Blood and Iron 1

by Eli Steele

  “Sir,” The stablemaster said, “Our lord was clear in his direction. Only our best horses-“

  “Is our lord’s ass on either of these saddles?”

  “But-“

  “Then I’ll hear nothing of it.”

  “Wh-“

  “Nothing, of it!”

  Stepping into the stirrup, Griffon sprang onto Bailey’s back. With his shout, the gelding leapt forward. Through a cloud of dust, Ezra chased after him; together they galloped through the north gate, their ringmail chinking with the rhythm of their pace.

  Add the edge of the forest, Griffon slowed their pace. Passing into the wood, darkness swallowed them. A lone raven, larger than most, scolded them before retreating deeper into the gloom.

  Ezra urges his gelding up beside Bailey. Side by side, they followed the trail. “You were hard on Ben,” he said.

  “...I know.”

  “He’ll hold it against you. He’ll never say it, but he will.”

  Griffon cut him an eye.

  “I’m telling you as a friend,” Ezra added.

  “I hear you...”

  “If you do, then you’ll apologize to him upon our return.”

  “Where are you going with this, Ez?”

  Ezra sighed. “I’m telling you this because I know you. You’re about to be on the front lines of a war. And I know you won’t be able to fight this from the ramparts, it’s not who you are. So you’re going to need men around you that believe in you, not just as a leader, but as a person.”

  Reluctantly, Griffon absorbed the seasoned armsman’s words. “Did following Lord Baron around all these years make you so astute?”

  “That it did.”

  “...Then tell me, my wisened old knight, what’s coming our way?” Griffon cut him a smile.

  “I just swing a sword for a minor noble in these middle of nowhere marches,” Ezra quipped. “But I promise you this,” his grinned faded, “it’s more than any thousand men.”

  “...Armies don’t seek out battles they know they can’t win...”

  “Wise words...”

  They’re not my own.

  They rode on in silence, save for the clopping of the gelding’s hooves. Lost in its beauty, Griffon gazed at the canopy high overhead. It was more like some distant greenish canvas of the sky, than leaves bound to limbs; it drew him in. And if he was honest, he rode north for the time spent in the olde growth as much as he did for the thrill of sojourning on forbidden soil.

  Just then, a raven flew overhead. It peppered them with short shrills.

  “That’s the same damn bird,” Ezra said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “See how big he is?”

  “I think he wants us gone.”

  Rummaging through his saddle bag, Ezra produced a loaf of bread. Breaking off a hunk, he tossed it at the bird.

  The raven darted to the side, gurgling at Ezra. “Choosy little bastard,” he remarked.

  “You don’t get that big being finicky,” Griffon replied.

  With one final caw, the raven pumped its wings and climbed towards the treetops.

  Up ahead, thick beams of sunlight penetrated the growth. Beyond, the hills of Meronia repeated themselves until they blurred into one.

  Passing the Cyrenian monument, Griffon said, “We ride ‘til we see their camp, then we turn back. The Brae needs to know where it stands.”

  An hour across the border, Ezra whispered, “We’re being watched. Again.”

  Scanning the high hills to the west, Griffon saw three figures. Even at a distance, one was noticeably larger than the others.

  “Shit!” Ezra growled.

  Looking ahead, Griffon watched as four riders emerged from behind an outcropping. Swords drawn, they bore down on the pair.

  “Meronian scouts… Come on!” Griffon urged, jerking the reins. Bailey spun mid stride.

  As Ezra did the same, his gelding stumbled.

  “Son of a bitch!” he shouted. The animal fought to correct himself, but his knees buckled instead. The armsman was flung from his saddle. His horse slid headlong into the dirt.

  Griffon circled back.

  “Go on, you stupid bastard!” Ezra barked.

  Ignoring him, the young Alexander thrust his hand at the armsman. Clasping his forearm, Ezra was vaulted onto Bailey’s back.

  “We’ll never outrun them!”

  Blocking out his words, Griffon aimed for the low ridges, and the rocky cliffs beyond.

  “They’re gaining!” Ezra shouted again.

