Lord Blood

  A man can only be a man. If you want to know more of him, gage his worth at a distance by his company. It is those with whom he surrounds himself where his true measure can be found.

  — The Practical Codes, Kunagnos Ozewrath, first Emperor of the Obsidian Throne

  From the balcony of his manor house in the Imperial City of Jerrico, a man watched the sun retreat beyond the limitless expanse of uncharted sky.

  To a passing visitor, it might appear he was merely enjoying the cool evening air, but anyone who knew Lord Greyblood would say he was about as relaxed as a coiled snake.

  Biaun Greyblood, better known to naughty children as Lord Blood, was something of an enigma to the people of Jerrico and its surrounding provinces.

  Even the Emperor himself knew little of the legendary bladesmaster, save that he had likely been the finest Captain-of-Arms the Arm of Jerrico had ever seen.

  His father, Evan Greyblood—Captain-of-Arms before him—had prepared his son for war from the moment he could hold a blade.

  Biaun had risen to near-mythical stature among his troops, both for his unshakable command and his unmatched prowess in combat.

  The truth was, Biaun had always been a man of few words. A private figure, withdrawn from the politics so common to nobility, he preferred the quiet of the countryside to the hollow pleasantries of court.

  He rarely indulged in conversation and held no care for friendship, save with a select few.

  From birth, Biaun had been shaped to become an unyielding pillar of strength—fierce, solitary, and immune to the petty disputes that plagued society.

  Within the Knight’s Code, Lord Greyblood found everything he needed.

  Biaun stood just over six feet tall and had recently marked his forty-fifth year, alone, as usual.

  He was not a particularly handsome man, but neither could he be called ugly.

  Thick brown hair, bound in a warrior’s braid, hung past his shoulders nearly to his lower back.

  His forehead bore its share of creases, more from his habitual scowl than from age, and wild eyebrows sat above his piercing gray eyes like mantels over twin coals.

  His jaw was broad, his cheekbones wide, all wrapped in weather-hardened skin that spoke of countless days in the elements. Dry, cracked lips were framed by a well-kept handlebar mustache, which fed into a short, equally tidy beard.

  His nose, hawk-like and slightly crooked, had clearly been broken once or twice in battle.

  A thick, corded neck rose from his powerful shoulders, and his arms were solid with muscle, honed by decades of war.

  His chest and abdomen were dense with knot-like muscle from years of hard campaigning.

  Long legs—tireless and trail-worn—stood accustomed to endless miles of harsh terrain.

  Now he stood alone in the darkness, restless as ever on the eve of New Spring.

  The morrow, he thought sourly, would flood Jerrico’s streets with every fool who fancied they could dance.

  To most, New Spring was the Emperor’s finest celebration. To Biaun, it was nothing but trouble, a day sure to draw every pickpocket and swindler from their dens to mingle among the honest folk and separate them from their coin.

  He harrumphed at the thought of common folk gawking at fire-breathers, jugglers, and acrobats.

  An odd breed, those performers, always smiling as they took your coin, bright-eyed as they played at their tomfoolery.

  To make matters worse, there was the damned matter of the Emperor’s personal invitation to the courtly ball.

  It wasn’t that Biaun lacked respect for his sovereign, on the contrary, he would lay down his life for the Emperor without hesitation.

  No, what soured him was the mingling. The forced niceties among the so-called nobility. And all the while, courtesy demanded he smile, bow, and politely dance around their insufferable, probing questions.

  His face reddened at the memory of last year, when Lady Faulk had cornered him with the cunning of a hunter and the tenacity of a leech.

  Unable to escape her parading grasp, he’d been subjected to one of her favorite inquiries: When, oh when, would Lord Greyblood finally take a wife?

  The woman was incorrigible. Not unattractive, perhaps, but he’d sooner plant his face in a hill of fire ants than entertain the idea of marriage.

  In truth, the only thing keeping Lord Greyblood from leaving the city during the festival was the annual gladiatorial contest.

  Each year, the Emperor hosted an open tournament, inviting warriors from across the realm to compete for glory. The rules were simple: padded blades to minimize injury, winner takes all.

  Combatants drew chips from barrels to determine the matchups, and the bouts continued until a single undefeated champion remained.

  This year’s prize included the usual reward of one thousand crowns, but rumors swirled of an added honor: the personal blessing of a visiting dignitary, none other than the Magi-King, Kia-Aret Corbain.

  It had been five years since Biaun last entered the arena, a hiatus prompted more by Emperor Ozewrath’s request than Biaun’s own desire to withdraw. After a decade of undisputed victories, the Emperor had suggested that others be given a chance.

