Blood & Steel, page 1
Blood & Steel
Book One of An Infaria Eternals Saga
By
L.M. Mountford
&
C.A Martin
Copyright © 2023 by The Lord of Lust Publications
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
L.M. Mountford
C.A. Martin
United Kingdom
Blood & Steel
An Infaria Eternals Saga
Book One
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by readabit: Copy Editing and Proofreading Services Est 2018
1st Ed.
ISBN: 978-1-83502-003-6
This is dedicated to the memory of Christine Jones.
A jewel of an aunt, sister and friend.
And Claire Dyson, because she’s awesome.
In the time before time, they said that the world had been a realm of peace, light, and beauty when Mirarious, High King of the Gods and the Lord of Light, had brought a dazzling radiance to every corner of the land. The Old Gods basked in his glory and forgot the turbulent wars of old, living in peace together. Yet there was one who feared the future.
Destro, the wretched and Fallen God, became jealous of Mirarious’s power. One day, while the King of the Gods was hunting, he snuck into his Lord’s bedchamber where his pregnant wife, Sora, was sleeping. Startled by his intrusion, she demanded that he leave, but the Fallen God would not listen and instead he raped her. When the deed was done, Sora vengefully took the knife her husband kept hidden beneath their pillows and attempted to murder Destro. However the Fallen was faster and seized the blade from her grasp, slicing her swollen womb. Corrupted by Destro’s betrayal, the skies sent forth a sea of tiny stars in place of the remains of Sora’s unborn child.
When Mirarious returned to discover Destro standing over the murdered body of his wife, the King of the Gods banished the Fallen God to the deepest depths of the Underworld. Then in a fit of despair, he took all his light from the world and used it to fuel the pyre that burned his wife’s body. All that remained was the sparse sea of stars that glowed with the light of his unborn son.
Infaria. A domain of blood stained battle grounds, dark savage forests and coppery mountain ranges where the screams of the long dead still sounded in the mist. The ruins of cities littered the land, a reminder of what was once an advanced civilisation that had long ago been shattered.
In a show of unfathomable generosity, the Old Gods had offered the Infarians the gift of prosperity. Alas, it was not free and would only be given once they had surrendered what they considered to be their peoples' greatest attribute. Blinded by their greed, many took the offer without question or further consideration.
Consumed by their desire for fortune, many of the Infarian people had quickly offered their talent for foresight, the ability to see and understand their future at will as payment. However as the years passed, without the knowledge of their consequences, the citizens and leaders of the Infarian cities began to listen to their darkest desires. The quiet voices in the back of the mind that seductively whispered sweet stories of fortune and glory, the kind that could block a man’s sense of right and wrong like a dam in a river and make him do the most awful of deeds.
Conquered by the evil in their hearts and the greed of their souls, the peaceful and civilised world fell into chaos as the people fought and killed one another in the streets. Once wise and noble kings declared war at the slightest insult and before the century was out, madness had consumed the world.
For generations, the people fought over the savage lands. Once great settlements were razed to the ground and monstrously proportioned fortresses were built atop their ruins. Entire forests were hacked down to fill vast armouries. Warlords that believed they could end the fighting rose and fell like winter wheat while the bodies of cunning kings who thought themselves capable of uniting the planet's people were burned almost nightly on funeral pyres. By the turn of the conflict's second century, only fools had dared to believe the true ruler of the Infarian people was not the cold fist of civil-war.
Until the coming of the war’s third century, when out of the ashes of the Old Kingdom arose a new king.
Armed with legions of fierce and loyal warriors under his control, a cunning warrior by the name of Ricard Cravinous led a vast army across the land. Quickly, he captured or destroyed all those who resisted, killing whoever dared to call themselves his enemy without warning or remorse, until there was no one left for his men to fight.
His raid on the warring parties lasted less than a decade, and just days after his historic defeat of the Nublurian horde, Ricard Cravinous was crowned High King and Emperor of Infaria, finally ending the civil war that had ravaged the grim world. His bloody conquest became forever known as a necessary, but brutal salvation of a dying world.
And so the new era had begun, a time of peace and serenity where all were united under one coat of arms. Whilst seated upon his throne, its new ruler looked upon his empire and swore that he would never allow devastation in his lands again.
The evening sun hung low in the darkening sky, its warmth little more than a fading memory of the day as the great orb slowly sunk below the horizon. Alerted by the coming night, bird calls echoed across the celestial sphere as flocking fowl scoured the tree tops and mountain sides for a place to nest. Growing ever dimmer, the sun disappeared behind the distant Progan Mountains that lay to the west, throwing Flamora into a shadowy darkness, broken only by the embers of the city lights.
