by B. H. Young
"Well, old friend if I have it I will give it gladly."
"Namith Jerron."
Gayleon cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips under narrow eyes. It became clear as a fresh-lit candle in a dark room to him. "Ah, I see. You need the location of one pirate to give to another." He tucked his chin to his chest and tapped his fingers across his stomach. "Like the one beside you."
"The details are of no concern to you; I just need to know where he is," Godzton said.
"No concern you say? Getting involved with feuding pirates can shorten one's life expectancy and I quite like my life, Godzton."
"It's not going to come back on your scaly ass; you are too slippery for it." Godzton pulled a small bag of coin he prepared in anticipation and tossed it into his lap. "There, that should be enough to buy away any worries that your wine induced life of debauchery will be shortened."
Gayleon picked the bag of coin from his lap and held it up to his multi-pierced ear shaking it and the corner of his mouth curled to the jingling melody. "Yeah, all right then." He tossed the bag into the fumbling hands of the whore to his side. "Yeah... Jerron, I know the fella, he and his boys have taken a liking to my girls, been coming down here every so often for the last few weeks spending their hard-earned stolen coin. Think one of them made mention they were held up at an old mine in Gutters Ridge where the river splits up a ways past the Serpent."
Godzton looked to Larry and the Dwarve gave him a hard bow with acceptance and dashed from the room. "Things are about to get lively on the river," Godzton muttered as he gazed the parting Dwarve.
"Friend of yours?" Gayleon asked with mocking tone as the woman on his left ran her breast teasing across his snaking tongue.
Godzton shook his head. "Debt paid for passage granted. One more thing," he said and turned back to Gayleon.
"Come to bless me with great fortune today have you. Ask." Gayleon waved his hand out and took another taste of the breast draping at his side.
"Tracking a trio, they were brought here. A large man free of hair and phantom eyes, another man, and a Phost Elf."
"I've seen all kinds in my life, a man with the mouth the size of fish, a man with a growth on his head that looked like a horn... in fact I'm pretty sure it was a fucking horn, even seen a woman with three breasts once," he said and shrugged. "But can't say I ever seen a man with phantom eyes though. And I'm afraid if I ever seen a Snow Elf round these parts I'd no sooner slit their throat then look at them."
"You've seen your share I'm sure, just not the ones I need. Afraid I can't pay on that."
"That lot wouldn't happen to be responsible for that nasty bit of business up in Helbrode would they," Gayleon said and grinned.
"What would you know about that?"
He gawked at the dangling breast he was fondling of the woman leaning into him and giggling. "Word on the below is the Eldafienden might be seizing opportunity while the King's attention is on the war with that Sangvor Dirt Elf bastard, or whatever the hell he is!" Gayleon said with a derogatory slight exclusive to Dark Elves. "Hired some slayers from Northanos I heard, word is the other Province Stewards may be ripe for the picking."
"The Eldafienden?" Godzton tossed him a squint. "They hide in the shadows. Their reputation built strong on the conspiracies of drunken tongues, extorting commerce, running rackets and smuggling illegal goods. What reason would they have for committing such an atrocious act as killing a Province Steward?"
"It would be easier to overthrow a king with a few Province Stewards in their control perhaps? Not really sure friend, just telling you what I heard."
Godzton crossed his arms and dug his boots hard into the floor. "That's a nice story, Gayleon, but they would have trouble guaranteeing a person of their choosing to get appointed to a stewardship. Only people on the Crown List get those positions and the Iron High Guard secures the list. Only the High Master Adviser to the King puts the names on and any changes to be made are done so with agreed upon authority from the King's council, under the watchful eyes of the Iron that is."
"Never understood why you lot guard the list. The Iron don't hold to politics, yet you lot keep your thumb on them nice and tight," Gayleon said.
"We are beholden to the realm, above its corruption, and its politics. The list is under our guard to prevent precisely what your slick tongue is implying." Godzton stood glaring with sureness. "It's an elaborate plan, Gayleon. One that could not succeed in this day, it would take corruption of unprecedented scale from the highest levels to the lowest with years in planning."
