A Shield Is a Shield
“You look a fright...”
Reihi was startled at the sight of the count. Could a corpse dug out from a snowdrift look any worse? Snow had piled up on the count's head and shoulders, freezing solid, icicles hung from his hair in places, and his threadbare coat was crusted with snow and frost. Blood and frost mingled in his thick beard, and a gash on his forehead had crusted over with dried blood.
The count's blue eyes remained clear and sharp, but they could not hide the bone-deep exhaustion.
“Sorry for the poor hospitality.”
The count sat across from Reihi like a ghost. He let out a deep breath and spoke again.
“So, what brings you here? To this godforsaken place without even an escort.”
“I sent the guards back. No telling how long I'd have to wait for you. I wanted to help, but that Bergheim fellow insisted I stay out of it.”
“The baron's judgment was sound.”
“Bergheim's a baron?”
“Yes.”
“Hah.”
Reihi made a face like he couldn't believe it. Bergheim didn't strike him as learned or refined. Just another kingdom man, acting no different from the northern tribesmen. And yet he was a baron, right there on the front lines.
“Master Reihi, if you were injured or killed, Goethe would face unbearable scrutiny.”
“Mm... fair enough.”
Reihi nodded reluctantly. Deep down, as a 4th class mage, he'd wanted to lend a hand, and being turned down left him a bit miffed and embarrassed. But he hadn't considered the count's point. Proper thinking was hard in a place like this. The constant shouts, screams, death, blood, and blizzards stirred forgotten survival instincts. You ended up fixated on tomorrow over the distant future, today over tomorrow, and right now over today—just staying alive.
“Anyway. Heard about the five thousand marching from Boatmer?”
“Yes. I have.”
The count answered as if the army's size meant nothing.
“What's your plan? The main force won't get here quickly, but even at best, you've got less than a week.”
“We'll find a way.”
“I hope that doesn't mean blocking five thousand with fewer than five hundred.”
Reihi said it while lifting the chest from the floor onto the table.
“What's this?”
“Something your eldest son asked me to make. And the reason this old body dragged itself all the way here.”
Reihi pulled a parchment from his robes. Fine goatskin, stamped with a seal: an owl clutching a laurel wreath. The Royal Academy's emblem, but also the royal crest. The only difference was the eight stars.
The count slowly opened the chest first. Inside a metal frame, rings refined from magic stones were fixed in place, packed tight with rune-engraved plates, a power unit, and a resonance device. The chest itself was a full magitech tool.
“What is it?”
“Long-range comms gear. This is the relay, this the sensor reader, this the transceiver. It creates an artificial mana circulation: the caster's intent goes here, gets refined and amplified...”
Reihi trailed off, eager to explain his masterpiece from the Blue Tower, but caught the count's blank look.
“Anyway. Thanks to Baron Binvelt's artificial rings, we've solved long-range comms—a problem scholars banged their heads over for years.”
“Isaac?”
“Yes. Months ago, he foresaw war with Boatmer and said we needed this. Heaven knows how he got hold of the research...”
Reihi recounted his talks with Isaac and the lecture at the Royal Academy.
The count nodded calmly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Magic swords, the kingdom's—and continent's—future, magic's development stages. The popularization of magic and aura, collapsing class structures. Radical views hard to imagine now. Yet utterly reasonable and justified.
His fingers drummed the table.
“Just like Isaac.”
“Hah. Don't you know anything about that boy? Lately he got dragged to the Papal Inquisition, came back with the Grand Inquisitor's escort and a holy relic. Word is he's close with some cardinal reborn as a saint...”
“Is that so.”
The count, pipe already in mouth, nodded nonchalantly.
“...You're not surprised.”
“As long as he's safe.”
“...”
Reihi deflated as the count shrugged it off. If Schrader, who'd served him longest, had been there, he'd have read the good mood from those drumming fingers. Reihi didn't know him that well.
“So, why give me this magitech?”
“Couldn't say. Just delivering at Baron Binvelt's request. Expect contact through it soon. But that's not why I came all this way.”
“This?”
“Yes.”
The count held up the sealed parchment. Schrader nodded. He broke the wax seal and unrolled it. He skimmed the contents and silently lit his pipe.
Reihi waited patiently for him to speak. But the count said nothing, even after knocking out the ash.
“Any other options?”
Reihi finally broke first, impatient.
