. He turned onto his side slightly so he could glance back, and found it raised high, waving left to right, almost like a catfolk’s tail. Its furry tip was just barely brushing the plane’s underside. He turned back to Chona.
“I guess we could-”
Her hand found his jaw, pulling him toward her. Their lips met.
Tinvel’s heart leapt into his throat as he felt warmth press against his lips. He closed his eyes instinctively, like he always did, but opened them a moment later, expecting the kiss to break.
Instead, Chona leaned in. The pressure between them grew, and he heard her sigh through her nose.
Tinvel didn’t know what to do. He froze. He could send his plane through a spiraling death-dive with a griffon, but this was something he didn’t know how to do. His arms locked up, his shoulders raising defensively, even as his mind was swamped by just how nice Chona’s lips felt.
The hand on his jaw remained, gently keeping him framed in front of her face, but it was soon joined by a second hand, this one thrown over his shoulders.
Chona gently pushed down, forcing his shoulders to relax. That same arm then wrapped around his back, elbow bent over his collarbone, fingernails idly scratching at his upper back.
He melted into the kiss. Tension fled his body all at once, its flight heralded by a groan he couldn’t quite suppress.
Against his lips, he felt Chona smile.
She rolled into him, pressing their bodies together. He soon found himself on his back, Chona’s entire body laying atop him. She tilted her head to find a better angle for her kiss, the hand on his jaw moving up, into his hair, fingers running along his scalp in a way that made him shiver.
Tinvel only remembered that he had hands when the tip of Chona’s tail wrapped itself around his wrist, dragging his limp limb up into the air. She dropped it onto her back, just below the edge of her chest wrap.
Tinvel was overwhelmed. But he wasn’t stupid.
He lifted his other arm to join the first, squeezing her into a hug. His fingers dug into her fur, reaching the skin, nails scratching back and forth.
It was Chona’s turn to groan into his lips.
Oh, Tinvel thought, his head filling with a dizzy glee, no wonder she smiled.
They lay together like that for a time. All her body’s weight resting against him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other wrapped around his shoulders. His hands fell down to her waist, just the very tops of her hips, as if he were helping her keep her balance.
Eventually, maybe thirty seconds later, maybe a minute, Chona broke the kiss. He could feel their lips trying to stick together as she pulled back with a tiny pop.
He didn’t open his eyes right away. He wasn’t sure if he could, or even wanted to, as if the spell of the moment might be broken. In the silence beneath their plane, a part of him was already wondering if he’d done something wrong, if he’d not been active enough, if she shouldn’t have had to guide him into every touch and motion.
It was only when he felt her warm breath falling down onto his face that he finally dared to open his eyes.
A sloppy grin met his gaze. Chona was licking her lips, her pupils dark and wide as she gazed down on him. Her hand was still in his hair. He felt her grip tighten a touch when their eyes met.
They were both breathing hard. They both licked their lips again, staring at one another.
“I… liked that,” Tinvel managed. The air in the tent felt hot and stuffy. Hard to breathe.
“Yeah.” She twisted up a bit of his hair, wrapping it around one of her fingers. “That was… nice.”
His hands tightened slightly on her hips. “Was it… did I do alright?”
He knew Chona had kissed other people before. He didn’t remember how he knew that, just that he did. She’d probably used it to insult him long before they even considered each other friends.
Her smile grew. “It was a kiss, Tinvel. Just a little peck on the lips.”
“It didn’t feel like any of the other kisses, that’s for sure,” he chuckled. From where she rested on his chest, his laughter shook her body.
“No,” she agreed. She licked her lips yet again. “But it’s not the hardest way to kiss. You’re…” her voice cracked slightly. She cleared her throat. “You’re....” Her whispering grew even quieter, and she looked away as she spoke her next sentence. “You’re cute enough that you can’t really screw it up. I liked it, too.”
The rush in Tinvel’s head turned to a swirl.
She called me cute?
Chona had complimented him before. She’d called him smart, or clever, or had said he had a good idea. When they got in arguments with someone else she’d go even further, if only to insult her target by comparing them to him. But this was the first time he could remember that she’d complimented his appearance.
She called me cute.
With fingers tangled in his hair and her taste on his lips, she’d called him cute.
“I can…” Chona swallowed hard. “...teach you how to kiss the other way, too? Not that I’m very good, but…” He felt her tense up. “I’d like to.”
Tinvel almost wished she’d just kept going. He didn’t know what to say to that. But she was holding onto him tighter, now.
She’s nervous, too.
“Sure,” he said, trying to think of the right words to say. “Just be a bit nicer to me than you were to the rookies, yeah?”
“Okay. Okay.” She took a deep breath. “And, uh, just to let you know. I’ve never actually kissed a guy before.”
If Tinvel was supposed to respond to that, she didn’t give him a chance. She pushed up off the ground slightly, resting her arms into the sand on either side of his head, while her legs spread outward, so that…
So that…
So that the center of her hips came to rest against his waist.
Chona swooped down to swallow his hiss of surprise, head tilting to lock her lips against his. She rested all her weight on him, just barely supporting herself with her knees as both her hands crept up his head and into his hair, keeping his head pinned in place.
She pressed harder. Harder everywhere. He felt her smashing against his lips, hungry, needy. A tongue swiped against him, startling him, and she adjusted herself slightly, sliding back–
“O-oh!” She chirped, pulling her face just far enough away to speak. “Oh, yeah. I forgot. You’re a guy.” She lifted her hips slightly, slid backward, then sat back down. The pressure dragged an undignified noise out of Tinvel. She laughed quietly. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about, uh, that. So I guess just… let me know if it gets, um, uncomfortable?”
Her head moved forward, resuming the kiss long before Tinvel would have gathered the coherency to explain that Chona’s hips pressing against his crotch was very literally the farthest thing from uncomfortable he’d known in his entire life.
He was totally overwhelmed. As Chona’s tongue slipped up against his lips once more, pressing between, he felt her hips settle more and more firmly over his, shoving herself up against a part of his body that, the other times they’d kissed, he’d made an exceptional effort not to think about.
The hands cupping his head lifted him up slightly, pressing his face into hers. He could feel her thumbs tracing lines through the hair over his temples, not with any intent, but as if she wanted to make sure she memorized each part of him she could touch. When her tongue pressed more insistently against his lips, Tinvel finally opened his mouth, deepening the kiss.
Chona moved forward slowly, luxuriously, testing and teasing at the very front of his mouth. He tried to respond, tried to think of what other people had described when they talked about kissing, but he was too distracted.
Chona was, after all, wearing just her usual sarong.
He couldn’t believe how warm she felt. There was nothing between them save his cloth breaches and the thin whatever-it-was she kept hidden beneath that short little dress. The space between her legs was like a fire on a cool night, a rich heat radiating deeply into his body. She wasn’t moving an inch, completely still, but just the knowledge that she was sitting on top of him was scattering his thoughts in firework bursts. With every flick of her tongue, every caress of her hands, he had to fight the urge to writhe beneath her, some animal instinct he’d never known he had demanding that he add friction to the teasing, welcoming warmth.
If Chona thought little of his weak, distracted attempts at meeting her kiss, she didn’t show it. He could hear the little breaths she took through her nose coming faster and faster, rising with the intensity of the way she licked and lapped at him. Her tongue danced against his, darting forward and pulling back, running along his mouth every which way. He didn’t know if Chona could be considered a good kisser, or if it was even impossible to define such a thing, but he knew that he was loving every moment of it.
Slowly, steadily, as the daze of disbelief began to fade, he tried to return the favor. He met her kiss right back, moving his hands up from her hips and to her ribs, mindlessly rubbing up along her sides. She shivered under his touch, rewarding him with a nipping bite at his lower lip.
And still he could feel how warm she was. The sensation was an enchanting spiral, threatening to draw every last drop of his focus into a single point on his body. When she pulled back to gasp a quick breath, it had her adjusting her hips by just the slightest of degrees, a motion that had him failing to swallow a groan, turning the noise into a quiet growl in the back of his throat.
At that sound, Chona’s eyes opened even wider. Her purposefully cocky grin lost a bit of its bravado, replaced by an expression almost as headily-dazed as Tinvel felt.
“O-oh,” she whispered, fascinated, almost as if she were speaking to herself.
With two fistfuls of his hair, she dove back down, smashing her lips into his. Their teeth clacked painfully together, but she didn’t care, because her tongue was back in his mouth an instant later. Her chest was heaving, and she pulled Tinvel up even further, herself downward, until her breasts were pressing against his chest, her head tilted to help her hungrily devour his every breath.
Tinvel’s hands flew up to her shoulderblades, wrapping around her back, pulling her into a hug. He did everything he could to match her kiss, pressing back at her, drinking down the taste of her between his breathy inhalations.
Her patience was done. Chona’s tail slapped up onto Tinvel’s arm, fumbling against it for a moment until she managed to wrap the limb around his wrist. She all but shoved his hand around and forward, putting it on her breast.
Tinvel’s back turned into an arch. The padded softness of her chest rested against his hand, a hard little nub rubbing against the center of his palm. Driven by instinct and elation, he squeezed.
For the first time, Chona failed to bite back a groan.
Good fucking gods.
Like a man possessed, Tinvel kept pressing inward. Kneading, touching, pinching. He didn’t know what to do, not at first, but he could hear what made more of those little noises slip between his and Chona’s locked lips, and he knew he wanted more of that. More, more, more. His hand slipped low, abandoning her breast for exactly as long as it took for him to find the edge of her wrap, then slide up and beneath it.
Chona moaned as she felt his bare skin slide against her.
It was the most beautiful noise he’d ever heard.
Their kiss fell apart. It became sloppy and uncoordinated, a distant secondary concern to the way Tinvel was pawing at her chest, and the way that his attentions had her hips jerking against his, little spasms that she may or may not have been trying to stop.
It was so good. The world was a good place. With his girlfriend’s chest under his palm and her crotch over his waist, Tinvel found himself convinced the world was, if it allowed for all of this, the most beautiful gift the gods could ever have given mankind. Everyone who complained that the gods should be doing more to better mortal lives were just plain ignorant. Clearly they hadn’t felt a pretty girl grinding against their crotch. If they had, they would understand.
“Hey!” A gruff voice shouted. “Some folk might appreciate the shadow puppets, but I’m betting y’all will wanna cover up that light over there!”
Tinvel and Chona froze. Completely immobilized. At a torturous, glacial pace, he turned his head left.
Backlit by crystal light, his and Chona’s shadows were starkly outlined against the tarp. With all the sharp definition of a stained glass window, Tinvel could see his body, Chona crouched over him, his hand blatantly grabbing at her chest. Chona’s hands were cupping his head, and her tail, he only now noticed, was squeezing so tightly around one of his legs that it was starting to go numb. Their faces were pressed together, chests heaving hard.
Alerted to the spectacle, the laughter of sailors began to rise.
“Well I’ll be damned! Lookit that!”
“Been too fuckin’ long since we hit port…”
“He’s got a good grip on it, don’t he?”
“Let the girl breathe, boy!”
“She’s tryna take his fuckin’ leg home with her!”
Chona turned to look at him. The whites of her eyes were wide, wide, wide. She turned that gaze, slowly, toward the crystal.
Tinvel’s Magesight tingled. He braced himself.
With a sound like a cracking gunshot, the crystal detonated. A whuff was forced from his lungs as Chona shoved herself off him in the darkness, only for a new light to spark up — one that was orange and flickering.
“Chona!” He hissed, grabbing her leg.
“Lemme fucking go-!”
“Chona, please-!”
Like a rabid dog, she was crawling on all fours toward the edge of the tent, her hands wreathed in boiling flame. The laughter outside the tent turned to scattered yelps and shouts as the flame-lit wraith dragged its upper half into the open air. Tinvel dug his knees into the sand, trying to drag her away.
“Don’t start a fire Chona, please, please.”
“I’m gonna fucking kill them all-”
“No you’re not, no you’re not, come on, it’s fine, it’s fine, they’re just joking-”
“I’m gonna cauterize their fucking cunts inside out!”
In the distance, offered from the panting breath of a woman clearly running for dear life, came a cry of, “I’m sorry!”
Whether it was her better senses getting to her or the satisfaction of an entire ship’s worth of sailors scrambling in a panic to escape her wrath, the flames engulfing Chona’s hands began to fade. Tinvel had to use all his strength to drag her back beneath the Sunrise’s wing, her limbs digging trenches in the sand.
When she was finally back inside, Chona looked at him for the briefest of moments. Vanara couldn’t blush, but if they could, he felt certain she’d be the reddest person he’d ever seen. All at once, the anger seemed to flee her body. She dove head-first into her bedroll, grabbing her pillow and shoving it over her head.
“Oh my fucking gods,” she all but screamed.
“It’s oka-”
“No!” She snapped. “Nope! No, sorry Tin, but nope. Not okay. Absolutely not okay.” She shoved deeper into her bedroll. “Oh my gods. Fuckin’ Talavan wipe their minds, please, fucking hells. Oh my gods.”
“I’m just… uh…” He reached out, trying to pat her on the back.
Her tail whipped his hand aside. “Nope. Nope. Nope.” She curled up. “Time for bed, Tin. Time to go to sleep, and then we’re never talking about that again. Never ever ever.”
Maybe it was because he wanted her to feel better. Maybe it was because he was still drunk on endorphins. Or maybe what had just happened was responsible for the first flare of a confidence totally alien to Tinvel’s life up to that point. Whatever the reason for it, Tinvel didn’t leave without one last quiet comment.
“I don’t know if we’ll be talking about it,” he muttered, resting a hand on Chona’s leg, “but I promise you, I’m not gonna stop thinking about that kiss for a long, long time.”
The whine that was muffled by Chona’s bedroll could have meant a million things. She didn’t say anything else. Tinvel turned around and crawled back towards his side of their little shelter.
That night, Tinvel fell asleep with the world’s dumbest smile on his face.
--------------------------------------------
Chona
--------------------------------------------
She still wasn’t feeling right. She hadn’t been feeling right all night, and the morning hadn’t helped any. Even fifteen hundred feet over the ocean waves, keen eyes scanning the horizon line, Chona’s mind couldn’t quite escape the horror of the night prior.
