Blood and Iron 1 Page 5

Griffon Alexander

  Just Outside of Braewood Keep

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Cresting the last hill, Griffon watched the trees of the Braewood climb back into view. “We’re not far yet!” he shouted. Glancing over, he eyed Pagan. Asleep, his head bobbed with the gelding’s gait.

  I envy your demeanor, sometimes…

  Trumpets sounded from somewhere ahead. One long blast echoed through the valley.

  “What’s that?” Roke asked.

  “That’s the Brae,” replied Ezra. “They’ve spotted us. One blast is a friend. Two’s a foe.”

  “They can see us?”

  “They’re using the looking glass,” reasoned Griffon.

  Could they already know? But how?

  His tongue hanging out, Bailey galloped past the ancient marker and back into Beyorn. A few strides later, the darkened canopy of the Braewod enveloped them. The temperature plunged.

  Leaning forward, Griffon scratched Bailey’s ear and whispered softly to him. The horse snorted. The rider turned his head to the side and remained low.

  Griffon studied the forest. Mighty trunks, and downed limbs, and piles of deadwood flashed past them.

  Seeing the Braewood burdened him. It had been a long time since the wood had hosted a siege. He worried what might come of it. Even still, it was an ageless place. He reasoned the growth had weathered far worse than a rabble of Meronians.

  “Griff, watch out!”

  Looking up, he saw three riders bearing down on them. He snatched the reins. Bailey dove left, scraping bellies with the closest horse.

  Leaping from the gelding, Griffon drew his sword.

  “Griff!” Ezra shouted.

  Looking up, he saw Burke and two of the other armsmen.

  “Sir,” Burke said, “Lord Alexander sent us to retrieve you.”

  “Burke,” he replied, “I’m sorry… We’re exhausted. We haven’t slept since we left.” Eying Pagan, he added, “Well, some of us.”

  Incredulous, Pagan threw up his hands and said, “What?”

  “No apology needed, sir,” Burke said, “but our lord wishes to see you well and in the walls of the Brae.”

  Climbing back atop Bailey, Griffon said, “As you wish. Lead the way.”

  Burke nodded and urged his gelding back towards the keep.

  The weary riders chased after Burke and the armsmen. Soon enough, they reached the southern extents of the forest. Beyond, the heavy wooden doors of the north gate were sealed shut.

  A watchmen called out to the gatekeepers below. Groaning, the doors swung outward. The riders charged through, a plume of dust chasing after them. With the last man in, the portcullis dropped and the doors folded inward. The gatekeepers heaved a timber into place, barring the entrance.

  Relieved, the others slid off their horses. Ezra asked, “Sir, may we take our leave?”

  Stepping down off the stirrup, Griffon answered, “Get some rest.”

  Ezra nodded. “Should you require us, we’ll be in the barracks.”

  “I hope he doesn’t require us ‘til the ‘morrow,” Pagan whispered.

  Griffon handed Bailey off to the stable boy. The gelding nickered, happy to be back. Turning, Griffon aimed for the keep.

  Climbing the stone stairs, he realized his exhaustion. Each step labored him. Up and around he wound to the third-floor throne room. Winded, he reached the entrance.

  The guard saluted him and said, “Sir, it’s good to have you back. Our lord was troubled.”

  Placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, Griffon offered a warm smile before entering.

  Hands on the window’s stone sill, Lord Baron stared out at the horizon. The sun was low in the east. Gray clouds drifted in from the north.

  “It’s good to see you safe.”

  “We were never in any trouble.” Griffon stopped beside him. They embraced. “What’s got the keep in such a frenzy?”

  Baron handed his son the letter.

  Unrolling it, Griffon read the message silently. “Eldrick’s coming? Good, we could use him.”

  “You’re not surprised by the news,” Lord Baron observed.

  “War’s closer than he thinks. And if he doesn’t hurry, he may miss the start of it.”

  “What’ve you seen?”

  “A thousand men at Bearbrook. Maybe more.”