"Ten names go on and none ascend except to take the place of the deceased or the promoted." Gayleon's voice was caustic under his stabbing brow. "You know all the names on the list and you know their unchanged order yes?"
"I do Gayleon, enough with the riddles what of it?" He had stood guard once, in the early days of becoming an Iron for a changing of the names. It was such a high honor for him that the names burned into his memory as a keepsake.
"You get a chance Godzton, maybe have the list checked against your memory old friend. Word is some names were promoted to the top. Guess the Iron needed the coin pretty badly," he said, shrugged and gave an arrogant chuckle.
Godzton's eyes strained with wroth and he lunged, leaning into Gayleon clenching his throat to the sounds of panicking women and grunts of agony. To suggest the Iron would be in on such a treacherous act boiled within him like coal. Godzton took the Iron oath seriously and he would not be made a mockery of by a flesh peddler of disease-infested whores.
"You're a funny Elf, real funny." Gayleon's face flushed red in his grip and with a choked voice, he cried Godzton's name. "I will not sit by and listen to the ridicule of the Iron with your grime ridden tongue Elf. Continue to speak ill and I will raze this place to the ground with you strapped to this fucking ugly chair!" he released his grip and pulled a handful of coin and showered it over Gayleon. "Mark my words, old friend." Godzton said and stormed out pushing curious strumpets out of the way.
The air seemed colder and the sounds of Vette lay muffled. Maybe Gayleon's words just made him numb to it all. The carrier had handed him the black sealed message when Godzton approached. It was Archivist Edverc's response to his inquiry. He stood entranced at the ravens and pigeons nestled in their cages behind the haggard man who tended the carrier post.
Godzton had finished writing a report to Overseer Lisbet. A basic report of where they were heading was all he wrote. He would not dare cause a panic nor put his name on the line over Gayleon's story. Gayleon was a slimy bastard of an Elf, but one would need to be to keep company with the likes of those in the underworld. While his character and lifestyle were questionable, his information always proved irrefutable in the past. But the allegation that the Eldafienden may be responsible was wrapped tightly in disbelief. It was a criminal order of fools whose faith was in mythical stories at one time. They would not have the gall or power to pull it off, he thought.
It was an elaborate tale that he should scoff at but he couldn't, he could not shake free from the cloud of conflict or silence the voices. He would check the validity of it, if only to prove Gayleon wrong. It would do no good to ask Edverc about the names on the list. He was the only one besides Typarion Olvlen who had access to the Crown List. If there had been any unauthorized changes, Edverc would have been the one to do so.
Godzton pulled a piece of blank parchment, wrote to Martha with graceful words of comfort, and in closing asked her to check the names on the Crown List, imploring her to be careful and reticent. Reassuring her of his love, he signed the letter Lothel and then sealed it. It would not be an easy task for her and it weighed heavy on him for asking, but it was his only choice.
"This one as well," he said with a flat voice to the man behind the counter.
He took spot down on the bank of the river, watching the silver of the sky tremble along the black water. Too often, he found the voices in his head clamoring out with questions. Godzton pained a stare at
the message in his hand and cracked the seal between his thumbs. In his message, Edverc confirmed an Iron of Northanos by the name of Sylo, no surname, declared rogue twelve years ago with an outstanding execute on sight order. What would make a man turn on his oath? What makes any man do such things? No man or woman was perfect and rusted Irons were not rare, but the information still thumped a coldness in his chest. Godzton was aware not all the Iron viewed the world through a veil of altruism as he did. Maybe he was just naive in his thinking, the voices whispered.
Ginrell yelled for him three times before breaking his daze and getting his attention. "What are you doing lad, counting fucking fish down there," he said as Godzton walked up from the bank towards him. Ginrell handed him a piece of parchment.
"What's this?" Godzton asked.
"A proclamation by the King for Lord Sinthal's murderer." Ginrell spat at the ground. "Fucking bastard doesn't have the patience to wait for us to do our damn job."
