Blood and Iron 2 Page 2

  Chapter 15

  Rowan Vos

  Ashmore Slums

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  If the Government District was a different city than the remainder of Ashmor, then so were the slums. Dark and dank and pressing in on themselves, the narrow streets were more like alleys. And the alleys, suffocating corridors. Once-cobbled, the pavement was but a slog of mud and filth and horse shit.

  Detritus was heaped as high as Rowan was tall. Clotheslines hung low across the lanes. Soured garments, stiffened by the evening sun, were draped overhead. Rowan winced. A cloying mixture assaulted his nose; one of sweat, and rot, and wood smoke, and the sharp bite of ammonia.

  Glancing back, Bela eyed them before scoffing, “Come on, it’s not that bad...”

  It most certainly is...

  “I can’t believe you two’ve lived here the whole of your lives and never’ve been in the slums,” she remarked.

  “Why would we?” Kassina retorted, brushing past a yellow-toothed man. He smiled and craned his neck, admiring her form. She shivered visibly.

  “Well, why wouldn’t you?” Bela replied, whispering the last part. “Especially in your line of work.”

  “We take nice things from rich assholes for desperate bastards with piles of money,” countered Kassina. “None of those things exist here…”

  Maybe the desperate bastards part...

  “There’s more here than you suspect,” said Bela, “you just have to know where to look.”

  “Can we look on a street with less shit?” asked Rowan.

  Bela rolled her eyes, before stepping off the street and into a dilapidated storefront.

  Cobwebs and muddy floors and grimy windows welcomed them. The stench of the slums followed them in.

  “What is this place?” asked Kassina.

  “Nothing anymore,” Bela replied, “just a shortcut.” Sliding over the counter, she said, “Follow me.”

  Behind the abandoned store a narrow alley terminated at the side entrance of a warehouse. Sagging at the hinges, the door hung agape, swaying gently in the breeze.

  At the rear, Rowan followed the girls through the warehouse, hand on the sword’s hilt. He found the more he wrestled with the blade, the less sway it held over him. Instead, its sense of focus kept him sharp, keen to his surroundings.

  Much like the streets, trash was piled high in the building. Bela navigated them through the space, veering here and then there. Off to the side, a small group of men warmed their hands over a fire fed from splintered crates.

  “How do you know your way through this place?” Rowan asked.

  Bela laughed. “Growing up with Gruff, you get tough, especially if you’re the little girl that wasn’t a son. So you fan fires, and forge swords, and dream of all the adventures they’ll see. Then a pretty sellsword comes along and you make him take you on an adventure through the worst of the city. And then, one day, you realize you don’t need him to find adventure... you make your own...”

  Kassina rolled her eyes.

  Back out on the street, the throngs grew thicker. A ramshackle marketplace opened up before them. Pushing through the crowds, Bela cut a trail. Somewhere among the stalls, a merchant was selling a stew of some sort. By the smell of it, Rowan reasoned it couldn’t be selling all that well.

  Gripping the hilt again, he scanned the market square. Back and forth he searched, before landing on a vaguely familiar face whose eyes lingered on him a moment too long.

  Where have I seen you before?

  The church… The night of the fire!

  Casually, he averted his gaze. “Don’t react,” he whispered, “But we’re being followed…”

  “By who?” Bella asked.

  “Trouble.”

  “What now?” Kassina whispered.

  “Lock arms,” Bela said, passing a hand back to Kassina, “and follow my lead.”

  As they did, she ducked low and disappeared into the crowd. Together, they forded the throngs. On the far side of the market, Bela pulled them into a shuttered building.

  “We need to get to the rooftops,” Rowan said.

  “That’s where we’re headed,” replied Bela.

  Planks creaked and bowed in on themselves from the weight of Rowan’s steps. Where his gloved hands brushed the walls, paint peeled off. Sconces hung askew, further distorting the space. Squatters camped in adjacent rooms, ambivalent to their presence.

