by Eli Steele
What the…?
The figure faltered a bit as a crossbow bolt pierced his thigh. In response, he swung his staff blindly. One building over, Rowan watched a man lift up off the flat roof and fly through the air. Beyond, the cobblestone pavement beyond cut his long scream short.
White-knuckled, the thief gripped the roof’s edge and stared on in amazement.
Just who in the Four Kingdoms are you?
Three more men appeared. They exchanged words with the hooded figure, but it didn’t seem to resolve their problem, whatever it was. He watched as the figure bowed his head.
You’re giving up, after all that?
Rowan jumped as a flash of lighting streaked towards his building, before leaping across the square. An explosion of electricity and fire lit up the night. The building trembled from the booming thunder that followed. The hooded figure collapsed. Three charred bodies lay before him, one of which burned still, though the rains soon reduced it to a smolder.
Speechless, Rowan looked on, unable to move. A dozen thoughts raced through his head.
Alright, you should probably leave now… What in the hell just happened? Just leave… Was that a… mage? Just get the hell out-
Rowan watched as the figure’s leg twitched.
Did you just? No. Die you son of bitch, don’t make me come down-
The figure let out a weak groan.
Shit. Here we go…
Descending the wall, Rowan leapt several feet to the ground. He landed with a splash. Cautiously, he approached the scene. Circling wide, he noted the figure was an old man. Blood pooled around his mouth. The assassins were charred beyond recognition.
“Hey, are you alright?”
Are you alright? What kind of question is that? Of course you’re not…
“Closer…” the old man moaned.
Kneeling, he placed his hand on the man’s back. “I’m going to get you out of here. But I’m going to need you to help me do that. I’m going to lift you up, alright?”
So… please don’t snap my neck or incinerate me…
“No, no…” The man coughed. Blood spittles stained his lip. “I don’t have long yet. Who are you?”
“Rowan. Rowan Vos… I’m…” Hell, he’s dying, might as well be straight… “…I’m just a thief for hire.”
Struggling, the old man looked up. His eyes penetrated Rowan’s. “Give me your hand.”
“What?”
“Your hand.”
Rowan complied. The old man clasped it. As he did, a thousand memories, and none his own, flashed through Rowan’s mind. His head pounded. Thoughts of the battle moments before, and great wars, and strange creatures, and other things foreign and mysterious assaulted him.
Smiling weakly, the old man said, “You’re far more than a common thief.”
“Now, I didn’t say I was a common-“
“Here,” interrupted the old man. Groaning, he reached under his cloak. Retrieving a blade and a sealed letter, he continued. “Take these. There’s a man in the city, Thatcher Frost. Find him.”
“Where would-“
“Someone’s here,” the old man coughed. “Go… quickly!”
Rowan stammered.
Sitting upright, the old mage grabbed his staff. “Go!”
Turning, the thief dashed into the night. Standing to his feet, the old mage readied himself for one last fight.
Chapter 3
Griffon Alexander
Braewood Keep
Kingdom of Beyorn
The wind swept over the surrounding crags and swirled around the keep. Griffon pulled the fur overcoat tightly around his waist. Despite the layers of thin wool under stiff leather, the cold cut deep.
Waves of blonde hair, typical of the Brae in particular and northeast Beyorn in general, peeked out from around a fur-lined hood. His light hair contrasted with the reddish-blonde beard he kept trimmed short. Though it helped keep his face warm on the long rides to the north, it was not a feature in which he had a choice. All Alexanders, traced back to the first, wore their red beards with a shock of yellow waves past their ears, and he would not be the first to break tradition, by order of the Lord Baron.
With eyes as deep a green as the most prized emeralds, another trademark of the true Alexander bloodline, he leaned against the crenellations and looked past the towering trees of the Braewood Forest. Just beyond the high canopy of the olde growth, the Kingdom of Meronia spread out to the north.
