Tides of Blood and Steel

by Christian Warren Freed

  Stelskor rose, his resolve strengthened by the hopes that he might soon stride into the halls of his forefathers and be welcomed. The doors splintered apart. Chunks of ancient carvings blew inwards across the marble floor. Enemy soldiers streamed in behind. Their weapons glimmered in the torchlight. The lead soldiers froze, surprised at what they saw.

  “Come you jackals, come and meet doom,” Stelskor growled.

  The Wolfsreik edged closer.

  “Hold!”

  The command bellowed throughout the room, bouncing from the walls. Even Stelskor held fast, so great was the power in the words. An older man moved through the mass of hungry soldiers. His uniform was nearly immaculate. Hardly a stain could be found, as if he had been saving it for just this occasion. Soldiers ringed him in a lazy half circle.

  “King Stelskor, I am Commander Piper Joach, Second of the Wolfsreik and loyal son of Delranan.”

  Stelskor kept his sword at the low guard. “Save your titles. They mean little at this point. Kill me and get it over with.”

  A half smile. “I am glad we see eye to eye, but your death will not be on my hands or conscience. I arrest you by order of King Badron. You and your kingdom now belong to Delranan.”

  “You dare!”

  A new voice drowned out Piper’s response. “No, I do.”

  Stelskor paled. Badron himself had come to witness the end of this long nightmare. Sadly, he looked nothing like his former self. Stelskor was surprised to see how old and frail he looked, a haunting echo of the past. His once majestic frame was now gaunt and frighteningly grey. A haggard look scarred his bearded face. This new Badron did not belong in the waking world. Worse, he bore a light of pure malevolence in his dark eyes.

  “Badron,” Stelskor whispered.

  “You have no idea how long I have awaited this moment, Stelskor. You killed my son, threw my kingdom into turmoil, and kidnapped my daughter. The fate I am about to bestow on you might be considered a mercy compared to all of the agony you created.”

  Venom dripped from his words. Hate, pure and dark hate, consumed his emotions. The last king of Rogscroft threw down his sword in defiance and held out his arms. Every moment he delayed gave his men and his son a greater chance of escaping.

  “Do it then. Kill me and claim your revenge.”

  Badron disregarded him with a laugh. “Revenge? No, not revenge. This is justice.”

  “Delranan justice has no place within my halls.”

  “These halls are no longer yours. Your army is routed. Your whelp of a son is dead and I am going to burn this castle to the ground. No one will even remember the pathetic kingdom you struggled to rule.”

  Stelskor had already stopped listening. Aurec, my son. He’d done everything within his power to prepare the boy for this moment. Aurec should have been leading what remained of the defenders to Grunmarrow. Why had he stayed? What had he been thinking? Anguish clutched Stelskor’s soul. With father and son gone, there was no one to lead. The king was utterly broken.

  He raised his weak gaze to the man he once named brother. “Bastard.”

  “Indeed.”

  Badron rushed forward. The sound of steel slicing meat, wet and sickening, filled the tiny chamber. Red mist blossomed across the gap between the two kings. Stelskor groaned from the immense pain tearing through his chest and slumped down on Badron’s sword. Already weak, he threw his hands around Badron’s neck and tried to squeeze. Guards moved to intercept but their king waved them off. His sneer turned into a smile as he twisted his sword around. He laughed as it pierced his foe’s back. Dark blood sprayed from Stelskor’s mouth. It bubbled on his lips. The last king of Rogscroft fell dead on the cold marble floor.

  Badron lifted his arms in triumph. “Victory!”

  The Wolfsreik cheered.

  * * * * *

  Somehow, and he still wasn’t exactly sure just how, Raste wound up leading a column of wounded out of the castle. He’d been reconciled with the need to keep fighting atop the walls, but he had no desire to die so casually. The Wolfsreik hounded his every step. It wasn’t until he and a handful of survivors managed to duck inside the main keep that he paused to take stock of his injuries and catch his breath.

