The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  Brant stood, threw on his wool coat, and walked over to the table to get a drink of water and lace up his leather work boots. His father had still not roused himself even after the loud ringing of the morning work bell. After drinking a large cup of water he walked over to his father, gently shaking him.

  “Father, wake up. You’re going to be late.”

  There was no reaction, not even a moan.

  “Morlock’s balls, wake up father. Do you want to be fined again?” This time Brant shook him harder. Still nothing.

  Brant reached under his father and rolled his heavy body over on the cot, nearly upturning the bed in the process. Seeing his father’s face, he stepped back in shock. Jorna’s eyes were wide open, vacant and lifeless, his chest unmoving. Brant quickly went to him, putting his hand on his chest and his ear near his mouth, listening intently for any breath, for any sign of life. But there was none. His father was dead.

  Brant ran immediately to the head warden’s tent. He didn’t know what to do, but he figured the Warden General would. Brant had never formally met Warden General Kane, although he had seen him on several occasions throughout the camp. When he told the guards what had happened they had led him into the large tent, where one of the wardens accompanied him and ordered him to take a seat before a large and ornately carved wooden desk. The room was spacious compared to his own small quarters, and he knew that beyond the inner tent flap was probably a larger room that acted as the Warden General’s personal quarters.

  The warden, who Brant recognized as a new guard that went by the name of Warden Tyan, walked over to the inner tent flap. “You are Brant, right?” The warden asked as he covered the distance in a few strides. He probably knew him from the fights. Generally the wardens did not participate in the fights, but it was not uncommon for a few to bet on the outcomes.

  “Yes.”

  “Last name?”

  “Anwar, Brant Anwar.”

  The warden was young, maybe twenty five, with jet black hair cut short and a small tuft of hair left below his lip. “Warden General, I’m sorry to interrupt you but we seem to have an incident,” the young warden spoke through the flap.

  “What is it?” an annoyed voice came from the next room.

  “Sir, a miner is here reporting the death of his father. His name is Brant Anwar.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  Warden Tyan moved away from the flap and stood guard next to Brant, his hand casually resting on the hilt of his sword and his wary eyes staring down at him. Brant looked away, his own mind trying to deal with what had happened. Brant didn’t know what he was feeling. He wasn’t sad, but that was to be expected. Was it fear? Fear of what would happen to him now that his father was dead? He didn’t think so. Anxious maybe, or was it a feeling of emptiness? He shared no love for his father, but nonetheless Jorna was his father. Now that he was gone, he felt an empty hole somewhere inside him. That was it.

  The tent flap flung open and a tall man in warden’s armor quickly entered, stopping momentarily to gaze down at the boy. The Warden General was a full hand taller than Brant, but not nearly as muscular. He was lean, with weathered skin browned by the sun. A sparse crop of silver gray hair crowned the top of his head which was losing its battle with baldness. The short hair above his ears was silver as well, but streaked with black, as if a painter had used a dry brush lightly covered with black paint to add some contrast to the grayness. His eyes were bright blue, like lightening, and they looked at Brant now.

  “You’re the fighter. Right, boy?” the Warden General asked.

  Brant cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  Warden General Kane sat down at his chair behind the desk, his piercing eyes showing no emotion. “Address me as Warden General.”

  Brant didn’t like his pompous tone. His immediate instinct was to jump across the desk and grab the man by the throat. It was the reaction he too often had that too quickly surfaced when someone challenged him, physically or verbally. Perhaps it was from the years of abuse from his father. Taking orders for so long from a man he despised left him with little patience to take it from others. Whatever the reason, it was a part of his personality that had gotten him into some trouble at the camps. But it was not prudent to confront the wardens and he had learned early on, in those situations, to curb his violent emotions. “I’m sorry…Warden General.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I woke up this morning and found my father dead.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I’m not sure. He drank last night. Maybe his heart gave out.”

  “How old was your father? Jorna was his name, right?”

  “Yes, Warden General, his name was Jorna. I believe he was fifty five.”

  The Warden General sat back in his chair, seemingly mulling something over in his head. “That’s a long time to have worked in the mines. I’m surprised he lasted that long.”

  “My father was a tough man.” Brant was not boasting for his father. He was simply stating a fact.

  “It is said that you are as well.”

  They heard a small commotion outside the tent, then the outer flap opened and a warrior entered, striding quickly over to stand next to Brant’s chair. A smile finally broke through the Warden General’s stern demeanor as he recognized the newcomer. Brant noticed his armor and his heartbeat quickened. It was a Dygon Guard. The warrior looked down at Brant with black eyes, his stern face emotionless. But when he looked back at the Warden General, he met the man with a smile, and a raised hand. They shook hands briefly, greeting one another warmly as if Brant did not exist.

  “Kulvar Rand, it is good to see you. I expected you a few days from now. You must have made good time,” the Warden General said. “Can I get you some refreshments?”

