The Mythical Hero's Otherworld Chronicles: Volume 11 - Tatematsuri - E-Book

The Mythical Hero's Otherworld Chronicles: Volume 11 E-Book

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Beschreibung

The Grantzian Empire faces its darkest hour. To the south, the Vanir Triumvirate and the Free Folk march to war. To the north, the treacherous House Brommel schemes to overthrow House Scharm, its supposed opportunism concealing a far more malign and ancient darkness. Hordes of monsters beat upon the wall of Friedhof and none come to its aid. Soon, the curtain will rise on a climactic battle for the fate of Soleil. Yet first comes a prelude. Far to the west, Liz and Hiro meet once more—not as allies but as foes. When Lævateinn clashes with its fellow Spiritblades, who will emerge victorious?

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Seitenzahl: 320

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

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Prologue

“You will see this through, I trust?”

The leaf-shaded light filtering through the window cast a shadow across the woman’s smile. Her time was short now, as was the knight’s. The age would not be halted, the world would turn on, and those who could not keep up would be left behind. Whether they wished it or not, both of them would be abandoned by the march of time. And yet...

“As you wish it, my lady. For you, I will do all in my power.”

And yet the knight vowed to resist. She could not afford to do otherwise. To save her bedridden mistress, she flew to the farthest reaches of the east and the west, the north and the south. Yet nothing changed. Her efforts were futile. Her lady only grew weaker. Hope after hope guttered out before her eyes, leaving only black despair, and she spent her days wandering lost in the dark.

“Murdered?”

When the boy first told her the news, the knight could not believe it. Her ears rang like the world was crashing down. Her vision went white. So vast was her anguish that it would crush her if she did not grant it release. Callously, unfairly, she turned it on him.

“Why?! How?! Were you not there to protect her?!”

Her outburst was ugly even to her own ears, but she could not bring herself to hear his apologies. She called him heartless for failing to shed a tear, labeled him impotent for failing as a guardian. Yet it was not heartlessness that kept his eyes dry. He was a broken man. His heart was a hollow ruin, his smile had vanished, and his emotions had lost their color. By the time the knight realized her mistake, it was too late, and she had lost his smile forever.

“Forgive me, my lady. I failed to keep my word.”

She cursed her own foolishness. How truly rotten her soul must have been. She had cared only for vengeance, thinking of nothing but her own feelings, and what had it gotten her? A fistful of ashes and an ignoble death on the battlefield. But salvation was at hand. She had not been forsaken. She followed the light, and when her eyelids fluttered open again, a crimson-haired girl was lying beside her. She needed no explanation, no soul-searching, no contemplation. Her mistress had returned. That was all that mattered.

“I will not fail again.”

Her doubts fell away, and she raced across the land with fierce conviction in her breast. The white wolf howled, knowing the day would soon come for her to fulfill her ancient vow.

Chapter 1: Unrest in Soleil

The northernmost swathe of the Grantzian Empire’s northern territories was shrouded in never-ending blizzards. Most people made their homes in the more temperate south. The land there was blessed with fertile black soil, and its agricultural bounties supported the rest of the region.

Three noble houses ruled this land of snow and earth: House Scharm, House Brommel, and House Heimdall. The most prestigious was House Scharm, which counted itself as one of the empire’s five great houses and had produced many imperial chancellors. Next was House Heimdall, which, as the guardian of the great wall of Friedhof to the west, enjoyed even greater fame. Last came House Brommel. Although known chiefly for being overshadowed by the other two, its staunch service to House Scharm had earned it a quiet reputation as an indispensable pillar of the north—at least until recent years, when House Brommel took advantage of House Scharm’s decline to swell its faction’s ranks. A rift had formed between the two houses. Now, they were on the brink of open war.