The sun peaked over the eastern ridges, blanketing the valley beyond with morning’s first light. From his vantage point, the view continued on for miles. It was a beautiful area; rugged, and rocky, and green. Overhead, a hawk soared effortlessly.
How could this place ever not be peaceful, with views so serene?
Braewood Keep was simple in construction. Its single curtain wall was nearly square, with towers at all four corners. The stones had been mined from the earth directly beneath the keep itself, effectively flattening a low peak and age-old pass through the mountains. The keep structure itself was centered inside the walls, towering over them and the surrounding countryside. Two halls, a stable, granary, and chapel ringed the keep along the wall interior.
To the east and west, the Braeridge Mountains terminated at the thick walls, blurring the point where natural ended and manmade began. Gatehouses were located at the center of the north and south walls, affording passage from Beyorn to Meronia. There was no way through the Barbeau Pass, and the greater Braeridge Mountains on either side, but for Braewood Keep.
The rooftop hatch opened. A gust of wind caught it, slamming it hard against the stone. Startled, Griffon spun around. Baron Alexander, lord of the keep, ascended the stairs, grinning sheepishly. In appearance, the father was the son, only twenty years older, nearly into his fourth decade.
“Shit, that wind’s howling… I think I just pulled a muscle.”
Griffon shook his head. “You’re getting old, Lord Baron.”
“Hell, I guess I am.” Walking up beside his son, the elder Alexander draped his arm around the younger. Together, they looked out across the expanse. “It’s an alluring view.”
“It’s a lonely view…”
Lord Baron sighed. “Avendor isn’t all it seems, either. A king’s court is a wearying place. Trust me, I know from experience.”
“I’m not saying I want Avendor. I just wish there was more to the Brae than these hills and forests.”
“One day you’ll appreciate these hills and forests, and you’ll quit trying to wish them away.”
Griffon smiled. “Maybe so, but until then, can I not dream a little without you worrying that I’m leaving?”
“Oh, I wish that you would,” Baron replied, grinning, “But you know your mother…”
“So it’s mother…”
Still smiling, Baron looked at the courtyard immediately below. “Looks like your men are almost ready.”
Griffon nodded. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”
“How far north will you ride?”
“Maybe Bearbrook, maybe farther.”
“That’s a long way…”
“It’s a two-day ride. We’ll be fine.”
Baron grunted his acquiescence. After a moment, he added, “I’d rather only seasoned warriors ride so far past the wall with you.”
“Roke is new to the Brae, but he’s a capable armsman. Besides, he has to learn the territory somehow.” Griffon embraced his father. “I should be going. They shouldn’t have to do all the work.”
“You’re a good leader…”
“You’re a good father.”
As Griffon reached the stairway, the elder Alexander said, “Son...”
“Yes, sir?”
“Things are changing, I can feel it. Just be careful out there.”
“Always. I’ll see you soon.”
* * * * *
In the courtyard, three men readied the horses. Griffon gr
abbed a saddle and approached his gelding. Upon seeing him, the horse nickered.
“It’s good to see you, too, Bailey,” Griffon replied.
“Mornin’, sir.”
Griffon rolled his eyes. “You know I hate that shit.”
“You might be Griff on the road,” Ezra said, “but in here, you’re a sir.”
“Yeah,” added Pagan, “your father would have our arses if he heard otherwise.”
“Baron Alexander would do no such thing.”
“My lord has been looking for a reason to string me from the gallows for a good and long while now,” Pagan replied.
“It’s because you never shut up,” Roke interjected.
Narrowing his eyes, Pagan shot an exaggerated scowl at the newest member of the garrison.
Climbing atop Bailey, Griffon said, “Did we wake up with the sun to talk shit, or ride?”
The horse snorted, as if in agreeance with his rider.
“I for one came to do both in equal measures,” Pagan said, stepping into the stirrup.
Chuckling, Griffon snapped the reins, bringing the gelding to a trot. The others followed after him. Passing through the north gate, they nodded to the watchmen. Steel clanked as the portcullis closed behind them.
