by Eli Steele
“Puts a lot of pressure on the north wall.”
“Hell’s Gate is tough,” he said, reassuring himself as much as Pagan. “She can take a lot. And the field is narrow. There’s only so much that can be thrown at her at once.”
I hope...
“The bitch better well stand,” Pagan said, dusting off his coat.
A basket, lowered from the top, came to a rest beside them.
Griffon rolled his eyes. “Leave the ringmail, take the pack.”
Grabbing his sword belt from within, Pagan asked, “What about the shields?”
“It’s added weight, but weight worth bringing. Here, strap mine to my pack.” Griffon handed Pagan the Meronian commander’s heater shield, before turning his back to him.
As he fastened it in place, Pagan asked, “Why bring that one?”
“We may need it yet.” With spear in hand and blade at his side, Griffon asked, “Ready?”
Pagan slipped his arm through the banded round shield. The sigil of House Alexander adorned its face, a black gatehouse on a field of crimson - Hell’s Gate, and the blood of those that would try her. “Ready.”
Rock and rubble gave way underneath their feet with each step. Griffon used the spear to balance himself as he ascended the slope. Pagan clambered on all fours, cursing and groaning all the way. “Ezra was your first choice,” he said after a time, only half-joking.
“What?”
“Ezra. He’s seasoned, and he knows the land as good as any, and his sword is truer than mine.”
“Ezra needs his rest.”
“To my point. So you chose me. I don’t fault you, I would’ve favored him, too.”
Griffon was silent for a moment, before replying, “Ezra’s seasoned, maybe too much so. And this is a hard path we must take. I need a man that can make it through, and still stand and fight on the other side. I chose you, and I won’t explain myself further.”
In the shadows of the gray clouds and the evening redness, somewhere just down the slope, a smile snaked across Pagan’s lips. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special...”
The young Alexander snorted.
“What, not enough lilac in my hair?”
Griffon stopped and cut an eye down the ridge.
Pagan laughed. “What? Oh, come on. We all see it... She swoons over you, my lord.”
He sighed. “The engagement wouldn’t further the house...”
“The house? Who gives a sprite’s shite what the house wants?”
“You’re not that naive, Pag,” Griffon replied, groaning as he hoisted himself over a cliff’s edge, “I’m the only child of Lord Baron, and the Alexander name has never been weaker. We need a strong marriage with a rising house to sustain our position. Else, not even the Brae is promised us.”
“Maybe so…” Pagan said, thrusting an arm up at Griffon, before getting pulled up and over the same steep cliff. “Or maybe the scheming of nobles and shit like that gets you a fat wife with a foul temper. And for what? Elsie is bewitching, Griff. She’ll make some arsehole, soft from a life in the crown’s court, a fine wife. It’s a shame it won’t be you...”
“Can we talk of something else?” the young Alexander asked.
Pagan shrugged. “I’m just a swordarm, sir.”
Ignoring him, Griffon knelt to catch his breath. “Looks like the worst is behind us, let’s take a moment.”
Retrieving a skin of wine, Pagan took a deep draw before handing it over. He received it and turned it up, wetting his parched throat.
“Sorry,” Pagan added, after a time, “about earlier. What you do about the matter is your business alone, and none of mine...”
It was a rare moment of sincerity from the man. Griffon planted a hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s ok.” Turning, he found a spot against the cliff face to sit and let out a deep breath.
Twilight had come and gone. Vibrant hues of orange had long since yielded to a deep purple, before fading to sable black. Stars twinkled overhead, but the moon was absent from the sky. The cold winds – even crueler in the high crags – lay silent for a time, granting some temporary solace.
Griffon cupped his gloved hands, one browned leather and the other Meronian black, over his nose and emptied his lungs. His face prickled from the steamy warmth. Gazing down, he said, “Look, at the keep.”
“I didn’t realize we’d climbed so far.”
Faint fires flickered inside the walls. Torchspecks roamed the perimeter, keeping watch. And on the keep’s roof, the tallest spot in the Brae, a brazier blazed brightly, though it was nothing more than a dab of orange to them.
