CHAPTER 246: A MAN IN ARVENA

The Turtle

Lansius

It was dim inside the structure beside the racetrack. Though it had plenty of ventilation to bring in fresh air from outside, the air within still smelled putrid. Heavy wooden fences, reinforced with iron nails at the joints, had been used, for there was no other way to contain the majestic creatures housed inside. There, Lansius stood staring at the beasts. They were as large as warhorses. Their feathers stretched as long as his forearms, their broad beaks looked strong enough to crush bone, and their thick, clawed, webbed legs seemed capable of maiming a horse or tearing through a man with ease.

The ducks stared back, calm and unblinking, as if judging him insignificant. These creatures were proud and fearless. Unlike other animals that easily panicked at the approach of humans, there was no panic here, not even a hint of alarm. Though caged, there was no mistaking their defiance.

Despite all his years in this world, Lansius had never seen them up close. And he had maintained that distance, believing it wiser to avoid things that could not be reasoned with.

But now, with these beasts set to race before a crowd of ten thousand, Lansius could no longer afford to look away. Like it or not, they were his responsibility. And so he stood, studying them, while they returned his gaze as if accepting his challenge.

Curiously, before entering the enclosure, he had heard their quacking and bellowing from afar. But once inside, the ducks fell silent. Not a single sound echoed through the space.

Lansius observed the group until his eyes settled on a tall, commanding one.

Just as he shifted his weight, thinking to step closer for a better look, the duck stirred. Its plumage shimmered with a dark bronze sheen, and its broad chest swelled. Without warning, it spread its massive wings, sending a burst of hay, dust, and dirt flying in his direction. Worse still, it let out a thunderous blast from its beak, a low, blaring roar that rose like a warhorn and matched the fury of a dozen bronze trumpets.

"So you are the leader," Lansius muttered, amazed by the sheer volume of the sound.

The rest of the ducks remained silent, as if honoring the moment.

"It gave you its respect," came a voice from behind.

Lansius turned and saw the guards escorting an older but powerfully built man in woolen clothing. Meanwhile, from further back, Francisca raised a hand signal, indicating that the man could be trusted.

The lead guard stepped forward with the man in tow and said, "My Lord, this is the duck meister in charge of the enclosure."

"Greetings, My Lord," the man said with a respectful nod.

"Greetings, meister." Lansius motioned for him to come closer.

The man approached as instructed, and Lansius asked, "Do I need to do something to return this creature's gesture?"

"Pay no heed to them." The meister let out a brief, hearty chuckle. "Unlike horses or dogs, ducks require no respect or affection from humans. In truth, they mostly do not care about us at all."

Lansius gave a chuckle in return. "So, how do you keep them this quiet?"

"Well, we keep them comfortable. It's airy, with plenty of shade. They like it in here," he explained at first, then added, "Also, it’s probably because of your retinue."

"Ah, Francisca," Lansius said knowingly.

"She's probably making them feel threatened."

"Should I remove her?"

"Not at all. It’s better this way, quieter." The man smirked, glancing at the majestic creature who was watching them carefully, as if it understood the conversation. "These creatures aren’t dumb like the smaller ones. They understand hierarchy. It sees that the guards and the half-breed are protecting you, so it understands that you are the leader."

Lansius was surprised. "I never thought ducks could be that intelligent. That’s probably more than what most animals can manage."

"These are the smartest of all the duck breeds I’ve seen. That’s why they can be trained to pull chariots without killing the rider."

Lansius was piqued. "How do you make them do that?"

"Transactional," the meister said with a short chuckle. "We train them to understand that if they finish the race, they earn buckets of tasty insects. And if they come in first, they get even more."

"So you can train them to that degree?"

"Of course," the meister confirmed. Then his expression turned curious. "Pardon my frankness, but I must ask. If My Lord isn't aware of their intellect, then why the bold decision to race them?"

Lansius snorted and confessed, "Between you and me, I didn’t actually ask for this to happen."

The meister frowned, unsure if it was a joke.

Lansius caught his look and clarified, "I must have misspoken to one of my officials, or perhaps I mentioned a duck race in jest. But you," he paused, "you made this happen."

A wave of emotion passed over the meister’s face, and he visibly relaxed. "I’m glad My Lord isn’t reckless but reasonable. I already told the scribe from the Office of Works that you would likely be more interested in the smaller breeds, not the big ones like these."

