Demonic City Builder [LitRPG, Kingdom Building]

“So what you’re telling me,” said Stainard, “is we just sent Klive’s own son into a viper’s nest.”

Demetri winced, his schooled expression faltering for a moment. He leaned forward, taking the porcelain cup and sipping the honeyed tea. Collecting himself, he set the cup down and considered Stainard. As the High Bishop of Discipline, he oversaw the paladins. Technically, he was one, even if he didn’t wear the armor or bear the signet.

“What I’m saying,” said Demetri delicately, “is that with the reports I’ve heard, we believe Brexin faces a challenge even The Five couldn’t have foreseen.”

“He’s going to die,” replied Stainard flatly. “You’ve sent Brexin, an anointed Lord Paladin along with an entire hand of our own, to die.”

“You can’t seriously be so foolish to think that Father Demetri—” began William, his priestly robes ruffling from the side, before being cut off by a firm look from Demetri.

Seeing his acquiescence, Demetri went on. “What brother William means is that given the information we had at the time, sending Brexin was the only move we could make. Stainard, you know as well as I that getting anything substantial done in a timely manner in the conclave is beyond difficult in normal times.”

He snorted. “Is that why you specifically orchestrated your little performance without my being there?” Despite the light tone, a dangerous glint entered the old bishop’s eyes. One that made his red beard and crimson hair feel more wrathful than stylish.

“That’s how the game’s played, Stainard. You and Oren have done the same before.”

He barked a laugh. “We’ve never pulled something like that pre-conclave nonsense. That, my fellow bishop, is not how the game is played. It’s how the game is cheated.”

Waving dismissively, Demetri exhaled. “As one of the few that knows my actual role here, you should appreciate my faith and loyalties and the… talents I bring.”

“Mmm,” replied Stainard noncommittally.

“Look,” said Demetri, returning to the topic at hand, “I can’t share some of this as… transparently as I’d like with the rest of the bishopric for reasons I’m sure you can appreciate. But as I told them, demons are real. Very real. From the reports we’ve gotten from the very men who faced them, there were dozens of warriors. They had armor made of bone, weapons stolen from Valdren militia, and magic so unholy that Brexin’s fall would be the least of our worries should the masses find out. Even if Klive’s son does manage to survive, it won’t be a clean victory. And I… I admit to you, Stainard. That truly is a big if.”

Stainard shrugged. “While I appreciate the gesture of you bringing me here, I hardly think our paladins would be so easily bested,” he drawled. “As for this talk of demons…” He studied Demetri. “I’m not sure what to believe. If anyone but you told me of them, I’d scoff.”

“But I am the one telling you,” said Demetri. “Informing, really.”

“And they’re growing in a silence,” added William quietly.

Demetri shot him a look.

“What does he mean?”

Biting his lip, as if quelling down frustration, Demetri turned slowly. “Forgive him, the boy is earnest and doesn’t know when to keep sealed information behind the proper—”

“What does he mean, growing in a silence?”

Demetri paused, letting the tension build. “Stainard, I respect you. Every empire needs a sword, and you are ours. But given your relationship with Oren, I am hesitant to let certain matters leave this room.”

“If I give you my vow not to?”

He drummed his fingers on the edge of his chair. “Then I might be willing to divulge more.”

The high bishop gave his vow.

An hour later, a very pale-faced Florence Stainard barreled from Demetri’s private study. Gone was the dangerous glint in his gaze. In its place, something far different grew.

Fear.

“Do you think it’ll be enough, Father?” asked William once he was gone.

“I hope so, son. I really do. But I fear it won’t be.”

“If not, then what? What can we do?”

Demetri shrugged. “At this point? Wait. Wait until this shakes out. Whether for better, or for worse.”

***

Tarn kept his head bowed. Even so, his spine didn’t tremble and his breath was steady. It was the first time he’d been this far from home, but he was in the largest clan gathering in all the realm.

Elder Senna nodded in approval, with Gael and Rosk staring intently.

“Tarn, your news is most dire. I think I speak for all of us when I say it warrants more decisive action,” said Senna.

