Blood and Iron 4

by Eli Steele

  He turned and smiled at Kassina. “Needs a tavern.”

  “Bane’s Bounty?”

  The thief chuckled. “Not a bad name. It’s got a certain ring to it.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  Shouldering up next to him, she smelled good. Freshly clothed, and bathed, with a new hat, she was as stunning as ever. He slipped an arm around the small of her back. She edged in closer. “The smith here supposedly knows his way around a forge.”

  “Good as Gruff?”

  “I doubt as much, but who is?”

  “Bela,” replied Rowan flatly.

  Kassina snorted. “That is true. Anyway, Byard commissioned some pieces. Said it would take about a week.”

  “It’ll take us that long to settle on a crew.”

  “That’s what I told him. And Sutton said we’ll need about twenty – crew that is. Maybe hire a sellsword or two as well.

  “It’d be good to have some more trained blades on board.”

  “Rowan,” a familiar voice called from behind. He and Kassina glanced back to find Sutton standing there, an open bottle of wine in hand. “Might I have a word?”

  “Of course.”

  “Alone?”

  “I’ll be in the hold,” she said, pushing off the rail. “You boys behave.”

  The captain took a pull from the bottle and traded it back and forth with the thief for a time. Finally, he broke the silence. “The Dowager...”

  “The old lady,” Rowan added, “what a name.”

  “The old widow.” Howland corrected. “…Strange name for a ship.”

  The thief shrugged. “I guess all the good ones are taken. We could rename it…”

  “No, the Dowager will do.”

  A lull befell them again. The lapping waves and the occasional creaking timber were the only sounds to be heard. After several draws of the wine, Rowan said, “You didn’t come here to talk of ship names.”

  Sutton sighed. “No, I didn’t.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Howland turned the bottle up, delaying his response. Finally, he said, “A guilty conscience, perhaps.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “There’s something you should know.” The captain let out a long, wine-soured breath, before continuing, “There were many words that Frost gave me, each with their own expectations. Obligations. Elekhoi was but one.”

  “What are you saying? What obligations did Elekhoi carry?”

  “To deliver the one who spoke it wherever they requested. To provide for them everything they desired…”

  “…And?”

  “And… to notify Thatcher of their destination… and any changes along the way.”

  “You son of a bitch,” the thief snarled.

  “Wait-wait, hear me out, please. I sent a bird from Falasport.”

  “I knew it.”

  “But I didn’t know you then, didn’t trust you, not like I do now. I’m sorry, and I understand if you would have me leave. Kassina can captain this ship. You don’t need me. It’s what I deserve.”

  Rowan sat in silence for a long time. Thrusting out his hand, he motioned for the bottle. After three long glugs, he handed it back and spoke. “Thatcher Frost is a villain, that much I know, no matter how noble his ends may be. I don’t know what he holds over you, nor will I ask, but I will know this – tell me, are you loyal to him now?”

  Sutton shook his head. “No.”

  “Are you loyal to me?”

  “I am.”

  The thief stood. “Do you swear?”

  Howland met him on his feet. Eyes unblinking, he replied, “I swear. I swear I am loyal to only you.”

  Leaning in, Rowan whispered, “If I ever grow to doubt those words, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  His face pale, the captain nodded.

  “Then you may stay.”

  After a moment, Howland asked, “Will you tell the others?”

  “I have not yet decided.” Turning, he shouldered past Sutton, before stopping mid-stride. Sia crossed the gangway, boarding the ship, and approached them. Her clothes were sable black and fit her well. A hood was pulled low, shrouding her face. Two scabbards hung from her belt – long curved daggers, the likes of which Rowan had not seen before. “You’re back?”

  “D’Eldar,” she said, “it is a name of little importance, contrary to what you may’ve thought earlier, save for in the middlings of Kal’Dea. Even then, attached to me, it is of the wrong importance, even after all these years. And perhaps still, it is a name that would see us all to our end, though I do not intend to find out. So for now, and forever, forget that name. I am only Sia. Can you do that?”

