Iron and Flame

by Alex Morgenstern

  “Yes, Elkas, this won’t stop me from doing my duties,” he replied.

  “I know, my friend.” He cleared his throat. “I just hope this promotion comes soon along with my leave. I am sure my father would be proud.”

  “He’s already proud, brother,” Askar said with a smile.

  “I just find it strange that no messages have arrived in so long, no information, no nothing. Sometimes I wish I could read.” He laughed.

  “Ha, ha. I honestly think it’s not a bad idea to learn. It’s becoming useful.”

  “The people who read can only be average fighters,” Elkas explained. “I don’t know if it’s because they spend too much time focusing on things.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “I mean, have you ever seen an Itruschian evading lance thrusts with his neck?”

  “It’s just that they don’t train like we do.”

  “Anyway,” Elkas sighed. “I really miss Adachia.”

  “Not as much as I,” Askar said, he lifted his head as well. He could not escape from his duties, but the longing for Gitara’s warm caress killed him every day. And one day he would be reunited with his child. He couldn’t wait to go back to Adachia, to taste the seasoned lamb skewers at the town square, to smoke sacred leaves with his friends and family. And how he longed to see his child. He hoped in heaven that it had survived.

  “Yes, you have a wife, I only have a father. Got to make him proud.”

  “Got to give him grandchildren as well.”

  “Ah, yes,” Elkas chuckled. “Have yet to find a woman worthy of our seed,” he said with a laugh.

  “Well, there are many from back home. Remember that blonde?”

  “Ah, the artisan’s daughter. Well, she was kind of cute, but . . . I don’t know.”

  “Askar, any woman will do. You’re almost twenty. Just find a good woman.”

  “The customs have changed, Askar, girls nowadays only know how to dance, eat barley bread and lie.”

  “That’s a sad thought, there’s plenty of good girls who are also fun to be with. How many would not love you. What are you looking for anyway? Or do you fancy men rather than women?”

  “No, I would conform with anyone who was just like me. Anyone who fits.”

  “That’s foolish, no woman will ever be exactly like you, and if it seems that way, you are deceiving yourself. Anyway, when you come back with that phalera over your armour you may choose any girl from town.”

  “You two are thinking of home too much,” Adna said from behind their backs, placing a hand over the shoulders of bouth. “You’re gonna start feeling blue.”

  “I think we already are,” said Askar.

  “Anyway, if you get this phalera condecoration, Elkas, you’ll be home earlier than us.”

  “Yes.” Elkas raised his chin. “Let’s just be done with this.”

  The march continued for hours, Elkas had to speak with the Suevian leader, reassuring him that they were not to fight among each other, and requesting the same of him. As much as Elkas tried, they could not find many things in common, and Askar felt resentment in the Suevian man’s interactions. Soon, the forest seemed to disperse, revealing a wide pasture and a river of clear water.

  Then it appeared on the horizon. At first, it looked like rock menhirs raised against the sun, but as they reached, they saw it clearly. A wooden wall, very much like the one that had guarded the Suevian village miles south, but it had been broken through, as if pierced through by multiple airborne battering rams. A wide field of wheat and barley spread before it, and still, a few houses were standing. The group marched forward, feeling a sense of dread in their hearts that Elkas could see from every glance.

  And then, they saw the landing site, where the beast’s feet had sunk into the earth. A man could stand on their footprints, and it would reach his waist. The tracks continued, as if the beast had run toward the village. Up further in the field, Elkas found black arrows on the ground. He lifted one. The tip had become flat, deformed, as if it had been shot at a metal wall.

  The leader of the Suevian men, whose name was Alarich, pointed at a hut that stood two hundred yards before the village, still intact, and signalled to approach it. Elkas followed him to interview the inhabitants, if they were still alive.

  The wooden door was shut, and Alarich approached, clapping the door from outside, and calling in his own tongue.

