Vigil's Wrath: A LitRPG Adventure (Vigil Bound Book 4), page 5
The watchman chuckled and shook his head. “Pardon, Vigilant One. I’m not laughing at you—just the idea that any of these men might take what belongs to you. There’s not a man, woman, or child in Ironmoor who would think of robbing you,” he said with complete earnestness. “Not after all you’ve done for us. Handling that Hexblight. Making sure Gustav and Sigge saw justice for their crimes. Getting these mines up and running again. Ironmoor hasn’t seen this kinda prosperity in twenty years, and that’s all thanks to you.”
He paused and scratched at the stubble beneath his chin, then glanced around to make sure there wasn’t anyone else in earshot.
“On paper, Ironmoor might belong to the Kelkadian Crown, but as far as we’re concerned, we stand behind you. The Crown, they never cared about us. Other than the Imperial Tax Collectors, who come to take their pound of flesh, we haven’t seen a Kelkadian official here in years. But you and Arbitrator Arturo, well, you give a shit about us. You’ve given us jobs. Given us our dignity back.” His voice dropped even lower. “You’ve done what a king ought to do. If you ever need a sword to fight by your side, you just say the word and I reckon you’ll have an army at your back.”
I got the sense that his words were supposed to be reassuring, but instead, they only increased my unease. This was the second time in as many hours that someone had told me they wanted me as king. Damn it, this wasn’t what I’d signed up for when Raguel had saved my ass, yet it seemed like the universe was conspiring against me. I was just a poor kid from the backwoods of Kentucky. Killing monsters was one thing, but ruling a kingdom? I’d never gone to college and didn’t know the first thing about taxes, tariffs, or any of the other bullshit that went along with leading a nation.
I couldn’t tell this guard that, however. He was looking at me like I farted rainbows and walked on water. He was old, scared, and battle-hardened, but I knew hope when I saw it. I couldn’t take that away from him. So instead, I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I appreciate the sentiment,” I said, even though it was a lie. “Let’s just hope it never comes to that.”
Then I turned away and left the mining camp in the rearview mirror. I needed to find Arturo and figure out what the hell I was gonna do.
6
Baron of Ironmoor
In just the short while since I’d killed the Hexblight and reopened the mines, a lot had changed in Ironmoor. Situated along the River Torne, the settlement had always been a hub for business, even after the mines had run dry. They did a brisk trade in Galbanian leather, shipped in from the Azulean shores, and trafficked in bountiful crops of wheat and cotton, produced by the farms that lay to the south. Valuable timber shipments from Lyshaven rolled through a couple of times a week, then were loaded onto river barges and sent onward to the larger port cities lining the banks of the Torne.
After spending time in Wildespell and seeing the sheer size of Sligrad—even if it was a first-class shithole—I knew that Ironmoor wasn’t a proper city. It was larger than many of the villages I’d wandered through while training with Kerra back at the Citadel, but there was a good reason they called themselves a provincial outpost. But now that the mines were open and wealth was pouring out from the earth once more, it looked like that might be changing.
Instead of sending the lumber from Lyshaven onward to more industrious settlements, laborers and construction workers were raising shops and homes. Stone masons paved new sections of roadway, and it appeared the city council had opted to replace the wooden palisade wall with one made of stout stone. A handful of new shopkeepers had already opened their doors and were attracting business from the steady stream of passersby. I spotted a candlemaker and a basket weaver, a housewares seller and a hunchbacked cobbler busy hammering hobnails into the soles of a pair of worn boots.
The streets themselves were also more densely packed than I’d ever seen them before. Carts carrying everything from fresh produce and barrels of ale to tin pots and farm equipment plodded along the main thoroughfare, pulled by donkeys and flea-bitten horses.
Despite the crowds, everyone made space for me. I didn’t have Melwyn riding shotgun with me, and without Cunning Glamor equipped there was no way to mask my identity. People smiled, bowed, and even dropped to their knees at my passing, making the sign of Raguel as they stared at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. I firmly remembered riding through Wildespell for the first time with Kerra and seeing that same sense of reverence poured out for her. The citizens of Wildespell had treated her like she was a rock star. Or maybe a saint.
