Horizon of War Series

Chapter 177: Cascade

Cascade

Sagarius

As dawn broke over Elandia province, a thick mist lay heavily upon the land. This part of the Imperium was cloaked in forests and rolling hills, lending them a mystical appearance. The air was damp and earthy, saturated with the scent of pine and wet foliage.

Humans had built towns and villages and opened vast areas for agriculture, yet they were clustered tightly, surrounded by woodlands. The thick forests and hills made the province naturally difficult to traverse, especially in wet conditions.

Despite being obscured by fog, the forest was alive with the rustling of wildlife—birds chirped from hidden branches, and the occasional deer darted through the lush foliage.

Sagarius was familiar with this area, but it had been some time since her last visit, and the roads and towns had changed. Some had grown larger, while others, once promising, had become abandoned ruins.

During one of their stops, Bald Eagle met with one of the local knights to discuss some matters. With time available, Sagarius felt it was time to teach Sir Munius and Marc.

Without informing them too much, she took them deeper into the neighboring forest, and the two followed unquestioningly.

Sagarius stopped in front of a large tree that towered over the others, so massive that it stood alone, with no other trees in its close vicinity. Small stone structures, half-buried with decomposing leaves, likely old altars of past beliefs, were scattered on one side.

"It's probably as old as the Imperium," the young knight observed.

"Possibly," Sagarius stated before turning to them and pulling something from her pocket. She then motioned for Sir Munius to take it.

The knight did so, taking it with both hands. She handed him an inconspicuous medallion made of iron and tightly woven bronze, inscribed with runes. "It's an anti-magic piece. In the old days, champions used these for protection."

"I'm not worthy to accept this—"

"Hush," Sagarius said gently but dismissively. "Take the gift with pride. It will be useful, especially for this exercise."

Sagarius then turned toward Marc, who stood at attention. She gestured for him to approach.

As Marc did so, she took one of her rings, ebony-colored as if made from wood, and handed it to him. "I hope it fits."

"What should I do with it, my lady?" Marc asked.

"Wear it and watch. Do not run," she instructed, then walked a distance before turning to face Sir Munius. "Draw your sword and try to charge at me."

"But my lady?" Sir Munius voiced his confusion, expecting to spar with Marc as they had done so many times before.

However, Sagarius was not known for her patience. With a focused gaze, she summoned her magic and silently extracted the breath from the knight's lungs.

The knight clutched at his throat, gasping for air, his eyes wide with shock as he staggered back, desperately trying to draw breath.

"What, what happened?" Marc cried out, turning to Sagarius with a mix of concern and alarm. "My Lady, what are you trying to achieve?"

Amidst his panic, Sir Munius instinctively drew his sword and began to retreat rapidly. Suddenly, the suffocating effect ceased. He gasped, inhaling sharply as fresh air flooded his lungs. Doubling over, he fought back the nausea.

"A good and correct reaction," Sagarius praised from afar. "Remember this range. This is the practical range for a mage in close combat."

"Then you are truly a mage," Marc stated nervously.

"Don't speak of it as if being a mage is something abhorrent. After all, you too are one," she revealed, her voice almost indifferent, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of excitement.

Marc looked down at his calloused hands in disbelief. "Me, a mage?"

"A mage with an unawakened source. So, let's do the same to you," Sagarius directed her focused gaze on Marc, who suddenly found himself gasping for air.

He wanted to run, but a commanding voice echoed in his skull, "Do not run." His legs froze in place.

"I need you to fight it, so don’t run," Sagarius explained in her usual tone.

Marc struggled to breathe, groaning, before finally deciding to crawl toward the knight.

Watching the man's face turn blue, the knight pleaded, "My lady, he's almost out of breath; please, spare him."

Sagarius waved off her magic, and Marc gasped sharply before vomiting on the side.

"You did well," she said before adding, "Nothing triggers the mind and body to adapt like losing breath."

"H-how do you stop me from—" Marc coughed and spat, sitting on the ground, "And what did I do well? I lost my breath almost instantly."

