Chapter 9: The Fort

(Disclaimer: I own nothing, Jon Snow.)

- 3rd POV

Arthur's short but intensive study of spellcasting allowed him to identify the three key components of all successful sorcery.

'First comes magic itself, fuel and essence of the spell; carefully measured.' He drew out a sliver of power from his enlarged reserves;

'Second is Focus, the wand compresses the magic and empowers it.' The boy felt the sliver being amplified by the Dragon Heartstring wand he conquered.

"Incendio." A stream of fire was released from the tip of his wand, stopping ten feet away just as he willed it. Arthur felt the scorching heat, the destructive force of the flames bound by his will.

'Third is Intent, perhaps the most important, the magic is articulated into a proper spell through willpower, wand movement and incantation.' He thought, smiling like a kid using a flamethrower.

[Charms went up a level]

'Cool.'

Still giddy from his pyromaniac tendencies, he threw himself back onto learning as many charms, curses, hexes as he could. Being able to see the direct results of his work was the best kind of motivator for him, especially when said results involved highly destructive powers.

Arthur needed to add as many spells in his arsenal as mentally possible.

They had already reached the cold and surprisingly green isle called Iceland and dropped off a high number of meatbags who'd rather gamble their lives on the road than entrust it to a literal wizard with ethics…vague ones, but still better than most not utterly braindead magicals.

It meant less troublemakers, which allowed him to dedicate most of his time to training, scheming and turning the men mad enough to follow him from a nearly useless ragtag band of peasants with weapons into a somewhat functional band of peasants with weapons.

It meant drills, a lot of drills.

'So much that Vernon Dursley would probably get a financial orgasm.'

Of course, Arthur knew he had to lead by example, so he made a point to work himself to absolute exhaustion building more camaraderie between the band.

It had absolutely nothing to do with Arthur not knowing any other way to secure his men's loyalty and avoid any future backstabbery. Nor was it related to Ector slavedriving the boy, determined to make a proper fighter out him unlike those glassboned wizards.

This led to him having a perpetually sore body, a slightly better work ethic than before and an absolutely beautiful status board.

[Arthur Black

Title: Potential Wizard.

Mana Points: 117/130

Strength: 9

Dexterity: 10

Constitution: 10

Magic: 13

Magic Control: E+]

[ Skills:

Physical Conditioning lvl 8

Swordsmanship lvl 7

Magic Sensing lvl 12

Stealth lvl 10

Running lvl 6

Archery lvl 2

Charms lvl 4

Dark Arts lvl 2

Transfiguration lvl 1]

Another discovery he made is that once his first physical stat reached ten, he obtained a new inventory slot. It was a welcome addition, since his five initial spaces were too restricting.

The days went by, Arthur's life being nothing but a highly unusual routine. Waking up, training, eating, studying, training, studying, eating, sleeping.

He didn't know how much he could progress in so little time, but he had to give it his best shot.

. . .

"It's time." Ector said, not showing an ounce of worry. He knew the highly concentrated load of madness in human shape he and his comrades called 'Boss' had enough on his plate already, dealing with an old man's anxiety was simply too much to ask.

Arthur answered in kind, face impassive. Seeing such a young boy being more stoic than a good half of the men abroad would be disturbing, for most people. But as second in command, Ector was already used to his leader's…eccentricity.

"Good, I was really starting to get bored." His poker face shifted into a mischievous smile.

The two of them were in the bowels of the ship, where the two mages they'd slain had once resided. Now it was Arthurs's personal cabin, where he practiced his own magic and concocted new plans to lead them to victory. Some were dissatisfied, unwilling to let the only wizard abroad grow more powerful or jealous of the level of comfort he had.

Fortunately, the fact was that said wizard had a large following among the men, including Boris, was responsible for the death of the entire crew of slavers and their own freedom and additionally happened to scare the dissension out of them. These people had of course made themselves scarce as soon as they reached the land, eager to turn into fertilizers to fight climate change, as all good citizens should.

