A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

To that end, I was grateful Ada had felt it essential to provide me a Rukish education to supplement my Cyllian one. He trained me in the sword, the spear, and a bit in the Roharan Longbow. As grateful as I was for steady work at the shop, commissions were the real purse. I had scraped together a little more than two gold crowns before I took on my first contract. Monroe helped set it up; a simple caravan run to Gent with a business partner of his by the name of Neil. It was easy work, not a sign or shout of Mere within a hundred miles, not that I expected them. I was there as a sword to be sure, but inner caravans were usually more concerned with banditry than Mere. It was the Circle you watched for out here.

I made myself useful and helped cook and set camp. My real worth was revealed when I repaired the broken axle on the third wagon. The purse was supposed to be one iron star for seven days of work—Neil gave me two.

I neared the end of Heart Street, where it widened into a massive courtyard. This was once the sight of the old keep when Forhd was still a fortress on the western border of Rukland. The House that sat at the center of the courtyard replaced it, one symbol of rule for another. It was a monumental structure, circular, several stories tall, and made of smooth gray stone. The first Sigil House in Forhd was built from the stones of the fortress that preceded it, which was typical of the Empire. But it constructed this monstrosity out of liquid stone last summer in replacement once the foundry in Gent was operational. They say that new seeds sprout new roots, whatever that meant. Only the lower levels of the old fortress remained, those that sat underneath the structure, out of sight and out of mind, just as the Cyllians liked it.

The new Sigil House of Forhd held the distinction of being the largest north of the Burh, and it attracted travelers and their taxes from all across the frontier. It wasn’t that Forhd was especially important, but its location was. Not only was it the last refuge of civilization before the Westmarches, but it was a staging ground and supply depot for every timber and mining guild that frequented those hills. Those were important to the Imperials. It also just happened to sit on the last navigable passage of the river, Woad, that ran east to the Bay of Gent.

Once the Sigil House was complete, Forhd was transformed into a bustling trade hub. Rukland was always known for its wealth of natural resources. That’s what attracted the Imperials in the first place, but trade and progress were never high up on their list of priorities for the Ruk. A bank, market, armorer, magistrate, and prison all in one, the visual testament of Cyllian authority, the Sigil House, or simply the House, was the Empire.

As I approached the stairs leading up to the entrance, I nodded to the two guards. The one standing to the left moved his hand towards the hilt of his sword. This wasn’t uncommon, especially with new recruits up from Cyllia proper. They were force-fed bedtime stories of the dangerous Ruk since infancy. Thankfully the one on the right recognized me even if I had misplaced his name. I held my sheathed sword up submissively, and the two parted to allow me entry.

The door opened inward, swinging on pin hinges of elderwood. I smiled. Strong as stone but much easier to work, elderwood made for many uses. It was most effective in mechanics and machinery like hinges, something liquid stone in all its marvels could not duplicate. At a fraction of the cost of even lead pegs, elderwood hinges were one of the more popular items requested from the shop during the construction of the House. I knew their make well. Many doors in Forhd were closed by the color of my eyes, but more than half opened by the skill of my hands.

Inside the House, it smelled of fire and sweat, of spice and smoked meats, of polished wood and old leather. It felt wet too, musty as if the bathhouse had seen its share of traffic today. I looked towards the left as I entered, towards the row of counters that lined the commissary wing. I was looking for one counter in particular, not a counter exactly, but a face.

She was there, standing three from the left. Her long brown hair was pinned up as usual, which showed off her neck and shoulders. She was working on a leger of some kind but appeared otherwise unengaged. I walked towards her. I was only a few steps away when she looked up from her accounts and greeted me with the warmest of smiles. Her copper eyes sparkled as I approached.

“Faerin!” she said excitedly. “I hoped you would make it in today.”

Chapter Three

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

I met her eyes, and my pulse quickened. I lingered there, lost in the gravity of her copper gaze. I stayed there perhaps a moment too long, and felt my breath catch in my throat. She was otherworldly, beautiful, and hopelessly out of my reach. To be near her was to taste of that world and fight never to leave it.

To say she left me breathless would be trite, but were she a siren, then I was a man longing for the sea, breathless in pursuit, and willing to risk it all for just a few precious seconds within her watery embrace. She was kind and lovely, and all the words men used in failure to describe the woman of their desire—and I desired her most of all. She wasn’t the reason I chased iron, but she would have been enough.

“I almost didn’t make it,” I replied as I stepped up to the polished limestone counter.

She