by B. H. Young
"No... Godzton, no!" she yelled as his stiffness hunted for an opening.
A hardening thrust began forcing its way into her, taking the breath right out of her lungs and slamming pain to the back of her eyes. She had no luxury to warm herself to such ill-received invitations not given.
"Godzton!" she yelped in a wet choking voice, clawing at the sheet in a feeble attempt to pull herself free. "No please stop--"
His hand wrapped to the front of her head, jerking it back and she whimpered as he pressed harder in and out of her. Lucinda continued to try to pull herself free, but couldn't and her cries heightened with each hurting strut of the Iron at her back. It seemed every other push choked her breath, with the next allowing her a cry in pain. But then the pain began to lessen and the unexpected happened, it began to exhilarate her. It had never felt like this before. Where the Iron traveled inside, a deep blooming warmth released sending gooseflesh from her feet to her head. A slow soothing crept up in her with vast relief and she began to reciprocate with heavy breaths, arching her backside, pushing into him. She did not know why nor cared at that moment as waves of her own warmth, mingled with his release, crashed through her body at his pressing. There was no permission given, but she now welcomed it with grace and rather than cry in pain she now howled in elation.
Chapter 42.
The morning gray fingers of grim surrounded Lanadors Crossing and the two watchtowers, long dead, stood guard at the foot of the bridge that stretched over the black glass. The steward's carriage had not the chance to pass. Six royal guards decked in beige and silver mail with their lord's sigil specked in blood lay dead, half-soaked in the milky mist, but their captain still clung to Life. One crossbow bolt tucked at his collar, another stuck below his breastplate and a third in his gut, but the tough bastard was still struggling.
The horses nickered and kicked at the mud as Sylo brushed by and stepped over the bodies making his way to the side of the carriage. The captain gurgled from his back, grunting curses as he fought to hold onto his last moment of life. Sylo stopped, turned, and stared down to him. He looked a man of hard honor rightfully earned. A deep wine percolated from his lips, splashing into his salted beard and his eyes glimmered of his angry heart. The captain gave a hardened glare to Sylo as his hands trembled along his armor. His men had gone on without him yet he struggled to keep what was no longer his. Sylo knelt down to him and placed one hand to the top of his head and the other to his chin. The captain growled, spitting more blood into his beard. With a quick jerk of his hands, Sylo finished him off, then stood, and walked around the carriage.
Jelkin stood guard a bit up the slope while Marlo opened the carriage door to a plea of cries. He pulled the plump lord and lady from the safety of their wagon, throwing them both to the ground at Sylo's feet. They pushed to their knees, whimpering and squabbling in fear at his intimidating frame and his eyes.
Lord Dorat straightened his back and with faint defiance said, "You men have made a terrible mistake. Do you know who I am?" His voice sounded no more confident or threatening than his bluffing look.
Sylo stood, cold and bleak, and nodded to the kneeled steward. "Lord Nevill Dorat, steward of Padenmor."
When the shock of the revealing started to rise on his face, Lord Dorat quickly pulled a small leather pouch from his belt and held it out to Sylo, shaking. "Please... please take whatever you want, take it all, but spare us."
Sylo pushed the lord's trembling hand away. "We are not to rob you." His voice crackled under a low rumbling.
Lord Dorat shifted on his knees looking to Sylo and his men and offered the bag of coin once more and once more Sylo pushed it aside. His wife squeaked whimpers and he looked to her, then back to Sylo.
"We did not come for offerings of coin," Sylo said.
"What then?"
"Your services as steward are no longer needed."
Lord Dorat's face melted into a somber glare and then stretched out in a panic. "You... you're the ones that killed Lord Sinthal and Lady Jillian. Oh, praise for the mercy of the Gods, Maliah, Deyvian, Ophar, Herim... I'll give you all the coin you want and more, anything you want just please let us be."
