Hello, I hope you are all very well and having a great day. Welcome to the next chapter of this yarn. Once again, thanks to Avicia, Sandra (and others) for the editing and input. Their help is really invaluable.
Also, many thanks to all of you who have taken the time to leave some very kind comments. I really do appreciate them, and so often they just make my day.
All the best.
The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 46: I Choose Violence
Fiachra of House Vane, a Castellan of the Ebon Palace, and Captain of the outer guard, swore under his breath, muttering a bitter sulphureous tirade that damned uncaring gods and spirits alike, as he watched the futile efforts of the magisters.
It was not their fault. They were experienced warcasters all, and there was no lack of violence to their thunderbolts and spells of ruination. Indeed, had this been a struggle against a foe they could grapple with and bring to arms, their incantations would have wreaked bloody carnage across the field, and he would have been well satisfied, for it was obvious they were giving their all. But even between them, the three warlocks lacked the sheer power of a Battlemage and that bastard door stood entirely unyielding. The ancient runes of protection and warding that were graven upon the mantle and frame barely flickered and the dwarf-forged steel sloughed off the magical attacks like rain from a tin roof.
The magisters screamed their spells, and in response to their furious conjuring lightning flared, thunder rumbled, firebolt and gouts of acid slammed and splashed into the great barrier in a dazzling conflagration so ferocious that the nearest company of warriors had to raise their shields to ward themselves from the blaze.
But when the smoke and fire dissipated, and the echoes of the blast faded away, the mighty door remained unmarked and unmarred, obdurate and untouched. A few patches of metal perhaps glowed slightly, and the drizzle hissed into steam as the rain touched its surface, but the door itself stood unscarred and inviolate, and even the glimmer from the warding runes quickly dimmed, as though mocking their pitiful efforts; and he swore again.
It had begun perhaps an hour hence as he was conducting his usual rounds of the sentinels who warded the great keep and patrolled its outer bastions. Once, the myrmidons of the Matriarch's Guard were a force to be reckoned with, each a hardened warrior of great skill, well proven, both in battle and duel. But now? Now they were old, and their numbers had dwindled to bare handfuls of silver-haired harridans whose glory days were far behind them. They were the few, and with each passing decade, they grew yet fewer.
He himself had served with many of their daughters and granddaughters in the Border Legion. He had been a First Sword in his time, and the Captain of a Company. And had his aunt not commanded his return to the Capital upon her ascent to the throne, he would have served there still. But, as a healthy male, it was his duty to preserve and protect the bloodline of his House, or so he had been told. Still, for his own part, he found little joy in the endless posturing of the Court, or in the many offers of marriage he was obliged to entertain. But she was his Matriarch, her word was law, and his portion, such as it was, was obedience.
When the war had begun, he had petitioned, many times, to be given some command in the embattled northern provinces, but always the reply was,
"You are too valuable to risk in such reckless endeavors, sweet nephew."
It vexed him, significantly.
As he conducted his rounds, prowling between guard-posts, the great tower of the Ebon Palace had loomed behind him. A fortress of hardened stone and rune-forged iron, warded by spirit and by spell, it was ancient, and impregnable.
Or so they said.
The sound of the main doors of the mighty keep closing had reverberated about the walls and towers of the fortress, but he had paid scant attention, lost as he was in his own melancholy brooding. There had been no disturbance or alarm to cause undue consternation, and he knew the Grand Matriarch had summoned the whole of her council with intent to discuss the war. So, while it was a little unusual that the keep be sealed, it was hardly unprecedented, given the situation.
The body that had smashed into the ground not five feet from him had burst like a wet balloon. A sodden explosion of crimson viscera splattered his armour with gore and stained the paving stones with a great splash of blood, while the stench of entrails and burst bowels filled the air.
It was a young woman, and her garb and collar marked her as a serving maid of some kind. The shattered bones and maimed features of the poor child rendered any immediate identification impossible, but the colours of her dress, such as could still be made out through the grisly ruin, indicated that she had belonged to House Féin.
Startled, he found himself wiping droplets of cooling blood from his cheek, as he stared at the corpse. Such things were rare, but it was not entirely unknown for some unhappy soul to throw themselves from a high window, or from the battlements that towered above, seeking to bring an end to whatever misery it was that haunted them. Usually it was a wretched slave, or lovesick maiden who had sought death after being scorned in some way. Such would have made for a tragic, but ultimately mundane, end to their tale.
The knife protruding from the mangled remains indicated such was not to be the case this day.
Enlo Kar, his ever-wary armsman slipped forward to crouch beside the body. The big half-orc mercenary ran his fingers across the sodden remains of the woman's gown before dipping a finger in her blood and holding it to his nose.
With a grunt he turned, "Much fear in this one."
Fiachra pursed his lips, "Hardly surprising, given how far she fell."
Making a noncommittal sound, the half orc shook his head, "Was dead before she fell. I smell food on clothes; flour, honey, some on skirt, some on sleeve and bodice," he lifted one of the girl's hands and sniffed again, "broken fingernails, bruising on neck. She was killed in kitchen, strangled probably. She lay on floor awhile."
Eyeing the warrior, Fiachra raised a brow, "You can smell such through all that blood?"
The half-orc gave a gruff nod.
The Castellan cast his eyes up at the walls, "If she was killed down in the kitchens, how in Hades did she come to fly out a window all the way up there? Did the killer carry her? Why bother?" He looked back at his companion, "and how did they do it unseen?"
Reaching across the corpse, the half orc pulled the dagger from her back. It made a wet sound as it came free, and the body seemed to twitch. It was a heavy fighting blade, wickedly sharp and well crafted, and he held it up to the Castellan.
Fiachra pursed his lips as he eyed the thing, "That is no peasant's dirk. That blade belongs to someone of means, and it's no lady's blade either. That is a warrior's fighting knife, if ever I saw one," he looked back up at the tower, "what in the name of Carman's tits is going on?"
From there, things had tilted even further awry as he spied his Sergeant at Arms stomping towards him. The woman had never been a cheerful sort, and from the scowl that marred her scarred face it didn't look like her temper had improved any. A veteran of the Drow wars of so long ago, she was, at best, a hard-bitten curmudgeon, and even on a good day, she barely tolerated him. She glanced at the dead woman before coming to a halt and performing a salute that was only marginally insubordinate.
Her voice was gruff, "Something's fucked."
Snorting, he stood to face the woman, "And good afternoon to you too, Sergeant. As always, your sunny disposition positively brightens my day," he gestured to the mangled remains by his feet, "as you can see things have taken a bit of a turn here also."
