Chapter 91: Carapaced Devil

Green moonlight leaking from amongst black clouds guided Dimitry through chaotic streets. The ground intermittently rumbled beneath his feet, and another frantic horn sounded from the western gatehouse to warn of an impending catastrophe. A heathen horde accompanying a carapaced devil charged towards Malten. After demolishing the wall, their first target would be the field hospital.

Although the damage would cost Dimitry much invested gold, tents containing supplies were insignificant. He worried more about the medical personnel stationed there and the homeless huddled nearby. If the city’s defenses fell, and people remained out of misguided duty, tragedy would ensue. An outcome he could not allow.

More athletic than him and her sister, Angelika ran ahead. “Can’t you two hurry up?”

Leona trailed in back, gasping for breath. “I…I can’t!”

“We’ll catch up later,” Dimitry said. “Just make sure non-essential people evacuate the field hospital. Don’t worry about abandoning surgical tools or anything else that’s easily replaceable.”

Angelika nodded and hovered her palm over her feet. “Hastia.” She soon vanished from view.

Every few seconds, shock waves from distant stomping shook carved roads. Rivets adjoining beams to rusted iron buildings rattled. Panicked screaming echoed from alleys. Although refugees’ heads darted side to side, scanning for a haven to take refuge in, their options ran short.

A tailor’s doors slammed shut, and ceramics shattered in an overcrowded alehouse struggling to fill beyond capacity. There was nowhere to hide. Some darted towards the central market, while others rocked under metal awnings. However, not everyone sought physical shelter. Many knelt beside the hospital tents at west main street’s end.

The crowd parted when Dimitry and Leona rushed through.

Angelika was already there. “Move, you idiots!” she shouted. “Why are you all just sitting here? There’s a heathen raid coming. You could die!”

Her warning went unheeded. Instead, the pious mumbled prayers asking Zera to purge the heathens stampeding towards them. Neither threats from the queen’s guards nor a combat sorceress’ pleas could shake their faith. Without the Church to commune through, their frail hopes fell onto a single man. A man who held not a hint of holiness.

A boy dashed past distracted halberdiers to tug on Dimitry’s cloak. “Will Zera save us?”

Unsteady after a mad dash from the castle, the question caught him unaware. Dimitry didn’t come prepared to spew Zeran musings. His goal was to clear the road for emergencies and evacuate people, not placate a religion-starved public.

Still, expectant glares stalked him from all directions. One belonged to a man whose expensive clothes tore after days laying against rough stone walls and polluted streets. His eyes pleaded for a miracle, as did those of the woman sitting beside him. And they weren’t alone. Although the crowd was only half the size of this afternoon’s, it numbered at least a hundred.

The devout remained in harm’s way.

Was Dimitry to blame? He intended to market himself as the apostle, but for several rumors and kind deeds to earn him unfaltering belief and stalwart followers exceeded his expectations. His plan worked too well. Did lies hold that much power?

As a common man, was he prepared to seize it? If only there was more time to prepare. Authority brought wealth and potential, but it invited responsibility and envy, too. There would be those who sought retribution.

Unlike the necessity that urged Dimitry to plot his religious takeover, only creeping dread and inadequacy accompanied him now. He insinuated his role as apostle prior, but if Dimitry cited Zera to command the believers to aid him, he would remove all doubt. There was no going back. Was he ready to take the plunge? Could he overcome the ramifications inherent to usurping holy power and leading the destitute in a time of crisis?

It would be nothing like managing a surgical team. Nothing like a hospital. Nothing like how the Earthly man envisioned a king sitting on a gilded throne. There would be strife. Death. Endless glances over shoulders and decisions that could never be undone despite Dimitry’s best efforts and planning.

At the same time, new opportunities would arise. With a labor force of a hundred, he could change medicine, warfare, and the world. Dimitry would usher forth an era of centuries advanced ideology. A modernized army specialized in dispatching heathens. Highly efficient agriculture. Pharmaceuticals that saved countless lives and unlocked humanity’s potential for life spans beyond fifty.

Fear of the unknown couldn’t restrain him.

His decision was obvious. And the first use of his power would be to pacify a restless people while putting them to use.

