Written in Blood

by Span, Ryan A.

  “Silence,” the woman snapped to forestall any protests. “We will hear you, Rogald of the Valley, though we make no promises.”

  Rogald clapped his hands together. He interlaced his fingers, then brought them down to rest just above his stomach. “So agreed. Dine with us tonight, Bronze-Bearers. Dine with the Men of the Valley, and then we can decide what must be done.”

  He took the box and closed it reverently, like a treasure beyond price. The six locks clicked back into place. He carried it away himself, and his escort went with him, leaving Racha as their sole representative. She looked... uncomfortable. Stiff, and formal, neither hostile nor friendly. She obviously wished we weren't here. Which made me wonder why she brought us to Brunoke in the first place.

  She said, “A house is prepared for you. As long as you remain guests of the Valley, my father commands me to see to your needs. Questions, ask them. Only not about the bronzes.”

  If I hadn't been watching her closely, I might not have noticed her momentary glance across the fire, quick and fleeting as a flash of lightning. I saw her eyes link with Aemedd's. Some unspoken message pass between them. I didn't know what it meant, but one thing seemed certain. She wasn't very fond of our scholar.

  Racha caught me looking at her, and her cheeks flushed. She excused herself in a hurry, promising to visit again once we were settled.

  Once we gathered our things, a servant came and escorted us to one of the roundhouses at the end of the central street. The Chief's emblem, a black staff bearing grapes, hung above the door. It looked like one of the largest houses in the valley, with multiple rooms, high ceilings and many other rural luxuries. Mosaic tiles covered the floor in flowing, organic patterns. A big firepit in the front room gave us plenty of warmth. The three bedrooms were laid out with sleeping furs for all nine of us, but this was quickly deemed unsuitable, since the woman refused to share a room with men. She gracefully suggested that the evictees could either find rooms to share or kip on the floor by the fire.

  Well, who was going to tell her no?

  The rest of the afternoon we spent resting and getting ready for dinner. It seemed like an occasion to dress up for. My thighs were raw from weeks in the saddle, and I was a bit rusty on how to put on anything but riding leathers, but I did manage to clothe myself. The outfit ‒ one of the ones I got in Kingsport ‒ hugged my body in a soft, unctuous way.

  When we left the city I swore I'd go screaming mad if I had to wear another bit of silk, velvet or brocade. The smell of perfume made me ill. On the other hand, there was something about well-made clothes tailored to fit down to the smallest thread... It felt nicer than I cared to admit.

  I even went for broke and took off my travel-beard. I already carried the perfect shaving mirror, my beautiful breastplate. With each stroke of the razor my reflection became a little more civilised. Like somebody who really could've put a child in the belly of one of the Kingdom's noble ladies.

  I winced and pushed the thought out of my head. This whole trip, I'd tried not to think of Calum and his mother, with varying degrees of success. I could go mad wondering about what might've been. Shivering, I availed myself of the Chief's hospitality and started on the wine he'd put out for us. A few cups helped steady my nerves. A few more, and I felt almost able to face the evening.

  “Byren,” said a voice, startling me out of my trance. “Did you hear? It's dinnertime.”

  “Coming!”

  I hurried to buckle my breastplate and stepped outside. I found the sun already below the tops of the tall mountains. I'd been drinking and staring into space for more than an hour.

  Four of the Chieftain's personal retainers waited to escort us. They wore red tunics like fore-shortened knight's tabards, trimmed with yellow, and brown ceremonial capes hung down their backs. These were so long they dragged along the ground at their heels. Each man held a long spear with a dark, diamond-shaped head. Flint or obsidian, I couldn't tell in the twilight. Once we were all gathered, they lowered one knee to the ground and dipped their spears in salute. It all had a very ritual feel to it.

  They turned as one man, careful not to step on their whirling capes, and led us up the street at a stately pace. Distant music played to the rhythm of their footfalls. A warbling, high-pitched flute of some kind, the gentle plucking of a lyre, and a large man banging a large drum for all he was worth.

