The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown)

by Tony Healey

  "Rowan . . ." Father Tasker said, getting back on his feet. "This is not the path of redemption. You must see this!"

  "I don’t care about redemption," he said. Rowan led the Father by the elbow to the door he'd come from. "Go get it, Tasker. I'll wait."

  The priest opened the door.

  "And Father?"

  He turned back to face him, hope there in his eyes. A hope Rowan took no great pleasure in stamping on. "Yes my son?"

  "Redemption and retribution ain't the same thing. Even I know that. Seems to me sometimes a man's gotta stop running from the man he used to be. Accept it. Embrace it for what it is. There's nothing for me here anymore. Only what you got out the back. What you've been hiding for me all this time. It's all I've got left. It's the only way I know, now everything else is gone."

  The holy man nodded. "You'd walk that path again, my son? The way of sin? The way of blood?"

  "Choice is made."

  Tasker returned with the item wrapped in cloth, just as Rowan had given it to him. The sack of money, too. Rowan knew he'd need it. "The choice is only ever what we decide it to be," Tasker said softly, his eyes lit with sadness as Rowan walked outside, removed the cloth, held the weapon out in his hands. Father Tasker would never have allowed him to unsheathe it within the church itself.

  "Heavy as I remember it," Rowan said. The weight of it felt good, reassuring.

  If I'd had it then, my children wouldn't be consigned to the past, Sara gone into the ground.

  He pulled the sword free from its simple scabbard and the bright blade dazzled in the light. A personal gift to him from the notorious Ivan Gont himself, many years before. One each for him and Muriel Bonnet. It had been an entire lifetime ago, it seemed to him. He regarded the weapon in his hands, moved it back and forth, all of it flooding back as if the sword were a key to the past.

  "A mighty sword," Father Tasker said.

  "A gift, long ago. The blade is from the far Eastern Empire. Made by Gont. The toughest steel known to man," Rowan said flatly. "Nothing can break it. They say Gont uses metal fallen from the stars, if you believe that kind of thing."

  "Now I understand why you had me hide it here. I often wondered why you did not simply sell it," Tasker said. "Though I wonder if, perhaps, you thought this day might come . . ."

  Rowan did not answer him. Weak sunlight glinted off the edge of the metal. He held it high and gazed up at it.

  "Whichever road you travel, my son, may God go with you."

  Rowan slid the sword back into the scabbard and looped the belt around his waist. It rested there on his hip, just as it had before, those years ago. Before Sara and the children. Before everything he'd grown to love and cherish had been ripped away from him. Before he'd been left to die in the mud.

  Everything falls into its rightful place.

  "I'm not sure I've got God on my side, Father."

  Tasker smiled. "I will pray for your soul in either case, Rowan. I believe you need it."

  Four

  The farm was quiet save for the chickens wandering freely by the ruins of the house, clucking. Rowan sat on a fallen tree trunk at the edge of the wood, polishing the edge of the blade – though truth be told, he'd never once known it to be blunt.

  We've been through some shit times. But none as shit as this. And I never thought I'd be carrying you again, he thought as he regarded the shining metal. It had never lost its lustre, not after all those long years. What a fool I was to think we'd be parted for long. Two old friends reunited again.

  He looked about. The sky had turned a sickly yellow colour, heavy and oppressive. Ripe with thunder in its belly. I had a home here. A life. A fresh start.

  The stone scraped along the sword's edge as he worked it back and forth. Sat the way he was, his back burned, but he welcomed the pain.

  A shame the cut never got infected. A shame my blood didn't turn green and kill me. Would've been better than waking to find them all gone. Everything I had, burnt to the ground.

  "Nothing for me here now," he muttered aloud. The agony and pain he'd felt before, the crushing grief, replaced by a simmering anger. A fury he was having trouble keeping at bay. It was there in the pain up his back, the wound still fresh. It was there in the way the stone worked the cutting edge of the blade, keeping it sharp. It was there in the way the sky looked ready to split apart in a chorus of electric explosions. All of it and more.

  Time to move on, Rowan thought. He got to his feet. Looked back down at the house. Wish I could've got them out of there. Wish I could have died with them.