  Suddenly, a hand peeked out of the curtain and a man timidly pulled it open. He was thin, red-haired and partly bald. His clothes were simple. He spoke to the leader, his voice breaking with emotion.

  “He’s a farmer. He cries because one son is dead,” the Suevian translator explained.

  The farmer opened the curtain wide and revealed two small children, a boy and a girl, their hair pumpkin coloured, their faces stained by freckles. He wiped their tears with his fingers.

  “They were afraid, they cried,” the translator said in a coarse accent, as Elkas became overwhelmed by the terror in the man’s eyes. The man’s bony fists clenched, his mouth morphed into an expression of despair as he told the tale. “Big man from the sky landed, made from iron or ore, big teeth, like swords. Tore through the wall, I could see. He says that he could see the giant stomp the houses with his feet; he saw little men and women thrown into the air; he saw bodies crashing against stone. His son was in the village’s defence. Monster left, then, this man, he went to the city, to see what was left. His son could not be found. All dead, all dead. Now, Alarich asked if the entire militia fought.” The translator relayed his question and listened to the man’s response. “He . . . He says they are all dead, some now no legs, no arms, still in the village. Not dead. He could not help them.”

  Elkas nodded. Alarich touched the man’s shoulder, as if comforting him, and the man sobbed like a soldier’s widow.

  Alarich signalled the men to march on, and commanded some of his men to donate provisions to that family. They advanced through the fields, this time, more attentive. Elkas called on his company to walk aligned, on the outside, ready to form a Phalanx if necessary. As they approached the broken walls, they saw the lifeless bodies, some torn in two, their guts split open, their entrails scattered across the field. The putrid smell of human insides filled the air, and Elkas covered his nose and mouth.

  The creature was strong, and Elkas started thinking possible scenarios. If it emerged from the ground, he had thought the best idea was to shoot it, aiming at the eyes, but the hundreds of arrows he saw on the ground were bad signs. If arrows were not useful, probably lances and swords were out of the question.

  Maybe they would have had to use different weapons, such as a catapult, explosives or battering rams. In any case, he would try any resource he could find, including resorting to fire.

  And then, they entered the village. If the sight of the torn bodies outside was gruesome, inside it was a vision of hades. The roofs of thatched houses had been crushed, some of their walls torn down. The insides were scattered with the remains of entire families, their bones crushed under pressure made the soldiers and barbarians grimace in fear. Brains, intestines, arms, and legs hung from walls and roofs, staining the streets with thick blood. Some barbarians fell to their knees and cried in loud voices, weeping for their relatives. Elkas noticed one unsheathing a bronze sword and screaming at the four winds, as if challenging the giant to battle. But the question remained: why them? What had those innocent people done to deserve the wrath of a Titan?

  Elkas prayed in his mind, even though those barbarians were his enemies, he did not fathom seeing a fellow human being torn apart by a creature from the abyss. And that could happen in any town, no matter if Itruschian, Gadalian or Suevian, or even the men of Habash, beyond the southern sea.

  The soldiers found a few survivors who had hidden in the sewers, and some broken families whose members had not fallen into those unmerciful hands. They confirmed the tale, their faces deformed into express
ions of madness and fear, eyes fixed in the distance, as if trying to erase what they had been through.

  One of them begged them to go back if they wanted to live. He said there was no weapon that could harm him, he himself had fired dozens of arrows, they had hit him, but were as paper birds thrown against a boy’s chest.

  “Why did he attack the town?” Alarich asked one of those scarred men.

  “He went to the centre, to the centre.”

  “What’s in the centre?”

  “Menhir . . .”

  Thus, they set their course to the mound in the very heart of the village. As they passed and Elkas made sense of the distance and proportions of the place, he realised the city was a perfect circle. And in the centre where the creature was headed, was a circular mound protected by twelve pillars, half of which had tumbled to the ground.

