Ash and Steel - Duke of Disaster 2 - Big Bart

 The road north was long, and the trio, now in their mid-thirties, settled into the familiar, comfortable rhythm of a shared journey. Orin had been weaned and he and Ryla were safe at Grimstone Keep under the watchful eyes of King Acrastus and Queen Alana, allowing Anaya, Acreseus, and Gideon to reclaim the freedom of the open trail. After over five years of adventures together, the silences between them were as meaningful as their conversations, a testament to a bond forged in dragon fire and hard-won trust.

But as they traveled, a rumor began to drift on the wind, a warrior's whisper that caught Gideon's attention: talk of a northern man, an Icefang warrior, big as a mountain, with a massive mallet and hair the color of frost. The description was just specific enough to pique Gideon’s interest, sparking a long-dormant hope. He started pushing their pace, his jovial nature edged with a rare, focused determination.

Acreseus and Anaya noticed the change immediately. Gideon offered no explanation, just a vague comment about "following a hunch" or "a debt of honor" that needed settling. Anaya, ever pragmatic, raised a curious eyebrow, but decided to give Gideon his head in this matter, since he seemed so determined. Acreseus, accustomed to the sudden, chaotic detours of Duke Gideon, merely sighed and adjusted his travel plans. They asked no questions; for now, they were simply along for the ride.

A few days later, they arrived at a bustling inn, the Galloping Stallion, for a hot meal and strong ale. Gideon walked in with the focused intent of a hound on a scent, and it didn't take long.

As they were seated and eating, a rough, gravelly voice, loud as an avalanche, cut through the tavern's din.

"Gidi?! By the Northern ice, is that you?!"

Gideon looked up, and his gray eyes lit with pure joy at the sight of a massive, blond-bearded man approaching their table. It was him.

"Burchard?! You fuckin' berserker! I knew it was you! What're you doing this far south?"

The two men met in a thunderous embrace that rattled the nearby tables, clapping each other on the back.

"Lookin' for work," Burchard rumbled, grinning. "But I'll settle for ale!"

"C'mon! I'll introduce you to my friends," Gideon grinned, pulling him over. "Acreseus 'n Steelheart, this is my old war buddy, Burchard! We fought together in the Skirmishes and surfed the White Tide at Riverrun".

Gideon’s booming laugh echoed off the low beams of the Galloping Stallion, but the big man at the hearth didn't immediately join in. Instead, his frost-colored eyes traveled slowly from Gideon’s exuberant face to the two figures standing just behind him.
When his gaze landed on Anaya, it didn't just pass over her. It snagged.
Burchard’s hand, thick-calloused and scarred, went still upon the handle of his massive mallet. He spared her a glance that lasted a heartbeat too long for a stranger—a look that was less about curiosity and more about recognition. His nostrils flared slightly, as if he were catching a scent on a wind that shouldn't be blowing inside a crowded tavern.
It wasn't the way a man looks at a beautiful woman, or even how a soldier assesses a threat. It was the look of a wolf identifying the markings of a rival pack—one he hadn't seen south of the Dragon’s Tooth in a lifetime.
Anaya didn't flinch. She met that icy stare with the same flat, dangerous neutrality she had used to survive the mountains. For a tense second, the air between them grew thin and cold, the rowdy tavern noise fading into the background.
Burchard’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He knew. And by the way her hand drifted, almost imperceptibly, toward the hilt of her dagger, he knew that she knew he knew.
Then, just as quickly as the frost had set in, Burchard grunted and broke the contact, turning his attention back to Gideon.

