Heir of Iron

Whitt and Jules had rapidly set about pulling up their kinfolk, and Bart was relieved to see many whole and intact children in the arms of mothers and siblings, the state of the village and amount of blood had given him such pause. Nay, sadly instead it seemed of all those rescued, only the youngest of the males seemed to be still alive. Every man with an able arm had died fighting.

"'Tis gone! 'Tis gone, gone! They took it!" an aged, wheezy woman's voice wailed, Whitt had drawn up a wizened figure of similar age to himself, her hair white as snow and bundled back from her face by a bandanna and hood, all stained with blood now, her pale eyes wild, "Ye too late, they found it... I nae said a word..." she seemed anguished. Bart straightened his back and caught Whitt's eye, raising his visor.

"What is she saying?"

Whitt's eyebrows crested, and then he sighed heavily. Once more, his years seemed to manifest as a tangible weight as he walked the frantic woman over to a fallen stone, sitting her down and gently rocking her on his shoulder. They sat there like that for a long few moments before Whitt spoke.

"Th' altar. We an' our clanfolk are charged wit' keepin' this place inviolate o' the touch o' outsiders." he said, shaking his head, "An altar tae th' Queen was here. Buried." he said, nodding his head. "We buried it, our grandfather's grandfathers."

Bart cast his eyes back to the suspiciously empty space upon the dais, the rockfall seemed less fateful now, an intentional tomb rather than outrageous symbolism.

"'Tis a powerful relic, laddie. A truly awful thing, tae others... jus' targets o' leisure. They wanted th' altar. An' they got it."

Wendigo's laughter came quiet to Bart's ears alone, quiet, pleased, patient. Bart clenched his teeth.

"Another thing they will answer for." he resolved, guilt hanging heavy in balance with the gratitude he still saw in the old man's eyes.

"Thank ye, Churchman." Whitt said, still rocking Tarja on his shoulder, the woman weeping softly; "Tae cost was still heavy, but iffin' ye had not come along, 'twould 'ave been total."

Bart smiled, it barely touched his eyes, but it did as he turned weary eyes to the young children. He counted the cost, and found at least there — in those tiny lives — he found the payment worth it. The dead had thought so, who was he to question what they paid?

"Glory unto god, it is but my duty," he said tiredly, looking out to the rising moons, seeking comfort in thoughts of another place. A good and gentle place.

~ ~ ~

Dawn rose over a much different world than dusk had set upon, Bart and company sitting alongside their little caravan in that nameless little hamlet, watching over the survivors til the light of dawn had driven away fears of the dark and its reprisals. Moreover, it had brought Jules and his kin from up valley with provisions and care.

Bart was found naked to the waist, bent over heavily on one upraised knee at the mouth of the wagon, exposing the great expanse of his chest and back. Naima was carefully but industriously seeing to a multitude of oozing red cuts and marks, a tiny pair of glittering brass forceps in hand, extricating the saidsame multitude of tiny glass slivers from his flesh — his payment for the melee atop the ziggurat.

Chief Kaden surveyed the state of the Church Knight as he came upon the tableaux, one eyebrow raised into his hairline.

"Ye've 'ad a full evenin'," he remarked laconically, Bart grinned at him in much the same way, the rueful cast to his face not managing to dull the glimmer in his eyes.

"It was — ow — eventful," Bart agreed, wincing as Naima removed yet another tiny barb from his flesh.

"Horrid weapon, using volcanic glass as such, absolutely savage." she groused as she worked, her fingers clad in fine leather gloves for protection as she extracted the flakes and shards, dropping them into a small leather-lined box as she went, "Even the glancing blows off your armor showered you in tiny nails. Horrid." she reiterated, Bart could only wince.

"She's been at this for a full glass and a half," Bart said with a clench of his teeth. "Every time I think she is done... there is more."

"You should be on your hands and knees thanking the Lady, Learned one and God that by some miracle none of this made its way to your eyes." she said in a severe tone, plucking yet another sliver from his flesh, "As it stands — painful and pervasive as these are — this kind of wound is exactly the sort of thing that my little salve speeds along best. As uncomfortable as you are now if I have been thorough-"

"You have." Bart cut in sternly, getting an arched eyebrow from Naima now as he was rapidly becoming well-acquainted with,

"-Then you shall be healed up in a day, maybe two," she said, the pot of unguent resting on the lip of the cart nearby — clearly the next phase of Bart's treatment.

