by Eli Steele
“The simple cantrips don’t hurt. Let me do this. We can’t lose anyone else tonight, I won’t have it.” He paused for a moment and took a deep breath, readying himself. “Take it slow, make for the hold. Wherever you go, I’ll already’ve been there.” With a weak smile, he withdrew Unforged and took several steps and faded into the night.
Glancing back, he saw Byard look to Kassina. Nocking a bolt, she said, “If he says he’s there, then he’s there, wherever we’ll need him.”
The hold was unlike any he’d seen. Instead of an open cargo area, the stairs terminated at a narrow hall, with rough-cut lumber for walls. Rowan ran his fingers along the wood, feeling the splinters tug at his gloved hand. It was an afterthought, added after the floors and ceiling, and reminded him of Falasport. Dull lanterns hung like islands of light, failing to fully push back the darkness.
Just as I like it...
Ammonia and filth burned his nose and turned his stomach. The place needed scrubbing with straight lye, even if it did eat back the wood. Anger welled inside of him, as strong as it had when he saw Ortun run through. Only a few places smelled like this — slum squats, the worst wartime hospitals, and dungeons — and he didn’t see the likes of any vagrants or healers.
Two by two the cells appeared on either side. All were empty, save for one. Her clothes were ragged and soiled and hung loose off her body. Matted brown hair fell to her shoulders. Her skin was olive-brown, like the banks of the bleak shore just beyond the shoals. Hazel eyes stared listlessly through the bars without focus.
It’s a risk, but it’s one worth taking.
Speaking while staying in the shadows was difficult, and it would certainly hurt. Sucking in a breath, he whispered, “I’m not a ghost, but don’t look for me, I’m here to help.”
Without so much as a turn of her head, her eyes cut back and forth, searching her narrow field of vision.
“How many are left on the ship?”
“Seven, I think. Three went up on deck to ready the boat. There should be four at the end of the hall, gathering up their hoard.”
“Do you lie?”
“About this? Killing these bastards?” She spat. “There’s nothing I want more than to hear their deaths. Make them scream for me.”
Her words were sharp, but having been a prisoner himself, even if for only a moment, Rowan understood. “If what you say is true, when I return, I will release you.”
“Then I shall see you upon their deaths.”
“Two more follow behind me. Do not be unnerved.”
She snorted under her breath. “It takes more than that to break me.”
Starting forward, he paused and asked, “What is your name?”
“Sia.”
At the end of the hall was a door half ajar. Curling around it, the thief slipped into the room. Like those in the hall, the lanterns were light of oil and weak of light. Four men, one with a hat like Sutton’s, loaded more treasure than he had ever seen into four chests. Gold lustered in the dull orange glow as it was tossed about like thin coppers. The thief blood in Rowan’s veins fluttered his heart.
“...I told you we shouldn’t’ve chased ‘em into the shallows. It was folly.”
“Even a fool can see it was folly now, Deek. And you didn’t say shit aforehand.”
“Well I thoughts it,” the first one muttered under his breath.
“That’s enough,” the corsair captain said. “What’s done is done. All that’s left is loading this in the Junco and making for Berea. If the winds are fair, we can be there by nightfall tomorrow.”
“What about the prisoner?”
“What about her?” the captain scoffed. “Let her rot.” Glancing up, he drew his saber and shouted, “Who in the nine are you!?”
Rowan moved into position.
Byard kicked the door open and stepped through. “An emissary, my lord.”
“A what?”
“I come from the gods, just this day.” Drawing his blades, the northman snarled, “They would see you now.”
A smile curled the thief’s lips. Byard’s bit was always the same, but it was a good one.
A bolt shot into the room with a clunk, burrowing deep into the nearest marauder’s chest. He grimaced and growled and stumbled backwards. Before his ass hit the planks, the northman lunged, slashing another man’s belly open wide, spilling his gore onto the gold.
