by B. H. Young
"That old tale of a Red King, a wraith army, and devil Gods haven't heard that since I was a pup," Laythan said.
"Aye, the very same."
"What's that got to do with the Order?"
"They started as a cult as best I understand it." Ginrell scrunched up his face and threw his leg over the bench. "But that was long ago, now it's just a group of criminal bastards. Guess they thought to keep the title to instill fear I suppose."
"Most seem to insist they don't even exist," Laythan said, crossed his arms and pressed his back to the wall to find comfort.
"Only the blind, lad, folks too foolish to understand criminals can be structured under one rule. Peg them as a myth like what they took their title from."
Godzton's mind had wandered off with Ginrell's telling as he stared into his bowl. In a daze, he said, "And the trumpets shook the land signaling the coming of The March led by the Red King on steeds of plague to cleanse the land so the Old Ones may rise again for the end of days."
"What's that, a poem?" asked Laythan.
"Aye, the trumpets blown from the Shadowlands warning of the end of days."
"Writings from the Elven scholar, Manomor Kellc," Godzton said, raising his head to Laythan. "He's an expert of sorts on the matter, though Spire Hall did not concur with his studies and eventually removed him of all his titles and standing."
"Rightfully so, Spire Hall only deals in what's real, not fairytales told to scare children!" Ginrell yapped splashing stew from his mouth. "The Old Ones," he scoffed and shook his head. "The Flying God, the Crawling God, and the Swimming God, bunch of Elven nonsense."
"Surprised you don't find belief in such stories, Ginrell."
"Old man puts more faith in superstitious tales than anyone I've ever known." Laythan laughed while picking under his nails.
"I've seen my fair share of things I could not even begin to think how to explain. Superstition and all is fine but even The March is a wee-bit out of my gullible circle lads."
Laythan leaned forward and tilted his head. "Fancy books on such subjects do you, Godzton?"
"He's is a regular scholar himself," Ginrell put in. "Likes to read more than any other Vikandor I've known." He peeled his eyes and lowered his jaw to Godzton. "The fact a Vikandor can read is a true tale to be told," he said and grinned.
"You're just jealous he can read old man."
Ginrell lifted his head high and proud smacking down the last bit of stew in his mouth. "I know how to read what is important, and that's all I need to know." He looked to Godzton with a smirk. "Besides lad, you weigh no merit to even the likes of devils, ghosts, or a many foul thing that make you go cold, to say nothing of the Gods. Yet you read about such shit, makes no sense to me?" Ginrell's face twisted as if he was searching to make sense of his own words.
"Knowledge is a good thing old man, no matter how useless it may seem, much like you," Godzton said.
Remembering when his father would tell all sorts of fantastic stories to him after supper. The story of The March was Godzton's favorite. The cold nights when he was young, sitting on the floor looking up to his father with anticipation. Stout with a face full of hair his father would sit packing his pipe, then would light it and start the story, as he always would, as it was suppose to be. "And the trumpets shook the land as The March invaded with their armored beast, killing enough Man, Elf, and Dwarve to feed the return of the three Leviathan Kings." It was a fond memory that brought a smile to Godzton's face.
He found comfort surrounding himself in truth now as Ginrell had implied, but still took to reading of old fables. Books were not so readily available at a young age so he read whatever he could get his hands on. It was not until he arrived at the Iron compound that he could stuff his hunger for the written word. He could remember first stepping into the Archivist Hall and the burden, from its stacked shelves, that he felt. It was there he discovered Manomor Kellc and his accounts on the story of The March. The Elven scholar had written a handful of books on the discussion citing vague evidence in history that it did happen once, thousands of years ago in the kingdom of Dharonwish, a land, and its people, ripped away from the world by The March. Dharonwish was no truer than The March, but it made for a good argument from the Elven scholar. The kingdom of Vildeheim, however, was real and his evidence for its invasion, while vague, was chilling enough to make one wonder if there was some truth to be found in the darkness. All stories had to come from somewhere, Godzton knew.