  The elder Alexander sighed. “They could be here before the week’s end.”

  “Have you sent out the call?”

  “We released the pigeons last night. Now that Burke’s returned, he’ll leave for Perk by the evening.”

  Griffon nodded. “He should only conscript the yeomen. If the siege is prolonged, we’ll need the fields worked still.”

  “That’s wise counsel, if a thousand men is all we face.”

  Griffon noted the subtle dissent. “So, what can I do?”

  Placing his hand on Griffon’s shoulder, he said, “I need you rested and ready. Retire to your chambers. That’s an order from your lord.”

  Rolling his eyes, Griffon said, “If my lord wills it,”

  “That he does. Now, go.”

  * * * * *

  On his way to his room, Griffon stopped by the bower. He knocked. Cracking the door, Elsie’s face appeared in the gap.

  A smile pursed her lips. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Is my mother here?”

  Opening the door, she replied, “She is. Come in.”

  Alyna Alexander reclined on a padded bench. Seeing Griffon, she stood. “Elsie, please, leave us for a time.”

  With a curtsy, she replied, “Yes, m’lday,” and walked towards the door. Passing Griffon, she winked, her long yellow hair waving after her.

  He inhaled deeply, taking in the lilac that fragranted her hair.

  With Elsie gone, Alyna stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her son. “I always worry when you ride north.”

  Yawning, he replied, “I know. And yet, it’s necessary.”

  “It’s not necessary for you to go.”

  “But what sort of leader would I be if I didn’t? The kind that men would respect?”

  Reclaiming her seat on the bench, she smirked. “You’re just like you’re father.”

  Griffon took a seat on a nearby chair. “He says I’m just like you.”

  “What does he know?”

  Griffon snorted.

  “She’s smitten, you know.”

  Griffon feigned ignorance. “Elsie?”

  Alyna nodded.

  “Well, she doesn’t have many choices in the Brae.”

  “Just consider her future. You won’t always be here. One day, there will be a grand court, with dozens of ladies like her. And you will find the right one. I should hope that Elsie’s honor is still intact then. She’ll need a husband one day, too.”

  “Well, I can’t speak for Pagan, but her honor is safe by me.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “Now, tell me of this Meronian army.”

  “How’d you know there’s an army?”

  She smirked. “I’m a woman, surrounded by women. I know everything.”

  Griffon snorted, before shrugging and replying, “I’m not that concerned. It’s not a real army. They underestimate the Brae.”

  Worry marred her smooth face. “I’ve been the Lord Baron’s truest counsel for many years. Living on the marches, I know more than most ladies of my standing, and perhaps more than a few lords. So please, don’t discount that rabble at Bearbrook. Armies don’t seek out battles they know they can’t win…”

  Her words tightened his chest. He knew she spoke the truth.

  “I won’t,” was all the response he could muster.

  “And another thing,” she added, “Your father’s an Eleksandr of the oldest order. He thinks like a mercenary and believes in the ways of his father’s fathers. And he will allow you to make a poor decision to learn the hard lessons that all leaders must. But you’re my
son, too. You’re too young yet to bear the burden of the blood of others. So as this unfolds, listen more than you speak. Promise me that…”

  He nodded. “I will.”

  Standing, she leaned in and kissed his forehead. “I love you. Now, get some rest.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Outside the bower, he headed for his chambers. A mix of emotions plagued him. Griffon felt like a scolded child, but he also heard the wisdom in his mother’s words.

  Closing the door, he collapsed on the bed. The sound of her voice haunted his last waking thoughts.

  Armies don’t seek out battles they know they can’t win…

  Chapter 6

  Rowan Vos

  City of Ashmor

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Rowan rather enjoyed being out at a normal hour, having spent his recent days in the dark. Throwing back his head, he inhaled the salt air. Yesterday’s catch, discounted appropriately, filled his nose, too.

  Ah, the smell of commerce.

