The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown)

by Tony Healey

"We're acquainted," Rowan said cryptically. "I guess you not telling them I was here is out of the question now, eh?"

  "I guess so," Tim said though he gave no indication he was about to offer Rowan any kind of refund for the extra he had paid him.

  "Black!" Vrand called across, shouting at the top of his lungs yet barely audible above the river. "Black!"

  "What, you bastard?" Rowan yelled back, hands cupped around his mouth. "What do you want?"

  "Come back!" Vrand was grinning. "I offer a swift execution."

  Rowan smiled himself. When I see you again, Vrand, I'm going to be the one doing the executing.

  "Go fuck your mother! I had her last night and she's highly recommended!" Rowan called back.

  Vrand's grin slipped. The ferry had nearly reached the shore.

  "You two get along, eh?" Tim asked.

  "Yeah."

  "You realise I'm gonna have to bring him over. I can't turn down a paying a customer," Tim said. "Not in this climate."

  Rowan nodded once, slowly. "I do."

  The wooden craft butted up against the soft muddy shore and Rowan stepped off.

  "Good luck," Tim said. "I'll try to take my time getting back. Do you a good turn."

  "I appreciate it," Rowan said. But the boatman had already started to haul the rope through his hands, dragging the raft across the current. He stood there and watched as the man got to the middle of the river. Tim glanced back, a frown on his face, no doubt wondering why Rowan had not already turned on his heels.

  Buy me some time? Rowan thought. Don't make me laugh.

  "That's it. You just stand there!" Lieutenant Vrand yelled across. "I'll be over in a minute! Wait for me."

  No you fucking won't, Rowan thought. "Tim!"

  The stocky boatman turned around. "Yeah?"

  "You know the extra I gave you? To forget I was ever here?"

  "Yeah . . ."

  Rowan drew his sword, walked to the thick heavy post where the rope was tied in a knot so tightly drawn it could never have been untied. He raised the blade above his head. Made ready to do what had to be done. "That'll cover the cost of renewing this rope."

  Tim held up a hand. "No! Don't do it!"

  "He doesn't have the balls," Vrand shouted, though he looked anything other than skeptical.

  "Sorry," Rowan said and chopped the rope clean in half. The ferryman looked at the limp length of rope in his hand, tossed it to one side and gaped left and right as the current took hold of the ferry, pushing it on with the rest of the river.

  "Fuck!" he shouted in temper. His eyes glared. "And fuck you!"

  Rowan waved at him. "No, but thanks anyway!"

  On the far side Lieutenant Vrand stood with his arms folded, looking at him with pure hatred as Rowan set off up the bank, safe in the knowledge it would take them hours to find a suitable crossing point. And by then he would be long gone.

  Ten

  Back in the day, Rowan had often found himself in the wild, travelling on foot with nothing but the gear he carried with him. It had not been unusual to find him playing the part of the pursued as much as the pursuer, either. More often than not, jobs worked out opposite to the way he planned them – though they always worked out in the end. Forming their partnership, both Bonnet and Black had agreed on several principles by which to conduct their business, one of those being the completion of every job they were paid to do. No matter what the job was, who it was for, whether or not it went south . . . it had to be seen through to the end, with the job completed as agreed. They demanded their money in advance and they got it because they were worth the risk. However it didn't mean there'd not been some close calls from time to time . . .

  Rowan had had no sign of Breaker soldiers or Lieutenant Vrand. As he'd done in the old days, when as a mercenary his fortune could turn at the flip of a coin, he found a hollow beneath the roots of a large tree, wide enough to admit one person. It was snug under there, and it would keep him obscured from searching eyes. He had hoped for a fire that night, but it wasn't worth the risk. At the moment he seemed to be leaving them in his wake. The most he could do was press northward to Greyside. It was going to be a long journey, especially on foot if he didn't manage to replace the horse he'd lost. And if he could leave Vrand and his men behind, so much the better.

  Rowan looked out at the sparse wood, nothing moving but the creak of the branches in the frosty breeze. All the trees just black shapes against the darkness.

