The Siren's Song
“...I can wield it.”
“Magnificent! If the gods themselves had not lent a hand, how could such a thing be possible?”
The apprentices beside Bolranreunt nodded along in solemn agreement.
“So that's what a miracle looks like.”
"To think there are men who can wield a weapon like that..."
The people here had an unfortunate habit of writing off anything they couldn't understand as a miracle and moving on with their lives. Johan clicked his tongue.
"In any case, if the weapon is unharmed, that's all that matters. Bolranreunt. There is something I wish to ask you — can you keep a secret?"
"I guard my patron's secrets as I guard my own heart and fingers, my lord Count. I will swear it upon my ancestors' honor."
Bolranreunt declared it as unshakable as bedrock, and Johan nodded.
There were two things he wanted to ask about.
The first was whether he could buy a set of full plate armor from the dwarves — the kind that protected the wearer's entire body. Strictly speaking, this was nothing that needed hiding. It would cost as much as a castle, but Johan had reached the point where he could finally entertain such ambitions.
The other was the Ancient Empire's pocket watch. He'd obtained it long ago and kept it hidden on the off chance it drew suspicion, but now that he held a Count's station, he could ask about it openly. These days he could conjure an excuse for any suspicious trinket he pleased.
"If I were to commission the dwarven smiths to make plate armor, how long would it take, and what would it cost?"
"?"
"?"
Bolranreunt was flustered by the question — and Johan, in turn, was puzzled by the fluster. What's gotten into him?
"...My lord Count. You are aware, I trust, that the dwarves do not actually forge plate armor themselves?"
"...They don't?"
Bolranreunt looked profoundly embarrassed.
"My apologies. I believe you have heard rumors our elders like to spread."
Within the Empire, the dwarven noble houses wielded power that even the great lords could not afford to ignore.
Settled in the mountain ranges, the dwarves guarded traditions and privileges dating back to the days of the Ancient Empire. Trading in the metals pulled from their mines and the arms and armor their forges produced, they had amassed staggering wealth.
One of the Empire's imperial electors hailed from a dwarven house, and it was the dwarves who held the right to mint the imperial gold and silver coins — the finest currency on the continent. Their power spoke for itself.
And not content with all that, the dwarves took great pleasure in spreading a few rumors of their own.
That unlike the arms made by elves or the eastern heathens, dwarven weapons carried the blessings of spirits and gods. That dwarven plate armor could turn aside even a giant's spear...
Rumors like these crushed their rivals across the continent and kept the dwarven houses on top.
"...You mean you can't make plate armor at all?!"
"Well, it's just that..."
Plate armor as commonly imagined was no mere suit of armor. It had to wrap the body as though the metal itself were alive, light and supple enough that the wearer didn't tire even after hours in the saddle. It had to mend its own dents and breaches, as well...
Dwarven craftsmen could only conjecture that such craftsmanship must involve "binding spirits into the armor." And all of it — every last technique — was arcane knowledge lost with the Ancient Empire. The dwarves of today simply lacked the talent to make it.
"Then who are the ones wearing it?"
"Those are Ancient Empire armors unearthed from ruins and merely repaired by the dwarves."
"...!"
Bolranreunt wore a rather mortified expression. The Count had been taken in by dwarven salesmanship — understandable enough.
Even now, dwarven expeditions combed lands untouched by human hands, hunting for Ancient Empire ruins. They sought all manner of things, but the principal prize was relics like those.
"So it isn't a matter of money, my lord. First and foremost, the thing itself has to exist."
"......"
Johan's feelings turned complicated. Not because of what Bolranreunt had said.
Just how badly did I wreck it, back then?
He was fairly sure he'd put his full strength into swinging...
Regret and mortification washed over him, and Johan covered his face with a hand. Misreading the gesture, Bolranreunt cried out in alarm.
"I and my apprentices are master craftsmen, my lord! Using the hides of the monsters you have slain, and the rare metals, we shall forge you a brand-new armor."
Bolranreunt eagerly laid out the design he had in mind: a magnificent brigandine-style harness, thin scales of rare metal riveted beneath tough monster hide.
