Blood and Iron 2 Page 9

  Motioning with his sword, Griffon said to Pagan and Kren, “That one is mine…”

  Kren nodded. “He is claimed then. Spill his blood, lowlander.”

  Between the trees and through the dancing shadows, Griffon, Pagan, and the Uhnan’akk encircled the men. Settling into their positions, they awaited Kren’s word.

  Narrowing his eyes, the titan studied the scene. With his nose he sucked in air and smoke and chaos, before exhaling deeply. Bringing an axe head to his lips, he kissed its cheek. Closing his eyes, he mouthed several words before opening them again. Looking at Griffon, he said, “You should pray to your gods as well.”

  “We only have the One.”

  “Well, pray to him twice…” Kren returned to his silence, his palms grinding the axe shafts.

  Eyes open, Kren surveyed the Meronians once more. Looking to the side, he raised the weapon in his right hand. All around the circle, men did the same; first Ulriich, then Jorok, and on until forty axes were held high. The titan licked his teeth and stood. He roared and pushed off the moss with heavy feet. In unison, his warriors answered his cry. Charging forward, they shrunk in on the rear guard.

  Startled, the Meronians fell into disarray. Some fled between the tightening ring of axes, while others froze in terror. Only a few raised their swords and stared down the charge.

  Kren strode wide across the field, and was the first to reach his mark. Aiming to maim rather than kill, he raked an axe across a man’s stomach, spilling out gore and entrails, before spinning and crossing steel with another. Fear stared back at him as the titan planted his feet and pushed the man to the ground. A clumsy parry bought the soldier moment enough to roll to the side and avoid the bite of steel on his face. The wildman’s axe bit dirt to its belly.

  The black cross of Meronia bore down on the men, adding further confusion to the chaos. A boy of maybe thirteen stood paralyzed in Griffon’s path. Rearing back with the shield, the lowlander swatted him to the ground. Without looking back, Griffon barked, “Run, now! Don’t stop ‘til you’re at Bearbrook!”

  Scrambling to his feet, the boy obeyed.

  Across the fiery circle, Griffon saw the commander struggling to control his horse. For a moment, their eyes met. Leveling his sword, the young Alexander raised the man’s shield and challenged him to finish their fight. Instead of charging Griffon like before, the commander wheeled his gelding around until he found a gap in the wildmen and fled into the forest.

  Cur bastard...

  At the heart of discord, a blaze engulfed the trebuchet. Flames leapt outward, scorching the soldiers’ backs and pressing them into the Uhnan’akk. Steel radiated heat, sizzling as it split flesh. Diluted by sweat and blackened by soot, salty blood soaked the field.

  Kren waded across the fray, seeking challengers but finding none. Instead, he rallied his warriors while dispatching the dying with clean strokes. “Step back!” he shouted as the trebuchet collapsed in on itself, belching out a ball of fire as it did. Sable-black smoke chased itself into the gray sky. Sunlight peeked through the thick clouds, kissing the forest floor for the first time in over a thousand years.

  Scanning the circle, Griffon saw the battle was over save for a few dying men too close to the inferno to put down. Raising his shield against the torrid breath of the blaze before him, he backed away.

  A roar erupted as victory realized swept through the ranks. Kren wiped sweat and the blood spatter of the fallen from his brow. Griffon knelt to catch his breath.

  Shifting winds peeled back the smoke, revealing a hooded figure in the trees, how long he had been there the lowlander did not know. Unhooding himself, the face of a man appeared.

  A shock of short, black hair covered his head, wet from sweat. He held a gnarled staff, curling inward at its end. A dark beard, knotted and crawling down his neck, masked the lower half of his face.

  “Shit,” exhaled Pagan.

  Kren saw him next. Wiping his face with his forearm, he stared daggers back at the man. “Ulriich, gather the others and carry the fight forward. I have a witch to test mettle with.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am, but the lowlanders may stay. This is their fight, too.”

  The Uhnan’akk disappeared into smoke, leaving the three and the one.

  “Was that a wise decision, or one made in hubris?” the man asked, stepping forward.

