The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

“As I’ve said, you saved my life, and the lives of my children. I owe you everything. Take what you need. Jana, prepare a food bag. Tobias, fill a water skin for Brant,” Kaan ordered as he moved to his bed to grab his hunting knife. The long blade was sheathed and attached to a thin leather belt that had been hung on the bedpost. He handed it to Brant who cinched the belt around his waist.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Kaan nodded. “Where will you go?”

  “To Amorsit. I have some unfinished business there.” Brant wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do when he made it to the town, if he made it at all. But he knew he had served his time and he wanted to see the look on the magistrate’s face when he walked into town. Besides, he knew the town had a small force of Legionnaires and perhaps they would uphold the law and help protect him. He was hoping that if Tangar did follow him that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack an entire town to retrieve him.

  Jana handed him a cloth bag filled with food and Tobias gave him a full water skin. Then he hugged him tightly, his small arms wrapped around his waist. “Be careful, Brant.” Jana hugged him as well.

  “You both take care of your father. Don’t worry. I will see you again.”

  Brant reached out and shook Kaan’s hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Kaan nodded grimly. “You be careful.”

  He turned and walked out the front door, Kaan and his family following. The sun was still visible, but barely, its soft golden rays still fighting off the onset of darkness.

  Suddenly, as if they had been waiting for him to exit, a horde of nomads on horseback rushed from the far side of the creek, crossing it in great splashes. Kaan yelled at his children to get into the house while he reached around the door frame to grab his crossbow, joining Brant who was standing in the middle of the clearing.

  Fifty mounted nomads stood before them, the whinnying of the animals and the creaking and rattling of the leather and metal harnesses disturbing the peaceful evening. Tangar rode forward, his face with its typical stoic expression, devoid of emotion. He held his short bow in his hand, an arrow nocked and ready.

  “Did you really think you would get away?” he asked, speaking in Schulg.

  “I had to try,” Brant answered, also in Schulg. “Do not hurt them. They are not part of this. I will go with you.”

  Tangar looked at Kaan who was aiming the loaded crossbow at his chest. “Who are they?”

  “No one. I just met them and they offered me food and water.”

  “Strange that someone you just met holds a crossbow at fifty mounted warriors,” Tangar said flatly. He then switched to Newain, “Lower the crossbow,” Tangar ordered. Kaan looked at Brant, who nodded his head. He lowered the weapon but kept it at the ready. “What is your name?” Tangar asked.

  “Kaan. What do you want?”

  “I think you know what I want. Tell your children to come out.”

  “I will not…”

  In a blink Tangar’s arm came up and an arrow shot across the clearing, slamming into the tip of Kaan’s right shoulder and cutting a deep gash in his flesh. He stumbled back and dropped his weapon.

  “No!” Brant yelled, moving to help Kaan stay on his feet.

  “Tell your children to come out,” Tangar said again, his voice a harsh whisper. “I missed on purpose. It won’t happen again.”

  Kaan was biting back the pain. “Jana, Tobias, please come here.” Both of the children ran from the house to hold their father. Jana looked at his shoulder, a trickle of blood dripping from the wound. “Father! What have they done?” she cried.

  “I will be fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Tobias stood before his father holding a small kitchen knife in his hand. “Brant, what do I do?” he cried, tears streaking the side of his face.

  Tangar smiled for the first time. “It seems they know you after all. That is good. I need to replace the slave you killed. And the price I get for these children may make up for the deaths of my hounds.”

  Brant stepped before them. “You will not take them,” he whispered, drawing the knife from his side.

  “You think you can kill fifty Schulg warriors?”

  Suddenly there was commotion behind Brant and the nomads’ horses shifted nervously, instinctively stepping backward. Ten mounted warriors rode up the cart path, dust and debris scattering behind them as they galloped into the clearing. They quickly spread out behind Brant, facing the nomads.

  Tangar’s horse pranced nervously but the Schulg held his position, his face impassive. Kulvar Rand slowly trotted his horse forward until he was next to Brant. Looking down, he winked at Brant, then returned his steady gaze to Tangar.

