Blood and Iron 3

by Eli Steele

  Rowan leaned hard against the roll to maintain his balance. A pair of voices from the bow shouted back at them, while the ship groaned and creaked.

  “Sutton…”

  “Ignore it. To hell with it all,” he replied. “Focus...”

  Kassina did as he instructed and pushed back the fear. Furrowing her brow, she looked beyond the bow and eased the tiller back with the wind rather than fighting against it. After several uneasy moments, the ship righted. Relieved, Kassina let out a deep sigh.

  “How’d you do that?” Rowan exclaimed.

  “While you’ve been down in the hold, flicking flames about, I’ve been up here learning to sail.” Her words were fearless, but the thief watched her hands tremble as she passed the tiller back to the captain.

  “Before we reach Thim Dorul, she’ll be wanting her own ship.” Howland quipped.

  Incredulous at what he’d witnessed, Rowan replied, “I don’t doubt it.” Making their way back to the main deck, he whispered, “You said I’ve been flicking flames... so you did see it?”

  “Maybe…” she replied.

  * * * * *

  As the sky dusked, the winds lay low, leaving the Cormorant on a slow drift to the southwest. The sky glowed the color of a growing heartache as the evening sun sunk into the Sea of Shields. First, it was blue, and then blood red, before fading to black through a purple so regal they felt like royalty on the deck. Rowan and Kassina lay on their backs near the bow, gazing at the stars as they twinkled out of their hiding places and into the velvety sky. Behind them, the crew readied their lady for the night.

  “Here we are,” he said. “On our backs, just like you said…”

  She sighed but said nothing, enjoying the lap of the waves and the salt air and the chance of a star shot across the expanse. After a time, she whispered, “Maybe I made a mistake...”

  “What do you mean?”

  “...Thim Dorul.” Rolling onto an elbow, she added, “It’s not too late. We could stop at any of twenty ports along the way and set up shop in a new city.”

  “I could go back to burgaling...”

  “And when we had the money, we could open up another Flame & Flagon.”

  “There’s only one Flagon, Kass.”

  “So we name it something else,” she said, “What do you think?”

  “Father Brayden said something to me the last time I was with him, before...” his voice trailed off for a time, before he continued. “He said he wished I would take up something respectable. He’d told it a hundred times before and I never heard him, but I keep seeing him saying those words in my dreams. Like one of Orick’s visions, it keeps kicking around in my head.

  We can’t go back to who we were, Kass, too much has happened. But there’s nothing else we know how to do, except this. We know how to get to Thim Dorul. You were right on that dock, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I wasn’t sure then, but I am now. There’s nowhere else in this world that we can go that we won’t look back one day and regret.”

  “But what do we do when we get there? How do we even find these people?”

  Closing his eyes, he gripped the blade and found his focus and searched the blood that coursed through his veins. After a time, he replied, “I haven’t a clue.”

  Chapter 28

  Byron Dhane

  Meronian Encampment

  Outside of Bearbrook

  Kingdom of Meronia

  Byron Dhane leaned back in his chair, propping his feet atop a crate. He wobbled a bit, mostly from the uneven ground. Mostly.

  Cold air filled the yurt. Of all his foes, and there were many, winter forgave the least. From outside, the stench and raucousness of the encampment permeated the thin-stretched skins and invaded his space.

  And it no longer pleased him, none of it did.

  With one hand, he brought the onyx pipe to his lips, its embers still glowing. Frost white with streaks of gray and cold in his hands, it reminded him of the weather. With his other hand...

  ...He didn’t do anything, because he didn’t have another hand. Because he was too arrogant to treat a lordling with the respect he deserved. Instead, his stump bumped the flagon of wine, past the point where he still felt the ghosts of his fingers, and tipped it over.

  Rocking back, he cursed. The legs creaked, before splintering just below the seat. He landed hard on the floor.

  “Son of a bitch!” He shouted, kicking at the crate and laying his head back in the dirt.

