Chapter 93: Calculating Opponents

The iron vambraces of an oncoming royal crossbowman slammed into Saphiria’s shoulder as he ran past, reaching for a bolt from his quiver. He didn’t apologize. There wasn’t an opportunity. Hundreds rushed through carved stone streets to escape or fight the oncoming heathen horde after the horn sounded moments ago.

Saphiria darted up a ladder affixed to an inn, stepped past a group of shivering refugees cowering upon the roof, and leaned over a waist-high railing.

In the distance, fliers and crawlers crowded around a carapaced devil as they stampeded towards Malten’s northwestern battlements. Dark green dust rising from a barren forest disguised their exact numbers, but the intensity with which the city shook suggested no less than forty heathens assaulted the city. Most likely fifty.

A class four raid.

When Saphiria lived in Estoria, she regularly saw waves this massive, but Amalthea’s capital had more than two hundred thousand residents and millions more in the surrounding cities, towns, and villages. Abundant supplies and the Church’s assistance brought a swift end to any danger.

But Malten was different.

There were fewer watchmen and sorceresses than eight years ago, and reinforcements wouldn’t come. Heathens likely overwhelmed the countryside. Without the survival of their own territories guaranteed, most lords couldn’t afford to lend assistance to the capital.

Would Mother, Richter, Lukas, and Mira’s joint army hold?

Saphiria’s grip around the iron railing tightened. Flames surged within her legs, demanding she surge forth to reinforce the front lines, to help where she could, but her duties lay elsewhere. She promised Dimitry she would watch over his hospital while he tended to the wounded. Enemies lurked within Malten as well as outside, and the surgeon’s cathedral served as a promise of Zera’s blessing. To allow it to fall would be to eviscerate her countrymen’s hearts.

The red-sleeved hand of a disguised court sorceress grabbed her shoulder.

“Your Royal Highness,” Leandra whispered, catching her breath. “I’m afraid I am no longer capable of chasing after you whenever you flee your duties.”

Saphiria did not glance back at her childhood caretaker. Although the court sorceress used to be her guardian and playmate, she was now but a shackle upon her throat. “You can return to the castle.”

“That won’t do.” Leandra’s piercing glare fell to a shirtless refugee shivering in a rag-coated crate. “Come now, the commoner quarters are unsafe. We have wandered these streets enough.”

“Mother allowed me to observe the city.”

“Only for as long as I can keep you from danger.”

“There hasn’t been any yet.”

“There’s no need to take the risk when there are better views to be had from the castle towers.”

Although Saphiria sought to make amends with Mother, obtaining her reluctant permission and a protector before leaving home, she never intended to silently watch on as others defended the city. Leandra couldn’t convince her otherwise.

Refocusing on pertinent matters, Saphiria pointed at the mass of heathens rapidly enclosing, a full moon’s power hastening their approach. “Has this become normal?”

“Tonight’s raid is larger than that of last month.”

“How do you predict we’ll fare?”

Leandra shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Will west main street be safe? And of the Jade Surgeon’s field hospital tents—will the heathens reach them?”

“The city never fell before, and it won’t tonight. Now let us return to where it is safe.”

Peeling her gaze away from the horror, Saphiria turned around. “I wish to visit the cathedral once more.”

“We have a dozen times already.”

“And we will do so again.”

Leandra’s amethyst eyes narrowed, and the wrinkles on her forehead deepened. “I cannot allow you to pointlessly endanger yourself while fliers soar closer and unpredictables line the roads. You are the—”

Shouting and metal clanging echoed from nearby.

Saphiria’s head shot to the side.

A crowd raged outside the cathedral, shoving at the two royal halberdiers defending the entrance. Was someone targeting Dimitry’s hospital just as Lukas predicted? Did they seek to eliminate plague-curing blankets once again, or did they intend to cause even greater harm?

“Your Royal—”

Before Leandra could finish her sentence, Saphiria slid down the ladder. She dashed towards the cathedral.

Outside the granite double doors, a riot grew larger. Cloaked figures, the homeless, and even children assaulted the hospital staff and guards repelling them. Deafening yelling and masses of refugees on both sides made differentiating aggressors from the victims difficult.

A man raised his makeshift bludgeon against an unarmed nurse.

Channeling her forward momentum, Saphiria rammed her foot into his gut.

He clutched his belly as he fell.

Another man grabbed her cloak.

She elbowed him in the throat and retreated.

There were too many.

At least a hundred crowded the three-way intersection outside the cathedral, pushing and shoving. A woman with braids born from neglect shrieked that Zera would never forgive the pretender, three bony men clawed forward while blaming the Jade Surgeon for the heathens, and a girl too young for marriage forcefully tugged on a royal halberdier’s greaves.

