"Fuck! Not them."

It turned my head to hear those words—and that tone—emanate from Magneblade. There was a panic and despair there that I didn't believe I had ever heard. There was a panic and despair there that I had never really imagined. It did my own courage no good to hear it.

Tara was hesitant, "We… we can't go against them…"

Olaf stood silent. He was closer to me in his development than he was to them. Granted, I had leveled beyond Tara, but I lacked her experience and understanding of this terrible and futile game we all played. Olaf stood as unknowing and concerned as I did.

Beyond us stood four figures. The armor was black as night, but gleaming with the organic shine of the carapace of a beetle or centipede—something from below, that triggered instinctive revulsion. On the edges of the armor shone bands of electric gold. The blazing yellow triggered recognition, as it couldn't fail to.

We had won a Locked Orb. We had but three more to win to possess the Griid-Crown. But before us stood the most dreaded of Griidlords.

The Warriors of Pittsburgh.

I mustered the confidence that I had held moments before we saw the opponents who would contest the next Orb. I said, "We've faced worse than this. We faced down Morningstar and won. We did it twice. How bad can they be?"

Magneblade's voice was dripping with doubt. "It's the Burgh. You can never reckon with the Burgh."

Tara said, "They don't have a Sword like Indy, far from it. That's their curse. The Burgh hasn't had a real Sword since Thrax Bonesaw himself… thank the Oracle for that… but the rest of them…"

Magneblade pointed. "That, there, the Arrow—that's Harold Warglaive. The Harold Warglaive."

I focused on the figure he gestured toward. At first I was confused. At first there didn't seem to be an Arrow suit among them. None there was slight. None among them stood less than six feet. I only recognized the Arrow by his weapons. My breath hitched for a moment. Assessing the size and breadth of the supposed Arrow, I said, "An Arrow that big… he must be slow…"

Magneblade just shook his head.

Tara said, "There stands Alric Fearstone. He might be the deadliest Shield in the land."

My blood cooled no less at the name. I knew the Burgh hosted some of the most dreaded Griidlords in the land. But hearing their names, realizing the force that stood before us, made me realize the dread of our task.

It was Olaf who named their Axe. How could he not? Who didn't know the name of an Axe of Pittsburgh? The Burgh was famed for its wild land, its fierce warriors, its strange ways. Above all those, it might be famed for the Axes that had carried its banners. Who didn't know of the clan that made them? I knew an outcast of that clan and had recognized the name the day I met him.

Olaf said, "That's… holy shit… that's Pike Jaxwulf."

The very name made my blood drop in temperature by degrees. An icy chill ran through me—a chill that the environmental controls of the suit could do nothing to dissuade. Pike Jaxwulf. Even among the line of Jaxwulf Axes that stretched back through time, this one was notable. A beast that thrived on death and victory. A killer whose thirst for blood made Magneblade's seem verifiably tame. A force on the field to rival almost any Griidlord living.

But I gathered myself. I let reason dominate the fear that wrestled for control over me.

I said, "The Burgh always fields weapons. Every generation speaks of their Griidlords like legends. But you know what they don't have? You know what they don't do?"

I let the moment hang there. Despite the fear, the question seemed to have gathered their attention to me—and away from the specters of destruction who stood in the far beyond.

I let the moment linger. I let them think and wonder on what I was alluding to.

Then, I said, "They don't win. Since Thrax Bonesaw, they haven't won a Griid-Crown. Think on that. If they haven't won a Griid-Crown in centuries, it means they lose. Maybe they wreak havoc during the Falling, maybe they maim and kill and lay waste. But it's like you said—they don't have a Sword. The Burgh is famed for failing to make Swords. It might be the only reason the hordes haven't swept the lands again since Thrax met his end. But the fact remains. They don't win in the days after the Falling. They lose. They have to lose to someone. I don't see why that can't be us."

There was silence then. I felt foolish. Had I just suggested that we could defeat the Burgh because we had what they didn't? That they had no Sword and we did? That I would be the difference between success and failure?

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

I didn't really know what I had meant. The thoughts had come to me unbidden. They had come to me as truths. I had simply let those truths boil out of me like steam that can't be contained. In the aftermath of those vapors, I found myself feeling foolish—I found myself grateful for the helm that shielded the emotions on my face from view.

Magneblade uncurled his frame. The posture that had been receding and low suddenly bloomed into the imposing vision of potential violence that I knew. His shoulders seemed to broaden, his chest seemed to swell. His voice was suddenly that of the war god we knew.

"By fuck, you're right. Why can't this be our day!"

Tara's voice was no less excited. "You're right. They always find a way to fall. They don't call it the Curse of Thrax for nothing."

I felt a smile spread across my lips. My hand tightened on the haft of my sword.

