Aleks Kotov
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Vol 8, Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2025-09-17 21:10:45 +0000 UTC"Have they noticed us?"
"Only a blind man wouldn't notice a giant ballsack hanging above the ground!" Dolan swore like a cobbler, not at all restrained by the presence of ladies.
"Abyss... Artillery! To your positions!"
There was no point in hiding anymore. How had they managed to get here so quickly? That would've required marching day and night, without a single hour of rest!
Well, at least we managed to take up positions.
The stiff, rubberized fabric creaked from the sudden temperature drop. I leapt into the basket, barely squeezing in between the musket and the spotter. One meter, two, ten...
Below, confusion seized the camp. Mages were running about, trying to bring the outlines of a circle into at least some acceptable state; servants readied horses and even a few chimeras. A courier dashed after the calmly marching columns heading toward the treeline for another firewood run. One of the Duke's knights blocked his path and forcibly dragged him onto a horse: four legs would be faster.
The cannons were being hauled much more slowly. The slope may have been gentle, but the sun had warmed it enough for the frozen morning ground to turn into a layer of slick mud.
Still, they had time left... Or did they?
Jostling elbows with the sniper on the tiny platform dangling fifty meters above the ground, I struggled to pull out my spyglass.
My eye instantly caught the golden altar, glittering so brightly in the sunlight it hurt to look at. Squinting, I made out the black casket crowning it, and the small, gray, merged mass of countless people. The image wavered, slipping out of focus again and again, making it impossible to count their numbers. I lowered the spyglass and peered again at the gleaming speck on the horizon.
It seemed they were still moving. Had they really not noticed?
Five minutes... Ten minutes...
They kept advancing. Very quickly too, closing the distance by nearly a kilometer in just ten minutes.
"Almost two," Dolan clarified. "They're jogging. When I first saw them, they were just walking. They've noticed us, no doubt, yet they keep going."
"The altar is heavy; makes sense they'd prefer the road," I replied, though my eyes weren't as sharp as his. Even now the people still blurred into a gray mush.
I gave up trying to make anything out with the spyglass on a wind-tossed balloon.
The chaos in camp settled into order. No panic, only relatively calm, if hurried, preparations. Rows of men, sweating from the sudden sprint, took up arms and formed ranks along the slope, shielding the artillery. Gunners hauled up ammunition crates, unsealed shells. They would have to fire quickly.
The "anti-tank" crews were doing the same, pulling rockets from their crates and positioning themselves between the lines. Unfortunately, with rocket weapons, close formation was impossible: the exhaust would cripple anyone unlucky enough to be behind.
Only the mages remained in true uproar, scurrying about with papers and reagents like lazy students cramming on the last night before an exam, struggling to stabilize the circle's framework.
Even the Duke was among them, personally laying golden veins.
To be honest, I began to wonder if I should go down myself and convince him to abandon this plan. A circle of this level accumulated far too much energy; any imbalance could lead to very bad consequences.
Best case, the magic would simply go awry, wrong place, wrong effect.
Worst case, it would all just explode, ripping the unlucky sorcerers and everything nearby to shreds.
For ten minutes I watched them, slowly calming down. The Ashiran Archmage leading the circle seemed to reach the same conclusion and ordered some of the reagents removed. Crystals were packed into insulating caskets, claws and bones returned to rune-covered pouches.
The less borrowed power, the easier to control the spell; but also, the weaker it became...
"They've stopped," Dolan interrupted. "Twelve-ten. Five... six hundred... seven hundred."
"Have them take aim, but don't fire yet."
The spotter grabbed the signal flags and began waving. Five swings with one, seven with the other: clock-face signaling. Crude, but hopefully enough.
They probably didn't expect there to be anything that could reach them from over five kilometers away. Normally, at such distance, you wouldn't even see the enemy: they'd blend into the horizon.
Magic capable of striking that far had become the stuff of legends, from the times when battle circles were led by Magisters. Even then, they preferred to get closer, so as not to waste power. Too much of the strike's force bled away with every kilometer.
Fortunately for us.
"They're trying to leave the road," Dolan reported.
"Fire!"
The signalman snapped the flags downward.
Volley! Sound waves shook the basket, shells whistled past beneath us, followed by a wave of warm air.
A second dragged on. Two. Three. Five.
Below, the gunners were already readying the next shot. Eight. Nine.
