Of Iron and Devils Read online

  Her eyes rolled around him trembling of what she could not see, breathing soft gasp. They aimed to trick him he thought. It was not wise for anyone to stand in his path. Their meddling fingers would make mockery from time to time and the girls face shone of unawareness to their games. He glanced down to the blue and white striped kerchief tied around his boot. Its colors worn and its fabric ragged. He had tied it there long ago, not as a keepsake to a pleasant memory, but as a reminder to the depths, they would sink to test his patience. Sylo squeezed his hand shut, trailing a cracking of knuckles. The girl did not make a sound and slowly backed into a side passage, sliding her tiny hands along the stone, moving her broken eyes from him.

  At the foot of the stairs, he stopped, staring to the door. A twine of floral incense clasped at the wood frame either side the wall to brush away the stench of a servant, potent and not yet changed, it stung heavy at his senses. The thumping chest beyond the door was no longer sleeping and the shuffling of old soles stirred. They had failed once already, but sought to make second attempt, he thought.

  The Province Steward drained of color when Sylo pushed through the door into his chambers. Lord Nathaniel Sinthal stood holding a small candelabrum, still in his bed attire. A Crescent of salted hair crowned his head and his face was mid years in pruning. The steward hollered and chugged the candleholder at Sylo, dinging it to the doorframe. Sylo slipped a small blade from his hand, nicking the side of the steward. Frail but still quick in reflexes, the shattering rattled the chamber when Lord Sinthal threw himself through the stained-glass window. The panicked fool was eager to escape a fate he had no control over.

  Lord Sinthal slammed to the ground where it began to steep. The steward could feel the throbbing sensation of pain racing through his old body as the ground smacked him with no give. He staggered to his feet, the stinging on his side drowned out the agony from the fall. Wavering back at the window above with daze and fright he scurried down the hill to make his escape, shards of glass licking at his feet.

  Sylo lunged through the frame of the second story, hitting the ground running with no shake of balance. The wounded Lord was halfway down the slope, headed for the dredwood he saw. Its mangling crown rose above the mist at the bottom while the rest of it hid in the thick morning cloud. The steward howled in pain beyond the city walls clutching to his side while steepness battled his old legs. He stumbled, tripped, and slid before pulling himself back to his blood soaked feet trying to free himself from the grasping instability of the slope. The steward glanced back to Sylo's unnatural eyes, piercing at his trail, emitting a slight glow akin to that of a storied wraith. Sylo ran harder, controlling the momentum the slope submitted to him.

  The base of the hill was impending; the gut of the dredwood began to fade out through the fog. Within arm's reach of the steward and without pause, Sylo pulled the short sword from its sheathe. The blade shrieked and glistened against the deep blue morn and immediately, he shoved the sword into the steward's back. Lord Sinthal went limp and ragged as Sylo raised his dangling feet from the ground and slammed his catch into the rugged bark of the tree. The immense thud of shattering bone against the dredwood thundered the area. The steward drooped twelve inches from the ground like a pinned ornament as blood washed the bark down with its crimson iridescent, crawling along the damp wood, and puddling between its roots. The dew washed bark riled with chaotic presence to the taste of blood. Sylo walked back from his overshoot of the tree and stared at the body.

  The horses patted at the ground restless, pulling at the dirt as Marlo sat fixed to his saddle under the limbs of the dredwood, waiting. His long oiled hair was pulled back into a tail and his attire flecked with enough sheathed steel that one might easily mistake him for a traveling merchant of blades. Jelkin eased up along his side.

  "Thought you were to come through the gate," Marlo said and leaned toward the rusted door at city wall, pulling the reins of the horse leading it up along his side and handing them off to Sylo.

  Sylo pained a stare to him as he pulled himself into saddle. An ice blue mist seemed to huddle in his eyes emanating their color; his men were accustomed to the deformation, but it still made them uneasy.

  "They thought to intervene with slippery fingers." The town bells tolled with violent awareness, rattling the air in an echoing pattern. He looked up to Hardstone for a moment then turned his horse and eyed Marlo once again. "They failed," he said with a deep flat voice and kicked his horse.

