Of Halls and Iron

  In the year 587 I.C., the youth, Biaun Greyblood, wandered into the staging tunnels of the Iron Hallway. Lost, confused, and hot-tempered, he refused to be disarmed by the Bribenite Guard. Three of our finest were subdued before his weapons could be taken. Needless to say, we immediately took a liking to him.

  — Axle Dwellingstone, Historian of Briben’s Forge, excerpt from Nihilistor: The Rise and Fall

  Greyblood Manor was not the largest estate within the city, but it was by far the most defensible, second only to the Obsidian Palace itself.

  As the two warriors strode through a series of sparsely lit hallways, a subtle sense of unease stirred within the knight. It was not fear, exactly, but something colder. A warning. A feeling of being watched.

  Without alerting his companion, Biaun continued down the narrow corridor that connected the manor proper to the prize stables. Though a second stable stood beyond the manor walls, he housed his steed, Raven, in the prize stable—larger, warmer, and built with stone rather than wood. Raven preferred it. So did Biaun.

  Mid-conversation with Ean about the looming threat of another Dark War, Biaun quietly slid a narrow dirk from the sheath strapped to his left thigh. His voice remained calm, measured, never hinting at the tension coiling in his gut.

  They reached the reinforced door to the stables, and just like that, the sensation vanished. Gone as quickly as it had come.

  Biaun paused, blinking once before sheathing his blade with a near-silent motion. He gave no explanation and stepped through the door.

  As the two entered the stables, behind them—high in the shadows of the ceiling—a pair of crimson eyes flared to life. Watching. Measuring.

  Then, in an instant, they were gone, leaving behind only a soft hiss and the silence of stone.

  Raven dwarfed even the largest of draft horses.

  Standing just over twenty hands high, the beast was a mass of raw muscle and thundering hoof, equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying, depending on who stood in his path. He ran faster than a hound and endured longer than any bull.

  His head was massive, crowned with dark, glittering eyes and a wild, unkempt mane that gave him a primal air. A tangled beard of coarse hair hung beneath his chin, and his long tail, tightly braided, swayed like a dark banner.

  His coat, a deep and lustrous black, shimmered in the light with an almost unsettling sheen. Simply put, Raven was unmatched, not just in Jerrico, but likely in the entire Empire and beyond.

  Few knew the truth of his bloodline. Raven was no ordinary warhorse.

  His father was one of the fabled pegasi rumored to dwell above the Iron Stone Mountains in the frozen northern tundra. His mother—herself of massive frame—was half-pegasus, an enormous mare with strength to match her strange lineage. Though only full-blooded pegasi are born with wings, Raven inherited other gifts.

  He could run longer and harder than any horse alive. He was also preternaturally intelligent, pegasi were known for their rare brilliance, and Raven was no exception.

  That intelligence made him fierce. Raven abhorred evil, but it did not make him gentle. He was notoriously selective in his company and refused to tolerate most horses, making him persona non grata in Jerrico’s public stables.

  Biaun had trained him many summers ago. Since then, the stallion had followed the knight with fierce, unshakable loyalty.

  Ean had seen the horse ride into battle more than once during the last Dark War. Raven and his master were legends, figures of terror that cleaved through enemy lines like something out of nightmare.

  He remembered ogres and trolls charging recklessly across the field, only to be shattered beneath Raven’s crushing hooves. The beast didn’t just kill, he seemed to enjoy it, biting chunks of reeking flesh from the fallen with primal fury.

  One memory burned brighter than the rest: the final battle of the war. Ean had fought side by side with Biaun that day. Word had spread quickly through enemy ranks, whispers of the wolfish knight and his demon-stallion. By the time they clashed, the enemy was in full retreat.

  Biaun had nearly been forced to dismount just to find a decent fight.

  A rare smile tugged at the captain-of-arms’ lips as he recalled the huff his ill-tempered friend had let out in frustration.

  But in the end, it had been a fatal mistake for their foes to forget the knight in favor of the beast beneath him.

