Heir Of Iron

HEIR OF IRON

Volume Two of

Chasing the Unicorn

A Novel by J.J. Spencer

©

2023 J.J. Spencer, All Rights Reserved.

PART ONE: BY BLOOD AND BY DEED

CHAPTER 1

Bartholomus awoke to the sunlight streaming through the small window of Naima's wagon, he dragged himself from the cot, forced to hunch his frame in the small space — how Naima and Rashid shared this was beyond him, but he imagined love solved a great many things. The wagon was still, parked. He heard the sounds of conversation outside — surely they were not already so far from the battle that they could let their guard down so? Confused, the big man pushed himself out of the cart, careful to not knock over or break any of Naima's various effects.

Confusion only mounted as he dropped to the ground, a brief glance at himself saw him wearing not the borrowed clothes from Rashid he'd fallen asleep in, but his favorite set of trousers, soft half-boots, and sleeveless tunic from when he worked on the millstones with his father, he shifted his waist — even the thick bracing girdle he wore to lift the heavy sacks of grain... why would he wear this to bed? The big man's eyes flicked to and fro across the landscape, and it struck him with further dissonance — the sun shone bright and clean, with no signs of smoke or haze from the burning city they'd fled. There were no guards either — where were the cavaliers they'd ridden out with? Alert, the big man turned the corner and very nearly stepped directly on Lidia.

"Ah, there ye are! I was wunnderin' if ye'd sleep all day, dinnae hit ye head too did ye?" she asked, chipper and smiling... and his brain immediately rebelled at the sight. She wore a simple homespun gown, and her hair was done back in a simple braid... but it had not been that long before. He stepped back a few paces as she reached up her hand to touch his bare arms.

"Oh, what's the matter Bartholomus?" she asked, her touch was solicitous, inviting and made his skin tingle with the softness of her hands... but his brain denied it, latched on to one fact in all of the assaulting haze of would-be perfection:

"What did you call me?" he asked in a cold tone, Lidia looked up at him, wide-eyed, freckled face innocent if not a bit... coy, she bit her lower lip in a way that was appealing to...certain parts of him.

"Bartholomus? Its ye name, ye oaf." she said and leaned closer; "Or would ye prefer I said it a bit... different-like?" Bart reeled back at that, pulling his arm from her grasp, his mind suddenly totally, fully alert. This was incorrect, and he held her to arm's length, the veins standing out on his bicep as he pushed her away with considerable force.

"Lidia would never call me that." He said, his tone ice and nails, eyes narrowing over his crooked nose, hard and unyielding as steel. Lidia's eyes widened and she tried to push closer to him again, only to be greeted instead by Bart's unyielding hand — the meaty paw snapped up and caught her by the throat, causing her to give a strangled cry.

"She also did

not

have soft hands, nor would she try to lay them on me as such. Whatever you are, you are

not

Lidia." he snarled, the venom in his voice echoed by a tightening grip on the Not-Lidia's throat, causing her to whimper piteously and claw at his wrist — the sight of such an incongruous expression on Lidia's features filled him with rancor, and he hurled her away from him off the side of the road, sending her tumbling into the grassy ditch. Heedless he thundered forward, all subtly gone, neck tight with tension and readied violence, fingers flexing into fists again.

"RASHID! NAZIR! NAIMA! SALIM!" He bellowed, getting no response, he pushed around the end of the stilled wagon, to a circular clearing at the side of the road, where his friends sat around a smoldering cookfire... and there was a hazy incongruous patch of air behind them, something... that hurt his mind to try to look at, tears brimmed in his eyes as he tried to focus on the empty air.

"Bartholomus! What is the meaning of this?" Naima's voice hissed at him in a motherly tone, overflowing with concern and throbbing care: full of winnowing, wheedling promises. He shoved her aside. Naima would never speak to him as thus, even in their moments of closeness she was ever a woman of steel and stone, a trait he respected and daresay — loved about her.

"Get back from me, creature." He barked, Rashid's doppelganger did not even react as he threw his would-be wife to the dirt, and Nazir seemed amused by it, and at that point Bart put all pretense to rest, reaching down a hand to grasp a stout length of firewood as a cudgel — that section of empty air still seemed to be demanding he not pay it mind, pain lanced through his eyes as he focused on it. Tears streaming down his face, he swung the length of cordage at the campfire, sweeping the sparks and ashes at the stretch of emptiness with a roar.

"SHOW YOURSELF, DOG!"

