Rumble of Convergence
Rumble— A boulder from the trebuchet cleaved through the sky, slamming into the eastern corner of the ramparts. Stones shattered and dust billowed upward. More than a dozen burly men swarmed the monstrous contraption of wood and iron, hauling on the chains. The counterweight, bound to the ropes, slowly rose along the pulleys.
"Fire!"
A soldier hacked at the trigger rope with an axe. Rumble! Whoosh— Another projectile soared forth. This time, it was a barrel of burning oil. Flames began licking at the inner eastern wall.
While the trebuchets relentlessly hurled boulders, flaming pitch globs, and oil drums without pause, the artillery crews bustled about. Black cannon barrels mounted on two-wheeled carriages rattled into position. Dozens of mules, along with soldiers slipping and stumbling across the frozen plain, wrenched the barrels' direction using ropes and levers. Five cannons aligned in a row on the packed flat ground.
"Drop the braces!"
The aiming mechanisms and tripods settled into place. The gunners packed earth beneath the cannons with shovels to absorb recoil, secured the bases with iron stakes, checked the levels and wind, then loaded shells, alchemically prepared mana powder, and bundles of dry straw before tamping it all down.
"Fire!"
The mage mercenaries of the Akanlaufer Company took positions at each barrel, infusing mana. The mana powder, possessing an extremely unstable nature, instantly vibrated, resonating its crystals. The moment magical interference exceeded the critical point, the condensed mana in the powder detonated.
Boom— The cannons thundered with vibration. Burning straw fragments spat from the muzzles, and the shells streaking toward the walls glowed red-hot.
Winterband's walls were thick and sturdy. Yet they couldn't prevent the base from crumbling, chipping away bit by bit. The dimegtrium mixed into the mortar softened magical attacks but offered no enhanced resistance to physical impacts.
Rumble rumble rumble! Boom! Crash! Three trebuchets and five cannons fired their projectiles in staggered sequence. Human screams carried farther than one might expect. Even from over five hundred paces away, the shouts and cries from Winterband reached the Boatmer army's encampment.
Turning those screams, cannon blasts, and the grinding of trebuchets into their symphony, the Boatmer camp's central command tent hosted a lavish banquet. Beneath a luxurious pavilion of fine leather, Boatmer Viscount, Bidelstein Baron, Lübeck Baron, and Ripe Baron sat around an oak table. Roasted venison, honey-pickled figs, and fine wine adorned the spread, while minstrels plucked lutes and harps.
"Keh heh, looks like we won't even need to lift a finger. Not a single one of those fools on the walls is showing their face."
Bidelstein Baron spoke as he swigged his wine. It dribbled down his unkempt, patchy beard, soaking his protruding belly.
"Haha, if they all die off like that, it'll make our army look downright embarrassing. Don't you think, Lord Ripe?"
"Ah, yes."
Ever since witnessing Goethe Count's arrival at the camp, Ripe Baron's complexion had been poor. His head was balding, leaving only side hair, making him resemble a tonsured monk. His territory thrived on mining and ironworking, but the black market's closure had cut off his main revenue, forcing him into Boatmer Viscount's camp.
"You haven't touched your food. Is something bothering you?"
Bidelstein asked in a sly tone. Mark, Ripe, Hausen—the vassals of Goethe who had sided with Boatmer Viscount. Among them, Ripe Baron had the weakest resolve.
"N-no, it's just... this is my first war of this scale."
"War? What's there to it? We're ten times their number. Easier than kids scrapping with fists."
Lübeck Baron chimed in.
"Right, Viscount?"
"Something like that."
Boatmer Viscount swirled his wine glass. The others drank grape wine, but he savored a berry-infused vintage. He gazed out at the scene beyond the tent: Winterband's distant burning walls and the sappers swarming the trebuchets, reloading and firing. Everything proceeded according to plan.
As the white smoke rising from the fortress began to thin, another netted bundle was loaded into the trebuchet's pouch. It clinked with the sound of small porcelain jars packed inside.
"Careful not to break them!"
An officer bellowed the warning. Crash! A soldier unloading another net bundle from a cart slipped up. One jar shattered, splashing transparent liquid across his face. His eyes instantly bloodshot, he screamed.
"Aaaah! D-die, dieee!"
He snatched a comrade's sword from his belt and swung wildly.
"Fuck, what the— guk—"
By the time three or four comrades lay dead or wounded to the mad soldier, a knight in black plate severed his head.
"Be careful. Touch it, and you lose your mind."
"Y-yes, sir."
Boatmer's first casualties came not from battle, but from their own soldiers' blunder.
"Effective, isn't it? Just imagining what's unfolding inside those walls is horrifying."
Bidelstein Baron said, a grin playing on his lips.
"Where on earth did you procure something like that?"
"As the Empire expands, wars great and small erupt within for all sorts of reasons. War has a way of inventing amusing things—especially for killing people."
Boatmer Viscount answered Bidelstein's question. The jars in the nets contained a drug that induced madness—more precisely, an alchemical brew provoking hallucinations and terror. Once, Dietrich Marquis had used it in Bernsi to control orphans. Addiction made everything appear as one's deepest fears and hatreds.
"If they kill off the Count too, won't it end before the First Prince even arrives?"
Lübeck Baron scratched the scar on his lip as he spoke. It deepened his sneer.
