Of Iron and Devils

by B. H. Young

  "Cannibals," he said with a cold and low voice.

  The two girls began sobbing hysterically to his revealing of their true nature and Joanna's head trembled as if to jump from her body. "No please, we only did what we had to, to survive... please understand!" she cried out pulling the girls close and tucking their heads as he entered and slammed the door behind him.

  Marlo and Jelkin sat their horses, indifferent, as despair rolled from the cabin, slicing the air. After the last cry fell silent to the hammering thump the cabin door opened and Sylo emerged calm and composed. He pulled the flaring lantern from the wall and tossed it into the cabin then walked out to his men and pulled himself onto the horse.

  "They failed," he said. There was a hint of anger in his voice.

  Chapter 18.

  They were granted an early start when the storm stopped its tantrum to wake them. The new day gave way to a drenched land thick with mud that deepened the chill in the air. The sun was just out of hiding by the time they made their way out of the forest along the road to Lothel.

  The Vette stables having no horses to sale, no longer seemed like an advantage, Godzton thought as they shuffled along through the muddied land. The ground squished and sloshed, thickening his boots with muck and pulling as if to suck him down into a, tight, inescapable hold. Beyond the peak of the hill, the sky frenzied with thick smoke and a smoldering of embers that danced in smog of blackness. His feet felt as heavy as ingots as he drove his boots, one after the next, up the slick incline, took in a deep burn to his lungs at the top, and gazed the apocalyptic view just the other side.

  Four rows front to back of thick reaching stakes with fire at their bases and charred bodies strapped to them lined the field. Men in long black coats scurried around an old outpost built into the far hill behind the garden of suffering. The genocidal scene was reminiscent to Godzton's eyes; it was a sight he had not seen in years.

  "Looks like we found what our little houseguest from last night was hiding from lad," Ginrell said as he walked up beside him.

  "Dreylin Cassius, the Witch King," Godzton said, his voice flat, and his face blank. Dreylin's moniker was notorious from Terongard to as far as Northanos.

  "Friend of yours isn't he?"

  "I was charged with assisting him once, in my early years," he said.

  At the behest of Lord Fitel Basterpeth, the Overseers sent Godzton to observe the Witch King and his band of butchers during a cleansing. Lord Basterpeth was a fanatic bureaucrat who led many campaigns of smear against the clergy. He dubbed the Witch King as their soulless tool of bigotry to rid the world of those they deemed wrong in the eyes of the Gods. The orator held no real power to sway change, but his venomous mouth was all he needed. A sweet lie can convince an empty mind with few words. Organizing stand-ins and disrupting public events, Lord Basterpeth would scream to the heavens that witches were people too. Most saw him as a delusional sympathizer who ignored proven facts, and a pompous sheltered man who lived a secure life of wealth who would only tread with the common folk to rile them for his cause. So drastic in his convictions, many believed he was behind a failed assassination attempt on Dreylin Cassius but there was never any confirmation. It was not long before his sweeping tongue caught the ear of the king and shortly after that, Godzton found himself as the appointed caregiver of the witch hunters. The king had no hold over the Iron, but the amount of coin he offered for their assistance was too great for the Overseers to ignore.

  He was to monitor that Dreylin was indeed killing witches and not random people and that his methods were humane. Godzton was no expert on witches, how was he suppose to know what was humane in the dispatching of them? The infected weren't exactly gentle with their victims so why should they be given a courtesy in a quick death, he thought. In an old barn outside the village of Jokhaster, Dreylin dispatched a small coven with brutality. The screams from that day still made Godzton uneasy even after all these years. There are no good witches, Dreylin had told him and he knew it to be true, but a feeling of pity to their cries of pain rested in him nonetheless. But that was a long time ago though before he fully forged, as the Irons say, to such sights and sounds of death. The world shapes a person to what it sees best, they either allow it or fall victim to it.

  The Witch King was a mercenary who held no bonds or oaths to anyone and his services were in high demand. One might think his means were the result of revenge for some atrocity he suffered at the hands of witches, but such motives are the things of stories. Dreylin had no such reasons; he simply did it for the coin and harbored no ill will towards the covens he hunted.

