by B. H. Young
Nocturnal savage beast bred in ancient times by Khalden, the Cruel, to serve him. Khalden, the Cruel, lived two centuries ago, yet his mutation of crossbreeding had survived and evolved with time. The massive beasts were heavy and strong with a bulky upper body and a large head cloaked in black and brown fur with a thick mane. They were fearless and in a pack, their massive paws shook the ground. Godzton could live to say that part of the hound's description was not true, but in their stampede, a rolling thunder did follow them.
Ginrell stoked the old fire pit he had managed to get going in the middle of the entry hall. Their horses stood in the far corner giving soft knickers from time to time as they grazed on some hay. Godzton barred the door other side of the room just in case. Ginrell pushed up close to the fire warming his hands, padding his breath and shaking as if he'd just been plucked from the snow. Just outside of Durbin, in a blink, the old man grew ill. It was not of the serums doing, Godzton was certain they had enough time left before their next dose. And even at the cornering of tremor hounds, they would make it to Castle Benwin before any real worry should be given. He hoped.
"You alright?" Godzton asked. "You don't look well."
"Aye," Ginrell said and heaved. "Damn winter sickness. It'll pass shortly that's if I don't pass out from this smell. What in the shit is that, rotten fucking eggs?"
Godzton whiffed at the scent as well; it was faint. Maybe it was more pungent to the sickened senses of an elder, though. "Sulfur, smells like, it's not that bad, we've slept under worse conditions."
"Rotten eggs, a cursed castle, and mutts that even hell would not admit, at the door," Ginrell said and rolled his head around the room. "I'm not entirely convinced it could get much worse." He looked to the doors that led to the main hall of the keep. "Hope there is no fucking witches hiding in here," he said and looked back to Godzton with a grin.
"I'm more worried about our guest outside," Godzton said as the growls carried harder and massive paws tested the door.
"Foul beast! Tremor hounds aren't terribly bright lad they'll lose interest soon enough, scurry on back to where they from when the sun comes out. Besides, thought you were fond of animals, maybe go out there and pat their wee heads," Ginrell said, chuckled and then coughed.
"They're just wildlife, there's no malice in them just instinct."
"Aye, I seem to remember you beating ole Bernier Stenneke into the infirmary for five days for kicking that mangy three-legged mutt that took to hanging around the compound a few summers back." Ginrell threw another sickly chuckle.
"Benther," Godzton said.
"What?"
"The dog's name was Benther."
Ginrell weighed his sick eyes to him, gave a hard sniffle, and said, "You named the fucking dog?"
"I did, everything should have a name," he said and tossed a twig into the fire. "It didn't have anywhere to go and wasn't hurting anything or anyone. Besides, Bernier was a cocky bastard who needed a reminding of many things."
"Aye, that he was and well, you certainly reminded him, of what I have no idea... but it was just a dog lad." Ginrell shrugged. "Thought the Overseers were going to rip your hide over that for sure."
Godzton knew it was hard for his friend to understand; sometimes it was hard for him to understand it. "When I was just a boy my father had a pair of hunting curs, mean as all hell and dumb as wet shit but they obeyed him and could track and catch any damn animal you gave them scent too. We lived far from the village and I did not have many friends, well none in truth except for those dogs. I would stand by the pens talking to them. Mean as they were they would sometimes let me pet them through the boards." Godzton lowered his eyes to the fire. "He never liked that, said that they weren't meant to be friendly and commanded me to leave them alone. I would not disobey him. He was a good man but had a firm hand and little tolerance for defiance.
"Then one day as I was playing in the mud down by the creek this little dog showed up." Godzton measured his hands out to the size of the dog and stared between them lost for a moment. "It was very young, very small. It had a high spirit one would not think so by looking at it. It was ill you see. Patches of its hair had fallen away from its skin leaving scabbing and sores. Well, it was a right bit friendly compared to the curs, but I feared my father would find it and turn it into a mean hunter. So I kept it a secret you see, began sneaking it some food and water for a few days and spent countless hours playing with this... happy little dog, until my father found him that is."
