by B. H. Young
The man burst from the house bearing a rustic sword and called out to the woman he'd sent to fetch his supper. Godzton jumped from his spot and threw his knife into the man's back. Ginrell stormed around the corner to the man's painful cries, storming his axe through the man's neck. Grim as death himself, Godzton stood, still holding the severed head low by the knotted hair. The blade of his knife shrieked against the bone as he pulled it from the corpse and placed it back in its sheath. He reached down tangling his fingers into the hair of the other head and picked it up as well.
"Get the woman's head," Godzton said with a deadened look.
"Aye."
It had always been Godzton's belief that cutting off infected limbs would not stop the spread of a disease, death was the only answer, but even then, it would only impede the spreading. He had no qualms with hunting down the group that the two who killed Laythan belonged to and dispatching them. Such is the way it was for the Iron. At the crossroads just outside of Lothel Godzton sat atop his horse watching Ginrell place each of the heads onto sharpened sticks he had stuck into the ground. He held the kings proclamation to the one in the middle and pressed a nail through it, pinning it to the forehead.
Ginrell stepped back with his hands on his hips and shrugged. "It's no Lohmer, but it'll do just fine lad."
Godzton looked upon the warning, judging it. Only the Gods could do equal to the likes of Ivvanus Lohmer, he thought. His stories were legendary within the Iron and there were none he could think of that could come close to mimicking his warnings. He was the most savage Iron in those times they say. The story of his dealings with the Maliah Cult stood as a true showing of justice and has never been trumped by another Iron. The cult was a fanatic group who had distorted the God's name and teachings to justify their lunacy. Torturing and executing those they deemed not worthy under the commandments of their God.
Often it was said that King Norindale was a Maliah sympathizer and funded many groups who shared his feelings in praising the religion while chastising the other more predominant and peaceful religions. Godzton had no question to the fact that the king was such as he ignored the cult's attacks and tried his best to sabotage any involvement by the Iron.
Ivvanus had led two brigades to track down the Maliah followers responsible for burning down an orphanage. The radical fanatics declared it a cleansing of bastard filth in the name of Maliah. Ivvanus and his men had surrounded the radicals in the small village of Erith, capturing six of them after dispatching four. Ivvanus ordered the extremist stripped of their clothing and then forced to dig a large pit before chaining them by the wrist to timber poles. He used the cult's own distorted beliefs against them; beliefs such as same-sex fornication and the eating of beef would bar them from the eternal grace of Maliah and instead condemn them to hell.
For two days and two nights, Ivvanus gave the citizens of Erith a show of devious perversions and it was not long before others came to witness the justice. They beat the six extremists, force-feeding them beef and showering their naked bodies in the bloody entrails. On the last day before they were to be executed, Ivvanus had brought in a large man from Blackwitch Prison and paid him four hundred gold coins and a pardon signed by the Overseers, to rape each of the bound men.
Afterwards they killed five by slow decapitation and then threw their bodies into the pool of beef remains. Ivvanus allowed one to live and set him free. It was a savage message that even radicals who had committed heinous atrocities could not ignore. There have not been any attacks by the Cult of Maliah in more than thirty years. King Norindale wanted all the Irons responsible for the act hung, but needed reminding, much to his dismay, that he had no power over the Iron High Guard and the threat of going to war with them was not advisable.
That showing set a precedent in Godzton's mind that Irons could be just as if not more brutal than those who would break the law and harm innocents. A trait he had no dilemma adapting to since.
"It will," Godzton said. "We'll ride through for Spero and take rest there. Theymonhal is just a few miles away. Hopefully, my request will be met and Irons will have been sent."
"We'll find out soon enough lad." Ginrell grunted in pain as he pulled himself onto his horse.
"How's the hand?" Godzton asked as he galloped with steady pace beside him.
"Fine."
"Doesn't look fine."
"Aye, but It never looked all that pretty to begin with."
"You got me there."
