Chương 53: Chapter 51 - Interlude: Pawns

Aevinne stood before an unmarked grave under a forest's canopy, some ways from the burgeoning fortress. She was breathing in and out, mind blank. A sudden grip on her shoulder startled her. Whipping her head around, she spotted Isengrim's scarred face.

"You've done well," he spoke, eyeing the grave, then their surroundings, "But do not venture out here alone."

"Degurechaff doesn't think there is anyone else," Aevinne responded after a few seconds. Isengrim shrugged, "For now. Tomorrow, who knows?" Aevinne didn't respond, and the gravesite descended into silence.

"How do you do it?" She eventually spoke up.

"Hm?" Isengrim tilted his head questioningly.

"Deal with death. I thought I was ready…" Aevinne explained. The Iron Wolf smiled, the expression anything but reassuring on his scarred face, "The first friend you lose hurts the most. The second and third ones aren't much better. From the fourth to the tenth, you start getting used to it. By the hundredth, you will feel nothing," he turned away from her, before finishing softly, "That is real war, Aevinne. The losers pay with their blood, the winners with their souls."

Aevinne stood by the entrance of Degurechaff's tent, watching as the sorceress trained with her staff. The two were the only people present. The other four guards on duty were outside, while Aevinne's job was to help the sorceress should an enemy somehow sneak through. Eventually, her composure broke, and she cringed. Her face returned to her customary neutrality soon enough, but the change did not escape Degurechaff's notice, "Is there something wrong?"

"You are atrocious," Aevinne spoke immediately. The sorceress blinked, "Pardon?"

"Your legs. You move like a fish that grew legs but hasn't quite grasped their purpose. Who taught you to move like that?" Tanya's eye twitched, "I am mostly self-taught."

"That'd explain it," Aevinne spoke, nodding her head, before resuming her duty of guarding near the entrance. Degurechaff stayed still, staring at the elf, before sighing, "Please elaborate." Aevinne tilted her head, "Neglecting footwork is a common mistake amongst those without proper training."

"No, please elaborate upon my mistakes," Degurechaff reiterated.

"Oh," Aevinne responded, finally understanding, "There are three main aspects of footwork: stability, reach, and mobility," she took out her sword, reaching as far as she could manage as she was, before continuing, "The purpose of any decent stance," Aevinne moved one leg in front, bending the knee slightly, while the other stayed straight, foot pointing slightly to the side, her sword suddenly reaching much farther, "is to maximize all three."

She then demonstrated foot movement to the front, back, and sides, her stance never wavering.

"There are many stances, but the philosophy stays the same, even if they can prioritise different aspects. While your handling of the staff is decent, your footwork is patchwork at best. No intent." Aevinne finished, ending back up at her previous spot.

"What about power?" The sorceress asked curiously.

"Power is largely tied with stability," the elf explained. Degurechaff looked at her curiously, "I'll add an hour-long lesson to my daily schedule in the evenings. Please think upon this matter further with my weapon's capabilities in mind." Aevinne's eyes widened in surprise. Coen played with his medallion as he sat with Cyril, the soldier eying him distrustfully while he shook the two dice in his hand.

"Victory at all costs," the soldier whispered to his hand, before releasing the dice on the stump they were sitting at. Cyril stared at the dice hopefully, his face dropping when they both settled on ones. The witcher's mouth twitched, but he didn't comment.

"There is always next time," Cyril muttered, handing the dice to Coen, "Another round?" Coen shook his head, "I'll be heading out." Cyril's eyes sharpened, hearing something in the witcher's voice, "Out," he parroted. The monster hunter grimaced, "I am leaving. A border skirmish is one thing, but everyone has heard the rumours about Nazair now, let alone the other… things.

"" Hm," the soldier responded eloquently, "Your code?" At Coen's nod, he continued, "If you are heading to Cintra, mind delivering something to my daughter?"

"You have a daughter?" Coen exclaimed.

"You don't have to sound so surprised," Cyril responded drily. The witcher scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, "You just didn't seem the type to, you know…"

"Oy! Will you or won't you?" Coen put his hands up placatingly, "Of course, I planned to stop by anyway. What is it?"

