Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

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.”