by B. H. Young
"Godzton we got horse tracks over here," Ginrell said. He was further out from the tree but its skeletal branches still covered above him.
"Captain how many men were back here with the removing of the steward's body?" Godzton asked.
"A dozen or so," he said.
"Any of them on horses?"
"No, there's been nobody back here on horses. We confiscated a nearby farmer's push wagon to help move the body back into the city. But that's it, no horses," the captain said.
Godzton looked back to Ginrell and said, "Get your horse, you're going tracking."
"Aye," Ginrell said. He loved the thrill of a good hunt, part bloodhound some would say; he was the more experienced tracker of the group.
It was not long after Godzton gave the order Ginrell went galloping by sniffing out the trail and heading into the vastness of the prairie. Godzton and Laythan stood about the area, biding time until he would return. They made no small talk amongst themselves or the observing, wandering captain. The hour grew, but a good tracker takes the time necessary to yield good results. They knew this, but it was lost on the pacing captain who made his impatience known with random grunts and deflating sighs.
Back from his hunt, Ginrell galloped up to the tree on his horse. "The tracks lead out a good ways west of here to the Sprite Forest line." His face was in a shriveled mess with a heavy squint in the direction he was giving. "There are three of them and they have taken to the back trails avoiding the main road," he said.
"So they headed to Pyne?" Laythan said.
"Maybe but we won't know for certain. We will have to follow their trail as they traveled it. Those back trails spread off into every direction past the forest lining."
The back trails throughout Morthet were known to traffic bandit gangs, raiders, wildlife, and foul beast of a more aggressive nature. Many a story of common folk who braved those paths to never be heard from again were a staple at story time for adventurous children, stories that were based in strong truths Godzton knew.
"We'll head out at first light," Godzton said gazing his eyes at the forest edge in the distance. It was nothing more than a dark smearing breaking the horizon from here.
Mid-evening was upon them, the light was fading and struggling to reach over the mountain line in the far off horizon. They had gathered all the information that they could from the scenes and needed rest after a trying journey and daunting day. Godzton thanked the hapless captain his service and time to their company.
Night fell upon the land and the busy streets of Helbrode fell deafening. The Tappdung entertained a tamer audience in the presence of the Iron guest this night. The joyous sounds from patrons drinking and sharing tales of old with one another brimmed in the air. A bard in the corner played his loot and sung aloud tells of grand fables. Wenches delivered drink and food while dodging stumbling pickled guest.
Godzton was not a drinking man and enjoyed a wooden tankard of cold water as he nibbled at the grilled moist meat and a chunk of aged white cheddar that adorned his plate while Laythan sipped on a long shank pipe whispering soft clouds into the air. Ginrell enjoyed a pint of ale served in the bone carved tankard wrapped in leather made special for that size. He stood at the table hooting and hollering with the joyous sounds of the crowd while ravaging a drumstick of meat as big as his head like a feral dog.
"Any idea's lad on who might be responsible for this?" Ginrell asked.
"No. Lord Sinthal had no known enemies," Godzton said.
"The Iron has had reports that Rhuuster the Red has been seen in the area lingering for a couple of weeks now. No doubt skimming the Knight's Road like the vulture shit that he is," Ginrell said and took a gulp of his ale.
"Rhuuster is a ruin crawling raider," Laythan said.
"Raider, bandit, vagrant, give them whatever title you want. Their all shit bag scum born from arse and cut from the same filthy cloth lad."
Ginrell was half-right, but unlike bandits, raiders were known to be more brutal and tactical in their endeavors. They had to be, spending much of their time plundering the old ruins littered throughout the kingdom for wealth and riches.
"This was not done by raiders or the like, they don't have the guts to kill a Province Steward, there are few who do. I'd peg many crimes to him but this is not one of them. As insane as Rhuuster is, he is not stupid," Godzton said.
"Debatable," Laythan muttered.
"Aye, I suppose, still wouldn't mind running into the little shit while we are here though. He's been on the Iron's list for a song now," Ginrell said and went back to hooting and hollering with the crowd.