  Marlo and Jelkin fell in behind him and uttered no words nor asked any questions. They knew of whom he spoke of, and spoke of often, his tormentors, the Gods.

  The bells of Helbrode stayed at their back as they cut across the prairie confined to the fog's will. Their clamor was a mere faintness to common ears by now, but Sylo could still hear their tune as if he were under them pulling the chain himself. The brown of winter grass flowed under the mist and below hooves and was all that he could see. But he did not need to see where he was going, his path was linear and where it was to end he knew for some time now.

  The fog peeled back from the ruins of Dorthenmount, slowly revealing its fractured state as they galloped by. The wolf stepped out along a felled pillar amid the rubble with a slow studying glare to them, lowering its head to Sylo's eyes. It appraised them, pacing then hiked its head, lifted a paw from the stone, and sniffed at the moist air. The scent of three horses was too tempting to pass up, but the selfish beast traveled alone and as hunger tempted, it was a prize better passed off. Then, as if called by an unheard and unseen master the beast snapped its head back the way it had come for a moment and then darted off through a row of stone arches.

  No sooner than the wolf had fled, Sylo caught whiff of the approaching reek and slowed his horse to a stop at the edge of the road. Marlo and Jelkin guided their horses up beside him, sweeping their eyes around the little they could see. They did not have his keen senses but followed his actions. Through the fog, he saw the dim light, wobbling, faded orange of its center in the spreading halo growing under slow bloom.

  A pitching screech kept company under the odor as the light began to show more than a shadow. The sickly horse walked along the road at a slow pace, pulling the one-man carriage of blackened wood and wrought iron. The rider sat burdened under a threadbare robe with its head lowered under hood, gripping the reins with hands layered in a strange shelling of plate. A single rod twisted up from its back rising above its head with a jewel fixed to a ring at the midpoint of the shaft.

  Their horses shied away from the edge of the road at the passing scent that permeated with influence as the wagon rolled by. Jelkin and Marlo could now smell it, and cringed along with their horses. Sylo placed his broad hand to the stallion's neck, keeping it still, watching, The Being pass, with studying eyes. He had been in the draught of the pungent odor before, in dreams. A recollection stood in the deep of shadow, a mere glimmer of fire revealing only fragments laid scattered in light. He stood frozen within the inner ward of a fortress under siege, the scent bleeding into his lungs while the incursion of twisted armor marched, and beyond the curtain wall doused in flame a Leviathan circled its prey.

  A hammer of thunder struck the sky, rolling at their flank. Sylo trailed eyes to the wagon as it pushed back into the smog at the further end of the road. They shared a common enemy and their paths were not destined to cross into one another. This traveler came from far away, dried and worn of a suffering well known to him. Something ancient had arrived.

  Chapter 2.

  Clint Godzton lay in his bed conformed to the backside of Martha Cagmere, gliding his face through her hair of ginger, smelling of champagne orchid and laying light kisses to the back of her neck. The bottom barracks of the Iron Compound were relatively still this early in the day, still enough to allow for an embracing and quick fix. It had been a few weeks since he was able to get Martha alone. As an Iron recruit her time was more strict and limited, and as a seasoned Iron Godzton's actions with her were ill advised. Martha Ca
gmere was no strumpet, but a recruit in the last weeks of her two-year stead to becoming Iron. She was a vigor soul of thin veiled lips, a curvaceous body, and eyes big and bright as the southern star, that he could lose himself in until the winter ended and came again for eternity. He'd risk the harshest punishment for that.

  The candle light danced along their naked bodies and the cold this far down in the barracks seemed absent. With a gentle touch, Godzton trailed his hand up her stomach and caressed her breast, massaging it in his palm as the forming of sweat danced at his fingers. Martha's whispering sounds of bliss climbed the walls with faint hands as she motioned back to him, slowly pressing and grinding, sliding her leg back and curling her foot around his.

