by Tony Healey
Rowan fought it back. Fought it back with everything he had. "Looks like it. Got yourself a family here."
Quayle smiled. It was a thin, meager expression on his weathered, scarred face.
"I always did have," he said. "Took me a long time to come back to 'em."
His wife walked to the table. Evidently she'd been listening in all along. "And we were glad when he did," she said, hand resting on her husband's shoulder.
Rowan didn't say anything. Quayle's eye remained fixed on him.
"I'd like it if you broke bread with us, Mister . . ."
"Black."
She nodded. "Mister Black. It's a good stew, and there's plenty of it. And I can't see any acquaintance of John's brave that cold to get here and not reward him with a bowl of good, home cooked food."
"No, really I can't . . ." Rowan began to say but she hurried around the table, took him by the arm and led him to a chair opposite Quayle.
"Nonsense. Sit. I'm about to dish up."
Rowan settled slowly onto the stool, hand still at his sword. Quayle's children eyed him with the fascination children have for strangers who enter their home. It was a far cry from anything Rowan had imagined and now he had no idea how to proceed. Quayle's wife set a bowl of hot stew down in front of her husband, then returned and did the same for Rowan. He looked down at it and saw two hearty dumplings floating in it. The smell made his stomach grumble. But that wasn't all.
"Is it to your liking, Mister Black?" Quayle's wife asked as she saw to the children.
He nodded. "My wife used to make stew just like it," he said, lifting the spoon and tasting some. "Delicious."
"Glad you like it," she said with a smile.
Quayle ate slowly, slurping it up, staring at Rowan.
"Where are you based, Mister Black?" Quayle's wife asked him. "I mean, your family. Have you travelled far?"
"A long way," he said. "It has taken me years to get here."
"Your wife and such? I take it you have children," she said.
He shook his head slowly. Prodded the stew. "No, unfortunately my wife and children died some years ago in a horrific attack on my home."
"Oh no!" Quayle's wife sat down with her own bowl of food. "How terrible."
"Yes," Rowan said. "Yes it was."
She looked at her husband. "John, did you know about this?"
"I did," Quayle said carefully, looking from his wife to his unexpected guest. "I'll bet whoever was responsible regrets it now, looking back."
"I wouldn't be so sure," his wife said. "Cold blooded killers –"
"Mary, can I have a moment with our guest?" Quayle cut in.
She looked at him in shock. "Now?"
He nodded, but smiled all the same. "It'll only be a moment. There's things need saying we can't say in front of yourself and the children. Won't be long."
"But the children's dinner . . ." she cast about. "Well, I suppose they can take it out to the parlour."
"Yes, go do that," Quayle said. He reached out, took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze.
Rowan watched as Quayle's wife got up and ushered the children out with their bowls of stew.
"Thanks for the food, Ma'am," Rowan said. She nodded politely and closed the door behind her.
* * *
Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Quayle broke the silence.
"I never thought I'd see you at my doorstep," he said. "Never thought I'd see you alive again, to tell the truth."
"Well, here I am."
"How did you find me?"
Rowan slid the bowl of stew away to the side. "That don't matter. It took me long enough. And it's been worth the wait."
"Listen, I want you to know –"
"That you're a changed man?" Rowan spat. "That you've settled down now so that makes you different to the fucking cunt who killed my family? Sat there on your big fucking horse as my children perished in the house fire? As your men raped and murdered my wife?"
Quayle swallowed.
"I have travelled the land searching for you, Quayle. I have looked high and low. For a long time I believed you were dead. But then I asked a Captain the same question I'd been asking all that time. Only this time around, I got an answer worth a shit," Rowan said. He opened his arms to encompass the entire building. "I've gotta say, I didn't expect this."
"Took a lot of hard work to get it."
"A lot of murder you mean."
"It's work. Or it was. I'm not that man anymore. I'm really not."
Rowan leaned forward. "You'll always be that man. Killer of women and children. What was the reason for it, eh?"