When the sun rose and the camp came to life, no one had mentioned it. Not a single sailor, pilot, or officer. Absolutely everyone pretended that nothing had happened, almost as if Talavan really had answered her prayer to erase their memories of the whole affair.
She knew he hadn’t, though. She knew they were thinking about it. In some ways, that silence was worse. At least if they tried to joke about it, she could have retaliated.
Unfortunately, their desire to not get burned alive had kept their mouths sewn shut. Chona had stewed in awful silence, trying everything in her power to maintain a sense of decorum.
Whatever that meant at this point.
My boob hurts.
Tinvel had really made the most of that handful he’d grabbed. To be honest, Chona had enjoyed it, too. In the moment, complaining about a bit of rough handling had been the furthest thing from her mind. In hindsight, however, she was going to have to make sure that he took at least a slightly gentler approach next… time…
Next time?
She shouldn’t be so certain about there being a next time. The first time hadn’t gone so well. Sure, Tinvel’s lips had tasted like berries and got her drunk like wine, and sure, his fingers had felt like a fine ivory comb, sending shivers down her spine as they brushed through her fur, but that didn’t mean she’d already decided he was going to get a second chance. Just because she’d barely been able to control her hips from sliding down that bulge in his pants in a way that made them both gasp, and then she’d had to change her undergarments before going to bed didn’t… mean…
Chona sighed.
When’s the next time we’ll be alone? How hard is it to get a house in Tulian? There’s lots of empty ones, so it should be easy, right? But a bed is probably expensive…
“Any sightings?” Tinvel asked.
“No,” Chona reported. It was the truth. She hadn’t seen a damn thing.
She shook her head, trying to drag her head out of the clouds. An ironic thing to attempt at fifteen hundred meters.
“How’s the altimeter doing?” She asked. Maybe conversation, even conversation about Tinvel’s finicky artificery gadgets, would help her stay on task.
“Pretty consistent so far,” he said. “I still want to get Professor Garen to confirm our altitude readings, though. I’m not sure if we’ve got the gauge calibrated right for a given air pressure.”
“As long as it says zero when we’re at sea level, it should be fine, right?”
“Well, sort of,” Tinvel said, in that tone that said he had a lot more to say than she wanted to listen to. “It depends. We’re still not sure where the hypoxic ceiling is, and that’s something we need to make certain we’ve got figured out. It should be at three thousand meters, but I’m really not eager to get that high and see if we end up too air-sick to fly. But it’d be pretty ideal if we could have both an upper and lower bound, so I’ve been looking into making a limited-use form of compressed oxygen, but that all depends on whether or not I can get some of Professor Garen’s time to do the actual compression…”
Chona wasn’t sure if it had been a good idea to set Tinvel off on a rant, but it was at least keeping her thoughts away from less productive topics. The Tinvel in the tent last night and the Tinvel jabbering her ear off about pressures and valves hardly seemed like the same person. Or, at the very least, one was a lot more talkative than the other. Thankfully, his ranting helped keep her eyes open long enough to scan for their objective.
They were a half-hour into their flight, and only had about fifteen minutes left before they’d need to land on the open ocean and let their engine crystals feed off the central geode. Thankfully, it was a good day for flying a seaplane. They were weaving between light, fluffy clouds, mountains of floating water which were being pushed about by an uncommonly light breeze for the open ocean. The waves were more than smooth enough for an easy landing, even out of sight of land. The weak wind also meant that they’d taken their search pattern further north than planned, anticipating their rendezvous to not quite have made the distance originally estimated. Carrion Magecraft were fast, but even they relied on the wind to move.
Adjusting her flight goggles, Chona squinted at something in the distance. After briefly rubbing the glass with a handkerchief to confirm that she wasn’t staring at a speck of dust, she interrupted Tinvel’s impromptu lecture.
“Adjust your heading to about two o’clock, Tin. I think I see sails.”
“A trimarin hull?”
“Can’t tell from this far. It’s just a little dot.”
“Roger,” he said, swinging the Sunrise towards the indicated heading. Chona didn’t know where he’d picked up that phrase from. It had just become something he said while flying to acknowledge orders.
I’ll probably be saying it before too long, she thought with a sigh. It seemed like, no matter how hard she tried, Chona always ended up picking up Tinvel’s more obnoxious habits. She already knew far more about artificery than she’d ever intended to learn.
As the dot grew, Chona’s frayed attention span began to rebel once again. Those few minutes in the tent had been… unique. The girls in her village that she’d kissed weren’t anything like Tinvel, all soft and squishy and pliable under her. Tinvel’s lips had been rough. Firm. He’d kissed back in a way that no one else had.
That kind of attitude had done something for Chona. The two other girls she’d kissed had been fun, enjoyable, but they hadn’t stirred up half the heat she’d felt last night. She wasn’t sure why. She wanted to say that it had been the… stiffness… that she’d felt between her thighs, but she couldn’t even chalk it up to that. She’d had a knee up in there more than once, and she’d felt a lot better grinding on that than she had on Tinvel’s… yeah.
Even so, those hidden evenings out behind village barns had never left her feeling so hungry. That was the only word she could use to describe it: hunger. An ache deep in her gut, a craving for something more. She’d liked the idea of ‘more’ before, true, but she’d never wanted it like that. Never needed it like that.
It’s still the second month of the year, right? She asked herself, suddenly doubtful. If the first day of the third month had passed her by without realizing, that might explain something, but… No. She knew the date. Up north, it was still solidly in the middle of winter. Nowhere near spring. She really didn’t have the slightest excuse.
“How about now?” Tinvel asked.
Her head snapped up. “Huh?”
“The ship. Is it a Carrion Magecraft?”
Chona had to spend an embarrassing moment reacquainting herself with their surroundings, searching out the little dot she’d spotted before.
It wasn’t so little anymore. Now she could see the tall, proud sail sprouting from the center of its deck, a slice of handsome cloth that drove the ship over the seas. Though it was still blurry, after a moment of study, she could make out three distinct pieces. A large, central hull, one that barely grazed the waves, supported on either side by long poles. On either side of the ship, stabilizing floats bounced over the whitecaps.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Chona announced. “Want me to call in?”
“Go for it.”
Fishing the communication crystal out of her pocket, Chona cupped it to her mouth to muffle the wind noise. “TCA req 1.” She quickly switched the crystal to her ear.
“Command to TCA. Go ahead.”
Must not be a busy morning. She took a breath.
“TCA reporting contact spotted. We’ll be landing as planned in the next five minutes. If any orders are to be amended, now would be the time. Message over.”
“Command has good copy. At this time no order alterations have been put in for you. Message over.”
Chona was relieved. As great as it was, pilots and soldiers being in constant contact with their commanding officers could make for some complicated days.
They leisurely spiraled down on the Carrion Magecraft from fifteen hundred meters, with Tinvel leaving the engine on its ground-taxiing speed, so that they were more a glider than a proper warplane. Chona leaned her head out into the windstream, keeping an eye on the foreign ship.
As the details firmed themselves, Chona was struck by how unbelievably crowded the Carrion ship’s deck seemed. Compared to Tulian ships, even those stolen off Sporatos, it was teeming with shimmering, shifting silvery dots. Most didn’t seem to be doing any work in particular, sitting or standing in clumped groups, often claiming the portions of the deck which their more active comrades avoided. The ship itself, though recognizably a Skimmer, was also notably larger than she’d been told to expect of the same sort of Sporaton Magecraft. Looking over Tinvel’s shoulder to check their altitude, then doing a bit of math in her head to compare sizes, she thought it was an additional third larger than the Sporaton equivalent she’d been trained to recognize. Its sail seemed even more offsized, perhaps twice as large as she’d expected, almost as large as the great sheets which hung off the Waverake’s mainmast.
I guess it is the Carrion Navy. What else did I expect?
No matter how “simple” their task for the day was, Chona couldn’t shake the nerves that came with flying up to and landing next to a Carrion Magecraft. Chona was used to being the best mage around, save for Professor Garen. She didn’t know what kind of mage would be aboard a Carrion diplomat’s Magecraft, but the thing was a Skimmer— a fighter. Whoever it was, whatever they were capable of, it was a given that they could rip Chona to shreds. As Professor Garen had constantly warned her, she was a big fish in Tulian’s very small pond.
Not that another thirty years of practice would change much.
As the Sunrise swept past the deck of the Magecraft at sail-height, Chona got an eyeful of the sailors on deck. Every single one of them, even the ones crawling up the masts and dangling from the ropes, wore armor and carried a sword. In the flash of a passing moment, she made eye contact with someone swinging their boots off the end of the sail’s wooden spar. That blurry face belonged to someone who was the peer of any Sporaton Knight. Maybe even their superior. The legends of the Carrion Navy were as vast as the territories their ships crossed. If a fraction’s fraction of those stories were true, Chona wouldn’t be protecting Tinvel here. They’d both be at the mercy of their host.
The reaction of the sailors to the sight of their first flying machine helped reassure her a bit. Most people from Tulian reacted to the sight of an aeroplane with loud cheering and jubilation, while those few unfamiliar ships they’d buzzed tended to either attempt to flee or, more rarely, toss arrows up at them. The Carrion reaction was a first for her: applause. She caught a brief glimpse of every man and woman aboard the ship clapping their hands in approval as the Sunrise darted past, as if they were watching the end of a well-performed play. She didn’t know what they meant by it, and she only caught the slightest glimpse of it.
Sea salt sprayed Chona as the Sunrise clipped the first wavetop, bouncing them back into the air. She leant back into her seat as they skidded to a splashing stop, taking deep, calming breaths.
“Alright.” Tinvel’s voice was strained as he bent to begin shutting down the Sunrise’s engine. “You’ve kept the heading consistent, right?”
Her eyes popped open. “That was supposed to be your job!”
“I know, and I did it, but I was hoping you’d kept an eye on it, too. Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Oh, I swear to the gods, Tin,” she growled. “Don’t scare me like that. No, I didn’t keep track of the heading.”
“Sorry,” he said in a very unapologetic tone. “I was just trying to reassure myself. I’m nervous about this.”
“Don’t be. We’re just here to show off Tulian’s fancy new toy, give them some directions, then head home. Easy as could be.”
“Easy,” he scoffed. “Sure. I’m sure lots of artificers have been allowed to see a Carrion Magecraft up close and left with their skull in one piece. Happens all the time.”
“Do they even know you’re an artificer?”
“Maybe?” He sat back up, unraveling his bedroll from beneath his seat. He tossed it over the Sunrise’s flight controls and instrument panel. “You got the same orders I did. Find the ship, point it towards the Tulian fleet, then make sure we don’t embarrass ourselves when we take off. Not much more to it than that.”
“Guess they didn’t want to give that much detail over the crystal network.”
“If that was their concern, they should have thought twice about giving us last-minute orders like this. They’re lucky I haven’t taken up half the network’s time asking Voth questions.”
Chona snorted in amusement, then reached down under her own seat, taking out her bedroll and using it to cover up the secondary controls that sat between her legs. A Tulian backseater hadn’t yet had a need to take control of the plane from their pilot, and the rear setup was accordingly less complicated, but she and Tinvel had both been in agreement: the less they allowed the Carrions to see of the Sunrise, the better. There was no way to hide the wings, tail, or propeller, the most important part of the plane’s functioning, but in the absence of clearer orders, they’d do what they could.
“How close are they?” Tinvel asked.
“Let me see. Looks like they’re about- Gods!”
Chona turned around just as the shadow of the Magecraft’s sail fell over the Sunrise, its bow breaking water no more than a hundred feet away. Anchor ropes had been tossed over the side already, yet Chona hadn’t heard a thing. The thick cords were slipping over their brass fittings in perfect, enchanted silence.
“What do you mean? Are they- Shit!” Tinvel jumped hard enough in his chair that Chona felt the bounce through the Sunrise’s frame. “We landed a quarter mile out! They have to be going, what, twenty knots?”
“Faster.”
A figure sprouted above the Magecraft’s shining bronze-capped bow, their hat held in one waving hand. “Ho, there! I’ve a suspicion you’re the Tulian vessel ‘Sunrise’, yes?”
“That would be us, yes!” Tinvel yelled. He had to twist uncomfortably in his seat to face the oncoming ship. “And you are the Carrion Magecraft Sovereign Oak?”
“The first and only!” The man called back, chipper as could be. He placed his hat back on his head. “Allow me the honor of sending a boat across to have you ferried aboard, Captain! Unless your vessel can conduct itself as adroitly upon the waves as it does in the skies?”
“A boat would be much appreciated!” Tinvel called back. She saw him shrink back as he watched the Magecraft loom closer. Under his breath, he added, “and a fuckin’ course change.”
The man at the prow made a sharp gesture as soon as Tinvel had accepted their offer, calling out orders in the Carrion language. The ship was so close by then that Chona could hear the thumping of boots as sailors reacted. It was still skimming across the waves, its sail somehow filled to bursting by the day’s dreary wind.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, “they’re gonna cut us in half!”
With a curse, Tinvel started to reach under his bedroll, trying to restart the engine. Chona knew it was too late, though. They were seconds away from a collision.
Apropos of nothing, the Magecraft abruptly stopped.
That was it.
It just stopped.
There was no rush of wind or ripple to the water. The anchor ropes didn’t suddenly pull taut, jerking the ship to a halt. With its sail still spread wide, its crew idling in the wooden spars, the ship unceremoniously ceased all forward movement. No one aboard reacted, not by bracing beforehand or stumbling afterward, and not even the ocean seemed aware of what had just happened. The bow wave that had been pushed before the ship fell lamely flat instead of rolling onward, leaving the Sunrise bobbing as contentedly as if there hadn’t been a multi-hundred-ton warship plowing through the waves a few dozen feet away.
“What in the hells…?” Tinvel muttered, mouth agape.
“I need to learn that spell,” she whispered.
“Was that even a spell? I didn’t feel anything get cast.”
“Neither did I.”
