The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown)

by Tony Healey

  "Greyside," Rowan said, mostly to himself. "It'll take me all winter to get there. Quite a ride. Quite a journey."

  But one worth taking.

  The Captain didn't say anything.

  "What about his men? Quayle's men. You must know what became of them, a man in your position. You must hear whispers of things before they happen."

  The Captain licked his lips. "From what I heard, they went their separate ways when he decided to settle there at a place he bought. The majority of this war's been over for three years, in case you idiots didn't know that. We've spent that whole time stamping down your little uprisings and rebellions. But Quayle wasn't a part of it, I know that much. He moved on. Same as you should have. And, same as you, he's little more than a washed-up bandit."

  So all this time, all this fighting, and he was never out there in the battlefields after all, Rowan thought sourly. Bastard's been settled for years. Sitting pretty while I've been wandering the wilderness, fighting and killing, looking for him at every turn.

  "Anything else?"

  "No, that's all I know," the Captain said. He stepped away from the tree. "So am I free to go?"

  Rowan's sword tore through him in one mighty strike, so quick the Captain didn't have time to react to it coming his way. It hit his temple, level with his eyes. The blade caught in his skull, his left eye exploding from the socket, the white jelly remains hanging by a thin web of nerves. Rowan wrestled his sword free from the man's head, and watched absently as the Captain peered about, then fell face forward into the muddy ground.

  "You're free to go fuck yourself," Rowan said and spat on the Captain as he stalked out of the trees.

  That'll pay you for Larch.

  Ahead of him, the fighting continued.

  Eight

  Lieutenant Vrand used both steels to fend off the big brute who was swinging his heavy sword. His opponent was taller, stronger – but he had the advantage of speed. With every lunge he managed to avoid, a window of opportunity opened before him in the shape of an exposed set of ribs, an unprotected forearm. He slashed and poked at the man where he could, all the while driven back by the onslaught. Sweat beaded on his face despite the cold as he ducked another ferocious swipe at his head. The bigger man chopped down and in doing so gave Vrand a chance. He took it.

  His steels sliced into the giant's ribcage, and as the man moved, they cut through him, round under his armpit. Red-hot blood seeped out down the man's side. He cried out, teeth bared, eyes mad with rage. Vrand smiled.

  Finally.

  Vrand quickstepped around his opponent, and used both blades to skewer him through the back, one on either side of his spine.

  "Garrrhhh!"

  The Lieutenant worked them back and forth, sawing away at the man's insides as if his steels were carving knives. The Giant dropped to his knees and Vrand whipped his swords back out of the man's body, flicked them behind him, blood splattering the grass.

  The big man toppled forward with a gurgling sound and was still.

  "Surrender accepted," the Lieutenant said. He strode back to where the bulk of the fighting was going on. By the count, they were winning. Larch's men were outnumbered four to one. He turned, scanned the valley for any sign of the Captain.

  That's when he saw him.

  * * *

  Rowan ran behind the tents, caught one of the soldiers exiting through a set of flaps and dealt him a swift death. He cut a gash across the bottom of the man's back as he went past, the body writhing and jittering on the ground, dark red pooling over his uniform.

  There was a loud bang, an explosion as a lantern blew in one of the tents, sending the contents clattering everywhere amid clouds of smoke and fire. Rowan dove out of the way, hit the turf, and looked up.

  Lieutenant Vrand grinned. "There you are."

  A pot hit the ground next to him and the Lieutenant didn't so much as flinch.

  Rowan scrambled to his feet. The smoke was heavy on the air, choking. "Here I am."

  "Exactly as you were described to me," Vrand said. "And bearing the famous scar from the Butcher of Clement, no less."

  Rowan shrugged. "Earned it in battle. In my line of work we don't get medals for sitting on our arse."

  "I take it the Captain is dead," Vrand said, both steels in his hands, face eager. "What a waste of a uniform."

  "I heard you were the sentimental type," Rowan said. He flexed the fingers wrapped around his own sword.