  Shut up and let me think…

  Topping the grassy crest, Griffon spied a small gap in the distant rocky slopes. Glancing back, he saw the riders closer still. Leaning forward, he coaxed Bailey onward. The gelding snorted, pumping his legs as fast as they would go. The harsh shouts of the Meronians chased after them.

  A hint of wildflowers mixed with the scent rain not yet fallen, filling Griffon’s nose. He thought of his mother. And mornings atop the keep. And Elsie’s winks. Setting his jaw, he traveled his hand to his sword and gripped the hilt.

  They exploded past the mouth of the ravine. Shadows grew tall. Sheer cliffs climbed past them on either side. High above, a hawk screeched.

  Withdrawing his sword, Griffon prepared to step off the gelding mid gallop and face the riders alone. They were a couple dozen feet behind him and gaining fast. He reasoned that, if he landed it just right, he could use the momentum to pivot and drive his sword deep in the first rider. Beyond that, he’d no plan.

  For the Brae…

  Movement flashed overhead, catching Griffon’s eye. A guttural roar startled both he and Bailey. Looking up, he saw a spear sail past them. Piercing the chest of the lead rider, it propelled him from the saddle and pinned him to the dirt. He writhed on the ground, but it was fruitless.

  Pssht-Pssht!

  Two arrows whispered death as they whizzed by, connecting with the next man’s chest and neck. He clutched his throat and slid sideways off his horse.

  The remaining two riders yanked at their reins, spinning their horses around. A lone warrior stood in the gap at the mouth of the ravine.

  Meanwhile at the far end, the rocky slopes converged. There was only one way out, back from whence they’d came. Climbing off the horse, Griffon and Ezra readied their swords and watched the two sides size each other up.

  “Who do we root for?” Ezra asked.

  “Maybe they’ll kill each other both.”

  “No way. Look at the size of that bastard.”

  The man was a titan, nearly a foot taller than Griffon, who was larger than most. Furs stretched over his hulking frame. Scratches of blue paint, from the mountain woada that only grew in the high places, covered his cheeks and forehead. Each hand clenched a battle axe. Sunlight glinted off the steel.

  The wildman said nothing. Instead, he curled his lip like a dog baring its teeth.

  “Yah!” The first rider sprang forward at a full gallop. Close behind raced the second.

  Rearing back, the titan launched an axe. It sailed through the air, end over end, until it sunk the Meronian’s breastplate in on itself. Buried to the haft, crimson oozed out from around it. Dead and not yet knowing it, the man grew pale and swooned in the saddle.

  In a low arc, the second rider swung his longsword at the broad target. The titan was surprisingly nimble, though, and side-stepped the blade. As he did, he backhanded his other axe across the rider’s thigh, laying it open to white bone. Meat peeled back from the wound and wept red. The man wailed and fell face first in the dirt.

  With a leather strap, the titan bound the wound just enough to salvage the man’s mortality. Kicking him over on his back, he snarled, “You, go back to your weak tribe of lowlanders. Tell that fiend, that foul bastard that leads you, that Kren, son of Kren, son of Ulf - the great warrior king that ruled all the tribes under a single banner, will not let him poison this land!”

  Th
e man lay in silent shock. Color drained from his face with every throb of the wound.

  “Tell him!” Kren roared. The veins in his neck swelled. Dry white spittle foamed on his lip.

  Wobbling to his feet, the man limped after his horse, dragging his leg and leaving a trail of blood. With every step he whimpered. To the side, a buzzard took notice of the scene. Lowering one wing, he allowed the currents to draw him closer.

  Disgusted, Kren watched the wounded man stagger off. He mumbled to himself and spat. In a quick motion, he heaved his remaining axe. It connected squarely with the Meronian’s back, driving the man too his knees. With a weak breath, he slumped forward in the grass.

  “You’re not a worthy messenger for an Uhnan’akk…” the wildman whispered, “I’ll tell the witch myself...”

  Unarmed, he turned and faced Griffon. Cocking his head to the side, Kren stretched his jaw and studied him.

  “I think we’re in trouble,” whispered Ezra.

  “I’m not so sure...”

  The titan approached. Griffon cut an eye to the cliffs overhead. A pair of painted warriors watched them, spears ready enough.