"Two thousand coin, that's a lot," Godzton said.
"Radical free thinking fuck should focus on the war rather than squandering away the kingdoms funds such as he has his entire rule. Maybe then he wouldn't have to pull guardsmen, from all the damn provinces to fight for him. Now we'll have fucking bounty hunters from all over looking to collect," Ginrell said. His face flared with agitation.
"No matter, we'll do our job." Godzton crumbled up the proclamation and threw it on the ground.
Laythan approached them with a pleased look burned into his face. "Just finished talking to the stable master, he confirmed a phantom eyed man with another and a Snow Elf were here, said he saw them at the ass crack of dawn."
"Aye, the innkeeper rented them rooms last night, scary bunch she said," said Ginrell.
"That's not all, there's more good news," Laythan said. "Stable master doesn't have any horses to sell, said he hasn't for weeks, bandits run off with them."
Ginrell's face twisted in bewilderment. "Are you touched in the head lad, how in the fuck is that good news. We'll be walking for days."
"It means they are on foot as well, pair that with them resting here for a night and we have made good ground on them," Godzton said.
"They're still half a day or more ahead of us and we have no horses to buy," Ginrell said.
Laythan snapped his arm between them, pointing to a woman tending a wagon down the street. "We could barter passage from her," he said. "You see that sash on her leg, Jiskista."
"First we travel the Dandelion River with pirates and now you suggest we hitch a ride with gypsies of Jiskista, the Traveling City. Yeah, they're a lively bunch," Ginrell said.
"You have any better ideas old man?" Laythan asked.
"Aye, I do not." Ginrell turned to Godzton. "Did Edverc respond?" he asked moving along from Laythan's picking at him.
"He did. There was an Iron in Northanos some years back by the name of Sylo who went rogue," he said.
"So, an honest to the Gods Iron who became one with the Vannik Serum. I might have to start giving more credence to old tales." Ginrell scratched at the top his head.
"It doesn't mean the tales are true Ginrell, He could have stolen a supply of the Fathion and weaned off from it," Godzton said.
"Well unless he is still dosing up with the Vannik... and I don't see how that's possible what with him being rogue and all, then it means something. He'd be the only Iron ever known to detox from it and still be drawing breath."
"He could have stolen a supply of the Fathion and weaned himself off from it," Laythan put in.
"Not much rather concerned with the stories surrounding the man, only that we catch him," Godzton said, regarding them both with a cool glare.
Ginrell shrugged and said, "Suppose we are going be the ones to collect on that order then."
"That is our duty, but we'll not be killing him before we get some answers."
"Answers for what?" Laythan asked.
Godzton harbored much angst in his eyes as he told his men of his conversation with Gayleon. They stood in disbelief, to the tale of unbelievable proportions, with that same burning look in their eyes he felt in his own when Gayleon had shared the story. Godzton did not fault them for their questioning demeanors, as he did not entirely believe Gayleon's grand tale of conspiracy either.
"That's lunacy," Laythan said.
"Aye, that's some story, lad. The Eldafienden have more than enough runt's in their litter. Why would they hire out to some foreign vagrants?"
"An effort to not draw down any attention on them I suppose. Be that as it may until we are sure we will stay the course. I've sent message to Martha asking her to check the list and to send me reply in Lothel," Godzton said.
"You're not actually giving merit to that Elf's story are you lad?"
"It's a hard tale to swallow I know, but Gayleon, knew the killers to be from Northanos and we know that to be true as well."
"You think they are headed to Lothel then?" Laythan asked.
"It's the closest village past the Bogendurd range; it would make sense for them to do so."
"Aye, that is if they took the long way. They could have braved the shorter path through Belenos if they knew about it, lad."
"Even the insane avoid that place." Godzton looked to the woman tending her wagon. "Let's see if we can hitch a ride with the gypsy."
Chapter 11.
