by B. H. Young
Conscious whispers told her she'd damn near kill the horse trying to ride it straight through. Dethal's prized bruticus stallion was ready to collapse from her torturous kicks as she felt the need to extend misery onto the animal as if were Dethal himself. A costly animal bred strong, with a chocolate sheen and a smeared eye patch of white, bruticus horses cost more than most homes, but nothing was too good for darling Dethal. Lord Willem never bought her or Lestat such an expensive beast. Valespet quarter horses were what they got. Not bad horses by any means but there was no real comparison.
By the time Balsfom was in her eyes her echoing stomach would not allow her to press on by the Pilgrim's Stop and nor would the horse. The Bruticus had lost its momentum hours back and galloped in a sluggish manner and even tried to buck her but had not the energy. She had hoped to barter a hot meal and more rations, but found Balsfom absent of any people. No curiosity consumed her of the whereabouts of the townsfolk; her concern was set more on filling her satchel and kicking her beaten horse to ride on. Folks here would not miss what she was to take.
Then the Irons showed up and of course, they would she thought. Unaware at the time that they were indeed Irons she had feared them to be hunters sent by her father until she peeked at their attire from the window. Maybe hunters sent by Lord Willem would have been better. Lestat had taught her to never trust an Iron and avoid them at all cost if possible. He said they'd not think twice in killing a Mathayus if they could find reason to do so. Butchers with immunity, Lestat called them.
It was so embarrassing to hide like a scared little girl but she would heed her brother's words of caution. She spied the Iron through the spilt of the door when he entered the home. He was to leave had her sword not tapped the wall when she shifted to get a better view. All she could remember thinking was the bastard would kill her once he pulled the door open. She would not wait for that. Of all the things she was trying to outrun, it appeared her rotten luck would not be one of them.
Aching pains peppered her back giving numbness and Lucinda sighed with angst and then threw her eyes to Ginrell. Wondering how that oaf could sleep in such a position. He was old, surely his bones begged for a soft feather mattress as hers did. How many hours had she been strapped to the chair, was it three, maybe six, she did not know? That bastard Iron, Godzton, the sleeping oaf called him, took the Blackphisk, slung her face first into a wall, strapped her to the most uncomfortable chair he could find and then demanded she would be going with them. A rugged looking fool he was, and ugly, well sort of. It was hard to tell what his sullied face truly looked liked behind that mangled beard. Judging from his eyes though it was probably for the best the shit had half a mask to hide his face. If she could only free herself, she would sneak into his room, slit his throat, retrieve the ledger, and be on her way. That would not be happening though she resentfully admitted.
The Iron High Guard, such a mockery it was, thinking they are above it all, above the ones they serve so-called justice to. They are just as brutal as the ones they hunt her brother told her. Godzton said he had heard stories about her, well she has heard many stories about the Iron as well. He thinks his sigil and domineering tongue will command obedience from her, but he is mistaken. She would just as well kill him as she would kiss him, but she wouldn't kiss him she thought, but she would kill him, she was certain.
Though the Iron having the Blackphisk would undo father, but then what of her. The bastard would throw her away and keep the book and then where would she be if she were even alive to be anywhere? No, she'd still kill him, reclaim the Blackphisk and continue to Padenmor.
Dawn reached through the window and laid its warm hand upon her cheek awakening her to the smells of sickness plodding its sour feet all over the lobby. No memory of falling asleep occupied her but nor did any relief. Lucinda rolled her neck with long stretches. Yearning for a soak in a marble tub filled with steaming scented water pecked at her but such lavishes were lost now. The oaf was still out and slumbered in the same position she last saw him in. That man could sleep in a pool of piss sound as a babe no doubt, she thought. Her eyes grew more observant of him as she awakened more and he did not look right. His color had drained from him, and his wrapped hand rested on the table with a small vial clenched in his fingers.
