by B. H. Young
It was a mystifying tale to him how someone so graceful looking as her could be the protagonist in tales of murder and mayhem. Every time she spoke, cutting him with her words it reminded him that looks are simply to hide not to reveal. It was wrong to think someone's looks barred them from acts of transgression and he knew that. Sir Osmund Shipster was an angel-faced man from a noble family and many envied his looks and wealth, yet he had killed and skinned thirteen women. No one would have ever thought to look at him and see a brutal monster. Mask is all they were and it's what's behind them that one must try to see. But he'd not look at her for fear she would find insult and entangle him into another argument. Godzton could feel the burden of her eyes pressing at him. Lucinda was just catching a second wind to cast her sail into raging waters.
It was half a day by the time the sun slipped behind the crest of the mountains before he stopped at the tumbledown skinning cottage. Decrepit walls and half a roof, the stone was struggling to keep itself together. No hunters had used this place for some time, by the smell of dryness that had set in. He would have pressed on further into the night but illness, sorrow, and regret would not part from him.
Only a fool would not have noticed how bad Ginrell's hand had gotten Godzton thought. And like a fool, he assumed Ginrell had been treating it with the Milkor's tear. His friend did not die of the infection he died of his stubbornness. He should have known better than to trust the old man to tend to his wound. When Ginrell had Frogback Fungus of his left foot, he and Laythan damn near had to beat the old fool to get him to apply the balm daily. Ginrell was a hardheaded bull of a man but Godzton missed him nonetheless, he missed them all.
A man can only bury so much pain and sadness before it begins to rise and take hold. One can only hope that it indeed will rise and take hold for the day it doesn't, a man is no longer a man, but something else. Their deaths and the revelation of tarnish within the Iron was enough to draw any man to his breaking point. How does one go on when all they have put their faith and honor into shows that it is not free of poison? A question the dour voices in his head repeated, but Godzton had no answer to give.
All he could do was bury the pain. The conditioning of the Iron could do little for what was always second nature to him. Emotions were not dead they were just always something he could control. Instructors praised him for it but it gave others wrongful impression that he was a cold man. He was not heartless he thought and for those who knew him best knew that to be true, but they were all gone now.
He slid his blade along the rat from its tail to its throat, peeled its skin off, and then ran a carved skewer through it still taking care not to stray his eyes to the fuming Elf across the way. He placed the skewered rats over the open flame and spaced them out so they all would cook evenly together. There was no time to hunt for a proper meal and the old structure was ripe with the rodents. Lucinda watched in disgust as he cleaned their carcasses he noticed. No doubt, she was not privy to living off the land or witnessing the preparing of her meals. Likely fancy-prepared dishes of the finest ingredients gracing plates of silver and gold are what she was more accustomed to in the posh confines of Riverton Hold.
Lucinda gawked around at the ugliness of the cottage sniveling and grunting with disapproval making sure he noticed. Roaches evaded the light of the fire retreating to black splotches around the room and beetles flowed as a river of marbled shells along the cracks in the floor. The roots busted through where the walls met the floor, pulling at the structure with twisted fingers.
A company of gnats and flies pestered her. "Why the hell couldn't we have stayed at an inn with comfortable beds, good food, and warm baths? A dog wouldn't even stay in this shithole! Aren't Irons supposed to keep their prisoners comfortable?" Lucinda said.
"We are to keep them alive. Not to mention we are along the Tusser Range," Godzton said. He kept his eyes to the four impaled rats as he turned them.
"So?"
"So, there is not an inn within hundreds of miles here any direction you look. Just as well, I can't risk anyone recognizing you, besides this place isn't so bad." He looked around the room. "I once had to sleep in an inch of sewage ridden water while standing for an entire night," he said.
Lucinda's lips warped and her face pulled in towards her nose. "While you may find comfort in sleeping in shit-filled water I can assure that I do not. This place is wretched." She swatted at the flies buzzing her and growled as if that would deter them. "I'm not as known as you would like to believe, the Valhur do not like my family, but they are far and away from the mind of killing a Mathayus on sight. The grudge between them hasn't been that fatal in years."
"Maybe the high lords, but the ones at the bottom may see opportunity. Common trash not under any banner may see opportunity as well to catch you and use the bitterness between your houses to gain wealth. It is my duty to make sure no harm comes to you while you are in my custody and I aim to do just that," he said.
"I'm not eating that," she said with a refusing look.
"Not a worthy meal made by skilled cooks I grant you, but it's edible."
"It's disgusting," she said and grunted miffed.
"Not the elegant dishes the Mathayus princess is used to? I'm shocked." He pulled a rat from the fire and tore a chunk out of its side.
"I'm not a princess you bastard," she said and pulled her knees up to her chest with shackled hands.
"Nor am I a bastard, I have a full name. Guess we both make bad assumptions."
"The oaf called you Godzton, what is it the other half then bastard?"
"Clint. Princess," he said.
"What is it you think you know about me?" Lucinda fixated her eyes over the flame to him. "You think because Lord Willem is my father I've been treated prim and proper my whole life? He hates me and has always cursed the day I was born. If it wasn't for a promise my mother made him give on her deathbed he would've rid himself of me long ago."
