Blood and Iron 4

by Eli Steele

  Unforged shook him from his stupor with a shock that made him curse. After three long strides, still the earth heaved up around him. In those last moments, Rowan imagined the farthest rooftops of Ashmor and dove as far as his legs would take him.

  Behind him, the ground erupted as violently as the explosion of lightning in Hadan’s Square, sending powdery sand and shards of rock out in all directions. At the core of the shockwave, a worm as tall as Father Brayden’s cathedral spire thrust up like a draugur’s fist out of its grave.

  At the tip of its anterior was a mouth, as wide as a tun cask’s rim, with rows of teeth — each smaller than the last — spiraling inward as far as he could see. If the creature had eyes, Rowan did not see them, though it swayed and searched the surface with its mouth splayed wide, until it found him.

  Rearing back, it snapped forward. Sensing the strike, the thief rolled to the side, letting Unforged scrape along its thick skin, slicing it open. The worm recoiled with a shriek, before rising up and preparing to lunge again.

  “Stop it!” a familiar voice boomed, “The both of you!” It was Iseult.

  The creature curled back its mouth sepals and snarled, first at the warwitch, then at the thief.

  “I said enough!” she roared, slamming the butt of her staff against the ground. As she did, its gnarled head flashed alight with the blue-green flames that danced but never burned.

  Like a morning glory’s twilit retreat, the worm’s sepals folded in on themselves. Wriggling about, it plunged back below the surface, leaving a burrow broad enough to ride a destrier through.

  Speechless, Rowan eyed Iseult incredulously.

  “You hurt it!” she barked, approaching.

  “It tried to eat me!”

  “Well, it was hungry! There’s not much to scavenge out here, if you haven’t noticed!”

  Indeed you are more deranged than even I thought...

  She snorted. “Mind your thoughts, Son of Vos, they are not your own here, as you’ve been told.”

  He threw his hands up in the air, before sheathing Unforged. “Why did I even come here?” Turning, he aimed towards the nearest plateau and began an aimless trudge. The winds lessened, and with them, the bite of the sand.

  Trotting up beside him, she struck the ground with her staff, extinguishing its flame. “Because you seek knowledge, that’s why you came.”

  Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it...

  Is this how you would like to speak?

  “No,” he replied. “I’ve had mages enough in my head for a lifetime.”

  “Are you still in Falasport?”

  “No, we’re several days east.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “I see you have the sword again.”

  He nodded. “And I flung a couple guards with my mind, just like Orick.”

  Her eyes widened. “Delightful!”

  “I didn’t even mean to, it just happened. I was angry, and wanted them gone, and then they were.”

  She mused a thought for a while, leaning into her staff as she walked, before saying, “The most powerful mages are creatures of emotion. Your father certainly was.”

  “So every time I’m mad, those around me are at risk? That’s no way to live.”

  “Indeed not,” she conceded, “wildmages are the most dangerous sort. Rather, imagine riding a tarpan. You are not his master – and he will try to shake you loose – but in time, he may consider you his partner, guiding him, even suggesting your will. Though there will be times when the wisest course it to loose the reins and let the tarpan take control.”

  “You talk as if there’s another person inside of me.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps there is? The man that flung those guards, was he someone that even you yourself would recognize?” Snorting, she added, “I think not.”

  Gazing at the distant plateaus, he asked, “What should I be doing to learn of this other half?”

  “Every day, spend time with it, just like you are. That is all. The fact that you have done what you have shows you already know more than you think.”

  “Then I will do just that.”

  They walked along for a while in silence. Behind them, thunder rumbled.

  “We haven’t much time,” she said. “Ask what else you would.”

  “You said you were going to make a way for me in Thim Dorul. What did you do?”

  She bit her lip. “That I cannot say. There are limits to how much fate will allow revealed.”

  He considered forcing the issue, but her own thoughts pressed back on him. Instead, he asked, “What is this place? Is it a dream of my own creation?”