It was, in truth, an armor befitting Johan — a knight who had hunted down any number of ferocious monsters.
"...See that you do."
Still, there was little strength in Johan's voice. Bolranreunt fidgeted anxiously. Johan collected himself and spoke.
"I've shown you an ugly sight — the disappointment got the better of me."
"Not at all, my lord!"
"Right. If I do ever come across an old suit of armor, I'll send for you and see whether you can repair it."
"Yes, my lord."
Bolranreunt answered easily. He didn't hold much hope that Johan could actually find an armor from the Ancient Empire's age — that was hardly the sort of thing one found just by looking.
Still, an armor at that level would be more than enough for now.
Nothing from monsters like minotaurs or cyclopes went to waste. Cut and stitch the hide, and you had a fine leather armor; braid the horn and sinew together, and you had a warbow of terrifying power.
Aclada was forever pulling one of those bows out with a broad grin plastered across his face — that alone told you how good they were.
With an armor made from such materials, layered under the Surcoat of the Abyss besides, his protection was in practical terms entirely sufficient.
"Was that what you wished to ask me about, my lord?"
"No. The thing I need you to keep secret is this."
Johan drew out the Ancient Empire pocket watch he'd picked up in a village long ago. Bolranreunt examined it with wonder.
"A dwarven arcano-device. A rare piece indeed — wherever did you come by it?"
"An arcano-device? Isn't it a watch?"
"Ah. Why, it is certainly a watch as well."
Bolranreunt took the pocket watch in hand and deftly worked the crown, winding the spring.
"I thought it was broken, though. So winding won't do it?"
"Dwarven make does not break, my lord Count."
So saying with complete confidence, Bolranreunt slit his fingertip with a dagger and let a drop of blood fall onto it. Receiving dwarven blood, the pocket watch began to breathe again.
"...!"
"Among the relics of the Ancient Empire, there are many that require this sort of activation."
"Why would that be?"
"Er... I suspect it was so that an employer who hadn't paid couldn't simply run off with the goods... though the true reason, I confess, I do not know."
"......"
The oddly pragmatic explanation actually convinced Johan.
"But you call it an arcano-device? It's just a watch, isn't it?"
In the age of the Ancient Empire, master dwarven artificers never made a work as mere craft alone. Along with their skill, they breathed magic into it.
A pocket watch like this would have been precious and rare even in its own day. It was entirely likely that whatever magic the patron desired had been inscribed within.
"Oh? And how does one activate it?"
"...I, I know nothing of magic at all, my lord."
Having explained all that only to disclaim any knowledge of what the magic actually was, Bolranreunt looked rather sheepish. Fortunately, Johan knew how to wield the power of magic.
He invoked the power of Balkalmur and poured it into the watch, and the timepiece shivered, unleashing a beautiful song — sweet and bewitching.
...Is that all it does?
Johan was taken aback. No — to be fair, it was certainly a fine function. To be able to play such music when mingling with the nobility at social functions would surely draw admiration.
But the magic Johan had hoped for was something else entirely. Something that could kill an enemy, deceive them, break something...
"My... my lord Count. The song... you must stop..."
"!"
Johan started at the sight of Bolranreunt. The light had drained from the dwarf's eyes, and he was swaying as though entranced. Panicking, Johan snapped the watch shut.
"Th-that is the song of a Siren."
The Siren's song, which lured its listeners into delirium. To craft such a thing into a timepiece. Bolranreunt shuddered at his ancestors' perverse sense of humor.
"Were you unharmed, my lord?"
"The gods protect me at all times, of course."
"As expected..."
As expected, my ass.
Johan decided this was, if anything, better. Magic like this he could find a use for, somehow. It was a step up from a useless song and the chime of the hour.
While Johan's side made their methodical preparations for war as they waited only on spring, there was no hope of keeping the news contained. Rumors of every stripe began drifting toward the Countdom of Zillelid, as a matter of course.
A few vassals went so far as to broach the unthinkable — delicately suggesting that despite their liege's insufferable temperament, perhaps it was time to summon the bannerets or hire mercenaries.
But Count Zillelid merely scoffed.
