Horizon of War Series-Chapter 232: Feast of the Damned

Feast of the Damned

Corinthia

It was sundown on the coast, and the sharp, salty breeze from the Middle Sea drifted in, reaching even within the tall walls. Supper had been served, and anyone not on guard duty could finally rest in earnest. But not all were at ease. A group of trusted men, skilled in carpentry, labored under Lord Avery's orders, preparing a special carriage for the former lord of Corinthia.

The former lord had been invited for a drink and was now indulging merrily. His ease came not from bravery, but from sheer ignorance. The thought that the Dawn might poison him never crossed his mind. If they wanted him dead, it would be simple. A slight nudge as he staggered down a stone staircase, his legs weakened from drink, and it would be the end of him.

Yet that would be too blatant. Such death could become a rallying cry, pushing the Corinthians to take up arms again.

So no poison was used.

Before the former lord became too drunk to move, the captain escorted him to the courtyard, where a carriage stood waiting.

"Make sure to give my proposal to Lord Avery. I'm sure he'll be pleased to learn of the barony's innocence. With two Houses working together, the future of Corinthia and Dawn will be secured," he said with such forced confidence that it sounded cheap and insincere.

It was ironic that hundreds of his subjects' lifeless bodies still lay outside, waiting to be buried tomorrow, yet here he was, speaking so sweetly and merrily to his enemies.

The captain merely responded, "Please, this carriage will take you to a nearby mansion to rest."

"My gratitude! And where exactly will I be staying? Can't I bathe first and choose some fresh clothes? Also, don't forget about a little arrangement for me," the former lord added, referring to his new lover, likely a pirate's honey trap.

"I shall find her and deliver her to you." The captain gestured toward the waiting carriage.

Two men shoved the former lord inside and shut the door behind him.

Watching the exchange from afar, one of the night watchmen muttered, "Does he think he still holds any influence here?"

The others scoffed in agreement.

"All he cares about is seeing his concubine," one sneered. "Not his wife or child."

They all watched as their captain leaned toward the small carriage window. "Wait just a moment. We have more wine for you."

"More wine? For the road and the mansion?" The former lord laughed joyously, believing he could indulge even further.

Without him knowing, the Dawn’s carpenters wedged the carriage door shut from the outside. Meanwhile, several men climbed the carriage.

"You’re going to enjoy this spectacle," the captain said through the small window, before giving a slight nod. The men on top tipped a barrel, pouring wine through a wide funnel into a hole in the carriage roof.

"What is this? What are you doing? It's cold!" the former lord shouted at first, before changing his tone with drunken delight. "A wine bath? How magnificent!"

"Enjoy your share of the pirates' finest wine. Courtesy of Lord Avery." The captain shut the window and stepped back as his men jammed a piece of wood into the frame, ensuring it could not be opened again.

Muffled laughter echoed from inside as the captain stood back, watching the operation unfold.

The first barrel emptied and was tossed aside. Below, a crewman hauled up another, the heavy cask lifted hand over hand by thick ropes. Slowly, they tipped it forward, sending another flood of wine through the funnel.

The captain glanced toward the guardhouse window where a silhouette stood motionless, watching.

Inside the carriage, layers of fiber and tar sealed every gap, making the interior watertight. The doors and walls had been treated the same way, ensuring nothing would seep through. The fumes inside the carriage dangerously thickened with the sickly-sweet scent of alcohol. There, the former lord slumped, unconscious, his body chilled by the wine soaking his clothes. He had barely eaten since morning.

A drunk criminal, a coastal raider caught that very morning looting homes and beating civilians in the chaos of war, was hauled onto the driver’s seat. The Dawn’s armed men placed the reins in his hands and stepped away. The moment he realized they were not stopping him, he seized the opportunity. Believing he had been given a chance to escape, he cracked the reins and sent the horses charging forward.

The carriage lurched ahead, thundering through the wide-open castle gates and onto the dark, empty streets. The trained horses obeyed blindly, hooves striking the cobblestone with frantic rhythm as the wheels clattered violently. The raider, dulled by drink, failed to realize how quickly he was gaining momentum.

The city blurred past in streaks of lanterns and shadow. He barely managed the turns, his sluggish reflexes lagging behind the speed of the galloping horses. Then the massive stone walls of the communal bread oven came into view, rising ahead of him like an immovable barrier.