  She shook her head. “It is called A’anglr.”

  “Where is that?”

  “That is harder to say,” she replied. “It is not your world, but there are places and times that, with the right words, one may pass from one to the other.”

  “Like I do?”

  “You are here, but you are not. I mean in full.”

  Purple lightning struck a distant plateau, followed by thunder sounding closer than it should.

  “It is time for you to leave,” she concluded. “Focus on your tarpan, and worry not about your path through Thim Dorul. Instead, prepare for who may be waiting for you there.”

  “What?” he said looking over, but she was gone.

  I hate it when she does that.

  Somewhere far below, the ground rumbled again.

  You again...

  He closed his eyes…

  * * * * *

  …And opened them to find himself on his cot in the hold of the Cormorant. On the crate sat the lantern, its solitary tongue as unmoving as a granite king. He closed his eyes, saw the flame, and quenched it effortlessly. Sitting up, he thought for a moment, before gripping Unforged and eyeing the lamp, while focusing his thoughts on the night of the fire, and the sin in the dark, and Father Brayden in a thin pool of blood. His eyes blackened.

  A ball of flame burst out from the lantern with a sudden roar, shattering the globe and sending shards of glass through the air. Rowan shielded his eyes, before grabbing a gray blanket off the cot and tossing it over the burning crate. Standing over the smoking heap, the smell of singed wool in his nose, his heart raced. Iseult was right, there was something feral inside of him, and it wanted out.

  Above deck, the sky was overcast and the wind was constant, pushing the ship along at a steady clip. It peeled back the water like a furrowing plow, leaving white foam and a gentle wake that soon melded back into the azure plain. Traceless, they continued east.

  The clatter of wood turned the thief’s head. On the bow, Byard pressed Ortun to his limits, but not an inch more. Cursing with every rapped knuckle, the boy parried and stumbled and took the occasional strike to his forearm, but refused to yield. The northman’s face was sober and focused as he studied his pupil, offering correction only as needed. The rest of the crew, tired of watching the display, had long since returned to their duties. With an armful of provisions, Rowan aimed for the stern.

  Atop the helm, Sutton was aloof. Kassina guided the Cormorant without instruction, as usual. Vos wandered if they spoke when he wasn’t around. He reasoned they did.

  Howland started for the ladder, but Rowan pushed a skin of wine against his chest, blocking him as he did. “Stay,” he said.

  “A captain is usually the one giving the orders on his ship.”

  “I don’t see a tiller in your hand,” the thief retorted.

  Kassina smirked, but tamped it back before they noticed.

  Sutton stepped back until he found his place against the rail, skin in his hand. He held it, corked and full, waiting.

  Rowan sighed as he handed a skin of wine to Kassina and kept one for himself, before tossing the remainder of the provisions in a nearby basket. “You were right about Falasport. I should’ve-“ he paused, eyeing Kassina and remembering her words, before continuing, “We should’ve listened. We nearly got ourselves killed, and we put the crew at risk. In
truth, the Cormorant may not be able to return for a long time, which is a hazard, when who knows what dangers may arise and force a port upon a captain? So, I understand why you’re angry.”

  “You don’t understand shit,” snapped Howland. “If only the gods were so merciful as to have killed you in Falas, I would be released from this unending burden.”

  “So, you don’t care about any of that?” Rowan asked, taken aback. “Then what is your problem?”

  The captain thrust a finger at the thief. “You brought a stranger aboard, a prisoner no less, without any consideration as to me and my crew. Who is he? You know not.” He spat. Uncorking the skin, he turned it up and took a pull.

  Rowan sighed. “So that is what this about? You’re sulking because I didn’t seek your permission to save a man?”

  “You know nothing about him.”

  The thief turned and watched Byard as he trained Ortun. “I know him as a man of his word and a patient teacher. In truth, I would say I know more about him than you. Where did you go in Falasport, alone, as you demanded everyone else in threes?”

