Chapter 342: Victor Mortis |
Victor Mortis
Lansius
The corridor was now choked with a hundred busy bodies, and more would have poured in if Lansius had not ordered the men to hold back, allowing only medical personnel and selected groups through to carry the wounded and unconscious either to the Healing Hall or, if their condition was deemed critical, straight to the Inner Sanctum, where the Sisters were already waiting.
Out of an abundance of caution, what remained of the command staff urged Lansius to be evacuated farther from the site. Still, he chose to remain where he could see the work being done. Surrounded by dozens of hastily chosen guards, a young squire lent by one of his knights, and a physician tending his wounds, Lansius sat on the cold stone floor with his back against the wall, one leg stretched out before him. His axe rested at his side, along with the silver-tipped throwing axe.
That weapon had been made in haste only a few days earlier, after the Hunters confirmed what old stories had long claimed, that silver possessed qualities which could affect fell beasts. Still, the Hunters trusted their Centurian steel weapons more, and dwarven blades above all. Lansius had seen no harm in modifying a throwing axe with a silver edge as a secondary weapon. Judging by the damage it had done, the choice had not been in vain. Silver had done more than cut flesh.
As the physician worked over the burn marks left by the lich’s electric shock, Lansius watched how they dealt with the Saint’s remains under Arnaut’s guidance, the only one of the four Hunters still left standing.
Even in death, they treated the lich with grim caution. They bound the headless body tightly with rope, then wrapped cloth over the eyes and tied another across the mouth. No one there was willing to risk carelessness, not after all they had seen. And the fear was justified. After all, she had commanded undead and other unthinkable creatures.
Lansius had expected the Guild Leader to be present, but the man was nowhere to be seen. A few reported seeing the old Hunter searching through the deepest and darkest parts of the Monastery.
He could not have been more grateful for the Hunters. They had paid dearly to bring down this monstrosity, despite having had no prior cause against the Monastery. Now all his men knew that fell creatures were horribly real, and so was the shadowy Order sworn to hunt them.
As he was being treated, the men and women in the corridor worked hard, trying to save as many as they could while tending to the wounded. Lansius had promised Audrey, still under the guise of Dame Jane, that he would let the staff handle the aftermath. She had practically barred him from getting involved, and he had not even resisted. At this point, it was almost a tradition. He was always kept away from the grimmer work that followed. For that, he was grateful to her, but he could not help feeling guilty.
Sipping thick, rich pale ale to recover a little of his strength, all he could do was watch and wait.
A few times they would cover a man’s face with cloth, and Lansius knew that another had passed from his injuries.
Slowly, like a wound, the guilt festered.
Lansius felt that part of him was still back in that fateful corridor where the lich had nearly killed them all. Even now, the lich’s face and screams still burned in his mind.
The cost of that last fight against the lich was staggering. Nineteen had already been declared dead, and another eighty lay unconscious. Almost all were men Lansius knew by name and face. They had marched with him through many battles and campaigns. They were his bravest.
The men had suffered not from cuts or stab wounds, but from the shock itself. The danger lay not only in the burns on their skin, but in what the charge might have done within. Hearts could fail. Breathing could falter.
That weight kept Lansius silent, wondering whether the sacrifice had been worth it. Wondering whether he could have planned better. Whether he had made a mistake somewhere. Whether he should have just left the Monastery alone.
In the end, he drew a long, resigned breath and massaged his forehead.
The old him would have sulked for weeks over a tragedy like this, but Lansius was much stronger now. He understood that not even a great tactician could have predicted a battle like this. It was beyond ordinary reckoning, even the kind of thing found only in legends.
“An army of undead and a lich queen with her brood,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “What are the odds?”
“Quite frankly, unthinkable, My Lord,” the physician answered as he dabbed a wine-vinegar wash over Lansius’ neck. The nails had not pierced the ringmail and layers of linen, but the lich’s choke had still left a deep bruise.
The squire held up a small polished silver mirror for Lansius to see, and he noticed the bruising. “Will it show?” he asked the meister.
