by Eli Steele
They nodded.
Finding a smooth rock, he took a seat, handing them the provisions. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, after a time. “I did not know Havar long, but of what I saw, he was an honorable man.”
“More so than I,” said Byron.
Chill air tingled their faces as the biting winds returned. In awkward silence, the young lord drank from his skin, unsure of what to say.
“He died well,” Dhane finally offered.
Griffon nodded. “As a warrior should.”
“I mean your father. He didn’t flinch before the Raven Knight. I watched Alfred’s blue tower crawl through mud on his hands and knees to escape the fiend, but not Lord Baron. He was defiant until the end. I’ll never forget his last words.”
“This ends nothing,” said Weston, quoting the elder Alexander. “There is another still, and he will seek you out. It is his way.”
“He died with honor as a lord,” added Byron. “But even more still, with pride as a father. I would take his death over my life this very day.”
“Thank you,” said Griffon, his mouth tight, “for your words. It helps me put him to rest.”
Dhane nodded.
“Eleksandr,” came Kren’s voice from the side, “there is someone that would see us.”
Glancing over, the young lord saw the titan standing, pointing up the slope. Following his hand, high in the hills, he saw a stag standing proud on a limestone outcropping, gazing down at them. Though his head and antlers were ablaze, they did not burn. Behind him, the moon shone bright, illuminating his ghostly silhouette.
“Gather yourselves,” Redstorm commanded, “all of you. The mountain beckons us.”
* * * * *
He kept his distance, drawing them up to the high places. A path chased after him, steep but traversable. Kren led the line of men struggling to maintain his pace. “Can someone tell me what the hell that thing is?” Byron shouted up at the others, breathless.
“It is the mountain itself,” replied the titan, “its very spirit. And it has revealed itself so that it may guide us for a time.”
“To what exactly?”
The wildman chuckled. “If we knew that, lowlander, it wouldn’t be guiding us, would it?”
As the twilit sky pushed back the night, the glow of stag’s antlers faded, but the fire raged still. Ever present but high above, never did he draw out of sight. On a broad ledge near the peak, the men threatened a mutiny lest they stop. Despite Kren’s protests, Griffon relented. There they rested until dusk. When they awoke, they found their guide waiting, so they crested the mountain and began their ascent.
By the evening of the next day, the spirit settled atop a low cliff near the base of the slope. Set in the face of the rock was the narrow mouth of a cave hidden from view, save for their approach. There the stag waited for them, until he finally withdrew behind a nearby outcropping and disappeared.
“This is where we must go,” said Kren.
“The caverns,” whispered Eldrick to himself.
“Ready your torches, then,” said Griffon.
“They shan’t be needed,” rasped a voice from somewhere to the side.
Jerking his head around, the young lord watched as a grim horde of hooded raiders emerged from around a cliff, swords in hand. Shadows masked their faces, though Griffon knew who they were – the Bluchnoire. “Your journey ends here, Dhane,” said a tall one in black, boiled leather.
“These are my lands, and the lands of my father before me” said the young lord, stepping forward. “Speak to me.”
The fiend matched his step. “As you wish, your journey ends here, my lord.”
“It’s only just beginning,” he replied, drawing Daernwyn and pulling Skyfell from his back. Unbuckling the straps, he let his pack fall to the ground. All around him, the others did the same.
“I shall tell him you fought well, even if it is a lie.”
“I will tell the black bastard myself!” growled Griffon, charging the man. Behind him, Kren and his warriors roared as they lunged forward, axes held high. Undaunted, the raiders matched their assault.
The wyrm’s blood that coursed through Alexander’s veins brought Daernwyn down hard against the blade, shrieking its high pitch of steel on steel as it did, and batting it backwards. Without pausing his stride, Griffon continued past the raider, slamming Skyfell against his head with a crunch and sending him reeling. Just a flash behind, Kren’s axe split the man apart with a wide, bloody arc, spilling slick entrails on the rocky ground.