It had made me uncomfortable then and it made me even more uncomfortable now, especially since I was the object of their veneration.
When I arrived at Arturo’s chapel, I discovered that the newfound vibrancy of the city had, apparently, extended to the padre’s stoop. Devout parishioners trickled in and out of the large double doors that let into the chapel’s sanctuary; there was also a large line of well-dressed men and women snaking around the side of the chapel, which connected to the rectory, which served as Arturo’s private quarters. There must’ve been ten or eleven people waiting to be seen.
I skirted past the line, earning a few withering glares—right until they recognized who I was.
“Excuse me,” I said, gently nudging aside a bulbous man filling the doorframe with his bulk. He had glossy black hair and a red velvet doublet that strained to contain his girth. A pair of yellow leggings, far too tight for the good of humanity, hugged his nether region in a way that was nearly as traumatizing as seeing a church filled with body parts.
“I don’t care who you are,” the big man said, without bothering to turn around, “the line starts back there.” He hooked a thumb over one shoulder toward the front of the church. “Although you might consider coming back first thing on the morrow. I’ve been trying to see the damnable priest for the past three days and haven’t managed to make it in and I’m the bloody trade ambassador for Stralbruck. I want to throw money at the man, and I can’t get in the door without waiting in the blasted line like everyone else.”
“Somehow I think he’ll make an exception for me,” I replied, pulling the man away from the door a little more forcefully.
“Now see here,” he replied, finally turning to face me. Whatever he was about to say died on his lips and his face turned an alarming shade of red. He dropped to a knee and made the sign of Raguel, just like so many others had. “Forgiveness, Vigilant One. I, well how was I to know that it would be you?”
“Don’t sweat it, buddy,” I said, reaching out and hauling him to his feet with my supernatural strength. “I never liked waiting in lines either. Unfortunately, my business won’t keep, but I’ll make sure you’re first up once I’m finished.”
“That’s too kind of you, Vigil. Far too kind.” The man extended a soft, plump hand that had never seen a single day of work. He reconsidered after a thin moment and quickly withdrew the proffered limb before I could take it. “As I mentioned, I’m Trade Ambassador Connock, from Stralbruck.” He pulled his hands in close and began dry washing them nervously.
“Let me be the first to say that we are very impressed with all you’ve managed to accomplish here,” he continued nervously. “His honor, Klaas van Stegeren, High Magistrate of Stralbruck, sees a bright future for Ironmoor, and an even brighter alliance between our peoples.” He paused and licked his lips. “Of particular interest to us is a unique substance we’ve heard rumors about. An alchemic mixture our sources are calling black powder…”
Well fuck. That wasn’t good. I’d had Arturo work with a few local alchemists to perfect my mixture, but I hadn’t thought word would get out quite so quickly.
“Save it,” I said, holding up a hand to forestall the man. “I’ll make sure Arturo sees you and answers any questions you might have. But for right now, I’ve got bigger fish to fry than trade agreements with Stakelberg—”
“It’s Stralbruck, actually,” the man corrected. “And I wasn’t aware that you had interests in commercial fishing. Stralbruck actually has some of the finest fisheries in all of Kelkadia and we could expedite boating licenses…”
“Not what I was talking about,” I replied with a sigh. “Listen, pal, I’ll have my people talk to your people.” I shoved the rest of the way past him before he could badger me further, then closed the door to the rectory behind me with a squeal. There was a metallic shriek as I slid the heavy iron bolt into place.
“I already told you lot that I’d come fetch you when I’m ready,” Arturo bellowed from the other room. “You’d best turn around and see yourself out because if I have to get up from my chair, it’ll be weeks before I hear your case! Weeks!”
“Don’t blow a gasket, it’s just me,” I called back.
“Oh, praise be to Raguel,” the priest said, relief clear in his voice as I entered the small room that served as his office and sleeping quarters.
