Malcolm sped out of that place, firmly decided not to make any dealings with the shady reflection. The wicked thing wouldn't even trust him with its name; why on earth should he expect anything good to come from that?
Instead, he walked around Thornguard, ensuring everything was in order and things were in place for any upcoming battle.
First, he visited the blacksmith and placed orders to arm about a hundred conscripts. He had the perfect, albeit unimaginative, solution to ensure their loyalty without subjecting them to unknown entities' mental control: he'd stay in town, acting as general and holding their families hostage.
This meant that, for safety measures, the conscripts should be mothers and fathers, about thirty years old, where the idea of simply bolting and leaving everyone else to die would hopefully be smaller.
The blacksmith looked gloomy as he wrote down the necessary materials and equipment to be fabricated, as if with each "Plated armor, iron spear, steel sword," he was crossing names, killing people. Malcolm's fierce gaze ensured the blacksmith was "encouraged" to do so, despite whatever moral implications crafting weapons for a horned, bipedal beast may have. Personally, Malcolm thought the blacksmith was a bit hypocritical at first, only to find out that small-town blacksmiths had far more orders for nails, horse shoes, farming tools, and other hardware completely unrelated to the arts of war.
As inexperienced as he was, Malcolm had to correct the smith several times as he surveyed the initial work. Even though he tried to have some variety, like flammards and nodachi, the results were fragile, dull, and bent steel. The man's capabilities were limited indeed. In fact, the previous order he had placed to arm his "elites" apparently hadn't been completed, which annoyed Malcolm to a great extent. Then, remembering it had only been a few days since he placed it, and taking into account all the trauma the man had gone through and his lack of skill, he cut him some slack.
"Where's your assistant, smith?" Malcolm asked after seeing the man go back and forth doing manual works like blowing the fire, adding coal, and fetching metal. The man flinched for a moment and answered, saddened:
"He's dead, my lord."
"Dead? How so?"
"He was near the walls when the explosion happened, got trapped, and the fire consumed him whole. He and his fiancée too, my lord..."
Malcolm sighed at how flimsy these mundanes were; it would've taken a true inferno to chip the population in Erebus. He missed his home, the foggy streets, and the tense atmosphere, the dark yet familiar ambiance where no citizen was redundant, and each was worth a thousand mundanes.
He pictured the wonders that even the lowliest of blacksmiths could do: enchanted swords able to inflict dire, incurable injuries; daggers that cut unseen, spreading maladies that liquefied organs; armor so durable that assailants were better off hammering it in hopes of turning the wearer into mush rather than penetrating it... Of course, warfare being warfare, each new technology was countered by the opponent with one of their own, as it always had been. Otherwise, the Tenebri hordes would've dominated the mundanes to the end of time.
"Smith, postpone your tasks. Let's go get you another."
The smith left his leather apron and hammer on the table and followed Malcolm outside. The streets were awfully quiet, and barely anyone had been permitted to leave the walls, just the minimum operational personnel to keep the crops from spoiling, and even those were escorted by the blighted. Fortunatly for Malcolm, some more came crawling out the caves after his conquest of the city, otherwise I'd be an impossible task
Walking towards the inn, Malcolm saw exactly what he was looking for: a street urchin rummaging through the inn's garbage in the back alley. Creeping silently, he clasped the kid by the shoulders to prevent him from escaping. The kid fell backward from sheer surprise and looked like he was going to yell, but with a meaningful sidelong look from Malcolm, he chose better. The smith was crestfallen, looking at the floor, and the kid was silent, still lying on the floor, so Malcolm had to initiate the conversation.
"Kid, I have a task for you. See this man? He is of great importance to this town, and you're going to help him. In return, he'll make sure you're properly fed. Questions?"
"I don't want to work for you!" The smith looked back up, panicking, fearing Malcolm would cut the kid down in outrage for the disrespect. Instead, Malcolm just said:
"You'd rather be eating from the dumpster?" The kid looked down and seemed to hesitate for a few moments, and, pursing his lips, finally admitted:
"No, I'd rather not eat this garbage."
"Smith, get the kid washed and fed, and get back to work."
The older man quickly nodded and, in a blink, was out of sight with the kid. Never had Malcolm seen someone act so fast and determined before. Must be his charisma, he joked to himself.
He then took a stroll downtown and fetched the mayor and other important figures and walked around the town, addressing different structural problems. One of the main issues was the defense distribution now that the walls were having attacks coming from both the forest and the kingdom's side.
"How many attacks from the forest do you get in a month? What type of attackers?" The mayor, despite having been stripped of his title and his mansion, now reduced to little more than a commoner, answered promptly and readily, as he knew that his life depended on it.
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"We get about two attacks a month, though they become more fierce and numerous the closer we're to summer, as it's the time when the beasts reproduce. The attackers can come in any shape and form, from bears and wolves, moose, stingers, crawlers, and even—the monsters you've come with, though I assume they won't be a problem anymore?"
"Stingers? Crawlers? What are you talking about?"
"Stingers, the flying bat-like beasts with sharp claws and deadly poison. One sting with those needle-like claws and that's it, hence the name. The crawlers are more sporadic in their attacks as they move slowly and are very territorial, but every now and then an elder one gets expelled from the colony and can end up in the city or the trade routes, and we have to deal with it. Imagine a ten-meter-long, flat, brightly colored worm with highly acidic blood and acid spit."