  "Not sentimental. Realistic. Are you ready?"

  It was Rowan's turn to smile. "I was getting bored waiting."

  Lieutenant Vrand stepped in, raised both swords to attack, but stopped midway, a look of complete horror on his face. He staggered back several steps.

  Fin pulled his knife free of Vrand's back, grinning. He swept long dark hair out of his eyes as the wind picked up, blowing smoke and chaos in Rowan's face. Vrand fell to the ground with a soft moan.

  "Rowan," Fin said with a smirk. "It's been so long."

  "Time flies when you're having fun," Rowan quipped.

  A whup whup sound came from the left and two arrows pierced Fin's side. The man's eyes were sagging orbs as his fate registered. "Run, Rowan!"

  Whup. Another arrow hit Fin in the neck, poking all the way through. He staggered to the side, body fluid running down all over him. Lieutenant Vrand sneered up at his men's handiwork.

  Rowan planted a hefty kick to Vrand's head, caught his jaw, and knocked him out cold. He turned on his heels, crashed through the end of one of the tents on his way to the treeline where he'd killed Captain Lint. From there, he wound his way back up the side of the valley, obscured by the woodland, a few half-hearted arrows flicking into the trees behind him. He didn't stop to give them any more of a chance to stick him than they'd already had.

  Rowan scrambled up, worked his way back to the horses and didn't slow down until he got there.

  * * *

  He spurred his horse hard, pushed it to get away to the other side of the valley. Any sound of fighting or struggle from below had petered out. Fighting hand-to-hand, a man had a chance of turning the odds in his favour. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that he might've helped his comrades in fighting back Vrand's men and owning the day.

  But it was not to be. The moment he heard arrows, saw them embed themselves in Fin's side, Rowan knew the fight was over. If the others weren't dead already, they soon would be. Him with them, if he'd stuck around.

  Rowan brought the horse to a standstill, dismounted and sneaked down through the trees at the top edge of the valley. He kept going until he could get a clear view of the valley bottom.

  Someone's been trimming the bushes, Rowan thought as he looked down. Larch West's men lay scattered in amongst the Breakers they'd managed to take with them. Vrand, unmistakable with his shirt off and bandages tied tight about his waist stalked among them.

  Still alive, you bastard.

  For a mad moment, Vrand seemed to look straight up at him, as if he could see him from all the way down there, see him in the shadow of the trees. But it was a mere coincidence. He returned to walking among the dead, with a look more akin to irritation than sadness at the loss of so many lives.

  Just as it's always been, Rowan thought grimly. Death is but an inconvenience.

  He made his way back to the horse, then rode on. By nightfall, he knew he was being followed.

  Nine

  Funny how it all comes back, Rowan thought as he rode hard over uneven ground, past ramshackle farms and houses, beneath the clawed hands of towering elms and oaks. The ragged scar up his back burned as he sat forward in the saddle, but he barely noticed it.

  He'd once been set upon giving up his way of life. Living simply by working the land, being a good father and a good husband. Getting to know the simple pleasures and joys. When he had that ripped away, a small part of him wondered if he'd even be able to revert back to his old self. Take up the sword again, ride into the wild with fire in his veins. As it had been wi
th Bonnet.

  But sometimes it's just too easy.

  He knew they were hot on his tail, knew they were less than thirty minutes behind him and pushing their rides hard as he was. He also knew it wasn't the kind of chase one could keep up. The horse tires, the horse grows unwilling, the horse simply refuses to carry on. When that happens . . .

  The light was fading fast, but he could still discern the outline of a scarecrow in the top field of an approaching farm. As much as he knew that he was being followed, and that he couldn't keep it going for much longer, Rowan knew he had to get off the beaten track. Get into the trees over the hill.

  * * *

  He waited. The light faded all the more, becoming dark blue with a streak of green on the horizon. The sound of their hooves grew steadily louder and louder as they came up hard behind him. He made a quick visual check of the horse to ensure he'd not left anything on it he'd need later. The scarecrow was tied to the saddle, its straw legs bound to the stirrups. Rowan smiled at his handiwork.

