by B. H. Young
In the direction the Elf was pointing, a blur of gleaming armor atop shadows was growing closer. The captain of the guard was fast approaching with nine more at his back. Ginrell sat across the road rocking with hand to head and Sam laid motionless face down Godzton saw before the pain pulled him into darkness and silence.
The throbbing tenderness snuck in through the blackness, waking him, groggy and dazed. Ginrell and the captain stood in the small room staring down at him like confused fathers of a badly deformed baby. Soreness stung Godzton from all angles as he pulled himself up to the edge of the bed. Sighing with a relief that he was not dead, but he found none for the disappointment in failing to stop Sylo.
"Welcome back lad," Ginrell said. "You've been out cold a few hours."
Godzton leaned over his knees thankful to see Ginrell was still with him, albeit busted up pretty bad. "Sylo?" he muttered.
"They fled at the sight of the captain and his men. Sadly not before that Elf stuck a blade into Sam."
"We pursued them eight miles or so and then lost track of them in the Merotho Forest," Captain Drathen said, standing strict with his hands clenched over one another.
"Captain thank you for your help," Godzton said and raised his head up to meet him. "I am sorry for the loss of your man, he fought bravely."
"Sam was a good man," The captain assured. "Ginrell has informed me that Lord Dorat may be in danger from these men. So I've taken the liberty of sending message to Lord Edwin Valhur of House Valhur. Lord Dorat's retreat is on his lands, hopefully, he will receive message in a timely manner to take precautions." The captain nodded his head to both of them. "I have done all I can Irons now I must return to Theymonhal and try to maintain order in the wake of Lady Jillian's death. Under different circumstances, I could lend you the aid of myself and my men longer, but I'm afraid that's not possible with there being so few of us during these harsh times," the captain said, tilted his head back and then left the room.
Ginrell took a seat in a small chair across from him. His eye swollen and a drying of blood colored the hair under his nose. "Aidan Maddox would have shit himself if he'd seen you indulging in your brawling ways lad," he said and pained a laugh.
"These men are not the type to simply disarm and comply at our announcing. You saw it... the bastards were waiting for us," Godzton said.
"Aye, If that fuck would've gotten his knives loose he'd no doubt have took me for a once over, but we have another problem lad. My little tussle with the pretty man did more than hurt my jaw and bust up my face." Ginrell reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of shattered serum vials.
Godzton quickly checked his pouch hoping that his had been spared, but that hope was quickly laid silent when his fingers only found wetness and shattered glass in the bottom of his pouch. "Dammit," he muttered and tried to stand but stumbled.
Ginrell caught him and seated him back to the bed. "Easy, no point in being in a hurry now, their trail has gone cold and our supply of serum is destroyed. We are in a bit of bind lad and cannot gallop off scouring the land aimlessly after these bastards no more. You take a bit to rest and collect your thoughts and I'll be waiting in the lobby when you're ready," Ginrell said and clapped his shoulder.
Godzton did not rest long before making his way to the lobby. Ginrell stood at the bar in conversation with the innkeeper he saw. Fluttering flames from the large chandelier in the center of the roof bathed the lobby in a haze as he took spot beside him at the bar. The wizened innkeeper placed a pint of beer in front of him and gave a nod.
"He doesn't drink," Ginrell said, smacking on a mouthful of meat.
Godzton held his hand over the pint as the innkeeper went to retrieve it. "Things change," he said and grabbed a piece of meat from Ginrell's plate, took a hearty bite, and washed it down with a gulp of beer.
It had been years since his tongue had tasted the sweet hops of a good beer and it complemented the meat well. One can put too many restrictions on themselves to where life becomes a job rather than an enjoyment, he thought, and took another gulp.
Ginrell looked at him with a questioning gaze and said, "Easy lad I don't need you all pickled up before I tell you the good news."
"What then?" he asked and took another gulp of beer.
Ginrell let out at belch and bobbed his finger at the innkeeper. "Old Charlie, here just so happened to recognize the man who met with Sylo this morning, you ready for this lad? Geryn Dannowar, advisor to one Lord Willem Mathayus."
