20,000 years later…

  The gates of sanctuary were sans doute the greatest monument on the planet earth, and the closest any being on earth had come to the majesty of the great tower of the God Seed that rose above them. Titanic marble columns rose on either side and were carved with great reliefs, picked out in gold and silver, depicting the rise of the first gods of humanity. Henry saw Gilgamesh’s triumph over the great dragon of the Ninetieth floor, and Thor casting down the Wyrm of Leiptr to earn his Hero title on the Fifty-First floor. He even saw his own Jesus represented, healing the ills of the eightieth floor. All were works of such artistic skill that no human could hope to match them. They were dwarven work, those stonemasons and smiths of such unrivalled skill, and the only race of earth that existed solely within Sanctuary. Their numbers so small as to not require any other home.

  The English cavalcade was enough to turn heads as they rode through the great gates of the human quarter, known officially as New Babylon. Of those nations that boasted gods, none could boast one able to challenge Gilgamesh, and of those that could have challenged, none cared enough. The Black Prince, Edward of Woodstock, eldest son of King Edward III, rode at the head of a column that included fifty chosen knights, a dozen of whom comprised half the entirety of the Order of the Garter, a further hundred men-at-arms of the Yeomanry, and five hundred disparate servants, craftsmen and hangers on. It was a retinue to not shame a Prince of the blood, and Henry was ecstatic to be included.

  Sir Henry Strathfield, as he was known, was a distant cousin of the Earls of Oxford, and a Knight who had made his name on the fields at Crecy against the hated French when his Prince had earned his spurs. He stood six feet and perhaps two fingers in his hose, and had the well-muscled and athletic build of a fighting knight, his clothes were pressed and brushed to a shine by his squire and shone in vibrant blue and yellow, Azure and Or as the heralds would say. His golden rose was freshly painted on his shield and enamelled on his belt. No knight in the Prince’s train could be thought to be dowdy, although few could match the sable finery of the Prince himself. Edward was dressed in head to toe silk of the deepest black with his three livery feathers embroidered across his chest in stunning detail, camp rumour had it that it was dwarf work that their Hero Arthur had commissioned and sent to adorn his distant descendant.

  Still Henry had to keep an eye out, all the knights of the retinue did. They were not just set-dressing, but also guards. It had been a long time since anyone had tested the rules of the Sky People, not since the third Pope had tried to prevent any but the followers of Jesus from entering Sanctuary. The punishment had been swift, brutal and above all visible. Gilgamesh himself, along with Thor and Nanna had descended from their trials upon the ninety-fifth floor to wipe the zealots out; it had been one of the first true displays of power the gods had ever had to visit upon the earth. To date it had been the only time anyone had dared to try and prevent access to the Seed and Sanctuary to others.

  Until now, the French had found themself a true champion in Sir Geoffroi de Charny. As the cult of chivalry and knighthood had grown in popularity over the last few centuries, few had stood as tall in the public eye as the man they called a walking siege engine. The first human to clear the nineteenth floor in living memory, and there were rumours he could go all the way to the fiftieth and attempt to earn his hero title. The French King; John, had threatened to use him to prevent the Prince beginning his own climb. While the man himself had intimated no such thing, he had stood on plenty of battlefields as the mailled fist of his liege, and it would be foolish to risk such wrath by disregarding it.

  Still none barred their way as they rode through the main thoroughfare, their palfreys and destriers kicking up the thin layer of dust that settled on the marble paved roads. Henry bowed in his saddle as they rode past the great pillars, enormous spikes of Bronze, silver, gold and crystal. Each bearing the names of those who perished within the tower. Unlike the gates, these were creations of the tower itself, once humble plaques as the historians said, but through twenty millenia of climbers they had grown to accommodate the number of fallen. The bronze pillar was the largest, bearing the names of all those who had fallen within the first twenty-five floors, Silver all those up to the fiftieth, meanwhile gold was for everything up to floor ninety. The crystal pillar was reserved for gods, those who made it past the ninety-first floor and met the Sky People. It bore only a handful of names; Baldr, slain by Loki in a fit of uncontrolled mischief, and the name that every knight in the retinue bowed to; Jesus. The god of Healing had oft been referred to as a sensitive soul and when his followers had so perverted his message and tried to lock down sanctuary, he had made the choice to end his own existence. A reminder to all that their greed and lunacy had consequences. The entire church had collapsed overnight, with thousands of believers taking vengeance on those who had preached the message of domination. The Pope and his Cardinals, along with almost every priest in Christendom, had been crucified in a month of blood. While many still saw wisdom in his teachings, and it still held the disparate kingdoms and principalities of Europe together as a collective identity, the church itself was long gone.

