Blood and Iron 4

by Eli Steele

  The wildman growled as he batted the final attacker’s weapon to the side, before burying his main axe to the shaft in the man’s chest. With a grunt, he yanked it free and kicked the savage backwards, before whirling towards the spy. “Is that you wetting the snow, or is your blood still in your veins?”

  “I don’t think so,” D’Eldar replied, his heart pounding in his chest from the encounter. Despite the increased blood flow, his headache was but a faint echo, suppressed by the heavy adrenal dump. Looking down, he watched his sword hand quiver uncontrollably. Grabbing it with the other, it only served to shake them both. Nausea raced up again, but he choked it back.

  Scanning the gore that stained their clothes and melted the snow all around them, Kren added, “By the looks of it, if it were yours, you would know.”

  Lightning struck nearby, standing the hairs of their arms straight up. Thunder deafened them with a boom that refused to end. After a long moment Eldrick realized that the resounding rumble was the start of an avalanche somewhere not far below.

  Kren spun and drew near. Hot breath steamed the air, while his gray eyes pierced D’Eldar’s. Silver hair, from the blood of his father’s rather than age, hung in tangled knots around his face. “Soon this place will swarm with Hrune warriors, if the mountain does not take us with it first. We must find shelter, now. Do not lose sight of me, not for a moment. Death stalks us on all sides.” With that, the wildman whirled and raced into the mist.

  Eldrick sprang forward, chasing after Kren, always at the edge of obscurity. Just beyond the false strength of the adrenaline that surged through his veins, he could feel the mountain’s icy thin air debilitating his body.

  Cold air cracked his throat and fueled a fire in his lungs, growing stronger with each labored breath. An errant rock buried beneath a heavy snowdrift tangled his feet and sent him tumbling headlong. Arms spread wide, he searched for his balance while an endless chasm appeared through the mist a trident’s length away. When it seemed death had found him and he would be swallowed up by the depths, a heavy hand caught him by his coat and dragged him into a darkened maw.

  Landing hard on his ass, Eldrick felt the blackness spin all around him until a flash of flint on steel centered his mind. A torch roared to life, casting its glow on Kren’s face and stretching out to the jagged gray walls on either side. The floor was smooth and charred black in several spots near the mouth from fires past. Outside, the winds wailed and shifted directions, blasting snow into the cavern. The spy shivered while thunder rumbled in the distance.

  The wildman held the torch in front of him, searching the chamber until he narrowed in on a dark recess at about chest height, like a shelf hewn into the wall. He placed the torch on the ground and retrieved an armful of firewood. Dropping it in the center of the room, he flashed a toothy grin, returned to the alcove, and collected the torch along with a burlap package tied with jute. “It appears the mountain has smiled upon us, Wayfarer.”

  “What’s in the bundle?”

  Kren shrugged, lighting the wood with his torch. While the fire roared to life, the titan cut the twine with his dagger and peeled back the rough fabric to reveal a heavy hunk of salted meat, frozen solid. Placing it near the flames, he said, “A cache, left by the Hrune for their hunters and warriors, should trouble befall them. Through their death, we live.”

  “The Hrune?”

  “The Hrunegardt, they are a hill tribe, much like the Uhnan’akk. We are lucky that we came upon a hunting party and not a war band.” Standing, he carried the torch to the mouth of the cave and plunged it into the snow, extinguishing it.

  Grimacing, Eldrick closed his eyes and lay motionless on his side curled around the fire, taking in its warmth and thinking only of not retching again, until finally, the feeling subsided.

  “The high places are hard on lowlanders, you more than most.”

  “Seldom am I higher than the top of a mast,” the spy replied.

  “In truth, I thought you would be dead by now. You have impressed me, Wayfarer.”

  Eldrick felt the cold melt from his fingers and the stone floor warm around him. Though he dare not call it comfort, an air — perhaps a lesser shade of misery — settled over him. Closing his eyes, he said, “What now?”

  “Now? We feast on this cache, and share some mountain wine, and rest until this storm passes.” Leaning forward, he quartered the meat and uncorked a skin. Stabbing a hunk with his dagger, he slid another towards Eldrick.

