Ironwolfe: The Triads of Tir na n'Og, #1

By Darragh Metzger

When he crosses into Tir na n'Og, Janos Narodniho, known to history as Ironwolfe, a Voivode in the infamous Black Army of Mathias Corvinus, finds himself bound in service to the mighty Sidhe, the Fey who rule over all mankind through their human agents, the Triads.  For the first time in his illustrious and bloody career, the Ironwolfe is ensnared in events from which he cannot trick, think, or fight his way free...while the futures of his own world and Tir na n'Og hang in the balance.  Book One of the Triads of Tir na n'Og.  Approx 370 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TFA Press
• Release date: Sep 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781465869937

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

Author's Note

Matthias Corvinus (February 23, 1443–April 6, 1490), undoubtedly one of the greatest rulers of medieval Europe, inspired fierce loyalty among his followers, especially within the ranks of his legendary Black Army.  He numbered among his vassals many other great men of his day, including Janos Vlad, the Impaler—later to be known as Dracula—and Janos Norodniho of Wallachia.

Norodniho is said to have vanished into the Carpathians with a hundred men, just as I have depicted.  Legend says that he sleeps in an underground cave, waiting to rise again and ride to Hungary's aid when he is most needed.

I like to think there are other possibilities.

The word tainted is used as both a noun and a verb, to describe a condition as well as a magical occurrence.  I've capitalized one usage, but not the other. 

Likewise, the terms Sobaka, Koshka and Elf are sometimes used as inclusive terms for the entire race (plural), in which case the word is capitalized, and other times as a descriptive term (singular), in which case it's not. 

Hopefully I got all the usages straight, but please excuse any lapses.  Sometimes I get confused, too.

Dedication

To Dameon Willich, husband, friend, partner, and inspiration, who first created this version of Tir na n'Og, and has brought it to life for so many people through his art, his games, his stories, his performances.  And who has waited so very, very long for this.  Tell Janos he's welcome.

Neither of us could leave out the mighty ‘Nar, last of the Magnificent Seven, whose alter-ego will gallop through these pages forever.  Oldest and best of friends, go with God.  And thank you.

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Prologue

The two horses hurtled down the list at one another in a blur of gleaming metal and flying caparisons, their breath blasting from wide, red nostrils.

The riders, Cavaliers in full plate armor, lowered their lances moments before impact.  They hit with a crash that rocked both riders half out of their saddles and brought the crowd screaming to their feet.

Pieces of lance tumbled through the air, still falling when the horses reached the end of the lists and turned to go back, do it again; their riders pulled them down, fighting for control.  The one in blue and gold dumped his shield to get both hands on the reins of his wild black bay.

The thief whooped along with the rest of the crowd, momentarily forgetting to shift himself closer to his next target.  He rarely had the opportunity to enjoy the spectacle at such events.  Tournaments were work days for him; a rare chance to take his pick of marks crowding the grounds with purses full of spending money and nothing on their minds but the excitement of the day.

As the two Cavaliers chose fresh lances and prepared to go again, a woman's voice caught his attention.  Please Kyle, if we don't go now, we'll miss the beginning.

He remembered the youth he'd marked and glanced over.  The well-dressed young man cast a yearning glance at the tourney field before bending over the pretty girl on his arm.  But Leila, my love, they're almost ready to go again and you know I have money riding on—

She pouted at him.  You know it's all for show.  And how often does Opa come for the Festival anymore?  We may never have the chance to hear one of his stories again.

The young man hesitated, then yielded to her blandishments and sidled away out of the crowd.  The thief cursed under his breath and slid after them.  The purse Kyle had flashed around when bets were being laid out was too tempting to simply let it go.

When the thief made it out of the stands, his quarry had vanished.  The grounds were teaming with people wandering past, rushing for this attraction or that, eating, talking, laughing, calling to one another.  The smells of roasting meat, flowers, cinnamon, sweets, and baked goods overrode the smells of warm humanity, horses, and grass.

Kyle and his lady friend were somewhere in this surging mob, but for the time being, the thief had lost them.

Well, there were plenty of others.  The festival had never drawn a larger crowd.

Easy pickings.  He ignored the people waiting at the candied apple seller's, the booth for children's games, the juggler, and the fiddler.  The real money was in the crowd gathered around the tourney field.  Already, a burgundy-clad merchant, a pretty young matron, and three youths trying to out-brag each other and showing their money to all the world while they bet on the contestants, had donated to the thief's take.  He should just turn around and work his way back into the stands....

