PW Chapter 278: Life Continues (Patreon)

Less than a minute later, Astrid was done with being able to heal people with Regeneration. Many of the people she tended to had similar burns, evidently the result of a Mage or Wizard from the opposite side. Seeing how much damage a well-protected Steel tier had been able to work on the walls, Astrid found herself quite grateful that there hadn’t been an Adamantium-tier Wizard in the attack. If there’d been someone able to do what Greely did on the opposite side, she couldn’t imagine if the Wanderers would have been able to do much.

She didn’t need anybody else to tell her why that was the case. It didn’t take long to realize what the four leaders of this attacking army had in common; each of them had at least solid physical attributes, and they were tough. Or, in the case of the Sniper, nearly impossible to pin down. A Wizard would be less mobile and easier to kill, and would be a valuable target that would struggle to escape a concentrated attack. Unless they could fly, Astrid supposed, but that wouldn’t really matter during the approach through the Dungeon proper.

Regardless, there wasn’t a true support Class person or a caster, largely because they would be too easy to lose. As far as Astrid could tell, the three escaping Adamantium tiers didn’t care that they left behind an army. All that they, and perhaps the Marchioness as well, cared about was preserving their upper ranks. The army attempted to escape, but received no support from Giselle and Gregor as they fled.

Sure, the Marchioness must have been convinced she would win this surprise assault. As it was, even with a warning that the Duchess shouldn’t have received without insane luck, it was a close thing. But to have no plan to escape with the soldiers in the event of a loss? It didn’t make any sense.

Astrid sighed as she was forced to reckon with the fact that there were obviously things going on that she didn’t understand. As she walked out of the building, the Doctor mentioned he would seek her out an hour from now, and she didn’t disagree. She could spare people their suffering though the sacrifice of just  a few minutes and her Skill’s use, so she wouldn’t hold back. 

Then, standing in the center of the space between the walls and the residences, Astrid felt lost. There was so much that had happened in less than a day since she’d left Stahlstadt with her party and Isaiah, and she found herself wondering just what she had signed up for. This war would continue to chew through people and leave broken minds and bodies in its wake. She would probably be among those left suffering, even if she survived.

Instead of dwelling on that almost certain suffering, though, she remembered the people in the hospital she had helped. The soldiers on the walls who were certain to lose the fight and become unwilling subordinates to the Marchioness. The children here in the city who would grow up under a totalitarian regime. Without the Wanderers there to at least occupy Misha, the fight would have gone worse and probably would have turned against Purcell’s defenders. There would be few, if any, who would escape this battle alive or free, had she held herself back for fear.

Was she in pain? Did she regret Pauline’s death? Of course, to both questions. But was she willing to stay back and wait for somebody else to solve problems? Would she be willing to simply stand back and hope instead of act? Definitely not.

Stopping her self-pity, Astrid walked off to find her party.

***

Marchioness

She felt the moment when Misha died. While her Class rarities were rather unremarkable, her skill as a general and her Skills as a commander were quite valuable. How could she have died when the stage was set so strongly in her favor? The Marchioness started to grind her teeth, but quickly schooled her expression. She was the one who would evolve into a Queen; she needed to control her expression.

With a thought, she started burning through vast reserves of her mana, her mind stretching as she reached out to speak with Gregor. After nearly a full minute, the connection was established and she could speak with him.

“My lady,” he greeted. His mind was desperate for her touch, stretching out like a needy lover. Perhaps, if there hadn’t been any deaths, she would have given him what he wanted. Instead, she remained separate, standoffish.

“What happened?”

“As you are already aware, Misha was killed,” he said without delay. “Somehow, the Duchess became aware of our attack and sent six people to thwart our attack. They arrived only half an hour after we arrived, about three quarters of an hour ago, now.”

“Who are they? Where do they leave from?” she demanded, excitement beginning to thrum in her chest despite the loss. “If we can take this opportunity to destroy one of her fortresses, we will consider this a victory. Sending that many to Purcell’s rescue will have crippled her defenses elsewhere.”

“Only one of the six is known to us, the Druid Ranger hybrid from Stahlstadt, I believe,” he answered. “However—”

“She managed to hide five Adamantium tiers from me?” the Marchioness demanded. “That’s impossible! If she had those, she would have stopped our revolt in the first place! Were all of them brand new and still under level 150? How many did you kill before you escaped?”

“If I may, my lady,” Gregor spoke, his tone deferential as she realized she had allowed herself to become too agitated. When she remained silent, ready for him to speak, he somehow mentally bowed his head in deference and continued.

