Blood and Iron 4 Page 7

  Rowan threw his arms over Kassina and pulled her to the deck as the massive bolts slammed into the side of the ship. Oil and wet flames splattered across the hull, sending tongues of fire licking up the timbers.

  “They mean to burn us alive!” shouted Sutton, appearing on the bow.

  “They mean to better their odds,” countered Byard, “and they just did.” Turning, he shouted “First five teams, ready your steel! The rest of you bastards, put out those fires!”

  Men scattered across the decks, cursing and shouting and fetching buckets and tarps, fighting back the flames before they burned beyond the point of control. Rowan drew Unforged and felt the surge of calm and focus wash over him.

  Roars rose up from the boats, followed by a volley of fire. Arcing high, they turned down and plummeted towards the Cormorant.

  “Take cover!” Byard shouted, leaping from the bow to the deck below and pressing himself flat against the short wall. Kassina grabbed Rowan by the arm and did the same. Meanwhile, flames rained down all around them, piercing flesh and wood, spreading the fires further still. Cries of anguish resounded. The smell of the Cormorant’s charred paint and wood filled the air.

  Rowan sheathed his blade and grabbed a tarp and fought back the blaze. All around him, the shouts of the crew filled the air. Orders were taken and received, and men fell into their new roles as if the task of extinguishing a ship was done thrice a moon. For a moment, he felt as if they were winning back the Cormorant.

  Then, six torches climbed into the air and clattered across the wooden planks. Behind them, several dozen grappling hooks followed, clinging tight to the rail.

  A hard hand jerked Rowan around. “Leave the fires to the others,” Byard barked. “I need your steel and magic, my lord! They are upon us!”

  Hard faces of all shapes clambered onto the ship. The northman bounded forward and swung his longsword like a claymore, unheading a corsair as he heaved himself up. As the head fell back, the hands let go and the body plunged after it. Ducking low, Byard avoided a marauder’s axe, before driving his shoulder hard into the man’s jaw, stunning him and sending him reeling backwards. He spun and met a second man’s saber with a grimace and the shortsword and shoved him against the rail. Turning back again, he drove his shortsword deep into the stunned marauder’s gut, tore the axe from his hands, and heaved it at the second man, burying it in his chest.

  In the midst of the chaos, the thief caught a glimpse of the northman’s face. Drunk on bloodshed, a hint of revelry betrayed him. Ripping the axe out of the dead man’s chest, Byard waded through the smoke and the fray, rallying his teams and raking the crude iron edge across the back of another corsair, while letting out a war cry that sounded of grim lust and a little hatred.

  Kassina’s voice whirled Rowan around. A marauder closed in, swinging at her wildly. Pulling Unforged, he felt the sword and his adrenaline tunnel his vision. With four long strides, he stretched the ash-black steel out in front of him and leapt at the man. The marauder glanced over and started his turn, but it was too late. Unforged sunk to its hilt in the man’s neck, drinking up his life and driving him to the deck. The thief landed hard and rolled to the side, his breath rasping in his chest.

  “Watch out!” she shouted, parrying a rapier with her saber.

  Rowan scrambled backwards while Kassina fended off the thin steel’s swift strikes. All around them, men bled and screamed and died, while the smoke grew thicker still.

  Back on his feet, a longsword swept in from the side. He brought Unforged up quick and met the blow at their foibles, shearing the upper third of the longsword and sending it whirring end over end through the air. Stepping forward, he swung hard at the marauder who now held a blade no longer than his own. Steel met steel, but the man grimaced and bore yellow teeth while stumbling backwards. Dancing forward, the thief caught the marauder off balance and tore Unforged across his face, ripping him wide from ear to jaw. Blood gushed forth as the man’s tongue lolled and his mouth hung askew. Wide eyes searched the dancing shadows while he groped at his mortal gash with a gloved hand.

  Turning, he saw Kassina catch the rapier with her swordbreaker, before slashing the man’s chest with the masterforged saber. Crimson blossomed out, like the evening redness across the sky, while the man sunk to his knees. “Are you alright?” Rowan shouted.

