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

I grunted. “Well, something you should know about me; I do love my heroics.”

“I take it your negotiations did not go well?”

I shook my head but offered nothing in reply.

Ros frowned as if hoping for a different answer. He moved off to the side to peek around the corner. He did it quickly, then once more before returning to where I leaned.

“I count ten and five.”

He took a deep breath.

“Shall we then?” I asked as I flexed my sword arm.

He shook his head. “I’m in no hurry to die. A few moments won’t make much difference. Let’s catch our breath. They are going to wait us out in any case. You and that sword of yours have them convinced you’re a vengeful spirit sent to protect this place.”

I moved Nahdril back and forth in the light.

“Nahdril?” he asked as he read the script etched along the blade. I was more than a little surprised that he could read Illyrian, something few Cyllians could claim.

I shrugged dismissively.

He laughed. “Really, your sword is named Bastard? How fucking perfect.”

“Repent?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

He chuckled. “Not so fitting a name as Nahdril, to be sure. It belonged to my grandfather’s grandfather; he was a priest a long time ago.”

I considered the need for a priest to carry a weapon of war, then remembered stories of the Great Congregation, back when Cyllia was not yet an empire.

“Your father must have been honored to see you take it north, baptize the heathens, and all that,” I said.

He stiffened. “My father died when I was young.”

I nodded. “During the war?”

He shook his head. “The occupation, my mother told me he was killed breaking up a tavern brawl, but I found the truth some years later. He was killed waiting for the boat downriver; he was coming home to see us, to meet me. He wasn’t even in uniform, just stabbed in broad daylight because he was…”

He trailed off. I didn’t think to ask any further.

“My mother died as she told me that story,” he continued. “Fever burned through her when I was seven.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Cyllian.”

He laughed as he moved his hand up to his eyes; the smoke from the fire was bothering them, naturally.

“Seeing as we are in a sharing mood, how about you tell me this story of Belen Hill? The real story. The men told me on our way up here, but I would hear the truth before I die.”

“The truth of what?” I answered evasively.

“You killed six Golmere, unarmed?”

I grinned. “Last time I heard it, I killed ten.”

He looked at me skeptically. “No witnesses? I mean, I’ve seen what you can do with your Bastard there. You want me to believe you killed them all with not but your prick in your hand?”

It was a secret I held. One I had kept hidden. Not even Crylwin or Lira knew the real story. How could they? How would they understand? If there were ever someone to tell it to, it would have been Ada. Cyllians just couldn’t understand.

I looked away. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” he said.

I sighed. “Quin.”

“Come again?”

“It was quin,” I said.

“Fine, don’t tell me. Take your secrets to the grave.”

“You asked for the truth, and that’s the truth. I took them to the cave where we said we stashed the iron. They dragged me inside and…” I trailed off as I picked at the ground with my sword.

“Then what? They just dropped dead?”

“It’s more complicated than that. There…there was this rush of air and… It was dark in the cave. I couldn’t see anything but…but I could hear them choking. When the one holding me dropped, I took his sword and—”

“So when you came back to the hill, covered in blood, carrying the prime’s sword—also covered in blood…”

I nodded. “I couldn’t really explain what happened, so I didn’t say much of anything at first. The story kinda took off on its own from there.”

“The Sword of Belen Hill,” Ros said with amusement. “Didn’t get to keep the sword, did you?”

I shook my head. “Officer took it as soon as I made it back to town. The fellas tried to make a case for me, but I knew better, didn’t have the writ yet.”

Ros grinned. “Fucking Cyllians. I bet it’s sitting on some lord’s wall, damn shame. A blade like that has a story now.”

I took the water skin from his hands and drained the contents.

“Well, I say keep to the story, Ruk,” he said with a grin. “The truth is shit.”

“It usually is.”

A horn sounded in the distance, closer now but still a ways off. Once they merged with the patrol, each of them would fight as two. Whatever advantage fear played in this fight would be gone the moment their numbers became overwhelming.

“You ready, Faerin?” Ros asked, coming to the same conclusion.

I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m ready.”

Chapter Forty and Nine

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

Ros moved to the left, striking swiftly through spear and flesh and bone. He moved like water; he moved like wind. I stayed to his right, protecting his flank as I worked around the circle of Golmere in an effort to reach the two archers positioned at the back.

Nahdril sang as I slashed; I bore down on them and saw the look of fear in their yellow eyes. An arrow sailed harmlessly above me. Another slash, then Water stance, light and quick, up and right and down again. I shifted to Hammer stance, splitting the air before me like splitting wood, then Fortress, with wide defensive sweeps as I recovered and positioned my feet for another assault.

Nahdril felt comfortable in my hands, her weight familiar now as I flowed between stances with ease. It was like remembering the notes of a song long forgotten. Light echoed off steel to my left, and a shriek of pain died in the