Chapter 47

Late at night, a cloud passed over the moon, casting the grove into darkness. The camp, viewed from the shadows, was a scene of quiet vulnerability. The fire was dying, its embers glowing faintly like the last breaths of a sleeping dragon. Slinger lay in his bedroll near a massive oak, his form still beneath the blankets. Earp, his faithful horse, stood nearby, eyes wide and ears flicking nervously at the sounds of the night.

From the perspective of the trees, the Bearwolf crept quietly, its eyes fixed on the camp. The horse would be a problem; humans were desperately unaware at the best of times, and this one, sleeping, would be helpless as a baby. Even this human—this remarkable one who had destroyed its pack and dared chase it across the land for days.

The Bearwolf moved through the undergrowth, its massive size belying its silent approach. It felt insulted that this human had pursued it. The memory of the bullets lodged in its flesh, of the arrows bristling, of its skin torn and blood pulsing, burned in its mind. It hadn't been ready to deal with this stubborn human, but it was healed now. It had taken another deer tonight, and the wounds were gone.

The Bearwolf rounded the camp, using the massive oak to obscure its approach from the horse. The horse was the concern; if it woke the human, the Bearwolf would have to contend with his bullets and his glowing blue sword. The Bearwolf had no plan beyond killing the human and the horse and consuming them. It knew it could spend a day or two here with so much meat, then move on stronger. Planning was beyond it.

It crept into the clearing, the bedroll in sight but the horse beyond its view. The smells of horse and sweet man-flesh filled its nostrils. It crept closer, senses heightened, every sound amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, the gentle crackling of the dying fire. The Bearwolf's anticipation grew with each step, saliva dripping from its fangs.

When it was six feet away, it leapt, descending on the sleeping form. Claws stabbed and raked, teeth bit down, expecting the blissful victory of warm blood and tearing flesh. But something was wrong. There was no sweet blood in its mouth, no satisfying rend of flesh beneath its claws. The Bearwolf realized it was tearing through a blanket, not a human body.

At the same moment, a blue glow illuminated the clearing. The Bearwolf looked up, claws tangled in the blanket, and saw the man step from behind the tree. Slinger stood there, his duster and hat pulsing with the eerie blue light of his sword. His face was a hollow of darkness, a void where features should be. To the Bearwolf, this was not a man. That black recess of nothingness where a face should be—this was not human.

For the first time in its cursed existence, the Bearwolf was truly afraid. The man spoke, his voice cold and triumphant, "Got you now, you son of a bitch."

The Bearwolf's experience with fear was short-lived. The blade descended, and the Bearwolf thought no more.

***

Slinger stood over the headless corpse, letting his power sword remain on for a few moments longer. The blood and gore on the blade hissed, bubbled, and burned away until the blade was clean. He powered it down and sheathed it, then kicked the head of the monster with disgust, looking at his shredded sleeping roll, now drenched in black, stinking blood.

He glanced at Earp and said, "I don't know about you, buddy, but I got no need to hang around here. What say we take a moonlit ride and find another spot?" As if to aid them, the clouds parted, and moonlight bathed the placid clearing. The faint hooting of an owl echoed, and the grotesque, bloody monster corpse lay still.

Slinger gathered his things, leaving the bedroll and the corpse for nature to dispose of. Mounting Earp, he said, "We're a long way north of Knoxville now, buddy. Nowhere in particular to be. Whatcha reckon? Should we head on north? Cincy's got to be close enough. In a few days, we could be slingin' ale and resupplying, or should we wander back on south?"

Slinger let the horse make its own way between the trees. As they emerged into the moon-bathed meadow beyond the trees, he didn't guide Earp, letting the horse choose. Earp almost seemed to be contemplating the choice himself. After a moment, the horse started wandering, following the slope of the slight hill to the north.

Slinger shrugged, casting a glance back at the trees that had become the tomb of a monstrosity, then back to their path. He said, "I guess Cincinnati it is."

Chapter 48

Caelin sped over the landscape, his Footfield propelling him with an urgency that bordered on desperation. Garn trailed somewhere behind, but Caelin knew that the Shield couldn't keep up with an Arrow like him. His heart pounded with fear and urgency, the rhythm of his pulse synchronizing with the desperate thoughts racing through his mind.

