The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown) (7 page)

The stocky boatman turned around. "Yeah?"

"You know the extra I gave you? To forget I was ever here?"

"Yeah
 . . ."

Rowan drew his sword, walked to the thick heavy post where the rope was tied in a knot so tightly drawn it could never have been untied. He raised the blade above his head. Made ready to do what had to be done. "
That'll cover the cost of renewing this rope."

Tim held up a hand. "No! Don't do it!"

"He doesn't have the balls," Vrand shouted, though he looked anything other than skeptical.

"Sorry," Rowan said and chopped the rope clean in half. The ferryman looked at the limp length of rope in his hand, tossed it to one side and gaped left and right as the current took hold of the ferry, pushing it on with the rest of the river.

"Fuck!" he shouted in temper. His eyes glared. "And fuck
you!
"

Rowan waved at him
. "No, but thanks anyway!"

On the far side Lieutenant Vrand
stood with his arms folded, looking at him with pure hatred as Rowan set off up the bank, safe in the knowledge it would take them hours to find a suitable crossing point. And by then he would be long gone.

Back in the day, Rowan had often found himself in the wild, travelling on foot with nothing but the gear he carried with him. It had not been unusual to find him playing the part of the pursued as much as the pursuer, either. More often than not, jobs worked out opposite to the way he planned them – though they always worked out in the end. Forming their partnership, both Bonnet and Black had agreed on several principles by which to conduct their business, one of those being the completion of every job they were paid to do. No matter what the job was, who it was for, whether or not it went south . . . it had to be seen through to the end, with the job completed as agreed. They demanded their money in advance and they got it because they were worth the risk. However it didn't mean there'd not been some close calls from time to time . . .

Rowan had had no sign of Breaker soldiers or Lieutenant Vrand.
As he'd done in the old days, when as a mercenary his fortune could turn at the flip of a coin, he found a hollow beneath the roots of a large tree, wide enough to admit one person. It was snug under there, and it would keep him obscured from searching eyes. He had hoped for a fire that night, but it wasn't worth the risk. At the moment he seemed to be leaving them in his wake. The most he could do was press northward to Greyside. It was going to be a long journey, especially on foot if he didn't manage to replace the horse he'd lost. And if he could leave Vrand and his men behind, so much the better.

Rowan looked out at the sparse wood, nothing moving but the creak of the branches in the frosty breeze.
All the trees just black shapes against the darkness.

His eyes felt heavy, weighed down.
He pulled the blanket up to his neck, curled up to conserve heat against the cold night air. At least he was out of the wind. The snows would be on their way soon. What they'd had so far was just a precursor to what the winter was truly like. No doubt the worst time to be a hunted fugitive but that was his lot. Sometimes you took what was thrown at you and just kept on going.

My
journey hasn't ended, not by a long shot. The end result is still the same. Find that fucker. He gave the order for them to do what they did. He watched them. He was to blame. Find him, kill him. Only then can I move on. Only then can I bear to let their faces, their names, their memory to fade into the past.

He closed his eyes, felt exhaustion wash over him, the dark embrace of sleep enfolding him in its
forgiving embrace . . .

* * *

"Yes my son?" the Father asks him.

Rowan is seated on a pew, two sacks next to him, along with a long item wrapped in cloth. "Tasker?"

"Yes, that's me," the Father says, frowning. "What can I do for you?"

Rowan looks up at the patch of blue sky showing through the hole in the church roof. "The house of God is in need of repair, Father."

"It always is."

"Perhaps a kindly patron might offer to fund such a repair. And any others a man such as yourself might feel are required."

"Who are you?"

"
My name is Rowan Black," he says. "I was once a mercenary for hire. Quite well known, in fact. I've been a protector, an assassin, a keeper of the peace, a tyrant who burnt whole villages to the ground after looting everything there was worth taking."

The Father swallows
. "And now?"

"I'm not that person anymore."

"I see."

"I've changed."

Father Tasker sits on the other side of the aisle, settles onto the edge of a pew, his hands pressed together. "It is in our capacity as men to change, to bend like corn in the wind."

Rowan smile
s. "I like that. To bend like corn in the wind. It's poetic."

"Yes
."

"Anyway, I have a few possessions I desire to have hidden. I need someone I can trust," Rowan sa
ys. "I didn't think there was anyone more trustworthy than a man of the cloth. And no place safer than the house of God himself."