A tall, spare, white-haired old man walking past, a pack on his back, caught the thief's attention.  He wore a long, loose tunic, almost a robe, and leggings, his long, white hair falling in waves behind him.  A sword hung from a belt cinching the narrow waist, but he wore no armor.  No jewelry, no fine clothes, and no purse hanging from his belt—the thief would have dismissed the old man had he not noticed the way the crowd deferred to him, nodding respectfully and moving out of his way.

A man pausing close to the thief called out, Opa, will you be telling your tales again, then?

The old man turned his head and smiled as he walked past.  Indeed.  In the same place as yesterday, and more audience is always welcome.  His face was narrow, hardened by wind and weather, and life had carved a map of passions, of adventure, of laughter, love, and loss into the tanned skin; a tale in itself.

The thief stared as the old man continued on his way.  He'd had little time for stories as a youngster, and little interest in them now.  But the young lady on Kyle's arm had said something about a storyteller named Opa.  Ergo, Kyle and his lady fair must be wherever Opa was going.

If he was as well-known a storyteller as it seemed, well, his hat would doubtless be overflowing with coin by the end of it.  Something in the old man's stride, the sharpness of the piercing blue eyes, told the thief the old man was no easy mark...but once he gave his attention to an audience...well, it was hardly the first time the thief had reaped the benefits of a performer's talents.

The thief moved after the storyteller, falling into his wake like a shark after a trail of blood.

The old man did not stop at any of the booths or other attractions, but strode on through the festival grounds until he reached a cluster of shade trees, slender birch growing like attendants around a regal oak with foliage thick enough to shelter half the throng by itself.  The grass beneath was already covered with people.

Excitement rippled through them as the storyteller approached, and they burst into applause and cheers as he stopped to bow in acknowledgment.  The thief paused in amazement.  Storytellers were popular, but rarely to this extent.  Who was this old man?

The storyteller took a seat on a folding stool under the oak.  With a silent prayer of thanks, the thief worked his way into the gathering, measuring the relative worth of the people clustering among the trees, lolling on blankets or cloaks, or perched on folding stools.  A good deal of money in this crowd.  With luck they'd be generous to the old man, and careless otherwise.

He spotted Kyle, lying with his head in his young lady's lap, and began working his way over.  The people on the ground shifted reluctantly, throwing him annoyed glances or refusing to yield.

Opa, will you tell the tale of the Blue Triad again today? called a woman with her arms around at least half-a-dozen children.

No, no, the Gold Triad and the biscuit eaters.

That brought general laughter; the story was obviously well known and well-loved.

Opa pulled loose his mantle, dropping it conspicuously on the ground so the hood formed a nest at his feet.  What would you have of me?  Merry or sad, tales that make you dream, make you laugh, or make you weep?

A large man grabbed the thief's hem and tugged.  Hey, you.  Sit down.  You're in the way.

Sorry, sorry.  The thief backed away, altering his plans as he picked his way back toward the edge, ignoring the story suggestions flying through the air as people tried to shout each other down.  He would not be able to simply slip in and out of this crowd, especially once the storyteller got started.  He would be seen, noticed with annoyance, marked.  And that was too close to caught.

How about a tale of a Red Triad?

No, a Green.

What of the tale of the Great Quest you spoke of?  The one with the three Triads and the Ironlords and—

Frustrated, he moved around the outside of the gathering, working his way to where the storyteller sat.  Perhaps there it would be easier....

Opa held up his hands as if to hold back the flood of suggestions flying at him from every side, completely absorbed in his audience.  That is a tale of many days, and the Festival is half-done.  But I'm in mind of a tale of another Festival, and...

As he reached the giant tree where Opa sat, the thief paused.  Opa had removed the sword belt, leaning the weapon against the tree behind him with his pack.  The sheath was old, worn, and an inch or so of the blade showed above the leather.

...on a day much like this...

The thief stared.  No one made swords like that anymore.  A long, fine steel weapon with a brass pommel and hammered brass quillions at either end of a worn but well crafted leather-wrapped hilt.  The thing seemed alive, a sleek and powerful war hound lying at rest, waiting for the order to attack.  Poor men did not carry such weapons.  Rich men beggared themselves to own swords like this.

The temptation was too much.  Darting a glance at the old man, the thief leaned casually against the tree and let his hand drop idly down to the sword.

...a tournament would settle the matter honorably and to the satisfaction of all...

He curled his hand around the sheath—

—and yelped as a long, sinewy hand clamped over his wrist, crushing the tendons against the bone.

Opa, still seated, held him easily.  A wise man knows what may be safely touched, and what may not.  Laying hands upon the possessions of another is not wise.

