by Eli Steele
Blood & Iron
Part I
Eli Steele
[to table of contents]
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This is a work of fiction. Obviously. All of the characters, organizations and events in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2019 Eli Steele.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, copied or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
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Acknowledgements:
My son, my padna’.
My wife, my best friend.
Hammer, for the feedback.
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Map:
Visit my blog for a map of the region: https://elisteele.blogspot.com/
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* * * * * Table of Contents * * * * *
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Prologue
Orick
The Road to Ashmor
Kingdom of Beyorn
Thunder rumbled in the east. A biting gust unhooded the old man. Pulling his cloak tight, he leaned forward in the saddle. He whispered in the horse’s ear in reassuring tones. The animal responded with a whinny and a quickened pace.
You’ve been a diligent partner, old friend. Just a little farther yet.
In the distance, the city materialized. A pair of torches adorned the walls on either side of the gate. Faint flames danced in wind, struggling to live through the night.
Crossing the dry moat, he brought the horse to a stop and dismounted. He was glad the ride was over. The animal snorted nervously.
“Shhh… Easy. It’s safer in there than it is out here.”
Approaching the gate, he rapped on the solid wooden planks with his staff.
No response.
Again, he struck the gate, this time with more force than before.
A small porthole opened. Behind wrought iron bars, a fat face studied the old man.
“Who goes ‘ere?”
“Just a weary traveler. I seek shelter for the night.”
“Gates close at dark, for good reas’n. Nothin’ but trouble on the road at this ‘or.”
“Which is precisely why I’m here. Particularly with this storming bearing down on us. Now-“
“Sow’ry,” the night watchman interjected, “Rules are rules. Come back in the mornin’!”
And with that, the porthole slammed shut.
Breathing in, the old man closed his eyes and tapped on the porthole.
Again it swung open. The fat face peered through, almost surprised to see the same eyes staring back at him.
“I said-“
With a snap of his fingers, the traveler produced a gold coin in his hand. Torchlight glinted off its face.
The night watchman peered about, before pressing in close to the bars and ogling the coin. “Hmph. Come on in, then,” he said with a whisper, “but be quick about it. Rules is made to keep folk safe.”
Rules are made to keep folks down.
Yawning inward, the gates creaked in protest. The old man guided his horse inside. Unstrapping his pack from the saddle, he led the animal to the stables.
“Hey!” The night watchman barked, palm extended.
The traveler tossed the coin in his general direction. It landed at his feet in the mud. Casting sidelong glances, the fat man squatted and pocketed the coin.
Continuing on, the old man whispered to the horse, “They’ll take good care of you here, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
The animal nickered in reply.
“Oats and barley,” he said to the stable boy, “He’s been rode hard for days on end.”
“Aye, sir,” the child, barely ten, replied. “We’ll give ‘em the royal treatment.”
With another wave of his hand, the traveler coughed and said, “Be sure that you do. And should anything happen to me, you will personally find him a proper owner.”
The boy nodded obediently. “What’s his name?”
“Altair,” replied the old man.
As the traveler disappeared into the city, the gold coin faded into a puff of smoke in the night watchman’s pocket.
* * * * *
Sticking to the alleys, the old man wound his way through the city. By this hour, many of the lamps had burned through their fuel, leaving little to light the way. Cold embers were all that remained. Storm clouds drifted in, blotting out the moonlight.
Damp, and gloomy, and as unwelcoming as ever. Some things never change. For a port city, you never did care much for the traveler.
The cobblestone pavement was loud beneath his feet. Reaching into his cloak, he clutched the hilt of a sheathed blade. He felt safer. And for a moment, the night air didn’t feel quite so cold.
Freezing mid-stride, he heard the sound of steel scraping on stone somewhere behind him. Turning, he saw the silhouette of a man. Glancing back, he watched another man step into the alley.
So this is it.
The man up ahead spoke. “Ashmor nights are no place for old men.”
“I’d say,” the one in the rear replied, “one could get hurt in the dark.”
The traveler breathed a sigh of relief. Just a couple locals. Foolish ones, at that.
“What’s the matter, chimera got your tongue?”
“Here, let us help you home. It won’t cost you… much.”
The brigand up ahead chuckled.
“It’d be best if you both departed. I’ve places to be.”
“We ‘int going anywhere, not until we’ve had a good look at you.”
Have it your way.
Wrapping himself tightly in his cloak, the old man closed his eyes. A thick black cloud enveloped him.
“Wh-where’d he go?”
“Didn’t go nowhere, you dolt, he’s still here. Just some trick of the light.”
“’Int no light for playin’ tricks…”
Giving over the reins, he allowed his mind to wander, searching for some terror tucked away in his subconscious.
Oh, but of course.
Settling on it, he grinned.
Don’t worry, this’s going to hurt me more than it will you.
