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

you boys a little later. This lot has me running all over this place.” With that, she disappeared into the crowd of onlookers and lingering pipe smoke.

Melly was cute, in the way that your neighbor’s daughter was cute. She had pale green eyes, cream-colored skin, and a mop of unruly orange hair that she pinned up in a failed effort to tame the chaos. To me, there was nothing particularly special about her. In truth, accessibility might have been her greatest asset. She was a pretty Rukish girl, probably as fiery in bed as she was in dealing with her customers, but as fun as a run with her might be, I was about business today and she wasn’t her.

“When is this lordling supposed to be here, anyway?” Crylwin asked.

I looked again at the oculus above. “He said midday, but you know how these things go.”

“Quarter past one now,” Crylwin grumbled as he followed my gaze. “Prick.” He turned his chair away from the table to get a better view of the crowd.

Turns was the unofficial watering hole for every jacket and merc looking to earn their stars in the province. Everyone chasing iron or the promise of it came here. But Turns was metropolitan in its collection of dreamers and wicked men, the kind of damp place we Ruks liked to soak our heads. For every man looking to make a name for himself, there was another who only worried over coin, content to grind out a meager Rukish wage to support a meager Rukish life. The old roots, those that knew the war, did it for a whiskey and a chance to spill some blood.

I had seen a crowd near this size a few times. Turns was always good for an extra handful of rabble, especially with a good promise of spoils. On a fine summer day such as this, a fancy lord might come upriver from Gent looking to add a few men to his roster. He’d stop here at Forhd, the last outhouse of civilization in Belen, and with a good speech and a fistful of coins, he might rally some twenty or thirty men, Rukish men mind you, never their own, and head off for the Westmarches to knock some Mere heads around. Most times, they didn’t even cross Belen Hills before they turned back with half a bag of Golmere ears, and their cocks all swollen with pride.

There was never any iron in it, of course. Golmere were primitive compared to the other Meren races. They used weapons made of bone or stone. Occasionally, you might get lucky and kill one that had a stolen copper, but counting on the Golmere to have anything of value beyond their ears was a foolish enterprise. Still, the boys would trot back as pleased as pie as if they had just cleared the Marches like the Illyrians of old.

Today was different; it was a call for coppers, a superstitious detail I couldn’t help but see as a good omen, despite the questionable rabble that now crowded my favorite tavern. It had all the promise of a true war raid, enough to muster out five full Garas, around two hundred fighting men, and nearly the entire local fighting strength of Forhd. These boys wouldn’t be heading into the Westmarches for ears and a couple of laughs; they were headed south and west into Merelands for a proper fight with proper Mere; ears wouldn’t be the only prize.

“You pledging in?” Crylwin asked as he looked over the terms list one of the recruiters had left on the table. “Split looks pretty good.”

I shook my head.

“It has been a long time since I saw a call this size. Last time it had put such a run on copper that folks were hocking everything just to afford a rusted out bronze saber. Looks like every farmdick within two hundred miles is here thinking he could play soldier and win himself some iron.”

“Plenty of folks here just following a promise,” Crylwin noted.

I nodded in agreement.

He turned to me then, his copper-colored eyes questioning.

“You could find iron, too; you fool Ruk.” He rotated his empty glass in the light that illuminated our table. “Sunemere always ride with iron; there should be plenty to go around.”

“I could end up dead,” I said. “And you know as well as I that any iron found would never make it to a split unless we crushed an army of them.” I turned to the recruiter’s terms list and pointed to a similarly worded stipulation. “Lords first, stars second,” I read, shaking my head. “Sure, the day wage looks fair, but the prices on rented coppers will be even worse. This would barely cover my interest to the House—And I won’t be caught riding south with iron.”

“I didn’t think you were superstitious,” he remarked as he pointed to the sheathed sword hanging on the back of the chair.

“Every Ruk is superstitious. You Cyllians have your gods; we have our bones and omens.”

He shrugged as if my words were as useful to him as the empty glass he still held.

“Honestly, you think I would get a fair cut with borrowed iron and no stars on my collar?” I asked. “The nobles would take their pick, and my purse would be just a few coppers heavy for the trouble.”

“All the more reason to get your stars then,” Crylwin said as if ignoring the whole reason for being here.

“Good idea,” I said.

He smirked and looked back towards the bar to get Melly’s attention.

Crylwin didn’t understand my life any more than I understood his. I was Ruk; he was Cyllian. We weren’t supposed to understand each other. In truth, his family was Roharan and had been around since long before the wars. The differences seemed an important enough distinction to him. There was no real difference; they all had copper eyes, and we did not.

“I’m just hoping to get to the House before the run on iron ends,” I explained. “Last time