by David Estes
“He is exploring the north, as his great-grandfather once did. He has no interest in ruling.”
Though little was known about Heinrich Gäric’s death, it was a story often told around campfires, embellished over the years, as all good stories are. After all, the man had been a legend. A hero. Most believed him one step short of a god.
“But that means…”
Jenai nodded sharply. “Yes. Rule of the west has passed to another house.”
Everything about this moment coalesced into a single point, the facts lining up in Mortis’s head. Focused on the conversation, he’d almost forgotten Sparrow was there, but now her presence felt like the only thing that mattered.
His eyes found hers but she couldn’t meet his gaze, something that only served to hammer the nail down harder.
“Which house?” he growled, though he already knew.
“The Lorens,” Sanspool said. “Lord Farley Loren, to be exact.”
Mortis sat as still as stone, though his heart was pounding so quickly he might’ve been running.
Sparrow sat beside him, that invisible line between them, as it always was.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
The words came out so easily he wondered whether they were true. “Kill him.” They must be true. How could they not be? After all, Farley Loren had taken everything from him.
Sparrow only nodded, going quiet.
Mortis wanted details now. After the Council had told him the truth, he’d been too blindsided to ask anything. He’d begged his leave and departed, Sparrow hurrying after him, falling in beside him, knowing him well enough not to speak until now.
They sat on a high branch on one of the border trees, looking westward. The plains were so empty Mortis could almost make himself believe they were the only two people in the entire world.
He almost wanted to believe it.
But he couldn’t, for he’d dreamed such a dream once, and it had been ripped away from him in a single night.
“I will kill him,” he said.
Sparrow said nothing. The sun rose somewhere behind them, casting long pink lines overhead.
“When will they reach us?” he finally asked, a question he’d been avoiding.
“Soon,” she said.
“When?”
“If they do not stall their march? Dusk tomorrow, at the latest.”
Holy Ore. Mortis didn’t often think about the Orian god, Orion, preferring to think of Ironwood as a place of amazing, but natural, properties, rather than a blessed forest touched by a god.
Suddenly, he felt frantic. “We must prepare the defenses,” he said, standing on the branch. Once the height would’ve dizzied him, made him cling to the surface like a lifeline. Now he stood perfectly balanced, as comfortable as if he were on flat ground.
“Mortis…” Sparrow said.
He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. “No. Don’t do that. This is what we’ve been preparing for. Calypsians, westerners, it doesn’t matter. We are under attack and we must—”
“Mortis, stop.” Though it was uttered softly, coming from Sparrow it felt like a command. He didn’t want to stop, because if he stopped the memories of that night would surround him like so many enemies. The anger would return, which was really masking the sadness, that dark place he never wanted to return to.
“Sparrow, I can’t—I can’t talk about—I don’t want to—” Every word only brought him closer to the darkness. He sank back down beside her, mute.
“I don’t want to talk about it either,” she said. Slowly, tentatively, she scooted closer to him. Her leg didn’t touch his, but it almost felt like it did. Her arm wrapped around him and then he was falling. His head touched her hard iron chest plate, his tears dripping down until the metal glistened in the early morning light.
“You won’t even need to fight,” Sparrow said, watching as two Orian channelers fitted him with armor. Though he’d seen other Orian’s don armor before, including Sparrow, to see the liquid metal climb his legs, sheath his torso, surround his chest and arms…perhaps he’d been too quick to dismiss the Orian god as fancy. Being given the armor was the highest honor for an outsider, one that had been granted to him by the Council. He felt remorseful for misjudging their original intentions, but that was the least of his feelings at this moment.
“We all have to fight,” Mortis said, turning to face her. He met her piercing eyes without embarrassment for his behavior earlier that morning. The years had pushed them far beyond such pointless emotions. And the invisible line he’d always felt—that he knew he’d created—between them? It was gone. She felt nothing other than friendship for him. If there had ever been anything else, he’d chased it away long ago. That’s how it has to be. How it must be.
“Not if the defenses hold,” she said.
“They won’t.”
“How can you be so certain? We’ve fought the westerners before and always emerged victorious.”
He shook his head. How could he explain the difference between human men to a woman who grew up in this magical place? Where the Gärics had always been fair, a long line of explorers only interested in freedom for their people and the opportunity to explore new lands, the Lorens—or at least Farley Loren—were interested only in the pursuit of power. “This will be different. They will come to destroy us.”
For a moment, she looked like she might argue further, but then closed her mouth, her eyes roaming from his head to his feet and back again, until her eyes settled on his once more. “It suits you,” she said. When his brows furrowed, she clarified. “The armor.”
“Oh.”
And there it was: the reason for the line, that electrical current passing between them, his own eyes falling to her lips, to the swell of her breasts beneath her armor, the curve of her hips, the tenderness in her tone.
“But don’t get a big head about it,” Sparrow added with a laugh that seemed to break through the current. “On the ’morrow you’ll be a mere human again.”
Mortis faked his own laugh, though all he wanted to do was cross the span between them. He didn’t. Instead he turned toward the two channelers that had given him this great gift. “Thank you,” he told them. They bowed and departed without another word. He almost wished they would’ve stayed.