"You know lad, if Lady Jillian Cyndil gets murdered you can bet your arse King Norindale will come running bringing Terongard's army behind him. The last thing we need is more proclamations from that cunt king for murdered stewards. He used to bed her something fierce I heard... don't think he'd take too kindly to her getting killed."
"If she dies you can expect him to do as much."
"I'm surprised the coward even has the balls to be anywhere near the battlefield in Vyhoven. Stupid bastard doesn't even realize we are trying to protect him from possibly being dethroned. Maybe we should just let this game play out. Terongard couldn't possibly be any worse under the Eldafienden's rule," Ginrell japed.
"Easy old friend. We don't have to agree with the man's ideology Ginrell, but we are sworn to protect the realm. Even if that means protecting such a vile shit of a man like King Norindale Barret," Godzton said putting sternness to his words.
"I know lad, just thinking out loud is all."
"Tell you what old man, the next scum we have to cut down due to any proclamations, we'll nail it to their severed heads and send them both to the King."
The midday broadened with grayness and the winds tamed as they ran their horses along the road. Off in the far distance stood the ruins of the old Mathadeer Stronghold, massive in size it dwarfed the Iron compound Godzton thought. Many stories of raiding parties entering into its keep never seen again kept most far away from its structure. Beyond its reaching towers where the sky sunk into the rolling land, he could see the shadow of Spero.
Along the road walked a cloaked man with a large satchel strapped to his back. Godzton slowed his horse as he came up on him and signaled Ginrell, who he had observed the last few hours nursing his wrapped hand, to do the same. The cloaked man stopped to their presence. His face hid under the cotton hood and his arms were malformed, like stubby flippers. An eerie large brown horned owl was perched on his left shoulder and gawked with studying eyes at Godzton.
"Are you a traveling merchant?" Godzton asked.
"That I am Iron."
"You have any medicines for treating wounds?" Godzton cut his eyes back to Ginrell.
Ginrell scowled. "For fuck sakes."
"I do Iron," the man said.
"You're too damn stubborn Ginrell, and I'm tired of watching you baby that damn hand. It's starting to put me to sleep," Godzton said to him and dismounted his horse.
The cloaked man moved his face up to greet him. Surprising to Godzton's eyes the man's looks did not match his deformed arms, as he assumed. The Gods had played a cruel trick on this man giving him the arms of a seal and a face that could stop women of nobility in their tracks with heated desires.
"Good evening sir I am Roland Loukious of Loukious's Wares and Wonders." He tilted his head to the owl perched on his shoulder. "This is my assistant, Roscoe," he said. "So you gentlemen are in need of some medicine?"
"Yes my friend has a nasty cut that needs treating."
"How deep?" Roland asked.
"A fucking scratch, nothing to get worked up about," Ginrell shouted.
"The truth old man," Godzton said while staring agitated at him.
Ginrell sighed and then said, "To the bone. I've already cleaned it and wrapped it. It's fine."
"Have just what you need." Roland pulled back his coat displaying an assortment of small bottles fastened to the lining. "Milkors Tear." He grabbed the small bottle with his hand and held it out as far as his short arm would allow. "The finest in the kingdoms," he said.
Godzto
n could not help but catch notice of the branding on the bottom of his wrist, scarring in the shape of a skull behind an X. It was the mark given to people convicted of practicing in necromancy, labeling them for the world to see. It was a crime and considered an act against the Gods and nature.
"Here you are." Godzton handed him some coin and took the bottle. "So... necromancy," he said and Ginrell raised up in his saddle.
"I don't want any trouble sir," Roland said holding up his short arms in plea.
"Relax it's just my nature to notice such things. That branding looks very old."
"It is sir, got it when I was a youngling."
"Never heard of them branding a child for necromancy before, never even heard of a child necromancer before."
"That's the luck of looking different from everyone else." Roland's face donned with embarrassing remembrance. "I tried raising my pet rabbit from the dead. I was just a foolish kid. I dug him up and just rambled about in gibberish while I held him in my lap, don't even think what I was speaking could be considered words." He chuckled. "Some older boys caught me and drug me to the center of town screaming loudly about that I was a necromancer. The town folk gathered around me and shortly the local guard came with the branding rod all too eager to use it on me."
