They walked up the street and passed the occasional group of drinking men. Silas sat alone at one of the tables that lined the barracks, playing a peculiar game of cards with himself. He grumbled and pushed a handful of coins across the table before reshuffling the deck.
Cain and Aren continued across the second floor in silence until they heard a shout. The two moved to a smithy where heated voices argued within.
“That’s idiotic,” Isroc cried. “Everyone knows Naed’s Demise was a tactical error. He led ten thousand men to their deaths because of his choice to take that hill.”
“What else could he have done? He was completely surrounded.”
“Not until he gained the hill. He should’ve just let the andreds take it to bide time for his forces to retreat.”
“And leave his flanks exposed to enemies on the high ground? They were dead either way. Best to try and take as many of the bastards with him as he could.”
Isroc slammed his horn on the table, tossing ale. “Damn it, man. It’s not always about the body count!” The two began another flurry of inebriated squawks until Moran drummed on his lyre, washing out Isroc’s curses with a discordant tune. Isroc tossed his hands up and refilled his horn from a nearby pitcher.
Moran noticed Cain and Aren in the doorway and grinned at them. “Sorry you had to see that, friends,” he greeted. “Isroc and I were simply discussing tactics.” He picked up a discarded map of Brunein covered in scribbled writing and lines. “Your friend here has a keen eye, but he still has a thing or two to learn.”
Isroc spit foam over his beard at this. “Me? Please!”
Moran laughed. “See? You can’t even argue with that.”
Isroc eyed his empty horn. “Because my mind is elsewhere.”
Moran snickered as Isroc attempted to sit down, missing the bench three times before managing the complicated task. “I’m surprised to see you two up,” he said, turning to Cain and Aren. “I figured you’d be resting after such a long voyage.”
“We couldn’t sleep,” Aren replied. “Has everyone just decided to stay awake all night?”
“It looks that way.”
They turned to Isroc with concern as his head slammed onto the tabletop with a guttural snore. The general laughed and leaned back against an anvil. He lifted his lyre and began softly strumming its strings, playing a calming melody that eased even Isroc’s snoring.
Cain and Aren left the smithy, the lyre’s soothing notes fading in the distance. Eventually, Cain spoke. “Silas told me about Ada. He said that Iscarius wants Ceerocai.” He sighed, turning to his friend. “I’m beginning to see my place in all of this… I’m linked to Ceerocai. Somehow.”
He looked up at the purple sky. His hand reached slowly to the sword at his back. “Alanis told me something back at Morven before I killed him. He said that as long as I held Ceerocai, Abaddon couldn’t win this war.”
Aren suddenly gasped and grabbed Cain by the arms. “I knew there had to be a way we could win the war! And it’s been beside me all these years. You! There’s a reason you have the sword. There’s a reason Iscarius wants to kill you, why Abaddon wanted to kill you, because you’re the only one that can control Ceerocai.” Aren stepped back with a thoughtful look on his face. “Maybe Iscarius wants its power for himself.”
Cain dipped his head. “I hate to disappoint, but I can’t control it. It just kind of does things on its own.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be controlled, maybe it doesn’t even have to be destroyed.”
“But what does it matter either way? Abaddon is probably dead. What good is his sword now?”
“It’s not useless,” Aren smiled. “It’s a gift. Iscarius wants it and we have it. You have to use Ceerocai against him.”
Cain bowed his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’ve tried so hard to do the right thing, yet…”
“You’re a good man, don’t doubt yourself.” Aren rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know you well, Cain, I know that you don’t want any of this. I know you only want to protect others. You’re not a bad person, you’re not a killer. In another life, I fancy you would’ve made a good cook.”
“So, you’re saying I’m not one now?” The friends laughed, but Cain soon fell somber. “In another life I fancy myself a father, a husband.”
“Eileen would be proud of you.” Aren clapped his friend on the arm. “You’re here now for a reason, whatever that may be. You’re destined to do great things. No matter where this war takes us, I’ll be at your side every step of the way.”