What she could see of his hand looked hideous. Swollen with colors of blue, black, and green peering between the bandage slits, it made her hurt just looking at it. It is no wonder the air smelled foul, he was dead and starting to rot already. Wonderful, she thought, stuck all night in a room with a decaying Iron. She squirmed with feeble effort but her arms had grown numb as the rest of her from the waist down. She had dreamed of a soothing bath with a wanting smile but now was desperate for fresh air, that was more of a luxury worth longing for now.
The clomping of boot-soles in the hallway drew her attention and she saw the rugged bastard standing, rubbing his groggy eyes. He did not look well either but at least, he wasn't dead and rotting.
"Hope you slept comfortably," she said and stared at him with and angering look.
"Very much so, thank you," Godzton said tiring.
"I wasn't being sincere bastard."
"I know," he said, yawned, and then looked to Ginrell. "You old fool you didn't wake me to take watch."
Lucinda fluttered a sigh of sarcasm and said, "That's because he's dead you idiot, look at his fucking hand."
She watched as he ran to the oaf and placed his fingers at his neck. He pulled the vial from his hideous hand. It was full from what she could see and that agitated him more. He threw it against the wall grunting and heaving with irritation. The bastard was more angry than sad that his friend had up and died on him. No sympathy at all that she could see, but then she had none either, she did not even know the oaf nor cared.
"Foolish stubborn bastard, all you had to do was treat the damned wound," Godzton roared and then knelt beside his friend with a bowed head.
It was all really touching, but her body ached from its sitting confines all night and the rotting smell was making her stomach churn. "When you have a moment could you haul him outside and leave the door open to air out the place," she said and sneered.
The bastard looked ill but he did not move like a sick man. Her heart jumped with fright at how quick he advanced on her with firm eyes and a twisted face. She leaned her head back in fear as she thought maybe a hit was to come, but she noticed he hadn't even raised his hand.
"Show some respect Elf!" he said with a gritted voice.
"Bastard," she mumbled as he walked back to his dead friend. "I have to piss dammit!" The numbness was still there, but allowed morning irritation to awake as well. She was going to burst any minute now she was sure of it.
Godzton looked back to her in silence for a second and then said, "So piss then."
The look on her face was dirty if not a bit in pain. She was not about to soak her trousers. "Please dammit," she cried with forced good manners.
He paid her no mind as he carried his friend from the lobby. She tightened her face, squirming and squeezing her legs together. There was a brief moment of relieving thought to let it all flow, but she could not do that. What kind of woman messes her trousers, and how long would the bastard leave her simmering in piss if she had? She tried thinking of a grassy field, but a damn stream kept showing through the middle of it.
The morning pressed on and the air cleared of the dead Iron. The burning sensation below her waist had become numb now as well but still hinted with a slight stinging. She had not seen Godzton Iron since he carried the body from the inn. At first, she thought he was to leave her to rot, but the clanking of stones outside, burying his friend no doubt, assured her that he had not. Lucinda did not have the energy to be angry anymore. All she wanted was to be out of the chair and standing, walking, it did not matter. It was crueler torment than death. Lucinda rolled her head up, looked around the lobby, and whimpered and leaned her head back down planting her eyes at her legs. This was hell but
without having to die. She did not want to admit she'd been beaten, but it was there beside her whispering defeat calmly into her ear.
His boots, caked in mud, shuffled up under her gaze with an earthy smell following and Lucinda raised her eyes to him. Dirt-covered hands and a saddened face looked down at her. He had a ragged cloak laid over his shoulder and she was sure that's where the new foulness was permeating from.
"Please," she said with a flattened voice.
Godzton reached around behind her and undid her shackles. She had wanted to hop up and run for the garderobe, but she couldn't wake her legs. She pressed her hands against the edge of the seat and struggled to stand, her legs wobbled sending her back into the chair. No sooner than she thought, a gentleman would help a lady stand, Godzton reached down helping her rise. Lucinda fell into his chest as if she was a clumsy maiden in need of saving. She did not want to but it was either him or the floor.