Bringing the sword of the First up quick, he deflected a strike, before ducking low and whirring around to block another with his shield. From one knee, he saw a sword sweep in from on high, aiming for his neck, so he pushed off the ground and sprang forward, driving his shoulder into the bastard’s jaw. Together, they toppled back out of the fray. Landing hard, Griffon reared back his sword and buried his pommel into the man’s face, before rolling off to the side and scrambling to his feet. As he did, bloodspray from beyond pattered his cheeks like hot rain.
Their backs to him, he watched Kren rage against a pair of raiders with his axes. As one stepped back for surer footing, Griffon plunged Daernwyn into his side, then jerked it up. A dead gurgle chased up out of the man as he fell forward. With teeth bared, the titan raked the other with both axeheads, before unheading him with a long, flat arc.
“They are hemmed in now, Eleksandr,” growled the wildman. “Let us feast on the damned.” With that, he drove a boot into the back of a raider, sending him careening forward and into Eldrick’s diminutive shortsword. Breathless, the spy offered a grim nod and turned to match steel with a second foe. At the far reaches of the fray, Sand tore hunks from a man’s face as he howled and flailed about with gnawed nubs and a visage of terror.
Griffon watched Byron cave in a man’s head with a backhanded strike from the deadly daystar, as the last of the Bluchnoire broke and fled or lay dying on the gore-stained rocks. Scanning the fray, he counted the bodies of a dozen black bastards, and saw a pair of their own fallen – Bo and Jorok. Looking over, he studied the cave’s maw, dark and foreboding, delivered to them by the mountain stag.
Dropping down beside his fallen warrior, Kren placed Jorok’s head in his lap and closed his eyes, his lips parting for muted words. Volf staggered through the ranks of the dying, ending them each in turn with his heavy broadsword. Byron held his side, searching out a shallow wound.
Kneeling, Eldrick closed Bo’s eyes. Beside him lay the black sword of a fallen raider. Taking it, he stood and stepped over a body, making his way to Griffon’s side. “My rage grows with every encounter. I cannot separate myself from this war, not anymore. It has ensnared me. I would see them die, to the last one.”
Looking down the rocky slopes to the distant, crumbling walls of a fallen Ashmor, Griffon’s chest tightened. Salt air filled his nose and copper ran down the back of his throat. “We will drive them into the sea,” he said, “until it foams red.”
“Until it foams red.”
Chapter 67
Rowan Vos
City of Thim Dorul
By the glow of the wraith-shade, a woman hurried down the broad boulevard of the fourth terrace with an armful of produce from the market. Shouldering into the gate, she pushed it open and made her way up to the front portico of the three-story manor. From the shadows across the street, Rowan and the others watched. “How do we do this?” he asked. “Just walk right up and knock on the door?”
“What other choice do we have?” Kassina replied.
Thinking for a moment, the thief said, “Byard, stay here and watch our backs.”
He nodded.
“Ready?” she asked.
Taking her by the hand, Rowan simply said, “Lead the way.”
The gate was unlocked, so they eased it open and followed the path of stones glowing green up to the door. Heavy columns, white by the light of day, spiraled up beside them. Wrapping her fingers around the knocker, Kassina c
ast a single glance back towards Byard, before banging it against the heavy wooden planks. “Here we go,” she whispered.
After several moments, a porthole at eye level opened up and a woman’s face peered out, searching them. “Yes?”
“Is this the Mercier House?” Kassina asked.
“No.”
Before Kassina could respond, the porthole slammed shut. She reached for the knocker again, but Rowan raised a hand and shook his head. “This isn’t the lower levels. We don’t need the guards called on us up here.”
“But-“
“We’ll find another way,” he said. “Come on, it’s getting late. We should head back to the Dowager for the night.” Turning, he took her hand again and started towards the street.
As they reached the gate, a door creaked open behind them. Glancing back, they found the same woman standing on the portico. She studied them for a long moment, before asking, “What would you have with the name Mercier?”
