Bound by Iron

Chapter FOURTEEN

The Foul Airs of Fairhaven

Sul, the 22nd day of Sypheros, 998

Well, Cimozjen, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Fairhaven,” said Minrah as they stepped off the lightning rail.

Cimozjen looked up at the clouds that covered the sky, heavy with the promise of rain. “I’ve been here before,” he said.

“Have you?” she asked. “I didn’t think the Karrn armies pressed this far into the country.”

Cimozjen clenched his jaw. “You’re right. I was a prisoner.”

“You were? How come you didn’t end up like Torval?”

“I could better answer if I knew what had happened to him. As for me, when the Aundairians found out that I was sworn by oath to Dol Dorn, they put me to work in one of their temples, healing those in need.”

“They let you tend their sick and wounded? Weren’t they afraid you’d secretly kill them?”

“Of course not. I am sworn to do no harm to the helpless.”

“But surely you were doing harm by helping the enemy, weren’t you?” asked Minrah.

“I told them I’d heal women, children, and those too badly injured to return to the field of battle. Those who’d lost a limb, for example, or were too old.” He sniffed sharply. “They plied on my vows, though, for they brought their own oathbound to me. I am bound by honor to help those of my calling, and I had to do my duty to my brethren even though I knew they’d be returning to fight against my own people. I have long tried to forgive them for abusing my oaths in that fashion.” He nodded with the grim memories. “Be careful what you ask for,” he added, “because there’s more than one way to answer a prayer.”

“Consider yourself lucky that your prayer was answered with a surprise rather than not answered at all.”

“The Host answers prayers,” said Cimozjen.

“No they don’t,” said Minrah darkly. “Or if they do, it’s all capricious. They don’t care about us at all. They’re the gods and as long as we keep worshipping them, they’re fine just sitting around being gods. I mean, they completely abandoned us in the Last War. How else do you explain a hundred years of war, untold slaughter, and the complete destruction of one of the Five Kingdoms?”

“Explain?” Cimozjen snorted. “Do you think we need the gods’ permission to go to war? We did it ourselves.” He rubbed his chin. “We fought over a throne. We were divided by the very symbol of our unity. And we continued fighting for fifty, sixty years after the original claimants were all dead, instead of just putting an end to it and restoring order. The gods did not abandon us, Minrah. We abandoned them, prayed for them to destroy their other worshippers for our own selfish sakes. If they turned their backs on us, it’s because we first were insolent and threw their own ideals into their faces.”

“You think so?” asked Minrah, her dander raised. “Then why do they keep letting their priests perform miracles, no matter how corrupt the priests are?”

“Because the Sovereigns keep their promises, even when we break ours, just as a parent will continue to feed a child even when the child misbehaves.”

“I have been here before, as well,” said Fighter, his battle-axe, as always, at the ready.

Minrah and Cimozjen looked at him. “What was that?” said Minrah.

“Fairhaven. That is what you called this place, correct? I have been before. There is something in the air that is familiar. I think I did a lot of fighting here.” He looked around. “Not in this exact spot, but in this general area. Deep inside a building, or perhaps underground.” He looked around. “It is upsetting. It reminds me that someone may attack me at any time. This is a violent place.”

“Fairhaven?” said Minrah. “It’s one of the most peaceful places in Khorvaire!”

“Need I remind you of Torval’s boot, or the marks of imprisonment upon him?” said Cimozjen.

Minrah shrugged. “No place is perfect, I suppose.”

“At least this lets us know that we’re on the right path. First you noticed that Torval’s shoe was made here, then we saw Rophis board the Fire Flight, which was headed here. And now Fighter remembers this place from his past.”

“Like I said, no place is perfect,” Minrah said. She looked around. “You go find us a place to stay before it starts raining, then meet me at the Dragon’s Flagons. It’s by the docks. We have a lot to do.”

The sound of heavy rain washed into the hubbub of the Dragon’s Flagons as the front door opened, admitting Cimozjen, Fighter, and a gust of cold, fresh air before closing and sealing the sound of rain outside once more.

