Iron and Flame

by Alex Morgenstern

  “We could say the same thing,” Kassara muttered, she looked back at Alana and called her with a sign.

  “This is Ileria’s daughter? By the gods! She’s the living image of her mother,” Pharkus said.

  “And she is our chieftain,” Kassara said, lifting her chin.

  Parkus was not impressed. He looked at Kassara again, narrowing his eyes, as if demanding for more information.

  “All of us here owe her our lives,” Kassara clarified. “Raxana and I are advising her, we will tell chieftain Varalkas of our struggles, and certain demands we have.”

  “Demands?” Parkus sighed, he spurred again and moved toward Alana, he approached, Kassius seated behind her, the man was wearing an open jacket, red ochre and golden in colour, over his shoulders, a red cape held together by a golden brooch depicting a dragon with open wings. The quiver hung from his belt, fashioned with intricate embroidering that represented bears and dragons. “How can we help?”

  Alana raised her head, Kassius could feel the tension as she inadvertently pulled the reins, her fists clenched.

  “I-I . . .” she stuttered.

  Parkus stared at her inquisitively, and Kassius prayed in his mind that the answer Alana gave could be enough to gain his respect and support.

  “I need an army to liberate our people. All of our comrades were killed by the Empire.”

  Parkus sighed. “I feared as much. Talk to our chieftain, but armies, we have none. Our men and women are all dying.”

  “We have heard of a plague,” Kassius spoke up.

  Parkus tilted his head, acknowledging him.

  “Yes, a plague has scourged us. Not only you have suffered with the tidings of time. Have we done a great evil when fighting that old war? Now, we wish only to raise our beasts, ensuring they may not die in sickness, take care of our families and live on.”

  “Parkus of Varlakia,” Alana said, her voice louder and more confident. “I admit I am not skilled as a leader, I know not of warfare, and my skills at the sword are limited, but by the grace of Ares and Venus, three of us stood against the Empire and prevailed.”

  Kassius felt his heart pound faster and warmth in his chest, but Parkus sighed.

  “I am not the one to hear this. My voice has no value in this matter, let us ride, and you may meet our chieftain and address him,” he said, pulling the reins. His horse trotted away.

  “Aye!” said Kassara, spurring again. The rest of the company followed.

  Kassius could feel a shift in the air, but what they had heard could potentially ruin their plans, as they had been confident they could gather an army quickly and ride back to save their people.

  “That was a great talk,” Kassius said to Alana. “I could really feel it, but did you see that man’s face? He seems almost as depressed as our people were.”

  “Yes, I agree, but we’ve seen worse. They’ve got to listen, besides, I know chieftain Varlakas was a brave man. He even fought Hrezia’s father for leadership. He really wanted to keep fighting against the Empire, I’m sure he has planned this forever, that’s why he came here, to the edge.”

  “And yet, they are at peace, Alana. They also followed the peace treaty, they basically guard the Empire from outside.”

  “So?”

  Kassius sighed. “They’re afraid to engage in battle with them, they have no reason to.”

  “Trust me, Kasha, they will listen.”

  And they did ride forth, until the sun leaned over the horizon and they saw red yurts with fluttering flags, wide fields protected by movable wooden fences and cows and sheep pasturing behind them. Two mounted sentinels approached, both young men with pointed hats, simple fish-scale type armours, long leather trousers and fur-coated boots.

  “Who comes to the Varlakian tribe?” one of them asked. They were young men, Kassius thought, of about his age.

  “These are our sisters from the other side of the river,” Parkus said. “Our relatives.”

  The sentinels looked at each other, nodded and rode forth toward the camp. Alana couldn’t wait and spurred on her white horse. It was happy and restful, even far away from its previous home.

