Chapter Four: The Fall of the City-Steam Alchemy Frenzy(Why is that?)

“Clear the way, quickly!” someone shouted atop a horse in the alleyways of Blackstone Fortress. “Urgent military news! Out of the way!”

Derricht and several family nightwatchers barely managed to scramble from the middle of the street, narrowly escaping being trampled to death. These foreign mercenary troops were always brutish; even in front of the eldest son of the Duke of Mori, lord of Blackstone Fortress, they dared to gallop recklessly through the streets.

“What military news?” Derricht spat, shouting after them.

The horseman, bearing the command banner, did not look back and continued his wild ride, followed by another wave of pounding hooves. Derricht could no longer restrain himself and seized the reins of one rider, forcing the fully armed warhorse to a halt.

Blackstone Fortress was still in the throes of Winter’s Eve festivities, and galloping through the streets was dangerous. Derricht wanted to warn this arrogant mercenary.

But just as he opened his mouth to scold him, he saw the man’s eyes were wide with terror, bloodshot and round as ox eyes.

“The Black Iron Legion is upon us—just ten miles away. Tens of thousands of Black Irons are advancing with blazing torches, lighting the whole sky.”

“In this icy night? Are they mad?”

Under Derricht’s fixed gaze, the herald swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “We’re being attacked from both sides—a horde of monstrous beasts has appeared at our rear.”

Four guards in blue-and-red checkered cloaks thundered past on tall steeds. Derricht recognized them as officers from the city’s frontline defense. If battle was upon them, why weren’t these officers at their posts? Derricht quickly let go of the herald, dodged the warhorse, and raced through the winding streets toward the castle’s council chamber.

The jubilant crowds of Winter’s Eve had turned to a desperate flood of refugees.

The ordinary residents of Blackstone Fortress, upon hearing the news, all surged in the same direction, eager to escape from the southern side before the beast tide closed in.

The warning bells rang ever louder, their clanging striking dread into every heart.

Rena, who had just become a maid in the Stevenson household, joined the surging crowd. She should have remained at the manor in Saltwell Town, but when the tavern planned a visit to Blackstone Fortress, she insisted on accompanying her mother and cousin Charles. Her foot was trodden by the crowd, and the icy ground made the pain worse, but she clenched her teeth and stifled her scream.

She bit her lip and pressed on, her mother gripping her sleeve.

Malt, knowing nothing of the details, saw the panic on every face as they were swept with the crowd toward the southern gate. Mother and daughter were carried by the human tide out of the city.

Charles, recently promoted from nightwatch to Duke Mori’s personal retinue, stood atop the city wall and spotted his aunt and Rena in the crowd below.

He fought the urge to call out to his kin, watching as they stepped just outside the great bronze gate before it was slammed shut by the guards.

Charles, holding a nearly four-foot-long diamond-shaped shield of heavy oak studded with iron, breathed a sigh of relief.

A mercenary soldier handed him a banner, and Charles turned his gaze back to the other end of the wall.

Outside, in the endless black night, the beast horde could be seen advancing in a dense mass.

Assigned to defend the southern wall, Charles swallowed hard as he peered into the distance.

Duke Mori’s white beard, unshaven for days, covered his chin and cheeks, but it was not for lack of a razor.

He stood atop the highest tower of Blackstone Fortress, the council chamber’s spire, surrounded below by mercenary officers awaiting orders.

His sword gleamed with a deadly sheen, evidence of frequent polishing by his attendants; its edge was so sharp that flesh would scarcely withstand it.

From the folds of his fur cloak, Duke Mori extended a hand adorned with a jade ring, accepting a longsword from his attendant.

The blade was unusual in shape, with a grip just large enough for an adult’s palm, and silver inlays etched a narrow, vertical line down its length. The guard was shaped like a falcon’s wing.

“This sword was won by my Stevenson forebear, who drove out the foreign tribes and earned the honor of the Pioneer,” Mori told his son with pride.

Mori Stevenson brandished the sword, then handed it to his eldest son, Derricht—the oft-overlooked heir.

“In the name of the Pioneer’s descendant, bear this sword. When the day comes, use it to avenge me. Nothing could be more fitting.”

Though the filigreed silver sword was beautiful, Derricht—trained with the blade—felt its weight and thought it might suit his younger brother Carlos better. Yet she knew it was futile to argue with a father so resolute, so said nothing.

“Take our people and the family from Blackstone Fortress. Go to Swordmaster’s Haven and claim the Stevenson ducal title. With my ruined flesh in exchange for the lost title, I can face our ancestors at last.”

“Father!” Derricht Stevenson knelt, clutching the greatsword in agitation.

“Protect the family—and your brother.”

The silver-haired man waved him off and turned to face the balcony, drawing his own sword and raising it high in salute.

“Fight for the Empire of Light and for glory!”

Duke Mori, commander of Blackstone Fortress, cried out from the open balcony.

Below, the mercenary captains rallied to his call.

“For the Empire of Light and for glory!”

“Father!” Derricht whispered through gritted teeth, gripping his belt with trembling hands. At last, he turned, saluted his father with a careless gesture, and led his followers away.

Thus began the Battle of Blackstone Fortress.

Derricht led a hundred mounted guards with raised shields, breaking out through the southern gate.

Meanwhile, at Loa Avenue to the north, the upper gate had fallen to a surprise assault by the Bat Riders, who had lain in ambush along the cliffs. The Black Iron Dwarf Legion gathered in force at the northern gate, awaiting its opening.

From the distant Rodney Mountains, the beast horde had drawn to within a mile of the southern wall; the vanguard of silver wolves had come to within half a mile, already hunting those fleeing through the breach.

As Derricht’s hundred riders burst from the southern gate, a pack of silver wolves gave chase, howling with eyes aglow, charging at the torch-bearing knights.

Once past the gate, Derricht wasted no time, spurring his horse eastward at full gallop, the silver wolves in hot pursuit.

In the darkness, the wolves easily outpaced even the best warhorses.

Soon, the two sides clashed in deadly combat.

Derricht struck with his sword, but a massive, third-tier alpha wolf leapt backward, dodging the blow. The silver blade whistled through empty air.

Another second-tier wolf sprang from the side, and Derricht raised his shield, smashing the beast aside.

The wolves were swift and relentless, keeping close to the fleeing knights, seizing every opening to attack.

All around, men cried out as the wolves dragged riders from their mounts in the night.

The hundred-strong company dwindled rapidly, their torches burning fewer and dimmer.

“The southern gate has fallen!” someone cried out in anguish. “Blackstone Fortress is lost!”

Derricht’s heart clenched. Gazing back, his eyes blurred as he realized the guardsmen had lasted less than an hour against the twin onslaughts. What carnage must have unfolded at the northern gate? Thoughts of his father made Derricht reel.

Was it worth it—for the family?

The clash of blades jolted Derricht back to the moment.

Sword and shield in hand, he fought fiercely. He remembered that he, too, was in mortal peril and had to keep breaking through.

To keep his father’s sacrifice from being in vain, to inherit his will, Derricht knew he must make it alive to Swordmaster’s Haven.