Swords of Steel Omnibus

by Howie K Bentley et al.

  Raenon entertained her, “Why would you stay here one moment longer if you believed this to be true?”

  Aren looked straight into his eyes. “I am leaving in two days. Lord Sanhar is coming from The Red Jewel and I will return with him to serve in his court. I suggest you leave with me as well. There won’t be as many ships coming to port anymore. King Tavrik has increased the tax on ore so much that no one will buy or trade, and rumors of his lunacy and depravity are spreading among the merchants.”

  Raenon regarded her silently, then finished his brew. “I will not leave because some pale goats are stealing beggars and hopping around in their caves. I thank you for sharing your story but I’m not sailing anywhere just yet.”

  “Very well, Raenon, but remember the tales from your own people. If one summoner can call up from the pit The Wyrms of Fire and Frost, imagine what an army of sorcerous creatures can invoke. I don’t know why I’ve shared with you this, but something tells me you should be forewarned if you expect to survive in Vyntane.”

  Aren rose and walked back to her friend the barmaid, looking back once. She gave him a graven glance as if he were already dead and she looked upon his pyre-forge.

  Raenon stepped outside the tavern. It was now almost dark. Too much time listening to the ravings of a scared dancer, he told himself silently.

  He walked down the alley toward the pier, this time staring down into the passage that he saw the acolyte carry his burden into. He knelt down next to the edge of the stairs and listened. It was only the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs, of the noisy seabirds nesting high above him. He rose to his feet and started to walk toward the main road.

  Was there a faint sound of beating drums? He walked back to the underground passage and listened again. At first just a hum, it swelled louder into the sound of rolling, sinister chanting.

  II

  Raenon walked through the evening and into the night, up the steep road toward Vyntane, stopping halfway to get a pull from his wineskin. Each side of the path rose into the steep, slick rock wall, always at least fifty feet high, trapping those on the road to travel up or down, never around. He could see Seasplitter still docked in the harbor far below. The other two ships he saw earlier were already gone.

  His mind went back to the tavern. What was it that he had heard coming from the passage down in the alley? He could still hear the hum faintly in his mind, the horrible chanting reverberating in the back of his skull.

  Raenon fought the urge to sleep, resolving to get into Vyntane’s gates before finding quarters and getting rest. Only a mile or two left. He stood up and began the march toward the city.

  The dawn was shining its golden light upon the monolithic stone gate of Vyntane when Raenon finally crested the hill. This was surely the work of his ancestors, and he looked proudly upon it.

  The gate itself was chiseled out of the top of the cliff, using Vyntane’s natural defenses to reinforce man’s short domain over Isahin. It rose to a high arch where the dark green turf covered its precipice. Nothing could be seen beyond the gate. It was the only way into Vyntane without sailing around the isle, and the only opening through the cliff face was a few chariots wide. In this small opening stood three guards. Their helms lay on the ground as if they were too uncomfortable to suffer and their swords remained sheathed as Raenon approached.

  “Hold right there!” one of the guards shouted at Raenon as he stood not twenty feet from the opening of the gate. “What’s your business in Vyntane?” the guard questioned.

  Raenon knew within a breath that these three couldn’t prevent him from passing through the gate any more than they could prevent the tide. “I’ve come from Aelbrond, to work on Isahin and learn the skills of Vyntane’s warrior smiths.”

  “Then you have come very far for nothing, Aelbronder. King Tavrik has sealed this gate. No strangers allowed entrance,” the guard yelled back.

  Raenon scowled, “I am no stranger. I am from Maehlin. My people built this gate and the city beyond it.”

  The guardsmen laughed. “Aye, that may be true, but now King Tavrik sits the throne and he doesn’t honor past deeds or allegiances. He pays us well to keep mainlanders out of Vyntane. Now head back down the road and return to your mountains.”

  It had been months since Raenon had last killed, before his father’s murder, and so now all the anger of that injustice swelled up in him, ready to be unleashed on whoever was the first in his path.

  He continued to walk towards the gate. The first guard, the one who spoke, unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Raenon. “Do not test my steel, foreigner! I would send you rolling back down that hill headless!”

