Bloody Rose

by Nicholas Eames

  “Meaning …” Tam prompted.

  “Meaning she killed them.”

  Tam blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, she didn’t kill them,” he clarified. “But they died because she convinced them to fight at Castia.”

  “Bloody gods, Bran, that’s not the same thing at all!”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But my point is this: Rose is a fine leader and a brilliant fighter—one of the best I’ve seen, no doubt. But there’s a chip on her shoulder. She’s got something to prove—whether it’s to herself, or her father, or the world in general, I don’t know. It can’t have been easy growing up the daughter of Golden Gabe. The man’s got boots even a giant could wriggle its toes in, but that doesn’t stop Rose from trying to fill them. That’s why she takes on contracts that others won’t touch. That’s why she’ll tour the Heartwyld when no one else will. It’s why most bands settle for fighting wrangler trash while Fable risks their lives every time they step onto the arena floor.”

  Tam swallowed a mouthful of swiftly cooling coffee. “You mentioned a point?”

  “So now a Horde is threatening Kaskar—and maybe Agria, too—and Rose is running from it? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Fable has a contract in Diremarch, remember?”

  “Exactly. And according to Freecloud it’s something just as dangerous. Which is why I’m giving you this.” He twisted the metal vial at both ends. It came apart to reveal a thin golden spine with a needle-sharp tip. “Do you know what this is?” She shook her head no. “It’s the quill of a will’o’wisp. We call it ‘The Bard’s Last Refrain.’ If things ever look dire … if Rose and the others get themselves into trouble they can’t get out of … I want you to take this quill and prick yourself with it. Hard.”

  “And then what?” asked Tam.

  “You’ll die. Or at least you’ll seem to have died. The effect lasts for a day or two, and with any luck whatever killed your crew will be long gone. Unless it was cannibals, in which case those bastards’ll clean you to the bone. Here.” He screwed the two halves of the cylinder back together and offered it to Tam. “I pray you’ll never need to use it.”

  Tam wasn’t the praying sort, but she certainly hoped she’d never have to rely on playing dead to save her life. “Thanks,” she said, palming the vial.

  By now the track below was clogged with wagons and warriors trickling west beneath the dull iron sky. Considering how drunk most of them had been just a few hours earlier, Tam was surprised most of them could keep down breakfast, never mind hike uphill in armour. The argosies were headed back to the city, since their bulk would be a hindrance in the terrain between here and Cragmoor.

  “I’d better go kick the boys awake,” Bran said eventually. He and Ironclad were heading west along with everyone else. Her uncle wasn’t overly keen on the idea (he’d been among those who’d liberated Castia, and the memory of Lastleaf’s Horde still gave him nightmares), but his bandmates—the ones he’d hired to stand in when the old band broke up—were determined to go. They’d missed out on the greatest battle in living memory and were eager to earn some songs of their own.

  “I should go, too,” said Tam. And then, because she couldn’t bear the thought of losing two people she loved in as many days, she said, “I’ll see you again, right?”

  He smiled. “Of course you will.”

  Uncle Bran had never been a very good liar (which was probably what made him such a shit gambler), but she appreciated the effort nonetheless.

  Tam was halfway through the camp when she saw Lady Jain bearing down on her. The mercenary smiled and waved as she approached, so Tam responded in kind.

  The thing about waving, though, is that it leaves you woefully unprepared to block a punch.

  Tam doubled over Jain’s clenched fist. Her breath puffed into the chill winter air and then fled as though it feared a beating itself.

  Jain gave the bard a consoling pat on the head, stooping so that she and Tam were face-to-face. “You had that coming, girl. Care to guess why?”

  “Wuhhh,” Tam managed.

  “Wrong,” Jain said. “It ain’t ’cause ya stole my bow yesterday. I’ve got more bows than problems, and I ain’t short o’ problems.”

  You bloody idiot, Tam berated herself. Jain’s bow!? You stole Lady Jain’s bow?

  “No,” the mercenary was saying, “the reason I suckered you is because I’m the best archer in Grandual. ‘The greatest shot in all five courts,’ they call me. It took me years to earn that title, but I did earn it: in the forests of Agria, on the battlefield at Castia, and every day the sweet Summer Lord has granted me since. But it was worth it, see? Because whenever some li’l girl picks up a bow and plays hero, guess who she’s pretendin’ to be?”