The homeless, citizens, and even children! Just how far had her home declined in her absence? Saphiria could not stand idle, but she couldn’t draw her dagger or vol either. To impose lethal harm on a child was unthinkable.

Could she do nothing?

As another horn echoed across the city and the stomping of heathens rattled the awnings and support pillars of buildings with greater force, Saphiria’s eyes darted across the mayhem. Every idea she conjured was no more feasible than the last. The attacking swarm seemed too chaotic to have a mastermind, incapacitating only those with weapons wouldn’t prevent others from arming themselves, and Malten’s watchmen were too few to help.

Gnawing her lower lip, she grew more desperate.

And then Saphiria noticed it.

The ephemeral bursts of a night of repentance—they enveloped large swathes of rioters more thickly than the surroundings. Whenever those green specks appeared voluminous, either they coalesced around a powerful enchantment, like Malten’s protectia walls, or around a mage casting spells and their target.

It was the exhaust that accompanied vol consumption.

Someone manipulated the crowd with magic. Did they use incitia? Incapacitating the caster would end the senseless bloodshed.

“You haven’t changed,” a voice lectured from behind. “Your Royal Highness remains as whimsical as she had always been. It is too dangerous. We’re returning to the castle.”

“A thaumaturge is casting incitia on the crowd. I need you to nullify the effects until I find them.”

Leandra frowned. “Do you expect me to let you assault a mage? Alone?”

“People are dying. Children are getting hurt.”

“Your life is more valuable than a few commoners and a cathedral. You are this kingdom’s hope. If you reconsider, I vow to handle every matter tomorrow. Personally.”

“Tomorrow will be too late.”

“At dawn, then.”

“Do it whenever you wish.” Saphiria darted away, lingering exhaust in the air acting as her guide.

They led to a residence with boarded doors and windows. Green specks fluxed from the third floor, hinting that her target was inside. Deemed corrupt by a plague doctor, red crosses decorated the walls, and planks barricaded every opening.

How did they gain entry?

Saphiria hadn’t the time to pry away planks or retrace footsteps. Looking for a faster path to neutralizing the mage within, she rushed into an adjacent alley and glared at a couple sitting beneath a window. “Leave.”

The gentleman grabbed the lady’s hand and scampered away.

With shaky fingers, Saphiria retrieved a vol pellet from her cloak pocket. She focused on infusing her hands and wrists with power. “Hastia.”

Warmth rushed into her arms, followed by a seemingly endless vigor that yearned to lift the world.

Howling winds drowned out the creaking of loosely bolted beams as Saphiria scaled the building wall. The exhaust of vol grew thicker the higher she climbed until she found her target on the top floor.

Targets, rather.

Two cloaked figures huddled beside an upstairs window. Sacks of supplies lay scattered on the floor, suggesting they prepared for the assault days prior, and their magical talents hinted at a master wealthy enough to equip them with protectia and reflectia apparel beneath their cloaks.

Saphiria guessed she couldn’t target them with spells directly, leaving only their heads and limbs vulnerable to projectiles. Killing both wasn’t an option either. One had to survive for questioning. Whoever invested mages into this ploy wouldn’t surrender after a single attempt.

Hanging from a sill with one hand, Saphiria absorbed a pure vol pellet and pulled a loose nail from a plank. She fit it into her palm’s center and aimed through a chink between window shutters. “Propelia.”

The nail’s iron tip pierced the mage’s forehead.

As one cloaked figure collapsed to an uneven timber floor, a female voice chanted, “Dropia!”

Sharp wood and bricks plummeted over Saphiria’s head.

Swinging around her hand and to the side, she dodged debris with masses many times heavier than normal, only for weighty slush to crash down onto her knuckles.

Agonizing pain shot through her pinkie.

Her grip loosened.

Saphiria plunged towards the alley floor.

Before she splattered onto the ground, her uninjured hand grabbed a protruding iron beam, which detached from the wall. Saphiria swung her center-of-mass forward, and the beam crashed into the paved bricks behind her with a deafening metal rattle.

Saphiria knelt and clenched her fist to check for injury. Swelling—a minor issue. Without the reflectia linens she wore beneath her cloak, her abdomen would have torn in two. Partially amplifying the weight of a person’s body with dropia was a common and effective combat tactic.

From above came the sound of shattering wood and footsteps growing distant.

Was the sorceress fleeing? Saphiria ignored the pain consuming her hand and lifted a brick that weighed as many as a dozen. Hastia still empowering her arms, she launched it into one of the boarded windows.

The planks broke.

Saphiria squeezed past jagged wood, dashed into the residence, and rushed upstairs.

