by B. H. Young
The steward's private retreat, Cradenmill, sat on a flat ridge at the peak. Lady Maven, the self-proclaimed herald for the Old Ones and aspirant sorceress was nothing more than a vile wench who thrived on the pain and misery of others, nothing more than a mortal instrument of the God's cruelty. A certain type of warning that even Gods would remember would be required. It was not vengeance he sought, but to give answer to a question she thought to ask of him.
The manor served a grand sight for a tomb if there ever were one. Sallow walls, high above the world littered with veins of old age while its courtyard sat a stagnant graveyard to a mingling of intertwined floral. It is better, that one who believes they are so close to the Gods need not have to go far to their court and at this height, she'd soon be rasping on the door to their grand halls.
Dusk was upon them sliding its cold sheet across the land bringing a wave of wind with its setting. Seven guardsmen patrolled the grounds Sylo had spied as he surveyed the estate from afar before the sun fell. It was common practice for a Province Steward to have so few guards at their clandestine estates. A practice of paranoia by those who wish to keep secrets that would make easy pickings this night. The fast parting carriage out of the gate only housed a lone man, with no sign of Lady Maven.
The estate was dim with a feeble effort to keep the night at bay of its walls. He would secure the west end while Jelkin took the east. Stirring like ghost in and out of the shadows, the unaware guardsmen stood no chance as death reached from the dimness of shadows grasping each one and pulling them into eternal darkness. Wolves cried out in the distance to the scent of blood with anticipation to an easy meal, but they would have to wait their turn. Sylo pulled the last guardsmen into the brush and snapped his neck then stepped out into the faint glow of the sconce.
The halls of the manor stood cold as a grave and just as daunting. Candlelight globed to the red walls and gold crowning half revealing the decor of distaste. The manor stood in silence for the whispering of cries rolling down the wooden staircase in the center of the room main hall. The sound of two hearts, one excited, and one in pain played as drums to his ears as he stared up the steps with curiosity. The sitting room on the second floor screamed of the steward's taste for the finer things of a posh life, with flagons of crystal and silver, jeweled chalices, and silk furnishings with golden frames. The fireplace burned with a whimper, but its heat could not warm him as he passed through. The double doors stood closed baring a soft relief of skilled, gentle hands, but beyond them belligerence reigned supreme.
The souring salt lingered at his nose as the hearts drummed louder with the wet smacking of skin and throttling grunts above stifles of pain. The steward was partaking in her hunger of some innocents; innocents that was neither willing nor wanting, but obedient nonetheless. The creaking sounds of the bed's legs and head rail slapping the wall rumbled faster and faster singing a chaotic melody that would stir even the deaf from their seated positions with worry. Thumping of closed hand hitting hide and bone rolled with higher grunts as the steward reached the furious ending climax of her meal. Sylo backed into a stain of shadows at the end of the hall as relieving gasp of tired breath gave way beyond the door.
The ecstatic servant burst from the room flushed with tears, sniveling, naked, and pressing a mangled mess of her garb to her front. She walked with a careful pain to her step through the sitting area and down the stairs. Her chest banged with a trailing beat into the darkness of the halls where the stuttering thump of her soul went abruptly silent. Jelkin always sent them on their way quickly. There would be no witnesses to this night. Sylo would not allow it. Only the Gods will see, he'd make sure of that.
Lady Maven emerged in an untied black robe. Her cleavage and stomach glistened with sweat and her breath was exhausted, but not enough to stop her from chuckling at the poor girl's pain. The steward brushed her hair back with her hands and walked off down the other end of the hall. She was indeed a physical instrument of the Gods to torment others. How many young lives has she ravaged and ruined, he wondered, but did not care as he stepped into her chambers and waited.
Patting the damp cloth along her neck and chest, Maven pushed the door to her chambers shut with the heel of her foot as she entered. A bitter chill swept through the room kissing her moist skin and she shrugged. The lined candles across the center shelf did little to cast out the shadows. She walked to the small table, picked a bottle of fragrance, and dabbed her neck. Maven dried her bare front peeking through her robe as she stood at the foot of the bed staring the sheets with a savoring of a fresh memory.