"Smaller breeds? Do you happen to have small-sized ducks?" Lansius asked with anticipation. He could use normal-sized ducks to boost the economy of villages and towns.

"My family has bred them smaller over several generations. We believe they’re perfect for farms."

"Indeed," Lansius agreed without hesitation. "They eat insects, their feet compact the soil, their droppings enrich the land, and farmers can collect their eggs. Their feathers also make excellent fletching."

His answer caught the meister off guard. "Yes, My Lord," he hastily agreed, clearly excited to find someone who understood the potential of such animals in agriculture. "The little ones are incredibly useful, more docile, and far easier to keep. Unfortunately, they’re still a bit too expensive and mostly kept as exotic animals in noblemen’s menageries."

Lansius gave him a steady look. "With my support, you’ll breed enough of them to fill farms across the land and provide every farmer with their help."

The duck meister was visibly moved and bowed his head, taking the charge to heart.

Lansius turned to the ducks again and asked, "So how many are kept here?"

"Thirty ducks, all trained to pull chariots."

"Isn’t this space too small for them? I don’t want them growing restless or falling ill," Lansius said as he surveyed the enclosure once more.

"I’ll make sure they stay healthy, My Lord. You’ll be glad to know we let them into the arena at night to sleep. It helps them grow familiar with the space and keeps them calm. And if needed, I still have hundreds more in my pen. They’re not as smart as this lot, but a few should be good enough."

Satisfied with the answer, Lansius reached into his purse, took out a fistful of silver coins, and offered them to the meister, saying, "Make sure they have everything they need, and that the race will be safe. And also, treat yourself to something nice."

"Gratitude, My Lord," the meister said as he accepted the coins.

With his concerns eased, Lansius exited the compound with his entourage. Soon after, the place came alive again with quacks, splashes, and low, rumbling honks. He could only hope it wouldn’t turn into a bloody spectacle.

***

East Nicopola Mountain

After four days of practice, modification, and repair, Sir Servius finally unleashed his battering ram. It was now equipped with brakes to hold it steady while climbing uphill, and it had a double-layered wooden roof designed to better withstand bolts, rocks, and even alchemist fire.

“Here comes the mud!” someone called from outside, as the crew braced themselves, drinking large gulps of water in preparation.

The cabin-sized timber shelter quickly echoed with splashes as buckets of mud were flung against its sides and roof. Each layer soaked into the animal hides stretched tightly across the wood, seeping deep into the leather. It was a mess, but a necessary one, as wet hides offered the best defense against alchemist fire. Inside, the noise from outside came through as muffled shouting and the steady thump of mud.

Several loud taps struck the frame, followed by a shout: “You’re ready to go!”

Inside, the leader of the crew, a man of Dawn now serving under the Gray Skull Legion, glanced at his men, nearly all burly or stronger than average. Despite the stifling heat and poor ventilation, each of them wore gambesons and helmets.

“Come, brothers, it’s time to break some stones!”

Nervous laughter echoed through the dim, cramped space. Then the leader raised his voice and barked the order, “Heave! PUSH!”

The six men slowly pushed the small, wheeled battering ram from inside, while another group behind them lent their assistance. Gradually, it climbed the incline and rolled toward the mountain people’s bulwark. After a steady twenty minutes, a thudding sound echoed as crossbow bolts began to pelt them.

On their flank, thirty Nicopolan crossbowmen advanced behind large pavise shields, moving under the same rain of bolts. They returned fire to relieve pressure on the battering ram as it continued forward.

Just as the ram began to build momentum, something struck it hard. For a fraction of a second, they heard the groan of thick timber forced to bend. Then came the jolt, violent and sudden, as the entire frame lurched to one side.

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The impact was strong enough to make the rear wheels pivot sharply to the right. Deep skid marks scored the earth, a clear sign of the blow they had just taken.

"What the hell was that?" one of the crew muttered as wood dust drifted from the ceiling.

The answer came from outside. "Go! Keep going!" someone shouted, tapping on the frame. "They’ve got a ballista. They just fired one!"

"By the Ageless!" one cursed.

"They've spied us!" another snapped.

"Not now, push!" the leader shouted, rallying them. "We need more ground before they can reload!"