Ector didn't particularly care about this. As long as the boy didn't disregard his training, any new magic he learns will be for the best. Their leader was dangerous, in every sense of the word, but seeing him throw fire and create illusions did much for his and everyone's confidence.

It was yet another advantage of having a wizard on their side, it kept the men's morale at an all time high.

"What's the situation?"

"We have already been sighted, and expect to reach the target in less than half an hour." He answered diligently as they left the gloomy cabin, making their way to the upper decks.

"You raised the flag?" Arthur nodded at a couple spearmen rushing to the decks.

"Aye, Barry took care of that, he might or might not have pissed on it though."

"He pissed on it…" he muttered "Wait, did he do it before or after raising it?"

The old man shrugged, the rumors said it was both. But they also said that Arthur was secretly the bastard son of the scion of a noble house of blood purists who rebelled against his family's madness and a descendent of the once and future king of Britain.

"Gross, but whatever."

It didn't take long for them to reach the upper decks, where all sixteen of their men stood vigil. The frigate was large and hard to control, but the many charms and enchantments its previous owners had applied through the generations allowed their small number to operate it without much trouble.

Of course they wouldn't be able to man all fifty six cannons, even with many women volunteering to help maintain at least some firepower, allowing him to field more men as regular units.

But he didn't plan on starting a naval battle any time soon.

His men were divided into three five men units, an arrangement they kept since their liberation. These men were responsible for each other, their equipment and extra training. They bunked together, ate together and would fight together when the time came. It was a good way to encourage some camaraderie, lower the chances of misconduct while raising the overall effectiveness.

The numbers didn't allow for much variation, but for their purposes, it was decided to create a unit of skirmishers and two units of heavy infantry.

The first was made of archers and crossbowmen, the few arquebuses being too impractical to field. The men were given lighter gambesons; a type of padded defensive jackets, and a kettle helmet which exposed their faces.

The line, however, was given the best armor they found. Heavy gambesons and chain mails were distributed like candies, so were sabatons, gauntlets and mail collars. Much to Arthur's chagrin, The Fancy didn't carry any great helm or similar headgear, so the heavy infantrymen were given barbutas instead.

Each one of them was a spear and a heater shield as primary weaponry, an arming sword as a sidearm and of course a dagger.

Arthur himself wasn't part of any regular unit, much like Ector and Boris who were assigned as his personal guard. Unlike them, however, he didn't use the standard infantry equipment.

Or rather, he simply couldn't.

The spear and shield were too cumbersome for his current self, not to mention that he needed his wand arm free. Likewise, there was no gambeson small enough for him. He had to make do with a chainmail he wore under his tunic, some greaves and gauntlets and of course, his trusted arming sword.

Everyone on the ship had a dagger for emergencies, or as a simple tool, and Arthur was no exception. In fact, he liked this concept so much that he kept a crossbow and its bolts, another arming sword, an additional dagger and a barrel full of cherries in his inventory. Not to mention his spare wand bound to his leg, or the blades he kept in various places.

Yes, he was paranoid, he wasn't afraid to admit it.

Who could blame him? Sure he had magic, but he was small and weak and unfit for battle. He couldn't just steamroll his way through everything, a couple days of training won't turn him into some sort of highly skilled powerhouse.

Things don't work that way in reality, gamer or not.

He had to be cautious, sly and cunning. He would scheme and trick his way into victory, until he's strong enough to crush all opposition.

That's how you win a war, after all.

'But for now, winning this one battle would be enough.' He thought, finally reaching the upper decks.

Arthur inhaled the now familiar smell of salt and rusted metal he came to associate with the ship, allowing it to calm his restless mind. He already devised a plan days ago, discussed it, modified it and bent it to reflect his increasingly numerous options. Now he had to stay aloof, let his men find courage in his confidence and do his best to achieve victory.

He saw his men, standing proud in full gear. They knew their duty, been drilled to perform them and would rather get stabbed than disappoint. Each one of them had the opportunity to leave, to run and seek out a peaceful life with the twenty cravens who left the frigate.

