Of Iron and Devils

by B. H. Young

"You will do no such thing," Willem said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "No, I don't think I will."

  "They will finish their task and I will have vengeance since you took it upon yourself to deny me proper passing rites," she said.

  "The slayers have proved to be a valuable asset and the Order wishes to keep them around for any future endeavors. Besides it would not bode well for the Eldafienden's name to kill ones they hire."

  The bastard was yet again denying her. "We'll see what Overlord Withlem has to say about that," she snapped and stood.

  "Who do you think gave the order?"

  She stood with a stunned veil to her face, as the low beats in her chest seemed to skip. "He'd never--"

  "He did, it would appear he has either grown tired of your temperamental ways or your poisonous tongue or both."

  A cover of embarrassment draped her as both Willem and Typarion sat mocking with sneers. The room grew bigger around her and she felt so very small.

  "Are we done?" she asked choking on the words.

  "Yes you may go now," Willem said.

  The Eldafienden's task was soon to be finished and Maven would have her vengeance regardless of any orders of tongue. They were fools to think they could command her not to seek retribution. Her guards stood firm with Dame Shiva at the front as she approached them.

  "Take two guards with you into the southern lands," she said to Dame Shiva. "Track the slayers, you will be able to pick up their trail in Durbin, but do not engage. Follow them and keep your distance, when they have dispatched Lord Dorat kill them, kill them all and bring me their heads so that I may deliver them to Lord Willem's snaky face." Dame Shiva gave a quick bow.

  "You were always my favorite," Maven said as she walked behind Dame Shiva and placed her hands atop her shoulders. "It has been a long time since I've handled you." She placed her lips close to the side of Dame Shiva's neck. "When this is done we shall celebrate like old times, my dear friend. Now go."

  She slammed the carriage door shut. The cart sped from the yard and Maven growled, venting of anger that festered and then looked to her bound prize still with a wet face and murmured breath. She had no need to growl like a common dog to find relief when such a dish of innocents was waiting to be gorged.

  "He thinks he can command me, the wretched bastard," Maven said. The woman was not much for conversation beyond her crying. "Fools, all of them, the Old Ones have chosen me, not them. They simply walk under a title with no respect for it beyond anything other than filling their pockets. It is I who will be at the side of the Red King."

  Maven looked to the woman, with a hungering reflection of kink in her eyes, slid over, and placed her hand to the servant's leg. The woman rasped and winced trying to pull away, but the cabin was small and she was going nowhere. Maven undid the woman's blouse, pulling one of her breasts out and began fondling it, ignoring the cries in favor of the softness.

  "But there is still you, something rather of a light in this awful shade of events. I must apologize, this will not be pleasant for you I'm afraid." Maven pried the woman's legs apart and shot her hand up between them, bringing a rising muffled shriek from the woman's lungs, and then licked and sucked at the servant's neck. "Take much comfort dear in knowing that you have given me an escape for frustration... and I so do violently want to escape," Maven said.

  Chapter 27.

  Shadows danced and approached as Godzton stood paralyzed in the doorway dreaming. The room was small, its cobblestone walls sheathed in scarlet, and its floors dreary of blackened planks. It did not look familiar to him, something was very wrong about it. A muffled humming tormented his ears and decayed smells stung his nose and watered his eyes. His feet seemed forged to the floor and struggling effort could not convince them to move. In the corner of the back wall to the left, a figure stood stiff as a statue with nose planted. He wore the uniform of the Iron. Laythan, he thought. The figure did not move, did not stir but his head began to shake in a fit, moving with such speed that it blurred and distorted.

  A loud clicking drew his attention to the right of the room and there she was, Martha, sitting in the bed, naked as the day she was born, her face draped with a great frown. His chest hollowed out with sorrow, "Martha!" he cried but his voice was far away. There was something stirring behind her. A black creature small as a newborn with a crown of horns atop its head sat perched on the corner of the head rail, peering over her shoulder at him with devious yellow eyes. It hissed with the laughter of a sick elderly man. Godzton struggled to lift his feet with gripping hands but they still would not leave the ground. Looking back to her, he could see the creature now clenched to her back sneering at him over her shoulder, but she did not move nor scream. He cried her name again with a reaching hand, but his breath carried no sound.