  Godzton pulled at her hip, her silken skin scented of honey and for a moment, the bouquet disoriented him. At a moment when he was ready to fully embrace her, the uninvited thunderous knock at the door shattered the trance and stopped him. Godzton placed his fingers over her soft lips and stared back to the door. While the Iron High Guard did not expressly forbid relationships between their veteran Irons, it was prohibited between a seasoned vet and a recruit.

  "Godzton!" the voice cried through the door with forceful importance.

  "What is it?" Godzton lay frozen, but wanted to keep going and could feel the playful smile stretching under his fingers.

  "Overseer Lisbet request your presence in her office immediately sir."

  "Very well then, I'll be up right quick." Godzton dropped his head into the feather pillow and sighed. Weeks passed since they were able to be alone and all he wanted was to enjoy the seized moment a little longer. But Overseers do not like to be kept waiting.

  Godzton removed his fingers from Martha's lips and a low-pitched giggle erupted. He sat to the edge of the bed, hands on knees and looked back to her as she rolled to face him. There can be no finish if there is no start. He sighed again. Martha's cheeks boiled with blush and it was easy to get lost in the beauty of her smile.

  "Oh it's a good thing you lock your doors," she said. Her face was fighting to keep from bursting into a laughing fit. Always finding the lighter side in any situation, Martha was innocent like that.

  "This is funny to you is it." He branded a smile.

  "You have to admit it's a little funny not to mention exciting, a tad dangerous maybe." She rubbed her toes up the side of his torso biting her bottom lip and beaming a seductive gaze at him. "We can still have a go at it if you're quick."

  "Won't be so funny if the Overseers catch wind of it," Godzton stood from the bed and made his way to the dressing cabinet, "they'd likely have me flogged raw in the middle of the courtyard."

  "It's a foolish unwritten rule. I'm but a mere few weeks away from taking the oath." Martha darted a gaze at him. "It's not like we're two wild animals having a mindless fuck here and there." She proclaimed with a slight squeal in her voice.

  Godzton turned to her, raised brow and widened eyes. "The mouth on you, sound like one of those pub wenches."

  "You arse." Martha jolted up against the headboard and crossed her arms under her dangling breast, moping in a playful manner. "Well, we're not. We're in love. That is if you'll still love a dirty mouthed pub wench?"

  He made his way back over to the bed, bent down, and placed a firm kiss on her soft pouty lips. "Of course I will filthy mouth and all.” He laid another kiss on her forehead then walked back to the cabinet.

  Godzton dressed in the uniform of the Iron High Guard of black breeches, tall sash boots, and signature knee length blue and black leather coat of the Iron High Guard with a medallion of the Iron sigil pinned to the right chest. He pulled his custom arming swords from the rack, gave them a twirl, and then holstered them into the sheath riveted to the upper back of his coat, then slid his trench knife into the sheath at his hip.

  "We'll finish up later," he said, stretching the corner of his mouth, and made haste for the door.

  "Arse," Martha said, trying to fight the smile creeping along her face.

  With his short cut coffee colored hair, trimmed beard, and bisque skin, his slender frame wore the uniform well. Martha had no fear of forgetting one of the many reasons she fell in love with him, he was eleven years her senior, but she did not care.

  "Clint." Only she would call him by his first name, only when she meant for him to know her sincerity. Godzton turned to her, one hand still on the knob. "I love you," she said.

  Godzton blew her a kiss, gave a little wink, and then left the room.

  As he made his way down the large narrowing brick hall, his first name spoken in harmony by Martha sparked an old memory of when first entering the Overseer wing many years back soon after his advancement from recruit to Iron. It was to be Godztons first assignment in the field, given to him by Overseer Norddick Haygard, a five-foot tower of hardened shit baptized in fire of a man, long since dead if hell would have him. The years passed quickly, but it seemed like days ago when Overseer Norddick was hollering at him, as he stood panicked in front of his desk. Godzton could still hear the old bastard's words carrying at his side along the walls.