The thief jerked back, but the old man twisted and the thief crashed to his knees, mouth gaping in a soundless scream.  It was not possible to cause such pain just holding someone's wrist, was it?

The first row of the crowd had risen to their feet, and surrounded the storyteller and the thief; their hostility poured over the thief in a torrent.  Thief, someone shouted.  Call Security.

Someone else said, Cut off his hands.

No!  He was young and strong—he couldn't be held so by one old man.  The thief groped at his belt and pulled out the knife he kept for cutting purse strings, slashing at the old man's hand as he lunged to his feet.

The old man moved, a grey and white blur; stars exploded before the thief's eyes as he slammed into the ground.  Something snapped with a sound like a breaking branch and pain lanced up his arm.  He shrieked breathlessly, curling around himself, eyes squeezed shut.

Over his head, Opa spoke, raising his voice over the excited babble of his audience.  Has someone a length of stout cord...ah, thank you, good sir.  By all means, bind him.  Let us not allow this event to mar the joys of the day.

He tried to steal your sword, Opa, said a child, a boy at the edge of childhood, from the voice.  Shouldn't he be punished?

I will put the choice to you, my audience.  If we summon the authorities, the time will pass in tedium and tales limited to accounts of what each of us witnessed.  The thief will have successfully stolen our day.  Bound, this creature may await justice at our leisure, and need not spoil our pleasure.

From the chorus of assents filling the air, the consensus was to wait until the stories were done for the day before turning him in.  The thought came as no relief.  Rough hands grabbed the thief; rope bit into his flesh; he had no more breath to scream as they yanked at his broken arm.

He opened his eyes to see grass, the toes of boots, and toes in sandals swimming in and out of focus all around his face.  His heart pounded, his entire body throbbing with agony.  How had this happened?  How had the old man done it?

A general rustle, as the crowd settled back into the grass.  The creak of wood and leather, as the old man took his seat again.  A man said, He'd have had a hard time selling that sword here.  Everyone knows it's yours.  You've carried it since the first time I saw you, when I was a youngster.

The thief heard leather scrape the bark of the tree as Opa evidently picked up the sword.  Indeed.  But this sword is far older than I, friend, and it has more stories in it than I could ever tell.  It was made long, long ago, and fought many battles; it was as well known as the man who bore it.

He paused.  "And forgive me, but I think I tell a different tale than promised; I think I shall tell you the first of those tales—the tales this sword carries in its steel—today.  Let me speak of the man who brought this sword with him through the Mists.

Let me tell you the first tale of the Ironwolfe.

A stillness had fallen over the audience.  Through a fog of pain, the thief's neck prickled; something was happening, invisible energies moving in the air around him.  He tried to raise his head up, but his arm and shoulder stabbed him, kept him still.  He blinked to keep blades of grass from pricking his eyes, and focused on the old man's voice, on the sounds—and lack thereof—coming from the audience.

"Long, long ago, a mighty king ruled over a great kingdom he built in the shadow of a dying empire.  This kingdom was surrounded by powerful enemies.

But to the south lay the greatest foe, who were busy carving out an empire of their own, devouring the lands that had once belonged to the old empire, setting Christian kings to cowering in their boots and replacing the cross with the crescent moon in cities across the known world.

The thief blinked, images of marching armies, of galloping horses and cities put to the sword rising in his imagination. The old man must have knocked his head harder than he'd thought.

"And within the kingdom itself, the king's own nobles plotted endlessly against him, for he had broken their power and ended their tyranny over the people, and brought them to heel like half-tamed hounds of war, ever slavering at the leash.

"Now, the king had built a mighty army, which came to be known as the Black Army, in honor of its first general and, later, for their armor, darkened to the color of shadows.  And it was this Black Army that helped the king to control the barons who schemed against him as well as to drive out the enemies of the empire.

When the king died, the Black Army became a target of the wrath of the barons, and their malice was unleashed upon these loyal and valiant warriors.

The thief shivered, the pain in his body receding as images filled his mind, images of great battles, of swords raised and banners flying, of flame and destruction.  The clash of swords, the screams of men and horses, the thunder of hooves, echoed around the old man's words.

How could this be happening?  Was it delirium, brought on by his injury?

"The trap the barons set destroyed the Black Army; the slaughter was terrible.

But one man, a prince who had become one of the king's champions, who had taken a thousand light cavalry and shaped them into one of the king's greatest weapons, escaped with a hundred men into the mountains, fleeing for their lives on exhausted horses....

Opa's voice carried with it the smell of snow, the subtle song of bitter wind moaning through mountain peaks, the groans of the wounded.  The thief closed his eyes, seeing the line of wounded men winding along treacherous mountain paths in the dark behind his eyelids.

