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Chapter 41 Rising arc
🕑 Added 2025-08-19 06:42:35 +0000 UTCPdf and epub versions below. Marcus watched Vess shift on her seat, glancing at Elly, and realized that those two actually liked each other.
Pdf and epub versions below.
Marcus watched Vess shift on her seat, glancing at Elly, and realized that those two actually liked each other. Not overly, but neither did they hate one another nearly as much as they pretended. Not an issue he was going to involve himself in, certainly.
“This is the great plan?” Elly asked, eyebrow raised. “Murder and assassinations? I’m no stranger to sabotage, but killing a dozen officers will hardly cripple five legions.”
Vess shrugged. “Five wounded legions, but I take your point. They lost two thousand in the first battle, then another three during their ambush. They’re actually in a worse position than us, not that it feels like it. But one point of order; If you choose to approve of this plan, it won’t be a dozen officers. My brothers and sisters and I have found and can target sixty four men and women, not to mention use the chaos to access their supply train. It would very much cripple them.”
“And burn all our assets we have in their camp,” Elly pointed out. She sighed. “I’m not against it, I’m really not, but I’m also not familiar with magic. Traitors and defectors and ambushes I understand, but this? Shapeshifters, incubi, how to protect against them, it’s all new to me. If you think this is the best we can get with it…?”
The last part was directed to him, and Marcus grunted. “The very best? No, probably not. But I doubt we can get them into much higher positions of power without getting discovered, at which point our advantage disappears entirely. You said that our biggest problem is positioning, right? We don’t have supplies, good fighting grounds or time to catch our breath. Doing this will, at the least, stall them while they tear their camp apart for more infiltrators."
“That’s optimistic,” Elly replied. “But it could work. It depends on how actively the Archmage wants us dead, which we’re getting conflicting reports about. Hells, if I didn’t know better I’d think what he wants most of all is-”
“Pressure.”
Elly looked at him, Marcus shrugging. “The same thing went through my mind. One of the few things that makes sense. He’s testing us, looking for weaknesses, strengths, how resilient we are. In the grand scheme of things, what’s five legions against an area that could produce twenty over decades? Hundreds over centuries?”
“If that’s what they wanted, why wait so long?” Vess asked. She shook her head before anyone could answer. “We’re going in circles. Either we find out eventually or we don’t, and practically speaking their reasoning doesn’t matter. Not for now. They’re here, they have better supplies, positioning and intelligence.”
Marcus glanced at Elly, tone firming. “Do it. Maximum chaos. Burn their grain, strangle their officers, poison their water. If they want my lands they can very well bleed for every inch of it.”
Both Vess and Elly gave him approving looks, which probably wasn’t good. It felt good, though. Impressing those one liked usually did. In this case it just came at the cost of a great many lives and possibly a rapid escalation of the war.
Fuck them. The Empire invaded, they could go home whenever they wanted. That would be nice, actually. Seal up what few paths remained in the mountains, fortify the only flat stretch of land still connecting them to the rest of the continent, maybe organize a mass ritual to raise a hundred foot high, ten feet thick wall. Station an army there, expand the hunt of sea monstrosities, create enough magical artifacts to offset their numerical disadvantage.
Five, maybe eight years. He and Elly together could turn Mirrania into a fortress, organize the druids, expand the farms, build his Academy, become properly independent.
Marcus snorted. Who knew he’d turn out to be an Isolationist after all? Vess was already striding out of the tent, looking perfectly ordinary, but to Marcus she looked eager. Happy to do something that, as she would say, was interesting.
Elly sighed. “We need to start securing supplies. Assuming for a moment this plan works as intended, we still need food. More weapons, too, for the levies Hargraf brought. The army has recovered, and while a week would be better, three days will have to do. I’ve already organized a few companies to escort your spatially enlarged wagons, as well as made a list of towns big enough to be worth visiting.”
“I know. The envoys?”
“They have been getting mixed reactions. We’re close enough to the war most people realize the need, but that’s a double edged sword. They know we need supplies to fight the Empire, but they’re also hesitant to give up that which they very well might need. Some of those will cave once a fully armed company or two show up, others won’t.”