House Brommel’s seat of power lay in Logue, in the east of the northern territories. The city’s proximity to the Lebering border made it a vital strategic location, and it could rival any of the great cities of the south in size. Oddly, however, its people were gray of face and lacking in joy. They had little enthusiasm for their profit at House Scharm’s expense. All of them could sense war on the horizon. Word had come that Lebering was mustering its forces, which only added to their unease. What was more, their lord seemed to have no intention of avoiding conflict. Indeed, he had been amassing troops from loyal nobles, and more soldiers gathered at the encampment at Castle Himinbjörg with every passing day.

“A formidable number,” Typhos von Brommel remarked. “Truly, there are no limits to human greed.”

A smile pulled at his lips as he gazed down from the balcony. His courtyard was filled with soldiers. What poor fools—they would ride to war because their masters wished it, and they had no choice but to obey. If they fled, they would be hounded. If they hid, they would be found out and sent to the block. Defeat in battle would mean a cruel fate for their families at home. How did it feel, he wondered, to live at the mercy of lords who could twist their lives out of shape on a whim?

“Yet it remains impressive how firmly these humans band together,” he murmured, “if not always for noble reasons. That unity of thought is how they prevailed over my zlosta’s strength. Bested by those we looked down on as lesser, by those we deemed beneath us... Had we the same capacity for exponential growth, we would have been the victors a thousand years ago. Do you not agree, Ceryneia?”

He glanced back. Behind him, the hooded figure of the primozlosta Ceryneia knelt with his head bowed.

“Yes, my lord. But it was only with a man as powerful as Artheus at their head that they could unleash their true potential. And had Schwartz the Hero King not sat at his right hand, the humans would have had no future to speak of. There will be no such champions in modern times.”

“You believe the present age can birth no heroes?”

“The humans have grown complacent, my lord. Peace makes poor soil. With no turmoil in the heavens, even emperors need not be exceptional when their only duty is to preserve their post for the next generation. Indeed, they are best when they are ordinary. All of history proves this, not least the third emperor’s purges.”

“He was no exceptional man, merely an ordinary one overshadowed by his father. And while the present age has produced no heroes, that has not stopped one returning from the past.”

Ceryneia raised his head. “If I may, my lord, without Artheus, there is no one to save the Grantzian Empire from its plight. Even Schwartz could not do it. For a thousand years, our Lord has woven his web across the land. None remain who can stop us.”

Hatred dripped from every word he spoke. Elation quickened his tongue, and his voice radiated confidence. Typhos was not unsympathetic. They had indeed spent a thousand years undermining the empire. There had even been several occasions when they might have destroyed it. Yet success had never been certain, and so they had bided their time, resisting temptation until the day they could ensure the downfall of von Grantz beyond a doubt.

“We stand upon the brink of success. Only a little longer and all our dreams will reach fruition. But that is all the more reason to be cautious. It would not do to fall at the final hurdle. No victory is ever certain.”

“I know, my lord.”

“We must act with the utmost care, now and in the future. The slightest mistake might cascade beyond our control.”

Ceryneia frowned. It was unusual for his master to be so talkative. “What are you suggesting, Lord Demiurgos?”

“So, you would use that name.” Typhos paused. “We may be called the Lords of Heaven, but while we have approached our creator’s might, we do not equal him. The people think us gods in their ignorance, but that does not mean we are.”

“Only the Spirit King has failed in truth, my lord. You might still claim the heavens. And I do not doubt that you will.”

“Indeed. I will not make his mistakes. I fully intend to become divine. To that end, I sought the power of the other Lords.” Typhos turned his attention from the world below and raised a hand to Ceryneia. “What became of the Iron Monarch?”

“He is here, my lord.”

Ceryneia revealed what he had kept concealed behind his back: a pedestal decorated with several dwarven heads. The gory trophies surrounded a large, glittering chunk of what looked like metal ore.

“The Iron Monarch’s heartsteel, my lord. The heads belong to the king who served as his medium, as well as the rest of the royal line.”

“Fine work. You have done well.” Typhos took the metal in hand and raised it to the sky, narrowing his eyes against its glow. “Ah, my brother. How beautifully you shine.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he lowered the ore into his mouth. Unpleasant crunching emerged from between his lips. He was crushing it between his teeth, taking his time as though savoring the flavor. Finally, he swallowed.

