Stone Citadel
The situation inside the Stone Citadel’s main hall turned deadly so quickly that Elder Antonius had no chance to act. So many Elders rushed for the door that many, including him, were knocked to the floor. Though he had been among the first to react, he had stood too far from the door and couldn't escape fast enough.
Worse, the perpetrator had hurled the same clay spheres into the corridor more than twice, turning the narrow passage into a trap.
Cries erupted beyond the doorway as green fumes poured thickly through it. Their only escape had been cut off, and even the guards posted outside could not force their way in. But even if they had forced their way inside, what could the guards have done against the green miasma?
Coughing badly, each inhale like hot ash dragged into his lungs, Antonius stumbled about, searching for a corner to hide in, but his eyes were streaming and his vision had begun to blur. Around him, the hall was filled with the harsh sound of men forcing breath through agony.
“I couldn’t believe it,” one Elder gasped through the pain, his voice barely recognizable. “One suicide attack... and it ruins us all.”
“What do we do?” another asked, wheezing for air.
A different Elder, desperate, cried out in a raw voice, “Open the windows!”
“There are no windows, you fool!” someone snapped between coughs.
“Move! —move!” another shouted in panic as the sickly green haze spread through every part of the hall.
Antonius forced himself to hold his breath. Still, the pain in his eyes, nostrils, throat, and lungs was unbearable. The situation around him had only grown worse. Men coughed until they vomited uncontrollably. Amid the green miasma, it became impossible to think, to see, or to do anything but stumble and panic.
Then a different kind of horror rose from the screams.
“No, no! Let me live—”
The plea ended with a wet gasp.
Someone at the back cried out, his voice raw with pain. “He’s killing us!”
“How can the bastard still see and breathe?” one Elder muttered in horror.
Another voice rose sharp with fear. “Where?”
“I can’t see!”
“Stay away from me!”
Another scream echoed, and the chamber dissolved into blind terror. The Elders stumbled into one another, coughing, gagging, and fleeing from shadows.
Many could do nothing but gasp through the pain. Their eyes streamed too badly to open. Everything had become a blur of green haze. Several stumbled and fell, then lay shaking on the floor as the poison in the air took hold.
Antonius felt it too. The more he inhaled, the more his limbs began to tremble uncontrollably. Still, he managed to reach a corner away from the crowd.
Then someone crashed into him.
By chance, Antonius had his arm raised, and it caught the knife before the blade could reach his throat.
“Guh—”
But unlike the other Elders who had panicked, Antonius still had the strength of mind to fight back. He managed to sweep aside the next thrust, and instead of crying for mercy or pleading for his life, he gasped, “I’m on your side. I’ve sent a messenger to Korelia.”
That stopped the man.
Antonius knew he had his chance. “You can verify my story. Look...” He coughed, forcing the words out through the pain. “Unless you want to raze it all down, you need someone to surrender the city—” He coughed again. “And convince the other cities to do the same.”
The effort punished him at once. His chest seized. He gagged, belched, and vomited as he dragged another mouthful of toxic gas into his lungs.
But it achieved what he wanted.
“Lie flat.” The attacker’s voice was muffled. “Breathe the draft near the floor. Put some cloth over your nose. That should keep you alive.”
Without a moment to think, Antonius did as he was told. He lowered his face close to the stone and drew in a cautious breath. The air there was still foul, but not as sharp.
The attacker knelt nearby. “I’ll pick you up later. Whatever happens, don’t go out.”
“Why?” Antonius rasped through the pain.
“That’s not for you to know.”
“What if you don’t come back for me?”
“If other men come, tell them to bring you to Commander Farkas. He’ll know what to do.” Then he rose and disappeared in the green haze.
Antonius could do nothing but breathe as the chaos continued around him. He drew each breath slowly, then crawled onward despite his injured hand, searching for where the draft was coming from.
The hall had turned into a death trap. The Elders of Clavieras had no chance. Half were probably trapped in this hall with him, choking in the vile green miasma.
The Black Lord had defeated them.
Even the crown jewel of Clavieras, the Stone Citadel, had proved no shelter against his men.
...
The surviving Elders fled to the council chamber, enraged as much as they were shaken. Most were already in their late fifties or sixties, and lives spent on dangerous indulgences rarely allowed men like them to reach eighty.
