Chapter 3

Rain pattered over the cobblestones, filling the road with a web of tiny rivulets that flooded into the gutters. Pieter Hoying shivered in the damp confines of Engelfurt’s southwestern gatehouse. He hated the winter. It wasn’t as cold in the city as the uplands in the east, but it was wet – the sort of wet that stole one’s warmth away no matter how many layers they wore.

He wiped the rain that slicked his forehead with a trembling hand, shaking off his soaked cap with the other.

“Hoying!” A voice sounded from the office, “You close that gate yet?”

“You deaf, old man? An army of the Undead could come bashing down the walls and you wouldn’t notice.”

Pieter slammed the door behind him, walking over to the cast iron stove in the corner. As he reached out for a fresh piece of firewood, the man in the office shouted at him.

“Don’t you dare, Hoying!”

“The hell you know what I’m doing?”

“I can hear you!”

The old man, Keyes, seemed to only have an ear for things that he considered problems. Pieter could swear that the man could ‘hear’ any regulations being broken.

“I just closed that damn gate in the pouring rain!” Pieter complained, “Let me warm up a bit, yeah?”

“Those are the new rules, Hoying,” Keyes told him. “Go bitch at the Margrave if you have a problem with it.”

New rules, my ass.

With the new kingdom on the border came a whole slew of problems. For whatever reason, the Bloody Emperor had gone and served up his Empire to them on a silver platter, and the demands that they made had turned the place upside down.

Engelfurt was the headquarters of the Eighth Legion. Now, the Eighth Legion was gone. The important folk called it ‘reorganisation’, but throwing fancy words around meant nothing to the most. The army was gone and with it went most of its soldiers – the ones that half of the industries in the city serviced. All that was left was the aviary for the Imperial Air Service, the local policing forces, and a stripped-down military district that was rapidly turning decrepit.

And that wasn’t all. Engelfurt was the closest imperial city to the Katze Plains, making it a base for the Adventurers and Workers who worked there. For some reason, their jobs had vanished. With those jobs went their coin.

Without the Eighth Legion and the subsidies that paid for high-risk commissions, the city had become a shell of its former self. It had only been a few months since the changes, but the citizens’ lives had already turned for the worse. Everywhere, belts were being tightened and families were looking to get out. Not that most of them could. Every city had a pecking order of their own, and only those in the most sought-after vocations could find a new place for themselves.

The city’s administration was slimming down and cutting corners in an effort to avoid collapsing outright. Pieter snorted. His father always told him that working for the city was best – the most stable. So much for that. It was a good thing he didn’t listen and joined the army instead. He wasn’t out to make a name for himself or rise through the ranks, and posts like his would be around for as long as the Empire stood.

A dull pounding sounded through the gatehouse window: someone was outside.

“Hoying–”

“I heard, dammit!”

Throwing his soaked cap back on again, Pieter clomped up the stairs. On the wall, he leaned out and peered down to find a long caravan stretching out beyond the light of the gate. He shouted down at the man in the front.

“Who’s there?”

What they were was obvious, but he couldn’t think of anything better to say. In response, the man wordlessly held up the emblem of the Merchant Guild.

Gods damn it all.

Couldn’t they have arrived fifteen minutes earlier? He didn’t want to raise the stupid gate. Pieter examined what he could of the caravan, looking for an excuse to keep them out.

He couldn’t be quite sure with the limited light issuing from over the gate, but it looked like the caravan had more women than usual. Near the front was a hooded figure – another woman – but her hood stuck out more than it should have on a Human. He thought he caught a glimpse of pointed ears as she turned her head.

An Elf? Slavers then…

The only Elves that came from the southwest were from the Theocracy, and they were all slaves. Maybe the extra women in the caravan were slaves, too. His gaze lingered over the Elf’s fine, exotic features.

Her ears haven’t been snipped…damn, she must cost a fortune. Some rich asshole’s gonna be short a manor or ten.

Pieter continued to stare down, mesmerised by the beautiful Elf. It was only when five hunched figures gathered around her that he came back to his senses.

They were short. Hunched as they were, the tops of their heads barely came up over the Elf’s waist. His first thought was that they were some of the Dwarves who had started to appear over the summer. The height matched, but they didn’t look stout enough. Dark mantles and dark hoods made identification difficult. He called down to them.

“Hey! You fellows by the Elf!”

One of them looked up at his call. The figure was not only cloaked and hooded, but also wore a dark cloth mask. And it clearly wasn’t a Dwarf. Beady eyes looked up at him from a furred face.

A rat? Damn big one, too.

Pieter went back down the stairs, careful not to slip on the slick stones.

“Hey, Keyes, what does the Empire have to say about, uh…rats of unusual size?”

“There’s no such thing!”

Scratching his head under his cap, Pieter went to open the gate. The wagons rolled through, plain as can be. He watched from the gatehouse door, hoping to catch another glimpse of the stunningly gorgeous Elf. Much to his disappointment, she went by without looking in his direction. The short figures padded in her wake.

