CHAPTER 287: OF FEATHERS AND WHEELS

Of Feathers and Wheels

Lansius

The wind rushed past as Audrey urged the destrier across the open field. The black warhorse galloped in grand strides beneath the warming sun, its mane streaming and hooves pounding the earth with a rhythm that seemed to echo across the land. Even with two riders upon her back, the beast left the four guards trailing in her wake. Free of barding, the jet-black warhorse ran unburdened, her speed astounding. Yet her stamina was not without limit. As a true mark of training and instinct, after a long stretch she moderated her pace, settling into a powerful, steady run that lost some speed but gained endurance.

“Good girl,” Audrey commended softly, moving with the rocking rhythm of the saddle. She kept only the lightest hold on the reins, using them merely to correct the destrier’s course as needed.

She trusted the horse, and the horse respected her.

Behind her, Lansius held her close, his left arm wrapped around her waist, steadying himself as much as holding her. He caught the faint fragrance of her hair and allowed himself to enjoy the ride.

Soon, more horsemen joined in, riding hard from the opposite direction.

“Riders,” Audrey observed.

“Good reaction,” Lansius noted with approval. His men had chosen to send an escort without waiting for a command. It was a sign of a working system built on disciplined observation, rapid response, and officers on duty who could act on intuition and take the initiative when needed. In his House, he wanted men who possessed such initiative, not ones who passively waited for orders that might come too late.

It was even more impressive, since the men on the wall should have had their attention diverted by the myriad of troop activities under Sir Omin, who was leading reinforcements to the Monastery Hill.

With six more riders now around them, they headed east toward the duck breeder near one of the manors he privately owned. That estate had once served as a school for staff and officers, but ever since Reginald took office there, it had grown into a center of learning and thought. Though regarded as a fallen lord, Reginald’s standing as a top scholar still carried weight. More and more intellectuals from different backgrounds came forward to present their ideas or offer their services, and Lansius was only too glad to accommodate them.

Through additional funding, he ensured the manor could sustain the flow of guests who often lingered for a week or two, drawn to gather and debate philosophy, natural science, theology, astronomy, and the study of law. It was not cheap, but only by accommodating these intellectuals fairly and compensating them for their efforts could he encourage them to teach and exchange ideas. That, in turn, would secure his realm’s future with new ideas that, even if his House did not adopt, the guilds, nobles, or merchants might well pursue.

In just a month, many new ideas and proposals had already emerged, and Lansius could not help but see promise in them.

The most interesting of these, which he personally supported, were:

- A scholar whose family had a tavern claimed to know a method for crafting stronger wooden barrels.

- A local herbalist who believed he could create ale that would last longer.

- A master mason with a design for a less smoky indoor hearth.

- And lastly, a wealthy coachman who had devised an improved horse collar.

Naturally, a stronger barrel would mean fewer leaks and would allow them to be stacked higher without the risk of breaking. This alone would improve storage and transport, making it safer to move goods across long distances by cart or by ship. Meanwhile, the herbalist believed she had discovered a way to make ale last longer, perhaps through herbs akin to hops, a plant known to lend bitterness to ale but, in return, preserve it for months instead of mere days, provided it was stored well.

As for the mason, his design appeared to be an early form of stove. Less smoke and soot indoors would certainly improve health and living conditions, especially for children and the elderly. It would also make heating vastly more efficient and cut the demand for firewood. In the villages, families still gathered and cut their own wood, but in cities like Canardia, firewood was purchased, and in the winter months, it became one of the most costly commodities in the markets.

All these would be great inventions if realized, and Lansius was sure to invest in them, but to him, the most important was the horse collar.

“Lans, heads up, it’s the troops,” Audrey called, pulling him from his thoughts amid the rushing wind.

Lansius leaned slightly and saw the eastbound road alive with colorful banners of blue and bronze that rippled against the wind, accompanied by the personal heraldry of the knights and armigers who took part in the march. Men-at-arms in mail and surcoats moved steadily with pikes, spears, or poleaxes in hand. Each carried a leather pack strapped to his back, with his shield slung across it and his helmet dangling from the straps.