"I say we invite this mountain of a man to ride with us," Gideon declared, slamming his tankard down. He looked to his companions. "Unless the Crown or the Steelheart have any objections?"
Acreseus offered a small smile and a nod. Anaya remained silent, her gaze fixed on Burchard with an intensity that went unread.
They settled their tab and stepped out into the biting night air. The ride away from the Galloping Stallion was quiet, the only sound the steady rhythm of twelve hooves on the dirt. But when the road opened into a wide, moon-silvered meadow, the horses sensed the shift.
Without a word, Gideon and Burchard pulled up. They dismounted in unison, dropping their reins as they walked toward the center of the frost-nipped grass. Acreseus and Anaya caught the horses, moving them to the tree line as they had done a hundred times before.
In the center of the field, Gideon didn't settle into his usual defensive crouch. He stood tall, his sword arm extended straight and his left hand braced firmly against his hip.
Anaya’s hands tightened on the reins. Her eyes went wide, fixed on the silhouette of Gideon’s frame against the moon.
"C'MON, GIDI! BITE ME WITH THAT BIG FANG A YOURS!" Burchard’s roar shattered the silence of the meadow.
Gideon’s response was a guttural snarl that sounded like it had been bottled up for fifteen years. "You can talk like him all you want! You'll never be him!"
"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"
They collided.
CLANG!!!!!
The sound of the mallet meeting steel was deafening. Acreseus flinched at the sheer violence of the impact, but Anaya stood like a statue. She didn't move. She didn't speak. Her eyes were devouring the space between the two men, tracking every parry, every brutal swing, and every foot-placement in the silvered dirt.
CLANG! SMASH! WOOSH! WHIRL! CLANG! The sound of steel on wood and the ring of Gideon’s broadsword against the mallet’s heavy head rang through the quiet field.

"I've never seen power like that!" Acreseus gasped.

The words died in his throat when he saw Anaya. She was still on her feet, staring at them with a cold, intense gaze, as if seeing ghosts..

"Um... Anaya? Is everything alright?" Acreseus asked, his voice laced with concern.

Anaya shook her head, dismissing the strange feeling. Just coincidences! She slowly relaxed, the tension draining out of her, and watched the rest of the fight in silence. 


That evening, the quartet made camp. The two old soldiers, full of ale and good food, fell into easy reminiscence.

"Gods, it's good to be on the road with you again, Burch," Gideon said, poking the fire. "Almost like the old days".

"Aye," Burchard rumbled. "Though the food's better, and we ain't sleeping in mud".

"Hah! True. You remember the mud at Riverrun?" Gideon laughed. "Gods, we were just idiot kids".

"Aye," Burchard agreed, his gaze distant, staring into the flames. "Just two kids with a sword and a hammer. But we had Bart. Remember the White Tide at Riverrun when they started throwin' fire?"

Gideon's cheerful expression faded, replaced by a look of profound respect and a faint shudder. "Gods, how could I forget? That wasn't Bart, was it? That was pure, unholy fury. It wasn't war; it was an execution."

"Aye," Burchard confirmed, shaking his massive head slowly. "The look in his eyes... a pure berserker. When he saw them Bone Walkers tryin' to burn that stable, the spirit of Shadowmourne was on him. He wasn't defending the town; he was settling an old score. He was tearing them apart for what they'd already done to him."

Gideon nodded, silent for a moment. "Aye! He took revenge that day. He took it for all of us, but mostly... for himself."

A heavy stillness settled over the campsite, broken only by the low soughing of the night wind through the long grass and the rhythmic crackle of the fire. For a heartbeat, the only movement was the spiraling of woodsmoke toward the cold northern stars, as the weight of Bart’s "unholy fury" hung between them like a physical presence.

A deep, gravelly hum started in Burchard's chest as he lost himself in the memory. The tune was wordless, a low, ancient melody full of strange power.

Gideon, who had been about to speak, froze. His gray eyes widened, a slow, massive grin of recognition spreading across his face. His own voice, rough and powerful, immediately picked up the words he knew by heart:

"I know a third, in the thick of battle, / If my need be great, / It will blunt the edges of swords and axes, / Their weapons will make no wounds".

Burchard’s head snapped up. His gaze locked with Gideon’s across the fire, a shared history blazing between them. His gravelly hum erupted into a full-throated roar, joining his old friend in the battle-hymn of their youth:

"I know a ninth, when need I have / To shelter my ship on the flood, / The wind it calms, the waves it smoothes / And puts the sea to sleep".

Acreseus leaned forward, enthralled. Across the fire, the rhythmic, scraping shiiing... shiiing... shiiing of Anaya's whetstone stopped. The sudden silence was deafening. It struck her like a physical blow, a lightning bolt from a clear sky. She was frozen, her hand gripping the dagger, her head bowed.

The two warriors, lost in the memory, didn't notice. Their voices grew stronger, belting it out at the tops of their lungs, a chant they had sung before a hundred battles:

"The Wise one has spoken the words in the hall, / Joy to him who understood. / I grew and I throve well; / Word from word gave words to me, / Deed from deed gave deeds to me".

