The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown)

by Tony Healey

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Rowan, you have yet to tell me why you are going to Greyside. Why you are really looking for this Quayle. Why you are not putting the whole business behind you and moving on with your life."

  "I can't. I can't do that."

  "How come?"

  He thought of his wife. Dead. He thought of his children, burned alive in what had been their family home. He thought of the farm where he'd toiled to give them an honest life. And he thought of the bastard responsible: Quayle. He thought, as he often did, of what he would do to Quayle when he found him. How he would kill him as slowly as possible. How he would make Quayle suffer an agonising death.

  "What I have to do . . . it's all that's kept me going these years. It's why I joined Larch West and his men. It's why I've done everything I've done. Because at the end of it, I knew I'd catch up with him."

  "For pride."

  "No!" Rowan snapped. "For what's right. That piece of shit murdered my family in cold blood. I must avenge them. I must see that what needs to happen does so, and by my own hand."

  I want to feel his neck in my hands as I squeeze.

  "Have you ever considered letting it go? Being the bigger man and letting him live with the knowledge of what he has done?"

  I want to stab him in the heart, then twist the blade. Slowly.

  "Never."

  I want to deliver one punch after the other, keep on hitting until my hands are raw stumps.

  "And what will you do after, Rowan? Where will your vengeance lead you then?" Crowstone asked. "When all is said and done."

  I want to stand over his mutilated corpse. I want to see him in the dirt. I want his skull under my boot as I stamp down.

  "Who knows? I can only think so far," Rowan said. He looked up at the pale white sky. It offered little in the way of revelatory inspiration. Nothing that might help him answer Crowstone's question. What would he do after? When he'd killed who needed to be killed, what then? "I guess I'll move on if I can. What else is there?"

  Crow smiled. "A fine answer, Rowan. I believe there's hope for you yet."

  * * *

  "You a good shot with a bow then?" Rowan asked as they watched several pigeons, huddled together in the top of a tree.

  "No," Crowstone said. "Don't own one either."

  "How d'you suggest we get them, then? Send him up?" Rowan asked. "They'll spook before he gets to the top."

  "I'm sure he means no offense," Crow said to Kip. He got down off his horse. "I have other means."

  The mage removed his staff from where it had been tucked among his gear at the pony's side. He walked to the base of the tree, looked up at their prospective dinner, then pressed the top of the staff against the icy bark. He closed his eyes and for a brief moment it looked as though nothing would happen. But then a loud crack rang out, the pigeons fell dead from the top of the tree and landed in the snow at his feet. He gathered them up.

  "I don't believe it. What was that? Magic?"

  Crowstone shrugged. "Of a sort."

  "But it's just a wooden staff."

  "This is no ordinary wood, my friend. And these staffs are not easily replaced when lost or damaged. One must travel far to do so. Thankfully I have never had to do so," Crowstone said as he tied the pigeons together and hung them from Rowan's saddle.

  "Can I have a look?"

  Crowstone laughed and held the staff out to him. "Go ahead! Don't worry, in your hands it is but simple wood!"

  Rowan looked it over. It was remarkably light for its size. It tapered down to a blunt point at the bottom. At the top, it was much wider, and carved into a hexagon – perfectly so. The wood itself had a dense, fine grain, unlike any he'd seen before. He handed it back. "Peculiar."

  "That it is," Crowstone said, looking at the staff himself. "And you notice the shape of the top?"

  "A hexagon," Rowan said. "Though I fail to see the significance."

  "Each staff relates to its owner in a certain way. My own is connected to me through my talents with natural forces. The hexagon is Mother Nature's preferred shape. Consider the humble snowflake, as it forms on the frosty air. The honeycomb in a bee hive. Or the way in which a spider spins its web," Crowstone said, stowing his staff securely in with his gear and climbing back up on the pony. "Nature abhors imperfection as much as it embraces it. Of course, it's all just symbolic."

  Rowan wasn't sure what all of that had meant, but he nodded his head as if he had, and they continued on their way.