Dimitry calmed his nerves with a deep breath and met the boy’s fearful gaze with a smile. “Zera will save us.” He glanced away to scan a surrounding crowd that waited breathlessly for his next word.

“Zera will save us all, but only if we stop relying entirely on her. Our lives are our responsibility, and it would be an insult to her to throw them away. If you agree, you will listen carefully to my instructions.”

Refugees quit their pious mumbling, and guards and watchmen ceased to hurl threats. All speech went silent. Only shouting from towering walls and a carapaced devil’s distant stomping was audible, growing louder every step.

Dimitry pointed away from the gatehouse. “Everyone who isn’t part of the war effort will wait patiently at the market square. You will stay there until the city’s safety is guaranteed, which it will be. Do not rush, panic, or yell. If you see an injured person who cannot move, ask for their permission before bringing them to me. Celeste guide you all.”

After many shared glances, people stood to abide by their instructions. A mother grabbed her sobbing toddler’s hand and teetered down a dark green street. Like a silent parade, dozens marched to vacate space around the field hospital.

A slurry of emotion slithered into Dimitry. Fear of harsh rebuttal for speaking on Zera’s behalf, self-disdain for peddling false hope like a predatory salesman, and shame at resorting to complete lies. There was also something else. Something satisfying.

One of the queen’s assigned guards approached. Tired eyes peeking through a helmet’s visor, he bowed before returning to his post. Was his gesture one of appreciation of no longer having to yell at obstinate refugees, or praise for someone swinging around Zera’s name like they had a clue?

It didn’t matter. Dimitry had more pressing issues than guessing at a random man’s intentions. He faced his employees.

Most stood beside field hospital tents, fidgeting as if unsure if they should run or risk their lives for jobs they held for less than a month.

Dimitry walked towards them. “If you are a porter or a clinical assistant, wait inside the cathedral until the threat is dealt with. Come back immediately afterward. Only nurses and paramedics should remain here.”

A housekeeper carrying soiled blankets ran by with a lowered head. “Celeste guide you, Jade Surgeon.”

After a nod in response to her sentiment, Dimitry scanned the street for potential casualties. None remained in sight. “Angelika, can you quickly search the alleys for people injured by falling debris?”

“You got it, apostle. Be right back.”

Once Angelika dashed away, Leona glanced back at Dimitry with fiery orange eyes that resembled her reaction upon seeing accelall’s rainbow glow at Vogel’s Enchantments. “Apostle?”

The last thing Dimitry needed was a traumatic outburst mid-crisis. “Can we discuss this later?”

She paused, and after taking several deep breaths, her tense shoulders and glare eased. “My apologies. I have already made a mockery of myself in front of the man who saved our mom once, and I don’t intend to do so again. Rather, there’s something I must say.”

“Now isn’t the ti—”

“Listen a moment. I don’t know what Angelika told you, but she used to be in Archbishop Fronika’s choir. Even when the Church abandoned us eight years ago, she kept singing Zera’s praises. And then when dad left to fight in the Gestalt wars, she sang even more. Do you know how much it hurt to hear the same damn gospel verses get more desperate every single day? I listened to her pray and beg from behind closed doors for dad, grandma, and granddad to come home, only for her to one day fall silent. When mom and I checked her room, we found her…”

“Found her what?”

Leona inhaled deeply. “All I’m saying is that Angelika isn’t as tough as she seems. I don’t know whether you’re the apostle or not, but don’t give her hope just to rip it away. I can’t bear to see her like that ever again.”

Dimitry’s gaze lowered. The chinks in Angelika’s armor, her lapses into emotional vulnerability; they revealed the girl wasn’t the badass she pretended to be. However, for her to have gone from Zeran fanatic to heretic went beyond his expectations. Did he push her too hard? “I’ll be more careful around her.”

“Please do. She’s too loyal for her own good.”

“She’s also lucky to have a caring older sister.” He forced a smile, wondering if his own still thought of him back on Earth. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Hair untidy after their rush here, Leona brushed loose scarlet strands back under her robe’s crimson hood. “Lose as much family as I have, and you’d be clingy, too.”

“I said caring, not clingy.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“One’s a little healthier than the other.”

Even as the ground’s rumbling worsened, they shared hasty laughs.