It was real, far more real than anything he'd ever known.

He forgot the old man, his broken arm, the rope cutting into his skin, the grass tickling his face, and surrendered to the spell, sinking into the tale.  The icy mountain heights rose around him as the world of the festival faded, forgotten....

Chapter 1

Shannar stumbled again; a hail of stones rattled over the edge of the trail and clattered down the sheer sides of the mountain below, waking echoes like the ghosts of fallen travelers crying warning.  Janos Narodniho shifted his balance to counter his mount's lapse and touched the horse's sweating neck in rare apology.  Even the indefatigable Shannar had limits, but Narodniho had no choice but to push the animal past them.  To death, if necessary.

More tumbling rocks, a bitten-off curse and the telltale shik of shod hooves slipping on stone behind him told him the surviving horsemen who followed fared no better.

Looking back would be a sign of weakness.  If his men read concern or uncertainty in him, they might well lose heart, unraveling the ragged threads of the courage that kept them going.

He must look always forward, as if for a known destination.  As if some haven lay ahead.  A lie, but a comforting one.

Pray God that the foes behind them were even less confident.

As doubtless they would be, if they knew they pursued Zheleznyi Volk.  Behind his visor, his mouth pulled into a smile, but there was no amusement in it.

Zheleznyi Volk the Russians had named him, after the last campaign he had led through that hostile land.  Ironwolfe.  Their name for the devil.  His own men had taken up the name with pride, and though they were wise enough not to use it in his presence, a wolf's pelt and wolf tails appeared on his standard, and many uniforms sprouted wolf symbols on sleeve or shoulder.

If the tales told of him gave him a wolf's cunning ferocity and the Devil's own luck, well, they put heart in his men and turned his enemies' bowels to water.  Most of the men in his Company had vied for the honor of serving under him, proud to call themselves his war wolves, the best, most deadly, most successful light cavalry of the Black Army.  He knew his own reputation, knew it was not undeserved.

And despite that, despite suspecting—knowing in his heart—the truth behind the order to engage the Turks threatening the border, he had taken his men and ridden south with all the other Companies of the Black Army on this fool's errand, as any witless, court-bred courtier might have.

Ah, yes, the Turks have every reason to be terrified of the mighty Ironwolfe now, don't they?

Narodniho tilted his head to eye the bare heights around him through the slits of his helmet.  White capped peaks thrust upward on every side; great stone teeth tearing at the sky.  Beneath his horse's hooves, naked rock glittered with a coat of shimmering ice and twinkling frost, as if some giant had carelessly swept away the dark and silent forest that coated the rest of the mountains.  A cold, restless wind, tasting equally of the snow above and the impenetrable wall of pine and fir trees below, blew away the stench of sweating men and horses, of drying blood, festering wounds, and the secret, lingering stink of fear.

The Carpathian Mountains were not friendly to Man—not here, in any case.  But within their icy embrace pursuit could be shaken off.  That, at least, was one small blessing in a conflagration of disasters.

A very small blessing, Narodniho reminded himself.  Tribes of hill-dwelling savages—probable descendents of Mongol invaders and Vlachs who'd never been civilized—inhabited those cold and angry rocks.  Known to be jealous of their isolation in the wind-swept peaks, they preyed on anyone foolish enough to invade their territory.

Only the relentless masses of Turks and Western mercenaries swarming at his heels had driven him to lead his men—the pitiful few that had survived the double strike of enemies before and behind—along this way.  Let them only reach one of the snaking smuggler's tracks winding through these peaks, and he might yet be able to loop back into Hungary, perhaps throw himself on the Jagiellon's mercy....

Narodniho's mouth twisted behind the featureless steel visor of his helm.  Never.  The man who sat the throne once rendered great by Matthias Corvinus was a puppet of the barons, less than worthless.  Better to be hacked to small, bloody bits by the Turks, or eaten by savages, than surrender to that—

The narrow trail curved sharply inward, hugging the side of the mountain, and Narodniho turned his horse into the slightly wider area the curve created.  Stopping and dropping the reins on Shannar's thick neck, he looked back at the men and horses winding in a straggling line down the trail behind him.

The sight made him grit his teeth.  Perhaps a hundred, or a handful more—it was difficult to count them, strung out single file along the twisting path hugging the mountainside—still followed him.

Many were wounded, swaying in the saddle from blood loss and pain, or stumbling along on foot, clutching a comrade's stirrup to keep up.  Most had the look of a hard campaign on short rations; a new gauntness of face, garments and armor sliding loosely on limbs grown lean.  All were weary to the point of exhaustion.