They frantically pushed, straining to get it moving again, but the slope was growing steeper. The men grunted and dug in their heels.

With burning legs and aching arms, they pressed on. Outside, the pounding continued without pause. They knew it was meant to drive off the support team at the rear, leaving them to move the ram alone.

"Deploy the brake," one suggested, his face flushed and his voice strained.

"Brake, boss?" another echoed, wiping sweat from his brow.

But the leader shook his head. "No. We can’t risk the ballista hitting us again. We need to get as close as possible, where it can’t angle low enough to target us."

Suddenly, knocking and shouting came from the troops outside. “Get down! The ballista is trained on you!”

Instantly, the men inside hunkered down.

A moment later, a deafening crack struck the rear of the ram. The whole structure jolted sideways, knocking some of the crew off their feet as splinters rained from the back wall. The ram groaned under the impact, but it held.

Slowly, they realized what had happened: the dreaded giant ballista had fired, but its bolt had only grazed the rear. The moment of recognition swept through them. Cheers and laughter broke out at once.

“Oi, you lot, lucky bastards!” came a shout from outside.

Another voice, louder and more authoritative, called out, “Man of Dawn, you're clear! It didn’t bite!”

Inside, the leader cut the celebration short. “Rush it, lads! Don’t wait for them to reload!”

Fueled by renewed fear, they threw themselves back into the task, shoving the ram forward and regaining lost momentum. Their muscles screamed, but they preferred that to another strike from the ballista.

But there was no relief. A distinct cracking sound rang out from above, followed by a panicked scream from their allies: “Alchemist fire!”

Knowing what it meant didn’t help them. All they could do was keep moving forward.

“Keep it going,” the leader said calmly.

Flames began to spread, but the soaked mud and hides did their job, shielding the timber roof from the worst of the fire. Still, thick smoke seeped through the crevices, choking the air and turning every breath into a struggle.

Despite the coughing, stinging eyes, and the acrid burn of smoke that filled the cramped space, the six men kept the ram in motion. Then, without warning, another massive shudder rocked the frame. A loud crack split the air. Everyone lost their grip and was thrown against one another.

The blast was deafening. When they opened their eyes, dust from shattered wood filled their vision. Scrapes, splinters, and blood were everywhere. A flash of light from the rear corner caught their attention. The part of the roof in one corner was simply gone.

The ballista had struck again, tearing through the left rear section. But by some stroke of luck, the bolt had hit the corner. No one had taken a direct hit. They were bruised, bleeding, and dazed, but still alive.

“You’re clear! The ballista can’t hit you anymore!” came a shout from outside. With the roof torn open, they could hear it clearly.

The man from Dawn looked around at his battered crew. “Brothers, just a little more,” he said through clenched teeth. “Then we can unleash our hatred on them.”

They all nodded and redoubled their efforts. Only one man was spared to patch the hole, jamming a shield into the gap as best he could. As the distance closed, the defenders on the bulwark grew frantic. In desperation, they began hurling even rocks down upon them.

Arrayed to their left and right, the Nicopolan crossbowmen advanced as close as they dared. Their pavises were riddled with bolts. Still, they held their ground, sending precise shots and doing what they could to shield the advancing ram.

With a final surge of strength, the ram crashed against the bulwark. At last, it had reached its target. Above, the defenders erupted in desperation, hurling rocks, torches, and tallow-soaked rags. Flames licked across the top of the ram, but its layered timber and mud-caked hide held fast.

As the defenders were distracted, the Nicopolan crossbowmen seized the moment and intensified their attack. The air buzzed with the high-pitched whine of bolts slicing through at deadly speed, and the mountain men began to fall under the withering attack.

Inside the siege engine, the man from Dawn and his crew hammered wooden stakes into place, jamming the wheels to lock the structure and create a stable platform for the assault. Working in practiced rhythm, they lowered the heavy timber beam using ropes and pulleys until it hung freely. Only the thick steel chains kept it suspended from the spine of the frame.

With the setup complete, they unlatched and removed the front panel that had shielded them. A rush of air and smoke swept inside.

Outside, the battle raged. Shouts and screams echoed in every direction. Flames had caught in places, and smoke drifted through the gaps, but the reinforced roof held. Despite the chaos, the enemy’s flammables had failed to reach them.