“Godspeed, m’lord!” A sentry called out from atop the wall. Turning in the saddle, Griffon raised a hand in salute.
A hundred yards or so past the north gate, or Hell’s Gate as it had been known in the distant past, the Braewood Forest began. Thick and tall, it crowded in on the road, all but blotting out the morning’s warm rays. A startled raven, larger than most, cawed and flapped deeper into the grove.
“Are these woods ever not cold?” Pagan remarked.
“It’s an olde growth,” replied Ezra. “Thick canopy. They’re usually that way. Especially the evergreens.”
“And this one’s older than most,” Griffon replied.
Ducking under a low limb, Roke asked, “So, why have the Alexanders kept the Braewood for so long, sir? This timber must be worth a king’s ransom.”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s not like our first ancestor is buried out here under one of these trees... But if I had to give an answer, then… just look around.” He stretched out his arms, emphasizing the point. “Some of these trees are older than our oldest books. This place knows stories that no man can ever recall. Doesn’t that make you feel small? And where else in the Four Kingdoms can you just ride into such a place? Most of the olde growths are so deep in the mountain valleys that only a few civilized people will ever experience them. I think the Lord Baron sees that, and his father before him, and him before still. And one day, I’ll see it the same way, too.”
“It’s going to be a rough trip if he’s long-winded this early in,” Pagan despaired, just loud enough for the group’s benefit.
“I can have us back at the gallows in no time.”
“Shit. That ain’t funny, Griff.”
Ezra snorted. Roke chuckled nervously.
They continued through the forest. Occasionally, the road would veer around a particularly ancient braewood, some with trunks as wide across as three tarpans tip to tail. Halfway through, they crossed a downed tree, crowded out by the canopy and starved for sunlight. Griffon reasoned it was young, maybe only a couple hundred years old.
Around mid-morning they emerged from the grove. Much like the forest face at the opposite end, the northern limits ended abruptly. Braewood saplings, only a few decades old, extended out a short distance. Growing a braewood forest was a slow and deliberate task.
Beyond, the windswept hills of south Meronia rolled endlessly to the horizon, losing a little height with every successive crest. Limestone outcroppings created the occasional low wall, or jutted out of the side of the hill. Here and there, a solitary beech or a cluster of ash broke the landscape. Otherwise, knee-high grass danced in the wind, while the odd gust threatened to pin the stalks to the ground.
A heavy boundary stone, an arm’s length past the last sapling, was just off the edge of the road. It was a head higher than Griffon, who stood taller than most. The old language was engraved on opposite sides, its words lost to most. Now, it served as the border marker between Beyorn and Meronia.
“What’s the stone say, sir?” Roke asked.
“Please, it’s just Griff,” he said, before continuing, “’Beyond lies the Third Kingdom of the Cyrenian Empire, the Tetrarchy of Meron.’ And on the other side, it says the same thing about the Fourth Kingdom, the Tetrarchy of Eleksandr.”
“They say the Empire spanned two continents,” Ezra said.
“That they do,” replied Griffon, “It’s hard to imagine isn’t it? And we’re what, seven – eight kingdoms now?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
Griffon nodded.
“So, the Alexanders ruled a kingdom under the Empire?” said Roke.
“A small one,” Griffon replied, “a fraction of the size of the other three on the continent…” Pulling back on the reins, he eyed a low ridge to their east. Bailey stopped with a snort.
“What is it?” asked Pagan.”
“Two figures on that slope, or at least there were,” Griffon replied. “They’re gone now. Scouts probably.”
“Meronian?” inquired Roke.
“Maybe,” Ezra replied, “but not likely.”
“Uhnan’akk.” Griffon stated.
Studying the hills, Roke asked, “Who are they?”
Pagan replied, “Savages, raiders…”
Griffon interjected. “They’re primitive no doubt, but they’ve probably been here as long as the Braewood. Empires and kingdoms have come and gone, but they’ve persisted. As far as they’re concerned, this land has never not been theirs. And for the most part, the mountains still are. As long as we don’t venture to close to the highlands, they’ll likely leave us be.”
