Blood and Iron 3
Blood & Iron
Part III
Eli Steele
[to table of contents]
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This is a work of fiction. Obviously. All of the characters, organizations and events in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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The events in this book are a direct continuation of Blood & Iron, Part 2, available on Amazon here:
Reading Parts 1 and 2 prior to Part 3 is necessary to understand the story contained herein.
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Copyright © 2019 Eli Steele.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, copied or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
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Acknowledgements:
My son, my padna’.
My wife, my best friend.
Hammer, for the feedback.
* * * * *
Map:
Visit my blog for a map of the region: https://elisteele.blogspot.com/
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* * * * * Table of Contents * * * * *
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
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Chapter 26
Eldrick D’Eldar
Braewood Keep
Kingdom of Beyorn
Eldrick shivered. “Winter’s too young for this many layers.”
“Blood born as far south as yours never adapts,” replied Griffon, “but it is too damn early for this cold.”
The Barbeau Pass channeled the north winds that rolled over the southern hills of Meronia. By the time they squeezed between the mountains and swirled over the Brae, they were unforgiving. Now, with the olde growth largely gone, the keep had no windbreak. Gusts on the gatehouse were hardly less than those atop the keep.
Despite the howling winds, the smell of ash and battle rot still hung heavy in the air. Mixed in was the sweet scent of fresh-sawn lumber, wine-like and caramely. Behind them, the sounds of hammers and men arguing as they heaved rubble aside and hoisted new stones in place melded into a symphony of thinly-veiled chaos.
Leaning over the gatehouse battlement, Griffon gazed at the burnt snags and charred ground beyond the crimson-tinged field of tall grass. What little that remained in the burned swath of the Braewood Forest looked like blackened bones, snapped and broken, laying in heaps or standing as stalwart sentinels.
Eldrick laid an arm across his shoulder. “It won’t always look this way.”
“No, in the spring it will be green with new life, but it’ll be scrub oaks and firs and black walnuts. It’ll be a mixed stand like every other wood. What was is gone and will never be again. We may’ve only lost a third of the braewoods, but it was the traveled core, the heart of the forest, the oldest groves.”
Eldrick stood beside him silent, patient, waiting.
After a time, Griffon sighed and pushed off the parapet. “I know what you’re thinking, Who cares about these trees? The keep and everyone here still lives. And on that, I agree. I was the one that weighed that cost and made the choice, and it was the right choice.”
“We all lost, but you more than anyone, Griff. I’m sorry about Pagan. If but it was me out there and not him.”
The young Alexander wiped his eyes with the cuff of his heavy coat and hung his head. “He died with the honor of ten men. If not for him, there would be two more among the embers, and the Brae may very well have fallen.”
“You feel guilty for living, and you’re tired of being called a hero...”
Anger welled in Griffon. He started to speak, but pushed it back. Eldrick’s words were the truth. Instead, he let out a deep sigh and replied, “Indeed...”
“It’s not good for men to see their leaders mourn. We’re not afforded the same luxuries as others. Retire to the keep, you’ve earned it; I’ll finish up out here.”
Looking up, he said, “Thank you, El.” Pulling his hood tight, Griffon took the long route back, away from the men working.
D’Eldar shoved gloved hands into his pockets and breathed steam as he watched the hero of the Second Battle of Hell’s Gate leave. Shaking his head, he sighed and thought to himself, no one deserves such burdens, especially him.
Turning, he aimed west along the wall. Shattered merlons spilled across the walk and littered the courtyard below. Several sections of the battlement had sheared off at its base.
Leaning out over the parapet, Eldrick surveyed the wall itself. Craters marred the exterior where trebuchet boulders had met their mark. From there, fractures as wide as curled fists snaked outward.
“Had the siege lasted another day I’m not sure there would be anything left but a heap of rubble.”
Turning, he saw Ezra. Lime dust and mortar caked his hands and speckled his face. “We were fortunate,” said the spy.
“Fortunate to have Pag and Griff flanking those bastards.”
Eldrick nodded.
“How is he?” Ezra asked, “Griffon...”
“He’s still mourning his losses, and rightfully so.”
Ezra sighed. “I can’t believe he’s gone... I counted him as a friend.”
“And we still haven’t found a body?”
“We’ve sent scouts out three times already, been all around what’s left of the trebuchet. Found the cur bastard in the robes, but Pagan isn’t there.”
“Wolves?”
“Prob’ly. But it’s the strangest thing, there’s no signs of a body dragged, and the rest of them are being picked at where they fell.”
“It’s a shame. I think it would’ve helped Griff for us to find him.”
“Would’ve helped us all,” Ezra said. “Pagan was as much a part of the Brae as those stones. He’ll be missed.”
After a time, Eldrick said, “Show me the work.”
Together they surveyed the progress.