In their panic, they called their Citadel Guards and armed servants around them, but even then, they could not agree on what to do.
There was irony in it. The Mountain Clans had long considered themselves adept at such methods against their enemies. Only now the same trick had been turned against them, and they were left utterly at a loss.
“We should strike back!” one suggested while his servant treated him, his mouth and face still wet from being doused with water.
Murmurs of agreement quickly filled the chamber.
One of the colder heads asked the hard question, “And who do we attack?”
“The Black Lord!” another snapped.
“And where is he? Do we even know where his forces are?”
Realizing the flaw in that at once, another Elder turned to the guards. “I need the latest reports.”
There was no plan, only blind panic. The Citadel Guard could do little beyond sealing the affected corridors, sending out fresh patrols, and tightening security.
“You should all calm down,” one Elder said in a hoarse voice.
He added, “It is not mages who attacked.”
The inner entrance of the Stone Citadel had a magic-sensing ward, sharp enough to detect even enchanted items smuggled inside. A few of the Citadel Guards were also equipped with rare nullifying materials, meant to keep mages from stealing their breath.
Nobody objected. They had seen the ward work before, its connected gemstones blinking with light whenever a magical item passed near the entrance.
In their fear and distrust of one another, the Elders of Clavieras refused to allow anyone with magic among them. They would not even permit a false-mage of their own to serve as a guard, for one rogue mage could kill them all while they were gathered in council.
Ironically, apart from the Mage Guild, the clansmen possessed more knowledge of magic than most. Yet the Elders’ distrust and suspicion ran deep. They allowed a few false-mages to be created and employed in the outer cities, but not within the Five Peaks themselves.
Yet the fragile calm shattered when a new report came.
“It’s not just one man. We are under attack in different sections of the town,” a guard reported breathlessly, having run in from the nearest observation tower.
“Are they numerous?” the nearest Elder asked in tight disbelief.
The guard shook his head. “It is hard to tell. We only see torches and lanterns.”
“And where are our forces?” another Elder demanded.
The guard hesitated. “They must be fighting, but we do not know where. There have been sightings of fire inside the city.”
“We have a different report...” said another Citadel guardsman, his voice thick with concern.
Furrowed brows turned toward him.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” one Elder snapped.
“We have heard reports that many of the men were stricken after a meal,” the Citadel Guard answered.
“You mean to tell us their food was poisoned?” an Elder asked in open distress.
The guard dared not answer, but the answer was plain to see.
That shook the Elders. Poison in food and water was a trick smugglers knew all too well. And now someone had used it against them.
Hasty, tense mutters rose in the chamber. Poison meant the enemy had agents inside. Deep enough, and with enough authority, to reach the food meant for the men. Someone with rank.
“The slaves,” one quickly pointed out. “They are in league with the Black Lord.”
The Black Lord was famous among the lower slaves, and the thought pressed the Elders further. Blow after blow had fallen on them without pause. They could scarcely believe this was happening to them. It was so overwhelming that it quickly dawned on them. Even in Clavieras, they were no longer the hunters, but the prey.
Without consulting the guard leader or the remaining forces, the fourteen surviving Elders fled the Citadel. They knew of a secret passage leading out of the city. In their minds, so long as they lived, their clans still had a future. If they died here, they could save no family and preserve nothing. They spared no thought for Clavieras or its people, leaving even their own blood kin behind.
Under heavy escort and by lantern light, the Elders hurried onto the battlements, heading for the tower that concealed the trapdoor out of the city.
But the battlement did not run level. It had been cut along the mountain’s shoulder, broken by sudden rises and rough steps of stone. The footing was uneven, the drops harsh, and the climb cruel to old legs already weakened by panic. Still, they pressed on, as fast as their failing limbs could carry them.
Guards on watch turned tense eyes toward them as they passed. Torches flickered hard in the night wind. Clan banners snapped and twisted above the wall.
Yet exposing themselves in the open was a grave mistake.
Nine pairs of predatory eyes were already waiting in the dark.
Three tall creatures dropped from the rocky ridge that merged with the walls and battlements, landing hard and blocking the path, still draped in thick, makeshift cloaks.
“Watch out!” the men on the battlements cried, bringing spears and crossbows around.