  His eyes felt heavy, weighed down. He pulled the blanket up to his neck, curled up to conserve heat against the cold night air. At least he was out of the wind. The snows would be on their way soon. What they'd had so far was just a precursor to what the winter was truly like. No doubt the worst time to be a hunted fugitive but that was his lot. Sometimes you took what was thrown at you and just kept on going.

  My journey hasn't ended, not by a long shot. The end result is still the same. Find that fucker. He gave the order for them to do what they did. He watched them. He was to blame. Find him, kill him. Only then can I move on. Only then can I bear to let their faces, their names, their memory to fade into the past.

  He closed his eyes, felt exhaustion wash over him, the dark embrace of sleep enfolding him in its forgiving embrace . . .

  * * *

  "Yes my son?" the Father asks him.

  Rowan is seated on a pew, two sacks next to him, along with a long item wrapped in cloth. "Tasker?"

  "Yes, that's me," the Father says, frowning. "What can I do for you?"

  Rowan looks up at the patch of blue sky showing through the hole in the church roof. "The house of God is in need of repair, Father."

  "It always is."

  "Perhaps a kindly patron might offer to fund such a repair. And any others a man such as yourself might feel are required."

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Rowan Black," he says. "I was once a mercenary for hire. Quite well known, in fact. I've been a protector, an assassin, a keeper of the peace, a tyrant who burnt whole villages to the ground after looting everything there was worth taking."

  The Father swallows. "And now?"

  "I'm not that person anymore."

  "I see."

  "I've changed."

  Father Tasker sits on the other side of the aisle, settles onto the edge of a pew, his hands pressed together. "It is in our capacity as men to change, to bend like corn in the wind."

  Rowan smiles. "I like that. To bend like corn in the wind. It's poetic."

  "Yes."

  "Anyway, I have a few possessions I desire to have hidden. I need someone I can trust," Rowan says. "I didn't think there was anyone more trustworthy than a man of the cloth. And no place safer than the house of God himself."

  "Your reasoning is sound."

  "So here is what I came here to say. I have two bags here, both contain money. One is for me, one is for the trustworthy individual who offers me assistance to do with what he pleases."

  "And what do you require?"

  "To hide my money," Rowan turns to the long shape covered in cloth. He lifts it, sets it across his knees. "And this."

  Father Tasker nods.

  "The day may never come when I need this back. I sincerely hope it doesn't. But I will require you to keep it safe and hidden, regardless."

  "This is a house of the lord, my son. I cannot have that here."

  "You have only to hide it," Rowan says. He shrugs. "Or I can take the second bag of money and find someone else. Though I'll always regret my first choice turned me down . . ."

  Tasker rises, offers his hand. "I will offer sanctuary to the instrument of your sins."

  They shake hands. Rowan glances back up at the hole in the roof. "God works in mysterious ways, Father. I'm sure he will smile down upon you for making the right decision."

  Tasker doesn't look convinced. "I am sure."

  As Rowan walks away down the centre aisle he feels as though a weight has been lifted. It was not only his money and sword he's lef
t in the hands of the priest, but the burden of his past, too. Everything he'd been before, tucked away. Left in the shadow of yesterday, just the way he wanted it.

  He steps outside into the bright sunshine and can't help but smile, feel good about himself for once. It's almost like being reborn.

  It's almost like being free.

  Eleven

  The shack sat at a crossroads. A low-slung affair built mostly from timber, with a slanting roof either skewed intentionally or the result of years of standing in bad weather.

  The place looked sad, like a depressed person sat slumped in a chair. Rowan noted the horses stood out front, confined to a pen. No signs of others anywhere. Just the shack, a shelter for kindling, the horses out the front. A thin wisp of grey smoke wafting up from a tall chimney at the side of the structure.

  Muffled screams came from inside, and Rowan's hand went straight to his short knife. He fully intended to go inside, in which case his sword would not do him much good. Rowan pulled the knife from his belt, held it at the ready and proceeded to open the door to the shack. Slowly, inch by inch. Careful not to make any noise. The sounds of struggle came louder and Rowan soon saw the cause. A gaunt man with hardly any hair on his head towered over a young woman. First glance, she might have been mistaken for a girl, but Rowan could see she was a young lady of minute dimensions.