  Black earth filled the place, as if something had exploded out of the earth and spread debris all over. The radius of the place was about fifty meters. Around it, the company saw the priests of mercury, their white robes stained in blood, their bodies split like fish in open markets. As they walked up to the centre, overlooked by a tumbled menhir, they found a hole large enough to serve as a common burial. It had been carved in a haste, like a fifty foot long dog digging a hole, but beneath, there was nothing.

  Alarich looked for priests left alive, but there was none.

  “What was held in here?” he had asked one of the survivors.

  “There was a legend, but we did not know if it was true . . .” he responded.

  “What legend?” Alarich inquired, frowning at the man.

  “The head of a great king was buried here, from before the oceans drank the great capital of the world. A great king, a king of giants.”

  Chapter XIII - Northward

  Alana bathed in the river, overlooking the vast steppe, her white horse outside and the morning sun shining behind her back. After drying her skin and hair, she dressed up with the new clothes Ira gifted her—riding trousers, bronze knee pads, single ring chain mail cover, and a flowing purple tunic with spiral designs.

  She turned around, the skirts of her tunic fluttering in the soft springtime breeze, and she felt anew, as if she was back where she belonged. In that moment, a hunter’s hawk creaked in the wide blue sky, like a sign from heaven. Alana walked through the yurts, back to her tent, and she entered. Kassius was waiting for her, sitting cross legged.

  He looked at her from below, the Sword of Ares wrapped now in hemp clothes, encased in a sheath too big for its size.

  “Kassius,” she said with a sigh, but she did not know what to say. After all, she was going, and going alone.

  He stood up, breathing hard.

  She lowered her head, she begged for a hug, but why was she not giving it to her? She sat cross legged and opened her eyes wide, focusing on his green pupils.

  “I will pray for you, you can go,” he muttered.

  Alana nodded. She felt offended and hurt. As if she was betraying him. Part of her wanted to understand his urgency, but the cold and unplanned attitude he showed felt like constant daggers entering her mind. She stood up and slowly turned her back. For an instant, she feared never seeing him again. Would she?

  “Alana, I wish you to know that I really love you,” he said, his voice determined. “But I must do this. I must see what lies in our future, your future.”

  “I understand,” she said with a sigh, without turning to face him. Anyway, she thought, she hoped not to take long, at most two weeks, but she had never been that far away. Time was not long, but it could do much. And distance was a cold blooded killer of dreams.

  Goodbyes were painful. She could not bring herself to do it, so she took the sword in her hands and slowly stood up.

  “See you soon, Kassius.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you, Alana.”

  She walked out, Irema and Kassara hugged her.

  “You’re doing great,” Kassara said, her hand on her shoulder. She was not wearing bandages anymore. “You’re doing great things, and I have never doubted our victory.”

  Alana nodded.

  Irema held her hand, maintained her eyes fixed on her, and both nodded. Even through their separation, their souls had been together and worked toward one goal. Alana could not fail her, Irema’s dreams had been broken in two, and Alana swore she would help her friend see her mother again, and find a better future. She would avenge her loved ones, and make way for Irema to build her dreams again.

  Raxana hugged her.

  “Alana, I remember my brother who’s in the legion up north, if by any chance you end up going that way, please tell him what happened. Gitara is also asking for his brother.”

  Alana took a deep breath. She wished to go find the Legionaries, and tell them what happened, but it would be hard to find them. She thought, if she didn’t find an army quickly, she would look for them, but if not, it could take a long time and be dangerous. If not, she could go up north after the reclaiming of her land.

  “If I end up going that way, I will look for him,” Alana said with a smile.

  Tor was the last one, who embraced her tightly and wet her robes with his flowing tears, Alana took a last glimpse at him, his clear blue eyes.

  Tor had written a poem for her.

  Out of misty hills a seed did sprout,

  through night and snow, and freezing cold she rose,

  it grew through gardener’s trims, through hail and snow,

  in pride and awe, its robust petals glowed.