Sagarius decided not to discuss the voice. From experience, she knew it easily aroused suspicion, as many believed the skill could control their minds. However, it could only temporarily shock the mind and force it to surrender to the suggestion. It was useful to prevent violence, stop a blade in mid-thrust, or move a stunned child out of the path of a charging horse. "The duration is not the point. What I want is for you to fight it like a drowned man fighting the water."

"Did he resist your magic?" Sir Munius asked, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Yes, he did. Like a baby's finger trying to wrestle its mother's hand."

The knight chuckled, turned to Marc, and said, "You have a long way to go, mage-boy." Then, looking back at Sagarius with renewed spirit, he asked, "Is the training still on?"

"Come at me, Sir Knight," she replied without hesitation, standing only twenty steps away.

"Any tips, my lady?" he asked as he prepared himself.

"Swing your swords, use the trees and terrain, anything that made me lose focus can save you."

Sir Munius did as he was told, moving calculatingly from one spot to another, without running to preserve his breathing, while maintaining eye contact to gauge her reaction. He did so much better, able to breathe momentarily behind cover, and then stopped just a dozen steps from her.

Sagarius removed her magic from him and asked, "Why did you stop?"

"I feared I could hurt you, my lady," he said. Then suddenly, his vision flared brightly, his muscles spasmed in shock, and his knees buckled, forcing him to the ground.

"I still have plenty of tricks in my bag," she warned, while the knight lay immobile on the mushy forest floor.

Marc dashed toward the knight, stopping next to him. "Are you good, Sir?"

"It felt like being stung by a large bee," he muttered.

"They named it static control. I manipulated this area to deny you a connection with the ground and sent fragments of dry leaves to overload you with a charge. When I wanted, I restored the connection—and that’s what happened."

Marc gazed at Sagarius and dry swallowed, his eyes betraying his fear that he might be next.

"Of course, you shall experience—"

Marc broke into a run, attempting to conceal himself behind the large, ancient tree.

"It will only make it worse," she said, disappointed, and blinked once. Suddenly, a long pitiful yet laughable groan emerged from behind the magnificent tree.

Sir Munius chuckled as he slowly stood up, feeling a strange tingling in his limbs.

"You said a large bee," Marc complained from afar. "Mine was like being struck by a stag."

The knight stifled a laugh and turned to Sagarius. "Say, if I don't move, can you still do that to me?"

"An excellent observation," she remarked. "Static will only work if you move quickly and abruptly. If you remain stationary, it will hardly affect you. However," she flicked her wrist slightly, and suddenly the knight toppled unceremoniously.

He gasped in total surprise, scanning the area for someone he thought had struck his leg.

"A skilled mage can also concentrate her magic to gather rubble, dirt, and stone, and direct them to your blind spot."

"Can you manipulate even something like a sword?" he asked from the ground.

"Swords are too smooth and slender, I doubt most mages can do such a thing."

"But can you?" Sir Munius asked.

Sagarius merely wore a thin proud smile. In her hundreds of years of experience, she was able to put a strand of fiber into a needle or swat a fly without moving her finger. Those were small things compared to the other arts she had mastered.

Interpreting her smile, Sir Munius broke into a chuckle. Then from behind, carefully Marc approached, pleading, "No more of those."

"I won't. You could die. I only do it to Sir Munius because he wore an anti-magic."

"Why don't I have it?" Marc found his courage and complained.

"I don't have two and you need the ring."

"Ah," he exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "What does the ring do, my lady?" Marc asked, his gaze fixed on the simple yet intricate ebony ring.

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"It shall grant you magical capacity as you learn strengthening magic."

While Marc frowned, the knight remarked, "I know that one." He stood up, brushing dry leaves from his clothes, and asked, "Can he really master such a technique?"

"Is it strong?" Marc was now piqued.

"You'll be like a Mage Knight," he replied excitedly.

"Really?" Marc's jaw dropped, likely thinking about the impact it would make on his life.

"More like a mage squire," Sagarius commented, then addressed both of them. "The human world is in peril. The Imperium might be gone at any moment. By some twist of fate, against all odds, you have been brought together from the brink of death. I advise you to heed the workings of the Ancients and unite your strengths. Sir Munius," she called out, "why don't you take Marc as your squire?"

The two men exchanged glances, and Marc's expression seemed troubled.