  The ninth year of Biaun’s reign had been particularly decisive, no opponent lasted more than a minute. By the tenth, the crowds had dwindled, and enthusiasm waned.

  But the following year, once word spread that Lord Greyblood had stepped aside, interest surged again. The contest roared back to life.

  Since then, Biaun had retired from public command, stepping down as Captain-of-Arms and vanishing from the city’s day-to-day affairs. Whispers multiplied, speculation ran wild—but in truth, he never stopped serving. He simply shifted to more discreet assignments for the Emperor.

  Now, with news of his return to the arena, a dizzying buzz of excitement gripped the city once more.

  Setting his tensions aside, Lord Greyblood chuckled at the latest rumors he’d heard about himself.

  The first claimed he’d settled down with a young country girl and taken up farming somewhere west of Jerrico. Apparently, he was too busy tending sheep, or some such fool idea, to attend the tournament.

  A second tale had him investing coin in a new inn by the docks, to be named The Bloodrest Inn, of all things. He couldn’t begin to imagine how that one had started.

  And the third? That one placed him poised to replace Ean Ogrebane as Captain-of-Arms, part of some grand scheme to reclaim his old title and maneuver for political power.

  Biaun wanted nothing to do with any of them.

  He smiled ruefully at the image of himself slopping hogs or hoeing corn, and shook his head.

  It never ceased to amaze him how the drunken musings of a cobbler—or the idle invention of a bored stablehand—could somehow pass as gospel truth when enough ale had been poured..

  The muffled footsteps of Biaun’s only servant, Carrigan, echoed from the stairwell of the private study behind him.

  Without turning, the knight waited for the usual polite cough. It always came. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Carrigan seemed annoyed if one acknowledged his entrance too soon.

  Biaun suspected it was a habit leftover from his father’s strict belief that servants were to be seen and heard as little as possible.

  Carrigan had originally served under Evan Greyblood and had worked in the manor house for as long as Biaun could remember. In his younger days, the man had been quite stealthy. Now, at seventy-two, he moved with all the grace of a blind thief tiptoeing across a floor scattered with jacks.

  “Greetings, milord,” Carrigan intoned blandly from behind him. “If it pleases you, dinner is waiting in the kitchen.”

  “It does,” Biaun replied, turning. “I’ve missed your cooking these past months, my friend. Will you join me?”

  “I will indeed, sire—so long as you promise not to bore me with nothing but your grunting and chewing,” Carrigan said, a sly grin curling across his thin lips. He ran a withered hand through the last wisps of his hair and turned, waiting for his master to lead the way.

  With a toothy grin of his own, Biaun strode through his study. “You’re in luck, Carrigan. The promise of swordplay on the morrow has put me in rare form tonight.”

  He slowed his pace at the stairwell, descending more casually so as not to leave the old servant behind.

  “I’ve polished your armor and curried that wretched steed of yours for the morrow, sire,” Carrigan grumbled, trying to keep pace with his lord’s long strides. “But I truly wish you’d consider arriving at the festival by carriage, or at least on something gentler than Raven.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Biaun snorted but said nothing.

  “And by the way,” Carrigan added, now wearing a crooked grin, “Lady Faulk left a note for you. It’s by your meal. She emphasized its importance.” His sly smile shifted into a mock expression of concern, complete with raised brows and a dramatically solemn tone.

  The news of Lady Faulk’s letter stopped Biaun dead in his tracks. But only for an instant. Then he resumed walking, though his steps felt heavier, and he fidgeted with his hands.

  “Carrigan,” he said, his voice tight, “Raven is the only mount I’ll consider riding to the palace. You know I despise carriages.”

  Noticing the smug satisfaction on the old servant’s face, Biaun did what any honorable knight in his situation would have done, he quickened his pace and left the knavish little man to scuttle after him.

  “Also,” Carrigan piped up breathlessly from a few steps behind, “I’ve three dozen letters of recommendation from lords and ladies wishing to squire their sons to you.”

  His voice took on a slightly admonishing edge as he added, “Do at least consider the matter, milord. It is only proper—for a bladesmaster of your stature—to see these youths trained.”

  “Even Master Ogrebane manages three squires in his spare time, and I doubt he has nearly the hours you could dedicate to the task.”

  He paused, then pressed on, his tone turning solemn. “Prince Talose himself has requested the honor of your sponsorship—and may I remind you, this is the second time.”

