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Korelia, Great Keep
The hour was late, yet Lansius and his ranking staff kept going through the plans and reviews. Questions were raised, and small arguments broke out here and there. The amount of knowledge he imparted was staggering. Much of it came from his notes and records, which he had never bothered to keep in orderly fashion.
His answers, opinions, and views were recorded as meticulously as possible, each one treated as something precious. Yet so much had been discussed that the scribes and staff would need days to reread everything and absorb what was relevant to their own expertise.
Lansius spoke of the washing machine complex demonstrated in Canardia, which had improved people’s lives and increased sanitation. Combined with soap and hair elixir, he hoped it would help minimize bedbugs, lice, and body louse infestations, which could open a path for plague to spread.
Next on his list was the pressa typographica. Lansius wanted it properly funded, not as a mere curiosity, but as a vital invention would change the realm. He had set aside money to give it capital at the start, enough to pay craftsmen, secure materials, and begin printing without needing for noble patronage.
Its purpose was simple: to make books cheaper and more accessible. Not only books for scholars and officials, but also books for children, apprentices, merchants, craftsmen, and common adults who wished to learn. Lansius wanted a society where the next generation could read, calculate, and understand the world beyond hearsay.
Yet literacy was only one part of his vision. Books would also preserve knowledge from being lost to war, neglect, or the death of a single master. Recipes, laws, maps, farming methods, medical notes, engineering records, histories, and warnings from past disasters all needed copies. The city libraries would become the heart of this effort, not silent halls built so their patrons could appear learned and important, but living storehouses of knowledge.
More than anything, Lansius wanted to start a weekly newspaper, even if it was only a page or two, so that all his realms could share the same news and stand on common ground.
After that, Lansius pivoted to another important subject: the bank.
“The bank is a powerful entity,” Lansius explained. “Close to the House, but not part of it. It must remain independent enough for people to trust it. If the bank is seen as merely another hand of the House, or just another purse of the Shogunate, then merchants, craftsmen, and common folk will always fear that their coin can be siphoned away for the Shogunate’s use.”
Amid the nods and the scratching of the scribes’ pens, Lansius continued, “That independence makes the bank useful. But it also makes it dangerous.”
That caught his staff’s attention.
“A bank needs guards, records, clerks, couriers, and talented men who understand numbers better than most nobles understand their own lands. It holds vital information about the realm, along with gold and silver. And wherever gold and silver gather, it takes only ambition to spark corruption or ignite a feud.”
Lansius paused, allowing the scribes to catch up.
“For that reason, the heads of the branches must be rotated. Four years is plenty. Even the highest officers must not sit too long in one place. Choose clerks, scribes, and scholars before fighting men. Choose people the public believes to be honest. A bank ruled by trusted hands can serve both the people and the Shogunate’s interests.”
He let the words settle before adding, “Beware the day they begin to play politics on their own. Perhaps not in five years. Perhaps not in ten. But if the bank grows unchecked, that day will come.”
“So on one side, the bank needs some independence,” Sir Michael muttered. “But on the other hand, it must be kept in check.”
Lansius paused, searching for the right image. “Think of it as a dragon that has grown too fast. It has wings strong enough to fly across the realm, and claws keen enough to gather gold and silver from every road. You need a leash, or it will stray and bring trouble. But pull the leash too tight, and its wings will break. Then it will never fly at all, and little wealth will come to anyone.”
Sir Michael nodded, grasping the idea more firmly.
Lansius then moved on to another topic.
Time passed quickly, and before long, everyone was exhausted. Their heads had grown dull from the long meeting. In that condition, Calub requested a private audience, giving the others a reason to rest.
As one of Lansius’ closest retainers, he was easily granted the request.
...
Study Chamber
Lansius finally persuaded Margo to get some sleep. The squire agreed, though only on the condition that he could rest on a bench inside the chamber, close enough to answer if called.
“Do you have any specific concerns?” Lansius asked wearily as he and Calub sat facing each other, with a table between them.
“My Lord, first of all, the barbed wire. Secondly, the sample you sent from Cascasonne.”
Lansius sat back in his chair and asked, “What about the barbed wire?”
Calub explained that some of the first buyers had complained that the wire did not reliably stop predators.
Letting out a faint breath, Lansius said, “That is probably my fault. I advertised it too strongly. Barbed wire alone is not enough to stop predators. Hungry wolves and wild dogs can be stubborn enough to dig beneath it and get past. Still, the wire helps...”
