Castle Kingside - Chapter 86

Populating the sparse woodlands north of Malten’s walls and a rushing river were scattered boulders, withering yellow shrubs, and darkened grass. All victims struggling to survive winter’s advance. Even the crowns of grand oaks fanned out, desperately clinging to the few browned leaves protruding from the ends of their scattered branches. Bleak midday light filtered through barren treetops, illuminating the roots beneath.

However, if one looked closely, they would discover more than exposed trunks. They would see the camouflaged silhouettes of motionless men. Backs pressed against bark, some wore light leather armor: others, black cloaks. Spies isolated an area several football fields wide to keep knowledge of two secret weapons from leaking to the masses.

The first was a glowing rifle that fired iron pellets with velocities exceeding the speed of sound.

The other lay disassembled in a crate by Dimitry’s feet.

Inside were several cast iron casings that arrived from Amphurt this morning. The blacksmith Elias upgraded them by giving each a snout, making them look like gray metal gourds. The explosive that would fill them rested in an adjacent compartment. Every granule harnessed the power of countless improvements—Clewin’s most destructive batch of black powder. Completing the trifecta was a bucket of adhesive, pink goop that Jesco made from ground and boiled bark skins.

All three components comprised this world’s first sticky bomb. An invention that revolutionized the common man’s defense against invading stone giants and, along with empowered voltech rifles, ensured this kingdom’s safety.

Or at least Dimitry hoped they would.

He would find out after today’s firing test.

An exhilarating prospect.

But experimentation wasn’t this outing’s sole purpose. There was another: impressing Lukas, Malten’s spymaster. He was one of the queen’s most trusted and longtime advisers. By convincing him of his weapons’ efficacy, Dimitry would convince the queen herself. She waited in the castle for a report on Lukas’s findings.

Although Dimitry preferred to demonstrate his inventions to Her Royal Majesty personally, having Lukas sing his praises in his stead would increase the desirability and value of his creations, making them indispensable bargaining chips. Bargaining chips Dimitry would use to enlist the queen’s help in a baffling premise.

He intended to solidify his holy status as Zera’s apostle at tomorrow’s summit.

A dangerous prospect.

Most attendants were nobles: fooling them would prove difficult. They owned armies, ran businesses, and managed vast stretches of land along with those who called it their home. Not only would they detect poorly conceived lies, but they also had the means to eliminate Dimitry if they thought him a fraud. A plausible outcome considering that some among them were already spreading distasteful rumors about the new surgeon in town.

To minimize his chances of failure, he needed the queen on his side. She was the perfect safety net. While her power wasn’t absolute, royalty was nothing to scoff at either. Her resources and connections allowed her to manipulate gossip and quell disputes. To warn Dimitry if someone targeted him. And her incentive to do so was access to pioneering weapons only he could produce.

That was why Dimitry waited with bated breath for Lukas to arrive.

Or he did.

His excitement and anxiety waned after waiting all morning for the spymaster’s arrival. Elbow pressed to his thigh, Dimitry’s head rested on an open palm. The overwhelming fatigue of consecutive sleepless nights coaxed a yawn from him. He would have dozed off long ago if it weren’t for the vivacious clamoring of a nineteen-year-old girl with waist-length hair.

Her red-brown curls swayed with every icy gale as she stared downward. Crouching, Angelika jabbed a stick into a patch of dirt between her boots and a pool of blue guts leaking from a nearby crawling devil. “Don’t go that way.”

Dimitry didn’t know who she spoke to. He had been avoiding the temptation to ask—doing so would end his only entertainment in an uneventful woodland.

Angelika pressed her sideways stick against the floor to form a blockade. “I said stop!”

Things were getting interesting.

“Where are you going? You’ll die, you idiot!”

It was like a soap opera.

She clicked her teeth. “Told you. Moron.”

Unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, Dimitry lifted his head. “Who are we holding a funeral for?”

“These idiots keep running into heathen’s blood. Why don’t they ever learn that they’ll just burn to death?”

“What idiots?”

“Conjuring ants.”

Were conjuring ants a species of insect unique to this world? And why was Angelika talking to them? Could they understand speech like faeries and aquatic demons? Judging by her unheeded warnings, probably not. “I’m sure they’ll be more careful if you yell loud enough.”

Angelika looked up. Rosy cheeks flanked her indignant frown. “Ha ha. Good one.” Her attention quickly returned to the stick, which she dragged across the dirt. “I just don’t want the little assholes to waste the vol they’re holding.”

Dimitry raised an eyebrow. “Why do ants have vol?”

“They make it.”

“How?”

She shrugged.

“Interesting.” Dimitry stepped off the boulder to join his guard.

