Blood and Iron 5

by Eli Steele

  At the edge of the shadows, Griffon whirled around. By the light of the torches his face drained white. “What did you say?” he barked, clearing the gap between them. “At the end, what did you just say?”

  “I said it’s the gallows for me, lording, or your sword, if you could find it in your little black heart to be so noble.” Byron could see his words were but a blur in some fog unknown in Griffon’s mind.

  “Before that, you son of a bitch. And enough of the theatrics, before I do run you through. The Raven Knight, what did you say after that?”

  “His Bluchnoire?”

  “What does that mean?”

  Byron shrugged. “It’s just a name, it means nothing.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Ashmor. And by now, it’s likely that city has fallen. They wouldn’t have stood a chance. No one does.”

  “Was it him, this Raven Knight, did he murder my father?”

  With a sigh Dhane nodded, looking away.

  “Bind them,” Griffon said. Leaning in, he grabbed Byron by his chin and pulled his eyes back ahead, before snarling, “You will take me to this Raven Knight, and I will end him.”

  “You know not what you ask. He cannot be felled by a mortal.”

  The lordling wrapped his hands around the hilt of his sword and spat. With acid tones, he snarled, “We shall see.”

  Chapter 59

  Rowan Vos

  The Dowager

  The Calisal Sea

  Disoriented, Rowan awoke to the faint movement of the ceiling. He closed his eyes, but still he felt it. A dull sickness nagged at the back of his throat. Struggling upright, he planted his feet on the ground, ceasing the worst of it. The hammock slept better than the Cormorant’s cot, but damn if it left him with a seasway hangover.

  Standing, he padded over to the table, promptly feeling better. It was nailed to the floor, unlike the old crate that slid to and fro as the sea willed it. Rowan pulled on his coat and reached for Unforged before pausing. Narrowing his eyes, he spun slow, searching the room. Grabbing sword and scabbard, he made for the barred room that held their hoard and then the deck.

  The crew looked competent, moving around the Dowager like they’d known her for at least a season. Riggers worked the lines and adjusted the sails, keeping her moving ever east, while Kassina and Sutton guided her from the helm.

  The familiar sounds of the gulls, and the lapping waves, and the groaning and creaking of the ship was met with the clucking of chickens. Looking over, Rowan watched Bland fling meal at their feet. The dozen or so hens cackled and bickered and pecked at the deck, searching out the grains. The thief chuckled. He welcomed fresh boiled eggs, still it still seemed odd. It also meant going barefoot on the Dowager carried with it a mild risk.

  With the seas calm, Clive and Finn busied themselves sanding and painting any flaking or worn spots to fight back dry rot. On the bow, Byard and his heavy blade danced with a pair of sellswords while two more looked on. They seemed a match, but Rowan reasoned the northman was holding back by half or more. Across the deck from him, Sia leaned against the port side rail, removed from the activity on the ship, aloof as always. With one last glance about, Rowan made for the helm. Sutton and Kassina were at the tiller, chatting idly and breathing in the salt air. “You two look relieved to be out of Berea,” he said, joining them.

  “A week was time enough,” she replied. “I’ve missed the open waters.”

  “Those words sound odd coming from someone scarcely a moon ago had never spent a night on a ship.”

  She shrugged. “I was a different person then.”

  “Weren’t we all,” he said, as much to himself as anyone else.

  “So,” she said after a moment, motioning to the sword and scabbard in his hand, “you decided not to wear a belt today?”

  “Oh, that...” Rowan turned and scanned the deck. “It’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Someone took it.”

  “Your belt, why?”

  Rowan shrugged. “I’m not sure. A prank, perhaps? Regardless, we should keep our doors barred until I can find the culprit.”

  “What about the hoard?” asked Sutton.

  “I checked,” replied the thief. “It’s all there.”

  “Of all things...”

