The Gauntlet and the Broken Chain by Ian Green

Author:Ian Green
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Rotstorm
ISBN: 9781800244092
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

11

NOOSE

‘With the coming of Mistress Water from the mines, Jozenai called what we now name the first revolutionary council – in truth this was not the first, not even Jozenai’s first. Every successful revolution is built on the bones of those that failed before. Jozenai had escaped his bondage in the chaos of an uprising a decade prior and had tried and failed to overthrow the Ferron garrison in the Cimber Hills five years before the council with Mistress Water – an attempt that left the revolutionaries bloodied and harried for years to come. The first revolutionary council took its members from escaped slaves, from what remained of the free Undal, and even supposed heirs of the old Undalor nobility. The mines had taught Mistress Water the skein and the meaning of suffering – now she had to learn the brutal art of politics.’ – History of the Revolution, Campbell Torbén of Aber-Ouse

‘What in all the hells are you doing here, Artollen? I thought you were on your way to Orubor’s wood to get us an orb, to hunt us a demon, to kill us an unkillable man?’

Starbeck was pale and pacing in the darkness of Ossen-Tyr’s Stormguard barracks. Floré cinched her sword belt tight over the fresh commando tabard she had taken from the barracks stores, and breathed out a deep sigh at the familiar weight of her blade at her hip. She grabbed her gauntlets from the table and slipped them onto her belt. The last day had been a nightmare. Magic and nonsense.

‘Sir, that is still the plan.’

With a smooth movement she drew the sword and checked it over. The black steel blade was unmarred by the fighting in Undal City and she could read clearly the dual line of runes that echoed each other, running up the blade on either side of the fuller that ran down its core: ᚸᚦᚳᚳᚳᚦᚸ ᚠᛚᛗᚾ ᚪᚢ ᚫᛉᛏᚷ ᚸᚳᚳᚳᚸ.

Starbeck stopped pacing and walked over to her, gripping her by the shoulder.

‘Commander, what the hells are you thinking? I need you to focus. Debrief.’

Floré sheathed the sword and rubbed her eyes. They had arrived at Ossen-Tyr half frozen, and a hook-nosed City Guard sergeant had refused to believe who she was.

‘Artollen? You can’t be Artollen,’ he had said, over and over. ‘Last Artollen from the commandos who came through here I heard about, was the night everything went to hell. That you? Lost a lot of people, that night. Lot of people. Can’t be Artollen.’

Floré had only glared at him, until Tomas stepped past and with all of his usual tact demanded immediate entrance for Bolt-Commander Artollen, her steward, and the Primus of Stormcastle XII. They had been escorted through the deserted streets of Ossen-Tyr to the looming black of the old Ferron overseer fort, where a hundred torches and braziers blazed. The city was cold and empty, burnt and broken stone homes and stores shored up with temporary wooden fixes. Compared to those empty streets, the garrison was an oasis of life.

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