Sylo gazed him cold and empty. It was not about coin it was about obligation and his participation in the game of Gods. Though, admittedly they were losing touch in their efforts to pester him. There was no doubt the steward could afford to outbid them, but he transcended the value of the coin as such a tool to shake him from his path.
"I do not give mercy," Sylo said. "It is not my path to do such."
Lord Dorat locked his stubby fingers together and shook them. "But you can... you can, please I beg of you."
Sylo blazed the sniveling steward and pulled his mace at his side. "They always say that. Always offering to buy their salvation, but there can be no salvation without retribution. One must accept the path they were placed on and the end of that path when it nears. Had they deemed it so, yours would not have led you to me."
The steward's face rippled and his head twitched with confusion. "Led to you? You sought me out. You came to me." His wife sobbed harder at his words, but kept her eyes planted to the ground.
"That is where you are wrong. You were placed on my path," Sylo leaned down to him. "And I do not walk around obstacles."
"Please," Lord Dorat said with a wet voice, "there must be something I can do?"
Sylo turned his chin down and stabbed at him under a dropped brow. The warm breath from his lungs streamed from his nose with a slow gust like a tiring bull.
"Go honorably and with acceptance," he said and slammed the cattle mace into the top of the steward's head killing him. Before the steward's wife could scream out, he buried the mace into the side of her head sending her knees from the ground and a good two feet from where she knelt.
The draft pressed at his back and the chill wrapped at his neck with soft fingers. It was there, in that moment, he caught it. That scent that had stepped out too soon days back. It slithered around his head, sliding under his nose. Sylo tightened his grip of his mace and swept his eyes as far back as they would go before turning. As he turned to the source, the first arrow whistled by the back of his head and slammed into the carriage.
Marlo and Jelkin jumped to position and readied at the sight of three soldiers of black and blood bearing down atop horses from the tree line. The archers fired two more arrows, one whisked by Sylo's head and the other flew with too much arch, overshooting the wagon. Jelkin took aim with his crossbow and shot one of the archers. Marlo pulled two blades, threw one, lodging it into the chest of the other rider, then spun, and threw the other hitting him in the stomach. The remaining rider sped passed them then turned.
Sylo walked out to the center of the road with eyes locked to the woman. She darted straight at him with a furious gallop and a pulled sword. He removed his coat and rolled his shoulders, focusing with calm and collected demeanor, but not at the rider, but instead the horse. At the moment before impact, he moved out of the way of the horse and raised the beast to its hind legs with a thundering punch to its head as it passed him by. The large steed slammed to the ground tumbling over its rider as it rolled to a stop, out cold and pinning the rider.
Restrained and helpless under the dormant mass of the steed, Dame Shiva grunted angrily and struggled to pull her leg free as Sylo stood above her.
The woman knight only had one arm, as the other was broke Sylo saw. He fixated on the insignia of crossed tridents above a wolf's head adorning the left chest of her armor. A realization crept into him that it was no coincidence they attacked after he dispatched the last of his targets; they had been tracking him all this time. Clever girl, he thought. Marlo and Jelkin stepped up beside him and she heaved odd grunts at them all as she pushed hard against the horse. The cries of a mute were low sounding and hollow, akin to a small animal in yelping in pain.
"What's this one's problem?" Jelkin said as he loaded another bolt into his crossbow. He took aim and Sylo reached o
ver placing his hand to the crossbow and lowering it.
Marlo kicked dirt at her and chuckled. "She's a mute, a fucking mute woman knight at that. Think I can say I've seen it all now."
Jelkin put his crossbow away and spat. "Those aren't Valhur colors."
"Shadengrell," Sylo said. "It appears a question has been asked of us by the steward of Shadengrell."
Jelkin turned to him and said, "What question is that?"
Dame Shiva's eyes widened and she belted a howl as Sylo raised his leg and stomped his boot to her head smashing it like a bug, pushing blood and matter out in all directions. He removed his boot from the popped mess of skull and mash, pulled a small blade, and cut the insignia from her leather armor.
