Blood and Iron 1 Page 8

  Shaking from the adrenaline dump, he staggered out of the chamber. Rounding the corner, he saw the mouth of the cave. Disoriented, he froze.

  How am I here?

  Kren was tending a fire at the entrance. Looking up, he saw the torchlight.

  “Eleksandr?”

  Griffon didn’t reply.

  Standing, he raced towards the light. Reaching Griffon, the wildman grabbed his shoulders with powerful hands and rattled his teeth. “Eleksandr!”

  Looking up, Griffon whispered, “I’m alright, I think... How am I here?”

  “The cave, it changes. Come, show me.”

  Griffon led Kren back to the bear.

  “A dire bear!” Kren exclaimed, “Eleksandr! How are you living still?”

  Griffon snorted, unable to speak.

  “Come closer,” the wildman urged. Drawing his dagger, he said, “Here, cup your hands under its throat.”

  Placing the torch on the cave floor, Griffon did so. With the blade, Kren sliced the leathery hide. Hot blood gushed over Griffon’s hands. Retrieving a vial from his belt pouch, Kren uncorked it and poured its contents into the lowlander’s hands as well. With a finger, he stirred the mixture.

  “Now, drink it.”

  Incredulous, Griffon looked up.

  “I didn’t stammer, Eleksandr. Drink it, now.”

  Drawing his hands to his mouth, Griffon took in the hot liquid. It coated his throat. He could feel it draining into his stomach. His mouth soured and watered. The urge to retch washed over him.

  “Fight it, lowlander!”

  Griffon grew numb. His eyes rolled in the back of his head. A mild tremor became convulsions. Collapsing on the floor, his mouth foamed. And then, everything went black. Visions flooded his mind. With his final conscious thought, he wondered if they were the mountain’s or the vial’s, or perhaps both.

  * * * * *

  Griffon lay on his back under a pile of furs and stared at the roof of the cave. The winds howled. A fire roared. Kren studied him. Turning his head back towards the maw, he retched violently.

  The wildman nodded. “You may do that now.”

  Wiping his mouth, Griffon faced Kren. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  Leaning in, Kren said, “You bested a dire bear. You should be dead!”

  “I feel dead…”

  “And yet, you are not. So tell me, what did you see?”

  Griffon sat upright. He shivered. Pulling the furs tight around his body, he eyed the Uhnan’akk warrior for a long time. His face was solemn. Finally, he spoke, “I saw the ashes of the olde growth, smoldering in the night. And Hell’s Gate smashed inward… A raven threatened all of Beyorn. And-“

  “And what?”

  “…I mourned over the body of a friend.”

  “Who was the friend?”

  “I don’t know…”

  Chapter 10

  Rowan Vos

  City of Ashmor

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Rowan sat in silence on the hearth, head in his hands. Fear and guilt and rage warred inside his head. His back blazed from the fire, but he pushed it out of his mind. The smell of the sewers clung to his clothes.

  Father Brayden’s wails had subsided nearly an hour ago. Now, behind closed doors, he was deathly silent. Rowan wanted to peek into the room, but twice already Cecile had ordered him out. She was a battle axe when she set about saving a life, but there were none better, so Rowan acquiesced.

  Finally, she emerged, bloodstained to her elbows. Wiping her brow, she only served to smear it red. Sighing, she collapsed in a seat across from Rowan.

  He stared at her. Exhausted, she ignored him. Finally, he spoke, “Is he going to make it?”

  The old woman’s brow furrowed. She propped her elbows on her knees and massaged her temples with her fingers. “It’s too soon to say, hon. He’s strong, but the blade cut deep. We may not know ‘til the morrow. And then we fight the infection.”

  “But-“

  “But,” She interjected. “I have hope. Not much, but hope nonetheless. A healer has to, else they ‘int much help to anyone...” Her voice trailed off, before adding, “I just don’t understand... Who would do such a thing to Luther Brayden, of all men? He’s never harmed a soul, and saved a thousand more...”

  I did this, Cecile... My selfishness is killing the ones I love, and I don’t know what to do about it...

