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Chapter 43 Rising arc VI
🕑 Added 2025-08-22 06:43:31 +0000 UTCPdf and Epub versions below.
Vistus Decimus Olomnus, a name that had gotten him mocked in childhood and nearly revered since becoming Archmage, watched the growing number of sick and dying with a resigned air.
He had long, long ago gotten used to death, but unnecessary suffering had never quite sat right with him. And here, in these hundreds of medical tents, there was suffering. A great deal of it.
Poison and dysentery, near-fatal wounds and delirious minds. Nearly eighteen hundred had been afflicted, the vast majority of them sick but not mortally so.
It kept his mages busy, though, which ground the entire army to a halt. None were willing to be left behind in ‘barbarian lands’, especially not after the latest string of assassinations. And while he was an Archmage, he did not hold absolute power.
Just near absolute power. A small but important difference. He could, for example, dictate the objectives of the invasion, sue for peace or march them all back home. Strategy, resource allocation, all of it was within his power to command.
Yet the structure that gave him that power, setting aside his own personal might, also gave his mages a measure of it. Much less, but when all of them were united even his hands were tied.
These were not barbarian lands, Vistus knew that all too well, but there was some truth to their fear. Queen Elenoir ‘Elly’ Marsennius has been seen carving through war-mages like they were flailing children, slicing through highly expensive artifacts with brute strength. The King, Marcus Sepsimus Lannoy, wasn’t much better.
Few mages could employ spatial matrices with the skill the man had demonstrated, and fewer had a solid grasp of martial skills to go along with it. It was proving a strategy Vistus’ war-mages found hard to adapt to; being isolated, magical defenses stripped, their skulls caved in with a mace. Brutal, effective, and displaying skill the King should not have had time to train.
That, along with his own duel with the man, gave him hope for the plan. The assassination attempts were growing more expensive and less effective at the same time, a highly unfavorable combination, and the Mirranian army was growing. Within a fortnight another eighteen thousand Isolationist levies would arrive from the north, in two months their army would stand at fifty thousand.
Vistus could send for more legions, escalate the war until this entire Kingdom was war-torn and broken, but that wasn’t efficient. And if they needed one thing above all, it was efficiency.
The Dungeon had proven inexhaustible over the centuries, and nothing but the perfect use of humanity’s resources would see them continue to weather the storm. The endless, clawing storm.
“Poison and knives,” Brogus rumbled, sniffing disdainfully. Vistus looked at the hulking demon, tilting his head in silent question. Brogus shrugged. “Cowardly tactics. This reeks of succubi.”
Vistus was inclined to agree, though the investigation he’d ordered hadn’t borne much fruit. The saboteurs had vanished before the first casualties had been reported, though Vistus had no idea how they had managed to bypass infiltration screening.
If Vistus didn’t know better he’d think his adversary had a non-demonic, magically trained shapeshifter.
He didn’t even have one of those, and Vistus had been looking for a few decades. People tended to snap them up, unfortunately, due to the fact they were even better infiltrators than the much more common demonic shapeshifters.
All their skill without the distinct signature of demonic blood, and able to perform magic on top of it to ward against their inherent weakness to silver.
“Peace, Brogus,” Vistus replied, smiling at the disgusted snort. Hah, telling a Brute to be peaceful. He killed himself sometimes. “This is only a temporary setback.”
“Four foodstores poisoned, nearly a hundred officers slain, the mages in near revolt and the invasion delayed by at least a week. Cowardly executed, but a masterstroke.”
And that’s why he loved Brogus. All the toughness and fighting skill of a Brute alongside an actual brain. A vanishingly rare combination. “So it would seem.”
“Why are we not crushing them, Vistus? I have seen you slain a Horned Earth Serpent in single combat. Kill thousands of beasts in mere minutes. This play we are performing is beneath you.”
“You know why, Brogus.”
“The Scroll of W-”
Vistus clamped down on their connection, the Brute grunting in pain. Vistus’ tone was soft as he spoke. Soft and cold. “Do not speak of it, Brogus. Not a single word. You know the rules.”
Brogus bowed his head, face pulled into a grimace of pain. “Forgive me, Archmage.”
“We are close,” Vistus said, letting go of their connection. The Brute relaxed. “No mistakes. Not now. Go oversee Pina and her training.”
