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

He popped his head up and gave me a sideways look. He was young, barely old enough to have hair on his nethers. He had green eyes and a mop of red hair.

“It’s six pennies an hour, a noble for two, and a crown for the day,” his voice cracked. “What kind of horse you need?”

“A fast one, I’m in a hurry.”

“Ole Bess is still saddled from this morning, but she isn’t going to get you anywhere faster than you can run.”

I was still breathing heavily from my run to his shop. He took a long look at me and grinned. He scratched at his chin as if to smooth a patch of whiskers that were not there.

“I could give you Steven; he’s the black Roharan in the back there.”

The boy pointed to the corral and the sizeable black beast that was tied to the post at its center. I knew enough about horses to know I didn’t know enough about horses.

I turned back to the boy and opened my purse. “If he is as fast as he looks, I should only need him for two.” I pulled out a silver noble and placed it on the counter. “Can you bring him around front?”

He scratched at his un-beard. “Uh, Steven is a noble for one hour,” he coughed, “not two.”

I fixed a glare his way. He smiled sheepishly. The little shit was dickering with me, and I had no leverage. I needed a fast horse. And he knew I didn’t have the time to inspect its teeth. I was over a barrel and under the ledge.

I slapped another noble on the counter and shouted, “Get the fucking horse!”

The boy slid both coins into his pocket, then scampered off into the back. He returned around the front a few moments later with Steven saddled and ready to go. He was a magnificent looking horse, black and tall and proud. I stepped towards him and ran my hand along his neck. He bobbed his head and put his nose to my hand.

“That’s a good boy,” I soothed, placing a sandaled foot in the stirrup.

“You know you really shouldn’t ride him wearing those,” the boy remarked.

“Just give me the reins.” I huffed. He handed them over, and I eased myself into the saddle. “The sun is two past midday, do you agree?”

The boy nodded quickly.

”I’ll be back by fourth hour. If you try and overcharge me, I swear to all that is—”

“Fourth it is,” the boy said as he opened the corral gate. “Just watch his left, he shies a little on it.”

I looked down at his eye. It was a pale, cloudy blue, not the twin brown of his right. No wonder the boy was trying to hurry me out the gate.

“Did you just sell me on a half-blind horse, you little cocker?”

“No honest, sir, the eye sees just fine. He just spooks a little on that side if you catch my meaning. A little touched is all.”

The boy made a worried gesture with his hands then pressed a finger to the center of his forehead.

I had seen enough of that superstitious nonsense from the old hens at the camps. “Quin’s got nothing to do with it, boy.”

He spat at his feet then repeated the gesture for good measure.

I rolled my eyes and adjusted myself into the saddle. As I eased my heel into Steven’s side, he responded and headed out the corral gate. He was a little jarring at first, but after a few moments, I was able to ease him into a lope. As his stride lengthened, the ride became smoother. I cleared the gates with little more than a wave to the jacks standing at attention, then nudged him one more time, signaling my approval for him to run.

High upon his back, I could feel the jealousy of the wind. I rolled with his body as he ran. The faster he ran, the more comfortable he was to ride. Still, I had to ease him back a few times or risk falling.

We followed the old Illyrian road north for a few miles until it ended at the base of a hill. Dirt paths continued east and west from there, forever scarred by the wheels of so many carriages. We rode east, heading for the hills of Windshear and the Monroe Estate.

We passed one of the three regional granaries that housed the harvest before its transport south. It was massive, several times taller than the House and cast of stone and timber. In its shadow, Rukish farmers toiled in preparation for transport. They moved burlap bags filled with grain in a great line running from the packhouse to the entrance of the granary. There the trail disappeared like a line of ants vanishing into its hive. I slowed enough to venture a wave to them. None returned the gesture.

We rode until the flat farmland turned to sparse forest. There we crested a set of sweeping hills. As we climbed, the vista opened up and revealed a cluster of houses huddled around two larger buildings set in a massive courtyard of grass. The old Venticle church still stood at its center though it no longer held services. A grander building took residence atop the taller hill—the manor house.

Windshear was a village before old Monroe bought out the land and made it his private estate. Some stayed on to work the grounds, most took their coin and parted ways. Monroe had done his lordly duty, erecting an inner wall between the manor house and the village and repairing the outer wall that had fallen into disrepair. Despite being within Forhd’s sphere of protection, you couldn’t be too cautious this close to the West Marches.

We descended the hill, and I eased back on Steven’s reins, slowing him to a steady walk. He had placed us at the estate, almost ten miles from Forhd, in a single burst of sweat and muscle. I looked at