Godzton stared off as if watching the memory play out right in front of him, remembering what the full brunt of sadness felt like. "He said he had the mange and would spread it to his curs, said they were worth more than most people and the dog needed to be killed and his remains burned," Godzton said and tittered. "I carried on something fierce with tears, so I took him far away from our home. My father didn't care just as long as the dog wasn't around anymore. I walked for hours each day, crying, with each step holding this little dog and each day I'd set him to the ground far from home and try to shoo him away, but he'd just prance up to me with his tail wagging. No matter how much I cried and yelled at him, he just followed me back every time. Just this... sick little dog that didn't know anything was wrong with it.
My father slighted me for feeding him in the first place. Told me there was only one way and he wasn't going to lose his prized curs to some mangy mutt. So he pulled his belt, wrapped it around his fist leaving just a bit hanging and placed a shovel in my hands, said I was the one who took responsibility for the dog and I would be the one to handle it or he'd handle me. It didn't know. It just stood there looking at me with that playful muzzle, wagging its tail," Godzton said drifting into a daze, as he did not want to finish the rest of the memory.
There was no need to. Of all the things, that a person could forget in life that one memory held to him every day. He did not hate his father for what he had made him do he just never understood why he felt more sympathy for an animal than he did a man. Ginrell was right it was just a dog, but that didn't mean its life had less value or that it was to be treated harshly.
"That's a hard lesson lad, a hard one indeed," Ginrell said as he rocked his tucked body towards the flame.
Godzton pulled his knees up and rested his arms and said, "That's all it is though isn't it, life, just one hard lesson."
"Aye, that it is and we'll have many tales to tell of this ranging, some good, some bad."
"You think we'll catch him, Ginrell?"
Ginrell grunted as he shifted his weight to the floor and dug his hands deeper under his shoulders. "Lad you don't need to worry yourself, we can't always win. You know that better than anyone."
"We failed. A prime opportunity granted to us and we failed."
"Aye that we did, that lot gave us a licking but the truth of it all lad, is men like Sylo do not fail. They climb above that ridge that separates them from everyone else."
"He's not the first to defy the Iron."
"To be sure lad, we have caught a many filth with their knickers down who lunge at us under surprised minds without regard. But that bastard just waited for us, standing out there in the dirt without concern. I've seen my share of bad in this world but nothing like him, nothing like that coldness that just seems to hover above it all and detaches him from the world."
"He was an Iron," Godzton said. The Irons conditioning does not just go away when one lays down their oath and if they could fail, so could Sylo.
"Aye and now he's a rusted Iron... and a living myth."
"You're not going to start on that again are you? We missed a chance, there will be others, and I won't admire the man."
Ginrell's face gleamed in the light of the flame as he ran the rag to his nose. "No Iron ever has ever survived the detox. You can be disciplined with your facts, but don't ignore them when they don't fit your beliefs lad."
Godzton had never even thought of that, but found reason and said, "Irons who retire their oath have the Fathion to help qu
ell them off."
The mixture was a locked secret as the Vannik was and handled by only a few who were beyond corruption. There were no guarantees an olden Iron would stand again after ingesting it, but it did give a small chance.
"But he did not retire his oath, he went rogue and rusted Irons are not given such a sweet send off as to be supplied with Fathion to wean them off. The damn formula is locked up tighter than Overseer Hacan's arse. And he didn't need weaning off lad, he became one with it."
Godzton rolled his eyes and was certain a fever had taken hold of his old friend. "So you are saying we just give up?"
"No lad, what I'm saying is men like him walk through this world without the concerns that make the rest of us vulnerable, that make us mortal. He chased one steward out of his chambers, killed the other while her husband was plowing her, without so much as even a whimper of alarm. What I'm saying for certain is that you can't defend against something like that, something that just can't be moved out of the way or reasoned with."
