by Tony Healey
He smiled at the thought. "A nice dream, that. But it's all it is," his smile steadily faded. "A dream."
Larch accepted this, didn't say anything further on the matter. "Like I said, I'm proud to have had you by my side these years," he told Rowan before he returned to the clearing where the others chatted among themselves in low voices. Leaving Rowan to smoke his pipe, look up at the stark black branches against the pure white sky. Alone with his thoughts.
Winter coming, and with it the first of many snows. Starkgard was a rough country, made all the worse covered in feet of snow and ice. But if he had to go on alone, he would do. There were no second chances, no wiping of the slate.
Quayle stole his life.
Soon as he caught up with him, he would take his.
* * *
"Don't suppose I'll be seeing you again, Rowan Black," Larch said as he got his gear together to lead his crew down to the valley.
"You take care of yourself," Rowan said, offering his hand.
They shook. "I will," Larch said.
"See you around, mate," Fin said as he walked past.
"And you."
The others trampsed past him, each offering their good-byes. Drury, Raul Bigfist, Cleaver, Softly Jenkins, Fin Burrowes. All of them, one by one.
They no doubt think I'm a fool not to go with them. But only Larch understands why it's not an option for me. I don't give a shit about the war, never did. Just hoped to find Quayle and his men, was all. I'm not quitting on anything. Handing myself over to the other side.
"Keep yer pecker up," Raul Bigfist called back at him.
They plodded off through the trees, what remained of Larch's crew. What had started as a small outfit when they first recruited Rowan steadily grew to a small army of nearly a hundred men. Again, reduced to a small handful.
Everything had come full circle.
Larch did not look back. None of them did. It wasn't the way they did things. He'd come to know that. No looking back. The only one who had was Rowan.
Off in the trees the horses whinnied.
"Yeah, I know how you feel," Rowan said.
Six
The old man was a relative giant, scarred in every way possible, muscular in the way Northerners tended to be. His rough skin tanned by the summer, weathered by the winter until it resembled cracked leather. Larch looked every bit the wisened leader Lieutenant Vrand and Captain Lint had heard talk of. Of all the Royalist groups operating throughout Starkgard, it was Larch's name that always rose to the top. His, and that of the man he supposedly kept in his employ. A former mercenary of some renown called Rowan Black.
They had hunted high and low for years to find Larch and his men. And here he was, strolling into their encampment at the valley bottom, his crew of odds and ends in tow.
Well, as they say, sometimes Lady Luck just comes calling.
"Mister West is it?" Captain Lint asked.
The old man grunted, hands on his belt. "Yeah I'm West. You Lint?"
"Yes I am. Pleasure to meet you," Lint offered his hand and West accepted. "This is Lieutenant Vrand. I'm afraid you will have to leave your weapons here for the moment."
West nodded, face set hard as stone. He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Fin. "Keep it safe for me."
"What about us?" Cleaver asked.
"You can stay here while we parley," Lieutenant Vrand told Larch's men – they looked less a mob now that he saw them, and more a rabble. "Don't go walking about, you hear? Stay right here until everything's ironed out. My men will be standing by, in case you need anything."
Meaning: my men will be standing close by in case you try anything.
"Hold steady boys," Larch growled, giving Vrand a shot of the mean eye.
The Captain led them over to a tent. "Shall we?" Larch ducked in behind him, followed by Vrand.
"Did you walk down here? No rides?" Lint asked.
"That's right. Just us, as you see," West said. He lifted a bottle of liquor off a small stand in the tent, swirled it in its bottle and took a sniff. "Brandy, eh?"
"Care for a glass?" Lint asked him, setting out three short tin cups.
"After we've resolved our business," West said in a stern voice.
Vrand watched Captain Lint sit down. "Of course. Let us sit and talk as civilized men. Perhaps when we have 'resolved our business,' as you say, we can have that drink."
West eyed him warily. "Yeah."
It was plain to see that Larch West didn't trust them, and they didn't trust him. That could have been considered the first agreement of their meeting.