But they stayed, they stayed and followed the boy who killed a hundred.

"Alright boys! are you ready to fuck up some arsewipes?" He grinned, gray eyes shining in excitement.

They cheered, reveling in the euphoria of imminent battle. Roaring with approval, the assurance of their leader was all it took for them to give in to their instincts. The want of glory and bloodshed overwhelmed their fears, and the shared battle lust only grew mightier with their number.

It was the primal desire for dominance. The unrelenting call for violence in search of power, status and recognition. A glory lost to man, a cost of the horrors of wars waged with modern weaponry.

Human beings were tribal by nature, ready to die for their mate in a fight with their neighbor. These traits were culled, broken and shamed for the sake of modernity and imaginary moral high ground. Men were encouraged to grow weaker, more fragile, more sensitive for the sake of convenience. People were tricked, manipulated and carefully indoctrinated to abandon all troublesome rebelliousness and belligerence to make better, more foolish servants or consumers.

But in the other world, where no man had the power to rule over a nation, where governance was not decided through popularity contests, these instincts were still there.

Prayers were made and orders were given, as the single hold of House Avery in the Unclaimed Lands of the north grew nearer.

The British held a strategic spot, on the Snæfellsnes peninsula in the westernmost tongue of the ill named land. Where the muggle would see an active volcano and idyllic scenery, those with the spark of magic would find the wondrous area even more impressive.

On the rocky coast, where many a ship had doubtlessly wrecked, stood a gigantic ruin of a fort. The numerous towers, great stone walls and martial, nearly barbarous feeling it gave was a staple of British architecture. The fort covered a surprisingly large area, extending onto the sea and blocking the only viable dock with a sea-gate. Being built on a peninsula, there was only one way to lead an assault on land; by the gates, where the bulk of the forces would doubtlessly converge. It was large enough to keep half a thousand men on a regular basis, and according to the documents they found in The Fancy, had some space dedicated to farming and raising cattle for more autonomy.

This made the unnamed fort of House Avery a nearly untakable position, with only a single weakness.

It's people.

The grandiose hold was wasted on those fifty bandits the Avery kept on their payroll, they left the entire thing in disrepair, not bothering to man the most important areas or lead any kind of campaign to legitimize the colossal amount of money wasted on this overly developed foothold.

They only drank, ate and waited for The Fancy to arrive with their new leaders.

Unsurprisingly, when the fateful ship appeared near their fort five days before schedule, the denizens were alarmed. Their commander, a squib from the knightly house of Baveur, found himself in a pinch.

"Johnson! Go get the men in the east wing! Parker! Where is Parker God damnit?! Someone go get Parker and tell him to mobilize his guys, tell'im to shake his fat inbred behind before the damned lords come and see this shit feast!" The athletic young man felt like ripping off his hair, tempted to draw his sword and kill all those useless shitbags his Bosses call 'privateers' and say they committed treason.

But no, of course he couldn't do that. His parents had to go ahead and raise an honorable men, too fucking nice to kill some worthless maggots to save his skin.

His 'men', if they could even be called that, had gone ahead and planned a final party before their employers would send the new management and they'd find themselves forced into actually working. They ate and drank until they could no longer move, played those stupid games of theirs and danced to songs only an alcoholic could enjoy.

He'd stop them, if he actually had any sort of authority in this place. Baveur was nothing but a knight for hire; a paid squib with better equipment, training and education than the common sellsword. He had no power over these lowlives, he could've started executing them but he would doubtlessly end up mobbed or killed in his sleep when his plate armor no longer kept him safe.

Now the privateers were wasted, hungover and scattered everywhere. His bosses, his wizards bosses, were a couple hundred meters away from the sea gates and he somehow had to find a way to greet them with a functional force and hope they wouldn't turn him into a swine for his incompetence.

Who was he kidding? They might just do that to relieve their boredom.