Blood and Iron 3

by Eli Steele

Rowan sighed. She was right. He knew he couldn’t fix what was broken inside her – inside them both – so instead he said, “I miss him, too...”

  Downing her pint, she poured herself another before topping his off. “Will it ever get easier?”

  “...In time, I hope it will, but we’ll never forget Gib.”

  “No,” she said, raising her glass, “we won’t...”

  Clinking his foggy mug against hers, the thief said, “To old friends...”

  “...and companions,” she added.

  Together, they downed their drinks.

  “Ale’s better than they advertised,” Rowan said.

  Kassina giggled. “What’d it say? Piss stale ale?”

  “Piss pale.”

  Laughing, she siphoned off the pitchers again. “Falasport has proven bittersweet...”

  “More sweet than bitter,” he added.

  She watched another couple, an older lady and sir, at the end of the bar. The lady looked a bit overindulged as she rested her head against the man’s shoulder. Kassina smiled. “I have a confession,” she whispered, still watching the elderly pair.

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed...” Turning to Rowan, she said, “I think I’m falling in love with my best friend...”

  “...Are you drunk?” he replied, avoiding the subject.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe...”

  For someone that drinks as much as you, one would think you could handle a pitcher of ale…

  “...But what if I’m not?” she added.

  Sapphire eyes pierced his own. “Then I’d say... just give him time... he’s afraid to lose his friend, he’s already lost so much...”

  Kassina snorted. “Oh, you think I mean you? I’m talking about Sutton!”

  “Howland? The bastard hasn’t bathed since we left Ashmor! You are drunk!”

  Leaning back, she let out a deep laugh, nearly tumbling backwards. As Rowan thrust an arm behind her, she leaned in and kissed him. “Best friend, or otherwise,” she whispered, “I wouldn’t rather be anywhere but here with you.”

  “I feel the same way,” he replied.

  “We rent the rooms upstairs by the ‘our!” the bartender bellowed for the benefit of the entire bar. “Downstairs is the Bawd, up there’s the brothel!” With that, the crowd roared and catcalled, urging Rowan on.

  Kassina flushed red as a lady’s summer dress, a rarity.

  Draining the last of the ale from the pitcher, Rowan nodded at the bartender, slapped a silver on the counter, and said, “Now that we’ve drawn the attention of the entire tavern, shall we go?”

  Tottering off the stool, she replied, “Lead the way,” before clasping her hand in his.

  The entire bar cheered as they slipped out the door.

  Back on the street, the sun had long since settled below the surrounding hills. Stars glistened overhead like diamond dust. A yellow moon cast its glow on the street, offering the only source of light on Graver’s Way. The air was noticeably cooler, though still not cold.

  “Sutton’s going to have our swarthy arses,” Kassina exclaimed.

  “We can handle him.”

  She giggled.

  A half a block from the Bawd, the sound of the minstrels spilled out into the street. Up ahead, a pair of men stepped out from an alley. One of them flashed a dagger.

  Shit...

  “What do you have on you?” Rowan whispered, reaching for Unforged strapped across his back and under his coat.

  “Just Bela’s swordbreaker.”

  “Can you fight?”

  “I do my best work in this state.”

  She was right.

  Allowing the blade to surge through him, the thief pushed back his ale-muddled mind. “Find another mark, assholes. We’ve gutted much worse for far less.”

  A crossbow clicked behind them. “That’s quite a mouth for a man surrounded.”

  Rowan whirled to find a pair of bolts leveled at them.

  “Drop the sword, now, or she gets one in the gut.”

  Without averting his gaze, Rowan let his blade clatter against the pavement. “You’ll die a slow death, I swear it...”

  The man laughed. “Maybe so, but not by you.”

  The last thing Rowan felt was a pommel slamming into the back of his head.

  Chapter 37

  Byron Dhane

  Fleeing the Men of Beyorn

  A Day’s Ride of North Bearbrook

  Kingdom of Meronia

  Black smoke debased the sky, billowing up from the ravaged remnants of Bearbrook. Byron’s soul burned in concert with the charred bones of the churches and thatched-roof hovels and the smith that the world would never know, the one that had restored him with polished iron and oiled leather and four words that stared back at him, damningly, from the rear of his shield.

