by Eli Steele
He was black as murder, with tusks like forearms and a head like a bear. Squared off against him were two others – trophies in their own right – tawny brown with black splotches and mud caked on their bellies. Sour slaver and froth foamed and dripped from between his teeth as a guttural groan chased up out his chest. The pair charged in tandem but he batted them aside like yearling shoats, ripping their faces and spilling hot blood on the forest floor. Their dance was futile, but the cruelty that raged in them – starting first in their loins and then coursing through their veins, marring their instincts and hazing their will to live – drove them towards the only thing they could see, the lust for that which wasn’t theirs, the old boar’s holdings.
Thinking back, Griffon reasoned that those three beasts weren’t that much different than men. But on that day, victory was not for the strong, for fate had willed them there in that moment. On his hands and knees, in the hoargrass and dogstail and snowfall, he found comfort in that thought – that sometimes, though not often, the unexpected did happen, and the brute did fall, and the weak did inherit the spoils. Though he suspected after he and Lord Baron had slew the black beast, those tawny browns eventually found themselves with tusks bore against each other. And so, perhaps it was all for naught, and the only victor was death. But perhaps not.
Just beyond the bounds of the Valengrove, Griffon stood and peered out across the grassy slopes, while the others crawled still. Once they had all mustered in the darkened shroud of the forest, Jarin said, “We need not go through the Valen. We could skirt it edges, south and then east, and then climb over the low mountains to Ashmor. It would be a safer course.”
“It would be a longer course by threefold or more, and it would draw us too close to the Meronians, should they still keep camp outside of the walls,” said Griffon. “No, we go through the forest.”
“My lord,” said Bo, “I’ve followed your father and now you without question into places and against things that would unman most. We don’t ask this of you lightly-“
“He has spoken,” added Kren. “It is settled. We go, with or without you.”
The young lord jerked his head to the side and brought his hand to rest on Daernwyn.
“Shit,” said Byron, “there they are!”
Nearly a dozen dark riders bore down on them, the roar of their hooves but a whisper yet to come.
“Into the forest,” Eldrick shouted, “Now!”
Griffon tore through the thick growth, gnarled winter branches grasping at his pack and shield and scabbard. Black briers clawed his face, tearing flesh and drawing blood. The cold of the forest watered his eyes and its thick shadows masked the roots and rocks and uneven footing that lay in wait to drag him down and render him prey for the Bluchnoire’s grim steel.
Behind them, he heard the horses snort and riders dismount. A cruel voice growled orders, and somehow, despite the distance between them, he heard the sing of steel on leather. With swords drawn, the damned champions of the Raven Knight filtered into the forest.
“They are drawn to us like wights,” Byron whispered, “we can’t outrun them!”
“There!” said Griffon. “Up ahead, where the moon cuts through the canopy. We’ll make our stand in the hollow!”
“How can I make a stand unarmed?” Dhane snarled back.
At the edge of the nightglow, Alexander came to a sliding stop. There was no clearing, but rather a sheer bluff that fell down along a stream bed broadened by winter. His boots hanging over the edge, he let out a huff and said, “Easy!” while the others fell in beside him. “Help me down,” he said, clasping Kren’s hand and stepping off the cliff. At the bottom, he called up, “It’s sandy and open, and soft from sloughing and snowdrifts. Jump down, quick!”
As a group, the men spread out and leapt from the cliff. Hands bound, Byron landed in wet silt slushed with snow and tumbled onto his side. Stepping forward, Eldrick severed the tethers strung between the prisoners and helped him up. Redstorm craned his neck up and down the narrow creek, before whispering, “This way!” and bolting downstream, the timber wolf close behind him.
Griffon and the others chased after the titan’s long strides as he guided them deeper into the darkened grove. Adrenaline surged through the young lord’s veins, parching his throat and narrowing his vision to just the stream and its sandy and snowfallen banks. If the Bluchnoire were near, he couldn’t hear them over the sound of his own labored breaths and the rushing of the water and the crunching of the ground beneath his feet.