Within, the crackling of the fire and the clank of tin plates and drinking mugs battled for dominance with the babble of rowdy conversation. Those gathered were a rough lot, even more so than might be expected for a tavern sited outside the city walls. They took up but a half of the room’s capacity, but made noise and song enough for a group twice their size.

“Hey!” bellowed an angry voice as the two of them entered. “What is that doing here?” A tall, lithe woman stood, her hand resting on the pommel of the long sword at her hip. She might have been beautiful with her athletic build and long auburn hair folded into a loose braid, but for two items that marred her beauty-the repulsed sneer that crossed her mouth, and the fact that the tip of her nose had been cut off, presumably during the Last War, leaving its scarred remnant looking piggish.

She stalked up to Cimozjen and looked him up and down, her tongue held between her teeth. “Just what in Khyber’s curses do you think that is?” she asked, jerking her thumb toward the warforged.

“Fighter,” said Cimozjen, inclining his head at his companion.

“Fight her?” yelled the woman. “Aundair dares, bastard progeny of Cannith!” She stepped back and drew her sword, and within an eyeblink the warforged began sweeping his battle-axe into an attack position.

“No!” yelled Cimozjen. He jumped between the two of them, one hand held out to the Aundairian, the other raised toward Fighter’s face. The warforged surged forward, trying to push through the paladin to get to his target. Cimozjen’s feet stumbled, but he managed to retain his balance. Desperate to save blood from being wrongly shed, and despite the fear of receiving an Aundairian sword in his kidney, he reached up and grabbed Fighter’s wrists as the construct started his attack.

The powerful arms of the warforged drove the aging Karrn to his knees, but Cimozjen’s resistance robbed the attack of all its momentum.

“Stop!” grunted the paladin through clenched teeth, but Fighter took no heed. He swung his torso to the left, and then raised one foot, planted it on Cimozjen’s chest, and shoved him away. He took a wide, sweeping wind-up with his battle-axe, and raised it high as he stepped toward the supine warrior.

A flash of insight told Cimozjen that Fighter’s paranoid reflexes were in complete control. Two years of being attacked at unexpected times had honed him to react violently to any threat, and Cimozjen had just become such a threat. So, as Fighter stepped over him and his deadly axe began arcing down, Cimozjen did nothing but look the warforged in the eye and pray the Host for deliverance.

But Fighter’s blade came, not slowing in the slightest.

Minrah shrieked as Fighter’s battle-axe struck. She shut her eyes and heard a heavy crack as the double-bitted blade impacted.

“Fighter, no!” cried Minrah. She pried one eye open to see the axe buried in the floor just above Cimozjen’s shoulders, where his head would normally be. Just beyond-and safely out of weapon’s reach-the Aundairian woman waved her sword uncertainly.

“Dear gods, no-” Minrah gasped, averting her eyes.

“Stop!” bellowed Cimozjen.

Minrah gaped at the man. He propped himself up on one elbow, his head making an appearance from where it had been hidden behind Fighter’s huge axe blade.

Cimozjen swiveled his head to face the other way, and pointed at the Aundairian. “Stop!”

“I am stopped now,” said Fighter. “I could not cease earlier, only divert the angle of my weapon.”

“I meant her,” said Cimozjen as he rose. His limbs trembled as he took his feet. “His name, fair woman, is ‘Fighter.’ That’s what he is, and that’s who he is.” He ran one hand through his hair and took a very deep breath. “Although when viewed in the light of these past few moments, I am inclined to think that it is not a very good name. I apologize most deeply and humbly that you misunderstood me.” He held one hand up to examine its quivering fingers.

The woman sneered. “I’m not afraid of that travesty.”

Cimozjen hung his head briefly, and then looked at the woman again. “I am not asking you to be afraid of him. I am asking that you leave him be. So if you would please grant me that, I would be most appreciative, for I suddenly find myself in need of a stiff drink.” He ran one trembling finger along his ear and drew it back to find it adorned with a small blossom of blood.