He stood cornered between the large dress cabinet and the wall where the light was not permitted, watching her with methodical eyes. There was a putrid scent about her, unlike others he had observed, and the fragrance she doused herself in could do little to hide it. It was odd and seemed similar to the smell of ancient from dreams he had come to know. Perhaps she had seen them to, he thought, standing witness to what waits and what is coming. Only in dreams is where she would see such things for where she is to go horror has no name.
She stepped over to his side, unaware, and turned her back to him as she straightened the muddled fur covers of the large royal bed. A grand bed it was, large enough to fit four people, with thick golden pillars of grand design at each corner raised high and covered with only the finest furs. A place for her to rest her head and for others to have their pride and souls ripped from them.
Maven leaned over the side of the bed and swept her hands across the covers fast until the coldness crept at her back, seeping over her shoulders and around her waist. She stopped and turned her head back with awareness of the fixated eyes on her, but only because he allowed her to. When he stepped to, quickly she turned, curling fingers and bending wrist, to cast her magic. Sylo caught both her wrist and pushed them up beside her head with a squeezing grip. Small and frail in his presence the steward grunted with angst at his hard clench.
"Guards!" Maven yelled with frightened voice and struggled to free herself.
He squeezed her wrist tighter and jerked her back to face him. "Look at me." His voice was low under a cold breath and his eyes cut through her.
Maven's face curled in pain and she threw kicks to him, but it was like hitting stone. "Do you know who I am, bastard!" Her eyes closed and her fingers wiggled with feebleness to cast out a spell, but the pain would not allow her to concentrate.
"You won't be needing these anymore," Sylo said and gave a twist of his hands, shattering her wrist. She hollered out and her knees gave way, but he would not let go. "Broken hands cast no magic sorceress, not that it would do you any good."
"Who are you?" she demanded. Her voice rang with a wet banshee shriek as she continued to pull from him.
"I'm the one you asked a question of and I am here to give you answer," Sylo said as she dangled from his hands.
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"It is foolish to ask a question and not know of the one you ask."
"What question... I've asked no questions... who are you?"
"Who I am, is not important, what I am, is. I am the end of your path."
Maven clenched her teeth, the defiance rising like red sea in her eyes. "You mangy bastard... I am Lady Maven Aleid of Shadengrell and of the Elda--"
"Your nephew thought to ask a question of me as well steward."
The color drained from her face. There was no more defiance in her eyes now, only fear. "We paid you... you are in our service," she said, choking on the words.
Sylo squeezed his grip, stopping her struggle, to allow the pain to dominate. "Your presence has been requested and I require you send them message."
"Listen to me." Maven gasped with frantic breath and looked to him with tears in her eyes. "Leave now and I swear I'll seek no retribution. By the Old Ones I swear it."
"I tire of their foolish games," he said.
The opening door screeched out drawing her attention. Marlo stood with three brawny men at
his back. They looked more of boulders then of men and did not look kind. Dirty bearded faces with long matted hair and dressed in leather garb with fur-layered cloaks. Maven's lips trembled at their sight and she looked back to Sylo.
"Please... please, we can fix this," she said
He stared a moment, savoring the rippling of her face and the wetness in her eyes and voice. The desperate pleas of one whose life of ill deeds now reflected of sorrow and fear in her eyes was truly a sight to gander upon, though her words would not find him with an ounce of sympathy.
"To answer your question," he said as she sniveled and tried to wrench away from him, "yes, you may stand in my path." He smacked the steward's face with his head, busting her nose, befuddling her and then tossed her to the bed.
Maven wobbled dazed along the sheets as her robe split to birth her naked frame. She reached for breath and slithered in defense to the head rail with one hand tucked in to her stomach and the other to her face as the waterfall of red streamed down to rest between her breasts.
