Interesting to see where this goes.
-
The Sietch will be brought offline for HPG systems maintenance tomorrow (Thursday, 2 May 2024). Please remain calm and do not start any interstellar wars while ComStar is busy. May the Peace of Blake be with you. Precentor Dune
Libertatis Imperium (Gate)
- Thread starter charclone
- Start date
If it eat anybody who go there,or at least try,then it is guardian in practice.Or maybe from point of law,too?
Chapter 56
charclone
Well-known member
A.N. Before we get to the chapter, I just want to apologise. I took a short break to work on the start of book/part two instead of posting, and only later realised that it would have been better to finish book/part one, before the break.
Anyway, here's the next part, nearly to the end of book one.
Richard felt like he was falling for a moment, and then he stumbled as he felt the ground under him.
He blinked, looking around.
A blond woman, like the one he had seen in his vision, the demigoddess, sat in a chair. A table stood before her, with a tea set upon it.
Next to the woman lay the body of a Warrior Bunny. A bloodstained silver crown was a short distance away. Standing from the corpse like a ship's mast, tall and straight, was the spear.
Calmly, without regard for the cadaver next to her, the woman took a sip from her cup.
She seemed not to notice Richard's presence.
All else was a blinding white.
Richard stood, dumbfounded and confused at the sudden change in scenery. Until, after several moments, the woman finally looked at him.
She frowned, observing him for a moment.
"It is not often a mortal deals a lethal blow to a god," She said, smiling. "Between the wounds inflicted on her, our brief separation, and your completion of that girl's blow…"
The woman rested her head on her hand.
"The Huntress-Queen is… gone. Her domain is mine, as are her powers."
Richard looked around into the white void.
"Where am I?" He asked.
The woman sighed.
"You are in what is now part of my realm. I have… removed the old décor, but I'm not sure what to do with it," She smiled coyly, then scowled at Richard's lack of reaction. "Well, it's no fun if you don't react. I am Hardy, goddess of the underworld."
Richard struggled to remember what he knew of her.
The old city had been said to be Hardy's territory, and he remembered overhearing Rory complaining about her to some Marines, but he was coming up blank.
Hardy sighed.
"Well, I was hoping for more of a reaction, but given you know little of Falmart's gods…" The goddess of the dead placed her cup on its saucer with an audible clack. "You don't even recognise the tea set I pulled from your memories."
"I… what?" Richard's confusion broke through.
Hardy ignored it.
"The cost of godhood. One cannot easily enjoy mortal pleasures without taking a mortal host, a fatal experience for the host. Yet, I miss the taste of tea, foods, and the feeling of a breeze on my skin," The goddess leaned back. "While I was composed of the wrecks of those two, I had no memories of what it was like, without a host."
Richard was getting the feeling she was monologuing.
"Now that I remember…" Her attention was refocused on Richard. "… so much more, you may deliver a message for me. Tell Rory that I will not be pursuing her."
Richard kept himself from asking about that. He had a feeling in his stomach that he didn't want to know.
"Faerel died because of the Huntress-Queen, when we struck at her, in the heart of her sanctum. But my lover – and it feels oh so very good to have that missing piece restored – stole powers that the gods of the time had outlawed. Her spirit clung on while the Huntress-Queen's husk lived within me," A cold, sad smile stretched across Hardy's face. "But once she died, so did Faerel. But her spirit now resides in my realm."
"The dark elves the queen I knew spared; they were plagued by the Ancient Fire Dragon you slew-"
"I what?" Richard gaped. "I remember seeing it crash towards me in the cave…"
"Well, you dealt one of several mortal blows," Hardy waved, a look of annoyance on her face from the interruption. "Your allies dealt several others. But your sword pierced a vein behind its eye in its throws."
Hardy paused and studied the mortal before her.
Richard shifted under her gaze.
"You are a strange mortal, all of your kind from beyond the Gate are," She suddenly snorted. "But then, I suppose I am as well, being from the land you call Greece. Not content with the ways things were. I pushed for that war, and I opened the Gate, many times."
"You… opened the Gate?"
"Oh, the Saderans, with a little prompting, stabilised it to remain open longer, but yes, I opened the Gate," Hardy smiled. "The Saderans were becoming… boring. While the Huntress-Queen was part of me, that detail grated on me. Her husk pushed for me to always seek more, always hunt. But at least now her mantle is mine to do with as I wish. I shall keep her creatures; they are seen as mine by mortals anyway."
"Yet, there is then the matter that you and your people killed one of them," Once more, Hardy regarded Richard with interest. "Though, it was sent after you by the echoes of the Huntress-Queen, still blindly guarding her sanctuary against that ancient attack. Three thousand years, and she still held on until you finished the blow."
Hardy pursed her lips.
"I suppose, then, that I owe you for that… and there is one more matter to consider."
Richard swallowed.
"And that would be…?" He wracked his mind, trying to think and clear his head. It was a bit much, to process all this while comprehending that he was speaking to a god. The fantasy novels he had read were… less than useful, beyond the most abstract concepts.
"You dealt the death blow to a god," Hardy smiled. "You could, in theory, become immortal, become a god."
"Nope," Richard's mind came to a screeching halt, with just enough room to get that answer out.
Hardy blinked, then laughed.
"Oh, so sure?" Her eyes glimmered. "Ah, yes, I suppose immortality would be a curse from that perspective, and… I suppose I would have chosen the same, when I had a mortal lover still, not that we were given much time to consider that. Then, I offer you boons and a message for your people."
Richard froze.
Once more, he found himself overwhelmed.
"Ah, I had forgotten what mortal minds were like, so absorbed in the chaos of the internal duel between those two," Hard laughed. "How about this then: Take the spear, with my blessing. You shall find its power unsurpassed, with both my own touch, and that of Apocryph on it. A suitable weapon for a Queen. I shall also have your new blade blessed, and as long as you wield it, I shall support your endeavours here in Falmart, once it is forged. In exchange for the power you are giving up, I lend you my demigod, Giselle. Finally, the message is this: The longer the Gate is open, the more Apocryph will grow. I can, and will, suppress the effects but I will not do it forever. The Gate must eventually be closed. Giselle will be available for more details, and can be a guide to see those effects."
Once more, Richard found himself unable to speak. This time, it was due to an idea in his head. A small one, but a tempting one. Slowly, painfully, he crushed it, making to thank Hardy.
She spoke first.
"Unfortunately, my power does not stretch beyond the Gate," Hardy said. "I cannot grant you the ability to speak with your father. It would be up to one of the gods on the other side. Now, off with you."
Richard blinked as he found himself once more in the cave.
In the light of the flashlight, still thankfully in his hand, he saw the ruined corpse of the soldier.
He felt the weightless weight of the spear in his other hand. Its baleful black blade stood in stark contrast to the gold and silver of its haft.
Above, he heard a sound.
A light shone down from a soldier in a harness, attached to a rope.
"I found them! The sergeant is dead, but Richard is on his feet!" The soldier reported on his radio. "Hey, Richard! Hang on, we'll get you out shortly!"
As the soldiers moved to extricate their people, hauling the carcass of the Dragon away to be looked at by their 'scientists' and to clear the way, Dimmu heard the voice of his god, cheerily explaining the story.
Dimmu smiled and softly spoke.
"Ah, then, soon, I can have my own revenge. Tell me, what next step must I take to see Bouro dead?"
Anyway, here's the next part, nearly to the end of book one.
Richard felt like he was falling for a moment, and then he stumbled as he felt the ground under him.
He blinked, looking around.
A blond woman, like the one he had seen in his vision, the demigoddess, sat in a chair. A table stood before her, with a tea set upon it.
Next to the woman lay the body of a Warrior Bunny. A bloodstained silver crown was a short distance away. Standing from the corpse like a ship's mast, tall and straight, was the spear.
Calmly, without regard for the cadaver next to her, the woman took a sip from her cup.
She seemed not to notice Richard's presence.
All else was a blinding white.
Richard stood, dumbfounded and confused at the sudden change in scenery. Until, after several moments, the woman finally looked at him.
She frowned, observing him for a moment.
"It is not often a mortal deals a lethal blow to a god," She said, smiling. "Between the wounds inflicted on her, our brief separation, and your completion of that girl's blow…"
The woman rested her head on her hand.
"The Huntress-Queen is… gone. Her domain is mine, as are her powers."
Richard looked around into the white void.
"Where am I?" He asked.
The woman sighed.
"You are in what is now part of my realm. I have… removed the old décor, but I'm not sure what to do with it," She smiled coyly, then scowled at Richard's lack of reaction. "Well, it's no fun if you don't react. I am Hardy, goddess of the underworld."
Richard struggled to remember what he knew of her.
The old city had been said to be Hardy's territory, and he remembered overhearing Rory complaining about her to some Marines, but he was coming up blank.
Hardy sighed.
"Well, I was hoping for more of a reaction, but given you know little of Falmart's gods…" The goddess of the dead placed her cup on its saucer with an audible clack. "You don't even recognise the tea set I pulled from your memories."
"I… what?" Richard's confusion broke through.
Hardy ignored it.
"The cost of godhood. One cannot easily enjoy mortal pleasures without taking a mortal host, a fatal experience for the host. Yet, I miss the taste of tea, foods, and the feeling of a breeze on my skin," The goddess leaned back. "While I was composed of the wrecks of those two, I had no memories of what it was like, without a host."
Richard was getting the feeling she was monologuing.