  Carrigan drew a deep breath, but seeing that his master’s attention had drifted as they neared the kitchen, he wisely let the matter rest.

  Not twenty men in strength or honor could equal Lord Greyblood. Though I accept his resignation as Lord Captain Commander, the man remains indispensable. He must not be allowed to stray far.

  — Melchan Ozewrath, Twelfth in the Line of Stags

  The kitchen was a large, warm room, well lit by a row of oil lamps mounted on the solid stone walls.

  A variety of ovens, along with kettles, pans of all sizes, and an unbelievable array of strange-looking utensils hung from pegboards that covered nearly every wall.

  In the southernmost corner, beside the last of the cupboards, stood a long wooden table where Carrigan usually left pastries and breads to cool.

  Since Biaun disdained eating in the manor’s massive dining hall, he typically took his meals here, with only Carrigan for company.

  Tonight, however, a number of steaming pots and platters had been set out, surrounded by three sets of plates, goblets, and silverware.

  Behind one of those plates sat a man of immense height and breadth, eyeing the food with visible impatience.

  Looking up with a roguish grin, Ean Ogrebane was as loud as he was large.

  Standing a full seven feet tall and weighing somewhere near three and a half hundred pounds, Ean looked every bit a small giant. He was the same age as Biaun, though his round face showed fewer wrinkles, and his hair had long since vanished, leaving a shiny monk’s ring to glow under the lamplight.

  Though his ever-present smile made him seem less dangerous than he truly was, Ean had earned the name Ogrebane for good reason, and later adopted it as his formal name.

  At the start of the Fifth Dark War, Ean was little more than a green recruit assigned to the Arm of Jerrico’s fledgling Green Sector. He had yet to earn any reputation in the trade of war.

  The war itself lasted seven years, but it was in its final, most desperate battle that Ean made his name. There, he single-handedly killed the ogruk warlord who had led the dark campaign—and who had slain Evan Greyblood only hours before his own demise.

  The fighting had descended into chaos following Evan’s fall. Demoralized and scattered, the human lines buckled at their weakest point along the eastern front, where the Green Squad stood isolated from the rest of the Arm.

  Wave after wave of dark trolls and their enslaved orcish berserkers poured into the breach. Then the ogruk returned, flanked by a fresh platoon of ogres, and the Green Squad looked to be next on the butcher’s list.

  But the recruits rallied—more out of instinct than experience—behind the towering figure of Ean. As the monstrous horde closed in, the young warriors met them blow for blow, while the other divisions of the Arm fought desperately to collapse the gap from the opposite side.

  Heavy archer fire from the rear slowed the enemy’s momentum. Trapped and pressed between the advancing flanks, the ogres faltered, too late to escape the tightening pincer.

  Realizing the battle was lost, the ogruk charged through the fray and met Ean head-on. The two giants collided like rival kings of the wild. Though his foe was larger and more monstrous, Ean showed no fear, dancing around the beast with a speed and cunning few expected from a man of his size.

  The ogruk had already been wounded by Evan Greyblood’s blade, and Ean made the most of it. Before the creature could flee, he landed a fatal blow, but not before taking a searing magical bolt to the chest, not unlike the one that had ended Biaun’s father.

  Witnesses still speak of the bravery Ean displayed that day.

  From that moment forward, Ean became known as Ogrebane, rising swiftly through the ranks to eventually succeed Biaun Greyblood himself as Captain-of-Arms.

  “Come on already, ye lousy wolf of a knight! I didn’t come here just to stare at me plate and drool.”

  With a look of mock offense, Biaun strode gracefully around the counters, only to be swept up into a bear hug that nearly crushed his ribs.

  “You’ll break my lungs, you dimwitted ox,” the knight grunted, barely finding the breath to speak before the massive man squeezed even harder.

  “Aye, and then I’ll be sure to win tomorrow’s contest, ye sour-tempered jackass,” the giant replied, grinning as he finally set the now-glowering smaller man down before he could work up a real temper.

  The giant dropped back into his seat as quickly as he had risen, leaving the knight to indignantly straighten his tunic. All the while, Biaun scowled fiercely, muttering something about being hugged by a walrus.

  Once composed, he cast a sharp glance toward his servant and barked, “Carrigan, did I or did I not ask you to stop letting these homeless beggars in for dinner? They’re ever so troublesome, and—at the risk of offense—this one in particular is quite rank.”

  He sniffed pointedly, then added, “The least you could do, if you insist on continuing this charity, is rinse them down with a pail of fresh water before the meal.”