  Sutton narrowed his eyes. “My business is my own.” Pushing off the rail, he made for the ladder. Rowan stepped in front of him, but the captain pushed him aside.

  “Just let him go,” Kassina said.

  He found a place against the rail and closed his eyes as the wind swirled about his face. He wanted to fling Howland into the Calisal as he’d done with the guards, but thought better of it. Instead, he listened as the man descended the ladder.

  They sailed in silence for a time. To their south was a rocky coast, unlike the islands from before. Chocolate and copper, it was desolate, lacking even a spattering of green. Beyond the bleak shores, at the edge of the horizon, caramel peaks – sharp and somber – soared high.

  “Where did he go?” Rowan asked finally.

  “We all have secrets,” replied Kassina. “Even I from you.”

  He snorted. “But what does a captain of a ship, far from home, have to hide from his crew?”

  She shrugged.

  “I think it’s about us.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she countered, “Sutton has been a gracious host.”

  “At the behest of Thatcher Frost. Never forget that.”

  “I don’t want to fight, Ro, but I think you’ve got him wrong.”

  Turning away, he leaned over the rail and studied the waters to the west. He wondered just how far the Calisal stretched. A fleck on the horizon caught his eye. “Where’s the looking glass?” he asked.

  “In the barrel beside you,” she replied, “what do you see?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, retrieving the brass tube and bringing it to his eye. “It’s a ship,” he added, “dark hull and masts.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” she replied.

  He watched as the black speck drew closer, growing larger as it did. “I think they’re aiming for us,” he said. Walking to the front of the helm, he shouted, “Ortun!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get the captain!”

  “Aye!”

  After several minutes, Howland emerged from the hold, still sour faced. Atop the helm, Rowan handed him the looking glass and pointed northwest without a word. The captain scanned the distance, before emptying his lungs. “Corsairs,” he said. “And if they fly the black masts so freely… give me the tiller,” he added, pushing Kassina aside. Dread skulked across his face.

  “Hey!” she snapped, but he ignored her.

  Taking back the looking glass, the thief surveyed the ship for a time. Silence gripped the helm. Finally, he spoke. “They’re gaining still.”

  “Of course they are,” Sutton replied. “She’s built for speed. Our fate is set.”

  “What do we do?” Kassina gasped.

  “Find a wide stretch of shoals… like those,” he said, pointing while he turned the Cormorant towards the coast.

  “I don’t understand,” she replied.

  “She has three masts and is probably twice as long,” Howland explained, “so she’s apt to draft half again as much as our lady.”

  “You mean to beach us?” Rowan countered.

  “Not quite, but near as much without doing so,” he replied. “And they’ll give chase, because their type is always restless and keen for blood, but they won’t be able to board us – not from their main ship at least – so that give us the advantage.”

  “And then what? There could be two, three times as many men!” the thief replied.

  “And then? Well, you’re a mage, as it turns out. And we could surely use some magery about now.”

  Chapter 45

  Bela Wray

  City of Ashmor

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  With unsold fish and rotting fruit, rancid tanneries and unwashed slaughterhouses, the smells of the docks were overwhelming at times, this being one. But it was a familiar smell, and familiar things were a rarity to Bela at the moment. Lifting her chin, she closed her eyes and took it all in. A salty breeze tousled her ginger hair and helped to cut the bite of the stench. A tear wet the corner of her eye, before streaming down her cheek, parting the soot as it did.

  Nearby, she heard the rough voices of a throng of fishwives. “Perk is but ash and rubble and death, ‘int nothing left of the village, nor anyone in it...”

  “…Tis our fate as well if we don’t get to the Cairn.”

  Gulls squarked and cawed, hidden from view above the black smoke. Meanwhile waves lapped the bulkhead with an apathetic rhythm. Flurries fell in fits and starts, threatening at any moment to give way to a proper blizzard. On the ground, snowfall mixed with the mud and filth, creating a flint-gray slosh.

