The Ironlords: Book Six of the Triads of Tir na n'Og

By Darragh Metzger

The Triads have flushed their prey into the open. Now at last the secret is out: the conspiracy to overthrow the all-powerful Fey is driven by the Ironlords, the Fey's mightiest servants and avatars. Led by the legendary Ironwolfe, they have shaken the rule of their magical overlords. But the threat of revolution pales in the face of the horrors brewing in the Mists and waiting to overrun all of Tir na n'Og.
Faced with the destruction of all they are sworn to protect, the Red, Blue, and Green Triads forge a pact with the Ironlords. But can even the unleashed power of the Ironlords and the courage of the Triads save Tir na n'Og from the unthinkable...a monstrous foe who can overcome the greatest of the Greater Fey?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darragh Metzger
• Release date: Sep 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310953026

Darragh Metzger

I make my living in the world's two lowest-paying professions: acting and writing. While my resume includes stage and screen credits, I've spent the last several years wearing armor, riding horses, and swinging swords with The Seattle Knights, a stage combat and jousting theatrical troupe. My publishing credits include plays, non-fiction articles, and short stories, one of which made The StorySouth Millions Writers Award Notable Stories of 2005. I've written two short story collections and ten novels to date, sold three of them in 2002, and have now re-released them under my own imprint, TFA Press. My first non-fiction project, Alaska Over Israel: Operation Magic Carpet, the Men and Women Who Made it Fly, and the Little Airline That Could, came out in 2018. I also sing and write songs for A Little Knight Music and The Badb. If I had free time (which I don't), I'd spend it with horses. I'm married to artist/fight director Dameon Willich.

Book preview

A TFA Press Original

Lynnwood, Washington

Cover art by

Dameon Willich

Copyright © 2013

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Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Red Triad: Sir John

Interlude: The Tower

Chapter 2: The Red Triad: Sir John

Interlude: The Tower

Chapter 3: The Blue Triad: Sir Charles

Interlude: Ambush

Chapter 4: The Green Triad: Rowan

Interlude: Conspiracy

Chapter 5: The Green Triad: Jade

Interlude: The Cave

Chapter 6: The Red Triad: Athane

Interlude: Kinshasa

Chapter 7: The Red Triad: Athane

Interlude: The Prisoner

Chapter 8: The Blue Triad: Angharad

Interlude: The Cave

Chapter 9: The Blue Triad: Angharad

Interlude: The Call

Chapter 10: The Blue Triad: Angharad

Interlude: The Golden Quill

Chapter 11: The Blue Triad: Angharad

Epilogue

A Request from the Author

Other Works by Darragh Metzger

Acknowledgements

Author's Notes

About the Author

Dedication

For Lara, for giving me Magaera, Orléan DuTetre, and L'Cyrian to play with. I hope I did you proud.

Prologue

The room, windowless and with walls of rough, unpainted wood, should have been dark, but fat, fresh candles danced in sconces on the wall and oil lamps of every conceivable shape and size covered every flat surface. A fire, crackling in the raised stone fire pit in the center of the room, added its own rich, brazen glow and filled the space with extra warmth, though the young people packed tightly within provided enough on their own. The air buzzed with anticipation carried loudly by youthful voices raised over the general laughter, jokes, and taunts flying back and forth like shuttlecocks.

A pot bubbled gently over the fire, filling the spaces between bodies with the scents of apples, cinnamon, and cloves. Winter wind, ignored by those within, whistled an icy tune through gaps in wood that had not yet settled into place and occasionally drew a hollow moan from a chimney flue that had not yet achieved the proper smoke-blackened hue. It was new, this room not quite large enough to be called a hall, a recent addition to a house no longer able to shelter all who sought it.

The gathering fell silent as Opa entered; a young man in a maille hauberk scrambled up, offering his seat near the fire, a wooden bench polished smooth by use, the back just the right height for leaning against. The daughter of the house, a girl hovering at the brink of womanhood—Opa drew her name from the storehouse of his memory—laid a cushion over it and held out a tall ceramic mug, beaming.

Thank you, Ava. He had not seen her in at least two years, since his last stay at this particular household. How tall she had grown, and how lovely. He smiled his thanks, unbuckled his sword belt and slung it over the back of the bench to hang beside him, before accepting the cup of fragrant cider. He settled down, scanning the room for familiar faces.