  “We shall soon see, witch.”

  The man clicked his tongue. “Savages… afraid of what you can’t understand. You’d do well to join us instead. We would make you kings of the hills and the valleys.”

  Pagan edged to the side unnoticed.

  Kren laughed. “It is you that knows nothing, frail-ling. What need would an Uhnan’akk have with a vale when the high places are his already?”

  Turning to Griffon, the mage said, “And what about you, son of the Brae? Red on yellow, just like the first Alexander to wade up to these shores. Do you long for the kingdom your fathers lost? I can return what is yours by right…”

  “You burned this forest,” countered Griffon, his voice sharp, “and battered the Brae… and you dare tempt me? You may die at the hands of this savage,” he said, starting towards the man, “but I will be the first to draw your blood!”

  With that, Griffon charged the mage. From the side, Pagan did the same.

  “Eleksandr!” Kren shouted, chasing after him.

  The man mouthed words unheard, drawing in on himself, before flinging his arms out. With them, a pile of glowing coals heaved off the ground and rushed towards Griffon.

  With the commander’s shield, the young Alexander batted the embers away and continued forward, sword held high.

  The finest of Beyornian steel met gnarled birch. Instead of slicing through the staff and continuing its inward arc, an explosion of blued energy burst out from the point of impact, jolting Griffon and launching him backwards.

  Turning, the mage sidestepped Pagan and slapped his back with the staff, hurling him towards a burning trunk. With a twitch of the birch, the figure launched a pile of flaming deadfall branches after him.

  The mage spun just in time to meet Kren’s axe. Lightning crackled enough to fling the wildman’s arms wide, though not enough to repel him.

  “You are a weak witch,” Kren snarled, bringing his axes back into position.

  Surprised, the man swung his staff at the titan, connecting again with steel. Blue sparks sang as axe head and wood ground together. Kren grimaced, his muscles straining from the force of the staff. The hairs of his arms stood on end from the raw energy, but still he held the block. Narrowing his eyes, he searched the mage’s face. Labored breaths, sour and dry, wheezed from his lungs. With his offhand, the wildman swung at the figure, slicing his hip back to white bone. Doubling over, the man collapsed.

  “Your witchcraft is weak against an Uhnan’akk,” he said with a hoarse tone. “Would you die standing, or shall I slaughter you like a lamb in the field?”

  With a thundering roar, the figure thrust am arm forward, sending the titan reeling backwards. Pulling himself to his feet with the staff, the mage hobbled towards Kren.

  Blood wept from his nose and ears. Capillaries burst in his eyes. The strain of the magic wreaked havoc on his body. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance…” he rasped. Standing over the wildman, he shifted his weight with a groan and raised his staff overhead.

  Steel pierced the mage’s gut, just below his sternum. A hollow gasp rolled off his lips. Sliding the sword out of the man, Griffon swung high, unheading the fiend in a single stroke. Lifeless, the body slumped forward.

  The young Alexander let his head roll back until he was looking skyward. A sigh of relief emptied his lungs.

  Kren pushed himself off the ground. “You are a warrior, Eleksandr,” he said.

  Griffon spat blood and managed a weak grin, still gazing up.

  A wet cough jerked him around. Pagan lay in the dirt, struggling to prop himself up. A branch as thick as an axe h
andle protruded from the side of his chest.

  Griffon raced over and knelt beside him. Draping an arm around his back, he helped his friend lean forward.

  “Shit...” he wheezed with bloody lips.

  Handing him a skin of wine, Griffon whispered, “Drink…”

  With a weak hand, Pagan pushed it aside. “No...” Eying Kren he added, “Yours...”

  The wildman nodded and obeyed.

  Turning it up, Pagan drained it. “Shit...” he coughed, “that burns...”

  “You are a champion this day, Pagan Magekiller,” the titan said, “You allowed me in. The witch is dead because of you.”

  His face marred with pain, Pagan forced a grin. With watery eyes, he groaned and fought back a cough. Clearing his throat, he whispered, “I thought I’d die with the turn of a jest, but I can’t muster the words...”

