Blood and Iron 3

by Eli Steele

“Does the ground here ever tremble?” asked Eldrick.

  “Not for as long as I can remember.”

  “They’re all centered around the north gate…” the spy mused aloud, not sure what that might mean, if anything.

  “I’m confused,” said the young Alexander.

  “It’s probably nothing,” answered D’Eldar. “I’m in need of a distraction from Reyland, and this is perhaps me doing just that. But if something should come of it, I’ll seek you and Lord Baron as soon as I know more.” Turning to Ezra, he added, “We’ll need several mauls, and a few men that can guard their tongues. This is not something that the king’s men need hear of.”

  “I know just the ones,” the armsman replied.

  “Good, it’s settled, tomorrow night then.”

  Chapter 30

  Rowan Vos

  The Cormorant

  The Sea of Shields

  Rowan opened his eyes. The flame snuffed out like two fingers had pinched it. A ribbon of smoke rolled off the wick, leaving a faint smell of beeswax tinged with tallow.

  His mouth dropped. Eyes wide, he laughed.

  I can’t believe it...

  Leaning back, he let out a deep sigh.

  Not bad for half a day’s work... Not great, but not bad either...

  Sliding Unforged back in its sheath, he left the darkness of the hold.

  Above deck, it was as if two worlds had collided overhead. Off the bow, tufts of white set against a cobalt canvas dipped into a deeper blue still. Turning around, a smoking mountain, gray on black with flashes of light as purple as a sunset, growled as it crawled across the sky. Rowan looked up to find the main replaced by the smaller storm sail. Scanning the horizon, he found no shoreline and had no bearing on their direction.

  Searching the Cormorant, he found Kassina at the helm with Howland.

  “That looks like a hell of a storm,” he said, approaching.

  “It’s coming in from the northeast,” Sutton replied, “straight from Ashmor. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was from Frost himself.”

  Rowan chuckled, before realizing he wasn’t sure if the captain was serious. “Should we be worried?”

  “The day you quit worrying is the day you step foot on the dock and never look back. Caution keeps a ship afloat. We couldn’t outrun it, so I’ve taken us farther out to sea than I’d like, but it’s safer than getting washed into the shoals.”

  A gust swept across the boat, tipping Sutton’s hat forward. With a quick hand, he slapped it back on his head.

  “Can’t lose that,” Rowan said with a grin.

  “A captain, without his hat?” She winked.

  “The devils in the deep take you both,” Sutton quipped. “The sun’s a bitter bitch when you’re beneath her all day.”

  Rowan stretched, grimacing while he rubbed his shoulder.

  “Is Stitch watching that?” Sutton asked.

  “Every morning I bathe in saltwater and he wraps it in a poultice.”

  “Good, we don’t need it corrupting out here.”

  Their conversation lulled. Rowan watched the crew bustle about the deck, battening and fastening as they went. “Tell me about the ballista on the bow of the ship.”

  “Not once used in anger,” Howland replied, “but it’s there if we need it.”

  After several long gales, Sutton spoke with a voice stained of apprehension. “I have a question to ask, m’lord. And should you choose not to answer it, I would take no offense. But, my curiosity...” he shrugged, “Tis the same reason I am on these seas, I suppose.”

  “Ask it then.”

  The captain thought for a second, before replying. “How did you kill a sin?”

  “A sin?”

  “When you showed me the medallion, at first I thought you were one yourself, but that passed as quick as a sailfish. And then I reasoned you were mages, friends of Frosts. Are you?” he said with a pause, glancing at them both. “Mages?”

  “No,” said Kassina, cutting an eye at Rowan.

  “Then I ask again, how did you kill a sin?”

  “What in the Four Kingdoms is a sin?” Rowan asked.

  Howland chuckled. “The medallion, the symbol of the Undying Sins of Thim. An assassin…”

  “A Sin of Thim... Dorul?” Rowan mused aloud.

  Sutton snorted. “Ok, how did you get the medallion?”

  “We killed an assassin,” Kassina said.

  “Killed several,” Rowan added, “and watched quite a few more die.”

