Blood and Iron 5 Read online

  He felt the rumbling in the walls first, then he heard it, deep and throaty and resonating through the air, before the roar of a crowd rose up and drowned out the beat. With a few more strides, the sounds of a duel chased out through the heavy timber door, feverish and frantic. His heart quickened a pace. Gripping the empty ale glass, he pushed through the door.

  Warm light from a stone hearth and hung lanterns filled a large room planked floor and wall and ceiling with knotty white pine. Shouldering up to the bar through the lively crowd, Rowan clinked the ale glass down hard and turned to search out the scene. Flute and fiddle frenzied the air. But instead of one overpowering the other, their sounds melded into a rhythmic string that raced his pulse and move him with the motion of the crowd. Again the deep beat echoed through the room, stomp-stomp-stomp! The throngs clapped and shouted in sync, sending up another roar. Stepping up on his stool, Rowan grabbed the freshly-filled pint and dropped the bartender a silver-copper. Looking over the crowd, he burst into laughter and shouted them on.

  Kassina and Sutton were atop the corner bar, abandoned to all but them. The flute and fiddle drove them ever faster, stomping out the cadence with their boots, guiding the clamor into a controlled cadence, like a company of drums urging a shield wall forward.

  Locking elbows, they whirled and laughed and clacked out the beat as the bards built to a crescendo. As it did, they stomped twice more and leapt, landing with the final bar, before offering a quarter bow, arms stretched wide. The crowd yowled and clapped and clinked their glasses in ovation. Rowan reclaimed his seat, grinning ear to ear, not certain if it was from the lusk or the look on Kassina’s face. By the time, she found him in the crowd, he’d downed the pint and started another.

  “Did you see that?” she squealed, wrapping her arms around him from behind, before wiping the sweat from her brow and pulling back her hair.

  Handing her a pint, he said, “You were never that good at the Flagon.”

  “The Flagon never had bards like that! And the crowd, did you see them? They loved us!”

  “Sutton is good, too. Damn good. I didn’t expect to see him up there.”

  Turning up the glass, she plopped down on the chair beside him and laid her head against his shoulder. “I don’t want to leave.”

  He sighed. “Me neither.”

  “There’s krakens and corsairs out there.”

  “And storms and Sins of Thim, too.”

  “One more week wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

  Downing the pint, he pushed the glass away and plopped his elbows onto the bar. “Let’s end this,” he slurred slightly, “then come back for an entire season.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Maybe...” he replied with a shrug and a sheepish grin.

  “Hey,” Sutton said, coming up from behind, “You two ready? We should be heading to the ship soon.”

  “Lead the way,” Rowan replied, following them out of the Lady Lush.

  At the entrance to the alley, they came upon Byard. “I’m surprised you tavern rats haven’t drowned yet.”

  Sutton chuckled. “We’re headed to the Dowager. You shouldn’t tarry, she’ll be leaving before long.”

  “I’ve only the smith left, and then I shall return.” Turning, he said, “Just Rowan, would join me? You look as if you could use a long walk.”

  Kassina snickered.

  The thief nodded. “One last stroll through the town would be nice.”

  Peeling off from the others, Byard and Rowan wound through paved streets that rose and fell, past two-story shops of stone and brick and slathered plaster the color of sunburns, with flat or tiled roofs on top. Creeping ivy spread across all, contrasting with the brown and black and gray of the stones, and the red-orange of the slaked-lime and brick. An old woman stood on her stoop and bludgeoned a rug against the wall of her house, sending loud pops echoing down the narrow lane. Across the way, two children giggled and shouted and crossed flimsy switches in single combat while an old man puffed a pipe on an overhead balcony. The northman sized up the thief, before breaking their relative silence. “Have you been in the lusk, Just Rowan?”

  “Is it that apparent?”

  “You seldom smile without good reason.”

  “Berea has given me several, if only for a time.”

  “I would do well to find myself in a place like this one day.”

  “That we all would.”

