Of Iron and Devils

by B. H. Young

  "He's not missing," Sylo said.

  "Beg your pardon my lord?"

  "Your Iron, he's not missing." Sylo stared up to him under a low brow.

  "My lord the Iron High Guard can't reach him, he hasn't checked in and he is not assigned to the case. I beg your forgiveness but I believe that constitutes as missing." A veil of meager annoyance laced his voice, as he stood ready to leave. A sense of dismay now shared company with his perplexed feeling.

  "Your Iron approached me just outside of Niset near some old ruins shortly after we arrived in Morthet; he'd been waiting for me." Sylo's malevolent frenzied eyes gazed at the spymaster. "Laid out his whole plan for me, told me I was to give him half of everything I received for my services. If not me and my men would have been run through or spend the rest of our days in Blackwitch Prison. The choice, dependent on his mood, the Iron said." Sylo removed a cattle mace from under his iridescent red coat and laid it on the table, rolling its handle back and forth below his fingers. It was a favored weapon of his when the situation permitted. "The Eldafienden should choose their Sentinels more carefully. He was unaware," he said.

  "Unaware of what my lord?" The spymaster nearly choked on the words, as he did not intend to ask what he was thinking. But nerves had let it slip.

  "That he was standing in my path."

  Dread now consumed the spymaster as he stared down at the brutally designed weapon rolling beneath Sylo's broad fingers. A thick oak wood handle half as long as an arm with a fat gauge steel cap extending three hands wide down the oak and peppered with raised flat cylinder notches. It was called a cattle mace because it was the primary tool used for the bludgeoning of cattle for slaughter. His stomach hollowed out then filled with knots and his eyes stuttered with a halt grip from the weapon back to Sylo's face that offered no change since he arrived.

  "Like I said, he's not missing," Sylo said, "tell me spymaster why didn't your little voices in the wind tell you of this?" Orders like the Eldafienden often shelter the unintelligent likes of low-level trash with unquenchable greed. The Gods were fools to think he would slay the spymaster. One must allow a certain element of insubordination in such line of work and one was exactly what Sylo would permit.

  The spymaster's face now encompassed with an abundant flush of angst. It was not hard for him to decipher what the phantom eyed brute was telling him while mocking his skill of acquiring information. A dead Iron could cause waves in already turbulent waters. He hoped the body had not been found yet. "Very well my lord, I will let the Order know and I shall take my leave now," he said and then dashed from Sylo, exiting the building in a fever.

  Like a scurrying roach afraid of its own shadow, Sylo thought as he stood from the table to join his men. His eyes met with a petite strumpet standing to meet him as he turned. A Treh Elf with golden brown hair, copper skin, and russet eyes stood staring with a feeling of uncertainty at him. Although she was of adulthood, she mirrored a young person against his hulking frame.

  “Excuse me sir," her voice was soft, "would you maybe care for some company?" she asked twisting her body about with anxiety as her eyes jittered around him. "I have a room just at the end of the hall sir," she said pointing with a fractious sway in her arm.

  Her attire and skin were cleaner than the other whores, and most everyone else in Pyne for that matter he observed. A glimpse of the other strumpets huddled on the far wall behind, watching the Elf made clear a notion to him. They were assessing her pitch and evaluating her negotiation skills.

  The nervousness in her poise was all too apparent, not because of him so much but because she was new to this, he realized. Someone of such beauty and innocence placed in Pyne for self-amusement of the tormenting Gods rattled him. What could she have done to garner such punishment from them? To squander in a profession in which she shares her bed for coin. The Gods were cruel. She was not the usual kind of whore he had ever seen in his travels. One could search the whole world twice over and never witness such a cruel joke put forth by them.

  Parading their joke in front of him to tease him was not wise. Sylo had been the focus of their torment for years. Adversaries locked in a game of wits. Defiant, he would challenge the Gods, turn their joke on them, and indulge in her company. He placed his immense hand against her face. Feeling a slight tremble of doubt in her as his palm pressed against her cheek.

  "Yes," Sylo said.

