The Barracks is Crippled

The upper levels of the Royal Mines were now different. The sounds of whips and orders had been replaced by the drip of water from the cavern ceilings, and the endless clinking of pickaxes now far more relaxed.

The bodies of the human overseers and guards lay where they had fallen, a testament to Pietta’s unleashed, cold fury. She and Nima stood on an overlook, the grim work of making the mines “human-free” nearly complete.

Suddenly, Pietta froze, a hand going to her temple.

“Lord Yarte…” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Something has happened. He is calling for me.” She turned to leave, her duty to her master overriding everything else. There’s a portal but that portal is destroyed easily by waters.

A figure of unsettling, ethereal beauty moved to block her path. Nima stood before her, her deep-sea-blue hair seeming to float in the dim Glimmerstone light.

“Lady Anna has not told you to return yet,” the siren said, her voice a soft, melodic current that held the unyielding pressure of the abyss. “So I am afraid I cannot let you go.”

Pietta stared, shocked and confused. “What do you mean? Get out of my way, Nima. Lord Yarte is calling me—”

“And my master told me that you cannot leave,” Nima interrupted, her voice still impossibly calm. The 163cm siren seemed to tower over the 150cm corrupted girl, her presence an immovable wall. “I am afraid I can’t let you leave.”

Pietta’s shock curdled into anger. “Are you deaf?! That was an order from the Lich Lord himself! Are you defying him?”

“My orders come from Lady Anna,” Nima replied simply, “Her will is the only current I follow. And her order was clear: secure the mines and await her return.”

Pietta looked at the siren—at the being who, according to the dossier, could summon tidal waves from a single drop of water—and she understood. A direct confrontation was suicide.

Her anger collapsed into a frustrated, fearful hiss. “What does Anna want from me? Why am I being held prisoner by my own ally?”

“She said to wait. She had her plan.”

Pietta was trapped, beneath a city that hated her, unable to answer the summons of her own master, her fate now rested entirely in the hands of a vampire who was proving to be far more powerful and far more terrifying than any lich.

Lord Yarte in the throne room skeletal form was rigid with anger, the white fires in his eyes burning with an intensity that made the other captains shrink back.

“She does not answer,” the lich lord hissed. “Pietta is not answering my summons!” He slammed a fist on the arm of his throne. “We have lost Marutur! We have lost Gryztoz and Pirtor! All of our generals of the front line are gone!”

His burning gaze swept the room. “Then we shall unleash a power they cannot hope to match. Release the Ruinhorn! Let the kingdom feel the tread of Morvane’s favored pet! Let him wreck havoc upon their city!”

The Ruinhorn, a legendary giant dark being, was a weapon of last resort, a living engine of corruption that could turn an entire country into a blighted wasteland.

Demidicus, the only one there intervered, “Not now, Lord Yarte,” he said. “Your anger is justified, but your strategy is flawed. If we unleash the Ruinhorn without a handler, who will tame it if its rage backfires upon us? We need Pietta first. Only she can calm the beast.”

Thwarted by his own subordinate’s logic, Yarte let out a frustrated hiss. He needed to act. He needed his agent in the city. He raised a hand and tore another swirling portal of shadow into existence.

A moment later, Anna stepped through, her expression one of mild annoyance. She looked at the fuming Lich Lord.

“Do I get another order, now? Lich?”

“Pietta is unresponsive,” Yarte snapped, ignoring her impertinent tone.

“She was last seen with your subordinates in the mines. She is not answering my call. Your new order is to return there immediately. Find out what has happened to her. Find out why my authority is being ignored.” He leaned forward, the fires in his eyes blazing. “The Ruinhorn requires its master. Find her. This is your final mission!”

Anna’s mind processed the information with lightning speed. Pietta is the only one who can control their ultimate weapon? Interesting.

“Understood,” she then turned to step back through the portal.

The order was given. In the cold, corrupted throne room, “Demidicus. Go to the barracks. Find out what Anna has been doing. I want to know if she has truly brought them to their knees.”

Demidicus nodded, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. “As you command, my lord.”

