A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

didn’t think it was true. Purity laws be damned up here, is it?”

I watched the muscles clench around Crylwin’s jaw.

“Say what is your friend there doing in a jacket? I can see the blue of his eyes from here.”

Crylwin turned to me as if seeking permission, but Rohger spoke before he had a chance. “That there is the Sword of Belen Hill!”

The two officers shared a laugh. The jack remained silent.

“The Sword of Belen Hill? Where the fuck is his sword?”

I felt the hair rise on my neck. I leaned on the table, preparing to stand when I heard Lira’s voice ringing. “We’re having a private evening, gentleman. I would appreciate it if it remained as such. Rohger, please put their next round on me.”

She reached for her purse at the center of the table.

The officer turned to his friends and chuckled. “You all let your women do the talking up here? Didn’t figure she was the only one of you with a pair of nethers.”

Lira turned to me. “Let’s just leave; the ambiance has left the room.”

I nodded and moved to stand, but Crylwin didn’t move.

“Save your coppers, missy. Just tell your friend there to stop fucking staring.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Lira said, standing from the table. “We’re leaving. Enjoy your evening. Faerin, Crylwin, let’s go.”

“Oh, and a pretty thing you are,” he continued. “Maybe I will take that drink.” He gestured to the chair next to him. “So long as you come and join me.”

“I’m afraid you would only disappoint,” she replied icily.

The officer stood. “You some kind of sympathist whore, then is it?”

I pushed out of my chair. The sound of it hitting the floor was cut short by the distinct ringing of steel. I turned to my left. Crylwin held his glass of ale in one hand and his broadsword at arm’s length in the other. He leveled the weapon at the trio. His legs wavered, but his arm was straight and steady. Etched along the base of the blade was the word Adamant. In all the tales of Men and Mere, there was never a weapon more aptly named.

“You owe the lady an apology,” Crylwin stated. His voice was slow and calm, considering he held a naked blade leveled at three of Cyllia’s finest.

“Are you daft man, did you just draw against Imperial men? I will have you dragged through the streets.”

“I think you’re mistaken, friend,” Crylwin replied, smiling. “Ya see each of you are sitting there, drinkin the creature, and insulting my friends as you are. Seems to me not a one of you is representing the Empire, or am I mistaken?”

Crylwin took the slightest of steps forward. The other officer joined his comrade, both standing ready with hands held to their blades.

The jack remained seated. With a slight smile, he reached into the fold of his coat and pulled out a leather pouch. Inside the pouch was a stone pipe that he stuffed with a pinch of tobac. From his other pocket, he drew a copper strip that he placed into the burning lamp in front of him.

“You can’t threaten me. I’m a…”

“Oh, I see the stars on yer jacket, friend,” Crylwin interrupted. “I count two silver stars, Lieutenant. That puts me well within my rights to cut yer fuckin nethers off and pay my fine tomorrow.”

“You’ll do what?”

The jack took the heated copper to the tobac in his pipe and puffed until a light bluish smoke began to billow out.

Crylwin shook his head exaggeratedly.

“Oh, my apologies, lads, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Crylwin Monroe, Lordson Crylwin Monroe, son of Lord Edwin Monroe. Some folks round here call me the red hand.” He grinned as he turned his blade in the lamplight. “I canno’ figure why.”

The lieutenant showed his first moment of restraint. He hadn’t realized he was antagonizing someone of Crylwin’s salt. He was Cyllian and ignorant of our ways, but they undoubtedly briefed him on some of the more essential customs before sending him to the North.

I saw the worry in his eyes.

Being a lord came with certain rights, one of which was the right of Woad, a duel of honor traditionally used to resolve disputes among chieftains. Named after the river that ran the length of Belen, the practice was as old as Rukland itself, but like the name, it too had fallen out of favor among civilized men. But this was Forhd, and Turns, and Crylwin.

“So, you would challenge us all to a duel then?” the lieutenant asked.

“No. Just you,” Crylwin said calmly. “I figure after I gut ya in front of yer friends here, I’ll get that apology I asked for.”

The man didn’t move, but he did not draw his blade. The jack continued puffing away at his pipe.

“So, what’ll it be, lad?” Crylwin asked. The flickering light from the lamp danced off his hard, copper eyes. I saw no fear, only fire.

The man hesitated as he weighed his options.

“There will be no Woad, you fools!” Lira shouted. “He’s drunk and would kill you in less time than it would take for him to finish his beer.”

As if on cue, Crylwin downed the remainder of his drink, all the while not breaking his stare. He casually tossed the glass on the table. It didn’t break on impact, and I managed to catch it before it rolled off the table.

“Crylwin, put your sword down,” Lira soothed.

Crylwin didn’t hear her.

“Crylwin!” she shouted. “Put your sword down.”

This time, he obeyed.

As he lowered the blade, she gathered her purse from the table. “Come, we’re leaving.”

She marched towards the exit—stopping halfway between the table and the door. “Take him outside, Faerin.”

I complied and helped him gather his purses. His sword was still out, but he let it hang limply to his side. I managed to get him to the threshold when I saw Lira head towards the men. I moved in pursuit.

“You were right, you know,” she said, moving within a few feet of the lieutenant, “I am a sympathist.”

A sound echoed Turns