  Down a hall, around a corner, and up four flights of stairs Bela led them. All the while, Rowan glanced over his shoulder, prepared at any moment to spin off from the girls and face their pursuers in the narrow space of the crumbling building.

  With labored breaths and a racing pulse, Rowan emerged from the stairway onto the building’s flat roof. Water puddled in sags, slowly leaking into the rooms below. A colony of gulls hopped about, occasionally dipping into the shallow baths, uninterested in the new arrivals.

  Overhead, the sun hung low in the sky, threatening to dip behind the western peaks at any moment. Shadows crept farther across the city by the minute. Evening clouds only served to beckon the dark sooner still.

  “Stay low,” Rowan said, “and watch the stairs.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Kassina.

  “Nowhere. To the edge, to find those bastards.”

  Closing his eyes, the thief thought of the darkest corners of the city and imagined himself there. He felt the gloom as it surrounded him, before swallowing him whole. Obscured to the world beyond, he skulked towards the roof’s edge.

  “How does he do that, Kass?” Bela asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Melt into the shadows like that... You can barely see him.”

  Kassina shrugged. “I don’t know… He’s always been able to. Rowan was born for the night, I guess. You get used to it…”

  Overhearing their conversation, the thief thought to himself, How do I do it? It’s not something I’ve ever dwelt on... It’s as natural to me as breathing. I find it stranger still that more people can’t find the shadows…

  Dropping low, Rowan inched closer to the low wall, before peering over. He studied the crowd below and searched for the hard face from earlier. Among the mass of swindlers and shysters and scroungers, several men stood out. They moved through the market square with purpose, scanning for something they’d yet to find. Rowan eased back from the ledge and stepped out of the shadows.

  “They’re still down there,” he said. “We’ve lost ‘em for now, but we should get moving… They won’t stop ‘til they’ve found us… They never do.”

  “Let’s go then,” Bela replied, “we’re not far yet. And if we hurry, we can make it before dark.”

  * * * * *

  After several twilit blocks, Rowan clambered down the side of an ancient stone structure, its mortar all but gone. Landing in the muck, he grinned. “Bel, I’m impressed. You’re as good on the rooftops as I, maybe even better.”

  A brief blush blossomed on her face, fading as quickly as it had formed. “It’s the best way to get around the city.”

  Kassina cut an eye at them both.

  “So,” Rowan said, “Thatcher’s house is… around here?”

  She shrugged. “As far as I know. I came here a long time ago with Gruff. Thatcher commissioned an iron head for a staff. Gruff didn’t want to do it, but we needed the money at the time, and Thatcher must’ve paid well. It was an intricate piece, and difficult to craft. I remember this place distinctly because the piece was so expensive, yet the neighborhood was so poor. I found it odd, even as a young girl. Come on, this way...”

  A narrow alley pressed in on them from both sides. For a moment, Rowan thought he would have to turn sideways to squeeze through. At the end of the corridor, a small courtyard opened up, with no other means of access to the place. Scarce few windows looked out onto the small square, and only a few more doors. High walls blotted out dusk’s last light, leaving long shadows in its place.

  Bela approached a door, banded with
iron and far too ornate for its location. The walls on either side were devoid of windows, and blended into the next home with no indication of where one ended and the other began.

  As she reached the stoop, Rowan placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let me,” he said.

  Grabbing the heavy knocker, he banged it against the door. The sound echoed through the courtyard, bouncing about until it faded.

  No answer.

  Again Rowan rapped the knocker against the door, this time louder than the last.

  Please don’t be vacant like the better half of this shithole…

  Finally, the porthole opened up. At chest-level, it sat lower than most. An eyeball, bloodshot and squinty, peered out.

  “Thatcher Frost?” Rowan asked.

  “No!” a voice screeched, slamming the port shut.

  Sighing, Rowan turned around and faced the woman. Shrugging, he said, “I-“

  A shrill voice interrupted him from the other side of the door. “Master Frost! You have guests!”

  After a moment, the port opened again, “What business have you with the master of the house?”