Here the daughter of Willem Mathayus sung of a bad childhood, and that was not surprising. Though her attitude was snarky, he could sense a bit of truth in her words.
"And you think that justifies your attitude and the pain you have caused others?" he said giving her a brooding look.
"Don't you dare get self-righteous with me you Iron bastard I know all about the kind of brutal justice the Iron High Guard serves. You think your actions are excusable because of some laws made up by men... spare me. Your lot is just as bad as any murderers I have ever known."
"We don't murder innocent people."
"No, you just lop off a hand that steals bread."
"Doesn't steal anymore after that though does it," he said smacking his supper.
"There are no innocent people in this world."
"I'm sure all murders say the same thing."
She squinted at him. "You look like shit! If you're planning to die and rot like your friend could you please remove my shackles, I would like to, at least, have a chance," she said and threw her hands up in a fit.
Godzton just chewed his meat and appraised her with a low glare. Her attitude was not becoming of her, so pretty, yet so hateful. It is a wonder she has lasted this long in life. Funny how the things you know to be true, but have masked in order to accept can sound so horrible when spoken a particular way. The Iron was brutal in serving justice, but that is what has made them effective for thousands of years. He tossed one of the skewered rats to her feet and she scoffed pulling back.
"Suit yourself," he said and began gnawing at a second one.
Resentful at first she began to pick small pinches of meat from the grilled rodent. "What is wrong with you anyways?"
The Elf's voice carried calmer and it was no secret to what was ailing him. Godzton did want to admit it to himself, but that would not make it any less real. He tossed the stripped skewer into the fire and rubbed the corners of his mouth with his fingers. He had thought it a cold until it opened its eyes a little further. When the sickness started to fester in the midday, he kn
ew not to question its identity. It was a familiar illness that let him know quickly he had misjudged his last dose of Vannik Serum. But how badly he did not know.
"The Vannik Serum is leaving my body," he said smearing the grease from his fingers along his pants.
"Is that the shit you lot shoot into yourselves like fiends?"
"Keeps us guarded against magic."
"What's wrong with normal attire enchantments?" Lucinda held her hands up and wiggled a finger with a shaped piece of onyx fixed to a silver ring. "Seems to me if I had to inject that filth into my body for protection I'd just rather go without and deal with any screaming bowel movements petty magic brings."
"I agree," he said and Lucinda tilted her head with a surprised squint. "It's just something from long ago that has no merit for what passes as magic today. Nevertheless, we are to subject ourselves to it."
"So what happens when it leaves your--"
"I'll die."
"Wonderful," she said and snickered. "You know I could just kill you in your sleep and escape. At least you wouldn't have to suffer then."
"You could, but it's a far chance you'd make it to wherever you think to go. Pretty girl like you, the folks that roam these lands would eat you alive to say the least."
"So am I just to be your prisoner until you drop dead from that stuff?"
"I'll get you where I need you to be before that happens." The effects were growing and he could not be certain he'd make good on his words, but he would not tell her that.
"So what do you plan to do with me then?" she asked with a tepid voice.
"As I said you will give credence to this book when this is all over." He tapped the carry bag at his side. "I'll hand you and the ledger over to the Iron. After that, the Iron will go after them... your father, the Eldafienden, all of them," he said.
"And as I told you before bastard I will not help you."
"You want to hurt your father otherwise, you wouldn't have stolen this. You are far too old to merely be playing childish fits, don't play coy with me, Lucinda." He burned her with cold eyes and wiped the sweat from his head. "This is the way to do it, so drop the tough act."
"Bastard," she pouted. "And what happens to me after?"
The concern in her voice was glaring. "Once you confirm your father's involvement with the Order and the writing is of his hand, you'll be released to go about your way I suppose."
"You sing of stories you've heard about me. Well, I've heard plenty about the Iron High Guard as well. You expect me to believe the Iron would not chop off my head after I give them what they want?"
"The Iron deals in facts and what they can prove. There could be a thousand stories of your ghastly deeds but if there are no facts then the stories are just that, stories. We do not serve justice on the merits of rumors, if that were the case there'd be a lot less people in the kingdom and your father would have been dealt with a long time ago."
It was no trouble for him to see through her shielded tone. Her concern was apparent even though she tried to pretend it bothered her not. He did not know whether the stories of her ill deeds were all true, but he wagered some parts were. At times in their conversation, he glimpsed her true self in her big eyes and pondered if he had made the right decision. She was scared and just trying to escape, but luck had presented him a rare chance and he could not let it walk away. Serving justice was always decisive for him and he knew it did not always make him a likable person.
"He won't go quietly. Unless the Iron is prepared to go to war I would not hold my breath on serving justice to Lord Willem to say nothing of the Eldafienden, anytime soon." Lucinda pushed her hair to the side of her face and continued to pick at her meal.
"We have measures in place for such occasions to ensure the law is enforced, I assure you that. Best get comfortable," he said.
