Blood and Iron 1 Read online

  Chapter 12

  Rowan Vos

  City of Ashmor

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  The door swung open and then slammed shut. Startled, Rowan stretched an arm across Kassina and reached for his sword with the other. She was still fast asleep.

  “What in the ninth hell are you two doing here?” Gruff’s voice boomed through the shop.

  Why the ninth specifically?

  Releasing his grip on the hilt, Rowan sat upright and rubbed his shoulder. The planked floor was an unforgiving mattress.

  Worst sleep of my life... but, no vision, so an even trade…

  Kassina stirred.

  Racks and barrels and displays surrounded them, filled primarily with armor and weaponry, sorted by type, but also other ironworks such as cauldrons, carpenter’s nails, candle holders, and various and sundry other pieces necessary for everyday life. Forged flat bars covered the windows and reinforced the doors, protecting the wares. The smell of oil and iron and wood combined to create an aroma Rowan mused was best described as industrious. Though the items on display were obviously of a high fit and finish, they were Gruff’s common stock. Rowan knew the prized pieces were kept in the forge’s vault. Over the counter a rough-cut sign was mounted, its words having been seared into the cedar with a red-hot chisel:

  Wray of the Warrior

  Common and Exotic Gruffworks

  Extending a sooty hand, Gruff lifted Rowan to his feet. “How’d you get in?” he barked.

  True to your name as always. It’s good to see you, too, Gruff...

  “Your locks are childishly simple,” Rowan replied.

  Gruff snorted. “Quarrels and lies,” he muttered, “I can’t pick ‘em.”

  There you go... Rowan shrugged, avoiding the bait.

  Standing to her feet and stretching her arms overhead, Kassina stepped forward and wrapped them around the barrel of a man. “I’ve missed you, Uncle Gruff. Soo much.”

  The blacksmith’s harsh veneer receded a bit. Chuckling to himself, Rowan fought back a grin. It always was show with you, old man... In a moment of deviousness, Rowan stepped forward and embraced him, too.

  Pushing them both back, he snapped, a little less sharply than before, “That’s enough of that!” He cut Rowan an eye. “Why are you camping out in my storefront?”

  “We’re in trouble” Kassina replied, “Real trouble, Gruff. We didn’t know where else to go. Gib’s dead, and we don’t know if Father Brayden will make it or not.”

  Incredulous, he exclaimed, “What? What foul arse-sarder would hurt Brayden? And what does Gib-“ he paused, before adding, “You... They’re after the both of you...” Starting towards the back door, he said, “This way.”

  A private alley, cutting into the earth at an aggressive angle, connected the storefront to the forge behind it. Overhead, a wooden awning kept the corridor more or less dry. Rain pattered the timbers, dripping through here and there.

  Entering the forge, he barked, “Bela, I need you up front! Stock items only! No special requests today. And if anyone gets persistent, put a bolt up their arse!”

  “I’ll put a bolt up your arse if you don’t check that tone!” a voice shouted back.

  “How is Bela?” Rowan asked.

  “As sour as ever, just like her mother,” Gruff quipped.

  “You made us this way!” Bela retorted. Bursting in, she wrapped her arms around Kassina. Doing the same with Rowan, she planted a kiss on his cheek. Kassina eyed her cousin, but said nothing.

  “Sorry, gotta’ run...” she remarked, “...the proprietor of this establishment is a right horse’s arse.”

  “Bahh,” Gruff mumbled, batting his hand towards her.

  Bela barged out of the forge, slamming the door behind her.

  “Oh, the curses of a red-headed daughter,” Gruff lamented.

  Rowan smirked at their theatrics.

  Though the forge’s embers had cooled, the room still sweltered from the morning’s work.

  Motioning to the door Bela had burst through, Gruff said, “In here, it’s not quite as hot and I’m sure you’re hungry.”

  The forge, as well as the side kitchen and the few other rooms, were less of a basement for the building overhead and more of a cavern. Hewn out of bedrock by the burly blacksmith himself, it harbored a perpetually earthy smell.

  In the kitchen, Gruff opened a high window just above the surrounding pavement outside, allowing in the damp air.