"Now that I remember…" Her attention was refocused on Richard. "… so much more, you may deliver a message for me. Tell Rory that I will not be pursuing her."
Richard kept himself from asking about that. He had a feeling in his stomach that he didn't want to know.
"Faerel died because of the Huntress-Queen, when we struck at her, in the heart of her sanctum. But my lover – and it feels oh so very good to have that missing piece restored – stole powers that the gods of the time had outlawed. Her spirit clung on while the Huntress-Queen's husk lived within me," A cold, sad smile stretched across Hardy's face. "But once she died, so did Faerel. But her spirit now resides in my realm."
"The dark elves the queen I knew spared; they were plagued by the Ancient Fire Dragon you slew-"
"I what?" Richard gaped. "I remember seeing it crash towards me in the cave…"
"Well, you dealt one of several mortal blows," Hardy waved, a look of annoyance on her face from the interruption. "Your allies dealt several others. But your sword pierced a vein behind its eye in its throws."
Hardy paused and studied the mortal before her.
Richard shifted under her gaze.
"You are a strange mortal, all of your kind from beyond the Gate are," She suddenly snorted. "But then, I suppose I am as well, being from the land you call Greece. Not content with the ways things were. I pushed for that war, and I opened the Gate, many times."
"You… opened the Gate?"
"Oh, the Saderans, with a little prompting, stabilised it to remain open longer, but yes, I opened the Gate," Hardy smiled. "The Saderans were becoming… boring. While the Huntress-Queen was part of me, that detail grated on me. Her husk pushed for me to always seek more, always hunt. But at least now her mantle is mine to do with as I wish. I shall keep her creatures; they are seen as mine by mortals anyway."
"Yet, there is then the matter that you and your people killed one of them," Once more, Hardy regarded Richard with interest. "Though, it was sent after you by the echoes of the Huntress-Queen, still blindly guarding her sanctuary against that ancient attack. Three thousand years, and she still held on until you finished the blow."
Hardy pursed her lips.
"I suppose, then, that I owe you for that… and there is one more matter to consider."
Richard swallowed.
"And that would be…?" He wracked his mind, trying to think and clear his head. It was a bit much, to process all this while comprehending that he was speaking to a god. The fantasy novels he had read were… less than useful, beyond the most abstract concepts.
"You dealt the death blow to a god," Hardy smiled. "You could, in theory, become immortal, become a god."
"Nope," Richard's mind came to a screeching halt, with just enough room to get that answer out.
Hardy blinked, then laughed.
"Oh, so sure?" Her eyes glimmered. "Ah, yes, I suppose immortality would be a curse from that perspective, and… I suppose I would have chosen the same, when I had a mortal lover still, not that we were given much time to consider that. Then, I offer you boons and a message for your people."
Richard froze.
Once more, he found himself overwhelmed.
"Ah, I had forgotten what mortal minds were like, so absorbed in the chaos of the internal duel between those two," Hard laughed. "How about this then: Take the spear, with my blessing. You shall find its power unsurpassed, with both my own touch, and that of Apocryph on it. A suitable weapon for a Queen. I shall also have your new blade blessed, and as long as you wield it, I shall support your endeavours here in Falmart, once it is forged. In exchange for the power you are giving up, I lend you my demigod, Giselle. Finally, the message is this: The longer the Gate is open, the more Apocryph will grow. I can, and will, suppress the effects but I will not do it forever. The Gate must eventually be closed. Giselle will be available for more details, and can be a guide to see those effects."
Once more, Richard found himself unable to speak. This time, it was due to an idea in his head. A small one, but a tempting one. Slowly, painfully, he crushed it, making to thank Hardy.
She spoke first.
"Unfortunately, my power does not stretch beyond the Gate," Hardy said. "I cannot grant you the ability to speak with your father. It would be up to one of the gods on the other side. Now, off with you."
Richard blinked as he found himself once more in the cave.
In the light of the flashlight, still thankfully in his hand, he saw the ruined corpse of the soldier.
He felt the weightless weight of the spear in his other hand. Its baleful black blade stood in stark contrast to the gold and silver of its haft.
Above, he heard a sound.
A light shone down from a soldier in a harness, attached to a rope.
"I found them! The sergeant is dead, but Richard is on his feet!" The soldier reported on his radio. "Hey, Richard! Hang on, we'll get you out shortly!"
As the soldiers moved to extricate their people, hauling the carcass of the Dragon away to be looked at by their 'scientists' and to clear the way, Dimmu heard the voice of his god, cheerily explaining the story.
Dimmu smiled and softly spoke.
"Ah, then, soon, I can have my own revenge. Tell me, what next step must I take to see Bouro dead?"
Chapter 57
charclone
Well-known member
"Uncharacteristically generous of you, Hardy," Emroy observed, polishing his axe. Around him, the detritus of war lay scattered. Shattered shields, skulls and bones, broken armour, and cracked swords on scorched ground, all as representatives of his domain. "But then, you've changed."
"Oh? Have I?" Hardy made an approximation of a coy smirk. For gods in their realms, physical laws meant little, but that did come with disadvantages. "Perhaps, in your madness, you are failing to see the big picture."
The god of madness and war laughed in response.
"No, but the past you, fused to the corpse of the Huntress-Queen was never so generous. There had to be an immediate benefit," He shook his head. "Not that I am complaining."
Hardy snorted, then settled in to wait.
Around her, the mishmash of her adopted and stolen domain shifted. Serpents and dragons, wolves and hawks, intermixed with rock and stone, gems flickering, and souls formed a procession.
Eventually, the others appeared.
The twin gods of knowledge and learning, Elange and Ral, were the first, surrounded by books and shelves, and other instruments of knowledge and experimentation. They were followed by Palapon, who gave Hardy a smile and a wink, surrounded by weighted scales and bloody implements of revenge.
Miritta and Deldort were the next to appear, the gods of fertility and covenants respectively, surrounded by the appropriate representations of their domains.
Deldort looked at Hardy, studying her for a moment, before giving her a smile and nod. The former dwarf-turned-god had not previously had a friendly relationship with her, but it would seem that might change.
When Zufmuut stormed in, surrounded by chains, walls, written laws, and blinding light as the representations of his domain, he gave no acknowledgement that there were barely half of them present.
"We cannot let this continue!" He barked, forcing the meeting of gods to begin early. "The otherworlders do not belong and are contaminating the world!"
"Oh come now," Began Ral, his elven features relaxed and standing in contrast to the god of light's twisted and furious face. "True, they are adding things, but that is why the Gate is permitted to open in the first place."
"Yet, it remains open long after it should have been closed!" Zufmuut raged. "Hardy does not do her duty! Once more, her laxity threatens the world! Apocryph rises!"
Palapon shook his head as Flare appeared, the god of the sun looking slightly confused.
Slowly, the missing gods trickled in.
"Perhaps," Admitted Deldort. "Certainly, in the past, she has, like the Huntress-Queen of old, only been self-serving. But then, the Huntress-Queen was still present, if partially dead."
"Nonetheless, we are left with a dilemma. If we are to preserve this world, the otherworlders must be destroyed," Zufmuut snarled. "They threaten the civilisation of this world and its very existence!"
"I disagree," Emroy said. "True, the Gate must eventually be destroyed. Apocryph grows while it remains open, but NATO is not a threat."
"Indeed. They show great wisdom, in general, by their use and development of 'science' as they call it," Ral nodded. She smiled good-naturedly. "A process of learning, one that I agree with, and have pressed my followers to study. Why, I would not be surprised if they learned to hold back Apocryph."
"Yet that is another point in my favour!" Argued Zufmuut. "If they can learn to battle Apocryph, what would stop them from destroying us!?"
Hardy smiled.
"What indeed," She hummed. Beside her, the slain spirit of an Ancient Fire Dragon rose. Both eyes had been ruined, an arm was simply gone, and holes that had been blown into its side were remnants of the wounds it took in life. Hardy reached out, striking its hide, and the wounds slowly vanished from the spectral creature. "What are you proposing?"
Zufmuut glared at her, uncertainty flickering across his existence. He sensed something was different about her, but what, he wasn't sure.
"We unite. There are elements of the Empire that have not lost their senses, and we can together push fortune into their hands. Let the invaders find the very world itself turned against them, their works swallowed by the land, the skies striking against their artifice!" Zufmuut shouted. "We must act!"
The last of the gods of Falmart trickled in during his short speech.
Hardy shook her head.
"I disagree. We would simply be giving them a reason to use knowledge of how to kill gods," She smiled. "Yes, they have that knowledge already. You can thank the Huntress-Queen's last demigod for that."
Palapon smiled, as Emroy laughed.
Ral and Elange shared a look.
"We must refuse. We are gods of knowledge and learning, of creating, not destruction."
Duncan, God of blacksmithing and the forging of tools shook his head.
"I must agree. The Empire, bah," He huffed. "If its time has come, then its time has come, like the Elven kingdoms before it. We will outlast it."
Zufmuut snarled at the mention of the elven kingdoms, lost to time.
Deldort nodded in agreement.
"We have a duty to the people of this world, as its gardeners, but we are not its rulers."
Hardy watched, as most gods voted against this plan. Part of her was hoping for a more explosive reaction from the mention of NATO knowing how to kill gods, even if they themselves didn't have the full picture, but perhaps the knowledge was not as feared as she had been led to believe.
As her focus swept over the assembled gods, floating in the void, she noted something.