"A letter, and some money. She got married a few years ago to an apprentice smith, and they've been scrounging to open up a shop for a while. Lady Degurechaff's pay might be enough…" The witcher looked around. Spotting no one, he leaned close, "Are you sure you want to stay? I wasn't there, but the first time could have been a fluke." Cyril shook his head, "A fluke? She might not be the most… standard, but I trust her to lead us to victory. That day, she and the elves took on most of the risk.

You should have seen her, Coen," his eyes took on a faraway look, "She rode with just a handful of knights, that hellbeast of a serpent on her tail. I swear to the gods she broke the enemy formation on her own." The witcher examined him curiously, "Well, I wish you luck. I still have to read over the contract to make sure I understand it properly before I bring this to Degurechaff, but I expect I'll be gone tomorrow morning…" He trailed off, spotting a certain elven woman.

The elf moved towards their stump with her long strides, plopping down unceremoniously.

"How did your shift go?" Cyril asked, happy to move on to lighter topics. Degurechaff's guards only worked for four hours at a time, before she insisted on having them rest.

"I told Lady Degurechaff that her footwork was horrible, and now she wants me to teach her?" She said in a slightly confused tone. Coen burst out laughing, while Cyril looked largely puzzled, "I never saw anything wrong with her footwork?" The resulting look of disgust caused Cyril to lean away from the elf. Coen got his laughter under control, "You wouldn't have, which is not a slight against you Cyril - Degurechaff was never bad. Just very rote, from what I've seen."

Aevinne opened her mouth, then closed it with a thoughtful expression, "I suppose yours is quite bad as well."

"Thanks," Cyril responded drily.

"What about mine?" Coen asked.

"I haven't seen you fight or train," Aevinne replied.

"Well, that is an easy fix," Coen said, standing up. Both Aevinne and Cyril looked on in interest as he unsheathed one of the swords on his back and demonstrated his footwork, along with a few slashes and pirouettes, moving with great speed all the while.

"What do you think?" He asked after a minute or so, no exertion at all visible in his demeanor. The elf tilted her head, "How are you alive?" Coen put a hand over his heart, "You wound me." Aevinne stood up, a slight frown marring her face as she circled Coen, examining him like an exotic specimen. Suddenly she stopped, a strange expression on her face, "Were you… going slow? To let us see better?" The witcher smiled, nodding.

Aevinne stared for a moment, "Let's fight," she spoke suddenly, unsheathing her own sword in one swift motion. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Coen was taken aback, "Is now the best time?"

"If not now, then when?" Aevinne retorted, already moving to a bit of empty ground nearby. Settling into a ready stance, she looked at the witcher, "Well?" Cyril and Coen exchanged a look, then the witcher approached her, his own sword in hand. As he neared, Aevinne's sword flashed, a diagonal slash from the right. Metal met metal with a clang as her sword met the witcher's parry, and Aevinne stepped back, eyes measuring. The witcher's speed was extraordinary.

She slashed again, transitioning into a thrust at the last moment, but found no success again, the witcher parrying her attack without much effort. This time, he did not let it slide. Coen stepped back, freeing his sword, before performing an under cut, slashing from below towards Aevinne's torso. The elf moved, barely managing to parry and deflect. She grit her teeth as the force proved to be much larger than she anticipated.

The next seconds passed in a blur as the two exchanged a flurry of strikes, metal ringing. Parrying another attack, Aevinne stepped back, breathing loudly. The witcher didn't even look winded. Aevinne lowered her head, then sheathed her sword. Coen nodded to her.

"No pirouettes," Aevinne pointed out. The witcher chuckled, "As you've probably surmised, they are not meant for evading a singular, skilled opponent. Their real purpose is for fighting larger beasts, but they look impressive." Cyril clapped.

"Your Majesty," Ortagor bowed, as he arrived at the earthen ramparts of the outer wall, where the King stood, staring to the south.

"Dalibor! Just the man I was waiting to see," the King, Roegnar of Ebbing, turned to him, "Magnificent, is it not? I cannot believe it has just been a few months since this endeavour began."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Ortagor replied. Roegnar's eyes roved from Ortagor's feet to his face, "You are wondering why it is me here, and not the Queen?" The baron's eyes turned downward, which did not help much, as he was easily half a meter taller than the King, "I would not dare question a royal decision, Your Majesty." Roegnar rolled his eyes, "My darling wife thought it prudent not to put all our baskets in one egg, since someone might just get lucky enough to kill two birds with one lost battle."

