Bloody Rose

by Nicholas Eames

  Determined to recover the beast’s attention, Freecloud levelled another chop at its ankle. The cut was shallow, glancing off bone. It turned ponderously as the druin darted between its legs.

  When Rose reached the monster’s waist she let Thistle and Thorn tumble to the ground. Using its loincloth for purchase, she clambered onto the creature’s back as it stooped to swipe at Freecloud. There was a ridge of coarse blue fur running the length of its spine, which Rose climbed hand over hand with alarming dexterity.

  Below her, Freecloud was forced to retreat as the cyclops lunged at him with both hands. Fast as the druin was—and no matter how much warning the prescience gave him—the cyclops was simply too big to evade for long. Freecloud ducked a blow so narrowly his ears got clipped, and when the next attack followed Tam could have sworn he stepped into its path instead of out.

  She gasped as Freecloud tumbled violently across the arena. Where he stopped he lay, unmoving.

  The whole of the Ravine seemed to hold its breath. The cyclops loosed a chortling roar and advanced on the crumpled druin.

  Roderick reached up and withdrew his pipe from his mouth. “This is bad,” said the booker, with the bleak resignation of a man watching the neighbour’s dog squat in his yard.

  Tam turned on her uncle. “It can’t kill him, right? They won’t let it.”

  Branigan shook his head. “Who’s they?”

  She looked to either end of the canyon, where a cordon of spearmen stood guard in case the monsters made a break for it. None of them were eager to rescue Freecloud. In fact, she doubted they would challenge the beast even if it came right at them.

  By now Cura’s burning tree creature was bearing down on the cyclops. One of its boughs flung a clump of burning leaves at its enemy, but they bounced from its tortured hide like sparks glancing off iron plate.

  Cura rose unsteadily, her face pale, her sweat-soaked hair plastered across her brow. Tam saw the woman’s chest swell as she drew a breath …

  When she released it, a gale ripped through the boughs of her summoned atrocity. It tore loose every leaf and sent them swarming around the cyclops’s head, a cloud of fiery wasps that scorched its waxy flesh but skittered harmlessly off the leathery lid that closed over its bulbous eye.

  The cyclops put off killing Freecloud long enough to deal with this latest irritation. The two monsters grappled briefly, but the cyclops was much larger and undoubtedly stronger. It hoisted the bare-branched horror overhead and smashed it against the ground like a club. Cura’s creature splintered apart and dissolved into wisps of inky black smoke.

  The Inkwitch slumped to the ground as the cyclops resumed its advance on the unconscious druin.

  Rose was still lost to sight on the monster’s back. But even if she’d guessed from the crowd’s reaction that Cura’s creature was dead and Freecloud was in mortal danger, what could she do?

  No more than I, thought Tam miserably. She nearly jumped out of her skin when her uncle’s hand settled on her shoulder.

  “You might want to look away, Tam. This won’t be pretty.”

  Look away …

  She did. She looked away, and found her gaze drawn to something across the room.

  A length of wood, a bit of string—an instrument begging to be picked up and played. Tam heard it whisper her name in a voice she could barely remember, and suddenly her fingers itched to hold it. Her heart ached to hear it sing.

  She bolted from the window, pushing through the gaggle of mercs behind her. Branigan no doubt assumed she’d gone to retch, or to spare herself the sight of Freecloud being stomped to mush. In truth, Tam had no idea what she was doing, but she’d decided that she had to do something, even if it amounted to nothing.

  She would apologize later to whoever it was that had left their bow unattended.

  Tam shrugged her mother’s lute from her shoulder and replaced it with a near-empty quiver. Then she was gone, past the guards at the armoury gate and sprinting down the ramp as fast as her legs would carry her.

  The sound of the crowd hit her like a physical force, a percussive roar louder than anything she’d ever heard. The quiver bounced painfully against her side, so she chose an arrow at random and tossed the rest, running across the arena floor as if the Heathen’s hounds were snapping at her heels.

  She was already short of breath. Her heart was labouring. Her vision swam. She glimpsed her surroundings in scattered fragments: Cura on her knees, eyes widening as Tam hurtled past her; Freecloud stirring groggily as a bear cub nipped at his ear …

  And then her gaze went up, and up, and Tam found herself looking into the baleful black eye of the cyclops.