  A half-loaf of bread and some salted cod, the remainder of the morning’s breakfast, was still on the table. Rowan and Kassina each took a seat and helped themselves. Gruff filled three mugs with lukewarm ale, before joining them.

  Studying the pair, the smith peeled flaky flesh from bone, before pushing the cod in his mouth. After chasing it with an ale, he spoke. “What sort of trouble are you in?” Motioning towards Rowan, he said, “Did this arsehole muck up a job?”

  “Not exactly,” Kassina replied. “Show him,” she said to Rowan.

  Unsheathing the sword, he laid it on the table.

  Picking it up, Gruff balanced it in his hand. Pressing his nose to the steel, he took in its scent. With the pad of his thumb, he checked the edge. Lifting the blade to his eyes, he studied its length for trueness, flipping it over as he did.

  “Does it give you any sensations?” Rowan asked.

  “Other than raging jealousy,” Gruff muttered, “no.”

  Disappearing into the forge, he returned with a hammer, whetstone, and some oil. Methodically, he worked the blade with the oil and stone, judging its properties.

  Placing the sword on the table, Gruff grabbed the hammer.

  Rowan eyed him. “What-”

  Ignoring him, Gruff smashed the hammer against the blade.

  Kassina placed her hand atop Rowan’s. The thief shifted in his seat, but remained impatiently silent.

  Finally, Gruff spoke. “It’s mottled and layered in ways I could never replicate, though I’ve tried… for years. It sharpens well, yet it’s hard as hell. I’d probably break my hammer before I dented the damn blade.”

  “Who could make a sword like this?” Rowan asked.

  Gruff shrugged. “Who indeed? My best swords might as well be the work of an apprentice compared to this.” Placing it back on the table, he said, “Blades like this deserve a name. Have you?”

  Rowan shook his head.

  Snorting, Gruff replied, “Might I suggest, the ‘Unforgeable,’ because, as far as I can tell, it is.”

  Leaning back, Rowan said, “I don’t understand what that means.”

  “Me neither, son,” Gruff quipped, “…me neither.”

  “An old man named Orick told Rowan to deliver it to a Thatcher Frost,” Kassina said, “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  A scowl skulked across Gruff’s face. Shaking his head, he said, “Take that damn blade to the docks and dump it in the drink before you deal with that son of a bitch.”

  “But what-“

  Interrupting Kassina, Gruff barked, “No! I won’t have you involved with that piece of shite. He’s trouble, Kass, and he’ll get you killed. Both of you. My advice to you is, lose the sword and forget you ever heard the name Thatcher Frost!”

  “Uncle-“

  Standing, Gruff interrupted her again. His voice boomed through the room. “Enough!”

  Kassina’s eyes welled up.

  Gruff turned away. In a solemn tone, he said, “And before the sun rises again, I need you to leave. I have a family, too. I’m sorry, Kass. I really am.”

  * * * * *

  As the sun set over Ashmor, Rowan and Kassina stepped off the front stoop of the Wray of the Warrior. Arms crossed, Gruff leaned against the threshold.

  With a glare, Kassina looked over her shoulder at him. Turning, the smith went inside, pulling the door to behind him. Looking down, Kassina wept.

  “I can’t believe he threw us out,” she whispered
.

  “He’s just trying to protect his family,” Rowan replied.

  And if I was honest, I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same thing myself…

  “I am his family,” she snapped.

  As they rounded the corner, a figure stepped out of a nearby alley. Rowan and Kassina stopped, uncertain of what to say.

  Bela stood before them, sinewy from the forge. Red hair hung just past her shoulders. And eyes – irises like Spring’s first leaves, ringed by a deep hue like the moss in the olde growths.

  A saber and swordbreaker were strapped to her hips, Gruff’s finest pairing. Her left hand gripped a shortbow. “I heard everything this morning,” she said.

  “Bela,” Rowan offered, “I don’t fault your father…”

  She shook her head, “No, he’s wrong. That’s not how you treat family. He’s just… he’s not good at these things, you know?” She paused for a moment, before stepping forward and adding, “If you want to meet Thatcher Frost, I’ll show you the way.”

  “Bela,” Kassina gasped.