  She whimpered on her back on the floor as he stood over her and weighed a whip in his hands. It was a simple length of leather, but menacing enough when he shuffled it from one open palm to the other as he spoke.

  "You see? You give me no choice you little bitch. I've gotta teach you a lesson. Show you the errors of your ways," he told her, unaware of Rowan behind him. Unaware of the eyes, narrowed slits of fury, watching the scene unfold. "One day you'll learn the proper respect for me. You'll appreciate what I've done for you, taking you in, giving you shelter, a fucking job . . ."

  Rowan crept inside, into the light. The woman caught his movement, her terrified expression changed to hopeful. The man turned around, sensing the movement behind him. Rowan kicked the back of his legs.

  He crumpled to the floor, pushed himself up in time for Rowan to land a hearty kick to his ribs. The blow sent him rolling to his other side, gasping for breath, face beetroot red.

  "Filthy fucker," Rowan spat. "A woman about your mark, is she?"

  "Grah . . . grah . . . grah . . ." was all he managed to say, trying to draw a decent breath.

  Rowan put his foot to the side of the man's head, pressed down hard. "This is a store, right?"

  "Grah . . ."

  "I'll take that as a yes. And the horses out front. For sale?"

  "Graaah . . ."

  "Right. I'll be taking one. And supplies," Rowan looked about. Jerky, cured sausage, strings of dehydrated fruits hanging from pegs in the rafters. Flies circled a crate of rotting vegetables in the corner. Rowan sniffed the stale air. "Well, such supplies as you've got, I guess. Smells like a fucking tomb in here."

  The woman got to her feet slowly, painfully, timid as a mouse. Bruises covered her arms, her neck, everywhere she could get hit. "There's not been customers for weeks. Everything's getting spoiled," she said in a weak voice, eyes downcast.

  Rowan looked at the punch marks on her face. He reached out, turned her face into the light to get a better look at the big purple bruises that had blossomed there in the shape of knuckles. "He do this to you, eh?"

  She nodded.

  "What's this bastard's name?" Rowan asked her.

  "Stanthorpe," she whispered, as if the mere mention of his name might bring about a storm that would blow her away.

  "Where's he keep his money?"

  "I don't know."

  Rowan nudged Stanthorpe with his foot. "Hey, you, where d'you keep your cash box?"

  The man drew a breath. "Fuck . . . you . . ."

  "Fuck me?" Rowan slammed a boot into his stomach. The man cried out, sputtered blood and spit from his mouth, lips peeled back from sore gums and yellow teeth. "Let's try this again. Where is it? Where d'you keep it?"

  "Tobacco box," he groaned. "Under the counter."

  Rowan turned to the girl. "Go have a look why don't you? I've got business with Mister Woman Beater here."

  She did as she was told.

  "I'll be taking some stuff from in here," Rowan told Stanthorpe. "Whatever you've got that's not rotten, that is. I'm not paying you for it. But the horse I will pay you for. How much?"

  "Take it," the man gasped.

  Rowan shook his head. "No, no, no. I pay my way. How much for it?"

  "Sixty."

  "I'll pay you fifty. I said I'd pay my way, not let you screw me over. I'll be taking the gear too," Rowan told him. "Hey, girl, come here. Did you find it?"

  She opened the tobacco box. full of credit notes and bags of coins.

  "Don't you touch my fucking stuff!" the man spat.

  Rowan put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "You take the contents of that box, and you get out of here, you understand? Take one of the horses and just ride. That's not money in there. It's a chance. Take it."

  She looked up at him, eyes wide and bright. Her hands closed around the box as she closed the lid on it.

  "Don't you fucking dare!"

  Rowan grabbed a heavy jar off the counter, pitched it at Stanthorpe's head. It shattered against his noggin, sent pickled onions flying everywhere. The hit knocked him out cold. Now the place smelled worse than before.