“All of them were Mithril tier. A party of five, who I know nothing about. A Warrior, a Guard, an Assassin, a Wizard, and a supporter of some kind. I don’t know anything of the last one—he didn’t engage in battle.”

The Marchioness let herself sit in that news for a moment. Perhaps they were nearly at the point of evolution, and could therefore stand up against those people who had evolved. She waited for Gregor’s explanation to continue.

“Every one of them was exceptional, from what I saw. As an example, the Warrior is exceptionally tough. She took a shot from Stefan and was fine. High Fortitude, high Power. Middling Alacrity, has some utility to her Skills. Powerful enough to break through Misha’s armor and expose her to a killing blow from the Assassin. The Assassin has a high focus on maneuverability and ambushing, melting into shadows. I wasn’t able to stop her easily, so definitely a high-utility Mithril tier Skill, possibly several working in combination.”

Gregor continued explaining what he had learned about each of these new enemies, and she carefully kept herself from interrupting as he gave his entire report. When he finished, she gave herself a full second to compose herself.

“Am I then to understand that a group of Mithril tiers was able to kill Misha?”

“Yes.”

“So, because of how you were talking about them, I can understand that at least some of them remain alive. How many did you capture?”

“Zero, my lady. Pauline was able to stop my escape with the warrior as my prisoner. She held the line long enough for Greely to appear and potentially increase our losses. Giselle and I made the decision to retreat instead of test ourselves against our enemies. Unfortunately, Stefan was a poor matchup against the Ranger Druid hybrid and Greely. With Pauline there, there was no telling how long they could entrap us.”

“The singular silver lining to this part of the battle is that, approximately one minute after I led our retreat, I received the kill notification for Pauline.”

“The self-righteous biddy is dead? I’d consider that a minor victory in our favor. It could only be better if it was the blind bastard instead.”

“I knew you would,” Gregor answered, his voice supremely smug. “As an aside, the secondary plan was achieved perfectly, and we should see its results start to bear fruit before long.”

For now, she would find these promising Mithril tier seedlings. Under her control, they could become something truly amazing, she was sure.

The Marchioness allowed herself a smile. Yes, this was not the unmitigated victory she had anticipated or planned for. However, enough had gone her way that she couldn’t consider it a loss either. It was a risk, this fallback plan, but it should go her way, given the right amount of time.

She wasn’t much of a Baker. In fact, she’d never set foot inside of the kitchen. However, she had been told that bread required just enough time to rise. Not long enough, and the bread would be tough; too long and it would collapse in on itself.

Perhaps this plan would result in the most delicious loaf: victory

***

“She only really let a few of us call her ‘Mother’,” David explained. “By the time she started picking up children all over, she thought she was too old to be called ‘Mother’. If she had fully gone on and tried to adopt you, I’m sure she would’ve had you call her Grannie as well. Even so, she had all of us call each other siblings. It all got a little bit confusing when some of the oldest children started having kids of their own, but she never cared about creating confusion in the family, so long as we continued to stick together.”

Astrid smiled as she took the proffered drink from the man that had declared himself brother. Now, a day since she and the Wanderers, along with Greely, Isaiah, and Pauline, had broken the siege, the funeral for Pauline, along with all of the other fallen soldiers, was taking place. Apparently, her children had demanded that she be treated much the same as every other soldier was, with respect, but no pomp and circumstance.

Most of the soldiers’ families gathered together with tearful goodbyes and bitter or heartbroken weeping, but the old Knight’s family simply sat together and told stories. When Astrid had wondered why they were being so casual about it, David, as apparently her oldest child and the one in charge, had given a simple explanation.

“She thought it would be nice to die in her sleep or surrounded by her family, but Mother never made a secret of the fact that she expected to die much like she did. She was a Knight, and that meant she’d sworn herself to protecting people, and wouldn’t allow herself to just sit back when there was someone who could be helped.”

“Mother used to say that she was more careful when she was younger,” Arwen jumped in. According to herself and David, she was a good twenty years younger than the man with a goatee, and she was old enough to have three children of at least six years. “Apparently, she would actually look to see if she could survive a fight she was getting herself into. I don’t believe it, but I know that, once she hit eighty years old, she decided that she wouldn’t hold herself back from any fight, even if she knew it would get her killed.”

Astrid smiled at that, nodding as Muti sat silently beside her. The Barbarian had been welcomed into the farewell celebration as easily as Astrid herself had, and they’d served her as easily as anyone else, even as she sat in regular light clothing.