  “Your father would kill me,” Rowan replied, “I can’t-“

  “I’m a grown woman,” interrupted the smith’s daughter, “my father can’t stop me. Besides, I can’t be Bela Wray, daughter of Gruff, masterforge apprentice, hit on by every sellsword on the Colored Coast, for the rest of my life. This is for me.”

  “Bela-“

  Interrupting Rowan again, she said, “It’s settled. Now, quit bein’ an arse, the both of you, and get to movin’.”

  Chapter 13

  Eldrick D’Eldar

  Braewood Keep

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  On the Cusp of War

  Eldrick entered through the south gate with Lann and a dozen strong-armed oarsmen. Three blasts on the trumpet announced his arrival to the keep, the herald of a distinguished guest.

  Stopping, Eldrick looked up and took in the crisp air. “Smell that, Lann?”

  Sniffing about, the kid replied, “No, sir.”

  “That’s because you’ve never smelled it before. It’s freedom, you dolt. No kings, no governors, just the lord of the Brae. It’s a wonderful place.”

  Baron emerged from the keep. On seeing Eldrick, he smiled. “And I thought we had a dignitary! These gatekeepers, they’ll blow the trumpets for anyone, it seems!”

  “Seems that way, my lord.”

  In the middle of the courtyard, they embraced.

  Grabbing the spy by the shoulders, Baron looked him over and remarked, “It’s been too long. I’ve missed you. We all have. Oh, that we should meet under better circumstances.”

  “I’ve missed the Brae as well, my lord,” Eldrick replied. “I take it you received my message?”

  His smile faded, Lord Alexander nodded. “More than that, we’ve seen the army you warned of. Your words were true, though it is but a small host, this first rabble. The Brae should stand just fine. Still, your presence, all of you, is welcome.”

  Looking back, Eldrick exclaimed for the benefit of the men, “These are the loyal Men of Beyorn, if ever there were any. Most have traveled with me to Grende, and beyond, for these last five years. And when they heard that Baron Alexander, the lord protector of Hell’s Gate, would face a horde of Meronians? Why, nothing could’ve kept them from here.”

  A proud clamor bubbled up from the men.

  Eldrick grinned and added, “Though I fear some of us may be in need of sword and spear. We tended to avoid swashbuckling our way up the Sigil.”

  “Ben!” Baron shouted.

  Running up from the stables, he replied, “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Take these men to the armory. See that they’re properly outfitted.”

  “Of course, m’lord.” Looking to the group, he motioned and said, “This way.”

  Lann and the others followed Ben, leaving Baron and Eldrick alone. “We should be grateful,” the elder Alexander said, “this land hasn’t seen bloodshed in a long time.”

  “The better part of my lifetime,” Eldrick added.

  “Oh,” Baron said, retrieving a small scroll from his pocket, “this came for you by bird just yesterday. It bears the king’s seal.”

  Nodding, Eldrick took the message and unfurled it, before reading it silently to himself.

  Just then, a commotion erupted at the north gate. As the portcullis raised, riders galloped in. Stopping in the courtyard’s center, Griffon dismounted. A great spear was fastened to his saddle.

  “Oh, my son,” Baron said, stepping forward and embracing him, “when Bailey came back without you, we thought…”

  “He returned?” Relieved, Griffon exhaled. “I took him for lost.”

  Roke helped Ezra off his horse and guided him to the keep.

  “What happened?” Baron asked.

  Motioning to the Meronian, Griffon replied, “That bastard happened. And two of his friends. They tried to trample us in the Wood.” Turning to the prisoner, he added, “But we got your ass instead. Now, maybe we’ll carve some information out of you, eh?”

  Oh, the zeal of youth untested, Eldrick mused.

  “Bo,” the elder Alexander said to the third rider, “take our prisoner to the dungeon. Make sure he’s comfortable, and that his wounds are tended to.” Turning back, he eyed Griffon disapprovingly.

  Biting his tongue, the younger Alexander looked away.

  “You,” Eldrick said to Pagan, “After your man’s wound has been dressed, fetch me your healer. I’ll be in the dungeon, waiting. Have him bring me gloatgum and halterberry in a mortar.”