She was the only one once human, while the rest were almost entirely once elves. Deldort, Duncan, and a third she didn't care to recall the name of were the only dwarves, while Flare was a dragonkin, and Wareharun was… a forest. Somehow. She never did learn the specifics of that.
She frowned, as the gods began to argue about specifics. Zufmuut was the oldest, by far., and there was a pseudo-formal order to the ranks of gods. Those who had been elevated by their former patrons gave a level of deference, but this was not a hard rule, as Zufmuut and Emroy displayed.
She shrugged. It was beside the point.
"There is a matter I would like to bring to everyone's attention."
Everyone's focus fell on her as she spoke.
She pulled a soul to her bosom, cradling it, before feeding it the last of the Huntress-Queen's divinity.
Zufmuut recoiled at the presence of the soul.
The newborn god in Hardy's arms practically radiated the power of Apocryph.
"That one… what are you doing!" He howled.
Terror and pain rippled off him.
Curious and curiouser.
"May I present my first lover, and my consort," Hardy smiled at him. "The goddess of Apocryph, Faerel."
Deldort nodded.
"Ah, so we finally have one to guard against that darkness?" He said. "How appropriate that it is one of the dead, who commanded that dark power."
"You accept this!?" Zufmuut glared at them. He paused, thinking. "No… no, none of you would know, I am the last, after all. The last from the survivors."
He stood before the other gods.
"I am the last survivor, of when Apocryph stormed the world," He said, in a cold tone. "The gate, in arrogance, was held open, and it slaughtered us. I was only able to save a handful, who went on to build new civilisations once the Gate was destroyed by the brave sacrifice of the other gods. I will not let that sacrifice be in vain."
"I am the god of order, of light! I will not let the light of civilisation be destroyed through arrogance!" He declared. "I stand against you and your allies and will see the otherworlders cast down. Before it is the doom of us all once more."
Deldort sighed.
"So be it. But there will be no direct fighting," He declared. "You agree to only act indirectly?"
"I do."
Hardy sighed. Then smiled as Faerel whispered in her ear.
"I will abide. But I must ask," She looked around. "Who is willing to side with NATO?"
Emroy barked a laugh.
"I will!"
He was joined by the twins, Palapon, and Duncan.
"As do I," Faerel declared. "I remember another who saved us from a darkness, and she was an otherworlder."
Hardy coughed.
"Heh, I suspect Rory would bless your union, were she a god yet," Emroy chuckled.
"And who will stand with me, against this arrogance and madness!?"
Zufmuut frowned as none declared their support for his cause.
"All in favour of declaring neutrality?" Lunaryur, the god of music, asked.
Zufmuut sighed, as the rest of the gods chose neither side.
"Your foolishness will see us dead."
"No," Emroy snorted. "Your short-sightedness will. You are blind in your own light. NATO will not hesitate to annihilate a threat the likes of one of us. My demigod has read their histories. If pushed, I believe that they can just as easily kill us all, but that is all the more reason not to antagonise them."
"Cowardice? From you?" Zufmuut laughed. "Will wonders never cease?"
"Hardly. I want to be able to see it!" Emroy laughed.
Richard glanced up from the book as Edgar entered. He held a finger up to his lips, gesturing to the sleeping form of Tara at his side, her head resting on his bedside.
"How are you feeling?" Edgar asked, looking around the hospital room.
"No change. My bruises will heal, and the docs are ready to kick me out. I'll be good for boot," Richard quietly replied. Tara shifted. He glanced at her, before looking back to his friend. "She's refused to leave my side since we got back."
Edgar sighed.
"Not that. I meant the dragon," He shook his head. "Got more than a few people in therapy over it."
Richard frowned.
"I had a few nightmares after Italica, but they faded fast, and the dragon… I barely remember it. Had more nightmares about the corpse," He admitted, before shaking his head. He placed a bookmark on his page. "Is that a cause for concern?"
"No. Hell, I barely remember my first firefight," Edgar admitted. "'Course, it was rather short. The first time I killed someone was six weeks later, that shook me up worse."
"You never talk about that."
"Not something to be proud of," Edgar pointed out. "I did it because it was him or me. I am proud of having defended the lives of my comrades, and the people that would have been hurt. I don't regret it."
Edgar briefly struggled with something.
"Do you… want to talk about the fair? About what happened?"
The Canadian Major noted Richard's breathing hitched slightly, and his eyes widened by a fraction, losing focus.
"… not right now. I talked with a psych, while I was in the hospital, and… I… I know I need to, especially since his father has invited us, but…" Richard shook his head.
"Alright, later then," Edgar stood. "Rest up. Boot won't kill you, but you have a Long Patrol to learn how to lead, so you cannot afford to screw up."
"Ain't that the truth," Richard snorted. "Later."
Edgar nodded, intending to hold him to that, before slipping out.
Yao Haa Dushi sighed in relief as the soldier let her pass the checkpoint despite her not having any identification papers or knowing their language.
She blinked, as an unfamiliar sound echoed overhead. Gazing up, Yao felt her knees weaken, as some manner of beast flew overhead.
It carried a strange fabric beneath it, water dribbling from its folds.
And poking out from the edge of the fabric was the lifeless face of the Ancient Fire Dragon. The same creature the elders had sent her to find these people to enlist to kill.
She had been told to use any means necessary, be it the treasure of her clan, her words, her skills with blade and bow, or even her body, to secure their assistance.
She knew she was chosen because of her misfortune, but she had been willing and ready even to sacrifice her life if it meant saving the lives of her people.
And the dragon had been slain, rending all the prepared sacrifice unnecessary, as well as her journey.
The soldiers reached for their radios in a panic as she collapsed, calling for the medic.
"Oh? Have I?" Hardy made an approximation of a coy smirk. For gods in their realms, physical laws meant little, but that did come with disadvantages. "Perhaps, in your madness, you are failing to see the big picture."
The god of madness and war laughed in response.
"No, but the past you, fused to the corpse of the Huntress-Queen was never so generous. There had to be an immediate benefit," He shook his head. "Not that I am complaining."
Hardy snorted, then settled in to wait.
Around her, the mishmash of her adopted and stolen domain shifted. Serpents and dragons, wolves and hawks, intermixed with rock and stone, gems flickering, and souls formed a procession.
Eventually, the others appeared.
The twin gods of knowledge and learning, Elange and Ral, were the first, surrounded by books and shelves, and other instruments of knowledge and experimentation. They were followed by Palapon, who gave Hardy a smile and a wink, surrounded by weighted scales and bloody implements of revenge.
Miritta and Deldort were the next to appear, the gods of fertility and covenants respectively, surrounded by the appropriate representations of their domains.
Deldort looked at Hardy, studying her for a moment, before giving her a smile and nod. The former dwarf-turned-god had not previously had a friendly relationship with her, but it would seem that might change.
When Zufmuut stormed in, surrounded by chains, walls, written laws, and blinding light as the representations of his domain, he gave no acknowledgement that there were barely half of them present.
"We cannot let this continue!" He barked, forcing the meeting of gods to begin early. "The otherworlders do not belong and are contaminating the world!"
"Oh come now," Began Ral, his elven features relaxed and standing in contrast to the god of light's twisted and furious face. "True, they are adding things, but that is why the Gate is permitted to open in the first place."
"Yet, it remains open long after it should have been closed!" Zufmuut raged. "Hardy does not do her duty! Once more, her laxity threatens the world! Apocryph rises!"
Palapon shook his head as Flare appeared, the god of the sun looking slightly confused.
Slowly, the missing gods trickled in.
"Perhaps," Admitted Deldort. "Certainly, in the past, she has, like the Huntress-Queen of old, only been self-serving. But then, the Huntress-Queen was still present, if partially dead."
"Nonetheless, we are left with a dilemma. If we are to preserve this world, the otherworlders must be destroyed," Zufmuut snarled. "They threaten the civilisation of this world and its very existence!"
"I disagree," Emroy said. "True, the Gate must eventually be destroyed. Apocryph grows while it remains open, but NATO is not a threat."
"Indeed. They show great wisdom, in general, by their use and development of 'science' as they call it," Ral nodded. She smiled good-naturedly. "A process of learning, one that I agree with, and have pressed my followers to study. Why, I would not be surprised if they learned to hold back Apocryph."
"Yet that is another point in my favour!" Argued Zufmuut. "If they can learn to battle Apocryph, what would stop them from destroying us!?"
Hardy smiled.
"What indeed," She hummed. Beside her, the slain spirit of an Ancient Fire Dragon rose. Both eyes had been ruined, an arm was simply gone, and holes that had been blown into its side were remnants of the wounds it took in life. Hardy reached out, striking its hide, and the wounds slowly vanished from the spectral creature. "What are you proposing?"
Zufmuut glared at her, uncertainty flickering across his existence. He sensed something was different about her, but what, he wasn't sure.
"We unite. There are elements of the Empire that have not lost their senses, and we can together push fortune into their hands. Let the invaders find the very world itself turned against them, their works swallowed by the land, the skies striking against their artifice!" Zufmuut shouted. "We must act!"
The last of the gods of Falmart trickled in during his short speech.
Hardy shook her head.
"I disagree. We would simply be giving them a reason to use knowledge of how to kill gods," She smiled. "Yes, they have that knowledge already. You can thank the Huntress-Queen's last demigod for that."
Palapon smiled, as Emroy laughed.
Ral and Elange shared a look.
