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

blindly followed, but a power, a substance, a well upon which to draw. I looked back at all I knew and began to question. I considered Belen Hill, how the cave emptied of air. Did I, could I? I considered the dream and seeing Nahdril’s face dead and frozen on the table. I considered my death and rebirth, sparked into life by the quin of another.

I was no philosopher. But on the nature of quin, I could say this. It was not a god or gods to be worshipped. It was not a being of benevolence or malevolence. It simply was of all things as I was of all things. I could taste it around me like moisture in the air. I could hear it upon the wind. I could feel it in the soil as I buried my friend. And I could see it now as Ada once did.

I laid my hand on Nahdril. I had questions, a thousand questions, and more. But I would be patient. Patient as she regained her strength, a strength she used to save my life.

It was near midday when we saw Forhd on the horizon. Thin wisps of grey smoke grew in columns above the town. It was not the black smoke of war or fire, but the simple smoke of hearth fires and bakeries, the smoke that came with the sounds of hammers on forges and the bubbling of hearty stew in thick clay pots. It was the kind of smoke that said Forhd still stood.

As we approached the walls, we were greeted by a squad of Imperial regulars. Perhaps it was the bundle of Golmere weaponry we carried, or the bag of bloody ears, or the blood that stained our clothing, but they asked us no questions as they opened the gate.

We found the commander and Larren beneath the tent outside the House. We dismounted, and I stepped forward to where he was seated and placed the bloody burlap sack on his table. He looked at me, not bothering to look at the bag.

“So it’s done?” he asked, not taking his cool copper eyes off me.

I nodded.

He looked at the boy and Borton. “Three of you?”

I placed Ros’s silver stars on the table next to the bag. The commander nodded as he scooped them into his hand. “And this Golmere army of yours?”

“Sunemere,” I said. “Over a thousand strong. Last seen heading west across the Heights.”

The commander shared a look with Larren, who noted his ledger. “Their intentions?”

“Undetermined, Commander. They just took the body of the prime and left, presumedly to chase down the Golmere that fled.”

The commander laughed. “Well, let’s pray they keep moving west. We have enough problems as it is.” He looked at the bag of bloody ears and the bundle of shafts and weaponry. “It seems you men did well for yourselves. Able work, gentlemen, I shall look forward to your full report.”

“Commander,” I said, stepping next to the table. “Borton led his men into battle and held ground against an overwhelming force. As the ranking officer, I request he receives a formal commendation.”

“It have something to do with that?” The commander pointed at the sword at Borton’s waist, a clear violation of Cyllian law.

“That blade belonged to Captain Ros, yes?” Larren asked.

Borton nodded.

“Hand it over, then. The captain was an officer of the Corps. You do not have the right….”

I clenched my jaw. “The blade stays with Borton.”

“I’m afraid it cannot,” Larren continued. “Imperial code, article seven clearly states the disbursement of fallen—”

“Fuck your articles, and fuck you. This man just saved your ass.” I leaned on the table, pressing my face into his. “The sword stays.”

“Faerin, it’s fine,” Borton said. “There are plenty of spoils here. It doesn’t matter if—”

“It matters to me,” I said. “And it would have mattered to him. Ros had no family, no children to claim. His family was the Corps. This is what he would have wanted.”

Larren wore a calm smile, apologetic in look and ill-fated in execution. “You presume to know the intentions of a man you didn’t know. Did he write this intention down? Bequeath it to you on his final breath? Regardless of your sentiment, I’m afraid it simply can’t be. Mr. Borton is not an officer; he carries no writ of ownership and simply cannot…”

“You’re welcome to take it from him if you like, Cyllian.” I drew Nahdril. “My hands are already red, what’s a little more paint?”

The commander stood and walked calmly towards me. Instinctively I looked at the sword sheathed at his waist. He stepped in front of me and placed a hand on my sword arm, firmly, delicately, then put his other hand on my shoulder. He pulled the copper stars from my collar one by one then turned to Borton.

“See that the necessary paperwork is submitted within the hour, Larren. First Sword Borton will need his writ updated to reflect his rank.” He extended his hand to Borton, offering him the stars from my collar. “If he accepts.”

Larren shook his head. “But sir, protocol requires…”

“I seem to recall that a battlefield commission under a flag of war warrants immediate admission into the Corps, or am I mistaken?”

Larren stiffened. “No, sir, you are not. I will begin the paperwork right away. If you come with me, Sword Borton, there are some particulars I will need from you.”

Borton looked to the stars in the commander’s hand, then looked to me. “I, uh...not sure really what to say.”

“Farming is overrated,” I said with a smile.

Borton nodded as he took the stars from the commander and followed Larren towards the House.

“And what of you, lad?” the commander said to the boy. “Is it stars for you as well?”

The boy didn’t seem to register the question; his eyes were somewhere far away.

“He doesn’t say much, Commander. I’m afraid I don’t even know his name.”

The commander knelt down in front of the boy. He waved his hand over his eyes then snapped his fingers. The boy looked at