"Think his man may have hit you a little too hard old friend, knocked what sense you had left loose," Godzton said as he stared the fire.
Ginrell coughed a sick chuckle and said, "I'm just aware of what he is and what we are."
"What's that?"
"We are the monsters at the gate that keep the devils at bay, lad. But sometimes, just sometimes, one gets through."
"We will stop him, one way, or the other and then we will go after the Eldafienden," Godzton said. He was sick as well, though with hurt pride, but refused to think they would not prevail.
"Aye, we'll do our duty as best we can, that I'm certain of."
He did not share in Ginrell's sentiment but acknowledged some truth in it. They had lost many fights before but it seemed this one had taken its toll on his friend. He watched Ginrell curl up to the flame, shivering with a mask of sweat. Fevers sometimes make the mind wander he thought, and Ginrell's mind was the last thing that needed to wander.
They sat quietly and Ginrell covered a yawn and the said, "I remember all kinds of stories of this place." He looked over the room and the rested his eyes to Godzton as he raised his head to him.
"This place is not short on tales of its name," Godzton said. "It's given many sick minded people excuse in their actions."
"You ever hear the one of Joster Fenn?"
"A raider, right? Don't think I've heard that one." Godzton said. He had heard all the stories of Fogmount, including the ambiguous tale of Joster Fenn, but did not want to end the night on a sour note and would indulge his friend.
"One of the best, and meanest, of his time they say," Ginrell said. "Story goes him and his crew were contracted to retrieve an artifact or something rather that was said to be here, in the lower levels. Well, they went missing for a few days and the procurer of his service sent out a patrol to find him. Said they found him huddled near Pale Pass road a short ways from here disoriented as all hell and naked as the day he was born. Said old Joster took a blade to his own eyes and plucked them from his skull." Ginrell coughed a foul mucus and spit it from his mouth. "It took them three days to calm the crazy bastard and when they did they tried to question him. The only thing he said and kept saying was Fogmount, Fogmount, Fogmount."
"That's it?" he asked and Ginrell gave a sure nod. "That's not a very good story old man." Godzton gave a smirk; a light poking at the old man was to keep spirits high. Friendly slights with one another kept them humble and helped ease their minds of the troubling thoughts that weighed them plenty.
Ginrell's face stretched up and he said, "Well lad I didn't make that damn story, I just told it."
Godzton stared at him in silence for a moment. "You're losing your touch, old friend," he said and lay to the floor and stuffed his coat under his head. "It's a horrible story," Godzton said and smiled.
Wise to his jesting, Ginrell curled a grin. "Fuck you lad!" he japed out spacious as he lay beside the fire.
The story of Joster Fenn was a common tale to warn of venturing into old ruins that left one with more questions than answers. It was a troubling tale Godzton would not want occupying his thoughts, as it would be hard enough to find sleep as it were without remembering any of the stories he had heard of this place. He could not shake the visions of his dream in Spero. As hard as it was, he could keep Martha and Laythan's memory at bay to give proper grieving for later, but those sights of The March, he could not control them, and they lingered. He knew enough to know what he stood witnessing for, but unclear as to why he would dream about such unreal things?
Chapter 33.
Lucinda was scared. That bastard Dardanos killed Lestat and she did nothing, but flee atop her horse, crying, all the way back to Renwhick. Dazed in the mud of sorrow there was nowhere else to go. She sat slumped over the table staring into her tankard. The froth had dissipated from its thick body to mere pasty streaks. Lost in the world for the first time without guiding support she could do nothing but drink. One Amber Mist ale after the other until it all blurred.
The dark and dusty Renwhick inn well suited her mood. There was no sleep allowed to cross over the bridge of nerves into the field of vigilance. Sitting the entire night in the lobby drowning her grief in beer to watch the day dawn, the hard reality that her dear brother would not be coming back soaked in like brittle burlap. Alone for the first time in her life, she did not know what to do; he had always been there for her and guided her.
