by B. H. Young
Her words needed no explaining. Things were bad all over within the Kingdom. Reports flooded daily into the compound of lands corroding from beneath the soil, strange sightings, missing people, and that smell, faint but clear and apparent, lingering all over the kingdom that seemed to precede it all. The Iron was in no better shape, struggling to maintain ranks as their numbers dwindled.
"An Iron carriage will take you to Baylin port," Overseer Lisbet said. "From there you can procure passage to Thuune. Helbrode is a few hours ride inland. Once you are there make inquest of the crime and bring Lord Sinthal's killer to justice, alive if possible so that they may face a public beheading in Mystenthel by the King's order.
"I've sent a raven back to Helbrode instructing the city guard to seal off the lords quarters until you arrive.” She laid out three large-sized lambskin pouches of coin across the top of her desk. "This should be ample enough funds for your travels. Gather what supplies you need and make haste.” She gave a brief pause and looked to each of them. "You have your orders."
"It will be done Overseer Lisbet, by the strike of Iron." Godzton spoke the words of Iron.
Godzton took pause with his men at the end of the hallway by the railing, overlooking the courtyard, to collaborate before departing. The curtain walls of the Iron Compound flowed with the rolling land, breaking with mural towers that reached for the sky. The center keep stood guard with stacked towers at its side and arching bridges of stone, dressed with two large banners of the Irons sigil of a broadsword hilt up in the center of a ring on a field of blue. Verbal abuse of new recruits by the drill sergeants carried out from the training grounds and mingled with the clanking that rocked through the air as blacksmiths hammered away at fired metal. Iron Town squatted downhill of the compound but its citizens flooded up, wandering the grounds to peddle their goods or plead for justice for some insignificant matter they deemed important beyond means.
"You know lads," Ginrell said. "Many of times I wanted to grab hold of those wide hips of hers and take to her like a jack rabbit." His eyes widened above a sinister grin. "I heard she likes it where other women would find pain." The excitement on his face grew as he ran his fingers down the sides of his mustache.
Laythan shook his head at his foolish friend. "Don't let her hear you say that old man, she'd be liable to cut off your cock and feed it to you."
"Aye, that's the kind of woman for me, mean as shit and violent." Ginrell slapped him on the back and belched a laugh.
"You're an old drunken pervert bastard, Ginrell. Anyone ever tell you that?" Godzton said, giving a poke to the old man.
"Aye, me mom." Ginrell slid his hands up and down his stomach grinning.
Their banter was interrupted by the sounds of clanking armored boots walking towards them. Sir Lydus Gephart and Sir Vidimir Woerns of the King's Royal Guard, decked in decorative gray and gold armor and before them, walked Typarion Olvlen, a tall Elven man dressed in noble garb with dual swords housed in sheaths of gold and amethyst at his sides. An Eroalver Elf with skin of fair amber and light brown hair of silk, he was the High Master Adviser to the King and the only Elf in the history of the kingdom to hold that status.
King Norindale thought it a good showing of his Freethinker ways to have an Elf as his top adviser. Godzton never cared for the king or his right-handed Elf. Typarion was a conceited man with a reputation for talking down to Irons and most everyone else as if simple-minded fools not worthy of his courtesy. Typarion glanced Godzton and his men a smug look and demeanor as he trotted by with his armed escorts.
Godzton glared him an equal look of contempt but stood silent as he trailed him down the hall to Overseer Lisbet's office where he stopped and entered as his guards took to each side of the door.
Ginrell pulled a small tin from his coat, opened it and pinched out some finely grounded tobacco, laid it to the back of his hand and snorted it like a raging pig. "He's rather become a permanent fixture around here lately. Smug bastard," he said, continuing to sniff at the air.
"Probably here with another offer from the King for the Iron to join the war," said Laythan.
"Aye. Wonder if he talks to her the way he talks to the rest of us."
"Doubtful," Laythan said. "She'd cut his throat from ear to ear I'd wager."