Between the ranks, horse-drawn carts rolled by, heavy with supplies, while mules plodded along under bulging saddlebags. Behind them followed camp folk with baskets and bundles, many of them peddlers who offered services or wares, hoping to profit from the long column on the road.

“Should we ride closer?” Audrey asked, giving the reins a gentle check so the destrier slowed its stride.

“Of course," Lansius responded before muttering, “But would they recognize us without a banner?”

Audrey laughed. “The Black Lord does not need a banner.”

“Oi, you talk as if I’m some demon lord or something,” he protested in jest.

As Audrey had said, once the men noticed a group of horsemen behind them, even without a banner, the powerful black destrier alone stirred commotion. At first, there were murmurs, then a wave of cheers rolled through the column. Word spread quickly that the Lord and Lady themselves were riding with them, and men broke stride just to catch a glimpse, raising their voices as if to carry the news down the line. ṘãŊȎᛒƐŞ

“My Lord!” many shouted at the top of their lungs as he passed.

In a spur of the moment, Lansius drew the horse blade at his side and lifted it high. A roar answered him, loud and fierce, rolling down the road like thunder. It had been some time since they last laid eyes on him, for rumor held that their Lord was buried under endless work to keep the domain in order. Now, to behold him in full vigor, seated behind the Lady upon his destrier, even hardened veterans broke into unguarded grins.

“Victory!” one man cried, and the shout spread, swelling like fire through dry grass.

“Victory!”

“Victory!”

The column thundered with the chant until it sounded as though they had already won the war. Even Audrey and the guards could not help but smile at the outpouring. Lansius was no longer a distant figure to be feared or respected alone, but one who had won the hearts of his troops.

“Carriage, with Ocelot in front,” Audrey said to him.

Lansius understood her intention and kept his gaze fixed ahead. Soon, he spotted the defected Saint Candidate, Clementine, and nearly missed Valerie, who wore a brunette wig. Both women’s eyes widened at the sight of him and Audrey. Their startled reaction amused the pair, and they shared a chuckle.

Lastly came Sir Omin, flanked by a few knights and riders from White Lake, along with the bannerman. They had no doubt heard the commotion behind and now stood tall, striking their chests with clenched fists in salute. “My Lord, My Lady.”

“Carry on,” Lansius instructed.

“Good hunting!” Audrey shouted as well when they passed.

Their guards joined in, raising their voices. “Give the Saint a piece of our mind!”

“Hear, brothers!” the knights and riders roared back eagerly.

Lansius, Audrey, and their escort rode out from the line of marching men onto a branching road that led into the countryside. The commotion had carried ahead of them, and those laboring in the fields lifted their heads from their work. Some shaded their eyes against the sun, watching with surprise as the Lord and Lady passed by with only a handful of riders. A few paused mid-swing of their sickles, while others straightened from their work to cheer or wave.

All around stretched the toil of harvest day, the fields alive with golden stalks of grain. It was a promising sign that the tumultuous year would end with a bountiful harvest.

...

Surrounded by fields of golden stalks, many of them already half-cut, stood the manor and the neighboring duck range. Lansius, Audrey, and the guards did not ride to the main house but pressed deeper into the wooded stretch toward the recently built duck pens. At their approach, the posted guards at the enclosure reacted at once, hefting crossbows and bringing spears to the ready. Their tense reaction eased only when they recognized who was coming.

"At ease,” called the riders who had overtaken Lansius and Audrey.

Then the guards caught sight of the Lord and Lady and hastened to greet them. “My Lady, My Lord.”

Audrey returned their salute with a curt nod, while Lansius raised a thumb in silent approval. The men’s faces shifted at once, breaking into pleased grins and easy smiles. He recalled what Francisca had told him: wherever the Lord went, the men assumed there must be an inspection. A subtle remark, or even a small gesture of approval, could ease that tension and reassure them without needing a speech.

They slowed down at last, seeing the road ahead packed with carts and men ready to depart.

“We're lucky. They have not yet set out,” Audrey observed as she reined in. A crowd had already gathered, and now they turned their attention to them.

“My Lord, My Lady,” they said, bowing their heads as the two and their riders dismounted.

