Of Blood and Steel

by Seymour Zeynalli

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, kingdoms, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to the actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Seymour Zeynalli

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for preview purposes), please contact SeymourZeynalli@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover art by Felix Ortiz.

  Logo design by Shawn King

  Map by Thomas Rushmer

  Line Editing by Brandon Crowther

  Proof Reading by Samuel Sachs

  Formatting by Bodie D. Dykstra

  Name: Zeynalli, Seymour, author.

  Title: Of blood and steel / Seymour Zeynalli

  Description: First edition | Books of Tartaurus

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781692135294

  Subject: Fiction / Fantasy / Epic.

  — CONTENTS —

  Title Page

  Map of Tartaurus

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  — ACKNOWLEDGMENTS —

  First and foremost, many thanks to my parents, without whom I wouldn’t have become the man I am today. Without their support and encouragement over the years, this book may have never been written. Secondly, I would like to thank ALL of the people of Caucasus to whom this book is dedicated. You are the inspiration behind this book and for that, I am grateful. My goal was to bring some representation to the region and its people who aren’t often seen in western media. I hope I served them well by bringing to light this fantasy adventure. Writing a book that pays true homage to culture is a challenge because I was determined to include authenticity within the fictional tale. And lastly, but as crucially, I would like to express my deep and sincere gratitude to Janet Cooper and Sam Coughlan for lending their help in making this book a reality. Thank you also to you, the reader. Emerge yourself in this book’s world and culture. I hope you get as much pleasure reading this book as I did when writing it.

  — PROLOGUE —

  Ruben arrived home from a busy day farming with his son. He waited patiently while his daughter finished setting the table. His wife, Sona, was rolling dough and slapping it onto the walls of their hot, clay oven. He smiled at his wife and she smiled back. A dusting of flour coated her shiny face.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” she told him.

  Ruben sat down at the head of the table and his son sat beside him. His daughter brought the jug of wine and filled up his goblet.

  “Pour your brother a small wine,” he told her.

  “Are you sure? -” Sona began.

  “I was his age when I had my first glass. The boy’s worked hard today. He deserves it.”

  Sona nodded to her husband. She carried over cow’s feet that had been boiling in water all day in preparation for the stew. Sona placed the pot in the center of the table and garnished the pot with salt and garlic. Mariam poured her mother a cup and then grabbed herself a goblet of water and sat down with her father and brother, while her mother continued to serve cucumbers, radishes, cheese, and cress with her freshly made flatbread.

  “Just the thing for a wet, cold night.” Ruben told his children.

  Sona passed the bread to her children, and Ruben raised his cup to his family. They all waited for Karnak to take his first ever swig of wine, and he took a rather large gulp. He screwed up his face and spat most of it back into the cup. His face turned ashen and he gulped again. The family erupted into laughter.

  “You’ll get used to the taste, son,” Ruben told him. “But get water if you please.”

  As Ruben lifted his cup to his face and took a sip of wine, there were suddenly three stout knocks on their door.

  The room fell silent and Sona’s eyes widened, showing surprise.

  It was after dark, and unusual for someone from the village to stop by at such a late hour. If indeed it was someone from the village.

  “Everyone, just stay where you are,” Ruben ordered.

  He rose to his feet and crossed the room, fetching the only thing that passed for a weapon in his house, an old blunt scythe. Its shaft was missing, but it would do.

  The knocks came again, but they were louder this time. The solid wooden door juddered in its frame. With a deep breath in, Ruben held the scythe down at his side, and opened the door. A cold wind swept inwards to meet him and he shivered. A stranger around six and a half feet tall loomed in the murk outside.

  Ruben looked up. The man was wearing a heavy cloth hood, with his face partially obscured. His bare and bulging arms were twice as thick as Ruben’s arms, even though he, himself, looked strong. The man bore the look of a brigand, a hardened leather cuirass wrapped around his hulking form, battered and aged, clad with patches of mail. Across his torso, gauntlets, boots and greaves, a handful of rusted iron plates hung loosely, providing meagre protection. His skin was densely painted in fat, pink scars.

  Ruben gasped as his eyes noticed the five-foot sword slung over the man’s shoulder. A black-handled, steel claymore of fine craft. It looked priceless and contrasted directly with his attire. He couldn’t help but think it stolen.

  “How may I help you, traveler?” Ruben steadied himself and narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m looking for Vardan Azzarian.” The stranger spoke deep with a throat full of splinters, though his tone was an amiable one.

  “Vardan?”

  “You bear the look of him yourself.”

  “That’s because I’m his son. Are you a friend of his?”

  “Yes.”

  Ruben noticed the man eyeing up the table full of food.

  “Would you like to join us?”

  “Yes, yes. That would be very kind of you.”

  The stranger ducked into the house, his sword dragged and scraped behind him as he did. It left a deep scratch on the threshold.

