The Burden of Ash and Blood - 14. Chapter 14

The citizens of Blakenhall continued to prove themselves considerate and friendly, offering directions to the glassworks with a smile. It stood on the western outskirts of town alongside other industrial establishments. Rather than streets lined with buildings, each operation stood alone. With fire and forges central to their craft, the reasoning was clear. A fire sparked here would find difficulty in spreading. The familiar ring of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed in the distance, bringing Mr Kent—Theron—to Sam’s mind. He smiled at the memory of Reabury. Given his current endeavour, he pondered what the villagers would think of him now.

A gust of wind brought the sharp, clean scent of impending snowfall. Graeme and Sam circled the glassworks from afar. Its massive stone‑block walls, not unlike a keep, dominated their view. Empty carts sat near the rear of the building. No workers or guards stood about, but dark smoke from the tall chimneys proved the site was in operation. A wide door, likely used for shipping and receiving, stood open—taunting them to approach.

Unable to resist, they stepped lightly to reach the threshold and peek into the gloomy space. It was a storage area, uninhabited and safe to enter. Sam immediately felt more secure hidden in the shadows. A broad archway beyond revealed the workspace. Men wearing protective attire worked with the molten glass—easily shaping it with practised skill. Their concentration on the task left them blind to Sam and Graeme’s presence.

The storage area yielded little in the way of answers, however. Nothing bore the slightest hint of an illicit operation. They couldn’t even find the tool crates and grain sacks taken from the warehouse. Plumes of heat emanating from a darkened corner enticed Sam to investigate, uncovering a narrow stairwell that descended below ground. A grimy lamp hung from the ceiling at the bottom. He motioned to Graeme, who drew near with a gentle stride, careful to move as silently as possible.

Each step of the stone stairwell was a hefty slab—broad and deep—making for a cumbersome descent. Distant scraping, like shovels in gravel, reflected off the walls. Even with Graeme taking the lead, the plunge into the dark, hot depths filled Sam with gnawing trepidation. Upon reaching the bottom step, they encountered a large chamber with a low ceiling. Four sweaty men, stripped to the waist, were shovelling coal into an enormous furnace. Their bodies cast long shadows on the opposite wall, lit by the roaring fire. Sam had never beheld such a strange design for a forge before. The intense heat rose to the floor above where the glassworkers plied their craft.

At the far side of the room were a series of rough archways leading to shadowed niches. The noise of the shovelling provided them cover to creep past unnoticed, and they slipped into the closest alcove. Inside stood a battered workbench with deteriorating tools, and in the corner sat a heavy metal-braced crate, but it was empty. More detritus lined the walls, kicked aside and forgotten.

Graeme led them into the next niche. Barrels stood in ranks along the walls, their contents covered by rough burlap. Sam peered under the fabric, and his eyes grew wide at what he saw—countless glass phials filled with white powder. Gryphon ash.

He reached out frantically for Graeme to show his find. The knight pulled back another burlap sheet, and the blue glow of his armour revealed even more phials.

“We have our answer,” Graeme whispered.

The furnace’s glow into the room suddenly faltered. Confused by the shift in light, Sam peered at the exit to find a muscular form—one of the coal men—impeding their way with a tightly clenched shovel.

“Hey, who’re you? What are you doing down ’ere?”

Graeme gripped Sam’s arm and ushered him along. “Sorry, we made a wrong turn,” he replied, surprising the man by shoving him aside.

“Hey! Hold on, there. Stop!”

Headed for the exit, Graeme pulled Sam in front, acting as a bulwark against the other three approaching from behind.

“I said stop!” A sharp whistle pealed out as a warning to the workers upstairs. “Hey! We got trouble here.”

Graeme and Sam fell to a run and reached the stairwell, but at the top, three men armed with swords blocked their way. Four hulking silhouettes closed in from the rear, brandishing their filthy shovels. Graeme pulled his sword free—urging Sam to follow suit—and advanced up the narrow, ponderous staircase.

The workmen scrambled forward, forcing Sam to clamber the steps backward with Graeme, their shoulders pressing together. Sam’s blade swung ineffectually in the cramped space, scraping against the stone wall. Sparks flew. Even stabbing proved useless. The reach of the shovels easily kept his shortsword at bay. One man managed to jab Sam’s arm, causing the grip on his hilt to falter, and the sword clattered at his feet. Another savage thrust of the shovel smashed into his chest. Sam cried out in shock, but the maille turned the strike into a dull ache.