  The woman headed the procession. Grey, somber Descard was at her side, as befitted his station. Sir Erroll and Aemedd walked one step behind. The knight did his utmost not to let his temper show. In his opinion he clearly ought to be front and centre with the King's sister on his arm. The requirements of diplomacy strained him to breaking point.

  Behind him were Faro and myself. My role as a 'Bronze-Bearer' wouldn't let me fade into the background this time. I wore two pieces, which earned me the rapt attention of the line of spectators who came to watch us. I told myself I could handle it. My confidence fluttered on wings of wine.

  Yazizi and the Rangers brought up the rear. She wore her piece hidden under the black dress she'd taken from Kingsport. It softened her hard edges, and moulded taut muscle and whipcord sinews into femininity by some tailor's magic. I certainly couldn't blame Faro for looking over his shoulder. If things were different, all the men's eyes might've been on her, but she was barely a moon compared to the radiant sun at the head of us.

  The woman seemed to favour red as her colour most times, but tonight she was a Mother Goddess, like the good Earth herself in warm brown and vibrant green. Her silk sleeves were patterned as branches and fresh leaves. Her upper body became a life-giving tree wrapped in brown suede and buckles of shiny brass like golden fruits. Her skirts were streamers of root and grass that fluttered behind her at every step.

  That choice of clothes was no accident. She planned it far in advance, to appeal to the mountain folk and their connection with the land. It worked. By the Saints' infinite mercy, if she'd asked, half the men would've laid down their lives for her on the spot.

  Suddenly I heard Yazizi by my ear, whispering with cruel amusement, “Don't trip over your tongue while it's hanging on the floor.”

  I shrugged her off and did my best to ignore the barb.

  We were greeted outside the Chieftain's hall by a roughly-carved wooden statue of Saint Ferling, patron saint of the mountain folk and difficult journeys. In the South they showed him in fine robes with a mitre and a gold-shod staff. This rendition wore rags and a bandana tied round his head, and he held a short, misshapen walking stick up to the sky. He still carried his cross, though, and a bag around his neck containing his own ears preserved in salt. Cut off by Calgard Black Oak, last of the mountain kings. Also the last pagan in these parts, supposedly, but I suspected Ferling might've been a bit optimistic on that score.

  Inside the hall, the party was more exclusive. Only one table had been set, a huge semicircle of ancient pine wrapped around the firepit. The chairs matched the table, each one carved whole from a single trunk, still partly covered in pine bark. There were nine seats of honour along the outer curve, but at the head stood the biggest stump by far. It was nothing short of a throne, the very picture of barbarian splendour, still mounted on its carrying bracket of four heavy bars of iron-banded oak. The arm rests were carved into the shape of roaring bear's heads. From the top sprouted the biggest set of antlers I'd ever seen, great jagged fans of bone at least six feet in length, maybe more. I could scarcely imagine the creature that had worn them when it was alive.

  Chief Rogald stood in front of the fire with Racha and a few of the local aristocracy. He was talking to a black-haired young man in a coat of bronze plates, crudely sewn together, leaving huge gaps between the squares. Not armour, then, but some weird ceremonial outfit. I could hear it clatter together when he moved. These people got stranger by the minute.

  At the low moan of a war-horn, the Chief and his retinue took their places at the table, although they remained standing. Then we guests were shown to ours. Rogald too
k his silver flagon and held it up as if to make a toast. Racha took a jug of rich black cider from the table and filled her father's cup for him.

  “I am Rogald, First Man of the Valley,” he boomed, while Racha echoed his words in the mountain dialect for those who didn't understand Southern. “I hereby pronounce a welcome to our guests, the Bronze-Bearers whom we have so long expected. To you, we drink, for our mouths are dry and we have much to say.”

  He drained his cup in one go. The other nobles followed his example, though a few could only manage theirs half-full. They sat down as they finished, leaving only Rogald on his feet.

  “We have rehearsed this evening countless times throughout our lives. My father led it before me. Before him, it was Poul of the Iron-Shakers,” one of the other nobles touched his heart as a sign of respect to his ancestor, “and many more back to the dawn of our history when all the mountain folk knelt to one king. Had you gone to Grenoke, you might have seen something like it, though I do not know how they have twisted and corrupted it over the years. We faithful on the other hand have preserved the stories without error, knowing you would come.