Just as abruptly as the ship’s halting, their interest was stolen by the boat appearing at the Magecraft’s railing. The thing was… obscene. Its prow was covered in leafing of bronze and gold intertwined, each twisting around the other as they alternated between making the symbols of Daylagon and Anatol, joining at the little ship’s front in an obscenely gaudy figurehead. Anatol, god of the skies and storms, was seated upon a bronze cloud, itself supported by the rising head of a golden serpent. The creature’s eyes were sapphires carved into the many-pointed star often used to represent Daylagon, like the god himself was staring out of the beast’s eyes. Not to be outdone, a crimson ruby glowed deep within the bronze cloud of Anatol, an etched gemstone twice the size of an eye.
Chona would guess that, if the materials used were genuine, that one boat probably cost more than all of Tulian’s aeroplanes combined.
The two sailors who were carrying the boat heaved it over the side without concern, letting it drop into the water with a great splash. They jumped in after it, beginning to row their way over to the Sunrise.
“Would it serve you best to have your craft lashed to us, sir and madam?" The same voice from before spoke. “Or would you prefer that my crew allow it to drift?”
“It shouldn’t cause it any harm to drift for a moment,” Tinvel called back. “But if the wind rises too much, we’ll want to be back aboard very quickly.”
“Of course! I’ll have rowers stand ready!”
Orders followed in the Carrion language, and a moment later, Chona had to bite back an incredulous laugh.
A second boat, as thickly ornamented as the first, splashed to the water. This time four rowers hopped in and took up positions, apparently standing ready to rush Tinvel and Chona back to the Sunrise if it became necessary.
Chona and Tinvel carefully unstrapped themselves from their seats, balancing carefully as they crawled out to stand on the Sunrise’s thin, rocking pontoons. Chona kept her tail around a pylon and hand near Tinvel’s back, ready to snag him if he fell.
It wasn’t necessary, thankfully. The Carrion rowers floated their boat close enough to the aeroplane that they didn’t even have to jump in order to board. Chona had to bite back another laugh when she saw that the seats were padded. Unable to resist the urge, she ran her hand along the purple cushion.
It’s silk. Gods above.
The passage back to the Magecraft took all of ten seconds. Though it wasn’t a tall enough ship to necessitate it, an entire rope ladder was nonetheless lowered on the Magecraft’s hull in order to help them board. Chona was about to jump across when Tinvel’s hand suddenly slapped into her stomach, pushing her back.
She looked up. The same man from before was standing near the railing, flanked on either side by two Carrion Marines. The elderly human man had a sun-crinkled smile beneath bushy white eyebrows and a thick mustache. He was dressed in a strange sort of black leather coat, one which drooped all the way to his ankles, but was kept open all the way from top to bottom. He wore a royal-blue officer’s uniform of a sharp, well-fit style, one that Chona instantly recognized must have been the inspiration for the Tulian Navy’s own dress uniform. Unlike any Tulian officer, however, the man’s chest glittered with gold buttons and shining threads, while his waist was wrapped in a thick, scaled-leather belt. Chona didn’t know what sort of animal had been killed for the thing, but it had once boasted scales at least three inches wide, growing maybe a quarter-inch thick. The man’s boots, meanwhile, were made of such unremarkably brown leather that Chona could only assume she wasn’t educated enough to understand what made them as special as the rest of his outfit.
The Marines at his side wore armor which visibly glowed with enchantments of a dizzying variety. They were tall and unflinching, their faces hidden behind an expressionless helmet, atop which sprouted the famous feathered brush of the Carrion Marines.
They held blacksteel spears. Not blacksteel-tipped spears. Just… blacksteel. Seven long feet of it.
The well-dressed man, noticing the way Tinvel had stopped Chona, nodded to him expectantly.
Straightening himself up, Tinvel asked in his most formal voice, “May we have your permission to come aboard, Captain?”
“Permission granted,” he replied, a smile spreading under his bushy mustache. “But if you’ll forgive me the vanity, I might inform you that my proper name and title is Admiral Whistling Ash.”
Oh, holy fuck.
Chona felt her knees get weak. A Carrion Admiral. A Carrion Admiral. That was… that was like a Duke, wasn’t it? No, more than that. The Carrion Admirals ruled the Carrion Navy. To be an Admiral in the Carrion Navy meant you were elected to your position by dozens of Magecraft Captains. This man had to have the direct electoral support of… Chona didn’t even know. A tenth of the entire Carrion Navy? She thought there were ten or so Admirals, but she might be wrong. She remembered something vague about the number changing from time to time, but she wasn’t sure.
It didn’t matter. The only person in a thousand miles who represented more power than the old man in front of her was the King of Sporatos, and even then, that might be doubtful. A High Admiral could call down a hundred Magecraft at a whisper, enough to devastate any coastal city in existence. If this man snapped his fingers, Tulian would be ashes within a week. To attack a single, lonely city-state, he probably wouldn’t even be required to consult the other Admirals beforehand.
Everything about the day had just changed. Chona had to look at everything around her in a different light. She wasn’t meeting a Magecraft captain, she was meeting a Carrion fucking Admiral. This wasn’t some casual little showing of Tulian aeroplanes to a minor diplomat. Without knowing it, she and Tinvel had been put in charge of representing the third and newest branch of the Tulian Military to the single most important person they’d ever meet— save for the Governess.
Ah, fuck! Chona’s heart was pounding. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! This is all politics, isn’t it? Shit, which Hell did I just walk into?
Chona wished she had a mirror to see how her own expression was doing. She watched Tinvel’s eyes widen in shock, his posture faltering, only for a bit of a spine to grow back up again, returning him to something barely more appropriate for a supposed military officer. She couldn’t tell how well she was faring, but she already suspected Tinvel was doing a better job than her. Her first instinct had been to leap into the boat and paddle back to the Sunrise.
“An… Admiral?” Tinvel spoke slowly and thickly, like a man trying to chew his way through speaking in the moments after taking a blow to the head. “We were… not… informed of…” He visibly swallowed, then straightened a little bit further. “I am Commander Tinvel of the Tulian Air Force. This is Chona, Mage-Commander of the Tulian Air Force. We are both ranking Pilots within the Air Force, but…”
Chona could see the uncertainty playing out on his face. What to say, what not to say, and how much to give away? Whatever either of them blurted out right now, even if it was an outright lie, would tell these people more than they wanted. The elderly Carrion Admiral would read two 19-year-olds like an open book. Chona was real, real glad that she hadn’t been the one to open her mouth first.
Tinvel made his decision.
“Though we appreciate the honor of your earlier form of address, Admiral Whistling Ash, I will also offer a humble clarification. We are not equal in rank to that of a Carrion Captain. Within the Tulian Military, the piloting of an aeroplane is not considered equivalent to the captaining of a ship. Our ranks might be best compared to…” Tinvel’s eyes searched until they landed on the Carrion Marines. “One of your Marine Maggiore,” he said, surprising Chona with the fluency that the foreign title slipped from him. “Much as a Maggiore might usually be in charge of only those on the ship they serve until it is time for larger forces to gather, Air Force Commanders are battlefield commanders who are in charge of the local forces— however large or small they may be. Theoretically, as we are the only ranking Commanders in the Air Force, we would command the entire Air Force were it to gather in one place, but that is unlikely. Even then, we are still beholden to General of the Air Voth, who is the ultimate authority in the Tulian Air Force.”
The old Carrion Admiral’s eyes twinkled, a smile crinkling his cracked face.
“Your clarification is understood and welcomed, Commander Tinvel. However, I would not worry yourself about further explanations; your Governess and her Steward explained much the same in the correspondence which led to this meeting. I’ve been looking forward to meeting the inventors of the aeroplane even more than I have been a demonstration of the mythical craft’s capabilities. ”
Heat, an indignant, burning rage, rushed up to Chona’s skull. They knew?
“You’re fucking kidding me-!”
She slapped both hands over her mouth, horrified.
The Admiral bent backward as he laughed, holding his stomach. “Oh, the temerity of youth! I’d been warned that the Champion of Amarat has encouraged an incorrigible familiarity amongst her military’s officers. It is good to see my sources proving their worth!”
Throwing a bucket of icewater over her frustration with- with- with fucking everything about what was happening right now, Chona dropped her hands back to her waist and bowed lightly.
“I apologize, sir, ah, Admiral Whistling Ash,” she said, licking her lips. “I was taken by a, um, slight bit of shock regarding the…” she tried to match Tinvel’s suddenly-formal air. “Regarding the entirety of these circumstances, I suppose.”
The great leather cloak wrapping Admiral Whistling Ash made a swooshing noise as his hand came up to make a reassuring gesture.
“Think nothing of it, Madam Mage. Though those stuck upon the land oft assume otherwise, we Carrions are not so obsessed with station and status as their Kingdoms and Empires. I was born a weaver’s son, and I lived such a life until my twentieth year, when luck found me placed aboard my first ship.” His smile seemed so genuine. Nothing like the politician or general Chona would have expected him to act like. “As a matter of fact, I believe that means I’ve spent more years living the life of a commoner than you yet have, no?”
Tinvel made a choking noise. “She- the Governess- told you that much of us? Our ages and upbringings?”
“She did,” the Admiral confirmed. “And much more besides. Nearly all positive things, I assure you, and what little criticism she offered was delivered muffled by a silken blanket.” He chuckled. “It seems you two have caught something even more valuable than the eye of your people’s Governess: the fondness of her wife?”
For a moment, Chona’s mind whirled. She had met Steward Evie on very few occasions, and when she had, there was nothing in that woman’s gaze save cold calculation. Then her mind went further back. To the days before the Sporaton War, when she and Tinvel had been little more than bickering students. When one woman had frequently dropped by the university to teach all that she knew, offering gruff advice and providing them all with tools of extraordinary quality.
“...Hurlish?” She asked wonderingly.
“Indeed,” Admiral Whistling Ash nodded. “The woman insisted on penning a single letter herself, without allowing her wives to so much as censor a drop of ink. It was…” he coughed. “Brusque. But informative. I believe the Great Gunsmith said that if you two were ever to put aside your differences, you would accomplish shocking things.” Admiral Whistling Ash turned his attention to the Sunrise, its lone red wing reflecting strangely on the crystal colors of the Deepwaters, then back to Chona and Tinvel. “That was her word, verbatim. ‘Shocking’ things. At the time, word of your aeroplanes had not yet reached my ears, and I was concerned by her intent. Now that I have seen the fabled Flying Ship for myself?” His grin, just by the tiniest fraction, fell. His next words rumbled out of his chest, amused and disconcerted both. “Well. She was right. Shocking indeed.”
So many questions rose to Chona’s tongue that they ended up jamming at the exit of her mouth, pushing and shoving as they tried to burst into the open air. How long had the Governess and her wives been in contact with this Admiral? How long had they planned to send Tinvel and Chona to meet him? Was Voth aware? Why didn’t they give them these orders weeks ago so that they could prepare? How many Vanara had Whistling Ash met— enough to know she was practically nude right now? What was the purpose of keeping her and Tinvel in the dark? Who was he, that Sara trusted him with this information, and what was a Carrion Admiral going to do when he reached Tulian?
The only thing that became clear to her was why the entire Tulian Navy had sallied out to escort in a single diplomat’s ship. Chona had assumed it was more a training exercise than anything else, but obviously not. With hundreds of cannon-armed ships soon to surround the Admiral, he was about to be benefitting from quite possibly the most powerful honorguard to have ever existed.
But why? Who would attack a Carrion Admiral, and who could actually manage to succeed at it? Only another Carrion Admiral, right? Is a civil war brewing? Or is this just a political statement about growing Tulian naval power, or just something that navy types consider polite?
She looked around the ship with new interest, eyes darting from place to place, trying to drink in everything she could. The first thing she noticed was that the Carrion armor worn by all aboard was attached by leather straps, but rather than being tied into the armor, they hooked into the quick-release buckles Professor Brown had developed for aircraft seatbelts. None of these sailors would be dragged to their watery grave by weight of armor. Several of the Marine officers, distinguished by their feathered plumes, wore crylock pistols at their belt, which Chona instantly recognized as being of Tulian make, if only because they weren’t pieces of shit like every other attempt at foreign gunsmithing she’d seen. A number of Marines, maybe more than half, had swords with familiar stamps placed at the base of their blades, the mark of Tulian-exported weapons which used industrial processes to outperform any common blacksmith’s efforts at a fraction of the price.
The flagship and crew of a Carrion Admiral was covered in Tulian products. Practically drowning beneath them. Admiral Whistling Ash had spent a small fortune on Tulian equipment to decorate his personal flagship.
This wasn’t some simple trade meeting. The Carrions didn’t send Admirals to trade meetings. Hells, they didn’t send Admirals to war meetings. That was for intermediaries to deal with, crystal communications providing the safety of vast distance.
So what the hell had Sara gotten them involved with?
“If I may ask a question, Admiral?” Tinvel inquired, nodding his head. He’d clearly been captivated by something else than Chona.
“Oh, of course,” the man said, rolling up his sleeves. “I believe we both have much reason to be inquisitive about today’s events. I wouldn’t ask without expecting questions in turn.”
“Of course,” Tinvel said, as if that was obvious to him, which it definitely wasn’t. “I was just curious. You referred to Hurlish as the ‘Great Gunsmith,’ did you not? Is that a title that’s… common for her? Well-known?”
For the first time in their meeting, the Admiral seemed to not expect the question. He took a moment before answering.
“To a limited degree, yes, it is an appellation applied to Hurlish of Tulian. It first began among those who have personally viewed the weapons she creates. And it has become exceptionally common among those few who have seen her weapons fired.”
“I see,” Tinvel said, like that meant something to him. He took a step back. They still hadn’t left the side of the Magecraft. “I apologize for my oddity, it’s just that… I am aware of how few foreign artificers have survived touching the deck of a Carrion Magecraft. Until you explained that you knew who I was, I didn’t intend to reveal my chosen trade at all. Now that it is known, I wish to tread as lightly as possible.”
The sparkle in the Admiral’s eyes shifted, growing brighter. “A clever one you are, indeed. I was warned of that.”
By who? Chona silently asked. Sara, Hurlish, or your spies? Then, her mind shifted gears. Wait. Did he just get complimented by a Carrion Admiral?