Workers from the oil fields had arrived in Denver hours ago, reporting a battle. They'd found a strange array of relics and technology at the edge of the complex and, most chillingly, they'd found bodies. The word had reached Caelin swiftly, and now he tore across the highlands with one thought burning in his mind: his brother. Sten had been there, and his body might be among the dead.

Garn was following to keep him under control, as Shields often did. Their heavy suits and focus on defense seemed to impart a stoicism, a role of guardianship. But Caelin was beyond control. The fear gnawed at him, the fear of finding Sten's lifeless body, the fear of having to tell his brother's widow, his children. The agony and disbelief were almost paralyzing. Sten had always been the better of the two, his potential cut short only by the cruel fate of not being chosen as a Griidlord. Sten would have found a way to survive; he always found a way.

Caelin swept past derricks, cabins, and warehouses, bolting toward the collapsing, disused structure at the edge of the complex. The timber sagged and the metal sheeting was rotting, but he didn't slow down. He should have turned off his Footfield, so close to obstacles, but his heart wouldn't let him. His pulse hammered in his ears as he disengaged the field, space and time slamming back to normal around him. His armored feet ground into the dirt as he steeled himself.

The suit's sensors picked up the smell of blood, the bloat and rot of bodies warming under the sun. With a deep breath, he approached. There were bodies outside, scattered like broken dolls. He checked each one, but none were Sten. The wounds were mostly from power weapons, the bodies shattered, limbs and heads severed and lying isolated, blood blackened in the dirt, cooking in the sun. He turned to the dark maw of the shed.

As he entered, light streamed through two jagged doors cut in the steel walls, the edges cooled and hardened but showing the cold slag texture of glow swords' work. He didn't need to check the bodies in the shed; he saw Sten by the workbench. The sight of his brother's lifeless form drove a knife of anguish into his heart.

He moved to Sten, stepping over the slagged sword that had failed to protect him. Caelin pulled his brother's cold, stiffening body close, pressing it to his armored chest. The grief overwhelmed him, a tidal wave crashing over the defenses he had built up. Sten had always been there, a constant, a rock. And now he was gone.

Caelin's tears blurred his vision, hot and unrelenting. He shook with the force of his sobs, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The memories flooded in – Sten laughing, Sten teaching him to fight, Sten always being the stronger, the wiser, the better. The disbelief gnawed at him; how could Sten be dead? It seemed impossible, wrong on a fundamental level.

He thought of Sten's widow, her face lighting up every time she saw him, and their children, their innocent faces now to be marred by grief. How could he tell them? How could he bear to see their heartbreak when his own was so all-consuming?

Caelin held Sten tighter, wishing he could bring warmth back to the cold body, wishing he could turn back time. But all he could do was hold on and let the grief consume him, his cries echoing in the hollow space of the shed, mingling with the lingering scent of death.

Then the rage grew. He was a Griidlord, almost a god among men, accustomed to wielding powers that could effect changes beyond the dreams of ordinary mortals. As his grief consumed him, it began to melt into a burning, seething rage. His eyes, red from tears, cast about the shed, taking in the carnage, the devastation. His sobs turned into guttural growls, a primal sound that echoed off the metal walls.

He looked at the shattered remnants of the battle, the scattered bodies, the blood staining the ground. Who had done this? Who had dared to take his brother, to leave him broken and lifeless among this ruin? The sorrow and helplessness that had gripped him were now fueling a fire of vengeance. He would find those responsible, and they would pay.

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Garn entered, his massive Shield suit plodding heavily across the dirt. The ground seemed to tremble beneath his weight. He saw Caelin first, kneeling by Sten’s body, the grief and rage plain on his face. Then he saw Sten, lifeless and cold, and his expression hardened.

"Caelin," Garn's voice was a deep rumble, steady and grounding. "I'm sorry."

Garn's visor swung around the building, his voice reverberating through the suit’s speaker. "I don't see the other one, the one from the Prophet."

Caelin's blood ran cold. Clive's body was not among the corpses. Clive had been Jarway's first concern, prized for his potential to enhance Denver's power. Caelin took a moment to process the realization. The relics and tech on the benches were worth several kings' ransoms. "Who would leave treasures like these?" he said darkly.

Garn, apprehensive, replied, "Maybe they were disturbed."