  “Greetings, Tangar, son of Byn’ok,” he said softly, his tone menacing.

  “Have you come to further insult your king?”

  Kulvar Rand tilted his head, puzzled by the comment. “What do you mean?”

  Tangar spat on the ground. “You came to our village as a guest, then helped one of our most valuable slaves escape. And now you are here to help him when all we want is our property back. Your king will not be happy.”

  “You are right, my king may not be happy with what I’ve done and am about to do. But he,” indicating Brant, “is not your slave, nor is he your property. He is Dy’ainian and he was given to you to serve out a sentence of one year. That year is long over and he is now free according to our laws. You did not pay for him and I am here now, as a servant of the king, to uphold his law.”

  Tangar shifted uneasily in his saddle. “You have ten men and I have fifty.”

  Again, Kulvar Rand tilted his head, but this time he smiled. “I have ten Dygon Guards.”

  As if on cue the ten warriors behind him drew their swords in unison and hefted their cavalry shields, the movements smooth and practiced. Each man’s Kul-brite sword reflected the morning sun’s light, flashing a warning that they were dealing with the Dygon Guard. Brant and Kaan, sensing the conflict, grabbed Jana and Tobias and moved them against the house and out of the way.

  “I have always wanted to see whose is superior,” Tangar whispered.

  Kulvar Rand saw his opening. “Perhaps you can. I challenge you to Blood Rite.”

  All the nomads behind Tangar looked at their leader, not expecting to hear such a challenge. Tangar looked uneasy for a split second, but he quickly smiled. “You are not Schulg, and yet you want to challenge me to Blood Rite…all over one man?”

  “Not one man. I challenge you for all the men here. If we fight, you will all die, and I may lose men as well. I challenge you personally to prevent that from happening.”

  “You are of noble blood. Do you understand what would happen if you lose?”

  “I do. You would earn rights to all my weapons, armor, and my holdings.”

  Tangar nodded. “I would require the value of your land in coin. Do not forget that your wife and children would be mine as well.”

  “I understand, but I have neither so it is of no consequence. However,” Kulvar Rand said, drawing his blade from his hip. “This sword would be yours and the value of this blade far outweighs anything you have to offer.”

  Tangar looked at the polished silver blade. He knew of Kulvar Rand’s sword. All warriors did. “Do not be so quick to assume,” the nomad said, drawing his own blade, “that you are the only one with a blade of value.” Kulvar Rand’s eyes widened momentarily as he recognized the silver polish of Kul-brite steel. Tangar’s sword, although forged in a design favored by the nomads, was a Kul-brite blade.

  “How did you get that?” Kulvar asked. The king of Cythera used his precious steel to forge powerful weapons for his Dygon Guard, but for others to have such weapons they would have to possess great wealth, generally far more than what a Schulg nomad could ever come by.

  “It is a long story. One that you will never hear.” Tangar had always wanted to fight the famous leader of the Dygon Guard. The unanswered question of who was better had always gnawed at him. But now tha
t the opportunity had arrived he was not entirely sure if wanted the answer. But he could not deny a Blood Rite challenge. His men would never allow it. Besides, if he won, he would suddenly become the richest Schulg in existence. He would have more than he had ever dreamed. “I accept your challenge on one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “You cannot use the Way. Blood Rite is a challenge of skill and the use of the Way is not allowed. Will you swear not to bring forth your noble powers?”

  Kulvar Rand already knew that he could not use his powers. “I will.”

  “Will your men swear on their blades that you will not use it?”

  Kulvar Rand knew what he was asking. Tangar, not having the Aurit abilities himself, could not see one’s auras and so would never know if Kulvar broke the rules and used his power. But the other Dygon Guards could see his aura and would know if he broke his word. He also knew that they would not break their own word, nor would Kulvar Rand. Too much honor was at stake to win with anything but skill alone. “They will swear.”

  Each man behind him said the words, “we swear”, banging their sword against their shield once.