Thirty thousand strong when we left Buda.  One thousand of them mine.  And this is all that remains.

All that had rallied to his standard and fled behind him, he corrected himself.  It was possible that others, too, had escaped the massacre in other ways, in other directions—some, doubtless, had even surrendered.

But none of those who had ridden out under his command.

At least they had left several times their own number of the enemy dead behind them.  They would do no less, his men, his war wolves.  The Turks pursued, but they did so with caution.

Voivode.  Ulrich's voice, hoarse with exhaustion.

Narodniho turned slightly in the saddle.  Ulrich—faithful Ulrich, who had followed him out of Wallachia years ago and ridden at his back through more campaigns than Narodniho could recall—had taken up the standard when Miklos had fallen, and stayed fast by his commander's flank.  That a hundred-odd lives trailed after them both was in good part due to Ulrich's efforts; theirs had been one of the few remaining standards for the survivors to rally to.

The standard-bearer let his stocky dun gelding stop next to Shannar.  Ulrich, long, sun-browned face made longer by recent privation, leaned against the pole propped in his stirrup as if only its sturdy length held him in the saddle.

In all the years he'd followed Narodniho into battle, Ulrich had never allowed weakness to show so plainly, not even when he rode holding his guts in with one hand, as he had at Nandorfehervar.

Ulrich pulled himself upright in the saddle by an obvious effort of will.  "Voivode Janos, will this road lead us back to the pass?"  He spoke in Magyar Hungarian, their native tongue, rather than German, the common language of the Black Army.  Asking not as a soldier to his commanding officer, but as one man to another.

Where are we going, my prince?

A question Ulrich would not ask and Narodniho could not answer.

Narodniho raised his eyes to the standard waving tiredly over Ulrich's helm, the white lions and Corvinus's blue-shielded raven smeared almost into unrecognizability by blood.  The wolf tails dangling beneath it on either corner, marking the standard as Narodniho's own, were likewise matted with it, hanging limp and forlorn as rags.

Only the head of the wolf's pelt mounted atop the pole, empty eye sockets staring down in impotent ferocity, had escaped the dark, sticky bath.  Miklos's blood and probably that of others.

Corvinus's raven.  Hungary's lions.  Narodniho's wolf.  Did any of them have a place anymore?

The sudden scrape of hooves and a grunted curse jerked his attention back to the approaching line of horses.  A knight Narodniho did not know, his darkened plate armor dented and scored, forced his horse past the next nearest rider—Markos, on a scrawny chestnut he'd nabbed on the battlefield after his own horse was cut from beneath him—and headed toward the standard.  His exhausted mount, a well-bred speckled grey enough like Shannar to make Narodniho suspect a shared bloodline somewhere, made heavy going of the steep path.

Most of Narodniho's riders wore maille, or plate-and-maille korazin, Janissary style, as Narodniho did himself beneath his studded-leather tunic.  This knight's armor marked him as heavy cavalry, and so not under Narodniho's command.

The knight's scowl drove Ulrich's question to the back of Narodniho's attention; here was a man looking for a fight.  A pity he hadn't stayed behind with the barons and the Turks.

The knight halted his handsome grey between Shannar and the dun.  Dark, deep-set eyes hollow with fatigue glowered at Narodniho as if trying to pierce the featureless steel visor.  He had lost his helm or discarded it; dried blood matted his greying hair and coated one side of his neck above his gorget.

This way takes us too far from the pass.  We must turn back.  The stranger spoke in German, the language of command, and his voice was that of someone accustomed to giving orders.  In other company, it might have served him well.

Narodniho's eyes narrowed behind his visor.  His own voice, rendered cold and hollow by the steel covering his face, betrayed his irritation.  The pass is no longer open to us.  We must find another way.  A way the Turks do not watch.

What makes you think the Turks hold it?

Narodniho reined in his temper.  Fool or no, their predicament was not this fellow's fault.  They came to us through the pass.  They trapped us on our own plains, at the very foot of these mountains.  They knew to find us there.

They knew we would be occupied defending ourselves from our own people, he thought, but did not say.  The taste of treachery was too bitter to swallow; forming it into words would make it no more palatable.

Ulrich blinked reddened eyes, his dirt-smeared face pulled into a worried frown.  This is no place to fight, if they catch us here, my prince, he said, shaking his head.  Or perhaps it merely wobbled on his neck; the man looked all but done in.