  The column came to a halt before the collection of portals that marked out the quarter of Sanctuary held by New Babylon, and Prince Edward began handing out his orders. Sir John Chandos and the Captal de Buch, Sir Jean de Grailly began galloping down the line splitting men into teams. Henry had neither a big enough name, nor the Prince’s ear, and knew he’d simply be assigned, what he didn’t expect were the words that he heard behind him.

  “Sir Henry, you’re with me.” A deep baritone, easy with the reins of command said. Henry turned to find himself face to face with the man they called the Fox. John Hawkwood was not a knight as yet, but he was one of those common born men-at-arms that had proven himself with workman like efficiency as a competent captain, and anyone with half a brain knew that if he didn’t end up dead he’d either be the Mayor of London or the Duke of York. Henry bowed in his saddle to the man.

  “It’s an honour Master Hawkwood.” He answered diplomatically. John had a trio of the King’s Royal Archers at his back. Men who had fought at Crecy and were almost as well armoured as a man-at-arms, and each with a great warbow as thick in the belly as a lady’s wrist and twenty clothyard shafts in the quivers at their belts. These three were odd in that they did not wear the royal colours today, their brigandines were white with black chevrons and Hawkwood’s scallop shells, these were his men.

  “The honour is mine Sir Henry, the Prince has asked we five to enter as the tip of his spear and secure him a berth in the village on the first floor, once he starts his climb he doesn’t intend to leave the Tower until he’s matched de Charny, and while it’s unlikely we’ll see foemen on the first floor we can’t be too careful, these three are Eric, Tom and John, deadliest shots I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with,” Hawkwood said by way of introduction.

  “By which he means, we knew ‘is lordship when he was a boy runnin’ away from ‘is master, so ‘e was.” The Archer; Tom, spat on the ground as he leered at a passing lady. Hawkwood cuffed the archer behind the ear good naturedly before turning to Sir Henry.

  “Anything you need before we enter?” He looked the knight up and down meaningfully, Henry was dressed for court and not for combat.

  “Give me a few minutes to arm and I will cut down anything I need to Master Hawkwood.” Henry asserted as his squire came forth leading a mule laden with wicker panniers of his harness. Hawkwood merely nodded and gestured for Henry to proceed. His squire was a good lad from Kent and he knew his business. The steel fairly flew onto Henry’s body as he dismounted and waited. His greaves were keyed into the cuisses and went onto his legs as one solid piece of hardened steel. The cuisses laced to his arming clothes with black silk points tipped in burnished brass. Then his breast and back plates clamped over his torso like a clam shell, and his arms were laced on. The squire handed him his helm and gauntlets as Henry buckled his war sword and its scabbard on himself. The whole process was done in minutes thanks to the boy and Henry handed him a gold florin as payment for his service.

  “Don’t drink it all in one place, as I go to the tower I grant you leave of your oath Will, if I shouldn’t return, my will is in the saddlebags and you will collect your share from the Iron Bank of the Dwarves, as you are released from your service, should you wish you are free to enter the Tower.” Will nodded in understanding before taking his master’s horse. Henry joined his compatriots and together the five of them jogged through the portal.

  ******************************

  Prince Edward watched his vanguard leave through the portal, nodding to Sir John and the Captal as they rejoined him.

  “Once a message comes through that Hawkwood has secured our berth, I will enter,” his vibrant blue eyes like fresh cut sapphires met those of his chosen Lieutenants, “once inside you won’t be able to guard me any more my brothers, I will finally have to stand on my own.” There was a hunger in his voice as he said these words, and Sir John clapped him on the shoulder, such a sign of familiarity rarely allowed by anyone towards a prince of the blood.