"Disturbed? By who?" Caelin growled, frustration boiling over. "All the guards are dead. This end of the oil field is deserted." He walked to the cut door in the wall, touching the cooled, melted edges. "The attackers had glow swords, Garn."

Garn came closer, his tone soothing. "Caelin, don't jump to conclusions. We've plenty of time to make sense of this."

"I don't have time," Caelin snapped, his voice vicious. "I have to tell his wife. I have to look my nephews and nieces in the eyes and tell them their daddy is dead. You think I want to do that without having the head of his killer in my hand?"

Garn shook his head. "You don't know who did this."

Caelin laughed hysterically, pointing to a cleanly severed head on the ground, the slagged swords, the molten-edged doorways. "They had power weapons, Garn. They didn't take the relics. Who do you fucking think did this?"

Garn's voice was steady but cautious. "I know what it looks like, but we can't go...”

"The whole reason this was set up was so Clive could work out of the eyes of the priests," Caelin interrupted. "And he's gone. It's obvious this was the work of Templars."

As he uttered the words, Garn's posture became more panicked. He put a hand on Caelin's shoulder, squeezing it. "If it was, then we'll find a way to sort it out. But don't go running mad. We can't just make trouble with the priests for nothing. Jarway won't allow it."

Caelin cackled, a bitter, hollow sound. "You think I give a shit what Jarway wants?"

Garn's voice was firm. "You gotta calm down now. Next you know, you'll be a rogue. They'll shut your pod down. Jarway'll have to side with them."

Caelin slapped his hand away. "I know how it works!"

"Then you know you need to calm down," Garn urged.

Caelin looked at him, eyes burning with determination. Garn seemed to sense what he was about to do, but Caelin was too swift. He dodged around Garn’s massive form, sped to the door, and with a pulse, he was gone like lightning, his Footfield carrying him away.

Garn moved to the door, the sun warming the dirt more, the stench from the bodies growing stronger. He watched the distortion of the Footfield receding into the distance. "Oh, for Oracle's sake," he muttered. "What the hell are you going to do now?"

Chapter 49

The siege had been in progress for a week. The besieging army wasn't rallied around the walls, deterred by the motorized cannons in place as defense. Instead, they were scattered behind every hill, every copse, every dip, encampments hidden from sight. On the hill lines, units of cavalry rode by, patrolling, circling. Enemy Griidlords stood like godlike statues, watching, waiting.

Arcstone leaned on the battlements, looking out at the quiet, his mind a blur of calculations and concerns, trying to assess what would come next. Griidlords and their Foofields were too vital a part of trade, moving goods caravans across the vast continent. It seemed impossible for the Emperor to keep so many deployed here indefinitely. The town under siege had an eerie ambiance in the very early morning, ghostly quiet, with the faint smell of baking bread drifting through the air, a reminder of the fragile normalcy they tried to maintain.

His suit sensors registered Nicolas's approach, but his mind was too occupied to really absorb the information. Nicolas came to a stop behind him and cleared his throat to announce himself. Arcstone turned, the ponderous, massive Shield suit like a battleship shifting its weight.

"Is there news?" Arcstone asked, his voice weary. "Oracle's sake, it would be nice to have some good news."

Nicolas's expression was cautious. "Well, we definitely have news. How good or bad it is might depend on how you look at it."

Arcstone sighed. "Hit me."

Nicolas took a breath. "There were more survivors from the fallout of the Battle of Oxford than we thought."

Arcstone perked up slightly. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

Nicolas nodded slowly. "Kind of. The surviving units have gathered into three forces. The biggest is nearly 10,000 strong with lots of cavalry. They've pulled way out to try and organize and re-equip themselves, awaiting orders."

"That's about all they can do, but we might have use of them, especially the horses," Arcstone mused.

Nicolas continued, "The second group is about 3,000 men. They've split up and are fighting guerrilla style, trying to harass the supply chain and ambush patrols."

"That's good, great," Arcstone said, a rare smile flickering. "Anything that hinders the fuckers and makes this prospect worse is a good thing. But if they keep at it long enough, they're likely to find a Griidlord up their asses, and that'll put an end to that."

"The last group," Nicolas hesitated, "numbers are unclear, but a few thousand, stragglers and survivors from several units that got mangled in the chase after we withdrew. They've holed up in the Oxford ruins."

