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

“Thank you for your candor,” I said. “Keep to the walls and spread the word. We may not be out of the thick of this yet.”

I juggled the pieces of information in my head as I headed towards the House. Why was there a second force coming if the raid failed to hold the ground at the Woad? Why did the raid flee north and not west back across the Ellish and into the mountains?

I considered what I knew of the Golmere and considered what I saw that night in Windshear. I saw well-armed Golmere that marched with tactics and discipline, Golmere that attacked with a purpose. And their leader was not some simple warlord; he was a weaver if I ever saw one, something as rare as it was dangerous. Then there were the eyes. Clarity slowly washed over me.

It was the prime, the pale bastard that killed Jaeron. The second force was not a second force, but the rest of his troops. He was alive, and the battle at the Woad was only a test, a ploy to get us to show our hand so he could determine our strength. But why flee north and not back across the Ellish?

I shook my head at the obvious. They might have acted like they were after the granary south of the river, but there was more than one in the area. The largest was on the road to Windshear, but that was too far inland to make a real target. The other sat on Belen Heights near the ruins of old Tol’ Rukar. The more I thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. The Heights had a natural cliff that faced east, while the western edge backed up to the Marches. The only way up was through a series of switchbacks; even a handful of bowman could hold the high ground and make that ascent costly for any invader, at least that’s what the Ruk did when the Empire came for their final stronghold.

The granary had a small force protecting it, but nothing that could stand up to that many Golmere.

I gasped.

This was no raid to secure food for the winter; this was something more. If they secured the granary, they would have enough provisions to make a permanent foothold in Belen. With the terrain and the ruins of Tol Rukar as their base, two hundred Golmere would stand like two thousand; quin knows how strong they would be when that second force joins them, the frontier would burn in their wake.

I thought of Lira and knew what I had to do. I pressed my heels into Steven’s side.

Chapter Forty and Four

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

A thin white awning was set up just outside the landing of the Sigil House. An older man sat there, pouring over several maps. A younger man dressed in an officer’s grays stood over his shoulder, pointing at various locations while a third man took notes on a ledger with a long feathered quill. I dismounted from Steven as I neared and observed the rest of the square.

The House itself was closed, its doors blocked by a pair of jacks with stern faces. The House was basically a fortress, and its walls of liquid stone were several feet thick in places. If the worst happened and the walls of Forhd fell, this place would lockdown until a force could come to relieve them. Hundreds of crates lined outside the doors. Provisions, no doubt, should a siege take place. Little did they know Forhd was not the target—yet.

Twenty or more men laid out on blankets and cots in the shade on the east side where a tall canvas tent stretched the length from the building wall to the end of Heart Street. Men dressed in blood-stained whites ministered to their wounds while another dozen men sat around a large cooking pot; they wore the telltale signs of battle even if quin had spared their lives. Another handful stood in a makeshift training range. Old men and boys drilled with spear and shield, and although they looked the part, it was hardly an encouraging sign.

If this is what remained of the militia, it was an uninspiring lot. Augmented with the few Imperials that remained, we were roughly sixty strong. That would be enough to hold these walls against a stiff breeze, and not much else.

I walked Steven to the commander’s tent and was approached by the scribe, his long quill in hand. “Muster station is over there,” the Cyllian said curtly, pointing to the training grounds behind.

“Thank you,” I replied as I handed him the reins. “See that he is rubbed down and fed. We have ridden all night; he’ll need to recover his strength quickly.”

The scribe gave me a look of indignation, one that quickly turned hostile. “Look here, you rustic, I am not your stable hand.”

“Larren, take the boy’s horse for Sereventus’s sake and have it fed,” the older man called from his seated position. He wore three gold stars on the collar of a long grey coat. Those stars marked him as the commander.

The scribe turned to him in protest.

“The boy’s wearing stars,” the commander continued as he lifted his head away from the maps. “Not many of those left, let alone horses.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, brushing past Larren.

“You’re a little late for the battle,” he said. “But I won’t refuse a sword; where have you served?”

I paused. “I am not commissioned as of yet, Commander. I just recently earned my stars.”

He leaned back into his chair. “I see, first sword is it then? Come up through the Imperial Mercantile Guild?”

I nodded. “That’s right, sir.”

“And a lord no less,” he said, noticing the lord stone on Nahdril’s pommel. “What is a half-Ruk lordling doing in my camp?”

“This is my home, sir,” I stated. “And I bring warning that a large force of Golmere is approaching.”

The commander nodded, but he did not appear surprised at the news. “My scouts reported