  “Very good. Let us begin.” With that Tangar stepped down from his horse. He unbuckled his leather armor and removed it, taking everything off until he was bare chested, wearing nothing but his leather leggings. He held his Kul-brite blade in his right hand. The blade was of Schulg design, long, slightly curved, narrow and razor sharp on one side. At the tip the sharp edge followed the back side of the blade for several hand spans before expertly blending into the backbone of the silver shaft. The handle was long, wrapped in brown leather, and two handed, the guard protecting the hands round and simply adorned. It was a beautiful weapon, unadorned, simple and elegant, made to kill, not to hang on a nobleman’s wall.

  Kulvar Rand followed suit, removing his armor and shirt until he was standing bare chested and holding his famous blade.

  Brant stepped over to Kulvar, concern evident on his face. “You do not have to do this for me,” he said. Brant was worried. He had seen Tangar fight. Tangar had trained him for nearly two years. He had never seen anyone move with such speed and precision. Kulvar Rand was a legend, but it was hard for Brant to imagine anyone skilled enough to beat the nomad.

  “I do need to do this. It is my job to protect our citizens.”

  “But he might kill you. And if he does he will take everything you own.”

  “If I am dead it will not matter,” Kulvar Rand said with a twinkle in his eyes. Then the twinkle disappeared, his black eyes turning to deep pits, drowning out any doubt. “But do not worry for me. I am not going to die.” Kulvar Rand’s words sent a chill down Brant’s spine and it was as if death had entered the clearing. Brant stepped away as Kulvar Rand moved forward, standing before the nomad. He lifted his blade to his forehead. “I swear to uphold the rules of Blood Rite. May honor, courage, and skill decide the victor.”

  Tangar did the same, reciting the exact words. Then they begin to circle one another. What happened next was something that Brant would probably never witness again. Tangar moved forward quickly, his blade coming down towards the Dygon Guard. Kulvar Rand’s blade flashed once, twice, and three times, his body gliding forward in a blur and spinning away from the nomad.

  Tangar stopped and dropped his sword, his right arm sliced deep across his bicep. His free hand moved to his throat, crimson waves gushing from the wound, his hand futilely trying to stop the flow. Then he fell forward to the ground. It had all happened in a heartbeat.

  Tangar’s stunned warriors stared at Kulvar, barely registering what had just happened. Several moments later two warriors dismounted, walked toward Tangar’s body and lifted it up. They laid his body across the back of a pack horse, mounted their steeds, and rode slowly off across the river without saying a word.

  They had left Tangar’s horse, weapons, and armor, the Blood Rite demanding it. The Dygon Guard dismounted and tied their horses to the railings of Kaan’s animal pen. Greeting their leader, they helped him with his armor and clothes as if what they had just witnessed was a bygone conclusion.

  Kaan and Brant approached as he was strapping his armor into place. Kaan was holding his hand to his wounded shoulder, the blood from the gash seeping through his fingers. “I don’t know what to say,” Brant mumbled. He had never before seen such a display of skill, what little of it he actually saw. It happened so fast.

  “You do not need to say anything,” Kulvar Rand replied.

  “But I do,” Kaan added. “You saved my life as well as Brant’s. He was going to take me and my family. Thank you for not allowing that to happen.”

  “You are welcome. As I said, I am the king’s man, as you are his subjects. It is my job to uphold his laws. Let’s take a look at that wound.”

  “Soon enough,” Kaan agreed. “I would be honored if you would allow my daughter to prepare a meal for us all. I killed a tulkick yesterday and we have an abundance of potatoes and onions. Besides, you have ridden hard and it will soon be dark. I do not have much room but the barn is better than sleeping on the road. What do you say?”

  “My men and I would be honored. But I insist on paying for the food and hospitality.” Kaan was just about to protest but Kulvar cut him off. “Please, I know that times are hard. Besides, I would be paying for the meal and lodging in town anyway. And I would like one of my men to see to your shoulder. I insist.”

  “Very well. Jana, Tobias, please get to it,” Kaan asked his children. They left without a word, realizing the importance of their task.