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Hearing the commotion, the duck meister came forward from the rear and bowed. “My Lord, My Lady, we are most pleased by your visit.”

“I trust you are not late to the march?” Audrey asked. Her presence held many eyes, for few had ever seen her so close.

“No, My Lady. Sir Omin instructed us to follow behind, since we are mounted. There is some concern that the ducks might become restless if kept waiting on the slower infantry.”

His words made Audrey and Lansius exchange a glance, but the old meister quickly added in a confident voice, “I doubt there will be any danger, but everyone agrees it is prudent to avoid unnecessary risk.”

“I applaud yours and Sir Omin’s approach on this,” Lansius praised. “As with warhorses, so too must we apply the strictest measures in dealing with race ducks. Their breed is powerful and might cause trouble if we do not respect their strength and intellect.”

The crowd nodded and murmured in agreement, some pleased by the recognition.

“Then let us take a look,” Audrey suggested, “so we do not trouble everyone in their work and preparations for the march.”

The crowd parted, the guards formed a cordon, and Lansius and Audrey walked with the duck meister, speaking at length about the great fowl.

Lansius had ordered a check on the race duck carcass killed in the arena, as they found parts like the head had not been eaten. What he had instructed the bailiff’s men and the accompanying physician to do was basically an autopsy. They took cranial measurements and reported to him that the race duck did indeed have a larger brain compared to the common giant duck. While a larger brain did not necessarily mean intelligence, it did support the growing reports of them showing a toddler’s level of intellect. These traits had never been observed in the common giant duck breeds.

Now, the duck breeder confirmed that race ducks grew slower than common giant ducks, yet matured into larger creatures. While the common breed was rounder in shape, the race duck was narrower, taller, and possessed a heavier frame. They were ill-suited for domestication and mostly violent. No one wanted to breed them, save for a few reckless individuals.

It only made Lansius respect the breed all the more. He had always thought that many animals in this world were cleverer than those of his own, and here was more proof. Perhaps even Horsie, Audrey’s old missing mount who seemed to understand human speech, had not been so special.

Perhaps the way Audrey and Anci spoke to their animals was not entirely nonsense.

Beyond the sturdy, tall fences, Lansius watched as the race ducks were prepared for the journey to the monastery. At the far end, riders called their ducks one by one, fitting them with saddles and loading the corresponding bags. Despite the enclosure’s size, the ground showed heavy marks, and the timbers bore deep scuffs, with supporting columns braced against the walls in several sections. It was plain enough that fencing suited for common giant ducks was not enough to contain the race breed.

“Why the sad state of the fences?” Audrey asked.

“Well…” the meister searched for words, “the ducks often played pranks on us, yes.”

“Pranks?” she repeated, eyes alight with delight.

“Yes. They would lean their great bodies into the fence and watch the stable boys scatter in panic. They never escaped, only laughed,” the old man explained, nervousness flickering across his face.

Instead of concern, Audrey’s eyes sparkled. She loved her animals. The more dangerous they were, the better.

“They even have favorite boys they like to bully,” the meister added ruefully.

“Captain,” Lansius called to his guards.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“When we return, submit a report to the Office of Works. We need stronger fencing. I will not have innocents turned into playthings for these beasts.”

“Understood, My Lord,” the captain replied firmly.

By now, the race ducks had spotted them, and the largest moved forward at a slow, deliberate pace. The tall creature regarded them with a curious gaze, its eyes shifting between Audrey, Lansius, and the meister.

As they came to a halt, the meister explained, “We haven’t fitted their bardings yet, since it might irritate them. We have yet to find a proper design.”

“Progress takes time,” Lansius remarked, watching the creature that had become so well known. Some had sought to buy them, thinking to turn them into a circus, but everyone refused, warning that it would only get people killed.

“Are they comfortable here?” Audrey asked, charmed by the duck who now fixed her with undivided attention.

“Yes, the wooded area is quite vast, and it includes a swamp. As ordered, we keep fencing more and more land so they have room to wander.”

Of course, not all reports were good. Lansius had heard from his Orange Skalds that during the first week after the rebellion, the work here had been brutal. Almost daily, stablemen found the remains of human skulls, shattered ribcages, other bones, or even undigested limbs. These were proof that the largest of the flock, some six creatures, were indeed capable of eating humans, especially the young or those of small body.

