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

I woke suddenly from the dream and my leg grew numb as if it had been drained of all its blood. I put my hand to the wound to stem the bleeding and fell unconscious again.

I was back In the cottage, prone, paralyzed in front of the silver man. Blood fell on me in drops from the cut on his hand. They felt warm upon my skin, the warmth moved through me, I relaxed and felt the urge to shut my eyes, eyes that were open, yet already closed. Shock would take me next, and I would no longer be troubled. I failed. I failed them. I failed her. Somehow, I felt peace at that moment. It was like going to sleep from a long hard journey.

I heard hoofbeats and the sound of shouting outside the cottage, but I did not stir. I was so tired; I would just rest here a moment, only a moment; I was so tired.

“Faerin, for fuck’s sake, get out of there!” a voice called out, waking me from the dream. I opened my eyes and turned towards the sound. It was Ros from high upon his horse charging towards me at full gallop. Why was he charging at me? My head felt heavy; it was hard to focus. He held a long spear in his hand. I looked to my right at the opposite end of the building and saw three Golmere approaching. I let out a laugh, not a loud one, the quiet kind a madman shares with the wind.

I stepped deliriously to my left, my leg held. I stepped again. Pain echoed from the wound, but my leg held. Cold leeched from my sword arm like all the blood was rushing towards the wound. I blinked, but my mind was full of cotton. Two of the Golmere approached, and I heard Ros charging. I shut my eyes and counted my breaths. One, it came easily and calm, like a gentle breeze bending long grass. Two, heavier, heartier, full of salt and ash.

I opened my eyes and steadied, focusing beyond the pain. I moved into Tower stance, Nahdril high above my head with two hands. I swung down in a high arc once, twice, the length of the blade held the charging Golmere at range. As the third strike fell, I changed my angle horizontal and spun towards them. They were not prepared as I cleaved the first Golmere at the waist. He wore a look of surprise as his top half slid away from his body.

The second Golmere backed away. My next stroke took him at the neck and carried halfway through his chest before getting stuck on his breastbone. I pulled on Nahdril to wrench her free, but she did not budge. The third Golmere charged at me, carrying a serrated shortsword coated with layers of old blood. Thinking without thinking, I hooked my foot underneath the spear the dead Golmere held and caught it midair, flipping it in hand just as the third was upon me. He did not see it in time and ran full speed to his own death, impaling himself on his comrade’s spear.

I dropped the weapon and fell to the ground next to the bodies. Ros slowed his horse as he approached.

“Gods on high,” he said, surveying the scene.

The dead surrounded me, and as I looked down, I was more than half covered in blood, my white shirt painted a dark crimson in the shadow of the night.

“You alright, Faerin?” he asked.

I shook my head and nodded at the same time. I grasped at the spear that still impaled the Golmere next to me and used it to climb to my feet again. I placed my wounded leg on the corpse of the other for leverage and tugged on Nahdril’s hilt. Her sharp blade sliced through more bone and eventually broke free.

I took in a shallow breath and found that the burning in my chest had subsided; maybe I didn’t break a rib after all. In either case, I took in another deeper breath. I tasted metal, but I filled my lungs as the first full breath since the battle began.

A horn sounded in the distance, too far off to be from this group.

“That will be the rest of them, then?” Ros said. “A few miles out, maybe less.”

I nodded.

“Right then,” he said as he swung down from his mount. He took a water skin from the saddlebag and pulled free his steel sword from its scabbard. It was a solid, practical weapon with a thick blade and heavy crossguard; it was a soldier’s sword. On the side of the blade, it read Repent in Cyllian.

Ros removed the wooden bit from his horse’s mouth.

“What are you doing?”

He smacked the great beast on the hindquarters; it reared and bolted away. “He doesn’t need to die here.”

Ros handed me the water skin. I took a drink as he bent down and inspected my leg. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

“Well, I’m sure as quin not dying sitting down.”

“No, you fool Ruk, I mean the wound, it’s,” he paused, “wet?”

“No one is more surprised than me,” I said as I took another drink then handed it back to him. The fire still roared behind us, but over the sound of crackling flame, we could hear the chatter of Golmere speech.

“They forming up?” I asked, assuming Ros would have been trained in their language.

“Yeah,” he said. “They’ll be coming for us soon.”

Another smattering of Golmere words rose above the smoke and ash.

“They are arguing. Some are afraid, refusing to attack, wanting to wait for the others.” Ros let out a laugh. “They think you’re a spirit; they say you wield old magic.”

Another wave of words flew out, and I smiled. “There is a dark-eye on a horse; more will come.”

Ros grinned.

I leaned against the wall. “Where are the men?”

“Heading this way, with any luck, they will arrive right in time to see