  The old mage in the dark green robe pushed through the tent flap, allowing a swirl of chill air in with him. Standing over Byron, he shook his head and rasped, “That your lord father should see you, pathetic…”

  “Choose your hell, Lothe,” Byron replied, “any of the nine, and go there.”

  The mage chuckled. “Some are better than others.”

  “You would know,” the commander muttered to himself. Groaning, he grabbed his pipe and stood. His head swam.

  Sniffing his breath, Lothe quipped, “Drunk again?”

  Byron took a pull from the pipe, but did not reply.

  The old mage stepped forward and pointed a crooked finger at him. “You would do well to accept your losses, all of them, and count yourself fortunate that you yet live. A commander that abandons his men is more often than not met by the cheers of the gallows-watchers on his return.”

  “What choice did I have? I did not have a hand to hold a sword…”

  “I care not for your excuses…” Lothe sighed, before adding, “You will be pleased to know that I have obscured the circumstances surrounding your survival, despite your humiliating failure. This army – these people who hold you in such high regard – will not know you as the coward that you truly are, so long as I will it. Do you understand?”

  Byron nodded, hanging his head.

  “Now, you are the leader of my army-“

  “I command the king’s army.”

  “And the king’s army is my army,” Lothe snarled. “Do not make me remind you again. Now, ready your newly arrived. The winds whisper to me. Alfred’s army musters at the Barbeau Pass.”

  Byron’s head snapped up. “How many?”

  “Twenty-five hundred seasoned swords. And five hundred pikes and bows from Ashmor will join them before they march north.”

  “What? They would come beyond the Brae?”

  The old mage chuckled. “They do not fear you, Dhane, for they see you as weak. But we will meet them on the hills of Bearbrook, and they will be humbled.”

  “When?”

  “That I do not yet know, but I will,” Lothe said, before withdrawing from the yurt.

  * * * * *

  Pushing the tent flap aside, Byron emerged and surveyed the camp. Two thousand men from Dornfel still filtered in, matching the two thousand that they had required of Bearbrook. The men were young and able and excited, and might never know the extent of the defeat at the Brae, nearly a week ago now.

  His right arm throbbed just above the wrist from the cold. Cenrik, the mage who rotted in what was left of the Braewood Forest, had numbed the wound so that he could cauterize it. There had been no pain until Cenrik fell. The moment he did, Byron had doubled over in the saddle. Now, it nagged him with its ache, dulled from the poultices, though not enough. He had refused to ask Lothe to soothe it once again. The commander reasoned he would sooner die than owe a debt to the old mage.

  “My lord,” Havar said, joining him in step, “how is your hand?”

  “The one is fine,” Byron retorted, “but the other is lacking…”

  “I’m sorry, I mean-“

  “I know what you meant,” Byron interrupted, “it’s fine.”

  Havar was the only marshal under his command that had survived the burning of the Braewood, and one of maybe a hundred soldiers in all. They had converged on the road north of the forest and returned to Bearbrook, and to Lothe.

  It unnerved Byron that the old mage had muddled the men’s minds by uttering but a few words. Though th
e hundred recalled the battle, they knew little of the defeat and nothing of their retreat. Walking beside Havar the commander felt ashamed, as if he was hiding some terrible secret from his captain, and in fact he knew he was.

  “The sons of Dornfel look strong,” the marshal said, smiling. “They should serve us well. And they are anxious for southron blood.”

  “You seem anxious yourself” Byron replied as they strolled past a cauldron of stew warming over red embers. Potatoes and carrots and bitter herbs, the smell watered his mouth.

  “That I am, sir. Revenge is owed.”

  “What offends you most about our loss?”

  Byron watched as the marshal furrowed his brow and dredged his mind, searching for specifics of the battle, though none came. After a time, he replied, “Everything, sir.”

  Dhane wanted to probe the man’s memory more, but thought better of it. Nothing good could come of remembering. Perhaps Lothe was wise in his decision.

  “What is the latest of the men from the west?” The commander asked.

