Of Iron and Devils

by B. H. Young

  "You are no emissary for any Gods, even false ones. A standing embodiment of fanaticism, self-convinced is all you will ever be."

  "Did I not show you mercy?" she asked and stabbed her brow up to one side. Condemnation was something best ignored she thought to keep her mind at ease.

  "Mercy... you dismantled the clergy of Vinreer Keep when you ascended to steward and cast us out to practice our faith, the one true faith, in the shadows," he said with pain in his voice.

  "I find it rather boring to dwell on the past it does awful things to one's character. Was I not giving in allowing you to continue to draw breath?"

  He glared appalled. "Allow us?"

  "I could have just as easily had you all killed, but I refrained, felt there was some sense in allowing old traditions steeped in history to remain for the people, in the beginning."

  "You are mad to think you allow such things, to think you allow what traditions will be practiced by the people. Your very soul is beyond corrupted and your mind long left."

  Maven crossed her arms and stood on her hip demurring. "Do the clergy not forgive, is that not part of your faith?"

  "There will be no forgiveness for a wench like you, Maven." He squirmed in pain with a fired stare. "You think people don't know of your criminality, that you are not part of the Eldafienden. You think you are so clever, that your actions remain hidden. That the cries of innocents in agony cannot be heard rolling from your foul chamber in the dead of night as the innocent go missing from the streets. That those who your wretched guards have cut down for their defiance without hesitation have gone unnoticed. No, Maven. Forgiveness will not find you."

  "Oh my, you are angry. You don't even have the decency to address your Province Steward appropriately," she said.

  "You are no lady, you are a vile spawn of hell," he said. "Your rule has cast these lands into a darkness they will likely never recover from." He snarled and put eyes to everyone in the room. "All of you will be eternally damned in the blackest of pits for following this lunatic."

  "Such anger, such intolerance and you claim to be a man of faith. Tsk-tsk."

  "Do not speak to me of faith. You, who worship the tales of drivel derived from maddening tongues of fanatics."

  "Which brings us to my summoning of you, dear Clarence. I've tolerated you long enough and you show your gratitude by besmirching me to my people. Attempting to turn them against me and if that wasn't enough you then try to petition the King to strip me of my stewardship. No, I don't think I shall tolerate you any longer." A foul shriek carried up from the pit behind her.

  "Your tolerance will only grant you acceptance into the lowest levels of hell." He tightened his lips and leaned his head back. "Your foul skinver pets do not scare me and I will gladly give my life for my beliefs and servitude to my Gods, the true gods."

  With narrow eyes and stretched lips, she studied him. Tough old bastard would not give even an inch under duress. "And what of the lives your wife and two little girls? Would you gladly give theirs for your Gods?"

  The High Priest lessened his valor look as the color dissipated from his face. "What? No, they had no part in this, they are innocent."

  "Are they?"

  "Please, Maven... Lady Maven, there must be some shred of humanity left in you, please spare them they have done nothing."

  The pleadings were not necessary she thought. "Oh don't worry you old fool I'm not going to make you watch as I feed them to the skinvers. I'm not a monster. Really!" Maven tilted her head and cracked a half smile. "I had them thrown in earlier before your arrival."

  His face melted as the screams rose with violent breath from his lungs. With a last effort in rage, the High Priest pushed from his knees and lunged at her. Maven stood unwavering to the attempt as Dame Shiva grabbed hold of him. Hate filled vengeance smeared the eyes of the High Priest with spit flinging from his mouth like a wild animal as he roared and cursed her under Dame Shiva's restraining guard.

  "It is far too early for all that rabble. We'll have none of that," Maven said and blew into the palm of her hand waking a green mist that flowed into his face. It was a meager spell of silence, but it would last long enough, though.

  His enraged snarl was unmoved but his loud heaves fell deaf. Maven looked to Dame Shiva and the knight pulled the old man from the ground, marched him up to the pit, and threw him into the darkness.

  The skinvers tore into him under the cover of shadows howling and squealing with delight as they feasted on the High Priest. Scavengers by nature the beast were always hungry but Maven kept their stomachs filled with those that would defy her. The citizens of Vinreer Keep knew all too well of the fate for those marched into Blackveil Tower.