He paused before adding, “The nomads said some protection is better than none at all. Otherwise, a shepherd has no choice but to sleep in the open and rely on a night watch with weapons to guard the flock. Barbed wire at least offers some measure of protection when proper fencing is unavailable.”
Calub nodded. He did not need to write this down. He had already come to much the same conclusion himself.
“It is a tool,” Lansius went on. “Not a perfect one, but together with some fencing, it can work well.”
Calub reported, “There are also those who say larger livestock, like cows, can simply shove aside the wooden posts and break the barbed wire."
“Even among animals, out of dozens, there will be one cleverer than the rest. They should wrap the barbed wire around the posts as well, or put sharpened nails to keep the beasts away. And they should isolate the troublesome one. That is basic shepherding.” Lansius let out a snort, more amused than offended. “Who are these buyers? They would do better to speak with Korelian shepherds instead of bringing every complaint to us.”
Calub chuckled as well, briefly reminded of the days when they had just been friends.
“My Lord,” he said, his voice turning warmer, “what will happen to you?”
Lansius sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know. One moment, I was fighting a lich and winning. Next, I slept for seven days straight and made everyone worry. And no one knows what caused it, or what brought me back.”
It was Calub’s turn to let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll do some research.”
“I’m sure you will,” Lansius said in a hopeful tone, then returned to the matter at hand. “You can tell the workshop to keep developing the barbed wire. Let them experiment. And keep plenty in stock. We're going to need it. Conflict is not always avoidable.”
Calub nodded readily.
“Now, what were you saying about the sample from Cascasonne?”
“The powder,” Calub replied.
Lansius leaned forward. “How was it?”
“I can guess the rough composition and process,” he began. “I bought several books from the Guilds, more than I needed, to obscure what I meant to develop. But even with them and your suggestion of yellow burning stone and guano, it will take time to achieve a similar result. Still, even without the exact recipe, I believe we can come close enough to begin small-scale production by next year. It will not be as powerful as Bengrieve’s gray powder or the dwarven white powder, but it should serve while I continue experimenting.”
The bat droppings in the cave could be processed into material useful for making saltpeter. Meanwhile, burning stone, or brimstone, was the common name for sulfur.
Lansius gave it some thought and said, “Even if it is weaker, it can still serve as a deterrent, especially if it is loud.”
“Oh, it is loud, and it produces a great deal of smoke. That is the main issue.”
“Too much charcoal, or too coarse?”
“Less, and it leaves too much unburnt. But I’ll figure something out,” Calub said.
Lansius nodded. It was likely an issue of purity, or of getting the grain fine enough, both difficult enough with only basic tools and measurements. “Then what about the weapon’s mechanism?”
“We are still working on it, but the smiths are confident. We can make it.” Again, Calub sounded confident.
Lansius wasn't as certain. He knew the mechanism was quite advanced. But unless he visited the workshop himself and devoted his own time to it, there was little he could do. And time was the thing he did not have in plenty. “Employ only Korelians, and only inside the secured workshop.”
“Yes, we allow only our most trusted smiths to make it. Even then, some aren't sure what it is meant to do. The trigger made them think it was for a new kind of crossbow.”
Lansius lowered his voice and asked, “You are familiar with the weapon’s destructive power, yes?”
“I am familiar,” Calub said. “One of the explorers used such a dwarven weapon. A fire breather. It is finicky and slow, but it carries a serious punch.”
“This will be our last bastion if the worst comes to pass,” Lansius said, his gaze locked on Calub’s. “If I am not here when you complete the three hundred pieces, make sure they are kept dry in the Great Keep vault and sealed away. Treat this as a secret even greater than the Xbow.”
“I’ll see it done,” Calub replied with equal gravity, though he did not entirely share the view.
“This belongs only to our House and the SAR,” Lansius said. “It is too sensitive even for the Shogunate. Only in the face of annihilation should this ever be brought forth. Because it is also a double-edged sword that may bite us all in the end.”
In Lansius’ mind, the world was not ready for what it would usher in. A kind of war that would drag even the most vulnerable into its ranks. A time when one charismatic leader could gather men in great numbers and declare war on a whim, while the masses knew no better than to follow.
He believed it was more sobering for the masses to look into the eyes of those they killed, to feel warm blood on their hands, than to fire at shadows through blinding smoke.
Lansius massaged the side of his head, weariness finally catching up to him. The long hours, the endless questions, and the weight of every answer had dulled his thoughts. He stifled a yawn, blinked hard, and forced himself to sit upright again. He needed to remain vigilant.
