Chapter 181
Chiroptera
Nicopola, Dawn Barony's Border
Tattered tents flapped in the cold night wind, their shadows flickering over the barren, trampled ground. The only lights in this sad encampment, scattered around a ruined village, emanated from several dwindling campfires. Next to these fires sat empty cauldrons, alongside pottery that once stored grains. Like all other food supplies there, they had been depleted long before the onset of last winter.
It was a miracle that many who wintered here survived the cold season with barely anything to eat but boiled wild plants. Their only sustenance came a few times a week from their mercenary overlords, who brought thick soup with meat. Nobody dared ask what kind of meat it was. They ate gratefully; it was better than the gruel made from ground tree bark mixed with wild plants.
As the cold season gave way, the conflict stirred anew. Thousands who had taken refuge along the river longed to return to their lands to restart farming. However, many among them, particularly the more militant mercenary groups, resisted these movements. They were driven by ambitions to conquer Dawn Barony, which they saw as a crucial haven needed to survive the ongoing turmoil.
Their resolve was further steeled by the belief that the Lord’s granary was filled with rice—rumored to be both fulfilling and superior to most grains. Many were also buoyed by the success of last year's raids into the outskirts of Dawn, which emboldened them to push deeper into the territory.
As the night wind blew again, whistling through the flames, its eerie sound was the only noise disturbing the silence that stretched for miles. The men were too weak to even snore, and no crows, owls, or crickets could be heard—everything alive had already been hunted down.
"Is it raining?" an old man muttered in their tent, wrapping his bony figure in old but thick fur coats his son had stolen from a manor last year.
"Indeed, the wind brings the scent of rain, but it has been like this since last week," replied his son gently, once a stout farmer, now reduced to thinness and weakness. He knew his father hoped to catch some frogs when the first rain came.
His father nodded weakly and returned to his sleep.
The son looked at his father’s graying hair and wrinkles and felt a pang of sadness. His father was the only family he had left; the other family members had died in clashes between the migrants and the Nicopolans.
Families like his had left Centuria and Sarmatia to avoid wars with the western nomads, but after a few years, they ended up in a similarly dire situation. There were simply too many mouths to feed and too little harvest. Once hunger struck, people attacked communities like theirs, ironically, even those that grew food for every community regardless of their origin.
Meanwhile, the nobles merely watched from afar. Despite owning the best fertile lands, they chose to grow grapes for wine instead of grains. After years of greed and ignorance, the once illustrious Nicopola province was eventually engulfed in bloody conflicts.
His father opened his eyes again and gazed at his son with a smile. "Son, you must abandon me—"
"I can't leave you, Father," he replied without hesitation.
"Go and slip through the night; go to the Dawns. As much as they hate us, they need strong men to rebuild and grow their rice paddies," the father repeated what he had said for several days.
A lone tear fell from the son's eyes.
"I'll be alright," he reassured him with a fragile smile. "I'm old and don't need to eat as much. The neighbors will light the campfire, and that’s enough for company. I'll just sleep peacefully under this nice fur coat you gave me."
The son leaned over to moisten his father's dry lips with a damp cloth. "We'll escape together. I just need some of my strength back. It'll be soon. We can't give up now."
The father gave a bright smile and stared at the stars outside their tent. "We're such bad people," he suddenly muttered.
"Why do you say that?" the son asked, worried.
"We fled our home because the western nomads invaded us, but at the same time, we've also invaded other people's lands," he explained bitterly and with regret.
The son had no reply and the father continued in his weak voice, "I’ve heard a lot about the Lord of Dawn. I feel that our mercenary overlord is throwing sticks at a sleeping lion."
He paused, struggling for breath, then continued, "I fear that one day, this sleeping lion will grow tired of being provoked and will strike back. When that happens, everyone will die."
The son sighed, staring at the dry ground of their tent. He had been involved in several skirmishes and knew that Dawn's forces were merely defending their land and had mostly restrained themselves. He was aware they were capable and well-trained.