Griffon thought of Elsie, warming herself by his mother’s hearth. Was she still listening for the treefalls, or mulling her dream and thinking of him... perhaps?
That’s Pagan, muddling your thoughts. A sharp mind is the squire of survival, Baron was apt to say... Don’t lose focus on the task at hand.
Somewhere far below, in the depths of the Braewood, an ancient tree crashed to the ground once again.
“We should go,” Griffon said, standing.
* * * * *
Dawn’s first light flooded over the eastern ridges as the pair reached the bottom of the slope. Red and orange spilled across the sky, chasing away the night. Before them, the Braewood Forest spread out, encroaching to the very edge of the mountain’s rocky base.
The men crouched low behind a small outcropping not far from the canopy line. Griffon peered into the darkened stand. Cold air yawned out. Overhead the winds whistled, but could not pierce the protected valley.
“See anything?”
Griffon shook his head. “Nothing… Stay low, step carefully, and move between the shadows. We’re here to scout only. We don’t have the means for a fight.”
The damp forest floor softened their footfalls. Still, Griffon stalked the wood, cautious and alert like an old buck, dominant but wary. He’d hunted the Braewood all his life, harvesting deer and boar and mountain goats that had ventured down from the highlands, all the while learning its nuances. Close behind, Pagan followed.
Stepping behind a particularly large trunk, Griffon pressed his back against the tree. Cool moss cushioned him like a forest pillow. Peeking around, he searched the growth.
Though the thick canopy blotted out the sun, the wood itself was relatively open. Deadfall limbs and fallen trees, crowded out and starved for sunlight, littered the moss-covered floor. Limestone outcroppings, like long fingers from the mountains beyond, occasionally thrust up out of the ground. Crusty and leaflike, gray-green lichen grew on all – living, dead, or otherwise.
Pagan started to speak, but Griffon interrupted him. “Shhh,” he mouthed, bringing a single finger to his lips. “Listen…”
Closing his eyes, Griffon explored the sounds of the grove.
Leaves rustled high overhead. A tawny owl hooted her last call before disappearing for the day. A raven’s shrill cry raised their hackles.
“Balaam’s songbird,” Pagan muttered.
“Listen… past all that,” Griffon whispered.
Somewhere in the distance they heard the continuous rat-tat-tat of a hundred hammers.
They stalked deeper into the wood, all the while the sounds grew louder. Soon, saws could be heard. And then the sounds of men shouting, and then again chatter. But suddenly, all grew silent.
A thunderous roar, much louder than the ones before, erupted in the near distance. The pair dove behind a tree as a rush of wind and dirt and leaves rushed past them. Afraid to move, the men lay on the damp ground and listened. Before long, the sounds of the Meronians resumed. Griffon eyed Pagan, before motioning with his head. Together, they crawled out from around the broad trunk and crept closer.
They came upon the fallen tree. Its heavy crown of leaves lay in the dirt and moss. Branches bigger around than a man lay snapped in two like twigs. The ancient braewood, older than even history, was no more. Griffon’s chest burned, like one’s might with the loss of an acquaintance. J
ust beyond, the chaotic sounds of the bustle crowded out the whispers of the grove.
Pushing into the thick crown of the downed tree, Griffon led Pagan closer to the whirlwind of activity. Tree sap matted their overcoats and smeared across their faces. Gnarled branches clawed at them. Stopping behind a thick cluster of leaves, Griffon peered out.
Just beyond and overhead, a clearing in the canopy emerged. The morning sun pierced the olde growth with wide beams of light, banishing the darkness. Below the opening in the treetops, hundreds of Meronians erected a great timber construct.
“A trebuchet…” Griffon whispered.
“And a behemoth of one at that…” Pagan replied, before adding, “Oh, shit…”
Griffon knew his thoughts. “We’ll never get our onagers close enough without being overrun. It’ll rain stones as big as men up through that clearing and down on the Brae… We’ll be decimated...”
“And there’s nothing in the Four Kingdoms that can stop it, save an army of our own.”
