Of Iron and Devils

by B. H. Young

  "You vile little bitch, do not ever lay hand on me again!" Dethal screamed with gritted teeth.

  Perched on her side rattled from his hit she tasted a speck of blood in the corner of her mouth. "You bastard," she snapped her fingers to her guards, "kill him."

  With blurred vision, she watched as Dethal stabbed one of the guards through his throat and then avoided the swing of the other, and pushed his blade through the side of his head. In a flurry, he had cut them both down with ease. Lucinda grasped the handle of her sword and Dethal advanced on her placing the tip of his blade close to her throat.

  "Please, Lucinda, pull your blade so I may have reason to finally rid this world of your pestilence once and for all." His nostrils flared above a high chin and a throbbing desire glimmered in his dark eyes. "I'm begging you," he said.

  A shower of watchful eyes beamed her from outside the arena, she could feel them crawling over her like roaches. Embarrassed for all to see, mocking, and besting her, Dethal had shown her weak. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes burned staring up at him, pondering if she could take him from this position. Her hate for him was immeasurable but even in infuriated mind, she had to acknowledge he was a skilled and deadly fighter. Chances at even being able to take him at a readied position were slim and with much resentment, she removed her trembling hand from the grip of her sword.

  "That's right. Just a cowardly cunt who couldn't even do her father the great service of not being born. He is bound by an oath that he swore to your harlot mother to spare you, but I've made no such oath," he said and moved the tip of his sword further in towards her neck breaking the skin.

  "Dethal what is the meaning of this!" Lestat roared, entering the arena with his blade drawn. "Remove your blade from her at once."

  "Just teaching your little sister some manners," Dethal said, stretched a smirk and backed away from her.

  Lucinda could feel the tears of anger swelling and trying to force their way out of her eyes to escape down her cheeks. Citizens stood around the outer wall huddled in whispers she saw. She pushed Lestat's reaching hand away and jumped to her feet. "I don't need any fucking help," she said and stormed out of the arena.

  Dethal had ruined her day. She threw the door to her home opened, entered and then slammed it. His slanderous words had struck a nerve and festered. She looked at the wall, entranced, envisioning a fantasy of crawling into his bed while he slept and stabbing his posh little head. She smiled and then cursed him under breath. The essence of time seemed to tick away quicker when the sulking in anger allowed it to be ignored. The bright early beams that pierced the small windows of her home had dimmed greatly, yet her stewing was not complete. The knock came as the door was opening, Lestat she thought and wiped away the tears and shuffled to the door to meet him. He would always seek her out to offer further comfort when one of her and Dethal's spats went awry. But it was not Lestat who stepped into the room, it was Lord Willem and his eyes screamed displeased. He never came to her home, never even stepped into it before that she could remember.

  "Father," she said and ran her finger under her eye.

  "Is it not enough that you embarrassed yourself and me as well, in front of so many that I now have to find you sniveling in self-pity?" he said with a razor-sharp voice.

  Dethal's tongue was sharp as a razor but dulled greatly to Lord Willems. Perhaps it was the cold veined look on his face or that he spoke void of any emotion behind his words?

  "Is such a feeling possible for you?"

  "I do grow so tired of your attitude, Lucinda. You make a mockery of me by your foolish actions, lose me coin with the killing of your guardsmen, and then have the audacity to stand her sniveling with backbiting tongue. When will you grow out of these childish ways?"

  "It was your darling Dethal that killed them and cost you coin," she said and sneered.

  "Yes but it was you who foolishly gave the order for them to attack, he had no choice but to defend himself."

  "They lasted me thirteen years father, I'd say you got your coins worth out of them. Is this really what you came here for, to give me a thrashing over two dead guardsmen?" she asked with a squeal in her tone.

  "No, I know value means nothing to someone who has had everything handed to them."

  "Everything handed to me? More like payment for having to suffer your cruelty for an entire life. Do I not carry out your orders in matters that do not even concern me? Maybe it angers you that much of your success within your precious Order is in large part due to me. How many lives have I ended for you? And do I receive any shred of gratitude? No!"