  * * *

  That night, the pigeons cooked over the fire. Kip had already had his, raw, though that didn't stop him from watching the other birds cook, smacking his chops as their juices ran into the fire, causing it to sizzle.

  "Here. D'you want a smoke?" Crowstone offered the pipe he'd been pulling on. Rowan was not fool enough to believe the mage was smoking simple tobacco. It had the skunky, mossy smell of weed – a smell he didn't particularly find offensive. He took the pipe and the taper and lit the end, drawing heavily on it. "It's probably a little late to tell you that it's strong stuff."

  Rowan thought it might cause him to have a coughing fit, but instead the weed soothed every part of him. Tired and weary as he was, none of it seemed to matter now. His back and his legs no longer ached. The stab wounds across his stomach might as well not have existed for all he cared. He sucked the smoke in again, held it as long as he could, savouring every second of it before letting it depart through his nostrils. He handed the pipe back, sank back against the side of his horse. The rhythmic breathing of the beast further added to his sense of well-being.

  "Good stuff," he said, his voice groggy to his ears. "I've not smoked weed in a long time."

  Crowstone regarded the pipe thoughtfully. "My best grass. Not the rough mixture of weed and dried animal dung they sell at the smoke houses."

  Rowan closed his eyes for a moment, though he didn't feel like sleeping. When he opened them, the smell of cooking meat seemed to hang on the air, provoking a rumbling from his stomach. The embers from their modest fire drifted up into the night sky; clear as it was, a sea of black populated by swirls of stars. Crowstone was watching him, absently smoking from the pipe.

  "Thoughts?"

  "I was just thinking how things never turn out the way you think they will," Rowan said. He laughed a little. "You set out into the wide world with all your ideas, and morals, and all that. In your head, you think life is going to deal you a fair hand."

  "A life is what you make of it," Crowstone said. He got up, walked to the fire, and lifted one of the spitted pigeons by the end of the stick, looked it over. "I think they're done."

  Rowan got one for himself then sat back down. The meat was piping hot and though it burned his fingers and his mouth to do so, he couldn't help but tear into it.

  "Go on then, greedy guts," Crowstone said as he threw a leg to Kip. "But watch it, it's hot. Mind, that doesn't seem to stop Master Black."

  "Starving," Rowan mumbled with his mouth full.

  "That'll be the weed my friend," Crow said. "You smoke it little and often, you get a voracious appetite. Smoke it all the time . . . well, you've only got to visit any number of smoke houses to see just how little appetite you end up with."

  "Yeah."

  "So . . . you consider your life unfulfilled? Coming back to what you were saying earlier."

  Rowan chewed, swallowed. "A bit, yeah. Seems like I had something really good, till it was torn away from me."

  "By this Quayle."

  "Yeah."

  "And the family life. That's something you aspire to have, is it?" Crow asked.

  Rowan looked into the fire. "Not now. I've had it, and I've lost it, and I don't think I could stand to have both of those things again. You know, like sand, holding it in your hand and watching as it slips through your fingers." He peered down at the half-eaten pigeon in his own hands, and suddenly found he had no appetite. He tossed the spitted bird over the fire to Kip. The bearcat didn't waste a sec
ond in getting stuck in.

  "I understand."

  "You asked me before, remember? About what I'd do after all the killing's done," Rowan said. His eyes were glassy, red, lit with the burning fire. "The truth is, I don't know. I can't see any further than that. I've lived a life of bloodshed. It's stained me for good, I know that. A man comes to think about what kind of legacy he's leaving behind, and I know what mine is. A legacy of blood. Those I've killed . . . and those who have died because of me."

  Crowstone ate slowly, little bits of the roasted pigeon at a time, chewing thoughtfully in the drawn out silence. Then he drew a deep breath. "Have you ever considered the stars, Rowan?"

  He shook his head.

  "I've heard tell that they are loved ones who have died. The souls of the departed shining up there in the darkness. In a way, I guess that is a comforting thought for one such as yourself who comes to question his life," Crowstone said slowly. "But you know what? That's a load of bullshit. The stars are distant points of light, each one a burning hot sun in its own right. But they are so far away, they appear as you see them. Specks of white. Like so many diamonds on a jeweler's cloth."

