LIGHTNOVELONLINE Chapter 59
Chapter 59
Cameron
The Red Scythe - Army Size: 327
Fira (May) 9, 611 IE
Our company, the Red Scythe, was encamped west of Port Havenreach, a journey of four days by march. Hadrelian had driven us hard. We swept through the southern wilds of the Azure Reach, pursuing rumors about an escaped colony of Chattel hidden in a small farming village in the Wenvale Pass, that long stretch of grasslands between Havenreach and Kronfeldt. The local Beastkin had taken the Chattel in, a temptation that proved too great for many.
For it was often said that Chattel, when given a class, were prolific workers, lightening the burdens of those who harbored them. These whispers grew stronger when Chattel built new farms, where fields would prosper, and villages would rise quickly. Yet just as swiftly, a Master leading a company of outlaws like ours, the Red Scythe, would come to reap the harvest, collect the fruit, and try smuggling them across the border north back to Auriel, a machine that ran on the back of human slaves.
But we had only six collars left, and our stores of food and water were running low. If we didn’t find our quarry soon, we’d have to return to the outskirts of Kronfeldt to resupply. Havenreach had grown too dangerous for raiders—mercenary companies swarmed the region, hired to ensure the Queen's precious spices and tea continued to flow from the port back to the capital.
And it came to pass, after a day’s march into the northwest, that we entered the mountain passes, where we spotted signs of civilization amidst the wilderness, a land filled with troglodytes. We spied a vantage point from which to survey the realm before us. A small village nestled in a clearing, concealed by the great mountains, revealed unto us its humble huts of timber. In the outskirts, fields of wheat flourished under the watchful sun.
Woolly mountain goats were tended by a solitary Beastkin, a creature of black fur, resembling a mouse. The settlement comprised five small buildings, and it was evident that this frontier farm belonged to Beastkin herders who had taken in the Chattel as laborers. Near the heart of the village, we observed several of the Chattel laboring diligently to raise a small granary. Seven. They toiled with fervor, some disappearing within the structure for stretches of time.
In total, the spoils appeared meager: seven Chattel and four beastkin. Yet, Hadrelian spoke, “It is better to return with something than to come back empty-handed.”
And the leader’s trusted captains, Catus and Drusselian, clad in light armor, rode forth on their brilliant white mounts with a band of raiders to scout the path ahead. They would encircle and prevent any retreat from the villagers.
As night fell, Drudus, a brother of Hadrelian, withdrew a card from his palm and activated it. His eyes shone with a blue light, and he approached Hadrelian with these words:
“They’re in position, brother.”
“Very well. Let us march onward to claim our prize,” Hadrelian declared, sealing the lid of his helm.
Though the leader of the Red Scythe wielded formidable magic, he opted for red iron plate armor intricately adorned with golden patterns. His helm, crowned with two gleaming golden horns, cast an imposing shadow over his visage. At his side hung a steel sword, long, curved, sharp, and unyielding, much like the man who bore it.
The Red Scythe’s excessive caution in a mere backwater such as this revealed their deep-seated paranoia. The ailing Duke had neglected the protection of his frontiers, yet his bannermen and local nobles hired mercenaries to eliminate any Eldrins and raiders threatening the Southern Crown of the Azure Reach and their various interests in the region.
We advanced toward the small village to execute a night raid, our mounted riders speeding ahead. With a fierce cry, Hadrelian unleashed Meteor Strike, fireballs raining down upon the villagers' homes. He intended to smoke them out rather than slay them, targeting the corners as if igniting the kindling that would ultimately consume each dwelling.
Drudus, his brother, conjured a Smoke Fog that enveloped the village.
To our astonishment, none of the villagers fled the inferno. Instead, from the granary, a thunderous march resonated, echoing like a battle cry. Soon, three hundred ironclad soldiers emerged, spears drawn and shields raised. Behind them, a cadre of archers loosed arrows in our direction which were blocked by wards and barriers summoned by our two powerful sorcerers.
Varon, my commander and Master, commanded us—the archers—to return fire, and so we did.
I activated Sniper Shot, drawing my longbow and releasing an arrow high into the night sky. From afar, it arced, sizzling like a bullet, striking a mercenary in the neck with deadly precision. A curse escaped my lips as pain shot through my body whenever I thought about ignoring my orders.
Why was I forced to do this? Why? Miss, damn you! Miss!
My hands snatched another card, activating Rain of Arrows. This time, as I drew my bow and released, my arrow split into ten shards, raining havoc upon the phalanx of spears, shattering their formation.
And thus, I beheld in the distance an epic clash—a great battle between the cadre of mercenary mages and our two mages Hadrelian and Drudus. Fire rained down as balls of flame met spheres of ice; magic missiles and lightning bolts danced through the air. While we mere mortals played with sticks and stones in our feeble skirmish, the mages unleashed upon one another the very power of the gods.