The chaos swirled around me. Not for the first time, I found myself intoxicated by it. Danger was everywhere. The ground shook with the impacts of the warriors. That's not a figurative statement. Even as I rushed forward, I felt the impact of Magneblade's axe crashing into the upraised shield of Alric Fearstone. The concussive reverberation made the particles of snow around us dance and vibrate.

I had little mind for Magneblade matching with Alric. It should have been a concern. He had type disadvantage against a Griidlord of heroic fame. But I didn't need him to defeat Alric. All he needed to do was hold him firm as I did my job.

Pike Jaxwulf was not like the others. I could see that. He couldn't have been unaware of my Axe-break skill. But unlike the others, he didn't shy away. He came for me with the same hunger—maybe a greater hunger. I could imagine his face beyond the helm, snarling and toothsome, eager. Maybe he wanted me all the more for the fact that I was the slayer of Axes. Maybe he fancied his chances.

I sure as shit fancied mine.

I let him come. He charged without reservation, a beast burning with no awareness beyond the awareness that his prey lay before him. I felt the muscles of my suit coiling, felt the tongues of kinetic fire start to lick at my hands as Axe-break readied itself.

I thought of the level I would surely gain by putting him down. I thought of the following moment—when I would join Magneblade in subduing Alric. With that task completed, it would be four of us against two of them, one of the two a middling Sword of no great regard.

Pike Jaxwulf speared closer, headlong and blood-hungry. He gave himself to me.

The moment happened in an exalting passion. It was a blur. As I had imagined it, I felt those tongues of heat in my hand suddenly surge and grow, becoming an inferno of doom. The light and power ripped through me, the surge of dominance singing from the tip of my blade to the beat of my heart. I swung my sword at the kill-addled brain that descended on me. My chest exploded in the heat of competition.

Pike phased.

I released Axe-break from my sword, let the energy dissipate and swell back into me. I'd been ready for this. I'd seen Axes phase before.

He passed through me, but I moved with the speed of POWER. I pirhoutted aside as his axe came down, the ground exploding where he struck. I lashed out with CUT, testing him, and he blocked the attack faster than I could have imagined.

This was the gamble. Olaf was Shield, had the type advantage. But Olaf was too low in level to face this leviathan. I suffered type disadvantage, but I had Axe-break. It was enough to make him cautious, to play this out. If I could just land one good hit.

His weapon was like a crashing planet. When it sailed there was no chance to parry. I backpedaled, pusling BEAM at him, waiting for my chance. My shots hit home, but sizzled off his armor. Type advantage and the sheer weight of his level made BEAM little more than a distraction.

But I was serving a purpose. Phase expended, Pike came at me more carefully. He was still a starving monster, eager for the meat of the kill. But he was restrained. He'd fought his hunger for a lifetime, he knew how to leach it. I kept Pike out of the fight as long as I stayed on my feet.

As I moved, I boosted. They were all struggling, none more than Olaf. I boosted them one after another, timing my assistance to keep them on their feet.

It was all going to come down to me and Pike. If I could land Axe-break I could put him down and then we'd have a numerical advantage. The problem was staying intact long enough for that to happen.

Weapon rang on weapon, and energy crackled through the air. Everything was shouting bleeding chaos, and I had a demon in my face.

The was a pulse of energy from the fray and Olaf hurtled free, thrown by the pulse of the Burgh Shield's attack. He tumbled in the dirt behind Jaxwulf but wasted no time. Pike felt him coming and needed to choose. He could expose himself to me and Axebreak, or to Olaf's type advantage. He had no good choices available. Providence had put him in a pincer without him making a single misstep.

I think he thought he could us both. He was blindingly fast. But he underestimated my speed. He snapped his Axe out. It smashed against Olaf's shield, casting him backwards. He turned, never slowing the momentum of his weapon, arcing back to where he knew my attack would be coming from. But I wasn't there. I had darted forward, inside the arch, terribly dangerously close, but Axebreak burned like an apocalypse in my hands and I swung with both hands and evertyhign I had.

The impact was titanic. Elation warred with shock as I struck home, the release of energy staggering me with the recoil. Shards of mystorium filled the air from the impact. Gas hissed from his broken suit. I snarled in bestial triumph, roaring at the sky.

But Jaxwulf still stood. He staggered. His suit was cracked, a fissure running across his chest. He looked down at it, stunned. Then he looked back at me.

Be it force of his level or some other skill I hadn't accounted for, he had withstood the attack.

It was deathly, momentary silence. I found myself standing in the snow, the clash of weapon on weapon a distant song, barely heard. I was terribly and instantly aware of the fact that I was now standing before one of, if not the, deadliest Axes in the land.

I heard my voice out loud, breathily uttering, "Shit…"

And, as the bolt of chaos that was the axe of Pike Jaxwulf swung toward me, I heard something else. The voice of Enki.

It was a voice not exactly satisfied, but dripping with finality.

I promised a reckoning.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.