The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  He sat at a table near the fireplace, its roaring flames blanketing him with warmth. It was now fall and the evenings were getting colder. One could almost feel the gentle touch of winter slowly turning into a silent embrace. The crowded bar was filled with the clamorous sounds of people eating, drinking, talking, and laughing, which Rath found surprisingly comforting, a welcome reprieve from the silent, tireless work he had been doing alone in the king’s study.

  Suddenly he recognized someone, and the man noticed him as well, their eyes somehow connecting across the crowded room. It was Banrigar, the big man who worked the door at the Black Cat. His huge head and scarred face made it easy to pick him out amongst the crowd. Rath found it difficult to maintain eye contact, and had to look away from his dark penetrating eyes. Subtly, he looked back, and Banrigar smiled, the corner of his lip raising slightly as he lifted his glass in salute. Rath nodded his head, doing the same, and they both drank from their cups. Rath noticed that he was alone as well. The man had always put Rath on edge and it didn’t surprise him that he was alone, but maybe that was an unfair assessment. After all, he really knew nothing about him. He was big and scary looking, but he had always treated him and Jarak with respect.

  There was some commotion nearby that drew Jarak’s attention away from Banrigar. Three men sat at a nearby table carrying several pitchers of ale. They were clearly drunk and rambunctious, oblivious to the fact that their raucous banter might be annoying the nearby customers. In fact, a serving girl made her way to the table and politely asked them to refrain from yelling. Rath took an immediate dislike to them. The bar was loud, and lusty banter was not uncommon, but these three were taking it a step further. Two of the men looked to be brothers, tall and lanky, and wearing old and smudged clothes. Rath thought they might be artisans of some sort as he could see that their hands were heavily callused. Perhaps they were tanners or coopers, coming into Finn’s for some fun. The third man was much larger, thick in the belly, with burly arms that looked like overstuffed sausages. His clothes were covered with white dust and Rath figured he might be a mason.

  The men laughed at the barmaid, ordering more ale and telling her to mind her own business. Frowning, her brows furrowed in anger, she stomped off towards the bar.

  Rath continued to sip his drink, gazing around the room, and trying to ignore the obnoxious trio. Other patrons were eyeing them with frustration, but no one said anything, preferring their food and drink over confrontation.

  As Rath finished his drink and prepared to order another, one of the men, the big mason, turned around and asked him something. He was obviously drunk, and his slurred words, despite his deafening volume, were hard to understand. “Want to hear a joke?” the man slurred. He didn’t wait for Rath to respond nor did he take notice of Rath’s irritated expression. “What does a leper have in common with Prince Jarak?”

  Rath looked away, having heard the joke many times. Prince Jarak’s brothel exploits were well known, and several jokes pertaining to his un-princely actions had been circulating the city for years now. “I’ve heard the joke before, now leave me be.”

  But the big man ignored him, delivering the punch line like it was the funniest thing he ever heard. “They both lost their manhood,” he said, wiggling his little pinky in the process as if it would help Rath understand the joke better. His buddies laughed, consuming more ale in the process.

  Rath continued to look elsewhere, ignoring the man.

  “Don’ you get it? You know, the prince’s poker rusted off because he stuck it in to many wet holes.” By this time the man was roaring with laughter, thinking his analogy even funnier than the joke. But his expression changed when he realized that Rath was not laughing with him. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” the man said, his laughter taking on an edge of anger. “Whas’ your problem? Don’ you like jokes?”

  “I like funny jokes. And that wasn’t funny.”

  “It’s hilarious. Prince Jarak is just a pompous cock anyway.” Then he slammed his hand on the table, laughing boisterously at his own comment.

  Rath did not normally allow himself to be pulled into futile arguments with drunken imbeciles. But the ale and his anger got the best of him. “He is not just a pompous cock,” Rath snapped. “You don’t even know him.”

  “And you do?” This time it was one of the big guy’s buddies that spoke up, grinning lazily and caressing his mug as if it were the most precious of objects.

  “I do know him. I’m his tutor.”

  The big guy, his mouth full of ale, burst out laughing, spewing the warm liquid all over Rath. “That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You tell better jokes than me!” He howled with laughter, nearly choking on his ale.

  Rath stood up quickly, wiping the liquid from his face. “You idiot! You spit on me! What do you know anyway, you’re just a fat drunk!”

  This time the man’s smile disappeared and he stood up to his full height, towering a full head over Rath. Just a moment ago he seemed too drunk to stand or carry on a coherent conversation. But now suddenly he was standing on steady legs and his eyes narrowed dangerously, and before Rath could react, the man lunged at him, reaching out with his huge right hand to grab his tunic.

  Rath’s eyes widened in surprise as he stepped back to avoid the mason’s meaty hand. But it never found his shirt.

  Banrigar was suddenly there, his hand flashing out and gripping the big man’s wrist, jerking it forward and knocking him off balance. Then, just as quick, he yanked the man’s hand backwards, wrenching it hard over his shoulder in a violent and powerful move that lifted him off his feet and threw him onto his back, scattering his chair and the table in the process.