“M-master, it is cold and wet!”

“Yes, yes, we are all chilled and soaked. The kind man has opened the gate, but we must not be in the way. Get inside, quick-quick!”

Pieter frowned and narrowed an eye as they entered the customs office. Maybe they were just some sort of Beastmen.

“Gran…Gran!”

“Mph?”

Nemel Gran brushed fragments of baked potato from her mouth before turning from her desk.

“Yes, Captain – what is it?”

“General Ray is calling for you.”

“General…Ray?”

She furrowed her brow in thought for a moment, then her eyes grew wide.

“General Ray, as in Commander-of-the-Eighth-Legion-General-Ray?”

“It’s Staff-Officer-of-the-Sixth-Legion-General-Ray now, Gran.”

“W-what does he want?”

“Who knows? You have your orders, Gran.”

The Captain returned to his desk, pointedly trying to ignore any further attempts at conversation. Nemel crumpled up the wrapper of her late dinner, squeezing it in her fist as she left the office. No one liked talking about General Ray.

He had a reputation as a cold and calculating commander, and rumours abounded over his ambition in the political arena. This was not, however, the reason why people did not speak about General Ray. As a noble scion herself, Nemel did not think poorly of the General’s reputation. The Imperial Magic Academy raised the Empire’s aristocrats to be cold and calculating to an extent, and a bit of healthy ambition was expected out of any member of the imperial nobility.

The reason why people spoke little of General Ray and stepped lightly around him was that he had been reorganised right along with his now-defunct Legion. The Imperial Army, not wanting to lose a talented General, had shuffled General Ray into the staff of the Sixth Legion, which was essentially a demotion. Now, everyone spoke and acted cautiously when it came to the man, fearful that he might take his frustrations out on a hapless soldier.

Nemel pulled the hood of her mantle over her head as she jogged out into a light winter drizzle. The Imperial Army headquarters was seven blocks away from the Arwintar Aviary. With the equipment of an aerial mage, however, Nemel was afforded a measure of protection from the elements. The streets of the base were well lit and swept clean, and even this late at night many other men and women were similarly running back and forth on various errands.

Upon entering the Sixth Legion’s office, Nemel flipped off her hood and combed her fingers through her auburn hair. She did her best to check over her appearance before approaching the front desk. Two clerks watched her expectantly. She picked out the more handsome of the two to address.

“Officer Gran, here to see General Ray.”

The young officer’s expression soured, no longer looking so handsome.

“Third floor,” he said curtly, “third door to the right.”

She nodded in thanks and offered him a bright smile despite his expression before going on her way. The Sixth Legion’s building was busier than Nemel had expected. Officers strode purposely up and down the halls and activity could be heard behind every closed door. It was an abnormal amount of activity for even the Imperial Headquarters, and she could only wonder what it was all about. Hopefully, it had nothing to do with why she had been summoned.

As far as the imperial nobility went, Nemel was not very ambitious. She disliked being caught up in things that were too big, and what might count as her aspirations were probably laughable to most. Not long ago, she aimed to be like her sister, Panasis, who had obtained a highly-coveted position as a maid in one of the ducal houses despite House Gran being minor nobles. As her senior year in the Imperial Magic Academy loomed near and reality set in, however, she decided she didn’t have what it took to serve in the household of a Great Noble and explored her other options.

There were multiple streams in the Imperial Magic Academy – an educational institution that cultivated the next generation of the Empire’s nobility. Commoners were permitted entry, as well, but tuition was steep and scholarships were reserved for the most talented.

Its original purpose was, as its name might suggest, to raise arcane magic casters for the Baharuth Empire. Founded by Fluder Paradyne close to the same time that the Empire had broken off from Re-Estize, the school had since then seen the support of multiple Emperors. Over time, the Imperial Magic Academy had expanded into various faculties to support the development, growth and administration of the Empire, taking its current form under the reign of the Emperor of two generations previous.

A scion of House Gran, Nemel was the youngest in a long line of Wizards who had served as Nobles since before the Empire had seceded from Re-Estize. That being said, it was not any sort of famous lineage known for producing legendary magic casters. Instead, House Gran was best known for being ‘reliable’ when it came to producing Wizards. Every member of House Gran’s main branch had eventually become a Third-tier arcane caster.

When measured against the shining stars of the Empire, this fact lacked lustre. By historical standards, however, it was an achievement that might be considered legendary from a statistical perspective. Magic casters were rare, and Third-tier magic casters were extraordinary enough to be lauded as ‘geniuses’ of a sort. To produce Wizards capable of casting Third-tier magic in an uninterrupted line over seven generations was absurd.

Sometimes, Nemel asked her mother and older sister why this was. The answer was always ‘tradition!’ or ‘hard work!’ or ‘money!’. Commoners always scoffed at a noble family’s traditions or viewed their practises as decadent quirks, but when said noble family popped out Third-tier Wizards without fail, these claims were difficult to refute.

