Bound by Iron

Chapter THREE

A Cold and Joyless Homecoming

Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998

Tears stinging his eyes, Cimozjen carefully spread his torn longcoat on the ground. He picked up Torval’s corpse-a body far lighter and more frail than it had been when he’d carried the injured soldier to the healers so many years ago-and laid him out as best he could on the tattered leather. The cold, damp skin and unresponsive flesh seemed unreal, warring in Cimozjen’s mind with the memories of a sanguine, vibrant man.

He folded the coat respectfully about the body, and used the buckled straps to secure it as best he could. “You deserve far better, my friend,” said Cimozjen. “I know not what you’ve gone through all these years, but you deserved far better then, and you do so now.” He gently closed the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He hefted the limp bundle and slung it over one shoulder, then grabbed his staff and climbed carefully back up the slope to the boardwalk. As he walked back toward the better parts of town, he could feel the eyes of the dockside revelers watching his progress. Even if the size and shape of the leather-wrapped corpse had not given away its true nature, the two feet that stuck out of the end made it painfully clear. It bothered Cimozjen that Torval’s corpse only had one shoe on. It seemed the final insult.

He trudged through the cold night with his burden. His arm throbbed from its heavy bruising, his side pained him as his tunic chafed against the wounds left by the mace, and the strained muscles in his neck grew tighter as he walked. Yet his thoughts were not on his own travails, for he had suffered far worse before, and knew he would survive these. Instead, he ruminated about his friend and cohort, a brother closer to his heart than his own family, bound there by the oaths they’d shared and blood they had spilled and shed together. How he wished he could have called upon the Sovereign Host for Torval’s healing.

At the first major road he turned away from the waterfront and headed into the city.

As he passed beneath a magical wisplight, a slender gentleman paused in his own errand and looked at the unlikely pair. “Need some help, friend?” he asked gently.

Cimozjen slowed. The stranger was well dressed in a green coat and a wide tricorn hat. He had neither the look of a corpse collector nor the bearing of a thug, but seemed to have genuine concern. It was a rare thing. Simple civility was one of the many casualties of the Last War.

Cimozjen smiled sadly. “I fear not,” he said, continuing on his way. “He’s already dead. I thank you, though.”

Yet as he walked, Cimozjen realized that the stranger had helped, after all. Somehow giving voice to the obvious helped to clear his mind of its melancholy musings. He could do nothing to help Torval anymore, but perhaps he could find justice for his suffering and death. He set his intellect to the task, to discern what series of unfortunate events might have led Torval away from being honored as a hero of the Last War to being a piece of forgotten detritus scavenged from the waters of a benighted bay.

He could think of nothing, but the more he tried, the more determined he became to find the answer, come what may.

After several long blocks he took a right at Low Dock Lane. The well-cobbled road rose steadily upward, carved across the face of a steep river bluff. Oft called Low Decline by residents, it connected the worst part of the docks directly to the less fashionable Westgate end of the Hightower Ward, and as a result, the upper portions were duly patrolled by the city watch.

By the time he had topped the bluff, Cimozjen was breathing hard and his knees ached from the strenuous climb. He felt he might not have made it without the extra support his staff gave him.

As he had hoped, a squad of White Lions stood apathetic watch over the road, huddled in their cloaks and chatting by the light of a single lantern. Their apathy vanished as Cimozjen and Torval drew closer, the corpse’s two feet bobbing with every heavy step Cimozjen took.

Cimozjen saw one of the guards extend his hand out of his cloak and give the guard next to him a sharp shove on the shoulder. That soldier and another moved to intercept Cimozjen as he came closer.

“Halt,” the guard said as he drew close, hand resting on the hilt of his weapon. The second guard moved into a flanking position to Cimozjen’s right, where Cimozjen was unable to track him thanks to Torval’s hips blocking his vision.

Cimozjen stopped and shifted Torval on his shoulder. “White Lion,” he said respectfully. “I wish to-”

“Explain yourself,” snapped the guard. “What are you up to here?”

Cimozjen took a deep breath before answering. Not only was he rather winded, but doing so helped ensure he did not launch a sarcastic remark that would cause him more trouble. “I am bringing a body in for evidence,” he said. “I wish to see the captain of the watch or the investigator on duty.”