Rowan leapt from the shadows with Unforged stretched wide, burying it in the captain’s back. The man fell forward without a sound, dead before his nose shattered against the floor. Glinting steel turned his head in time to see a saber overhead. The thief rolled to the side, but the blade never came. Jumping to his feet, he saw the tip of the bolt peeking through the corsair’s throat.
As the men around them bled and died, the three stood in silent wonderment, staring at the treasure. “I know kingdoms with less wealth than this,” Byard remarked.
“What about the woman?” Kassina asked.
“She,” Rowan replied, “and all of this, comes with us.”
* * * * *
The Junco was a small sailboat that hung off the port side near the stern, maybe twice as large as their rowboats, with a squat mast and a triangular sail. Kassina shimmied down the ropes into the craft, then guided it a safe distance from the ship after they set her into the water. The remainder of the crew packed the hoard into the chests, and lowered them into Howland’s boat. He ferried them out to the Junco, until she sat so low that the occasional wayward wave threatened to splash over the side.
With the ship plundered, Sia tore the lanterns off the walls and watched the flames, tiny and mean, roar to life. She and Rowan and Byard climbed into the second rowboat and made for the sailboat, while Sutton labored with his last load.
The thief looked on as the captain paused from rowing and stood, staring at the ship ablaze. He thought of all the loss he’d helped inflict upon the man. “What was her name?” he asked Sia.
“They called her Bane.”
“Well, Bane, and all of her misery, is no more.”
“Nor is the Cormorant,” quipped Byard.
After a short silence, their faces awash for the second time that night with the glow of flames, she asked, “Where are you going?”
“Berea, it seems, and from there, Thim Dorul.”
Sia snorted. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been home.”
Chapter 51
Bela Wray
City of Ashmor
Kingdom of Beyorn
It was a pitiful wall – cracked and settled and far too low – though in truth, she’d never noticed until now. Of all the states, peace may have been the most corrosive, Bela reasoned, staring over the merlons at the snow-covered field beyond. It didn’t seem instinctive at first, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense to her, at least in that moment.
Peace pits iron and empties armories. It crumbles stone and mortar more than any onager can. Wartime generals wane and the men that come up hard, letting blood and leading charges, never come to be. It is an alchemy that takes steel for tin. So here we stand, the children of peace, with no notion of what the hell we’re doing.
Looking around, she mostly saw boys. They were men, most with at least twenty name days, though some with less and others with more. Still, they wore the faces of children – frightened, unprepared, probably wanting their mothers. There were old men and soldiers there, too, of course – of Houses Bevern, and Mace, and Saxton, and Alexander, and others she did not recognize – but they were the few among the many. This battle would be borne on the reluctant backs of the boys of Ashmor, the children of peace.
Perhaps I should move a little closer to the men of the Brae…
Walking the wall, she eyed the Meronian line. Even from that distance, it seemed a grim gathering. Shields stood in a sweeping arc along the front, bearing the black cross of Meronia, waiting to be called together into their wall. Behind them, spears, and then several cohorts of archers. At th
e rear were the siege engines — towers and rams and mangonels. Cavalry clustered along the edges.
Banners adorned with house sigils flapped in the wind, though it was the bannerless black flags that drew her eye. She was just a smith’s daughter, albeit a masterforger of wide renown, and comfortably a member of the merchant class through skill of hand alone. And though she’d never taken an interest in the higher learnings, she did know one thing, the highborn were proud of their names. So who was this dark company?
And why the hell are there so many soldiers in this army?
Ezra looked lost staring over the battlement, gray cloak flapping in the wind, hood pulled tight over his shock of dull silver hair. Familiar faces surrounded him, men that had shed blood and poured sweat alongside her at the forge. Men she could fight beside.
“Mery told me we would be three for one as many,” she said.
“Indeed.”
“Then why does it look like there’s more on that field than there is on this wall?”
“They’ve been reinforced, it seems.”
A sigh steamed out of her mouth. “All these men...”
“And then there’s us, craven deserters.”
“There are worse things.”