  “Tell him I have something of his…”

  “I find that highly unl-“

  Rowan thrust the letter through the porthole, and heard a hushed gasp. A series of locks clacked open down the side of the door. Finally, it creaked inward.

  A squat man, half Rowan’s height, stood before him. Bulgy eyes beneath unkempt hair stared back. A wry smile snaked across his face, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Come in, please, the master has been awaiting you…”

  With his hand on the hilt, Rowan stepped through the threshold, the others close behind.

  Chapter 16

  Griffon Alexander

  Braewood Keep

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  A low rumble echoed through the keep. Griffon sat upright in his bed. Glancing about, he searched for the source of the sound. Gray clouds beckoned beyond an arched window, though not the type that harbored thunderclaps.

  Yawning, he lay back down, pulling the furs over his head. Again the noise growled, low and unnatural. Griffon pushed back the blankets and planted his feet on the cold floor. Padding over to the hearth, he grabbed an iron and stoked the embers. A meager flame danced to life. Placing his hands over the coals, he rubbed his knuckles until the heat was too much. As he exhaled, hot breath steamed in the cold morning air.

  Standing, he made his way across the chamber to the ashwood wardrobe. Last night had marked the new moon, and with it the start of winter. Layers of wool over linen, with a hardened leather carapace, covered by an overcoat of mixed furs, was the order of the season. Little did the ushering in of winter matter, however, as autumn’s unusual harshness had demanded it for nearly a month’s time already.

  As he layered himself, Griffon thought of Kren and the council that would’ve been held just hours ago. He wondered what had been discussed, and more so, what had been decided. The woada paintings in the cave, and the blood visions, and the words of Creedon all stalked his thoughts, tightening his chest and unnerving him. As he pulled the carapace over his chest, Griffon heard a rap at the door.

  “Sir?” a familiar voice, tinged with unease, called out. It was Lord Baron’s personal guard.

  “Yes, Mery?”

  “Our lord has need for you atop the keep…”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  “Thank you, sir. Might I fetch you anything?”

  “Whatever’s left of breakfast, and some new wine, if you will.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Returning to the task, Griffon buckled the sword belt across his waist. He grabbed the Meronian longsword that lay on the table and pushed it into his own sheath. The commander’s black gauntlet was tight on his hand, but a little less than the day before. Given another couple days, it would fit as if it were his own. Slipping into the heavy overcoat, he heard a second knock at the door, followed by a soft voice.

  “My lord?” It was Elsie.

  Opening the door, the smell of lilac greeted him, a little piece of Galaia that she had brought with her to the Brae. Her smile was an act, and did little to mask the concern that lay just underneath.

  Offering him a goblet of wine and a platter of food, she said, “I heard Mery call to the kitchen, so I offered to bring it instead…”

  Griffon studied her face. “Would you like to come in?”

  “My lord?”

  “Please, Griff,” he said, turning and walking to the table. Setting the platter down, he kicked out a chair. “And don’t worry… Leave the door open and have a seat on the hearth.”

  A bit nervous, she did as he asked.

  Stabbing at a slice of roasted boar, he said, “Tell me what’s wrong. Has something offended you?”

  “No my lo- I mean, no, Griff…” She stammered, “It’s nothing… probably.”

  “And yet probably it’s something,” He said, chasing his words with a sip of wine. “Elsie, you make me smile. You’re a breath of fresh air in this cold keep – fresh, flowery air. So when something bothers you, it bothers me…”

  She blushed momentarily, before pushing it back with a deep breath. “It’s just, between the trees, and my dream, I’m just worried about you… about us all…”

  Confused, he replied, “What did you dream?”

  Exhaling deeply, she said, “You… were in the forest. There was fire all around-“

  “You dreamed the wood was on fire?” He interrupted. His heart raced.

  She nodded. “Just this last night… They say dreams are strongest under a new moon… it seemed so real. I was so afraid for you. And now this with the trees… Please don’t go in the woods, not for a while.”