  "Just like your mother always wanting more and never satisfied with what you have. Think you should be celebrated for every deed you manage to carry out. Do not play coy with me Lucinda, you enjoy killing more so than anyone I have ever known and I've known the worse the world has had to offer. The Mathayus name has stood for centuries with high honor and nobility of its warriors skills.

  "But you... you carry out actions as if you are some rabid maniac dog, I've heard plenty of stories. No, I will not celebrate you. Like it or not you are my daughter and a Mathayus, maybe it's time you stop acting with self-entitlements of feeble affection and start acting with the pride of the name I allow you to bear."

  "Allow me?" Her eyes tightened and she gasped with a hard knot in her throat.

  "Yes allow. Your mother knew the Mathayus patriarch lineage, yet she birthed a girl anyways. Be that as it may I swore to her no harm would come to you."

  "I did not ask you to bring me into this world."

  "No you did not but nor did anyone ever asked you to stay, yet here you are."

  "So it's death you wish on me then? Rid yourself of the ridicule you think having a daughter has brought you. But not by your own hand, that way you can keep some false belief that you honored your oath."

  Lord Willem gave a hard sigh, shriveling his ill looking face. "Must you be so dramatic? I tire of these games, Lucinda, I truly do. I simply came here to tell you from here on out it stops, do not engage Dethal with your pathetic bratty games or anyone else for that matter. I've tolerated your attitude for far too long."

  "What's wrong father, don't like me pointing out that your darling Dethal would rather have a cock up his ass than the touch of a woman?" she said and threw him a cool squint. "We wouldn't want it getting out that the great patriarch of house Mathayus and Harbinger of the Eldafienden tolerates such behavior in his ranks would we... no. What would people say? What questions of why would Lord Willem allow it be asked I wonder?"

  "Unlike you Lucinda, I rise above such drivel."

  Lord Willem would never admit it, but he knew it was true and she could see it in his eyes. "Like you rose above the questions of your sister, that is before she ran off with a strapping noble and was hunted down and murdered. Your loving sister whom you cared for even beyond mother, but, in her absence, she did leave us with darling Dethal though, didn't she? The second son you never had... or did you?"

  Her implication to rumors that resided in the shadows of Riverton Hold was sharp. Lucinda had never give credence to them before out of selfish thought of the embarrassment, it would bring, but now she had to wonder. Lord Willem's face never shone of true anger, but as she stood there in a stare down with him, fear began to crawl into her throat and a chill slithered down her spine, coiling as it did so.

  Stretched skin hugging boney knuckles smacked across her expression sending her to the floor with a squeal. Lord Willem gave no second thought to hitting her with a closed fist. He leaned down, gripped her hair, and smacked her again.

  "Speak that way to me again and I will have your tongue removed from your vile mouth with fire-induced tongs!" he said and stormed from her room.

  She knew she had overstepped her bounds with implications given to past words of wild tongues. It had been years since he laid a hand on her she remembered. "Bastard," she sniffled under low breath.

  A timid feeling now seemed absent from mind as she pu
shed from the floor. The adrenaline that sadness had brought would not be wasted and allow calmer minds to simmer in time. Lucinda walked over to the rack, pulled the leather satchel, and flung it over her chest. This was it, she was going to do it, free herself. She swore it.

  When busted into Lestat's room she found him sitting between two of their cousins who seemed to be fighting over who could smother him the quickest with their breast while stroking his manhood. Startled, the two girls stopped immediately, holding their unbuttoned blouses shut as Lestat stared at her with harrowing eyes as he covered himself.

  "Out," Lucinda said and her two cousins were all, but too quick to oblige her command as they scurried past her. "Cunts," Lucinda murmured.

  "Oh I'm sorry sister I never had two personal guards to fuck any time I pleased."

  "I could care less who you fuck, that is not why I am here," she said and rolled her eyes.