"I think we should keep this short and sweet, Mister West. I am offering you people a second chance. You surrender, without a fuss, relinquish your weapons and I will ensure that you all have a new life. One where you and your men can make something of yourselves in our new nation," Lint said.
"And no crown to lead the way . . ." West said with visible distaste.
Lint shrugged. "Times have changed. It'd be better for you if you changed with them. This is a new age. One not governed by a single monarch, but by a government of the people, voted into power by the people. A stronger, more stable nation. And Wagstaff is the perfect man to lead it."
"No offense, but you just keep telling yourself that sonny. From what I've seen, nothing much has changed. Just a tyrant politician in power instead of a tyrant King. What's the fucking difference?"
Vrand blew air from his mouth.
West looked up at him. "Something to say, boy?"
"I'd rather work for a tyrant than a treacherous bastard like you," the Lieutenant scowled.
"Vrand . . ." Lint said, getting to his feet. Larch sprang up, hands at his sides, ready.
"Treachery, eh? What about the one-eyed bastard used to ride about murdering, raping, pillaging, burning? Word was he fell in with you lot, got himself a series of promotions to boot. Is that right? Some fella named Quayle. You telling me that psychopath was doing it for the good of the people?"
"Mister West, I think we should get back on track," Lint said. He motioned for West to resume his seat. He did so, but not without eyeballing Vrand. "Lieutenant, stand down."
Vrand stepped back, resumed his composure, hands clasped behind his back.
"So what's the thinking here anyway, eh? All of a sudden you call a truce, get me to come down here with the boys so we can hand ourselves in, and for what? A second chance at things?" West asked, his eyes searching. "Why go to all this trouble? Why not just hunt us down?"
"Because we believe you can be of assistance." Lint's eyes flicked to where Vrand stood and back again. "I saw the man called Black is not with your group."
"No he is not," Larch said, frowning.
"Where is he, Mister West?"
"Away," he said. "Gone."
"Really? Do you know where he might've got to?" Vrand asked calmly from the other side of the tent.
Larch West shrugged. "Blown away like a fart on the wind, far as I know. Can't help you on that score. He left my crew a while back. Don't know what happened to him."
Captain Lint looked down at his hands. "Pity."
West frowned, sat forward to speak and just caught the glimmer of Vrand's steels as they headed for him. He managed to rock forward enough that he tumbled out onto the floor from where, only a second before, he had been sitting. The steels plunged through the air, sending the Lieutenant after them. He fell clumsily over the chair West had been sitting on.
The old man got to his feet and dashed through the entrance of the tent.
"Vrand! Get him!" Lint barked. "Can't you do anything right?"
Larch thundered out of there. "Boys! Run!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.
Everything descended into chaos. His men pulled their weapons, spread out to fight the Breakers in the camp. Fin threw West his sword belt. He pulled his blade free from the scabbard, turned at the sound of feet behind him.
A hot, searing pain struck his stomach like a bolt of lightning. Larch looked dow
n, saw the short knife in Captain Lint's hand. Buried to the hilt.
"Why?" West asked, mystified, and sank to his knees on the grass.
Lint took a step back, the knife in his hand dripping with Larch's blood. Hot blood from the cold, cold north. "You know."
Seven
Larch West fell to his knees and stayed that way, clutching his gut. From up on the ridge Rowan watched as Lint stood aside so that Vrand could finish the job.
Rowan pulled his sword free, took in the whole scene, his steel at the ready, heart thudding in his chest, down his arms and into his hands.
The older man – a Captain or a Colonel by the look of him – gave the one decked out in two steels the nod. Rowan knew what that meant all too well.
Larch looked up at his attacker as the man held both swords at the ready, positioned them either side of West's neck and in a quick scissor movement decapitated him.
Rowan was already moving, no thought to the way he got down there. Not considering for even a moment the chances of getting out of the valley in one piece. He skidded down the incline, his blood boiling in his veins.
His feet crunched through the undergrowth, through the twigs and bracken. He shoved past thin branches, felt them whip at his face and paid the bite of their scratches no attention. Before Rowan knew it, he was skidding in the mud at the bottom of the slope. He let loose a war cry, a furious roar that startled the enemy soldiers closest to him.
