Tides of Blood and Steel

by Christian Warren Freed

  Bahr shrugged. “It’s not a theory. I am merely suggesting we may find the answers to the dream and the riddle of the Dae’shan with the Giants.”

  “Whatever,” Boen said. “We shall find out as soon as we meet these creatures. There’s no point in guessing what if.”

  Anienam dismissed him and looked back to Bahr. “There is some merit in what you say. We must find the forge first.”

  Boen nodded. “We are wasting time.”

  “I agree. We should be moving,” the wizard echoed unexpectedly.

  Maleela frowned. She was left with the impression that her dreams had just been blown off for other speculation. Enraged, she was unsure what to do. She was outmatched and overpowered by the false bravado of their male machismo. Maleela decided to quietly bide her time. Soon enough she would get the opportunity to prove she was every bit as capable as the blooded warriors. She was the daughter of a king. It was time to start acting like one. Maleela turned to shake off the snow from her sleeping bag before rolling it up.

  “Are you well?” Rekka Jel asked.

  She’d approached without Maleela hearing her. The question lacked sincerity, almost sounding demanding. Maleela took comfort in the solidarity aspect Rekka offered. The diminutive warrior was easily the best of their group with a sword. Her skill and technique were unmatched, even with Boen’s brute strength.

  “I don’t know,” she finally answered after a few minutes of quiet deliberations.

  Rekka slipped closer. A concerned look lined her soft features. “I heard your cries last night. I, too, have had nightmares. You must excise these demons before they consume you.”

  Maleela had no intentions of reliving the night’s dreams. The pain of them transcended into horror mixed with moments of blind terror. Putting all this behind her was the best for all of them.

  “You have no reason to be embarrassed,” Rekka continued. “We all have our pasts to contend with.”

  “My past has haunted me since birth. My dreams have grown dark and uncertain. I am afraid, Rekka.”

  The smaller woman nodded and moved so close that only Maleela might hear. “Fear must be harnessed if we are to move forward.”

  “How?”

  Rekka placed a warm hand on Maleela’s shoulder. “The answer can only be found in each of us. The way I deal with matters might not work for you. Have courage, Princess. Hope is not yet lost.”

  Maleela considered it. She knew what needed to be done, but was hesitant to do so. She wasn’t a warrior, despite being the daughter of a northern king. All children were expected to be able to read, write, and handle a sword. Maleela wasn’t particularly skilled with soldiers’ tasks, but she could stab someone well enough. It wasn’t enough. She decided to take her first steps in a new direction.

  “Teach me how to use a sword.”

  Her voice was rushed, as if her excitement threatened to override common sense. Rekka stared back at her, quietly judging the princess. Finally she relented. “All right. Your plan will not be easy. Keep that in mind.”

  “Nothing ever is,” Maleela said and smiled politely.

  “Let’s move out!” Bahr shouted to the group.

  The forge of Giants awaited them.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ghosts

  Cold winds lashed into them, pelting them with ice and snow. Each gust was a painful scream, like a dying animal caught and left for dead. Loose snow underfoot made the worn path treacherous. Rocks broke and slid down the mountainsides in miniature avalanches. The sun was already setting. Darkness would soon be upon them.

  Bahr pulled his hood tighter and cursed under his breath. It was snowing so hard he could barely see beyond the end of his horse’s nose. The journey grew more dangerous the further they went into the mountains. Bahr was confronted with two options: push forward in the dark with no visibility on unknown terrain or try to find shelter until the storm passed. Both options presented unique and inherent problems. It was not the kind of decision to be made alone.

  “Boen!” he shouted over the angry winds.

  The Gaimosian reined up beside him. “This damned storm is going to be the death of us.”

  “Agreed. We will die if we keep going forward.”

  Boen shook his head. “We have no choice. We can’t go back! The only way is forward.”

  “Forward to where? We can’t see anything.”

  Boen recognized they were walking into a potential trap. He also failed to see another way around it. “What do you want to do?”