The cry drew Graeme’s attention—an opening the three guards exploited to swarm and tackle him. Caught in the tussle, Sam lost his already precarious footing and tumbled forward, arms over his head to protect himself. Grubby hands clawed at him, pulling him down the stairs until they reached the bottom. With arms twisted behind his back and a heavy knee wedged against his neck, he was powerless.

“Sam!” Graeme’s hoarse voice cried out, fuelled by rage. “No!”

Grunts of effort from the guards and the scrape of armour against stone filled the confined stairwell. More voices joined in, barking orders to restrain Graeme, but the knight fought heedlessly. His exclamations had escalated from bitter words to screams of pure, terrifying fury—so fierce that, if he could, he would have ripped these men apart limb by limb. Sam had always known him as reticent, and he couldn’t fathom how such a beast lurked within that armour.

With six guards bearing down on Graeme, their sheer weight forced him into submission. The knight’s breath came ragged, exhausted.

“Sam . . .” he managed to groan.

“I’m here,” Sam blurted.

“What in the hells is going on here?” a woman’s voice cried out from the top of the stairs.

“Madame,” a guard replied. “Two men were found down there.”

“They were snoopin’. They saw stuff,” a worker chimed in.

The woman’s voice was familiar. She had to be Camilla—the one likely in charge.

“Are they the town Watch?” she asked.

“Don’t think so, madame,” a guard replied. “They ain’t wearing the livery. Never seen armour like this, either.”

“Good,” she said, a hint of relief tarnishing her otherwise irritated voice. “Tie them up and stow them down there. Keep your eyes on them. I’ll be there in a minute and question them myself.”

“Yes, madame,” rang out in unison from the men.

The pressure eased on Sam’s neck, only for him to be roughly hauled to his feet. He blinked in a daze, trying to comprehend how their situation had devolved so quickly.

• • •

Lanterns drew long shadows in the disused storage room Sam and Graeme had explored earlier, now brimming with guards. Coarse rope chafed Sam’s wrists. Sat on the floor, he fought against the restraints behind his back, but the effort only served to cinch the knots tighter. The four workmen had returned to their shovelling, renewing the suffocating hot air. Not only was the heat oppressive, but its stillness smothered him like a thick blanket over his face.

Graeme had been forced to his knees at the opposite end, his hands also bound behind his back and braced against the old crate. He’d been stripped of his knife, thrown out of reach on the workbench. The guards had kept his longsword to admire its fine craftsmanship, and were squabbling over who would claim it. All the while, Sam eyed his friend discreetly, unnerved by the knight’s utter submission with his head sagged in defeat.

Camilla appeared in the open doorway. Her outfit—a tunic of woven cloth and matching trousers slipped into tall boots—fit snugly to her body. Long blonde hair, bound into a thick braid, snaked over her shoulder. Before now, Sam wondered how she’d managed to hold command over such gruff men, but the lethal grace she projected spoke for itself.

Glancing back and forth between Sam and Graeme, she approached the knight, placed a hand under the lip of his helmet and tugged it off. The damage on his face, now clear for everyone to see, raised a mocking clamour amongst the men.

“The poor bastard’s fire-kissed,” one guard said.

“He wasn’t kissed, he was ravaged,” another quipped, raising another round of laughs from the group.

“It’s no wonder he wears this,” Camilla said, tossing it on the workbench without a care.

All the while, Graeme hadn’t moved. His head remained hung low, chin resting upon his breastplate. Sam’s heart sank, heavy with sorrow at seeing his friend so undone.

“Alright,” Camilla said, “who are you two?”

Neither Sam nor Graeme answered. She let out a harsh sigh and stormed out of the room, inciting nervous chuckles from the men. By the tone of their voices, they sensed what was about to happen. Camilla returned with a searing iron poker, and for the first time, Graeme reacted—his eyes flicking toward the danger. Sam’s reaction was nowhere near composed, and Camilla took that weakness as a cue to approach.

Graeme’s growling voice filled the room. “If you harm him, I will make this day your deepest regret.”

“No,” she replied dismissively with a sly grin, keeping her gaze locked to Sam. “You don't get to make threats. That's my job. Now, I’ll ask again: who are you?”