  Tam’s voice emerged as a shrill wheeze.

  “Exactly.” Jain planted a thumb on her chest. “Me. But then you went and dropped a fuckin’ cyclops with one arrow! One of my arrows, no less! Which means that one day soon some snot-nosed brat’ll pick up a bow and call herself the Bard, and before long these kids’ll be copping your name from Saltbottom schoolyards to the Cartean steppe. So, no,” she grated, “I didn’t punch you for stealin’ my bow. I punched you for stealin’ my whole goddamned identity!”

  Tam could finally breathe, albeit painfully. She blinked to keep her tears at bay. “I’m just … a bard,” she rasped.

  Jain leaned in close, looking skeptical. The woman’s breath smelled like pipe smoke and southern oranges. “Just a bard, eh? Well I sure as heck hope so, Tam Hashford.”

  “Your bow’s in the argosy,” Tam squeaked. “I can—”

  “Keep it,” Jain said, waving dismissively. “Bard or not, if you’re keeping company with Rose yer gonna need it. Her name’s Duchess, by the way. She was my first bow, a gift from m’daddy, and besides these gorgeous brown eyes o’ mine it was just about the only thing he ever gave me. Now Duchess is a lady, mind you, so you’d best treat her like one. Keep her warm, keep her dry, and don’t string her up unless you mean to use her.” This last remark was punctuated by a lewd smirk. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” said Tam. “Thanks.”

  “You’re most welcome, Tam.” Jain drew a knife from a sheath on her leg and held it a hair’s breadth from the bard’s nose. “Now, gimme that cloak.”

  Tam was shaking by the time she returned to the argosy, and not just because she was freezing. She’d heard men and women gossiping as she navigated the frenzied camp. Tidings had come from the city shortly after dawn, when a breathless rider on a frothing horse galloped into camp and informed anyone who’d listen that Cragmoor, the fortress whose ice-sheathed walls had repelled the horrors of the Wastes for hundreds of years, had fallen.

  Brontide and the Brumal Horde were coming south.

  The news—as she and Bran had witnessed from their hilltop vantage—had riled the camp like a boot to a beehive, and now mercenaries were moving west in a swarm. The plan, as Tam heard it from a man doling cold corn soup from a cast-iron cauldron, was to rally at Coldfire Pass. “We’ll put a stop to ’em there,” said the potbellied cook, as though he planned on leading the defense himself and smiting the giant with his wooden spoon. “Saga once held that pass for three days against a thousand walking dead!”

  The Rebel’s Redoubt hunkered like a rock amidst the camp’s chaotic swirl, and Tam saw several mercenaries cast accusing glares at Fable’s argosy, as if the band’s refusal to fight the Horde was an outright betrayal of humankind.

  Maybe they’re right, Tam thought. After all, wasn’t “fighting monsters” the whole point of being a merc? And now the monsters had been kind enough to gather in one place (having apparently forgotten the drubbing they took at Castia), except Rose was more concerned with finishing their tour and fulfilling a contract than confronting what might be the greatest threat to Grandual since the Reclamation Wars.

  Forget it, she told herself as she climbed the steps at the rear of the argosy. You’re a bard now. You’re h
ere to play the lute—not to ask questions, or to lecture Bloody Rose on what it means to be a mercenary. So keep your mouth shut unless she asks you to sing.

  Tam had just shut the door behind her when she heard a strangled cry and saw, with eyes still adjusting to the wagon’s shadowed interior, a monster lurching toward her.

  Chapter Eight

  The Villain of a Thousand Songs

  Tam barely had time to register a pair of curling horns, the clomp of hooves, and the reek of stale wine before the monster shouted, “Move!” and barrelled past her. It crashed through the door, bowled down the steps, and landed on all fours in the mud below, where it promptly began vomiting.

  A low chuckle drew Tam’s attention. Brune was standing at the Redoubt’s kitchen counter, pouring hot water from a char-black kettle into a bowl of cut oats. “Welcome back,” he said. “Jain was looking for you.”

  “She found me,” Tam told him, then pointed to the thing throwing up outside. “What is that?”

