by B. H. Young
"What is your name?" Dardanos demanded.
"What?"
"Your name?"
Embarrassed by all the gawking eyes, she answered with hesitation. "Lisbet Kassin."
"Louder," he said.
Her lip trembled under wide eyes and she stuttered with a raspy voice, "Lisbet Kassin!"
"And what is your rank?" He raised his brow and peeled his eyes, moving is head to the side as if the gander at her backside.
She would not answer and he pressed the blade harder. "Overseer," she said, jumping.
He leaned in a bit closer to her and with a soft voice said, "Louder."
She closed her eyes and hollered, "Overseer!"
A cloud of chatter broke out in the pondering crowd under shaking heads. Did none of these cowards have the guts to intervene, she wondered, beaming with tear-filled eyes. Would they just stand by and watch her, an Iron, be run through by this lunatic.
"Undress please," Dardanos said.
A moment of disbelief to his words befell her; he could not have said what she thought he did. She winced. "What?" she asked with a concerned look.
"Your attire, please remove it," he said and grinned.
Did he intend to rape her in front of all these people before killing her? "No... no," she said, trembling and shaking her head.
Dread filled her eyes and heart and she did not want to endure the events of that cold night ever again. Death would be better, but she was too afraid to die. All she could do was hold her breath and wait for the blade to push through her throat.
"I need to give reason to my eyes to not kill you. You're very pretty but they must take in an uncovered view I should think. Undress and live or stay covered and die," he said and tapped the blade under her chin. "It is very simple."
"You're insane," she said with whimpering.
"I should think I hear that a lot."
"No, please no." Lisbet gave a half shaken glare to the crowd. "The... the people," she stuttered with a whiny voice under low breath.
"I should think they would like a look as well. Now, if you please," he said and, once again, pressed his blade harder under her chin.
"No, you'll kill me anyway."
"Do not mistake me, Iron Dove. I am a man of my word, I simply want to admire your form and be on my way," he said and tipped her head higher with the press of his blade.
His face appeared blank, but there was a transparent veil of evilness to it she could see. If there was a chance to live, to see Typarion again, rule the Iron as intended, no matter how hard to swallow it was, it was a chance worth taking. The tears slithered down her cheeks, contorting to the dirt and her bottom lip quivered beyond control. For so long, Lisbet had always thought if ever given the chance to relive past horrors she would fight and die with honor and not give in. Instead, she now found herself in an exclusive bargain with a devil, willing to take his deal if it meant she would keep her life.
With unwilling shaking hands, she unbuttoned her coat and slid her arms out, then pulled her undershirt over her head staring him with moistened eyes she unbuckled her belt and pulled her trousers down to her boots. Lisbet stood naked and trembling clenching her wrist below her stomach in a feeble attempt to cover up. Had she sunk so low that the world around seemed giant. The erupting chatter of the audience fluttered over her like storm-ridden winds. These mangy people were too cowardly to step in on her behalf, but found enjoyment to gawk upon her nakedness like buzzards.
Dardanos nodded his head in a pleasing manner, as he rolled his eyes up and down with curled lips. "My, my, my, you are a filled out woman if I have ever seen one I should think," he said and turned to the gawking crowd. "People, you should feel grateful that you have Irons that look such as this yes."
He turned back to Lisbet, ran his halberd down to the side of her thigh, and tapped it with the flatness of the blade. "Had we met under different circumstances I would have wooed you and we'd have spent days ravaging one another I should think. My eyes are pleased." He pulled his weapon back and rested it on his shoulder, turned and walked off through the crowd whistling a satisfied tune.
In peril, she threw her clothing back on, lost restraint of her emotions and ran for her horse. The jeering at her back was thick as thunder, but if she could not see them then they did not matter she thought. Lisbet climbed into her saddle half dressed fighting away the tears and wasted no time throwing heel to the horse to part from the on looking eyes of Gemador with haste.