“She never cared where someone came from. Just if they needed her. So, we try to be the same. We have… seven Barbarian siblings?” David said, looking at Arwen.

“Eight,” she answered. “You’re forgetting Shula.”

“Oh, right,” he nodded. “She found him almost two years ago. I think he’s in the west right now. Wanted to see the Hiveguard’s lands while he figured out where he wanted to go with his training. We’ll need to tell him about Mother…”

Astrid shook her head, amazed. “How do you keep them all straight?”

“I don’t,” David shrugged. “She adopted me when she was almost fifty, and that was about fifty years ago. Damn. I’m older now than she was when she found me. Anyways, I think her total count is somewhere around almost two hundred. Her personal goal was to find at least one child who needed help every season, and I think she pretty much never missed that goal.”

Silence settled over the group as Astrid tried to understand just how much good the woman had done like that. Would Pauline have helped more if she focused on getting stronger as fast as possible? Maybe she had the potential to reach Arcanite, so if she had, then she could have fought against the unspeakable horrors within the Dungeon proper. But, for the two hundred people she’d found and saved, she was mother, friend, and savior. Then, she’d saved Astrid.

“She’s an inspiration,” Astrid ventured, looking at her new “siblings.”

“Always was,” David agreed. “Even now, she’s died doing what she lived doing—helping.”

Silence settled over the adults, but the dozen or so children nearby seemed to get over their own grief and shyness as they approached Muti.

“Why are your ears like that?” they asked, reaching up to her. Even sitting, she was much too tall for them to reach, but the golden-haired woman just smiled down at the children. She took care not to show much of her teeth as she did so, turning her head to expose the ear to the little ones as she pulled her hair back.

“I am not a Human, I am a Barbarian. That is why I look the way I do.”

“Oh, like Aunt Oulara,” the girl speaking nodded. “She has real pretty hair like you, it’s a shiny blue. But her ears are like ours!”

“Then she is probably not a Barbarian,” Muti answered.

“No, she is! She told me!”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah! Uncle David, tell her. Tell her about Aunt Oulara!” the little girl turned as she said it, staring at the older man. He nodded severely, turning to Muti.

“She was cast out of her Horde, her ears cut and her teeth filed. It’s a painful story she refuses to tell, and, so far as I know, she’s gone back to the plains your people inhabit. I haven’t seen her in a year, at least.”

Muti’s kindly face melted away at that. Her jaw clenched, but she turned back to the little girl as she schooled her face. “I was wrong. I apologize. She is, indeed, a Barbarian.”

Astrid turned towards Muti, narrowing her eyes in a question. Muti whispered in a low voice the children couldn’t hear, “It is similar to what was done to me. A shame to be cast on her, to take away much of her beauty and mark her as unwanted. She was given no chance to prove herself once again to her Horde, though.”

Though she wondered why that same woman would have returned to the Hordes after being cast out like that, Astrid remained where she sat instead of pressing her questions. She, after listening to another dozen stories of Pauline’s heroism, excused herself to go and listen to other mourners. Most were, at best, unwilling to bare their hearts to a stranger, but those few who did speak to her spoke of bravery, of sacrifice, and of hope.

None accused her of arriving too late, of being too weak, or of being insufficient. Instead, there was plenty of gratitude for her arrival, for her hard work, and for her willingness to come and put herself in danger for those who lived here. 

It was perhaps more painful to be thanked than to be shouted at.

The most notable interaction she had with the survivors was a grieving soldier who walked between coffins and poured some beer out on each one he passed, taking a drink for each of his dead comrades as he spoke.

“We saw you arrive,” he said, smiling bitterly as he patted one coffin. “Merle here heard you shouting before you jumped. She said that was the call of our hero. She was right, you know. We were losing. Just as you jumped, she got hit by that General traitor’s spear. Took Merle right in the head, and she went down. The explosion took me off my legs. I had to crawl over to see what was happening. You got revenge for her. I saw you fight. Not much that a Steel like me could see clearly, but you move like lightning. Smashed her right good, I say. Fist of the Duchess smashing the shiny bastard right down. Crushed her. Then lightning and shadow, blade and hammer…

“Thank you. Wish Merle coulda seen it. She was a good friend.”

He wandered off after that, visiting the corpse of each of his friends and telling each a recounting of the battle and how it was won. His gaze kept flicking over to Astrid, and she wondered if she was worthy of this respect he was paying her. Deciding that she couldn’t turn down this attention, she just nodded her appreciation and continued on her path, hearing what stories people would tell without making a nuisance of herself.

The mourning went through the night, and by the time morning came, the Duchess’s army had arrived.