  Byard scanned the streets and alleys out of habit, before adding, “Howland has found us four sellswords. I sparred with them just yestermorn, they fight well.”

  “As well as a northman?”

  He snorted. “They fight... well enough.”

  The smith’s workshop was behind a squat stone structure, not unlike many others in town. A tile-roofed lean-to extended off the back wall, supported on the far end by the forge’s broad brick chimney. A burly smith with dark skin hunched over a workstation polishing steel while sweat beaded and dripped from his forehead. Rowan found a seat and took in the view, imagining Gruff and Bela quarreling in The Wray as they crafted some marvelously meticulous ironwork. Chuckling to himself, he wagered they were doing that very thing in that very moment.

  Looking up, the smith said, “One more day, m’lord, and I could have them trimmed and shining as fine as a king’s golden goblet.”

  Byard replied, “Mind not the shine, Tahir. I will only corrupt it with the sweet stains of swordplay in time enough.”

  “Not m’lord’s own, I pray.”

  “Not if the gods’ are for me, and if your work is worth this damnable wait.”

  Tahir handed over a cuirass, dark gray and glinting by the flames of the forge. “My pieces are always worth the wait,” he said with a half-smile and eyes unblinking. As the northman admired it, the smith continued, “It is thick, my lord, but only in the places that need it the most. The bands of steel across the front and back stiffen it greater still. Only the mightiest of blows will furrow her in.”

  Byard tightened the side buckle and tested his range of motion. “It fits like my own skin. Here, hand me the sword.”

  Tahir lifted it by its blade and offered it hilt-first to the northman. It was five feet long with mountain peaks engraved on its broad crossguard. “It’s heavy, but balanced so you won’t feel it. Forget everything you know about swordplay, though, for it swings nothing like a single-handed blade.”

  “I’ll forget nothing,” quipped the northman, raising the greatsword into a fighting position. “I’ve raked a godblade across a battlefield before, I know its ways.”

  After the smith fastened the scabbard to Byard’s back, he sheath the blade before spinning slow and asking, “Well, how do I look, my lord?”

  “I would not choose to face you,” Rowan said.

  “Bahh...” the northman remarked, “you would fling me like a Falasport dock warden.”

  Snorting, the thief shook his head sarcastically and looked away.

  Handing over several gold coins, Byard said, “Tahir, you are a wizard of the forge. I’m honored to wear and wield your work. If my lord would have it, perhaps one day I may return.”

  “May it keep you until then,” the man replied with a slight bow, before returning to his task. And with that, they left.

  As the sun smeared red into the Calisal Sea once again, painting the twilit west pink and purple-orange, they converged on the Dowager — captain and crew, sellsword and voyager. Searching the mass, Kassina asked, “Where’s Sia?”

  “I haven’t seen her in two days’ time,” said Sutton. “Perhaps she changed her mind. The winds wait for no one, we should be off.”

  Just then, a silhouette emerged from the graying town. Lithe and skulky, it drifted along like a shadow alive and absolved from its master. “That can only be her,” said Byard. “No one else can move like that, save for Just Rowan.”

  She boarded the ship with a stack of long linen tunics laid over her shoulder. “What’s that?” Kassina asked.

  “A little
something for Thim,” she replied.

  “Speaking of which,” Howland said, “thank you all for joining us here. Ours is but a short jaunt to Thim Dorul. There we will for a sennight but no more...” Pausing momentarily, he eyed Rowan before continuing, “before deciding our course beyond. Now, to your stations, the City of Secrets awaits.”

  Rowan felt her fingers slide between his. Looking over, he half expected to see the same mirthful smile from the tavern, but it was gone. “We’ll be ok,” he said.

  Kassina nodded, but it seemed more of acceptance than agreeance. “For Gib.”

  “For Gib,” he replied, “and Father Brayden.” Plunging his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the pipe and threw it overboard.

