The Heroes of Iron City
Chapter 13: Fucking with The System

Copyright© 2016 by Bartleby T

Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 13: Fucking with The System - A mysterious local stranger dies, and ex-soldier Duncan Courtney inherits a spooky old mansion and a host of questions. As Duncan investigates, he discovers that neither the man nor the house are what they appear to be, and that he is destined to inherit much more than he bargained for. Inspired by Lazlo Zalezac's "Damsels in Distress" universe.

Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   Fiction   Humor   Science Fiction   Group Sex   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Cream Pie   Tit-Fucking   Slow   Violence  

Discord 13 - Castle Tenhammer

Day Five of the Dying Turn, 1405

"Dangerous. That is what they are. I've been saying this for years but no one pays attention until something like this, some great tragedy occurs. How can anyone say otherwise at a time like this? The Tower of Learning, Mikel. The Tower of Learning!" The young man scratched the stubble where he hoped his beard might one day come in. "That school has educated every nobleman to sit at this table for over a hundred years. Now, gone. GONE! Nothing more than a pile of broken stone. A pile, I might add, with at least eighteen bodies underneath it. Eighteen innocent people, Mikel, eighteen!"

"Yes, Vincent, I am aware." Mikel's deep basso seemed to reverberate off of the walls of the round stone chamber. "I've heard you. I know what they are." He reached into his coat and produced a small ivory pipe and a worn leather pouch. He started packing the bowl with Left Foot Leaf, probably the only Left Foot Leaf for miles that didn't lie buried underneath the rubble of the Tower of Learning. Damn shame, that.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he continued. "I wouldn't stand as your second if I didn't find some amount of truth in your words. Now where the bloody hell are they? The session was supposed to begin fifteen minutes ago." The single wooden door in the chamber snapped open, and both men sprang to their feet in an approximation of attention. Even kingdom politicians were forced to undergo basic military training, but their movements were always forced and lazy, never exhibiting the exactness of "real" soldiers.

Five people entered the chamber, one after another. The first was the Count Marquis Danosh, senior official in charge of Special Projects, the governmental body which provided oversight to all military ventures and programs not covered by the military tariff. He was also the senior member of The Crown, the king's chosen five, and probably the second most powerful man in the kingdom next to the king. He wore the traditional robes of his station, scarlet upon alabaster, and wore the heavy gold chain with the triangle medallion of his order.

Behind him strode Macula of the Iron Accord and Yardburger, captain of The Impervious. They were both "real soldiers," veterans of countless skirmishes in this land and others, and as military men, were supporters of the Silverman Program, the trust set up to support, foster, and train those seemingly magical beings who had recently turned the University Courtyard into a crater and toppled it's primary center of study.

Macula and Yardburger were to serve as counterpoint and antagonist to the arguments brought forward by Vincent and Mikel, both active members of the Progressive People's Party, a political machine that long felt that the Silverman Program should be aborted, and its considerable funding diverted into more humanitarian pursuits. It was not a popular opinion, but recent events had given them an opportunity to propose a hearing.

The last two to enter were the very beings in question; Arkhein or more commonly "Silvermen." One was tall and muscular and one was short and small, but both wore dark grey robes of coarse fabric, their only adornments being those common to all silvermen, a thin choker fitted with stones of various colors to denote rank, and fitted forearm bracers, commonly referred to as a Silverman's shackles. Both items were forged out of the rare and precious material known as Truesilver, the substance from which they derive their name, and neither ornament would ever leave their bodies, except in death when they would be immolated along with their bones.

The big one was no stranger, as he had been a common political figure since King Clydas Tenhammer assumed the crown 14 years hence. Since then, he had been training to replace the aged Silverman already at court as the second member of the Crown, continuing a tradition that had been upheld for nearly a millennia. He was clean shaven, as Silvermen always are, and his long hair was kept in a braid down his back. Tol Braga was his name, and though young for a silverman at only 33, he was a gifted theologian and scholar, and was widely whispered to be one of the finest blades in the land.

