Chương 20: Fortune and Misfortune

Like everything else, the 4th Regulars' armoury dwarfed the size of the 3rd Irregulars' several times over. The place was a combination of mines, workshops, foundries, depots, and commissaries. Scribes, couriers, blacksmiths, miners, and engineers rushed to and fro in the massive underground compound, moving carts of provisions, equipment, or ore upon mining tracks.

Brass pipes and ventilation tubes were built into the upper walls and ceilings, bleeding precious heat through regular steam releases and cycling the dust-choked air with fresh breezes every so often. It was cramped, hot, and loud. Heavy machinery operated non-stop — both within the cavern and deeper in the mountains — turning the ground unstable with constant violent vibrations. The industrial odour of coal, metal, acid, sweat, and ash was ever-present.

Alcyr understood he was standing within the industrial heart of the campaign — the place which mined, processed, and produced the majority of the equipment used by the Morwyn military forces deployed to seize the northern tundras — but impressive as it all was, he couldn't care less about any of that at the moment. Because although the head quartermaster insisted he had laid out before Alcyr all the equipment collected from the battle with Warlord Bjorn… His dagger was still missing.

"It's not here," Alcyr insisted.

"I used it to sever the warlord's spine. It was embedded in his neck when I fell unconscious. There's no way anyone could have missed it." Arrayed before him was a mess of weapons and armour. Warlord Bjorn's silverite axe and mighty warbow were easily the most valuable pieces on the table, but there was also the giant's hide armour, which turned out to be made from quality manticore leather, as well as a pouch of precious beast bones and teeth — the equivalent of currency among the barbarian tribes.

Beyond that, there was also a separate pile of inferior weapons and armour. Most of it was taken from the corpses of Bjorn's honour guards that Alcyr had slain prior to his duel with the warlord, but he also spotted the remains of his own equipment — his broken arming swords, his cracked drake shield, and his shredded steel breastplate. All of which were in various states of damage. Alcyr had searched through the pile twice now. There was no sign of his gleaming umbral dagger anywhere.

The quartermaster did not care for Alcyr's unease, however.

"Boy, do you have any idea how much inventory goes through this place in a day alone?" the stout man complained.

"If you told me to retrieve a single dagger a day or two after the salvage team dumped it here, I might be able to find it from the records. But two weeks? You'll be lucky if your precious little knife is still in this place and not tossed into the smelter to be recycled."

"You won't have been able to melt it anyway," Alcyr hissed.

"That weapon is one-of-a-kind. I will not accept it going missing." The quartermaster raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"It's just a knife, and one that you were using when you were a peasant Irregular, at that. How important can it be? If you're really that upset, I'd bet you can find a superior replacement in my armoury. With the bounty payout, you've easily got enough gold to buy a better one."

"A replacement is not what I want," Alcyr said flatly.

"Tell me the names of those who salvaged my equipment. If someone stole it, I'll—""You'll do nothing in the state you're in," the quartermaster interrupted irritably.

"Calm yourself. You can barely stand, boy. At least save your threats for when you're in the condition to fight. You might think you were a big fish when you were stuck in the peasant militia, but this is the 4th Regulars Company. Almost everyone here is at least an Elite, and they won't be as patient with you as I am." Alcyr's fists were clenched so tight they were turning white. The quartermaster noted this murderous tension and sighed.

"I'll go through my inventory more thoroughly again and interrogate the men who brought your gear in. I swear on my life, I've no idea where your special dagger is. But if it's in my armoury somewhere, I will find it for you. It's the least the 4th Regulars owe you for killing the bastard Bjorn. That giant's slain more drake riders than any other barbarian in the campaign thus far. You may be a lowborn, but even I have enough honour not to steal from you after that feat." There was nothing else Alcyr could do.

After a few seconds of silence, he sighed.

"Fine. But if you do not have it by tomorrow, I'll take matters into my own hands."

"Yes, yes… By Saint's balls, and I thought those drake nobles were violent bastards…" The quartermaster shook his head.

"Felt as if you were ready to tear my head off there. Now, do you still want to talk business or not?"

"Business?" The quartermaster gestured to the equipment on the table.

"Guessing you can't use most of these, the axe and bow especially, so I'd wager you're better off selling them to us. There's the matter of your previous equipment as well. Most of it's broken and of piss-poor quality, since it's Irregular-made." Alcyr grimaced.