Godzton could see the merriment in the old fool's face as he danced around for the attention of a three hundred pound mess of a Syddian strumpet eclipsing the far side of the lobby. The fool hopped from one foot to the other with no rhythm or balance in an embarrassing dance.
In one hand, a tankard filled of ale, spilling and sloshing everywhere as his other hand waved a drumstick at the coal black skinned woman. She returned his advances with a playful batting of her sunken eyes while caressing one of her Dwarve size drooped breasts through her top. Not the kind of woman Godzton fancied but Ginrell was not as picky as him, or as a dog for that matter. It appeared his old friend's absurd mating dance would be prosperous though.
"Thank the Gods she's not dressed like the other whores," Laythan said under his breath with a grin.
"What's that lad? I couldn't hear you over all this rabble."
"I said it's a good thing you got us separate rooms."
"Aye! I spotted that beauty earlier today while you and Godzton were educating the captain." He kissed the drumstick and blew it in the direction of the large woman who was now fevered with his advances. "I'm gonna ride that lovely black beauty tonight like a champion mare. I figured separate rooms would be good what with all the space I'd be needing."
"Perhaps a barn would be more suitable instead," Laythan mumbled.
"Godzton," Ginrell said, "wash down some ale and enjoy in the festivities with us lad."
"I don't drink old man, you know that. It clouds thought."
"Aye, I know you don't but I still have hope to break you from that nasty sober habit someday," Ginrell said and then laughed.
Too many mistakes made on a belly filled with beer steered Godzton away from it long ago. He couldn't remember the last time he drank or what it tasted like. Only that he liked stouts. Godzton stood from his chair, the beckoning of a soft bed pulling at him.
"You going to be able to handle her old man?" Godzton asked.
"Aye, as long as she doesn't charge me by the pound."
Godzton looked to Laythan and said, "Keep him out of trouble, we leave at first light."
Chapter 5.
The wakening sun beamed stronger through the ash-drenched sky washing Riverton Hold in its feeble warmth. The town stood beside the Iovis River that stretched throughout Fleslinburg and far into the northern province of Morthet. The castle of Lord Willem Mathayus, the patriarch of House Mathayus, stood at the core overlooking the town's circular layout. Large damson colored banners bearing the Mathayus sigil of a silver Roltharian Elven crown dangled from its high walls.
Lord Willem's summons came in the early hour and in her room, Lucinda Mathayus began dressing in a fit. Her long wavy hair of raven draped her shoulders accenting her fawn skin, highlighting her true sapphire eyes as her bare curvy frame bathed in the rich light pouring through the stained glass. She had hoped to spend the day in the market appraising the new stock of blades that came in the night before. But that would bring her happiness and her father would not allow that, she thought, no, instead she would be sent on some foolish errand. An early summons from father always meant an irritating task was soon to follow.
Decked in light armor of damson with black trim, her two personal guards stood as statues with empty eyes of any pleasures men would find in witnessing such naked beauty. Renkosh slaves were shadows of would be men and it bothered her not to parade a
round them bare and free. Subjected at a young age to a glossectomy and castration Renkosh slaves had not the self-will to give into desires. The young slaves were presented to Lucinda on her thirteenth day of birth, two young men of eighteen void of any emotion, and obedient to her will. It was not a gift but a mere passing of burden from Lord Willem. Her father had told her he would not be troubled or responsible for her safety. In truth, it was a command from her late mother that he'd honor without question. Had she not demanded her daughter be protected at all times before leaving this world, Lord Willem would've left Lucinda to fend for herself.
The slave soldiers of Renkosh were trained since birth to be submissive only to the mindset of following orders without question, they were hers to do with as she pleased and she pleased much. It was not long in her youth when the certain curiosities of a young woman began to raise their heads. Two empty minded shells that could help her answer those questions. Questions Lucinda slowly began to ask many times.
