CHAPTER 278: SEALED STONES

Sealed Stones

Mountain Region, West of Three Hills

Slowly, the season turned to fall, and rainfall became a constant menace. A drizzle fell through the night, and by morning, a heavy fog smothered the plateau. In a jungle clearing, a small fortified camp stood beside a jagged outcrop of limestone. Despite its military purpose, the camp was mostly serene, almost idle save from the ring of hammers, with smoke drifting lazily from two crude stone chimneys the men had built. One for cooking in their wooden hall, the other for a forge to sharpen blunted steel chisels.

Many weeks earlier, after great effort, they had finally found the cave used by the Mountain People, but since then, there had been little progress.

From the outside, the cave looked no different from a bear’s den. Nothing was chiseled, no gates or carvings, only a smooth cavern floor that hinted at deliberate hands. Inside, at the end of the hollow, a massive slab of stone barred the way. According to the Nicopolans who had once passed through, the Mountain Clans had blocked the passage, denying entry to their vast underground network.

Unable to shift it, the Lowlanders had summoned a dozen stonemasons from the city to break through. But the slab was too solid, and each strike of hammer and chisel barely left a mark. Progress was bitterly slow.

The Nicopolans, once numbering in the thousands, had already withdrawn. They marched several days to the nearest settlement in the direction of Three Hills, where the Shogunate permitted them to camp after they swore oaths of allegiance to the Lord Shogun in exchange for supplies and labor in the surrounding lands.

In time, the few hundred original members of the campaign also withdrew. The burden of transporting vast stores of supplies into the jungle proved untenable, and jungle sickness could not be overcome. Sir Arius and his Crimson Knights led the column in retreat, many of them laid low by jungle fever and a host of other maladies. Their departure left behind only those who chose to remain.

Now, only around a hundred hardened men stayed in camp.

Still, from the beginning, there had never been a plan to give up. True to Lowlandian stubbornness, the men under Farkas labored to finish the surrounding palisades, a hall, and a dozen wooden cabins for sleeping quarters and storage. These were essential to keep the men dry and safe from snakes, vermin, and the fevers carried on the damp air.

As the weather turned worse and the drizzle seemed unending, activity slowed further. Yet fortune smiled, for they had befriended the locals, trading fruit for berries, warmth by the fire, and a dry place to sleep.

Ted, rougher in look now, had chosen to stay behind. Because of this, Farkas and the men no longer saw him as the pampered son of House Tedzeus chasing a quick rank. He sat quietly on a wooden porch, watching the drizzle. Beside him, a motherly orangutan perched close, parting his hair with nimble fingers and plucking the lice that plagued all who lingered too long in the wilderness.

Some of the orangutans had decided on their own to move into the camp, drawn by curiosity and the dry shelter from the rain.

The men, mostly bored, were glad for the company, even if it was not exactly human. They treated the orangutan tribes as allies and had even built a separate shelter for them. The creatures served as added eyes and ears against intruders, but more than that, they were a welcome distraction, offering odd services such as lice removal. In fair weather, they joined the foraging parties, and through careful observation, the men learned much: which herbs could help mend scars, which fruits and leaves were safe to eat, and which trees the quails favored for nesting, so their eggs could be gathered.

There were also more questionable sources of food, such as fat larvae, which some dared to try and found surprisingly rich in flavor, like butter. Thanks to their guidance, the men’s already strong outdoorsman skills had been greatly sharpened.

With deft precision, the orangutan combed through Ted’s hair and ate what she found, while her young played in the hall with members of the Black Bandits, who encouraged the mischief and joined in their monkeying about.

The men worked on rotation with scouts and hunters who pushed deeper into the wilds, each party venturing for as long as two weeks before returning.

Meanwhile, Farkas sat on the hard floor, compiling the maps his scouts had drawn. Even though this cave was sealed, he suspected there had to be another path. With the camp now finished, stocked with supplies, and their numbers reduced to something more manageable, he was determined to find another way in. He would not return empty-handed, knowing the Mountain Clans would surely hatch new plots against them.

Two of his aides studied the maps with him, one stroking his clean-shaven chin, the other whispering with the scout about the details of his last journey.

“If only Sir Morton were still with us,” Farkas muttered to himself, staring at the latest drawing, which ended against a sheer cliff where the mountains rose suddenly from the ground. With an airship, scouting such places would have been far easier.