“Can I continue to rely on your protection?” Dimitry asked.

“I’ll never be forgiven if I let you die.” She reached for the rifle strapped to her back. “Besides, I can’t afford to lose someone so good for business. You’re quickly becoming our favorite customer.”

Seeing Leona regain her collected disposition relieved Dimitry. “Does the prestigious title come with discounts?”

“Maybe we can pull a few strings.”

“My lucky day.”

Another frantic horn resounded from atop the western wall. Sorceresses from the castle district poured down main street, rushing past Dimitry and towards the western gatehouse.

Angelika ran out of a gloomy alleyway. “There’s no one. I looked all around, and I didn’t find anyone.” She took a moment to heave for air and looked up at a dozen moonlit figures standing on the wall. “Shit. That’s the second alarm and there still aren’t enough sorceresses.” Her pleading gaze fell to Dimitry.

Her desire to reinforce the city’s defenses became clear. Although Angelika’s job was to guard Dimitry, there would be no point if a carapaced devil breached Malten.

“Be careful,” he said.

“You know I will.”

“Wait.” Leona reached into her cloak for a gold-embroidered book smaller than a matchbox. “Take this.”

“Dad’s prayer book?”

She leaned forward to kiss her younger sister’s forehead. “Give it back when you return. Okay?”

Angelika groaned. “Why do you always have to be so embarrassing?”

The unblessed lands west of Malten.

During her youth, Mira often admired them from atop this wall. Elk roamed alongside pristine river waters, and squirrels climbed splendorous willow trees while she practiced spells under her mentor’s supervision. The few heathens that circumvented the Church’s barriers were shoulder-high. They polluted the wilds then, too, but few thought them a cataclysmic threat.

How times have changed. Laura was dead, the forest had lost its bounty, and a carapaced devil charged towards the city before the night of repentance.

When Mira heard the five thousand stride alarm, she assumed the scouts used the wrong signaling illumina canister. But they didn’t. The second alarm sang soon after, announcing the devils’ fast approach. They were now less than two thousand five hundred strides away. Although her vision deteriorated since the splendor of youth—reducing the incoming heathen raid to a blurry mesh of aquamarine among dark emerald—Mira didn’t need sight to know the danger. Heavy footsteps’ intensifying tremors sufficed as proof.

However, despite an abrupt awakening, insufficient time to brush her hair, and a desperate march from the manor, Mira didn’t show fear. She stood unflinchingly like her predecessors had always done. Crisis was an opportunity to grow stronger—for her and her darlings.

Already a dozen crimson robes surrounded her and more rushed closer from all directions. Along city walls, across the streets, and through murky alleys. They huddled close to exchange frenzied prattle.

Their cantankerous chatter ended when Mira spoke. “Lenne, where is the cannon?”

The head channeler knelt. “My humblest apologies, madam. It remains within the north-western tower. As it would have taken too long to carry here, and my squad has yet to arrive, I decided to leave it.”

A prudent choice. Aside from troublesome logistics, the burden of casting propelia with sufficient power to fire a cannonball was too high for a single sorceress lacking channeling support. Overload was inevitable. Mira would never endanger her girls with such sacrificial maneuvers. Unfortunately, it was the only weapon that reliably dispatched carapaced devils since the heathen archetype’s first appearance six years ago.

But that might have changed.

Mira’s gaze fell to a pipe-shaped golden glow strapped to a combat sorceress’s back. Underneath lay the surgeon’s creation. While her darlings uncovered little of accelall’s origins, its precise effects, or why a long and curved core seal was necessary for its function, the so-called Zera’s Thunder’s utility could not be denied. Its ammunition lacked the mass of a voltech cannon, but a barrage of pellets with overwhelming velocities held countless possibilities. Could concentrated fire injure a heavily armored beast?

Two illumina orbs rose from decimated lands and shot into cursed green skies. A horn’s immaculate song followed shortly—the third and final alarm, indicating that the invaders were only one thousand strides out.

Mira squinted but still couldn’t distinguish the heathens marching closer. “Lenne, darling, would you tell me what you see? I’m afraid my youth has escaped me.”