“She hired us,” replied Kassina.
“Hired you to do what?”
Holding up the locket, she replied, “To find this.”
Narrowing her eyes, she craned her neck and said, “Come closer, show it to me.”
They approached slowly, Kassina with her arm outstretched, holding the necklace like a cautious trophy, Rowan with his eyes darting about nervously. At the portico’s edge, they stopped.
“May I?” the woman asked, holding out her palm and taking a step forward.
Kassina met her and dropped it in her hand.
“Where did you find this?”
“The Four Kingdoms, Ashmor, Government District,” replied Rowan.
“And how did you find me?”
He snorted. “In truth? By chance or fate, though which it is I’m not quite sure.”
“Fate indeed,” she huffed. “So, what now?”
“We could sorely use some help,” said Kassina. “Though I doubt you could offer the kind we need.”
“Would you care to come inside?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
* * * * *
The parlor was opulent, filled with marble statues and vibrant paintings and several lamps that were obviously purchased from the bazaar. They sat on a bench with a high back and soft cushions dyed crimson. Opposite of them, the woman sat with her legs tucked under themselves on a large padded chair. “Call me Astara,” she said. “Astara Dreher.”
“I’m Kass, and this is Rowan.”
A servant girl entered with three porcelain cups, blue and white, their contents steaming the air. After everyone had received their drink, the woman said, “Tell me how you came about this.”
“We… find things for people,” said Kassina. “Things others can’t get to. A woman named Ms. Mercier hired us in Ashmor. She knew precisely where it was. All she needed from us, was the getting.”
Astara smiled. “She’s good, the lady Mercier. So, why didn’t you give the locket to her? I presume you haven’t been paid, am I right?”
Kassina looked at Rowan. He nodded, before clearing his throat and beginning. “We meant to, but on my way back with the locket, I came across a sword. It seems others would have the blade, too, including the Sins.”
Exhaling deeply, she replied, “That’s not good. They’re better at finding things than Ms. Mercier, and they’ve less tact, too. But, you need not die if you give them what they want.”
Rowan sighed. “I have considered it many times, but the people that would have this sword – the people that hired the Sins – they are… loathsome. I’m afraid of what might happen should they take possession, so I cannot do that.”
“It’s just a sword, right?”
“It’s more than that.”
“This… sword that is more, could it upend a city?”
The thief snorted. “Absolutely.”
“A kingdom?”
“…Perhaps.”
“A continent?”
Rowan furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure, but I don’t intend to find out.”
Astara sipped her tea and let her eyes wander the parlor. After a time, she said, “This locket was my mother’s. It’s a trivial thing, but it’s the only thing in all the world that I have left of her. Its story I would not bore you with, for it’s merely one of a family aquarrel, as most are. Nevertheless, you have delivered something unto me that money cannot. So I will help you if I can, though I am not certain that I can.”
“We’re out of options,” said Kassina. “We’ll take any help we can get.”
The woman smiled. “The Sins of Thim are peddlers of death the world over. Wealth and leverage – power – those are the things that they seek. And they have an interest in maintaining that power. You see, a world held in a delicate balance is a world that needs their services the most. Spies, secrecy, assassinations, those are ways of kings at peace. But war? She affords less discretion, and less need for such things.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kassina. “What does-“
“If this sword can fell a continent,” interrupted Astara, “then it can change this world into a place the Sins would not desire.”
“So how do we convince them of this?” asked Rowan.
The woman laughed. “You do not, nor do I. But if this sword is as you say, then it is strong magic indeed. And there is one that would know this for a fact, one that the Sins would hear. I will send you to her,” she said. Rising, she disappeared from the room for several minutes, before returning with a piece of parchment. On a corner table, she laid it flat and scratched on it with a quill as she continued. “If she affirms your words, then I will arrange a meeting with heads of the Undying Sins of Thim Dorul, and the contract for your sword will evaporate like the morning dew.”