It was too late. The streets were too dark to react.

He yanked the reins in a last, desperate attempt to swerve. The horses screamed. The wheels skidded and the carriage slowed but not enough. It slammed into the stone building. The impact hurled the raider from his seat, flinging him headfirst into the wall. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The carriage remained upright, the force of the crash absorbed by the poor horses' bodies.

The noise roused the nearby residents. Doors creaked open, and men stepped cautiously into the night. One by one, they drifted toward the wreckage. Then, all at once, the scent hit them.

Rich wine, heavy in the air.

More intoxicating than any perfume, the scent lured them closer, like bees to a flower. Through the splintered wood, they saw it. Dark liquid seeped through the cracks, pooling on the ground. They knew it was a bloody accident, but the scent and opportunity overpowered reason. Wine was a luxury they rarely tasted.

They felt they needed it. They felt they deserved it after a day of chaos, the brutal surprise attack, the deaths, the fire, and the first night of occupation. Tomorrow was an uncertainty too grim to think, so they felt the urge to drink was justified.

After removing the poor horses to prevent the carriage from moving, they tried to open the door, but it was stuck, likely from the crash. The inside was either empty or its occupants didn’t seem to mind, so the crowd wasted no time. They found the thin streams of wine trickling from a crack and eagerly drank.

Word spread, and soon more people arrived, wooden tankards in hand. Slowly, the neighborhood came alive, men and women emerging from homes and alleys, eager to taste the unexpected bounty.

As more drank, the scene spiraled into chaos. Corinthian commoners rarely had access to wine and were easily intoxicated. Laughter echoed through the dark streets, drawing even more to the gathering. The promise of wine and the absence of guards emboldened many to join.

Some whispered about the possibility of dead passengers inside, but no one cared. They spoke instead of the old tale of a heroic knight who had been preserved in a barrel of wine after slaying a beastmen, only for it to make the drink richer.

"Noble blood only makes the wine richer," someone joked, met with drunken cheers.

The crowd swelled, soon numbering in the hundreds. It was a chaotic gathering of all social classes, bound together by reckless indulgence. Merchants clinked cups with beggars, fishermen sang alongside defeated officers, and women danced freely in the alleys as if they had won a great victory.

The wine had dried up, but the crowd did not stop.

Morning came, but few had sobered. Dozens lay scattered along the roadside, sleeping where they had fallen.

It was only by midday that many sobered and learned who had died inside the carriage. City officials arrived to investigate, questioning the drunken witnesses. No one could give a clear answer. The wine had clouded their memories.

With the taste of wine still on their lips, they felt the weight of collective guilt. They had drunk their own lord’s blood. Shock, shame, and remorse spread through the crowd. No one spoke of it except in hushed voices, and none dared to raise a case. The jammed door was accepted as an unfortunate accident. The wine inside the carriage became an irrelevant detail, best left forgotten.

In everyone's mind, it was remembered as a tragic misfortune, the final blow to the once-illustrious House that had ruled Corinthia for centuries. In a single day, their roots had been torn from this coastal land. They had come seeking peace, but their descendants had invited war to their doorstep.

And in the end, all they had built was undone.

The Imperium's collapse was not even a year old, yet another noble House had already been added to the ever-growing list of the dead.

***

South Midlandia

Black smoke billowed over several cities in Southern Midlandia. At first, it sent waves of unease through citizens and officials alike, but it did not come from fire or destruction. Instead, it rose from the forges of blacksmiths. Once the source was known, the fear faded.

After all, it was the aftermath of war, and people assumed it was nothing more than the expected rush to repair and replace lost weapons and armor. Naturally, the blacksmiths would be busy.

But this time, something was different.

The blacksmiths’ forges burned hotter than ever, rarely stopping as they worked in secret to fulfill the greatest order of their time.

Every renowned blacksmith in South Midlandia had been commissioned to forge the finest iron plates possible. Their workshops roared with life, furnaces glowing deep orange as bellows fanned the flames. Sparks flew as hammers struck hot iron in rhythmic succession, shaping it into flat plates of uniform thickness. These plates were heated, refined, and slightly tempered as requested to improve their toughness before being sent to the armorers.

