Thank you to the author, Michael Michel, and Escapist Book Tours for the opportunity to read and review this book! I look forward to what comes next!
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At night, the Dregs came alive. Dance, drink, and thorn made its way
throughout the taproom in a current of hedonistic striving. A pair of
drovers and their porters slammed tankards together, slopping
godsbrew across the floor. Women from the Gem Loft slid through the
door, leering at the business the night would bring them. Unsavory
and disreputable sorts of folk trickled in and out as the night
dragged into the late hours. Stark naked and toothless, a man from
the slums wandered into the Dregs, hoping to cajole a drunk into
giving him some food or coin, but Meckin shooed him away. A gnarled
man and what seemed to be his grandson smoked pipes in one corner,
here and there clapping for the harpist.
At the back of
the taproom, Barodane drank and brooded alone. He barely felt the
warmth from the hearth on his grimace.
Harp song
slithered through the air alongside a thick pall of smoke hanging
over the gathered patrons. The harpist himself had awoken when he wet
himself. He rebounded well enough after a couple of tankards of
godsbrew and the attention of a young couple who’d never heard a
harp before. The pissant musician beamed, bragged, and slurred about
his skill, and then he indulged them.
Fucking harps.
If I were Crown Prince, they’d be outlawed.
Somehow the young
couple seemed to like it and danced with a broad woman Meckin had
hired to entertain for the night. Her heavy steps rattled the
floorboards, adding a certain upbeat energy to the space.
Barodane watched
Garlenna descend the stairs, each step measured and powerful as if
she could, with any sudden added force, snap the boards underfoot in
two. Her shoulders stayed level and open, regardless of whatever
motion her body made. Proud, powerful, and polite, Garlenna was a
higher breed of human. And an exceedingly dangerous one. The type of
person so foreign to the people of Digtown that Barodane knew they
all saw it.
After the battle
of King’s Crossing, the first thing Barodane had done was strip
himself of anything making him appear of higher standing than a
commoner. So he rounded his shoulders more, made eye contact less,
spoke in gruff, plain language—or not at all—and buried his past
at Rainy Meadows.
Why should you
live when we are all dead? the dead host said. You
should have buried your corpse with ours. But we deserve no such
dishonor. You deserve to die alone…Prince.
Meckin greeted
Garlenna warmly at the bar with a mug of mead. Then a second tankard.
As she approached Barodane’s table, he turned away from her to
watch the harpist poorly regale the crowded inn with a song about
Barodane’s grandparents called, “The Eyes of Love.”
To consort with
Garlenna was to draw unwanted suspicion. After meeting with his
buyer, he would dedicate his time to getting rid of her.
A difficult prospect to imagine.
Her back to the
hearth, Garlenna’s shadow stretched across his table. Memory
flashed. He’d seen this before. Her, standing over him, flame and
smoke and shame hovering like a shovel over a grave. Behind her,
Meckin and some patrons were clearing a space for dancing at the
center of the room. The fireplace crackled and spit an ember next to
Garlenna’s foot. She ground it out then put a tankard next to
Barodane’s arm.
Three long
strides and she took a seat at a nearby table.
Barodane felt her
watching him with her one good eye. How had she found him? What did
she want? For fourteen years he’d eluded his past. He was where he
belonged now. Where Kord belonged.
And nothing
will change that.
It was close to
midnight, which meant his buyer was late. He’d never wanted a deal
over with more. He wanted to sleep, or ascend, or be alone to think.
With Garlenna staying at the Dregs, he’d need to sleep at the Gem
Loft. He didn’t want her following him to either of his stables.
No—she would
already know where he was staying. Most likely she’d been watching
him for a while. Inwardly, he cursed.
With a resounding
bang, the inn’s door ricocheted off the interior wall. Three men
stepped into the Dregs. The way each of them immediately searched the
room marked them as his buyers. A young man with red hair and a
stringy beard looked somewhat familiar to Barodane, but he couldn’t
place him. In the lead was a broad-shouldered man with a demanding
air. His clothing was fine in the way of highborns. The third, a
hollow-eyed companion, was dressed plainly and loomed at the group's
rear. He was tall and thin with a neck that flanged out wider than
his weak chin. All but the redhead wore neatly crafted swords at
their hips.