She gave into the disturbing distress as she passed under the wooden archway heaving and sniffling with tear drenched eyes. The bastard had made her feel so very small in trade for her life and she had accepted it, like a coward. What would Typarion think if he were to catch wind of it, what would they all think she worried. It was an unbelievable story and she would deny it. It would be her word against the words of peasants. This would be a shame not known to anyone that mattered.
There was nothing more Lisbet wanted than to be back at the compound, where she would be safe, secure, and in control.
Chapter 41.
The old alley gypsies of Riverton Hold could have never convinced Lucinda that one day she'd be taking care of an Iron. She would have laughed herself silly at such predictions made by the sundried crones. Yet she found herself sitting by the broken bed, running a rag over Godzton's head hoping now that he would survive. He was stuck in a fever-ridden dream and had been for quite awhile now.
One minute Lucinda was riding in the saddle rambling on back to him and the next, a lumping weight pressed her to the horse's mane. He had almost fallen when he passed out and taken her with him, but she locked his deadened arms under hers and took hold of the reins. The slow panting of breath at her neck assured her life was still in him.
The stubborn horse did not seem to want to obey her struggling hands. She was not sure what do except to press on. Hours had passed along the Tusser Range, she saw nothing, but land peppered with old structures razed to their foundations. Fighting the horse and having to shift her weight against his arms to keep him from falling, her eyes filled with tears of anger. For a moment, Lucinda thought to let him fall, but then in the glaring blood light that was failing a watchtower raised over the hill, alone, its four brethren were no more than piles of pebble and timber spread out at its sides.
Rotten luck never seemed far behind, she thought. With an unconscious Iron at her back and sleeping another night in a dried sore of the land, she wanted to cry out in rage. To scream to the Gods for a little help, but she knew they would not answer. She owed them too much for them to offer help.
Godzton was as heavy as a wet sack filled with stones and toppled her to the ground when she tried to pull him from the saddle. The dirt pressed at her back while he pushed from the front. Lucinda scowled and grunted as she rolled him off while the horse just mocked her efforts with a neigh that sounded as laughter. It had taken every ounce of strength she could muster to drag him into the failing structure. Putrid wood and crumbling stone, the roof had long caved in and the land had wrapped its dried fingers around its frame squeezing the life out of it, but it had no more to give, what life it did have had long drained from its stone. The round base room was the only floor that remained in the tower, its higher levels sat littered with splintered wood beams, chains of rust and stairs that went nowhere. Two large spiders sat huddled and balled under a corner of flooring at the top level. She hated spiders and winced at sighting them and nearly dropped Godzton. Throwing anything at them would be useless at that height and would just rile them. If they were to stay up there, sleeping, then so be it, she thought, but kept her eyes fixed to them nonetheless.
Not even the dead would the bed, she thought, when she pushed Godzton to it. It was small and its fabric looked older than time, but he would not care, he had confessed to sleeping in worse, this would be like a fine cotton bed for him, she thought. Lucinda lifted the key to her shackles from his coat, undid her chains, grabbed her weapons, and walked to the doorway
, but stopped. She had every intention to leave, but something was pulling at her that she did not understand.
She looked back to him, unsure of why she made the effort at all. On any other day, she would have let him fall and left him to die. She had wanted to escape and tried to while he slept, but he was not a hard sleeper like Dethal and woke. She would not soon forget their scuffle as he had hit her hard, but the strike of a man was nothing new for her. Father and Dethal had struck her many times in her life, but after Godzton's strike, in that moment, she glimpsed something in him, a face warped with sorrow and apology. Once before had she ever seen such affliction by one who had harmed her. It was when she was young and Lestat had smacked her during an argument. Lucinda could not remember what their argument was about, but she could remember the look of empathy in her brother's eyes. The Iron, Godzton, shared that same look. There was a trust in him she could sense, but tried not to admit to. He was stubborn and rude but shared no traits of the Iron Lestat had warned her about. The Irons of his tales sounded of monsters that were too quick to kill, but the most she had ever witnessed of them were loud mouth bullies.
