Blood and Iron 3

by Eli Steele

  “It is my honor to have you do it, Gorv.”

  “We Carry the Light, those are your house words, are they not?”

  “That they are.”

  The smith smiled. “Very well, two days,” he said, receiving back the star and shield.

  “I’ll be waiting. We should leave you to your work, then.” Turning, he and Havar left. “You have outdone yourself,” he added after a time as they walked the dusty streets of Bearbrook. “I did not expect this.”

  “It was my duty, sir. Besides, we need a leader with confidence, and I think this will help you find that again.”

  The words cut Byron both ways. Of course they see it, tis all I think of …

  Back in the camp, banners of House Volf, a greatsword through a wolf’s skull – both dark blue – set against a field of faint gray, whipped in the wind. Weston Volf stepped down from his destrier and met the pair. He was of average height, but had a barrel-chest and arms like braewood trunks. Wavy brown hair flitted in the breeze. Though his beard was trimmed short, his mustache glistened with lard, and curled up at the tips. From his belt hung the heavy broadsword called Bladesplitter.

  “Dhane,” he said, “you look like shit. Have you traded ale for bathing, my lord?”

  “I’ve had better weeks, Wes,” Byron replied, embracing the man.

  “I’m Havar,” he said, stretching out a hand. “I marshal a cohort of spears.”

  “The lowborns and untrained…” Volf muttered, clasping Havar’s forearm. “You have much work ahead of you. My friends call me The Bear, so you may do the same.” Looking down, Weston noticed the stub. “You’re unhanded, what happened?”

  Byron searched for words, but he knew not what to say. After an awkward quiet, he said, “It was my own doing.”

  Volf placed a hand on his shoulder. “A sword arm is a terrible loss…”

  Sympathy was a foreign emotion to Dhane. Anger burned in his chest, tightening it and shallowing his breaths. Turning away, he closed his eyes and let out a silent sigh. “We should inspect the line.”

  “Indeed,” said The Bear.

  At the edge of the camp, the three surveyed progress. On their side of the crest of the third hill, just as Byron had envisioned, rows of spikes and hellhorses, crossed spears set through a timber maybe three feet off the ground, aimed forward. In the valley, a trench snaked along with the contours of the land.

  To the side, companies of men rehearsed shield walls and spear lines. Others still crossed swords or trained with bows.

  Byron pointed with his left. “We’ll place our front line ahead of the spikes to draw the charge. As they near, we’ll break and fall back, luring them to us. When they crest the hill it’ll be too late – the spikes’ll be upon them. To see their knights fall will be a heavy blow for their men and a windfall for ours.”

  “Whose plan was this?” asked The Bear.

  “My own,” replied the commander.

  “You may have the one hand, but you’ve all your wits. I like it.”

  Dhane accepted the jape and managed a smile.

  “Will your lowborns be ready?” Volf asked.

  “As best they can be,” replied Havar. “But to stand down heavy cavalry is a fearsome thing. Still, I believe it could work.”

  “Run them through the drills until they dream of it at night,” Byron said.

  “That I will, sir,” said the marshal.

  For a time they looked out on the field in silence, watching the knee-high grass lay flat with the gusts, and the soldiers ready themselves, and the horses graze. Voices were restless and eager. Dhane wondered if those voices would sound the same after their first taste of battle. He supposed not.

  “Have the patrols spotted any activity beyond the camp?” The commander asked, interrupting the silence.

  “No, my lord,” replied Havar. “There’ve been no signs of scouts from Beyorn.

  “Good.”

  “Dhane,” Weston said, “might I have a word with you… alone?”

  “Of course. Havar, would you excuse us?”

  The marshal nodded, departing for a company of spears in training.

  When they were alone, Volf said, “I have heard you will not lead this army for long. Is this true?”

  “What? Who told you this?”

  “Rumors… It is said the mage plans for another,” The Bear spat. “Perhaps it is nothing, but if it is so, it changes much, for I may not follow the other man.”