The other Silverman in attendance was the finest blade in the land, and had been since she completed her training over a decade ago. She was Sok Zee'ada, the only female Silverman to ever exist. She was unimposing, short where Tol Braga was tall, slight where Tol Braga was rippling with muscle, but for all that, she was undeniably the more dangerous of the two. Her blonde hair was pinned up against her skull and her eyes - a terrible bright red - flickered in the candle light. If not for her Brujaean eyes, she almost appeared gentle, with small but prominent elfin ears, a sharp chin, and regal cheekbones. Her brow was constantly downturned though, making her resting face a mask of mild infuriation. She was far older than Tol Braga, but neither seemed older than twenty, a by-product of Truesilver's remarkable preservative and regenerative properties.

"A woman!" Vincent yelled. No woman, whoever they were, were allowed in the council chambers. "And worse, a Brujaean! You sully this court by allowing a woman to..."

"Sit down!" Marquee Danosh retorted, annoyance flashing across his face. " ... boy."

Vincent recoiled as if stung. Nobody spoke to him like that. Yes, he was young. Yes, he was passionate. But he was also the heir to one of the most powerful families in the city. Not even Danosh had ever had the gall to insult him, until today. He simmered. Sok See'ada stood motionless examining Vincent, measuring him with her cold crimson gaze.

Marquee Danosh took his seat at the head of the table, and sat down in a huff. "Gentlemen, be seated," he said to the assembled attendees, and everyone except Mikel and Vincent drew their swords, laying them upon the table in grooves carved for this very purpose. Three of the blades were stout and heavy, but the other two were slim and delicate-seeming, the Truesilver dancing blades of the Arkhein. As they then sat down, Sok Zee'ada smiled at Vincent. "Where's your sword, boy?" It was law that no man, even a nobleman's son, could carry a sword within city limits unless they had undergone 'real' military training at The Rock. It was a badge of pride Vincent had not yet earned. He prickled at the insult.

A scribe entered from the back and unfurled his scroll onto his lap, ready to record the proceedings. "For the record," Danosh said, "It is the fifth of the post-harvest season, 1405. I hereby open this council in the Name of King Clydas Tenhammer, Lord of the Nettlehenge, Summerstone, and all holdings in between, second of his name. The issue at hand is The Silverman Program, the inciting incident was the battle four days hence in the University Courtyard and the resultant damages. Councilman Van Smokk is for dissolution and will take the lead." He gestured to Vincent. "You may begin."

Councilman Vincent Van Smokk rose to his feet and extended his hands. He allowed a beat of silence to pass before speaking, to elicit the appropriate gravitas. "What is a Silverman's worth?" He began. "Can such a thing be asked? Can a man's life be measured in coin? How about in blood? How much?" He jingled his purse, and Danosh rolled his eyes.

"It is beyond doubt that Arkhein, commonly known as Silvermen, have their uses, both for the regency and for the common man. I do not question that. With their years of study, they are wise and learned in classical philosophy and dogma, and offer sound advice to our leaders. In spiritual affairs, they are also invaluable, representing the only conduit through which we may commune with the one true god El Elyon. Perhaps, most of all, Silvermen are valuable militarily, as they are our most highly trained and skillful warriors on the field. Even if their sworn neutrality prevents them from taking part in the combat, their guidance and professionalism has done much to ensure that that old dragon "war" is conducted in as civil a manner as possible. Soldiers led by Arkhein are more disciplined, less violent toward civilians, and much more effective in battle than those who aren't. This is known. This is a Silverman's worth."

"Which brings me back to my initial question. What is the worth of men who can do so much for so many? The worth must be high, a king's ransom even. Let's put a number to it. In a period of one year, a priest, an advisory councilman, and a Grand Marshall combined will earn roughly 30 guilders in wages. A silverman fulfills these roles, and generally serves for at least a decade, so for our purposes, let's say 300 guilders, a sum that could shelter and feed an entire village for a year. It's quite a high figure, but I think a fair one."