  “I’m Ruben,” the farmer chuckled nervously and waved the stranger in, “my children, of course, and my wife Sona.”

  “Greetings.” The burly stranger was met with smiling faces.

  He peeled back his hood, revealing a stern face and long, slovenly hair.

  “Please,” Ruben insisted with open palms, “take a seat.”

  “Thanks.” The man sat down at the table, and the chair creaked and groaned beneath his weight.

  “Don’t let it bother you.” Ruben patted the man on the back and sat. “Now then, let’s eat. I’ll take you to see my father after dinner.”

  The stranger nodded in agreement.

  The family ate in silence with their guest. He ate like he’d never eaten in several weeks, rather than days. The children eyed the stranger up and down, watching him in amazement as he shovell
ed down the stew, cow’s feet, and flatbread.

  “It’s good,” the stranger told Sona. Food spilled from his mouth and ran down his smooth chin. He used the back of his hand to wipe it away.

  Sona nodded.

  The children giggled amongst themselves.

  Then Karnak turned to the man. “Are you a giant? I have never seen anyone eat so much,” he said.

  “Let the man eat first. You can ask questions later,” Sona snapped.

  The man stopped eating and slowly turned his head to the boy as the chair creaked under his weight. “I am not a giant. But I do have an appetite . . . especially for little children.”

  There was a silence and the children sunk into their chairs as they looked up at the man. For a brief moment, the table was still and quiet with only fire crackling in the silence. Then the man slapped the table and released an earth-trembling laugh. The family looked at each other before joining in with the laughter.

  After dinner, the children were sent to bed, leaving the adults to share a drink around a roaring fire. It was evident to Ruben that the stranger had not tasted wine in quite some time, for he guzzled it down. Convivial as the evening might have been, Ruben couldn’t help but feel somewhat uneasy.

  “So,” Ruben puffed on his pipe, dense burls of smoke drifting from it, “you would speak with me then? Did you know my father well?”

  “Well enough. Though some time ago.”

  “Are you from these parts?” Sona asked, as she moved closer to her

  husband, linking her arm through his. “Your accent is familiar.”

  “Near enough.” He set his own goblet down on the hearth and leaned back in his chair. “Can I see him now?”

  Ruben found himself staring at the massive sword the man had left by the door. Though, he could not deny the man’s amiable manner. To that end, Ruben swallowed his fear and agreed to his guest’s request.

  “So be it.” He forced a smile and stood. “I’ll just light a torch.”

  Sona grabbed his cloak and put it over Ruben’s shoulders. They exchanged a polite but furtive glance.

  “Don’t forget your gloves, alright? You’ll catch your death out there in that cold.”

  Ruben leaned forward and took a short stave from beside the hearth, half wrapped in burlap and caked in sulphur and lime, and plunged it into the flames.

  “And be careful,” Sona added as he opened the door. Ruben smiled and nodded.

  “Lead the way,” the man stood, facing Ruben.

  They departed, both of them pulling their hoods up, as it had started to rain. The farmer’s nerves were put to rest as the man left, leaving his sword behind.

  They walked side by side in the sputtering glow of the torch without words, each of the men hunched to protect themselves from the chill.

  At the edge of Ruben’s land, they mounted the steep of the knoll and ascended in silence. There was no sound, other than the leaden plops of the rain and the faraway hooting of an owl in the dark. They reached the top and crossed the grassy plateau, towards the larch. There, at the base of the gigantic tree that stood more than a hundred feet tall, were two gravestones in a row.

  “On the left is my mother, and on the right, my father.” Ruben pointed out each one in succession.

  The man knelt beside Vardan Azzarian’s stone, gently tracing his fingers across the inscription. “How did he die?”

  “He passed peacefully in his bed, with his family at his side. He was always a man of hardy constitution. So . . . you knew him then?”

  “We worked together . . . Closely.”

  “Oh.” Ruben was nodding absentmindedly, but suddenly, he put the pieces together. “Oh! The skin traders?”

  “Slaving. Yes.”

  “Unfortunate ways at the best of times.” He shrugged. “It’s not something I am proud of, but he was my father and I loved him regardless. Those days are far behind me now.”

  “Perhaps the times really can change.”

  “Only if we change them.”

  Their eyes scanned the domed stones marking the graves, and they shared a fleeting quiet.

  “True.” The stranger nodded in agreement, almost to himself. “Tell me, do you know what became of your father’s slaves?”

  “Some of them escaped but most of them died of sickness during the outbreak. It was a rampant and virulent thing, this sickness. The body count was in the hundreds, all across the lands. Corpses of plague in the ground posed too great a risk to the living, not to mention the crops.”

  “What became of them then?”

