Hawkwood, holding aloft his sword with a loud cheer, felt every day of his age and then some.
White Company knights rushed forward alongside an assorted mix of Vaales and Chernlock soldiers present to fill some gaps in his ranks. Evestani’s primary garrison had surrendered. All it took was a massive shadowy spire holding a threatening leg over the building. There were still a few pockets of resistance holding out within the structure, but the vast majority of the city guards had already thrown down their weapons.
Once the garrison was secure and the unruly soldiers who hadn’t surrendered were either dead or thrown in their own dungeons, all that would be left was the palace. It was almost too easy. As Ilya assured, there was no sign of the avatar and his golden magics. No arrows turning his men into animated statues, no holy aura infused throughout their enemies, no rays of gold carving out chunks of terrain. Hawkwood hadn’t even had to swing his sword.
And he still felt exhausted. Clapping a hand to his side, he stretched his back as much as he was able. Though it was his usual armor, it weighed heavier than he was used to.
“We found two enemy soldiers capable and willing to assist with translating commands,” Neil said, stepping up next to Hawkwood. “They are encouraging their fellows to surrender. It won’t be long now… Sir, are you well?”
“Well enough,” Hawkwood said, sheathing his sword. “I think I’ll retire once we’re done here. Maybe serve as an advisor to my replacement. I can’t keep leading the men like this.”
A sudden look of alarm crossed Neil’s face. “Careful, Sir. You know what they say about talking on the battlefield of retirement, loved ones, or your past.”
“Bah. Bard’s tales and superstition. I’m not going to die out here. We’ve practically won already.”
“That’s another taboo,” Neil said, closing his eyes with a sad, mournful shake of his head.
Hawkwood stared at his adjutant. Neil, sensing the stare, looked up. They held the stare for a brief moment before both men erupted in a bout of laughter.
“Think the palace will be trouble?” Neil asked.
“Most of Evestani’s fighting force is in Mystakeen.” Hawkwood waved a hand around, gesturing to the line of enemy soldiers walking with their hands on their heads to a small holding area in the garrison courtyard. “These are the dregs. Either too stupid to contribute or too important—nobles and wealthy men—either way, not a threat. I imagine the palace guards will be mildly better trained, but even their position is ceremonial. Even if not…”
Hawkwood leaned back, freeing a crick in his spine as he stared up at the shadowy spire. It loomed overhead, an ominous sight if not for knowing its owner.
It couldn’t easily get to the palace. While the garrison was somewhat on the edge of the city, the palace was in deep. Had Arkk been in charge here, he might have crushed all the buildings en route, but Ilya struck him as someone wanting to cause the least amount of chaos possible.
Just the threat of it would have been enough for old Duke Woldair to throw up the white flags. He wasn’t expecting much resistance.
The loud squeal of metal ripping at metal made Hawkwood turn.
The tinny laughter of an orc echoed from the confines of one of those walking machines. The spinning blade on its arm crashed into a large gateway while Hawkwood’s men watched from a distance, shields raised and weapons ready. A slam of the machine’s other arm, capped with a spiked ball as wide as a sword was long, splintered the wood and bent the metal braces, cracking open the gate.
One stubborn fool of the Evestani army rushed out from the opening with a pike. That only made the orc laugh again—the sound coming from a conical brass speaking horn—before that spinning metal sawblade came down on the idiot, cleaving through armor, flesh, and the pike as if it were all made from air. Blood sprayed across the wall as the machine moved forward, shoulder slamming into the doorway.
“They told me to offer you a chance to surrender,” the orc barked from inside her machine. “So this is your chance. If I see even one single weapon in someone’s hands in three seconds, I’ll cleave through the lot of ya!” Another laugh punctuated her statement as a clatter of weaponry hit the ground from further within.
Hawkwood’s men moved inside, careful to keep their distance from the machine as they moved to secure the newest batch of captives.
Between the tower and those things Arkk had built, if the palace did put up resistance, he doubted it would be much. There were only ten of them, but each was practically an army on its own. He certainly didn’t rate his—admittedly diminished—forces as having a high chance of taking one down. Perhaps the right spell from an experienced battlecaster could stop one, but regular soldiers?
Not a chance.
“Is that the last holdout?” Hawkwood asked, turning to Neil.
There wasn’t much of a holdout anymore. It was a strange thing to attribute body language toward, but the machine almost looked disappointed that the soldiers inside hadn’t even tried to fight off the machine.
“Correct. Barring reinforcements from elsewhere in the city, the garrison is fully under our control.”
“Good. Get a detachment on round-the-clock guard duty over our captives. We’ll take a brief rest before rejoining with the other commanders to push further into the city.”
“Sir,” Neil said, acknowledging the orders. He turned and set to carry them out.
Hawkwood, remaining where he was, leaned up against a small banister in the courtyard—probably a post for some archery targets. He threw a glance over to the walking machine as it trudged out from the hole it had made in the garrison building, then a look up at the walking fortress looming overhead.
One or the other was a paradigm shift in how warfare would be carried out. Both together? And under the same banner, at that?