Marcus straightened. “I want it passed down that there shall be no violence. If our companies are attacked they are to leave, and the traitors will be dealt with accordingly, but we are not in the business of executing fearful peasants. If any of my soldiers cross the line, there will be consequences.”
“I understand where you’re coming from, I do,” she replied, the ‘but’ hanging in the air. “However, war is ugly. It is hard, and bloody, and mercy is a luxury for the victor. Losing against the Empire because our soldiers are starving isn’t an option.”
“Kleph might find a solution yet. He’s able to grow a stalk of wheat in minutes, and if he can pass that skill along, there will be no need for this at all.”
Elly rolled her eyes. “Kleph is an exception, you know that. You admitted that. If it was so easy to mass-produce food the Empire would have done so centuries ago. Your druid is impressive, he is skilled, and he is rare.”
“I know, alright?” Marcus snapped, taking a moment to breathe. “I know.”
“What’s going on? This is unpleasant, but you’ve done unpleasant things before. It feels more personal than that.”
Marcus grunted, exhaling heavily. “Its about the principle. The King demanding food from the peasantry to wage war. Do you have any idea how much easier my life would be if I just stopped caring about things like that? Even had you not been here, I would still be a five-tier mage. Someone capable of, theoretically, wiping entire castles from the map. Hargraf, gone. Soema pressed into line, the Loyalists alongside her. If anyone disagrees, burn them. Summon and bind a few dozen assassins—shapeshifters and the like—and there would be no more opposition.
Hells, I could actually do something properly. Everyone working together, building a better future. Druid-run farms, because who really cares about their love for nature and freedom? An army summoned from the depths of some Hell, utterly loyal and uncaring for morals. Recruit mages who are curious and apathetic, enslave the rest—easy enough to do with runes—then crush any opposition with personal might.
And why stop there? Slaughter those annoying peasants with their unreasonable demands for food and clothing, raise them as undead, produce food that way. Not like we need nearly as much of it with ninety percent of the population gone, anyway. Create and utterly control various guilds, masonry and smiths and the like, properly integrate magic, build a proper tower. One with layered, structured defenses. Soaked in blood, which isn’t a better medium than anything else but we’re going for a theme here, then bind enough elementals and mortal soldiers to it so that I’m unassailable. Reign as Sorcerer-King for the rest of my life, doing whatever the Hells I want. And all that because it would be easier to just take instead of talk. How does it go, again? And all for the want of a horseshoe nail?”
“Are you done?”
Marcus threw himself into a chair, tone never having raised. He wasn’t a shouter, really. His voice just went cold. “Yeah, I’m done.”
“Good.” Elly walked over, close but not touching. “If that’s what you want, then let’s do it. Well, not the undead part, trauma and all, but I’m sure we’ll find an alternative.”
What?
Her tone was serious, even her face was serious, and while he wasn’t a quarter the cold-reader Vess was, he knew Elly pretty well. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “What?”
“I escaped the death of my entire continent, Marcus. Those are just words, I know, but I did. Everyone I knew, everyone my people talked to, traded with, held grudges against and formed alliances with. All gone. Velmaria and their petty Queen, Ostervik with their dual princes, Drevanya and their failed assembly, even Ainsbruck, which hired out their armies like mercenaries. All gone. The Holy Sect of Asham, too, with their staunch faith, and I could keep going. Dozens of kingdoms, centuries of history. Wiped clean because one madman decided to unleash a plague.”
“I don’t see how that would make you willing to help raise another one.”
“Becuase I learned that it is the strong that rule. The strong that survive. Morality flees when your stomach has been empty for days, lofty ideals vanish when cold grips your bones and one swing of your axe could see you take the cloak from another soul. So if you think that’s how we survive, convince me. Strength above all, Marcus. Above anything and everything.”
Marcus kept silent, letting the quiet stretch. That… That was unexpected. He wasn’t sure when he’d built up Elly as a noble paragon, but looking back there was very little evidence of it. She was nice, at least to him, but she was literally raised as a warrior. Forged herself as a soldier, then survived as an exiled Queen.
None of that raised lofty morals or bred bleeding hearts.
He sighed, emotions draining away after his outburst. “Thank you. I mean, I don’t think it would even work, the Empire would have stepped in if only to avoid a war on two fronts, but then maybe they wouldn't have cared. Let us seal ourselves inside. Either way, I’m not a tyrant. Not cold enough for it. It requires an appetite for cruelty, constant, pressing cruelty, and I’m apathetic at my worst.”