  Bahr took a quick glance around, knowing it was a waste of time. Visibility had worsened in the short amount of time they spoke. His choices withered. “We need to stop. It is too risky to go on tonight.”

  The Gaimosian nodded despite disagreeing. The hunger in his blood stirred again. He gave a brief thought to abandoning them and striking out on his own. His loyalties to Bahr extended only so far. The blood demands of his heritage demanded much more and it grew increasingly difficult to suppress them.

  “Let me scout ahead. I can find us a path.”

  Bahr reluctantly agreed. The chance of becoming permanently separated disturbed him, but not enough to stop the man. They had to find shelter or risk freezing to death in the snow and cold.

  “Do it. We will continue on this path until you ride back to us,” he said.

  Boen set off without another word. A lifetime of being alone in the field took over, freed from the repression of operating with a group less experienced. Boen was a simple man who knew how to get things done. It was the mark of a good soldier. Bahr watched him until his silhouette was lost in the building darkness and wondered if he had just condemned them all.

  The path wound up and around the mountainside for another kilometer before Boen was forced to stop. He hadn’t seen any deviations or side paths along the way, though that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Reduced visibility hampered more than just his vision. Boen felt constricted. Winter was his least favorite season. The snow and cold of the Murdes Mountains did not agree with him.

  He took a long drink from his canteen and looked around. The wind wasn’t blowing as hard as it had been, leading him to believe the crest wasn’t too far off. Heartening, but it meant little. The wagon could have easily ridden past the teeth of the dragon. Venheim could very well be lost to them.

  “Damned storm,” he complained to no one.

  Light snow swirled around him without the frenzied pace from the lower levels. Boen could actually see. He almost smiled. If the sun showed itself he might be in a better mood. Might. Boen suddenly made up his mind to head south once this matter was finished. Warmer climates and easier jobs beckoned. He yawned. The cold had a way of sapping even the strongest man’s strength with little effort.

  He moved to secure his canteen when a dark shadow moved across his periphery. Boen dropped the small container and drew his broadsword. He scanned the area and found…nothing. Whatever it was had come and gone. Boen frowned. His first impulse was that his mind was playing tricks on him. It was cold. He was tired and slightly dehydrated.

  Boen clucked softly, urging his mount forward. He wasn’t about to be taken off guard so easily. The Gaimosian decided to check the spot he thought he saw the shadow. Rumors of the Pell Darga lingered. If they were half of what Bahr and the others claimed, he was going to enjoy crossing blades with them. A loose rock tumbled from his right. Boen froze. The same shadow whisked by. Boen snarled. There was nothing here either. The Gaimosian circled his horse in the hopes of finding his prey.

  “Show yourself!” he bellowed.

  The challenge echoed off of the tight canyon walls. Snow and loose slate trickled down around him. Hissing laughter taunted him from the mist. Boen was not the one to be frightened by cheap theatrics, but this was different. He tightened the grip on his sword. His ire was raised, only blood would sate it. Three more shadows danced by.

  “Leave us.”

  The voice was waspish, almost strained. Goose bumps prickled his
flesh. Boen had long believed that such a voice belonged to the dead.

  “Show yourself, coward!” he demanded.

  Laughter mocked him. Boen struggled to contain his anger. Such emotion would work against him. The Gaimosian vowed to meet death on his terms. Dozens of figures formed from the mist in a loose circle. He snarled. A handful of opponents weren’t much of a problem, but dozens were too much. Boen felt the first touch of despair sink in. He was surrounded on three sides and cut off from help.

  “Leave us.”

  A chorus of wails rose up to the sky. Boen suddenly felt cold. The chill penetrated to his bones. It was unnatural. The mist stung where it touched him. Boen recognized the danger he was in but saw no way out. A thought disturbed him. Ghosts. His attackers were ghosts. They had to be, for they held no physical form.

  “Come no closer,” he warned through clenched teeth.