Flames consumed the tables, nightstands, and dressers within the tiny parlor where the mages once were, and a hole in the wall marked the target’s escape route. It led through adjacent homes.

Covering her face with her cloak to fend off blistering heat and poisonous fumes, Saphiria grabbed a handful of brass leather studs from the table. She darted through black mists and peered out of an open window.

The rogue sorceress barreled down Tailor’s street, shoving away huddling masses as she escaped.

To slow her down, Saphiria consumed two more vol pellets and held out her arm. “Propelia.”

Brass studs shot from her palm and barraged the rogue sorceress. Most bounced off her torso, impeded by a protectia enchantment hidden from sight, yet others pounded into her calves and shoulders. She tripped. The vol pouch she carried fell from her hand and rolled across the ground. A refugee with an overgrown beard snatched it greedily.

The third and final heathen alarm sounded as Saphiria jumped out of the window and clutched the post of an illumina streetlight, searing pain engulfing her injured knuckles as she slid down to its base.

The rogue sorceress glanced back, but without vol on hand, she was harmless. She swerved towards the cathedral, perhaps hoping to blend into the chaos of frantic rioters outside the doors.

Heavy miasma lingering within her lungs and the stench of smoldering cinders in her nostrils coaxed harsh coughs from Saphiria as she slid around the corner. She gripped Father’s silver dagger within its sheathe, balanced its weight in her palm, and aimed forward.

The green of an overhead full moon reflected off the blade as it flashed through the night and past civilians. Its pommel hit the back of the rogue sorceress’s head, and she fell onto her face.

Saphiria lunged forward and pressed her knee into the rogue sorceress’ neck. “Move and you’ll feel agony unlike any before.” She patted the woman down for hidden vol.

Several strides away, an avaricious hand reached for Father’s silver dagger, only to be pushed aside by a court sorceress’s boot. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

“P-please forgive me, ma’am,” the refugee moaned as he retreated from his prize.

Leandra picked up Father’s memento and stepped closer. “I have pacified the crowd as per your demands, but would you mind explaining that?” She pointed to the plumes of smoke rising from a row of buildings.

“There were two mages inside,” Saphiria said. “I killed the first, but this one tried to escape. She set furniture ablaze to cover her escape.”

“… You fought two mages on your own?”

“I don’t expect you to take the blame for my foolishness. Once we return, I’ll tell Mother the decision was my own despite your many protests.”

“My life is unimportant compared to yours. Are you injured?”

Saphiria glanced down at her swollen knuckles. Dimitry would treat her when he was less busy. “I’m fine. How are the children and nurses? Did you guide them to safety?”

“We’re doing what we can.” Leandra frowned. “But let it be known: although a princess must be strong and sympathetic, she must also be wise. Look around you. You risk your life to douse flames while a raging inferno consumes the city.”

A glance at a watchman restraining a boy’s withered arms—only skin and bone—told Saphiria that the court sorceress’ lecture held truth. This city sank further into an enlarging void.

Visions of the prosperous paradise Malten had been enamored Saphiria too much for her to see its problems. She struggled to mend symptoms, like decaying metalworking infrastructure, when dwindling defenses and food crippled the foundation on which industry could emerge.

However, unlike blast furnaces and waterwheels, even the wisest ruler could not rebuild his people once they had perished. Every death spread apathy, and just like Father’s death had encumbered Saphiria, the deaths of blacksmiths, miners, and even charcoal burners handicapped Malten.

“A countryman’s life saved is never in vain,” Saphiria said. “One day, I will ensure their safety, allow everyone to live without worry, but until I extinguish the inferno consuming the city, I must continue to douse the flames or only ash will remain by the time I’m done.”

Leandra paused, and a crooked grin spread across her face. “My understanding was that Your Royal Highness fled from her duties with every passing whim, but perhaps I was wrong. Maybe there is hope for—”

A heavy mass slammed into the northwestern walls, and discombobulating tremors rattled the ground.

Dread slithered down Saphiria’s neck. Not because of the carapaced devil's assault, but because eight flying devils flew between buildings in arrow formation. She had seen nothing like it before. Not even in Estoria. Usually, fliers whizzed straight towards the Sorceresses Guild or the castle, but tonight…

Tonight, the heathens were organized.

Leandra’s stern eyes opened wide. “Celeste guide—” she uttered, not finishing the phrase.

A refugee screamed as she tried to break into a home for safety, only for the person on the other side to lock her out. She hid alongside dozens of others in a cramped alley instead.

Then an explosion. A deafening boom bellowed across the city, and smoke rose from the direction of the market square—the location of Dimitry’s laboratory.

Was it another riot?