Comes a March, a discourse on beginnings by Manomor Kellc was his favorite book. There were many accounts written throughout history by various sources on the tale, but Manomor had derived a theory from various foundations and stitched them together on a quilt of origin of The March. It was not like the previous books, this one implied to give a reality to the monsters. Radical writings from a discredited scholar, Godzton knew, but they were amusing. It had been ages since he lingered in the Archivist Hall reading over the pages, but he had no trouble remembering the substance. But sometimes things are better left remembered as they were. Too much knowing and understanding can take the shine away from what one holds dear. Godzton just enjoyed escaping from the very real world and that was not so bad. The March was not real, but the Eldafienden and their crimes were.
The storm shook the stead barrack so hard the fire in the hearth sputtered. "Looks like it's set in," Godzton said, stood, and walked over to the wall.
"Best be getting comfortable then." Ginrell walked to an old chair sat down and laid his ax across his lap.
Laythan turned himself at the end of the table bench and leaned his back to the wall. "It's going to be hard to sleep with a chopped up witch in a sack and all that noise outside."
Godzton stabbed his swords to the floor at each side of him, set down between them, placed his back to the wall, and shut his eyes thinking of more pleasant thoughts to set adrift in sleep.
Chapter 16.
They came down Bogmoth River sailing along the somber black glass of the current until it bled into the Dandelion. The province's water veins covered much of the land and Lucinda had spent the better part of her adult life navigating them with her brother. She was certain the new task was to be another command of ineptitude. Vette was a shorter trip than that of Niset but she found very little comfort in that fact. It could be worse she thought, they could have had to make way here by horseback and that could have taken days.
Lucinda rode up top with her guards taking in the night air. The glare of the moon danced across the water and silverfish sparkled at its surface. Shine moths huddled at the river's edge streaking radiant trails against the black canvas. It was a showing of beauty even she could not look upon with irritation. Lestat leaned at the railing, drifting in sleep. They had small quarters below deck but he would not leave her side. A guarding worry that had he crawled into his bed he'd wake to find them at sea with the captain dead and tossed overboard is no doubt what kept him close; she was certain because she had threatened to do just that.
Lucinda complained and made idle threats as much as breathing, but in truth, she'd never do anything to put Lestat in harm's way, she thought. He was Lord Willem's only boy, though, that would not grant him immunity from punishment. No matter how much she assured him she would not act, Lestat's eyes never showed trust.
The messenger was waiting for them, when they returned from Niset, with Lord Willem's words, in Geryn's handwriting, that they were to go to a brothel in Vette. Bed houses were such lowly melting pots of grime and disease she thought. The implied insult was immediate, even though Lestat did not see it, she did. Lucinda snapped into a fit, pulling her sword on the messenger to send her father a reply. Lestat restrained her allowing the courier to scurry off with his life. She could see the ear-to-ear grin Lord Willem had in sending her to such a place with the hateful implication that she was no better than a common whore was. It was not the messengers fault, he was just delivering his Lord's words, but she'd gave no second thought to slitting his throa
t. That would have been a good response to take the smug from her father's face. Lord Willem could have sent another of his Sentinels to handle it, but he was too spiteful to pass up an opportunity to belittle her. Lestat did not see it, told her she had one mad and was now creating insults where there was none. But he always defended him, she reminded her dear brother before taking her vow of silence as they took to the river once again.
The peak of the mountains broke along the sky and the glow of Vette was dim in the late hour but she could see it struggling down the way. The port was quiet as the town drifted in sleep. Lucinda ordered her guards to stay on the boat fearing they would not allow for a silent approach with the clanking of their armor. Few candles flicked from windows as she walked with Lestat to the edge of town. A dozen buildings of gray brick and mahogany lined the town and the brothel looked more like a summit lodge than a proper place of procuring women. As sure as the moon was full, she had expected to arrive in this shit-back town only to find the brothel burned to the ground, yet there it stood unscathed.