Arcstone groaned, "That's not great. How are they supplying themselves?"

"Not as bad as you might think," Nicolas replied. "Local communities are feeding them. They've been doing okay with forage. Not ideal, but they've got some supply."

Arcstone turned his eyes back out, imagining he could see Oxford, his eyes pointed in the direction of the ancient ruins. "Bet the Empire don't like having them out there, so close, at their back."

"No," Nicolas agreed. "They're already being engaged by Empire units. Not enough to assault them—the ruins are a pretty solid position—but there's enough action to make withdrawing or advancing very difficult. And they have a lot of wounded with them that they simply can't move."

"Then it's only a matter of time before the Empire cuts off a big enough slice of their forces to go snuff them out," Arcstone said grimly.

Nicolas shook his head. "I don't see what we can do for them."

"Me neither..." Arcstone replied.

In the moment of silence that followed, Arcstone's suit started to talk to him frantically. He raised his head to the sky, and his visor's enhanced vision picked out the shape. Nicolas followed his gaze but saw nothing with his mortal eyes.

"What's up there?" Nicolas asked, straining to see.

Arcstone's voice was tense. "Something big. Hold on..."

He adjusted the settings on his visor, focusing in on the distant shape. His heart sank as the image clarified. It was massive, a construction that seemed to defy reason and scale. The rumors of the Warwolf had taken on a new, terrifying reality.

"Nic," Arcstone said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I think we're looking at the Warwolf."

Nicolas's face paled as the weight of those words settled over him. "Gods help us..."

Arcstone continued to stare at the horizon, his mind racing. "Fuck, we mightn't have as much time as we thought we did."

Arcstone cursed, "Fuck..."

Nicolas turned his head sharply, trying to understand the sudden urgency in Arcstone's voice. His eyes followed Arcstone's gaze to the sky, straining against the dawn's early light. A distant whistling sound reached his ears, growing louder, more insistent. His heart pounded as he realized what was happening.

The projectile descended from the sky, a massive boulder launched from miles away. Nicolas could see it now, a dark speck growing rapidly, hurtling towards them. It seemed impossibly large, an enormous stone that must have weighed at least two tonnes. The whistling grew into a deafening roar, the air itself seeming to tremble with the projectile's speed and mass.

Time slowed for Nicolas. He felt every hair on his body stand on end, his muscles tensing involuntarily. The ground beneath his feet seemed to hum with anticipation. He could taste the acrid tang of fear in his mouth, mingling with the dust kicked up by the wind. His eyes widened, unable to look away from the descending doom.

The boulder struck the ground a few hundred yards from the walls with a colossal impact. The earth seemed to explode, a thunderous boom that reverberated through his bones. The ground shook violently, nearly knocking Nicolas off his feet. A massive plume of dirt, rocks, and debris shot into the air, a terrifying geyser of destruction. The shockwave hit him next, a powerful force that rattled his teeth and left his ears ringing.

Nicolas stumbled, the world a blur of noise and chaos. The smell of scorched earth and shattered stone filled his nostrils, almost choking him. He could feel the heat from the impact, even from this distance, a searing reminder of the raw power that had just been unleashed. Dust and debris rained down, clattering against the battlements and his armor.

His mind struggled to process the enormity of what had just happened. The sheer force, the destruction—it was like nothing he had ever experienced. He turned to Arcstone, seeing the same realization and dread mirrored in the older man's eyes.

"They're really using the Warwolf," Nicolas breathed, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

Arcstone nodded grimly, his face set in a determined scowl. "And it's just the beginning."

Nicolas said, his voice tight with tension, "That was a zeroing shot."

Arcstone nodded grimly. "Aye, there'll be more to follow, but that's already too fucking close. Once they've got it figured out, they could level the whole city."

Panic flickered in Nicolas's eyes. "What are we going to do?"

Arcstone shook his head, his mind racing. He wished Brightforge was here. Brightforge would know what to do, would have a plan, a strategy. But Brightforge wasn't here, and the responsibility now rested on his shoulders. He struggled to think of their next move, to find a way to counter this new threat.

As they stood there, the haunting whistling sound began to reach their ears again, growing louder, more insistent. Their heads snapped upwards, eyes scanning the sky. The familiar dread settled over them as they spotted another dark speck hurtling towards the city.