But Griffon knew that was a lie. The moment he saw the trebuchet, he knew what he must do. The blood visions on the mountain, and Elsie’s dream, they’re all true…
Pagan yanked Griffon from his thoughts with a shake. Leaning in, he whispered, “Griff… Griffon, look, over there!”
Past the trebuchet stood a solitary figure in black. A hooded robe hid his features. He wandered around the edge of activity, sizing up the surrounding trees. Stopping at one, he stepped back and looked straight up. The workers paused and gaped in silent wonder.
Raising both arms, the figure slammed his staff against the ground. He trembled and coughed. The tree swayed. In a low growl, he spoke to the tree, quaking as he did. Branches cracked and snapped. Birds scattered. A flurry of leaves drifted down. Suddenly, roots popped underground, causing the moss to quiver and soil to heave up. And in one, slow motion, the mighty braewood plummeted to the ground, sending a plume of dirt and leaves and moss in all directions as it slammed against the earth.
“What in the nine?” Pagan marveled, “a mage… those bastards have a mage…”
Chapter 17
Rowan Vos
Thatcher Frost’s House
Ashmor Slums
Kingdom of Beyorn
Rowan sat between Kassina and Bela on an unforgiving bench in Thatcher’s living room. The dwarfish butler, whose name he had not yet offered, busied himself in a small kitchen to the side. Pots clanged and dishes clattered. The squat man muttered and cursed to himself. With an eye over her shoulder, Bela kept watch over the goings-ons behind her.
The room contrasted starkly with the slums outside. Cloudy-glassed jars, their contents unknown, were interspersed amongst ancient tomes on a tired bookcase with sagging shelves. Rowan reasoned the containers could’ve just as easily held pear butter as bat poison. Though if he had to choose between only the two, he would wager on the latter.
A claw-footed candelabra as tall as Bela accented a corner. Solid iron and black as night, it looked to weigh a small ton. Goblins and gremlins, a part of the mold, were captured with various expressions as they presented the candles. Fine flames flickered, casting quaint shadows on the stone wall. Grinning, Rowan watched the smith’s daughter admire the ironwork’s intricacy.
The taxidermy over the hearth was the crown jewel of the room and a conversationalist’s piece, of which he suspected Thatcher might be. A roaring lion, with the tusks of a boar and a goat’s horns, stared at them unblinkingly through glass eyes that seemed to forever follow them. If he had been forced to admit it, Rowan would concede that the creature unnerved him more than a bit. It was far too unnatural.
It all did, from the leathery rug of a source unknown to the clattering of the imp in the kitchen, to the sickly sweet scent of the candles.
As he was about to stand and excuse them all, a far door creaked inward. Out from it, an old man hobbled into the room.
He was a study in contrasts to the dwarfy butler. Tall and gaunt, his wiry white hair wisped out from the sides. Like aged hawthorn branches, his hands were gnarled nigh to the point of uselessness. Whereas his squat housemate had chameleon-like eyes, the old man’s were set deep in his skull. A long dark robe hung from his shoulders, trailing after him across the floor.
Easing into a high-backed chair opposite the bench, he studied the trio. His silence was awkward and intrusive.
Kassina shifted nervously in her seat.
”You're not Orick...” he said.
”We-”
”Pisk!” the old man interrupted Rowan with a wheezy shout. ”Tea, you hapless dolt!”
Cups clinked and clanked. The butler emerged with a single chipped mug, presenting it to the old man.
So much for hospitality... Not that I would particularly fancy a brew from here…
“So where is he? Orick, that is.”
Rowan sighed. “Dead? I think? I’m not sure...” He studied the old man, gauging his response.
He snorted. “Not by the likes of you, I presume.”
Rowan eyed the old man curiously, before slowly shaking his head to the side.
“Tell me how.”
“They were assassins. I left before the fight ended… He demanded it. You’re Thatcher, right?”
Raising a crooked hand, the old man said, “Soon enough... So, he gave you the letter?”
Rowan nodded.
“And the blade?”