One of the woman’s associates walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Let it go, Jolieni. He wasn’t involved.” He looked up to Cimozjen. “My thanks for your ease, stranger. I trust you’ll not hold this against her. She lost one of her friends to a ’forged just last-”

“That and a whole bag of-” shouted someone from across the common room.

“Shut your bung!” snapped Jolieni, raising her sword at the heckler. Nonetheless, she allowed her friend to lead her back to her chair and accepted a new tankard of drink. And although she drank, she did not take her eyes off Fighter.

Cimozjen spotted Minrah sitting at the bar, and walked over to join her, Fighter at his heels watching the crowd very carefully.

“Nice place,” said Cimozjen, wiping spilled ale from the seat of a stool before he sat. He clenched and unclenched his trembling hands.

Fighter stood with his back to the bar, his axe at the ready.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” said Minrah, her voice fraught with emotion.

“Do what?”

“Get your head cut off. I thought you were dead.”

Cimozjen chuckled, and it came out much higher pitched than normal. “I have no intention of leaving this mortal plane at someone else’s behest, make no mistake.” He looked to the barkeep and raised two fingers together.

The barkeep noted his gesture, nodded and slid him a mug of strong ale. Cimozjen took a long pull and asked, “Whatever made you choose to meet here? It hardly seems to be your style.”

“I’d heard of it, but never been here before,” said Minrah. “It’s the only place along the docks that the river elves avoid. I figured any place that rough would be a good place to start looking for folks heartless enough to watch horrid giant dogs or oversized bugs eat prisoners, or else for someone who might know something about such fights.” She looked over her shoulder. “And it is rough. I got challenged to a fight almost as soon as I walked in, and once they figured out I wasn’t a fighter-not that that’s a hard deduction-I had to promise the proprietor special favors to earn the right to stay here.”

“Special favors,” said Cimozjen.

“I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not nearly as enticing as you are, Cimmer.” She took a swig of her drink. “Besides, I didn’t mention anything specific. I was rather thinking of favoring him with a free mention in my next story. Get the name of this fine establishment known across Khorvaire.” She snickered. “I don’t think he actually expects me to warm his bed, but I guess he thinks it’s a worthy enough gamble. Nothing to lose and me to gain. And he isn’t making me pay for my drinks. Maybe he hopes each glass betters his chances. Foolish man.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“Do you think they’ll attack me again?” asked Fighter.

“Them? No,” said Cimozjen, not even looking up from his ale. “I think you showed them enough of your power and skill that they’ll leave you alone. At least for now. Speaking of which, we need a better name for you. What did you say you heard? You know, for your name?”

“Fferrrrdurrrahnn!” said Fighter. It sounded a little like he was roaring into a mug through clenched teeth.

“Hmm,” said Minrah. “Maybe it’s a number, like the one that was tattooed into the, um, that … thing’s ear.”

“Four … something?” said Cimozjen. “I suppose Four is as good a name as any, and a lot less likely to get us into fights.”

“So I am to respond to the name ‘Four’ from now on?”

“That’s right.”

“I accept that. It is as good a label as the other.”

“Well, if you come up with a name you like better, Forty, let us know,” said Minrah.

“Which is it, then? Four or Forty?”

“Forty-four forty or more!” giggled Minrah.

Cimozjen shook his head. “Just indulge her; it’s easier that way.”

“Damned right,” said Minrah as she took another sip of her drink. They sat in silence a while longer. “Still, it was an interesting conversation, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe your ear caught more than mine,” said Cimozjen. He dipped his finger in the ale and traced it along his ear. It stung. “I had other things on my mind.”

“She’s a veteran, that’s clear,” said Minrah.

“Aye,” agreed Cimozjen. “I heard that chant more times than I care to think about.”

“And she’s grieving. That means the wound to her heart is fresh, unlike the wound to her nose.”