Most would say the worse thing about the Vette brothel is that unlike other brothels, it closed its doors to customers late at night. Most would say that, but not Lucinda, such routine would make their night easier. Cheap iron locks on the doors proved no obstacle to finessing hands keen on sweet spots. Locked in her chambers so often at a young age, picking locks became a necessary diversion. By the time of her twelfth day of birth, it had become second nature. There were no locks made that she could not open. Lestat always told her she would have made a great thief, but thieves were trash she'd reply.
Only five whores lay sleeping in the main hall and Lestat had killed three with a punch of his blade to their heads as he covered their faces with pillows. But Lucinda wanted to take her time and enjoy the moment. He gave hard whispers to her that it was better to dispatch the women quickly. She threw growling whispers of her own back at him until he submitted in his dispute. He would not deny her, her moment.
Under the lantern haze of the stinging scented room, Lucinda placed her hand over the woman's mouth and with her other hand, pushed the dagger into the woman's soft throat. The woman woke fast, muffling moist breath into Lucinda's palm. The strumpet's eyes begged and pleaded before draining of life. Lucinda then crawled atop the last one and did the same. Hateful reminiscence allowed her such callousness behavior and killing was an outlet that soothed a life of torment. There was no greater thrill than watching life wash away in the eyes of another. Lucinda ran her finger around the woman's mouth smearing the blood as the tingle grew in her.
Her brother stood at the closed door in the back of the hall with a smirk. Lestat did not like taking unnecessary time to handle matters and beckoned her with a sharp wave of his hand she saw. Lucinda pushed from the whore's body and approached him. He stood with his hand, anxiously, on the knob and gave her a disapproving snap of his head. In that moment, his slander of her needing to kill was a sickness repeated in her head more teasing than she remembered. She repaid him with a squint and a snarl and then followed him in as he flung the door open, crashing it against the wall. Two strumpets curled in the large chair woke startled, screaming, and scattering. Gayleon snapped forward from his slumber pulling a thick-knotted club from his side, but Lestat's sword stopped him.
Lucinda strutted from behind Lestat with a satirical look on her face and grabbed the club from his hand. "You won't be needing this anymore." The two startled women ran to the corner and curled with one another cowering to the floor and panting sobs. "Oh shut up!" Lucinda said and they struggled to soften their cries.
She appraised the long sturdy piece of wood rolling it in her hands. The body thinned down from its original girth while a carved crown knot adorned the top. Stained with the blood of many uncooperative customers to his brothel she assumed and painted with wild colors of red, black, and orange.
"Brutal weapon you got here."
"It keeps the peace well enough," Gayleon said. "Bring it back over here and let us show you how it works." Gayleon accepted he did not have the advantage and slumped back into his chair.
"What brings House Mathayus to my glorious brothel?" He reached up wiping at his nose as if unconcerned that two people who aimed to harm him had barged into his establishment in the middle of the night. "Not sure if I could comp you, boy?" His eyes gawked at Lestat then turned to Lucinda. "But I could certainly comp her," he said, ignoring Lestat's threatening manner to gander at his sister.
Lucinda turned her hip sideways with a devilish grin to tease him. Thriving on men's desiring of her, she took comfort in taunting them with what they could not have. Her wet tongue slid across her top lip and she gave a quick wink to him. "You wish," she said.
"Oh, I wish very much."
"So you know who we are?" Lestat pressed the sword tip harder into Gayleon's chest demanding his attention.
"You're the droppings of Lord Willem's loins, what the fuck do you want?" Gayleon scowled and shifted with pain.
"Been waving your flesh-peddling tongue to some Irons recently about grand tells of conspiracy have you?"
"Nah, haven't seen any Irons in here in months."
Lestat pressed harder, piercing his skin a bit more and pulling a droplet of blood to the surface. "Don't play coy with me dirt Elf, we are well aware that you're a source for the Iron."
Gayleon's face warped up in pain. "Your mistaken boy, I'm not in the trade of telling stories, in case you haven't noticed."