  The mason howled in pain as Banrigar continued to twist his wrist. His friends prudently decided against involving themselves in the conflict; they wanted nothing to do with this fighter, and hurriedly scooted away from the table, while the rest of the crowd, now suddenly silent, watched on with fascination. “If you try anything more I’ll break your arm,” Banrigar growled. “When I let go of your wrist you are going to walk out of here with your friends. If you try anything else, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  Needing no further encouragement, the big man shouted his surrender. “Yes, yes, I understand! Just let go of my arm!”

  Banrigar released him, and the man scooted away, holding his wrist as he stood. He glared at Banrigar as his friends joined him. “Now, pay for your drinks and get out of here.”

  Each man reached into his pocket and tossed a few coins onto the table, and walked out of the bar as all eyes watched. Most were smiling, pleased at the justice meted out to the obnoxious trio, some even wishing they had been the ones who had dealt the punishment. Clearly everyone was happy to see them go.

  Once they were gone the bar returned to its normal state, conversation buzzing around the confrontation they had just witnessed. Banrigar lifted up the chair and repositioned it by the table. He looked at Rath, smiled, and moved to return to his table.

  “Thank you, Banrigar,” Rath blurted out. “I didn’t think he would attack me.”

  He looked back at him, the edge of his lip rising again in amusement. “Next time be careful who you anger. I might not be there to help.”

  “Sound advice,” Rath replied as he sat back down. “Ummm…would you like to join me?” Banrigar hesitated. “I’m buying, it’s the least I can do.”

  This time he turned to face him. “Let me give you another piece of advice. Never offer to buy someone drinks until you know how much they can drink.” But he was smiling, and before Rath could respond he was sitting next to him. “Fighting always makes me parched.” He was grinning from ear to ear, which looked awkward; his big mouth accentuated even more by the size of his large head. Rath had a feeling that the night was just beginning.

  6

  Chapter

  My whole life I’ve studied war, conquest, and the impact that these two events have had on our history. As far back as I can remember
, the Saricons have been a conquering people, invaders whose primary goals have been to destroy, pillage, and enslave. I will admit that these foreign invaders have been portrayed in a biased light. After all, as a student of history, it would not be fair if I did not look at the history of our own lands as a comparison. Are the Dy’ainian people so much different from the Saricons? Thousands of years ago our ancestors came to the shores of Dy’ain. They found the land already inhabited by the Schulg tribes. Did we not do to them the same as the Saricons are attempting to do to us? They desire our precious Kul-brite steel, and our fertile farmland, just as we desired the Schulg land, the land that the nomads had inhabited for thousands of years. And we took their lands by force, just as the Saricons are attempting to do to us. Despite our religious differences, and our obvious physical differences, it seems we are more similar than we’d like to believe.

  The Varga are another example. The giants were once a mighty race living throughout the lands of Kael. Thousands of years ago our Dy’ainian ancestors were tribal, and some of the tribes, who later became the Kaelians, moved south. Over time their numbers grew and they slowly pushed the Varga north. They had also brought with them a sickness, a burning death, a disease that the Varga could not fight off, killing thousands. Their populations decimated, even the ferocious giants could not hold off the Kaelians.

  So do we, the Dy’ainians, today, represent who the Varga and Schulg were thousands of years ago? It seems to me that we are now in the same position as they were a long time ago. Will we be conquered and subjugated by the Saricons? I don’t know. But I can say one thing, that we, just like the Varga and the Schulg, will fight. It is our nature, as it was theirs, to do so. May Argon and Felina give us strength in the war to come.

  Journal entry 38

  Kivalla Der’une, Historian, Keeper of the records in Cythera, capital of Dy’ain

  * * *

  5089, the 14th cyn after the Great Change

  Brant’s first fight came after three months of training. He was moving through the sword forms he had been taught, his strong body guiding him smoothly through the positions. One hound sat nearby, the other two were watching Uln as he lifted a massive log, heaving it end over end.

  Gar’gon was watching Uln while Tangar stood next to the hound watching Brant and correcting any missteps or improper arm positions. Then suddenly he told him to stop. Brant had been learning some rudimentary Schulg as Tangar had been conversing with him in that language, teaching him more every day.

  “Fighters come into village tomorrow. You will fight.”

  Brant wiped the sweat from his brow. It was now the middle of summer and the mid-day sun was hot. His tunic was off and his muscular body was drenched in sweat. For the last three months, every hour, every day, was spent in training, learning new techniques of hand to hand combat, as well as ways to further strengthen his body. Much of each day was spent in physical training, while the rest was spent learning new fighting techniques. The giant hill became Brant’s biggest adversary. Daily, he marched up the hill holding buckets laden with stones, his arms stretched out wide. His sides were scarred from the numerous cuts caused by the blades attached to his arms. But now he could ascend the hill several times, the buckets nearly full, without wounding himself. And despite his increased bulk, brought about by his intense physical training, he could run for hours in the heat and cover great distances. He ate meals of meat, grains, goat milk, and various fruits with honey. He also drank a disgusting green beverage. Brant had no idea what was in it, but Tangar told him that it would keep him healthy and strong. Brant had begun his training already fit and strong as an ox, but now nearly every ounce of fat on his body had been converted to pure iron muscle, his arms, legs, and chest resembled boulders over which his skin had been stretched. Not only was he powerfully built, but he could also move with incredible speed. Even Tangar had seemed impressed with his progress. “Tomorrow I fight?” Brant said apprehensively, knowing that the time had been approaching, He knew he was as ready as he’d ever be.

