Horizon of War [Kingdom Building, No Harem, No LIT]

Chapter 145

Beneath the Lake

 

Tiberia

Beneath a serene lake next to the capital lay a vast, enclosed subterranean world. It resembled a cavernous grand dome, similar to the construction of the dwarven citadels in the old Progentia continent. The air within was cooled and circulated, thanks to a hidden array of grand gemstones, each etched with runic inscriptions.

Magically created warm sunlight illuminated the cavern, its light reflecting off the dome's ceiling—a marvel of technology from an era long gone. The sunlight filtered through the mist, casting an ethereal glow over the grassy plains below.

The dome's ceiling was partially obscured by mist due to its enormous scale, which maintained a serene, dreamlike atmosphere. A winding river meandered through the plains, nourishing the rustic landscape while reflecting the warm light from above.

Without these artifacts, the subterranean environment would have been oppressively hot. Instead, the air was fresh and filled with the scents of grass and earth. The clouds even generated drizzle and rain in almost natural ways.

The landscape teemed with lush forests and expansive grassy plains, stretching as far as the eye could see. Horses galloped freely across the landscape where birds, bees, goats, and insects lived.

It was daytime, and the sunless sky above shone warmly.

Not far from an ornately crafted wooden house, a daybed sat in an open field beneath an ancient tree with deep brown bark and roots as thick as a goat.

On the daybed, a wrinkled elderly man with silvery hair lay peacefully, enjoying the scenery. Beside the daybed, a young woman of lithe build, with equally startling white hair, sat in a chair, reading from a tome.

"Σαγάριος," he called softly.

"What is it, Father? Do you need a drink?" Sagarius, the daughter, asked without shifting her sight from the tome at hand.

The old man smiled, pleased to hear his daughter's voice. "Did I ever tell you that you have your mother's face?"

"I have noticed it in the mirror since a young age. Indeed, I have her nose, lips, and chin, but the eyes are yours, Father," Sagarius answered, as she often had.

The old man looked happy. "You also have my compassion and patience."

Sagarius, who looked no older than twenty, let out a stiff smile but said nothing, knowing that responding would lead to an endless sorrowful discussion about her mother who had left him to return to her kin before she was too old to travel.

"Daughter, allow me to ask," the old man said softly, concern evident on his face. "If you're not thinking about inheriting all this, then why are you still here?"

"I can't leave you alone. Someone needed to take care of you, and I'm the oldest."

"You don't need to waste your precious time for me," he urged softly.

"I enjoy being with you, Father."

Her answer made the old man smile, as was evident in the wrinkles on his face. Then he pressed the issue again, "How about just two hundred years? A transitional government?"

"Oh Father," she lamented, while turning a page. "We've discussed this many times, and my answer hasn't changed," she replied without hesitation or any emotion. She had become accustomed to her father's words to take them seriously.

However, today Sagarius felt compelled to add, "How could I rule when you didn't even announce my birth to the world? Please remember that you chose my brother over me."

Instead of being stunned or emotional, her father responded with a smile. "Is this how you exact revenge upon your father?"

"No, Father, the grief was gone. It's just something on my mind that I unfortunately recalled just moments ago."

The old man sighed. "I always thought that crowning the youngest was the better choice."

Sagarius remained silent, merely concentrating on the page. A gentle breeze whispered through them. Overhead the ancient tree had its small branches swaying slightly with the wind's caress, leaves rustling softly like the murmurs of the past.

They said no other words for a long period. The father simply enjoyed his day while the daughter read a tome that she knew she would never encounter again.

This subterranean world would be over, as there was no future emperor to succeed it.

While there were plans to dismantle and distribute the vast riches of this place, they eventually scrapped them as the effort was too demanding. Moreover, deep inside, they felt that such gifts would be dangerous to humans.

"What do you want to do after this?" the father asked. "I see that you have your ears modified."

"Just like yours, Father," Sagarius reassured him. Had she chosen another answer, he would have pried for the reason. Despite his failing mind, he was still often keen enough to see through her schemes, and she didn't want to make him concerned.

"What's your plan after I breathe my last?"

"As you wished. I'll seal this place, cross by boat to Arminia, gather my folks, and then head into Kehldin through Caladania."

"The road would be dangerous," he commented with some bitterness.

"I've ventured there many times already with my people," she reassured him.

The old man took a deep breath and said, "In case I forget, please give the letter to Mother."

"I will, Father."

"Is she healthy?"

"She's ailing but she's still younger than you," Sagarius gave the best answer, one that put her father most at peace.

