"Do we have time to tarry?" I asked. My mind rushed through a series of thoughts. Genuinely, time was of the essence—if my father lived, I couldn’t waste time beast hunting. And, I remembered the fiend in the arena. I had stood little chance against the thing on my own. Morningstar himself had expressed his doubts about being able to best it unaided.

Chowwick was enthusiastic, his voice loud and eager. He said, "Of course we do, my boy. We’ll be days getting to Dodge, and the big brute in question will take no time to find. What will an extra hour mean? Remember, lad, it’s for the good of the land that you wear that suit now. Slaying the fiend will serve you twice. It will help you level, and by the Oracle, we need to level you as fast as we can. The Falling grows nearer every day. You are to lead us. We need our Sword to be strong."

His eyes grew serious suddenly. He added, "And the thing is killing peasants. It’s no bearwolf—this one will eat a village if it gets the chance. Way out here, on the edge of the territory, there’s rarely a Griidlord close enough to do something about it. Lord Rollow isn’t equipped to handle the thing. And he’s not that inclined to. If we don’t do something about it now, while we’re passing so close to its lair, then no one will for a long time."

I was taken aback by his sincerity. Chowwick was a noble. I had long cast them all in the same heap—wealthy aristocrats who cared nothing for the common people. But Chowwick’s eyes were deeply troubled by the danger this thing posed to commoners.

I hesitated. "Well… yes, but…"

I didn’t want to fight a fiend yet. Not on my own. I was eager to test myself, but there had been no chance to practice anything in the full suit. It brimmed with a power that my arena suit had never possessed.

Chowwick smiled and slapped a huge, heavy hand down on my shoulder. "I’ll still be there, lad. Remember…"

He leaned in close as we walked. My neck prickled at the proximity; I had never been raised to be comfortable with gestures like this.

Chowwick said, "I’m your Shield, lad. I might have thirty or so levels on you now, but it’s my duty to serve you. To protect you. I swear, no harm will come to you. No real harm, anyway! Take the chance to grow, to level against the thing, but never doubt that I’ll be there. I’ll see you pass me, lad. Baltazar believes you’ll outlevel us all given time. It’s been a long time since Boston had a Sword that was worth a shit."

***

"He wants me to fight a big fiend," I spoke in a low voice.

I was crouched in the back of one of the wagons, leaning over a reclining Zeb, who appeared far more interested in continuing his nap than in helping me sort through my latest conundrum.

Zeb looked back at me lazily, his face a picture of complete disinterest. "And why are you telling me?" he said.

"I need help," I replied.

Zeb raised an eyebrow. "Did you tell him we need to be after your father as fast as we can be?"

"I did," I said. "He said there’s time, the beast is barely off our course."

Zeb shrugged. "Then fight it."

I sighed in frustration. "Dammit, Zeb, you're supposed to be my protector. You should be finding a way to avoid this."

Zeb's eyes traveled over my armored form, and he raised a cynical eyebrow. "Tiberius… I think my days of being your protector are over."

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"What?" I asked, confused.

He said, "You're a Griidlord now. Anything that could threaten you would eat me alive."

I shook my head, struggling to process that. Zeb was… Zeb. One of the deadliest, nastiest fighters in Boston, equipped with more relics than some lords.

He seemed to read my thoughts. "You know I’d fancy my odds against any mortal man. I’ve gotten this far and rarely stepped back from a fight. But you’re a Griidlord now. We exist on different tiers."

His words didn’t seem to cost him anything—no pain, no regret, no bitterness. He stated the fact plainly, like a man who wasn’t troubled by reality.

I asked, "Then why are you traveling with us?"

Zeb replied, "To find your father. I still owe him. And to collect… Ah, there are some goods that are important to me in the city. Your father had acquired them for me. I’m hoping to salvage what I can."

I straightened in the cart and looked out through the shimmering borders of the footfield. The landscape had been growing more forested for a while, but it was hard to make out the details beyond the field's hazy confines, especially at the speed we were traveling.

Fine then. I’d fight it. I wanted to test myself. I wanted to grow. Why not now? If Chowwick was really to be my Shield, I had to trust him. And if I wanted to lead the Griidlords of Boston, I needed to be stronger. I understood that level 8 was uncommonly strong for a bare rookie, but the average Griidlord on the field was leveled in their 30s or 40s. I’d be of little use to my city facing the likes of them unless I grew stronger.

As the cart rolled along, the hills around us became steeper, covered in thick forests. The movement of the cart led us around a bend, and a chasm appeared in the vegetation. A wide swath had been carved out of the forest—earth torn, trees uprooted, trunks smashed.

Chowwick jogged over, easily keeping pace with the cart. He pointed ahead. "There we have it, lad, your first real test as a Griidlord."

"I did kill a fiend already," I said.

Chowwick spat, "With the help of that Indy bastard. This will be your first test on your own—your powers and wits against your own little demon."

I eyed the destruction in the forest and doubted that "little" could possibly be the right word for it.

As Chowwick spoke, one of the priests approached on horseback. "Don’t worry," Chowwick continued, "it’s a fair beastie, but it won’t be anything like the thing you faced in the arena. That was a rare fiend."

The priest rode closer, and I was immediately filled with a sense of distaste. I knew I needed to work with the robed ones, but I didn’t like it. I had suffered too much abuse and scorn from them to feel anything but dislike at the sight of their robes.

The man in question was old—far too old, in fact, to be riding a horse so well. His hair was long and silver, his beard wild and unkempt. His body was withered and skeletal, and it looked like every bounce of the horse would shatter his brittle tailbone.

The priest said, "I expect it to be a class 3. Oh, how exciting! I never imagined I would have such a treat when I set out on this expedition."

His words came in a darting cadence, but his tone was dreamy. I looked at him, unsure how to respond.

Chowwick said, "Tiberius, this is Jacob, if you haven’t met yet."

I spoke slowly, "No… I haven’t had the pleasure."

Jacob’s old eyes drifted from the treed landscape to my face. He seemed almost surprised to see me, as if he hadn’t been aware of who he’d been speaking to. Again, that disconnected, airy voice, with words coming in fast bursts: "The new Sword! My word, I hadn’t realized. Lord Chowwick said you will be the one to fight the beast up yonder. Oh, I am most excited to witness this. It will be a fine opportunity to assess both you and the... the specimen..."

"Specimen?" I asked.

Chowwick chuckled deeply. "I forget, lad, that you don’t know all the ins and outs. Jacob here is a mite different from a lot of his peers. He’s a scholar. A scientist, maybe, even, if you want to be generous."

"Or accurate," the old man sniffed.

Chowwick grinned broadly, and I could tell he had no disdain for the man.

"Jacob’s made a career of studying the Entropy. Most of the robes will study Order, if they’re inclined to studies, but Jacob here has a thing for the Storms and the beasties."

I looked at the old man more curiously now. His vacant eyes had returned to the trees, scanning the path of broken trunks with a strangely intent kind of hunger.

Suddenly, Chowwick roared to the convoy, "Halt! We’ll rest a moment! It’s time to slay a demon!"