This was very different from what I’d experienced before with the Footfield.

Up until now, the Footfield had always been activated while I ran. It had always been just for me.

Much of it was really the same. The landscape burned past me in a strange blur. I felt that odd disconnect with the world beyond the shimmering, distorting edges of the field. There were two worlds when you moved like this: one inside the field, the other outside.

But instead of running, dashing madly to some goal, I was marching. I had to march, for the field had other occupants.

Two hundred men in all were marching with me. They were all mounted, but a trotting horse was a lazy task to keep up with when you were a Griidlord.

I wasn’t sure I would ever get used to that reality. I was a Griidlord. I had won the suit. My days competing with Lance were in the past. This was the start of a new reality.

I probably shouldn’t have been so excited while leading an expedition to search for my own father—or, more likely, his corpse—but there was no way to suppress the continuing elation of what I had achieved.

I was the Sword of Boston.

Wagons rolled along within the field as well. There were two factions here. Most of the men were from Pittsburgh—a small mercenary army assembled by Harold. These men were excellent at fighting far from order. They were brutal men, lovers of the axe and the ambush, comfortable fighting in any terrain.

The other faction came from the city itself: ten knights. I can’t overexpress how much Baltazar honored me with such a retinue. Ten knights, well-equipped with power weapons and relics, would be enough to match an average Griidlord. I was extremely aware that I was in the infancy of my powers, only level 8. Ten knights would have been more than enough to best me. Still, it made me swell with a sense of my own power, knowing that not all of them would walk away alive if they did face me.

I was a Griidlord.

The thought made me smile.

Among the city retinue were a handful of priests, twice as many servants to tend to them, and a diplomat of some sort. I hadn’t had time to speak properly with any of them. Once Lord Chowwick, the Shield of Boston, had joined us, he wasted no time setting the Footfield in motion. He had quickly shown me how to join my field to his. And then we had set out.

Even now, we sped many times faster than a horse could travel. Boston was far behind us, but we still hadn’t left the realm governed by the city.

Chowwick made me uncomfortable. The huge man—Shields were generally huge men—had arrived and taken fast charge of the retinue. I had been unsure how to conduct myself. On the one hand, I was the Sword, the nominal leader of all the Griidlords of the city. On the other hand, I was a true rookie, new to the suit, only level 8. Chowwick wasn’t long in the suit by Griidlord standards, maybe thirty years, but the levels he would have acquired in that time surely dwarfed mine.

The other reason I was nervous about the man was his son. Arthur, whom I had ejected from the Choosing by besting him with my Footfield during the race, was the son of Lord Chowwick. I squirmed a little at the thought of talking to the man I had so shamed.

Even as I contemplated the awkwardness I felt towards Lord Chowwick and the hatred he must have for me, I heard the heavy steps of an armored figure jogging towards me. I turned my head and saw him coming. My helm was on and closed, so he couldn’t see the startled look of dread on my face.

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Chowwick was huge. The man must have been gigantic in the flesh, but the Shield suit was the bulkiest of the five, and adding that to his form made for a formidable sight.

As he approached, his helmet melted away, the material dissolving into his neck. The face beneath was surprisingly old-looking. Griidlords didn’t age much, not when they lived under the concentrated Order of the suit. Chowwick couldn’t have been more than fifty, but he genuinely looked to be in his forties. His face was huge and broad, covered in a monstrous flowing beard. What skin could be seen bore the scars of thirty years of battling other Griidlords.

“Let’s have a look at you then,” he said. His voice was gruff.

I wanted to placate him. I had bested his son. The man might believe Arthur could be wearing the suit now if not for me. It wasn’t true—Arthur would never have made it past Lance, or Gideon, Katya, or Lauren. But a father’s pride was a tricky thing.

I remained stoic. I was the Sword, not he. I was the leader of all the Griidlords in Boston.

I let my helm melt away and turned to meet him face to face. I kept moving. One had to keep moving in the field.

I said, "Lord Chowwick, we haven’t had a chance to introduce ourselves."

He squinted at me. “You’re awful pretty lookin’, boy. I thought you’d be harder lookin’. You’re the one they’re all barkin’ about, gainin’ attributes left, right, and center. Throwin’ my boy out o' the Choosing with the Footfield? A rookie, usin’ the Footfield, for fuck’s sake. I never imagined somethin' like that. You shouldn’t be so pretty lookin’.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I stammered, “I’m sorry to be so… uh… pretty lookin’...”

He stared at me for a long moment. One bushy eyebrow arched up. I sensed I had provoked him. I braced for a tirade.

Then he exploded with laughter. His laugh was a booming sound, deep from the chest. It was real, a genuine laugh.

He wiped a tear from his eye. “You’re alright, I think. We’ll do just fine.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Predictably, I chose something awkward: “I’m sorry about Arthur.”

He looked at me with mock concern. "Sorry about Arthur? Has somethin' happened to him? The lad hasn’t gotten himself murdered in a whorehouse, has he?"

I stammered, "No, I mean—"

But he cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Arthur’s a good boy. He’s a great lad. He’ll make a great lord of the lands I can’t be arsed to deal with. But the lad was never going to be a Griidlord. That fucking Lance was the one who was gonna do it, if not for you. Maybe the Oakheart girl or the little Princess, but not Arthur."

I was surprised.

Chowwick spoke quickly, trying to explain himself. "Don’t get me wrong. I’m not shittin' on my lad. I love the little whelp, like the rest of 'em. He’s a good man, and he can be a great man. He might be Lord Supreme, he might be a general. He could do all sorts of things, but he was as likely to win the Sword as I would be to win a dance contest."

I said, "Then why train him? Why send him to the Choosing?"

Chowwick waved my comments away. "The trainin' wasn’t wasted. You saw him, probably fought him. Lad’s good with a sword, isn’t he? He’ll be one of the best warriors in the city for years to come. As for the Choosing? Well, I could hardly tell him not to waste his time. Wouldn’t do him no good. Boy needs to know his daddy supports him, and I do. Not bein' the right man for the Sword doesn’t make you a lesser man, just the wrong man for the job."

Chowwick’s words wounded something in me. It was such a contrast to the fathering I had received. My world and all the love in it had been entirely conditional on doing one thing—the thing I had just done. There was no unconditional support like this man professed.

Chowwick chuckled at me. "Anyway, enough of that for now. We’ve a long way to go, it’ll be a few days to Dodge. We’ve plenty of time for talkin'. What’s more important is the fiend that’s comin' up."

I said, "The fiend?"

The huge man nodded. "You’ve done well for yourself in the arena, lad. I don’t doubt you’ve got more attributes than the average rookie. But between here and the Falling, we need to get you leveled up. And fightin' a proper filthy fiend is a good way to get that done. There’s a big one comin' up here in about 50 miles. Been wreakin' havoc on the villages. I was gonna go get it, but I thought I’d save it for you."

My mind wandered back to the creature I had faced with Morningstar. I said, "You want me to help you fight a fiend?"

Again, the eyebrow, again the huge laugh. Then he settled himself, and his voice grew serious.

"No, lad. I don’t want you to help me fight a fiend. I want you to go get the big fucker yourself."