The guard glanced at his partner. Cimozjen heard a noise that he surmised was the guard shrugging.

“Fair enough,” said the guard. “I was going to take you to the Old Man anyway. You don’t have the look of a corpse collector.”

The other guard chuckled. “Never mind that he’s collected a corpse.”

“Stuff your mouth,” snapped the first. Then he looked back at Cimozjen and jerked his thumb to the north. “Come on, you. Give me your stick and let’s get going.”

“If you’d be so kind as to help me with my burden …” said Cimozjen.

“I get paid to make dead bodies, not carry them. Move.”

The White Lions served as both town watch and military garrison for the City of Korth, and they had barracks near each of the major gates into the city. The barracks served as housing, armory, hospital, and headquarters, and, with their grandiose design and plethora of banners and memorabilia, as a blatant symbol of the executors of authority in the city. Naturally, the Westgate barracks had been built fairly near Low Dock Lane, a fact in which Cimozjen found no small measure of relief.

He followed the first guard into the front room of the barracks. The second guard followed behind him. A fire blazing in a large stone hearth lighted the spacious front room of the headquarters. A sizeable iron stewpot hung over the fire, and the pungent aroma of venison stew filled the room. As soon as the scent caught his nose, Cimozjen’s stomach rumbled and his mouth started watering. It was hearty fare, ideal for a cold, damp night.

The room had a few tables scattered about, with chairs and guards here and there. A large beautifully rendered map of the city hung on one wall, and the pelt of some alarmingly huge beast covered another.

“Halt there,” said the guard, scowling at Cimozjen as he gestured. Then he turned. “Lads, someone wants to see the Old Man.” He tossed Cimozjen’s staff in the corner of the room and went over to the fire to warm himself.

Cimozjen moved over to one of the chairs, kneeled, and divested himself of Torval, setting the corpse to recline in the chair as best he could.

“Hey,” said a grizzled old guard, “get that filthy maggot farm off the chair!”

Cimozjen straightened up and tried to stretch, but his wounds and knotted muscles prevented him. “I’ve given him my chair,” he said. “I shall stand in his place.”

“He don’t care none where he sets,” said the guard.

Cimozjen fixed the old man with a gaze. “I do.”

The old guard held the look for a moment, then dropped his eyes. “Well at least move him away from the fire, will you? Don’t want him to fester and start stinking up the place.”

Cimozjen sighed heavily, then slowly pulled the chair, Torval still in it, across the room. He made it seem more of an effort than it truly was, just to irritate the guard with the unreasonableness of his demand.

Just before Cimozjen finished his task, a short man strode into the room. As he entered, the other guards all stood and touched their brow in salute, but then began sitting back down. Cimozjen straightened, inclined his head respectfully, then looked the captain of the guard up and down.

It was a Karrnathi tradition to call the leader of one’s unit “the Old Man,” a habit born of the nation’s culture of respect for one’s elders. Thus Cimozjen, the aging veteran, had difficulty stifling a sardonic laugh when the captain of the guard appeared to be a young lad no older than his own youngest son.

“You find something amusing?” asked the captain, stopping several paces away from Cimozjen.

“No, not at all,” said Cimozjen. It was very true. He found the captain’s youth disappointing at best. He wiped his nose, adding, “It’s a hard night on the sinuses.”

Once he had mastered himself, he noted that the captain had the unmistakable features of one whose veins flowed with a blend of elf and human blood-smaller, slighter build, more angular face, and large eyes the color of the summer forest canopy. He was doubtless a decade or more older than he appeared, but nonetheless easily remained Cimozjen’s junior in years.

He wore a fine suit of leather armor, obviously tailor-made to his physique. Cimozjen noted that it looked like it could double as padding beneath a suit of chain mail, yet, judging by its immaculate polish, it never had.

And he had the elven arrogance. He wore it like a bull elk wore antlers. Despite the fact that Cimozjen stood a good eight inches taller, the captain somehow managed to look upon on him with an air of superiority.

Looking down while looking up, thought Cimozjen, that’s a good trick.

