Corridor of Mind
The old man in the bloodied gambeson noticed the gaze of the figure wearing his Lord’s likeness. Yet he looked him in the eye, knowing he was not the true one.
“I died in the fields of Korimor,” the old man replied.
The figure’s face contorted, unable to understand what stood before him.
The old man growled, "Begone, doppelganger. The Lord’s soul is never alone. He is not yours to command."
"Doppelganger?" The figure recoiled and took a step back, then seethed through gritted teeth. He raised his sword, ready to strike.
But before he could do more than take a single step, three nearly translucent children appeared in front of Lansius and spread their arms wide.
“You can’t,” one said defiantly, in an innocent voice. “His soul is not yours.”
“My sister lived because of him,” said another.
“We won’t let you hurt him,” said the third.
As the last child finished speaking, two young men appeared behind Lansius, one slim, one broad. Their clothes were soaked through. They said nothing, but silently helped support Lansius’ body.
Then more appeared. Many bore wounds through their armor, yet they stood firm and stalwart, without a hint of regret. One looked almost regal, blood matting his blond hair, his knightly armor still proud despite the gore staining his leg plates.
To the startled figure in Lansius’ clothing, he said, “I am Callahan. You will not take My Lord.”
The bloodied knight was not the last.
Four half-kin appeared.
The largest among them, towering over the others with his neck bent at a wrong angle, glanced toward his kin and muttered, “I died a foolish death. Sis Beatrix will be furious with me.” His voice softened for a moment, almost ashamed. “Still—”
He gripped his own jaw and wrenched his broken neck straight with a wet crack, then turned his predatory gaze toward the lone figure by the door. “Who are you to lay claim to this man’s soul?”
“You are all residues!” the figure wearing the Lord’s likeness shouted, brandishing his sword. “Dead memories. Contaminations!”
The bloodied, regal knight answered him. “We're part of this man’s soul. You cannot take him without taking us.”
“Not that we’re going to let you do that.” The tall half-kin stood to his full height, claws extended. Around him, his brethren did the same without command. Their claws slid free, sharp and ready.
“No… No!” the lone figure shouted, as if his voice alone could make them vanish. “He’ll die. I’m the only salvation. I alone can make this right!”
“As in life, My Lord saw further than any of us,” the bloodied knight answered. “You have no right to claim otherwise.”
As the half-kin approached, a man in red armor appeared in silence behind the figure. Blood covered his nearly severed neck. Before the figure could turn, the man seized him from behind and held him fast, refusing to let go even as the figure struggled.
The figure thrashed violently against him, but the dead man’s grip did not loosen.
In a broken voice, the man in red armor whispered, “Even in death, I would still fight for him.”
“No!” the figure yelled as he struggled, but the dead had already closed around him.
Knights, drowned youths, half-kin, men-at-arms, farmers, servants, and children reached for him. Translucent or not, their hands seized his arms, his shoulders, his sword wrist, his doublet. They held him fast and bound him in place.
The figure thrashed, pleading, “He’ll die!”
“What is there to fear?” one of the dead asked. “We are already dead.”
Fear broke through the figure’s eyes. He faced something beyond his knowledge, beyond his power, beyond any law he understood. The Corridor of Mind should have been his, yet it had been invaded. He writhed and struggled, but surrounded, he was powerless.
“We are part of him,” said one of the dead, whose head was crushed.
Another said, “Now you belong to us.”
The tall half-kin gave a grim, amused snort. “I still have no idea what’s going on, but you’re going with us.”
The figure’s face twisted in horror as the dead dragged him into their midst.
“Part of us...”
“Part of us...”
“Part of us...”
As the figure was dragged into the mass of the dead, Lansius convulsed. A wet cough tore from his throat. Then dark blood spilled from his mouth and ran down his beard. The figure had indeed been part of him. And now that it was gone, claimed by the dead, something inside Lansius had been torn away with it.
Sir Callahan and the others looked down at Lansius. Their faces were no longer human, but ghastly, skeletal, and fading.
"My Lord, you’re on your own."
"We’ve done what we could."
"Lans, don’t give up."
The world collapsed around them. Walls, floor, and ceiling broke apart and fell into the endless ocean below.
Then muffled sounds reached Lansius.
"Angelo. Angelo!" a young woman called urgently.
"I already gave him everything," a man answered, strained and breathless.
Another voice cut through the panic. "Ingrid!"
The older woman gasped. She had given all she could.