Cain returned Aren’s smile. “You are wise beyond your years, friend.” The two embraced.
Aren smiled. “Remember this, it doesn’t matter who we fight, but why we fight. Learn your reason and never lose it.” He softly slapped Cain’s cheek.
Cain cursed at him and laughed; his friend always managed to ease Cain’s mind. Aren motioned him to follow. “It’s nearing dawn. Let’s get to work, we have a battle to win after all.”
Cain followed him back down the road and toward the mess hall. He stopped as his eye caught a splash of color in the gray. Adriel sat on the wall below, dangling her legs over the edge. She gazed out over the sea, her eyes filled with the soft light of the new day. Cain smiled and left her to her thoughts.
The Warriors worked alongside the garrison of Brunein to prepare for the battle at hand. Cain and Isroc gathered weapons and armor in the armories. Adriel and Aren gathered supplies in the stores and Silas was off in one of the smithies, happily pounding away to the songs of hammers.
Cain organized a pile of crates, letting his thoughts drift off with the monotony of the work. After months of preparation, they had finally managed to gather a force of fifty thousand soldiers. Fifty thousand… against two hundred thousand.
They had plenty of provisions and supplies, if these great piles of crates and barrels were any indication, however, food didn’t matter much if the enemy could just overwhelm them and stomp them into the dirt. The defenders had ballista and catapults and fifty thousand brave men backed into a corner. Would it be enough to survive?
Cain set a barrel of arrows into the back of a wagon and glanced up at the late summer sun with a wipe of his sweaty brow.
“Where is he?” a voice screamed from somewhere in the bustling crowd. Cain turned to see Branim and a retinue of guards stomping toward them. Well, this wasn’t good.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the king spat, stopping before him.
Cain placed another barrel into the wagon and turned with a bow. “Aiding your men as you requested.”
“I send you out with three thousand men on a simple task, to bring me Galenth and Killu’s garrisons. It takes you over two months, and when you return, you bring me scarce the number with which you departed. I trusted Darius to bring me a competent commander and he sends me you. I clearly made a grave mistake, one that will cost me my kingdom!”
Cain stepped forward. “We picked up as many stray men as we could, we found hundreds. Killu was captured. Galenth was besieged, we barely saved the survivors. We did everything we could to get you more men. You knew as well as I did that the whole plan was a gamble.”
“Excuses! A competent commander would have brought me more men. Where were you for two months? The rumors better be false, that you would actually be foolish enough to attack an enemy fortification without my consent.”
“I was fighting for a country that’s not even my own, bleeding for it. Losing my own men for it.”
Cain spared a glance for Isroc who stood nearby, a crate forgotten in his arms as he watched the growing crowds with unease.
“I should never have sent that messenger to Darius,” Branim yelled. “I was a fool for thinking any good would come from it. Our agreement is terminated. I will not send troops to Erias.”
Isroc dropped the crate. It thudded on the stone, its contents rattling.
Cain jumped forward. The King’s Guard instan
tly pitched their spears forward. “How could you? The Alliance needs this, Tarsha needs this. You’ll doom us all.”
“It is over, Cain Taran.” King Branim spun on his heel and stepped through the crowd of soldiers.
“Iscarius will march for the rest of Tarsha. You can’t do this!”
Branim paused, looking at him over his shoulder. For a moment, those eyes seemed uncertain, troubled. The look vanished almost immediately. “Let the rest of the world burn.” He disappeared into the crowd of confused soldiers. The Inveirans stared at Cain and Isroc; unsure of what to do with them.
Cain watched the king go, fists clenched at his sides.
“Now what?” Isroc whispered, returning the surrounding soldiers’ stares. Cain remained silent. “We should probably do something.”
“I’m thinking,” Cain snapped. He looked the growing crowd over for a moment. “There’s an entire army out there trying to kill us. If we stay, at least there are four walls between them and us. Branim didn’t say we had to leave.”
“Stay?” Isroc proffered.
