Chapter 68 - Sacrifice
“The time has come for you to fulfil your end of the deal, Monck,” I spoke, “Are you ready?”
The man nodded, his body language screaming resignation.
“Please lie down here,” I motioned to one of the operating tables in my makeshift lab.
As he did so, I opened one of my diaries, quickly turning the pages. I barely glanced at the diagrams of monsters or my many notes on Alzur’s Double Cross, eventually stopping at my latest experiments.
The Nazairi nobles.
As the saying goes, practice makes perfect. Properly putting my theories into action had advanced my research in leaps and bounds. I had others to transform still, but I did not think it likely that I’d glean any significant insights in the short term. In the end, research couldn’t be rushed. A witcher equivalent was years, if not decades, away.
I didn’t think I could make anything nearly as elegant as a witcher now, or even keep Monck’s mind intact, but there was a good chance I could transform him into something useful. And if not, it wouldn’t be a large loss.
“Thar aev morn veth,” I incanted, gently touching Monck’s forehead. The man went limp.
I double-checked my notes, then got to work. Casting Alzur’s Double Cross was almost rote at this point, though my wounded hand twinged as I worked through the gestures. The resulting change was promising. Monck grew to around twice my own height, though his proportions did not follow properly, making him unnaturally lanky, similar to leshens. His skin turned grey and leathery while his hair fell out. Finally, a second pair of eyes grew while his mouth became a cavern of jagged teeth.
I nodded to myself. It was a decent result, at least physically. Of course, it was the mental aspects that would decide whether the experiment was a failure or not.
With a snap of my fingers, Monck’s eyes opened. All four of them.
We stared at each other for a moment, but Monck stayed silent. A bad sign.
I moved to the side, and his eyes followed, which seemed a bit more promising.
“Monck? If you can understand me, please stand up,” I asked.
The creature obeyed, moving with surprising grace for someone whose body had undergone a drastic transformation mere moments ago.
I hummed. This wasn’t far off my previous attempts.
“Well, let’s move on to something more standardised,” I muttered.
Test number one. I handed Monck a quill and some parchment, “Write your name, please.”
Monck took the quill carefully, then scribbled something utterly unintelligible.
Not as good as I had hoped, but still a marked improvement. The previous subjects hadn’t understood what to do at all.
Test number two. I grabbed a nearby map and showed it to Monck, “Please point to Cintra.”
The creature hesitated, but eventually pointed one clawed finger a bit below the Yaruga. In Cintra, if near a border.
My eyebrows rose, “Excellent.”
The tests continued for a while, as I sought to assess what remained of Monck’s cognition.
The results were better than I had hoped. While there was not much initiative left in the man, he understood orders fairly well, possessed a working memory, and seemed to understand that he should obey me, even if he didn’t quite remember why.
All in all, better than I had hoped.
‘Now, on to the disposables,’ I thought. Then, Vooren. It would make keeping my word to the princess tricky, but needs must. Creating a fourth War Hound while under siege would stretch our supplies thin, but I doubted they’d try to starve us out - which made replacing Matheus necessary. I suspected there would be a plethora of meat just lying around soon anyway.
“Add more dirt,” Degurechaff commanded, as Baron Ortagor looked on in distaste. Isengrim, also watching the proceedings, had a small smile on his face.
It was the first time the Baron had seen the elf smile. It made him even more hideous, in his opinion.
Cyril’s face was white, while Bastan, the other commoner-turned-commander, seemed largely indifferent, if somewhat amused.
The grey creature lay limp, as one of the shaking soldiers did their best to mask it below a layer of dirt and debris near the outer wall. The obvious implications of its vague resemblance to the captured commander of the first Nazairi force disturbed him. The man, Garrik, had been a noble. He had been taciturn, especially after Degurechaff's questioning, but Ortagor had spoken to the man a few times. Now that the Nazair they knew was gone, so was his potential usefulness to Degurechaff. The result of his change of status was the wretched being in front of Ortagor.
The fact that he could follow the sorceress's thoughts on the matter disturbed him as well.
“Lady Degurechaff, surely this is too much,” Ortagor’s gruff voice spoke.
The icy orbs of the sorceress turned to him, “To the contrary, it is not nearly enough, Baron. Hide the next one,” she commanded, as two more of the creatures lay unconscious at her feet.
“Degurechaff,” he dropped the honorific, voice lowering, “He was of noble blood.”
The sorceress frowned, “Is Cintra worth so little to you, Baron? I do not take any pleasure in this, but if the lives of a few Nazairi, noble or not, can safeguard our kingdom, then I am more than willing to make the sacrifice.”
NovelPhoenix is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Ortagor gritted his teeth but held his tongue when he saw the unfriendly looks the soldiers were giving him, as well as their agreeing nods at her words. One of them was even part of his retinue! Bastan’s smile was looking more and more like a smirk.
“You have something to say, sellsword?” He turned on Bastan.
The former mercenary scratched his scruffy beard before pointing a finger at himself.
Ortagor’s eyes flashed, but he held himself back. Bastan was clearly provoking him, but the Baron held himself to a higher standard.
“I say trust in the Lady’s plan. When has she steered us wrong?” Bastan’s dry voice resounded, eliciting approving grumblings from some of the soldiers - those that weren’t currently hiding another of her monsters, fervently hoping not to get their faces bitten off.
Bastan smirked, while Ortagor did his best to calm himself. The situation was really getting to him if he let himself be outmanoeuvred by some uneducated commoner.