  Their horses trotted lightly, approaching the yurts. But when they entered the camp, Alana did not see the vigorous steppe life she yearned to experience. She felt her breath stop for an instant as she passed by the untidy yurts, some with crying children in the arms of thin women. When Alana glanced at the babies, she noticed their arms were almost bare to the bone. Some young children ran around naked, their bones able to be counted on sight. Flies covered the entire place. A blacksmith stood outside, his leather gloves and apron on him, arguing with a bald man who haggled his prices, his clothes long and elaborate, but old, its colours fading.

  None of them was a glorified Gadalian, the proud race of artisans and warriors. Their clothes, however, retained their craftsmanship and wealth, although their colours had faded with time, and many wore patches on their clothes. Both men and women wore hemp tunics, in the front, made of triangular flaps, one crossing over the other, kept in place with belts of gold or bronze, for the ones who could not afford it. Their trousers were long, slightly baggy, with rich vertical embroidering. However, the people were rugged, weak, and with deep pain in their glances, like men who had lost a decades long war.

  “What is wrong with them?” Alana whispered, tilting her head back so Kassius could hear.

  “That’s what the plague looks like.”

  “But I wonder what is causing it, and what we can do.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  They trotted through the aligned tents, and Alana caught a glimpse of sickly animals beyond the wooden fence. Some of the cattle looked barely alive, a cow had her bones showing, as it sat on its scrawny legs.

  Alana could see a wide yurt in the middle of the camp, much bigger than the rest, of about fifteen feet in diameter. A large flag waved on top, yellow with a dragon with open wings and a red planet or moon on its upper side. A metal chimney emerged from the centre of the yurt, towering over it, and beneath, the curtains that guarded the small door had the icon of a bear.

  The curtains opened and a man stepped out. His hair was dark and short, his skin olive coloured and his eyes green like the forest in spring. He wore a cape of fur and a yellow tunic with orange buttons, trousers made of animal skin, and a red band on his forehead. It was the priest. He raised his hand, signalling the visitors to stop.

  Then, another figure emerged from the yurt. He had a long flowing red-and-white beard, his face was ruddy, and a black robe over his shoulders. A pointed headdress covered with sparkling gold towered over his head, and a golden pectoral covered his chest. Although he was a bit fat, his features were that of a true nobleman.

  “Welcome, sisters, and young sons of this race,” the man said in a deep, commanding voice. That was Varalkas the Red. “So long has it been since you came to visit us. I have heard of the loss, I have heard of the death of Turnaz the chieftain. And here, I see only women. Women are the remains of the great followers of Turnaz. Those who wanted peace . . . Are you leading this group, woman? I do not know you. Who are you?”

  Kassara spurred on her horse and advanced, stopping in front of the chieftain, with her comrade Raxana behind her.

  “I am Kassara Markdatra, veteran of the War of the Dragon, captain of two hundred in the Raven Division. I commanded the horde after the demise of General Ileria.”

  Varalkas lifted his chin. “So are you the leader of this tribe?”

  Kassara looked away and stared at Alana with her deep brown eyes, Alana felt as if an arrow was pointing at her.

  “Nay, Chieftain Varalkas, I am but a servant of our elected chieftain. The one who commands us is extremely young, and to you and many experienced warriors here, may seem insignificant, even foolish. Too young, too simple, sometimes naive. But she alone, and the counsel of her young husband are the only reason we survived our struggles and came all
the way here.”

  “A long talk,” Varalkas interrupted her. “Who is this that you speak about? We heard only rumours of assassins lurking in the woods.”

  “Our chieftain is Alana of Adachia.”

  Varalkas raised an eyebrow.

  Alana swallowed, and Kassius tapped on her shoulders. She felt she was about to melt, she had heard so much of Varalkas, and she could not spoil that moment.

  “So, if she is in charge, let her come into my tent and talk, from chieftain to chieftain,” Varalkas said, turning his back on the committee.

  Alana nodded.

  “Ala, should I write a sigil for you?” Kassius whispered in her ear. “Like one with the power of being persuasive or something.”

  Alana turned her hips away and climbed down, feet on the stirrup iron, then down to the ground. She shook her head, not knowing what she should say.