Lestat was always too slow at making folks understand and the flesh peddler would keep them here for hours with his insolence she thought. Lucinda walked over to the Dark Elf's side, quickly pulled the top part of his ear taut, and sliced the tip off. Gayleon slammed his hand to his ear cursing and squirming as blood rushed between his fingers soaking into his silk sleeve.
"Fucking Roltharian Mathayus bitch!"
"Answer the questions whoremonger or next time I'll chop it all off." She rolled her eyes down to his crotch. "Or maybe other parts that are more dear to you."
Heaving of irritation, Gayleon looked on them with enraged eyes. "I sold information about some poachers to some Iron three summers back whose face I can't even remember let alone his name and all the sudden I'm a personal squealer for them." He laughed. "Have you looked around at the trade I'm in boy, does it look like I keep company with Irons?"
"I tire of these games, we know full good, and well you have been talking about matters you know nothing about," Lestat said and then swept the tip of his blade across Gayleon's bare chest slicing the skin open, streaking of blood.
Sharp howls of pain carried through the air with more cursing following, but Gayleon's defiance was unshaken. "You are not very smart are you house boy." He sneered. "If I came by this information so easily how long do you think it will be before House Valhur catches wind of it."
"And what of House Valhur," Lucinda said.
Gayleon gave her a cold glare and said, "You think they are going to stand by why their most hated enemy tries to seize control of the kingdom? You think they will allow a group of cunt criminals such as the Eldafienden to replace stewards?" His laugh was more pain filled then before, but just as loud. "Are you really that simple?"
"Where did you come by this information?" she asked.
"Pulled it from me own ass bitch," he said. "The Eldafienden should've kept to the shadows instead of thinking their power so great that they could pull this off unscathed. I hear tell it a foreigner is making inquiry up in Helbrode... a foreigner I can assure that the Order does not want prying."
Lucinda stepped up beside Lestat clenching her grip to the club. "I do not labor for the Order bastard and unless you want to die slow you best start putting that dirty mouth to good use."
Gayleon stretched a grin and said, "Oh I'll put it to good use love, just drop your trousers, and let us have a taste. I'll have your fat arse climbing the fucking walls with delight."
"I'm going to enjoy cutting your tongue from your mouth you
filthy bastard."
"And after I kill him," Gayleon threw his head to Lestat, "I'm going to enjoy fucking you lass until you're well passed dead and dried out."
"I'll bash your fucking head in!" Lucinda snapped and charged for him, but Lestat's arm flung across her chest. She favored her brother with a scowl.
"What's the matter lass? Big brother won't let little sister have her fun?" Gayleon threw his head to her and winked. "Don't worry bright eyes; we'll be having lots of fun here shortly, might even let your brother join in."
"Enough," Lestat roared. "Tell me what it is you know and you may yet live... do not, and you will go slow and painful."
Gayleon leaned over chucking a snicker and then pressed back into his chair. "Already said what I said and I can't say it any differently."
"Just kill the bastard and be done with it," Lucinda said.
"Tell me, is Lord Willem too much of a cowardly Roltharian shit to come down here and deal with a real Elf instead of sending his ass spawned filth to do his dirty work," Gayleon said and then spat on Lestat's blade making peace that he would be leaving this world.
"Foolish dirt Elf fuck!" Lestat pushed his blade into Gayleon's chest and a lingering deflation rolled from Gayleon as his body went limp.
"You should have let me do it," Lucinda said.
"What does it matter, I don't have time for your torturing hobbies."
"Don't talk to me like that." She frowned.
Lestat did not mean to lose temper with her but the elf had riled him. "I'm sorry, but the stubborn bastard did not give us any insight to what he told the Irons or even how he attained such information."
"So what, your Harbinger commanded he be silenced," Lucinda glanced over to Gayleon's body, throwing her arms up, "he looks silent to me, so what's the problem?"
"Lucinda, I realize your approach is to kill first and throw disregard to any questioning but I would have liked to have left here with something more than a kill."