  "Look, I told Dethal to never lay hand on you again. What more do you want?"

  "Doesn't it bother you that even father favors him above you, his own legacy?" she said putting concern to her voice.

  "I realize you are upset Lucinda, but you are being ridiculous."

  "Am I?" she asked and winced. "Was he not sworn a Sentinel in the Eldafienden before you? Does he not handle the more important assignments while you are put with me to do grunt work? Tell me, is it you that will be accompanying father to Lady Jillian Cyndil's banquet tonight?"

  "It's not favoritism Lucinda it's the natural pecking order of things. Dethal is a more skilled warrior than I and has a tongue for politics. One has to pay their dues in order to advance at anything in life."

  "By the Gods do you ever give yourself credit for anything or do you just allow father to tell you what to think!"

  "And what would you have me do dear sister? Kill Dethal... father... perhaps in their sleep? Sure, I may then become patriarch of our Great House, that is if our kin would not stand and challenge my claim. But then what of the Eldafienden? Not sure the Overlords would take kindly to a Sentinel killing off the Harbinger. Perhaps we then just start a war with them and pray to the Gods our house is left standing when the dust settles."

  She rolled her eyes once more and sneered. "Is that not how father became Harbinger? Father did not earn his rank through hard work he took it. You've told me as much before. Crippling his standing within the Eldafienden would raise awareness to you and to his inability to lead the Terongard faction would it not? Do the Overlords not respect and reward initiative?" She stood with raised brow and enlightened eyes. "Thus moving you up in the ranks, do not tell me that you don't ever think about it, you've been a Sentinel for years, you'd be a fool not to think about it."

  "I see, now all of a sudden you care where I rank in a group that you so despise. Please Lucinda, I am sorry for what happened to you today I truly am but you are simply upset. This plan is just a fantasy brought on by an angered mind. I love you dearly and I know father does not treat you well but please just try to calm yourself."

  "It would work Lestat. The Blackphisk," she said while striding her hand across the leather bag strapped over her chest, "it contains the records of the Eldafienden's business in Terongard and list its members as well. One in possession of such an item would wield great bargaining power with the Overlords."

  Lestat was no longer smirking. "You've already stolen it," he said and jumped from the couch. "Lucinda, this is no game, you must put it back this instance!"

  "I must, must I? No, I am done with father, Dethal, this whole place. I plan to make for Padenmor and sell it to the highest bidder or maybe gift wrap it and send it to the Iron High Guard. Let's see how well father can avoid their justice," she said.

  "You would not dare do such--"

  "I would... and I will."

  "Lucinda please I beg of you," Lestat said and grabbed her shoulders.

  "No." She pushed away from him. "I am leaving, you can either stay here and hunt me down once he commands it or you can come with me and use this to take what you have rightfully earned."

  "Lucinda--"

  "Make your choice, Lestat. Either way I'm going and this all ends."

  Lestat lowered his gaze of her and dipped his chin. Lucinda knew he'd not let her go alone, knew he'd not be able to forgive himself if anything were ever to happen to her. It was not the first time he did something for Lucinda that would enrage father, but it may be the last. She did not care though. Lestat had protected her so much and yet pushed her away when she tried to return the favor, but she knew he would give in he just needed a little push. It was always easy to manipulate him but no matter how bad it made her feel, it was necessary for his own good.

  Lucinda reached up to his face, leaned in, and kissed him and said, "You'll thank me for this one day, I swear it."

  Chapter 22.

  Laythan's body lay atop the pyre Godzton and Ginrell had made him. Merv Rothem was an old retired guardsman of Fleslinburg who had a farm with his wife just outside of Lothel where the land was still firm and had offered his ground for the cremation of Laythan. He said it would be a great honor to have the ashes of an Iron spread into his soil. The farmer was an honorable man who had also allowed them to stay in his house the night prior. His wife tended to Laythan, cleaned him up very well, and wrapped his body in a fine black silk cover with silver embroidery that her mother had given to her on her wedding night.

