by B. H. Young
The falling light had begun to change with the new day that was about to awaken. Sylo stepped back from the pillars and into the nave, standing for a moment, watching, before he turned and walked away. The Being's metal dressed fingers rolled out a tap along the chairs arm. Sylo stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The affirmation that it was aware of his presence the whole time made clear, but there would be no showing, no quarrel to quell the trickster Gods' amusement. He turned his eyes from The Being and left.
Chapter 31.
Willem had endured the many hardships the world had to offer by the time he sat as patriarch to House Mathayus. Thrown into the servitude of a soldier when he was old enough to hold a sword and treated as cruelly as anyone could dare imagine. As he grew, he watched his father squander the power of the Mathayus away through foolish decisions. Decisions, Willem, himself would not suffer to make. It had taken years for him to rebuild the surname to its former glory and many people had to die for that to happen. It was Lord Owun Kleegan, the Usurper, during the Season of Steel that presented the opportunity to place the Mathayus back on the higher social tiers of the kingdom. Had the mad steward not started a rebellion, Willem would still be struggling to pull his house from the trenches of despair.
There would be no royal conclave to render political votes, as Lord Kleegan believed conspiring tongues were not to be trusted. The steward was a warrior through and through. He swept his rebellion across the kingdom in an effort to grab the throne from King Dominic Amann by force, not by council and rising of hands.
A war of fanatic's the bards sung as civil unrest followed and many Great Houses stepped up and chose sides. But not House Mathayus, its merit was limited and its forces small, or so, many thought, but Willem saw chance in the uprising of a steward mad with power and would not let it slip away. For years, he had replenished the desolate ranks of his house with Renkosh slaves from Vildeheim. Many disagreed with his allocating of limited funds into acquiring an army. It was a sound investment, though, for one's power in commerce was not enough to hold standing in the world and the Season of Steel gave justification and opportunity. Willem could have helped the efforts of Lord Kleegan, but the man was a Freethinker, possibly the most radical of the kind the kingdom had ever seen. Only like-minded individuals would thrive under the rule of such a man, but not before paying their earnings to coddle the less fortunate. There would be no place for the Mathayus in a kingdom like that.
King Amann was a man of respect that even the Eldafienden valued and admired. Terongard prospered beyond measure under his rule for those willing to labor and take hold of opportunities. It was vital to protect his monarchy so Willem gave no second thought at involving his house in the war under the king's banner.
Those who opposed Lord Kleegan did so locked in behind their walls, refusing to take him on. Cowards that did not deserve their wealth or standing in the kingdom. Willem's tactic's were simple enough, but unexpected by those who walked under the banner of the usurper. On two fronts, he attacked. The Eldafienden helped in his saboteur efforts under shadow while he descended on patches of rebels like a plague that left no one behind to tell the tale.
On the final day of his three-month, long campaign, Lord Kleegan, led his army into Kyngrol by way of the Crest. Tibbald Reymond, the usurpers bannerkyn and brother in law led the second bulk of his forces along Poachers Pass. The staggered path along the Crow's Perch funneled through the narrow rock out into Grump Shire fields. Lord Kleegan's plan was to draw out the king's forces at the Crest while Reymond surprised from the back unnoticed into the province. Poacher's Pass was a hundred mile trek that pressed at the side of the steep mountain too confined to properly defend. A trap of nature any logical tactician would say, but vicious arrogance clouded minds too easily. And had Willem not intervened, clouded minds would have succeeded.
Willem flooded his army into Grump Shire fields to greet Reymond as he and his men squeezed through the opening. It was by Willem's efforts that allowed a swift victory at the Crest while the real battle played out in the fields. He did not care for glory and celebration; such petty praises were more fitting for the likes of Lord Edwin Valhur who met the usurper head on. Lord Edwin, the fool, would never acknowledge that his victory was only possible because of House Mathayus. Willem would have taken his time getting to Grump Shire Fields had he known the buck's head was leading the charge against the usurper. Seeing the foolish bastard sweat would have brought a better feeling than victory.
