by Eli Steele
Eldrick shouted to the oilers, “Spill the whole damn pot over the edge!”
“It’s too heavy, m’lord!”
“Grab all the lifting rods!”
Together, the group hefted the massive pot off the fire and inched it closer to the edge. “All at once,” Eldrick labored, “roll it over the parapets... ready, heave!”
Groaning and cursing, their feet sliding out from underneath them, they shouldered into the pot. The hot iron sizzled against their stiffened leather, heating the layers of wool underneath. Rulf shrieked as he slipped and stumbled into the pot, melting the side of his face.
All at once, the center of the heavy mass shifted. Oil sloshed to the far side, and the pot careened over the edge.
It crashed into the roof, splitting it in half. Oil coated man and ram alike, scorching all that it touched.
Stepping back, Eldrick exhaled and surveyed the scene. He watched Roke and Ben push the last of the ladders off the battlement. The shield wall and archers along the forest’s edge had fallen back from the pressure of the ballistae. The mangonels had retreated. What few that remained had been decimated by the heavy bolts. He reasoned three hundred Meronians lay dead or wounded on the field.
Leaning against the parapet, he studied their side. Blood stained the stones. Downed and dying lay everywhere. Low moans and high wails filled the air. Maybe forty-five able men remained atop the keep. A coppery taste filled his mouth. Only then did he realize he was bleeding. Wiping his mouth, he spat.
The realization rolled slowly across the wall. The first assault had been repelled. Meronia had paid dearly, but so had the Brae. But it was victory, hard fought and earned.
Baron planted a boot atop the gatehouse parapet wall and raised his sword. A great shout rose up from the host. Men embraced and cheered and tended to the wounded.
Eldrick retrieved his skin and drained it of wine. It burned his parched and wind-sore throat going down. Still, he smiled. He wanted to speak, but he was fiercely hoarse.
Looking out over the battlefield, he felt relief. Maybe this war would be easier than they’d thought.
From somewhere in the Braewood, the sound of timber groaning and steel grinding whispered on the wind. Looking up, Eldrick saw a stone appear over the treetops. It rushed towards them, growing ever larger as it did. It was half as big as a man... or maybe as big as... or perhaps even bigger still... and it was going to hit the wall.
“Clear the way! Move! Move your asses!”
Men dove to either side as the meteoric hunk of limestone slammed into the top of the wall. A cloud of white dust plumed up and out. Shards of stone tore at skin and leather. A crack as wide as a fist streaked out from the point of impact. And above it, the battlement collapsed inward.
“What in the nine hells...” he croaked.
Those trees, they were clearing the way for a trebuchet... a massive one...
Somewhere, just beyond the forest’s edge, a great roar erupted, a roar of victory to come.
Chapter 19
Rowan Vos
Thatcher Frost’s House
Ashmor Slums
Kingdom of Beyorn
Rowan opened his eyes with the wisps of a nightmare dissipating in his head. The harsh cries of the birds still grated his ears. In it, a towering fiend, borne on ravens, loomed large over a hooded figure – a woman. A staff was in her hands, its head crackling blue-green. A trail of raw energy chased after it, leaving memories of illumination behind like a flash of light against the eyes in a darkened room.
With a roar, the fiend swept its bony hand at the mage, as if to flick her away, but she rolled to the side, avoiding the blow. Instead, she slammed the base of the staff against the rocky ground and roared back at the devil. Stones trembled, the ravens dispersed, and the bony foe cowered before her, its fading shrieks still sending tremors through Rowan’s heart. Despite the terrible scene, the vision seemed more distant than the previous ones. The cold sweats were a little less, and the thoughts didn’t push quite as hard into reality.
Maybe your hold on me is finally fading, Orick…
His back and neck ached. The pallet he’d fashioned on the guest room floor from scavenged blankets was scarcely serviceable for a night’s rest. Standing, he stretched and gazed at Kassina asleep on the bed. He reached forward to wake her, but changed his mind.
