Blood and Iron 5 Read online

  Blood & Iron

  Part V

  Eli Steele

  [to table of contents]

  * * * * *

  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.

  * * * * *

  The events in this book are a direct continuation of Blood & Iron, Part 4, available on Amazon here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07YL9FN9W/

  Reading Parts 1 – 4 prior to Part 5 is necessary to understand the story contained herein.

  * * * * *

  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.

  * * * * *

  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/

  * * * * *

  * * * * * Table of Contents * * * * *

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  * * * * *

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  Chapter 55

  Eldrick D’Eldar

  Braewood Keep

  A cream-colored moon cast its glow from a cloudless sky, illuminating the Barbeau Pass just well enough to navigate without torchlight, save for the smoking islands of deep dark. Beyond it, ten legions of stars lustered, stretching across the charcoal expanse from one rugged ridge line to another.

  The winds lay dying, granting them a respite for the first time in recent memory. Still, bitter air burned Eldrick’s cheeks, though it didn’t chill him to his core like it had in the crags. Looking over he saw Sand, the only one among them that seemed eager to continue their descent from the cold gray giant.

  Eldrick crouched behind an outcropping and searched the keep below. It was sable black and brooding, save for the soft moon glow that was stifled by the smoking shadow of the surrounding slopes. No braziers with pulsing embers pushed back against the oppressive gloom that crept over the battlements and into the courtyard. Gone were the torches that floated along the wall like little sunsets, traipsing tendrils of orange, the color of the kiln-fired terra cotta from Falasport to Thim Dorul and beyond. Haunting; if he had to give only one word to describe the Brae, that was it. Haunting.

  “How can a place so familiar seem so foreign?” Griffon asked.

  Kren started to speak, but Eldrick placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

  The young lord continued, “It’s as if I’m still under the mountain, staring at the buried Brae for the first time.”

  After a long quiet, D’Eldar whispered, “My lord, are you ready?”

  “No, but what choice do I have?” Griffon replied, standing slowly to his feet. “I would walk alone, though,” he added, starting down the slope. His voice was distant though close by.

  Several long strides behind him, Eldrick descended the loose rubble with caution. A week in the mountains with Kren had taught him much about crag walking. When he wasn’t searching for sure footing he studied the oval shield strapped to Griffon’s back. Black as onyx with a flaking gryphon in its center — yellow as the daystar — it glimmered faintly by the pale light of the night. Beneath the chipping paint of the lost sigil of House Eleksandr, he noted that the beast had been hammered into the steel with a level of detail and precision he’d not seen on a shield before.

  Following behind him was Sand and the titan, then Bo and Jarin, and finally Ulriich and Jorok. “He mourns alone,” Kren whispered with eyes straight ahead and feet trained to find their own paths along the steep ridges.

  Eldrick glanced over, grabbing the titan’s arm for momentary stability. “Most of us do.”

  “An Uhnan’akk chief retreats to the high places with his men and mourns until the wine is gone. Only then does he return to the women and the others.”

  “Your ways are different, he means no offense.”

  Redstorm offered an understanding grunt. Silence settled over the group for a time, save for Sand’s occasional anxious whimper. After a time he asked, “Does the mountain still throb your head?”

  Only then realizing, the spy snorted. “In truth, I don’t know when I’ve felt better. What was in your elixir?”

  Kren studied him with narrowed eyes. “Its effects would have ended before we left the wyrm’s den.” He chuckled. “So, the old words are true, I had not known for certain.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The wyrm blood, Wyrmblood. The high places may never hobble you again. And perhaps you will find other things trouble you less, too, though you only had but a little.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Think. If the blood unhanded Eleksandr from the rulk, could it not do other things?”

  Eldrick paused mid-stride. “How much was he given?”

  “All of it, Wyrmblood. Olin made a paste and rubbed it into his wounds. Though you drank yours and pissed it away, his flows through his veins still.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Kren shrugged. “He is the wyrm, or perhaps the wyrm is he. I do not know what it means, only what the old words tell.”

  Starting forward again, D’Eldar eyed Griffon as he descended alone and whispered, “Tell me your old words.”

  Pulling a skin of wine from his belt, the wildman uncorked it and squeezed a long stream into his mouth, before handing it over. “They speak of Ulf, chief of the Uhnan’akk, and his twenty. Together, they ventured to the peaks just like you and I, though they slew their wyrm. It is told that ten men died, but the blood brought their warm bodies back. In the den of the serpent they ate the flesh and drank the blood until their bellies were full. The blood made them great warriors – warriors of old. And that is how Ulf united the ten tribes, if but for a time.”

  “Twenty men warred against ten mountain tribes and won?”

  “Twenty-one, Wyrmblood. Who taught you your numbers?”

  Eldrick snorted, ignoring the jape.