  Warm moist air slammed him from the side and he turned. The giant warhog's face pierced out from the darkness and stared him with anger. Its head was massive, with tusk as big as an arm curling up from its snout, eyes black as pits with corroded armor trailing down its head. The wetness of its breath pushed at him with tepid patches. He would not move his arms or head for fear of riling the monster. Instead, he stood stiff staring into those endless eyes as his fear began to wet him in sweat. The warhog mumbled deepening snorts and tapped its slick muzzle into his arm. He could not help but to gasp with a sharp tremble to the curious nudge. The giant beast reared its head widening its mouth and thundered a squealing roar.

  Godzton squeezed his eyes shut with all his might and threw his head from the creature, shielding himself behind his arms. It was all he could do in such a paralysis state. As he waited to feel the beast gorging upon his bones, a different feeling overcame him instead. An immense pressure covered his body pushing in at every direction and the humming grew to deafening levels, but he'd still not dare open his eyes.

  The air grew colder and the sounds of the beast at his side were now gone and the strange weight lifted from his body. There was clamor and despair. He forced his eyes open and found himself standing in the middle of a village under attack by the unseen. A wall of tall, thick tree trunks driven into the ground surrounded it and buildings of rustic log and mortared stone hugged one another. Flashes of light composed the cracking thunder and speckled in the black sky. A green haze washed over everything it seemed, people were running in fear he saw, their screams stifled in gibberish.

  There was a voice of clarity that cut through it all yelling that they were coming, over and over. Who was coming, Godzton wondered as he turned his head with panic, gazing in every direction. Deep snorts and loud squeals rose beyond the wooden wall; the beast had tracked him here and it was not alone. A rumbling of a thousand boots by those yet seen shook the land as if crushing the very earth they commanded.

  Terrified and no longer sure this was a dream, it all seemed so real, Godzton tried to shake himself awake. Beyond the wall, lightning flashed revealing the shadow of a Leviathan in the distance. Twisted looking in nature, it pulled its sloped body on two long arms sliding itself along the ground. A clustering of tentacles protruding from its face wavered like serpents as its agonizing roar shook his vision. Its cry sounded like a man's but more tortured and beastly somehow.

  Large armored warhogs began tearing away at the outer barricade with their tusk, shrieking with horrific cries as they thrashed their trapped heads in broken sections of the defense wall. Explosions of flame bloomed beyond the wall, with force rolled through the wooden gate crushing it as soldiers, in ghastly smithed armor, of The March poured through and began attacking the villagers.

  Godzton yelled with everything he had to wake, but no sound came from him. Though, one could hear him and took notice. From the thrashing of The March stepped forth the Red King, facing him. The Red King wore wicked shaped armor of dark ash enameled in corrosion, graced in a long tattered coat scraping the ground and atop his head reached a crowned skull of metal with rusted tentacles drooping below gaping eye sockets. A nightmarish figure o
f importance, the wave stayed at his back as he drew closer pulling a saber from his side and reached for Godzton.

  Godzton woke to Ginrell shaking him. Groggy from sleep and drenched in sweat the old fool's hard ridden face was a welcome sight. "Ginrell?" he mumbled.

  "Godzton, I heard them," Ginrell said. "They were faint but I heard them." He peered down from his standing with an early frown of defeat. "The bells of Theymonhal, they're ringing."

  Godzton rubbed his eyes with hardening motion. "Ready the horses," he said with gasping breath.

  He feared the worst, stumbled to his feet, and donned his attire with visions of his nightmare still lingering. Then, like catching a thief, it hit him. The new day reminded him not all he hoped for could be a dream to wake from with a sense of relief. A gripping knot pushed in his stomach at the remembering of Martha's smiling face. For a moment, he paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath to collect himself. Pushing it aside would not be easy, he told himself, but he must press on, there will be time to grieve.