He nodded, looking gladdened. Then added with a regal tone, "Entomb me between your stepmother and stepsiblings." His eyes moistened, likely recalling his human wives and the many children he had outlived.

Besides his union with an elven consort, Sagarius' mother, the reigning Emperor had six other wives. Sagarius personally knew all of them. She was there when he brought them, usually after touring his vast domain every two centuries. Yet to Sagarius, their presence, while leaving a lasting mark, was too short.

She imagined the same happened to her father, even perhaps guilt since they withered so quickly compared to them.

After her mother left for Kehldin, for the remainder of his life, her father stopped taking close companions. The conversation led her to ask, "I'm curious why you don't marry a human anymore?"

The father shook his head dismissively.

Ignoring his father's reaction, Sagarius continued, "You could appoint your youngest as heir apparent. As half-elves, they could live—"

"I can't," he said with a tone of finality.

"Why?" she asked, gazing at her elderly father. Unlike many discussions they had, this one was new, and she was eager for an answer.

"The trouble with them, your half-elven brother and sister, is that they grow like elves but only have a part of our longevity."

"Ah," Sagarius exclaimed. "I forgot that brothers and sisters were like that," she said, recalling memories of her half-siblings from four hundred years ago.

"We always assume that they acted like that because they were still young, and then they suddenly got sick and died of old age," he said, his voice lowering, a shadow of sorrow passing over his face.

"None ever surpassed three hundred," she muttered with a hint of regret, closing her tome.

"Young age for elves... To humans, they looked barely twelve or sixteen years old. They were so brave and full of life, then suddenly taken from us." He sighed and coughed dryly.

Sagarius put her tome away, stood with her feet on the grass, and helped her father drink from a wooden cup. He took only a few sips. She also dabbed a mixture of spring water, chrysanthemum oil, and honey on her father's dry lips.

While she did that, memories flooded her of her many half-siblings who remained immature throughout their lives. Many even did not know the concept of romance. In her experience, the mating between Elves and Humans was not one with a happy ending. Reeling from the wave of emotions, Sagarius whispered to herself, "Memento mori."

Her father chuckled, his prosthetic ear having caught her words, and he said, "You're still far from a thousand."

"Look at my hair, Father, there's silver in there. I am nine hundred and five." She then added, "That's also one of many reasons why it's futile for me to take the reins. I'll probably be dead in the next century, throwing the Imperium into another great chaos."

"Nonsense, your mother is from the high-elves clan. You have her blood; you're going to surpass my age."

"Time will tell, Father," she said as she returned to her seat.

"A century is also a long time. A man can achieve a lot in just a hundred years," her father preached.

"Your fascination with the human race is endearing," she said, picking up her tome again.

"How could I not? You should see them struggle and face a mountain of odds, yet they keep going and achieve the impossible," he said proudly.

"That's just the nature of all living things. Any creature will struggle to live and occasionally make progress along the way."

The old man couldn't argue with that as it was his own words. Instead, he rested the back of his head deeper into the soft pillow. Then, he suddenly said, "Don't forget to also bury the armory and the golems."

She stared at him, having never encountered this subject before. "I will, Father, although I doubt anyone can understand them."

"You shouldn't underestimate humans."

"But what about hidden ones and all the runes in the Palace?"

"Let them. Perhaps in a thousand years, humans will be wise enough to use it. Also, maybe Teacher is still around," the mention of that name relaxed the old man, whose eyes wandered as if recalling his time with the Grand Progenitor.

"I never met him, Father," Sagarius reminded him gently.

The old man chuckled, with some vigor still left in him. "He's a bad teacher. He said never to bother with humans, claiming their lifespan is too short for anything great. But I told him that with enough guidance, humans could maintain a government as large as the continent."

"Indeed, Father, under your leadership, humans reached the peak of their civilization."

"They did it themselves. What they achieved was incredible." He struggled to find the words. "They populated vast areas, built cities, castles, farms, bred fine horses, and developed roads and trade networks. Before, it was all villages, but now there are megacities that not even the elves had seen since the old continent."

Sagarius felt warmth from her father's words. "I must concede that humans have that drive. Despite lacking wisdom or caution, their strive to improve is—"

"Is their strength," her father tried to complete her words.

Their discussion, longer than usual, had drained the old man considerably. Soon he fell asleep with a peaceful smile on his lips.

After examining her father’s multiple prosthetic limbs, which also showed signs of advanced aging, Sagarius returned to her tome. The limbs were one of her father's creations, based on dwarven technology. No elf could achieve what he had, as they lacked his resources and generally despised anything related to dwarven craftsmanship.