A flash of a complicated emotion went over Gael’s face as she took that in. Biting her lip, she cut in. “Tarn, did you see anything of the attackers? Anything at all?”

“The attackers, elder? We did not see them. Not more than shapes in the forest… But we heard them all right. They chanted Valdren over and over. The voices were… odd. Distorted and a bit higher pitched than I’d expect. But it was hard to tell with all the excitement and—”

Rosk snarled. “The gall!” he roared, standing and throwing the wooden seat off the stage. It clattered into the empty tiers of earthen seating, echoing in the amphitheater.

Despite his outburst, Gael kept her focus on Tarn. “We did not hear this from Hana’s village, or any of the others.”

“They are clearly growing bolder,” seethed Rosk. “I’m done waiting. I can NOT let more clans people pay the price for our caution. Senna, Gael. Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t march.”

Senna studied Tarn, before shrugging helplessly. “I have no inkling as to why Valdren has done what they have. But one thing is clear. There is a corruption growing in our forest, and our people are dying.”

Gael looked at both her elders, seeing the decision in their eyes. Senna from the corruption, and Rosk from the deaths.

“But Chen hasn’t yet returned. Please. Both of you, we need to—”

“No!” snapped Rosk. “We deferred to your wisdom twice now. And we have nothing to show for it but more dead.”

“And that light in the forest…” whispered Senna. “Twice now. Twice!”

Gael’s eyes froze, flicking her gaze to the small-statured female by her side. For years, the other elders had almost always been voice to reason. And, more importantly, to her. She was a de-facto leader for a reason. Yet now, fear of something more was overtaking that control…

“Does it not strike you as odd that soldiers would chant their kingdom’s name? Almost too obvious?” she asked.

Rosk shrugged. “Warriors are proud. In battle, fear is paramount. Judging by your hesitation, that tactic seems to be working. Enough of this. Senna, am I correct that we are in agreement. That we march?” he asked, voice growing louder.

For a long moment, Senna hesitated. Gael could see the mixed emotions crossing her mind. Yet, in the end, her fear of the taint won out.

“We are,” she proclaimed finally. “Sorry, Gael. I’m with Rosk on this. I truly believe that we need to act now, or whatever Valdren has done will become irreversible. And then where will we go? North? To the endless oceans?”

“But Chen should be back in but a few days. A week at most if they are delayed. At this point, certainly his information has to be worth that much time. It might even reveal to us why none of this makes any sense,” she replied exasperatedly.

“What if Chen and the other Numi team members do not return?” asked Senna quietly. “It stands to reason that with all the raids, fires, and attacks, his team may be lost. Or, at the very least, as you said, delayed. Perhaps for a far longer time than we can afford.”

Gael was quiet at that. Senna had a point. Not that it mattered.

Rosk’s bulk was heaving. “We’ve been preparing rations, supplies, weapons—and gathering our members. It’s time we put that to use.”

“Seconded,” added Senna.

Rosk clapped his hands together. “Then it’s decided! We march!”

***

This time, Arnold and three paladins were ready. When they went from a particularly steep decline into the home stretch of the pass, the raid came.

Half a dozen red creatures burst from the snow, intent on making contact with their front lines of footmen.

Beasts. Tainted beasts. Not demons, Arnold reminded himself.

The beasts charged downwards, bodies and staves bent forward. A guttural roar that sounded like something from a demented nightmare came from each of their throats, mixing into a demonic war cry.

“Switch!” roared Arnold.

“Hua - Hua!” replied the other three paladins.

In front of them, the line of militia men peeled apart, nearly sliding down the slippery incline in the process. Two men toppled over, a third stumbling from the pathing and plummeting from the cliffside with a horrified scream.

“No! You fools!” cried the squad leader.

Meanwhile, the paladins shrugged off their heavy furs, golden armor gleaming in the daylight sun.

Standard paladin outfitting included a holy sword and a towering bulwark. The latter were put to good use, raised and readied with practiced ease. No further sound came from the paladins. Just silence as they met the charge resolutely.