  “Not now, Kassius, but . . . Should I tell him everything?” she whispered.

  “Keep the Sword for later, just hint at it,” he said.

  She nodded; she knew such a brave man had to make the right choice. She knew he could. She quietly advanced and entered the yurt, looking around. The townspeople back in Adachia would set up yurts over the hills during the summer and spring seasons, and she enjoyed sleeping in them, but in the middle of the steppe, she felt she was travelling back in time.

  She walked stealthily. The inside floor was covered by a wide carpet depicting a stellar map, the animals of the heavens painted in great detail. Varalkas was already sitting cross legged in the centre, next to the priest, very close to the movable chimney, empty and cold during the spring.

  She advanced, and imitated his posture. The priest, perhaps representing the god Mercury, whispered something into the chieftain’s ear that Alana could not hear, but the chieftain nodded at his counsellor. She feared they were judging her unfit. She had pictured Varalkas as a strong willed warrior, but he was frankly out of shape, with a big belly almost springing out of his jacket.

  “So, Alana of Adachia, daughter of Alan and Ileria, I suppose,” the chieftain said, eyeing her from the head down.

  “Y-y-yes, sir.” She cleared her throat. She felt her tongue stick for what felt like a minute.

  “I have yet to hear of your exploits,” Varalkas said. “Frankly, I do not let myself be fooled by appearances, and defending yourself to the point of bringing terror to the imperial legions deserves my admiration. So, young woman, what are you seeking here—refuge for your people?”

  Alana lowered her eyes, she thought of how to word something so important. “Chieftain, you are aware of the fate of your friends and brothers in Adachia.”

  “I do,” he said, a frown forming on his face.

  “I have come here to ask you to help us. To march back into our village and avenge our fallen brothers. Drive them out and liberate their women and children. Your sisters have been enslaved. We went through hell, and through the power of Ares and Venus, we triumphed.”

  Varalkas stared with his impassive glance. “That is impossible,” he said dryly. “We don’t have enough people even to cover our duties of guardianship. We were guarding a northern commercial route, and it’s not even enough for that.”

  “Chieftain, with all due respect—” She felt her heart pounding inside. “—the gods have helped us. I cannot say I am a great warrior, nor as clever as some others, but the gods are with me. Kassius knows, he is always checking for signs in the sky. He hears them, and his visions are true.”

  “Kassius?”

  “My husband,” she said.

  “The tall boy?”

  “Yes.”

  Varalkas cleared his throat and scratched his red beard. “No, however you may stay with us.”

  “But what if the gods show you the sign?” Alana asked. “We have something from them, an omen, something that proves it is all.”

  “What is it?”

  “Gather the people, let us speak to them, if we may, let them choose to fight for us.”

  “A sign, you say? Well, let them see, then, they shall decide and judge for themselves.”

  Chapter VII – Red Hunters

  “This way,” Askar said, guiding an armoured phalanx unit through the swampy forest. They all wore their armours, galeas, and held large shields and lances in hand. Elkas, the decurion was by his side, the tunic and segmented armour could not hide his massive back, and his arms hung about like tree-trunks.

  Askar had told them what he had seen. Elkas’ words had been true, and the rest of the company knew exactly what it was. The day before had been full of preparation and pressure.

  They walked out into the old defensive wall and through the gap that had been carved through the rocks and wood. They saw the signs of the centurion’s blood, and where his remains had been taken away the previous days. And below, a row of footprints, like the trail of a catapult. Each was as long as a cow, and the space between each step like the length of a rescue navy boat.

  “My gods!” one of the soldiers exclaimed, and Askar saw how his face turned pale. The rest of the soldiers stopped, many of them kneeling and touching the deep gorges produced by the giant’s feet.

  Elkas took a deep breath.

  “Let us continue on,” he said. “If we let him live long enough, he may destroy our camp as we sleep, or destroy another village.”