The sparks scattered, and the simulacra that stood in place of his friends were stock still as the air seemed to ripple like a disturbed curtain. He gritted his teeth against the pain, ears ringing with phantom sound as he forced himself to stare at it. His vision blurred, and reality itself seemed to come apart, brutishly he dashed his knuckles across his eyes, scuffing the tears from them, willing himself to stare at the... the

thing

beyond the rippling span of space.

Then, it... unraveled. The air itself separated as a long-fingered limb seemingly dragged itself up as if between two close-set curtains, peeling them apart... and revealing a yawning, empty chasm of nothingness beyond. Then there was one glint of light, and another, dozens then... he realized at once they were reflections, a gleam of something wet. His brain howled in denial and screaming madness as he realized what they were all at once. Not motes of light, not bits of metal.

Teeth. They were all, hundreds, thousands of sets of gleaming white

teeth.

YOU ARE AWAKE. YOU SHOULD NOT BE.

Bart physically recoiled from the... sound? Sensation? The words struck his mind like a tuning fork held to his teeth. He howled in agony, an animal noise of primal, unknowable pain. The big man staggered back, snapping his gaze back to the split in the air, to its black tapestry of gnashing teeth, he felt warmth running from his eyes and ears... his hands came back red as he dragged in a breath, the air itself felt as if it were solid, forcing him down with a presence so massive that it defied understanding, he cried out again, forcing himself standing — body bent under the invisible weight. The light around him dimmed, the doll-like creatures pretending to be his friends stared at him with dead, empty eyes void of life or warmth.

"H-how..." he sputtered, bile rose in his throat and gushed in a heavy retch through his lips, mixing with blood and mucus as he gritted his teeth; "HOW DARE YOU PRETEND TO BE THEM!"

The presence seemed to... acknowledge him then, and he cried out again in wordless anguish, like being locked in the coldest reaches of the Arctic and blasted by an all-consuming sandstorm of sound and hatred, he felt as if it were flensing him alive, peeling him like overripe fruit. Yet — he stood.

THEY ARE INCONSEQUENTIAL. YOU MUST SLEEP. DREAM.

"NO!" He roared in defiance, staggering to one knee as it felt like someone struck him with a siege engine, his bones vibrated with agony through his flesh, veins stood out on every single bare stretch of flesh as he resisted the oppressive force. "They MATTER, they MATTER TO ME. Wh-why else would yo-you dare impersonate them!"

THIS DAMAGES YOU. WHY DO YOU PERSIST. SLEEP. DREAM. LET. ME. IN.

"You can come in when my body is dead and cold!" he roared, finding the strength to rise back to both feet, screaming so loudly that he felt blood mist against the back of his teeth as he forced himself against the impossible force to stand tall, back straight he screamed in its face; "I DENY YOU, ANIMAL. I DENY YOU, BEAST. I DENY YOU TO THE GRAVE AND BEYOND!"

YOUR TERMS ARE ACCEPTABLE MORTAL. UNFORTUNATE. BUT ACCEPTABLE.

To call what he felt pain would be to attempt to call a sunrise a speck of light, a wildfire a candle's flame. His world ceased to be, his mind rending apart under the unseen assault, he gibbered madly, clutching at his scalp, tearing at his hair and face as he writhed and gyrated, seemingly trying to escape the poison that very reality had become.

A DURABLE ESSENCE. ADAMANT. IT WILL BE MADE TO SERVE.

He screamed, at least his body tried. Sound had since stopped being something his shredded throat could make, forcing his eyes open, Bart staggered forward. The simulacra of his friends stared at him with empty white eyes, every word the presence spoke was like being struck with a white-hot forge hammer.

"If you plan to-to kill me... y-you will have... to... try harder." he spat, moving towards the open curtain in reality, towards the jeering teeth and infinite blackness, he reached for the fire, producing a smoldering club — man's oldest weapon against the cold dark. Flame burned at its end, its heat licked his bare arm but he couldn't bring himself to care.

DEATH IS NOT ESCAPE.

"O Lady... O God... Grant T-this S-servant..." he babbled, thrusting the burning brand before him, his vision failing him, the figures of his not-friends flickering, moving, faces flashing moment to moment between expressions of concern, jeering laughter and gnashing, hateful grimaces.

SPEAK NOT THAT NAME.

"Lady... I love... thee... as I am... bade to..." he gasped and lunged, swinging that burning cudgel as if it were the First Paladin's holy blade, and as it struck the liminal barrier between it, the roar of agony was not his, not alone. Oh yes, he screamed — part in anger, part in agony but he held the brand to it, shoving the fire deeper.

