A spacious granite floor carved from a fortress devil’s interior seamlessly transitioned into a knee-high table. Around it sat Dimitry, Klaire, and ascendants—myrmidon mages who doubled as tribal leaders. Although their numbers were few the day Malten’s diplomatic crew arrived, over twenty sat on black cushions, watching as their Hierarch decided on humanity’s fishing rights along Waira’s outskirts.
The discussion didn’t enrapture Dimitry as much as it should. He couldn’t focus. His thoughts returned to the same matter they had throughout a sleepless night.
The thing he fought during the shrine’s trial.
It looked like a carapaced devil, but was it really? If Angelika, a combat mage with years of experience fighting heathens, had never seen one before, could it be a rare subspecies like the fortress devil Dimitry sat in? Unlikely. The slime crawling across the beast’s surface was something else.
Something dangerous.
Was it another manifestation of algae that enveloped peoples’ bodies, turning them into disfigured monsters, or was it a joke propagated by the masters of this world? Maybe they laughed at Dimitry’s expense this entire time. Horrendous visions of creatures that remained hidden, a deadly cage match with a magic stealing heathen, and relics lacking purpose.
Dimitry spent all night trying to coax ‘Homeworld Expertise’ from the three orbs he retrieved from the monolith. All he had to show for it was a headache, more questions, and dry eyes burning from insomnia. They conspired to distract him from negotiations with demons that decided Malten’s ability to sustain itself in the future.
“We will grant you access to waters rich in game in exchange for moonstones,” Hierarch said.
Suppressing his wandering musings, Dimitry turned to his left. “Where are the fishing spots we want?”
Now that hostilities have eased, Klaire leaned forward like a self-assured company executive. Her ordinarily neat light blue hair dangled over a map resting on a knee-high table. She brushed it back behind her ear and pointed at several areas sandwiched between Waira and Malten.
Dimitry met Hierarch’s gaze. “We would appreciate if you allowed our ships access to the areas my associate indicated.”
“My people often see your log vessels breach those waters, but you will take caution near our breeding grounds.” The Hierarch’s finger circled a small area of ocean south-east of Waira. “Otherwise, war will resume.”
Were people net fishing where myrmidon reproduced this entire time? “Forgive us.” Dimitry cupped her overloaded and webbed hand between both of his—a humbling gesture in their culture. “We were not aware. You have my word that my people will never repeat that mistake.”
Warcaller, temporarily serving as a guide and the keeper of human diplomats, folded her arms onto her lap. “Dimitry, would you honor my inquiry?”
“I would be delighted to.”
“Is it true your people sought only to catch fish and not my brothers and sisters? I have seen my brethren entwined and dragged away in your hunting devices before, never for them to return.”
A pang of guilt belonging to humanity at large lodged itself inside Dimitry. He respected myrmidon. Not only did they honor their enemies, they deliberated peace despite generations of conflict. So why did humans treat them like trash? How many innocents died at the hands of the Church, whose scriptures demanded that ‘aquatic demons’ be put to death?
Dimitry could put that to an end. Although telling the truth would complicate negotiations, it was a risk his conscience compelled him to take. “We have no intention of capturing your people, but I believe there is something else you should know.”
“What is it?” Warcaller asked.
“Not all humans are in agreement.”
Hierarch twirled a strain of braided white hair between two fingers. “Elaborate.”
Dimitry pointed at Malten on the map. “Do you see these shaded areas and how they differ in color?”
The ascendants leaned in.
“Are they of import?” Hierarch asked.
“Each one is a different country with a different leader. Although our leader, Her Royal Majesty Amelie Pesce, believes that our people and yours should be at peace, not everyone does.”
“It is the same for us. Not all myrmidon would consider peace with humans either, especially our brethren living at the Border Lands.”
“Border Lands?”
Warcaller closed her eyes, adjusting the blue spike lodged in her earlobe. “It is a land at the end of the world. Although one may see what lies beyond, not even the best diver can cross to the other side.”
Dimitry furrowed his eyes. “Why? Is it dangerous?”
“We know not. None in our tribe have been there. The Border Lands are far from Waira.”
“I see.”
“Finish your point,” Hierarch said.
