Blood and Iron 4

by Eli Steele

  A hand grasped at her from out of the dark. Whirling around with saber drawn, she planted her back foot and readied herself. A figure recoiled, his face as startled as her own. “Please, m’lady, I meant no ‘arm.”

  “You like having matching hands?” she snapped.

  “Y-yes, m’lady.”

  “Best keep them to yourself, then.”

  Clambering back against the wall, he crouched low. An errant sliver of evening light from the street beyond caught the side of his face, revealing a wretched soul, with skin drawn tight and clumps of hair missing from his flaking scalp. Cracked lips pursed, before replying, “I merely sought a copper or two, nuffin’ more. What wif’ this Raven Knight and his dark souls nigh upon us, I reas’n it wise to store up some ale.”

  “At this rate,” she replied, reaching in her pocket, “by the morrow, the bottlery will be looted dry.” Tossing him a pair of thin silver coins — their edges clipped at least a dozen times each — she added, “Get yourself some tankards, but save them for the siege.”

  You’ll sure as hell need ‘em.

  “Bless you, m’lady. May your charity be repaid a hunderd fold.”

  “I’d settle with just living to see the new moon,” she replied.

  Continuing down the alley, she started to sheath her blade, but thought better of it. A lady with readied steel would draw little ire from the sentries at this late hour in the sandglass of Ashmor, and perhaps, it might ward off a brigand or two. And if it didn’t, she mused, that’d be fine, too. Some practice before the battle would be welcome.

  Back on the street, Bela drew her saber close to her coat and hurried through the district, avoiding crowds where possible, and approaching them with caution when she couldn’t. A group of gaunt old men watched her pass as they spoke with rasped voices.

  “Reyland Mace is no more, they say.”

  “Alfred’s giant?”

  “As he’s called. Slain in single combat no less. I hear their vanguard rides with his head on a pike.”

  The winds shifted, growing stronger as they did, and bringing with them the acrid Market District smoke. Her eyes watered. Apparently an alchemist’s shop had fallen victim to the fire.

  There’s no stopping that blaze now...

  Moving away from the docks proper, the sounds of chaos faded and the crowds thinned. Beyond the waterfront and the warehouses, the district was primarily wood-slat shops with living quarters upstairs.

  Glancing up, she saw dusk approaching and the snowfall growing heavier. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath, breaking into a jog. This would only take a moment, but then she had to cross the city and get to the Gate District before nightfall.

  Stopping in the empty street, she glanced about but saw no one. Up ahead, the Flagon’s sign swayed in the breeze, squeaking as it did. Satisfied she was alone, Bela approached the splintered doors.

  The tavern was in disarray. Tables and chairs were overturned and ale seeped into the warping planks. Nary an unbroken bottle remained behind the bar. Retrieving a lantern from a high shelf — how it had survived she didn’t know — she lit its wick and started down the stairs in the back.

  In the cellar, she unlocked the first door on her right and entered a room with a desk in the far corner. A smaller key opened the bottom drawer, revealing a heavy wooden box with a matching lock. Opening it, she gasped.

  Business has been booming...

  Inside was a lordling’s fortune in gold and silver. Coins, rings, bracelets, and brooches – the treasures were intricate and varied. In times of turmoil, silver bought bread, but gold bought passage, though she hoped she wouldn’t have to spend their life’s earnings buying her way out of her poor choices. For the sake of the weight of it all, she took the yellow and left the white.

  A loose plank creaked on the cellar stairs, betraying someone’s descent. Bela’s heart pounded as adrenaline dumped into her veins. Grabbing her saber she dimmed the lantern, before pulling her swordbreaker and whirling around.

  The leather drank the sweat from her palms as she ground her hands against the grips, searching the room for an advantage, but finding few. Sidestepping to the open space beside the desk, she waited in silence for the intruder to appear.

  He was tall, with bloodshot eyes that spoke of hunger and a dirk in his hand. His lips curled up, revealing yellowed teeth. Greasy hair hung past his ears. “I mean you no harm, m’lady,” he whispered.

  “Is that right?” she shifted her stance, leading with the swordbreaker. “Then move your arse and you may yet live.”