A tiny fire danced in the stone hearth, banishing the sharp bite of late winter from the air. The room was cramped and hardly big enough for more than two or three people. There was a narrow bed pushed up against the outer wall of the rectory, and a worn nightstand stacked high with timeworn books. More books, scrolls, and ancient manuscripts loaded down the shelves of a finely crafted bookcase. There were still a few glass liquor bottles lining the ledge of the small window by his bed, but they were far less numerous than the last time I’d been here.
Once upon a time, he’d had a small table for taking meals, but that was gone now, and in its place was a large wooden desk, nearly as big as the padre’s bed. The wood was polished to a dull glow, and papers, maps, quills, and inkpots adorned the surface in a haphazard fashion. On the wall behind the desk was Arturo’s armory of swords, pikes, daggers, and staves. Each and every weapon had the marks of use and all were meticulously maintained—not a pitted blade or spot of rust in sight. It made for an intimidating backdrop and no doubt served as a reminder that Arbitrators weren’t your run-of-the-mill clergy.
They were monster hunters.
“You look like a bag of shit,” I said without preamble. It was true. Arturo’s hair was frazzled, there were dark bags under his eyes, and a smattering of crumbs were stuck in his beard.
“As well I should,” he grumbled as I dropped into the chair in front of his desk. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than a handful of hours since last I saw you. I can’t believe what you’ve gotten me into. When the church banished me to this miserable outpost after my spectacular fall from grace, I thought I’d end up spending the rest of my days rescuing lost sheep and cracking the occasional skull down at the pub. Not once did I fathom the possibility that I’d be running a trading empire for one of Raguel’s own.”
He leaned forward, his scar-covered forearms pressed against the edge of his desk. “You know, you’re damned lucky my parents hired good tutors—I’m not sure there’s another Arbitrator this side of the Torne that could handle all this.”
Yeah, that was one helluva coincidence. It was almost like Raguel had known exactly what was coming and had been working behind the scenes to pave the way for the Empire of Boyd. But I kept that thought to myself for the time being.
“Business has been going that good, huh?” I replied, cracking a tired smile.
“Good?” he asked, followed by a dark chuckle. “We’re an overnight sensation.” He picked up a thick stack of papers and let them fall. “Those are shipping contracts for all the Selitrium we’ve mined. Thanks to your reforms, we’re producing more a day than what I thought we’d haul in a month. I’ve got buyers all along the Torne. The capital has tendered a formal request—signed by the bloody queen, no less—and then there’s what we’re shipping to the Citadel.” He pointed to another rolled-up scroll. “That’s the charter for the sloop we now own.”
“We own it?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Aye, indeed we do. It ended up being cheaper that way. Plus, Marcus discovered a vein of iron, which I was able to turn around and sell at a nice markup to the local ironmongers. We used the profit from that to buy the sloop and contract an additional two caravans, and that’s only the half of it.” He shoved aside the sloop charter and dragged over another teetering pile of papers. “This is the patent for that land river of yours. The conveyor belt.” He still said the words as though reciting a magical incantation.
“I’ve had the cartographers drafting blueprints until they their fingers were bleeding. And then there’s the order requests for fabric, leather, wagon wheels, and a thousand other things I never would’ve thought we needed. Truth be told, that’s not even the worst of it.” He leaned forward, his face growing serious, his tone growing darker. “That black powder of yours is already drawing some unwanted attention.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me,” I replied. “I ran into Trade Ambassador Connock, from Stralbruck. Guy seemed to have a real hard-on to talk to you. Mentioned something about getting his hands on the black powder.”
Arturo rolled his eyes and groaned. “This is the fifth time he’s tried to weasel his way into my good graces. The first time he approached, he acted like the gods were smiling upon us. Said that he and his lord could change the stars for us, all for only the low, low price of being our exclusive distributor.”
I instantly thought back to the letter we’d received from the Throne of Tears. Arrogant, pompous, and completely full of shit.