  “This is King Bathild’s army, and I am his commander. There will be no other, you have my word.”

  Weston nodded, satisfied. “As it should be.”

  * * * * *

  Byron seethed. The wind felt even colder on his hot face. Around him, the bustle of Bearbrook was a blur. Adrenaline coursed through his body, souring his mouth and racing his heart.

  Too good for a tent, you took a place in town… Or did you hide here so you might plot against me?

  Up ahead, the stone house that was Lothe’s during his stay at Bearbrook came into view. Dhane slid his dagger from its sheath and kicked the door in. Hinges creaked in protest.

  Dozing in a chair by the hearth, the mage jerked his head up. Wide eyes searched the shadows for the source of the sound. The commander was quick, circling in from the side. Two strides away, he lunged forward and brought the blade’s tip to rest on the old man’s throat.

  “Easy, fool,” the mage rasped.

  “You mean to replace me? Who do you think you are?”

  With a shout, the dagger flung across the room, slamming into the wall before falling to the floor.

  Lothe stood. As he did, a shadow rose up around him, sucking the air out of the room. Byron wheezed, but his lungs were left wanting. His hand trembled and his head swooned.

  “Heel,” the old man commanded.

  In the next moment, the commander was on the floor, unsure if his actions were even his own.

  “Don’t move…”

  Byron’s muscle grew rigid, like quickened mortar. His field of vision narrowed and blurred.

  Lothe withdrew the shadows back in on themselves. As he did, Dhane gasped, sucking in a full breath like he’d just surfaced from a deep dive into an icy lake.

  “There is another…” the mage said.

  “These men will neve-“ the commander’s muscles tightened to the point of sharp pain. Gritting his teeth, his words ceased. A whimper escaped him.

  “There is another,” the old man repeated, “but a leader of legions he is not. He will be a weapon that you wield, and men will follow him into battle, not out of love, but fear.”

  “I did not know…”

  “Nor did you ask… Lothe released his grip on Byron. “Leave this place, and do not ever return. And should you ever try me again, I will devour you...” His voice was a low growl, like a thing unnatural.

  Chapter 32

  Eldrick D’Eldar

  Braewood Keep

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Mace’s voice echoed through the courtyard like it was a coliseum. “Five hundred men?” he snapped. “All you could muster from Ashmor was five hundred men?”

  Burke started to speak, but Griffon cut him off. “He mustered a half a legion because that was his charge. Archers for the wall, and mouths we could feed on short notice.”

  “What foolish bastard-“

  Eldrick interrupted Reyland. “Baron Alexander, lord of this keep. And you would do well to remember it. Furthermore, what foolish bastard sent no word of his intentions so that we might prepare as such?”

  The giant spat. “So be it. You may keep fifty, I will take the rest.”

  “Fifty barely held the Brae last time,” Griffon countered. “And we have no more forests to burn!”

  Smug faced and silent, the marshals stood back and watched the exchange. Armsmen peered down from the wall, unsure if they should stay at their posts or draw swords.

  Mace scowled at the young Alexander.

  Eldrick stepped in between the
men. “Leave us a hundred and a half. That would afford us time to reinforce in the event you’re outmaneuvered.”

  Reyland scoffed. “Fifty. The rest are for the king’s army.” With that, he left.

  Griffon watched him leave, staring daggers at his back. “I despise that man.”

  “He may be a horse’s ass,” said Eldrick, “but he’s our horse’s ass. I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of his shield wall.”

  “I hope you’re right, else we’re in trouble.”

  To the north, an ensemble of axes and saws a thousand strong harmonized, while war horses dragged charred logs from the forest pass.

  Climbing atop the gatehouse, Eldrick gazed through the looking glass. Shaking his head, he stepped back.

  “They’re clearing a path right to our gate,” Ezra said.

  “Indeed.”

  “The men of Beyorn will be exhausted by the time they get to Bearbrook, and our scouts report more Meronian swords arrive by the day.”

  He was right. D’Eldar nodded in agreement.