Dark green specks between their mandibles, cockroach-sized ants raced around Angelika’s boots as they hauled magical cargo from one burrow to another. But not everyone made the journey. The occasional straggler wandered into heathen’s blood, their chitin and flesh melting on contact. Only molten specks remained.

“That’s brutal.”

“Told you they’re idiots.”

Watching the insects go about their business, Dimitry wondered if he could farm them. Probably not. Although the tiny fragments the ants held had the same metallic luster as vol, it would take hundreds to smelt a single pellet. Breeding the insect to produce larger chunks was an option, but there was no guarantee it would work. The time and labor was better spent improving mining methods with explosives.

A lengthy silence followed.

Like a compassionate celestial being, Angelika assembled a train of sticks barricading the blue pool of toxic fluids. She wore a rare, gentle smile. “There you go. Maybe you’ll stop burning to death now.”

The sight of a teenager engrossed in a simple task cajoled a laugh from Dimitry.

“What’s so funny?”

“The day is saved once more by Angelika—guardian of Malten and stalwart defender of ants.”

Her mouth opened as if to protest, but she looked away instead. “Leave me alone. I’m bored. Besides, there’s no point in letting them die.”

“Fair enou—”

The sound of boots stomping across wet grass approached from behind.

Dimitry’s head shot back.

“I apologize for the delay,” said a man. Although his voice was soft, it carried a subtle, threatening tone.

Angelika jumped to her feet. She hastily bowed. “Lord Lukas.”

The spymaster didn’t so much as nod in response to her greeting. His face remained emotionless, and his pinky-less hand pointed to a gold-glowing bag lying on a flat rock. “Dimitry. Is that the weapon you wanted to show Her Royal Majesty?”

He stood. “The voltech rifle’s part of it.”

“Voltech rifle?” Lukas’s finger ran across the modified core seal Emilia inscribed. “Why the bizarre appearance?”

“It’ll be easier to explain afterward. Can we begin?”

“Whenever you’re ready. I halted all nearby patrols: no one will see or hear what happens here.”

Dimitry’s gaze traveled from spy to spy, all on the lookout many meters in every direction. “How about them?”

“My men can keep a secret. They know what’ll happen if they don’t.”

The thuds of hard leather soles and the clacks of embroidered slippers’ silver heels echoed across a castle’s hallway. Granite and marble comprised the walls, and the floor radiated mellow, blue light onto a passing retinue: two yellow-robed sorceresses, an uncharacteristically pondering count, and a former duchess who undeservedly seized the title of ‘queen’.

Amelie never desired royalty. Never in the days her husband lived, and even less now. Every desperate law she passed, every overhanded tax she approved reminded her that the territory she and Ferdinand painstakingly erected from interspersed cottages would soon crumble. Problems worsened despite extreme measures.

Heathens, zealots, and famine.

Overcrowding, vol shortages, and overly ambitious vassals.

She had just left a meeting where she listened to the petitions and advice of nobles and foreign dignitaries. There was a time they strove to be helpful. Now, like emboldened vultures, they gutted the remnants of her kingdom, growing bolder as Amelie’s wealth and power declined. Ambassadors made unreasonable demands. Her own aristocracy sought to profit before fleeing to distant lands.

Remora piled all its weight onto Amelie’s shoulders. Would a court sorceress’s spells be enough to let her sleep tonight? Unlikely. Hoping the next meeting could relieve some of her burden, she glanced at the man walking beside her. “How was it?”

Lukas’s distant gaze refocused when he looked up from the floor. “I attended Dimitry’s ‘weapons test’ as you requested.”

“And?”

“His bombs were unlike anything I have anticipated.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Lukas displayed wonder with typically unemotive eyes. “It shames me to admit that his… creations function beyond my understanding. He claimed he would explain their workings in more detail only when you and I were present to maintain secrecy.”

Amelie frowned. What could have surprised a count who had once visited every palace in the world? “Will they be of use to us?”

“It is too early to say for sure, but it is my opinion that they hold potential in combating both human and heathen threats. I permitted him to smuggle samples into the castle for your personal inspection as per your request. Though I advise caution. Their vast power may hold danger.”

A weapon must have been grand to surprise and impress Lukas, but that didn’t explain why a mere surgeon could produce them. In secret. Within her own domain. Although Dimitry mentioned the ‘flintlock’ and ‘black powder’ before, he never spoke of ‘bombs’ or ‘enhanced voltech rifles’. Was that why spies reported him venturing past the city walls? Did he leave Malten to maintain secrecy? Perhaps a third party was helping him.

All that Amelie knew for certain was that she knew nothing about Dimitry.

