The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown) (9 page)

A mage. A shaman. A wizard,
Rowan thought, head more than a little muggy.
A magic man. The kind you hear tell about as a child. The Order of Eld. A fairy tale reaching back to the past.

"So how do you know who I am?" Rowan asked.

"I have held an interest in your comings and goings for a long time," Crow said. "As have other members of the order. You
and
your former associate Muriel Bonnet."

"Why?"

"It's hard to explain," Crow said. "You could say we see potential in your futures."

"Ah ha," Rowan said. He put his empty bowl to one side. "So I've been watched."

Crow shook his head. "No. Not watched. But from time to time I have made it my business to see how you're doing. Luckily for you, I was there when those two bounty hunters set upon you. Though you did an admirable job of fending them off."

"I guess I owe you
my thanks," Rowan said, not more than a little grudgingly. He lifted his top, looked at wounds on his stomach. Red and sore, but the stitches were neat and tidy. Where the wounds were exposed, a poultice had been pressed into the open flesh. He still remembered Ceeli's fingers pressing her own concoction into his wound. It all seemed like a dream now, though not much had changed. "And for these."

"More than welcome. Now, I happened to notice whiskey among your
possessions. Not bad whiskey, either . . ."

Rowan waved a hand. "Open it. I think I more than owe you a drink, as it stands."

Kip sat by the fire crunching through the hare as Crow got up to fetch the liquor. Outside, beyond the window he could see the snow still falling in droves. He remembered, years before, the battle of Karylon. That had been fought in the snow. By the end of the day, the snow was red as a poppy field. Crowstone handed him a tin cup that held a healthy splash of whiskey.

"To a warm fire in cold weather," he said and tapped his cup against Rowan's before throwing it back in one go. "And whiskey. I'll
always drink to that."

* * *

Next day, Rowan was outside helping Crow find food. Kip padded alongside, dry snow like powder on his black fur. The day before, the animal had warmed to Rowan. Sat on his lap, wanting to be stroked. The animal had a surprisingly pleasant aroma, like sweet buttered corn. Rowan hadn't expected Kip to weigh as much as he did and on closer inspection, his claws were quite impressive.

"I see the bear connection now," Rowan
had told Crow as he stroked Kip. "But I'm curious about the cat part. As I said, when I saw him I took him for a big dog . . ."

"Maybe I'll get him to demonstrate tomorrow," Crow
had said. He'd looked at Kip for a second, then rolled his eyes. "All right, Kip. Maybe I'll ask in future. Have you always got to take the offensive?"

Now Rowan watched as Kip clung to the bark of a wide tree, claws allowing him easy purchase as he climbed up into the lower branches. "
That's it, Kip. That nest right there. See it?"

The bearcat went to the nest halfway up the tree and nosed about before he lift
ed his head. Rowan could see an egg in his mouth. Crow stood under him and Kip dropped it – as if the whole thing had been rehearsed before – into Crowstone's open hands. "Five more? That'll have to do. I'll take a half dozen eggs anytime."

Rowan still found it jarring to have Crow respond to Kip's unspoken questions and remarks. But he was getting used to it, slowly, by degrees. The bearcat repeated the trick till all
six eggs were safely stowed like a busker's takings in Crowstone's fur hat. He handed Rowan the hat and said with a wink, "Watch. This is where bear meets cat."

Rowan watched as Kip positioned himself over Crow a good fifteen feet above, and proceeded to dangle, using his long bushy tail to hang from the branch. Crow held his hands out and Kip dropped straight into them – with a slight gasp from Crowstone.

"Heavy?"

The mage nodded as
he put Kip on the ground. "More so each time." The bearcat threw him a reproachful look and strutted off. Crowstone stood next to Rowan. "He gets a bit upset when I mention his weight, would you believe. Quite vain."

If you'd asked me
that a little while ago,
Rowan thought.
I'd have said no. But now? I reckon I'll pretty much believe anything.

* * *

Rowan fed wood into the fireplace. His wounds were much better. Still painful, still sore around the edges. But whatever Crow had pushed into the cuts seemed to have helped them to heal. More importantly, there had been no infection. He remembered the cut up his back and how Ceeli had performed a similar feat with stitching and herbal mush.