“It’s a class one raid in a tight formation. Eight fliers and five crawlers centered on a carapaced devil, approaching slower than normal.”

Sluggish movement was to be expected. Only a night of repentance’s surge could empower a heathen’s forward advance. Still, it was odd for a full raid to assemble before the night of repentance. Perhaps the devils devised novel methods of attack? “Continue to monitor the enemy. Report as they pass each milestone.”

Lenne stood. “Yes, madam.”

Pondering the optimal allocation of resources to deal with the threat, Mira looked down at her growing crowd of sorceresses. Half wielded Zera’s Thunder. As carapaced devils negated magic in a wide area, and their shells deflected weak projectiles, only accelall enchanted rifles had a chance of harming the beast. Everyone wielding antiquated weaponry would have to target fliers and crawlers instead. Hopefully, her limited forces could eliminate the threat.

A man shrouded in a black cloak climbed nearby stairs. They had a familiar face—one of Lukas’ thugs. He knelt. “An urgent message from Lord Pfeiffer, my lady.”

“Speak.”

“My lordship says he will eliminate the crawling devils soon after they enter the two hundred and fifty stride zone. The rest he leaves in your capable hands.”

Lukas was never one to take to the field—another change the surgeon’s innovations wrought. Although strange, his assistance could ease the burden her girls carried.

“Very well,” Mira said. “You are dismissed.”

He vanished from sight as a common brute should.

“The devils have breached the seven hundred and fifty stride marker,” Lenne said.

Mira frowned. They ran short on time. She counted her assembling sorceresses—twenty-three in total, including two that had just arrived. One was the firing squad director, Grite, and the other the combat mage who spied on the Jade Surgeon.

“Good evening, Angelika.”

The girl who shared delectably pinch-able cheeks with her enchantress mother bowed.

“Shouldn’t you be observing that man?” Mira asked.

“Y-yes,” Angelika said. “But I figured this was more important, madam.”

Which took priority? Keeping watch over a man commanding Zera’s wisdom, or a beast a third the castle’s height?

“The five hundred stride marker!”

In the distance, enraged stomping tossed dust into the air, concealing pale blue heathen circuits and mixed stone appendages. Fliers darted across putrid skies.

The enemy would arrive soon.

Idle chatter would wait until after Mira distributed orders. “Those equipped with Zera’s Thunder will fire on the carapaced devil on my command. Grite will lead everyone else in removing the airborne pestilence. Crawlers aren’t our immediate priority. Is that clear?”

“Yes!” two dozen voices chanted.

“Ready your ammo,” Grite drilled. “Those who miss their shots will spend next month sweeping the armory.”

Like many others, Lenne organized vol and iron pellets onto stone shelves protruding from battlements.

One of the younger sorceresses approached with a carved antler comb in outstretched arms. “For you, madam.”

Mira laughed. “Thank you, darling.”

She bowed and skipped away.

Brushing her neglected hair, Mira glanced down at Angelika. “So, have you uncovered anything unusual about the Jade Surgeon?”

The girl fit her rifle’s muzzle through a battlement loophole. “Um… it kind of shocked me when he told me he had visions right before the summit.”

“He told you nothing else in confidence? Perhaps of his bombs or truth-detection spells?”

“Not really,” Angelika said. “Dimitry doesn’t talk more than necessary.”

Mira straightened her gold-embroidered cuffs. Angelika wasn’t one to conceal the truth. Either Dimitry was more secretive than anyone had anticipated, or there was obfuscation magic in play. “Continue to watch him. I want to know anything strange as soon as it happens, especially if it concerns this ‘science’.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I’m confident you will.”

“My lady,” Lenne shouted. “Two hundred and fifty strides!”

Curious if Lukas could fulfill his promise, Mira glanced over the battlements.

Blurred thugs in dark green camouflage hid perpendicular to the heathen raid. Half dashed toward their crawling devil targets, tossed ‘sticky bombs’ onto spherical torsos, and retreated. The others remained behind decaying trees, holding up their palms.

They chanted spells too distant to hear.

One by one, deafening lightning bolts and fiery infernos erupted from the wastelands. From clouds of occult, pale smoke, crawlers tumbled to the withered ground one by one, blue blood pouring from devastated cores. Spear-like legs twitched, then lay eternally still.