  Maven covered a yawn and walked from the room. Outside, under the cover of guard, she took in a deep lung of the morning haze. Such an early handling of matters had left her famished and with a bears hunger.

  The table sat adorned with elegant ware stacked with fruits and meats as she sat enjoying her breakfast. It was not very noble like to shove handfuls of food into one's mouth as if starving. People eat delicately when in company but when they are alone they gorge without regard. She was not much one for conforming to expected manners of a lady or a steward for that matter. Maven did as she pleased, as she always had.

  A young servant entered the room making her rounds of chores and began dusting the vases along the sidewall. Maven leaned back into her chair chewing slow at a piece of blackened bacon while appraising the servant. Loren was her name, a new member to the staff to replace Shelly. Shelly, such a dish she was but sadly broke too easily Maven remembered as she gnawed at the strip of pork savoring its oils as past indulgences fluttered. Occasions for personal treats were a rarity for her during these times.

  Theron, her Chamberward, broke her trance of the girl and stood stiff in front of the table. He always seemed to appear out of thin air. A porcelain figure with hollowed black eyes dressed in bottle-green velvet adorned with silver. Most showed bias towards Sangvors, expressing unease at their features and disgust for their nature of drinking blood, but she had a soft spot for them, though. A loyal Chamberward of the province and Sentinel of the Order with ears and eyes planted everywhere within the kingdom. He was a soft-spoken man of dependence she could not do without and was devoted beyond means.

  "Yes, what is it Theron," she said. "Is everything packed and ready? I shall like to make way to Cradenmill shortly."

  "Fair morning my lady. Everything is ready and the carriages await but that is not why I'm here."

  "What is it then?" she plucked two grapes from the platter and popped them into her mouth.

  "I have caught troubling word out of Riverton Hold. Very troubling I'm sad to say."

  It was hard to gauge Theron's face, as it remained blank as new parchment no matter what news he brought. "Yes well?" she asked.

  "I'm deeply sorry my lady, but Jonhekah has been killed."

  The vase echoed as it tumbled on the tabletop to fumbling hands and Maven snapped her eyes to the servant. "What!" she said and turned back to Theron.

  "Apparently he had an altercation of sorts with the slayers at their arrival," he said. "Lord Willem has sent his children to Niset, to dispose of his body."

  "That bastard would deny me to give proper burial."

  "I am sorry my lady."

  Maven threw the silk cloth to the table and slouched back into her chair giving a deep sigh. "I was having such a good morning. Does the Harbinger think he wields the power, the permission, to puppet such events, to keep the death of my nephew silent from me. Lord Willem is such an arrogant foolish bastard of an Elf. Send word to him that I demand a meeting at Koblersrift at once."

  "At once my lady, but there is one more thing, message comes from Vette as well--"

  "Theron, I do think one dosing of grim news is enough for this hour don't you?"

  "Yes my lady, apologies. I shall bring you the message later when the day is more awakened," he said, bowed and le
ft.

  Her back pressed at the chair as anger now ruined what had started off, as a wonderful day. There was no feeling of sorrow growing, only irritation. Lord Willem was a pompous fool to think not to inform her proper, or at all, of her nephew's death. Being the head of a Great House and the Terongard branch of the Eldafienden fed his ego beyond measure. She was below his name in the Order, but she was still a steward and respect would be given, she thought.

  She gazed at Loren who was still tending to the vases with nervous posture now. A small girl with firm form, the handmaiden gown of scarlet she wore hugged at her back as she leaned over dusting the side table. Nineteen years is a wonderful vintage Maven thought, stood and walked to the young girl, pressing up behind her, and placing her hands atop the servant's shoulders. Loren fidgeted as Maven whiffed of her scent, lilac dancing in a summer's breath. Oh to be nineteen years young again Maven thought.

  "Don't be nervous my dear." Maven clenched the girl's arms from behind. "Accidents happen," she said eyeing the chipped vase.

