I poked the unconscious snake with my staff. I should, perhaps, trust my own spellcasting ability, but it was only natural to double-check that the thing you were going to turn into a giant man-eating monster was properly asleep.

  The little viper lay on a stump, some ways away from our main campground, near a leyline. Roderic had availed himself well enough in my absence, with only Ortagor causing some issues.

  Nobility this, nobility that. The Empire might not have been a perfect meritocracy, but it at least tried. Pretending that the bullshit they peddled about noble blood had any worth was one of the most trying parts of my position. I might not be able to change society, but I’ll be damned if I tolerate this nonsense among my own people.

  When I got back to the Capital, I would have to work something into Pavetta’s lessons. Maybe I could recreate the calculations for the coefficient of inbreeding…

  I shook my head, focusing back on the snake.

  The base animal did not matter much, considering I cared little for control, but Nazair apparently had some myth about a snake monster they scared children with, so it was an easy choice. Of course, while the majority of the creature’s power would come from the transformation, I had still done my best to pick a suitable foundation.

  Finding a Vipera mortifera specimen had not been a trivial task, yet hopefully worth it, as this little brown viper was one of the most venomous creatures that lived in the Northern Kingdoms. Like most vipers, it had a pair of long venom-injecting fangs attached to its upper jaw, useful for injecting its hemotoxic venom. It had keeled scales and was less than forty centimetres long.

  Now, to make it into an uncontrollable killing machine.

  I raised my hands and began whispering the spell chant, channelling the Power from the leyline. A soft glow began emanating around me, while the skies subtly darkened.

  The snake's bones popped, its flesh bubbling and growing. Slowly, the snake increased in size. A few minutes later, the spell was done.

  The newly made monster was the height and width of a horse, with its length proportionately increased. The base was still clearly that of a snake, but ‘flesh abomination’ might be a more accurate descriptor. Tumours and vestigial growths marred its body, though likely not severely enough to impact movement. Its scales had a metallic sheen, and I could feel the magic pulsing in its body. A regular animal could not sustain itself at this size.

  Yet, it was not enough. Even without the sorcerer, a monster like this could not properly contend with an army.

  “Sweet Melitelé,” a voice echoed behind me.

  I turned, “Baron Ortagor,” I greeted the huge noble, “Is it urgent? As you can see, I am in the middle of something.”

  Ortagor gaped at the former snake, before his head snapped to me, “Middle of something?” He repeated, his tone baffled.

  I nodded, gesturing towards the snake, “Not much of a threat, is it?”

  Ortagor stared.

  I stared back.

  After a few more seconds of silence, I was starting to get annoyed, “Well?”

  Ortagor blinked, “Lady Degurechaff, though I hold no love for Nazairi dogs, isn’t this…” he trailed off, as the snake twitched.

  “Isn’t this?” I prompted.

  “Ehm. Won’t the Brotherhood frown on this? Surely, after Maribor…” He finished.

  “Do not worry, there are no laws or treaties forbidding the use of biological weapons. Everything is perfectly legal and above board,” I explained.

  “Biological weapons?” Ortagor repeated, mulling over the phrase.

  “Yes, monsters, diseases and the like. Is that the reason you came to see me?” I said.

  Ortagor blanched, his eyes darting back to the snake, then to me, “I wish to talk to you about Roderic.”

  “Ser Roderic,” I corrected. Though the man did not boast, he was knighted.

  “Ro-,” he paused, after seeing my face, “Ser Roderic’s blood is tainted, Lady Degurechaff,” he said, his tone apologetic, “It is not his fault he was born a bastard, yet it is his fate. I did not speak out against your common-born commanders, nor when you accepted elves into our number, but to leave command of the entire host to a bastard?”

  “This is why you’ve searched me out?” I responded, voice cold. After returning, I had only talked with Roderic briefly before riding out again. Keeping up with the troops was important, but I could do so once I was done with my tests here, while I had little wish to be caught outside our encampment once the sun set.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Baron Ortagor did not answer, understanding my words for the rhetorical question they were.

  I turned to the snake, running my hand over its scales, thinking.

  “I am quite sure your blood is as red as Roderic’s, but we can test this, if you wish to be sure,” I spoke, turning to stare at him.

  The baron’s eyes widened, making for a somewhat comical sight, considering his hulking proportions.

  Taking his silence for the submission it was, I returned my attention to the sleeping serpent. He left the clearing soon after, rather hastily, in fact. Ortagor might grumble, but he would fulfil his role, especially when our mission was to defend his homeland. I knew his sort well enough.

