Chapter 163: Ancients' Blood

Chapter 163: Ancients' Blood

Ancients' Blood

East Tiberia, Besieged City, Knight-Commander, Bald Eagle

The mortal struggle on the battlements raged on with sharp cries and mounting casualties, gradually cornering Bald Eagle and his men in several sections. Despite the relentless punishment from newly arrived crossbow fire, they refused to throw down their weapons.

Defiant as they were, it seemed only a matter of time before they would be overwhelmed. Yet, the old commander's pride was evident. His men showed unwavering loyalty to him and the Imperium, their armor slick with blood, standing resolute with wills unbroken.

Then, flakes began falling from the sky, capturing everyone's attention. Almost no one noticed the first few stray flakes as they were caught briefly in the dim light before melting on the heated surfaces. But soon, the snowflakes began to fall in earnest.

The sudden change in weather caused the Inglesians to pause their attack. Both sides halted, their breaths visible in the freezing air, and gazes turned skyward in disbelief. Only then did they fully register the exceptionally chilling wind, explaining why they weren't sweating despite the heavy fighting.

Refusing to be paralyzed, the Inglesian command pressed on, yelling, "Don't stop! Put an end to this fight and claim this city!"

"Onward! Better to winter with a roof over our heads than in the field," their captain bellowed at the top of his voice.

Bald Eagle and his men tightened their grip on their weapons. As the Inglesians resumed the fight, a new wave of defenders in good order and respectable armor marched from the stone stairs below.

Their arrival, growing to more than two dozen, unnerved the Inglesian at the front, who paused as more defenders emerged from below. Their stride was light, their bearings proud, and they had a determined glint in their eyes.

Bald Eagle and his men were equally confused. "Who are those men?" one muttered in disbelief.

"I recognize the clothes and the armor—"

"I know," another interjected, "but it’s impossible. These men can’t even walk, let alone march in armor."

"The Ancients will it," Bald Eagle suddenly proclaimed, his voice nearly frenzied. He had recalled the mysterious woman who had claimed to be a simple hat-maker's daughter. Earlier, he had brought her to the infirmary, but he had never expected her to perform a miracle like this.

As if to answer his faith, a knight in battered but imposing gothic full plate armor led the newly formed column. The snowfall seemed to rally them further, eliciting confident smirks from their faces.

"Crossbowmen, loose!" the Inglesians commanded, and dozens of bolts flew toward them with a deafening sound.

Yet, the column of men resisted without even flinching. Instead, the knight in the lead raised his sword, shouting in a clear voice, "For the Imperium!"

Almost two hundred strong, the column descended upon the Inglesians. The ensuing clash was brutal, but the newcomers, having the advantage of freshness, maintained their pressure. Soon, everyone began to nervously acknowledge the reinforcements' eerie resilience. There was a fervor in their eyes as they fought fearlessly, seemingly without concern for themselves.

The knight leading them stormed into a wall of defenders; even though a bolt struck his visor, he cleaved and swung his broadsword with astounding effect. His crushed and dismembered victims piled up to his left and right, only to be swiftly finished off by his eager allies advancing behind him.

The opposing crossbowmen kept up the pressure as best as they could with the few bolts they still had on them, but the knight, even with several bolts jutting from his armor, refused to slow down. With his bloodied allies, they charged anew against the increasingly cornered Inglesians. Bald Eagle regained his breath and advanced forward, convinced it was the young knight he once knew. The rest of the defenders needed no instruction to join the fray; the two allied forces combined at the top of the gatehouse, the widest part of the battlement, and began to retake the battlements from the Inglesians.

Around them, the snowfall, thick and relentless, began to layer over the blood-stained stones of the battlements, transforming the besieged city into a surreal landscape.

...

Sagarius

In the infirmary, Sagarius was busy caring for the dying. Healing magic couldn't save everyone, and even those who recovered sometimes faced complications. This was why magic was usually reserved for life-threatening conditions. It was often better to allow the body to heal naturally without magical intervention.

What concerned her and other practitioners were complications like persistent sores or lumps, unusual tissue growths, or drastic changes in bodily functions. The worst cases involved abnormal masses of tissue growing at wound sites or on unrelated limbs. These masses were not only unsightly but could grow debilitatingly large, and attempts to remove them often led to further complications or death.

Even patients without these growths could die from seemingly trivial causes years after treatment, despite being in their prime. Elven scriptures referred to healing magic as something that could awaken an element in the blood they inherited from the Ancients.

They described these occurrences as mutationem.