  “In my youth, my father taught me many things. How to hunt. How to fight. How to be a man. Then he sent me to the Academy in Kingsport, where I studied for years. I learned to read and write, to speak the holy tongue, sums, and much of the history of our world. I thought I knew everything. Only when I came back to the Valley from my schooling did my father take me aside and confide in me the greatest of our secrets. A story unknown even to the great Academy and its scholars. Tonight, we will share it with you. The story of the Brass Men.”

  He lowered his glass and sat down. All eyes turned to the young man on his right, the one in the jangling bronze coat. He rose, cleared his throat, and began to sing in a high, piping voice. It was strangely pretty, perhaps helped by the fact that I didn't understand a word. None of us could. Thankfully, the singer fell silent after each verse, and Racha translated his words in her heavy, lilting accent.

  “The story of the Brass Men, known in their ancient language as Kassalenaka, is known to us. Even now you may hear faint echoes of their fallen cities, the ruins of their great empire, preserved only in places where few men dare to tread. Even the sun and the rain shun them, because they fear what lingers.”

  Aemedd's jaw quivered. He wanted so much to argue that 'fear' did not factor into weather patterns, but politeness kept his mouth shut.

  “The Brass Men worshipped gods of metal. They prized things of copper, brass and electrum, and they crafted much from them. However, they loved bronze above all. Their armies marched in plate and fought with weapons made from it. Their cities were paved in it, their walls decorated in scrollwork, their roofs covered in bronze tile. Many of their old mines still run through these mountains as a testament to their endless quest for tin and copper.

  “At their peak, they covered the old continent from the Edge of the World to the deep south, from west to east. No one could stand against their armies. They ruled from six great strongholds. Sonnoreth, the Proud. Kalmoreth, the Valiant. Hukalon, the Prudent. Vinkalon, the Loyal. Helenor Tam, the Open Hand; and one other, their capital in the far north. The greatest city ever built by the hands of men. It was called Kassareth.”

  A sharp, indrawn breath hissed from our end of the table. I searched for the source, and found Yazizi, pale as a ghost, hands clenched in her lap.

  “Kassareth, the Wise and the Mighty, was the birthplace of the Brass Men,” Racha went on, “and it was to Kassareth that the rest of the empire paid tribute. Her craftsmen had no rival. Great bronze statues lined the halls of her government. It is said the metal gods themselves walked her streets nodding their approval. However, when the ruling blood of Kassareth began to wear thin, the Avatar of Bronze saw how old and weak the Emperor had become. His second sight predicted strife and ruin. Without an heir, the Empire would collapse under its own weight and become easy pickings for the powerful barbarian tribes of the Azhar.

  “So the Avatar of Bronze returned to his divine smithy and forged six items, six pieces of a matched set, from parts of his own body, imbued with his divine essence. The Armaments. He gifted them to the Emperor of Kassareth, and as each one was donned, the Emperor felt youth and vitality returning to him. He ran and jumped and wrestled like a young man. He was stronger, faster and more brave than ever before. He became so bold that upon the same day, he held his sword up high and declared a war of extermination on the barbarian tribes.”

  My head was beginning to hurt as I listened, and not just because of the cider. Racha stated perfectly plausible things in the same breath as complete and utter nonsense, all woven into one story. I had a hard time separating the facts from the fairytale.

  “The war was bloody. The Brass Men did not use horses, and despite their prowess, the skilled cavalry of the Azhar bled them in endless skirmishes. However, they could not skirmish forever. At length they met the Brass Men in the field with all the strength they could muster. A hundred thousand men clashed in the greatest battle this world has ever witnessed. It raged for hours, into the dead of night, when the bloodshed was lit by great balls of burning pitch and the reflection of polished bronze. The Emperor was always at the core of it, his inhuman voice thundering commands, his sword flashing left and right until every inch of him dripped with blood. The fighting was so brutal it drew the attention of the gods, both the Avatars of metal and the cruel barbarian gods astride their demon steeds. The gods talked. Then they argued. Then... Who can say which side attacked first? It didn't matter. On that day, the gods themselves went to war.”