On the wall face, slung from ropes, Bran dangled and slathered grout between stones hoisted in place. Above him, a treadwheel crane hoisted a boulder out of a crater of its own creation.
“Given enough time, the Brae should be a strong as it was before the siege,” Ezra remarked.
“Should be?”
Motioning over the wall, the seasoned armsman said, “Look at the size of the original stones. We don’t have the manpower or equipment for that. Our repairs will be with hunks smaller by half at least. And more grout means weaker sections.”
“So the wall will be weaker with certainty.”
“Perhaps not.” Ezra guided him to a cleft in the walk. “Look in there.”
Crouching, Eldrick peered through a fracture as wide as his hand was long. “It’s hollow?”
“It’s missing some of its infill,” corrected Ezra. “We’ll open this area, and any others we find, and fill them with wet sand. So, smaller stones with a hard-packed infill will be stronger than larger slabs over a weakened core.”
Standing, the spy replied, “I don’t understand. Where’d the material go? The original builders would’ve understood the importance of a solid middle.”
Ezra shrugged. “The Brae is old, some say older even than House Alexander. There could
very well be fissures below the keep, slowly leaching infill for centuries.”
Narrowing his eyes, Eldrick studied the gap in the wall.
“What is it, sir?”
“Perhaps nothing, but keep a map of the cavity locations as well as their severity.”
Three blasts of the trumpet made Eldrick sigh.
Ezra chuckled. “What plagues you? Reinforcements should be a relief.”
“If but we could take the swords and turn back their commander.”
* * * * *
Banners of House Saxton, a white dire eagle clutching a sword set against an azure-blue field, whipped in the wind on the highest poles. A marked distance below the royal sigil, a half dozen other house names flew.
Helms and ringmail glinted in the sun, like a sea of shimmering silver. At the head of the procession, destriers of all colors and stripes – solid and mottled and painted – carried a company of knights in plate mail.
“I’ve never seen the king’s army before,” marveled Lann. “How many do you think there is?”
Eldrick peered through the south gate’s looking glass and scanned the ranks. “No more than several thousand, hardly the whole of the king’s army, but likely his best.”
“Still, it’ll be enough, right?”
D’Eldar shrugged. “To defend the Brae? I should hope so.”
As the force neared, a figure at the forefront stood out from the others.
“Who is that?” asked Lann.
“That,” replied Eldrick, “is the captain of the king’s guard and the commander of this army, Reyland Mace.”
His dusk-gray destrier towered over the others, for good reason. Reyland stood nearly seven feet tall, with a chest that seemed half as wide. And if his intimidating frame wasn’t enough of a distinguishing feature, the blue-gilded plate mail that he wore separated him from a sea of grays and black and browns.
His namesake weapon, five feet in length, was strapped across his back. A single spike continued another six inches from the top of its riveted ball head.
“So, you know him?”
“Yeah, I know the son of a bitch.”
As Mace and his procession neared, the south gate groaned open and the portcullis creaked up into the gatehouse.
“Stay here,” Eldrick said, “the less you interact with him, the better.” With one final look over the low battlement of the south wall, the spy descended to the courtyard.
Reyland and a dozen knights entered Braewood Keep, while the men outside began the task of establishing camp. Eldrick met him a short distance past the raised portcullis.
Eyeing the spy, the giant dismounted. The destrier snorted and reared his head. “Easy, Rage,” he said to the horse, “we’re here to protect these men, not war against them.”
Eldrick snorted and looked away, before turning back to face him. As Reyland approached, D’Eldar remembered how domineering his presence was. A faint blue hue reflected off the mail and shone against Eldrick’s brown leather.
Sizing him up, the giant sneered, “Knifed any men in the back lately?”
“Only by the king’s word and for the honor of Beyorn,” he replied, looking up.
“Of course, because you look so Beyornian...”
“Do you question my loyalty?”
Throwing his heavy hands up, Mace replied, “Not I, Eldrick D’Eldar, for you are a king’s man through and through...” Looking back at his marshals, he added, “Though which king, I’ve never quite known…”
The men chortled while their horses snorted steam.
As he turned back around, their noses brushed.
On the tips of his toes, the spy’s breath parted across the giant’s face. The scar that split the man from top of brow to tip of lip was all that Eldrick could see. Without intending it, he found his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “You would do well-“
“Sir Reyland Mace,” Baron announced from behind as he approached, “Welcome to the Brae. Forgive me for not meeting you at the gate, but there is much to attend to these days, it seems.”
“Indeed,” the giant replied, his words directed more to the spy than the lord of the keep. Stepping around Eldrick, Reyland met the elder Alexander with a faint bow of his head. “King Alfred sends his regards, my lord, and wishes to congratulate you on your victory.”
“And we are thankful for his gift of you, and this great army.”
“It is an honor to serve my king in even the least of his reaches.”