“Yeah, I know the type,” I replied.
“At this point,” Arturo said, “he’s just starting to look desperate.” He pulled over a heavy glass bottle with a bone stopper and poured a generous three fingers of something cloudy and eye-watering into a pair of tin cups. I accepted the offering and took a swing. Whatever it was, it tasted like gasoline and punched like napalm. Good to see Arturo’s taste in booze hadn’t improved any.
“How’d they find out about the black powder anyway?” I asked with a grimace as I pulled the cup away from my lips. “Thought we were gonna keep that secret under wraps?”
“Yes, we were—for obvious reasons,” the padre said, swirling the cloudy liquid in his cup, “but I’m not at all surprised word got out. I don’t think the pair of alchemists I brought on have waggling tongues, understand, but it’s damn near impossible to keep this sort of thing quiet for long.” He hunched forward. “You can see the bloody explosions from halfway across the city, Boyd. You could’ve prepared me a little better, you know. One of the alchemists, Jarrick, nearly lost a hand.”
I grinned sheepishly and killed my drink with a wince.
“Yeah, sorry about that—though I feel like I distinctly said that this stuff wasn’t anything to fuck around with. I will admit,” I said with a shrug, “that it worked way better than I thought. I used a couple of the early test batches. Put it in glass bottles, mixed it with high-proof alcohol and razor-sharp iron shrapnel.”
“And?” Arturo asked. Suddenly his weariness seemed gone, and he was like a kid hearing about a badass new toy for the first time.
“It was fucking amazing,” I replied in a conspiratorial whisper. “Dosed two douchebag fae champions with the stuff. They burned like tire fires.”
“I don’t understand what a douchebag or a tire fire is,” he replied, “but it sounds like it went well.” He leaned back and let out a deep chuckle then took a sip of his drink. “I only regret that I couldn’t see the devastation firsthand.” He finished his drink, then poured himself another because obviously he hated himself and liked to suffer. “But I’ll be honest, Boyd, I have reservations about this black powder of yours.”
“Why?” I asked. “I was worried it wouldn’t work, but I think we can safely assume that’s not gonna be a problem.”
“No, it’s not that.” He sniffed dismissively. “I’m afraid it works too well. This stuff…” He faltered and glanced down into his cup as though it might hold the words he was looking for. “I’m not exaggerating when I say it will change the world, Boyd. That conveyor belt of yours is one thing, but this…” He trailed off again.
“It’s like magic,” he whispered, “but magic that anyone can use. I studied for decades in the Order of the Golden Chalice to master even the most basic attack spells. With that black powder, I could take any idiot off the street and give them the power of a mage without any of the wisdom or discipline. And the things I could do with something like that on the battlefield…”
He pressed his eyes shut tight and visibly shuddered.
It was easy to empathize. I pictured Cal burning to death, blown up by a crude IED fashioned from gasoline and goat shit. I saw Sanchez with a hole in his face, courtesy of a high caliber sniper round propelled from the barrel of a rifle by concentrated black powder. I heard the scream of mortars overhead and the thunderous explosions as they landed. I knew exactly what kind of destruction this was going to unleash on Alkran.
“That’s why we keep it to ourselves for as long as we can,” I said, setting my cup down with a clink. “We control the formula, and better yet, we use our newfound wealth to corner the market on the ingredients needed to make the stuff.”
Arturo stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I suppose that could work for a time. Sulphur is too commonplace and the same can be said of the charcoal you used. But the saltpeter… That we might be able to do something with. The butchers use it to cure their meats, but there are many alternatives available. Most of the saltpeter is mined up in Trevento, about a hundred leagues to the east of here.”
Despite its name, saltpeter wasn’t really salt at all, but rather a chalky substance known as calcium nitrate. The stuff was basically powdered limestone treated with a weak nitric acid. It was one of the common ingredients in commercial fertilizers and when combined with potassium carbonate—historically in the form of charcoal or wood ashes—it became potassium nitrate, which was perfect for preserving meats.