Turning back to his father, he said, "Try to get some sleep, father. I'll heed your advice. We'll leave at the first light. I've secretly saved some coins from last year's raid. That should be enough to bribe the guards to let us pass."
...
The sun had risen on a beautiful spring morning, with dew glistening on the grass. The son carried his father on his back using a makeshift carry-cloth, crafted from coarse hemp and lined with whatever fabrics he could gather. He had spent the winter working on it, stitching with the only tools available—a net-making needle he had found. The finished carry-cloth was crude but durable. Nevertheless, the coarse rope gnawed at his thin shoulders, biting deep and leaving marks that reddened and bruised.
"Son, am I heavy?" his father often asked from behind.
"No, father. You've grown light," the son jovially replied each time to appease the old man.
"Oh, look a bee," the old man pointed out happily, taking pleasure from simple observation like a child.
They kept on going uphill as their camp was situated low on a small river bend. The land, having awoken from being snow-covered, was fresh. As farmers, they could even smell its fertility just by walking near it.
"You must be tired. I think we can take a rest; we are already far from the village," his father suggested.
The son turned towards the village, trying to make an estimation, and spoke, "Just a little bit more. The guards said not to be seen by anyone, especially the patrol."
"How many coins did you lose to the guards?"
"All of it," The son sheepishly replied. "The guard who I befriended, I misjudged him. He called his friends and stripped me clean."
The father chuckled to the point of coughing. "Pay no heed to it," he reassured the son. "That was blood money. May the curse of its owner pass from us."
The son snorted, amused, adjusted the thick coarse rope, and continued on their hike.
"What a waste," his father lamented as they reached higher ground. "The village we were in is fertile, with good rivers. I saw it when we arrived—the soil is dark and rich, filled with worms and insects, and there were bees everywhere, good for orchards."
"Indeed, Nicopola province is rich. Too bad its people are not much of farmers and chose to be warlike."
"History plays a role," his father explained wisely. "The whole province was taken from the beastmen, and the land was given to nobles who fought, their champions, and troops. Thus, it has been militaristic since birth."
The son smiled. "It seems fresh air makes you better."
The father chuckled and admitted, "The sun and the scenic hills jolt the mind."
"Mom always said that you’re not always a farmer."
"Bless her," the father remarked, and then added cheerfully, "Indeed, I am educated and did many things in my youth."
"How come you never told me what you did in your youth?"
"It was a time long gone," his father reminisced. "I was the smartest in my village and was sent to the Imperium Examination."
"Imperium Examination?" the son never heard of it.
"Back then, there was a way to become an official. You just needed to be smart and pass the test. Although I was the smartest in my village, I was just average compared to the brightest in the province," he said without any tone of regret.
"So, I moved to a neighboring town and tried to make money with the money entrusted to me," his father continued. "I tried to start a textile workshop, but a trusted worker embezzled the funds. I attempted to raise cows, but they succumbed to sickness. Sheep too, but they were seized as taxes." At this, his father chuckled at his misfortune, a sound that prompted the son to join in the laughter.
"Is that why you never allowed me to raise animals?"
"Yes, they become a burden. The old laws must be repealed. Owning them hardly makes anyone wealthy, and the taxes—well, they're simply ridiculous."
His son chuckled. "You'd make a fine civil officer, father. You know the common men's hardship better than anyone."
Hearing the praise, the father's face brightened. "I'm too old and fragile. The Imperium does not need me—"
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The distant thunder of hooves suddenly drew near, jolting the son and his father from their wearied march. In sheer panic, the son gazed left and right for refuge and spotted a slope thick with shrubs. He rushed toward it, keeping going despite the underbrush scratching at their clothes as they descended. He halted as the path below became treacherous and slippery.
"Lower me down," his father said, his voice competing with the hoof beats that pounded in their ears, "and drink your water."