“I know. I’ll approve the order to begin collecting supplies,” she replied, straightening. “And I’ll make sure they know the rules. Maybe have some summons keep an eye on them, just in case. Being a tyrant is one route to power, being loved is another. I can honestly say I don’t care which way we go, as long as we have power. As long as we can tell anyone, everything, to go fuck themselves if they make demands we dislike.”
“The power of fuck you,” he hummed, a small grin spreading on his face. “I think I like that. Go, I’ll deal with the last of the enemy summons. Gretched promised a solution, and I’m eager to find out if she managed one.”
She left after a moment of comfortable silence, Marcus himself taking another few minutes to properly calm down. Hadn’t been fair to let loose on Elly like that, he knew, but she didn’t seem to take it personally. Probably used to the stress of war, and knowing what it could do to others.
Marcus stood after a particularly loud scream made him roll his eyes, pushing the tent-flap aside to reveal a… scene. Definitely one of the scenes of all time.
Xathar was screaming at another warhorse, seemingly uncaring that it could neither understand nor respond, and the demon stopped the moment Marcus stepped outside. Trotted over, pretending it hadn’t just been acting insane, and demanded scratches.
A new development, that, but Marcus didn’t mind. Around the tent nearly four dozen of his guards assembled to attention, far enough away to give him privacy but close enough to assist. Mages and Royal Guards and even someone Marcus recognized as the adopted daughter of Hargraf, though the latter was standing somewhat apart.
Not an official guard, her, but lurking close by. It was a whole can of worms he wasn’t eager to open, so he patted Xathar after his scratches and heaved himself into the saddle. Royal Guards moved to their own mounts, freshly vetted by Vess one and all, and mages started summoning more airborne minions to guard the skies.
It was getting a little ridiculous, honestly. Not that he minded. His own defenses were fully activated the moment he stepped outside, four matrices thrumming quietly with power in the back of his mind, and the last was ready for emergencies.
Getting to Gretched wasn’t hard, nor time consuming, though it felt more tense than a simple ride should have. Twice now he’d been attacked in his own camp, the word pressure kept coming to mind, and he wasn’t the only one who seemed to find that disconcerting.
The Royal Guards were more tense than usual, their skills not well suited to sudden and overwhelming force, and his mages bore the brunt because of it. Mages who, despite most who served in his guard having years of combat experience, weren’t used to fighting like this.
If the war dragged on much longer stress was going to become a real problem, both for him and everyone else.
The old witch, at least, seemed to be having fun. She had a swarm of assistants around her, nearly two dozen of the non-combat mages carving runes and summoning rock, and Marcus looked them over.
Not learning how to fight clearly broadened their skillset. Most warmages focused on one area, sharpening that skill over and over until it was reflex. Battle demanded nothing else, though it meant most of them only possessed a few good moves. An elemental summon, a cutting gale of wind, a strong shield.
These mages, though, displayed half a dozen skills. Earth shaping, basic runic competence, healing, he even saw someone lay a basic, short-lived enchantment over a flat stone.
Gretched hobbled over as Xathar came to a full standstill, Royal Guards parting to let her pass. Only after one of the mages tested her for shapeshifting or demonic influence, which she endured with a huff, but still. She got close.
Then Xathar exhaled a great plume of air, and Gretched stopped some distance away. A good ten feet, at least, watching the demon warily. “Demonic steeds are dangerous.”
“Good,” Marcus replied, not getting down. Mobility was key, even if it made him seem arrogant. “We’re at war. How goes the ritual, Gretched?”
The witch hacked out a laugh. “Good. Very good. These mages aren’t worth shit, but at least I have a lot of them. Are you sure you can’t spare some of my apprentices? The work would go quicker.”
“The entire army has need of skilled mages. You said you’ve made alterations since we approved the plan yesterday? Walk me through them.”
Gretched huffed, turning towards the pile of stones. Big and small, each one inscribed with basic runes and piled high. One big chunk stood at its center, higher even than a mounted Marcus, and it was filled with significantly more complex runes.