  Chapter 57

  Bela Wray

  The Kaniere

  The Sea of Shields

  Bela leaned against the rail of the Kaniere and looked out over the bow. sheer cliffs and jagged promontories rose and fell along the coastline, sometimes disappearing altogether, only to climb high again in the distance. Narrow beaches strewn with sloughed rubble quickly faded into sapphire water. Occasionally, rocky spines jutted out of the bluffs, slowly sliding into the depths.

  Beyond the cliffs, windbreaks chased fencerows and field edges, never more than a single line of trees with the occasional cluster near a watering hole or atop a low hill. Between them, pastures and winter fields and fallow expanses – green and brown and a little less white every day as they tacked west-southwest.

  Steady winds swelled the golden sails of the double-masted caravel. Running her fingers through her hair, Bela longed for locks to tousle in the wind. Her short fiery shock was a mistake borne of frustration, and made her look too boyish.

  Vanity, really? In the midst of all this, and your hair is your worry?

  Turning around, she stared out across the deck. Altair paced endlessly, occasionally bumping into a sailor or stumbling over a coil of rope, generally making a nervous nuisance of himself. Snickering, she descended from the bow and met him near the front mast. “It won’t be long yet,” she said, rubbing his neck and scratching behind his ears.

  The stallion snorted in reply.

  “He’s never liked the water.”

  Turning, she saw Father Brayden. “I don’t blame him. He needs more room, and so do I.”

  “Ships were made for thinking.”

  “Ships are made for sailing,” she retorted. “I solve my problems by the heat of a forge.”

  Altair nickered in agreeance.

  “There are worse fates than being on the Kaniere.”

  She started to reply, but thought better of it. Instead, she patted the stallion’s side and searched for another subject. “Tell me of Whitethroat,” she said finally, “something I don’t already know.”

  Brayden pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. “Words seldom do it justice. It’s a place best beheld with one’s own eyes.”

  “I’ve heard it’s sinking.”

  He chuckled. “They’ve been saying that for five-hundred years at the least.” He shrugged. “Besides, a little sinking never hurt anything. Now leaning, that’s a different problem.”

  “Has it ever seen a siege?”

  “Not for a long time. Far longer than we. Perhaps longer than Altair.”

  “Longer than Altair?” she repeated with a furrowed.

  “He’s older than you think.”

  The horse snorted.

  “How old are you?” she asked him, her tone softening.

  “No one knows for certain, but these things I do know: he understands everything we’re saying, his senses are as sharp as a honed edge, and he’s probably smarter than most on this ship.”

  The stallion’s amber eyes studied Brayden intently.

  “Can he communicate?”

  The old man offered a half shrug. “At times yes, but it’s not like you can say, ‘snort twice if you agree with me,’ and he’ll do it.”

  Altair snorted twice.

  Bela’s eyes bulged and her mouth dropped. The old priest cut him an eye. “Did I mention his insolence?”

  With a nicker, the horse withdrew. Once he was out of earshot, Brayden whispered, “He’s a rare and wonderful creature, and you two’ve bonded nigh as strong as I’ve seen. I can’t wait to see what comes of it.”

  She smiled and let the conversation lull for a time, before saying again, “Whitethroat.”

  “What of it?”

  “Will it see another siege?”

  He mulled the thought. “It’s likely, but I cannot say with certainty.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “That I don’t know,” he replied. “But what’s important is that we don’t squander whatever time that we’ve been given, however long it may be.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  He smirked. “The Throat will have a forge that hasn’t known a wartime smith or a masterforger in at least two centuries. You’ll need to change that.” After a moment, he added, “And I will need Altair.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “Galaia, there is much I should do and one I must see.”

  * * * * *

  After a time, the Kaniere peeled away from the coastal slopes and aimed southwest. That evening, while the sun was yet high enough to see both horizons, they skirted a windswept barrier island adorned with nothing more than rolling dunes blanketed with marram and cordgrass, and a shoreline strewn with driftwood and flotsam. Beyond it, the ship sliced through glassy waters, navigating a narrow stretch between the back barrier and the narrow mainland peninsula.