“What if they don’t, leave us be that is?”
“Then we deal with it,” Griffon replied.
“Roke,” Pagan needled, “your first time north of the woods and you’re ready to turn back already?”
“No,” he countered, “I just want to know what we’re up against.”
Tapping Bailey with the reins, Griffon said, “They’re there. We’re here. That’s all there’s to be said. Let’s ride.”
Eying the ridge one last time, Roke urged the gelding forward after the others.
Cresting a rise in the road, a little lower than the last, a flat basin opened up before them. Spread wide, a small herd of cattle free-grazed. A granary, ringed by several farmhouses, towered over the rocky landscape.
Griffon announced, largely for for Roke’s benefit, “The southmost southrons of Meronia.”
“Or, the Beyornians beyond the border, if you ask them,” Pagan remarked.
“Indeed,” added Ezra.
A hundred or so yards out, an old man emerged from the nearest farmhouse. He waved. The riders acknowledged him in kind.
Halfway between, along a fence row in need of repair, they converged.
“M’lords,” the old man offered, mustering a weak smile.
Dismounting, Griffon replied, “Barda, it’s good to see you. How are things?”
“Not worth a shite, I am.”
“What’s wrong?”
Sighing, he started back towards the farmhouse. “Walk with me, if you will.”
The riders left their horses to graze the field. Griffon studied Barda. He was obviously burdened.
“I’m sorry to mar your arrival, my lord. It’s not often that we see you, and we do look forward your comings. It’s just… those bastards…”
“Barda, talk to me. What’s happened?”
Roke eyed Pagan, but he only shrugged.
Upon reaching the granary, the old man opened the door. An empty hull stared back at them.
“They took everything. Everything we’d stored up for winter.”
Peering in, E
zra asked, “Who did this?”
“Meronia,” replied Griffon.
Barda nodded. “They came in just last week with their carts and emptied it, ‘by declaration of the king.’ King my arsehole. He’s done nothing for us. ‘Int my king. Never has been…” Barda spat.
Griffon started to speak, but Barda began again, “And, they took the Brimble boy. He ‘int but fourteen. What would they need with a child?”
Shit...
Confused, Pagan asked, “Took him where?”
“Took him!” The old man snapped.
“…to the camp,” Griffon added.
Barda nodded.
“Where is it? Bearbrook?” Griffon asked.
The old man shook his head again. His eyes welled up. Clearing his throat, he fought back the tears. “How can we make it ‘til the spring?”
“Let me worry about that,” Griffon replied. “Now, how big is this army?”
“Big, m’lord. You would do good to be worried.”
Pagan asked no one in particular, “What are these bastards doing with an army?”
“Coming to the Brae,” Griffon said dispassionately. “Ezra, take the bread and meat from the saddle bags and give it to Master Barda. We’ll ride hungry.” Placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder, he continued. “I brought your wife a bolt of Galaian cotton. I’m sorry she won’t enjoy it more, considering the circumstances. And I hope you can forgive us; we must be on our way.”
“But, you’ve only just arrived. Where are you going?”
“Bearbrook. I need to see this army.”
* * * * *
A purple-orange glow spilled across the sky from behind the eastern ridges. Griffon and the others dismounted in a stand of mixed hardwoods. Drove to exhaustion, the geldings lay on their sides and closed their eyes. Offering one short snort, Bailey fell fast asleep.
Ducking low at the woods line, the men bolted across an open expanse. Upon reaching a cluster of field maples, the crawled up to the crest of a low rise. In the distance, Bearbrook’s wooden palisade stretched across the valley. Between it and they, lay the encampment.
Yurts spread out in orderly arrays. Embers smoldered, the last remnants of the night’s cook fires. Banners flapped in the wind. The occasional early riser could be seen emerging from the round tents, stretching and rekindling the flames.