  She nodded, before sidestepping him and pressing her back against his. Together, they spun slow and searched the deck. Beyond the thick black smoke that burned throats and watered eyes, the sound of a roaring fire overwhelmed the shrieks of battle. Overhead, flames leapt up the mast, warring against the night like a solitary sentinel on the sable-black sea.

  With a sudden shift, a wayward wind howled across the Cormorant, pushing back the hot haze and laying the orange tongues flat against the deck. To their left, Byard stood over a pair of bodies, longsword and axe in his hands. Blood spray painted his face red. Looking over at Rowan, he wiped his brow and licked his lips and spat. To their right, near the rail, was Sutton, haggard and staggering and clutching a gash at his side, his hands sanguine. The four merged, meeting in the center of the deck. “Will you live?” Kassina whispered to Howland.

  “It’s not mortal, but I can scarcely fight.”

  Looking towards the bow, seven marauders remained. All that was left of the crew was Stitch and Ortun, both unarmed and on their knees.

  “Take the ship,” pleaded the captain, “let them live.”

  A tall corsair stepped forward, broadsword in his hand. “Look around you, fool. The ship burns with no recourse. There’ll be nothing left of it come the morrow.”

  Only then did the thought broach Howland’s mind. Color drained from his face, he dropped to his knees. “Why?” he asked with a voice tinged with both grim laughter and mourning. “Why burn her? You can’t plunder ashes on waves.”

  “It never was about the plunder,” the man replied, “we only wanted your blood.” With that, he swung his broadsword hard at Stitch’s neck, unheading him.

  Ortun’s eyes grew wide. As the old man slumped forward. He scrambled on all fours, but the man was upon him. Steel pierced the boy’s chest and pinned him to the deck. A cough rasped from his mouth. Raising his head, he locked eyes with Rowan, before emptying his lungs and falling limp.

  “You son of a bitch,” snarled Kassina.

  Rage built inside of Rowan as Unforged tingled in his hand. He thought of the freckled boy that deserved more than the Cormorant, and he thought of Iseult, and then the tarpan.

  And he let go of the reins.

  A roar like a beast of the deep places rolled out of his mouth as his irises flashed black as dead coals. Slicing the blade before him, a blue-green flame — that same strange fire that danced but never consumed — snarled to life at the hilt and licked the blade to the tip. Byard and Sutton stepped back.

  And so did the corsairs.

  “Stay,” he said, stepping forward, with a voice that was as much his own as not. “We only want your blood.” The sword glowed turquoise on his face as he approached the group.

  “Take our boats,” said one.

  “We will,” replied Rowan, flicking his wrist and snapping the man’s neck back with such sharpness that it draped over his back, staring listlessly at his companions.

  The thief winced and coughed.

  “Please,” said another, “we-“

  Rowan thrust out his hand and twisted it, before pulling it back again. He stumbled but regained his composure.

  The corsair doubled over and retched gore, spattering his boots and staining the deck, as if his insides had been blended together. Dropping to his knees, convulsions overtook him.

  All the while, the roar of the fires grew louder. Ash and embers swirled through the hot air. Flaming spars and timbers and rigging from the mast crashed around them, sending sparks flying high and fire skittering across the deck.

  Rowan sneered and continued forward, until a hand caught his shoulder and pulled him back. He whirle
d, bringing Unforged to Byard’s throat. Black eyes met blue. The northman pulled away from the singe of the green flames. “My life is yours, my lord, but hear me, if we don’t leave now, we never will. Now, please, let’s take their boats and flee, before it’s too late.”

  Looking over, he saw Kassina and Sutton toss a couple of grappling hooks over the rail, before climbing over and descending from another pair. Glancing back, he saw the corsairs, terrified, backed up to the bow.

  “Come with me, now!” Byard said, rattling Rowan’s head.

  Slowly, his black eyes browned. “Ok,” he said, “let’s go.”

  Chapter 48

  Bela Wray

  City of Ashmor

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  The forge was an empty place, barren and cold, with harsh lines and sharp edges. Stone set in mortar too thin, leaving grooves deep enough that you could sink the pad of your finger in. And the floor was a man’s shoulder height below the ground, like a cellar, or perhaps a sepulcher.

