I should probably call this passage, "Of Knights and Relics."

A word on relics, then. Not an essay, don’t worry—just enough to ensure that this makes sense.

"Relic" was a catch-all term. It referred to wonders that had survived the Fall, treasures from the old world. Relics took many forms. A handgun that could be fired even in the wilds, where the low Order should have rendered it useless. A personal shield, not unlike the SHIELD a Griidlord could pulse to provide protection during battle. Collections of little devices with curious functions, both known and unknown.

The word was also applied at times to items that could still be produced in our era—those that had exceedingly high value, were exceedingly rare, and could still be identified as being made of that same strange technology from before the Fall. The foundries of Pittsburgh could produce power weapons, mostly axes. But one gigantic factory, humming and pumping, manned by teams of workers, might produce one such weapon in a month. And that precious and nearly priceless weapon would be sought after by warriors not jut across the Clans of Pittsburgh, but by buyers from across the lands.

A power weapon was reminiscent of the special arms wielded by a Griidlord. They were not exactly the same, certainly not as powerful. But a man with a power sword was worth at least five without one, his blade shearing theirs away and allowing no defense. The truest value of the power weapon was the parity it gave a mortal man when facing a Griidlord. The power weapon negated much of the advantage of a Griidlord’s armor, able to pierce and damage it where steel blades and bullets would bounce off. A single man with a power weapon was still of essentially no concern to a true Griidlord. But a suit might prefer to charge a thousand men with spears than twenty with glowing axes. It was a calculus of risks.

And knights? I was aware of the old meaning of the word. My days of invalidity, those long years that compose most of my early memories, had really one diversion: reading. And read I did, both modern tales and old ones. I had some understanding of what a knight of the old world was supposed to be.

The knights of our day were not so dissimilar. Knights Militant, the sort that served a lord or made up the elite of a city’s army, were almost always mounted. They were armed with power weapons and, very rarely, other more potent relics.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Wildknights were another case altogether. These men and women seemed to serve no master. They were exceedingly rare, to the point of nearly being legend. Each seemed to march to the beat of a different drum, with rumors of madness following them all. But their equipment was normally vastly greater than that of a Knight Militant. A Wildknight could be so heavily equipped with relics and powerful weapons as to nearly rival the status of a low-level Griidlord. They needed to be so equipped because of the value of the relics they possessed. A gun capable of being fired outside of the normally requisite Order levels would cost more than the entire annual economic output of an entire village. If they weren’t equipped enough to be unassailable, their treasures would be taken from them. Sometimes they were taken anyway.

So why the lesson? Why now?

At that moment, I was standing in my half-suit. Not just I, but my other classmates—Lance excluded for his immunity—were gathered in a line outside the arena.

A crowd had gathered. Today was the first day when the Choosing would become a public spectacle, and it seemed the entire city had emptied that morning to watch our event. More than the whole city, perhaps. Many of the spectators appeared to be farmers. I had seen droves of horses and parties on foot streaming to the city in the early moments of the day.

The crowd was in ecstasy. A Choosing was exceedingly rare. A Griidlord’s career could last a season or a century. A man might live his whole life without witnessing a single Choosing, let alone one for the Sword. Another might be able to tell of the dark years when his city hosted three Choosings in his lifetime.

The Choosing meant festivities. It meant feasting, drinking, and whoring for those who cared for it. It meant an excuse to leave the fields untended. But most of all, it was what it was: a once-in-a-lifetime experience, something to tell grandchildren in your twilight years.

The cheering and humming of the crowd filled my ears. With HEARING, I could pick out individual voices if I chose.

But the noise could do nothing to distract me from what lay before me. Before me stretched miles of fields, extending toward the sea. And processions of knights cantered about. They were truly a glory to behold. Their armor shone. Their horses were specimens of the finest breed, adorned with beautiful armors.

Most significantly, power weapons glowed. Swords, lances, axes, maces—every type was borne into the air as the knights wheeled for the crowd. Weapons that could pierce the armor of a full Griidlord. Weapons that could shred the lighter half-suit I wore.

And all those weapons, all those deadly killer men and horses, were there that day for me.