Chapter 10: Money Makes the World Go Round.

"Are we compromised?" Ector asked him, gloved hand resting awkwardly on his spear.

"I don't think so." Arthur bit his hand, trying and failing to understand the situation. It had been twenty long minutes since the fancy ancred, Avery Crest and Union Jack raised high.

'It's bad.' He thought, cautious not to show his worries. The men were anxious, standing idle while in range of enemy artillery was hard on the morale. They tried to joke it off, tease each other's nervousness away, but the threat of certain death was gnawing at their resolve.

"They would've attacked us if they knew." The wizard rationalized.

"Maybe they're waiting for reinforcement?" The old man held his spear with a vice-like grip, shield at ready. As if it'd let him withstand a speeding bolt crashing on his body, or protect the ship from half a dozen cannonballs raining down.

"We were the reinforcement." Arthur rolled his eyes. "They have us outnumbered, outgunned and stuck in a boat. What else could they ask for?"

Ector was about to answer him, but was interrupted by the sound of a horn blowing. It was a call for battle, and even the most determined men of The Fancy were petrified with fear. You could be strong as a bear, fast as a wolf and sturdy as a boar; but there's nothing you can do against a literal rain of iron, not without some serious magic shenanigans.

Prayers were muttered once more, some looked just about ready to cry. But when all hope was lost, Arthur heard the growls of moving steel.

They opened the gates.

There were no roars, no cheers, no words. His men moved into position, rowing the large vessel into port, weapons close and shields closer.

The air was heavy, all was tense and dreadful and silent in the most awful ways. Before long he saw the sentinels on the walls, the non-armed men who opened the walls.

Dead meat, he thought with a smile. the more unprepared his enemies are the less casualties he'll suffer. What little guilt he would feel striking them down was crushed by the canons left unattended on the walls, trickery had saved their lives.

Soon after, the bulk of the enemy forces appeared. A mass of men, armed with spears and swords and axes of poor quality, protected in mail, wool and cloth armors.

They stood in line, trying and failing to look like a proper soldiery. The undisciplined, untrained and utterly disgraceful people made his own band of unskilled peasants look like proud Caroleans, strong and bold.

Their only saving grace was their commanding officer, a tall and broad man in full plate armor. He wore a fine blue cloak, thick furs. His plastron was decorated with the sigil of an unknown house, and his armor carved with runes and the seal of Neit, showing his dedication to the martial life.

Hidden beneath his cloak was a great spiked warhammer of well forged steel, a good head taller than Arthur himself. As if that beast of a weapon wasn't enough, he carried an arming sword as a side arm and a dagger for wrestling. No shield, but with armor like that there was no need.

The Fancy was getting ever nearer to the port, a platform of wood barely large enough for a single ship. Waiting on it were a couple guards, standing for decoration purposes, and a dozen servants who'd guide the newcomers to the keep on the other side of the fort; where the officer and his men were waiting.

It was perfect.

The anchor was dropped, the plank extended, the fighting imminent.

"Fire." He barely said, a woman by the stairs heard him and echoed his orders. His own men needed no such signal, their duty had been drilled into their bones. All held their bows, crossbows and javelins, ready to strike down their foe.

And then it was hell.

All he could hear was explosions, womanly cries and warnings while the enemies stood on the other side, tightly packed and unaware of what was to come.

A hail of iron was released from the ship, spelling doom on the enemy's unprepared forces. He heard the impacts, heavy crunches incapable of masking the cries of terror and pain. The hollow shells, filled with lead shrapnels exploded on impact and struck the lucky few who were not crushed by the balls, maiming them into bloody messes.

There were tears and screams and incomprehension. They couldn't understand what was happening, couldn't understand why their supposed comrades would fire at them.

The commanding officer was lucky enough to survive the first volley, his armor easily fending off the shrapnels. He screamed and ran all the same, terror gripping his heart. It took many seconds for him to overcome his instinct and by then all twenty four guns on the left side had been fired.

It was a bloodbath, grown men were turned into meat paste. Guts and limbs were scattered everywhere, the fortunate ones died on the spot, others laid on the ground.

They were mangled, deformed, and hopeless. Yet they still breathed, whimpered and begged their creator or some higher force for mercy.

Of the fifty men parading, only a dozen remained.

However, the massacre was far from over. He summoned his crossbow, already loaded and aimed at the closest survivor, his men followed.

"Fire." Sixteen arrows were released, four men fell down.

He could hear the officer scream at them to regroup, to take cover while they ran everywhere in a frenzy.

"Fire!" Ten arrows were launched, and three men fell.

The knightly officer was unsuccessful, his armor was dented by the shrapnels and arrows, stained with the blood and guts of his own men. He roared and charged the ship with surprising speed, covering the distance from the keep's gate to the wooden platform in no time, by now knowing he stood no chance but determined to take as many of them as he could…or at least, take one of them.

