by B. H. Young
The bickering in the lobby echoed through the wall. If the Elf thought to win an arguing bout with Ginrell, she would soon find herself outmatched. Godzton pulled his coat and kicked his boots off then sat to the bed taking deep breaths to ease the dizziness. He would dare not lose control in front of his friend or an enemy, but away from stray eyes, he allowed the crash of feelings.
Martha, he thought as he leaned over and placed his hand over his eyes. The swell in them had begun to spread. Anger grew in him at the many questions that stomped through his mind, drowning any sadness he briefly found. Overseer Lisbet was a rusted Iron to reign, above all others and was responsible for Martha and Laythan's deaths. Once word reached the other Overseers, his brothers and sisters of the Iron would give her a standing; he was only sad he would not be there to participate. All he could do was envision taking his turn ramming a blade into her gut as she stood center of an Iron ring.
Chapter 36.
They headed further south into Fleslinburg along the vast rolling lands under the ashen sky. The map called this road Dragon's Tail, but roads had no need for names Sylo thought. They all served the same purpose, going to or away from something, becoming paths destined to never end. If a poor soul were not careful, they would step into the endless clutches of their grasp to never step off again.
Travelling was something he had done for a long time now. There was coin that always needed someone killed or a message sent and the Gods were there to challenge him at every turn. Men, who thought of themselves in great wealth and thought that they held any real power to sit above and decide the fate of others, fools unaware that they were puppets to pestering divine fingers. He could not remember how long ago it was when he took to the roads, they were his home, but they did not need names.
The Valhur banner of a bucks head in a ring of thorns fluttered in the gale above the encampments along the wintered rusted ground. Sitting clumped with the riled sigils of its bannerkyn, the buck glared a bitter and drained stare.
Sylo knew little of the heraldry but knew a Great House only flared its chest when the taste of vengeance hit the tongue and a whiff of battle was in the air. Lords were too quick to send others to their deaths in the name of honor giving a reason with an excuse and excuse with reason. Sylo brushed his eyes along the cluttering of armor that dimmed under the gray skies. Regiments broadened out in the dirt as captains sat in company atop their horses and infantrymen muddled about.
When the waking of civil unrest started between House Charron and House Dedrick, the fields of Glenmoord stood just as crowded with eager faces, he remembered. Two Great Houses vying over an eastern coast province of Northanos with entitled minds. Lords of such nobility and power that were too weak to tell truths of their quarrel, heralding their justifications loud as war drums, but no whispers of a devious maiden trailed them, as it should have. The Iron did not involve themselves in the manners of disputing Lords unless laws were broken. And Lords can fight one another as brutal as they see fit so long as the battle is between them. But soldiers sometimes think war gives them immunity to rape and pillage those who stand outside of the feud. Arrogance believed name and coin exonerated them from wreaking havoc on the region, taking what they wanted, killing whom they pleased, and acting as Gods. In their recklessness, they had planted a trembling seed that grew with their war, waking the intolerant. When the Barons of the province entered onto the battlefield to lash out against the unconstrained egos of the two houses, the eastern coast of the Twin Vales danced in fire for half a summer. Smug decisions had paid the Barons no mind until it was too late.
It always began as something small and feeble, but wars of the like had to happen every so often to clean out the bad blood Sylo thought. Both of those Great Houses were as bad as they come and the commonwealth decided it had enough. They would not wait on the king or the Iron to get involved. The people of Northanos were a proud bunch, right with conviction, not like Terongard. Terongard was a cesspool of ideology commanded by greed. Few cases brought him here in his days of the Iron, but every time they did, the kingdom seemed a little dimmer than before. There was no distance he would not travel to enforce the law in those days. He was noble then, devoted to his oath and justice was all that mattered. They were naive thoughts he was proud to be rid of. Man made laws to cover themselves from fears or to maneuver decisions in their favor. Justice was merely subjective, vengeance masquerading as righteousness so the few may feel better about themselves. No matter if one was inflicting punishment in the name of another, it was always vengeance. The world held its own form of justice with an oath it need not explain that Man could not hide from or control. Sylo held a calm indifference to it all. Death was all there was. Whether it came by his hand or another's, in the end, it was certain that it would come.
