Chapter 37

Dania paced in the foyer of the Boston tower, her footsteps a steady rhythm against the steel and plastic floor. The vaulted room stretched above her, its expanse elegant and humbling with sleek, luminous lines tracing intricate patterns across the ceiling, casting a cool, ethereal glow. The modern materials clashed yet strangely harmonized with the medieval decor that lined the walls. Rich, elaborate tapestries adorned the space, each telling a story of victory and power. They depicted Tiberius Bloodsword, a conqueror of legendary prowess, and the Emperor, his stern countenance guiding Boston to the cusp of world domination.

The North-Crown of New York sat heavily on Dania's head, a constant reminder of her new reality. It had been her father’s only days ago, now it felt almost alien, like a relic of a past life. The memory of their last exchange, filled with harsh words and unresolved anger, haunted her. It was the last conversation they had shared, and now it echoed in her mind, tainting the crown with a sense of unresolved bitterness.

Her Griidsuit clung to her body with an almost oppressive tightness. Dania was the first Sword of her kingdom to also wear the crown in generations, a dual role that weighed heavily on her. The suit, meant to be a symbol of strength and protection, now felt like a cage, amplifying her anxiety.

Performing her duties as Queen was daunting enough, but to also lead as a warrior brought a unique set of challenges. The responsibilities seemed to collide, creating an ever-present tension within her. She feared making the wrong decision, feared that her father's legacy would be tarnished by her own inadequacies. The pressure to excel in both roles was immense, and she could feel it constricting her, making each breath a little harder to take.

Finally, Baron Mayfair emerged from an annex, his tall and lean figure a welcome sight for Dania. He exuded a calm presence that seemed to ease the tension in the room. As soon as Dania saw him, she rushed toward him, her heart lifting at the sight of a familiar face. Mayfair greeted her with a warm, fond smile, his eyes reflecting genuine affection and respect.

"My queen, it is always a wonder to see you, to lay eyes upon you, even under these dark circumstances," he said, his voice a soothing balm. "If only it were better times."

Dania's response came from a place of sincerity and depth. "It is good to see you too, Mayfair. I have been too many hours here without seeing a friendly face."

"And I, too many years!" Mayfair replied, his smile widening.

Mayfair had been born to a noble family in New York, but his path had led him to Boston. After the disappearance of Tiberius Bloodsword, Boston had been left in a leadership vacuum, a gap that needed filling and roles that needed redefining. Mayfair, far from being the eldest son in his family, had no significant prospects back home save for the life of a layabout. The chance to carve out a new role in Boston had been a lifeline, and he had grasped it firmly.

For the past forty years, Mayfair had made Boston his home. Rising through the ranks to become a Baron, he was now one of the few people the Emperor truly trusted outside his own Griidlords. His loyalty and competence had earned him this rare position of trust and influence

Across the hall, a robed attendant came scurrying, his steps quick and purposeful. Mayfair noticed him first and said, "It looks like it’s time. Gather yourself, my queen, and remember—don't be blinded by revenge. The Behemoth would change so much for the North, but for everything, there is a price that is too much to pay."

Dania’s eyes hardened with resolve. "There is no price that is too much to pay to break the South."

As the attendant came into earshot, their conversation ceased. The robed man approached, his head bowed in deference to the North Queen. He offered a small bow, a dip really—anything more extravagant was reserved for the Emperor himself in Boston.

"The Emperor is prepared to see you now," the attendant said, his voice respectful and measured.

Dania cast a parting glance to Mayfair, who mouthed a silent "good luck." With a deep breath, she followed the robed man across the foyer, the echoes of her footsteps blending with the attendant's in the vast, vaulted space. They ascended the magnificent staircase, each step taking her closer to her destiny.

The throne room was an imposing blend of metal and plastic, a futuristic setting tempered by the grandiosity of its medieval decor. More tapestries lined the walls, chronicling the heroic deeds of Tiberius Bloodsword and other legends who had built the empire. Trophies from old battles were displayed proudly, relics of conquest and power.

At the far end of the room, the Emperor sat on his throne, robed and regal, exuding an aura of supreme authority. His presence dominated the room, a beacon of power and control. Around him were attendants, their faces a blend of awe and fear, and GriidKnights, their power weapons glowing faintly in the soft, ambient light.

Dania approached with measured steps, her heart pounding in her chest. The room seemed to hum with an almost palpable tension. Every eye was on her, evaluating, judging. She felt the weight of her crown more acutely than ever, the responsibility of her people pressing down on her shoulders.