He also remembered those same
crude stitches pulling apart as he dug his wife's grave – and that he'd almost relished the pain. For one with big, thick hands, the mage had stitched him up neat and tidy. He stood back, arms crossed and watched as Crowstone busily filled a long wooden pipe with a skunk tobacco that looked more green than brown.

"What did you mean about my future? What you said before," Rowan said.

Crow glanced up. "This will sound fantastical to you, but I'll tell you anyway. Whether you believe it or not, you must be told. Now is the time. There are members of my order who believe that Muriel Bonnet and yourself have a part to play in the destiny of this land. In the shaping of Starkgard. Whether I think them right is not the issue. My job is to serve, to do what I can. To follow the decree of the Order, where that is possible or fair, and see that I help you any way I can."

"The destiny of this land? What's
that supposed to mean?"

"The turmoil
that has, only recently, played out in Starkgard is only the beginning. There is war coming, Rowan. And Starkgard is not prepared for it. For the first time in centuries, the crown has fallen to darkness. The North stands with a politician in command. There will be many pieces on the chess board, and the Order believes that yourself and Miss Bonnet are two such important pieces. It's our job to try to help you around the board, where possible," Crow said. He sighed. "I know none of this makes much sense. But you must trust me. The future is not pre-written. It can only be guessed at. An educated guess, but still . . . guess work nonetheless."

"You say a war. A war with who?"

"That, too, is hard to see. I myself lack the gift of divination. But it has been seen, glimpsed by those who do have that ability. They say it is coming, and that there are numerous people who will have a part to play before the end," Crow explained. He lit the pipe, his face briefly illuminated by the flare. "This land sits upon a knife edge, and nobody sees it. If the right elements come together, Starkgard and its peoples might just make it. If not . . ."

Rowan shook his head.
"This is all very cryptic," he said. "And not a lot of use if you ask me."

"I know it's not," Crowstone said. He extended the pipe. "Here. Have a puff. It won't kill you.
Might clear your head."

He took the pipe, sucked it in, held the smoke
then exhaled slowly, savouring the taste. It was good tobacco, mixed with a little weed as far as he could tell. It certainly made him feel much more relaxed. Rowan handed the pipe back, sat on the floor with a grunt as his stomach muscles sang out. "Good smoke."

"This?" Crowstone said, regarding the pipe
with a chuckle. "This stuff's for babies."

The fire popped in the grate and Kip lay sprawled out before it, eyes closed, chest rising and fallin
g. "Every time I see him, he's asleep," Rowan remarked.

"Yeah
 . . . that's why I called him Kip, cause that's all he does," Crow said. "Besides, I like it when he's asleep. He can't hear what I'm saying. Gives me some peace."

"How comes you can
talk to him anyway? I've never seen his mouth move, never heard anything more than the occasional growl," Rowan said.

Crow tapped his temple. "In here. He speaks to me in here. I can't reply
that way, it doesn't work like that. So I end up looking like I'm talking to myself, which makes me appear even madder than usual. It's got me into one or two situations over the years, trust me."

"
That must get difficult," Rowan remarked.

"You wouldn't believe. And you know what? I think the little
bastard enjoys it," Crow said, pointing his pipe at the sleeping bearcat, looking for all intents and purposes as if butter wouldn't melt in its mouth. "He's got a strange sense of humour that one."

* * *

His horse had been put outside under shelter alongside Crowstone's own ride, a grey pony. Rowan went out there before nightfall to ensure the two animals were secure and covered over. There was no helping the cold, but he could do something to take the edge off. A sheet over each was the most he could manage. He stood stroking the neck of his own horse and wondered if he would get far, should he decide to mount the beast and ride off. Get away from Crowstone and his talking bearcat sooner rather than later. What part did he want in the affairs of Starkgard? In the loss of a king, or the loss of a war for that matter?

He cared only for vengeance. Cared only to get as far as Greyside, where he would see his hands awash with Quayle's blood.

But it occurred to him that he owed Crow for saving his life, and that there was probably more to events than there seemed at first. Perhaps because something is mysterious, it should not be dismissed straight away. Above all else, he wanted to know just what it was the Order of Eld thought his destiny to be.