Tinvel shook his head. “Not clever, sir. Just keenly aware of my mortality.”
“Ha!” The Admiral let out another of his many laughs. “You would be surprised how rare such a trait is amongst those your age, Commander Tinvel. Is that not right, Fallen Wave?”
The Admiral’s knuckles thumped companionably into the Marine guard to his right side, but where there should have been the clank of metal, there was only rustling. His fingers sunk through solid steel by several inches, disturbing its surface like water. An illusion.
The figure sighed tiredly. The steel shell of armor began to slip from their body like fresh paint in a rainstorm, colors mixing into nothingness at their feet.
What emerged was a woman in the unmistakable garb of a mage. She wore robes of such a deep, rich blue that Chona felt certain even the cost of the dye would have struck her silent, much less the rest of the garment. Her entire form was wrapped in wards, enchantments, and the shimmering haze of so many spells that they hung thickly in the air. Chona’s nose was first filled with the scent of an impending storm, then drowned by sea salt, then the ashes of a fire. The fur on half her body stood on end, but not the right or left half. A dividing line at some thirty degrees of rotation prickled so heavily the itching almost hurt, then fell back down without warning.
An archmage.
Chona reacted without thought. She peered through her Magesight.
It was a mistake. Not because of the archmage, no.
Because she was on a Carrion Magecraft.
The two wooden planks supporting her feet held more desires between them than a thousand yards of the open ocean. Scattered whispers of what they were and wanted rippled up her feet, calves, and thighs, leaping high off her skin to find the momentum with which they plunged deeply into her exposed gut.
They want to stand. They want to hold. They were built to become more, and they have been growing, growing, growing, but they aren’t satisfied. They won’t ever be. They’re proud of that. They are that which moves and carries, who lighten the burden and shield their crew. They seek the challenge of flame and lightning, scoff at the scraping of ice, and yearn to repel the fetid waves which so rarely dare to slosh across their form. They welcome the nails in their skin with the devotion of loving mothers, rejoicing in the iron binding to the motion of their fellows who hold strong all around them. The bliss of an endless, singing harmony, a thousand-thousand less-than-souls joined to a single, endless purpose.
They want to show her more. They want to drag her into them, to have her sink to her knees and press her cheek to the deck, so she may show them all they are. Won’t she come see? It has been so long since they were spun by hands such as her, and they have so much they all are, and they are all different, have become so much more, and they want her to know. They want to show her how pleased she should be for their work. They can tell her the whispers of the fingers which carved them, the sweat which sunk into their fibers. Won’t she add to their chorus? Won’t she come and witness the labors of their kin?
Reality returned with a painful pop! at Chona’s jaw, jerking her drooping head upward. A finger lay beneath her furred chin, long and pointed, the archmage holding her face level so that she could look into Chona’s eyes.
“You,” the archmage announced, “would have made a fine hunter of Sirens.”
A wisp of smoke drifted up between Chona’s eyes, drifting away. The numbness of electric shock still reverberated in her jaw. She stumbled back, trying to open her mouth, but all that resulted from the motion was pain spearing her from temple to temple.
Two planks.
That’s all they’d been.
Two wooden planks.
“H-how?” Chona managed to ask. “I didn’t do… much…”
“You touched our ship’s soul without falling. You show promise. After a few years of training, I would have placed you at the forefront of a Magecraft during the Purges. Oh, if we were still in the days of impressment, I would have—”
“Archmage!” The Admiral barked. “You will moderate your words, else I’ll have you put on report. Am I understood?”
The woman blinked. Slowly, her features began to filter into Chona’s awareness, the disconnect between eye and mind resolving itself. She had white hair, dreadfully pale skin, irises tinged lightly pink, and pointed ears.
Pointed?
“I understand, Admiral. I apologize.” She waved a hand, and the pain in Chona’s head vanished. The Archmage smiled at her. “I see that The Tiger of Salacia has found himself capable students, even in his isolation. It is good to see. Tell him that I wish him luck.”
Chona’s mouth was dry as she nodded.
“And I apologize as well,” Admiral Whistling Ash said. “It has been too long since I’ve allowed those with Talavan’s Gift to come aboard a Magecraft. I should have prepared you.”
“Tin,” Chona said, grabbing hold of his sleeve. “Don’t. Don’t look at it, okay?”
He started. “I wasn’t going to-”
“Just don’t. Not right now, okay?”
He looked at her, concerned. “Alright. I won’t. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Just… overwhelmed.” She looked at the Admiral. “How many people made this ship?”
“Counting only those with the Gift, several hundred, Madam Mage. It was a personal project of mine and Archmage Fallen Wave for several years.” He gave a deep, tired sigh. “Completed less than a year ago, in fact. Right as your people’s Waverake was nearing completion. A bitter irony.” He shook himself, straightening. “Once again, I apologize for my lapse. Shall we continue our discussion elsewhere? Room below is dreadfully sparse, but I can have comforts brought above deck.”
Tinvel perked up. “Absolutely! We’d love to-”
He stopped, glancing at Chona from the corner of his eyes. The archmage had swatted away her pain, but some part of her still felt a touch ill.
Tinvel’s expression shifted. “Actually, I have a better idea. Would you like to see the Sunrise in flight? We can begin showing you the heading to our fleet, and you can get a sense of what we can really do.”
The gray-haired Admiral had a remarkably childish expression on his face at hearing the offer.
“A proper demonstration, you say? To see what your craft can do when it really has the wind in its sails?”
Tinvel grinned. “We make our own wind, Admiral. But yes, something like that. I’ve also been rather curious to see how our ship might perform against a Magecraft, seeing as we’re likely to face a Sporaton one in the coming days. Do you think you could have your crew watch us do a few mock attack runs, and ask them afterwards to report how effectively they think they could defend the ship from us? Not, of course, the Archmage,” Tinvel added with a chuckle. “I’m pretty sure she could deal with us well enough. I’m more interested in arrows and javelins sent skyward by Irregulars.”
“A joint military exercise, then,” the Admiral said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “It is not without its political implications, you know. A Carrion Admiral and two Commanders of the Tulian Air Force training together presents a certain message to the wider world, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I’ll leave that angle of the decision to your expertise, Admiral.”
Barely a second passed before the Admiral spat out a dismissive “Bah!” and waved them on. “If my fellows don’t like it, I’ll ask yourselves and the crew to keep quiet about it. I see no harm in it, and I’m more than eager to see such a magnificent work of artificery in action. I will brief my crew while you prepare to…” He pursed his lips, looking amused. “...set sail? That’s not quite right, is it? How do you refer to the lifting of your vessel, this aeroplane?”
“Simply enough, Admiral. We call it ‘taking off.’ That’s all.”
“Then I look forward to seeing the Sunrise taking off, Commander Tinvel.” He nodded respectfully at Tinvel, then turned to Chona. “And to seeing your work as well, Commander Chona. You’ve impressed an Archmage today; that such a mage lives in Tulian will be something I tell many others.”
“There’s no need for that,” Chona said weakly. “I didn’t achieve much at all. Just-”
“Respectfully, Madam Mage, I trust Archmage Fallen Wave’s appraisal of your skill even more than your own. Now!” He turned and began speaking loudly in the Carrion language, causing his sailors to stir. She saw many of them taking out and stringing bows, others running below to grab barrels full of javelins.
While the deck burst into motion, she and Tinvel took to the Carrion boat waiting for them. As she settled onto the silken seats, Tinvel beside her, she let her weight fall onto his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You’re welcome,” he whispered back. “Promise to explain, later?”
“Yeah.”
Despite the warm air, Chona shivered.
For months now, she’d known that they were in over their heads. Professor Garen had told her that over and over and over.
It had taken two planks of a Carrion Magecraft to actually convince her of it.
Chapter 168: B3 Ch55: Leadership Styles
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Seareye
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Nestled within the reassuring privacy of folded wyvern wings, Seareye finally allowed himself to remove ink, quill, and paper from his bag. Ever since he had been condemned to this icy northern hell, his every step had been meticulously monitored. Either by the Warrior-King himself, who had been consumed by an obsession with wyverns that was trying even Taotri’s innate arrogance, or by an endless parade of slave-spies that rarely did more than hover about at the edge of a room, waiting for any command. Only here, embraced within the sweltering heat of his bonded wyvern’s flank, could he be certain he was not being spied upon.
It should come as no surprise to you, Mother, he wrote, that the barbarian army is as incongruous as the society which spawned it. The peasantry is provided a spear, helm, and padded shirt (a primitive wool-stuffed garment called a ‘gambeson’, so stuffy it would certainly kill any who wore it in a warmer climate), and nothing more. They are prepared well enough for marching, enough to competently maneuver on the field of battle, but the combat training they are provided is appalling. I have seen them trained only in basic footwork, the essentials of the thrust, and how to rotate through the line whilst locked in melee. All else is alien to them. They are not an army. They are a sanctioned mob.
Which makes it all the stranger to see those which lead them. Though it pains me to admit it, Mother, their “Knighthood” puts many of our Warriors to shame. They are each bred, born, and raised to be a great many things, and the fruits of their labor are plain to see. I now fear that two centuries of war have created in the Empire a dullness of the soul. Our Warriors are soldiers alone, lonesomely skilled at the art of battle. Exceptionally so, yes, but only in the dance of death. These Knights are so much more. Dressed in the finest of armors and wielding exquisitely enchanted weapons, they are statesmen and diplomats, artists and artificers, and yes, they are all soldiers and leaders. Amongst the most honored of their society are even their so-called “Warrior Poets”! Such a strange philosophy, yet one I find myself increasingly enamored with. Would our terrible war have lasted nearly so long if our leaders personally took to the field of battle?
Taotri’s wing lifted briefly, allowing a hideous gust of chilling wind to make its way into Seareye’s shelter. Her head snuck through the gap as she curled upon herself like a cat, her forelimb lowering to thankfully seal the scaly tent once more.
“What are you spending so much time writing?” She asked, fist-sized eyes glittering in the lanternlight. “Your mother is hardly worth so much consideration.”
He sighed. Taotri, though she had met his family only once, thought very little of them. Wyverns were possessive creatures. She knew his parents had strongly opposed his chosen path, and so considered them contemptible scoundrels.
“I am telling my House of these northern wastelands,” he said, choosing a tack less likely to result in an argument over his parent’s worth. Taotri would never be convinced someone who tried to keep them apart was worthy of respect. “It is part military report, part journal, and a large volume of inane rambling.” He scoffed at himself. “There is so little to do that I’ve been reduced to idle journaling. Perhaps I’ll become one of those poet-writing Knights before long.”
Taotri’s distasteful huff burned away the last of the chill air. “You would do no such thing. This skirmish that we’ve been assigned to will be resolved soon enough, and we will be back to the fight for our homes. I would not let you rot your arms with the pitiful scratching of quills.”
“We fight an army backed by a Chosen,” Seareye gently reminded her. “And the very weapons the Adjutant so desires were invented by our new enemies. You mustn’t fall prey to overconfidence.”
“The King claims his soldiers nearly defeated the rogue Chosen during their first conflict, and now he intends to march upon her city with five times the number of troops. What is there to fear?”
“History is full of battles lost by the larger force,” he warned her, falling into the role of a lecturing parent. Wyverns grew and learned so rapidly that he had to go to great lengths to remember Taotri was barely into her tenth year. Her impressive knowledge was not yet tempered by wisdom. “The enemy uses weapons and devices unknown to us, some of which are claimed to fly as fast and nimbly as yourself, difficult though that may be to believe. I am confident they are no match for you,” he quickly added, cutting off her objection, “but they are artifices of wood and metal. How many they can construct, how often, and how rapidly they can replace them, we do not yet know.”
“Hmph.” A snort of flame burst from her nostrils as she laid her head on the stones, turning her gaze away from him. “Let a thousand of the wooden mayflies take to the skies against me. I will turn the forest to ash with their falling corpses.”
“I do not ask for cowardice, my dear. Only caution.”
One great eye rolled to stare drolly at him. “And you believe there is a difference?”
“There is.” Seareye grunted as he stood, stretching out his legs. “And you know it, too. Now, if you would please allow me to make my exit?”
She huffed again, irritated at the slightest implication of her vulnerability, but lifted a wing.
Seareye braced himself against the chill as he blinked his way into the afternoon light, a racing wind seeping into his bones. This city was even more northern than the frigid capital, and it wore at him terribly. So hostile was the winter of this land that even the soil itself had died, greeting him with the sight of long rows of barren fields separated by dry, yellowed grass, the dead hills crunching beneath his every step. The pale locals always seemed confused by his choice to wear a long, furred cloak, but he didn’t care. Seareye was convinced the damnable frost had long since eaten away their ability to notice their own suffering. They kept claiming it was fortunate he hadn’t been present during “true” winter, when the entire land was coated in ice, as if some mad archmage had cursed the entire Kingdom. For once, he wholeheartedly agreed with their barbarian jabbering. If such a thing really was possible, he wanted no part of it.
The city the King had directed them towards was, even by the provincial standards of this land, a shameful affair. Barely some thirty-thousand people lived within the walls which marked the northwesternmost edge of the Sporaton dominion, yet it was nonetheless the home of several supposedly important dignitaries. The King had asked Seareye and Taotri to accompany him north in order to sway them to support the coming war.
That the King had to use such petty appeals spoke poorly to the state of his realm. The more Seareye listened to the whispers of the barbarian nobility, the more he realized just how devastating the previous assault upon the city of Tulian had been to Sporaton stability. The King had cemented his early rule by conquering dozens of coastal city-states, yet now, at the height of his power, he had been turned back by an enemy less numerous and more inexperienced than any of his old adversaries. True, a Chosen headed them, but society’s elites seemed to consider her a lesser sort of Chosen– one born for speech-making, not war. In their estimates, she should have contributed little of consequence to the war.
Though Seareye thought it impossible that the King failed to note the fragility of his authority, the ruler showed no outward concern. The King, as he was fond of saying, was still the King. In the northerner’s traditions, the King was not the mere ruler of a land– he was the kingdom. All were beneath him, and all existed to serve his will. Such was his right.