The Emperor’s gaze was piercing as he watched her, his expression inscrutable. He made no move to greet her, waiting for her to make the first move. Dania stopped a respectful distance from the throne, dropping into a deep curtsy, her eyes never leaving the Emperor’s face.

"Your Majesty," she began, her voice strong despite the nerves twisting inside her. "I am here to seek your wisdom and your favor."

The Emperor nodded slightly, acknowledging her presence. "Rise, Queen Dania of the North. We have much to discuss."

Dania stood, her eyes meeting the Emperor's once more. She felt the weight of Mayfair's words in her mind—choose your words carefully. This moment could change everything.

The Emperor's voice carried a somber weight as he began, "It pains me deeply to hear of Erik's fate. A more loyal vassal the Empire has never known. A greater warden of the East Coast there may never be. New York, and even the Empire as a whole, is lesser for his passing."

Dania watched him intently, measuring his tone and searching for any hidden meaning. Could he know that Erik had been planning to betray him? That her father had sought to lead a rebellion with the South in a desperate bid to throw off the shackles of the Empire?

"It heartens me greatly to hear you speak so of my father," she replied, her voice steady. "It is on his behalf that I come to you, Emperor."

The Emperor's brows raised, a gesture Dania scorned inwardly. She disliked this pretense that her request was new to him, but in the Empire, much stood on appearances.

"My Emperor," Dania continued, "I come to you to plead for permission to take war against the South. They killed my father despite your prohibition of our feud. I want to take war against them both to avenge his death and to punish their impudence at disobeying your explicit will."

The Emperor leaned forward on his throne, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Dania, we can never know for sure that it was the South that had your father murdered. If I could know something like this without doubt, then the full might of the Empire would descend upon them and remove them from their Tower. But it is a grave assumption to make."

Dania cast a furtive glance at the retinue surrounding the Emperor, then back at him. Her meaning was clear: she wanted to discuss this matter more privately. The Emperor seemed to consider her unspoken request, understanding the precariousness of his own position. Reports had circulated that he had mobilized Baltimore against the Cincinnati rebellion, a command that must have come at a high cost. The Empire had suffered significant losses in the early stages of the war, and other cities were watching closely. He might accede to her wish, eager—perhaps even desperate—to hear what she might propose outside of watching eyes and listening ears.

"Leave us," the Emperor commanded loudly, his voice echoing through the throne room. "We would have the room."

Silently and without objection or hesitation, the knights and attendants smoothly departed. When the last had gone, the Emperor said, "Approach, daughter, that we might speak more softly."

Dania ascended the steps toward the Emperor. He was one of the few who had extended his life without the use of a Griidsuit. The Empire hailed this as a miraculous gift from the Oracle, a mark of the Empire's right to rule. Dania doubted the official story; there were ways for the truly powerful to extend their lives. Regardless, the centuries-old being before her was known to guard his person with great care, so allowing her to approach was either a great honor or a sign of his great desperation.

"Tell me what you would propose," he said, his voice softer but no less commanding.

Dania took a deep breath. "My father planned to betray you."

Even the Emperor was taken aback by her honesty. She saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes before his mask of stoicism returned.

"I'm sure you had whispers," Dania continued, "You must have had some sense, but the clear reality was that my father was plotting with the South. They were soon to unite—temporarily, of course. Nothing could keep those two sides from each other’s throats for long, but they felt that with the war against Cincinnati, the combined revolt of both Towers, with all ten Griidlords, would force you to deal with them."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The Emperor's gaze hardened. "Daughter, I cannot understand why you would speak so openly of this to me. The very fact that you had awareness of this makes you a traitor."

Dania shook her head fervently. "I would never have allowed it, my Emperor, but you must forgive a daughter for trying to save her father. I battled with him, tried everything to dissuade him. I knew that such a course would not just dishonor us but bring the executioner’s axe upon us as well. The last words I shared with my father were those of bitter argument."

The Emperor considered her words for a moment, then said, "I still don't understand why you would share such with me."

"I am loyal," Dania declared. "Under me, there will be a new North Tower, one that the Emperor need never fear. The South is a traitor still. Even now, they gather nobles from our fringes, weakening us, building a force they will use to consume the North and combine our forces anyway—a combined force that will be directed against you, Emperor."

The Emperor's stoicism wavered in the face of this news. "Then the South will be crushed. Is that what you want? To join your armies to mine to see the South destroyed?"

Dania thought again of Mayfair's advice, the importance of choosing her words carefully. The right words could see her goals become realities, while the wrong words could send the Emperor scurrying away from her proposals. This was the moment that could truly change everything.