The limbs were lifelike, even the muscles atrophied, though they didn't mimic how the limbs of a 1300-year-old elf should appear. There used to be thin tubes connected to them, providing his frail body access to blood elixir and enhancement, but he had gotten rid of them. Now, the only tubes connected were to his lower body for bodily fluids, to preserve his dignity.

Clouds overhead slowly passed over them, forming long shadows.

After some time, the sky was no longer as bright, indicating that midday had long passed.

"Σαγάριος," her father called softly, seemingly just awake from his slumber.

"Yes, Father. Are you thirsty?" Sagarius asked without shifting her sight from her tome.

The old man smiled upon hearing his daughter's voice. "Did I ever tell you that you have your mother's facial features?"

"Indeed, I have noticed it in the mirror. I have her nose, lips, and chin, but the eyes are yours, Father," Sagarius answered patiently.

The old man broke into a smile. "You also have my compassion and patience," he replied cheerfully as if he had never had this conversation before.

The clouds passed silently above them, and the chirping birds that had found a mouthful of worms returned to their nests. The scenic world continued uninterrupted, seemingly detached from the troubles of their subjects above.

The long, maze-like corridor to the Imperium palace above had been sealed shut for more than a century and left to neglect, as the Emperor was in long decline. And despite his wisdom, he had been unable to secure an heir, blindly believing that only long-lived sapiens were fit to rule.

 

***

 

Mountain Pass

As the preparations to leave were underway, Lansius spent considerable time with Servius. Both were wounded; Lansius walked with a crutch, and Servius had lost a hand along with suffering other burns and cuts.

"I am so fortunate to have a good physician tending to me. Also a mage in disguise and even a Saint Candidate," Servius said in amazement during their second discussion.

"Indeed. We were fortunate to find them in such remote places," Lansius replied.

Servius broke into a smile. "Luck follows you wherever you are, My Lord."

Lansius snorted. "I'll consider worshiping luck if we escape in better condition."

Servius chuckled joyously, his laughter filling the tent like a comforting melody.

Lansius noticed the burn wounds between the bandages. "The burn marks, are they painful at night?"

The old man glanced at Lansius and quipped, "They're not as bad as your whip."

The unexpected answer made Lansius let out a laugh. "My apologies. It was probably a mistake on my part."

"Don't worry. We needed to fool Sergio at that time." Servius then sipped his drink awkwardly with his left hand, spilling some, and lamented, "I'm going to miss my sword hand, though. But I'll use a hook or something."

"Servius," Lansius called with a tone of regret.

"No. Don't," Servius rejected Lansius' pity. "I've seen and done worse."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"How about assigning someone else to lead the Free Company?" the old man ventured lightly. He had openly hinted in previous discussions that he was thinking of retiring.

Lansius smiled but shook his head. "The staff and I can only trust you, Servius."

Servius let out a deep sigh. "I'm honored, but I'm a failure," he warned while raising his bandaged wrist, which was missing a hand.

"If failure is the measure of men, then I'm no different," Lansius argued.

The condottiere looked down and nodded his bandaged head. Then he looked Lansius in the eye, "But promise me something."

"I can't be lenient in punishing captured perpetrators," Lansius worded that carefully.

"I know. All I ask is that you give them the same offer you gave the Nicopolans in Korimor."

"And that is?"

"To give them options: to die or to face enslavement in Lowlandia, where they'll be allowed to return after a dozen years, or so."

Lansius inhaled deeply and pondered. After a few moments, he glanced at Servius. "No leniency to those who took lives that night. However, I can extend the offer to those who participated but did not take lives. But the terms would be twenty years."

Servius exhaled heavily but nodded in the end. "It's acceptable. This way, the rest of the Nicopolans will see it as just."

Lansius sat relaxed. "Then I'm looking forward to seeing you lead the Free Company and establish your manor."

Servius' eyes widened. "My Lord, what manor?"

"You're going to lead thousands of people," Lansius confided. "The scouts told me that the area next to this mountain path is in total ruin. While this might be just an empty title, I'll knight you before I depart."

"My Lord, I'm not worthy; I'm even without a sword hand," Servius said emotionally.

"You lost your hand and almost your life in my service. At least accept the honor for your family," Lansius insisted.

Servius looked unsure for a moment before puffing out his chest in his seat. With his eyes moist, he said, "If My Lord and My Lady agree to confer such trust in me, then I'll have no regret."

 

***

 

Midlandia

A well-dressed man with a sharp look hurriedly moved across the garden, sweat glistening on his forehead. Though it was noon, the sky was overcast, and a chilly wind whispered through the air. He spotted the person he sought—Sir Reginald, who was mentoring a group of young men in a large, unused warehouse beside the garden—and slowed his pace.