  The spy sat upright and scraped a thick crust of salt from the meat, before braving a bite. It tasted like pork, though leaner, if not a bit salty still. “It’s good,” he said, receiving the skin and turning it up.

  Kren watched with a smirk.

  Swallowing the wine, Eldrick’s eyes watered and a fit of coughs overtook him.

  “I hear the wines of the vales are a lesser thing,”

  “Damn,” D’Eldar managed finally. “That shit could end wars.”

  The wildman shrugged. “Perhaps, though I’ve only seen it start them.”

  The spy chuckled. After a time, he said, “When I said what now, I meant where do we go from here? Where are we headed?”

  The titan’s grin faded. “We climb higher still, higher than any hill tribe winters. Not the morrow, but perhaps the next, we will reach the wyrm’s lair.”

  “Tell me about this wyrm.”

  Leaning back, Kren chewed a piece of cold-cored meat for a time, musing the thought. After swallowing it, he said, “Greater than all the vipers of the valleys and forests and rivers and seas, he is the chief of serpents. His blood is cold, though he is a blue wyrm so it is not as cold as most. Still, like the Uhnan’akk and the Hrunegardt, he will be in his wintering den, slumbering until spring.”

  “So, what, we sneak in and take some of his blood?”

  Redstorm snorted. “If but it was as simple as your words.” Swigging some wine, he continued, “A wyrm’s blood heals all, and he guards it jealously.”

  “What’s your plan, then?”

  Kren sighed. “It will involve axes and a vial. That is all I know.”

  “Some plan.”

  The titan eyed him, but said nothing.

  Outside, the wind howled and blue lightning flashed, illuminating a dusk sky that had nearly darkened. Smoke hung thick in the cave, and with it, the fire’s warmth.

  After a time, Eldrick said, “There’s something I don’t understand. Griffon is no one to you, so why do you risk so much to help him?”

  Stoking the fire, the wildman watched the embers dance up to the cave’s ceiling. “In truth, I do not know. I feel drawn to him, like he is a brother. And...” his voice trailed off.

  “And what?”

  Redstorm shrugged. “There is something old about him. An Eleksandr has not climbed the high places and seen the blood visions for many many years, and yet, he has done so with me.”

  Eldrick sat in silence for a moment, before adding. “He may carry a sword of old with him. And if he does, then he is the last and the first Eleksandr, at least according to legend.”

  “Tell me of your legends.”

  The spy smiled. “Well, they’re not mine, but the Alexanders tell the story that one day, when a darkness moves across the Four Kingdoms, the last and the first will be born anew.”

  “How can something be last and first?”

  Eldrick shrugged. “Do the old words ever make sense?”

  “Not the lowlander’s,” Kren remarked. After a quiet, he added, “I have answered your question and said why I am here. Now, why are you?”

  “Baron Alexander has been a dear friend to me, I owe his memory this much at the least.”

  “I mean here, in this place, and not in your land of sand and weak mountains and palms of granite. Seldom does a man leave his home without a reason.”

  D’Eldar snorted. The wildman was right. “It was not my choice,” he replied, “but that is a story for another time.”

  Kren studied him for a time, but
did not push the question. Silence settled on the cavern, save for the mournful howl of the storm. Eldrick lay on the floor, basking in the warm glow of the fire, feeling his eyes grow heavy, when he heard a faint sound from deep within the cave. It was a low whimper, on the edge of detection. Opening his eyes, he saw that the titan had already risen and was stalking into the depths with a flaming log drawn from the fire in one hand, and an axe in the other. The spy pulled his sword and followed after his companion.

  The cave narrowed in quickly, its roof sinking lower as it did. At its end was a darkened recess. By the time Eldrick arrived, Kren was squatting and peering in. Gingerly, he backed away a short distance and dropped low again.

  “What is it?” D’Eldar whispered, kneeling beside him. And then he saw it.

  It was wolf with dark bushy fur and short ears, and a head too heavy for its own body. It slunk back into the cavity, too tired to growl, too weak to resist. Ribs pressed against the thick coat. With its head on its paws, it raised its eyes and gazed at them, offering another low whimper.