  Carrigan stiffened, then turned his gaze directly toward the Captain-of-Arms seated at the table, which now brimmed with food.

  “My apologies, milord,” he said with exaggerated solemnity. “I turned the others away, but this one stayed outside the door singing rowdy tavern songs until I let him in. I would not have, but I feared his homely voice might get him killed if he carried on to the next manor.”

  Carrigan glanced pointedly at the grinning giant and added, “Not to mention his equally homely looks, milord.” He finished with a grin of his own, one made no less impish by the near toothless mouth it came from.

  Ean sat calmly at his place at the table, waiting for the two men to let him get a word in edgewise.

  “Laugh it up, ye sorry excuses for courtyard girls,” he grumbled, shooting a meaningful glare at the old servant. “And last I checked the mirror, ye old fart, there wasn’t a wrinkled prune starin’ back at me lookin’ like someone shaved the backside of a troll and stuck it on a neck.”

  At this, Biaun roared, slapping his knee as he dropped into his chair and poured himself a goblet of wine.

  He often wondered if Ean stayed up late crafting these retorts, he always seemed to pull them from his sleeve just when it looked like he was losing the round.

  Though Biaun truly enjoyed his conversations with the Captain-of-Arms, he could never quite understand how the man got away with some of the things he said. Crude language and lewd jokes followed him like a loyal dog, and though Biaun prided himself on maintaining a level of decorum, soldiering had left its scars, and more than a few bad habits.

  Carrigan looked as though he might try to swat the large man like a misbehaving child, but thought better of it and sat down with a sour grunt. He poured himself a goblet of wine, refilled Biaun’s, and then—rather pointedly—set the pitcher just out of reach of their over-sized guest.

  “And ye, knight,” Ean grumbled, leaning forward with a crooked grin, “ye smell no better than I. I’ve never figured how ye can traipse about the wild lands for months and come back no more than a hair out of place.”

  But as the laughter began to fade, Ean’s voice grew quieter, rougher. He cleared his throat once, then again, and continued with more weight behind his words.

  “It’s good to see ye alive and well, friend. Ye were gone so long this time… even I began to wonder.” He hesitated, then added, more softly, “I feared the worst.”

  A brief silence hung between them.

  “Is all well with ye, comrade?”

  “All is as it should be, friend,” Biaun replied, passing a steaming pot of carrots in Carrigan’s direction.

  “And I should hope you have better things to do than run about worrying over me,” he added, more firmly. “The wild lands are more a home to me than this mound of stone shall ever be.”

  The seriousness in his tone left little room for further questions. Satisfied, or at least willing to let it lie, Master Ogrebane turned his attention to the food, piling thick slices of roast duck onto his plate, along with generous spoonfuls of vegetables.

  The three men ate in relative silence, the crackling hearth and clinking of cutlery the only sounds for a time.

  Eventually, with plates scraped clean and goblets refilled, they leaned back in their chairs, the ease of old camaraderie settling over them. It had been six long months, and now—at last—they had the night to catch up.

  “So, now that I’ve food in me belly and wine in me gullet, I’d hear of yer disappearance into the wilds,” Ean declared, punctuating the thought with a thunderous belch.

  Beside him, Carrigan’s ears seemed to perk up, and he leaned forward in his chair, clearly eager to hear his master’s tale.

  Knowing it was futile to resist, Biaun sighed and gave in with a resigned shrug.

  “As you know, my friend, upon reaching manhood, it has long been a Greyblood tradition to send its sons into the Iron Stone Mountains for the span of a year. I undertook this journey, as did my father before me, and his before him. The line stretches back farther than our records go, even before the Empire.”

  He paused briefly, brow twitching in thought. “Though it wasn’t always so short a period, in days long past.”

  “We are assisted only until the moment we reach the forester’s cabin at the foot of Blackrock Mountain. From that point forward, all aid is withdrawn. What follows is survival, pure and unadorned. We hone our skills, learn the land, and live by our wits and hands alone.”

  Before Biaun could go on, Ean’s lips split into a grin, and he crossed his thick arms over his chest. “So ye’ve been thinkin’ of takin’ a wife, then? Or maybe that rumor about ye settlin’ down to farm near Jerrico has a bit o’ truth after all?”

  Biaun snorted, casting a sidelong glance at Lady Faulk’s letter beside his plate. He couldn't help but nudge the offending rose further toward the edge of the table.

  “Hardly. Now, if I may continue...” he added, shooting daggers across the table.

  “As I was saying,” Biaun began, “the cabin has been in our family for generations. In the absence of any Greyblood residing there, we employ a keeper to ensure the place doesn’t fall to rats and rot.”