“It will darken for several days, but it will not be permanent.”
Lansius nodded a little, then cleared his throat. The lich’s choke had left his throat raw and his voice rough.
That seemed to trouble the physician. He looked Lansius in the eyes and asked, “Does swallowing your drink hurt?”
“A little,” he answered truthfully.
The physician kept that concerned look. “My Lord, this may sound overly cautious, but please alert us at once if your voice worsens or your breathing grows tight.” He also looked to the squire, who nodded twice in understanding.
Lansius gave a faint nod in return.
The meister continued his examination, and Lansius’ eyes followed another line of wounded men being carried away on stretchers. He could only hope they all could be saved. Turning to the physician, he spoke as clearly as he could. “If you do not see anything wrong with me, please join the others and treat the men. They need you more than I do.”
“My Lord, everyone insists that I treat you. At least allow me, alone to care for you. There are already a few physicians doing their best, along with dozens of infirmarians and the Sisters.”
“He’s right, My Lord,” the young squire said, drawing Lansius’ attention. He quickly straightened his back. “I mean... if you’re injured, then what is the point of all our sacrifices? We are meant to protect you, My Lord.”
Lansius furrowed his brows. “Who told you that?”
“My Lord...?” the young man asked, confused.
Not wishing to embarrass him, the Lord quickly explained, “Everyone’s first and most important duty is to survive...” He paused to take a sip against the cough, then continued, “...and return to their family. There is no war worth your life.”
“But, My Lord...” the squire began to protest, but could not find the right words.
Watching the exchange, the physician snorted sharply as he took up more ointment. “My Lord, there must be something you would protect with all your life.”
“Of course,” Lansius replied, thinking of his son, Audrey, Mother Arryn, and Tanya. "It’s only natural to protect one’s family."
“And was what we all did here not also for our families?” the physician asked. “Everyone can see that we were fighting a great horror here. Undead, and even liches and wraiths. If we had not struck and ended this, what kind of ruin would it have brought to Midlandia?”
Lansius was surprised. Indeed, he had often framed it that way in his many rousing speeches, but given the nature of it, he had never seriously thought his men truly took those words to heart. “Indeed, the threat is great...”
“My Lord, I don't want these undead anywhere near my family or my sister,” the squire said, finally finding his voice.
Lansius had yet to respond when the physician added, “I think this is a cause worth fighting for.”
“Worth dying for, even,” one of the guards said aloud, and the others soon murmured their firm agreement.
For the first time, Lansius let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Noticing it, one of the guards, a Nicopolan with a graying beard, said, “War is always ugly, My Lord. It always has been and always will be. But yours is different...”
Another let out a refined snort, fitting for a man in a richly tailored, brightly colored brigandine. “My Lord’s cause is always just. Under your banner, we never drew the sword for petty reasons.”
“Aye. There are far worse reasons to fight. But to protect family and the people from this threat is justified,” a third man said. He had the face of someone more educated than most men-at-arms.
Another, an old-timer with deep scars on his cheek, said, “Three years ago, My Lord recruited us for raids that never happened. And yet you still kept our purses heavy.”
That last remark drew stifled chuckles, for the situation was still grim. Even so, there was warmth in it, and they could tell their words had reached Lansius. His mood had lightened.
All Lansius could offer them was a sincere thank you. “Gratitude for reminding me.”
The men answered with grins and polite smiles. A few even bowed their heads and saluted by tapping a fist against their chests.
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Lansius, ever surrounded by his closest retinue, rarely spoke this closely or this freely with the other parts of his force. He had not expected it to feel so refreshing.
So they would be the core of the Bone Breaker.
Lansius thought of raising what were now several battalions into an independent brigade. From two thousand strong to four thousand. With cavalry in support, they would be large enough to form a formidable tercio, fit to answer whatever the enemy might throw at the Shogunate.
With two brigades in Midlandia and a cavalry-heavy army in Lowlandia, he should be able to secure his realm against rebels, smugglers, and other opportunists.
