Ghost's Talons
East Nicopola, Skodra City
Even in the middle of the night, Sir Servius, his advisor, and their retinue went to inspect the unexpected caravan bearing the Shogunate banner. The guards at the gate allowed them through and guided the group to one of the mansions that had been razed during the war. The ruins had since been cleared, leaving the space open like a plaza under the torchlight.
Sir Servius rode in a carriage with his advisor and two staff members. As they passed along the road, he saw that the caravan looked more like a military convoy, guarded by armed men carrying crossbows and swords.
When they arrived and stepped down from the carriage, the convoy leader caught sight of them and greeted, “Sir Servius, long time no see.”
Sir Servius recognized the man, a rider from White Lake, though the name escaped him. “Brother,” he called instead, embracing him like a comrade long unseen.
Behind the convoy leader, the half-breed stood with arms crossed, nodding in quiet satisfaction that her duty was done.
“Always a pleasure to see our friends from the mountains,” Sir Servius said to her.
“The feeling is mutual,” she replied. “But I hope you will refrain from seeking my service.”
Sir Servius laughed and gestured for his men to offer their guests a share of the freshly brewed ale.
“Ah, bitter ale. A fine end to a grueling task,” the half-breed remarked. The Nicopolans were amused and urged her to drink.
Meanwhile, Sir Servius turned to the convoy leader. “Brother, what brings you to Skodra so late at night? I have received no word from the Shogun.”
“The Lord Shogun may be too occupied for this,” the man said. “But he planned it from the start of the year.”
“From the start? You mean since spring?” Sir Servius asked, unable to hide his surprise. Even his advisor, behind him, along with a few of his staff, exchanged glances, uncertain about the claim.
“Yes, the plan has been in motion that long,” the man confirmed with a brief chuckle, clearly amused by their reaction.
“Then what did you bring?” Sir Servius asked.
The man wore a thin, proud smirk as he turned to one of the carts. His men pulled back the canvas cover, revealing neatly stacked sacks of goods. As they untied one, a golden yellow mass came into view. Inside were irregular cuts of dried dough, firm and pale.
“What is this?” Sir Servius asked, taking several pieces into his palm and sniffing them. A faint scent of wheat lingered, giving him some hint.
“The Lord Shogun’s army and the people of Korelia eat this heartily,” the man replied.
At those words, everyone around them murmured, “Food.”
Sir Servius handed the pieces to his advisors, and soon his staff gathered under the lantern light to examine the strange new food. They found it hard and brittle, yet it didn’t seem like any kind of biscuit they knew.
“They call it pasta,” the man continued. “It keeps well without spoiling and needs only boiling before it can be eaten. Many dishes can be made from it. We brought a cook who will give a demonstration tomorrow.”
Sir Servius looked at the wagons, nearly seven dozen of them, each similarly loaded and covered. “All of them carry this?”
“Almost. Some were filled with wool, leather, and crossbows. Administrator Calub of Korelia said a few convoys like this could feed a thousand families through an entire winter.”
Sir Servius could only stare in disbelief before turning to his advisor and staff, who were equally stunned and impressed.
“This will certainly make surviving the winter easier,” his advisor said, his voice filled with genuine admiration.
Not waiting for Sir Servius' response, the convoy leader continued, “We’re also testing the durability of Korelia’s new cart design along with the crews’ proficiency. Mind you, the Lord wants a thousand horse carts to support his army and his realm. Not that I’m complaining. The pay is good, and I no longer have to join another battle.” The man ended with a dry chuckle.
Sir Servius snorted, amused, before asking, “You mentioned a few convoys like this?”
“Yes, about two convoys of similar size,” the man confirmed. “But we faced difficulties along the mountain paths to Umberland. Many carriages broke down, and a few were lost in accidents. Lord Beatrix has already sent men to make the roads safer, though it will take time.”
Unable to hold any longer, Sir Servius grasped the man’s arm, his face drawn with relief. "This will save a lot of mothers and children," he said, voice heavy with sincerity.
The thought that the Lord Shogun, despite facing assassination, wars, and rebellion, had still found the time to plan such aid struck the old condottiere deeply.
“Easy, easy,” the convoy leader said with a rough laugh, patting Servius on the shoulder. “You’re giving thanks to the wrong person.”
“I will send him a hawk with my deepest gratitude,” Sir Servius said, then grew somber. “Yet I am ashamed. I have not conquered the mountains for him, and still he has done so much for my people.”
“Brother, depending on your harvest, you might still need rationing,” the man warned. “And aside from ten carts, which were a gift from Lord Robert, the Shogunate still expects a fair price for the rest.”