"Talk no such nonsense. He's a green whelp from a house no one's even heard of. A man who should be worrying about his own place in the world — and he means to cross over here? It's nothing but bluster. Ignore him and be done with it."
"Lord Emir, I beg you to reconsider. By the accounts of fleeing merchants and pirates, his momentum is nothing ordinary. They say he has swallowed the entire south..."
"And you believe that makes a whit of sense?!"
It had to be said, the Count's position wasn't entirely wrong. The south teemed with venerable old houses — from Marquis Crucho on down to the viscounts who governed the Emperor's own demesnes in his name.
Word had it that this upstart had trampled the whole of that territory underfoot in less than a year. Who could possibly credit it?
"The mercenary captain likes to preen about how many soldiers he commands, but as time passes, rebellion will flare on every side and tear him to pieces. Fear nothing. I have sent bribes to the Emperor, whispering for him to strike the man down."
Count Zillelid brimmed with confidence. In an age when reliable intelligence was all but impossible to come by, the judgment a count rendered was, in its way, an inescapable fate.
"Still, just to be safe — will you permit us to hire more mercenaries?"
"How many are we speaking of?"
"A hundred or so, perhaps..."
"Isn't that rather excessive?"
"Then, fifty or so..."
"Granted."
While such conversations were being bandied about, Johan had already finished his preparations and was sailing out of the harbor.
McCalde, the dwarven thousand-man commander, had one grievance from this southern campaign.
Specifically: he had failed to distinguish himself in any meaningful way.
"Vent your frustrations another way, Commander. Did we not win?"
"That's precisely what's wrong with you."
"......"
The centurion who had offered a single well-meaning word of comfort and been rewarded with abuse deflated on the spot.
"Everyone else got their moment of glory. Those centaurs racked up feat after feat, and us..."
"There was no siege to be had, Commander. What could be done?"
"You had best keep your mouth shut."
The other centurions moved to rein in the young dwarven officer. However you looked at it, every word out of him only dug the hole deeper.
Among mercenaries, the dwarves held a reputation second to none. And McCalde's dwarves possessed one distinction beyond even that.
Siegecraft.
Siege engineers had always been held in high esteem and commanded exorbitant fees. When the Church had paid such a fortune to hire them, it was with precisely these expectations.
But while following Johan had brought victory after victory, there had been precious little call to build siege engines. When the marquis's castle loomed, they'd thought, at last, our moment has come — only for those cursed corsairs to shatter the occasion entirely...
And so the thousand-man commander could hardly help chafing. Hired at great expense by the Church and failing to earn any proper glory was shame upon shame. Left as things were, he feared a stain would fall upon the honor his ancestors had built.
"Worry not, Commander. There will surely be an opportunity this time. Did not Lord Count himself speak words of expectation before departing?"
"......"
At the centurions' words, McCalde's expression softened slightly.
It was true.
Johan had expected great things of the dwarven mercenaries on this expedition. A ferocious siege had been anticipated.
He had cut the warhorses down to the bone to load the materials for siege engines aboard instead. Transporting warhorses by fleet was already a monumental headache on overseas campaigns, so there had been no help for it.
Johan had left the eastern warriors and the centaurs behind entirely, organizing the expedition as infantry alone. Only Johan and the elite heavy infantry guarding him could afford to bring horses along.
To the dwarves, this had been an encouraging sign. Proof of just how much was expected of them.
"Well spoken. I swear upon my ancestors' beards — I will bring down the enemy's walls if it is the last thing I do."
"Most admirable, Commander!"
Setting siegecraft aside, the dwarven mercenaries were soldiers of steel. Companies that could hold a tight formation and resist a cavalry charge were vanishingly rare — and the dwarves were one of those few.
"Ahem. The landing itself went off without a hitch — far be it from me to thank my ancestors when I've shown them nothing but shame."
The army had completed its landing and was now marching on Count Zillelid's castle. At this pace, they would arrive within days. Now was the time to pour resolve into his men instead of listening to complaints.
"...C-Commander. Trouble."
"What is it?"
"They say the enemy has marched out of the castle and is heading straight for us."
"...And why would that be trou— oh."
"Ohhh..."