Heir of Iron

"Not a man, ghul, ogre, or even Parias' little doll stands between you and the Gates of Lachheim. I have even gone as far as to recall all but a few scouting parties back to myself," he said, spreading his arms boldly.

"The way is clear Bartholomus. I want to kill you. I want to do it so very badly. Thus I will, Cycle and its compulsions be damned. I have cleared the road, opened my proverbial door, and laid out the proverbial welcome for you because it is the only way I will get what I want." he hissed.

"I always get what I want, Bartholomus." he snarled... and that time, that time he Spake his name perfectly. Bart shuddered, a greasy feeling of wrongness filling him as the unholy thing that was Mihai Aldea Spake his name, rang his spirit like a dirty gong. The implication was crystal clear, the focus of the heretic's obsession, the depth of it — made unerringly apparent: Mihai did not want Bart dead alone, but the Empty Queen herself did, and through her puppet — she made as much known.

"Don't forget, Hero." He spat, using the mocking intonation of the word Parias had; "I still have quite a few places to vent my anger if you delay, and Parias is even more eager to settle accounts than I am." he said coldly. "We may be compelled to clash in person, but I will take no dallying from you, not after this much...." he trailed off and his lips smacked as he snarled the last word: "Frustration."

"Twelve Days, Bart," he said, stepping backward away from the pair. "Twelve days until I decide to see how many bodies you can lash to a windmill before it breaks." he snarled, spreading his arms again, palms up. "My even bet is two score, the Mueller Family Mill is stout."

Bart's eyes went cold, even as new, hot rage flowed through him at the fresh threats to his family. He considered drawing steel, grasping the mantle... perhaps he would feel the pain of holy fire even through the connection... but instead, he simply spat, his mouth filled with the taste of bile.

"I keep my promises, monster," he said plainly, and Mihai smiled wide.

"You do. I'm counting on it." he then went slack and his eyes rolled back into his skull, and the body fell unceremoniously backward, a gross sound of splattering gore and meat as the flesh-mask dissolved, Mihai gone from his stolen corpse.

"I truly, genuinely hate that man," Bart said, kneeling down by the mutilated body, pulling the remains of the shepherd's cloak across the gnarled mass of flayed meat.

"A well-earned hatred... but I cannot help but be ill at ease." Cithara said, turning her head to where Gram and several soldiers approached; "He... knows far, far too much. He speaks of things that should be known only to one as I... he is more dangerous than I initially gave him credit for, dangerous not just to us — but reality itself." she said, shaking her head and meeting Bart's gaze.

"One does not simply disregard the metaphysical turn of the cosmos for fun."

"I'll add it to my motivations, as if I needed more reasons to end him." Bart agreed, Gram and his soldiers looking down at the mauled, mangled body, then up at Bart.

"I do not know about you, Ser." He stated plainly. "However, I feel no desire to stop for camp this night."

"Sleep does not seem like something that will come pleasantly after all of that, no."

"Carry on then?"

"After we bury this poor soul."

The two men nodded in sync, and Cithara looked between them with an incredulous smile.

"I do love you boys," she murmured and gave each of them a kiss on the cheek before turning to leave.

"... what was that about?" Gram asked as she glided past, touching the place on his cheek idly, Bart's shoulders rocked in a silent chuckle.

"You have impeccable timing, that's all."

"Naturally."

~ ~ ~

The night carried on and so did the riders, much to Cithara's initial protestations. It seemed the sentiment of pressing through the night sat well with the majority of forces, little comfort found in Mihai's promises, particularly with the equally present reminder that one of his creatures lurked below ground... somewhere.

Weariness claimed a few souls still, Cithara carried herself without weariness or fatigue, Bart wasn't sure even when they laid together if she ever actually slept, her eyes were always awake and gazing at him whenever he opened his. Others slept in the saddles, the various soldiers seemed used to such things, sleeping in shifts as their bright-eyed horses led them safely along the path the wakeful head of the unit trod upon... and yet others had simply not been built for long campaigns, Cithara's energizing blessing or no.

Lidia was one of those beings, ever the night owl, she still had begun to doze in her saddle, swaying in it dangerously as the moons crested high in the sky — only to be scooped from her saddle by Gram as she dozed off. Bart watched as the tall cavalier settled her into his arms, the tiny girl seeming even smaller compared to the lean, long-limbed Darrowmite as she looked up at him with tired eyes and let him cradle her safely in his arms on a pad against his chest formed from her cloak. She was asleep in moments, the tall man leaning down to kiss her hair so lightly she did not even stir in the slightest. Bart reigned his horse over.