Who was he, where did he come from, why did he offer his aid? There was not a person who acted from the kindness of their hearts. Everyone schemed. The surgeon was no different.

Regardless, Amelie needed all the assistance she could muster. If the apocalyptic demonic forces of the end times themselves offered their support, she wouldn’t hesitate to accept. Let worry of backlash come after her kingdom’s safety was guaranteed. But that didn’t mean she neglected vigilance. “Regardless of what comes from this meeting, have your men continue tracking Dimitry.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

When they arrived at a pair of marble doors, her retainers stood at either side. Abundant blue light painted their yellow robes green.

Dimitry waited in the parlor beyond. Whatever he had to say was doubtless a sensitive matter.

Arms folded behind her back, Amelie stood tall. “Leandra. Anelace. No one is allowed near.”

Both court sorceresses briefly knelt. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The massive doors creaked open, revealing an old chandelier—a gift to Amelie’s mother from Coldust’s former sultan. It hung over an oak table crafted by a master carpenter who had long fled Malten. On the surface rested an obscure iron ball resembling a curvaceous pot, and a muzzle peering out of a long, gold-glowing bag. Were those the weapons Lukas held in such high esteem?

Their creator sat patiently on a nearby chair. Dimitry’s unnatural, pale green eyes met hers as he motioned to stand. “Your Royal Maj—”

“Dispense with the pleasantries.” She strode forward.

Beside him was a meek girl in a yellow dress and raven black hair. Upon seeing Amelie, Saphiria looked away.

Something weighed heavily inside Amelie’s gut. Then, like rabid moths dispersing and congregating around a torch’s overwhelming flame, fluttering feelings of betrayal and worthlessness rose to her chest.

Her own daughter couldn’t stand the sight of her.

And rightfully so.

Since Saphiria returned, not once did Amelie apologize for her actions. How could she? After sending the girl’s father and brothers to die in a senseless war and bequeathing the heiress herself to the Church only for her to end up a slave, there were no words capable of conveying Amelie’s shame. And she hadn’t the courage to try. How amusing that Malten’s most powerful woman lacked the resolve to confront her own kin.

However, instead of silently stewing in her inadequacy, Amelie had the nerve to pressure Saphiria into upholding her heritage. She barked endless commands at the girl. From lessons in court mannerism to encounters with suitors, she forced them all, hoping to offset eight years of lost time.

But Amelie’s haste only distanced her daughter further.

Saphiria grew more reclusive by the day. She avoided her tutors. Skipped conferences. The times she didn’t hide in her room, she aimlessly roamed the streets in apparel befitting a common street rat.

Still, the celestial bodies decreed the girl’s destiny decades ago. Just like her mother, Saphiria’s noble lineage was her gift and her burden. Their lives weren’t their own. Half a million across the kingdom relied on them to lead in a time of calamity, and Amelie would never allow her daughter to shirk her duty. Every moment they wasted cast Malten further into ruin.

Without a visible hint of remorse, Amelie sat. She met the surgeon’s gaze. “Lukas tells me your creations will prove useful.”

Dimitry smiled. “Then my time was well spent.”

She glanced at the gold-glowing bag lying on the table. “Is that the enhanced voltech rifle?”

“Yes.”

“What of the flintlock we discussed prior?”

He shook his head. “Elias and I are still working on it. I’m afraid it won’t be ready before the night of repentance.”

“I see.” Her gaze shifted towards a clay-sealed cast iron jar. “And this is the sticky bomb?” She reached forward to touch the alleged weapon. Unlike the name suggested, her finger merely slipped across the surface. “It doesn’t seem very sticky.”

“There is another component,” Lukas said. “Dimitry applied lomnent to the shell, allowing it to stick to a heathen’s carapace.”

Amelie’s brow furrowed. Why did a weapon require an illicit gel to function? It mattered not. As long as the device killed devils well, she would gladly pass a law permitting its specialized use.

A separate matter concerned her.

If Lukas spoke the truth, the voltech rifle Dimitry developed was far more potent than any of its progenitors. How could a mere surgeon produce such a technology? And why did he ask for nothing in return? Those who labored for free had ulterior motives: they couldn’t be trusted.

“What compensation do you desire for your innovations? Payment? Territory? Status?”

“Nothing so grand,” Dimitry said.

Amelie frowned. “Do you expect me to believe you do this of your own goodwill?”

“Of course not.” He leaned forward. “I want what anyone else wants. Safety for myself, my business, and my employees. Although these weapons may help combat external enemies, it’s the ones within Malten that concern me most.”

“Explain.”