If Baron heard the unsubtle bite of the giant’s words, he did not betray it.
Looking back at Eldrick, Mace continued. “I was just talking to your man. He is your man, isn’t he, my lord?”
The spy began to speak, but Lord Alexander’s eyes silenced him. “He is the king’s man, Reyland, as he has always been. He is here because the crown needs him here. But should he be required in Avendor, he would leave before nightfall.”
“Our Lord King sent him here?”
Baron smiled past his words. “You and your marshals have traveled far and are weary. Come, let us eat and drink. We have much to discuss.”
Reyland nodded. Looking back at Eldrick, he sneered.
This shall prove to be a long war indeed…
Chapter 27
Rowan Vos
The Cormorant
The Sea of Shields
Placing Unforged across his lap, Rowan closed his eyes.
Focus...
Drawing in a breath, he absorbed the smell of the hold. Sea salt and creosote were most pungent, but also hints of hardwood – salt oak he reasoned – and rusted metal tinged the stale air. A wisp of candle smoke introduced itself, too. He smiled.
Good...
The barrel was hard under his ass. Its lip bit into the backs of his thighs and tingled his feet, impeding circulation. Running his fingers across the slats, he felt soft splinters, once sanded smooth but slowly returning with age and use.
Waves lapped the hull in a slow rhythm. Methodical and unremitting, they pattered away at a song that never changed. A gull cawed.
Hugging the coast, the safer route... Land may even be in sight... But for now, let’s go deeper still...
Filling his lungs, he pushed past the hold. Soon, even Iseult’s words faded, the words that both shamed and provoked him with equal measure.
At half your age, your father was an arch mage...
All that was left, all that he could feel or hear or smell or even see in his mind’s eye, was the blade.
Speak to me...
And it did, but not with words. Or perhaps it didn’t, and these thoughts were of his own conjuring. He couldn’t know for certain. Nevertheless, he let them in.
With his eyes still closed, the candle on the table appeared. But not the wax or the wick, just the flame. It was straight and without flicker, moving only with the pitch and roll of the Cormorant, always seeking up.
How do you know? How do you always find your center? ...Focus... No questions. Focus on the fire...
He reached out his hand, stopping short of the candle. Steadying himself, he sucked in another breath, and twitched a finger. As he did, he opened his eyes.
And the flame flickered.
A smirk curled up his lips.
Kassina bounded down the stairs, her footsteps echoing through the tight quarters. Taking a seat on the barrel opposite of him, she leaned across a crate that served as a makeshift table. She matched his grin, before asking, “What are we smiling about?”
Eldrick snorted, studying her with mirthful a gaze. “Watch this.”
Closing his eyes, he repeated the rite of his own creation. Kassina watched him, but remained silent. After a long quiet, he opened his eyes again.
“Did you see that!?” he exclaimed.
“What?”
“That... th-the candle... you saw it, didn’t you?”
“All I see is that you need to get your ass up on deck. You’re going crazy down here.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him to his fe
et. “Come on, let’s go.”
“But-“
“But hell, up we go.”
The sea and the western horizon was everything that Ashmor wasn’t, unchecked, and crisp of air, and without end. To the east, a sliver of green coastline blurred the line where sky ended and ocean began. Above it, high mountains shrouded in white, more of a whisper to the naked eye than a formed image, climbed into a low procession of stratus clouds.
“Four days south and the air’s already warmer,” Kassina said.
“All of this,” he replied, “has been right here our entire lives, and we’ve never dreamed big enough to find it.”
“I never quit thinking that when I’m up here.”
Though the occasional crewman tightened a line, or loosened one and swung it to another man, or shouted some turn of a phrase the likes of which Rowan did not understand in the least, he was taken aback at how little effort it took to keep the Cormorant in order when her sails were full and the chop was light.
Taking his hand, she pulled him towards the helm. “Watch this,” she said with a wink.
“Back so soon?” Sutton Howland said.
“I want to show off a little,” she replied.
“By all means,” the captain said, passing the tiller to her. “You’ve got the helm, m’lady.”
Wrapping her fingers around yellow cedar, she took charge of the vessel without interrupting their point of sail. Looking at Rowan, she smiled wide. “I didn’t want you to see me until I could do it.”
He stood with mouth agape, shaking his head.
“She’s a natural, m’lord,” Sutton added with a laugh. “Now, tack to your port.”
Kassina pulled the rudder, turning the bow across the wind. She giggled with excitement.
The Cormorant slowed for a moment, before the sails filled with wind once again and she regained her speed. They continued on for a time, slicing through the water until they veered past the tack line.
“Now, back to your starboard.”
Pushing against the curved cedar beam, the bow of the ship turned across the wind again. As it did, a gust kicked up, rolling the Cormorant off center, and with it, the deck under their feet.