  “I fear for the Brae, my lord.”

  And though he wouldn’t admit it, so did Eldrick.

  * * * * *

  Clouds crowded out the moon and stars, darkening the Barbeau Pass. Winds howled over the high crags and swept down into the bottom. The Kal’Dean was cold to his core. He drew the torch near, until black smoke curled around his face, rimming his nose with soot.

  “I feel like we’re robbing a grave,” Ezra said.

  Perhaps we are...

  Lann arrived along the wall from the direction of the south gate. “The last of Reyland’s men are in the camp and the fires are already starting to die. They’re sapped from clearing the road north all day.”

  “Alright then, let’s get to work,” Eldrick said.

  Burke and Bo hesitated with the mauls. The iron heads chipped at the stones, echoing through the courtyard and across the north killing field.

  “Put your asses into it,” he said. “It’s better if we’re loud and brief, than loud and prolonged.”

  Looking at each other, the pair raised their hammers high and brought them down on either side of the fist-sized hole in the top of the wall. Fractures spidered out, and with the next impact, the fist was as big around as a head, and then a man.

  “Easy,” Eldrick said, kneeling. Torchlight revealed the hollow core, deep as the wall was high. Sand sloped back on either side at its natural angle of repose. “You could ride a destrier through there,” he said, before adding, “that’s enough for now.”

  Ezra shrugged a coil of rope from around his shoulder and lowered a length through the hole. Handing off his torch to Bo, the spy descended through the gape in the wall.

  The void was black unending. At times, Eldrick wasn’t certain if his eyes were even open. It was cold in the wall but at least there was no wind. At the bottom, he gave the rope a tug and stepped back. A glowing basket dropped into the chamber on a second rope.

  Crouching, the spy retrieved his sword belt, pack, a maul, and the torch. Standing, he led with the torch and examined the space. It was much like a cave, save for the uniformity of the floor and walls. The sounds of his movement were magnified as they bounced about and back in on themselves. A half dozen strides to the west, he found himself at the toe of a sand and gravel slope.

  Dead end...

  Turning back, he followed the opposite wall to the same results. Through the center he swept, looking for anything of note.

  Nothing...

  Defeated, Eldrick sat on the floor. “It’s like it all just disappeared,” he whispered to himself.

  And then he saw it.

  A faint fissure snaked along the floor from one end to the other. Even while sitting, it was hard to see, much less standing in the shadowy darkness.

  Laying the torch on the floor, he raised the maul overhead and brought it down hard with all the force he could muster. Stone shards exploded from the point of impact, pattering the floor and walls. His ears rang from the deafening sound and a dozen echoes. Grimacing, he did it again. On the third strike, the ground buckled, yawning inward without warning. Eldrick rolled to the side, but it was too late. He dropped nearly a dozen feet, landing hard on a heap of rubble.

  “Ohh…” he growled, writhing in pain.

  “Everything alright in there?” Ezra called down.

  “No, you ass... I think I broke a rib...”

  “Should we come down?”

  “Damn it…” he groaned as he checked himself over, before shouting up, “I’m alright. Cover the hole, but keep an eye on it. If I need out, you’ll hear me.”

  Somewhere high above, he heard the stacking of stones atop the wall.

  Sealed in...

  Grabbing the still-burning torch, he picked through the rubble and found the maul. He laid it across his shoulder, balancing it with his hand, before turning about and taking in the lower level.

  It was a cave, natural and unhewn it seemed, from its uneven surfaces and unpredictable meanderings. Crisp, dry air met his nose, and a thick layer of sand and gravel was underneath his feet. The room was twice again larger than the hollowed wall section, with only one fissure leading out.

  The walls were gray, with veins of brown and red and yellow. Eldrick alternated between the one on his left and right, searching them with his torchlight for scrawls or paint or other signs of men long dead.

  Nothing...

  It was a cave, nothing more. A waste of his time better spent preparing the Brae for the consequences of Reyland’s hubris. And at the end of the cavern, a dead end stared back at him.