Rowan thrust his sword through the nearest soldier's throat. The wound ejected a fine spray of red into the air. It splattered Rowan's face like warm rain. He looked for the next target, a soldier weighing his blade in his hand. Waiting for Rowan to come in close. Judging the right moment to press in and attack.
He beckoned Rowan forward. Rowan thought it only fair he oblige and do as the man had requested. He skirted in close, not allowing his opponent time to ready his shield. Rowan swung left and right, the sword clopping a great chunk of the man's skull clean off with one hit, cutting a gash along his jaw with another.
The soldier's eyes turned over white as he toppled backwards, brains spilling out of the cavity like yolk from an egg.
Men fought hand-to-hand all around him, between the assorted tents, grunting with effort, crying out in pain. Falling over and rolling about in the mud, kicking, punching, biting one another. Whatever it took. But they were outnumbered by Breaker soldiers. He saw Ballentyne cut down by an axe, his whole front opened up like a tight bag of haggis, innards gushing forth.
A soldier jabbed at Cleaver, forcing him back. Cleaver swung his sword, and the soldier stepped around it, ducked and stabbed him in the ribs. Cleaver's face was white with shock as the soldier pulled the knife free, jammed it up under Cleaver's chin and into his head.
Rowan ran toward him, eyes narrowed, breath steaming in and out of his nose. The man saw him coming, left the knife in Cleaver's skull and lifted his sword. Their bright blades crashed together. Metal rang out against metal. They parted. Rowan kicked out, caught the top of the man's knee. His opponent buckled to the left, made to swing his sword, snarling, his lips peeled back from his gums.
Rowan pivoted, steel outstretched as he spun about, cutting the man's sternum clean open. His guts bloated out of the opening. He perched on one knee as if he were sacrificing himself for the good of the cause.
A man roared to his right. Rowan turned to see Raul Bigfist fighting one of the Breakers with an axe. Through brute force alone, he got one of the soldier's swords out of his hand, knocked it to the ground, and as the Breaker stooped down to retrieve it, Bigfist brought the axe down and cracked the man's head wide open.
A man in Lieutenant's garb coordinated the Breakers' efforts to fight the rabble they'd invited into their camp. The pests they'd hoped to have slaughtered by now. Rowan knew him from over the years, more from talk than anything else. He hadn't been able to see him so well up on the ridge, but now he was down in the midst of it, he knew who the man was.
Lieutenant Vrand stood with his steels out, one in each hand, yelling at his men to bring order to the chaos. Rowan heard him shout, "Get the Captain to safety!"
Rowan's keen eyes scanned the battlefield. He spotted their leader. A scrawny streak of piss, his uniform adorned with the appropriate flourishes of a Captain. The one who'd stabbed Larch West in the stomach. The Captain ran to the other side of the camp flanked by a guard on either side while Lieutenant Vrand battled what remained of Larch West's Royalists.
Rowan eyed West's body, face down on the ground. "Little bastard," he growled as he looked back to the retreating Captain.
He gave chase, closing the distance in seconds, muscles burning as he pumped his arms and legs. Before either of the guards had time to turn face him, Rowan skewered the one on the right all the way through. The man gasped, absently reached for where the end of Rowan's sword poked through the front of his chest, then Rowan pulled his weapon free. The metal squealed against raw bone on its way out.
The guard on the left lashed out with his shield. The edge of it caught Rowan just right, sent him tumbling off to the side, knocked off balance.
"Run sir!" the guard yelled at the Captain when he saw Rowan regain his footing – for the moment at least. "Get out of here!"
Rowan dove toward the guard as the Captain ran, got to within a foot, tight and ready. Close as could be, their eyes locked on each other as they wrestled with their swords pressed together, spit flying from their mouths with the strain.
They drew nose to nose. Rowan threw his head back and let his opponent have a healthy butt in the face for his trouble. He felt his forehead crush the bridge of his opponent's nose. The man staggered away, hands up to his face, everything else going on around him forgotten for the moment.