The redhead
spotted Barodane and whispered into the broad-shouldered man’s ear.
They approached and took seats without asking. Once, Barodane might
have reprimanded them for their presumptuousness.
He did nothing
but slurp from his tankard.
Barodane didn’t
have to see Garlenna to know she discreetly watched his interaction
with the buyer and his muscle. She was a trained agent of the
Sempyrean. A spy of the highest caliber.
“You’re
Kord.” The broad man reached across the table and laid a slap on
Barodane’s honor plate. “No one said you were a shadowguard.”
Barodane stared.
The bull-chested
buyer also bore an honor plate but kept it covered with a finely
woven cloak. Intuition told him it was the steel of a knight he hid
rather than the bronze plate of a crownguard. Dealing with such a
highly trained man was both a rare and risky affair.
“Great,” the
man said. He afforded a quick glance of affirmation at the redhead,
the familiar face. “Jennim tells me you’re the man for godsthorn
around here.”
It wasn’t until
that moment, when the redhead smiled a wide, gap-toothed grin, that
Barodane realized who he was. This was Tyne’s son. Tyne, who he’d
foolishly let himself fall in love with.
Jennim…
He’d been a
little boy when Barodane first wandered into Digtown, half-dead and
blood-caked. The young man’s face became a child’s face in his
memory, pale and expectant. His visits to the Gem Loft had been oft.
“Isn’t my boy the sweetest?” Tyne would say.
Time, however,
had been anything but sweet for the boy. He looked maltreated, strung
out, a few bad breaks away from living in the slums. Sorrow passed
through Barodane like a sip of bitter drink.
“Hey,” the
broad man said, snapping his fingers in Barodane’s face. People
seemed to think that acceptable of late. Really, it just pissed him
off. “I’m making you an offer.”
“Offer?”
“I’m buying
you out.” The broad man smiled.
The lanky third
man surveyed the room, dead eyes alighting everywhere but on
Barodane. When his gaze settled on Garlenna, she too, looked
elsewhere. The tall henchman watched her with unconcealed suspicion.
“Buying me
out.” Barodane grew serious. “Who are you?”
The man drew his
cloak off one shoulder to reveal a burnished-steel honor plate. The
sigil depicted two mason hammers crisscrossing, framed by a pair of
laurels. “Hyram Olabran. My father is Roddic Olabran, the Magnate
of Lah-Tsarra and a member of the Namorite Collective. I don’t
expect matters of state to appeal to every drug lord, but surely
you’ve heard of the Hammer of Breckenbright?”
I’ve met the
prick. When he was young, he vaguely recalled meeting a concrete
man with a rigid quiet about him while attending his father at court
in Alistar. During the Great Betrayal, Roddic Olabran and his masons
had famously held Breckenbright against Scothean siege for the
entirety of the war. The armies of Anjuhkar had finally arrived and
crushed Raeklord Sahuhd’s forces against Breckenbright’s walls.
The battle of the Forgotten Fields, they called it.
By that time,
Barodane had already slain Acramis at King’s Crossing and
disappeared.
“I’m buying
your business and willing to pay quite a lot for it. More than it’s
worth, if that helps. I know we told your man Danuuk we were just
here to make a small purchase, but the truth is one of my men bought
your stuff two months ago and claimed it to be some of the best this
side of Unturrus.” Hyram waved dismissively. “I’ll own the
operation and you get to go back to whatever life you desired before
you became a drug dealer.”
Barodane shook
his head. “Not interested.” He took a loud pull from his tankard.
Jennim blanched.
Hyram remained
smiling, though only in the way of smiles held long after mirth had
come and gone. He chuckled. “I’m not familiar with the kind of
humor you use in this shit-caked town. Digtown, is it? If it’s
anything like the weather, I’m sure it can be quite…dark.” He
paused. “You’re joking. Of course you are. Thorn dealer,
shadowguard, and humorist. A man of many talents.”
Barodane’s
hands curled tighter around his tankard. “I’m far more boring
than you imply. My answer is no.”
With an
expression of false concern, Hyram Olabran leaned forward. “So let
me get this straight. I’m offering you a small fortune to live out
your days drinking wherever and whenever you desire without needing
to deal godsthorn…and you’re saying no. Are you mad?”