“An ignoble end for a sibling of mine. Yet it brings me one step closer to what I seek.”

Nothing outward about him changed. His appearance remained the same. Yet Ceryneia was accustomed to perceiving others through sense as much as sight, and Typhos’s shoulders trembled with mirth. He seemed struck by great joy.

“I have no need of the heads,” Typhos commanded. “Dispose of them.” He kicked them aside, went back to his chambers, and settled down into a chair. “You are the only one to return, Ceryneia. What of the rest?”

He reached for a silver goblet on the table. At once, Ceryneia was at his shoulder with a bottle of wine, filling the cup with indigo liquid.

“Augeas fell to the Iron Monarch, as did Stymphalides. Weakened he might have been, but he was still a Lord of Heaven. It took all of our strength to bring him low.”

“What of Erymanthos?”

“Burned alive in the fires of Mount Vyse. With the Iron Monarch fallen, nothing remained to suppress its eruption. The city beneath the mount must have been turned to ashes in an instant. Had I only my eyes, I might have witnessed that glorious moment for myself.”

“It was spectacular, I don’t doubt,” Typhos mused. “Yet now my twelve primozlosta are but three. Unless...” He drained his goblet and turned to a corner of the room, where unnatural shadow roiled. Ceryneia followed his gaze. “Four, perhaps. Welcome back, Ladon.”

A hooded figure emerged from the darkness—the primozlosta named Ladon. He approached Typhos on all fours, blood spilling from his abdomen.

Typhos rose, sensing something amiss. “There is a strange force within you. What has befallen you?”

Ladon could not answer. His groaning filled the room.

“That wound in your stomach... I see. Something is buried within.”

Typhos stooped down and rolled Ladon onto his back, setting a thoughtful hand to his chin. Beside him, Ceryneia waved a hand over Ladon, moving down the primozlosta’s flank and coming to a stop over the ragged tear in his side.

“I sense a fearsome curse, my lord.”

Typhos snorted. “I might guess its source. Allow me.”

He plunged his fingers into the wound. Ladon screamed in agony.

Ceryneia cried out in rare surprise as he held Ladon down. “That is not safe, my lord! You know not what it is!”

“Surtr would not send him back alive without a reason. I will take the gamble.”

“Did you not just advise me of the importance of caution?”

“This curse may be a threat to you, but not to me, as he well knows. Besides, he would not deprive himself of the opportunity to look me in the eyes as he slays me.”

Typhos’s hand stopped, then he yanked his arm back out. A gemstone emerged, tangled in Ladon’s entrails. A wordless howl tore from the primozlosta’s throat, but Typhos paid him no mind as he extracted the stone from the viscera. Blood splattered across the floor.

“A curious dharmastone. I have sensed this before...” A blue crystal with a strange mottled pattern lay in his hand. “Ah, Stovell. Or, no...perhaps the curse that Nameless made for him?” His eyes narrowed. He seemed to see some significance in that.

At that moment, the dharmastone cracked, then shattered. Black light flooded the chamber, then faded away just as quickly. Not a trace remained of the crystal.

“Are you all right, my lord?”

“Hmm... A curse-bond. He truly despises me, it seems. I feel his hatred coursing through my veins.” Typhos gazed down at the intricate sigil burned into his hand and grinned. His attention turned to Ladon. The primozlosta’s breathing was growing shallow. “Ladon. Tell me what transpired before you pass.”

“We fought...with Mars. With Surtr...” Ladon lay wreathed in viscera in a pool of his own blood. His voice was vanishingly quiet.

“And Hydra perished?”

“Yes...my lord. Slain...by our foe...”

“You were bold to challenge him. With your eyes plucked out and your manastones taken, I doubt you could have put up much of a fight.” Typhos returned to his chair, gazing with fascination at the pattern on his hand. His breathing had grown animated. “Did you retrieve what you were tasked with collecting?”

“Yes, my lord... My pocket...”

