Tristan
October 13, 1786, Realm Timeline, Austria, near the Morava River
The first text, Tristan had thought, was a manifestation of a pact, like in the stories. Now, there were more.
The Interface has finished installing. You have been identified as a Thrall, level 0. Advance to level 10 to become a Minion.
Attributes assessment… Pending.
The following passives have been installed:
Universal Translator (limited)
Night Vision.
He noticed that if he focused on the skill names, they expanded into more explanation. Tristan went on as fast as possible. It was pretty clear what a translator or night vision did.
The following combat skills have been installed:
Vampiric Touch: Siphon a small part of the damage you deal to restore your health.
Kill Streak: Each kill gives you a stacking plus 10% Endurance, as long as you kill another foe within ten seconds. Can be applied up to 4 times. All stacks last as long as you are in combat if you maintain the rhythm.
IMPORTANT: Common sense will improve your skills. Increase your Spirit stats to enhance your Magical skills, your Body stats for physical ones, or your Mind stats for combat analysis, etc. Use your skills properly. Bad form and training could cripple them; good practice and application will boost them.
The notifications listed the skill he had as First Order, under another name, with strange numbers beside it. Now, it was called Kill Streak; in the Imperial Army, it was called Killing Tempo. Its effects were well known.
Then came another prompt:
Do you want to change Kill Streak's name into Killing Tempo? The Interface allows you to use your own terms as long as a skill or a class bears enough resemblance to their effect.
"I'm fine with Kill Streak," Tristan said. It sounded more direct, more brutal. Tempo was used in fencing and music, and they were both too fancy and posh for his tastes. He knew what real war was like, and fancy was not a word belonging in it.
Besides Kill Streak, he now apparently had a skill that was a Third Order one, and was about siphoning health. Third Orders relied more on magic and were weaker physically; thus, it made sense to have some means to heal. Specific Orders, though, were not supposed to cast or use skills from another Order, and not because it was forbidden. It was impossible.
"What does all this mean?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead and wobbling on his feet. And how much time did I spend reading it?
The Countess was back with the group, and the preparations were advanced. Half were ready to go, clubs or staffs in hand, excess clothes removed or wrapped around their arms as potential shields.
[Eliza]: Don't be scared.
"Whoa!" Tristan jerked.
[Eliza]: C'mon! Are you a knight or a kitten? Show some spine. This is a means of communication called chat. Works within a mile. Focus your thoughts, and I will hear you. Use your skills. They don't consume Mana. Big advantage.
Hearing a voice in his head was beyond weird, but considering things, it was normal, too. How else were Vampires supposed to give orders to their thralls?
Hey! Get back to your mission! Tristan admonished himself.
He searched with his eyes for a good, straight stick and found it in a hazel bush, just a few feet further. One hit with his dagger was enough to cut it; the family heirloom had a sharpness enchantment on it. He took off his vest and shirt and ripped the latter in two, using one half to tie the dagger to the stick.
"I need two wigs," he said. "Your Highness, give yours to that kind lady, please," Tristan pointed at the Hungarian noblewoman. "Everyone should do this. Use whatever you have. Belts, ribbons."
Giving the example to the decoy group, he tied the fake hair around his left arm using what remained of his shirt. It offered at least some protection against bites. Dog trainers used something similar, only better crafted.
"You should go already," the serf girl said. "I'm almost out of juice."
The mix of broken German with a Vlach accent and Outworlder words would have been a good moment to let some sarcasm fly, but making fun of a poor girl with a sick child was not in a knight's curricula. Tristan threw his vest at the girl's feet.
"Use it to warm the kid."
"…T-thanks…"
Tristan signaled the diversion group to follow. They trotted eastward, with him in the lead. Five hundred feet farther, the noises of the night became louder all of a sudden, and Tristan realized they had left the obscuration spell's area. That told him that the girl's powers were considerable.
At her age? She can't be more than fourteen.
Then came his enhanced senses. Hearing, smell, eyesight. His eyes could see almost as well as during daylight. Knighthood required a bare minimum of magic, and Tristan belonged to the First Order, being able to enhance his body. However, even among orders, powers varied vastly, and his had been rather meek before.
And above all, there was the Mana. Like all Orders, he could feel it; it was a passive ability called Mana Sense. However, until now, it was more of a tingling when using it within his body—a burning, if he was pushing it too far—or a bad or good vibe, if someone else was using it nearby, foe or friend.
Now, the night was filled with colors and sensations he didn't even know existed. Senses combining. The forest was… magical, and if it had been summer and the circumstances peaceful, he would have just laid on a patch of grass, enjoying it.
