Rise of the Frontier Lord [ Kingdom Builder ]

World’s Edge Citadel was perched upon the mountains that split the Imperium from the Frontier, overlooking the miasmic fields covering most of the foothills.

It was the seat of power for Legate Athriel, Commander of the Frontier. From here, he ruled as de facto king of the wild lands known as the Frontier, and his decisions made within them were subject to no higher authority.

Strategically located, the citadel didn't just command a view that stretched hundreds of miles of foothills on a clear day but protected the only walkable pass into the Imperium.

However, surrounded by sharp rock on one side and poisonous miasma on the other, it held no land for farming or industry. But that didn't matter for the legate who commanded a small fleet of throne ships.

The flying ships worked day and night, bringing supplies over the towering, dark walls and into the citadel to feed its several thousand inhabitants.

At the center of the citadel was Ironhide Keep. And at its side, the legate’s office looked out upon the paved courtyards filled with training acolytes and the walls that protected them from the unwieldy lands beyond.

Taking one look at the report in his hands, Legate Athriel threw it aside. Imperator Eamon had a knack for talking his ear off, and besides, he had enough to worry about.

The barbarian confederacy was growing every day as more clans and ferals streamed into their ranks. At present, his scouts estimated that about three hundred thousand barbarians had gathered, which was made even more impressive by the estimate that they could likely raise an army a fifth of that size.

On the other hand, the legate would struggle to put more than a thousand troops into combat since his manpower was largely made up of various support units. With more clerical stuff under his command than Imperators.

Of course, if one of his Imperators truly were heretical, it would need to be dealt with at some point.

Sighing, Legate Athriel pulled a stack of reports from the front of his desk and began to skim through them. It seemed there were never enough hours in the day.

 

**Acolytes—Callum**

 

Callum waited as Radic lined him up. He could already see his victory. Radic might have been strong, but the large boy carried himself poorly. His center of gravity swayed forward, and his stance was horrible.

Too easy, Callum thought as the large acolyte roared some kind of macho growl and charged him.

In an instant, he lowered his center of gravity and widened his stance, extending his hands to grab the larger boy as they collided. The formidable force and weight pushed him back, but after sliding through the snow several feet, he halted Radic’s momentum.

“Argh, I’m going to hurt you,” Radic hissed through gritted teeth, but his eyes widened as the sudden sensation of weightlessness took over.

He had fallen straight into Callum’s trap, and with his leg extended past Radic's base, it only took a little strength to send him crashing to the ground.

“Damn you,” Radic grunted as he glared up. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

“Alright, come on then,” Callum taunted.

Huffing, Radic got to his feet and turned to step back into position, but as he walked, he suddenly stopped and swung into a charge. It didn’t work. Callum stepped aside as if he predicted the boy to try and trick him, and his charge's extra speed only helped him throw him further into the snow.

“Was that how you intended to make me pay?”

“You... I’m going to–”

“Alright, alright, move on to somebody else,” Mark said as he walked past. “It’s best to match you with someone of equal skill.”

“What do you mean? You think he’s better than me?” Radic hissed as he climbed back to his feet. “I can take him!”

“Your stance, footwork, and technique—they all need work. Acolyte Callum, pair up with Acolyte Clay,” Mark said with a disinterested glance and continued walking.

“Yes, sir,” Callum said and made his way across to where Clay was.

“Hey, get back here. I’m not done with you yet!”

“Acolyte,” Mark growled. “Do as you’re ordered.”

Radic’s nostrils flared as he bit his tongue.

“I’m not sure that was wise,” Clay said, eyeing Radic as Callum approached. “Everyone’s going to be talking about it now. He’s not going to live that down.”

“Think I care? He’s been getting by on his strength and intimidation. If anything, he should thank me. He’s going to get himself killed if he thinks he can intimidate the cultists like he can us.”

“I’m sure he’ll see it that way.”

“Whatever. I don’t care if he does or doesn’t. If he wants to fight me, let him come. I’ll be ready for him this time,” Callum shrugged and got into position.

“I don’t know how you do it. I could never be brave like you.”

“What’s the alternative, Clay? Look where we are. The warm breeze and clear beaches of the Imperium are nowhere to be seen. We don’t have time to keep doing whatever we’ve been doing. I dunno what changed in our Imperator, but it woke me up. That and everything else I’ve been through. We’re not ready for what’s coming. Look, I’m not angry with you. I’m going to say this for your own good. Get over your fear, or you’re going to get killed out here.”

 

**Payon**

 

Frostwind Trader’s Post had turned out to be even worse than the smith expected. Jobs were easy enough to come by, but like the Imperium itself, status meant everything.

If he wanted to hammer out nails and horseshoes all day for twice what he could back home—he could. But he was a master, not some apprentice with unsteady hands.

On the other hand, good jobs, like crafting a fine blade, went to the Imperial Masters working out of the Imperial barracks—one of the largest buildings in Frostwind Trader’s Post.

In fact, of the two dozen buildings that made up the camp, only a few were of any significance. The barracks, the tavern and inn, and the three guilds.

The Widow’s Bane—the tavern and inn—was just about the only place for independent fortune seekers like Payon to go. And he sat at a table shoveling extremely overpriced eggs down his throat.