But Lestat had betrayed her, sending word to Lord Willem of their route. She told herself that he did not mean to cause her such angst and was just scared. His actions, as always were simply to protect her. Ered, though, was a burley reminder of how severe her actions were. One of father's greatest warriors and Dardanos killed him as if he was standing still, begging for his throat to be slashed. Lord Willem would send more, unyielding in his combing of the land, she was certain.
More worry sat with Lucinda, as she could not be sure if that maniac was on her trail. All that shuffled in the streets of dirt beyond the inn's smeared windows were broken men and women who could barely lift a shovel let alone fight. The grinning buzzard of lunacy would kill them all, without so much as wetting his brow and then save her for last.
And what of father? How far out was the clamoring of damson-trimmed armors that no doubt were to come? If Dardanos were to follow, he may find a wall of Mathayus waiting to greet him, she hoped. But not if he was to be soon. House Mathayus protect their blood. An upbringing of hardship under spite yet one could still seek shelter under the sigil of the Roltharian crown. Would Lord Willem finally make good on his threats of death? He always sung of high curses to her but a beating was all he ever delivered. There would be punishment that much she was sure of, but for the first time she was ready to accept responsibility.
The whisperings of intuition had brought feared minds back here. She looked out the window with a lost gaze and the light bloomed in her eyes, smudging all outside of it. Did she always crawl back knowing no matter the act she would find Lord Willem guarding? Perhaps he simply guarded his prize to deal retribution himself.
Lucinda did not want to stop crying but her eyes struggled to find more tears to shed. The pain of Lestat's death jabbed at her without pause. The sight of his head falling from his body as if never attached flashed in her mind and each time it did she wept harder. It was a nightmare there was no waking from to find all as it were. Lestat was dead, gone. Hurting father no longer carried great importance she thought and took another swig of beer. His son had been slain, but he held family in high regard even she knew this. Through his torment, he always gave regard that she was his daughter, even if there was a slight hesitation in his voice when doing so. It was not a praise to sing aloud but it brought comfort with each mug she polished off while sitting here in self-pity. Lord Willem had raised her hard and cruel but maybe that was the only way he knew. Most battle-hardened men would not have a clue as to how to raise a girl absent their mother.
Lucinda never made it an
easy task for him. She saw things with different eyes now. The many voices rumbling with questions in her head she could answer but not honestly. The chalky beams streaming through the muck laced windows did little to warm her and all she could do was wait and sulk in a great deal of admission. Had she not acted out like a simple-minded fool, Lestat would still be here, with her. It was all her fault. She had led him astray to be slaughtered by that bastard of a man.
The day grew late as she remained seated at the small table only leaving every so often to relieve herself of taken in so much beer. The innkeeper came and went from the table to bring more filled tankards and retrieve the empty ones collecting like tombstones. He never said a word as he picked and placed with a surprised glare that someone so little could drink so much.
Lestat always liked wine but she favored the hops. She always thought it should have been the other way around. But wine had never suited her, it was too sour and sweet. Lestat favored wine from any corner of the world, but loved the vintage Shire Berry. No surprise he would take to the most expensive mauve age in the lands. It was not often Lucinda drank but when she did, she made it count, but the cloud of alcohol did little to the sadness which refused to be drowned out. At least, there was no worry to being numb to the scolding soon to come.
The rolling choir of hooves stomping the ground outside stirred her. Too many horses to be that murdering shit, Lucinda thought, pushed from the table, and staggered over to the window. Dethal was galloping down the street with three guards at his back in formation. The history of their hatred for one another ceased to exist in her pickled mind and she stumbled outside to meet him to give the dreadful news. They were family after all. He would be upset to the loss of his cousin, but they now had each other on common ground, she thought, putting old grudges to distant memory.
She stood distressed propping herself on the porch column with a frown below tear battered eyes. Dethal's face donned a look of concern from atop his horse as he slowed to her. He did not look angry but almost apologetic it seemed. She had never seen such a look on his face before that she could remember.