Although Dimitry told her to avoid the church where he developed black powder, Saphiria could not let the destructive technology fall into enemy hands. Before she could dash forth, a tug on her shoulder pulled her back.

“Wait,” Leandra said.

Saphiria brushed away the court sorceress’ hand. “I must go.”

“So I’ve figured.” Leandra pressed Father’s dagger into Saphiria’s palm. “You’re as stubborn as you’ve always been, Your Royal Highness, but this flame you will douse with me at your side.”

Angelika aimed her rifle at a cluster of flying devils, which split and merged whenever they strafed through city streets, launching stone feathers with every pass. Normally, fliers rushed towards the castle or traced the enchanted walls, stopping only to circle over wherever one of their asshole friends died, but not tonight.

What the hell were the fliers thinking? Why were there so many? How many fucking carrier devils were birthing them beside Malten’s coast?

She absorbed a vol pellet and targeted one of five flying devils swooping down towards the window of the house Dimitry commandeered to treat an injured scout after the tents became unsafe.

“Propelia! Propelia!”

Two loud cracks erupted from the end of Angelika’s enchanted voltech rifle, each accompanying the exit of a lead ball. The first projectile chipped a wing. The second split a stone torso, the halves slamming into the roof and edge of a building.

Under a nearby awning stood Leona, who leaped away from heathen blood splashing off the wall. She flashed a triumphant smile.

Though Angelika grinned in response, in truth, she regretted involving her sister in guarding the field hospital. She never thought shit would get this crazy. Clouds of black smoke rose from near the cathedral, an explosion rattled the market square, and a raid more massive than she had ever seen struck the city.

Seriously.

What the fuck was going on?

As the flying devils retreated, refugees peeked out from alley corners and civilians peered out from behind ajar windows. A portly lady in an evening gown exited onto her doorstep to mutter prayers towards the abandoned field hospital tents. Her hand remained on the doorknob to thwart anyone who might rush into her home for cover.

Angelika clicked her teeth. How could people suck up to Zera even after she abandoned them and left Malten in the shit?

“Do you madams need anything down there?” a man yelled from a second-floor window. “Maybe a hot cup of milk?”

“We’re fine!” Leona shouted back. “Thank you!”

The warmth of appreciation brought sensation to Angelika’s numb fingers. Although her job sucked, citizens frequently offered woolen blankets or vol or antiquated weapons as aid while they defended the ‘apostle’.

The flying devils reemerged once more.

Absorbing a vol pellet, Angelika tightened her grip around the voltech rifle’s reflectia cover. She aimed towards dark green skies.

Loaded crossbow in hand, a man in a ragged shirt dashed onto the streets and aimed up. Yet another idiot offering the Jade Surgeon aid to appease Zera.

“We said we’re fine!” Angelika yelled. “Get off the fucking road, or a flier might fall on you!”

He didn’t listen.

“Fine, go die for all I—”

A flying devil swooped in for another strafe.

“Propelia!”

The lead pellet struck the beast’s head, and it crashed into the road, blue blood leaking from the neck and into crevices between carved bricks.

“Angelika!” Leona aimed her rifle at the crossbow-wielding man.

Weapon loaded, he ran towards a house—the one with Dimitry in it.

Angelika’s eyes shot open. How could she have been so fucking stupid? She slammed a lead ball into her rifle, and with the remnant vol surging through her circuits, cast propelia.

Her bullet pierced the man’s thigh as he aimed into the window. His dismembered leg launched to the side as he fell, light from his shocked eyes extinguished.

“Protectia!” Leona chanted.

Three bolts whizzed from above into an unseen barrier, while another projectile flew into the house.

Angelika pivoted to see cloaked figures peering from the roofs behind her. Did they plan this shit out? Were they waiting for a distraction before killing the Jade Surgeon? Was Dimitry hit?!

A royal guard rushed from an alley to toss a javelin into one of their chests, but the three remaining assailants dropped their crossbows and began tossing small wooden kegs instead. The obscure containers burst against the hospital tents and the building Dimitry operated within, splattering black tar everywhere.

They were starting another fire!

Without time to load another pellet, Angelika dropped her rifle, absorbed vol, and held out her palm. “Freezia!”

An assailant’s neck stiffened, broke, and sent his head tumbling towards the ground. Icy fragments of hood and skin and eye shattered as the skull collided against brick. A spell canister fell from the man’s bony hand.

He was starving; how did he buy vol if he couldn’t even eat?!

“Propelia,” Leona yelled across the street, killing another.

The final assailant chanted with a canister in outstretched hands. “Ignia! Ignia! Ignia! Ig—”

A friendly cloaked figure silenced them from behind, but it was too late.

The fire rose.