A ritual. Old magic, largely abandoned in favor of more flexible and widespread disciplines. But never gone, never quite forgotten, and witches liked their old magics. Liked how personal it was, how easy to guard.
“Dismissal spell,” Gretched said, eyes roving over the structure. “It's a predecessor to the disruption matrix, targeting the link summons need to sustain themselves on our plane of reality. It's not used much anymore, but my great great grandmother wrote down a way to amplify it. To increase its radius rather massively. Needs time to charge and one use only, but every creature the Empire summoned will be gone.”
Marcus hummed, looking it over. “Unless their bond is tightly crafted. It ignores the individual strength of the summon by targeting the link, which is clever, but now it will depend on the skill of the mage itself.”
“Quite right,” Gretched replied, nodding appreciatively. “Not a problem in this case. They won’t use skilled mages for weak summons, and strong summons can be found once the bulk of them are gone. It should give us a few days to build up on our number of creatures, at which point any repeat attempt on their part will result in the same ritual being performed. Even these idiot farmhands are starting to get the hang of things, so the next should only take a few hours to set up.”
“Very good. How long until we can fire it?”
“Fire it?” She spat on the floor, which he was pretty sure was just an old person thing and not an insult thing. “We activate the ritual. You’ve been spending too much time around soldiers.”
Marcus hummed, nodded, and spun up a simple spatial matrix. One he’d thrown together in his spare time, shrinking the distance between them until Xathar’s face was inches from her own. “Manners, Gretched. You do good work, but we are at war. I quite literally cannot be seen allowing someone to insult me to my face, no matter how excellent their skills.”
Silence, the witch looked at intelligent and gleefully violent demonic eyes, before she averted her gaze.
“Apologies, your Grace,” she said, tone hiding a shadow of fear. “It was not meant as such, nor will it happen again.”
He let the matrix drop, nodding. “Thank you. Now when will the ritual be ready to be activated?”
“An hour,” she replied, turning back towards the group. Some had looked their way, though none had been close enough to actually hear anything. “Commander Zotor is standing by with several captains and mages to hunt down any remaining stalkers.”
“An hour it is. Any way I can assist?”
She glanced back, eyes slightly narrowed, before pointing at the main stone. “Double check my runes. You’re probably one of four people in the Kingdom who can, and the other three aren’t here. Cowardly is what they are, hiding behind walls and the nobility that employs them.”
He hummed, not answering further, and Xathar walked closer. The mages supposedly working on the supporting runes got back to work with a hurry, and Marcus took it all in. Breathed in the magic, the feel of the area, and spent a moment mentally filtering out all the different signatures.
Fine detail was pointless, too many mages with too many styles, but the overall shape was easy enough to discern. A central spell carved with runes, many smaller reservoirs of magic providing power for a massive increased range. Miles, at least. Another reason a purely summon-based army wouldn't work.
It was faintly unoptimized, he found, in the sense that the channels feeding the main spell were too wide, but as he looked again he found it actually made sense. The bleed would be worse, losing power for no clear reason, until he looked at the smaller runic stones.
The mages did their best, but some had only a few months of training. And Gretched’s long dead ancestors, for ritual purposes, couldn't exactly summon a few dozen skilled apprentices from the nearest magical academy.
They had to make do with their own apprentices, talented beginners and maybe a few proper other witches. So the spell accounted for it, lowering the threshold of skill required in exchange for a slight lowering in power.
Clever-clever. Gretched joined him as he looked over her work, still keeping her distance from Xathar, and Marcus felt himself fall into an easy routine as he suggested alterations.
Some she agreed with, others he was persuaded were stupid, and Marcus slowly felt the stress slowly drain from his body.
It was good to do something purely magical again.
Comments
LordVis
I'm glad you liked it! What exactly the Empire thinks it's doing will become clear pretty soon, though they're sure acting suspicious for people just wanting to conquer the place.
Gopard
Thanks for the chapter! Just joined and binged the patreon chappys after following on discord so long... And honestly I absolutely loved this the way you portrayed the war... Honestly my guess is the Empire is trying to pressure Marcus until he becomes another Archmage thats my guess. Likely had some Centuries or something ago some diviner Archmage say "The area will when X and Y and Z come together birth a new power and archmage" or something? And thats the reason they let it be independent for so long and are striking now.
