by Eli Steele
“Why not?”
“Few forces are as stubborn as crashing waves. The sandy motte would never hold.”
“Could they not float in rubble?”
The priest shrugged. “They would have to be large boulders indeed, and look at the walls of Whitethroat. It’s all small stones and brick.”
As they neared the castle, the heavy wooden doors before them groaned outward on rusty hinges. Through the gatehouse passage was a large cobblestone courtyard, its walls ringed with several barracks, granaries, and storehouses, as well as a chapel and a few other structures and quarters. Bela searched the space until her eyes settled on the forge. It was half the size of the Wray of the Warrior and looked as if its best days were a lifetime behind it. “The price of peace,” she muttered to herself. “I bet all they do here is shoe horses and mend cracked cauldrons,” she added, just loud enough for Brayden to hear.
“Those days are over, starting on the morrow.”
A wiry man of maybe fifty, with a headful of gray hair and a face marred with deep wrinkles, stood in front of a dozen or so armsmen. An aged scar streaked across his throat. It looked to have been deep and should have been mortal. How he’d survived it, Bela wasn’t sure. Stepping forward, he said, “Ezra Lauder?”
He nodded.
“Vance Beck,” the man replied, stretching out his hand. “Captain of Lord Ross’ guard, and the protector of The Throat in his absence.”
Ezra clasped his forearm. “Thank you for receiving us, my lord. We are in your debt.”
Beck chuckled. “It’s we who owe you and Lady Alexander for saving our lord’s daughter.”
Alyna and Elsie approached. “Vance,” the young Ross said, embracing him like a father. “I’m so happy to see you!”
“Likewise, m’lady,” he replied, squeezing her tight.
“Where’s father?”
“He and your mother should arrive from Galaia by the morrow.” Turning to Alyna, he bowed his head and set his mouth in a sober line. “I am sorry for your loss, Lady Alexander. Lord Baron was a man well regarded and without equal. He will not be forgotten.”
“Thank you,” she replied, biting her lip and looking away.
“We’ve made arrangements in the keep for you and Sir Lauder and your attendants. My men will help you to your rooms.”
Alyna nodded and followed after several guards, along with Elsie and the other ladies, as well as Father Alden and Mery and a small cadre of swords. As they left, Vance leaned in and asked, “The son, is he… as well?”
Ezra sighed. “We do not know. He’s lost to us, but we have hope yet.”
Beck spat. “Damn Alfred and that smug bastard Mace. If only he would’ve sent the whole of the army.”
“Or if Reyland had stayed behind the wall...”
Vance shook his head. “And here we stand, too damned old for another war, the both of us.”
Ezra snorted. “Indeed, but Whitethroat is stout, perhaps more so than even the Brae. How many men have you?”
“Including you?” Beck studied their ranks, before replying, “Three hundred when my lord returns, but there are measures we can take to burden a march across the marsh. We are well provisioned, and the sea here is always full of fish and blood eels and mud clams. The Throat can sustain a siege without end if she must.”
“Lord Ross, is he in Galaia?”
“At Alfred’s command, mustering swords and bows to send north. The whole of the king’s army marches east as we speak. The men of Galaia will join him and together they will liberate Ashmor.”
“Bathild will be doing the same.”
“And thus they may all meet on the low hills south of Perk, and settle this once and for all.”
Ezra nodded. After a moment, he said, “Say, do you know Gruff Wray?”
Vance snorted. “Is there a man worth knowing who doesn’t?”
Looking over, he replied, “Meet his daughter, Bela, a masterforger herself, and the bane of the Black Knight’s army.”
“It is truly an honor,” said Beck. “No other sword cuts quite like your father’s.” Realization swept over him. Sucking in a breath, he asked, “Is he-“
“He’s in Galaia,” she replied.
Vance exhaled. “As it should be. The world would be lesser without the arse Gruff Wray and his war-winning steel.”
She smirked. “So you do know him?”
“She is her father,” Lauder added with a chuckle, “make no doubt.”