Despite the severity, Sagarius viewed the side effects as a necessary trade-off against the benefits of healing. One couldn't undergo changes instantaneously without sufficient compensation. For example, when she changed her hair color from white to brown, it required a weeks-long process, during which she harnessed subterranean magical energy as the price, similar to the way small golems were powered. Thus, healing magic, which rapidly repairs bones, muscles, and skin in a matter of minutes, could understandably cause greater side effects.

This was why she had been reluctant to treat anyone. She did so today because she witnessed their suffering firsthand and understood that many would likely die if the city were lost.

Ironically, while for elves, who lived for hundreds of years, a major healing spell was as good as a death sentence, for humans it was seen as a blessing. Arguably, their shorter lifespans, lesser magical knowledge, and weaker powers significantly influenced their view of healing magic.

Yet, it was fortunate that healing magic was reactive only to injuries and worked by enhancing the body’s natural recovery processes, so it couldn't be used like a curse against a healthy person. Otherwise, it could be exploited for malicious purposes.

The window overlooking the city now displayed falling snow, and the men still in the infirmary regarded Sagarius with renewed reverence. However, she wasn’t omnipotent. Despite her efforts, she was compelled to close the eyes of those who had suffered unfortunate side effects. The man’s face remained smiling because Sagarius also knew how to alleviate both pain and fear.

"He has faced the Ancients," she gently said to a deceased battle brother who had lost his sword arm. The man had wept for his loss, yet his expression conveyed gratitude for Sagaria's care.

Afterward, the elderly physician and his equally aged assistant carefully covered the deceased with linen and moved him to a separate table in the corner.

Sagarius stood and washed her hands in lukewarm water, using white ash as soap. Around her, boys employed due to a shortage of men were now running the infirmary. They had been awakened by the earlier commotion and were now busily boiling water in the corner, serving gruel, and ensuring that she and the patients were well cared for.

With no one else urgently needing her care, Sagarius chose to sit on a wooden stool by the window.

The squire who had clung to her feet had joined the fight. She hoped she wouldn't need to heal him, as he was too young to gamble with the risks of mutations.

The day had turned cold; her intervention had caused the snow to come faster. She attributed it to luck, as no one could truly control the weather, just influence its timing or intensity. It required great knowledge and power.

Power... The rebels must have acquired a Great Gemstone to even attempt this.

Unlike the underground palace, where the weather was minuscule, in the outside world, the weather was incomparably vast.

What a waste of a Great Gemstone...

Sagarius learned from her father that Great Gemstones were intended to be used as a perpetual source of magic, therefore their output was relatively small despite their large size. Forcing them to produce a large output would just shorten their lifespan or break them. And without the dwarves, there were only a limited number of Great Gemstones left in the world.

She sighed and was mildly surprised when a boy knelt and offered her a woolen coat. "Thank you," she smiled at him, and the boy blushed, bowed his head, then ran off to his grinning friends.

Another boy also knelt and offered her a lit candle as the snowfall brought darkness. Sagarius responded in kind, and the boy's reaction was similar. She didn't mind; although not a mother, she was well accustomed to human children, having lived among them for hundreds of years.

Thus, clad in a simple woolen coat, she waited for the battle to cease. Despite her intervention, there was no guarantee the defenders would win, but she knew it would at least delay the attackers for a day. That was all she needed to decide whether to leave the city or stay.

Meanwhile, the knight took a dirty bandage, wrapped it tightly around a thin log, dipped the wrapped end into a bucket of tallow, and lit it against a candle. The flame caught quickly, hissing and popping as the tallow flared up.

The guardsman, who eagerly approached the fireplace.

The guardsman eagerly approached the fireplace, warming his hands.

"Why the uncertainty?" the knight asked, curious about the vague number.

"Well, they might not survive," the guardsman answered lightly.

Bald Eagle quietly passed his kettle to the squire as the knight knelt and carefully placed the torch into the fireplace, where the dry firewood was already laid out. When the tallow-drenched bandage touched the kindling, a loud crack echoed through the room, followed by a series of smaller pops. The firewood caught fire, the flames greedily growing and sending a comforting warmth.

The men silently enjoyed their hard-earned respite.

***

Korelia City, Lowlandia

Lansius, seated in the great hall, watched a solemn procession for the new lieutenants who had proven themselves exceptional in the last campaign. They would join his officer corps, demonstrating that rankings in his House were based solely on merit or experience.

While he had wanted to promote them sooner, the recording and cross-checking process proved lengthy and painful. He even needed to task Cecile and Sir Michael to ensure everything was correct.

Nevertheless, Lansius saw this as vital. Nobody wished to appoint someone incapable and undeserving, as it would ruin the troops' performance, undermine the men's trust, and might also cost them a battle.