Sylo approached the bigger man in the middle, laying an inexpressive heavy stare to him for a moment as if searching for an answer he need not ask with words. Marlo was skillful with sniffing out the foulest shit the world's bowels held, and here it seemed he outdid himself. Hair sprouted from the man's face to his shoulders and chest and dark circles caked in dirt and sweat lay over his eyes. He smelled worse than he looked, and he looked quite bad. The scoundrels did not need orders as a life in the filth makes some things plainly obvious and the amount of coin they were paid did not constitute a death, but something worse. The gleam in the eyes of the hairy colossus was apparent to what needed doing, no less and no more. The two burley sacks of shit that accompanied him looked equally contented with their purpose.
"Proceed," Sylo said.
They parted as he walked between them. Marlo followed behind, shutting the doors, leaving them to do their work and muffling the stewards disorienting cries at a last attempt at empathy and mercy as the three rotten bears approached and surrounded her bed.
The dancing flame flickered in Sylo's eyes as he sat in the chair staring at the burning logs. In the fire is where he left it all behind so long ago. There was nothing he could see there anymore, but the flames wrapping at charred remains marred in a fog of blackened emptiness. He'd grown weary of their games and their hollow taunts. As he lingered his eyes at the fire, it occurred to him that he'd grown weary of many things. In the fire nothing looked as it once did, there were no features of remorse or pity or sorrow, only acknowledgement that everything consumed by it was all of ash. There were no peasants, no stewards, no kings, no Gods within the fires, only ash.
In silence, he listened to the sweet screams of an emissary for the Gods in agony behind the closed doors. He had heard the many sounds of those tormented and ridiculed, soon to leave this world, but Lady Maven's cries was like a well-played song on a furious fiddle. Painful high notes and desperate low notes screeched along the surface of the walls followed by hard-hitting thuds and a smacking of wetness that knew to savor its ravaged course. He was no fan of music, but he enjoyed this tune. Her heart no longer beat like a dominant war drum; instead, it now trembled lightly of a fractured spirit. For hours, it lasted, and for hours, he listened unmoved as the three brutes from Mayrift did their labor with the Province Steward. It is rare that scoundrels born in the shit of life get to taste of such nobility and they relished every minute of it, taking repeated turns to sample of her.
He'd make sure to send her to the Shadowlands a broken spirit and mockery for all who slumber in those depths to know, here was an tool of the Gods, now a featureless shadow of ash set to wander aimless across the Storm Planes by a mere man the divine kings thought to challenge.
As the three men left, Sylo gazed them coolly. He stood and walked to her chambers whiffing of the sweaty copper as he entered. Lady Maven Aleid lay naked and broken as he squatted beside the bed. She was sprawled on her stomach, with legs and arms busted, a bruise littered body, blood stained backside and inner thighs, her eyes swollen, and her lips cracked in red, with only a hint of life still lingering. Faint whimpers rolled from her crimson smeared mouth, but she could not open her eyes to him nor left her head. He rubbed the side of her head and her whimpering increased, as if the hesitation in torture was only momentarily, but her lungs had drained of breath to scream anymore.
"You are payment of my debt," Sylo said. He stroked her head some more and stared at her shattered frame. "Paid in full."
He stood, pulled a small bottle of phoenix oil, and doused her with it. No one could hear the words that fought for audience from her mouth as the oil splashed her body, but he could. He could hear the sounds of a child, pleading, too scared to leave this world. He pulled a candle from the nightstand and tossed it. The bed exploded into a blaze. Maven's hollow screams rolled at his back as he walked from the room. A crying silhouette lay motionless at the center of the flames as they spread from the sheets splashing against the wall and crawling along the floor.
There was no warrant for a quick death for such a payment, for such an individual. It was a rightful send off and appropriate answer for the steward of Shadengrell.
The snaking trail of smoke crawled up the sky from the summit of Odentin Mountain in the far horizon behind them. It was faint as the mountain at this distance, but noticeable, cutting the sky in a black fog. Morning slumbered with a cold bitter wind following him as they traveled along the Knight's Road. Trees stood in formation at each side curling their limbs high above for as far as the eye could see, allowing little light of the day to come. Their interlocking crowns tunneled into a haze specked at the end. Somewhere in that muddled blur stood Niset, but it would be a long journey until then.
