Blood and Iron 5 Page 7

  Stepping around a corner, he emerged at the edge of Desher’s Promenade, an open-air market reserved mostly for local commerce. A large mass of men — wearing quilted jackets or boiled leather or light hauberks — mustered in its center. At their front, a captain shouted instructions that melted into the commotion of the mass that ringed the edge of the square. Leaning forward, he asked an old man, “What’s this about?” though he felt certain he already knew.

  “By order of Ross, we must deliver three legions in all to the fields beyond Whitethroat, and one of yeomen archers and riders and those trained on steel. This is but the first of many that will soon march north.” The old man’s face was grim, along with the rest of the crowd. Three thousand was a lot for Galaia to give, but should the war be lost, they would give more still.

  “I shall pray for their safe return,” said the priest, before turning back toward the alley and disappearing from square.

  * * * * *

  A short while later, Luther stood before Dorum Abbey, which looked more like a castle than a church complex. Two guards slouched at a wrought-iron gate where he reasoned nothing interesting had happened in at least three hundred years. They wore cream capes over ringmail, with knee-high leather boots and longswords that, if dulled, would’ve more likely been from polishing than swordplay. Still, they looked like capable men relegated to an exhaustingly boring post. He approached.

  “Greetings, father,” said a guard.

  He nodded.

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

  “I am Luther Brayden, of Rorke Minster in Ashmor, or whatever’s left of it.”

  “So we heard; a terrible misfortune. Did they ever determine the source?”

  “Likely a candle left too close to some parchments. We may never truly know.”

  The guard shook his head. “So, what is it that you seek?”

  “That which we all do, brother, the answers… to our questions.”

  His response must have been both sufficiently vague and profound enough to stir the man from his post. “Follow me, I will show you to Abbot Caswell.” Well-oiled hinges offered no protest as the guard pushed open the gate and led Luther through a courtyard of manicured trees and even hedgerows.

  Up five stone steps stood a heavy wooden door set deep within a portal, reinforced with black iron bands and rivets, terminating at its peak with a high arch. Above the portal’s threshold was a rose window, ornate and with glass colored every shade seen by the eye. Brayden looked over his shoulder at the sun peeking through the gray clouds and smiled. The angle was perfect; he couldn’t wait to go inside.

  The sounds of the doors echoed down the long hall as the guard pushed them closed again. A half dozen strides ahead was white sunlight transformed into grace made real on the gray stone floor. A thousand colors painted the swirls and hooks and lines of the rose window. The priest paused to appreciate the artistry. The architect of Rorke Minster had been a grandmaster, but his grasp of working with light paled in comparison to the man that had built Dorum Abbey.

  Halfway down the hall, in the shadows between the islands of chromatic sun stains, a figure approached. “Brother, have we a visitor?”

  “Yes, abbot. Luther Brayden of Rorke Minster.”

  “Father Brayden,” said the voice, warming a tone, “it’s been a lifetime.”

  “Or near enough,” he replied, starting forward. “How are you, Hammond?”

  The pair met in the light of a stained-glass window. The priest offered a nodding bow, and the abbot did the same. “I mourned for you when I heard of the Minster. Rorke was a sanctuary for the city.”

  “Mourn for people of Ashmor instead.”

  Caswell sighed. “This Raven Knight, I did not know such a man even existed in Meronia. Greater than Reyland Mace? This does not bode well. And even now Alfred calls on Ross to send our sons to war against this fiend. But he must fall, so be that it is by we.”

  Closing his eyes, Luther shook his head in agreeance, though in his mind, the dread of the coming conflict nagged at him.

  “Have you come to stay with us for a time? We should be so honored.”

  “A time, yes, but shorter than you suggest,” said the priest. “Though I am grateful for your hospitality.”

  “How is it that we can serve you, then?”

  “I would look about your archives for a while, if you would will it.”

  The abbot furrowed his brow. “You have come a long way to read a book, Luther.”