"Tell me, Gram," he said, his tone quiet and conversational, helm hanging with his crown — and his authority, as far as he was concerned at this moment — off his saddle. "Man-to-man, what leads someone like you to a lifetime of war?" he asked, and the tall Darrowmite raised an eyebrow at that, no response given initially. Bart hedged a bit, feeling his own youth suddenly... he never had learned quite how to talk to people.

"I mean, well. Why are yo-"

"I know what you mean, Ser." Gram interrupted him, his voice soft so as not to disturb the sleeping changeling. "I have simply become accustomed to not being asked, and not giving answers."

"I... apologies, I did not mean to pry," Bart said, feeling immediately foolish and a little terrible, had his time in the grove so distanced him from people already? Gram simply smiled.

"It is a bit prying, Ser," the cavalier agreed. "Ordinarily, I would choose not to answer. It is no secret, merely my business and none else... however." he paused, and looked down at Lidia. His arm drew across her a bit more tightly, and his gaze went away from Bart towards the obsidian horizon, stars dancing across it. "Our circumstances are less than ordinary."

There was a pause as both men seemed to return to center, Bart settling back on his saddle and Gram stroking Lidia's back as she stirred slightly, curling herself into a tight ball in her cloak against his lap, Bart would have thought his armor uncomfortable and unbearably ripe to sleep next to... but he supposed Lidia had slumbered through worse, had she not? After a moment, Bart spoke again.

"What leads a man like you to be stationed at the end of the world, awaiting a war that may have never come?" he asked honestly, eyes meeting Gram's. "I ought to have met you in the lists as a novice, you have the mettle and the faith."

"But not the spirit," Gram said plainly, looking back at Bart with a steady gaze. "I am a man of faith, deep and true. However, that means I know myself," he said and looked far into the distance. "I am a man of faults, deep, cavernous flaws. There is a certain..." he paused and gazed far away again.

"When you looked upon this 'Kull' of Lidia's, when she told you of him, what were your first thoughts. Honest, do not think. Speak." he demanded of Bart in a soft voice. Bart blinked but responded without thinking.

"Brutal, dishonest, but well-meaning. A bastard true, but fair," he said, sizing up his initial impressions of the portly, bawdy, and canny master thief. Gram nodded and then responded.

"Human filth. Kill him clean. Spare others his pain." Gram responded without emotion, without a hint of anger or rage. He turned slowly to Bart, eyes surprisingly icy.

"I lack a quality of... warmth, in matters of life or death. A quality of mercy unless I focus on it. These qualities ill-suit me to provide succor and solace to the needy, to carry the might of God in my fist. I knew from a young age, that I was cold inside. Not without love, not without humanity... but cold. My Ember burns cool and long, it does not burst into glorious conflagration like yours does."

Bart had nothing to say to that, such self-awareness was uncanny, eerie even — but not malicious. He had never spoken to someone on such things before, those who were paladins simply... were, they were the best, the brightest and most dedicated — and Gram seemed all of those things to him, such a revelation was disquieting to the Paladin.

"It is fair if you consider that a sin, or defect. Ser." Gram added quietly. "I am a flawed man, and the Lady would judge it fairly and turn me away. So I chose the path that helped myself — and those around me. It was best for everyone."

"It is no sin to know yourself well and true," Bart said, looking at the tall man. "I understand why you care not to speak of such things, to those... unlearned to the hearts of things in the ways I am..."

"I would seem quite psychopathic, would I not?" Gram agreed, and Bart nodded. The cavalier simply smiled — he always seemed to be smiling, just a little.

"You are clearly capable of great love. Lidia... spoke to me, of you." Bart added quietly, and Gram nodded once more.

"She is very private, however, I imagined such things passed between you two... and others," he said, looking a bit guilty as he turned his gaze back to Bart. "I must apologize again, I had some quite unkind thoughts towards you when I assumed you were her dead lover back from the grave."

"Oh?"

"I had thought for but a brief moment to murder you. A duel of honor for her hand," He said, and Bart raised a scarred eyebrow at that in surprise, the cavalier shook his head. "It was a brief moment, a custom of Darrowmere nobility, many such problems are solved at the tip of a saber."

