Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The night was deep, yet the Hongsong Manor had not fallen silent.

The Venetian people had finished their meals and went to rest, but the celebration of the Herders would not end just like that.

After one last check of his preparations, Winters, weary to the bone, collapsed onto his wooden bed. He desperately wanted to grab some sleep, but sleep eluded him completely.

It wasn't because he was nervous, but because it was too noisy—the Herders seemed unsatisfied with just eating and drinking, and had begun to beat their drums and sing.

Winters was a light sleeper, unable to fall asleep with even the slightest noise—a common affliction among spellcasters—let alone the continuous noise pollution from the Herders.

Tossing and turning in bed for a long while, he simply couldn't fall asleep. Just as one foot would cross the threshold of dreamland, he would be yanked back by the drumming and singing outside.

Woken repeatedly by the rowdy sounds in his semi-conscious state, Winters's anger grew. He thought to brew some sleep-inducing herbal tea, but after fumbling around, he remembered he had given all his herbs to Kalman.

Infuriated, Winters hurled his pillow to the floor, "[Inarticulate cursing of impotent rage]! What the hell are they playing at, not sleeping in the dead of night!" Discover more content at empire

Deciding not to sleep, Winters donned his coat, kicked open his door, and stormed off to find the seemingly spiritual leader of this bunch, the elder Hestas.

"Will you join our feast as well, Mister Montaigne?" Hestas sat by the bonfire, content and smiling, as he looked towards the scowling Winters.

Seeing the Herder elder only served to fuel Winters's anger. With his nerves frayed, he could no longer contain his impulse to curse out loud, "What the hell are you doing not resting properly before our departure?"

Hearing Winters's coarse language, Hestas did not get angry, but maintained his smiling demeanor, "The feast must go on. In our Herder language, the word 'feast' is composed of the words 'eat' and 'laugh'; merely having a big meal is not enough. A feast is an important part of a Herder's life. These children have not been able to attend a feast since they were sold here."

It's hard to hit a smiling face, and Winters, feeling somewhat ashamed, refrained from any further foul language.

By the bonfire, several Herder men began to dance, with Hestas intently watching the dancers by the firelight.

This dance was vastly different from the Venetian social dance. The dance the Herders were performing was fierce and unrestrained. To Winters, it seemed less like a dance and more like a display of physical prowess.

The Herder men stamped the ground and swung their arms, slapping their chests and shins. They squatted and leaped, executing a succession of complex dance moves.

Even Winters, who had arrived in anger, had his attention captured by the unrestrained and fierce dancing.

"This is 'Kurvaleta'," said Hestas, transfixed, "the dance to journey to The Styx."

"The Styx? What's that?" Winters asked, uncertain.

"It's the river that separates the living from the dead. In our legends, once the dead cross The Styx, they cannot return to the world of the living," Hestas explained calmly. "These young people are dancing the dance leading to death. We have resolved to face death, but you must keep your promise to return the women and children back to Herder land."

Winters was silent, "I never trust promises or oaths, but all I can give you is my promise. If I am still alive, I'll arrange for them to return home myself. If I'm dead, Commander Serviati will take care of it; I've left him a letter."

"I trust you because I know you are a man of honor," sighed Hestas with emotion. "Just ensure the women and children are sent back. For a tribe, there is nothing more important than women and children. Even if all the men die, as long as the women and children survive, the tribe can quickly regain its prosperity."

"But can the tribe survive without men to protect them?"

Hestas smiled, "The Herder people here come from different tribes, many of whom were originally enemies. Once they are back on the grasslands, they will naturally return to their own kin."

"Who are you, really?"

"Me? I'm just a shaman without a tribe," Hestas said, shifting his position and ceasing to look Winters in the eye. "However, on the land of foreigners, I have found my tribe once again."

Winters felt a stir in his heart and sat down to continue, "When you say shaman, do you mean a magician?"

"No, a shaman is merely one who communicates with the gods. As for magicians you speak of... we Herders have no magicians."

"But you indeed can do things that others cannot, right?" Winters pressed, "I saw it. You made the oil combust on its own. Without significant mastery of the fire-making spell, that would not be possible."

"Some shaman priests can indeed do things that others cannot," Hestas said calmly. "But it's all a gift from the gods. We can use these powers only because the gods have chosen us."

Winters slapped his thigh vigorously, his voice trembling in encountering a different system of divine arts for the first time, "Then what's your training model? I mean... how do you select those children who are bestowed with divine gifts, and how do you help their powers grow?"