  Kulvar looked at Brant. “In the morning I would like you to come with us.”

  Brant looked at the Dygon Guard. “For what purpose?”

  “I told you before. I could use a man like you, a man with your special skills.” Brant and Kaan both knew what he was referring to, but they said nothing. “A war is coming, Brant, and men like you will be needed. What do you say?”

  Brant was uncertain what role Kulvar Rand had for him, but he had nothing else to do and nowhere to go. There was nothing for him anywhere. Perhaps he could create something. He needed a purpose and he felt he might find that purpose at Cythera. “I will go with you.”

  Kulvar Rand smiled. “You will use the nomad’s horse. We will leave early.” The warrior turned to let his men know to set up camp in the barn.

  “I don’t know how to ride.”

  Kulvar Rand turned back around, looked at his groin, and smiled. “Well you’re going to learn.”

  Kaan saw the look, and despite the pain from his wounded shoulder, laughed out loud. Brant didn’t know what was so funny. But he had a feeling that he was going to find out soon enough.

  8

  Chapter

  Why are wars fought? The answer to this question continues to elude me. I understand that there are always reasons why men think they need to go to war. History is filled with countless examples of wars fought between nations for power, religion, trade, land, or simply to right perceived wrongs. But are they really necessary? When we strip down the causes what do we really find? Almost every war I’ve ever studied could have been avoided if men simply discussed their grievances rationally. But therein lies the crux. Can men conquer their base instincts such as greed, anger, and desire, reigning them in enough to discuss alternate solutions besides death? Thousands, perhaps millions across our lands, have perished, and for what? So one king can control a river vital for trade? So one idea, perceived to be righteous, can be spread throughout the kingdoms? Or because one ruler shamed another? None of it has ever really made sense to me. The cost of war, not just in lives, but in coin, should be a deterrent for most conflicts. But it’s not. I believe I understand why. The men that make the decisions to go to war, that may profit from it, are not the men who are fighting the wars. Generally speaking, the rulers who choose warfare over dialogue are not the ones whose bodies will rot on the battlefield, while worms and crows eat their decaying flesh.

  But let’
s get back to my original question. Is war ever necessary? Despite my misgivings, I believe there are times when it is unavoidable. What must one do when one’s lands are invaded, the conquerors dead set on rape, pillage, and destruction? What must one do when a group of people attempt to eradicate another, or force their ideas upon them, taking away the right to choose? The answer is simple. They must fight. There is no other answer, their course of action set into motion by the very invaders who brought death to their lands.

  Journal entry 79

  Kivalla Der’une, Historian, Keeper of the records in Cythera, capital of Dy’ain

  * * *

  5090, the 14th cyn after the Great Change

  King Enden Dormath sat casually at his large oak table listening to his advisor, Kivalla Der’une. His wife, Queen Irstan Dormath, sat to his left while the captain of his Sentinels, Tul’gon, sat on his right. Also in attendance was General Veros, commander of the Cythera Legion.

  They were sitting in King Enden’s favorite room. It was the place he went to relax, to ease the stresses of his position. The room was cozy rather than large and pretentious. The walls were lined with racks filled with every conceivable weapon that could be found in Belorth and Corvell. He even had several cab’re’s, the knife-like weapons forged by the Askarian nomads, and a beautifully crafted oswith forged from Kul-brite. Where there were no weapons leather bound books filled shelves, tomes collected from the many kingdoms surrounding Dy’ain. The high ceiling was dominated by massive wood beams crisscrossing the span of the ceiling, the center one anchoring an impressive chandelier built from the white horns of the loryn, a huge four legged herbivore that lives deep in the Lorien Forest far to the north, feeding on the plentiful plant life that grew there. Loryns sported two horns, each as long as the height of a man. Twenty of these horns had been connected at their bases, the long sharp points spanning outward and held together with bands of iron. At the ends were iron oil lanterns, made by the king’s best blacksmiths, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows in the rafters above. They all sat in hand carved chairs lined with soft leather.