Behind him, other riders approached and slowed, wary curiosity battling weariness.  Markos pushed his nameless horse closer, his pale eyes flicking from Ulrich to the knight to Narodniho.  Behind him, Uros and Rufus hesitated, visibly reluctant to pass.

Narodniho raised his voice just enough to carry to them; neither would be slow to pass his words on.  It is no place for them, either, if they are fool enough to follow.  But they are fools who have tasted our blood; they will follow, thinking us easy prey.  We can evade them, if we are watchful.

He gathered Shannar's reins.  These mountains are riddled with trails and hidden sanctuaries.  We will find one where we may rest well-defended.  Then we will take stock of what choices remain to us.

The knight's scowl deepened.  Without taking his sunken eyes from Narodniho, he backed his brawny horse into the path of the nearest rider—a youth as much a stranger to Narodniho as the knight—and raised an imperious hand.  As the line of horses staggered to a halt, he spoke again, his voice pitched to carry.  If we return to the pass, we can come in behind our enemies and strike when they least expect it.  If we continue to flee this way, we will be forever remembered as cowards; bandits and thieves who fled the wrath of traitors.

Perhaps he'd taken a head wound.  That would explain the blood on his neck, as well as his stupidity.

If we return to the pass, we will be butchered and forgotten.  We go on.  Narodniho's helmet made his harsh voice echo hollowly.  He'd often used it to good effect in the past.  He hoped the knight—whatever his name was—heeded it now.  He would not contest leadership.  Not here, not now.  Too much was at stake.

The knight's voice scaled upward in a roar, thick with frustrated rage, the incoherent fury of the betrayed, as if he spoke for all the men around him, all the dead left behind.  And I say we—

His head flopped back from his gorget, mouth agape in astonishment as Narodniho's sword slashed through tendon and bone; thick blood spurted from the red-lipped gap, and the knight's body toppled from his horse to crash heavily onto the rocky trial.

Narodniho spun Shannar on his spotted haunches to face Ulrich's unsurprised gaze and the open-eyed stares of the men who rode behind, holding his brass-pommeled sword up and out so the blood dripped to the ground instead of sliding down its deadly, fullered length.

We go on, he announced more loudly.  We will stop when we find a place where we can mount a defense against those who follow, but we will not turn back.  Not until we can return as victors.  Not until we have found a way to strike down those who have dared to turn our own against us.  Not until we can take back what is ours.  Until then, we ride; we fight when we must; we find rest where God wills.

He did not look at the dead man.

Most of the faces looking back at him were his own men; if any of the others had owed allegiance to the armored corpse on the trail at Narodniho's feet, none betrayed it.  Zheleznyi Volk had spoken.  The Ironwolfe was as ruthless as his namesake; everyone knew that.  None would stand before him.  None could.

Along the line jaws firmed, backs straightened; a new light that resembled hope lit the eyes that met his.  Drogo glared at those around him, as if daring one of them to protest.  Rufus matter-of-factly shrugged a broken spaulder back into place, as if preparing for battle.  Markos pushed his nag closer to the knight's grey and snagged the animal's reins.

Narodniho wiped the sword—the longer of the two he carried on his saddle; it needed no name; it simply was—on his saddle cloth, sheathed it, and turned Shannar; the horse moved briskly upward, as if the brief rest had restored him.  Perhaps it had.  The gelding's reserves of energy sometimes still astonished his rider.

Markos, Rufus, and the others fell in behind Ulrich, who pushed his horse almost onto Shannar's tail, jealously guarding his place at Narodniho's flank.  Ulrich's dun, its rough coat plastered to its muscular sides with dried sweat, huffed beneath him, struggling in Shannar's footsteps with resigned determination.

Ulrich made no comment.  Perhaps he feared to, though Narodniho doubted it.  More likely, he simply knew Narodniho too well to be surprised.

The muffled clatter of hooves against stone resumed as the horses behind stumbled onward.

Narodniho wracked his brains for anything he had ever heard, any hint of what might lie in this direction.  He had never strayed so far from the known routes through the Carpathians during his military campaigns against Hungary's enemies.

In theory, the hillmen stuck to the rocky ridges above.  In theory, there were small villages, Vlach and German settlements, nestled in the woods below.  In theory, hunters, shepherds, smugglers, and other such, traversed these mountains with regularity.  In theory, such people required rest stops, shelter, food, water, for themselves and their livestock.

The Black Army could survive on such thin hope.  Provided its enemies did not catch it first.

They would have to stop soon.  Make camp.  Only a fool traversed these ways in the dark.  He'd glimpsed a distant waterfall earlier, before the curve of the path and the mountains' flanks hid it from view.  It had to land somewhere.  A river, a pool, a place to water the horses and at least take his bearings, perhaps even rest for the night.  There might even be fish, game...food.  Any food would be good.  They'd gone hungry far too long.