The Mad
Prince. Yes. Many call me that. “Quite.”
At this, the
hollow-eyed man turned his attention from Garlenna to Barodane and
stared with deadly focus.
Rage filled
Barodane. “Your man here thinks it wise to watch me with a rapist’s
gaze?”
Hyram frowned.
His eyes wandered to the tankard in Barodane’s hand, then to the
full tankard at his elbow. “Expecting company?”
Barodane glanced
at the harpist then took a quick swig of godsbrew. He sucked his
teeth before falling into a contented silence.
With a grunt,
Hyram slapped Jennim on the shoulder. “Let’s restart, shall we?
I’ll introduce my friends properly. This is Jennim here.” He
hiked a thumb at the tall man. “Eustus there. Eustus doesn’t talk
much. He may be a dullard, so I’m sorry if his gaze has offended
you.”
The holdlord was
in no way sorry. Threats buttered with pleasantry. Barodane well
remembered the ways of highborn. He scoffed. “You travel long
distances and do dark deals with a dullard?”
“Oh, I don’t
think you should worry about that. Eustus may be slow of mind, but he
is fast in the ways I need. Very fast, some uncompromising ghosts
will tell you.” Hyram’s chin lifted. “Now, how much of your
product are you willing to sell since you’re refusing to let me buy
you out entirely?”
“Twenty
thorns.”
Hyram laughed.
Jennim went a shade paler. Twenty thorns would last a heavy addict
less than a month.
“You don’t
understand, do you, Kord?” Hyram wagged a finger at Barodane. “You
could be a very rich man. You have what, a handful of runners
harvesting on Unturrus’s slopes? Maybe two wains? If you share your
spots with me as well as your processing techniques, I can supply the
coin for a fleet of wains and dozens of men to man them. We could
have the most lucrative godsthorn operation from Unturrus to
Breckenbright. We could turn this shit heap into a proper city.”
Lies. Don’t
let him take you from us. Digtown stays, the voices said. You
stay…
He knew Hyram’s
promises rang false. He wanted Barodane to give away his secrets, to
stumble into telling him how many men he employed. Important for some
darker aims.
Barodane stared
into his tankard. “Twenty thorns.”
“The innkeeper
has more than that on hand for fermenting drink. I can do nothing
with that amount.”
Barodane
shrugged. “You could have a good time with it. Or sell it. Or stick
it up each other’s asses. I really don’t care what you do with
it. I imagine Eustus there may enjoy the latter option.”
Hyram’s brow
knit with fury. “You have a harsh tongue, Kord.”
“And you have
an exhausting one. I sell twenty thorns at a time. That’s all.”
“It isn’t.”
Hyram slapped a gloved hand on the table. “Jennim, you said this
man was like a father to you. You said he was different. Wise. Why do
I feel as though I’ve been lied to?”
“Please, Kord,”
Jennim said. “It’s a good deal. Hyram—”
Jennim’s head
bounced off the wall as the highborn delivered a snapping backhand to
the young man’s mouth “Silence, ass. I’ve heard enough of your
empty words.” Hyram looked at the ceiling, took a breath.
“Apologies, Kord. I’ll be clearer. I’m willing to offer—”
“No. I’ll be
clearer. You imagine this is some kind of negotiation, a dance I’m
doing to drive the price of purchase higher. I’ll tell you one last
time—it is not. I won’t sell my operation, not any part of it.
You’ve wasted your time.” Barodane hunkered deeper around his cup
of brew. He scrunched his face into a mask of fake pleasantry.
“Unless you want to buy twenty thorns.”
Hyram drummed the
wood with thick fingers as he looked around the room. “You have…”
He leaned back in the chair, stretching. “Offended me.” He shot
Jennim a withering glare then let it meander back to Barodane. “I
am very offended. Now, I want your supply. I want your operation…the
whole thing.” The young lord of Breckenbright chuckled. “Twenty
thorns…up each other’s asses? Unbelievable. Oh well, Kord. I hope
you’ve enjoyed your life.”
“Yeah,”
Barodane said.
“Eustus,”
Hyram said. “Teach him.”
The reed-thin
dullard’s hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger at his belt.