Ceryneia reached into Ladon’s breast pocket and retrieved a glass phial. Two golden eyeballs lay within. He offered it to Typhos, who took it and inspected it in the candlelight.

“Marvelous indeed...yet I sense little power within. Thinned, no doubt, after so many centuries of álfen blood.” He tossed the phial away and returned his hawklike gaze to Ladon. “What irony that Surtr’s curse was your only true prize.”

“Forgive me...my lord...”

“Well, it matters not. It seems the genuine article is in Surtr’s possession. Artheus planned well. To have foreseen events a thousand years hence... Perhaps he was even closer to divinity than we. Or perhaps it was the Spirit King’s work before he sequestered himself away in his failure.” Without so much as a glance at the primozlosta who had given his life to retrieve them, Typhos crushed the eyes underfoot. “Those hateful álfar have begun to move, as have our dear spawn beyond the wall. Soon, we may quit this wretched place.”

He stood up again and approached Ladon. Behind him, Ceryneia spoke.

“The álfar are strong, my lord. The Vanir Triumvirate have remained unscathed throughout the conflicts thus far. And if they should best the empire, their leader may continue north to lay waste to us.”

“She may believe she is using us, but we yet pull her strings—as we do those of the War God and the changeling child. They all dance in our palm.” Typhos grasped a fistful of Ladon’s intestines and pushed them into the dying primozlosta’s mouth, cocking his head as he did. “Imbibing your own viscera will not heal your wounds, yet so fierce is your vitality that you still cling to life. So too are our pawns. Once broken, they cannot be restored, but nor will they consent to simply fade away. Not without cost to us, at least.” He let the organs fall and looked up from his blood-slicked hands. “Ceryneia, you will remain with me.”

Ceryneia bowed his head in acknowledgment, but then a thought seemed to strike him. “Shall I recall Khimaira from Six Kingdoms, my lord?”

“I could not guess what is preoccupying him, but he would be too late in any case. Leave him. He will return of his own accord once he tires. In any case, he is serving us well enough by keeping the imperial army trapped in the west. As indeed is the troublemaker.”

“As you command, my lord. And what of Ladon?”

“His innards might be replaced, but to what end? He has already proven himself useless to keep alive.” Typhos regarded Ladon coldly. “I shall end his misery. He has been faithful these past thousand years. I shall permit him to serve me one last time.”

Without hesitation, he bit down on the bridge of Ladon’s nose. The tearing of flesh mingled with the sickening noises of consumption.

Ceryneia kept his head bowed, moving not so much as a muscle despite the gruesome scene before him. A cloying stench suffused the chamber. Eventually, the noises abated, and Typhos returned unhurried to his chair. His face was red with blood.

At last, Ceryneia spoke. “Ladon must be honored that his lifeblood now strengthens you, Lord Demiurgos.”

“Paltry strength,” Typhos snorted. “The twelve primozlosta have grown more feeble than humans, it would seem. A novel discovery, but hardly a welcome one.”

He gazed again at the sigil on his hand, licking the crimson from his lips, before wiping a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. A bark of laughter escaped his throat.

“This vessel’s time grows short.”

He raised a hand to his face. His skin flaked away like dry seaweed. He stared at it, utterly nonplussed, as if it were not his own.

“Mars...my magnum opus. Come to claim my life. I welcome it.”

Spitting out a tooth, he brought the bottle of wine on his desk to his lips, turning to regard the snowy sky beyond the window.

“And so our long, long battle shall finally conclude. What began one thousand years ago will come to an end at last.” He raised his goblet to the window with a rare smile. “Do you not look forward to that, Spirit King?”

*****

The twenty-seventh day of the tenth month of Imperial Year 1026

Malaren, a moderately sized city in the northern territories

In the north of the empire, as north as one could go in Soleil, rose the colossal shape of Friedhof, the Spirit Wall. It had been erected around five hundred years before the present day in response to an invasion by the monstrous creatures called the Wild Races. Order in the north had sharply declined, ushering in instability that threatened the well-being of the entire empire. The affair had only come to an end when the twenty-second emperor enlisted the help of the third archpriestess to chase the Wild Races back to the farthest reaches of the north. Yet he had been unable to eradicate them entirely, and so with the Spirit King’s aid, he had raised the great wall of Friedhof—a bastion that still stood to this day, keeping the world of men safe from the threats that lay beyond.