"Petra, talk to me," the old man called, already braced for bad news.
"He’s fading," the young woman said, her voice heavy. "I can’t feel him anymore."
Heavy breaths, gasps, and panicked murmurs filled the chamber.
In the spring of 4427, the second attempt to awaken Lord Lansius had failed. By then, they had exhausted all the precious mana flowers Lord Avery had brought, along with the fresh ones gathered from the heights of Umberland. It was the only medicine to which the Lord had ever responded.
...
Characters
The Old Bloodied Soldier. One of many Korelians who died on the plains of Korimor, fighting the armed refugees of Nicopola.
The Two Drenched Figures. The two youngsters Lansius befriended when he escaped from Riverstead. They died in the river before the events in the Amertume Forest.
Sir Callahan. Lansius’ first advisor and mentor in Korelia. Killed by Sir Morton. He is the father of Cecile and Claire.
The Man in Red Armor. Gregory, one of Sir Harold’s command staff and part of the Sky Raider team that infiltrated the Monastery. He died at the hands of Anna while she was possessed.
The Old Man. Lord Avery of Dawn.
Angelo. Lord Avery’s mage-aviator.
Petra. Saint Candidate working for Lord Avery. She was the one who healed Lansius in the Umberland bulwark chapter.
Ingrid. Lady Audrey’s mage mentor and now chamberlain of Korimor. She is in her mid-forties and is a fast friend of Francisca, the half-kin.
***
Vindebona
Spring had come to the foot of the Targe Mountains, though the highlands were still partially covered in white snow. Commander Bald Eagle, as he often did in the morning, walked just beyond the city wall, where freshly raised grave mounds lay in uneven rows beneath the cold.
He mourned the men he had lost. Officers who had followed him for years. Men who had stood beside him through battle, hardship, and retreat.
"Sir Rodney," someone called from behind, prompting Bald Eagle’s four escorts to turn around.
It took a while for the old commander to turn toward the speaker and recognize him. "Everyone calls me Bald Eagle nowadays," he said as the man came near.
"I still remember our younger years," the veteran squire Uskar said.
Together, they looked over the field of graves. Wooden grave markers protruded from the snow, their surfaces recently cleared so the names could still be read.
"We lost a lot of good men," Uskar said.
"They sacrificed themselves for us," Bald Eagle replied. "Herman. Schubert. Endel."
"At least we still have you, sir."
"It was Lady Sagaria who saved us, not me."
Their eyes drifted beyond the graves, out toward the plain near the thick wooded area. There, the severed remains of a fell beast still lay half-buried in the snow. They were only the parts that had broken away from the main body, which had already turned to ash. Even in the thick of winter, they had continued to smolder. Much of the flesh and bone had already broken down into blackened, charred remains. The snow had only slowed the decay.
To be greeted by such a monster last fall, when they first reached the city, had been a truly harrowing experience. Many had fled, but many more had been too scarred to leave. For them, the end of the Imperium had become too real. Now, fell beasts walked the land again.
It had taken Lady Sagaria and the bravest among them days to maim the beast, and more days still to kill it.
Bald Eagle exhaled and turned toward Uskar, changing the subject. "Do you like it here, now that we’ve seen its spring?"
As if listening, birds flew overhead, chirping brightly, heralding the coming of warm season.
"I’ve been told the meadows are fertile," Uskar began. "Truth be told, I seek a place where I can let my sword rust."
The older man chuckled. "You’ll need to pick up the plow and sickle, then."
"I’ll learn somehow. Can’t let my future children starve."
Bald Eagle snorted softly. In winter, many lucky men had found companions among the refugees, Uskar among them. Like-minded souls who wanted little more than to survive this chaotic era.
"You’ll need to do a lot of work. Can’t let an expectant mother live in discomfort."
Uskar smiled. "I still have almost a year before the birth. I’ll manage a warm nest somehow."
...
Characters of Sagaria’s Company
Sagaria / Sagarius. The central figure of this group. Known to others as Lady Sagaria.
Commander Bald Eagle. The Imperium’s senior commander who defended the cities of Tiberia and thwarted King Gottfried’s attempt to take the capital. Formerly known as Sir Rodney.
Sir Munius. A knight whom Sagarius brought back from near death. He later aided them greatly in surviving the manticore.
Uskar. A veteran squire, quick with the sword and loyal to Bald Eagle. He has followed him through hardship and battle. He was the one who found Marc.