“I have something for you,” Sparrow said. The earnestness in her tone made him fear to turn toward her. Feared what he would do.
“What?” he asked without looking.
“This.”
He finally turned to find her holding a double-bladed axe constructed entirely of iron. She held it out like an offering to the gods. He hesitated for only the barest of moments before stepping forward to take it from her. Their fingers brushed slightly, sending a shiver along his skin. His muscles tightening slightly, he studied the axe. It was of exquisite craftsmanship, the dual blades sharpened to a fine edge. The handle was a work of art, roped with vines, carved with the wonders of Ironwood—ore hawks soaring, ore panthers loping, iron-sheathed butterflies dancing on invisible breezes.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Another thought struck him, the realization finally sinking in. All his life, save for the last decade, he’d hefted axes, cutting countless chunks of wood for fuel, for timber, for art. But this was no tool of utility.
No, this axe was a weapon.
And she wanted him to use it to kill Lord Farley Loren.
There was a nervous energy in the air as they watched the approaching army. The channelers had been in position for long hours, waiting. Mortis was amongst them, on one of the platforms, prepared to give orders to the defenders once the battle began.
Night fell like a dropped curtain weaved of shadows.
Mortis felt nauseous, but he held back the swell of his stomach with sheer will. Though he was no warrior, he wasn’t afraid of the impending battle, nor dying. He was afraid of the past, and though there was no guarantee Lord Farley himself would ride
into battle, in the core of Mortis’s heart, he knew he would.
The man won’t be able to help himself. He will risk his own life in the hopes of emerging as a conquering hero.
He also knew, however, that Farley wouldn’t be at the front. He would try to swoop in at the last moment, when victory was all but assured, claiming all the spoils for himself.
This knowledge chased away the nausea, replacing it with the coals of a fire that had been smoldering for years, only to be rekindled now.
And Mortis couldn’t wait for the ghosts of his past to come to haunt him.
He turned to Sparrow and she seemed to see the truth in his eyes, because she nodded and said, “Go. I will command the defenses.”
Mortis moved north through the quiet forest. The stalwart trees were his only companions, and he brushed each one with his fingertips as he passed. His other hand gripped his axe. Not too hard or soft, and even after all these years, the instrument felt as comfortable in his fist as an extension of his arm.
A sound—a soft thump—dragged his attention to the side.
An ore panther stared at him in the dark. A decade ago he would’ve screamed and run.
Now, he said, “Go. The Orians have need of you on this night.” Though he knew it was a foolish idea, he thought he saw the iron-sheathed animal nod slightly in his direction before bounding away.
He continued on, and once more the silence was broken, this time by shouts.
The battle had begun.
That thought led to another. What am I doing? He’d vowed to stand with the Orians, to fight alongside them, and yet here he was, alone in the forest.
All for what? Revenge? Justice? Was that true?
Even Mortis didn’t know anymore. But he did know that he couldn’t turn back. The circle of his life had seemed to lead him around a curving arc all the way back to this point, the beginning, and if he didn’t face his demons now he didn’t know if he could go on living at all.
The axe suddenly felt heavier in his grip.
The forest ended, the dark expanse of the eastern plains rolling out before him. To the southwest he could see spots of fire that indicated torches. Shapes moved in the darkness, steel glinting under the moonslight darting through the cloud cover.
Specks of fire shot through the air like a swarm of bees. Fire arrows, he thought. Fools. In their forest of metal, the Orians did not fear any kind of flame save dragonfire. Still, arrows, whether enflamed or not, could still kill, and he held his breath. Hundreds of clanks reached his ears as the arrowheads hit the shielding he and Sparrow had designed.
There was something satisfying about the sound, but he feared it wouldn’t be enough.
Drawing a deep breath, he emerged from the trees, running across the plains, his footfalls muffled. The connections between each portion of his armor were so fine that they didn’t clank or shriek. He was a ghost.
As he approached the mass of the western army, he pushed further westward, squinting to locate the end of their lines. He had to find the back—for that was where his target would be, likely protected by his own guard, none of whom would be expecting an attack at this point in the battle.
When the lines of infantry ended, he saw larger shapes. They pranced proudly, well-trained horses carrying the lords of war. Mortis passed them too, until there was naught but a single small group moving at the rear. None rode horses, as even that would provide too bold a target for a craven man like Farley.
Mortis turned southward, gripping his axe harder.
Flashes of memory traded with a night interspersed with shadow and flame and steel.
Offering a mischievous smile that warmed his cheeks, Scarlett hefted the axe—his axe—over her shoulder, letting it hover for a bare moment before bringing it down with a satisfying whump. The split halves of the log clattered away and she grinned.
Shadows moved across the plains. Swords moved, too, but not threateningly. Held, but not at the ready. Not yet. Mortis searched between the men, between the weapons, his gaze trying to find something to confirm his prey among them.
Pink lips, so close now, his heart beating faster, colliding with them like two storms meeting in a fury, tasting them like air, breathing her in, never wanting the moment to end. For it was a first kiss, and first kisses should last forever.