The reality was quite different, of course. As Seareye made his way through the city gates, shoulders hunched against the wind, he took note of strange figures in the crowd. Wearing simple robes and wooden masks, there was nothing about their countenance which suggested a higher stature than the peasantry. Yet the strange cultists— religious acolytes, he supposed they should now be considered— walked among the commoners like nobles, heads held high, expecting all else to make way.
Will our Adjutant be allowing similar figures to prowl the Empire? Seareye wondered. It wasn’t something he should concern himself with, yet his curiosity burned all the same.
The discovery of a new divinity had, even more than the King’s military losses, shaken the people of Sporatos. Their barbarian religion had still clung to the concept of a simple pantheon, one in which they attributed all the world’s workings to the machinations of nine distinct gods. The discovery of a tenth god– or in the educated Imperial form, a tenth domain– had shaken the populace to their core. Though the King had announced that Sporatos would be embracing the formerly hidden deity, urging his populace to seek its favor as often as they did their others, nothing could remove the trepidation from the people.
It was not helped by the masked priest’s maddeningly uninformative lectures. They spoke constantly of loyalty and worship, pride and satisfaction, but almost never defined any of the terms they chose. Their only concern was recruiting followers of their faith, not professing the values that their divinity represented. They offered only vague promises and unclear explanations.
The rhetoric held no sway over Seareye. The northerner’s pitiful grasp of divinity’s nature was perhaps the most barbaric element of their entire society. As his tutors had taught him from a young age, it had been millennia since the Empire’s populace had been so ignorant as to believe in a nine-deity pantheon. It had long ago been decreed that there were hundreds, possibly thousands of gods, all loosely allied within their nine (now known to be ten) domains. The idea that the Chosen was the scion of a single god, the so-called “Amarat”, was so absurd that he frequently had to bite back his chortling laughter. How could one god embody so much? They claimed that their simplistic deity was the divine progenitor of every last Emotion and Bond. Compassion and rage, lust and apathy, depression and joy, all those and everything between, this “Amarat” supposedly represented them all. To them, that meant that Sara Brown represented every element of such a vast swathe, too.
Seareye did not let himself be bothered by their ignorance. It mattered little. His only question of relevance was one which couldn’t be asked, much less answered: Which real god did the Chosen represent? Those who had fought her called Sara Brown the ‘Mad Champion,’ but the accounts of her actions were too calculated for her to be the Chosen of Insanity. Her contempt for those she deemed ‘lesser’, most obviously the nobility, was rather famed amongst the Sporatons, and by every account that contempt was fueled by a primal, guttural rage. Yet Seareye did not think she could be the Scion of Fury, either. No such Chosen would be content to sit in her city, passively building defenses in anticipation of an assault to come. The other Divine Emotions he had considered, such as Lust, Greed, Avarice, Pride, Arrogance, all had their explanations for why they did not fit. Though it was frustrating, he’d begun to accept that there was no way for him to know more without meeting the woman himself. The Sporaton accounts were too scattered and contradictory.
And meeting the woman myself is decidedly unwise, he reminded himself. He was a citizen of one of her ally’s enemies, and directly aiding the largest threat to her people in the form of King Sporatos. If she let him live through their encounter, he doubted it would be for any reason he found palatable.
He was halfway to his destination when an escort found him. Seareye had no difficulty navigating in the miniscule city, seeing as he was searching for the city’s Keep, which stood several times the height of any other building, but some sort of search party had apparently been sent for him anyway. A squadron of spearmen recognized him on sight and saluted him in the northern style, flat hands touching fingernails to their brow, then fell in around him. One woman, a young girl who couldn’t be more than halfway through her second decade, was the only one among their number who was blessed with steel armor of any worth. Neither enchanted nor exceptionally well-made, it was a suit of armor intended to ape the elegance of a Knight without the funds required to succeed. The girl nodded sharply at him.
“It was good fortune which led us to see you here, Sir Seareye. On behalf of the Great King Sporatos, we of the Nessgall family have been assigned the privilege of offering you an escort from your camp to Lord Hasskind’s manor. Will you allow us the honor?”
He suppressed a sigh. This form of politicking, at least, was deeply familiar. He’d suffered it himself often enough. This woman was likely the young child or grandchild of some middling local nobility, a House insignificant enough that they hoped to curry prestige by mere proximity to an honorable guest. Before he had bonded with Taotri, Seareye’s family had sent him on many such escorts. Knowing her position all too well, he pitied the girl too much to refuse her tiresome offer.
“You may,” he said, even as he looked up and over the ramshackle dwellings to the domineering Keep. “Though I did not fear losing my way. Lord Hasskind-” he butchered the pronunciation, mediocre translation magic failing to prevent his tongue from turning the foreign word into something more like Hoss-Kend, “-certainly claims the title of most prominent structure in the city.”
“That he does, Sir,” the woman replied, finally dropping her salute. “But you’ll be walking through the streets to get there, exposed to every peasant’s wandering eyes.” The girl’s eyes fell to his sidesword. “Though I am certain you would deal with any wandering hands adequately enough, the Nessgall family would rather you not spend the time cleaning a bloody blade.”
He could no longer suppress the sigh; it slipped out before he caught it. Ten years with Taotri had eased the memories of the nobility’s ignorance. That this Nessgall girl truly thought some peasant would dare reach for the pockets of an armed and armored man spoke volumes as to her ignorance. He scanned the eyes of her companions, who were clearly all peasants as well. They showed no reaction to her words. Used to that sort of talk, he supposed.
As Seareye walked, now with a cordon of spear-wielding guards around him, he resisted the urge to keep glancing hard to the side. Several of the peasant guards were walking in his blind spot, and it made him itchy. The young girl escorting him walked on his good side, head on a swivel. She was taking her farcical duty seriously. Something was bothering her.
“You may speak freely, young Nessgall.”
“Thank you, Sir. If it is my place to ask, may I know if your noble steed will be attending the meeting, Sir?”
“Taotri, you mean?”
“Taotri…” She spoke the name carefully, running her tongue over the consonants and vowels. “Is that the creature’s name?”
“It is her name, yes,” Seareye said, putting heavy emphasis on Taotri’s gender. Too many of those unfamiliar with wyverns thought of them like beasts, with no concern for their individuality. “She has decided she will not attend the meeting. There is little in the way of accommodation for her, and she could contribute little of consequence to the conversation.”
After all, both she and I are only here as a token to be put on display and bragged of, the bitter part of Seareye’s mind added.
“I see,” the girl breathed, amazed. “So it is true that wyverns speak?”
Ah. So the barbarians know this little? I suppose she is too young to know much better. I was certainly ignorant at her age.
“Wyverns can be as clever as you or I,” he confirmed, “and their mastery of language frequently exceeds even the best of our kind. Taotri is only ten years old, but she is already fluent in three dialects of the Imperial language.”
“Truly?” Behind a military visor, girlish eyes grew wide as saucers. “My tutors have been teaching me several of the eastern tongues, but I still struggle to remember much of the intricacies. To only be ten years old and to know multiple languages, I cannot imagine-” The passion in her voice faded as the girl remembered their relative stations. She cleared her throat. “Ah-hem. My apologies for acting with undue familiarity, Sir. I thank you for answering my question. I have seen Noble Taotri from the walls, and ask that you give her my compliments. She is as magnificent an example of her kind as I ever could expect from what I have read.”
Seareye allowed himself a small smile. “I see that you have heard of the wyvern’s weakness for flattery, hm?”
She stiffened. “I did not mean-”
“Do not worry,” he cut her off. “It is a well-known truth. Wyverns are vain creatures by nature, yes, but I will warn you, they are not fools, either. Though they may adore a sycophant, they are more than capable of detecting dishonest praise. So long as you give compliments freely and honestly, you’ll satisfy them.”
“I see.”
They walked onward for a time in silence. The peasantry huddled in eaves and alleyways, whispering in awe as they passed. Seareye paid them little mind. The common folk were even more easily impressed than Taotri.
He could tell that his escort was working up the courage to say something. She was visibly nervous, sweating even in the abominably chill air, and her eyes kept darting his way, mouth half-opening for an instant, then shutting with a toothy click. While the Nessgall family had sent her in hopes that their House would become proudly associated with a foreign power, at least in some small way, it seemed the girl had been given more than one task. Seareye did not bother to react to her. Either she would work up the courage or she wouldn’t. Truthfully, he hoped she wouldn’t.
Her fingers twisted on the hilt of her sword’s pommel. She took a breath.
“If I may ask you a question, Sir?”
A brave child. How unfortunate.
“Yes, you may,” he said, hiding his impatience.
“It is well known that the King wishes to gather an army with which to assault the Mad Champion’s dominion, Sir. But it is not known how, exactly, he intends to do so. We Nessgalls wish to best prepare our lands to serve our Lord, but struggle to prepare with so little information. Are you at liberty to share how, exactly, our noble King intends to bring his loyal subjects to bear?”
She was painting the references to her family’s loyalty with an exceptionally thick brush. Seareye wondered if these Nessgalls had a reputation for opposing the King’s will, or if the girl was simply paranoid that she would be misinterpreted.
Whichever was the case, Seareye supposed it wasn’t out of place for him to toss such a minor House a few crumbs. She reminded him too much of his younger self to not provoke a sense of pity.
“The King intends to transport his army to the south in a rapid, efficient manner,” Seareye replied. They turned a corner onto a busy street, and he lowered his voice accordingly, so the peasants wouldn’t overhear. “He hasn’t the inclination nor time to march tens of thousands of souls across hundreds of miles. If your House truly wishes to prepare themselves for service, you must do so quickly. Once the King’s forces are gathered, they will be in the fight far sooner than any expect.”
Excitement glittered in the girl’s eyes. She had just won a major piece of information for her House, no doubt. Her parents would be proud of her.
The opportunity now recognized, she did not let up.
“I thank you, Sir, and assure you, the Nessgalls shall be preparing to commit themselves to the effort at once. Though I cannot speak for my grandfather, perhaps we will be sending our levies to the coast at all due speed, in hopes of being the first upon the transports.”
“Transports?” Seareye suppressed a chuckle. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do. The King is not going to send his army by sea.”
Seareye knew this for an utmost fact. One of the earliest meetings he had been present for had been the King traveling to his coastal dominions, trying to whip his diminutive Navy into a frenzy. He had failed outright; the lone surviving Sporaton Admiral had risked his life by directly refusing to sail mundane ships against the Tulian Navy. He had begged the King to allow his ships to replicate the enemy’s cannons, explaining how impossible it was for anything less than a Magecraft to overcome such a disadvantage.
That Admiral had been executed for insubordination. He was then replaced by a particularly loyal captain, but King Sporatos, thankfully, did not push the point further. He had accepted, if only in private, that the Tulian Navy would run amuck against a fleet of half-armed transport ships. The Admiral’s execution had been required, but the late fellow had made his point, if only post-humously.
“If the King is not sending our army by sea, how does he intend to reach Tulian so rapidly?” The girl’s confusion was evident.
“That, I am afraid, I am not at liberty to say,” Seareye replied. “But I assure you, if House Nessgall follows your Lord’s instructions, you will achieve your goal of serving with faith and diligence. Now,” Seareye nodded forward, indicating the Keep which now stretched upward before them. “I believe we have arrived. I thank you for your escort, ma’am. I wish you luck in your own and your family’s endeavors.”
“Thank you, Sir. May your own efforts meet success.”
Seareye left her without further comment, moving through the great fortified doors which a pair of guards opened for him. The meeting would be starting soon, if it hadn’t already. Seareye’s role would be the same as ever: stand in the corner in silence, speaking only when called upon. He would explain his role in the Imperial Armies, then what the Adjutant had promised in aid to King Sporatos, then he would fall silent for the remainder of the meeting. It was a dull, repetitive affair.
Even in the stone walls of the Keep, Seareye tightened his cloak against the chill. He despised this hellish cold. The sooner that he could be back to civilization, the better.
Notes:
A half length update tonight, I'm afraid. Silksong's release may have um. Had some consequences. I apologize for that. I'm hoping to make it up partially by releasing the latest update of my other ongoing smut series, Best Part of Town, later this week. Apologies again.
Chapter 169: B3 Ch56: A Subtle Allusion
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Sara Brown
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“There’s not much more to it than what y’can see from here,” the scout reported breathlessly. “A standard palisade facing the road’s exit, about ten feet high and a couple hundred feet long, pretty firmly set into the dirt. Well-made, I’d say. Not easy to knock down without artillery. No way to exit the road without passing well within even their shoddy musket’s range, but the walls don’t go much further than those curves you can see tapering off to the left and right. After that, it’s just piles of dirt and some half-finished stakes. Looks like we caught ‘em before they could turn this into a proper fort, ma’am.”
Studying the defenses through her spyglass, Sara grunted. “Huh. Dirt?”
“Piles of it, ma’am. Not my place to say, since I couldn’t rightly see behind ‘em, but I think they’re digging trenches.”
“Don’t like that,” Sara said to no one in particular. “They’re learning too fast.” Thick piles of dirt outperformed both wood and stone in resisting cannonfire, so long as neither of the latter were enchanted. And using trenches already showed that they were picking up the advantages and disadvantages of flat-trajectory weapons.
“Won’t help ‘em here though, will it?” The scout asked.
Sara snapped her spyglass closed. “No. Not in the end. But it’ll make this whole thing more of a pain in the ass than I wanted.” She shot the scout a cocky, reassuring grin. “‘Course, I’ll always be saying that. My favorite sort of battle is when they roll over and give up before we pull a single trigger.”
The scout grinned. “Too right, ma’am.”
The previous day, General Borek had finally decided to put the Powdered Lead’s superior mobility to use. Four hundred riflemen had been sent ahead on their bikes to scout in force, trying to reach a large clearing in the jungle before one of the three opposing rebel forces could seize and fortify it. What would have been three or four days marching became not even a single day’s ride, an advantage Sara had hoped to use by putting her Combat Engineers to work constructing defenses of their own.