“Words alone won’t do. There’s something you should see.” Dimitry lifted a leather bag from the floor and dropped it onto the table. He retrieved two gray-glowing dispelia mitts from within, then placed them beside the voltech rifle. “Your Majesty, would you please step back? While no one was harmed during my research, a dangerous element may exist.”

What lurked beneath the reflectia cover? Amelie glanced at Lukas.

The count’s own lack of understanding made itself apparent despite an unflinching visage. “I will accompany Her Majesty to the far side of the room. Is that acceptable?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Saphiria,” Amelie beckoned. “Come. It is not safe there.”

The girl remained seated.

“She’s just worried about you,” Dimitry said. “I’d prefer if you went with her.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

Stood against the wall, Amelie’s gaze fell to her embroidered slippers. Did Saphiria place more trust in a surgeon than her own mother? Could she be blamed? “It is no matter. Continue your demonstration.”

Dimitry tugged at the reflectia cloth where it clung to the rifle and slipped off the entire sack to reveal a baffling sight.

Enveloping half of an elongated core seal and the barrel’s base was a rainbow-colored aura—identical to any high ranking Zeran officer’s armor, the heathen barrier in Remora, and the one Malten used to have.

Amelie’s breath hastened.

Was Dimitry with the Church?

Hand in his vol pocket, Lukas shot her a glance. He doubtless wondered the same.

She shook her head. Dispatching Dimitry in front of Saphiria would end any chance of gaining the princess’s trust. The girl held more value to Malten than anyone else present. Was that why Dimitry brought her to this meeting? A hostage to guarantee his safety?

If so, it was an unnecessary precaution. Amelie couldn’t kill him regardless. The plague continued to ravage her kingdom, and only he had a cure. Maybe that was another Church ploy. Did they spread disease just so that Dimitry could vanquish it, earning the trust of all?

Unlikely.

Dimitry negotiated a cooperative peace with aquatic demons. Any archbishop ambassador from The Holy Kingdom would have advocated a crusade. The Church couldn’t risk their centuries-old reputation by showing forgiveness to corrupted creatures solely to conquer a dying city. A single battalion of Zera’s chosen, holy knights, and priestesses sufficed to overrun Amelie’s and her subordinates’ armies.

Perhaps they intended to keep their involvement stealthy. But if that were the case, Dimitry wouldn’t have revealed his magic. Why send a single man to divulge military secrets? Furthermore, his obscure terminology, medical methods, and inventions were unlike anything the Church devised. Unlike anywhere in Remora.

And there was something else.

Amelie folded her hands behind her back. “Saphiria. Is it true what you said before? That Dimitry assaulted a bishop in Ravenfall?”

She nodded. “We also hid from one on the ship to Coldust.”

“… I see. The matter is settled.”

Lukas retracted his hand from his pocket. “What is that enchantment?”

“It’s accelall,” Dimitry said.

“Does it bear relation to the invisall you displayed in the previous summit?” Amelie asked.

“I believe so. The difference is that this spell accelerates time.”

Lukas rubbed his hands. “Accelerates time?”

“I apologize if the explanation comes across as obscure, but that’s what makes this variation of Voltech rifle extraordinarily powerful.” Dimitry covered the weapon with a reflectia cloth once more. “It’s also what makes being near it potentially dangerous.”

“That’s not all that makes it dangerous.” Amelie pulled up her gold-stitched mantle’s skirt, then sat once more. “There are some who would seek your life for the resemblance to Church magic.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, that’s what you meant by enemies within Malten.” Amelie grinned. “You wish to distribute your weapon, but you wisely fear receiving reactions like that of myself and Lukas. You seek my protection.”

“Not your protection.” Dimitry smiled. “Just your cooperation.”

She leaned back in her chair. “For now, you have my attention.”

“Although accelall enchantments resemble those from the Church, my goal is for people to accept them as a gift from Zera herself. More precisely, as a gift to her apostle to help them save a dying kingdom.”

“You claim yourself to be the apostle?” Lukas asked.

“I’m not. But that’s what I want people to think.”

Amelie exhaled a disbelieving chuckle. The apostle. In her kingdom? No one would accept such a foolhardy lie. “Why would the apostle rescue a land abandoned by Zera?”

Dimitry folded his arms onto the table. “My perception is that it was only abandoned by the Church.”

“You intend to divorce the two?”

“The divide already exists. All we have to do is expand it further.”

The surgeon spoke sense. Many despised the Church but continued to praise Zera out of habit and desperation. In the worst of times, Amelie was no different. However, despite the people’s desire for salvation, they weren’t fools. Convincing the masses of the apostle’s arrival wouldn’t be easy.

