Of Blood and Steel

by Seymour Zeynalli

  “They’re going to kill us,” Balak yelled. “Let us in.”

  The soldiers spoke between themselves. Their archers stepped forward and pulled arrows from their belt quivers. They fired a round towards their enemy and then stepped back.

  “How do we know you’re not spies?” yelled one of the soldiers.

  “Do your enemies kill their own spy? They’re coming for us. Look!” Balak gestured towards the soldiers that now surrounded them in every direction. There was no escape.

  “Please hurry!” Arda opened her cloak and showed the child. “They will murder us.”

  “Let us in!” Balak yelled.

  “We have a child with us! Will you let them kill the child along with us?” Arda pleaded.

  The archers stepped forward and fired another round on the gaining soldiers. Their arrows struck several men who fell to the ground instantaneously. When they stepped back again, the other soldiers threw down a ladder made of rope and wood.

  “About time! Climb, Arda,” Balak instructed as three soldiers approached. He fought them off with his fists as Arda scrambled up the ladder. The ladder twisted and swung from side to side. She pushed up the ladder, with the child and her satchel across her body, and she carried her staff. Her feet tangled and she almost slipped, but she gripped tightly and pushed on.

  “Balak, come on,” she yelled.

  Balak pulled out his axe and swung it fiercely. Arda was up the ladder now, so he jumped onto the ladder and clambered up as fast as he could, taking two rungs at a time. At the bottom, the enemy soldiers shook the ladder.

  Arda was almost at the top and Balak was not far behind. More men approached and they started up the ladder at speed, behind Arda and Balak. The men on the castle wall helped her over the top and as soon as Balak was over, Arda yelled.

  “Cut the rope!”

  Balak swung his axe and with one swoop, the ladder was free. The loose ropes fell rapidly, along with several enemy soldiers. Arda blocked her ears as several soldiers plummeted to their death. Balak slumped to the ground beside Arda and exhaled. He laid down his axe and rubbed his head with his large hand. Feet moved towards him as the archers shot one last round at the camp.

  Arda nudged him with her elbow and as he looked up, his gaze was met with several shining swords. They were surrounded, again.

  “Not exactly the welcome we were looking for,” he sighed.

  — CHAPTER FIFTEEN —

  The Journey’s End

  The only sound Balak had heard for some time now was a dripping sound, followed by the scurrying of rats running by, hunting for crumbs.

  He’d lost track of time and couldn’t tell how many days and hours had passed. He didn’t know how long he was going to be in this cell, but he was used to solitude. The dark and dank cell reminded him of his home in The Hollow.

  Balak didn’t even know for certain if Arda and the child were still alive, but he knew they likely were. If they weren’t, he would already be dead as the soldiers would have no reason to keep him alive.

  He had willingly allowed the soldiers to place him in the cell without a fight. He surrendered his axe. This was a time of war, so he understood that the castle guard and its king had to be cautious.

  He had done his job, Arda and the child were brought here safely, and now it was time for her to do her part. He wasn’t about to leave this place without his coin.

  He had been fed, but nobody had interrogated him, and he was enjoying the quiet. He asked no questions and stayed silent. This was no worse than the Hollow, except he was offered no ale.

  There was a clink of chains and keys, then his cell door creaked open.

  “Balak, are you all right? Sorry it’s taken so long. I was being questioned.”

  “Sure, you know me.” He looked up at Arda.

  Arda chuckled.

  “King Anzor rewarded and thanked me for saving his niece and he reassures us that we are safe behind the gates. He’s had some quarters arranged for you.”

  “This cell was kinda growing on me.”

  “Come on,” Arda said excitedly. “I’ll show you.”

  Balak climbed out of the dungeon. A guard was waiting by the door with his axe and Balak accepted its return.

  As they headed into the open, Balak inhaled the fresh air. The sun warmed his face and he looked around. Inside the castle walls bore little resemblance to the outside. Flowers in pinks and purples hung from windows and their sweet smell lightly scented the air.

