The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown) (12 page)

It's be
en a while,
he thought as Patti peeled off her clothes in front of him, eyes locked on his the whole time. It was fair to say he'd already risen to the occasion. His fingers fumbled with the buttons at the neck of his shirt, but he got them undone and pulled the shirt up, tossed it into a corner. Patti stood before him, dressed only in her briefs, nipples of both breasts ripe and hard. She came forward, one candle on the nightstand illuminating her as she ran her hands across his chest, down his abdomen. She gave his stiff cock a squeeze through the material of his trousers.

Rowan groaned.

"Better get these off," Patti said, already loosening his belt. He helped her along, then sat on the bed as she slid out of her underpants. Rowan pulled her toward him, held her close, her tits against his chest as he sank back on the bed with her on top. They kissed, her tongue finding his through the firm press of their lips.

Her legs either side of him, she ground herself against his throbbing member, his hands tracing the line of her back, her hips, up to the soft rush of her hair. There was no need for him to touch her, to prepare her. She was ready for him when his cock found her entrance and she settled down on him, buried all the way to the hilt before she drove herself back and forth.
Patti breathed in his ear, husky and frantic as she fucked him, and Rowan held her close. He welcomed the feeling of another's body against his own, her skin on his, her building sweat when she sat up, leaning back and bearing down on his cock.

Rowan reached up, caressed her tits, stroked her nipples as she rode him harder and harder, breath pulling up short as she came on top of him. The sensation of her cunt tightening on his cock brought him to join her and he arched his back in ecstasy, eyes closed, taken years in the past to a happier time, a life he'd once had and lost. A woman he had loved, and married and with whom he'd had children. They had often made love, sometimes in front of the fire, holding one another long into the night.

Patti came to rest on top of him, and he felt around, found the edge of the sheet and pulled it over them. She kissed his chin, his lips. He responded in kind, held her close to him, eyes still closed, not wanting the illusion to end. But he knew it must, knew he must eventually open his eyes and return to the present – where he'd lost everything. But the old adage was true.

A man who has lost e
verything has nothing to lose . . .

Later
that night he felt the urge again. This time he lay on top of her, the bed smashing the wall as he surged in and out of her, their wet parts slapping against each other. They kissed, and he held her as he came inside of her, and she kissed him after.

He drank cold water from a jug on the nightstand.

"That's a big scar up your back," she said, watching him. He got back in the bed and she made him turn over so she could touch it and confirm it real. Her finger traced the long, jagged line of the cut Quayle had delivered. Rowan thought back to the pain and fever brought about by that cut, one the good Ceeli had had the requisite knowledge to seal up without him getting an infection.

"It's the reason I'm here," he said.

"Oh."

The silence stretched out for a time. "I'm going to kill some people tomorrow."

Again her finger ran along his scar. It made his hair stand on end. "The same people who did this?"

"Yeah."

"Will I see you after?" she asked.

Rowan sat up, his head in his hands. She stroked his scarred back.
Right where it always hurt. "Patti . . ."

"It's
all right," she whispered. "I never believed this would be more than a one-time thing anyway. You have to do what you have to do."

Her hand found his shoulder. He reached up, placed his hand over hers. "Thank you for tonight. You don't know how long it's been."

"Lay with me. Just for tonight. It's been a while for me, too," she said, reclining back on the bed. He lay back down himself, on his side, curled into her with his arm around her waist.

"Have you ever been South?" he asked her.

"No. Have you?"

"When I was a young man. I
lived down there for a while. In a fishing village on the coast. I doubt you've ever seen the sea, either, have you?" Rowan asked her.

"Is it as big as they say?"

He smiled, though she couldn't see it in the darkness. "So big you can't see the end of it."

"Why didn't you stay down there?"

Rowan drew a deep breath. Exhaled. Felt his chest ache at the memory of that time. "I missed home," he lied. It couldn't have been further from the truth.