"Well, nae fer naught, interruptin' ye's doctorin', but I wanted tae say we've finished bundlin' up th' last o' the local kinfolk. " Chief Kaden said, nodding in a workman-like fashion, "Me clanhome's tae put them up piecemeal til tae fixin' can be done here," he said, looking around grimly.

"Would 'ave been a shade darker, were not fer ye and yers, laddie." the lean man said, behind him with the last of the survivors Jules appeared in silence. The chief met eyes with both men and nodded once more to Bart.

"Good work, laddie. Ye are ye Lady's creature tae th' teeth," he said, and Bart managed a genuine smile between the pricking. The chief spared him a slap to the shoulder and instead exchanged a grip with the hunched-over knight-brother, squeezing fondly as he took one last look at the ruins.

"'Tis my duty, is all," Bart said with a vague gesture of his hand by way of a shrug — Naima still quite hard at work precluding his shoulders from moving overmuch — getting a toothy grin from the older man as he turned away.

"A few new planks..." he mused and wandered off. The spirit of these hills lived in the man, nothing but a few setbacks. They were built hard here. Speaking of hard men, as the chief left to see to his people — Jules stepped in, the dour huntsman nodded with a doff of his narrow cap at Naima — who saw no amount of personal conversation as a reason to cease her work. Bart winced as a particularly deep flake was pulled from his flesh.

"'Twas right 'bout ye, Stormcrow." the huntsman stated apropos of nothing, direct and earnest. Bart felt his temper flare briefly, the man's acerbic bearing sat ill with him — but it was clear Bart was no exception to the sharp side of his tongue, rather the rule. Subsiding with a raise of his eyebrows, Bart gestured vaguely at the man,

"And? If you are here to drive your feelings on me home, I fear I have little care left for — Ngh — minor irritations," he said, Naima having to dig her forceps in deeper than previously, blood ran freely down his back, rather than the fine oozing cuts. Jules' face was a mixture of rue and revulsion as Bart recovered, smoothing a hand across his face as Naima daubed the blood away with business-like precision.

"Aye, I dinnae envy ye the experience." Jules agreed, eyes flicking over the man in a sort of mute awe.

"Ye were cut up like this th' whole scrap up top?"

"Apparently," Bart grated a bit, Jules sat down across from him on a large curl of a root, the tree itself so ancient it covered much of the main intersection of the village, the huntsman just stared at him for a minute, shaking his head.

"'Twas right, ye were nothin' but an omen of ill fortune. Ne'er has been a time when th' Church looks in at th' Ol' Ways... I dinnae expect ye tae stick it out, mind." he said honestly, looking him up and down again. "'Twas jus' one o' ye, and half-lame besides. I expected ye tae spout wise, and then shuffle off tae ye fortress an' leave us tae struggle on, as always."

"Sorry to disappoint you." Bart grated at him somewhat more vehemently than he intended, Naima's hands still at work, Jules' teeth showing in another cringe as she extracted another jagged flake of the weapons from him — the huntsman's eyes wide. Bart's expression became anxious,

'How big?' the knight-brother mouthed silently to the woodsman, who simply shook his head and held up two fingers each themselves two fingerbreadths apart. Bart winced and the other man nodded grimly.

"Soldiers." Naima sighed resignedly, returning to work without missing a beat.

"Anyroad," Jules said after that sobering moment, "I dinnae expect ye tae follow-through. I'm a hunter, an' I always call me shots, hits an' misses both," he admitted glibly, scratching his short growth of beard, those too-intense eyes still on Bart's. He held his gaze too long, too deep. "Ye did as much as I could expect in short order. So I'm here to square th' slate," he said and extended his hand plainly,

"Good workin' wit' ye."

Bart considered the hand and the humility it presented. It spoke well of the awkward, dour man. He had little in the way of manners, but he clearly possessed a strong sense of ethics. Bart didn't much like the man, but he found they could part on the level there — a soldier's ethics. Jules may not be a common Man-at-Arms, but he served his community as much as Bart did his own. They were soldiers still.

"A fortunate enterprise," Bart agreed with a squeeze and truly meant it. The stoic man nodded once, doffing his cap at Naima before turning and picking Lidia out of the nearby companions. Bart turned his head, Jules once again seeming not to care overmuch for social niceties like a lowered voice.