  “A nightmarish fate.” Ruben could feel himself turning pale just thinking about it. “I remember that morning all too well. I woke up at the crack of dawn, before light had even broken. Outside our house stood a garrison of soldiers overlooking slaves digging their soon to be graves, digging a pit so massive you needed ladders just to climb in and out of it. Big as it was, the bodies still piled high out of it by the time it was all over. It took barrels of warm pitch to cover the lot. The fire raged for three long days. I’ll never forget that smell. Burning flesh. It hung around the farm like some devilish mist for weeks on end after. I thank the Maker my own children hadn’t been born by then.”

  “Ghastly.” The stranger wore a pained look, as though he himself had been cast upon the grisly pyre. “This was some time ago then?”

  “Oh, must be thirteen, fifteen years now nearly. I never could take back on another workforce. Now, I am the one who owns it and I am the one who sows it.”

  “As are we all.”

  “Yes.” Ruben hesitated, sensing sorrow in the man’s voice. “Are you alright, brother? I’m sorry our conversation took such a grim turn.”

  “Leave me be.”

  “Right, well . . . it certainly is getting cold out now, and wet. Will you stay the night with us? My father’s bed lies empty. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind lending it out to an old friend.”

  “No . . . I . . .” The stranger seemed to tussle with the decision. “I should really be going. I’ve stayed here long enough.”

  “You sure? Long way to travel still?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, come. Let’s head back to the house and fix you a flask of something warm for the road.”

  “No.” His voice was firm. “I’ll stay here a while and then be on my way.”

  “As you wish.” Ruben nervously looked at the man wanting to shake his hand, but the man was too deep in his own thoughts. “Just remember, our door is always open to you.”

  The stranger replied with silence.

  “Goodnight.”

  With that, Ruben left the stranger atop the hill and made his way back towards his house. He found himself walking away with more questions than answers, but as far as he could tell, the man had gotten what he had come for.

  As he arrived back home, Sona was outing lanterns and putting the copper mesh fireguard in place on the hearth. She was puzzled to see her husband return alone.

  “Ruben, what happened to our guest?”

  “I think he needs some time alone. He’s staying beneath the larch and then heading on his way. I did offer but,” Ruben shrugged, “he seems deeply saddened by something. A man of his stature probably wants to face his sorrow on his own. Shame though, it’s really freezing out tonight.”

  “Oh, thank the Maker, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit relieved.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he was quite frightening in his way. Were you not intimidated at all?”

  “I suppose he was, and yes, I was intimidated, but . . . you mustn’t judge a man by his looks alone.”

  “You have too much faith in people, Ruben.” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. “That’s why I married you.”

  “Not for the land then?” He grinned.

  “No. It might surprise you, but the constant smell of animal manure just didn’t seal the deal for me.”

  The couple shared a hearty, muted fit
of laughter, careful not to wake the children.

  “Then it has to be my other attributes you keep hanging around for.” He held her tight around her waist.

  “Don’t be gross. It’s late.” Sona couldn’t help but smirk at her husband’s clumsy advances.

  “It is.”

  Three stout knocks came upon their door, and once more the solid wood was juddering in its frame. It jolted the pair near out of their skins.

  “Ruben? Is it him again?” Sona whispered. “I thought he’d gone?”

  “He did, but . . . Ah,” making for the door again, Ruben realized why the man must have returned, “he forgot his sword. No matter, you go along, I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “One minute, Ruben. You know I don’t like being kept waiting.” Sona winked at her husband.

  “I certainly do,” he chuckled to himself when she was out of earshot.

  Approaching the door, he took the sword in one hand, almost collapsing beneath the weight as he lifted it. He thought it only fit for slaying dragons or giants and wondered what a travelling mercenary would do with such a weapon in a skirmish or ‘man on man’ fight. He wondered how the thing could even be swung.

  Ruben unlocked his door for the second time that cold night.

  — CHAPTER ONE —

  The Hollow

  In a far corner of the Kingdom of Amida, almost two thousand feet beneath the crust of the Earth, lay the deepest point of a peculiar city, The Hollow. Its blackness oozed with filth as nothing there has ever seen the light of day. Once a subterranean mining colony where hardened criminals of the neighbouring nations toiled for their sins, The Hollow was abandoned after a mass escape during the civil wars. Since then, it has become a refuge, a hideaway for folk from all walks of life.

  In the very core of The Hollow, a man by the name of Giorgi Kardav rose from his bed. He pulled on his breeches, tunic and boots, strapped his club onto his back, and glugged deep from the goatskin flask of alcohol dangling from his belt. The bitter taste of the corn flour and wheat slid down his throat

  He was not a tall man. A mere five feet in fact, though no less imposing for it. He was a bull of a man. From his beard to his toes, wiry black hair covered almost every inch of his body, save for his shiny bald head. Stocky and broad, he was known as The Barrel, owing to his brute strength and unusual shape. He carried a heavy bludgeon, tightly wrapped in a rusting chain.