My best friend… Enjoy your rest. I’m sure you’ll need it for whatever these odd bastards have in store for us.
Turning, he sauntered into the kitchen. Dried figs, salted pork, and a half-loaf of brown bread awaited him on the table. A kettle sat on the hearth, steam curling out of its curved mouth.
“You’re up.” Bela smiled. “I’ve been plundering Pisk’s kitchen. It’s fairly normal, despite him. Though I’m not quite sure what I expected, to be honest…”
“Perhaps a cat skull in the closet? Or maybe a cauldron in the cupboard?”
She giggled. “Well, he does have a cauldron in his closet.”
Chuckling, Rowan took a seat at the table. Bela filled two cups with tea from the kettle before joining him. She searched the room, before asking, “So, what do we expect of the day?”
Sipping the tea, he replied, “For one, I hope Pisk shows up.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I guess we wait.”
“Do we go see Thatcher?”
“No, the less we have to do with him, the better.”
“I don’t like him either.”
“He’s not safe,” Rowan said. “I don’t think he’s interested in you or Kass, but Pisk said he wants something from me. And whatever it is, I don’t intend to give it to him.”
“If it’s not the sword, what could it be?”
“He thinks I’m a mage, or maybe I could be… and I think he wants that from me, whatever that means…”
Her brow furrowed. “But mages are myths?”
“I’ve seen so much here lately, Bel, I don’t know what I believe. I’ve seen two men throw people with their minds, and one of them was Father Brayden.”
Bela snorted, before realizing he was serious. Looking away, she took a sip of tea and grabbed a handful of figs. “How’s Kass?” she asked finally.
He smiled. “As wild as ever. I think she’d fight the whole world if it let her, especially if she had a bottle of wine.”
Bela giggled. “Still drinking?”
“Is she still breathing?”
Bela shook her head. They sat in silence for a while, picking at the figs and bread. “I’m just glad she has you. Everybody needs somebody, and Kass more than most.” She placed her hand on his.
Surprised, he pulled away.
Kassina emerged from the bedroom, her blondish hair a mess. “Hey, you two. What’s for breakfast?” Pulling up a chair, she stabbed a slice of pork with a knife.
“So, Thatcher thinks Ro’s a mage,” Bela announced.
“No shit?” Kassina replied. “Well, that explains your disappearing act.”
Rowan eyed her curiously.
“Oh, come on, Ro. Really? You think that’s normal? You shouldn’t be able to do that shit, and I’ve shrugged it off before, just like you… But with all that’s happened? I don’t doubt anything anymore.”
“It just seems so natural to me...” he replied.
“Maybe that’s how it works,” Kassina replied. “All I know is this: if that son of a bitch over there believes you’re a mage, then as far as I’m concerned it’s settled.”
He snorted. “So I’m a mage that’s pretty good at blending in? That’s what I do?”
“Yep” Kassina replied, “you’re a right shitty mage, but it doesn’t change the fact.”
A heavy knock startled the trio. Rowan withdrew his sword and stepped between the girls and the door.
“It’s me!” shouted Pisk.
Sheathing the blade, Rowan unlocked the door.
Black bags hung under the impish man’s bulgy eyes. He craned his head in without entering.
“Master Thatcher requires you.”
“Well if he requires us,” Kassina scoffed.
* * * * *
Thatcher Frost was just as they’d left him, gnarled hands clasping a cup of tea. His eyes followed them as they entered, just like the lion’s.
“Have a seat,” the old mage said.
“We’d prefer to stand,” Rowan replied.
Thatcher narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
“So?”
“So,” countered the old man. “The sword. We end it, tonight.”
“How?”
“With the will of the Seven High Mages. All of which traveled great lengths, and have been waiting rather impatiently since Orick’s untimely demise.”
“Then all of this is over?” asked Kassina.
Thatcher nodded. “A terrible evil is purged, and the culmination of many years of labor will be complete. I may yet die a satisfied man.”
“The assassins, too?” she added.
The old mage clicked his tongue. “Oh, that... well, perhaps not...”