  They laughed.

  “You hold no power here.”

  His horse jerked against his control. Boen struggled to keep the beast from bolting out from under him. The ghosts, their numbers in the hundreds now, pressed in on him. He made out broken spears, shattered shields. Their armor was rotted leather and riddled with holes. Each had seen his war and been forever damned to haunt the place of his death. Boen was not going to be one of them.

  “What do you want with me?”

  He spoke only to find a way out, a means to survive.

  “You should not be here. This is a place of the dead.”

  Boen frowned. “The dead do not belong in this world. Go back to your graves and leave me in peace.”

  “We know no peace.”

  He resisted the urge to lash out. Steel would have no effect on the surreal anyway. His sword might as well have been a broken reed floating down a river. He had to think fast if he wanted to spare Bahr and the others from this fate.

  “I warn you. Leave me be or face the wrath of Gaimosian blood.”

  The ghosts wailed at his warning. His ears wept at the sound.

  “A son of Gaimos.”

  The words whispered over and over, rippling through the ghosts. Boen had obviously struck a chord, but how?

  “Gaimos is no more. It cannot be.”

  Boen narrowed his eyes. “Our kingdom yes, but not our people. We are few and scattered but we remain.”

  “We were once of Gaimos.”

  He froze. Had he heard it correctly? Gaimos had been destroyed nearly four thousand years ago. That was also the last time such a force of Gaimosians had taken to the field. Boen grimaced at the thought. A full regiment of brothers surrounded him. Such should not be possible.

  “What evil befell you here?” he asked. For reasons he did not know, he sheathed his sword.

  “Betrayal.”

  Betrayal? Boen ignored the rising uneasiness turning his stomach. He had questions, but wasn’t sure where to begin.

  “Beware the Dae’shan. Ever they seek to destroy us. Leave this place, son of Gaimos. We shall bother you no more.”

  The ghosts faded back into the mists and were gone. Boen sat in stunned silence as the sun disappeared over the mountaintops.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Siege Begins

  “Incoming!”

  Soldiers caught in the open dropped quickly to the ground in the hopes that enemy rounds did not land on top of them. The first impacts rocked the ground hard. Sections of Rogscroft’s ancient walls buckled, threatening to cave in. Waves of flames burned hotly where each round struck. Clouds of dust and debris choked the air. Every round screamed into the city. Armored men cowered and prayed for the bombardment to end.

  “Take your posts! To the walls!” bellowed the senior sergeant once the barrage ended.

  The defenders raced back to their positions. Squires dropped off full quivers behind each man. Nerves changed them. Fear danced in their eyes. The attack they had long dreaded was finally under way. It was much more preferable than the endless hours of waiting and wondering.

  “Put those fires out, lads! Quickly, before the whole damned castle burns down!”

  Several buildings had caught fire. Some had already collapsed in on themselves. Flames licked higher. The destruction was comparatively minimal, but might easily burn out of control. Orderlies raced with buckets. Litter bearers checked the rubble for dead and wounded. The heavy thrum of catapult fire echoed over the battlefield.

  “Incoming!”

  “The moment we have all dreaded is now upon us,” Stelskor told his senior leaders.

  His gaze shifted to each man. They were the best Rogscroft had to offer. The future of their kingdom rested solely on their strategies. Sleepless nights and high anxiety aged them all in the few short months of the war. Stelskor knew the worst was yet to come. Aurec stifled a yawn. He and what remained of his men had ridden into the city through underground passages during the night. Less than two hundred of his original number still lived. Aurec regretted losing so many, but for every death a handful of civilians were given the opportunity to flee to safety.

  “What did you spy on the way in?” the king asked his son.

  “The Wolfsreik spent much of the night moving their siege engines into position, as we all know.” He paused as several of the men chuckled humorlessly. “Their lines are weak at the rear. It is almost as if Badron doesn’t plan on leaving any survivors.”

  “We will make him rue that decision,” Paneolus, minister of state, vowed.