  “The Undying? Are you sure?” the captain asked with narrow eyes.

  She flashed the token. “They were the same as the one with this.”

  Sutton whistled. “The death of a single sin is a rare thing. If that many have fallen in Ashmor, then there are powerful magics at work in the city. In truth, I am glad we are gone.”

  “How powerful?” asked Rowan.

  “More so than Thatcher Frost,” Howland replied.

  “As strong as seven arch mages?” Kassina asked.

  The captain shrugged. “I know little of magery, and even less of arch magery. But I have heard the stories of the Sin, some of which I know is true. If it is as you say, then they were weakened somehow... But what does this have to do with you? Why are you, foolishly I might add, killing the Undying?”

  “Because they mean to kill us,” replied Kassina. “So we will sail to Thim Dorul and cut off the head of this Sin of Thim.”

  A gust carried the captain’s laughter out to sea. “You know nothing of what you say. There is no head! “

  “What do you mean?” asked Kassina. “Every guild, every fief, every country, everything has a leader.”

  “The Undying Assassins have a hundred leaders. They are as wide as the world. Their agents are in every royal court and senate, lying in wait or advancing their goals. And their goals are but two things, the peddling of death and fulfilling of contracts.”

  Kassina eyed Rowan. His chest had tightened, but his face was unmoved.

  The wall of black was nigh over them now. Lightning popped, followed on its heels by the low growl of thunder.

  “We should ready ourselves,” said Sutton.

  “I have a question before we do,” said Rowan.

  “With haste, m’lord.”

  “Why would an assassin so secretive and without equal carry a token that would identify him?”

  “Because they are the Undying, m’lord. Should a sin be taken by the governors or the kings of certain lands, and threatened with death or dungeon, he need only produce the medallion. A vizier or senator, or perhaps a king himself, as an agent of the Sin, will see that the man is released. Should absolute secrecy be paramount, or should there be no agents in a land, they simply need not carry it.”

  “So there are agents in Ashmor, and perhaps even Avendor?”

  “It would seem so,” replied Howland. Grasping his hat, he stuffed it in his coat before a harsh wind carried it away.

  Waves crashed against the lady Cormorant, rolling her to one side and then the other. Rowan shuffled his feet, searching for stable footing.

  “The bawd’s upon us,” the captain said, “You should find your places. Though it may be wiser to be in the hold, getting cast about with all the cargo, I’ve never thought one should ride out their maiden storm below deck. And from the looks of it, this should be one to behold.”

  “What will you do?” Kassina asked.

  “I will weather her with my lady,” Sutton said, slapping the tiller, “right here.”

  “Then I’m with you.”

  “The crew could use a brave soul on the main deck,” Howland said to the thief.

  Rowan nodded. “That’s where I’ll be.”

  As he climbed down the helm’s ladder, he heard the captain say to Kassina over the winds, “See these straps? Should the storm grow too strong, fasten yourself to the ship. It would do the Cormorant no service to survive the storm but lose her captains. But should she sink, be quick to loose yourself. We lo
ve our lady, but we don’t mean to go down with her...”

  “That won’t happen, right?”

  “I should hope not…”

  The sea frothed and churned around them. Once blue, the water was black with white foam. Waves like walls approached, each higher than the last. A cold bite returned to the air, reminding Rowan of Ashmor. Lightning flashed, followed by thunder’s menace. The gray haze of approaching rains neared.

  Howling as it swirled the ship, a gust tore at Rowan’s coat. He felt the bow turn towards the waves. As the deck pitched up, his stomach knotted. Crewmen brushed past him as the front of the ship peaked, before turning down into the trough. A row of casks broke free and tumbled towards him. Diving to the side, he grasped onto the rails so that he was not heaved from the deck.

  “Here!” a deckhand said, thrusting an armful of rope at Rowan. “Tie off those casks!”

  Sideways rain pattered the thief’s face. Taking the coils, he nodded without saying a word and focused on his charge. Sliding the barrels across the deck, he corralled them in a corner, before pulling the rope taut and fashioning a crude knot. As the deck heaved skyward again, he looped the line around a support and finished with a hitch.

