Chapter 181: Chiroptera

Chapter 181: Chiroptera

Chiroptera

Nicopola, Dawn Barony's Border

Tattered tents flapped in the cold night wind, their shadows flickering over the barren, trampled ground. The only lights in this sad encampment, scattered around a ruined village, emanated from several dwindling campfires. Next to these fires sat empty cauldrons, alongside pottery that once stored grains. Like all other food supplies there, they had been depleted long before the onset of last winter.

It was a miracle that many who wintered here survived the cold season with barely anything to eat but boiled wild plants. Their only sustenance came a few times a week from their mercenary overlords, who brought thick soup with meat. Nobody dared ask what kind of meat it was. They ate gratefully; it was better than the gruel made from ground tree bark mixed with wild plants.

As the cold season gave way, the conflict stirred anew. Thousands who had taken refuge along the river longed to return to their lands to restart farming. However, many among them, particularly the more militant mercenary groups, resisted these movements. They were driven by ambitions to conquer Dawn Barony, which they saw as a crucial haven needed to survive the ongoing turmoil.

Their resolve was further steeled by the belief that the Lord’s granary was filled with rice—rumored to be both fulfilling and superior to most grains. Many were also buoyed by the success of last year's raids into the outskirts of Dawn, which emboldened them to push deeper into the territory.

As the night wind blew again, whistling through the flames, its eerie sound was the only noise disturbing the silence that stretched for miles. The men were too weak to even snore, and no crows, owls, or crickets could be heard—everything alive had already been hunted down.

"Is it raining?" an old man muttered in their tent, wrapping his bony figure in old but thick fur coats his son had stolen from a manor last year.

"Indeed, the wind brings the scent of rain, but it has been like this since last week," replied his son gently, once a stout farmer, now reduced to thinness and weakness. He knew his father hoped to catch some frogs when the first rain came.

His father nodded weakly and returned to his sleep.

The son looked at his father’s graying hair and wrinkles and felt a pang of sadness. His father was the only family he had left; the other family members had died in clashes between the migrants and the Nicopolans.

Families like his had left Centuria and Sarmatia to avoid wars with the western nomads, but after a few years, they ended up in a similarly dire situation. There were simply too many mouths to feed and too little harvest. Once hunger struck, people attacked communities like theirs, ironically, even those that grew food for every community regardless of their origin.

Meanwhile, the nobles merely watched from afar. Despite owning the best fertile lands, they chose to grow grapes for wine instead of grains. After years of greed and ignorance, the once illustrious Nicopola province was eventually engulfed in bloody conflicts.

His father opened his eyes again and gazed at his son with a smile. "Son, you must abandon me—"

"I can't leave you, Father," he replied without hesitation.

"Go and slip through the night; go to the Dawns. As much as they hate us, they need strong men to rebuild and grow their rice paddies," the father repeated what he had said for several days.

A lone tear fell from the son's eyes.

"I'll be alright," he reassured him with a fragile smile. "I'm old and don't need to eat as much. The neighbors will light the campfire, and that’s enough for company. I'll just sleep peacefully under this nice fur coat you gave me."

The son leaned over to moisten his father's dry lips with a damp cloth. "We'll escape together. I just need some of my strength back. It'll be soon. We can't give up now."

The father gave a bright smile and stared at the stars outside their tent. "We're such bad people," he suddenly muttered.

"Why do you say that?" the son asked, worried.

"We fled our home because the western nomads invaded us, but at the same time, we've also invaded other people's lands," he explained bitterly and with regret.

The son had no reply and the father continued in his weak voice, "I’ve heard a lot about the Lord of Dawn. I feel that our mercenary overlord is throwing sticks at a sleeping lion."

He paused, struggling for breath, then continued, "I fear that one day, this sleeping lion will grow tired of being provoked and will strike back. When that happens, everyone will die."

The son sighed, staring at the dry ground of their tent. He had been involved in several skirmishes and knew that Dawn's forces were merely defending their land and had mostly restrained themselves. He was aware they were capable and well-trained.

Turning back to his father, he said, "Try to get some sleep, father. I'll heed your advice. We'll leave at the first light. I've secretly saved some coins from last year's raid. That should be enough to bribe the guards to let us pass."

...

The sun had risen on a beautiful spring morning, with dew glistening on the grass. The son carried his father on his back using a makeshift carry-cloth, crafted from coarse hemp and lined with whatever fabrics he could gather. He had spent the winter working on it, stitching with the only tools available—a net-making needle he had found. The finished carry-cloth was crude but durable. Nevertheless, the coarse rope gnawed at his thin shoulders, biting deep and leaving marks that reddened and bruised.

"Son, am I heavy?" his father often asked from behind.