  Rowan snorted in agreeance. The conversation lulled for a time. He watched the rocky shoreline creep into the sea before drawing back up again. Somewhere below, wet paint had triggered harsh words between Clive and a voice he was not yet familiar with. Much seemed the same on the ship, and yet it wasn’t. “They seem alright — capable — the crew I mean.”

  Sutton offered the faintest of nods and looked away. Rowan regretted his words. It was a subject that shouldn’t have been broached, not yet, and perhaps not ever. He imagined having to replace everyone around him and continue on with his life. His heart ached for the captain’s lot.

  “How far out is port?” Kassina asked after a time.

  “We should make it by nightfall,” Howland replied. “But I’d advise we drop anchor off the coast and not venture ashore ‘til the morning.”

  “That’s a good plan,” replied Rowan.

  “Speaking of plans, what is yours?”

  The thief exhaled and searched for the words. What could he say? That he’d stumbled upon the counsel of a warwitch in A’anglr with nothing but his mind? That she’d gone to make a way for him in The City of Secrets, but refused to tell him more than that? It was a preposterous notion, and at times, he himself doubted his sanity. And even if he did tell them the truth, then what would they think? Would they follow him ashore? He snorted. He knew he would not.

  “Rowan?”

  “What? Oh... I’ll need to get a lay of the city first.”

  Sutton sighed. “That sounds like a straight course to a quick death. Many have found that the answers to the questions they seek in Thim often are often the same — and found at the tip of a dagger or the bottom of a vial of poison.”

  “I’m not like other people.”

  “Indeed. You’re insolent and a right bit stupider, too.”

  Rowan’s face flushed red. He started to speak, but thought better of it. The captain was right, but what choice did he have? “Perhaps the company on the bow is more suitable,” he quipped. Before turning away, he pushed back his anger enough to flash Kassina a wink. She smirked and gave him the same.

  Down on the deck, he made his way towards Sia, picking a spot against the rail beside her. If she saw him approach, her eyes did not betray it. “You seem more aloof than usual.”

  With a face like a stone mask, she searched the horizon. “I’m the same amount of aloof, no more.”

  He chuckled under his breath. “It’s still a lot of aloof.”

  She set her mouth in a cruel line, fighting against the smirk, but it curled the edge of her mouth just enough to be seen. Turning, she leaned against the rail and faced him. “What do you want, Rowan Vos? As with the hens, you disrupt my brooding.”

  “I just like to get to know the people on my ship, that’s all.”

  “Sometimes you’re better off not knowing.”

  “So you’re a threat?”

  “Only to those that would harm me or those I love.”

  Rowan bit his lip, wrestling with the words. “Like that man in Berea, the captain? He looked like the type that would harm someone,” he said sarcastically.

  She sighed. “His lips would’ve killed me just the same as a garrotte, you of all people should understand that.”

  “Oh?”

  She stared unblinkingly. “You’re a man pursued, are you not?”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  “If you were to find yourself hidden, and then discovered by someone that might reveal you, what would you do?”

  After a moment, he replied, “Likely the same as you.”

  “Lady D’Eldar will return at a time of her own choosing. Until then, there’s only the broody bitch Sia.” She smirked aga
in.

  Rowan laughed. “You are funny, Sia. Dark, but funny.”

  “A prison cell will do that to you; the dark, not the funny.”

  “How did you come to be on the Bane?”

  Staring out across the blue water, she said, “I was betrayed, sold like cattle, by someone I thought I could trust.”

  “The harshest of treasons. How long were you there?”

  “The morrow would’ve made six moons.”

  He shook his head. “That’s dreadful, but it’s over now.”

  “Nothing is over,” she replied, looking up at him with hazel eyes narrowed to slits. “There’s a debt yet paid. But soon enough, if Lyra wills it, I will have my due.” Pushing off the rail, she left.

  “Woe is the poor bastard on her mind right now,” he said under his breath. Turning, he made his way to the bow.

  Sweat beaded on Byard’s brow as he sat with the sellswords sipping new amber-colored wine from skins. “Well met, Just Rowan.”