  Stretching his arms between two posts, he wedged himself against the rail and gasped in a breath for the ride down. Cold and wet and afraid, he surveyed the scene around him. Over the howl of the winds and the drumming of the rains, men rushed about, doing without speaking. Each knew their own role and that of the others. As ropes loosened, or knots gave, or cargo broke free, the crew worked together to keep the Cormorant intact.

  Bottoming out in the trough, a second wave crashed over rails from the side, inundating the deck. As it receded, it took with it all that was loose. Sea spray burned Rowan’s eyes and the back of his throat. He spat salt and wrapped his arms around a post to keep from being drawn out with the water.

  Looking up to the helm, he saw Kassina and the captain strapped with the leathers and slaving to keep the tiller on course. Matted hair clung to their faces. Intensity and dread gripped them both.

  A shout for help rose up over the tempest. Looking out, Rowan saw arms clinging to the outside of the railing. The man’s grip loosened as the Cormorant climbed the waves anew.

  Shit, he’ll never make it through the trough…

  With the rope in hand, the thief teetered across the slick deck like he was walking a cable between the roofs of the Market District. At the mast, he looped the line around and cinched it, checking it twice for hold. With the other end, he fastened it around his waist like a child’s tether toy. “Hold on!” he shouted, starting towards the rail. Overhead, the storm sail whipped feverishly, barking as it did.

  A roll of the deck took Rowan’s feet out from under him. Landing face first, a shock of pain radiated out from his nose. His eyes watered and burned and his mouth filled with wet copper. Scrambling up on his hands and knees, he spat blood and crawled towards the man.

  Down they toppled towards the foaming trough. Throwing his arms over the rail, Rowan grabbed the young sailor by the back of his pants and heaved him back onto the deck. “Come on!” the thief shouted as they clawed themselves back to the center of the ship.

  A heavy wall of water fell on top of them, flattening the thief against the timbers. Grabbing the sailor’s leg, Rowan held him until surge emptied back into the sea.

  “Thank you, m’lord!” he shouted, voice cracking, before racing across the deck.

  Lightning flashed, revealing terror-filled faces and waves half again as high as the Cormorant. At the helm, Kassina and Sutton still fought for the lives of the lady and her men. Rowan pressed himself against the mast and tightened the slack in the line, securing himself where he stood. There was nothing left to do but suck in air and ride out the storm. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his fingers around the pommel of Unforged, and sought a place distant from the Sea of Shields.

  Chapter 31

  Byron Dhane

  Meronian Encampment

  Outside of Bearbrook

  Kingdom of Meronia

  Byron extended his hands over the fire to rub them together, before realizing there was only the one. The stump ached again. It always ached. Embarrassed, he sighed and turned away. As he left, he heard the soldiers whisper and chuckle to themselves. His face flushed red. He wanted to spin around and draw steel on the man that made the jape, whatever it was, but it would solve nothing.

  A week ago I could’ve ended any man in this camp in single combat without so much as labored breaths. But now...

  Knots pulled at his scalp as he ran a gloved hand through his long black hair. Biting a finger, he pulled off the gauntlet and scratched his unkempt beard with dirty nails. Hazel eyes scanned the camp that had sprawled outward overnight. A thousand swords and bows, trained men, had arrived from Vallon and Nuram only yesterday. And soon, House Volf would join them.

  They were a hard house that had birthed conquering lords and yeoman warriors in times past. Nothing in Meronia lay farther north than the lands of Volf. But beyond them were the true northman that called home the frigid steppes and mountain holds of Kraghammer and Black Hearth and Whitewatch, and cared little for the concerns of the low kingdoms.

  “Sir,” Havar called out, breathless.

  Turning, Byron pulled the glove from his mouth and met him with a forced smile.

  “Would you walk with me? There’s something I would show you.” the marshal said.

  Nodding, the commander held out the gauntlet and said with a sigh, “As you wish. Here, help me with this...”