"He's always around here, coming and going. And the king can make all the offers he wants, but we are in no shape to help him, not that we would either way. We serve the law, not the King," Godzton said.
Laythan crossed his arms and spat over the railing. "The freethinking shit probably only wants us there as fodder for those across the water."
"Makes no matter," Godzton shrugged.
"Geckle of Dhunwitch," Ginrell scowled. "A Morkver Elf and Sangvor, sent from the bottoms of hell is what they say."
Godzton looked at him, questioning. The old fool seemed to believe the stories. "Seed can't pass between races. It's all just a bunch of nonsense. Bastard is simply a dark Elf that words of wild tongues have made into some monster."
"The Clergy believes he is the result of inter-race relations lad, sent by the gods as punishment on the people to cleanse the filth from the lands." Ginrell's devotion to the faith's words was, as always, unshaken.
"He's a war monger and The Clergy are fools," Godzton said and Ginrell's face sunk. They had argued many times about the faith and both knew where the other stood on the matter of The Clergy. "Let's procure our supply of Vannik Serum and be on our way."
The Iron Compound had sunk into the horizon at their backs as the hour grew and the carriage climbed Passback Hill. Over its rise, in the distance tucked against the dunes, Baylin Port sprawled out along the Blue Wyrm's edge. Godzton pulled his chin from fist and looked to Ginrell and Laythan. It was time.
"Tighten up," he told them, pulled a syringe from his leather pouch, and prepared it with a vial of the Vannik Serum.
"I dosed up just two days ago." Ginrell spoke with a gruff voice.
"Do it again old man, I want us on the same schedule." Godzton regarded him quick, placed the needle to his wrist, and pushed the plunger.
Godzton hated putting that needle in his body, felt it put Irons in a class with the common vagrant junkies. Defiant in thought, that the Iron still relied on the serum for protection from a kind of magic not seen for thousands of years. The Vannik was a required necessity after first use due to the certain chance of death the withdrawals would bring, without aid. For thirteen years, he placed that needle to his arm, a prisoner sentenced to life. An unnecessary weakness to himself and the Iron, but his loyalty allowed him to push through with acceptance. He gave admission, though, that the serum worked better than any enchanted items or potions one could buy.
The compound was ripe with stories of some Irons throughout history whose bodies adapted with the Vannik, producing it from within. Absent were the tales of those who had survived a detox without the aid of the Fathion to wean them.
The carriage slowed to a stop. A crowded scene further down the beach away from the congested harbor caught Godzton's attention as he exited the carriage. Lying lifeless on the beach a large Khathuen, long intertwined tentacles protruding from the front of the beast laid gouged into the sands. Its crustacean shell, covered in tiny sharp spines, spread out at water's edge. The corpse stretched out, flecked with multiple harpoons fastened to thick ropes entangling it and resting in the water still attached to the harpooning ship anchored a few hundred feet from the shore.
He had read about them in books, vicious animals that lived far out in the Blue Wyrm's uncharted waters, but never had seen one with his own eyes, only drawings. The amazing spectacle gave anxious feeling; the damn thing was big as a noble's house he thought.
"Nice catch they got there," Godzton said to the fisherman kneeling by the carriage.
The angler looked up from placing his days catch onto a bed of salt in the shipping box, pressed from his kneel and joined Godzton looking down the beach at the lifeless mass. "Aye, that little lass has been
terrorizing the coast for the last three weeks now. Heard a whole mess of them washed up down past Whalin Coast. Deep sea fishers say something out there is scaring them." The fisherman wiped his grimy hands along his shirt, spat, and squinted with a questioning gaze. "Bunch of shit I say. The Khathuen rule the seas, there's nothing out there that scares them... nothing big enough to," he said and went back to tending to his catch.
It was a remarkable sight indeed to see such an animal for the first time. Big as it was, there were bigger ones further out to sea Godzton knew. Large enough that no ship built by man could take down and no harpoon sharp enough that could pierce their shells. Godzton walked down the dock, boarded the ship with his men, and dropped some coin into the deckhand's palm.