  Kren continued. “But it is said that the wyrm’s blood is cold and his heart is black, too black for two of the men. After a time, they betrayed Ulf. In his wintering place, as he lay sleeping, they slew his woman and tried to end him, but he was too strong. With two axes he felled them and threw their bodies off the mountain for the crags cats and wolves feed upon. And that is why the sons of Ulf carry two axes instead of one.”

  “...He was your?”

  “The father of my father.”

  “What happened to the tribes?”

  “That is a much longer story, Wyrmblood. Perhaps as long as your own that you would not tell, and we have less mountain this time.”

  Hell’s Gate was strewn with twisted iron and splintered timber. Chunks of merlons were scattered through the grass like ruins of old. Frozen bodies lay face down, still gripping their blades, trapped on the field until first thaw. At the battered entrance, Eldrick stopped. “My lord?”

  Griffon turned. By the light of the moon, his eyes
were lost but searching, first the courtyard, and then the spy, and lastly the men beyond. He nodded before continuing in alone.

  “We wait here,” D’Eldar whispered.

  And so they did, for how long he wasn’t sure. Perhaps an hour, or maybe more. They spoke little. Their words seemed irreverent to the silence of the place. Finally, Griffon emerged from the shadows again. Gone were his pack and arms. He looked smaller. “Eldrick, Kren — would you join me?”

  They followed him to the makeshift gallows in the southwest corner of the courtyard. A pale sliver of moonlight illuminated the ground at Baron’s feet, his face still veiled by the night. The rope groaned at the edge of sound as a weak wind passed through the space, stirring the body.

  “I can’t hold him and cut him down,” Griffon said. “Not without dropping him.”

  Kren stepped under the body and said, “Grab his feet, Eleksandr. When Wyrmblood cuts the rope, I will catch his arms.”

  The young lord did as the titan said, curling his arms around the backs of Baron’s boots. As Eldrick cut the rope, the body fell a short distance, before Redstorm slid his hands under the stiff arms.

  “To the crypt,” Griffon said.

  D’Eldar lit a torch and guided them along the high wall to the darkened southeast corner of the keep. The flame danced against limestone and mortar, casting a grim glow across his face. Its warmth felt good on his cheeks. Snow crunched beneath his feet, the only sound in the air, though he could not hear it for the words in his head. And who was here to warm you all these nights, my lord, my brother? Retrieving the skeleton key from his coat pocket, he unlocked the crypt’s heavy wooden door and led them down the steep stone stairs.

  Footsteps echoed further into gloom before bouncing back to meet them. Torchlight flickered off the stones underfoot and flooded out into the long hall that stretched out from the base of the stairs, straight as a spear. It was wide enough for two men shoulder to shoulder, with an arched ceiling a sword’s-length higher than the top of Kren’s head.

  The crypt’s stale breath – damp and earthy – filled Eldrick’s nostrils. Slowly, the tingling of his face subsided in the cool air, much warmer than the bitter bite of the surface. Odd shadows danced hauntingly around them.

  Two by two the alcoves appeared after a time. They were simple recesses with a stone vault set against one wall and a walk just wide enough to stand beside them. The oldest Alexanders laid to rest at the surface were in the first of the vaults. Deeper into the gloom they continued, down through the centuries of the house name, turning from the old letters to the new somewhere along the way, until the passage turned east – an addition – before turning south and running parallel with the first hall. A second time it turned east and back north again.

  Baron’s parents, Arne and Delie, lay opposite of each other on the cold stone slabs of their vaults in the last pair of alcoves. Eldrick still remembered them both. A decade prior and a year apart they had been laid to rest, first him, then her. It was the last time he had ventured into in the crypt. Oh, that it was another decade still, he thought to himself, we’d so much left to do.

  The glow of the torch pushed back the gloom of the alcove until gray stone and quivering shadows was all that remained. Though the vault was chest-high, its interior was shallower than Eldrick expected, maybe two feet deep. Griffon sucked in a long breath and steeled himself while Kren ducked low and stepped into the recess. Together, they gently laid Baron in the vault. The spy silently thanked the gods that the body had stiffened straight.

  Stepping back, Griffon knelt at the base of the vault and bowed his head. They stood in silence beside him for a time, until he whispered, “Say the words.”

  D’Eldar thought for a moment, his chest tightening as he did. Exhaustion and grief and hopelessness suddenly converged, sending tears streaming down his cheeks. Despite it, he cleared his throat and began with a shaky voice. “On the day I do not even know, in this first moon, of the eighty-sixth year, of the fourteenth century of the new calendar, we gather to lay Lord Baron Alexander, the first of his name, to rest. A just lord, a strong leader, a faithful husband, a caring father, and a true friend – few men can lay claim to all these things, and more. A believer in his one God, he joins his father Arne, and his father Eadgar before him. We mourn our loss, but know that though his body will fade, he lives on still.”

  Griffon stood, his eyes wet and breathing deep. Placing a hand on Eldrick’s shoulder, he stopped him and whispered, “Tell me a story, one I don’t know.”