The trail crept back down toward the tree line, finally, though he found it hardly comforting; the massive evergreens might hide them from view, but they would also block out the afternoon sun, sheltering legions of unknown dangers in the shadows of grey-barked trunks.  And horses were a disadvantage in forest fights.

From behind him came Markos's rough voice.  "Voivode, I see water.  The falls."

Narodniho turned his head to scan the surrounding cliffs through his eye slits, finally catching the sparkle of falling water, a shimmering curtain just visible in the distance, between two craggy escarpments.  We will attempt to reach it before dark.  If God was with them.  Not something on which a man in his position could depend.  Once among the trees, they would lose their heading.  Markos.  Uros.  Ride ahead.  Keep watch for a trail that leads there more directly.

The trail had grown just wide enough to admit two horses side-by side.  He kneed Shannar over to let first Markos—who, ever quick to seize opportunity, was now mounted on the splendid grey charger—then Uros pass.

He eased back into the center of the trail and watched their backs recede until they reached the edge of the trees, drawn across the mountainside like a wall.  The two horsemen rippled briefly in and out of sight in the twilight under hanging boughs, then vanished, claimed by the forest.

For reasons he could not name, the sight prickled Narodniho's skin and raised his hackles.  An omen, some inner voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Anger wiped away the brief flicker of uneasiness.  He had real dangers enough at hand without starting at shadows.  He'd spent enough of his life in forests in one land or another; he knew the perils.

The scent of dripping sap, filling the air with its heavy, spicy sweetness, reached him before the chill of the outlying shade.  He glanced back at the line of men who followed him, some of them familiar as his own kin, others virtual strangers.  They were still strung out too far, too far.  It would be harder than ever to keep any from falling away unnoticed.

He paused just inside the edge of shade, turning Shannar into the path of Ulrich's dun and raising a hand to signal those who came behind.  Ulrich, see that my words are heard to the last man.  His voice did not carry far when he wore his helm; Ulrich had a voice like a bull moose in rut, and had long since taken on the task of passing on the Voivode's orders.

Narodniho raised his voice to address Rufus, who rode just behind Ulrich, and Drogo behind him.  Our lives depend upon one another, never more than now.  It will be difficult for us to stay together, easy to lose those whose wounds have rendered them less alert.  Close up the line.  Ride nose to tail.  Watch out for your comrades.  Each of you, keep an eye at all times on the man before you.  Every one hundred steps, look to the man behind you.

He let his gaze stray down the line. Drogo.  Find Steban, Ivailo, any others fit enough, and have them ride the line, keep the men going.  Let no one fall behind.  Let no one stray.

He did not say let no one flee, but Drogo obviously heard the unspoken order, and nodded, his hard mouth pulling even tighter.  Drogo understood what could happen if one of those new to their company lost his nerve and turned back into the arms of the enemy.  Their only margin of safety lay in keeping their movements secret, hidden from the barons' spies and the hounds of Islam.

Ulrich filled his powerful lungs and passed the order, while Narodniho watched faces, reactions.  He had taken what precautions he could.  The rumble of voices repeating his words, a warped and flawed echo as it rippled down the line of riders, followed him as he turned Shannar back to the forest, accepting its embrace.

He had learned over the years to compensate for the deadening effect of his helmet on his senses, but even then the sudden quiet surprised him, as a cushion of fallen needles replaced barren rock under iron-shod hooves.  On every side, the corpses of forest giants rotted under a riot of new growth.  The few red oak and fringed rowan did little to lighten the overwhelming impression of wilderness.  He and his followers might as well be the only humans left alive in a hostile world.

The muffled thud of hooves behind him lost its monotonous rhythm as the animals picked their way over fallen logs and overgrown bushes.  Shannar snagged an appealing mouthful of greenery growing too boldly before him.  It was a bad habit, but one Narodniho allowed.  Better to let the horse eat while he could.  Only God knew when they'd see decent grazing again.

Shannar's head jerked up, small ears flickering.  A signal his rider knew better than to ignore.  Narodniho sat up, raised a hand in warning.  He caught movement, light and shadow dappling in the trail, before he made out the shapes of his two riders returning.  Markos in the lead, Uros behind, moving briskly but not in great haste.

Narodniho relaxed, waiting until the others reached him before drawing to a halt.

Markos saluted.  "Voivode, I believe we've found the trail that leads upward to the falls."

You rode to the falls?

