by B. H. Young
Jillian turned the knob with a gentle hand, cracking the door and they seemed unaware judging from their rapid breathing. Peeking into the room, an uncontrollable shiver hit her driving breath from her lungs and she covered her mouth. One could never be prepared to witness such a sight. Sir Lawrence was lying on his back on the floor between the crates she saw and Liandra was squatted on his lap with her back facing him, grinding her hips atop him as he clenched her backside, guiding her motion.
Jillian's tear-filled eyes would no longer allow her to deny the reality and ignore the obvious signs that were always there. She pulled the door back, closing it and buried her face into her hands then shuffled off down the hall. Turning the corner at the end, she rushed for the large potted plant by the stairs and vomited into it. The sight of her husband fornicating with Liandra, the daughter of her dear friend, punched at her gut and she wept and hurled another mouthful into the pot. She pressed her hand to her mouth, stared down the hall, and then pulled herself up the stairs, fighting back the urge to cry out.
All Jillian could do when she made it to her chambers was stand on the balcony and stare lost into the vast nothingness. The blackness of night embraced the emptiness that consumed her. She looked below the railing and wondered if it would hurt or if it would be so quick that there'd be nothing felt. The sight of Liandra and Sir Lawrence fluttered in her mind, speckling with visions of Liandra as a baby, a child, a young woman, memories of her and Sir Lawrence's grand wedding danced about in between them all. She was regretful that she did not barge in and confront them. But she was too cowardly to do such a thing even though justified; she hated herself for that. She had always been a coward, she thought, always quick to confront but then subdue when confronted back.
In her hand, Jillian held the locket that Bethany had given her when they were no older than Liandra. Silver with embedded gold and an onyx raised rose at its center; a keepsake to remember the great friendship they shared. Its chain coiled around her fingers and the ornament draped over the railing. When she had come into her chambers, she pulled it from its box with thought to cast it out into the night, but she could not bring herself to do it.
"Lady Jillian." Liandra's voice carried from behind but Jillian did not turn nor startle. "My lady?" she said and stepped out onto the balcony beside Jillian.
Jillian could hear her, but a gripping hand of numbness had taken hold of her. How could she face Liandra after witnessing her actions with Sir Lawrence? Move on, she thought. "Yes, Liandra," she said. Her voice carried bleak and she kept her eyes to the darkness.
"My lady I just wanted to wish you a happy name day before I went to bed."
"That's... very kind of you," she said and turned to face Liandra. All Jillian could see was the young woman's ass clenched in Sir Lawrence's hands.
"Is that a gift from one of your guests? It's very beautiful," Liandra said and pointed to the locket.
Jillian snapped from her silent stare. "Uh... no this was given to me by your mother when we were very young." Liandra's face brightened, but all Jillian could see was her sweaty backside grinding against her husband. "You know, Liandra... I think you should have it. Your mother would've liked that very much."
"Thank you, my lady. Thank you so much."
"Turnaround and let's put it on shall we." Jillian clasped it around Liandra's neck as she turned holding her hair up. "There we are... beautiful," Jillian said staring with eyes of remembrance above a faint smile as Liandra modeled the locket.
Jillian pushed hurtful visions aside and focused on more pleasant ones. Excusing thoughts entered her clouded mind at Liandra who was alit with happiness at her mother's locket in her hands. She was so young, so beautiful. Had she tricked Sir Lawrence, pursued him, Jillian wondered? She focused on Liandra as a child holding to her mother as she remembered, but darker thoughts lingered. Liandra's jovial gleam seemed absent of regret; did she not think it was wrong. Did she not care?
"Have you seen Sir Lawrence?" Jillian asked with a dull voice.
Liandra stayed entranced to the locket, holding it up to her eyes and smiling. "No my lady," she said.
The young whore would lie to her face while smiling gracefully as if she was nobility; the dark sleepless shade smeared around her eyes. "Have you been sleeping well?" Jillian asked.
"No, I'm afraid Meister Frenfirth's remedy has worn thin with me. I had another of those awful dreams last night," Liandra said.
