by Tao Wong
The Queen’s voice rises, crossing the room, followed by a wave of power. It shakes feet, makes knees weak, and men sway as she expresses her displeasure. “Paladin, what are you doing?”
“My job.”
I stride over to the group, ignoring Ayuri, who’s moving toward me, conjuring her weapon as she does. Everything will happen quickly now. Julierudi and Brerdain are still frozen from what we did inside the sphere, but their supporters are realizing that their person isn’t in line to win. Some of them, the most impetuous, move to head off the woman in the cloak. Guns, swords, even spells appear as they grasp at the last few moments of opportunity.
Because not all of them were shackled. I wasn’t about to waste Mana and time on a non-contender, on a bodyguard. More so, even the ones who are shackled are bound to protect the Empress Apparent. But I haven’t declared her yet, and until I do, she’s vulnerable.
Skills trigger, washing over the cloaked figure and burning them even as Honor Guards act. They clamp down on the Mana in the throne room, pushing against the attacks, reducing their effectiveness. Healing spells fly, as well as some people reaching out with Two are One. Other Honor Guards are more direct, weapons targeting, cutting and firing at the attackers.
The Queen is the slowest to make a move, though hers is the last major action. Her aura flares and hammers the attackers. Whether or not she agrees, attacks in her throne room are an insult to her.
Some—the smarter ones—realize their mistake. Too late. Those who were Shackled are torn apart, the chains erupting from their bodies, criss-crossing and squeezing. Blood and viscera spray as they’re ripped apart. Those who weren’t shackled find themselves crushed by her aura, taking damage from the sheer pressure she exerts. Attacks fail to form, defenses crumble. And then the Honor Guard finishes the job.
Meanwhile, Dornalor has moved aside from the attacked figure, leaving it to burn. Some of those Skills used against it were damage-over-time ones. Others were one-off uses. None of it was particularly useful as the melted figure sags and burns before finally disappearing. The Doppleganger Skill turns off, Dornalor releasing the cast. Even from where I am, I can see the wide smirk on the Pirate’s face.
“Baka!” Mikito mutters, staring at the mess made by the courtiers.
So many of them, acting without thinking, torn apart. Cleaning robots appear to deal with the corpses.
I shake my head, having reached Dornalor, and clap him on the shoulder. He steps back, muttering something about payment, before I stride past the smoking portion of floor where the doppelganger used to be. I stop next to Anayton.
“Are you ready?”
Hasbata doesn’t object, not any longer. Ayuri’s a short distance away, weapon in hand, but eying the surroundings, not me. They’re not stopping me because they maybe, just maybe, trust me. To do what is right. To do what a Paladin always has to do.
Put the Empire first.
***
The entire problem with this has always been, and would always be, finding an Emperor or Empress who could survive the job and who could improve the Empire. What’s a new challenge is the state of the Empire.
The Erethran Empire has endured over a century of neglect by the lack of Paladins, by the nobles, and by the Generals wearing away the direct power of the Empress. Corruption is rife. Attacks on each other continue. They’re more concerned about expanding their personal fiefdoms than the Empire. And the Empress has to push, pull, balance out their needs and keep everything held together.
The Generals keep expanding, forcing her, the ruler, to focus her attention on the military. Leaving the domestic to run riot.
And that isn’t enough. Not anymore. No matter what I thought, no matter what was said, the Reluctant Survivors aren’t crazy pacifists. Their recommendations—while somewhat over-the-top or unrealistic in places—have a grounding in reality. The Empire has grown too large. Too unwieldy.
Like Rome, it will eventually fall, as the barbarians at the gates press against the ever-widening borders. Or something like that. I never claimed to be a historian. I just played Total War: Rome.
So we need someone the military trusts, who can see the problems among the domestic world, and who isn’t entrenched in the corruption.
That, by definition, ruled out all three contenders almost immediately. Not that I intended to tell them that, but it was true. My concern was that anyone I chose outside of the contenders wouldn’t be able to do the job of an Empress. They wouldn’t have the personal strength to fight multiple attacks. Nor would they have the Skills required to bolster the already thinly stretched Armed Forces. More concerning was that any major disruption could set the enemies of the Empire rushing in to finish the job.