Aside from Ava and her two brothers—Peter, now grown to a warrior's height and wearing leathers that bore the scars and scuffs of armor, and Raymond, his thin forearms encased in well-used leather archer's bracers—the room held several other young friends and relatives, the youngest of which, Opa knew, were cousins he had met only once before, when they were mere babes. All had changed considerably since his last visit. It never ceased to amaze him how quickly children grew, how subtle and sudden the change from child to youth, youth to adult.

He noted other, more pleasing changes as well. When he had first visited this household, many still dressed in the old fashion: rubber-soled shoes or boots, denim trousers, with not so much as a belt knife among them. Now, leather, fur, and steel covered gangly limbs hardening with muscle, and what belts or boots carried no blade bore at least sheaths for them, or frogs for larger weapons.

But at a social gathering, in a friendly, close-quartered house, one might be forgiven for laying weapons aside in the interest of comfort and courtesy.

I see no strangers here, he said, smiling around the room. You flatter an old man, to gather together from so many distant, scattered places, just to hear me.

A general laugh rippled through the room. Are you kidding, Opa? said Peter. No one here has seen you since two summers ago. And here you are, when no one expected. We had to tell everyone. This is the best thing to happen all winter!

A blizzard wouldn't have stopped them from coming, right Warren? Raymond pushed one of the cousins, a tow-headed boy on the floor closest to Opa.

Warren said nothing, but shifted in place, hugging his knees. His blue eyes, on Opa, gleamed with excitement, but they measured and weighed all he saw. I will not be easily convinced, said those eyes, or taken by surprise.

Good. Opa nodded, accepting the silent challenge.

Beside Warren, another, slightly younger boy with a cherubic face beneath the shock of pale hair, nodded eager agreement to Raymond's endorsement. We're ready! No wariness there. An adventurous spirit, already hinted at when Opa had first met him. Also good. What was his name again? Ah, yes, Kenan.

From Kenan's other side, an equally blonde, blue-eyed little girl of angelic prettiness added, We wouldn't have missed this for anything! Her eyes sparkled, catching the others' excitement. She was surely too young to recall his prior visit. That meant all she knew had come from her cousins.

Then I shall endeavor to live up to the highest of your expectations, Elise. He smiled at her as he searched her face and her brothers beside her for a family resemblance to his hosts. Where Peter, Ava, and Raymond were dark and almond-eyed, Warren, Kenan, and Elise still had almost white-blond hair that would doubtless darken as they aged, and round eyes of three different shades of blue. But the strong chins and cheekbones, the bright intelligence in the eyes, the smiles with more than a hint of mischief...those betrayed the shared blood.

Yet, almost alone of that company, these three bore no weapons and wore children's garb of thick wool. Their parents' doing, perhaps; they were, after all, the youngest here. Perhaps they had yet to be drawn to one tale, one discipline, over another.

Soon. Opa nodded to himself. There was yet time. Today, perhaps, would see the change.

It would come. He had come too far, waited too long, for it to be otherwise.

Our hosts have yet to arrive, I see, he said to Peter.

The youth grinned. Mom and Dad thought it would be too crowded in here, with all of us. They asked you to forgive their absence, and wanted to know if you would be willing to do a telling tomorrow, at my aunt and uncle's house. It's not far, but it has more room. Then the grown-ups can sit in as well.

It's better this way! Raymond's voice rang loud and hungry in the close confines of the room. Now you can tell all the parts you leave out for them.

Other voices piped up from around the room.

Yeah! All the best parts.

And we have spiced cider! And pumpkin bread!

Opa held up his hands. Then we are here utterly on our own?

Yes! The young voices rang together, loud and confident.

Who will play host to this assembly?

Three hands shot up: Peter's, Ava's, and Raymond's. I will! We will!

How easy they made it! Opa drew a breath and let his power flicker to life within. I offer tales to fill the cold darkness of winter days with light and warmth, to bring summer into your midst and make you forget the beckoning silence of snow. What would you have of me?

Tell us about the Triads! The Summer Country!

About the magic.

About the Code of Ohma, and the quest for the Gem.

About the Red Triad!

No, the Green.

Tell us about the Blue Triad. Please, Blue.

Opa released a breath and closed his eyes, raising his hands for silence. A few hissed admonitions, then whispers stilled; the scuffle and scurry of leather against wood, of creaking floorboards, quieted.

There is one tale yet to tell, said Opa softly. One tale that lives at the back of my tongue, ever waiting to be loosed. Would you have it?

Is it about the Triads? Raymond's eyes glinted in the half-light like a hunting cat's.

It is.

