Green ordered the coachman to lash the horses with all his might, heading toward the nearest town where a branch of the "Golden Shield" was located. The carriage hurtled down the road, leaving clouds of dust in its wake, while Green frantically calculated every step. He knew that these fortress-banks were heavily fortified and guarded by his unique army, including the "Black Detachment," the "Legion of the Dead," and the "Leib-Hussars". Reaching them would buy him some time and perhaps provide an opportunity to gather information about their pursuers or even secure aid. It was a risky move, but under the circumstances, with every minute counting, it was the only logical choice.
The carriage raced on as if driven by fate itself. Every strike of the hooves against the road echoed in Green's ears. He knew time was running out. From behind, a rising, terrifying din—the unmistakable thundering of numerous horses—heralded the chase. The Patriarch's men were undoubtedly resolute and had no intention of giving up.
The road seemed endless, but ahead, through the haze of the hot day, the silhouettes of city walls began to take shape. It was a beacon of salvation—the town housing one of the "Golden Shield" branches. Green understood this was their only shot. If they could reach the gates before their pursuers caught up, they would have a chance to take cover behind the walls and inside the heavily guarded fortress-bank.
He tightly squeezed the hand of Ingrid, who, despite her blindness, sensed his tension and held on with unshakeable fortitude.
"Hold on, my dear," he whispered, his eyes glued to the rapidly approaching city walls. It was a race for survival, and the price of failure was far too high.
The sound of the pursuit grew louder, turning into a menacing, rolling roar. Green looked out the carriage window, and his gaze instantly caught what he feared most. The Empire's riders—plenty of them—were closing in. The warriors' armor gleamed in the rays of the setting sun, turning the chase into a sinister spectacle. This was no mere group of pursuers, but an organized detachment, undoubtedly sent with orders to stop him at all costs.
Driven by the desperate coachman, the carriage practically flew through the city gates. Taken completely by surprise by such audacity, the guards didn't even have time to react as the coach barreled past them, ignoring any attempts to stop it. Now they were inside, but this was only the beginning. The path to the "Golden Shield" still lay ahead.
The wheels screeched against the cobblestone streets, blurring past astonished townsfolk. Green knew they had almost no time left. Leaning down quickly, he pulled his rapier from beneath the seat—an elegant but deadly weapon he usually reserved only for extreme emergencies. His hand tightly gripped Ingrid's hand; despite the surrounding chaos, she remained calm, trusting his decisions implicitly. Now, everything depended on the speed of the carriage and the strength of the "Golden Shield's" walls.
The carriage hurtled down the pavement of Balakleya, rattling and jolting over the bumps. Stone buildings on both sides of the street flashed past in a blur. Caught off guard by this mad gallop, townsfolk scrambled out of the way, shouting as they tried to dodge the rushing vehicle. Merchants dropped their wares, children cried, and dogs barked in panic.
Green looked back, and his heart sank. The Empire's riders were right on their heels. Their horses, strong and enduring, were catching up with terrifying speed. He could hear the clanking of armor, the creaking of saddles, and sharp, clipped commands. They were like a dark wave, relentlessly rolling over them.
"Faster! Faster!" Green rasped at the coachman, never taking his eyes off their pursuers. He could feel the earth trembling beneath their trampling hooves. Pressing close to him, Ingrid held him tightly with one hand, while with the other, she was likely feeling for her small but sharp dagger, which she always wore beneath her clothes. Every second counted. They had to reach the "Golden Shield"—their sole sanctuary in this frantic, deadly dash through the streets of Balakleya.
After the grueling race through the streets of Balakleya, the massive, impenetrable walls of the "Golden Shield" branch finally came into view. This was no ordinary building, but a true fortress within the city, constructed of dressed stone, with narrow arrow-slits and massive oak doors reinforced with iron. Even from afar, it exuded an aura of steadfastness—the very security it guaranteed.
