The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown)

by Tony Healey

  THE BLOODY NORTH

  The Fallen Crown: Book 1

  Tony Healey

  Copyright, Tony Healey

  The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown: Book 1)

  Copyright Tony Healey 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form without the express permission of the author.

  Edited by Laurie Laliberte

  http://laurielaliberte.blogspot.com

  for Lesley: my reason

  Contents

  Part I The Notorious Mr. Black

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Part II Three Years Later

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Part III The Bloody North

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Notes & Acknowledgments

  About Tony Healey

  "It is in our capacity as men to change, to bend like corn in the wind . . ."

  Part I

  The Notorious Mr. Black

  One

  The house burned, even in the rain.

  Rowan ran hard, feet slipping in the mud, blood thundering in his ears. Moments before, he'd been back at the village, sinking one more pint with Tarl before he braved the weather and headed home. Sara had a rabbit stew on the make, and dumplings too. Now he raced toward the column of black smoke towering up from behind the trees, dinner the least of his troubles, hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. Hadn't been for a long while.

  Shit.

  He crashed through the woodland surrounding the farm, heedless of the noise. Rowan's heart jackhammered in his chest as he burst from the treeline to see the house roaring with fire, smoke everywhere, the farm covered with men. He could see they were fighting men, soldiers wearing the cloth of the Royal Regiment.

  Rowan counted them. Nine in total, including the big lump perched on a horse, overseeing the others as they stalked about in the rain. He was the only one not decked out in a uniform, the only one wearing armour over regular clothing. A shining metal breastplate, leg guards and gauntlets. The rain dripped from the edges of his wide-brimmed hat. Even from a distance, Rowan could see the man had only one eye. He'd nearly lost an eye himself once, and still bore the long scar down the side of his face to prove it. A lasting memento of his only confrontation with the infamous Butcher of Clement.

  The man on the horse was a mercenary – Rowan knew the type – though the man was not anyone Rowan recognized from the past. And none of what he saw gave him any clue why soldiers of the Royal Regiment would be on his land, wreaking havoc.

  Rowan looked for the children but saw no sign of them. Nor Sara. That was when he heard their screams. Above the percussion of the rain, above the shouts of the soldiers who'd invaded his home and set it to burn.

  The terrified voices of his children, crying for help. He swallowed, wishing he had his sword, wishing he'd not left his family to drink beer with Tarl.

  They're in there, locked in . . .

  He cast about for something – anything – to use as a weapon and found a decent-sized branch. He picked up the wet, gnarled wood and hefted it in his hands.

  It would have to do. Nine men, including the big lump on the horse. Nine. Who knew how long his children had been in the house as it burned around them? How long did they have left before they roasted alive? As he'd done back in the day, he prioritized.

  Children first. Then find Sara.

  Rowan's boots squelched in the mud as he ran from the woods toward the house, the branch at the ready, his eyes fixed on the flames, on the smoke billowing into the dark, stormy sky. He bore down on the soldier closest to him. The man barely had time to look up before Rowan wrapped the branch around his head with a clunk. He fell to the side and Rowan didn't stop to see him go over.

  The mercenary on the horse saw the man fall. He pointed and yelled something that Rowan couldn't hear. Rowan set upon two soldiers who stood together. They turned to face him, drawing their weapons. Before the one on the left had freed his sword from its hilt, Rowan stabbed the end of the branch into the man's mouth. The one on the right tried to grab Rowan, but he shook free, and elbowed the attacker in the face. As he staggered back, stunned, Rowan followed up with a heavy swing of the branch. Up and over, as if splitting firewood with an axe. The soldier crumpled to the ground.

  The rain made it hard to see. Something knocked into Rowan, sent him reeling. He struggled to regain his balance, arms out to keep him steady. Fists railed into his head, his side, his gut. Wherever they could get to. Rowan barely had time to swipe at the hits before they connected. He swung the branch out, felt it thump against someone and shook his head to clear the rain from his eyes. Rowan moved, stumbled closer to the house, the sound of his children's screams in his ears.