The mountain region, however, was vast and unforgiving, with no fewer than five peaks rising over an area as large as half of Korelia’s barony, with its plains, woodlands, hills, villages, and even a city combined. Despite their growing experience and the use of dedicated climbing tools, some terrain could only be crossed by mountain goats. Sir Morton had once attempted night flights, hoping to glimpse hidden cities within the range, but even after many tries, he failed. The land was too immense, and the weather too hostile.

By comparison, the air passage from Umberland to Nicopola posed little challenge, with its clear visibility and easy landmarks to follow.

But now, Sir Morton and the airship had been dispatched to reinforce Lord Avery with a group of volunteers, which further slowed any chance of progress.

Outside, two men walked through the rain toward the hall. Reaching the porch, they removed their wicker hats covered in wide green banana leaves.

“Problems?” Ted asked without moving, knowing he had arrived earlier than scheduled. The orangutan perched beside him refused to let him rise.

“Somewhat,” one of the men, a messenger, replied casually. He set aside his soaked cloak before walking toward Farkas.

Farkas noticed them as the two approached. “More news from Canardia?”

“Not yet,” the messenger answered as he sat cross-legged on the unpolished wooden floor. Two weeks earlier, they had heard of the shocking rebellion and the Lord’s brilliant victory. It was still the only talk in camp, for no fresh news had reached them from the outside world. Many were eager to know more of the battles.

“Then why trek the jungle to reach us?” one of Farkas' aides asked.

“Sir Arius wanted you to know he is now officially in charge of Three Hills. Lord Jorge has returned to Korelia as part of the Shogunate’s agreement.”

“Ah, I see,” Farkas mumbled.

It also meant that not only the Black Knights, but now the Crimson Knights as well, were unavailable should they need assistance.

“Furthermore,” the messenger added, “the Nicopolans are growing restless, too anxious to return to their families before winter.”

“Everyone knows that,” Farkas replied. “But that cursed stone will not budge, even with the masons and all the volunteers chiseling day and night until their ears rang in their dreams.”

Carefully, the messenger asked, “When do you think it will be done?”

“If we keep the cave heated, they could work through the winter, and perhaps by spring,” Farkas ventured.

The messenger drew a long breath, while his escort looked downhearted. Everyone was weary of the stalemate.

Operation Iron Nails against the Mountain Clans, which the Lord had entrusted to them many months ago, had now reached stagnation.

***

Kapua City, Nicopola

With reddened eyes from sleepless nights that troubled him little, Lord Avery stood tall at the highest window of the castle’s tower, watching the battle on the city walls unfold in the morning drizzle. What he saw was disheartening. His defenders, valiant as they were, had grown weary after nearly a month of ceaseless fighting, losing foothold after foothold along the walls until reinforcements arrived from another quarter.

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It had not always been like this. The first ten days had been in their favor, as they launched a series of ambushes and night raids. Despite inflicting staggering casualties, the new King’s army stubbornly pressed on. In time, the men of Dawn were surrounded and finally forced to retreat to Kapua.

Here, they fought bitterly over every stretch of the wall. But against twenty thousand, if not for the fire tactics, they would never have held so long.

Now the rains had come, heralding the change of season, and all lay soaked beneath a constant veil of water. Even volatile oils failed in such conditions.

“It is as if the sky itself willed us to lose this city,” Avery lamented, watching as his defenders were once more driven from the battlements, forcing yet another intervention by his elite squad, already stretched thin and overburdened.

He glanced at his entourage. Men and youths alike bore the same signs of strain: reddened eyes, arms or legs bound with bandages, or other marks of battle. All from his House had taken their turn on the wall, serving as reinforcements by day or by night.

He did not question their courage, discipline, or tenacity, but the enemy seemed to have no shortage of their own. The fighting had been brutal and bloody, with heavy losses on the attackers’ side, yet still they came, day after day, climbing their crude siege ladders only to be cut down or burned alive.

“To think this was also the work of the smugglers I once allowed to operate freely,” he muttered, letting his eyes drift again to the fighting on the wall.

The sky was gray and the clouds heavy. He solemnly hoped it might break into a thunderstorm. That would halt the siege and grant his men the rest they desperately needed.

But no storm came, and gradually, they were losing control of the wall.