  Arda led Balak across a small white courtyard and into the side entrance of a large tower. On their way up, they passed several long halls decorated by murals depicted various historical events, even if exaggerated. The windows were decorated in a stunning stained-glass, depicting the Maker as a butcher cutting his own flesh to give life. Every floor was covered with Amida’s finest carpets. Those carpets had hand-crafted ornaments that excited the viewers. The walls were decorated by paintings of what Balak could only assume were the extensive and distant family of the king. The vivid colors were jumping of the canvas. Every item and every corner of the wall was fighting for attention. One particular painting had a male figure in an open field; it looked newer than the others. The man wore a luxurious fur coat, a purple cape, and a single glove on his right hand. To the left of him was a line of men with raised fingerless hands. In the distance behind him stood the Iron Gates Castle.

  “That’s lord Anzor,” informed Arda after she noticed Balak starting at the painting. “Hurry up,” she insisted, pulling Balak away from the painting.

  They climbed the tight clockwise stairs, higher and higher, until finally, Arda twisted the metal handle of a large oak door and threw it open.

  “This is yours for the duration of your stay,” she told him.

  The room smelled fresh, like flowers and rainwater. There was a large bed in the center of the room, a fireplace, a table with pewter utensils, and by the window there were two large chairs.

  “Do you want me to get your fire going so you can bathe?” Arda pointed to a large fireplace, and in the corner beside it stood a large, tin bath. There were three large buckets filled with water, ready to be warmed.

  “I can manage,” Balak reassured her.

  Arda smiled and shook her head. She leaned over the chair by the window and laid out some fresh clothes and a towel on the bed.

  “I’ll leave you in peace to rest,” Arda said. “We have much to talk about, but it’ll wait until the morning. I must get back to the child.”

  Balak sat on the bed. He was alone. It was so soft, he sunk down into it. He took off his boots and stretched out his feet, wriggling his toes. Balak rubbed his knee, his hip, and his axe-swinging shoulder. They felt stiff. He rolled his shoulder in a backward motion and yawned. It ached. In fact, all of him ached.Slowly he started to undress. He examined the scars across his stomach and side. They were fully healed now, leaving a white, wrinkly line.

  It had been a long time since Balak had bathed properly. His legs had many scrapes that were covered only by dirt. He climbed into the tub and tipped back his head. His beard dipped into the water and it lengthened. He dipped it in further, and his beard was almost down to his stomach.

  The water turned a gray color that got darker after he washed. His skin started to look shrivelled and he decided it was time to climb out.

  After his soak in the tub, Balak grabbed his dagger and trimmed the tatty hairs at the bottom of his beard.

  He poured himself some ale and watched out of the window for a while, supping both jugs.

  He could see the enemy soldiers camped outside. They all sat around the fire, plotting their next move, but all was quiet inside and out for now.

  Inside the walls, the people continued on with their lives as normal. Children played in the street, mothers washed their clothes, and men walked back and forth from work.

  As the night set in, he attempted to lay on his large, soft bed, but he could not rest. He sunk into the mattress, then tossed and
turned before submitting to the comfort of the hard, freezing floor. He lay on his side and pulled over his blanket.

  * * *

  When Balak woke, Arda was already in his chamber. She was sitting on a chair by the window, with the child. The child was smiling at him. Arda looked clean and wore an ashen blue dress. Her hair was smooth and tied up but a lot shorter than it used to be.

  “I trust you slept well?” Arda asked.

  “Once I got out of that ridiculous bed, I did,” he told her, as he pulled himself to his feet.

  “What’s wrong with the bed?”

  “It’s . . . too soft. That thing almost swallowed me whole.”

  “You must be starving . . . I made you some qutabs.” Arda handed Balak a cloth parcel and a small dish of yogurt with green herbs. “They turned out so nice, they’re almost too gorgeous to eat.”

