Farewell to the Citadel | Mac & Gorm
Mac and Gorm get a rather pointed send-off.
Welcome to the next installment in the Flotsam & Jetsam collection. This is the (admittedly brief) story of how Mac and Gorm came to leave Iron John’s service before going on to found the Talon.
If you haven’t done so yet, I’d recommend checking out the Introduction to learn a little more about both men before reading. You can also catch up on all the character backstories here. If you’re ready to plunge ahead, happy reading, and thanks for being here.
The practice blade thwacked into the pell.
“The bastard murdered my entire family, despoiled my people, and destroyed my House!” Mac raged.
A flurry of blows echoed across the training yard. A handful of men willing to brave the rain stood watching, but well back. Macland Toth was a calm, reasonable man most of the time. This was not such a time.
“Mac,” Gorm tried to interject.
“And Rorrick sided with him! How? With what possible logic?” Mac roared, wooden practice sword cracking into the pell again and again as rain dripped from him.
“Mac!” Gorm tried again, catching Mac’s practice blade mid-strike in one large hand.
“What?” Mac demanded, suddenly aware that Gorm was even present.
“This is probably unwise.”
“Unwise how?”
With a tilt of his head, Gorm indicated a small knot of men standing on the covered porch of a nearby building. Mac recognized a couple of them. Garzan Pittard was a bootlicker, and Harold Skaldson wore the boots Pittard licked the most often. Skaldson stared at Mac, eyes narrowed, a speculative expression on his pale, narrow face.
“What do I care about them?” Mac asked.
“With your House destroyed and Rorrick all but granting Northwarden to Gregory Thynne, you’re vulnerable.”
Mac wiped the rain from his face and glanced at Skaldson and Pittard again, but they were deep in conversation with their cohorts. Vipers, the lot of them, he thought.
“You mean the Toth name doesn’t offer the protection it once did.”
Skaldson’s family hailed from Celize and owed their allegiance to House Coet. While Mac was friendly with the heir, Holua, there was little love lost between Houses Coet and Toth traditionally. Pittard traced his bloodline to a jumped-up merchant family from Am. Both men had been connected to near-fatal accidents affecting Mac and his friends in the years they had trained with Iron John, although nothing could ever be proved.
Gorm was right, Mac realized. Thynne’s destruction of House Toth with the emperor’s blessing meant that the two men and their followers would feel free to act on their baser instincts.
The rage that had threatened to consume him from the inside out suddenly turned cold. Mac smiled. “Fine, let’s get this over with, then.” Gripping his practice sword, he started toward the knot of men surrounding Skaldson.
“What are you doing?” Gorm hissed, hurrying to catch up.
Mac rested the wooden sword on his shoulder. “Just going to have a word with our friends over there,” he indicated Skaldson and Pittard with a nod of his head.
“You’re steering straight into a squall.”
“I’ll crack a few heads, show them I’m not easy game, and we’ll go back to the status quo.”
“You don’t really think that, do you?” They were almost within earshot of the other men now. Gorm put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, stopping him in the muddy practice yard.
“You think there’s going to be bloodshed,” Mac said.
“Yes, and it’s most likely to be yours.”
“They’re cowards. When they see it’s the two of us, they’ll turn tail and run. If the gods are kind, I’ll get to break a nose or two before that.”
Gorm shook his head, rain beading on his bald, brown pate. “No, you’re not listening. What are the two things that have kept them from killing you outright already?”
“Easy, fear of offending a Great House and the fact that Iron John would skin them alive.”
“Right, and neither of those is going to help you now.”
That got Mac’s attention. “What do you mean?”
“John was called Varren this afternoon. He won’t be back for a fortnight. That’s more than enough time for…”
“… Them to kill me and sail to safety on Celize or even gods-cursed Am,” Mac finished.
“Now you’re reading the swells,” Gorm said. “Just walk on by and pretend like we were going this way the whole time.”
All eyes were on Mac and Gorm as they crossed in front of the porch. For a moment, Mac thought the other men might do nothing but give him the evil eye, but Skaldson dashed those hopes.
“Running away? Just like a Toth dog,” he spat. Beside him, Pittard giggled, then whispered, “Coward.”
Only Gorm’s hand on his shoulder kept Mac from facing off with the bastards then and there. Given no other option by the larger man, he had to content himself with saying, “I’ll take dogs over snakes any day, Skaldson. And Pittard, you always were all sail and no ballast. Careful you don’t capsize.” And then they were beyond. Mac sneaked a glance behind them and saw Pittard restraining Skaldson while another of his sycophants whispered in his ear.
“That promises nothing good.”
***
“You really think they’ll come?” Gorm asked.
“Can’t help themselves. They think they smell blood in the water,” Mac answered.
The two men watched the night through an arched window in Gorm’s bed chamber. Behind them, the single narrow cot was loaded down with two packs and travel gear.
“Right on schedule,” Mac said. Across the courtyard, the two glimpsed shadowy movement through another window, this one set in the wall of Mac’s bed chamber. A moment later, a frustrated curse echoed through the night as the unseen assailants discovered Mac’s ruse.
