Steel and Mana

Chapter 266 – Prisoners’ Woe

It was only a day after the siege of Lothlia had ended. The captured, mostly conscripts, huddled together in the flickering light of a weird metal torch hanging from the wall opposite their cells. It was a bizarre contraption, as it was not covered in grease or oil, burning or producing light from a burning candle. But they had no real drive to figure out what made it work. They had much heavier thoughts weighing them down.

The air within the stone cell was cool but dry, a relief from the bitter cold reigning outside. Despite the faint warmth of their cramped shelter, much warmer than their tents had been in the past month of marching, the two dozen men's shoulders remained hunched, pushed downward by exhaustion, injuries, and the reminder that they may have only postponed their deaths.

The previous day had been a blur of loss and disbelief for most. With barely any time to process the bloody siege that they had endured, the magical cannon fire that took away so many lives, or the massive machines that reaped souls like nothing they had ever seen before, their minds were still unable to cope with the experience. On top of that, they all were faced with the disdain of the Lothlians, who regarded them as little more than mindless pawns, invaders who'd crossed the land to strike at their homes. There was no mercy in their wrathful eyes.

Outside their foggy, barred windows, their sneering laughter was as sharp as the words they hurled at them whenever a citizen passed by, knowing the people inside definitely could hear them. They were branding the prisoners as monsters, cowards, scum and worse. The sting of the accusations weighed more heavily on the younger conscripts, their faces pale as they shrank from the venomous looks while being transferred back and forth between interrogations. They indeed believed they were joining up with Otto's army for Ishillia, their homeland's sake. The Frontier should have been a land of barbarians and rebellious madmen. What... What went wrong...? And when? They no longer knew.

The older ones in the cell just wanted to be over with it, hoping that their execution would be painless. Thinking about when their heads would roll, the two men caught each other's eyes across the cell, exchanging a knowing look. The silence between them spoke of a shared understanding; they were among those lucky enough to survive the siege, yet there was nothing certain about their future.

"Wish they'd get it over with..." Arik mumbled, the same gaunt conscript who was the laughing stock of the mercenaries only days ago, failing to light a fire. Yet, many of those bastards were now buried under the rubble at the city walls. His voice was hoarse, ragged from the cold, the constant shouting in the heat of battle. His face was now even more hollow than before while he glanced around the dim space. "What's the point in keeping us here? Half of us are so battered we're no use to them, and it's not like we'll see home again."

"Home?" Nearby, Johan, a youth with fresh scars across his face, missing part of his left ear and the tip of his nose, let out a bitter chuckle. "I am beginning to think we are the actual rebels… Our homes will be ransacked and destroyed after we are given our due sentence. We all saw what kind of weapons they wield! Only the true Ishillian bloodline can have something like that! The Empress did not betray our country… We did!"

The shadow of fear, the horrifying image of the walking, monstrous war machines weighed on them all equally. Whenever they closed their eyes, they could hear its inhuman cry as it swung its massive spear, turning bodies into bloody mist. Still, it was hard to ignore that some among their number still clung to an ember of hope.

Though they were shown no respect, at least they were not forced to stay out in the cold, to freeze to death, nor did they were being starved. A single meal arrived each day, plain and just enough to keep them going, yet it was more than they had expected from those whose city they besieged. The thin stew and rough bread brought quiet relief for some, their warmth warding off the memories of blood-stained snow and the scent of burnt bodies surrounding them.

Amidst the crowd, a young man lay propped against the wall, eyes dull with fever. His breathing came in shallow, pained gasps. A hastily wrapped bandage around his torso marked him as one of the many casualties as he was injured by a mercenary's serrated blade when he tried to surrender. His wounds had no chance or time to be healed; his paleness and trembling betrayed an infection festering in his body. Next to him, another conscript, a weary, older man with a once-broad frame now reduced by hunger and exhaustion of the long march, used his own thin blanket to cover the feverish youth. He was trying to keep the life trapped in his weak body, patting his shoulder with care that contrasted sharply with how the mercenaries looked at them all this time.

"He's not going to make it…" muttered another prisoner, a scarred miner who had taken up arms reluctantly. Back home, there were too many mouths to feed, and the rewards were too enticing to give up on it, especially when seeing the flying ship of Ishillia. He expected it to be quick, as they said, simply killing barbarians and returning with riches. How wrong he was... His tone was flat, though his hand trembled as he adjusted his tattered scarf, still hearing deathly screams in the back of his mind. "If the Lothlians don't take him, the fever will."

At that, an uncomfortable silence fell over them. Many of them bore injuries from the siege—still aching cuts all over them. They were hastily wrapped in cloth they found lying around, massaging their stiff limbs from exhaustion and frostbite alike. Some wore their pain openly, moaning in restless sleep, while others gritted their teeth, unwilling to show weakness.

In another corner, an elderly conscript sat cross-legged, rocking slightly as he mumbled to himself, lost to the nightmares he survived by playing dead, covering himself with the torn-apart pieces of his friends, praying for the Six Gods to save him. His eyes were glazed over and unfocused, flicking around the cell as if he were searching for something or someone who wasn't there. Not anymore, that is. Now and then, his words became intelligible, murmurs of a wife left behind, of fields unattended, and a grandson, now beyond reach. Though the other men pitied him, they knew they could do nothing for him. His spirit was broken, shattered by the horror he had witnessed, and he wasn't the only one.