"There was never any reason," Quayle sighed. "Spread mayhem throughout the land. That's what we were employed to do."
Rowan took deep breaths. "Mayhem, eh? How about I work a little mayhem myself with your family? How does that sit with you?"
"You wouldn't. You can't. You don't have it in you," Quayle said, though his voice was shaky and unsure of itself. "That would be reciprocity for the sake of itself."
Rowan shrugged. "Did you pay me any thought when you did that to my family? When you stole them from me?"
The man he'd spent three summers and three winters looking for turned his hands over on the table top, studied the palms. "So much blood on these hands. So much wrong I've worked with 'em," he looked up. "I can only beg forgiveness."
Rowan got up. There was a door at the back of the kitchen that led to the outside. He backed off, drew his sword.
"Don't wash with me, friend," he said. "But I came here to settle my score with you. Not them. Their hands are clean, Quayle."
Rowan reached behind him, turned the handle, and threw the back door wide open. Bitterly cold wind rushed into the kitchen. The flames in the wide fireplace guttered and died.
Quayle got slowly to his feet. "This how we're gonna do this?"
Rowan nodded.
"I'll have to go get my sword."
"Do it," Rowan said. "I'm in no rush."
He walked outside.
* * *
Rowan thought: There comes a time when there's nothing left but to see something through to the end.
He thought: All this time I've been hunting him down, my only desire that kept me going those years was to see him dead by my hand. Now that opportunity is here, it's lost all its flavour. A bit of good cooking that's been left far too long and turned bland, tasteless.
He thought: Still, I'll eat it anyway. It's all I can do. Now I'm at the end, everything has come full circle.
Quayle stepped outside as Rowan backed off, sword held at the ready. Quayle had his own blade held before him, treading gingerly in the snow, slow and measured.
"We don't have to do this," Quayle said. "I can hand myself into the law. Explain what I did."
"Don't wash with me," Rowan said. "After all, you could've been arrested on your name alone. Seems to me the law in this town have turned a blind eye."
"So you'll attempt to kill me? On my land, with my wife and children in the house . . ." Quayle said, outraged. "Then I guess they'll be next."
"No, that's where you're wrong. I won't kill your wife and children. My problem is with you, Quayle. Not them. I'm not a murderer of women and children."
"Neither am I," Quayle said. "Not anymore."
Rowan shook his head. "Too late."
Quayle shifted his grip on the sword. He stepped in, bracing to either make a jab himself or defend against one.
Rowan thought: This is it now.
Errant snowflakes drifted slowly to the white ground as Rowan closed in, hacked down with his sword. Quayle blocked it, their blades scraping together. Quayle pushed him back then stepped out of the way when Rowan took another swipe.
"Why did you do it?" Rowan asked through gritted teeth as Quayle took the offensive himself, jabbed forward. Rowan caught the hit with his sword, knocked it shy a half inch. It barely scraped past his hip.
"It's what happened. I don't have the right words t
o say. I'm sorry it happened. I regret it every day I wake to find myself blessed with my own wife and children. To know I deprived a man of all I now hold dear."
Rowan grunted as he swung left, swung right, drove Quayle back in a sudden burst of rage. Their swords clanged together, again and again, Quayle locking him on the last hit, pressing against him till he was off and circling again.
Quayle jabbed at him, he knocked it off, pricked the man's arm with the point of his blade. A small rose head of blood developed on Quayle's shirt, a red blot in the material. Some dripped down onto the snow.
Blood lets blood.
There was nothing but the quiet farmhouse, the blanket of clouds above and the smothering of white snow under foot. And the two of them, circling, attacking one another.
"I'm not the same man," Quayle said.
"I don't care," Rowan said. A single jackdaw flew overheard, screeching at the top of its lungs. Rowan swiped up, recovered from Quayle's parry, lifted the sword to his right shoulder and hacked down. Quayle barely blocked the hit, stumbling to the side and falling down in the snow.