  Godzton watched as Dreylin emerged from the smolder between the blazing rows and looked to him, as they stood the top of the hill. He wore a full-length hooded dark Brown coat, various pouches strapped across his chest and waist, and an assortment of ornamental trinkets hung from his belt. He threw a lazy salutation to Godzton and Godzton responded in kind.

  Ginrell ran his fingers at the sides of his mustache and said, "I hear he gets paid good coin."

  "Takes a strong stomach, though," Godzton said. Necroith was a disease Spire Hall said, and there in the distance surrounded in a swirl of smoke stood the cure.

  "By the gods," Laythan said as he reached the top. He had been trailing behind still half asleep.

  "No lad, he's not of their doing, the Witch King." Ginrell tilted his head and scratched at his brow with a twist of curiosity to his cheeks. "Always wondered why they called him that? He's not a witch."

  Godzton knew. Drelyin had shared it with him years ago when he gained the courage to put his curiosity to rest. "It was the covens that gave him that title, as a jest and a warning to other covens throughout the kingdoms. More than a thousand years ago, the Witch King Warlho Kendric went mad slaughtering hundreds of members from the covens under his rule, forever tarnishing the title."

  "You and you're fucking books," Ginrell huffed.

  Godzton snapped a smirk to him. "Lothel is not much further, let's go."

  "That man has destroyed a dozen covens and laid low a dozen more," Ginrell said and shrugged. "The clergy praise him more than the Gods I'd wager... ignoring he's a drunken lunatic whore hound and his lot is just as badger shit crazy as he is."

  Layhtan shuffled up beside Ginrell, tripping his feet through the mud while gawking at the scene as they passed. "What makes him so better at dealing with them than other hunters?"

  "He is an oddity lad, a freak of nature. Doesn't need any enchantments or potions to shield him from magic. He was born immune to it all."

  "You putting me on old man?"

  "It's true," Godzton said, glancing over at him and then to the burning stakes.

  Ginrell pointed at the intricately designed crossed rod of silver impaled into the dirt. "You see that scepter in the ground. That was made by the clergy for him and enchanted with a barrier spell tuned to witches, to stop them. They say its grasp can cover a small village."

  "A barrier spell, to stop them from getting in?"

  "No lad, to stop them from getting out."

  "Its cover is not that great," Godzton put in and shrugged.

  "Old Lord Basterpeth sure changed his tune about sympathizing with witches," Ginrell said, laughed, and clapped Godzton on the back.

  Godzton couldn't help but grin. "That he did."

  "Lost his family to one didn't he? Say it broke into his manor and killed them all, even the damned servants," said Laythan.

  "Broke in? More like placed in, by that bunch of fine pillars there tending the grilling." Ginrell threw a nod to the field and cackled. "Not even the Gods could have made a better point for the likes of that freethinking snake Basterpeth," he said with a shrewd voice and laughed again.

  "There was never any proof Dreylin was behind it," Godzton said. "Just words of wild tongues." The Iron investigated it but found nothing. Godzton knew Dreylin was not reckless but nor was he forgiving. He only needed to ask him once. You can see a lot of truth in a man's eyes an
d the Witch King's were openly telling, but without evidence, the Iron could do nothing.

  "Aye, but that bastard hasn't been singing the sorrow of the infected filth since then," Ginrell said and belched another laugh.

  Godzton took no emotional investment into the world of political affairs as Ginrell did. Lord Fitel Basterpeth had proclaimed witches to be misunderstood victims of hard magic and he went to great vile lengths to prove his rhetoric. Dreylin had no enemies besides the covens, and they did not use assassins. It was not out of the realm of belief that a radical like Lord Fitel Basterpeth would go to such measures for his beliefs. Godzton did not feel sympathy for him nor had condemnation, but Lord Basterpeth paid a hard price for a cruel lesson in reality.