“Tercio,” he muttered, thinking of a disciplined, dense pike formation.
His thoughts were cut short by a sudden ruckus that drew everyone’s attention.
They all saw a commotion erupt near the wounded who had already been treated and laid aside for evacuation. Infirmarians and a physician suddenly rushed toward one of the patient.
Lansius caught hold of the physician who had been treating him, his thoughts already leaping to Harold, Sterling, Francisca, and the many others.
The men nearest the scene looked alarmed. One suddenly cried out, “Knight Commander!”
Everyone immediately knew something terrible had happened to Sir Harold.
Lansius rose and gave his command at once. “Come with me.”
The physician and the rest obeyed immediately as Lansius strode toward the swelling crowd.
...
“Should we disperse them, My Lord?” one of the guards asked as they came closer.
“None of that,” Lansius replied, concern already clear in his voice.
As they neared, the men gave way before them, and they overheard one of the infirmarians speaking hurriedly to the physician. “When I left him, he was breathing normally. But by the Ancients, when I came back, he was not breathing at all.”
The physician and infirmarians worked in practiced chaos. They tried to do what they could, but the Sisters, knowing better, quickly took over. Sister Emma, exhausted after helping bring back more than a dozen men, climbed over the patient while another tore open his clothes and bared his chest. Then Emma began driving both hands down hard on his breastbone.
Lansius could only stand and watch, dread growing in his heart, as another Sister checked the Banneret’s breath and shook her head after each round Emma gave.
Sweat beaded on Emma’s brow as she pressed on through thirty compressions, then another stretch beyond that, but there was still no response.
She drew in a deep breath, gathering what strength she had left for a fifth round, but even the crowd knew it was likely a lost cause. Sir Harold's lips had already begun to turn blue. They were losing him.
As they watched it unfold, even the veterans began to shed tears. Many looked utterly lost. Even Lansius was shaken by the sight.
Is there nothing we could do?
But this was beyond what even his Gemstone of Strength could do, and certainly not one already depleted.
“Still no breathing,” the younger Sister said, her face tight with strain.
“Come on, Harold,” Lansius muttered to himself, gritting his teeth as his fist clenched tight.
Sister Emma kept trying with all her might, but there was still no response.
Then, from behind them, heavy sabaton steps came fast.
“Step aside.” It was a woman’s voice, sharp with urgency and filled with authority.
There was iron assuredness in her tone that cut through the panic at once, and every head turned. It was her. The woman in the silver mask, the one rumored to be the only female Hunter.
Audrey...
Immediately hope struck hard in Lansius' chest.
There was swagger in the way she moved, draped in that beautiful blue traveling cloak and matching intricately worked surcoat. And in her hand, enough to make even Lansius’ eyes widen, was the lich’s golden scepter.
The crowd immediately gave way, parting before her out of both urgency and respect.
But a few who saw it came at once to a dreadful conclusion. The infirmarians turned to Lansius in alarm. “My Lord...”
Giving them no chance to doubt, Lansius answered with all the authority he could muster. “I trust her.” Then, as if that alone were not enough, he added, “With all my life.”
Nearly everyone was stunned. They did not know why such a figure commanded that level of trust from the Lord Shogun. Yet they had all seen the way she fought the undead, and that alone was enough to make them start believe in her. Moreover, she carried the golden scepter, taken from the lich herself.
Lansius did not stop at words. He personally pushed the crowd aside to clear a path for Audrey. His guards reacted at once, driving the men back and holding the way open for her. Then he turned to the Sisters and said with his hoarse voice, “You’ve tried your best. Let her try.”
Audrey passed him without a word, too intent on what lay ahead, the battered golden scepter clenched firmly in her hand.
“What are you trying to do?” Sister Emma asked as she was helped away from the fallen Banneret.
“Another method,” Audrey replied, already kneeling beside him.
Then Sister Emma caught sight of the scepter. “What do you think you’re doing?”