A proper young noble woman should dress a certain way but she was neither noble nor proper. Lucinda finished dressing and stood wearing a white ruffled neck long-sleeved blouse with wide cuffs, that hid a sheathed dagger on each wrist, tucked behind an under bust. Tope breeches striped in black hugged her legs, highlighting her curves and a slim leather belt with silver studs latched across her hips sheathed her stinger sword. Her father never liked the way she dressed, always compared it to that of common whores, so she always made sure to be confrontational in her attire.
Most women born into the nobility of a Great House would be groomed into a proper young woman and then married off to a strapping man of equal worth, but Lucinda was not so fortunate. Lord Willem held great bitterness and a strong resentment towards her as he had wanted another boy but instead his late wife birthed a girl. Throughout the Mathayus dynasty, patriarchs only fathered boys and it was believed this was a sign from the Gods of proving ones worth as the head of the Great House. In Lord Willem's mind, her birth made him look weak and unworthy in the eyes of the Gods and the eyes of blood upon him. You are a curse and mockery of this Great House sent by the Gods, he told her often.
At the age of twelve, Lucinda had thought to do her father a great service and run away thinking it would bring much relief to his agony, but Mathayus guardsmen sought her out and dragged her back to Riverton Hold. Lord Willem cited the Gods aimed to punish him and curse his life therefore, she would find no peace in hers.
She darted from her small house across the street from Lord Willem's castle. The daughter of the patriarch yet she was not allowed the lush castle life as her brother and cousin were. Her home was small and cramped, and she was amazed that her father even allowed her to live that close.
She threw a sneering glare at two of her kin as they sat along a bench bowing their heads together, staring at her. Dressed in proper gowns and jewels, as women of nobility should be, Lucinda knew they were judging her. But the scathing eyes from the females in her bloodline were not uncommon. Harlot little bitches that did not have the misfortune of being born to a patriarch, Lucinda thought as she scorched her eyes past them and entered into the castle.
She walked down the large polished hall of beige stone with her two guardsmen at her back, their footsteps echoed under the high ceiling like a thunder as they tried to keep pace with her. Snapping her hand up, Lucinda ordered them to wait outside the door to her father's office. She entered to more judging glares and took place by Lestat at the front of Lord Willem's carved marble desk. It was a daunting desk of horrific visage. Each corner of the stone was carved to resemble an octopus or some slimy tentacled beast, she assumed. Between them, a chaotic mural chiseled its girth to expose a battle of Roltharian's and Man.
Her brother, Lestat, stood tall and slender with a sharp defined face and relaxed as always, drinking wine from a silver goblet and adorned in a leather jerkin atop beige trousers. He shared the same black hair as her, but that is where their similarities ended.
"Sister," Lestat said and gave a half effort bow.
Lucinda narrowed her eyes at him. His tone was mocking and teasing, slighting her for not being there sooner and she was in no mood.
Dethal stood off beside her father to the back wall, a posture of authority and placement to kiss fathers ass better she thought. His head was full of amber, sharpened brows and skin as smooth as woman. Her cousin was a spiteful man who always talked down to her and shared in Lord Willem's cruel treatment of her. Dethal was an arrogant fool who enjoyed the company of men and detested the mere touch of a woman as she found out when as kids she caught him kissing a boy. Thinking it was a game they were playing she planted a strong kiss on his lips which sent him regurgitating onto her in a panic. Crying and screaming he hated girls while he kicked and punched her for doing such a nasty thing to him. When she had went to her father covered in vomit and bruises to tell him of what happened hoping for comfort at such a young age she instead fell victim to a horse crop clinched in angry hands. Lord Willem always favored Dethal. The boy he never had.
Lucinda paid Dethal a sneer. She detested him most. Out of all the men in Terongard that found her desirable, Dethal found her repulsive and unattractive. The fact that he felt that way towards all women was irrelevant to her.
"Now that you are both here let's begin," Willem said with a heavy voice.