The Brute smiled, pain already forgotten. “I shall push her until she breaks.”
Vistus waved him off, knowing the demon would do no such thing. His newest, and currently sole, apprentice could take care of herself, though she remained mediocre with the sword. It was unfortunate, and meant she would endure a great amount of physical conditioning before she could enter the field.
The Empire might be happy to throw its mages at any problem that reared its head, but he preferred them to have a chance at survival.
He rolled his shoulder, weaving a simple matrix to aid his movements. Wind sprang forth like an eager hound, wrapping around his limbs as he started to walk. It was a relatively simple concept in practice, though it had taken a long while to get used to.
With every step he took the wind pushed him towards another, until he was all but sprinting while not feeling the strain of anything but a simple stroll. Years of practice made it look graceful, too, and he was a young man indeed when he still thought raw power was all that mattered.
His reputation was a shield that did not rely on magic, his ability to inspire awe a sword he did not need to wield. Only fools attempted to fight alone, and fools did not live long. Not even Archmages.
The Legions moved by quickly, thousands of men and women working diligently to secure their camp. Veteran officers pulled from his own Legions ensured order was kept, even with thousands sick, and the new generation was looking bright. Good souls with stern spines.
Old people sometimes detested the young for their waste of youth, but to Vistus every wasted moment was a victory. Physical proof that humanity was still alive. It was why he still fought, still braved the Dungeon and its endless horrors.
Quite literally endless, at that. The bottom had yet to be found, and the Empire had stopped wasting resources on that foolhardy quest centuries ago. Now only the occasional Archmage made the attempt, and few returned. None claimed success.
Vistus slowed once his own accommodation had been reached, stepping into his tent. Space twitched briefly, reminding him of the King he was now fighting, and the modest dwelling spread forth. And forth, and forth, until it was large enough to house an entire company of soldiers.
Wealth and luxury overflowing, which Vistus didn’t need but did generally appreciate, but less pleasant was the person waiting for him. Vizier Aisha.
“Archmage,” the man murmured, bowing deeply. Vistus grunted in response. “I bring news most dire.”
“I told you not to invite yourself inside, Aisha.”
“A thousand apologies, Archmage,” the Vizier pleaded, tone so artfully apologetic Vistus might have believed him. But he didn’t, and it wasn’t. “This cannot wait.”
Of course it couldn't. Vistus waved his hand towards the luxurious seats, linking together four simple telekinetic matrices to make himself a drink. Nothing complex, but so very useful.
The urge to strangle the man came and went, an old and worn one. But the Empress insisted, and if this one died she’d just send another. And another, and another, and all the while his privileges would restrict and vanish.
Unless he applied pressure during an actual Dungeon break, the Viziers would keep coming. The Empress needed him, yes, but unlike him she had an entire Empire behind her. That and being an Archmage herself. Some people were just born lucky.
Vistus sat, not bothering to offer his guest a drink. Manners mattered, but frankly he barely considers that creature a person these days. “What was so important you risked being turned into particularly foul smelling cheese, Aisha?”
“Your humor is as sharp as ever, Archmage,” the man simpered. Actually simpered. Vistus was already tired of this conversation. “It concerns your policy to not take resources from these lands. Foodstuffs, specifically.”
“If you managed to countermand that order I’m sending you back to the Empress in as many pieces as I can manage, privileges be damned.”
Aisha shook his head, his bald scalp all but gleaming. “I would not dare, Archmage. I am only concerned for our supplies now that so much has been lost. However, when assembling a list of potential settlements to raid, I have found an issue.”
“All the supplies are already gone.”
A flash of surprise went through Aisha's eyes, breaking the illusion of the fool. If the Vizier could just act as himself Vistus might have tolerated the man, competence was a highly valued skill and the Vizier was very sharp indeed, but no. There had to be an act, a play of false praise and hidden ridicule.
“Just so, Archmage,” Aisha replied, smiling proudly. Vistus had no idea pride could be so vile. “It seems our young enemy has more skill in battle than anticipated. A good sign, is it not?”
Please talk about the scroll. Please, just say its name. Give me the excuse.
But no, nothing more. Poking the line, endlessly prodding and teasing, but never crossing it. Vistus set down his drink, making sure not to express even an inch of his annoyance. “Get to the point, Aisha.”