"Apologies tae be made, ma'am," He said with a formal tone, taking his cap from his head, "Much as was said before was said out o' intentional provocation, an' I bear the blame for the sharp side o' me tongue, iffin' ye'd forgive me or nae," he said with a little bow from the shoulders. Lidia for her credit, seemed as shocked as anyone — after all, how many times could she have gotten a sincere apology in her short, brutal life?

"I... I well," She began, sitting back on her hands from where she perched atop the wagon, her bright green eyes narrowed in serious consideration.

"I forgive ye, but only 'cause ye were square with th' Hayseed first," she said with a resigned tone, her voice somewhat uncomfortable, "Dinnae think ye will get away with it twice."

"O' course, ma'am," Jules said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Lidia smiled, it was a bit frayed at the edges, but she seemed to have the tips of her thorns dulled at the least. The huntsman nodded once more, tucking his cap snugly back down over his head before he paused and added, "Callum sends 'is regards, he's hale and whole, he an' that great hound o 'his."

Lidia brightened a bit at that, and that smile strengthened to something more genuine as the woodsman vanished into the trees, the invisible watcher of the wilds.

"Mayhaps he's nae so bad a sort." Lidia ventured in a small voice from her perch atop the wagon, sprawling out cat-like over the edge once more.

"There. From what I can see, that's the last of them. Miserable things." Naima said, Bart wincing a bit as she plucked the last sliver from his back, the big man shivering as the breeze chilled him across the dampness of his blood and sweat-slicked torso, his shoulders slumped with fatigue.

"God and Lady be praised," he groaned as she began the much-quicker task of daubing the pleasantly cool unguent upon the stinging wounds, resting his head on his upturned knee, shoulders slumped as he was no longer tense against the possibility of driving a rogue sliver deeper.

"Next time you encounter maniacs with primitive weapons, don't let them hit you as much," she said sternly, wrapping his body in winding linen bandages in layers as she dressed the various punctures.

"Don't get hit'." Bart observed laconically as he blew out another breath; "Truly the arcane knowledge I was sorely lacking, whatever would I do without your stunning council." to which he earned a lopsided smirk from the dark-haired healer,

"Don't be churlish, it's unbecoming."

"Yes ma'am," Bart said automatically, getting a pat on the head as she worked.

"Good boy."

"They've all gone now, quite efficient really," Nazir breathed, walking back up to the group and flopping down into the open back of the cart, the sunrise burning the sky orange and red — as if the evils of the night before were but ash and fume to the morning light, "I never thought I would prefer the ravening maw of beasts to the eyes of babes, but if I never see another child look at me the way they did it will be a blessing most divine."

"Agreed." Bart groaned, both men clearly fatigued beyond reckoning.

"Do not say it will grow easier, I do not care to gain the stomach for such things." the dandy said morosely, staring up at the swaying boughs with half-lidded eyes as Naima quickly wrapped up her winding of bandages, Bart nodded at her and walked over with a faint limp, flopping back onto the wagon next to the tired southerner. Bart may have done the bulk of the fighting — but there was far more warfare being waged than the mere physical.

"It will grow easier, I apologize." Bart sighed and Nazir made a face at him as the two men stared up at the dawning sun as it filtered down through the trees.

"I specifically requested the opposite of this," Nazir groused tiredly, his shirt and face still stained with blood, mud, and dirt in much the way Bart was, the all-encompassing grime of combat played no favorites.

"Too bad, you're a man with a good heart. Unless that changes, you have not seen the end of such things." Bart said with surprising thoughtfulness; "The World can't spin on the backs of soldiers alone, we're a pragmatic lot and none-too-comforting once the fighting is done."

"Truly, a world populated only by men-at-arms is a dour one. Safe, but dour." Nazir agreed and Bart laughed a bit, wincing as the motion made his wounds sting against their wrappings.

"Alas, you will have to bear the immeasurable weight of incomparable talent. It is a mighty burden, 'tis true." Bart agreed with faux solemnity that drew another silent, shaking laugh from Nazir.

"If I must." he agreed with equally false gravitas, both men grinning as the caravan milled around them, Nazir's eyes distant as he spoke after a beat: "I have new respect for you and yours, I have lived in the shadow of violence my whole life, but until we met I have never been forced to truly engage with it in it's element, red in tooth and claw like that," he said, his voice a distant thing as tiredness took them both.