  "I am terribly sorry my lady, so very sorry," Loren said.

  "Yes, my dear I know." Maven pushed up over her shoulder. "That particular vase was over three hundred years old my dear, given to me long ago by a dear friend and you chipped it."

  Loren sniffled and said, "Forgive me, my lady."

  Maven spun her around to look upon her. Loren blushed at the Province Steward's cleavage bearing out from her effortless tied robe. "Tell me my dear do you like sweets?"

  "My lady?" Loren seemed unsure of the question.

  "Sweets my dear, sugars, candies, and cakes."

  "Yes... my lady."

  "You know when I was little, no more than fifteen," Maven said. "Lady Onora d'Avre who was good friends with my mother would visit often, more so when her husband had passed. She was a striking beauty if my young eyes had ever seen such and proper mannered too. That was her vase." Maven stared with a soft look of remembrance into Loren's nerve draped eyes. "She had asked me once as well, if I liked sweets, of course, I was too honest for my own good at that age and she did not seem moved by such innocent candor. Oh, I was so young.

  "Well, Lady Onora began a rant about honeycombs to my answering and implored that I simply must try one." Mavens face dipped with a frown. "I did not want to; I did not like sweets, an odd thing for one so young I suppose. Lady Onora was persistent, forcibly so, and with influential persuasion got me to try one. I did not like it at first. Every time she would visit thereafter, she would bring it for me. And I would accept her gift as she wanted because I felt compelled because it was the nice thing to do even though I did not like it, at first. She was so gracious, that eventually she began to share in the sweetness along with me. It wasn't until then that I could begin to taste the wonderful charm of such things. To this day, I thank her for opening such a world of joy for me."

  "My--"

  "Have you ever licked a honeycomb, my dear?" Maven pulled gently at the side of Loren's locks.

  "Yes, my lady," Loren said with a stuttering low voice and glistening eyes.

  "Wonderful!" Maven pulled her robe to the side and hiked her leg up, pressing bent toes to the small velvet footstool. Loren pretended not to notice but her quivering lip assured that she did.

  Maven squeezed her face and gave her an exciting glare. "So you shall know what to do with sweet tasting honey then," she said and with force began pushing Loren to her knees.

  "Please, no my lady, no..." Loren cried as she sunk further to the floor.

  "Shh." Maven watched the tear swathed face with anticipation. "You know what happens to those who disobey me, my dear. Now... lick," she said gritting her teeth and guided the Loren's face into her opening.

  Shaking hands pressed with an incomplete resistance to Mavens' hips, but in fear, the servant obeyed and whimpered as she did so. The wet with tears sliding face snagged the breath from Maven and she jerked Loren's hand up to her breast, that was now dangling wildly out her robe, and laid her hand atop it, guiding the youthful palm in a firm lesson of massaging. Smothered cries of an injured spirit rose from below as the pulsating fury curled Maven over with bated breath as tremors pulled in her gut.

  A possession of release, to the sporadic, trembling tongue engrossed Maven and with an impatient hand, she pushed for more. Maven huffed and puffed, and then cried out a gasping relief that rumbled the walls to a now, complete morning.

  Chapter 12.

  The oak flooring was beginning to shine like a mirror under the frantic passing of Lady Jillian Cyndil's feet. She wore a blue and white gown with floral accents and a thin-jeweled belt that heightened the bloom of her nature. Her hair of gold flung wildly as she swept through the castle rooms, floating like a ghost searching for lost love. It was a tireless hunt for her husband, Sir Lawrence Roberts, but one she would continue until she had satisfied her obsession of his whereabouts. Welkin Castle was large and daunting at times. He could be anywhere and night could possibly fall by the time Jillian found him she feared. All the hours long, she had scoured room after room. First, the solar, then the servant's residents, the tower keep, the bower and even the gatehouse. All specked with staff but empty of Sir Lawrence's presence. Measuring hands awaited him and coin was stacking up to keep them idled. But it was not missed appointments that stewed her suspicion, it was waking to an empty bed absent her young handsome husband.