Sam stumbled over his words before finally managing, “My name’s Sam.”

“Sam . . . ?” she drawled.

“Sam Harkenstone.”

She used the glowing red iron to point at his friend. “And who’s that?”

“Uh, Ser Graeme.”

“A knight. And you’re his squire. Judging by his accent, he’s not from around here.”

Sam let her words stand, offering no reply.

“Where have you two been lodging?”

When he remained silent, the poker drew near—its heat radiating against his face. Between that and Graeme struggling unsuccessfully, Sam burst out his reply.

“Happy Goat Inn!”

Camilla smirked at how easily he broke. “And tell me, Sam, what were you two doing down here?”

He glanced about, unsure what to say, then decided to stick with the lie he’d told Rafe. “I needed more gryphon ash but couldn’t afford it.”

This brought riotous laughter from the men, and even an incredulous smile from Camilla.

“And what, you thought you could come here and steal it?”

“Just a few,” Sam stammered. “You probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

She rolled her eyes and addressed one of the guards. “Get me some ash.”

The man gave a perplexed look. “Madame?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

After a tense nod, he fled the room, returning a moment later with a handful of glass phials. She plucked one up, popped the stopper, and crouched to Sam’s level.

“You want it?”

Sam shook his head timidly.

“But I thought you needed it.” She spoke in a tone coated with derision, clearly seeing through his feeble deception. “C’mon, open up.”

When Sam refused, a guard moved in and roughly grabbed his cheeks, forcing his mouth open. Graeme erupted into action, trying to stand, but the other guards held him down. Ash was dumped under Sam’s tongue as the knight cried out, his voice splintering beneath the weight of meaty blows to the face. The familiar numbing sensation came rapidly to his jaw and down his neck, and then, like a gentle ocean wave, it washed away the fear and panic.

“It’s okay, Graeme. I’m fine,” Sam said, his voice smooth and steady. “Guys, please don’t hurt him.”

The surety and genuine care of his request actually worked, convincing Graeme and the guards to cease their struggling. Camilla levelled a curious glare at Sam, astounded by the brief authority he had claimed.

“All better then?” she asked.

“I guess so.”

“So now, you’ll tell me the real reason you two were down here.”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t see why I should.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“You’re gonna kill us, aren’t you?”

Camilla’s pursed her lips as she considered his bold claim. “That depends if you tell me the truth.”

“How can you know what’s true or not? I’m not an idiot to think we’re gonna make it out of here alive.”

With his mind unclouded by fear, Sam recognised that she’d made an error in giving him the gryphon ash. Now, he was prepared to die, and he saw no reason to tell her the truth that Duncan had hired them.

“You may not care about your life, but don’t you care about your knight?” she asked.

Those words—your knight—spoken by another carried the weight of confirmation Sam longed for. Despite her assumptions, they still prompted a flurry of emotions. Joy, pride, a deep affection. At that moment, the need to embrace Graeme was near overpowering. Tears pricked his eyes, but he blinked them away.

“Of course I do.”

She turned to regard the knight, anchored by a boot pressed against his breastplate. “And judging by his threats, I think it’s safe to assume he cares dearly for his squire.”

Graeme struggled to push the foot away, but the heavy guard restraining him held the advantage. Camilla snatched the remaining few phials of gryphon ash from the guard’s hands. With a flaunting motion, she popped one stopper in view of Sam and Graeme.

“Do you know what happens when you take too much of this stuff?” she asked Sam.

“I heard it’s deadly. Does it hurt?”

This provoked another round of struggles and grunts from Graeme. A smile, laced with grim satisfaction, grew on Camilla’s lips.

“I can’t say if it hurts because, you’re right, anyone who overindulges dies from it.” She brushed a thumb against Sam’s chin, guiding him to open his mouth. “Want another taste?”

“Stop!” Graeme cried. “I’ll talk. Do what you must to me, but let him go.”

Camilla corked the stopper back into place with a delighted gasp. “Ah, the knight sees reason. Happy day.”

A voice echoed from the outer chamber. “What’s all the racket down here?”

Sam recognised the voice, and within moments, Rafe’s massive form filled the room’s exit. The big man scanned the cramped room, finally settling on Sam. A mix of surprise and disappointment etched his face.

“Mothling . . . ?”