Marc. Lansius’ brother and now Sagarius’ mage apprentice. He lost a leg during their recent ordeal but remains cheerful and devoted.
Marik. Formerly a page boy, now older and more capable.
Paulos. A talented official from the Capital who studies and tinkers with Dwarven artefacts.
Janus. A senior official from the Capital. Technically the highest-ranking minister who survived the collapse of the Imperium.
...
Sagarius
As the snow finally thawed for good, the hundreds of refugees who had now become citizens of Vindebona emerged from the royal armouries. Even without command, they began the work of making the city habitable again. Wild grass that had overrun the city was cut. Streets were cleared. Houses were swept clean. Blocked gutters were opened, wells repaired, and broken doors set back on their hinges. Soon, smoke finally returned to cold hearths.
Small bands of daring riders and crossbowmen went out to hunt in the woods, though they remained wary of fell beasts and other corrupted things.
Farmers went out to reclaim the old fields, long abandoned and half-swallowed by wild growth. Brush was cut away. Trees were felled. Stones were pulled from the soil, collapsed fences were rebuilt, and drainage ditches were cleared. For now, the heirloom seeds they had carried with them, along with the seeds recovered from the vaults, were precious beyond measure.
Many went to the nearby streams to fish. Others cleared rubble from old workshops, trying to make use of them as quickly as they could. Roofs and windows were repaired. After one week, smoke began to billow from the blacksmiths’ forges.
Vindebona was alive once again. Its many towers were lit. Men patrolled its walls once more. And in the Keep’s Great Hall, feasts returned at last.
Away from all that, Sagarius remained in the depths of the armouries.
Though she hated to admit it, she feared going outside. She chose the safety of the underground as if she were a Dwarven. The fell beast, a manticore, had nearly killed her, and that nightmare still tormented her.
She wanted to overcome it, but every time she tried, the missing hand reminded her of that fateful fight. If not for Sir Munius and Marc, she would have died there.
The door to her chamber slid open with a soft scrape.
"Excuse me," Marc said as he entered the softly lit chamber. Two gemstones gave the room its light. One was fixed into the ceiling, while the other hung from a metal frame like a lantern, casting a gentler golden glow. The second had been found in the vault.
Sagarius sat on a padded leather chair newly made for her. At Marc’s entrance, she quickly removed her hand from the bandaged end of her wrist.
"I brought food," Marc added, carrying a wooden tray with two covered bowls and spoons set beside them. "It’s already near supper."
She saw that he had brought two meals and said, "You should eat in the Great Hall with the others."
Marc’s lips turned into a smile. "Others would say the same to you, Master."
Sagarius sighed. "I’ll draw too much attention."
"Maybe for the first two days," Marc said as he set the tray on the table. "But in time, it’ll become normal."
She chose not to answer and remained seated, her eyes on the ceiling. It was now decorated with a lush mural of flowers, painted by grateful hands from among the people she had saved. The Imperial armouries were vast. They even had stores of paint.
Marc, already used to her habit, began to eat. He knew she disliked giving commands as nobles did. She prefer to eat of her own accord. Even cold food did not bother her much.
"Oh," he said between bites. "Sir Munius, as requested, did not join the hunt."
Sagarius nodded with her eyes closed.
"I can see why you wanted that," Marc said. "If he went out, Vindebona would be exposed should another fell beast attack."
"It’s rare to find two in one place," Sagarius remarked, trying to sound reasonable.
That ended their small discussion. Marc continued to eat.
Sagarius glanced at his bowl and saw roasted rabbit meat. As a mage, Marc was treated well. Then her eyes went to his left leg. Thick woolen socks covered the prosthetic, but the way he moved had already become so natural that nobody would suspect anything.
Marc was nearly finished when Sagarius rose, took the copper water jug from the table, and poured him a cup.
"Gratitude."
"I prefer to keep things informal," she said. "No need to thank me for every little thing. You’re like a... brother to me." The last part came out forced. She had almost said child, for the gap between their ages was so vast that, to her, he seemed barely more than a toddler.
"Brother?" Marc snorted, seemingly amused by the idea. "I had a sister once. And a brother. I wish to see them again."
"You’ll see them again. Someday. The world isn’t such a cruel place. You just need to be patient."
Marc nodded, a pleased smile on his lips.
After drinking, knowing Sagarius hated unclean hands, Marc quickly rubbed his hands on a prepared cloth. He poured some water over them into the bowl, then wiped them again.
They were still greasy, but she appreciated the gesture.