  Before he could finish speaking Raenon had drawn Pitkeeper, crouched, pivoted quickly, and swung his broadsword through the guard’s waist, almost chopping him in half. The gatekeeper fell and screamed for his gods, staring at his twitching legs and emptied torso. The other two guards moved in slowly, disheartened to see their fellow dispatched so quickly.

  Raenon could feel the ire rising in him. He ran straight at the two remaining men, throwing his axe into the chest of one and cleaving the other through his skull down to his breastbone.

  He yanked his sword from the middle of the guardsman and retrieved his axe from the other, flinging the gore from both.

  Raenon looked down upon the three ruined corpses. Perhaps he was quick to act. Vyntane’s guard will now be on high alert and this was no place to linger. He left the bodies where they lay and walked through the carved opening of the rock wall gate and saw the city of his ancestors for the first time.

  Vyntane spread out before him like a tattered blanket of black cloth, revealing through the holes patches of rich green turf and giant oaks. What wasn’t forged from iron was carved out of cyclopean blocks of black stone. In fact, like the harbor below, much of the city’s structures were built right on top of, or rather, out of the rock, making it hard to discern where the natural terrain ended and where the dark iron architecture of men began.

  Pitch-shaded buildings, as tall as smoke pines, tapered sharply toward the heavens. On the far northern side of Vyntane a temple shaped like gigantic sword thrust into the earth rose from the ground with an immense anvil altar in front of it. A forged statue of Farik kneeled in reverence before the gigantic steelwork. It was unlike anything he had seen in Aelbrond, or anywhere in Arginor for that matter.

  The Iron Castle, of which Aren spoke the night before, was near the edge of the cliff on Vyntane’s eastern side. Like most of the city, at its base he could see at the onyx rock that crept up into the dark metal bulwark of the castle. It had three main towers. The central tower reached the highest and terminated into a faceted, gemlike structure. The other two towers were wider, with terraces built incrementally and at their precipice each flared into identical half spheres. It was protected on its seaward side by the sheer drop of the unscalable cliffs and its other three sides were guarded by a crescent shaped perimeter of high walls and sentry towers.

  The edges of the city seemed to be mostly small houses, modest in design, but built with sleek and stable craftsmanship. Beyond these low-laying common areas there were no more buildings dotting the landscape, just rolling emerald hills with patches of dark viridian oaks and giant shards of the black rock of Isahin, jutting impudently out from the ground.

  Raenon walked down from the gate, toward the western edge of the city. He had blood on his hands and face, he stood out as an Aelbronder, and Vyntane’s guard would be looking for strangers as soon as the bodies were discovered. It was time to find a change of clothes and a room to wash in.

  He walked along a small cart path which ran along the southwest edge of the citadel. Hoping to avoid any passers-by, he kept the lush green land of Isahin on his left and the dark citadel on his right until he came to a small bridge over a sparkling rivulet. This must be the River Deene, which travelled down from the hills, through the middle of Vyntane and ran off the cliff behind The Iron Castle. Raenon walked
under the bridge, washed the dried blood from his body, and drank the cold, metallic-tasting water. Even the water on Isahin was rich in iron.

  Beyond the bridge he could see a market. He could hear the yelling of merchants, the barking of dogs, the welcomed sound of chaotic commerce. Faintly, he could discern the sound of a smithy, the unmistakable high-pitched ting of hammers striking anvils.

  He walked towards the market that wove along the path on both sides. These were truly his people. Most were Raenon’s size, with straw colored hair and fair skin. The men holstered longswords and the women wore smaller broadswords. There were covered stalls selling food, jewelry, fabrics, honeywine, and ale, most things familiar to him from his home in Aelbrond.

  The people eyed him strangely. Maehlish or not, they were not used to seeing new faces. A burly voice called out to him from behind, “Hey, a true Maehlin warrior has come to the isle, and with the bloodstains to prove it!” The man behind Raenon was standing at a table of furs in a stall comprised mostly of hammered armor and things made from horn. He looked to be a northerner, probably from Haiklan judging by his copper hair and beard. He wore an amulet around his neck, the Hand of Ylar, which is sacred to those from the frozen waste. “Don’t worry, Aelbronder, if you got through the gate then I imagine you must’ve sent a few of Tavrik’s dogs to Hell. That is something the folk around here would reward.”