"No, father. You've grown light," the son jovially replied each time to appease the old man.

"Oh, look a bee," the old man pointed out happily, taking pleasure from simple observation like a child.

They kept on going uphill as their camp was situated low on a small river bend. The land, having awoken from being snow-covered, was fresh. As farmers, they could even smell its fertility just by walking near it.

"You must be tired. I think we can take a rest; we are already far from the village," his father suggested.

The son turned towards the village, trying to make an estimation, and spoke, "Just a little bit more. The guards said not to be seen by anyone, especially the patrol."

"How many coins did you lose to the guards?"

"All of it," The son sheepishly replied. "The guard who I befriended, I misjudged him. He called his friends and stripped me clean."

The father chuckled to the point of coughing. "Pay no heed to it," he reassured the son. "That was blood money. May the curse of its owner pass from us."

The son snorted, amused, adjusted the thick coarse rope, and continued on their hike.

"What a waste," his father lamented as they reached higher ground. "The village we were in is fertile, with good rivers. I saw it when we arrived—the soil is dark and rich, filled with worms and insects, and there were bees everywhere, good for orchards."

"Indeed, Nicopola province is rich. Too bad its people are not much of farmers and chose to be warlike."

"History plays a role," his father explained wisely. "The whole province was taken from the beastmen, and the land was given to nobles who fought, their champions, and troops. Thus, it has been militaristic since birth."

The son smiled. "It seems fresh air makes you better."

The father chuckled and admitted, "The sun and the scenic hills jolt the mind."

"Mom always said that you’re not always a farmer."

"Bless her," the father remarked, and then added cheerfully, "Indeed, I am educated and did many things in my youth."

"How come you never told me what you did in your youth?"

"It was a time long gone," his father reminisced. "I was the smartest in my village and was sent to the Imperium Examination."

"Imperium Examination?" the son never heard of it.

"Back then, there was a way to become an official. You just needed to be smart and pass the test. Although I was the smartest in my village, I was just average compared to the brightest in the province," he said without any tone of regret.

"Easy right," Avery commanded.

"Easy right," Angelo echoed, his hands deftly adjusting the rudder.

"Steady, steady," Avery continued, his tone low but urgent as they approached the critical moment. Abruptly, he ordered, "Stop."

"Stop," Angelo confirmed, his hand put the rudder into neutral.

"We're in line," Avery remarked, still peering through the sight.

"Prepare your torches," Angelo instructed, his voice cutting through the brisk air. The crew members stationed along the left and right sides sprang into action on their lightwood-made platforms, which cradled forty-two amphora-like clay objects in seven elongated rows on each side. A third of their number had already been used in the fiery assault. This vast array was why the airship needed to be so large.

Avery had conceived this behemoth with a grim functionality in mind: to raze a city to the ground if necessary.

"Steady, almost there," Avery murmured, his gaze fixed on the sight, calculating the perfect moment for release.

"Light them up," Angelo commanded crisply. The crew members swiftly ignited the oily fabric wicks protruding from the clay vessels, which began to sputter and blaze against the wind.

"Now, release a full spread," Avery commanded, pivoting away from his optical sight to view the scene directly.

Without needing further prompting, the crew on both sides sliced through the ropes with their razor-sharp knives. One by one, fourteen flaming clay vessels arched through the sky, tracing fiery paths toward their target. At the rear, another crew member signaled the trailing airship, coordinating their attack.

Simultaneously, the other two airships in their formation began their own deadly release, saturating the skies with burning projectiles.

The seemingly non-threatening earthen objects fell freely into the wooden fort below, much to the shock of the fort's occupants who could only run or duck for cover. As they struck roofs and empty grounds, the clay vessels did not explode but shattered, releasing their sticky contents, which ignited. The fires grew quickly, fueled by the wind and surrounding materials.

"Right on the mark—we hit fast and caught them off guard," Avery praised, and the crew was thrilled by their precision while the horror unfolded below.

A metallic clamor filled the fort, alerting everyone to the impending attack. However, before long, several of the dozens of fiery spots had become uncontrollable. Attempts to douse the flames with water only made them worse.

High in the sky, Angelo made a wide turn to allow them to observe the damage. Avery saw the fire spreading everywhere, now the fort was almost completely enveloped in thick black smoke.

That day, everyone who witnessed the event realized, a new age had begun. What had previously required thousands of bowmen or tens of siege engines, firing thousands of specially-made, expensive fire arrows to burn a wooden fort at the height of summer, was now accomplished in mere minutes with just a dozen or so clay amphorae.

While observing the damage dealt to the fort, Angelo skillfully steered them away from the thick plumes of smoke billowing high into the sky. Despite his efforts, the sharp acrid scent of burning wood and scorched earth reached the crew.