"We must refuse. We are gods of knowledge and learning, of creating, not destruction."
Duncan, God of blacksmithing and the forging of tools shook his head.
"I must agree. The Empire, bah," He huffed. "If its time has come, then its time has come, like the Elven kingdoms before it. We will outlast it."
Zufmuut snarled at the mention of the elven kingdoms, lost to time.
Deldort nodded in agreement.
"We have a duty to the people of this world, as its gardeners, but we are not its rulers."
Hardy watched, as most gods voted against this plan. Part of her was hoping for a more explosive reaction from the mention of NATO knowing how to kill gods, even if they themselves didn't have the full picture, but perhaps the knowledge was not as feared as she had been led to believe.
As her focus swept over the assembled gods, floating in the void, she noted something.
She was the only one once human, while the rest were almost entirely once elves. Deldort, Duncan, and a third she didn't care to recall the name of were the only dwarves, while Flare was a dragonkin, and Wareharun was… a forest. Somehow. She never did learn the specifics of that.
She frowned, as the gods began to argue about specifics. Zufmuut was the oldest, by far., and there was a pseudo-formal order to the ranks of gods. Those who had been elevated by their former patrons gave a level of deference, but this was not a hard rule, as Zufmuut and Emroy displayed.
She shrugged. It was beside the point.
"There is a matter I would like to bring to everyone's attention."
Everyone's focus fell on her as she spoke.
She pulled a soul to her bosom, cradling it, before feeding it the last of the Huntress-Queen's divinity.
Zufmuut recoiled at the presence of the soul.
The newborn god in Hardy's arms practically radiated the power of Apocryph.
"That one… what are you doing!" He howled.
Terror and pain rippled off him.
Curious and curiouser.
"May I present my first lover, and my consort," Hardy smiled at him. "The goddess of Apocryph, Faerel."
Deldort nodded.
"Ah, so we finally have one to guard against that darkness?" He said. "How appropriate that it is one of the dead, who commanded that dark power."
"You accept this!?" Zufmuut glared at them. He paused, thinking. "No… no, none of you would know, I am the last, after all. The last from the survivors."
He stood before the other gods.
"I am the last survivor, of when Apocryph stormed the world," He said, in a cold tone. "The gate, in arrogance, was held open, and it slaughtered us. I was only able to save a handful, who went on to build new civilisations once the Gate was destroyed by the brave sacrifice of the other gods. I will not let that sacrifice be in vain."
"I am the god of order, of light! I will not let the light of civilisation be destroyed through arrogance!" He declared. "I stand against you and your allies and will see the otherworlders cast down. Before it is the doom of us all once more."
Deldort sighed.
"So be it. But there will be no direct fighting," He declared. "You agree to only act indirectly?"
"I do."
Hardy sighed. Then smiled as Faerel whispered in her ear.
"I will abide. But I must ask," She looked around. "Who is willing to side with NATO?"
Emroy barked a laugh.
"I will!"
He was joined by the twins, Palapon, and Duncan.
"As do I," Faerel declared. "I remember another who saved us from a darkness, and she was an otherworlder."
Hardy coughed.
"Heh, I suspect Rory would bless your union, were she a god yet," Emroy chuckled.
"And who will stand with me, against this arrogance and madness!?"
Zufmuut frowned as none declared their support for his cause.
"All in favour of declaring neutrality?" Lunaryur, the god of music, asked.
Zufmuut sighed, as the rest of the gods chose neither side.
"Your foolishness will see us dead."
"No," Emroy snorted. "Your short-sightedness will. You are blind in your own light. NATO will not hesitate to annihilate a threat the likes of one of us. My demigod has read their histories. If pushed, I believe that they can just as easily kill us all, but that is all the more reason not to antagonise them."
"Cowardice? From you?" Zufmuut laughed. "Will wonders never cease?"
"Hardly. I want to be able to see it!" Emroy laughed.
Richard glanced up from the book as Edgar entered. He held a finger up to his lips, gesturing to the sleeping form of Tara at his side, her head resting on his bedside.
"How are you feeling?" Edgar asked, looking around the hospital room.
"No change. My bruises will heal, and the docs are ready to kick me out. I'll be good for boot," Richard quietly replied. Tara shifted. He glanced at her, before looking back to his friend. "She's refused to leave my side since we got back."
Edgar sighed.
"Not that. I meant the dragon," He shook his head. "Got more than a few people in therapy over it."
Richard frowned.
"I had a few nightmares after Italica, but they faded fast, and the dragon… I barely remember it. Had more nightmares about the corpse," He admitted, before shaking his head. He placed a bookmark on his page. "Is that a cause for concern?"
"No. Hell, I barely remember my first firefight," Edgar admitted. "'Course, it was rather short. The first time I killed someone was six weeks later, that shook me up worse."
"You never talk about that."
"Not something to be proud of," Edgar pointed out. "I did it because it was him or me. I am proud of having defended the lives of my comrades, and the people that would have been hurt. I don't regret it."
Edgar briefly struggled with something.
"Do you… want to talk about the fair? About what happened?"
The Canadian Major noted Richard's breathing hitched slightly, and his eyes widened by a fraction, losing focus.
"… not right now. I talked with a psych, while I was in the hospital, and… I… I know I need to, especially since his father has invited us, but…" Richard shook his head.
"Alright, later then," Edgar stood. "Rest up. Boot won't kill you, but you have a Long Patrol to learn how to lead, so you cannot afford to screw up."
"Ain't that the truth," Richard snorted. "Later."
Edgar nodded, intending to hold him to that, before slipping out.
Yao Haa Dushi sighed in relief as the soldier let her pass the checkpoint despite her not having any identification papers or knowing their language.
She blinked, as an unfamiliar sound echoed overhead. Gazing up, Yao felt her knees weaken, as some manner of beast flew overhead.
It carried a strange fabric beneath it, water dribbling from its folds.
And poking out from the edge of the fabric was the lifeless face of the Ancient Fire Dragon. The same creature the elders had sent her to find these people to enlist to kill.
She had been told to use any means necessary, be it the treasure of her clan, her words, her skills with blade and bow, or even her body, to secure their assistance.
She knew she was chosen because of her misfortune, but she had been willing and ready even to sacrifice her life if it meant saving the lives of her people.
And the dragon had been slain, rending all the prepared sacrifice unnecessary, as well as her journey.
The soldiers reached for their radios in a panic as she collapsed, calling for the medic.
Chapter 58
charclone
Well-known member
Gently, Emperor Molt Sol Augustus thumbed through the pages of the report.
It detailed the latest attempt by the Imperial Alchemist Academy at replicating NATO's weapons.
Molt had already given up on getting anything from the mages, aloof of the affairs and needs of the state and buried in their personal research.
To his disappointment and lack of surprise, there had been no major breakthroughs, even with the knowledge Pina's knights were able to gather. The powder was too unstable, too costly, and the metal too poor. Attempts at improving the metal quality were beyond them, and the skill of the Empire's smiths.
Part of the absence of surprise was the original purpose of the Alchemists. They mostly created poultices and elixirs to heal wounds or dye cloth. A destructive powder was a change in their standard operations, though they had, in the past, developed poisons and caustic solutions for use in war.
Molt's favourite tale of their efforts in war was the creation of a poison that was easy to produce and was coated on every arrowhead in the Imperial Legions, taking advantage of the northern barbarian tribes' lack of proper shields. It led to their vast hordes crumbling into weakened warbands, which were swiftly surrounded by the more disciplined legions, and forced to surrender.
Molt paused, as another, much older, story came to mind.
He stood from behind his desk and stepped out of his office, barely noticing the Praetorian Guard keeping pace with him.
He walked down the hallways of the Palace, dimly lit by the light of dawn, and stepped into the library.
One of its keepers bowed as he passed them.
A brief word was shared, before the scribes scattered, searching for the relevant texts. It was only the work of an hour before Molt had found the story he had been searching for.
Disappointed, he sighed and returned the texts to their keepers to be stored once more.
Ancient tales from some of their younger ancestors, who had come through the Gate to find the young Empire, bringing news that ancient Roma still lived in the East. Carrying tales of fire that could be stored in pots, or thrown with a mechanism from the bows of ships, called Median Fire. But there was nothing on how it was made.
Settling once more in his chair, Molt considered what the next step was.
The alchemists would continue to work, perhaps the mages would finally see sense, or perhaps, sometime in the near future, they might find a pliable member of NATO who could sell them the secret to NATO's weapons, whatever it might be that they are missing.
Molt sighed, shaking his head, and ran his hand through his hair.
That all relied on luck.
With a grunt, Molt wrote a note to himself to look into offering a reward for an alchemist that can make blasting powder, or something similar. It threw all caution to the wind, with no subtly, but Molt had a gnawing feeling in his gut, one that reminded him of more than a few times he had been attacked by assassins or the time he had nearly walked right into a tavern inhabited by a large band of bandits.
Molt shook himself before standing and taking a walk.
He frowned, minutes later, as he saw his son Diabo in the distance leaving the palace gardens in the company of a trio of senators. It was too distant to identify them, dressed all in their formal togas, but Molt had a good feeling as to who it was.
His son had been ingratiating himself with most of the senate, keeping himself involved in anything he could, and making it very difficult for any single enemy to remove him without either revealing the underhanded deals that had been made or harming a great many senators in the process.
It kept Diabo's power base entrenched and fortified, and well balanced by any parties that emerged among the Senatoria. But he neglected the Equestria who provided the bulk of the military officers, and only paid lip service to the Plebiansia, who made up the bulk of the workers and soldiers.
