by Eli Steele
The sun climbed high and started back down before they met. As they neared, Brayden said, “See the banners? That’s House Ross – a burnt orange sun set on a field of lilac blue – give them the road.”
Altair stepped to the side and watched them approach. A line of about a dozen armsmen rode two-deep, with just as many in the rear. In the center was several more riders, as well as a pair of carriages – each with a couple crossbowmen on top. A man of maybe forty with blond hair – tousled into knots by the wind – that fell just above his broad shoulders peeled off the group with a knight on either side and approached. He was Trenlon Ross, there was no doubt. Though Luther had never personally met him, he’d seen the man from a distance more than once, and the lord of the lands of Galaia and Whitethroat had a sharp face and blazing eyes that were seldom forgotten, much like his father before him.
“Well met, traveler.”
Luther nodded low, “My lord.”
Trenlon eyed his dark brown cassock. “You are a priest?”
No, my lord, I wear this for the scratch of the wool, he thought to himself. “That I am,” he replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Luther Brayden, formerly of Rorke Minster in Ashmor, though it is but ashes now.”
“Razed by the Raven Knight?”
“No, my lord, it burned shortly before his arrival.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Wood and stone can be rebuilt, but the lives lost can never be replaced.”
Ross nodded. After a moment, he said, “Ashmor you say? How did you come to be here?”
“I arrived with Lady Alexander just yestermorn. Your daughter Elsie is safe at Whitethroat and awaits your return.”
“Sweeter words’ve never been spoken,” he replied, smiling, “I am forever indebted to your lady.”
“We all are. Were it not for her, among others, I would surely be no more.”
“Indeed. Tell me, why do you travel alone? This stretch is renowned for its perils. Corsairs are known to lay in wait behind the dunes.”
“I have nothing of value, their time would be wasted on me.”
“Thus they might end you for your inconvenience. Please, allow me to send several of my riders with you. It would not do for me to leave you as you are.”
“You have my thanks, my lord, but I must decline. I would rather make this journey alone. Already I have come this far.”
“But I insist, father. Your safety in these lands is imperative. Not to mention, a dead priest on the road to Galaia? It would not sit well with the clergy. I have trouble enough with the guilds, I need no more quarrelling interests. We’ve threats enough already.”
Sighing, Brayden bowed his head. When he raised it again, his eyes were coal black. The knights’ horses whinnied and stepped back. “I said, I would be traveling alone. You will forget we spoke of such and let me on my way.”
Blinking, Lord Ross said after a moment, “Well, good day, father. May your trip to Galaia be uneventful.” Turning, he reclaimed his position in the procession, the others following behind him without a word. Luther nodded politely as the armsmen at the front took up their reins and urged their horses onward. Carriage wheels creaked in protest as they started forward again. As they moved out of earshot, Altair snorted.
“What? I’d rather your company than theirs, though I’m sure they’re fine folk. Besides, I’d have had to do it sooner or later, and it’s better done here. Now, we should be off.”
The landscape remained unchanged as they followed the well-worn trail south. In the picture of beauty around him that was sand and sea and sky, Brayden let his mind wander, considering that which already was, and might be, and all that yet was to come.
The Raven Knight plagued his thoughts more than anything else. The name rang familiar – too familiar – and it was on everyone’s tongue from Lord Ross, to the armsmen on the Kaniere, to gossipers on the streets of Ashmor. The stories seemed dubious at best, ranging from the mundane to the extraordinary, but it was too much talk to be all happenstance. He would make time in Galaia to research the name.
The incessant prattling on about magery unnerved him as well. Was it just the hysteria of a people who’d thought their side infallible on the battlefield, or was it something altogether more? Mages didn’t fight alongside armies, not in three-hundred years and maybe more. For when the war of swords was over, a new one usually began. The fear of the unknown tended towards the persecution of those that were different – that was human nature. A few mage-tossed brigands in a back alley or on a desolate highway that was whispered about in a corner of a tavern was one thing, but a battle-altering display of force before legions of wide-eyed men was altogether another. And the last thing anyone like him wanted was a mage purge like those of old.