Five crawling devils died near instantaneously.

Mira’s soul melted as she hid two trembling hands behind her back. This was the discovery she hoped to make when she left her family’s countryside villa all those years ago. Why she sacrificed her youth to study under Laura’s tutelage.

True arcane power.

To think her search would end with a surgeon’s advent. The sight consumed her at the court summit, then again every day since. Although she sought to harness this strength, to learn of chemistry’s mystic might, part of her wished that bombs were little more than choreographed exhibitions.

Unfortunately, the past two days proved otherwise. She watched them combust into wrath and flames from atop these walls many times, each with devastation exceeding a squad of advanced channeling sorceresses.

How could a cast-iron orb conceal such fury function without vol? Mira’s explorations uncovered nothing. All she found within were black nuggets of frail sand that momentarily smoldered before vanishing. Perhaps the source of their strength was Zera’s intervention.

“Madam,” a voice pierced the clamor of earth-shattering thumping. “One hundred strides!”

Mira decided she would question Dimitry during their private meeting. For now, a trial of Zera’s power drew near. She raised her hand. “Fire on my mark.” Her eyes focused onto the fifty stride divider carving across the bleak landscape.

The carapaced devil crossed it.

“Mark.”

With an immaculate chorus of ‘propelia’ and crackling like that of taskmaster whips, iron pellets showered down from the battlements onto a massive stone shell. Although not every shot met its mark, the results surpassed typical rifles. Every thunderous volley punctured a dozen bleeding chinks into the beast’s back.

“Kill the nearest fliers first,” Grite commanded. “Let not a single one enter the city!”

A flying devil with a severed spine plunged to the ground.

Its carapaced cohort bellowed a resounding screech—a sign that the neutralization barrier activated.

The walls lost their green aura, and several rifles their reflectia glows.

It seemed not even the Jade Surgeon’s magic could contest the heathen’s most formidable power. Mira looked back. “If your enchantments are undone, hide until they regenerate. Don’t be brave. Leather armor cannot repel toxic feathers without protectia.”

A breathless darling nodded and stepped aside. The cloth entombing her rifle gradually regained its golden color, but she fell when overwhelming force collided into the gatehouse, sending powerful ripples through the wall.

Angelika pulled her to her feet. “Get up!”

“Thank you.”

Mira glanced down at the devil. Despite blood oozing from its countless pores, the carapaced beast continued to ram with identical strength. This couldn’t continue. If the wall fell now, the city wouldn’t survive the night of repentance.

The heathen needed to bleed to death soon.

And Mira knew only one way to accomplish her goal. She would employ the same maneuver as last month, except without a cannon. Hopefully, Zera’s Thunder could sever stone appendages.

“Darlings!” Mira stumbled and dropped her comb as the gatehouse hinges squealed terrifying cries. “Aim for the base of the neck. Chop off the bastard’s head!”

“Yes, madam!”

Pellets punctured holes into where the carapaced devil’s throat slithered underneath its shell. Slowly, small cracks combined to form ravines gushing blue blood.

A flying devil soared overhead, tracing circular trails among obsidian clouds. It swooped down.

Mira grabbed a vol pellet from the battlements. “Dropia.”

The monster crashed into a boulder.

A sharp metallic clang echoed from below.

“One of the hinges is gone,” a downstairs infantryman yelled. “The door is loose!”

With a crumbling thud, the carapaced devil’s head fell, shattering upon collision with a lifeless dirt floor. A waterfall of volatile liquids rushed down from its abdomen’s gaping wound to pool around the legs. But the beast wasn’t dead. It continued to barge its massive weight into the gatehouse gate.

Despite eight years of fending off heathens, Mira held her breath. She had to defend the city. However, there was little point in shooting the wretch. It would die from blood loss soon. Damage mitigation was her best choice.

“Hold your fire,” Mira commanded. “Barricade the space between the heathen and the city!”

Many protectia chants resounded from across the battlements.

Like a wine-drunk merchant, the carapaced devil teetered from side to side as it pummeled forward. Its strikes grew weaker, and the wall shook less.

Mira examined her sorceresses.

Some leaned against stone, struggling to remain upright.