  A transient, wistful, smile lightened her face. The Treh Elf accepted his motioning hand against her cheek, leaned her face into it, and took hold of his large wrist. Her feeling of doubt still fluttered against his hand. He trailed behind her bashful walk as she led him down the hall.

  Sylo took notice of the cleanliness of her room, something not common among strumpets. The scent of daisies could make one forget the filth-ridden building that housed it. She walked over and sat to the edge of the bed, clenching her hands in her lap with a shroud of wariness. Sylo stood in the doorway peering to her with ambition and boldness against trickster Gods. Maybe being a whore is not all that she is new to he wondered.

  A smile staggered along her face. "My name is Teyah. It'll be two gold sir." She tapped the small dresser by the bed and her voice stuttered as if unsure to the whole arrangement.

  Sylo removed his coat and closed the door behind him. Innocent and pure, the Elf sat modest as he stepped up to her. Bashful, she would not raise her eyes to meet him. He reached his large arm forward placing his fingers at her small chin and guided her attention up to him. A slight shimmer of chestnuts after a rain rolled up to meet him and a faint tremor pulsed in her bottom lip.

  "Damn the Gods," he muttered.

  Chapter 4.

  The trip was long and tedious along the northern part of Bussler Coast. After making port in Thuune, they rode straight through, hustling along the Sand Peddler Road and through the oaks as the day grew. In the distance, center of the vast prairie, Helbrode stood. It looked dimmer than Godzton remembered.

  They pushed into the streets after stabling their horses. Cursed weariness sat with Godzton and he could see it in his men as well. The comfort of much needed rest would have to wait. Amid the bustling people in the street, he noticed a city guard observing them from the distance before scurrying off with haste like a cat back towards the castle.

  Buildings of mortared stone with thick wooden frames and fired clay tiled roofs crowded his eyes. He could not remember them looking so worn and weathered. A hard town that housed hard people, Helbrode was old and starting to show its age after hundreds of years.

  His last dealings here had him charged with shutting down a nightsolt den operating in the back of a tanner shop. The illicit drug was known for causing violent tendencies, sending users into a raging panic and frothing at the mouth like a rabid beast when they ingested too much. Lord Sinthal congratulated him with praise for doing the city a great service after shutting down the den and delivering its owners to local the dungeons. The Steward was a soft-spoken man with a generous disposition about him.

  "Looks like the rabbit is in a hurry to inform the captain of the guard to our arrival," Laythan said.

  "Ginrell," Godzton said and stepped up beside him "procure us quarters at the Tappdung Inn."

  The Tappdung was one of two inns within the city and had a rougher reputation than the Dewbear, keeping the local guard's busy and the dungeon filled. Godzton thought the innkeeper of the rowdier establishment might appreciate some Irons as guest and a night's peace for a change.

  "Make inquiries with the innkeeper and staff about any outside vagabonds that may have seemed out of place. Afterwards head over and inspect the servant's entrance where the dead guards were found. Question the castle staff as well." Godzton swept his eyes around the town and then looked at Ginrell. "Laythan and I will proceed to the castle to investigate the lord's quarters."

  "Aye," Ginrell said and hurried off down the narrow street lined with overreaching buildings.

  The captain of the city guard came to meet them
in the courtyard and brought four others with him Godzton saw. All graced in black and yellow surcoats bearing the sigil of Helbrode. Godzton and Laythan stood at the bottom of the steps to the entryway in acknowledgment of the glaring captain and his guard. The animosity of the guards was as visible as the grey covered clouds lingering overhead. Province guards always showed an attitude of bitterness and contempt towards Irons, scoffing at any involvement by the Iron High Guard. It was an all too common part of the trade. Godzton could care less to the collective belief that the Iron High Guard was nothing more than an order of thugs enacted by a mad king of ancient times. As long as they did not get in the way, they could have whatever beliefs they wanted, no matter how foolish.

  "Are you the captain?" Godzton asked, it was rhetorical, but he felt some sense to give courtesy.

  "I am," the man said.

  "Acting," one of the guards at his back grumbled.