“That’s our cue,” Gorm said, shouldering one of the packs before tossing the other to Mac. “Ready?”
Mac nodded, slipping the pack on, gathering the rest of the gear, and double-checking his weapons. Tonight was no time to be caught unprepared. The two men slipped out of Gorm’s bed chamber and padded silently through the deserted hallways of Iron John’s Citadel.
“You sure this is what you want? We could always gather a few others and put paid to Skaldson and his friends.”
Mac shook his head. With Iron John absent, any conflict was likely to turn deadly. He would not ask any of his friends to put themselves in harm’s way for him. “No, leaving is for the best. Besides, I’ve got a score to settle with Thynne, and I can’t do that holed up in the Citadel.”
They took the stairs two at a time, then crossed the empty courtyard. It took little time to reach the postern gate, which was conspicuously unguarded.
“Where’s Sanderson?” Mac asked.
Gorm shrugged. “Taking a piss? John would hang him for keeping such a lax watch. Let’s just be thankful for the gods’ small mercies.”
Through the postern gate, they found themselves atop a cliff, the moonlight glinting on waves surging restlessly far below. A narrow staircase was cut into the pale stone and zig-zagged its way into the darkness below. Mac took a deep breath and started downward, Gorm right behind him.
The path was narrow, and the footing was less than ideal. Loose stones slid beneath their boots, and pockets of grit and sand would suddenly shift, threatening to throw them to their deaths below.
“Would it kill John to install a railing or something?” Mac groused. “This would be difficult enough in full daylight. Tell me again why we came this way instead of going out the main gate?”
“Don’t look at me, this was your idea.”
Stones suddenly skittered down from above. Gorm snapped his mouth shut, and both men pressed tight to the wall. Mac squinted into the night but saw nothing beyond the first switchback. He looked questioningly at Gorm, who shook his head. “Maybe it was just a loose stone,” Mac said, praying that he was right.
It took the better part of half an hour to navigate the narrow track by nothing but moonlight, but eventually, Mac and Gorm found themselves on a quay hewn from the same white stone as the cliff. At the end of the quay bobbed a small, single-masted fishing boat that Iron John used for messages.
“Quickly, get in the boat, and I’ll cast off the lines,” Gorm said.
Mac nodded and ran for the boat. Just as he was about to leap aboard, an arrow embedded itself in the gunwale with a thunk.
“The next one goes in your back, Macland!” a voice shouted.
“Godsdamnit,” Mac cursed. He recognized that voice. Skaldson stood not far from the base of the cliff stairs, and he wasn’t alone. Mac saw Pittard’s grinning face in the darkness. Three other hangers-on also stood there, one with a bow at the ready, arrow knocked, waiting for the order to pull and release. Mac couldn’t make out the features of the other two, but the moon shone brightly on the features of the bowman, Atherton Calis, third son of House Calis.
“Now, I’d like you to throw your sword over this way,” Skaldson ordered. “Thistlegorm, that goes for your staff, too. There’s a tempting price on your head, Mac, and likely on his, too.”
A price on their heads? That was news. Mac held up his hands. “Are we really doing this now? John’ll be back any time now, and then what will you have to say for yourself?”
Pittard giggled, but Skaldson looked worried. “It won’t matter. You’ll be dead, and your backward friend there sent back to where he belongs. The Citadel will be purified of lesser men and blood traitors. John will thank us, and we’ll be richer.”
Mac shook his head. “If you think that, you don’t know John at all. He’ll drum you out of here so fast it’ll make your head spin. And he’ll convince the governors to blacklist you, and possibly your families.”
“You’re bluffing!” Pittard yelled.
“He’s not,” Gorm yelled back. “Atherton, you remember Edward Munce, right? Tall, thought he was better’n everyone?”
The bowman nodded but did not reply.
“Then you know what John did to him after he beat on that Sütian girl. Sent him home with both legs broke beyond mending, and him a son of House Dryne. What do you think he’ll do with the lot of you? John’s no respecter of position or person.”
“I don’t know, Skaldson,” one of the others said. “I remember what happened to Munce, and I’ve not Great House to protect me.”
Skaldson turned on his crony with a snarl. “What, you want to turn tail and run? Go, coward!” The other man backed away, then turned and ran for the cliff walk. Skaldson turned back to Mac and Gorm. “I won’t run. I’ll kill Iron John too, if I have to. Now, throw down your weapons before Atherton puts an arrow in your gut.”
Mac made eye contact with Gorm and nodded toward Skaldson, hand briefly going to his sword hilt. He prayed that Gorm got the message. The big man looked blank for a moment, and then realization dawned.
“Gut wound, that’s a messy way to go,” Mac said, taking a couple of slow steps toward Skaldson. Gorm followed his lead, lining himself up with Pittard.
“What are you doing, Macland?” Skaldson demanded.
