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

“There’s a good lad, are you hungry?”

The boy didn’t respond.

The commander put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, then pointed across the square. “You see that man there, the one with the funny hat?”

The boy followed his gaze but said nothing.

“Can you give him this for me?” he asked, handing the boy a sealed letter. “It’s important now. Can I count on you?”

The boy took the letter in his hand.

“Good lad, now see that he gets that right away then report to the mess.”

The boy turned the letter over in his hand and nodded ever so slightly as he headed towards the sigil master.

“Will he be alright?” I asked the commander.

“Some things you can’t unsee,” he said. “But we will straighten him out. Not the first boy that became a man on the battlefield and won’t be the last by the time this war is done.”

“So, is it war then?” I asked. “Against the Seveli?”

“Not sure what else to call it. No sight of them since the ambush, but we got word last night that the Redwatch garrison was attacked. I wouldn’t call that a coincidence.”

He turned back to the bag of bloody ears. “I would be lying if I said I expected you to succeed.”

I scoffed. “I risked everything to kill an enemy that didn’t need to be killed.”

The commander shrugged. “You weren’t wrong. So he wasn’t the siren of a larger army. He still would have been a thorn in our side. You did well, son.”

I shook my head. “I led those men to their deaths, for nothing more than a bag of ears and a handful of broken spears.”

The commander put his hands on his hips and looked out on the square. “We always leave something behind, son. It’s what we bring back that’s important.” He pointed to Borton. “That man would have been a captain on his own right had he been born with different colored eyes. He left a militia sergeant and came back an officer.” He pointed to the boy. “The boy will mend in time, and he’ll go on with a different appreciation of life. That will make for a fine officer someday, gods willing, and we will need as many of them as we can get.”

He turned to me. “So, what about you? What have you brought me other than a bag full of ears?” He held his hand out, revealing Ros’s silver stars. I stared at them in his hand. They were bright, shimmering, but all I could see was the faint specks of blood that still marked them. “What do you say, Captain? Are you going to help me win this war?”

I stood motionless, numb. When my faculties returned, I placed my hand on the commander’s shoulder, turned, and walked away.

I tied Steven to the street lamp outside the shop; he avoided the battle; he could wait until tomorrow to be stabled. I was so tired I could barely keep my feet moving. I crashed through the door, kicked off my boots, and stomped upstairs. I felt heavy and weary in ways I had never felt before. I stripped out of my blood-stained clothes and climbed into bed. Sleep took me; I had no dreams.

I woke in a sweat hours later, lights were all around me. I held my hand to my eyes and saw they were lanterns, carried by six Imperial jacks. They surrounded my bed.

“Lordson Faerin Monroe,” the lead jack recited from a rolled scroll. “By order of Lord Governor Nerris Tan, you are placed under arrest for crimes against the Cyllian Empire.”

Chapter Fifty and Two

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

This was not my first time sitting at an interrogation table.

“What is the strength of the Seveli forces in Belen?” the inquisitor asked as he sat across from me. He was dressed plainly and in accordance with other inquisitors I had the misfortune of meeting. He wore a gray cotton shirt that buttoned clear to his collar with a trim waistcoat, also gray. He wore a hat to mark his office, triangular in shape, and on the side of it were two gold stars, signifying his rank as a colonel in the Imperial Officer Corps.

He was a pleasant-looking fellow, as they tended to be, charming even in his questioning. The process was relatively straight forward; I would be asked questions, politely at first, and my willingness to cooperate judged and weighed accordingly during my upcoming trial. If I provided the answers they sought, it was a simple as that. If I did not, there were less pleasant people that would ask the same questions in less pleasant ways.

I shook my head at him.

“I told you I do not know anything about them. I was in Alerhold at the time of the ambush.”

The inquisitor, who made a point to have me call him Vis, reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. His full name was Colonel Vistenelli Orothor the II, and I expected he had me call him Vis as much for efficiency sake as it was some tactic to tease out my cooperation.

Vis opened the leather pouch on the table and revealed a half dozen thinly rolled brown cigars and a box of phosphorus matches. He selected one with long, careful fingers and ran it under the tip of his nose. He breathed in deeply, then placed the cigar in his mouth before striking the match. A thin line of smoke lifted, then a plume of grayish-blue erupted as he exhaled.

“Do you know what I love about this country, Faerin?”

I shook my head.

“It’s the people. There is a pride here, a pride in your craft. These, for example, come from a man that has devoted his entire life to perfecting his craft. So deliberate, so focused.”

He exhaled. “Tomse, where did you say you got these, again?”

“Alerhold,” said a voice in the corner, hidden among the shadows.

“Ah, that’s right. What a coincidence.” He pushed the cigars towards me. “Would