  The captain snapped his hand back at them to halt their rowdiness and they obliged with affronted regards. "I am Captain Arnald Vasti. Captain Oliver Cooper was called into service of the King's army."

  The poor bastard had been elevated in place of the true captain who had gone off to fight in the war and put over men who would not grant him proper respect. The murdering of the Province Steward under his watch no doubt further strengthened his men's disregard for him as a captain.

  His patience seemed as strong as the armor he wore, though, as he ignored the plight insubordination at his back. "We've been expecting you Irons, would you like to see the lord's quarters first, or the tree we plucked him from?" he asked.

  "His quarters will do for now," said Godzton.

  He was aware of the acting captain's incapability to control his men's squabbling attitudes as they strolled past contemptuous mumbles and judging squints. Irritated with exhaustion from his trip Godzton did not want to engage in any petty quarrel with the local guard that may result in him taking a life, or two. So he paid them no mind for their safety.

  They followed the captain through the arched entryway into the high ceiling hall as he led them to the lord's chambers. Godzton's eyes trailed off rolling about the interior every step of the way. Hardstone Castle seemed cold, devoid of any good spirit with the vitality drained from its very stone. They say Lord Sinthal was a good man. Never turning away someone in need of help and was always willing to compromise if it meant keeping good nature amongst the people. A man sent from the Gods for the people he had once heard. A high praise of the faithfully fanatic not steeped in truth, but Godzton knew out of the kingdoms five Province Stewards that Lord Sinthal was more polished and good-natured.

  The story that he stayed the public execution of a man many believed convicted by mistake, for fear it would bring about a state of sadness in the air was a wide sung tale of his generosity. Devoted entirely to his people, he never took a wife and never fathered any children. There would be no one to carry on his legacy and the walls reflected this sadness.

  The captain stood idle in the doorway to the steward's bed quarters watching and pondering as the Irons swept over the room. Godzton examined the point of entry to visualize a pattern while Laythan paced the room with his eyes planted to the flooring.

  "Captain the three murdered guards were found under some brush by the servant's entrance correct?" Godzton asked pointing off through the servant's entryway of the chambers.

  "That is correct. We haven't touched anything." The captain replied and gave assurance.

  Godzton took notice of the tabletop candelabra lying off to the side of the entrance. He trailed his eyes from the dinged metal candleholder up the wall behind it and took note of the small indentation in the wood frame of the doorway. Over towards the empty window frame that still housed some small shards of glass he observed the small throwing knife lying undisturbed, if the captain was truthful. The dried blood trailed from the blade to the window.

  Godzton gazed for a moment at the servant's entrance then slid his eyes to the candelabra, the knife, and the empty window frame. Faceless figures consumed in shadows danced about in various scenarios before settling on a probable pattern. The killer came in through the servant's entrance thinking that the steward would be asleep, instead, he found the steward awake. Once alarmed to the killer Lord Sinthal threw it in an act of defense presumably. The killer dodged it and countered with the knife, nicking the steward. Afraid, hurt, and in a panic the steward threw himself through the window and the killer pursued, not going as planned it would seem.

  Godzton stepped over to Laythan who was knelt in methodical examination near the window. "What is it?"

  "Some small caking of dirt on the edge of the window frame," he said and removed an empty glass vial and small scraping tool from his tool pouch.

  With meticulous effort, Laythan scraped the dirt into the empty vial. Holding it steady up to his eyes, he removed another vial from his pouch. One filled with a pale liquid that emitted a dim glow. He pushed back the cap fastened by a piece of leather and with caution poured a bit of the fluid into the vial with the dirt.

  The captain watched with baffling weight laying on his mind and his head wobbling between his shoulders in probing fashion. "What do you got there?" he asked.

  "What I have here captain is a hard mixture of Pilgrim's Aisle." Laythan began swirling the mixture.

  "What in the hell does is it do?" The captain's face sat mangled with confusion.