  “That’s a very hungover satyr,” said Cura, who was stretched out on a sofa near the crackling fireplace. She wore a short black shift that left her legs bare, offering Tam a further glimpse of the artwork inked on her skin. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but every piece looked as horrific as the thing she’d summoned off her back in the arena yesterday.

  “A satyr? What’s it doing here?”

  Brune ambled up next to her, blew on a spoonful of steaming oatmeal, and shovelled it into his mouth. “Puking,” he said, unhelpfully, and then called out to the creature below. “I told you not to eat that belt, Rod. Or at least to take the buckle off first.”

  Rod?

  Tam looked from the shaman to the satyr, who she hadn’t recognized without his ridiculous hat and outrageous clothing. Its legs were covered in coarse brown fur, its knees kinked backward like those of a deer. It had cloven hooves in place of feet, and a pair of horns curling from a wild mane of straw-coloured hair.

  “Wait, Roderick’s a—”

  “Friend,” said Freecloud, suddenly appearing at the bard’s other shoulder. His bruises were concealed by a belted blue dressing robe, but the cuts on his face were already healed and fading fast. He flashed her a tight smile, and Tam recalled Bran telling her that druins could see a few seconds into the future. Which meant he would know the word she’d been about to use. “What Roderick is isn’t important,” Freecloud went on. “Not to us. It’s who he is that matters. And despite his numerous shortcomings, he is honest, and loyal, and brave.”

  Tam frowned down at the satyr. “Brave?”

  “In his way,” said the druin. “Would you live among monsters with nothing but a pair of boots and a silly hat to disguise yourself?”

  She sure as hell wouldn’t, but since Freecloud knew that already, Tam didn’t bother saying so.

  “If you think he looks funny naked,” Brune mumbled around a mouthful of porridge, “wait till you see Cura.”

  “Fuck yourself,” said the summoner.

  “Way more hair,” Brune whispered.

  “That’s rich,” Cura drawled, “coming from a guy who spends his nights as a bear.”

  Freecloud laid a hand on Tam’s shoulder. His long ears canted forward in what she took for concern. “You’re shivering.”

  Tam realized her teeth had been chattering and clamped them shut. “Jain took my cloak.”

  The druin laughed quietly at that, as if robbing people at knifepoint was somehow an endearing quality. He studied Tam a moment longer, sizing her up. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, and started toward the front of the argosy.

  The privy door banged open as he was going by. A woman who most definitely wasn’t Rose emerged wearing only bedsheets, and barely even those. She was pale and freckled, with a curve to her hips that Tam might have appreciated more had the woman not let the sheet across her chest slip when she caught sight of the druin.

  “Morning, Cloud.”

  “Morning, Penny.” Freecloud skirted past her without a second glance.

  The girl—Penny—shook her head, red curls bobbing, and cinched up her sheet. “Bear, was that you thumping the door just now?”

  Brune spooned up the last of his oatmeal. “Roderick,” he said.

  “Oh.” Penny’s sour expression made it evident what she thought of the satyr. “Well, you can tell him I’m finished.”

  “Too late,” said Cura, licking the tip of one finger and using it to turn a page of her book.

  Penny crossed into the kitchen and threw her arms around Brune, then kissed him as though she were a dog and his face was an untended birthday cake. Tam shuddered and looked away. When it was over, Penny insisted on giving Tam a hug and a somewhat less vigorous kiss.

  “You must be the new bard,” she said cheerily. “I’m Penny, by the way. I’m an Outlaw.”

  “An outlaw? Really?”

  Penny snickered, and Brune gave the girl a reproving look.

  “There’s some folks who follow us on tour,” he explained. “They call themselves the Outlaw Nation, and they sort of … look after us, you know? They drink with us, cook meals from time to time, repair our weapons and whatnot.”

  Cura looked up from her book. “Penny here can’t cook for shit, but she takes very good care of Brune’s weapon. In fact, she polished it just last night.”

  Before Brune could muster a reply, Freecloud returned with Rose in tow. Fable’s leader spared Penny a wan smile before addressing her shaman. “You know the rules, Brune. No guests in the morning.”

  “Mine left at the crack of dawn!” chirped Cura. “Like a good girl.”