"One I intend to answer," he said.
It had taken them a few hours of steady riding to reach Harder's Rock by midday. Sylo sat another hour or so waiting for the spymaster's arrival. Vigilant as ever his men sat near the entrance door of the tavern. The muted dame was a clever girl, tracking him at a far enough distance so he could not detect her. Foolish in her attack and her company, the archers were not skilled at firing from horseback and acted too soon. Her failure was a mistake she would never make again. However, her efforts had heightened his awareness. If the Eldafienden had double-crossed him, the spymaster may not show or maybe there would be another attempt on his life he thought.
The black haired Dwarve at the end of the bar whose head was too heavy would look pickled to common eyes. One must do more than see though and Sylo could smell the stench of ale emitting from his breath even at this distance, cementing his drunken state; he was not acting. The two Elven men in the far corner table looked capable, but one had a wooden leg from the knee down that he tried his best to hide and the other a recent injury that was causing his slowness. The barkeep was of stocky stature, but had thin knees and an old healed broken wrist with a slight disjointed look that was noticeable at first glance.
All of their hearts thumped a steady calm tune. If there were to be a second attempt on his life, these men would play no part of it. Hearts about to spring a trap beat more sporadic, with more caution.
Light poured in fluttering the dim lobby as the door opened and Geryn entered glancing Jelkin and Marlo who rose fast to meet him with piercing eyes. With caution, he made his way to the table and took seat across from Sylo. Like a statue with eyes of blue flame, Sylo just stared him.
"Final payment my lord, for services rendered," Geryn said and placed a large satchel of coin on the table. He tried very hard to maintain a neutral composure. "You are all very rich men now."
"Your spies tell you of success then?" Sylo said peering at him from across the table.
"They have and the Eldafienden is most pleased."
He tilted his head and gave a daunting look to the spymaster. "What else did they tell you, spymaster?" He reached up retrieving the bag of coin and placed the removed insignia of Vinreer Keep onto the table. "A parting gift... from the Eldafienden or Lady Maven Aleid of Shadengrell," he squinted and placed his mace atop the table, "do you think me a common fool to take a task such as this, blindly... Geryn," he said.
Geryn grew pale and overcame with a heavy dread at the brute uttering his name and at the sight of his cruel weapon, wet with new blood.
"You... you know my name?" he asked in a chilled voice.
Sylo leaned back into his chair, savoring the uneasiness he had placed the spymaster in. "I know a great many things. The Eldafienden thinks they are clever to hide in the shadows, the shadows that belong to me."
"I assure you, my lord, it was not the Eldafienden's command," Geryn said with stuttering voice and clenched hands. "My lord, she has acted on her own. She defies all, thinking she is a herald for the Gods with great favor and impunity. The Order has no part in her doings of this act I assure you, my lord and punishment will be paid."
"I ask you again Geryn, do you think me a fool?"
Sweat bloomed on Geryn's face as Marlo and Jelkin took stand behind him. He squirmed but was unable to find comfort. "My lord it's the truth. The Iron who approached you when you first arrived here was her nephew. She was commanded by the Harbinger to not seek vengeance for his death."
"The Order cannot control their own. Does Lord Willem lack true power? Or perhaps he's a pawn in their game as well?"
"He'd have rid the Order of her long ago, but she draws favor from an Overlord. Please my lord, you must believe me."
"One trails through life, absent of the moment when an important question is asked of them. A question one answers as they would any other without concern for what follows in the shaping of the world afterwards."
"Anything my lord, you just but have to ask and I'll see it done."
"Lady Maven Aleid has asked a question of me that demands a proper answer," Sylo said. The spymaster was too much of a coward and a worm to lie about such things he knew. "You are the mouth of the Eldafienden and the Harbinger, Lord Willem." He lowered his head and placed his fingers to the grip of his mace. "Tell me Geryn, does the Eldafienden also wish to ask a question of me?" he said and laid a map on the table.