Sir Servius answered without hesitation. “We have more silver and arms than food. Let no man say the Nicopolans were ungrateful."
***
South Midlandia, Canardia
Amid a week already busy and certain to grow worse, Lansius sat beneath his desk lamp, its gemstone light glowing steady and cold. Before him lay a stack of reports, some already marked with his scribe’s neat annotations, others sealed and waiting. One report made his brows draw tight. He pulled open a drawer and took out a folded almanac.
He spread it across the desk, turning past the sections on bloodletting veins he never used, past astrological readings and lists of herbs and remedies, until he reached the calendar.
“So they have arrived,” he murmured after tracing the dates against a Hawk’s report from the Hill Fort that watched over Umberland, Three Hills, and Korimor.
What he referred to was the first pan-Lowlandian trade route, stretching from White Lake to East Nicopola, established to steady the treacherous food supply that plagued the struggling domain.
He named it the Pasta Route.
This project had been envisioned by Lansius since spring in cooperation with Lord Robert. A year of peace in White Lake had brought a record increase in cultivation, and they were expecting an abundance of harvest. Thus, using flour made from old grain stored in the granaries, which had been cleared to make room for the new grain, Lord Robert instructed his people to produce pasta, which the Shogunate bought at a fair price.
Fully sponsored by the Shogunate, the trade line moved goods almost freely through the strengthened logistical arm of horses and carts that Lansius had built to be able to link every city under his domain as commanded. The following year, he planned to include South Midlandia, as well as South Hills and Corinthia. It would build upon Lord Avery’s South Trade Caravan, ensuring that the seeds of commerce planted by the caravanners did not wither but took root among the locals.
The route allowed wheat from White Lake in the form of dried pasta, along with warhorses, crossbows, wool, leather, and salted meat from Korelia, as well as dried fruit, ink, and honey from Korimor, to reach Umberland and Nicopola. Such trade was rare, for most merchants dealt only with neighboring towns and cities, burdened by the cost of transport and the dangers of the road.
Now, with cavalry patrols, friendly nomads across the Great Lowlandia Plains, and a well-kept postal route that offered shelter, water, and resupply, most barriers to inland trade had been lifted. Lansius hoped that when he gradually withdrew his logistical arm in the future, independent merchants would step up to fill the gap.
For now, the success of the Pasta Route would grant his lords new wealth to fund the growing works in Korelia and Canardia.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Lord Robert, for instance, would take healthy profit from selling his abundance of wheat to Nicopola directly, without intermediaries. Lansius and Audrey, too, would benefit greatly from the trade, as their domains had goods to offer.
Crossbows and warhorses from Korelia were highly prized, and the Legion paid handsome sums to acquire them. Thus, even while building carts, maintaining stables, and funding upkeep, the Shogunate still earned a steady profit. As long as Nicopola possessed silver, confiscated weapons and armor, jewelry, or treasures from looted manors, the trade could always continue.
The accompanying report also pleased Lansius. The Hill Fort, located between Three Hills, Umberland, and Korimor, had grown from a modest fortified camp into a bustling trade hub, with merchants staying year-round to exchange goods. Not all trade between the three cities flowed directly, so there was plenty of barter to be done. With its palisade walls, guards, stables, granary, and cabins serving as inns and taverns, the place was steadily turning into a small town.
With more visitors and busier trade, other facilities were being upgraded as well. The bakery now boasted a large brick oven and catered not only to the garrison but also to the growing community. The blacksmiths were now fully staffed, not only repairing but also forging iron tools as needed.
The cart workshop was the newest addition, able to repair two carts at once, manned by craftsmen from Korelia’s new wainwright guild.
A few farming families had also begun to open lands in the surrounding hills, though they were still uncertain what crops might thrive. By chance, a visiting half-breed met them and advised them to plant yams, even scouting suitable ground for cultivation. They followed his suggestion and began planting rye, yams, peas, and cabbage.
Seeds of fruit trees were also sown by generous travelers, hoping one day to taste their harvest.
“Things are looking good,” Lansius murmured, reclining to ease his weary back.
Watching him, Carla, who was taking her turn at guard, let a faint, quiet smile cross her face.
Lansius exhaled deeply, his eyes weary. He hadn’t been as energetic lately and was thinking of taking an early rest.
Early…
He thought to himself, watching the water clock that already pointed to ten. In this world, where most went to sleep by seven, this was already late.