  “It’s ok…” Griffon whispered.

  Lurching forward, Pagan took his hand. “End me, my lord. I beg you...”

  Griffon exhaled. A tear streaked black down his sooted cheek. “I cannot do that... I am sorry...”

  Kren lifted Pagan’s sword out of the dirt. Kneeling he said, “He is a brother to you, Eleksandr. It is not weakness that you show, but love. Turn away and I will do this...” Leaning in, he whispered to the dying man, “It is my honor to grant a hero his death, if you would have me.”

  Biting his lip, Pagan nodded and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 25

  Rowan Vos

  Deep Under Ashmor

  Kingdom of Beyorn

  Looking up, he plopped down on the cavern floor. Shear walls, pocked and uneven from the leaching of limestone, soared into the darkness. The bleak light of the dying torch faded a short distance overhead.

  “It’s just as the changeling told us it would be,” Kassina said, surprised.

  “Whether it leads to the sewers or some sort of trap, we can’t say from down here,” replied Bela.

  “There is no way I can make that climb,” added Rowan. “My shoulder is throbbing just thinking about it...” Scooting up against the wall, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Squatting in the faint glow of the flame, Bela rummaged through her pack. Retrieving a coil of rope, she slipped it over her neck and pushed a single arm through it.

  “Bel,” Kassina said, “I can-“

  “No,” she replied, “it should be me. I was always the better climber. I can do it.” Looking up, she added, “I hope...”

  Placing a hand in a low cleft, Bela hoisted herself up, grunts echoing after her. Pulling here and pushing off there, sometimes up and others over, she picked her way along the wall. After a dozen or so feet, she called down, “I think I can do it. I’ll let down the rope when I reach the top… If I reach the top”

  Watching her disappear, Kassina turned her gaze to Rowan. Yawning, she asked, “Is this our life now?”

  “What?”

  “Forever exhausted, always on the run, never knowing where we’re going, sober...”

  He chuckled. A pause followed, before he added, “It doesn’t have to be that way for you.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “No, I-“

  “They killed Gib, and they tried to kill me. And what about Father Brayden? I owe these bastards... I’m not going anywhere.”

  You always were a fighter, even when there wasn’t a fight to be had, but especially if there was... or if there was drinking involved…

  A bit of dirt and rubble tumbled down from overhead. “Sorry!” Bela called down.

  “Be careful!” Kassina shouted up.

  He sighed. “So much has happened, and I haven’t had time to work through it all. Everywhere I go, someone... or some thing knows my father... everyone but me it seems. Yet I still don’t know any more about him except that he was a mage. And then there’s the part about these things themselves... Creatures, living under the city?

  And of course this curse of a sword, I can’t be rid of it, even when I try. The world we lived in just a week ago was but a thin facade, how it was kept so neat for so long... looking back I haven’t a clue...”

  Leaning forward, she took his hand. She stared at him through the torchlight. With a soft voice, she said, “We’re not far from leaving this city behind. On the Cormorant we’ll have plenty of time to sort through everything, and sleep.”

  He smiled. “...and sleep. Maybe even under the stars?”

  “Definitely under the stars.” Massaging her aching neck, Kassina felt something. “Hmph…” she grunted.

  “What is it?”

  Unclasping the locket, she said, “I’d forgotten I had it still.”

  Snorting, Rowan said, “The thing that started this all...”

  “It’s such a tiny thing... of no importance or value to anyone save for Miss Mercier. It’s a shame she’ll never see it now...”

  “It’s a shame we won’t get paid,” replied Rowan. “That job was worth a small fortune.”

  “I for one am glad we have it still. This worthless trinket, it changed the entire course of our lives, to what end, I don’t yet know. It’s a reminder of that...”

  “I am glad you’re with me,” Rowan replied.

  She smiled, before adding, “Speaking of little things, you picked something up in the warehouse. What was it?”

  “When?”

  “When the man charged you, and Bel downed him with her bow. He dropped something and you grabbed it. I remember thinking it odd in all that chaos...”