“Just a little longer, my darlings!”

The headless corpse slammed forward, then pushed forward, and before long, it fell forward.

It was dead.

Quiet at first, cheers echoed from across a nighttime city. They grew louder as civilians rushed into the streets, refugees clapped, and guards pummeled the blunt ends of their spears into dark green roads.

Mira smiled. “Well done, everyone. You honor me with your valor.”

Two dozen sorceresses stood tall, just as they should. They earned this moment of respite. Unfortunately, it was just that—a single moment. The night of repentance did not start until tomorrow, and there would be no rest until the following dawn. Tonight was a mere taster of the horror to come.

Her heart sank at the thought of the worsening raids. What terrors would tomorrow bring if a carapaced devil began striking the city walls already? Mira prayed she wouldn’t have to lose another darling this month, but when her gaze fell to the miraculous ‘Zera’s Thunder’ Angelika cradled in her arms, a sliver of hope glimmered within her soul.

“Angelika.”

The gaze of the young combat sorceress shot up. “Madam?”

“Do me a favor and ask Dimitry and your darling sister Emilia to try inscribing one of those core seals for the cannon. I want my Fire Leaders to train with them starting next month.”

An ailing gatehouse stood at west mainstreet’s end. Before last night, it was the pinnacle of medievalesque architecture. A tower flanked the structure on either side, each comprising stone bricks that masons painstakingly crafted into identical rectangular blocks. The walkway above and the road passing through below were smooth and level. A massive central gate with stacked iron layers defended the city street it towered over.

But after a carapaced devil’s siege, observers would sing the gatehouse’s praises no longer. Dented walls crumbled brick fragments onto a caved passageway, and a thick metal hinge burst open, destabilizing one of the gatehouse doors such that it creaked with every howling gale. Pale blue ponds—mixtures of heathen’s blood and the water guards added to neutralize it—spilled onto the road and into the dead wilderness beyond.

In the macabre liquid’s surface was Dimitry’s azure reflection, distorted by his boot’s ripples and a murky afternoon sky. He plodded across, through the gatehouse, and emerged beyond Malten’s walls. Although he initially intended to determine whether the gatehouse could survive another heathen raid, curiosity and a concerned sorceress’s prodding compelled him to examine the deceased carapaced devil on the other side.

“Is it safe?” he asked.

In front marched a girl whose red-brown curls leaked from a crimson hood to sway with the wind. Angelika cradled a glowing, pipe-like weapon in both arms. “No problem. If one of those fuckers so much as looks in our direction, I’ll kill it.”

Dimitry stepped around the tortoise-monster’s decapitated head. Just like other heathens, the monstrosity had no eyes. “How can you tell if they’re looking at us?”

She groaned. “You know what I mean. I’ll kill anything that comes near. Better?”

“What if this thing moves?”

“It’s been like half a day since it died. It’ll be fine.”

Recalling Angelika’s story about how the headless carapaced devil slammed into the gatehouse last night, an icy chill shot down Dimitry’s spine. He preferred not to be here if it awakened. “Let’s be quick. What did you want to show me?”

Her head shot up to scan the gatehouse walls and towers, then at the guard stood beside the gates. She pulled in close to whisper. “So, remember we went to that aquatic demon place?”

“Waira? It’s hard to forget when it’s been less than two weeks.”

“Yeah, but I’m talking about the weird red thing we fought in that giant room.” Angelika paused, dread in her orange eyes. “It looked a lot like this one except it didn’t neutralize magic—it stole it. And I think it was healing itself, too.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. Her point was clear—if combat sorceresses struggled to kill a regular carapaced devil, how would they fare against the ‘species’ from Waira’s cache? The more powerful, goop-covered variety would probably absorb protectia and accelall enchantments from nearby walls and Zera’s Thunder rifles. An insurmountable enemy for a city that relied on magic for survival. But that was only part of the issue.

Unlike Angelika and Dimitry, who had the luxury of maintaining their distance while combating the self-regenerating red carapaced devil, city guards wouldn’t be so fortunate. Retreat wasn’t an option. If any wall segment fell, so would Malten. To run was to sentence their friends and families to death.

