Rory sat under the glare of a few basic wire resistance-based light bulbs; about as inefficient as you could get, they produced far more heat than light, but, for right now, it was all he had to work with. He was fiddling with small pieces of copper and other assorted metals. Finally, after connecting a few wires, a strange device off to the side constructed out of leftover parchment covering a wooden frame began to emit a dull, buzzing sound. Rory smiled and sat back, relieved.

       It was a basic radio transmission system, and it had taken far too much time. With materials ill-suited for electrical engineering, progress had stalled, but he had finally completed it. He had let the small league of engineers he'd brought handle explosives and the such—they were relatively simple, after all, in terms of thinking. For electrical applications, however, he could only rely on himself.

       The speaker was parchment attached to a conical wooden frame. Underneath laid a permanent magnet—Rory wasn't even sure what type it was—connected to a coil. Electrical frequency would oscillate the magnet, which would in turn oscillate the parchment, which would vibrate and create sound. A receiver supplied the electrical frequency. He used a strip of copper wire as a antenna, and a coil of wire around a nail as a tuner. The diode was perhaps the most difficult to create, as it required the ever elusive members of the metalloid family. He still wasn't sure what the hell he'd actually ended up using, but it worked, and that's what mattered.

       The transmitter was far more complex; he'd somehow managed to create it off memory. It was a basic transmitter type, sometimes called the "Manhattan style." As of now, it could only transmit a distance of around 20 meters, and he couldn't transmit voices, only create noise. It certainly wasn't ready for use now, the day before their first, and perhaps final, stand. But it could be used later, and a powerful tool it would be once he had some better materials.

       He sighed and stood up; now was no time to fiddling with electronics. To be honest, he was surprised he even managed—the time when he had taken Physics C back at the Academy was very, very long time ago. He'd had a crush on one of his peers; what was her name again? Emily? Elli? He wondered what she'd think of him now, the local lord of medieval subnation. She was dead; he remembered that. He was so enraged at one point; angry at the world and at the race that did it. And then reality hit him, and he began to forget.

       He heard a knock on his door.

       "Come in."

       In came one of his officers. He used to manage the mills; Rory considered that enough leadership experience. "Sir, the enemy diplomat has arrived."

       "Where is he?" Rory asked, as he began to clean up his workspace.

       "In the Granary. Shall I bring you?"

       Rory nodded. "Yes, thank you."

       The man saluted and motioned for Rory to follow. A few minutes later, he was sat in front of a sinewy man, with grey, balding hair and even greyer whiskers. Rory had expected them to send a fresh recruit to humiliate them, but it seems they would offer them honor if nothing else. They were surrounded on all sides by Rory's soldiers. Cairn stood off in the corner, transcribing the talk.

       Rory gave a slight bow. "Good to see on this fine night."

       The man followed. "The same to you, good lord. I am Castus, and I hope we may come to agreeable terms tonight."

       Rory smiled. "Of course. What are your terms?"

       "Surrender all the lands up to Ien. You may keep the rest."

       "How generous. Not even a tribute payment?"

       Castus laughed. "No, no. We are an agreeable people."

       Rory smirked. If his hunch was correct... "Do you require anything of me?"

       "Just a small thing. His Imperial Majesty requests your presence at his latest ball, as a forging of new bonds between our lands."

       Of course. He'd have some fun, now. "How's this. We surrender all of the lands, and I don't go to the ball."

       Castus' eyes widened. "W-what!?"

       "Fine. All of the lands, 100 million gild, and I offer my firstborn son. How's that? I'm a very shy person, you see."

       "S-surely that a price too high? You do not have to make a public appearance, if you wish. His Imperial Majesty merely wishes to welcome—"

       "I am not stepping foot into Aklan, Castus. I know your King's ploys, even if you don't."

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       "We can negotiate—"

       Rory stood up and motioned to his soldiers. "Communications have broken down. Escort him to the Aklan war camp." He walked towards Castus. "Tell your master this: I do not fear his bands of mercenaries." He exited the building, motioning for his Cairn, who had quickly become his de facto secretary, to follow.

       "That was swift, my lord."

       Rory laughed. "Oh, yes. No doubt any terms of surrender or truce would involve a clause that gets me into Aklan, where I will mysteriously die from a construction accident. Our King wants the land back at the end for a nice fee. The Aklan's merely want to murder me. Any land they take is secondary."

       "What was the last bit about? Mercenaries?"

       "I merely want the enemy commander to know."

       "Know what?"

       Rory didn't answer. "Has anyone answered back?"

       "Erm, yes. The Tykis Family offers aid in three months. The Tydyll Family offers aid in two."

       "The Tydyll family? How interesting. Did I step on Myell's head a bit too much?"

       "Do you have a history with the Tydyll's?"

       "You could say that. Did the Ayell's answer?"

       Cairn shook his head. "No."

       Rory sighed. The Ayell's were his only real hope. The family kept a group of armored knights recruited at all times, since their territory borders the barbarian tribes to the west. No other family kept a standing army, and would no doubt take months before they could mobilize; by then, they'd either have won or lost.

       "My lord?"

       "Yes?"

       "You did not request help from the King."

       "No, and we will not ask help from the King. We will prevail, and he shall know that he made a grave mistake. A very grave mistake." Tomorrow was the be the beginning of the end or the beginning of his rise. Only time would tell. "Has... has any of the Roniceri reported back?"

       They were at the edge of the barricade, now. Rory looked on at the darkened horizon, where numerous blots of fire stood.

       "No."

       Only a few dozen miles off, Castus stood, bowing to a youth with dark brown hair and a pair of sharp blue eyes. This was the imperial prince, Marcus Novus Germanicius.

       "How did it go?" he asked.

       "Sire, Rory Vyncis has rejected our offer."

       "Hah!" he laughed. "Is he sharp or merely lucky?"

       "He wished to impart a message to you, Sire."

       "Oh? Well, speak up! What is it?"

       "I do no fear your bands of mercenaries."

       Marcus laughed a high, almost painful laugh. "Sharp, then. He knows, eh? Well, that is no matter. Tell the commanders; we march at noon."

       "But, General Lucius said to wait—"

       "Lucius is dead. I am the only commander here, old man. Follow me to the battlefield or to the gallows. It is your choice."

       Castus shuddered. "No, sire. I shall impart your orders."

       "Good, good. Now, leave."

       "Yes, sire." Castus saluted him and promptly left.

       Marcus smiled in anticipation and walked through his commander's tent into his secret pavilion—he had forbid anyone from entering, and the penalty was death. Here lied his prize; a cage, with nothing in it.

       "Hello, my darling. How are you doing?" he sneered.

       He picked up a spear hung from the wall and inverted it, holding it by the point, and stabbed it into the cage. Unbelievably, it struck something halfway through. Marcus began to twist the point, and the invisible object began to shrink away.

       "Rory Vyncis, huh? You certainly have some interesting tools," he muttered.

       The caravans and carts that brought the armies food, weapons, and other necessitates had been under constant attack by what the men could only describe as "ghosts", setting the army back by at least a week. Then, in a twist of luck, General Lucius was assassinated—but the assassin seemed not to know that the Commander's tent had only one exit.

       He picked up some of his other tools. "You have yet to squeak. Admirable. That will change, however. I swear it, whether it takes one night or too hundred, I shall make you respond. It is merely a matter of time."