The gemstone desk lamp and the water clock had worsened his sleeping pattern, which might explain why he felt slightly under the weather. Yet there was one report he couldn’t set aside. It was the latest dispatch from Dawn, relayed through the Hunter’s Hawk network, which under Lord Beatrix’s blessing had established branches in Umberland’s famed mountain bulwark, further linking his realm and allies.
Even more, Lansius hadn’t flown his Hawk directly from Canardia. Instead, he had sent the message through his optical telegram to the city nearest the destination, where a stationed Hunter took over and released the Hawk, sparing it precious stamina to fly faster.
All this allowed messages from Dawn to reach him in mere days rather than weeks as before.
And now, what occupied his mind was the report that Lord Avery was preparing to attack Kapua with his first banneret. Lansius unfolded his almanac once more and traced the dates with a careful finger, running the numbers again to be certain. When the result became clear, he froze.
The assault on Kapua would come tonight. A cold realization settled over him, and worry began to gnaw at his thoughts.
Feeling unwell but with his head clouded by worry, Lansius rose and, instead of resting, decided to take a short walk. Without question, Carla dutifully followed with a lantern in hand. Outside the chamber, four guards gave a quiet salute and fell in behind them.
Lansius took a different corridor to ease his thoughts, planning to head toward the garden for a change of pace and some fresh air. He could have gone to the balcony, but there was nothing to do there, and the view was too dark. As he descended the stairs, he caught the faint sound of something below, a gentle melody carried by a woman’s lovely voice.
He found the guard posted at the foot of the stairs and asked, “Who sang that song?”
“My Lord, that’ll be the guest.”
Oh, so it's Avery’s granddaughter.
“But singing at midnight?” Carla asked.
“The lady must have just awakened between sleeps and is sending a prayer to her grandfather.”
Carla nodded, and so did Lansius.
It was only natural, as she probably knew the battle would take place around this time. Lansius was about to walk away, intending to head into the garden, when he began to recognize the lyrics. His eyes blinked, his brows drew together, and he stopped abruptly in his tracks.
“From the palaces of Montezuma to the coasts of Tripoli. We wage our banner’s battles. In wind, on ground, and over the sea.”
He inhaled sharply, causing his retinue to glance at one another. One hand reached for the wall to steady himself while the other covered his mouth.
“My Lord, what’s the matter?” Carla asked, concerned.
“Of course,” Lansius whispered to himself. “How could I not see it? The airships, the amphibious island training, the Morse-like letters, and that gung-ho attitude. Even the name. How could I fail to realize?”
Without another word, Lansius retraced his steps and marched back to his study chamber. He had discovered House Dawn's secret.
***
Kapua, South Gate
Upon the First Banneret’s command, chaos erupted at the entrance to the South Gate. Shouts and screams tore through the air as thousands of people scattered in panic, shoving and stumbling to escape. Officers drew their swords and bellowed orders to attack. Thirty guardsmen advanced with leveled spears, their curses rising above the din as they closed in on the lone cloaked man and his young aide. Behind them, the Captain of the Guard barked instructions, positioning his men to counter any assault, while the Royal Mage watched warily, eyes locked on the stranger.
More than the man’s confidence, it was the translucent shield on his left arm that seized the Royal Mage’s attention. Such a thing was nearly impossible to cast. Even maintaining a simple half-dome barrier drained most mages quickly, yet this one shimmered with perfect form and steadiness. The sight made him uneasy. What kind of Mage Knight was he facing? He couldn’t tell, for he did not belong to the Guild. He was one of the guildless, an outsider, an illegal mage who sold his talents to mercenaries or the underworld for whatever reward he sought.
“Drop your weapon!” shouted the lieutenant leading the loyal Centurian guards. The man did not move. His wave-bladed sword, massive and cold, hung low in his grasp.
His inaction made the men glance at one another in uncertainty. In that tense pause, the stranger who claimed to be the First Banneret leaned close and whispered something to his squire. The young man stepped behind him and shouted, “Commence attack!”
The guards’ eyes went wide. They spun about, expecting an ambush, and in the next heartbeat saw flashes of silver raining down upon them.
“Ambush!” the Captain shouted, warning his men, but his squire tackled him to the ground just as a storm of bolts struck their position.
Only the Royal Mage remained standing, summoning a half-dome of ethereal light to shield himself despite the weight of his plate armor.
The first volley struck true, wounding six. Uninjured guards scrambled for cover, some dragging their wounded comrades to safety, but the assault did not cease. More bolts rained down, unrelenting. For several more seconds, the air was filled with screams, shouts, and the choking gurgle of blood.