He had run South
, a scared boy with his tail between his legs. He'd come back a man, the final impression of Rowan Black set in stone by then. By what happened.

He'd found love down there by the sea. Found it
 . . . and lost it. Like much of his past, it seemed a lifetime ago to him now.

"Come on. Let's sleep," Patti whispered to him.

Sleep came easy, but was short-lived. As the first blue hints of dawn crept into the room, Rowan snuck out dressed in only his trousers, the rest of his clothes bundled in his arms. He went to his own room, quietly shut the door and set to work.

He had steel to sharpen
, though it remained little more than a ritual.

* * *

Crowstone stood outside in the early hours, smoking from his pipe. The narrow streets were quiet. In the distance, away from the buildings, the frozen lake shone pearlescent in the moonlight.

He watched his smoke rise slowly into the darkness
, and for the not the first time in his life, he considered the scattering of constellations. Patterns of stars meant to hold great meaning – just a way of finding order in chaos, he supposed.

Men were want to do
that. Find something in the mad jumble of life that had meaning. That told them something about the universe in which they lived that they could comprehend.

He peered about. No-one in sight.

Crowstone reached inside his clothes, removed the pendant he'd carried about his neck for longer than he could remember. The metal shard glimmered, the chain running through a hole at the top of it.

Star metal.

It was hard to believe that metal could fall from the sky, but it had in the past. And he knew it would do again. Just as he knew that the stars were fiery orbs –
the same as the sun that rose in the morning
 – he knew that up there in the dark folds of space there were rocks hurtling through the nothingness. Occasionally they fell to the ground and left behind great scars across the landscape.

And deposits of metal
that had felt the kiss of a thousand suns, the ice cold embrace of the void in between. Such metal went back to the beginnings of time, to the dawn of all magic.

He kissed the pendant
, then pushed it back down inside his clothes.
"One day,"
they'd said,
"you'll need this."

Crowstone still had
very little comprehension of what exactly they had meant by that. But the thought of carrying with him a small remnant of a star about his neck was thrilling enough not to question their words. And besides, for all he knew, they were right. One day he would hear the metal calling.

Then
he'd have to answer . . .

* * *

The sun broke through the thin, cheap curtains and caused Patti to stir. She felt like she'd not properly slept a wink since Rowan had liberated her from the store prior. But last night, sleep had found her, and found her good. She shifted back, expected to feel his body there. She turned to look and found herself the only occupant. Not that it surprised her, but Patti found herself disappointed in either case.

She dressed quickly, went out into the hall and tapped on his door. It swung open. She walked in, quiet as a mouse, looking for any sign of him. The bed was made,
everything as it should be. Except no lodger. And no sign of his things.

A board creaked out in the hall and her heart nearly leapt from her chest.

"Oh my, you startled me!" she cried.

Crowstone peered into the room. "Gone
already I see."

"Yes," she said, looking back. "He didn't say goodbye."

"I'm afraid that man has said goodbye a great many times in his life," Crowstone said with a sigh. "So I do not hold any ill will against him for not having done so."

"I suppose you're right."

"It doesn't mean he wouldn't have liked to though, I bet," Crow said. "He's a very complex man. And yet he is, at the same time, a simple one."

"I don't follow."

"Come with me downstairs. We shall have the landlady fetch us tea, and perhaps something to eat, while I discuss an item of business with you," Crowstone said. "I believe you will find what I have to say quite relevant when it comes to yourself and Mister Black . . ."

* * *

The horse breathed smoke as it stamped through the snow, the farm looming into view. Behind him lay the town of Greyside, and beyond that, the frozen lake. The sun made the icy expanse look like smooth granite, reflecting here and there like so many imperfections.

It's a good town
, he thought as he looked back at it.
Not a bad place to live, I'd wager.
Then he looked forward, saw the farm in the mist that coiled and writhed above the snow, and his heart hardened. Hope lay behind him, with only misery and hate ahead. He had waited a long time – once he'd believed it would never happen. But Rowan had continued to fight with Larch West in either case, just to be completely sure. Quayle had done a good job of hiding at the end of the war between the King and Wagstaff. He'd had no part to play in the civil war but that hadn't stopped Rowan looking for him.