Sitting back in her chair, Sagarius asked, "Tell me. Do you regret coming here?"
Marc frowned but shook his head. "It’s a lovely place."
Sagarius scowled at the quick, hearty answer. "You lost your leg."
"Oh," he remarked, embarrassed. "But at least we found our refuge."
She massaged her temple. Her student only able to act serious in a fight.
"And we found plenty of other incredible things too," Marc added with a grin on his face. "Enough that we could survive winter in comfort."
Indeed, as Marc said, they had found a vast shelter filled with supplies. Hundreds of years ago, when the Imperium was still at its height, the armouries had been stocked for war and never emptied afterward. The supplies had simply remained there, sealed against air inside Dwarven-designed containers, waiting in the dark.
Moreover, like her underground palace, the armouries had a basic hydroponic system. It had been intended to supply an army besieged by beastmen, and though old and strained, it still had enough capacity to help feed the thousand refugees with her.
Alongside such complex systems, she had also found a Dwarven chest plate, helmet, spear, and shield, all of which Sagarius had unlocked with her royal mental seal.
The set worn by Sir Munius had aided them greatly in fighting the manticore, which had hunted them like rats through the woods for days.
Now, the helmet remained in Sagarius’ possession. It looked oversized, but it had kept debris from her face while giving her a complete field of sight through its glass-like faceplate.
Marc gazed toward it and commented, "Thank the Grand Progenitors. If not for those, we couldn’t have won the fight."
"They’re not made by the Grand Progenitors," Sagarius corrected him. "They’re older. At least the chest plate and helmet are Dwarven."
"Huh? But it fits," Marc remarked.
Sagarius furrowed her brow. "Pardon?"
"I mean, the breastplate fit Sir Munius."
Sagarius was still confused. "Why would you make such a remark?"
"Master, it can’t be Dwarven. They’re of short stature."
She looked at him, dumbfounded. Then her lips wavered before she laughed. It was her first that year.
"You idiot," Sagarius remarked, bluntly enough to sound unlike herself. "That's just old Elven propaganda."
"Propa—what?" Marc asked, unable to understand the word.
"Never mind," she said, gathering her composure. "It's just Elven lies."
"Elven?" Marc turned excited.
"Yes. The Grand Progenitors and the Dwarves are the same," Sagarius explained. "Dwarven does not mean short. They were of the same height as others. The word only means those who dwell under the mountain. It never meant anything about short stature."
While Marc nodded at the revelation, Sagarius sighed. "Not like Elves are any taller."
Marc perked up. "You’ve seen them? Elves?"
"One visited my village when I was small," Sagarius answered without hesitation. It was a lie she had used several times through her long years.
"Do they have the pointy ears?"
"Yes." Her answer was brief.
"Do they live to a thousand?"
"Some. Not all."
They were common questions, and Sagarius gave common answers, but Marc looked so happy, like a puppy being offered tender meat.
Then the puppy asked the most obscene question possible. “Do they really gather naked beneath the forest canopy and couple for a month once every century?”
Sagarius’ gaze sharpened into a glare. "Now where did you hear that kind of gossip?"
The tone was enough to make Marc look down. He had touched a nerve. Still, thick as he was, he could connect the dots. "Master, could it be that someone in your family is—"
"Forget about this," Sagarius said. "Or I’ll make you."
A single spark crackled across the floor. Marc hastily took his empty bowl and tray, bowed deeply, and exited the chamber.
He knew too well what a finely tuned Static Charge could do. Once, Lady Sagaria had used it to knock a man unconscious before an amputation. When he woke, he had lost a week’s worth of memory. The Lady had used the same spell on Marc as well, though more gently. After knocking him down countless times in training, she had come to know his limits.
As the door slid shut behind him, Sagarius let out a tired sigh.
One careless conversation, and already she had nearly spoken too much.
***
Five Peaks Area, the Clans
By the second month of spring, the snow had finally begun to thaw, and the roads were almost open again. Yet they remained treacherous, drowned in mud and broken by meltwater. On the surface, the land was still poor ground for an army.
Beneath the rocky ground, however, the war effort had only accelerated. All through winter, the Clan miners had mapped the old shafts and worked to connect abandoned tunnels, searching for a hidden way into Clavieras.
Clad in thick furs against the cold beneath the mountain, they worked by lantern light, their breath misting in the stale air.