He shook his head, letting out a soft sigh. “Definitely too old for this.”
“Gah! What are these things?”
ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV twisted and bent, allowing a sharpened sheet of metal to slide directly alongside their left tool arm servos. Their right tool arm snapped out, reconfiguring to a cutting torch just as they made contact with the sheet of metal. A pulse of the torch cleanly sliced the sheet of offending metal, eliciting a cry of anguished rage from inside the metal suit.
The armored knight staggered back, drawing a shorter backup blade from somewhere on their person. ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV tilted their head, calculating. Their black box hummed, steam spouting from pipes and gears whirring in synchrony as they surveyed their opponent. Their opponent desired harm upon the automaton. That could not be allowed.
Around them, the clangor of battle echoed off metal plates of armor and automaton alike. Fellow engineers moved with mechanical grace, deploying tools that easily sliced through the nearly impenetrable armor. ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV detected magic on the armor. Analyzing it, they concluded that it had been magically enhanced to resist nearly any weapon. But engineers didn’t use weapons.
ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV focused back on their opponent, who had charged while their head was turned. They sidestepped, moving precisely far enough to avoid the attack without compromising their counterattack. Their left tool arm rotated, deploying a magnetic pulse generator. A flick of a latch in their core activated it, directing a focused wave at the knight. The pulse, designed to shape, join, or modify metals without physical contact, ignored the armor’s enchantments. Plates of articulating metal locked into place, flash welded, while the occupant of the armor began screaming in pain. Unable to move yet carried by momentum, the suit of armor toppled forward into the mud.
To the left, ᚾ. ᛞᛁᚷ – II utilized an array of cutting implements to slice away layers of their opponent’s armor. ᚹ. ᛒᚱᚨ – VII swung a pneumatic hammer with rhythmic efficiency, denting the armor of a knight who attempted to advance. A shadow-armored soldier swung a shadowy harvesting tool at one of the enemy knights who turned to fight back—shadow soldier categorized: ally; ignore. Sparks flew from ᚷ. ᚱᚲᚷ – X as they drifted overhead. The lightning was less effective against the armor. Analysis indicated it was too close to weaponry—spellcasting in particular—to ignore the enchantments. It was no less effective in startling and blinding the soldiers.
Right tool arm reconfiguring to a construction foam sprayer, ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV took advantage of the blindness by rushing forward and deploying construction foam. The liquid-like spray hit the legs of the nearest six soldiers. For a moment, nothing happened, but as the chemical reaction with air proceeded, the liquid began expanding, bubbling, and foaming before abruptly hardening into a material as strong as solid rock.
ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV had to end their spray early, spinning their torso to avoid a sudden arrow flying in from an oblique angle. A sharp static-like alert erupted from ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV, spreading information of a new threat in the vicinity to their fellow engineers. All incorporated the new data, readjusting their dismantling of the enemy forces.
ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV had seen a dozen engineers fall, all in need of repairs. More information meant less would fall in the future. That meant higher efficiency in carrying out their assigned task.
Their head twisted to face the new target, then their torso, then their mobility actuators. Consensus stated that ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV, momentarily disengaged already, was optimal to engage the long-range threat.
And so ᚱ. ᚲᛁᛏᛏ – IV moved.
Mags turned around, a small scowl forming on the current sheath he wore.
Up until a few moments ago, there had been an overwhelming source of magic nearby. Somewhere in the Evestani army. He had been heading in its direction for a while now, taking his time pulverizing anything in his path—no sense letting the opportunity for good suffering pass by—but now, he paused.
That source of magic was gone.
For a few minutes, it had only grown more distant. He could still sense that delectable smell of magic off in the direction of the tower—itself almost overwhelming in its vastness. That distance cut off abruptly. The target of his hunt was either dead or too far off to sense.
Mags thrust his hand out at one of the poor fools still brave enough—or stupid enough—to get near him. The blade bounced harmlessly off his skin as his fingers sought out the idiot’s throat. His nails bit into flesh. The sudden scream of pain died as Mags ripped out the man’s esophagus, and nothing else, slicing open his neck with such precision that all that snapped was the thick cartilage that gave his throat structure. The fool’s hands started grasping at his throat as if he could somehow put himself back together. Sharp, panicked breaths sucked in and blew out from the gaping hole in his throat, with none passing through the man’s mouth or nose.
Head tilting from left to right, Mags watched as the panic increased, trying to parse an odd sensation he felt deep within this sheath’s chest. It was something he had felt before, recently at that, but not something he could really put words to.
The man in front of Mags regained enough wherewithal to try to run. A single step from Mags moved him directly in the man’s path. He tried to turn, but Mags was already there. He turned again and again until he tripped over his own two feet. With the man on his hands and knees, Mags moved forward, turned around, and sat directly on the man’s spine. His arms buckled, forcing him down into the mud, but Mags didn’t move from his newfound seat no matter how it struggled. He simply propped an elbow on his knee and rested his head on his hand.