  Then he thought: Maybe I did.

  * * *

  The village heaved with people by the time Rowan walked sorely back. Horses tied here, there, and everywhere. Scores of men, some drinking in Ceeli's tavern, some outside, others finding food and supplies from the village folk before they moved on. None of them dressed in Regiment uniforms.

  Royalists, all of them.

  Tarl walked toward Rowan and steered him off to the side. "They're all asking about you up there."

  "Who?"

  "All of 'em. They say the King's dead. They're carrying on the war in his name, even though the top brass have made deals to stop the fighting. They heard what went on down here. They say it was Breakers what did it."

  Rowan nodded once. "Yeah."

  "Don't know what they want with you," Tarl said.

  "Think I might," Rowan said and carried on toward the tavern, Tarl in tow. All eyes turned to follow him as he strode in, none of them aware of the way his back was singing. Or that he was doing an admirable job of hiding it.

  "Rowan . . ." Ceeli started to say from behind the bar.

  "Give me a beer, will you?" he asked her. A space had been made for him at the bar, men moving aside to let him through. Let him get a drink. "I need it. One for Tarl, too."

  "Here you are my luv," Ceeli said.

  Rowan said his thanks, lifted the tankard and took a hearty swallow. It felt good. Tarl did the same next to him, though he eyed the tavern nervously as he drank. He hadn't asked about the sword so far. But it was plain as day there, hanging from his belt.

  Hasn't noticed it. Why would he? He's a simple farmer. Never been in battle. Never killed anyone, Rowan thought. He's a good man. The real deal, not just someone playing at being one. Like I had.

  "You Rowan Black?" a voice asked from behind.

  Rowan took another draught of his ale, set it down and turned around. "That's me. Who's asking?"

  An older man held his hand out. He wore leather armour, had a long grey beard, and stood nearly tall as a ceiling beam. His weathered hands were covered in tattoos and scars. Rowan took notice of the heavy sword at his hip. A man from the far North, by the looks of him. "Name's Larch West. But most just call me Larch."

  The two men shook as everyone else looked on, idle chatter dwindling away to be replaced by curious silence. "You been looking for me?"

  "Heard what happened up at your place. Real sorry for that. Wife, and kiddies too, eh?"

  "Yeah," Rowan said bitterly.

  Larch shook his head slowly. "A sorry business for sure. Makes a man want to do something about it, don't you think?"

  "What're you saying?"

  The older man's eyes sparkled. Young eyes in such a worn, craggy face. "I heard of you, Rowan Black. Way back in the day. A young man who grew up in the South, ended up working with a dark woman from the East. Bonnet and Black. Ice in your veins, the pair of you," Larch said. "Packed it all in and disappeared, disbanded, was what I heard."

  "You heard right," Rowan said. "Decided that way of life weren't for me no more. Tried to move on. Didn't get far."

  Larch glanced down at the sword hanging from his belt. "But ready to get back to it, I reckon. Especially after what's happened here. We could use a man like you, Mister Black. Not just a man with ability, but a man with purpose."

  "That so, huh?"

  "Bonnet and Black this, that and the other. All the time. People know you
r name, and looking at you, now, I know none of it's bollocks," Larch said. "We've got a spare horse out the front; needs a rider if you're so inclined to join us. Help drive these Breakers back. Get us a King back on the throne."

  Rowan stood. He looked at Tarl. The man's eyes pleaded with him not to do it, but Rowan did anyway. He shook Larch's hand again. "I'll go, but on the understanding you know why I'm riding with you. I want to find the bastard who killed my family. I couldn't give a shit about this civil war, or the King, or whoever takes his place. But I'll do what's needed till I get my revenge. On that you can depend."

  "Fair enough son," Larch said. He sipped his beer. "Fair enough."

  * * *

  "What're you doing?" Tarl asked outside. He looked down at the sword. "And where'd you get that from?"

  "Had it from years ago," Rowan said. "Deep down, I always knew I'd use it again. There's no escape sometimes."

  "Escape? Escape from what? I don't understand, Rowan. I don't understand any of it," Tarl said.