  Kren stopped short. Gray eyes studied them. Long snowy hair, a product of Uhnan’akk genes rather than age, was pulled tight into a thick braid that hung to the middle of his neck.

  Pointing at Griffon, the wildman said, “You are the son… the son of the mountain hold.”

  Griffon nodded.

  “I have watched you for three seasons now… Come with me.”

  * * * * *

  Kren led them along a narrow game trail that wound up a steep ridge, switching back on itself as the mountains demanded. The two painted warriors followed behind Griffon and Ezra, who had long since shrugged out of their heavy ringmail, leaving it for rust at the base of the slopes. No one spoke.

  “Where are we going?” Ezra asked after some time.

  “No words,” reminded Kren. “My elder would speak to you first. It is the way.”

  Gnarled trees and scrub brush fought through the rocks. Crags and bluffs and high places rose up around them, before plunging over deep cliffs and into distant valleys. The sweet-sour fragrance of the woada came and went, bearing witness to how far they’d ascended.

  Labored from the steep slopes, Griffon focused on his breathing. The wildmen seemed unfazed, however. Life in the high places made for hardened warriors. He recalled the tales of the Uhnan’akk he’d marveled at as a child. Among them, he thought of the story of a painted warrior that’d ran for three days straight, delivering news of an approaching war band. Here with them, he reasoned it possible.

  “May we talk between ourselves?” Griffon asked.

  “Are you not free men in these hills?” Kren replied.

  “Then we can leave?”

  Kren chuckled. “You are not that free, lowlander. Not yet. But I like your words.”

  Turning, Griffon whispered to Ezra. “Have you ever been this high?”

  “Never,” he replied.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Ezra.

  Motioning, Griffon said, “That smoke, that’s their camp. Meronia.”

  “They’re close. Probably at the farm...”

  We should be returning to the Brae with this news.

  Clearing his throat, Griffon said to Kren, “We owe our lord a report of the advancing army.”

  “And report you will, but first, the mountain summons you.”

  “The mountain?”

  The mountain,” Kren replied casually, “the mountain, its children, its spirits... It means to have words with you.”

  To the painted titan his words were obvious, but to Griffon, it was a riddle.

  Ducking low and turning sideways, Kren squeezed through a narrow fissure. The rough stone walls scraped at Griffon’s coat. An icy gust rushed through the passage. The captive pair shivered. Just beyond the gap, a wooden gate and palisade wall appeared.

  Kren led them through the unmanned gate. A small recess in the mountain opened up before them. Cliffs loomed high to the north and west. An A-frame hall was in the center, rough-hewn, but sturdy. It appeared ages old, but in good shape. An array of animal-skin tents, large but cartable, surrounded it. Hot coals glowed under several iron cookpots. The faint aroma of stewed meat wisped on the wind. Famished, Griffon’s mouth watered.

  “This is our wintering place,” Kren announced. “The cold winds came early this year, and so did we.”

  Passing through the camp, Griffon saw several young children sparring with wooden swords, and larger ones with steel. A man, aged and weathered but still thick-armed and barrel-chested, corrected them as they required it.

  Tent flaps peeled back as the curious looked on. Their eyes followed the strangers through the camp, as if they were some oddity from a far-away place. Griffon flashed a smile at a young boy. The child bared his teeth and snarled, before being pulled back inside by his mother.

  “You are strange to them,” Kren said, chuckling.

  “I feel like a stranger in my own land,” Griffon replied.

  “Your lands end where the hoar grass does,” Kren said, “never forget that.” Glancing back, he continued, “Jorok, Ulriich, you may leave us.”

  The two warriors nodded and departed.

  Beyond the hall, on the north cliff, a cavern mouth gaped open. Smoke wafted out. Flames, fueled by animal fats, held back the dark. Not far inside, a short tunnel peeled off the main passage, terminating at a round room. Torchlight danced on the walls. Warm air flushed Griffon’s face red. Skins lined the floor.

  Two men sat on hand-hewn stone seats. They were older, but not elderly. Alabaster hair hung loose past their shoulders. White beards crowded out their faces. Without regard, they slurped stew from their bowls, staining their mustaches brown.