Peter said... Warren exchanged glances with his brother and sister. He raised suspicious blue eyes to Opa. Peter said you'd tell stories about the Fey.

That, too.

The boy's measuring stare did not leave the old man. They're magic.

That they are; the nature of the Fey is magic, and their essence.

Are they demons?

A surprise. Well, he'd been asked the question many times before, after all; he simply did not expect it in this household. No. Like all men and women, some serve the light, others the dark. And like us, few are either wholly good, or wholly evil, but a mixture of both. Good intentions and a lack of self-knowledge are far more insidious, and oft lead good people to do more harm than the truly wicked.

Elise raised her hand, her frown doubtful and puzzled, and secretly hopeful. Are they really real?

The others in the room laughed.

Yes, indeed they are, Elise. As real as you or I. And if you have not met any yet, I'm sure you soon will. Might more background be needed? Everyone else here had heard many of his tales, understood much without being told. He opened his inner eye to the energy in the room, in this small child with her huge questions.

Her head tilted doubtfully. Are the Triads Fey?

They don't get to hear the stories very much, said Peter. You'd better explain.

Ah. He need not seek an opportunity now, merely accept the invitation. He reached within and withdrew the ancient tale, sculpting it anew for these particular ears.

"In the beginning, when the world was new and the spirit of God was over all, some of God's children took flesh to experience life upon this wonderful new place created for them. And these became the first men. Others chose to remain closer to spirit form, experiencing life in different ways. And in time, these became what we now call the Sidhe—the Fey.

The Fey themselves say that God appointed three of His angels to watch over them, while He kept his eye on men, for they had greater need of Him. Perhaps this is true, or perhaps it is merely a legend, a way to explain the inexplicable.

Elise frowned. What's inexpliss—

Shhh. Warren shot a ferocious scowl at her. It means a mystery. Something you can't know.

Indeed. Opa took control again. If these three have names, we do not know them. They are spoken of as The Powers; seldom seen even by the Fey, rarely interfering. Yet the Fey revere them and yield to their judgments, when they give them, without question; their word is likened to the word of God, and absolute law.

By the Seven and by the Three, for Honor and Glory, I Challenge Thee. The chant came from several places around the room. Peter grinned and leaned forward to address his little cousins. That's what the Three means, you guys. The Powers. The Seven means the Seven main Factions of the Fey.

Peter, let Opa tell the story, please. Ava scowled at him with sisterly exasperation.

Go on, Opa. Raymond scooched forward impatiently. They'll get the rest. Everyone does.

Now. Opa drew a breath and released it, took a sip of cider to give the silence time to grow.

Shadows crept up the walls and flowed silently from the corners, despite the candles' bright flicker.

I have spoken before of Ohma, the Fey lady who reforged the way of life of Tir na n'Og, and will do so again. But for now, let me speak only of what became of her legacy.

There was so much they needed to know, these three on the floor before him. But he could not lose the thread of the tale he must tell so soon by relating for these three what was well known to everyone else in the room. A little grounding, then. He took another sip, watched the flames subtly flatten like boisterous hounds curling up for sleep.

"When at last the thirteen Factions of the Sidhe, the Greater Fey, bowed to Ohma's wisdom and agreed to let mankind become the bridge between them, and laid down their swords, the leaders of the Factions chose from the greatest among the humans the first Triads, to uphold the compact between Man and Fey forged by Ohma and to carry out deeds of honor in their names. We honor them with tales of their adventures, and their names shall live forever.

In time some of these, the merest handful, became the first Triumphants, who were given stewardship of the cities of men, and the first Ironlords, who were given the Law and sworn to uphold the welfare of the land. These champions brought order and justice to a land long troubled by war and lawlessness. Humankind and Fey alike prospered when the Ironlords strode like giants among us.

Stillness. He captured the rhythm of their breathing, moved it in time with his own. The stillness deepened. The shadows spread like water across the floor, up the walls.

"But though there were many among the Sidhe who embraced Ohma's Code, and sought to care for their human charges in the way they believed the three Powers desired, there were others who did not. No few throughout the Factions saw the banishment of warfare as a diminishment of their glory, and to them, the guidance of humankind along a new path was a poor substitute. Others remembered that once men had worshipped them as gods, and they looked upon the role of guardian with disdain. Still others could not forget that they had been driven from the earth by mankind's smoke and steel, and they did not forgive.