Got you now you bastard
, Rowan thought as he brought the horse to a stop and climbed down. He secured the reins to a snapped tree trunk at the side of the road, ensured he had all his gear and proceeded the rest of the way on foot. Although he would make more noise than usual, he also knew that none of it could possibly be compared with that made by the horse. His travel worn boots allowed him to move swiftly, even through the snow and ice. He was soon at the gate to the farm, electing to climb up and over it. The gate itself was lodged firmly in the snow, unable to swing left or right. It didn't so much as shift an inch while he climbed over it. The path leading to the big farmhouse had been shoveled clear, allowing him to run along it to the front door. He got there, stood under the threshold, hand on the hilt of his sword. Sounds rang out from within. Rowan stood with his hand braced to pull the blade, took a deep breath to help him keep his nerve, then knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

Rowan blinked.

A woman with curly black hair tucked into a headscarf stood in the doorway, a pinafore on. She had a warm, welcoming face despite the frown there at Rowan's presence.

"Uh
 . . ." Rowan croaked. Words left him. They dried up like weeds in summer.

He'd expected men at the farmhouse. Quayle's crew
, perhaps.

"Mister, no offense, but I don't have all day. How can I help you?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm, uh, looking for Quayle."

How strange those words are, now I say them.

The woman's expression changed instantly. She smiled, stepped to one side. "Well then come in, by all means. Step on through to the kitchen," she said.

Rowan was across the threshold without thinking about it, was following her down a hall
, toward a kitchen bustling with activity. Steamy with cooking.

"Smells good," he said absently, every nerve standing on end, muscles bunched like coiled springs.

"A good stew," she said as she led him into the kitchen. "Nothing like it in this weather, wouldn't you agree?"

A
long table dominated the center of the kitchen. A bowl of bread in the middle, bottles of wine. A man with his back to Rowan conversing with four children on either side of him.

He looked up as the woman walked past. She nodded in the direction of the doorway. "You have a visitor, John."

Quayle turned around.

There was no hat this time. Just tightly curled red hair,
grey at the temples. His one good eye regarded Rowan, widening ever so slightly with recognition. Once again Rowan noticed the scar up the side of Quayle's nose, the split up the left nostril. This time he had a patch over his other eye, the one that was just a gaping hole in his head.

"
I know you."

Rowan stood in the entrance to the kitchen, jaw set, heart beating in his ears.

"That you do."

"We met
 . . . years ago, far as I recall," Quayle said cryptically. His children had turned to look at Rowan, too. The woman –
who had to be Quayle's wife, when he considered the red hair of the three young girls and boy at the table
 – continued with her cooking, back to them. She hummed absently as her husband dealt with their visitor.

"We did."

Quayle glanced sideward at the children, then back to Rowan. "As you can see, things have changed some since we last met. I've settled down."

Rowan fought it back. Fought it back with
everything he had. "Looks like it. Got yourself a family here."

Quayle smiled. It was a thin, meager expression on his weathered, scarred face.

"I always did have," he said. "Took me a long time to come back to 'em."

His wife walked to the table. Evidently she'd been listening in all along. "And we were glad when he did," she said
, hand resting on her husband's shoulder.

Rowan didn't say anything. Quayle's eye remained fixed on him.

"I'd like it if you broke bread with us, Mister . . ."

"Black."

She nodded. "Mister Black. It's a good stew, and there's plenty of it. And I can't see any acquaintance of John's brave that cold to get here and not reward him with a bowl of good, home cooked food."

"No, really
I can't . . ." Rowan began to say but she hurried around the table, took him by the arm and led him to a chair opposite Quayle.

"Nonsense. Sit. I'm about to dish up."