But in the sieve of suspicion, there were a couple rumors that shook out and gave him pause, and the yawning chasm in the Battle of Bearbrook was one. Now, were it magery and not hysteria, that would be quite a spell, one that was difficult to conjure and would take years of dedication to perfect. There were only a few – and perhaps one in particular – that were capable of performing such feats, and that worried him.
But the dead rising in Perk? Surely that was just fever words from the dying. Prolonging life was one thing, but restoring it altogether? The old tomes spoke of necromancy, but Luther had never seen it done, and he’d seen more than his share. Still, in light of everything else it gnawed at him, filling him with a sense of dread he couldn’t shake.
And Rowan was connected to all of this, of that he was certain, because of the name Thatcher Frost. The sword Bela had mentioned, how had she described it? A black blade, a beautiful thing... It was not something familiar to him, but if Frost was involved, then it was a dangerous artifact indeed.
Altair stopped abruptly, eyeing the dunes, jarring the priest from his thoughts. “What is it?” he whispered, reaching for the garth pole.
“Easy, father,” called out a voice over the crash of the waves. A cloaked man emerged from behind the dunes with three more corsairs. Sabers hung loose at their sides.
“I’ve taken a vow of poverty,” Brayden said. “I’ve nothing to give.”
“Not even a few alms for the poor?” said a voice from behind.
“Give me eyes on them both,” the priest whispered. With a nervous snort, Altair complied.
Four more men stood blocking the road behind them, looking much like those ahead. Luther smelled the stench of sweat and salt and unwash on the air. His nose was full of their reek. Looking out over the dunes, he saw a single-masted holk bobbing in the waves several hundred strides out. “See, there’s only eight of them,” he whispered again. “I’m going to step down and handle this, and then we’ll be on our way, alright?”
The corsair up front stepped forward. Flashing his teeth, he said, “Unless you climbed out of that saddle to hand me your sword and a sack of silver, you best get on your knees.”
“I kneel only to my God and my king,” he replied, his throat parched and raspy from the salty gusts. “And I’ve been known to balk at the latter. I’m afraid you are neither.”
“Don’t make me run a priest through,” the corsair said, stepping forward again. “It always leaves a bad taste in my mouth, like vinegared wine.”
“Enough,” he growled, slamming the butt of his garth pole against the ground. As he did, its forked head flashed alight with blue-green flames that danced but never burned.
The man stepped back. They all did.
“Where are you going?” asked Brayden, his eyes snapping black.
“We meant no-“
“Shhh…” he whispered. And with that, the corsair’s mouth snapped shut. Again the priest brought the staff down hard, whispering an old word as he did. The earth beneath the men quivered, faintly at first, but growing more alive with every wave. They tried to run but the saturated sand grasped at their ankles, pulling them in to their knees, and then their waists, and then again
to their chests, sucking and slurping as it did.
Walking the edge of the soupy mire, Luther waved the pole, muting the men’s screams just as he had the first. “Now is the time when you resist your instincts to struggle. If you don’t do as I say, you will die.” Turning, he spat a mouthful of blood, before wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his cassock.
“Now,” he said, more to himself than the men, “where are your skiffs?” Striking out over the dunes towards the holk, he found two beached rowboats. He thought of dismantling them where they lay with a wave of his rod, leaving a heap of timber on the shore like picked-through bones, but decided against it. It would be satisfying, but he would pay for it.
Instead, he summoned two rogue waves to grab the boats and pull them away. Stifling a cough, he watched them drift out to sea. He’d always found water-based magics to be the simplest of evocations. Of course, he’d studied them far more than the others.
A nervous snort drew his attention to the side. There he saw Altair peeking anxiously between a pair of dunes. As their eyes met, the horse reared his head, as if to urge Brayden back. “Fine,” he whispered. Giving the boats one last look, he left.