  Rowan looked up again. Suns? He wasn't sure he agreed with Crow on that one. They sure didn't look like suns to his eyes. However he had never held with the notion that they were friends and family who'd moved on. But the notion that each star was a sun, burning red hot seemed ludicrous. When the sun dawned beyond the distant mountains, you could feel its warm kiss on your face. The light of the stars was like that of the moon. Cold.

  "There are so many, we cannot count them. Some of those, so far away we cannot see them. And the space between them, the black of night, is the deepest dark in all creation," Crow said. "Men and women have gone their whole lives under the gaze of those stars, in the assumption they were watched and judged by their kin. Trying to do their best. Judging themselves too harshly. That up there? It's a view of something incomprehensible. An awesome facet of nature we were never meant to understand. If blood is meant to be on your hands, and that is what you're best at, then so be it. The stars were up there before you were born. They will be there when your flesh has rotted away and your bones have crumbled to dust. Our lives are but fleeting moments in the great opera of the universe. When the time comes, you will know what do next. You will live, Rowan, and on your own terms."

  Crowstone returned to his food. Rowan continued to watch the night, and the embers merging with it.

  Fifteen

  "Where have you been?" Crow asked the bearcat as it came padding back to camp.

  (went for a shit if you must know)

  "Goodness, Kip! I didn't need details, thank you very much," Crow said, full of laughter.

  (next time I'll do it next to your head, eh?)

  "No need to be like that."

  (anyway, where's Rowan? finally left us has he?)

  "Gone to check the snares he set last night, actually. I think you write him off too easily, Kip," Crow said sternly.

  (don't get me wrong he's good enough . . . but his sort never stick about)

  "My, Kip. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were an expert on humanity!"

  (very funny)

  Crowstone could hear Rowan's boots in the snow, walking back to the camp. "I know we've seen some poor specimens in our travels, Kip. But I do believe there is more to this man than meets the eye. There must be a reason the Order are so certain of his importance," Crow said. "After all, they were firm about it. Everything starts with him."

  (hope you're right)

  "As do I my friend, as do I."

  * * *

  Flat featureless countryside gave way to hills and minor valleys. Woods bordered the road on both sides, fallen trees here and there topped with snow. The days were clear of snowfall. Bright blue skies pushing the oppressive white clouds farther South, though the temperature had not risen in the least. The mountains loomed ever closer with each passing day, their peaks shining white.

  "Have you ever been to the mountains, Crow?" Rowan asked.

  "Several times. Beyond them lies the temple of my order. But few go that far."

  Rowan ducked under the branch of a tree that had extended, like an outstretched arm, across the road. "Understandable. I hear it's uncharted and dangerous."

  "That it is," Crow agreed.

  "And what is beyond it?"

  "A tundra," Crow told him, face serious. "A wasteland of ice across which none have ever journeyed."

  Rowan laughed. "Why would you want to?"

  "Some say there is a far distant land on the other side of it," Crow said. "Though I'll admit, such talk is more in the realm of fairy tale than anything else."

  "I seem to remember a story. My Mother would tell me from time to time. 'The Mountain's Breath,'" Rowan said. "Though as you say, a fairy tale."

  "Hmm," Crow mumbled.

  The woods fell away, allowing a clear view of the surrounding land. To their right, an incline rose up above, topped by scraggly trees. And beyond that a stream of grey smoke met the sky. Rowan heard a high-pitched scream from that direction and pulled his horse up. Again, another scream. He climbed down.

  "Go on ahead. I'll secure these and follow along," Crow told him.

  Rowan clambered up through the snow, using his hands to give him extra purchase where it became more steep. Panting hard, breath trailing behind him like smoke, he pressed carefully through the trees, thankful for their cover once he saw the scene playing out in the valley below.