"The dead can't be raised," Ginrell said in a smug assurance.
"Right you are sir but try telling that to the masses steeped in superstition."
People were too quick to lay their irrational beliefs on anyone who looked different. Here they had branded a deformed boy and labeled him for life as a necromancer for make believing in a false magic that could bring back, possibly his only friend. These kinds of foolish acts never sat well with Godzton, he had always been compassionate to people born with such misfortune.
"I don't have to tell you that people can be cruel, Roland. But you seem to be doing all right for yourself now."
"Indeed I am sir."
"Most traveling merchants usually walk under guard with a few Swordmercs. Do you think it is wise to be traveling alone out here in these times?"
"Oh I'm not alone sir I have Roscoe and while he doesn't move around much he is capable of more than he looks to be," Roland said shifting his face back to a smile while the owl perched gazed coldly.
"Thank you for the medicine, be safe in your travels," Godzton said and mounted his horse.
"Likewise sirs and remember to apply the Milkors Tear once a day and you'll be right in no time," he said and continued on his way.
Godzton tossed the bottle to Ginrell staring at him with waiting eyes. Annoyed, Ginrell unwrapped his hand and dabbed a drop from the bottle onto the swollen wound, and then rewrapped it giving Godzton a sarcastic smirk as he did.
"Happy now mum," Ginrell said.
"Very much so, now we can be on our way."
They had entered into Spero and Godzton had gone to the carrier post to check for messages while Ginrell stepped into the inn. It was one of the smaller inn's Godzton had ever seen but would make do. Large windmills and vast farms surrounded the midway village to Theymonhal, which stood faded as a ghost in the distance. It was a hospitable little township, but had Godzton known what was waiting for him here, he wondered if he would have come at all. The sorrow would have found him in the end and to avoid it would not have made it any less real.
Silence befell all around him as he sat beneath a torch on the bench, slumped over resting his forearms on his knees as icy fingers massaged his heart and numbness covered him. He had thought the letter to be from Martha when he received it, as it was signed on the outside accordingly, but the handwriting was different.
It was a letter from Martha's friend Lacy. She had written him that his beloved was dead. It hit him like a hammer gripped by hands of lightning. He read it repeatedly thinking his eyes had gotten it wrong, but the message remained the same. The details were not specific, just that the entire group was attacked, and Martha and another Iron had lost their lives in the outing. A cloud of surreal crowned his head as he sat feeling hollow and drained. Martha was so enthusiastic, so excited to be going into the field, so innocent he grieved in thought. All he could see was her smiling face, remembering her gleeful laugh.
Being an Iron was so important to her. The many nights they would lay in bed together, she would tell him the story of the day her parents were murdered while she hid in a crawlspace frozen with fear. Of how the Iron held her in comfort as she cried into his coat for hours after he pulled her from the hiding spot. How he promised her justice and delivered it in her name when he tracked down the ones responsible and dispatched them.
"I got us some rooms for the night lad. You hear me, lad?" Ginrell said as he approached, but Godzton did not wake from his trance of disbelief. "Lad, are you all right?" Godzton still did not respond.
Ginrell noticed the letter lying at the side of Godzton's boot, picked it up, and read it. "Oh no... no... Godzton, I'm so sorry," he said very soft, took a seat beside him, and placed his hand on his shoulder.
"I never said goodbye to her before we left," Godzton muttered under low breath.
Ginrell clapped him on the shoulder. "She was a strong lass, she knew lad, she knew. You know, the Iron does its best to train us to be prepared for all sorts of things. Shows us how to push emotion aside so that we can go on, hard as Iron, but they can't ever really prepare you for something like this, no one can." Ginrell frowned. "Losing a friend and the one you love in such a short time can wear down even the hardest of men." He clapped his shoulder again. "We've been out here for weeks, Godzton... I don't think anyone would fault us... but maybe it's time we head home and let someone else handle it from here?"