"The March is it," Jillian said, tilted her head and ran her fingers along Liandra's locks. "When I was young, Old Meem would tell us children the stories of The March from the land of the devils, such an awful tale. The Red King would ride at the front leading them, all of them atop black steeds with orange eyes and hooves of fire that singed the very ground. Old Meem would say they'd come for all the deceitful and sinful, killing the lesser ones and taking the worst back to the hell from whence they came. She said to avoid them was to be a good and honest person."
"Suppose I should have nothing to worry about then my lady," Liandra said and let loose a chortle.
Jillian gazed beyond Liandra's joyful expression as if there was something in the dark signaling to her. At first, it did not seem as if it was happening. Liandra was smiling one minute then crying in shock the next as she sunk into the murkiness below the balcony; her yelp quickly silenced by the breaking of her body plummeting into the clustering of rocks beneath the night. Gasping in disbelief, Jillian stood leaning over the rail and staring into the pool of shadows below as memories of Liandra as a cheerful child burned with clarity. She covered her mouth but no tears rolled from her eyes. She had taken the young girl in, clothed, and fed her and this was how she repaid her kindness. The little harlot had tricked Sir Lawrence with her honeyed words, confused him, and wanted to steal him away.
"I'm sorry my dear did I frighten you?" Sir Lawrence asked as she jumped when he embraced her from behind. Jillian turned to him teary eyed. "What's wrong? Are you all right, Jillian?"
Paranoid at first by his touch, she realized he was not aware of what she had done. "Nothing... I love you," she stuttered below reddened eyes. Her young husband was all hers now.
Sir Lawrence kissed her and said, "I love you to my lady."
The taste of the berry fragrance was ripe and wet on his lips, and there was another scent. She pulled him closer, sniffed, and said, "You are perfect, and you are mine... mine. You understand that don't you, Lawrence?"
He favored her a smile. "Of course, as you are mine." His eyes showed confused by her tone and look of dread. "What is wrong, Jillian?"
"Nothing, really," she said and gave a teary chuckle. "It's all just so much to take in, in one night." She patted at her mouth giving short gasp. She had tried to be brave and forceful, but his presence would not allow it.
"The night is not over," he said and caressed her hips pulling her close and gave her another kiss. "We'll make sure come morning that enough seeds are laid to field a garden for the Gods."
"We will be happy," she said looking up at him with drooped eyes and a forced grin, "so happy."
Chapter 25.
For hours, Sylo watched the city, from a puny farm just outside the walls, through the spyglass with methodical nature. He had waited long into the night for the boisterous and showering glow of the castle to cease its hosting before proceeding. There were many entrances into Theymonhal, but he sloshed through the snaking stream that ran under the wall and made his way through the back alleys staying in the shadows. While the celebration may have been over, the guest had occupied every entrance of the city with crammed carriages in a storm of arguments. Hundreds of departing wagons plugged the three main gates that would make leaving or arriving a slow undertaking.
He took a spot in a stone niche just below the corner watchtower. The tower was plump, nestled in the corner across the torrent, reaching above the city wall. The castle was tall, cold, dressed in dark and stood a few hundred feet away across a small plot of land. Its sharp spires, s
lim bell towers, decadent vanes, and ornamental grating pierced into the depressing hue of the night. He had never been to Theymonhal but knowledge was not hard to pluck from the outsets of the city. The peasant farmer had told him which side the steward's chambers resided on in the castle. The ragged man was suffering, his farm no longer to produce the coin needed to feed his habit. Marlo helped alleviate the man of a life ruined after he parted with helpful knowledge.
Submerging into the shadows with studying eyes, Sylo waited. The light splashed around in the tower above, rolling from one side to the other, but could only muster a short reaching cloud of bloom towards the castle. Two unruly guards occupied the tower he determined from the chatter and heartbeats. At such a height, their chatter would sing as mere mumbles to others if at all, but was clear to him, just as the panting exchange of heaves beyond the castle balcony in the steward's chambers. The one guard was questioning a scream he thought he'd heard from the castle; the other guard made a snide remark in reply and they both burst into a laugh.