  He strolled along the storefronts, studying the various imported wares that abounded the merchant city. Hooves and boot heels clacked on the cobblestone. Blending in, he moved through the crowds without notice.

  The guards at the entrance to the Market District paid him little mind. Beyond them, the throngs swelled. The passive storefronts of the docks were gone. Even the fishwives, in their containable gaggles, were more tolerable. Hawkers heckled and hassled the passersby. Seizing the opportunity, Rowan swiped a sand apple from a particularly irritating vendor. It was crisp, and gritty, and so sour it made his lips curl, before leaving an aftertaste sweeter than monk fruit.

  The guards at the gate leading to the Government District were more discerning than the fellows before them. They scrutinized the scarce few willing to breach the pass. Routinely, they jerked a suspicious specimen out of the crowd and roughed them up. Quite often, they denied entry without any basis.

  Rowan straightened his posture and presented his most confident and unassuming face. After the last several days, he was in no mood for a confrontation. Still, they couldn’t keep him out. Walls were made for scaling.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he strode forward.

  “You there, halt!”

  He grimaced.

  The man next to him, with all the look and charm of a back-alley brigand, was yanked to the side.

  “Let go of me!”

  Rowan let out a sigh of relief.

  Idiot. You’re about three words away from an ass beating and a week in the brig.

  Beyond the gate, it was as if he’d stepped into a different city. While the sounds of the market still spilled in, little else did. Crowds were sparse and subdued. Merchant stalls were forbidden. In the distance, the cathedral towers were already visible.

  Anemones and winter pansies fragranted the air. A city crew regrouted a section of cobblestones hardly needing repair. Young girls tossed coins in one of several fountains. The statue, a Cyrenian figure forgotten by most, spit water out of the palm of his hand.

  If only you cared as much for wellbeing of the rest of our city…

  Passing by the familiar manor, Rowan greeted a pair of passing guards. Disinterested, they ignored him. A smile snaked across his face.

  All hell will break loose when the lord of the house returns…

  Immediately ahead, two bell towers soared above the cathedral. A large rose window eyed the wide approach. Buttresses and pinnacles accented the stone structure. Bells rang out, marking the hour. Passing under the ornate tympanum, Rowan entered the church nave.

  From his vantage point, the corridor seemed to continue on forever. Arched columns ran along either side. Footsteps echoed for an eternity and then back. Save for a few souls, the nave was empty. Taking a seat in the back corner, he closed his eyes and absorbed the serenity that was around him. Of all the hidden and secluded places within the city, this was his favorite place to think.

  Closing his eyes, he allowed nothing in his mind for a time. Then, he unpacked his thoughts singularly. First, the old man. Then, the sword. And finally, the visions. He found his hand wandering to the blade. In the safety of the cathedral, he allowed it. A calming wave washed over him. He sought to maintain control while under the sword’s influence, and did for a time. With a heightened clarity, he delved deeper into the thoughts, but found no answers still. Eventually, the tranquility consumed him.

  Rowan awoke to a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he recoiled, only partly from the hand.

  Another nightmare that’s not mine… A raven, and a gate smashed in… and something else…

  Father Brayden quipped, “Did I catch you sleeping in my church?”

  “Forgive me, father-“

  Shaking his head, the priest interjected, “That’s borderline heretical, at least in here.”

  Rowan stood and stretched.

  “You smell like the docks,” Brayden remarked. “No wonder this place is empty. Draw up some water. When you’re done, join me in the clergy hall.

  * * * * *

  Rowan emerged wet-haired and clean-shaven. He joined Father Brayden at a rough-cut table. The priest pushed a bottle of wine towards the thief. Rowan filled a cup, swirled it for a moment, and took sip.

  “It’s good,” Rowan said.

  Retrieving the bottle, Brayden examined it. “It’s a fine vintage, from a fine year.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s so fine about it? The year, that is.”

  “It’s the year your father was born.”