Lord Willem sat behind his desk cold looking as always. His black hair slicked back and his face choleric and devilishly thin, an Elven embodiment of a snake. The Blackphisk, his most prized possession lay open under his fingers. A keeping of records of the Eldafienden's affairs and members within Terongard that he kept locked in an iron safe. Many times, she had fantasized of stealing it. It would be his undoing if it were to fall into the wrong hands, particularly Iron hands.
"A pigeon arrived this morning from Geryn. He has sent word of his meeting in Pyne with our slayer and an unexpected manner has arisen that needs immediate tending to. An Iron has been killed near some old ruins on the outskirts of Niset." He took a sip of wine keeping his eyes locked between his children. "Geryn assures me that for the moment the Iron's body has not yet been found and I aim to keep it that way. You two will go to Niset to find and properly dispose of it."
"Father is that really necessary? A dead Iron is not an unusual sight, is it really of such importance that you send Lucinda and I to handle such a task. The local wildlife has probably consumed the body by now anyways," Lestat said and slurped his wine.
Willem gazed with a low brow at his son's questioning of his command. "When you become the patriarch of this Great House and a council member within the Eldafienden then you can decide what's important and what's not. Until then do as I say! This particular Iron was in our employ and happens to be related to council member Lady Maven Aleid. The Order's plan has taken years to craft and the war has granted us opportunity to enact it and I will not suffer that woman's foolish temper complicating matters any more then they need be."
"It just seems rather unnecessary," Lestat said.
"Our slayer is to leave the very way he came. A murdered Iron attracts more Irons and they linger like flies on shit. I do not need Niset locked down by the likes and there is no time to procure a different path," Willem said.
Lestat sighed "Fine."
Lucinda stood sulking in thought at her father's words, hissing like a mud viper that had been challenged. The Eldafienden was nothing more than an archaic group that operated in the shadows for eras in foolish beliefs. Followers of an ancient fabled enemy of the kingdoms, nothing more than a cult she proclaimed often to Lestat.
The Mathayus dynasty stretched far into the histories of the Order. Lord Willem was the only Mathayus ever to gain the high position of Harbinger, the title of Sentinel was given to low-level members, underlings for those not officially recognized. Dethal and Lestat were Sentinels, but not her, much to her delight. She despised the whole idea of belonging to a group with beliefs based in such nonsense playing shadow politics within the k
ingdoms. Yet Lucinda was expected to deal in matters pertaining to the Eldafienden all the same.
"If it is of such importance father then why not send your darling Dethal?" Lucinda said, mocking Dethal as she always would. "Surely you and the Order have more important matters that Lestat, your son," she snapped her voice, "could deal with." At times, it seemed Lord Willem favored Dethal even over Lestat and she would slight him with a reminding that his favoritism did not go unnoticed.
Dethal stepped forward with a quickness to her slanderous tongue only to meet Willem's raised hand. "Dethal is handling a different matter for me and I have no time for the backbiting attitude of a spoiled girl Lucinda. All matters of the Eldafienden are important and you are not one to judge the validity of any of them. You and Lestat will handle the matter and I'll hear no more about it. Do not look at me like that. If you must pout, do so away from me, I haven't the stomach for it this morning, now go," Willem said twisting his brow above stabbing eyes.
Standing subordinate to his words, Lucinda would only push him ever so far. She did fear him, but would never admit it to herself. Her eyes harbored tears of anger in their bottoms, but she would not let them shed. So easy, his words could upset her like the belittling of a beaten dog who continues to obey its master.
"Very well father, we will make haste for Niset and handle the matter," she said with a grim voice.
"Good, when it is done return here at once."
Dethal smirked at her with judgmental eyes of her quick surrender as if he had spoken the words himself. Lucinda turned from their sight with irritation and walked away, putting an angry force in her step. She could feel Dethal's repulsed eyes beaming at the rippling of her rear dancing through her conforming breeches. Her cousin was a fool with a weak stomach and too stupid to look away from curiosity. Lucinda hoped her step would send him spewing his breakfast all over father. That would be a grand sight she thought.