He raced after the wildman until his lungs burned and his legs ached. With each breath he could feel himself slowing. He was spent, and so were the others. There was no way they could cross steel now if it came to that.
Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed his coat and yanked him into a blackened maw. “In here,” whispered Kren. It was a deep burrow, a slough in the bank from the pull of high waters and liable to collapse on them at any moment, held up only by the deep roots that snaked through the soil overhead. Wet, earthy rot filled his nostrils. As he sat there, only then did he realize just how far he and Kren had drawn ahead of the others.
“You run like a crag walker,” said the titan.
Griffon tried to speak, but instead he coughed and sucked in air.
Jorok and Ulriich were the next to arrive. Kren offered a muted hawk call, spinning them on their heels. Together, the three caught the others as they neared and jerked them into the den. Once all were inside, they withdrew into its recesses and waited with swords drawn.
A distant splash betrayed the rider’s approach.
“If we’re lucky,” Eldrick whispered, gripping a shortsword taken from Havar, “they’ll split up.”
“Fortune hasn’t found me on the open hills,” snorted Byron. “I doubt it’ll know me in the bowels of this place.”
After a time, five figures stopped in front of the maw, their silhouettes cut sharp by the light of the moon. “Ready your steel,” whispered Kren.
While two stayed back, three craned their necks into the cavity, searching it out. In a flash, the wolf and the wildmen lunged, their fangs and axes chopping down hard on flesh and bone of face and neck. As the bodies fell, Griffon and Eldrick charged past, swords thrust forward, and ran the others through. Behind them, Bo and Jarin fanned out, ready to push back any others that lay out of view.
But there were only the five. “Drag them into the tunnel and move your asses,” Eldrick urged. “And if we’ve any more luck, the others will hold here and search out their missing while we put some distance between us and they.”
* * * * *
They delved into the Valengrove’s depths until the night waned thin. There they stopped in a small clearing and dug two deep holes on the east side of several broad oaks, and built a fires large enough to warm their hands and thaw a meal, but small enough to remain within the confines of the pits. Over the tops of the holes they built hoods out branches and brown leaves to guard against the light escaping overhead.
Crowded up against one of the fires, Griffon pulled off his boots and set them near its warmth, letting the cold bite his toes while he rubbed them dry. Sitting beside him, Eldrick did the same. After a time, he said, “I’ve not yet heard you tell the story of how you came upon that sword.”
The young lord let out a long sigh.
“Do you remember it yet?”
“I do. You have a skin?”
D’Eldar snorted, producing it from his belt.
Griffon smirked. “I guess I’ve no choice, then?” Clearing his throat, he began after several long moments. “We followed the cavern from dungeon to the confluence with the eagle’s head. From there, we turned and delved into the tunnel that the eagle – the gryphon, rather – gazed upon with its unblinking eye.”
As he spoke, Bo and Jarin drew near, as well as the others.
Taking a swig of wine, the young lord continued, “There was a bridge stretched wide across a chasm, how deep, we couldn’t tell. Something watched us cross,
I could feel it, though I never saw it nor heard it again.”
Bo nodded.
“Beyond lay a keep that was the Brae in every way you could imagine, save for the dungeon, which was a crypt. There slept a thousand years of bones, and at its end, a stone face that looked like my own.”
“Just like him,” said Jarin.
Griffon nodded. “So I drew his sword and took his shield, and then the bramwar climbed up out of the depths of that wide chasm.”
“The rulk,” corrected Kren.
Snorting, he continued, “So I fought him, and he bested me, but Jarin heaved the Uhnan’akk spear into his maw, and I sliced his brimstone tendons, and he fell back in from whence he came.” He spat.
Redstorm grunted in satisfaction.
“What did he look like?” Eldrick asked.
“Just like the tapestry, only bigger.”
“Damn bigger,” Bo echoed.
