Blood and Iron 3

by Eli Steele

  As the men stepped through the maw, their torches illuminated the cave. Letting his fingers trace along the rough wall, Griffon led them single-file down the passage to the junction. It was just as Eldrick had described.

  “Tis a strange place, my lord,” Bo said.

  “Indeed,” the young Alexander replied, approaching the bust of the eagles, Elsie’s dream still on his mind. Craning his neck, he looked in the direction of the second head, down a corridor that appeared no different than the others. Pointing with his spear, he said, “This way.”

  The cavern cocooned into the belly of the mountain, its breadth broadening as it did, until finally, the three walked shoulder to shoulder. Stalactites plunged from the ceiling like icicles, while floor spires climbed high. Whatever water had conceived the formations was gone, having found some other path through the veins and fissures. Now, the space was bone dry. Occasionally, a column would split the path. Loose stones were piled in heaps along the walls, as if the way had been cleared.

  Crisp and cool, the air was pleasant to breathe in, the only pleasantry in the depths. The glow of the torches enveloped them, solitary spheres of light in an oppressive sea of darkness unending. They guarded their steps and hushed their tones, so as to lessen the echoes that carried deep into the unknown.

  “What do you suppose we’ll find down here?” Jarin whispered, after a long silence.

  “Perhaps something we shouldn’t,” Bo replied.

  Griffon wanted to interject, but thought better of it. The thick armsman could very well be right, for the world was not the same place he’d once imagined.

  Up ahead, the cavern narrowed by a man’s width as a threshold emerged from the gloom. It was arched, with false columns etched into the stone. A heavy iron gate hung agape.

  “What’s this doing so deep in a cave?” Bo asked.

  “One of two things,” Griffon said, stepping through with his spear leveled, “keeping something out, or keeping it in.”

  “Either way, it’s not doing its job open like that.”

  Past the gate, something glinted orange by the flames. The young Alexander knelt to find several silver coins laying tarnished on the floor. Gathering them up, he stood and leaned into the torchlight. Griffon spat and polished them in the palm of the Meronian’s black gauntlet. “More eagles…” he mused, studying their faces. “For a people so deep in the ground, they seem enamored by the sky…” Handing each man a coin, he pocketed the remaining pair.

  Beyond, the walls and ceiling disappeared beyond the reach of the torches. The young Alexander felt a presence, as irrational as it seemed in his mind. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of the expanse.

  Or perhaps something is here, watching us, stalking us, like a hawk over the fields…

  “Spread the flames out,” Griffon whispered, “but not too far, and let’s take it slow from here.”

  As they advanced, Jarin said, “Careful, there’s a ledge.”

  “Here, too,” replied Bo.

  The precipice drew them back together, until they converged upon a ledge jutting out into a shrouded abyss.

  “I don’t see any other way forward,” Griffon said, edging forward.

  The young Alexander reasoned it was much like walking the walls of the Brae on a moonless night, with all the braziers doused and nothing but a torch, though the stone belt was narrower by half. All around them was a blackened maw, with no hint of anything but the stone beneath their feet.

  “This is disorienting… what is this place?” Jarin asked no one in particular.

  “Just don’t fall,” remarked Bo. “But if you do, don’t reach for me.”

  Griffon and the oarsman snorted. Their humor instilled courage, though the feeling of being spied upon nagged at him still.

  Whatever it is – if anything – that could survive in a place like this, would certainly be a ghastly thing…

  Ahead, the stone curtain wall terminated at a rope bridge. Timber planks, well preserved by the cave’s atmosphere, stretched out before them.

  “All this, under the Brae? How could we not’ve known?” marveled the young Alexander.

  The skittering of feet echoed ten-fold and sounded like the march of a tender-footed army.

  “What was that?” whispered Jarin, drawing his hammer.

  “Shhh,” replied Griffon.

  Again the sound rolled across the obsidian gulf like the pattering of rain on a shield, or the clattering of ten-hundred arrows on the walls of the Brae.