  Looking past her to the drawer, before returning his gaze, he replied, “Not with so many… treasures at hand.”

  Wrinkling her nose, she shivered. “Of all the mistakes in your pitiful life, this shall prove to be the worst.”

  With a flash of movement, he lunged with steel extended. Despite his disheveled appearance, he was quick, and capable with the blade.

  But she was quicker.

  Bela’s swordbreaker found the dirk mid-swing. With a quick flick, she spun it from his hand, snapping his wrist and clattering the blade against the wall. Carrying his momentum forward, the man swung hard at her face with a left hook, but she was ready. An edge honed by a masterforger met his fist between the knuckles, splitting his hand in two to the wrist.

  His ale-flushed face drained white. Drawing his hand near, he cupped it with the other in a vain attempt to hold the split flesh together, while emptying his lungs in a long gasp. Wide reddened eyes stared at her in shock.

  “What did I say?” she quipped, flipping the saber over in her hand. With the curved edge aimed up, she thrust it between his legs and withdrew it in a high arc, unloining him as she did.

  A revolting squeal filled the room as he sunk to his knees and gushed scarlet from hand and groin. Edging past him, she jeered, “Look on the bright side, you’re fit for a king’s service now.”

  * * * * *

  Bela ran through the city as it slipped further into darkness and disarray. Rumors on the lips of those that remained spread like the conflagration that had now consumed all of Hadan’s Square and the surrounding shops. Gossip and hearsay filled her ears as she raced past the crowds, only serving to fuel more panic.

  “Riordan rides anew, come for vengeance over all of Beyorn!”

  She rolled her eyes. If someone didn’t restore order, and soon, this place would fall before the first mangonel hurled a stone. Peace was a bitter bedmate, making war all the more intolerable when it finally did arrive.

  Up ahead, the harsh cadence of boots clicking in unison against the cobblestone resounded. Bela slowed her pace and edged to the side. Around the corner emerged a giant in blue-gilded armor, leading two companies of men with cudgels drawn and swords sheathed. Pressing herself into a stone alcove she watched them march past, grim-faced and exhausted, to restore order to a city on the brink. She let out a sigh of relief and used the moment to retrieve a skin of weak wine and shift the heavy pack that bore against her shoulders. Exhilaration tinged with guilt washed over her as she drank the wine and took in the procession. A mere moon from now, cartographers may need to scratch Ashmor from their maps, and yet try as she might, Bela could not tamp back the nervous excitement that filled her.

  She’d never been so happy to see the city wall. City guards and soldiers from across the kingdom congregated near the main gate. Sigils of Saxton and Mace and Alexander and Bevern and others not known by Bela flapped in the chilled salt air and adorned shields and helms and chest plates.

  Skirting the men unnoticed, she climbed a set of crumbling stone stairs that ran alongside the wall’s interior. At the top, she was met by a harsh bark. “Halt!” A sentry with narrowed eyes leveled his spear at her. It seemed everyone was on edge.

  “I’m here to see Ezra Lauder, commander of the-“

  “I know who he is,” the man snarled. “And he doesn’t have time for you!”

  “He damn well better make some time,” she snapped back, “sinc
e I’m the only masterforger this city’s got left.”

  * * * * *

  The blizzard that’d been threatened by the flurries tore through the city with biting winds and blinding snow. Icy slosh crunched under her boots. Bela couldn’t remember a time where her toes had been colder. Shivering, she pulled her coat tight and chased after the sour-faced sentry.

  Two blocks from the wall, he aimed for a heavy wooden door set in a long stone wall, guarded by a man armed with a cudgel. As the sentry reached the man they exchanged several hushed words, before they looked her over and snorted. Knocking on the door, the guard said, “Leave your arms here.”

  “Don’t cut yourself,” she quipped, handing them over, before stepping inside.

  Warm air greeted her like an old friend, tingling her face and pushing back the cold. Before her, a man maybe fifty sat at a table, scribbling notes on a map as he studied it. His hair was gray and his face wore the wrinkles of long mountain winters, but his shoulders were broad and his arms strong. If she had her choice, Bela reasoned she wouldn’t want to fight him. Looking up, hazel eyes pierced her. “Yes?” he said.

