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

move, daring herself to believe what she just witnessed. Moments passed, and she felt the muscles in her neck and jaw relax. She eased back into her chair and released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Hallucinating, now that’s a first. Better get your house in order, Doctor, or you’ll be moving into one with padded walls.” When two breaths became twenty, she turned back to the blood-stained letter in front of her.

“Well, Dad, it looks like your letters came in handy after all.”

As if responding to the sound of her voice, the page sprang to life. Hundreds of words winked in and out instantaneously, much too fast for her to register. This time, her shock was short-lived.

“Record,” she said, pressing a finger to her wrist. Her left eye flashed briefly.

Hello.

“Mom was right to leave,” she whispered. “It does run in the family.”

She stared at the word, written in bold crimson, and something flickered from deep in the basement of her mind.

“What is the composition of blood?” She asked. “Water, salts, nothing so generic or mundane. A strain of bacteria or...or a virus, maybe? Something unique that I carry…some genetic marker? No, no, how would a virus interact with...hemoglobin perhaps? An invisible ink with a protein catalyst for hemoglobin?”

She grabbed her glass tablet. “Isaac, show me the chemical structure of hemoglobin?”

The device flashed, and a new picture emerged. She studied the image then shook her head dismissively. “It wouldn’t be iron, Leeland would have run a test on any base element....”

She took a calming breath. The obvious was clear. Genetic disposition, lack of sleep, long hours, stress, bad food, cramped quarters, and lousy wine had formed a potent physiological cocktail. Her worst fear had happened; she had finally lost her fucking mind.

“What is this?” she asked.

Blood red letters swirled in response then settled into place.

Knowledge.

“Madness more likely,” she replied though the scientist she was bid her to accept the impossible. “Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”

Yes, we can hear you, and no, this is not madness.

“Says the talking book.”

The letters faded, swirled, then formed a new line in the same script.

There is much to say. It will take time to explain.

She laughed a hearty laugh, one that would be home at any asylum. “I believe my schedule is clear; it’s not often you get to witness your own mental breakdown.”

Patience, we have waited too long.

“Waited for what?”

Our salvation.

“Excuse me, uh book,” she said. “I can’t help but notice you keep referring to yourself in the plural?

The others. They slumber still; it will take time for them to awaken.

“I see.” She grabbed a notepad and made a quick note. “Got it, there is more than one voice in the talking book—noted.”

We shouldn’t start like this.

“Ignoring the more obvious whys and hows, let’s start with something easy. What exactly are you, outside of the obvious talking book?”

The book paused as if thinking.

We are quin.

“Okay,” she said. “Is that your name? Or the name of your people?”

No, not my name, not a people…

You have no word for it.

It is in all things; it is all things.

She put a finger to her lips. “Quin is mater, atoms, the…”

We live between such things.

She scribbled another note. “Right…”

There is much to say. It will take time to explain.

“Oh, sure. I understand,” she said. “Take your time. I’m just going to sit here quietly and think for a bit.” She pressed her wrist again. “Confirm recording.” A chime rang in the recesses of her mind.

It all began with a promise of iron.

Part One

Chapter One

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

I stood up and gestured for Crylwin to join me, not that I had to; he could have made three guesses to where I was sitting and still had two to spare. He was an hour late, I noted as I looked at the oculus above, but thankfully so was my contact.

“This place is fucking packed,” he said as he took the seat opposite me. He never seemed bothered having his back to the room, Cyllian pride or Cyllian arrogance.

I gestured to the serving girl to bring another round. She acknowledged my request with a smile. “Rohger said some lord is prepping a war raid into Merelands. Retaliation for some attack on the homesteads west of town. A few were killed, survivors are being put up in the Southquarter.”

Crylwin grunted. “Seems like every merc in Belen is here with some of daddy’s copper.”

I smoothed the front of my gray leather jacket then squared my back against the wall. “Not many stars or jackets with them.”

Work for the Imperial Mercantile Guild was pretty straightforward. Stars on your collar made you an officer, you had rules, and you followed a code. Jackets, like me, followed the stars. We would listen, learn, and with a little luck earn a commission of our own one day; we called it making ten. Mercs were different. They followed coin and that typically led to trouble.

“She likes you,” Crylwin said as he tilted his head towards the approaching serving girl. “No accounting for taste.”

“Melly?” I asked as I watched her push through the crowd with our drinks in hand. “I suppose, but it’s a sad sod that tickles the barmaid.”

Crylwin opened his mouth as if to object, then took a drink instead.

“Besides, she’s paid to like me; she works for tips.”

“I think she is after more than just a tip,” he whispered as she arrived tableside.

Melly set our drinks down, a light golden colored ale for myself and a dark lager for Crylwin. She leaned in as she collected the empty glass in front of me, presenting her ample cleavage. “Full crowd today, boys. If I can’t get to you, just come up to the bar.”

“No worries, Melly,” I said. “We’re just passing the time until my contact arrives.”

“So, you made your ten then?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Well, congratulations! Here, I’ll spot you this round; I’m sure Rohger won’t mind.”

“Oh, there’s no need for—”

“Thanks!” Crylwin said, taking his glass to his lips.

“I’ll catch up with