18. Irongate

  After the days in the valleys, they were back to the high passes. The first refuge they passed was abandoned, just like Ramsford, though they knew someone had been there the day before to send up the smoke signal.

  At the signal fire for the refuge, Lyrianna got her first sight of the next hold: Irongate. From here, it was visible only as a darker section of grey nestled between two cliff faces.

  Over the miles, that distant visual settled into a more distinct shape.The walls were thick, dark basalt, and the fort crossed the span of the pass like a giant bridge with a single arch.

  About two-thirds of the way up this arch was a huge set of iron double doors, probably thirty feet high, that gave the fortress its name. They were closed at present.

  Above the battlements at the very top of the cliffs, white smoke still poured out, calling anyone in the Order nearby to rally to this point.

  Lyrianna and Alaric knew to advance without needing consultation at this stage. The hooves of their steeds echoed where the path moved from dirt and gravel to flattened stone.

  “Do you think we’ll find answers about Ramsford here?” Lyrianna asked.

  Alaric squinted and pointed forward. “I think we already have.”

  Lyrianna spurred Marinus forward, crossing the ground toward the shape splayed on the road. At first, she thought it must have been an infant mammoth killed with a hunting spear, but as she drew closer, she saw this impression was wrong.

  It had two legs, not four; those were horns, not tusks; and between the patches of ragged fur were areas of pale hide over thick bulges of muscle. Indeed, when the horns and fur were put aside, it was far more like a man than an animal.

  Her eyes went to what she thought was a spear. The end of the thick shaft was covered in feathers. This was a ballista bolt, shot from the walls of Irongate.

  Alaric pulled up alongside. “So… the clanless tales were not fanciful.”

  “Is that an ogre?”

  Alaric pointed at the horns and fur. “Worse. An Ettin.” He breathed out. “I’ve never seen one of them on the road before.”

  Lyrianna circled the creature. Its brow was thick, its jaw extended, with only slits for a nose. She couldn’t decide what was more disturbing: its monstrosity or its similarity to a man. “This is a creature of the Wolf Moon, is it not?”

  Alaric frowned. “They can appear late in the Hunter’s Moon cycle, as we are.” He sighed. “It shows it is in its final phase. Mayhap the Silent Moon is returning soon.”

  “Or the Wolf Moon is coming.”

  “Yes. Or that.”

  Two more Ettins lay by the side of the road, struck in the head and throat, respectively; then, right before the gates, there were two more, riddled with arrows and javelins. The last of them had fallen just shy of the doors themselves.

  “Why would they throw themselves at the gates like this?”

  The doors parted with an almighty crank and clatter of metal mechanisms, the iron groaning like old bones in the thin mountain air, chains rattling and echoing off the high stone walls. Alaric waved the caravan forward and they entered the hold.

  The layout became clear immediately. Everything was arranged around a single wide street running from the north gate to the south gate two hundred yards further down, with houses, blacksmiths, stables, barracks, market stalls, and inns flanking either side of the central passage of cobbled paving strewn with hay and animal dung, the sharp, earthy stench assaulting the nose upon entrance.

  The aurochs came heaving and spluttering into this space, hooves thudding heavily on the stone, only exacerbating the heavy animal smell with the rest of the caravan trailing behind in a rumble of wheels on stone that echoed off the high battlements.

  With the last wagon inside, the wheels began to clank again and the doors reversed direction, the massive iron grinding with a deep, resonant groan.

  Lyrianna was just looking away when she felt a sudden swell of movement, like she was in a pool of water the moment a boulder landed inside.

  Screams followed, sharp and piercing in the enclosed space.

  She looked back. Roaring and bloodied, one of the Ettins had risen to its feet and was charging through the narrowing gap in the iron doors.

  The merchants in the rear wagon cried out in panic and fled moments before the rear of their cart was shattered by fists the weight of lump hammers, splintering wood exploding in a shower of sharp fragments that clattered across the cobbles.

  Lyrianna spurred Marinus forward, charging toward the Ettin with her longsword drawn, the wind whipping her hair and carrying the beast’s fetid roar.