  "What it does my good captain is attack various minerals common in dirt. The dirt from the various kingdoms has minerals that are only found in their region." He continued shaking the small vial with vigilant eyes on the liquid. "The Pilgrim's Aisle will create a varying reaction to these minerals, causing the liquid to change colors. The colors are associated with the Kingdoms from which the dirt is native to, with the more recent soil being identified first followed by any other in between. Depending on how many lands the killer's boots crossed, with the last color being from whence the killer came."

  Befuddlement now burdened the captain Godzton noticed. Laythan was always a bit generous in assuming others could fathom his explanations. Lost to such a description the captain gave pause while mustering a question to ask that would not give away his benighted state of mind.

  "How the shit would dirt stay on a boot through so much traveling?" he blurted out.

  "Even a small grain of dirt the Gods would have trouble seeing can stay hitched to a boot for thousands and thousands of miles. And that is more than enough to cause a reaction, albeit it taking longer to show then the predominant soils," Laythan said and observed the changing of the liquids color.

  "A simple it changes colors would have sufficed," said Godzton, grinning.

  The Pilgrim's Aisle spun with a foggy consistency and began to change colors. First, a warm glowing fog bloomed from the center, where it maintained for a few moments. Then it began to fade as amethyst veins stretched up and sprawled out into the moving liquid until dominating the vial. With unwavering eyes, Laythan minded the Pilgrim's Aisle for a few moments more to see if there would be any other reactions. The glowing purple remained dominant. The Pilgrim's Aisle had no more to reveal.

  Laythan peeled his eyes from the vial and placed them at Godzton who along with the captain stood waiting for answers. "The yellow is that of the soils of Terongard, obviously," Laythan said.

  "And the purple?" Godzton asked.

  "Northanos. It would seem our killer is recently traveled from Northanos."

  An immediate disturbance befell Godzton. This was no random act of violence committed by a common vagrant. The kinds of person who will cross oceans to kill are ones who receive coin for doing so. Assassin's, but sent by whom Godzton pondered.

  "Captain," Godzton said waking him from his baffled slumber brought on by a ravaged mind from talk that was foreign to him.

  "The tree now if you please," Godzton said and the captain obliged with a hollow bob of his head.

  As they exited the castle, Ginrell who was waiti
ng in the courtyard with his arms crossed and a none too pleased look on his face. "Any luck with the innkeeper or staff?" Godzton asked him.

  "No, said they hadn't seen anyone about who looked out of place. Even crossed paths with a wench from the Dewbear, said much of the same," Ginrell said, with a bleak tone to his voice.

  "The servant's entrance, the castle staff?" Godzton tilted his head with hope it proved more fruitful.

  "Whatever evidence that was there has long been carried off by the signs of all the trafficking that's gone through," Ginrell said, "and the staff all check out, said wasn't no strange people around the castle that day or the day before."

  Godzton lowered his head and pressed his lips tight at the captain for allowing people to come and go through a crime scene with such disregard. A fight would have ensued had he not been the acting captain, but since he was a bit of leniency would be allowed. The captain dropped his chin to his chest with a blank face without uttering a word and walked past the Irons. They followed him as he led them off the courtyard along a small stone pathway to the defense wall on the side of the castle. A rusty metal door built into the aged stone wall gave them access to the backside area where they emerged onto a short width cliff that ran along the wall back towards the castle where the ground started to slope. The landmass started to slant just below the steward's bedchamber window. Godzton observed the sea of broken glass where Lord Sinthal fell. The large dredoak that his body had been removed from, out of proper respect, stood guarding at the bottom.

  The ancient tree granted an unwelcomed eerie feeling with its winter burdened branches supporting a brown cloud of sparse deadened leaves that refused to let go. Blood stained the witch skin bark and blackened the dirt below like a sacrificial shrine with an offering of life to quench the thirst of some sleeping devil.

  Godzton had taken notice of the boot prints pushing over the smaller footprints as they descended the hill. At the tree, more boot prints stamped into the dirt. Varying sizes hammered in chaotic clusters likely from the men who helped to free the steward's body. He eyed the blade gouge on the bark and considered it with the size of the boot prints estimating the attacker was of considerable size. Six foot one, maybe two, at about two hundred and forty to two hundred and fifty pounds he guessed.