  “You’ll be fine, your highness, there’s no better blade in Christendom.” he asserted. Edward smiled at the encouragement before looking back at the glowing portals of the Tower.

  “For now let’s get our people situated and ready for the climb,” he answered.

  ******************************

  Walking through the portal had been an odd experience, there was a brief moment of disorientation and the next Henry found himself in the Forest of Beginnings. As he oriented himself he saw the great trees he’d heard described before by his father, and now he had to wait for his welcome. It didn’t take long for the angel to appear, clad in a white dress with golden skin and feathered wings of the purest snow, she hovered before him with a beatific smile lit by her golden halo.

  “Welcome to the Forest of Beginnings Henry Strathfield, your climb begins now,” her voice was like the music of the harps he had heard when there had still been churches, it soothed the soul and calmed his heart.

  “As you are aware the floor is covered in reward challenges, you must complete at least three to ascend to the second floor, the Village at the centre has your way out and your way up, good luck brave climber,” She finished and began to fade. Henry bowed his head to the angel, a lone tear winding down his cheek at the experience.

  With her departure he drew his longsword, four feet of German steel all but leapt into his right fist as he scanned his surroundings. As he had arrived in the forest portion of the floor, he knew goblins were his most likely opponents. His harness was made of the new hardened steel and was likely impervious to their strikes, assuming they hadn’t evolved with the change in technology. It was something they had learned following the creation of the first bronze and iron weapons, the enemies on these early floors could change. It took time for the Tower to adapt though, and the new steel was only a few years old, so he’d just have to take it slow and make his way through carefully until he had a read on the foe.

  His answer came not long after when he stumbled across his first goblin patrol. Two of the creatures walked carefully through the forest, one in a hauberk of maille with a thick bodied iron sword in its fist and an old style kite shield reinforced with an iron boss in its other hand. The real challenge was the second goblin, it had a short bow with a quiver of grey-fletched arrows over its shoulder. While the small bow was likely only good for hunting game, an arrow in the right place would still ignore the protection of his armour, so without any better plan; Henry charged.

  He barrelled through the first goblin who gave a great squawk of indignation as it was knocked to the left to sprawl in a heap with the jingle of its maille, and the archer unable to draw an arrow in time tried to block the great downward cut of Sir Henry’s longsword, and like every archer that had ever thought to try the same, it failed. The bow splintered and fell apart as the blade carried on and cut three fingers deep into the skull and brain of the goblin. A ringing clang brought him back to the goblin with the sword as it had righted itself and cut directly at his back plate, the steel proving its worth by repelling the strike with ease. Henry’s back cut was caught by the shield with surprising competence, but the goblin was unprepared for him to change the blade’s angle and simply slide the flat across the shield rim that became a guide to put the needle-like point through the goblin’s eye.

  And just like that, his first fight within the Tower was over, two goblins lay dead and he felt the rush of essence enter him for the first time. The surge of energy as it seeped through his very being, toughening his skin and giving his muscles new density, his mahna pool flooded into existence just below his heart and the Voice of the Tower spoke to him for the first time.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  You have slain [Goblin Archer]

  You have slain [Goblin Man-At-Arms]

  Essence Distributed

  Aspect Unlocked [Aspect of the Knight]

  [Aspect of the Knight]:

  You embody the Cult of Chivalry, its virtues stand as immutable laws in your heart, violence for the sake of the weak and generosity for the sake of the poor, Prowess, Integrity and Nobility are your Domains.

  Ability Unlocked: [Chivalrous Blow]

  Ability Unlocked: [Create Bread]

  Ability Unlocked: [Shield of the Weak]

  Title Unlocked: [Eternal Challenger]:

  You are a constant of the challenges of the God Seed Sir Henry, and while Divinity has never been yours, the Seed acknowledges your presence, 10% bonus to all Essence gains.