  Pagan looked to Lord Baron. He nodded.

  “Yes, my lord,” Pagan replied to Eldrick, before departing.

  Eldrick and the Alexanders remained. The elder turned to the younger and said, “We’ve been so worried, where’ve you been?”

  “We have much to talk about,” Griffon replied. “Father, I fear the Brae is in grave danger.”

  “What have you seen?”

  “We should speak inside,” Griffon replied.

  Baron looked to D’Eldar.

  Nodding, Eldrick said, “Please, go. And if my lord wills it, I would like to have a word with the prisoner.”

  “Of course.” With that, the Alexanders departed.

  As they left, Eldrick heard the younger say, “I’ll meet you inside, but first, I must have a word with Ben…”

  Exhaling, the spy closed his eyes. Gray clouds hung overhead. A chill wind bit his face. And somewhere beyond, a raven screeched.

  If blood must be spilt, let it be theirs… Let it be theirs… Let it only be theirs…

  * * * * *

  Green-eyed, and ruddy, and lacking several teeth, the Meronian was an unpleasant sort, the altogether opposite of Eldrick. He sneered and spat and cursed and threatened all of Beyorn from the safety of his chains. The spy ignored him like one might a dog. Whistling, he picked at his fingernails with his dagger.

  “…and then we will cut down all of Beyorn, like stalks of wheat-“

  “Shut up, would you, you ass? You talk, and talk, and talk…” Standing, Eldrick left the room, his voice trailing behind him.

  In the hall, he met Father Alden, the Brae’s healer. “You called for me, my lord?” he asked.

  “I did. Did you bring what I requested?”

  “I did, my lord, but I do not understand…”

  “No matter.” Taking the ingredients, Eldrick said, “Thank you. Now if you would, leave us, please.”

  “I could stay…” Alden replied apprehensively, “That is… if my lord willed it.”

  “It’s best that you didn’t, father.”

  Nodding, the healer turned and ascended the stairs

  Back in the cell, Eldrick squatted in view of the prisoner. Placing the mortar on the stone floor, he rummaged through his pack. The Meronian’s threats trailed off. Silently, he looked on.

  Retrieving a vial, the spy sprinkled a portion of its contents over
the gloatgum and halterberry. With his dagger’s pommel, he ground the ingredients into the mortar until they were a grey-green powder. Eldrick spat on the mixture and formed it into a paste.

  Stammering, the prisoner asked, “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “So,” Eldrick replied, “now you want to have a proper conversation? But we’re past that time…”

  Standing, the spy whispered to himself, “For the honor of Beyorn, forgive me for what I must do…”

  Approaching the prisoner, D’Eldar knelt. The man turned away, but Eldrick caught his face and straightened it.

  “Look at me…”

  The man’s breathing hastened. With his other hand, Eldrick formed a ball from the paste. Groaning, the Meronian eyed him. Pinching his jaw open, Eldrick crammed the mixture down the man’s throat in a sudden, violent motion.

  The prisoner attempted to flail, but the chains held him tight. Holding his mouth shut, Eldrick struggled with the man. Their eyes locked; one pair was fearful, the other remorseful.

  “Swallow it…” D’Eldar whispered.

  The prisoner attempted to gag himself, but it was too late, the mixture slid down his throat.

  Grabbing a chair, Eldrick dragged it across the stone floor. A dozen feet away, he sat down, facing the man.

  Now, we wait…

  The Meronian gagged and spat and coughed. Unnerved, Eldrick sat in silence.

  Prattlesap, tis a foul thing…

  After several minutes, the man began to twitch. Spittle formed on his lips. His muscles tightened to the point where it appeared they might rupture. Groans and wails and pleads bellowed from the man. And then, he hung his head. When he raised it again, his face was expressionless. Milky gray eyes stared back at Eldrick. His jaw hung slack.

  Standing, Eldrick asked, “What is your name?”

  In a low, monotone voice, the prisoner replied, “Creedon Loughty, of Darbyshire.”

  “Good,” said Eldrick. “We don’t have long, so let’s get to it, alright?”

  Uncaring, Creedon nodded.

  “Now, this army of yours, how many soldiers?”

  “Tis not my army…”