How to quantify a Flow? This was hard to define. The Tower had the ability to use a Flow widely, to elevate Order slightly in a wide area, or intensely in a narrower area.
Most cities stored and maintained fleets of equipment to take advantage of different conditions. Steam-driven machinery, tractors, and the like were commonly employed in fields when a city had the Order to spare to raise the level of farmland to level 1 for periods of intense need, like planting and harvesting time.
It would be great if I could quantify a Flow by its value. Flows could be traded between houses, private ownership, or between cities. Except for intercity trading, Flows remained in the Tower where they were stored, like a banking system. The issue was that the demand for Flows fluctuated wildly. When Thrax Bonesaw conquered the land, his forces dominated Fallings, gathering Flows by the hundred. But Thrax hoarded the Flows gathered, refusing to trade them on the market. In those days, the price of a Flow was many times what it was in 802. It was said Pittsburgh’s Tower was still rich in the Flows gathered by Thrax three hundred years before. They used little and rarely had a bad Falling.
In 802, there was no truly dominant force. The Empire in the West was receding, and the lands were mostly fractured and independent. With no dominance, the Flows were gathered reasonably evenly by the different factions, and the market was vigorous enough that the price of Flows was manageable.
Boston had not fared well in the last decade. A city was considered to be functional spending 80 Flows a year on industry, agriculture, and the citizenry. 800 Flows in a decade made for a city that was neither thriving nor failing, but surviving adequately. In the last 10 years, Boston had seen 500 Flows gathered, give or take. It wasn’t existentially bad, but it was far short of what was needed to have a happy people and a strong economy.
There was excitement for our future. I could hear it in the voices of the other Griidlords, in the voices on the streets. They expected me to do great things one day. I was level 21 in my first Falling; such a thing might never have been achieved before. But still, I was only level 21. That was below the average, and so expectations were tempered for this coming season. The average Griidlord was probably around level 30. I would meet others in the Falling that were below me or around my standing, but I would often be outmatched.
And so I came to understand that 50 Flows would be considered a success for this coming Falling. I nodded and smiled and made appropriate comments when the number was floated, but inside I seethed. Something was growing in me, something that would not be happy with meeting expectations. Only days ago that need had driven me to destroy an enemy much stronger than I, had driven me to jump 5 levels in a single day. How was I supposed to be content with 50 Flows?
The Falling Season started in the Autumn. The priests would consult the Oracle, and the Oracle would tell the soldiers and Griidlords of each city where the Orbs could be expected to descend. It wasn’t a precise art—the Oracle would describe regions that could span hundreds of square miles, and the armies and Griidlords would scour those lands, viciously fighting the forces of other cities for the chance to capture Orbs. The larger and richer the Orb, the more terrible the fighting.
Later in the Winter, as the Falling dwindled, locked Orbs would descend. This was a complicated piece of magic. Each season, each time a Tower received the Flows from an Orb, traces of something else called key fragments were passed to the Tower as well. We were told that these fragments were contained in the Orbs the Griidlords captured and passed to the Tower when the Griidlord deposited the Flows their suit contained. It was something of a random process, but the more Orbs that were captured, the more likely a Tower was to generate a key.
The locked Orbs that fell were true bumper harvests but were only accessible with keys. Different levels of locked Orbs required the Griidlords attempting to capture them to be backed by Towers with different numbers of keys. It was at this point in the Falling that most Griidlords and armies retired to their Towers, for most Towers would be without even a single key.
For the Griidlords who remained on the field, the rewards were dazzling. Almost inevitably, the forces that were most formidable would have gathered the most Flows and therefore the most keys. And, therefore, it was the most formidable assemblies of Griidlords that did battle over the locked Orbs.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Some seasons ended with the Crown Orb. Not every season; even priests could only speculate on the whys and why-nots of a Crown Orb spawning in any given year. The Crown was an Orb that contained not only a bumper harvest of Flows but also the Griid-crown. The Griid-crown was another kind of key. Holding the Crown for a year or more, until the next spawned, allowed for more advanced manipulations of the Order fields. Cities had a limit to how far from their Tower they could affect Order. It was part of the reason that the Wilds existed. Most of the land of the continent was outside the reach of a Tower and so could never have Order levels increased. But the Tower bearing the key could manipulate Order anywhere—in the Wilds, even in the territory of another city. Interfering with another city’s Order was an expensive task, both Towers burning Order prodigiously in order to try and hold control.
I shouldn’t have been thinking of it, but yet I was. What if Boston won the Crown? I was determined to produce a season worth more than the 50 Flows the others spoke of. I was determined that my first year as Sword would not just see the city survive, but start to grow, start to return to a place of comfort, security, and prominence. But winning the Crown? As lofty a goal as it was, it would change the fortunes of the city in a single year. I practically salivated at the thought.
It took the greatest efforts to take hold of my sober realism. I would aim for more than 50. That alone would thrill the people and surprise the powers of the city. Everything else could remain a dream.
***
A carriage was hired by Boston. Burghsmen had little use for such decadence, but there were enough visitors to the city that the facility to hire such services remained available.
In the back of the carriage, I projected the Footfield and the carriage soared across the landscape.
It still took most of the day, but the single fast carriage was quicker than a merchant convoy, and under the amplification of the Footfield, our journey would be faster than my previous trip to Pittsburgh.
I needed more time in the Pod to achieve full recovery, but I had enough strength that little other than another Griidlord could threaten the carriage. So, we traveled alone, with outriders on fast horses to act as security.
Arriving in Boston, I hadn’t been sure what to expect. I knew I had done well, but I feared reprimand. I had traveled to Pittsburgh with a train and had been expected to ferry another one. I did not know what had happened to the members of the proposed train or how my actions had affected the network of Footfield traffic.
Even though I would seemingly be restored in time for the Falling, I wondered if I would receive commentary from Baltizar or Jacob for the risk I had taken. My gambit had gambled the upcoming Falling Season, a risk that Boston could scarcely afford.
The walls of the city were besieged by tents when we arrived. Thousands of armed men milled about. Soldiers ran drills in harvested fields, practicing formations with sword, spear, and bow. Some portion of Flow was being expended where infantry armed with auto rifles could practice not far from the main gate. Musket men ran their routines only a few hundred yards further along.
It was humbling to realize that these men were gathering for the Falling. The armies of Boston prepared themselves—tens of thousands of men, the professionals and the seasonal conscripts—preparing to give their lives for the betterment of the city. And, in a few short days, when the armies marched, it would be me who would be at their head.
The carriage rolled in through the gates without being halted. Word must have reached them that I would be arriving. The carriage bounced over cobbled streets as the people of Boston stopped in their day’s actions to cheer and wave. Children sat on fathers’ shoulders and screamed excitedly.
“Doom Slayer!” rang a chant from the people—my people.
Other chants followed the carriage as it sped up the winding streets toward the Tower.
“Bloodlord!”
“Blood Butcher!”
The chants were bloodthirsty, filled with a hunger that would be hard to ascribe to the common people of the city. But the common people were truly hungry. They had struggled too long. They had too much hope in me. They were beyond concerning themselves with having a “Butcher” for a Sword. At this point, that’s what they wanted. A strong hand, a reason to hope for the future. It enraptured me to hear the roars and savagery.
As we rolled to a stop near Tower Gate, I saw that Tower Square too was full of people, rich and poor, chanting and waving.
And at the gate, a sober Baltizar waited, flanked by Chowwick and Magneblade.