Dania took another steadying breath. "I wish to make a proposal."

Chapter 38

The rider cut a solitary figure against the vast expanse of wilderness, his duster billowing around him like the wings of a dark bird. The landscape of Tennessee, near Knoxville, lay before him, an endless sea of green where nature had triumphed over the remnants of a forgotten civilization. Ancient trees, their gnarled branches intertwining like skeletal fingers, stood as silent sentinels among the lush undergrowth. The air was thick with the scent of earth and blooming wildflowers, mingling with the faint, lingering odor of decay..

His horse moved steadily, each step a soft thud against the moss-covered ground. The rider's eyes, hidden beneath the brim of his wide hat, scanned the surroundings with a wary precision, every rustle of leaves and distant cry of wildlife noted with the reflexes of a man accustomed to danger. The duster, worn and weathered, bore the marks of countless journeys through hostile terrains, its fabric a patchwork of repairs and scars.

As he rode on, the wilderness began to give way to signs of human cultivation. The dense thicket gradually opened up to reveal neat rows of crops, their orderly lines a stark contrast to the chaotic beauty of the wilds. The soil here was turned and tended, rich and dark, showing the effort of those who worked it. The village lay just ahead, its simple wooden structures clustered together, smoke rising from chimneys to mingle with the clear blue sky.

The fields stretched out like a patchwork quilt, vibrant green and golden hues reflecting the hard labor and hope of the villagers. Corn stalks rustled in the gentle breeze, and the distant sound of voices carried on the wind, a testament to the life thriving amidst the reclamation. The rider slowed his pace, the familiar transition from untamed wilds to cultivated land signaling a brief respite from the constant vigilance of the open road.

He saw people milling around the edge of the village, their movements marked by a nervous energy. A small group of children spotted him and came running up, their eyes wide with admiration as they took in the sight of his horse, recognizing the destrier, a warhorse of legend. He didn't mind the kids milling about him; a part of him walked this road because he liked being a part of their stories, their games, their legends.

"Sir, did you come about the fiends?" one of the kids called up to him.

Before he could answer, another child butted in, "Are you Slinger? Are you gonna save my daddy's cows?"

A third child, flummoxed by their inanity, asked the more pertinent question, "Can I see your gun?"

Slinger smiled at them, allowing Earp, his mount, to continue to pick its gentle way towards the village and the adults. His Texan accent was clear as he spoke, "Yup, yup, nope," answering each of their questions in turn.

The children took a moment to process his responses. The first two then squealed in excitement and rushed back to the adults to announce his arrival. The third was petulant, "Aw, please, you don't have to let me hold it, I just wanna see it, please."

Slinger leaned down as Earp trotted, "You'll see it when the baddies show."

The child was not to be dissuaded. "Does it really work, out here, away from the Tower?"

Slinger nodded. "Yup, sure does. I wouldn't be much good to you folks if it didn't."

The child paused, then said, "You'd still have your sword though."

Slinger smiled again, eyes distant. "Reckon I would, but I prefer when I get 'em before they're close enough for sword work."

They neared a cluster of adults, who were gathered around the corpses of cattle. Two huge workhorses dragged another corpse from the field. The adults saw him, and after a brief discussion, a grizzled-looking man approached. He wore the garb of a farmer, but his eyes were those of a soldier. Slinger noted that one of his hands had been replaced by a hook.

The man halted in front of Slinger, sizing him up with a practiced eye. "You're the Slinger, then," he said, his tone carrying a mix of skepticism and hope.

Slinger nodded. "That'd be me. Heard you got trouble with fiends."

The man grunted, looking back at the dead cattle. "Aye, that we do. Lost more than a few heads this past week. Folks are scared. Figured it was time to call for help."

"Good call," Slinger replied. "Show me where they came from, and I'll take care of the rest."

Slinger let Earp follow the man as they walked through the village. It wasn't badly off by the looks of it—a substantial settlement with lots of nice stonework on the houses and high stone fences surrounding it, making it defensible. He noted the faces of the villagers: drawn, scared, and tired. They had clearly had a hard time of it lately.

"You were a fighting man," Slinger said, breaking the silence.

"Aye," the other replied. "Name's Arlow. Used to be infantry with Nashville, but as you can see, not so good at holding a spear these days." As he spoke, he waved his hook hand.

"How've you taken to farming life?" Slinger asked.

Arlow sighed. "Days are long, work is hard, but you don't worry so much about what's over the next hill. At least I didn't for years. Last few weeks, that's been different."

"Fiends'll do that," Slinger remarked.