Times were easier then, in his younger days, Willem thought, as he rimmed the top of the wine glass with his finger. Kleegan's army was one of the most vicious Terongard had ever seen. The destruction that man left in his wake would live in history unchallenged. Yet as bad as the Season of Steel was, it did not compare to the chaos Lucinda could leave behind. The daughter he never wanted.
The passing of his wife so long ago was the worst pain he'd have thought to ever have to endure. That feeling of emptiness and ache was like no other. The Gods challenged his standing as patriarch with the birth of a daughter and then pulled his greatest love from this world to further insult. The anger he shouted towards them that day could have moved worlds. It was a rage only trumped by the discovery of his ledger missing after his return from Koblersrift. The Blackphisk, a book of order that all the Harbingers were commanded to keep, an olden accustom of creed for the Eldafienden that should have went lost with the rest of the Order's history, Willem thought. If one needs to look to a page for reminding, then one did not deserve high standing and power.
He never liked the idea of having an item of potential disaster, but he was loyal to the Eldafienden and its tradition. The Overlords and their petty record checking for that not a single coin would lose way from their pockets. Books were for history, not for having an outline of confirmation to ill deeds and clarification on members who wish to remain hidden. Battles with blades gave a chance to walk away from unscathed, but if the Blackphisk were to fall into rival hands or worse yet, the Iron High Guard, then all would be undone with a simple drawing of breath.
His days lingered in dread since then. He did not need to question who had stolen it, as her absence in Riverton Hold gave him the answer. She was a pestilence. Always tempered and ready to back bite. Too spiteful she was to go at it alone though and had pulled Lestat into her scheme. And of course, he would follow her, always trying to protect his sister, but this was one act of defiance he would not be able to save her from.
Lestat's love for his sister was strong, but his loyalty to the honor of the bloodline and to the Eldafienden was stronger. His letter had come in the late hour a day ago by way of a rider from Renwhick. Lestat told of their location and the path they would be taking.
His wife knew the stain it was on his title for a daughter to be born to a patriarch. She had made him promise that no harm would come to Lucinda. He loved his wife very much and even under the gloom of birthing a daughter, he could not deny her. But it was an oath he would no longer keep. He could not ignore the actions of Lucinda's treachery this time. This was dangerous in its most infant stage and she was too naive to understand that or too hateful to care. There was no veil of delusion to his treatment of her nor was there any denial to it shaping her into the woman she was. But one can rise above such an upbringing and defy it if they so choose, but not Lucinda. She was too weak, too self-absorbed and set in her ways.
He sat behind his desk tapping his finger with a weighted stare to Geryn hoping his presence was to tell him of Ered's success, but it was not so. A cold burden of anger sat in Willem's eyes as he looked to find a response, but all he could see was the rage.
Geryn stood before him, bracing with apologetic posture while Dethal and Lisim stood off to the side dumbfounded. The news he had brought Willem was no news any father would want nor accept with gracious manner.
"So my son is dead... Ered is dead," Willem said, clenching his jaw tight. Saying it aloud gave more influence to its reality. "This is the news y
ou bring me this day Geryn?"
Geryn gave a half bow with sorrowed eyes. "It is my Lord," he said and frowned. "Ered and his men tracked them a few miles into the southern lands. A merchant caravan happened on their bodies my sources say, along with the bodies of two Valhur soldiers my lord. It would seem they killed each other."
"Lucinda?" Willem's face was florid yet glared with a hint of ice.
"She escaped back to Renwhick where I'm told she remains my Lord."
"Rats always seem to survive," Dethal hissed.
"Silence," Willem regarded him quick, "And the Blackphisk?"
"I'm afraid I do not know my Lord."
"Thieving little harlot I should have rid myself and this family of her years ago. Her antics have cost me the life of my son. She is most certainly a curse from Gods, a stain of shit on this Great House."