Malaren and its surrounding territories were the hereditary lands of House Heimdall, the current head of which was Hermes von Heimdall. Although old enough to be past his prime, he was still counted among the five high generals who defended the peace of the empire. He was known far and wide as the guardian of Friedhof, and safeguarding imperial lands from the Wild Races was his charge.

The west gate of Malaren stood wide open. Townsfolk fled the city in droves, carrying their belongings. From time to time, they quailed as thunderous booms rang out from the Spirit Wall, glancing fearfully toward the noise as they hastened through the streets. Black smoke blotted out the sky. The plume only swelled with time, seeming to mock the efforts of the people below. Cries, shrieks, and roars of anger filled the air, periodically drowned out by bellowing cries.

Friedhof itself had become a battlefield. Soldiers lined the battlements. Beneath them, rank upon rank of monsters advanced on the wall, ignoring the arrows raining down on them as they pounded at the icelike surface with siege weaponry.

“High General!” cried the commander of the defense, panting as he fell to one knee. “The monsters continue their assault. They have yet to damage the wall, but they are moving like organized troops. They appear to be focusing their efforts on the gate.”

“The gate, eh?” Hermes growled. “As I feared. Any sightings of yaldabaoth?”

“None yet, sir. We have sighted several archons who appear to be acting as commanders, but if there are yaldabaoth present, they remain on the back lines.”

Hermes nodded. “Keep your eyes peeled. There are yaldabaoth on the field; I know it. They wouldn’t be this coordinated otherwise. Now, send reinforcements to the gate. Take ’em from the battlements if you have to.”

With a bow, the officer left to attend to his tasks. He vanished into the press, barking orders left and right.

Hermes watched the man go with a sigh. “Won’t hold out for much longer,” he murmured.

The bodies of fallen soldiers lay before him in rows, felled by unlucky arrows from beyond the wall. Between the blood oozing from the fresh corpses and the stench they exuded, they might as well have been a beacon for monsters.

Victory felt thoroughly out of reach now. With morale at rock bottom, no reinforcements in sight, and an enemy that outnumbered the garrison, fighting on seemed hopeless. Most commanders would have fled by now. Yet Hermes knew that giving up would set a poor example for the men beneath him. He gripped his bow tightly and approached the battlements, drawing strength from his high general’s stubbornness and pride.

“A strange sight it makes,” he muttered. “Mindless beasts fighting like men.”

A sea of bonfires burned in the distance. The blaze covered the land like the fires of hell. The monsters looked almost like human soldiers, marching in lockstep and raising battle cries. Their zeal ran hot enough to melt the falling snow, for all the good it did them in a raging blizzard. Yet they marched on, their inner fire shielding them from the freezing winds. It made for a fearsome spectacle.

“Hah. Monsters marching arm in arm, eh? Live long enough and you’ll see anything.”

Roars rose from far below, so loud that they could have been right next to his ear. The churning ranks were individually as dumb as beasts, but they converged on the wall with palpable intent. Crudely stitched hide drums beat out a threatening rhythm.

Hermes looked away, laying a hand on the shoulder of the soldier beside him. “Help the townsfolk evacuate, recruit. Send them as far east—no, south would be better. As far south as you can.”

This was no time to be sending Second Prince Selene refugees to take care of. He already had his hands full dealing with House Brommel’s treachery.

“Are you telling me to leave my post, sir?”

The young soldier ducked as an arrow whistled over his head. The shaft was easily two or three times the length of anything a human would use, and it chilled the blood to imagine the arm strength needed to propel it so high. Certainly, the young soldier seemed rooted to the spot.