Godzton had passed cold after their fight and she remained curled to the wall. She tried to remain mad and thought to kill him in his sleep, but could not bring herself to do it. Helping the Iron was her best option she knew, but overcoming her own stubbornness was not easy. The plan to hide in Padenmor and sell off the ledger was a good plan, but in truth, she did not have the faintest idea of how to go about it. The Blackphisk was not a common item one could announce without drawing unwanted attention. Word would spread fast of it and reach ears that need not know about it. And who could she even sell it to that would make a difference, she wondered? Lord Willem had his own army and the backing of the Eldafienden. Who could possibly use the book to undo him?
The Iron High Guard could undo Lord Willem, for that Lucinda was certain and Lestat's death would not be in vain so she took the Irons offer. Though she was not sure it was really an offer any more than a command, but Lucinda liked to think she had a choice.
Godzton had treated her proper this whole time though she did not make it easy; any other man would have had their way with her and killed her afterwards. Her eyes fluttered over him from the doorway. It was a courtesy to drag him to the old bed so that he may pass with some peace. What could she do? If he were to die then his offer would die with him. It would be best to ride on, but ride on to what she asked herself. Lucinda ran her hand through her hair, looked to the horizon, and then back to him. It would not stop pulling at her, clutching at her soul with sharpened nails, whispering there was no other chance for her.
She walked from the tower to the water well off the side. The old bucket sat placed over the crank, which signified a dry pit, but there was no roof and surely, the rains over time would have filled it with some smidgen of water. She lowered it down the dark shaft and felt it hit soft, splashing an echo and then raised it back up to see it had filled. The water was as ice to the touch and to her surprise clean.
Godzton lay shimmering and panting and she reached down and cut a piece of cloth from the bed, and pulled an olden chair up. Its wood creaked out in agony as she sat slow, fearing it may not hold her. For a moment, she just stared at Godzton, still conflicted. There were thoughts to run a blade over his throat still lingering. His body arched and tightened and she leaned in and slid the rag along his forehead shushing him. When stricken with fever her mother would hold a cold rag to her, so that's what she did. But this was not like any fever she had ever seen. It locked him in a sleep, doused him in sweat, and beat his body from the inside.
Godzton had told her that he would die when the vannik left his body, but she would not allow herself to believe it, not now she thought, not after she agreed to help. All alone in the world but for the Iron who now lay imprisoned by his sickness. He was her freedom and she would do everything in her power to save him. Though she was not sure how? She had never tried to save anything before, man or animal. It was hard for her to explain, but she found her chaotic thoughts were absent in that moment, in his presence. She removed his coat and doublet and a canvas of skin with many scars that looked as if they should have been fatal greeted her. Ink of black and green Vikandor heritage sprawled his upper arms and shoulders. She followed the lines with her finger a moment, reflecting.
Father was a tormenting bastard, but he was strict with her and Lestat's studies. It always surprised her that the bastard even allowed her to learn, but he was peculiar like that. Always going on about how an Elf must know more about anything and nothing, than any other race. Though it would have been better to learn how to save a dying man, Lucinda thought, as she ran the rag over Godzton's head. She sat back down, leaned over him once more, and rubbed the wet cloth over his bare chest. Where she once saw a rugged bastard, she was certain now to see a savior. He was neither handsome nor repulsive but seemed to reside somewhere in between, but she was not interested in his looks, or so she told herself. His mangled beard and matted hair signaled he had been on the road for quite some time and his hands felt of dried leather showing of a laborious life.
The Iron in his way wanted to help her; she knew the truth in his words about hurting father and the order. Lestat had given his life willingly to the Eldafienden and father never gave him notice for his efforts. Only Dethal had received father's attention and praise, but not anymore. If Godzton wanted her to give credence to the contents of the Blackphisk and her father's involvement with the Eldafienden then she would, but he just needed to wake up.