“Of course, honored Archmage. Your strategy has proven effective, yet I cannot help but wonder how this battle might go without the Queen. Her continued presence is making the invasion expensive, and she is not tied deeply to the Mirranians. Her removal would even be beneficial to your goal.”
Except that the King has grown to like her, which you know, so this whole debate is pointless.
“Have you fought her, Aisha? I have. Her removal will not be easy, especially not now that two of your ploys have failed. We wrote off the Parna continent too easily. Their Life Enhancement is far more refined than our own, something which could have proven useful against the Dungeon.”
“The Empress decreed it so,” the Vizier answered, a hint of steel entering his tone for the first time. “Our strength lies in the arcane, and the undead horde would have rendered our conventional mages useless. That is before we consider the cost of actually getting the required number of soldiers across the ocean.”
“We could have sent Horzo, but I won’t rehash old arguments. The Queen cannot be killed in a reasonable manner, and so we come back to the only course worth taking. Continuing the plan.”
Aisha bowed his head, a hollow smile stretching over his lips. “Of course, Archmage. It is never my place to dictate, only to advise. I shall give you peace.”
Finally.
The Vizier left and Vistus ensured no trace of his presence had infected the tent, partly out of distaste and partly out of necessity. The Vizier was no mage, the Empress wasn’t stupid by half, but they had their own tricks.
Highly educated, liberally supplied and with basic—if not absolute—immunity for their actions. Some artfully made artifacts were not beyond their means to employ, and Aisha in particular liked living dangerously more so than most.
Vistus shook his head, clearing the table with an errant wave after confirming his tent was untampered with. Another flick of his wrist and a map levitated onto it, a few dozen figurines following after a moment. There, meeting prepared.
He rummaged through his desk until he found the potion he needed, holding up a hand when Clarissa entered, and drank it down as he put his ring on the table.
“Sorry, go ahead,” Vistus said, holding one hand over the ring. Power began to flow into it, straining even his carefully cultivated reserves, but he could not not maintain the Ring of Slow. Such a horrible name, but the man who’d made it for him had insisted. Such horrid humor his friend used to have. Vistus still missed the man. “Clarissa?”
Clarissa blinked with eyelids made of fire, tone as slow and ponderous as always. “Yes. I have done as you asked, Vistus.”
Vistus hummed, no continuation forthcoming, and withheld a sigh. Clarissa was great, and quite powerful, but at fourteen thousand years old her definition of ‘taking things slow’ was verging on the infuriating.
He had long since gotten used to it, but apparently others found it disconcerting. Well, that and her overall appearance. She’d chosen a female form and had spent years refining it, but it wasn’t like she had flesh. Most elementals took rough shape for a very good reason.
“Yes. I have spoken to old friends, back when we danced on the endless planes of fire without continuous thought, and they have spoken to their friends. The names of your foes’ outer-planar allies are thus; Xathar, Vess, Ƚuprȳy ḆiǨðræ. All appear content with their contract.”
“Only three?”
Clarissa shrugged languidly. “There are thousands. Kaelen, Sylthra, Vorren, Nyrix, Ashen, Thalen, Zareth, Orien, Maelis, Dra-”
“Thank you.” Vistus interrupted, holding up his one free hand. His friend blinked, settling down. “I am sure the Mirranian army employs thousands of summons. The continued failure to re-establish our intelligence dominance speaks to that well enough. What do you know about the three that matter?”
“The High Lord of Terranick was displeased at the abrupt return of his cousin," she said, making him blink. Terranick was a Kha-tor settlement, though he had no idea what the birds had to do with this. “Your foes possess knowledge of old magic.”
“Ah, the dismissal spell. He works alongside a witch who herself is the direct apprentice to a witch, and so on and so forth for at least a few hundred years. The spell is a powerful tool, though not one without its counters. How displeased is the High Lord?”
“Mildly annoyed.”
“Is he coming over here to vent his displeasure?”
“No.”
“Then please, speak to me of Xathar, Vess and Ƚuprȳy ḆiǨðræ.”
Clarissa turned and took a seat, as if just now remembering that’s what people did when speaking. She probably had. Fourteen thousand years of living, to humans, sounded impossible. Vistus knew Clarissa had only been at human levels of intelligence for perhaps a few thousand of those, and only taking an interest in human matters perhaps some three centuries past.