"I don't know if I envy him or pity him." Johan whispered, gazing at the haunted eyes of the elderly conscript. "Guess losing your mind is a kinder fate than waiting to die with your wits still present."

"Maybe." Arik nodded, his gaze growing distant. "But at least he's not in those cages out back…" he continued after a brief pause, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I saw them this morning when I was brought to questioning! Mercenaries lined up, shackled together. I recognized a few of them from camp and…" he trailed off, swallowing hard, "They certainly were amongst the ones they won't let live. I heard them squeal for mercy, only to be silenced by one of those massive soldiers breaking the shouting man's neck with one hand…"

As if summoned by his words, a loud, rhythmic clank echoed from beyond the walls, followed by the shouts of the guards outside. The prisoners quickly fell silent, listening, their breaths held as the heavy trudge of boots and the clinking of chains grew nearer. Arik craned his neck toward the narrow, barred window, wiping off the fog from the glass with his hand. He could see a line of figures shuffling through the snow outside. He also recognized some of their faces—mercenaries, a group they fought alongside when they broke through the border post. Back then, they were frighteningly savage, putting heads on spikes with laughter, but now, stripped of armor and pride, they marched toward their fate with terror and pleading cries.

The sight sent a chill through the cell, and Arik closed his eyes, a prayer forming on his lips. None of them were under any illusion. Though they had been spared the execution lines for now, they were still invaders, held by those whose homes and families had suffered under their siege. The Lothlians, however noble or just they were for even feeding them, had little reason to keep them alive. That they were even kept warm was a small mercy, one that could vanish the moment their captors deemed them a burden.

A burst of laughter from outside broke the following silence of the group of conscripts. It was harsh and mocking.

"Filthy scum! Thought you could take our home?" one woman shouted, her voice full of hate, clearly shouting at the mercenaries outside, being dragged to execution. "Rot in your chains! It's what you deserve! Death to the enemies of Lothlia!"

Several of the conscripts subconsciously dropped their heads, not wanting to listen to it if they could... They all bore a part of the blame. Many of them had seen friends die, not just in the battle but in the winter cold while they marched. But… How many friends and husbands did they kill, too? They were justified to look upon them as despicable varmints. They were the monsters in these people's nightmares, coming to rip apart their families for no reason.

Johan shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He was one of the few without serious injury, yet his eyes held the same hollowness as those of his comrades. He had seen the brutality of the mercenaries and had watched the Lothlian walls drenched in fire and blood. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood the hatred of the citizens, their disgust and resentment, yet the hostility still stung, pressing in on him until he could hardly breathe.

But even amid their dread and shame, a flicker of hope was still in the deepest part of his soul. The fact they were here—alive, warm, and fed, despite their injuries and the hatred against them—offered a slender thread of faith. Perhaps they would be given a chance to work off their crime or serve as hands in the fields. The chance seemed distant and unlikely, yet it was all he… all they had.

…
….
……

"I have the latest instructions from the Sovereign," Oleg expressed, standing in the castle's main hall, where they were having their usual meeting. "Those we consider 'redeemable' by the end of our interrogations will be transferred to Avalon."

"Shouldn't we just execute them all?" Elliot asked, frowning.

"No. Leon needs people." Merlin answered him firmly, "They will atone for their crimes by their two hands, toiling for us."

"Correct." Oleg nodded, tapping in the latest instructions from Leon: "They will head to our mines and serve there for five years. Those who show ample repentance will then be integrated into the city. The rest will continue their penance."

"That is a lot of people…" Pion hummed, as their prisoners numbered about 2,000 souls.

Taking inventory of their losses was still ongoing, but for now, it seemed they only lost fifty-eight Avalonian warriors from the five hundred who came. Still, there were a hundred and eight who were injured and needed proper healing before being able to return to service, while every last one of them suffered some kind of injury if not two or three. On the other hand, the Lothlian forces' casualties neared one thousand, including those not yet found or who were still considered missing. Injuries were still ravaging their numbers, so Pion was sure this number may still rise. But… compared to their enemy? It was nothing. The bodies littering the ground around the city were still being collected to be buried in a mass grave dug by the Rook. As for those who escaped? May the harsh winter take them.

"The interrogations will still take a week or more." Elliot shrugged after he finished reading Leon's message. "Then, after winter has ended, we can start rebuilding my city. I may use this opportunity to do a complete renovation."

"Avalon will fully assist you there." Merlin promised at once.

"What about the ship?" Pion interjected, looking at his Prime Minister, who couldn't help but flash a grin. Remembering the fight still filled him with a sense of wonder. He finally understood a bit of his old self as the two consciousnesses merged, battling as one entity. It was a wonderful feeling, and for a moment, he felt a different world inviting him, one that was… out there.

"After Polo and Lady Yuri have finished their much-deserved rest, the ship will be encased in an antigravity spell and brought back to Avalon." He explained, his eyes flashing with excitement. "There are parts of it that broke and need heavy repairs, but… I think we have a flying ship for ourselves! One that we can disassemble and–"

"Wait! You want to… disassemble it?!" Elliot gawked at him, stunned.

"Of course! How are we going to build something better if we don't? It is the perfect gift from our enemy. I am especially interested in the Imaginary it has. I want to learn all the secrets hiding in its belly… and improve it. When we march against Pascal, I want him to look up at the sky and tremble in fear!"

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