  Alana kissed Tor’s forehead and bid him goodbye. She mounted her white horse, the dragon blade on her waist and Sword of Ares on her back. Ira spurred her horse in front of her. Alana overheard the murmurs of the townsfolk as she slowly left the camp and the tears appeared on her face.

  A few months ago, she was just a girl dreaming of the future. She had dreamed of the steppe, she had dreamed of becoming an artisan, but never had she thought it would be so hard and painful. She begged the gods of the sky to preserve her loved ones, that she might see them again. Going on, meant going far.

  Their hooves barely made a sound in the wide grasslands, and Ira rode gracefully in front of her. Alana could see her skills through the coordination and bond she shared with her horse. Once again, she thought of how her father had ridden through those lands, and pictured him riding by her side, smiling at what had become of her. Her mind wandered and thought of his warm embrace once again. She dreamed of her mother, how she had never seen her, but the words others had said, that if she wanted to meet her, she should just look in the mirror. And then, like a trick of destiny, she was following in the footsteps of both.

  They passed through the commercial route, and Alana saw a few people from the Varalkian tribe guarding the road. Young men with old rusty dragon armours, and every type of weapon they could find, a long lance, sword on their belts and a folded bow and quiver next to them. There was no transit at the time, but many tents had been set around the path, and Alana saw very strange looking people with curious clothes. In a big colourful tent, she saw a man of square features, olive skin and funny looking pointy boots. He sold musical instruments, but at the time was resting outside, smoking out of a big pipe. Alana also saw a blacksmith’s shop, or probably a simple weapons merchant, as there was no space for a chimney in the tent. She curiously peeked through it, and although it was dark, she caught a glimpse of eastern blades she had never seen. Some of them were long and thin, others with extremely long handles, others, similar to the black parthian dagger she had found months ago.

  At night, they set up their sleeping mats under the moon and stars, their horses pasturing and resting freely in the open. Ira used her saddle as a pillow, Alana imitated her, but did not find it comfortable, instead, she lied down on her belly, with her chin over her crossed arms.

  “How far is it, again?” she asked Ira, who was opening the bag of cheese and taking a hard piece.

>   “About five days.” she responded.

  “I see.” Alana stood up with a sigh, the dragon blade still dangled from her side. She unsheathed and adopted a defensive position, pointing at the sky.

  “Practising, huh?” Ira asked, chewing with her mouth open.

  Alana nodded, and waved the sword around.

  “Nice posture,” Ira said, swallowing the cheese and reaching for another piece.

  “Thanks,” Alana said. She visualized her enemy in front of her, but she realised, now that Larius was dead, it did not feel right. Instead, she thought of the giants, of how she could defeat them, but even trying to cut through giant legs would probably be useless.

  She grabbed the sword tightly with both hands and sliced diagonally through the air, she blocked an imaginary attack and used footwork to slip and side-step. She had learned a technique from Raxana, she did a frontal thrust, stepped to the left side and did two quick lateral slices, one aimed at the legs and another at the neck.

  Ira lazily got up and stretched her arms.

  “Would you like to spar with me?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Alana said, smiling. She loved to spar.

  “It’s been a while,” Ira said, drawing her straight iron sword. The crosshead was short, like ancient swords used to be, but the blade was also made of twisted metal, Alana took a curious look. “I hope my reflexes are still good enough.”

  Ira stepped and feinted low, pointing at Alana’s abdomen. Alana parried, slipping back to dodge it.

  “Nice footwork,” Ira said, bobbing her head, then she attacked from the side.

  Alana blocked easily and countered stepping to the side and attacking Ira’s neck. Ira remained with her defence open, and Alana stopped an inch from her neck. She would have finished her, and could not help smiling wide.

  Ira nodded. “Whoa, how long have you been practising?”

  “Every day for the last two and a half months.”

  “You’re learning fast. I’d say it’s in your blood.”