R.L Alencar
patreon
Chapter 118 (From engineer to Conqueror)
🕑 Added 2024-11-03 22:20:13 +0000 UTCAurelio was in his office, in the heart of the ducal palace, his face set in an expression of pure hatred. The tall windows allowed daylight to pour in, but he barely noticed the brightness or warmth. The war had stalled, and the past few months had been a succession of failures, each piece of news more frustrating than the last. He drummed his fingers on the desk, his eyes fixed on the reports scattered in front of him, each paper bringing information he did not want to read. The front line was stagnant, the attacks had been contained, and his army could not advance. Miguel, that bastard, had somehow escaped his grasp. Someone had helped him, but so far, Aurelio had not discovered who. The paranoia that hidden enemies lurked everywhere was consuming his mood.
Aurelio felt surrounded, trapped between the king's disdain and Miguel's growing power in the south. The king was increasingly irritated with the lack of progress, demanding results, threatening what remained of Aurelio's influence. If he could not take Drakmoor soon, he risked being stripped of his title as duke. Every attempt to weaken the resistance in the south had failed, and the thought of losing what he had achieved filled him with rage. His position, his authority, everything was at risk. If Drakmoor didn’t fall soon, all his efforts would be in vain.
In front of Aurelio, Peterson, a longtime mercenary and ally, watched the duke’s fury in silence, sitting with a relaxed yet attentive air. Unlike Aurelio, Peterson seemed calm, a slight cynical smile playing on his lips as he observed the duke’s full-blown rage. He knew Miguel was a thorn in Aurelio's side, but deep down, he was also growing impatient. Miguel, with his persistence in surviving, was becoming a constant annoyance. At first, Miguel had been just another task for Peterson, another target to eliminate. But now, the duke's bastard brother had become a real threat.
Unable to contain his anger, Aurelio finally broke the silence, slamming his hand on the desk. "That bastard!" he cursed, his voice filled with resentment. "Miguel should have been dead, but no, he manages to escape! And now… now he has grown stronger! He’s gained support in the south, and we can’t even advance a single step." Aurelio turned to Peterson, who remained relaxed in his chair, watching the duke’s outburst with a look of disinterest. "We need to do something about him, Peterson. I won't let that bastard turn Drakmoor and the other baronies into a rebel kingdom. It will destroy my duchy piece by piece."
Peterson raised an eyebrow, his gaze calculating. "You know we can’t do much about it at the moment," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "The south is stronger than ever. Your men have already been forced to retreat to the southern edge of the region. Now, Miguel not only controls Drakmoor but also has a real army at his disposal. And he even has those new weapons that are more destructive than bow and arrow. He's in control."
Aurelio clenched his fists, frustration and anger almost palpable in his expression. "And how did he achieve this?" he muttered, eyes filled with bitterness. "How were those southern barons foolish enough to ally themselves with him? How did they ally with a bastard?"
Peterson looked at the duke in silence, without replying. Deep down, he knew the answer. Anyone who paid attention to the duchy's history knew why those barons had rebelled. For years, the southern region had been neglected, treated as a land of little importance. The duchy exploited them, demanding taxes but offering almost nothing in return. Peterson wasn’t a man of politics; he cared little for the complexities of governance, but even he could see that the south had been growing impatient for a long time.
But Aurelio didn’t seem to realize this. To him, the barons' loyalty was something he believed to be unbreakable, almost guaranteed, as if his title alone was enough to keep control. Now, however, the reality was clear—the south was independent, had its own strength, and worse, its own leader. Miguel, the bastard brother he so despised, was now a figure of power.
Aurelio turned to Peterson, his expression filled with urgency. "These barons need to be executed. I can't let Miguel’s influence expand any further. If the south becomes an independent kingdom, if they get what they want, then nothing will stop the duchy from fragmenting completely."
Peterson shrugged, his disdainful expression softened slightly by a thoughtful look. "You're in a delicate position, my lord. The fact is that Miguel is no longer an insignificant bastard. And those barons… they see an opportunity in him."
Aurelio scowled, irritated by Peterson’s cold, calculating tone. But deep down, he knew Peterson was right. He could not continue treating the south as something he owned, but the thought of yielding and negotiating with them made him sick. To him, submission was the only acceptable form, and he wouldn’t allow Miguel, or any of the barons, to challenge his authority.
"I need a plan," he muttered, as if speaking to himself. "And you will help me with that..."
Peterson watched him in silence, pondering the duke’s words. Deep down, Peterson thought this battle was more than Aurelio could handle, but the money he received and the opportunity to confront Miguel kept him by the duke’s side. He knew the situation was delicate, but he was amused by the idea of a hunt for Miguel. After all, to him, war was always a game—and Miguel was an obstacle in that game.
Aurelio continued muttering, cursing Miguel, damning the southern barons' alliance, and trying to devise a way to regain control. "This cannot continue. If I don’t put an end to this, the king won’t hesitate to remove me. These barons will be crushed, and so will Miguel, whatever it takes. No matter how long it takes, he will pay for this."