“In truth, I could care less what others think. My duty is protecting Lady Alyna. Though, a charge of treason would make that a hair more difficult. I had hoped, perhaps against hope, that our plot would be avoided and that the Black Knight’s march would end here. But, I hear the winters at Whitethroat are a tad less harsh than our own.”
A throaty resonance rolled across the field, sending a shiver through Bela.
“It seems the weight of Reyland’s war drums have not gone unnoticed,” Ezra said, “Never did I think I would be on the other end of that sound.”
Behind them, a deep voice shouted over the noise. The pair turned to see Mace marching towards them along the wall. Full of curses and venom and glory, he bludgeoned the men into readiness. Blue-gilded plate mail glinted in the midday sun. On his back was a greatsword as long as he was tall. As he passed, Ezra met his scowl with a stone face.
“That’s your commander? I’d heard he was dead.”
“Not mine,” he remarked. “But he commands this army. And he’s very much alive.”
“He seems a right horse’s ass.”
“Perhaps, but he’s the only hero we’ve got. They say he was one victory away from ending this war.”
“What happened?”
“The Raven Knight happened.”
“Is he the same as the Black Knight?”
“One and the same,” he replied.
“The name is on every tongue in the city. Who is he?”
“No one knows, but he bested Reyland in single combat. Whoever he is, he’s a monster.”
“Sounds like your commander is the craven,” she said, “fleeing to Ashmor and risking the entire city.”
“He’s fought Meronia three times since losing the first. Once south of Bearbrook, once at the Brae, and now here. You may call him many things, but craven is not one of them.”
The drums built to a crescendo, loud and furious. At their peak, horns blasted and a shield wall formed and began their advance.
“I never thanked you,” the seasoned armsman said.
“For what?”
“For what you did. Men may live today because of you. And if they don’t, they’ll take a few more of those bastards with them.”
Watching the line approach, she managed a weak smile.
Somewhere far down the wall, she heard Mace call for the readying of the archers. His marshals repeated the command down the line, until Ezra did the same. “Ready your bows!” he barked.
Bela nocked an arrow and stretched her bowstring, awaiting the order. When they stepped within range, shouts resounded down the wall again. “Now!” Ezra roared.
The thwish of nearly two thousand bows filled the air as arrows climbed high, before turning down again. Bela watched as men crowded deep behind the shields. Barbed iron rained from the sky, biting warm flesh and cold dirt alike. Shouts rose up as death claimed the unfortunate firsts.
“Again!” came the command.
Before they could, the army of the Raven Knight countered with a volley of its own. Ezra grabbed Bela and pulled her down low against a cracked merlon. All around them arrows clattered against stone. A nearby shriek yanked her head around in time to see a man clutch his chest and plummet down to the cobblestone pavement of the Gate District.
A second blast of the Meronian horns was followed by the heavy crack of mangonels. Stones heaved high, chasing the archers’ hail, slamming into the wall. Bela shrieked as a boulder crashed into the merlon in front of her, fracturing it at its base and sending her scrambling backwards.
Again arrows ripped through the sky. Behind them, ladders and siege towers and rams pressed forward, peeling shields from the front line as they passed.
“Loose!” Ezra roared. “Loose your arrows!”
The masterforger’s apprentice leaned out over the failing battlement and trained her bow on a squad of soldiers escorting a tower. Whispering a prayer, she released the arrow and ducked back behind the parapet. Whistling through the air, it met its mark, sending a man tumbling headlong into the snow. Writhing in pain, he was trampled by his companions.
Glancing over, she watched several ballistae swivel into position atop the wall. By the word of a siege sergeant, heavy bolts surged forward. One splintered an approaching tower, sending it toppling over. Another drove deep into a line of men rushing forward with a ram. A third aimed for a distant mangonel, but settled for a cluster of archers.
In that moment, she felt a glimmer of hope. If the ballistae could focus their missiles, then perhaps the worst of the siege could be pressed back.