  Henry smiled as he saw the glowing scroll with all his newfound abilities, though he frowned when he saw [Create Bread], I guess it wasn’t kidding about the generosity part, it seemed the Seed fully intended for him to live up to his Aspect and feed the poor. He could already feel the draw on him to do so. Aspects were powerful shapers of a person’s mind and personality, and in all their millenia of study the sentients of earth had come to several conclusions. The first was that an Aspect was a reflection of a person’s soul and innermost being, it was who they were at a fundamental level just brought forth to a heightened and sometimes overwhelming degree. That’s why it was considered so important to master one’s Aspect, few had forgotten the calamity of Loki killing Baldr, and at least to Henry’s knowledge the split amongst the Northerners’ gods had never healed.

  He forged on all the same, there was no outlet for his generosity currently, but there was for his prowess, and so he waded into the goblin patrols as he found them. Some were like the first he had found with an archer and man-at-arms, some had two archers or two men-at-arms and then he found the more difficult patrols, those made up of a full lance formation. A [Goblin Knight] mounted on a wolf, the tower called a [Warg], led an archer and two men-at-arms. He unleashed his [Chivalrous Blow] sending a silver crescent of energy into the approaching [Goblin Knight] and his mount. Both were split in twain by the attack and allowed Henry to crash into the easier foes like a bolt from the heavens. He took his sword in the half sword posture, one hand about a foot from the point and walked into the goblin grouping like an oarsman rowing, point, pommel, point, pommel. The wounds were mostly superficial, but they scattered the more melee oriented goblins and gave him access to the archer, who loosed its arrow at point blank range right into his chest where the arrow shattered and sent splinters under his visor and into his cheeks and nose.

  Henry cursed in pain and cut blindly before him, being rewarded with a satisfying, meaty smack as blade met goblin. When his eyes opened he saw the archer dead before him, split from shoulder to hip by his wild cut. He rounded on the other two to find one sprinting off into the woods while the other settled its shield and faced him grimly. Henry sighed and glided forth with a passing step that pushed the peak of the shield back over the goblins arm, tabling it against its forearm and driving his edge into its face. There was little true skill or finesse in fighting these creatures, he knew that would change in later floors and even in later challenges on this floor, but still they were dead and the onrush of essence was welcome as its surge helped push the splinters out of his face and heal the skin. All things considered his first wound was incredibly minor, he was lucky none of the arrow shards had found his eyes. They knew certain abilities and rewards could heal blindness and worse injuries but he also knew none such would be found on the first floor.

  With a sigh he looked around for the fleeing goblin but had to accept it had gotten away, which meant his first challenge had sped up considerably. The goblin would return with the entire weight of its village’s might, and so Henry would have to prepare. He picked up the bow and quiver of the archer and pulled back on the string experimentally, he’d have to be careful not to pull too hard as it would undoubtedly shatter, no great warbow was this. He breathed deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth to settle his nerves. From his reading he knew the guardian monster for this challenge could be one of three options, a [Goblin Baron], a [Goblin Duke] or if he was really unlucky; the [Goblin King]. The challenges of the first floor had long foregone their initial low challenge ratings, they were designed to be conquered by a single warrior but they were no longer built around the idea of unarmoured club-wielders. They knew that every challenge was kept separate from the main floor and multiple people could be attempting the same challenge but would be in their own separate version; you couldn’t come across other climbers until later floors when the Seed allowed groups to fight together.

  This challenge was well documented and while the final reward guardian changed it was dependent on how one performed on the first few patrols, which made Henry grimace, he hadn’t taken any wounds from the first patrols and he had allowed a goblin to escape from his first major patrol, the likelihood of the weakest guardian appearing were slim to none, which meant he could be in for a world of trouble. The hunting horn he heard sound through the trees was evidence of that. With a sigh he nocked his first arrow and drew back to his forearm, as far as he dared to not risk the failure of the bow.

  The first of the goblins made their way through the trees towards him in a battle line formation, goblins with shields in the centre and archers on the flanks, moving like the blade of a plow. It was what his father and grandfather would have called en haye, a truly old tactic but more than enough to deal with one interloper. Behind these he saw a squadron of goblins on large [Wargs] arrayed in good maille and with lances, at their head was a goblin with a brass crown riveted to its helm, and old style open-faced bascinet, Henry exhaled, a [Goblin King], he was shit out of luck.