  "I'm not calling you Clint, boy! That’s a cunt name. The paper says your surname name is Godzton. That's what I'll call you and that's the only fucking name you'll answer to boy. Godzton... that's a name with balls and heft, lets people know they can't fuck around with you boy!"

  Word spread like a pestilence around the Iron Compound of the scolding name change for the young man who damn near pissed his pants and by week's end, Iron's and recruits alike were referring to him by his surname in jest and it had stuck ever since.

  His two partners, Ginrell Stockmare and Laythan Alradur were awaiting his arrival in front of Overseer Lisbet's office. Ginrell had a face of hard mileage hidden behind an unkempt arching mustache, a gut that had started to show signs of too much beer as of late and scraggly long hair draping around his head while light gleamed the top. To his left Laythan Alradur, a soft looking Elven man of Lios lineage who was often mistaken for being younger than his true age. He was quick-witted with slick skin and dark auburn hair, and the better skilled in the arts of alchemy.

  "Fancy you lad, thought this was your day with your little love," Ginrell said.

  Godzton gave him a displeasing sneer. "It was."

  "Overseer Lisbet has a cur's sense at sniffing into ones time," Laythan said, stepped over to them, straightened his coat, and shivered at the morning air.

  They all stepped into Overseer Lisbet's office, taking spot in front of her desk. Overseer Lisbet sat reading over various reports. She wore a slim tight fitting robe with a neck-hugging collar and a small brooch of gold in the shape of a heater shield with the Iron sigil raised in its center, signifying her rank.

  Her blond hair was tied back into a long proper braid that draped over her left shoulder; her left eye was cloudy in color, blind as a lasting result of an old healed scar that ran across it. A firm chested woman they would say and at forty-three, was the youngest of the three Overseers.

  Overseer Lisbet placed the papers down, drummed at the table, and rolled her eyes to them. "Glad you could join us Godzton, your men have been pacing outside my door for a bit now, was beginning to wonder if I needed to put a water bowl out there for them," she said with a strict tone to her voice.

  "Apologies Overseer Lisbet, I was preoccupied," Godzton replied in a heedful manner.

  "I'm sure you were." A peculiar look with a hint of scorn overcame her face as she rested her forearms, interlocking her fingers atop the desk.

  Overseer Lisbet always lowered a squint with her good eye to Godzton. He always wondered if the festering dislike she seemed to have for him was the result of his failed advancements on her in his early days. It was no secret she served as a fantasy for many recruits and some Irons, but it was innocent enough he thought. He had tried to woo her and she threatened to beat him to a pulp, citing the nerve he had of trying to court an Overseer. Godzton did not take her threatening rejection personally; she talked to a
ll the men in the same manner. Of course, none of them was stupid enough to attempt to bed her. Though, seven years should be long enough to lay low a grudge he'd think.

  Overseer Lisbet eyed him with a glare of suspect. "We received a raven this morning from Helbrode. Lord Nathaniel Sinthal and three of his castle guards have been murdered. The guard's bodies were found in some brush near the servant's entrance and Lord Sinthal was chased out of his quarters in the early hours and pinned to a large tree with such force it took the locals an hour to get his body down, the message said."

  "Takes a lot of guts to murder a province steward," said Ginrell.

  "His Chamberward, Luke Barmelden will sit in his stead until the King can promote a new steward from the Crown List officially. But he will not be there to greet you as he is away in the Dyerwin kingdom. Afraid you'll have to deal with the captain of the city guard," she said.

  Godzton stood consumed with awe. The murdering of a Province Steward is an act of treason against the realm. "Pardon me Overseer Lisbet, but how in the hell does someone get to a Province Steward in his own damn castle?" he asked in disbelief.

  "The war raging on the southeastern shores of Vyhoven with the sovereign isle of Dhunwitch has spread resources thin; with King Norindale calling in reserves from all the regions I'm afraid. Leaving the Province Stewards with fewer of their guards to protect them, they are in a quite vulnerable state." Lisbet looked down amidst the parchments littering her desk and sighed. "I'm afraid we are all on hard times and things are getting worse out there."