Obediently, the son set his father down among the shrubs for cover. He then took a swift gulp, the cool liquid quenching the dryness in his throat. As the clamor intensified, his father gripped his arm, urging, "Leave me."
He turned sharply, staring at his father, who eventually relented with a slight nod.
The ground seemed to vibrate beneath them as the horses drew closer. The beasts' neighs pierced the air. The two crouched lower as the riders thundered by. They saw a dozen riders in light armor, unmarked by any banner.
"Advanced party," the father whispered nervously.
His son said nothing, overwhelmed by the cavalry's presence. Although a dozen had passed, the relentless sound of hooves indicated that a larger force was still behind them, the noise swelling into a relentless tide.
"They're not ours," the father whispered again, hoarsely. "They're the Dawns."
"Damn right we are," came a clear, authoritative voice from above, sending shivers cascading down their spines.
"Son!" the father half-screamed.
"Hold on, father, I'll—"
"Don't do anything stupid," a second voice, feminine and surprisingly soothing, cut through the tension. "We're not going to harm you," she added.
The son froze, the voice halting any rash decision he almost made. They remained motionless, chest-deep in the shrubs, but curiosity prevailed as they looked up to find the source of the voice. Above them stood an angelic figure, her presence as commanding as it was serene.
"Come, it's dangerous to remain there. My name is Petra, I'm the Lord of Dawn's physician, and I can guarantee your safety unless you're a criminal."
"No, we're just farmers escaping from the mercenaries' clutches. We wanted nothing but to work on a field," the son replied earnestly.
"Please, accept him. My son is a good man. He worked hard and doesn't indulge in drink," his father added.
Petra smiled warmly at them and then turned to her squire and guard escort. "Take care of them for me. We could use some help since the little miss's tortoise keeper passed away a few days ago, or they might assist in my garden."
"But my lady," the young squire, who had found the two, interjected with a frown, "didn't you notice their accent? They're Centurians."
"And I'm Midlandian," Petra retorted firmly, standing her ground.
"Your squire is simply being protective, my lady. Please excuse him," the older guardsman interjected with a reassuring smile.
"Uncle!" the young squire protested, which prompted a light giggle from Petra.
"Do you trust us?" the son asked as he helped his father closer to the woman.
"As a physician, I've also become quite adept at sensing lies," Petra explained with a knowing look.
The father looking at this opportunity dared to ask, "My lady, please forgive my questioning, but why is the Lord's physician here, along with the—"
Before he could finish, the lookout's voice drew everyone's attention as he pointed towards the village near the river bend. "Lord Avery has begun."
All eyes turned toward the general location, and they saw growing spots of smoke. Initially small, the smoke soon billowed into a massive fire with thick, black clouds.
"What just happened?" his father asked, bewildered.
The son could only shake his head. As if by premonition, his father's words rang true: The sleeping lion had awakened.
***
Lord Avery
Riding the airship with Angelo at the helm, Avery continued to observe the landscape through the latest optical sight mounted on the middle part of his new airship. This magnificent craft, the largest they had built, was the culmination of a lifelong project and had taken six years to produce. It had almost depleted its coffers at various points since its inception. So grand was this airship that hiding it was no longer feasible.
Along with two other airships, they formed a fleet that rained destruction down on the enemy encampment along the river marking the border of their barony. Now, the land beneath them was a fiery inferno, shrouded in dense, billowing smoke that soared skyward.
"Approaching the next target," Angelo reported. Having mapped them so often, he knew precisely where the most strategic targets lay.
"Found it. It’s a big fort," Avery remarked, surprised.
"Make ready," Angelo instructed the crew of four, who began their preparations once more.
Beside him, Angelo’s assistant peered through the Ekionia Optics slung around his neck. He spotted the silhouette of a man below. Using the delicate adjuster on the side, he bracketed the target’s height in the glass and, based on the magnification number, determined their altitude.
"Speed?" Avery asked.