Anaya slowly lifted her head. Her face was a pale, rigid mask. She said nothing. Her sharp, hazel-green eyes fixed on the two singing men, a devouring gaze that seemed to strip them bare. The song finished, leaving a heavy, nostalgic silence in its wake.

"When I brethr'n lead to battle, I chant behind my shield! / Unwounded they go! Unwounded return! / Unscath'd wherever they are!"

"Hah!" Gideon finally said, wiping a tear of nostalgic joy from his eye. "Gods... I miss him. Big Bart beat that song into our heads. Said it was a 'song of power'".

"Aye," Burchard agreed, his smile fading. "Big Bart..."

Gideon's own expression sobered. "I tried to find him, after... well, after everything. But he was just... gone. You ain't seen 'm, have ya?" 

Burchard’s nostalgic expression vanished. He took a long, slow breath and stared into the fire. "Aye... I saw 'm".

"Well, where is he?! What's that old devil dog up to?" 

Burchard looked up, and the deep sadness in his eyes made Gideon's smile falter. "He's dead, Gidi." The words dropped into the camp like stones.

"Dead?" Gideon’s voice was a shocked whisper. "How? A bar fight? A frost-wyrm? He... he was too tough to..." 

"No." Burchard's voice was low, flat. "Dead by his own hand. About 15 years back. I tracked him all the way to his home, Gidi. He buried his dead, then hanged himself from a tree. I burned his body myself."

Gideon’s face was a mask of dawning, horrified understanding. He finally saw the raw grief of his captain.

"Wh-which village? Where was he from, Burch?!" Gideon then said desperately, the sudden need for a name and a place overwhelming him. 

Burchard looked up, his gaze fixed sadly on the stunned man he knew as a soldier. He said somberly. "It was just... ash and stone, Gidi. A place that didn't exist on a map no more. There's no one left to remember its name."

"Its name," a voice quiet but ringing with a final, chilling certainty, cut into the two men's conversation, "was Briar Rose."

All three men turned to Anaya. She was still sitting, her knuckles white on the hilt of her dagger. Her face, in the firelight, was as pale and hard as marble.

Anaya turned her gaze to Burchard. "You called him 'Bone Breaker.' You said the spirit of Shadowmourne was on him," she continued, her voice hardening as the truth sprung from her. "He wasn't fighting the Bone Walkers because he was a soldier. His 'blood rage' at Riverrun was revenge... for the home they destroyed".

Anaya finally lifted her head, and her eyes, blazing with a cold, terrible light, locked onto them. "That song you sang," she said, her voice flat. "Wasn't a soldier's hymn. It was a folk song... from my village."

The campfire, as if reacting to the terrible truth, gave a violent crack, sending a shower of bright sparks spiraling up toward the silent stars. Gideon and Burchard just stared, dumbfounded.

"Bartholomew was my friend," Anaya stated, her voice vibrating with a lifetime of pain. "He taught me to fight when I was 13 years old. He used to sing that song to himself while he worked. It was his last connection to his home".

"Gods," Gideon whispered, dashing at the tears on his cheeks, his face a mask of dawning, horrified understanding.

"You ask why he would end himself when the war was over?" Anaya continued, her voice cold and heavy with a truth only she could carry. "Because his revenge was finished. The Bone Walkers were gone." She looked at her two friends, her eyes filled with the ancient, terrible knowledge of a survivor. "And he thought... he was the only one left".

Poor Gideon lowered his head and sobbed without shame. The final, absolute truth—the link between his captain's grave and his queen's trauma—hitting him harder than any physical blow. He felt a powerful hand land on his shoulder: Burchard. The big northman squeezed, his grip a solid, grounding weight in the swirling chaos of Gideon's emotions.

"He... he carried it alone," Burchard rumbled.

Burchard sat in silence, absorbing the raw weight of Anaya's words as she claimed the history of Briar Rose. With a heavy, rattling sigh, he reached into the worn leather pouch at his belt. His massive, scarred fingers moved with surprising gentleness as he pulled out a small object and held it in the palm of his hand, letting the firelight catch the detail.

It was a small stone bird, carved in the defiant, sharp-winged shape of a kestrel.