  The creatures had fallen by the score to his deadly companion.

  Biaun was no simple warrior. Guided by an unyielding code and steeped in the ancient traditions of the Obsidian Order, he moved through the world like a natural force—unyielding, unstoppable. A cautionary tale made flesh for any who dared threaten the Empire.

  In Ean’s estimation, Biaun was the most deadly weapon mankind had ever forged.

  The thought, though true, brought with it a shade of sorrow.

  For all his power, Biaun remained a man apart—aloof to the small, aching wonders of his fellow kind. He would likely never know the warmth of an ordinary life. The tenderness of love. The quiet joy of belonging.

  But Ean had long since given up trying to change him. Even when the knight’s stern ideals chafed, even when his stubborn silences grew unbearable, Ean would not trade a single piece of him. Biaun was exactly as he was meant to be.

  And somehow, that was enough.

  Ean was yanked from his thoughts as the knight set his curry brushes aside.

  He blinked, suddenly aware he’d been staring.

  “I would hear your thoughts, stout friend,” Biaun said without turning. “Or did you bring me out here simply to watch me curry my mighty steed?”

  There was a rare note of sentiment in the knight’s voice, subtle but sincere. Ean was reminded, once again, of how fearsome the two were together, man and nightmare, steel and thunder.

  “Oh—no, no, of course not, knight. I came to speak with ye on behalf of Prince Talose and his request for your spons—”

  A low, warning growl from Biaun cut him off.

  “Not you too,” Biaun muttered, exasperated. “Carrigan has badgered me for some time now about this matter, Captain Ogrebane. I do not understand why I’m expected to take a squire just because every other damned knight before me did. I’m a loner, friend. That means no squire, no children, and, as sure as the gods in heaven, no wife.”

  “Please be reasonable about this, comrade,” Ean replied, holding his ground. “I got three squires meself and barely the time to train one of them properly. Talose is a fine young lad—surprisingly skilled when it comes to warfare. Mischievous, aye, but sharp as a tack, and he follows orders to the letter.”

  The old warrior’s posture sagged slightly, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened.

  “The truth is, I can’t keep pretending I’m a young man. I grow tired tryin’ to keep up with even one of these lads, and Talose has the energy of the other two put together. He’ll make you a fine squire, Biaun.”

  He stepped closer now, his tone turning earnest.

  “By the Blind Judge, think of the good ye’d do. Consider the lad. He’s got too much potential to be given anything but the best training possible. And as his sponsor, I’m tryin’ to see that he gets it. Much as I’d love to claim the title of Master Bladesmaster… I can’t. That title—and all the responsibilities that go with it—belong to ye.”

  “And if I still do not wish it?” the knight said with a scowl.

  “Just consider it, Biaun. Ye know I wouldn’t ask ye if I didn’t think he was worthy of yer attention.”

  “In that case,” Biaun replied tensely, “I will consider the lad. But make no mistake, Ean—it is only because of your word.”

  The captain-of-arms grinned broadly as he extended his hand to his friend, who clasped it by the wrist.

  “Then I’ll take me leave of ye, Master Bladesmaster. I’ve got to make a surprise inspection on the green sector tonight. Sources tell me they’ve been growin’ lax in their duties, and even though the poor lads are new to soldierin’ under the Arm, I feel that lookin’ the other way would only invite trouble come tomorrow’s festival.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  With that said, the large man turned and left the stables.

  Biaun’s grin lingered, betraying what he thought of Ogrebane’s so-called surprise inspections. The captain-of-arms was infamous for such acts, especially in what had come to be dubbed the green sector.

  The Green Sector was the smallest barracks in the Arm. It lay just outside Jerrico, on the western edge of the Imperial City. In addition to housing new recruits for Jerrico’s standing army, it also featured many of the city’s key training facilities.

  After completing the rigorous training program there, soldiers were either assigned to one of the defensive sectors surrounding Jerrico—thus becoming a formal member of the Arm of Jerrico—or transferred to one of the six kingdoms throughout the empire.

