There were conventions to battle during the Falling. These conventions dated back centuries. When the Towers first rose, there was no such thing as battling for Orbs. At first, there had been a Tower in Chicago and a Tower in Arizona. When the Orbs fell from the sky, there was abundance. It must have been an idyllic time. It must have been a utopian time of plenty. Those first Towers would have had Order enough to transform miles around them into a paradise. It was decades, centuries even, before enough Towers rose that fighting needed to break out to contest the limited Orbs.
In the first years, the fighting was conducted as in any state of warfare. A battle consisted of the scrum and push—men would die, but casualties were rarely truly devastating until one side broke. As through history, it was during the rout that true massacres occurred.
But honor systems had evolved to minimize the waste. During the Falling, when the horns blew retreat, the victors did not pursue. Officially, at least. Men were men, and in the heat of battle, in the rush of victory, it was hard sometimes to keep a leash on the beasts that dwelt in the hearts of fighting men.
Even now, I watched as Ironveil rode her horse up and down the Boston lines, screaming at the men to stand down as they thrust at the backs of the fleeing Indy soldiers. Her efforts weren’t futile. But, sadly, they were not instantaneously effective either.
I found myself panting, staring at the field in a drunk-like stupor.
Chowwick stomped up alongside me, his huge gauntlet smashing into my shoulder, gripping me with a friendly but still painful strength.
“Fucking Victory, Lad! Do you FEEL it? Ahah!”
His roar growled into the air. His helm peeled back so I could see the raw animal delight there. He looked at me with shrinking, frenzied eyes. “We fucking did it, Lad! You fucking did it! Against Indy! Oh, they’ll fucking talk about this one. And would you look at that fucking Orb!”
I looked at the valleys that had been torn in the plates of his suit. “You’re hurt.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Never fucking mind that, Lad! We can spare a couple of days to recoup now! We didn’t even need Alya! Did you kill that fucker who went for you?”
I looked about at the butcher’s shop we had made of the cavalry. I was confused until I realized he meant the Indy Axe. The thought brought my elation down to a simmer.
I said, “I... maybe… I don’t know. I wrecked him pretty badly…”
Chowwick didn’t seem to interpret my resistance. He just roared again, “Fucking Axe-break! What a boon! I didn’t want to do it, Lad. I didn’t want to leave you alone, thought you were fucking daft! But you were right. I can’t remember the last fucking time I felt like this. It feels like we’ve never won like this before.”
I spoke quietly, “What do we do now? Don’t they have the right to collect their wounded, to get their suit, if he’s alive?”
Chowwick was still loud and excited. “What? Oh, that? Aye, we’ll form ranks around the Orb, and they’ll pull back. They’ll be allowed to send teams out to gather the wounded and pick that fucker up if his heart is still beating.”
Chowwick’s lack of empathy for the downed Griidlord amazed me. The notion wasn’t new to me; I’d seen how the others spoke of death and injury. Opposing Griidlords were fair game. One respected the rules of yielding, but aside from that, there were no holds barred. To them, it would be another pillar to my growing reputation if I’d killed the man. I was baffled that they couldn’t see their own ends in that spirit of combat. Did the same end not wait for all of us that walked the land in a Griid-suit?
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We pulled back to the Orb. I could feel a crackling aura, like static electricity, in the air as we drew close. The nobles and officers corralled the troops; the chaotic rumble of feet gradually shifted to the organized cadence of marching lines.
Tara and Magneblade came jogging to join us. Magneblade folded his helm back to reveal his darkly bearded face. He showed more emotion than I had ever seen. His lips were spread wide in a smile, his eyes dancing with delight. It was testament to his nature that the smile was still terrifyingly savage and the eyes alive with the joys of murder.
Chowwick and Magneblade smashed into each other, bashing their chest plates together. Magneblade was knocked flying by the impact from Chowwick’s huge suit, but he rose laughing like a beast. “We fucking did it! Tiberius, you fucking son of a bitch, you gave me a good day!”