  At the northern reaches of the camp was the southern gate of Bearbrook, barred for use by any but the army of Meronia, which was of little inconvenience since nothing lay beyond save for Beyorn. Weathered and rarely closed, the gates sagged at the hinges.

  Streets of hard packed dirt wound through the town without purpose or direction. Stones mined from the Braeridge veins that permeated the rich soil comprised only the wealthiest homes. The remainder were wattle and daub with thatched roofs.

  “This place stinks of shit and slaughterhouses, Havar. This errand had better be for good reason.”

  The marshal chuckled, but did not reply.

  In every corner and open space, merchants crowded under rickety stalls, hawking local wares to the influx of customers. Ale and wine and fresh-baked bread were in high demand, but also tinctures of varying regard for everything from rotfoot to whore scratch. Young soldiers, swindleds-in-waiting, perused the shops and carts.

  “They sard at the brothel and get sarded on the street,” Havar remarked.

  Byron chuckled.

  Up ahead, music spilled out of a tavern, along with a group of men from Vallon. Raucous and unsteady, they stumbled back to the camp.

  Dhane felt his face flush. He started towards them, but the marshal caught him by the shoulder.

  “Let ‘em drink, my lord, for they could be feeding the vultures in the week.”

  The commander sighed, his own breath soured with too much wine.

  Past a cedar-planked chapel, a small stone building leaned out from around a bend in the road. Gray smoke rolled out of its chimney, before dissipating into the chill air. The steady cadence of iron on iron chinked louder as they drew nearer.

  Havar ignored the front door, guiding them to the back of the shop instead. Under a lean-to roof, two men hunched over their stations. One wore a heavy leather apron and smith’s gloves. His chest was wide and his bald head shone from the glow of a nearby fire.

  Looking up, the smith laid his file on the table and wiped his brow. The second man continued with his task. “M’lord,” he said to Havar, before adding. “Is this him?”

  The marshal nodded.

  “It’s my honor, then. Name’s Gorv.”

  “Show us what you have,” Havar said.

  Reaching behind him, the smith cautioned, “She’s not quite ready, but...” Turning back around, he presented the weapon.

  Byron studied
it.

  “Tell us about it,” Havar said.

  “Of course. Any smith worth his anvil is known for something, and I’m known for my morningstars. I’ve made them in all sizes, but this...” he said, handing it to the commander, “is my favorite. I call it a daystar.”

  It felt good in Byron’s hand, light and balanced, but solid at the head.

  Gorv continued, “It’s all forged as one, so there are no seams to fracture. And the shaft is hollow, making it light, but it is strong m’lord. It can match the strike of any blade.

  I set it in a sword’s hilt, so it feels good in the hands. Swing it, tell me what you think.”

  It was as if his arm extended past his fingers. Momentum carried the weapon forward as far as Byron willed it, but it drew back with ease, too. A smile crept across the commander’s face, though he tried to mask it. “It’s perfect,” he conceded.

  Gorv grinned. “My daystars are made for the off-hand, so it’s a natural choice for your… circumstances. We still need to wrap the grip with leather, and file back the spikes some – we don’t need it getting caught in some poor bastard’s ring mail.”

  “No, we don’t,” Byron said, still smiling. It was the first time his lips had curled up since...

  Since I let down my guard against the lordling...

  “What else do you have for us?” Havar asked.

  The second man handed over the heater shield to Gorv. Flipping it over, the smith said, “It is but a simple thing, but we are proud of it.” Positioning it for Byron, he continued. “Slip your stub into the leather boot, tighten the buckle, and carry it as you would any other.”

  Havar fastened it against the commander’s arm. Stepping back, Byron raised the shield and readied the daystar. A snorting laugh snuck through his teeth. “When will they be ready?”

  “Soon m’lord,” Gorv said. “Give me two days’ time. Oh, what is your sigil?”

  “House Dhane, the torch held by the iron fist. Sable on cream.”

  “Forgive me, lord,” the smith said, taken aback. “I did not know. You are Byron Dhane, are you not?”

  He nodded.

  “I knew you were a noble, but... Well, it is my honor to do this for you.”