Back on the path, the priest said, “You’re stuck here, quite literally I suppose.” Stepping into the stirrup, he pulled himself back atop the stallion.
They watched him, pleading with their eyes, longing to speak but unable to with jaws snapped shut. With one last look over his shoulder, he said, “You’re quite fortunate, whether you believe that or not. Had you met me in another lifetime, I might’ve ripped your entrails out through your mouths or roasted your damnable souls on a spit, but I’m changed– a man of the cloth now. And so, I will pray that you remain very still until someone happens your way, and that the carrion crows do not notice you before then, and most importantly, I will pray for your souls in the likely event it is the latter before the former. But know this, should you survive and I ever see any of you ever again, you will wish your lungs had filled with sand on this day.”
Chapter 61
Griffon Alexander
South of The Brae
It was late in the morning before the sun climbed over the stony summits to the north and east and softened the stinging bite of the night. The shadows of the steepest slopes bled out to the south, unfazed by the day, leaving icy islands of gloom among the flint hills. Still, the mountains blocked the worst of the northern winds. A faint hint of wild hill flowers twisted on the breeze, while somewhere behind the low clouds the cries of a raven – acrid and shrill to their ears – could just be heard.
Braewood Keep, its walls and halls and courtyard a pale reflection of what it once was, still loomed like a familiar specter over Griffon’s back. To the south, grassy slopes swept down past the charred bones of Perk and on to the Colored Coast. To the east, a mixed-growth forest loomed a little more than a half-day’s journey ahead. It was not a place he recognized, not anymore. These were his lands now – from Ashmor west to Hornheart Cape, down to Whitethroat’s north causeway – and yet he wanted nothing to do with it.
The three prisoners, hands bound and tied together at the waist, led the procession. Behind them was Griffon, guiding them along, followed by Kren and Sand and his pair of warriors, and then Eldrick and Jarin, with Bo at the rear, leading along the geldings. The wolf and the wildmen’s presence unnerved the horses – the grulla in particular – so they kept them as far apart as possible without breaking up the group.
Alexander studied the Meronians. The one they called The Bear was of average height, but had arms as thick as tree trunks, and an air and tone of voice that hinted of northern blood. Griffon reasoned he was hell on a battlefield with the heavy broadsword he’d surrendered.
Havar was inconspicuous, neither big nor small, nor handsome or ugly, with straight brown hair. There was nothing unique about him, which carried a uniqueness all its own. A man like him could melt into a crowd with ease. His only quality of note were his eyes; they were always searching – the landscape, his captors, the horizon – and he did not care to be bound.
Lean and strong, with black hair to his shoulders, Byron Dhane looked like a villain. He also carried the marred face of a man defeated. He’d lost his sword arm of course, and there was the rout in the Brae, but Griffon sensed more still. Loss left scars that were hard to mask; he knew that better than most.
“They’re all nobles,” said Eldrick.
Startled, Griffon looked up to find the spy walking beside him. Lost in his thoughts, he’d not heard him approach. “How can you be certain?”
“I gather information and weigh it for truth,” he said with a snort. “This is what I do. I’m good at much, but I’m an expert at nothing save for this. However,” he shrugged, “you can never be certain, except through the sap, of which I have none.”
“Which houses?”
“The Bear is a Volf.”
“From the northmost reaches of Meronia, the Greyhall.”
The spy nodded. “And Havar is a Fisk, a minor house with no lands to speak of. And Byron-“
“Is a Dhane,” interrupted Griffon.
“I’m impressed.”
“After Beyorn took Ashmor and Meronia was defeated, several houses rebelled against Baldwyn Hult.” Motioning to Byron, he said, “His father Jude put them down.”
“But how’d you know he was a Dhane?”
“I’ve lived on the border all of my life. I’ve met a Meronian lord or two. He looks just like the old man.”