"How much is ten meters again?" asked a stone-mason, leader of a construction team.
"That'd be about thirty feet, sir," answered an elderly man wearing round glasses, a dedicated merchant, logistic manager, and trade-route planner.
Malcolm frowned at the possible structural damage that these "crawler" things could cause and deepened his frown at the mess aggressive flying beasts could cause, should he now have anti-airborne defense, such as magic-wielders and archers.
"How do you deal with those two?" He asked the mayor.
"Well, it's not that hard, really. The archers take the crawlers before they get too close, and the Prior usually... oh, I see the problem."
Malcolm shook his head at the mayor's stupidity. Or was it a jab he was taking? Looking again at his round face, covered in cold sweat and his nervous gaze, he could tell that it was probably an accident caused by fright.
"Do we have explosives? Can we build mortars?"
The men exchanged glances.
"We're a humble town, sir."
"How come the beasts attack twice a month, this town being at the edge of the forest? It seems too much! Is there some resource that you're hiding that they want?"
"None at all, my lord. They just seem attracted to this location, and it has been so since the very day Thornguard was founded. Eventually, we came to see the upsides of the attacks, dressing the carcasses for materials and other goods."
"What happened with the acid of the crawlers?"
"It all sold fast, sir. We're in the middle of a war, or King Henrik is, anyway, so anything that can be used for warfare gets taxed away, along with conscripts and other things."
Malcolm massaged his temples. How troublesome, he thought, that having a town would be all wins and practically no cons, but then again, that was his old mentality speaking: he thought he could convert the mundanes into a workable army with the Heart, the one no longer at his disposal, or that he could trade the resources even though he had no one to trade with. He had a lapse in his judgment, and now he couldn't just leave empty-handed... Would he be forced to accept the reflection's offer?
"Sir, if I may...?" Round Glasses asked, and after Malcolm prompted him, he continued, "It would be unwise to leave the forest's side unprotected, since if we get an unexpected attack, we'll be left with nothing to defend, or at least we'd suffer heavy casualties until the townsmen can fight the creatures back, assuming they're weak enough. I'm sure my Lordship has a lot on his plate, but wouldn't it be a good time to call on your demonic troops and help you keep a hold of the city you just took?"
Malcolm's mind gears spun quickly, thinking he'd need an answer that didn't make it obvious that he didn't have these so-called "demonic troops," lest the townfolk started getting ideas.
"Sir...?" Like a vulture, the man pressured, and the rest leaned closer like a pack of hyenas. These mundanes are really no good...
"I have been tasked with achieving my goals without further support," Malcolm said. "If I call for reinforcements so soon, I'll get demerits, and I want that promotion before I die. Now, since you're all so interested in my particulars, why not share some of yours? I want all your assets gathered by tomorrow noon in my palace. If I feel that even a single copper is missing, well... Let's say I'm in dire need of some volunteer vanguard soldiers."
The next day, a horde of coins ranging from coppers to bronze, to silver and gold were transported by wagon to his mansion (yes, it's his mansion now) alongside other valuables, candlesticks, bizarre artworks, and even livestock ownership paperwork. Along with the wagons, a throng of people followed, looking with worrisome eyes at how the life's work of their most notable neighbors was forcefully taken away, wondering when theirs would be next.
Climbing atop one of the wagons, Malcolm clapped to get their attention and loudly said:
"Heed! From this day onwards, all those who pledge their loyalty to me, and to the Blessed, shan't be taxed more than twice a year, for a value not higher than 10 silver!" Seeing that some of the peasants were confused, he rolled his eyes and followed, "Shan't be taxed for more than fifteen kilos of butter a year!" The crowd rose their fists and cheered, thinking that if they were going to be governed by a beast-demon, they might as well profit from his lack of sense.
"But those who threaten my rule, who undermine my efforts, will be forcefully deprived of everything they own, at once! So make a decision and choose wisely, be a lord with us or be a slave to your own fear! So I swear, for my name is Malcolm of the House of War, third of his name, General of the armed forces of the Underground!"
The crowd looked a bit daunted, but ultimately cheered, possibly in fear of being stripped of their everything for not being supportive enough of the horned beast. Everyone returned to their work, and the valuables were given back, except for those of the sly merchant, which were spent on the war and defense efforts.
The days turned to weeks, and finally, a full month passed as Malcolm walked around doing the so-hated managerial work, fixing gates and walls, reinforcing structures, and keeping the panic in the population as low as possible. The townfolk slowly grew accustomed to his figure in the city, and some even began to appreciate him. A few more were stripped of their valuables, those too faithful to Elyria and their false gods to embrace change; some others were falsely accused to keep things in the best possible shape.
Malcolm observed the night falling, casting Thornguard into an eerie darkness. He knew that the more time passed, the closer the scouting troops were getting. He knew it had taken him far too long to get Thornguard in place, and that Rivel was making moves of his own. His thoughts turned to the battles ahead, to the strategies he would employ to keep this fragile town alive, to keep his race alive. The reflection's words came into mind, a warning he couldn't shake: the month was over, and the time of his downfall, as predicted by the underground demon, had come.
But Malcolm had faced worse odds before. He would not back down.