For the first time, they drew the heavy timber back as far as it would go. It had been made from a single piece of aged wood, sharpened and tipped with an iron-steel core nearly the size of a human head.

“For Nicopola!” the leader shouted, and the men released the ram, pushing it forward to add force to the swing. Thanks to the angle of the chains and the way it was suspended, the timber lunged like a charging bull.

The impact rocked the bulwark and jolted the immobilized battering ram a few inches backward. The blow sent vibrations rippling through the structure, loosening the packed pebbles and sands.

A roar erupted from behind them. “More, more!”

“Destroy that piece of shit!”

Inside the siege engine, the crew used the recoil to prime the ram again and sent it crashing forward once more. Unlike solid castle or city walls, the mountain people's bulwark began to shudder almost immediately. Loose pebbles, dust, and debris cascaded from the cracks as the stone and timber structure had not been properly fitted or reinforced.

Despite the growing heat, as defenders continued hurling flammables, the heavy ram slammed forward again and again, each strike relentless and unforgiving.

In response, the defenders began to dislodge the very boulders that made up the bulwark. Chunks of stone fell with heavy thuds, and creaking sounds echoed along the roof and the timber framework beneath. Even the thick central spine quivered under the impact, a sight that made even the experienced crew turn slightly pale. Still, they pushed on, delivering blow after blow in an unbroken rhythm of destruction.

A city wall might endure days of siege before showing even minor damage. But a makeshift bulwark like this was never meant to last.

***

Lansius

Three days had passed, and a crowd of forty thousand had packed the racetrack. The event had become hugely popular, drawing spectators from neighboring towns and cities. As the host, Lansius watched from the podium. He wasn’t required to attend every day and could have limited his appearances to the opening and closing ceremonies. But he thought it would appear unfavorable if he didn’t watch alongside the people, so he chose to stay.

Fortunately, with his staff nearby, he could also hold council meetings during the event to manage ongoing affairs. Just yesterday, they had agreed on the amount of the fine for Sir Ebenstein, which would allow him to be released once the funds were collected.

Now, word had arrived that Ebenstein’s allies had raised the required sum. The bailiff had released him, as there was no further legal issue. No one could rightfully blame him for the peasant son’s death. Not even the mother.

In the eyes of the law, Sir Ebenstein’s offense lay in breaking a prior agreement and failing to honor the son’s death. With no other standing charge, there was no justification to detain or imprison him any longer.

“So, he’s free now?” Lansius asked the chief bailiff, who stood at his side.

“As free as a man in debt,” the chief bailiff replied.

Lansius glanced at his staff. “Explain.”

“Sir Ebenstein’s allies, who pooled money on his behalf, did so with intentions toward his land.”

“So their act of helping him was simply a way to carve up the estate for themselves?” Lansius asked.

"Likely so, My Lord."

Lansius scoffed. "Some friends they are."

"When land is involved, they're no better than cutthroats; just dressed in finer clothing."

Lansius snorted, almost feeling pity for the man. "Was the fine I imposed on him too heavy?"

"No, My Lord. And you did reduce it further since he pleaded guilty."

Lansius exhaled sharply, his eyes drifting toward the crowded arena, now filled with acrobats performing during the interlude between races. Suddenly, he turned to the chief bailiff and asked, "What do you think of the man himself?"

"Sir Ebenstein? He’s mostly harmless. He only tried to protect what remained of his great estates. Most of his House’s wealth was squandered by previous generations. What’s left now is just a husk of its former self."

Lansius nodded and returned his gaze to the arena.

"Then, I beg my leave, My Lord," the chief bailiff said.

"Take care. Be careful of the crowd."

The man bowed slightly and left the podium. He had come solely to report this matter, deeming it important enough to deliver in person.

Soon, the acrobats were replaced by minstrels with gitterns and flutes, playing ballads for the crowd. At times, their efforts were futile, as without any modern sound system, their instruments and voices could only carry so far.

Lansius turned to Sterling. "Get Sir Omin to try and establish contact with Sir Ebenstein. He’ll know what to do."

Sterling nodded and quickly set to work. In the corridor just behind the podium, a writing desk had been set up. He penned the letter, let the ink dry, folded it neatly, and handed it off to an aide for delivery.