He focused his thoughts on his childhood, and his father’s study. It was a place for the adults; children were forbidden there. But occasionally, they would sneak in to take in the musty smell, and steal a sip of wine, and behold the floor to ceiling tomes. And of course, to marvel at the bramwar.
“Well, go on, get him!”
“I’m not going in there. Fog that thick. It’s... unnatural.”
Blocking out their voices, he narrowed in on the painting. Relative to the stalwart knight, he reasoned the demon was two dozen feet tall, perhaps even taller.
Yes, indeed taller.
He envisioned the molten eyes that sized up his mortal foe, and the inferno that radiated outward. With his mind, he traced the four horns that stretched out from his head, before rolling up. The old man exhaled, imagining smoke billowing from the creature’s hollow nose. He gnarled his fingers, much like the bramwar’s grasping claws. From deep within, he roared like he thought the demon might, and felt the ground tremble beneath his feet.
Their s
hrieks pulled him from the recesses of his mind. When he opened his eyes, the men were gone.
Taking a couple steps forward, he dropped to one knee and retched. Soured wine burned his throat and spattered his boots. A coppery taste filled his mouth.
Wiping his lips with his cloak, a small crimson stain marred the brown wool. The old man uncorked his wineskin, gargled and spat. Clutching his staff, he staggered onward.
If only it was always so easy.
Stopping short of the edge of the alley, he peered across the well-lit space. A stone wall, maybe eight feet tall, and an open portcullis, marked the western reaches of the Gate District. Beyond lay the Market District. A pair of guards milled about, tired and oblivious to the world beyond the glow of the gate torches. Pulling his hood low, he averted his gaze and emerged from the shadows.
The pair watched him approach. “Halt. Stop where you are.”
A dozen feet away, he complied.
“Movement through the city is restricted at night. State your business.”
Ignoring the question, he sucked in a chest full of air. He searched his strength for a simple persuasion. He could do it, but he’d rather not. A cough forced its way out.
Stepping forward, a lanky guard said, “Eyes up here; look at me.”
As he lifted his head, he staggered a bit. Leaning forward, the old man retched again.
“Ah, hell… This one’s drunk. Just let him through.”
Turning back, the guard snarled, “Go on with ya’, make a mess for someone else.”
“Bless you, m’lord.”
“Yeah, yeah; go bless yourself.”
Stumbling through the gate, he found the darkened alcove of a nearby shop entrance and shrunk into the shadows. Lightning flashed overhead. A rumbling of thunder immediately followed. The winds shifted, and with them, a slow drizzle pattered the street.
Rummaging through his pack, he retrieved a half loaf of stale bread. Breaking off a hunk, he chased it with some wine. He could feel his strength returning.
That’s better.
Gripping the hilt of the sword once again, he steadied his mind.
No sign of them yet. Maybe, I’ll just… rest my eyes for a moment…
Heart aflutter, he awoke to the sounds of a struggle. One guard, the lanky one – he remembered the voice – hurled threats. And then the second guard shrieked.
Rest your eyes… You fool!
His pulse quickened. Arising, the old man stood to his feet. With his staff, he staggered off once again, this time, with renewed vigor. The rains intensified.
Soon enough, Hadan’s Quarter would be abustle with hawkers and gawkers and swindlers aplenty. But for now, the tents and carts of Ashmor’s largest open-air market were empty. Several stubborn torches burned through the night, creating islands of pale light. It was open, and brighter than the alleys. And, well, he was there.
It’s as good a place as any, and better than most.
Rain-soaked and weary, he rolled his staff horizontal, gripped it with both hands, and waited. Narrowing his eyes, he searched the shadows.
A single, hooded assassin appeared several dozen feet to his right. The figure held a dagger in each hand.
“Are you all they could muster?” the old man asked. He knew better.
The figure snorted and approached cautiously. A second man materialized behind the first.
“Of course not. Always in sixes, you are.”
With a quick flick of his wrists, the old man twitched the staff forward, then up. In the distance, the assassin’s head snapped back, then crunched skyward. Lifeless, his body collapsed on the pavement.
Fighting back a fit of coughs, he pressed the staff forward with both hands. With a nervous croak, the second assassin was flung through the air. Across the Quarter, he slammed into a brick wall with a sickening crunch. He wailed and writhed on the cobblestones, his back broken.
The old man gasped as a crossbow bolt pierced his thigh. With one arm, he blindly swatted the staff at the night air. Somewhere beyond, a man screamed for a moment, then went silent.
Dropping to one knee, the old man coughed and spat a mouthful of blood on the ground. With every rhythmic throb, he could feel the poison working its way up his leg. He reached into his cloak and gripped the blade again. His confidence renewed, he lifted his head. Three assassins stood before him, maybe a dozen feet away.