“I am Yorin Thauram II, Captain of the Watch. I am told you begged to see me?”

Cimozjen licked his lips. “I asked to see you, yes. Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service.”

“Does this have anything to do with that … thing sitting in the chair here?”

“You refer to my friend?” asked Cimozjen, stressing the word slightly to put the situation in its proper light. “Yes it does. His name is Torval Ellinger.” Cimozjen pulled Torval’s armband from his haversack and handed it to Yorin. “He was one of the Iron Band, and by the looks of it, he has been murdered. I bring him to you in hopes that you might be able to help me find his murderer.”

Yorin looked at the armband. “It appears authentic,” he said, after some inspection. “But why isn’t he wearing it?”

“Because he’s dead,” said Cimozjen, as if that should explain everything. He nodded his head toward Torval “See for yourself.”

The captain tossed the armband to the old guard by the fire then walked over to Torval’s body. He snapped his finger. “Unwrap it,” he said.

Another one of the guards rose, walked over to Torval, undid the buckles that held the leather around him, then held one end of the coat and pushed Torval out of the chair, sending him unceremoniously tumbling to the floor.

“Here now,” yelled Cimozjen, “have some respect!”

Seeing the sodden, unkempt mess that now lay sprawled on the floor at Cimozjen’s feet, a couple of the guards sniggered at Cimozjen’s outburst. Torval’s limbs lay splayed about, and his damp hair lay in a tattered veil across his face and shoulders.

“I’ll have some respect when he starts swinging a weapon again,” said Thauram. He held out one hand. “Spear,” he demanded.

“Spear, Captain Thauram,” said a guard, handing his weapon over.

The half-elf took the butt end of the spear and pushed Torval over to lie on his back. One arm remained trapped beneath him. The open wound on his chest looked vile and black against his death-blue skin.

“That,” said Yorin, poking at the dead man’s chin to turn his head, “was in the Iron Band?”

Cimozjen exhaled hard. “Yes, he was, captain.”

“And I’m King Kaius.”

Several guards chuckled at the captain’s wit.

Cimozjen shook his head and sniffed. He folded his arms across his chest. “Do you impugn my honesty, captain?”

Yorin turned and appraised Cimozjen anew. He stepped up to him, grasped Cimozjen’s chin, and turned his head side to side. “Looks like you’ve had an eventful evening as well, civilian. You’ve a trail of blood down your cheek. Where’d you get it?”

“It has nothing to do with Torval’s murder.”

The captain walked around Cimozjen, who stood fuming. “What’s this, more blood?” Yorin poked Cimozjen in the ribs with the butt of the spear, causing him to grunt involuntarily. “Yes indeed, you’ve had an active night, haven’t you? What have you been up to?”

“I defended a young woman from being robbed by a would-be thief, if you must know,” said Cimozjen. “For my troubles, I received some pains.” And now, he thought, looking darkly at Torval’s corpse, for my pains, I am receiving new troubles.

Yorin tilted his fine-featured head back to look even more arrogant. “You realize that under the Code of Kaius, all thieves must be turned over to the White Lions, elsewise one may be considered an accessory to the crime.”

Cimozjen favored the young half-elf with a weary look. “I prevented the robbery,” he said, “hence no crime was committed.”

“You said he was a thief.”

“The captain will recall that I said he was a would-be thief,” said Cimozjen. “I am always careful to say what I intend to say.”

“Mm,” said Yorin, refusing to acknowledge Cimozjen’s minor victory.

“Be that as it may,” continued Cimozjen, “the would-be thief received due measure for his plot. You can trust me on that. He will not look at himself the same way again.”

“And where is this woman, that she might be able to corroborate your tale?”

“I gave her leave. She had a family awaiting her return, I am certain, and she was cold and fearful. I had no further need of her presence, so I released her to return to her family.”

“I see,” said Yorin. “We can send a detail to fetch her easily enough.”

“The captain must understand that I had never seen her before this evening. Given the dim light and the circumstance under which we met, I doubt I would be able to identify her should we ever cross paths again. I presume she lives somewhere toward the south end of the Community Ward, but that is all the better I can say.”