Lord Avery drew a long breath, recalling the offer made by the new King of Nicopola through his royal envoy, who had proclaimed:

“In the name of King Nico, the First of His Name, His Majesty lays claim to all lands once known as Nicopola. Yield to His Majesty’s grace, and you, Lord Avery, shall be named Viscount, with dominion granted in the northern marches.”

He snorted, remembering his answer to the envoy. “The measure of a man is in his courage. So I ask for no grand land in the north, only enough to bury your King and his army, whose courage I find wanting.”

However, Lord Avery knew it wasn’t true. The moat outside had been choked with bodies since last week, and the stench was overwhelming, yet the King’s army pressed on like ants upon scraps of food. It was not a far-fetched comparison. His men had interrogated prisoners and learned the invaders were driven by sheer desperation. Out there in the north, no farms had survived the three-year turmoil, and with no crops, there was no food to be found.

For them, this fight was survival itself.

Win this and live through another year, or face the dreadful famine of winter. Many were survivors who had endured the conflict and three winters of hunger. They would rather die now than suffer another.

Against such men, even Lord Avery found it hard to break them. These were not foes who yielded easily. Terror and might alone would not rout them.

But there was always another way. The Lord of Dawn turned to his entourage and said, “Sound the signal to the Captain to abandon the wall. Let our men to retreat to the castle and begin the evacuation.”

“My Lord!” his most senior squire protested.

“Do as I say.” Avery’s smile was gentle, his tone measured. “Violence doesn’t always prevail. We must seek another path.”

“Another path, My Lord?” his senior guard ventured.

“Yes.”

“You mean diplomacy?” one of them blurted with a troubled face. The others looked just as uneasy. They all despised this self-proclaimed King.

“No, not diplomacy,” Avery replied, frowning as if the word itself offended him.

“Then...?” The squire was puzzled.

Lord Avery showed a grin, sharp and predatory. “If a measure of violence fails,” he began, “there is always a greater violence.”

In the first weeks of war, before the siege began, the Kapua populace had been evacuated. Now Lord Avery readied himself for a different kind of warfare.

Without realizing it, he touched his inner pocket, where a black earring lay inside a velvet pouch.

***

Lansius

Another morning dawned over Canardia, now the seat of power of a vast domain that stretched from South Midlandia to nearly all of Lowlandia. With the rebellion ended and the arrival of Lord Robert, a member of the Shogunate, several immediate changes took place. First, the morning court, attended by guests and petitioners seeking audience, was handled by Lord Robert as the Shogunate’s representative.

The Old Lion had once been an enemy of Midlandia, but he carried a rugged charm and the bearing of old nobility, and he proved a better fit for court than Lansius. Aided by the charismatic Sir Michael and Lady Astrid, who had only recently given birth, they presented a more traditional noble face for the ruling House.

More importantly, their presence freed Lansius to focus on strategy.

The first morning report he read in the council chamber confirmed that his army had patrolled the province in full. Every city, town, and community had shown its allegiance by opening their gates to his officers. Even the rich and powerful opened their manors without resistance.

Whether from fear of a purge or awe at his victory over the rebels, the result was clear: he no longer faced resistance from any faction. At present, there was full compliance from a populace of at least ten million souls, based on the last census.

No faction had risen to challenge him, and his grip over the province was solidified. This meant his future projects would likely be supported by all. He could hardly wait to unveil his plans to raise Midlandia to greater heights.

Moreover, the purge had allowed him to seize immense wealth and vast domains, which were still being tallied by his army of scribes and clerks working quickly under heavy guard. With forty-six condemned and their countless estates confiscated, there was a natural fear that the staggering wealth might be embezzled by caretakers, despite guards being posted at the afflicted manors.

Because of this, the Orange Skald and its attached skirmishers in guardsmen’s attire worked tirelessly. Even Francisca, the new spymaster, admitted they would probably need a long respite once this was over. Lansius certainly agreed. Everyone needed a break.

Regardless of the situation at the monastery, he intended for all to rest, especially with the harvest so near. He wanted the festivity to lift their spirits.

But until then, he needed their vigilance in securing the confiscated estates.

After all, the seizures had yielded several serious finds. The most astonishing was the discovery of two Gemstones of Might. Incredibly, their owner seemed unaware of them, for they had been kept in a depleted state. One of the two was of higher quality. Valerie, who had once made her living seeking such treasures in the faraway labyrinths of Progentia, claimed it could grant night vision along with healing and strength.