“Why is she not bleeding, then, or dead?” asked Four.

“Let us finish, Forty-boy, all right? That man said she lost her friend ‘just last’ something. Could be just last night or just last week. But just last month sounds awkward. And she’d have had some time to get her grief under control.”

“But she’s been drinking.” said Cimozjen.

“But her stance was assured and speech was clear. She is not drunk,” said Minrah. “At least not yet. Then whoever that was across the way said she lost a bag of something, as well. So which do you think she lost? A bag of sweet rolls, a bag of night linens, or a bag of coin?”

“Coin,” said Cimozjen.

“Right. And whatever coin she lost was hers. If it were someone else’s, say if she’d been guarding some lord’s wealth, I guarantee that the loss would likely not sting her as badly as it does.” Minrah took a sip, then ordered a pickle from the proprietor. “So we have this. A warforged killed her friend recently. That alone I’d dismiss as the result of a duel or perhaps criminal activity. But she lost a bag of coin or something equally valuable at the same time.

“Now a formal duel is not something people of her station would take to. She looks like she’d just take her grievances out on the spot, and fight to the death. And by the looks of her and her friends, if she’d been robbed, she’d be spouting for revenge, and they’d all be dragging the alleys for the culprit. But she’s acting powerless. So it makes me wonder. What if it were an arranged fight, like her friend was a prisoner, too? Did she wager all her wealth on her friend, hoping to buy him free, and lose everything all at once? For that matter, say the other was her betrothed or her husband. She might have lost her entire future in one foolish wager.

“Mark my words, Cimozjen, I was right. This is the place to be. I bet this is all knotted together, and she’s a part of it, however peripherally. We just have to ingratiate ourselves here, and start to belong.”

Cimozjen glanced over at Four, then down at his armband, hidden beneath the sleeve of his tunic. “That may not be as easy as it sounds.”

“Time to wake up, Cimmer,” said a musical voice.

Cimozjen’s eyes fluttered open, and he groaned with relief. “My, but the sun is bright,” he said.

“It’s overcast.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said, rubbing his face. He groaned. “All night long I dreamed of falling axe blades chopping me up. It’s nice to wake up in one piece.” He rose, walked to the window, opened it, and leaned out to take a breath of autumn air.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” said Minrah.

“I am happy that I did not sever your head,” said Four.

“Enough,” said Cimozjen. “Believe me, I have already thought enough of such things for this day.” He stood and stretched his back. “Very well, here we are. We’ve found a tavern that might be a source of information. But until it opens, what’s on the top of your minds?”

“I’d like to catch up on the Chronicle,” said Minrah, “see if there’s anything that might help me. I mean, us. Plus I want to see if we can find Torval’s shoemaker.”

“And I want to find out what happened to Torval from the last time I saw him during the War.”

After a short pause, Four said, “I want no one to attack me.”

Minrah laughed, and Cimozjen turned from the window and said, “That, friend Four, is why I like you.”

The streets were still wet from the previous night’s rain, and much of the urban grit had been washed from the cobbles. The autumn air was brisk, though not quite so cold that plumes of breath could be seen.

Cimozjen, Minrah, and Four stood at the foot of the stairs that led to the Military Bureau, a massive edifice between Castle Fairhold and Chalice Center that served as the central administration for the crown’s army. The main double doors sat nestled between thick fluted columns, which in turn supported a huge marble slab that bore the army’s crest, as well as beautiful basrelief sculptures of half-nude Aundairian heroes from the past, all carved in the flowing, elegant style for which Aundair had become famous during the Golden Age of Galifar.

Minrah pointed as they climbed the steps. “Hoy, look at that hunk of humanity up there,” she said. “Is your torso muscled as tough as that? He looks about your age.”

“My muscles are not quite so hard as his,” said Cimozjen. “His are made of pure marble. Mine just look that way.” He winked as he and Four pulled open the massive doors of the bureau.

Minrah walked in, her laughter echoing in the large wood-paneled main hall of the building. Cimozjen entered and walked over to one of the doors, waving off the offer of assistance from a greeter.