Arlow's hard eyes showed a flicker of fear. "Sure as shit they will. I'd rather fight a Griidlord than those things."

"Have they attacked the village proper?" Slinger asked.

Arlow nodded. "Just one night. They usually go after the livestock. We've lost almost more than we can bear to recover from. But when we started bringing the stock in at night to protect 'em, the fiends attacked the village. We held 'em off. A few men were hurt, but nobody was killed, thank God. After that first night, we started leaving a head or two out in the fields to give 'em something to go after."

Slinger nodded approvingly. "That was a smart move. If you held 'em off that first night, they'd have come back hungrier the next, and they don't make no distinction between beef and child-meat."

"We've been losin' an animal or two every day. We can't afford this," Arlow lamented. "I still don't know how we're gonna get through the winter."

Slinger could see a question in the man's eyes as he spoke. "The only fees I ask are what folks can afford," Slinger said. "I can see you've had it rough here. All I'll cost you is a meal, a bed, and, if you got 'em, a few pints of ale."

Arlow looked surprised. "How can ya afford to be out doin' what you do, chargin' nothin'?"

They reached the far side of the village. Slinger could see pastures stretching out to the edge of a forest. There was something dark and foreboding about the forest, as though it wanted him to know that unnatural things dwelt there.

"Let's just say I'm independently wealthy," Slinger replied.

Arlow raised an eyebrow. "You a noble?"

Slinger smiled. "Somethin' like that."

Arlow eyed the shadows of the duster, clearly trying to determine if Slinger’s independent wealth had afforded him such priceless weapons. The legends of Slinger told of arcane weapons, a pistol that would fire without proximity to an order field.

Arlow pointed to the treeline. "They come out o' there every night."

"How many?" Slinger asked.

"Three of 'em. Two are little enough, and one is big," Arlow replied.

"Have you seen fiends before?" Slinger asked.

Arlow shook his head. "No, thank God for that. I'll never sleep the same way again."

"Can you describe 'em?" Slinger asked.

Arlow thought for a minute. "They only come at night, so we never had that good a look at 'em. The night they attacked the village, we held 'em off with spears. The two little ones look kinda wolfy. The big one too, but the big one walks on two legs when he's close to ya."

Slinger nodded. "Bit like a bear with a wolf's head?"

Arlow nodded. "Aye, just like that. But twisted and foul. Bits of him got scales, and his eyes..."

"I've seen the likes before," Slinger said. "Putting this thing to bed might cost you another head of stock."

Arlow said, "That's a small price to pay at this point. Better one more than the whole village."

Slinger smiled grimly, looking to the treeline. "You folks got bows?"

"Aye, some," Arlow replied.

"Anyone that can shoot a bow will set up here, inside the walls. If you got spears, then set 'em up here as well, just in case one of the beasts makes a run at ya. We'll tie an animal out there a ways, inside bow range. Doesn't have to be a good one, just something to draw 'em in," Slinger instructed.

Arlow asked, "And what about you?"

Slinger smiled, grim but excited. "I'll be out there. When the fightin' starts, they'll come after me, hopefully, and not try to make a fight at the walls."

***

He smelled them first. Fiends always had a smell, a wrongness that seeped into the night air. It wasn't quite like rot, but more like the stench of sickness, of something that didn't belong. The smell permeated the surroundings, making his skin prickle with unease. Slinger grew tense, his imagination conjuring images of glowing eyes and drooling fangs at his back, but he remained still. His right hand rested on his holstered pistol, his left hand gripping his sword, powered down so its glow wouldn’t reveal him in the darkness.

After a moment, he saw the long grass moving near the animal, a subtle disturbance that betrayed the fiends' approach. He heard the slither, the soft rustling of their bodies against the foliage. These were clever fiends, stalking their prey with the patience of seasoned predators. Most fiends were just maddened things, charging recklessly. Clever meant he would need to be more careful.

The cow let out a sudden, panicked bellow as the first fiend pounced. The sound was a mix of terror and pain, a visceral cry that echoed through the still night. The beast thrashed wildly, the sound of its hooves beating against the ground mingling with the snarls and growls of the fiends. The smell of blood hit his nostrils, sharp and metallic, mingling with the rancid odor of the creatures.

With a breath, Slinger rose, his pistol sliding smoothly from its holster. The weapon was a huge six-shooter, its barrel laced with intricate gold webbing that caught the moonlight. A tiny jewel above the handle glowed faintly, a beacon of the arcane power within. He took aim, his movements deliberate and precise, the weight of the gun familiar and comforting in his hand.