"Large groups are escaping to the river," the assistant reported, his eyes still glued to the binoculars.

"Ignore them if they're on foot," Avery commanded, now returning to his large optical sight.

"I see them," Angelo reported. A mage like him didn't need optics at this range. "Should we chase?" he asked, with a hint of doubt, knowing that attacking a moving target was a tall order even with the dedicated tools they had.

"Chase them," Avery commanded coldly, and Angelo began to change the angle, warning the crew, "Sit and strap yourselves in."

An airship can't normally chase horses, so he entered a dive. Avery and the crew held tight despite their straps. The baron's lips flashed with a grin as the airship plunged downward, like a canoe falling over a waterfall. "Prepare the main muzzle," he instructed coldly.

The two bomb crew members exchanged glances before furiously working on a pump beneath their seats connected to a large cylinder beneath them. Their muscles strained with each stroke as the resistance built up. Each pump of the handle became harder and harder, building pressure until finally, they couldn't pump any further. "My Lord, it's ready," they reported breathlessly.

"Angelo, your call," Avery shouted over the wind noise.

"Speed," Angelo asked.

"Twenty-eight knots," shouted the crew at the back as the wind rushed toward them.

Angelo gave maximum fuel to the furnace to prepare the airship for recovery. "On my mark," he said as the airship shuddered from the speed and loss of altitude.

Everyone held their breath. They had trained for this, but nothing had prepared them for the real thing.

Angelo maneuvered as close to the target as possible, relying not on calculations but on crude instruments and his instinct. "Release!" he finally declared.

Behind him, the bomb crew opened a lever before frantically pumping again, as hard and fast as they could, as their lives depended on it. At the front of the gondola, an iron decoration shaped like an angry bat biting a red smoldering coal suddenly came alive. From its mouth, sticky fluids sprayed forward, showering a large area and setting everything ablaze.

This was why the front part of the gondola was covered by iron-plated, making it resemble a bat spreading its wings. Despite the speed and the wind, the heat rising from below was overwhelming, even for Avery and the crew, who could feel it on their faces and smell it in their nostrils as they delivered punishment upon the invaders.

...

The nearly two hundred strong mercenary riders dispersed as the gargantuan object bore down on them, but they couldn't escape the rain of sticky fluid that covered a large swath of the area around them. Suddenly, everything reeked of a strong, sharp scent they had never encountered before, and then, in horror, they watched as the blazing fire raced toward them.

"Noo!" one shrieked as the flames descended on them like wrath from the sky.

Their pain was only matched by that of their poor horses, the only innocent creatures in this ordeal, who could only run faster, galloping wildly, until they all fell. Many were crushed to death in this manner or were dragged as the beasts ran toward the river.

"It's the Ancients, they've come to punish us!" one screamed as his body was engulfed in flames.

"Why me? Why me?" another cried as the skin on his upper face and eyes melted. "I don’t eat the children and the women, only men!"

His pleas fell on deaf ears as almost everyone screamed in agony, their skin scorched by the fire. Many who had escaped the initial fire eventually fell from their horses and rolled on the grass in vain attempts to extinguish the flames. Some, desperate for relief, discarded their clothes and cut their hair, then ran toward the river.

Still, they couldn't escape; coated in the sticky liquid, sparks of fire seemed to find and cling to them. Thus, with fire on their backs and limbs, they ran toward the river like fell beasts from folklore.

Out of almost two hundred, less than half reached the river and doused themselves. Yet, the current was strong, and many, exhausted and in pain, simply drowned. Those who survived were riddled with severe burns. Now, not even the strongest and most cruel among them could do anything but wince in pain.

Despite their denial, they knew justice had descended upon them.

They had pillaged and burned those who didn’t comply with their wishes. They even cooked those who submitted to them, unwilling to share the precious grains cache with their own people.

"O Ancients, have mercy on us," one pleaded, followed by others as they eyed the three gargantuan objects in fear and awe.

Thundering hooves shook the ground and surprised them. Most had no more stamina to run. A few crawled before their hands bled and they stopped, heaving pained breaths. Some took up their blades, ready to face whatever might come.

Above them, the three gargantuan objects circled again, the largest one seemingly more buoyant after discharging a fiery rain.

From a different direction, horsemen finally arrived, followed by a large army. A great banner was hoisted high in the air—blue and bronze with a grey skull at its center.

With the dissolution of the Imperium, the binds of the old oath dissolved into the winds of change. House Dawn, once restrained by an oath from expanding, now stepped into a future unshackled and sovereign. Along with the Shogunate of the Great Plains, the Southern lands had awakened.

***