"What are you proposing?" The stout quartermaster grinned.

"Well, you have twelve gold pieces from the bounty payout. That's enough coin to make even a noble merchant like myself blush. But how about we make that fortune even bigger, eh? Three extra gold coins, if you agree to sell me everything on the table here." Alcyr took a second to register the audacity of the quartermaster's statement.

"That silverite axe alone is easily worth twice that value, at least," he objected.

"Maybe even three times that if I sell it in the kingdom's capital."

"It's not that simple, lad! You have any idea how hard it is to smelt down silverite and reforge it?" The quartermaster shook his head dramatically.

"Plus, we aren't exactly in the kingdom's capital now, are we? We are at the arse end of nowhere! Not to mention the rest of this crap here. Bunch of rubbish metal, only good enough to be remade into tableware. Really, I'm doing you a favour here by getting rid of them. You'd rather pay the storage cost instead? Cause it ain't cheap, I tell you."

"No storage cost could rob me as much as you're doing now," Alcyr accused.

"Six gold for the axe, three gold for the bow and manticore armour combined, and one gold for everything else. That's my offer to you."

"Are you daft, young man?! The bow and armour might be worth half a gold coin together, but that other pile of scrap metal is not going to get you more than a handful of coppers in the best markets of the kingdom, much less a gold coin here!" The quartermaster sounded exasperated.

"Three and a half gold coins for the lot, and that's my final and very generous offer."

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"Three and a half."

"Eight."

"Four. And I'll waive the storage cost you owe me for these past two weeks, as a token of friendship." Alcyr gritted his teeth.

"Five gold coins, you waive the storage cost, and you'll give me the names of those men who salvaged my equipment if my dagger doesn't show up tomorrow." The quartermaster grinned.

"Done." [New Skill: Barter 1 (Common)] Well, at least I got something useful out of this debacle. The quartermaster must be a very high-level merchant for Alcyr to gain a charisma skill even after securing such paltry gains. Later, after becoming another few gold coins poorer following a tiresome round of negotiation regarding the replacement of his damaged equipment, he met up with Apothecary Lenore, who had just finished collecting some medicinal supplies from another segment of the armoury.

To Alcyr's surprise and slight horror, when he told the woman how much he sold his spoils for, Lenore's emotionless facade actually cracked. The physician winced and looked at him in genuine sympathy.

"You got fleeced. I would have bargained for no less than five gold coins on the axe alone, at least. Silverite's worth twice its weight in other precious metals now in the capital, and manticore leather is rare enough that the armour would have gone for maybe two whole gold coins on the open market. Not to mention the warbow's—""Stop, please," Alcyr sighed.

"I know I made a mistake."

"You're not very good with people, are you?"

"Not with talking to them, no." While his martial skills soared, his charisma and social skills remained in the pits. Lenore shrugged.

"Everyone's first time with the quartermaster always ends with them getting the short end, though your case is perhaps the worst I've seen, since most nobles at least have some charisma-type skills. Don't worry too much; your time here surrounded by minor bluebloods will make you a better conversationalist."

"I won't hold much hope for that."

Dusk soon arrived. Alcyr had already woken up late in the afternoon to begin with, so the passing of a mere few hours already brought the end of the day. He had a modest but pleasant dinner. His body still rejected solid food, but the 4th Regulars' meals were far better than the slop usually served for the peasant Irregulars. Once that was done, he was escorted back to the infirmary. By that point, his pain was returning as the suppressant and steroids Lenore had given him started wearing off.

Though the agony and stiffness weren't as severe as they were in the morning, it still crippled him to the point where any movement at all brought mind-numbing torment. Lenore placed a couple of pills and a glass of water next to him.

"Take these before you sleep. They will help mend your internal injuries and speed up your recovery." Alcyr took the pellets and examined them.

"I do not recognise these."

"They are my personal alchemical creation. It's the best I can give you, given our supply shortage. I've been feeding them to you since you were entrusted to my care. Since you awoke earlier than expected, I'd say they're working as intended."

"Thank you. Do you have anything for the pain?" The moment the pain relief had completely worn off, Alcyr felt as if his body were instantly slingshot back into a sea of bruises and needles. Every part of him hurt, inside and out. Staying conscious was an effort. Moving, or even just sitting upright, felt almost impossible.