  Nine men. That was all that remained of his men and the ones who had miraculously arrived to save his life moments before a Wolfsreik sword nearly skewered him. Worse, he appeared to be the highest-ranking survivor. Raste cursed. He knew next to nothing about leadership. All of his dreams of the future centered on fighting the enemy. Well, he grimaced, that hadn’t gone so well. Too many of his friends lay dead in the smoldering ruins of the city.

  “We should keep moving,” he reluctantly told the nine.

  One by one the haggard survivors struggled to their feet and continued the long trek to Grunmarrow.

  * * * * *

  Mahn sat uncomfortably in his saddle, silently watching as rich flames the colors of merchant silks devoured his home. He felt curiously empty. His world, all that he knew, was finished. Reprisal was out of the question. There were too few survivors to make a difference. Any hope was going to come from repeated guerilla attacks throughout the winter, like the Pell Darga had done during the early stages of the war.

  “What do we do now? How can we possibly avenge so much destruction?” he asked.

  Sergeant Thorsson spat a wad of congealed blood. “We do what the king commanded. Regroup at Grunmarrow and get ready for war.”

  His shoulder was swathed in bandages. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain bordered on unbearable. Thorsson took it with clenched teeth. A passing medic claimed the arrow wasn’t poisoned, but it sure felt like it to Thorsson. Every ounce of focus was on his hatred of the men and monsters who now occupied his home. He spat again.

  “Come on,” he said with a grimace. “We still have a long way to go.”

  The older scout pulled his cloak tight. A permanent frown was engraved on his face. Winter was getting worse and they were not geared for the elements. Exquisite pain danced on the fringes of his wounded soul. He had failed, in every regard. Years of hard work and dedication amounted to nothing. Mahn struggled with the abject desire to run and hide. The fight had left him.

  “All right,” he reluctantly agreed. “Let us put this nightmare behind us.”

  * * * * *

  Cuul Ol leaned heavily on his oak staff. The squat, brown-skinned man watched Rogscroft burn in the valley below. He sighed. The war was over. King Stelskor failed to stop the enemy. Some measure of reciprocity might be enacted if the king still lived, but Cuul doubted it. A true king would have died in the ruins of his kingdom. Such was the code Pell Darga tribal leaders lived by. He shook his head. It was time to see to his own people now.

  The Pell chieftain could not help but feel immeasurable sadness at the inferno raging before him. There was no love lost for the lowlanders, but their alliance had been with some benefits. The Pell gained trade rights with Rogscroft and the ability to move freely through southern lands. They also gained a new enemy in the Wolfsreik. Badron’s uncontrollable lust for power threatened to rip the fabric of northern Malweir apart. Such appetites needed to be culled.

  “We should abandon them now.”

  Cuul looked up at his growing rival. “Do not be so quick to pass judgment, Sintl Ap. We still need them.”

  “For what? They are all dead. Fire eats their heart,” Sintl scowled. “What more is there?”

  “There is still war.”

  “Not my war.”

  Cuul Ol lacked the strength to argue, not in the wake of a murdered kingdom. “Durgas would disagree.”

  Sintl Ap paused. Word of the ambush spread quickly through the tribes. The indignation of such cruel murders spurred the Pell hunters into undiscovered rage. No true warrior deserved to be butchered the way Durgas and his men had. Cuul Ol personally led a group of hunters to see the truth for themselves. What they found sickened them. Fresh bile soon joined the eviscerated corpses strewn among the trees. A pile of heads
sat in the middle of the slaughter, eyes open and staring into the dark reaches of eternity. Each face was twisted in eternal of agony.

  Cuul Ol ordered the bodies burned, a ritual refitting the deaths of such worthy men. The rising desire for revenge clashed with an eerie feeling creeping around his spine. He couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever had so casually killed Durgas was still here, watching their every move. Cuul Ol shuddered before urging his men to hurry.

  He shut his eyes. “I was there. I saw the bodies.”

