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Huntley gave one of his men a look. That’s all it ever took.
His man kicked the captain in his back, causing him to crumple onto the deck face-first. Blood burst from his broken nose and ran into the material. Huntley sighed, then came to his knees. He withdrew a dagger, watched it drink in dawn’s light, thrust it under the binding, and tore the material away. Thanks to his men, most of the captain’s teeth were missing.
“You know why I did this, old man?” he asked. The pirate struggled to his knees to better look at Huntley. Or so he guessed. Pirate pride was hard to shake off—even when you stared death in the face.
“You’re a pirate killer. A murderer, just like me.”
Huntley laughed at that, then stroked the blond stubble on his chin. “Nay, I did this because you are poison, my friend, and you’ve tainted Norland’s water far too long. I shall rid our kingdom of your kind, the land and the sea alike.”
“You haven’t got a chance against the Black Wolf,” the pirate captain replied, spitting blood and a tooth into Huntley’s face. Huntley merely wiped it away, his eyes never parting from the captain’s. “He shall kill you, and not gently. Aye, mate, he will rip you apart limb from limb like a lamb for slaughter.”
Huntley laughed again. “You are mistaken. I am no lamb. I am a god. And Rowan Dietrich is merely one more wolf I mean to slay.”
Twelve
“Were this a real battle, a real sword, you’d be dead. Several times now, in fact.” Rowan stepped forward, cutting through his line of men, and offered his hand to his squire Jonas.
Rowan kept a lean and reserved hall, but the outside of the castle was another matter entirely. The bailey was alive with the sounds of horses, hounds, arrows, and blacksmiths.
The music of a tentative peace.
Smoke sat on the sidelines, watching the sparring with a human-like intensity.
Aside from the occasional pirate raid, a fragile serenity had settled over Norland. But Demrov lay to the north, and until he sent an envoy to meet with the king, they were a dangerous threat. Blanchette had made that plain enough, time and again. And to the south loomed her betrothal Lord Huntley and his admiral father.
Perhaps I can broker a peace with them, Rowan mused, thinking of the power they held over the sea. Even pirates feared the Huntley fleet. Sir Royce would be well received. Certainly not Edrick, who’d grown more and more like a stranger these past weeks. The thought filled Rowan with sorrow. Once, they’d been impossibly close—like brothers. They’d weathered storms together, and now it seemed a storm kept them apart. One Rowan couldn’t quite name.
“Sir?” Jonas said, snapping him from his thoughts. He stared up at Rowan from beneath a dirty mop of flaming-red hair. His blue eyes looked as large as dinner plates. Shame lined his bright gaze as Rowan pulled him up to his feet. Rowan held his hand a moment longer. Jonas felt vulnerable under his touch, like he’d break with the slightest use of force or breath of wind.
Rowan didn’t like that at all.
He saw himself in the boy’s eyes. A boy who wanted to simply be a boy, but the world had other plans for him. The reluctant beginnings of a soldier. There is no room for sentiment in war, he heard his father’s ghost whisper. Remember, a soft heart is easier to cut through. He shook his head, batting away the thoughts.
“I-I am sorry, sir,” Jonas said, his head and eyes lowering as he brushed off his jerkin. “I’m no good, am I?” His cheeks turned deep red as he avoided eye contact with Rowan. A light breeze stirred his hair and caused his cheeks to pinken further. Winter still held strong, but the days were growing warmer.
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Rowan said. The boy nervously rocked on his heels, his eyes shifting from soldier to soldier. Rowan stepped forward and took hold of the boy’s shoulders, stilling his movements with slight pressure from his hands. “I want you to focus. I want you to be ready for whatever this mad world throws at us.”
The boy smiled a little, then fetched his blunted sword from the dirt and held it at an angle. In his other hand, he clasped a shield. Foes had beaten away chips of wood, and the Winslowe’s raven sigil was half-peeled off.
“Come now. Keep your shield up, Jonas. Like I’ve taught you. You’re a smart boy. You know all this.”
Jonas stared down at the shield with a frown. He lifted his sword arm and rubbed away the sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
“It’s… it’s hard to keep up, sir.”
“It’s as heavy as it needs to be to stop a sword. Do you understand?” Rowan shook his head and withdrew his longsword from its scabbard. The sweet sound of scraping metal filled the yard. “Now, watch first and learn. Sir Edrick, come forward.”
Edrick did as commanded. He slid from the shadows, taking his time, his features drawn into a tight and unreadable expression. But the emotion he lacked in his face showed in his eyes.
Is that… hatred?
Where has it come from?
What is happening?
Then the steel dance began.
Edrick swung his sword at Rowan, only to be met with a swift parry that sent sparks flying from their blades. Edrick retaliated with a quick jab, but Rowan was quick to dodge and counterattack, forcing him to step back and regroup.