It was absolutely idiotic, but they didn’t have much of a choice. “Until we’re walked out at the tip of a sword. We’ll stay until we can figure something out. Go, tell the others.” Isroc nodded and carefully approached the crowd. The soldiers fortunately split and let him pass, every eye fixed on him as he jogged down the road.
Cain returned to his work. It took all his will to turn his back on that wall of staring, whispering men.
Everything they’d done here had been for nothing. And worse, the Alliance would collapse without Inveira’s aid. If Iscarius really did choose to attack the rest of Tarsha, then nothing would stand in his way.
Cain led his friends into one of the many smithies, leaving behind the bright morning sun for brighter furnaces. The stench of hot metals, smoke, and human stink met their noses. The sheer cacophony of noises burst in his ears: smiths and apprentices shouting and bickering, hammers beating, hot metal screaming in oil, and the fierce gale of dozens of billows.
“Greetings,” Silas called out as he and another smith beat a bar of hot metal into submission. He turned to the furnace. “We’re going to need a hell of a lot more coal over here!” Several men rushed over to the furnace with a wheelbarrow of coal and shoveled the black lumps into the fires.
After Silas and the other smith folded the hot metal and pressed it flat, the smith snatched it away. He weaved through the crowds, waving about his tongs and the half-finished sword as he cursed for more iron.
Silas wiped his hands on his leather smock and laughed. Despite the sweat glistening on his face and naked chest, he grinned, his eyes burning like the flames he stoked. “So, what can I do for you? Please tell me you don’t need more swords, we’re in short supply of those as you can see.”
Cain nodded. “Aye, we need them. And everything else you can give us.”
“Every time you come here you want something from me. None of you ever wants to talk. How about the fine weather today? How about a nice mug of ale, Silas?” He waved his hammer at them. “I’m going to start charging the lot of you.”
Isroc chuckled and slapped the hammer out of his face. “Throw the weapons in the cart when you’re done bitching.”
“Aye,” he frowned. He stripped off his blackened gloves and slapped them on the anvil. He looked around before continuing. “We shouldn’t be here. We should be fighting where it matters. I knew Branim wouldn’t send troops, the bloody sod. And now we’re stuck here. We have to get out of here, it’s suicide if we stay. Am I the only one who realizes that we don’t actually have to be here while they face down two hundred thousand Acedens?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Isroc answered. “You know as well as I do that we couldn’t make it to Erias alive with all of these Acedens running around. We’re trapped inside these walls just like everyone else. We fight to keep our heads now; we’ll worry about the Alliance later.”
The Warriors turned to leave but Silas called them back. “Adriel, I haven’t seen you with your sword. What happened to it?”
Cain turned to her. She blinked, but otherwise maintained her usual casual air. “I lost my sword during battle. And my armor broke when I was attacked. It wasn’t much more than leather anyway.”
Silas crossed his arms. “All of it?” She said nothing. “Well, you need a sword, we’ll have to deal with your armor later.” He waved for a nearby man shoveling coals.
The smith approached and wiped his hands on his smock, though not before he swiped at his equally sooty face. He sketched a stiff bow for the Warriors, but another deeper one for Adriel. He took her hand as he rose, swallowing it in his calloused palm. “I’m Melorne Sidane, my lady. I must say, the stories do you no credit. You are more beautiful than the first kiss of the sun on fresh snowfall, more graceful than a lily in bloom, more radiant than—”
Silas stepped between them and brushed the man away. “That’s enough from you. I need smiths, not poets. And you were supposed to bring it, not ogle over her.”
Melorne directed his attention to Adriel. “I would do no such thing. I only admire, like one admires the budding rose, or the fresh dew on the pine boughs, or the—”
Silas shooed him again. “Fetch, man! I’ve heard enough drivel from you.”
“It would be an honor.” Melorne nodded to Adriel and slipped through the crowds.
Adriel met Cain’s gaze and slipped a lock of hair behind an ear. Then, she cleared her throat. Cain blinked and turned away.