Hermes smiled despite himself. As a lull came in the fighting, he gave the man a friendly push. “On your way, lad. You’ll make it if you go now.”

“Yes, sir!” The force of the push sent the recruit stumbling forward, but he soon found his feet.

With a silent prayer for the man’s safety, Hermes leaned back against the battlements and looked up at the southern sky.

“Muninn was too late, it seems...” he sighed, stroking his beard. He had entrusted Surtr’s young agent with his final hope, but he had waited for many days and good tidings were not forthcoming. “Not his fault, I suppose. Mine, if anything. I ought to have written to Lord Surtr sooner.”

Friedhof was not very far from Six Kingdoms, all things considered, but he doubted the armies of Baum marched around with their valuable spirit weapons in tow. Even if Surtr had given the approval to send arms, it would take a long time for them to arrive. He was not to blame. Hermes had misjudged the severity of the situation and left things too late.

“But who could have foreseen those creatures would come so soon? Or that they’d be so organized...”

They were moving like humans, precisely targeting undermanned locations and reinforcing vulnerable positions in their own lines. It was less like facing a horde of monsters and more like fighting an army—one that was highly trained and moved with perfect coordination.

Waves of flaming arrows rose from below. With the wall’s height, the wind robbed most of their speed before they reached the top, but a handful miraculously covered the distance, and those few were enough to claim many lives. The calculated unpredictability of the volleys kept the defenders on the back foot. This was not one of the feeble offensives of years past, born of brute force and little else; it was an eruption of five centuries of accumulated resentment. The monsters were bringing everything to bear in their attempt to destroy Friedhof.

“If they had this much power, why didn’t they unleash it before now?”

Had they simply been testing the strength of the wall? But why? Perhaps if Hermes had thought to answer that question earlier, the situation might have been prevented.

“Were they simply scouting out our defenses? Aye, I suppose it could have been...”

Lulling the enemy into a false sense of security only to crush them in one fell swoop—a cunning strategy indeed. It had certainly been effective. Hermes and his fellow defenders were hard-pressed. What had truly caught them by surprise, however, was that they had been outsmarted by monsters and yaldabaoth. Too late, they had learned their sense of superiority had been misplaced.

“My fault, for all that’s worth now. I ought to have retired before I got this old.”

When Hermes looked to the root of this debacle, all he found was his own arrogance and pride. Still, there was no time to regret his choices. Making amends to his troops and his people could come later. First, he had to live up to his position and overcome the crisis.

“High General, sir! We have a problem!”

A harried voice interrupted his thoughts. At the same time, a roar pierced his ears and the floor shuddered beneath his feet, sending the soldier who had addressed him sprawling. Several men around him also lost their footing. Hermes managed to keep his balance by clinging on to the battlements. His eyes widened as he took in the sight below.

“What kind of bloody arrow...?”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a mighty whistle that set the air thrumming, a colossal spear came rocketing up from below. The wall shook again as an arrowhead taller than a human pierced its surface. Another mounted the ramparts, its recurved barbs catching soldiers in their grasp as it slid back, crushing them against the battlements. Plumes of blood sprayed high, raining down viscera as they painted the wall red.

“Oh, hells...”

Hermes’s face filled with horror as he took in the full length of the bolt. A long, thick rope trailed from the nock to the ground below, and it was all too clear what that meant. It was only a matter of time before monsters came climbing up.

He turned to the defenders. “Slick the wall with oil!” he bellowed. “Everything you have! Ready your flaming arrows! Drive them back, whatever it takes!”

The command set the battlements abuzz with activity. More than a few of the soldiers who had lost their footing were bleeding from the head, but they joined the defense all the same. Every one of them understood they would suffer far worse if the monsters mounted the wall.

“What’s that thing made of? Damned well went through the wall like butter...”

Friedhof had been raised with the power of a deity, and five hundred years of history testified that it was impregnable. It had stood firm against every external assault. But now that legend was about to fall before Hermes’s eyes. He could not conceal his shock. He had swung a sword against the wall with all his strength and failed to even leave a nick in its surface, yet the enemy’s assault had punched through it with ease.