On the horizon, bursts bloomed, clouds of smoke and dust blanketing everything.
"Overshoot," Dolan noted calmly. "Five hundred."
The crews made adjustments. At the same time, the sounds of distant explosions rolled over to us, immediately drowned out by a new volley.
More detonations.
That was the entire battle. Even from the hill the soldiers saw only flashes of explosions far off at the horizon. I supposed such a demonstration would be enough to convince the Duke it was better to keep to the terms of the treaty.
I sought him out with my eyes and realized he was still working on the circle with the red-haired Archmage, not distracted for a moment, fully absorbed in the task.
"Tsk." I clicked my tongue, mimicking my grandfather. "Commendable composure."
The Duchess, though, was watching. Too closely, in my opinion.
She watched, and stroked the hilt of her greatsword.
The booming thunder of the second volley reached us. Softer than the last.
"Almost half the shells failed to explode," Dolan observed.
"Faulty fuses?"
"No, I've seen something like this once before… May I borrow your spyglass?"
"Of course."
Twisting around, I handed it to him, holding onto Dolan's musket in return. There was so little space that if he simply let it go, it would probably fall overboard.
Third volley!
And again, the long ten seconds.
Explosions!
"The shells are disappearing. Just vanishing!" he exclaimed. "Hm, and we have company. Seven guests."
"Only seven?" I raised a brow.
"If they are who I think—an entire seven," he corrected. "Shall we redirect the artillery?"
So that was it. I scanned the battlefield and easily spotted the armored figures racing toward us with the speed of cheetahs and the grace of ballerinas. Far too fast.
"No. Better that the Pontiff continues protecting the altar from explosions. I don't want to test what happens if his hands are freed. Continue the barrage, and I'll prepare to greet our guests."
My hand found the rope tethering the balloon. I'd have to…
"And the spyglass?" Dolan distracted me, holding it out, musket in the other hand.
"It'll serve you better."
"But how will you—"
"Give it!"
With a single motion I fused the spyglass to the musket, a little off to the side of the sights so it wouldn't interfere with firing.
"Hm!" he grunted thoughtfully, but I was already climbing over the basket's edge.
The coarse rope scraped my palms raw. Shots thundered, orders rang out.
"Abyss, Abyss," I muttered, sliding down fast. My hands burned… feet hit ground. Solid ground!
Thick powder smoke drifted over the earth, but there was no time to savor it—we had to change formation fast. At that speed the enemy could flank us with ease.
"First, third, fifth, seventh, load canister and reposition. Number One here! Number Three—"
The gunners strained to push the scorching-hot cannons. Rapid fire was exhausting enough—each shell weighed half a centner, the gun itself a ton.
The lines thinned, stretching to cover the rear as well. It might have looked ridiculous, hundreds of men preparing against just seven… but one glance at the swiftly approaching foes erased any thought of mockery. I had been told the armor of High Inquisitors was thicker than that of many barons, and for them to sprint at that speed while carrying at least a couple of centners—no small feat. How did they not sink into the soil?
Before I could finish, the first musket shots cracked, followed by the thunder of a cannon. So quickly… Shoving past men, I rushed to the point of contact.
Three attacked head-on.
One tumbled, as if kicked by a giant, while the other two trudged forward, their earlier speed gone. Their feet sank ankle-deep into the ground. Their armor bore scratches and bullet scars.
The line dropped to one knee. Volley!
Bullets sparked off, ricocheting with screeches, but the figure kept advancing, only shuddering when another shot struck his helm. His comrade to the left was a bit smarter—he raised his massive hammer to eye level, shielding both his head and, most importantly, the narrow eye slits.
That wit was his doom. A sharp-nosed rocket hissed furiously into his chestplate.
Flash!
A jet of sparks, gas, and molten steel blasted from his back.
He staggered a few steps, then collapsed into the mud.
One down.
Two more rockets hissed toward the second.
He shifted his grip on the hammer. Time froze.
A gray blur cut the air, barely recognizable as the hammer swinging with immense speed.
Crack!
The rocket's casing crumpled under the engraved head. The charge detonated, shattering the rockets into shards.
He dodged the second rocket entirely. And kept marching straight at the line.