"It's best not to use too much. Painkillers have become a luxury, and aside from the addiction risk, the chemicals interfere with your body's recovery." Lenore moved to leave the room.

"Take your pills and try to get some sleep. Since you're healthier now, I'll look into requisitioning a healing potion for you. We will see if your condition improves tomorrow."

"You're not staying?" She shook her head, a touch regretful.

"Grandmaster Faldren has assigned me new duties now that you're awake. Don't hesitate to shout for help if you need it. A guard is posted outside the infirmary at all times. I'll try to check in on you tomorrow when I can." The door closed, and Alcyr was alone. He first tried sitting up. When even that was too much, he tried moving his arms and fingers. Even that minute movement made him sweat.

The pain was great, certainly, but the crux of the issue lay more with his body's extensive rigidness, as if it were actively trying to stop him from moving. Pain was something Alcyr could tolerate and even ignore if he needed to, but right now, any overt or forceful movement felt like it could end up crippling his nerves. There's also the fatigue. It feels unnatural. Is it because I pushed my internal energies too much when I used my Artes during the battle with Bjorn? The answer didn't sit right with him.

While it's true that using Artes exhausted one's stamina much more rapidly and risked draining their life force if overexerted, the fatigue shouldn't last longer than a few days. Unless Alcyr had inflicted permanent damage to himself — which didn't feel like the case — he should have been fully recovered by now. Something else was amiss, but he couldn't figure out what it was. He eventually gave up on leaving the infirmary, slumping into his bed.

It was clear the best and only decision he could make now was to sleep. Hopefully after another night's rest, his body would recuperate enough such that he would at least be able to move with assistance tomorrow. Alcyr closed his eyes, and within seconds, exhaustion took him into the realm of dreams.

Muted sunlight touched his eyelids, guiding him back to the world of the living. It turned out he was too optimistic previously. The moment of waking was unspeakably excruciating, with his body somehow feeling even worse than yesterday. His mind was assaulted with a pounding headache. Every muscle carried a deep, spasming agony, and each breath he took felt like swallowing glass. His mouth was painfully dry… Didn't he drink some water last night? He groaned in irritation.

Alcyr fought the urge to curl up as his muscles forcibly contract, tightening against his will and worsening the pain. To his surprise, he heard someone in the room rushing towards him.

"Don't try to move. You are still weak from the surgery." Palms pressed against his naked chest, pushing him back down on the mattress and holding him still.

"You're convulsing," the person mused.

"Symptoms of rejection? But the medicine worked fine yesterday."

"Don't touch me," Alcyr hissed weakly.

"I already told you before not to—" He cut himself off, realising something was amiss. Why was he naked? He had a surgical gown on when he slept last night. Apothecary Lenore looked down at him, her expression calm and professional.

"Try to relax. Your convulsion is making the pain worse." Alcyr gritted his teeth, forcing himself to still. He blurrily looked out the window.

"It's already noon?" He slept for over twelve hours? That was unlike him. No. Something's not right.

"Why are you here?" he asked painfully. His throat ached with each word he forced out. Lenore raised an eyebrow.

"Should a doctor not be with her patient? Your condition was rather worrying, Private Alcyr. Most soldiers would not have survived the wounds you incurred." This… This isn't… This pain isn't right.

"I thought you would be busy managing the camp," he rasped. For some reason, his body would not stop shaking and sweating.

"Your hands must already be full since Grandmaster Faldren assigned you other matters to deal with. Why are you here?" The physician was silent. Alcyr slowly turned to look at her. She was studying him with a piercing gaze.

"Lenore?" he croaked.

"What's wrong?" She tilted her head.

"How do you know my name?" Alcyr froze. Oh. Oh no.

"You know the commander's name as well." Lenore frowned.

"And why do you speak it with such familiarity?" He finally understood what was bothering him. The pain he was experiencing wasn't just from the injuries of his wounded body. There was another set of agony overlapping the first. It was an agony he was all too familiar with. The phantom pains of a false death, forcing his body to convulse. But that would mean…

"How many days have I been here?" he urgently asked. Lenore hesitated before answering.

"Fourteen days. Or fifteen, to be exact. It's currently midday." It was the same answer as 'yesterday'. Alcyr resisted the urge to curse. Somehow, he had died in his sleep last night. He was trapped in another time loop once more.