Rowan held him at bay with the point of his sword, panting hard, breath smoking out on the freezing cold air. Quayle looked up at him, his one green eye seeming to plead.
"Time to finish it," Rowan said.
Quayle closed his eye, nodded once. He opened it again and looked back up. "Aye."
Rowan raised his sword.
"Papa."
He turned his head to see one of Quayle's sons step out from the threshold of the doorway, his Mother behind him. The other three were crowded in around her. Rowan suddenly wondered how long they'd been standing there. All at once he looked at the young boy and all he saw was . . . was . . . innocence. He saw Rilen in him. He saw his own son. Fresh faced. A son who very much loved his Father, unaware of the man's own failings.
He let his sword arm drop to his side as the boy ran out and threw his arms around Quayle. The man cradled him against his chest, and Rowan saw tears there on his cheek, glittering in the cold sunlight.
"Please," the boy said, looking up at Rowan. "Please don't hurt my Papa."
Rowan felt his heart break as he looked into the child's eyes. Felt every ounce of fight leave him like vapour. He looked back at Quayle's wife, his other children. The look of fear on their faces.
I hold all the cards. I hold their entire lives in the palm of my hands. How can I do to them what he did to me?
He slid the sword back into his belt.
"Give me your weapon," Rowan told Quayle.
Quayle lifted it blade first, hilt toward Rowan. He closed his hand around it, regarded it for a moment, then tossed it away where it disappeared in the snow.
"What now?" Quayle asked.
"Now . . . nothing. Not between me and you. Far as I'm concerned, there is no me and you."
Quayle nodded.
"Do right by them," Rowan warned him. "They saved your life today."
As he walked off, Quayle's other three children rushed out to their father, wrapped their arms around him, sobbing. Rowan went around the side of the house, to the front. He felt . . . relief.
It's done.
Twenty Two
Vrand – now elevated to the rank of Captain following the death of his commanding officer, and his own success at defeating West's men – climbed down from his horse. As he did so, his entourage followed suit. Four men had ridden with him, one either side, one in front, and one taking up his rear.
The Captain walked into the lawman's office, resplendent in his spotless uniform.
"Captain Vrand," he said shaking the man's hand.
"Brady," he said. "So, uh, what can I do for you?"
Vrand folded his arms. "It has been brought to my attention that a wanted man has come to Greyside, a man I am most eager to get my hands on."
"Oh, this one," Brady said. He opened one of the cell doors at the back of the office. In the shadows he didn't look anything like Vrand had remembered. "Came in yesterday. Women held him up, put two and two together, worked out what he'd be worth and brought him in."
"Interesting. And they didn't have anyone else with them?"
"Only a bearded man. Tall fella, looked like some kind of wanderer," Brady said with distaste. "Carried a staff of some kind."
"Interesting," Vrand said again, though he visibly was anything but. "And no other male traveller with them?"
"Not that they said."
"What about him?" Vrand asked, peering into the cell. The man sat on a bench, head low, eyes to the floor. It was hard to tell if he was merely asleep or just trying unsuccessfully not to be seen. "Hey you, look up."
The man did as he was told.
Vrand shook his head. "No that's not him. Has he said anything at all?"
"Yeah, plenty about how innocent he is," Brady said.
Vrand strode into the cell, lifted Tyrer's chin with one finger so that he could stare down into his eyes. It had the desired effect of holding him completely captive.
"Who caught you?"
"Two women," the man said, but before he'd even finished saying the word 'women' a loud slap stopped him dead. Captain Vrand's hand.
"The truth," Vrand said.
The man cleared his throat. "Two women . . . and two men."
"Who were they?"
"One was a big bastard, called himself Crow. Kept showing off his skills," the man said. "What he could do with his staff, and on and on and on."
"And the other? You said there were two males."
"Yeah I know. Black? Something Black he's called?"
Vrand smiled, lips peeled back to show white teeth, as if he were a serpent.
Rowan Black. "Excellent," he hissed.