Yorin turned away before Cimozjen had even finished speaking. He walked halfway across the room, then back over to Torval and stood over the body, studying it. “That he was killed, perhaps even murdered, none can deny,” he said. He inspected the body some more. “It took a powerful arm to strike that blow,” he said, looking askance at Cimozjen. “And you’re a strong man. I am told that you carried this corpse up Low Decline, all the way from the docks or thereabouts.”

“Do you think I murdered him?” asked Cimozjen.

“You first said the words,” replied Yorin by way of answer, “not I. Perhaps you killed him yourself, and brought the body here, seeking to absolve your involvement by pandering to us with a play at cooperation.” He turned to face Cimozjen, hands clasped behind his back. “Of course, if this vagrant were to have been killed in the act of robbery-or an attempt to rob, even-then by the Code of Kaius anyone would deem that you slew him defending your life, and for taking a life in that manner no crime would have been committed.” He paused. “Was this vagrant the one who attempted to rob your mysterious vanishing woman?”

“Torval would never stoop to such an act.”

“Such an act,” echoed the captain, nodding. “That was a curious choice of words.”

“Robbing unarmed womenfolk does not merit the word ‘deed.’ Deeds should be great, or noble. Those endeavors that are vile are ‘acts.’ ”

Yorin gave Cimozjen a dubious glance and snorted. He turned his back and paced over to the fire. “Let me understand this properly. You were walking along, this very night, alone, mindful of nothing but your own business. You … chanced upon a thief robbing a young lady, and intervened-this itself a deed quite brimming with nobility and valor, to say nothing of good fortune for yourself. You battled the thief-the would-be thief that is-defeating him, and then quite mysteriously set him free despite his nefarious intent. Likewise the mysterious maiden you peremptorily excused from your presence. Do I have this … rendition of events accurately stated?”

“That is an over-brief but essentially accurate understanding, yes.”

Yorin laughed, a choppy and supercilious snigger. He turned, his lips pursed in a mocking grin and one eyebrow raised as he gestured toward the body at Cimozjen’s feet. “Then tell me why this … this derelict mess appears nowhere in your tale!”

Cimozjen sucked on his lips for a moment to compose himself before answering.

“Torval Ellinger had nothing at all to do with the attempted robbery, nor with the woman,” he said, speaking as clearly as he could. “However, the knave that I defeated had Torval’s armband in his possession. I prevailed upon his better judgment to lead me to the place where he’d acquired the armband. Thereat he led me to Torval’s body, which lay at the water’s edge past the westernmost dock of King’s Bay. I wrapped the body in my coat and brought it here.”

There was a brief pause, broken only by the popping of the fire.

“Oh, that was spectacular,” said Yorin at last.

“Excuse me, captain?” said Cimozjen.

“Did you see that, lads?” said Yorin, arms spread, turning slowly about to gather all the assembled White Lions in his gaze. “Did you see that? A pause, the briefest of pauses, one so brief that only a trained observer like myself would have noticed, and in that fleeting breath he spun the essential strands of this new embellishment! Then, did you also note the ponderous cadence of his reply, the slow nature of which was designed to give us the illusion of clarity, but in which he was able to embroider his tale with detail to give it that … that clear sound of truth? I tell you, this man is a master orator!”

He clapped his hands and chortled, then raised one admonishing finger. “Ah, but what gives it away? For one, the mixture of ambivalence and superlatives. Note that the body was at the water’s edge-floating or ashore, he does not commit himself to the one or the other-and yet he clearly avows that the body was past the end of the westernmost dock! Such juxtaposition is a clear sign of fabrication!”

“Hold there-” interjected Cimozjen.

“Note also that this thread leads in a new and entirely different direction from everything else he has mentioned!”

“Captain, that is because that’s all you asked me about!” snapped Cimozjen.

Yorin turned back to face Cimozjen, a supercilious smirk twisting his youthful face. “You try to foist your error on me? Ha! It’s everything you talked about! And now what do we have? The only thread connecting this whole sorry account is the would-be thief.” He chortled. “Indeed, gone are the robbery, the maiden and, with them, civilian, your credulity.”

Cimozjen stared at him in disbelief for a moment. “The word,” he said at last, “is credibility.”

Several of the guards snickered.