What did he care if Starkgard became embroiled in yet another war? It had just finished fighting itself – he was sure Starkgard would stand a war with a neighbour
just as well.

His sole purpose, as he saw it, was to find Quayle and kill the son of a bitch. After
that, as far as he was concerned, the future was unwritten. On that score he could wholeheartedly agree with the mage.

And what of Muriel? They'd parted company a long time ago. He'd gone his way, and she'd gone hers. Was she still in the same business? Lending her sword, her bow and arrow to the highest bidder?
If so he'd never heard anything of her. Their decision to go their separate ways had been far from mutual, but still there'd been no feud between them. A little bad blood, perhaps, but nothing to kill each other for.

They'd had a
friendship. She'd not understood why he would want to walk away from the free and easy life, the bags of money, the fine clothes and even finer food.

And though there'd not been romance between them, R
owan still found he cared about her. It was enough to hear her name for him to wonder if she was all right, wherever she was, whatever she was doing. In the same way that a Brother loves his Sister, he worried about her involvement in the Order's premonitions as much as his own.

What could two former mercenaries have to offer the future of the North?

He decided it was better for all concerned if he stuck with Crowstone. When he went back inside, the mage was packing. "We will leave tomorrow after sunrise."

"
Really? So soon?"

"I have been cooped up in here with you for two weeks now.
That's long enough for me. Your wounds will heal properly on the open road," he said. "I despise sitting in one place for too long as it is. Now I see that you are moving about with ease, we should be on our way."

"As you say," Rowan said. He sat on the edge of the
pallet and looked to his sword, propped up against the wall. "I'm headed North, though."

"Same as me," Crowstone said. "A pure coincidence, I am sure."

"Fine," Rowan said.

Crowstone looked up, bushy eyebrows raised. "Besides, I fear the owner of this place may return any day, and I do not wish to be caught in the act
of trespassing if you take my meaning."

They picked their way through the woods, the trees dense. So much so
, they led their mounts by the reigns, walking ahead of them.

Kip trotted along in front of Crowstone, nose working at the frozen air.

(no scent)

"I fear not, my friend," Crow said. "I doubt you'll pick up anything in this. Nothing sticks in the cold."

(true)

Kip glanced behind at Rowan.

(he's going slow . . . looks like he's in a lot of pain)

"I know, but we don't have a choice."

(we could've waited a bit)

Crowstone laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure you'd
like that Kip. A few more weeks in front of the fire. I know you too well."

The bearcat trudged on.

(i'm just saying)

"And don't I know it. You'd hibernate all winter if you were able."

(can't argue with you there . . . when can I ride on the horse anyway?)

"When I can
, and not a minute sooner."

(
get your own eggs next time)

"I just might. I can still climb," Crowstone lied.

(sure)

* * *

Starkgard could never be considered to be a featureless country. The woods gave way to hills and valleys. All of it covered in snow. More woodland and forest cut in from left and right, the occasional stretches of farmlands between.

A
ttempts at roads broke through the countryside, only to dissolve altogether when they met the woods. And more often than not they wouldn't pick back up on the other side. Rivers wide and deep cut their way from the Great Mountains and even in the winter they wouldn't freeze over completely – far too powerful for that.

The lakes we
re another matter. Those fishing villages that grew at their banks over generations came to accept the periods when the lakes are solid ice. At times there could be little to do but wait for them to thaw back out, and in Starkgard, that can take a while.

In the few major cities, life wa
s much different. A different world. But across the majority of the North the living was hard. Cold right to the heart.

Men and wom
en are thrust into that cold, and made, and shaped by it. Most fail. But a few make it through the other side, their bodies, minds and spirits tempered by the extreme temperature. Wits sharpened on the ice.

Where once a tyrant king ruled the land, a tyrant politician took his place. And despite several years
of civil war, he managed to maintain his iron grip on Starkgard and its denizens. He squeezed the kingdom. His lords challenged the barons and dukes for their land, their power. Slowly, piece by piece, Wagstaff gained control over the entire land. And what is a politician anyway but another tyrant?

* * *

They bought thick furs from a passing trader, and though the furs were toasty warm, they did little to alleviate the biting wind at the travellers faces. Kip didn't seem to mind the cold, walking alongside Crow's horse with his nose to the ground.