And I had said—only seven? Ha. An entire seven…
Once again the cannon thundered, hurling a shell at the third Inquisitor as he rose. The blast sent his arm flying, torn from the body. Shards from the shell, detonating too close, whistled dangerously near, ricocheting off cuirasses and taking a bloody toll. A dozen men fell out of the line, ranks breaking apart.
Revolving rifles of the survivors spat bullet after bullet. From the rear, new rocketeers rushed up while those who had already fired struggled to reload their tubes.
Drawing my revolver, I joined them. Useless. He advanced sideways, using a massive pauldron to shield his head. Even if flanked, his heavy steel gorget protected his neck. Not even the legs had the usual weak points of knights' armor. The plate had almost no weaknesses, and the few that existed the Inquisitor covered skillfully. Bullets simply ricocheted off the rest of the armor. Damn, how thick was this plate?
Even at point-blank range, heavy-caliber rifles were helpless.
Another rocket volley... same result. At the sight of them, he seemed to shed his weight, moving impossibly fast.
One rocket he smashed aside with a fist, dodging two more. But a bullet struck his pauldron at the same time, throwing off his stance...
I narrowed my gaze, focusing on the enemy only five meters away. I discarded the empty revolver and drew my sword.
Weight. When he dodged, the ground barely bent beneath him. He was somehow manipulating his own weight.
Bullets couldn't hurt him, unless they pierced the eye-slit of his helmet. That meant I had to strike there... Ha, strike with a sword at one who swatted rockets from the air? No... My task was to delay him, bind him in combat long enough for someone to hit him with a rocket.
For a fleeting second doubt gnawed at me. I was never much in close combat, and this foe was clearly of a far higher caliber, but...
If I retreated, he'd butcher our ranks. Trying to stop this living tank with bayonets would be suicide.
I stepped forward, leveled my blade and...
Clang! A spray of sparks burst from behind his neck, along with bone fragments but not a drop of blood. The Inquisitor staggered and collapsed at my feet, slamming down so hard the ground trembled. Between the gorget and helmet was a bullet hole. From above, it had severed his spine.
I looked up and saw Dolan waving. Smoke curled from his musket. I grinned broadly and waved back.
Saved!
Whew. This was why I was developing firearms: to make swordplay obsolete even against men who had trained for decades with hammers.
I searched for the last, third Inquisitor, but saw only a blazing bonfire and, beside it, a pair consisting of a flamethrower trooper in a gas mask and a satisfied Asha. Looked like that one wouldn't be rising either.
Those who tried to reach the guns... we dealt with them. Where were the other four?
Two were mired in the knights' ranks.
One fenced without much success against the Duchess, but the other was cutting down knights with grim efficiency. A dozen mangled corpses marked his path.
Two more had nearly broken through to the rear, their course unmistakable... the most skilled mage-killers in the world were heading straight for their target: the circle full of sorcerers, now gathering energy.
Beside me a flash of red hair... Asha, dashing toward them without a second thought. Completely mad!
"Stop, we need to regroup the troops... Damn it!"
She sprinted to the circle, ignoring me. Cursing, I snatched a bazooka from a grenadier's hands, along with a rocket. I had no intention of facing a hammer with a sword again.
Running, I tried to load it, only to realize the tube was already armed.
Two shots then. Perfect. One for each.
The circle was too slow. As soon as the Inquisitor stepped over the golden vein, its glow vanished, devoured by the servant of the Void. A fireball hurled at the living tank vanished the instant it touched his armor. His hammer's answering swing split an unarmored Ashiran mage in half.
Blood drenched the runes. A scream. Asha cast up a wall of fire to stall him, but the Inquisitor strode through and tore another mage's arm away with a hammer swing. A torrent of steel shrapnel from the Duke ricocheted harmlessly from the plate.
The second Inquisitor, lagging slightly, was already close. He was too fast for me to intercept. And if I didn't make it... Abyss.
I skidded to a halt, nearly tumbling over. Stance. Knee instantly soaked by damp earth. Safety off. Tube braced on my shoulder.
He was fast, but not faster than a rocket.
Shot!
The powder charge spat fire, propelling the feathered warhead straight into the Inquisitor's back.
Clang!
The Inquisitor, who a moment ago had been charging forward, now stood still, clutching the rocket like a chicken by the neck.
"Got eyes in the back of your head, do you?" I shouted at him.
…
He took a step toward me, acknowledging me as a worthy opponent.