  Brayden sighed. “It is true, but in times of loss, I would seek the solace of the old texts. Obscure passages, or perhaps the personal writings of the saints. They offered comfort like few other things this side of a good sin like a cask of warm honey mead.” He winked.

  Hammond chuckled. “Moderation is key, my brother.”

  “Be that it may, but I find myself in a deep valley. I have no church nor city, and I fear I may’ve lost my foster son in the siege. I am a man undone, brother. So, yes, I’ve come a long way to read a book.”

  Caswell put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for my intrusion, and for all of your losses. Please, consider this your home. You know the where the archives are, and I will ask the brothers to leave you to your tomes until you feel ready for their fellowship.”

  “Thank you, abbot.”

  Hammond smiled. “I will go now and make a place for you in the clergy hall, should you change your mind and choose to tarry for a time.”

  * * * * *

  Luther’s smile was guilt tinged as his footsteps echoed down the hall. He didn’t like lying to an old friend, but Caswell was tad too pious, and he need not know the demons that plagued the priest’s mind. Besides, Hammond would never understand. In truth, as much as he tried to make penance and right old wrongs, some things would never change. In his heart, he knew they two were as different as east and west.

  At the end of the passage, he stooped low and followed a narrow stone staircase down into the gloom. Darkness crept in such that he had to feel his way about until he rounded a corner and the faint glow of the cellar filtered up the last few steps. The air was damp and musty and cold, everything that Galaia wasn’t.

  Emerging from the darkened stairwell, the priest stepped into the archives of Dorum Abbey, renowned for its size, though seldom beheld. Brayden thought it a pity. Countless books and tomes and scrolls sat on sagging shelves that extended endlessly.

  In a nearby corner sat Father Lund in a hardback chair, staring blankly through the place with gray eyes and feeble hands and a liver-spotted head, looking not a day over two-hundred name days old. His cassock swallowed him up like a child in a man’s tunic. Luther chuckled; if he remembered correctly, Lund was in this exact position the last time they spoke probably a dozen years prior.

  “Father Lund?”

  “Wh-what? Who’s there?”

  “Luther Brayden, father.”

  “Who?”

  “Luther Brayden,” he leaned in and repeated loudly.

  “Oh, Brother Gaylen. How’ve you been?”

  Sighing, he said, “I’m looking for some books on-“

  “Books?” the old man’s voice was a squeaky crack. “Have you tried the archives?”

  Now I remember why they put you down here. “Indeed I haven’t,” he said into Lund’s ear. “Perhaps I will.”

  The old man nodded, satisfied.

  Defeated, Luther turned away and stared down the long aisles. How in the nine would he find anything in this place?

  “What is your interest?”

  “My interest?” Brayden shouted for Lund’s benefit, his voice echoing down the long chamber and back again.

  “Yes, yes, your interest. What do you seek?”

  Might as well humor the old man. Stepping forward, he leaned in again and said, “Magery and mythical beings.”

  “Ahhh,” said the old man with a devilish grin. “Those are topics that are most frowned upon… but I always found them of interest.” Reaching
behind his neck, he pulled a thin silver chain up from around his neck. On it was a solitary key. Presenting it, he said, “Far room, locked door. Take all the time you will, just don’t tell the abbot.”

  The priest stood in silence for a while, examining the key. After several moments, he watched as the old man slumped forward, eyes still open, and began to snore. Thinking for a moment, he said, “Father Lund!”

  “Wh-what? Who’s there?”

  “Luther Brayden, father.”

  “Who?”

  “Luther Brayden,” he leaned in and repeated loudly.

  “Oh, Lukah Aiden. How’ve you been?”

  “What… books am I interested in?”

  “Well, how should I know, Lukah?” the old man asked, annoyed.

  Smiling, he said, “Indeed. Thank you, Father Lund.”

  “Of course.” And in a moment, he was fast asleep again.