"Ah, yes, Your Majesty."

"She is quite smart, and very pretty, so I tend to listen to her. HA!" The King chuckled, slapping Ortagor's back a few times. The baron didn't budge an inch.

"Ehm, anyway," the King continued, "Do you know where the sorceress hides her monsters, Dalibor?"

"Ah, that is actually what I wanted to talk to you about, Your Majesty."

"Really? How fortunate!"

"Yes," Ortagor responded, voice clipped, "Your Majesty, what Degurechaff is doing is-""Incredible, isn't it?" Roegnar jumped in, "A serpent that size…" he shook his head in disbelief.

"Your Majesty does not find it dishonorable?" Ortagor asked carefully.

"Dishonorable? HAH! Dalibor, you lack imagination. The enemy gets to fight beasts straight out of legends, instead of killing their fellow human beings. And the glory should they win! The glory! I almost envy them. I can already imagine my lance sinking into the flesh of such a beast," Roegnar finished with a wistful voice. As the King spoke, he turned towards the south again, staring from the wall, and so he did not see Ortagor grimace at his words.

"She has been executing prisoners," Ortagor tried again, "She takes them out of the fort, and spells them to death, burying them in unmarked graves." At this, the King turned back towards the Baron, his eyes sharp, "Baron Ortagor," he spoke seriously, "I did not take you for such a wuss!" Roegnar slapped Ortagor's back again, to no effect.

"If they want to masquerade as bandits, then Degurechaff is only following their wishes by treating them as such. Are you, perhaps, jealous of her success, Baron?"

"No, of course not!" Ortagor denied, "It is just, Your Majesty, the beast… It was an unholy abomination. An affront to nature itself, and Degurechaff did not even blink before unleashing it."

"Abomination shmabomination," Roegnar replied, "The important part is that she unleashed it upon our enemies, wouldn't you agree?" Author's note: This chapter came out on April fools, and was originally hidden in a spoiler tag, with a joke chapter preceding it - this has now been reversed, and the joke chapter is hidden in this spoiler.

I sat on my newly made throne, palming the skulls that formed the ends of my armrests. I had thought the entire thing was a bit much at first, but Isengrim had been insistent that we make use of my reputation. The bone throne was the result, though it sat in a tent, rather than a majestic hall. That would come later. The Nazairi were coming, but as the Provost of Dreadhold - and much of Marnadal - I had to take care of more mundane civil duties as well.

Suffice it to say, the local villagers had no idea of the approaching enemy, and so they came, like moths to a flame. As another petitioner was brought in, the screams from the outside redoubled. It was a bit distracting, but desertion was punishable by death, so why not make their ends purposeful? The villager, a stout man in his thirties, trembled before the bone throne, his eyes flicking between my skull-helm and the two tall skull-headed monsters flanking me.

"Speak," I commanded the peasant.

"Ah, forgive me, Lady, for disturbing you," he said, trembling. I motioned with my hand, hoping to speed up his speech up, but he just trembled more. I rolled my eyes. After a few seconds, he continued, "My village, the, ah, Dogwater, could use your arbitration. A miller was found to have rigged his weights." I nodded thoughtfully, "Isengrim," I snapped my armoured fingers, the scarred elf entering the tent like a ghost, "Take a hundred riders to whatever hovel this unwashed peasant originated from.

Bring the villagers here. All the men above ten shall be conscripted; the rest we can feed to the Broodmother," I paused, thinking, "Ah, save some of the bones for the bone throne."

"Your will shall be done," Isengrim bowed, leaving promptly. The peasant gaped at me, but I paid him little attention.

"Number 42," I spoke. One of the creatures next to me tilted its head.

"Take this dimwit below, he can serve as an appetiser for the rat." The creature nodded before bounding over to the villager. Before the man had a chance to react, the monster lunged, spearing him through his stomach with one clawed hand. The villager gurgled, staring in disbelief at his spilling intestines. The monster looped them around his neck before using them to drag the dying peasant away, choking off his screams.