Chapter 3.
The forest surrounding the river town of Pyne heightened the cool wet air as overcast commanded the sky with great influence, such as it was throughout Terongard during the rainy winter months. The damp buildings and muddy puddles abroad signaled a rain had just hit before their arrival and deep sounds of nature sang in celebration of its passing. Situated along the Dandelion River that stretched from Morthet's border along Fleslinburg's and into Shadengrell, Pyne did not have the best of reputations. It was a place of an odious atmosphere of fornication and violence where indigent bodies paced as lost souls without resolve. The sadness of its structures were not hidden behind decadent walls and fancy threaded drapes but rather worn proudly as if to mock the world.
Sylo and his men dismounted their horses just inside the fencing of the Meekroot Stables. He pointed Marlo in the direction of the short, stout Dwarve leaned up against the railing of the mangy porch. Dwarves were well known for their ill temper and egocentric personalities and were not famous for being the most sociable beings, but they made for good miners, merchants, and traders though. Sylo ordered him to sell off the horses for extra coin. They'd take the river into Fleslinburg to shave off a two and a half day ride at full gallop that would have killed the horses before reaching their destination. Once in Fleslinburg they would buy more horses, such as it was common practice for the itinerant to do.
"I fucking hate dwarves," Marlo grunted and pulled the horses by their bridles up to the stable master.
Sylo was not at unease as the common man would be in this place of ill repute. He had no need to be. These fleckless cutthroats and coined thugs that eyed him could not see his path, but in their hardened eyes shined an instinct that they knew to not step onto it. He sloshed down the muddy street uncaring to the studying eyes on him. Sweeping glances from left to right, observing the failing structures of the town it was hard not to notice the locals. Dirty and ragged children ran in packs like feral dogs scavenging for a meal. A group of hard-bitten looking pirates stood taut and intimidating as Sylo passed them by. He glared them a look, ridding them of their chest puffing and sending them into a clumsy shuffle. The Gods had a way with this place. A slosh pile of the world's worst filth all dumped into one spot to fester and ruin.
The two-story distressed Samdog Tavern that time and vandals had taken a toll on was the only one that Pyne had, making it the center rallying point for the scum and the sinful. The pitiful outer wood moistened with the sweat of age and the foundation seemed to be sinking a slow creep into a grave that it longed for. The entire town was a struggling life begging to be put out of its misery and the Samdog was its heart without a beat.
Sylo stood mindful just inside the doorway with Marlo and Jelkin at his back. Pipe smoke riddled the air with a union of notes that tried its best to cover the foul smell of the place. The harden stenches of piss, sweat, and blood were not so hidden to him though. The old timber ceiling soaked in various spots with what one could hope was standing rainwater leaking down from the roof. Sheets of mildew patched the moisture-ridden walls along with other unidentifiable stains. But the dwellers in this sad stop for tormented souls were complacent to it all.
A brief silence of a crypt befell the place. People halted their actions and ceased their chattering. The crone looked up from her table to them and Sylo paid her a cool glare. She fumbled collecting her tankards, chugging one, grabbing another, and abandoning the rest. Then like a strong gust, she scurried off from the table and to one that was further away. With a slow crawl, the inn ushered back into its every day bustle.
Strumpets of Elven and Man swayed about dressed in short top blouses covering their shoulders and bust but leaving their midriff exposed. A thin leather belt that sat low on their hips held on maiden style dress bottoms split all the way up the sides exposing their thighs. It was the standard design trait of attire amongst the whores of Terongard; though it differed from region to region, its scant purpose remained the same. The few patrons Sylo saw were struggling to keep their heads up above the decrepit tables, rocking back and forth. Other wasted spirits rolled along the wall. The innkeeper could be seen at the end of the bar gripping a whore's arm hard and chastising her. In the corner alcove where the light was dim, a crimson-cloaked man sat alone, his hood pulled low and his hands resting on the small table.