"I... am... per-perhaps no-not worthy but... I would love thee... as... I wish to...." he said, and it was like a chime went off. Had he ever acknowledged that openly? His mind sprawled back to his lessons, the many images of the Lady in White, her legend... he never really felt the same awe, it was... enthrallment. He found her legend, visage even as a simple block-and-ink print alluring and enticing. Her illuminations quickened his pulse and warmed his heart, he imagined the feel of her mane, to see those eyes meet his... shame filled him, but also desire. He was commanded to love her and love her he did... but did he instead, love her as a man did a woman rather than a servant did its master?

INVOKE HER NOT.

He felt that imperceptible barrier give way, the fire itself seeming to burn away the veiled illusion — was it real? Was any of this real? Was he dead? Was he dreaming? It had commanded him to sleep, if he was not truly sleeping then where was he, why could this presence not bear her thoughts on his mind? He snarled and swept the flaming brand through the curtain-like cut in the darkness, and the world burst messily into flame, a rush of air and impossible, intangible pressure thrust him to the ground, irresistible as gravity and merciless as a butcher's blade. He reached his hand to his throat, and he found his holy symbol there — a simple-carved lidless eye over a twist of golden horn, a peasant's symbol. A symbol of the common man. Here, laid bare in the depths of madness he bore no armor, no shining sword or gleaming axe, he wore simple homespun cloth and carried a rough-hewn symbol of devotion — yet as he writhed beneath the massive force of will, he raised the symbol above him. Fire and Love, the things that lifted man above the beasts, the elemental forces of the human experiment.

And then... it abated... his mind seemed to be a wad of cotton — blood and tears streamed down his face, he felt like a single, massive bruise as he rolled to his belly, vomiting messily and coughing... could he be sick in a dream? Could he experience pain in the depths of his mind?

"Lo, ye have rent asunder the veils and auspice of mine weaving. Thou art persistent, wretch." The voice was Naima's... and it was not all at once, looking up with hollow eyes, he clenched his teeth against a familiar horror.

A skull loomed over him, a great, massive deer-like structure of bone and tarry-black sinew. Antlers reached to the sky, terminating at their ends to clenching, skeletal fingers that writhed with invisible agonies. The slithery tendons snaked down into a body both too massive and too impossibly thin, two rib cages breathed slightly out of time, and a quartet of too-long limbs rested in an obscene parody of prayer and obedience. It dripped a constant stream of ichor made of such dark, horrific fluid it reflected no light, gathering around it like liquid shadow, forming a literal cloak of sticky, clinging darkness. Naima's blank-faced form spoke again, the creature's motions following its stolen voice:

"Thou shalt prevail not, for I have marked thee, and thou art mine for all but the bleeding," it said, raising one of its primary arms, a great too-long thing with too many digits, a nine-fingered hand pointing at his heart as if it were a spear.

"Thou hast tasted mine fury, used it. Reveled in its might. Thine own will erodes and thy cling overmuch to the False Idol for illusions of strength." it continued with Naima's hollow voice. Bart dragged himself to a sitting position, staring at this thing... he knew what it was now, he had a face for the name,

"Wendigo." he breathed, and the monstrosity bowed its skull-like head, spreading its primary arms in a low, mocking bow.

"Just so, and thine's mind and body wrack at the truth of thine's master, Her Voice nigh undid thee in thy petty disobedience," it spoke as he spat to the side, still unsure how much of this was real — but the bile in his throat tasted real enough.

"She? Then that... that was."

"Thy true Mother. The Matriarch of Lost Children, thy shall never know love as true as thy hast felt today, yet as thine realize — thy true Mother is a strict teacher, and her ire sharp." it said, folding its many hands and raising its skeletal visage in prayer; "She is merciful, and in her haste did thy much hurt — out of impatience for thy stubborn refusal of her gifts."

"Let us call it that for now... why am I so gods-cursed important? I am nothing. A man. No more." Bart demanded of the monster, pushing himself half to his feet, the Wendigo's shape looming above him. The surrounding area had seemed to... fade, smudge like too-wet paint, only the area around them truly real, firm. It raised one finger.

"Not what thy art, but what thy can

become."

it said, this time not with Naima's hijacked voice, but Rashid's rolling bass; "Thou art a potential, a wedge formed by happenstance. Thou art the cruel dice of the universe." Bart couldn't help but laugh at that, laughing ugly and long.

"So I am not special, not in any way marked by fate or magic? I am just

lucky?