  Rowan laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Listen mate, there's a lot you don't know. A lot you wouldn't understand. I had a different life before this place, and now it looks like I'm going back to it."

  Tarl swallowed.

  "You've been good to me you have, Tarl. I won't ever forget it. But I've gotta move on. I've gotta try and find this Quayle. My wife . . . my son . . . and my daughter won't ever rest if I don't," he said, choking back the grief as it welled up again from inside. "I gotta go back to the sword. It's the only thing I have left."

  "You don't have to do this, Rowan. There's another way," Tarl said, taking a step back.

  "No," Rowan said. "There's not."

  "What will you do with your land?"

  He shrugged. "You have it. Do something good with it. Don't matter to me anymore. None of it. Everything I loved is turned to dirt now. Maybe you can do something with it, make something grow there."

  "I don’t know what to say," Tarl said, confused. His eyes kept drifting to the sword.

  "And that’s okay, my friend."

  * * *

  Rowan pressed gold coins into Ceeli's hand. She shook her head, tried to hand them back. "No! I won't accept them."

  He held them firm in her palm. "Take them. You'll need what you can get in the tough times ahead. This country's going to tear itself apart."

  Ceeli's eyes searched his. They widened when they found the hardness there. "All right."

  He turned to Tarl, shook his hand. "You've been good to me, Tarl. I won't forget it."

  "It's still not too late for you to change your mind," Tarl said. "Stay here and rebuild what you had."

  Rowan carefully, painfully got himself up into the saddle of a brown mare Larch had given him. "Some things can never be rebuilt."

  "I wish it weren't true," Tarl said.

  As do I, Rowan thought.

  "Take care of your family."

  "I will."

  "Goodbye to you, Rowan Black," Ceeli said as he turned to leave the village he'd called home for years. "And good luck."

  "Thank you both. I'll come back this way, when I can," Rowan called.

  He never did.

  Part II

  Three Years Later

  Five

  Three summers, three winters . . . Rowan thought as he looked at the others. Look how we've changed.

  They gathered in a forest clearing south of a wide valley. Larch with his big arms folded in front of his chest as he spoke. Their horses tied up a ways from the huddled men, stamping their feet impatiently. At one time, to hear Larch's men ride into town was to bear witness to thunder breaking the earth. Instead, they found themselves diminished both in number and morale. Spending so long fighting a war that had already been lost – decided by those who'd pledged their allegiance with Wagstaff in the beginning – they had become little more than a posse.

  "The civil war is over," Larch declared. "The Royalist's have lost. The Breakers have managed to do everything they set out to do. Turn this country upside down. Try as we might to win it all back from 'em, it didn't work. They whipped us, so they did."

  "Ain't that right!" one of the others, a tall chap by the name of Fin, chimed in.

  "'Tis," Larch agreed. "And as much as it's not how I saw all this playing out, that's the lay of the land. We're the last rabble in these parts trying to keep it going, keep fighting the good fight, and for what? I think maybe it's worth rethinking it all. Considering where we stand in the grand scheme of things and seeing if we still can't come out of this with our heads."

  "What d'you mean?" Rowan asked, looking up at him from where he sat, whittling a bit of a wood with his small knife. "Give ourselves up?"

  "Nobody's saying anything about surrender. We wouldn't be prisoners. But I've heard talk, and I've seen evidence of it. They're promising amnesty to any who go join 'em. All we gotta do is ride on down to the valley yonder, mark a sheet of paper, and all's forgotten. We can move on. Just like the rest o' Starkgard."

  "Sounds an awful lot like surrender to me . . ." Rowan said.

  "Does a bit, Larch," one of the other men – Drury – agreed, his one good eye looking out over the rest of the crew. "We ain't stood down yet."

  "No shame in calling it a day, when the day is done," Larch said resting his heavy gaze on Rowan. "We can't keep fighting them forever."

  Rowan got up. "I can," he said and stalked off. Larch continued talking as he walked away, his deep reassuring voice convincing the others to go with him, to change sides. To turn their backs on all they'd been through and give it up, once and for all. The world had moved on, it seemed. Starkgard had seen civil war and now it was ending – their sole purpose in staying together ending with it. But he was still no closer to finding the son of a bitch who'd killed his family and crushed his chances at a normal, peaceful life. Three summers and three winters and all he had was a name . . .