Lucinda had ensured Willem in his old age that he would have no legacy. A lifelong joke that had reached its point he thought. Her execution would not be swift and painless. Willem had a mind to have her tortured for twenty-seven days for each year she has cursed him and on the final day have her set afire like the witch she is. He glared past Geryn to the wall, watching as if her torment played out like a painting.
"What are we to do my lord?" Dethal asked with an all too familiar look of eagerness.
"Retrieving the Blackphisk would be a vital errand to start with, in these uncertain times," Geryn said.
Their discussion carried as muddled words to Willem's ears, all he could hear was her screams along the wall. "So, Lord Edwin thinks he can strike at me by killing my son and that it will go unanswered. No, I will give answer. Lisim, send message to my generals, raise my bannerkyn, and call them all to court," Willem said heavy with wroth, slamming his fist against the table.
"My lord, please forgive me." Geryn stepped closer with his hands tucked under his sleeves and a concerning expression. "But starting a war with the Valhurs may jeopardize the more important task and there is no certainty in the matter of what exactly happened. May I suggest waiting for calmer minds before we act?"
"They killed my son Geryn. My son!" Willem reared up in his chair digging his fingers into the desk. "It does not get any more certain than that. I did not start this, but history will show that I damn well finished it." His eyes widened above flared nostrils. "If the Overlords do not approve of me seeking justice for my slain son then they can come their fat sluggish asses down from their thrones of gold and tell me to my face." He snapped his eyes back to Lisim. "Do not make me give that order twice."
Lisim looked nervously at Geryn and Dethal before resting shaken eyes back to Willem. "My lord she has the ledger, this is not good. Geryn is correct a war with the Valhur during these times will simply complicate matters. Allow us to retrieve the Blackphisk and then we will deal with the Valhur."
Lisim was a noble warrior and a prime Sentinel of his, but he was in no position to question. "Lisim, do I look incapable?" Willem asked.
"My lord?"
"Well, you seem to think I am not in control of the situation at hand. Implying that I put no value to the Blackphisk or what comes if it falls into the wrong hands. I can assure you I'm well aware that if that happens your posh little life the Eldafienden has allowed you will be in ruin as will the rest of ours. But I am not of the mind to let that happen and will gladly go to war for that as well to see to it that it doesn't."
"My lord--"
"The Blackphisk is the only thing of importance I grant you, but vengeance for Lestat will be had, and it will be had now. If you cannot comprehend that then I have no further use for you. There was no tighter bond between brothers than that of your father and mine and it is the only reason you are still standing at the moment for thinking you are in any position to question me in regards to my son."
Lisim's face struggled not to tremble out and he said, "Very well Lord Willem, I will send the birds right away." He gave a final bow and left the office.
"My lord I beg your forgiveness, but he is right," Geryn said and took another step closer to the table.
"He should know his place, the runt," Dethal said.
"Well Dethal I'm sure he can't fit there with your head so far up it," Geryn said and snarled.
Dethal jumped to Geryn's face. "You little fucking rat--"
"Enough," Willem said and Dethal stepped back. "Tell me Geryn, am I not granted retribution?"
"My lord I have served you faithfully in both your houses for as long as one can remember. My advice may not always sit well in soured stomachs, but I assure you I only give with the best of intentions. The Overlords are already stewing at the current ripples of the task and I'd wager that starting a civil war in such times would cause them to boil over."
"The Overlords are happy as long as their pockets are filled and the wine flows as freely as the rivers. The slayers have shown to be astute in their trade and Typarion assures me the Iron will shortly be under our hand." Willem pressed back into his chair and sipped at his wine. "But allow me to humor you. What exact measure of approach would you advise?"
"Get Lucinda, retrieve the Blackphisk, and wait for the task to be finished. Once the air has settled we would be in a better position to deal with Lord Edwin."
Willem was well aware of the magnitude of what he was about to do, but it must be answered in order to not show weakness. If it had only been Ered killed, he could practice patience and deal with the matter as Geryn suggested. For the life of his son, though, he would wage war handling the matter himself.