Molt hoped that Diabo would realise how vulnerable he was leaving himself, and the Empire should he come to power. His dealings oft upset the lower classes, yet he faced no consequences, for they had no understanding of how the mechanisms of power worked, only seeing the effects when their land was seized by senators looking to enrich themselves or wanting to get a better position to take advantage of an upcoming conquest.
He treated it all as a game, with the laws as its rules, and while Molt agreed that rules should not restrict an Empire, disregarding them, or twisting them to make a profit set dangerous precedents.
Molt continued walking about the extensive palace, not particularly carrying where his feet took him until a raucous sound shook him from his thoughts.
With a disgusted glance at the balcony above where the sounds were coming from, Molt moved on.
His other son, Zorzal, was a disappointment.
For all of his martial prowess in the field and his efforts to maintain his vain physique, Zorzal was a hedonist. At first, Molt had ignored it, for he too had found pleasure in similar areas, carousing with other notables, and even common soldiers when he joined the Legions at his father's command, but his son, instead of learning of the dangers of hedonism as Molt had done in his service, had only fallen deeper into it.
Molt had sent him, as part of a legion, to patrol a border. The Warrior Bunnies did often raid, yes, but they rarely were lethal, and their prisoners were often released. Molt had hoped that the harder life might shock Zorzal out of his idiocy, with little actual danger involved.
Instead, he found his son using his bloodline to take command of several border legions as war broke out, with suspiciously good timing, and finding a talent for charisma. Despite the horrific inefficiency, his son was hailed as a victorious hero, taking the Warrior Bunny Queen as his trophy, using her to satisfy his urges, on top of his usual carousing.
While he may have broken the Warrior Bunny army, taking vast numbers of them as slaves, something that earned him a great deal of wealth, it also created more problems on that border, necessitating extra legions to be sent there.
Slave rebellions, Warrior Bunnies who had not been caught engaging in hit-and-run attacks, now with greater ferocity, and the elves to the north that had once been only bordered by them now contested with Saderan cities appearing nearby.
If Molt could, he would have sent his son back, until the territory was quelled, but that would look like exiling a hero, even if it had been a public secret that Zorzal had broken promises to the Warrior Bunny Queen to secure her surrender, and discontent would arise if he did that.
Zorzal had won the admiration of the plebians, and only a fool ignored what a large enough mob could achieve.
Molt was thus left with an unstable east, with no one to negotiate with to stabilise it, a resting foe on his west, uncharted territory past the southern colonies, and older foes in the north.
The elves had slain the last attempt at dialogue shortly after the defeat of the Warrior Bunnies. Apparently, the Warrior Bunnies had some ancient feud with them, that had ensured that they had no strength to push against the Empire until Zorzal came.
Thus, Molt desired new weapons, to hopefully gain some sort of advantage against that distant foe, while keeping NATO friendly enough not to invade.
He paused and glanced in the direction of the Jade Palace.
He knew that if he approached, he would be able to hear his daughter's knights drilling, even this early in the morning. No simple play it was, but a serious practice. Metal would clash and officers would bark orders to formations as they moved, on foot and horse.
His daughter had been born to a woman, not wed for political convenience, but instead, a concubine that Molt had loved, much like how Pina had loved the idea of knighthood and chivalry. He knew he had become a romantic, as the weight of his title weighed on him, but her presence had been a soothing salve as he chafed at the limitations placed on him out of necessity. When Diabo and Zorzal's mothers died, he had chosen the concubine to be his wife and Empress. Something that passed with little comment, as it was far from without precedent, given she was human.
Pina had been born into the Imperial Purple a few months later.
Molt had intended to award his Empress with more than a mere county, as befitting an Empress, but she died before Pina came of age. Part of Molt was tempted to see if NATO had a cure for the illness that had claimed her, but he feared what his reaction might be if he learned the cure had been within his reach.
Unlike her brothers, Pina didn't deliberately cultivate a political power base. Her knights provided her one, and in the last few weeks since she had returned from Alnus, she had used it to her advantage to press for peace, with her father's support, but it, like her brothers, left her vulnerable.
Her power base, such as it was, was spread out. A few Senators' daughters, some Equestrian family's daughters as well, and a handful of well-off and distinguished plebians' children. It was small, but very well spread out.
Molt had added to it what he could. Permitting members that had been pulled into the Legions to return, giving her more funding, granting her mother's former estate, and even permitting her to start recruiting additional members.
She had added a dozen wyverns and two of the larger breeds of lesser dragons bred by the Empire to her numbers, to Molt's surprise. He was pleased with her explanation: she was using the prestigious postings of wyvern and dragon rider to attract more to her knights, as flyers were rare and expensive, not often trusted to hands that might turn them to their family's gain over the Empire. But as part of the Order of Rose Knights, they would be indoctrinated to follow a code of chivalry and would be part of the order for much longer, tying their family's standing and status to the Order.
She was also recruiting an honour guard, at Molt's suggestion, as Zorzal had done from friends he had made. Of course, Pina's were better equipped and drew from many more places. Some of Molt's own Praetorian Guard had family amongst them. And if any of the Senate protested that Pina's 'honour guard' was more akin to an infantry cohort, well, Pina was going to be the one hosting the NATO diplomats.
Molt still wasn't sure which of his children should inherit the Throne when he passed. He knew that there was the risk that there would be civil strife no matter which one came to power. Perhaps Zorzal, with Diabo acting as a puppet master, would work best, but then, Molt doubted they would work together, being that they didn't get along well enough, and Zorzal would likely waste his time amidst the whore houses, possibly even starting a war the Empire couldn't afford, to fuel his antics. And Molt doubted Diabo would have the spine to stop him.
But Pina was less prepared. She had expressed a healthy fear at the idea of a war they couldn't afford to win, let alone loose, when he had presented the risk of a civil war to her, showing her wisdom over her ego, but she also lacked the backing in the senate to properly take the throne.
Not for the first time in his life, Molt was unsure of what to do.
A civil war, of his own making, was on the horizon, if he did nothing, yet showing favouritism to educate Pina risked making the situation worse.
Molt sighed, shaking his head.
It was a thorny issue, with no simple solution. Made worse by the recent defeats against NATO, the disastrous expedition and the attempt to hold Alnus.
"Oh gods, grant me a vision of what to do," The Emperor quietly prayed under his breath.
The wind gently blew across the palace grounds.
Molt flinched as the smell of unwashed bodies from the city hit his nose.
With a snort, Molt turned around, intent on returning to his office. There were other affairs of state that he could deal with, demanding his attention. He had time. Pina was learning, Zorzal was still fornicating without care for his image among the elite, and Diabo was still scheming amongst the senators. None had eyes on the Throne yet, a solution could wait.
It detailed the latest attempt by the Imperial Alchemist Academy at replicating NATO's weapons.
Molt had already given up on getting anything from the mages, aloof of the affairs and needs of the state and buried in their personal research.
To his disappointment and lack of surprise, there had been no major breakthroughs, even with the knowledge Pina's knights were able to gather. The powder was too unstable, too costly, and the metal too poor. Attempts at improving the metal quality were beyond them, and the skill of the Empire's smiths.
Part of the absence of surprise was the original purpose of the Alchemists. They mostly created poultices and elixirs to heal wounds or dye cloth. A destructive powder was a change in their standard operations, though they had, in the past, developed poisons and caustic solutions for use in war.
Molt's favourite tale of their efforts in war was the creation of a poison that was easy to produce and was coated on every arrowhead in the Imperial Legions, taking advantage of the northern barbarian tribes' lack of proper shields. It led to their vast hordes crumbling into weakened warbands, which were swiftly surrounded by the more disciplined legions, and forced to surrender.
Molt paused, as another, much older, story came to mind.
He stood from behind his desk and stepped out of his office, barely noticing the Praetorian Guard keeping pace with him.
He walked down the hallways of the Palace, dimly lit by the light of dawn, and stepped into the library.
One of its keepers bowed as he passed them.
A brief word was shared, before the scribes scattered, searching for the relevant texts. It was only the work of an hour before Molt had found the story he had been searching for.
Disappointed, he sighed and returned the texts to their keepers to be stored once more.
Ancient tales from some of their younger ancestors, who had come through the Gate to find the young Empire, bringing news that ancient Roma still lived in the East. Carrying tales of fire that could be stored in pots, or thrown with a mechanism from the bows of ships, called Median Fire. But there was nothing on how it was made.
Settling once more in his chair, Molt considered what the next step was.
The alchemists would continue to work, perhaps the mages would finally see sense, or perhaps, sometime in the near future, they might find a pliable member of NATO who could sell them the secret to NATO's weapons, whatever it might be that they are missing.
Molt sighed, shaking his head, and ran his hand through his hair.
That all relied on luck.
With a grunt, Molt wrote a note to himself to look into offering a reward for an alchemist that can make blasting powder, or something similar. It threw all caution to the wind, with no subtly, but Molt had a gnawing feeling in his gut, one that reminded him of more than a few times he had been attacked by assassins or the time he had nearly walked right into a tavern inhabited by a large band of bandits.
Molt shook himself before standing and taking a walk.
He frowned, minutes later, as he saw his son Diabo in the distance leaving the palace gardens in the company of a trio of senators. It was too distant to identify them, dressed all in their formal togas, but Molt had a good feeling as to who it was.
