by Eli Steele
“It’s been my honor to serve you, m’lord,” the smith said.
Havar nodded in agreement with Gorv’s words.
Clearing his throat again, Dhane said, “We should go, else we may miss the battle.”
In front of the smithy, in the middle of the street, the marshal stopped. “My lord, I would have but a moment.”
“Speak quickly, Havar. The swords of Beyorn approach.”
The man glanced about, searching for words. “War is a terror, sir. It leaves none unscathed, maiming one side and killing the other. It has pained me to see you struggle. You are the firstborn of House Dhane, a name that may carry more love with the people than the lord king’s own...”
“You shouldn’t speak such words, Havar.”
But he continued. “...You are royalty of Meronia. And you fought bravely at the Barbeau Pass. It was not the gods’ will that you should prevail that day, but today they are with us, I know it. Lead us, my lord, with honor.”
Oh, Havar, I am a coward before Beyorn and a coward before an old man. And if you knew my secrets, you would not follow me into battle, of this I am certain...
* * * * *
Byron walked the crest of the hill, behind the spears and shield wall. The men were lowborn, and nervous, and would’ve rathered been tending to the flocks, or thatching roofs, or whatever it was that poor did during the winter. Gone was the thrill of war unseen. Silence gripped the line, save for hushed voices. Few men at the front of any battle were ever haughty.
Across the field of knee-high grass browning under the icy breath of winter, out of arrow range, the men of Beyorn mustered. They were disorganized still, but were transitioning from marching to battle formations. Byron watched a tower of a man ride their line and bestir his soldiers.
So it has come, the time for words... But what do I say, hold fast, when I myself couldn’t do the same?
Glancing to his right, he saw the spikes and hellhorses just below. Their presence bestowed courage. They were the thing that the tower of a man did not know of, and perhaps, the battle would turn on them.
“Men of Meronia,” he shouted. “Fathers and sons. Look to your left, and to your right; these are heroes in waiting, for today we will avenge not just a battle but thirty years of oppression!”
Men answered with grunts of affirmation, but little else.
I can work with that...
“Thirty years ago, they drained our coffers with their reparations, and took our only ocean port, ensuring we would remain impoverished. Ensuring we would remain under their boot.”
Shouts tinged with anger rose up in response.
“But you don’t care about such things, and I don’t fault you. You care that your sons grow up without a future, and that your daughters are stillborn. And why?” Pointing across the field, he said, “Because those very men, those bastards, took any chance you had at prosperity.”
The embers Byron had stoked were ablaze. The line roared, echoed by those in the back and to the sides.
“This ends here!” Dhane shouted.
“This ends here, this ends here!”
Across the field, the commander saw the same scene unfolding as the tower frenzied his own side.
Riders emerged from around the distant shield wall, the sounds of galloping horses intensifying as they drew near.
“This is what you trained for!” Byron shouted. “They are dead already! Remember the horns!” He found himself charging down the ranks, correcting and encouraging and holding the line. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Havar and Weston Volf and the other marshals doing the same. Looking back, he spied the silhouette of Lothe in the south gate’s watchtower.
You better have a spell up your sleeve, spawn of the nine...
The charging knights and armsmen cleared the final hill between them. At the front was the same tower of a man, their apparent leader.
Blue plate mail glistened in the sun. He raised a mace, long as some men were tall, high overhead. His helm was shaped like a bear aroar, a symbol of his house no doubt.
On either side rode knights with spears in hand, leaning forward in the saddle. They looked like dwarflings next to the blue tower.
By the heavens, help us if that one doesn’t die by the spikes...
“Steady! Swords and spears of King Bathild, hold your ground!”
A terrifying rumble chased the charge, like a storm born of slaughter. Dhane’s heart raced with the blistering cadence of hell’s hoofbeats.
Men inched back, anxious, fearful, anticipating the horns. The commander longed to hear their blast, too. “Hold, hold!” he urged over the clamor of horses and riders and shield bearers.
The blue tower was halfway up the hill, moments from plowing through line. His destrier was gray like a rotting corpse, with eyes that loathed and nostrils that flared steam. A blue gilded shaffron of solid plate steel protected its forehead down to its muzzle, while a peytrel of blued ring mail chinked and waved with its powerful legs.
The horns aren’t coming... and we shall all die on this day...
Stepping forward, Byron joined his shield to the wall and braced for impact. As he did, a low blast from two dozen ox horns resounded. Deep and throaty, they carried across the hills to the front line.
“Fall back! Move your asses!” Dhane shouted, scrambling back himself. Several strides away, it seemed a lifetime separated him from the protection of the spikes and hellhorses.
The Meronian line folded inward. Men grasped and shoved and pulled themselves ahead. Panicked shouts and chaos uncontrolled consumed the hill. Meanwhile, the riders raised their swords and steadied their spears and neared the point of no return.