  Rowan dug inside his own moneybag. "Here. The fifty for the horse. Take it," he said, dropping the coins into her apron.

  "Thank you," she said, eyes flitting to her inert captor and back. "I . . . I . . . don't know what to say."

  Rowan had already filled a sack with food. Whatever was worth taking. "Just promise me you won't take the black and white nag. I've taken a fancy to it."

  * * *

  He rode with her part of the way, to a crossroads. "You're better off turning left here. There's some quiet villages and such that way. Not bad country out there, either. You might have a chance."

  "What about you?"

  He tipped his head straight on ahead of him. "Farther north. Into the cold."

  "Good luck," she said.

  "Hey, what's your name anyway?" Rowan asked.

  She turned her horse to take the left path. "Patti."

  Rowan smiled. "Well, good luck to you, young Patti."

  "What about you?" she called back when he'd got several strides away from her.

  Rowan pulled his horse up, turned around in the saddle. "My name?"

  She nodded.

  "Black," he said, the suggestion of a grin on his face. "Rowan Black."

  "Good day, Rowan Black," Patti said and led her horse off in the opposite direction. Rowan watched her for a moment, the sway of Patti's hips in the saddle, then he too went on his way. Northward, as he'd told her.

  Into the cold.

  * * *

  The first scattered snowflakes fell later that day, seemingly from nowhere. The first true snows. The sky was a clear blue with but a few thick white clouds spread across the horizon. They fell fat and lazy, see-sawing toward the ground in a timeless ballet. Their presence did not surprise him – it was cold enough after all.

  Rowan found a burned-out old farmhouse a couple of miles off the main road and checked to see no one else had had the same idea as him. The blackened frame stood open to the elements. Only the barn was still partially standing, with half the roof still intact.

  Oh well, he thought. Beats sleeping under a tree.

  He fed the horse some of the apples he'd taken from the merchant – well past their best, though his ride didn't seem to mind. Rowan made a small fire, just enough to keep the cold at bay. He chewed some cured meat, staring thoughtfully into the flames, replaying the events at the store. While the girl had been preoccupied outside, Rowan found several bottles of cheap whiskey and a substantial stash of fresh tobacco. There'd been no more boxes of money. To his mind, it was
a fair enough deal. She took the money, he took the booze and smokes. He had no need for money – Bonnet and Black had made enough of that in their day, to last a lifetime – but a strong drink could be a scarce commodity.

  Rowan drank from one of the bottles, the liquor warming his insides as it hit his stomach. Between the blanket on the floor, the warmth of the fire, and the soothing whiskey, he was asleep before long. On the other side of the barn, the snow fell and gathered on the floor.

  By morning, the whole countryside was covered white.

  Twelve

  To eyes that had only ever gazed upon the sprawling development of civilisation in the populated southern towns and cities, it would have been hard to believe the North could be so sparse.

  He'd seen few people in his days on the road. Fewer still since the snow had fallen without end since that night in the barn. Between the many villages and townships spread across the North, under the watchful peaks of the Great Mountains in the far distance the roads were not readily travelled by common folk. The wagons and carts he passed were driven by merchants and traders who neither made eye contact nor showed any sign they'd even seen him.

  The best way to be, out on the open road coming across someone like him. Long sword at his side, face scarred and weathered by war. Sara had once told him he had cold eyes, and he'd reckoned she was right. They'd always been a piercing, bright blue. Perhaps they merely reflected the ice inside.

  For a time, he'd tried to leave all of that coldness in the past. Tried to move on, build a family, a business farming the land. He'd made it, too.

  Or thought he had . . .

  Now all that was gone and he was back to being the man he'd been when he turned his back on Muriel Bonnet and chose his own path. Like the girl he'd helped days before, he too had chosen a new direction at the crossroads. Had rode on, begun a new life for himself. A life that was torn away from him, burned to the ground, best parts of it buried in the rock-hard dirt.

  Now he was Rowan Black again. One half of one of the deadliest mercenary partnerships Starkgard had ever seen. A cold-eyed killer on a journey North, in the name of his family. A quest for vengeance.