There were also smaller Gemstones of Light and a myriad of other objects that had yet to be inspected.

He would not hoard the items and estates. They were meant as rewards for his subjects, and above all, to better equip his elite SAR.

The discoveries, along with the current state of affairs, pleased Lansius. He tried to relax in his chair, only to find that this one lacked a reclining feature. A mistake he intended to rectify as soon as the Midlandia Office of Works produced the first improved batch. Not satisfied with his rather crude design, he had already sold the design and production rights to the guilds so they could develop their own versions. Competition, after all, would drive innovation.

Putting down the report on the table, Lansius turned to his staff. “What’s the situation on the monastery hill?”

“My Lord,” Sir Sterling replied. His new subdued red attire marked his promotion to knighthood, complete with a gold medal in the shape of an arena to commemorate his role in the One Night Rebellion. “Sir Harold is preparing for a lengthy siege. He has also commissioned siege engines and ladders to bring about a quicker solution.”

Lansius nodded in acknowledgment. The quicker solution he mentioned was to assault the monastery directly. Yet he was wary, knowing how cults grew stronger under occupation. "I know many of you support Sir Harold’s call to flatten the hill entirely, but I fear mass casualties of respected healers might provoke unrest across all of Midlandia."

“The report from my mission may change your mind,” Ingrid said, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Yes, Chamberlain, you have returned. Did you find the Great Gemstone?” Lansius asked with anticipation.

Sir Sterling sighed softly even before Ingrid replied. “We failed to find the Great Gemstone, and we also failed to track down Sir Hohendorf or the elusive Saint Candidate, Angela.”

Angela…?

He had never heard that name spoken in this world.

“They did uncover many hidden caches and other resources, My Lord,” said Sir Omin, dressed in a lavish green doublet and wearing a similar gold medal on his left breast. For speaking on her behalf, he earned a nod from Ingrid.

Lansius considered the situation. “So, they simply vanished without a trace?”

“Not so, My Lord,” Sir Omin replied. “From the captives, we learned that the two suspects were last seen fleeing east with a hundred men and the Great Gemstone, heading toward the monastery.”

Lansius stroked his chin before turning to Ingrid. “Just how dangerous is this Great Gemstone?”

“It is hard to say without my elders’ records in the guild archives,” she said, speaking of her guild, which was located farther west than even the Dawn barony, “but the librarians in the neighboring city found an ancient record mentioning its use to power calamities in the past era.”

“Calamities?” Lansius blurted. He had not expected to face disaster itself.

Ingrid exchanged glances with Sterling and Omin, both of whom nodded in encouragement. “I do not wish to be the voice of fear,” she began, “but even if it appears to be no more than a massive gemstone of light, in truth it is condensed power from the age of the Dwarves, or even older.”

The room grew tense as she continued. “As such, it may well hold enough magic to summon calamities.”

Lansius was stunned, his fist tightening without him realizing.

“My Lord should know that mages require sources to fuel their magic,” Ingrid went on. “The Great Gemstone is, in essence, an inexhaustible physical source. Within it lies the power equal to thousands of mages. Yet not all are able to unlock it, for it is a complex artifact forged by beings such as the Dwarves. Only the greatest of mages can channel even a fraction of it. But I fear that even a fraction is enough.”

“You spoke of calamities. Of what kind?” Lansius asked, fully alert.

“What I fear most is rain,” Ingrid answered, sweat forming on her brow despite the cool morning air in the chamber. “A long and steady rain.”

She needed say no more. Lansius struck the table with his palm, his face shifting between disbelief and anger. Without apology for his outburst, yet in a softer voice, he asked, “Do you think Saint Nay is capable of destroying the people’s harvest? No, wait. First of all, is she even that skilled a mage? I thought she was a healer.”

“My Lord is right to question it. With Sir Harold’s permission, Saint Candidate Clementine had accompanied me on this last mission. Ocelot the half-breed was with us as well.”

Lansius remembered granting her permission to use Francisca, or her kin, to ask Clementine about the Living Saint. “What information were you able to gather?”

“Based on her account, verified by Ocelot, in terms of magical knowledge, the Living Saint is a peerless genius, almost a monster…”

Lansius drew a sharp breath and turned his gaze to the window, where gray clouds gathered in the distance.

No peace for the victor.

***