His son had been ingratiating himself with most of the senate, keeping himself involved in anything he could, and making it very difficult for any single enemy to remove him without either revealing the underhanded deals that had been made or harming a great many senators in the process.
It kept Diabo's power base entrenched and fortified, and well balanced by any parties that emerged among the Senatoria. But he neglected the Equestria who provided the bulk of the military officers, and only paid lip service to the Plebiansia, who made up the bulk of the workers and soldiers.
Molt hoped that Diabo would realise how vulnerable he was leaving himself, and the Empire should he come to power. His dealings oft upset the lower classes, yet he faced no consequences, for they had no understanding of how the mechanisms of power worked, only seeing the effects when their land was seized by senators looking to enrich themselves or wanting to get a better position to take advantage of an upcoming conquest.
He treated it all as a game, with the laws as its rules, and while Molt agreed that rules should not restrict an Empire, disregarding them, or twisting them to make a profit set dangerous precedents.
Molt continued walking about the extensive palace, not particularly carrying where his feet took him until a raucous sound shook him from his thoughts.
With a disgusted glance at the balcony above where the sounds were coming from, Molt moved on.
His other son, Zorzal, was a disappointment.
For all of his martial prowess in the field and his efforts to maintain his vain physique, Zorzal was a hedonist. At first, Molt had ignored it, for he too had found pleasure in similar areas, carousing with other notables, and even common soldiers when he joined the Legions at his father's command, but his son, instead of learning of the dangers of hedonism as Molt had done in his service, had only fallen deeper into it.
Molt had sent him, as part of a legion, to patrol a border. The Warrior Bunnies did often raid, yes, but they rarely were lethal, and their prisoners were often released. Molt had hoped that the harder life might shock Zorzal out of his idiocy, with little actual danger involved.
Instead, he found his son using his bloodline to take command of several border legions as war broke out, with suspiciously good timing, and finding a talent for charisma. Despite the horrific inefficiency, his son was hailed as a victorious hero, taking the Warrior Bunny Queen as his trophy, using her to satisfy his urges, on top of his usual carousing.
While he may have broken the Warrior Bunny army, taking vast numbers of them as slaves, something that earned him a great deal of wealth, it also created more problems on that border, necessitating extra legions to be sent there.
Slave rebellions, Warrior Bunnies who had not been caught engaging in hit-and-run attacks, now with greater ferocity, and the elves to the north that had once been only bordered by them now contested with Saderan cities appearing nearby.
If Molt could, he would have sent his son back, until the territory was quelled, but that would look like exiling a hero, even if it had been a public secret that Zorzal had broken promises to the Warrior Bunny Queen to secure her surrender, and discontent would arise if he did that.
Zorzal had won the admiration of the plebians, and only a fool ignored what a large enough mob could achieve.
Molt was thus left with an unstable east, with no one to negotiate with to stabilise it, a resting foe on his west, uncharted territory past the southern colonies, and older foes in the north.
The elves had slain the last attempt at dialogue shortly after the defeat of the Warrior Bunnies. Apparently, the Warrior Bunnies had some ancient feud with them, that had ensured that they had no strength to push against the Empire until Zorzal came.
Thus, Molt desired new weapons, to hopefully gain some sort of advantage against that distant foe, while keeping NATO friendly enough not to invade.
He paused and glanced in the direction of the Jade Palace.
He knew that if he approached, he would be able to hear his daughter's knights drilling, even this early in the morning. No simple play it was, but a serious practice. Metal would clash and officers would bark orders to formations as they moved, on foot and horse.
His daughter had been born to a woman, not wed for political convenience, but instead, a concubine that Molt had loved, much like how Pina had loved the idea of knighthood and chivalry. He knew he had become a romantic, as the weight of his title weighed on him, but her presence had been a soothing salve as he chafed at the limitations placed on him out of necessity. When Diabo and Zorzal's mothers died, he had chosen the concubine to be his wife and Empress. Something that passed with little comment, as it was far from without precedent, given she was human.
Pina had been born into the Imperial Purple a few months later.
Molt had intended to award his Empress with more than a mere county, as befitting an Empress, but she died before Pina came of age. Part of Molt was tempted to see if NATO had a cure for the illness that had claimed her, but he feared what his reaction might be if he learned the cure had been within his reach.
Unlike her brothers, Pina didn't deliberately cultivate a political power base. Her knights provided her one, and in the last few weeks since she had returned from Alnus, she had used it to her advantage to press for peace, with her father's support, but it, like her brothers, left her vulnerable.
Her power base, such as it was, was spread out. A few Senators' daughters, some Equestrian family's daughters as well, and a handful of well-off and distinguished plebians' children. It was small, but very well spread out.
Molt had added to it what he could. Permitting members that had been pulled into the Legions to return, giving her more funding, granting her mother's former estate, and even permitting her to start recruiting additional members.
She had added a dozen wyverns and two of the larger breeds of lesser dragons bred by the Empire to her numbers, to Molt's surprise. He was pleased with her explanation: she was using the prestigious postings of wyvern and dragon rider to attract more to her knights, as flyers were rare and expensive, not often trusted to hands that might turn them to their family's gain over the Empire. But as part of the Order of Rose Knights, they would be indoctrinated to follow a code of chivalry and would be part of the order for much longer, tying their family's standing and status to the Order.
She was also recruiting an honour guard, at Molt's suggestion, as Zorzal had done from friends he had made. Of course, Pina's were better equipped and drew from many more places. Some of Molt's own Praetorian Guard had family amongst them. And if any of the Senate protested that Pina's 'honour guard' was more akin to an infantry cohort, well, Pina was going to be the one hosting the NATO diplomats.
Molt still wasn't sure which of his children should inherit the Throne when he passed. He knew that there was the risk that there would be civil strife no matter which one came to power. Perhaps Zorzal, with Diabo acting as a puppet master, would work best, but then, Molt doubted they would work together, being that they didn't get along well enough, and Zorzal would likely waste his time amidst the whore houses, possibly even starting a war the Empire couldn't afford, to fuel his antics. And Molt doubted Diabo would have the spine to stop him.
But Pina was less prepared. She had expressed a healthy fear at the idea of a war they couldn't afford to win, let alone loose, when he had presented the risk of a civil war to her, showing her wisdom over her ego, but she also lacked the backing in the senate to properly take the throne.
Not for the first time in his life, Molt was unsure of what to do.
A civil war, of his own making, was on the horizon, if he did nothing, yet showing favouritism to educate Pina risked making the situation worse.
Molt sighed, shaking his head.
It was a thorny issue, with no simple solution. Made worse by the recent defeats against NATO, the disastrous expedition and the attempt to hold Alnus.
"Oh gods, grant me a vision of what to do," The Emperor quietly prayed under his breath.
The wind gently blew across the palace grounds.
Molt flinched as the smell of unwashed bodies from the city hit his nose.
With a snort, Molt turned around, intent on returning to his office. There were other affairs of state that he could deal with, demanding his attention. He had time. Pina was learning, Zorzal was still fornicating without care for his image among the elite, and Diabo was still scheming amongst the senators. None had eyes on the Throne yet, a solution could wait.
stephen the barbarian
Well-known member
charclone
Well-known member
Neither. It was his step-son.
Thanks.Molt here is smart ruler,who must choose from various bad possibilities.
Good,and realistic.
But,he should be more focused on surviving NATO.Becouse if he provoke them too much,they would destroy his state,and then it would not matter which of his children should inherit non-existing throne.
Chapter 59
charclone
Well-known member
"Atten-shun!" Richard barked, sweating under the sun, his throat dry.
The Long Patrol Company of the Foot snapped to attention. Drill instructors yelled at those that were too slow, or simply sloppy. The number of yells, and intensity, had steadily decreased on average, though more than once a trainee had been pulled aside for punishment detail.
The brief boot camp they had run through was simply early conditioning, with some extra bits to get them ready for a parade march. Enough to instil the basics of what was needed, though none had been permitted to so much think about touching a weapon yet.
They had drilled with wood replicas, in marching order, but weapon training would come later. For now, all that was needed, to build morale and a sense of unity, was discipline and camaraderie from boot camp.
Or that was what Richard remembered from the lectures on leadership he and the other officer candidates had been told.
The grizzled ex-legionnaire that had been selected as the Company senior NCO grunted next to Richard.
"Good enough, I suppose," Sergeant Lars spat. "Imperial Legions are still outperforming them in formations, but for three weeks of training, it's… passable."
"They will have the time after the party," Major Edgar Johnston said. "Still, they have been more meticulous with keeping their uniforms and equipment clean than most recruits. But I suppose that means we should reward them with a final long march."
"You heard Major Johnston!" Sergeant Lars barked at the company. "Marching order, on the double!"
With glaring eyes, he watched the troops move into formation. He deliberately did not smile in pride as they did so without complaint, from either themselves or the accompanying drill instructors.
"Richard, with me," Edgar motioned to the car.
"Company! Rifleman's Pace! Quick! March!"
As Richard got in the car, he caught a glimpse of Tara, leading her platoon, amidst the troops.
"We'll be mixing up formations, to keep them from growing to accustomed to a specific officer," Edgar said, once the car began to move. "Why?"
Richard blinked at the sudden quiz.
"In case of the loss of an officer, or units being reorganised. In addition, it helps prevent soldiers from getting too attached to any individual officer, especially with the Long Patrol to expand soon, preventing favouritism and corruption. They are part of the Long Patrol as a whole, not whatever platoon they are with," He answered, shifting in his seat, and adjusting his uniform.