  A few farms scattered the land before it soaked into the swamp, Lothel sat supported on thick wooden piers above the marshlands, and in the distance the Char Molten Fort stood high on a mound overlooking from afar. It was a quaint village with a tavern and few homes. Godzton could not recall the last time he had been here but had no trouble remembering the putrid smells from the bog that flourished in the air. Luckily, the cold tamed them more than the summer heat would.

  Laythan had pressed on to the tavern with rumbling need of wetting his tongue and filling his belly while Ginrell swept between the shacks and stepped in and out of the few shops there were. The stable master only had two mangy mares and a stallion with pitiful saddles. But they were glorious horses as far as Godzton was concerned. His feet were wet and chilled and needed a break. He questioned the stable master but the man had no recollection to seeing anyone of Sylo or his men's description and only made mention of some vagabonds that had been hanging around the marsh causing trouble, but no man with phantom eyes.

  The pathetic carrier post had seen better days; its old wooden structure rotted with age, humidity, and its distressed cages housed just a few birds. The old woman tending the stand reeked of ale and slumped in boredom. She raised her lined face and dreary eyes to Godzton as he stood at the counter.

  "Godzton," he said.

  The old woman shuffled to the shelf a mere five feet behind her and rummaged her old dry hands through a small pile of wax sealed messages in a black wooden tray, picking them up one at a time and checking the names with strained eyes.

  "Have none for ye Iron."

  "M.G," he said.

  The crone seemed in no hurry as she scuffled her hand to the red tray, held her shaky palm to one from the pile and then crept her way back to the counter.

  "Here you go Iron," she said.

  He placed a gold coin on the counter and stepped back cracking the wax seal with haste and the corners of his lips curled up after a moment of reading Martha's words.

  Ginrell took notice as he stepped up. "I see the little lass has brightened your day with her words."

  "She's been itching to go on another field assignment for quite some time now. Overseer Lisbet is going to chaperone one for her."

  "None of the merchants have seen anyone, doesn't look like Sylo came this way lad."

  Godzton's eyes slid from word to word of Martha's graceful handwriting until her words of comfort ended and her knowledge to his request began. For half a blink, he'd almost expected her to have failed in his request. Archivist Edverc was a mean man steeped so far in tradition they'd have to bury him there and Godzton knew that unless it was official he'd not even open the cabinet to the Crown List. Maybe on some level he hoped that would be the case; that he would not have to see that the Iron had faltered, and that Gayleon was wrong. But a slight quiver squeezed in his stomach and his smile faded. They were just words, but felt as if a blade lifted from a forge had been stuck into his gut and twisted. Martha had written the names of the Crown List in the order she had seen, but the order was wrong to his memory. Three from further down had replaced three names that once graced the top of the list. Godzton knew good and well that no official changing by the High Master Adviser to the king had taken place since he stood guard for the last one.

  "What's the matter?" Ginrell asked.

  "Gayleon was right... the order of the Crown List has been changed." His face was grim. The voices clamored in fogged mind and he could not silence them. "Three names have been moved to the top."

  A veil of disbelief swept over Ginrell's rugged face. "How the hell could that have happened, there's been no changing? Archivist Edverc and Typarion Olvlen hold the only keys." Godzton rolled hardened eyes to Ginrell with an implying shimmer in them. "Don't look at me like that lad, you're not suggesting one of them is responsible are you? One is a seasoned Iron before your time and mine and the other is the fucking High Master Adviser to the king... a snaky bastard I grant you, but still."

  "The key could have been forged then, perhaps lifted from one of them unaware?" Godzton rushed back over to the carrier stand and pulled a blank piece of parchment from the tray. He dipped the quill into the ink and began writing. "If Gayleon was right about the list then he was right about the other Province Stewards being in danger as well," he said with a strapped voice.

  "But only three if we are to go by the Crown List and one is already dead, who are the other two?"

  "We have tracked Sylo into Fleslinburg so I think it's safe to assume Lady Jillian Cyndil is next. I'm informing Overseer Lisbet the list has been altered and sending Sylo's name along with a description of him as well as his men, and requesting Irons to be sent to guard the Province Stewards. A heavy request I know," he said, sealed the message, quickly wrote another letter to Martha thanking her for her help, and signed it Spero.