  She felt her knees threaten to buckle. Every instinct screamed at her to turn and run away. The monster was bleating at her—the hair-raising mewl of some demented sheep—but Tam could barely hear it over the noise sheeting down the canyon walls and the rasp of her own ragged breath.

  Having concluded (and rightly so) that the bard with the bow presented no threat whatsoever, the cyclops took a final step toward the druin. One more, and Freecloud was dead.

  Now, said the voice in Tam’s head.

  She skidded to a halt, put her arrow to string. On her first attempt to draw the bow she barely bent it at all, since it was much longer than the one she’d used to practice with Tera. She tried again, gritting her teeth as she pulled the fletching to the edge of her jaw.

  The sun was in her eyes, so Tam had to squint to see clearly. She aimed the point of her arrow at the only target she could think of, because when you fought something with one big eye in the middle of its head, choosing something to shoot at was sort of a no-brainer.

  Beyond her centre of focus she saw Rose gain the giant’s shoulder. The mercenary reached out—the runes on her gauntlet burning blue—and a scimitar sprang to her waiting hand.

  Tam took a breath, trying in vain to keep her hands from trembling. The muscles in her arms were on fire. She could feel the arrow straining against her grip, a trained falcon awaiting the command to kill.

  She let it fly.

  Chapter Seven

  View from a Hill

  Tam awoke with the roar of the arena echoing in her ears. Her head was throbbing, and her jaw ached as though she’d taken a punch. Memories began to surface in her mind, ghastly images, like cold corpses floating below the glassy face of a lake. She saw the cyclops toppling, its head cracking like a gourd as it hit the ground. There’d been blood—so much blood—and Tam had fainted dead in front of fifty thousand people.

  So where am I now? she wondered.

  For a moment Tam feared she’d been dreaming—that everything from the cyclops to her father’s farewell had been nothing more than a cruel delusion. She dreaded to hear her father’s voice beyond her door or feel Threnody’s fluffy tail tickle her nose.

  But no, she wasn’t home. She was lying on a stiff cot in the dark. Distant music and fitful orange light filtered through a slatted window above her. She was aboard the argosy, then. The Rebel’s Redoubt. And outside was …

  Fighter’s Camp.

  Tam had heard stories of Fighter’s Camp during her stint at the Cornerstone. It was an overnight celebration held whenever there were fights at the Ravine, attended by hundreds of mercenaries, nobles, wealthy merchants, and just about anyone clever enough to slip past the loose cordon of parked argosies and careless sentries. Bran and Tiamax had sometimes, after several drinks and a great deal of pestering, regaled her with tales of dancing, drinking, and the sort of wild debauchery usually reserved for the top floor of a Whitecrest brothel.

  It was, simply put, the biggest party in Ardburg.

  And she was missing it.

  Tam sat up, groaning at the ache in her skull and waiting for her eyes to make sense of the gloom. Fable’s fortress on wheels was as impressive inside as out. There was a full kitchen at the rear, and a lounge furnished with a well-stocked bar, comfy sofas, and an honest-to-Glif fireplace with a stone chimney and everything.r />
  Farther along were the bunks belonging to Brune, Cura, Roderick, and—as of this morning—Tam herself. The shaman’s rumpled bed was piled with furs, while the Inkwitch slept on black satin sheets and a plethora of luxurious pillows. The booker’s bunk, which was opposite Tam’s, was a mess of soiled straw, mismatched socks, and empty bottles.

  Well, mostly empty bottles. Tam had spotted one beside it earlier that contained a cloudy amber liquid she’d hoped to hell was whiskey.

  Rose and Freecloud shared a large bedroom at the front of the argosy. The door was ajar, and Tam could see a glimmer of light within. She thought about sneaking over and peeking inside but decided to mind her own business and go join the festivities instead.

  She stood, wincing as a board creaked underfoot, then started for the door. Her next step knocked over the half-empty bottle beside Roderick’s bed. The glass rolled noisily down the corridor ahead of her, its contents sloshing onto the floor as it did.

  “Tam?” Rose called out behind her. “Come here. Let me see you.”