"I am glad you did not, I care not to imagine how such a contest would play out," he said, Gram tilting his head slightly.

"I would have given myself the advantage in betting if you did not wield the Lady's mantle against me," he stated honestly, turning his eyes back to Bart. "It is very difficult to fight a spear with a sword."

Bart snorted softly, rubbing unconsciously at his shoulder. "Believe me, I know."

"Lidia would have hated me, however. I realized that with alacrity. Oh, and it was a silly, emotive overreaction — yet and still, I would apologize." he said, tipping his chin in a tiny nod; "You are a man of quality."

"I try," Bart responded humbly.

The two men fell silent again, each stewing in their own thoughts as the stars climbed by overhead. The silence was not uncomfortable, a quality in people he'd come to treasure — the comfortable silence of friends. Gram, to Bart's surprise — spoke first.

"I am a bastard, a cuckoo bird. Falsely planted and falsely raised. It is far better that I am distant and out of sight than I am some chip on a political betting slate."

Silence ruled after that for a moment, as the two men absorbed what had been said. Bart looked at him with a level gaze. Gram spoke first once more:

"I have shared this with precisely three people in recent memory," he said, holding up a hand, one finger raised. "Commander Maxos at Fort Ivory as a matter of honor." he raised a second finger; "Lidia, for I offer her my heart," a thumb joined the two digits. "Now, you. Lidia's dearest friend."

"I am... unsure what to say," Bart replied honestly. "I am... pleased you share such details with me, yet do I apologize? Do I mourn?" he looked at Gram with a hopeless expression, "I am sorry such... matters are above my station in many respects, I am a Miller's son. Bastards and unwed mothers are not so uncommon. They are given a Church name by the Abbey — and simply raised there, or by the sole parent." he said, frowning. "I am... sorry I do not understand." Gram merely smiled.

"It is as I've been told, a Darrowmite issue," he said and took a breath. "My mother was a woman of beauty, poise, and circumstance. My father loved her with every fiber of his being, and she craved him the same. To see them look upon each other now would not say it so, but they speak with their hearts in private not public, it is our custom." he began, and Bart settled back to listen. Gram gave a rueful smile at the gesture but continued:

"Worry not, it is a simple story. Old as time really. My father's family has a degree of power from many managerial concerns. He is something of an..." he gestured for a word; "Accountant, of things to the Nobility. Not a man of glory or prestige, but import. He is very humble." the tall Darrowmite's eyes were warm as he spoke of his father, even in such clinical terms.

"My true father's name is unimportant, but he is my spitting image. Dark hair, tall build... and much of my ah..." he frowned a little eyes troubled; "... unfortunate demeanor. He coveted both my father's wealth and most of all my Mother's beauty. He was a duke of a rival house known for its military might." he paused again, eyes moving rapidly, viewing distance places, distant times in his mind.

"He pressed himself upon my mother, time and again. First in speech, and then in politics, and eventually — in flesh. He threatened my family, my father, and their holdings if she did not give herself to him, and eventually, as the pressure built — she gave in." Gram shrugged.

"Thus, I was born. My father knew immediately of course, as did everyone," he paused and turned. "My father is fair of hair and dark of eyes, and a slight man of willowy build," he said, his own pale eyes, both deep-set and the color of winter skies, spoke quite plainly of the problem. "I most assuredly, am not."

Bart felt as if he should respond, perhaps with an exclamation or reassurance, but instead, he found himself simply listening as the man concluded his story.

"Father found his best revenge in living well. He raised me, loved me. Loved my mother as best he could, she bore him several more true heirs, my brothers, and sister — but yet and still my true father pressed her, threatened my family's holdings — a line of succession would be complicated, the scandal of publicly acknowledging me as an illegitimate heir, coupled with the risk of doing so when my blood hailed from another source made it almost certain that my family would crumble, our assets for seizure by enterprising blackguards." he shrugged.

"So I removed myself from the equation. I was fit, hale, and hardy. I joined the Order Militant of the Church, forsook my titles and inheritance to my younger brother," he paused and looked coolly at Bart.

"And I told my true father someday I would likely kill him, and then I left. My mother left my father in shame, joined a quiet convent." he looked back to the road. "She sends me letters. I sometimes write back," he said and looked back to Bart with eyes that were steady and true, the turmoil of his heart contained and controlled easily.