He glanced back, catching a glimpse through the limbs of the smoke atop the mountain. He tired of their games and no longer curious to what drew their attention to him. They could never best him no matter how divine and powerful they thought themselves to be. Like children throwing a tantrum because, their pet would not obey. He was beyond them; beyond their control and that is what angered them more than anything he now knew.
All morning the winds had been pushing at his back and then as if in an uncanny moment they changed course flogging him from the front. Rusted metal and dried leather carried along the breeze to him too late for him to react. An arrow flung from between the trees, punching into his chest, then another came and another. His horse rose up startled, throwing him to the ground. With unstirred eyes, Sylo watched from the ground as a storm of arrows carried Marlo and Jelkin from atop their horses as well, slamming their lifeless bodies to the dirt looking as pincushions of skin and blood.
He slid along the ground, rising to a seated position against the tree. Three arrows stuck to him and his breath was slowing as he gazed the cutthroats emerging from the wall of bark. All looked of ordinary trash, but that did not make their arrows any less deadly. One stood different from the pack of ragged garb. A pale man with a tuff of blood-dyed hair atop his head while the shaved sides rested in ash and two inked diamonds masked around each his eyes. He shined out of place from his crew with an armored long coat of deep red, almost black, and a white laced doublet that looked worn. There was a scantily clothed woman latched at his side with a fall of black hair draping to one side of her face. She clenched a nose warmer in the corner of her mouth, pushing trails of smoke from her mouth slowly. He looked on them with slowing breath. They were not assassins sent to carry out a contract, but mere roadside bandits who had lucked out. He could see that from the looks on their sullied faces. His strength to move had escaped him and the last bit of feeling he had, dissipated at his fingertips. Like rats scurrying about, the vagrants searched his men and then one approached him.
The Gods did not accept his payment; instead, they now required his presence, to kneel before them in judgment. So quick to temper, the sore losers who masqueraded as Gods were and could take it all away. After all this time, the
y never learned, he thought. Stupid bastards did not realize their mistake in summoning him, but soon they would, finally.
The bandit patted him down then plucked the satchel of coin from his slumped body. His sieving eyes grew in excitement at the glistening gold sparkling in the morning light. The scruffy man donned a smile bearing his stained teeth.
"Rhuuster," the man yelled, "we hit a King's Ransom with this lot!" He held the satchel of coin high in the air shaking and laughing.
The shading of the world drizzled away to a fog that the bandits seemed unaware of and Sylo gave a hearty last breath and stretched a grin as his phantom eyes dimmed to a dull grey.
Chapter 45.
Godzton used what coin he had left and offered a trade of his uniform to make up for what he lacked. The shopkeeper in Kastingly was thrilled at acquiring the uniform of an Iron, pressing Godzton to also part with his badge, but he would not. Instead, he slipped a piece of braided leather through it and hung it around his neck tucking it behind his new studded doublet. Lucinda was more costly, demanding a pair of leather trousers and a new under bust, both of high quality, which required the parting of one of his swords in trade. She had no reason to change clothes and simply took the opportunity to acquire a new look as well. He was reluctant and at first told her, she needed no new attire. The attitude that came from the Elf after that had him quickly handing over the sword. She was his responsibility he tried to tell himself, but he loved that damn sword.
He made camp for the night in a small grove of willows just off the road where he circled the outer area of the small fire pouring a mixture of ashes along the ground. Sleeping under the stars was always a last resort, but there was nothing for miles, but the land and what lurks it, no ruins, old cabins, or villages to find. Lucinda's constant pecking made him wonder about a great many things. One of them being that he should not have waited for her to wake in the watchtower. He should have just left, but he couldn't bring himself to. At times, he told himself he loathed her company, but the voices pestered him of the lie that was. They were worse than she was in their pestering.