“Any of you ever see a man die with an arrow in the gut?” Mac asked at large. No one answered. “I have. When Rakka sailed in to put down the rebellion two years ago, Gorm and I were in the vanguard with John. If there’s one thing Rakkians love, it’s skewering their enemies from a safe distance.” With each word, he took another step, slowly closing the distance between him and Skaldson.
“A lot of good men died that day. Folks who should be here, hoisting an ale to John’s health and their own. Instead, they’re feeding the fish over Varren way.”
“Stop!” Pittard screeched, pasty face screwed up with rage. “Stop, stop, stop talking!”
“I miss some of those men dearly,” Mac continued, unperturbed by Pittard’s outburst. Skaldson nervously fingered his sword, and Mac plowed on to keep him from realizing the gambit.
“We did learn some important lessons that day. One that was driven home the hardest was probably not to raise the flag of rebellion without overwhelming numbers. But there was another. Want to know what it was?” he asked Skaldson, who cocked his head.
“Archers can’t hit you if their own troops are in the way. NOW!” With that, he and Gorm launched their attack simultaneously. Mac ran and rolled, keeping his enemy between himself and Atherton’s bow. Gorm’s staff was a blur in his hands as he stalked Pittard. Behind them, the last remaining hanger-on ran for the cliff, leaving only Pittard, Skaldson, and Atherton, and the latter could not get a clear shot at either man without hitting one of his companions.
Steel rang on steel as Skaldson managed to get his sword out and deflect Mac’s initial attack. A lightning-fast counterattack put Mac on the defensive, and he cursed. Skaldson grinned. “I always was better at the sword than you, traitor.”
Mac did not bother replying. He was too busy trying to prevent Skaldson’s blade from poking him full of holes while also keeping the other man’s body between him and the archer.
Realizing Mac’s strategy, Skaldson sidestepped to the right, but Mac followed him immediately. Skaldson tried to move to the left, but Mac was there, too. In fury, his opponent lashed out, his strokes clumsy and uncoordinated. Mac beat those attacks back easily, then unleashed a flurry of blows targeted mostly at his opponent's flanks. Mac wasn’t interested in scoring a hit. His only goal was to keep Atherton’s arrows at bay.
“Move, Skaldson, damn you!” Mac heard Atherton swear. That frustration meant that Mac was doing his job well.
The sound of bone breaking nearby told Mac that Gorm had scored a hit. The clatter of metal on the stone quay meant that his opponent was disarmed and hopefully out of the conflict. Now was the most critical time.
Mac danced slightly to Skaldson’s side, exposing himself to Atherton’s bow. He counted heartbeats as he and Skaldson exchanged blows; too little time and the gambit would fail. Too much and, well, Mac would have a new orifice. Five heartbeats; he jerked himself back, putting Skaldson directly between him and Atherton. An arrow clattered across the quay and splashed into the water.
Atherton cursed. “Come out, coward,” he growled, but anything more he might have said was cut short. There was a dull smack, followed by the sound of a body hitting the quay.
“You’re all alone now,” Mac said, grinning.
Skaldson frowned, glancing around. Atherton lay unconscious on the stone, and Pittard wept quietly, nursing an arm that dangled at an unnatural angle.
“Go back to the Citadel,” Mac offered, lowering his weapon. “I’ve got no need to kill a fool like you.”
Hate flared in Skaldson’s eyes. “Then I will kill you!” He rushed at Mac then, sword raised high, no strategy or guile behind the attack. Mac brought his sword up in an instant. He sidestepped Skaldson’s headlong rush and lashed out with his blade just once. His opponent skidded to a stop on the stone, confusion, and anger writ large on his face. Blood trickled down the front of his shirt, and he brought his hand up to touch his throat. It came away smeared with red. A moment later, he collapsed to the ground.
“You didn’t have to kill him, Mac,” Gorm chastised. He dragged the wounded Pittard closer to Atherton so that when the latter regained his senses, the two could help each other back up the hill.
“Sometimes there’s no alternative,” Mac answered. “If I hadn’t killed him, he’d have eventually come after me again. Not to mention the trouble he could make here for John.”
“You know that could have gone very differently if Atherton had moved back up the stairs or if we were just a little farther away?”
“All I can say is Mali herself must have been watching over us.”
“Those two won’t be anxious to forgive,” Gorm said, indicating Atherton and Pittard.
“Don’t need their forgiveness. I just need to get some water under my keel. I’ve got business with Thynne needs seen too. Maybe with Rorrick before it’s all said and done.”
If Gorm thought anything about going against the emperor, he did not show it. The two men finished loading their gear onto the boat. Mac climbed aboard, and Gorm untied the lines. The boat rocked gently on the sea as the big warrior jumped aboard. Mac pulled the halyard to raise the sail. It billowed out, catching the early morning breeze.
“What now?” Gorm asked.
“Now? We need us a boat.”
“We’ve got a boat,” Gorm objected, patting the gunwale.
“A better boat. Something bigger and better suited to what’s to come.”
“And what’s that?”
“I don’t know, but I hope we’ll meet whatever it is together.”
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