“I see you have a forge. Have you a smith worthy of the title in this place?” Her words were sharper than she’d intended. From somewhere behind, she heard Brayden stifle a laugh.
“Arlo is... a seasoned forger – perhaps too seasoned – and can scarce see to strike steel. I am certain he would welcome your company. I’ll introduce you shortly.” Turning to Ezra, he said, “Your men may take the north barracks, and there’re stables for the horse, too. Come, I should show you around the place.”
As the crowd dispersed, Brayden approached Bela. “We’ll be safe here, at least for the time. And you have a purpose; make this forge the finest it has ever been.”
“That should be simple enough,” she replied.
“I will leave in the morning, but I shall return.”
“Who is this someone you must see?”
“She’s an old friend.”
“An old friend, a mage?”
He smirked. “She prefers warwitch.”
Chapter 58
Byron Dhane
The Barbeau Pass
The Barbeau Pass’ southern approach started gradual but was stubbornly persistent in its ascent, with hills each growing higher and wilder. Squat scrub oaks and field maples dotted the otherwise grassy and stone-specked rise. Byron thought it would’ve been a peaceful climb, had it not been so marred with death.
Charred timbers and blackened stone heaps were all that remained of the occasional ring of farmhouses round meager holdfasts. Slaughtered livestock pocked the pastures, their presence made known by the light of a moon tinged the slightest of yellow and pinned high in the sky. The biting cold froze the carcasses solid, pushing back the stench of rot until first thaw. For that Byron was grateful.
The fallen commander rode his blue-gray grulla with his hood pulled low over his face and his head cocked down. The gelding had a predictable rhythm to his gait, and Dhane had long since found it, making the long ride as comfortable as could be hoped for. Even still, the cheeks of his ass were raw and the small of his back had already began its protest with a nagging ache.
Hoof clops were the only sounds as they approached the distant high wall of Braewood Keep with nary a torch, guided only by the creamy ethereal glow cast wide from overhead. Beyond it, countless specks of twinkling lights lustered, flung wide across a grudge-colored sky from one line of jagged crags to another. The wisps of dead winds whispered like ghosts about them, granting a mild respite from the harsh gusts for the first time in recent memory.
“We should stop in the keep for the night,” Weston said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.
“I’d prefer not to sleep with the dead,” replied Byron.
“The horses need their rest, my lord.”
“Perhaps we could make camp here instead.”
“We’d be too exposed for a fire, and my fingers long for some warmth.”
“We could ride on through, maybe find a suitable site beyond.”
“No,” said Vulf, his words final. “Beyond is the burned wood. There’ll be no place for us there, either.”
“The Bear speaks truly,” said Havar, “we should tarry ‘til the morrow in the keep.”
“Fine,” said Byron, outmanned.
“We are deserters, Dhane,” said Weston, “and our absence has most certainly been noticed by now. We are likely being pursued even as we speak. And this is land torn wide from war. People still abound, and they’ll be hungry and desperate. Staying in the walls for the night is a measure of caution we should not pass u
p.”
“I said fine,” replied the fallen commander, “what more would you have of me?”
“To find your spine, for one; there are no ghosts nor draugurs in those walls.”
Byron chose not to reply to Volf’s jape. Instead, he rode along in silence, shoulder to shoulder with his companions and eyes straight ahead. Finally, his enmity passed, he spoke. “I will do it, but I am ashamed to share the courtyard with the lord of the keep for the night.”
“The killing of a man surrendered, especially a highborn, is a dishonor. But more importantly, it sets the tone of the war. The next time it may very well be us.”
“It served no end of the crown’s. It was but to satisfy a lust for death,” added Havar.
“Lothe and his knight and his mages care not for what furthers the crown,” said Dhane. “They are driven by something else. Bathild would-“
The Bear spat. “Your liege gives not one shite about some nameless borderland noble, Byron. Why is this so hard for you? We are sooner to meet ten thousand soldiers marching south to reinforce the Black Knight than we are to find sympathy in Hadrian. And I will remind you of this when they snatch the planks out from under our arses and we swing like your damned corpse in the keep.”