His rat demeanor was not hard to miss nor was his smell. It was a peculiar scent of stale bread and vinegar. Everyone had their own unique traits and exclusive perspiration, subtle if not absent to the senses of a common person but not Sylo. He knew him, the spymaster he called him, the one who had procured his services on behalf of the Eldafienden. Sylo signaled his men to the bar and made his way to the corner. Pulling an old wooden chair from the table opposite the spymaster, he sat stabbing a frown across the table. He did not care much for the likes of the spymaster, a conniving trickster of the tongue. His coin was good though. His nerves trickled along his Roltharian skin like beads of rain. Subtle but scented of salt and worry.
The spymaster was hesitant as an all-too-familiar dismayed feeling crept into him as those phantom blue eyes, with no hint of a soul on white marble, glistened at him. It was the same dreadful coldness he had when first meeting the brute in Northanos many weeks back. He reached under his cloak slow and plucked a good-sized bag of coin from under it, which he placed in front of Sylo.
"The voices in the wind tell me Helbrode was a success, payment for your service my lord, the Order is pleased," the spymaster said and pulled his hand back slow as if to not make any sudden movements.
Sylo retrieved the bag of coin without deferring eye contact with him. There was no need for him to count it, the heft of the pouch pressing in his hand assured him it was all there, and the spymaster would not be stupid enough to shine him. Royal sized coins were larger and worth more than the average coin and their weight was precise.
The bulking mass of a wench appeared out of nowhere wedging herself into the small recess where they sat, interrupting their meeting. She smelled of manure and cast a shadow that darkened the alcove even further. "You gents want anything to drink?" she asked with a sick and deafening tone.
"No thank you my dear," the spymaster replied with sharpness.
The large wench snorted, and shifted her attention to Sylo. "What about you love?" She raised her eyes over the mountains of fat on her face.
Unhurriedly Sylo turned his head to address the hovering mass but kept his eyes pinned across the table at his company. "No," he said with a deep and crackling voice.
"Big strong ox of a man like you doesn't fancy his ale?" she japed.
"It clouds judgment."
She stood for a moment wiping her nose with her filthy hands. "Oh well, suit yourself, if you gents change your minds just holler for me," she said and snorted as she wobbled back to the bar.
The spymaster sat for a moment looking at Sylo, he felt very small in his presence. The iciness he gave off was unsettling. The phantom-eyed brute seemed void of everything around him, yet aware to even the smallest of details, which was odd. Looking as if there was no life in him at all, he pondered. The brute did not have to be courtesy though or intelligent, he just had to do what he was paid to do. So far, he had been successful in that regard.
"Just a quick once over on the details my lord," the spymaster raised his head and placed his hands atop one another, "you and your men will receive payment after each job is done as we discussed prior. Once all matters are handled you will have acquired a nice little fortune and can part back to Northanos as very wealthy men."
He tapped the tabletop one finger after the next to offset his nerves while waiting for a response, perhaps a question. There was none. "Right, well if all goes successful then next we meet will be in Durbin. You assured me you knew the lay of the land well, but just in case it's a ways southeast of Theymonhal my lord," he said.
There was still no response from across the table. An annoyance now festered beneath the spymaster's edginess. "Very well my lord, since our business is concluded," he said and pushed back from the table screeching the chair legs along the floor. Persistent nervousness and haste to leave made him forgetful and a staunch recollection gave him pause. "Oh yes there is a slight problem my lord. Iron Jonhekah was not assigned to the case in Helbrode as we had hoped he would be. Apparently he is missing, the Iron High Guard can't reach him in the field and ravens from him reporting in have stopped. So unfortunately, a different Iron was assigned, a group of three to be exact. Which means things may not go as smooth as we originally hoped. However we are taking measures to see to it that any waves they are likely to make will be quick and brief." He sat at the end of his chair with pressed hands on the edge of the table thinking that bit of news would demand some kind of response from across the table, but it seemed there would be none. "Very well, I bid you good day my lord." The spymaster stood from his readied position and excused himself with a tilt of his head.