Before implementing precautions, Dimitry had to consider two factors: how likely was it for a red carapaced devil to attack, and should he inform the queen? The first had no evidence-based answer, and the latter posed problems. Her Royal Majesty would either demand evidence, or transmit that information to every sorceress, knight, and noble in the kingdom.

Both outcomes earned Dimitry more suspicion than he could afford. His grasps at apostleship already made earning trust difficult and worsening his reputation further with wild claims wouldn’t help. Involving the algae relic he retrieved from Estoria or Angelika as proof weren’t options, either. As someone with inexplicable, Church-like magic, others would sooner consider him a psychological manipulator and doomsayer than a purveyor of truth. He needed to establish himself amongst the political hierarchy before taking such drastic measures.

“Well?” Angelika whispered. “What should we do?”

“There’s not much we can do. Without knowing if what we saw inside the cache exists outside of it, it’ll be a waste of time and resources preparing for red carapaced devils. It’d create unnecessary panic, too. Enough people fleeing Malten as is.”

“Are you saying we should just do nothing?” She elbowed him with too much force. “Come on, you’re a smart guy, right? Figure something out.”

Irritated with her prodding, Dimitry pressed a hand to her crimson hood and rubbed vigorously to ruffle the red-brown curls underneath. “Don’t jab me. I never said we’ll do nothing.”

Angelika flailed an arm to defend her scalp. “Okay, okay, I get it! Can you stop?”

With a satisfied yet childish grin on his face, Dimitry turned his gaze to a massive shell. Comprising the devil’s obscure exoskeleton were several shades of stone sewn together like blunt-ended jigsaw pieces. Many crossing and swerving pale blue lines decorated their mended surfaces.

What organs lay inside the mysterious creature, and how did they help heathens function? Could Dimitry weaponize the information? What if targeting specific areas disabled the vicious automatons without needing overwhelming firepower? Judging by their similar builds, red and regular carapaced devils shared weaknesses. The ability to efficiently kill one species would likely help dispatch the other.

“I have some time.” He approached the beast. “Let’s see if we can learn something about this thing.”

Angelika leaned forward. “Do you think you can science something useful out of it?”

Dimitry did. If dissection led to groundbreaking discoveries on Earth, why wouldn’t it here? But a sudden thought gave him pause. As someone pretending to be Zera’s divine representative, would the populace consider him unclean for performing an autopsy on a devil?

He glanced back. “Think people will hate me for cutting it open?”

“Not really. The guild’s been digging through carapaced devils for quite a while.”

“Find anything useful?”

She shook her head.

Hoping for better luck in his investigations, Dimitry tapped his cloak pocket to confirm his trusty number ten scalpel’s presence. Unfortunately, the expensive steel blade and its fragile edge were too precious to waste unnecessarily. How he longed for disposable surgical tools. “Can you get me some sticks and sharp rocks?”

“To poke around inside?”

“Yeah.”

Angelika scanned the horizon for oncoming heathens. “Sure, I guess.” She ran off into the decimated woodlands.

The first thing Dimitry did was kick the monstrosity to confirm its death. Relieved by its stillness, he peeked through one of the many holes in a broad carapace.

Smelling like decayed dirt, only blue blood, iron pellets, and the sea of translucent cartilage that entombed them filled the subcutaneous layers. What strange connective tissue. It resembled a mix between synthetic resin and rubber. Were heathens living beasts like many thought, or was someone producing them? If so, they used technology distinct from Earth’s. There wasn’t a factory capable of melding varied stone into mobile creatures.

Dimitry’s hand slid across the carapaced devil’s smooth shell as he approached the severed neck.

A volleyball-sized gap remained where it once connected to the torso. Inside was a cavity that had lost all but a small pool of blood, leaving the contents exposed for examination. Like the bright blue lines cutting across the exoskeleton, they decorated the cadaver’s interior, too. Thin sacks, armored husks, and more of that resin. Although it lined only the edges of the corpse, it was voluminous and porous.

Curiosity growing, Dimitry leaned in for a closer inspection. What function did the resin serve? Did it hold ‘organs’ in place? Was it connective tissue?

“I got some stuff,” an enclosing voice called. It was Angelika’s. She carried pebbles, long-dead twigs, and rocks with jagged edges.

