A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

of Golmere camped in our back yard? If this horde of Golmere is even a quarter the strength, he says, it won’t matter who comes later to pick through the rubble and ash. The Seveli may be coming, but the Golmere are already here. And the boy is right; we have an obligation to protect the people of this land.”

He stood from his chair and walked closer to me. He was a typical looking Cyllian, cropped brown hair, deep copper eyes, average height, and build, but there was a dangerous quality to him. He was a hard man who had seen much in his forty or so years. “Twenty against a few hundred isn’t good odds, boy.”

I nodded my head in agreement. “No, but it’s better than sixty against a thousand.”

“You sure?” he asked again, searching me with a piercing stare.

I did not flinch.

That seemed enough for him. He returned to his table of maps.

“Requisition food and supplies as needed.” He scribbled a quick note on a piece of paper and placed it at the edge of the table. “The sigil master will see that it’s fulfilled. If you want locals, the remnants of the 3rd Militia are forming behind us. It’s your mission,” he turned to the captain, “but the men belong to Ros. He will lead.”

“What?” We both shouted in unison.

“Commander,” Ros said pleadingly. “You can’t be serious. We need to remain here.”

“It’s a good plan,” the commander said with a nod. “Bold, reckless, and a better plan than the one we’ve got.”

“Commander?” Ros continued in protest.

The commander gave him a warning look. “It should have been your plan, Captain.”

Ros quieted.

“Commander,” I said cautiously. “Perhaps, the captain is right and better suited for…”

“Have you ever led men into battle, boy?” the commander said hotly, his patience with me wearing dangerously thin. “Ever lead them to their deaths? Now for some reason, I like you. Gods know you have a pair of iron ones hanging there, but if you think I’m going to trust this mission to a fresh copper jacket, you’re mistaken.”

“I have led men before, Commander,” I said warily.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you said you hadn’t served before?”

“Not in the Corps. As a merc,” I continued.

Ros snickered.

The commander gestured for me to continue. “Where at, boy?”

“Belen Hill,” I said softly, barely above a whisper.

“Louder, soldier!”

“Belen Hill!”

He rubbed the back of his head. “That mean anything to you, Ros? I just bloody well got here?”

“What?”

“The boy said Belen Hill.”

I watched as understanding washed over the captain’s face.

“The Sword of Belen Hill, dear gods, that is you,” he said venomously. “I thought you looked familiar. Commander, this twat is some local lord’s pet. The boys and I ran into him and his master the night we came up the river. Didn’t have a sword then, though.”

“Seems he has one now, Ros, and you better hope he knows how to use it.”

“Honestly, sir…”

The commander stamped his fist onto the table, then looked up and smiled. He walked in front of Ros, his steps slow and calm. He stopped inches away from Ros’s face. “Captain, you have been in country less time than it would take me to impregnate your wife if you had the misfortune of having one. You will take this officer with you as your guide. He will help you work the locals; he is one of them, as you keep reminding me. At the very least, he might distract some of the yellow-eyed bastards long enough so that you can slip in, find their leader, and cut off his fucking head.”

Ros’s gaze was fixed far off in the distance. As soon as the commander took a step back, he placed his fist to his chest in salute and acknowledgment.

He stepped towards me then.

“I am not sure who or what you are, but I am not so Cyllian as to ignore luck when the gods grace me with it. Find the bastard,” he said calmly, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder, “and kill him.”

I let him step back and remained silent for a moment.

“Faerin Monroe,” I called out to him just as his scribe Larren returned to his side. “My name is Faerin Monroe.”

The commander nodded.

“I will remember that name.”

Chapter Forty and Five

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

“Dismissed,” the commander said with finality before retiring once more to his chair underneath the tent. Ros stepped away immediately, his direction to the muster grounds at the far end of the square where the 3rd Militia was training.

I followed behind.

“Your horse is at the livery with the rest of our mounts,” Larren said as I passed.

I gave him an appreciative nod and quickened my pace to catch up to Ros.

We were only a short distance away from the tent and rounding the House’s outside edge when Ros stopped abruptly and turned on me. He closed the distance between us in a single step and pressed me against the wall with such force that the air escaped my lungs in a sudden rush. He held me to the wall with his forearm leveraged high upon my chest. He was shorter than I was by at least three or four inches, but he probably had ten or more pounds of muscle on him, the archetype of a superior Cyllian pedigree.

I reached my hand across my body to draw Nahdril, but he grabbed me at the wrist and held my hand firmly to the hilt.

“Let’s get one thing straight, bumpkin,” he spat. “I don’t like your bastard eyes, I don’t like your smug bastard smile, and I don’t like you, bastard.”

“Anything else, sir?” I replied with a smug bastard’s smile.

“This isn’t a game, you son of a—”

“Ruk?”

He matched my stare as he pressed all of his weight into me. I could feel the hundreds of years of hatred between our people. Our parents’ war never ended; it smoldered now beneath layers of ash and death, just waiting for the next generation to pick up the banner.

“Take