Rowan found the wind
made his whole face hurt. "I can't wait to get out of this."

"Strong storms off the mountains," Crowstone
said. "Blowing icy breath from the peaks. It'll probably get easier once we come around, start facing west."

"West? I'm headed North," Rowan said.

"Greyside, you said."

"Yeah. North of here."

"You head North as far as Rithford, then turn westward from the little stream," Crowstone said with a smirk. "Trust me. I've travelled all over these parts."

"Good.
Then we shouldn't get lost," Rowan said and continued to urge his horse on. "Is there anything you
don't
know?" he asked over his shoulder.

"The way to make an edible omelette
still eludes me, I'm afraid," Crow said. "But not through lack of trying."

* * *

A thick blanket of white covered the land, ensuring that every mile travelled was virtually indistinguishable from the next. The bare trees stood out in stark relief, the few evergreens among them like oases of colour amongst the monochrome landscape. They crossed a small, shallow river almost frozen entirely to the middle. The horses hooves smashed through the icy crust at its edges.

"How did you come to be a part of this Order?" Rowan asked Crowstone, seemingly out of the blue – but a question he'd been chewing over for some hours.

"It was a long time ago," Crow said.

"How long?"

"Too much to remember."

Rowan sighed with frustration. "Right."

"You seek a lot of answers," the mage said. "For a man with few to give."

"What's
that supposed to mean?"

"Rowan, you have yet to tell me why you are going to
Greyside. Why you are really looking for this Quayle. Why you are not putting the whole business behind you and moving on with your life."

"I can't. I can't do
that."

"How come?"

He thought of his wife. Dead. He thought of his children, burned alive in what had been their family home. He thought of the farm where he'd toiled to give them an honest life. And he thought of the bastard responsible: Quayle. He thought, as he often did, of what he would do to Quayle when he found him. How he would kill him as slowly as possible. How he would make Quayle suffer an agonising death.

"What I have to do
 . . . it's all that's kept me going these years. It's why I joined Larch West and his men. It's why I've done everything I've done. Because at the end of it, I knew I'd catch up with him."

"For pride."

"No!" Rowan snapped. "For what's right. That piece of shit murdered my family in cold blood. I must avenge them. I must see that what needs to happen does so, and by my own hand."

I want to feel his neck in my hands as I squeeze.

"Have you ever considered letting it go? Being the bigger man and letting him live with the knowledge of what he has done?"

I want to stab him in the heart,
then twist the blade. Slowly.

"Never."

I want to deliver one punch after the other, keep on hitting until my hands are raw stumps.

"And what will you do after, Rowan? Where will your vengeance lead you
then?" Crowstone asked. "When all is said and done."

I want to stand over his mutilated corpse. I want to see him in the dirt. I want his skull under my boot as I stamp down.

"Who knows? I can only think so far," Rowan said. He looked up at the pale white sky. It offered little in the way of revelatory inspiration. Nothing that might help him answer Crowstone's question. What would he do after? When he'd killed who needed to be killed, what then? "I guess I'll move on if I can. What else is there?"

Crow smiled. "A fine answer, Rowan. I believe there's hope for you yet."

* * *

"You a good shot with a bow
then?" Rowan asked as they watched several pigeons, huddled together in the top of a tree.

"No," Crowstone said. "Don't own one either."

"How d'you suggest we get them, then? Send him up?" Rowan asked. "They'll spook before he gets to the top."

"I'm sure he means no offense," Crow said to Kip. He got down off his horse. "I have other means."

The mage removed his staff from where it had been tucked among his gear at the pony's side. He walked to the base of the tree, looked up at their prospective dinner, then pressed the top of the staff against the icy bark. He closed his eyes and for a brief moment it looked as though nothing would happen. But then a loud crack rang out, the pigeons fell dead from the top of the tree and landed in the snow at his feet. He gathered them up.

"I don't believe it. What was
that? Magic?"

Crowstone shrugged. "Of a sort."

"But it's just a wooden staff."

"This is no ordinary wood, my friend. And these staffs are not easily replaced when lost or damaged. One must travel far
to do so. Thankfully I have never had to do so," Crowstone said as he tied the pigeons together and hung them from Rowan's saddle.

"Can I have a look?"