  “It sure looks good,” Balak agreed as he unwrapped the parcel. He looked at it for a second, pausing. His stomach growled and he grabbed the food, shovelling it into his mouth.

  Balak’s thoughts turned to Giorgi. He and his friend had frequently enjoyed qutabs together in The Hollow. He had forgot how wonderful the warm dough felt on the first bite.

  “All that’s missing is the ale.”

  Arda laughed. “Well, I’m here with the coin I promised you.” She beamed as she pointed to two large coin bags on the table.

  “You saved our lives more than once. You did what I asked of you and we are eternally grateful. We wouldn’t have made it without you. Thank you,” she added.

  “I don’t believe that to be true. You have grit, Arda. Your heart is in the right place. I think you would have made it here with or without me.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly . . . even though you’re a pain in the arse at times,” he said, patting her shoulder.

  The two laughed and Arda placed her hand on Balak’s.

  The child looked up at him and he gently nudged her cheek. “And don’t you be causing any more trouble.”

  The child smiled and flapped her arms excitedly.

  “Where will you go?” Arda asked him.

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Don’t go back to The Hollow,” she pleaded. “You don’t need to go back there, I mean.”

  “I don’t know yet,” he croaked.

  A somber silence fell across the two of them. The city inside the wall was a busy place, and children played right below Balak’s window. Their laughter filled his room as they ran back and forth up the ally.

  Arda was the first to interrupt the silence.

  “Balak, I’m sorry I lied to you.”

  Balak looked at Arda. She was looking him in the eye with sincerity.

  “About the magic, the purpose of my journey, for putting you in peril. Everything.”

  “If you had told me the truth in the beginning, you know I wouldn’t have agreed to help.”

  Arda nodded. “We will never forget what you did for us. You are welcome to visit if you ever find yourself this way.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Balak said as he bowed his head.

  “Now, back to the important stuff . . .” Balak changed the subject. “Where is that tavern people keep talking about?”

  “Let me show you around first.”

  Arda stood and headed out of the door. Just outside were two guards holding large kite-shaped shields and wearing kettle helmets. Balak grabbed some handfuls of coin and followed Arda. He placed the rest underneath a chair and draped his cloak over the chair to keep it out of sight.

  Balak followed Arda down the stairs and onto the courtyard. She pointed out the taverns, the blacksmiths, and the market.

  The castle was spotless and not dreary at all on the inside. There was a smoky metal smell as they walked by the market. Everywhere they went, the guards followed.

  “What was it exactly you said you did back in Elbrus?” Balak asked.

  “I didn’t. I was a washer.”

  Balak looked behind them and noticed the two guards continuing to follow them.

  “Do these guys follow you everywhere?” Balak asked.

  “Only when I have the child. They need to ensure she’s protected.”

  “Somehow, being followed around makes me feel less safe.”

  “How come?”

  “Seems a little excessive. Surround yourself with guards and you can be spotted in any place.”

  “Maybe it is a little over the top. I’ll have a word.”

  “So, what does the future hold for you and the child?” he asked Arda, as they walked slowly through the dusty streets.

  “Well, I’m the child’s caretaker while she grows up, so wherever she goes, I go,” she grinned. “Anzor wants her to play a pinnacle role in his efforts to regain control of the lands. Together, they will take on the other members of the royal family and challenge them, as they have failed to restore peace and order since the king’s death.”

  “And you will both be protected?”

  “Of course, and she will be able to live out her destiny here.”

  “Is it really the life you imagined for her?”

  “Through her veins runs a royal blood. She will be raised amongst her equals: educated, and lawful people. This is her destiny; I don’t have much say in the matter,” Arda sighed.

  “You say that, but you don’t mean it.”

  Arda was silent.

  They headed into the market and Balak made his way around, looking at the different clothing.

  After he left Arda’s company, he headed to the blacksmiths and had them enhance his axe. The blacksmith had a dozen metal loops hanging at his station. He offered to make Balak a whole new axe, but he refused.

