A Circle of Iron (Eldernost: Book 1)

by Greg Benage

  Chapter 9

  Thorn tucked the last of his belongings into the top of his pack. A small iron cook pot, a wooden bowl and spoon, a tin cup. Best to put your cooking gear on top, so you didn’t have to unload the pack every time your stomach rumbled. He tied the flap down, slapped the top of the pack once to make sure all was secure and sat back on his heels. What did it say about a man when everything he owned, everything he had, fit in one small pack battered and scarred by years on the road?

  Nothing good.

  “You’re running, then,” Mara said. Thorn looked over and saw her standing by the stairs down to the taproom.

  Thorn turned back to the pack. He started untying the flap again just to have something to do. “I’m leaving. Guess I’ll do it at a walk, though. You got to pace yourself on the road.”

  “And what about me? What would you suggest I do?”

  Thorn stopped what he was doing and stared down at his hands. “What do you want to do?”

  “I want things to be like they were. I want to spend all day downstairs getting drunk. I want to hunt wights in the wood, when we have to, and then come back and do it all again.”

  “Well, that’s never going to happen. That’s over. I took care of that.”

  Mara laughed. It was a hateful sound. “I knew it! I knew you’d make this all about you.”

  “It ain’t all about me. Just the bad part.”

  “I always wondered—Big Odd must have been half-again your size. How’d you ever force him out there into the ruins? And Blind Tom, I figured that dog of his would have chewed your arm off if you ever tried to push his master around.”

  “You all wanted to leave. I talked you into staying.”

  Mara snorted. “A mark a month and three quints for a bounty talked us into it, same as you.”

  “I led them to their deaths.”

  “You ain’t enough of a leader to lead a drunk to a chamber pot. That’s one of the things I always liked about you. You let everyone have a say, and you actually listen.”

  “You’re right about me not being a leader. Never was any good at it. Too thickheaded, maybe, like my father was. I got their blood on my hands, just the same. It’s never coming off.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “I’ll head up to Anderland, Karnoven maybe. They’re looking for another war. I figure I’ll try my hand at soldiering again.”

  “Guess I can try to find a farmer with half his teeth and go back to plucking chickens.”

  Thorn stood up and hefted his pack. He turned and looked at her. Her copper hair hung in lank strands and her blue eyes were bright. Her face was streaked with stone dust and tears. “The world ain’t fair, Mara,” he said. “I wish you could find a better life than that, but you’re not—”

  “I’m not your responsibility,” Mara finished, and she gave him a cold smile.

  Thorn walked over to the stairs and stopped in front of her. He wanted to reach out and touch her face. He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and bring her with him. But he had enough blood on his hands.

  “That’s right,” he said. “You never were—none of you were. Guess you’re the lucky one figured that out while you’re still breathing.” He moved past her and went down the stairs.

  “I should have stayed with Blind Tom,” she called behind him. “I should have stayed to cover your retreat. I should have died with my friends.”

  Thorn let her words chase him down the stairs into the taproom. Before he could reach the door, Ebertus pushed the bearskin aside and strode towards him. Soldiers filed into the Duck after him. He stopped about ten feet away with his hand on his sword.

  Ebertus looked Thorn up and down, and sneered. “Seize him.”

  Thorn eased out of his pack and let it slide to the floor. He cast his eyes around the room out of habit, even though he knew there was only one way out of the Duck. Ebertus and his squad were standing in front of it. “Seize him for what?”

  “Poaching, extortion, murder,” the soldier said, and then shrugged. “Really, whatever it takes to hang you.”

  “I’m a lot of things, but a murderer ain’t one of them,” said Thorn. It occurred to him that neglecting to mention the other charges perhaps wasn’t the strongest denial.

  “You savagely beat the man called Symus in full view of a dozen or more witnesses. He later succumbed to his injuries. I know—I was at his side when he passed.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” said Thorn. He’d beaten more than one man in his life, and he knew he didn’t beat Symus enough to kill him. “I guess you finished him off so he couldn’t talk about your arrangement.”

  Ebertus laughed. “You stand accused of extortion, and so you attempt to cast the blame on me. Unfortunately, Lord Viorno is already aware that, while in his paid service, you extorted money from the scavs under his protection and authority. Three quints a bounty, was it not?”

  Thorn looked around at the crowd in the taproom. Most of them sat with eyes downcast, no doubt wishing they were somewhere else far away. A few were nodding, though, and Thorn recognized the anger and resentment on their faces. “A bounty ain’t extortion,” he said.

  Ebertus arched his eyebrows. “I disagree. We’ll let the noose decide.” He nodded, and the squad moved forward. They relieved Thorn of his weapons and clapped him in irons. Then, with Ebertus leading the procession, they escorted him roughly out of the Duck and down the street, and they tossed him in a stockade that was little more than a wooden cage.

  Caleb Thorn sat in the filthy straw and watched Ebertus and his soldiers walk away laughing. Thunder rolled across the sky and lightning flashed in the west. The heavens opened up and it began to rain.