Sylo steered his horse down the center of the road, refusing to stop or move around the infestation of peddlers. Traveling merchants plagued the roads like locust to sell their wares to the mobilizing soldiers and any hapless citizen that wandered by. Running up into the path of travelers like starving rats, holding weapons and armor pieces high, but they parted fast to Sylo. A skilled trader knew there were some men you could approach and pester and some you dare not to. They bowed their eyes away from him and shuffled aside as if to pretend he was not there.
The two statues of Fredrick Senglin and Armine Boden stood in the clouds in the distance, marking the King's Bridge that connected the sides where the world cracked. Monuments of kings from long ago that stood at each side of the gaping wound, greeting travelers on one end, waving them by on the other. The braced stone stretched far across a mist-flooded canyon said to be bottomless that reached on endless at both sides. They streamed up between the massive stone feet after crossing and veered off where the road split and headed into the Red Giant Forest. The trees rooted fat, shielded with blush, and reached higher than any man dare try to climb. The road contorted around the tubers and slipped under the ones it couldn't, weaving in and out as it carried them through. The reddened woods lush crowns flecked with ink and blocked out the sky for few good hours until reaching the open land.
Maplewind was in the distance spreading along the lake as it stepped into a nightly gathering after a hard days farming. The village was the halfway mark by the maps showing. He did not seek rest but information. The rousing of the Valhur could present a problem in dealing with the remaining Province Steward. This was their land and it was opening its eyes to war.
Dead by morn, the tavern sign said as he galloped up and climbed off his saddle. Words travel fast in the kingdom and there was no better place to catch them than in a residential watering hole. Crowded with unwinding souls the place was shabby, but well kept and housed a rather active bunch for such a small town. Gossiping tales of the war and the murdered Province Stewards commanded the inebriated lobby.
Sylo walked to a corner table and sat. The thin girl, no more than fifteen with a face that had not witnessed the hardships of life, stepped to his table. Marlo gave her a sinister appraising that swept away her jovial manner. Jelkin told her to bring them three cuts of beef, rare, with two beers and a tankard of water. The girl dashed off and quickly returned with their orders and served them politely with a smile, but avoided Marlo's eyes, still glimmering with consideration. Jelkin tossed three silver coins atop the table and the girl's fingers stumbled to pick them fast.
Two Irons stood from their table paying Sylo a gazing as they walked to the bar. The stare from an Iron could wash the guilty in a sweat of nerves, but they were numb to him. Jelkin and Marlo were not so calm to the sighting. Marlo had slid a blade from its sheath under the cover of the table and Jelkin kept his hands close to his hilts. Sylo just stared the Irons back as they paid their tab and left. Their eyes were wary, but their chest thumped a composed beat.
Sylo cut strips from the mushroom glazed beef and sipped his water. The meal was good, but it was not what he hungered for. His palate sought the sweet taste of knowledge. A tavern
can hold a wealth of information if one knows what to listen for. Like any hunt, though, patience must be paid for a prized prey. He focused attention to the yapping of drunken tongue that none would think any wiser of the importance of their words.
"They say it's a demon from hell paid in blood that was brought forth to punish the Province Stewards it is," said a fat bald man dressed in rags.
"Punishment for what, Lady Jillian was an honorable woman!" the thin Elven female yelled back and the lobby erupted in boos and hisses.
"Honorable people don't throw their young wards from balconies," The bald man shouted back. "She was a freethinking radical bitch of a woman who fucked the King to get her stewardship." A thunderous applause followed his words.
The Gods weave much chaos for their entertainment Sylo thought and swept around to more conversations with insight.
"Bunch of swordmercs got themselves executed right and proper by Lord Surranos the other day," the innkeeper said, working his rag along the side of a mug. "Said they fucked up an ambush and let a small battalion of Dhunwhich forces take Golders Point."