  “Knights and archers from Vallon and Nuram should arrive on the morrow, and House Volf, the day after.”

  “That would put our number at five thousand fighting men?”

  “Slightly more,” replied Havar.

  “That should do.”

  Through the camp they continued. With Bearbook immediately to the north, the winds were lessened. Smoke hung low around the tents, and with it, some warmth. The heavy lop of axes against trees carried over the hills.

  “The logs can feed the fires,” Byron said, “but have them save the strong branches. We’ll need hellhorses.”

  “But why would we fashion them here?”

  “Because Beyorn will march on us.”

  Havar furrowed his brow. “How do you know?”

  “Because I know, and that is all that matters.”

  In silence they walked for a time. At the edge of the encampment horses grazed on browning hills. Men crossed swords and stretched their bows and expended the nervous energy that sprouted from waiting.

  The wind was stronger out from the yurts. Byron’s cracked lips burned and his arm ached. “There,” he said, pointing with his left, “the second hill, do you see it?”

  Havar nodded.

  “Our archers shall be there. And the one beyond, our swords and spears. But just this side of the third crest, set spikes and build hellhorses. And dig a trench between our swords and bows.”

  “Sir, you want the spikes set behind our infantry?”

  “I do.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “But you will. That’s all for now, then,” Byron said. As his marshal left, he added, “One more thing…”

  “What is it, my lord?”

  It was a topic he’d avoided. He couldn’t bring himself to visit a smith, and he’d been ashamed to ask for the favor. Byron sighed. “Battle approaches and I have no sword, nor would I fool myself into thinking I can swing one with my left. Find me a weapon that I can wield, considering my… limitations.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And a shield,” Byron added, raising his right, “find a way to fasten a shield to this useless nub.”

  Chapter 29

  Eldrick D’Eldar

  Braewood Keep

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Smoke hazed the great hall, a combination of pipes and candles and the belching of the hearth when the wind stole into the chimney. The smell of roasted boar, fresh-baked bread, and tobacco were heavy in the air.

  Heavy tapestries adorned the walls, much like in the throne room, each telling a different story. Some detailed battles long past, while others depicted Baron’s forebears. Eldrick preferred those that portrayed the legends of the Alexanders the most. Of all the houses, this one seemed to understand the sway that lore held with the lowborn.

  Though not great by any measure but in name only, the hall accommodated the guests with some room to spare. While it may have sat in the sole mountain pass between northeast Beyorn and southeast Meronia, the Brae was not located along a route that required much hosting of guests, honored or otherwise.

  Alyna had retired to the bower with her ladies after the briefest of introductions. Eldrick had seen no protest in the Lord Baron’s eyes, and imagined the exchange before the feast. Baron would have agreed and may even have suggested the arrangement, presuming a smaller audience might stifle Reyland’s bluster. It was a fine ploy, but Eldrick doubted its effectiveness.

  The giant doesn’t do it for show, it’s in his blood…

  At the low table, Reyland’s marshals congregated at one end. Eldrick eyed them from the dais. Though not as caustic as their commander, his poisoned personality reflected in them.

  Ezra, Mery, Father Alden, Jarin, Bo, and a dozen other oarsmen and armsmen of the Brae sat at the opposite end of the table. D’Eldar reasoned their presence was less about honoring their guests, and more for insurance against drawn swords.

  Only Baron, Griffon, Eldrick, and Reyland sat atop the dais at the lord’s table. Loaves of bread, half-eaten but still warm, surrounded platters of meat and vegetables. The spy buttered a slice of bread before dipping it in a silver boat of gravy and pushing it into his mouth. He’d found that the more time he spent chewing, the less apt he was to speak his mind to Mace.

  Reyland’s appetite was as enormous as his frame. Grease dribbled off his stubbled chin as he peeled meat off the head of the boar itself, chasing it with scallions and tankards of ale.

  Beguiling in appearance, his eyes – one brown and the other cobalt blue – prowled the room. Brown hair, short against his head, looked as if it had been trimmed with a broad axe.