None of this was turning out as he had hoped. Sure, he had taken some fun from the situation. Traipsing through an army of mortals was always a good time. The few spellcasters among them had fed him, but nowhere to the point of satiation. He wasn’t sure that he had ever been satiated, but there were times when he felt close. Yet the Prince denied him Arkk and his fortress. Now that other source of magic had eluded him. Partially his fault, true, he could have rushed it immediately.
But then he wouldn’t have been able to savor the situation. Mags was a refined demon and as a refined demon, he enjoyed an appetizer before his meals.
Mags leaned over, grasping the head of the man he was using as a stool. He wrenched the head back, exposing the gaping airway to fresh air. Mud and blood and muck stuck around the blowhole, most of which was expelled as the man heaved.
“Is this frustration?” Mags asked, staring into the fearful eyes of the man. “I think I’m genuinely frustrated. Upset. Me? Normally, setbacks are just a little teaser for the meal to come. Sometimes I even set myself up to fail just to further whet my appetite. But when that promised meal never gets plated…”
The man’s mouth moved. Mags couldn’t tell if he was trying to answer the rhetorical question or if he was just screaming or babbling incoherently. Either way, with his esophagus hanging out, none of his words made it to his mouth.
“Useless,” Mags said, forcing the man’s face back down into the mud of the battlefield.
Head back on his fist, propped on his elbow, Mags stared out at that tower. Despite employing some guile and trickery, he had been unsuccessful in turning its inhabitants against the Prince. Normally, all it took was telling people that he was a demon summoned by Cedric. Most mortals didn’t take kindly to that kind of thing and instantly reframed their thoughts to view the summoner as hostile, especially if Mags was hostile to them in the first place.
A plot thwarted by the Prince himself, meddling where he wasn’t wanted.
He had tried turning the soldiers against the tower, forcing the issue.
Again, thwarted by that damned Prince.
He had tried convincing Arkk that Cedric was about to be his enemy because of a few missing nobodies.
That one hadn’t been thwarted, exactly. Instead, it resulted in the current situation. Not altogether a bad thing, but not exactly what Mags intended. Admittedly, that one would have been a bit of a long shot.
“Sir Mags?”
Mags first glanced down to the body—for that was what it was now, it must have drowned in the mud—before looking up to find one of the Prince’s soldiers standing at a distance that implied a healthy level of fear. Not enough distance if Mags attacked, but he wasn’t allowed to attack the Prince’s men under any circumstances, so the point was moot.
No one in the Prince’s army was aware of his true nature. Glancing around, he spotted two dozen bodies of enemy soldiers, all felled by his hand. And that was just in this little corner of the battlefield. They must have had some suspicions, though demon was probably last among them.
“You need something?” Mags asked, still glum.
“Evestani is surrendering. A few still fight, but it won’t be long. What are your orders for the prisoners?”
Mags just shrugged. He had already eaten the spellcasters. Under other circumstances, he might have killed the remainder personally, but he just couldn’t bring himself to be in the mood.
The soldier, some squad commander or other, shifted in obvious discomfort as he stared at Mags. When it became apparent that he wasn’t going to get a proper response, he continued speaking. “I have men taking record of our current status. A lot are dead, but most survive. I do not believe Prince Cedric will be disappointed with our performance today.”
“That’s great,” Mags said, hoping his utter apathy came through in his tone.
A dazzling array of light covered one side of the distant tower. White, bright light with an almost rainbow-like pattern barely visible within the glow. It lanced out from the tower in narrow beams, instantly crossing the distance between the tower and the airships hovering a distance away.
Mags licked his lips, idly wondering if he could get whoever was casting that to aim at him instead. Attacks on his person didn’t count as attacks against Cedric, so he wouldn’t have been able to retaliate. It wouldn’t have been satisfying, but it would at least have been some magic to lap up… like he was some mutt out slurping at a puddle after a rainfall. The thought only made Mags scowl more.
“We… maintain a fighting force,” said the increasingly exasperated commander. Even still, he maintained a note of respect in his voice. Which was a first. Mags was well aware that most in the army viewed him as a pudgy fool of a commander who only got the position out of nepotism. At least, they viewed him as that before his showing today. “Are we to assist our allies against the Eternal Empire? What are your orders?”
Mags followed the beams of light, staring up at the airships as they struggled to come up with a countermeasure against the attacks. He slowly stood from his body-seat, making the commander take a fearful step backward. “Commander…”
“Giles, Sir.”
“Commander Giles,” Mags said as bits of his clothes and skin and muscle sloughed off his back. The commander stumbled backward, tripping over a corpse. Even after hitting the mud, he still tried to scramble backward. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
Large, leathery wings sprouted from the meaty, exposed flesh. They unfurled wide, flapping once in the air as Mags tested them out.
“Do whatever you want. You’re in charge,” he said before beating his wings in one powerful stroke, taking to the skies.
Those airships were full of magic. He could almost taste them even from this distance. And somewhere on one of those airships, there was another presence. A mass of magic equivalent to the one he had been hunting.
Mags would be damned if he was denied his meal again.