  “You’re Ezra?”

  Standing, he replied, “I am. And you are?”

  “Bela Wray, Gruff Wray’s daughter…” her voice trailed off for a moment. “The smith, Wray of the-“

  “I know of the great Gruff Wray,” he interrupted, “Any man that swings a sword in east Beyorn knows him. So, why am I staring at his daughter and not him?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Ezra snorted. “Slipped by the guards, did he? He had strict orders to remain.”

  Furrowing her brow, she grinned apologetically.

  “I don’t blame him,” he said, reclaiming his place at the table. “Please,” Ezra added, motioning to a chair.

  Bela took a seat.

  “So, what brings Gruff Wray’s daughter to my quarters?”

  “I’ve heard of your condition,” she replied. “You lack swords and spears. If the men you’ve held back in this city are to fight, they need weapons more than pitchforks and threshing blades, and they need them now.”

  He nodded. “What do you suggest?”

  Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the table. “I am my father’s daughter, and a masterforger in my own right. Give me thirty men who can learn, men who understand metalworking and aren’t afraid to sweat and bleed, and I will arm this city in a week’s time.”

  Leaning back, he smirked, regarding her for a time. “You are your father’s daughter.”

  She sat unblinking, waiting for his decision.

  “You think my men will listen to you?”

  “If they don’t want their arses whipped they will.”

  He chuckled for a moment, before a sober face pushed back the smile. “This is Reyland Mace’s army. I’m just the commander of my lady’s guard.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She studied him. “I’ve heard different.”

  “You’ve heard wrong.”

  “I can do this, I just-“

  With the wave of a hand, he silenced her. “Ashmor will not forget your offer, but there’s nothing I can do. Go home, Miss Wray. Or better yet, get the hell out of this city.”

  Chapter 46

  Eldrick D’Eldar

  Braeridge Mountains

  A mile and a half higher than the muddy Sigil River, the thin air labored Eldrick, hobbling him like an old man. His head throbbed and his body ached, even more than the night before. Beyond that, a nausea built inside him, crashing against him in waves before receding, only to return stronger again. The cold certainly didn’t help, either, burning his lungs and tightening his chest and drawing his mind once again to thoughts of home. More and more he missed the Kal’Deas, or maybe he just hated these damned mountains.

  He watched Kren Redstorm emerge from a gray-skinned tent capped with a heavy mantle of snow, pulled taut between the poles. He stretched wide before pulling on his pack and dropping his double-edged axes into the oversized loops on either side of his belt. Long and brown and thick, a bearskin cloak ended just past his knees. He looked like a bear already, but in the furs Eldrick reasoned he could sire his own cubs, without so much as arousing a sow’s suspicions. Underneath, the titan wore a brigandine of rust-dull steel riveted to stiffened leather.

  His face was grim with black bags beneath his eyes. A yawn as wide as a wolf’s mouth ahowl escaped him, before he popped his neck from side to side and passed through the wooden gate. Eldrick stepped out of the pass defiantly and blocked his path.

  “You are not a nesting crag swallow,” Redstorm remarked. “You hide from no man, Wayfarer, especially not me.”

  “I didn’t aim to hide,” the spy replied. “You’re not leaving this cliff without me.”

  Kren eyed him for a time. Eldrick felt himself being judged, weighed against the journey ahead. Straightening his shoulders, he stared back with all the confidence and intensity he could muster.

  “No,” the wildman replied, his word singular and his tone was final.

  “I won’t slow you down.”

  “And yet, already you have.”

  “Fine then,” D’Eldar said. “Go, but I’m following you.”

  Redstorm snorted. “You are a fool, and when you die, I will leave you on this mountain.” With that, he shouldered past Eldrick, bouncing him against the rocks.

  The spy chased after the titan until the sun peaked and started down again. Unbridled by windbreaks, the gusts grew stronger as they ascended the exposed heights. A heavy mist settled on the crags until it was all they could see.