Fortunately, there had been no fatal accidents among the workers, so he allowed the operation to continue without interruption.

Unlike Audrey, Lansius had visited the ducks a few times, and each time he came away impressed by their intellect. It seemed to surpass that of a crow. They recognized faces and appeared to read intention. As the stablemen often explained, if a race duck saw a handler linger at a certain spot and later found food there, it did not think the food had sprung from nowhere. It made the connection to the person and showed gratitude.

Like crows, they sometimes brought gifts to riders or handlers they liked. Most were things gathered from the woods and the water’s edge, such as odd-looking branches, a dead lizard, a tangle of pond flowers, or a twig heavy with wild berries.

While Audrey continued to converse with the duck meister, with the great fowl watching her curiously, Lansius found himself more impressed by the riders. Brave individuals who actually volunteered to mount them. They were as mad as the generations of breeders who had raised these ducks to be bigger, stronger, and more aggressive.

He spotted the new lieutenant, a tall, broad-shouldered man, once a hired sword and former brigand who had joined on Sir Omin’s suggestion. Lansius had rewarded him with a bag of silver in addition to a purse of gold, and the fellow seemed content to continue his service. He had been offered a place among the bailiff’s men as an enforcer, but had chosen instead to be a duck rider.

“What do they eat?” Audrey asked.

The meister answered readily, “Mostly greens and grain. Chopped hay mixed with pondweed, or duckweed from the marsh. Oats and barley in measure when needed, as is traditional, and cracked corn and beans when we have them. They enjoy nuts when they can be had, acorns and chestnuts most of all. We give roots as well, chopped turnips and carrots. They will also take small things on their own, frogs and snails, insects, even catfish from the swamp.”

“A voracious eater,” she remarked. “But you do not seem to give them the leavings from the butcher?”

“We do not feed them meat, lest it make them too bold.”

A commotion suddenly rose from a cluster of ducks, loud and raucous enough to draw every eye. Even the largest duck in front of them turned its head at the noise.

“Is there a fight?” Lansius asked.

“No, My Lord. Just that… you see, that is how they play,” the meister explained, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Play?” Audrey blurted in surprise.

“Yes, My Lady. If you watch closely,” the meister said as he edged toward the fence, pointing at a particular race duck.

They saw one duck that tilted its bill upward, shuffled about in an awkward dance, then made a comical gulping sound.

Suddenly, the rest burst into their strange laughter. “Ho-honk, honk, honk.”

The great fowl before them gave a slight shiver, as though amused, before returning its gaze to Audrey.

“They jest often. Likely about the last war,” the meister added.

“Telling jokes? They are so clever,” Audrey said, utterly captivated. She turned to Lansius. “Can I pet them?”

“I would rather not, at least not this one,” Lansius replied, his eyes fixed on the duck whose curiosity now shifted to him.

Audrey giggled but did not press. They both knew she was likely capable of riding the beast, yet the idea was far too reckless for now.

Meanwhile, the crowd of ducks truly seemed to enjoy themselves, like drinking companions trading jests in a tavern. The joker duck spun about, and the pack erupted again in their strange laughter. Somehow, they had found a way to make their own entertainment.

Lansius turned to the old man. "Meister, even along the march, see that they have time for such things. I do not wish to find them in a foul mood."

“I will ensure no accident occurs,” the meister replied, already sensing Lansius’ concern. “It would be ruinous for the heavy cavalry idea if they injured one of our men. The crew, the riders, and I shall not allow it.”

Lansius nodded and drew a slow breath. Were it not for the race ducks’ tremendous service on two occasions during the rebellion, he would never have entertained the notion of using them. The risk might well outweigh the gain. What if they mistook warhorses and knights for foes, or worse, if some enemy learned their weakness and drove them back into friendly lines, like the war elephants?

Yet he could not ignore the praise they had earned, nor the requests for their service. The fact that they had saved his riders, Sterling, Karl, and Daniella among them, bound Lansius to the cause. He could not turn his back on such potential.