  The morning was not fully here but Theymonhal was wide-awake. The city bells rang out for miles into the smooth land and grew louder the closer they got. The streets were crowded with citizens huddled under a cloud of gossiping chatter in the road leading to the castle. Eyes of disdain welcomed the Irons as they traversed the road unmoving atop their horses. The castle halls were just as crowded with staff and nobles whose whispers fell silent as they passed them by.

  "Irons," Faravus said and gave a half bow as they entered into the steward's chambers.

  "Chamberward Faravus?" Godzton asked and the man nodded.

  Captain Drathen of the city guard stood like a ghost with another at his side lingering eyes of slight at him and Ginrell.

  The Province Steward stood bent over the footing of the bed naked with her head crushed in and her husband slumped to her back. There was no helping in feeling a slight embarrassment and uneasiness to the display for Godzton. Not a bad way to leave the world, he thought, but a tragic way to be found afterwards.

  "Cover them," Godzton told Faravus who then signaled the captain to do it.

  "It is most unfortunate," Faravus said. "We had heard news of Lord Sinthal being run out his castle and slain but thought it a random act. Not that Lady Jillian would have listened had we known otherwise I'm afraid."

  Godzton ran his hand along his beard and sighed. "Were there any more?" he asked.

  "Sadly," Faravus said and turned to him, "four guards, and Lady Jillian's ward, young Liandra."

  "No Irons were sent," Godzton said grimly.

  "We knew none likely would be. Hard times lad."

  "The Iron High Guard may be on hard times, but I can't think of anything more important that they could not be sent. They are the Province Stewards, if they are not worth protecting then what is the point of us chasing down their killers?" We should have come straight through rather than stopping in Spero."

  "We've been on the road for week's lad, pacing nonstop and have suffered losses. We needed the rest. We had no way of knowing the bastard was to strike last night," Ginrell said.

  Godzton knew he was right but he still couldn't help being angry with himself. "It was a foolish decision," he said and frowned.

  Faravus stood jittery to the Irons spoken words between one another. "Last night's celebration was rather ample. No Irons could have prevented this I'm afraid unless they were to be in the room with her," he said and pointed to the muddy tracks coming from the balcony.

  "Celebration?" Godzton asked. Stewards were not shy with exemplifying their events and made sure that anyone of importance within the kingdom, received invitation, particularly other stewards, as it was tradition. "Were any of the other Province Stewards in attendance?"

  "Lady Maven Aleid was the only one... much to the displeasure of Lady Jillian I'm afraid. Lord Lance Surranos is too preoccupied with the war and Lord Dorat is busy trotting around Fleslinburg's southern lands."

  Godzton turned to Ginrell and said, "Three names on the list, three targets. Two are now dead. That leaves one more and Lady Maven apparently was not it. He'd not waste an opportunity to dispatch his next target if available. Lord Surranos or Lord Dorat?"

  "There is no way in hell he could get to Lord Surranos. He is surrounded by an army of a hundred thousand of Terongard's soldiers, not to mention his own Dread Squad, the best assassins the world has to offer could not even scratch him in this time," Ginrell said.

  "Then Lord Dorat."

  "Aye, has to be, but Fleslinburg is a big place lad and we no longer have the luxury of their targets being near the Crow's Perch."

  "No we do not, but then neither do they. If Lord Dorat is traveling, he'll make for harder to find. It shouldn't be difficult for us to sniff out a group of three men when one has phantom eyes and the other is a Snow Elf. Such rarity in Fleslinburg would not go unnoticed," Godzton said.

  The captain who had been standing stagnant in the room perked up. "Did you say Snow Elf?" he asked.

  Godzton snapped to him and said, "Yes, why?"

  "Dawn patrol made mention when they reported in this morning of seeing a one riding along Pale Pass Road, toward Durbin. Mean as hell looking bastard they said, had two others with him."

  "How long ago was this?"

  "An hour or so give or take a few?"

  "Captain, ready your men quickly and follow us to Durbin!"