Even as the garrison hastened to marshal a defense, more colossal spears thudded into the wall. The floor shook beneath the soldiers’ feet as they carried oil up from below and hurled it over the edge. Hermes watched in silence for a moment. At last, he drew his spirit weapon from his belt and hopped up onto the battlements, surveying his soldiers as they went about their work.

“We must hold,” he said, raising a fist high. “Second Prince Selene is sending reinforcements. King Surtr of Baum has sworn to send us spirit weapons. Help is coming, but we must hold a little longer. Just a little longer! What is there to fear?! Those beasts?! Bah! You stand in defense of your countrymen! Stand with your eyes forward and your heads high!”

Hope and courage swelled in the ranks as his voice carried. Life returned to the soldiers’ dying eyes. Seeing their faces grow bright once more, Hermes sheathed his spirit weapon, raised his bow, and fired. A cheer went up from the battlements as the arrow punched clean through a monster climbing the rope. Morale had been restored. Even so, there was no telling how long that would last. Hermes’s words were lies. There were no reinforcements coming. Once the defenders realized they had been deceived, Friedhof would fall into monstrous hands for the first time in its five hundred years of existence.

“And all this old hound can do is refuse to go down without a fight. Cling stubbornly to life and go shamefully to his end.”

He would drag countless soldiers with him to hell. All he could do to absolve himself was commit every last drop of his strength and experience to the fight. Perhaps he would only be satisfying his own pride in the end, but if he was to die, he would die like a high general.

“If we can only hold, perhaps we might buy time for Lord Selene to defeat House Brommel.”

Given space to breathe, maybe Selene could find a way. Hermes’s task was to hold the line until that happened. If House Brommel was still a threat when Friedhof fell, Reisenriller would be caught between two foes. House Scharm would have to put the rebellion down quickly. Fortunately, Selene surely understood that too. He would make good use of the time he was given.

“One last test of your mettle, old man. Will Friedhof be a killing field or the key to the empire’s salvation?”

Hermes had no idea whether he would survive the coming hours, yet strangely, he felt no fear. If anything, he was filled with exhilaration. For all his complaints, he was still a warrior, and some part of every warrior relished the thrill of a battle to the death. It seemed this old hound’s place would always be on the battlefield...in which case, there were only two paths before him.

“No more time to think, eh?”

A horde of monsters spread out beneath the wall. Hermes looked down on them with such composure, one would never have thought he was making his last stand. Yet there was no arrogance on his face. He regarded them with the predatory glint of a tiger stalking its prey.

“Fair fortune to you, Your Highness.”

That would be his last thought for another. From this moment forth, he would become a demon that lived to slaughter his foes.

As the first monster crested the wall, Hermes met it with a roar and an upraised sword.

*****

House Scharm had ruled the north for generations. In that time, it had produced a number of imperial consorts, not to mention a great many chancellors of the empire. It was one of the most prestigious of the great houses, with its power and influence matching House Krone even in the latter’s heyday. Even in recent years, Chancellor Graeci had commanded immense respect, while his younger sister had been chosen to become the second imperial consort. However, she had been slain in the attack on the inner palace, while Graeci had been cut down by assassins, leading to the chancellorship being usurped by House Kelheit. House Scharm’s influence was now waning, and it had lost the confidence of its nobles. With no current head, it had sought the aid of Second Prince Selene, but his prolonged convalescence had left him unable to address the threat of House Brommel or save House Scharm from decline. The house was currently the weakest it had ever been, and House Brommel’s rise promised war in the not-so-distant future.

House Scharm’s seat of power was Reisenriller, the Whitesteel Castle. The city lay under a permanent layer of snow, and the castle rose from the world of white like a vision from a fantasy. Its beauty was renowned within the empire and without, and many came from across the continent just to lay eyes on it. Now, however, the city was devoid of travelers. Soldiers patrolled the streets, their expressions stern. An oppressive atmosphere hung over the rooftops, and the townsfolk locked their doors.