  The King signaled his infantry and they advanced, goblins may not have been physically imposing creatures but thirty goblins was a tall order for anyone, they had enough weight to overwhelm and pin him to allow for their small blades to find the gaps in his armour. Henry loosed his first arrow, he was no Master Archer of the Prince’s retinue but he had trained with the weapon as a boy as all in England did. The arrow flew true and struck a goblin over the bridge of its nose passing through skin, bone and brain matter with ease. Still they came on in solid order, the two to either side of the fallen stepping in to cover the gap. With rhythmic, almost obscene, grunts of effort, Henry began to loose arrow after arrow. Each found a mark, their long points burying themselves deep through maille and padding and fat and muscle. While not every shot was a kill, every one was a wound and that counted.

  As his hand went back for his fifteenth arrow his hand met air and Henry cursed. He hurled the useless bow into the oncoming ranks and drew his sword, a quick mezzano cut from shoulder to shoulder served as the impetus for another [Chivalric Blow] to plow into the oncoming shieldwall. With the force spread across so many foes it didn’t punch through every shield, but the devastation was great enough to collapse the line. Henry powered through the gap in the line, cutting right and left as he summoned his [Shield of the Weak] behind him, a golden shield erupting to block the arrows that came from the flanks. He didn’t stop his feet slapping the ground with the clank of his harness and sabatons, his sword fell back out behind him and over his right hip, he brought it around in another diagonal cut that would have split a man from left hip to right shoulder and sent another [Chivalrous Blow] careening into the ten [Warg] mounted goblins and their King.

  Henry learned then and there that the goblins’ mounts could scream, two lost limbs and a third lost its head, and the howl alone caused his ears to bleed. Some form of sonic attack he realised, as he dove and rolled under the claws of the first [Warg], his shoulder collecting and snapping the first limb it hit. A maw closed on his greave and he felt the first fang puncture through the thinner plate of the back, Henry’s own scream now joining those of the mutilated mounts. Their legs were fragile and bones thin, but their bite strength was incredible, the steel of his greave was holding for now, but he thrashed and kicked to free the limb as he let go his sword and drew his rondel dagger. Disks of steel covered both ends of the dagger’s grip, fitting snugly in the open spaces of his gauntlets creating a solid ball of hardened steel to protect his hands. The dagger leapt like a viper’s tongue as Henry drove it into any visible flesh be it goblin or [Warg]. Blood splashed down all around and viscera coated his every limb.

  He breathed like a bellows as Henry rolled onto his knee and rose into a fighting posture, dagger in his right hand and his left curled into an armoured fist. The damage he’d wrought was visible all around as the goblins that remained encircled him. Some of the fallen [Goblin Knight]s he saw had arrows in their backs from the efforts of the archers to shoot him, a welcome sight to be sure. The King was one of the last still mounted and untouched, seemingly reluctant to engage. A deep breath and a quick glance showed where his sword had fallen, directly beneath the claws of the King’s mount. He was not collecting it any time soon. Thankfully an armoured man was a weapon unto himself, especially an armoured man who had been absorbing essence non-stop for the better part of the last few hours. His musculature had become dense enough that he was sure he could kill a goblin with a punch, and so he suited words to action.

  Henry dashed through the line of cavalry goblins, collecting one with a hook as he ran past to fall upon the remaining infantry and archers in a whirlwind of steel and violence. Fist followed by the dagger in an ever repeating dance. It was almost cruel how easily the goblins folded when his steel clad fist impacted their maille clad limbs. The power of the blow shattered ribs and pulverised organs, then the spike of a dagger that was his rondel would punch right through armour and skull to spill their lives on the forest floor. The pounding of paws upon the ground was audible as the [Goblin Knight]s sought to save their foot-slogging brethren.

  Henry turned on his heel and slashed across his body with the dagger, unleashing another [Chivalrous Blow]. The oncoming mounts were shattered by the energy arc, leaving a panting, gore-splattered Henry facing the [Goblin King], no more of its subordinates remained. Henry raised his visor and spat to clear the sticky saliva that accumulated.