  I was close enough to hear Sir Erroll muttering something under his breath about heathens and his opinion of them. It was less than flattering.

  “A great storm battered the land as the gods fought with ten times the fury and bitterness of men. Divine blood rained down on the grasslands and scarred them, cracked them, turned them to desert. The Avatar of Iron discovered that even gods can die, as he struck down one of the barbarians and was then struck himself. In that moment, all the iron in the world lost its life. It became dull, and brittle, and began to rust. It would never shine again.

  “The loss of their brothers only served to enrage the combatants. A great duel ensued between Bronze and Bokoro, the greatest of the barbarian gods. They traded blow for blow, hour after hour, each meeting of their blades like a thousand church-bells ringing in unison. Finally, in one mighty strike, Bronze shattered the barbarian's club and bashed him to the ground. With the enemy on his knees, the Avatar prepared to show mercy. He offered the Azhar a surrender. He promised their lives spared, if they pledged fealty.

  “When the Emperor heard his god's voice booming across the battlefield, offering terms of peace, he denied it. He lashed about him until a hundred men lay dead on both sides. He laughed and screamed for more. Even when the Avatar ordered him to truce, the Emperor refused. The gifts of a god had twisted his mind and possessed him with an unquenchable lust for power. In one great leap he threw himself at the Avatar of Bronze and struck him through the heart.

  “Bronze died upon the sword he had made. As his life left him, he summoned his remaining strength ‒ the power of all the gods, both metal and flesh ‒ and whispered a terrible curse upon the Brass Men and their faithless Emperor. The metal they had worshipped would become their enemy. Everything they touched would be tainted, and all the work of their hands would wither and die.

  “Suddenly the Brass Men's weapons crumbled. Their armour turned green and fell to pieces. Only the Emperor's Armaments remained untouched, containing the remnants of Bronze's divine power. Bokoro sensed his moment then, and escaped in the confusion, offering no treaty and no peace. The Emperor tried to pursue, but even the Armaments didn't allow him entry to the realm of the gods. He ran after the Azhar to kill them, but even the Armaments didn't allow him to outrun their horses.

  “Without weapons or armour, the Brass Men were forced to retreat, and were given no mercy as
they did. For every ten thousand who marched, only a few hundred returned alive. The empire's outlying cities were soon under siege from all sides. Without the protection of their fabled armies, they were sacked one by one. The barbarians, Azhar and others, slaughtered the people and razed every city to the ground. Then they buried the broken remains so that no one would know the Brass Men had ever existed.

  “What became of the Emperor is lost to us. Only that the Armaments were taken, divided and sealed away in vast tombs in the six great strongholds. Then even these strongholds were abandoned, and proud Kassareth, and the Brass Men passed out of this world.”

  Silence followed. The singer bowed and sat down. Racha, too. I glanced to my left, and saw that no one really knew how to respond. Their skepticism was writ large across their faces.

  “Are we to understand then,” Descard offered in a painfully neutral tone, “that these bronzes are... pieces of a dead, pagan god?”

  A toothy smile split Rogald's lips. “You sound much like the Professor here. 'There is no such thing as magic,' yes? Even with five of the Armaments close enough to touch, he wears that mantra like a piece of armour.”

  Several responses were ready to fire across the table, but again the woman stopped them dead, leaning forward with her hands folded under her chin. Her eyes glittered like emeralds in the firelight. “It seems to me as though the Brass Men have been trying to atone for their Emperor's sins for a long time. Is that why we must abandon our mission?”

  “Your words are sharp, Milady,” said Rogald, a little pained. “Some of us can trace our ancestry to a time long before Aran the First laid envious eyes upon this land. The simple truth is, the Armaments are the cursed remnants of a past better left forgotten. They were never meant for man to wield. They cannot be destroyed, so they must be kept separate, and safe.”

  “According to your story, my Chieftain, they were made for a man to wield.”