  In silence, they waited for the sound to return, but it never did.

  “What do we do?” asked Bo.

  Stepping forward, the young Alexander said, “We’re too far to turn back now. Come on, keep me in your torch light.”

  Oh that I hope this thing loathes fire… Living here, I know I would…

  Glowing like fireflies, they traversed the bridge, swaying back and forth with the rhythm of their footfalls. Ropes groaned and timbers creaked, but the structure held fast.

  On the other side, a stone wall rose up from the ledge. Set on thick hinges was a heavy iron gate, like a portcullis, though it swung open rather than being drawn up.

  “My lord, this is strange indeed,” Bo whispered with raised hackles, his sword still drawn.

  Stepping through the gate, they found themselves in a courtyard. In the center was a tower hewn from a natural stone formation.

  It can’t be…

  “Give me your torch,” Griffon said. With it, he struck off across the space.

  “Where are you going?” Bo called out.

  “Come on,” the young Alexander said. “There’s a chapel over here.”

  “What?” the others replied, confused.

  Ahead of them, he chuckled before turning across the courtyard again.

  “M’lord-”

  “And over here will be a hall… and another… and a granary… This is incredible…”

  “How do you know this?” Jarin asked as he and Bo caught up.

  The armsman snorted upon realizing what Griffon had already seen. As their eyes met, they nodded. “It’s the Brae…”

  Chapter 36

  Rowan Vos

  The Cormorant

  Approaching Falasport

  “There she is,” Sutton said, “Falasport. The City of Sails.”

  “I thought we’d never arrive,” Kassina remarked.

  “A splintered mast and half a wind have a way of slowing you down,” he replied.

  “Hey!” shouted Rowan, climbing the ladder and stepping onto the helm. “Is that Falas?”

  “Indeed,” replied Howland, “and if it isn’t, it’ll do until we get there.”

  Kassina snickered.

  “So, now we have two smartass captains?”

  “All we do is ride the helm, hand to till, sun beating down on our backs, while you rabble of scurvs laze around the lower deck!” She looked at Sutton.

  “That was good,” he whispered, “better than I could’ve done.”

  “She doesn’t need your help being salty,” the thief snorted.

  A flock of gulls circled overhead, sounding as if they were choking on their calls; huoh-huoh, huoh-huoh-huoh!

  “That’s the only greeting we’re apt to get,” remarked Sutton.

  “Is Falasport a dangerous place?” she asked.

  “It’s a merchant city, and a big one at that. Ships from the farthest reaches of the Calisal, and the Sea of Shields, and beyond, come through here. It’s safe enough on the docks, and in the merchants’ quarters – as long as you check your wares and keep an eye on your purse – but beyond that, it’s like any other city – it tends to swallow up those that venture too far.”

  “Sounds like Ashmor,” Rowan replied.

  “It’s nothing like Ashmor,” corrected Howland. He mulled the thought in silence for a moment, before asking, “Have either of you ever been outside of Ashmor?”

  Kassina cut Rowan an eye, before rolling it.

  “Of course...” t
he thief said.

  “Where, then?” pressed the captain.

  “...We’ve been to Perk.”

  “What’s a perk?”

  * * * * *

  Soon enough, they drifted into Falasport Bay. A pair of jetties, lines of barnacle-covered rocks piled several feet above the high tide line, extended out from either side of the docks. While waves lapped the stones on the seaside, the water between the barriers was glassy flat.

  Piers and wharves and causeways spread like tendrils. Ships of all sizes, most larger than the lady Cormorant, breasted along the docks.

  “Why don’t we have a ship like that?” Rowan asked, pointing at a triple-masted caravel.

  Sutton scoffed, “Craft such as that require large crews and heavy maintenance and deep drafts.” Slapping the railing, he added, “Others may sail the open seas faster, but there are many places we can go that they can’t. Never count a shallow-water ship out of a fight.”