But it was not to be. The Meronian mangonels turned their attention to the bolt launchers atop the wall. Boulders showered their locations, fracturing stone and shattering timber.
As the front closed in, chaos reigned. Gone were the orchestrated orders of Mace and his marshals. Even Ezra’s command was reduced to a spear’s length at best. Bela felt paralysis creeping in.
To her left, she watched a rock crush a man where he stood, spattering her face with blood. Past him, a soldier slid off the wall and into the field of battle as the wall gave way beneath him. Somewhere nearby, and yet distant, a voice called her name.
Looking up, she saw a boulder hurtling towards her. Turning, she leapt to the side, but her foot landed in snow slushed with gore, sending it sliding out from beneath her. Landing hard on her bony ass, she whimpered and rolled onto her side. Still the stone closed in. Bela raised her arms to protect her face. In that moment, she thought how foolishly vain it was, though she couldn’t muster a laugh.
A gloved hand caught her by her cloak and dragged her down the wall. Looking up, she saw Mery. Just then, a loud crash rattled her head and sent a fracture chasing after them.
“I lost my bow!” she shouted.
“Draw your steel, they are upon us!”
Timber clattered hard against stone. Looking up, Bela saw the top of a ladder peeking over the battlement. Scrambling to her feet, she pulled her saber and waited anxiously. When the raider appeared, she lunged, driving her blade between his ribs, piercing a lung. He wheezed and rasped and clutched his side. As he did, Mery slammed the butt of a masterforged spear against his chest, launching him from the ladder.
Ezra’s voice whirled them around. “Now! We have to go now!”
Mery grabbed Bela by her shoulders and spun her towards him. Leaning in he said, “Arnnor House!”
She nodded.
“Say it!” he shouted. All around them, swords sang and men wailed.
“Arnnor House, Government District! I’m from here, I know the place!”
“Come on, then!”
Together, they raced down the wall, bouncing off of men trading steel and ducking arrows, careful to avoid the slick sanguine pools that spread
out in long fingers in all directions along the mortar lines.
A siege tower’s gate flung open ahead of them and a dozen raiders rushed out. “Shit, shit!” shouted Mery, chucking his spear at the nearest man. The wounded raider sucked in a hollow gasp and spun, before falling against his companions.
A dozen feet below them, a lean-to shack with a thatched roof sloped away from the wall. Without warning, he grabbed Bela’s hand and leapt. The roof collapsed in on itself, pitching them off to the side and landing them in a heavy snowdrift.
Panicked, she searched the ground for her saber, but it was gone. Checking her scabbards, all she had left was her swordbreaker and a dagger.
Mery pulled her to her feet and started to drag her away from the wall, but she jerked back. “No!” she said, “Go on, I’ll meet you there!”
“Bela-“
“Mery, go! Arnnor House, I’ll be there! Go!” Turning, she slunk along the wall as he dashed north.
The sounds of the siege overhead trembled her hands. Tears streamed down her face, whether it was from fear or adrenaline or something else she wasn’t sure. Up ahead, the stables appeared. Crouching low, with the dagger in hand, she skulked forward.
Halfway there, a body landed with a sickening thud beside her. She shrieked. A broad axe, freshly forged, was clasped tight in his hand. Peeling back his limp fingers, she took the weapon.
The stables were empty but she didn’t care. She’d not come for a horse. In the corner she knelt and dug back the damp hay with her gloved hands until she found her pack. The smell of the place was not altogether pleasant, but it was familiar and calmed her nerves, though the sounds of the siege still raged just outside.
Pulling on her pack, her back ached from the load. Bela cursed her greed and sentimental tendencies. Starting towards the entrance, a commotion somewhere in the back turned her head. Readying the broad axe, she crept through the stables.
In a back room, removed from the other stalls was a solitary horse, neighing and jerking about as a man cursed and struggled to saddle him. With a sudden rear of his head, the animal slung the deserter to the side. As he spun, his eyes met Bela’s. “This one is mine,” he snarled, drawing his sword.