Perfect.

Dimitry thrust his hand back. “Stick.”

“Do you have to talk to me like I’m one of your nurses?”

Unable to contain the excitement of digging into an alien corpse, he wiggled his fingers.

A stick fell into his palm.

“Thanks.”

Angelika sighed before plopping the rest of her cargo onto an inverted stretch of shell.

Dimitry prodded various ‘tissues’, palpating each organ with his extended limb. “You said Mira investigated carapaced devils before, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s not to say she found very much.”

He poked the translucent resin, which bounced back like robust gelatin. “Did she mention anything about this stuff?”

“You mean heathen gel? We have a big slice of it.”

“Where?”

“On the floor back at the guild.”

Recalling his visit to the cheesecake-shaped building, Dimitry realized what Angelika referred to—a carpet. Like stiff jello, the furnishing led from the Sorceresses Guild’s entrance to the front desk. An innovative yet strange use for a devil’s organs. “Is it purely decorative?”

“Nah, it came from a carapaced devil that killed two sorceresses. We stomp on it every time we enter for revenge. Also, magic doesn’t affect it.”

Dimitry threw a rock into the carapaced devil torso. The projectile pierced a thin limestone pouch. “You mean it negates spells the same way dispelia and reflectia does?”

“Nope.” Angelika leaned against the heathen like a smug high schooler with gnarly gossip. “You ready to hear this? It’s pretty weird.”

”I’m listening.”

“When we tried casting ignia on it, the gel didn’t heat up at all. But check this out. If there was anything inside the pores, that stuff got hotter. The same happened with floatia, shockia, and every other spell Mira knows.”

“So the gel completely ignores magic?”

“We think so.”

Wondering whether the substance had uses aside from helping sorceresses vent stress, Dimitry carved several slices of resin with his scalpel. He let them fall to the ground. After the night of repentance, he would inspect the tissue in a way no person from Remora could. “How about the blood?”

“What about the blood?” Angelika asked.

“I saw priestesses and bishops collect it in Estoria. I’m guessing it has some use.”

She shrugged. “Probably some ceremonial bullshit.”

“Jade Surgeon,” said the gatehouse guard, who had listened to their hushed whispers with furrowed brows. “Clewin is back with two more crates. Should I tell him to leave them beside the field hospital?”

That must have been another delivery of bombs from the lab. Along with Dimitry’s preference not to leave explosives in public before handing them off to Lukas, he wanted to meet with Clewin. There was a task only the chemist-in-training could do. “Can you direct him here?”

The guard gave a weary nod and turned away.

Before long, a gray-haired man and his wide-eyed apprentice tread across a pond of neutralized heathen blood. They carried microwave-sized crates. Covering them were gold-glowing, lumpy blankets that hinted at the cast-iron spheres underneath.

Clewin struggled to divert his attention from the carapaced devil while navigating around it. “H-hello, Dimitry… madam sorceress. These are the last batch. Where should I leave them?”

“Here is fine. I’ll handle them.” Dimitry met the man’s gaze. “How about the other thing I asked you to do? Is there enough?”

The chemist lowered his cargo while staring into the heathen’s belly. “You mean leaving some black powder for those other ‘projects’? I think there’s enough. I even set up that one thing like we’ve been working on—you know, cause there’s not enough guards.”

“What thing?” Angelika asked.

Although Dimitry trusted the girl with his plans, this wasn’t the place to divulge sensitive information. Several watchmen listened in from the gatehouse towers above. “It’s nothing interesting.”

She rolled her eyes. “Doubt it.”

Her perceptiveness elicited a chuckle from Dimitry. “What’s more important is that I have another job for you, Clewin. I’ll be testing new ways to combat heathens, and the first step is to determine the safety and reactivity of their organs. Bring some vials so we can collect samples.”

“With the Night of Repentance happening tonight,” Clewin said, “isn’t it a little late to test? People are saying it’s gonna be a lot worse than usual.”

“No. These are preparations for next month. Rest while you can so you can begin working at dawn.”

Clewin glanced at the carapaced devil and shuddered. “You mean assuming Malten is still standing after a much bigger heathen raid than this one?”

“Surely there can't be many more of them out there, right?”