"Your reasoning is sound."

"So here is what I came here to say. I have two bags here, both contain money. One is for me, one is for the trustworthy individual who offers me assistance to do with what he pleases."

"And what do you require?"

"To hide my money," Rowan turns to the long shape covered in cloth. He lifts it, sets it across his knees. "And this."

Father Tasker nod
s.

"The day may never come when I need this back. I sincerely hope it does
n't. But I will require you to keep it safe and hidden, regardless."

"This is a house of the lord, my son. I cannot have that here."

"You have only to hide it," Rowan says. He shrugs. "Or I can take the second bag of money and find someone else. Though I'll always regret my first choice turned me down . . ."

Tasker r
ises, offers his hand. "I will offer sanctuary to the instrument of your sins."

They sh
ake hands. Rowan glances back up at the hole in the roof. "God works in mysterious ways, Father. I'm sure he will smile down upon you for making the right decision."

Tasker doesn't look convinced. "I am sure."

As Rowan walks away down the centre aisle he feels as though a weight has been lifted. It was not only his money and sword he's left in the hands of the priest, but the burden of his past, too. Everything he'd been before, tucked away. Left in the shadow of yesterday, just the way he wanted it.

He steps outside into the bright sunshine and can't help but smile, feel good about himself for once. It's almost like being reborn.

It's almost like being free.

The
shack sat at a crossroads. A low-slung affair built mostly from timber, with a slanting roof either skewed intentionally or the result of years of standing in bad weather.

The place
looked sad, like a depressed person sat slumped in a chair. Rowan noted the horses stood out front, confined to a pen. No signs of others anywhere. Just the shack, a shelter for kindling, the horses out the front. A thin wisp of grey smoke wafting up from a tall chimney at the side of the structure.

Muffled screams came from inside, and Rowan's hand went straight to his short knife.
He fully intended to go inside, in which case his sword would not do him much good. Rowan pulled the knife from his belt, held it at the ready and proceeded to open the door to the shack. Slowly, inch by inch. Careful not to make any noise. The sounds of struggle came louder and Rowan soon saw the cause. A gaunt man with hardly any hair on his head towered over a young woman. First glance, she might have been mistaken for a girl, but Rowan could see she was a young lady of minute dimensions.

She whimpered on
her back on the floor as he stood over her and weighed a whip in his hands. It was a simple length of leather, but menacing enough when he shuffled it from one open palm to the other as he spoke.

"You see? You give me no choice you little bitch. I've gotta teach you a lesson. Show you the errors of your ways," he told her, unaware of Rowan
behind him. Unaware of the eyes, narrowed slits of fury, watching the scene unfold. "One day you'll learn the proper respect for me. You'll appreciate what I've done for you, taking you in, giving you shelter, a fucking job . . ."

Rowan crept inside, into the light. The woman caught his movement, her
terrified expression changed to hopeful. The man turned around, sensing the movement behind him. Rowan kicked the back of his legs.

He crumpled to the floor, pushed himself up in time for Rowan to land a hearty kick to his ribs. The blow sent him rolling to his other side, gasping for breath, face
beetroot red.

"Filthy fucker," Rowan spat. "A woman about your mark, is she?"

"
Grah . . . grah . . . grah . . .
" was all he managed to say, trying to draw a decent breath.

Rowan put his foot to the side of the man's head, pressed down hard. "This is a store, right?"

"
Grah . . .
"

"I'll take
that as a yes. And the horses out front. For sale?"

"
Graaah . . .
"

"Right. I'll be taking one. And supplies," Rowan looked about. Jerky, cured sausage, strings of dehydrated fruits hanging from pegs in the rafters. Flies circled a crate of rott
ing vegetables in the corner. Rowan sniffed the stale air. "Well, such supplies as you've got, I guess. Smells like a fucking tomb in here."

The woman got to her feet slowly, painfully, timid as a mouse.
Bruises covered her arms, her neck, everywhere she could get hit. "There's not been customers for weeks. Everything's getting spoiled," she said in a weak voice, eyes downcast.

Rowan looked at the
punch marks on her face. He reached out, turned her face into the light to get a better look at the big purple bruises that had blossomed there in the shape of knuckles. "He do this to you, eh?"

She nodded.

"What's this bastard's name?" Rowan asked her.

"Stanthorpe," she whispered, as if the mere mention of his name might bring about a storm
that would blow her away.