***
The Mountain City
The sentries sat in stale air with their backs against the stone, watching an underground corridor that never changed. By then, the sun had risen, and its light filtered down through ventilation shafts, reaching a garden below. Several tall trees grew there that nobody bothered to trim. There was a pool as well, though it was more fit for animals than men. Few birds ever ventured that deep.
For this group of fifteen men, it marked the third day of their watch. Two more days remained before they were relieved.
Boredom hung heavily over the post. The corridor they were assigned to watch led into the sealed underground passage, and that stretch remained as dead as a tomb.
They were only there because the Elders feared the Black Lord’s army might somehow find the outer openings and force their way through the stone gate. Nobody believed it. Anyone who had seen such gates elsewhere, in places like the Stone Citadel, knew how monstrously thick they were, and how well they had endured age, weather, and neglect.
And the stone gate sealing this underground passage, both entrance and exit, was larger still.
No one believed the Lowlandians could ever break such a thing with mere iron chisels.
But the Elders, who had swiftly reclaimed control after the failed coup, had grown too fearful and suspicious. Instead of trusting the gates and the city garrison, they wanted eyes posted below as well, watching the underground exit in case the impossible somehow happened.
In every practical sense, it was a waste of everyone’s time. And so morale was low.
So low, in fact, that no one bothered to patrol anymore. Not them, not the group before them, and not the one expected after them.
There was simply no need.
Not even after some claimed to hear echoes or strange sounds from deeper within. To men who had watched the same passage for weeks, nothing ever came from that direction except bats, rats, and the occasional cold draft.
Inside the watch post, where they had beds and desks along with a small store of supplies, a few lanterns burned constantly, for the light from the shafts did not reach them directly. One of the men, seated near the window, held a rolled leaf between his fingers. The stuff was contraband, a banned substance meant only to pass through their hands on its way to neighboring provinces.
But to bored sentries posted in such a place, anything that dulled the hours was worth keeping.
He drew in a breath and let the smoke sit in his chest before exhaling.
In one corner, several men slept on dirty rugs spread across the floor, drunk enough not to stir. Others, still awake, passed the time with dice or cards. One carved a piece of wood out of boredom. Another threw knives at a wooden plank, the dull thuck marking the slow passage of time.
The only one doing any real work was the designated cook. He kept the fire going beneath the pottage and often picked through their vegetables, choosing the ones closest to spoiling and cutting them up for the pot. He also kneaded dough and ground flour. He worked so much that many whispered he must have been born from slave stock.
Another ran outside and vomited near the gutter. It happened too often now, but nobody cared. It was one more side effect of several drugs.
Despite the appalling situation, no one tried to fix it. Not even the thought of their lieutenant finding them in such a state frightened them. Punishment don't work on them. There was no lower rung than this. Cleaning latrines was no threat to men already left to rot in darkness.
Besides, no lieutenant would bother walking this far just to berate them. Doing so would only create more work for himself. He would have to return, make a report, call up the reserve, and escort replacements all the way back. And in practice, that would only relieve them faster.
Staying in here day after day was enough to hollow out a man’s head. Talk helped, but only so much. They had known each other too long. Several had grown up as neighbors and knew one another too well. There were no stories left between them.
It was so miserable that they had heard of other groups smuggling sells-women. Strangely enough, even when caught, no one was truly disciplined. It only stopped when the sells-women themselves grew bored of the place. The post was too drab, the journey too far, and even silver coins soon lost their shine in this kind of place.
From the looks of it, their lieutenant barely cared. He spent his days licking the boots of the captain, and the captain did the same to the Elders, hoping to win favor for whatever political post awaited him. Rank flowed upward, coin flowed upward, but shit flowed down until it reached the men sitting in the dark.
“I’ve had enough of this,” one muttered, throwing his cards away. Even gambling had lost its bite.
“You should’ve joined Roderic when he made his move,” his friend joked while collecting the coins they had used as wagers.
“He lost,” another said between breaths of smoke. “You’d be dead if you followed him.”
A third man stirred from his place against the wall. “One man might still make a difference.”
Some of them still remembered, with bitter fondness, the day Commander Roderic had led a great army through this passage. For the first time in their lives, they had seen men march through it with pride. Even that miserable, sealed underground passage had finally been used for what it had been built for. Hope had filled the air then. Change had seemed possible.
Only for it to be crushed.
“Still, better dead than doing this forever,” one joked.
“Be grateful,” another said. “They could send you to the northern cities. Those places have fought the Nicopolans, you know.”
“From the mountain path? I don’t believe it.” He paused to think, then said, “Even if they manage to take a town or two, winter will finish them off.”