  Pulling a wool cap down over her head and piling herself with blankets, Bela curled up on the deck with Altair so he wouldn’t be alone for the night. She whispered to him of Gruff and the forge, and Rowan and Kass. He nickered occasionally in reply, perking up when she spoke of their adventures over and under Ashmor, until finally, both of them fell asleep.

  She awoke with morning’s first light, stretching and nuzzling up against the horse until she found a position where she could scan the horizon yet still laze about. For a time they sat in silence, listening to the gulls and watching fish jump. The morning winds were noticeably warmer than those of Ashmor, though still wintry.

  Up ahead, just off their starboard side, Whitethroat appeared on a lone knot, first as a gray speck slowly inching into the sky. As it climbed higher, the tide fell low. In the midst of the divergence, a faint hint of muddy decay marred the salt air. When they drew near enough, Bela rose from her pallet and padded to the bow to take in the castle.

  The knot was a motte, man-made and rising out of a vast expanse of marsh blanketed by reed mace and needlerush and cordgrass, stained brown below the high tide line. The muddy flats were islanded and mottled and hewn into specks by narrow fingers of brackish water that meandered through without aim. A short distance off the coast, the coastal wetlands were bounded by barrier islands – much like those from the day before – that protected the area and created a calm coastal bay.

  Stone causeways, wide enough for two carts to pass, ran north and south from the motte through thick marsh for as far as she could see, disappearing into the distance. Long, flat arches stretched between mud-stained and barnacled columns. They were set low, a foot or so above the tide’s crest, with splintered timber posts laid along the edges for curbing. Head-high blades of sharp grass crowded in on the passes rising up several feet on each side. Kittiwakes and oystercatchers chirped and milled about the causeways, while black and white avocets stalked the mire’s edge beyond.

  While the reeded tidelands seemed solid enough from the deck of the Kaniere, Bela knew better from her time on the estuaries around the mouth of the Sigil River just north of Ashmor. One step off the low stone bridges would stick you to your knees, and deeper still if you bore the weight of blade and mail and shield. The fear of a siege nagged at Bela a bit less as she scanned the expanse.

  Turning her attention to the motte, she took in Whitethroat. Crenne
lled stone walls, the color of bleached bones and far taller than Ashmor’s, rose over the surrounding flatscape. From within, silver smoke snaked lazily into the sky. And an alabaster tower, thrice again as high as the walls, climbed up alongside the gray billows. The masterforger’s daughter spun slow, scanning the horizon, imagining the view from atop the chalky keep.

  On the east side of the castle, facing the Kaniere, was a gate set an armspan higher than the ground below. From its mouth jutted a wooden pier, battered and uneven but set on heavy timber piles – obviously sourced from an olde growth. It continued out over the sharp slope of the grassy motte, and the brackish marshscape, and then maybe another thousand strides into the silt-bottomed bay. Several shallow-drafting fishing ships and a flatboat were moored near its end. Despite its length, the dock was still not accessible by the Kaniere for risk of shoaling, so they anchored another five-hundred strides or so off the coast and ferried themselves to the dock in rowboats large enough for a dozen men each.

  Altair refused to consider the notion of boarding the unstable crafts, so they poled the flatboat out to the Kaniere for him and Bela, as well as several armsmen and a load of heavy cargo. As the timber barge drifted towards the dock, Bela scanned the bay and saw fish traps made of willow staves and ghostberry vines bobbing in the shallows. At several of the salty fingers that cut into the marsh grass, she noted timber and stone garths made for channeling and corralling eels and larger fish. Overhead, white tufts of clouds leisured across a light-blue sky.

  Stepping onto the pier with her heavy pack, Bela followed Father Brayden as Ezra led the procession to the east gate. Warped boards, gray and weathered, creaked under the weight of the group. To her right, gulls dove the muddy waters, coming up occasionally with a beak of fish. But for the ripples from their air assault, the surface was glass. An errant gust as warm as mid fall in Ashmor caressed her face. “The water’s so calm here,” Bela remarked.

  “The islands buffer the isthmus,” Brayden replied. “Without them, there’d be no marsh, and perhaps even no Whitethroat.”