Godzton let out a deep breath. "No... Martha nor Laythan would want that." He had done his best to bury the pain but Martha's memory remained vigilant. "She was an Iron regardless of ceremony and spoken oath. She loved the life of it and understood it, as did Laythan. I will grieve in time but we will finish this, for both of them."
"Lad--"
"We will."
Ginrell meant well with his words but abandoning an assignment would not have sat well with Martha Godzton knew. Her love of the Iron was stronger than her love of him but that was okay. The loyalty she held for the law was one of the things he adored so much about her. She would want him to push on, citing oath, and duty.
"Let's just get some rest, I think we've earned it," Godzton said, stood, and walked away.
Chapter 23.
Within the great hall, a sea of Man, Elf and Dwarve mingled with one another under the melody of Thegmor's Rain played by the orchestra. Long decorative banners bearing Theymonhal's sigil graced the blue walls and stylish lanterns by the hundreds shined as one. It was an extravagant showing no doubt paid for by misappropriated funds Willem thought. No one valued Lady Jillian's worth more than she did. The Bethforian ensemble cost a small fortune he knew, not to mention the extra cost of bringing them here all the way from Kyngrol. The empty-headed steward would spare no expense of the coin of others.
Theymonhal was once a proud beacon under the previous steward, Lord Lennor Marnet. An honorable battle tested man not consumed with ego or entitlements. He was a different kind of steward, one who would not allow foolish opinions to infect the province. And one certainly not to throw a grand celebration of his birth thinking the whole damned kingdom needed to be made aware.
At the back of the room, close to the entrance is where chosen guardsmen of the guest mixed, not good enough to stand within the crowd of higher social status. Willem found more comfort among them, those not afraid to work and fight. He stood huddled with Dethal and two of his kinsmen, Ered, and Lisim, near the exit gazing the piggish nobles as he sipped wine. If only the Gods were to be so graceful as to set fire to the whole place. He liked to watch, sizing people up, and seeing them unmasked when they think they are clever and that no one is watching. There was no soul in this room that did not have dirt under the bed. The charade of snakes all played the part with each o
ther acting as if they didn't know past deeds of hands they shook.
In the distance, Lady Lenore Valhur, of House Valhur, stood surrounded by her entourage, absent her husband Lord Edwin and giggling in conversation with a young knight. She was a tad tipsy and favored her wine a little too much, but not more than she favored young strapping men. Torrey Darbar, a shrewd Dwarven trader stood across the way eating a large drumstick with the manners of a tremor hound. His clansmen were no better and it was not a far sight before they would become rowdy with drink. Not far from him, the Gretzmin occupied a large spot standing stiff and deadpan with peeled eyes; social lepers do to all the inbreeding no doubt. They were wealthy and powerful though and people dare not mock or judge them to their faces.
Further, across the way paying him a snide grin was Lady Maven dressed in her usual whorish attire. She favored him a toast from afar. It was amazing that even in a pit of crud she could still stand out like a skin infection above the rest.
It had only been a few hours but it felt like he had been here for days. Annoyances soon to be rid of, kept him calm, and allowed him to stomach such a cloaked presentation. Mathayus were not much for celebrations of fallacy. He and his kin combined had fought more battles than any one person in the room had. Willem preferred the hard and true grit of battles compared to politics. Wars were easy he thought, enemies never hid away their feelings for one another and made their stands on the battlefield with clear intentions. The game of politics though was savagely played by tricksters of the tongue. You'd likely be stabbed in the back by a smiling face from the front. A sword in hand strapped in armor and surrounded by those he knew to be an enemy, and wanted to kill him, is where he found comfort, not here.
Lady Jillian floated around greeting and mingling with guest in a charade of deceit he saw. It was a farce that they all played under one roof; many who despised one another greeted each other with pleasantries while hovering around elongated tables filled with enough food to feed a starving village.