  “Kass!” The words burst out of his mouth.

  Startled, Celice replied, “What was that, hon?”

  Standing, he said, “Is there anything else you need from me?”

  The old healer shook her head, “Time and tinctures, prayers and poultices, that’s all that’s left.”

  “Then I have to go.”

  “But, where are you going at this hour?”

  Stepping into the night, he never heard her words.

  * * * * *

  From the rooftops, Rowan tore through the city. An occasional hound barked, before being answered across the district by another. The sweet scent of the approaching rains tinged the air.

  Again, the witching hour. Nothing good happens after sundown…

  Stepping off a ledge, he spread his arms wide and teetered across a cable of his own setting. On the other side, he resumed his pace. Clearing a narrow gap between two rooftops, he landed hard, cursing under his breath.

  Fueled by the grim thoughts in his head, adrenaline coursed through his body. Terrified and unable to think clearly, he pushed his body to its limits.

  A couple blocks from the Flame & Flagon, Rowan dropped into a dark alley. Landing with a crouch, he froze and searched the night. Sticking to the shadows, he closed in on the tavern.

  At the alley’s edge, he peered across a dimly-lit street. Beyond swayed the Flagon’s wooden placard. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Halfway across the cobblestone lane, two figures emerged from a nearby alcove.

  “Little late for a drink, ‘int it?” the burly brigand remarked.

  “I’d say,” replied the lanky one. “Surely he’ll regret it in the ‘morrow.”

  “This is the wrong night, assholes,” Rowan snarled, “find another mark...”

  Stepping into Rowan’s path, the burly one said, “‘Fraid we might get hurt, is he? Save your arse talk for after.”

  Rowan withdrew the blade. It fought to subdue him, but his rage and fear and force of will overcame it. Instead of a debilitating calmness, a focused edge washed over him. His eyes narrowed.

  The burly brigand lunged. His movements seemed sluggish. The thief danced around the man’s fist, ducked low, and drove the blade deep into his side.

  The brigand gasped in shock as Rowan withdrew the sword. A sickly sucking sound chased after it. Twice again he plunged the steel hilt-deep between the brigand’s ribs.

  Choking on his own blood, the dying man dropped to his knees. With a gasp, his lanky partner stumbled backwards, before turning and fleeing into the night. Crimson marred the cobblestone lane.

  Ignoring them, Rowan entered the Flagon. A trail of blood led out.

  The tavern was empty and in disarray. An overturned table was surrounded by shards of glass. Stale beer soaked into the wooden planks.

  Rowan’s heart sank. In the center of the room, a dead assassin and a familiar figure both lay face down on the floor. His mind struggled to process the scene.

  Gib...

  He saw the wooden cudgel the keep kept behind the bar laying beside him. A quick victim of the club, the assassin’s head was caved inwards. Blood pooled around Gib’s torso.

  Kneeling, Rowan checked the bartender’s pulse, but he knew it was futile. The body was cold.

  Damn it, Gib… Why’d you have to fight ‘em?

  Standing, he crept to the back of the Flagon.

  He pushed against the door, but it was locked. After several swift kicks and one hard shoulder, the hinges gave way.

  “Kass!�
��

  No response.

  With sword in hand, he descended the stairs. The focused feeling remained with him. Thin pine planks creaked under his feet. Below, a lone lamp flickered, casting a pale glow across the cellar. Rowan noted no signs of a struggle.

  Stopping at the same room he’d tucked Kassina into bed before, he pressed against the door. Again, it was locked. In a low voice, he said, “Kass,” and gently rapped on the timber.

  No response.

  “Kass!”

  “Rowan?” Her voice was shaky and mistrusting.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Footsteps padded towards him. Rowan heard the latch click. Cracking the door, she peeked out.

  “Oh, Ro!” Still holding the crossbow, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “What happened?”

  With tear stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes, she stepped back and studied his face. “There were two of them. Gib caught one in the head, but...” She sobbed. “I put a bolt in the bastard’s belly… Maybe he’s dead in a gutter somewhere.”