With a deft stroke of his sword he hacked into the guard's arm, left it hanging by a few threads of sinew. The man let loose a blood-curdling scream, his eyes wildly expectant for the next blow about to cut his life short . . . but Rowan was already on his way after the Captain. Sometimes it's fashionable merely to maim.
The runt looking man peered back over his shoulder as he ran, nose high in the air as he tried to keep ahead of his would-be killer. It brought Rowan joy to see his prey so scared as he gained ground, enough so the startled Captain looked back again, panicked this time, lost his footing, and fell flat on his face. Rowan hooked him by the back of his collar, dragged him away to a line of trees. Out of sight.
He pressed the Captain against the trunk of a bare elm. "Wha–!" he tried to cry but Rowan drove a fist into his gut that took away any ability to make further loud gestures.
Rowan stood back, panting. "Dirty thing you just did there," he growled. "Larch West was a good man. The best. You butchered him like a pig."
"I . . . am acting on . . . orders from the . . . High Protector himself!" the Captain gasped, bent forward, hands on his knees. He peered up. "Are you going to . . . kill me?"
Rowan shrugged. "I think you should pay for what you've been a party to here, but I've not decided on the price yet. I'll let you know when I do. It might be beyond your means to pay . . . in which case, I'll have to start cutting."
The Captain swallowed. "What do you want with me? Revenge?"
"Knowledge. You tell me what I need to know, and I might just let you live," Rowan lied. There was no way the Captain would ever make it out of the trees. But since when did he owe such a ruthless killer anything remotely like truth and honesty?
We kill. We lie. We cheat. We steal. We break every rule in the book. It's all the same. Once you've crossed the line, it's crossed for good. We don't deserve anything. It was the same when I was partners with Bonnet, and it's the same now. War, peace . . . it's all the same. Truth and honesty rarely have a place in anything we do.
Out there in the valley Royalists clashed with Breakers, the air heavy with the sound of battle. Men fighting one another, weapons clashing against shields, chopping into flesh and bone. Horses stamping their feet. Smoke streamed up from one of
the tents, set aflame during the fighting.
"Was it you who offered the chance at making a deal?" Rowan asked, hearing the din of the battle and blocking it out for now.
"I had it put forth to all villages and towns in the area that if Larch and his boys were to appear, that's what they were to tell them. They'd be offered amnesty and a chance at a new life if they handed themselves in," the Captain said. "Word of mouth, you could say. It worked, too. Soon came calling, didn't he?"
"Sure. You lured them in like rats to cheese. Who ordered Larch and the others killed then, eh?"
The Captain swallowed. "Wagstaff. But I interpreted the High Protector's orders to cease all Royalist operations in Starkgard, acting on them in my own way."
Rowan's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You, huh? You sure? I wouldn't want you to take all the blame yourself, now . . ."
"No," the Captain said, shaking his head. "No, it was all my decision to lie to him, to draw him in."
"Right."
The Captain's eyes became hard, mean, his face fixed in a nasty scowl. "I don't want any more Royalist traitors in my camp. Feeding you. Clothing you. Helping you along. To hell with the lot of you. Traitors! Insurgents! You should be in a ditch somewhere, rotting like the scum you are! You really thought we would offer you a second chance? Should've got with the winning team in the beginning."
Rowan swiped the Captain with the back of his hand. The man's jaws clanged together from the hit. "Shut your mouth. Next question. What do you know about a rogue calls himself Quayle. Said to run with a dozen or so others."
"I've heard of him. He sided with us during the war," the Captain said. "Quayle was put in charge of his own unit, by who I do not know."
"Where is he?"
"North, last I heard. Town of Greyside at the foot of the mountains," the Captain said. "He's out though. No longer works for either side."
Rowan had heard of Greyside before. There weren't many passes through the mountains, but Greyside had been established next to at least one of them, and as such, continued to prosper. Men were always coming and going from the mountains, though few ever ventured further. After all, the territory beyond the mountains was called 'The White Waste' for a reason . . .