  * * * * *

  It was a side room, much smaller than the archives proper. For that, Luther was grateful. He made his way through the space, lighting candles and lamps until he could see an arm’s length in front of him. The air in the space smelled older and damper than the main chamber, like wood arot in a wet cave. In the center of the space was a long table with papers and scrolls and tomes strewn about. Around it was several chairs, with one laying on its back. Standing it upright, he spun slowly and examined the shelves.

  This may yet take half a lifetime.

  By the light of a pale flame he fought back a shiver and moved slowly along the perimeter, examining the bound books that bore names and pulling the blank tomes that didn’t. Scrolls were unfurled and scanned and, more often than not, rolled back up and slid back into place. For hours he dug through the wealth of words, occasionally sitting on the cold stone floor as he got lost in a bit of prose or poetry or interesting exposition. His back ached, his feet throbbed, and his eyes grew heavy. Finally, with one wall complete, he sat down at the table with all of the works he’d collected to begin the labor of searching through the pages in detail.

  One by one he searched the texts, scratching out notes with a quill and ink he’d discovered hidden behind a book on transmutations. After a time he abandoned the quill, and instead planted an elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand while he flipped pages with the other. A particularly heavy yawn watered his eyes. Cocking his head from side to side, he listened for the bones to pop, before deciding to lay his head down on the hard table for just a moment…

  Luther awoke after a time to a darkened room with candles burned through and lamps struggling to live. Leaning back, he stretched his arms and took in the silence. Standing, he disappeared into the general archives, only to return with an armful of robbed candles. Planting them around the room, he lit them and reclaimed the gloom.

  “Now,” he said, taking back his seat. “Necromancy…”

  There wasn’t a lot written on the subject, not relative to conjuration, or incantation, or divination, or any number of other fields of study. Those authors that did speak of the dark art mostly made cases against its pursuit – it was a lost or forgotten field, or a damned one, or perhaps one that never existed, depending on the opinion of the particular writer.

  Working through a pile of scrolls, he came upon a leather book, small and thin and black. Recalling it, he picked it up and leaned back and began to thumb through the pages. It was an odd piece. No author was named, nor were there the usual lengthy commentaries or tangential ramblings. No, this was a different thing altogether. These were instructions, meant to describe the precise how-tos and what-fors of raising the dead. It was a cookbook, and each recipe a spell. “The Recently Departed, Animating Bones, On Draugurs, Withering Blights, Defiling Contagions…”

  Brayden scoffed at first, but dread blossomed in his stomach the more he read. The author was one of two things, a raving lunatic or an arch necromancer. Either way, he believed his own words to be true. And he made one thing quite clear – every spell in the book was impossible without a close connection with a very powerful being. With a somber sigh, the priest laid the book on the table and leaned back. “It’s not possible… I was there…”

  Grabbing one hand with the other, he massaged his fingers in an attempt to push back the tremble that had started at the tips and was working its way up his arms. His heart raced. Thoughts flooded his mind, all of them grim.

  Looking down, he saw the yellowed pages of the book had flipped forward a chapter or two, revealing another spell. The Valravn. Luther leaned in and read the script to himself, each word tightening his chest more than the last.

  Born of a warrior fallen and a raven living eaten of his flesh, the Valravn is a dire paladin, a thrall to his master’s bidding. Soulless, he retains a faint shade of his living memories, though they embitter him and drive him against those he once knew. A cruel aura spreads out from him like dark tentacles, drawing the living to his cause, corrupting them slowly, until they are similar to he. Unheading is his only weakness, and even then the body should be burnt, lest he be reassembled. Dread is the man called that commands a Raven Knight, and woe is those that would dare stand against him.

  Without a word, Luther Brayden, grabbed the black leather book and stumbled through the gloom and into the archives beyond.