Nobles more so. While some yearned for a return to the days of yore, others reveled in their newfound freedom. Without Church advisers to regulate their territory, they did as they pleased. The appearance of another Zeran institution would threaten their power.

“You run a great risk naming yourself apostle,” Amelie said. “Some nobles brandish military might exceeding my own. I can’t control all of them.”

“It’s a risk worth taking. If we don’t seize religious authority soon, the Church will do it themselves. I believe they have already begun.”

Lukas straightened his cloak. “Do you refer to the spies we apprehended in the castle?”

“Yes. And the arsonist who set fire to the castle stables, shouting about the queen sacrilegiously allowing me to repurpose the cathedral.”

“Those idiots are spread throughout Malten.” Amelie frowned. “Like some pernicious pestilence, they infest even Amphurt and other towns under my jurisdiction. That’s the issue you aim to solve?”

“It’s one of many. I intend to gradually convert citizens to a new form of worship that allows alliances with aquatic demons, expanded use of sacred property, and widespread use of Church-like magic. It’ll allow me to continue work on enhanced weaponry, among other projects I have planned.”

Other projects? Those words ignited hesitant hope within Amelie’s bosom. What secrets, benevolent and lurking, did the surgeon retain?

“My men report of your food handouts to refugees,” Lukas said. “Is that related?”

Dimitry nodded. “Feeding the poor is the fastest way to gain people’s trust. I also provide medical services for those who can’t afford them.”

In an unusual display, the cold-hearted count wore a hint of a smirk. “How devious.”

“Nobles don’t starve.” Amelie tapped the table. “It will take more than paltry meals and benevolent healing to convince them of your divine status. I pray the Jade Surgeon didn’t forget such a basic fact.”

“He didn’t, Your Royal Majesty. I will reveal sticky bombs and enhanced voltech rifles as our salvation against heathens at tomorrow’s summit.”

“Is that when you intend to announce yourself Zera’s apostle to explain the accelall enchantment?” Lukas asked.

“No. To do it so bluntly would draw too much resistance. I want the attendees to come to that conclusion on their own. All I will say is that vivid visions bestowed me with knowledge and guided me to Malten.”

“Just like the apostle in the gospel.”

“That won’t be the people’s first conclusion.” Amelie’s tapping hastened. “They’ll sooner believe you a loon or a fibber.”

“It’s as you say.” Dimitry displayed a thoughtful visage. “Alone, I won’t succeed. That’s why I requested your cooperation—the cooperation of everyone in this room.”

“Continue.”

“As Your Majesty pointed out, there’ll be a great commotion once I announce my visions, but I can’t control whether it’ll be positive or negative. I hoped Lukas could help with that.”

“How do you intend me to do so?”

Dimitry pushed a folded paper sheet forward. “I prepared a list of my ‘good deeds’. Since this summit will have many attendees, your men can utter them without standing out. A few deviants are all it takes to alter the course of conversation.”

“False supporters?” The count raised an eyebrow. “It won’t be enough. I’ll have to do more than that.”

“Like what?”

“Among other things, spread rumors and make potential troublemakers… agreeable.”

“I-is that so?”

Amelie smirked. Although the surgeon was clever, he lacked experience in courtly affairs. “Lukas will handle it. What of my role?”

“I wish for one favor, Your Majesty. No matter how much resistance the crowd puts out, I ask you to keep me safe.”

The nobles all but threatened to secede. Amelie couldn’t risk losing their armies’ support by overtly helping Dimitry. “Although you have been a great help to me, many consider you an ominous outsider. I can’t ignore their prattling—it’ll only hasten this city’s collapse.”

“I just need enough time to demonstrate my weapons’ capabilities. Preferably, right after the summit and before people’s opinions solidify.”

“Will your devices’ power suffice to convince the crowd?”

Lukas nodded. “I believe they can, Your Majesty.”

Amelie ran a hand through her hair. If Dimitry’s plan succeeded, it held the potential for stamping out the Church’s influence while freeing him to materialize more of his ‘miracles’. Miracles she desperately needed. The kingdom desperately needed.

Failure, however, remained a possibility that endangered all involved. Dimitry would die, and Amelie would lose her reputation—an irreplaceable commodity in these turbulent times. Without influence over her subjects, division would crumble Malten like it did the Gestalt Empire eight years ago.

But she had no choice.

If Amelie didn’t accept the surgeon’s offer, the city would fall eventually. This was likely her last chance to preserve the territory her ancestors, she, and Ferdinand had built.

She stood. “Lukas. Ready a field visible from the castle walls for a demonstration. Don’t make it obvious we’ve prepared.”

“I will handle it.”

“Dimitry. Sleep well, and come ready to fight for your life. It may very well be at stake.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”