Chapter 201 - Behind the Locked Door V

“Doesn’t look like they’re coming back.” One uniformed centaur muttered to another as she stared at the open field spread out in front of her. “It’s been half an hour. What do you say? Do we keep marching, or do we stand down?”

“Why are you asking me?”

The first voice belonged to a carefree mare, a tiny officer with a loose-fitting uniform and a golden crest atop her chest, while the second was owned by an annoyed beardless stallion, her second in command and a greenhorn with only a few real battles under his belt. As the neophyte had surmised, there was little valid reason for the seasoned veteran to seek his advice. While he was certainly reasonably intelligent, having passed through officer school with outstanding grades in everything but combat, his booksmarts could not measure up to her three-hundred-year career.

“I thought it might be worth hearing what the fresh blood’s got to say.”

The spinster’s cheeky grin was met with an annoyed scowl. It was not the first time that such harassment had taken place, and Nero was convinced that it would not be the last. Fausta had bullied him ever since the time he had accidentally walked in on her in the midst of prioritising pleasure over deskwork.

“Now stop stalling already, damn it. Tell me what you wanna do and why.”

“There’s no point. You’re just going to say that I’m wrong no matter what I tell you,” he said, as he scratched his scruffy head. His hair had been perfectly blonde just a few months prior, but many of the beautiful golden strands had started turning grey not too long after he was put under her command.

“Yeah? Well too bad. You’re doing it anyway.” She raised her shieldlance, a particularly special piece of property constructed by a master blacksmith, and lightly tapped it against his shoulder, just hard enough that the spikes adorning its tip would not pierce his armour. “Unless you want me to smack you.”

The stallion pressed a hand into his face and groaned. “Goddammit. I still don’t know how I ended up in the goddamn army of all things.” After mumbling under his breath, the fifteen-year-old child soldier moved his hand to his chin and considered the answer to his superior’s question. He made sure to think long and hard, to account for all the various details and possibilities, and hopefully provide an answer that would not be met with violence.

“We should keep going.” He paused, continuing only as the pony beside him threateningly raised her weapon. “Rufus and Salvus aren’t bad at what they do. If both of them are still missing, then it means they’re either dead or unable to turn back. The best way to get any meaningful intel out of this is to send a pair back, so everyone else knows where we went, and have the rest of the unit push forward.”

“You know what? That wasn’t too bad,” Fausta put away her blade, threw an arm around the lad’s back, and slowly traced it around to his rear, which she greeted with a slap. “You need to think more about the timeframe. Your reasoning still fell a bit short too, and I still don’t think your balls have dropped yet, but it was much better than what I was expecting.”

“I don’t see how that last part is in any way related,” muttered the teenager. He flapped his feathers and escaped the groping hand by getting himself off the ground. Unlike most of the others in her unit, the recon team’s commander did not possess a pair of functional wings. Hers were still present, but their magic had been ruined, permanently destroyed by a particularly nasty curse.

“It has everything to do with everything,” she said, with a laugh. “The only reason your singing voice doesn’t pack that extra oomph is ‘cause you still don’t know a woman’s touch.”

“Comments like that are why none of your suitors ever stay around.”

“Eh, who cares. You’ll take me anyway, right? Once the army’s done having its way with me.”

“Of course not,” said the teenager, with a horrified grimace.

“How unreasonable. Can’t y’entertain a fair maiden’s fantasies for once in your life?”

“Hell no! Not to mention, you’re hardly a maiden at all.”

“Say that again, and I’ll make sure the marquis docks your pay.”

Both parties were well aware that any opportunity he gave would be readily and shamelessly exploited. Already three hundred years old, and still without a groom, Fausta was getting more than just a little bit desperate.

The warrior’s appearance was not the problem. Though not entirely capable of what most would consider sentient thought, she was certainly beautiful enough to charm most at a glance. Her features were delicately carved, her ears sported above average dimensions, and her body would forever remain delightfully youthful, courtesy of the sun goddess’ blessing. Many chose to enlist in her unit precisely because they were enamoured by her looks and the rumours that she was seeking a husband. Nero was hardly any different. Having fallen in love at first sight, he transferred away from his safe, backline division for the sole purpose of winning her over.

So why, one might ask, would an interested party like himself openly reject her blatant advances? Contrary to the average outsider’s opinion, it was not a matter of youthful indiscretion; he was neither hiding his emotions behind a shy mask, nor backing down for fear of retribution. And while half the unit had certainly joined because they were unable to peel their eyes from her figure, the only ones still held captive were new recruits and those that shared her sex.

Nero, like all the others, had been completely and utterly repulsed by the man-repellent that was her boorish personality. As an orphan raised by gruff military men, she had inherited nearly all their habits and mannerisms. It was often said that she knew not the concept of an inside voice, and would only ever speak at the top of her lungs. She drank, smoked, scuffled, and gambled with all the vigour of a man in the midst of his midlife crisis. Every time she saw an object that caught her fancy, she would buy it without regard for the cost.

Even perverts that desired her solely as an object of lust saw their desires defeated after a single night. The rumours spawned by those she broke claimed that, in bed, she was twisted beyond belief. Of the seventeen that had crossed the line, twelve turned their interests towards men, four joined celibate holy orders, and one went as far as drowning himself in a nearby river, citing that life was not worth living with his body so soiled.