"I have another figure for you as well. It is 26,000 guilders. Such a high amount can scarcely be imagined. It is more than any one man could expect to earn in ten lifetimes, a hundred even. What could possibly be worth so much? 26,000 guilders, gentlemen, is the cost of a Silverman."

"Assembled councilmen, we are here tonight because another Arkhein lost his mind. Another Silverman went rotten and had to be subdued. But even a child knows it is no mean feat to subdue a Silverman. The only thing, they say, that can break a Silverman is another Silverman, which is why you two are here, yes?" He gestured toward the Arkhein, and Tol Braga gave the slightest of nods. Sok Zee'ada sat still as stone and returned Vincent's gaze with unearthly eyes, red as the sky on a turbulent morn.

"Well?" Vincent asked. "Have you managed to subdue your mad brother?" Tol Braga reached into the bundle he carried and withdrew a large oddly-shaped object that he then tossed onto the table. It was a severed human forearm with a bracer or wrist guard attached. The metal of the armor had sunk into the arm somewhat and along the edges, the metal and skin had fused together. This was the surest sign of a rotten Silverman. As Arkhein age, it takes more and more self-control to resist the Silver's Song, and if man and metal should become one, the Silverman must be slain expediently, lest they sow chaos and destruction across all they encounter.

"We've seized his sword and shackles," Tol Braga said. "The danger is passed."

"He isn't dead?!" Vincent didn't have to feign his concern. Any Silverman was dangerous, even one with his arms cut off.

"The danger..." Tol Braga repeated, " ... is passed."

"No matter," Vincent said. "My point is this. When normal men fight, a man may die. "When you things fight, everyone suffers. The pandemonium you caused destroyed three homes, the Flintstock stables, and even the Tower of Learning, a stone keep built to withstand a siege. The costs of your quarreling is 28,000 guilders, and that's just financially. You've also set fire to the largest collection of scrolls, books, manuscripts, musical compositions, paintings, and statuary in the world."

"Not the largest..." Yardburger interjected. Vincent turned to the soldier, annoyed.

"What did you say?" The large captain was picking his fingernails clean with a boot knife.

"Second largest," he said. "The Arkhein archives at the Rock exceed your stacks. You would know this had you ever inclined to visit." He didn't even bother to look up at Vincent.

"The damages to our knowledge and history is unthinkable," Vincent continued. "We won't even be able to ascertain what's been lost for years. In addition to this, at least eighteen men, all hardworking scribes and clergymen, are dead and many more are missing. Not Silvermen, mind you. All of them yet live. The dead were men. Good, industrious men all. And you've killed them."

"This!" he cried. "This is the terrible cost of a Silverman! And this cost is not paid in coin, but in blood. And this is just the latest case in a long string of mishaps stretching back centuries." He bent to retrieve a sheet of vellum and squinted at it in the poor light.

"1352, Ostfro, 13 dead and over 50 injured. Chieftain's hall destroyed. 1371, 16 dead in Kaarsgaard, and the damages flooded a river, resulting in famine. 1387, 33 dead and three entire city blocks reduced to ash, and most recently 1395, ten years ago, the town of Bywater was obliterated to the man." He lowered the page and looked at Tol Braga. "196 dead. Men, women, children..."

Macula yawned.

"Gentlemen, these costs are more than I can stomach, and I feel I have a duty as a man, and as a god-fearing citizen of this fair city to reject them. I have a duty to protect my people and invest in the public trust, and to do so, I can no longer stand by while these devils infect all that we hold dear..."

"Easy Vincent," Mikel warned. "Afford them the proper respects."

"No," Sok Zee'ada said suddenly. "Let him speak his mind. I want to hear it."

"In short," Vincent continued, "I find you and your kind a detriment to the community, and any good you do us is overwritten by your abominable crimes against humanity. You're too dangerous and unstable to keep around as advisors, you're too off-putting and distant to serve as effective priests, and we have other generals - like these two here - who are willing to lead as well as fight, since you all seem to only want to fight each other."