In Audrey’s hand, the scepter began to glow, and sparks raced along its length.
Many who saw it drew back in dread, Sister Emma among them, but Audrey did not stop. She had already begun to whisper, “Let the power that struck him now return him to us.”
She brought the scepter down against Sir Harold’s bared chest. It was only a gentle strike, but it was enough to make the watching crowd shudder. The man’s whole body jolted hard, his back arching, his limbs snapping once before falling still again.
The Sisters recoiled in fear. Only Emma moved to check for breath, then snapped her head up and blurted out, “It’s not working. Stop it! The man is cursed, not—”
“Your healing already stripped that away,” Audrey said, fighting the numbness in her hand.
Emma stared at her in shock. “You can see curses?”
“Needs more force,” was all Audrey cared to say as she charged the scepter again.
“My Lord,” another physician pleaded, gravely concerned.
Lansius held firm and said to her, “Do it.”
There was a brief glance from her. Her eyes had begun to glow gold. Even through the mask, he knew she was smiling behind it, the kind of smile too dangerous for anyone but him to understand.
Audrey raised the scepter again and shouted, “By the power that resides and vested in me, rise, O valiant knight!”
This time, an even greater burst of lightning crashed into the knight’s exposed chest. Again the body convulsed, his shoulders jerking off the floor, his arms and legs kicking once before slamming back down.
People flinched, gritted their teeth, or clenched their fists as they watched in disbelief.
“Wait, wait!” Emma cried, nearly screaming. “He came back. He’s breathing!”
The whole corridor broke at once. Even the stoutest of the men cried out in disbelief, some laughing harshly, others swallowing tears. Relief hit them so hard it left them shaking. They had just dragged their Knight Commander back from death.
As if untouched by it all, Audrey simply stood and motioned for the one carrying her claymore to come closer. She took the heavy weapon in her left hand and rested it against her shoulder as though it were no heavier than a short sword, the long blade rising past her head. Then she walked toward Lansius with the scepter in her right hand.
People were still cheering as she approached him. With her guise still in place, he offered his right hand, and she took it in a firm clasp.
“Walk with me?” she whispered amid the noise.
Lansius turned first to Harold. Sister Emma caught his glance and answered it with a firm, heartening nod, a weary but gentle smile on her lips.
“He’ll be all right. I can sense it. He still wants to fight,” Audrey reassured him.
His gaze then shifted to Sterling and Francisca, both being tended by several hands.
Audrey followed his gaze. “Francisca took the curse head-on, but she’s half-kin strong, and the curse was not meant for her.”
Lansius nodded in acknowledgment.
“What I fear is Sterling. The Static Shock struck him hard. His heart is still unsteady.”
“Is there anything—”
“None,” she cut in. “We’ve tried everything. Trust me. There’s nothing I wouldn't do to make sure Claire’s husband survives this. He is family to us.”
Lansius drew a heavy breath. It all depended on Sterling’s own body now.
With nothing else left for him there, he turned, and the two began to walk, their guards spreading out around them.
“Good instinct with the scepter. How did you learn a shock like that might bring a man’s heart back?” Lansius asked after signaling the guards to give them some space.
“A hunch...? No, I actually felt it. When that bastard Nay did that to me, I could feel every jolt in my heart. Sometimes a shock made it feel as though my heart froze, and then the next made it beat faster.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Lansius asked, deeply concerned.
“I’m as fine as you are,” she replied. “We were struck by the same magic.”
Lansius was not satisfied with the answer, but he knew it would have to wait. After a battle like this, they would need to check one another carefully for wounds that still needed treatment. Even a small cut could become a problem if left unattended.
That thought drew Lansius’ gaze down to their sabatons. Unlike most men, who wore hard leather soles, he had experimented with tree sap, or rubber, instead. It was the same material used for airship skin, and the airship technician, Hans, had readily given him spare material to test. Those rubber soles had likely spared both Audrey and him from the worst of the lightning-based spells. It was almost absurd to think that his search for comfort had ended up saving their lives.