Byron pulled back on his reins, halting the grulla. Thrusting a finger at The Bear, he snarled, “Then leave!”
Havar interrupted, “My lord-“
“You too!” Closing his eyes, he exhaled. “What would you have me do? Stay and fight?”
Neither replied.
“Do you not think I know my fate?” Dhane started to speak again, but held back. Instead, he closed his eyes and sat in silence for a time, collecting his thoughts. Finally, he spoke. “This is folly, but it’s my folly, and it’s mine alone. Your loyalty in the face of foolishness means more than you know, but you shouldn’t have to share in this burden. When we reach Dornfell, I would have you leave me. Go home, step back from this war, and guard your lands, lest they be taken from you.”
“Byron-“
“No, Wes. This is the best course, and you know it. I have failed at everything else, let me fail at this one last thing and die with my honor, if but only in my own mind.”
“You,” The Bear replied after a time, “are a stubborn son of a bitch. And a stupid one, too. It is a shame that the crown rests on the head of a Hult and not a Dhane.”
“Let’s put this from our minds and not speak of it again. I would rather enjoy the time I’ve left with the few bastard friends I have.”
The south wall was sable black, pressed in by the smoking shadow of the surrounding mountains. No braziers pushed back against the oppressive gloom that spilled out of the gaping gate and onto the steepening slope that climbed up to the face of the Brae. Haunting; if Byron had to give only one word to describe the Brae, that was it. Haunting. “How can a place so desolate seem so dire?” he asked, not seeking an answer.
He paused at the gate and listened in silence but heard nothing, not even the familiar moan of the wind. Peering into the heavy mantle of darkness, he searched the courtyard beyond, but found it empty. Drawing Lordsbane, he urged the grulla forward.
Clop-clop echoed the geldings’ hooves off the ground and then the high walls and back at the men again. Shadows crawled out from the corners, but faded before reaching the center of the space. Byron led them along a moonlit course, dipping into the gloom just long enough to pass by the keep structure. Up ahead, a battered Hell’s Gate loomed, yawning inward on itself. Letting out a sigh, the commander slid the daystar’s shaft back through its loop. As he did, he glanced over at the gallows and saw only a cut rope. “Oh shi-“
“Halt!” shouted a broad-chested figure as he stepped out of the darkness, arrow nocked and leveled. Dark hair hung past his ears and a warhammer sagged at his belt. Beside him stood a mountain savage in thick furs and a heavy axe at the ready. The two could not have looked more different.
“We don’t halt for brigands,” replied Byron, drawing Lordsbane again, “especially only a pair.”
“What about two more?” called out a voice from behind.
The commander whirled the grulla around to find a short, thick man with a longsword, another axe-wielding savage, and a timber wolf with teeth bared. “Three in the saddle beats four in the dirt and a dog’s whimper.”
“This isn’t alouette,” said the short man, “and there’s a dozen more on the wall, bows trained on your arses, awaiting my word. Besides, you look more like a half than a whole. Now, off the horses and on your knees.”
Dhane felt his chest burn. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the man. “You bluff, those walls are empty.”
“I won’t ask you again. Down, now.”
Byron planted his heels in his stirrups. The daystar felt good in his hands, and this was a fitting place to die. As he prepared to drive the gelding forward, Havar slid from his saddle and dropped to the ground. “There is no fortune worse in all the Four Kingdoms than that among us three,” said The Bear, doing the same.
The fallen commander eyed the short man, who stared back unblinkingly. Averting his gaze, the man glanced up to the wall and raised his sword. “Wait,” said Dhane, pushing Lordsbane back through its loop and climbing down from the saddle.
“Loose your belts and cast aside your steel. Draw your dirks and daggers and hidden blades and do the same. You with the nub, you need a hand?” the man jeered.