  I was right, he thought. It all comes back.

  They were nearly there, about to turn the corner. He gave the horse a mighty slap on the hindquarters and stepped back as it tore away. The scarecrow jiggled side to side but otherwise remained where he'd wanted it to. Now Rowan dove behind a set of thorny bushes, topped with a smooth layer of white snow. Mere seconds later the riders blurred past.

  "That's him there!" he heard one of them yell.

  Rowan made his way up the hill, toward the trees, thankful for the lack of night that had helped him disguise a simple scarecrow as one of the land's most wanted.

  * * *

  Rowan watched from high in the oak's branches, careful not to shift even an inch of muscle. Any movement that would make noise. A rat in a trap, he thought as he watched a soldier treading carefully through the clearing below him, looking for any sign. He stayed hidden away up there, resting on the limbs of the old oak tree, careful not to breathe too hard lest he be heard.

  Four days straight they had chased him on foot. Only now had they caught up.

  Rowan held his short knife ready, just in case. It only took the soldier to look up, alert the others. It wouldn't hurt to have a knife ready to throw. Such a precaution might, he knew, buy him extra minutes with which to get away. When you're running for your life, every moment counts.

  The man did not look up. He walked on, footsteps crunching through the woodland floor. All soft soil, dead leaves and thin twigs that snapped and popped when stepped on. Rowan stayed like that the rest of the night.

  Watching. Listening.

  * * *

  The sun broke through the canopy in patches, shafts of golden light filtering down through the criss-crossing branches, tapering out overhead with long black fingers. Rowan glided through the trunks, a phantom of silence as he stole up to an enemy soldier, knife at the ready.

  A sword is great, but a knife makes for quick, close work. Over time, a man with experience learns how to walk in the forest. He learns how to step on the shifting floor so it doesn't announce his presence. No matter how big a man he is, he learns to step with delicate grace and care.

  Rowan clamped one hand over the soldier's mouth. With the other he slid the knife into the base of the man's skull, far as he could get it. Legs kicked out on reflex. Hands grasped at something unseen for a second before his arms fell limp at his sides. The man's legs danced a moment longer before sagging. Rowan let him fall to the ground, dead.

  Rowan wiped the knife on his trousers and peered about. No one in sight, but he could hear them. Many of them, sweeping through the trees in an effort to flush him out.

  Just means more to kill, Rowan thought. He pressed on, heading for the nearest sound of movement, weapon at the ready.

  * * *

  He killed another five men before leaving the trees, breaking out to the open countryside again.

  Funny how he'd once tried to be a peaceful man, a noble creature who no longer stomached the taking of a life. He'd almost made it, too. Almost been a reformed character. Would have lasted, had it not been for the murder of his family.

  In Rowan's case, that had been the catalyst. Had resurrected what he'd tried so hard to bury. The day he turned up at the church and gave Father Tasker his sword to hide, he'd never once dreamt he might have cause of needing it again.

  Yet there he'd been those three seasons following the massacre of his family, fighting a war he didn't give two shits for, killing men he cared for even less than that. And now he made his escape from the woods where he'd dispatched half a dozen men with as much detachment as if they were fish caught from a stream.

  It was true, the old saying: you can't escape the past.

  The old ways came back to him, far too easily. Killing a man, taking a life – a lesson not easily forgotten . . . In the end it was like putting on an old pair of slippers. Maybe not comfortable, but a good fit in either case.

  * * *

  There was a stretch of water a mile or so in the distance, beyond several dull brown fields. The Derlington River. Too wide and too fast for a man to swim across. Besides, his gear would be ruined by the time he reached the far bank. Luckily for him, he spotted a ferry crossing his side of the Derlington and it looked as if the raft was still tied to the jetty.