  I'm coming.

  Four soldiers encircled him. He ran a hand over his face as he turned, dripping wet, hardly able to see and trying to focus. The moment stretched out for an eternity, waiting for one of them to make a move, to start it back up. All the while, he could hear Rilen and Mae in there, screaming at the tops of their lungs. His pulse thumped in his veins, a steady beat to which everything played out. The ticking of a clock . . . his once idyllic, peaceful life on the farm broken in seconds. Ripped away from him. He looked at the burning house and his rage broke free.

  Rowan grabbed the man nearest him, butted him in the face, grabbed hold of his shirt. He swung the soldier to the left, so the man collided with another next to him.

  Rowan turned. A sword slashed down from overhead, the tip of the blade barely missing him as he ducked away from it. The soldier brought his sword back around, swung it at Rowan's midsection. Rowan sprang out of the way, dodging the blade as it threatened to spill his guts. He backed off, the branch held at the ready.

  Their screams. Their little voices diminishing, becoming weaker and weaker . . . and now he could make out words. They whimpered from inside. "Daddy . . . help . . . help us . . ."

  Rowan could hear their terror, their desperation, their panic. The soldier came at him again, and Rowan blocked a hit with the length of wood. It spun out of his hand with the next hit. His attacker was merciless, pressing him farther back until he slipped, fell in the wet cold mud. All he could do was wait, with his arm raised over his head, for the sword to split him in two.

  But it didn't.

  The soldier held him there at sword point as the mercenary drew near on his horse. "Got 'im, Quayle."

  "Good." The mercenary towered over him from way up there. Now Rowan had a decent look at the man. The wide-brimmed hat hid red hair going grey at the temples. His one good eye was pale green and shone from a weather-beaten face, cracked and scored from travel. He had a scar up the side of his nose, the left nostril split. Several more old cuts and scars dotted around his face.

  Quayle regarded Rowan for a moment as the rain beat down. "This the farmer?"

  The soldier holding the sword shrugged. "Dunno. Must be."

  Quayle glanced about. "Where's the woman at?"

  "In the barn," the soldier answered. He gave a twisted smile as his eyes met Rowan's and held for a sickening moment. "Having a roll in the hay with the lads."

  Rowan sprang up, teeth bared, took the soldier by s
urprise, yanked him down on top of him. The man scrambled to get up but Rowan clung on, kicking, punching, whacking at any part of him he could get to. They rolled around in the mud till Rowan wound up on top, his hands closed tight around the man's neck. He squeezed with all he had. The soldier's hands reached up to pull at his face. Rowan bit down on one of his fingers – his teeth ground through the flesh to the bone; the taste of the soldier's salty, hot blood burst into in his mouth. The man would have screamed had Rowan not been choking the life out of him.

  A sudden hot, searing pain erupted the full-length of Rowan's back. He fell to the side and looked up, gasping. Quayle had his sword out, fresh blood on the blade washing away with the rain. The mercenary looked down at the soldier, slowly getting to his knees coughing and spluttering, face bright purple. "Get up."

  The soldier shook a hand at him. "Just a minute . . . let me breathe!"

  "Now, you sack of shit! Get up. We've got work to do."

  The soldier got to his feet, hand at his bruised neck. He turned, planted a kick in Rowan's side, then another. "What about 'im?" he asked Quayle as Rowan tried desperately to draw a breath.

  He'd been sliced up the back and no telling just how bad. From the pain in his side he figured on a few broken ribs, too.

  "Leave 'im. This one's good as dead anyways. Go tell the others they better quit fuckin' the woman, wipe their dicks and get ready to move."

  "Yeah," the soldier said as he walked away, clutching his throat.

  "You got fire in ya," Quayle said from atop his horse, his face grim. "Put up a good fight, too."