  We Light the Way...

  But what way do you light, disgraced son of Dhane? First of his name... last of his name, for the father of no son will confer the foul five of the coward commander, the craven bastard cur that fled the Brae, and only by way of a mage’s glamour does he still spur a shiftless sea of spears and horses dead on their hooves, half as strong as they were a sunrise ago, north to their death by exhaustion or exsiccation or eradication at the end of a sword led by a man in blue, taller than a tower...

  And the mage... with a heart as dark as the inner ring of the damned nine, a dealer in devilry, a merchant of misery, beset upon Meronia for reasons unknown. To avenge her? To unify the old tetrarchs? Lies... to use her up for his own devices, and the devices of his masters, to drink of her blood until she is desiccated, like the locust’s husk, left to wither while the beast born anew emerges and withdraws to plague the night with its shrill tymbal trill, and whatever else it is that insects and mages malignant do...

  “Dhane... Dhane,” Lothe rasped again, louder than the first.

  The cracked commander looked over with narrowed eyes from atop his destrier, the gelded steed of a dead man that he’d pulled out of the saddle and climbed atop in haste. Hands still stained crimson from the gore that had marred him as he did the thing unthinkable, once again, turned and fled from a foe that had called him out on the field of battle.

  Red eyes and swollen cheeks scoured Lothe without shame, for that emotion had been squeezed out of him like a grape in a summerwine press. This war, as fleeting as it now seemed it would be, had condensed him to the basest form of himself, and he despised it. And he despised Lothe, with all that was left of his splintering soul.

  “What, are you weeping?” The old mage chuckled. “What manner of leader weeps before his men? You are a miserable excuse for a Dhane. They will sing songs of you, though none you would as soon as hear.”

  Byron ached to speak, but instead he spat on the ground and watched it disappear behind him, left for the tower to trample, like the bodies of his soldiers and the innocents in Bearbrook, people who desired only to live their lives, uncaring truly if their lords and nobles felt as equals to the kingdoms around them. This was no war for the people of Meronia, or people anywhere. That was a falsety spun by their betters to glean the support needed by the mages and the highborn.

  “Shall you not speak to me, anymore? You live now because I saved you, all of you.”

  “You’re the reason they’re dead!” Byron shouted.

  Long faces looked back, startled by the suddenness of the sharp words.

  “No, commander, you’re the reason...” The mage’s voice scratched the air, grating Dhane’s ears. “But tarry not in the thought, for soon enough, I shall redeem you once again.”

  “I tire of the scrape of your voice...” Jerking the reins, Byron veered away from Lothe.

  “And I grow weary once again of your insolence...” replied the mage to the man’s back and the horse’s ass. “You are a vine fruitless, unyielding, and your purpose is soon naught...”

  Guiding the dead man’s horse – the names of either he did not know – among the tired rabble, he searched
for a familiar face. Through the fog of men, he found Weston and rode up beside him.

  The Bear was asleep in his saddle, snoring in short spurts to the rhythm of his gelding’s gait. His waxy mustache tickled his nose, causing it to wrinkle and twitch. Byron leaned over to shake him awake, but thought better of it.

  Let the man rest… it may be the last he gets while he’s living…

  Gray twilit skies fled the march of light, much like the men of Meronia seeking refuge from Beyorn. Though the sun was ceaseless it never caught the night, but Byron knew their saga would not end the same. By mid-morning, he expected he would need to turn and face the slaughter that the blue tower would bring. The man was a menacing force, and would not halt his pursuit until he had ended them.

  But perhaps annihilation on this morn is fate’s best hand for all. Should we fall now, this war may yet end, and the blood of fifty legions spared. And it is a noble thing for a few to die to save the many. Perchance a lone minstrel might think to sing a song of honor of this day…

  Volf stirred in his saddle. Sitting upright, he stretched and looked about. “Is it the morrow?”

  Snorting, the commander said, “It’s never the morrow, it’s always just the day.”