His eyes looked kind she saw as he gripped her shoulders gently and pushed her back slow then slid his hand along her arms to her wrist. The Iron was as courteous as a suitor she thought. Then he removed her hands from his chest and placed them back in the shackles. No, he was still a mangy bastard.
Godzton pulled her by the center chain of the shackles, grabbed her weapons from the table, and led her outside. He left her standing for a moment while he strapped her weapons to the saddle of his horse then walked back to her and pulled her to the side of the inn and pushed her into a corner.
What now she wondered? Was he to kill her? He had a blank look in his eye. He just stared with an awkward choice about him. He reached down and undid her belt and she jumped back.
"What are you doing?" Lucinda said putting a shriek to her words.
"You said you had to piss."
"Out here?"
Godzton looked around and then said, "Why not?"
"Because I'm a lady you bastard not some wilding skank forest dweller. Take me to the washroom!"
"No, I'm not letting you out of my sight. You'll go here or you'll go in your trousers, doesn't make a damn difference to me."
"Listen you bastard I'm not about to drop trousers in front of you and the Gods and handle my business out here in front of all."
Godzton looked around once more and then said, "In front of all what?"
She would head butt him if she was certain she wouldn't knock herself cold in the process. "In front of all... it's not right dammit! I'm a woman and I need a washroom, please."
"No," he said and reached for her buckle again.
Lucinda twisted from him and said, "Bastard, I can do it myself. Iron pervert you just want to gander at my bare bottom."
"I assure you that I do not," Godzton said and sighed.
"Why not, what's wrong with my bottom? You don't prefer the hairy asses of men do you?" she asked leaning a squint to him.
"What... no... look Elf, if you have to go then go dammit we need to get moving."
"Don't say Elf like that."
"Like what?"
"With that intolerant tongue," she scowled. "You have a problem with Elves?"
"I have no problem with Elves but I do have a problem with scathing women who desire to make shit more difficult than it need be. You have seconds to make up your mind or I'll make it for you," Godzton said with a firm tone.
"Sensitive bastard aren't you? Should have introduced you to Dethal, he liked hairy asses as well," she said and then widened her eyes at him. "Well I'm not going to do it in front of you, go over there, and turn around. Do it!"
Godzton was hesitant but did as she asked. Lucinda kept her eyes fixed to his back as she pulled her trousers and squatted. The bastard was not looking, but she felt eyes on her nonetheless and had to force the soothing relief that had been screaming for release all morning.
"Don't you turn around," she hollered quickly as Godzton reached up brushing at his shoulder.
"Just go already--"
"I'm going you bastard." She closed her eyes and imagined sitting on a silky garderobe in a proper washroom. Like the ones in Riverton Hold. It made it easier for her to ignore having to squat like a wild dog.
Lucinda stood and pulled her trousers back up and Godzton approached her and stretched out the hooded cloak from his shoulder. It looked poor and smelled worse.
He went to wrap around her and she leaned back and said, "What's this?"
"Put it on."
"I'm not wearing that."
"You are because you have no choice in the matter," he said and threw it around her and fastened it.
"Where did you find this? Covering a mound of shit?" she said and squirmed.
"Appropriate description."
"Bastard," she mumbled.
Marched outside like a common slave, forced to piss like an animal and now the bastard had wrapped her in a fabric of shit. She should have tried to knock him out when his back was turned and piss on his face she thought. Pervert would probably enjoy that too much.
"Can't have folks in these parts recognizing you, they'd likely kill you in such ways it would make a skinver cry," he said.
"And where exactly are we going?"
"I let you know when we get there."
His stiff arms lifted her onto the saddle and then he climbed up behind her and took the reins. "What are you doing? There's another horse you know," she squealed.
"Not going to risk putting you on your own. We only need one," Godzton said.