The commander squeezed between a pair of hellhorses and continued on for several strides, before turning back. Planting his right foot forward, an unnatural stance and one he was still learning, he gripped Lordsbane low at his side and prepared for the looming clash. In those waning moments, he focused on his breathing, and pushed back all the niggling doubts and dreads that mattered not in the moment, and labored against his narrowing field of vision as he always did in the fog of battle.
Come on… Come on, you bastards...
In those last moments, at the crest of the hill, the blue tower jerked his reins, whirling his mountain of a destrier. To his sides and rear, knights and armsmen did the same, abandoning their charge. Horses peeled left and right, before slowing and turning back to their front line.
They knew...
Several foolhardy spears roared and surge forward in pursuit of the retreating riders.
“Hold!” Byron shouted. “Hold your ground!”
But it was too late. A few drew out a few dozen, and they, more still. Like the breaking of a dam, there was no holding the surge back. Hundreds of men spilled forward, despite the sounding of the horns and the cries of their commander.
As quick as they’d withdrawn their charge, the blue tower and his knights abandoned their retreat. Swinging wide, they circled back and flanked the scattered mass of swords and spears.
“It was a ruse...” Byron said aloud to no one. Incapable of aiding the men, he watched helplessly as they were cut down by the riders.
Men were lifted off the ground by heavy strokes from the blue tower’s mace. The front line’s morale wavered as they looked on. Beyond the slaughter, Beyorn’s shields advanced, their archers a safe distance behind.
Dhane shouted, “Form a wall! Behind the hellhorses, now!” Turning, he raised Lordsbane towards the bows; arrows nocked in response.
As the last of the hopelessly damned fell, the knights of the south withdrew behind the advancing line.
Over two thousand arrows climbed into the sky from both sides of the battlefield, before arcing and plummeting to the ground again. Barbed iron found dirt, and banded wood, and soft flesh. Wails and howls rose up from the hills.
Raising his shield, the commander leaned into the wall of men as fletched dread rained down from overhead. Beside him, a man dropp
ed to the ground with a gurgle as an arrow found a gap between the shields and sunk into his neck.
“Tighten the line!” Byron ordered.
Twice again the quivers feasted before the sides met.
“Dig in your feet!” Dhane growled as the men of Beyorn loosened their wall to press past the rows of spikes. Meronian arrows whirred nigh overhead, seeking victims in the gaps.
A collective groan rose up from the lines as more than three thousand shields slammed against each other. Byron sprinted down the wall, looking for breaches to reinforce.
Men cursed and strained and thrust forward their swords and spears, blindly seeking foes inches away. The line of Beyorn pressed forward as one to the cadence of war drums, earning a half-stride and Meronian losses with each foreboding tone.
“Dig in!” Dhane shouted, but it was no use. Experience outmatched their greater numbers of lowborn. With every beat of the drum, blood spilled and they were pushed closer to the trenches in the valley below.
Realization and panic swept the line as Beyorn’s momentum swelled. The tempo of the battle increased with the drums, until the fits and starts of movement was a full on press. All over, the line broke and soldiers were cut down where they stood, or ground underfoot by the advancing mass. Others turned and fled, leaving the men to their left and right exposed.
“Fall back!” Byron shouted dejectedly.
Soldiers dropped their weapons and leapt over the ditch, racing up towards the archers, who let loose one final volley before fleeing as well. The commander smashed a charging swordsman in the helm with Lordsbane, caving in iron and bone, before turning and vaulting over the trench.
As the last of the men of Meronia cleared the gap, the ground trembled. Both sides looked on in bewilderment as the shallow ditch yawned open. Sheets of earth slid into the maw, dragging in the nearest men with it. Those that weren’t consumed were shaken from their feet. Looking back, Dhane saw Lothe collapse in the watchtower.
Giving one last glance to the battlefield, the commander locked eyes with the blue tower atop his gray destrier. “This ends nothing!” the Beyornian roared, raising his visor. “The pits of the nine aren’t wide enough to protect you from me!”
The words on his shield stared back mockingly.
We Light the Way…
Chapter 35
Griffon Alexander
Braewood Keep
Kingdom of Beyorn
Griffon knocked on the door. After a moment, it cracked open, spilling lilac into the hallway and filling his nostrils.
There is nothing more alluring in this frigid Keep.
Hazel eyes peeked through the gap. “Yes, my lord?” Elsie said.
Her mouth was hidden behind the door. He wondered if she was smiling; he wanted her to be smiling.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She stepped out from behind the door wearing a linen dress, long and flowing and white, popular among the ladies in Galaia, but far too light for the Brae. Over it, she wore a heavy fur coat that landed at the middle of her thighs.
“If you must,” she acquiesced, “but the women of this keep whisper more than you know. There’s not much else to talk about here, it seems.”
“Would the great hall breed less gossip?”
“It would indeed, my lord,” she beamed.
“Walk with me then.”
The hall was close, and Griffon was grateful. He wanted to reach out and grab her hand, but thought better of it. What would his lady mother say? He already knew. She’d scold him for leading on a lady-in-waiting from a lower house, and would forbid further contact.
But Elsie was a Ross, and they had a keep, though it held little strategic importance anymore. It did span a narrow neck, which protected Galaia, but the Summer City hadn’t been threatened for over two hundred years.