  Eldrick slipped an arm around the middle of the young lord’s back and held him like a brother. Searching his memories, he began. “A week after my fifteenth name day, my father fell in battle, a terrible gift. His eldest son, Egil, inherited the throne of Mysthas. He was… persuaded to secure his title, and he sought to rid himself of any usurpers that may hide among his brothers.

  Rather than rot in a prison or be ran through with a sword, I left. Across the Calisal I fled until I reached Beyorn, the farthest reaches of which I knew. Your father had spent time in the Kal’Deas and knew of the D’Eldar name. He convinced his father – Lord Arne – that he should receive me, a stranger in a strange land with nothing to his name. And that convincing was no small task. Thus for a few years, I was raised as an Alexander, until Lord Arne convinced a young King Alfred that I could be of use to the crown. And that is how I came to know your father, and your father’s father.”

  Griffon stared at him for a moment with half a smile. “I’d only heard him speak of it once, and not like that at all. He never mentioned your past nor his part.”

  Eldrick wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. “I don’t doubt that. Lord Baron seldom told the parts that built himself up or shamed others.”

  The young lord’s half smile curled up a bit more in wistful remembrance.

  “He was a brother to me, truer still than even my own.”

  Lowering his head, Griffon’s face drained white as he cursed under his breath.

  “What is it?”

  “He has no sword.”

  Without hesitation Eldrick drew his blade – his last tie to the Kal’Deas – and laid it in with Baron, before stepping back beside the young lord. “Thank you,” Griffon whispered.

  And there for a time they stood – kin though not through blood – and mourned in silence for the man, while Kren unhooked the chain that held the heavy stone lid overhead and lowered it onto the vault, sealing away Lord Alexander. After a time, a voice echoed down the passage from above. “My lords?”

  “What is it, Bo?” Eldrick replied.

  “My lords, far be it from to disturb you in this moment, but… there’s something you should see.”

  Chapter 56

  Rowan Vos

  Town of Berea

  He sat on the edge of the low pier and let his bare feet dangle over the water. The early evening sun was warm on Rowan’s cheeks but the breeze was cool, melding into perfection, or nigh as close as one could get this side of a lychfield.

  Looking over his shoulder he scanned the docks, though it was more out of habit than necessity. Or perhaps it was just a tinge of smoky paranoia that had all but faded. Either way, the streets of Berea were as harmless as the nave and empty more often than not, save for when a merchant ship called on the port.

  Breaking a hunk of bread off the loaf, he tore off smaller pieces still and dropped them into the clear water, watching a school of baitfish swirl the surface and bicker over the crumbs. He had to be careful the gulls didn’t see him, though, for they weren’t as easy to fend off as the fish. That and the fact that he never walked away from them without a speck of shit on his shoulders.

  After taking a bite for himself and chasing it with a bit of ale, he put away the bread and pulled out a cheap wooden pipe before packing it full. With his striker, he lit the lusk and pulled in a deep draw, holding it in as long as he could, before tilting his head back and releasing it with a stray chuckle. It wasn’t a habit he meant
to take with him on the Dowager, but the Kal’Dean wildgrass was cheap on the docks, and it helped pass the time in the quiet town. And he liked the way it muddled his thoughts and curled his lips up in an easy smile.

  The first of the fishing boats appeared on the horizon like the conjurings of a mage. He watched as they grew larger, swept in by the Calisal winds, and wondered if mages could indeed conjure things into existence. After a second lungful of lusk, he reasoned they might, but he’d have to ask Iseult. But not today, there would be no more work today.

  So he sat on dock, its warped wood planks numbing his ass, with a stupid smile stuck to his face until the fisherman arrived with their hauls. Taking one last drag, he tapped out the embers and stuffed the pipe in his pocket, before exhaling the sweet smoke into the salty air. Overhead, gulls choked out their calls, so he pulled out the last vestiges of the loaf and tossed it onto the cobblestone that lay at the land’s edge. The thief smiled at the returning men while the birds squabbled behind him.

  “Evening, m’lord,” said a wiry old fell with leathery skin and a shaggy gray beard.

  “And the same to you, Gus. How fare you?”

  “The sea smiles at us!” he replied, hauling a heavy sack, its sides still wriggling.

  Rowan grinned stupidly, watching them pass. Downing the rest of his ale, he pulled his boots over his feet and stood as the men disappeared into town. Milling about the water’s edge for a time, he took in the serenity of his last evening in the place he’d grown rather fond of. To the east, the black silhouette of a holk appeared, likely merchants from the east. “Hell, I’ve time enough,” he said to himself, finding a seat again and pulling back out the wooden pipe for just one more drag.

  * * * * *

  Several long pulls of the pipe later, Rowan sauntered towards The Lady Lush, one of only three taverns in Berea and by far the best, at least as far as Kassina was concerned. Nestled behind several stone shops and through a low stone arch, the Lady wasn’t easily happened upon. Green and red and orange-leafed ivy meandered along the alley walls, interspersed with an occasional pink bloom that smelled as sweet as a sand apple’s aftertaste.