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

echoed amongst the buildings that lined the square, it was not the sound of twenty and one men, it was the sound of two hundred.

“Fine speech back there for a man of few words,” Ros said when we were alone and loading the final saddle bag for Steven.

I shrugged. “Sometimes…less is more.”

His gaze shifted down to where Nahdril hung at my waist. “Well, if that didn’t rouse them, there isn’t much that could,” he offered. “I was half stiff the moment you pulled that blade free. And here I thought you were strapped with nothing but silverware.”

He managed a short laugh. Another time, another story, we might have been friendly towards each other. But no display of bravado or pretty words would change what we both were. He was as much an enemy to me and my home as the Golmere beyond the walls; he just had a better tailor.

“When you are finished here, assemble the men at North Gate. I need to deliver our dispatches and requisition orders to the sigil master before he locks the building down completely,” he explained as his horse plodded softly behind him. “I’ll meet you there at third hour.”

“Ros!” I called out, realizing I had neglected something crucial.

He turned towards me.

“Can you do me a favor, a personal one?” I regretted the words almost as soon as I said them, but few options were left to me at this point.

He stood facing me but gave no indication of a yes or a no, clearly waiting on the depth of the favor before he agreed to anything.

“I have some ledgers and writs to submit to the Hou...Sigil House, they are important, and I wouldn’t want to risk them to a courier, since you are meeting with the sigil master, I wondered if…’

“If I would carry them on your behalf, sidestepping the normal protocols for approval?”

I shrugged nonchalantly then added, “And a letter, to be delivered only upon…well…”

“Oh, of course not. I often spend my time running letters for the locals. Keeps me humble, you see, and affords me the opportunity to brush up on town gossip and the ups and downs of the local hay trade.”

He reached his hand out. I handed him the folio containing the writ of ownership for the winery, then tore a page out of my writ book.

“Gods, you haven’t even written it?”

I smiled apologetically. “You wouldn’t happen to have any ink, would you?”

Chapter Forty and Six

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

The men assembled at North Gate without delay. Each of the men wore a smattering of wool jackets with the occasional leather jerkin mixed in. Each carried a circular wooden shield paired with a long spear; some spears were taller than those that carried them. It was not an impressive force, but what it lacked in appearance, it made up for in good old fashioned Rukish determination. There wasn’t a frightened face among them.

They stood in two rows of ten with shields held easily to the side. Borton marched on the left, fulfilling the role of Sergeant if this were a true and proper Gara. Considering he was responsible for their drill training, I didn’t deprive him of the honor.

He called for shields, and spears amidst a clatter of wood and stamping of feet. A hearty wall of wooden men formed, buoyed along its length with spear points held steady at waist and chest level. He gave a second call and the reserve line, made up of the younger boys mostly, stepped forward in two quick steps before landing their own spears at the pivot point where the shields met.

Borton turned towards me, beaming with fatherly pride as he gave the Imperial salute, one closed first across his leather-wrapped chest. I took the whole display as a good sign; the man sought to impress, even if there was no dignitary watching. It was as if stars and a commendation awaited him upon his return. In truth, I was impressed.

“The men are ready, Captain,” I said to Ros as he approached the gate mounted.

“Standard wages apply at one noble per day, one noble per ear, and a full crown for any loss of limb or debilitating injury. An iron star will be redeemable by writ documented beneficiaries in the event of death. The punishment for desertion, insubordination, mutiny, cowardice, or looting shall be death by sword. Any weaponry claimed will be split by all noncommissioned men at one for three,” Ros read from a tightly wrapped scroll, indicating a third of the value to be split amongst the men while the officers would divide two thirds. Considering there were only two of us, it was an even split between Ros and myself, an unusually generous payout.

He turned his horse around then called out to the men with a wide grin, “Company pool stands at one noble each, payout to the man that kills the prime. Where do we stand, Mr. Borton?”

“Ten and four nobles, Captain,” Borton said without the bother of counting the purse at his waist.

Ros nodded, reached into his purse, then flipped a silver noble towards Borton, who caught it deftly with one hand. “Add this to the kitty then.”

I went for my purse, which I remember was flush with iron. I rooted around for an appropriate coin.

“Looking for silver in a bed full of copper, First Sword?” Ros chided.

“Somewhat the opposite,” I said, finding a golden crown to be my lowest valued coin. I tossed it to Borton.

“Well, men,” Ros said, “it seems our second has the first round when we return.” He brought his horse around to the back of the line. “Lead on, Sword Faerin. And double quick if you please, Mr. Borton, let’s have these boys home for tomorrow’s supper.”

“Hawoop!” the troops responded as they began their march behind me; their soft boots and flimsy sandals didn’t create the intended drumming on the cobblestone road that an Imperial cohort might, but it got the blood flowing.

We spoke little as we journeyed north then