Miraculously avoiding collisions on its frantic path, the carriage braked sharply at the entrance. Before it had even come to a full stop, Green, like a released spring, grabbed Ingrid by the hand. "Move!" he gasped, and they practically leapt from the carriage, their feet barely touching the ground. Holding his wife tightly, Green dashed toward the heavy doors of the "Golden Shield," his eyes frantically searching for guards, for any sign that they were expected.
Behind them, with a rising roar, the Empire's riders approached, the pounding of hooves and the clatter of armor already deafening. They were only a few dozen meters away, their spears and swords glinting in the final rays of the setting sun. But Green was already at the doors. He lunged inside, pushing Ingrid into the cool, protective darkness of the banking fortress, hoping these walls would be their salvation.
Breathing heavily, Green burst into the "Golden Shield" branch, ushering Ingrid ahead of him. The doors behind them began to close with a characteristic, heavy clang. Inside, an atmosphere of restrained luxury and reliability prevailed. High vaulted ceilings, walls of massive stone blocks, and counters where clerks worked—everything spoke to the impregnability and permanence of this place, which resembled a fortress far more than a bank.
Before they could take more than a couple of steps, a guard moved to intercept them—a tall man in heavy armor, a sword at his waist and a shield adorned with the symbol of the "Golden Shield". His face was stern, ready to question the uninvited guests who had burst in with such a racket.
But Green acted with lightning speed. He instantly snatched one of the special gold coins you had given him from his pocket and flicked it sharply onto the polished marble floor ahead of the guard. The coin rolled with a ring, its golden glint catching the guard's eye. On its surface was a barely perceptible, almost mystical symbol—the mark of the Lord of the North's personal patronage.
Seeing the symbol, the guard's face changed instantly. His stern expression shifted to one of understanding, even reverence. He snapped to attention, saluting Green. "My Lord!" he said in a deep voice, entirely ready to execute any order.
In the "Golden Shield," they knew these coins. They signified the highest patronage, true authority. Green knew that he was safe now. The bank doors—a "safe haven for the world's greatest relic" and the "hub for the new, growing might of your people"—would shut tight against the pursuers, denying them entry.
Angry shouts and the clatter of armor erupted outside the massive oak doors of the "Golden Shield". The imperial riders, arriving at the building, halted right beneath its walls. They shifted nervously on the spot, their horses snorting, while the riders, clearly bewildered, did not dare venture inside. They knew perfectly well what the "Golden Shield" was. It was not just a bank, but a literal fortress within the city. Attempting to storm such a structure would be suicide, and a direct intrusion into the property of the Lord of the North—who possessed immense influence and had turned his "Honey Mug" into the true financial heart of the Empire—could carry severe consequences for the Empire itself.
Instead of a storm, they took up positions, blocking all exits, and began to wait. Perhaps they hoped Green and Ingrid would try to flee under the cover of night, or that new orders would arrive from Constantinople. From time to time, one of the imperial officers would edge closer, shouting demands to surrender or threats, but their words shattered against the blank stone walls. The guards of the "Golden Shield" did not answer; their presence was felt but remained unseen—only shadows flickered in the narrow arrow-slits.
Inside, having made sure they were safe, Green observed the scene through an embrasure. He knew this was only a temporary respite. The siege could drag on, and he needed to use this time wisely. Now that the "Tarantula" had been delivered and the Patriarch had fallen ill, the stakes had skyrocketed.
As the tense siege of the "Golden Shield" dragged on under the cold gaze of the imperial riders, new figures appeared on the horizon, coming from the direction of the road. From afar, a low rumble was heard, growing louder as it approached. Then, through the dust, silhouettes began to emerge. It was a caravan. But no ordinary one. Massively heavily armored stagecoaches appeared on the road, their sides plated with thick sheets of metal and their wheels enormous and sturdy. Like living, slow-moving fortresses, they approached the city, steady and imposing.
These were the "Golden Turtles".