But the castle was a hive of activity. Military and civil tribunes hurried through the corridors. Anxiety lay thick on the guards’ faces.

Through it all walked Selene’s aide, Herma von Heimdall. The son of Hermes von Heimdall, he had inherited his father’s valor, and his soldiers knew and trusted him as an upstanding and honorable man. He hastened to the throne room and flung open the doors.

“Where is His Highness?!” he demanded.

“I am here, Herma.”

Herma looked around. The lord of the castle was sitting on the throne. He raised a hand. Herma’s sister, Phroditus von Heimdall, waited at his side.

“Is something wrong, brother?” she asked.

Herma did not answer. He approached the throne and bowed his head. “Your Highness,” he said, a little out of breath, “a messenger has come from Malaren.”

Selene leaned forward in his chair. Phroditus straightened up, regarding her brother intently. Both looked apprehensive. They could guess what he was about to say.

“My father—that is to say, High General von Heimdall reports that a horde of monsters under yaldabaoth command have begun an assault on the wall.”

“And we hardly have reinforcements to spare.” Selene leaned back in his seat, frowning. “We may not have a choice, though. Did Hermes say anything more?”

“Yes, Your Highness. He writes that he will attend to the matter to the best of his ability and you are not to worry. He wishes you fair fortune.”

Selene smiled despite himself. There was Hermes’s stubborn streak. No doubt the man would have killed for reinforcements; one could only imagine the will it had taken to send reassurances instead. Still, that only made Selene more concerned.

“The man truly never changes. Our forces more or less rival those of House Brommel, do they not, Herma? Might we have some troops to spare?”

“I fear not, Your Highness. Your letters have certainly given some of the nobles pause, and some of them have thought better of sending troops to House Brommel, but our foes still have the upper hand. Reducing our forces further will only persuade more houses to turn away from us. I cannot advise it.”

“Then there is only one way to save Malaren. We must deal with House Brommel in short order.”

“I agree, Your Highness. We cannot afford to let them besiege us. We must sally forth ourselves. Prolonging this conflict might be to our advantage, but what would we gain if Friedhof is overrun in the meantime?”

“We cannot leave House Brommel to fester, but nor can we allow Friedhof to fall. Both paths lead to ruin, it seems. How vexing...”

“I doubt we can expect reinforcements from the central territories either,” Herma said. “I have heard ill tidings concerning the Vanir Triumvirate.”

“The álfar certainly know how to pick their moment.” Phroditus scowled. “Opportunists that they are.”

“Both the west and the south coming for the empire at once,” Selene remarked. “One almost suspects they might be working together behind the scenes. In any case, we can only place our trust in Liz and Rosa. Our role is to restore order in the north as quickly as possible. We shouldn’t expect assistance.”

That said, a thorny road lay ahead of them. They would have to secure victory over House Brommel before riding to Friedhof’s aid. There was no telling how many days that would take or what would be left of the Spirit Wall once they arrived. Nonetheless, it was the only way. If they prioritized Friedhof, House Brommel would capture Reisenriller and House Scharm would fall. Their allies would not stand for that. In this day and age, few nobles were patriotic enough to sacrifice their homes in defense of their nation. Most would sooner switch allegiances than give up their own security.

“As cruel as it is to say, we must trust that Hermes can hold out until we settle matters with House Brommel.” Selene rose from the throne and walked down the red carpet in the center of the chamber, his twin blades Móralltach and Beagalltach in hand. “Time is short. We must make haste.”

Phroditus and Herma fell in wordlessly behind him.

“Let us teach House Brommel and their traitorous allies the folly of opposing House Scharm.”

A smile spread across his face as he licked his lips in anticipation.

*****

A flock of birds soared high in the sky, silhouetted against the sun. With the wind in their feathers and their wings flapping gracefully, they had long been the envy of those who walked on the earth, but all the more so now, when the fires of war threatened to sweep across the continent. They vanished into the clouds of the eastern sky as if mocking the struggles of those below.