"My Lady, I think we need to give Marc more time. Even though he joined us, the fact remains that we were on opposing sides, and there's likely still some bad blood between us," Sir Munius voiced.

"Marc, are you still contemplating it?" Sagarius inquired, aware that he had spent the winter reflecting.

Marc took a deep breath. "I don't blame any of you, especially you, My Lady. You saved me, and for that, I am eternally grateful. More than ever, I blame myself for letting myself be recruited into Gottfried's army."

"But my side did kill many Arvenians," Sir Munius stated clearly, not attempting to gloss over the truth.

"No," Marc shook his head. "Not you, Sir. Even if I wanted to, I can't hold you responsible. I know for sure that by the time you arrived, all of my brethren had perished. You fought against the Northerners and the Inglesians, vile people who oppressed us, and for that, you have my gratitude."

The knight breathed a sigh of relief. Turning to Sagarius, he suddenly declared, "I'll take him as a brother."

Marc's tanned cheeks turned red as he stammered, "Wait, but why? I'm not even noble-born."

"You're a mage," the knight reminded him.

"I haven't done anything mage-like yet."

Sagarius decided to intervene. "Marc, focus all your thoughts on protecting your chest as if you're about to be punched," she instructed, her tone icy, her gaze even colder.

Driven by fear, Marc complied, his muscle tensed and Sagarius thrust a tree branch, as thick as a spear, toward him. The branch shattered as if striking another tree. It knocked Marc to the ground and ruined his clothes, but his chest was only bruised a little.

"That's strengthening magic," Sagarius explained, tossing the broken branch aside. "With enough magical capacity, the mind can draw power from it and manipulate it to protect your body or limbs."

"Is magic really that easy?" Marc asked as he got up.

"That's the ring's power, not your innate source," Sagarius corrected him. "Also, let's try again. Now, I'm going to slap you on the face," she announced, then raised her hand deliberately slowly, causing Marc to lose his focus.

Her slap connected gently, yet Marc flinched sharply in pain, prompting Sir Munius beside them to burst out laughing. "You lose focus," the knight pointed out.

Marc, patting his reddened cheek, frowned. "I know that, Sir. But it's harder than it looks."

"In time, you'll learn, as will Sir Munius," she said warmly, then gazing at the knight. "There are gemstones that can grant you a similar ability. Many Champions of old collected them."

The knight nodded thoughtfully, then turned to gaze at the man beside him. "So, brother...?" he offered his hand.

The mage apprentice sheepishly took it, and they finally clasped hands. "Gratitude, Sir. Well, it seems I've found another brother."

***

The Imperium Royal Palace, once the beacon of human progress, now stood as a charred remnant of its former glory. Its markets and residential areas were engulfed by the stench of burnt and decomposing bodies, becoming so unbearable that both defenders and rebels had to abandon parts of the city. Swarms of flies and insects, attracted by the horrendous smell, came to feast on the infested carnage. Although there were several attempts to bury the dead in pits outside the city, these efforts proved insufficient, and the risk of clashes loomed large.

Despite Duke Alvaro's presence and his seven thousand strong cavalry, the numerous yet leaderless rebels continued to occupy and plunder the larger part of the capital for three more days. They only ceased when the situation became dire due to a severe lack of food, the overwhelming stench of corpses, and the onset of rampant diseases.

Finally, the rebels, content with their plunder, abandoned the capital to its grim fate. Little did they know that Duke Alvaro and his knights had been waiting.

As the rebels crossed the plains west of the capital, thousands of cavalrymen chased after them, and a great host of rebels was massacred. The riches from their plunder were now added to the Duke’s grand baggage train, stretching from the palace to the west gatehouse, where he had taken temporary residence.

With these significant victories, many hoped that the Duke of Centuria would fully liberate the capital. However, after six days, the Duke signaled his intention to return to his domain, exercising an abundance of caution against the western barbarians.

He left the capital to its fate, entrusting it to token stewardship of volunteer knights, men-at-arms, and remaining officials. On the day of his departure, three hundred thousand citizens followed on foot, despite his pleas for them not to, as even the western part of the Imperium was not secure.