  Sintl Ap persisted. “The Pell should never have gotten involved. This was not our fight.”

  Sadness welled within Cuul Ol as he desperately tried to push the memories away. “No. The time is too late to turn our backs. Whoever killed Durgas knows too much of our ways. Our mountains are not safe.”

  “What do you say?”

  “The only way to find peace is through war.”

  Cuul understood that statement might mark the damnation of his people, but there was no other way he could see. A new day had dawned for the Pell Darga. There would be no return from this new life. Gone was the storied isolationist lifestyle. The Pell were now intricately intertwined in the affairs of the rest of Malweir. Cuul Ol prayed his world did not degenerate beyond control.

  Sint Ap finally nodded. “So be it. The Pell Darga have a new purpose. We shall be a name that sparks terror for generations.”

  “I pray you are wrong, for us all.”

  They stood in silence and watched as the world they once knew burned to the ground.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The Quest Sets Forth

  Bahr enjoyed the rising sun as it made its way across the roof of the world. Mixed emotions assailed his tranquility. He found the concept of faith intriguing, enough to force him into the cathedral to watch the Giants devote themselves to their god. God. Gods. What this entire sad affair revolved around. The stringent belief in one faith or another threatened to destroy the world. Hundreds already lay dead in the name of powers that no one could prove existed.

  He snorted. The notion was absurd. It didn’t make any sense that a thing so simple could cause so much destruction. Was Man so easily lulled into killing others? Bahr wanted to think otherwise. He still had hope in the innate righteousness his kind possessed. He’d seen both good and bad, but did not know where the answers lay. Perhaps the long journey to Trennaron would provide the clues to his dilemma.

  There came a soft knock on the aged, wooden door.

  “Come in.”

  Boen’s massive form filled the doorway. “It is time to leave.”

  “So soon?”

  His comment took the Gaimosian off guard. “What?”

  “Nothing. I’ve had too much time to think. Is the wagon ready?”

  Boen nodded. “Rekka seems to have a gift for motivation. She’s just about finished with everything. Good girl, that one.”

  “Yes. Convenient she arrived in port when she did,” Bahr drawled, recalling the earlier admission.

  “You don’t sound optimistic.”

  “Like I said, I’ve been thinking too much.”

  “I bet you are a depressing drunk.”

  Bahr bit back a laugh. “You’ve seen me drunk. If only our problems could be solved by a jug of wine.”

  Boen entered the room and shut the door behind him. “All right, out with it. Neither one of us are leaving this room until I am confident your head is in the right place. I mean it, Bahr.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Boen snarled.

  The Sea Wolf blew out a long sigh. “Have you ever bothered to wonder what this has all been for? The reasons we left Delranan were false. It was never about Maleela. Nothing has been as it seemed even from the beginning.”

  It was now Boen’s turn to sigh. “This is not the time for a mental break down. We’ve got too far to go for this. I need you in the fight with me.”

  Bahr wiped his red-streaked eyes. “Gods. That’s what this is all about. How many people have died in the name of some mythical beings? It doesn’t make sense. We are about to go halfway across Malweir, risk our lives, and come back in the middle of a war not of our making. All because of gods.”

  “Gods?” Bemusement laced his tone. “Who cares? Want to know what I think? I think there’s nothing to it. We are our own men.”

  “How can you say that knowing all that has happened so far?”

  “What’s done is done. I don’t care about some imaginary beings intent on screwing with our lives. Show me a god, a real live god, and I will give him a piece of my mind. Maybe even the tip of my blade.”

  “Somehow I don’t see that ending well for you.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. These gods of yours aren’t important, leastwise not to me. All I can do is live my life with honor. My death will be worthwhile then. The rest is just a waste of time. Now, strap on your damned sword and let’s get moving. I am tired of being around these Giants.”

  * * * * *

  “It’s not too late to go back,” Dorl said.