Dimitry traced the Holy Empire’s coast, Feyt, Ontaria, and pointed to the Coldust peninsula. “My humble advice is for your people to avoid these countries unless you seek war. The humans living there are tricked into thinking your kind are demons and seek to harm you.”
“Demons?” an ascendant asked. “Why would they believe us to be so?”
“Unlike us, they accept the false teachings of the Church, who refer to myrmidon as corrupted creatures and aquatic demons.”
Hierarch closed her eyes as if entering a meditative trance. “Odd.”
“We care not about distant humans.” Another ascendant raised her spear with an overloaded hand. “But if they seek war, let them come!”
“Well spoken, sister!”
“It is as they say,” Hierarch said. “We have no intention to leave our home, but if invaders seek to attack, we have no qualms with fighting to the death.”
“I respect your bravery.” Dimitry smiled. “In that case, allow me to mention one more thing.”
“Speak.”
“Not all log vessels, or ships as we call them, belong to our country. Others may pass along your shores, too.”
“Then how will we know which belongs to your people?” Warcaller Leylani asked.
“The ones brandishing yellow and red flags belong to our diplomats, fishermen, and traders. All others come from different countries and may be dealt with as you see fit.”
“And if our people wish to visit your country to obtain moonstones, among other goods?” Hierarch asked. “How shall we identify ourselves?”
A difficult question. If a myrmidon swam to Malten, a soldier would murder them on sight, reigniting the flames of war once more. Telling the populace that the queen allied with aquatic demons wasn’t an option either. Although the Church’s influence wasn’t as strong as before, many civilians clung to the teachings for guidance. Only dedicated propaganda efforts could get people to accept the truth. “I’m afraid you will have to warn us before visiting.”
Hierarch frowned. “Why should we give you free access to our shores while we require invitations to yours?”
Klaire tugged on Dimitry’s sleeve. “Did we anger her?”
Despite several ascendants baring their teeth, he forced a calm expression. “They want to know why they can’t visit Malten whenever they want.”
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“Ah.” Klaire squirmed on a black cushion. “That is problematic.”
“We can’t risk them entering the markets by themselves. If they get caught by civilians, they’ll be killed.”
Klaire flipped through the leather book resting on her lap. Then, she retrieved the metal pen-like object resting on her ear and twirled it between her fingers before scribbling long chains of numbers onto an empty page.
“Dimitry, what is the female drawing?” Warcaller asked.
“She’s doing math… I think.”
Confused whispers emanated from a crowd of myrmidon, who followed the graceful movements of a practiced stewardess’ hand.
Klaire looked up. “Tell them we will send a merchant ship filled with assorted goods and schematics every nine days in exchange for fishing rights. It’ll take longer before we can allow them to visit the city itself.”
Dimitry glanced at her notes to see a list of captain names, crew, and vol numbers. Was all that necessary? “Hierarch, may we—”
“Call me Ailanu.”
Warcaller’s yellow and black eyes opened wide, as did many of the ascendants’.
Feeling as though he received a rare honor, Dimitry continued. “Ailanu, may we send a ship every nine days filled with moonstones and other desirables? Solely to show our appreciation for your hospitality while we prepare our markets for your people.”
“Why? We would not take offense to human customs.”
“Your kindness is already known to me.” Dimitry didn’t want to lie to Ailanu about how Malten’s populace would kill aquatic demons on sight, but he couldn’t tell the full truth, either. “Remember how I mentioned the existence of other countries hostile to myrmidon?”
“Yes.”
Dimitry pointed at two shaded areas above Malten. “Right now, our country is overflowing with refugees from Einheart and Volmer. Rock giants destroyed their homes, so now they crowd ours instead. They are still unwise to the benevolence of your people and might seek to harm your kind.” He cupped Ailanu’s webbed hand. “I humbly request that you give us time to convince them of the error of their ways. If a myrmidon was injured in our home, it would bring me great shame, especially after the hospitality you have shown us.”
“Uniting a people is difficult indeed,” Hierarch Ailanu said, as if from experience. “How many moons must pass before our own could inspect your water wheels and smelteries?”
Feeling pressured by ascendants’ expectant faces, Dimitry gave a number low enough to avoid angering them. “Fourteen.”