And so it was that, over time, the Triads began to be used, not always as Ohma had intended—to protect, serve, and become bridges by which humans and Fey could live together in peace—but as pawns in a game the Factions played with and against one another. The Triads, bearing the mark of highest honor, were sometimes used in ways that sullied that honor and the honor of those in whose names they served. And no few among them, in their hearts, grew to despise that service to which they were bound by oath.

Their hearts beat in time with his; the firelight sparked like embers in wide eyes around the room.

The Triumphants, watching all from the heights of their triune thrones, and the Ironlords, walking alone and unseen through the land, became troubled by these things, and pondered how the wrongs might be made right. And there were those among them who had been waiting and watching for such a time, for they saw the wrongs as pathways the Fey unwittingly opened for those bold enough to walk them.

And now, it begins. He released the magic into the room, let it wash over his listeners and draw them to him, let the visions rise in their unwinking eyes.

"A whisper of strange and dangerous magic reached the ears of the Green Faction, and the Green Triad was sent to investigate. And the Red Faction, hearing similar hints, sent out the Red Triad. But when next the wind carried news of the Triads to the waiting ears of their Factions, it was of death, swift and sudden; both Triads slain but for one man, and he a maddened wreck. And the wind bore no whisper of how this had come to pass.

"The Red Faction chose a new Triad. They set the living on the trail of the dead, and sat back to wait and watch.

"The Greens summoned three former Triad members and bound them together. They, too, set the living on the trail of the dead, and sat back to wait and watch.

The Blue Faction, roused to action, set the Blue Triad the task of unraveling the tangle of rumors, hints, and strange happenings. And sat back to wait and watch.

All these stories he had told; all here knew them, save perhaps the three at his feet. He let the memories rise around him, thick as smoke, and let the gathering breathe them in.

"Of the fate of the Red Triad, you have heard: how they were broken and re-forged beneath the hammer of the evil they faced and fought.

"Of the fate of the Green Triad you have also heard: how they were scorned and abandoned, yet held fast to their purpose; and how ruin and madness tested them to their limits and beyond.

"Of the Blue Triad, too, you have heard: how they first learned that the Dark Rider was indeed an Ironlord, and one of many planning to loose black magic into Tir na n'Og against the very masters who had given them their power and authority.

"But too, they learned an even more horrible secret: that the trolkien had at last given birth to a leader, a being of strength and cunning who controlled magic, against whom steel gave no protection.

The Blue Triad was taken and torn apart, tempered and tried. And when they came again to the notice of the world, it was with Sir Charles le Chevalier as their Cavalier, for the Fey had taken Yaqut ibn Munqidh and none knew what had become of him.

The new Blue Triad set out to find the Red and Green, that word of the danger might be spread and so averted.

A breath of wind ghosted through the room, carrying with it the scents of rain, damp grass, and open skies…

Chapter 1

Centaurs. Again. Athane knelt beside one of the huge holes pocking the rocky ground in a long line, spaced at least two horse-lengths apart. These are a lot fresher, though.

John von Ravensburg stared down at the tracks she pointed out, surrounding the hole in the black, wet soil that the recent rain had turned to clinging muck. He trusted his new Ranger's skills; after all, Athane had served in two Triads previous to his own, and was something of a legend long before he had met her. Besides, Centaurs had made the last set of mysterious holes the Red Triad had found, and he had absolutely no doubt that they'd made this batch as well.

But the hoof prints looked like those made by ordinary, unshod horses to him. He wondered how she could tell the difference.

Probably because horses don't dig holes like this. Nor were there any human tracks in evidence, either at this location or the last one. This was the work of tool-users.

The holes themselves were a greater puzzle. Each was at least the size of the circle he could make with his arms. And deep. And entirely empty. What was the point?

He frowned and swept his gaze across the line of holes, pausing at the clots of debris beside the last three. It seems they left something more behind this time. Perhaps this will give us some hint as to what they're about.

Bae Twan, wandering a few feet away, where the grass had not yet been trampled down to mud, stopped and knelt. Here is something...like a broken jar...but so large. Her tone cast doubt on her own guess.

John dropped his horse's reins—so far, Eisenherz had proven to be perfectly well-behaved and could probably be trusted not to step on his reins, entangle himself, or start a fight with one of the other horses—and crossed to where Bae Twan knelt. She looked up at him over her shoulder. Centaurs made this? One asks why.

He stared at the crumbling, vaguely trough-like thing of baked clay crushing the grass beside his Mystic. By the Seven, before it had broken it had to be at least as long as he was tall, and he was a tall man. The intact portion was a good four feet long. Badly fired and never finished, from the look of it.