Rowan slid the sword from its sheath and laid it across his lap. The questions were taxing his patience.
Pisk leaned in, mesmerized by the weapon. The old man squinted. “My eyes are failing me, might I hold it for a time?”
Alright, enough of your shit...
Sheathing the sword, Rowan stood. “It’s been a long day, so either we start getting some answers, or we’ll show ourselves-“
The old man flicked his wrist and muttered under his breath. Rowan found himself pressed down onto the bench. He tried to stand again, but the force against him was too strong. Panic gripped him. His mind raced back to the night of the church fire, and Father Brayden flinging the assassins out into the hall.
Father Brayden, oh shit… How could I not have thought of him until now? I hope he’s ok… Hell, I hope we’re ok…
A hacking cough consumed the old man. When he’d recovered, he said, “Pisk, please... show the ladies your pitiful orchard.”
Kassina eyed Rowan. Without breaking his gaze with the old man, he nodded.
Pisk stood. “Come with me, it’s better that they speak alone.”
“If he tries anything,” Bela said to no one in particular, “we’ll both gut his arse.”
“M’lady, I am harmless. You have my word,” the little man croaked.
As they left, the old mage released his grip on the thief. “I am Thatcher...”
Testing his freedom of movement, Rowan shifted on the bench. After a moment, he simply said, “Rowan.”
“Orick was foolish. He took too many risks. As such, his death doesn’t surprise me. And he is very much dead, mind you. Otherwise, he would be here with us now.”
“You were friends?”
Ignoring him, Thatcher said, “He saw something in you, Orick did. Else, he wouldn’t have entrusted you with so much... Here,” he said, stretching out his bony arm, “take my hand.”
Not a chance in the nine hells I let a second old bastard in my head... Especially you…
Rowan gripped the hilt of the blade. “I don’t think so.”
A crooked smile slithered across the old mage’s face. “But you took his, didn’t you? Tell me, what did you see?”
“A lot of shit I’d soon as forget.”
“Orick was zealous for the cause, once upon a time, wasn’t he?”
Ignoring Thatcher’s question, the thief stared at him instead.
“But enough talk of the dead, let’s talk about... you. I felt you resist me as I sat you down. You made me struggle…”
Orick’s words came back to him. You’re far
more than a common thief…
“The blood courses through your veins. How pure it is, I do not know, but it’s there...”
Rowan snorted. “What are you saying? That I’m a mage?”
“You scoff, but you’ve felt it. Haven’t you? You have certain... propensities, am I right? Aptitudes that, as mundane as they may seem to you, are quite unique? You may have even explained them away, and perhaps so have those around you. But you’ve only plumbed the shallows of your abilities. With the right mentor, you could dredge out their depths...”
Unease skulked over Rowan. Behind the milky eyes, something smoldered in the old mage. He could see it. Was it lust? No, he mused. Desire, yes. And greed...
Wary of tarrying on the topic, Rowan risked a change. Patting his sheath, he said, “Tell me about the sword.”
Rage flashed across the old mage’s face. And as quickly as it was there, it was gone again. “Of course, of course, the sword...” Leaning back in his chair, he took a sip of tea before continuing. “Forged from evil, it is a relic of a forgotten time. Wars have been waged over it. And they are still.”
“What does it do?”
Thatcher cackled. “Why, you’ve held it. You tell me? For with everyone who is touched like us, its affects are as different as the beholder. And those affects grow, they mature, like a child becoming a man.”
“What was Orick doing with it?”
“Bringing it to me, of course. So that we might destroy it.”
“But why-“
“Because, boy,” Thatcher’s tone was sharp, impatient. “Something olde is stirring. And it would have the blade again. Should it wake, and were it to claim it...” his voice trailed off.
They sat in silence for a time. Rowan watched the horned lion watch him. He wondered if it was real, or just the fanciful creation of some mounter.
“I grow tired of our words. Fetch Pisk for me. There is much he must do before the morning comes.”
Rising, Rowan left the room. Several minutes later, he returned with the impish man and the girls.
“You require me, my lord?” Pisk asked.