Green, watching the events unfold from behind the massive walls, felt a surge of adrenaline. Here it was—the chance. Not just a chance at escape, but an opportunity to turn the tide in his favor. These machines were a legend, an "invincible defense and a symbol of prosperity". Their appearance here, in the very heat of the siege, was almost a gift of fate. The imperial riders were undoubtedly baffled by their arrival, hesitating to attack such a powerful convoy.
Green instantly began to calculate his next move. The arrival of the "Golden Turtles" changed everything. He could use them not only as a shelter but as a battering ram to break the ring of the siege.
The rumbling grew louder, and at last, the "Golden Turtles" drew near the "Golden Shield". Their massive forms seemed to exude an aura of impregnability. The carriage stopped at the entrance, and the loading of gold immediately commenced under the vigilant watch of a numerous and well-armed guard. It was a routine, well-oiled process that was now unfolding right before the eyes of the besieging imperial riders.
But the main action was not happening by the carriage. As if out of nowhere, from the side streets and alleys, the silhouettes of the "Legion of the Dead" emerged. Heavy infantry, completely encased in armor—warriors who were "dead" to the world and knew no fear—poured into the square like an unstoppable wave. Their fearlessness struck terror into the faces of the imperial soldiers. They closed ranks, completely surrounding the stagecoach, becoming a living wall and pushing the imperials away from the entrance to the "Golden Shield".
The imperial riders, caught off guard by such a resolute rebuff, were forced to fall back, their ranks thrown into disarray. Muskets were aimed in all directions from the loopholes of the "Golden Turtles," ready to unleash deadly fire on anyone who dared approach. It was a demonstration of force that the imperials could not ignore. Green, watching this from inside the "Golden Shield," understood that this moment was his window of opportunity.
Not wasting a single second, Green took advantage of the brewing chaos and the heavy cover. While the "Legion of the Dead" kept the imperials at bay and the muskets of the "Golden Turtles" held them at gunpoint, he slipped like a shadow toward the nearest stagecoach. Gripping Ingrid's hand firmly, he practically pulled her inside the armored monster.
The interior of the "Golden Turtle" stagecoach was dark and cramped, but Green felt the suffocating tension begin to release its grip on him. They were safe. Under pressure from the "Legion of the Dead" and the muskets trained on them, the imperials could only watch helplessly as their target vanished into the depths of the invincible fortress on wheels. Attempting to storm a "Golden Turtle" in the open field was akin to suicide, but here in the city, under the cover of the detachment, it would be sheer madness. Now that they were inside the "Golden Turtle," Green and Ingrid were under the protection of one of the Lord of the North's most effective and terrifying forces. The pursuit, which had begun so impetuously, ended just as abruptly, hitting a wall of unshakeable might.
Fully loaded with gold, the caravan of "Golden Turtles" began its slow but steady departure from Balakleya. Surrounded by an impressive escort of the "Legion of the Dead" and armed guards, their massive, heavily armored forms presented a sight capable of suppressing any attacker's desire. Each "Turtle" was a mobile fortress capable of withstanding mass attacks.
The imperials, recovering from the sudden appearance of the "Legion of the Dead," had no intention of giving up so easily. Mounting their horses, they trailed the caravan. They didn't dare launch an open assault on such a powerful convoy, but their goal was to prevent Green from slipping away. They kept their distance, hoping to wear the caravan down, bide their time, or wait for reinforcements. The pursuit continued, turning into a grueling game of endurance and cunning along the dusty roads of the Empire.
Realizing that a frontal assault on the "Golden Turtles" was tantamount to suicide, the imperials decided to act more subtly, though no less aggressively. They sent their light riders and messengers ahead to try and arrange obstacles along the caravan's path before it could reach the protected northern lands.
Soon, the caravan began to encounter these traps. Sudden roadblocks made of felled trees appeared on the roads; deep ditches had been dug up in some places, and barricades of stones and logs were erected in narrow passes. Local garrisons, mobilized by imperial officers, tried to block the ways using carts or chains stretched across the road.