  Perhaps it would be her sepulcher, but that was only fitting. If Ashmor was to fall, then a Wray should be in the Wray, but that was foolish talk. She knew she couldn’t stay.

  Bela traced a line of mortar, searching out the room she had slaved in for so many years, only then realizing it was a dour place made warm and familiar by — oddly enough — Gruff himself. A kettle whistled atop their forge of wide renown that was now relegated to warming sand apple cider for one.

  Turning, she grabbed the copper handle with a gloved hand and poured the steaming brew to a silver cup, smithed by Bela herself. The cider drank like the sand apple ate, sour at first followed by sweet, though the fermentation process cut the sugary reward.

  Carrying the kettle and cup to the side kitchen, she cracked the high windows set just above street-level and listened for the sounds of the city. At this time of morning, an endless droning bustle usually permeated the district, though today the streets were as mute as a graveyard. With the Cairn ferries having ran all night and most of the morning, all that remained were the damned — soldiers and looters and the hopelessly mad. Bela mulled her options and settled on the latter for herself.

  For a moment, she considered bundling up and walking the streets, like she often did when the winter tempests swept in off the coast. Bringing sleet and ice and bitter cold, they drove the city behind closed doors for sometimes a week solid. In those waning hours, when the winds kicked up and the streets grew silent, she enjoyed Ashmor the most.

  There’s something magical about the vacancy of it all, she mused, sipping the cider and letting it purse her lips, as if anything can happen. But this time, I s’pose it’s different.

  Looking around, her eyes settled on a painting on a shelf, one that had so resembled Kassina that her mother bought it despite its price. She thought of Kass and Ro, and where the word elekhoi had taken them on the Cormorant. Were they in Avendor, or had they decided on someplace else? Would she ever see them again? In her heart, she hoped so, but in her mind, she thought not.

  Sipping the cider again, she topped off her cup and stood, her scabbard scraping the wooden chair. Slowly, she meandered back into the forge, before pushing against the heavy wooden door and stepping out into the alley. Cold air met her like a lover scorned, chilling her face and steaming her drink. Climbing the path to the shop, she stepped gingerly, careful not to slip on the thick layer of ice. Somewhere overhead, crows argued bitterly.

  Stepping into the storefront, she leaned against the counter and eyed the sign that hung high on the wall.

  Wray of the Warrior

  Common and Exotic Gruffworks

  Grabbing an iron flat bar, she kicked a stool in position and stepped atop it. Nails groaned in protest, but they were no match for her leverage. With several quick motions, the sign clattered to the floor.

  Bela knelt and picked it up and traced the blackened letters with the same finger that mapped the mortar, before bringing it up to her mouth and blowing off at least a decade of dust. Turning, she carried it to the corner where her pack and scabbards holding the rarest Gruffworks lay and leaned it against them. She’d burned those letters on that cedar plank under Gruff’s watchful eye. He’d been so proud. “Your first creation,” he’d said. “You’re a craftsman now.”

  “Craftsgirl,” she said aloud, just as she had then.

  She wondered if Gruff and her mother had made it safely to Galaia. It was likely they had, for the route was a direct one. It wasn’t far enough away, though. They should have gone farther, but Gruff had set it in his mind, and when a Wray... she smiled.

  Turning up the cup, she drained it and set it on the counter. Bela gave the shop one last look and took in all the memories she could. In the corner, she fastened the scabbards and plank to her pack, before slipping her arms through the shoulder straps. If she was lucky, she could make it over the rocky slopes that clambered south off the Braeridge Mountains, and then through the Valengrove that lay beyond, but the trek would not be an easy one. And yet, she was out of options, unless of course, she considered the Cairn, but Bela refused to be a refugee.

  Standing, the pack was heavy on her back. She chuckled to herself as she cursed the gold in its bottom. This shit will be strewn across the slopes before I crest the first peak...