“...Nothing sharp.”
“Time's short. We need to reply to His Highness quick, or no reinforcements while you hold.”
“...”
“What's to agonize over? Even your vassals have turned. If not the First Prince, who'll help? The northern tribes? Even if they did, how many warriors could they scrape? Or hold with under five hundred starving soldiers? The outer walls are a natural fortress, but Boatmer'll hit the inner keep.”
“...”
The count grunted, pulling tobacco from his coat lining to repack the chamber.
In the war with Boatmer, I shall stand with Count Goethe.
But only call for aid, and we march at once.
True intent: Stand with me in the coming succession war—royalists against imperialists.
“Helmut!”
Reihi shouted. But the count stared at the ceiling, taking a few more drags. Then he spoke slowly.
“You asked at the tourney. Reminded me not to forget I'm the royal shield. I said the kingdom's shield.”
“...You did.”
“That hasn't changed.”
“Without the First Prince's help, Goethe falls!”
“If we can't stand alone, we'll fall anyway.”
Unlike Reihi's rising voice, the count replied softly. Fatigue weighed him down, but so did unyielding conviction. No need to shout or argue.
A shield was a shield.
“How!? You gonna use your mighty magic on Boatmer!? If His Highness seizes power, he might lift the ban and look away—but not now. Magic on people breaks the ban, defies the crown, makes the royals your enemy!”
“No plans for magic.”
“Surrender to Boatmer, then!?”
Reihi sounded ready to burst. Boatmer's five thousand were slowed by camps, supplies, rough terrain. But even late, they'd reach Winterband in a week. No knowing how long the fortress could hold between monsters and army. Even if the prince marched now, no guarantees.
And yet the count lounged like it was someone else's problem, sticking to his principles. Infuriating.
“Goethe will handle it ourselves.”
The count seemed determined to burst the old man's gut.
Isaac and Bessimer's earnest duel dragged on till dawn.
“Hahk, hahk—!”
“Hoo, hoo.”
Panting, mana-drained, they swung sword and axe.
Clang! A light ring of metal, nothing like aura-loaded strikes.
“Hahk, give up already.”
“You... first.”
“I could go... hahk, two more days.”
“Yeah? Hoo, I could do a week.”
“Nonsense... hahk, don't get cocky.”
A perfect deadlock.
“Cocky... hoo, that's you.”
“Fuck, hahk, who... eldest brother's son alright, hahk, stubborn... Ah, crowd's here!?”
Soldiers had gathered on the hill. Morning drill hour, but their duel stretched the break.
“Enough.”
Carlson spoke from the crowd.
“Disrupts training.”
“What, that's your reason? Thought they were using us as training dummies.”
“Fight's too absurd for that. No basics at all.”
Carlson's verdict was cold.
“What? Hahk, you, come here. Hahk, fight me, punk.”
Bessimer bristled. Carlson stepped forward.
Thud. A light scabbard trip, and Bessimer toppled.
“Can't even stand.”
“You little shit, hahk, cheap shot.”
Bessimer grumbled but lacked strength to rise, face-planted in snow, twitching.
“Someone from the Royal Academy's here.”
“Haa, haa. Academy? Who?”
Isaac was no better off. Slumped on the ground, he barely caught Carlson's words.
“Yes. Arrived at dawn, waiting for young master.”
“I'm beat.”
“Looked urgent.”
“Bessimer, tie—so I'm still big brother.”
“Can do more, hahk, still...”
Isaac left the mumbling wreck and hauled himself up.
“Mastering aura?”
Carlson eyed him.
“Sort of. Can't use magic in war. Gotta pull my weight.”
“I see.”
“Not surprised.”
“Already past that.”
Carlson said it flatly.
In the command tent, the Academy courier waited, slouched in boredom. He straightened at Isaac's entrance.
“Baron Binvelt?”
“Yes.”
“Dean Marcel Reihi sent this.”
A chest sat on the table.
“Said you'd know—comms gear.”
After the courier left, Isaac opened it and studied the device. Not hard. Channel intent through mana; the magic stone ring glowed and resonated.
No reply came.
“No one's picked up yet?”
Starved after rolling with Bessimer all night, Isaac rose for food.
Then.
— Brother?
Yonas's voice echoed.
— Does this thing even work?
Then, the voice Isaac had longed for. His mother, Adel's.