  Nothol Coll just shook his head. “Go back to what? It’s not like we have a home to go back to. Harnin One Eye will have put out warrants on us. Home is gone.”

  “Then we go somewhere else! How many other kingdoms are in Malweir? Harnin’s power only extends to Delranan.”

  “And Rogscroft,” Nothol shrewdly added.

  “What?”

  “I think it is safe to assume that Badron has already conquered Rogscroft, or at least he should soon,” Nothol explained.

  “My point is there are a whole lot of places the two of us can go once we get out of these mountains,” Dorl said, choosing not to expound on Nothol’s statement. The implications frightened him to the point he refused to consider them.

  “Uh huh. Can you even name another kingdom?”

  Dorl snarled. “Doesn’t matter. We don’t have to go back.”

  Nothol Coll rolled his eyes and walked away. He, too, was unwilling to explore the dark possibilities awaiting them. His faith in Bahr to see them through these troubles was enough. He only hoped Dorl would come to see the same.

  * * * * *

  Lightning struck the ground for as far as he could see. Ominous black clouds hung so low a man could reach up and touch them. Dark boulders sat like broken teeth in a dying monster’s jaws. The edges of the far horizon glowed a murderous red. Strange creatures of indescribable hatred could be seen dancing among the clouds. They beckoned to him. Ionascu wrapped his arms tightly around himself and struggled to hold back the rising bile in his throat. He wished his eyes were as broken as the rest of his body to save him the torment of these images.

  “Ionascu, third son of Matescu. Hear our voices.”

  He screamed and clamped his twisted hands over his ears. Tiny trickles of blood seeped from beneath his fingers. Strength fled and he dropped to his knees. Massive hands, larger than mountains, jutted up from the ground. Stone and rocks showered down, crushing everything beneath. Ionascu felt cold. He felt hatred so pure it threatened to tear the marrow from his very bones.

  “Leave me alone!” he shouted back.

  The voices laughed, cold and wicked.

  “No, broken son. The hour is much too late for that.”

  A female voice. “Yes. The time has come for you to fulfill your purpose.”

  “I said leave me be!” he shouted again with less conviction.

  Lightning struck close enough to sizzle his flesh and knock him backwards.

  “You would do well to listen.”

  Ionascu bowed low, his forehead touching the ground hard enough to draw blood. “Yes. Yes, please no more.”

  “See, I told you he was agreeable.”

  “Perhaps.”

  A large hand, no more than a wisp of cloud, plucked the groveling man up and set him on his feet.

  “Heed our words. War is coming. A terrible war to decide the fate of the world. We have need of agents.”

  The
broken man weakly resisted.

  “Serve us and we will grant you revenge against those responsible for breaking you.”

  Ionascu looked up. Fresh hope sparked to life. “You, you can do that?”

  Dark laughter. “That and so much more. Follow us and the revenge is yours. All of the foulest desires aching in the rot of your heart will come true. It is a gift.”

  Fear and desperation lost their hold on him and Ionascu willingly allowed himself to plunge into the enticements. He wanted Harnin dead more than anything and would be a fool to pass on such opportunity. Ionascu quickly decided.

  “What must I do?”

  “Nothing for now. We will come to you when the time is right.”

  Ethereal fingers dissolved and he fell. Ionascu woke up confused and bathed in sweat. He screamed.

  * * * * *

  Skuld warmed his hands, knowing that this would likely be his last chance to stay warm for a very long time. The Murdes Mountains were by far the worst place he had ever been. His initial fascination of the Giants was gone, just as lost as earlier dreams of gold and riches. He wanted to go home and forget all of this. The only problem was home no longer existed.

  “What troubles your mind, young Skuld?”

  Anienam’s voice cracked from age yet managed to keep a comforting tone.

  “I’ve had too long to think about things, Anienam.”

  The wizard took a seat beside him and smiled tightly. “A very dangerous thing, that. Thinking has been the ruin of a great many since the dawn of the world.”

  “You are mocking me.”