The first glimmer of a potential solution appeared when initiates were introduced to me.
But now, here we are in the throne room. And before anything can be done, I need to resolve one last issue.
I walk past Anayton, catching a whiff of a familiar nutmeg scent. I note the tension, the slight nervous sweat on all the initiates’ faces. Then I turn to the initiate next to the woman.
“We spoke to Brerdain,” I say softly. “He didn’t really want to give you up, but we didn’t give him a lot of choice. He’s loyal, I’ll give him that.”
Magine stills. I wait, before he steps back quickly, sword hilts appearing in his hands. He’s glaring at me.
“I don’t really care if he had one of you suborned. If any of you were suborned,” I raise my voice, letting it ring out to encompass all the initiates. “I figured multiple corrupt individuals would balance each other out eventually. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, keep looking.
“But you killed Ropo and Gheisnan. And that I won’t accept.”
Magine falls into a combat stance, one sword raised and pointed at my face. The other, held low and covering his chest, the lower line of attack. He could stab me from here, but between my Soul Shield and my emergency shielding ring, he can’t kill me. Not in a single attack. So I ignore the blades.
“Why?” I say. “It wasn’t even in your orders.”
That fact, we had confirmed. It was the reason Breisnan was alive, the reason we hadn’t just killed him.
“They didn’t deserve it,” Magine sneers. “That old Grimsar, he never made anything of his life. And then he thought he could be a Paladin? While I’ve worked all my life, struggled, to be something, only to fail because I was born too late.” The Movanna turns his head to the side and spits, even as he continues. “The Pooskeen? I would never serve beside one of those creatures. Disgusting monsters, daring to think they’re equal to me.”
I see his incandescent fury, the burning rage in his eyes, from being overlooked again and again. His towering pride and the blame he set upon everyone else for his failures. For the fact that he never amounted to more than what he thought he was. And in doing so, he turned that anger on others.
His friends, his fellow initiates, back away, giving him and me room. We stare at one another over the edge of his blade. I see the light shimmer of energy that marks the creation of the monofilament edge. Around us, the other guards, the Queen, the Champion, and the courtiers are but bystanders to this little drama.
“Will you fight me? Or will you shoot me down like the honorless creature you are? You pitiful, fortune-favored, stumbling fool. You disgrace every Paladin, every true Erethran who has ever born that title,” Magine spits his words like knives. Hoping to score a blow, to cripple my self-control, to force me to fight him. To win back some honor at this late stage in the game.
It’s a good choice in most cases. Anger, anger has always driven me. But this time, he misses. Because I have no pride, no investment in being a Paladin. The Title is a tool, one that I’ve used and used again, to survive. To drag those with me who survived into the light.
When he fails to make me act, Magine chooses to do so himself. He lunges, his sword aimed straight at my eye. I watch as the blade nears, growing larger with each fraction of a s
econd. Only for it to be deflected by a familiar, burning polearm. A short Samurai steps in front of me.
“Your opponent is me,” Mikito says.
I can’t help but stare at Mikito’s back in amazement. It takes long moments before I can speak. “You actually said that.”
I see just a little bit of her profile, enough to see that she blushes. Magine, for all his talk of honor, takes her blush as a distraction that he can exploit and he lashes out with his small swords.
Unfortunately for him, Mikito’s ready, and she blocks it and the follow-up thrust from his other sword. I back off, and in short order, we create an open space. Shields form, trapping the pair within, allowing them to duel without interference. Even the Queen stops her work to watch. I guess in a society like this, a high-level duel between two arena champions is considered high entertainment.
Weapons clash, Mikito doing her best to keep the fast-moving ex-initiate away, using the extra reach of her weapon and its greater weight to beat him around. He, in turn, uses multiple quick shedding blocks, cutting at the edges of her polearm as she swings, driving it farther off Mikito’s center line by inches each time. Each move, each block, each attack is designed to open a gap between strikes so that he can slip in.