"Where'
s he keep his money?"

"I don't know."

Rowan nudged Stanthorpe with his foot. "Hey, you, where d'you keep your cash box?"

The man drew a breath. "Fuck
 . . . you . . ."

"Fuck
me
?" Rowan slammed a boot into his stomach. The man cried out, sputtered blood and spit from his mouth, lips peeled back from sore gums and yellow teeth. "Let's try this again. Where is it? Where d'you keep it?"

"Tobacco box," he groaned.
"Under the counter."

Rowan turned to the girl. "Go have a look why don't you? I've got business with Mister Woman Beater here."

She did as she was told.

"I'll be
taking some stuff from in here," Rowan told Stanthorpe. "Whatever you've got that's not rotten, that is. I'm not paying you for it. But the horse I
will
pay you for. How much?"

"Take it," the man gasped.

Rowan shook his head. "No, no, no. I pay my way. How much for it?"

"Sixty."

"I'll pay you fifty. I said I'd pay my way, not let you screw me over. I'll be taking the gear too," Rowan told him. "Hey, girl, come here. Did you find it?"

She opened the tobacco box. full of
credit notes and bags of coins.

"Don't you touch my fucking stuff!" the man spat.

Rowan put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "You take the contents of that box, and you get out of here, you understand? Take one of the horses and just ride. That's not money in there. It's a chance. Take it."

She looked up at him, eyes wide and bright. He
r hands closed around the box as she closed the lid on it.

"Don't you fucking dare!"

Rowan grabbed a heavy jar off the counter, pitched it at Stanthorpe's head. It shattered against his noggin, sent pickled onions flying everywhere. The hit knocked him out cold. Now the place smelled worse than before.

Rowan dug inside his own m
oneybag. "Here. The fifty for the horse. Take it," he said, dropping the coins into her apron.

"Thank you," she said, eyes flitting to her inert captor and back. "I
 . . . I . . . don't know what to say."

Rowan had
already filled a sack with food. Whatever was worth taking. "Just promise me you won't take the black and white nag. I've taken a fancy to it."

* * *

He rode with her part of the way, to a crossroads. "You're better off turning left here. There's some quiet villages and such that way. Not bad country out there, either. You might have a chance."

"What about you
?"

He tipped his head straight on ahead of him. "F
arther north. Into the cold."

"Good luck," she said.

"Hey, what's your name anyway?" Rowan asked.

She turned her horse to take the left path. "
Patti."

Rowan smiled. "Well, good luck to you, young
Patti."

"What about you?" she called back when he'd got several strides away from her.

Rowan pulled his horse up, turned around in the saddle. "My name?"

She nodded.

"Black," he said, the suggestion of a grin on his face. "Rowan Black."

"Good day, Rowan Black," Patti said and led her horse off in the opposite direction. Rowan watched h
er for a moment, the sway of Patti's hips in the saddle, then he too went on his way. Northward, as he'd told her.

Into the cold.

* * *

The first scattered snowflakes fell later
that day, seemingly from nowhere. The first true snows. The sky was a clear blue with but a few thick white clouds spread across the horizon. They fell fat and lazy, see-sawing toward the ground in a timeless ballet. Their presence did not surprise him – it was cold enough after all.

Rowan found a burned
-out old farmhouse a couple of miles off the main road and checked to see no one else had had the same idea as him. The blackened frame stood open to the elements. Only the barn was still partially standing, with half the roof still intact.

Oh well,
he thought.
Beats sleeping under a tree.

He fed the horse some of the apples he'd taken from the merchant – well past their best, though his ride didn't seem to mind. Rowan made a small fire, just enough to keep the cold at bay. He chewed some cured meat, st
aring thoughtfully into the flames, replaying the events at the store. While the girl had been preoccupied outside, Rowan found several bottles of cheap whiskey and a substantial stash of fresh tobacco. There'd been no more boxes of money. To his mind, it was a fair enough deal. She took the money, he took the booze and smokes. He had no need for money –
Bonnet and Black had made enough of that in their day, to last a lifetime
– but a strong drink could be a scarce commodity.

Rowan drank from
one of the bottles, the liquor warming his insides as it hit his stomach. Between the blanket on the floor, the warmth of the fire, and the soothing whiskey, he was asleep before long. On the other side of the barn, the snow fell and gathered on the floor.

By morning, the whole countryside was covered white.