  A fool’s errand...

  Walking to the very end, Eldrick rested his forehead against the rock. He hadn’t known what he’d find, but he’d believed it would at least be something.

  Perhaps we could use it as a grain vault...

  The spy chuckled in defeat, running his hand across the smooth gray wall. Turning around, he slid down to the floor.

  In his pack was a hunk of roasted boar and some bread. He hollowed out the loaf, pressed in the pork, and rummaged about for a skin while the bitter herbs and drippings infused with the risen flour.

  It was a near-perfect combination, made better by a drag of the light summer wine, with hints of cherry and tobacco and mint, followed by the faintest aftertaste of the sand apple. A green scallion stuffed in the loaf was the only element lacking. Grinning, D’Eldar whispered to himself, “Alone in the bowels of the Braeridge Mountains, deep beneath the Barbeau Pass, and this is better than a feast in Lord Baron’s great hall with Reyland Mace. Company does truly make the meal.”

  Pulling out a pouch of almond-pitted dates, a luxury in Beyorn and one that reminded him of home, the spy thought of the Kal’Deas. A loose republic of city-states and territories, it was wholly different than the lands of the north. Sandy and windswept, with olive groves and wild figs and loquats that yielded liquors as sweet as amaretto, it was a place of vibrant greens and harsh browns, steep crags and broad plateaus but also endless sand plains and unforgiving deserts.

  But it was also a place without allies save their own loose confederation. Straddling east and west, Kal’Deans fused a culture that was rejected by all. Forever the others, Eldrick found it ironic that they were the bulwark against everything that lay beyond the known world.

  And if the kings of the west knew, much less cared, what was rising, they’d send a hundred legions through Thim Dorul and on to Kaal-Haazor…

  Satiated, he stood and made his way down the corridor towards the chamber below the wall.

  Wait…

  The spy stopped mid-stride and whirled around, returning to the wall. Letting the maul drop, he leaned in with the torch and ran his hand across the surface once more. It smooth – too smooth – and was solid gray, lacking the red and brown and yellow veins of the other walls.

  “It’s impressive work,” he whispered, “it looks so real…”

  Kneeling, he traded the torch for the maul an
d stepped into position. With one blow, the thin veneer shattered, revealing a chamber beyond. “I don’t believe it…” he said, stepping through the false wall.

  He was at a junction of five caverns, six if he counted the one he’d just created. None looked different than the others. And they all seemed natural in shape and appearance, but what cave converges like this?

  Great, now what…

  Eldrick walked the perimeter, peering into the mouth of each tunnel, searching for a clue as to which tunnel to take.

  One could easily get lost down here…

  And then, he saw it. Across the chamber was a bust carved into the wall, two eagles sharing the same neck, with heads looking in different directions, each down a corridor. Running a hand along the statue, he could see that it was intricate. Rachis and barbs were etched into individual feathers, each laying atop the next, until a hooked beak extended forward, ridges and imperfections scratched therein. “Someone spent a lot of time on you two,” he whispered. Searching out his bearings, the spy settled on one of the two corridors.

  You should lead towards the keep…

  Torchlight danced along the walls, crawling into crevices before leaping back out. The cavern was straight and narrow, wide enough for only one person. A short distance in a dead end appeared, though no attempt had been made to hide the façade this time. Rectangular stones set in mortar, like ten thousand others in the Brae, blocked his path. Several swift swings of the maul yielded another maw to climb through. As he did, Eldrick stepped into the same dungeon where he had interrogated a prattled Creedon Loughty, and whatever had spoken through him. “Son of a bitch…” he said, letting the maul hit the floor.

  Morning’s light peeked through the narrow windows in bright beams, blinding D’Eldar as he passed them on his way up the stairs to the second-floor great hall. Still holding the torch, he paused to place it in an empty bracket, before snuffing it out with a torch cap.

  “Well met, sir,” Mery said at the hall’s entrance, before adding, “You look exhausted.”

  “You wouldn’t believe…” the spy replied.