  The Ettin stumbled forward and the twins from Tomil’s wagon screamed and hid underneath. She needed it to follow her instead.

  With a clatter of hooves on stone, Marinus veered past the Ettin, whining and panting, Lyrianna swung the longsword in her left hand and raked the side of the Ettin’s arm, the blade biting into thick hide with a tearing sound, spraying dark ichor across her gauntlet.

  It howled, a thunderous bellow that vibrated through her chest.

  It turned.

  She had its full attention.

  It came for her.

  Marinus screamed and reared, and Lyrianna felt herself fall as she had from the pony so many years ago. Now as then she felt her fall slow.

  This time landing on her feet was quite deliberate. Still, the force of it pushed her into a crouch with the Ettin looming above.

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  Movement pulsed through the air. Alaric’s voice called out, “Loose!” Five arrows pinned into the Ettin’s back, causing it to roar again, the shafts quivering in its hide with a dull thud.

  Lyrianna tried to still her heart, pumping so hard she could feel it in her teeth. Alaric and the clanless women were shooting arrow after arrow at the Ettin. They seemed to be angering it more than hindering it, and it started to move toward them.

  Oh no you don’t.

  Lyrianna gripped her longsword in both hands and charged with her full weight pressing through the point. It thudded, jarred against hide with a bone-shaking vibration up her arms, and it sank into the Ettin’s back one… two… three… four… five inches… and it was coming back at her angrier than ever.

  It swung its mighty arms and she swerved, swayed, and rolled away as best she could, the wind of its blows whipping her hair and carrying the metallic scent of its blood.

  The margin for error was non-existent. She knew even a glancing blow would send her reeling. It reached for her and she twisted away.

  She’d only ever sparred against humans. Evading arms that just kept on coming was something else. The fingers came so close she could feel them whip the air across her jerkin, the rough hide brushing her vambrace.

  Horns blared, sharp and urgent in the enclosed courtyard. More arrows stuck to the Ettin’s hide with wet thuds. A blue-cloaked blur plunged a lance into the Ettin’s side with a squelching crunch. Two more lashed at it with curved blades, the steel ringing against hide like a hammer on an anvil.

  The Ettin went at them, scattering them wide with its thunderous steps. Another Brother appeared, spinning a halberd into a squelching axe hack to its belly, dark ichor spraying in thick arcs. Not even this stopped it.

  Lyrianna righted herself. The Ettin was mostly built like a man and so had the same weak spots. She held her longsword fast and ducked under a flailing arm to sever the sinew at the back of its knee, the blade slicing through with a sickening pop and spray of hot fluid. It screamed and then swiveled to crush her.

  The wounded leg gave way; the Ettin stumbled, the ground shaking under its weight. Lyrianna felt the motion and stood exactly where its jaw was falling forward with the longsword raised.

  She thrust up as the Ettin dropped down. The combined force sent her sword tip through skin, tongue, and brain, spilling gore down the length in a hot, sticky rush that splattered her face and chest.

  The Ettin gagged and choked, spitting mouthfuls of blood all over Lyrianna’s hair and jerkin, the tang sharp and overwhelming in her nose; still she held firm while behind the Order Brothers pierced every vital organ as one, to finished it off.

  Lyrianna pulled back, drawing free her sword with a final ejection of dark ichor across her thigh, the viscous fluid warm where it found her flesh.

  The Ettin fell back, certainly dead this time, its massive body hitting the cobbles with a ground-shuddering crash.

  Time flowed normally again. Lyrianna held in her breath, trying not to undo all her bravery by screaming about her splattered state, the thick, congealing blood cooling on her skin. Her heart drummed still, unaware that the fight was over.

  She looked over at the four Brothers surrounding her.

  The one with the lance shook his head. “I never thought I’d see an angel so drenched in blood.”

  Lyrianna wiped her face and accidentally smeared herself with more gore. She winced. Don’t ruin it.

  “Lyrianna Wolfheart. At your service.”