Such was the scene upon the battlefield in this realm. We soldiers were merely shields for the mages, whose unmatched power dictated the outcome. There were no tactics or strategies at play—only the sheer will of the strongest, turning entire armies into fodder to bolster their might. It was the law of the powerful; whosoever among the mages claimed victory first would determine the fate of the field, reducing all others to ash—unless they possessed sorcerous wards of protection.
It is well known that mages hold dominion over war. Their archers are shielded behind barriers, their frontline warriors blessed with void-bound defenses and buffs, and their steeds propelled to impossible speeds by haste spells. The ground before them is laced with their sorcery, resembling a field sown with deadly mines and missiles of every element.
Then my commander, Varon, dismounted and charged forth to confront the mercenary captain—a great badger wielding a greataxe. With a pace that belied his size, the badger hurled a throwing axe toward Varon, but he raised his buckler just in time to deflect it. Varon swung his zweihander in a powerful arc, but the badger deftly parried. In retaliation, the badger struck Varon’s silvered helm with the pommel of his weapon, stunning him where he stood.
As the badger readied to deliver a mighty blow with his greataxe, I loosed another Sniper Shot through a sliver of an opening in the wards and into the crease at his groin. Letting out a wail, the badger was momentarily distracted by the pain shooting through his body, allowing Varon to step forward and cleave the badger’s head from his shoulders with a Holy Strike. A boisterous cheer went out to our men upon the slaying of the enemy commander, while a rebuke went out in my soul. Taunts were exchanged with the enemy mercenaries, now without a head to guide them.
With the Ironclad Company’s leader fallen, morale plummeted, and panic spread among the remaining enemy ranks. This turmoil intensified as two mercenary mages, sensing the tide turning, employed escape spells to flee the battlefield. The last remaining mage, a Halfrin woman specializing in ice magic, was then forced to face Hadrelian and Drudus—two level 8 Mages. Missiles of magic and fiery meteors pummeled her from both sides. Unable to withstand such an onslaught, she was consumed by elemental fury, leaving her nothing but a pile of ashes.
With her defeat, our leaders were free to unleash their magic upon the phalanx and bowmen holding the granary. The formation swiftly devolved into chaos. Many fled for the hills, while others sought refuge in the ambush set up on the pass leading to Kronfeldt.
Though the mages could easily level the battlefield with bombastic displays of power, now was the time to harvest. The Eldrin commanders paid no heed to the fleeing enemy; they were focused on combing the area for the missing Chattel.
Their support company would handle the cleanup of the remaining soldiers, and we were under strict orders not to harm any humans or potential unbound we encountered. The Eldrins had no interest in capturing lowly mercenary grunts; they wanted Chattel.
As we dispatched the unfortunate few soldiers who still dared to fight, Hadrelian and his subordinates led the way into the hidden cellar of the granary. Inside, they discovered stairs descending into a concealed bunker that housed seven Chattel and four Beastkin civilians, all dragged out by force.
Quickly, the Beastkin—gnolls, frogs, rats, and boarmen—indulged in their pleasures with the captured Beastwomen and Beastmen alike, leaving the Chattel untouched as ordered by their Eldrin commanders, until the conquered farmers and captured mercenaries were ultimately tossed onto the pyre.
If only I could tear out my eyes and ears to escape such cruelty, but the collar around my neck prevented me from any self-harm.
Why didn’t I listen to you, Ashe? I should never have left Fairhope. I should have stayed, just like you said… but I wanted to be a hero. I could only hope that Fairhope was still hidden, still unreaped.
Though Hadrelian, the leader of the Red Scythe, was a powerful mage and swordsman, he could not enslave the Chattel. His younger brother, Drudus, however, was a Slavemaster. With the Chattel on their knees, shackled and held at swordpoint, they performed the ritual of binding. Two runners fetched the chest containing the collars, and Drudus opened the locked iron box, then proceeded to collar the Chattel.
The first captive, a young woman barely out of her teens, was a vision of pale beauty with almost silvery hair. Tears streamed down her face as Drudus approached, a silver collar in hand. The collar resembled a metal headband, its ends gapped. Only the Master's magic held it in place.
If there was one thing the Eldrins did right, it was refraining from claiming the spoils of war for themselves. Their Emperor was many things, but a fool and sadist he was not. He understood that if Eldrins were to bed with Chattel, they would produce Malkrins, or the more commonly used term Halfrins, who had rights. Thus, he declared it a mortal sin to harm or bed Chattel under their ward. Eldrins could only strike Chattel in self-defense, but that was rarely an issue, as the collars made it impossible for them to harm a Master.
With a flick of his wrist, a glowing card appeared before Drudus. As it touched the collar, a blue light pulsed through the silver, sealing the gap. The girl’s crying ceased, and her expression shifted to one of livestock-like resignation. Though sadness and fear still lingered in her eyes, her Master ensured she would not voice her suffering to the world, so no sound escaped her lips, only the sadness and fear that was deep inside her head remained.