  Rowan stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her head in his chest and wept.

  In a calm voice, he said, “Kass, we have to go. They’re not done here.”

  “But where?”

  “I don’t know... the warehouse?”

  She shook her head. “No...” Looking down, she saw the sword. “That, that’s what they’re after...”

  His chest tightened. “I know.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well just give it to them!”

  “Kass, you said it yourself, I don’t think that’ll end this.”

  Sobbing silently, she replied, “...I know.” Stepping backwards, she sat on the edge of the bed, crossbow across her lap. Taking several moments, she closed her eyes and focused her breathing. Wiping the tears from her face, she reclaimed a measure of composure. Looking up, her eyes narrowed. “We go to Gruff Wray’s. If anyone will know what’s so important about this sword, Gruff will. I want to know why these bastards are so willing to kill for it, and then I want to use it against ‘em.”

  Chapter 11

  Griffon Alexander

  Braeridge Mountains

  The Southern Reaches of Meronia

  Griffon’s mind was haunted by the visions as he descended the Braeridge Mountains. At the base of the slope, Kren stopped. He was flanked by Joroch and Ulriich, the same two painted warriors from when they first met.

  “Eleksandr,” the wildman said, eyeing them both, “Ezra Tenderfoot, we must part here.”

  “Come with us,” Griffon said, “to the Brae. We could use a warrior like yourself.”

  The titan shook his head. “We council, tonight, under the dark sky of the new moon. Only there will we decide what it is we must do.”

  “Choose well then,” Griffon said.

  Kren nodded.

  Turning to Ezra, Griffon said, “I guess we should go, we’ve a long walk back.”

  As they started away, the wildman said, “Wait.” Joroch handed a spear to Kren. Stepping forward, he and Griffon met, just out of earshot of the others.

  “You impressed me, Eleksandr. I did not expect as much from a lowlander.”

  Unsure of what to say, Griffon thrust out his hand.

  Kren gripped his forearm with one hand. With the other, he presented the spear. “This is the symbol of an Uhnan’akk. It is given to him the night before his first hunt. It is yours now.”

  “I’m honored. Thank you, Kren, son of Kren-“

  “Son of Ulf,” the wildman interjected, smiling.

  Griffon paused for moment, before asking, “Kren, the visions, are they destined? Must they come true?”

  Scratching silver stubble with his fingernails, the titan mused the thought. Finally, he spoke. “They are but one future. They can be changed,” poking Griffon’s chest, he added, “but only by the vision bearer.”

  “How can a raven threaten a kingdom?” Griffon wondered aloud.

  “It was not my vision, Eleksandr. You should’ve asked the spirits of the mountain.”

  Griffon snorted. He had a point. “One more thing,” Griffon said, “In the cave, I saw paintings on the walls. Uhnan’akk warriors. Have you seen them?”

  Kren shrugged. “I do not know of what you speak. We have never dwelled in that place; only to speak with the mountain.”

  Nodding, Griffon said, “Well, I guess we should go…”

  “Go fast, lowlander. You have much to share. And the time is near.”

  * * * * *

  By mid-day, they reached the Braewood Forest. As they did, trumpets sounded. One long blast echoed through the valley.

  Ezra breathed a sigh of relief. “Here’s hoping they send riders. Otherwise, I don’t think I’ll make it.”

  “They will, old man,” Griffon replied, “If they’ve seen us, they’ve seen we’re without our horses.”

  On foot, the olde growth seemed more threatening. A damp, earthy musk hung in the air. The forever dark that was the high canopy blotted out the midday sun.

  “It’s cold in here,” Ezra said, “Colder than usual.”

  “Doesn’t bode well for winter,” Griffon replied.

  Marveling at a particularly large braewood tree, Griffon found himself lost in the beauty of the forest. A raven cawed somewhere in the beyond. Leaves rustled as something rooted about the forest floor.

  Again, Ezra broke the silence. “You haven’t offered so I haven’t asked, until now, but I want to know. What did you see on the mountain?”