* * *
Crowstone lit the end of his pipe, inhaled the smoke and released it slowly through his nose, savouring the effect. His staff rested against the wall to the side of him and there was a fresh pint on the table. He barely had time to lift the glass and take a sip before a Captain and his guards burst into the tavern, throwing the door wide.
His eyes fell immediately on Crow.
"So you would be the mage I've heard so much about," the Captain said.
Crowstone set his beer down on the table and wiped the foam from around his mouth. "The name's William Crowstone. Friends call me Bill. Really good friends call me Crow," he said. His eyes were rock hard pools of darkness. "You can call me Crowstone."
"Ah," the Captain said. "Like that is it?"
He pulled up a chair. His guards watched everything around them. Two behind the Captain, one at the front door, and one at the back. Covering their leader on all sides.
"I didn't give you permission to join me," Crow said.
The Captain smiled but there was no humour in it. "I didn't ask."
He sucked on his pipe. "What do you want?"
"Black. Rowan Black. Where is he? Tell me and I will save you a death sentence."
"I don't know any Rowan Black," Crowstone said.
"You are a liar," the Captain sneered. "I know for a fact that you travelled with Black, and that he assisted in apprehending the wanted criminal Garth Tyrer. I also know that he stayed here last night."
"Oh? Then you know considerably more than I."
Vrand slammed his fist down on the table. The beer glass jittered, drink slopping down its side. Crowstone watched the beer pool around the glass on the table top. When he looked up, his gaze was fierce. "You spilled my beer."
"I'll spill your fucking guts if that's what it takes, old man!"
Crowstone reached for his staff, stamped it on the floor. There was a flash of light, a plume of smoke where he'd been sitting. Vrand waved at the milky smoke, blinking away the after-image of the flash and peered forward. Crowstone's seat was empty.
"Where –"
Crow's staff struck one guard, sent him flying against a far wall as if he were an insect swatted aside by a giant. He ducked, the other guard's sword swishing over his head and swung his st
aff up and over behind him. There was another flash of light where it hit the guard, the life blasted out of him instantly.
Vrand was up, sword nearly out of its sheaf. Crow slapped him in the face. Vrand's hands reflexively rose to touch his cheeks. He looked like a performing monkey. Crowstone shoved the pointed end of his staff into the Captain's stomach, bowling him over the table top, the beer spilling over him. The guards from the front and back doors converged on him, swords raised. He closed his eyes, held the staff before him, their weapons a second away from cleaving him in two.
A thunder crack broke the air, sent the two men flying in separate directions. Every bottle behind the bar shattered apart, glass blown to a thousand pieces. The tables were turned on their sides, chairs and stools upended. Vrand staggered to his feet, a deep gash along his forehead, a thick line of blood running down.
Crowstone opened his eyes, surveyed the carnage, and slowly turned to face him.
"You are but an insect under my boot," Crow boomed, his suddenly deep voice filling the entire room. "A bug to be squashed."
Vrand swallowed hard, his eyes bloodshot and raw. "Uhhh."
"Rowan Black is dead. Repeat."
He looked back at Crowstone stupidly, as though he did not understand. Then he repeated after him. "Rowan Black is . . . dead."
"You found nothing."
"I . . . found nothing."
"The criminal we delivered here, Garth Tyrer, is to be released without further charge," Crowstone said, his face dark, his voice low and intimidating as he took slow steps toward the quivering Captain. "He is to be given a second chance."
"Released . . . second chance . . ."
"And that is what I shall give you. A second chance to prove that you are not a complete and utter weasel. You will remember this lesson, dear Captain, the next time you challenge a mage, and know the Order of Eld wields a power you couldn't ever comprehend. Has that entered your thick skull?"
Vrand blinked. "Uh . . . yes. Yes of course."
Crowstone slammed his staff down on the floor once more, and when the glare had subsided and the milky vapour had thinned, all that was left before Captain Vrand were corpses and mess.
* * *
At the outskirts of town, Crowstone found Patti and Annette awaiting him as planned, his pony with them. He climbed up into the saddle.