The same scene unfolded five more times. Despite the repetition, the sight never grew easier to bear. I recalled the day I was captured, the memory bringing an agonizing pain that left me gasping for breath. Yet my body betrayed me, air filling my lungs every time I wished to suffocate myself with my torment. I wasn’t allowed to die. I wasn’t allowed to fight back. I was allowed merely to live and obey.
Soon after the harvest, we looted the granary and the small settlement for whatever food we could salvage to resupply our small army. The goat would be slaughtered, dozens of them roasted on spits as our soldiers feasted, while the rest would come along to feed us on the march back to our base camp. As a Ranger, I was tasked with finding fresh meat for the commanders and returned with a deer, which I butchered myself before presenting it to one of the Chattel cooks.
Varon interrupted my session of self-loathing and regret in the soldiers’ camp. My Master was a devout follower of the Emperor’s path, granting me considerable freedom and treating me kindly—at least as kindly as one could treat someone in bondage, stripped of their free will. The Emperor taught them that Eldrins were never to harm or force themselves upon their wards. The only damage they inflicted on me was psychological: the torment of witnessing them do to others what had been done to me. The anguish of knowing I was killing people I rooted for. For I must not allow my Master to come to harm.
“Ranger. You speak an alien tongue, do you not?” Varon asked in Drakon, the language of Auriel, closely related to Lokan, the language of the Azure Reach.
“Yes, sir,” I replied in Drakon. “Aside from Drakon and Lokan, I speak English and Chinese.”
Though I was born in San Francisco to an American woman of Dutch descent, my strict Chinese father—who never smiled a day in his life, much like his son—ensured I received thorough tutoring in Mandarin.
“We have a Chattel here who speaks English. We do not understand a word he is saying.”
This couldn’t be. Was he from Earth? I would have recognized him if he had come from Fairhope.
My Master beckoned me to join him in the camp. Hadrelian sat regally at his commander’s desk. Without his helm and armor, he wore a simple white silk robe patterned with gold thread at the collar. The robe accentuated his porcelain skin and long red hair with orange roots, giving the impression that his head was ablaze. But his orange, fruit-bat-like eyes added an imposing air to his handsome features.
His brother stood beside him, a petulant expression on his face. Though they were similar in facial appearance, Drudus was shorter and leaner in build, his hair cut short instead of the long ponytail favored in Imperial fashion.
The Chattel seated before them had long, technicolor-dyed dreadlocks tumbling from beneath his woolen cap. It wasn’t until I was called forward to interpret for Hadrelian, the lantern light filling the commander’s tent, that I noticed the teardrop tattoo etched beneath the man’s eye. He didn’t look like a native of this world—or at least not like the descendants of the first-spawned humans who had been transported here before the holy wars. Something about him seemed too modern, though his fair skin, castizo or perhaps northern Mediterranean in hue, could have helped him blend with the locals. The tattoos and hair, however, were unmistakably modern, a mark of my world.
It can’t be. There are other settlements with people from the 21st century? God help us if the Eldrins get modern technology.
“This Chattel volunteers information to us, but we cannot decipher his alien words,” Drudus said imperiously.
“Ayoo… you working with them Chinaman?” Though I was only half-Chinese, my features leaned more towards my father’s side. The man before me lounged in his chair, legs sprawled casually as if he had made the Master’s tent his home. Holding a paring knife, he twirled it absentmindedly. “Yo, if these cats wanna capture humans and all that, I know a place that has plenty of them.”
What… why would he betray his people like this? When I was captured, I never volunteered such information. When they asked me where I came from, I spoke the truth and told them I was from Earth. Since the Masters didn’t believe in harming their Chattel (at least not directly, as it was a sin decreed by the Emperor), they didn’t press me for more.
“He says that…” I struggled to find a way to convey the truth without revealing too much. “He wants to know if I’m working with you.”
“In a way, you are, Tethered,” Hadrelian replied with a wan smile. “Ask him where he comes from.”
“He asks where you come from, but why the fuck are you doing this?” I asked in English, my voice calm as I tried to sound polite in front of the Eldrins, who had no comprehension of my words. “You’re selling out your people? You don’t have to answer their questions completely. They won’t torture you.”
“Oh, I see how it is. You a sneaky little rat, ain’t you? Sneaky sneaky little rat,” the man waggled his finger and then laughed like a hyena, clapping his hands. “Yo, don’t sweat it. I deal with a lot of no-speaka-English types in New York. I’ll get them on my wavelength soon, cuz.”
“He says he’s from New York. A place in another dimension,” I relayed to the Eldrins.
“Thornhill!” the man corrected me when he heard “New York,” pointing at both of us in a gesture to bridge the language gap. He then gestured towards the west, his signs full of implication. “Thornhill, cuz. I rep Thornhill.”
Oh God. Wherever the unfortunate people of Thornhill are, I hope they flee.