Intermixed among the mundane skills are their Skills. Blade Strikes, Power Blows, Cleave, Haste, they all trigger, giving them surprise attacks, explosions of energy, or even unblockable attacks that slip past blades. Blood blooms, staining both of them, as shields fail, armor gets pierced, and blood rolls to the floor.
A quick flicker of the small swords, barely a foot of movement, and the paired Blade Strikes push Mikito back, forcing her to block them with Hitoshi. The polearm swirls in a quick form, breaking apart the attacks. Seconds later, the ground around Mikito explodes in flames. A preset Skill trap, or potentially a spell, engulfs the Samurai. The damage is significant but not fatal. More dangerous is the fact that the flames block her vision, allowing Magine to trigger a new Skill.
By the time she’s out, three figures, all looking exactly the same, are charging her. You would think that they’re just illusions, and you would be wrong.
The Skill Magine uses actually creates, temporarily, three duplicates. All of them are reduced in strength and health, but not in speed. He can’t use any other active Skills while the duplicates are in use, but that’s not his fighting style. A lot of passives, a lot of damage bonuses to attacks, that’s his way.
Magine rushes Mikito, pouring out quick, blurring attacks that are coordinated between all three duplicates. Against anyone else, that might have been dangerous. It might have been a fight-ender.
But Mikito out Levels him. And she’s finally done playing. She triggers her Skill, and Haste, Blitzed, it all combines. Her movements become a blur, much, much faster than the still-locked Advanced Classer can keep up with.
She tears through one of the figures with a simple rising cut from her front leg, spins the naginata blade around to block a pair of cuts and a lunge, reverses and strikes with the butt of the polearm, then cuts again with the blade. A figure drops, bleeding, missing a limb.
Together, the injured mirror images continue to attack. She cuts and cuts again, bringing an overhand sweep down with such speed and force, it throws a duplicate into a shield, cracking it. Long seconds, then the blurred forms within the shields freeze.
Hitoshi is buried in the chest of Magine’s final body, one hand raised, the held blade trying to push away the polearm. The second sword is deep in Mikito’s thigh. Blood dribbles from both their wounds even as the mirror images disperse, the corpses becoming no more than motes of light.
“You cheated. You used… a Master Class… Skill,” Magine complains as he slowly slides off Mikito’s weapon to land on his bum. He releases the weapons in his hands, letting them clatter to the floor, glaring at Mikito and the unfairness of life. That she dare cheat him.
The Samurai stares at the dying elf, poison and flame burning from the wounds Hitoshi layered on him. His chest rises and falls, fueling the unnatural flame. Mikito waits. She will not explain how her view of honor, of loyalty, works. Not to him. Not to a dying man. Not to a traitor.
He coughs one last time, then falls over. She doesn’t move, keeping a wary eye on the corpse, until one of the Honor Guards comes along and lops off his head. Just to be sure. Only then does she limp over to me, her body glowing with the repeated healing spells the guards are casting.
“Satisfied?” I ask her.
Mikito gives me a short nod.
I can only reply with one simple and appropriate word. “Baka.”
Chapter 27
It doesn’t take the attendants and robots long to clean up from the duel. Even the scarred flooring, damaged by the passage of the fighters, is healed and perfect within minutes. Throughout all this, the courtiers and other guards are watching my initiates, studying them.
“Well, Paladin. If you are done with the theatrics, shall we finish this?” the Queen says.
“Got to agree, boy-o. This is getting quite tiring,” Ali sends as well.
I stride forward, and the team moves out, the initiates and my people coming to stop before the Queen. No more attacks, no other actions are taken. Ayuri only hesitates for a second before letting us approach the Queen, then Blink Stepping to the Queen’s side.
“My apologies, Your Majesty.” I feel a grin pull at my lips. “I have a tendency to be a little bit dramatic at times.”
“At times,” Bolo says incredulously.
It’d be wrong, kicking him.