  Ultimately, the support of the nobility would only be useful if I planned to keep my nose in the military or wished to vie for influence in the kingdom. I was quite content with my position as a Court Sorceress, which already afforded me enough influence to help prepare Cintra for any future challenges. If I was lucky, the nobility might even push Calanthé to keep me in the Capital. I would happily leave the glory to fools like Ortagor.

  As a bonus, I wouldn’t have to pretend to believe in that nonsense.

  The serpent, meanwhile, was hopefully ready for the second part of its transformation.

  Casting Triangle Within a Triangle, I watched as the serpent grew in size. When the spell finished, it had reached the size of a large truck, or perhaps a small house.

  Now that was a monster that even a disciplined army would struggle to subdue.

  I probed its body with magic, finding no issues. Relatively speaking, of course. It was unlikely the creature could survive for more than a few weeks before succumbing to its myriad defects, but I did not need it to live for that long.

  After reinforcing the sleeping spell, I nodded to myself.

  The first part was done. Now to wait for the enemy. Hopefully, everything had worked out on Isengrim’s side. The risk that the sorcerer would act still remained, but he was competent enough to be predictable. After our last encounter, he would not rush into potential ambushes. Hopefully.

  Soon, this entire episode would be over.

  “Funny how fate works, eh, Cyril?” The witcher spoke, before revealing his dice. Another six.

  The two sat on wooden logs, with a tree stump serving as a makeshift table for their dice.

  “Don’t say it,” the guard-turned-army-commander grumbled, handing over a few coins.

  “How’s life treating you working under a devil?” Coen ribbed.

  Cyril groaned, “You damn well know. If it was me, I’d make you participate in the exercises. In fact,” he paused, his face lighting up in realisation, ”I will suggest exactly that the next time I talk to Lady Degurechaff.”

  The witcher threw the dice at Cyril, who clumsily caught it, before shooting Coen another glare.

  “Don’t be like that, Cyril, we’ve been through so much together. Watching you suffer while I sit comfortably on my horse is not an easy job either, you know?” Coen smirked.

  “Sure,” Cyril replied quickly, before a thoughtful expression came over his face, “But since you are riding with us, familiarity with our training and protocols could only help in an emergency.”

  Coen blinked, “That’s, no, wait. Are you practising your arguments for Degurechaff?”

  Cyril smiled innocently.

  “I’m neutral,” the witcher explained calmly, “Only here for the monsters, you see.”

  “More training is always helpful,” Cyril riposted in his best impression of Degurechaff’s voice.

  Coen’s mouth twitched, before he chuckled. Cyril joined in.

  The witcher patted the soldier’s back with enough force to almost make him fall from his impromptu seat, “You really had me going there.”

  “Oh, I was dead serious.”

  The two entered into a staring contest.

  Cyril was about to say something else, when he spotted someone interesting approaching.

  Baron Dalibor of Ortagor was striding straight towards them, his entire being filled with purpose.

  “Look,” Cyril nodded towards the approaching Baron.

  When the witcher turned, Ortagor was already near them.

  “You are the witcher,” he turned towards Coen, ignoring Cyril entirely.

  “I am,” Coen replied, watching the large man carefully.

  Ortagor stood there for a few seconds, seemingly mulling something over, before he spoke, “How much do you ask for your services?”

  “Depends on the job, Lord Ortagor. Drowners and griffins are very different beasts. There are some monsters where no amount of gold would be enough,” the witcher answered.

  “Hm,” Ortagor looked the witcher in the eye, “I suppose the rumours that witchers will kill anything for enough money are false.”

  “That they are,” Coen held his stare, “Any monster in particular you are thinking of?”

  “A giant serpent, the height of a house and as long as a line of ten warhorses,” Ortagor responded promptly.

  The witcher blinked at the unexpected answer, “A sea serpent?”

  “No,” Ortagor retorted, “One that lives on land.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a creature,” Coen mused, “However, there comes a point where a singular person, witcher or not, cannot do much.”

  He patted his sword, “If the size of the creature is as you describe, killing it on my own would be extremely difficult. It would have to be a death by a thousand cuts, as a sword would not reach anything vital. What brought this on, Baron?”

  The noble stared at him for a moment, “You will find out soon,” he answered cryptically. Then he inclined his head slightly in gratitude, before leaving. The two listened to his heavy footfalls for a bit, until the general clamour of the camp overpowered it.

  “What was that about?” Cyril asked.

  “Nothing good.”