Chapter 83

I stood there, barely able to process what I had seen. I wasn't the only one. For several seconds, the fringes of the street were littered with stunned spectators, none able to react to the display of power we had just witnessed. But then reality came crashing down on us like a wave.

This, right here, is what I meant when I spoke of the fear inspired by a Knight with the kind of power that Danefer, or Joel, clearly possessed. There were Wild Knights across the land. I won't say plenty of them because the simple expense and scarcity of relics made that impossible. But they existed. One might have a powered breastplate and a pistol that could operate outside of Order fields, another a power axe and visor. Two or three relics were enough to make a hero out of an individual, especially if they had the skill to go with it. Beings like Joel and Danefer, possessing fragments of powered armor, laden with relics that even Griidlords might not be familiar with, were scarce to the point of myth. I had not really believed that such existed until I had met Joel. And before me was the product of such men, the effects they could have on reality.

The street was a scene of horrifying carnage. Rubble was strewn everywhere, fires burned unchecked, devouring homes and businesses, turning livelihoods into ash. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air, mixed with the metallic tang of blood and the scent of burning wood. Screams echoed through the chaos, cries of pain and terror from those trapped or injured in the collapse.

I could hear the distant bells of the fire brigade. Someone had made straight for the tower in the aftermath of the battle. Order would be raised here shortly, long enough of motorized pumps and engine driven machinery to douse the flames.

Some of the damaged buildings had continued to collapse after Magneblade departed. The cries of the trapped and the cries of the seekers began to thicken in the air. My heart bled at the sounds of panic and sorrow in the voices.

Electric lights began to flicker to life. These were emergency installations that were made available for just such an incident. As the lights flickered on, we could see better. The lights also signalled that Order had been raised in this little district.

I couldn't stand by and do nothing. I joined the others, climbing through the wreckage. I pulled on beams and lifted bricks. We found people alive in the mess of rubble. We also, sadly, found people who weren't alive.

I thought of Magneblade. He had visited violence here. He had been battling a dangerous vagabond, but I still seethed at the easy way he had turned to leave. The man had ruined lives here. He had ended lives here. But he hadn't stayed.

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The fire team finally sent me away. As the work began to ease, the fire chief came to me. He said, "You've done enough, Tiberius. Go home. Get some rest. The people need you tomorrow, we can finish here."

I had argued, but it hadn't taken much to convince me. My body had already been exhausted from the day in the arena.

This was why we feared the strange men with strange powers. Joel and Danefer held the power of gods in their arsenals of relics. But they carried the curse of madness. I hoped never to see either of them again.

The walk back home took longer than usual. My mind was heavy with the words of Danefer. My body was heavy with the weight of exhaustion. My mind spun at what Danefer had told me. I thought more about the voice. It had never seemed an honest creature... But it had yet to do me harm. It had aided me, time and again.

Approaching the door, I let myself in. The house was quiet, the servants having finished for the day. The kitchen was silent, no clatter of dishes or murmur of conversation. Father must still be away. A pang of worry struck me. He had been gone longer than he said he would be. Harold had seemed concerned about him. I hadn't paid that much heed, occupied with the Choosing, occupied with my own affairs. But after the loss I had witnessed in the city today, I felt a twist of worry in my guts now.

I found Harold in the parlor, sitting alone, staring distantly, swirling a glass of Father's whiskey. The dim light of a low fire cast shadows on his face, highlighting the lines of age, deepened by worry.

This wasn't like Harold. Oh, it was fine for him to use the parlor; he was essentially family, he had been my stand-in parent while my father built his empire, and he was probably my father's truest friend, a companion of long decades. It wasn't strange to find him in this room, or to find him relaxing with a drink. It would be more normal to find him here with a book, watching the viewscreen, passing time with Father, or folding clothes. Not sitting morosely. Harold guarded his composure, was always aware of himself. To let me see him like this, to be sitting, not even aware of my presence, this deepened the surfacing worries about my father.

It took a few moments, but some sixth sense prompted him to look around. When he saw me, he was flustered for a moment, embarrassed. He gathered himself, replaced the lines of worry with his usual mask of propriety.

"Harold," I said, "something's wrong."

Harold said, "Pardon, young master? You must forgive me, I was lost in thought."

"About Father?"

Harold hesitated, then said, "Nothing for you to worry about. I was there today, in the crowd, you know. I watched you. I couldn't be more proud of what you've done."

"What's going on with Father?"

Harold said, "You need to focus on the Choosing. It's yours for the taking now, that is very clear. There are only three left, and you're the best of them."

I came closer to him, met his eyes. He wouldn't outright lie to me, that wasn't Harold's way. His evasion tied my guts in an icy knot.

"Harold," I said firmly, "tell me what's happening with Father."