  There was definitely several minutes of conversation after that to which Lyrianna’s contribution was “mrr” and “mmm hmm,” accompanied with well-timed nods. All the while she tried to pretend that she couldn’t feel the blood forming thick, cooling clumps in her hair, the metallic tang sharp in her nostrils, the sticky weight pulling at her scalp like wet mud.

  There was a lot of talking about the caravan. Aziz and Mansur were in animated conversation with a pair of the new Brothers. She hadn’t yet heard their names, or at least they hadn’t gone in, so she knew them simply as Scimitar, Lance, Halberd, and Nodachi. Scimitar and Nodachi were the ones talking to the merchants.

  Alaric looked back at her and caught her eye. “You remember I told you the Brothers escorting this caravan got sick?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was them. Brother Qohor and Brother Kansai. They’ve been heading north trying to find them,” Alaric explained.

  “Dedicated,” Lyrianna replied.

  Alaric pointed to Lance. “Brother Johan,” and then to Halberd, “Brother Darion. They were here when the red smoke went up at Ramsford. They decided to bring everyone back here.”

  Lyrianna looked around. There were a fair contingent of Order vassals with their grey cloaks, the fabric rough and smelling faintly of woodsmoke and old sweat. Presumably, they’d been told to stand back while the Dragons did their work. She looked over at the clanless women. They hadn’t hesitated to help.

  Alaric looked at her. “Are you all right?”

  “I feel disgusting, if I’m being honest.”

  Alaric snorted. “Understandable. We’ll be in Brothers’ quarters while we are here. Someone will run you a bath if you ask.”

  Bath. She wasn’t sure there was a finer word in the common tongue right now. She was overdue even before.

  The bath consisted of two stages. First there was the scrub to remove the ichor, the coarse brush rasping against her skin while the water turned murky brown and red, the steam thick with the lingering metallic bite of blood and the sharp, herbal sting of lye soap. Then there was the long soak for everything else. The circular wooden tub was one of six arranged in cubicles with shelves either side for towels and cleaning implements, the air heavy with damp heat and the faint, resinous scent of pine from the fresh water piped in from the springs. For now she was content to let the steam envelop her, rising in slow, fragrant curls that clung to her skin, and her hair to drip warm rivulets onto her shoulder blades.

  She closed her eyes. Visions of violence played out before her. She thought about slicing the bandit’s arm with her falchion and Alaric telling her it was a death sentence. She felt bones crunch under her assault and the hot spray of blood on her skin. The smell of the Ettin still seemed to be in her face, rank and cloying even through the steam. She put her palms to her cheeks and tried to think of other things. The views of the mountains. Trickling waterfalls. The warmth of the bath water caressing her flesh.

  Household staff came in apologising for the interruption, their footsteps soft on the damp stone, carrying heavy buckets that sloshed with steaming water, the sharp scent of heated pine resin and lye rising in fresh clouds. As soon as they were done, Johan, Darion, and Qohor walked in wearing towels, the fabric rough and grey, still carrying the faint chill of the corridor. They all feigned surprise seeing her there, the steam curling thicker around their bare shoulders. She snorted and rolled her eyes.

  She remembered the way it changed at the monastery. At first, no one cared. She was a child among children. Then her brothers started getting awkward sharing changing and bathing times with her. Then she grew outwards as well as upwards, year by year. Suddenly, every time she took a bath another Brother would accidentally have chosen that time to have one too.

  “Oh,” Johan said, his voice echoing slightly in the humid air. “We didn’t know you were here. We can wait until you’ve finished.”

  It was a test. If she agreed she was a spoiled princess. She was the girl in the Order who had to be treated differently.

  “Don’t be foolish. Your baths will go cold,” she answered, her voice steady over the gentle lap of water.

  “As long as you don’t mind.”

  She shook her head. “Go ahead.”

  By total coincidence the baths that were filled were the ones across from her, not obscured by the shelves, the steam swirling lazily between them, carrying the mingled scents of hot stone, soap, and the faint, lingering metallic trace of blood that no amount of scrubbing had fully erased from the air.