  Penny looked expectantly at Brune, as if imploring him to speak up on her behalf. The poor man glanced to Rose (leaning casually against the wall) and back before offering Penny a cringing shrug.

  “Rules are rules,” he mumbled.

  Penny huffed imperiously and whirled toward the door.

  Brune called after her. “Penny, your clothes!”

  “I’ll get them tonight,” she said, hiking her stolen bedsheets to her knees as she stepped around the retching satyr.

  Freecloud approached Tam bearing a leather longcoat the colour of a late autumn leaf. “Try this on,” he said.

  She took it from him. The leather was rough and worn, marred by scuffs and slashes. Parts of it looked charred by flame or ravaged by something corrosive. It smelled like a forest on fire, and Tam had the sudden sense of having taken something that didn’t belong to her.

  “Go ahead,” the druin urged.

  The others were watching closely. Brune’s expression verged on disbelief, while Cura wore a lopsided grin Tam couldn’t even begin to interpret. Rose was half-smiling as well; the window on the opposite wall threw bands of light across her face, but left her eyes in shadow.

  Tam slipped the coat on. It was a little broad at the shoulders, a bit long at the sleeves, and the bottom nearly skimmed the floor as she turned from side to side, but it fit. It fit pretty damn good, actually, and she found herself wishing that Bran, or Willow, or Tiamax (really anyone who’d known her for longer than two whole days) could see her now, dressed like some warrior-poet in a druin’s war-torn longcoat.

  “That belonged to the Duke of Endland,” said Freecloud.

  Tam regarded him with a look of blank stupefaction she usually reserved for Cornerstone guests who ordered drinks in a foreign language. “You’re not serious,” she said. “Are you serious?”

  The druin’s long ears bobbed in affirmation. “I am,” he said. “Rose and I found it on the battlefield at Castia, along with my sword, Madrigal.”

  The Duke of Endland was the villain of a thousand songs. His real name was Lastleaf, but no two bards could agree on his true identity. Some claimed he was the son of Vespian, who had ruled the Old Dominion before it fell. Others called him Heathen, and asserted that the druin warlord had in fact been one of Grandual’s gods—none other than the Autumn Son himself. The only unassailable truth was that six years ago he’d le
d a host of a monsters out of the Heartwyld Forest and had very nearly wiped the Republic of Castia off the map.

  “Why don’t you wear it?” Tam asked.

  “Because my ears invite condemnation enough,” said Freecloud. “Between Lastleaf’s rebellion and the fact that my kind once kept yours as slaves, people tend to treat us with a certain … hostility.”

  “They’re dicks,” Rose translated.

  “Nevertheless,” said Freecloud, “dressing up as the Duke would be in poor taste, I think. Besides, you saved my life, Tam. Perhaps this coat will save yours one day. The leather is thick, reinforced at the breast and the back. It will soften most blows, and bear the brunt of all but the deepest cuts.”

  “It won’t stop an arrow,” said Cura matter-of-factly.

  “You’re scaring the girl,” Brune grumbled.

  Cura’s grin was predatory. “I like scaring girls.”

  Rose pushed herself off the wall. “We should go,” she said. “We’re due in Woodford two days from now, and we’ll be fighting traffic every mile east. Where’s our driver?”

  The sound of stamping hooves drew their attention. Roderick was swaying in the doorway, smacking his lips and scratching his furry arse. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he slurred.

  Freecloud’s ears dipped in concern. “You good to drive, old boy?”

  “Of course! I just need …” He stumbled into the kitchen and began opening cupboards. “A spoon of honey, a mug of orange juice, and a bottle of white wine, preferably Agrian. Wait, is it morning still? Better make it rum.”

  Tam cleared her throat, pointedly not looking below the satyr’s waist. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.

  Roderick, who’d been bending over the icebox, turned bleary, bloodshot eyes upon her. “What? Oh, right. Has anyone seen my hat?”

  By afternoon they were on the road east of Ardburg. The Rebel’s Redoubt was trailed by the self-proclaimed Outlaw Nation: a small army of followers on foot and horseback, as well as a convoy of smaller wagons bearing everything from casks of ale and crates of food, to cast-iron ovens and a portable forge, in case Fable needed a loaf of bread or some dents hammered out of their armour.