“Do not go back on your words, or else—”
“Hierarch!” A male myrmidon rushed through the fortress devil’s entrance. “Pardon my intrusion. I have urgent tidings.”
Ailanu inhaled a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Speak freely, Kelowa.”
“My troop has found the warrior’s altar defiled. Its guiding light shines no longer.”
Dimitry’s shoulders stiffened. Did Kelowa refer to the shrine less than a mile from this village? The one a certain surgeon raided last night?
“Does the Great One neglect us for refusing to fight the humans?” an ascendant asked.
“What if it is a sign that we no longer need to fight?”
“Perhaps a rock giant brood mother seeks to attack!”
“Send someone to check the grand altar!”
“What are they arguing about?” Klaire asked.
“I’m not sure,” Dimitry lied. “Something about an altar losing its light.”
“Are we being blamed for it?”
“I can’t tell.”
The bickering of ascendants echoed across the fortress devil’s walls. Some called for meditation, others war. Although Dimitry considered blaming the altar’s failure on the Church, showing that he knew it existed would only garner suspicion. He sat silently instead.
Ailanu stood up from her chair—carved from a heathen’s stone corpse—and the room went silent. She faced her ascendants and servants. “I have decided. We shall test the faiths. I will send one of our own to the land of the humans, and their presence will reignite war if the Great One wishes it so.”
The myrmidon held up their spears and hollered.
“Do you understand?” Ailanu asked, glancing at Dimitry. “I will entrust one of ours to judge your kind. That is the condition under which your proposed trade will be allowed.”
Although Dimitry nodded, all that went through his mind was ‘shit’. Ailanu wanted Malten to harbor what was essentially a myrmidon ambassador. If a Zeran zealot discovered them, not only would they strike down the aquatic demon and ignite another ceaseless war, but Malten’s indoctrinated populace might turn on the queen, tearing apart the country from the inside. A conflict an ailing city could not withstand.
But not all was gloom. Potential advantages existed as well. The presence of a myrmidon to learn from and converse with could tether both species through language and serve as an outlet for brandishing the queen’s relative wealth and technological prowess.
The difference between poor and serendipitous outcomes lay in execution. Dimitry needed an excuse to keep the myrmidon ambassador locked up and under guard until Malten could accept their existence. A scheme broiling in his mind, he smiled. “We will go one step further.”
“How so?” Ailanu asked.
“To show our commitment to peace, we offer your ambassador the greatest possible care at our disposal: a stay at the castle. There, they will be tended to and treated with utmost courtesy. We vow to employ countless safety protocols and take excellent care of your representative.”
“Be sure to see to it.”
“I most certainly will.”
Ailanu cupped Warcaller’s hand. “Leylani, as one who is closest to ascending and she who has been in contact with humans the longest, I ask that you travel to their lands. I trust you to judge their character before returning to us.”
“It shall be done, Hierarch.”
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Gentle waves rocked the tarred and plastered cargo hold of a ship recovering from a hazardous voyage. Aside from creaking planks, washing ocean currents, and the whispering of huddled combat mages, a stewardess’s failed attempts at communicating with Leylani leaked from the captain’s quarters above.
The tranquil cacophony of sounds weighed down on a curly-haired girl’s tired eyes. “So, is that thing supposed to help Malten?” Angelika yawned, stretching her hands behind her back. “It doesn’t seem to be doing much at all.”
Dimitry held a cold and white golf ball-sized object in his palm. No matter how he gripped or rolled it, the relic refused to grant him a vision. Where was the ‘Homeworld Expertise’ he was promised? “For some reason, it’s not working.”
“Not only did we almost die, but I spent like four golds worth of vol in that stupid shrine. I knew Zeran garbage couldn’t be trusted.”
Perhaps Dimitry shouldn't have risked their lives and humanity’s relationship with myrmidon based on a cryptic message from a cache. “I guess I got a little carried away. Sorry about that.”
“Whatever.” Angelika gave him a grin. “At least I got to see that spell.”
“You mean accelall?”
“Is that what it was?”
“Yeah.” Dimitry looked into her orange eyes. “Remember, you can’t tell anyone about it.”
“Right, right.” Her absentminded gaze traveled to the relic in his hand. “But, you know, it was kinda fun.”