  “I’d forgotten all about it,” Rowan replied, retrieving the token from his coat pocket. With a ting, he flipped it into the air, before palming it and studying it for a moment. Then, he handed it to her.

  Kassina rolled it across her fingers. It was silver with a reeded edge, as wide as two thumbs nails end to end. On its face was a dagger and arrow crossed, encircled by a wreath. An all-seeing eye surrounded by strange symbols adorned the other side. “Is it a coin?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. If it is, it’s from a place I’ve never known, and Ashmor sees silver and gold from the world over… Maybe it’s a calling card.”

  “A what?”

  “Say these assassins kill someone, perhaps it’s political. And they want it known that it was them. They leave that behind and all the right people know whose blade drew the blood.”

  Kassina eyed the token intently. “May I keep it?”

  Rowan shrugged. “Sure.”

  Rope whooshed down from overhead. It landed with a plop, echoing through the tunnel.

  “You’re welcome!” Bela shouted. “Now, move your arses! I don’t like being up here alone...”

  “Let me go first,” Kassina said, giving it a tug.

  As she put her weight on the rope, it stretched in quiet protest but otherwise held firm. Strong but lithe, she shimmied up with ease, crossbow clanking against her back. “You’re up,” she called down.

  Stepping between clefts and crevices, he climbed the wall with his legs as much as he could, using the rope to stabilize his upper body. He could feel his heartbeat pulsing through the wound. A spasm flared, followed by a sharp pain. Grimacing, he leaned in and paused.

  “Are you ok?”

  “I just need a moment,” he croaked.

  “We could pull you up?”

  “No!” he shot back. “It could shear the rope. I can do this, just give me time...”

  Closing his eyes, halfway from either end, he thought of Iseult’s words.

  What would my father‘ve done? Could an arch mage just float to the top? What can a mage even do, besides fling people about and call the occasional lightning bolt...

  Rowan focused on the pain, imagining the core of the wound, the torn muscle, and the corruption that was certainly building inside. He strained his mind, willing it away. Slowly, the sharp pain subsided, through trickery or natural ends he wasn’t sure. Resuming his ascent, he reached the top w
ith labored breaths.

  Winded, they rolled him over the precipice. On his back, he stared up and saw brick.

  “Oh, the stench of this place,” he said, “how I’ve missed it…”

  Bela snorted. “There’s a bit of light shining through a manhole,” she said, “just around the corner. But if you’d rather stay here…”

  “Hell no,” he replied, climbing to his feet, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Hanging from the rungs embedded in the bricks, Bela shouldered into the manhole, pushing it up and to the side. Sunlight beamed into the sewers like a lover’s kiss, warm on his face and long desired.

  With unsold fish and rotting fruit, rancid tanneries and unwashed slaughterhouses, the smells of the docks were overwhelming at times, this being one. But it was a familiar smell, and familiar things were a rarity to Rowan at the moment. Lifting his chin, he closed his eyes and took it all in. A salty breeze tousled his hair and helped to cut the bite of the stench. He smiled.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Kassina said, grabbing his arm and pulling him along, “We’re still marked for death. Come on, let’s find the Cormorant…”

  Gulls squarked and cawed, while waves lapped the bulkhead in a lazy rhythm. With the sun hanging low, the bustle of the day was over, leaving only a few dock hands and merchants milling about.

  Breasting along a pier at the edge of the docks, they found what they presumed to be her. She was black above the water line, at least where the paint hadn’t flaked off. A single mast rose up from the deck.

  Bela stopped at the land’s edge where the pier began. After a moment, they realized and turned around.

  Her face was solemn.

  “Bela…” Kassina said.

  Forcing a weak smile, she stammered, “I-I can’t… This isn’t my course to take… And Gruff, the old horse’s arse, he needs me more than he knows.”

  “What about the assassins?” Rowan asked.

  “It’s you and Kass they want. I doubt they even know who I am. I’ll be fine…”

  Stepping forward, Kassina and Rowan both embraced her. Wrapping her arms around them, her eyes welled up. “Be careful, please…”