And their influence was waning, much like the Alexanders. Eastern Beyorn, and the houses that laid claim to it, were too far removed from Avendor to maintain their standing in the court of Alfred. Furthermore, three decades of prosperity had mitigated the opportunities for prestige earned through victories on the battlefield, or even strength through strategic holdings.
They strolled on in silence, both wanting to speak, but neither knowing what to say. The great hall was empty, save for them, so they took seats at the lower table across from each other, to further curtail any gossip.
A decanter and several goblets sat on the table between them.
“Care for a drink?” he asked.
“Perhaps just a bit, but no more. Your mother can smell a soured grape from across the room.”
“Can she? I’ve never noticed,” he replied, winking. Pushing a goblet across the table, he filled his own to the brim.
She smirked and traded back a wink. “She is a good lady, though. It has been an honor to serve her here.”
“She thinks highly of you.”
“And you.”
Griffon chuckled. “I’m her son, she has to.”
“Perhaps,” Elsie conceded, “but I believe my mother would sooner deny my brothers at times...”
“The Rosses can be wild, or so I’ve heard.”
She rolled her eyes with a smile. “It is true, but they are fiercely loyal, too.”
“Family is Paramount...”
Biting her lip, she replied, “You know our words?”
“The Lady Alyna insisted on a broad education for her only child.”
“Why is that? I mean, why did they not have other children?”
Griffon downed a mouthful of wine, before leaning back and considering the question.
“If I offended-“
“It’s alright,” he replied. “There were... complications. I was nearly lost, and so was she. Father Alden said she could never have another child, or she would surely die. It devastated her and father both. Every lord and lady dreams of a house full of children, but all they got was me. I used to blame myself when I was younger...” Taking another gulp of wine, he placed his goblet on the table.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t know...” Leaning forward, she placed her hand atop his.
Electricity surged up his arm, but he did not recoil. Instead, he gazed into her eyes without words.
Blushing, she sat upright. “Forgive me, my lo-“
“There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” he interjected.
Averting her stare, she said, “You did not call me here to speak of such things...”
“Indeed... I would like to discuss your dream; the vision.”
Melancholy swept her face. Shifting in her seat, she replied, “I would rather not, if-“
“Elsie, please, this is important.”
Sighing, she closed her eyes for a moment and composed herself. When she opened them again, she downed the goblet and filled it anew. “It has haunted me ever since I saw the first wisp of smoke over the forest... And I’m sure they told you that I wept unending until your return.”
Furrowing his brow, he said, “What? No one said a thing-“
“Oh, damn my mouth!” She shouted, before cupping it with both hands.
Griffon bellowed with laughter. “I’ve never heard you swear before, my lady…”
Eyes wide and glancing about, Elsie managed an embarrassed giggle.
After the air had settled, she asked, “What does it mean? How could I dream such a thing before it happens?”
“I don’t know. Have you had any others?”
Wrinkling her nose, she searched her mind. After a time, she said, “I don’t believe so.”
“You’ve had no dreams about any caves, have you?”
She shook her head. “None. What is this about?”
“Nothing, perhaps,” he replied. Standing, he said, “Thank you, Elsie. I suppose I should be off.”
“Of course, my lord.”
As he reached the threshold, she said, “Wait.”
“Yes?”
“I did have the one... though it’s probably no
thing...”
“What was it, Elsie?”
“It was an eagle and a raven, but the eagle was strange, not like others...”
“How was it different?”
“I cannot remember, only that it was strange. They were fighting, and the raven wounded the eagle. It seemed mortal...”
“Did the eagle die?” he asked.
“I’m not certain, that is all I saw. Does this help?”
“I’m not sure.” And with that, he left.
* * * * *
“Are you sure?” Eldrick asked.
Griffon nodded. “Jarin and Bo, that’s all I need. It’s just a cave. I could probably do with just Bo.”
“Take them both, and I wish you’d have Ezra, too.”
“I think it’s more likely that you’ll need him atop the wall, than I will underneath.”
“Very well then, but be careful, and we will see you on your return.”
Rubble still lay on the floor where Eldrick had smashed through the dungeon wall. Griffon gave the torchlit space one last look before stepping through the breach and into the cave, spear of the Uhnan’akk hunter in hand. He thought of the dire bear as the glow of the dungeon faded. At the edge of darkness, he waited on the others.
Bo was shorter than most, and was thick with muscle insulated by a layer of fat, his ‘winter coat,’ as he called it. Light-brown hair, trimmed short, matched his beard. He wore leather over wool, and carried a sword sheathed and torch in hand.
Jarin was an oarsman and it showed. All sinew and sun-baked skin, he bore hard-earned calluses on his hands and a chest that was as broad as a destrier. Sable black hair hung just past his eyebrows. He’d come with Eldrick bearing a saber better suited for the close-quarters of ship skirmishes, but had traded it after the Battle of Hell’s Gate for a warhammer and a round shield, both strapped to his back.