“What was he like?” asked Eldrick. “Jude, that is.”
“He seemed honorable enough, but I was only a boy when I saw him last. Meronia would’ve been better off – and us too – had he been king and not Baldwyn, at least according to my father. He said Dhane should’ve fell in with the rebellion and took the throne himself.”
“The last thing some men want is a throne.”
“Lord Baron always said those men make the best kings.” After a long lull, he asked, “What else have you learned?”
“Byron was the commander of their army, but no more of course. He loathes the one that leads it now, so much so that he deserted — they all did.”
“The Black Knight?”
“I gather he’s a marshal, or perhaps just a captain of a cohort.”
“The Bluchnoire?”
The spy nodded. “So there is another, but Dhane won’t speak of him, for fear or reasons otherwise I don’t yet know.”
“How’d you find all this out in just one night and half a morning?”
Eldrick grinned. “A campfire and a skin of wine are powerful inquisitors, more so than a torturer’s toolkit, especially with a man that’s willing to talk.”
“What does all of this mean to you?”
Narrowing his eyes, D’Eldar bit his lip and considered his thoughts. “That there was a power struggle in their ranks, and we happened across the losers.”
“So you think their forces are fractured?”
Eldrick snorted. “Rather the opposite.” Motioning at the three prisoners, he said, “Here marches the entirety of the men of Meronia in dissent of their new commander, the name of which they won’t even repeat.”
Griffon set his mouth in a grim line. “It seems their troops are more unified than our own.”
“If we even have one anymore.”
“The full weight of Alfred’s army will arrive soon enough, if they haven’t already.”
“We can only hope.”
Knee-high grass, browned by winter, quivered with the few faint gusts that were strong enough to roll over the mountains or sweep in from the distant coast. Vale oaks and birch and fir, the vanguards of the Valengrove, appeared as single trees at first, and then tight clusters as they neared the edge of the forest proper. Up above, a trio of vultures circled a distant carcass. Griffon snorted to himself; if they were lucky the sun may have thawed the heap enough by now to give them a chance at a proper meal.
With a sudden flash and a heart-flutterin
g flurry, a covey of quail flushed out before them, sending Bo and Havar diving low and Griffon with Daernwyn adraw. As quick as they appeared they were gone again, but the adrenaline they’d roused still coursed through the men’s veins.
Sand sprang forward, but it was fruitless. With a whimper, he returned to his master’s side. Kren threw back his head and laughed. “It seems we’ve been unmanned and beset upon by a war band of brush birds! And you two, oh that you were highlanders, I would end you now!”
Bo and Havar’s faces flushed red.
“We are men shamed – and the wolf too – save for Eleksandr,” the titan continued, “with hands like a serpent’s strike, he would slay any grouse that draws too near!”
Pushing Daernwyn back into its sheath, Griffon replied, “Let’s keep moving.”
After a time, they stopped to rest in a copse of ash and pepperwood trees. The three prisoners huddled at the edge of stand, while the others rummaged about their packs for provisions. Somewhere overhead a raven offered a raspy caw.
Pulling out a skin of wine, the young lord turned it up and took a gulp, before passing it to the spy. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said.
“You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
“I drew my blade in anger. A lord shouldn’t be so rash... My father wouldn’t-“
“Your father would be proud,” Eldrick said. “Know that and never forget it. You honor his name in all you’ve done and all you aim to do.”
“And what do we aim to do, lowlanders?” said Kren, squatting beside them and offering each a strip of salted meat.
Griffon replied, “Through the Valengrove are the low mountains that climb into the Braeridge-“
The wildman interjected, “The high places are my home; I know that much, Eleksandr. What then?”
“Assuming the city has fallen, we scale the north wall, far from the scrutiny of the Main Gate.”
“Climbing a wall is always a risky measure,” said Eldrick. “We won’t know their sentry locations in full from the ground. And if we’re found, that will be our end.”
“What other choice do we have?”