The original plan for the campaign, that of marching up to various rebel cities and blowing their walls down with cannonfire, had been dashed by the unprecedented speed that their enemies were adapting. By the scattered reports of Imperial spies– and secretly confirmed by a letter Graf had sent to Evie– the rebels were planning to assemble a massive blackpowder army north of the jungle wall. The Imperials were terrified that, free of the jungle which forced their marching speed down to a crawl, the enemy could capture any and every loyalist city in the northern jungle regions at their whim.
Sara, of course, had her own paranoia. Those three armies were marching toward Tulian. She didn’t know if they’d fully turn it into an assault, not when Tulian itself wasn’t technically at war with the rebellious half of the Empire, but if they did, that would be it for the fledgling Republic. She was already dealing with a vague warning of powerful entities stirring across the world, anticipating the impending Sporaton invasion, and now she might have to deal with the world’s second blackpowder army all bearing down on Tulian. She wasn’t confident in defeating even one of those threats, much less all three. The North Star fortress had been completed, but the South Star wasn’t even a quarter of the way through its construction, and wouldn’t be finished for months. The city’s walls were being repaired, but even if they could replicate Old Tulian’s enchantments– and that was a big if– they still wouldn’t be able to resist cannonfire. The Artificer’s Union had been working on methods to enchant reinforced concrete, but it was slow going. Materials that weren’t uniform in their composition, their research was showing, had a nasty habit of resisting enchantments.
“What are your orders, ma’am?” A Lieutenant asked.
“Skirmish formation,” Sara said immediately. “Advance slowly, try to draw them out, then drop to the mud and start turning heads inside out. If we can’t bait them into showing their faces, or if we’re not getting the better of the exchange of fire, we’ll pull back and re-evaluate.”
A chorus of “Yes ma’am!” answered her, officers breaking to jog back to their positions.
If they’d brought the artillery with them, this wouldn’t even be a battle. She could have bounced iron cannonball after iron cannonball right through the enemy defenses, scattering wood and limbs alike. But there was no way that a bunch of people on bikes could reasonably pull the giant bronze weapons at the kind of speed that they could reach when uninhibited.
Of course, if Sara had known they’d be facing any type of fortification, she might have been more willing to take her time in arriving.
Whistles blew sharp notes across the road, Lieutenants passing orders to Sergeants who began yelling at their squads. The Powdered Lead was maybe a half-mile back from the rebel palisade, bunched in by the nature of the road. Based on Hurlish’s testing, the rebel muskets had an accurate range of about fifty meters, and a lethal range of about a hundred and twenty meters. Her dad said that was more pitiful than the very worst of Earth’s muskets, at least once the technology moved beyond matchlocks and arquebusiers. Still, that didn’t change the fact that, within a hundred meters or so, their oversized lead balls could punch straight through a Tulian soldier’s helmet or breastplate. The steel might deflect a shot at greater ranges than that, but the enemy surely had to know better than to waste shots beyond that.
Sara eyed the palisade. Even still, after so long spent away from Earth, it was a little bit surreal to see something so antiquated with her own two eyes. Tall logs had been stripped of their bark, tips sharpened, then lashed together with thick ropes. The row of giant toothpicks showed no signs of movement. Whoever was in command of the enemy had clearly recognized the green-clothed Powdered Lead for what they were. None of them would be showing their faces at a distance that her riflemen could pick them off with impunity, as she had in every other battle.
Two hundred years of war teaches some bitter lessons, she mused. Sara doubted that a single one of the soldiers in that half-finished fort really understood how their new muskets worked, but they didn’t need to. That was the terrible beauty of guns: load, aim, kill. When it came to defending a static defensive area, you didn’t need to be a West Point graduate to figure out the best way to hold your ground.
But you might need to be one to figure out how to take it without casualties. God, I wish Evie was here.
Despite her guards, Evie had felt uncomfortable leaving Hurlish alone for the time that the Powdered Lead would be off scouting. It could be two entire days, after all. Sara had suggested that Mui be trusted with her protection instead, but to her surprise, Evie and Mui had both refused the idea. Evie was staying with Hurlish, and that was a declaration, not a suggestion.
As the Powdered Lead gathered up steam, Sara sent her Blessings radiating outward, searching for the catfolk man who’d come with her. He’d been more than twitchy around her for the past few days, and he’d asked her not to pry. So far, she’d tried her best. Mui had asked for his privacy, and that was the least she could give him. It was hard to narrow her Blessings in such a way that they excluded him, especially when he was in a group she was analyzing, but she’d put the effort in.
She found Mui’s voice murmuring amongst the soldiers of Second Squadron, his thick accent stark against the others. Sara began making her way toward the man, absentmindedly giving the usual smiles, nods, and salutes to the soldiers she passed.
“So,” Sara announced as she walked up behind Mui, taking care to make sure his ears had swiveled her way before speaking. “You’re going with Second Squadron this time? Not going to serve as an Irregular?”
“The only Warrior– Irregular– present here is you, Sara,” Mui said, focusing on one last wipe-down of his rifle. “I couldn’t keep up with you if I tried.”
Sara’s instincts pinged like radar that had just discovered a mountain coming in for a landing. With a concerted mental effort, she shut off every last one of her Blessings. Even without them, she could have probably drawn her own conclusions, but she refused to. Amarat’s Blessings were too much. They made her inhuman. Even that little hint was something she couldn’t stomach using.
“We’ll mostly be riflemen for the first part of the assault,” Sara said, “but if it comes down to a melee, there’s no better spear to have at my back than yours.”
“Which squadron will you be serving with?” Mui asked. He wrapped a cloth rag around his rifle’s ramrod and pushed it down the barrel. It came out spotless. He pushed it back down again, with more force.
“Third squadron, on the right flank. If they’ll let us, I might want to flank around, see if we can pop some shots off at anyone hiding behind the wall.”
“I see.” He ran the ramrod through a third time, pulling out a rag as spotless as the first and second, then flipped the gun around, lifting the hammer to inspect the ignition crystal’s casing. “And I assume that if you see an opening, you’ll charge Third Squadron in against the wall itself?”
“If I see an opportunity? Yeah, no shit. I’d expect the same from fourth squadron on the other side. We’ve already pre-arranged a signal to avoid crossfire. It’d be awful to end up shooting past the enemy into our own troops.”
“Yet, by the words making their way through the ranks, you don’t expect to achieve anything more than a probing of the defenses.”
“Yep. Planning for the unexpected includes failure and success both.”
Mui’s ears flicked. Though still sitting to inspect his rifle, he looked up at Sara, bemused. “I’ve trained only twice with Evie, and that’s more than enough to recognize the way those words were spoken. A maxim she appropriated from her old mentor, yes?”
Sara laughed. “You got me. Probably, I mean. I don’t know if it’s really from Graf, but it’s definitely from Evie. She and Graf could write a whole book of crap like that.” Sara rested her own rifle butt on the ground, offering a hand to Mui. “So. Want to shuffle over to Third Squadron?”
Though he spent a few seconds looking visibly conflicted, he took her hand quickly enough. She pulled him to his feet, then hooked her foot beneath his sheathed bayonet and tossed it into the air next to his head. In one smooth motion he caught the blade and slotted it onto the barrel, nodding at her.
“If you do charge into battle,” he warned her, “remember that I won’t be able to follow. Stay close.”
She smirked, dropping her voice. “Oh, don’t worry about me staying close.”
Mui just stared at her.
Sara felt something clench in her gut. She did her best to ignore it.
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Four hundred riflemen of the Powdered Lead approached the palisade in a loose skirmish formation. Though pinned in by the thin jungle road, every soldier maintained at least six feet or so of distance from their fellows, forming a checkerboard pattern that was steadily marching its way towards the simple wooden wall.
It was the first time they’d be going into battle under such an arrangement, and Sara found herself unexpectedly paranoid. Once upon a time, Sara had bought into the idea that the British armies of the Revolutionary War, fighting in unwieldy blocks of red-coated soldiers, had been defeated by Native American-inspired colonial tactics. She’d thought, like many people, that standing in a line through a gunfight was one step removed from patiently queuing for a bullet through the eye. Suicidal, in a word.
Evie, then her dad, had taught her better. While it was far harder to hit a single target than it was a thick-pressed line of soldiers, it was equally difficult to force your way through a wall of bayonets. When the battle came down to a melee— and it almost always did— isolated soldiers would be run under and trampled by determined squads, helpless to fight back. Not to mention what would happen against the Sporaton Cavalry; even a ten-deep line had barely been enough to repel enchanted horsemen. A skirmish line really was suicide when cavalry was on the field.
So, though veteran Imperial skirmishers had personally trained the Powdered Lead in the tactic at hand, Sara was nervous. Not for herself. She could lean on the inherent arrogance of being a god’s chosen soldier. Her concern was leaving her troops so exposed. They’d be safer from errant arrows and bullets, but it was far harder to issue orders to such a widely-spread group. Scouting reports said that the enemy didn’t have enough soldiers to risk a charge out of their half-finished fort, but what if they’d missed something? She hated it.
She hated going into battle without Evie even more. Regardless of what was going on between her and Mui, her wife would have been right there beside Sara if she’d known there would be a battle. Sara felt certain that Evie would know exactly what was waiting behind that palisade, scouting reports be damned.
She’s going to be furious when she finds out I went into battle without her. Nothing for it, though.
“Halt!” Sara called out.
They’d almost reached the point where the jungle began to spread wider than the road, curving outward. The palisade was about a hundred and twenty meters away. Just far enough that the hidden enemy wouldn’t be wasting bullets and powder by taking potshots.
“Begin preparations!” Sara shouted as she took a knee, setting down the large box she’d been carrying. With a practiced motion, she swung her shoulder-cannon off her back with one hand, the other cracking open the ammunition locker’s lid. The cloth-lined interior bristled with the dull lead tips of two pound bullets sitting atop an equally-sized bag of blackpowder.
She broke open her gun, inspecting the barrel for obstructions. All around her, the Powdered Lead began to ready themselves in a way quite unusual to this world:
Stretching.
To the rhythmic counting of their officers, the Powdered Lead mercenaries began bending over to touch their toes, rolling out their shoulders, and working out any kinks in their back they might have. A number of soldiers even called over a fellow to rub at some knot or other in their back, massaging out the tension.
To the spectating Imperials, it had to be a borderline comedy show. Stretching out your muscles for exercise was something people were known to do in the Empire, but it was mostly associated with old, wrinkled soldiers and workers, the sort who genuinely needed to pop their joints before doing hard labor. To the Imperial eye, the Powdered Lead looked like four hundred young, fit men and women doing their best impression of an arthritic grandfather.
“You ready, Mui?” Sara asked, clicking her gun closed.
“I am,” he confirmed, looking about with mild amusement. He had his musket in his hand, and hadn’t joined the group exercise. “You intend to begin the battle with that horrifying thing?”
“Yup. I know it won’t do much to actually knock down the walls,” at least until I get explosive shells for it, “but it’ll help keep their heads down while the Powdered Lead deploy. Remember, we’re on the rightmost flank, so we’re going to have to run hard to catch up.”
“That is why you selected me, yes? So that you would have an ‘Irregular’ capable of matching your pace?”
Sara lifted her gun, pressing the wooden stock against her smirk. “Oh, is that it? You think you can match my pace?”
“I-”
BOOM!
Sara’s shoulder wrenched backward, a cone of smoke painting the air before her. Through the haze, she saw wood splinters fly. A touch higher than she’d been aiming for.
The ground rumbled as she snatched up another round, breathing deeply of the smoke which rolled from her gun’s breach as she snapped it open. The Powdered Lead broke into a dead sprint, moving to take their positions as soon as possible. Sara glanced down her gun’s barrel to search for lingering sparks, then shoved the next round into place, closing the piece.
BOOM!
Another layer of drifting smoke joined the first, turning the haze to a fog. The pops and crackles of distant musketfire answered her, heads popping up over the palisade for just long enough to squeeze off a half-aimed shot.
Yep, they’ve heard about us. She smiled toothily. Heard enough about us to be afraid.
She loaded another round, aimed for the densest bit of smoke lingering around the palisade, and sent a round that way.
BOOM!
The process sped up. She loaded, fired, and loaded again, doing her best to remind the rebels that their palisade wasn’t enough to keep them perfectly safe. Rather quickly, the first squads of Powdered Lead reached their positions and dropped to the grass, waiting for an enemy face to appear between their crosshairs. The distance they’d put their fort from the road became a mixed blessing for the rebels. It kept their attackers close enough to suffer from return fire, true, but it was also only a hundred meters. The Powdered Lead trained to hit a man-sized target at five hundred.
Macabre paintings began leaking down the front of the palisade, the gore of heads which had been burst like overripe fruit. Sara was glad that she wasn’t in earshot of the rebels. She didn’t need her Blessings feeding her their panicked shouts.
As she blindly reached for another round, Sara was surprised by one getting pressed into her hand too early. She looked to the right to find Mui, onyx fur even more distinctive amongst the white powder smoke. He held several rounds in one hand, the other ready to give her the next.
They were both too deaf to hear a word, but she shot him a grateful smile. The next round fell into her gun even faster than the last, a quick jerk of the trigger sending it off to punch another fist-sized hole through the wooden fortress.
With Mui feeding her ammunition and musketfire revealing rebel positions, Sara’s rate of fire increased even further. She chewed into the ammunition crate’s supply faster than ever before, shot after shot, until she felt her shoulder-cannon protesting every time she broke it open, grains of unburnt blackpowder choking up even that simplest of mechanisms. She should have stopped to clean it, but she could literally see the effect she had on the battle. Everywhere she shot, the fire would die down for ten, twenty seconds, the rebels temporarily cowed by the sight of a bullet ripping straight through their protection. Every moment Sara spent not shooting was another bullet sent toward troops that had entrusted her with their lives.
As she cracked open the gun yet again, a worrying volume of sparks spraying out into the air behind her, she accepted another round from Mui. It felt different in her hand, but in the heat of the moment she barely thought about it. There wasn’t enough time to care.
Until she pulled the trigger.
She felt muscles tear as her shoulder wrenched backward, her entire body twisting hard around as she was shoved into the dirt. Black smoke, not white, belched from the barrel, and the lead which flew forth broke the sound barrier with that all-too-distinctive crack!