  The nagging ache in his head grew stronger until it was all he could think about. Pausing, he braced himself on a sharp rock and closed his eyes, trying to fight back his watering mouth, but it was too late. Leaning over the precipice, he grasped a patch of gray moss and retched into the abyss while he reeled from vertigo. Still heaving, he planted his ass on the rocks to keep from tumbling over the edge. As he looked up, he saw Kren disappear into fog, without so much as a glance over his shoulders. He cursed and spat sour bile and raked his mouth across his coat sleeve and pulled himself to his feet, before fumbling forward again.

  Ice floated in the thick mist, clinging to Eldrick’s brown hair and forming a wall of white just beyond the tips of his fingers. He dropped is head and shortened his strides, not sure when a ledge might leap out.

  A sudden collision bounced him backwards and snapped his head up straight. Slick ice sent his feet sliding towards a steep snowy slope that quickly gave way to a sheer cliff. A heavy hand caught him by the arm and snatched him upright. “Watch where you’re going,” the titan snapped under his breath.

  “Why’ve we stopped?”

  “We are being watched.”

  Eldrick spun slowly, straining to peer through the heavy mist. “How can you tell?”

  “How can you not?” the wildman countered. “Draw your blade.”

  D’Eldar pulled his sword and pressed his back against the wall that was the titan’s. Narrowing his eyes, he searched the shroud that hung before him as thick as a wool curtain. “Teach me to see,” he whispered.

  “There are four,” replied Kren. “Two on each side. And they will all strike as one. Look with all your senses, Wayfarer. Smell the stench of the hunt in their hair. Feel the wind swirl the mist around them, like the waters of the river around slick rocks. Hear them whisper, a hint on the gale’s howl, just as our own words betray us to them.”

  Again thunder rumbled, this time nigh overhead.

  Eldrick looked again as the titan had said, smelling the coming storm, tasting the ice in the air, and searching for some faint betrayal of what lay beyond, and then he saw it in the corner of his eye. Ash gray behind white, it was there and gone in a flash. Movement – a body, an axe, or perhaps his imagination. And there it was again for a moment longer, lingering just enough for him to believe it real. “They’re circling us,” he whispered.

  “Like vultures, they seek the moment to
visit the dead. But we are not dead, Wayfarer. Not yet. Ready yourself.”

  Kren started a slow turn, like an animal surrounded, though his shoulders remained straight and his feet planted in confidence. Eldrick followed his lead, back to back, piercing the mist with all his senses, wishing he’d a shield in his offhand.

  A blur surged through the clouds, barreling towards the spy. As he brought his sword up, the wildman shouted, “Down!”

  Dropping low, he heard a honed edge whir through the air overhead, before clashing against Redstorm’s axe with a whine. Moments later, steel scraped against steel again. Kren pivoted and met a third blow, groaning and cursing and snarling like the beast whose coat he had stolen.

  Slicing through the fog came a cruel-looking axe with edges chipped like it had been honed by hewing stone, with a savage on the other end of it. A damn big one, nigh as big as Kren, with black hair pulled back tight and red war paint – no, dried blood – on his cheeks and forehead. Narrowed eyes locked with his own. The man was coming in too high, having overshot his mark. Eldrick’s breath rasped in his chest as he swung into the looming weapon and readied himself for the collision that would certainly maim one and kill the other.

  The sharp shock of the collision grimaced the spy as he reeled backwards. End over end they tumbled, the axe’s beard wrenched around the sword’s guard. D’Eldar felt the sharp iron bite into his gauntlet, but he refused to release his grip on the hilt. Landing on top, he reared back and slammed his head into the attacker’s face, spraying blood from the man’s nose and blurring Eldrick’s vision and ringing his ears. Eyes watering, he snatched his dagger from its sheath with his offhand and buried it in the base of the man’s throat. Sharp features softened as the savage’s eyes rolled back, while blood melted snow.

  Standing, the spy slung the axe from his sword and brought it up hard beneath a red-faced raider’s arm, severing it at the shoulder as it was but moments from raking rough iron across Kren’s back. Crimson steamed the air and soaked Eldrick’s face and filled his mouth with hot salt and copper.