At that warning, thirty-six Citadel Guards and fifty more clansmen drew their swords. The silhouettes had barely settled when more than a dozen bolts flew from their crossbows.
But the three held their ground, hunching behind their heavy cloaks and massive shoulders as the bolts struck.
Then six more creatures came from behind.
Torches were hurled forward to bring the shapes into view. The Citadel Guards nearest them recoiled a step and shouted, “They’re not human!”
Sharp gasps and troubled mutters rippled through the men as they clenched their weapons tighter.
Then came a howl, and the creatures charged. Against the lowered spears, two even leaped so high that the men could only stare in wide-eyed shock.
“Get them! Get them!” one Elder ordered.
But what followed was slaughter. The half-kin tore into the Citadel Guards and clansmen with claws longer than a man’s face. Flesh split. Limbs were violently ripped free. Guards in armor were seized and hurled aside, screaming as they plunged from the wall to their deaths. Old as they were, the Elders were not spared.
“Get it off me!”
"Get back to the citadel!"
“AAAAH!”
Their screams filled the air as massive arms and terrible claws tore the men apart.
To the half-beast, they were all prey already marked for death.
At the very end, one Elder, seated hard on the floor and shuffling backward in terror, managed to speak. “I know your kind. There is no enmity between us. Why do you butcher us like this?”
One of the tall beings decided to spare a breath as he stood over him, his fur covered in blood. “We learned from captured officers that the clans had caused famine in Nicopola for years. It eventually brought war and rebellion, drove armed refugees into Umberland, and led to the deaths of many innocents. Can you still claim innocence in this matter?”
The Elder had no answer, only trembling lips. At last, he forced out a reply. “But the Nicopolans—”
“Sshh... The hungry souls are waiting. The guilty should not tarry, nor arrive late.” The half-kin lifted one foot and mercilessly brought it down on the old Elder’s chest, crushing it against the stone.
That night in Clavieras, the blood of the clans flowed.
***
Korelia, Great Keep
Even at night, and despite their exhaustion, Lansius and his retinue pressed on with their work. They took what breaks they could, but all of them knew there were matters better discussed and settled now, before it was too late.
There were plans for Korelia, for Korimor, and for Midlandia. There were plans for South Hill as well, and even contingencies for Umberland, Galdia, Corinthia, Nicopola, and Dawn. He had also drawn up measures in case Elandia, Edessa, or the Northern Midlandian lords raided or invaded their domain.
Earlier, after supper, Lansius had held a discussion with the Lord of Galdia, the chamberlain of House Jorge, Sir Michael of White Lake, and Lady Ella of Dawn regarding the Shogunate. He wanted to make certain that even if he were no longer at the helm, the Grand Alliance would still hold.
At least on parchment, he had made sure the agreement was bound to the House, not just his name.
Finally, as they worked with the urgency of men preparing for a sudden war, even the stack of work before them was nearly gone.
Lansius finally had time to turn to less urgent matters or to review his earlier decisions.
He bent over the stacks of parchment littering his table, some half-finished and already stamped with approval, others still awaiting the council’s review. Yet despite several he read, there was almost nothing concerning the matter of agriculture in Midlandia.
The council had agreed on a zero-tax policy for farmers, but if the yields proved poor, intervention might still be needed.
Had I made an earlier decision about this?
His staff had already caught him making decisions he had made before. Fortunately, they mostly aligned with his earlier choices. All the same, he had to be careful, for contradictions could prove harmful.
At last, Lansius found the related parchment and read it.
Unlike in Lowlandia, he had little role in Midlandia’s agriculture, which already possessed superior knowledge and stronger farming traditions. The populace employed a working three-field system and used heavy plows when needed. They also had robust iron-tipped tools and a system for borrowing oxen for plowing, sponsored by the previous Earldom through its designated nobles.
He had considered introducing the four-field system but dismissed it, thinking it would only cause unnecessary confusion.
With Midlandia rarely suffering failed harvests, Lansius felt it would be unwise, perhaps even reckless, to impose change for its own sake. Despite coming from Earth, he did not assume his methods were superior.
What counts is results. Which means harvests.
And by the harvest numbers, compared against the farming population and the rough extent of arable land already under use, Midlandia was showing reasonable, if not strong, results.