Byron spat as he slid leather through the buckle before flinging his belt across the courtyard. “Why don’t you take your hand and sard yourself.”
“If they move, end them,” he said. As the other three closed in, he faded into the shadows. Several long minutes later, a torchglow appeared, illuminating four figures. One was the short man with the words that stung. Another was taller than any he’d ever seen, with a pair of axes strapped across his back. A third he’d imprisoned, locked the door himself with the key they’d found on the hung lord. And the fourth…
Of all the men in the Four Kingdoms, why must it be the likes of you… Surely I am a man forsaken by the gods.
“You,” said the lordling, drawing his sword, its steel singing on leather as he did.
What a beautiful blade, art and iron set in a hilt. If I’m to be run through, be it with that one.
“Me,” he replied sarcastically, sticking out his chest. I will not die a craven. Not on this day.
“Was it you?”
“You’ll have to be more specific, lordling. I’ve done so much.”
“Byron,” Havar whispered.
“Silence. This is between me and the master of this mighty keep.”
“You know what I mean,” the lordling snarled.
“It was me,” Byron replied, “I slid the noose round his neck. I kicked the horse’s ass and watched him bolt forward. I watched him die, begging, sniveling for his life like a lowborn cur.”
“You lie.”
“He died the death he deserved, one of thieves and cravens.”
“Wait!” shouted Weston.
The lordling growled like the timber wolf and stepped forward, sword raised high.
That’s right, the commander mused, leaning forward and splaying his gloved fingers wide on the cold ground, while stretching out his neck. Give me all your hate. End this endless failure with one clean strike.
The lordling towered over him, lining up his blade. “You will split the gates of the nine open this very night.”
He thought of all the men he’d lost to blade and flame in the Braewood, and those at Bearbrook and beyond, and the innocent families he’d ended – whose heads he’d sacked and delivered to this very same man that stood over him. And all the chances – so many chances – he’d had to stop Lothe with a dagger to the throat but cowered back or convinced himself it was for the greater good of Meronia. If there is a hero in this story, it is anyone but you. For courage is not a word that a single man will speak in the same breath as your name for ten generations. And when they do, it’ll be lies
spun by the ignorant and those seeking to reclaim the honor of their house, but there is no honor left in the name Dhane. “I welcome the nine,” he whispered to himself, “at least I’ll wake up warm.”
Steel glinted in the torchlight as the lordling brought it down hard.
“Stop!” shouted the man he had imprisoned in the belly of the Brae. In those last moments, Byron opened his eyes, awaiting the cold bite of the honed edge. Instead, the blade cut deep into the frozen ground inches away. Startled, he recoiled, bringing his hand up to guard himself. Instead he fell face first in the dirt.
A failure even in seeking death…
“Griffon, it wasn’t him. I was there.”
“Does it matter? He deserves it all the same.”
The former prisoner pulled the lordling back several steps. Byron watched them whisper back and forth, before Griffon slid his sword in its sheath and walked away in a huff, shouldering into the men as he did.
Sighing, the former prisoner approached Byron. “Up,” he said with a voice comfortable commanding men.
“Why didn’t just let him end me?” Byron said, standing.
“Perhaps, ‘you have my thanks, my lord,’ is more in order.”
Dhane snorted.
“Why would you lie?” The man paused for several moments, before adding, “And where are you going?”
The failed commander sized him up. He was a foreigner, olive skinned and dark haired, with a faint accent that was tinged with the eastern reaches of the Calisal. What point is there to hold back now? He threw back his head and loosed a nervous laughter wrought of the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. “Why lie? Because I’m tired of this shit, all of this,” he said, stretching his arms wide and spinning around. “And my path? It ends at Hadrian and King Bathild. I mean to persuade him to muster the remainder of Meronia and put an end to this darkness – to his grim mages and their Raven Knight and his damnable Bluchnoire – and then I expect to swing from the gallows, just like your lord, that bastard foolish enough to stake his life on the honor of the damned and the dishonorable.”