  “Yes. Eat and drink well tonight. Get sleep. I take you to village in morning.”

  “Who will I fight?

  “Don’t know yet. But you must find anger,” Tangar said, tapping his heart. “You must look for it here, or you could die.”

  Brant looked at the sword in his hand, the blade marred with chips and imperfections. But it was light and well balanced. There was a moment where he thought of lunging towards Tangar, and stabbing him through the heart. But he resisted the urge. Even if he could surprise and defeat the Schulg warrior, which he doubted, he knew he had little chance of surviving any confrontation with the hounds, who were always close by. He had to survive the fight. He would find that anger, and he would win.

  The morning came quickly and Brant’s restless sleep did little to calm his nerves. As he left their cave, Uln, who had already finished his morning meal, looked up at him earnestly with his large green eyes. “Do not die, friend Brant.”

  Brant gave him a waning smile. “I do not plan to.”

  Uln thumped his fist on his barrel-like chest. “Not hesitate, kill, or you die.”

  “Let’s go,” Tangar said, nudging Brant forward. Brant’s hands were tied tightly together, and a leather strap with a length of chain connected his ankles together. He wore sandals with leather straps, soft leather leggings made in the Schulg fashion, loose fitting and stitched on the sides, and a vest made from the same leather. It was already warm and he needed little else for clothing.

  After an hour of walking they made it to the village. This was the second time that Brant had seen Tangar’s village, and this time it looked much different. The streets and public buildings were filled with Schulg nomads. There seemed to be twice as many people as before.

  Sensing his confusion, Tangar spoke in his own tongue. “This is Tullot Tribe. They come with fighters.” Tangar pushed him through the crowd. It looked like most of Tangar’s tribe was up and about, lighting fires and preparing meals, sharing drink and talking with the guests. The outlying area around the village was filled with bilts, surrounded by more tribesmen and their horses. They made their way to the far end of the village, everyone eyeing Brant, their expressions unreadable. It was obvious he was one of the fighters. They came to an empty circle of dirt about forty paces in diameter. Natural hillocks surrounded it, scattered with small rocks and shrubs. On closer inspection Brant could see that the small hills surrounding the circle were scattered with makeshift seats. Some seats had been dug into the hill, others had been created from rocks and logs stacked up into various chairs and benches. It was a natural arena. Most of the hills looking down into the clearing were not yet occupied.

  Brant was pushed into the middle of the circle where he saw other men, chained and bound like him. They were looking at him, as he was them. They all looked fierce and strong. Several looked to be nomads, while others were Dy’ainian and perhaps Kaelian. But he saw one fighter that looked like nothing he had ever seen. He was short and stocky with disproportionally long arms which reached to his knees. His skin was gray and dry as if he had been baking in the sun. The fighter’s neck was impossibly thick, starting from the base of his enormous head and angling directly to his shoulders. His head was shaved except for a thin strip of black hair that ran down to a thick patch of hair on his upper back. His face was human like, but differed in a number of ways. Everything about his face was bony and abrupt, with deep ridges and shadowy features. Brant saw sharp teeth in his wide mouth as he licked his dried lips with a thick gray tongue. The most unnerving part was its eyes. They were yellow, like a cat’s, and Brant looked away when they caught him staring.

  “What is that?” Brant asked Tangar.

  Tangar smiled. “That’s a Bullgon. Very rare. They live in the mountains. He is Chief Tu’rock’s fighter. See the scars on his chest?”

  Brant looked back at the Bullgon, who was now looking elsewhere. He could clearly see two raised brands just above his nipple. They
looked like Schulg symbols of some sort, each one slightly different. They were the same scars that Uln carried, although he had five of them. “What are they?”

  “The first one means ‘honor’, while the second one means ‘courage’. Each one is earned after killing five men.”

  “So that Bullgon has won ten fights?”

  “Fourteen fights. He will get his third brand today.”

  “Only if he wins.”

  Tangar smiled for the first time. “He is good at winning.”

  “Will I have to fight him?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  Brant looked at the Bullgon again, appraising him. He was nervous, but confident. He would kill whoever he had to in order to survive. The Bullgon looked very formidable, but Brant had nearly defeated a warden, and that was over a year ago. Now he was stronger, and better trained.

  Suddenly a horn rang out. Men, women, and children swarmed around the arena finding their seats on the hillside amphitheater. In a matter of moments the seats were filled by nomads, all eyes looking down, appraising the fighters.