  “Father,” Kren said, “these are the lowlanders from the south.”

  Both looked up. The larger one spoke, “Come, sit.”

  Griffon and Ezra complied. Kren the Younger joined them.

  “Are you hungry?” the man asked.

  “We are, indeed,” said Griffon.

  “Cantor,” the old man said to the other, “bring them food.”

  Nodding, Cantor exited the room.

  Turning back, the old man said, “I am Kren Redstorm, son of Ulf, the first of his name, chief of the Uhnan’akk.”

  “This is Ezra,” Griffon said, “and I am-“

  “Eleksandr,” the chief interjected, “son of Baron, son of Arne.”

  Taken aback, Griffon stiffened, but said nothing.

  Kren the Elder chuckled. “Are you surprised? Of course we know who dwells at the foot of our hills. And did you not know me?”

  Apprehensively, Griffon shook his head, unsure of his response.

  A grin crept across young Kren’s face. His father mused aloud, “I do not fault you. It is easier to look down than it is to look up.”

  Balancing three bowls, Cantor returned. He handed Kren the Younger the first bowl.

  Kren cupped it and turned it up. “Thank you, Cantor,” he replied.

  Griffon and Ezra did the same. The tribesmen watched as the visitors slurped the stew. It was thick, full of spices new to Griffon’s palate, and heavy with chunks of gamey meat. Upon downing it, Griffon said, “It’s excellent.”

  The chief smiled. Cantor excused himself from the room.

  “If I may,” Griffon said, “why are we here?”

  “Because,” said the chief, “a vile thing is moving your way and you know not what it is.”

  “An army, I’ve seen it.”

  “You’ve seen nothing, Eleksandr.”

  “Then tell me. What don’t I know?”

  “I cannot tell you, for I myself do not fully know, but the mountain can show you. It has told me it will. I have seen you in my own visions. You will drink the blood, and what will be revealed, will be revealed. And what will be held b
ack, will be. It is not for us to know.”

  “The mountain?” Griffon was reminded of Kren’s words earlier.

  The chief snorted. “It disappoints me you know nothing of this place. But I am not surprised. Tomorrow, Kren will show you the way.”

  “Tomorrow? We have to get back,” Griffon retorted. “My father-“

  “Your father is best served by your being here. And soon enough, you will go. But until then, you are our guest. Now, I will retire for a time.” Standing, the elder Kren left them.

  Slurping his stew, Kren the Younger planted a splayed hand on Griffon’s back, jarring him. “Relax, Eleksandr. The mountain will show you. But tonight, we must dance. And it will see us, and it will be pleased.”

  * * * * *

  Outside, their bellies warm from the stew, the bite of the winds was a little less harsh. Still, Griffon pulled his coat around his waist.

  “Come,” Kren said.

  Dusk had settled in. From the mountaintop winter refuge of the Uhnan’akk, Griffon gazed skyward. The stars seemed to blink brighter, and the moon’s glow, less dull. Somewhere down below, wolves howled.

  “You hear them? They seek the mountain’s wisdom, too.”

  Near the hall’s entrance a large fire blazed. Filtering out of their tents, the Uhnan’akk encircled it. Kren the Younger took a seat on the stone floor. Griffon and Ezra joined him.

  A low chant rose up from the crowd. Someone rattled rocks in a hollowed gourd. A few men stepped forward and began to dance around the fire.

  Griffon stared with wide eyes, unsure of what might transpire next. Kren eyed him and laughed. Grabbing a skin from Joroch, the titan gulped down some wine before handing it to the lowlander.

  Griffon took the skin and managed a meager sip. Kren tipped it up mid drink, choking Griffon and spilling wine everywhere.

  The wildman laughed from deep within his belly. “Unlax, lowlander! The mountain is watching!” And with that, he stood and melded into the crowd.

  Chapter 8

  Rowan Vos

  City of Ashmor

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Disoriented, Rowan awoke and instinctively reached for the damp rag on the bedside table. Wiping his brow, he exhaled. The cold sweats were becoming a normal part of sleep.