“So nothing ends,” she countered, “not for us. So glad we could help.”
“Selfish?” Thatcher scoffed. “You would do well to guard your tongue! Far greater souls than you have sacrificed everything to see this day!”
Gripping the blade, Rowan stepped forward. “Enough.” His voice was firm and unflagging.
Surprisingly, the old mage relented.
Unbuckling his belt, he let the sword fall to the floor.
“You’ve got what you wanted,” the thief said. Turning, he made for the door.
“Wait,” Thatcher urged. Desperation tinged his voice. “We can’t do this without you.”
“And why is that?”
“While nothing would please me more than to conjure up a new face and stroll out of this house, I have not the strength for such things anymore. I’m tired, and old, and it’s been too long since I’ve indulged...”
The word sent a chill through Rowan.
“What about Pisk?” asked Kassina.
“And what if something should happen upon poor Pisk? No, you must go if it is to be done. You’ve shown you can survive with the sword.”
“Where must we go?” asked Rowan.
“A warehouse in the Market District.”
“It’s too far, we’ll never make it. They’re scouring the city for us as we speak. And they’re probably not far from finding us here.”
“No worries, there’s another way.”
“And that is?”
“The sewers, just outside. They’ll lead you where you need to go. Pisk knows the way.”
What is it with old mages and sewers?
Pisk exhaled.
“Say we do this,” Rowan said, “what’s in it for us?”
“There’s a ship, the Cormorant, her captain owes me a favor. Quite a few, actually... And with the right word, he’ll take you anywhere you desire. Have him sail you to Avendor. You’ll be as safe there as anywhere. I have friends there; I’ll send word to them. They’ll be awaiting you when you arrive.”
“What’s the word?”
Thatcher clicked his tongue and smiled. “Deliver the sword. Only then will Pisk reveal it to you.”
Rowan sighed. “Fine, we’ll do it.”
“Go, then. Time wastes and the clock ticks twice.”
Looking up at the mount, Rowan noticed it was staring straight at him, just as always. “One last thing,” he said, “The lion, is it real?”
“What is real, anyway? But if you must know, come back after this is all over and I’ll tell you. Indulge me that before you leave...”
Again the word raised Rowan’s hackles. Without acknowledging the old mage, the thief retrieved the sword belt and departed.
Just outside, Pisk stopped at a nearby manhole. “Would you?” he asked. “It’s nigh as heavy as me.”
Rowan pried the lid up with the sword, before sliding it off to the side. It cut a trail through the filth of the street.
Pisk stepped into the hole and descended. Before he disappeared, he said, “Come on, then. It’s best we get out of the streets quickly if you’re right and eyes abound. And set the lid back in its place when you do.”
After they were all in the sewers, Pisk grabbed a torch from a nearby bracket and lit it. Flames leapt up the oil-soaked rag, dancing to life. A brick ledge was beneath their feet, maybe the width of a long stride. Damp and slimy, it seemed the perfect invitation to end up in the dark channel beside them.
To their left was a brick wall interspersed with natural limestone, hewn and grouted flush. Rowan leaned forward awkwardly, aggravating his aching neck, as the low wall began its arch to the other side. A channel, its surface maybe three bricks lower than the ledge, extended to the opposite wall. Black water of an unknown depth meandered past.
Rowan’s nose wrinkled. Though the stench was less than his last jaunt in the sewers, it was still unpleasant. Dripping water pattered on brick and plopped on the surface of the murky canal, sending little ripples rolling outward.
“The putrid veins of Ashmor,” Pisk mused to no one in particular as he handed off his torch to Rowan and fished around in his pack. Retrieving a scroll, he unfurled it. “Lean in with the light,” he said.
Rowan did so.
With a fat finger, Pisk tapped the scroll. “We’re here...” Tracing it to the other side of the map, he added, “…And this is where we’re headed. The path is straighter than the city streets overhead, and safer... probably.”
“Probably?”
Pisk shrugged. His voice raised an octave. “Who can say for certain in such times?”
