Chapter 4. Ward No. 1 (Part 3)

  Dmitry snapped awake instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch in his brain. An army habit, forged by years of paranoia, worked flawlessly. The cabin was dark. Only the floor’s contour lighting cast faint amber glimmers on chrome and plastic. Toby was asleep on the sofa, curled up under his magical pelt. One of the boy's hands hung down, his fingers tightly clutching the Amulet of Envoys like a teddy bear. The onboard AI had "lulled" the little inquisitor to sleep with a stream of information, and the child's brain had simply shut down from overload.

  Beep-beep-beep. The sound was quiet and unobtrusive, yet persistent. A perimeter alarm. Not a combat siren, but a notification: "Someone has entered the control zone."

  Dmitry slid silently out of bed. He pulled on his boots (didn't bother lacing them) and grabbed the tablet from the side table. The screen flared to life, showing a map of the area. Millimeter-wave radar: 3 targets. Distance: 150 meters. Vector: West -> East. They weren't coming from the marshes. They were coming from the forest, along the same overgrown road Dmitry had used. From the "civilized" side.

  Dmitry switched to the cameras. Camera 4 (Thermal Imager). Three bright heat signatures. Humans. On foot. Camera 1 (Night Vision). The image became grainy and green.

  Dmitry squinted, studying the guests. These weren't peasants. And they weren't highwaymen. In the lead was a tall man in a long, hooded cloak. His stride was confident, authoritative. A longsword hung at his belt. In his hand, he carried a lantern, but its light was dim and bluish—magical? Following him were two others. Stocky men in leather jackets reinforced with metal plates. One had a crossbow slung across his back; the other rested a heavy halberd on his shoulder. Soldiers? Mercenaries? Guards?

  They emerged from the brush and stopped at the edge of the clearing, before the moat. Dmitry could see their faces thanks to the camera zoom. Tired. Angry. Splattered with mud up to their waists. They looked at the castle. But then the man in the cloak turned his head. He saw the "Ark."

  Dmitry imagined what they saw. A white, massive, geometrically perfect monolith standing in the mud. It hummed quietly (the generator was running), its windows were shuttered, but faint light leaked through the cracks. Around the vehicle, red perimeter sensors blinked on their mounts.

  The man in the cloak froze. He raised the lantern higher, illuminating the side of the vehicle. His two companions recoiled, leveling their weapons. The halberdier said something, pointing at the antennas. But the leader wasn't afraid. He stepped forward, peering. Then he turned abruptly from the machine and headed for the bridge. He didn't shout. He approached the rotten decking and struck the support post with the hilt of his sword. Bam. Bam. Bam. The sound echoed through the night silence.

  Dmitry switched the camera to the castle. Movement appeared on the wall immediately. Coen. He hadn't been sleeping. The Baron leaned over a battlement. Hans appeared beside him with a torch. Dmitry activated the directional microphone on the roof. The sound of rain and wind interfered, but voices broke through.

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  "...in the name of the Duke!" a voice came from below. A commanding, raspy bass. "Open up, Prast!"

  Coen replied from above, his voice trembling but trying to maintain his tone: "It is night, Messire Reinhard! The bridge cannot be lowered, the gates are barred! What do you want?"

  "Don't play the fool, Coen!" the newcomer snarled. "We saw the smoke! We saw the light! You’ve lit a hearth, which means you have coal. And if you have coal, you have the means to pay!"

  Dmitry smirked. Taxes. Or debt collectors. A classic. As soon as food and warmth appeared in the house, those wanting a share showed up.

  "I have nothing, Reinhard!" Coen shouted. "Those... those are old supplies!"

  "Then what is this 'thing' in your yard?!" the stranger jabbed his sword toward the Ark. "A white carriage without horses? Have you sold your soul to demons, Prast? Or found an ancient hoard? Open up, or we’ll break down the postern! I have orders to distrain property to settle the debt!"

  The situation was escalating. Dmitry saw the two soldiers starting to apply a tool to the gates. A crowbar? Or a magical ram? Coen was panicking on the wall. He had no strength to resist. Hans with his rusty spear against two armored men was no fighter.

  Dmitry looked at the sleeping Toby. The boy was barely breathing, gathering strength. If these thugs broke into the castle, they would strip everything—the remaining coal, the rice, the meat. And they might want to check what was inside the "white carriage." Dmitry did not like uninvited guests. Especially armed ones.

  He sat in the pilot's seat. "System, unlock external PA system." He wasn't going to shoot. Not yet. He was going to do what he did best—make an impression.

  Dmitry touched the light control panel. "Searchlight—on target. 100% power."

  Outside, on the Ark’s roof, the main searchlight turret turned soundlessly. The lens focused on the group by the bridge. Dmitry pressed the button.

  CLICK.

  The darkness vanished. A beam of blinding white light, 50,000 lumens strong, struck the trio. This wasn't torchlight. It was the light of a supernova. It highlighted every rivet on their armor, every raindrop, every pore on their stunned faces. The men below were blinded instantly. They shielded their faces with their hands, dropping their weapons. The man in the cloak recoiled, nearly falling into the moat.

  Then Dmitry spoke into the microphone. The Ark’s external speakers, powerful horns capable of drowning out a storm, boomed his voice across the valley. The voice was metallic, amplified, stripped of human intonation. The voice of a Deus ex Machina. The amulet around Toby’s neck (which was synced with Dmitry) worked as a mental translator, but for those outside, it sounded like thunderous speech in their native tongue.

  "STEP AWAY FROM THE GATES."

  The sound hit them physically, vibrating in their chests. The soldiers fell to their knees, huddling their heads. Reinhard tried to peer through his fingers at the source of the light, but tears streamed from his eyes.

  "THIS TERRITORY IS UNDER PROTECTION," Dmitry’s voice continued to rumble. "LEAVE."

  He switched off the searchlight. The sudden darkness was even more terrifying than the light. Purple spots danced before the intruders' eyes. They were disoriented, terrified, and humiliated. An unknown Demon (or Mage) living in an iron rock had just laid claim to this destitute piece of land.

  Dmitry watched the thermal screen. The trio retreated hastily. They grabbed their halberds and stumbled back toward the road. Reinhard shouted something back at Coen, shaking his fist, but his voice no longer held authority. There was only fear.

  "That's more like it," Dmitry switched off the microphone. Toby stirred on the sofa but didn't wake up—the cabin’s soundproofing was perfect. Dmitry looked at the castle. Coen stood on the wall, staring at the Ark. He slowly raised a hand in gratitude.

  "Sleep, Baron," Dmitry said quietly. "The debt collectors won't come tonight. But tomorrow, we need to have a serious talk about your debts."