"Partly," Edgar nodded. "But also because that troublemaking rival to Tara has been trying to make inroads with parts of the Long Patrol."
"Shit," Richard, uncharacteristically swore. "So, how are we supposed to react?"
"At the moment, not at all, beyond this," Edgar sighed. "Intel assured me it's currently handled, all the Warrior Bunnies she spoke to rebuffed her attempts, but that she was brazen enough to try…"
Richard groaned.
"And this is why Tara doesn't want to be queen," He sighed. "Okay, so, long-term?"
"If Tara won't change her mind, what alternatives do you think there are?"
Richard blinked.
"I'm… not sure. There are small groups, but no unified whole, or large factions. Maybe organise them into a confederacy, of at least the ones that want to stay, and let the ones that want to emigrate go?" He said. "There… really isn't a good option. If nothing is done, then their culture will die, leading to a shitshow on Earth over not helping them, and if we split up…"
"Some nations will accuse us of cultural genocide," Edgar bitterly interjected. "They already are, but the general doesn't want to give them more ammunition. We're doing a lot of good here, and the people want us to stay. The place would probably collapse into anarchy if we left."
Richard nodded.
More than a few people had petitioned him to claim Alnus as his fief, not understanding NATO regulations and Earth laws.
"In the long term, we need to stabilise the area in a permanent fashion," Edgar continued. "To do that, it's looking more and more like we need the Long Patrol, at the very least to have a local structure to build from. Local culture would turn it into a feudal system, which while not ideal, works better than anarchy or handing it back over to the Empire, or other nearby powers."
"So…?" Intoned Richard.
"So, look for a solution, please," Edgar said. "For everyone's sake. In other news, a blue dragon girl just showed up at Alnus, looking for you, and King Duran has returned with the suit of armour for you."
"Ah," Richard grunted, deflating. "Hardy's demigod."
"Yup," Edgar confirmed. "Apparently has a rivalry of sorts with Rory, which got the Marines involved. She also has a sword to hand over to you."
Richard was silent as the car drew closer to Alnus.
"Does it… bother you," He asked. "Knowing all this isn't pages in a book, but instead real?"
"Yup. Did ever since I got a call saying a medieval festival was being attacked by Romans with dragons," Edgar said. "I almost thought it was a drill, that someone was being silly with, but that wouldn't fly, and they were giving codes to activate every unit in range."
He glanced over at his young friend.
"The magic part isn't what's bothering you, is it?"
"…no," Richard admitted. "Its… I'm supposed to lead these people. I'm not qualified. I've barely led events and teams in what amounts to sports."
Edgar shook his head.
"All the schooling in the world isn't going to qualify you for leadership. It's something you learn as you go, though asking for advice certainly helps," He said. "Doesn't look like we have the time to go over a full story, but consider this: You've been doing a fine job so far."
Edgar patted Richard on the shoulder as the car came to a stop.
"Now, it seems someone forgot to mention the demigod had a pair of pet mini-dragons," He said, looking out the window. "Welp, better go introduce yourself before a marine does something stupid, and try not to stare, it doesn't look like she is too happy about the 'dress' her god makes her wear either."
Richard snorted as he caught sight of the demigod.
Her outfit, unlike Rory's which covered everything, covered nearly nothing at all. What amounted to a quarter of a dress on each hip leading up to her collar, and a small piece of fabric, covered only a handful of points on her body.
Though admittedly, the other Draconians (a name that made Richard want to either congratulate or strangle whoever came up with it and made it stick) in the Long Patrol had also needed tailored clothing because of their unique physiology.
"Giselle, I presume?" He called out to her, stepping from the car. "I'm Richard."
The blue-scaled demigod studied him as he approached.
Giselle felt torn.
On one hand, her Ancient Fire Dragon was dead at NATO's hand, Hardy didn't seem to care that whatever her plan with the dragon was had been foiled, and of course, Hardy had decided that she was to serve this 'Richard'. What that entailed had been left to him, a fact that Giselle was unsure how to feel about.
On the other hand, NATO was clearly powerful, able to kill an Ancient Fire Dragon, change Hardy's mind, and they even, despite having Rory's patronage, had offered some sort of animal called a 'cow' to feed Towato and Mowto.
Standing at the edge of the town, with the blade she was to deliver tucked under her arm while her wings shielded her from the NATO soldiers who kept stealing glances at her, she frowned. She knew her outfit didn't cover much, but it was the formal attire of a senior priest of Hardy. At least it didn't restrict her flight.
At least Richard wasn't staring.
Giselle blinked as he didn't walk straight to her. She hadn't been expecting him to act fearful of her since none of the NATO soldiers had acted in a deferential manner towards her or Rory, but nor had she expected anyone to willingly approach a pair of Fire Dragons.
She stared as Richard kneeled in front of the two wyrmlings laying on the ground in the sun, fearlessly reaching out and scratching their scales as if they were mere wyverns.
More than a few passersby, who had been giving Giselle and her dragons a wide berth, paused to stare as well.
"Heh, like Vel's wyvern," He said, as Towato nuzzled his hand, greatly enjoying the affection. "So, I assume that is the sword Hardy promised me?"
Giselle started, glancing at the blade in her hand.
"Ah, yeah," She muttered, handing it to him, glad to no longer be touching that thing. She saw an opportunity for some small preemptive revenge. "So… you know those aren't wyverns, right? Plus, they might be upset that you killed their parent."
"I didn't kill any…" Richard started to snort, then paused, going very still. "… Fire Dragons, huh? I didn't kill it. Blade ended up in its eye, but I honestly don't remember what happened."
Giselle grinned.
Mowto decided to dash her hopes by nosing Richard's hands when he stopped scratching. Towato turned to glare at Giselle for making the human stop giving them affection.
"Don't give me that look," She spat back at it. The infant dragon huffed.
"You don't like me, do you?" Richard asked, fear subsiding as the dragons, despite their heads being as large as his torso, acted like a pair of eager pets seeking affection.
Giselle flinched.
"I am loyal to Lord Hardy," She automatically responded, before slumping. "But she can be a bit demanding, and I don't understand why she decided to just… give me to you."
Richard frowned.
"What does that mean, anyway?" He asked. "I know what Hardy said to me, but words can have different meanings in different cultures."
Giselle tilted her head to one side.
"You don't know?"
"Nope."
Giselle stared at him.
"Isn't Rory one of your companions, standing beside you when your army killed the Ancient Fire Dragon?"
Richard snorted.
"No. Most days I avoid her," He admitted. "She's creepy and hangs out with the US Marines anyway. She also got punted off the mountain early in the fight, I remember that part."
Richard patted Mowto on the nose as he stood.
"So, NATO is not my army, nor was I in command of the force that killed it. We were just there to look into some old ruins," Richard said. "It ambushed us but was brought down by the AT rockets and SAMs the convoy had. That was all Major Edgar's work."
"But Hardy credited you with killing my dragon," Giselle said, with more heat. "She said you dealt a mortal blow."
"A mortal blow. As I said, my sword ended up in its eye, probably as it spasmed in shock from the other mortal blows," Richard countered. "… your dragon?"
Giselle shrugged.
"I woke it, found it a mate, and partially trained it, at Hardy's command," She admitted. "So… what did you do, then?"
Richard sighed.
"Dealt the finishing blow to the Huntress-Queen, according to Hardy," He said. "Look, I just got back from exercise. Do you mind if we eat while we talk?"
Giselle blinked. She fought against the impulse to immediately leap at the opportunity for food.
"Sure," She agreed. "So… know any good places to eat around here?"
"Yeah, but these two will have to wait here," Richard said. "They aren't going to attack anyone without you nearby, will they?"
"Nah," She shook her head. "They were already fed today and are lazy."
The Long Patrol Company of the Foot snapped to attention. Drill instructors yelled at those that were too slow, or simply sloppy. The number of yells, and intensity, had steadily decreased on average, though more than once a trainee had been pulled aside for punishment detail.
The brief boot camp they had run through was simply early conditioning, with some extra bits to get them ready for a parade march. Enough to instil the basics of what was needed, though none had been permitted to so much think about touching a weapon yet.
They had drilled with wood replicas, in marching order, but weapon training would come later. For now, all that was needed, to build morale and a sense of unity, was discipline and camaraderie from boot camp.
Or that was what Richard remembered from the lectures on leadership he and the other officer candidates had been told.
The grizzled ex-legionnaire that had been selected as the Company senior NCO grunted next to Richard.
"Good enough, I suppose," Sergeant Lars spat. "Imperial Legions are still outperforming them in formations, but for three weeks of training, it's… passable."
"They will have the time after the party," Major Edgar Johnston said. "Still, they have been more meticulous with keeping their uniforms and equipment clean than most recruits. But I suppose that means we should reward them with a final long march."
"You heard Major Johnston!" Sergeant Lars barked at the company. "Marching order, on the double!"
With glaring eyes, he watched the troops move into formation. He deliberately did not smile in pride as they did so without complaint, from either themselves or the accompanying drill instructors.
"Richard, with me," Edgar motioned to the car.
"Company! Rifleman's Pace! Quick! March!"
As Richard got in the car, he caught a glimpse of Tara, leading her platoon, amidst the troops.
"We'll be mixing up formations, to keep them from growing to accustomed to a specific officer," Edgar said, once the car began to move. "Why?"