He was a shadow himself, and none saw him. Not yet. A snatch of gold amongst steel. A face of nightmares. A face of pain. A face of hate and vengeance. Clad in armor, the man had aged somewhat, but still held the arrogant stance of one who was untouchable, who had never been deprived of anything he had wanted. He wasn’t even wearing his helmet, holding it under one arm casually. He doesn’t expect to fight. He expects the battle to be over before it ever reaches him.
Think again.
Lord Farley Loren had come to Mortis Ironclad.
Opening the door, worried now, scanning the room. Seeing her crumpled form. Seeing the blood. Falling. Falling. Knees hitting the floor but not feeling the slash of pain judder through his bones. Her body still warm, so warm she had to still be alive, save for that vacant stare from those beguiling eyes he once could’ve gazed into for all of eternity, never growing bored.
Something took over Mortis—something animal—and he leapt forward, all thoughts of stealth vanishing in that final memory. The first guard didn’t even make a sound, except for a surprised sharp intake of breath, but by then it was too late.
He fell with the clatter of armor, but by then Mortis was already moving onto the next guard, who was paper under the edge of his magnificent axe.
Mortis was vaguely aware of a strange sound, a guttural cry, but he’d killed another two guards before he realized it was coming from him, scraping from the back of his throat as he turned toward the last of the guards.
He didn’t care, for the adrenaline was firing through him and he was not man nor animal nor spirit anymore. He was heat. He was sadness. He was vengeance.
The man didn’t stand a chance.
Suddenly utterly weary, Mortis lifted his battle axe, blood dripping down the handle and along his fists. He turned to face his final foe.
Blinked.
Lord Farley Loren was gone, running for his very life.
Though bone weary, Mortis gave chase. Now he was the baying hounds, the tracker. Farley was the prey, the scared rabbit without a hole to hide in. The man was clearly frantic, because he didn’t even have the sense to flee in the direction of his army, but back eastward, as if he could make it the hundreds of miles to the Spear and disappear into his own territory.
Even there you would not be safe, Mortis thought.
The distance separating them evaporated under Mortis’s long strides. Twice Farley glanced back, and Mortis could see it: the white fear, the recognition.
He knows who I am.
Mortis closed the remaining distance with three long strides, leaving his feet to tackle his prey, using his momentum and the weight of a decade of brewing anger and fathomless sadness to crush his foe beneath the landing.
The man shrieked, trying to protect his face with his arms.
Farley was already whimpering by the time Mortis grabbed him, slamming him onto his back. He tried to go for his sword, which was still in its scabbard, but Mortis held his arm fast and drew the edge of his axe to his throat.
“Please,” Lord Farley begged, his countenance stricken with fear. Gone was the arrogance. Gone was the bravado.
Mortis didn’t want to listen to another word, but instead of this man’s face, all he could see was—
Her.
After the night of their first kiss, she’d left him, her gait light and almost whimsical, the moonslight playing across her shoulders, one of which was bare, her dress having slipped down somewhere during the moment.
Mortis had longed to touch that skin, kiss it.
Scarlett had turned back just before disappearing around a bend.
She’d smiled.
It was a smile of happiness and a kept s
ecret, the truth of which was locked up when their eyes met.
She loved me that first night, too, Mortis realized. The thought sucked the breath from his lungs, because for some reason he’d always believed it had taken her longer to reach a conclusion he’d come to almost immediately.
But no. Their connection had been shared from the same moment, from that first magical kiss.
And now, that truth was enough to sap the last of his energy, his hand falling away from the man who’d taken everything from him. He slumped to the side, defeated by himself. By her.
He could only see her now, the real world encased in iron.
You were supposed to fight for me, she said. Spoken by those perfect lips, the words destroyed him.
I tried. I would’ve if I had known.
No, she said, shaking her head. Something was off about her face. Her nose sharpening, her features changing. Her hair turned to spun gold, curling slightly. Her lips hardened into a sneer. Her eyes lightened and rounded more, her lashes thinned.
Lord Farley stood over him, the moonslight cracking through the clouds and painting half of his face, making him appear to be a monster born of shadow and light in equal measure.
He held Mortis’s own axe in two hands, though the instrument looked unnatural in his grip. Cumbersome.
But Mortis didn’t care. For this end felt right. Not in terms of justice—for where was there justice in a world where a girl as beautiful as Scarlett could be killed in cold blood?—but in terms of what he deserved.
Even though he knew she would never have blamed him for her death, he did. If he had gone to her sooner that night, or inquired more about what the lords of the castle did to her and the other maidservants, or if he’d been more aware of the darkness in a world that had become, for him, painted in rainbows and flower blossoms…
Everything could’ve been different.
Farley raised the axe, his arms trembling.
Oh Scarlett. I’m coming. After all these years, I am finally coming.
Mortis didn’t see the arrow, only felt the subtle displacement of air and the unzipping sound it made as it cut through the night. The impact was so powerful that the tip protruded from one of Farley’s ears while the iron feathers stuck from the other.