“And then I died,” Alexander said, “and if I didn’t, it was as close as one can be, without so. And in another place – sparse and rocky and flat, with blue-gray haze and mountains with their tops cut off in the distance – there I warred with the rulk unending, until you rescued me.” He grew silent for a time; they all did. Finally, he said, “I never thanked you, all of you, for that.”
“You are our lord,” said Bo, after a quiet, offering no other reason, nor needing one.
“And our brother,” added Kren.
Griffon gave a nodding half-smile.
“So that is Daernwyn and Skyfell that you carry?” asked D’Eldar. “We all think it is, but do you?”
Staring at the bright glow of the fire and its embers, the young lord thought of the bramwar. At length, he shrugged. “What else can they be?”
“So you are the First and the Last?”
“…I am the last, that much I know, but I cannot speak to the other. I know I don’t feel like a champion returned.”
“And yet you are,” said the titan. “You are a warrior to the Uhnan’akk, and to your people,” pausing, he motioned to the prisoners and continued, “and before it is done, so will you be to theirs. I know not of your lowland legends, and what it is you may be called. But this I know: fate, or the gods, or the mountain, or some other thing, it has held you back for this time. It will be you that turns this tide. It is spoken.”
In the shadows behind them, a twig snapped, jerking their heads around. The timber wolf bore his teeth and loosed a low growl. Standing to his feet, Griffon pulled Daernwyn from its scabbard and slid his arm through Skyfell’s strap.
“They are here!” shouted Byron, “Give us weapons!”
“Guard the prisoners,” the young lord said, searching the night with eyes blinded by the fire.
Pulling his axes, Kren shouldered up beside him, “You are bare of feet,” he snorted.
“Too late for that,” replied Griffon.
From out of the gloom, a roar like the dire bear’s rolled over the camp, raising their hackles and sending a shiver through the group. Behind them, another roar answered back, and then another. “Those aren’t the riders,” whispered Eldrick, gripping the shortsword.
“I warned you of this place,” said Bo.
“Silence,” said the spy, “and ready your steel.”
“Halt now, foul fiends,” Kren barked at the dark, “and turn back, afore it is too late. We have the First with us, and he is cold of foot and blue of blood, and has slain worse than you!”
Their backs against his, Jorok and Ulriich growled their wordless challenge along with Kren.
A massive hammer – its head as big as an onager’s stone – swept forward suddenly, aiming for the wildman. The ground trembled as it struck the forest floor, sending out a whoosh of wind and dirt and leaves. The titan rolled to the side and brought his axes down on the shaft with all of his force, sending a hunk of wood flying backwards.
Another hammer whirred through the air, this time after Griffon. Stumbling backwards, he watched as it landed inches from his legs like lightning lashed to crashing thunder. At the other end of the shaft was a cruel face that bore a mouth full of sharpened teeth, with blackened eyes and pointed ears. It stood nearly thrice as tall as Redstorm, with hulking muscles and a loin wrapped with furs. Its skin was the color of the forest – green and brown and gray. Again it let out a roar like the deepest wilds. Sour spittle flecked Alexander’s face. The smell of musky rot burned his nostrils.
“Ogre!” shouted Kren, from somewhere far away.
Turning, he watched the spy toss a dagger in Byron’s direction, before chasing after Bo and Jarin. Scrambling to his feet, Griffon readied himself for the next attack.
Sucking in a deep breath, he focused himself, pushing back the nervous tinge of the adrenaline. Blurring those around him, he searched the dark for his adversary, and then he saw it. The faint silhouette shifted its weight onto its back foot, preparing to bring the maul forward again.
With the force of five battering rams, the hammer careened towards him. Ducking low, Alexander roll to the side and slashed wildly with his blade, but the ogre’s arc carried it away from the strike. Baring its teeth, it lumbered forward, its black eyes searching for an advantage.
Before it could ready the giant maul, the young lord leapt forward, beating the ogre to the fight. With the ancient sword, he laid wide the beast’s right calf. The wound wept red and the brute stumbled, but it didn’t fall. Rearing back, it let out a howl, before charging after Griffon.