"Are you certain?" Godzton asked the innkeeper.
The frail innkeeper nodded his head. "I am. Two summers back I met him briefly at a summit in Theymonhal. Pompous bastard, you don't forget people like that. He met with the big man on the terrace early this morning, wore a hooded crimson cloak, to hide his face I reckon but I seen him."
He pulled Ginrell back from the bar. "Teyah said Sylo met with a man in Pyne who wore a Crimson cloak. It makes sense. Rumors of Lord Willem's involvement with the Eldafienden have always been plenty."
"Lord Willem will disown him lad, claim he acted on his own without his knowledge or consent," Ginrell assured with a heavy voice.
"That he will but Geryn is no soldier and I suspect he will succumb to interrogation easily, I'd bet all the coin in the world on it."
"So what do you want to do?" Ginrell asked and took another bite of meat.
"I'll send report to Overseer Lisbet informing her of newfound information and ask that she have Geryn taken into custody," he said. "I'll have her send a resupply of serum to Castle Benwin and you and I will head there with haste. The captain said he sent word to Lord Edwin. Let's hope that he received it and has Lord Dorat under protection." He walked back to the bar and laid ten gold coins at the innkeeper's fingers. "Thank you for your help, Charlie."
Chapter 28.
Lisbet stared across the desk to Typarion, his clean fair amber skin and his defined features always entranced her. He wore a blue silk robe with silver embroidery and a sash tied around his waist under a leather belt. He favored her a smile as he took a seat.
She had never thought in all her days that she would find loving embrace with an Elf. But in the beginning it was not so, he simply offered friendship and counsel to her aching heart of a harsh world learned. He was the teacher and she the apprentice, but she wanted more, thrived for it. She could remember it like it was yesterday, in Mystenthel, in his office when her longing for him had grown unbearable and her stomach quivered just to be in his presence. It was not proper for a woman to be the one to court, but she could no longer keep her impatience at bay with a curling of toes and tightening of thighs. Unmoved in her persistence she just about had to force herself on him.
He opened her saddened eyes to the truth of the foolish loyalty she once cherished so much for the Iron. Typarion was so strong and confident in himself, she was just a shy foolish girl rendered silent by atrocities done to her by ostensible brothers of Iron. Typarion lifted her from a broken state and patiently put the pieces back together, and though he had taught her much in the ways to use tragedy to barter for power and position, he could not teach her to forget. The painful memories would burden her to eternity, she knew, for that cold night in the old farmhouse lingering in her thoughts would never see the sun rise.
As she lay broken in the infirmary so long ago, the Overseers, like old vultures, perched over her bed wheedling her to the grand benefits of silence. She remembered just crying as they rambled on to her about the strength of the Iron and assured her that it would never happen again and that those responsible would not escape punishment. The tongue trickster Overseers devised a false narrative of how she suffered injuries in the line of duty fighting with honor and courage. If only, she thought. It was a falsity of a punishment, but maybe she was the fool for thinking the Overseers would have had them sent to the gallows while she lay broken and confined to a bed. They were veteran Irons, too seasoned to receive true justice, and she was just a mere elevated recruit yet to be forged.
But Typarion brought her true justice when he had her three assailants assassinated with a mere few words and even had their families killed for simply knowing the truth of what they had done. The law and justice of the Iron High Guard were selective, but the Eldafienden was not. All those who knew the truth have long since passed from this world and no words of wild tongues would ever come close to the true and tragic tale of the price she had paid to bear the title of Overseer.
"Lisbet my dear," Typarion said as he made himself comfortable in his seat.
His razor-sharp voice broke her trance. "Typarion, it's been some time since I've seen you. You look rather worn."
"Time is a rarity these days I'm afraid my dear. We rode straight through from Fleslinburg," he said and laid a stack of parchment onto her desk, "and this is why. I trust that you will find proper place for these."
She smiled with recognition to the stack of papers and donned a veil of glee. "So it is time finally?"