  "Fuck yourself," Rowan spat. His energy had left him. Soaked through, bitterly cold. Everything had turned murky, soft around the edges. His heart slowed its frantic rhythm: his breath came shallow.

  "Says the man dyin' in the mud," Quayle said. He pulled on the reins and his horse circled as its rider surveyed the scene. He gave Rowan one last icy look, spurred the animal on with a kick, and was gone.

  * * *

  Rowan coughed on the smoke. Lifted his head to listen but couldn't hear his children's voices. He closed his eyes, shed tears that were indistinguishable from the rain.

  No . . . no . . .

  He forced himself to his feet, swaying left and right. He waved at the thick smoke, the heat of the burning house unbearable, and shoved the front door inward. A wall of flame rushed to meet him. He threw a hand over his eyes, tried to get in, but couldn’t make it past the heat at the threshold.

  Gone.

  He sobbed, stumbled back from the furnace he'd once called home, eyes sore, entire body shaking.

  "Why?" he asked aloud, looking up into the dark heavens as if they would offer any guidance. The rain beat against his upturned face. The sound of horse's hooves thundering away made him turn toward the barn.

  Sara.

  He staggered to the barn, barely able to walk for the pain shooting up his back with every step. The house collapsed behind him as he limped away.

  Rowan went around back. The barn stood with both doors wide open. Hens and ducks ran free around him. Pigs. Goats. All milling about in the wet, let loose by the soldiers. He stood between the open doors, panting for breath.

  Sara lay on her front in the straw, a pool of her own dark blood beneath her. Skirt hitched up, her buttocks on show. One arm bent back the wrong way. As he drew nearer he saw she'd had her throat cut.

  Rowan's knees squelched in the blood-soaked straw as he knelt down and dragged her toward him, pressed her head against his chest. Squeezed her tight as a deep, sorrowful moan rose from his throat.

  Everything. All of it . . . gone.

  He looked up. Water dripped through a hole in the roof, into a bucket Rowan had put there himself earlier that same day. The sun broke through the rain clouds, and a single thin shaft of light made it through. It fell on Sara's inert form, cradled against him.

  A man can run from the past, but he can't run forever. Eventually he tires. That's when it comes rushing up from behind, an old acquaintance you never hoped to meet again. Pain, misery . . . death, Rowan thought. Where did it get me, trying to be a better man? Nowhere. I just had more to lose when the time came.

  He held Sara tight, looked down at her torn clothing, the fresh cuts all over her body. She'd died an unimaginable death. Raped and murdered. Frightened and ultimately, alone.

  The sun faded, the shaft of light receded, and there was only the sound of the dripping roof and the rain outside. He leaned back against a bale, still holding her close, not wanting to let go. The exhaustion, combined with the cut up his back made the darkness come quickly. He closed his eyes, stroking her hair, his body wasted.

  Two

  The rain beats down hard outside the tavern and Rowan has never been more glad for the roaring fire Ceeli has going, or the beer she keeps his tankard filled with. Even for the company of Tarl, mouth running away with him, talking about everything and anything just for the sake of talking. Rowan doesn't mind. He likes it. There were too many years spent in one remote nook of Starkgard or the other, wandering, fighting and all the rest. This is normal. This is good. There'd never been a chance for idle chat.

  Having turned his back on that life, he finds he appreciates the simple stuff. Working the ground with his bare hands, rain or shine, warm or biting cold. The love of a good woman, Sara, and his young children Rilen and Mae. A life of simple requirements and even simpler pleasures.

  He lifts the tankard to his lips, takes a long swallow of the frothy brew. It's not the best he's ever tasted, but Ceeli, the landlady, does a passable job at brewing her own from scratch – so much so, he can't complain.

  "Better get back after this," he tells Tarl.

  "You can't stay for just one more?"