  Rowan reasoned Father Brayden had already enjoyed a glass or two. The priest didn’t talk about his father much anymore. He ignored the topic for the moment. Instead, he said, “It’s good to be home.”

  “It’s good to have you home, Ro. Where’ve you been?”

  Rowan began. “W-“

  “Wait,” interrupted the priest. “Do I really want to know?”

  “Mmm…” Rowan mused, “Probably not…” Leaning back, he studied the room that he’d been in a thousand times before.

  The floors, walls, and ceiling were all stone. The basement room was windowless, but well-lit by lamps and two wooden chandeliers. A vaulted ceiling made the space seem larger than it was. A block of cheese and several links of sausage filled a plate beside the bottle of wine.

  Rowan retrieved his knife and cut several slices of cheese. Handing the priest a piece, he said, “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s going to eat at you until you get it out.”

  Arching an eyebrow, Brayden eyed him. Finally, he spoke. “You’re just so capable. I wish you’d at least try to get a respectable job.”

  Grinning, Rowan replied, “Feel better?”

  Father Brayden snorted. “No. Am I that transparent?”

  “To me you are,” Rowan said with a chuckle.

  The priest filled his glass, then topped off Rowan’s.

  Leaning in, the thief regarded the old priest silently.

  “What?”

  Rowan snorted.

  “Say it.”

  Rowan exhaled, then spoke. “Why do you put up with me? I’m probably the worst son you could’ve asked for, and you didn’t. Ask for me that is. Besides, I’m grown now; you’ve no more obligations.” His words were light-hearted, but sincere.

  A smile crept across Brayden’s face, grandfatherly in nature. “You may not be my blood, but you’re my son. You always will be, no matter what. That’s how it’s designed to work. Besides, what would your father think otherwise?”

  Twice he’s mentioned him. He’s in a sentimental mood…

  “Tell me something about my father that I don’t know,” Rowan said.

  The old priest chewed the thought and a bite of sausage. Finally, he spoke. “You remind me more of him every day. He lived for the next adventure. And he believed that the common man’s fight was a noble cause. Often,” he smirked, “he did the wrong things for the right reasons. The world’s a lesser place without
him.”

  None of the Father Brayden’s words were new. They were the same recollections he’d heard a hundred times before. Long ago, he’d reconciled himself to the fact that the old priest may never truly have a conversation about his father with him. Still, Rowan savored the moment, imagining the man he never knew. At the same time, he felt guilty for disappointing the one that sat before him.

  Leaning back, Brayden sipped his wine. He studied the young man before him. “You look tired. The kind of tired that comes from a heavy burden.”

  “Am I talking to my priest or my godfather?”

  “The question stands regardless.”

  Rowan sighed. “Does the name Thatcher Frost mean anything to you?” Just say no so we can never have this conversation again…

  “…Frost?”

  Rowan nodded.

  “…I don’t believe so.” Considering the name for a moment longer, Brayden shook his head. “No, never heard of him.”

  Lying never was your strong suit. I guess that’s the priest in you… I don’t want to do this, but I have to. I have to know... I have to get this dead man out of my head. And Frost may be the only one that can do that.

  Rowan clicked his tongue. “That’s a shame,” he said, baiting Father Brayden, “I think I have something that belongs to him.”

  A slow anger smoldered in the old priest. Rowan could see it building.

  “I should be going,” Brayden said. Standing, he corked the wine and grabbed the plate.

  As he started away, Rowan said, “You do know him.”

  The plate hit the floor. Shards scattered to the walls. A sausage link rolled across the floor. Without turning, the old priest spoke. His voice was hard, it was a tone Rowan hadn’t heard since his youth. “Stay away from Thatcher Frost!” With that, he left.

  Chapter 7

  Griffon Alexander

  Braewood Keep

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Damp hay and horse shit comingled in the air.

  “These are our two fastest horses,” the stablemaster proclaimed.

  Tacked and ready, Ezra took the first gelding.

  Griffon grabbed Bailey’s equipment and began saddling him up. The animal responded with a nicker.