A crew member at the rear released a small canvas kite, attached to a rope marked with evenly spaced knots. As the kite caught the wind, it pulled on the rope. He observed the number of knots that extended beyond the reel as the kite stabilized in the strong breeze.
Another crew member who operated a sand hourglass tapped his colleague, who then announced, "Five knots."
"Elevation?" Avery asked again as he made adjustments to his complicated-looking bronze sight.
"242 standard height," Angelo's assistant replied, having made his calculations.
Avery made the last adjustment to the sight, his hands steady despite the tension. He then called out, "Angelo."
"Yes, My Lord," came the immediate response.
"Easy right," Avery commanded.
"Easy right," Angelo echoed, his hands deftly adjusting the rudder.
"Steady, steady," Avery continued, his tone low but urgent as they approached the critical moment. Abruptly, he ordered, "Stop."
"Stop," Angelo confirmed, his hand put the rudder into neutral.
"We're in line," Avery remarked, still peering through the sight.
"Prepare your torches," Angelo instructed, his voice cutting through the brisk air. The crew members stationed along the left and right sides sprang into action on their lightwood-made platforms, which cradled forty-two amphora-like clay objects in seven elongated rows on each side. A third of their number had already been used in the fiery assault. This vast array was why the airship needed to be so large.
Avery had conceived this behemoth with a grim functionality in mind: to raze a city to the ground if necessary.
"Steady, almost there," Avery murmured, his gaze fixed on the sight, calculating the perfect moment for release.
"Light them up," Angelo commanded crisply. The crew members swiftly ignited the oily fabric wicks protruding from the clay vessels, which began to sputter and blaze against the wind.
"Now, release a full spread," Avery commanded, pivoting away from his optical sight to view the scene directly.
Without needing further prompting, the crew on both sides sliced through the ropes with their razor-sharp knives. One by one, fourteen flaming clay vessels arched through the sky, tracing fiery paths toward their target. At the rear, another crew member signaled the trailing airship, coordinating their attack.
Simultaneously, the other two airships in their formation began their own deadly release, saturating the skies with burning projectiles.
The seemingly non-threatening earthen objects fell freely into the wooden fort below, much to the shock of the fort's occupants who could only run or duck for cover. As they struck roofs and empty grounds, the clay vessels did not explode but shattered, releasing their sticky contents, which ignited. The fires grew quickly, fueled by the wind and surrounding materials.
"Right on the mark—we hit fast and caught them off guard," Avery praised, and the crew was thrilled by their precision while the horror unfolded below.
A metallic clamor filled the fort, alerting everyone to the impending attack. However, before long, several of the dozens of fiery spots had become uncontrollable. Attempts to douse the flames with water only made them worse.
High in the sky, Angelo made a wide turn to allow them to observe the damage. Avery saw the fire spreading everywhere, now the fort was almost completely enveloped in thick black smoke.
That day, everyone who witnessed the event realized, a new age had begun. What had previously required thousands of bowmen or tens of siege engines, firing thousands of specially-made, expensive fire arrows to burn a wooden fort at the height of summer, was now accomplished in mere minutes with just a dozen or so clay amphorae.
While observing the damage dealt to the fort, Angelo skillfully steered them away from the thick plumes of smoke billowing high into the sky. Despite his efforts, the sharp acrid scent of burning wood and scorched earth reached the crew.
"Large groups are escaping to the river," the assistant reported, his eyes still glued to the binoculars.
"Ignore them if they're on foot," Avery commanded, now returning to his large optical sight.
"I see them," Angelo reported. A mage like him didn't need optics at this range. "Should we chase?" he asked, with a hint of doubt, knowing that attacking a moving target was a tall order even with the dedicated tools they had.
"Chase them," Avery commanded coldly, and Angelo began to change the angle, warning the crew, "Sit and strap yourselves in."
An airship can't normally chase horses, so he entered a dive. Avery and the crew held tight despite their straps. The baron's lips flashed with a grin as the airship plunged downward, like a canoe falling over a waterfall. "Prepare the main muzzle," he instructed coldly.