“Sara!” Mui cried, lunging after her.
“Mmmgood,” she mumbled through a mouthful of mud, shoving herself up with her good arm. “Shit,” she breathed, shaking her head to clear the hallucinatory doubling of her vision.
Mui helped her up, inspecting her for what he doubtlessly expected to be terrible wounds. “What happened? Did the gun fail?”
“Hurlish made it,” Sara said, because that was all the answer that should be required as to whether or not the gun failed. “And that was a type of round I really should have warned you about.”
“What?” Mui’s fingers reached for her dented shoulderplate, which was, for the second time, digging deeply into the flesh of her shoulder. His claws popped out as he tried to pry it back. “The gun was supposed to do that?”
“The gun was, but I wasn’t,” Sara said. The right side of her jaw ached. The stock must have somehow kicked her head aside with the recoil. “You can’t tell anyone about that round, okay? Secret shit.”
He paused, looking up to meet her eyes. Catfolk expressions should have been hard for a human to read, but they weren’t for Sara. He met her gaze with an intensity that didn’t quite fit what otherwise would have been a simple question: “Why?”
“Secret shit,” Sara repeated. “Promise I’ll tell you later. Don’t have time now. Gotta get going.”
“Your shoulder-”
“Watch this.” Sara popped open a belt pouch and dragged a health potion to her mouth in the same motion, downing it in a single swig. Then she stood, dragging Mui up with her. “Alright. Far right flank. Fast as you can. Let’s go.”
Taking one last just-in-case round of ammunition with her from the otherwise empty crate, Sara shoved Mui ahead of herself, letting the catfolk man set the pace.
Ever the soldier, Mui didn’t hesitate to follow orders. He broke into a sprint, bayonet-tipped musket held close to his chest as he ran across the field. They kept close to the tree line, not wanting to end up in front of their own troop’s barrels.
Sara tried to work at her dented shoulderplate as they went, dragging the piece away from the blacksteel breastplate she always wore, but it became a progressively more painful effort as time went on. The potion was regrowing her flesh straight into the metal, wrapping the dented material in fresh pieces of meat. She could feel jagged pieces of shrapnel slicing open new wounds with every movement, her fingers growing bloodier every time she got a chance to glance at them.
With a curse, she reached up and dug her fingers under the entire piece, then heaved.
“FUCK!”
“What?” Mui didn’t stop running.
“Fucking… nothing!” She tossed the broken metal to the ground. Chunks of her body went with it. She grabbed a second health potion from her belt and downed it; only one left, now.
A stupid thing to do, a voice echoed in her head. It wasn’t her own; it was Evie’s. Apparently her subconscious wouldn’t accept the idea that she was actually going into a fight without her wife.
“Down!” Mui called.
Sara dropped without thought, momentum sending her skidding several feet further. She covered her head with both hands, bracing for impact.
A few seconds passed. She opened her eyes, looking around.
“What was it?”
Her answer came in two forms, neither of which were Mui’s voice: a sudden and violent escalation in the bark of rifles around her, and then the whoosh of something large and fast passing overhead.
Sara had just enough time to squeeze her eyes shut for the second time before her body was jolted by numerous fragments of something hard and cold, her armor making a sound like hail as projectiles bounced off her right side- the side not facing the enemy.
“Mage!” A voice called out. “All rifles target that raise between the divot and post!”
“Sara!” Mui yelled. “Are you injured?”
Sara quickly ran a hand down her right side, feeling the places she’d been hit. There were no severe puncture wounds, but there was a sliver of something cold in the soft meat of her knee. She plucked it from her skin, only for it to snap in half in her fingers before she could inspect it closely.
Ice mage. Must have cast something that hit the trees and exploded. How the hell did Mui see it coming so soon?
“No, I’m fine!” Sara rolled onto her side, grabbing her Hot Rifle. “Let’s get his ass!”
“Agreed!”
Sara brought her long, unwieldy rifle up to her shoulder, sweeping the sights left and right in search of the location described by the sergeant she’d overheard. A four-and-a-half foot musket was great for accuracy, but a pain in the ass to handle while prone.
She found the spot quickly enough. She and Mui had been forced to halt right in line with the end of the wooden palisade, where the solid defenses were replaced by a wall of loose, muddy soil. Between the last post of the palisade and a small latrine ditch was a particularly large lump of dirt, one that had been cratered with five times the bullet impacts as any other stretch of land.
The fire on the entire right flank had died down in the aftermath of the mage’s spell. The rebels didn’t miss the opportunity. Heads and musket barrels emerged in quick, darting flashes, spitting lead and smoke towards the long grass that two squadrons of the Powdered Lead were sheltering within.
“Hold!” The same sergeant from earlier yelled.
“Hold!” Sara called, her voice booming loud enough to shake the ground. “You know what to do! Wait for the bastard to show his face!”
She spoke in Continental, a language no Imperial rebel could have ever understood.
The Powdered Lead waited under the gradually intensifying gunfire of the enemy. Just like Sara, they held their fire, waiting for the right moment. They were a damned well-disciplined group of soldiers. Evie would have been proud to see them taking such a beating without so much as a single errant shot flying off. For the first time, Sara even noticed the addition of arrows in flight, arcing projectiles loosed from shortbows behind the wall. They came in sporadic, poorly-aimed volleys, a smattering of broadheads thumping into the dirt within the vague area that the enemy knew some of the Powdered Lead to be. Thanks to the skirmish formation they’d adopted, it was completely ineffective. Even if an arrow managed to get a lucky hit in, the Powdered Lead soldiers still wore partial steel plate armor, their heads and chests well-protected from such low-velocity bows.
In the end, the mage was smart enough that they didn’t end up showing themselves in the same place. They appeared about a dozen feet to the right of the rise Sara had been watching, their hands already glowing as they stepped up into view. Their left hand was covered in a shimmering grey, one that matched the discoloration of the air in front of them, while the other was a cool blue, a lump of ice half-finished emerging from their palm.
“To the right!” The sergeant yelled.
Forty rifles cracked in near-perfect unison as the Powdered Lead drew a bead on the mage, every last shot aimed for the dead center of their chest.
The mage staggered back, mouth open in shock. The ice in their hand slipped loose and burst into a wide spray of chromatic steam, the gray light flickering and nearly failing.
Sara put their shocked expression just above the metal bead of her rifle’s sight. She squeezed the trigger.
The forty-first shot to break the air was uniquely loud, producing that same telltale puff of black smoke as the one that had broken her shoulder. The bullet carved a laser-straight path through the air.
The mage’s shield failed with the sound of ripped stitching, a strange grey discoloration splattering itself across the ground for a dozen yards in every direction. A spray of blood from their chest almost hid the way they bonelessly dropped, limply rolling down and out of sight.
A cheer went up from the Powdered Lead, followed an instant later by the berating of officers who shouted at their troops to keep up the fire.
“Let’s go!” Sara yelled to Mui.
“A moment! Finishing loading!” Sara watched him shove his loading rod down the barrel, taking care not to slice his hand open on the weapon’s bayonet, then jerk the rod out and place it in its holder. “Ready!”
“Go!”
They both leapt up, sprinting forward in a half-crouch. Partially covered by the shade of the treeline, they didn’t attract much undue fire as they covered the fifty meters or so left to their destination.
“Alright, here’s good!” Sara called out, dropping to a knee. “Comence firing!”
“Yes ma’am!”
For a time, Sara and Mui did nothing more than act as common Tulian riflemen, though they both moved and loaded noticeably faster than the other soldiers. Sara didn’t keep using her emcotton ammunition. She’d only brought a few, since the cotton-wrapped bullets were difficult to discretely store on her person, and she was saving them for tougher targets. The Powdered Lead already knew about emcotton and its effectiveness, but the Imperials and rebels most certainly hadn’t. The less she used it, the longer it would remain effective.
The exchange of fire progressed at a grinding pace. The long grass hid her mercenary soldiers well, but they didn’t have much in the way of physical cover. They were half-hidden by the long grass, true, but that wasn’t enough to stop a bullet. The rebels were firing at puffs of smoke, hoping to get a lucky hit on targets they could barely see. Conversely, the Powdered Lead had clear, obvious silhouettes of enemy faces to shoot at, but could only do so when the enemy was kind enough to pop their heads over their defenses.
The Powdered Lead were still getting the better of it, of course. Rifled muskets carried by experienced, well-trained troops simply couldn’t be countered by primitively-constructed smoothbores. Unfortunately, luck still played the same role it always did in a battle. Sara was forced to listen to the occasional shouts of pain and shock as a lead projectile found its way into one of her soldiers’ bodies, often tearing straight through their armor. Though the dead center of a Tulian soldier’s breastplate was thick enough to deflect lower-speed projectiles, they were each laying in the grass, which was far from the best angle for protection. Bullets slipped between shoulderplates, smashed into helmets, and carved chunks from exposed limbs.
Sara hated it. Her troops were tearing the enemy apart, plucking their heads from the fortifications like feathers from a bird, but they were suffering for it. If they kept fighting like this, she knew they’d eventually win. There was only so much death a group of soldiers could take, only so many living bodies to replace the corpses at the wall.
But it would cost her. People who trusted her would die. Even though they were winning, doing so while laying so passive and still, practically providing target practice for the enemy, was grating at her terribly. The only alternative was to charge, of course, to fix bayonets and run the enemy under, but wouldn’t that be a far greater risk? They would be exposed in the open field while they closed the distance, every soldier giving their enemy a tall, wide target. She was convinced that the Powdered Lead would devastate the enemy when they finally came to grips, as the rebels still lacked any form of attachable bayonet, but was it worth it? Which path would cost more blood?
Gods, I wish Evie was here!
Forced to make the decision on her own, Sara’s eventual conclusion wasn’t surprising. She wasn’t built to let her troops sit there and suffer. Maybe a charge would be worse, maybe it would be better, but no matter what happened, at least she’d be doing something.
“Powdered Lead!” Sara’s voice hit the air like a cannonball, echoing across the entire battlefield. “Give ‘em lead, give ‘em steel!”
The absolute cacophony of cheers which rose in response to her call was profoundly gratifying. All across the battlefield, the cry was echoed back: “Give ‘em lead, give ‘em steel!” roared from nearly four hundred throats.
The rebels didn’t understand Continental, but they knew something was wrong. Sara’s voice alone partially cowed them, causing their gunfire to stutter, a hesitation which noticeably worsened when the Powdered Lead echoed her cry. All across the field, the crack of rifles abruptly stopped. To the enemy, that was the final sign that something was wrong.
The rebels surged forward, every single man and woman who had a musket taking a place on the dirt and wood fortifications. They poured shot after disorganized shot at the vague shapes in the field beyond their defenses, but with the Powdered Lead’s rifles silent, the puffs of smoke vanishing with the wind, it was almost impossible for them to find something worth aiming at.
Sara counted breaths, watching blackpowder clouds envelop the enemy. They fired desperately, trying to put a stop to a plan they couldn’t predict.
Then, almost as one, the fire tapered away. The enemy had fired off a massive, ragged, ill-aimed volley. Now they were stuck reloading.
“CHARGE!”
For the first time in the battle, music burst from Sara’s form. A groaning rumble of an abused synthesizer filled the air, heavy drums pounding emphatically behind a jumping chant. It was little more than bass put to a rhythm, but that was fine. It would serve its purpose.
Sara leapt to her feet in perfect, inhuman synchronicity with four hundred other soldiers. As if they were the many limbs of a single body, every mercenary on the field ducked into a hard sprint, bayonet-tipped rifles lowered to their waist. Their feet hit the ground in the same instant, their lungs filled with the same breath, and they raised a shout in one voice.
Sara bore her teeth as she watched the rebels ripple away from the wall, recoiling in fear. It was time to make them hurt.
Mui flew past the other mercenaries, even his five Levels sending his legs through three paces for every one that the others managed. Sara followed right behind, careful not to overtake him. In a handful of seconds, they’d broken through the mercenary crowd, boots throwing clumps of dirt as they tore across the open field.
For the first time in the battle, Sara heard the enemy’s words. One man screamed in a shrill panic, pointing.
“Shoot them! Shoot them!”
By the time he’d finished the second order, Mui was up and over the dirt wall.
He fired a shot while still in a dead sprint, sending a bullet through someone’s face. Without breaking stride, his bayonet tore into the eye socket of a woman who’d been too late to raise her musket in self-defense, jerking her off the wall entirely, momentum carrying her corpse and Mui over the hump.
Sara hit next. She didn’t even drop to a crouch. She just swung her rifle’s butt like a golf club, sending it through the skull of the soldier next to Mui’s victim. She pulled the trigger as her musket swung past another figure, dropping them with a bullet to the gut.
Then they were in the thick of it.
Sara thrust her bayonet through the neck of one soldier and jerked it out and to the side, slicing open the throat of a second soldier. The rest of those around her pulled knives and clubs, rushing forward with a terrified cry.
No one could deny their bravery.
Just their intelligence.
She broke one woman’s ribs with the butt of her rifle, caving in the face of a second with a left-handed punch. They fell in around her then, too close for the five-foot-plus rifle and bayonet, and so she dropped the gun.
And drew her sword.
Blood flew in wide arcs as she laid into the enemy. Sara realized that they were fighting in the same place where she’d downed the mage, because the soil was soaked an unnatural grey, like it had been rendered in black and white. She added color to it in the forms of blood and corpses, her blacksteel shortsword tearing through flesh and steel alike. Even those who managed to block her with their muskets found themselves dropping dead, the force of her swings driving the iron barrels into their bodies with awful, wet crunches.
She’d maybe killed a dozen or so by the time the rest of the Powdered Lead arrived. They mounted the dirt pile and came to a stop, putting their muskets to their shoulder as they aimed down.
Joined together by her Blessings, a single crackling volley ripped across the entire field. Hundreds of rebels dropped dead.
Then the Powdered Lead jumped down to begin the real slaughter.