Theymonhal was large, but only five guards walked the defense wall in designated spots, far too few to merit any real threat or defense. Fifteen watchtowers by his count peppered the city but only four had guards, and only one near this side of the castle. A capital would normally find itself flooded to the brim with city watch, but not in these dire times of stupidity for stubborn monarchs to admit wrongness. It was such a pitiful state for a kingdom to find itself in, to have to draw so many away to war because of an incompetent king, he thought.
The entire realm of Terongard served as the playfield for the petty amusement of the Gods. A land filled with subjects of their trickery and torture. Tales of King Norindale's radical monarchy reached as far as Northanos and possibly the world over. The king of Terongard was nothing more than a physical tool of their prying fingers set to ruin. Sylo found it a shame he was not a target. There would be much satisfaction in sending one of the Gods' lackeys back to them, in pieces.
The light in the tower nest went dark, the chattering and heartbeats swiftly fell silent, and a faint whistle carried out to him. Sylo caught the lantern glow flooding out between the stone atop the wall making its round and trailed it with cautious eyes. It took pause behind the tower, raised up at the nest a moment before moving on. In a blink, it vanished and a second whistle sliced out in the air to him. He emerged from the dark alcove on the side of the Chamberward's building that rested just off beside the castle and made his way beneath the balcony. Torchlight from the courtyard snuck between the structures giving him a better view at this angle.
The source of the coppery smell he'd been whiffing of while hiding jumped at the corner of his eye below the terrace. The young girl's body lay shattered on the sharp rocks at the edge of the stream. Her limbs distorted, bending in unnatural directions, the top of her head cracked open like an egg with its matter oozing out along the stone, polluting the water. It was of no concern to him as many dead bodies had passed his phantom eyes over the years but interest struck him nonetheless. He looked at the girl's body, and then to the balcony, as old curious habits reared. Whom stewards decide to throw from their castles was their business, he thought, though.
Gauging the distance to the balcony from the ground, he removed his coat, bearing stocky arms of hard-earned strength, and the moonlight danced over his rugged chain mail vest tucked behind a wide leather strapped belt. It would make for an easier climb. He dropped his coat to the ground and removed all his weapons, but one. Slamming hand and boot to the wall, he began scaling towards the flickering light. Cold to the touch, the old stone numbed his fingers. The castles stone was not as uniform as it once was and gave way for a ladder forged by nature and time. His arms flexed as he pulled himself in synchronized fashion with his footing like a large spider.
The moans of pleasure were now louder, but the light was still weak. The salty smell was wet and apparent as he stepped into the room. The man stood bare with his back to him at the foot of the bed with the steward bent over motioning her arms and clawing at the sheets, clamoring like an agony-ridden banshee. Their grunts seemed to flow in rhythm with one another, with furious intent and reception, and the slapping of skin sounded of aggression.
Sylo approached from behind slowly, half his frame washed in the shadows of the candles feeble attempt. They would not have heard him anyway with as loud as they were being had he not moved with careful feet. For a moment, the fury of the sex gave pause and a thought that they had piqued the Gods something fierce for their path to end in such a mockery. Though, most would likely welcome the chance to leave this world in such a way, he thought, pulled his mace and moved closer. The sweat along the man's shoulders shined of oiled gold, the steward's portliness rippled as an angered sea, and for half a blink, they were set to reach the end of their exhausting climb. Sylo hooked his left arm around Sir Lawrence's neck breaking it, jerked his standing dead body to the side, and slammed his mace to the back of Lady Jillian's head crushing it like a melon. That quick, the moaning silenced but the salty smells lingered, though, now with other putrid odors. He dropped Sir Lawrence's body over Lady Jillian's corpse, freezing them in their last act of affection and made his way back to the balcony.