“So there you are,” he groaned.
“Just give us what we want, and you can live yet.”
“It’s that simple, is it?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Indeed.”
Closing his eyes, he fixated on the storm. Beads of water dripped from his hood and dropped onto his nose. Ignoring them, he thought of the wind, and the clouds, and the thunder. The old man could hear their footsteps closing in.
It’s building… building…
“…building,” he whispered.
“What was that?”
Just then, a flash of lightning streaked towards the far end of the square. The old man opened his eyes. In midair, the bolt leapt sideways to them, before seeking out the ground once again. The assassins’ hair stood on end. Their daggers whined and shimmered. In an explosion of light and electricity and fire, the trio was obliterated.
Breathless, the old mage collapsed in a pool of blood and rainwater.
Up above, on opposite ends of the square, two men marveled.
Chapter 1
Eldrick D’Eldar
Just Outside of Glende
Kingdom of Meronia
Long and narrow, the ship sliced through the water with ease, though ease was a relative term. With each pull, the chants of sixty oarsmen filled the air. The crisp air made the work easier, but it was still indeed work.
“The men are in good spirits,” said Lann.
“Of course they are, kid. Their journey up river is almost over.” Eldrick leaned against the railing and scanned the wooded banks.
“It’s a beautiful place,” Lann added.
“It’s a dangerous place is what it is.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because I was a babe when the war ended, and you’re a lot younger than me.” He was sharp, but not condescending. Eldrick patted him on the back to offset his words.
“We should’ve just kept marching east. Should’ve took the whole kingdom.”
“Maybe so,” Eldrick conceded, “but then, for the last thirty years, we would’ve been mired in a war with a thousand faceless foes. Raids, ambushes, sabotage – it would’ve been a slow drain on the kingdom. We’d be weaker for it. No, we did something far worse than that.”
“What’d we do?”
“We took Meronia’s only blue water port. We stole their future. With a single blow, we impoverished their kingdom, forever, or at least until the next war.”
Lann nodded. He of course knew that Ashmor had been liberated, but he’d never once heard the story from Meronia’s perspective. “And they hate us for it.”
“That they do. And don’t ever forget it. The fighting might’ve stopped, but the war never ended, not in their minds.”
Around the river bend, the city came into view.
“There she is,” Eldrick added, “the gem of the muddy Sigil. Go, fetch our gear.”
“Aye, sir.” Turning, the young man aimed for the lower decks.
“Make it quick. Dusk will be here before we know it, and I don’t care to be on the streets of Glende after dark.”
“Aye!”
* * * * *
Stepping off the ship, the pair pulled their hoods over their heads. Beneath his cloak, Eldrick rested his palm on the hilt of his dagger.
“You told the men that nobody leaves the ship until I return?”
“Aye, sir. And they weren’t none too happy about it neither.”
“That’s alright. I’d rather them be resentful than be found knifed in a gutter.”
<
br /> Checking the sky, Eldrick noted the sun’s position. About an hour to dark. Should be enough time.
Creaking with their every step, the docks were in need of redecking. He scanned the waterfront and noted several newly shuttered shops. The stale stench of river mud, livestock, and rotting produce hung in the air.
Muddy paths worked themselves back into Glende, gnawing away at the once-paved streets. The pair slogged along a narrow lane. Warehouses lined either side.
Eldrick casually scanned the bustle, searching for threats. A group of men eyed him as they passed. Try as he might, he could never blend into the crowds of ruddied cheeks and light locks, forged from the harsh Meronian winters. With tanned skin hinting of olive, his short earthy hair and hazeled eyes marked him as a product of the middlings of Kal’Dea.
But for the men, they went largely unnoticed. Though it was upriver, Glende was still a merchant’s city, and saw its share of travelers.
Up ahead, a candle flickered in the solitary window of one of the warehouses. Above the door, a faded sign swayed in the breeze.
Otger and Associates | Import-Export | Distant Wares by Special Request
Kicking his boots against the wall to knock off the grime, Eldrick gave the door a courtesy knock. Without waiting for a response, he turned the knob and stepped inside. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Lann followed him and pulled the door to.
Though the building was old, its walls and floor still smelled of cedar. Filling their lungs, the pair purged their nostrils of the outside air. The room was bare, save for a two stools at a far counter, and a short man with thick glasses on its other side. He smiled.
“If it pleases, m’lords, help yourselves out of your cloaks.”
As Lann shrugged his off, Eldrick replied “It wouldn’t please us, Otger, but thank you anyway.”
Sheepishly, the young man pulled his cloak back on.
Making his way around the counter, Otger hurried to the window. He snuffed out the candle, before pressing his forehead against the pane and peered both ways down the lane beyond. Satisfied, he swung the shutters in and barred them.
“Something wrong?” Eldrick asked.