  “So,” Baron said, “twenty-five hundred men…”

  Mouth full, the giant nodded. “The finest swords in Beyorn.”

  “That’s a lot men to feed, should we find ourselves in a prolonged siege.”

  Shaking his head, Mace replied, “Oh, no my lord. There shall be no siege, not here at least. I mean to bloody the bastards where they abide.”

  “Reyland, I don’t understand. Why would-“

  Interrupting the elder Alexander, the giant replied, “I was not sent here to hide behind the walls of this keep. I mean to cut them down and be done with this shithole by spring.”

  Astonishment gripped the table. “This is not wise,” Baron replied, “you should hold here and let them come to us.”

  “Did fifty of your men not slay a thousand?”

  “That was different, Reyland. You of all men know that. We were behind these walls. The fires pushed those that weren’t consumed into the field and we slaughtered them for it. You won’t have circumstances the same on the open hills to the north.”

  The giant snorted. “These aren’t lowborn pikes that I’ve with me. We are the soldiers of Houses Saxton and Mace and Bevern and others, battle-hardened men.”

  “From putting down peasant revolts and sell-swording yourselves on the mainland,” Eldrick muttered to himself.

  “What was that?” snarled Mace. “Speak up, so that I may hear you.”

  The spy raised his eyes, meeting the giant’s, but did not reply.

  Palms down, Baron raised his hands between the men. “Enough of your shit,” he snapped with a rare unguarded tone. “The both of you.”

  The great hall grew silent as the men at the lower table turned their attention up to the dais. Reyland seethed, the scar on his face turning red as fresh blood, but said nothing.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Eldrick replied begrudgingly.

  The lord of the keep continued, “In case anyone cannot recall, every man here is Alfred’s. Especially the two of you. Now, Reyland, what Eldrick means to say is that while your force is far more skilled, he is afraid you may be planning to fight the last war with Meronia. This one may prove to be far different. There are more than mere men in their ranks.”

  “Mages?” Mace quipped. Leaning back, he crossed his arms.

  “I have seen them
with my own eyes,” added Griffon.

  “Charlatans, pretenders… A mage hasn’t strode this land for two hundred years, if ever. The fog of war deceives the untrained eye, lordling.”

  “Always as ever…” Eldrick replied, “an arrogant fool.”

  Standing, Reyland leered at the spy. “Lord Baron, your feast was a welcome respite from the road, though I fear the company may be sourer still than the wine.” The twelve marshals stood also.

  “By your leave, my lord,” the giant added.

  Baron nodded. “Mery, please, show our guests out.”

  As they left, the elder Alexander said, “I shall retire to my chambers, this has been as pleasurable as holding the wall.”

  Griffon eyed Eldrick. “That man is truly an ass.”

  Snorting, the spy looked away. “Of the highest order.”

  “Is he always like that?”

  Leaning back, Eldrick sighed. “Mace is a wartime general forever in search of a fight. Peace and prosperity have been hard on him.”

  “Why doesn’t Alfred dispose of him?”

  Downing his goblet of wine, Eldrick replied, “He’s effective. If you revolt, and he’s sent to put you down...” the spy shook his head. “There’s a reason Beyorn has been without unrest for so long.”

  Elbows on the table, Griffon leaned forward. “And he seems to particularly loathe you...”

  D’Eldar rubbed his temples. “After all my years, and everything I’ve sacrificed, one day, this kingdom will spit me out. And it will be because of that man.”

  “Why?”

  “The court cowers before him, but I refuse to. I don’t care if he is our lord’s commander, and the heir of House Mace, he is insolent and I’ve not the patience for it.”

  As the room emptied, Ezra approached the dais. “Some meal,” he said with a chuckle, plunging a hand into his coat pocket. Producing a piece of parchment, he unfurled it on the table. Eldrick pushed back a trencher and his goblet.

  “What’s this?” Griffon asked.

  “Areas of the wall that have lost their core,” replied Ezra.