"Your advice is noted Geryn, but this will be done my way. Dethal," he said, "make for Renwhick and bring Lucinda back to me at once. Do not harm her, I will deal with her myself once and for all." His orders echoed the walls like a bitter chill.
"At once my lord," Dethal said without challenge and departed.
Geryn's face slipped down in disagreement. "Very well my lord, I shall take my leave."
"Geryn," Willem said and he stopped and turned at the door. "Know where you stand old friend."
"That will never be a question I have to ask myself, Lord Willem."
Chapter 32.
Nothing scared an Iron more than being stuck in the field without ample stock of Vannik Serum, except maybe a pack of tremor hounds at their heels. They were a few hours in ride along the moon-laced land when the beast picked up their horse's scent. Doubtless, the strong southern wind repelling them like rolling waves of the ocean helped in that regard Godzton thought. It is a wonder every damn meat eater in the region hadn't formed a pursuing trail. A meal of two horses seasoned in Iron was a rare dish for such predators. Godzton knew the area well and while he would have rather swam in a sea of fire then take shelter in Fogmount, there was no other choice.
The kingdom harbored many haunted dwellings made grand by gullible minds, but Fogmount was different. Towwik lay off to its side nothing more than a tumbledown village now, long abandoned after Fogmount's last victims.
The old keep of Fareth Methos had stood for centuries as the stage for many stories that the self-proclaimed conjurer of the dark arcane had raised many sinister and foul unnamable things in its depths. Its bridge of stone shown of wounds, as did the barbican that stood guard at the facade of the fortress. Sculpted gargoyles watched curiously from their perch amid its corners as the mass of Fogmount's girth stood over from behind, flaunting its intimidating frame. Its lower levels were said to be the largest and deepest of any other keep in Terongard, so deep that its fingers grazed at the edge of hell.
Many nobles throughout history had tried to claim its halls, and all had met with dire fates. The last of the ones to try to call this place home was the worst, Godzton thought.
Baron Malbert Evyns of Dhunwhich was a widower and father to four daughters. The young women were prized perfection of the Gods, fit for no mortal man. Baron Evyns guarding of them was as fierce as an army of Krotha. The baron purchased the deed from the Fleslinburg Council of land holdings with plans to expand his commerce
of spice dealings to the province and needed residence in order to do so. He gave no merit to the intimidating tales of the place or its cursed halls. He was a flamboyant man who spared no expense and vowed to restore the great castle to rival even that of the Province Steward.
Soon, he found that no amount of coin could convince the locals of Towwik or any other in the land to staff the grounds, though. Renovations to the castle were no easier as builders would not even hear him out or allow him to make an offer.
It was not long before Baron Evyn's slip into madness came with the whisperings from below. The sickness consumed him, decaying his appearance, and scrambling his mind. He confined himself to the keep, imprisoning his daughters with him as well. Days passed without even so much as a glance laid on the family from the residents of Towwick. In the end, the screams poured from the halls for two days before a mob formed in Towwik's square and stormed the castle. They found three of the young women dead, mutilated and the baron, doused in blood and laughing erratically, eating the fourth of his daughters who was splayed out face down along the table. They said he did not even look of a man by that time. His skin was shaded in ash, dried out, his hair patchy and his eyes splotched in black ink. He screamed that they commanded it as the party pulled him from his savagery and beheaded by one of the locals.
Godzton paid no mind to words of wild tongues in regards to the mystic aspect of such tales, but he would go no further than the double tower as there was no need to, he told himself.
The tower doors were made of crossed metal over thick oak and would hold just fine against the empty stomachs of the mangy beast sniffing and snarling at the entrance. He and Ginrell had gotten the horses inside and barred the door before the hounds were upon them. It had stood for centuries pushing against time and the elements so wildlife shouldn't present too much trouble. The pack of tremor hounds snorted feverishly on the other side, agitated and pacing with growling appetite.