Peterson merely watched, with a subtle, almost ironic smile. To him, Aurelio’s rage and obsession were clear signs of desperation.
---
Miguel and his entourage had been traveling for days towards the kingdom of the beastmen. The group passed through fields and villages as they crossed the border, and Miguel couldn’t help but notice that the villages were much emptier than he remembered. The war, he thought, was not only demanding sacrifices from Drakmoor but also from its allies. Many of the beastmen were far away, fighting on the front lines against the human coalition, leaving the villages nearly deserted. The farmlands, usually bustling with workers, were also almost empty, with only a few men and women harvesting and tending to the crops.
After a few hours of travel, they spotted the city’s tall gates. The streets and houses outside the city walls were less bustling than the last time Miguel had been there. As the entourage approached, a group of guards stationed themselves at the gate, blocking their passage. The guards were bipedal wolves, their strong, furry bodies imposing, with serious expressions. They were intimidating figures of respect and authority, and Miguel had no doubt that they were skilled warriors.
One of the guards stepped forward, gripping his spear firmly. “Who are you?”
Miguel dismounted his horse and offered a brief bow. “I am Miguel of Drakmoor. I was invited by Brother Baromir.”
The guard studied Miguel for a moment, nodding. “Wait here. I will inform my superior.” He stepped away to speak with a higher-ranking officer, leaving Miguel and the others waiting at the gate.
While they waited, Miguel observed his surroundings, noting how even the beastmen’s city reflected the weight of the war. The streets were less lively, and there was a tense atmosphere, as if everyone there knew the conflict was far from over.
Shortly after, the guard returned, giving a slight nod to Miguel. “You may enter, Miguel of Drakmoor. Brother Baromir is expecting you.”
The gates opened slowly, revealing the city ahead. Miguel mounted his horse again and led the entourage inside, passing by the guards. They proceeded along the main streets, observing the shops and small workshops that, though still operational, seemed less busy. Miguel noticed the tired looks on some of the beastmen who passed by, many with serious expressions, though a few gave slight nods in recognition when they saw the foreigner.
When they reached the main square, Miguel spotted a familiar figure. Brother Baromir — the beastman priest, known for his pig-like appearance, with a robust body and a kind face — waited patiently. Upon seeing Miguel, he broke into a wide smile and waved. Miguel dismounted and approached Baromir with steady steps.
“Welcome, Miguel,” Baromir said, opening his arms in a warm gesture.
Miguel smiled back and shook his hand. “Thank you, Baromir. I wish we could meet under better circumstances, but unfortunately, the current situation compels us to this.”
Baromir let out a hearty laugh, his voice echoing through the square. “Do not worry, my friend. No matter the context, it is always good to see a friend.”
Miguel smiled, feeling relieved to reunite with someone he could rely on. He then gestured for Alistair, the mage he had brought with him, to come forward. “I want you to meet Alistair,” Miguel said, placing a hand on the mage’s shoulder. “He was instrumental in Drakmoor, helping us defeat the mana disease.”
Alistair offered a brief bow, respectfully lowering himself. “It is an honor to meet you, Brother Baromir.”
Baromir regarded the mage with a curious smile. “So, you are the one responsible for curing the mana disease in Drakmoor? You did a remarkable job, Alistair. I had heard of the epidemic, but we beastmen are immune, so we never sought a solution. But it’s incredible to see a human who managed to tackle it. Later, when we have time, I’d like to hear the details of how you did it.”
Alistair returned the smile, clearly pleased with Baromir’s interest. “It would be a pleasure to share my knowledge. Perhaps we can discuss the properties of mana and possible ways to prevent the disease from spreading.”
Baromir nodded, satisfied, and then turned to Miguel. “But for now,” he said, “you need rest. The journey to the port city is still long, and we will leave early tomorrow. We’ve arranged accommodations for you at the best inn in town. It will surely be more comfortable than the nights on the road.”
Miguel thanked him with a nod. “Thank you, Baromir. A rest will be most welcome.”
Baromir gestured for them to follow him, guiding them through the city to an inn with a simple yet welcoming appearance, its sturdy wooden walls and lanterns lighting the entrance. Miguel looked over the place with satisfaction, feeling grateful for the hospitality. He knew that, despite the hardships and wartime struggles, the loyalty of the beastmen was unshakable.
“This is the inn where you will rest,” Baromir said, smiling. “Rest well, for tomorrow the journey will be long.”
Miguel bid farewell to Baromir, entering the inn with Alistair and the other members of the entourage. As they settled into their rooms and organized their belongings, Miguel took in every detail of the surroundings, mentally expressing his gratitude for the welcome he had received. The peace of that city, though quiet and somewhat desolate, offered him a temporary reprieve before facing the next stages of his journey.
The next day, they would be heading to the port city, and Miguel knew that, from then on, the path would take them into even more unknown territories.