Rowan settled slowly onto the stool, hand still at his sword. Quayle's children eyed him with the fascination children have for strangers who enter their home. It was a far cry from anything Rowan had imagined and now he had no idea how to proceed. Quayle's wife set a bowl of hot stew down in front of her husband, then returned and did the same for Rowan. He looked down at it and saw two hearty dumplings floating in it. The smell made his stomach grumble. But that wasn't all.

"Is it to your liking, Mister Black?" Quayle's wife asked as she saw to the children.

He nodded. "My wife used to make stew just like it," he said, lifting the spoon and tasting some. "Delicious."

"Glad you like it," she said with a smile.

Quayle ate slowly, slurping it up, staring at Rowan.

"Where are you based, Mister Black?" Quayle's wife asked him. "I mean, your family. Have you travelled far?"

"A long way," he said. "It has taken me years to get here."

"Your wife and such? I take it you have children," she said.

He shook his head slowly. Prodded the stew. "No, unfortunately my wife and children died some years ago in a horrific attack on my home."

"Oh no!" Quayle's wife sat down with her own bowl of food. "How terrible."

"Yes," Rowan said. "Yes it was."

She looked at her husband. "John, did you know about this?"

"I did," Quayle said carefully, looking from his wife to his unexpected guest. "I'll bet whoever was responsible regrets it now, looking back."

"I wouldn't be so sure," his wife said. "Cold blooded killers
 –"

"Mary, can I have a moment with our guest?" Quayle cut in.

She looked at him in shock. "Now?"

He nodded, but smiled all the same. "It'll only be a moment. There's things need saying we can't say in front of yourself and the children. Won't be long."

"But the children's dinner . . ." she cast about. "Well, I suppose they can take it out to the parlour."

"Yes, go do that," Quayle said. He reached out, took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze.

Rowan watched as Quayle's wife got up and ushered the children out with their bowls of stew.

"Thanks for the
food, Ma'am," Rowan said. She nodded politely and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Quayle broke the silence.

"I never thought I'd see you at my doorstep," he said. "Never thought I'd see you alive again, to tell the truth."

"Well, here I am."

"How did you find me?"

Rowan slid the bowl of stew away to the side. "That don't matter. It took me long enough. And it's been worth the wait."

"Listen, I want you to know
 –"

"That you're a changed man?" Rowan spat. "That you've settled down now so that makes you different to
the fucking cunt who killed my family? Sat there on your big fucking horse as my children perished in the house fire? As your men raped and murdered my wife?"

Quayle swallowed.

"I have travelled the land searching for you, Quayle. I have looked high and low. For a long time I believed you were dead. But then I asked a Captain the same question I'd been asking all that time. Only this time around, I got an answer worth a shit," Rowan said. He opened his arms to encompass the entire building. "I've gotta say, I didn't expect this."

"Took a lot of hard work to get it."

"A lot of murder you mean."

"It's work. Or it
was
. I'm not that man anymore. I'm really not."

Rowan leaned forward. "You'll
always be that man. Killer of women and children. What was the reason for it, eh?"

"There was never any reason," Quayle sighed. "Spread mayhem throughout the land. That's what we were employed to do."

Rowan took deep breaths. "Mayhem, eh? How about I work a little mayhem myself with your family? How does that sit with you?"

"You wouldn't. You can't. You don't have it in you," Quayle said, though his voice was shaky and unsure of itself. "That would be reciprocity for the sake of itself."

Rowan shrugged. "Did you pay me any thought when you did that to my family? When you stole them from me?"

The man he'd spent three summers and three winters looking for turned his hands over on the table top, studied the palms. "So much blood on these hands. So much wrong I've worked with 'em," he looked up. "I can only beg forgiveness."

Rowan got up. There was a door at the back of the kitchen that led to the outside. He backed off, drew his sword.

"Don't wash with me, friend," he said. "But I came here to settle my score with you. Not them. Their hands are clean, Quayle."