  The bard turned, approached the door, and pushed it gently aside.

  Freecloud was laying on a wide bed within. A sheet was drawn to his waist, and Tam stifled a gasp when she saw the bruises darkening the pale gold of his skin. His right shoulder was skinned raw, and a series of small cuts marred one half of his face. The druin’s chest rose and fell with the slow cadence of deep slumber.

  Rose, who was seated on a chair next to the bed, smiled weakly at Tam as she entered. “How you feeling?”

  “Fine, thanks.” She nodded toward the bed. “Is he … Will he be okay?”

  “He will, yes. No thanks to me.” She used a damp cloth to dab sweat from the druin’s forehead. “Listen, Tam … What you did today was—”

  “Stupid, I know.”

  “Very stupid, yes,” said Rose.

  “It was reckless,” Tam added.

  “Absolutely,” Rose agreed.

  “I’m a fool.”

  A smile split the mercenary’s face. “Then you’ll fit right in.” She raised a hand before Tam could heap any more abuse on herself. “But seriously, what you did today was incredibly brave. Thank you.”

  Tam’s face boiled like a kettle at the compliment. She swallowed to keep the steam from spewing out her ears. “My father’ll kill me if finds out.”

  “Oh, he’ll find out,” Rose assured her. “I’d bet all of Ardburg is talking about the bard with the bow tonight.”

  Tam spent a moment gazing sightlessly at the candle on the dresser next to the door. Finally, she asked, “Did I really kill it?”

  Rose dipped her cloth in a bowl of water at her feet. “The cyclops? No, you didn’t. I cut its throat.”

  Tam didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. “I missed, then?”

  “That depends what you were aiming for,” Rose said. She motioned to a strip of cloth binding her right thigh.

  It was a moment before Tam understood. “No …”

  “Yep.”

  “I shot you?”

  “You shot me,” Rose confirmed. “Did a piss-poor job of it, though. I’ve had slivers that bled more when I pulled them out.”

  “I shot you,” Tam repeated dumbly. The pain in her head was receding, crowded out by utter disbelief.

  Rose wrung out her cloth. “Yeah, well, good luck convincing anyone of that. According to fifty thousand witnesses you killed a cyclops with a single arrow.”

  A silence fell between them. A pair of drunks were singing as they passed below the window to Rose’s room. One of them stopped to relieve himself against the Rebel’s Redoubt before hurrying to catch up with his friend. Tam was about to leave as well when the mercenary spoke again.

  “I almost killed him today,” she said, pressing the cloth to Freecloud’s face. “I was sloppy. Irresponsible. We could have fought that thing together, but I tried to do it all by myself. I put my bandmates in danger, and I damn near killed my bard.” She chuckled darkly. “Wouldn’t Dad be proud.”

  “You were fearless,” Tam said.

  “Fearless?” Rose’s voice was suddenly dagger-sharp. She glanced over, eyes lost to the shadow of her furrowed brow. “No, Tam. I was afraid.”

  Freecloud stirred on the bed. He murmured a string of sibilant words in a language Tam took for druic.

  Rose stroked the soft fur of his ear with a callused finger. “You should go,” she said, not unkindly. “Find Brune and Cura—they’ll look after you. It’d be a shame to miss your first Fighter’s Camp.”

  Tam nodded and turned to leave.

  “They’ve named you, by the way.”

  She paused, tucking her hair behind her ear as she looked over her shoulder. Rose’s back was to her, and Tam was struck by how small she seemed just now—this legend, the woman the world called Bloody Rose.

  “Named me what?” Tam asked.

  “Oh, I expect you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Well if it isn’t the Bard herself!”

  Winded from her walk uphill, Tam handed Bran the tin mug of coffee she’d brought him and cupped her own with both hands. “Mercy,” she huffed. “Not you, too. What are you doing up here, anyway? I was looking all over camp for you.”

  “Stretching my legs,” said her uncle. “Clearing my mind. Saying good-bye.”

  “To what? The city?” Ardburg was a hedge of grey stone to the east, crouched beneath a cloud of rising smoke.

  “That too,” he said.