She could continue to argue while he slept if she needed to. There was no structure to secure her to so he laid her weapons and his along the floor and then pressed his back to them. Lucinda remained curled in the corner refusing to lie along the bug-infested ground. He could not blame her. Most people were not able to adapt as easily as Irons.
The headache came not long after Godzton shut his eyes. The throbbing of soft hammers against the meat flowed shivering through him. His skin slipped back and forth under his attire and the puddles weighed in the corner of his eyes. Breathing with slow and steady gasp to quell the churning in his stomach, his mind flooded with despair. A hopeless feeling of losing rational thought consumed him. He was aware but helpless to gain control of the strange intoxication that gripped him with a bitter Palm. Was he dreaming? The spinning darkness would not rest and seemed to increase the more he tried to ignore it.
From the edge of the pain, a feathering touch of snakelets slipped into his coat pocket and squirmed in chaos. He awoke slowly allowing the pool's of sweat to scrape fire across the thin glaze of his eyes. Lucinda was hunched at his side; at least, he thought it was her. The walls, the firelight, her, they all smeared together in a fog of colors bleeding into one another in the ashy hue of the dying fire. Disoriented, he rocked his body up and it took every ounce of strength he could muster to push her back. He called out to her but the words riled the stinging in his head with a trembling chill.
Lucinda pushed his waving arms aside and tried to reach into his pocket again. He was too weak to subdue her and every movement of his body brought more pain. He tried calling out again but she only grunted and continued fighting his defense. She began pounding him with shackled fist. Not like a woman, but a man with a brawling passion. One blow after the next slammed against his head as he rose and she roared curses with each strike. He fought to not vomit all over the place as the pain from the hits mingled with the sickness sending his guts into a bubbling fit. The Elf was endless in her attacks. He tried catching her arms to restrain her, but she was quick and threw them aside each time they approached. Fighting the illness and her proved too great a task, he did not want to hurt her, but she was persistent and ignored his pleas for calm.
Agitation seeped and with a desperate lunge, he grabbed Lucinda's shoulders and threw her to the wall, she gave a squeal and buckled to her knees. He stumbled over to her before she could rise and slammed his hand across her head and Lucinda barked a yelp. The room shook and he clenched his head and delivered another slap to the Elf's head out of frustration. The floor whacked his knees and hand.
Curled against the wall with her bound hands held out for him to stop and her head bowed, Lucinda whimpered. It was too hard of a hit, he thought, but she would not stop. Lucinda lifted her face to him, wincing behind chained hands. A speckle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. Had he hit her in the face? He could not remember. Never had he hit a woman like that before and it tore at him. Godzton pulled along the floor to her fetal position, and she jumped, throwing out a cry as his fingers grazed her knee.
"Lucinda," Godzton said with a drained voice, reaching for her. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry. Please, just--"
The hurting squeezed harder in his head and his stomach twisted, and then the blackness consumed the meddling of colors and there was no more sound of whimpers.
The morning brought a thick scent of burnt wood and charred rat remains, waking him. Still wrapped in an aura of ill, he had not dealt with the full brunt of the detox. It had merely subsided to a lingering quiver. The glaring dawn struggled with his opening eyes, but he was surprised to wake at all. The memory of their scuffle in the middle of the night rested in him, but it was clouded. He could not even remember eating the rats but was sure that he had as he glimpsed their bony carcasses picked clean of meat.
Lucinda stood over by the window, hands still shackled. Godzton was certain not to find her at all, but there she was, embraced in the luminous waves of the dawn, standing with a curve of serenity to her posture. He rolled over and pushed himself from the floor.
"It has never been easy for me to admit when I'm wrong or when there may be a better course of a
ction to take," Lucinda said. "Lestat use to give me grief about such things." She smiled and then lowered her head. "Suppose it's not worth trying to run anymore." She turned to him. "Can you give me your word the Iron will not kill me after I help you? I know the weight an Iron's word carries. So can you?"
"I can," Godzton said in a strained voice. "I give you my word."
"Then are we soon to leave, Godzton?"
Her voice did not carry with the usual scouring tone. He swept around the room looking for the rowdy Roltharian that was there before, but could not find her. "What happened to bastard?" he stuttered groggy and with confusion.
"Well... I'm sure he's still around."
Not sure if his eyes were tricking him but he could have swore she gave a faint smile to his question. Trembling as he stood to meet her, she gawked at him with a raised brow and innocent look. The memory gave no clear vision of their fight but he knew it had happened knew that he had hit her and it sickened him. He was not too proud to own up to what he believed were self-failures of his character.
"Lucinda... I can't remember clearly... blurs mostly, but I know what I done," he said and stared her with sympathetic eyes. "The serum leaving my body causes much pain and absent-minded choices. I... I'm sorry that I hit you."
She scowled. "You think you are the first man to strike me. I suppose I brought it on myself."
"That's no excuse. It was wrong and an Iron should act better, show restraint even in shambled mind."
"So, are we to leave soon then?" she asked again.
No thought of ever being this confused resided in him that he knew of. Cautious as always, he was not sure how to continue the conversation with a different person then from past days. At a loss for words, he just gave her a nod.