"It is different even for me," Bart murmured, the two men watching the light through the branches, the dance of birds and animals. Life returning where the pall of death had quieted all, "To be taught to fight men, to prosecute wars is one thing — to fight evil, true flesh-and-bone evil is altogether something else."

"It taxes the spirit." Nazir agreed, leaning his shoulder against Bart's broad one as his eyes started to drift.

"It's why God gave us music, stories, and bright men with bright souls to sing them to us," Bart said with a yawn, drawing a grin from the dozing southerner; "To lift our hearts from our burdens."

"Indeed..." Nazir said, eyes squinting as he took a deep breath, staving off his own yawn; "... does the sun seem brighter today?"

Bart looked up and squinted, the light that climbed through the trees was cheery and warm. It cast a hopeful glow about the ravaged village, shadows that cast over the blood and ruin paired with light that caught the late-spring flowers and green growths of both shoot and branch.

"Perhaps... a bit..." Bart sighed, closing his eyes to its warmth, leaning back against Nazir's shoulder. Steady breathing was all he heard in response, his own following suit as the wind rustled softly through the trees.

Both men were asleep in moments, well-earned, exhausted smiles still on their faces.

CHAPTER 6

The interlude could not last. Far more ragged than he had been from his exertions at the ziggurat, Bart lost track of the days, his frequent episodes during this new time of recovery took time from him as much as physical acumen in spite of his redoubled efforts to contain them. Naima had medicines and tinctures that helped him sleep and eased the pain, but made him sluggish and numb — too numb to grasp his weapon or move with initiative — so he forwent their use except in the worst circumstances.

Days bled into each other, and yet still he struggled, despite his performance at the Wendigo's ruined temple he had found his body still subject to the fits — each humiliating loss of control, each failure to master himself in its throes on the field of battle kept private between him and Rashid, the older warrior far too understanding of Bart's furious tenacity. Nevertheless, he persisted and managed to maintain himself, to find the will to bear his steel again, if only barely — yet he still felt some hesitation upon touching the haft of his weapon — what if his body betrayed him in a crucial moment once more? He already had won many of these recent encounters by the razor's edge, such a falter in the fight with Dagan-Baal or Humbaba would have spelled his end, and there may not be a friendly blade nor swift arrow to save him the next time. His resolve remained firm and his courage intact, but doubt — much like the specter of the Wendigo — was here to stay for the time being.

The creature itself was scarce after the melee atop the ziggurat, Bart had seen no overt manifestations as it had when it shadowed him, but he still saw it now and again, peeking from shadows or between the boughs of trees or in the shadow of a spire. Bart knew when it lurked by the tugging twist of nauseous anxiety that roiled in his belly at its presence, but it did not always deign to show itself — and it showed itself naught at all to the others. His own, personal, private monster worrying at his soul like a hound with a bone.

A tenday or so was when it happened. The morning canter was interrupted by a cry of alarm from one of the workmen — Salim's sharp eyes once more it seemed. The young southerner pointed at the horizon to the north.

Smoke. Great columns of ash and soot.

"God's blood." Bart hissed, Naima looked up to him as he reined in sharply, pulling the cart to a stop.

"What is it, Bart?" she asked, her tone hollow — empty with answers already known.

"That's Fort Ivory unless I'm more addled than I think — it should be at most two days ride beyond those spires." As before, Bart had never been this far north — but he had maps, and the training to read them — despite his hazy perception of time, he'd kept more or less track of where they were. The jagged spires and fangs of stone had continued but begun to taper off as a massive mountain rose in the distance, peaking out beyond the dense, rolling hills — spreading from horizon to horizon like a great pair of arms. The core of the range itself was a shattered-looking series of crags that curled up from the ground around a massive, central mount that was rent and torn into a crater so titanic as to defy the idea of scale. The gutted, torn bones of the earth jut up all around the distant summit like hammered iron spires of a tiara, thus its name — Crownspeak, colloquially. The center of the Northern Sidhelands and the core of its power — the entire base of the immense mountain was solid, primordial forest, untouched by man since creation. The trees so ancient and immense that even at this distance one could pick out individual boughs, branches, and trunks in the all-encompassing canopy — the Northern Sidhewood, in all its primal majesty. The smoke rising from the hills yet beyond spoiled the view, however.