Uros broke in. No, my prince, we did not go so far.  But the trail lifted us for a moment above the trees, and we saw the falls clearly.

At last.  Something approaching good news.  No signs of pursuit?  Of men?

"None, Voivode."

Markos and Uros were both experienced scouts.  They would have spotted signs of habitation if any existed.  He nodded to the two scouts.  Lead on.

The trail that split away and led upward toward the falls was the work of a dried stream bed that had lived long enough to push the trees aside and carve a trench—not deep enough to be called a ravine—down the hillside.  Rough and rocky, filled with water-round stones that rolled treacherously under the horses' hooves, but wide enough to allow the Company to ride in proper formation.

Narodniho put them two abreast, with footmen between, using the horses' strength to boost them up the slope.  The crash and clatter of tumbling stones and iron-shod hooves, the ponderously musical tintinnabulation of maille and steel plate striking rock whenever one of the footmen went down or a horse stumbled, the grunts and blasts of horses battling their way upward, jarred against the forest's majestic silence.

He'd have preferred a quieter route, but it was traversable and led in the right direction.  And certainly, he noted wryly, no one could sneak up on them from behind.

He stayed near the front, occasionally stopping Shannar off to one side so that he could watch his men pass, observing who struggled hardest, who needed the least assistance, who the most.

There were no spare horses, and few animals could carry two riders up such terrain—and none already so overworked.  Still, horsemen lent a hand and a stirrup when they could, in some cases leading their mounts while wounded comrades slumped over the saddles.

Doubtless they'd be leaving some of the latter entombed in the rocks above tonight.  Better sooner than later for all concerned, but it was not in him to rush the matter.  They'd given him all they had on the long journey to the southern border and then on the plains outside Drobeta.  More than any commander could wish for.

It was not their fault it had not been enough.

Shannar jerked at the reins in protest, and Narodniho forced his fingers to unclench.  He ran his fingers down the stiff brush of mane that crested the gelding's neck.  Twice today, he murmured, too softly for any of the men laboring past him to hear.  Apologizing to you is becoming a habit, old friend.

The shadows were long by the time the trees began to thin again.  Narodniho was unprepared for the sudden openness when he broke free of them.  Drawing in deep, grateful breaths of the clear air, he looked about and drew Shannar to a startled halt.  His men, coming two by two out of the forest, paused and milled around him, staring in uncertainty.

Directly ahead, a rising cliff formed a wall of rock framing one side of a wide, bare track that, impossible as it seemed, had the look of a road.  A clear, level, man-made road, leading away, deeper into the mountains.

Ulrich and Uros were closest.  Uros exclaimed in a scholar's honest delight.  What is this?  Who can have built it?  Can it be Roman handiwork, so high above the rest of the world?

Ulrich snorted.  There's other folk use these ways.  It's one of theirs.

Uros rounded on him, his enthusiasm undimmed.  This is no shepherd's trail, my friend.  And no hillman's, either.  Look at the workmanship.  And old!  See how worn, how nature has nibbled away at the edges?

Narodniho's curiosity stirred despite himself.  Had the Romans truly come so far, so high?  Why build a road in this part of the mountains?  And where had it led?

More importantly, where did it lead now?

He turned his head slowly.  The trees continued up the mountain on either side, veering away on the right until they again formed a shaggy, green fence beyond which the peaks rose naked and hostile.

To the left, the trees stayed contentedly on the opposite side of the rising escarpment that lined that improbable road.  The dead stream plunged over a cliff on the other side of the road, down into a sudden valley as heavily forested as the slopes the men had just left.  The tips of mighty trees just cleared the edge, like a decorative hedge along the man-made road.

He turned to Ulrich, whose helm had no visor.  Can you see the falls?

Ulrich peered carefully down the length of the road toward the craggy horizon, then up at the surrounding cliffs.  No, my prince.  But...  He paused, lifted his helmet from his sweat-matted hair.  With an annoyed glance back at the line of men still stumbling and clattering their way up the slope out of the forest, he tilted his head, eyes narrowed in concentration.  But I believe I can hear it.  I think we are not so far, now.  His voice rose with an eagerness he could not conceal.

Water.  Narodniho had kept himself from dwelling on it overmuch, but the thought of cool, clear water was more tempting than Eve.  It would give the horses new life, and a badly needed boost to the men's failing strength.

He looked over his shoulder at the soldiers still emerging from the woods.  We will wait until all are clear of the forest before we proceed.  Have Markos take lead.  Send Steban and Drogo to the rear.  I want Rufus and Uros to ride the line, watch for those worst off.  Rufus had studied medicine in Germany and