  White plaster walls climbed the hills beyond the docks. Tiled roofs, made from kiln-fired clay, contrasted with the blue waters and green hills and dusty-brown mountains. A wall twice as tall as Ashmor’s rose up from the waters a ship’s length past the shore on the outside of jetties, chasing after the rooftops.

  “Wow...” Kassina remarked.

  “Don’t let it fool you,” Howland cautioned, “every glimmer of light has its shadows.”

  They berthed along a stone causeway in a section reserved for smaller vessels. Merchant carts carried crates past the Cormorant into the city.

  As Ortun slid the gangway from the lady onto the stone pass, the captain planted a boot atop it, blocking the way.

  “We all know the rules; three by three, never alone. Unfamiliar ports harbor unforeseen threats, and I expect to leave here in two days’ time with a seaworthy ship and a full crew.”

  The men grunted their acknowledgements.

  “So, let’s run through the list. Stitch?”

  “Aye, captain. Poultices and tinctures and more sutures.”

  “Because we want your drunk arse sewing us up...” Sutton quipped, flashing a grin.

  The group chuckled. Stitch smiled with yellow teeth.

  “Stede...”

  “Aye, sir. Look for a good trade on the wine, and to reprovision, and to find some wares we can turn a profit on farther east.”

  “He means to sell our wine, boys!” Howland howled.

  Feigned protests and murmurs bubbled up.

  “Vane?”

  “Aye. Lumber and rope and nails, and then get started on the repairs.”

  “Take eight men with you, you’ll need the help.”

  Vane nodded.

  “Remember, there’s no open blades in the city, so it’s dirks and daggers and garrotes for the lot of you. And don’t get sideways with the sentries, they have a heavy hand here. The rest of you, make sure the vermin on these docks don’t pilfer our hold while the rest of us are gone. Understood?”

  Again grunts rose up.

  “Off with it then,” Howland said, “time’s short and the tide slips out, and only the devils know if she’s coming back.”

  Stepping forward, Rowan grabbed the captain by the sleeve while the other men filtered off the Cormorant. “You expect us to pull guard duty?”

  “I’d hoped you might.”

  “There’s no way I’m staying on board,” Kassina interjected.

  Leaning in, Sutton tilted up his hat and eyed them both. “Fine, but have your arses back on this boat before dusk falls. I ‘int sending out a search party if you get dragged out by this city’s undertow.”

  Rowan snorted. “We made our living in the alleys of Ashmor, we can handle an evening on the causeways of Falasport.”

  “As you wish,” Howland said, before stepping up onto the gangway, “but remember my words.”

  They followed behind him. “Wait, where are you going by yourself?” the thief asked.

  The captain winked. “I have business of my own to attend to.”

  * * * * *

  The sun was a dull yellow-orange and past its crest. Like a rose gold coin flicked into the air, it drew the eye to its majesty.

  Like the twelve pieces of olde Cyrene in the box with the locket...

  Salt air, stronger than Ashmor’s, blew in from the south atop the waves. Open air markets and vendor stalls lined the waterfront. Locals, sailors, and merchants alike bustled about, their banter blending into a dull drone, like a hive of portal bees. The aroma of roasted meats and vegetables, seasoned with bitter herbs and exotic spices, watered Rowan’s mouth.

  Stepping off the causeway, he took Kassina’s hand.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked, her voice tinged with surprise.

  “What does it look like?” he replied, with only a hint of sarcasm.

  “I thought… well, after the other day on the helm…”

  “I’m not sure what we’re supposed to be, Kass, but I know what we are – best friends… And I’m not losing my best friend on the streets of Falasport, so let’s just hold hands right now, and figure the rest out later.”

  She smiled. “That sounds pretty good to me.”

  Up ahead, kebabs sizzled and popped over hot embers beside a market stall. An intoxicating haze hung in its vicinity, drawing near the hungry.

  “We have to try that,” she urged.

  Stepping forward, Rowan retrieved several silvers and shouldered up to the low counter. “What’s on the sticks?”