In peace, these ducks will live their best lives, so in war, they could be an extension of his wrath.

From the pen came the creak of timber and chain as the crew opened a door leading to another area, where ducks already fitted with saddles waited. At the sound, even the great fowl before them turned and strode off toward the noise.

“Oh, more food,” the meister said.

“More food?” Audrey asked, amused.

“Yes. They favor bucketfuls of insects, crickets, cicadas, or worms. Today we are giving them frogs as well, to keep them happy for the march.”

The ducks answered with low, eager calls and a drumming of webbed feet.

Lansius, feeling they had lingered long enough, said, “Right, then we shall not trouble you further. Carry on. We will rely on your expertise.”

“Certainly, My Lord, My Lady. My crew and I shall live up to your expectations.”

“Our regards to the riders, and to the new lieutenant,” Audrey added. The riders had glanced over, and as her gaze met theirs, there came hurried bows and a few quick grins. Were it not for the ducks and the fence, they might have rushed forward, eager for a word or a blessing.

***

Canardia

Meanwhile, inside the city by the stream, a large crowd had gathered around the newly restored waterwheel. The wheel turned vigorously, its newly designed paddles biting into the current, driving no fewer than ten hollowed barrels set in line. Beside it stood an open-sided building with several brick hearths and chimneys, each feeding heat into ten large iron cauldrons.

Inside the waterwheel house, the men responsible for the work waited beside their masterpiece, a design more efficient than any before. The axle was forged of iron and turned within smooth cylindrical bearings of seasoned hardwood, their grain soaked with oil and tallow for lubrication. So well fitted were they that there was not even the squeak or shudder that usually accompanied such a structure. To the guild, it was their crowning achievement, made possible by the Lord’s patronage.

Yet not all things were running smoothly.

“What time is it? Has the Lord forgotten?” the guildsman overseeing the project muttered in concern.

“The Lord is always busy,” replied an old clerk from the Office of Works, unconcerned.

“I heard the troops have marched east,” a senior guild member remarked.

“East? Then more men for the monastery,” another answered, which stirred uneasy murmurs among the gathering.

The leading guildsman let out a long sigh but held his tongue.

“If he does not come, what are we to do with the crowd?” the senior guild member pressed, casting a wary eye over the townsfolk.

“There is always another day,” the Office of Works man shrugged, speaking lightly.

Unlike the guildsmen, he was a man of duty. To him, grand demonstrations and shows of craft carried little importance. Yet even he could not deny the curiosity that hung over this project, which had swallowed no small share of the House’s coffers. The Lord claimed it would solve a myriad of problems, touching even on matters of education, health, and trade.

If that were true, then these brick hearths, cauldrons, watertight barrels wrought by the best copper in Midlandia, and the newly designed waterwheel would indeed be worth the cost. But the Midlandian clerk, barely a few months old in the service of a ruling House, harbored doubts.

To his eye, none of it seemed of real use.

Like the crowd, he was highly puzzled by what could be gained from cauldrons and spinning barrels. While many intellectuals like him were warming up to the new Lord of Midlandia, they still harbored deep doubts. While the victories on the field were real enough, the rest of the tales felt exaggerated or too fanciful to be true.

Even with the introduction of new foods such as pasta or the recently cultivated yams, the clerk could not see the Lord as anything more than a common-born warlord. His speech, his accent, and his plain mannerisms did not exude the air of nobility. It seemed only fitting that, aside from new foods, which he must have acquired from conquered lands, the other things he introduced were trivial luxuries like costly beds, ornate chairs, or hair cleaners.

More time slipped by, and the guild leader found himself pacing in circles without realizing it, trying to calm his nerves. Some of his men watched him uneasily, while the rest leaned at doors and windows, their eyes fixed on the curious but restless crowd outside.

Then the mood shifted. Murmurs rose, spreading through the crowd and cheers broke out. Banners were seen approaching. The blue and bronze gleamed in the light, but these were marked by three white balls of wool yarn stitched along the side. A carriage rolled into view, with a half-breed walking beside it, its fur not as white and not as towering. The people knew it was not the Lord’s banner, and the half-breed was not Francisca. Their curiosity climbed even higher.

***

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