  Stelskor glanced at the balding, fat man and gave an approving nod. Part of their plan had always been to lure the Wolfsreik into a prolonged siege in the deep winter.

  “Have any enemy units tried closing in on the walls?” he asked.

  Venten answered. “None so far. We have snipers positioned to take out their sappers and engineers when they do.”

  “The walls should hold. Our primary concern needs to be the gates. If the enemy manages to burn them, none of our preparations will mean much.”

  “General Vajna is right. We must protect the gates first,” the king echoed.

  Aurec frowned. “The only way to do that successfully is to take out their siege engines, Father.”

  “We have done that before,” Venten remarked. “The enemy will have learned from their past mistakes. Their machines will be heavily guarded and there is no easy path through their lines.”

  “Can we range them with our own?” Stelskor asked.

  Vajna snapped. “I don’t know. We should be able to, but to what effect? We have a total of five and no possibility of creating new ones. If those are destroyed…”

  He let the rest remain unsaid.

  “Our situation should improve once their infantry starts moving into the city. We have enough defenses emplaced to slow them considerably,” Aurec added.

  He needed to change the subject before potential defeat dominated their thoughts. Victory was realistically out of reach and the best they could hope for was to inflict enough casualties to make Badron lose the urge to continue. Stelskor had no doubt that Badron was the driving force behind the invasion. His old hatreds and lust for power had made him unstable, dangerous. That fanaticism had spread through the Wolfsreik.

  “We all know that Rogscroft cannot stand up to the might of our enemy,” the king interrupted. “We make our stand here and then retreat to Grunmarrow. From there we can either continue with a guerilla-style war or wait for the Delrananians to grow bored and leave.”

  “Father, Grunmarrow is too far away to maintain any resistance in force.”

  Stelskor shot his son an appraising look. Grunmarrow was a refuge of sorts that had served the people of Rogscroft for generations. No enemy had been able to find the secluded village. And for good reason. As Aurec protested, Grunmarrow was nestled into the base of the Murdes Mountains, days away from the capital and a proper army. The boy was still young and full of fire. Keeping his emotions in check might prove difficult, but they had no choice. Survival was the imperative.

  “It has also served
us well over the years,” the king said. “It is a small village in the middle of the forest, sheltered by the Murdes Mountains and unknown to any of our enemies. The Pell Darga should be able to provide additional protection if we need it.”

  Venten doubted that. “As long as any Pell remain. We have had no word from them since abandoning the outer defenses.”

  “I think it is time to take into account that the Wolfsreik has already fixed the problem of the Pell. The myth is no more,” Vajna added.

  Paneolus frowned. “Winter is our best ally now.”

  King Stelskor shook his head, a pained expression on his aged face. “We need more.”

  “Sire, there is no more,” Vajna said matter-of-factly.

  The words haunted the council chamber long after their echo faded. Stelskor felt as if the dawn was too far out of reach. He began to despair.

  “Let us refocus,” Stelskor said. “We must look to the gates. It is not yet time to worry about retreat.”

  Paneolus scratched his double chin. “The pumps are finally operational. We should be able to pour enough water on the gates to keep them from burning too much.”

  “That leaves us with the problem of structural integrity,” Aurec said. “Wood and iron can only stand so much before the combination of impacts and fire causes them to buckle. We’ll have the Wolfsreik inside in no time.”

  Silence fell over them. Outside, the barrage renewed.

  Mahn watched Raste flinch from the latest explosion. The younger scout still wasn’t used to the sounds of war. Skirmishing was one thing, but this was a detailed battle and would continue for many days. It had already been over a day since the Wolfsreik began their artillery barrage and there was no sign of letting up. Raste flinched and jumped every time. The older Mahn was beginning to find it amusing. That wasn’t to say that he wasn’t terrified as well, but he was a seasoned soldier who had been through this all before. There was only so much a man could take before the booms and screams became common and no longer echoed so badly.