"Sir John Peacefurd, the chosen of the Clergy, born of the seventh moon and victor of the Munders will take the Dhunwhich forces to task and take the head of that abomination of an Elf that leads them," the cherry haired dwarve at the bar replied, slurring her words and belching.
"Rubbish." The innkeeper spat.
"Is not, he is the chosen warrior by the Clergy of Mystenthel, foretold in prophecy and sent by the Gods. He has won many battles for the King and lost none."
"Foretold for shit, he's a glamour knight with pretty armor who sends waves of soldiers to their deaths and then goes in after the enemy is all tired out from killing. A simple minded fool could defeat an army using such tactics," a one-armed man put in.
"If Geckle, of Dhunwhich, is an Elf he can't very well be a Sangvor as well, seeds can't pass. And they say he can infect people, make them like him. That's not Sangvor, that's something else," the crone said with assurance.
Words of the ongoing war on the coast of Vyhoven were the talk of all of Terongard but meant nothing to Sylo. Common are the fool's who take sides in the political spectrum before accepting all facts, more common are the ones who take sides based on emotions and ignore all essentials. King Norindale was a fool among all the kingdoms and Terongard would have been better off without him the majority said. Perhaps they were right. He picked a slab of meat from his plate and ate it as he moved his eyes around the room some more.
"We won't have to worry about wars with storied monsters. We'll be in our own shortly. The fucking Mathayus sacked Wyrmbell the other day, crazy bastards declared war on the Valhurs," said a staunch bearded man, waving his tankard in the air throwing beer from it.
"Good, then maybe they'll kill each other off once and for all," a pale drunken woman slumped at his table garbled.
"Word from Theymonhal is that Lord Dorat is next." A local guardsmen standing close by said to another and Sylo stopped at them. "The Valhurs have a scouting party out looking for him to bring him into custody for his protection. Said Lord Edwin sent out a small party to track the fat bastard."
"A small scouting party, why even bother?" the other guard asked and shrugged.
"He couldn't spare more having to call all his other men to arms now to deal with Lord Willem's defiance."
"Don't suppose it'd bode well for Lord Edwin to have a steward slain on his lands."
"They've been at it hard awhile now, heard they're held up at a BlackBear Fields and still haven't found him."
"And they'll likely not."
There it was. A prey of words worth trapping. A scouting party could make the task more tedious than it need be. Sylo pulled the map and rolled his eyes along his set path and Blackbear Fields sat on the way to Lanadors Crossing. There was no certainty which direction the scouts were heading or how thorough their efforts would be, but one scouting party was one too many. It is not as if he would have to detour from his path, they were along the way.
"We're heading out," Sylo said to his men and stood.
He walked outside and climbed onto his horse. Marlo and Jelkin were right behind. The two Irons were standing off to the side of the tavern under the lantern light, smoking their pipes and engaged in chatter. Babble that drew silent so that they may pay another glare of suspicion to him and his men. Sylo turned his horse, looked them back, and dropped his hand to the side of his coat. Were they waiting for him? Marlo and Jelkin trotted up the other side of him. If he made a move, they would not hesitate to back him.
The two Irons stood as statues. Sylo knew that was not a sign of weakness but of conditioning. Were his tormentors to send Irons again? The two men shrugged and sniffled not moving their curiosity from him. Their hearts still drummed an unruffled beat, but Sylo would not turn. A showing of tarnish that oath came second and coin came first glimmered in the lantern light. Glass orbs that did not harbor the same stiffness as the one he tussled with in Spero did. Their eyes were corrupted with an illness exclusive to Irons that none but him could see. That kind of look only hampers for a price and the Gods do not pay, they command. The Irons broke from their static gaze of him and jumped back into their interrupted conversation puffing away on their pipes as if to ignore him. Pity, Sylo thought, but so be it. He kicked his horse and darted along the road out of the town.