  He nodded to the northman and the others. “How’d the sparring go?”

  “Their pride is wounded beyond repair. It would not surprise me if they all jumped overboard for shame of being bested three for one. Truly, I could not go on living with such disgrace.”

  A clamor of curses rose up from the sellswords. Byard splashed wine in their direction. “Tell me, my feeble brothers, what lies I have spoke?” he replied, chuckling.

  Rowan grinned. After a moment, he said, “Walk with me.”

  At the tip of the bow, out of earshot of the others, the thief said, “We’ll be at Thim by dusk and on the docks by morning’s first light. I would have just you and I venture in at first.”

  The northman nodded. “That is wise, I believe. What do we seek?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Worry not, Just Rowan, we have never not found trouble. Soon enough, it will come upon us.”

  Rowan thought of Sutton’s betrayal. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Byard reached over his own shoulder and slapped the hilt of his greatsword. “There are no two blades better on all of the Calisal than yours and mine, on that I would not lie. And Sia, I see a coldness in her eyes. Not to us, but to those that would cross her. Trouble is a fool if he seeks this ship out.”

  The northman’s confidence was contagious, and the thief found solace in it. After a time he said, “Have you noticed anything unusual on the ship?”

  “Unusual?”

  “Missing items. Someone stole by belt.”

  Byard thought for a time. “No, my lord. Who would steal a belt?”

  Rowan shrugged.

  The northman slapped his shoulder. “It’s probably misplaced. It will turn up. Now, I must get back to our hired iron. I’ve only the day to make them killers.” Grinning, he departed.

  * * * * *

  That evening an amaranth sun bled into an amethyst west, with the clouds long streaks the color of turmeric, while the Calisal mirrored all. Cool evening winds tousled Rowan’s and Kassina’s hair. Somewhere to the east, the City of Secrets loomed, though they could not see it yet.

  Laying on her back, staring at the sky, she said, “We don’t have to do this anymore. We have wealth enough to disappear and live several lifetimes, you know.”

  “We’ll always be looking over our shoulders, and so will everyone we’ve ever known. That’s not living.”

  “So what will you do, kill every sin in Thim?”

  “If I must.”

  “This is senseless, Ro. This is no plan at all.”

  “What other choice do I have? Fate has set me on this course, and I must follow it through.”

  “Even if it kills you?”

  He sighed. After several moments, he said, “Byard and I have talked. We have decided we alone will go ashore tomorrow.”

  She snorted. “Decided did you? Go to hell, you son of a bitch, you’re not stepping foot into that city without me, trust that.”

  “Kass-“

  “I won’t have it. I have nothing, Ro, nothing but you. And I will not lose that, not now. Not after all we’ve been through.”

  Silence fell over them. Rowan watched the stars sparkle into existence. He wondered where they went during the day. And he wondered where he’d go after Thim Dorul, or if there even would be an after. Rolling over, he caught her by surprise, pressing his lips against hers. “I love you,” he whispered.

  Her chest heaved. Rolling towards him, she ran her fingers through his dark hair.

  “Kass-“

  “No,” she whispered. “Don’t speak.”

  Chapter 60

  Luther Brayden

  Whitethroat Castle

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  “I have no need for a blade,” said Luther.

  “That may be,” replied Vance Beck, sliding the shortsword into a scabbard already fastened to the saddle, “but you’re taking it anyway.”

  “Fine, now, find me a staff.”

  “A staff?” snorted Ezra.

  “Yes. A shepherd’s crook, a knobbed cane, a charred fire poker. It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s wood.”

  “There are no flock tenders in the castle, and the canes are in Galaia with the old men,” said the captain of Lord Ross’ guard.

  “Just do this one thing for me, an old priest, please.”

  Vance muttered to himself as he left.

  “Father, I don’t understand why it’s so urgent for you to leave the Throat so soon after our arrival.”

  “I have business there.”

  “What business might a priest have in a strange city?”

  “I’ve said all that I shall,” Brayden huffed.