  “Once every season, a message is sent back here, keeping us informed of how matters fare and what supplies, if any, are needed.”

  “My current keeper is—or rather, was—a ranger from the Iden Plains. An accomplished man at his trade.”

  Biaun paused, taking a long swallow from his goblet.

  “At least, I believed Wil to be a man of no small talent.” He looked down, his voice quieter now. “He is dead. When his messages stopped, I was alarmed and left at once. Wil was never a man to be tardy.”

  He waited in silence until Carrigan refilled his goblet, then gave a small nod before continuing.

  “I rode for a month, traveling as quickly as I dared, resting only when Raven was in need.”

  At that, Ogrebane snorted, he knew just how little the knight had loitered.

  “When I reached the cabin, I found it ransacked, as if someone had been searching for something. And then… I found Wil.”

  Ean tensed visibly as he saw the set of the knight’s jaw. Whatever had happened, it had shaken him deeply.

  “By the Blind Judge, no man deserved to die as he did. He was crucified on a tree, his eyes torn out, belly split open. The wounds were erratic—some old, others fresh, no more than a day before I arrived. He had been tortured, horribly, and for far longer than I care to consider.”

  Biaun looked up, his eyes dark as storm clouds.

  “Something had been eating from his body while he lived, comrade. There were chunks of flesh ripped from scalp to heel.”

  He continued, though he could hear Carrigan struggling to keep his dinner down, and could see his large friend’s eyes bulge with disbelief.

  “I vowed to find his tormentor and put an end to its evil before I left the mountain. At first, it was a futile effort. There were no clues, and given how long the ranger had been dead, all tracks had been lost.

  Hells,” the knight swore, “it took me the first two months just to find a shred of evidence.”

  “Four small, nearly invisible scrapes in a tree, a mile out from the cabin. Claw marks, but unlike any I had seen before. These were made by talons that would put a razor to shame.”

  The knight brushed his long hair aside, revealing the back of his neck.

  Jagged red scars screamed from earlobe to earlobe.

  “Believe me, Ean. I’ve felt them firsthand.”

  “I tracked the creature for another month, believing it unaware of my pursuit. I was wrong. The sixth day into my fifth month, it decided I had become a threat, and it struck.”

  He clenched his jaw.

  “I can’t tell you how it ambushed me. I’ve only heard of the Salamanders of Selwan moving with such speed. I’ve bested more skilled opponents, but none with the agility or reflexes this thing possessed. If,” he added with a grimace, “such a kind even exists.”

  Biaun rubbed the back of his neck and spat.

  “By Aric’s light, it was fast, struck from a high branch in the dead of night. Ambush. If not for my own speed and experience, I wouldn’t be sitting here. Even then, it was close.”

  He paused, jaw tightening.

  “It was less certain in open combat, though still deadly enough, I suppose.”

  “When it was dead, I burned the corpse and holed up in the cabin for a few weeks, tending my wounds.”

  He leaned forward now, resting a scarred hand on Ean’s thick wrist. His voice was low and steady.

  “I can’t pretend to know why it acted the way it did, comrade. But after long nights and a thousand questions, only one conclusion makes sense.”

  He looked Ean in the eye.

  “It was searching for something, information. It tortured Wil with purpose, not rage. It knew how to cause pain without killing him, not until it had what it wanted.”

  He paused.

  “No mere beast learns cruelty like that.”

  A long breath passed before he continued.

  “I don’t know what Wil told it, or what it hoped to find. But I fear, Ean… I fear we’re on the edge of another Dark War. Or something worse.”

  The Dark Wars were a series of six brutal conflicts fought during the reign of the current emperor, Melchan Ozewrath. In each, waves of dark trolls, ogres, orcs, and other savage humanoids rose in violent rebellion, threatening to bring the empire to its knees. The last of these wars had ended only nine years prior, and Ean did not relish the thought of a seventh.

  After a time of thoughtful silence, Ean was the first to speak.

  “I will tell the emperor that the three of us need speak, comrade. Once he has heard your tale, then we can worry about what to do next.”

  Then, the large man rose from his chair and gave a nod of appreciation toward Carrigan.

  “Well then, Lord Greyblood, what say ye we check yer goat-headed horse and make sure all’s ready fer the morrow?”

  Biaun simply inclined his head, and the two warriors left the spindly manservant to his mutterings over the mess they’d left behind.

  Do you think the first section is awkward if broken where it originally was, or do you prefer them separated?