  “Welcome back,” the thief replied.

  She forced a weak smile. Turning, she made for the hold, a heavy bag chinking and swaying, bunched up at her hand.

  “Sia.”

  She looked back. “Yes?”

  With his hand, Rowan motioned to his own cheek and said, “You’ve… a bit of blood there.”

  Smearing it with her shirt sleeve, she replied, “Oh, thank you.”

  Chapter 54

  Bela Wray

  City of Ashmor

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Bela wept. Tears streamed down her face as the amber-eyed stallion galloped through the streets of Ashmor. The clatter of hooves echoed through the thin walls of the surrounding homes and shops. Too many eyes peered around too many curtains, watching her race past. Soon the snow-covered streets would stain red and she would never see home again.

  The Government District gate was deserted for the first time in her life. Habit insisted she dismount, check in, and leave her horse before entering. Instinct screamed to keep going, to lean in and stare straight and dare not cast a glance over her shoulder, for fear of what may be behind her

  So she did.

  Armclair Abbey had always disappointed her. It was a beautiful structure, ornate in its carvings and stained-glass windows and tall spires, but abbeys were supposed to sprawl. Where were the gardens and orchards and secret courtyards?

  Located several blocks from Father Brayden’s church, Armclair consisted of a high wall around a quarter of a city block. As the horse skidded to a stop, Bela stepped down from the stirrups and pushed through the gate. Bursting into the abbey, she found Father Brayden and a small group of healers and their assistants, along with several hundred mostly-empty cots, waiting for the wave of wounded to arrive. Her footsteps echoed across the emptiness of the space, bouncing off the whitewashed walls and stone-tiled floor.

  “Bela!” he exclaimed, stepping forward to meet her.

  She grabbed him by the crook of his arm. “We have to go!”

  “What? Where?”

  “There’s one last ship, and she’s leaving shortly, with or without us. Come on-“

  “Bela, I can’t do that. Any moment now, men will be carried through that door. Dying men. They’ll need someone to pray over them, they’ll need me.”

  Leaning in, she snarled. “Any moment now, the Raven Knight will march through that door. And when he does, everyone here will die. Now, I promised Ro I’d look after you, and you will not make me a liar. If you won’t come with me freely, then I will drag you out of here.”

  A healer approached. “Is everything-“

  “Mind your own!” she barked.

  Startled, the man withdrew a short distance, eyeing them still.

  Turning back to Brayden, she lowered her voice and spoke through clenched teeth. “There’s nothing noble about dying with this city, father. We’re losing a war. We need people like you, and Ro – people that can do what can’t be done – if any of us are to survive.”

  His eyes widened. Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t-“

  “You don’t fool me, father, he told me. Embrace who you are. I am a masterforger – in name or not – and you are a mage, and we are leaving.”

  Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh. Turning, Bela pulled him towards the door.r />
  “Father Brayden!” the healer called out, but they never looked back.

  Outside, she said, “Cecile, where is she?”

  “She’s left already.” Gazing through the gate, Brayden froze. “Where’d you find that horse?”

  Bela’s face puzzled. “The gate stables?”

  Approaching cautiously, he reached out his hand and rubbed the stallion’s head. “Altair, is that really you?”

  The animal whinnied and nuzzled him.

  He laughed and nuzzled the horse back.

  “You two know each other?”

  “In another lifetime, yes.”

  Blinking, she shook her head and replied, “We haven’t the time for this, let’s go, quickly, to the old Arnorr House!”

  Climbing atop Altair, Bela pointed them east. The horse snorted and leapt forward without as much as a slap of the reins, as if he already knew where to go.

  The manor was only a short distance from the abbey, though it was a bitingly cold ride. An icy gust unhooded Bela, revealing a shock of short-cropped hair and a brow creased with worry. Pulling her cloak tight, she leaned forward in the saddle and whispered into the horse’s ear, “You’ve been a faithful partner thus far, I’m so glad we met.”

  The stallion responded with a nicker and a quickened pace.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw black smoke rising in the direction of the main gate. Her heart quickened. Dread crept in.