I tossed aside the smoking tube, gripping the rocket in my hands. There was no time to reload anyway. At least I had achieved my goal—he was focused on me now.
"Astarot, as a demon, you don't like the servants of the Church, do you?"
"Sic utique." He laughed.
My body shifted, covered in black scales, growing larger. The Inquisitor shortened his stride, raising his hammer. Red eyes blazed in the narrow visor of his helm.
We closed in. I could feel his hunger. He tried to drain my strength, but… our natures were too alike. We were both devourers. The only difference was which domain we served: the Abyss or the Void.
Wait—why the hell was I thinking of myself as Astarot?
Shaking my horned head, I nearly missed the first strike.
The enemy wasted no hesitation. His solid-metal hammer flew up like a feather and came crashing down with the force of a mountain!
The ground trembled, nearly knocking me off my feet. I steadied myself with my tail and counterattacked while he was open. Claws that had sliced easily through the hides of giant beasts carved centimeter-deep furrows in his armor... but nowhere near breaking through.
The hammer rose again. Another blow. And another. He struck in a furious series, controlling the inertia of a two-handed hammer in impossible ways. A swing! The hammer halted mid-strike, reversing direction abruptly, as if it had no inertia at all, as if it were made of damn foam! Except… the impact drove home that it was anything but foam…
The steel head slammed into my arm, knocking the rocket from my grip. Bone cracked. A nasty injury—healing would take time.
To turn the tide, I lashed with my spiked tail like a whip, aiming for the visor slits. He released one hand from his weapon. His fist whistled through the air, trying to catch my tail, but struck my palm instead.
I clenched, refusing to let go. My tail coiled around the hammer's haft, straining to wrench it free.
A clinch—a good idea when you had one more "arm" than your opponent.
He tried to swing, but the massive fifty-kilo hammer suddenly weighed nothing, feather-light... But now I held it too.
He jerked, but couldn't swing it. Couldn't free himself from my grip.
"You're not that strong after all," I realized with surprise.
He was simply making the hammer light, then heavy again, ignoring the laws of physics! Bastard. I wanted that trick too!
After a few futile jerks, the Inquisitor abruptly released the weapon and threw his arms around me.
"Fall into nothingness with me, spawn of demons!" he roared, launching into a litany.
"Kill him, quickly!" Astarot answered with a roar of his own.
Now it was my turn to struggle. I felt my scales peeling away, evaporating into literal nothingness. The hunger of the one peering through his servant's eyes hypnotized me. I couldn't move my arms.
"You forgot the tail," I growled, seizing the rocket by its fin and driving it into his pauldron. Clang! The casing crumpled.
Detonation! My tail was torn apart, but the shaped jet punched clean through both armor and what lay beneath.
The spell broke. I staggered back. Black blood seeped from the half-flayed demonic body. The Inquisitor's armor fell apart, and within there was nothing but void.
I had no time to study the fallen foe. Disrespectfully brushing his remains aside, I sprinted for the circle.
Blood. Body parts. Slaughter.
A massive Inquisitor loomed over Asha, hammer raised, and I knew I wouldn't make it in time. Nothing was within reach to throw. She didn't try to dodge. Instead, she hurled herself straight at his chest. In her hands—two copper plates.
Flash. Boom.
They were hurled apart. The Inquisitor lay on his back, a fist-sized hole gaping in his armor.
The slight girl had been hurled much farther. I stepped indifferently over still-living mages, noting only in passing the Duke, helping an Ashiri with a broken nose. They didn't matter. I found the girl, flung several meters beyond the circle.
Her crimson robe was soaked in blood. Where her hands had been was now a bloody rose of bone, a single finger left. The inevitable result of a shaped charge exploding in her hands. A sly voice whispered in my mind, urging me to devour such a delicious mage, but the rising fury silenced it.
"I'm… fine… fine…" she whispered weakly, blood trailing from the corner of her lips down her neck.
"Shh… quiet, don't say anything. We need to bandage you or you'll bleed out."
I tore a strip from her robe (my own clothing was too far gone) and bound both stumps tightly. She needed a healer. Surely her organs were damaged as well.
Just as I prepared to rise, I sensed someone behind me.
"What do you want?" I snarled, spinning around.
The Duchess stood before me. Her sword, raised high, was jagged with notches—yet not a drop of blood stained it. Our eyes met.
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Johan Timmers
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