“And what if this woman does not know the sword?” asked Rowan.
“Then you would do well to leave it with me.”
The thief’s eyes narrowed. “How can you arrange all of this?”
Astara clicked her tongue and smiled. “Oh my dear, I am one myself…”
* * * * *
The camel plodded along at an irregular rhythm, bobbing Rowan up and down. It reeked, worse than even Sutton, and fouled Rowan’s nose despite the steady breeze from the west.
Behind them, the Gate of the Seven Arches and the high wall of the top terrace of Thim Dorul shrank into the horizon. Up ahead, the Cliffs of Caswah climbed higher with every uneven step of the camel. Off to the side, three buzzards — faint specks in a gray sky — soared along an endless orbit. And all around, dunes rose and fell, like the low hoargrass hills that lay beyond the Brae.
Reaching into his linen overcoat, Rowan produced the parchment. Unfurling it, he studied Astara’s sketch. “There,” he said, “that sliver of a canyon.”
“The Mul’Sabir, what kind of name is that?” asked Kassina.
“It is a title,” replied Byard.
“What does it mean?”
The northman rode in silent contemplation for a moment, before saying, “In the truest translation? ‘The Mouth of the Gods,’ but oracle is a word that could describe her, too.”
“An oracle?” Kassina gasped, “I didn’t know such was real.”
“Most are pretenders, deceivers of kings, but not the Mul’Sabir.”
“How do you know so much about a land so foreign?” asked Rowan.
“I have served in these lands, and beyond, for many years,” he replied. “I am a warblade from Fenryn, or Valyncia as the kingdoms of the north are known here.”
“It must’ve taken a lot of courage to travel so far from home and fight in a place so foreign,” Kassina said.
“It was greed, not valor, my lady.” After several plods of the camel, he added, “There is something else, but I would only say it to the two of you.”
“Tell us, then.”
“I was chief among the kyrguard of Mysthas... the guards of the king, Kyr D’Eldar.”
“D’Eldar?”
The northman nod
ded. “I believe Sia to be his sister.”
“Why is she in hiding?”
“Kyr Egil is a troubled ruler. Everywhere he looks, he sees traitors. Fifteen name days past, when I first joined the kyrguard, it was told to me that he had murdered all of his kin.”
Rowan thought of the Dowager’s former captain, and Sia’s words.
“He sounds a terror,” said Kassina.
“A tyrant indeed, so I left, many years past when I should. And thus — much like Sia — I am an exile.”
Across the sepia-toned sandscape they traveled, until the walls of Thim Dorul disappeared, and the Cliffs of Caswah soared high, and the sun smoldered sanguine in the west. With its last rays, it stretched wide across the squat dunes, painting black a solitary silhouette behind them. “It seems we’ve been followed,” said Byard.
“The man in gray?” asked Kassina.
“If I must wager,” replied Rowan with a nod. “We should draw into the canyon and wait for him there.”
* * * * *
Shadows as thick as the Dowager’s sails draped over the canyon, blanketing all in black. In a narrow crevasse, Rowan drew himself further still into the gloom and pulled Unforged from its sheath. There he lay in wait to fall upon the gray stranger.
After a time, an orange glow trembled into the pass, climbing high up the sheer cliffs and dredging up ghoulish shadows from the darkened corners. A solitary torch appeared, gripped by the man in the gray robe, riding atop a camel. Holding his breath, Rowan watched as he passed.
Throwing back his shadowy mantle, the thief lunged and grabbed the figure by the back of his robe. Rowan jerked the man from his saddle, dropping him hard, forcing a painful wheeze out of his lungs. Kassina and Byard rushed forward, swords trained on the heap that writhed and groaned on the floor.
“Who sent you?” the thief demanded.
“Please, I mean you no harm,” he rasped.
“Who!”
“Thatcher… Frost.”
“That son of a bitch,” said Kassina. “I knew it.”
“Let us run him through and leave him for the dune cats,” suggested Byard.