Payon shook his head. He didn’t come here to get even poorer, but the thought of starting his day and getting to work didn’t excite him. Not when he had an endless number of nails on order.

He already wanted to leave, but it wasn't like he had any other real choices besides the Trader’s Post. And trying to find a wagon back into the Imperium wasn’t particularly easy, even if he was ready to accept his losses.

And the only other permanent settlements were the forts, which would no doubt be even worse. At least the Imperial troops only ruled over their barracks here.

As shitty as the Trader’s Post was, it did have a feeling of independence. In fact, everyone watched their own backs. The guilds guarded their interests with hired guards. Even the Widow’s Bane had their own muscle—going as far as to run their own caravans for supplies.

But with independence came self-reliance, and outside of the guilds, the Frontier’s vagabond population consisted of trappers, bounty hunters, and fortune seekers—none of which the smith had any interest in throwing his lot in with. And as happy as he was to work, he wanted a hot furnace, a warm cabin to rest his head in, and jobs that were at least halfway fulfilling. And maybe even an apprentice to hammer out nails and other shit-kicker jobs, he mused.

Payon even considered the barbarians after a few drinks the other night. If only they hadn't had such a penchant for betraying and murdering Imperials, he’d have been half tempted to go looking for this mighty federation he kept hearing about.

“You hear the rumors?”

Payon tweaked his head as he heard the words. He wasn't normally much of a gossip, but there wasn't a lot to do out here—besides work—and he was happy for an excuse to procrastinate.

“You mean about that crazy Imperator?”

“Aye, that's it. People saying he sleeps with ferals. Has massive orgies, that's what I heard.”

“Bah, you need to stop listening to drunkards telling stories.”

“No, he's right,” another man nodded enthusiastically. “I heard it too—massive orgies. Any woman or girl wanting entry into his fort can come in. That's what everyone says.”

“Nonsense! He's hiring the ferals to do his dirty work. If the Imperators around here had half his brains, the roads would still be safe, and we wouldn't be paying three times as much for an ale as we did two months ago. It's all just stupid pride. Pride that they'll take to the graves with them.”

“You believe that, or are you just growing an eye for them feral girls?”

“Hey, watch your mouth!”

An Imperator that works with ferals? Regardless of who's right, that's interesting. Payon rose to leave the tavern before the argument escalated into a fight—which wasn't uncommon and often turned deadly in the Frontier settlement.

He wanted to learn more about this Imperator, but good info wasn't cheap in the Frontier. He groaned again; for now, it was back to banging out nails.

 

**Imperator**

 

Mark went over new plans he had Elowen and Venjimin create for him.

The wall extension had been impromptu and barely thought out, but continued growth would require planning.

The fort, which was quickly turning into a small town and, hopefully, one day, something much more, was to be divided into sections.

The innermost section—The Imperial District—would be the original fort, which would house the Imperials and their most important buildings, such as the main storeroom, and eventually a proper keep.

What was currently the outer wall would become their High District. The plan was to have their most important non-imperials live here, along with any important craftsmen they were able to recruit and any important buildings operated by their new commoner class.

Finally, the Low District would require another wall. But instead of being an extension of the main wall that extended in one direction, it would encompass the entire fort.

Part of this plan would be to push the surrounding forest back.

The attack on the fort had proven that the trees were too close and, by being too close, provided cover to an attacking force.

The plans also included the ambitious addition of a new building in the inner walls. It was to be the first bank that serviced both barbarians and Imperials alike.

Mark had identified a need to keep the gates open and unite them with their surroundings, but for now, he kept them closed; however, they were already making inroads into changing that.

His tribunes had been busy recruiting their own retainers, and most had at least two or three. And soon, they would be expected to maintain peace with the gates open. Not to mention the patrol around the fort. At first, these were scheduled walks along the wall’s edge, but now, they encompass several hundred yards in all directions.

But it was becoming quickly apparent to Mark that his tribunes would require more tightly defined roles as they grew.

For example, Venjimin was no fighter, and keeping his official role as a glorified policeman made little sense.

He marked suitable roles for his tribunes to be elected into. Venjimin was to be his educator. Jaryox, the commander of his warriors. Reida, the commander of the wall. Trumus his chief enforcer. Trayox, his head of development. Gorzox, the commander of his scouts. Meanwhile, Culla and Damox were made guard captains and tasked with patrolling their surroundings.

Mark ran his hand down the list. It all looked good, but he wouldn’t enact anything just yet. He wanted to learn more about the threat that Imperator Eamon posed before making any more changes to his relationship with the barbarians. After all, he couldn’t ignore such a thing. If he were to make an enemy of the Imperium, it would likely be an even greater threat than the wargs. And he was already walking a tightrope as it was.

Mark made for his coat hanger and slipped his arms through the heavy sleeves. It was time for a meeting. And hopefully, the barbarian he planned to visit would have the contacts he needed to gain the information he wanted.

Pulling his door open, he stepped into the blizzarding weather. It was the perfect environment to visit a certain seedy feral beyond the walls; Mark smiled as he pressed on into the icy night. The hiccups thrown his way seemed never-ending, but the pieces were falling into place.