  The wind was brisk this high up, and Tam was grateful she’d woke up wrapped in someone’s cloak—and a fine one, too, with a leather hem and silver scrollwork around the collar. She pulled it closed as she gazed over the sprawl of Fighter’s Camp. Tam couldn’t remember most of what transpired the night before (which was probably for the best), and the things she could recall (like pouring half a bottle of Agrian moonshine into the gory eye socket of Alkain Tor) seemed wildly far-fetched. The only thing Tam knew for certain was that she’d broken just about every rule her father had, and probably a few he hadn’t dreamed up yet.

  “What’s wrong with ‘the Bard’?” Bran chuckled. “It’s a great name. You don’t like it?”

  “I don’t deserve it,” she grumbled.

  “Don’t deserve it? Tam, you killed a cyclops with a single arrow! Do you know how many arrows it took me to kill a cyclops?”

  “How many?”

  “None! I’ve never fought a fucking cyclops, are you kidding me? If I saw one in the Wyld I’d run so fast I’d leave my boots behind! Also, I can’t shoot for shit.”

  “Yeah, well, neither can I, apparently.”

  Her uncle eyed her suspiciously. “How do you figure?”

  “Because I missed! I missed the giant monster standing right in front of me, and I—” She paused to make sure they were alone on the hilltop. They were, but she lowered her voice anyway. “I shot Rose.”

  Bran sputtered hot coffee down the front of his leathers. “You what?”

  “I fucking shot Bloody Rose!” she hissed.

  He stared at her a moment. “Is she dead?”

  “No, she’s not—” Tam scoffed, exasperated. “The arrow only grazed her. Anyway, it was Rose who killed the cyclops, not me.”

  “How?”

  Tam used a finger to mime slitting her throat. “She cut an artery in its neck, but when it fell …”

  “I remember.” Bran grimaced. “Splat.”

  “Splat,” she echoed. “And now everyone assumes I’m some kind of … Well, I don’t know what they think I am, but I had three bookers try to recruit me last night. One of them promised he could have me skirmishing for the Stormcrows in Fivecourt next month! I’m just a bard!” she protested. “Hell, I’m barely even that!”

  “You’re the Bard,” Bran corrected her. He snuck another sip of coffee and pondered the wall of whitecapped mountains to the north. “We don’t get to choose what people think of us, Tam. You’re a legend now, girl, and legends are like rolling stones: Onc
e they get going, it’s best to stay out of their way.”

  “Did you just make that up?” Tam asked.

  Her uncle grinned impishly. “Of course not. I stole it from your mom.”

  Tam laughed, and then spent a long moment studying her uncle’s face: his crooked nose, his grey-shot beard, the wrinkles crowding the corner of his eyes.

  When did he get so old? she wondered.

  “What?” Bran asked, when he caught her staring.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For this,” she said, gesturing down at Fighter’s Camp. “For everything. After Mom died, Dad just sort of … gave up, you know?”

  Her uncle scratched a scar under his jaw. “I know.”

  “I think he resented me,” Tam said, “because I reminded him of her. It must have been hard on him. On you, too. But you were always there for me.”

  Branigan’s grin returned. “That’s because you worked at the bar,” he said, and they both laughed.

  The camp was bustling with activity. Tents were collapsing, teamsters shouting at one another as argosies began rolling onto the muddy road.

  “But seriously,” Bran said, “do me a favour, will you? Be careful. A bard’s duty is to watch, not to fight. Never to fight,” he repeated, a sadness creeping into his voice. “Which reminds me.” He set his mug on the ground and reached beneath the back of his cloak, withdrawing a metal vial about as long as Tam’s hand from top to bottom.

  She frowned at it. “Where were you keeping that?”

  “Not important,” Bran said. “Listen: Just because Fable isn’t going to fight the Brumal Horde doesn’t mean you won’t be in danger. How much do you know about Rose’s past?”

  “Pretty much everything,” Tam replied.

  “Everything that’s in the songs, you mean. You know about the cyclops—everyone does—and you’ve heard about her duel with the centaur prince. You know she burnt the pirate fleet at Freeport and led the survivors of Castia in battle against Lastleaf and the Heartwyld Horde. But did you know that Fable isn’t her first band? Well, it’s not the band it used to be, anyway.”