  Chapter 64

  Griffon Alexander

  The Valengrove

  Darkness came early with the sun sinking behind the Braeridge, though its phantom afterglow lingered still. Griffon scanned the flint hills beyond the base of the slopes with Kren and the timber wolf, searching for the black riders. “What is it that you can see?” Kren whispered as he sipped a skin of wine.

  “I see a doe and two yearlings bounding across the open field. Wait, there’s a third – he lags behind.”

  Sand followed them intently, ears perked.

  “You impress me, Eleksandr, for they are far and the shadows are thick. Have you always had the night eyes of a hill warrior?”

  Griffon smirked. “Not particularly. Maybe those hill eyes aren’t so different than a lowlander’s, Kren.”

  He snorted while studying the young lord. “Perhaps it is so,” he replied in a voice unconvinced. “Tell me, what else can you see?”

  Placing both hands on the outcropping, he leaned forward and strained through the gloom. Pointing a finger, he said after a time, “Two foxes, along the edge of that copse.”

  Kren searched the stand of trees. “It is so. They seek the eggs of the quail that ambushed us.”

  The young lord chuckled.

  “You were quick with your steel. Even I could not pull my axes before you.”

  He shrugged. “My hand was riding on my hilt, nothing more.”

  “Even still, your hand shamed me,” he quipped. After a moment, the titan added, “No sign of the horsemen?”

  Griffon studied the copses and groves for a long time. If they were there, he could not see them. Still, leaving the shelter of the slopes was a risk that he was not keen to undertake rashly. How long would his father have tarried before giving the order? He wished he knew. With a sigh, he sat back and took the skin from the wildman. Upon turning it up, he whispered, “I don’t know, Kren. I see nothing but those damned tar badgers, but I suspect the riders lay in wait for us. I know I wouldn’t have left after finding the geldings.”

  Redstorm nodded. “You have spoken, and your words are apt to be true.”

  “If they fall upon us then we are ended.”

  “Then they must not fall upon us. We will stay low, crawl through the tall grass like a serpent until we reach the forest.”

  Standing, the young lord said, “That is our plan, then.”

  “Wait, show me these badgers you see.”

  Pointing far down the slope, he said, “There, digging in the dirt, a whole clan of them. Rooting out rats probably.”

  Offering a grunt, the wildman said, “Those are but specks, they could be rats themselves.”

  “They are badgers, Kren,” he said with a
mocking snort.

  “Hmph. You said tar badgers, how can you tell?”

  “How does anyone tell?” Griffon said, starting towards the larger group. “They’ve no stripes on their faces.”

  * * * * *

  At the base of the slopes, where the mountain dives deep in the ground but continues still, they dropped to their hands and knees and crawled towards the Valengrove, just as Kren had said. The blades of hoargrass tickled Griffon’s face and caught on his cracked lips as he led the group forward, occasionally peeking his head up like a rust squirrel to search for signs of the riders, but they were nowhere to be found. Overhead, a cloudless sky and a full moon plagued them, blanketing the open spaces with a bright bluish glow. Sand followed after them with a curious gaze, refusing to scrape along the ground as they.

  He thought of his father, cold in the crypt, alone, with nothing but eastern steel in his hands. Memories pressed forward, so he allowed them to wash over him. Their last hunt had been for wild boar – the one they’d feasted on so bitterly with Reyland Mace in fact – and he had been a big one, a damn big one indeed.

  They’d veered west off the main trail that cut north through the olde growth unburnt, riding and talking and searching for prints. Boars were hunted on the ground with spears and daggers, not ran down on horseback or slain with swords or bows. That was tradition. Looking back, he reasoned it wasn’t much different than the Uhnan’akk ways in the high places.

  On that hunt, they didn’t have to search out the wallows or rootings or broken branches or even hoof prints in the mud. The sounds of a battle drew them to him. Stepping down from their saddles, they raced towards the deep grunts and high squeals, spears in hand, hearts arace, cold air rasping their throats and biting at their lungs.