  He shakes his head. "Strict instructions. There's a stew on the make. Dumplings and all," he says, smiling at the thought. Who'd have ever imagined Rowan Black would take such comfort in a woman cooking dinner for him? Of returning to their home, sitting at the table with his family and enjoying a good meal? Certainly not him. Muriel Bonnet would've laughed at such a notion for sure. "More than my life's worth, if I don't get back in time."

  "The stew will keep," Tarl says.

  "Yeah but not the dumplings. Sara does them big as fists," Rowan tells him. "Trouble is, leave them too long, they turn to rocks. And it'll be Sara beating me round the fucking head with them."

  Tarl sniggers into his beer.

  "You laugh . . ." Rowan says.

  He drains his tankard, makes to leave. Tarl catches his arm.

  "Come on. Just one."

  Rowan weighs it up – in the same way he decided the fate of men's lives in the past. He weighs his options the same as when he'd selected weapons to carry into battle. The same as when he'd stood with Muriel Bonnet at the siege of Cabril, facing certain death, the pair of them wondering whether they should forget their contract and just escape while they could. They hadn't in the end. They'd stayed. They'd fought. That wasn't how they'd conducted business.

  The rest – their legacy – was history.

  "All right," he says, sitting back down. He nudges the tankard toward Ceeli and watches as she fills it, the frothy head wobbling as she sets it in front of him. "Just this one."

  * * *

  He cried out, screamed, knew he was hot – burning hot – hotter than the fires of hell. And yet he shivered with the cold. He felt the sweat gushing out of him, hot at first, turning to beads of ice on his skin within seconds.

  Rowan's head thumped to the pounding of an invisible drum. On and on and on. Something cool pressed against his face and for the briefest of moments took everything away.

  He sighed with relief, heard someone say, "Be quiet. Save your strength. You owe it to them. Don't die here. Get through it."

  Then the hot shadows dragged him back . . .

  * * *

  "The notorious Bonnet and Black," Muriel says, laughing by the fireside, her dark face lit on one side by the dancing flames. "Wh
at would people say if they saw us now, eh? Sitting out here on our own, eating the finest chocolates money can buy?"

  Rowan shoves another chunk of dark chocolate into his mouth. "They'd say we're lucky bastards to have it."

  "True enough," Muriel admits, eating another piece herself. "Gotta say I've never been a sweet kind of person–"

  Rowan laughs, loud and sharp. "You're not kidding!"

  "I meant in the food sense, fool," Muriel snaps. "But, it was going to go to waste, weren't it? Why bury it with them?"

  "Glad we didn't."

  Earlier that day they passed a coach turned over in the road, its occupants shot through with arrows. All of the valuables taken. Even the shoes of the dead. But missed by whomever had raided the coach, was a sack of chocolates. Not the everyday kind one could purchase at a reasonable price in any town in Starkgard, but the fancy stuff the nobles paid good money for.

  Rowan had liberated the dead of their fine chocolates, and now the two of them sat around their fire, filling their faces like children.

  Rowan looks at her. With skin dark as hers, she should have been the one called Black. Muriel hailed from the far eastern edge of Starkgard, where it bordered with the Eastern Empire. There, out on the edges of Starkgard, blacks and whites mingle and marry freely – something frowned upon by those closer to central Starkgard, around the capital city of Akercrov. But that was in civilised society.

  Out here, in the wilderness, in the unforbidding lands between towns and cities, the colour of a person's skin matters little. In the Eastern Empire, Bonnet would have been born a slave. It's all relative.

  He thinks of her name again. "You know, for a woman called Muriel Bonnet, you're not as soft as you sound."

  "What makes you say that? I thought we were talking about how sweet I am . . ."

  "You know what I mean," he says.

  "I guess."

  The fire crackles. He looks at her deep brown eyes, the smile on her lips, her smooth, black skin. Not for the first time he finds Muriel Bonnet, his partner in crime, in war, in all manner of unholy matters, incredibly beautiful. "So frustrating . . ." he mutters.