A Northern breeze rolled down Destitute Mountain washing Vinreer Keep in the grip of early morn. The city sat as an avalanche of the mountain sweeping over the canyon atop a raising palm of arched rock. Houses and shops of silver shadow stone stepped down atop one another row after row. Above them, all Castle Wish Night sat its throne of earth overlooking court with its scepter, Blackveil Tower firm at its side.
The capital of Shadengrell was an intimidating visage. The city drew many assumptions over the years as a place of fear and that was fine with Lady Maven Aleid. A taint had spread across Shadengrell that seeped from Vinreer keep under her stewardship loose tongues said. Loose tongues quickly silenced to say no more.
In a chamber robe with a loose belt around her waist allowing a wide berth of cleavage, Maven stood with grogginess in her gray eyes in the hollow of Blackveil Tower. It was too early to dress properly and the matter unimportant to take the time to do so. The hour had grown slow above her feet numbing them and distant thoughts of sleeping hovered. She pulled the silver bang in a kempt field of ink from her eye and then fluffed the high blooming tail that rained over her shoulders.
Waiting all morning, except it was not real morning yet. The night was pouting at having to leave, casting its blue face as it stopped from its slow crawl to look back. She could see it peeping through the windows as if begging to stay. Not even stirring for three hours and she had already accomplished much in the duty of her stewardship. No food, water or wine yet, though, her stomach was growling and her annoyance climbing.
Stagnant guards in coal and wine shaded armor with dark slit bellowed helms lined the room. The sigil of the keep, black crossed tridents above a wolf head on a plain of scarlet rose at the right of their breastplates. Maven was not disturbed to stand in their presence so scantily clad. The hour for such concerns was too young. Not that she had any. The guardsmen learned long ago to not express their gawking nature when she had the eyes of a young lad pulled from his head. It was not the evaluating peer she minded but the scathing tongues behind her back. She removed that as well from the young guard.
The muted marble was cold, the torches fixed in sconces did little to warm the cylinder room, and windows dressed in thick tracery allowed the slow dawn some admittance. A circular solid of deep onyx graced the center floor housing her pets. Skinvers were foul beast with the hide of oil and fair eyes, hunched over and twisted in nature. Maven was very fond of the animals that kept to the shadows and peeled the skin from their prey living or dead. Their gurgling moans of hunger rose from the depths at her heels while she picked at her nails waiting.
Maven stretched her face to wa
ke more as Dame Shiva Delgado entered into the tower with three guards at her flank and Clarence Meek in her grasp. The elder High Priest tripped and shuffled at the guiding of the woman knights hard hands as she marched him to Maven. Shackles tightly bound his wrist and his face showed signs of a failed struggle. Dame Shiva gripped the back of his neck and shoved him to the floor at Maven's feet, gave a half bow and stepped off to the side.
"My dear Clarence, High Priest of the clergy of Shadengrell, oh how you've fallen." Maven cupped her hands and squinted at the beaten old man. "You have been a very bad man spreading very nasty things about me."
His haggard face rolled up to her and he said, "Only truthful words have come from my mouth."
"I find truth to be rather subjective, particularly in your line of work," she said.
"And what is your truth hmm?" He spat blood to the floor. "The Red King, The March, the Old Ones... nothing more than false beliefs for a false prophet."
"Is it so low, to praise the ones that have given to us? My Gods gave me power, wealth, eyes, and ears to the past and the inevitable future."
"Power," he scoffed. "A cheap conjurer of the most basic castings." The priest swept his gaze around the room. "Your horde dare not tell you the truth you pretend doesn't exist. You weave no real magic beyond the common variety and your visions are that of sheer lunacy."
The priest was right and she knew it. "And what have your Gods given you?"
"Faith!"
"Oh my, they are very generous aren't they?" Maven ran her fingers to the side of his head and he jerked away. "I stand at the side of mine while you kneel submissive to yours. Look at you now, beaten, and where are your Gods? Do they not show their power to save their messenger?" She searched the room with a mocking roll to her head. "Nowhere, that's where. You praise their absence as divine will, like a sheep."