  A short merchant with round, yellow eyes replied, “Pork and lamb from the surrounding hills – slaughtered only this morning – onions, garlic, peppers, mushrooms, and rum apples fresh off the Gawler.”

  The thief traded the merchant two coins – silver-copper alloys – for as many kebabs. Turning, he handed one to Kassina and they continued down the waterfront.

  Taking a bite, Rowan asked, “What do you think?”

  Kassina pulled a clove of garlic and a hunk of steaming pork off the stick with her fingers, before popping them in her mouth. “Mmm, it’s delicious.”

  Glancing across the street, Rowan snorted.

  “What?” she replied, still focused on the kabab. Looking up, she giggled. “This place keeps getting better!”

  Hats of all types – hennins, toques, chaperons and more – of all shapes and colors and sizes, adorned a tailor’s booth. Rowan selected a tan hat, wide-brimmed like Sutton’s, and pulled it down on her head, tilting it slightly to one side.

  Stepping back, she whirled, “How do I look?”

  “Like you’re owed your own ship,” he replied, smiling.

  “Pay the man, Rowan, I must have it!” she implored with the mocking tones of a lady-in-waiting.

  After a short haggle, the thief settled with the merchant and they continued on. Pushing through the crowd, they took in the sights and sounds and smells of the Falasport harborwalk.

  A long-tailed sala monkey, the likes of which they’d never seen, danced to the airy songs of a lute. Rowan held out a copper and the creature dawdled up and swiped it from his hand, sniffed it, and dropped it in his troubadour master’s hat.

  Farther on, street minstrels dueled with flute and fiddle while performance bards danced to the feverish rhythm with brightly-colored streamers in their hands. Rowan and Kassina joined the ring of spectators, laughing, and clapping, and swaying.

  The thief watched the captain-to-be as she moved to the music, her sapphire eyes ablaze with life, yellow-brown hair dancing out from underneath her felt hat, and felt a great debt to Falasport for the gift it had given them, while wishing it could last forever.

  After a time, they neared the edge of the docks. Beside a street that spilled into the harborwalk, a sign swayed in the sea breeze. White paint flaked off splintering planks:

  The Haughty Bawd

  Exotic Wine and Piss Pale Ale

  Two Blocks North

  “The Haughty Bawd? We can’t not go there,” she remarked.

  “The sun’s dropping lo
w, perhaps we should turn-“

  “Come on, Ro. I don’t want this day to end yet… Do you?”

  “Well-“

  “It’s settled, then!” she said, taking his hand and pulling him up the cobblestone street.

  As they ascended Graver’s Way, the songs of the minstrels and the sounds of the crowd faded, until it was only a hint in their ears. The throngs feathered out until it was just they. Exactly two blocks north, just as the sign had promised, was The Haughty Bawd. A second sign, same as the first, hung over an arched door alcoved into a stone wall. Ivy crawled up lines of mortar and stretched across the stones however it fancied.

  Stopping at the stoop, Rowan said, “Two drinks and we’re gone.”

  “Three and we flip for a fourth,” she countered.

  Five and I carry you to the Cormorant...

  Music spilled out as they stepped in. Balladeers sang of damsels slaying dragons with the swords of their dead lovers, while strumming citterns and gitterns. A raucous crowd shouted off-tune and always one word behind them, clinking pints and sloshing ale.

  “It looks like the Flagon,” she whispered, aiming for her usual seat at any tavern, facing away from the door.

  “Only, larger, louder, and likely more profitable,” he retorted, following after her.

  “Two pitchers!” she shouted, flashing a coin. Glancing over, she winked and shrugged. “You said only two...”

  The bartender was quick for a large man. Slamming down the ale and a pair of mugs on the counter, he swiped her coin and nodded. “M’lady,” he said with a warm smile, before wiping his brow and whirling to tend to the other patrons.

  “Thanks, Gib!” she replied out of habit.

  Rowan’s heart sank as the realization washed over her face. He poured their glasses full and drew his near.

  A single tear streamed down her cheek. “Even on a day as magical as this, we can’t escape our past...”