“There has to be a better way,” he protested weakly.
“I am all ears,” she responded.
The Baron stayed silent.
“We will hold the wall for as long as we are able,” the sorceress spoke to them all, “But the true battle shall occur within our walls. The wagon fort will serve as an inner wall, our last stand, if need be,” Degurechaff pointed to the centre of the fortress, where soldiers tirelessly worked to reinforce the wagons with earthworks, stakes and similar defensive measures, “You will hold.”
She measured them with her eyes, “While I will hunt down every single mage that sets foot inside. After that, well…” Degurechaff smiled.
When no one spoke, she continued, “Baron Ortagor, you shall command the inner wall and the reserves therein. Cyril and Bastan will handle the defence of the outer wall, as well as the fighting retreat. Isengrim,” she turned to the scarred elf, “Shall help me.”
“Fringilla, Xanthia,” Braathens greeted the two women who entered his tent.
His right arm moved, as if to stroke his goatee, before the sorcerer remembered that the bandage would not let him reach, and let his hand fall.
“Master,” Xanthia greeted, that silly iron mask still on her face, while Fringilla merely inclined her head.
It was unlikely she’d ditch the mask now, with her face ruined. Once they returned to Nilfgaard, he’d see about regrowing her eye. Though such things were difficult and lengthy, he was more than willing to undertake the task for the sake of his apprentice. The young woman did not deserve to go through life deformed.
Fringilla’s disrespect rankled, but while not quite a peer, she still served Toussaint, an independent kingdom for now, so there was little he could do but tolerate it.
“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” He asked.
Fringilla raised an eyebrow, “Is it to explain your mysterious injury? Or is it perhaps related to the sudden onset of cowardice that has befallen you, Lord Braathens?”
“No,” he responded coldly, his brown eyes roving over the woman. Like most sorceresses, she looked young and beautiful, her green eyes and pale skin making her look like a proper aristocrat, even if her hair was too short for her to look truly dignified.
The silence stretched until Fringilla averted her eyes.
“Including us three, there are nine sorcerers in the Army Group North. One has to stay with the Emperor. Four will protect the army. Four will attack.”
Xanthia nodded, recalling her lessons on imperial army doctrine.
“There is, however, an issue,” Braathens continued.
“Tanya von Degurechaff,” Fringilla guessed.
“Yes,” Braathens responded, his eyes flicking to the side, before returning to the two sorceresses, “We do not know enough about her to predict her. She is a wildcard.”
“A powerful one,” Fringilla muttered.
There was a chance that her stint with Fire had damaged her mind as well, though Braathens didn’t voice that thought. It did mean that she’d have to be handled with care, lest she reach for it again.
“That,” he spoke again, “Is precisely the issue. Excluding us three, the rest were born and made in the Imperial College…”
The implications of that were obvious to all present. The college focused on mass-producing mages, with the end goal of providing support to the imperial armies. Indeed, great individual power wasn’t something that the College fostered - by design. It wouldn’t do for sorcerers and sorceresses to be too powerful, lest they stop properly fearing the throne. Power was a privilege ill-suited for the masses.
However, the weakness of that approach was unveiled here. The College graduates attached to Army Group North had little to no experience properly battling other mages, and would find no success practising against Degurechaff.
Having seen what the Nordling sorceress was capable of firsthand, Braathens had little doubt that she would slice through them as a knife through butter.
“Naturally, I will safeguard the Emperor,” he continued.
“Naturally,” Fringilla parroted.
“You two will kill Degurechaff. The Cintran army, the dogs - those shall be the concern of the collegiates. Her death shall be your only purpose,” Braathens continued without missing a beat, “I expect you to coordinate with Mage-Hunter Director Coehoorn’s team. They did not have an opportunity to shine in the last battle, but they have experience in such matters, as well as equipment. Should Degurechaff still live when we breach, they will assist you.”
“Why not meet her at her level?” Xanthia finally spoke, an edge in her voice.
“Her level?” Braathens frowned.
“The beasts,” Xanthia hinted, and Braathens understood.
“Fringilla, we are done here,” he dismissed. The Toussainti sorceress looked none too happy, but she obeyed, leaving the two of them alone with a curious glance.
His eyes bored into Xanthia’s one through her mask.
“Goetia,” Braathens spoke after a moment, “Is shunned for a good reason. I have not chastised you, for your actions served us well. The news of the demon that the Mordain dynasty unleashed through the sacrifice of their own - and still lost - is already spreading through Nazair. Governor Octavian would surely be grateful to you if he knew. The demon shall ensure that the extinction of the Mordain agnatic line is palatable to the Nazairi.”
Braathens paused, measuring his words, “Indeed, were you a mere bystander, I would praise you for your foresight in not interfering. But you summoned the energumen yourself.”
“I took all the necessary precautions,” Xanthia defended herself.
“And so you are patting yourself on the back, as everything worked out according to your plan?”
Xanthia’s one eye burned defiantly behind her mask.
“It is a trap,” Braathens said matter-of-factly, “If precautions worked, why would Goetia be banned in both our lands and the North? Yes,” he preempted any protests, “They did work. This time. However, extraplanar entities - whether demons or others, have defied proper categorisation since the dawn of time.”
“Once, twice, thrice, you shall succeed. Eventually, something a bit too clever, a bit too powerful, will notice and enter our world at your behest. Then, you will die - having taken all the necessary precautions.”