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

your hands off me,” I gasped. I intended it to sound like a warning, but it carried all the threat of a boy fighting off the heavy hand of his father.

His stare did not waver, but he eased his forearm off my chest. When his weight was lifted, I bent over and took in several labored breaths. He released my wrist as I coughed and he took one measured step back like you would when releasing a dangerous animal you held caged.

Once I regained my breath, I stood and straightened my jacket. Ros folded his arms across his chest and tossed a quick glance over his shoulder to the men that were gathered. They stood watching the exchange, and only after Ros looked towards them did they return to their drills.

“I am in charge here; this is my command,” he said with a calm but forceful tone. “We are not friends here.”

I nodded my head with deliberate slowness.

“But if you are to be my second, we will need to be able to work together, for their sake, at least.” He looked over his shoulder one more time at the rabble of men and boys. “Those are your people over there, not mine; I have no use for a Ruk playing hero, so if you don’t value your life, I need you to at least value theirs.”

A name I tried to forget bubbled to the service. The name of a boy I failed to protect. I forced it down where it belonged.

Ros let out a short breath. “Just do as I say, have them do as I say, and most of us will make it back alive.”

I spat at the dust-covered ground between us but said nothing. He waited for my response so long that I counted the breaths it took for my breathing to return to normal; the answer was seven, not that it matters.

“An acknowledgment is customary when addressed by a superior officer, First Sword.” He offered his hand. He wore no gloves.

“Understood, Captain,” I replied, taking his hand in mine.

“Call me, Ros,” he said with a smile. “We all have the same mother in the Corps.” He pointed to the three silver stars on his collar. “That makes us brothers, after a fashion. It’s good for the men to see us act brotherly, even if brothers sometimes argue.”

He winked a dark copper eye at me as his smile turned into a wide toothy grin. With an open palm to the men at his back, he gestured me forward. He held pace with me, walking side by side until we were just twenty paces away from the muster field, then he grabbed my shoulder, not forcefully, but politely, almost as if he was suggesting that I stop. I did and turned to face him.

“One more thing, Faerin,” he said with that same smile that seemed as permanent a fixture on his face as the cold copper eyes that stared through me. “If you betray me or these men, I will cut your body into a hundred pieces and burn them all to ashes.”

His smile did not fade.

“Understood,” I said.

With the pleasantries between us adequately observed, there was nothing left but to meet the men.

The 3rd Militia of Forhd consisted of twenty and three men able to stand and fight, Ros and I counted for two of that number. Men was perhaps a loose description of the group that stood before us. At least half the number were boys, the youngest I guessed to be a very tall twelve while the rest were gray-haired and had last fought in their prime when Rukland still called itself Rukland. I counted only three soldiers among them, and by soldiers, I mean mercs that were still within their fighting age. One stood at the front of a line of boys and old men vigorously drilling them in steps of formations of a spear wall.

The man turned to regard us, and I recognized his face, though his name escaped me. It was the guard that worked at Lira’s house, Boron, Boson...The one that I gave Lira’s letter to before I left to Windshear. He shared a hard look with me, grim and severe as if all the light had left the man. His brown leather jerkin was stained in blood, and his red hair was matted with sweat. He must have fought at the Woad. I thought to ask of his brother, Jon, the one that had served with me at Belen Hill, but his absence answered the question as sure as if I had asked it. He gave me a nod, one of recognition, and even before I could say anything to him, he began whispering to the men nearest him.

“This is Faerin Monroe,” Ros said to the men, diverting their attention from their drills, “He is my second, you do as he says, he does as I say, clear?”

“Yes, Captain!” came the reply from twenty and one voices in unison.

Ros nodded with satisfaction, then turned to me. “Faerin, these men are yours.”

They stood at attention. I felt their stares, their questions, their anticipation for words to ignite them. I heard Ada’s words then, how one man can turn a battle. I smiled.

“I am a man of few words, so I’ll be brief,” I said. “An army of Golmere approach, there may be a thousand of them.”

The men murmured, I continued.

“We march to Belen Heights. We go to kill their prime. If we succeed, the horde will scatter, and Belen is saved. If we fail, there will be no one to sing your rites.”

The murmuring grew louder as worried looks took them.

I unsheathed my sword and held it up for all to see. “Our roots run deep,” I said. “Let us hunt.”

It was silent for a moment. Then I heard their voices upon the wind. They were nothing more than whispers at first: Sword of Belen Hill, truesilver, sword singer. Then came the roar of spears on shields; it was ferocious as it