“I’d hope you could, for one.”
Rolling up the scroll, Pisk scoffed. “Ask me again when we’re at the other end of the map, m’lord.”
Rowan started his retort, but thought better of it. After a moment, he said, “You have the lead then, Pisk, so lead...”
The little imp snatched back the torch with a huff and started off into the gloom. “Keep up,” he announced, “We shan’t keep our friends waiting.”
No, we shan’t...
“As if your little legs could outrun anyone,” Bela remarked. The girls giggled.
Looking back, Pisk cut them a sour eye, but continued on.
The ceiling gradually rose, and the channel widened, but the ledge remained the same uncomfortable width. As Pisk passed a bracket, he would remove the torch, light it, and pass it back until no one was without. “For those in the dark, light is the only true currency,” he said more than once, proud of his musing.
Slowly, the line of flames flitted and flickered through the drippy tunnel. Occasionally someone spoke, never drifting more than an arm’s length apart. Solid footing was a rarity. The ever-present risk of slipping into the murk dogged them.
An occasional pipe spilled a mixture of rainwater, sewage, and groundwater infiltration into the canal. Though most penetrated the opposite wall, or ended under their feet just above the water’s surface, a few terminated low in the wall to their left, dribbling the city’s dregs across their path. Rowan stepped high, careful to avoid the spatter.
At a junction, they veered right onto a rusted catwalk that carried them over the channel to a similar ledge on the other side.
“One at a time!” Pisk barked, his words echoing in all directions, mixing with the watery sonnet of the sewer, before fading altogether. The aging iron creaked and groaned, and moved a bit more than Rowan would have preferred.
Up ahead, a gate emerged from the gloom, extending across ledge and tunnel. Their torchlight danced across the bars, casting shadows deeper into the dark. Pisk produced a heavy brass key. He rattled the door and jiggled the key, before the rusty lock finally relented. Pushing it open, he stepped through.
“Why’s there a gate in the sewers?” Kassina asked. “Who are they trying to keep out?”
“You mean what are they trying to keep in,” Pisk corrected.
“What?”
“Did I stammer? Were my words unclear?”
“What do you mean, what?”
Pisk huffed. “Keep your voice down. The key’s in the lock. Shut the gate behind you and lock it back.”
The last in line, Rowan did as the little man said, before pocketing the key. “Now,” the thief said with a hushed stone, “what’s in here with us, Pisk?”
“They have many names,” the imp said, his face glowing from the torchlight, “but I call them relics, because they are from an older time, and because the namer has power over the named.”
Rowan chuckled. “So you think that because you came up with a name for whatever’s in here, that makes you somehow safe?”
“The world is not as you think it is, blood mage,” Pisk scoffed. “It is far different.”
“Blood mage, huh?” Kassina snorted. “See, he believes the old kook, too.”
“Thatcher’s words are forever true,” the little dwarf replied, “That is my lot, for he named me...”
Pisk’s demeanor changed beyond the gate. He was skittish, more so than usual. Stretching out the torch, he led with it, careful to peer down adjoining corridors before committing to passing their mouth.
Somewhere in the dark, something skittered across the stone. Pisk gasped, thrusting his torch toward the sound. “Get back!” he shrieked.
Rowan withdrew the blade and searched the gloom. A faint squeak answered him.
Kassina rolled her eyes.
“It’s a rat, you arse,” Bela scoffed.
Rowan chuckled.
Ignoring them, the squat man breathed a sigh of relief and hurried ahead. After a time, they came upon a second gate. Rowan squeezed forward and let them through. After he did so, Pisk said, “I’ll have that back now.”
The thief chuckled, pocketing the key again. “Not until this charade is over you won’t.”
The imp’s top lip curled up. He started to speak, but thought better of it. Instead, he let out a huff and spat in the canal. “We’re not far yet,” he muttered.
After a time, Pisk stopped. Beside him, iron rungs led up the wall to a manhole lid. “Would you?” he asked Rowan, “It’s too heavy for me.”