"So what good are you? You claim to be a necessary function of society, public servants even! All I see is costs, costs, costs..." He shook his head. "When you factor in the additional costs of sending acolytes to The Rock, supporting you all with food and supplies, and of course, your luxurious and fabulously expensive appointment of whores to..."

"Stop speaking this instant," Sok Zee'ada said, " ... or I'll add your arms to the one already on the table. Vincent opened his mouth, a retort on his lips, but at the last moment he thought better about it and closed them instead.

"Our relations and dealings with the pleasure dens of Lyro are none of your concern, and you'd better learn to mind your tongue when speaking of our companions. Most Arkhein are not as understanding as I am."

"I'll speak of your women however I please and I won't need to mind my tongue once I have you ejected from the palace grounds. Before I'm through, your entire antiquated association will be banished back to that shitheap of an island from whence you were spawned." Sok Zee'ada stared at him, unflinching. Then, she reached inside her robe and withdrew a scroll. She unrolled it and began to read.

"By royal decree, and by His Majesty's authority, no fiduciary obligations to The Rock and it's peoples - The Arkhein - shall be dissolved. No penalties, financial or otherwise, shall be assessed, and all offices currently held by Arkhein will remain within their jurisdiction." Vincent's nostrils flared as she read the parchment. "These are the King's words and his commandments, written under his royal eye this fifth day of the Dying Turn, 1405."

"How?" Vincent growled.

"Additionally," Sok Zee'ada continued, "One Vincent Van Smokk, councilman chairman of the Progressive People's Party and the Society for Social Change shall be sent to The Rock for a period of one year in order to better understand and appreciate the need for Arkhein and the services they provide. These are the King's words and commandments, etcetera etcetera." She passed the scroll across the table and Mikel snatched it up, angrily reading the lines.

"The Rock?! One year?! This is preposterous!"

"No," Sok Zee'ada said. "It is you who is preposterous. You scramble about like a thing that crawls, attempting to deconstruct the very institution that keeps you safe. Who are you to decide such a thing? You're a whelp, barely off your mother's teats, and you presume to call us antiquated and irrelevant? Us, who just saved your fair city? Us, who preserved your pathetic lives by endangering our own for your welfare? And then, you call our women whores?" Her eyes burned like hot coals, overrunning with fury. "If not for the grace of your King, I would cut your little prick off and feed it you before hanging you by your own entrails." Vincent was red-faced, but had no idea how to respond to such a threat, and so bristled with indecision.

"I spoke to your King this morning, and may El Elyon be praised, for he has been to The Rock. He's seen. He knows. He is not one to easily forget what we do for the realms of men. He is not such a fool to believe his city would be safer without our protection. Antiquated, you say. It is true we are old. Our fortress on The Rock was already old when we helped you men lay the foundations for this very city. But antiquated? Do not be so quick to confuse the old with the useless. We are not forgotten relics to be gawked at as reminders of a bygone time. The fact is that if any of you fools remembered those times as we do, this discussion would never have happened. We are not here to bring back the past. We're here to ensure that the past never returns, and if it does, we're here to kill it." Vincent shuffled his feet nervously and looked toward his partner.

"Don't look at me," Mikel said. "You did this to yourself."

"I cannot be the only one to feel this way!" he shouted. He turned desperately to the soldiers. "Macula? Yardburger? You're comfortable allowing these beasts to be your masters?"

"No man is my master," Yardburger said, straightening in his chair and puffing out his considerable chest. " ... least of all you sniveling soft-bellied politicians." Vincent's eyes widened in disbelief. "So go fuck yourself, sir. Maybe after a year at The Rock, you'll come back with a spine."

Macula nodded. "I'm with the Arkhein. You're a child, Vincent. You have no idea what you say."

"I can't believe my ears!" Vincent cried. "Have all of your wits abandoned you?"

Sok Zee'ada leaned across the table and picked up the severed arm, handing it back to Tol Braga. "This meeting is over," she said, bowing her head first to the soldiers in attendance and then to Marquee Danosh. "I suggest you go pack your things," she said to Vincent. "We leave tomorrow at first light."

 
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