Without a doubt, time had been kind to the once dying world and Infaria had long since surpassed her near demise. Land that had once been destroyed by conflict was now home to several vast cities where the wealth and prosperity of the people grew by the year. Rich structures stretched to such heights that they might one day graze the dark depths of space, and at the centre of the empire’s economy stood Flamora, its greatest treasure. The streets glittered gold and poverty was absent.
The city had been carved into the very face of an immense mountain chain and was fashioned to form two levels that mirrored mysterious and ancient ruins in the east. Surrounding the first was an immense wall which stood over seventy-five metres high and was built from the hardest stone. The Great Wall had been constructed to act as the capital’s first line of defence against a hostile force. An immense gate broke the centre of the stone structure allowing travellers and citizens alike to pass back and forth as they pleased during the day, but remained a formidable barrier, denying enemies passage during times of war. Night and day, a small company of soldiers patrolled the wall, the bright glare of their burning torches glowing in the low twilight as they traced the familiar steps of the wall’s narrow avenue. Men exchanged short conversations as their paths crossed before returning to their dedicated watch, waiting for the next company to relieve them.
Past the Great Wall, the first level of the city had been conditioned as a living area for the capital’s citizens and soldiers. In the bright light of day, when the warmth of the sun had risen high over the wall, the streets would echo the daily rush. The booming shouts of travelling merchants sent flocks of birds from their nests as the traders noisily advertised their wears. Playful cheers of young children bounced around the tightly packed streets as they played with one another between the legs of their conversing parents. Furnaces could be heard roaring from dawn till dusk as smiths tirelessly prepared armaments. Immense clouds of dark smoke rose up from their fires and over the military training grounds as the shouts of practising troops entered the din.
“On guard!” shouted Vaan, his blade aimed at his sword master’s chest for the fourth time that evening. Uther smiled at his student, his challenge yet again accepted. Vaan lunged forward and swung his dulled practice sword down, intending to bash his target on the head. Uther countered as his own instrument of defence sailed upwards. A loud clash echoed across the field as their blades met.
Vaan pressed down on Uther’s sword, forcing him to take a knee under his weight. A bead of sweat formed on Uther’s temple as he held his position and likewise, Vaan’s arms began to feel the burn as they remained locked in their stalemate. Vaan’s confidence began to slip away, as it had so many times before, aware that he may yet again be bested by his teacher.
A veteran of the Great Civil War, General Uthur Oberova had once been a common soldier who like so many others, had hoped to die a warrior's death, honourably giving his life to serve his liege in combat. But that had all changed when he received a field commission by the late King Ricard for an act of great bravery in the field of battle, promoting him to the rank of a lower officer. It had been a rare honour and Uthur had accepted it with humility unlike many others who had used their talents as leverage to further their careers. It was not a chance event that had led to his current positi
He was about to withdraw when he felt his blade slightly give under him. Vaan grinned, sensing Uther’s struggle against gravity and his own pressing force, pleased that he had an advantage over his aged opponent. While Vaan was young, strong and lean, Uther’s age was beginning to show.
Uther peered up from under their crossed weapons and grinned in response. “Too slow,” he mused, and pushed up from the ground forcing his arms out and their bodies apart. The unexpected rush caught Vaan by surprise and Uther darted back three steps. Determined not to lose this time, Vaan rushed him in a flurry of well-aimed swings.
Uther stepped back and avoided Vaan’s blows with ease. Vaan closed the gap between them and lifted his sword, but realised he had moved forward too far as Uther twisted underneath his arching blow. Vaan moved to follow, but as he pivoted, Uther brought his sword up to meet Vaan’s throat, the tip cold against the bare skin of his neck.
“Foolish,” Uther said as he lowered his arm. “You left yourself open again.”
Vaan threw the blunt sword on the grass and stalked over to the bench-like logs that sat on the side of the field, promptly sitting down to remove the laces of his muddy boots. He was tired of losing.
Despite his success in the occasional conflict, they had always been quickly resolved. Infaria had not been to war since the Sportainiun’s invasion but the vast mountain ranges that divided the lands were infested with rebels and men who had refused to join King Ricard and escaped. Although few in number, they occasionally caused trouble in small towns and cities, and Vaan would be sent to clean up if amnesty was refused. They were not soldiers, and did not put up much of a fight. Vaan's great pleasure to ensure they paid for their crimes, but it was not a challenging duty.
He was a skilled swordsman by the standard of his people, especially for his young age. He glanced at the myriad of practice weapons to his side. He had dedicated more than half of his life to learning a variety of combative tactics, but he had always felt it paled in comparison to the skills of his masters.
Uther had picked up Vaan’s discarded weapon and calmly placed it next to his own on the rack of chipped and beaten steel. “What is it that troubles you, young prince?”
Vaan glanced at Uther. Although several years had passed, the day that news of the King having been slain remained his motivation each time he picked up a blade.