  “Just sharpen it as best you can,” Balak told him.

  The blacksmith was highly skilled and Balak watched him work as he heated the iron, shaped it, cooled it, and dipped it.

  The double-headed axe looked almost new by the time he had finished, so Balak also had a sword and small dagger made. He bought a luxurious carrying belt fit for a king’s knight, to hold his weaponry. He also bought new chainmail.

  Balak had everything he needed for his journey, but he was still unsure of his destination. The siege gave him time to think. He wasn’t about to go anywhere until that was over.

  Each night, Balak slept on the cold floor. He found he preferred his archaic clothes, and carrying his new weapons made him feel uneasy. Maybe he would go back to his humble life in The Hollow and squander his coin? Arda was Balak’s only companion for the days that followed, walking with him to the stables to feed the horses and the tavern to taste the ale he had heard so much about.

  Being a skeptic, Balak savored the taste but on the first sip he stated, “I already feel tomorrow’s headache.”

  Everyone cheered.

  Then Arda made Balak out to be a hero, increasing with the more ale he drank.

  “Keep it down low on the hero part,” he said, before ordering more ale.

  The listeners chattered and supped their drinks. Arda told Balak, “The world needs people like you, Balak. The kind of hero . . .”

  “I’m not a fucking hero!” Balak exclaimed. “Look at me. Look at these hands that strangled men to the very last breath. Look at this scar; I got it because a man tried to stab me in my sleep. I strangled him to death and watched his eyes pop out of their sockets. I don’t even remember half the wounds I have on me. I am not a hero, Arda. I am the Terror of Tartaurus!”

  The whole place got silent and people were staring at Balak.

  Arda didn’t say a word and slowly got up and left the bar.

  “What the fuck are you all looking at?” Balak asked the crowd. They promptly returned to their business.

  Balak looked at the tavern owner and told him to pour another drink.

  “I think you had enough for one night, brother,” the man protested.

  “Do as you are fucking told and don’t make me ask twice,” Balak told the man
, slamming the table with his clenched fist.

  The night was getting dark when Balak was left alone in the tavern, trying to drink himself to death for the first time in a very long time. He stumbled back to his quarters and a man approached him and started shaking.

  The man grabbed Balak’s shirt.

  “Help me,” he cried before collapsing on the floor. Balak yanked his leg free, and walked on, but then a woman stumbled in front of him and collapsed. Blood spattered from her mouth as she writhed in pain.

  Balak snapped out of his drunken stupor when another three people in the alley dropped to the floor. He started to run back to his quarters, taking two and three steps at a time. He screamed Arda’s name in hopes she would hear his voice amongst the chaos.

  “Balak, what’s going on?” she asked him when they finally met.

  “I don’t know.”

  They were startled suddenly, the alarm bell started ringing loudly.

  “That’s the warning bell,” Arda told Balak. “This can’t be good.”

  People began panicking, running through the streets. Balak scanned the area. He armed himself with his trusty, double-headed axe and they both rushed on top of the city walls to get a better look.

  “This doesn’t look right.”

  “What is it?”

  “Over there, what do you see?” Balak asked Arda as he pointed at the enemy camp.

  “Nothing.”

  “Exactly. It’s not an attack.”

  “So, what are the people are running from?”

  “I guess we are about to find out,” Balak stated.

  They made their way outside and headed towards the castle’s keep. On their way, the man in front of them dropped to his knees.

  “Hey, let me help you up.” Arda offered out her hand, but the man couldn’t get back onto his feet. He was holding out his hand towards her, but he was making choking sounds and leaning forward. He grabbed Arda’s dress before falling onto the ground. His breathing faded.

  Balak yanked her free.

  “Is he . . .”

  “. . . Dead. We need to get to the child,” Balak commanded.

  They ran towards the keep and passed several people with the same symptoms. People either had bulging eyes, were making choking sounds, or had already slumped to the ground.