Despite her lack of success, Fausta herself saw no reason to change her behaviour. Even without a husband, she carried on fine, and often claimed that she would one day find someone that loved, accepted, and married her for who she was. That, of course, was an obvious pipe dream. Everyone acquainted with her knew she lacked the mental state to maintain a long-term relationship. Making compromises—sacrificing her own self interests—was not something she ever considered, on the battlefield or not.

It was precisely growing disillusioned with the physically perfect but mentally deficient pegasus that had inspired Nero to compose his latest piece. So perfect was the symphony that the gods had recognised it as an ars magna and reclassified it as a skill of its own. And while such an epitome was certainly uncommon, the bard was far from satisfied. It was only possible for each class to possess a single ars magna, and the fact that he had acquired prior to his 400th level left him with the impression that he was at his god-mandated limit. Until he went further beyond, until he mastered the ruin minstrel class, he would be unable to produce anything better than the masterpiece he had already put behind him.

“So?” His lips twisted into a frown and his arms crossed, the skyrunner looked down at the less-than-tranquil meadow below. “What are we going to do, commander?” His voice was laced with venom, but the inquiry itself was genuine.

“Glad you finally asked.” Chortling, the lieutenant pulled out her pamphlet and flipped it to the page that contained the fifth floor’s map. “First things first, we have the men set up camp. It’s late, and for some, the visibility is still markedly worse than it was during the day. The two we sent ahead might’ve been caught up in some danger, or maybe gotten themselves lost, but it’s always possible that they just decided to hole up and keep investigating. Unfortunately, that happens to be something that only time will tell.”

The boy took a moment to digest the suggestion before nodding for her to continue.

“You were also right ‘bout needing to have a message sent back to the count, but I don’t think we’ll need to bother sending a runner. They’re coming right after us, and splitting our forces ain’t smart if it turns out that the two we sent ahead really did manage to get themselves killed.”

The mare walked back to the opening leading into the meadow and punched a hole into the rockface. Inside the fresh cavity, she shoved several sticks and other bits of plant matter, forming a makeshift but somewhat believable nest. Within it, she placed not a letter or magical device, but rather a live creature retrieved from her pouch—the only delivery mechanism that the dungeon was sure not to consume.

Shaped exactly like a parrot, the homunculus was a tool developed specifically for a single purpose. Not entirely intelligent, its mental faculties allowed it to do little but listen, memorise, and repeat. In the past, its inability to distinguish between friend and foe had led many a military secret to leak, but that was a problem long solved, and not by way of improving the monster’s intellect.

“Seven winds. Five twisted pentagrams. One inverse tomato.”

Having made her report in code, the spinster led the boy back to the rest of the unit and announced that it was time for their nightly break.

___

Claire woke before sunrise. Her eyes fluttering open, she slowly lifted her head and fought back a small yawn. She had fallen asleep with her mind set on the phantom’s home, but had no memory of any such visitation. The night had gone by in the blink of an eye.

Arciel was the only one awake. Having been assigned fourth watch, she sat in front of the fire with her face resting in her hands and her mind obliterated by boredom. Her clothes were still somewhat roughed up by the previous day’s encounter. She would need a smooth, heated surface to fix them, but she was traveling light, and there were no maids present to pack or attend to her necessities.

But while she did not have a clothes iron, she did have a plentiful amount of the element itself. A small ball of blood floated in front of her, its shape changing once every few seconds. Her shadow was doing the same. It was constantly distorting, albeit on a completely different timer. Basic remedial exercises, conducted to improve her mastery over the mystic arts.

“Good morning, Claire.” The squid did not bother righting her posture or looking in the chimera’s direction, and her words were much heavier than usual, spoken with exhaustion woven into every word.

A kinder soul would likely have butted in and interrupted her melancholy with words of encouragement, but Claire closed her eyes and minded her own business. The previous night’s thoughts were still swirling around in the back of her mind, so fresh that it was like her train of consciousness had never been broken, and seeing the vampire’s state had only added weight to her burden.

Gritting her teeth, she turned her focus on one of the few things that she had yet to investigate, the skill that Flux had deemed beyond her means. Though reading its description had told her very little, and focusing on it provided no insight as to its details, she did glean from her investigation an interesting result. Every time she centered her mind around it, the skill would fill her head with meaningless bits of knowledge. It described eruptions, earthquakes, tsunamis, hail storms, draconic attacks, and countless other cataclysmic events. Her eyes were drawn all over, darting between the various articles and their morbid, historical notes.

There were many pages with redacted details, but none were anywhere as exaggerated as the page detailing tempests. From the bits of text that were left, she gathered that they were storms, and that they were considered violent disturbances of the natural order, and that there had been exactly six such events throughout Mara’s history. While most other disasters had been chronicled with more information than her mortal mind could handle, the mislabeled category featured only dates and coordinates, with no further explanation as to its mechanisms or potential causes. At the very bottom of the entry was even a note that explicitly marked the term as a disambiguation, and stated that they were not meant to be confused with cyclones or tornadoes.

“Did someone vandalise the article for fun?” Voicing the question under her breath, she opened her eyes again to confirm the news brought by her ears. Everyone but Sylvia was either stirring or already up. Natalya was doing her morning stretches, the mantis was sharpening his scythes, and Boris was idly chewing on his own tail.

Knowing that it would soon be time to depart, Claire shrunk to her usual size and created a basket of bread. There was no reason to dwell any longer on her lack of power. She was already in the midst of solving the problem. As soon as breakfast was over, they would pass through the portal previously hidden behind the shoggoth’s corpse and seek the world behind the locked door.