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The scent of scorched iron and charcoal filled the air as blackened scale flaked from the hot metal with each strike. Apprentices darted between workbenches, fetching tools and stacking the finished plates, ready for transport.

These raw plates would soon reach the armorers, who would shape them into artful forms and fit them with smooth, functional joints to create articulated pieces. Once finished, the armor would undergo the dreaded hardening treatment. If done incorrectly, the metal could become brittle and prone to shattering on impact.

Successfully hardened armor would be fitted with leather straps and harnesses to adjust to the wearer's height and body shape. The craftsmen responsible for crafting the harnesses eagerly awaited the first completed suit. It would be the most advanced armor Midlandia had ever produced, one that might finally close the gap with the renowned Centurian designs, said to have inherited the craftsmanship of the dwarves.

If it was truly windlass-proof, then all of Midlandia would share in the pride.

Naturally, the strength of the armor would only be as good as the blacksmiths' iron plates. No amount of hardening could salvage mediocre-quality iron, so the armor makers scrutinized every piece they received. Apprentices were sent daily to ensure the highest standards. Even the blacksmiths knew this commission was unlike any before. This time, the masters of the armor guilds themselves came in person, pleading for the best plate that could be forged.

Rarely, if ever, did a noble order hundreds suits of armor with the promise of hundreds more to follow, especially with down payments paid in full. Even in times of war, lords typically expected their retainers to procure their own equipment or to salvage it from the spoils of previous battles. When a noble supplied armor, it was a rare and prestigious gift for an exceptional deed, not a standard issue for his men.

The Black Lord was clearly going against the norm, but the armorers welcomed the change. This was an opportunity to create armor of unparalleled craftsmanship, to leave a mark in history with their work.

The opportunity was so great that the three wealthiest armor makers expanded their workshops, building larger furnaces, broadening their work areas, and taking on new apprentices. Even lesser armorers scrambled, hiring more hands and extending their work hours. They needed to perfect their plate-hardening techniques, a craft few had attempted on such a scale.

With competition fierce and the promise of fortune before them, the armor makers toiled ceaselessly. They explored every secret in their family and guild records, refining old techniques and testing new methods, all in pursuit of creating the finest plate armor the realm had ever seen.

While they were officially competing to produce windlass-proof armor, unofficially, they also raced to be the first to present their results. A quicker demonstration would reflect well on their reputation and secure them favor. It would also allow them to receive valuable counsel from the Lord and Lady, whose insight could give them the edge to win the competition.

For that reason, they worked tirelessly, refining fluting techniques and further perfecting their hardening methods. The lodestones provided by the Lord proved to be an invaluable measuring tool.

The development of the armor also influenced those who would one day wear it. Originally, the windlass-proof armor had been a secret known only to the highest ranks, but word inevitably spread. Knights and officers, including the vanguard stationed in Ploiesta, sensed something significant. They took it upon themselves to train harder, preparing for the upcoming armor grants.

It had long been House Lansius' tradition that the most meritorious and physically capable vanguard would receive the first sets of armor.

Despite reassurances that the weight would remain the same, they trained all the same. Each man wished to be among the first to earn the right to wear the new armor. It was not just about superior protection. The prestige and honor of donning such a piece would be unmatched. To be granted the finest armor crafted by the Lord’s command was a badge of honor, proof that they were the Lord's finest.

Nicknamed double armor training, knights and officers wore their old plate with additional layers of ringmail to increase the weight as they ran cross-country, climbed fences and stairs, and engaged in mock combat. The rest of the men, including newly accepted recruits, watched their superiors' dedication and felt compelled to train as well, using whatever armor they could get their hands on, unaware of the true reason behind it.

Though the armor itself was still far from reaching them, half the army had already strengthened their bodies in anticipation. With an abundance of food in Midlandia, the men who had conquered Lowlandia and shaped the Shogunate were growing stronger than ever before.

To witness thousands of men training across various locations was nothing short of spectacular for the people of Midlandia. The sheer eagerness to improve themselves was undeniable, and their raw determination spread beyond the ranks, inspiring the greater populace.

The Lord’s men, seen drilling, sparring, and maintaining strict discipline throughout the land, helped foster a sense of security. Disorder, once common in war-torn regions, swiftly faded. Bandits and looters who had preyed on vulnerable settlements were quickly eliminated, hunted down by eager knights and cavalry seeking to earn greater merit.