  Rowan trampsed through the fields, the cold earth turned over, nothing growing in them. He remembered the land he'd had at home. His plans for it, how he had sustained his family with its crops. Sometimes he found himself wondering if Tarl had ever made a go of it after he left. He thought about it a lot, and to his great surprise wondered whether Tarl had managed to grow something worthwhile out of the dirt.

  It's the past now. All of it. Gone. Everything in the past is just dust. And there's nobody anywhere ever had an idea what to do with it.

  He stopped in the middle of one of the fields, got down on one knee and scooped up a handful of the dirt. Cold and hard between his fingers, rubbed the gritty soil together. As he had done at Sara's burial.

  Dirt.

  We all end up under it someday, he thought. And the unlucky ones sleep in it a little sooner . . .

  He stood, dusted the dirt off of his hands and continued on his way.

  * * *

  The ferry was little more than a wide raft, big enough to take several riders on horseback. A thick rope spanned the Derlington's surging brown waters, from one side to the other. It ran through a wooden construction at the middle of the raft.

  The boatman would pull the raft across the rope with his hands, cutting through the current without so much as a paddle. A low shack sat next to the jetty and Rowan knocked on the door. It took muscle to pull a raft across a river like the Derlington, which was why the size of the boatman who emerged from inside did not surprise him.

  Squat but heavily built, the man's rugged hands were wide as anvils. Big meaty knuckles bulged as he wiped his hands on a rag, stepping out into the fresh sunshine. "What can I do you for?"

  Rowan nodded in the direction of the ferry. "You running today?"

  "Just the one of you, eh? I don't usually do a run for a single person," the boatman said. "I ask people to wait, see if anyone else turns up wanting a ride across. More worth my while, you see."

  "Yeah," Rowan dug in his moneybag, produced two gold coins. It was many times what the ride was worth, but he needed to get across before they picked up his trail . . .

  The boatman held out his hand and Rowan dropped the two coins into his waiting palm. He looked at them, shimmering up into his face before pocketing them. "I guess that'll do. When d'you want to leave?"

  "Now."

  "Anything from my store? Any supplies you'll be needing?"

  "No. Just get me across," Rowan said. He peered behind him, at the fields he'd crossed to get there. No sign of enemy soldiers. Not yet. But there would be. He produced another coin. "Here. Take it."

  The boatman did so and regarded him quizzically. "What's this for?"

  "Forgetting I
was ever here," Rowan said. "If you take my meaning."

  "Like that, is it?"

  Rowan ignored it, strode onto the waiting raft, and studied the water. "Is she always running this fast?"

  "Yeah."

  "And you can get me across, no trouble?"

  The boatman nodded, a thin smile on his lips. "You'll see for yourself why I don't make the trip unless I'm properly compensated. There's a reason you don't see any other ferries this side of the Derlington. Not this stretch where it flows real fast."

  "What's your name?" Rowan asked as the boatman unmoored the raft, keeping one hand firmly on the rope at all times, pulling with the other and swapping over.

  "Tim."

  "Tim, eh? A small name for a big man," Rowan said. "No offense."

  Tim shrugged. "None taken. Hear that a lot. I'd say it's ironic but to tell the truth, I'm not totally sure what the word means."

  "No," Rowan said. "Me neither."

  The thin rays of the sun reflected off the angry water whenever the clouds parted enough, which wasn't often. Mostly a dull light filled the sky, hidden behind the grey. Rowan watched as Tim worked. Now he saw it for himself. The sweat beaded Tim's face as he pulled them closer and closer toward the shore, his huge muscles bulging with the effort of fighting the current. Brown water lapped over the sides of the raft, but it did little more than make Rowan's feet wet.

  Better than drowning trying to cross it.

  They were halfway when riders reached the shack. Tim looked back at them, still working the rope, edging the ferry closer and closer. "Friends of yours?"

  A dozen riders, each a member of the Regiment. The man at the front looked tired and sick but there could be no mistake.

  Lieutenant Vrand glared across. His angry dark eyes looked obscene in such a pale, waxy face.