  “I think… I think I saw us lose the Brae. I don’t know if it was real or not, but I believe this is true – I think this battle will prove to be worse than any of us expect, and the start of a much larger war. Something, or perhaps someone, is pushing us all towards this.”

  “You got all that from a mountain?”

  Griffon shrugged.

  Up ahead, two riders appeared from around a bend in the trail.

  “Are they ours?” Ezra asked.

  Squinting, Griffon replied with a whisper, “I don’t think so.”

  “These assholes are persistent…”

  “But this time we’re short a couple horses.”

  “…And a couple axes,” Ezra remarked. Glancing over his shoulder, he added, “Shit, we’ve got a third one behind us.”

  Back to back, Ezra withdrew his longsword. Griffon readied the spear.

  Anxious for the charge, the horses neighed and stomped the earth. A rider on each side raised their sword high. With a sudden shout, they each slapped their reins. Horse and rider sprang forth.

  “This is a deadly dance,” Ezra said, “And if one of us should fall, both of us die. There is no winning this without two swords.”

  “Agreed,” said Griffon.

  Urged on by their riders, the horses galloped at full speed, snorting and spitting and flaring their nostrils.

  “They’ll try to split us up, but stay back to back. Call your movements if you must. Make no mistake, you’re dueling the sword behind you, not the one you face.”

  Focused on the task, Griffon nodded. His heartbeats thumped in his ears. There was no fear; it had been consumed by the dire bear. All that was left was the will to live.

  “Left!” Griffon roared.

  Ezra followed his lead.

  As the rider neared, he raised his sword, preparing to strike. Attempting to unseat him, Griffon lunged with the spear, but the man batted it away. Behind him, steel clanged on steel.

  Without hesitating, the riders galloped back to their marks.

  Hands trembling, Griffon wrestled with the adrenaline. Forcing a laugh, he said, “It would seem they are at the disadvantage, for not a single rider here has ever served the Brae!”

  Ezra roared in reply. Tracing his offhand around Griffon’s waist, he withdrew his sword. With both blades aimed forward, he adjusted his stance.

  Again the riders charged.
Plumes of dust filled the forest air. Leaves whispered to the wind of the battle below.

  “Right!” Ezra shouted.

  Griffon moved with him as one.

  “Your spear is the most dangerous foe in play. Use it!”

  Again Griffon raised the spear. As the rider prepared to deflect it again, Griffon tucked it low, then brought it back up. The sword swung wide. Just below the man’s arm, between the steel bands sewn to leather, the spear found flesh. Planting the base of the shaft against the ground, Griffon grimaced and heaved with all of his weight.

  Groaning, the rider was lifted from the saddle and propelled through the air. Griffon pivoted, using the man’s momentum to send him careening towards a wide braewood trunk. Armor clanged and bones crunched.

  Behind him, steel clashed again. Ezra cried out. Turning his head, Griffon watched the rider’s blade slice the air inches from his face. He stumbled back.

  “How bad?” Griffon called out.

  “My arm,” Ezra replied, sucking in air. “I’m fine.”

  For a third time, the Meronians bore down on the men. Horse and rider and earthbound warrior breathed heavy alike.

  “Right!” Griffon urged.

  With a warrior’s rhythm, Ezra followed.

  Griffon positioned his spear like before. Frightened, the rider veered wide, avoiding a clash. Behind him, steel and swordsman sang. Ezra slammed into Griffon, but he dug in his feet, offering leverage to his partner. To their side, the rider sailed past them with no horse underneath. Sliding face first into the dirt, he writhed about.

  Three Beyornian armsmen rounded the bend. Seeing the scene, they charged forward. Defeated, the final Meronian scout fled north.

  Blood gushed from between Ezra’s fingers and flowed down his arm. Dismounting, Pagan rushed forward and bound the wound.

  “What in the Four Kingdoms just happened here?” Roke exclaimed.

  Griffon approached Ezra’s fallen rider. Planting a boot on his shoulder blades, he pushed the man’s face back into the dirt. “What happened? We just got ourselves some insight into this Meronian rabble, didn’t we, friend?”