"No my lord, they do not," Geryn said with a shrill voice.
"Where can she be found?" Sylo said and tapped the map.
Geryn wasted no time and pointed to the location with trembling finger. "At Cradenmill, here," his finger jumped on the map, "her private estate away from prying eyes, near the border of Morthet, you will find her there my lord."
Sylo retrieved the map, his mace and rose from the table peering down at him. "I am no lord, spymaster."
Geryn had called him as such; out of courtesy since first meeting him in Northanos and the times after as it were just proper manners.
"What are you then?" Geryn asked with a frail voice and slipped his hand up to his mouth. He did not mean to ask what he was thinking nor did he want to, but high-strung nerves had let it slip.
Sylo stared him coolly as if almost second-guessing sparing the sweaty worm. "A reckoning," he said and left.
Chapter 43.
Godzton had survived the detox of the Vannik Serum. Though relieved, his body ached and his energy drained, but he was alive and thankful for that. Remembrance crept into his mind, countless visions of giant monstrosities and an army that seemed to have no end once again witnessed in a state of paralysis the same as that night in Spero. Was it possible to have dreams that shared such uncanny traits? Was there a purpose to the maddening sights of such horrors? It seemed like he was stuck for an eternity, forced to watch as the parade of hell scorched the land. How could a man dream of things he has never seen, things that were not real?
The March faded away, and he found himself standing in the corner of the room watching his body lying in the bed. Lucinda was nursing him, feeding him, wiping his head and chest with cold rags to help his fever, sitting with him for hours. The Roltharian was not a gentle soul to worry of another's condition, or so he thought. Yet she was there, taking care of him. Then it all changed for the worse as she crawled into the bed with him. In agony, he watched helplessly from the corner as he violated her with force and no control to stop it. He screamed out to his physical body, but there was no sound. He tried to close his eyes and look away, but couldn't.
When all the dreams had faded and he opened his eyes, he felt relief. It had all been a bad dream he thought, but then rolled his head over to find her beside him, naked from the waist down, as was he. Lucinda lay on her stomach still in dreams, her trousers pulled down below her backside, and his pants scrunched above his knees. There was no nobility for one who would force themselves on another in such a manner. Repaying her kindness with such a violent act ripped him like jagged teeth and sickened him to his gut, twisting and pulling with guilt as he stood outside the tower. The sweet fragrance of the orange blossoms could not mask the smell of the regurgitated filth that pooled below him.
The morning rose covered in gray with a thick fog and wildlife in the far distant howling as they w
oke from their slumber. All he could hear though were his own gut-wrenching tugs as he vomited into some brush. Sickened images of what he had done behind every chute of foul liquid from his belly until there was nothing, but violent heaves. Godzton pressed at his stomach as the last choke came, spit, sniffled, and then looked into the horizon and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. He could not remember the last time he felt his own tears. Even when the news of Martha's death came, he could not cry. Everything he had lived by and held to, all washed away easier than it was attained. The fog rolled around his sluggish stance as he stared aimlessly into nothing, consumed with a world of shame, questioning how one remains honorable after such an act. This was not a feeling he could push away and ignore. Irons do not rape people, he told himself, they do not break the laws they enforce them. The oath of Iron he had held to for so long was shattered in a blink. Could he even still call himself of the Iron High Guard?
Sitting hunched over staring at her sleeping, from across the room with empathy, regret, and disgust, he was not sure of what to expect when she woke. A right mind to plunge a blade through him, and she would be justified in doing so, would be well received. He had made an effortless decision and although it would not right his wrong, it was all he could think to do to make amends.
Lucinda stretched her arms when waking, gave an innocent sounding yawn, and looked at Godzton. There was neither anger nor happiness in the beauty of her eyes. In fact, there was nothing in them at all but a slight shimmering of light. She just laid there staring at him, filling the uneasiness to the point he felt refreshed enough to once again vomit. Finally she spoke.