More than two hundred labored day and night. Rotten timber frames were replaced. Weak sections were shored up before they could collapse. Rope riggings were installed where the shafts narrowed, dipped, or turned slick with frozen seepage. The old smugglers had maintained their hidden roads well, almost as if they had carved a second city beneath the mountain.
Another hundred carried provisions, firewood, charcoal, tools, and weapons for the battle to come.
Many of the laborers were sixth- or seventh-generation slaves, loyal to the clans and bound to the order by their own privileges. They too had a vested interest in reclaiming Clavieras.
The clan elders in the other cities were determined to end the matter before it was too late. Clavieras was one of their strongest holdings. If it remained under occupation for too long, then the lower slaves would begin to see that their masters could be defeated.
Losing Clavieras would be more than a military failure. It would be a sign of weakness. And weakness among the clans would invite slave uprisings.
A war on two fronts would be disastrous.
Thus came the desperation behind the plan. At the height of winter, they would retake Clavieras from below.
Yet the plan had proven too ambitious. Cold, cave-ins, and the maze of old shafts slowed their progress. Still, in the dark beneath the mountain, they found one breakthrough after another.
At last, in early spring, a likely path into Clavieras was discovered.
The clans moved at once. By the time the breach was widened enough for men to pass, they had assembled a large army, no fewer than a thousand men.
After several more breakthroughs, it became clear that the path was truly open. Orders were given, and the army began its slow and arduous march beneath the mountain.
Two hundred men moved ahead as the vanguard. Farther still, thirty scouts had been attached to the miners and were already present when the final breach was opened. Their task was to slip through first, find the final approach into Clavieras, and mark the path for the army behind them. They were trained men, well versed in the craft of moving unseen.
Even this precaution might not have been needed. After all, this was part of an old abandoned mine, and most of the living no longer knew it existed.
The main army advanced underground with few accidents. They moved by lantern light, rested in narrow chambers, and ate beneath old timber and wet stone, with the weight of the mountain pressing above their heads.
Each day, through long, narrow passages, they crept closer to Clavieras.
The city knew nothing of the danger creeping toward it from below.
It took the vanguard twenty-one days to reach their destination. Farther back, the main body of the clansmen moved in a long, patient column through the bowels of the mountain.
By then, the thirty scouts sent ahead were believed to have reached Clavieras. Their task was to slip into the city, make contact, and prepare the first sparks of an uprising.
As the greater part of the army passed the last narrow shaft, the miners stayed behind, widening the passage for those still to come. Their work was slow, but it no longer mattered. Enough men had already crossed.
If they reached the heart of Clavieras, nothing within the city could withstand them.
A thousand clansmen bursting from below would break the garrison before it could form ranks. Even in chaos, half the city would gladly rise to aid them, eager to cast off the rule of the Lowlandians. Gates would be opened. Patrols would be cut apart. The squares would drown in blood before the occupiers even understood where the attack had begun.
Retaking Clavieras would not merely mean winning back a city. It would deny the Shogunate its foothold in the Five Peaks regions and break the momentum of the Black Lord’s campaign against them.
By then, the Clans had become convinced of the shape of the Black Lord's grand strategy. Clavieras had been the main thrust. The Gray Legion under Sir Servius, still pressing from the north, was no more than a stubborn diversion meant to fix their eyes elsewhere.
“If Clavieras falls back into our hands,” one Elder had said from the comfort of their citadel north of Clavieras, “then the northern attack loses its purpose.”
“And with it, its courage,” his younger officer replied, wearing a satisfied smile.
If that happened, it would be the Clans’ greatest victory in generations. It would be decisive for all their people.
There would be no more hiding behind sealed roads and hidden tunnels. No more bowing their heads to unworthy outsiders who named them smugglers and mountain rats. If Clavieras was reclaimed, then their birthright would awaken in full.
They would be smugglers no more, but masters of these lands.
Now, all they needed was a sign.
Night fell over Clavieras beneath a clear sky crowded with stars.
Then, while most of the city slept, the sign was given.
***
PS: For this chapter, I included character names, because there are several new names, and Sagarius’ companions were last seen many-many chapters ago.
About this, if anyone forgets about a character, even if it’s many characters, just ask in the comments. I’ll be glad to answer. It’s not like this is the 1990s, when communication was one-way. These days, readers can ask, and the author can easily reply.
There are several important reveals in this chapter, especially the about the Dwarves.
More to come next chapter.😙🎶
The knight in the chapter picture is Sir Callahan. He's Lansius’ first advisor and mentor in Korelia.
As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