Yet the intense training and reckless enthusiasm for bandit hunting came at a cost. Injuries mounted, offering an unexpected trial for the newly recruited physicians and their assistants. The Lord had long sought to establish a proper medical corps to care for his men, and with the talents available in Midlandia, he had finally succeeded. The mobile medic force was led by none other than a rumored captured Saint Candidate.

By every measure, the new Lord of Southern Midlandia was proving himself not only capable but also driven, ambitious, and unyielding in his pursuit of change. With growing influence, wealth, and military might, he awakened the once-dormant realm with big orders and reforms.

Little by little, admiration for him spread. The commoners respected him as a powerful, one who, above all, was able to uphold order, deter criminals, and restore the stability to the region.

...

Lansius

After several attempts, the shampoo finally made the hair clean, soft, and pleasantly scented. Satisfied with the results, Valerie, Claire, Tanya, and Tia finalized the ingredients for the hair elixir. By that time, Lansius had secured a traditional workshop to begin production.

Being shrewd in planning, he had already stockpiled the ingredients and prepared the bottles for use. His bulk purchases of raw materials and glassware earned him gratitude from suppliers, orchard owners, oil makers, and glassmakers. Many were struggling after the recent conflict and economic upheaval, making his business a welcomed relief.

Lansius wanted a refined name for the product. Instead of calling it a foreign shampoo, he named it "The Lady’s Elixir for Lustrous Hair." It came in three variations, each with a different scent and strength: lavender for relaxation, mint for freshness, and rosemary for scalp health.

This selection allowed Lansius to adjust the ratio of vine ash and oil, catering to different hair types.

As per Audrey’s request, they also prepared a heavily diluted apple cider vinegar rinse for tired hair.

The ingredients were relatively inexpensive since each bottle required only a few drops of floral oil. Yet, it could be sold as a luxury item at a high markup. To justify the price, Lansius ensured the use of high-quality floral oils, thick glass bottles, and even offered a return policy for buyers who paid full price.

A diluted, more affordable version was also made available for common folk.

For promotions, Lansius initially wanted Valerie to lead the effort, as she now headed the project while he was occupied with countless other ventures. However, she declined due to recurring bouts of poor health. Ever since her blood transfusion, she had yet to regain her full strength. It was concerning, but there was little they could do beyond consulting the physician.

Lansius ruled out Claire, as she was a secret mage and pilot. As for Tanya, he had no intention of revealing her to the world just to market shampoo unless she wanted stardom. So, he made an unexpected choice by selecting Francisca.

The half-breed was already a sensation in Canardia. Whenever off duty, she visited inns and taverns, drawing crowds eager to see her, as if she had stepped out of legend. They also admired her sharp, no-nonsense persona. She spoke her mind freely with almost no restraint, which only added to her charm.

After the hair elixir launched, Francisca appeared with fur so radiant it was mesmerizing. Her mane was clean, fluffy, and captivating, impossible to ignore and tempting to touch. She never wore perfume, as strong scents overwhelmed her keen sense of smell, but the floral fragrance of the elixir was subtle enough to be acceptable. As a result, her fur carried a soft, natural scent that many found alluring.

Word spread quickly that Francisca had been using the hair elixir, and soon, everyone wanted a bottle.

Lansius wasted no time capitalizing on the demand. The elixir was stocked in newly opened shops, city barbers, and apothecaries as a hygiene product.

For closest nobles and allied Houses, he gifted three bottles, a marketing strategy disguised as a token of gratitude.

But wealth was just the beginning. Lansius was playing a much deeper game.

***

Middle Sea Strait of Three Hills

By midday on the third day, the jagged peaks of home came into view, rising beyond the rocky coastline. The sea, now a deep emerald like glass under the sun’s glare, churned gently beneath their flat-bottomed galleys. Gulls circled overhead, their cries mingling with the splash of oars.

Once they spotted the familiar cove, the thirty oarsmen rowed harder, as if racing to the finish. Eager to be done with the voyage, their strokes quickened, pushing the ship forward.

The younger man, still toying with his prized Ekionian optics, grinned. He had successfully guided them home and was confident he would be rewarded handsomely. He was of marriageable age, and to prove his success, he needed to bring home a woman from beyond the mountain. It was a mark of accomplishment and a measure of worth in his society.

