Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

“Eating an acorn?”

“Grabbing the crown of Galifar!” roared Torval.

“Ah. Well, it’s a very nice tattoo, now that you’ve explained it,” said Cimozjen suppressing a wry smile.

“You may not think it’s much, but you’re the lone arrow on that. Right, boys?” He looked at the other soldiers, hands out, and the others murmured their assent. “They’ll be even more impressed when they see this,” he bellowed. He flexed his muscles, hunching forward and bowing his arms to display his entire upper body to best advantage.

“Perhaps I’m missing the point,” said Cimozjen. “They’ll be even more impressed when you’re constipated?”

Torval drew himself up and stalked slowly over to Cimozjen, until the latter found his nose all but touching the top of Torval’s breastbone. “Look me in the eyes and say that,” he growled.

“I would look up,” said Cimozjen, “but think the view would be underwhelming.”

“Coward,” said Torval. “All talk until a real threat comes, hm?” He chest-bumped Cimozjen, knocking him a step back, and closed the distance to loom over him once more. “So are you going to fight me like a man, or run crying to the commander?”

Cimozjen looked up to lock eyes with Torval. “I am your commander,” he said.

Torval’s face did not merely fall. It collapsed. “Uhh …” he said.

Cimozjen thumped him on the chest. “And if a soldier like you falls for that feint, maybe I should try it against the Thranes, hm? What do you think?”

“What?” roared Torval. “You-you-” Anger flushing his face, he cocked his fists, ready to smash down on Cimozjen like a sledge. His torso once more knotted into a rock-hard formation more reminiscent of masonry than muscle.

Cimozjen raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “Wow,” he said as he thumped Torval’s chest again. “Never mind that. When the Thranes come, I’ll just take cover behind you and your chipmunk.”

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.