"Do you think he’ll be of use?" Sterling asked afterward.

"Sir Omin will be the judge of that. He’s well suited for this kind of work," Lansius replied.

Suddenly, the trumpeters sounded a sharp, rising fanfare that cut through the noise of the crowd, drawing all eyes to the arena. The signal marked the start of the eighth horse race of the day, and the spectators erupted in delight. They rose to their feet, cheering as hooves thundered onto the track and the riders took their positions on the packed racetrack soil. It was still a selection race, but cheers rang out for local favorites and visiting challengers alike, with banners fluttering and voices rising in eager anticipation. Then, the trumpets rang out once more, and hooves pounded the ground as the race began.

...

It was an exciting race, a close call between two popular horses from neighboring teams. Sadly, Canardia, being a small city, didn’t have a strong contender. Still, the spectators were thrilled to witness such a tight match.

After the eighth race, the games would pause for a midday break. The day was divided into morning and afternoon events. It was more of a festival than a simple race. Outside the arena, impromptu street markets had sprung up, and the fields were dotted with tents, where people rested, cooked their food, or made new acquaintances. With thirty thousand people in attendance, and even more expected the following day, the area west of Canardia had turned into a sea of tents.

It was dirty and could potentially cause health issues, but there was no other practical way to hold such an event. His staff had already taken more precautions than he could have hoped for. They had even set up medical stations where people could check for common ailments and report any signs of a spreading illness. In his view, as long as the encampments didn’t block the roads into the city, he was willing to overlook the matter, considering it only a temporary concern.

To provide security, his officers had deployed as many patrols as possible. Still, as expected, thieves and pickpockets lurked throughout the crowd. For the most part, individuals were responsible for their own safety, which made traveling in groups a common and necessary precaution.

Piqued by a shift in the wind, Lansius looked up at the sky. This prompted Sterling to comment, “We’re fortunate the weather has held. No sign of rain or drizzle.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Lansius replied, just as Francisca suddenly appeared from the corridor behind and rushed toward the front of the platform.

Lansius, Sterling, and the guards snapped to attention.

“What’s wrong?” Lansius asked, as Sterling grabbed a shield and the guards readied their XBows.

“Something is happening,” the half-breed said, glancing left and right, as if trying to confirm a sound or scent.

The guard captain stepped up beside her and raised his Centuria-made optics and scanned the arena.

“There,” Francisca pointed to the southern section. “There’s some fighting.”

The guard captain shifted his focus and, after a brief moment, confirmed it. “And it’s getting worse.” He turned to Lansius and said, “I suggest we mobilize the guards and have our men intervene.”

“Go. Take everything you need. Keep order, but avoid violence,” Lansius ordered as he stood and moved to the front of the platform to observe. He quickly spotted the growing unrest. A mass of people was already fighting, and the chaos was spreading as more were drawn in. The speed at which it escalated unsettled him.

“Any idea what caused it?” he asked Sterling or Francisca nearby.

Instead of answering, Francisca asked, “May I go, with your permission?”

Knowing her nature, Lansius nodded. “Be extremely careful. Move away if there's any danger to yourself.”

Francisca nodded and leapt from the platform, landing on the empty viewing platform below, which had mostly remained vacant due to the majority of nobles being reluctant to attend until the final two days. Then, the half-breed sprinted toward the source of the disturbance. But it was like wading into a sea of bodies. Her sudden movement drew the attention of the spectators, and soon, everyone realized that something serious was unfolding.

Before anyone could react, the fight in the southern section had spiraled out of control and was spilling onto the racetrack. People threw fists with fury, grappled in the dust, or swung broken planks and anything else they could get their hands on. Shouts of anger blended with screams of pain and the shrieks of women, the elderly, and children.

“Look,” Sterling said, and Lansius spotted unmoving figures slumped across the benches, red blood staining the wood in scattered patches.

“Blades,” the guard muttered.

Despite the blood and the deaths, more people pushed forward and joined the fray, swept up in a rage that seemed to erupt from nowhere, as if some buried hatred had suddenly found its moment.

From the platform above, Lansius could only watch as the arena descended into chaos. His jaw tightened. If this spread any further, there would be no containing it. Canardia’s garrison had fewer than four hundred men, while the crowd numbered over thirty thousand.

***