Rowan reached behind him, turned the handle, and threw the back door wide open. Bitterly cold wind rushed into the kitchen. The flames in the wide fireplace guttered and died.

Quayle got slowly to his feet. "This how we're gonna do this?"

Rowan nodded.

"I'll have to go get my sword."

"Do it," Rowan said. "I'm in no rush."

He walked outside.

* * *

Rowan thought:
There comes a time when there's nothing left but to see something through to the end.

He thought:
All this time I've been hunting him down, my only desire that kept me going those years was to see him dead by my hand. Now that opportunity is here, it's lost all its flavour. A bit of good cooking that's been left far too long and turned bland, tasteless.

He thought:
Still, I'll eat it anyway. It's all I can do. Now I'm at the end, everything has come full circle.

Quayle stepped outside as Rowan backed off, sword held at the ready. Quayle had his own blade held before him, treading gingerly in the snow, slow and measured.

"We don't have to do this," Quayle said. "I can hand myself into the law. Explain what I did."

"Don't wash with me," Rowan said. "After
all, you could've been arrested on your name alone. Seems to me the law in this town have turned a blind eye."

"So you'll attempt to kill me? On my land, with my wife and children in the house
 . . ." Quayle said, outraged. "Then I guess they'll be next."

"No, that's where you're wrong. I won't kill your wife and children. My problem is with you, Quayle. Not them. I'm not a murderer of women and children."

"Neither am I," Quayle said. "Not anymore."

Rowan shook his head. "Too late."

Quayle shifted his grip on the sword. He stepped in, bracing to either make a jab himself or defend against one.

Rowan thought:
This is it now.

Errant snowflakes drifted slowly to the white ground as Rowan closed in, hacked down with his sword. Quayle blocked it, their blades scraping together. Quayle pushed him back then stepped out of the way when Rowan took another swipe.

"Why did you do it?" Rowan asked through gritted teeth as Quayle took the offensive himself, jabbed forward. Rowan caught the hit with his sword, knocked it shy a half inch. It barely scraped past his hip.

"It's what happened.
I don't have the right words to say. I'm sorry it happened. I regret it every day I wake to find myself blessed with my own wife and children. To know I deprived a man of all I now hold dear."

Rowan grunted as he swung left, swung right, drove Quayle back in a sudden burst of rage. Their swords clanged together, again and again, Quayle locking him on the last hit, pressing against him till he was off and circling again.

Quayle jabbed at him, he knocked it off, pricked the man's arm with the point of his blade. A small rose head of blood developed on Quayle's shirt, a red blot in the material. Some dripped down onto the snow.

Blood lets blood.

There was nothing but the quiet farmhouse, the blanket of clouds above and the smothering of white snow under foot. And the two of them, circling, attacking one another.

"I'm not the same man," Quayle said.

"I don't care," Rowan said. A single jackdaw flew overheard, screeching at the top of its lungs. Rowan swiped up, recovered from Quayle's parry, lifted the sword to his right shoulder and hacked down. Quayle barely blocked the hit, stumbling to the side and falling down in the snow.

Rowan held him at bay with the point of his sword, panting hard, breath smoking out on the freezing cold air. Quayle looked up at him, his one green eye seeming to plead.

"Time to finish it," Rowan said.

Quayle closed his eye, nodded once. He opened it again and looked back up. "Aye."

Rowan raised his sword.

"Pa
pa."

He turned his head to see one of Quayle's sons step out from the threshold of the doorway, his Mother behind him. The other three were crowded in around her. Rowan suddenly wondered how long they'd been
standing there. All at once he looked at the young boy and all he saw was . . . was . . . innocence. He saw Rilen in him. He saw his own son. Fresh faced. A son who very much loved his Father, unaware of the man's own failings.

He let his sword arm drop to his side as the boy ran out and threw his arms around Quayle. The man cradled him against his chest, and Rowan saw tears there on his cheek, glittering in the cold sunlight.