Garlenna’s chair scraped across the floor as she stood and faced
their table. One hand folded back her cloak to reveal a flanged mace
culminating in four points, one for each of the Sempyrean’s gods of
light. She stood still as a glacier. Her good eye roamed the crowd
for other threats while confidently ignoring the two before her.
Silence hung over
them like an executioner’s ax.
Hyram frowned.
When his eyes found Barodane’s, there was a mix of admiration and
annoyance there. “Kord, you keep interesting company. I wonder how
many are willing to face death at your side?”
He rose. “Eustus,
we’re leaving. For now.”
From the corner
of his eye, Barodane watched them go. Jennim slunk behind, searching
for a way out of whatever awaited him once the trio were out of view
of others.
Barodane settled
back as Garlenna returned to her seat.
There was little
doubt Hyram intended to return. Perhaps at the night’s end they
would be waiting for him. Taking a dagger in the ribs and being left
to bleed out in a muddy alley without fanfare seemed a fitting end.
But have you
suffered enough to deserve even that? the voices
questioned. There is more pain yet to feel.
He shook his head
and took account of his crew.
Danuuk, the
half-Kurg nephew of Madame Gratha would do most deeds if paid enough,
but anything beyond a knife in the dark with the advantage of
surprise and the man was untrustworthy. The Redhand brothers were
thrill-seekers to the bone. Whether it was attempting to ride a horse
standing on the saddle, bed a highborn lady, or fight a group of men
with three times their numbers, the brothers refused to be outdone by
their counterpart. But they were also Barodane’s runners and
currently harvested Unturrus for godsthorn. They may not be back in
time for whatever Hyram was planning. A few others came to mind,
children who ran errands and messages or smaller dealers he took a
cut from. Nothing a lord of Breckenbright couldn’t squash.
Then there was
Garlenna.
He ground his
teeth. He hadn’t asked her to step in, but if she hadn’t would
Eustus’s knife be stuck in his heart? Would he be staring up at a
frantic Meckin as his lifeblood drained through the floorboards?
Despite Hyram Olabran’s claim of Eustus being a dullard, Barodane
had searched the eyes of enough soldiers to know neither Hyram nor
his man shied from violence.
The broad-hipped
dancer had taken a break and was now sweating onto the bar as she
spoke with Meckin. The innkeeper caught Barodane’s eye, winked, and
then slapped the dancing woman on the shoulder. Flipping back a snarl
of graying blond hair, she gyrated her hips slowly and then moved to
the center of the dance floor on languid feet. A clap began. Stomping
followed. The harpist plucked a tune to go with the beat, although he
was off. The dancer moved with it expertly, making up in skill what
the harpist lacked in talent.
The room cheered.
These people’s
lives were hard. They deadened their emotions like he did with thorn
and drink, or fighting and fucking. They sought to own their
environment only to be owned by it. But on some occasions, they
pushed back and took control by letting go. They exposed themselves.
Chose happiness in the face of destitution. An endeavor of complete
vulnerability.
Barodane fell
inward. For a moment, he wished he could be like them. He wished his
anger and sadness and pain could be harnessed in his feet and hands
and throat and passed through him by dance or song.
He didn’t clap
nor stomp in mirth. He drew up his hood and bent over his drink. He
stared at the dark reflective surface within.
As if his mood
dictated reality, rain began hammering at the roof. Unlike most
structures in Digtown, the Dregs had few leaks. “Driest place in
town to quench one’s thirst,” Meckin often said when a new face
wandered in.
Barodane pulled
his cloak tight. His honor plate lay cold as a corpse on his
shoulder. A reminder, though not the kind honor plates were created
for. Fourteen years had passed since his own hung over his bed, the
act of a good little Namorite.
When his
grandfather, Danath Ironlight, had made the armor pieces sacred, it
had acted as a badge of service to the Sons of the Ardent Heart for
fighting against Scothean tyranny and helping unite Namarr.
A legendary
shadow I’ll never be free of. A reminder of who I never was nor
could ever be.
I’m Kord
now.
See
Also:
(This
is our attempt at a bit of fun. We ask our authors to come up with a
few short, clever, possibly pop culture laden, descriptions of their
books just to give a little taste of what’s to come for readers.)
Never
Again • It's Hammer Time • Da Bears
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