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

He nodded eagerly.

“Can you hold this and give it to the man when you go behind those doors?” I placed an iron star in his open palm and closed his fingers around it. I wasn’t sure that he comprehended the value of what he held in his tiny hand, but I knew she did.

“Wow,” he said. “I’ve never seen a black one before. Mommy sometimes gives me a copper bit to get bread at the corner.”

His mother pulled his shoulder hard, moving him behind her legs protectively. “What do you think—”

I grabbed her arm and held it at her side as gently as I could. I lifted the sleeve that concealed her mark. Lines that should be deep dark were dull and faded. There was fear in her eyes. She expected cruelty, but she did not try to break free her arm. She knew what fate awaited her as did I.

For them, there was no day after today. What awful future accompanied the dawn they would each face alone. The youngest would be sent to processing and reeducation, a fate I knew too well. The oldest could hope to be picked up as a foster or apprentice, but there wasn’t a long line of Ruks eager to take on another mouth to feed. He would likely end up on the streets, merely delaying his trip south another few cycles until his mark faded. The mother would see the worst fate, one of servitude in gratification. Then once her body was used up, she would be discarded and finally allowed to die.

In for a penny, in for a crown, I mused.

I let my hand slide down her arm while my other returned to my purse. Her hand was stiff and untrusting. It took a moment for her fingers to relax enough to accept the gift concealed in my palm. I released her then. She didn’t look down. She held my gaze as she clutched the coin so tightly, her knuckles were a bright white.

She looked down at her boys then back to me. There was a different quality to her eyes. They were something hollow, something dead. “I can join you in the lounge in a few hours. I just need to find someone to take my boys for—”

I smiled and shook my head. Her mouth twitched as if to say something more, but I placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke, “I will be watching the ranks for you, soldier.” I tousled his brown hair playfully. “Work hard, and mind your mother.”

He smiled up at me, still clutching the iron coin tightly.

I straightened my jacket, adjusted my collar dramatically, then headed towards the door. I covered six steps when she called out, “I’ll have… your name, sir.”

I turned. “My name is Ruk.”

Chapter Six

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

I exited the assessor’s court with the kind of sober second-guessing that follows a night of heavy drinking. It was not lost on me that gifting away such a sum was ill-advised. I was back down to six stars now despite the generosity of the governor. There was little for me to do now but exit the House as I had numerous times before—without a sword at my hip.

I sighed.

My ada would have done the same. Hells, he would have done more. He likely would have offered to take them in until they could stand on their own, just as he did with me. Lira would have emptied her entire purse with a promise for more to come. I had done the right thing. I just needed to remind myself of that until I began to believe it.

I spotted a patrol of jacks headed my way with a line of wretches in tow. They marched three abreast as they always did, each armed with a tall steel sword and an unpleasant disposition. They wore saber jackets too, made from thick layers of leather. Some jackets were studded, while others held links of metals discretely between their folds. They completed the look with a long black coat patched with the Blood Star of Cyllia.

I gave them plenty of room.

The Blood Star was not unique to the sigil guard. High ranking officers, political officials, and those within the aristocracy frequently wore the star as ornamentation or jewelry to declare their status within the Empire. For those who wore the red star on their arm and iron on their hip, it signified their prowess in combat as well as their racial purity, doing well to separate them from the ordinary rank and file of the Imperial Army.

I was aware that the clothes I borrowed from the Monroes when posing as a retainer for Ellington looked suspiciously similar to that of a sigil guard. What a Cyllian jack would be doing under the elder Monroe’s employ, or what they were doing with one of their uniforms, I had no idea, but I don’t ask those kinds of questions.

I heard a loud crack, and reflex stole my gaze to the left. A Rukish man lay upon the ground. His hair was wet and matted to the back of his skull, where a wound was pooling steadily beneath him. His leg bent and spasmed awkwardly. After a moment, he kept quite still. The others bound to him did their best to look away.

The guard that delivered the blow bent low beside the prone figure. He pressed his cudgel into the man’s back. No movement. He turned the man over, removed his glove, and held his bare fingers below the man’s nose. After a moment, he shook his head and replaced his glove.

His two comrades stepped forward. One pulled a long knife from his belt and cut the dead man free. The other grabbed the man by the wrist and ankle and dragged him off to the side, leaving a trail of blood behind. The first guard stood, retook the cord in his hands, and continued down the Broad Way. The wretches