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider surrender?” He asked the goblin. Centuries of study had advised that the creatures of the first floor weren’t intelligent and could not speak, but it occurred to Henry that he hadn’t spoken a word since he had met the angel and his mother had always advised silence was habit forming and boorish. With a deep sigh he sucked in another deep lungful of air before charging the [Goblin King]. He reversed his dagger and used it like a pick. At the last second he stepped off the line and slid down the left side of the [Warg]’s head and threaded his arm around the goblin’s neck to throw it to the ground.

  Of course that was when the [Goblin King] showed why it was the worst boss to encounter in the goblin challenge on the first floor. A golden glow suffused the goblin even as a red glow emanated from the [Warg]. By the [King’s Command] ability the goblin became encased in golden armour and swung a mace of pure energy towards Henry. All the while the [Warg] began foaming at the mouth and leapt at him, all sense of cunning replaced with pure rage and a need to kill.

  Henry fell back, slamming his dagger into the beast’s head as he stumbled back away from the mace. A rush of essence confirmed the king’s mount was done, but now he was unarmed and on the backfoot. The [Goblin King] advanced, swinging the mace in looping figure eights that kept the human back pedalling faster and faster. Unfortunately for Henry the ground was not clear or safe, and his heel collected a corpse. Down the knight went in a tangle of steel and limbs, his fine-peaked bascinet impacting the loam of the forest floor at an odd angle that caused his neck to stiffen in a most uncomfortable way. Only long years of training under his father’s Master at Arms saved Henry from the descending mace. He rolled to his right as the weapon hit the ground with a detonation of soil and grass.

  Sir Henry, while perhaps provincial, was not a hereditary knight or even a member of the high nobility, he was a fighting knight, and he had earned his spurs through blood, sweat and no small amount of loss. His eyes had not led him astray, and as he came first to a crouch and then to his feet, he rose with his sword in hand, the forgotten blade rescued as he rolled away from the descending bolt of light. His sword fell to his left hip in the posture of Fiore’s garde of the boar’s tooth, or the dente di zenghiaro as the Italian master himself would say. The strike rose like a stone from a trebuchet, building speed and strength as it collected the mace haft and knocked it back over the goblin’s shoulder, sending the beast off-balance and teetering backwards. It was all the opening Henry needed as his blade fell to earth along the same line, parting armour, skin, fat and muscle to leave the [Goblin King] split in twain.

  Exhausted but finally done, Henry fell on his knee, bracing himself on his sword, the point buried in the soil. He pressed his forehead against the cool steel and groaned. Still he had done it, and the Tower operated on a very strict system of risk versus reward for those who did not have a hero title or better, and Sir Henry had challenged the goblins on their absolute hardest difficulty, so he dragged himself to the king’s corpse where a light pulsed with temptation. He extended his left hand to the light and closed on his waiting reward.

  [Caliburn] (Epic, Growth)

  Once wielded by King Arthur of the Britons, the mighty sword Caliburn is forged by dwarven masters and fae magic, this seed weapon has the ability to grow into the same blade wielded by the heroic king himself. Growth Item.

  Ability Evolved: [Chivalrous Blow] >>> [Chivalric Lightning]

  Ability Evolved: [Shield of the Weak] >>> [Knight’s Aegis]

  Henry’s mind went blank, he felt his abilities strengthen but he could not fathom how he had earned the weapon that he now held. It was a longsword, no doubt about it, the length was four feet and the blade shone with rippling blues and purples as he felt the magic dance within. The similarities ended though as the blade was nearly twice as broad at the hilt as any sword he had ever wielded and the grip was wrapped in what looked like vibrant green leaves, the guard was decorated with elaborate celtic dragons like Henry had seen carved in the stones of some old buildings in the north country of England, and the pommel wheel was decorated with the three leopards of the royal house. This was a sword fit for a king, and yet the aura he felt emanating from it was not that of a ruler, no Henry’s fate was much simpler.

  Sir Henry rose from his kneeling position and walked for the wavering distortion he saw in the air before him, he had a village to find, and a Prince to protect.