Aside from a few nods, nobody said anything, and the monotony returned.
As usual, someone grumbled, this time the man who had lost at cards. “Can’t we get better posts than this?”
“I’ve told you a thousand times,” the winner said, scratching at his chin. “It’s a crooked game. They put us here because they expect bribes.”
“No. They just hate us. Look, my mother bribed them last summer,” one of the sentries said. “Then they put me here again in the fall.”
A few chuckles followed. They had heard the story before, but a chuckle for a friend came naturally enough.
The man with the rolled leaf inhaled more deeply. The ember glowed red in the dimness.
No one spoke again.
Even the knife thrower had given up and now rested silently on the floor.
Outside, the corridor remained still. As far as they could see, there were only bats clinging to the cracks in the ceiling, trying to avoid the sunlight.
Time passed painfully slowly. The only relief came from sleeping, dreaming, or eating.
For some, fantasizing about women was the preferred remedy. They thought of visiting the brothel with their money. Even in war, there was always new stock. Or perhaps because of war, there was always fresh stock, even women from places rarely seen before.
Still, even young clansmen knew it was better to own a slave than to visit brothels. It was cheaper in the long run, and she could help around the house. Moreover, if they grew bored, they could always sell her at any time.
When it was finally near dark, they gathered to eat whatever was available.
“Can we get more?” one asked the designated cook after finishing his share of pottage and bread.
“The stock won’t last if I add more,” he answered.
“There are still two days left. We don’t need to eat on the last day,” the same man argued.
Several others murmured in agreement, so the cook relented and fetched more mountain potatoes, purple carrots, and sour cherries.
“Meat. Give us the meat,” another said.
Sighing, the cook tried to appease them by chopping a few pieces from the salted barrel. The Elders were too cheap to provide them with enough food. Not even flour came ready. The men had to grind it themselves.
As they ate heartily, none of them noticed the silhouettes moving through the shadows of the underground corridor.
...
The Black Bandit
The Lowlandians had waited patiently for this moment, and the glow from the watch post was as good as a beacon to mark the target. Many wore less armor and went without helmets, so they would make less noise and cast no stray glint of light.
A few men had scouted the place since noon. By nightfall, they had chosen their moment for the first strike against the Mountain Clan.
The Umberlanders, who could see better in the dark, moved ahead of the main force, searching for other guard posts the earlier scouts might have missed. Meanwhile, Farkas led his two hundred men forward as quietly as he could, spreading them out to surround the watch post.
They had the advantage.
The sentries were still eating when dark figures rushed the post from both sides. The doors stood wide open, and so did the window. There was no warning. The Black Bandits would not risk giving anyone time to raise an alarm.
Against men still clutching their bowls, the crossbows snapped and bolts sliced through the air. Before everyone inside even understood what was happening, a few dozen bolts had struck among them. One man fell with a bolt in his throat. Another spun and crashed into a desk with one buried deep in his chest. A third had barely cleared his scabbard when a bolt punched through his face.
The inside of the post erupted into ruin as men jerked in pain, collapsed, or scrambled for cover. Benches scraped. Bowls overturned. The survivors reached for swords, shields, anything within reach, but the Black Bandits were already rushing in.
“Yield, do not move, and we’ll let you live,” the Lowlandians finally demanded.
The warning fell on deaf ears among those who had already charged with swords and spears. Fighting erupted. Sparks flew. In the clash, one of the guards managed to raise his crossbow and loose a bolt. It struck a Lowlandian in the chest.
“Over there!” someone shouted.
At once, four bolts slammed into the Mountain Clan's crossbowman. At that distance, they killed him where he stood, mid-reload.
More Lowlandians crashed in. Blades flashed and blood splattered across the cramped watch post. One sentry tried to stand his ground and was hacked across the head. Another slipped in spilled pottage and was finished on the floor. A drunk man, too dazed to fight yet still clutching a sword, died with a spear through his back.
Amid the fighting, one determined man in an apron, already wounded by a bolt in one arm, managed to seize a jar of green miasma clay from a wooden box and hurl it into the fire.
“Watch out!” a Lowlandian by the window shouted as he loosed a bolt that struck the man down. But the clay had already fallen into the flames.
A young fighter who had just entered, clad in crimson brigandine, saw it and hurled himself toward the hearth. He thrust his hand into the heat, scorching his glove in the process, but managed to snatch the clay free. Gritting his teeth, he tried to fling it toward the window, but it exploded in his hand.
The place descended into chaos.