Three hundred years of trying to understand humans, thirteen thousand and seven hundred of being an elemental. He didn’t blame her for forgetting.
“Not much is known of Ƚuprȳy ḆiǨðræ,” Clarissa said, face slowly turning into a frown. “They are a relatively fresh Demon Knight, though like all of their ilk they build their skills over a million corpses. Xathar is an otherwise unremarkable Venim warhorse, though unusually well-connected. Vess I found nothing on. She is not engaged in any of the major schemes playing out in her territory, nor does she possess any skills considered outside the norm.”
Vistus grunted. “So the King is smart or lucky, and we have nothing much to go on either way.”
“So it would seem,” Clarissa confirmed, hesitating. Her hand rose slowly, roiling fire kept in its shape through raw manipulation of the element, and Vistus stilled as she patted him on the shoulder. “I am sorry.”
“Not your fault. The Hells alone are more vast than any of us could explore in a lifetime, and not many demons care about us few remaining humans. On a more pleasant note, you’re no longer burning people when you touch them. Congratulations.”
Clarissa beamed at him, her reply interrupted when the tent opened again. Only those few he called friends had the privilege of entering without announcing themselves, so Vistus wasn’t surprised to see Bilal stepping inside. Clarissa turned and smiled at the Felid.
“Bilal, greetings.”
“Meow.”
Vistus suppressed a cringe. “Please, you have to stop that. I’ve apologized a dozen times already.”
“Meow,” the demon replied, his deep voice only making the sound worse. The Felid folded his arms, nodding once. “Meow.”
Clarissa turned back to Vistus, tone confused. “What has happened?”
“I may have made fun of him,” Vistus answered reluctantly, glaring at the cat-man. “But it was one time! You have to let it go, Bilal.”
“Meow.”
“For fuck sake. I’m sorry for comparing you to a cat, I’ve said sorry thirteen times now, and can you just please stop saying that?”
Bilal paused, shrugged, and meowed again. Clarissa laughed uncertainly, Vistus groaned, and Bilal seemed pleased with himself. Vistus turned away, deciding avoidance was the best course of action.
If only the Felid wasn’t so good at what he did, or hadn’t saved his life half a dozen times over, but no. Bilal knew exactly how valuable his skills were, and thus the incessant mocking.
The arrival of his generals gave him the excuse to not talk to the man, and at least Bilal was professional enough not to meow in front of five of the highest ranked officers in the army. Rosamund was the first, as usual, and he was more and more certain he was giving her seniority after Adrian retired.
None had brought more than a single aide, either, which Vistus appreciated. The tent was big enough for it, but he preferred to keep these kinds of meetings small. Or as small as possible, anyway.
“Good morning, Archmage,” Adrian began, not even blinking at the fact Vistus was still charging his temporal ring. “I trust your morning has been more pleasant than ours?”
“Aisha snuck in here again, so not really. How are the soldiers, and how long until we can move out?”
Adrian sighed. “I see. I shall look into erasing whatever weakness the Vizier found this time. The men are, all things considered, well enough. Distrustful of the food they eat, but that will pass soon. In the meantime infractions handed out during guard duty have dropped to a record low, so at least something good came from this. Three days is the earliest we can begin marching.”
“Something indeed,” Vistus replied, nodding to the map. “Let’s take the time to ensure something like this can’t happen again, and to plan the next phase of the invasion. The Mirranians will most likely be eager to stall, which is a sound tactic considering they have reinforcements coming and we don’t. But their Queen has proven an experienced general, and they will expect us to force a pitched battle. I want plans and contingencies for both possibilities.”
General Rosamund started moving the figurines into place, Celeste gave a report about the exact number of deaths, and Vistus kept charging his ring as the meeting continued.
At least another few weeks until it’s full strength again. What I wouldn’t do to have someone like you on my side, Queen Elenoir Marsennius.
Comments
LordVis
Oof I'm late, but indeed it should be. Fixed, and thanks for pointing it out!
Tim Gonsalves
Loving the story. Paragraph 5, "Just near absolute power. A small but important difference. He could, for example, dictate the objectives of the invasion, sue for peace or march them all back home. Strategy, resource allegation, all of it was within his power to command." Final line should be "Strategy, resource allocation, all of it was within his power to command."