  At the mention of the man’s name, Brant blanched, unsure of what he should do and feeling completely out of his element. Kulvar Rand was a name everyone knew. The man was a legend. Dygon Guards were the most skilled and elite warriors in all of Dy’ain, and Kulvar Rand was their leader, thought to be the best swordsman in the realm. His hair was shaved short, close to the scalp, the typical style for Dygon Guards, and his black travel worn cape was covered in dust. He wore silver armor, like a warden’s, but what made his different was the center of the breast plate. The center of his cuirass was black, and etched into the black metal was the silver symbol of House Dormath, two swords crossed over a mountain. The work was beautifully done, with silver inlays so intricately done they reproduced in meticulous detail the designs of the sword hilts and showed every nook and cranny of Bone Mountain, the tallest peak in the Devlin Mountain Range. It must have cost a fortune. Brant glanced at the sword and dagger at his hip. The hilt of the sword was unadorned and wrapped in black leather. He had heard tales of Kulvar Rand’s prowess with his Kul-brite sword. Everyone had. And now, here he was seeing it, that very sword no more than an arm’s reach away. He marveled that it was really Kul-brite forged, not fully coming to terms with the value of such a thing so close to him.

  “Some water would be nice. And yes, we made good time.”

  The Warden General motioned for Warden Tyan to bring some water. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you but I need to make camp with my men. I just wanted to let you know that we had arrived. Besides, you seem busy at the moment.” Kulvar glanced down at Brant, his face unreadable.

  “It’s nothing. The boy’s father died last night. We were just discussing what to do about it.”

  “I see.” Kulvar turned to face Brant. “What’s your name?”

  “Ummm…”

  “Stand up,” the Warden General ordered.

  Brant faced the Warden General, his eyes narrowing in anger. The Warden General was just about to say something else when Brant glanced up at Kulvar Rand, sensing his dark eyes on him. The Dygon Guard’s eyes bore into him, but he looked slightly amused, the corners of his mouth subtly arched. Brant stood up, the chair sliding out behind him. “I’m s
orry, Master Rand, I am just a miner and not aware of protocol.” Brant was not one for apologies, but the aura of this man seemed to demand it.

  “Son, do not fret. I’m no king. Besides, your father has died and I believe that allows you some latitude. Now, what is your name?”

  “Brant, sir. Brant Anwar.”

  Kulvar stood a bit shorter than Brant, but his charismatic presence made him seem larger. His dark eyes looked him over. “You look strong. How long have you been working in the mines?”

  “Since I came of age. My mother died giving birth to me and my father was forced to work the mines so we wouldn’t starve.” Any children brought to the mines had to begin working when they turned fourteen. If they couldn’t handle the work they would be turned out on their own. Working the mines was not something to which one aspired. It was often a last resort for those who had no other options due to unfortunate circumstances or need. The job alone was difficult enough to weed out most men. That, combined with the long hours and low pay, were enough to discourage everyone but the most desperate or destitute. It was a profession that few entered willingly. Nearly everything the miners possessed was owned by the king, and once their rent and the cost of food was taken from their pay, there was little left, a few coins to bet on a fight or to squander on cheap norg.

  “He’s a fighter with quite a reputation. If I recall, you have not lost a match since you started competing,” the Warden General added, addressing Brant personally. The other warden handed Kulvar a cup of water he had poured from a jug on the side table.

  “That’s true,” Brant replied.

  “Really?” Kulvar asked. “That is quite an accomplishment for one so young.” Brant, not sure how to reply, said nothing. Kulvar seemed to notice his discomfort. “Please, sit, boy,” he said, not unkindly. “So, what are your plans now?” he asked as Brant sat down. “Will you stay and continue to work the mines, or will you go out on your own?”

  Brant looked at Warden General Kane. “Do I have a choice?”

  “How old are you?” the Warden General asked.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Then yes, you have a choice.”

  “Well, I think…”

  “…but,” the Warden General interrupted. “Your father has a debt to pay if I recall.” The Warden General stood up from his chair and went to a chest of drawers in the corner of the room. Opening one, he started thumbing through some papers, finally producing the one he sought. Returning to his seat he perused the document quickly.

  “What does my father’s debt have to do with me?”

  “You are responsible for it,” Kulvar Rand answered for the Warden General. “It is the law.”

  Now Brant was angry. It made no sense. Why would someone else have to pay for another’s mistakes? “My father was a drunk and a fool. I will not pay for his mistakes.”

  Kulvar raised his eyes in amusement and looked at the Warden General, whose face showed no sign of mirth.

  “You will pay for them,” the Warden General said sternly.

  Brant seethed. But what could he do? Even in death his father found a way to hurt him. “How much does he owe?”

  “Well, over the years he has accumulated a debt of thirty gold dracks.”

  “What!? How can I pay off such a debt!?” Brant had collected six gold dracks, five silver shikes, and maybe ten copper tiggs from his fights, which didn’t even come close to what he now apparently owed. Besides, if he used his money to pay it, then he would have none left over to pay for his rent, food, or anything else if he wished to leave.

  “You’ll have to keep working until you do,” the Warden General said matter-of-factly.

  “But my father had some coin,” Brant said hastily, trying to figure a way out of this predicament. If his father had taken most of the coin from the fights he had won, then perhaps there was enough stored away to pay this debt. But he knew that was doubtful. He knew full well that his father had spent nearly all of his money on drink and the cheap whores that moved through the mining camps.