"Who knows. We'll see. Lord Ripe."
Boatmer Viscount's gaze turned to Ripe Baron.
"Yes, Viscount."
"Two days from now, have your troops lead the vanguard assault."
"Pardon?"
"Don't worry. My handpicked men will breach the path, backed by mercenaries. We need to make our mark with the council faction before this war ends too anticlimactically."
Icy pale-blue eyes fixed on Ripe Baron.
"What are you doing, Lord Ripe? The Viscount's showing consideration."
Bidelstein tore into venison with his bare hands as he spoke.
"Quite right. Bidelstein and I rely on cavalry and archers. The Viscount's forces must counter Goethe's reinforcements. Yours are infantry-heavy, aren't they?"
Lübeck eyed Ripe Baron.
"As Lord Bidelstein says, it's consideration. Fail to claim any merit, and after betraying Goethe, you'll belong nowhere."
"Lord Ripe."
"......Yes."
"I trust you'll follow the commander's orders."
"I will."
Ripe Baron nodded reluctantly at Boatmer Viscount's words.
"Speaking of, no word yet on the First Prince's mobilization? No royalists or other reinforcements?"
"Come to think of it, didn't Goethe Count forge a marriage alliance with the northern barbarians? The largest tribe up there."
"No concern there. For the barbarians to muster meaningful numbers and reach here, they'd have to pass through Oton Marquis's territory. I've already spoken with him."
"As expected of you, Viscount."
"Enough talk—raise your glasses."
Bidelstein lurched to his feet, wobbling.
"To what?"
"His Majesty's health, of course."
Bidelstein laughed at Lübeck's question.
"And to Boatmer Viscount's health."
"To his health."
"To his health."
Boatmer Viscount smirked, then added,
"And to Goethe's downfall."
"To his downfall."
Ripe Baron raised his glass with lips pressed tight, his fingertips trembling faintly.
East of Binvelt, beyond the Black Forest, lay a coastline shrouded in thick sea fog and drifting ice floes. Baldarin, the port city in Oton Marquis's domain. Snow whipped across the horizon. Though called a port, half the docks were trapped in sea ice, ships barely afloat on half-frozen waters, unable to set sail or even weigh anchor. On days like this, fishing, trade, and merchant vessels were grounded. Citizens stayed indoors. Even with floating ice, blizzard winds and sea gales sent waves crashing over seawalls into homes. Ice chunks battered houses like giant teeth.
The commercial district lay eerily still, frozen. Far from the sea, residential areas belched black smoke from chimneys as fires roared. Oton Marquis surveyed the city from a watchtower overlooking the bay.
Gerard von Oton wore thick monster-pelt furs over a breastplate emblazoned with a white whale and three waves—symbol of sea sovereignty, and of restraint, vigilance, resolve. His dark eyes pierced the blizzard, tracking a long column of warriors pressing forward.
Whoooosh— Amid biting cold and gale winds, they advanced. Hundreds, by rough count, strode through the city's narrow streets. Towering brutes wrapped head to toe in thick, worn beast hides. Each bore black-iron axes, chain hammers slung or gripped, beast teeth and claws dangling as necklaces from throats or belts. Their breaths bloomed like smoke in the frozen air, then vanished.
Thud thud thud. Oton Marquis felt the ground quake—or imagined it.
"You yielded the path more easily than expected."
A gray-haired woman with tightly bound locks stared at Oton Marquis. Her garb matched the warriors trudging through the snow.
"How could I block Lady's path?"
"Thanks to you, we pass without bloodshed. My gratitude for the consideration."
"Consideration? Resist, and axes would claim necks."
"Surely not aiming for your own head, Marquis."
Adel flashed a girlish smile belying her age. Hard to believe she was mother to two boys, but Oton knew Granak bone-deep. His domain bordered their Tooth Mountains, clashing endlessly across generations. Neutral diplomacy had averted full war like Goethe's, but skirmishes abounded. No Oton ancestor had bested Granak by force—nor even tried. One Granak warrior could carve through ten Oton soldiers without breaking a sweat.
"Still, Boatmer Viscount won't sit idle."
"What can he do? It was an unreasonable request from the start."
"I hear he gave you something precious in return. What if we lose?"
"If it looks that way, I'll have to target you from behind. I must survive too."
"Ever the same."
"Your beauty endures as well."
"So does your flattery."
"Always sincere."
"Pity. If you'd been just a bit handsomer than Helmut, I might've wavered."
Adel grinned.
"Even Granak warriors won't cross the Black Forest easily."
"The Black Forest? Child's play. I trekked the Demon Realm for my daughter's cure."
"Safe travels."
"To you too, Marquis."
Oton watched Adel descend the watchtower stairs, then turned back to the vista. The sea horizon blurred in the blizzard.
"Brother, when the hell are we moving out? It's been two days since Carlson marched. Winterband'll be done by now!"
"Wait a bit longer."
Isaac stood on the ramparts, eyes fixed on the Black Forest.
"It'll show soon enough."
"What the hell're you talking about?"
Bessimer grumbled.
"My mother."
With that, Isaac leaped from the ramparts.
"You mad?!"
Bessimer yelled down. Isaac was already galloping toward the Black Forest astride his hellhound, a childlike smile on his face.