  “Then at least allow me to send several riders with you.”

  “I need no guards.”

  “The hell you don’t, corsairs abound to the south. They sail in and lay in wait for lone riders and weak groups. And that will be your fate, if you don’t listen to me.”

  The old priest crossed his arms and looked away, ignoring Lauder. After several minutes more, Beck returned with a forked willow branch, smooth and straight and nigh as long as a man. “It’s a fishgarth pole and the best I can do,” he said, handing it up.

  “It’ll work nicely,” said Luther, examining it. “You have my thanks.” With that, Altair spun south and aimed for the gate.

  The stallion’s hooves clopped against the causeway. A solid wall of reeds crowded in against the timber curbs. Brayden stared out over them at the marsh as it sprawled without aim, before terminating at the shore’s edge. Occasionally, a brackish finger of water would meander under the raised stone boulevard’s arches. Where it did, heavy timbers were set flush, spanned the gap. The smell of tar filled the priest’s nostrils as they approached. “It keeps the wood from rotting,” he said, as if Altair had asked.

  The horse responded with a snort.

  “And if an army was to come this way, the men of the keep could drag the posts off into the mud to hinder their approach, much like a drawbridge over a moat.”

  The gelding did not reply.

  After a short while, the causeway terminated at a well-worn trail on dry land. On its edge slopes grew knee-high grass and wildflowers, and beyond that, the muddy mire thick with its reeds and rush. Slowly, over the miles, the marsh faded until it was a narrow strip on each side, before disappearing altogether. As it did, the winds replaced the hints of rich mud and woody rot with a strong scent of salt and beached seaweed.

  “If the castle is at the throat, then I guess this is the neck. But if it is, it’s a long one.”

  Altair nickered, seeming to appreciate the occasional conversation, so they rode and talked – as well as a man and a familiar can. Luther talked as much to the horse as he did himself to pass the time and stay alert. He’d slid the garth pole into a second sheath opposite the shortsword on the saddle, its forked end terminating a head or so higher than the priest’s like some strange standard pole, heralding their approach.

  Gradual
ly, the peninsula widened until it was maybe four-hundred strides across, a quarter of which was sandy dunes that fell into flat beaches on either side, with the occasional stone outcropping rising high. Past that, sand bars extended into the shallow waters, before dropping off into the dark blues of the deep. In the center of the strip was the well-rutted trail set in hardpan, with coastal grass and weeds and windswept bedrock formations beyond. Sea-blite and spearscale and prickly burs and witchgrass all grew in the narrow stretch between the roads and dunes.

  Luther scanned an untouched horizon for as far as his neck could crane. He reasoned his height atop Altair was about how far the trail was above the water’s edge at the shoreline. A ceaseless crashing of waves filled the air, encroached on only by the calls of kittiwakes and shags the color of viridian kelp, or the low, longing howl of sharp winds unbroken as they swept west to east from the endless ocean beyond the Sea of Shields.

  Brayden pulled his cloak tight and leaned low. Though the air was warmer by a season than that of Ashmor, the gusts were hard and virgin, like the breath of God himself, perhaps having never seen land before the moment they swirled about his face.

  “There is nothing farther south in the Four Kingdoms,” said the priest over the sounds of wind and wave, “or rather Prydia, because the true Four Kingdoms stretched into much of the mainland as well – even still, there is nothing farther south on the whole of this place than we and Galaia.”

  Altair reared his head and took in the seascape, as if to acknowledge the words.

  “They say great storms sometimes sweep over this place, covering even the dunes with water. Though the sand may move at times, shrinking to nothing here and growing wide there, this place can never wash away. You see, beneath us is a long spine of what eventually becomes a stretch of peaks that feed into the Brearidge Mountains, and no surge or swell can best that.”

  The horse whinnied. Looking up, Luther peered through the salty haze to the south and saw the faintest flicker of banners set high. “Probably the lord’s procession,” he said, rubbing Altair’s broad neck. “There’s nothing to fear.”