  Knowing the Terongard branch of the Iron had fallen on hard times and resources were limited, he was not sure if his request could be met. Their numbers were far fewer than the other kingdoms and there was no time to seek help from them. But he hoped the information he provided would be enough to warrant action.

  He looked to the sealing wax atop the counter there was no golden shade among them. "Do you have any gold wax?" he asked.

  "Not for sometime now Iron," the old woman said.

  "Dammit." With no golden seal wax, he could not send word to Theymonhal. The carrier would not know to seek out and hand deliver it to the stewards Chamberward. A name to the outside would not matter without the official color of the steward seal.

  "Please, ma'am see to it these are sent quickly," he said and placed five more gold coins atop the stand and then stormed for the tavern.

  A dance of daggers to the sound of pain glimmered in the light rushing in as they entered the tavern. Laythan sat, wilting, his back against the bar, ass to floor covered in holes and washed in blood. An unexpected sight of savagery scorched Godzton's eyes; it did not seem real at first to him, the two vagrants punching daggers into Laythan as if he were a slaughtered pig.

  One of the men spat upon Laythan before jamming his blade into the side of his skull. The attackers turned to the growing light stretching along the floor and the rolling of Ginrell's howl.

  Godzton pulled his swords and stampeded towards the one on the left who stood in a panic under the shadow of two Irons. He kicked the man throwing his back into the bar and moved his sword in an upswept slash. The blade tip dug deep under the man's jaw traveling up and out of the top side of his head and Godzton threw a side cut with the other sword decapitating him. The man's head flew off and rolled along a table knocking over ware before slapping the floor. Ginrell did not even pull his weapon Godzton saw. He had mounted the other man like a rabid dog throwing clenched fists into the man's face. The floor provided no give for the vagrant's head to soften the thundering blows and before long, his head caved in, but Ginrell did not stop punching. Like a crazed minded fool, Ginrell heaved angrily as he struck the bloody mash of skin and bone until the mangy bastard no longer looked like a man.

  "Ginrell!" Godzton shouted, realizing the man was already dead.

  He stopped to Godzton's voice, heaving grunts of anger and pulled a large shard of bone from his finger. It was a piece of the man's face
, what was left of it. It looked to have buried itself deep into Ginrell's finger, which through the blood, now looked swollen and purple. Ginrell reached into the man's coat and pulled a piece of paper. When he stood, he shouted to the paper, slammed his boot into the man's garbled face before turning, holding the parchment high in the air and said, "Fucking proclamation from the King," he said baring his teeth like a mad hound, clenching the proclamation in his bloodied hands.

  The Dwarven woman rose up from behind the bar crying, "They were asking the Iron about the murdered steward... he told them who he was looking for and they just attacked like wild animals." The bartender said, her words were hard to distinguish behind the sobs and pressed hands at her mouth.

  Godzton knelt to his slain friend and ran his fingers along Laythan's face to shut his eyes. He no longer had that vibrant color of life. The jovial twist that seemed to always occupy his face had finally unraveled to a frown. A heavy heart grasped Godzton to see his friend so violently run through and know he did not leave this world quick and painless. The stories of past Irons killed in the field always gave thought of a glorious battle they fought before their death, but Godzton knew that in the real world there was no such glory before death. No charming graceful battle between skilled foes like that found in the stories they are told as children. It was vicious, with faint cries of a dying breath and here laid a good man, a good friend who had not even the chance to draw his weapon, killed by two villains enticed by coin offered for justice.

  Chapter 19.

  The breadcrumbs dropped from her hand, floating down to the waiting ducks in the stream below the castle. It was routine for Jillian at the start of every morning to have a loaf of day old bread ready to feed the ducks that gathered below the balcony of her chambers. She waited for the wind gust to halt before dropping the pieces to avoid them falling on the cluster of sharp rocks at the water's edge.