Richard blinked at the sudden quiz.
"In case of the loss of an officer, or units being reorganised. In addition, it helps prevent soldiers from getting too attached to any individual officer, especially with the Long Patrol to expand soon, preventing favouritism and corruption. They are part of the Long Patrol as a whole, not whatever platoon they are with," He answered, shifting in his seat, and adjusting his uniform.
"Partly," Edgar nodded. "But also because that troublemaking rival to Tara has been trying to make inroads with parts of the Long Patrol."
"Shit," Richard, uncharacteristically swore. "So, how are we supposed to react?"
"At the moment, not at all, beyond this," Edgar sighed. "Intel assured me it's currently handled, all the Warrior Bunnies she spoke to rebuffed her attempts, but that she was brazen enough to try…"
Richard groaned.
"And this is why Tara doesn't want to be queen," He sighed. "Okay, so, long-term?"
"If Tara won't change her mind, what alternatives do you think there are?"
Richard blinked.
"I'm… not sure. There are small groups, but no unified whole, or large factions. Maybe organise them into a confederacy, of at least the ones that want to stay, and let the ones that want to emigrate go?" He said. "There… really isn't a good option. If nothing is done, then their culture will die, leading to a shitshow on Earth over not helping them, and if we split up…"
"Some nations will accuse us of cultural genocide," Edgar bitterly interjected. "They already are, but the general doesn't want to give them more ammunition. We're doing a lot of good here, and the people want us to stay. The place would probably collapse into anarchy if we left."
Richard nodded.
More than a few people had petitioned him to claim Alnus as his fief, not understanding NATO regulations and Earth laws.
"In the long term, we need to stabilise the area in a permanent fashion," Edgar continued. "To do that, it's looking more and more like we need the Long Patrol, at the very least to have a local structure to build from. Local culture would turn it into a feudal system, which while not ideal, works better than anarchy or handing it back over to the Empire, or other nearby powers."
"So…?" Intoned Richard.
"So, look for a solution, please," Edgar said. "For everyone's sake. In other news, a blue dragon girl just showed up at Alnus, looking for you, and King Duran has returned with the suit of armour for you."
"Ah," Richard grunted, deflating. "Hardy's demigod."
"Yup," Edgar confirmed. "Apparently has a rivalry of sorts with Rory, which got the Marines involved. She also has a sword to hand over to you."
Richard was silent as the car drew closer to Alnus.
"Does it… bother you," He asked. "Knowing all this isn't pages in a book, but instead real?"
"Yup. Did ever since I got a call saying a medieval festival was being attacked by Romans with dragons," Edgar said. "I almost thought it was a drill, that someone was being silly with, but that wouldn't fly, and they were giving codes to activate every unit in range."
He glanced over at his young friend.
"The magic part isn't what's bothering you, is it?"
"…no," Richard admitted. "Its… I'm supposed to lead these people. I'm not qualified. I've barely led events and teams in what amounts to sports."
Edgar shook his head.
"All the schooling in the world isn't going to qualify you for leadership. It's something you learn as you go, though asking for advice certainly helps," He said. "Doesn't look like we have the time to go over a full story, but consider this: You've been doing a fine job so far."
Edgar patted Richard on the shoulder as the car came to a stop.
"Now, it seems someone forgot to mention the demigod had a pair of pet mini-dragons," He said, looking out the window. "Welp, better go introduce yourself before a marine does something stupid, and try not to stare, it doesn't look like she is too happy about the 'dress' her god makes her wear either."
Richard snorted as he caught sight of the demigod.
Her outfit, unlike Rory's which covered everything, covered nearly nothing at all. What amounted to a quarter of a dress on each hip leading up to her collar, and a small piece of fabric, covered only a handful of points on her body.
Though admittedly, the other Draconians (a name that made Richard want to either congratulate or strangle whoever came up with it and made it stick) in the Long Patrol had also needed tailored clothing because of their unique physiology.
"Giselle, I presume?" He called out to her, stepping from the car. "I'm Richard."
The blue-scaled demigod studied him as he approached.
Giselle felt torn.
On one hand, her Ancient Fire Dragon was dead at NATO's hand, Hardy didn't seem to care that whatever her plan with the dragon was had been foiled, and of course, Hardy had decided that she was to serve this 'Richard'. What that entailed had been left to him, a fact that Giselle was unsure how to feel about.
On the other hand, NATO was clearly powerful, able to kill an Ancient Fire Dragon, change Hardy's mind, and they even, despite having Rory's patronage, had offered some sort of animal called a 'cow' to feed Towato and Mowto.
Standing at the edge of the town, with the blade she was to deliver tucked under her arm while her wings shielded her from the NATO soldiers who kept stealing glances at her, she frowned. She knew her outfit didn't cover much, but it was the formal attire of a senior priest of Hardy. At least it didn't restrict her flight.
At least Richard wasn't staring.
Giselle blinked as he didn't walk straight to her. She hadn't been expecting him to act fearful of her since none of the NATO soldiers had acted in a deferential manner towards her or Rory, but nor had she expected anyone to willingly approach a pair of Fire Dragons.
She stared as Richard kneeled in front of the two wyrmlings laying on the ground in the sun, fearlessly reaching out and scratching their scales as if they were mere wyverns.
More than a few passersby, who had been giving Giselle and her dragons a wide berth, paused to stare as well.
"Heh, like Vel's wyvern," He said, as Towato nuzzled his hand, greatly enjoying the affection. "So, I assume that is the sword Hardy promised me?"
Giselle started, glancing at the blade in her hand.
"Ah, yeah," She muttered, handing it to him, glad to no longer be touching that thing. She saw an opportunity for some small preemptive revenge. "So… you know those aren't wyverns, right? Plus, they might be upset that you killed their parent."
"I didn't kill any…" Richard started to snort, then paused, going very still. "… Fire Dragons, huh? I didn't kill it. Blade ended up in its eye, but I honestly don't remember what happened."
Giselle grinned.
Mowto decided to dash her hopes by nosing Richard's hands when he stopped scratching. Towato turned to glare at Giselle for making the human stop giving them affection.
"Don't give me that look," She spat back at it. The infant dragon huffed.
"You don't like me, do you?" Richard asked, fear subsiding as the dragons, despite their heads being as large as his torso, acted like a pair of eager pets seeking affection.
Giselle flinched.
"I am loyal to Lord Hardy," She automatically responded, before slumping. "But she can be a bit demanding, and I don't understand why she decided to just… give me to you."
Richard frowned.
"What does that mean, anyway?" He asked. "I know what Hardy said to me, but words can have different meanings in different cultures."
Giselle tilted her head to one side.
"You don't know?"
"Nope."
Giselle stared at him.
"Isn't Rory one of your companions, standing beside you when your army killed the Ancient Fire Dragon?"
Richard snorted.
"No. Most days I avoid her," He admitted. "She's creepy and hangs out with the US Marines anyway. She also got punted off the mountain early in the fight, I remember that part."
Richard patted Mowto on the nose as he stood.
"So, NATO is not my army, nor was I in command of the force that killed it. We were just there to look into some old ruins," Richard said. "It ambushed us but was brought down by the AT rockets and SAMs the convoy had. That was all Major Edgar's work."
"But Hardy credited you with killing my dragon," Giselle said, with more heat. "She said you dealt a mortal blow."
"A mortal blow. As I said, my sword ended up in its eye, probably as it spasmed in shock from the other mortal blows," Richard countered. "… your dragon?"
Giselle shrugged.
"I woke it, found it a mate, and partially trained it, at Hardy's command," She admitted. "So… what did you do, then?"
Richard sighed.
"Dealt the finishing blow to the Huntress-Queen, according to Hardy," He said. "Look, I just got back from exercise. Do you mind if we eat while we talk?"
Giselle blinked. She fought against the impulse to immediately leap at the opportunity for food.
"Sure," She agreed. "So… know any good places to eat around here?"
"Yeah, but these two will have to wait here," Richard said. "They aren't going to attack anyone without you nearby, will they?"
"Nah," She shook her head. "They were already fed today and are lazy."
Richard the Dragon-Whisperer, gets the loyalty of dragons with headpats and scritches, proving that the dragons are actually big puppies at heart.
charclone
Well-known member
I'd argue they are more like cats, since dogs don't play with their food just to hear it scream, though, an argument could be made to compare them to chickens, given how chicken once were dinosaurs, and will strip a mouse down to bones in moments if given the opportunity.
Actually that depends on how well socialized the dog is, there are dogs that are brutalized into being just as sociopathic as any cat, after all, and judging by how people view fire dragons, I'd imagine that they aren't treated as beloved pets. They certainly likely have never gotten positive attention like Richard is giving them, and they are soaking it up.
charclone
Well-known member
Well, regardless, I am basing them partially on cats, mostly due to my own experiences... and because of How to Train Your Dragon.
Yes, Toothless borrowed behaviours from both cats and dogs according to the commentary, but the cat is more well remembered.
i heard about herd of chickens lead by old hen,who actually hunted mouses near home of their owner.
Aside from that - Giselle is perfectly safe from Richard,becouse he want only one waifu.Which is good,i always found harems as rather not plausible in fantasy stories.
It was tool of power,after that,used to keep control over elites of bigger countries.Sometching which lonely hero rather do not need.
But - if Richard want peace there,he must convict Tara to become Queen,when he would be her consort.
Like in "In the courts of the Crimson Kings" by S.M.Stirling