Sylo glanced to the dead girl as he put his coat back on. There were many victims of their doings tonight. The shadows were thick as he rounded the corner and the guard nearly bumped into him. The scent of her uniform gave clear warning she was approaching. Sylo covered the woman's mouth, lifted her from the ground, twisted her neck, and then let loose of her limp body without even stopping his stride. Their attempt was feeble, but expected. They had failed. The water reached at his knees with fingers of ice as he made his way under the arched drain.
The night was failing and the stars were shutting their eyes one after the next. The Crows Perch gave a faint glimpse of its massive silhouette and stretched arms in the horizon. Marlo and Jelkin sat their horses, holding to his as he pulled from the water. There would be no sound of city bells, this time, not until they were well gone. The road was quiet as they cleared Theymonhal and the darkened land in the far off began to peek through the bruised sky. Durbin was at sleep with most, with only a few crop handlers straying out into the fields with sluggish feet as drained souls with tools weighing their shoulders like slabs of fatwood of penalty twice their weight.
The inn sat overreaching a valley and a large broken tusk hung above its door. Sylo dismounted his horse, stepped to the porch of the inn, paused, and then looked back to towards the way had come. Marlo and Jelkin stood stagnant behind him unquestioning. The cold breeze scraped across his eyes. There was another wind, though, unfelt by those around him gusting of admittance to time convening of laws to come for justice. It won't be long now, he thought, shrugged and walked into the inn.
The land simmered in that moment before night would give full breath to the morning as he sat on the back terrace of the inn overlooking the vale covered in a sheet of light fog, puffing at his pipe in silence.
Cries from mistcats chasing down their breakfast rose out from beneath the smog below the terrace. Wild creatures and vicious as all hell, yet he sat calm and unconcerned. The approaching steps through the lobby planked with a familiar pattern echoing out to him. The spymaster had a slight heavier step to his left foot most could not notice, but he picked it out right away in Pyne when he scurried off from their meeting.
Geryn stepped out onto the deck threw a glance to Marlo and Jelkin at the other end of the railing and then turned to Sylo, who lingered an absent gaze into the distance. A piercing screech shrieked, rising hidden from below the terrace and Geryn shuddered. The awful high-pitch of a mistcat sounded like rusted nails scraping against metal, and would make most cringe.
"What's the matter, spymaster? You don't like cat's," Sylo said.
"I tend to favor the stray bastards that roam the alleyways. Not so much keen on the ones that can skin me in a matter of seconds," Geryn said and took a seat with a cautious glare of
the gorge below. "My spies tell me Theymonhal was a success, my lord."
"No bells have rung yet." A glob of smoke rolled from Sylo's mouth, hauling a whiff of the stout, spiced tobaccos to Geryn.
"My sources are rather something clairvoyant. They say success and I have no need to question that."
"It was."
The spicy smoke singed Geryn's senses like scorching needles. "Splendid my lord, here is you and your men's payment." He placed a leather pouch of gold on the table. Jelkin leaned over his shoulder, startling him, and plucked the bag from the table. He turned back to Sylo and with a hesitant voice said, "There has been a slight change in plans with Lord Neville Dorat."
Sylo snapped to him, pushing more of the peppery smoke from his nose, unsettling the spymaster. "I don't like changing of plans, as your Iron in Niset found out."
Geryn held his hands up pushing his eyes through the cloud of scorched weed. "I assure you that these changes are for the better and will benefit you." He took a breath of relief to Sylo turning his attention back to the valley, but it was short lived once the smoldering tobacco cloud reached his lungs. "I've been informed by one of my sources that Lord Dorat is staying in his retreat here in Fleslinburg, touring the southern lands with his wife. You will not have to travel as far as Rorthenvod to reach him. My source has provided a map to his retreat and of his schedule," Geryn said and placed a rolled parchment onto the table.
Sylo unrolled the map and studied it but remained silent. The map showed the retreat was close to the border leading into Padenmor, the province of Lord Dorat's rule. It would shave off a couple of days and while the spymaster assumed that was good news, he did not. Lingering in an area for too long, even one as large as Fleslinburg, after killing someone of such high status was not wise.