  Askar nodded. He was right. Elkas was a brave man, and yet even brave men like him faced fear. They were all afraid, Askar could feel it. He grasped the lance in his arm, leaned it against his shoulder and advanced with the group, walking in their tight formations, attentive at any noise and any movement in the bushes and trees.

  “Beware of anything that looks like a grey rock,” Askar whispered. “When we saw it first, it did not move.”

  “How should we attack him then, Decurion?” Adna, a broad shouldered legionary with black hair and almond-shaped eyes asked. “You also said the centurion’s sword didn’t hurt him.”

  Askar cleared his throat.

  “We will see,” he said, unable to think of an answer.

  “Everything has a weakness,” Elkas muttered. “In most beasts, the eyes are vulnerable. If we see it, archers, aim for the eyes. Then we shall attack the legs.”

  “Aye,” the company responded, the soldiers all making eye contact with each other.

  Soon the landscape changed. The footprints sunk ever deeper, through a forest of broken trunks, as if an eleven foot lumberjack had been sloppily felling. The forest was covered with fallen branches and trunks that blocked their path, which they had to jump over.

  Then they came to a point where both feet of the titan stood together, and from there onward, they did not find another footprint. Looking up, Askar noticed the branches had also been broken, as if pushed from below.

  “He’s not here any more,” Elkas said.

  “What do you mean?” Karvatis, another Gadalian soldier, asked him.

  “He flew away.”

  “Flew?” One of the soldiers chuckled. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Or he jumped up, rather,” Elkas clarified.

  “What’s in that direction?” Karvatis asked.

  “Well, it’s just the north,” Askar said. “Suevian peoples, that’s what’s up there. Barbarians like us, but not in league with the Empire.”

  “But we’ll keep going,” Elkas stated. “Until we find the fecking beast and kill it.”

  Askar thought Elkas was too invested in chasing the creature.

  “But it’s Suevian land!” Another soldier protested. “It’s only ten of us, they will kill us if they see us marching into their territory.”

  “We will kill them,” Adna corrected him.

  “They will surely try to ambush us, Decurion,” Karvatis said.

  “I will raise the banner of peace, and you all, stay alert. If anyone wants to go back, you are free to do so,” Elkas declared.

  “I am goi
ng back; they heard a voice behind.” It was old Jovius, a half Itruschian born in the capital to an Adachian mother.

  “Me too,” said two other legionaries.

  “Are you people serious?” Elkas said.

  “If your monster doesn’t kill us, the barbarians will,” Jovius responded. “Besides, we are not under the orders of any centurion. What if the command finds out? They’ll hang us.”

  “Hey, I’m in charge,” Elkas said. “We are showing bravery, Jovius, that’s what they teach us in the training.”

  “This is a bad idea,” said another.

  “If you want to get killed, go for it,” Jovius said.

  Askar felt tempted to go back. That world was inhospitable and cruel. He did not know what to expect, but Elkas was one of his best friends.

  “One thing is to be brave and another is to jump into the enemy’s territory,” Jovius said. “That has a name, and it’s being stupid.”

  “Are you afraid of barbarians? We are of Gadalian stock, much better fighters than any regular legionary,” Elkas said proudly.

  “We’re going back,” the three soldiers behind them said. They turned around and disappeared into the foliage from whence they had come from.

  Elkas growled. “How about you seven? Are you willing to continue?”

  Adna held on to his spear, breathing deep.

  Elkas also looked at him.

  “You all have things to lose—families, wives, and children—but we have to solve this mystery before anything happens. Adna, I trust in your bow. This beast will go down by us.”

  They walked through the woods, avoiding the deep swamps and dark bushes. As they advanced, they saw small wooden houses with hay roofs, built next to the banks, its terrified inhabitants lowering the voices as they passed by. But they were not as terrified as Askar. Curiosity pressed in him, to see that strange creature, hopefully, from a distance. Engaging in battle seemed like a suicide. The image of the Centurion’s body being crushed like a beetle echoed in his mind every time the word creature, or giant was muttered.

  What chance did they stand against it, even with Elkas’ idea?