As the Duke and his rear guard vanished into the distance, the rebel remnants, still occupying a section of the capital, resumed their reign of terror. They attacked at night and attempted to reoccupy the rest of the city in search of food and riches. Anarchy soon erupted anew, but after three days of fighting, the citizens, having reorganized into an effective militia, managed to control the situation. For the first time, the defenders, now outnumbering the rebels, began to retake lost parts of the city.

The rebels, lacking a charismatic leader and fighting in a piecemeal fashion, began to suffer significant losses. In contrast, the citizens' militia, backed by knights and a confident new guardsman, soon gained the upper hand. After a series of clashes, the demoralized rebels finally abandoned the city, fleeing with whatever spoils they could carry.

After two weeks of terror, the occupation finally ended. The capital was now under the control of the stewardship of volunteer knights backed by several wealthy families who funded the militia. However, despite their victories and sacrifices, there wasn’t enough money or a functional bureaucracy to man the extensive walls and fortifications that had protected the city.

If the walls were unmanned, the capital was practically defenseless. In such a state, the city lingered in uncertainty. Once a paragon of order, peace, and stability, it had become a collection of scorched houses and burnt rubble, dotted with pits of mass graves.

Its citizens, once proud, now wandered through their crumbling city, their faces etched with the resignation of a lost empire. Its beautiful plazas and grand streets, once bustling, were now silent and haunted by the marks of violence. Before long, millions of its citizens and the remaining officials fled south to war-torn Elandia, racing against time as many believed King Gottfried’s northern army was approaching.

To the east, even with the capital secure, the defenses of neighboring cities collapsed. Deprived of the Sages and their governing bodies, no army could sustain itself. Troops abandoned their posts, while nobles and knights focused on dispatching urgent missives to King Gottfried.

Now the capital lay deserted. Yet, the seat of power remained a magnet for those ambitious enough to grasp its importance. It would be a prize too great for any but the most powerful man in the realm.

***

Bengrieve

Another day had passed, and Bengrieve actively and clandestinely gathered more supporters around Midlandia's border. Here, people driven by anxiety over the new ruler's intentions came together to hear him speak. Though not naturally gifted, his oratory skills were sufficient to deliver speeches that resonated with a populace accustomed to centuries of prosperity, now viewing any change with suspicion and doubt.

"You should ask: What does Reginald want from you?" Bengrieve said, seated on the town's fountain as a diverse crowd of knights, esquires, and commoners from all social levels gathered around.

"From what I've gathered, he has surrounded himself with 'intellectuals' and wants this tight-knit group to govern Midlandia and implement untested changes—changes that go against policies that have long brought us good harvests and profitable business. To what end?" he let his words hang.

Bengrieve’s words captured their undivided attention.

"Why fix what isn’t broken?" he asked, promptly garnering murmurs of agreement from the crowd.

"Reginald has his group’s interests at heart, not yours. I doubt he'll champion your cause when he has no respect for our way of life."

Many in the crowd nodded their heads, and anxious whispers filled the air.

He continued, his tone sharper: "Furthermore, this Reginald claims to have the support of the masses, but all I've seen is him in cohorts with the Healers' Guild—a group of rowdy and violent fanatics blinded by a corrupt Saint Candidate." Bengrieve had tailored his words carefully, reinforcing the concerns that these people had already heard and grown worried about.

Now, the crowd looked concerned, with fear and anger more clearly etched on their faces.

Looking over the sea of faces before him, Bengrieve posed another rhetorical question: "Are these so-called reformers better than the Ageless One, who laid down our paths centuries ago? Why should we stray at Reginald’s behest?"

People nodded in agreement. They knew that Midlandia was established by the Ageless One himself when he visited roughly six hundred years ago, and since then, for the most part, they had wanted for nothing. Therefore, there was little reason for them to believe that a change would benefit them.

Bengrieve's rhetoric of fear and respect for the Emperor moved many.

"I've said enough. I'm not here to convince you," Bengrieve stood, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "Yes, I want to keep my lands as is my right. And I want to continue serving as Seneschal of Midlandia, as I swore to the late Lord whose son is now unfit to rule. These are hardly hidden motives as my service is to the public."

He turned to an old local knight he knew well, "What's the difference between me defending the land and the titles my family has held, and you defending your home and family from bandits?"