Lansius didn’t wish for overly strong yields. He would rather have them fluctuate within a safe margin. A great harvest could be disastrous in the long run if it compelled the population to take it for granted. To him, agriculture, so dependent on the weather, was among the most unreliable pillars of civilization.
Too many great civilizations had turned to dust from a continuous spell of drought.
If he wanted his Shogunate to endure, he needed to make it foolproof even against a shortage of rain.
Thus, he gave his stamp of approval to accelerate Ingrid’s old petition to formally invite the Mage Guild into his domain. They were to study the Great Gemstone and determine whether it could be used to call for rain, but only when the matter had become one of life and death. Two continuous years of drought should be the minimum before its use could even be considered. One year of drought, if joined by an ongoing war, would also suffice.
Quietly, Lansius handed the stamped petition to Margo.
“Another for the council to decide.”
“Yes, My Lord.” Margo took it and passed it to the five scribes now involved in keeping everything in order.
Lansius glanced at the map for a moment before picking up a new parchment. It was a proposal from one of the scribes he employed in a quasi-ministerial role. They collected reports from various sources and drafted proposals whenever they deemed them important.
Most of the time, these were minor suggestions he could approve, reject, or refer for further consultation. But today, he found himself facing an entirely unforeseen matter.
“An imbalance between men and women population in Korelia?” he muttered to himself, thinking it over.
Lansius frowned, then slowly nodded.
He had waged several wars and taken many captives. Even now, Korelia still employed hundreds of men from Korimor and South Hill, with another two years left on their terms. He had also sent another two thousand settlers from Midlandia, drawn from those involved in the last rebellion. There were women and children among them, but their numbers remained small compared to the men.
The petition proposed recruiting families with unmarried daughters, as well as women and widows of marriageable age, to migrate to Korelia. By presenting the move as a new opportunity in the new Capital, with starting money and help securing lodgings, they might persuade enough women to relocate and ease the unhealthy imbalance between men and women.
“This might be required,” he said to himself, faintly amused.
Audrey caught the shift in his tone. “May I ask what is required?”
Lansius chuckled as he handed the petition to Audrey to read. She looked mildly stunned.
“I never thought something like this could happen.”
“Me neither. We need to address it. Otherwise, it’ll be hard for the men to find wives.”
“Now aren’t you glad you already have a wife?” Audrey teased, her lips forming her usual smug grin.
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll still kiss those lips, even in front of everyone,” he warned, tired but playful.
Audrey covered her lips with her hand, though her grin had already formed. “I’m going to treasure this moment...”
“You act as if I’m going to die," Lansius said. He had already come to terms with his condition. Even the fear had grown somewhat dull. "At worst, I’m just going to sleep. Someone will find a way to unsleep me.”
I’ve raged against the night. No regrets.
With no pressing matters left, Lansius turned to reports about schools and education. He had declared support for the School of Commoners, believing it would continue to enlarge the pool of educated and skilled individuals in the region. With ten million people in Midlandia, even a slight increase in literacy could become an enormous boon for his administration.
With or without the printing press, he wanted education to flourish.
He had plans to send the graduates to Lowlandia to strengthen the governance of the Shogunate. From Korimor to South Hill, the region needed more talent.
Before long, the physician came to check on him. They found nothing wrong, but suggested he get some rest. As usual, the physician would prepare his medicine.
Margo went with him, along with a guildsman employed by the Guard Captain to ensure the ingredients and the process carried no harm. With Lansius’ condition, they did everything they could to make certain nothing was wrong or looked suspicious.
“He’s not the only physician we employ, you know,” Audrey muttered.
That caught Lansius' attention. “And what did the other physician say?”
“One mentioned the similarity between your condition and a man said to have been drained by a succubus.”
Lansius immediately snorted. “I can assure you, no succubus would work on me. Not with you sleeping by my side.”
“That is reassuring,” Audrey said. “But the symptoms are indeed quite similar.”
Lansius chuckled, then said lightly, “Last I knew, it was only a myth.”
“We faced a lich, remember?”
“Just because one fell creature exists doesn’t mean every folktale is real. Besides, I don’t remember doing it in a dream. And if I did, I think you would know.”
“Fair enough,” Audrey conceded.