Lucinda sat nursing him until only the moonlight granted sight. As Godzton shook in a brief fit, she began to hum the harmonious melody her mother would when she was a child. It was a tune of soothing her mother would use to send her to sleep and even now, its song drained her. Sharing a bed with the Iron was not ideal, but she was not about to sleep on the ground infested with bugs. The floor was of rugged stone with deep scars caked in dust and slimy crawling things. She would share a bed with the entire Iron High Guard if it meant staying off that floor.
Lucinda glanced up to the two spiders, they hadn't moved, covered a yawn, laid the rag over Godzton's head, and crawled into bed at his side. It was a tight fit as he laid flat on his back taking up most of the bed so she curled up at the edge taking care not to fall off. It was not comfortable, but compared to the floor it was a godsend.
The tightened grip woke Lucinda in the morn. Somewhere in the night, while in dreams he reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist. More sweat riddled his body and she did not know if that was a good sign or not. Her stomach rumbled and she sat up and removed his clutch of her.
"Wake up soon bastard," she said and then yawned.
Lucinda had seen no one, in the day and a half while tending to him. It was just as well for the ones in these lands that could find you, you would not wish to he had told her and he did not seem like the type to bluff.
Not well-versed in living off the land and knowing which ingredients complemented one another Lucinda tried her best, but all she could find were some wild vegetables. Meats she could cook, but vegetables were a complex mystery to her. Some proper cooked up rabbit, chicken or even rats at this point would have been a grand treat, but she could find none, just an endless horizon of barren land without a soul among it. The wild turnips and parsnips she plucked from the ground would have to do.
She scrapped two stones together sparking a small fire then placed a dinged metal pot filled with water over it. Once it rose to a boil, she cleaned the roots and threw them in. There was no keeping of time so she just stared at the bubbling pot until she felt they were ready and then removed the pot from the fire to let it cool. She pulled a piece from the water, tossed it around in her hands, blowing on it, and then cautiously took a bite. This was not a meal even the lowest of peasants would eat she thought. It was edible, but she struggled to keep it down.
She grabbed a few cooled pieces of the roots and walked back into the tower.
She pinched small bits from her palm and placed them into Godzton's mouth. He was not much of a critic and just smacked his lips at the mushed vegetable while remaining lost to his dreams.
Night had fallen and the wind grew stronger, whistling through crumbled parts of the tower. The structure creaked its age, that would deny one sleep, but the steady gust kept its complaints muffled. Exhausted and drained she longed for a soft bed and warm bath, but neither would be had she frowned. The comfort of her home at Riverton Hold was now just a memory. Reminiscence of her large royal bed of silk and personal warm spring bathhouse were now luxuries lost. Reduced now to the likes of a vagabond traveling the land without purpose and taking shelter in decrepit places of long ago was not something she had ever envisioned. A result of her actions she admitted while staring around the rotted structure.
Even if the old beds feathered mattress had lost its gentleness years ago and smelled of something fierce, it was a lot better than the floor where the bugs played. Godzton had lain calm for a few hours with no more outburst when she crawled into bed and rolled to her side to face away from him.
His squeezing arm and trembling body woke her a little. It was not as violent as his previous fever induced eruption but instead more calm. She closed her eyes once more. Wakened again now by his hand running up along her stomach and pulling at her with a force she tried to calm him by holding his arm. Finally he stopped. When the forceful jerk of his hand pulling her trousers down, just below her backside, came, she woke with alertness. Glimpsing his face behind hers, he was still stuck in his sick induced dream. Panicked, she struggled to pull her pants back up and rise from the bed, but his heaviness was too much to overcome as he rolled onto her back pressing her further into the bed. Grunting and heaving breath tapped at the back of her neck and she could feel the sweat of his chest soaking into through her shirt to her back. She began to squirm frantically calling out to him but he did not respond. Then she felt his stiffness, warm, pressing at her skin. She cried out, pulling and clawing to free herself and find great solace and safety along the ugly floor.