Sir Justin, as the Marshall, promoted them by giving them a sword and a breastplate as symbols of their command. They were also given a silver signet ring engraved with their names.

Traditionally, it should have been the emblem of their house, but since many did not come from esquire families, Lansius decided a name was sufficient, akin to a hanko, a signature stamp from his world.

After the solemn promotion, Lansius decided to give an informal speech. He approached the new officers and sat on an elevated wooden platform while motioning for them to gather around him.

They sat on the floor, as they were accustomed to in the field. Lansius began, "Congratulations, you're now part of the officer corps. This House deems you fit to lead a group of your comrades into battle."

The new lieutenants nodded, some beaming with pride, others with nervousness, and some with extraordinary calmness and confidence.

Lansius continued, "Surely, I don't need to tell you that this is an important task with great responsibilities. You'll learn how to do it from your seniors, and later you shall prove your skills when we conduct annual field training." He paused and then slammed his palm onto the wooden platform, making a loud noise that startled them.

"As you are now officers of my House, I shall give you some advice. First and foremost, all war is based on deception," he paused deliberately, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the new officers. "Many of you will start as scouts command. You'll march further than the main army, sometimes even days farther, serving as our ears and eyes. Remember, warfare is rife with illusions. Always question, always scrutinize."

The new lieutenants nodded their heads.

Lansius elaborated, "What seems weak may be a trap, what seems straightforward might be a ruse. Think carefully. Do not commit blindly or rush carelessly. Communicate if you have issues—send word or find me personally if you think it deserves my attention."

Not wanting to overload them with theories, Lansius concluded with, "A wise and brave man once said: Always remember that the greatest weapon you have is located between your ears and under your scalp."

His quip cut through the tension, eliciting a burst of chuckles and a few nervous laughs.

Lansius smiled, stood up, and his men quickly followed suit. He was about to leave when Farkas, his deputy spymaster in training, standing next to Sir Justin and Sir Harold, asked, "My Lord, how about some advice for the captains and knights?"

Lansius gazed around, and Sir Justin nodded approvingly while Sir Harold grinned. "Alright," Lansius said, "let me give you high-level advice on war."

They all listened quietly. Even the castle staff peeked around the corner to listen.

"There are only five possible outcomes for an army," Lansius said to those who looked eager to learn.

"First, if you are stronger, offer battle," his men nodded at his words; this one was only logical.

"Second, if you're weaker, defend," the men also nodded again as it was easy to understand.

"Third, if you cannot defend, flee." The men were hesitant but a few nodded.

"Fourth, if you cannot flee, then surrender." The men were piqued after Lansius had stated all the possible actions.

Lansius waited, feigning that he had forgotten about the fifth option. It was Sir Harold who tapped Farkas, the one who had asked, prompting him to inquire, "My Lord, then what is the fifth?"

"The fifth?" Lansius leaned forward slightly, his gaze intensifying as he locked eyes with his knights and then several of the newly minted officers. "If your enemy is stronger, and you cannot defend, cannot flee, and surrender is not an option, then you shall die." His voice crescendoed dramatically on the last word, sending a jolt through his audience.

A moment of heavy silence ensued, which Lansius shattered with a laugh. His laughter triggered nervous chuckles from the men. Only his knights dared to laugh openly, finding it hilarious.

Lansius continued, his tone now lighter, "It might sound like a joke, but it's the truth. When you're given command, remember this story to avoid indecisiveness." To prevent confusion, he added, "Sometimes action is preferable to inaction, and sometimes it's prudent to wait. Be flexible. Learn what you can about the enemy, and don’t forget to assess your own troops' strengths and weaknesses."

His words concluded the event.

"My Lord, a word?" Farkas asked as he joined Lansius' entourage.

"What is it?" Lansius inquired as they walked down the corridor.

"The prototype you asked to be developed—the group actually succeeded."

Lansius stopped abruptly. "They really did it, based solely on my drawings and explanations?"

"I have tested it myself. It's heavy and rough around the edges, but it's unexpectedly functional. Now, I understand why you wanted utmost secrecy for it," Farkas reported.

Lansius nodded. Even with some limitations, his mind was already considering limited production, as it was a great force multiplier even in its infancy. While he was cautious about gunpowder, fearing long-term repercussions, he saw an advanced crossbow justifiable. He also hoped that the Guilds would merely see it as another arbalest.

"It's now ready for your evaluation, at your pleasure," Farkas added.

"Today is indeed a good day," Lansius declared and headed out from the castle with a spirited stride.

***