Whirring around, he brought up Skyfell just in time to catch a glancing blow from the ogre’s first. He felt his feet clear the ground and heard the air rush around his ears. Tightening up, he braced himself for the impact.
And it hit him like an aurochs’ charge.
Crumpling at the base of the tree, he watched his world blur. Straining, he searched the haze, but everything blended into a single mob of movement. Again he focused his senses and pushed back the daze until he saw a mass in the center of his vision growing larger by the moment.
Oh, shit…
Every muscle screamed in agony, every bone felt broken. His head throbbed as he fought against the rising urge to wretch. With everything he had, he lunged to the side, but it wasn’t far enough. Looking up, he watched the ogre close in.
With the daystar raised high, Dhane rushed in from the side and smashed the hulk’s knee. With an awkward groan, it stumbled forward, arms stretched wide, searching for balance, but it never came.
Growling through the pain, Griffon rose to his feet as the ogre slid headlong into the dirt. Raising Daernwyn high, he let his knees collapse, driving the blade deep into the base of the brute’s skull. Breathless, exhausted, he slowly looked up to see Byron standing over him.
“Nice work, lordling,” he said, pushing Lordsbane back into its loop.
Alexander lay his head on the reeking, leathery skin of the beast, while the fight slowly died around him.
“Account for yourself!” shouted Eldrick from somewhere far away, going through their names. “…Griffon,” he finally shouted. “Griffon!”
“He’s over here,” said Byron, one foot propped against the tree.
“Havar… Havar!”
Pushing against the ogre’s back, Alexander stumbled to his feet. Already Dhane sprinted towards the group. “No!” he shouted, dropping to his knees.
In the center of the men lay Havar Fisk, eyes blank, blood congealing on his lips, his face as stern and unmoving as a graven image. Byron slid an arm under the man and brought his head forward. There he cursed his gods while the others looked on. Bear Volf sheathed his heavy broadsword and knelt, placing a hand on his commander’s shoulder. “He died a warrior,” he whispered. “He will not be forgotten. He cannot be…”
“He cannot be,” echoed Kren, nodding in agreeance.
After a long silence, Griffon said, “We must get moving, the black soldiers surely heard us and will be drawing near.
“No!” snarled Byron, looking up. “I will bury my dead.�
�
Weston whispered, “My lord-“
“No!” Dhane growled. “I will not abandon him for the wolves. And another thing,” he added, “I will not lay down my arms, not again. If that does not please you, lordling, then you can finish what you started.”
Raising a hand towards Griffon, Redstorm stepped forward and replied, “You have earned back your iron. And we will help you bury your man, all of us.”
Chapter 65
Rowan Vos
City of Thim Dorul
An endless droning of the masses, interrupted by the occasional eruption of laughter, met them as they stepped foot on the docks, reverberating in their ears like the sound of a domed apiary. Though it was early yet, the wharf and surrounding areas were abustle with activity. Merchants inspected cargo and negotiated their terms, while crews emptied holds and loaded carts with crates and casks and barrels.
Underneath their feet the pier was solid, planked with heavy lumber stained walnut brown, unlike the warped boards of the lesser ports along the Calisal. Down below, blue water glinted in the early sun. Shouldering past several sailors, Byard asked, “Have you a plan yet, Just Rowan?”
“Let’s start at the bottom and work our way up to the top. Once I get a lay of the place, we’ll decide from there.”
“As you wish. Stay close, and keep alert for eyes that linger too long.”
Stepping off the pier, Rowan let out a sigh. “It’s good to be on solid footing again.” Even still, the faint sway of the Dowager stayed with him, though not as much as that of the diminutive Cormorant.
Hoof clops echoed over a thousand conversations. To their right, a donkey brayed in protest as a man tugged at his rope, urging him out of the street. “What the hell is that?” asked Kassina, pointing to an ugly, humped thing.
The northman chuckled. “That is a camel, my lady. But be careful, they spit.”
“They look terribly uncomfortable.”