  More often than not, soldiers were transferred. The reason was simple: the empire was still replenishing its armies from the last of the Dark Wars, and Jerrico possessed some of the finest training facilities in the entire realm, ensuring its lesser kingdoms received a portion of the best-prepared troops.

  Unlike Ean, Biaun had not enlisted. As a noble, and the son of the Captain-of-Arms, he was admitted into an elite training program for knights. Later, after demonstrating a wide range of aptitudes, he was recruited and subjected to even more rigorous instruction by the Obsidian Order, the emperor’s personal guard.

  He graduated at the top of his class but held no love for the role. Six years later, Biaun requested leave. It was reluctantly granted, and the decision led to a bitter falling out with his father. After his father’s untimely death, Biaun was reintroduced to the army by being selected for his father’s former post as Captain-of-Arms.

  Though no longer part of the standing army, Biaun—having once held such a post—remained bound by duty, obligated to return should the empire require capable commanders.

  Such was the case during the last Dark War. Reinstated, Biaun answered only to Captain-of-Arms Ogrebane and the emperor himself. Though years had passed since he last led troops, he commanded them well. Still, the burden of sending so many brave lads to their deaths weighed heavily on him, leaving scars deeper than steel could cut.

  After finishing Raven’s care, Biaun inspected his riding gear.

  He knew Carrigan had undoubtedly done a flawless job, but the habit was born of many years campaigning with less-than-reliable squires. The stern knight would not feel at ease until he had checked everything himself.

  A short time later, he found himself in the sparring arena, inspecting his combat gear.

  Gleaming claymore in hand, he gazed at the far wall of the room, drinking in the sight of generations of battle gear hanging on pegs. He did not know exactly when the tradition had started, but large pieces of his family’s history hung quietly from that stone wall.

  Swords and daggers, hammers and maces, breastplates and gauntlets—each had survived the campaigning of at least one warrior of Greyblood lineage.

  The room smelled strongly of polish and tallow.

  The knight studied the collection with the same fondness and intensity an artist might display while drafting on a canvas.

  Though he held no love for killing itself, he was utterly fascinated by the martial trade. His passion for the craft wasn’t so strange—some worked iron, others carved stone or tended fields. And while the knight was sometimes envious of those seemingly peaceful lives, he was wise enough to know that his own lot was to follow the never-ending dance of battle.

  Within the large collection of gear, Biaun spotted his great-great-grandfather’s battle-axe. The leather-bound haft still bore a ribbon, gifted to him by his beloved on the eve of his final battle—a bright golden thing that had darkened to rust-brown for half its length. The stain stood as a testament to both sacrifice and legacy.

  Beside the axe hung his father’s breastplate, still blackened from the potent magical blast that had ended his life. The gray plate bore a hole the size of an apple, punched clean through, as if he’d been struck by a ballista bolt.

  Generations of heirlooms adorned that wall, and Biaun had already made contributions of his own.

  A suit of armor, black as night, hung apart from the rest. It was composed of obsidian plates affixed to a well-oiled leather chassis. Unlike the provincial pieces surrounding it, this suit stood out—not just for its exotic design, but for its exquisite, almost alien craftsmanship.

  Biaun had received the suit after slaying a wyrm named Nihilistor, who had resided in the Iron Stone Mountains near his family’s stead. The wyrm was infamous throughout the surrounding realms, but few in the Empire knew the truth behind her disappearance.

  Among the dwarves inhabiting the Iron Stone Mountains, however, Biaun’s feat was a well-known tale. Had it not been for the knight, many more dwarven warriors would have perished. The battle might have devastated their people for generations to come.

  Dwarves were a hardy, long-lived folk, but they conceived children rarely. It wasn’t uncommon for one of the Stone Father’s blessed to live a thousand years, and still die without heirs, even after centuries spent in a mated pair.