Men stumbled out of the small post, coughing, gagging, and clawing at their throats. Some dropped to their knees before they even reached the doorway, then crawled on as every breath burned. Others made it only a few steps outside before collapsing. Even those who escaped first were left gasping, their faces reddened, their hands trembling with each painful breath.
Inside, blood pooled on the stone floor, splattered the walls, and stained the carpet. Bodies lay where they had fallen, half-lost in the spreading green haze.
The fighting ceased. The last few survivors were overpowered as they spilled outside, coughing and gritting their teeth through the pain. Despite their condition, the captives were tied fast and hauled against the wall for questioning.
The Lowlandians splashed water over their faces, but the burning did not fade. Many were left writhing after drawing only a few breaths of that green miasma.
Commander Farkas watched the carnage from outside. He spotted the young man with the reddened face and burnt hands, sitting half-naked while his comrades poured water over him.
“Ted,” he called.
“Commander?” the young man replied, uncertain, still unable to see clearly.
“Good work.”
Ted looked puzzled. Amid his coughing, he asked in a hoarse voice, “But I failed.”
“Still counts,” Farkas commented, and there were murmurs of agreement.
“Though next time, block the hearth instead,” he added. “Once it bursts, the miasma will be forced up the chimney.”
“Ah...” Ted and the other men murmured.
A scout rushed back from the front. “Commander, we found another path up.”
Farkas turned to his command staff. “I’ll leave you with fifteen.”
“Leave it to me,” the officer replied with a firm salute.
Farkas and his men pressed on, determined to make the most of the ambush before the Mountain Clans could lock another stone gate to block their advance.
No one knew how long they marched through the dark with only their lanterns to guide them. They had learned the wide corridor led deeper into the mountain and was likely sealed, but they had found another path, likely the one the sentries used.
Nine half-kin led the way, a formidable number for any confrontation. Farkas led more than a hundred men, while the rest remained along the route to secure the path they had taken, wary of unseen posts or hidden passages.
“Commander, the half-kin found a garrison ahead," a man from the front reported.
“How many?”
“They’re already fighting. We were told they found the garrison asleep.”
Farkas was stunned. The Mountain Clans had been utterly unprepared. He turned to his staff and men. “We push through. Let the Umberlanders deal with the garrison.”
They did as they were told. Sweat soaked their clothes, and their breath came ragged as they ran. Muffled screams and shouts carried from inside the walled complex, but the Black Bandits kept to the outside and pressed on through the dark passages, faster now, with lanterns held low and weapons ready.
Farkas spared the place only a glance, knowing a gate ahead could close on them at any moment. “Keep moving!”
Every archway looked threatening. Any gate, any slab of stone, any hidden mechanism could drop in front of them. Everyone fear the same, and they pushed harder despite their waning strength.
At last, they caught up with the scout, who was also out of breath.
He knew little more than they did, only that the path no longer branched. There was only one way forward now.
Soon, the exit had been seen.
Starry skies stretched above them as they ascended the rocky slope and emerged beside a quiet market district. Rows of shuttered stalls stood beneath the cold night air. Empty carts rested along the stone lanes. Canvas awnings stirred faintly in the wind. Ash slept in braziers, and the smell of old smoke, grain, and livestock still clung to the place.
For a moment, no one spoke. They took in their surroundings while scrambling for cover.
Above the market, the city loomed around them. Tall buildings, walled estates, and white plastered houses crowded the streets. Farther out, great walls curved through the night, their length marked by the ember-glow of watchfires. Large gatehouses stood like fortresses in their own right.
Many swallowed. The city was unexpectedly enormous, easily surpassing Korimor.
Before anyone could speak, a song drifted from a large mansion nearby. A sad Lowlandian folk song, sung softly behind painted shutters and gaudy walls. The melody caught the men at once. Many looked toward the building, and even from the rear, its barred windows and fancy women’s clothing hanging from the upper gallery told them enough. A brothel, or worse, a slaver’s house.
They exchanged hard glances as they caught their breath.
“Can we really take something this big?” one of the men muttered, doubt creeping into his voice.
Against such a fortress, their two hundred men felt less like an army and more like ants against a mountain of stone.
“Their walls are only useful when we’re outside,” Farkas said with deep conviction. “And since we’re inside…”
He did not need to finish. The Black Bandits under him were already flashing their dangerous grins.
***
PS: Actually, how are you finding the Mountain Clan arc so far? I hope it’s been a good read.
Their city is quite large, though we’ll learn more about its population later.😱
Also, I hope Lansius can finally get some sleep without dying.🫠
More things to come next chapter.🔥
As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