The place was a hive of scholarly activity, filled with piles of books, cylindrical glass tubes on a corner table, and a chalkboard covered in geometric drawings. Parchment filled with intricate calculations lay scattered across desks, and a bronze statue depicting a human skull, bones, and organs stood prominently in another corner.

The well-dressed man, a noble's associate, made his presence known to Sir Reginald with a subtle nod, then stood patiently to wait.

The mentor did not acknowledge the newcomer and continued as usual. His countenance was soft and cheerful, complemented by his clean-shaven appearance. This manor was his residence, which had become one of many new hubs for the educated class in Midlandia.

Lately, it had become the place for the crème de la crème of the burgeoning commoners' schools that had taken root in the region. Many talents came to share, discuss, and learn. Often, Sir Reginald would sit and just listen to visiting peers who brought new ideas or discoveries.

Not only was he a successful baronet by trade, but Sir Reginald was also a renowned scholar and had published books and manuals on masonry techniques, the history of kingship, and, most recently, a daring treatise on the peasantry.

He had a large following and was well-connected to both the guilds and the nobility. He was so well-liked, well-spoken, and filled with charming ideas, that many began to back him for the seat of power. Thus, he became a dark horse in this succession crisis.

Even without a single drop of shared blood with the ruling House, he was seen as a better candidate. After all, the succession crisis in Midlandia was so severe and unique that anyone could claim the region as long as they could unite the lords and depose House Bengrieve from power.

After posing a question for the students to ponder, Sir Reginald went outside and walked calmly toward the gazebo in the garden.

The associate followed closely behind. "Sir, the wolf has been trapped in Elandia."

"I guess we can't wait any longer?" Reginald ventured lightly as they walked.

"No, we can't wait any longer. Many were urging us to strike a month ago when he left Cascasonne undefended."

Unlike his well-dressed associate, Reginald wore only a brown, inconspicuous woolen tunic over his white linen shirt. He stopped to ponder and asked, "Are we sure that Lord Bengrieve has brought the majority of his men?"

"We are sure. They even just sent reinforcements to Elandia."

"Then we have little else to worry about. Our patience has been rewarded," he replied confidently and continued to walk, taking it as his victory.

"Then you'll agree?" the younger man asked expectantly beneath a gazebo in the middle of the garden.

Reginald turned to him, saying confidently, "Secure Lubina Castle and the surrounding area first. We need to do it before the height of winter, and then in spring, we'll besiege Cascasonne."

The associate's face grew excited. "I shall relay this good news to our peers."

"Tell them that I want a bloodless victory in Lubina, or they will have to select another," Reginald threatened firmly.

"We promised. We also need that to convince the rest of the nobles to join our cause."

"Good. I don't want to stain my name. And what about the Healers Guild?"

"They are clamoring for this."

Reginald sighed deeply. "A bunch of lunatics. We should be careful with them and their idea of worship."

"They have the power of the masses, and we need them to overwhelm the wolf and his cubs."

The older man took a small cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow. "How many cubs are we concerned about?"

"Mostly manor owners concentrated in Cascasonne, Toruna, Ornietia, Brunna, and Korelia."

"Korelia?" Reginald squinted. "Who's there?"

"Just one of the wolf's henchmen—a measly poor knight from the Mercantile Kingdom."

"But so far south. I doubt he'll do anything," the mentor said dismissively.

"Sir, Korelia possesses a strong military and could be a threat," he corrected him.

"Then we should entice him with a share of the wolf's lair. I believe everyone would agree to offer that much to pit a wolf against his cub."

The associate looked doubtful and revealed, "One of us has sent a letter with a similar message, but we have yet to receive a response."

"Well, if he doesn't agree to align with us, then we need to act lest he becomes a threat," Reginald said as if it were simply a matter of equation. "Wiser men have advised rulers to be swift and cruel when needed."

Yet, the associate remained doubtful, so the mentor tapped him on the shoulder and confided, "Sooner or later, everyone must choose a side."

"Then what do you want us to do?"

"Send your agents to find this cub's friends or family here and secure them. Then send another letter to Korelia, stating that his colleagues will unfortunately end up in the torture chamber if he doesn't align with us. And make sure he knows that if he's not siding with us, then after we're done with Lord Bengrieve, we'll come to Korelia and see how he fares on his own without his benefactor's support."

The well-dressed man looked at the mentor nervously but said, "We'll do as you instructed."

Sir Reginald's face softened, and he explained his stance: "There's no satisfaction in doing this. Like my decision to accept this candidacy, it's just realpolitik."

 

***