Tara embraced me, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing. She was consumed with high musical laughter herself. I had an instant of confusion as she pressed her body against mine. The Griid-suit could be as hard as plate, but as pliable and sensitive as naked skin. I was startled by feeling her delicate body pressed against me. But the sensation passed as quickly as it came. I didn’t need to fight the urge to instantly fall in love with her for just paying me attention, for making a physical gesture. I let my arms fall around her and hugged her back. We had won the battle together. It was a moment I would never forget.
When she pulled back from the embrace, her helm peeled back, and I could see happy tears in her eyes. She said, “I knew you could do it, Ti. I didn’t expect you to do it so soon, none of us could have. But by the Oracle, that was brilliant.”
I said, “It was a gamble. But it worked.”
She said, “How many levels did you get?”
My eyes flew wide as I remembered the notifications that had flooded my HUD when I downed the Axe. I let my helm close around my face again and brought the messages in front of me.
Tara watched me intently. My voice was trembling and quiet as I breathed, “I’m… Tara, I’m level… I’m level 25.”
I couldn’t stop my voice from cracking. The delight and pleasure were overwhelming; the surprise drowned me. I said, “How could I score four levels just like that… it… I don’t…”
She smiled with unrestrained glee. “You beat a Griidlord for the first time. You did it at level 21, all on your own. When you beat Doom, you gained a bunch too.”
I said, “Yeah, but it’s meant to slow down as you go higher…”
She said, “It does, it has, don’t worry, it will. But Doom was what? A Class 10 Fiend? You got multiple levels from putting him down because he was much stronger than you, and your level had been low. What level was the Axe you put down? If he was 30 or 40, then that was the same as crushing two Dooms in one strike. If you beat someone your own level, you mightn’t go up at all. After a while, you’ll need to win several fights to gain a level. Then even more. Stop bloody questioning it, you fool, and just be happy!”
There was no animosity in her voice; the words were friendly and playful.
The soldiers formed rows around us. The Orb was the centerpiece of our display—our victory formation. It was a feeling that I had begun to fear I would never feel.
The Indianapolis forces fled in chaos at first. When they gained the hill that Morningstar stood on, they began to organize themselves. The Indy Griidlords would ferry the army away under Footfield.
I saw Morningstar standing there, staring at me. He was glorious. Even from here, it was clear that he was different. Power and grace radiated from him like an oil painting of an avenging angel. He had never even had the opportunity to swing his sword. I could see him clearly using SIGHT, and I saw him dip his head to me in a nod of respect. I answered the gesture with a nod of my own.
Pairs of Indy soldiers moved quickly across the field, carrying empty stretchers. They bent at intervals to inspect a body that still writhed or cried or breathed. At some of these stops, a pair of men would lift a mangled form onto the stretcher and scurry back to the hill. At other times, there was just the mumble of a prayer and the flash of a merciful knife.
It took time for the wounded to be gathered. The jubilation in our ranks dissolved into peaceful relief.
I felt a calm ecstasy take me. Twenty-five Flows would be ours. My first victory. An ascension of four levels in a single day. It was a boon that I could barely fathom. I wanted to pinch myself to confirm the reality I was living.
But reality presented itself to me like a gut punch as I watched four men bearing the stretcher of the Indianapolis Axe back through the ranks. An arm hung over the stretcher, trailing the ground limply as they hurried his form back to his comrades.
This is a post I dropped on the Patreon last week, I wanted to repost it here, mostly to discuss points 1 and 2.
A Throne for a Blood Prince, I would make it A Sword for a Blood Lord and move the other titles forward. The Bloodsword Saga started life as a short story or a novella. I was deep enough into the story before I realized I wanted to keep going with it for something longer and started doing more advanced plotting. Looking back, I wonder if a title change for the volumes would make more sense.
Happy Friday!
I'm a gonna throw a poll in here regards the retitling. But really, the comments would be king in terms of feedback, if anyone was willing.
Peace and Love!
Happy Monday.
If I choose to retitle, changing the first volume to "A Sword for a Blood Lord" and move the existing titles forward to the next volume...