Crowstone laughed and held the staff out to him. "Go ahead! Don't worry, in your hands it is but simple wood!"

Rowan looked it over. It was remarkably light for its size. It tapered down to a blunt point at the bottom. At the top
, it was much wider, and carved into a hexagon – perfectly so. The wood itself had a dense, fine grain, unlike any he'd seen before. He handed it back. "Peculiar."

"
That it is," Crowstone said, looking at the staff himself. "And you notice the shape of the top?"

"A hexagon," Rowan said. "Though I fail to see the significance."

"Each staff relates to its owner in a certain way. My own is connected to me through my talents with natural forces. The hexagon is Mother Nature's preferred shape. Consider the humble snowflake, as it forms on the frosty air. The honeycomb in a bee hive. Or the way in which a spider spins its web," Crowstone said, stowing his staff securely in with his gear and climbing back up on the pony. "Nature abhors imperfection as much as it embraces it. Of course, it's all just symbolic."

Rowan wasn't sure what all of
that had meant, but he nodded his head as if he had, and they continued on their way.

* * *

That night, the pigeons cooked over the fire. Kip had already had his, raw, though that didn't stop him from watching the other birds cook, smacking his chops as their juices ran into the fire, causing it to sizzle.

"Here. D'you want a smoke?" Crowstone offered the pipe he'd been pulling on. Rowan was not fool enough to believe the mage was smoking simple tobacco. It had the skunky, mossy smell of weed – a smell he didn't
particularly find offensive. He took the pipe and the taper and lit the end, drawing heavily on it. "It's probably a little late to tell you that it's strong stuff."

Rowan thought it might cause him to have a coughing fit, but instead the weed soothed e
very part of him. Tired and weary as he was, none of it seemed to matter now. His back and his legs no longer ached. The stab wounds across his stomach might as well not have existed for all he cared. He sucked the smoke in again, held it as long as he could, savouring every second of it before letting it depart through his nostrils. He handed the pipe back, sank back against the side of his horse. The rhythmic breathing of the beast further added to his sense of well-being.

"Good stuff," he said, his voice groggy to his ears. "I've not smoked weed in a long time."

Crowstone regarded the pipe thoughtfully. "My best grass. Not the rough mixture of weed and dried animal dung they sell at the smoke houses."

Rowan closed his eyes for a moment, though he didn't feel
like sleeping. When he opened them, the smell of cooking meat seemed to hang on the air, provoking a rumbling from his stomach. The embers from their modest fire drifted up into the night sky; clear as it was, a sea of black populated by swirls of stars. Crowstone was watching him, absently smoking from the pipe.

"Thoughts?"

"I was just thinking how things never turn out the way you think they will," Rowan said. He laughed a little. "You set out into the wide world with all your ideas, and morals, and all that. In your head, you think life is going to deal you a fair hand."

"A life is what you make of it," Crowstone said. He got up, walked to the fire
, and lifted one of the spitted pigeons by the end of the stick, looked it over. "I think they're done."

Rowan got one for himself
then sat back down. The meat was piping hot and though it burned his fingers and his mouth to do so, he couldn't help but tear into it.

"Go on
then, greedy guts," Crowstone said as he threw a leg to Kip. "But watch it, it's hot. Mind, that doesn't seem to stop Master Black."

"
Starving
," Rowan mumbled with his mouth full.

"
That'll be the weed my friend," Crow said. "You smoke it little and often, you get a voracious appetite. Smoke it all the time . . . well, you've only got to visit any number of smoke houses to see just how little appetite you end up with."

"Yeah."

"So . . . you consider your life unfulfilled? Coming back to what you were saying earlier."

Rowan chewed, swallowed. "A bit, yeah. Seems
like I had something really good, till it was torn away from me."

"By this Quayle."

"Yeah."

"And the family life.
That's something you aspire to have, is it?" Crow asked.

Rowan looked into the fire. "Not now. I've had it, and I've lost it, and I don't think I could stand to have both of those things again. You know,
like sand, holding it in your hand and watching as it slips through your fingers." He peered down at the half-eaten pigeon in his own hands, and suddenly found he had no appetite. He tossed the spitted bird over the fire to Kip. The bearcat didn't waste a second in getting stuck in.