“You seem to know your way around here,” said Minrah.

“I have seen it often enough.”

He led the three of them to a smaller office off the main hall and ushered them in. Inside a room brightly lit by everbright lanterns, several clerks worked at desks. Fine wood shelving covered the entire back wall, parsed by dividers into small slots. Carefully marked scrolls filled each of the cubbyholes. Two open arches on the back wall led to more scroll storage.

Cimozjen stood in front of one clerk, an older man missing the majority of his left forearm. With his stump he held a scroll open, and with his other hand he copied the contents onto a new scroll. Cimozjen noted that he was copying only those names that had been crossed out.

The clerk neither looked up nor stopped writing on the scroll he had before him. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked as the nib of his pen scratched across the parchment.

“Please forgive me, but I do not. I wish to inquire after the disposition of foreign prisoners.”

The clerk grumped. “You’ll need an appointment.”

“If you please, I have just last night arrived from Karrnath, seeking to discover the fate of one of our soldiers. I have reason to believe that he was taken prisoner, and I hope to find out what happened to him after that.”

“Mm. I see. And you’re not going to go away until I help you, are you?”

“If I lived closer,” said Cimozjen, “I would make an appointment and await my turn. But it’s rather a long trip back home.”

The clerk growled. He set down his quill and began laboriously rolling up his reference scroll with his one good hand. “Fine. I’ll see if we have anything. But chances are like as not we don’t. Our records on our own troops aren’t even complete, and the records of enemy prisoners even less so.”

“I only ask that you do what you can,” said Cimozjen. “Shall I roll up this other scroll for you?”

“No, the ink must dry. But I appreciate the offer.” He finished rolling up the scroll, then, with his one hand, expertly tied it shut with a length of twine. “So. This soldier of yours. When would this soldier have been captured?”

“Most likely around the tenth of Lharvion, 976,” said Cimozjen, “at the edge of Scions Sound east of Silvercliff Castle.”

The clerk froze. “The Iron Band?”

“Yes.”

The clerk nodded and looked up for the first time. His face was as rough as a weather-beaten chunk of granite. “Relative of yours?”

Cimozjen cleared his throat, hoping that he wasn’t about to dash any chance he had of cooperation by claiming membership in an elite enemy unit. “Comrade,” he said.

A flurry of emotions crossed the man’s hard face. He set down the pen and pushed his stool back from his desk. Then he rose slowly to his feet, stood fierce and erect, and saluted.

Twenty-two years earlier:

“I don’t understand,” said Kraavel. “How could the regent do this to us?”

“Easily,” answered Cimozjen, staring at the embers of the campfire. “All it takes is a wave of her hand. Her word is law.”

“But why would she?” persisted Kraavel, his voice filled with righteous indignation mixed with just enough of a whine that his tone fell short of outright treason.

“Regent Moranna is not required to explain herself to us,” said Cimozjen. “In fact, for her to do so would imply that she needs our approval, and that runs counter to her divine mandate. Moranna speaks with the authority of King Kaius III until he comes of age, and if she no longer desires the service of the Iron Band, she is not required to have it.”

The mood in the camp was grim, for the Karrnathi army was in full retreat, the Aundairians hot on their heels. The order had come from on high that the Iron Band, among other units, was to be disbanded, and its members were to report immediately to the High Command at Korth for debriefing and reassignment. With three units suddenly swept from his command, General Kraal had been forced to abort his campaign to take Daskaran and turn back to the east. The Iron Band had retreated through the Silver Wood toward Scions Sound, where a temporary bridge had been erected to span the channel between Karrnath and Aundair. The supporting invasion fleet and their troops had been recalled to Karrlakton. The Aundairians, seeing the threat of invasion suddenly evaporate, had sallied forth against the smaller overland force and harried the Karrnathi army in their flight.