“Silence!” barked the captain. He looked back at Cimozjen and snapped his fingers. “Papers.”

Cimozjen pulled a small hinged brass folder dulled with tarnish from his haversack. Opening it, he removed a neatly folded parchment, opened it, and handed it to the White Lion.

Captain Thauram raised his eyebrows and pushed out his lower lip. “Provisional papers?” he said. “I see.”

“It’s a complicated story,” said Cimozjen, “and one that has no bearing on Torval’s murder.”

“Of course,” said Yorin. “All manner of vagrants and deserters have gotten provisional papers since the war.” He looked at the papers again. “You claim a home a few leagues east of … where in the depths is Vurgenslye? Lads? Anyone?”

There were shrugs all around.

“So a person whose home and citizenship that cannot be proved, hailing from somewhere near a hamlet no one has ever heard of. Indeed.” He tossed the paper back at Cimozjen, and it fluttered to the floor. He took a few steps, turned, and sat on the corner of a table to address his guards, completely ignoring Cimozjen. “What I see here is simple. This man is a stranger in town. Possibly a blacksmith by trade, or more likely a deserter, either of which explains his musculature, his lack of scars, and his rather subservient bearing.

“So tonight this timid, if robust, old man is wandering the streets of a strange city, whereupon he gets set upon by a vagrant, who, wracked by hunger and soaked by the afternoon’s rain, was in dire need of food and fresh clothing to survive the night. By some stroke of luck, or perhaps because the vagrant was too weakened by starvation to be able to strike a telling blow, this old man manages to overcome the vagrant, and, in a moment of panicked frenzy, actually slays him. Now, those who have never known the bravery or discipline of the army can be undone by the act of taking a life. This being the case, he brings the body here with a carefully woven tapestry of events that accentuates his own heroism in the matter. It is a simple case of self-protection on one hand and fear of discovery on the other.”

He looked over at Cimozjen and drummed his fingers on his knee. “Still, I could be wrong. This may indeed be an actual murder. Hold him here, and send a rider to the other wards to see if there are any reports of trouble that might involve this man. And toss that … thing out in the street. I don’t want to see it any more. Let the corpse collectors fetch it in the morning.”

Two guards grabbed Torval by the ankles and started dragging him to the door.

Cimozjen shook his head in disbelief. “You …” he began, but managed to hold his tongue before he shared any more of his thoughts.

The half-elf slid off the table and glided over to where Cimozjen stood. He placed his hands on his hips, looked at Cimozjen and said, “You hate me now that I’ve uncovered your fear, don’t you?”

Cimozjen noted that although the half-elf looked at Cimozjen’s eyes, he didn’t actually look in them, hence he saw only what he wished to see.

“I tell you the truth, you know not what I think,” said Cimozjen.

“Oooh,” said Yorin, in a sing-song taunt. “I’ll bet I do. Right now you wish you had the courage to strike me, don’t you? But you’re too unsettled by the blood on your hands, and you’re too afraid of what will happen to your precious skin. But you’d love to fight me.”

Cimozjen smiled. “I cannot harm you, captain,” he said, so quietly that only he and the half-elf could hear, “for I am sworn to protect the weak and the foolish.”

The captain’s countenance flared into a snarl, and he swung a backhanded slap at Cimozjen face. It was a slow-developing strike as Yorin cranked his arm back for maximum force, and Cimozjen saw the blow coming. He ducked his head and turned into the blow, so that the back of the elf’s hand landed on the heaviest portion of Cimozjen’s skull.

Cimozjen looked at the captain. The young soldier’s face twisted as he contained the pain without a sound, but his left hand massaged the back of his right.

He’ll be wearing gloves for a week to cover that bruise, thought Cimozjen.

After a few quiet moments, Yorin pointed to a corner. “Hold him there,” he commanded. “If he tries to escape before the rider returns, kill him.” Then he quickly exited the common room.

“Move it,” said one of the guards with a gesture, and Cimozjen complied.

As he walked over to the corner where he would spend the next hour or more, Cimozjen passed a small person swathed in a dark cloak and apparently napping. As he passed, the figure stirred, and he heard a short but welcome whisper.

“I believe you.”