Boris, however, was very successful at slaughtering the two token guardsmen on the port. The servants ran for their lives, knowing they weren't paid enough for this bullshit.

"Fire!!" Arthur ordered one final time.

He released an arrow from the bow he'd picked up, the crossbows taking too much time to load. His and eight other men's shots soared through the air, six of them were true and he was proud to see his own felling a runner.

The enemy was no more.

'One more thing to do.' He stored his bow away, flicking his wrist to take Herplocles's wand

The knight in putrid armor had reached them, too furious to be tired. He charged with a warhammer in hand, eager to crush Boris, whose spear wouldn't scratch his steel and whose own shield and gambeson could hardly stop his bludgeon.

"Wingardium Leviosa." Arthur waved his wand, the charging beast of metal was levitated.

Curiously enough, he retained his momentum and flew a short distance, the boy was careful to keep him at wand distance, getting close enough to store away the shouting red faced man's weapon and armor away.

"LET ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!" Spittle was sent from his now bare mouth.

"Okay." He chuckled, doing just that, making the furious man crash to the ground.

By the time he got up, cheers and laughter were already being shared through the deck. The women joined them, they had done more than enough to deserve their fair share of glory.

The downed knight had yet to voice a single complaint, grunt or insult when he got sucker punched by a very dissatisfied Boris.

"Fucking kettle cyka."

. . .

It was late in the afternoon when Arthur and his men finally settled in their new home. Ridding themselves of their enemies corpses had taken much more time than the battle itself, the exploration of the keep and estimation of their current ressources kept them busy the rest of the day.

The fort was filled with grains, food, weaponry and everything needed to maintain a standing force in hostile territory. Of course, unlike the ship, it held no real intelligence or arcane knowledge. A few maps of the area, the correspondence of Sir Baveur and some paperwork were everything Arthur found in his new solar.

The men were luckier, now able to leave the relatively uncomfortable hammocks in the berth decks for some better lodging. They had warm beds, clean clothes, hearty meals…everything a former slave could ask for and then some.

Not to mention the booty.

Pooling together their spoils, and selling their commodities for a fair price, they'd have 58 golds and some silvers; more than enough gold to buy a small plot of farmland or set up a shop in a fairly large town, if they find a good deal, they might even buy a small apartment in a city.

They avoided any feud over the money by dividing it the old way; Half went to their leader, a fourth divided between his lieutenants and the remaining fourth was divided equally amongst the men.

Arthur thus found himself with 29 galleons, Ector and Boris with 14 golds, 8 sickles and 14 knuts each while the thirty and six men shared the same amount; most of it was in grains, weapons, furs and other resources so the spoils had yet to be shared.

Another factor was Timithus and Sir Baveur, their prisoners. If they managed to secure enough force not to be utterly annihilated by the comparatively powerful house Avery, they would be able to ransom the wizard in sellsword to their respective families for a large sum.

"A trained armored knight's worth twenty golds, and a useless wizard twice as much." Ector had said on the subject.

Arthur hoped it was true, pursuing an education in magic was much harder than what the books had led him to believe.

Beyond the seven galleons they had to pay for a state funded magical foci in their designed wandmaker, a student at Hogwart; which happened to be one of the most accessible schools in the world, had to pay tuition fee amounting to thirty galleons per year. Buy the extensive curriculum, the proper equipment made of precious magical components and a supply of parchments, quills and ink.

The overall cost could reach more than seventy golds for a single year, and that's with the barebones minimum.

Of course, muggleborns and the 'less fortunate' were given financial help on some occasions, but this 'help' was in the form of one of the most vicious, foul, horrible things the absolute filth known as man had ever come up with.

Student loans.

A high interest 500 galleons loan for their magical education, rising by twenty percent every year after the student passes his Owls exams.

Since the average salary of a Newt level wizard was around a hundred galleons per year, the amount of a 'successful' ministry official, It would take your average Percy six years to pay off his debts.

If he doesn't eat, wear new clothes, get sick or hurt, seek out any sort of entertainment and is ready to live on the streets, that is.

And that's assuming he doesn't live in any major town or city, or the local Magic council would tax his income anywhere from ten to fifty percent.

But Wizards are taught to think and act in a manner befitting of their gift, their power to bend reality to their whims. They are high society, the right sort of people, the elite of the magical world who rule it with an iron fist, keeping their lessers safe from their own folly.

No wizard would live so modestly as not to have a large house, often in plain sight of the muggles in a twisted show of power. They would eat more than they should, spend more than they could and worry about nothing but their standing among polite society. They buy enchanted items, eat delicacies and keep a functioning flue network.

This kind of life would eat away fifty golds like nothing, if the wizard is especially humble.

In truth, even the geniuses of the world are bound to drown in debts if they do not obtain a very lucrative post very early in their adult lives. These jobs are of course very sought after, and depend on as many factors as you could imagine, like Hogwarts professor for example.

'No matter which world you're in, money still makes it go round.' He sighed.