"I found this on 'im," Burchard rumbled, his voice thick with a decade and a half of held breath. "It was the only thing in his pockets that wasn't steel or stone. I kept it for fifteen years, Gidi... figurin' it was the last scrap of his soul I could keep from the dirt."

He leaned across the space between them, his gaze fixed sadly on Anaya. The flickering orange light made the stone bird look almost alive. "But I was wrong. It wasn't mine to keep. I think he meant for you to have it."

Anaya didn't move for a long heartbeat, her eyes fixed on the carving as if it were a ghost made solid. Then, slowly, she reached out. Her fingers trembled—a rare fracture in her iron composure—as they brushed against Burchard's calloused palm to take the stone.

She pulled it close to her chest, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the last piece of the man who had taught her how to survive. Across the fire, Gideon watched them both, his face a mask of dawning, horrified understanding.

Burchard stared into the flickering amber light, his massive frame suddenly looking small against the encroaching dark. "The wars got a way of following you," he rumbled, his voice dropping into that hollow, gravelly tone. "During the day, with the hammer in my hand, I can outrun 'em. But when the fire burns low and the stars come out... the quiet gets kinda loud. It’s like a bell that won't stop ringin'."

Acreseus watched his wife, a statue carved from ice and memory. He rose silently and sat down close to her on the log, simply reaching out and gently placing his hand over her clenched fists, his fingers wrapping around hers.

They remained that way for a long time, the cheerful campfire now seeming to illuminate a grave.


The trio returned to Grimstone Keep, the familiar grey towers a stark contrast to the heavy silence that had followed them from the Galloping Stallion. Gideon dismounted Thunderhoof and, bypassing the warmth of the Great Hall where his niece and nephew were likely playing, retreated to the quiet solitude of the guest chambers in the western wing.

He dropped his heavy travel pack onto the stone floor with a weary thud and knelt beside it. Reaching deep into a side pocket, he pulled out the stout, painted badger he had carried for nearly twenty years—a piece of home and history that rarely saw the light of day. He sat back against the bedframe, turning the stone over in his hands. It was now a devastating relic of a tragedy he had been blind to, making him think of Bart’s lonely flight from the ghosts of Briar Rose . He imagined the man he had once called captain ending his own watch in the hollow silence of a dead village.

Tears, hot and unwelcome, traced paths down his cheeks. Bart... you were stronger than anyone I ever knew... How could you let the shadows win?. His throat tightened with a grief that felt as heavy as iron .

"Gideon?" Anaya’s voice from the arched doorway was soft. A moment later, she stepped into the room, her sharp hazel eyes taking in the scene in an instant: his slumped shoulders and the raw grief on his face.

She didn’t ask what was wrong. She already knew.

Anaya walked closer and looked down at the carving in his hand, her touch light as she ran a finger over the painted stone . She paused, her gaze fixed on the badger’s defiant face. "When did he give you this?".

Gideon took a ragged breath. "After the White Tide battle. When we finally broke camp and went our own ways".

They both stared at the carving, the stone object linking their fractured memories of the same man.

"He ran then, too," Anaya finally said, her voice quiet but firm, drawing the connection between Bart’s past departure and his final act. "The shadows he was running from... can't be fought with a sword. They don't care how strong your arms are".

She looked out toward the training yard below. "That kind of wound is a cold that gets into your bones. Some days, you can build a fire big enough to keep it at bay. But it's always there, waiting for your fire to burn low, for you to get tired of running".

Gideon finally broke, turning his tear-streaked face to her. "I shoulda seen it, Steelheart! I was with him for months, every single day, right up until the end. He was grievin' his entire home, and I was just a fool jokin' about honey cakes! I was supposed to be his friend. I shoulda done somethin'!".

Anaya’s eyes flared with a fierce, protective heat. She grasped his face in both hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You were a sixteen-year-old boy, a child soldier! Your soul bears no responsibility for Bartholomew's choice!".

Her raw command cut through his guilt. She released his face, her gaze softer now. "The only reason I survived those shadows is because I found a new fire to build. I found Acreseus... and you. Bartholomew... was always alone with his ghosts".

Anaya placed a gentle hand on his broad, shaking shoulder. He had run out of firewood for his soul. One of the two ghosts from Briar Rose was gone now, leaving her once again the sole keeper of its memory.

Fin