Shortly afterward, a man staggered in the direction of the Knight Barracks' demolished main gate. He was wearing the tattered, filthy clothing of a farmer whose homestead had been overrun by monsters. In front of the exhausted guards, he gave one last, desperate gasp and fell to the cobblestones. "Help..."

“Whoa, what happened to you?!” one of the knights exclaimed, rushing forward with two others to help the “survivor” to his feet.

Demidicus allowed them to half-carry him to a nearby bench, The structural damage is severe, he noted. Morale is low. The men are exhausted from constant repairs.

A guard handed him a waterskin and a small, hard piece of bread. Demidicus took them with a shaking hand. “Thank you,” he croaked. “Is… is this all you have?”

The guard let out a bitter, weary sigh. “It’s all we can spare, friend. Our main food pantry… it was burned in the attack two nights ago. We’re on half-rations now, waiting for the next supply carriage from the east, but…” He shook his head. “…it never came.”

Demidicus understood. He finished the water, then looked around the courtyard with wide, feigned innocence and fear. “It’s… it’s just so many men,” he stammered, looking at the guard who had helped him. “Is there… is there no one else? No female guards to help with the women and children survivors?”

The guard’s face darkened, and he looked down at the ground. “We… had one. Captain Zebril. The best Quartermaster in the kingdom.” He kicked at a loose stone, his expression grim.

“But she… she was found out. Treason. Conspiring with a foreign agent from Noston.” He sighed. “It’s not good for morale, I can tell you that. She was respected. Now she’s locked away, awaiting the King’s judgment.”

He seemed to realize he was saying too much to a stranger and quickly changed the subject. “Look, it’s not safe for civilians here. We can help you get to one of the city shelters. It’s safer than this place right now.”

Demidicus shook his head weakly, playing his part to the end. “No… it’s fine… I can walk.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Thank you for the bread and water.”

He walked off. But as soon as he rounded a corner, he turned back to the cocky vampire.

We can attack, my lord, he thought, his mind a silent message to Yarte. The barracks is crippled. Their food stores are destroyed, their supply lines are cut, and their command structure is in chaos.

The Quartermaster, a key officer, has been imprisoned for treason. The vampire’s work is more than effective; it is devastating. She has single-handedly destabilized the kingdom’s primary military installation from the inside out in less than a week.

The intelligence from the barracks was a double-edged sword. Anna had weakened their enemy, but the web of secrets surrounding her had only grown more complex. Yarte, needing a clearer picture of his primary weapon against Frola, turned his burning gaze back to Demidicus.

“The farm,” the lich lord commanded. “Go to the Ironwood farmstead. Report on the state of Marutur’s corruption.”

Demidicus nodded and dissolved into shadow, teleporting instantly. He reappeared on a low hill overlooking the farm, and the sight was one of crude, brutish power.

The fields were actively burning with black, magical fire. The corruption here was chaotic, aggressive, and unstable.

He reported back to Yarte telepathically, his voice a calm analysis of the scene.

“The corruption at the farm is volatile, my lord. Marutur’s brute-force methods have made it… infectious. It could be accelerated.” He paused, adding the necessary warning.

“But a corruption this unstable will be uncontrollable. Once it is fully unleashed, it will not distinguish between friend or foe. It may even attack you, Lord Yarte.”

“I DO NOT MIND,” Yarte’s voice boomed back, a wave of pure, impatient fury.

“One week is far too long! It gives that damned Saint more time to interfere! We will strike now, while their barracks are crippled and their castle sleeps in its false peace! We will shake their foundations! Accelerate it!”

“And Inwa,” he rumbled, referring to the guardian golem of the farm. “The construct. Just let him be, Demidicus.”

The noble’s lips twitched. “My lord?”

“I know your mind,” Yarte sneered.

“I know you wish to corrupt a holy relic for our cause. But that golem has Orivaneia’s own blessing upon it, and it was created by the hands of Ars Terran. We would not want that particular ‘crazy woman’ to come looking for her lost toy now, would we?”

Demidicus, for all his arrogance, understood the hierarchy of power in the universe. Provoking a being like Ars Terran was a line even he was not willing to cross.

He gave a slow, respectful nod.

“I will accelerate this part for the path of Ruinhorn, then. Get ready.”