  Scratching his beard, Weston replied, “And yet, you knew what I meant, Dhane.”

  I envy you, to seek humor on this grim day…

  “How long do you reason before they’re upon us?” The Bear asked.

  “…Mere hours, maybe more, but not much.”

  “We should find the place where we will make our stand. There’s no honor in being trampled face first in the dirt. Men do not decide the when that they are ended, but sometimes, fate finds them fortunate enough to decide the where.”

  After a time, they found themselves in a valley wide enough for six horses belly to belly. On either side were steep slopes, blanketed by browning hoar grass with the occasional abrupt outcropping. Though they were traversable, the narrow draw was by far the course of least resistance.

  Ahead, the basin trail climbed up a hill more gradual than the ones to the sides. At its crest was a thin copse of ash and oak and birch. The path veered left of the grove, while a low stone wall lacking grout – built by men long dead – diverged to the right.

  “This is a better spot than most, my lord,” said The Bear.

  Byron grunted in affirmation. “The trees will discourage a charge, and time indulges us scarce options.”

  Atop the hill, in the shade of the trees, Dhane led the destrier to the field beyond and released him to graze. Returning, he shrugged out of his pack and retrieved two skins and a pouch of oats and dried berries, hardened and bound together by pork fat. Uncorking a skin, he drained it down his parched throat, before biting into the hogstone.

  Havar joined him, followed by Weston.

  “Have some hardtack,” The Bear said, passing it around. “It’s baked with honey.”

  “It may be sweet,” Havar said, snapping off a piece with his teeth, “but it’s still slate tack.”

  “Spit it out or eat it,” replied Volf, “there is no middling.”

  Raising a brow, Havar snorted and swallowed.

  “If by some way we survive this,” the commander whispered, “I’ve decided that the mage must die. I will bury a sword in his gut myself.”

  Weston laughed. “Then it’s decided, the mage lives, for we certainly won’t. Deceive not yourself.”

  After an hour or so of rest, the banners of the houses of Beyorn peeked out, bobbing over a bend in the valley. Before long, the procession emerged, looking nigh as strong as it did the day before. Though their numbers were maybe five hundred more than Byron’s, the men in the valley were trained soldiers, and fought as if they were but one.

  And so it begins…

  Standing, Dhane surveyed the men. Haggard and hungry and bloody, they sat huddled amongst the grove and spread out beyond. Cold winds stirred dead leaves above them, filling the air with a light rustle.

  “Below us, our adversary approaches,” said the commander. “I do not mean to convince you this is a battle we can win, for I do not believe it, but it is one that we cannot escape. And I shall not die with arrows in my back.”

  “Nor I!” Volf said, standing.

  “Nor I!” shouted a few, joining him on their feet.

  “If I must die on this hill, it shall be with as many dead southrons as I can muster. That, I owe Bearbrook, whose black smoke still hangs in the sky…”

  “For Bearbrook!” shouted Weston.

  “For Bearbrook!” added a few.

  “For Bearbrook!” joined in Havar.

  “For Bearbrook!” they repeated, until a greater part of the men joined in. Others stood, but could not bring themselves to rally. A few still sat in despondency.

  “A rousing speech,” Lothe jeered, leaning in, having slunk through the crowd.

  Stepping forward, Byron ignored him. “Shield wall, to the forest’s edge. Give just enough room for your archers.”

  “Archers! Nock your arrows and loose on my command!” ordered The Bear.

  A marching tempo, slow and steady, rose up from the blue tower’s drums. Shields pushed to the front, with spears and archers just behind. On either side and at the rear were the riders, ready to flank.

  As they neared the toe of the slope, Weston shouted, “Now and until steel sings! Pull you bastards!”

  Arrows swept off the hill and rained down on the slope, finding flesh amongst the exposed ranks. The archers of Beyorn replied, but the grove provided a measure of cover. As hard as he could, Volf pressed the missiles into the sky, whipping the archer into a frenzy.

  In response, the drums’ cadence intensified, signaling the charge. A deep roar swept up the hill, with the tower and his knights close behind.