  Ginrell walked over and placed two silver coins over Laythan's eyes before sending him on his way to pay for his journey to the other side. It was an old accustom not practiced by many, but Ginrell was an old timer. Godzton stepped up and lit the heap. The fire woke slow and steady covering the pyre. Ginrell took spot beside him, and they both looked on in silence as they sent their friend on his way. The farmer's wife cried for them as her husband wrapped his arm around her and stared, with the Irons, into the ball of flames.

  Patience is a virtue Godzton's father had always taught him. Funny, the reach one man's lack of patience could extend. Had the King offered less gold then maybe Laythan would still be alive, had he not put out the proclamation in the first damn place he would still be alive, Godzton thought. Sadness did not keep company in him, only anger. Theymonhal could wait. He would not be leaving without honoring Laythan's name and memory by reminding those of the length that Irons will go for justice.

  It infuriated him more when they learned that the two men who killed Laythan were not bounty hunters at all, but merely bandits belonging to a small group who had taken refuge out in the wet wood. Lowlife vagrants who became enticed by the amount of gold the King had offered, so much so they did not think twice in cutting down an Iron.

  The Dwarven bartender was ripe with information of this group, they had been bullying, and extorting the residents of Lothel a few weeks now, she told them. The citizens would no longer have to worry about them before the day was done, though. Godzton would make sure to give a stern message and leave a dire warning to any others who may become tempted by the proclamation. When the pyre had reduced to ash, Godzton looked to Ginrell, no words shared between them, just an exchange of nods, and then they headed off into the marsh.

  The ground was soft and moist, pushing in with each step. The putrid smells of the marsh were thicker this far in and would give faintness to weaker stomachs. The farmer had drawn them a map to the old house, he said it was haunted but the bandit gang must have been scarier than the ghost were to take up residence in the old place. Godzton moved his spyglass around studying the structure, it stood on a small patch of land, part of the wall had been broken away beside the door and he could see three occupants inside. A man sitting off to the side in a chair, another man lay on the bed against the back wall with an Elven woman on top of him grinding with speed; all wore similar fur and leather attire, the woman's shown more skin. The man stood from his chair shaking his crotch, in aggravation toward the other two who were involved in matters that did not concern him, before parting their company.

  Godz
ton stalked the man with vengeful eyes as he walked from the house and into the wet wood. "I'll deal with him, you make your way to that tall patch of sawgrass just off the side of the fire pit," Godzton said to Ginrell as he collapsed the spyglass and unsheathed his nine-inch trench knife.

  "Aye," came Ginrell's reply.

  Godzton made his way through the brush and dense fog in the direction the man went. The rancid smells watered his eyes and he was careful with his step not to hit any sink spots that would give him trouble. The whistling sounds of relief gave him direction as he stirred with a slow step. Gawking beside some brush, he took a spot behind the man relieving himself in front of a tree across the small patch of land. The man's whistling of pleasure stopped and he began to shake out the last few drops of piss that remained.

  Grabbing a clump of the man's matted hair from behind, Godzton pushed his knife into the back of his neck driving it straight through before he could scream out. Gurgled sounds of distress rose from the trembling body as Godzton rocked the blade side to side with each stride cutting more tendons, muscle, and skin. Grinding against bone, the metal played an odd melody of suffering and he could feel the man's life draining. The coppery smell of the warm blood intensified in the cool air and did not mix well with the marsh's stench, but the anger in his eyes subdued any queasiness his stomach may have thought to find. Godzton's nostrils flared and his breath loudened as he cut the last bit of matter that was holding the head on and with fingers clenched in knotted hair, he held the severed head in place as the body slumped to the ground.

  He crept his way to the shack, the moaning of the man and woman rumbled like fever-ridden dogs from inside. Their huffs lessened to high groans before falling silent. The man yelled for some supper. Godzton watched from the cover of the brush as the woman came out and walked around to the other side. There was briefness when all seemed silent in the wet wood that made the thundering chop soon to follow shake some crows from the trees.