  Starting towards the door, she was met by two knocks. They were solid and purposeful, and resounded through the shop. Bela froze and waited in silence until she was certain whomever is was had left. After a time, she stepped forward, only to be barked at again — knock-knock — this time louder than before. She slunk towards the door, as quietly as her rattley pack would permit. Unlatching the porthole, it squeaked as she opened it and peeked out.

  A haggard face peered back with brown eyes. “Bela Wray?” the voice asked, carried on tones that betrayed struggle and loss and grief. Behind him she saw other men, hard men.

  “Wh-Who’s asking?” she stammered.

  “Names Mery. Ezra Lauder sent us. Said something about how you were going to save this city, and we damn well better help you do it.”

  Mouth agape, she opened the door to a street full of men and wagons and horses. “How many of you are there?” she asked.

  “Half a company,” he replied. “So, about fifty, and a dozen guards.”

  Shrugging out of her pack, the masterforger’s apprentice stepped out into the street and spun slowly. Timber and iron waited in the wagons. Grim yet eager faces looked to her. “Spears and broad axes,” said Mery. “That’s what he wants. Two thousand of them, and you’ve got five days.”

  “Two thousand my arse,” she scoffed. “We’re going to need a miracle.”

  “We’re your miracle,” Mery said, “the rest is up to you.”

  * * * * *

  For four days the forge of the Wray of the Warrior roared without ceasing. The men – who she came to learn were oarsman and armsmen of the Brae and others loyal to House Alexander – knocked down the alley wall that connected the shop and forge, so that heavy tongs could tote red iron out to anvils and workstations in the street. Hammers sang day and night the songs of blood and sweat and war. Men sang, too, to keep from crying out from exhaustion and blisters and scalded skin and fear of the coming siege.

  They worked in shifts, burning torches and bonfires all night, while others slept in the street and on the backs of wagons, until the snow flurries became such that they broke down the doors of the surrounding houses to seek a few hours of sheltered respite.

  Bela cut her locks with a dirk just past her ears in a fit of frustration after the first day, when the smell of singed hair became too much, then caught a glimpse of her reflection passing through the shop and mourned her loss for a moment, before drying her eyes and continuing on. The masterforger’s daughter commanded the company like a war band chieftain, teaching and correcting and cursing, until the quality was sufficient for battle, knowing that Gruff would have disowned her had he seen their work. But the order was quantity, and a rough-wrought axe with a se
rviceable edge killed a man just as true as a lordling’s engraved longsword.

  By the morning of the fifth day, work progressed well enough without her constant oversight, so she found solace at an anvil, working the head of a broad axe with her hammer, before handing it off to be sharpened and set upon a long shaft. Wiping her brow, she drained what remained of the pint of ale and set it on the ground beside her, before surveying the scene.

  Lann and Ben loaded axes on a pair of wagons. Rulf sharpened spear heads, the scar on his face red from the cold morning air. Out from the forge, Bran wielded tongs clamped down on glowing iron, searching for an empty anvil.

  Other than the rest of the forgers, the street was empty save for the occasional curious beggar. A light flurry of snow floated down and melted on the hot iron. The smell of coal hung heavy in the air, while smoke climbed out of the forge chimney.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Wray,” said a familiar haggard voice.

  Turning, she saw Mery. He wore a wool shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and black circles around his eyes. She smiled. “What’s our count?”

  He shrugged. “More than I ever expected.”

  “Ezra wanted two thousand,” she replied, before calling over a man with a tong of iron.

  “Ezra wanted to press the men. He expected no more than five hundred pieces.”

  She snorted. “You’re a horse’s arse, Mer. You could’ve said something sooner. I wouldn’t’ve pushed them quite so hard.”

  “You pushed them just hard enough, m’lady.”

  “Any news from the wall?”

  “Nothing since two morns ago. We haven’t much time yet.”

  “What’s our chances? Can we win this battle?”

  His face grew grim. “Mace swears that he will, but I don’t know. Our numbers should outmatch Meronia’s by as much as three for one now, but they’re scared kids and tavern keepers. My hope is that we slay enough of the Black Knight’s army to halt his advance until reinforcements arrive, both ours and theirs. And then, it’s someone else’s fight.”