“Getting chased by a heathen with a yeast infection?”
“No. Shooting the fuck out of it while it barely moved at all. Where did you learn a spell that made everything slow?”
“It didn’t slow anything down so much as it sped you up.”
Angelika’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Dimitry leaned back against the cargo hold wall. How could he explain time manipulation to a girl who never saw The Matrix? He pointed to the voltech rifle resting on her lap. “Did you ever wonder why the spell strengthened your shots?”
“You mean it breaking more of the carapaced devil’s shell than before?”
“Exactly. It only did that because the bullets moved faster too. Faster objects make bigger holes.”
“I kinda get it.” She brushed her curly red-brown hair back to reveal a devilish smirk. “Hey, since I’m your guard, and we’re going to be hanging out a lot, can I expect you to cast accelall on me again? Maybe on the upcoming night of repentance?”
“It depends.” Dimitry frowned. “I only used a few spells last night and nearly passed out because of it.”
“Damn. That sucks.”
It did suck.
If heathens continued to overwhelm Malten with increasing numbers beyond the army’s control, Dimitry was powerless to help. He could cast accelall ten times a day at most before collapsing. Preparing ahead of time by enchanting weapons wasn’t an option either. Not only would excess vol usage attract more heathens and be outrageously expensive, but partially accelerating a person’s body was dangerous. A soldier’s hands would consume oxygen faster than the heart could supply it; their veins and capillaries could burst from surges in blood pressure.
Dimitry glanced at Angelika’s voltech rifle.
This world needed weapons that didn’t rely on magic or decades of training before use. Weapons cheap to mass-produce. Weapons that allowed the conscription of hundreds of refugees into a fearsome militia that crushed heathens underfoot.
Weapons like guns, cannons, and explosives.
At this rate, they were humanity’s sole hope for survival.
Malten’s survival.
Dimitry’s survival.
A flash of heat raged in his palm.
The cold relic burned with energy, dark clouds rolling through its white-quartz-like surface until the golf-ball-sized object turned black. A ravenous hunger yearned within. One that sought to consume Dimitry’s consciousness while injecting a new one in its place.
“Hey, can—” Angelika’s voice transitioned into vacant static. The boat’s gentle churning steadied. Frozen at an incline, a lamp attached to the cargo hold’s ceiling no longer dangled.
Unlike the relic Dimitry received in Estoria, the one resting in his hand didn’t show him visions of algae monsters.
Instead, four differently colored powders lay piled by his feet: yellow, white, black, and a lustrous gray mound. Weapons resembling antique guns like muskets rested on the floor or on crates. A cannon stood against the wall. Carved horns, barrels with rifling, cartridges.
Even if Dimitry could breathe, he would be breathless. Was this the ‘Homeworld Expertise’ promised by the cache? It looked more like an armory. He focused on the mound of lustrous gray powder.
Information flooded into Dimitry’s head as if pulled from long-forgotten recesses.
He knew what it was.
Black powder.
Composed of seventy-five percent potassium nitrate, fifteen percent willow charcoal, and ten percent sulfur, it served as fuel for firearms starting in the late medieval era.
Dimitry turned his attention to the white powder beside it.
Potassium nitrate.
An oxidant mined or produced after a year-long process involving urine, fecal matter, and wood ash.
The vision vanished, and the ship rocked once more.
“—you teach me accelall?” Angelika finished her sentence, vitality returning to her frozen body.
Filled with insuppressible excitement, Dimitry jumped to his feet. He stared at the dark object rolling in his trembling palm. Could he analyze every item in its vision? Did the two other white relics, including the bigger one, grant desirable knowledge in a similar manner? If so, what was the best way to use them?
Angelika looked up. “You good?”
Dimitry showed her the orb. “Notice any difference?”
“It’s… black now.”
He dropped it into her hand. “Anything else?”
“It’s hot and kinda heavy.”
“Looks like it doesn’t work for you.” Dimitry leaned back against a layered plank wall once more, waiting with bated breath for the next vision.
Angelika’s eyebrows furrowed. “Does it do anything useful?”
“It does.”
“Like what?”
“Although it’s hard for me to show you now, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the results.”