When the noise faded, only cries for help remained. The pain grew worse, deepened, and turned crippling.
Two who tried to flee collapsed mid-stride, drained by sudden blood loss.
No fewer than twenty of the thirty guards lay gasping and writhing, their bodies pierced with bolts. While they struggled, the First Banneret, Sir Morton, advanced with steady, almost casual steps.
The lieutenant, bleeding from a bolt lodged in his shoulder, forced himself upright and shouted, “Get him! Get him!”
From the guardhouse above, the crossbowmen loosed their bolts. Sir Morton raised his translucent shield, angling it to cover his head and chest. One bolt struck the shield and was forcefully deflected, another glanced off his armor, and a third hissed past into the dark.
The crossbowmen frantically reloaded, but before they could fire again, an object flew in a high arc toward the gatehouse. It burst with a sharp crack, flooding the air with thick white fog. Immediately, men stumbled out, choking, eyes watering, coughing as they clawed at their throats.
“Burning sands,” the Captain muttered, stunned. His men had urged him to take shelter there, but now the place was lost. He turned just in time to see the stranger charge up the stairs toward them.
Then, from a darkened corner, four cloaked men burst forth and sprinted toward the stairs.
“Of course he doesn’t work alone,” the Captain snapped. He snatched a crossbow from one of his men and loosed a bolt at the advancing figure. A few of his men with crossbows followed his lead, and the four newcomers answered in kind, turning the fight into a crossbow duel.
Meanwhile, the ten guards and their lieutenant tried their darndest to hold their ground, but they were hopelessly outclassed. Every thrust was turned aside, and the wave-bladed sword, with the strength behind it, made clean parries impossible. Its undulating edge caught their blades and slid along them, wrenching wrists and twisting arms with each contact.
Sir Morton didn’t even appear to be trying. His movements were calm, almost instructional, like a master sparring with pupils. Yet the absence of murderous intent did nothing to lessen the cruelty of his strikes. Sparks scattered as iron met steel. Grips slipped. Swords spun from hands. Blood sprayed as limbs fell and wounds tore open, spilling across the stone.
Within moments, the stairway was slick with blood. Sir Morton would have continued to mercilessly hew the helpless but stubborn few if not for a shadow dropping from above. He glanced up and saw the Royal Mage in the air, descending fast with his broadsword raised high for a powerful overhead slash.
Sir Morton met the blow with a flash of his flamberge. A metallic ring filled the air as sparks flared and dust stirred between them.
It wasn’t a parry but an equally powerful counter.
The Royal Mage used the recoil from the clash to somersault into the open yard below. His face half-smirked, his challenge clear without a word.
Sir Morton turned and advanced toward the Royal Mage, adjusting his stance before bursting forward with sudden speed. Both men closed the distance and traded blows, each strike ringing like a broken symphony through the night. Dozens of brave souls nervously watched from the shadows, drawn by the power behind each swing and the violent rhythm of their blades.
Unlike graceful swordplay, theirs was a series of broken movements. It was devoid of grace, filled with lightning-fast strikes, sharp counters, and savage blows that dented iron and steel. It no longer resembled a duel between men but a clash between armored beasts.
Sharp clangs echoed through the courtyard as sparks scattered between the two Mage Knights. Dust rose in swirling veils as each tried to corner the other, launching feints to draw out a weakness.
But within twenty exchanges, the Royal Mage began to falter. His balance slipped, his guard wavered, and he was pushed back step by step, forced into defense with every blow.
He gritted his teeth, but it was clear that his opponent was far more experienced with the sword. His swordplay looked pale in comparison, and his hands and wrists trembled from the shock of each clash against the wave-bladed weapon.
Then he made a mistake. A shallow parry was punished by the flamberge striking his heavy armor, denting the hardened iron. He reacted by leaping back, dropping to one knee, exhausted, and extending his left hand toward his enemy as though asking him to stop. Yet it was a feint.
[Static Charge!]
The air shifted. A metallic scent filled the space, sharp and dry, before a violent thunderclap burst as if lightning had struck where Sir Morton stood.
“Master!” his squire shouted, running toward him with shield and spear in hand.
“No, don’t!” one of the four cloaked men still locked in the crossbow duel shouted in warning, yet the youth kept going.
“Ha!” The Royal Mage exclaimed, sweat dripping from his chin, his breath ragged. “You’re too confident, Sir executioner. You walked right into my trap.”
The Black Knight stood unmoving, a crackle and strange light dancing across his armor. The translucent shield on his left arm faded away. His flamberge slipped from his grasp and fell to the stone with a twang.
***
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