However, the "Golden Turtles" were built for such trials. Their massive wheels easily crushed minor obstructions, and their heavy armor allowed them to plow through weaker barriers. If an obstacle proved too serious, the "Legion of the Dead" or the caravan guards would quickly and efficiently clear the path, suppressing any resistance from local soldiers or peasants who had been forced into the labor. Their faces hidden by helmets, their silent, ruthless stride struck terror. Muskets from the "Turtles'" loopholes stood ready to open fire at any threat.
Inside one of the "Turtles," Green received reports of each such attempt. He understood these were merely desperate bids to slow them down. His calculations were correct: the imperials could only attempt to hinder them, but they could not stop them completely. The caravan pressed on with its tireless journey, slowly but surely nearing the borders of the North.
After days and nights of a grueling race, the contours of the first northern outpost finally appeared on the horizon. Its watchtower, topped with the banner of the Lord of the North, rose over the landscape like a silent guardian.
The reaction was instantaneous. An alarm—perhaps the blast of a horn or the flare of a signal fire—swept through the outpost. Troops poured from its gates like a torrent. First to dash out, swift and maneuverable, were the "Leib-Hussars". Their horses, seeming as one with the riders, tore down the road, kicking up plumes of dust.
Their objective was reconnaissance, not an attack. They were to assess the numbers and intentions of the pursuers, verify the identity of the caravan, and ensure the imperials posed no immediate threat as they stepped onto Northern soil. Their appearance sent a clear signal to the imperials: they had crossed the border, and they were now dealing not just with a caravan, but with the entire military might of the Lord of the North.
The caravan of "Golden Turtles" maintained its tireless pace, and soon its massive forms crossed the invisible border, entering the lands of the Lord of the North. The imperial riders, still keeping a respectful distance, halted at the border marker, their horses breathing heavily. At that moment, the very "Leib-Hussars" dispatched from the outpost rode forward. Their formation was flawless, and their faces were hidden beneath visors, expressing nothing but cold determination. They took up positions between the caravan and the imperials, making it crystal clear that further pursuit was futile.
A young imperial lieutenant, clearly trying to save face and execute his orders, rode forward a few paces. His voice trembled with tension, but he strained to speak firmly.
"In the name of the Emperor!" he shouted, his voice echoing across the plain. "Let us pass! We are pursuing dangerous criminals!"
Yet the Leib-Hussars remained motionless, like stone statues. Their spears were lowered, ready for combat. Not a single muscle twitched on their faces, hidden beneath their helmets. This was the border. And here, on the lands of the Lord of the North, the Emperor's decrees held no power.
One of the Leib-Hussars edged forward, his figure the embodiment of calm, predatory confidence. He was no longer young; his face beneath the helmet's visor was lined with wrinkles that betrayed years of service and participation in countless skirmishes. His gaze, cold and calculating, instantly swept over the young imperial lieutenant and his detachment. He assessed their gear—gleaming, but perhaps not too practical—and their clothes, bright, but clearly not meant for a long chase and the harsh northern conditions.
A faint, barely noticeable smirk touched the corners of his lips. It held no malice, but was rather filled with a weary superiority and a sharp, honed sarcasm.
"In the name of the Emperor?" the hussar repeated, his voice low and nearly devoid of emotion, yet carrying an underlying mockery. "Well then... pass through."
He made a broad, almost inviting gesture with his hand, yet he did not budge an inch from his spot, nor did he raise his spear. His eyes remained locked on the lieutenant, and deep within them, there was not a drop of hospitality. The meaning was clear: You may pass, but at your own peril. This is the territory of the Lord of the North, and the Emperor’s laws do not apply here. We won't stop you, but we aren't going to protect you either. It was not an invitation, but a challenge—a prompt to step onto foreign soil where every step could be their last.