  After Nihilistor’s defeat, Biaun had been visited by the clan’s Mastersmith, Redbeard, who came bearing thanks. The knight smiled faintly at the memory of the cranky dwarf taking his measurements while he lay half-dead in bed. At the time, he’d been certain they were fitting him for a coffin rather than a gift.

  Before her death, Nihilistor had pinned him and raked one of her massive claws across his chest. If not for his grandfather’s well-kept breastplate, he surely would have died. Even so, the protection it offered had barely saved him.

  Biaun absently opened his tunic and traced the grisly, foot-long scar that ran across his chest. A dwarven warrior, Gregory Goldenvein, had distracted the wyrm just long enough for Biaun to slip free.

  He’d been lucky, luckier still when, moments later, he’d landed a surprise deathblow on the beast.

  His grandfather’s breastplate had been ruined in the fight, and Biaun still felt a pang of regret for the loss of the heirloom. Still, he supposed it had been destroyed in a fashion the old knight might have approved of.

  Redbeard, the dwarven mastersmith who forged Biaun’s armor, once claimed he folded the black metal hundreds of times just to tame its wrathful magic.

  Although Biaun did not understand the workings of the etherforge—and indeed was not privy to its secrets—he knew one thing: the dwarves took immense pride in their craft. A stoic people, they were not prone to boasting.

  Most dwarven forge work had nothing to do with the etherforge. Their trade flourished thanks to the abundance of high-quality iron locked away in the mountains, hence the range’s name: Iron Stone.

  In truth, dwarves rarely acknowledged the continued existence of netheron when speaking with outsiders. They preferred to let others believe the mineral had long since vanished.

  Biaun’s case had been different. His deed had earned him something exceedingly rare: honorary membership within the clan.

  Looking at the armor again, Biaun could sense its strange magic.

  It was bonded to him.

  That, Redbeard had once said, was a rare trait of etherforge craft.

  Reaching deep into memory, Biaun recalled the stout, flame-haired mastersmith taking a long draw from his pipe, then saying:

  "Once ye choose the armor, lad, ye’ll not be the same again."

  “The virulent magic be dangerous—even now,” Redbeard had warned. “Should ye be rejected by the suit…” He had let the words trail off, shaking his head grimly.

  But no warning had stopped the eager young knight. Biaun hadn’t hesitated. And when the dwarf finally helped him into the heavy netheron suit, the weight had vanished entirely.

  He’d felt… invincible. A strange, burning sensation raced through his chest, as if the armor had awakened something deep and dormant in his soul.

  Stretching, the wolfish figure stood.

  It was time for sleep.

  He walked to the wall and reverently replaced his claymore, then turned and made for the narrow hallway.

  He had taken only a dozen steps into the dimly lit arena when the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Biaun froze. His eyes narrowed as he swept a wary glance across the premises.

  He scowled. The ordeal in the mountains must have left him jumpy, he was flinching at shadows.

  Then he looked up.

  Three dark shapes with blood-red eyes dropped from the ceiling.

  He dove forward instinctively. A talon tore across his ribs but the roll put him just ahead of several more sets of slashing talons.

  Rolling to his feet, training took over. Twin daggers flashed from the sheaths on his thighs into each of his sure hands.

  The creatures landed behind him, and in the flicker of torchlight, he caught a full glimpse.

  Recognition twisted in his gut.

  He’d seen these things before in the mountains.

  And now they were in his home.

  Cold rage surged through him.

  Biaun surrendered to the flare of heat surging through his chest, as he had done so many times before. He rarely revealed his secrets, but here, he was alone. Or would be soon.

  He loosed a surge of energy, spinning away from his attackers. The Netheron suit vanished from the wall, reappearing in a shimmer around his body, bending the dim light as it locked into place. In that moment, the knight looked every bit the dark god Osred himself, with Biaun its grim and silent center.

  He used the assassins’ shock against them.

  With impossible speed, the first kabretch fell, its gut opened clean from hip to hip by Biaun’s wicked right-hand blade. The creature stood dumbfounded for a heartbeat, then collapsed, its entrails slapping wetly against the cold stone floor of Fortress Greyblood.