  A brook ran through it, sunlight flashing off of its surface where it gurgled over uneven stones. Beyond it, a heavyset man with white hair rode a tan steed, two women behind him, both riding their own horses. He talked to a group of men, no more than half a dozen. All armed. Posturing in a way Rowan didn't like. They'd been camped down there; a fire still smouldered, hence the smoke they'd seen.

  He heard movement behind, turned to see Crowstone settle in beside him, staff in hand, Kip next in line. The bearcat's big eyes also watching what was happening below.

  "Not sure, Kip. But they don't look friendly," Crow whispered to the animal.

  The man at the front of the group ambled around to the side of the first horse, then lunged forward, took hold of the old man and pulled him out of the saddle. His arms and legs flailed as he was dragged away from the two women.

  "Oh no," Rowan said. A hatchet glinted in the sun as it was brought down on the old man's head, the thud audible even from there. "Fuck."

  "What do you want to do?" Crow asked him as the group of men converged on the two frightened women. They tried to break way but the men took hold of their horses reins, held them fast.

  Rowan looked at the younger of the two, and her horse, and realisation dawned suddenly. Patti. The girl from the store . . .

  "I'm going down there. I've gotta do it," he said, already reaching for his sword. "How about you?"

  "Well, there is always a case to be made for going on our way and forgetting what we saw here," Crowstone said. He looked up at Rowan, eyes bright. "But I say fuck that. Let's go."

  Rowan smiled, stepped out to the edge of the hill then dropped down through the thick snow, Crowstone not far behind.

  Sixteen

  They didn't see him coming until they turned to look in the direction of his boots splashing through the brook. With his formidable size and his rugged scarred appearance, he was intimidating as it was. But rushing upon them with his long sword raised high, roaring with a battle cry, it was the most they could do to try and get out of the way. Two stood in his path, reaching for their weapons. One wrestled with the old man's horse, while another pulled the corpse away. The last two had Patti on the ground, tearing her clothes off.

  He hacked through the first man, sent him cartwheeling away, spraying blood like a punctured water pipe. The one next to him pulled his weapon free, got as far as lifting it before Rowan smashed him in the face with his fist. He tottered back a step, shook his head. Rowan stabbed him in the s
tomach, all the way through. The man clung to him, clawed at his clothes.

  "Get off!" Rowan tried to pull the sword free of the man's guts, but he held on tight, blood bubbling out behind his teeth, running down to his chin, eyes wide and desperate. "Get off you fucker!"

  He butted the man, hard as he could, then yanked his sword free. Dark red gushed from the wound, ran like oil. Crowstone appeared to his right, headed straight for the fire the bandits had going. He aimed his staff at it and the flames erupted as if he'd doused them with oil. The man dragging the corpse was closest. The fire latched onto his clothing, ran up to his hair as he thrashed about, his whole body alight in seconds. He ran close to Crowstone, and the mage gave him a good thump with the end of the staff. The man flopped sideward into the roaring fire pit and was consumed by the inferno.

  The two men had abandoned their attempt at raping the girl. She lay sprawled out, one white tit protruding from her torn top. They had swords in their hands and edged in closer to Rowan, dirty zealous faces lit on one side by Crow's handiwork. The old woman ran to the girl on the floor, tried to help her up. Rowan rushed the two men, sword flying, skewered one in the face.

  Crowstone was close behind. He spun his staff in his hands, lunged at the other man, and hit him in the chest. The man's face contorted in agony, then he dropped to the ground, dead as a wren.

  "What was that?" Rowan asked as he pulled his sword free from his opponent's skull.

  "I gave him a heart attack," Crow said, matter-of-factly. "He was dead before he hit the ground."

  "How about that one?" Rowan nodded in the direction of the last man. He was looking back at them, face white with fear, foot already in one stirrup in an attempt to climb up onto the old man's horse.

  Crow aimed the staff at the horse. "Into the fire," he said.

  The horse started, reared up on its hind legs in panic, taking the man with it. It shook him side to side, he fell to the ground, then it cantered off. Kip sprang on him, clamped his jaws around the man's throat. He scrambled to pull the bearcat off of him, but Kip's claws dug into his skin. He had him pinned.