  “Aye, a few drops of blood at the gate. I had no choice. I’ve come to stay on Isahin as it is my right.” Raenon palmed the hilt of his sword but remained calm.

  The merchant smiled. “It is your right, barbarian. Most people you see here share your Maehlish blood. Their steel is forged with their ancestor’s ash, just as yours is. My name is Hrukir. Please, step inside.” Raenon entered the tent cautiously. Hrukir went on, “Tavrik has not let anyone into Vyntane for months, and word has come from the mines that he has ordered them closed. Apparently he has declared that we will no longer take from the ‘womb’ of Isahin. One by one he has ordered his nobles to be executed, guilty of some treason. The only advisors that remain in his court are of The Starless Night.”

  Raenon gave a concerned look. “Perhaps Aren was right.”

  Hrukir raised an eyebrow. “Aren? Do you know her?”

  Raenon cracked a smile. “I met her last night. She warned me of The Starless Night as well.”

  Hrukir looked down gravely. “And she was kind to do so, stranger. She didn’t come up on the lift last night and I fear for her safety. Too many folk gone missing lately.”

  “I’m sure she stayed at The Cormorant. Her friend was in the tavern with her,” Raenon tried to assure him.

  “I pray to Ylar that you are right. Now put these on.” Hrukir handed him a pile of white furs with bronze detail and dark, almost black, breeks made from elk leather. The white fur coat had a hood, which Hrukir suggested he wear up while walking around the city.

  “I suppose you could pass for a Haiklaner!” Hrukir chuckled as Raenon handed him his old clothes. “Here is what little coin I can spare.” Raenon held out a few silver coins. Hrukir put up his hands in refusal. “No slayer of Tavrik’s guards will pay me anything! Now, what will you do now that you are here?”

  Raenon looked outside the tent to the busy street. “I came to study under the warrior smiths of Vyntane. There is not much left for me in Aelbrond. One day I might return, but not until I have finished my training.”

  Hrukir smiled under his bushy beard. “There is a smithy down the way a bit. Old Aarna knows the ancient secrets of Vyntane’s sorcerer smiths. I believe he’s in need of an apprentice, but you will have to prove yourself a Maehlin pyre-forger before he will share them with you.”

  Raenon looked down proudly at the sword at his side. “My steel is thousands of years old. It has been reforged with the spirit of a hundred warriors of my line. Any sorcerer smith of Vyntane will see that.”

  “Then you had better get going,” Hrukir said jovially, “and tell Aarna that I sent you.”

  “May Farik shine his steel upon you,” Raenon said. “May Ylar’s hand guide you,” replied Hrukir, and Raenon walked out of the tent.

  He passed many merchant stalls on his way down to the smithy. Old Hrukir was right, he wasn’t attracting much attention.

  Soon upon his left he came to the only solid building on the street, a brothel, by the looks of it. He heard the hammers striking in the background. The smithy was close, just down the road, but as he looked inside the open doors of the brothel he could see vaguely the shapes of women lying about the room, naked and writhing like a den of snakes. His youthful lust clouding his better judgement, Raenon stepped inside.

  The windowless room was lit by a blue-green fire set in a flambeau in the middle of the large chamber, and around it spread out every kind of debauchery and decadence. Whores, unclad and gleaming in the weird light, lay around the fire, moaning and caressing. On a large divan against the far wall there were two girls chained together around the neck, already staring at Raenon. As they saw he noticed them they began gesturing and beckoning him to approach. One of the girls poured wine down the other’s breasts and licked it off like a desert traveler dying of thirst.

  Against the opposite wall gamblers, likely from Tarsul, cast their bone die into the large skull of a sea-beast and argued loudly.

  From a dark room at the back of the brothel a voice called to him, “Welcome, swordsman.” The shape of a pale, naked female form started to appear from the darkness. “I don’t recognize you. It’s not often we see a fresh face in here.” She was tall, with coal-black hair and ice blue eyes that pierced Raenon from across the room. She wore a gold chain mail garment across her waist and nothing else. Her skin glistened with sweat and her massive breasts heaved as she approached Raenon, casually stepping over the orgy in the center of the room. As if in a spell, Raenon found it hard to turn from her stare.