"None, My Lord," the knight replied firmly, echoing the supportive murmurs from the crowd.

Bengrieve faced the crowd again, "If I was wrong, then why didn't the previous Lord give me a fair trial? And what standing does Reginald have to claim lordship over this realm? He's like an unwanted relative who interferes in your children's marriage."

The crowd nodded, visibly troubled.

"To me, he's nothing but an opportunist pushed forward by corrupt men envious of my family's longstanding influence. They want power for themselves—"

"This is all just nobles squabbling," a bold voice interrupted.

Bengrieve waved off those eager to silence the dissenter, "He is in the right. Let him speak."

"I'm just saying, whichever lord rules, they only see us as fodder for their wars."

"You're correct. But I'm not here to recruit," Bengrieve responded.

The man in the crowd had no rebuttal.

Bengrieve's gaze swept across the crowd, making direct eye contact with several individuals. "I only ask you to listen to my words and tolerate my presence."

"Do not take us for fools, my lord. What is the purpose of your words and presence here?" challenged an old man. His eyes had grayed from years of farming, yet there was wit in his words.

"I am but a harbinger," Bengrieve replied in a clear voice, his words stoking the crowd's interest further. "Reginald has over ten thousand hungry soldiers. How do you think he will feed them? Or more precisely, from where do you think he will gather the needed grains?"

The crowd now seemed tense and concerned.

"My campaign to Elandia was fully approved and funded by the Lord of Midlandia. I have taken the entire military stockpile—enough for 200 days. Additionally, I have secured supplies for another 100 days. Gentlemen, I can assure you that the provincial reserves are now depleted."

A wave of astonished murmurs swept through the crowd.

"Then Lord Reginald's troops have nothing to eat?" someone asked, sparking a buzz of conversation.

Bengrieve maintained a stoic expression and then added, "And the coffers too. Do you think Reginald and his supporters haven't divided whatever was in the castle's vault? Now their army has no food and no money to pay them."

He let the implications hang in the air, the crowd understood that looting and pillaging were imminent. Many shuddered; others looked resolute.

"They want everything," Bengrieve stoked their fears further. "They'll take your crops, your land, and your families. It's nothing but a game for them."

Bengrieve leaned to the fountain and took several sips of water using both hands. Turning back to the crowd, he said in a softer tone, "Now, you must decide whether you let them replace you, or if you are going to do something about it. Whatever it is, I won't be here; I'm merely passing through."

The notion surprised many, who now looked at Bengrieve with longing and renewed interest.

"This realm has turned its back on my House after a century of loyal service. My House is innocent. I don't even bring the army here today," he played his victim card effectively.

"Truth be told, I'd be content as a small lord in South Elandia. But should that happen, don't blame me for not defending Midlandia," he said, his expression turning grim.

"By next summer, thousands of marauding Nicopolans will descend on Midlandia's border. When that happens, I will not be here to defend this realm. What follows is that, after you've satiated Reginald's hungry troops, you will, regrettably, have to face the Nicopolans' hunger," he stated bluntly, forcing his listeners to confront the likely scenario.

He concluded, "May the Ageless One's fortune ever reside with your families."

Afterward, he stepped down from the fountain and walked with his large escort. The somber murmurs of those willing to pledge their allegiance filled the air. Soon, men in armor, both mounted and on foot, gathered outside, ready to commit their fates to his cause.

Things were looking promising from the outside, however it was nothing but a facade.

"How's the news from the capital?" Bengrieve asked grimly as soon as he entered an unused old watchtower they were using for shelter today. His earlier suaveness and charm had vanished. Ever since leaving Elandia, his network of informants and hawk messengers had struggled to reach him.

Inside the weathered wooden structure, Sir Stan and two captains, his closest confidants, awaited him. Sir Stan extended a small, rolled letter and said, "The palace has indeed fallen."

"The palace, you say?" Bengrieve echoed, stupefied. For the first time, his far-reaching plan had spectacularly backfired. His face now showed a mix of disbelief, disgust, and denial as he thought hard about what to do in such a situation. It felt like everything he had built had come crashing down so quickly, leaving him no time to react.

Now, everything is in jeopardy...

***

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