King Ricard had been slain in the war against the Sportainiuns, a powerful race from the west who in a search of treasure and conquest, declared hostilities against the Infarian Empire. Vaan had always been told that the conflict had been savage and brutal, too young at the time to remember more than the final years of negotiations.
“My grandfather was one of the best warriors our people have ever seen, yet he was cut down like a blade of grass. My skill is still far from his. How can I hope to defend our people if I cannot best you, just once, Uther?”
“I was not aware we were at war, Sire.”
“You must understand me, Uther. One day we may be, and I will not be ready.”
It took Uther a moment to respond as he appeared deep in thought. “What do you know of your grandfather’s death?”
Vaan took a breath as he remembered his schooling, Infarian history always woven into his studies. “Numerous legions of Sportainiuns had invaded our land and laid siege to our rebuilding cities. Their crusade had been unstoppable. The war had waged for almost a year until the tides had begun to turn. Infaria had overcome the Sportainiun’s and their vast numbers and they were forced back to their ships. Many had thought victory was near.”
Uther nodded, and seated himself next to Vaan, unlacing his own soiled boots.
“A Sportainiun emissary came to the palace, pleading for an audience with King Ricard to discuss peace. The Sportainiuns had paid him grave insult during their assault, attacking his kingdom unprovoked. Ricard could neither forgive them nor overlook their digressions. Without a doubt, the devoted Infarian army would have won the war if they had continued to fight, but at the cost of many lives. He agreed to negotiate but he was ambushed by the Sportainiuns and overpowered. Father doesn’t willingly speak of it and our history doesn’t describe much more.”
“I see,” replied Uther. “You are angry because of how your grandfather was killed, despite the skills he possessed. If that is what motivates your foul mood, then hear this. We remain a product of blood and war, you and I. We warriors must die in battle, and for all our skill, we will fall eventually. We are not impervious to making mistakes.”
“I will not make the same mistake of walking into a trap and not being able to properly defend myself!” Vaan’s temper flared, determined to see his point made. “King Ricard was no match for his enemy.” He wiggled his bare toes into the grass, the solidity of the earth grounding his anger.
“Your knowledge is incomplete. Do not speak ill of the dead.”
“Incomplete?” Vaan queried. “What do I not know?” Realisation dawned on him. “You were there, weren’t you?”
Uther discarded his ankle-biting boots and replaced them with knee-high ones. He began to lace them through the chainlink eyelets, pulling each crossover tight. “Yes, I was. But not in his negotiation party. I was commanded to stay behind with the main camp.”
Vaan turned to straddle the log and face his teacher, eager for him to continue.
“An emissary did come to the palace seeking peace. But it was days before King Ricard came to a decision. He agreed to negotiate on the condition that he met their leader in a location of his choosing. As one of his generals, I told your grandfather his plan was likely to fail. We argued in private, but he decided to take another general with him instead, leaving me behind. The meeting place had been agreed to, and a few days later, the King had been riding to the agreed location with a hundred of Infaria's finest as his guard to sign a peace treaty and end that needless war. Before he arrived, he and his convoy were ambushed, which you already know of.”
Vaan’s thoughts were buzzing in his skull. He knew Uther had fought in the Sportainium war, but he had not known how close Uther had been to his grandfather, or what his rank had been at the time. Uther also had rarely spoken about his past. Vaan opened his mouth to ask a question, but was stilled by Uther’s raised palm.
“Let me finish, and then you may ask anything of me.”
Vaan nodded and bit his tongue so that Uther would continue.
“For many days, we heard nothing. He sent no messages or envoys back to relate what was happening. A small party of volunteers, including myself, set out in search. What we found however, was the broken body of our King and his general. We did not rest as we carried them back to camp. A healer tended the King’s wounds and numbed his pain, but we had come too late. He told me of the betrayal, and then Ricard Cravinous died.” Uther took a breath as he finished tying his boot laces.
“What of the general?” Vaan asked.
Uther smiled. “He is the reason you should not think your grandfather was flawed. He was also tended to by the healers, and although wounded, was not in danger of death. The general spoke of how the outnumbered Infarian warriors fought valiantly against the mercenaries and the Sportainiun assassins that had paid for their services. Every Infarian that fell took five enemies with him. By the time the last drop of Sportainium blood had been spilt, only King Ricard remained standing, his armour destroyed and his flesh sporting great gashes that freely poured his life away. Near death, the weakened monarch had quickly taken flight toward the Infarian Army's main encampment. He had grown weaker by the hour. He collapsed, and the general guarded his body, unable to move the King due to his own injuries.”
Silence settled between them as Vaan absorbed this new truth. His grandfather’s skill had not failed him. Ricard had decimated his opponents in the end. He had fought valiantly. “They say there were no survivors. If the general wasn't dead or dying, where is he now?”
