Valos's squad crawled into the city like a herd of battered ghosts. Instead of a triumphant march, it was a procession of survivors — tattered, soot-stained, with empty stares.
«Excellent. I return a hero, yet I look like the lowest beggar who lost a game of dice to a dragon,» Valos noted to himself, trying not to limp.
He carried the Spear-Staff like a banner pole, but it resembled more of a crutch. The mithril was hauled on makeshift stretchers, radiating such indifference as if it were merely a batch of particularly heavy cobblestones.
The townsfolk, accustomed to the baronet returning to the city either drunk or unconscious, watched with silent question marks in their eyes. «Were they expecting a parade?» Valos snorted inwardly. «Sorry, no show today. We nearly became fertilizer for the local mushroom patch.»
— Well now, — one of the blacksmiths whispered, — looks like he's alive. And, it seems, even sober.
— And the mithril is real! — his apprentice added, staring at the bluish ingot. — I thought, as usual, it was a scam.
«What a people. You bring them wealth and a magical artifact, and they're disappointed I'm not doing a jig.»
***
Baron Eldrid's study greeted them with sepulchral silence, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. His father stood by the window, his back to the entrance.
— You're back, — Eldrid said without turning around.
— Not empty-handed, — Valos retorted, sinking into a chair with relish.
— Your hands aren't empty, — the Baron finally turned. His face was a mask of restrained anger. — But what about your head? In the barracks, in case you didn't know, there's a company of soldiers stationed. Trained, armed. And in the tavern — scum who'd sell their own mother for a mug of ale.
— Soldiers follow orders, Father. These "scum" needed only to be paid in mithril. And they followed *me*, not your crest on my cloak.
— There was an Enlightened one in the barracks, Valos! — Eldrid slammed his fist on the table. — Sergeant Gorm. He crossed the Hell Marshes alone. And you took drunkards!
— An Enlightened one, — Valos smirked. — Who "sees the essence of things." The essence of the dungeon is that there isn't a single dry and safe spot in it. What was needed there weren't heroes, but those who could run fast, jump high, and not ask too many questions. Your sergeant, I'm sure, is magnificent in battle against demons on an open plain. In a tunnel where the walls move, he'd be dead weight.
— He would have returned alive! — for the first time, paternal anxiety broke through in Eldrid's voice.
— He would have returned with nothing, — Valos retorted sharply. — And I returned with what I went for. Without losses.
He pointed to the Spear-Staff leaning against the wall.
— This is not just a stick, Father. This is the key. The key to keeping the necromancer from turning our lands into a giant graveyard. And your Enlightened sergeant is just a soldier. I didn't have time to explain the nuances of magical mechanics to him.
Eldrid breathed heavily, his gaze darting between his son's resolute face and the shimmering artifact. Anger slowly gave way to cold calculation.
— Fine, — he exhaled. — You returned. You secured the objective. But next time, my son, you will use the resources I provide you. Understood?
— Clear as crystal, Father.
«Excellent. Got my scolding. Now I can rest.»
***
Evening. Valos, finally washed clean of the dungeon's grime and changed into clean clothes, stood in the family library. Shelves reaching the ceiling, the smell of dust, ancient parchment, and knowledge untouched for decades. «The perfect place not to find answers to my questions.»
He searched for anything related to the Enlightened, magic, and alchemy. Who were they? How did one become one? How to draw runes? How to set a rune's activation condition? What was their strength and, more importantly, their weakness?
«If this Sergeant Gorm is so great, why is he still a sergeant?» Valos mused, sorting through the tomes. «Enlightenment grants power, but not necessarily wisdom. Or tactical thinking. I wonder if he can be won over?»
He came across a treatise «On the Nature of Illumination.» It was full of pompous phrases about "grasping the essence" and "union with the cosmos," but one chapter caught his attention: «Vulnerabilities.»
«...The Enlightened one, at the moment of the quantum leap of consciousness, gains access to the fundamental laws of reality. However, his mind is incapable of containing the entire volume of information. Therefore, most of the knowledge remains sealed within the depths of his psyche, behind the so-called 'Seals of Understanding.' These seals can only be removed by using the granted Singularity in accordance with its original, true nature, which requires from the mage not only strength but also deep personal resonance...»
«I see» Valos mused.
So it's not just "became stronger." It's a key that must be matched to oneself. Interesting...
His gaze fell on the description of the Enlightened's limitations. *«...experience pronounced vulnerability to destructive ethereal vibrations, associated with the Shadow aspect...»*
— The undead are vulnerable to fire, — he muttered aloud. — And there are no fire mages in our city. Convenient. And calling reinforcements... they simply won't make it in time.
The library door opened without a knock. Valos didn't look up from the book. In the entire estate, there was only one person who allowed himself such a thing.
— If you've brought apologies from that tavern keeper because his wine couldn't dissolve my liver, I'm not in the mood, — he said into the air.
— News. The dwarves. They made contact via frog-call.
Valos slowly lowered the book. Finally, something interesting.
— And? They changed their minds? Decided the mithril was a lie and mother-of-pearl buttons are all the rage now?
— On the contrary. Thorgrim, the chieftain's son, and his retinue are already on their way. They used the portal at the Stone Knot. They'll arrive at dawn tomorrow.
Valos set aside the tome on Enlightenment. It could wait.
— At dawn, — he repeated, looking at the candle flame. — So we have one night to prepare to meet people who will judge our fortress the way I judge that tavern.
Perfect.
— Wake the engineer. And find that stonemason who's always complaining that our walls are "crooked." Tell them they have one night to make sure our fortifications don't make the dwarves die of laughter. And, Corvus...
— My lord?
— See to it that the strongest ale in the city is found by morning. Not what we drink. The kind that can knock a troll off its feet. If we've already made a first impression as idiots, the second one should be... unforgettable.
Tomorrow. Either we forge the greatest alliance in the history of this backwater, or the dwarves will use our skulls as tankards for their ale. Valos snuffed out the candle, plunging the library into darkness. Well, at least it won't be boring.