As they left the corridor behind and headed for the courtyard to take a breath, Audrey asked, “Can I keep this as a prize?”
“It’s not a longsword,” Lansius said.
“I think I could reforge it,” she replied.
“Into swords?”
“No. Into a hammer.”
Lansius snorted, finding it odd. “You with a hammer?”
“Based on tonight’s fight, my instinct tells me that my student is better suited wielding a hammer than an axe.”
“Really?” Doubt and wounded pride crept into his voice.
“There’s still hesitation,” she said, glancing at him. “He still has a soft heart.”
“I’m sure his wife likes him that way,” Lansius countered at once.
The silver mask gave a soft gigle. Ahead of them, a fresh white beam fell across their path, a sign that the airship crew had been alert and waiting. They immediately lowered the basket again to lift them up.
Lansius felt he truly needed to send Lord Avery gifts of immense value in gratitude for equipping even this majestic airship, a luxury vessel, with so many tools for military or rescue operations. The lift basket alone showed a level of foresight and mechanism that harkened back to his old world.
“Guards, spread out. Your duty ends after the Lord boards the airship," Audrey instructed.
“Yes, Dame.” The guards and the young squire quickly spread out.
Lansius looked around and saw more than a few hundred of his men were still working along with the surrendering monastery men. They were dragging and burning piles of undead in makeshift pyres. The flames rose high, and the stench was horrid. If they had not come from corridors already reeking of death, it would have overwhelmed them.
As they waited for the lowered lift basket, Lansius asked in a low voice, “You’re coming with me, right?”
“Yes. I’ll be leaving command to Walter and Sir Harold’s Vice Commander. I wish I could do more, but my chest already feels tight.”
Lansius stifled a laugh and whispered, “Imagine the Saint’s reaction if she lost to a lactating mother.”
Audrey’s chuckle could be heard behind the mask.
She then took a sniff at her cloak. “I really need to clean myself up, else Gill might get fussy.”
“He was born on the bloodiest day of his father’s reign, on the night of the rebellion. And now he’ll drink milk from the mother who just slain a lich. He’ll grow up strong.”
Audrey seemed pleased. “I believe in omens. Just what kind of child will ours be?”
Her words made his heart stop for a beat. He could not help recalling the story of the boy born with the blood clot mark on his hand. He would grew up to become Genghis Khan. Their son had no such mark, but if day birth omens were to be believed, Gilly would become a conqueror, one who might even eclipse him.
Like Alexander to his father, Philip II of Macedon.
Walter the SAR and Arnaut the Hunter came to them from the cloister corridor. “My Lord,” they greeted as the guards let them through.
“How goes the evacuation?” Lansius asked.
“We managed to retrieve Sir Morton. He still draws breath,” Walter reported.
Lansius and Audrey let out a sigh of relief. The tension immediately left his shoulders.
“I would argue against being overly optimistic. He lives, but what kind of man will be left of him is uncertain,” Arnaut warned.
Walter quickly added in a bitter tone, “The Banneret’s vitals are weak. And no matter what the Sisters did, he has not regained consciousness.”
“All we can do is give him the best treatment available,” Arnaut said.
The two heard their words, but Audrey turned to Lansius, raising the battered scepter.
Lansius understood and leaned a little closer, whispering in her ear, “I think the child can wait a little longer. We’re saving his future mentor.”
Audrey readily gave an agreeing nod.
Lansius commanded, “Men, tell the airship crew that we still have unfinished business."
Surprised, Walter asked, “Where are you going, My Lord?”
“Where else but to see my Banneret? If he falls, the House bleeds with him,” Lansius said, then strode back toward the Monastery with Audrey by his side.
Above, the airship waited. By tomorrow morning, every city, town, and village within riding distance, or linked by night optical telegraph, would know of the Monastery’s treachery, its hidden undead army, and the Saint, a lich. Above all, they would know that their Lord had fought even the dead and triumphed.
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