"Mm," I hummed. I wasn't sure how many people lived in Dogwater, but it'd hopefully be at least a hundred. With so much biomass, the Broodmother should be capable of birthing another hundred skaven. The Nazairi numbered thousands, but some of my own troops would die in the battle as well. This meant the biomass harvest would be double. How many of the ratmen would that result in? A few thousand, at least. Calanthé had already agreed to name me her Vizier, but I wanted more. First Nazair, then the world.

"Oh, you are approaching me? Instead of running away, you are coming closer?" I masterfully distracted the witcher, tapping one of the skulls on the bone throne. Isengrim had outdone himself, and now the bone throne rested on a fairly sizeable pile of skulls and assorted bones. The tent had been raised to match the new height of my throne. The white-haired man spoke, "Hmmm."

"You have done well to get past my guards, but your journey ends here," I continued, before standing up. The enhancement of my own stature was obvious. No one would ever call me short again - I was now over three meters tall, with the bulky black plate armour only adding to my mass. My skull helmet had been further enhanced with a crown of spikes, while an enchantment masking my face in darkness had been added. I picked up a giant flanged mace and pointed it at the witcher.

"Wind's howling," he said.

"I will add your bones to my bone throne," I retorted.

"Fuck." Then the battle began. I slammed my mace downwards towards his head, and the witcher blocked elegantly with his sword - only for the blade to snap. The momentum of the mace was barely slowed, and the weapon moved forward, straight into the shocked face of the witcher, crushing his skull in one blow. I blinked, not expecting that. I squinted at the snapped blade. Was that silver? Did the witcher bring the wrong sword by accident? Well, no matter.

With the witcher dispatched, I could return to my last and greatest project. I turned back to my throne.

"Let me think," I murmured, "Three rings for the elves, not many left of them anyway, seven for the dwarfs, since they are short, nine for humans… That's most of it done, now just one more ring. One ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them."

"Looks like rain," the voice of the witcher echoed throughout the silence, and I looked back in shock.

"How do you like that silver?" the witcher spoke, despite his crushed skull.

"What sorcery is this?!" I hefted my mace.

"Damn, you're ugly," the witcher shambled closer like a zombie.

"Rude," I muttered. He couldn't see my face anyway, and what was left of his face wasn't very nice to look at, so, you know, glass houses. I blinked as the witcher started pulling out large amounts of cheese, raw meat, and other random food items, instantly scarfing them down, his ruined face somehow restoring itself in real time.

"What now, you piece of filth?" The now-healthy witcher spoke.

"Throughout Heaven and Earth, I alone am the honoured one," I replied, "With this treasure, I summon… Eight-Handled Sword Divergent Sila Divine General Mahoraga!" I incanted, extending both my arms forward with my fists closed. A muscular alabaster figure with wings growing from its eyes appeared behind me, staring at the witcher.

"Is that all you've got?" the witcher spoke, pulling his second sword from his back. He pirouetted forward, arms extended into a slash. His sword slammed straight into Mahoraga's neck, only for the blade to snap. The witcher's eyes bulged. Mahoraga, as a magical construct, was quite durable against steel. Silver would have probably worked. Maybe. Probably not. With one last 'Fuck', the witcher was punted straight out of my tent, letting me resume my world conquering.

Then I wept, for there was nothing left to conquer. Suddenly, I paused. This was the third world I had lived in. If Being X could do it… In another world entirely, in the city of Tir ná Lia, Auberon Muircetach, the King of the Aen Elle, suddenly got a bad feeling. However, not even the great magical prowess and fortune-telling of the Aen Elle could have prepared them for the unending hordes of rat men that were to come. Authors note: And that's it, folks! Thank you for sticking so long with the Devil of Cintra.

Do not worry, Tanya will soon return in: The Devil of Cintra: The Multiverse of Madness! The second book will bring many innovations, the main of which will be the incorporation of an innovative AI-driven analysis of your comments in order to determine the fate of the people that Tanya takes captive. The more you comment about skaven, the more skaven there'll be! The book is largely drafted, with the first half being a large Gwent tournament, so you have quite a lot to look forward to!