Nemel had, of course, enrolled in the Academy’s magic stream. The demand for magic casters combined with her house’s reliable reputation meant that nearly every arcane magic-related position in the Empire was open to her. House Gran was involved in the magic item industry, but Nemel treated this as a fallback in case her other aspirations didn’t pan out. The Imperial Ministry of Magic would also welcome her with open arms, but the life of research and development that she would have embarked upon with them was too similar to the family business.

Many of her friends and acquaintances had been inspired to enlist with the Imperial Army, so Nemel had ended up looking in that direction, too. As a Noble, she knew that pursuing such childish attachments was no good, but if she could be successful at the same time, then why not? As a bonus, the Imperial Army served potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

She was nowhere near brave enough to join the Knight companies like many of the boys in her class, but the Imperial Army offered as many positions for magic casters as the entire civilian sector. In the end, she decided that, if she wanted to stretch her wings, she may as well fly.

The Royal Air Guard was well known for its elite ranks and cushy capital assignment, but each Legion had air wings of their own – which were collectively known as the Imperial Air Service – for patrols, reconnaissance, and aerial combat. Her current posting was that of a trainee aerial mage.

As a senior in the Imperial Magic Academy, her repertoire of spells was rather sparse. This was, however, by design and her instructors in the Legion were prepared to teach her all of the essentials for a mage in her position. There was a lot to learn, but the basics were required to earn her wings.

It was said that military service was ninety-nine per cent boredom, so utility spells came first. Fly was obvious: cast in case one needed to dismount in the air, was knocked off of their mount mid-flight, or to stay airborne if their mount was somehow killed under them. Message was crucial, as one could not simply speak to others or easily relay information from the back of a Griffon or Hippogriff.

Next came magic used for the vast majority of patrol duties. Divination-school spells for long-distance observation of potential issues and identification of caravan goods. She had several Illusion and Conjuration-school spells to assist ground forces with the tracking and pursuit of targets. There was also a set of Abjuration-school spells for defensive purposes and, of course, various Evocation-school spells for the rare instances where close air support was required. Learning metamagic that increased the reach of her spells was also necessary.

They had started Nemel out on highway patrols, which was where she hoped she would stay. Others might have aimed for more ‘exciting’ work, but not Nemel Gran. All that mattered to her was that it gave her a common connection with her friends, paid well, offered decent working conditions, and was well out of harm’s way. No one could hurt you when you were five kilometres in the air, after all.

At least, that was what she had thought until recently. A week ago, their flight had come across a Frost Dragon. Her flight leader – a veteran Dragoon – was trembling so violently that Nemel could hear the rattling of his armour from her spot in their formation. Apparently, the Frost Dragon was strong enough to wipe out the entire Imperial Air Service – including the Royal Air Guard – never mind a measly highway patrol.

Fortunately, they had been able to carry out their duties without mishap, but Nemel never ever wanted to see a Dragon again.

“You must be Officer Gran.”

The greeting met her as she entered General Ray’s office, and a bright smile instinctively popped up on Nemel’s face. ‘You must be’ was usually a lead-in for some other thing. Considering her position and lack of distinguished service thus far, it probably wasn’t anything good.

“Yes, General,” she replied with a salute. “Officer Nemel Gran, sir.”

“Good,” the General nodded. “I like that you’re prompt.”

Ah crap, he’s buttering me up for something.

General Ray cut a clean figure, with the distinct features common to imperial nobility. He was the very image of a model officer, in fact: she had seen several posters around the Academy campus with his likeness upon them. The General had many admirers in the student body, but all Nemel could wonder about was what he would unleash upon her.

“A week ago,” General Ray said, “you encountered a Frost Dragon on your patrol near Engelfurt.”

That Dragon destroyed a town.

That Dragon raided a merchant caravan.

That Dragon ate a herd of livestock.

You let it slip by, it’s all your fault.

Anything could have gone wrong, but what could she have done?

“Yes, sir,” she said carefully. “Frost 19, I believe.”

“Ah, you even remember the designation. Since you’re already well acquainted, I’m sending you out.”

Nemel blinked several times, the smile on her face freezing solid.

“…out, sir?”

“Frost 19 has just arrived in Engelfurt. I’m assigning you as an attaché for the duration of their stay in the Empire.”

“B-but flight control said that Frost 19 was due to arrive in Arwintar. Sir.”

The corner of General Ray’s lip curled up in disdain.

“‘Flight control’ needs to learn how to read and not make assumptions,” he grated. “The submitted paperwork says that Frost 19 will be arriving in the Empire, and it has. There’s no time to waste – fly out as you are. You can arrange for someone to deliver your belongings later.”

“Understood, sir.”

The frozen smile melted off of Nemel’s face the moment she turned away. It was all she could do to keep from sighing as she left the General’s office.

They’re sacrificing me to a Dragon.

In hindsight, maybe the Knight companies had been the safer choice.