He could see why Bae Twan had mentioned jars; the hollowed interior, open to the sky, was clearly made to hold something; even now, an inch or two of dirty rainwater lay along the uneven bottom. But a jar that size filled with water would weigh too much for even a Centaur to want to carry around.

Not a jar, and I can't think of a reason for them to build a watering trough with a clear-running brook within easy distance, he murmured, scratching his yellow beard. Time to trim the damned thing again. It was a nuisance, but it made him look less like a boy playing Cavalier in his big brother's armor.

Bae Twan cast a sideways glance at him, and he hastily pulled his fingers away from his face. A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth as if she read his thoughts, but she said nothing. Instead, she directed his gaze to the piles of fragments along the object's other side. Look. This was part.

He knelt beside her and picked up the largest piece, a curved arch, fitted it along the top of the trough. It almost reached over the rain-filled hollow. You're right. A tube, or cylinder. They broke it in half, lengthwise.

She touched it, looked up with a frown. It is like a shell. As if what it held...hatched.

A mould. Something prickled up his spine, a half-memory, something...

He knew something of the arts of the smith. He'd grown up playing in and around the smithy on his father's estate, fascinated by the secrets of the forge, the science of metalworking.

Centaurs were nomadic. They had no smithies, no forges.

But they were not stupid.

He turned, his eyes seeking the last three holes. Rising, he strode toward them.

Athane, watching their surroundings for movement with narrowed eyes, swiveled to follow him. They took it with them. Something heavy. Same as last time, she said as she matched strides with him, nodding at a swath of torn, trampled earth a few horse-lengths away, between the holes and the brook. Fires there, before the rain. Wagon ruts on the other side.

Probably the same ones, then. He nodded. There can't be two groups of Centaurs carting around something that leaves tracks that deep. But this time they left in a hurry. They didn't try to fill things in and cover them up.

He stopped by the last hole and knelt. The sun remained uncharacteristically sullen, hiding its face behind a solid bank of dull, grey clouds, but the wind had just begun to dry the edges of the hole, loosening bits and pieces. Debris poked through the piled dirt drying around its empty maw. He pulled off a glove and sifted through it, found a small lump of metal. Look. He held it up for Athane to examine.

She frowned, took it from him and turned it in her fingers. Tin?

Looks like it to me. He sifted through the rest of the dirt; something bright flashed to the surface, and he snapped it up, buffed it against a fold of his surcoat. The warm, rich color was unmistakable.

Copper. She raised an eyebrow at him.

He nodded. They're making bronze. Or trying. Obviously, they don't know what they're doing, yet. And they didn't have time to pick it all up. He frowned. But why? Bronze requires a certain amount of metallurgy, even for those practiced in smithery. Why not use alloy, which we already know they've been stealing whenever they can?

Easier. Shipments of alloy go missing, people notice. Athane dropped the tin and brushed the dirt off her hands. The holes?

Yes, the holes must be for the moulds. Exactly. But what? And why?

She caught his eyes. Tainted.

John blinked. Athane's habit of saying as little as possible meant her cryptic comments usually carried extra weight, requiring interpretation. Centaurs are Tainted, yes. But they're nomads, and not able to—

Even through his armor, he felt the small hand on his shoulder. He looked up at Bae Twan. Our Ranger means, I think, she said in her deliberate way, that perhaps the Centaurs share common destiny with other Tainted. A destiny of which we have heard much.

Athane nodded. Holes.

Bae Twan's almond eyes widened. Black magic, she said thoughtfully.

Maybe it was catching. John looked from his Mystic to his Ranger. More black magic? What do you mean?

The Sobaka made long tubes of alloy for the...the... she groped for the word, found it. Gonnes. The gonnes of the Alchemist.

John coughed. The Alchemist. The sobaka who had sought to unite all Sobaka beneath him with the help of the black magic weapon from the legendary Outside world, the world humankind had come from.

But the gonnes the Alchemist had built were small enough to pick up with one hand, not even as long as a spear. They were nowhere near this size, he said. This is something else.

Centaurs. Athane shrugged.

They are much larger and stronger than Sobaka, Bae Twan interpreted helpfully. They could make much bigger gonnes, perhaps.

John sat back on his heels, his imagination reeling. Admittedly, the moulds would be much larger than the finished product, but still...Giant, bronze gonnes...Great God. One of the smaller gonnes, fired by a sobaka, had blown a