  “Steady!” shouted Dhane. “Hold this line!”

  “For Bearbrook!” roared Havar.

  “For Bearbrook!” answered the rabble.

  Shield smashed into shield like two mountains colliding. The lines groaned and grimaced and thrust at each other between the gaps. Rearing back, Byron smashed the skull of a man that was pressed up and over the wall of wood and iron.

  Drums slowed to a crawl, signaling the tempo of the line as they aimed to push back the men of Meronia.

  “Riders!” Havar shouted, seeing the blue tower and the knights of Beyorn split off around either side of the copse. “Head off those horses! Archers, ready your spears and prepare the rear!”

  Blood stained the hoar grass and ran down the slope into the valley. The commander watched as once again his line faltered. The southern shields were too tight and their swords too true. In a sudden heave inward, his men failed. The ordered row melded into a confusion of singing steel and rallying cries and death throes.

  Raising his shield just in time, Byron staggered from a longsword’s blow. He swung wide with Lordsbane, connecting with the inside of the soldier’s shield, snatching it from his hand and sending it skidding across the dirt. Bringing the daystar straight up, he blocked a chopping blow, before whirling and smashing the man’s face with the sigil of Dhane. As the soldier stumbled backwards, disoriented, the commander brought the head of the star down hard on the top of the man’s helm, caving it in and dropping him to his knees.

  Turning, he leapt back in time to avoid a spear’s thrust. Batting the shaft to the side, he swung Lordsbane into the man’s shoulder. The man’s arm folded forward with a sickening crunch. The fight drawn out of him, the soldier’s legs buckled.

  In a moment that seemed like a lifetime, Byron spun in a circle, surveying the field. The parched ground was aslog with blood and gore. His ears rang from the bedlam all around him. He watched a man of Meronia disemboweled mid swing, and saw another man’s chest cave in from the hoof of a destrier. Hemmed in on all sides, the battle was over, save for the dying.

  When out from the side, a black flash caught his eye. A lone rider crested a low knoll to the west on a destrier as dark as the w
itch’s hour starless, with flared nostrils and a face soured by the enmity of its master. Wind ripped at the wraith’s black cowl and cloak, trimmed with red down the front, revealing a cuirass gilded the color of despair.

  Who is this black paladin, and is he for or against us?

  Riding without reins atop his charcoal steed, the paladin wielded broadswords that glinted like brimstone and leaned forward in the saddle, while aiming towards the rear of the Beyornian line. A deep-throated shriek – like a man on fire – curdled blood and unknotted bowels and unmanned the bold. It pierced the crisp air like a sound foreign and drew pause from both sides.

  Three horse-lengths behind, from over the hill, burst forth a horde of grim riders shrieking in response. They numbered several hundred at least, all garbed in cloaks and leathers sable or twilit gray or brown so cruel it could scarcely be claimed. They rode bannerless and bore shields without sigil, like outlaws damned or bastard kinsmen all.

  With a sound like thunder, they fractured the rear of the southrons, sending men headlong into the dirt if they were favored, or trampled asunder if they weren’t. Black steel chopped down on necks and unheaded men, while their stallions bit and kicked like demon tarpans. A wave of confusion rolled over the mass, furthering the chaos, as men were cut down from behind by surprise.

  “Fight!” Dhane shouted over the fray, “Fight for Bearbrook! Victory is not yet theirs! Fight!”

  Stepping down from his stirrup, the black paladin waded into the thick of the fray, blocking and parrying without effort, seeking an equal in combat. A soldier stepped forward, larger than most, to challenge the outsider. Planting his feet, he studied the foe, before calculating his lunge.

  A good strike…

  But the gloom knight drove the longword back with his left, and batted the shield aside with his right, exposing the man’s core. In a blur, two brimstone blades bit deep into boiled leather. Turning them up, the wraith warrior lifted the soldier until his boots dangled above the dirt and weak gurgles choked out of his throat.

  Letting the body slide off the steel, the paladin searched the grove until he found the blue tower. If the giant commander of Beyorn was reluctant, he did not betray it.