Unlike the prior days, this time their enemy slammed to a halt. Bone, claw, and wood met metal in a clash that resounded throughout the peaks. One of the clever demons angled their spear just right, letting it slip between shield and armor. The iron glanced off a gauntlet and punctured the shoulder of an unlucky soldier to Arnold’s rear. The rest, thankfully, found no mark.

“Push!” shouted Arnold.

“Hua - Hua!” replied his squad.

Towering shields bashed forward, crunching bone and flesh with their massive weight.

“Raghhhh!!”

Red feet shifted, claws digging into the frigid dirt for grip. Then, like the ground below was but a carpet, they adjusted their stances and weight to distribute the force of the blows.

Even so, half of their number failed. Demonic limbs and bodies gave way to the golden spikes on the front of their shields. Just like that, three of the unholy creatures went down. Mangled and wounded, they fell perilously from the path, bodies disappearing into the depression below. Unlike the humans, there was no terrified scream. Just the sound of bodies slamming along the rock below.

Facing the inevitability of death not with fear, but acceptance? As if it was meant to be? That attitude made even Arnold surprised.

He turned his attention to the remaining three wicked creatures. The largest had reeled back, his comrades following. “Retreat! Asset recovery!”

Beasts don’t talk! The very notion of it caused Arnold to pause for half a beat.

Regaining his senses, he cursed. “Don’t let them get away!” yelled Arnold, drawing his sword. The mighty blade sparkled as its silver surface was revealed, the bronze jeweled pommel fitting comfortably in his gloved palm.

Unfortunately, it was too late. The clawed feet gave the little monsters too much grip. Combined with their uncanny instinct for movement and balance, they’d already made it five strides away before Arnold sliced forward in a deadly arc. Whooshing air was his only reply.

Three more sword swings followed suit from his comrades, but just like him, nothing but air was cut.

Flicking his eyes down at the cliffside that had claimed more than twenty footmen over the last few days, a cold anger leaked from his chest.

“By the Five!” he snarled. Raising glove to chest, he held the Solari signet resting against his breastplate. Tracking the three red blurs receding down the incline, each step bringing them closer and closer to the foggy bend ahead, he called upon the will of the divine.

Above, rays of sunlight bent. For a moment, nothing happened. Like an unseen barrier was halting even the will of the gods. Arnold frowned. “What?”

Before he could parse that feeling out, it passed. On the peaks of the mountains as they were, the sun was closer than ever before. It bent its power, pressed through whatever unseen barrier lay between mortal and sky, and gave.

A light like a comet blazed to life on Arnold’s chest. With a roar, he focused, and shoved.

“By the wrath of the Five!”

Pointing his sword like the harbinger of justice himself, he once again swung it in a massive arc. This time, the air wasn’t just cut. It sizzled and popped, a run of sunlight snapping from sky to blade to beast.

One moment, three red forms were ten paces from safety. The next, two of them were smited from existence, the third nearly joining them. Flesh, claw, and blood burned until nothing but two charred husks and blackened snow remained.

Footmen squealed, falling to their rear, mouths agape.

“Holy magic!” whispered one.

“It’s true!” gasped another.

“The beasts talked… Since when do beasts speak?” gasped another.

“Get up, you fools!” ordered a Valdren sergeant. “Never seen a Solari wield their power before?” The tremble in his hand, however, suggested he might not have either.

Arnold paid them no heed. His attention was locked onto his prey. The last of which took one long look back, orange pupils going wide. It spared a moment to examine its comrades, Arnold, and the sky, before spinning around and sprinting onwards.

“No!” he hissed in frustration. Yet, there was nothing he could do. Already a great sense of weakness tugged at his arms. He’d exerted his ability to conduct The Five’s will, and it had a cost. The strength that ran through his veins was sapped. His calling had not only drained what he could pull from The Five, but also what he normally kept within himself.

Regrettably, only time could change that. Calling upon The Five as he did was something that only the most skilled paladins could accomplish. For most, the signets simply would fill with The Will of the Five with time.

Time that as far as today went, he didn’t have. Sighing, he sheathed his blade.

“You three, with me. The Lord Paladin will want to hear of this.”

As one, the holy knights re-donned their furs and began trudging down the line of men, ignoring the hushed whispers and awed stares.