  "Just a minute Iron, I have very few guards to spare as it is and I'm certainly not going to lead the ones I can on some wild chase. In case, you haven't noticed the steward is dead. It'll be a fucking miracle if what I have left can keep this city from tearing itself apart."

  "My good captain," Faravus said, "Lady Jillian's death happened under your watch. Need I remind you that it will be your name in the history books of this horrific event. But what you do now will determine the matter in which your name is mentioned." The captain's bloated face sneered and he shifted judging weight to one foot. "Need I also remind you with the steward's death I am in charge until another is appointed from the Crown List," Faravus said putting strength in his frail voice.

  The captain threw a resentful bow to the Chamberward and then looked to Godzton. "It will take me a bit to round them up. Sam will go with you now." The captain waved his hand at the guard to his side. "He's young but capable. I will round up who I can and we'll be right behind you," he said, gave a nod and then left the room.

  Faravus turned to Godzton before he walked from the room and said, "Please do catch this man." He looked back to the steward's bed. "I would like to think dying in such a manner would not be in vain."

  Godzton made his way from the chambers, pushing by the nosey crowds. If Sylo was still in Durbin he did not aim to catch him, he aimed to kill him. There would be no ceremony of shackles and marching him to the king's court for a public execution. Godzton mounted his horse and stormed from Theymonhal with Ginrell and Sam in tow.

  Pale Pass Road was clear, a straight shot, and Durbin was visible in the distant haze. The wind burned his skin as Godzton tightened his grip of the reins. Adrenaline kept company with fear in him. These are dangerous men they hunt, and they were short an Iron, replaced with a young city guardsmen who likely had no experience dealing with such criminals.

  "They're coming out!" Ginrell said and pointed.

  The large man was exiting the inn, and there was no mistaking Sylo as the Snow Elf to his side gave confirmation and the slight glow in his eyes seemed immense even at this distance. Godzton pulled one of his swords and drove his heel harder to the horse. Angst consumed him at the first sight of Sylo and he drifted into that place where the worry of penalty to actions does not exist, where fear waits its turn. There would be no hesitation and reading of official rights. These bastards were rabid animals to be put down as such.

  Godzton held his breath and slowed his horse, vaulting off before coming to a complete stop; he pulled his other sword and advanced on Sylo, who had pulled a short sword from under his
coat. The phantom-eyed man looked calm as a rock and in a blink, the attacks rained with hammering force and Godzton deflected his strikes pushing heel to dirt and lost grip of one his sword to the maddening blows. Ginrell threw himself from his saddle tackling Marlo and they scuffled to the ground in a brawl. Sam hopped from his horse and pushed up on Jelkin with drawn sword.

  Sylo's large leg swept Godzton from his feet, slamming him to the ground; he felt the wind rush from his lungs and dropped his sword. He rolled out of the way of the brutes lunge and sprang back, pushing from his arm, throwing his weight behind a punch to Sylo's head causing him to release his weapon. Then in half a blink, he floated from the ground under a furious ascension. An immense force pushed into Godzton's face before the brick wall slammed his back. Dazed and groggy he stumbled using the foundation at his back for balance. A storm of clenched fist below a blue fire glare struck him from each side with lightning speed and trouncing vigor. Trading heavy blows with the large man seemed to have very little affect but Godzton would not yield.

  The hits came harder, staggering him. Godzton could no longer throw real effort behind his punches. When a small opening presented itself, he reached for his trench knife. If he were to go this day, he would be taking this bastard with him. Sylo pushed his hand from the grip and punched him in the chest. His whole body lost control and collapsed under his own weight. With worn eyes, he watched Sylo pull a mace from under his coat and overstep him like a giant who had denied his way forward. Godzton slid his hand for his knife, but the giant's ragged boot stepped onto his wrist stopping his last attempt with further denial. Godzton winced in pain and looked into those ghostly eyes peering down with decision. I'm coming Martha, he thought, but before he would the giant spoke.

  "I knew they'd send you," Sylo said. "They failed."

  The Snow Elf ran up behind Sylo and grabbed hold of him, pulling as he started to raise the mace. "There's too many," he yelled and pulled him back pointing down the road.