The two bomb crew members exchanged glances before furiously working on a pump beneath their seats connected to a large cylinder beneath them. Their muscles strained with each stroke as the resistance built up. Each pump of the handle became harder and harder, building pressure until finally, they couldn't pump any further. "My Lord, it's ready," they reported breathlessly.
"Angelo, your call," Avery shouted over the wind noise.
"Speed," Angelo asked.
"Twenty-eight knots," shouted the crew at the back as the wind rushed toward them.
Angelo gave maximum fuel to the furnace to prepare the airship for recovery. "On my mark," he said as the airship shuddered from the speed and loss of altitude.
Everyone held their breath. They had trained for this, but nothing had prepared them for the real thing.
Angelo maneuvered as close to the target as possible, relying not on calculations but on crude instruments and his instinct. "Release!" he finally declared.
Behind him, the bomb crew opened a lever before frantically pumping again, as hard and fast as they could, as their lives depended on it. At the front of the gondola, an iron decoration shaped like an angry bat biting a red smoldering coal suddenly came alive. From its mouth, sticky fluids sprayed forward, showering a large area and setting everything ablaze.
This was why the front part of the gondola was covered by iron-plated, making it resemble a bat spreading its wings. Despite the speed and the wind, the heat rising from below was overwhelming, even for Avery and the crew, who could feel it on their faces and smell it in their nostrils as they delivered punishment upon the invaders.
...
The nearly two hundred strong mercenary riders dispersed as the gargantuan object bore down on them, but they couldn't escape the rain of sticky fluid that covered a large swath of the area around them. Suddenly, everything reeked of a strong, sharp scent they had never encountered before, and then, in horror, they watched as the blazing fire raced toward them.
"Noo!" one shrieked as the flames descended on them like wrath from the sky.
Their pain was only matched by that of their poor horses, the only innocent creatures in this ordeal, who could only run faster, galloping wildly, until they all fell. Many were crushed to death in this manner or were dragged as the beasts ran toward the river.
"It's the Ancients, they've come to punish us!" one screamed as his body was engulfed in flames.
"Why me? Why me?" another cried as the skin on his upper face and eyes melted. "I don’t eat the children and the women, only men!"
His pleas fell on deaf ears as almost everyone screamed in agony, their skin scorched by the fire. Many who had escaped the initial fire eventually fell from their horses and rolled on the grass in vain attempts to extinguish the flames. Some, desperate for relief, discarded their clothes and cut their hair, then ran toward the river.
Still, they couldn't escape; coated in the sticky liquid, sparks of fire seemed to find and cling to them. Thus, with fire on their backs and limbs, they ran toward the river like fell beasts from folklore.
Out of almost two hundred, less than half reached the river and doused themselves. Yet, the current was strong, and many, exhausted and in pain, simply drowned. Those who survived were riddled with severe burns. Now, not even the strongest and most cruel among them could do anything but wince in pain.
Despite their denial, they knew justice had descended upon them.
They had pillaged and burned those who didn’t comply with their wishes. They even cooked those who submitted to them, unwilling to share the precious grains cache with their own people.
"O Ancients, have mercy on us," one pleaded, followed by others as they eyed the three gargantuan objects in fear and awe.
Thundering hooves shook the ground and surprised them. Most had no more stamina to run. A few crawled before their hands bled and they stopped, heaving pained breaths. Some took up their blades, ready to face whatever might come.
Above them, the three gargantuan objects circled again, the largest one seemingly more buoyant after discharging a fiery rain.
From a different direction, horsemen finally arrived, followed by a large army. A great banner was hoisted high in the air—blue and bronze with a grey skull at its center.
With the dissolution of the Imperium, the binds of the old oath dissolved into the winds of change. House Dawn, once restrained by an oath from expanding, now stepped into a future unshackled and sovereign. Along with the Shogunate of the Great Plains, the Southern lands had awakened.
***