I turn back to the initiates, to the crowd of courtiers who have approached. Brerdain has recovered and is staring around, somewhat paler but with his regained confidence. I hadn’t blamed him, hadn’t killed him, for his part of putting Magine among my initiates. Truth be told, Julierudi and Spuryan had tried as well. They just weren’t as effective. Or more.
Julierudi is looking a little more confident, a little more certain of herself. My little trick with the doppelgänger, to draw out the idiots, to lure those who would act without thinking had thrown her at first. But now, with no obvious candidate left, she must consider herself in the lead. Even if she’s Shackled, the wording lets her function – after all, you can’t betray yourself. Especially since I’ve dismissed Spuryan. The Prophet is the only one who looks at peace. I guess losing once and for all can settle you down quite well.
“So, thank you for waiting,” I say. I step toward my initiates. “I’m sure you’d all like to meet your Empress Apparent.”
I turn around and walk back, stopping in front of Anayton. I idly watch as Bolo shifts, glaring at a noble who looks as if they might do something foolish. Mikito is behind the initiates, as is Dornalor. Harry’s the only one who’s moved ahead, facing perpendicular to all of us, just a short distance from the rest of the reporters so that he can capture both the Queen’s reaction and me.
“Do you trust me?” I send, touching upon the comm channel. It’s a tight beam, but it’s not fully secure. It doesn’t have to be.
I stop before Anayton, waiting for my answer. It’s a strange question, especially after they’ve been dragged so far, pulled all the way here to watch.
Silence draws out, and I feel the pressure of their gazes, of their expectation. I can smell her scent, the blend of nutmeg and musk that is all hers. I feel her, see the threads flowing out from her. To touch upon the Queen, to the Lord of the Hounds, to the Guard, and to so, so many of the nobles, the power players behind us.
“Yes.”
“Then let me present her to you.” I raise my hand.
Anayton’s eyes track my hand, watch as it comes down. Not onto her shoulder. Missing it by inches.
To land on empty air.
Only for a short moment, for Dornalor’s and Ali’s twin Skills finally fail.
“Lords and ladies, Generals, Admirals, and soldiers, your new Empress Apparent.”
The susurration of scandal, of shock has already started. B
olo shifts, crackling with power to bring the involuntary steps toward us to a stop. Mikito levels her naginata at Brerdain, who’s looking shocked.
And on the throne… Ali shows me the Queen, her mouth open as she tries to order me to stop. Surprised in her own place of power, surprised at having her Skills locked out. Ayuri’s eyes are wide, realization striking her regarding why I asked for control of the room’s security apparatus. Why I’d asked for it. There’s no ultimate Skill, nothing that can’t be blocked or hidden, given enough information, time, and Credits.
“Catrin Dufoff.”
Congratulations! Empire Quest: Erethran Empire (M) Completed!
Designate an individual to become the Presumptive Emperor of Erethra
Rewarded: +4,353,593 XP
Mana floods into me, as does experience. I shudder, multiple Level Ups appearing and disappearing in a cascade. Another larger notification appears, one that I shelve to the side as chaos erupts around me.
“Redeemer! What is the meaning of this?” Hasbata snarls, leaning forward in her chair.
Her aura snaps out, smashing down on all of us. People stagger. Anyone who isn’t a Master Class sinks to their knees or, worse, drop directly to the floor. Even those with Master Classes stagger, some unable to keep their feet.
My team does, but it’s a struggle, because her anger, her displeasure is directed at us. The only person who looks unfazed is Catrin. If the Mana vortex that formed around me as I gained experience from the System Quest was large, the one that flows around the new Empress Apparent makes mine look like a dust devil next to a Class III tornado.
Catrin’s changing with each strand of power, each tendril of the System as it takes effect on her. She’s discarding her old Class, gaining a new one, receiving the approval and approbation of the Empire, and gaining a series of Titles to mark her new place in society.
Memories of prior tests, prior Class changes pull at me. A desire, a need, to stare and record the change, to compare it to past studies rises up. It almost disrupts my concentration, pulling my focus from the irate Queen before me. I’ve never felt this before, this need from the Library. If not for the immediate pressure exerted by the Empress’s Aura, I might have even given in. To the library and my own curiosity.