  Though the sun was drifting low, the bustle continued as people frantically sought passage on what few ships remained. Harsh voices boiled over. Bela turned and saw a pair of men erupt into a brawl on a pier a little more than a spear’s length away. All the while, mothers hurried their children past the scene to impatient ships and anxious crews.

  She stopped at the land’s edge where the pier began. After a moment, they realized and turned around. Her face was solemn.

  “Bela,” Gruff growled, “What are you doing? We have to hurry!”

  Forcing a weak smile, she stammered, “I-I can’t… This isn’t my course to take, the city needs a Wray now more than ever. They can’t win this battle without a masterforger.”

  “There’s no winning this battle,” Gruff replied. “Besides, you’re still an apprentice.”

  Only in name. Just grant me the damned title and be done with it…

  “Honey, please,” her mother begged, stepping forward.

  “Mom,” she replied, meeting her with an embrace, “my mind’s made up, I’m not going.”

  Tears streamed down her mother’s face. She tried to speak, but grief overtook her.

  “This is no ordinary army that approaches,” urged Gruff.

  Arms still around her mother, she looked up and replied, “I know.”

  “This’ll be no place for a woman.”

  Her emerald eyes blazed. “I’m more than just a woman.”

  I’m a Wray.

  Through the sorrow, his eyes beamed with pride. She knew what he was thinking. Before him stood the son he never had, even if it was a daughter.

  “I’ll find you in Galaia,” she said, “when it’s over.” Pushing back from her mother, she turned and walked away.

  “Stop her!” she sobbed into Gruff’s barrel chest. “Please!”

  But he did not. The words he’d said a legion of times resounded in his head, as well as her own. When a Wray sets their way, there’s no unsetting it.

  * * * * *

  Guards hauled a trio of young looters out of a ransacked apothecary and beat them with knotted cudgels until they lay motionless on the cobblestones and stained the snow red. Had they resisted in the slightest, they likely would’ve been run through with steel. Behind them, the shop door sagged on its hinges, an o
pen invitation to the next band of brigands that came across the place.

  Already, a pair of fires had rocked the city, one in the Market District and the other in the docks. She’d thought that the blaze just north of Hadan’s Square had been contained, but then she’d overheard it’d jumped to a block of shops on a strong wind. Now, tar-black smoke rose up from that direction, too, suggesting the rumor had been true.

  The fire in the docks had started on an overcrowded ship, sparing none, before spreading down one of the larger piers, rendering it unusable for any returning ships. Like a stowaway, the stench of the charred wood still clung to her wool coat, reminding her of the terrible scene still seared in her mind.

  The ships. For all the chaos in Ashmor, the ongoing evacuation had been a logistical triumph, imagined by, of all people, Lady Alexander, and executed by the commander of her house guard, a man named Ezra Lauder – the man she now sought. Those with ways and means had already arranged for safe passage to Galaia or beyond. Bela reasoned her parents were currently boarding one of the last ships that would leave and not return.

  Smaller vessels unable to sail the rough open waters, and a few larger ships ordered to remain by Lady Alyna herself, continuously ferried people and provisions to Cairn Island. Though not ideal, it would prevent a complete slaughter following the inevitable fall of Ashmor, and buy time for a more permanent solution.

  Unease crept through Bela as she hastened past the bludgeoned men, only then realizing how badly they’d been beaten. A shiver slunk through her, drawing her hand to her belt and the newly forged saber and swordbreaker. If there weren’t enough sentries for the city as it was, what would it be like when the siege started?

  Trouble brewed in front of a butcher shop as a throng closed in on a single guard with his sword drawn. “He’s chargin’ thrice the price for pork trimmins in there!” one man shouted. “Bring ‘em out and have ‘em explain himself!”

  “Yeah!” the rabble shouted in accord.

  Turning down an alley to avoid the building tension of the mob, she shrunk along a stone wall, sticking to the shadows. Already, heaps of refuse festered and spread across the city like a leper’s boils.