  Quayle.

  Rowan stood under a great big elm and lit a pipe. His back hurt sometimes – the scar from where he'd been cut was a constant reminder of the past. He leaned against the trunk, wide as a man across, and thought on things. Rowan had not had any of the blood he set out for. And the fire down below, the furnace of hell deep inside him that had made him ride along with the Royalists in the first place, still burned.

  It was the house his kids had perished in. It was the smouldering ruin of his hopes and dreams that had kept him going while the seasons drifted by like leaves in autumn.

  But what Larch said was true. They were outnumbered. The King was dead and the bastard Prime Minister Wagstaff they'd come to call 'High Protector of Starkgard' ran the land in his stead. One monarch replaced with another. It would take an uprising on a huge scale to turn things back the way they'd been and that was just impossible. Futile as trying to stop the great axle on which the world turned.

  Larch's deep bass came from the clearing. ". . . way I see it, you can either go with the flow or drown. Well, I don't know about you boys, but I reckon I've got a few years in me yet. Right now, after all we've been through, I just want to live in peace . . ."

  Rowan sighed. He looked at the pipe in his hands, pressed it to his lips, and drew heavily. The old man talked sense. Of course he did.

  All support for the Royalists had gradually died away, as Wagstaff either won the obedience of those who'd opposed him, or swept them away in the process. The King had never been a good ruler. But to remove a monarchy altogether, to restructure the entire country according to the Prime Minister's own grand design . . . well, Rowan didn't see that as a step up. Sounded a lot like a dictatorship to him.

  But in the face of such odds, there was a definite argument to be made in favour of hanging up their armour and accepting the status quo.

  But that'll never do for me. I can't stop the hunt. I won't, not ever. Not till I've had my pound of flesh, soaked my hands in Quayle's filthy blood. Bathed in it. Used it to wash the misery away.

  He heard footsteps from behi
nd and looked to see Larch plodding toward him through the tree. "Watchya kid," he said with a lopsided grin, same way he always had. "Got any left?"

  "Here." Rowan handed him the pipe and watched him smoke. "Better?"

  Larch nodded and gave it back. "Yeah. I needed that."

  "I reckon you're right. Suggesting what you are," Rowan said. "Probably for the best. For the men."

  "But you don't agree with it," Larch said. "You believe we should fight till the bitter end."

  Rowan shook his head. "It's not that, Larch. You know this was never about a civil war for me. It wasn't ever about who we were fighting against, whose side we were on. It was about catching the cunt calls himself Quayle and stringing him up by his nut sack. Making him pay. For me this has always been my sole motivator. It's not changed."

  "I know."

  Rowan looked up at the pale sky. "Will the others go along with you?"

  "I think so," Larch said. "I think they see our fight's over. We're a small band of outlaws fighting a lost cause. It's not worth it any more. We're swimming upstream and growing weaker all the time. Look at our number. How many we've lost. These men deserve better."

  "True," Rowan said. "Not one of them I'm not proud to stand next to in a fight."

  Larch nodded. "What about you, Black? You going it solo from here on in?"

  "If I have to," Rowan said. "If it kills me, I'll find him, Larch. Bleed him out like a pig."

  The older man stood before him, looked him straight in the eye. "I know you will," he said in a growl. "I've never doubted it. The infamous Rowan Black. The man who took Cabril and defeated the Butcher of Clement. Son, I'm proud to say I rode with you a while. And mighty sorry we can't go no further."

  "Larch . . . you're not worried the minute you lot show your faces down in that valley they'll shoot you through with arrows?"

  Larch shrugged. "They might yet. You know that. Chance we gotta take. That or be the hunted the rest of our lives, however long or short they turn out to be."

  "Fair point."

  "Listen, Rowan . . . you sure you don't want to rethink all this? Give up the chase? Come with us. You can settle someplace else, start again," Larch said. "Rowan . . . you can live."