Silas frowned at them. “I made you a sword, Adriel. Well, with help, since I’ve been busy,” he added as Melorne approached with a bundle of rags. The smith beamed at Adriel before bowing and returning to his duties. Was she blushing?
Silas unwrapped the bundle to reveal a dark, boiled leather scabbard oiled to a sheen. Though plain, it bore fine tooling around the edges, with hints of hills and flowers and heathers. The three stars of Kaanos adorned the tip in a bright silver.
Adriel’s eyes widened as she reached out to take the sword. A tremulous hand gripped the scabbard and handle, raising the weapon to eye level. The sword slipped free of its home with a whisper.
The blade was more of a bastard sword than anything else, slightly longer than an arming sword but smaller than her old longsword. Thin and light, it seemed to balance like a feather in her palm. The white leather handle flashed as she gave a practice swing, slicing the air like a swan’s wing.
“I would’ve had it to you sooner, but Yuril, the head smith, would throw me in a forge if he knew we were making anything off the requisitions. It’s…” Silas scrubbed his head, rubbing more soot across his already blackened face. “I used Joshua’s axe to make it.”
Adriel fought a gasp and the group stared at the weapon, oiled and shining bright in her hand. “You didn’t have to do this, Silas. Any sword would have done.”
“His axe wasn’t going to do him any good against wolves or looters. And I sure wasn’t going to carry around that blasted heavy thing the rest of my life. You’ll make use out of it, I’m sure.”
Adriel threw her arms around Silas. “Thank you, Silas.” Silas blinked and Melorne gave a hearty chuckle from somewhere. “I’ll use it in remembrance of Joshua and everyone else the Acedens have slain. I’ll use it to protect the innocent. I promise.”
Cain watched her bright smile. There it was, that determination he’d always seen in her. The ability to shrug off anything. He wished he had her strength, then maybe he’d know what to do. He did know one thing. He’d protect her and his friends. He’d protect the innocent, and he’d make Iscarius pay for his treachery. He finally had the chance to do the right thing by staying here and fighting the Acedens. He’d fight, and he’d win.
For once in a very long time, he finally felt as if he were fighting for the right reasons.
Of Blood and Fire
A dim, ruddy light lit the misty morning and swelled across the sea, painting the world for a moment in red. The wor
ld hung on the edge of dusk. Stillness.
A darkness appeared and inched across the color-filled sea. Another emerged from the dregs of night, and another, and another, their sails rippling in the breeze. Dawn’s light rose to reveal a vast fleet that stretched to the horizon. The last pale hold of night faded to reveal hundreds, even thousands of black ships. Two hundred thousand men sailed for the destruction of Inveira.
Ahead, the shrill notes of a bell shook the sleeping fortress. Brunein erupted into life and swords burst from its every seam. Thousands of men donned their armor and gathered into ranks, moving as a homogenous mass toward the walls.
A black mountain lumbered at the head of the fleet, waves crashing from it like an avalanche. It was a city of masts and decks, of soldiers and machines of war, its bowsprit alone stretching the length of a village. Its nine lateen masts split the air, sending a hurricane howling from its battens. A catapult the size of a small ship crouched in the middle of the deck.
Iscarius stood at the bow of this colossal flagship. His gray cloak and hood flapped in the briny breeze, his icy eyes locked on the fortress before him.
Ada Arillius approached with a bow. “My lord, our army is ready.” Iscarius remained silent. “What would you have me do?”
“Lead the Malrim Divisions for the northern gate. The Alkanost Divisions will take the southern gate; the remainder will take the middle. Ensure those squads are posted in the eastern ravine. We will cut them off when they try to flee.”
“And what of you, my lord?”
Iscarius turned to him with a smirk. “I have unfinished matters to attend to.”
Brunein waited in a tense silence that even the keenest arrow couldn’t pierce. Soldiers watched their doom approach with determined hearts.
Cain stood with the other Warriors over the main gate. He choked down his fear at the sight of hundreds of black war ships. These were not the andreds and arzecs they were so accustomed to. They were far more dangerous than Abaddon’s creatures; they were unpredictable, brutal. Human.
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