The Karrns were camped near the cliffs at the edge of Scions Sound, near the Aundairian edge of the ruins of the White Arch Bridge. An architectural wonder, the White Arch Bridge had reached across the treacherous waters of the channel until its midsection had been destroyed some years earlier. To support the overland forces of the invasion, the Karrnathi military had erected a rope bridge to span the gap, a swaying lifeline several miles long and just wide enough to pass a laden horse, held secure by enchantments emplaced and sustained by the magewrights at either end. When pitching camp for the night, the general had deployed the Iron Band nearest the span to ensure that he abided by the regent’s edict to return them to Korth. This way, they could cross the bridge first and be sent on to the capital at first light.

Cimozjen turned away to see his best friend pacing back and forth in the darkness, barely visible in the light of the embers of the campfire. “Speak your mind, Torval,” he said.

Torval executed a sharp about-face and kept on stomping his path.

“Torval!”

The bullish man rounded on Cimozjen. “What do you think is on my mind, Mozji?” he yelled. “This is inexcusable!”

“Watch your tongue, Torval,” warned Kraavel. “ ’Tis treason to-”

“To what?” bellowed Torval. “To proclaim my loyalty to my king and country? To swear that I serve Karrnath with every dram of blood in my body? To boast that we are the finest unit in the whole of Khorvaire? To bemoan the cruel gods that the regent throws away the strongest weapon in the young king’s arsenal? What have we done to deserve this?” He raised his arms to the sky. “Nothing!”

Several people started to talk, but Torval held his hands out to each side, silencing them. He stalked over to Cimozjen. “And do you know what will happen on the morrow, Mozji? We will be marched across the bridge at dawn, sent first like women and children. The Aundairians will attack, and, if you’ve heard the same dispatches I have, with overwhelming numbers. They’ll break the line, they’ll push through to the bridge, and they’ll kill the magewrights and cut the ropes. Everyone on the bridge will die, Mozji, falling to their death without ever facing Aundairian iron, and everyone trapped on this side will be slaughtered like pigs.” His voice reached a crescendo. “And where will we be?” He stabbed the air. “Over there, watching! Them! Die!”

“Torval-” began Cimozjen.

“Shut your beerhole!” yelled Torval, his spittle flying in Cimozjen’s face, his hands gesticulating wildly. “You know what I think? I think if the regent wants us to disperse, we do it our way! I say we stand between the Aundairians and the army. You know we could hold them off, all day long and the next, if need be, until the rest of the army is safe! Let us be dispersed on the steel of our foes, dying like men instead of running like rats! And if Moranna wants us sent back to Korth, let our bloodied armbands be returned to the foot of the throne as a testament to the world that no one, not even the voice of Kaius, can sunder the Iron Band!”

There was utter silence in the camp, the warriors’ hearts caught between the proud bombast of Torval’s words and the rebellion they represented.

Cimozjen looked at his friend, who quivered with rage. “Torval,” he said, “you speak of defying a royal mandate.” He turned to the surrounding soldiers. “You heard his words, every one of you, did you not?”

The gathered soldiers murmured and dropped their eyes.

Cimozjen began to walk around the campfire as he spoke, his words evenly paced and full of gravity as he glared at the other members of the Iron Band. “Let every one of you understand that this, disobeying the command of the king, this is the very definition of high treason, and every single one who follows Torval down this path will be burned at the stake like a criminal upon their return to Karrnath.”

His small circle led him back to face Torval.

“Mozji,” said Torval, his voice almost at a whisper. “You are the best of us, but even-”

Cimozjen turned and raised his voice. “But since I’ll die before I yield even a yard of sod to those muck-eating Aundairians, I do not give a damn what awaits me back home! I say the Iron Band shall make its last stand here, right here and right now, in this forsaken land! Let us give not only our blood and our bones, but even our sacred honor in the cause of our country, and let the rest of the army carry our legend back to the king! I will let no one break my vows and take my courage!”

He grabbed Torval’s arm and raised it with his own. “Who stands with us?”

The answering roar carried like thunder.