  Before the others could react, the knight spun and hurled both daggers. The first buried itself in the larger of the two assassin’s shoulders, the crested assassin’s reflexes saving him from death by inches.

  The second dagger, blacker and crueler, struck true. It pierced the last creature’s skull with a crunch, and it crumpled lifeless to the ground.

  The knight felt a whispered, contented sigh in the back of his mind; but, used to the strange feeling, he struggled and closed his thoughts to it.

  Roaring with fury, the wounded kabretch tore the dagger from its shoulder and charged. But Biaun was already moving. He met the thing head on, kicking out hard—his netheron-plated foot slamming into the beast’s chest.

  A claw lashed upwards through an armored joint, tearing across Biaun’s calf and drawing blood, but the kick sent the creature crashing across the room in a broken heap.

  By the time it scrambled upright and began circling, Biaun stood ready, an ancient spear in hand.

  He lunged forward with a flurry of short thrusts, trying to keep the assassin at bay, but the beast weaved through with unnatural speed. Claws slashed in, seeking the joints of his armor. Biaun parried effortlessly.

  As the creature hesitated to reset its footing, Biaun surged forward. He twisted and spun, striking again and again until the blunt end of the spear smashed into its arm. The blow staggered it. The knight spun the shaft, blade-first, aiming to decapitate—but the kabretch bent away, almost boneless, narrowly avoiding the fatal blow. The spear still carved a deep gash across its cheek.

  Desperate, the creature lunged back into close range. Its claws were everywhere—ripping, slashing—but Biaun deflected the flurry and punched forward, driving the blade clean through its heart.

  The kabretch collapsed with a dull thud, the spear skewering it like a shish kebab.

  Biaun retrieved his daggers and wiped them grimly on the twitching corpse. Why had they come here, to his home? And how had they breached Fortress Greyblood’s defenses?

  A cold realization struck him, there might be more.

  He sheathed the blades, grabbed a sword and shield from the wall, and sprinted through the ancestral halls, fear pounding in his chest.

  Carrigan. Ogrebane.

  A weak cry rang out from the kitchen as Biaun neared the door. He burst in, weapon ready.

  Carrigan howled in pain. Beside him knelt Ean’s hulking form, desperately trying to staunch the blood pouring from the old man's chest. Ean bore a nasty cut over his eye and a deep gash on his arm, but was otherwise whole. Another of the assassins lay motionless across the ovens, its back broken, an oversized fork lodged in its shoulder.

  Biaun dropped to Carrigan’s side. Ean looked up, his face pale as the white moon Else.

  “I fear I was too late, comrade,” he said, voice thick. “I heard the shout…a scuffle. When I came, the blasted thing was toyin’ with him.”

  A tear traced down one of his broad cheeks. He stepped aside to let Biaun work.

  The knight gently inspected the manservant’s wounds, but they were far beyond healing.

  “There is naught I can do, old friend,” Biaun whispered, hoarse.

  Carrigan grimaced, pain twisting his face. His glassy eyes searched Biaun’s.

  “Is it dead, master?”

  When Biaun only nodded, Carrigan’s lips curled into a sly smile.

  “Then you…you’ve done enough.”

  A racking cough spilled foamy blood from his mouth. But still, the grin lingered.

  “It howled when I stuck it with the fork, master. It howled.”

  Then the smile faded. Carrigan went still.

  Biaun lifted the frail manservant into his arms. He weighed almost nothing. Less than a child.

  His jaw clenched as he turned toward the door.

  “It’s not yer fault, knight,” Ean said softly behind him. “Ye couldn’t have saved him. He died well. He died proud.”

  Biaun didn’t answer at first. Only as he stepped through the door came his growl—cold and detached.

  “Wake the emperor. He’ll know tonight. There are three more on my sparring floor.”

  And then he was gone, leaving the captain furiously blinking tears from his eyes.