Elated by what he perceived as a victory, or perhaps simply failing to recognize the subtle mockery in the seasoned hussar's words, the young imperial lieutenant merely nodded haughtily. To him, this "permission" was a validation of his own courage and the Empire's resolve. He failed to catch the hidden threat in the Northerner's indifferent gaze, failing to sense the invisible boundary he had just crossed.
"Forward!" he commanded, and the imperial detachment, rallying once more, resumed their pursuit of the caravan. Their horses lunged forward, crossing the invisible line separating the lands of the Empire from the principality of the Lord of the North.
Standing in perfect formation, the hussars parted to let the imperials through. But their movements were unhurried, deliberately unbothered, as if they were opening the gates for a herd of sheep heading to the slaughter. There was something more than just indifference in their eyes: anticipation. They allowed the pursuers onto their land, knowing that here, the rules of the game changed. Now the imperials were no longer on neutral ground, and their every step was watched by the master of these lands.
Buoyed by the illusion of success, the imperials continued their chase, venturing deeper into the territory of the Lord of the North. However, by the very next day, having barely passed the first outpost, they fully realized what the North and its mountains truly meant.
The sun, though high in the sky, offered only an illusory warmth. The air was becoming piercingly cold, and sharp, gusty winds sweeping down from the snow-bristling peaks chilled them to the bone. Even in summer, in the foothills where they currently found themselves, the temperature was unbearably low for southerners. The imperial armor, designed for the hot battlefields of the Empire, was now becoming a trap—the freezing metal burned their skin, and its weight slowed their advance. The horses, accustomed to a milder climate, began to show signs of exhaustion and discontent.
Provisions, intended for a short chase along familiar roads, were running out fast, and the local settlements—scarce and hostile—were in no hurry to share supplies with imperial soldiers. This was not just cold; it was a warning. The very nature of the North, harsh and unrelenting, was beginning to play on the Lord's side. Every step was an effort, every breath burned the lungs. And this was only the foothills. What awaited them higher up, in the heart of the Mountain Range where the impenetrable "Honey Mug" was located, they couldn't even begin to imagine.
The pursuit pressed on, but each kilometer traversed through the northern foothills grew increasingly difficult for the imperial riders. Their clothing—light uniforms and dandyish cloaks perfectly suited for the sunny expanses of the Empire—was now completely inadequate for the weather. The piercing wind mercilessly whipped through the thin fabrics, stealing the remaining warmth from the soldiers' bodies. Their fingers grew numb on the reins and sword hilts, their faces turned blue from the cold, and their lips cracked in the wind.
The imperial soldiers, used to entirely different conditions, were now fighting the ruthless elements more than any opponent. They wrapped themselves in their cloaks, but it did no good. The cold penetrated to the bone, causing chills and restricting their movements. Some were already beginning to cough, while others grew pale from encroaching exhaustion. Every stride of the horses, every gust of wind served as a reminder that they were on foreign soil, where nature itself stood against them, methodically wearing down and weakening the pursuers. Meanwhile, the caravan of "Golden Turtles" kept moving forward, as if mocking their futile efforts.
The higher the imperials climbed into the mountains, the harder it became for them. The road grew steeper and more winding, the air thinner and colder. Their horses, already spent from the long chase, now struggled to overcome every incline, their flanks heaving heavily as steam puffed from their nostrils. The light imperial attire, utterly unadapted for such altitudes, let the piercing mountain wind right through, leaving the soldiers shivering and stiff with cold. Their faces were chapped and red, and their movements became sluggish and slow.
The caravan of "Golden Turtles," by contrast, moved with tireless efficiency. Built for the harsh conditions of the North, these armored stagecoaches easily handled the ascents and descents. Their massive wheels gripped the rocky slopes securely, and the mighty draft animals, accustomed to mountain terrain, hauled their heavy loads without visible effort. Now, the "Turtles" were pulling away from their pursuers significantly, turning the chase into a hopeless endeavor. The distance between them widened with every turn of the road, and soon the caravan became a barely discernible speck on the horizon, before vanishing from sight altogether
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