With her dreamwalking abilities, Audrey could likely detect a succubus if it were real. And that was before considering that such a creature would likely need to be physically nearby before it could interfere with his dreams. With the Great Keep under tight security, even a succubus would have little chance of reaching him.
Lansius inhaled and couldn't resist a wide yawn. He was tired. He had drifted into brief spells of sleep throughout the day and even taken a light nap, but it had only made him feel worse.
Sir Michael and Calub rose from their table and headed toward him.
“Yes, speak,” Lansius said. He needed no greeting.
“It is about the matter of Elder Antonius of the Five Peaks,” Calub said.
“The clansman,” Lansius acknowledged.
Calub gave a nod. “We approve of your plan, My Lord. We could not think of a wiser approach.”
Lansius took a deep breath. “Elder Antonius certainly has an ulterior motive, but we cannot afford to lose a possible ally inside the clans. The war in the mountains has gone on too long.”
“Progress has indeed been slow,” Sir Michael agreed, “and we fear winter may bring unseen risks.”
Lansius could not help but nod. “Make sure Antonius understands in our reply that we are at war. If he has anything to say, he must convey it to the area commander. Politics must not interrupt a field commander or a military maneuver.”
...
With the night already past midnight, Lansius finally called an end to the work. If he pushed any further, he would collapse in the hall in full view of everyone.
As he retired to his chamber, Margo brought him the medicine in a golden goblet.
Lansius gulped it down and quickly washed it away with honeyed water.
“The last one wasn’t this bitter,” he said.
Audrey, who heard him, merely turned away as if hiding something.
“Did the physician change the recipe?” he asked.
“They’re doing their best,” she said. “Likely trying something new.”
Lansius nodded. He had little reason for suspicion. With several physicians involved, it would be harder for anyone to tamper with the medicine unnoticed. Margo had also been trained by the Orange Skalds, and the Guard Captain had employed a guildsman as a poison expert. Moreover, Lansius trusted his physician, who had yet to do him any harm.
Moreover, he had made sure the physician understood what was safe and what was not.
Since his first year in Korelia, Lansius had listed many commonly misunderstood toxic substances. By now, most of his medicines were herbal. He had little faith in animal-derived remedies, which he considered less reliable and often overrated. Parts of snakes or bats would not heal a man, nor would the ground bones of some exotic beast.
And things like lead or mercury were to be avoided. Even small doses could become a slow poison.
“Do you want to lose your mind, your digestion, and your hair?” Lansius recalled asking them when he first brought the matter to their attention.
With his head heavy with sleep, Lansius cleaned his teeth, taking longer than usual to do it properly. Then he washed his face.
Even cold water did not draw the fatigue and sleepiness from him.
He yawned and almost headed to bed when Margo knocked.
“My Lord, my apologies. There is an urgent message from Lord Robert.”
“Lord Robert?” Lansius muttered.
Audrey was already in her gown, but she took up her arming sword as she approached the door. “Yes, Margo. I’ll take the letter.”
She took it, locked the door again, and turned to Lansius. “This can wait until tomorrow.”
“It could be important. Might as well read it now,” he said.
Audrey slowly read from the rewritten hawk letter, since the original was too small and filled with codes and abbreviations for most eyes to read comfortably.
“It’s from Canardia,” she said. “Lord Bengrieve’s messenger has traveled back to Elandia.”
Lansius’ reddened eyes widened despite the dark circles beneath them. “This could be bad...” he muttered, thinking through his fatigue. “Did we insult him?”
“Actually, no.” Audrey’s eyes widened, and her mouth parted as she brought the letter to him. “He has rewarded you.”
Lansius froze. “Rewarded me?”
Audrey could not resist her smile. “Midlandia has been raised to a county.”
Lansius stared at her.
“And you, Husband, have just been made its Count.”
In the early winter of 4426, upon Lord Bengrieve’s petition and in the absence of higher authority from the Capital, Duke Louis of Tiberia had raised Lord Lansius to the rank of Count of the Imperium.
And by that same decree, Audrey had become a Countess.
***
PS: I hope the Clavieras arc isn’t too brutal. 😅
And now we finally learn about Bengrieve’s message. It’s a politically charged gift, something Lansius and Audrey unlikely to refuse despite the political price.
So, Count Lansius. Or, in French, Le Comte Lansius de Midlandia.
More to come next chapter!🔥
As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