"It is. The Harbinger has given the order and you are to proceed." He grinned. "Are you certain the Royal Overseers in Northanos will accept your nominations of the replacements?"
"The nominee's are two very honorable men. Their history as Irons is impeccable. It would be highly unlikely for them not to accept the nominations."
"You are a prized Sentinel if ever there was one and I could not be prouder, Lisbet. Do you still intend to carry it out publicly?"
"Yes, it would be better that way I assure you. If done in private there would be suspicion regardless of evidence. Damnation for all to see would quell most questions," she said. It was the best course of action and she would even have unturned Irons assist her. Typarion tilted his head and gave her a questioning gaze. "Does something bother you about all this?" she asked.
"I'm afraid of all the things I'm well versed in I still draw rather blank on the Iron High Guard's practices. For such a long-standing order, its methods seem rather primitive, almost unbelievable that it could be this easy."
Lisbet leaned back, locking her fingers and threw a chuckle. "Well it's not been entirely easy, but you can thank Archivist Edverc if you'd like before he meets his end," she said. "The stubborn pig's grip in traditions allowed all this in the first place... never one to even look upon the Crown List or allow others to unless it was official. Though I'm not questioning or complaining that he must go, couldn't we have switched the list afterwards? Just seemed to be an awful gamble."
"I had hoped the reaction of the King would've been more swift. If it were, the cabinet would've been opened shortly after Lord Sinthal's death and the list gazed upon and we'd have our first steward. In truth I should've known better, the King rarely takes counsel beyond his own flawed opinions."
"Well, the only difficult part now is getting confirmation from those old bastards across the sea. An Overseer's words are law and any questions there are to be, will be few," she picked up the papers from the desk and looked over them, "these will see to that."
"You will rise quickly in the ranks of the Order, Lisbet."
"I should hope so," she said.
"What of the Irons you assigned to the case?"
"Last report came out of Lothel, one has suffered fatally. The other two still remain but have not reported in for a few days now and judging from the news out of Theymonhal, they have had little success. Oh, they will do their duty as applicable as they can but I aim to tie those loose ends rather shortly." Lisbet danced her fingers at the stack of forged documents.
"And the recruit that retrieved information about the Crown List? She told no one else?"
That question brought forth a memory Lisbet had been subduing as best she could. The site of Martha's head shattering into the wood like a clay jug filled with red wine, her small lifeless frame twitching with ending nerves; it hollowed Lisbet out resting a sickness in her gut. She tried to tell herself it didn't bother her, that none of it did, but the lie would not hold. But she did her best to hide it from Typarion. There was no suspicion when Martha had not returned with them, Paython's sacrifice, and the gashes they gave each other with the large onyx claw of a greymount wolf made sure of that. Greymount wolves were as large as cattle and were fully capable of carrying off a grown person. Such a story seemed almost merciful and generous compared to the truth.
"It's likely she told her friend, but the poor girl had been bed ridden for days with a fever. Sadly it took her in her sleep," she said.
When she had smothered Lacy in her sleep, it was assumed that she succumbed to the sickness. Lacy's muffled whimpers below the tightly held pillow still rung in her mind. The poor girl clawed and squirmed as much as she could, but Lisbet just pressed harder she remembered. She'd not want to think of either woman suffering, but deep down it tore at her.
"My dear you truly are very capable and soon when this is all over you will be elevated in no time to a High Council Member. You have been a most valuable asset and notice has been taken."
Lisbet only cared about his notice though. She stood and walked around her desk and took spot in front of him. "I do hope I am more than simply an asset to you," she said bearing a playful look of concern. It had been too long since she had felt his warming embrace and the thought of it, easily pushed away the burden of guilt.
"That should be no question my dear," he said and stood. "Though, there is one other matter that I need you to deal with."
"What?" she asked, leaning back into her desk.
"Dardanos Eastmunn."
"Rabble enforcer for the Lassono family of Dyerwin, what of him?"