" he said, falling flat on his back, cackling as his frayed mind dipped back into madness, screaming against the impossibilities and only coming out as gibbering chuckles of pure insanity.

"Thou art the pebble in the stream, thou can be washed away — or thou can divert it all to one path or yet another." it said, Nazir's soft voice stolen this time, the dandy's hands raising along with the beasts as it entreated him; "Thou art persistent, thy wretched devotion a stain on thou's nature. Thou shalt be a king in Darkness and Blood. Thou art worthy of mine gifts... thy hath tasted them once before."

Bart came back from the brink at that, remembering through his racing, gibbering thoughts the familiar black, ugly anger — the strength he'd stolen to defeat Dagan-Baal, to power through pain and hopelessness... what had wrenched him back from the brink, Nazir's face smiled and the monster beckoned him closer.

"Indeed. Thine tasted Death... and I wrested thee from oblivion, thou wouldst have been mine, had the False Idol not interfered, tainted thy blood with its fetid radiance," it said, its voice behind him now — Lidia's voice.

"Thy can live free of pain or fear, thy can sup upon the fruits of this land... join with me, make of thee mine own strength and grow fat from the meat and bone of those who deny thee..." it cooed with Lidia's voice, and the dissonance woke him like a splash of cold water.

"No. You may have some curse upon me, some black stain on my soul — but I will bear it alone. You will drink not of anything but I — and be assured, I will fight you for every single drop." he hissed, forcing himself to his feet.

"I may lose this fight, you goddamned abomination. But it will not be for lack of trying. I will keep you close, here in my heart." he said, laying the holy symbol across his chest — the creature visibly recoiling from the simple graven image. "So you can squirm beneath its radiance like a pale worm in sunlight."

"So be it, wretch." the creature said, recoiling further, its back up and head down in a primal posture of aggression; "Thy shall have thy contest, and I will break thee as I broke kings and saints. Thy blood is sweet, thy soul will be the sweeter," it said and waved its hand in a dismissive gesture that felt as if it carried the weight of the world.

~ ~ ~

Bart woke with a start and a hacking scream, his throat felt hoarse and he thrashed about. His hands balled into fists to lash out against invisible terrors.

"Hey, HEY! Calm down hayseed, ye're about tae fookin' kick the shite out o' me!" Lidia's voice came to him, and he froze, eyes snapping open. She sounded... correct. Hands pressed at his shoulders and brow; calloused hands with the scars of a hard life. He relaxed, sinking back into the cot, chest heaving with exertion.

"Where are we?" he asked hoarsely,

"A day an' a bit o' change down the road, ye fell into a fit o' sleep and we could nae wake ye." she said, worry in her voice, she wiped his brow with a damp cloth; "Naima an' I have taken turns watchin' ye as soon as Rashid was on his feet. Ye screamed and thrashed as if ye were possessed."

"Close enough, I say." he groused and sat up, Lidia meeting him with a small wooden cup.

"Here, just water. Ye haven't drank or ate since." Bart sipped greedily, taking a moment to drain the cup and three more she provided before wiping his face, feeling two days of beard scratch at his palms.

"Thank you, Lidia. That... is better than you can understand." Bart said, falling silent as the too-vivid memories of the dream struck him. At once he opened his mouth, eager to empty himself out to Lidia's concerned ears, to weep and cry and pour himself dry of the horror he saw — but his tongue ran dry, and all that could come out was a quiet rasp: "More water, please."

Bart drank and listened as Lidia gave him the shorthand of the last day of travel, he'd apparently lost consciousness shortly after they'd left the gates. The outrider cavalry had ridden with them until that morning, screening them against a handful of harriers that had pursued them, she noted with some pride she'd fought in the skirmishes. There was a new straightness in her back when she recounted the battle that made Bart smile.

"They went back 'round another road, plannin' to circle back and meet up with th' Commander's people down near Fairhabour," she concluded, Bart turning the battle plans over in his mind, it made sense to muster outside of the city rather than risk losses fighting their way back to Viconia's bastion in the city, which was no doubt overrun in the wake of their punch-through assault. Bart sat a while longer, listening to Lidia fill him in on the minutiae of what he'd missed in his stricken coma, odds and ends — Rashid's recovery had gone well, the burly man was watching over them all — and more than that, in his time unconscious, young Salim had taken up the blade and began training with the Akali during his morning exercises. The news brought a warmth to Bart's heart; Salim's face would be seared into Bart's memory for the rest of his life, the sight of the young man in tears over his brother's lifeless body. Bart swallowed.