Moreover, given their long-standing bitterness toward the Nicopolans, securing a non-Nicopolan wife was considered even more prestigious, even if it meant settling for a nomadic woman.

As the older captain and his handsome second-in-command stepped out to oversee the final stretch, the youngster made his way into the aft cabin.

Inside, he found the man he was looking for, lying on a bunk, seemingly unbothered by the commotion outside.

"Roderic, hey," he called.

Roderic lazily opened one eye and turned toward him. "I hate the sea. I don’t want to look at it."

"It’s not about that," the younger man insisted.

The older man sighed. "What do you want, kid? Gratitude for doing your job?"

"Well, that wouldn’t hurt." He flashed a grin. "But really, do you remember your promise?"

"Promise...? Oh," the man on the bunk exclaimed softly. "Sure. I’ll take you to dinner with my uncle. But don’t get your hopes up. He got too much Nicopolan blood in him."

"Damn, is he really that nasty?"

"What do you think? He charged me a fortune for a mediocre-looking Centurian woman. And don’t think you’ll have it any easier, even with a nomadic woman. With the shogunate enforcing peace and rounding up our brethren, we can forget about raiding."

The younger man let out a sharp sigh of frustration.

"Just marry normally and save your money," Roderic advised. "Look at me. I regret buying a Centurian—she’s stubborn, lazy, and acts like an entitled brat. I suspect she's actually Tiberian. Should’ve gone for an Elandian like my mother. They’re softer, more gullible, and easier to break. And they make great oublie."

"Oublie?"

"Crispy honeycomb flat cake. It’s eaten with orange blossom or honey." Seeing the younger man’s interest, Roderic added, "I’d ask one of my wives to make you one, but we don’t have honey, and I’m too broke to buy any."

"But we just got back—"

Roderic laughed. "You kids. We didn’t return in triumph. We returned in failure. The leaders will want our heads, not hand out rewards." He paused, then added more grimly, "Worse, I fear we left a dozen or so men behind. If even one is captured by Dawn’s men, we’ll have big trouble."

The younger man’s excitement sank like a stone.

Roderic's sleepy eyes sharpened as the galley lurched hard. "I don’t envy the captain. He’ll have to answer for this disaster while pretending he cares about those intellectuals getting roasted alive."

The younger man hesitated, understanding it was about the loss of the entire Ekionian ballista crew. "I see, so you're in trouble then."

"Me?" Roderic shot him a glance. "Why?"

"You're high in the hierarchy. Don’t you share the blame?"

Roderic laughed. "I'm smarter than that. You see, I refused second or third-in-command in this venture. All this seafaring business is shit in my book. I'm merely here as a fighter group leader to gain battle merit."

"Ah," the younger man nodded, watching him with renewed awe. "So, if you're not implicated, can you still help me get a wife?"

"Still thinking about that?" Roderic yawned, propping his head up slightly. "Damn this stupid practice."

"But you also partook."

"People buy for status. I buy for my own enjoyment. We are not the same," Roderic clarified.

Despite the younger man's continued puzzlement, he continued, "Go to the foot of the eastern mountain and seek the riders."

"But I can’t ride."

"Pay attention!" Roderic warned. "Just tell them what you want: someone’s daughter from Dawn. They’ll pick one or two when they run errands."

The younger man nodded, showing no sign of disgust at the idea.

"But don’t get your hopes too high. They’ll find some half-starved beggar, scrub her clean, and call her whatever you want. But who cares? As long as she’s not Nicopolan, right?"

"That’s a cheating..."

The man chuckled. "Then, hope the leaders still let us attack Three Hills."

"Three Hills..." The younger man perked up.

"Yes. Even better for you. You could capture a Lowlandian yourself and break her in however you like."

The younger man leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He had heard stories of men taming female beastmen, and the thought sparked a hunger in him. "What about you? Now that you have plenty, are you satisfied?"

"Me?" The man smirked, fully aware that the youngster admired him. "Never! After getting a Centurian woman, there’s only one thing left I want."

"And that is?"

"To bed the most powerful woman alive. And there’s no one more powerful than the Lady of Korimor." Roderic's grin widened, lips damp as he licked them. "If she leads a relief force to Three Hills after our attack, and I’m the one leading the ambush, then I might just get my chance."

***