  She looked down at herself. Her bosom was pushing free of the water, the surface rippling gently with her breath, but she would not cover herself and seem self-conscious. She would wait until it seemed like a natural movement to sink down a little further. It wasn’t that she felt the need to hide; it was simply distracting trying to talk to people when they were talking to her nipples.

  With a lean and closing her eyes, she adjusted, appearing completely unbothered by their presence, the water closing warm and soothing over her skin.

  “Did you hear?” Darion began, his voice carrying easily across the steam. “We will be joining your caravan when you head south.”

  “Who will protect Irongate from further Ettin attacks?”

  Darion chuckled, the sound low and echoing off the stone. “Something so rare is unlikely to repeat.”

  “Is it? I’ve not travelled this far south before.”

  “It’s not usual at all,” Johan agreed. “But I am glad you were there when this rare thing happened,” he added, his voice echoing softly in the humid air.

  “You would have slain it without me.”

  “Not in such style. People will sing of the blood-soaked angel who rode through Irongate.”

  “As long as it helps the Order.”

  The Brothers smiled. Johan continued. “Is it hard? Being the only woman in the Order. This untouchable ideal?”

  Lyrianna laughed, the sound bright against the gentle lap of water. “I’m not untouchable. I’m just choosy.”

  The Brothers grinned. Darion smirked harder.

  “We,” he indicated himself and Johan, “were still training when you were at the monastery. You were fifteen when we left.”

  “Was I?”

  Darion chuckled. “She doesn’t remember us.”

  “Sorry, it’s just… so many boys. You all look the same after a while,” she quipped.

  Johan nodded. “It’s easier to remember you. But you didn’t look like this then.”

  Lyrianna knew what they meant.

  “People said you were an ice queen back then,” Darion remarked.

  “We all followed the vows.” A wicked grin crossed her face. “But I like fucking.” The way his smirk died was priceless. “I like it as much as any of you. Maybe more.” She smiled. “Definitely more. But if I gave it away to everyone who wanted it…” She laughed. “Well, I’d never get anything else done.”

  Qohor gave a low, throaty laugh. Darion gave a nod of respect. “So you seek the attention?” he questioned.

  “I don’t seek it but…” she gestured to herself, water rippling gently around her skin in the steam. “I’m going to get it whether I want to or not. I simply choose not to be influenced by it one way or the other.”

  Darion grinned even more broadly. “Then if you are free and enjoy it so much, why not with one of us?”

  “Just one?”

  Johan and Qohor snorted.

  “Whatever you choose,” Darion insisted.

  “Well… here’s the problem. We’re all going to travel together. Say I slept with you, Darion, and unlikely as this is, it was good. I’d be thinking about it the whole way to Dayhold.” She let the mirth spread before continuing. “Or I slept with you and, more likely, you didn’t measure up.” She smirked. “Then you’d be thinking about it all the time. Either way, one or both of us would not be at our vigilant best.” She stopped smiling. “And the first rule of the road is you do what you need to survive.”

  Darion leaned back in his tub, water sloshing softly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we wouldn’t be interested anyway?”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got a nice face and… other things… but there’s lots of pretty girls in the world.”

  “Very well, prove it.”

  “What?”

  “Stand up. Show me I’ve had no effect on you.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  Qohor and Johan laughed openly, and Darion eventually joined in.

  Qohor gave a nod. “Your mind is as sharp as your blade.”

  She watched them relax into their baths, the water sloshing softly as they settled, the room falling quiet again save for the faint drip of condensation from the stone ceiling and the low crackle of torches in the humid air. Eventually, her bath water became lukewarm, the steam thinning to lazy wisps that carried the fading scent of lye and pine.

  They looked up, startled, at the sloshing on h

  er way out of the tub, water streaming down her skin in cool rivulets. She looked back at them and loosely draped the towel over one shoulder.

  “See you at dinner,” she said, walking out with a wink and leaving them gaping as she went.