  All that’s left is the burning...

  Two guards, Bran and another familiar face whose name she could not recall, stood watch at the manor’s wrought-iron gate. A howling wind swept down the street, bringing with it snow flurries blown sideways. “Welcome, Miss Wray.”

  She forced a smile. “Is everyone here?”

  “Just waiting on Burke, m’lady, though he’s running out of time.”

  “May I?”

  “Of course,” he replied, stepping to the side.

  Through the gate, they followed the short cobblestone walk to the Arnorr House’s heavy wooden door. Riveted iron bands ran horizontal, binding the planks together. Stone walls as old as Ashmor itself rose up around it. Bela wished she’d the time to admire the arches and stones — each carefully selected — but instead, she turned the knob and stepped inside.

  It was a somber gathering of more than sixty faces, mostly men of fighting age, but several women too. Grave looks told stories that words never could. Bela imagined them all. Were they craven for leaving? Traitors to the crown? Or heroes of their lady’s, willing to risk their all? And would they even make it out of the city? Tears streamed down her face again, though she tried to fight them back. The masterforger’s daughter cursed under her breath. She was a Wray, and yet she’d wept more in one day than she could recall in a lifetime.

  In a corner she spotted Ezra and Mery and a woman so elegant she could only be the Lady Alyna. With her was a girl half her age with long blonde hair and several others. The smell of lilacs sweetened Bela’s nose as she approached.

  The seasoned armsman stepped forward and embraced her. “Praise God, I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

  She smiled. “This is Father Brayden.”

  The group exchanged greetings. Lady Alyna asked, “You’re the smith? The daughter of Gruff Wray?”

  “I am she, m’lady.”

  “The city owes you a great debt.”

  “Thank you, though, I don’t know how much it mattered.”

  “All that we do matters, always. Never doubt that.” Her eyes were warm, and confident, and pushed back fear like a torch against the dark. In that moment, the masterforger’s daughter understood why the room was full of so many men willing to die for just one woman.

  The sound of a door slamming open turned the heads of the room. Steel sang from several scabbards. A wall of men stepped in front of Alyna and the other ladies.

  It was Burke, wide-eyed and apanic. “The Bluchnoire, we’re cut off from the docks!”

  A loud murmur rose up. Despair skulked in. When it seemed as if the room might be lost, Ezra’s voice boomed. “Enough!” Turning to Father Brayden, he asked, for all the room to hear, “What did you just say?”

  “I said, there is another way, but we must hurry.”

  “You heard him! Clear the house! Father, you have the lead.”

  * * * * *

  A blight in the Government District was quick to be whitewashed and swept clean. Those of means in the city preferred their views pristine and unblemished. So when she saw that the blackened bones of the old church had already been removed, Bela shouldn’t have been surprised, and yet she was.

  The stone foundation was all that remained. The tiled footprint that was the nave, transept, and chancel were still visible, though barely, despite the fallen snow. In a corner of the far transept, planks of lumber were nailed fast to the stone. “Pry it open,” the old priest said.

  Several armsmen drew their swords and wedged them beneath the boards. In short order, a stone staircase descended before them.

  “Quickly, in!” Father Brayden urged.

  “Shit!” Bela shouted, “Altair can’t fit down there!”

  The horse whinnied and glanced about.

  She rubbed the horse’s strong neck, tears welling up in her eyes once again. The old priest approached and squared up with the stallion. “Listen to me, and listen carefully. We’re going to the docks, but you’ll have to find another way. You can do this, I know you. There’ll be a ship, you’ll find us there. Godspeed. Go!”

  With a snort, Altair backed away. Rearing his head, he turned and galloped down the cobblestone street.

  Bela stared at Brayden unblinkingly. “What?” he said, “That horse listens better than my own son. Now, let’s go.”

  In the church basement, through the priest’s old room, an entrance to the city sewers opened up before them. The air reeked worse than Bela recalled, though her adrenaline kept the urge to retch at bay.