  Gusting with stride down the back corridor by the dozen open doors, Jillian popped her head in each of them squeaking a call for her husband. The only response given was by gawking servant's who stopped their chores to acknowledge her with empty stares. Jillian could feel the sweat streaming down the middle of her back, her inner thighs now slipping and sliding against one another, as if greased, and the small droplets snaking down the side of her head. The hearthstones warmed the castle like a baker's oven and her gown now began to stick to her skin. A soft pool flecked below her lip and a sheet of wet slid her cleavage. Her steady moving was not helping.

  Sir Lawrence had complained the other day that the castle was too cold come the mornings. So cold, in fact that it froze away his desires leaving him flaccid. The mornings were when hers throbbed insatiable. She ordered that the servants make sure every hearth stood lit before the day waked. She cursed the servants. They were only doing as they were told, but she blamed them anyways. Small tended fires, enough to toast the rooms, not blazing infernos. The great hall was the hottest of them all. A lower level of hell with white flame she thought as she entered.

  Jillian plucked a woman from the tidying of some paintings and asked if she had seen her husband. The servant gave reply with a shaking head and a "no my lady."

  Before Jillian could dart off, Chamberward Faravus Pydale scurried in front of her, blocking her with pleading hands. "Please my lady," he said. "I'm afraid my old legs can't keep a pace."

  "I'm sorry Faravus, I know you have matters that need my tending to." She looked beyond him in desperation. Poor Faravus had been chasing her all morning but she ignored him. It was not hard to deafen out the world when worry for her husband consumed her. "Sir Lawrence is supposed to be fitted by seamstress Olevia Mavellia and her waiting is costing me a lot of coin."

  "Yes my lady but please, it will only take a moment."

  Faravus was old and frail but he was not blind to her obsession. A steward should not be naive and susceptible to snake charming tongues.

  "Oh, where could he be?" Jillian wobbled her head around Faravus as if it was a matter of life or death.

  "My lady I'm sure he just forgot. But if we could please handle the day's matters quickly, I'm sure there will be plenty of time for Olevia to do her magic," he said hoarsely.

  Faravus was not keen on chasing after his steward like a game children play. He had called out to her so many times his mouth felt like dried leather and he'd already lost half his voice.

  Jillian halted worrying thoughts to the sound of his tired tone and graced him with endearing eyes. No one worked harder
than he did, such a gentle nice man, she thought. "Yes, I'm sorry Faravus, you are quite right of course please go on."

  "Thank you my lady." He held his wooden docket up to his eyes to read the reports. "We had more issues last night between some Swordmercs and Nomad Knights again, three stabbings a gang rape and attempted robbery. Captain Drathen has them in the dungeon awaiting your signature to ship them off to Blackwitch Prison," he said and pulled the parchment from his docket and laid it down on the table and placed a small bottle of ink beside it.

  "Why must Theymonhal be the hub for these vagabonds headed to Vyhoven to sell their services? We are near the Crow's Perch and far from the war. Where are they all coming from?"

  "Wars draw the likes of their kind from all over my lady, pulling them from the very trees and muck," he said.

  She took the quill and signed the paper with a quick glide of her hand, but still managed to maintain her elegant lettering. "I'm tempted to lock down the whole damn city until this mess is all over with."

  "That is one option, my lady."

  The judging tenor from his parched words was evident. "And the other?" she asked.

  "Perhaps a showing my lady?"

  "That is not my way and will not be for Theymonhal as long as I'm steward of this province. Matters of the unlawful can be handled how others see fit in Fleslinburg beyond these walls. But here in the capital no blood will be spilt on these streets by me."

  "Forgive me, my lady, it's just part of the reason we receive so many less than desirables is because Theymonhal has attained a very lenient reputation, so to speak."

  "Slander from the rabble of opposing civic beliefs and opinions and I would not call a stay in Blackwitch remotely lenient!"

  "Of course my lady," Faravus said.

  "Here you are," she said and handed the record back to him.

  "Thank you, my lady, and now the treasury, they need your signature for the allocating of funds for your upcoming celebration." Faravus pulled another piece of parchment from his docket and placed it on the table.