  “It is a timber wolf,” the titan replied, “yet I have never seen one half as high up. The burning of the olde wood must have flushed him out.”

  “He looks to be in bad shape, we should end his misery.”

  “No,” said Kren. “He is a lowlander in a strange place, just like Eleksandr. It is a good omen from the mountain.” Rising, he disappeared for a moment, before returning with a hunk of the cured meat. He placed it at the edge of the recess and nudged it forward. The wolf’s nostrils flared in response, though he did not approach. “We will leave him, and he will eat.”

  Halfway back to the fire, Kren tore the final quarter of the meat in half and dropped it on the cavern floor. Licking his fingers, he reclaimed his seat and laid the remaining hunk not far from his side.

  “You really want to do that?” Eldrick asked.

  “It is an omen, Wayfarer. No harm will come to us. But if it does,” he added, “you are smaller, so he will eat you first.”

  D’Eldar snorted, sitting opposite the flames from the meat. Laying on his side, he curled up as close as he could stand to the heat. Even still he shivered from the cold that clawed at his back. His head ached, though a little less than earlier. Closing his eyes, he thought of wyrms, and lost wolves, and Griffon locked in a battle unending with a bramwar, but most of all, he thought of home.

  Chapter 47

  Rowan Vos

  The Cormorant

  Calisal Sea

  It was a bleak ship, black of timber and cloth, with sharp lines and broad sails and a figurehead of a skeleton wielding a saber just below the bow. And it was aimed at them. Rowan reasoned it was easily twice as large as the Cormorant, which meant at least double the crew. A crew that was doubtless groomed for spilling blood, not sailing. And perhaps a separate boarding party, too. Leaning against the rail, he thought of closing his eyes and seeking the warwitch, but decided that the time had passed. Besides, she knew little of the mundane, it seemed. And of course there was the worm, which apparently was as harmless and friendly a creature as A’anglr had.

  Overhead, another blue-gray canvas readied itself to be smeared with colors broad from apricot to amethyst. Warm salty air filled Rowan’s nostrils. It seemed as if fate had mixed up the days. No thunderclouds loomed and the sea was calm — nothing whispered of men dying soon.

  The winds shifted, betraying the faint stench of rot. Somewhere on the nearby banks death lingered. Perhaps a storm had crashed a school of mullet upon the rocks, or washed the half-eaten hull of a whale ashore. Or perhaps still, the bloated corpse of the kraken, torn free from the anchor, had risen from the depths and ridden the currents all this way to find them again.

  Rowan narrowed his eyes and studied the sable ship and its swollen sails. It was the squid indeed, dead on those banks, at least as he told it in his mind. They had slew the kraken, and they would slay these corsairs, for two things had changed since they’d limped into Falasport with a battered Cormorant — they had a warblade from the north-most reaches of the Four Kingdoms — still recovering from his imprisonment, but stronger by the day — and they had a mage.

  Howland lowered the looking glass and said with a cracked voice, “I count thirty on deck, with surely more below. They won’t make it within five hundred feet for risk of shoaling. From there, they’ll have to row in.” He pressed his hand against his side to mask a faint tremor.

  “That’s an advantage we can use,” replied Rowan. “How many bows do we have?”

  “Few,” said the captain, looking to the deck below. “And it makes no matter. They’re sailors, not archers, and could never hit a man bobbing in a boat.”

  “As they come over the rail then, we’ll be ready.”

  Sutton nodded. “I hope it’s that easy. If so, they’ll never stand a chance. But they know that too, so we should expect a surprise.”

  “Like what?”

  Howland shrugged, bringing the looking glass back up to his face. A lull, filled only by the lap of the waves against their hull and the sounds of Byard readying the sailors below, filled the space for a time. Finally, the thief said, “I’m sorry I brought him aboard without your word. If that-“

  “It matters not,” the captain interrupted, “not now. It’s done.”

  “Let me finish,” Rowan said. “It matters to me. You’re the captain of this ship, and your crew follows you out of respect. I took some of that from you, and it wasn’t my intent.”