"He is in Terongard and is likely to cause much trouble for us." He gazed her with firm eyes, placed his hand to her hip, and stepped closer. "He needs to be dealt with by Iron hands so as not to arouse any suspicion from the Lassono's. The Harbinger would like you to handle it personally."
"Personally?"
"Lord Willem likes to test everyone, my dear, as petty as it is."
"And what would you like?"
"I would like you to prove to the bastard what I already know. There is no one I trust more that is capable."
Lisbet rubbed her hand along his chest. "Very well, once the iron bells are rung and the changing of the guard is complete me and my men will set out right away," she said and pulled herself closer sliding her hands over his shoulders. "This calls for a celebration. I do hope your visit today was not purely for work, I haven't seen you in so long."
She placed her hand at him lower, rousing stiffness through his garment. Typarion grunted as she motioned her hand with seething intent and sucked at the side of his neck. It trembled in her, his taste, his scent, and she began to undo his belt.
He pushed away, draping her in a shock. "I am terribly sorry my dear, but I have matters in Mystenthel that need immediate tending to unfortunately."
"What?"
"Do not look so grim my dear, I will make it up to you, I promise," he said and gave her a soft kiss and left.
Lisbet stood frozen and speechless, moping. He had never denied her before and there was no masking her disappointment and disbelief to his doing so now. But he always made good on his promises, she thought. In the meantime, the iron bells needed ringing, she thought, and plucked the plagiarized documents from the desk.
When Lisbet entered into the Iron Hall, the ruckus snapped silent and all attention turned to her. Men and women of the Iron seated the rows while recruits took their place in the back of the room where they stood ordered to remain silent. Overseers Gelfradus and Hacan sat at the head of the room behind a thick table of iron and wood with brooding glares. They were less than thrilled she had called for the assembly without consulting with them first. Jack, Eric, and six other Irons strolled at Lisbet's back down the aisle and fanned out into the crowd at her signal as she took center stage of the show yet to come.
"You best have a damn good reason for this," Overseer Gelfradus said in a shrewd whispery voice. His cratered face looked to puddle with oil of a temper.
Sh
e turned to face her Iron brothers and sisters. Hundreds of eyes lingered at her, faces of all age and race sat waiting. Eels squirmed in her bowels and sweat dripped in her hands. This was the hardest thing she'd had to do; certain at first, it would go as smooth as she told Typarion it would, now she was not sure. Sociable skills were something ripped from her to find nothing but the wondering behind glimmering eyes that stared engrossed of a mockery before them. All these smug faces could just as easily charge her and rip her to pieces. Listening to Typarion's words allowed her to ease the discomfort and silence the bubbling in her gut. She was strong, she told herself.
She took a deep breath. "Brothers and sisters, it is with heavy regret I stand before you this day to inform you that we all have been deceived. The Iron High Guard has stood for centuries as an untouchable institution of neutrality and high honor, out of reach of the hands of corruption and despair. For months I have investigated matters unknown to us all and it is with a heavy heart that I admit our highest ranks have been tainted by greed."
Overseer Gelfradus and Hacan rose with a fury from their chairs. "What is the meaning of this nonsense?" they both scoffed as if two separate beings speaking under one voice.
She turned to them, pulled the stack of parchment from under her coat, and held it high for all to see. "The Iron High Guard descended on the villa of Jackson Buris, the Carver of Shadengrell, a mere six months ago." Lisbet twirled to the audience clenching the papers. "It was a great day in our history to rid the world of that beast of a man and his gang of savages. Such days should live in infamy. But some hands sought to gain wealth for favor at his removal." She threw a finger, sharp as a dagger, to the two Overseers who fumed red. "Their hands!" she yelled.
"You scheming bitch!" Overseer Hacan said and a wave of shouts from the crowd silenced him back to his seat.
"Jackson Burris was no innocent man, but he was a thorn in the side of a higher unlawful element. An element that wanted him erased an element that has polluted our sacred order and tempted higher hands with a lifetime of riches. These documents are their contracts signed in blood to the servitude of the festering filth that has lined their pockets, retrieved from their own chambers."