It was a steady ride along the tended fields away from the road. The air grew colder this far out and the moon had climbed to the center of the sky bearing a low grin. The grass passed beneath hooves as brushing shadows, but Sylo could see the diminutive shine in the distance. He stopped his horse a good ways out and told his men they'd walk from here. The cover of darkness would grant them favor as they widened out. Sylo crept through the tall grass stalking his absent-minded prey with cold eyes as his men swept out to the sides in strategic angles moving in closer, shrouded in darkness.
He stood at the edge a ways back from where the fires glare washed away the night. He spied four of them total, two older men, one younger, and a woman, all sitting around talking to pass the time.
"We'll sat out at first light and hopefully have Lord Dorat's ass in custody by midday," the woman said as she pushed away from the groping hands of the man at her side.
"Oh come on Sally, I need you to keep me balls warm tonight," The husky man said and then laughed.
"I could cut 'em off and throw 'em in the fire love. That would keep 'em warm yeah," The woman replied, pulling laughter from all the men.
"Ole Jonsey here is only sixteen maybe you should keep him warm tonight, Sally. Break him in proper, the boy spends his days fucking with the horses and doesn't get out much." The man slapped the other to his side on his back to more laughter.
"Jonsey is not ready for the hard loving of a woman such as myself and besides--"
The crossbow bolt shot straight through the side of her head and clear out the other. Her armor clanked as she collapsed to the ground landing head first into the small campfire. The two men reacted with haste reaching for their swords and taking guard at the surrounding darkness while the shorter one grabbed his with hesitance and cowered.
A knife flew from the dimness, stabbing into one of the man's chest, then another came flying, lodging itself into the throat of the other man turning with panic. The small one threw his sword to the ground and slammed to his knees pleading out into the darkness. Trembling in fear to the speed in which it all happened. He held his hands up and begged.
Sylo stepped from the blackness of the cold night and into the flame lit grounds. Marlo and Jelkin emerged from the sides and began rummaging through the scouting parties belongings.
"Please, sir I beg of you," Jonsey cried from planted knees as Sylo approached him with mace in hand. "Please spare me." The wind hissed and whistled, mixing with his cries and his face of youth glared flushed and drenched with tears.
The smell of fear rolled out from him like a heavy spice and Sylo said, "Such an unfor
tunate thing to be placed into the service of a Great House and realize too late, that you lack the courage that is expected of you when your companions are cut down before your very eyes."
"Please, sir I just work the stables." Jonsey sniffled. "They brought me along to look after the horses. I'm no soldier please, sir I beg of you."
Sylo regarded him coolly. "The Gods have played a trick on me this night that I cannot walk away from." His voice rang with dread.
"Please sir, I just want to go home to me mother and father."
Great Houses were plentiful throughout the kingdoms and though they varied in traditions and traits, they all shared in the same intolerance of cowards. Those under their banner who do not defend its name with honor do not go quick and painless into the silence.
Sylo filled his lungs with a deep hardening breath, glanced with a low brow to the star filled sky, and then looked back to the sniveling young boy. "I can save you. It's the best I can do." He smacked the mace along the side of the boys head throwing him from his knees, killing him.
Standing idle above the boy's body, steady, he rolled his eyes to the fire that was now sizzling with the cooking of the dead woman's head. The Gods knew the boy would not fight, knew Sylo would have to make a choice, but they were fools to think it bothered him to kill one so young. He turned and walked back into the darkness with his men following.
Chapter 37.
Lucinda could not find sleep in the midst of all the aggravation of her confines. She'd close her eyes only to feel a sudden cramp grip at her back. Her legs stung and felt fuzzy, as did her backside. The sweaty Iron oaf slumped to the side of the table had no problem finding sleep she saw. They argued a good bit and she was certain the bastard found sleep as a result. Like a fat ugly child whose mother sung him a melody to help send him dozing off.
She had taken a different path from Renwhick into the southern lands riding nonstop. It was inevitable the rations she secured from the Renwhick inn would not last. Most of them dropped from her hands as she ate them atop galloping horse. Padenmor was all she could think about and would not stop unless there was no other choice. It was stupid to think she would make it all the way to the southern province without a break, it was days away.