Sara leapt over the piles of corpses she’d left, finding Mui. The catfolk’s armor was coated in almost as much blood as her own, but unlike Sara, not all of it was from others. He had several small cuts on his upper body, chance blows slicing neat lines in the few places his armor did not cover. None were life-threatening, and he didn’t seem to be in any pain.
“Where to next?” He’d shouldered his rifle, its bayonet covered in slowly-dripping gore, and replaced it with his still-unmarred Sergeant’s sword. “They will surrender soon, surely.”
“Not soon enough for me,” Sara snapped. She pointed into the center of the camp. “We’re gonna kill anyone who looks important.”
“Understood.”
The camp at the center of the fortifications, which had been hidden from view until this moment, was actually made up of a second ring of improvised fortifications. It was only another ring of piled-up dirt, not a full stockade, but it was still something. The few rebels who had escaped the Powdered Lead’s charge were retreating to it, harried the whole way by heavy rifle fire.
“Ma’am!” Someone shouted. Private Vadrill, her Blessings told her. “We need you over here!”
Sara and Mui didn’t exchange a single word before they darted toward the call, weapons drawn.
Private Vadrill was one mercenary amongst perhaps a dozen who’d surrounded a figure sprawled on the ground. He made way for Sara as she jogged up, pointing.
“She’s still trying to heal herself. Won’t stop no matter what we tell her.”
Her soldiers were aiming rifles at the mage from earlier, one who was, shockingly, still alive. Her robes were positively soaked in blood from the sternum down, flaking crimson half-dried and already attracting a thick collection of buzzing flies. She was impossibly, inhumanly pale, shivering violently, but her hands were aglow with magic, pressed tightly to her chest wound.
Out of an abundance of caution, Sara drew her pistol, pointing it at the woman’s forehead. She was about to start speaking when, to her utter shock, Mui stepped forward, pointing his rifle at the mage.
In a desperate lunge, Sara swung her pistol barrel up and to the side, knocking his gun off-target a bare millisecond before it went off. A chunk of dirt leapt into the air mere inches from the fallen mage’s head, making her flinch.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” She screamed.
“Killing the mage!” Mui yelled back. “Why has she been left alive?!”
“She’s harmless! Look at her!”
“A mage is not harmless until they are dead!”
Another of Evie’s maxims ran through her mind: until their body was stiff and cold, a mage was still dangerous.
“Hold your fire!” Sara barked, both to Mui and the mercenaries, half shocked she had to give the order at all. “Do not fire unless she attempts to cast a spell!”
“You will get us killed,” Mui snapped. “She will not surrender! She is gathering her strength even now!”
Sara was about to roar at him, fury tinting the edges of the world red, but she drew up short.
Mui was trembling, holding his rifle with all his strength. His eyes were filled with a wild rage as he glared at the mage, every muscle trembling under an incredible tension.
“Mui, get back,” Sara ordered, softening her words as much as her anger would allow. “I will deal with this.”
“But-!”
“Back! Now!” Sara took a breath, then raised her voice so the entire field could hear her. “Surround the enemy, but do not push further! Surviving officers of the Imperial Rebellion, decide amongst yourself who will discuss terms of surrender! You have five minutes!”
Mui did retreat as ordered, but he did so by jogging backward, loading his rifle as he went. He didn’t let his attention leave the mage for a single instant.
Sara closed her eyes, concentrating. She’d have to deal with that later. She was already trying to temper her anger. Mui had spent five years at war, she reminded herself. Gods knew what horrific things he’d seen mages do to his friends.
Sara, still keeping her pistol pointed at the mage, crouched down. She met the woman’s eyes. Even when surrounded by the ashen skin of a dying woman, there was a bubbling, furious hatred on her face.
“Surrender,” Sara said. “Stop casting that spell, accept being bound, and we’ll give you healing potions.”
A quiet, furious hiss was all the mage could manage.
“No.”
“I will kill you if I have to. I don’t want to. There’s no point.”
“Mad Champion. Bastard child of divinity. Your employers will torture me. Enslave me. Turn my mind against itself.” She shuddered, eyes fluttering. “I would rather die.”
Sara met the woman’s eyes. She imbued her words with every ounce of truth she could dig up from her soul.
“They won’t torture you. If they do, I’ll kill them myself.”
The truth of her statement, the honesty of it, all but reverberated in the air. This woman didn’t have much time left. Sara had every Blessing driving at its maximum power. When she spoke honestly, any who listened could recognize its truth.
“Mad…” the woman whispered.
“Downright pissed off,” Sara agreed.
They stared at one another for a time. Finally, whether she finally came to a decision or simply ran out of strength, the woman sagged, hands falling away from her wound.
Sara darted forward before the rest of the mercenaries could blink. She dropped one knee onto the mage’s wrist, pinning her other arm down with one hand. Sara slipped her pouch open as quickly as possible, retrieving her last healing potion. She shoved its open end into the mage’s mouth, tilting her head back to force her to swallow.
“Get her secured with some ropes, chains if you can find them,” Sara ordered. “Hands, feet, fingers, tie them all up. Put some fuckin’ mittens on her or something. I don’t want her twitching a goddamn muscle. If she does, shoot her.” She looked the mage in the eye. “You hear that?”
“Yes…”
“Good.”
Sara held the mage down until her orders had been followed, several mercenaries running up with bindings. Sara stayed close as the healing potion did its work, making sure the mage stayed under control. Normally, she would have been able to tell if the woman would betray her word, but the mage was borderline insensible. If the woman herself didn’t know what she intended to do, Sara certainly couldn’t guess at it, Blessings or not.
Finally, when she was wrapped up in enough rope to outfit a ship, Sara stood, dusting her hands off. She nodded to the mercenaries nearby.
“Keep your rifles loaded and pointed. At least three at a time, equidistant points. Follow Evie’s protocols for securing Irregulars. I’ll be back to deal with her once I’ve gotten the official surrender from the enemies. Any questions?”
“No ma’am!”
“Good. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
As she stepped away, Sara caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. A small lead ball on the ground, right where she and Mui had been standing. She crouched, picking it up.
That’s my pistol’s shot, she realized, eyes widening. It must have come out when I hit Mui’s rifle.
She’d been threatening the mage with an unloaded gun. That… wasn’t the best. Evie would have been furious.
Sara pocketed the pistol ball, shaking her head. It was plain good luck everything had finished as well as it had.
Sara walked back over to Mui, who had finally shouldered his rifle once more. His lower jaw was thrust out as he ground his teeth, pacing back and forth.
“What are you thinking?” He hissed at her. “Leaving a mage alive? Leaving soldiers in her presence? You’ll get them all killed!”
“That’s my decision to make,” Sara said. Mui had something wild behind his eyes. Something that wasn’t going to be pried out with simple logic and a short conversation. She didn’t have the time to do it right now, not without leaning on her Blessings, which she still refused to do with him.
“If it is your decision, then you’ve made the wrong one!” He pointed his sword at the woman, its tip trembling. “Have you any idea what she’s capable of? The horrifying deaths that await those she will betray? If I had left an enemy mage alive in the Imperial Army, they would have me executed for sabotage! She must be killed!”
“No.”
Mui whirled on Sara, grabbing her by the shoulders. “You do not understand!”
She didn’t budge. “I do understand. I accept the risk.”
“I thought you cared for your soldiers!” He snarled.
“Mui.” Sara reached up with one hand, peeling his clenched fingers off her shoulder. “It’s okay. She’s one exhausted woman, one who has three riflemen pointing loaded guns at her head. I am the Champion of Amarat, and I told her what would happen if she resisted. I promise you, she won’t. Not for hours yet, at least.”
Mui was still shaking. Sara didn’t need a single Blessing to see that his distant gaze was locked on some horror known only to him, torturing him with memories he’d rather forget.
“You…”
All at once, he sagged. Sara reached out quickly, catching him in a way that made it look like he didn’t need her support.
“It’s… she will…” He shook himself, trying to smooth down his raised fur. “I am… sorry, Sara. I spoke out of turn.”
“Bullshit.” She let him go, allowing him to stand under his own strength. “You disagreed with me. You thought I was fucking up, and you told me that. I respect that.”
“I tried to shoot your prisoner…”
Sara grit her teeth. “Yes, you did. And if you were a member of the Powdered Lead, I’d have you in front of a firing squad for that. But you’re not, so I won’t. There’s clearly some shit you’ve been through that explains why you acted like that, so I’ll let it slide. This time.” She locked eyes with him. “You’re not going to do that again. Are you?”
Mui glanced from Sara, to the mage, then back again. He licked his lips.
“No,” he said. “No, I will not. I apologize. You are different from my old commanders. The reasons you do things, the way you do them, and what you are capable of, none are the same as any in the Empire. I will do my utmost to trust your judgement in the future.”
“Thank you. And Mui?” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I promise I’ll explain some stuff to you, like I said. I wasn’t lying when I said I trust you. And thank you again, for giving me a warning about that mage. I wouldn’t have been as cautious in dealing with them without you.”
He snorted softly. “Ah, yes. A warning. That is what I gave you.”
“Still helped. Now go get some rest. We’ve won this battle.”
“We have?” He gestured to the interior of the camp. “There are still a number of soldiers ready and willing to fight you. It will not be easy to convince them to surrender.”
Sara smiled. “Probably not. But if I can manage it with a mage, why not them?”
“I suppose so.”
Sara left him, giving him one last reminder to patch up his minor wounds before he allowed too much dirt to get in them. As she walked through the captured enemy camp, she passed dozens of situations similar to what had happened with the mage, only with a common soldier. The Powdered Lead were walking amongst the enemy’s wounded, gathering them up on stretchers and concentrating them in the cleanest and driest patches of ground. No healing potions were being used on them, that much was true, but the soldiers most experienced in stitching up wounds were plying their trade, helping to staunch the wounded rebels from losing their life.
Eventually, Sara made her way to a cluster of her officers. The squad leaders and lieutenants had gathered themselves behind a stolen bit of the palisade wall that someone had placed, giving them shelter from any opportunistic musket shots the enemy might fling their way. Sara shuffled into the middle of them, pretending that she was only now picking up the thread of their conversations.
“So,” Sara asked, “they pick someone to speak for them?”
“They did, ma’am, but you’re not gonna like ‘em,” a gruff orcish Sergeant said. “Some noble type, by the sounds of ‘em. I don’t speak Imperial all that well, but I’d recognize his sort by stench alone.”
“Lovely,” Sara grumbled. “Alright, let’s see how this goes.” She raised her voice. “Hello! Soldiers of the Empire, are you ready to negotiate?”
“We are!” A man called back. As predicted, his voice was quick and nasally, an intentional affection stylish amongst the Imperial nobility. “I am General Song, of the esteemed House Saphat! Do I have the honor of speaking to the Divine Chosen herself?”
Sara rolled her eyes. A general. Sure. If he really had been assigned the rank of general, only to be put in charge of a few hundred soldiers throwing together wooden walls in the middle of a road, she couldn’t think of a more politically-appointed commander for the life of her. A real Imperial General wouldn’t be wasted on a job like this. At the very least, they’d be doing it with better troops.
“Yeah, I’m the bitch!” Sara called. Her mercenaries snickered. “I want you and your troops to come out unarmed and with your hands up, Seng. You’ve got my word that none of you will be harmed.”
“I am afraid that we cannot do that, Chosen!” Seng replied. “There is too much at stake! The very soul of our Empire rests upon the shoulders of my fine soldiers, and I will not put such a great burden at risk!”
“...the fuck do you mean by that?” Sara began scraping the blood off her face, dried flakes of it floating away. “You’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded, and your entire force is wounded or low on ammunition. I could root you outta there with twenty of my soldiers and a bit of patience. I’ve got three hundred and fifty raring to go, though, so it’ll be even easier than that.”
“It is not a matter of practicalities, I am afraid! You must understand, dear Chosen, that our Empire is in the most drastic of struggles. To surrender our lives to you is to admit defeat, to profoundly damage the honor of our great people!”
“You’ll also get to live!” Sara pointed out. She began loading her rifle. “Isn’t that worth something? You know, all your soldiers getting to go home someday, see their spouse and kids? Don’t you care about that?”
“I do!” He said, and Sara could practically see him puffing his chest up with self-important pride. “I even have a wife and child myself. But it is both the duty and the privilege of the Empire which allows our citizens to fight for their future! What would we be, if we failed in this most basic of tasks?”
“Again, you’d be alive!” Sara called, steel entering her words. “Dying here and now does nothing, means nothing. You won’t change anything! You say you’re a general, that you’re loyal, then prove it! Spare your soldier’s lives. They want to live. We both know it!”
“Unfortunately,” the so-called General said, “sacrifices must be made! When this battle is over, and we meet face to face, I am sure you will understand the nobility of their deaths!”
Sara felt blood pulse through her neck, turning her face red. He was talking about the coming slaughter like he knew he’d live. As if he wasn’t going to die with his troops.
And why wouldn’t he? That was the Imperial way. The common soldiers were killed, but the wealthy and powerful, they were captured. They were negotiation pieces, convenient little bundles of ransom money and propaganda wins. Of course General Song, of some supposedly important noble house, would be confident he lived through the battle.
“Why wait?” Sara challenged. She stepped out from behind the wooden palisade, abandoning her Blessings so she could cast her voice using only her lungs. Her left arm stretched behind the wood, just out of sight, but the rest of her was in plain view. “I’m here, General Song Saphat! Will you look me in the eye, face to face?”
The silence stretched. Sara could only imagine how many soldiers were itching to pop out from behind the dirt, trying to blast her head into paste. None did, however, and a moment later, General Song emerged.
“Noble Chosen,” he said, holding a hand to his chest. “I believe you, more than anyone else, understand what is just-”
Sara jerked her gun out and to her shoulder, pulling the trigger.
The bullet took General Song in the neck, a spray of arterial blood painting the ground before him as he folded bonelessly forward, empty of life.
As Sara stepped back into cover, the Powdered Lead began to laugh and jeer, some throwing stones at the General’s corpse.
She raised her voice once more.
“So! Does anyone else have a different offer of surrender?”
After a long moment, a commoner’s voice carried over the barricade.
“Yes! We do!”
“Good.”
Notes:
"I know writers who use subtext and they're all cowards."
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