"Why can't we take my horse at least? This mangy beast won't get us through the night." She looked over at the bruticus and swore it was grinning at her.
"Because I can't cover the damned horse in a cloak, now be quiet."
Lucinda hoped wherever they were going it would not be far, already she was growing irritable at the rugged bastard's crotch grinding at her back with the motioning of the horse.
"You go through this much trouble to rub against other women's backsides? Bastard."
"No, normally I just knock them out; have my way with them... after I make them piss in front of me of course."
Lucinda gave a glare of red worthy of being etched in history, but he could not see it. "Oh is that humor, think you're a funny man do you. Suppose you are going to tell me that's your knife stiffing up against my ass then aren't you?"
"We have a long way to go Elf. So you can either be quiet on your own or I can cut a piece of that foul coat and tie it around your mouth so tight it tickles the back of your venomous tongue."
"Bastard," she whispered. He'd slip up and when he did she'd not hesitate.
The Iron at her back gave parting words to the grave of stacked stones where the land was dry. "Goodbye old friend," he said and Lucinda rolled her eyes.
Chapter 38.
Three hundred miles south of Riverton Hold, Maiden Fields sat horseshoed by Smiverian's Wall. The raised curtain of rock hunched over the grassland and curved its arms out at each side stretching into a guard. The wall was a roost for a dragon of the old world excavated from far below these fields, said to be the biggest ever found. Smiverian, the scholars named him. They gauged from his remains that his wingspread could turn day to night and that his jaws could gulp a herd of cattle in one passing. The transport of the dragon's remains to the Archyl in Sage City was a grand undertaking, taking more than a year before its last piece found its place to the museum. These fields were once home to the fiercest animal the ancient world ever knew, but now housed a new force of destruction waiting to taste its vengeance upon the reckless and weak.
A dapple of pavilions stood anchored, hiding the winter beaten grass of the range. Of all the conglomerate of colors and sigils, the Mathayus colors of damson were the most prominent. The Roltharian crown, accompanied by those of its bannerkyn, clenched to the top of a thousand flagstaffs fluttering in the downwind of the staunch rock. Lying close to the border of the southern lands of Fleslinburg, Maiden Fields was a strategic standing for Willem's army. Most would think it a bad choice to set encampment in a confined spa
ce, and it would be for a lesser army, but Maiden Fields gave an advantage most could not see. Any army to come would have only the choice of passing through Mol Glade, which laid a few miles downhill at the foot and pressed to the walls of Smiverian's embrace. The plush woodlands would not allow for a charge on horseback, rendering an army of momentum to a mere crawl.
The Mathayus patriarch tent stood at the center of the encampment, its banners were the largest. Three shields of conquered foes throughout the Mathayus history decorated the outside. Willem had made sure the squires shined them up before hanging them. The snake tangled around a rose of House Delonder, the mammoth with two axes at its side of House Brurgon, and the pyramid of ten silver fish of House Marot. All of them polished to a mirror shine that the midday sun protested. Soon the Valhur's sigil shield would keep company among those fallen houses.
Willem stood inside leaned over the large wooden table as his generals and the Lords of his bannerkyn sprawled out at his sides. A handful of maps lay scattered along the tabletop under his sweeping eyes as he looked from one to the next marking potential targets. He had caught Lord Edwin Valhurs off guard when he first struck, such as how all civil wars begin, but it was not long before Lord Edwin raised his own forces to give him a proper fight. Willem commanded three thousand of his own and two thousand of his bannerkyn. Lord Edwin was all too eager to help in the king's war and as a result, for events he could never foresee, was outnumbered. Even with inflation from their supporters, they were just shy of half of Willem's forces. History is marked with smaller armies rising above the odds to leave witnesses gasping in disbelief. Numbers do not matter for those that know how to use them and Willem would not underestimate Lord Edwin. Nor would he misjudge his advantage over the Valhur.