  “Let it go, Vos, for I have. Look, down there,” he said, motioning with the looking glass. “He readies our rabble for battle. Without his confidence, the Cormorant would have a very different mood. If we survive this, it’ll be because of him.”

  Rowan watched as the northman arranged the sailors in a line. Ortun was near the end. “I should-“

  “Indeed. Go, join them. I’ll be here, keeping watch and pacing.”

  The thief descended from the helm and crossed the deck to where the crew congregated. Kassina stood a short distance behind Byard, while he spoke of tactics and the fight to come. On his hip hung his longsword with its wide guard, as well as the worn shortsword taken from the Falasport prison guard.

  “What’s his plan?” Rowan whispered, leaning in.

  “He’s sparred with every man,” she replied, “even if only for a moment, and has arranged them by skill. We fight in pairs, with a man at the front of the line taking one at the rear, to spread out our strength.”

  “Where did you fall?”

  She shrugged. “I told him it didn’t matter, you’re my partner.”

  He mustered a faint smile. “Whatever happens...”

  “Shhh,” she whispered, clasping her fingers in his. “Tell me your words when it’s over.”

  He eyed her for a moment, holding his smile. Looking forward, he focused on Byard’s words.

  “...but fear is a liar and there is no room for that bitch on my deck. Today, letting blood is your task. On the morrow, it will be the rigging again. Watch your brother’s back, and pray to your gods — all of them – and...”

  The thief scanned the crew and wondered how many would see the morning sun again, or if even he would. Ortun looked lost among the men, his saber hanging heavy in his hand and dread stretching across his face.

  Tugging at Kassina, Rowan made his way to the bow and leaned out over the rail. He watched the black ship drop anchor and drift to a stop in the deep water just before the shoals. Kassina shrugged the crossbow from her shoulder and let it hang loose by her side.

  Two by two, the corsairs lowered boats off the side of the ship, until six rose and fell with the waves. Torches danced on the bows of each, like red-orange will-o’-wisps floating atop the water. With about a half dozen men in each, they started towards the Cormorant.

  “Was my speech rousing, my lord?” the northman asked, approaching from behind.

  “I don’t know,” replied Rowan. “They’re sailors, not soldiers.”

  “E
very man’s a soldier when their life is at stake,” he countered, pausing for a moment, before adding, “Though, it’s been a while since I’ve had to stir hearts for war.”

  “So you were a leader of men?”

  Byard snorted. “You could say as much, though that was a lifetime ago, it seems.”

  The thief eyed him for a time, but remained silent.

  After a while, the northman said, “Three for two are odds we can stand.”

  “Sutton says they’ll have a ploy,” replied Rowan.

  “That they do.”

  “You talk as if you know it already.”

  “Those torches aren’t for lighting the way. Fire’s their ruse.”

  “I think we can handle a couple of thrown flames.”

  Byard furrowed his brow and considered the thought. “I worry there’s more to it than that, my lord, though what it is I do not know.”

  Overhead, twilight faded as a wave of black bled across the sky. With the boats halfway across, three flames danced to life on the distant ship. Dark silhouettes moved across the glow, though their intentions were obscured to Rowan. “What are they doing?

  “Nothing good,” replied Byard. “Ready yourselves!” he turned and shouted to his ten teams of two.

  In the boats, each torch gave birth to six smaller flames that floated and danced on the waves. “Arrows,” whispered Kassina, raising her crossbow and training it on the nearest orange speck. Taking in a deep breath, she held it in her lungs and pulled the pad of her finger across the trigger, sending the bolt spiraling through the night with a clunk. Somewhere below, a voice cried out in agony and a flame snuffed out.

  “Unlucky bastard,” remarked Byard. “Or else you’re better with that than I expected.

  Nocking back another bolt, she replied, “Let’s see which it was…”

  Before she could find another mark, the sound of heavy torsion springs snapping loose echoed across the gap, and with it, three missiles roared towards the Cormorant, their fires growing larger as they did. “Ballistae,” said the northman. “Everyone down!”