  She was rambling, it wasn’t like her. And the more she talked, the more she confused him. “Have you ever had a dream come true before? And what is this about the trees?”

  “Oh, no m’lord, never. I’m not a witch.” Her brow furrowed, “And haven’t you heard them? The trees? They’ve been falling all morning…”

  Again a great rumble echoed through the keep.

  “See?” she added, “There’s another one. What’s happening, Griff?”

  Just then, Mery peeked in the room. “Sir, you must forgive me, but our lord demands your presence. Now.”

  * * * * *

  “Where in the four kingdoms have you been?” Lord Baron snarled.

  Shamed in front of the others, Griffon gritted his teeth. In my room, with my mother’s attendant, a girl from a noble house lesser than even our own, if you could imagine such... On second thought, better to keep that remark to yourself...

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know the urgency. What’s happening to the wood?”

  The elder Alexander waved him to the keep’s edge. “See for yourself...”

  Griffon shouldered in between Pagan and Ezra, their faces hidden beneath hoods pulled tight.

  “Dawdling about this morning?” Pagan whispered, “Your timing is impeccable, sir.”

  “Shut up,” Griffon quipped. “What’s going on?”

  “Watch and see,” Ezra replied. After a time, he motioned towards a spot in the Braewood, not far from the keep. “See it swaying?”

  Back and forth, the ancient tree rocked, until the sound of splintering wood ripped through the silence. Crashing to one side, the braewood scraped and cracked and snapped the limbs of the surrounding trees, taking them with it. As it hit the forest floor, the same deep rumble from earlier filled the air. A cloud a dirt and dust and leaves rushed into the sky, before raining back down.

  “Could that be Meronia?” Griffon asked.

  “But why?” replied Pagan.

  “And just as important,” added Ezra, “how? Those trees are as hard as iron, and would dull the teeth of the best saw. The whole army would be lucky to down a single braewood in a week...”

  “How many have fallen?” asked Griffon.

  “Maybe four... maybe more,” answered Pagan.

>   Turning back, he faced his father. The Lord Baron was still fuming at his tardiness, but was unnerved by the scene as well. Over the roar of the gusts, the young Alexander spoke. “We have to go and see.”

  “Their scouts are watching the north gate, no doubt,” Baron replied. “There’s no way you’ll get through.”

  “He’s right,” Eldrick added.

  “Indeed,” said Griffon. “So we climb down the west wall, and go through the mountains, and then into the forest.”

  “That’s a hard path,” Eldrick said.

  The elder Alexander studied his son. Finally, he nodded. “It is… but it could work. How many men do you need?”

  Warmth, warm enough to burn in his chest despite the chill winds, filled him; the burning pride of a father’s affirmation. “The Brae needs men,” Griffon answered. “Just give me one... Pagan Ryles.”

  “Son of a succubus,” Pagan spat into the wind, just loud enough for Griffon to hear.

  * * * * *

  To the west of the Brae, and the east for that matter, was all rock. Forty feet of sheer stone wall rose up from its limestone base. An uneven path – about a horse’s width – riddled with loose rubble, oversized caltrops, and sharpened spikes, separated the keep from the start of the mountain slope.

  Wind whipped through the narrow corridor, tearing at Griffon as he balanced on uneven footing. It whistled through the rocks and the high crags. He wondered what it spoke of; perhaps a warning of a harsh winter and an even harsher war it would bring with it?

  Pagan let go of the rope a little too soon and landed hard on his ass at the base of the wall. “‘Tis a blessing and a curse to be adored by my lord,” he bemoaned.

  “Cut the shit,” said Griffon. “They can’t hear you up top over these gusts. And besides, be thankful; you’re lucky you didn’t get an iron rod up your ass. You should be more careful.”

  “Point made, Griff.” Looking up, he added, “Wall’s a lot higher from down here.”

  “Except for ladders or ropes, the sides are impenetrable, but that’s a slow suicide, and a feast for the burning sands.”