  As if on cue another warden entered the tent and set a small bag of coin on the Warden General’s desk. He grabbed it and dumped out the contents. A handful of coins jingled across the wooden top. It looked to be about the equivalent of fifteen gold dracks.

  “What’s this?” Brant asked.

  “The money we found in your bilt.”

  “You have no right!” Brant stormed as he jumped up from his chair.

  Warden Tyan reached for his blade, but before his hand even touched the hilt, Kulvar Rand’s Kul-brite blade rang from his scabbard and rested lightly on Brant’s throat, stopping him instantly.

  “Calm yourself, boy,” Kulvar admonished, his voice eerily devoid of emotion. “Sit back down.”

  Brant looked down at the blade resting on his neck. The shiny surface was so bright that it nearly blinded him, and despite the light touch of the master swordsman, he could feel the metal cut through his skin, releasing a small trickle of blood that dripped down his neck. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but he thought he caught a flicker of green light that quickly danced across the silver blade.

  Brant sat down, trying to quell his anger as Kulvar sheathed his sword in one smooth motion.

  Finally the Warden General spoke. “We have every right. Everything you have is ours, owned by the king.”

  “But not the coin,” Brant pleaded. “That is all I have.” Brant thought that his father would have had more, and he suspected that the warden had taken some before bringing the contents back to the Warden General.

  “You owe a debt, so yes, even the coin is ours.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “The only thing you can do,” the Warden General said. “Work until it’s paid off.”

  Brant ground his teeth in frustration, rubbing his eyes and trying to come up with another solution. He did not want to remain in the mines. He didn’t know what he would do, but he knew he didn’t want to end up like his father and work the mines his entire life, dying with nothing to show for a lifetime of work.

  “I do not want to spend my life working the mines,” Brant whispered softly.

  “I may have a solution,” Kulvar announced.

  Brant looked up at him. “Anything, sir. I will do anything.”

  Kulvar smiled. “How about another fight?”

  Brant looked at him quizzically, trying to figure out if he was serious. Then he looked at the Warden General who was equally surprised. “But I owe nearly fifteen gold dracks. How can one fight pay for that?”

  “I will cover your debt if you fight one of the wardens,” Kulvar said. “And if you win, I will give you five gold dracks for the road if you still wish to leave.”

  “But why would you do this?” Brant asked, confused.

  “For sport and curiosity. And my men will enjoy it. Fifteen gold dracks is nothing to me, well worth a good fight. What do you say?”

  “Fight a warden? That’s insane,” Brant said, mostly to himself. Wardens were highly trained fighters, and with the exception of the Dygon Guard and the king’s Sentinels, wardens were the most deadly fighting men in Dy’ain.

  “But is it worth fifteen gold dracks?” Kulvar asked softly.

  Brant thought about it. Even if he lost, which he likely would, his debt would be paid. But what then? He would have no money left to live on. He would have to leave coinless, or stay and work the mines until he had saved enough to leave. But if he won, his debt would be paid and he would have some coin for the road. Five dracks would not get him far, but it would at least be a start. If he didn’t fight, he would be forced to work for a long while before he could pay off that debt, and then he would be right back to where he started. He felt like he was trapped in a corner; neither decision a good one, though one would at least give him a chance to leave the mines sooner rather than later.

  Brant looked up at Kulvar. “I will fight.”

  Brant stood shirtless before his opponent. The man he was fighting
was a warden that he had only seen on few occasions. His name was Bargos. Brant had never spoken with him and he had observed that he was not prone to idle chatter. And he looked every bit the soldier. He was older than Brant, maybe early thirties, and his body reflected a lifetime of fighting. Numerous scars covered his forearms with a particularly wicked one running down the side of his cheek. He was half a head shorter than Brant, but his arms, which were covered with thick well defined muscles, a result of years of swinging a sword and lifting a shield, more than made up for his lesser stature. He had long light brown hair, rare for this part of the world, and his eyes were a blue gray, piercing and hawk-like.

  Kulvar Rand stood between them. “Both fighters ready?” Nodding their heads in acknowledgement, both fighters shifted back and forth on the balls of their feet. “Remember, the fight is over when one man is knocked unconscious or submits.” Neither said anything in response; they both knew the rule. And they knew that was the only rule, that in fact there were no rules.

  The crowd was the largest that Brant had ever seen. It looked as if the entire camp was out, as well as the wardens that were not guarding the stores of Kul-brite. In fact, they had to move the fight outside in order to accommodate the crowd. Fifteen large braziers formed a circle approximately thirty paces in diameter, their fires casting an orange glow across the clearing as the sun disappeared behind Bone Peak, the tallest peak in the Devlin Range.

  “You may begin,” Kulvar announced, stepping back to the edge of the perimeter.

  The two combatants slowly circled each other. Brant had to admit that he was nervous. Wardens were skilled, highly trained fighters, and this man certainly looked the part. He had no idea how much of their training included hand to hand fighting, but he figured he was about to find out.