  Father Brayden led the way, with Ezra and the masterforger’s daughter close behind. They collected torches until every third man or so had a light. The long, glowing procession, like a funeral march or some coven of witches deep in a grove, snaked through the tunnels until a heavy iron gate blocked their way.

  Bela patted her pockets, before cursing under her breath.

  “Now what?” Ezra asked, “Those bars are as heavy as a portcullis.”

  Ignoring him, the priest closed his eyes and raised an arm. The gate trembled and rattled and groaned in protest, until suddenly, the hinges buckled and the gate plunged into the black waters of the canal that flowed through the center of the arched space. A hushed gasp rolled over the group, and then a cheer.

  Turning, Brayden scolded them. “Silence! Why do you think there’d be a gate in a sewer? Stay close, and keep your torches aglow.”

  “And draw your steel,” Bela added, pulling her broad axe.

  Echoes of dripping water, and sewage spilling into the canal, and the endless march of their footfalls echoed through the space. Bela searches the blackened corners and recesses and alcoves for the pale nightmares that skittered through the dark, but found nothing. Slowly, her apprehension faded. Perhaps their party was too large, too much of a threat to the relics.

  And then she heard it, a low, rasping hiss, followed by another. And then another again.

  “Hurry!” Brayden urged, quickening his pace.

  Up ahead, a second gate blocked their way. With an outstretched hand the priest wrinkled the iron bars. Groaning, they fell to the side. As they did, a mournful wail rose up nearby, jerking Bela’s head to the side. At the end of its echo, another ghoulish howl rang out, and then one more, and then three or four. And then a ghastly chorus replied, a legion strong.

  “By the nine! Run!” the priest shouted.

  A thousand claws skittered on brick somewhere in the blackened beyond, hungry for flesh. Rasping breaths, deep and nasally, grew closer by the moment. A voice at the back of the line shrieked, mixed in
with a hungry snarl.

  Glancing up, Brayden slid to a stop. “Here! The manhole, this should be the docks.”

  Ezra climbed the rungs and heaved the lid to the side, before disappearing up above. At the rear, Bela could hear the wails of wounded relics and the terror-tinged shouts of the armsmen. A hand thrust down for the old priest, pulling him up, and then again for her.

  A dull, gray sky greeted Bela. It was late in the evening, though the clouds were too heavy to be certain just how late it was. Soot hung thick in the air as three more fires breathed grainy, black smoke. In the distance, the desperate cries of a battle lost could be heard.

  To her right, the Kaniere – a double-masted caravel with a tawny-brown hull and golden sails – waited at the end of a long pier. Atop its tall mast, a flag bearing the sigil of House Alexander whipped in the wind – Hell’s Gate, black on blood.

  As the men and women of the Brae emerged from the reeking sewers, a horde flooded around the far corner of a sundry shop and aimed for them. At its front marched a grim warrior, cloaked and cowled in sable, trimmed with red down the front. A howling gale swirled the fiend, revealing a cuirass gilded a dark shade of despair. Broadswords hung loose at his sides, glinting like brimstone despite the clouds. His face was sharp, like the edge of a gravestone, and his hair, the color of a crypt. Stopping, he eyed Ezra, before offering a deep-throated shriek, like daggers on a sepulcher. Bela’s blood ran cold.

  “Make for the ship!” Ezra shouted, pulling the last man from the hole as the Raven Knight and his Bluchnoire drew near. Gasping, Bela glanced about, searching for Altair, but he was nowhere to be found. “We have to go!” he shouted, pulling at her arm.

  “No!” she cried, jerking away. “Go! Leave me!”

  “Bela!”

  “I’m not leaving without him!”

  Defeated, Ezra turned and raced towards the ship. As he did, the crew unmoored the Kaniere and readied her sails. Slowly, she drifted away from her berth.

  The dark paladin leveled a sword at Bela and started towards her.

  Hands trembling, she pushed back her fear and spat, before raising her axe and stepping forward, leaving several long strides between herself and the start of the pier.