"That, is why a man such as I — am stationed at the end of the world." Bart digested that for a moment, it was a simplified tale for sure — Bart may be a brutal kluge of a man, but he was sharp enough to know Gram had intentionally left names and places blank. This hurt him still, and he carried it well. He found himself curiously... repulsed and fond of the man, his icy nature was disconcerting, but his heart was a golden throne sheathed in that frost. He was a complicated man, but a good one he thought. Gram spoke once more.

"I would have you keep this to your heart, Ser. It is a matter I share only with commanding officers and family," he said, looking down at Lidia's slumbering face — she smiled slightly, pressing against him as she realized who held her in her dreaming state.

"I daresay you qualify now, in both respects."

Bart smiled at that, and he nodded. Both men turned their eyes back to the road.

"I think you are wrong, however," Bart said after a long while.

"Oh?"

"You would have made an excellent Paladin."

Gram could only smile.

~ ~ ~

Days passed without further incident, the quiet before the storm. As they rode the plumes of smoke only grew wider and far more dark, the familiar greasy scent of atrocities drifting across the air.

"Ach, God." Lidia gagged, covering her nose as they grew closer. "Wha' th' bloody fook' is that?" Gram and Rashid lifted their noses, less sensitive to such things than the little changeling, the two men took a breath, as did several men-at-arms.

"Bodies." Gram said plainly, Rashid nodded.

"Many bodies," he concurred, and Lidia's face went pale. Rashid continued; "If you look carefully, the smoke's bases is white. Hotter fires. Like pyres."

"Do you feel that?" Gram asked, rubbing his fingers together. Bart pulled his gauntlets off, the foul stench turning his stomach slightly as well, his eyes had been stinging slightly since earlier that day, he passed his thumb across a forefinger.

"It's... greasy, almost." he mused.

"Exactly that. Fat and flesh carried in the ash," Gram confirmed. Lidia's face was turning a color of green to match her eyes.

"M'gonna be sick," she gasped, and threw herself from the saddle, hitting the ground heavily she made it off to a stand of bushes before she doubled over, retching noisily. Bart and Gram looked at each other as Naima rode up.

"Good a time as any for a rest, isn't it?" she asked, and the two men once again exchanged thoughtful glances.

"NO! Nae, Ah'm... M'fine...." Lidia said, standing up pale and shaky as she walked through the passing soldiers. "Cannae slow down 'cause ah'm... oh... oh God..." She turned again and dry heaved onto the road, leaning heavily on Gram's horse for balance as her legs shook. The poor changeling's powerful nose was again her undoing around something so vile, Bart felt a bit queasy at the scent — Lidia must be in actual hell.

"If you insist," Naima said, reaching into her satchel and taking out a small, shallow jar. "Come here," she said, unscrewing it. Lidia looked up, wiping her mouth as she walked over, the lid came off and to Bart, the scent of powerful mint hit his nose, Lidia recoiled physically, eyes watering as she covered her face again.

"What are ye tryin' tae do, kill me?!" she barked hoarsely, Naima giving her a patient smile.

"It's a tallow poultice of mint seed oil. I use it for stuffy noses and any time I have to work with the dead. Wipe some of it under your nostrils, it will help with the smell." the healer explained, doling out a bit of the thick, greasy cream onto a fingertip and offering it to her from atop her horse.

"Ye gods that's sharp!" she hissed, leaning away from it physically.

"Your choice. This," she paused and looked towards the column of smoke rising above the hillock they were scaling, raising one dark eyebrow at the little redheaded thief "... or the alternative."

Lidia stared at her with misery in her eyes, and with a shaky hand wiped the little dollop of unguent onto her own finger, wincing at the proximity. She daubed it with eyes and nose both running beneath her nostrils and made another gagging, hacking sound. Several violent sneezes followed, and after a moment she wiped her eyes, face thoroughly miserable.

"... Iz... iz betta," she said in a thick tone, sniffing heavily and wincing. Bart couldn't keep his smile from his face, he knew his friend was suffering... but by God, she sounded ridiculous.

"Wuzzat Tihn Mahn?" she groused, glaring at him; "Sommah funneh?"

"Your face looks like you brushed your teeth with a lemon," he stated mildly, still grinning.