His mind, Tristan noticed, was thinking and working faster —not like during a battle, where the adrenaline rush—another word that, at the same time, he did and didn't understand—transformed everything into a storm, into chaos, time seeming to flow faster. This was far from it. He was calm, analyzing the forest and the Mana, while at the same time focusing on the mission.
Mana was also superficially hanging on to things, letting them go when an external factor intervened. The leaves rustled laterally, and the sound also had a white whiff of color, Mana leaving them as they broke under pressure, specifically paws running. Tristan detected two shapes moving. Hounds, scouting them. Air was pushed away as they went through it, and that also left Mana traces. But those were the small details; the dogs also had a small ball of orange Mana in their heads, plenty visible.
Tristan waved his arm to release more scent. The wigs tied to it reeked, layers of sweat embedded within. The Mana in it had a pinkish-brown color, like rotten meat. The Outworlders laughed at the nobles' fashion, and Tristan began understanding why.
Why aren't the hounds attacking? Did they realize we're a decoy?
More dogs appeared, though, from the right and from behind, keeping their distance. Not as many as hoped, though.
The Tamer kept himself and some of the pack in reserve…
That was bad news, and he had to think fast. As on order, ideas seemed to run through his brain like writing with chalk on a blackboard, with pluses and minuses. There was no perfect option, but he had to do with it.
"The woman carrying the empress's wig, go ahead; everyone else follows her, in a half circle. Protect her like she was the real deal. I'll fall behind. We have to make the Tamer think she's the queen and kill as many hounds as we can, to attract the others."
To their credit, the nobles were good at organizing themselves and adopted the formation Tristan asked for instantly. As they ran ahead, he veered to his right and accelerated to full speed. The first dog he met was a greyhound. Tristan needed to attract his attention, and he snorted, a taunt as good as any other. The animal stopped, befuddled, and looked at him.
Jumping up and grabbing a branch to propel himself farther, Tristan landed on the dog's spine with his boots, breaking it. All that, acting only on instinct.
Ignoring the wails, he thrusted his improvised spear, catching a hound in the chest, in mid-air. The impact was considerable, and the spear got stuck. Tristan lifted the dog, slamming it into the next one, like a giant meat hammer. The hound's neck broke. A fourth dog grabbed on his right arm, the one without protection, and a fifth on his left arm. A sixth was coming fast, eyes injected, aiming for his groin.
"Go away!" Tristan screamed in a panic. Twisting his left arm, he freed himself by letting go of the wig shield and kicked the incoming hound in the head with his left boot. He gouged an eye on the hound holding his right hand, making it release its grip and run away, howling. The left dog was shaking the fake hair with a vengeance, and Tristan let it be, stomping on the head of the dazzled hound he had kicked prior.
There was pain in his right arm, but no time to dwell on it. Putting a foot on the dog he had speared, he pulled out his weapon and ran after the rest of the pack, because they had avoided him, following what they thought was the primary target.
He found the decoy team two hundred feet further, taking cover among a thicket, packed around the woman, trying to keep the hounds at bay. Some of the nobles were dead, or pretended to be, and many were injured. Three animals were lying motionless, dead or dying as well.
At least five dogs were small breeds, meant to hunt badgers or other den dwellers, and were keeping away, barking like mad, and letting the bigger ones do the fighting. Tristan kicked two in the butt, making them decamp with a deafening ruckus. A hound showed common sense and followed. He killed two more, and when the pack turned their attention to him, he ran away and climbed a tree, settling on the lower branch, from where he could thrust his spear down. A few nobles came from the back, hitting with staffs, ire, and anger. Finally, the few surviving dogs abandoned the fight and ran. Against all odds, their group had survived.
Tristan jumped down, looking around.
"Anyone—" has healing powers? He wanted to ask, but the question became moot. Many nobles had Third Order powers because of their genetics. Still, only a few were trained, because they didn't need to work for a living, and the high-ranking families had their own Sages and Healers, who were better. It turned out the woman pretending to be the Empress had some powers. Not enough to perform a proper healing spell, but she had Stop Bleeding and Anesthesia, which were good in their situation.
The bodies on the ground proved to have life in them, only pretending to have succumbed. Two women had minor wounds, but a man had a twisted leg and countless bites. After the decoy Empress stopped the bleeding, Tristan made him a crutch from a forked branch. In all, regrouping took three minutes, better than many army squadrons could do.
For a second, he considered letting the wounded man behind to hide in a tree. Hounds were sure to find him, nevertheless.
Better to take him with us, and if he dies, he dies fighting.
"We move on," Tristan gave the order.