  “A Haiklaner with a Maehlish sword, now that is a sight. Tell me, warrior, how have I not seen you before?” she said in a quiet, smoky voice.

  Raenon pulled his white fur hood back, looked down and admired her buxom form. “I have been here for a year, working in the mines until Tavrik closed ‘em a few days ago.”

  She squinted her eyes suspiciously. “I hope you are a better lover than you are a liar, Aelbronder.” She cracked a wicked smile at him and pulled at his arm. Raenon pulled away and started to turn back towards the door. His bluff wouldn’t work here and already too many of Vyntane’s citizens were aware of his presence.

  She tugged him back and put her hands down the front of his leather breeks. “Stay for a while. I have some wine in the back. Share a cup with me.”

  Raenon relented; it had been months since he had felt a woman. She led him back into the shaded room from whence she came.

  It was lit by a few candles. He could make out several tapestries on the black rock walls. Some were scenes of men and women copulating with demons; a few depicted the most popular forms of Brakur, The Insane God. On the far wall, the biggest tapestry illustrated a scene of battle. It appeared to be the legend of the Maehlin warriors driving back into the pit a host of gruesome white creatures.

  Raenon recoiled, but the whore pulled him down upon her large divan and sat upon his broad chest. She poured him a cup of wine and put it to his lips. “Drink, Aelbronder, and I will show you pleasures that your mountains have kept hidden from you all your life.”

  Raenon sipped the strong wine. It warmed him within and tasted like mead but with a slight copper taste, like blood or the spring water from the River Deene. Almost immediately his head started to swim. What a fool, taking wine from a stranger in a strange place, he thought.

  Raenon grabbed her by the throat. He tried to crush her neck as she laughed at him but his arms went numb. He fell back onto the divan. His vision blurred and he felt vertigo as if he stood on the ledge above a bottomless chasm. Into the doorway stepped a figure. His vision was leaving, but he could make out a dark robe, a crimson turban and a pai
r of unwholesome ruby eyes. Then, nothing.

  III

  Raenon awoke to the sound of screaming. His arms and legs were bound by chains and he was laid upon a great stone table. High above him was a vaulted ceiling supported by gigantic iron columns which resolved in bas reliefs forged into the heads of beasts, and gods, and the enemies of gods. He was in a great hall, which must be in The Iron Castle.

  He looked to his right side and saw a group of chained women being led by a small number of The Starless Night down into an opened vault below the hall. He noticed one girl, either dead or nearly dead being carried by two of The ‘Night down the giant stone stairway. He could swear the girl was Aren, but his vision was still blurry.

  On his left he saw a giant throne, and upon it could only be King Tavrik. Dwarfed by his royal seat, which was carved out of a cave formation that jutted out of the ground and into the throne room, he sat and grinned maliciously at the proceedings.

  He was like most kings that Raenon had seen before: fat, vainglorious, and cruel. His curled grey hair fell onto his white embroidered shirt, which was stained and greasy with wine and spilled food. He was tended to by three women with skin whiter than fresh cream. They wore red scarves around their heads and no hair escaped below their wraps. Their mouths were full of yellow, rotting teeth. Their eyes, like the men of The Starless Night, were an awful vermilion color.

  There were no members of Vyntane’s guard, no court advisers, just The Starless Night positioned around the room and protecting all exits. Most carried spears with obsidian heads. None carried swords, a strange thing.

  “So our trespasser is awake!” Tavrik yelled as he noticed Raenon struggling against his chains. “First I should like to thank you for killing the last of my guard. That was something I would have had to take care of myself.”

  “That was my pleasure, Tavrik, as it will be my pleasure to tear out your heart when I’m free of these chains,” Raenon growled.

  Tavrik laughed heartily. “Well, you will have to use your hands, Aelbronder, because I think I will keep this sword.” He held Raenon’s brand aloft, admired the carved inscriptions traveling up the fuller groove. “Keeper of the Pit, it says, and this is pyre-forged, I would assume? Your line is in this blade, and if the bards sing true then it may well have been on Isahin before. Furthermore, I think this steel and your blood troubles The Starless Night greatly. Your landing on the isle has seemed to speed things up quite a bit. In fact we are preparing to offer up the whole of Vyntane to Brakur tonight.”